#Mild Steel Beam

[shreejisteelprivatelimited]

Why are MS Beams used in Structural Steel Construction?

Why are MS Beams Used in Structural Steel Construction? The MS beam is also known as the I beam or H-beam. It is broadly acknowledged for its great functionality. The construction industry mainly uses MS beams for strong functionality for buildings, malls, and architecture. MS beam comes in different sizes and shapes.

[laxmienterprise]

Are You Finding Steel Beam Supplier in Vadodara?

Laxmi Enterprise is the best mild steel beam seller in Vadodara, Gujarat. These beams are used in construction and engineering solutions. We provide the highest-grade MS beam at Affordable prices. For more details about the products, visit our website.

[vamshi11]

Exploring MS Plates: Varieties, Applications, and Their Design Impact with Top Brands from SteelonCall

Diverse Varieties of MS Plates

Mild Steel (MS) plates, celebrated for their robustness and adaptability, come in various types to suit different industrial and construction needs:

Standard MS Plates: These versatile plates are the go-to choice for general applications. Their balanced mix of strength and flexibility makes them ideal for structural supports, machinery parts, and general fabrication tasks.

High Strength Low Alloy (HSLA) Plates: Designed to offer enhanced strength without compromising weldability, HSLA plates are perfect for demanding applications. They are commonly used in heavy machinery, bridges, and other high-stress environments.

Corrosion-Resistant Plates: Coated or treated to withstand environmental wear, these plates are used in areas prone to moisture and chemicals. They are ideal for outdoor installations and marine applications where durability against corrosion is crucial.

Quenched and Tempered Plates: Through specific heat treatments, these plates gain exceptional hardness and impact resistance. They are utilized in heavy-duty machinery and equipment that require superior strength and durability.

Wide-Ranging Applications of MS Plates

The applications of MS plates span a diverse array of sectors, reflecting their integral role in modern industry and construction:

Construction: In construction, MS plates are essential for structural components like beams, columns, and reinforcements. They provide the necessary stability and strength for buildings, bridges, and infrastructure projects.

Manufacturing: The industrial sector relies on MS plates for machinery and equipment fabrication.

Automotive Industry: MS plates are used extensively in automotive production for vehicle bodies and chassis. Their strength and formability are key to producing safe and reliable automotive parts.

Shipbuilding: In the maritime industry, MS plates are fundamental in constructing ship hulls and decks. 

Agricultural Equipment: MS plates are utilized in the production of agricultural machinery. Their toughness and ability to withstand heavy loads make them ideal for farming equipment.

Impact of MS Plates on Design Innovation

MS plates are not only functional but also inspire creative design solutions:

Architectural Innovation: In contemporary architecture, MS plates are often used for their sleek, industrial aesthetic. They feature prominently in building facades, decorative elements, and structural highlights, contributing to modern architectural styles.

Custom Fabrication: The flexibility of MS plates allows for custom designs and fabrications. From bespoke furniture to artistic installations, their ability to be cut, welded, and shaped supports unique and tailored design solutions.

Facade Solutions: For building facades, MS plates can create striking visual effects while providing durability. Various treatments and finishes offer designers flexibility in achieving distinctive and functional exterior designs.

Versatile Design Options: The range of finishes and treatments available for MS plates enables their use in diverse design contexts. This adaptability allows for integration into both interior and exterior designs, meeting varied aesthetic and functional requirements.

Premium MS Plates Available at SteelonCall

At SteelonCall, we offer a selection of high-quality MS plates from renowned brands, ensuring that you receive the best materials for your projects:

Vizag Steel: Renowned for its superior quality and reliable performance, Vizag Steel’s MS plates are ideal for a range of applications, providing both strength and durability.

SAIL: SAIL offers a wide array of MS plates known for their consistent quality and performance, suitable for various industrial and construction needs.

Jindal: Jindal’s MS plates are celebrated for their exceptional strength and resilience, making them a preferred choice for demanding applications in construction and manufacturing.

Conclusion

MS plates are a fundamental component in numerous industrial and construction applications, valued for their strength, versatility, and adaptability. At SteelonCall, we provide top-quality MS plates from leading brands like Vizag Steel, SAIL, and Jindal, complete with test certificates to ensure authenticity and performance. Whether you need MS plates for construction, manufacturing, or innovative design projects, our range of products meets your highest standards.

For the best prices and exceptional service, contact us at 08062212000 or visit our website at steeloncall.com. Discover how our premium MS plates can elevate your projects and meet your needs with excellence.

#MSPlates #SteelPlates #DesignInnovation #ConstructionMaterials #TopSteelBrands #SteelonCall #QualitySteel

[infrakeys]

Find top-quality MS beams from leading manufacturers and suppliers. Our mild steel beams offer exceptional strength and durability for various construction needs. Explore our range of MS beams for reliable solutions and superior performance in your projects.

[abaashishb7]

Prestressed Beams : Power of Modern Construction

In the realm of modern construction, where durability, efficiency, and sustainability reign supreme, PT Beams stand tall as an engineering marvel. These beams, often hidden within the framework of structures, play a pivotal role in supporting our buildings, bridges, and infrastructure. In this comprehensive guide, we delve into the world of PT Beams, exploring their construction, benefits, and the innovative techniques that make them indispensable in today’s architectural landscape. Read More....

[deadsetobsessions]

Tim Drake, Danny’s human identity in this universe, is a boy trapped in an empty manor with absentee parents a low socialization.

Danny Phantom, on the other hand, is Gotham City himself. He could fly, he could interact, he could be the heart of his city like he needs to be. From the lowest of the lows to the highest of the highs, Danny loved the people that were his. Well, most of them. Child molesters often found themselves crossing paths with a vengeful, mostly recovered Robin.

He is the city, he is Gotham. And with his status came more changes, ones he welcomes more readily that the changes that came with his title of Ghost King.

Being a city couldn’t change him as much as it would have, had he gained the title before becoming King. But now, his shadows are dark, curling around his shoulders and curling away what little light he allowed into his city. His skin, having once glittered green with stars and galaxies and black holes, clouds over just a bit. It gives him a misty quality. His hands become sharper, stronger. Gargoyle-like. He wonders what he looked like to Batman, holding his broken son cradled safely to himself. He’s crueler, now, but that’s easily balanced by his years of being a vigilante himself.

He loves these changes. They are loved in a way changing into Dead Danny Phantom and Ghost King Danny Phantom will never be loved. And even though his human features are different in a way he never had to deal with as Danny Fenton, because it was his body that he died in, Danny finds himself enjoying the distinction. And he enjoys when they combine, because in the end, they’re just facets of who he is, now.

Gotham flies through his city, and enjoys it as a whole. A bigger picture.

Tim Drake walks through his city, and enjoys it as an individual. The smaller picture.

Being Gotham reminds him of what he had to protect as a whole. A duty he gladly bears.

Being Tim reminds him of the people he’s meant to help, the stories he doesn’t get as Danny. A connection he gladly encouraged.

Gotham is power. He is duty, he is fierce love. But for the good of the whole.

Tim is kindness. He is choice, he is gentle devotion. But for the good of the individual.

He’s both.

Danny. Danny Phantom.

Phantom glides through the smog.

The ebb and flow of people is his life blood, the thrumming of life and death and fear and hate and love and everything the city is sung through him and Danny sung back with everything he had. Danny is the gargoyles perched high, watching everything. He’s the stone curves of the sewers, sheltering his rats and mutant murderous crocodile man. The is no love comparable to a city’s mutant rats and their sewers. Ancients, he loves his city.

It would be nice, Danny thinks wryly, if they’d love me enough to stop blowing up buildings.

The sting of destruction to his city would hurt much more, had he not also been King. Regardless, every time there’s an explosion or general large scale property damage, he feels a stab of mild pain. Catching sight of his Bats, Danny stays invisible while following them. He wills the shadows to cradle them, to hide them further. He softens the stone, the mortar, the steel, just a hint. Their footsteps, silent and aided by the city himself. The wind steal away the noise of the grappling guns, so when Danny’s favorite vigilante duo (a fascination he shared with original text!Tim) broke into the building, not a single soul aside them are aware of the intrusion.

Batman skulks across the support beams, Robin following with an anticipatory grin. Danny floats, invisible, undetectable, besides them.

“C’mon!” A goon grunts beneath them. Danny tilts his head. A… Dresden Aberthy. Wow. That’s one hell of a name.

“Hurry it up! Boss said Batman’s going to get here soon!” Another goon- Robbert- said, waving around a gun like a moron at the terrified hostages. Danny could tell half of them were part of a tour bus, mostly because the other half were his Gothamites, bored and unfairly used to this kind of thing. The tourists… He’s fond of them, having kept track of their progress through his city. He doesn’t care for intruders on his haunt, but tourists like to appreciate his city and its doubtlessly Sam-approved architecture. Most of them. Rude tourists get pigeon shit on their heads and food stolen by his lovely rats.

He’ll have to make sure none of the bullets hit the tourists. He likes this group, even if he has enough awareness to question their sanity in choosing his city to sightsee. He knows it’s a mess. It’s Danny’s mess though, so whatever.

——

All said and done, Batman whoops ass and Robin rescues the hostages just fine. Danny grins proudly as Robin knees a guy in the crotch and punches a lady’s throat in order to incapacitate them.

After they tied the goons up, and interrogated them for Two Face’s plans- explode a quarter of Gotham to distract the Bats from his diabolical plan to murder half of Gotham’s judges and lawyers that have been going after him and his people- the duo retreats to the rooftop.

“Didja think Gotham saw that?”

Batman goes to reply, but Danny beats him to it, coming back to visibility with a wind touched laugh.

“I did, little Robin.” Danny smiles, fangs and shadows on display as his vigilantes startles and whips around to face him. “You did well.”

Robin- Jason!- gapes at him.

“I see you’ve recovered, little bird.”

“Gotham! Oh. Wow. People always said Gotham was a lady, but you’re a guy!”

“It was a Lady,” Danny confirmed. “It’s complicated, little bird.”

“So, you’re really… you’re really Gotham? The city?”

Danny looks at Robin with the weight of the city behind his gaze.

“I think you know the answer to that. But yes, I am your city.”

“Constantine,” Batman starts. “He said that city spirits only appear in times of grave danger.”

There is deference in his words. Batman is Batman for Gotham, after all. Danny just wishes he could… well, be friendlier with his knights. May this is a good place to start.

Are you in danger? What threats do we need to handle? How can I help? How can I protect? Please, let me help.

His Knight always felt more than he ever says. Danny smiles.

“Was Robin’s wellbeing not in grave danger?” Danny floats closer. “I am your city. You protect me, it is only right that I protect you, no?”

“Thank you for saving me, Gotham!” Robin’s grin is a touch more sincere than usual.

“Of course, Robin. You are loved.”

“Is there… a reason you’ve shown yourself today? Gotham.”

Danny chuckles, understanding the awkwardness that was Batman addressing someone with deference.

“I wanted to tell you that you did well tonight. Those tourists weren’t harmed in the slightest. Well done.” Danny gave Robin a playful but sincere thumbs up.

“They weren’t a match for us!”

“No, they weren’t.” Danny ruffles Robin’s hair, noticing how still he grew at it. “Robin was too fast for them. That maneuver at the end was masterfully executed.”

Batman clears his throat and Danny resists the urge to laugh at him. It would be mean.

“Thank you, for the�� praise.”

Fuck it. He’s played well behaved for too long.

“Yes. I read in child rearing books that positive reinforcement is necessary for healthy development. You did well, Batman.”

Despite trolling Batman- and somehow holding a straight (and hopefully wise face)- he meant every word.

Allowing a small smile to slip at Robin’s chortles and Batman’s quiet sputtering, Danny moves on.

“Where is Nightwing, Batman?”

“He’s still on a mission...”

“If it is awkward to refer to me as Gotham, Phantom will do.”

Batman dips his head once. “In space, with the Teen Titans.”

“I see. Please tell him I request his presence,” Danny barely waits for Batman’s oddly acquiescing agreement before summoning a pigeon.

“Follow her,” Danny instructs the duo. “She’ll lead you to the places with explosives. I will guide you through her, to Harvey Dent.”

Danny winces as another explosion rings out.

“Your face is cracking!” Robin exclaimed, worried. He surged forward to stare at the hairline cracks appearing on Danny’s jaw.

“That would be the explosives. Any damage to the city will be shown on me.”

“Well take care of it.” Batman growled, shoulders straightening once more into an imposing symbol.

“Yeah!”

“I know you will. Stay safe.” Danny disappears, spreading his awareness and directing his Birds to the explosives that will go off the fastest.

Batman and Robin share a glance and leaps off the roof, ready to save their city once more.

——

Tim Drake wanders around Crime Alley, and meets a blonde nine year old trying to throw hands at her absentee Riddler knockoff of a dad. He dodges the brick en route to his face and kicks the guy’s knees out.

“You okay?”

The girl blinks. She stares at her dad, groaning on the dirty street of crime alley, and flicks her gaze back up to Tim, who waits casually.

“Yep. I’m Stephanie. We’re gonna be friends now!”

She grins at him, a baby tooth missing, and Danny melts.

“Heck yeah. Tim!” He introduces himself for the first time in a long time.

Maybe with Stephanie around, he’ll finally use the name Tim? Maybe he’ll get used to it, finally!

[ninibeingdelulu]

Mimicking his mannerisms ✧

Plot: You mimic your boyfriend’s mannerisms.

At first, the enigmatic striker didn't seem to register your playful imitations of his signature subtle smirks or the way his steely cobalt eyes would narrow with razor focus.

Why would he? To Kaiser, such trivial details weren't worth breaking concentration over.

That utter absorption in the game, in dismantling defenses and obliterating opponents through sheer, leonine skill is what made you start mirroring his mannerisms in the first place.

The way his chiseled features settled into that stony, impenetrable mask of intensity whether dribbling a ball or simply contemplating strategy...you found it weirdly entrancing.

Which is why, bundled up on the sofa freshly showered after a match, you erupted into peals of giggles after perfectly emulating Kaiser's celebratory chest thump and fist pump from earlier when he'd scored the game-winner.

Complete with your best attempt at replicating that guttural grunt of exertion just to sell the impression.

At first, Michael merely arched one of those winged brows fractionally, gaze flickering over to you with mild interest. Studying, analyzing, deconstructing your silly antics just as he might an opponent's offensive patterns to identify weaknesses.

You beamed right back without a shred of self-consciousness, striking another achingly-familiar pose - feet braced apart, knees bent, arms raised like they're clutching an invisible ball, mouth curling into that infuriatingly smug half-grin Kaiser flashes before blowing past defenders like they're standing still.

And...was that the ghost of a chuckle rumbling up from the striker's barrel chest at catching your overly-earnest mimicry? Sure sounded like it before he hastily muffled the impulse, eyes crinkling with unmistakable amusement.

In a flash, you pounced - taking shameless advantage of your petite stature to clamber right into his lap before he could protest or deflect.

Looping your arms loosely around his thick neck, you peered down with dancing eyes and an impish grin.

"Something funny, Master Sniper?"

You crooned his moniker in an exaggerated baritone approximation of his own molten vocals.

"Don't tell me the great Michael Kaiser is finally going easy on the opposition?"

Michael, to his credit, didn't so much as flinch at your flagrant invasion of his personal space. Just leveled you with one of those piercing, soul-searing stares from beneath heavy lids for a pregnant pause.

Almost as if evaluating whether to simply disengage entirely...or take the bait and engage with this maddeningly irreverent side of you that delighted in needling his legendary composure.

Then, before you could react, those powerful arms looped in an inescapable vise around your midsection, crushing your squirming body flush against his own.

One broad palm cradled the nape of your neck, callused thumb dragging along the line of your jaw as Kaiser fixed you with a lopsided smirk crackling with unspoken challenge.

"So that's how you want to play it, wildkatze ?" Any pretense towards stoicism evaporated in favor of that rich, honeyed baritone dripping with roguish self-assurance that stole your breath more effectively than any physical exertion.

"Well then...no more holding back, starting now."

Those silvery eyes glinted like sharpened steel as he effortlessly flipped your positions with that same controlled, explosive grace he wields between the lines - pinning you bodily beneath his solid, unyielding weight with startling swiftness.

One sensual caress along the curve of your lips with the calloused pad of his thumb ignited tingling shockwaves through your nerve endings.

"Let's see how good your impressions really are...starting with the most important celebration of all once we're done here."

Any further protests dissolved into breathless, keening pleas of surrender as Kaiser set about teaching you to mimic the only poses and exertions that truly matter between the two of you.

[kathlare]

crossed paths

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie’s unexpected visit to the British Grand Prix stirs a mix of emotions as she reconnects with familiar faces from Lando's family.

Wordcount: 1.0 k

Warnings: fluff, smau

July 9th, 2024 - Northamptonshire, United Kingdom

liked by amelieupdate, ln4nation, and others

amelieupdates: Spotted at the Silverstone paddock? 🤔 Could it be Amelie arriving at the British GP? 👀💚

View all 898 comments

f1fanatic99: Is that Amelie arriving or am I seeing things? 🤔 → amelieforever21: @f1fanatic99 honestly, I can't tell but I hope it's her!! We need more of her in F1 💚👀

lando_shippers: WHERE'S LANDO???? WE NEED A REUNION, WE MISS THE VIBES 😭 → amelieadmirer03: @lando_shippers honestly same, their friendship was goals! Bring them back together already!! 😭💥

checosupporter10: Let's gooo, Amelie always showing love for Checo 🙌💚

notameliestalker: I swear, that’s NOT her, just some look-alike 😂 → ameliefan99: @notameliestalker I lowkey thought that too but I’m hoping it’s her! Manifesting it 💫

racefanatic47: Paddock vibes with Amelie > paddock vibes without her 🤧

landoandamelie4ever: OKAY BUT AMELIE AND LANDO NEED TO REUNITE, WE'RE BEGGING!! 🥺💔 → amelieobsessed17: @landoandamelie4ever Imagine the energy if they ever hang out again... we need it for our souls 🙌💫

amelie_is_my_queen: That is Amelie, I can feel it in my bones 🫣✨ → f1fanaticxx: @amelie_is_my_queen SAME, my heart skipped a beat 🤭

f1fanatic23: Why is Amelie even here? Just let her stay out of the paddock 😬

lando4life: Ugh, I miss when Lando and Amelie were friends. Now he's with Magui and it’s just awkward �� → f1queenfan: @lando4life Yikes, can they just stop with the Magui drama and bring back Lando & Amelie vibes? I miss them together 😩

amelie_stan07: Can we please stop shipping them together? They were friends, that's it. 😑 → f1fanatic99: @amelie_stan07 Sorry, but I think they were lowkey cute together... I'm just saying 👀💘

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

The paddock at the British Grand Prix buzzed with the usual excitement—photographers darting between team garages, fans craning for glimpses of their favorite drivers, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the summer air. Amelie adjusted her sunglasses as she navigated the crowd, her sleek blonde hair catching the sunlight.

She wasn’t here for the spotlight, though. She was here for her sister Stella, who had invited her to support Checo, her husband and Red Bull’s driver. It wasn’t unusual for Amelie to visit the paddock, but it had been a while, where she’d avoided certain awkward encounters with laser-focused determination. Today, she planned to stick to her sister’s side and keep things simple.

But fate, as always, had other plans.

Amelie spotted the small coffee stand near the media center and decided to grab an iced coffee before heading back to the Red Bull garage. As she waited for her order, the sound of a familiar laugh made her stomach drop. She turned, her heart skipping a beat when she saw them—Cisca Norris, Lando’s mum, standing with her youngest daughter, Flo, and his grandparents.

For a moment, Amelie considered pretending she hadn’t seen them. But Cisca’s gaze caught hers, recognition lighting up her face. Without thinking, Amelie smiled and gave them a polite wave. To her surprise—and mild anxiety—they all waved back enthusiastically, as if they hadn’t just been acquaintances but old friends reunited.

—Amelie!— Cisca called, her voice warm and inviting.

There was no avoiding it now. Steeling herself, Amelie walked over, her iced coffee in hand. She wasn’t sure if it was the summer heat or her nerves, but she could feel her cheeks flush as she approached.

—Hello— she greeted with a smile, nodding at Lando’s grandparents before turning to Cisca and Flo. —It’s been a while.—

Cisca beamed, clearly delighted to see her. —It really has. You look wonderful, Amelie.—

—Thank you. So do all of you,— she replied, her voice calm despite the slight tremor in her chest.

Cisca’s mum, Lando’s grandmother, stepped forward, her eyes sparkling as she took in Amelie’s appearance. —My goodness, look at you! Blonde again, it suits you so well. And doesn’t she look older, Cisca? More grown-up.—

Amelie laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. —I guess a few years and a lot of work will do that to you.—

Before anyone could respond, another figure joined the group. Magui, dressed in a tight black dress and oversized sunglasses, sauntered over. She slipped an arm around Cisca’s and smiled, but the gesture didn’t reach her eyes.

—And who’s this?— Magui asked, her voice sugary sweet but tinged with a sharpness that didn’t go unnoticed.

Cisca hesitated for the briefest moment before introducing them. —Magui, this is Amelie. She’s an old friend of ours. Amelie, this is Magui.—

Amelie extended a hand, her polite smile unwavering. —Nice to meet you.—

—Likewise,— Magui said, shaking her hand briefly. The tension was palpable, though neither woman let it show.

As they exchanged pleasantries, Amelie couldn’t help but notice the way Cisca and her parents subtly shifted their attention back to her, as if Magui’s presence was an afterthought. Even Flo, who was usually shy, stayed close to Amelie, her little face lighting up when Amelie complimented her new braided hairstyle.

Magui, however, stood off to the side, her expression tightening as she watched how warmly the Norris family interacted with Amelie. The stark difference in their treatment of the two women was impossible to ignore, and the realization made jealousy bubble under her carefully maintained façade.

Lando’s grandmother, oblivious to the undercurrents, spoke up again. —You know, Amelie, we were just talking about you recently. I told Cisca how much we missed having you around. It’s not the same without you. And Lando…— She paused, her expression softening. —He was so happy when you were around. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at you.—

Cisca winced slightly, her eyes darting to Magui, who was now visibly uncomfortable. Amelie, for her part, maintained her composure, though her heart ached at the unexpected comment.

—That’s very kind of you to say,— she managed, her voice steady.

Sensing the awkwardness, Cisca stepped in. —Mum, maybe we should let Amelie get back to her sister. I’m sure she’s busy.—

Amelie nodded, grateful for the out. —Yes, I should head back to the garage. It was lovely seeing all of you again.—

Cisca’s grandmother reached out and gave Amelie’s hand a gentle squeeze before she could leave. —You take care of yourself, dear. And don’t be a stranger. You’ll always have a place with us.—

Amelie nodded, her smile softening as her heart swelled with bittersweet warmth. —Thank you. That means a lot to me.— Her gaze flicked to Flo, who was still holding onto her sleeve. —Flo, keep being this amazing, okay? And let your brother know I said hello.—

At that, Flo’s eyes lit up with excitement, but before she could respond, Magui cut in with a strained smile. —I’m sure Lando’s a bit preoccupied, but I’ll pass along the message if we see him before you do.—

Amelie’s polite mask stayed intact, though she could sense the slight barb in Magui’s tone. Cisca’s lips pressed together tightly, her disapproval barely masked, while Lando’s grandmother looked as though she were about to scold someone. To diffuse the tension, Amelie chuckled lightly. —I wouldn’t expect anything less. Racing keeps everyone on their toes.—

With a final polite goodbye, Amelie turned to leave, her steps calm and measured despite the swirl of emotions rising in her chest. She could feel the weight of their gazes, the warmth of Cisca and his grandparents, the jealousy simmering in Magui’s expression. And as she walked away, she couldn’t help but wonder how things had come to this—how the comfort of her past with Lando’s family could still feel so welcoming, yet so far out of reach.

[bowieandqueen11]

Moonlight Dalliance / Izzy Hands Imagine

Request: I wrote this a couple of weeks ago but I think I might have accidentally deleted it off Tumblr because I can’t find it now! Hope you enjoy and I’ll have another request out asap! 😘

Warning: spicy, implied sexual content, sword fighting, mentions of blood and some strong language!

(I do not own OFMD or it’s characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @goodsirs.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

Before you had even reached the deck, you could hear the clashing of steel reverberating through your bunk.

If it hadn't been for the pouring of sawdust through the cracks in the ceiling beams that rained down like ash over your nostrils: if it hadn't been for the graceful leaps of careful footsteps lightly stepping in box squares above your hammock, you might have chalked down the noise to Roach's snoring. In fact, as you swing your legs over to your side and try, as quietly as possible, to land on the floor of the recreation room without waking as many as your ship mates as possible, said cook was trying to do his best impression of what could only be called a foghorn mixed with an incredibly rusty blender.

'For God's sake-!' The sound of Lucius' voice disturbing you as you were trying to tip toe towards the door almost makes you jump out of your skin. Unravelling Black Pete's arm from around his waist, he gives a final groan into the side of his pillow before throwing it in a wide arch straight at Roach's head. 'If you don't stop snoring I'll stick my wooden thumb, splinters and all, straight up your ar-.'

Thankfully, the sound of you wincing as you grab onto the handle and inch the hinges slowly backwards is drowned out by a stout HMPH as Lucius' pillow lands on Button's stomach. You can't help but let out a snicker at the way the man shoots straight up from his slumber like a scarecrow being raised in a field. He arches one eyebrow and glanced around intently. 'Attack, we're under attack!' You take the opportunity of your fellow crewmates either lunging out of their hammocks, or being tipped out onto the floor during the frantic hustle and bustle that followed to escape out to the helm of the ship. In fact, Wee John seemed to take far too much pleasure out of twirling the Swede's hammock so that the man ended up a mess of tangled limbs, yelping like a fly caught up in a spider's web as Oluwande tried to grab his arm and pull him back out. You didn't mind the good natured jostle of your friends: you had spent so much of the evening tossing and turning, unable to get the thought of one arrogant prick in particular out of your mind, and so the excuse to leave your bunk and get some fresh air was more than welcome.

The sea air - god, the sea air felt so kind on your tired lungs.

The night seemed fragile, the moonlight tender as it spilt over the creaking boards of the ship and pooled in a warm puddle around your feet. It seemed to widen within your eyes, a fine mist spraying like a wicked phantasm from its shadows and coating the surrounding sea in thin tendrils of smoke. With a mind hazed with tiredness, you rubbed at the corners of your eyes and tried to chase away that dream-like glow only the late night could bring. The sails caught in the mild wind and groaned above you, masking out the sounds of Izzy's short pants as he wiped his forehead with the untucked end of his shirt. In fact, not realising yet that you were standing only a mere few metres away from him, he grabbed his shoulder and tugged his shirt off completely, discarding it with a frustrated throw at Stede's cabin doors.

Two hands grip tighter on the wood, willing its body to relax. The tang of salt could do nothing to burn away the fizzling want banging against your ribcage, nor could the cool pinch of the helm railings distract you from the fact that you had spent every second of that day restless; as if on repeat, every time you closed your eyes, or had your thoughts distracted away from repairing the helm, or talking to Lucius, or exploring the islands Stede had insisted you all stop at so he could take Edward off on some grand adventure, you were taken back to that afternoon. The feel of Izzy Hands, the soft ache in his eyes, so desolate, so hopeful: when he had been congratulating you on a job well done fighting off some remote Englishman who had tried to ambush your crew once you had docked, and behind the thrum of his beating heart he hadn't the wit to stop his arm from reaching out and brushing the back of his knuckles against the droplets of blood splattered on your cheek.

His smile had dropped almost immediately of course, and he had run like a gun was being unloaded against his heels back into his quarters and hid there for the night, but the look in his eyes when he had touched you... god, if it wasn't enough to make Davy Jones repent his sins, for even his adoration for Calypso would seem like hatred in comparison.

Yet only the smoky gleam of the moon melting over the champagne waves kept your aching head company. The moon, being a sneaky temptress, was in fact the one thing that drew you to the cause of your distraction; squinting down onto the deck, it took you a minute to remember the reason you had come up here in the first place.

Izzy Hands. In the flesh. And lots of it, if the sweaty gleam of his bare chest was anything to go by.

It takes a moment for your mind to shape the shifting umbra into a perceptible form: he looks angry, furious, even, as his sword slices the misty air like swiss cheese and gives lashes to the main mast. The cherry wood cracks easily under the weight of his blows, the poor shaved shards that land by his feet obviously taking the brunt of the walloping you can only assume is meant for your captain.

Swallowing your nerves, you call out to the fickle shape. 'What are you doing wandering about at a time like this?'

He startles as you wander across the ship towards him, perching back against the side of the mast he was currently tearing to shreds. Incredulously, he looks you up and down before bowing his sword. Your laughter sweetens the edge of his blade, and for a moment Izzy's step falters at the sound.

‘I could ask you the very same thing. Don't you know that all the horrifying creatures slink out from the depths after the full moon rises.' He tilts his head at you, pushing his tongue up against his teeth to stop a smile from breaking like welcome dawn across his face. 'Would hate to see you get dragged away by something... wanton.'

You scratch your cheek, trying your best to hide how you were growing flustered at his words. 'Well, at least if I get dragged away I'll be going with clothes on.’

He flushed at that, head tilting down as he crossed his arms gruffly over his abdomen and blinked languidly.

'What are you actually still doing awake?', you ask, crossing your arms and doing your best not to fantasize about leaping forward and ripping the rest of his trousers straight off with one tear.

'I couldn't sleep.' What he didn't tell you, was that he couldn't sleep because he was so in love with you his heart felt like it was going to bleed out of his fucking chest any time he tried to distract himself from thoughts of you.

'Yeah, neither could I.' What you didn't tell him, was that you couldn't sleep because you were dreaming of grabbing Izzy by that scruffy collar and kissing him silly.

A tense silence suffocated the two of you, sliced only by Izzy shooting his sword through the air with one last precise carve through the freshly hollowed mast. Izzy whips out his wrist, clenching his fingers into a tight fist to try and alleviate some of the burning tension running through his joints at the desperation to touch you.

‘You did well today. As much as I hate to admit it, you can fight better than any of those other morons.’

‘A compliment? From Izzy Hands? Pinch me, I must still be dream-‘

‘Your footwork is a little rusty, though. Could use some work, so you don’t trip over and fall on your own bloody sword.’

‘There we go. There’s always a but with you, isn’t there? You can’t just give the compliment and leave it hanging.’

'I'm just saying... it would be a real shame to pierce such a breast.' Your breath hitches as his eyes dip down to contemplate the sliver of skin still on show between the free flowing buttons of your dress shirt. He sniffles, fingers almost indiscernibly tightening around the metal of the hilt as he did his best to stifle the overflowing shiver that was running up and down his legs. He keeps a tight watch on you for a moment, before biting his bottom lip with his top teeth and darting his eyes out towards the ocean, both incredibly aroused and also incredibly sheepish from having shown such weakness.

'And to ruin such a fine blade.'

He runs his hand across his beard, motion tired yet calculated. Too jolted to speak, let alone run away back down to your bunk and hide your head underneath Oluwande's arm for the rest of time, you leave Izzy the perfect opportunity to pounce.

’Here… come here’, his knuckles fold as he beckons you forward with one hand, his other still resting on the hilt of his rapier as he jabbed it into the floor and let it drop after a moment. If he had let it go just then, as he watched the swish of your hips approach him, he had a pretty good feeling his knees would buckle underneath him. ‘I have far more experience than you do. You ought to learn from a real pirate. Not the hoity toity arsehole that runs around this ship like a headless chicken.’

‘If I remember correctly’, you say sharply with a growing smile, ‘you lost against that headless chicken.’

‘Don’t.’ Before you have time to realise what’s happening, Izzy has grabbed you by the waist and rugged you back. He prays you didn’t hear the hoarse groan that jilted from the back of his throat as your buttocks bounced back against the tensed muscles of his lower abdomen. His voice is gruff and warm against the shell of your ear, but his fingertips burn with the ferociousness of a thousand lantern fires as he snakes his free hand around your shoulders and grips onto the bottom of your chin.

'Don't tease me. It won't end well for you.' His thumb digs into your jaw as he tilts your head back, and you can feel his smirk branding it’s way into the bare strip of skin between the nape or your neck and the hollow of your earlobe. Your head is fully resting back against his forehead now, and his vice on you only lessens once he’s content that you’re too far gone to step away from him.

'Put your foot... here', he guides your right foot forward with the toe of his boot, almost sinfully slowly so he could feel every twitch and tense of your quadriceps against the inside of his thigh. 'There you go, lean your weight forward-'.

He tips you then, doubling you over so your back is pushed down against his groin. You swear you can feel the curls of his hair fall in loose curls down against the small of your back, gathering that his head must be hovering just above your tailbone. For your own sake, to stop your legs from turning into jelly and letting your full weight fall so easily into Izzy's grip, you pretend the haunting moaning sound you hear must be from the hinges of the sails as they turn through the night sky.

'Perfect form', he breathes out in a short gasp against the shell of your ear once he's collected himself, his arm tightening around your stomach as he places you. His right hand drags down your arm, teasingly burning a trail right down over the back of your hand and onto your fingers as he entraps them with his own. He turns your hand, his own clenching so they fold over your own. 'That's it, now jut forward and strike.'

His knee pushes against the side of your buttocks as he jumps the two of you forward; he shoves a little too harshly, though, and just before your feet nearly trip backwards over the rotund exterior of a rogue barrel, Izzy's hand has shot out like a viper to latch its teeth around your wrist. His fingers squeeze as he tilts you upright again, a sharp exhale whistling out of his nose at how close you come to falling into his chest.

'You're not a bad teacher', you manage to laugh out between gasps, 'but unless you're packing... who doesn't bring a weapon to a sword fight?' Straddling to the side, you manage to slide down and grab onto his discarded sword, sweeping the tip through the air until it landed just below his chin. Tilting the skin up, you gaze down at him through dropped eyelids, his fingers now nearly convulsing against your wrist.

You manage to break free of his hold, grabbing onto his bare arm and pulling him so now he was the one caught in your trap. Your bicep holds around his stomach, moving with each tremble of his breath as you graze the sharp edge of his rapier down across his face and jut it under his jaw.

The bastard only smiles as you hold the edge of his blade against his throat.

'Did you really think you could win this fight?', he asks between the tight lips of a knowing smile, and it takes you a second to realise that his free hand has wrapped round to hold onto yours on top of the handle. He shoves the blade away, kicking out with his foot so you trip backwards. He easily catches you before you hit the ground.

You dance your fingers up his chest as he holds you tight against him, dipped down like lovers do during the first dance. All the stars burn deep within the depths of his soul, pouring out like razing destruction from his eyes as he keeps darting a path between your nose, and back down to your lips.

'I don't think you won this either, Izzy Hands. In fact, I think we both lost something here.' You spread your fingers out over the bare skin across his pec, feeling the flittering thud of his heart pound out against your fingertips.

By god, if he had ever been so delighted to lose.

His lips ravish you like a man shrivelled under the island sun, desperate to drown; before your gasp can fully deflate from your lungs, your legs have been kicked out from underneath you by a swift and skilled kick from the side of his boot.

Oh, he had been planning this for a long time. Had been thinking of nothing but this since he had boarded this vessel. The tightness of his arm as it snakes around your back and stops your shoulders from taking the brunt of the bounce off the boards: the way he throws his rapier behind his back without a second care, instead replacing his clenched fingers with the reddened meat of your hip as he levers you down was far too precise and meticulous to be a mere spur of the moment, subconscious thought.

An uncomfortable heat shivers over your torso and settles as an anchor weight in the pit of your stomach as Izzy grazes his right hand over the top of your thigh. Plop. Plop. Plop. His leather gloves ball as he taps his finger one by one, teasingly, against your inner thigh, using them to shove your legs wider apart. His lips pull away with a sickeningly sweet pop from your neck only for a second, as he breathlessly glances his eyes in a jagged path across your face.

He looks wonderstruck.

You can't help but reach out to touch the tough muscle of his left peck, swirling your finger across the short strands of his chest hair. The soft scrape of your fingernail soon turns into your fingers fully spreading out like the tendrils of a swift current once you feel him bury his head into the curve of your neck; his chin juts into your pulse point and the bastard has the audacity to whimper at the feel of your palm brushing over the hardened tip of his nipple.

If he wasn't living out all of his deepest, darkest dreams, the man nearly collapsed on top of you may have felt embarrassed at the way his pelvis began to buck down and brush the tightening leather over the rising line of skin underneath your belly button. In your turn to be bashful, you can feel a flush crawl over your cheeks as Izzy grabs onto the bottom of your thigh and tugs you closer, fist clenching over your ankle as he throws your right leg up and over the side of his hip bone. His hands are surprisingly soft, surprisingly gentle as he claws and kneads and mewls into you, his lips dragging down and over to the side of your jaw now with quick, tempered nicks.

You're scared his skin is going to melt off at the bone with how it burns against your hip: it holds tightly to the side of your pelvis, his thumb toying with the tassels hanging from the band of your trousers as he impetuously grinds down against you again. You can feel his shit eating smirk as the flat edge of his tongue licks a hot streak up to the shell of your ear; he bites down, tugging at your earlobe and clenching his fingernails so tightly into the soft skin at the side of your buttocks that you were amazed he didn't draw blood.

‘What on earth was that noise?! What’s going on up here! Which hooligan is up making a ruckus on my ship? And so late! I know you wanted another bedtime story, but I told you, we all need our beauty sleep!’

The glim flicker of a handheld candle illuminated out from the stairway as the ruffled hair of your captain peered out past the door like a startled meerkat. With wide eyes, he mustered the courage to lift up the skirts of his nightshirt and take a step out onto the deck, away from the safety of Ed's gentle snores as they billowed out through the crack.

Before your captain can spot the two of you caught in such an awkward position: Izzy grinding against you like a needy dog, your hand bunched into a tight fist in his hair and your legs wrapped tightly around his taut waist, he shoves a gloved finger to your lips. Annoyed at being disturbed, you tilt the hand gripping his hair backwards and smirk to yourself as Izzy dips his head down to land between your breast bone to try and hide his groans.

Before you can tease him anymore, he's gripped onto your wrist and is tugging you up; he's near carrying you bridle style in his arms as he slips past the railings of the ship, mingling in with the shadows. His hand covers your mouth to stop your giggles, carrying you off down to the bunk of his room so the two of you can carry on your midnight dalliance where your poor, confused captain wouldn't be able to hear the pounding of the bed as its frame shudders against the wall and your screams echo out against the silent moonlight.

[laxmienterprise]

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[cantwritethetword]

(2024) TickleTober Day 4: Wicked - Softie

Fic Descript - Bruce and Diana claim Clark doesn't have a wicked bone in his body, so he proves them otherwise

~A/N  - this was one of those fics that I wasn't 100% sure where to take it, so I kinda pulled this concept out of my ass lmao. Hope it's alright ^^

EDIT: ACTUALLY I LIED I MANAGED TO LINK IT TO A CONCEPT I'VE HAD FOR A WHILE I THINK IT'S OK NOW

Once again, short fic for today :)

EDIT: dsfjhakjslfh that was a lie this is just over 1k

- Enoy! ~

Tag List: @fullsongphilosopher

Masterpost Link 

TickleTober Masterpost

"For the Man of Steel, you really are such a softie." Bruce hummed, leaning against Clark's left shoulder and closing his eyes. Diana let out a soft chuckle from Clark's other side in agreement.

Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman had just finished a ridiculously busy day - filled with PR conferences, charity work, various patrols, and a few mild interventions on the city streets - so the trio were grateful to finally get a chance to relax together.

"What do you mean softie?" Clark raised an eyebrow. "I'm not soft."

Diana responded before Bruce had the chance to argue. "Not soft, but you're definitely the nicest of us all."

"Too nice." Bruce added with a grin, beginning to feel the irresistible temptation of annoying Clark.

Doing his best not to disturb the comfortable positions of his partners, Clark sat further upright (as if his body position would strengthen his argument). "I can be mean!"

That earnt a proper laugh from Diana. "Please, you don't have a wicked bone in your body."

There was a pause as a smirk settled on Clark's face. "Oh is that right?"

Diana was switched on enough to sense the change in Clark's tone, and tried to swiftly push herself off her human headrest, but Clark was too quick. He grabbed around her waist and tugged her underneath him, before pulling the slightly-sleepy Bruce next to her.

"Huh-?" Bruce yelped as Clark say across both his and Diana's hips.

"I know how I can prove how wicked I can really be." Clark smirked, before clawing into the ribs of the two superheroes under him.

Diana gasped, clenching her mouth shut so Clark wouldn't get the satisfaction of cracking her that easily. Both of her hands worked to pry Clark's five fingers from her side - a task that would normally be easy, but with tickling near enough halved her strength - before concentrating on defending her sensitive spots from the attack.

She had managed to interlock the fingers of one hand with Clark's, while the other gripped his wrist to push him away. While his hand didn't move much, her defense gave her enough respite to remember she had a fellow ally lying next to her.

"Bruce!" She grunted, unable to look anywhere but Clark's threatening fingers. "I've got his hand! Just grab the other!"

But, before she had even finished her sentence, she suddenly registered the bubbly laughter that had filled the room for who knows how long. And, in a moment of poor decision making, she let her eyes and her attention turn to Bruce.

The poor hero was curled up facing away from Diana, giggling his little heart out. There was barely space in his breath for him to beg Clark to let him go (and to be completely honest, based on the genuine joy in his laughter, Diana wasn't sure he even wanted to try).

Before she had the chance to roll her eyes at his uselessness, Clark escaped her (now weakened) grip and latched his thumb into her hip bone behind him.

Diana let out a shriek, her arms switching between trying to grab Clark's hand again and thumping into his upper abdomen.

"BRUHUHUCE!" She spluttered between bouts of laughter. "DO SOHOMETHING!"

"He is doing something." Clark beamed. "He's experiencing how wicked I can be."

Bruce could only cackle in response as Clark managed to worm his fingers into the man's armpit.

"And laughing..." Clark nodded seriously. "That's important too."

"YOHOU'RE UHUSELESS!" Diana elbowed the Batman, letting herself laugh a little more to make sure Bruce knew she was mostly joking.

Clark chuckled. "And...? what am I?"

Diana slapped his leg. "A JEHEHERK!"

She couldn't quite tell, but it sounded like Bruce laughed a little extra at that comment.

"Ow." Clark pouted. "That wasn't quite the response I was looking for..."

Leaving them no time for a witty retort or more helpless laughter (from Diana or Bruce respectively), Clark amped the intensity. Opting to vibrate his claw-shaped hands at an inhuman speed against Diana's stomach and Bruce's exposed back (as the poor guy had been locked in a fetal position since they started).

Bruce screeched, his back arched as far as humanly possible from the offending fingers.

"FIHIHINE YOHOU'RE EHEVIL!" Diana squealed, and at the same time a stream of incoherent begging and pleading burst from Bruce's mouth.

He tried to twist back towards his companions, hands reaching behind himself to try and grab the claw that was driving him insane.

"Mmm..." Clark pondered, still effortlessly destroying the two supers. "Not quite the wording I used."

"WIHIHICKEHED! YOUOHOU'RE WIHICKED JUST LET ME GOHOHO!" She pleaded through cackles as her hands weakly shoved at Clark's.

Bruce had returned to his original position, this time clinging onto Clark's leg as if it were his own sanity.

"Told you." Clark grinned, easily releasing Diana while keeping Bruce underneath him.

Wonder Woman took her moment to sprawl out on the floor and suck in as much oxygen as possible. Her cheeks were still frosted with a rosy glow, aching from the last few minutes of laughter.

Somehow amongst the chaos, Bruce realised Diana was free. As Clark took a little pity on the guy and swapped spots again to target his neck, Bruce took his chance.

"Diahana hehelp mehe!" Bruce gasped between squeaks and high-pitched giggles.

She scoffed playfully. "You never helped me!"

Bruce squealed as Clark went for his ears momentarily. "I cohohouldn't!"

"You could have tried..." She fake-sighed, gazing into the distance. "Besides, you know what you have to do to make him stop, seems to me you don't want him to."

The laughter-induced blush on Bruce's face took on a more pinkish tone of embarrassment, made even worse by Clark leaning down and rubbing his stubble against Bruce's neck.

"Oh, are we having too much fun?" Clark growled right into Bruce's ear, knowing the low vibrations tickled the billionaire more than he'd ever care to admit.

"Clahark plehehease!" Bruce whined, scrunching his head against Superman's. "Just lehet me go!"

"I guess there's no other option at this point, if you're going to refuse that strongly..." Clark sighed, leaning back upright and letting his hands rest on his knees.

Bruce gave him a puzzled look. Did Clark seriously just give in?

The pleading wasn't meant to work that quickly... Bruce thought to himself, too tired to catch the disappointment that was washing over his face.

Clark's tickle attacks never stop that easily...

How was he meant to know it would this time?

"Diana?" Clark grinned, gesturing to Bruce (and snapping the man out of his thoughts). "Care to help me out?"

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Civilian Asset 2.

Polyamorous/femme/female reader x multiple

Summary: Things go from bad to worse.

Master List (coming soon) / Prev chapter

Warnings: Mild/brief self harm (over-washing hands), peril, violence, kidnapping, torture, corpses, gore, extremely brief threat of SA

Tagging: A couple folks have asked about tagging. Unfortunately tagging breaks my posts, so I don't keep lists. But I DO reply to each comment on each chapter when I post something new. So it's like a hand-written invitation delivered by butler to your inbox.

A/N: Thank you so much for the support! I hope you enjoy the ride!

2.

When you remember how your legs work, you find your way to the bathroom. Away from the windows, it’s pitch black, and you have to flick on a light to see your hand in front of your face, but the yellow glow itches over your skin, and you work fast, turning the tap to cold and using the little bar of hand soap to attack the lingering rust red hiding in the creases where skin meets nail.

You wish for a big, bristly brush. Or some steel wool. You’d scrape the skin off and start over again if you could. Without so much as a washcloth, you’re forced to pick at yourself, scratching until your flesh is raw and fresh blood seeps up to hide the old.

Once you’re sure the handler’s blood is gone, you slurp a few handfuls of water, sure you’ll feel the affects of dehydration after so much vomiting soon if you don’t. Passing out is never fun, but in the current circumstances, a little dizziness at the wrong moment could be a death sentence.

A little voice whispers in the back of your head that everything tastes like iron as you sip, and you drown it by throwing the next scoop of water directly in your face.

The makeup you wore to the club has not faired well, and you’d rather be the idiot civilian in need of rescuing without mascara tracks streaking your face.

The cold water and hand soap leaves your skin flushed and red, but you’re clean. Maybe even a little refreshed.

Breathing comes easier.

It’s easy to pretend this is just an unplanned sleepover. This isn’t the first time you’ve spent an evening puking up your soul and washing your face without proper skincare products because your drunk ass never made it home.

This is okay.

This is livable.

All you have to do is sit tight and keep behind a locked door. Easy enough.

The light stays on. Even if it makes you uncomfortable, you can’t resign yourself to the total dark again. But you step out. Better to enjoy the illumination from a distance.

You wedge yourself into a corner between the empty living area and the hall to the bath and bedrooms, keeping away from the windows. No one said anything about snipers, but you have seen movies, and even if there isn’t a ghost out there with a gun, windows are an opportunity for the wrong person to see you moving around.

In the day, windows are eyes looking out. At night, the eyes turn in. It’s the kind of lesson you learned as a girl. Be aware, because someone wants to take a look without asking. Someone is hiding in the car beside yours, so be careful where you park. Don’t walk with headphones in. Kidnappers like to grab long hair and ponytails. There’s always someone who wants to hurt you, and they’re always going to be bigger and stronger, so the only way to win is to see them before they strike. This is definitely not the situation you grew up imagining, but you’ll take the intrinsic paranoia of being a woman in public as the gift it is in the moment.

Headlights from passing cars sweep the room from time to time, and you freeze like a deer as the LEDs paint the walls white. The beams cutting through the empty windows feels like a countdown, gears in a clock turning, and as the number of cars grows, you gradually notice some of the light stays behind, weakening the shadows where you hide. It’s closer to dawn than you realized, and soon this awful fucking night will end.

A knock shatters the silence, and your hand falls to your pocket, where your phone waits. Didn’t the woman say she would call? Could she have forgotten, or…?

Another series of knocks interrupts your train of thought, and you wrestle with the urge to leap towards the door the way you lunge to a ringing landline. Habit.

You get to your feet, backpack slung over one shoulder, trying to decide whether to approach the door or go hide deeper in the safehouse. It’s a Choose Your Own Adventure story from hell with no way to turn back to the previous page if you get shot.

In the end, someone else makes the choice for you.

A key rattles in the lock, and grey morning light floods the space as the door swings open to reveal three tall, clearly male silhouettes. They file through and shut the door quickly – too quickly? A smiling blond in the front approaches, hands up, trying to put you at ease.

“Hey, ready to go?” He talks like he knows you, but you most definitely do not know him. It tugs at your stranger danger trigger, and your hands flex against the urge to raise defensive fists. He’s American. The woman on the phone was American, too. Maybe that’s a good thing. “We’re here to get you somewhere secure, okay? Got a car out front.”

The other two sweep the room, move down the hall, clearing the rest of the safehouse with handguns easily hidden under their casual civilian clothing. The leader sounds like he’s from Boston. The other two have a bit of South in the mouth from what you catch of their brief commands and replies. It’s all very official. They’re professionals. There’s no reason to think they’re anything other than what they claim.

The smiling man knew where to find a key, so logically, someone in command told him. They knew where to look. They know you’re supposed to go somewhere with them.

So why do the hairs on the back of neck prickle?

Another lesson from your teen years pops to mind: If it feels wrong, it probably is.

Your phone jumps to life in your pocket, and you seize it with dread and hope as the man’s eyes dart to your hand, his smile suddenly and mysteriously missing.

“Don’t.” A flat command with a threat rippling under the surface like a riptide.

You hesitate, locking in place like he’s drawn a gun on you. “Why?”

He smiles again, more forced than before. “Because you don’t need to. We’re already here.”

His bullshit steams in the morning sun as it drops from his lips.

It feels wrong.

It is wrong.

You leap back and accept the call.

“Team’s five min – ”

You shout over her as the man lunges, talking faster than you realized you could. “Three men! Had a key! Americ-”

The blond tackles you, his shoulder in your diaphragm, and the air leaves you with a squeak as your back slams into the thin carpet. He’s heavy, and you hit the ground hard. As you blink away stars, you distantly hear the woman’s voice from where the phone has fallen a few feet away.

“Shut-up,” the man growls, driving his palm into your face.

His hand pushes over your mouth, and you don’t stop to think before sinking your teeth into the asshole’s skin. It isn’t the first time you’ve had reason to bite a bitch, and you hope it won’t be the last.

He jerks away with his own yelp.

You haven’t quite gotten your breath back, and you barely manage to bleat, “Help,” before the window of opportunity closes again.

A backhanded strike sends your vision spinning, leaving you discombobulated long enough for all three of the men – all shouting over each other – to roll you over and zip tie your hands behind your back. A heavy stomp and distinct crunch tell the fate of your phone.

You’ll tell the woman at the end of the line no more secrets. That tie is severed. You scream again anyway, because maybe someone is close enough to hear you. This is a residential neighborhood. Someone may wake up and feel heroic.

“Shut-up.” The leader smacks your head into the floor to make a point, and your teeth catch on the inside of your cheek. “We could’ve done this nice and easy. Painless. Quiet. But you wanna be a bitch? You wanna play games? Fuck it. Fine.”

You pull against your restraints, trying to get up on your knees as the blond addresses his friends, “We’ll do this at the warehouse. Grab her.”

Swearing, the other two heave you onto your feet and start dragging you out of the safehouse. One makes an attempt to fling you over his shoulder, but you kick and writhe until you tumble off, so they make due with hauling you by the arms as your heels scrabble across the carpet, the doorway, the concrete. You’re losing ground. They’re taking you away. And your mind is full of frantic thoughts about kidnappers and secondary locations and dropping survival rates.

One keeps a gloved hand over your mouth when it’s clear you won’t stop screaming no matter how many times they tell you to. Well-behaved women seldom make history, and well-behaved hostages rarely live to tell about it. There is no reason to go quietly into that good night, and fuck if you won’t fight them every inch of the way.

But they’re bigger, and stronger, and they get you to the car.

The blond leader waits by the trunk, holding it open with one hand while he cradles the one you bit near his chest. You get a glimpse of red teeth marks before his teammates literally toss you into the trunk and slam it shut.

It’s darker than the safehouse, and with your hands trapped, you can’t find any of the emergency pulls designed to help people in just this situation. One of the simplest horrors – losing control of your own body – tightens your throat. You can’t defend yourself. Can’t even put your arms over your face the next time one of the bastards takes a swing at you.

The engine rumbles to life, and your kidnappers peel away, flying over speedbumps and taking tight corners in their rush to leave before the real escorts arrived. You roll and slip at the mercy of inertia. Both fortunately and unfortunately, there’s nothing sliding around with you in the dark. While a crowbar or tire iron could’ve stabbed you or given you a concussion as you bounced and crashed around the narrow space, they might’ve helped free your hands. The best you can do is guess at where the taillights are and try to stomp through the corners.

You do not succeed.

But you keep trying as the coarse flooring scours a rug burn into your cheek.

This could be your last chance to get away, and if you can get the trunk open, you’ll gladly jump into the freeway. Tied hands and all. Living with one less limb or a broken spine is better than dying slowly in a warehouse. Right?

You don’t get to make that decision.

The road turns rough under the wheels, and you nearly vibrate to pieces, collecting bruises as you collide with the ceiling, floor, and walls.

You taste blood, probably from where you bit your cheek. Or maybe from the slap. Or any of the dozen times your head struck something during the ride.

It isn’t a big deal. It shouldn’t be, at least. But you’re bleeding. You just got the blood off your hands, and now it’s on your tongue. Your wrists sting where the plastic zip ties cut too tight. These men will kill you. They will hurt you until you’ve told them whatever they want to know, and then they’ll throw your body somewhere filthy for scavengers to tear apart.

You’re helpless.

The feeling sits like uneasy bile in your gut, churning with raw fear and howling anxiety as you fight back tears.

Shocky. Is that a word? You feel shocky.

The facts of your reality are a little too much right now, so your consciousness pulls back half a step. It’s happening to you, yes, but not in an immediate way. It could be a vivid thought experiment, or a dream you’ll realize is a nightmare when someone shoots you in the head and you don’t die. Your mind just lets all the feelings slip between open fingers to fall in a pile at your feet. The writhing miasma of panic and discomfort screams, trying to crawl back up your knees, but it doesn’t hurt so much down there.

You’re distancing yourself. That’s the word. Maybe it will help when they take you apart.

The car rolls to a stop. Your heart nearly stops with it. You hold your breath as the engine shuts off, listening to each shift the men make as they exit the car. The squeaks of old seats and aging suspension echoes through the trunk, and slamming doors send shockwaves through your bones as the men crunch over gravel to reach the back. The hatch pops open, and the fully-risen sun blinds you.

How long was the drive? Hours? Minutes? The sky is awfully bright.

As you squint, tears automatically beading in the corners of your eyes, the leader speaks up.

“We done playing games, or you gonna make this difficult?”

You lash out. Even if your hands are bound, your legs are still free, and you kick like a mule when the first man reaches for you. You miss him on the upswing, but he’s balancing with one hand on the trunk’s lip, and your heel slams down hard on his knuckles.

He wheels back, cursing, but you don’t have time to celebrate. Before you get your leg back into the deep, dark depths of the trunk, the leader grabs you by the ankle and yanks you out. The latch digs into your back, and you shriek as you go face-first into the gravel.

You’ve taken your pound of flesh from all three. The leader has your bite on his hand, you hopefully fucked up one goon’s fingers, and both of the supporting meatheads should have good bruises from your resistance on the way out of the safehouse.

None of them are well pleased.

“Fucking fine then.”

Still holding your ankle, the leader moves towards the decrepit building they’ve parked behind. He’s a bulky guy, but he’s got a bad case of vanity muscles. He can’t walk and pull at the same time. It’s step – drag – step – drag – step.

The little stones jab through your clothes, slicking into exposed skin and grinding deep bruises along your hips. Growling, you kick and wriggle, aiming for the asshole’s wrist and knee as you try to inch away like a worm.

He loses his grip, and for a blessed instant you think you’re free. Then meathead one and two each take an arm and haul you inside before their leader loses any more face. They don’t give you a chance to get on your feet, clearly frustrated with the whole ordeal. You aren’t a threat, but you’re a pain in the ass, so they treat you like the problem you are.

Spotty sunshine cuts through broken windows like dozens of spotlights in the wide storage room. The remaining glass is too filthy for anything but a muted glow to creep through. Still, there’s enough light for stubby grass to grow in the cracks. The place has seen better days, and rustling wings answer the thugs’ heavy steps as a flock of nesting pigeons take to the air. Everything smells like bird shit and mold.

The leader drags a rickety wooden stool to the center of the room, and the goons force you up to sit on it. Like most stools you’ve encountered, this one is a little too tall, and your toes don’t quite scrape the ground. The support rungs where you might’ve rested your feet for balance have rotted away to splintered stumps, and your sneakers paw the air, trying to balance, before you realize your escorts aren’t letting go.

Blondie steps in front of you, insincere smile back on his face. Clearly, he feels in control again, now that he has two grown men holding you down so you can’t run, can’t fight back.

“We know the hand-off didn’t happen,” he says, almost friendly. “We know you met with the handler, though, and he definitely had time to tell you something.” Leaning in, he lifts his brows, feigning an open expression as hands squeeze the blood from your bound arms. “I need you to tell me two things. I need you to tell me exactly what the handler said to you, and I need to know exactly how much you’ve told Laswell. That’s it. You can still make this easier on yourself. Just tell me the truth.”

Your jaw clenches shut. Your lips seal closed in a frown. It’s instinctive, almost defensive, like crossing your legs and leaning away when a man crowds you in a bar. He can’t have what he wants. You won’t give it to him.

You don’t even know who Laswell is, but you assume she’s the one who directed you to the safehouse.

A flicker of irritation warps the leader’s face again, and he says, saccharine sweet like fruit about to rot, “We could always do a cavity search to make sure you didn’t receive anything.”

You don’t take time to think. Following your gut, you sneer, giving the bastard elevator eyes even his goons will notice. Meeting his gaze again, you simply say “Gross.”

The following slap leaves your ears ringing. It jogs some of your disassociated mind back into your body, and you blink rapidly, searching for your equilibrium as you stare into the corner of the room, where his strike turned your head. Something wet wells over your upper lip, and when you try licking it away, you get a mouthful of copper.

“Fine. Fine!” The leader moves behind you, throwing up his hands. He rustles through something where you can’t see, muttering under his breath, and you wonder if he’s ever done this before.

Maybe he’ll give up. Maybe, if you keep quiet a little longer, they’ll just…

Rough hands force your left pinky straight, and something cold presses against your fingertip, pinching the nail.

Oh.

Fuck.

He’s gonna rip it off.

It doesn’t even hurt yet, but you can’t catch your breath. It’s evacuated your lungs before the screaming starts, and you go deathly still as you try to brace yourself.

The pliers lift and tug in a quick but ruthless motion, ripping the nail from the bed, and your vision goes white.

Pain too intense to stay in your finger crackles through your shattered nerves, and you struggle to fold in on yourself as every muscle tries to get away, to physically disconnect and run from your own hand. Your lungs won’t expand, and squeaky, stuttered cries punch out as you try to breathe.

“Just tell me what you know! It’s not that hard! Jesus!”

The pliers settle on the next nail, and you start hyperventilating. It’s just pain. It will pass. It’s just pain. It will pass. A friend once confided he’d studied torture-endurance tactics when he started running. You cling to them as the second nail lifts and whimper through a desperate inhale. The key is time. Nothing lasts forever. One way or another, it has to stop eventually. It isn’t as effective as it probably was for your friend, though, because his torture ended in a good shower and cool glass of water.

You aren’t ready to die.

But you don’t talk, either.

The asshole on your left jerks you hard to get you to quit shaking so his leader can grasp the next fingernail, but it’s not something you can voluntarily stop. “She’s not talking. Just shoot her so we can get out of here.”

The leader throws down the pliers, and they clatter across the brittle concrete. He paces behind you. Each step sounds like the second hand of a clock ticking away his patience, ticking away the minutes you have left to live. “He wants to know the extent of the breach. Our mess. We clean it up.”

His teammate scoffs, “Just because you want to impress him –”

“This isn’t about impression anyone, dumbass!” The leader’s voice pings around the empty warehouse, and you flinch, ready for that anger to turn on you. He marches back from the corner his pacing took him to, snapping at his associate over the top of your head. “What do you think happens if we don’t meet his expectations? If we don’t fucking exceed them? Think he’ll just shrug and call it a learning experience? Fucking – dumbass!”

“Bet he’d be angrier if we get caught because you wanted to exceed his expectations.”

Silence. A full thirty seconds. You count them in your head, like you’re playing hide and seek.

“We’re running out of time.”

The leader sighs. A rustle. Something clicks, something you imagine is the safety of a gun, and the men holding you in place lean away without letting go.

You struggle, jerking and swaying so you almost knock over the stool, but the men anticipated your fight against the end, and their bruising grips crush to the bone.

Something brushes the hair on the back of your head, gentle as a kiss. Oh, it’s definitely a gun.

“Last chance.” The leader still acts like he’s being reasonable, that his inconvenience is greater than your entire life. Like he ever could’ve been the hero in this scenario.

Now that he’s shown his hand, you have no reason to speak, even if you had planned to. Caving to his demands won’t buy back your life. It might not even win another hour. You didn’t get the message out, so you’ve already failed. And you’re going to die.

Doesn’t mean you aren’t terrified. Your face drips with tears and blood. The salty tracks sting what you assume is a cut on the side of your face, and every breath of wind stirs the naked nerves on the tips of your fingers to fresh agony.

You don’t want to cry, and you sure as hell won’t beg these assholes for anything. But you can’t bear to watch, so you close your eyes like a child, face screwed up as you wonder how much the bullet will hurt on its way through your brain, how much you’ll feel before it ends you.

The hands on your arms tense. The barrel of the gun presses firm and cool against your scalp.

A crack like thunder shatters the stillness, and it’s amazing that you can still hear the men holding you down yell and jump after you’ve been shot.

Another bang, and the man on your left lets go as something warm sprays your face.

Your eyes pop open.

That shouldn’t happen. You’re supposed to be dead.

The man to your right yanks you off the stool and pins you to his front with an arm across your throat. Using you as a human shield. Because.

He’s the one in danger.

You register the dead bodies of the blond leader and the one who argued for your execution on the floor. Blooming pools of red seep from wide holes in their skulls. Something greyish oozes from the hollow of the goon’s former expression.  

The last surviving teammate has you facing some of the high, broken windows, and you recall your fears of a sniper when you cowered in the dark safehouse.

A new gun pushes into your temple, and you try to twist away only for the man to squeeze your neck so hard he cuts off your air. You aren’t sure if means to choke you, but you can’t fucking breathe. Unbalanced, with your hands still tied behind your back and a gun to your head, there’s nothing you can do but slip and stumble where he pulls you – presumably out of the sniper’s line of sight.

As he tries to drag you towards an exit, the door falls in with a boom, and two large men with much bigger guns than your kidnapper’s rush him.

“Drop it now! Get on your knees!”

Your kidnapper doesn’t comply. He whips back and forth, putting so much pressure on your throat your vision dances with black spots, and your feet drag, almost entirely limp, over the floor.

“I’ll do it! Back off! I’ll shoot her!”

The two men move in concert, orchestrated like a pack of wolves as they split up and gradually move on the hostage-taker. The man drifts back towards the stool and his dead friends without realizing, far too involved with the nearer guns to remember who’d killed the others.

He grinds the gun against your face, and you squeeze your eyes shut again. How many death threats can you survive in one day? If the approaching team doesn’t move faster, you’ll suffocate before you get shot.

Your shoe slips in blood, and as you feebly scramble to keep your feet under you, a third shot reverberates through the room, and you’re falling. The man holding you tumbles forward, pinning you under literal dead weight with his arm still twisted around your neck.

You only have a moment to panic, and then big hands are tugging the corpse away, and the light seems as bright as it did when your kidnappers opened the trunk. You can breathe, and the oxygen shudders into you like a punch to the sternum. Coughing, you try to remember how this breathing shit is supposed to work.

One of the men quickly but carefully rolls you onto your side so he can cut off the zip ties, and your hands ache with the rush of blood to your fingers. Including your mangled nailbeds. Ah, fuck. Those smart.

The second man kneels in front of you, pausing to speak into a radio while his partner gets you free.

“Good shot, LT. Target down. Securing the package now and moving to exfil.”

He is very Scottish, and that puts some little, anxious voice in your head at ease. The group who took you was American. This is not the same club. As if shooting the kidnappers wasn’t enough to prove that. But for whatever reason, the accent matters more to your rattled mind.

The man behind you helps you sit up, and as you flex your hands, as happy as you are hurt, he asks, “Are you seriously injured? Can you walk?” A nice, English accent. It has the same effect as the Scot’s voice. These are friends. They’re here to help. Even if they’re even scarier than the men who first took you.

“I’m… fine.” A lie. “I can walk.” In theory.

They hadn’t done anything directly to your legs, but everything feels shaky and unsteady, so you aren’t sure how well they’ll hold once the adrenaline drops.

“Okay.” The Scot pulls you the rest of the way to your feet with the same firm efficiency as his comrade as the Englishman turns with a raised gun to watch the room’s other exits. “I need you to hold onto the back of my vest.” He takes your undamaged hand and guides your grip over the heavy strap covering his shoulder. “Just like that. Very good. Just move when I move and we’ll get you out, yeah?”

You nod, feeling small and strange – he’s bigger than you initially thought, and you feel like a child hanging onto him like this. But you understand what he’s doing, and you’re slightly more confident in your ability to leave on your own two feet now that you have some physical support.

“Okay.” He lifts his gun and signals to the second man. “Let’s move.”

It’s a short, cautious trip back into daylight. The Scot checks corners as you progress, keeping himself between you and potential threats ahead while the Englishman guards the rear, ready for an ambush.

When you escape the shadows of the warehouse, a black SUV races up to meet your little band. You flinch back, but don’t let go of the Scot’s tactical vest, and the young man behind you rushes to assure you all is well before you bolt. “It’s our team. Don’t worry. You’re safe now.”

The Scot opens the door, hops in, and because you’re still holding onto him, you go, too. Behind you, the rearguard leaps in, and the vehicle takes off before he even wrangles the door shut.

It takes a moment and the Scottish gentleman clearing his throat before you realize you haven’t released him, and the hold leaves you kneeling awkwardly on the bench seat between the two… soldiers? Agents?

He does the hard work for you, unfolding your fingers the same way he brought them to the vest. “There you go, hen. You’re alright.”

Anxious, face burning, you slip down to sit like a functional adult with your ass on the leather and your feet on the floor. Two more men sit in the front, one with a rifle. One with a fucking fishing hat. That’s all you can see around the headrests. Nothing sticks in your head as you look around, and you can’t see out the tinted windows very well past the bulky men with their outsized guns.

You’re alive. You’ve been rescued. But every little sensation, every dawning thought and fact make you feel worse. Small. Trapped. Rushing somewhere out of your control.

You feel, once again, very terribly like a civilian caught in the wrong world.

[mentatemulator]

Observations on the Dead

Written for Vamptober prompt number 9 (yes, I'm doing them out of order)

Vampire who is still growing in their new fangs. It is approximately 1400 words long, or about 2 pages. It contains: Captivity Torture Starvation Mild Gore It's a good deal darker than my usual work, but I do hope you enjoy!

~

The hunter arose at sunset, as befit one of her profession. She made her ablutions as the last rays of the sun disappeared behind forested hills dusted with the first snow of winter. With care, she made a circuit of the safe-house's interior, ensuring the wards were still in place at every possible entrance. Religious symbols and sacred herbs could not stop an experienced vampire for long, but they bought precious time to prepare for an intrusion. Each had been ritually bound to her, so that their destruction would not go unnoticed. Unlikely that her quarry's sire would find her this far from the city, but precautions were still warranted.

Satisfied, she made her way to the kitchen and prepared a small pot of porridge. The provisions here were meager stuff, but it was better than the travel rations in her pack. A warm bowl of anything was preferable to hard tack and jerky. She ate her fill, cleaned the dishes, and then prepared herself for the night's ministrations.

She donned her vestments, tied back her hair, strapped her tools to her waist, and finally drew on long gloves of brown leather, studded here and there with dots of silver. Her neck was protected by a steel gorget, engraved with the symbols of her order. She took up her book of observations, lit a candle, and thus armed, descended into the basement.

The fine hardwood staircase gave way to a floor of cold stone. The air down here was damp, and smelled faintly of rot. She was unsure if moisture from outside was getting in, or if it was a consequence of all the bodily fluids. Wall sconces were lit from her candle as she passed, until she came to a lone door. It was heavy, made of thick beams of oak reinforced with steel. She produced an iron key, fit it to the lock, and pushed it open.

There was a scrabbling sound within, and the clink of chains. The hunter showed no concern, but set about lighting a pair of standing candelabras. As flame came alight, a form took shape in the center of the room: lanky and ragged, nude flesh covered with inflamed welts, unkempt hair hanging about its shoulders. Two faint red lights glared up at her.

The hunter considered her quarry carefully. It no longer looked at her with conscious hatred, had indeed progressed past even cowering fear, and now regarded her with simple animal hunger. There would be no more point in asking it questions, as she doubted it could still speak.

She placed her notebook on an old wooden lectern, opened it to a fresh page, and took up pen and ink to record this new development. The creature's eyes did not leave her even once as she did so. It shifted around, pulling at its chains, its budding canines visible in its open mouth. The previous night, it had been timid and obsequious, only rising from the floor when forced to, and otherwise kept its face to the black stone beneath it. It had groaned and begged, pleaded for a drink. Now it was restless, testing the limits of its captivity. A fascinating transformation.

The hunter rose again, and walked a slow circle around it. The thing followed her with its gaze, craning its neck painfully when it couldn't turn any further. She inspected the restraints. Neither collar nor wrist cuffs showed any serious wear, the advantage of using iron instead of silver. Given how young this one was, she had been concerned that prolonged silver exposure might kill it preemptively, and it wasn't yet strong enough to break chains of more ordinary metals.

She checked the deep cut she had made down its back, to gauge its ability to repair itself. Three nights in, and the scar was still visible. Hard to say for certain if the starvation was a factor in that. The marks from the most recent lashing were still quite stark. Otherwise, its skin remained supple and full, despite its deprivation.

As the hunter got closer to inspect its fingernails, its breathing grew heavy. It made an attempt to lunge at her, and she reflexively pulled back.

“Petulant beast, be still!” she snapped, “You'll have another taste of the cat, if you cannot behave.” It merely hissed at her, unhearing. She grabbed the end of the chain that held its collar, through an iron loop on the wall, and pulled. The thing's head was yanked upright and back, until the collar stuck fast against stone. It cried out and flailed, and the hunter noted that it fought with more strength than usual.

An older vampire in this state was exceedingly dangerous. Unlike something living, vampires became more powerful on the brink of starving, burning away their reserves and abandoning their reason in an attempt to secure a meal at any means. They'd been known to take unwary hunters in this way, breaking free and savaging their captor with beastly glee. But she had been fortunate enough to take this one while it was still weak, still growing into the full potential of its unbirth. It could not have been turned more than three months ago.

The hunter wished she could take another measurement of its adolescent fangs, but it would surely not behave for the procedure now, wits too dulled to respond to threats of punishment. She would have to destroy it soon, after some final observations. She released the chain, and stepped back.

The beast was growing frantic, straining against its restraints, desperate for a taste of her. It grunted and growled with frustration. The hunter ignored it, returning to the lectern to take more notes. As she scrawled out her observations, the thing's sounds grew more and more pained. It whined, it spat, it scraped its nascent claws against the stone tiles. The hunter was beginning to grow exasperated. She stood, and pulled the bullwhip from her belt. A bit of pain may quiet it for a time.

Then the creature suddenly went silent. Its ferocity became stillness, but the intensity of its stare remained. The hunter paused, wondering if perhaps the beast still had more wits than she had thought. Could it recognize that it was about to be punished?

Then the hunter felt a chill. She realized far too late that the shadows within the cell were growing darker, draining all the light from the room. She reached for the silver dagger at her waist, and spun towards the door. There had been no warning, and no sound, to mark the thwarting of her wards. The candles beyond the door had all been snuffed out.

“Reveal yourself, abomination!” she said while brandishing the dagger, trying to put the engraved holy symbols between herself and the intruding horror.

Long, clawed fingers clamped around her wrist. Her eyes snapped to it, and followed its pale arm back, already behind her, already in control.

“Drop,” came a voice like the stillness of a frozen corpse, and the hunter let her dagger fall to the floor.

“Very good,” its mocking praise seeped into her flesh, held her in rigor. She felt the press of its lifeless body to her back, as a second hand snaked up her front to hook a finger around her gorget.

“You've been keeping my pet from me,” it whispered into her ear, sending tremors down her spine, “and just look at the state of her.” It spun her around to face the chained creature, which was on its hands and knees, with a predatory grin on its face.

“I do believe you owe her a meal.”

The hunter was consumed by a vision of a fresh deer carcass, guts steaming in the snow, as a wolf tore meat away from its bones. Her mouth went dry.

“But you shall make your apologies to me, first. We have all night to feed my sweet pet.”

The finger grasping her gorget was pulled down, and the protective steel split apart like paper. Cold lips brushed the bare flesh of her neck. She tried to say something defiant, last words before her death agony began, but all that came out was a pitiful croak.

“Ah-ah, not a sound now. You will suffer me in silence. You will save your screams for her.”

She met the young one's eyes and held them as fangs burrowed into her flesh, and claws raked her belly. The cell was filled with the scent of fresh blood. Howls of pain died in her throat, forbidden to cross her tongue. The night was young, and the dead are not possessed of mercy.