#Affordable bar cutting machine

[iriequipment]

India,s Top 10 Bar Cutting Machine Manufacturers.

In the ever-evolving construction industry, the demand for efficient and reliable machinery is paramount. Among the essential equipment used in construction sites, bar cutting machines play a crucial role in ensuring the precision and accuracy of reinforcing bars. As India continues to witness rapid urbanization and infrastructural development, the need for high-quality bar cutting machines has surged. In this blog post, we will explore the top 10 bar cutting machine manufacturers in India, each contributing significantly to the nation’s construction landscape.

What is a bar cutting machine used for?

A bar cutting machine is a specialized tool designed for efficiently cutting reinforcing bars, commonly known as rebar, in construction projects. Reinforcing bars are essential components in reinforced concrete structures, providing strength and stability to the overall construction. The primary purpose of a bar cutting machine is to streamline the process of cutting these bars to specific lengths as per the construction requirements.

These machines are equipped with sharp blades or cutting discs capable of slicing through the tough steel of the reinforcing bars with precision. Construction workers use bar cutting machines to ensure that the rebar elements fit seamlessly into the concrete framework, meeting the structural design specifications. The accurate and uniform cutting provided by these machines is crucial for maintaining the integrity and strength of the entire construction.

Bar cutting machines come in various sizes and capacities, catering to the diverse needs of construction projects, ranging from small-scale residential buildings to large-scale infrastructure developments. By automating the cutting process, these machines not only enhance efficiency on construction sites but also contribute to the overall safety of workers by reducing manual labor and minimizing the risk of errors in cutting lengths. In essence, a Bar cutting machine is an indispensable tool that plays a vital role in shaping robust and well-constructed buildings and infrastructure.

1. IRI Equipment India Pvt. Ltd.

IRI Equipment is the leading manufacturer of Bar Cutting Machines and Bar Bending Machines, recognized for their technologically advanced solutions. These machines are synonymous with precision and longevity, capable of handling an extensive spectrum of bar sizes and bending angles, addressing the diverse needs of construction projects. The company holds the prestigious ISO 9001–2015 certification, solidifying its position as a reliable and certified Construction Equipment Manufacturer and Supplier in India. With a commitment to quality and durability, IRI Equipment India Pvt. Ltd. continues to be a trusted name in the industry, providing state-of-the-art machinery that meets the highest standards of accuracy and durability.

ADDRESS- IRI EQUIPMENT INDIA PVT. LTD.

№21–24, Kariobanahalli Main Road Tigalarapalya, Nagasandra Bengaluru — 560058

Phone- +91–99800 98610

Business Email — sales@irient.com

Website- https://iriequipment.com/

2.Spartan Engineering Industries:

Spartan Engineering Industries has established itself as a prominent name in the construction machinery sector. With a commitment to innovation and quality, Spartan’s bar cutting machines are known for their robustness and efficiency, making them a preferred choice for construction projects across the country.

Address: 111, New Tejpal Industrial Estate, Andheri — Kurla Rd, Saki Naka, Mumbai, Maharashtra 400072

3.Jaypee India Limited:

Jaypee India Limited is renowned for its diverse range of construction equipment, and their bar cutting machines are no exception. With a focus on technological advancements and customer satisfaction, Jaypee delivers cutting-edge solutions that meet the evolving demands of the construction industry.

Headquarter Address- NH-6, Ankurhati, P.O- Salap, West Bengal 711409

4.Prime Precisions:

Prime Precisions stands out for its specialization in manufacturing precision-engineered bar cutting machines. The company’s dedication to producing reliable and durable equipment has earned it a solid reputation in the Indian market.

5.Bosch Power Tools:

Bosch, a globally recognized brand, extends its expertise to the construction machinery domain. Their bar cutting machines are characterized by high performance, durability, and adherence to international quality standards, making them a trusted choice for construction professionals.

6.Reva Engineering Enterprises:

Reva Engineering Enterprises is a key player in the construction machinery sector, offering an extensive range of equipment, including bar cutting machines. The company’s commitment to research and development ensures that their machines are equipped with the latest technological advancements.

Address- Khasra №15/44, Gali №1, New Chauhanpur, Karawal Nagar, East Delhi, New Delhi — 110094, Delhi, India

7.KRSNA Balaji Enterprises:

KRSNA Balaji Enterprises has earned a solid reputation for manufacturing high-quality bar cutting machines. Known for their precision and efficiency, KRSNA’s machines cater to the diverse needs of construction projects, ranging from small-scale developments to large infrastructural undertakings.

8.Kaushik Engineering Works:

Kaushik Engineering Works is a leading player in the construction equipment industry. Their bar cutting machines are designed to deliver optimal performance in challenging construction environments, reflecting the company’s commitment to quality and durability.

9.Amruta Engineers:

Amruta Engineers is synonymous with innovation in construction machinery. Their bar cutting machines are equipped with advanced features, ensuring seamless operations on construction sites. The company’s dedication to customer satisfaction sets it apart in the competitive market.

10.Shree Ram Construction Equipments:

Shree Ram Construction Equipments is a reliable source for high-performance bar cutting machines. With a commitment to meeting the evolving needs of the construction sector, the company has emerged as a preferred choice for those seeking durable and efficient equipment.

Conclusion:

The construction industry in India is witnessing a surge in demand for advanced and reliable machinery, and bar cutting machines are no exception. The top 10 manufacturers mentioned above are at the forefront of providing cutting-edge solutions to meet the evolving needs of construction professionals. As the country continues to embark on ambitious infrastructural projects, the role of these manufacturers becomes increasingly crucial in shaping the future of the construction landscape in India.

[wonderlanddreamer]

Lean On Me.

[Tommy Shelby × Reader]

Summary - A cute little hurt/comfort one-shot based on this request. When you're hurt during an incident at the Garrison, it's Tommy who notices and takes care of you.

The Garrison was alive with the usual sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of conversation. It was a typical evening, and you moved behind the bar with ease, offering your gentle smile and kind eyes to each patron who approached. Your sweet demeanor had made you a favorite among the regulars, and your presence was often a calming influence in the boisterous atmosphere.

As you refilled a customer's drink, you noticed the door swing open with a force that made it bang against the wall, causing a few heads to turn sharply. A group of men entered, their loud voices and aggressive postures immediately altering the mood of the room. You recognized a few of them as troublemakers who had been thrown out before. A knot of anxiety formed in your stomach, but you continued your work, hoping they would leave without causing any trouble.

Unfortunately, it was not going to be one of those nights. The arguments started almost immediately, escalating quickly into shouts and threats. One of the men grabbed a patron by the collar, slamming him against the bar and causing his drink to spill everywhere. A furious brawl erupted, with fists flying and chairs being overturned. Glasses shattered as they were knocked off tables, and the sound of breaking wood filled the air as a table was flipped over.

You moved behind the bar, your heart pounding in your chest, trying to stay out of the fray. The scene was a blur of violent motion: a man was thrown to the ground, another's face was bloodied by a brutal punch, and someone else wielded a broken bottle like a weapon. The shouts and grunts of pain were deafening, and the air was thick with tension and fear.

Then, you heard the unmistakable crack of a gunshot. The noise cut through the chaos like a knife, silencing the room for a brief, heart-stopping moment. 

A searing pain shot through your side, causing you to gasp. You pressed a hand against the pain, feeling the warmth of blood seep through your fingers. Panic surged through you, but you bit down on your lip to stifle a cry. You couldn't afford to let anyone see you falter, not when the pub was in such disarray. You told yourself it was just a graze, nothing serious. You didn't need to cause a fuss.

The tension in the room was palpable when, suddenly, the door to the side room burst open. Tommy Shelby, flanked by his brothers John and Arthur, strode in with an air of authority that immediately commanded attention. Tommy’s sharp blue eyes scanned the chaos, missing nothing. In his hand, he held a revolver, its presence a chilling promise of violence. John, with a snarl on his lips, grabbed one of the troublemakers and threw him against the wall with a force that made the entire room shake. Arthur, always the most volatile, swung a chair with a roar, smashing it over another man's back. The Peaky Blinders moved with the precision and efficiency of a well-oiled machine, their brutal swiftness clearing out the troublemakers in a matter of moments.

Tommy fired a shot into the ceiling, the deafening crack silencing any remaining resistance. The troublemakers froze, their eyes wide with fear. "Out," Tommy growled, his voice low and deadly. "And if I see any of you in here again, you'll regret it." The men scrambled for the door, tripping over each other in their haste to escape.

The Garrison was left in shambles, but the immediate threat was gone. Tommy turned to survey the room, his gaze hard and calculating. He didn’t notice as you quickly tied a makeshift bandage around your waist, gritting your teeth against the pain, and continued your work.

Time seemed to stretch on forever as you cleaned up the broken glass and righted the overturned furniture. Your vision wavered, and a cold sweat broke out on your forehead. You pressed your hand to your side again, feeling the blood still seeping through the fabric of your makeshift bandage. Each movement was agony, but you forced yourself to keep going, telling yourself it would all be okay once your shift was over and you could go home. You swept the shattered remnants of glasses into a dustpan, the sound of the shards tinkling like a cruel reminder of the night's violence.

Eventually, you faltered faster than you could catch yourself, the room spinning around you as you fought to regain your balance. A strong hand caught your arm, steadying you. You looked up to see Tommy Shelby's piercing blue eyes staring at you, concern etched into his usually stoic features.

"What the hell happened to you?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous, the edge of authority unmistakable.

"I-It's nothing, Mr. Shelby," you stammered, trying to muster a reassuring smile but failing. "Just a scratch."

Tommy's eyes narrowed, scrutinizing you with a penetrating gaze. Before you could protest, he had pulled your hand away from your side, revealing the blood-soaked bandage. His expression darkened, a storm of anger and worry playing across his features.

"You're bleeding and you didn't think to say anything?" he growled, though there was a softness in his eyes that belied his harsh tone. "Come with me."

He led you to a side room of the Garrison, his grip firm but gentle, ensuring you didn't stumble. The room was small and dimly lit, filled with the scent of whiskey and old wood, a hidden sanctuary from the chaos outside. You winced as he helped you sit down, the pain now impossible to ignore.

Tommy worked quickly, his hands surprisingly deft as he removed your makeshift bandage and examined the wound. His fingers were steady, the touch surprisingly tender for someone known for his ruthlessness. 

"This is more than a scratch," Tommy muttered, his jaw tight with restrained anger. "God damn it, sweetheart."

"I'm sorry," you whispered, tears welling up in your eyes. "I didn't want to be a bother."

Tommy's expression softened, his steely exterior cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of concern. He sighed heavily, shaking his head. "You're lucky I pay attention."

He set to work with surprising tenderness, carefully cleaning the wound. The sting of the antiseptic made you flinch, but Tommy's steady presence was oddly comforting. His fingers traced the edges of the wound, ensuring it was free of debris before wrapping a proper bandage around your waist. Despite the sharp focus in his eyes, you could see the undercurrent of tension, the worry he tried to mask behind his composed demeanour.

The room seemed to shrink around the two of you, the dim light casting a warm glow over Tommy's concentrated face. His hands moved with practised ease, but the care in his touch spoke volumes. It was a side of him rarely seen, hidden beneath layers of calculated ruthlessness and unyielding authority.

"There," he said softly, his voice a low, soothing rumble. He met your gaze with those piercing blue eyes, now softened with concern. "You'll be alright. But next time, you come straight to me. Understood?"

You nodded, managing a weak smile. "Thank you, Mr. Shelby."

He tilted your chin up with a gentle hand, his thumb brushing away your tears. "Call me Tommy," he corrected, his voice tender. "And promise me, no more heroics, eh? Leave that to me."

"I promise, Tommy," you replied, your heart swelling with gratitude and something deeper, something you didn't dare to name. The pain in your side seemed to fade, replaced by a warmth that spread through your chest. 

Tommy helped you to your feet, his arm steady around your waist, providing support as you swayed slightly. Each step sent a jolt of pain through your body, but with his strong presence beside you, it felt a little more bearable. His grip was firm yet gentle, a silent promise of protection that wrapped around you like a comforting blanket.

As you walked back into the main room of the Garrison, the remnants of the earlier brawl were still visible. Broken glass glinted on the floor, and overturned chairs lay scattered about. The other Peaky Blinders were busy restoring order, their expressions a mix of annoyance and grim determination. 

Tommy guided you to a quieter corner, easing you into a chair before resting against the table beside you. He reached for a glass of water, handing it to you with a gentleness that seemed almost out of character for the hardened leader of the Peaky Blinders.

"Drink this," he instructed, his voice softer now, the rough edges smoothed out by genuine concern. "It'll help."

You took the glass, your hands trembling slightly as you sipped the cool water. The liquid soothed your parched throat, and you felt a bit of strength return to your limbs. 

"Why didn't you say anything when it happened?" Tommy asked after a moment, genuine curiosity and concern lacing his words. He leaned in slightly, eyes searching yours for an answer, his brow furrowed with worry.

You looked down at your hands, the glass of water clutched between them. "I didn't want to cause more trouble," you admitted quietly. "I thought it was just a graze, and everyone already had so much to deal with."

Tommy's expression softened, his stern demeanor giving way to something more vulnerable. He sighed, shaking his head gently. "You're anything but trouble, sweetheart," he told you, his tone firm yet kind.

Your eyes widened at his words, your heart skipping a beat. You searched his face, looking for any sign that he was merely being kind, but all you saw was sincerity. 

"Thank you, Tommy," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion. The words felt inadequate, but they were all you could manage in the moment.

He reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, not from fear but from a profound sense of connection. "Don’t scare me like that again, alright?" he said softly, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

The room seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in that intimate moment. You felt a warmth spread through your chest, a sense of belonging that you hadn't realized you craved. Tommy's touch was tender, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. You leaned into his hand, finding solace in the simple, yet profound gesture.

"Rest here for a bit," he said after a moment, his hand reluctantly pulling away, though his eyes remained fixed on yours. "I'll have someone take you home when you're ready."

He stood up, but not before softly tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. His presence was a shield, a promise that he would protect you no matter what. 

[2ndkaiser]

MOUTHWASHING CREW HEADCANONS

This is my first time writing. I’m not the best at this, I’m just trying to pick up a new hobby so don’t come at me if this is ass. These are my headcanons, this is what I think, my headcanons do not need to be like yours.

꩜ Warnings: Extremely small mention of NSFW content for Daisuke’s part, one swear word.

CAPTAIN CURLY (PRE-CRASH)

Has a collection of cowboy stuff he’s extremely proud of. Pridefully shows it to the rest of the crew.

I like to think he’s not that much of a sweet tooth, but once in a while he eats a spoonful of biscoff spread because he claims that “Its not too sweet” but really he just can’t go one month without the taste of biscoff.

A terrible cook. Absolutely awful. I’m talking frying an egg and made it undercooked but overcooked at the same time.

Used to take immaculate care of his hair back on earth but ran out of products within 4 months on board.

Definitely misses his shiny curls…

Genuinely loves the taste of Alpen yoghurt bars, he could down 20 of them in one sitting.

Once asked Jimmy to help cut his hair and ended up with a frizzy bob look for a while.

CO-PILOT JIMMY

Y’know how one of his canon hobbies is weightlifting? Well he only started lifting because Curly did, he wanted to appear buffer than him.

He cant lift past 50kg btw.

Has a favorite shirt hes too attached to throw away. It’s a Misfits band t-shirt which now has holes in it, the hem of the shirt is practically falling off but he refuses to throw it out.

I know people like to say he probably stinks but honestly he probably smells faint of wood and light musk. It’s not the worst, kind of smells pleasant actually.

Heavily dislikes board games because every time he’s slightly falling behind the rest of the crew he rage quits, gaslighting himself that the game is rigged and storms off.

Secretly likes The Hungry Caterpiller. (Only because it was the only book he could afford as a child.)

Likes the smell of gasoline. I’m not elaborating.

NURSE ANYA

Originally, the Tulpar didn’t have any board games (considering how shitty Pony Express is), she brought them on herself. Theres now a small box of games for everyone tucked away under the table in the living room.

Ran one of those small businesses that sold slime when she was younger but stopped because she got slime stuck in her hair so bad she had to cut her hair.

Back on earth, she was often invited to school trips as a nurse or a medic. One of her fondest memories was when she was brought on a 5 day school residential trip to the beach with 9th graders. She got to go snorkeling with them and became close friends with a few other med students who also got invited.

Never skips leg day.

Theres a hidden cupboard of kids cereal no one knew about but her. She gate-kept it and pours herself a bowl every morning since the other cupboard of cereal is only filled with cornflakes and the granola ones.

Gave a box to Daisuke though but only because he promised not to tell anyone after he saw her taking it off the shelf.

Bonds with Daisuke over animes like Ouran High School Host Club, Assassination Classroom and Life Lesson of Uramichi Oniisan. They’re best friends now.

INTERN DAISUKE

I don’t care what y’all say, he loves playing Wii Sports, specifically tennis and bowling.

Once got scolded by his mother because she thought he was watching hentai. In reality, it was just an anime where the female lead sounds like shes making explicit noises every time she gasps. Poor Daisuke.

Wants to go to Hawaii so bad. He tells his friends that he just wants to go because he loves sunny weather and the beach but really he adores those tanned Sanrio plushes exclusive to Hawaii.

A sucker for malatang. He has the highest spice tolerance out of the whole crew and brought a few packs of Shin ramen to eat. (He offered Swansea one and later saw a sprinting Swansea dashing towards the vending machine for water.)

Won’t be able to sleep for MONTHS after seeing horror movie.

Surprisingly hates gummy bears. Claims the texture is too thick to chew on.

MECHANIC SWANSEA

Tried to convince Pony Express to let his dog on board. Got refused.

Makes a mean Texas Smoked Brisket which he used to make for family gatherings back on earth. Everyone would get upset when he doesn’t show up with one in his hands.

Uses Daisuke as his tool boy like those dads who make their sons hand them tools. Daisuke holds a flashlight for him all the time and Swansea gets annoyed when the light isn’t shining where it’s supposed to be.

Fears balding and asked Anya how to deal with hair loss. She gave him her set of scalp oils to use and now he has the best smelling hair on the ship.

Used to be a jock in his school days. Pulled like 50 girls.

Has a special pair of fun socks his wife gave to him on his 30th birthday, he brought it on the ship because it reminds him of her. Though, everyone laughs at the mini pepperoni pizza patterns on them.

Thanks for reading, this is my first time writing and I have no clue if this is what I’m supposed to be doing. Requests are opened but I don’t have any rules or a masterlist yet. Take care.

[writer-komaru]

Wild One’s Rodeo 𓃗

Warning✧ [explicit] Grinding, no protection, dubcon.

Characters✧ Boothill

Words✧ 1464

Summary✧ As a waitress for one of the most popular bars in penacony, you’ve met your fair share of strange characters. A smug man adorned in exotic furs who tried making a bet with the bartender, a sparkling knight who gave every lady in the bar a rose without even staying for a drink, even an enigmatic woman carrying a purple katana with eyes like a serpent who sat alone at the end of the bar. But never have you met a man like Boothill. A man of steel and whiskey, tying you in hemp like you’re nothing but a naughty cow he’s gonna tame. Give him a rodeo he won’t forget.

“Sorry for the wait, ma’am. Here’s your sundae,” you place a decked out desert in front of an impatient woman who snarls a crude thanks. You’d like to give her a good smack for making you fetch her four other deserts until she is finally satisfied but you had already been scolded two times already. You couldn’t afford to lose another job. Not in this “thriving” economy that had the lower class slaving away while the rich babbled over dozens of mugs of beer or road cars that sped down the busy streets like a comet streaking through the night sky.

You pushed away the unrealistic thoughts and got back to work. “What would ya like, sir?” “How can I help ya, ma’am?” “Would ya like a refill?” The thoughts buzzed and bounced around in your head like a hive of bees; it was beginning to drive ya mad. That was until they suddenly went dead silent.

You placed another tray of expensive alcohol (stuff you’d never dream of buying) onto the faded wooden counter when the doors of the bar flew open, almost splintering into pieces. A shot blasted out into the sky.

“YEEEEHAWW!! How’s all yall fiendin’ tonight?” He hollered out into the crowded bar catching everyone’s attention, including yours. Even though you’ve never seen this man before in your life, the guests erupted into cheers, some even standing up to greet him or share drinks. At Leary it gave you a few seconds to scope him out. He wore a tight, jet-black leather vest and pants, held up by a brown and heavy gold belt. Yet, that wasn’t the main thing that caught your eye. His vest appeared to be cut right above the nipples. But, strangely enough, he didn’t really have any. Instead, his entire upper body from the neck down to his feet and fingertips was entirely plated with titanium, or some similar shiny metal. Could he be some type of robo cowboy?

“Heyyyy little lady, whatcha doin’ on yer own?~” you gasped as he pushed you up against the counter, humming right against your ear with such a deep country accent you felt your legs tremble. He seemed to notice it too, his smirk stretching into a full on smile. “Oh my sweet darlin’, yer gonna fly away like a mayflower in May if ya keep trembling’ like that. Don’t worry babydoll, I got ya~” he chuckled with that rugged, sultry voice as he playfully stroked your hips, as if he was tinkering with some kind of machine, steadfast on fixing your loose legs. But his tinkering only wet your face ablaze.

Who even WAS this man?! You wanted to push him away and scold him but your hips were pinned so hard to the counter you could feel every inch he had. No, you can’t think such dirty thoughts about a guest, no matter how persuasive they were. And damn, was her persuasive.

“What’s with that look, darlin’? Scared I’ll bite?” Lets out a small laugh, “I might be gentle with it if ya say please, mister…~”

“P-please… mister.” you managed out breathlessly

“Awh, aren’t you a cute little lady~ why not we find out what these metal hands’a mine can do to those barrels yer hauling around, huh doll?~” his hands roamed up your body and gave your breasts a firm squeeze. That little move of his snapped you out of your lustful daze to deliver a fiery slap across his cheek.

He takes it like a champ and lets out a light whistle, “wow baby, you sting like hot iron~”

“Y-you can’t just jump on top of a stranger and have your way…” you cross your arms and turn around, peeking back at him to see his reaction. Any other waitress would have called the Bloodhounds of him. But you weren’t just any woman. You were dying for something actually interesting to your monotonous assembly-line ass job and this cowboy might be your ticket to freedom.

“Awwwhhh come on, doll face~ I ain’t mean no harm. When I saw yer curves dressed in that get up I knew I hadta show ya how to properly ride a bull~” he leans forward, taking your hand in his and kissing it with a flirtatious wink. He begins walking back to the door, your hand still in his, “if ya want some hands on learnin’, follow me, pretty thing.”

You immediately ripped off your stained waitress uniform and ran to his side, “Oh Boothill, I’ve been itching for this~”

“Have ya, now?~” he raised an eyebrow in amusement and pulled you into a nearby alleyway, “Well I know just the way to solve a pesky itch~”

“How will-“ before you could even finish your sentence he lifted both of your legs and swung them over his shoulders, your aching pussy pushed flush against his toned metallic abdomen. The hard surface sent electricity zapping through your wet folds; you were not sure if it was your desire or his robotic body sending out small shocks as if to warn you about the power it can showcase.

“Overwhelmed already?~ never been dicked down by a real man, have ya, darling?” He teases, stoking your flames.

“N-no, I have… m-many times…” you bluffed.

“You sure, babydoll? Cuz this cute little pussy down here’s singin’ a different tune and myyyy is it a sweeten’~” he bites his lip as he rubs his hips side to side, the hard as metal rod in his pants grinding against you so good you felt like cumming already and he wasn’t even inside yet.

“P-please….” You begged between gasps.

“Please what, doll?~” he smirked wickedly.

“P-please… p-ple… pl… ease….” You choked out each word, struggling to put them together.

“Two little words and I’ll stretch ya out so good your kitty’ll meow so loud they’ll call animal control,” he gave your chest another teasing squeeze.

“P-please… boothiiiiiilllll….” You cried out.

“That’s a good girl…~” his eyes narrowed with focus as he pushed aside your drenched panties and stroked your folds up and down.

“So sticky and wet… like a rich lil beehive overflowing with thick honey…” he once again rested his head on your shoulder as he aligned himself to your twitching pussy. Without so much as a warning, he rammed right inside, immediately hitting the deepest reaches of your womb, making you release an embarrassingly loud cry and a hot stream of cum all over his shiny abs. “Wowie…~ someone’s really been dying for a proper fucking, huh?” He gripped your hips tight and grunted as he attempted a deeper thrust, “I’ll milk this pretty hole for all its for.”

“Aaaaggh... nnnagggg… s-stop… n-no deep… we… aaACK!~” you choked out moan after moan, almost like you were a pent up teen again. No matter how much you begged, he only went faster and harder, with enough robotic accuracy and consistency you knew you’d be sore for days. It was like he filled each slap of skin with a silent promise to somehow, some way, get you pregnant.

He let out a particularly loud groan in your ear, “oh baby, if ya squeeze me like that… ohhhh doll…~ I just can’t take much more-a this.~ Ya ready? Ready for a real mess?”

“Y-yeah-ahh! Yeeaaaahhhh-Ahhh!” You cried out.

“Darn baby…. Oh… oh fu- f-fudge…. Hold on baby, I’m almost… oh darling, you’re perfect for me!~” with one last growl you feel a large burst of warm cum burst inside of you, dripping out onto the concrete of the secluded alleyway. But instead of giving himself even a moment’s rest, he bites his lip and shoves himself right back in, humping at you like a dog in heat.

“Shi-sugar baby, I just can’t stop breeding this pretty hole… And these massive tits here don’t make it any easier~” he gropes them a bit more before pinching your nipples with a naughty smile.

“A-aaagh!”

“Ohhh~ did someone like that~” he begins fucking you harder and licks your neck, “I didn’t know I had such a foxy lady under me~”

“P-pleasssseeeee boothill…”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll get ya to that edge again…. And again and again and again, oh, you’ll have so much fun with me,” he laughed before delivering a cheeky bite to your neck. Your moans began to soften as your vision darkened, which he caught onto almost as fast as he’s drilling into you.

“I’ve got ya, doll… just let the darkness settle in.” He whispers with a soothing groan as he litters a series of bites along your neck and shoulder, each one fading your vision faster until it is purely black. When the morning comes, you’ll definitely get an ear full from your boss. That is…. If you choose to awake from this beautifully sexy daydream.

Hellooo everyone, I’m so terribly sorry it’s been so long. My life’s gotten a whole lot busier and I haven’t had any inspiration to write in a very very long time. BUT!! Even though this ain’t much compared to my usual stuff, I hope it’s still enjoyable to you all. I love yall so much, looking back at all the kind comments and likes warms my heart more than anything. See yall soon! (I’d be down for a part two if yall like 👀)

[fatehbaz]

This April [2021], the Iowa Department of Corrections issued a ban on charities, family members, and other outside parties donating books to prisoners. Under the state’s new guidelines, incarcerated people can get books only from a handful of “approved vendors.” Used books are prohibited altogether [...].

In 2018, the Michigan prison system introduced an almost identical set of rules, and Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Washington have all made attempts to block book donations, which were only rolled back after public outcry. Across the United States, the agencies responsible for mass imprisonment are trying to severely limit incarcerated people’s access to the written word [...].

---

The official narrative is that donated books could contain “contraband [...]" -- the language used in Michigan [...]. This is a flimsy justification that begins to fall apart under even the lightest scrutiny. [...] [Contraband] [...] [is] not originating from nonprofit groups like the Appalachian Prison Book Project or Philadelphia’s Books Through Bars. [....] The old cartoon scenario of a hollow book with a saw or a gun inside just isn’t realistic, and its invocation is a sign that something else is going on.

That “something else,” predictably enough, is profit. With free books banned, prisoners are forced to rely on the small list of “approved vendors” chosen for them by the prison administration. These retailers directly benefit when states introduce restrictions. In Iowa, the approved sources include [B&N] and [B-a-M], some of America’s largest retail chains -- and, notably, ones which charge the full MSRP value for each book, quickly draining prisoners’ accounts. An incarcerated person with, say, $20 to spend can now only get one book, as opposed to three or four used ones; in states where prisoners make as little as 25 cents an hour for their labor, many can’t afford even that.

---

With e-books, the situation is even worse, as companies like [GTL] supply supposedly “free” tablets which actually charge their users by the minute to read.

Even public-domain classics, available on Project Gutenberg, are only available at a price under these systems -- and prisons, in turn, receive a 5% commission on every charge. All of this amounts to rampant price-gouging and profiteering on an industrial scale.

---

The rise of these private vendors has also been mirrored by the systematic dismantling of the prison library system. In the last ten years, budgets for literacy and educational resources have seen dramatic cuts, reducing funding to almost nothing [...]. In Illinois, for instance, the Department of Corrections spent just $276 on books across the entire state in 2017, down from an already meager $605 the previous year. (This means, incidentally, that each of the state’s roughly 39,000 prisoners was allotted seven-tenths of a cent.)

Oklahoma, meanwhile, has no dedicated budget for books at all, requiring prison librarians to purchase them out-of-pocket. [...]

---

These practices become all the more abhorrent when you consider the impact books can have behind bars. By now, the social science on their benefits is well-established [...]. [O]ther inmates have reported that reading meant “the difference between just giving up mentally and emotionally and making it through another day, week, or year,” countering the dehumanizing effects of their imprisonment. A book can offer a brief, irreplaceable moment of calm in hellish circumstances. [...]

[There is] a shameful pattern in American society, where many people simply don’t think about the incarcerated on a day-to-day basis, let alone sympathize with their worsening conditions. [...] One of the most common arguments for the American carceral system, and its continued existence, is that of rehabilitation. According to its defenders, a prison is not simply a place of suffering, where unwanted populations are sent to disappear. Nor is it a callous money-making machine, intended to squeeze free labor from them in a regime of functional slavery. Instead, prison rehabilitates -- so the story goes. [...] In these terms, the basic legitimacy of mass imprisonment, and its allegedly positive social role, is taken for granted. [...] But the practice of book banning exposes the lie. Not only do American prisons have little interest in education, healing, and growth, but they will actively prevent them the moment there is a dollar to be made or an ounce of power to be secured.

---

Text by: Alex Skopic. "The American Prison System's War on Reading". Protean (Protean magazine online). 29 November 2021. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[ms-demeanor]

Since some people might want a Mac, I'll offer a Mac equivalent of your laptop guide from the perspective of a Mac/Linux person.

Even the cheapest Macs cost more than Windows laptops, but part of that is Apple not making anything for the low end of the tech spectrum. There is no equivalent Mac to an Intel i3 with 4 gigabytes of RAM. This makes it a lot easier to find the laptop you need.

That said, it is possible to buy the wrong Mac for you, and the wrong Mac for you is the 13-inch MacBook Pro with the Touch Bar. Get literally anything else. If it has an M2 chip in it, it's the most recent model and will serve you well for several years. Any new MacBook Air is a good pick.

(You could wait for new Macs with M3, but I wouldn't bother. If you are reading these guides the M3 isn't going to do anything you need done that a M2 couldn't.)

Macs now have integrated storage and memory, so you should be aware that whatever internal storage and RAM you get, you'll be stuck with. But if you would be willing to get a 256 gig SSD in a Windows laptop, the Mac laptop with 256 gigs of storage will be just as good, and if you'd be willing to get 8 gigs of RAM in a Windows laptop the Mac will perform slightly better with the same amount of memory.

Buy a small external hard drive and hook it up so Time Machine can make daily backups of your laptop. Turn on iCloud Drive so your documents are available anywhere you can use a web browser. And get AppleCare because it will almost certainly be a waste of money but wooooooow will you be glad it's there if you need it.

I get that you are trying to help and I am not trying to be mean to you specifically, but people shouldn't buy apple computers. That's why I didn't provide specs for them. Apple is a company that is absolutely terrible to its customers and its customers deserve better than what apple is willing to offer.

Apple charges $800 to upgrade the onboard storage from a 256GB SSD to a 2TB SSD.

A 2TB SSD costs between $75-100.

I maintain that any company that would charge you more than half the cost of a new device to install a $100 part on day one is a company making the wrong computer for you.

The point of being willing to tolerate a 256GB SSD or 8GB RAM in a Windows laptop is that you're deferring some of the cost to save money at the time of purchase so that you can spend a little bit in three years instead of having to replace the entire computer. Because, you see, many people cannot afford to pay $1000 for a computer and need to buy a computer that costs $650 and will add $200 worth of hardware at a later date.

My minimum specs recommendations for a mac would be to configure one with the max possible RAM and SSD, look at the cost, and choose to go buy three i7 windows laptops with the same storage and RAM for less than the sticker price of the macs.

So let's say you want to get a 14" Macbook pro with the lowest-level processor. That's $2000. Now let's bump that from 16GB RAM and a 512GB SSD to 32GB and 2TB. That gets you to $3000. (The SSD is $200 less than on the lower model, and they'll let you put in an 8TB SSD for $1800 on this model; that's not available on the 13" because apple's product development team is entirely staffed by assholes who think you deserve a shitty computer if you can't afford to pay the cost of two 1991 Jeep Cherokee Laredos for a single laptop).

For $3000 you can get 3 Lenovo Workstation laptops with i7 processors, 32GB RAM, and a 2TB SSD.

And look, for just $200 more I could go up to 48GB RAM and get a 4TB SSD - it costs $600 to upgrade the 14" mac from a 2TB SSD to a 4TB SSD so you could still get three laptops with more ram and the same amount of storage for the cost of one macbook.

I get that some people need to use Final Cut and Logic Pro, but hoo boy they sure are charging you through the nose to use products that have become industry standard. The words "capture" and "monopoly" come to mind even though they don't quite apply here.

"Hostile" does, though, especially since Mac users end up locked into the ecosystem through software and cloud services and become uncertain how to leave it behind if they ever decide that a computer should cost less than a month's rent on a shitty studio apartment in LA.

There's a very good reason I didn't give mac advice and that's because my mac advice is "DON'T."

[mintmatcha]

what was higuruma’s relationship like with his ex wife? does he still love her? does she him? need 2 kno mint

cw: alcoholism, mentions of depression and hinted self harm

They met over an Amaretto Sour.

A woman sits at a bar. Everyone is the room finds this noticeable.

When she talks to the bartender, her platinum curls bounce in time with her bell tinkle laugh, a hair sprayed halo. She's the prettiest thing in the bar. She knows that. There's rarely places where she isn't. She savors the faux idol-hood that it affords her. Reverence often comes at the price of solitude, as if she's simply too beautiful to actually exist in the room, so the men just watch from afar, whispering behind hands with those-

"Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are?"

A dark hair man slides into the seat next to hers, empty glass in hand. He's tall, young, and dressed nicer than this place deserves. There's a sway in his voice, a tipsy unfocused glaze to his eyes. He's drunk, the cute kind that blushes his cheeks and gives him the confidence to take to women out of his league.

"Yes," she says. "But you can tell me again."

"You're gorgeous." He's waving down the bartender. "Let me buy you a drink."

....

The cork pops off the champagne bottle and foam sputters after it. She laughs, even though she knows her mother's watching. She thinks her now husband drinks too much, but he only drinks when work is hard or life is too good not too. It's not his fault that both of those things happen frequently.

It will be better next year, when the house is built and a baby's on the way.

The man in question tips the bottle towards her and the pristine white of her dress is speckled with bits of yellow.

"My dress!" she squeals, laughing only because eyes are on her. "Hiromi, my dress!"

....

"I want to wait another year."

She knew this was coming. The talk about children had been dwindling down into awkward silences for a while now. She cuts her dinner with a fork and knife, focusing on even cuts and keeping her upper lip stiff.

Hiromi reaches out for her. When she doesn't take his hand, he grabs his drink- three fingers of vodka over the rocks.

"Bad people are out there, Rin. People who hurt kids." Hiromi pinches the bridge of his nose. "There was this case--"

"I don't want to talk about your work," she cuts in. "It upsets me."

"Yeah." He brings the rocks glass to his lips. "Me too."

....

"I think I want to die."

He pulls the comforter closer. The blanket is night hides his face, but she knows he's facing her; she can taste the mint on his breath. They both pretend that he's still abiding by his New Year's Resolution and avoiding alcohol, even though the brand new bottle of mouthwash is practically drained.

"Don't say things like that."

He turns over. "I'm sorry, Rin."

....

There's a glass of vodka on the table, but he smells like whiskey. She thinks of times he smelt like cologne and can't remember any.

....

The hospital is neon bright, even it the middle of the night. Hiromi is hooked up to machines, but she's not sure why. It's not as if he lost any blood or anything, he just...

Rin was raised to be delicate. To be soft. It was never her job to be someone's rock.

When he wakes, he looks for her.

"You fell asleep in the bathtub," is all she says.

Hiromi doesn't seem surprised.

"You were drunk."

The machines beep their steady rhythms. She has questions that she hopes he never answers.

"I want a divorce."

He doesn't seem surprised about that either.

[butternuggets-blog]

DRACULA: A Modern Adaptation

My script for a modern tv adaptation of Dracula, based on the novel by Bram Stoker Also on AO3

EPISODE ONE

101     TRAIN TO BISTRITZ

An aerial shot of train tracks winding through mountainous terrain. A train winding its way towards its destination; old, either early 1990s or even late 80s.

Camera zooms in; long swooping shot.

102     TRAIN CARRIAGE

A figure idly watches the landscape rolling past the window. The glass is streaky; the carriage is clean but shabby and well-worn, clearly old and very used. JONATHAN HARKER rummages inside a pant pocket and pulls out a mobile phone. Samsung Galaxy; he can’t afford an Iphone or has chosen not to purchase one. Not a trend-follower.

Camera static; shows phone screen. Static zoom cut showing the internet and cell reception bars abruptly cut out. He is on his own out here.

103     ARRIVAL AT BISTRITZ

Train shudders to a stop; Jonathan pulls his suitcase out from under his seat and follows the crowd outside onto the platform. Open-air station; very old ticket office with one window, a single bench for waiting passengers. No electronic ticket machine, no modern ads scrolling up. This station is ancient.

Jonathan spots a sign (very hard to miss) for the Golden Krone Hotel which is directly in front of him, opposite the station. He walks across the platform, looks both ways down the street before crossing – people walking by, a stray dog, a genuine horse-drawn carriage – and goes inside.

104     INT. GOLDEN KRONE HOTEL - LOBBY

Open plan hotel lobby; the dining/seating area is to the left, already packed with a modest amount of locals and travellers. The staircase to the upper floors is ahead. The small reception desk is on the right; an OLD WOMAN, one half of the establishment’s proprietors, is already lifting up a flap in the desktop and walking through, reaching Jonathan as he stops in the doorway to admire the interior of the hotel lobby (very traditional; lots of hand-carved wood and painted wallpaper).

OLD WOMAN

Are you the Englishman?

She is speaking German with a stilted fluency. It is not her first language but she knows it passably well. She is Székelys.

JONATHAN HARKER

Yes. I am Jonathan Harker.

He speaks German like a tourist. He is enunciating firmly, with an English accent. Jonathan bows suddenly, awkwardly; the woman reciprocates the gesture. She is smiling; it is an old custom to bow to women in greeting, nowadays most people shake hands. She thinks it is sweet that he has learnt the gesture.

OLD WOMAN

Room seven has been prepared for you.

Jonathan follows the woman over to the desk. She grabs a key – iron, old-fashioned, heavy – from a hook and places it in his hand as her husband appears from a door leading into a back room beside the desk.

OLD WOMAN

Dinner can be served but it is extra, my apologies.

JONATHAN

Thank you. That’s not a problem.

The woman turns to her husband. Jonathan cannot see her expression but the audience can. She is tense, but pretending that nothing is wrong.

OLD WOMAN

[in Romanian] Fetch the letter before I change my mind.

OLD MAN

[in Romanian] It’s for the best.

Jonathan has no clue what is being said. He is wearing the polite smile of a man completely out of his depth.

OLD WOMAN

[in Romanian] Just fetch it.

The man wants to speak, but it is an old argument and he closes his mouth, lets it die. He goes back into the office while Jonathan and the woman stand in awkward silence.

The man returns, handing an envelope to his wife. It is made of thick parchment, sealed with a genuine wax seal, and addressed to Jonathan. The woman slides it across the countertop, fingers pressing down on it.

She is smiling. It is clearly forced.

OLD WOMAN

This was left for you.

JONATHAN

Oh, thank you.

Jonathan tries to take the envelope but there is resistance. The woman does not want to hand the letter over. He tries to snatch it again; this time he is successful.

105     INT. GOLDEN KRONE HOTEL – DINING ROOM

Jonathan is eating a dinner of “robber steak…bacon, onion, and beef, seasoned with red pepper, and strung on sticks and roasted over the fire” with several glasses of “Golden Mediasch wine”.

He reads the opened letter as he eats; the envelope is tucked into his journal, also on the table, which is propping up the letter.

We now hear Dracula’s voice for the first time as he narrates the letter.

DRACULA

My friend, welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting you. Sleep well tonight. At three tomorrow the coach will start for Bukovina; a place on it has been reserved for you. At the Borgo Pass my carriage will pick you up and bring you to me.

106     FADE IN – INT. GOLDEN KRONE HOTEL – ROOM SEVEN

The dining room scene fades into Jonathan packing his bag in his room the next day and tidying up his bed.

DRACULA

I trust that your journey from London has been a happy one, and that you will enjoy your stay in my beautiful land.

There is a knock on Jonathan’s hotel room. He zips up his suitcase and answers the door; the OLD WOMAN is standing there, fidgeting nervously.

JONATHAN

Yes? What’s wrong?

Jonathan lets her into the room.

OLD WOMAN

Do you have to go? On today of all days?

JONATHAN

Yes, I have business-

The woman starts weeping.

JONATHAN

Oh! Oh-oh-shh, shh, shh, shh-

He moves to comfort her

JONATHAN

I’m sorry

OLD WOMAN

[in Romanian] I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! It should be us and not you but I can’t-

JONATHAN

What’s the matter? What’s wrong? What did you mean, “today of all days”?

The woman takes a moment to get herself under control.

OLD WOMAN

It is the eve of St George’s day. When it strikes midnight tonight, all the evil in the world will hold sway.

Jonathan is confused.

JONATHAN

What has that got to do with my business trip?

The woman silently shakes her head. She’s said enough; to talk more would be suicide. She takes a rosary from around her neck and places it on Jonathan. He is very confused.

OLD WOMAN

For your mother’s sake.

She leaves.

107 EXT. VARIOUS LANDSCAPES

Picturesque shot of a stagecoach travelling through various landscapes: forest, fruit trees, snow-covered mountains, and valleys.

108     INT. TRAVELLING COACH

As the passengers realise that they have reached the Borgo Pass, they begin to ply Jonathan with gifts; one clasps his hands and says a short prayer, while others press dried rose and garlic into his hands.

JONATHAN

Oh, er, thank you. Thank you.

He is just as confused as he was at the inn. Perhaps this is a normal Romanian farewell?

The coach approaches the stretch of road where Dracula’s coach should be. Everyone looks for it expectantly; Jonathan is disappointed by its absence, the others breathe a sigh of relief.

The driver opens a sliding window set in the front of the coach so he can talk to his passengers.

DRIVER

[in Romanian] We are an hour early.

One of the passengers make the sign of the cross. Another nods.

NODDING PASSENGER

Smart.

The driver turns to Jonathan.

DRIVER

Your coach has not arrived yet. It is late; we will take you on to Bukovina and put you up there for the night.

JONATHAN

Could you wait maybe five minutes? Please?

DRIVER

No. There are wolves.

Suddenly Dracula’s carriage appears behind them. The passengers scream; the driver swears and struggles to get his horses under control as the carriage overtakes and stops in front of them.

DRIVER

[in Romanian] The dead travel fast.

DRACULA – I mean, the “COACHMAN” – alights from his coach and approaches them.

“COACHMAN”

[in Romanian] You are early tonight.

The driver flinches, says nothing. The passengers are frozen in their seats, hardly daring to breath. Their bravery has fled.

The “coachman” pulls Jonathan’s suitcase from the luggage rack. Jonathan climbs out and hesitantly approaches the other vehicle.

“COACHMAN”

Come, come! Let me help you.

He grabs Jonathan’s arm and heaves him into the carriage. He uses a little too much force; Jonathan bounces against the seat. The “coachman” puts a cloak over Jonathan’s shoulders.

JONATHAN

You can keep it for yourself if you want; I’m wearing enough protective layers.

“COACHMAN”

Keep it. And there is a flask of slivovitz in the seat pocket if you would like a nightcap.

The “coachman” flicks the reins and the carriage starts moving. The driver, white-knuckling the reins, watches Jonathan leave. The passengers watch as well, pressed up against the windows but not daring to poke their heads outside.

109     EXT. LANDSCAPE NEAR THE CASTLE

The carriage rides through the night. Jonathan is cold, despite the layers; he pulls the cloak around himself like a blanket and enjoys the night time view.

Jonathan gets curious. By the light of the moon he looks at his watch; it is about to strike midnight.

Camera static; static zoom shot of the watch face as the hands strike midnight.

Howls pierce the air. They are far away and oh so close. Jonathan shivers, shrinking down and trying to hide as best he can in the carriage. They keep moving.

110      INT. OPEN TOP CARRIAGE

Aerial shot of the carriage rolling along the road. Jonathan, feeling brave, is sitting up properly again. He spots blue flames flickering among the trees to the left.

JONATHAN

A will o’ the wisp! I didn’t know you had them here! We have them back home in England, in the marshes.

“COACHMAN”

They are not wisps, only blue flames. Wisps have a mind.

JONATHAN

Supposedly wisps lead people astray. Some people have died after following them.

The coachman grins. He enjoys the thought of people dying.

“COACHMAN”

The flames always appear on St George’s Eve. They mark hidden treasure.

Eyes around them, glowing white. The horses buck and whinny, but there’s nowhere for them to go. The cloud cover lifts and

Wolves.

Standing in a ring around the now stopped carriage, silently observing the men. Suddenly they throw back their heads and howl.

The coachman stands up, throwing his arms wide.

“COACHMAN”

[in Romanian] Begone!

The wolves leave.

“COACHMAN”

The children of the night. What music they make!

Jonathan is shaken. What the hell was that? He presses a hand to his chest, pressing the rosary tucked under his shirt against his skin. It is a comfort.

111      EXT. CASTLE DRACULA

The carriage comes down the final stretch of road before pulling up in the courtyard of “a vast ruined castle”. Jonathan is slumped in the backseat; fear and exhaustion has been too much for him and he nodded off.

The sudden lurch of the carriage coming to a halt wakes him up and he looks about him in awe, hopping from the carriage with the help of the coachman who proceeds to deposit his suitcase beside him before driving off.

Jonathan approaches the front door. It is massive and weathered, with iron nails embedded in it.

Carved along the stone doorframe, in English, is an inscription. The words are clearly new, although the stone it is carved onto is very old.

JONATHAN

[in English] Enter freely, go safely, and leave a little of the happiness you bring.

There is a loud clank of bolts – and gears? - and the door slides open, seemingly on its own.

[angst-after-dark]

CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, CONDITIONED WHUMPEE, LIVING WEAPON WHUMPEE, OVEREXERTION, EXHAUSTION, COLLAPSE

Taglist/General Writing: @flowersarefreetherapy @oddsconvert @siren-of-agony @gottawhump @winedark-whump, @bbu-whump-reblogs

The world was upside down. She was alive. Her title as a Shield was useless. She was useless. The Wickhams should’ve been preparing for a funeral but instead they were footing a hospital bill and hours of physical therapy to get her back in fighting shape.

She was a disappointment. 

He’d rescued her. He’d rescued her. Her principal had rescued her.

The shame of that…She clenched her fists. She was fine. She was alive and she’d spend the rest of her life, however long that was, repaying the debt. Her muscles numbed a little as they got used to the pain of more running. The exercise chased the sleep from her system. Good. She needed to be more awake. She put in her earbuds, music blaring and chasing away the shame for a minute. 

Her breaths came out heavy, her muscles tense and lungs aching. Sweat slicked her skin, leaving her uncomfortably wet but she paid it no mind. Instead, her eyes hardened as she glared at the little red number on the treadmill. Too low. It disgusted her more than the sweat . Frustration had her punching the plus sign on the datapad as she forced herself to go faster. 

Her knee twinged in pain. She ignored it. It seemed to creak as she moved, almost as if bone was rubbing against bone.The pain flared, shooting down her leg, wrapping around her ankle until she buckled, almost falling.

She gripped the bar on the machine and propelled herself forward, movements sloppy from fatigue and frustration. She was alive. She needed to work harder, regain her strength, her speed, and return to Wick’s side. She was *alive* and that meant she had to keep going. She couldn't afford to fall behind. Her lungs felt like they were being ripped apart by the air inside them but she knew she had to keep going.

It was her job. It was what she was made for. 

There was no pause, no slowing them down, and Kestrel grit her teeth. She had to focus, had to keep working. No matter how much her lungs screamed at her. No matter how much her head spun.

She gripped the bars of the machine to keep herself from falling again but her knee was on fire and she could barely shift without spots dancing across her eyes. Flames licked up and down her body, leaving her hot then cold then hot again. It throbbed and ached with every beat of her heart, every pump of blood. Exhaustion weighed heavily on her body and finally, clumsily, brought her to the floor.

This was fine. It was fine. Pain was temporary. She could breathe through it and get back to work but her lungs hurt. They felt congested, as heavy as the rest of her body, like something was sitting on her chest. Her lungs hurt. Every breath came with a shard of broken glass that raked through her lungs and cut up her insides. She tried to take a deep breath, intending to cough and clear her airway, but that only made it worse. The coughs got caught in her chest, producing an alarming wheeze, the force of them made her ribs ache.

She couldn't breathe. This was less fine. 

She grit her teeth again, hard enough it felt as though they would break as well but that was the least of her pain. Then there was air, a sudden burst of it down her throat, some restricting mass over her face forcing air through her body. Kestrel tried to shake it off, but it was too firmly tightened. She could do nothing but feel her lungs expanding, sending a whole new spike of pain through her body. She tried to scream. Instead, she blacked out. 

The first thing that she noticed when she woke up - still alive, still alive, still alive -  was that her body was in agony. Through the veil of sleepiness, the pain wrung out loud and clear. Pins and pricks assaulted her side. 

Her mind woke up slowly, trying to recollect the memories from before, when nothing hurt or was painfully throbbing. She tried to move her leg, waking herself up quicker through the pain that lanced through her body. She grit her teeth, sucking air through them.  

Shit. 

When she opened her eyes, the first thing she noted was the muted, dull colors surrounding her. Light pale green walls, tan covers, white ceiling-- not the hospital. 

Before she could take a moment to really try and get under wraps why she was in so much pain, there was a knock at the door. She didn’t respond. Her mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, throat ran dry like the desert sand had whipped it bare. 

The door opened up and a man stepped in, holding a tray. The man barely paid attention to her, setting the tray down on the nightstand.

“Mi…Midas?” she finally asked, voice scratchy.

His head turned to her, shoulders tensing. “Leigh. You’re awake.”

“Yes,” she murmured. She lifted herself in the bed, just enough to sit up. Sharp, shooting pains stabbed through her side. She clenched her teeth. 

“You overworked yourself again,” Midas explained, “Took in more pain than you could handle and fainted in the gym. The Wickhams were not pleased. Per their orders, you’re confined to bed rest. The Chamberlains have allowed Christopher to borrow one of their Shields.”

She lay back down, trying not to let the panic and frustration overwhelm her. Replaced. She was being replaced.

[trevelyawn]

WIP: cullen visits the prisoner.

Cullen moves through the hastily assembled camp. Soldiers stand with straight backs and tense muscles, fists clenched over their chests, waiting for their superior to pass before they continue about their business. The Commander reaches the prison as Solas, the mysterious elven apostate that had approached their encampment and offered help, strolls from the building. Hands behind his back, he acknowledges Cullen's presence with a nod and steps aside to allow him to pass. “Any change?” Cullen asks. He is uncomfortable around the apostate but given what he has heard from Leliana, knowledge of the Fade and its machinations is an expertise they cannot afford to dismiss right now. Best not to make him feel too uncomfortable. Solas shakes his head. “She is stable, as is the Mark. I cannot say when or if she will wake.” Head held high, he moves to pass Cullen. He stops. “She is a Mage.” When Cullen doesn't respond, Solas continues, “I know of your past with the Order.” It sounds like an accusation; judgement. That life was gone. Cullen was unlearning prejudices and hatred, and he vowed that things would be different.

Squaring his shoulders, he makes no reply. Old hinges creak when he pushes the door open and enters. He follows lit torches to the isolated chamber. A lone guard sits bored in a chair, the two front legs hovering precariously as he leans back against a stone pillar. At the sight of the Commander, he startles, chair clattering as he jumps to his feet to stand at attention. Cullen acknowledges him with a nod and moves towards the only occupied cell in the dank room. It takes a moment for Cullen's eyes to adjust to the dark as he looks into the cell. He can make out the shape of a woman laying on a bedroll. Her chest rises and falls with even breaths and Cullen listens to her soft exhales. It's surprising how calm she is in slumber, as though she hadn't just fallen from a Fade rift at the site of an explosion that had killed hundreds and left a gaping hole in the sky. He lifts his gaze to her face. Her features are soft, lit by the orange glow of torchlight, and cuts and grazes mark pale skin. Her hair looks almost black; short, loose waves resting on a straw pillow. Realisation washes over him in a wave and his stomach lurches, heart skips a beat. He knows her. Shaking hands reach out to grip the cold bars separating them. “The Seeker and Spymaster. Retrieve them,” he manages to say. When the guard hesitates and doesn't move, Cullen fixes him with a furious glare. With waning patience, he barks an order. “Now!” Red in the face, the guard sputters a panicked yessir! before tripping over clumsy feet in his haste to depart. Hurried footsteps quieten and Cullen waits for the creak and loud thud of the door to let him know that he's alone. He thinks back to when he had last seen her. Kirkwall crumbling, the Circle ablaze, and mages, apostate and Circle alike, forced to flee at the risk of their lives. She didn't want to leave, didn't want to run and have to start anew, but Cullen had forced her to go. Meredith may have been lyrium-mad and consumed by her fear of mages but she had amassed a desperate following teeming with those that believed that the threat of blood magic was too great and that all mages needed to be put to the sword. He had come to terms with never seeing her again.

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Star-crossed in the Crosshairs (John Price x Reader)

Chapter 9: I Don't Know If I Can Do It

Fic Summary: This mission is the pinnacle of your efforts for the past three years. Your whole team and yourself have worked countless hours, slaughtered hundreds, risked life and limb for scraps of intel, and now it all boiled down to pairing up with another taskforce to get this job done and dusted. An unexpected spanner in the works comes in the shape of your former best friend, now also a Captain and somehow resurrected from his KIA status, John Price.

You can’t afford to let feelings - old and new - get in the way of your purpose. No matter how much you’ve missed, wished for, loved him, and no matter how much he might feel the same.

Chapter 8 // Masterlist // AO3 Version // Gif Credit // Chapter 10

“Well done,” You said as you handed Chance two twenty pound notes and sent them on their way.

Čiernik neutralised and Shepherd’s fate in the wind, the debrief was long over. Both teams had waited for you and Price, but only Price would be joining them. Part of you wanted to hear the war stories from the 141, really catch up. Then your stomach flared up and your eyes threatened to steam up and you remembered how fragile you’d let yourself get over this calendar month.

Bronze - still conked out on meds - demanded that someone have his drink for him, so you weren’t the only one missing out. Tonight, you’d spend your time numbing your ribs and hidden away.

A naughty mood plagued your mind, a naughty and self-destructive mood that cranked open a trunk of memories concerning the good old days that Price might’ve brought up via his reappearance in his life. You groaned over being at a point in your life where your twenties were “the old days”.

That naughty mood consumed your thoughts with flashbacks you hadn’t considered for years, even since realising Price was alive. Routine for your training years was what was currently playing. Two pints into a night out, you and John used to arm wrestle – an excuse to hold his hand on your part as well as an excuse to display how much you’d been working out – over a sticky table and damp bevy napkins. If the place had a karaoke machine (like your first local did), you’d always sing “Losing My Religion” like you were trying to convince each other of your perspective. Not once did you look at the screen for the words. You would put it on the jukebox if there was no karaoke, create your own jam session that would result in a warning about getting barred.

First time John convinced you to sing with him, he had his hand on your shoulder and stared intensely at you with his forehead to yours as he sang matter-of-factly, if a little unclear due to the cider. You, on the other hand, giggled through each lyric at how overwhelmed by how his steadfast cornflower eyes held you on that stage, losing yourself in the final chorus and getting cut off by your colleague, dragged home by the collar of your shirt and insisting you weren’t that bad, John egging you on all the while.

Difficult emotions bubbled like the beer you used to drink, forming a cathartic yet strangled cry in your throat as you opened the door to your temporary room. You were too injured to wear yourself out with some exercise. That was your usual cure for avoiding uncomfortable thoughts, the energy expelled causing you to pass out without any struggle of tossing and turning – or of nightmares. Even though you were absent of any gear, or your weighted blanket back at your base, to ground you into a mattress, your ribs would’ve complained the entire night. So today you were forced to recognise that the cork on your anxiety was coming loose, and the presence of Price – paired with your lovestruck Sergeants – was the equivalent of shaking the bottle. 

“Fuck,” you muttered to yourself with a hard sniff.

The expletive offered a mild release of emotion, staving off the crying for a little longer. Long enough to raid the medical wing for some more disposable ice packs, long enough to get caught red-handed and by none other than the main cause of your pain.

“You’re back early,” You remarked as if you weren’t using your shirt as a makeshift basket for icepacks.

Price pushed a hand through his hair, smoothing it out whilst stuffing his beanie into his coat pocket, “Had my fill. The boys were insisting it was because I was getting old.”

“You’re not old. ‘Cus if you are, then I am too, and I’m not old.”

“Course not,” Price said wryly. Then he gestured to your haul, “Need a hand?”

Already, he was approaching you and – against your better judgement – you let him scoop a couple out before you both headed back to your room.

Holding your nerve, you made an attempt to be blasé: “Don’t suppose you had a sing-song at the pub?”

“No. Haven’t since I lost my duet partner.”

You winced around the corner, hoping Price would take it in response to your injuries. He must’ve done, for he didn’t allow any silence to linger on his remark:

“Played a few sessions of Shithead to determine whose round it was. You got any other plans for tonight?”

You crushed and placed a pack onto your ribs whilst John opened your door, letting you in first as you replied, “Just lie in a pile of these.”

Price’s hum with approval was masked beneath the bed creak as you carefully placed yourself on the edge of it, your chin in your hand, whilst you awkwardly iced your back. Your eyes closed without considering the extra person in the room, yet you took note of the mattress waning beneath their weight and refused to be shocked by the calloused fingertips that touched over the condensation on your hand.

“Here,” Price said, his voice low in volume and tone.

Fingers slipping out of his gentle hold, you let Price take over holding the icepack against your side. His other hand squeezed your corresponding shoulder, thumbing out the knots on that side of your spine – and there were a lot of knots. Needless to say, you were not expecting this, nor were you expecting to crave this kind of treatment until you found yourself sitting up straighter, following Price’s hand whenever it adjusted its grip on your taut muscles.

Clearing your throat, you opened your eyes, “You always made fun of me for my spa days.”

“Well, I’ve matured now,” John said quietly, his thumb digging around the edge of your left shoulder blade, “Enough to understand the value of a back rub – maybe a good bath bomb too.”

Laughter that coughed and clogged up your throat erupted from you. A tear splashed between your spread legs, leaving a little mark on the thin rug. Another ran through the same track and slipped down your face faster. That laughter slipped into sniffles fairly quickly after that.

Price’s hands stilled, “Did I hurt you?”

You sniffed and shook your head. You massive liar.

Very easily, John could’ve just offered you a tissue from the box on the bedside table. Instead, he moved to kneel in front of you, and he went to cup your face. Tilting your head away, you pushed his hands down.Temptation was enticing you to rest your forehead against his for just a second, how it would heal all torment he’d caused you – inadvertently and otherwise. You knew this was beyond a slippery slope. It was a straight drop down a crevasse with the bottom masked by fog. Shaking your head, you looked to your bedside lamp instead of him.

Without forcing you to look at him, John spoke, “I know I’ve got no right to ask you. But I’m a selfish man.”

Stubborn, yes. Ruthless, agreed. Cold. At times. But you’d never describe Jonathan Price as selfish. Not until now, at least. You realised you were still holding his hands away, a light grip he could’ve escaped from easily but hadn’t. Your face crumpled on itself and more tears fell, your head knocking against John’s as he lowered himself to his knees between your own

“Even just a scrap of that time to apologise, properly – now I know you’ve said you’re okay with what happened, but I’m not-”

His hands curved around your wrists. There, his thumb traced over your wrist where your pulse jumped under your Viking helmet tattoo – the one he argued wasn’t accurate because it didn’t have horns.

That night you got it, he’d jeered with a beer in his hand, “I should know; it’s my damn call-sign!”

You had been so drunk on his company but so jilted by his accusation that you were prepared to cross the country with him there and then to retrieve your GCSE History certificate and wave it in his face as you declared that Vikings never actually had horns on their helmets. But then you would’ve lost your spot at the parlour, and you really liked that tattoo artist’s style so you had a juvenile John sat beside you, mumbling under his breath how wrong you were to wind him up.

Your brimming tears shocked you back to the present day, having ignored most of John’s apology in favour of reminiscing of when things felt easier.

You tuned in to the end of his speech: “I kept you in the dark and lost you. I’m sorry for that and the pain I’ve caused you. I don’t expect anything. But we’re on borrowed time already. I don’t wanna waste any more of it.”

At that, you snatched your wrists back, for his words had breathed new life into the anger you convinced yourself was dormant. “We could’ve had all the time in the world, but you left me! Why did you leave me? Don’t patronise me with the “I wanted to protect you” shit. Why didn’t you come back for me?”

And you broke down sobbing, gasping for breath as your head lolled in shame, your neck and gut rife with rile. You’d never felt so pathetic, weeping over him like this after saying it was all okay. Nothing was okay. You wanted all the years of your mourning back. You wanted them back and your John back too.

He was looking upon you with pain pinching in his brow, and his voice was as gentle as he could be: “Because I’d pick you over everything.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to leave for me!”

“You wouldn’t have to. You never did.”

God, you wanted Chance or Ghost to use you as a punching bag to block out this agony that wracked your entire body with the vines of grief. Worse still, John’s honesty struck worse than any condescending comment he could’ve conjured. It told you all you needed to know about him, and it asked you something new about yourself: if he asked you to leave team Banshee, would you? Your hesitance frightened you to your core, and you know it did the same to John and his commitment to the 141.

“I’m so sorry I took you for granted, that I never came back for you. I’ll spend my life and the next making it up to you. And at the moment all I can offer you is when our leave aligns, a flat by the Mersey, and a bottle of bourbon. But I’ll give you all I am, all of it.” John sealed his promise with a kiss to your forehead,“I’ll be behind whatever you want to do about this.”

The vines were wrapping around John now, constricting you two together, interlocking your bodies together until your anguished lips found his. He tasted like the mint he’d sucked on during his walk back to base.John’s stubbled chin grated as if your face wasn’t melting with tears, desperate to print onto him. Your irreverent fingers ploughed through his cropped hair, too short to hold onto. Teeth pressed uncomfortably together. You couldn’t picture any of the romantic whirlwinds you’d conjured on lonely nights in times gone by; your mind only allowed you to take in how you and John clawed at each other, as if a loose enough grip would lose him to you forever.

As your tears blurred your sights, the truth came clear in your mind. Through an exhale that tremoured like a needle on a gauge, you pushed away from him and heaved out, “I can’t take the trying to get on without you again, I can’t. I can’t go to your funeral again. Don’t make me.”

And how you begged him, when you knew he couldn’t guarantee you a damn thing.

John’s misty eyes clung to your form without breaking contact once as he swore, “I won’t.” He renewed the vow to every plea you made, each one a plate of glass placed around you two until you were surrounded by the fragile promises that would shatter as soon as one of you left the room.

He kissed you again, simple and sweet like nothing else in your lives. You finally touched him with those hands you’d killed with, cradling his jaws as your noses slanted together, chests levitating both your bodies up and down in asynchronous panting.

But even as you felt his touch prickle across your goose-pimpled skin, the rest of your truth pushed out of your mouth and into his:

“I wanted to forgive you, I really did. But I can’t.”

Your sobbing ceased the second you finished speaking, nothing but your wrecked breathing and tears left behind in the shock that you’d finally said it. In its wake, you were faced with John’s broken expression as he stared unmoving at you. His lips parted with a shuddering and short exhale. In that moment, you knew then that he thought you would forgive him. All you could respond with was a touch of your hand to his cheek in an offer of little comfort when you repeated yourself:

“I can’t.”

John’s eyes flickered but still did not blink, as if you would vanish the second he dared not to keep you in his sights. Nowhere in those eyes did you see him imploring you to change your mind. He simply reeled in the agony of reality crashing into dreams, splintering them beyond repair. You looked, really looked, past the youths you used to be. Borrowed time indeed, in your line of work, the flecks of grey in John’s beard and minute scars in his skin hinted at what remained of his life.

You decided to let yourself yearn for your history one more time.

“But can we…” You wiped your nose and sniffed, “Can we pretend, for the next few hours, that I have forgiven you?”

John swallowed and nodded. His eyes were wet, but he released nothing until you kissed him again, and you felt the first splash from where his cheek bumped yours, salt soaking together.

Trembling and keeping your lips to his, you removed John’s watch and touched over the nerve diagram, your not-so-matching tattoos. Your fingertips treaded along where his pulse ran on tracks through thick hairs and collected the sleeves as they went. Forming fists, you tugged at the bunched-up fabric, gently at first, then growing rapidly impatient, soon grappling with his shirt just as his tongue made an intrepid entrance in your mouth. An intrusive hand beside your injured ribs spun you around and into his lap, John now perched beside where you’d been, his shirt somewhere else. He was holding on tightly, and you were scratching his furred chest too harshly, the kiss clunky and incoherent.

Grief was forcing its way back up your throat, rejecting this attempt to compel reconciliation. Your last ditch effort to keep it at bay made you press your lips hard against hard down his neck until your broken cries were bleated against his collarbones.

John’s agitated chest kept you trapped with his arms warped around you. His trembling tongue whispered over and over “I’m sorry” beside your ear, his intentions clear but muddied by the impact of his words, stabbing you in your heart with every repetition.

Mustering enough energy to hold yourself together, you shut him up with your mouth on his, determined to make this easier for you both. Smoothing out his sticking-up hair did precious little to conjure the comfort you were seeking. Your face slid away from his in the rush of tears pouring down John’s face like rain on a car window. Resigned, you slumped against his chest, letting your breathing hiccup in your aching chest. John drew you back into his arms, applying an icepack to your side as he somehow manoeuvred you both under the blankets. At least he wasn’t apologising anymore.

You began phasing between light sleep and wake. Though you were roused from sleep by your ribs, each time the vines’ grip he held you in squeezed intermittently and kept you safe in a bubble whilst acting as if you weren’t in these impersonal quarters, maybe even in that apartment he mentioned. A few times, both of you were awake, having moved away to the far edges of the bed in your soporific turmoil. He returned to you every time and did just as you asked: pretended that this you could have each other like this, every night past the sunrise.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“When I next wake up, I want you gone.”

Silence for a minute. And then:

“Ok.”

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

AN: Black Viking was an access code for Captain Price, so I reworked it as a callsign for this fic - though it's more like "Viking" as the callsign.

Thank you for your patience with the uploads! Only two chapters more to go! Thank you also @bunnyreaper for being a Beta on this chapter <3

Tag-list: @mockerycrow and @algor-babe

[iriequipment]

Reliable TMT Bar Cutting Machine for Construction |Iri equipment

Your trusted source for Construction Equipment Supplier and Industrial Machinery. We offer Reliable TMT Bar Cutting Machines for construction uses. Our High-Quality TMT Bar Cutting Machines are engineered for enduring performance. Contact Iri equipment today for top-notch metalworking tools!

[cyanocoraxx]

sickness (main fic: damage)

"Are you going to let me out of here, you monster?"

"Doubtful."

"Come on, Metal. I-If you let me go, we can forget about all of this, can't we?"

Neo turned his head to look at the doctor. He was cowering in his prison cell, hands white-knuckled around the bars. A common sight for the past few days. This kind of grovelling made the machine sick. His optics narrowed in disgust.

Eggman had already tried everything. Reason, conversation, even sneaking up on the robot when he was close to the bars to try literally anything on him. But nothing seemed to work, and the robot wouldn't budge on this.

"We cannot."

Eggman sat back on the floor and folded his arms. "Can you at least tell me why I'm locked up in here like some animal? It's inhumane!"

Neo gave him a long, suspicious look. The doctor had a bucket. That was enough for a human. He was sure of it. So, he didn't afford the doctor a response, only looking away.

"Humans need air, water, food- the blasted bathroom, for God's sake! Depriving me won't make you-"

Neo hissed and sharply stood up, frame rigid and claws tense. His engine revved as if to throw himself right at the doctor.

(I won't hurt you, but I need you to see me.)

"Say it. Say it, doctor. I know what you want to say."

Eggman gritted his teeth with uncertainty. This was the most "present" the robot had been in a few days, and he wasn't sure how to speak to keep it that way. "It won't… make you…"

"It won't what? Make me the hedgehog? Stop reading my mind." Neo spat, taking a few steps towards him. "You are broadcasting my thoughts to everyone so that they know to tell me I'm not Sonic. You have to stop. I order you to stop as your overlord."

"Metal- you're insane. You've truly lost your mind," Eggman warned him carefully, trying a more forward approach, "a-and you haven't slept for weeks. Why don't you just go and sleep? You might feel better."

Neo moved to stand right in front of him. "I feel fine. I feel on top of this worthless world, doctor. I see everything clearly- I see what you're doing to me. You can't hurt me when you are in there. You can't stop me in there. You can't broadcast my thoughts in there- no, you can't get your cameras to watch me in there. So, I cannot let you go."

Eggman considered playing into his beliefs. "W-what if I turn my cameras off, Metal?"

"You will not. You lie." Neo growled in response. He turned and walked away to the other side of the room, back to where he came from.

Eggman was quiet for a moment. "If you feel so fine as you say, why do you keep destroying yourself? Metal, your arms are shredded. You've painted the same crap on your face twelve times since I've been in here. You talk so much nonsense- you don't make sense. You're..."

"Crazy. Say it, doctor." Neo cut him off, fists clenched hard at his sides. He lucidly noted that it took more force to fully ball his hands now as the tips of his claws were blunt from overuse. They would need to be sharpened later. Sharp meant powerful. Powerful meant he would show everyone. Everyone would know what this world was doing to him. Whilst losing himself in thought, his head subtly twitched a couple of times, out of his conscious control.

The overlord never said it, but the loss of control was terrifying. He hated it to his very core. To have no control over his movements, his words, his own thoughts, was maddening and frightening and he didn't know what to do with it. The only other defense was to disconnect and pretend it wasn't happening - so, he did, and he tried desperately to detach his mind from his situation.

This display of unhinged behaviour finally led the doctor to snap. There was apparently no getting through to him. So, Eggman gave in to his anger at being imprisoned and betrayed. His patience with the robot was running thin. If reason wouldn't work, all he had left was rage. He stood and threw his hands around the bars with a bang, now leaning forward with a growl, accentuating his next words by pointing an accusatory finger at the machine.

"No. I was going to say monster. You're a monster, Metal. I never thought I'd say it, but I hope that blue pincushion and his friends defeat you! A-and you hardly even qualify as Metal Sonic at this point! I might rename you to Metal Madness if you keep this up!"

Neo hardly registered what the doctor said to him. In fact, it didn't register as any language at all. He sat down in the corner quietly, occasionally looking around. His auditory sensors tuned themselves in and out several times as he tried to understand what he could hear - music? It was faint, and he had to strain to listen, and the doctor's murmuring in the background was distracting. What was it saying? What? He tilted his head to one side, then the other, trying again and again to make sense of it.

The words he spoke soothed him a little, as if defending him from the words of the doctor in the cell.

"I don't care what you're thinking… what I have… enough…"

Eggman banged a fist on the bars to grab his attention. "Metal! I'm still here. I'm still asking you to let me out of here! Whatever you're doing, it's not going to make me feel sorry for you!"

Neo could feel the electricity on his armour plating. The itch was suddenly infuriating. He scratched and scratched and scratched with blunt claw tips.

Eggman sighed loudly and deeply. "Metal. Stop it. Pay attention when I speak to you."

"I cannot." Neo replied flatly. He put his head in his hands and tried to calm himself amidst the stuttering of his engine. His systems would struggle to keep up with him.

"Metal! Let. Me. Go! You have no right to keep me here whilst you walk around in circles talking crazy to yourself! I am your creator, your master, your-"

Neo lifted his head out of trembling hands. "Father. Father, please do not speak to me that way, I cannot... I cannot handle this alone..."

(Don't give up on me, please. I need you to understand that I'm scared.)

"Let me go. Let me go, let me go, let me go, let me go. Let me go, Metal. I'll keep saying it until you do. Let me go!"

Something in him snapped at the overstimulation. Neo grabbed onto those words and repeated them as if his life depended on it.

"LET ME GO. LET ME GO."

The robot screamed and wailed from somewhere deep within its soul. He slammed himself into the wall repeatedly, dislodging his shoulder joint in the process - but that didn't stop him, and he wouldn't stop, and he would never stop until that electric feeling left him alone. It whispered that he wasn't Sonic under his very plating. In his wiring. It wouldn't stop. It tormented him and left him with nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

Eggman scrambled to the back of his cell. His back pressed against the cold metal wall. His heart thudded in his chest as every sense in his body told him to run. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. Watching his own creation, one he almost considered his son, unravel in such a brutal and raw way right before him was borderline traumatic.

He was terrified of his son and his son was terrified of him. They were both terrified of different imaginary monsters. Eggman, the monster he deemed his son, who was no such thing. Neo, the monster ravaging his mind without mercy.

It took minutes for Neo to register that he was being restrained by a pair of strong, unwavering arms from behind. The reverberating sound of metal-on-metal continued to ring in his ears like static long after he had stopped ramming into the wall. Slowly, Neo recalibrated his auditory sensors and made out a voice against his ear.

(Unknown to Neo, Mecha Sonic had already entered quietly behind him, delivered a serving of food and water to the doctor, and apologized to him for any inconvenience.)

"Lord Neo. My Lord. This is an inefficient use of your energy and time." Mecha stated factually and calmly.

Energy… time? How long had it been? His internal clock was unreadable. The numbers didn't make sense. The voice beside him might have been fake, too. Mecha was used to this and unfazed. The silence likely meant that Neo was unsure of his presence. So, Mecha did what she had done before and squeezed her arms around him tighter, triggering his pressure sensors. It forced Neo's CPU to process new sensory information in a way that brought him out of his haze a little.

"Lord Neo. You need not display such fear. I have scanned the surrounding area in infrared and sent out a ping for mechanical signals, and there is nothing of note that would warrant this state."

That's right. Mecha didn't lie. She was almost incapable. Mecha could be trusted. If Neo couldn't trust his scanners, he could trust his brother's. Gradually, Neo relaxed back into Mecha, allowing Mecha to hold him back.

Nobody else could touch him this way.

"You must attempt to relax, brother. Accompany me so that we might improve your chances." Mecha told him quietly. He carefully released one hand from around his sibling to take one of Neo's hands, preventing him from damaging himself further.

Neo nodded but said nothing. He trusted that Mecha had good intentions. So, he followed Mecha out of the prison block and onto the deck of their ship.

"Are you capable of flight today." Mecha asked, pausing for a moment. She had to allow him ample time to respond, she noted, as his response times were growing longer with each day.

Neo tested his engine. It came to life with a quiet whirr.

"... Yes."

"Good. Come with me."

Mecha took off with a bang of his own engine as it quickly came to life. He rocketed up to the towers of their flying fortress with precision. Neo took off after him, focusing as best as he could manage on Mecha's flight trajectory.

High above everyone and everything else, the siblings landed side-by-side.

The brothers stood atop the tallest tower of the Final Fortress. From here, the world was minuscule, cloaked in heavy black-grey clouds that separated them from the living world. As Neo calmed further, the skies did too. He lifted his head and watched as the clouds turned from heavy charcoal to lighter slate. A very real ability like this didn't exactly help with his delusions, and Mecha had to redirect his attention. This choice of location was purposeful, however. Here, Neo was away from the other beings down below, for his own safety as well as theirs. Mecha didn't deem his sibling dangerous, but their reputation needed to remain strong to keep order amongst the ranks. The change of scenery would hopefully ease Neo's distress, too.

"We are but small beings in this world," Mecha began, looking calmly out across the stretch of the fortress, "but our troops, our fellow machines, look to us for guidance. They require your presence. Your wellbeing. I do ask that you endeavour to take better care of yourself."

"I am a monster. Father deems me so," Neo said flatly, "so my wellbeing is of… little conse- consequence."

Mecha shook his head. "Negative. A monster is defined as a large, ugly, frightening imaginary creature. You do not fit these characteristics."

Large, ugly, and frightening. That was exactly what he would become in a few days. But, for now, he was small, afraid, and suffering an internal battle that nobody else could comprehend.

Neo looked down, surveying his future kingdom with refreshed lucidity. He reached out with one hand as if to touch the world below. A world behind a pane of imaginary glass, frosted from time to time - separating him from sense. In truth, Neo had always been a child looking out of a window thinking that one day he would touch this world with his hands and make it his own (make it less frightening). Even if it burned. Even if it hurt. Even if some things had to bend and break. Even if he had to become a monster to do it.

"Do you hear the song, Mecha?" Neo asked softly. His optics dimmed a little - with what emotion, he wasn't sure.

Mecha remained still and poised. "Negative. I cannot detect any audio input out of the ordinary. What is it that you detect."

Neo murmured the words he could hear aloud. "Resist it over time... it's too much to take... you sneak up from behind..."

Mecha listened silently, wanting to understand. This wasn't an uncommon thing. He noted, though, that the words Neo said seemed to relate to his emotional state. This time, it seemed that Neo was struggling to resist whatever was happening inside his head. The paranoia was becoming too much. That was just speculation on Mecha's part, though, and she couldn't pretend to understand it.

"I do not detect those words at this time. However, if they are detectable by you, they must be important in some regard." Mecha responded kindly.

Neo felt numb, now. A curious feeling. His attention to the world around him faded and something hummed within him. Voices would try to brush up against him and his ears would fill with the muffled sounds of water. He focused on the humming in his head. He was inside his CPU, a little mechanical cave, and within, he would curl up inside. Below, his frame stood unattached. Mecha quietly took his brother's hand in his and held it with gentle solidarity.

Mecha would never understand nor comprehend the disconnect within his sibling, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't stand beside him and try.

[stephensmithuk]

The Man with the Watches

Originally written in 1898 as part of a series of short stories called Round the Fire. Doyle needed money to complete a house he was building in Surrey. Insert your own jokes about actors, bad movies and extensions here.

Rugby is a town in Warwickshire, 83 miles north of London. Yes, it is where the sport of rugby is named after - more specifically Rugby School, a famous private school.

Smoking areas in British trains were gradually abolished from the 1980s, the final ones going in 2005 (GNER and Caledonian Sleeper). I have a 2000 GB-wide timetable showing where smoking was still permitted. In some cases, the trigger for the ban was the move to air-conditioned stock that would result in the smoke circulating in the rest of the train.

A Gladstone bag was a rigid-framed small suitcase that could be opened into two equal halves, named as such due to its used by William Gladstone, four-time British Prime Minister, who would start his final ministry later in 1892.

The guard's van on passenger trains was generally a specific section of a carriage that also had a caged area for carrying luggage, parcels and caged small animals.

Willesden Junction is located in Harlesden, NW London. It no longer has any platforms on the West Coast Main Line, with Avanti and London Northwestern Railway trains going straight past it. Its passenger service today is made up of London Overground Lioness line services from Euston to Watford Junction, Overground Mildmay line services from Stratford to Richmond or Clapham Junction and the Underground's Bakerloo Line from Harrow and Wealdstone to Elephant & Castle. The first and third share the same tracks, while the second operates, on lines shared with freight trains, on separate "High Level" platforms. There is a depot for Overground trains nearby.

Non-gangwayed stock i.e. carriages with no connection between them even for emergency use, continued to be built into the British Railways, with quite a few of the "first generation" of diesel and electric multiple units being built this way. Most got gangways in later refurbishments, but the Class 205 DEMU, bar one example (205205) altered in a refurbishment trial, would carry on without them until final withdrawal in 2004. Most of the survivors then promptly ended up in the hands of heritage railways.

The Bible Society of London was founded in 1804 with the aim of providing affordable Bibles in people's own languages, after the 1800 case of a woman called Mary Jones, who saved up for six years then walked 26 miles to buy a Bible in Welsh. It is still active today.

The London to Rugby line had been widened to four tracks in the 1870s. From west to east, the tracks go: Down (Northbound) Fast - Up (Southbound) Fast - Down Slow - Up Slow. Ergo, you cannot move between two Down trains without a big leap. (https://www.opentraintimes.com/maps/signalling/lec2#LINK_1)

A bunco-steerer is a swindler.

Green goodsmen operated a scam in which people were offered purportedly counterfeit notes printed using stolen plates (so appearing genuine) at a cheap price, being shown actually genuine notes in a bag. During negotiation, the bag was switched for one containing worthless goods, like sawdust or green paper. Having been duped out of real money, the victims were reluctant to report this to police as attempting to purchase fake money was illegal.

Card-sharping is cheating at cards using various means, including cutting bits of cards to mark the ones you would want. Vegas casinos frequently deliberately cut corners off used cards being sold to tourists to prevent them being snuck into their games.

Tammany refers to Tammany Hall, the corrupt political machine that had ran New York City, for much of the 19th century, leveraging support from Irish immigrants by providing them with jobs for example. It had been temporarily ousted from power after the Lexow Commission of 1894-95 into police corruption; to wit, promotions were being sold for large sums of money and officers got that through extracting protection money from brothels etc. However, it would come back in the 1898 elections and retain control with occasional breaks until 1961, when Carmine DeSapio was ousted as its leader. It then lost power and had gone by 1967.

Travelling salespeople would carry samples or models of their products on their trips, sometimes in branded containers. This has largely become a thing of the past, but is still around.

Northumberland Avenue used to have a lot of high-class hotels, but these have mostly gone. Some were taken over for government use for a while, including by the War Office.

"Mary Jane" appears to have been a slang term for a male prostitute; Mary Jane Kelly was the final victim of Jack the Ripper.

[somberlust]

SMUT ONE PIECE CROCODILE x woman

Sir CrocodileCharacter description from the One Piece Blue collection: "Crocodile trusts no one, very intelligent, physically powerful, he feels no remorse in sacrificing others for his own benefit." Unlike Doflamingo who tends to joke, Crocodile is very serious.

He is huge and his muscles are impressive. His gaze gives the impression that he would have no remorse in eliminating anyone who annoys him. He is a Grand Corsair, that is to say a pirate lord who works for the government (also known as Shichibukai). He is mutilated: his left hand is no longer there. In its place, a huge metal hook. He ate the sand fruit and can therefore control the sand at will, and even transform parts of his anatomy into sand. Like all devil fruit users, he fears water (sea water). Location of the story: in his office / secret lounge of the casino in the kingdom of Alabasta. At the back of the room, a huge aquarium populated by crocodiles, the favorite animal of the master of the place. One Piece's context:  Luffy's crew is imprisoned by their enemy, Crocodile, in a cage made of marine granite (which neutralizes the powers of the devil fruits). Luffy, Nami, Usopp, Sanji, Zoro. They can't get out. With them, two members of the navy: Smoker and his partner Tashigi. Their powers: Nami is a thief, Luffy is very flexible/stretchy, Smoker can produce smoke, Zoro has katanas and fights with them. The liberties taken with the original work: Sanji is in the cage, Nico Robin, Chopper and Vivi are not present. 

Context: Luna, a  thief, is caught in the act by the security service of  Crocodile's Casino. They take her to the Grand Corsaire. She can't afford to pay the fine. She knows deep down that she is not going to have a good time. She offered Crocodile whatever he wanted in exchange for letting her go. Story:His huge hook held her by the back of the neck. The thief was panting. She didn't want to die because of a botched slot machine heist! The man holding her prisoner was terrifying... tall, muscular, with shiny black mid-length hair slicked back, pale skin and a scar running horizontally across half of his face. His left hand was gone, in its place was a huge golden hook. Everything about him exuded violence and cruelty. He wanted to repay himself with her life... maybe, isntead, he could be satisfied with her body. She gathered her courage and rushed towards his face. She kissed him, her neck still firmly imprisoned by the hook. The pirate raised his eyebrows in surprise, which was unusual for him who usually contented himself with his mono expression of smugness. The girl wasn't kissing him: she was raping his mouth, her little hands gripping the back of his neck, her fingers scratching his scalp.

"Euuuuuurk", Luffy said, watching from behind his bars. Crocodile: "I accept your payment, but I warn you, you're going to have to give of yourself" Saying this, he slid his hook on her cheek, as if he were caressing her and let it cling to the mesh of her dress. Then he pulled. The dress tore into shreds and Luna ended up in her underwear. At the sight of this spectacle, the boys in the cage dropped their jaws. Sanji briefly bled from the nose then he entered into an uncontrollable rage and rushed against the bars: "You sick man, is it okay to treat a young lady like that? If I get out of this cage I'll make you eat your hook!" The Crocodile smiled, took Luna in his arms and threw her on the huge sofa facing the cage. Then he leaned over her and without ceremony, brutally introduced a few fingers into her private parts. The thief arched her back and tried to hide her quivering body from the eyes of the spectators. The Crocodile prevented her from doing so with his hook and put her clearly in front of the prisoners. "So that you don't miss anything of the show, little virgin!" Sanji grabbed the bars of his prison and yelled in rage at Zoro "Marimo, cut these bars with your sabers!" "It's no use, I've already tried" sighed the swordsman.

Smoker added: "It's sad to say, but we can't do anything for her." The Crocodile took off his jacket and shirt but kept his long mafia coat. His menacing and half-naked silhouette approached Luna. Luna: "Don't worry prisoners, there's no reason I can't have a good time! " Luna said, sliding her hands over Crocodile's impressive torso muscles, who groaned with satisfaction and pinned her to the cushions, squeezing her by the throat. "Don't think you'll get away with it, it's not going to be a nice romp..." Luna: "Because you think I'm going to let you do what you want?" She slapped him hard. Luffy: Yeah!!! Well done, thief!! Nami: Stop looking, Luffy, turn around! The crew chose to turn away from the scene out of modesty. But as they did so, they heard a sadistic laugh emerge from behind them, from the Crocodile. The reason for this laughter: the entire wall was a mirror that still reflected the scene they were trying to escape out of respect for Luna. Crocodile: "You're not going to let me do what I want? Maybe you'll be less boring than expected then." The thief grabbed the corsair by the collar of his coat, threw him back on the couch and straddled him. Then she went back to raping his mouth. The corsair let her do it. She kissed him with all the conviction of someone determined to save their own skin. Luna: "So mister Pirate Lord? I thought this wasn't going to be a nice romp? It all seems a bit soft to me..." she said, putting her hand down to his package. As she did, she felt the Crocodile's manhood harden. Crocodile: "Don't play that game, little one, I might break you in two... not that it bothers me but I'd like to have a little fun first, I'm not a necrophiliac... " He pushed Luna by the shoulders whose head landed near his crotch. The corsair opened his pants and shoved his penis into the thief's mouth without asking, forcing her head in an obscene back and forth motion. Luna dug her nails into the Crocodile's forearms, hoping to make him let go, but it was obviously ineffective. Luffy was speechless. Nami put a hand in front of his eyes: "Don't look at that, you're too young." Sanji was boiling with rage, Smoker and Zoro were stoic like marble statues but their eyes were shining and their hands were shaking. Usopp had lost consciousness. Luna was choking: the Crocodile was too big for her frail jaw. "So little thief? Are we still being smart?" said the pirate before throwing her onto the couch. "Do you still want to slap me?" Sbaff! a heavy slap landed on Luna's face, who fell flat on her stomach. She swallowed her tears. She couldn't afford to cry in front of him or she would lose her chances of getting out of this. The Crocodile pulled her by her long hair to force her to raise her torso and then he tore off what was left of her underwear. The young Tashigi was crying at the sight. Luffy approached her and placed his hat on her head so she could hide her eyes. The Navy swordswoman timidly accepted the offer. Smoker: He has no intention of sparing her. He will continue to rape her. Then she will no longer be of any use to him and will be a witness who could tarnish his image as the savior of Alabasta. So... Zoro: He will kill her. Sanji was on his knees, his hands hanging from the bars of his cage and his face ravaged with despair. 

In front of them, Crocodile continued his atrocities. He held Luna by the hair like a leash and took her doggy style, his hook encircling her throat. Luna moaned in pain and let out tears that darkened the red velvet of the couch. Her gaze met Luffy's, so she blushed with shame at being exposed to everyone's view in this humiliating position. She looked away, her eyes misty. Luffy growled in rage. He turned around to face the Marine officer. "Smoker! I beg you, we are enemies, but for her try to produce a smoke screen. She is not a spectacle!" The Marine nodded. He stood up and stood as far as possible from the marine granite bars, hoping that his power would work anyway. But it didn't. Crocodile pushed the thief back onto the couch. The movement was so violent that she ended up on the ground, her head thrown onto the marble. Crocodile wrapped himself in his coat and approached the cage, laughing out loud. "You are weak and pathetic. Your sentiments and humanity will lead you to nothing except defeat. Look at what happens to the weak!" he said, stretching out an arm towards where Luna was. To his great surprise, he noticed that a sofa's cushion had replaced the thief. He turned around and took the young woman full in the face. She had gotten up and jumped off the couch to throw herself at Crocodile, grabbing a sword that Zoro had thrown at her. She struck him in the face, a bloody cut appeared! Immediately healed by the sandy power of the devil fruit.

The Crocodile grabbed the young girl by the throat and lifted her into the air. "You still don't understand? Whether it's stealing my money or hitting me, you can't do anything against me. You're powerless." Luna's feet were churning through the void, at full speed as the corsair's grip tightened. He shook her so hard that she let go of Zoro's Sandai sword. She was going to run out of air. She kicked the Crocodile in the crotch, who let her go because of  the pain. She had always remembered that a thief was, by definition, someone optimistic. A person who knew the risks but went anyway because she decided to believe she would succeed. Unfortunately, at this point, the thieves' optimism had almost completely deserted her. All that remained was rage and fear. "I may be weak, but I'm not powerless: I will fight you until my last breath. " The Crocodile snickered as he watched this naked girl, twice his size, bend down to retrieve the katana and run as far away from him as possible. "I want to see..." The corsair materialized in front of her, snatched the saber from her and threw it far away. Then he trapped her against a wall, grabbed her thighs to cross them around his waist and immobilized her wrists above her head. He adjusted his position and penetrated her brutally. She let out an ambiguous scream. She surrounded him with her alabaster legs while he slid his hook over her skin, creating micro cuts from which beads of red blood escaped. Seeing her like that, her face twisted by pain as well as by what seemed to be pleasure, drove Crocodile crazy. He slid his penis out of her for a moment. Then he turned her around, bent her over. Luna understood what he intended to do. She panicked, scared. And he did it. He sodomized her.

His victim's scream was nothing but pain. He, on the other hand, groaned with pleasure.

"Beg me and I'll stop." "Never!" The pirate went even harder, so much so that the thief began to bleed. She struggled to get out of her torturer's grip, but his strength was non negotiable. While continuing his work, he strangled her with his hook. "Beg and I'll stop!" "Never!!!" Luna cried. The pirate threw her against a wall, placed one of her hands on the plaster and ensured her immobility by piercing her palm with his hook. She stopped herself from screaming in pain. "Beg!" he thundered. "I'd rather die!!" Luffy, Sanji and Usopp screamed "Nooo!" as one man. The thief tore the hook from her hands, ignoring the pain, and sent a knee strike to the Crocodile's crotch. This would give her a few seconds of freedom. Luna thought quickly: the saber was too far away. She then rushed towards the cage where she slipped a mysterious object to Nami, whispering a sentence in her ear. The corsair was getting closer to her but he hadn't seen anything. She then pretended to shake the bars as if she was trying to free them so that they would come to her aid. The Crocodile was behind her now."Don't pay attention to them, I'll take care of them later." She felt his threatening presence behind her. She shivered. She felt the blood running down her body damaged by the fight. Hope was almost dead. She met the prisoners' gaze. That of a young blond man, in particular, filled with compassion, which gave her a bit of warmth in her heart. The thief forced herself to calm down, closed her eyes for a second, took a deep breath and turned back to Crocodile: "You've proven that you know how to be a rapist and a torturer, now prove to me that you can be a man and I will implore you." She arranged her immense hair so that it covered her body like a purple dress. Then she advanced with deft steps towards the Crocodile, ignoring her own blood that was escaping from her wounds and running down her legs. When she reached the man's height, she slid towards him and nestled against his chest. She delicately grabbed his only hand and placed it on the hollow of his back. Then she stroked the immense scar that marked his face with her fingertips and slid her hands into his brown hair to caress it. The torturer shrugged indifferently and let Luna do it. She placed small kisses on his chest and kissed him on the mouth. Then she gently pushed him onto the couch and sat on top of him. She let him penetrate her in an cowgirl manner and undulated gracefully, in rhythm with the lapping of the crocodile aquarium. She placed his only hand on her chest for him to grab it. She began to pant softly with pleasure, biting her lips, her eyes closed, her skin quivering with each thrust. Her moans seemed to conquer the Crocodile. So much the better, that was the goal. Her long hair swept over his scarred body, giving this man a sensory excitement that only delicacy could offer. She leaned over and whispered in the corsair's ear:"Earlier, you wanted me to implore you... so...Make me come, I implore you."

She felt the corsair grow firmer inside her. Most of the men in the room let out an explicit moan, drooling. The girls were red as peonies. Luffy, for his part, looked at them all questioningly. The thief kept impressive control of her body, the rhythm of her hips; undulating relentlessly on the corsair who was beginning to feel his breathing quicken and to sweat a few drops. "I implore you..." Luna repeated. And to emphasize her point, she grabbed the deadly hook and licked it from top to bottom, very slowly, looking its owner straight in the eyes.

 The corsair swallowed. "Okay, I grant you your request." He took Luna in his arms and asked her: "How do you want to be taken?" The thief seemed to moan with excitement. "Take me against the aquarium, I want to contemplate the power of crocodiles while I feel it inside me..." A smile of pleasure devoured the Crocodile's face. "You... if I didn't have to punish you..." And he supported his words with a proper drooly french kiss. His partner seemed in heaven. "Let me know all the power and violence of a Shichibukai!" she said, taking off his coat and wrapping herself in it. Then, surrounded by the Crocodile's velvet, she knelt down in front of him and gave his manhood the same treatment as she had given his hook. The Crocodile held her head like at the beginning, but this time, it was to stop his hand from trembling with pleasure. The thief ended up swallowing the pirate's powerful organ in its entirety and took great pleasure in going back and forth with her mouth. The great Corsair couldn't take it anymore. She was this close to finish him. He released the thief's mouth, lifted her off the ground and pressed her face against the glass of the aquarium. There he leaned down to kiss her sex, slipped his tongue in it and began to make her scream. The thief leaned against the glass wall, contemplating the reptiles in front of her devouring scraps of meat, and seeing in the reflection of the glass the Corsair, kneeling behind her and entirely devoted to her pleasure. She smiled maliciously. The man stood up and took off her coat to place it on his own shoulders. He lifted his little thief off the ground and placed her on the ground, to take her in the simple and very effective missionary position. Luna thought she was going to die crushed by this colossus of muscles who dominated her entirely. He penetrated her and launched the final assault. The thief almost lost consciousness, it shouldn't be allowed for such evil men to be so good at sex, because it was very disturbing to feel pleasure "thanks" to her torturer. She had to force herself to regain her senses and concentrate. Once she pulled herself together, she screamed: "Namiiiiiiiiii!"

A moment later, a Luffy shaped red and blue flash came at full speed against the aquarium and shattered the glass, releasing perilous waves for the one who had eaten the fruit of the sands. Luna tore herself away from his embrace and ran to the other end of the room.

The crew had managed to escape thanks to the hairpin that the young woman had entrusted to Nami, also an expert thief in the world of piracy. She had whispered in her ear to be ready to go out at her signal and explode the glass so that the water would paralyze the Crocodile. And now that Luffy had burst the aquarium, she was free, she had managed to fool the vigilance of her torturer.

Sanji rushed towards her to offer her his jacket and take her in his arms. Luffy stuck to them to participate in the collective hug.Zoro and Smoker got into a fighting position, ready to fight the pirate. But he seemed to have been carried away into the aquarium as evidenced by the dark shape floating in the distance. "We must not delay," said Usopp, "the crocs will come back..." The group nodded.

"Can you carry me sir? I have no more strength..." the thief asked Sanji timidly. She had recognized the young blond man with the compassionate gaze. But the pressure that had subsided as well as her multiple injuries made Luna's legs tremble and almost prevented her from walking. "But obviously beautiful young lady!! To which city?" said the cook, carrying her like a princess. The princess expired from fatigue and nestled her head in the hollow of his neck. He went to place an affectionate kiss on the top of her head, but changed his mind, as she was not in a position to offer her consent.

Then without further ado, the crew set off. "Don't worry, we'll get you on board our ship and get you healed! But before that, we'll have a banquet to celebrate your release!!" Luffy said. Zoro rolled his eyes. : "Let her rest before you steal her food..." Smoker cleared his throat. Tashigi noticed and addressed her superior."I suppose we can give them a little head start this time, boss?""I suppose..." the Marine replied. Luffy smiled with all his teeth. "Here Luffy," Tashigi exclaimed, throwing her straw hat at him, "and thanks again!" Luffy caught it in mid-air with his head."You're welcome, Miss Katana!" Nami turned to Luna and reminded her: "Don't forget to pick up your stolen goods! Making Crocodile pay for every last berry is a great revenge!" "You're right!" Luna replied! She jumped out of Sanji's arms and ran as best she could to get her underwear and her bag of money. Meanwhile, the crew was trying to share their clothes so she wouldn't have to cross the city in her underwear.She had gotten dressed again and shared her loot with the crew, to thank them.

As everyone hugged her, she seemed to remember something and suddenly left for the other side of the room. "Zoro! I forgot to give you back your sword!!" Sanji mocked Zoro: - He's so stupid that he even forgets his katanas, good luck becoming the "best swordsman in the world" Marimo... Zoro was going to respond by throwing a punch at the cook. While they were bickering, Luna was looking for the sword. She finally found it under the broken glass of the aquarium. She opened the katana: it was indeed the Sandai Kitetsu... this blade that was supposed to be cursed had contributed to saving her life. She closed the weapon and stood up.

Suddenly, a body pressed itself against the thief's back and a hand gripped her throat."All of you Mugiwara and the Navy, this is what happens when you try to defeat me."

Crocodile had come back from the dead and was holding the young woman restrained against him. He raised his arm and planted his hook in Luna's heart. The weapon pierced her ribcage from side to side. The young girl only had time for alook of surprise on her face. Then she belched blood that joined the old drips on her body.

"You lose." Crocodile dropped the body at his feet, stepped over it and headed towards the crew. The dark shape floating inside the aquarium was actually his big coat that had been swept away by the waves. Nami fell to her knees. Luffy screamed: "The thief!!!!" and threw his fists at the pirate. Crocodile took advantage of it to send him with a monumental punch into the marine granite cage. The last thing Luna saw was Straw Hat being subdued and thrown into prison by her assassin. She let a tear roll at the sight of the innocent young boy throwing himself against the bars to break them while screaming her name. She smiled at him, exausted. Then her eyes closed, definitively.

[futurefamousdeadmusician]

Hideout - Jonathan Crane x!Sister Pt. 3

Author's note; Wishing all the happiest of New Year! Image Credit; Edward Addeo

Summary; Lillian Crane is on the run. Out of luck and out of time, she only has one place left to go. After turning up at her brother's high-rise apartment she hopes to just lie low for a little while. Can Jon help his little sister outrun international authorities, or will the past, present, and future all find their way into her hideout?

When Lillian opened her eyes the following morning she went stiff at the sight of the white blanket that wrapped around her body. For a moment she had forgotten nearly all of the events that had led her to this room the previous night. She squinted through the light peering into through the curtained windows and rolled over, feeling around within the mountain of plush pillows and sheets for her phone. Nearly dead and with no messages of importance she noted the time to be a quarter past 9 a.m. Upon remembering the charging cable stuffed deep into her backpack she swung her legs over the edge of the raised mattress and took her first steps of a new era; fugitive in hiding. 

After nearly tripping on them as she made her way to the door she looked down to find a pair of light pink slippers sitting neatly by the foot of the bed. She took this small detail to confirm that Jon in fact, did seek the companionship of a woman. She laughed and rubbed her face as she entered the hallway. Noise echoed from the kitchen as she made her way down the  hall to see her brother, with his back turned to her, tending to something on the stove. The smell of breakfast sausage and fresh coffee caught her off guard seeing as she hasn’t eaten anything but cheap diner food, frozen meals, and fast food for weeks while dealing with the stress of her new situation. She could hear the soft sounds of the Gotham’s morning news come through the speakers of the small TV that was luxuriously fitted into the walls of the kitchen. She moved closer with a sense of hesitation, though she couldn’t figure out why. Without turning around Jon broke the figurative silence. 

“I made coffee. Cups are above the machine. Use the white ones.”  Lillian cleared her throat and replied, “Thanks.” She, now more quickly after being invited into the space, made her way to the coffee maker and helped herself. Adding just a small spoon of sugar and stirring it in. Just enough to cut the bitterness but not much else. It was another thing that unwillingly bonded the Crane siblings, they both took their coffee black, unless they bothered to put in the extra effort to add just a single serving of sugar, and given the bewildering night they had just experienced, they could be bothered. 

“This is great,” Lillian complemented her brother. It was the best coffee she had drank in a long while. She usually preferred the expensive lattes and drips that her salary afforded her but, like many other things as of late, that preference, unfortunately, wasn’t being accommodated. At first, she felt comfort and nostalgia for the drink found in the Denny’s coffee pot at 2 o’clock in the morning. It reminded her of her days in high school when she would run off with her friends to the outskirts of town. Now, she preferred exhaustion over that filth. 

“I get it from a roaster on 14th,” Jon explained. Since she had entered the room he had only spared a glance at the TV set when the meteorologist to run down the weekend forecast and then returned his gaze to the stove. After taking a seat at the breakfast bar, still talking to her brother’s back, Lillian asked, 

“Don’t you work today?” With no time for contemplation, he said 

“I called and told them I wouldn’t be making it in today.” 

“Why?” She asked only seconds later realizing exactly why he had done so. 

“Why do you think?” The doctor asked sounding as if he was asking a child why they thought a rainbow had spread across the sky just minutes after a thunderstorm. She stayed silent. Guilt filling her and staring down into the dark abyss that she held in her hand. She saw movement where Jonathan stood and she snapped her eyes up to see him holding two plates, both consisting of scrambled eggs, sausage and a piece of wheat toast with a thin coat of jam. Her eyebrows perked up just enough for her brother to notice her understated excitement. He set the plates down over the bar. One in front of Lillian and one in front of the empty seat to her left. Before he could finish retrieving utensils and seating himself in the open chair, Lillian had finished the piece of bread that once rested on her plate and began eyeing her brothers. He set the paper towel and then the fork gently by her right hand before doing the same for himself and finally finding his seat. Lillian took a proper bite of her food and turned to her brother. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly to the side of his face before returning to her meal. He finished his bite and began to pick up his mug when he responded. 

“I had extra.” 

—

The pair had finished their meal and after refilling their coffees, Jon began to load the used cookware into the dishwasher. Lillian didn’t know how to bring up the shampoo or the razors or the slippers she had found since her stay here began but her curiosity ate at her, still surprised at the possibility of her brother, her quiet, stoic, just plain weird bother, could actually have a girlfriend. In what may have been the most complex way of raising the question she stuttered out, 

“What’s her name?” Jonathan slowed to stop what he was doing and turned to look at the girl. His brows furrowed and he ever so slightly cocked his head. 

“What?” He said sharply. 

“The girl you have over,” she continued, “what’s her name?” He stood up straight from his hunched position over the open appliance and his hands, one clutching a dish towel, fell to his sides. 

“What are you talking about?” The same tone as before followed these words out of his mouth. Lillian took in a breath and fixed her eyes on her brother softly as to not annoy him any further. 

“The girly shit in the bathroom, and the slippers. I was just curious. How long have you been seeing her?” She said trying to hide her excitement. He let out a sigh and rolled his eyes in a way only Jonathan Crane could. He turned back to his task and Lillian retuned her look of guilt, yet again, to her coffee. 

“I was just curious, I’m sorry if I overstepped,” she said quietly but before she could finish her sentence her brother spoke with an annoyed huff. 

“There is no woman.” 

“Then why do you have fuckin’ pink razors,” she laughed nervously and continued to drink her coffee. Holding the cup to her face almost felt like a shield from whatever Jon would say to her. 

“I was at the store, and I just got things that I figured you’d need. In case you had to leave them behind.” The room fell silent all but for the TV still lit up above the counter, now it was rolling ads for a local window washing company. Lillian let out a sharp, but relieved breath, through her nose and took another drink. Her small, hushed laughed caused Jonathan looked back at his sister while finishing with the dishes. She looked at him and spoke with the tenacity of a professor asking her students what the true meaning of the universe is. 

“Slippers?” 

—

After minutes of comfortable silence between the two, Lillian remembered her phone charger that sat in her bag still resting by the door. She rose and went to search for it finally retrieving it out of her pack. She might as well take her belongings to her new room soon, since it was apparent she would be here longer than she anticipated. This was supposed to last a few weeks - a month tops - but after her expedited appearance in Gotham, she feared this ordeal would go on much longer. The last she had heard before leaving her apartment was that agents stationed in Germany had found the location of two members of the Black Cobras during a raid. Since learning this, the rest of the small organization had feared that these two may give up the identities and whereabouts of other members. That, in collusion with INTERPOL’s networks already gaining a renewed interest in the group, caused alarm bells to sound and those still free of custody had to take more extreme measures than the originally agreed upon “laying low.” 

Lillian gathered her belongings loosely in her arms and tugged the rest behind her in the suitcase into her bedroom. After a short moment of assessing all that she had brought laid out on the clean white bed, she felt a wave of sadness boil up deep within. She stared into nothing and allowed herself a small moment of regret and longing for the life she had left behind which she in some way hoped to go back. Could she go back? What else did she know? In all, what she had brought from her small apartment nestled on the outer streets of Paris were 3 changes of clothes, her notebook, laptop, the few bottles and jars of bath products that she scooped off of the bathroom counter on her way out, a hair brush, wallet, passport, a few pens and pencils already at the bottom of the old backpack, a few other odds and ends including charging cables, headphones, sticky notes, and a flash drive, and finally, her small stuffed bunny named, well, bunny. She had been given this toy upon her birth from her mother. No matter where the young girl went, even today, the bunny never left her. Through all the running, the hiding, the restless movement, every home Lillian had occupied had also sheltered Bunny. So, when she got the call that one dreadful evening that she needed to evacuate, the first thing she packed, of course, was Bunny. 

After standing and reflecting for just a minute more, she now turned to carefully stack her few lasting toiletries on the dresser beside the bed. Upon moving she took a startled step back when she saw Jonathan standing in the doorframe, silent and watching. 

“Christ. Knock much?” She huffed and returned to her task. Jonathan remained in his place and said in a coldly, 

“I didn’t think I had to knock in my own home.” The girl rolled her eyes and began sifting through her packs once again in hopes of finding anything else she may have missed. Jon took a few steps into the bright room and looked down at his sister. A small change, barley noticeable, came across his face when he examined her. Pity, almost. With an only slightly relaxed tone than before he offered, 

“You can do your laundry down the hall, there is a basket in the closet.” Lillian spared a brief look at him and hummed a short breath in acknowledgment. When she moved to gather the basket that would carry her rain-dampened clothes to the washer, Jon took her spot in front of the bed with her belongings spread out. 

“Is this all you brought?” He asked bluntly. His sister, a much more emotive speaker replied in an offended huff, 

“Yes it is.” Trying to keep her annoyance at bay, she refused to look at him and forcefully shoved her few articles off the bed and into the basket. As she picked up the basket, her brother spoke again, this time in his best attempt at a softened voice, 

“If you need anything, I can take you shopping tomorrow, or I can get it for you. If you didn’t want to go out.” She slowed her movements, frustration falling away from her as quickly as it arose and looked up at her brother’s still stoic, unmoving gaze. Loosening her grip on the plastic basket she nodded shyly returning her gaze to the floor. It pained her ego enough to even show up at her brother’s door, and having to rely on him to get her basic necessities hurt in a way she hasn’t felt since living under her father. Jon stepped forward, not wanting to continue this display of emotion any further and gently placed a hand on the center of Lillian’s back. The touch shocked her and sent a shiver down her spine. Quietly, and as gently as the man could, he said, 

“I’ll show you where the laundry is.” A gentle guidance led Lillian out of the bedroom door. The soft delicate touch never left her until they made it to the machine.