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tmnt-tychou · 1 year ago

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2003 Romance/Mating Season HC

Rating: Eh...hard PG13? The turtles are ADULTS when mentioned in this HC.

Mating season for the 03 boys is thankfully brief of only a week and a half. They are pretty synced in their cycles and usually go through it all at the same time. When mating season hits and, if they don't have a significant other to expend energy and instinct on, they turn into fucking weirdos.

They become very twitchy and cagey, always eyeballing each other like each is going to attack them. If they didn't notice you there and you tap them on the shoulder, they will jump and give you such a wide-eyed look of terror like you caught them doing something bad.

And they're weirdly itchy. There are a few places in the lair that have big brushes fixed to the wall where they can scratch their shells. Usually it's the lower part of the shell that's the itchiest. If April visits during this time, she practically has turtles crawling over her lap. They want to steal her body heat and beg for shell scritches. It's not even sexual with April, they are just very uncomfortable and want to snuggle with her gentle vibes.

But then Casey saw how they were with her once and was like “Aw HELL nah!” so now April doesn't go down to the lair during 'their time of the year' anymore.

Leo

He is very careful with who he trusts with his heart and his body. You gotta WORK to get this man to open up to you and let you in. Leo favors patience and if you don't have any, it may not work out with him. He is a complex person and has a lot of things to say without using any words. He needs someone who is okay with silence and who knows how to listen to his language. For a long time, he's going to treat you gently, like a bomb that may go off at any time. He is not very good at opening up and letting people in. It takes him a while to learn. You opening up to him first helps set an example.

When he starts to trust, he is very sweet and attentive. He remembers a lot of random things you say to him, how you said them. He remembers certain times exactly the way you looked or smelled. He keeps a scrap book of you in his brain and brings them out to share with you randomly. It's how he shows you're important to him.

He will never raise his voice to you, even if he's angry. Yelling is what he does with his brothers. You're different. Sometimes it's maddening because you know he's mad, but he's being so annoying by staying so calm while you argue. Not that you argue much. When he's infatuated with you, he lets you get away with absolute murder. His brothers are very jealous of the girlfriend treatment you get when it comes to his patience.

He's kind of a pain in the ass during mating season. His territorial instincts go through the roof. Get anywhere near one of his brothers and he gets cranky. You could have the most mundane conversation ever with one of his brothers and he will still get annoyed. He might even growl at them. He will most likely insist you stay at your place and he will come to you during that time. That way he can have you all to himself and there are no other male turtle scents to annoy him.

While he's very alpha around his brothers, when the two of you are alone, he can switch from being on top to being submissive. Leo's hormones send him from one end of the spectrum to the other so he's very wishy-washy about what he wants. Sometimes he wants you to lay back and be his Good Girl. Other times, he'll want you to climb up and have your way with him. And while the rest of the year, he is very quiet in bed, you catch him when his hormones are high, he can get LOUD. Another reason he prefers to spend his season at your place. And he will pretty much live in your bedroom as a kept turtle for a week and a half if you let him. He'll bitch about you going to work where other males are. And if his brothers need him, that's too bad. He's BUSY. The only way his brothers can get him back home is if they start texting you. Then he will have to go down to the sewers so he can murder them.

Donnie

With Donnie, if you want his attention, you have to give a little to get a little. He is practically married to his lab, so if you want some of his time, you gotta pay a little lip service to his first love. Ask him what he's working on and show interest in his projects. He can tell when you're just being polite, so if you're genuinely interested, he will fall harder for you. Once you have given proper time to him, sometimes he will give you proper time back and sometimes you have to remind him that he needs to put time into the relationship now and the two of you have talked about this. If you show up with something specific for you two to do, you will have an easier time getting him away. In fact, if you catch him in a slump, he may be happy for the distraction.

He is a very sweet partner, if a little absent minded. He WILL forget your birthday. Don't mistake, he remembers the date of your birthday, he just doesn't know what day TODAY is. (Maybe not even what day of the week it is. “We're still in March, right? Is it Friday?”) You may have to remind him it's coming up. He will start to get better at it by setting reminders for himself because he doesn't want to disappoint you. It's just that his brain goes a million miles a minute constantly and that thought is but one of many vying for his attention.

He is not good at sex in the beginning. Which frustrates him because he's read all the articles and studied the human female body. Why are you not liking this, sweetheart? What am I doing wrong? He quickly learns that your body isn't a machine where he can just turn the nobs and press the buttons and he's done. It takes him a while to get that it's an emotional thing and he has to be in the moment with you and respond on the fly as you two explore together. He will start scheduling sex so he can practice, which is weird, but okay Donnie. And it turns out to work in your favor as YOU are his new project now and he is very, very focused on you. It's a nice change of pace.

He has the lowest libido of his brothers during mating season. He's usually too busy to even notice it. “Oh, it's mating season?” Pauses to check to see if his shell is itchy. “Oh, I guess it is.” He can ignore the urges for quite a while. Then it will hit him like a truck. He'll suddenly appear at your place, pin you to the bed, and have his way with you for a few hours. Then, while you're an insensate puddle of goo, his dumb ass will get up to go back to his lab unless you find the energy to yell at him to get his shell back in bed.

P.S. Donnie wants you to know the itchy shells have nothing to do with mating hormones. They molt their scutes shortly after. The two things just coincidentally happen at the same time.

Raph

Learning to be Raph's partner is a little tricky. He likes you. He likes having someone to care about and protect. (And he is VERY protective.) But there is also a bit of a feral cat in him. He's weird about being touched at first, especially if you touch him without him noticing. Before you two were involved romantically, he would do that thing cats do when they sink under your hand to avoid being pet. (He still does it sometimes.) He gives Soft For Only You vibes, but doesn't know what to do when you're soft for him. It takes him a while to figure out his shit.

Raphael is weird about touch and intimacy. He likes it, but he doesn't really know how to engage in it. He needs it to happen on his terms, especially when he's first getting used to it. He needs someone who is patient and is okay with letting him come to them when he's ready. But while he's getting used to it, he still wants to be around you. He'll say sweet things to you, make thoughtful gestures, all the proper boyfriend stuff. But the physical touch is something that comes with time.

He is a very fussy, persnickety turtle about sex, especially that first time. He'll come up with all sorts of arbitrary rules about what you can do to him and where you can touch. It's best to let him take charge the first few times. He's better when he feels like he has control of the situation. After a while, if you can manage to get him to agree to letting you take the lead, he will complain the entire time. But if you're slow and gentle, he'll enjoy himself and maybe let you do it again.

He does NOT like his tail played with during intimacy, even though it's typically an erogenous zone for the turtles. If you grope it without asking permission he will BITCH, maybe for days, about how you don't listen to him or respect his boundaries. If you talk to him about why he doesn't like it, you'll find out there is no deeper trauma or anything, he's just wired that way. He doesn't enjoy it.

If you show that you respect him and you tell him you just like to see his tail because you think it's cute, he may bring it out now and then and even let you touch it. But if you try to fondle it in a sexual manner he will immediately withdraw and tell you in great detail how you done fucked up.

During mating season, if he doesn't have a significant other, he gets a little quiet and melancholy. The hormones make him feel lonely. If he has someone who has his heart, he's going to be the most snugly you've ever seen him. Which is still very mild for regular standards. He'll rest his chin on your shoulder or lay in your lap so you can scratch his shell. You might even get a tiny bit of churring if you listen carefully.

He is markably less persnickety about touch during this time of the year. He's more focused on railing you, so you can get your hands on him all you want. (Though you will get your hand swatted if you go for the tail.) Then he wants to lay on top of you and sleep off the sexy times for a few hours. Because that was a lot for him. If you try to sneak out of bed, he gets grouchy.

Mike

This grown ass turtle is always going to be a bit of a child. If you're dating him, prepare to get pranked on a regular basis. His favorite thing is to hide in the shadows and jump scare the hell out of you. He even broke into your apartment to scare you there. You nearly murdered him and yelled at him for an hour. He said he wouldn't do that again...but he's totally going to do it again.

You're going to get dick pics whether you want them or not. They're not even sexy pics. He'll dress it up or put it on a pizza or some dumb shit. You will learn quickly not to open ANY pictures from him while at work. He will also sext you on the regular if you're into that, and be happy to dirty talk you. But it will also get stupid a lot, too. This man is incapable of being serious for too long.

Despite all the bravado and dumbassery, he's very gentle and vanilla your first time being intimate. He doesn't want to hurt you and is so afraid he's going do something stupid and mess everything up. He's pretty much a blank slate ready to learn. If you take the initiative and tell him what you like or which things you want to dry, he will do the same. The two of you can get up to all sorts of sexy shenanigans as Mike is down with whatever you're down with. When you both get comfortable with intimacy, sex with him is always fun and warm and a lovely way to bond with each other.

During mating season, Mike is the horniest of the four by far. (He's also the itchiest. “Oh my God, Babe. Scratch my shell. It's SOOOO itchy!”) If he's not trying to bang you, he's draped over your lap, begging for shell scritches. He will arch up like a cat and do a little shimmy for you. He has no shame.

He also gets super hungry. So it will be lots of sex and snacks in bed. He is going to be SO. Fucking. NEEDY. During this time. An absolute velcro turtle. If you have to go to work, he will whine and moan like a child. And will probably break into your place (again!) and writhe in your sheets and send you lots of dirty pics and messages until you get home.

Legit by the time his season is over, he is being a full pain in the ass with how needy and selfish he's being. But after the fog lifts, he realizes what a butt he's been and apologizes and makes up for it with acts of love and giving some focus on you.

#tmnt #ninja turtles #tmnt 2003 #tmnt 2k3 #tmnt headcanons

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lonniemachin · 5 months ago

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HELP AHMED, MARAM, AND THEIR THREE LITTLE CHILDREN ESCAPE GENOCIDE

Here are some new photos provided by Ahmed of his children Habiba (4), Kareem (2), and baby Muhammad (1), showing what life was like before the past 300 days of zionist aggression.

And another photo of his children in the building they've been displaced to, the rubble of a destroyed city their only view from the window.

Please, please give what you can to help them reach their goal of €40,000. Every euro is needed to register to evacuate, travel across the border, and receive treatment, housing, and basic necessities once outside of Gaza. Maram, the children's mother, has been battling potentially fatal liver disease, unable to provide milk for Muhammad due to malnutrition, and he's suffered as a result. The family has been forced to pack up and move once they'd found a place to settle upwards of 10-11 times, under the constant threat of death by shelling. Ahmed sends me videos, photos, and recordings of bombs falling only hundreds of feet from where he is with his family. Every second, every contribution counts towards SAVING THEIR LIVES. And there have been no donations in 19 HOURS.

CAN WE REACH €21,000 BY THE END OF THE WEEK, 08/04/2024?

ONLY €821 NEEDED!

Tagging for reach:

@commissions4aid-international @brutaliakhoa @dykesbat @aita-blorbos @batmanego

@magnus-rhymes-with-swagness @palentonga @malcriada @appsa @watermotif @terroristiraqi

@sayruq @northgazaupdates @aces-and-angels @rhubarbspring @stuckinapril @schoolhater @ot3

#palestine #free palestine #gaza #free gaza #save gaza #gaza genocide #mutual aid #signal boost #from the river to the sea palestine will be free

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

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CULT OF VAGABONDS: PROLOGUE

NAVIGATION || COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER I ||

PAIRING: Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: It all began with a white van, a gun to the spine, and five smooth words. It ended with death.

WORDCOUNT: 4.07k

WARNINGS: Abduction, blood and gore, high stress situations, angst, major character death, vomit, descriptions of wounds, canon typical

A/N: I apologize to the people who hate reading all italics - I had to do it for my own sanity since this is a flashback, lmao. I promise it’s not sticking around. Enjoy!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

OPERATION: KINGFISHER

OVERSIGHT: STATION CHIEF KATE LASWELL, TS/SCI

OPERATIVES: CLASSIFIED

STATUS: ACTIVE

MISSION REPORT: MONDAY, 0823, CHICAGO, USA: THREE YEARS PRIOR:

It would have been kinder to take the bullet.

Your mind runs as you’re placed into a wooden chair roughly, the bag over your head obstructing everything but the thin beams of light passing through the itchy ramie fabric. Bits are glimpsed—people moving, shifting large bodies; tapping feet, and muttering voices like a grim party of ghouls.

You’re going to hyperventilate, you admit with a startling calm that bleeds into induced shock. Under the binds, your hands shake so violently in your lap that you wonder if they’ll break apart like glass—the skin fragments shattering as bones turn to sharp dust. Air gets thin. Black dots start dancing.

“Sir,” a voice to your left speaks, American, and you’re flinching away before the word is fully out, head whipping to the side as if you could make out more than a blob of black and gray. A sob lays heavy in the bareness of your throat as sweat slicks your neck. What was going on? “I…I can’t—”

“You’re excused.”

The sound of receding footsteps and the slam of a door is scarcely heard above your own breathing, a deep inhale to help push back the void, and a wheezing exhale to welcome the next. Bare membranes of your throat reek of bile, and you think you threw up in the van that had driven you here, though you don’t remember much of that.

Just the gun in the base of your spine and a low, smooth, voice with a British accent into the shell of your ear.

“Head down and stay quiet.” Someone had said, sternly.

Oh, it would have been kinder to take the bullet. What was it that those shows always warned you about? Never let someone take you to a second location? Your eyes wrench closed as the muscles of your numb fingers tense and loosen in an anxious pattern.

Along the floor, your feet shimmy, not able to keep still despite your mind screaming at you to try—try and disappear into molecules of oxygen and carbon. Everything had a sheen of hypersensitivity. The lights buzzed in your ears like bombs, the rope peeled back atoms of your epidermis, and the tiny groans coming from the left of you were like screams as your senses burned with a thousand suns.

But the British man had said to stay quiet—so stay quiet you did. What other choice did you have? You knew they had weapons, you shouldn’t doubt that they would use them.

But you really wanted to start screaming your head off.

When the heavy hand landed on the top of your head, only a soundless sob fell from the strained noose of your esophagus. The bag was ripped from you with a flurry of hair and dribbling tears, sweat flying down your neck faster than Pegasus sprang from the Gorgon Medusa’s blood.

Immediately wrenching your small-pupiled eyes closed with a whine, an invasive overhead light composed of knives stabs into your already blurry vision; your hands jerk upwards to attempt and cover the attack. Silence reigns above all, besides from the single source of that muffled groaning from beside you.

“Mhm…Erm…Hem,” it seemed like the sounds were gasping breaths of your name, hidden behind layers of gagged fabric, swathed in saliva and distress. But…how?

Who else was in this room with you and your kidnappers?

Blinking away the shock to your senses, your chin rises from your chest and your hands lower back down hesitantly. You’re ashamed to admit it, but the first thing you noticed was the state of the room.

Namely, how tiny it was.

Peeling blue paint hides a slideshow of broken drywall, a layer of indiscernible wallpaper hanging off like broken limbs that reach to the concrete floor. Although this might have been a beautiful basement in the past, now your flickering eyes lock onto the newer additions.

Swallowing saliva through a closed airway, the tray of silver metal doesn’t fully register with you, nor, then, does the revolver and the six bullets placed beside it. That dying innocent speck in your heart tries to persuade you to a state of fantasy.

‘If it’s not pointed at you, it can’t hurt you…If it’s not pointed at you, it can’t hurt you…If it’s not—’ The sentiment replays over and over in your head when you rapidly look away from the weapon like it was on fire and begin to notice the statue-like men instead.

This can’t be real…it has to be a joke. Some sick, twisted, joke.

Five of them, all dressed in black; balaclavas over slate faces tainted with grim determination. You glance over the lot of them and feel your intestines bunch, the beasts shuffling from one foot to another with a predatory gleam to the laced boots. Not one of them was lacking combat gear—vests, holstered weapons, and packs filled with God-knows-what—they looked like soldiers, but that wouldn’t make any sense.

Your hysterics only increase when one speaks, body flinching back.

“Let’s get this started, then, shall we?” You can’t even tell which began the uttering, but the accent is undeniably British. Gruff, tainted with sharp gravel; not to be ignored if that authoritative edge was anything to go by.

The individual with crossed arms takes a step forward, buff and taller than all of the others except for one. That gargantuan creature watches you with numb light-blue eyes and pale lashes from a place against the wall. A shiver travels up your spine, and your shirt sticks to you, but you can’t look away.

They are the eyes of the living dead.

“This can’t be happening…” Your lips twitch, but only you can hear your words.

The one who appears to be the leader—Buff—tilts his head, but the dark cerulean orbs don’t even look at you. They keep to your left, at the sounds of panicked scuffling and scraping wood. “Gaz.”

Another man advances, not as robust as the first, but nonetheless built with violence. Tall. Steady. He bleeds contained purpose in the sinuses of his long fingers.

Biting your lip, number two — “Gaz” — stops near the metal table, but he doesn't look at you when your tear-flooded eyes bore into him. Your tongue is lead.

Who are you? You want to scream. What do you want?!

From the side of your eye, you see a flash of a navy blue suit, and your vision snaps to it aggressively. The air gets heavy and a stone sits in your guts.

Gaping, a familiar visage stares right back at you, the build of the face and the structure of the bones reflected back onto you––slated in the very genetic makeup that builds your frame.

A nice suit. A hurried goodbye in the morning as the butler made breakfast in the kitchen—A kiss to your forehead. Your tears slap your clenched hands, and you think you’re digging your nails into your flesh, but the thing that hurts the most is the hopelessness in your chest.

“Dad?” You sob and stare at the ragged form as your father struggles to speak around a gag, eyes running from one scuff and cut to another as the lights suddenly get ten times brighter. Damn not speaking, this was your father!

But if he was here along with you…

At that moment, all you can describe is the way your own heart was going faster than it ever had, to a point that the world swirled around you in shades of blue and red. If there was a time reminiscent of events that had never happened to you, getting into a deadly car crash or hanging onto the edge of a cliff as torrent rains battered your head, this would be it.

The alarm in your still head was telling you that this is the end of the road.

Your father’s hands are tied behind the chair, and you can see the signs of crimson dotting the floor from the binds, skin torn and weeping. His eyes are bathed in fear, the fast rise and fall of his lungs telling you all that needs to be unsaid.

And his blatant fear only increases your own.

“Dad…what’s going on?” One of the men in the front shifts, standing beside the dead-eyed individual, looking away to glance in the corner with shades of blue in his orbs and a fixing of his stocky biceps. “What is all this? Where…where are we? I was just walking to school—p-passing through the old neighborhood—”

You’re rambling through panic, and everyone just watches. They watch and watch and watch. Was this a game? A sick, twisted prank? How could they do this and just watch you panic like a bear in a trap?

A hand snaps to your father’s gag and you yell when he rages, body shifting forward feebly before a shadow descends upon you. A swift force keeps you back, and your head snaps upwards.

You’d never thought that eyes could stay with you for all eternity—when you had a friend that moved away in sixth grade, the first thing you forgot about them was their eyes. The voice was much more important to remember; their gentle touch when they pulled you up at recess after an unfortunate collision when playing tag. But at that moment…

Never would the image of sepia-colored eyes like those leave you again. Inlaid in brown skin and below dark eyebrows. Like a meadow, brown was encircled by light—a ring of amber around the pupil and flecks of emerald, though most of that was lost by numbness.

The hand digs into your shoulder, forcing you to stay in your seat as your lips quiver. It’s not delicate, the hold, and when your eyes scrunch in pain, he somewhat lessons it though not enough to stop the sting. The man everyone called Gaz was incredibly strong.

Something swam in the recesses of his gaze, some hidden emotion of sorrow or pity that showed as hesitation. He clears his throat and takes a glance at your now-raging father. You shake more violently than a house in a tornado; frozen and unable to speak. What was he going to do to you?

Gaz turns back to you and whispers, blinking through long eyelashes as the fabric of his face covering slightly moves, “It’ll be over soon.” British as well, but a tone smoother than the previous. The hand squeezes your flesh, and you flinch as far back as the seat allows.

He was the one that grabbed you this morning; your legs seize up like a dead deer at the familiar speech pattern.

The man moves back without uttering another word on sure feet, and you stare after. The sentence Gaz had given you was anything but reassuring, and with your state, it was more of a threat.

“Get your fucking hand off of her! What the hell is going on? Why is my daughter here?!” Your father’s voice fractures your gaze away from the menagerie of masked abductors, and you turn to watch him growl out in hatred; shell-shocked. “Are you after money? Ransom…? Answer me!”

“I’d think this would work better,” Buff grunted out, dropping the gag to the floor carelessly, “if you answered me, instead, eh?... Now, where’s the shipment?”

“Sweetheart,” your father turns to you, but your eyes always filter back to the gun—the men. The last out of the five strangers was one that you hadn’t seen move from the far corner yet. His hands were constantly readjusting over the black metal of a large assault-style rifle that you had only seen in movies. “—Sweetheart! Hey!”

Snapping to the feral expression of your father, you suck down air you’d been taking for granted and push away the dark spots. You’d forgotten how to breathe properly. Staring into his burning eyes, a plea is stuck to your tongue and a hunched build of your spine. But making yourself smaller wouldn’t help you like it would a rabbit hiding from a circling hawk.

“What’s going on? Please, Dad, what’s happening?” The world is swirling with technicolored lights.

“It’s all going to be alright, okay?” He gasps at you, head swiveling to all parties faster than a racehorse. Buff seems to listen intently, arms loose over his chest and huffing under his breath. His deep blue eyes swivel to you, glinting darkly. “Everything is going to be alright—”

“Pick it up, Sergeant.” The command is cold, numb, and the clinking of a silver barrel connecting to a tray as it was grasped was enough to set your atoms on fire.

The gun lays loose in Gaz’s hand, hanging at his hip as Buff moves closer to your father and bends down to look into his eyes.

“The shipment. Tell me. I don’t make a habit of repeating myself.” In the corner, the isolated man hunches his shoulders, eyes darting from you back to your dad—but your own stare stays stuck to the gun. Ears twitch at the loud conversation as the black wave of overwhelming delirium gets larger.

Shipments? Your fast mind runs as your eyes dart from the weapon to your father, your wrists now raw and skinned from the constant movement.

Your dad grunts and his desperate eyes look at you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“I–I don’t know what you’re talking about, what shipments? Who are you?! If you’re after ransom money just call my wife—she’ll get you what you need.” The leader chuckles lowly while shaking his head in exasperation, pulling back as his gaze goes hard. Your father strains forward after him and repeats the same sentence as before. “What is my daughter doing here you son of a Bitch? You don’t need her.”

He turns to you, his nice suit ruined with sweat. You’d never seen your father scared—not when you’d broken your arm when you were younger or any moment later. Not until now. His pupils are small; pinched in and glossy. Like a fearful animal trapped in a corner.

You doubted you looked any better as you blink back with a thousand-yard stare, choking back gasps and biting a cut into your lip. Constantly thinking that if you speak your head will get blown off in a shower of crimson.

“Sweetheart, this is all some big misunderstanding, alright? Don’t worry, we’ll be back home soon and this’ll all go away.”

“Yeah, you’d like that then wouldn’t you?” Buff growls, “Go back to a cush life while your weapons and drugs fund terrorists, eh?”

Terrorists?! Your eyes widen, turning back to the men with horror. So this wasn’t about your family's money?

“What the hell are you talking about?” Your lips move, mouth parted and eyebrows tight as your very blood seems to cool over. Everyone looks at you and the one second of courage vanishes. “‘D-dad?”

“Ignore them,” the patriarch hisses, trying to get your attention back on him, “They don’t know what they’re talking about. They—You’ve got the wrong people!”

“I…I don’t understand why–”

“Sergeant.” Dread seeps like poison one drop at a time to corrupt you. There was never a moment in your life where you had ever felt like you were going to die before—an innocent sentiment of invincible youth.

But the gun being loaded puts the sense of watching a train crash right into the forefront of your mind; a sudden knowledge of your own morality. Your jaw goes slack as you hold back a scream. Steady, gloved, fingers pick up bullet after bullet and place the copper metal into a steel chamber, brown eyes hard as the stunned silence from your father physically hurts.

Clink-shunk, chink-shunk.

“What are you—?!”

“Last chance to change your mind.” The leader interjects, sighing, and you wonder as you hunch into yourself just how cruel this man really is. “Best pull the memory to you quick.”

“What?” Your father laughs in pain, throat getting choked up as he looks to every person, “Are you going to shoot me? In front of my kid?”

At this point it would be more accurate to call you ‘checked out’ if the blank look on your face was anything to go by; tears were falling and mixing with sweat, but your eyes were far away. As if about to fall asleep as you watch the world pass you by from the car window.

The leader shakes his head as Gaz finishes loading the revolver, flicking the barrel back with a deft movement of his wrist. Those brown eyes stay firmly stuck to the back wall.

Dead Eyes sends a long look to your father, and the wide-gazed form beside him tightens his grip over his biceps, shifting large hips. The man in the corner only snaps his head down and tries to disappear.

Electricity sizzles the air.

“No,” Buff answers casually, “we’re not…We’re going to shoot your daughter.”

Bile hits the floor as it rockets from your mouth; hissing through the lines between your teeth and splattering to the concrete in a sound of viscous liquid. Breakfast from this morning was unrecognizable as you blink down at it.

Someone’s shouting pleas—you’re sure it’s your father, because who else—and while you stay half-bent over the chair as your side leans on the arm, everything starts to ring. Feet struggle to stay steady on the ground below you, shoes stained with stomach acid and saliva as it drips from your chin. Over the rageful screams from your dad, the leader continues and you sputter.

“Gaz, it’s all you.”

“Yes, Sir.” The gun raises to your head, and your face tightens as you spy it from the corner of your eye, not registering beyond words and colors fading out before wafting back in.

Were you going to die in this basement? It seemed your body knew the answer even as your brain tried to disagree. There was no running or escaping, not a chance with all of these people. Even if you did manage it, how far would you get before a bullet was in your neck?

“Hey!” Your father yells, voice fracturing; arms twisting and feet splaying. The hammer of the revolver is clicked back and your pulse mirrors. “Hey, no, no, no. That’s not—She…She has nothing to do with this!” Your eyes slowly widen, face tilting as you still try to break through your dizziness. “I swear, she doesn’t know anything!” His face peels back, yet his eyes seem to focus on nothing as his attention hops from one person to another in distress. “Let her go and I’ll tell you all of it, okay? I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

Tell you all of it? What does that mean? You want to ask, but the knowledge that your body had chosen neither fight nor flight but freeze was heavy in your heated and pounding brain as it pulses against your skull.

Thump-thump, thump-thump.

You count the flood of blood that spreads through your body as the taste of vomit sticks to the back of your throat. Rats squeak from behind ventilation grates but wait eagerly for a meal as particles of dust fly past your wide vision.

Your father doesn’t look at you as you gape, and you’re not sure what to think.

Shipments? Terrorists? What could your Museum Director dad have anything to do with that? He had to be lying to save your skin—giving these people a false reality. Yes, yes, that was it. He was trying to save both of you, you just had to trust him.

Your chest rises and falls swiftly.

“I–I swear! I promise, let my little girl go and I won’t—!”

“I think she’ll stay right here.” The leader grunted, hooking his arms into his vest collar, pale eyelids half-closed. “Speak. Quickly”

“Okay! Just put the gun down—please!” The gun is lowered immediately, but it doesn’t make you feel any more present. Brown eyes surrounded by dark lashes meet yours for a few seconds before blinking away to the wall behind you; eyebrows minutely pulling tight.

You’d never hated a look of shielded pity more.

“They come in at night and stay by the dry docks—I don’t know how they get here so fast,” your father speaks as a man possessed, and, strangely, the individual in the corner starts to hang onto every word. Sending your form quick glances with rapidly moving eyes. Not that you noticed. “The products all just sit there until I can come by and take inventory! Two fifteen in the morning! It’s all under my name, I pay off the inspectors every month. Check dock number seven-one-three and the blue cargo containers.”

“What?” You mutter, trying not to gag and shake as if pushing away the instinctual actions would help you focus on the bitter revelation. “What are you…”

This is more than a lie—these are details. In-depth.

No, your mind tells you, no he’s just lying. Everything’s a lie.

“I swear it’s only me, no one else knows about it.” The man in the corner’s feet are shifting, leg muscles testing and relaxing as his fingers twitch over the metal of his gun. Your dad looks at you from the side of his eye, guilt in his bones. “God…I–I sell everything over the auctions held at—”

A gunshot pierces the air.

Liquid splatters your face, warm and heavy, and before you even know what’s happening you’re releasing a scream so loud it echoes off the walls. Snapping your chin down to your chest and bound hands over your head, a great yell erupts from the men, and a clamber of skin on gear follows the dragging of feet. Grunted breath and calls of alarm. All the noise scares off the scavengers in the vents with shrieks.

“What in the fucking hell are you thinking, Private?!” The leader's voice yowls and grunts as you slowly open your eyelids, lashes fluttering over your cheeks. “We needed him alive, you Muppet!”

You find a slumped figure in the chair your father had just been in with a shuttering inhale. Slack-jawed, you look over the crater that was left of his face numbly; lips and teeth ripped apart and a caved-in skull. His hair was strewn about, and without a cohesive thought, your fingers itched to smooth it down.

He hated when his hair was unruly.

A navy suit you’d seen at breakfast was stained—irreparable—with brain matter and blood that cascaded down a massacred face with a head tilted forward. His nerves jump with activity, spurring fluid to the ground until a puddle forms.

Your father was a good man. You—your father was a…good man.

The rest of the men continue to scuffle, barking orders as more feet suddenly race from the other side of the door. Your ears tune it out. You can’t look away, not even when a hand is placed on your shoulder and you’re suddenly being forcefully turned in the opposite direction of the corpse.

Unresponsive, your far-away look meets creased amber and dark lashes—eyes you had decided you’d never forget and now that sentiment was forged with steel and tempered to perfection. Just like you’d never forget that your father’s body was just a reach away, and it was never supposed to happen. His blood was staining your clothes; your face and hair. A bath of gore.

Dead…? No, he was just alive a second ago. He—he can’t be. How? I just saw him this morning. We were going to go into the museum tomorrow to help set up a new section.

Your mouth moves, but no words escape.

A smooth voice tries to speak to you, but all you do is watch the fabric of a black balaclava shift and strain as the noise sounds like car sirens. Gaz is attempting to shake you, lightly, and when it doesn’t help he looks around stiffly, pausing on the body before looking away to the ground in search.

Without much thought behind the action, your loose lips pull back and utter only one word. Weak. Fractured and horribly hoarse.

“Oh.”

It was somewhat of a mercy when the itchy ramie fabric of the previous bag was refitted in one swift motion. And all the while you sit there, shaking, a hand never leaves the top of your head, holding it down.

TAGS:

@fatunn, @mh073099, @littlegaypng, @untitled69555, @babybooday, @caffeine-anxiety-and-randomfacts, @underrated-youngster, @jupiterredolent, @idocarealot, @karnellius, @latteisaqueen, @petrat97, @jade-jax, @roosterr, @escapefromrealitysm, @renaich, @kysa32, @human-turtle, @aurora-basin, @terumisworld, @violet-phantoms, @xxfeelmylovexx, @neelehksttr, @nezukos-number1fan, @20forty9, @mdjenjen, @marrianena, @angeldaisyy, @alhaizen, @homicidal-slvt, @emerald-valkyrie, @raissadoesthingslmao, @misfne, @hollyhopesworld, @wasteland-babe, @330bpm-whiplash, @anna-banana27, @justherebecausesafarisucks, @sunnynomoar, @doggydale, @thecrispypotatochip, @74478328, @blueoorchid, @das-conk-creet-baybee

(sorry if some of these don’t work)

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queenpiranhadon · 10 months ago

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A/N: You all voted on this poll, so I shall deliver. ;) Here's my masterlist!

Warning(s): Angst, unrequited love (kinda), amnesia, past (?) relationship, lovers to strangers to lovers, depictions of murder and bombing (nothing really happens though), mentions of depression

Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x GN!Reader

•────•°•❀•°•──── ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ ᴀɴɢᴇʟ ────•°•☁︎•°•────•

"Hey."

It was dark. Too dark for your comfort, but you still found solace out in the inky blackness that shrouded you, finding some twisted reassurance in the way all you could see was your own two hands in front of you, the faulty light that illuminated the looming Avengers complex in the distance, and the railing you rested your forearms on.

And now, you saw the glint of metal in your periphery- no, not metal, vibranium.

“Hi.” is all you whisper back, refusing to make eye contact with the man beside you.

Your heart throbs, a dull ache compared to the raging thoughts in your head, the reason you came out in the dead of night in the first place. Bucky Barnes, your first love, and perhaps your last. You vowed you’d never see him again, yet here he was.

"Why are you avoiding me?" he grunts, giving up on trying to make eye contact with you and opts for leaning on the railing next to you.

Bucky had been away on a mission, before he was the Winter Soldier, before he was the White Wolf, back when he was just Bucky. And that Bucky had been your friend. After he had left Hydra, he met you, on the street, making your way to a family-owned cafe, picking up coffee for both you and your boss, and a donut for yourself. At the time, you were a senior in college, working an internship under Tony Stark. You were special- special enough to stay after Stark debuted as Iron Man to the world, working under him – researching biotech and adding updates to his suit when the situation required them.

Bucky had been there, in an alleyway, looking broken as he stared at the wall across from him. And you, the sweet angel you were, abandoned your coffee and asked him if he had a place to stay.

It wasn’t like you to pick up every homeless man you saw on the streets, your small apartment would be ransacked if you had- but something was different about Bucky. Something special. So you took him in, making sure he ate, bathed, and had a place to sleep.

And after a few months, Bucky became more than a friend. You had grown on him, cracking through his walls, and providing the warmth he needed for his cold heart. But the effort it took you to get there was painstakingly slow, the man had refused to eat your food until you threatened you wouldn’t either until he had done so. It was toxic, sure, using guilt to get him to do what you needed, but it had worked. And you two had been happy.

You never told anyone about your new boyfriend, the man living in your house- knowing that judgement you would face had someone known that you started dating a random man you found off the street. But you loved him, with your whole heart, and nothing could change that.

And then one day, he disappeared. You looked everywhere for him, showing up to the police with his picture, sobbing, wondering if he could be dead- or worse.

And then you saw him, six months later, not in person, but on TV. For killing man by the name of T’Chaka, and for bombing a building.

You weren’t the same after that, an empty shell filled with lies and denial, telling yourself that your Bucky wouldn’t do that. The same rough hands you loved so much, the ones that caressed your skin as you went to bed every night, enveloped in each other’s warmth, couldn’t be the same hands splattered with blood, the ones that held the lives of so many people.

Tony had graciously let you off work, noticing the state you were in, but decided not to press as the cause of your misery.

And then a civil war broke out through the Avengers, and Tony needed your help. So you obliged, creating tech that would assist him in the fights he had coming. But you weren’t prepared for what was to come after all that.

You had encountered Bucky at a party, alive and well, one hosted at Tony’s home. And you approached him.

“Bucky! Oh my god, I’m so happy you’re safe.” you had said, wrapping your arms around him, trying to feel the warmth you used to, yet it wasn’t the same. You sobbed, spilling your worries out onto him, asking him why he didn’t talk to you, why he didn’t come back.

And after everything, all he had said was "I'm sorry, who are you?"

He had forgot.

Your heart had split into a million pieces then, the fragile glue you had used to try to keep your sanity together shattering as you whispered a feeble “never mind” before retracting away from him and slipping into the crowd.

You avoided him for weeks after that, shooting down any attempt of communication between you, your heart clenching painfully whenever you glimpsed him.

And now it was just the two of you, outside, on a railing.

“Because it hurts” is all you say, in response to his question, deciding to focus on the present, not the past.

He frowned slightly, a crease forming through his eyebrows, your fingers twitching to smooth it, as you always had. But you didn’t. He said nothing though, waiting for you to continue.

“You really don’t remember, huh?” you whisper softly, a small huff exiting your lips, a hollow sound.

He shakes his head again, swallowing thickly. “Most of my memories have been coming back- except for this one.”

A choked sob leaves your mouth, playing off as a laugh as you feel the tears building in your throat.

“I never meant anything to you, did I?” the words leave your mouth without much thought, before you shake your head smiling sadly.

“It doesn’t matter any ways, I know it’s not your fault.” you say, turning away from him, walking back to the Avengers complex. “Be happy Buck – that's all I need from you.”

Bucky stares at your retreating form, silent, wanting to reach out for you, reach out for the memories of you, but they were still so far away, out of reach.

If only you knew how much he wanted to see his sweet angel again.

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philliam-writes · 2 years ago

Text

you are in the earth of me [01]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: cot3 +1 (and kipps), canon-typical violence & horror, loss of family member (not just Lockwood), found family, touch starved Lockwood, childhood friends Kipps & Reader, childhood trauma, slow burn, rivals to lovers (if this stays a Lockwood/Reader), mature language (swearing), aged up characters (everybody's in their early 20s; Kipps is mid-20s), fem! Reader though pronouns are used sparingly and no use of y/n

Summary: “Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.” Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?” You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Notes: [02]

Words: 5.1k

A/N: Words will never suffice how much Lockwood & Co. has carried me through some of the toughest parts of my life. To see it adapted to a show is SO EXCITING, I couldn't help but be a little self-indulgent and plan out a whole ass story for my favourite three (+ Kipps) ghost hunters. So here we go.

This could either stay a Lockwood/fem!Reader or I could easily change it into Locklyle or even freaking poly cot3 x Reader or just Locklyle depending on what people want to read. I'm fine with pretty much everything; I just want my silly little Reader joining 35 Portland Row because I am in DIRE NEED OF FOUND FAMILY AND JUST SELF-INDULGENT GHOST HUNTING

So yeah, I'm totally open to people requesting Locklyle or anything for this one, but it's still gonna be from Reader's POV and focusing on an original story with action and characters studies and personal growth. Also sorry for any mistakes, English isn't my first language and I'd be super happy if someone offered to become my beta-reader for this! Any feedback is super super appreciated!!

01: let the dead hollers hum

when i first saw you, the end was soon to bethlehem it slouched and then it must've caught a good look at you

—hozier: nfwmb

At almost two in the morning the streets should be empty of people and cars, yet you manage to nearly get hit by a night cab turning down Tredegar Road. Its ghastly horn echoes like the wail of a Banshee through the dark, disturbing the peaceful night. Across the street, a kitchen light flickers to life inside a building. A shadow moves behind the white curtains, pausing for a second to look out at the street.

Bracing against the cutting wind, you turn up your maroon trenchcoat’s collar and duck your head like a turtle trying to hide inside its shell. It would have been much colder without your gloves now that the early winter bite is coming, but it’s still very unpleasant to be outside after the sun has set. Today is a clearer night, despite the day of rain; the moon chases stray wisps of cloud across an otherwise unmarked black sky.

London turns in earlier than usual now that the nights grow longer and colder—and more dangerous as well. Just yesterday you heard two more night-watch kids have succumbed to ghost-lock down at the warehouses near Blackfriars when they got distracted trying to warm up from the freezing evening rain that had set in after eleven. They turned into easy pickings for a Drowner lurking beneath the docs—former scoundrels who ended their sorry lives in the water by drowning. They rarely make a pleasant sight with their bloated limbs and skin wrinkled so hard it is peeling off like layers of paint.

It makes you glad to feel the familiar weight of your rapier hanging from your hip holster, to know that just within short reach, everything you need to protect yourself is at your disposal. That and the salt bombs around your belt. It’s hard not to feel safe while carrying around something with ‘bomb’ in its name.

You find the meeting point you’ve been summoned to at the end of the street. The Green Goose is a two-floor building with the restaurant at the bottom and what you can only assume the storage and other facilities upstairs. All sun-blinds on the first floor are drawn shut.

Few London establishments are open during the night, and fewest of all in the dark hours before the dawn. But places like this, catering for agents or night-watch kids, are easily recognised by the additional fortification against possibly unwanted visitors. High up where the first floor meets the second, heavy mistletoe bushes run around the whole building like a gigantic garland. You imagine in summer this would be lavender blooms, plunging the whole street into their thick, sweet scent. The door and windows are laced with iron grilles, and overhung with battered ghost-lamps. A few wooden dining tables and benches remain vacated outside, left to their own until the warmth of spring returns.

After a first glance inside the premise through the grimy windows, you don’t spot your friend. How much easier this would be if you could carry a phone around, just to check if you are at the right place. Now all you have to go on is his cryptic call before your shift started this morning, and a vague sense of the kind of establishments he likes based to his tastes.

Good thing you have known him for almost a decade.

But that doesn’t really give you an idea what exactly Quill Kipps wants from you. Maybe help with a case? Or he has finally realised he has a crush on his co-worker, that lemony-smelling Kat or Kate, and now he needs advice. Not hanging out at the dead of the night would be a preferable start.

Small bells jingle when you push the door open with your shoulder, and a waft of warm air scented with grease and coffee hits your nose, bringing heat back to your face. It looks a lot smaller than from the outside, narrow and with the sitting area stretched in an L-shape around the bar and counter in the middle. Behind that a pair of slightly askew doors lead to the kitchen where you can hear a radio play.

The first row of tables line alongside the window, then disappear further into the back. In the corner, two night-watch kids sit huddled together, quietly snoring and drooling on each other’s shoulders with their meagre food spread before them. A waitress with short black hair and a chubby chin standing behind the counter looks up from a magazine, stares at you, and blows out a baby-blue bubble of gum until it pops loudly.

She raises an eyebrow.

You raise one back at her.

From the other side of the entrance, you hear Kipps calling your name. At that, the waitress gives you a single, polite nod which you answer alike, as though you are two cowboys engaged in a stand-off who don’t want to shoot each other.

Marching down the narrow aisle, you pass an occupied table and accidentally bump into it. Cutlery rattles against an empty plate. You mumble a half-hearted apology and move on, barely listening to the grumbled answer or really looking at the man clad in black sitting there. He gives of a sweet, heavy scent you can’t really place, and quickly move on.

Knowing you’d arrive in a foul mood, Kipps has already ordered your favourite midnight snack after a hard day’s work: coffee and a simple English breakfast with a fried egg, hot and greasy sausages, crispy bacon, tomatoes and mushrooms on the side.

“It better be important, Kippy,” you say in lieu of hello, manoeuvring over his lap to the unoccupied seat by the window, using elbows and knees to execute a complicated dance with him so you can squeeze into the narrow booth. He grunts and makes barely any effort to make you room. His outstretched legs take up a disproportionate amount of real estate. “I got a ten hour shift behind me and I’m desperate for my bed.”

“You certainly smell like after a ten hour shift,” he comments, wrinkling his nose. Of course he looks well kempt and neat as always with not a single ginger curl on his head out of order. But there are dark circles under his eyes as though someone put a charcoal pen to his skin, betraying his tidy appearance. His eyes flit over your face for a second, scanning it for any injuries.

You give him your best shit-eating grin and wolf down on your eggs when someone clears his throat from across the table—and that’s when you realise Kipps isn’t alone.

Nursing a cup of tea, opposite you sits a young man in a black suit, slender and tall, his short, unruly hair swept back elegantly. He watches you with mild interest, his thin lips slightly pursed, like someone would watch a flock of hungry pigeons plunge towards bread crumbs spread by tourists at Hyde Park—nothing out of order. Just another regular sight in the big city on a late afternoon stroll.

You hold his steady, dark eyes when you bite into your egg, feeling the yolk escape at the corners of your mouth and run down your chin. You didn’t even realise how much you were starving.

“Hwo’sh yor fren’, ‘Ippy?” you ask with your mouth full because you have absolutely zero shame.

Kipps swallows a groan.

“Yes, Kippy,” the young man replies with the most soothing, alluring voice you have ever heard, as though he’s eaten silk and honey for breakfast. “Why don’t you introduce us?”

Kipps makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. Annoyance radiates off him stronger than any other-light you have seen on apparitions. “Friend is a bit much,” he says slowly, as though he has to talk around the word ‘friend’ because it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “That’s Lockwood.” You recognise his tone. It sounds a lot as if he’s saying That’s the biggest nuisance of my life.

The effect is pretty much the same.

You nearly choke on your next bite and aim for the coffee to wash it down. When you jerk your head around to stare at Kipps in disbelief, your eyes stretch wider than the dinner plate before you. Kipps must read what’s written on your face: That’s Lockwood? Tony Lockwood you can’t shut up about? Your arch-nemesis?

Kipps rolls his eyes so hard it must give him a spectacular view of his skull. Just humour me, his expression says.

“Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.”

Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?”

You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Lockwood seems to understand, for he doesn’t inquire further, but his smile seems to freeze a little at the corners. “And you are?”

“Kipps’s friend.” You stuff the rest of your toast into your mouth and give your name. Lockwood blinks and keeps a polite smile, and doesn’t ask even though you’re sure he didn’t understand a word you just said.

“I wasn’t aware Kipps has friends.” Lockwood’s eyes have taken on a taunting glint, and he leans forward as he speaks. “Certainly not friends at Rotwell.”

His eyes drop to the crest stitched onto the upper part of your sleeve on your trench-coat: a snarling lion holding a rapier in its front paw—the agency’s symbol—before he gives Kipps a pointed look as though that small detail would have been worth mentioning before they got up to whatever this is.

Kipps ignores him. “I called you because I need your help,” he says, sliding napkins over to you which you promptly ignore. “I need your Talent.”

You halt at that and give him a long, level look. Kipps doesn’t shy away from the weight of your gaze, and suddenly you become painfully aware of the tension surrounding them, thick enough you could cut it with your dull knife.

Slowly, you chew your sausage. “What exactly are we talking about?” you ask, voice quieter, matching Kipps’s. He’s doing that little wiggle in his seat, shifting his weight from left to right he always does when bracing for potential conflict. When he trails his eyes away from you, you follow them to Lockwood who is looking at Kipps as though seeing him for the first time.

From the pockets of his long, black coat, Lockwood pulls out a small wooden box. It would easily fit into the palm of your hand, and from where you sit you can’t see a particular design or anything on the surface. Lockwood slides the box across the table towards you, flips it over with his long, slender fingers, and opens the lid, revealing a small bronze key lying on a cushion surrounded by thin iron plates.

You stare at it for five, six seconds. Then reach out to take another big swig of your coffee. With no sugar, acidly bitter taste explodes on your tongue, just the way you like it.

“It’s a Source,” you say. “You just carry a Source around like that?”

“Exceptional observation skills,” Lockwood says with the mild tone of someone barely holding back his impatience. “I can see why you asked her to join us, Kippy.”

“I can see why Kipps wants to shove his rapier up your—”

“Trust me, I’d be the last one missing out on a chance to ridicule Lockwood,” Kipps interrupts, tapping a finger on the table in front of the box, “but Barnes wants results by tomorrow and I’d like to act like professionals for once, so can we please focus?”

Lockwood and you throw a mirror glare at Kipps that’s something along the lines of You’re one to talk. When you notice each other’s similar expressions, Lockwood quickly schools his features back to a neutral one. “It is secure inside its seal for now, but the Visitor contained in it is not particularly strong. If we’re quick, it won’t have time to come through,” he says.

You shake your head. “You’re mad. And you—” you knock your knee against Kipps’s—“what’s wrong with you for going along with this?”

“There’s just … not enough time,” Kipps says. Exhaustion seeps into his voice, strong enough to peel back layers of caution for he shares a quick glance with Lockwood and what they don’t say screams so loudly that you have to lean back and re-evaluate what you’ve known about their relationship up until now.

It seems that Kipps has missed out on filling you in on some crucial details about the past few weeks he has worked at Kensal Green Cemetery.

“Then why don’t you just tell me what this is about?” you say, looking over at Kipps sharply. “Why does Barnes need you both to work on it? Is it a Fittes job? Did Bobby get his greasy little hands on something and—”

“Actually,” Lockwood chimes in, “it is our case. Lockwood & Co. Kipps is … an associate. And we’re very short on time to solve this case. Let’s just say Kipps has a little favour to repay. We need someone who excels at Touch, and he said you are the best at it. You might be our last chance to find out more about this key.” He has switched from that arrogant drawl to a soft, melodic cadence with that maddeningly smooth voice of his. It has to be intentional—he is trying to play you like a fiddle with that charm he switched on like an industrial bulb.

“What’s there to solve? You got the Source, you sealed it. That’s all there is. This should be on its way to a furnace right now.” You fall back into your seat, eyes raking over Lockwood’s form. He doesn’t even wear a uniform for Christ’s sake. “And you call yourself an agent?”

And just like that the light goes out, the switch flicks off. Lockwood’s face is calm; the only sign of his agitation is a pulse hammering in his throat and a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Kipps shifts in his seat. “We can’t give it to Barnes yet,” he says in a quiet voice, wrenching your eyes away from the glaring contest you have engaged in with Lockwood. Kipps presses his lips into a thin line, and you can see the mental strain it takes on him to agree with something Lockwood said. His handsome face crumples as though he has bitten into a lemon. “We believe the murder of that Visitor is still out there.”

You digest that. Go in for some more food. It takes a lot more effort to swallow your bacon. “Even more reason to just leave it to Inspector Barnes and DEPRAC. Exactly why is this your responsibility?”

“Justice for the dead?” Kipps offers.

“Protecting the living?” Lockwood states nobly.

It sounds like a load of crap, but you are too sleep-deprived to bother figuring out what truly is at stake for them. Maybe another stupid bet, or whatever favour Kipps owes Lockwood from the last.

You run a hand through your hair, bobbing your leg up and down in a frantic rhythm. It isn’t your favourite thing to do, but you have always had a hard time telling Kipps no—and God knows he has done so much for you.

“You owe me,” you tell him. Kipps nods, and visibly relaxes with relief.

“Do you need me to—” he starts, sliding his hand across the seat and offering it to you. From across the table, you hear the seat’s leather creak as Lockwood leans forward to get a better look at what you are doing. It reminds you of a hound scenting blood in the air and going out on the hunt for its prey.

“No, I’m good. I’m not taking my gloves off anyway.” You don’t like using your Talent without anything to ground you, but there is something about the way Lockwood is looking at you two, hungry almost, as though he is categorizing a particular fascinating information to dissect it later and see what use he can draw from it. Best to just ignore him. Besides, without your gloves, you feel naked, vulnerable. This isn’t something for prying eyes—and Lockwood has an awfully piercing, scrutinising pair of unfathomably dark eyes you are not interested at all to get lost in.

You lean back into the seat and get comfortable first. It never works when you go in too tense because it takes more effort to peel away the wards of your consciousness. When Kipps takes the key and plays it into your open palm, you focus on its weight first—akin to a bird bone, you barely feel it through the thick fabric of your glove.

Which doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy. The energy radiating off this thing is like a physical force pushing you back into the backrest of your seat. You close your eyes and focus on the low thrum of energy—feelings and impressions wash over you in torrents, layer after layer. Your chest feels heavy. Your stomach clenches in a hard, tight knot—fear. Fear grips you in a tight, cold grip.

Something is lurking, far far back, something unfathomably dark and abysmal but you can’t get a hold od if through your gloves and as you begin to sift through the chaotic blur of emotions to find the source—so much darkness, so much death; good Lord the things people did to get their hands on—

Excitement. A lingering echo burning so bright it blinds; hope swelling after long periods of dread, like the first spring buds blooming after a cruel, cold winter. Agitation. The adrenaline-inducing last sprint towards your goal knowing there is nothing that stops you from reaching it. The smell of damp soil and coppery hijacks your senses, and then—

Pain explodes in your chest, knocking you back against a cushioned surface. Your knees slam against something hard, sending hot shots of pain up your legs. Your eyes snap open but the world spins when all the oxygen is sucked out of your lungs and warmth spreads over your chest, liquid seeps through your fingers—but how? He could not. He would never—someone is screaming, a piercing, blood-churning scream. It takes a moment to realise the scream belongs to you; the wailing is drawn out from your raw throat, but how could anybody blame you; you are dying, shot in the chest by—

Someone is calling your name. Strong hands grab your shoulders and shake you hard as though trying to tear you away from a dream, a nightmare.

“Oh God, help me. He—he shot me—please help.” You gasp, trying to stop the bleeding by pressing your trembling hands against the wound.

“You’re fine. Listen to me, you’re fine. Nobody shot you!” A familiar voice—Kipps’s voice pierces through the wailing terror inside your head. You stare up at his green eyes which are paler than usual, widened in worry. “It’s just a psychic echo. You’re safe here.”

Another forceful inhale expands your lungs. The hot pinpoint pain in your chest subsides slowly with every shaking exhale, and when you look down at your hands, there is no blood sticking to your fingers, only coffee. When you hit your knees against the table, you knocked over your cup. Now the liquid is spreading across the table in a big puddle and dripping down its edges.

Lockwood is busy wiping the table clean with the leftover napkins while wildly gesturing with his free hand to the waitress looming over your table. “Just a long night, nothing serious,” you hear him say in haste. Either she isn’t interested or doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this; she shrugs and drags herself back behind the counter. You look around the establishment, ready to apologise for your outburst, but everybody has left already.

You turn around. When your eyes meet Lockwood’s, he grins, his smile so sudden and jarring as a thunderclap. “I have never seen anyone so sensitive to Touch. That was remarkable.” He beams as though you have performed an exceptional trick at the circus.

Something about the excitement in his voice sets you off—or maybe you are just still very raw from the experience, and the aftershock of such a gruesome echo is driving you up the wall.

“Oh yeah, it is so much fun! Feeling how people get killed every time is so worth it.” You grab your fork and stab your sausage with enough force you send tomatoes flying. On second thought, you are not hungry anymore. “Why don’t I get a gun and shoot you just so you can get an idea—”

“I’ve had my own fair share, thank you,” comes Lockwood’s flippant answer and for a second you imagine leaning over the table and smothering him with his own tie.

“So he was shot.” Kipps quickly steers the conversation back to its topic before you can follow your impulse. You slump against the seat, feeling pressure around your hand. When you look down, Kipps is holding your hand tightly, grounding you. You should have let him from the start. Weakly, you squeeze back. “We knew that already—”

“He … he never expected it to end like this,” you say slowly, gazing outside the window. Only your own reflection stares back at you. “He was shot by someone he knew. There was … genuine surprise. Before the pain, I mean. He couldn’t believe he would be hurt by someone he trusted. It was so absurd, he didn’t even have time to feel betrayed. That’s how unbelievable it was.”

“So it was someone very close to the victim. Who’s someone you’d never expect to betray you?” Kipps thinks aloud.

“Friends,” Lockwood provides.

“Family,” you say, quietly.

“A lover.” Kipps takes your fork and helps himself to some leftover mushrooms from your plate. When you look at the food, your stomach churns. “We should go back to the house tomorrow and see if you missed something, Tony. Wouldn’t surprise me if you managed to gloss over some obvious evidence,” he says to Lockwood.

“Why do you believe I would be the one—”

You shut out their bickering. A fine drizzle has set in outside, leaving small rain drops on the window. The street is a blur of black and faint white light from the ghost-lamps. When you look at your own face in the window’s reflection, your own eyes stare back at you—big, scared and haunted.

It always takes some time to get back after using your talent—to slowly build up the walls and distance yourself from the echoes of someone else’s life and the brutal way it ended. Deaths like these: sudden, violent, painful are always difficult to come back from. Which is why it is so important to have someone to ground you. Kipps has known you for so long, he is well aware how the psychic hangover drags your senses through the shredder and leaves your mind and body bruised and raw like an open nerve.

He had a few years training on how to handle it thanks to your brother.

The thought of Matthew shakes you awake and shoves you into full alertness, as if ice-cold water has been dumped down the back of your neck. You feel a sharp ache in your chest as you shove the ghost of his memory out of your mind, and then raw emptiness, as if a grappling hook has yanked your heart out of your body. It is just the aftershock—the hangover from the psychic connection, you try to reason. This is no time to allow grief back into your body, your mind.

Kipps must have heard the quiet sound you made, like a wounded animal. He falls dead silent mid-sentence and whips his head towards you. An echo of recognition passes his features for a second—there and gone so quickly, you think you imagined it.

“We are done here,” he says, and reaches over to close the box’s lid with a resolute click. You didn’t even notice he has taken the key away from you and returned it inside its seal. Lockwood opens his mouth, as though ready to argue, but whatever expression your face paints, even he recognises that you have reached your limit. Without another word, he swiftly slides the box back into his pocket.

You turn away from them, feeling anger and frustration boil inside you. You don’t want them to think you are weak just because you are a little more sensitive than other agents who can use Touch.

“Want me to drop you off the dormitory?” Kipps asks, his voice intensely neutral. He is digging through his purse to pay for your food, and shoots a glare towards Lockwood to indicate that no, he will not pay for his.

The dormitory for Rotwell agents, commonly known as the Lions Den, are rows of sand-bricked two-room apartments housing most of Rotwell’s younger agents in Chelsea. Half of your monthly salary evaporates just for paying rent, but at least it is a roof over your head and only a few stops away from your workplace. There is also something about pretending to belong to the upper posh class of London, to stroll through the highly-maintained gardens and polished windows glinting like diamonds in the early morning sun. They don’t have to deal with countless sleepless nights, the psychic hangover that makes you feel as if your body is not your own, or the constant fear every shift might be the last.

Sometimes it is that moment of pretending as though you live a different life that makes a difference.

“It’s okay, I’ll just take a cab.” Because for one, Kipps lives on the other side of the city, and two, you need to be alone.

Kipps nods, but he doesn’t look happy about it. Lockwood stays silent and is completely relaxed, a paragon of serenity with alert, dark eyes.

You scoot out of the booth and follow them outside into the cold drizzle. Mist hangs in the dark streets, rendering the area nearly invisible. Kipps and Lockwood share a few quiet words. When they part, Lockwood’s coat end flaps like black wings in the dark. He turns halfway around, gives you a long, considering look over the back of his shoulder. He parts with a single, almost approving nod, then ducks his head against the biting wind and strides down the street, disappearing into the dark night.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kipps buttons the front of your trenchcoat. He is balancing on the back of his heels—an old habit when he feels bad for something and doesn’t quite know how to apologise and it would be easier to just bail from the conflict. “You still look like shit.”

You give him a weak kick to the shin. His shoulders relax. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow about how it went,” he says, jamming his hands inside his pockets. He pulls one out again and shoves a crushed candy into your hand. It’s your favourite brand and for the first time today, you feel something warm spreading in your chest.

“Wait.” Before he can turn away, you quickly catch his sleeve and make him turn around. “About that key…”

“Is there anything else?” Kipps leans forward and you have to bend your neck back to meet his eyes.

You remember when he was much smaller and you were at the same eye level. At 13 years, Kipps used to be smaller than the rest of the boys at Stroud & Co. where you started out your agent career and met. He’s had his share of playing errand boy or punching bag for the older, taller boys, until Matthew came along one day, dunked one of Kipps’s bullies into an overflowing rain barrel and got his nose broken in return.

They became best friends after that, and you in the middle. Matthew, Quill, and you. Lock, Shock, and Barrel.

Now, only two remain.

Kipps claps your shoulder, snapping you out of the memory and dispersing the picture you have conjured in your mind of him young. Today, he stands tall and broad-shouldered before you, twice in size and muscle. Nobody sane would try and mess with him.

“What’s wrong?” Kipps asks. “Where did you go in there?” He taps two fingers against his temple.

“When I was holding the key, the recent death was the strongest echo, but there was more. Like … way, way more.” You sling your arms around yourself. “Like many layers on a painting, and whatever is underneath all that … it feels evil. Really, really evil. There is a lot of death attached to that key.”

Kipps chews on this. He looks down the street to where Lockwood has vanished, his square jaw drawn tense. “I can’t say Lockwood’s stake on this, but I don’t care much about its history. It changed owners, I get it, but who would kill for something like that?”

“I don’t know.” You think back to the smell of blood, to the underlying eagerness to own that key. “But if that key is already that vile,” you say, shuddering, “then what about the thing it opens?”

“Not important to me as long as it’s not our problem.” He yawns, and taps a foot against the hard pavement to stave off the cold. “I bet it got destroyed or lost long ago. There is no way it’s still around.” Kipps runs a hand through his hair. It curls against his temple and neck in the damp mist. “Chances are high we’ll never hear anything about it ever again after this week. Case closed. Thanks for helping us. I’m sure DEPRAC can find the murderer and it’ll be just another case in the books.”

“Yeah, sure. I guess you’re right.” You barely hold back a yawn.

Kipps nudges your elbow. “I’ll catch up with you later, OK? Gotta make sure Lockwood’s the one who messed up the earlier investigation and go back to the crime scene.”

“Doing the Lord’s work,” you joke and give him a mocking salute. For the first time tonight, Kipps grins that lopsided half-grin showing part of his white teeth before he rushes off into the night after Lockwood.

For a moment, you stand still and let the drizzle engulf you. Although you have been almost sixteen hours on your feet, exhaustion has slowly trickled away, and in its stead a bone-deep anxiety has settled. Sleep. You need to sleep this off, and everything will return back to normal by tomorrow.

Heading for the main street to catch a night cab, you don’t turn around, and just like that, you miss out on the shadow unhitching itself from a wall even though the ghost-lamp flickers to life.

A/N: hmu if you want to join the taglist!

#lockwood show #lockwood books #lockwood & co #l&c #lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x you #lockwood x y/n #lockwood netflix #lockwood and co #lockwood reader insert #l&c reader insert

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daydreaming-robot · 4 months ago

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My thoughts for the Murder Drones Series Finale

MASSIVE SPOILER ALERT

I'm gonna start this here with being honest about the runtime. It's short, that's all. I was thinking that it would be almost 40 or 30 minutes because it's a series finale. But having it about 20 minutes isn't something new(from my experience)

The reunion with Uzi and Nori was short, but needed, with Uzi having a chat with her mom in the silent scenery of space. And the way to beat the Solver is to permanently separate the solver from it's host by taking out the core and destroying it. Only for N to accidentally hit her with the landing pod.

Nuzi is canon. I'll be honest, I'm not much of a Nuzi shipper, that's all. But seeing the two admit their love to each other and hug each other while descending into the planet while on fire is honestly beautiful. Also I love their logic; save the world first, do all the corny awkward robotic dating later

V IS BAAAAAAAAAACK MOTHERFUCKERS. Throughout the series, I started off disliking V. But as the series progressed I started to appreciate her character development. And I felt heartbroken upon seeing her supposed death on episode 6. So upon seeing V throw hands with J, I SCREAMED my lungs off seeing her again. And I like that she has a pet sentinel now

J admits that she was also tricked by the Solver was surprising, but still worked with it. Why tho. Her loyalty eventually became her downfall after losing to her former teammates

Uzi has her own singularity bomb(that's what I call the [NULL] thing)

If there's one thing I love the series for, it's the horror. I'll explain in a separate post lol

THE FIGHT SCENE OMG THE TEAM AT GLITCH IS COOKING IN THE KITCHEN. The nightcore music as Uzi and Cyn fought is something I laughed at cuz it reminded me of my childhood watching Creepypasta AMVs with nightcore music in the bg. It's not something bad but it gave me a nostalgic punch in face

"Nobody traumatizes these weirdly hot robots but me!" bi Uzi bi Uzi bi Uzi bi Uzi

The defeat of the host Cyn imo is very satisfying. Uzi destroying the outer shell of the core to reveal the singularity is a clean transition. But then a monochromatic singularity formed between the two as Cyn tries to get it back in her body in order to survive. And Uzi's quick thinking was to... eat it. It worked for a bit because Cyn LITERALLY MELTED IN FRONT OF UZI. But it caused her to pass out as her body cannot handle two cores in one body for a brief moment

Uzi now has a yellow and purple ombre eye color after she has fused with the Absolute Solver

I like how Khan had a feeling that's still Nori after she scrambled off, which make sense considered she was pronounced dead up until episode 7

Her saying that she's now a "Damaged OC" is hilarious and personally call out to all artists and writers because we gave our oc traumatic events character development that they're traumatized in the end lmao

I love how the teacher, throughout the entire series gave zero fucks about what's going on around him

I love in the ending scene is a parallel to the pilot episode with her giving off a presentation to her class. The difference being that N and V are now attending the class and her parents being at the door supporting her

I love how N is improving on his artwork, with V being supportive

Uzi flexing her newfound power to scare the shit outta her class mates is a classic parallel to her showing off her railgun in the pilot, never get old Uzi, never get old

The post credit scene, with Uzi glitching out and the Solver talking to her gives off the feeling that Uzi isn't safe yet. Especially with the look on Uzi's face throughout the scene, she looks exhausted, and she looks like she isn't all there at the same time

Anyway that's my thoughts on the Series Finale of Murder Drones. It was a rollercoaster all throughout

#my thoughts #murder drones #murder drones uzi #n murder drones #v murder drones #cyn murder drones #khan murder drones #murder drones nori #murder drones spoilers #md episode 8 #murder drones episode 8 #murder drones finale #series finale #glitch #glitch productions

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eustasskiddsprosthetic · 7 months ago

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feeling silly may delete l8r

Hey! If anyone's curious, I've worked on developing my merman au more and I've decided to have age difference. So, what if dilf Law is surrounded by some younger, gorgeous twenty-something mermen? I've decided to put on my thinking cap and write some notes on how their individual relationships look like.

Luffy's the youngest bro like he is barely hitting his twenties. He's the one who shows Law cool fish and random things Law never knew existed. "Law! Look at this! Crab angry like you!" He's also the type who gives Law miscellaneous shiny things like pearls, shells and sand dollars as a weird courtship thing. I like to think that with Luffy, Law learns to appreciate the little things in the world. It's worth something to be excited over details you skipped out on before. It's a welcome change of pace—to be so easily excited—after being paranoid throughout his youth. Instead of looking for hidden bombs, Law is busy listening to Luffy telling him about rocks.

Ace's technically the oldest but he doesn't act like it (that's Sabo's job). Their relationship starts with a lot of bantering where Law calls him 'pretty boy' (he does not know Ace's name) and Ace calls him 'boss' (he thinks Law is respectable). Easily, they flirt the most and have chemistry. Things only change when Law tells him about his fear (or dislike if you prefer) of the ocean and dark. To comfort him, Ace shows him shooting stars in the sky and they hold hands the entire time. When Law looks at Ace, and I mean get a real good look, Law sees his reflection in Ace's dark greasy eyes. For the first time since losing Cora-san, Law thinks that night time might be more intimate than scary...

Sabo provides a similar comforting aura, if not even more so but only way later. It's a strange chase game where Sabo half-jokingly shits on Law but becomes full-on hostile when Law gets close with Ace and Luffy. It's out of jealousy and feeling left out but it goes on for so long that we're convinced Sabo /gen hates Law. Anyways, like in my illustration, Sabo's scars glow in the dark. They're the result of a horrible reef bombing that disfigured the left side of his face and left scars all over his tail. Sabo hates his scars, and refused to believe that Law actually liked them. Only when Sabo learned that Law essentially sees him as a glorified night light that Sabo not only learns to trust Law but to maybe see himself the same way Law does...

Wait what? Oh yeah, Law sees his angsty teenage self reflected in Sabo's character, which explains his soft spot. If Cora-san never gave up on loving and comforting him, he would do the same for Sabo too!

Yes, so they're surrogate therapy-figures. Now, what do ASL gain from associating themselves with a middle-aged man? Nothing, honestly but Law is quite the eye candy. His angst mellowed out a lot since his teenage years and he laughs 5% more as a middle-aged man with financial security and free time to pursue his hobbies. Quite the catch, eh?

#jacqueline's merman au #i should finally tag this this is my new big project #lulaw #monkey d luffy #acelaw #portgas d ace #revolutionary sabo #sabo #sabolaw #slawbo #one piece

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snowed-leopard · 7 months ago

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TEAM BIRDTRESS 5/9 DEMOMAN!

Demo: the hooded crow. They’re incredibly smart and playful for crows. They will often hide food for later and drop shelled sea animals from great heights to open them. In Scottish mythology they are heavily associated with fairies and there’s a lot of old folk tales about them. They’re also literally known as a scotch crow in some places, which works as both amention of his alcoholism and more literally, his heritage. I don’t know why his took so long to figure out, but it did. I really wanted demo to be an intelligent bird. And I think one from the genus most well known for using tools fits him. Especially one so associated with the fae for the resident magic expert

I know I said sniper would be next, I’m sorry that was a lie by accident. I promise now he’s next though. I got my order scrambled because the order’s mostly been determined by some polls among my friends.

As always, sources and musings below the cut!

I considered a lot of corvids for demo, but this one’s unique look and the associations with fae won out. I also considered cormorants for their smarts as well. Sadly there’s only one endemic Scottish bird and it did not fit demo at all, so it got scrapped fast. I placed such an emphasis on demo’s intelligence for a couple reasons. Demo’s intelligence is often very forgotten about in favor of focusing only on his alcoholism. This man’s smart even when not sober, he makes all his own bombs, and that takes a good bit more thinking than some would want to admit. And also a smart bird is a lot easier to find than a drunk bird or one that uses explosives. Though on that drunk part I did luck out on it being called a scotch crow. Doubles as both a name about Scotland and alcohol. The associations with magic were also mega important, people forget about his proclivity towards magic as well, and I refused to, it’s such an interesting facet to his character honestly.

As I said, demo’s was incredibly difficult to figure out, he took almost as long as spy. But the real challenge comes with his drawing. I spent a long time messing with the saturation of greens and blues to give demo properly interesting oil slick crow feathers, and while you can’t see it from zoomed out, it comes through delightfully when zoomed in, and I’m quite happy. Also good lord is his sticky launcher hard to draw, as you can pretty plainly tell it’s not traced. It shows. I did my best with my posing models object tools and the reference images I had and it turned out okay enough though!

Yeah I had a lot of thoughts on this one

Here’s my source for most of my info

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hooded_crow

(It won’t paste in and embed right I’m sorry :( )

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #tf2 demo #demo tf2 #tf2 demoman #demoman tf2 #team birdtress 2

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thetinyadventurer · 5 months ago

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The ADHD won and I’m now contemplating drawing the Atlantis: The Lost Empire characters as cats but I can’t draw worth shit! 🤣

I imagine that Mole would be the cutest, roundest cat ever and he’d have little dust clouds coming off of him!

Rourke would just be ✨Majestic✨! Just a beautiful gray Maine Coon with white stripes and I’d keep that grin, of his, too!

I can see Kida as a Bengal. Those cats are loving and athletic as hell and are a pretty old breed of cat. They can also jump really high and are very playful.

I think Sweets would also be one of the larger cat breeds because he’s super tall and incredibly kind.

Cookie is an old, crotchety Barn cat. Just that cat that hangs around the barn, catches mice and has probably seen too much. A little thin, kind of twitchy with funky whiskers that stick out in all directions. Oh and he does NOT like being picked up!

I think that Mrs.Packard would be an old show cat since her backstory was really interesting (like damn this lady lived one hell of a life!). Probably a long-haired type. She’s at that age where she’s retired and gets to sit by the window and not give a damn about what her humans think.

Helga is definitely a Siamese as I have owned a Siamese-colored cat for about 21 years. My god, that cat just blew my mind, sometimes. I can imagine if kitty-Helga lived in a house full of dogs she’d boss them around ALL the time. Like, to the point of intimidating them and they’re always side-eyeing her when she walks into the room. (My cat did this and this trait fits Helga so -shrugs-) Oh and she wouldn’t tolerate many people and would only be affectionate to her owner. The kind of cat that’s silently judging you from her perch atop a chair.

Audrey, oh my gosh Audrey would be a Tortoise-Shell. I’ve owned one of these too and these cats are something; Brave, intelligent, sweet when you get on their good side and stubborn. (My God, are they stubborn). She’d be adventurous, too!

Vinny is a black cat. Probably an alley-cat who’s been in a few scraps. I imagine he’s found a very nice home with an eccentric man who makes bombs for a living. He’s gotten his whiskers singed a few times.

Milo. Oh my gosh, Milo! I think he’d be a tabby of some sort with really long legs. I imagine cozy autumn evenings where he sleeps on the desk of an old professor, listening to him read stories about Atlantis. At night, Kitty-Milo dreams of going there one day with his human. Sometimes, kitty Milo plays with his owner’s pith helmet.

#atlantis the lost empire #cats #i need more sleep damn it

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sketchedboba · 1 year ago

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"A Green Queen" AU

Chapter VIII

TW: Discussion of Self-ham

A few hours passed as the two discussed various agreements, commerce deals, supply exchanges, and of course the Grand Peace Flair Ball. Luigi sat on the side next to Kamek, taking notes as the MagiKoopa guided him and kept him up to pace with the conversation. He had chimmed in a few times to give his thoughts on certain guard stations or small reminders of past agreements King Totomesu had stood by. He felt a sense of distance every time the Prince or Bowser shut him down on ideas, but chalked it up to them having more experience. Kamek also reassured him each time that he was doing fine and gave a small pat on his back for comfort. They had broken conversation a few times to eat and rehydrate before they talked on end again.

And as the night fell, they had finally completed their discussion. Prince Khufo cheered and bound off to the kitchen to check on their nightly meals. Kamek, also took this opportunity to check the older scrolls for new spells and remedies for the Koopalings.

The King, however, was at the edge of the balcony looking up at the stars and humming to himself, he was ready to leave, but too tired to go too far into the palace.

Luigi fixed his papers carefully and placed a little gold slate paperweight on top, so they didn't fly off as the breeze kicked in. He stood up, hair flowed slightly, as he watched as Bowser's head turned to follow a certain passing star that shot by.

He walked over with a chair and sat down beside him, still keeping a bit of distance between them. "They're pretty... D-Do you like watching shooting stars?"

"Yeah... I usually watched them with the little ones, but I doubt we would've made it back in time to see them together.. You should see their little eyes light up when they..."

The large koopa's words trailed off as he noticed Luigi's galaxy blue eyes shimmered, eager to hear him talk fondly about his hatchlings.

"That's sweet of you... They could be watching right now. If that makes you feel any better.."

'Why does it matter what he thinks? You're just-'

"Hah! You underestimate their attention span. Ludwig is probably telling Iggy to stop trying to replicate star patterns with his bombs. And Lemmy is most likely drawing silly faces on their shells when they're distracted, speedy lil champ!" He exclaimed. "Wendy won't be so pleased, once she finds out though, she's not afraid to tackle any of them down and nip at them."

Luigi looked at him mortified. "That sounds...greaatttt.... Um.. Did they all come from the same.."

"No, you've asked before"

"When you nearly severed my arm off?"

"Hey! I apologized!", The large lizard huffed. His arms now crossed on the ledge.

Luigi chuckled a bit, "Uh huh.. What an amazing apology."

"You're damned right it was!", Bowser grinned.

Luigi snickered and rolled his eyes, enjoying the King's confidence. Bowser smiled a bit seeing the Queen's enjoyment and continued.

"I'd found most of their eggs on islands or in dense territory I had conquered. Most Koopas my size will abandon eggs once most of the clutch hatch out.", He huffed and gazed back up at the stars. "Yeah, some of them were a hassle to raise, still are, but I'd caused the entire universe to quake in fear if any of them got hurt.", He chuckled at his own comment.

Luigi eyes lifted slightly as he saw the King's gaze softened. "I raised them myself and even though they drive me insane sometimes; they're family to Junior.."

'Just Junior?'

"What about you? Aren't they your family just as much as they are Junior's?"

Bowser gave a low growl causing Luigi to stiffen.

"N-Nevermind.."

The two stayed gazing at the show, Luigi sighed and started to think about when he and Mario would watch the sky with Peach and Toad.

They shared food and witty jokes about their adventures. The countless of times they had saved or helped the kingdom and allies. It had become a second home to Mario and himself. He always felt some sort of peace being with Mario and wished he had some way to contact his brother outside of the contractual agreement.

The agreement.

In light of the situation, the dreamy atmosphere, the cool breeze. Luigi had forgotten that all of this was temporary.

He was a queen to his enemies and all of it was his fault. He agreed to be Bowser's bride, strictly married to the koopa next to him by circumstance of he and his brother's plans. Despite it being his karma, he still missed Mario, and trembled realizing the passage of time.

A light sense of pain hit his arm again but it stopped as Bowser's claw quickly removed his hand from digging into it.

"Why do you keep doing that?!", he yelled.

"It's nothing! Let go!"

"Greenie"

"I said let go! I'm fine!"

" You're not fine! Just let me see and-"

"Thank you for your concern, but I'm FINE."

Bowser's nose flared at his tone and his claw tightened around his hand slightly.

"You know you're REALLY stubborn!"

"I learned from the best...", Luigi muttered.

Bowser growled deeply, "What'sTHAT supposed to mean!". His grip tightened around Luigi's hand more as his pupils slitted and were locked on him.

Luigi winced from the pain breathing heavily then looked away shaking.

Bowser growled then roared briefly as he let go.

Luigi checked his hand for injury, only to see light bruises on the sides of his wrist. He let out a sigh of relief as he massaged them, then looked over at his captor.

Bowser sighed, his tail swayed violently as he tried to cool off. " Why can't you just talk?"

"You ask me to shut up every other time.", He muttered.

"I-", he turned around to object, but couldn't retaliate. "That's usually because you've said something stupid and you know that's not what I meant, when it comes to that."

He lightly tapped a finger on Luigi's right arm.

"I... You caused this."

The King's head tilted in confusion. "But I said-"

"I know... And I'm glad, but it doesn't erase it immediately. It still hurts me. YOU still harmed me! I want to forgive you, but every time I think I understand I begin to blame myself for not thinking about why I'm here and that all of THIS could've been avoided."

Tears swelled in his eyes the more he went on, only to be met with Bowser's perplexed expression.

"As far back as the wedding, I've just been replaying it over and over! If I didn't let my disguise slip or if I hadn't agreed to be here or if I hadn't bothered you that night! I wouldn't have gotten hurt, I wouldn't have these fucking nightmares!"

Luigi's streams of tears blurred his vision, he was regretting every ounce of information he was telling him. He didn't even bother to look over at the Koopa and kept his eyes on the stars as they reflected in his tears slightly.

Bowser blinked, he watched the small man's body shake and hiccup from crying. He reached over slightly with his claw about to say something then retracted, before getting up to leave.

Luigi sniffled as he covered his face with his hands and slowly slid them back into his hair. A light breeze made him shiver, but they didn't stop the quiet crying.

'Why did I do that... He doesn't care! Get a grip, Luigi!'

Half an hour had gone by and Luigi had rested his chin on his uninjured arm to calm down.

His pink eyes gazed out at the palace fountains and the desert beyond the gates.

Dried snot flaked on his mustache and he didn't bother to try and look for Bowser or call for Spotty once his tears stopped flowing.

Purely out of embarrassment.

As he closed his eyes, he heard claws clank against the tiles, and a mild quake rattled his chair.

He felt a warm sheet embrace him only to open his eyes and see Bowser removing a lid from a small dish with an aroma of hefty spices leaving the plate. He gestured towards his face with some wipes he'd brought back, almost ordering him to take it.

Luigi nodded and took a few to wipe off his face and 'stache, being careful of his eyes and lips. When he finished, he glanced behind him to see the blanket placed over his shoulders. A simple black velvety sheet with Bowser's emblem on it, he sighed looking at it then turned his attention to the food Bowser brought.

He hadn't said a word about his outburst and was a bit ashamed to ask, "I'm s-sorry about all of that!", Luigi laughed. "Just forget I said-"

Before he could finish, Bowser slipped food into his mouth with a spoon. As Luigi began to chew, his face lit up tasting a familiar fruit he hadn't had in a while, tomatoes.

Despite the pleasant surprise he looked up at the King confused.

"You talk too much."

".....Not usually..", he swallowed.

"You also cry worse than a hatchling."

Luigi sighed, "Probably..."

Bowser looked down at him, "So you hurt yourself because of me?"

Luigi didn't say anything nor did he move in response to his comment. He stayed staring at the stars, the blanket covering his shoulders.

Bowser hummed, understanding to not press further for now, and asked if he wanted to just eat.

Luigi nodded, his face flushed as he slightly opened his mouth for another spoonful.

Bowser's tail slowly swung as he fed him again and looked up towards the heavens. He wanted to know more about this self inflicted harm, if he could for a moment, stop the pain as quickly as each star shot above. A pit of guilt growing in his stomach, as brief as the streaks of silver, luminescent, and ever fleeting.

Spotty stepped onto the balcony and stared at the two, "Your highness. The Prince has found intruders in the palace and is requesting your...and the Queen's presence immediately."

Luigi groaned a bit and slightly stood up. His knees shaking as the crying has caused a small headache to form, making him feel dizzy.

Bowser caught him carefully and growled, "Fine, but tell him I'll be taking the Queen back to his room for the night."

"But-", Luigi stammered.

"No. You are going to rest. That's an order."

"....."

Spotty bowed, "Yes, your highness".

Bowser glanced down at Luigi and puffed, "Do you mind if I carry you?"

He shook his head slowly, not wanting to worsen his head ache. "Just...really slowly. My head is spinning.", he gasped.

Bowser nodded and gently slipped his claws under the Queen's thighs. He made sure to avoid digging his nails into the pants, despite wanting to playfully poke at Luigi's soft skin.

Luigi kept close to the koopa's chest, hearing a slow thump thump coming from his shell. He listened to its shallow rhythm and closed his eyes as Bowser carried him down the hall.

Prince Khufo yawned as he stepped down the torch-lit stairwell. His wings opened greatly as he darted down the stairs dramatically, causing the once sunset shimmering flames to blaze ocean blue.

At the bottom, he stepped into a sandstone hall, filled with nearly empty cells, holding long gone dry bones, goombas, and deserted, torn shy guy uniforms. The Prince padded past each cell with a cheeky grin and as he approached the last two his eyes lit up.

"Oh, what a treat! Thinking you could get in here unannounced? And why.. not even a single letter either. We're not plebians yknow..", he pouted.

He held one of the torches closer to the cell and the light shined onto a cloak, covering his captives face.

"Nothing? Really? Hmph, suit yourself. Maybe the Koopa King will have more fun with you and your little band of outcasts. It'll sure be quite the show~", he giggled.

#a green queen bowuigi fanfic #a green queen au #luigi #bowuigi #bowser x luigi #bowser #super mario bros #super mario #bowuigi fanfiction #luigi x bowser

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magz · 8 months ago

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Palestine summary for April 24 to April 26, 2024 from LetsTalkPalestine.

[Lets Talk Palestin Link Tree, with ways to help and sources.]

April 24, 2024.

Day 201:

• 79 Palestinians killed, 86 injured in Gaza in last 24 hours

• IOF bombed home in Gaza City, killing a mother & her child and injured 6

🇪🇬 Egypt detained 10+ women, among them lawyers, journalists & civil society leaders, protesting in solidarity w/ Gaza & Sudan

• Beit Lahia, Beit Hanoon & Jabalia in north Gaza under continuous Israeli strikes since ordering evacuation in Beit Lahia, giving them minutes to flee

🇯🇲🇧🇧 Jamaica & Barbados officially recognize a Palestinian State

• Israel built 6 new military outposts since Jan, totaling 9 outposts each within 3 miles of Gaza + plan to transfer 2 combat brigades (4-10 thousand soldiers) from Lebanon’s border down to Gaza — fueling fears of a looming Rafah invasion

🇩🇪 Germany to soon resume coordination w/ UNWRA after Israel failed to provide evidence on its allegations against the agency’s employees

🇺🇸 Biden signed to law aid bill giving $26bn to Israel

• IOF abducts 15 Palestinians including former detainees overnight in West Bank

April 25, 2024.

Day 202:

• 43 Palestinians killed, 64 injured in the last 24 hours

🇺🇳 UN to investigate Nasser Hospital mass graves as Israel denies reports of 392 bodies showing severe signs of torture and mutilation

• Hundreds of Israeli settlers storm Al-Aqsa Compound under IOF protection as raids across West Bank cities intensify

🇧🇪 Belgian aid worker & his 7-year-old son killed among 7 others in targeted bombings on Rafah despite disclosing his location to Israeli forces; 6 aid groups affected by recent attacks

🚢 Freedom Flotilla Coalition delays from departing Turkey due to Israeli pressure on Guinea Bissau in an effort to prevent aid delivery to Gaza

• Israeli forces abduct three 13-year-olds from Ramallah, West Bank as 200 children remain captives in Israeli jails

🇫🇷 France to expand sanctions on Israeli settlers involved in violence against Palestinians, with recent EU sanctions imposed on settlers and organisations for similar reasons

April 26, 2024.

University encampments going global 🌍🔥

🎓 Encampments for Palestine which started in US universities have now spread to France, Australia, and the UK, advocating for divestment from companies & arms manufacturers complicit in the Israeli occupation.

The 42 encampments are mostly in the US, but include 2 in Australia, 1 in France, and 1 in the UK, with more expected.

🤐 Arrests at Columbia (100+), Yale (50), Emerson (100+), NYU (dozens), USC (93), Uni of Texas in Austin (55) & more as US political & corporate elites fear the surging power & popularity of the Palestine solidarity movement.

Columbia canceled in-person classes, NYU built a wall around the encampment.

👩‍🏫 Many faculty have joined in protest of their administrations’ Zionist stances.

Biden admin. & Netanyahu, a foreign leader, released statements condemning the students.

🔥 In 1985, students forced University of California to divest $3.1bn from South African apartheid

Inspired? @ pal_actionus posts advice on starting one 🫡

Day 203:

•⁠ 51 Palestinians killed, 75 injured in the last 24 hours

•⁠ ⁠Rising temperatures in Gaza worsens condition of displaced Palestinians in tents, UNRWA added 2 kids so far killed by the heat

•⁠ Former head of HRW accuses Israel of obstructing investigation into Nasser Hospital mass graves

🇳🇱 Netherlands to consider resuming UNWRA funding after Israel failed to provide evidence on its allegations against the agency’s staff’s complicity in Oct 7

•⁠ Eastern Rafah under continuous Israeli shelling, targeting homes, injuring at least 2 Palestinians

🇺🇸 US puts halt on potential sanctions against 1 Israeli military unit, despite allegations since before Oct 7 of severe human rights abuses in West Bank

🇱🇧 2 killed in Israeli strike on a car in south Lebanon

🇪🇺 EU announces $73m in essential aid to Gaza despite refusing to sanction Israel

⚖️ ICJ to soon announce ruling on Nicaragua’s case against Germany, seeking emergency measures to halt German military assistance to Israel

#on palestine #palestine #text post #o post #sij #magz upload

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drunkenskunk · 8 months ago

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Welcome to another Drunk Skunk™ rant!

So.

I've had some time to sit and stew on the Fallout show, and I think I've finally figured out exactly what I want to say. Because kids? I got Opinions™ about this fucking series. I sincerely wish I didn't have all these Opinions™, because that would almost certainly cause me significantly less stress.

But here we are.

The Fallout show annoys me, but not for the reasons you think.

Let's get the good out of the way first. And by "good" I mean "damning with faint praise."

The Fallout show, as a piece of entertainment and experienced in a vacuum with no prior knowledge or context of the rest of the series or any of the other video games, is... fine. It's an entertaining television show. It's not great, but it's not terrible. It's okay.

The best part of the show is, unquestionably, Walton Goggins. Which is probably the coldest take here, everyone agrees that he's fantastic in this. And it's true! Granted, he doesn't look nearly as gnarly as he should, as the makeup is really giving Ryan Reynolds Deadpool Hugo Weaving Red Skull vibes, but I can honestly give that a pass. He steals every single scene he's in. He has all the best lines. Plus, all the pre-war flashbacks with him are excellent. That first scene when the bombs drop is fucking harrowing.

SPEAKING OF THE BOMBS!

The big reveal that Vault Tec were the ones to kickstart the apocalypse. My initial gut reaction to that was... Not Great. I didn't like it. In fact, I kinda hated it. I thought it was an answer to a question that nobody asked, because nobody cared, because it was never supposed to matter who shot first. The original point was that the end of the world was the inevitable outcome after so many years of war, so many years of stockpiling nuclear weapons, and so many bad decisions from everyone in positions of power on all sides of the conflict.

But the more I think about Vault Tec being the ones to destroy the world... I dunno, the more I... kinda like it? In a fashion. Sort of. As you can see by the remaining length of this fucking rant, I have Complicated Feelings about this!

See, Fallout has never exactly been subtle with its themes, but the show drops all pretense, and openly embraces a staunchly (and honestly, extremely surprising) anti-capitalist narrative.

The Fallout show pulls a Garth Marenghi unironically, and it honestly... kinda works?

Vault Tec were the ones to drop the bombs because they wanted to recreate the world in their image of a capitalist "paradise" free of any and all government regulation. The inevitable end result of the "great game" of capitalism is the literal end of the world, and the capitalists will do everything they can to destroy any attempts to rebuild any civilization not explicitly under their direct control. Because that's what capitalists do: they pursue an ultimately self-destructive goal that is not, and never was, sustainable, and will destroy everything else in their pursuit of endless, infinite, exponential growth, forever. Nothing else matters except Make Number Line Go Up.

Side note: it is extremely funny to me that Bethesda - a hollow shell of greed and excess who have been releasing the same game with different wallpapers over and over again since Oblivion - and Amazon - which is fucking Amazon - bankrolled a show where the villains are greedy capitalists who explicitly destroyed the world because of fiduciary duty to the shareholders. Like... guys, you do realize you two are Vault Tec in this scenario, right?

Ah well. That's capitalist realism for ya.

Anyway, the more I think about it, the more sense it makes that Vault Tec were the ones to drop the bombs.

HOWEVER.

Maybe this is just me being a cynical, drunken asshole here, but... it feels like this was a decision that was made, not because it was the best way to take the narrative, but instead as a means of enforcing the Status Quo of Bethesda Fallout.

See, the thing I liked about the west coast Fallout games was that it showed a world ravaged by the apocalypse, but it also showed that world beginning to heal. 200 years after The End, and civilization was returning. It was a natural evolution of things, emphasizing the post part of "post-apocalypse." It showed us a world that really sucked a lot of the time... but also gave us a small sliver of hope that, no matter what nightmares existed after The End, things could - and would - get better, so long as we put in the work to make it better. It was a world that showed us that nothing was ever so broken that it couldn't be repaired. We just had to fucking EARN that happy ending.

Bethesda Fallout, on the other hand, is just Wacky Wasteland Adventure Time. They are not interested in showing a world evolving or changing or growing, they just want a blasted hellscape that looks like it was freshly nuked yesterday. Why? Because that's the surface-level Aesthetic of Fallout. That is what is recognizable. And Aesthetic is all they know how to do. That's the mother fucking Brand.

Doing something different would risk changing the Brand, and if that kind of change happens, then it's no longer easily marketable. So they just keep with what's familiar: freshly irradiated hellscapes, caps as currency, makeshift weapons, psychotic raiders with no purpose or goals beyond Fuck You, and more of the fucking Brotherhood of Steel. It's all the stuff we remember, so we can point at the screen and go "I recognize that!" instead of allowing the setting to evolve and creating something new.

And that's what annoys me the most. Because even though Vault Tec destroying the world in 2077 makes a certain amount of sense, it also feels like it only exists as a means of artificially enforcing the status quo of the setting. Which means that nothing will ever matter in Fallout ever again. It doesn't matter what happens, or what changes in the future, or who wins the next ideological conflict between the same factions that keep reappearing over and over again like radroaches. Because whenever something strays too far from the established setting, Vault Tec (or, more accurately, Bethesda) is just going to nuke it again, like what happened to Shady Sands.

And, y'know, Shady Sands getting nuked like that really does rankle. Not because I ever had any attachment to the NCR, but because destroying it in the way that they did just felt so fucking lazy. If they wanted to get rid of the NCR, there were easily half a dozen other things they could've done that would've made far more sense. The NCR was a fantastically corrupt government, making the same mistakes as the same governments that (up until the show) were responsible for destroying the world. California was running out of food and clean drinking water because of gross negligence and mismanagement, public unrest was high because of excessive taxation and the "stop tolls" of corrupt border guards shaking down people, and both the military and bureaucracy of the NCR was spread fucking paper-thin, due to their policies of violent imperialist expansionism trying to take far more territory than they could reasonably hold, far more quickly than they could ever manage.

And did any of that matter? No. Not at all. Pursuing any of those plot threads would've required the writers to actually come up with some new ideas. So, instead, it was destroyed because of a cryogenically frozen Vault Tec middle manager with family problems. It was such a fucking lazy solution to a problem that should never have existed in the first place. It felt like the Fallout equivalent of "Somehow, Palpatine has returned."

That's why this show annoys me so much. Because this show that exists without subtlety or subtext, is telling us, to our face:

Don't hope for a better future, because it will never come. The world of Fallout is a destroyed, irradiated hellscape, entirely devoid of hope, and it will never, ever change, ever again.

Because that's the Fallout Brand, and that's what fucking sells.

#drunk skunk rant #Fallout #fallout show #fallout tv show #fallout show spoilers #it took me three hours to write this #what the hell am I doing with my life

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