#Slate Tile Cleaning

[tilecleaningtoday]

Lincolnshire Tile Doctor Visits Wragby to Renovate Multiple Slate Floors

This client from Wragby contacted me because their Slate tiled shower room floor was covered in limescale and despite trying numerous products they couldn’t get rid of it. Also, for some reason the slate kitchen floor was always sticky, and they wanted this resolving as well. If you haven’t been, Wragby is just East of Lincoln on route to the Lincolnshire Wolds which is an area of outstanding natural beauty.

I went over to the property to survey the tiles and produce a quote for rectifying the problems. I discovered that the Kitchen floor had been over sealed with a solvent based topical seal and that had turned tacky, and in the shower room it wasn’t limescale that was the issue, in fact it was a moisture problem that had bloomed the seal. The tiles needed to be completely dry before applying a sealer or it can cause problems, also because the dining room followed from the kitchen it would need to be stripped as well of sealer and resealed otherwise the two floors would look different in colour.

I quoted for stripping and cleaning all three floors, and then re-sealing. The quote was accepted, and the job was booked in for a few weeks later.

Cleaning a Slate Tiled Kitchen, Dining and Shower Room Floor

To remove the sealer, I used a combination of Tile Doctor Remove and Go mixed with Tile Doctor Pro Clean. This was applied to the floor in the usual way, allowing it to soak in for ten minutes before being scrubbed in with a Black pad. This action removes the old sealer and further cleaned the floor.

The soiling was then rinsed away with water and extracted with a wet vacuum. A couple of the areas were more stubborn that others, so the process was repeated until I was satisfied the sealer was gone and the Slate was as clean.

I setup a couple of air blowers in place to assist with drying and then left the floor to dry out fully overnight.

Sealing a Slate Tiled Kitchen, Dining and Shower Room Floor

Returning the following day, I used a damp meter to take moisture readings and ensure the stone was dry before applying the new sealer, as mentioned earlier it is not a good idea to seal a wet floor.

My client wanted a shine on the floor so for the Kitchen and Dining room I used a topical water-based sealer called Tile Doctor Seal and Go Extra. For the shower floor I explained that due to the moisture it would have to be sealed with a fully breathable impregnating sealer however it would leave a matt finish, they didn’t want a repeat of before so happy to accept my recommendation the shower room floor was sealed with Tile Doctor Colour Grow.

The whole process took 3 days, and all the floors were transformed by the work, certainly my clients were extremely happy with the result. For the aftercare cleaning of Slate floors, I recommend the use of Tile Doctor Neutral Tile Cleaner which an effective tile and grout cleaner but gentle enough not to effect the sealer.

Source: Slate Tile Cleaning and Renovation Service in Wragby Lincolnshire

[eyelambspider]

𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝. - König

Part One || Part Two

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : The WX 400 model, or König, had been sitting in a Cyberlife store for nearly six months without so much as a glance from customers. He had been repurposed from a hard laborer to a sort of domestic care-giver... but the thing was, consumers only wanted the newer models. Until you came by. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 1.2 k 𝐚/𝐧 : consider this my masterpiece, probably will write a second part 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 : fluff, hurt/comfort(?), domestic fluff

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐘𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄. From the sleek tiled floors, to the large window panes that were cleaned daily, to the Androids that stood on display within.

On white pedestals, circled with fluorescent tags and holograms indicating their model numbers and generic purposes: Domestic housekeepers, caretakers, companions. Smaller synthetic machines that had friendly faces and sparkling eyes. Built for a life amongst humans.

He wasn't built for that. No.

His slate-colored eyes had watched for months, lingering over Cyberlife's newest models at the front of the store. A blank expression as each one smiled hopefully. Perhaps something they were programmed to do. To appear friendly?

He considered it a possibility, sure, but the 'front of the store' androids were a stark contrast to his own model.

The WX-series of androids had been built with only one purpose: hard labor, or to put it more simply, construction work.

When customers came into the store they only wanted one thing: a shiny new companion.

Everyday the eyes of those strangers would frown when they saw him. Hardly sparing the WX a glance before they turned around and considered an AX 400 instead.

An android built for housework and taking care of children, with a soft round face and a smile that reached all the way up to her kind blue eyes...

It seemed a diluted plausibility that one day the repurposed WX would eventually find a purpose. With everyday he inched closer to the possibility of being discarded. Simply unwanted.

Until a particularly cloudy day in May, one of the stares had caught his attention, even in his low power mode. Only able to shift his tired seeming eyes and move at a slow pace. Meeting that oddly new curious gaze of yours. The eyes of a stranger finally lingering on him.

Him.

"Excuse me?" You held your hand up sheepishly, asking for assistance from one of the android retailers, a young looking man with a head of soft brown hair and a blue circular LED on his right temple. The holographic label on his chest reading: Ethan.

"Hello, How can I help you?" Ethan stepped next to your side with a light smile.

You pointed to the WX in front of you, feeling a bit silly for even asking but... "Could you tell me about this one?"

The android salesman nodded, hands folded politely behind him, following your gaze towards the decommissioned android, unable to show the usual grimace humans showed the WX.

"Of course," he agreed easily, "This particular model is a WX 400, a decommissioned laborer. They aren't often sold in stores, but if you are interested I could tell you more about it."

The WX watched you nod, his eyes flickering occasionally between you and the sales-android.

"Why is he decommissioned?" you asked quietly, letting the question linger momentarily before Ethan perked up again, unbiased.

"The WX 400 was only decommissioned in its primary purpose, which was doing manual labor," the mechanical man explained with a synthetic smile, gesturing with his hands for your eyes to follow. "It works perfectly fine, and besides some damage to its synthetic skin and body, and a few replaced parts," he managed a soft light-hearted chuckle, "This model works perfectly fine, just not for its intended heavy lifting purposes. It will work perfectly fine for housework. Is that what you were looking for?"

As the sales-android considered the new possibility, he prompted a new question: "We have many other fine models if you are interested in something else."

The statement, whilst a little profound to you, meant next to nothing to the two androids who patiently awaited your answer.

"I was looking for someone to help around the house," you confirm.

The WX before you, nearing seven foot tall easily in the display case, glanced down at you. Unmoving, but like all androids, his eyes held an uncanny humanity within those blue depths.

He could see the consideration on your face. The way your eyes wearily, almost tenderly, traced the lines and deep scars on his synthetic skin. Deep grooves and lacerations running from his fingers, up his strong forearms and disappearing under the fabric of his standard Cyberlife shirt.

Even the androids face, while once maybe even considered handsome, had a deep scar running over its left side. Over his dirty blonde brow and high cheekbone, tracing over his lips to his chin.

It was a wonder he even worked properly, and the unspoken question must've been written all over your face again.

"The WX has had his diagnostics run perfectly well. I assure you the android itself works perfectly fine," Ethan smiled boyishly when you blushed.

"I don't doubt it," you assured him with an unintentionally adorable grin. "I've just... I've never seen an android like him," you admitted softly, those soft eyes meeting the WX's again.

He was looking right at you again.

Immediately your gaze dropped down shyly, unintentionally reading the blue holographic labels that surrounded the short white pillar he stood on.

"He has a name?" You asked, glancing over to Ethan for confirmation.

"Of course, but if you'd like to reset it-"

"No," you stopped him, feeling a bit more confident than you had when you first entered the store.

"König sounds fine to me."

König watched from his display, with a hint of utter- well... what would you call this?

Disbelief? Surprise?

Surprise when your complexion lit with a smile. Surprise when you said his name and turned to walk with the other android to the front of the store? Surprise as his eyes trailed after your form, unable to comprehend you.

For what reason could you possibly want a repurposed android like him?

It didn't make sense in the slightest, and although he watched you, he felt lost, considering possibilities that felt underwhelming in their answers.

His price was lower than others for being damaged. But so many had passed him by.

It was something König considered for a while, never finding a suitable answer until a new initiative popped across his sensors. Jolting him awake once more.

He was registered now to you. Your name popping across his vision like a directive.

"Thank you," you waved to the man who had helped you with a soft smile, getting a vaguely surprised gesture from him.

"Oh- You're very welcome!" Ethan smiled back and watched for a moment longer as you headed up to König, whom at that moment, was given back full control over his mechanical body. Unlocked from his low power mode.

The blue Thirium that cooled and powered his circuits rushed back into him. Circling through his veins and giving him back full control of his body. The world no longer running in slow motion.

König's hands lifted up slowly. The WX inspecting his hands and flexing his fingers into gentle balls. The two of you watched in silent awe as the large android moved once more, no longer destined for a Cyberlife disposal facility... but for.

König's vision refocused as you reached out. Your tiny hand taking one of his. Warm, and unmarred in contrast to his, and he could feel the almost imperceptible beating of your pulse beneath the contact.

"Come on," you smiled, not quite helping him from the stand, but guiding him down the small step. "I'll show you how to get back home, König," you mused, feeling the large androids cut up hand grip yours a bit tighter.

Next >

© Eyelambspider. I only post here on Tumblr! könig photo credit to my friend @koharu-rk800

[trappolia]

── KISS ME ONCE AND KISS ME TWICE AND KISS ME ONCE AGAIN

silver vanrouge. silver dreams of you, always you. it only makes it far more painful to break from the chains of malleus' curse to seek the you that exists beyond his dreamscape.

Silver has always taken his time with you.

He has never been able to tell you why. Lilia says that it is just the way he is, ever since he was a boy; he plays by the rules, he goes by a routine that is, as much as possible, not too affected by his strange sleeping habits.

it is why he goes through the meticulous steps of courting you, offering you flowers and gifting you with thoughtful trinkets and even writing letters for your family while your worlds remain separate. It is why it had to be you to take the first step and kiss him one night during a star-gazing date because gods damn it all, you’re sick of waiting.

( Silver had laughed and laughed that night as you apologised for your callous actions; because you were so cute, because he was so in love, because it had all felt like a dream come true when he allowed himself to ignore tradition to cup your cheeks and pull you into another kiss. )

Silver discovers very early on that even when he takes his time, it's all still overwhelming. Like a dream come true, he used to tell Lilia in bouts of deliriousness when he was still caught between dream and reality and his mind was too muddled with sleep to care about embarrassing himself in front of the fae who had raised him.

Like a dream come true.

But what is his dream, exactly?

A cottage deep in the forest of briar valley, with ivy growing up the walls and over the red-tiled roof. Soft, packed dirt with growing flowers of all kinds, spring blossoms of pink, yellow, blue, red, protected by a low wall. There are no horrors with dripping ink and dragging claws, no glowing emerald eyes or scaled wings. Just grass and flowers and sky and nothing.

No. Not nothing. Because there's you.

"I just cleaned, so remember to take off your boots by the door!" Silver hears you call out from inside the cottage. His chest quakes as he lets out a ragged breath, his bag dropping as he rids himself of the extra weight.

The floor below his dirty boots is clean slate compared to the cluttered kitchen to his left and the living area to his right. Silver sees the same threadbare couch by the stone fireplace, cluttered with throw pillows and blankets and an unfinished knitting project. The couch is old. Used. Loved. There are some closed doors beyond the stairs, but Silver doesn't have to check to know what lies behind them. His old childhood bedroom where Lilia used to tuck him in. A bathroom that has been flooded one or more than a few times when he got too carried away with playtime. The small study where he used to have his lessons on reading and writing.

There's something about the sight of his childhood home that sets Silver off, as if he’s caught in crosswinds, but he fumbles his way inside anyway, toeing his shoes off out of ingrained politeness. His footfalls feel heavy and light all at once against the wooden floors as he walks — almost as if by habit — to the kitchen where he had heard your voice come from.

"There you are," you beam at him, putting a kettle of water on top of the same stove that Silver had watched his father cook his meals so many times. Your brows furrow when you notice the strange expression on his face; the emotions whirling in his aurora irises like a hurricane and the trembling of his bottom lip.

You frown, wiping your hands on a cloth rag. "Silver? what's wrong?"

Silver lets out a ragged breath, his hand shaking as it comes up to cradle your own as you cup his face in your palm. What is wrong? This is all he's ever wanted, isn't it? A life with you in the woods he had grown up in, free of worries and dangers and hurt and anger. He's built a home with no fear, no yelling, no uncertainties. Just like the life lilia always wanted to give him.

It's a dream come true.

"You're a dream," Silver whispers when he realises, his hands coming up to cradle your face in turn. He's shaking, he knows that even with his mind whirling, but he just can't help it— he has to touch you, make sure this isn't— this isn't a nightmare—

No. No, no, no. Malleus wouldn't do that. This is his dream. This is what his heart has always yearned for.

"My dream."

"Well, aren't you sappy today?" you muse, lips quirking up in that soft smile that Silver oh so adores to kiss. "What's the occasion?"

"I—" Silver opens his mouth, but no words come out. What can he say? What can he do, knowing that this is all he's ever wanted, but this is a dream. This is a dream and you're not real but gods, does silver want you to be.

A beat passes, and your smile turns sad.

"You know, don't you?"

Silver feels his heart ache. He wants to tell you no. No, please keep this veil over my eyes. Pretend i don’t know this isn’t real. Please. Please.

You reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear with such tenderness that he feels like crying. “You’ve always been so smart, Silver.”

“I’m sorry,” he allows himself to say, because this is the least he owes you— this perfect imitation of you that his mind, Malleus’s magic, has managed to conjure, because in the short time you’ve known him, you’ve managed to ingrain yourself into every fibre of his being so that even under this spell, all Silver can dream about is you, you, you.

Silver doesn't want to wake up. He doesn't, he really doesn't. There's something in him that pulls at his heartstrings, tugging at every vein and nerve as if begging him to stay, please stay. There must be a reason why you're always falling asleep, why this had to happen. Just stay. This is a dream come true, why would you want to wake up?

“You’re still there,” Silver says in a voice so small, it feels like he’s a little boy again, crying and clinging onto Lilia like the fever that sticks to his skin and reminds him of his mortality.

“You’re still there, and I’m here.”

His childhood home is small, but within the cottage and with your hands cradling his face, the thick walls feels unnaturally closer, like something is breathing on the back of his neck. He’s reminded of you, somewhere in Night Raven College, trapped within your own dream. Do you dream of him, he wonders? Has he become your new dream, just as you have become his?

Will he ever see you again?

Silver can't bear the thought of you somehow waking up from your dream — a matter of when rather than if, because Silver knows that you've always had a knack for getting out of impossible situations like this — and realising that he had left you alone to stay in this eternal sleep, with this dream– this illusion of what could have been.

“I have to go,” Silver whispers, and his heart breaks because this might be a dream, but it’s still you. How can he tell you he’s going to leave? He can’t do that. He can’t break your heart like that, he can’t—

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry— I'm so, so sorry.”

He expects you to stop him. What do the stories say about dreams where you’re supposed to be kept unaware, blissfully oblivious to the fact that this utopia is not your reality? Silver expects this dream version of you to pull some sort of trick to lure him back into your trap—

But instead you just smile softly, reaching out to stroke his face, "How lucky I am to have someone like you love me."

Silver hears something crack, resonating in his soul. Is it the chains of Malleus’s magic breaking its hold on him, or the last pieces of his heart shattering at last? He doesn’t know.

Maybe it’s both.

But whatever it is, Silver knows he doesn’t have much time. His hands cup your cheeks, pulling you close to him with the desperation of a dying man.

He feels you gasp against his mouth, lips parting and allowing his tongue to slip inside. He maps the cavern of your mouth as if immortalising it in his mind, like he’ll never see you again after this— because that is very well a possibility, no matter how he tries to ignore it.

Silver kisses you like it’s his last day in this godforsaken world, because it might as well be, and great seven, he should have done this every time he kissed you. He should have kissed you first. He should have kissed you every moment he could instead of taking his time because now he can hear the sand running in the hourglass, and he’s blind to how much time he has left, and he just wants to see you in the flesh again, please, please, please—

The two of you part an eternity later, but it still feels much too soon. There’s so much love in him, and too little time, and Silver feels like drowning.

"Wait for me," Silver pleads. He'll make this dream come true, he swears. He’ll give you all the love he has in this wretched body of his, and then some. He’ll never sleep again even, if only to make this dream come true.

"I will," you whisper breathlessly—

—and with a bittersweet smile and a final, fleeting kiss to his lips, you let him go.

© trappolia 2024

[suzdin]

Belly of the Beast: Part I

Dark!Dave York x F!reader

Warnings: it’s Dave, so…buckle up! No use of y/n. Homicide with a gun, reader is shot and grievously wounded and dying, graphic descriptions of murder and gore, use of medical equipment/terminology, amateur triage and medical care, Dave is a voyeuristic creep, Stockholm syndrome?, physical restraints, partial nudity, divergence from EQ2 plot and major character deaths mentioned. No mention of wife or kids. No smut this time! (Shocking, I know.) Dark themes obviously, I mean, Dave DOES kill for money, after all.

Summary: You’ve been Dave’s housekeeper for two years. When you arrive for your morning shift, the last thing you expect to see is Dave standing over a body.

This was going to be a one shot but I decided it worked better as a two parter. Enjoy!

Word Count: 4,700

Taglist: tagging the people I know for sure want to be tagged. If you want to be tagged for part II, lmk!

@ohheypedrito @kateispunk @survivingandenduring @kellybelly1978 @awilderi @oberynslady @natdeandar @daddy-dins-girl @heavennumber2 @guelyury

—

The sky is still dark, a faint slice of jagged light cast across a slate colored horizon, when you arrive for the day at Dave York’s home.

You notice his car parked in the driveway as you pull in, checking your messages to make sure you hadn’t missed anything from him, finding nothing. You frown.

Normally, he would tell you when he would be home if he knew you were also going to be there that day. He simply must have forgotten to mention it this time. It wasn’t a big deal; you could just work around him like you always did.

He was gone for work more often than not. What that entails, you aren’t entirely sure of; all you knew was that he worked in D.C. Something bureaucratic, most likely.

What was even more curious than his unannounced presence, however, was a second vehicle parked behind his.

You pull up next to aforementioned vehicle and get out, gathering your bucket of cleaning supplies from the backseat. Dave provided most of what was used, but there were a few items you preferred for various reasons, with his approval, of course. You had been his housekeeper for the last two years, servicing his home bi-weekly, and he paid you well, plus tips. You had few complaints.

Although the home was large and stately, he lived alone as far as you knew. You couldn’t recall seeing anyone there before now.

As you walk along the edge of the driveway to the side door, you note the pale illumination filtering out through the kitchen window onto the concrete, which makes sense considering the time of day. He’s most likely just sitting down to have his coffee and breakfast. You hope you don’t startle him too much.

The sun is ascending rapidly, already burning brighter in the short walk from your car to the door, providing you with enough light to get your key out.

You unlock the side door, which steps directly into a small utility and mud room. The interior door to the kitchen is drawn shut, which wasn’t unusual, but an unfamiliar noise registers as you enter, immediately followed by what sounds like chair legs scraping along the tiled floor, and Dave’s voice saying what sounds like a name. Mac? Is that what you heard?

Your mind fumbles over the original sound, knowing it’s familiar, but that you can’t quite place it, trying to trace its source. You can best describe it as a muted pop, loud enough to notice but not so loud as to sound any alarm bells. Or so you think.

You smell the strong waft of coffee and eggs cooking as you enter. And something else.

The scene that is laid out before you as you push open the kitchen door is the last thing you would ever expect or want to find, and the realization of what the unidentified sound was hits you like a freight train.

What you discover is Dave standing above a body, pistol clutched tightly in his right hand, knuckles turning alabaster, with what you’re certain is a silencer screwed to the end of the barrel.

The body sprawled across the floor belongs to a man you don’t recognize, a pool of fresh blood spreading rapidly from a single gunshot wound to the front of the skull, bone and brain matter studding the kitchen island and wall, the stink of crimson iron filling the air.

Dave’s head snaps up when he hears you enter, his face gone pale, but otherwise completely blank and devoid of emotion.

Your eyes lock.

You think you say his name. You aren’t sure, and the only reason you know you’ve said anything at all is because you feel the muscles in your esophagus stretching and vibrating, your heart thundering inside your rib cage.

You’re smart enough to deduce that this isn’t some home invasion gone awry. The unknown car in the driveway and the trained, emotionless nature at which Dave currently presents himself is testament to that.

The only option left is that Dave killed a man. And now he has his sights trained on none other than you.

You drop the bucket of supplies, the hollow sound of plastic hitting ceramic reverberating in your skull as you turn, your brain screaming at you to run, run.

In hindsight, running was a bad idea. But panic doesn’t always create rationale.

You feel your legs pumping, your lungs sucking in air. You want to scream for help but when you attempt it, the only sound that comes out is a small, strangled croak of terror. You feel like a damsel in distress in every horror movie you’ve ever seen, almost as if you aren’t actually moving at all, like you’re just running in place while the villain slowly catches up to you.

If you could just reach the neighbor’s house. If you could just… reach…

You manage to make it to the driveway, but you’re barely a few steps onto the concrete when that same muted pop registers again, and you instantly feel a sharp, burning, agonizing sting that rips right through you like a hot knife through butter, knocking you ass over teakettle just paces from Dave’s car, your face slamming hard against the ground.

You look down to see the spreading circle of blood on your shirt against your lower abdomen, a geyser of red bubbling up from the wound. And Dave is on you in an instant, hovering above you, gun trained right at your head.

You know you’re a goner. Abdominal gunshots are frequently fatal, at least according to the kind of shows you like to watch. And at the rate you’re seeing your blood spill out, you know it’s anything but good.

Before you fully comprehend what is happening, your vision already waning, you’re pleading for Dave to end your life as quickly as possible, ‘please, please Mr. York, I’ve been good to you. Please do it fast’, you choke out.

But Dave doesn’t kill you. His dark eyes bore into you, through you, and he hesitates. He’s watching you die and beg for him to put you down and yet he can’t bring himself to actually do it, regardless of how many names he’s scratched out of his ledger without remorse. Maybe because you’re just an innocent, wrong place wrong time, but he can’t seem to do it.

“Please, don’t let me suffer,” you sob as you lift a single, quaking hand that is slicked deep burgundy, and still he doesn’t put you down, only lowering the gun to his side, and you can’t help but wonder what you did to deserve to suffer slowly like this.

Finally, some sense of self preservation washes over you, and even as you’re dying, in your final throes of desperation, you start ripping and clawing at your shirt, managing to somehow tear a sizable chunk out of it, in order to make some kind of makeshift tourniquet that could potentially save your life.

Your hands shake and slip, blood pressure dropping rapidly, and your vision wanes more, the edges of the lightening sky fading and blotting away. You suddenly feel very cold and you can feel your heartbeat gradually ebbing to a slow, dull throb.

The last thing you see before your vision goes completely dark is Dave crouching over you, his face screwed up in regret.

——

God damn it.

When Dave had found out only days before that McCall was still alive, and that his old compatriot had sniffed out the details shrouding Susan’s death, Dave had lost all sight of anything else, completely forgetting you were scheduled to clean his house that day.

Had he realized, he would have canceled. It would have made things far less complicated.

But God fucking damn it. He didn’t want to kill you, his militaristic training and instincts piloting his actions when you fled instead of surrendering, intending to put a round in your skull but changing his mind at the last possible fraction of a second so that he totally FUBAR’d the shot and hit your abdomen instead. A gut shot wasn’t much better. In fact, it was worse. Way worse.

You’re still breathing when he finishes applying the crude tourniquet that you had started, which didn’t completely stop the bleeding but slowed it enough to make a difference. That way, he could get you down into the basement where he could apply proper triage.

His medical training was rudimentary and archaic at best, but it was better than nothing. And it was his best chance at keeping you alive.

Your blood soaks through the light blue dress shirt Dave is wearing as he carries you through the house draped in his arms, the one you once told him looked nice on him. He takes you into the basement and places you on his work table — which isn’t sterile — noting no exit wound as he sets you down, which can be good or bad, all things depending.

Thankfully, he locates the bullet readily enough, fishing it out with a narrow pair of forceps, discarding it into a medical pan as he lets out a sigh of relief when he sees the bullet didn’t strike anything crucial, an incredibly lucky feat.

He grabs a skin stapler to close up the wound; a messy and rushed method of closure that would leave behind a pretty significant scar, but he didn’t have the luxury of time to close the wound properly with a needle, especially considering the rate at which his hands were already shaking.

He takes in a deep breath when he finishes stapling you back together and leans over you, examining your face and body visually, his mind racing as to what he should do now. You still had a pulse. You were breathing. But you had lost a lot of blood, and your prognosis wasn’t good.

Frowning, the crease deepening between his brows, he cleans and sterilizes the wound, wrapping you up in proper dressing, which he hopes is enough to stave off any infection. He can’t risk taking you to a hospital. Especially when there’s still a dead man to deal with only a floor above.

The good news is that he knew no one would come looking for McCall, the majority believing him to already be dead, so disposal would thankfully be swift and painless. You, on the other hand, he was unsure of. He knew your parents had passed and you didn’t have siblings, but he didn’t know if there was a boyfriend or girlfriend in your life, or friends who would notice your absence.

His mind reels with every possibility. Dave isn’t a man who enjoys loose ends. Loose ends make his ass itch.

Your shirt is shredded and bloody, so he removes the remainder of it, leaving you in a soft black cotton bra. He doesn’t let his eyes wander, although, at the back of his mind, he realizes he has always found you attractive. Just as quickly as it dawns on him, he shakes the thought from his mind; it is neither the time nor place for such endeavors.

He removes your shoes but not your socks, knowing you would be cold from having lost so much blood. He might actually put one of his pairs over your own, for good measure.

After a long beat of silent contemplation, Dave scoops you up into his arms once more.

——

You wake up from a fitful sleep some hours later, in a bed you’ve never slept in before. The room around you is dark, shades drawn, a faint light flooding in from beneath a closed door.

When you attempt to sit up, pain lances through your torso and you cry out, your back hitting the mattress. You immediately realize, much to your horror, that you’re also handcuffed to a bedpost. Even if you could move without effort, you aren’t exactly going anywhere.

Your memory suddenly comes flooding back in a tidal wave of images, recalling all of the events that lead up to this point; the body on the kitchen floor, the gunshot, Dave staring down at you with a pistol in his hand.

But you aren’t in a hospital and this isn’t a hospital bed. You’re in Dave’s bedroom. In Dave’s bed.

The door clicks open and a familiar silhouette steps into the room, regarding you in steely silence. You recognize the broad shoulders right away, the thick arms, the short cropped hair.

Your pulse quickens, your body and mind telling you to flee again, even though you know you can’t, causing you to flinch with a choked whimper when he takes a step toward you.

“I wouldn’t move, sweetheart. You lost a lot of blood,” Dave explains, his voice low and soft to your ears as he approaches the bed.

Your body is trembling hard. So hard that it makes the entire bed vibrate.

He’s no longer wearing the blue shirt or black slacks from before, now dressed in a slate gray t-shirt and Adidas sweats. His dark eyes study you as he sits next to you on the edge of the bed. If you weren’t so weak, you think you would strike him.

He lifts the back of his hand to your cheek and you flinch again.

“Shh,” he tuts, “I’m not going to harm you.”

His hand presses to the soft round of your cheek, your forehead, checking for fever.

“Y-you— you s-shot me—?“ you croak.

“I reacted poorly,” Dave agrees with a small nod, his lips parted softly, “but you also shouldn’t have run.”

“You k-killed… that man…”

“I did, indeed.” His eyes grow a shade darker, his brow knitting together, lending him a sinister appearance. “But that man was threatening me. That man was going to kill me…” Dave explains, an edge of malice and contempt to his voice. “I was left with few options.”

You stare back, unblinkingly, trying to decide what to say next, if anything.

“My family will come looking for me,” is what you settle on, a wash of bravery suddenly welling up within you.

To that, Dave smirks, eyes remaining dark, hand lowering to the bed by your hip.

“What family?” Dave asks, smirk slanting even more, his tone semi-mocking. “Do you really think I would hire someone to come into my home without doing a full investigation on them?”

Your jaw drops open, hanging slack in the air, as it dawns on you that a trained killer has been right under your nose this entire time. You would scream if you had the lung capacity to do so.

You should have seen the patterns. Noticed the signs. The constant travel, the lack of personal touches to his home, the pinpricks of blood you occasionally found on his clothes that you excused for other things. That one room in the basement he forbade you from entering.

But you hadn’t, causing you to nearly pay with your life.

Truth is, Dave had picked you for good reason, and it wasn’t just because of the exemplary reviews. You were naive and trusting, you had no family, no criminal record, you didn’t work for an agency; you worked solo. Your work ethic and reliability were just cherries on top.

You look down to notice the IV needle in your hand, and you lift it in examination, your hand shaking and sputtering weakly. No… no, you really had no clue who this guy was at all.

Dave watches you for a beat before he gently grasps your hand and places it back down on the bed, regarding you with uncharacteristic softness and empathy.

You feel your consciousness starting to drift then as Dave pulls the covers back to check the dressings, finding they’re still intact and that the wound hasn’t reopened from what he can tell. He’ll clean and redress everything in the morning. For now, you need rest.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells you, stepping out of the room for what feels like only a meager blip of time to you, but when you open your eyes again, he’s hovering above you once more with a thermometer and an ice pack.

“Open up,” he instructs, and you do so obediently.

“Good girl,” Dave praises as he checks your temperature, and you close your eyes.

When the thermometer beeps, which feels like an eternity later, he frowns, exhaling a long sigh. “101.5. Here,” he says, leaning to the side where he opens a drawer on the night stand, a bottle of aspirin rattling somewhere next to your head. The sound is grating, making your head throb, and suddenly the lamp seems too bright.

He feeds you some pills and gives you a drink of water from a nearby tumbler, which you guess was also on the nightstand, but aren’t too sure.

He pulls the blanket back up all the way to your chin and places the ice pack on your forehead, staring down at you. Although Dave was the reason you were even here at all, he is treating you with a surprising amount of tenderness.

“You need to eat,” he says after a moment. “Dinner is almost ready.”

——

You must pass out again, because when your eyes reopen, Dave stands next to you with a small tray table filled with food.

“Chicken and dumplings,” he explains. “It will keep the cold away.”

You nod your head weakly as he places the tray over you. When you reach for the spoon, he stops you, blocking your hand with his own.

“Let me,” he says, picking up the spoon. “I don’t want you moving anymore than necessary.”

You have to keep reminding yourself that he’s the one who shot you. He’s why you’re in this mess in the first place. Why you’re here, injured, with a hole in your abdomen, chained to his bed.

The way he’s acting shouldn’t be trusted.

You try to resist, but he grabs your jaw with the other hand and forces it to pop open, pressing the spoon past your lips as he ladles the soup into your mouth, much to your displeasure.

“Eat,” he says softly, but sternly, his features darkening in regard.

The food is warm, as promised, and delicious. You aren’t sure of the last time you ate, not knowing what time or even what day it is, but you soon realize you’re starving. Because of this, the second spoonful is not met with as much resistance as the first, your mouth hinging open in resignation and acquiescence.

Dave’s eyes zero in on your soft lips. The way they twitch ever so slightly as they divide. The way your tongue looks so velvet and inviting…

He feeds you slowly, thoughtfully, watching your every move, his own lips parted in concentration as you take in the much needed sustenance.

By the end of it, you’ve managed to polish off about half the bowl. Seemingly satisfied with that, he makes you drink some Gatorade.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask weakly as soon as you swallow down a couple gulps of the blue liquid, your consciousness ebbing and flowing by the second. Dave looks at your face, but he doesn’t give you an answer. He doesn’t have one to give.

Part of him wishes he did.

“I have to pee,” you tell him suddenly when you notice the familiar stab of discomfort in your lower region. A realization that sends a jolt of anxiety rushing through you, your pulse racing when you watch his face fall. He hadn’t even thought of that…

His skills and equipment were limited to wound care, so of course he hadn’t put a catheter in. He wouldn’t know how even if he did happen to have one.

He deliberates on what to do. He didn’t have a bed pan. But, he was sure he could find something comparable to use.

Or he could help you to the bathroom. He has an en suite, it was literally only steps around the bed. But the space was tight. It would take some maneuvering. And he would have to be close to you the entire time. Not to mention uncuffing you from the bed.

In the end, that’s what he settles on.

“Let me help you to the bathroom, sweetheart,” he says to you, pulling the blankets back, and you are cold. So cold. Your flesh pebbling with the lick of cool air against your skin.

He unlocks the handcuffs and you massage your sore wrist and shoulder the moment you have full motion of your arm again.

“Slowly,” he instructs, his voice low and even. “Grab the IV stand.”

You do as you’re told, gripping the cool steel in your hand as you grasp his forearm with the other while he gingerly manipulates you into a sitting position. You cry out at the sudden dagger of pain that slices through your lower gut, and he does his best to steady you against him.

He did this to you, you keep reminding yourself. He did this to you.

He lifts you carefully, slowly, and you groan at the swell of pain when he places you on your feet.

“Easy, easy…” he murmurs, one arm circling your waist to keep you upright. You flinch at the contact.

You make it to the bathroom easily enough, light flooding the small room as Dave flips the switch. A bathroom you’ve cleaned countless times. There was rarely much to clean in here, save for the occasional whisker in the sink, or some light trash in the bin.

Dave was neat and fastidious, and not frequently home. You often wondered why he needed someone to clean his house in the first place.

The space looks no different than usual, but right now it feels… different. You shouldn’t be here.

He guides you to the toilet, and when you get there, you stare down at it, pondering to yourself how this is going to work.

He seems hesitant to leave your side.

“Go ahead,” he tells you softly, “I won’t look.”

You freeze. The last thing you want is to expose your body to him when he already has several advantages on you. But your bladder is screaming at you to go, especially now given your proximity to the porcelain bowl, and you can barely stand on your own, your arms and legs wobbling.

You watch as he turns his back, placing himself between you and the exit. You bend just slightly to tug your bottoms down, but it’s too much, more pain coursing through your body. You yelp, unable to even budge the fabric.

“Hey,” Dave says, turning back to face you, “Let me help you.”

“No, I—I got it,” you protest, your arms shaking, attempting it again, only to end up with the same result. “Fuck—“

“Hey,” Dave says a second time, more sternly than before, as he moves in to your space. “Let me help. I promise I won’t touch you.”

You tremble. You’re cold, you’re frightened, you’re weak. So weak. You’re in your bra, partially exposed to him already. Yet, you concede with a nod anyway. You’ll piss yourself if you don’t.

He mirrors your nod in silent confirmation and moves closer, crowding into your intimate space, his fingers finding the waistband of your leggings and underwear. He slides them down your hips and legs in unison, all the way to your knees. As promised, he doesn’t touch you more than he needs to.

But he has to look. He needs to see where his hands are in relation to your body in order to keep himself from accidentally breaking his promise of touching you in a way you didn’t consent to, and another part of him just can’t help it, either. He is a man, after all, and he wasn’t currently seeing anyone. Romance wasn’t exactly optimal for someone in his position, his attention honed in on his work above all else.

When the nights were long and lonely enough, he would, on occasion, share his bed with a sex worker, but aforementioned nights were few and far between. He enjoyed his job. He got off on it. Romance was often placed on the back burner.

But there’s just something about you. Especially now, with how vulnerable you are, that he finds irresistible.

His gaze only lingers on your bared skin for a moment, big brown puppy dog eyes roving over your soft curves, holding on to you as he lowers you down to the commode. And, god, you’re just as beautiful as he imagined, his skin heating at the sight of your soft folds.

“Call for me when you’re done,” he grates quietly as he takes a step out of the bathroom, blood rushing to certain parts of his body, shutting the door to give you a modicum of privacy, which you’re more than grateful for.

His eyes on you had not gone unnoticed. You weren’t stupid and you weren’t seeing anyone either, currently; his attention, regardless of how brief, had made your skin heat and your core pulse with need. You clear your throat and try to discard the thought.

Dave is why you are here. Dave is dangerous. So dangerous he can’t even take you to a hospital to get proper medical attention. Stop it.

It feels like you pee for ages. You aren’t totally convinced you’re awake for most of it. Eventually, you finish, even managing to wipe yourself, in spite of things, which you’re relieved for. You wouldn’t want him to do it for you; that would be humiliating and degrading.

You call for Dave when you’re done and he returns in an instant, hoisting you to your feet as he pulls your pants and underwear back up and over your hips, trying not to think about your soft cunt. You can see how hard he’s trying not to look at you.

“Good?” he asks. You nod.

Bracing yourself against him, he helps you back to the comfort of the bed. It smells like him, despite how little he’s actually in it. You hiss through your teeth as he manipulates you into position, adjusting the pillows and covers until you’re as comfortable as possible.

You’re cold. Freezing, in fact, despite it being the swell of summer.

“I’m c-cold,” you lament to Dave, crossing your arms over your chest beneath the blanket.

Dave’s lips pinch to the side in thought. “Hold on.”

He returns a moment later with an extra blanket, tossing it over you, tucking the edges neatly around your form, taking extra care to be gentle, noteably around your abdomen.

As you watch him, his face and eyes soft, his hair mussed and unkempt, you ask yourself once again why he’s doing all of this for you.

Guilt? Shame? Something else?

You don’t have much time to ruminate on it for too long before your consciousness peters away once more.

——

Dave sighs as he watches you slip back into listlessness. You’re doing better than he anticipated, but you aren’t out of the woods yet. He knows how much blood you had lost; he’d spent hours cleaning it. Not to mention McCall, the remains of which he had delivered to an acquaintance who works at the industrial incinerator on the outskirts of town, after tending to you.

He loops your hand back through the cuff on the bedpost and peers down at you. You’re so beautiful; he hopes you make it. He wishes you hadn’t run from him. God, why did you run? He doesn’t want you to meet the same fate as McCall. He doesn’t want to know what your incinerated body smells like.

Every body has a different smell, in his experience.

He gives you another dose of morphine to reduce any pain you may be feeling and to keep you knocked out for a few more hours, checking for fever again, which is currently holding steady. It was good that it wasn’t going up. Any higher and you could potentially be in trouble. He’ll keep checking throughout the night to be on the safe side.

He sighs, knowing he’ll have to stay in town for weeks, which he detested doing. He hated staying in one place for longer than required. But he didn’t have much of a choice at this point.

He turns off the light and shuts the door behind him as he leaves you to rest.

Part II coming soon!

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Very spacious, original, 1959 mid-century modern in Duluth, MN. 3bds, 3ba, $525K.

But, I wonder if this is why they decided to get out.

The underside of the house is deteriorating and water is eroding the ground that it's on, but the listing says it's solidly in the rock.

Inside, you can see how spacious it is, and how it needs decor.

There are so many closets. They could use a good cleaning and polish.

It just looks so dirty and neglected.

I like the 3 sided fireplace.

This is so spacious. The slate floor could use a good polishing, too.

The kitchen needs some work. The stove is too small for the space and I don't know what's happening above it. The copper tile backsplash is kinda cool, but the cabinets need a good degreasing and polish.

This bedroom is nice and has an en-suite. The carpet needs to be torn up, though.

The bath has original blue tiles and an interesting sink.

I would say that this larger room is the primary, b/c it also has access to a deck.

It has an en-suite. I like the one-piece sinks. There's plenty of storage in here, too, plus a makeup vanity.

I also like the gray tub and sink. This bath was retiled and I'm not sure about the sink. It may be original.

Here's a bonus room- an indoor pool, but it looks like a total gut. Black mold on the wall and the liner looks shot. Not to mention the carpet.

The roof looks like cement.

There's a walkway under here.

0.34 Acre lot

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/3328-E-Superior-St-Duluth-MN-55804/61518190_zpid/

[kindlingkeen]

Keen!! No pressure or anything but will you ever write Jason&Damian-centric fics? hehe

Dick finds him on the top of the Old Gotham Cathedral at dawn. 

Jason hears the sound of boots touching down behind him and doesn’t bother to turn around. Nightwing has always had a different cadence to his landing than the Bat. It’s lighter, softer. He can never really suppress the bounce to his step.

Jason runs his hand over the head of the stone gargoyle to his right once more, the weather-roughened stone catching against his bare palm.

“I’ll be gone by tonight,” he says evenly. “I just had a few things to take care of while I was in town.”

“Hood,” Dick calls softly, “Jason, please.”

Jason hunches deeper into his hoodie. He feels naked without his leather jacket.

In front of him, the Gotham’s skyline stretches out. The buildings are bathed in the pink rays of the newly rising sun. For a moment, the city’s darkness, the poison-riddled grime that covers everything, fades away in the sun’s burgeoning glow.

“What do you want, Wing?” Jason asks irritably.

Dick’s boots scuff against the roof's slate tiles as he moves closer. Jason knows Nightwing can be absolutely silent when he wants to. His shoulders climb up higher, practically to his ears. He doesn’t turn around.

“Aren’t you going to ask about the kid?”

“No,” Jason grinds out, ignoring the way his stomach twists. His hand clamps down hard against the gargoyle’s head, his fingers digging into the stone. He feels one of his thumbnails crack and tear.

“He stabbed Tim.”

Jason snorts softly as he rolls his shoulders back slowly, letting his hand fall away from the statue to rest in his lab. “I warned you about letting him near weapons.”

“It was a butter knife!”

Jason huffs a breath out his nose, amused in spite of himself. He pretends not to notice when Dick plops down onto the roofline three feet away from him. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as the vigilante hunches forward, propping an elbow onto his knee with a sigh as he drops his chin into his hand. Even with Nightwing’s domino in place, Jason can feel Dick’s eyes boring into the side of his face.

“Jay, he’s refusing to speak in anything except Arabic. B is the only one who can understand him.”

The tilt to Jason’s lips falls away. “Don’t call me that. And the kid knows English. He’ll come around.”

“He’s not even five years old. He lost his mother. His home. He got dragged halfway around the world only to be left with strange people in a strange place.”

Jason glances over sharply, finally meeting Dick’s gaze directly.

“Does the Bat know you’re here, Wing?”

Dick grimaces. “He won’t stop asking for you, Jason. He cried himself to sleep last night, and the only thing he would say was your name.”

Pain lances through Jason’s chest as white-hot heat clogs his throat.

“What are you to him, Jason? You bringing him here—it’s more than just you owing Talia a favor.” 

Nightwing’s white lenses stare at him unblinkingly. Jason looks away.

“You still haven’t told me what you want, Wing. You can’t guilt trip me into something if I don’t know what you’re asking for.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Dick says softly, “Come home, Jason. Please, we need you.”

Jason surges to his feet, stumbling back a step before he catches himself. The scar across his neck throbs.

“The manor isn’t my home,” he rasps. “Not anymore. I’m not welcome there.”

Dick springs gracefully to his feet, following Jason’s retreat with measured steps as Jason continues to back away slowly across the roof.

“It is, you are,” he entreats, and then more softly, “please, for Damian. He needs you.”

Jason swallows, his throat working. He feels the echo of a warm weight in his arms, soft hair tickling his face, the fresh, clean smell of a baby wafting thickly through his nose.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Jason whispers, his voice cracking at the end. But he stops moving away.

He can see the knowledge that he’s won wash over Dick’s face a second before the man smiles tentatively. Jason scowls in return.

“One week,” he spits out. “Just until the kid settles in. And the Bat stays out of my way. Don’t start playing happy families in your head.”

Dick’s smile grows. “Sure, Jay, whatever you want.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jason grumbles. But he follows Dick off the roof all the same.

~~~

More details on this AU in progress here.

[scoobysnakz]

Hard Luck

It’s hard finding love when your sole reason to live is your daughter, but when her best friends dad is annoyingly attractive and might have something to do with your rent randomly getting paid, who can blame you for being a little curious?

||* mentions of masturbation (m receiving)

Chap i

The crisp autumn air carries a sense of nostalgia, which surprises you. It has been a while since you've experienced autumn in this way, but nostalgia is supposed to be a pleasant feeling, right?

Your daughter's small, chubby fingers firmly grip your hand as you playfully swing your arm out of her reach. You can't help but laugh at her adorable pout when you pull your hand away.

"I'm just teasing you," you say with a wide grin, extending your hand for her to take. "Stop being a grouch and hold my hand, RayRay!"

Her scowl quickly turns into a cheesy grin as she latches onto your hand. The sound of her pencil case and notebook thumping matches the rhythm of her skipping, and her glittery, purple sequin backpack bounces on her back.

Raya, or RayRay as you playfully call her, is your best friend. It's a bit sad, you know, but you've never really had time for friends. Ever since her dad left, she's been the only person in your life, aside from colleagues and your parents. And it's not so bad. She has adapted to your lifestyle, developed a sense of humor—her sarcasm is surprisingly on point for a nine-year-old.

The journey from your rundown apartment to her school isn't long, but it's far enough for the houses to transform from shabby boxes with crooked slate tiles to fancy condos with gleaming windows. It always amazes you how a few turns can take you to an area where people don't even know the meaning of a food bank.

You can tell by appearances alone that you don't fit in. The navy blue cable-knit sweater and boyfriend jeans, dirtied with mud stains, don't exactly scream, “I can afford more than one vacation a year!"

On the other hand, Raya always looks pristine. Well, maybe that's an exaggeration, but you'd rather wear nothing than have your daughter look as unkempt as you. Ensuring she has enough clean, stain-free clothes is your number one priority.

As you round a corner, narrowly missing a puddle that Raya "only wanted to look at" and not jump in, her disappointed expression gives her away.

Parents bustle around, urgently trying to retrieve their kids from the playground. It's nearly impossible to spot her teacher amidst the crowd of what seems like millions of moms, dressed in thick white scarves and thigh-high brown boots.

And then you hear it—a loud screech that, under different circumstances, would signify fear instead of the original joy it was intended for. "RAYYYY!" an excited girl squeals from the opposite end of the playground. Her dark brown hair is scraped back into a painfully tight ponytail as she races toward your daughter.

The two girls jump up and down gleefully, holding each other closely. It's a nice seeing her not alone.

You're so engrossed in watching your daughter giggle with her friend that you fail to notice the tall man standing next to you. What catches your attention first is his cologne—it's expensive.

The scent of thick oak is overpowering on its own, but it's tempered by the most unremarkable shower gel known to man.

"They're cute, aren't they?" he asks, causing you to turn your head and face him. You bite your lower lip for a moment, trying to figure out who this guy is. "Yeah... they are," you murmur, tilting your head to the side.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" Your words come out ruder than you intended, but you can't be bothered to fix your manners when a surprisingly attractive man is staring at your daughter, enjoying her time with another child. If you weren't genuinely confused about his identity, you might have reacted more strongly. Instead, you stand there, arms folded and brow furrowed.

"I'm... sorry, I'm Gabi's dad," he explains, his tone surprisingly apologetic.

That's her name.

"I'm Raya's dad," you reply, nodding toward the two girls. Hearing who he is instantly eases your fear that he might be something worse than just a father.

An awkward silence ensues as the man continues to study your appearance, seemingly taking you in. With a soft laugh, he smiles at you—a warm and irritatingly charismatic smile. "You don't look like a dad," he grins.

You open your mouth to give him a sharp, quick-witted retort, but your expression falters when you realize your mistake. Refusing to let this stranger have the upper hand in your first interaction, you smirk at him. "What do you mean?" you ask, poking your tongue past your lips to swipe across your teeth.

He instantly catches on to your smirk, and to be honest, it's endearing. "Because you don't look likea typical dad," he responds, matching your quickness. The same mischievous grin is plastered on both of your faces as you engage in a playful stare-down.

This morning, when you hastily applied expired mascara and cheap lip balm while trying to wake up Raya, you never expected to encounter such an annoyingly funny and undeniably attractive man—by your standards, at least.

With high cheekbones, thick eyebrows, and broad shoulders, anyone would take a second look at him.

The loud peal of the school bell interrupts your scrutinizing gaze, drawing your attention back to your daughter. You quickly give her a kiss on the cheek, and she instinctively wipes it away while giving you a glare, before you push her towards the school entrance.

The man—whose name you still don't know, aside from being Gabi's father—does the same, but his daughter doesn't wipe away the kiss.

"When I asked who you were, I was hoping for a name," you mutter, mostly to yourself, but hoping he hears it too.

"Miguel," he responds, his voice lacking the warmth he had when his daughter was present.

"I'm..." you begin to introduce yourself, but he cuts you off, his voice now tinged with cockiness.

"I know who you are," he says, raising an eyebrow. Your scoff makes it clear how creepy he sounds. "Gabi talks about Raya a lot, and with you being her mother, it's only natural."

You narrow your eyes at Miguel, feeling a mix of surprise and curiosity. Raya is your world, and beyond that, you've kept everything else tightly guarded. It's a defense mechanism, a way to shield yourself from potential hurt or judgment.

"What exactly does Gabi say about Raya?" you ask, your voice tinged with caution. You're not sure if you should be flattered or concerned that your daughter is a topic of conversation between Miguel and his daughter.

Miguel chuckles, seemingly amused by your response. "She just talks about how funny and cool Raya is," he replies. "They've become good friends at school. Gabi is always excited to see her."

There's feel a sense of relief that washes over you. It's comforting to know that Raya has found a friend who appreciates her for who she is.

“Well I need to go,” you say while motioning over to the school gates. “Work and stuff.”

He nods his head, expression just as nonchalant as it was moments ago.

***

After dropping off Raya at school, and a brief yet intriguing conversation with Miguel, you head back home. It's considerably warmer now than it was before; sun poking out of the clouds, shining down onto the leaf-littered pavement. The odd car whizzes past and it's all you can do to jump away in time before it splashes you in murky brown liquid.

Fortunately for you, you don't have to leave for work until ten so you get some time to yourself. As soon as you unlock the door to your apartment, it took longer than you'd like to admit as you forgot which way to turn the key, you flop down onto the worn-in sofa. It creaks beneath you- a sign that you need to get a new one.

If you had the money, you would. God, if you had the money you’d move out of this shitty apartment and into… anywhere else. Maybe a house on the coast would be nice, or one of those fancy condos by Raya’s school. Either way, you want out.

You feel your eyes grow heavy, the temptation to allow yourself a few moments of sleep all too good. With a low groan, you pull yourself up off the sofa and drag your feet over to the kitchen to make yourself some coffee.

You open the jar only to find a minuscule amount granules left- six to be exact. All you want is that burst of energy and yet you are denied it. “Fuck me,” you grumble under your breath.

***

Even though it was a painfully short moment between the two of you, Miguel decides you are tolerable. Okay, maybe you’re more than tolerable, he'll settle for bearable as he's feeling especially nice today. You’re funny, well that might be a bit dramatic since he hasn’t even had a proper conversation with you, but you made him laugh- internally that is.

But right now he needs to push you, the nice lady with a pretty smile and even prettier face, out of his mind. He has to focus on this paperwork that's been sitting on his desk for God knows how long.

Begrudgingly, he picks up his pen with a sigh and starts scrawling his signature on the limitless reams of paper. It's all nonsense about him signing off on random projects, and safety procedures and- those sweet lips.

Something about you is intoxicating. Even when he was skimming through the infinite amount of universes, you didn't seem that special. Yes, there were the odd facts that caught his attention but everything else just seemed… dull. So why now, after not even a full five minutes of your company, can't he get you out of his head?

At first, he assumes it's because you’re oddly charismatic but that's not it. You weren't even trying, you just didn't want him to pull a fast one on you. Maybe, just maybe, he underestimated your personality and being around you as a real person and not some fact file actually made you likeable- no, bareable.

Double checking his office door is closed and the blind is pulled down over the frosted glass before sliding back into his chair. “LYLA,” he calls out, words muffled by his head in his hands.

There’s a small glitch next to him that quickly turns into a digitalized woman. “You called?” LYLA asks, hands on her hips.

Fuck he feels guilty but maybe seeing that cocky smirk on your face will ease the culpability he’s feeling. “You… you know what I want and I don’t want teasing or anything about it, just do it, ‘kay?” Miguel’s voice is gruff, full of an annoyance he doesn’t even know he’s feeling.

“Why would I tease you about wanting to innocently look at something?” she drawls with a smirk.

He shoots her a look, an unamused one at that. Giggling childishly, LYLA pulls up a screen full of writing. Miguel’s eyes flicker back and forth trying to find something until he catches a glimpse of your name.

He swipes and flicks the blue pixels a few times before your socials are pulled up. It’s nothing much, just your Twitter, Facebook and a surprising amount of Instagram accounts. That, makes him laugh. He can tell exactly which ones are the accounts you use for stalking people and which ones are for actually posting things.

There are mostly pictures of you and Raya together on days out but there are a few of you on nights out nights out alone. He immediately notices you never post anything with friends and it’s oddly comforting because it’s not just drunk girls with smeared eyeliner that’s missing from your pictures. It’s a boyfriend as well.

Not that he wants to fill that missing gap in your selfies, he's just feeling a little lonely cooped up in his office. He's in this universe for Gabi and no one else, not the lady with a pretty smile.

Just as he’s about to zoom in on a picture that shows an alluring amount of your cleavage, LYLA cuts him off. “I like her smile,” she says while getting up a different picture. This time it’s one of you and Raya in last year's Halloween costumes. Pirates. That’s the two of you had dressed up as.

You’d drawn a black beard on her face, Raya’s outfit cute with the oversized black and white striped shirt meanwhile you… A tight black and red corset pushes your chest in a way that makes something inside Miguel stir.

He shouldn't be looking at you like this- it's wrong and perverse. The two of you only met today and yet he's salivating over a picture of you in a Halloween costume. Yet he can't stop himself from allowing his body to react to the way you look.

That feeling slips down from his chest to his gut until it eventually reaches his crotch. You look so pretty like that, cheeks appled and eyes wide as you pull a stupid face with your daughter. The picture is innocent enough in its own right but seeing you in something ever so slightly revealing makes his brain malfunction.

He bets could make you prettier, more gorgeous than ever if you let him. His cum painting your perfectly plump lips and his hands gripping bruises into your supple flesh.

[sashaisready]

Chapter Twenty-Three - Hell if I know

Bucky Barnes Mob AU x Femme Reader

You're hard at work in Pepper's Bakery when notorious mob boss James 'Bucky' Barnes darkens your doorway one typical afternoon, and life is never the same again.

Warning: PTSD/trauma response, Steve being cute

18+ - see Masterlist for full list of warnings

Chapter 24

Series Masterlist

Thank-you to everyone who has read, liked, reblogged and commented on this series! It means so much and I love hearing your thoughts!! Just two parts left now - to be posted tomorrow (13th Dec).

You had finally peeled yourself out of bed so Bucky could debrief his men after the events of last night. He’d shown you the ensuite bathroom and laid out some spare clothes so you didn’t need to put last night’s back on (you’d asked him to throw them out). He told you firmly to come downstairs and have some breakfast when you were ready. Not that you were particularly hungry, but after you’d protested he had shot you a warning look and you’d buckled – not wanting to put a dampener on the mood after your morning together.

It was easily the best shower of your life. Bucky’s guest bathroom was impressive, a huge walk in waterfall shower amongst brand new fittings and slate grey tiles. There were array of fancy toiletries on the shelf, each stylish bottle probably the same price as your monthly electric bill.

The water pressure was intense, you closed your eyes and allowed the hot water to wash everything away. You took your time washing your hair, taking care to scrub every inch of yourself and wipe away every trace of HYDRA and that night. Every speck of dust, blood, sweat.

You lost track of time as you enjoyed the feeling of the warm water on your skin. After washing your hair you took a moment to lean against the tiles, which proved to be a mistake.

You weren’t sure if it was the feel of the hard surface on your back but suddenly you were transported back to the attic in the warehouse, folding yourself into the corner and holding tight against the wall as you hid and waited in the dark. Your breaths became short and laboured as the room started to spin. The steam from the shower, once comforting and soothing, suddenly seemed stifling and threatening. Fear coursed through you as you were struck by the idea that there was someone in the bathroom with you, hiding within the steam, waiting for you, even though you knew the door was locked from the inside.

You were bent over double as you finally began to push through it. Eventually you managed to regulate your breathing and calm down, switching the water off and wrapping yourself in a fluffy towel as you cautiously moved to the door. Nobody there, of course, nobody in the bedroom either. You exhaled, taking a second to adjust. You had a feeling that wasn’t going to be a one off.

The bathroom was also generously stocked with toiletries - everything a guest might need including new toothbrushes and hair products. After making use of the deodorant and toothpaste you pulled on the clothes Bucky had left for you, navy blue sweat pants, a t-shirt and a large hoody - a pair of boxers too. Everything was too big for you but they were comfy, and they smelled like him too.

You gingerly left the room with your wet hair and borrowed clothing. No Scott guarding outside any more, the house seemed quiet. You crept down the stairs, once again in awe of Bucky’s home. You couldn’t believe anyone in New York had this much space, your shoebox apartment could fit in this floor alone several times over. Everything was modern and looked brand new, pristine white walls and immaculate floors. He must have a cleaning team working round the clock.

You didn’t see anyone as you went down the stairs, crossed the hall and made your way into the intimidatingly enormous kitchen. Nobody there either, just every food gadget you could ever imagine and a table big enough to host a small army. But you supposed that made sense, there seemed to be dozens of people here at any one time. You fantasised about baking there, using the state of the art food mixer and spreading everything out across the many surfaces - a world away from your tiny kitchen at home, where you huddled everything onto your meagre counter with your well-trodden mixer running on nothing but sheer force of will at this point.

You fought your way through the seemingly hundreds of cabinets to finally retrieve a cup and then moved on to trying to figure out the coffee machine. Unfortunately you seemed to need an engineering degree to work it, so hadn’t got very far when you heard someone come into the kitchen behind you.

“She’s awake! How are you today, cupcake?” A cheerful voice called out.

You whipped around to find Steve walking towards you, grinning. He was wearing a slick grey suit, looking every inch the part of second in command.

“Cupcake…? Oh, ‘cos I’m a baker…yeah I get it. Clever” you giggled, rolling your eyes.

“I’m not just a pretty face”. He shot you a wink as he moved to the coffee machine and started pressing buttons .

“She’s got a bit of a knack to her, just need to show her who’s boss and-“

The machine whirred to life and he turned to give you a satisfied smile.

“Thank you, Steve” you beamed back at him. “Where’s Bucky?”

“A little caught up - he’ll be back later. Sorry to say you’re stuck with me for now. So, what we having?”

He takes off his jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves. You blink at him for a moment before you realise he’s offering to make you breakfast.

“Steve…you don’t have to babysit me. I can make my own eggs” you chuckle.

“Eggs it is…”. He retrieves a carton from the fridge. “So how we doing this? Fried? Boiled? Scrambled? I can even poach if that’s what you’re into…”

“It’s fine…I can do it” you lightly scold him.

“Mmm sorry but I’m under strict orders here. So drink your coffee and tell me what how you like them before I pick for you” he says sternly.

“Fine. Scrambled, please. On toast” you sigh in defeat.

You feel uncomfortable being doted on like this. You’re very independent and used to taking care of yourself. This isn't you.

“Perfect. Let’s go” Steve replied, pulling out a pan and moving to the stove while he grabbed a loaf of sourdough.

“So is this how it all goes down every time?” You tease. “You distract the girls with breakfast the morning after, while Bucky makes a quick exit?”

Steve turns to you and grins. “This is the first time, actually”.

“Bullshit”.

“It is! Would you believe me if I told you most girls don’t even make it to breakfast?” He tells you wickedly.

“Wow, charming” you scoff.

“Well, Bucky knows you’ve had a rough night and asked me to take care of you” he admits earnestly. “You certainly keep him on his toes, cupcake”.

You blush at that, averting your eyes as you clutch your cup. You sit in a comfortable silence for a few minutes as Steve hums and cooks. The toast pops up, Steve plates up your meal and brings it over as you take a seat at the kitchen island.

“Thank you, Steve. This is very sweet of you”.

“Don’t thank me yet” he shoots back, waving a spatula warningly as he puts the pan in the sink. “I’m a bit rusty in the kitchen. This isn’t one of my usual duties…”

You laugh and take a bite, humming with happiness as you chew.

“Good, huh?”

“I mean it’s possibly because I haven’t eaten in like…seventeen hours? But yeah it’s really good, thank you”. You smile at him.

And you are grateful. As much as you don’t like people fussing over you, you can’t deny it’s nice to be cared for - particularly after the last twenty four hours. And you’re touched that Bucky is looking after you even when he’s not there.

“Oh almost forgot….” Steve leans over to where he put his jacket and reaches into the pocket. “We salvaged this for you. Case is a bit cracked but the screen seems okay”.

He throws you over your phone and you catch it, thanking him. You unlock the screen and see a few messages. One from Wanda asking how your date went, another from Peter saying he enjoyed hanging out and you should do it again sometime (platonically of course). You reply to Peter with some non-committal enthusiasm and tell Wanda you’ll call her later as you have lots to tell her. It feels strange that their world is just carrying on as usual around you, while yours had changed forever in a matter of hours. Pepper also let you know she’d offered the Assistant job to the top candidate and was waiting to hear back.

You see the texts HYDRA sent on your behalf and the reply from Bucky and hastily delete them before you can fully react to them, wishing you could remove your memories just as easily.

“So you and Buck…” Steve questioned warily.

“Me and Buck what…?” you ask as if you don’t know what he’s implying.

“What’s your deal? Are you actually together now?”

You shrug animatedly as you eat your breakfast. “You probably know more than I do…”

And that’s the truth. You have no idea what is going on with you two as you hadn’t discussed it. Yes, he gallantly came to your rescue (although he was somewhat morally obligated as he was the reason you needed saving…) and yes you’d slept together again…but nothing had been explicitly said between you. From your perspective…you felt like something had shifted between you now. You knew in your heart wanted to be with Bucky. Really wanted to be with him. Despite his flaws, despite everything that had happened. You were still cautious but nonetheless drawn to him like a moth to a flame, unable to stay away. It was hard to imagine your life without him now.

Steve laughs and shoots you a ‘Hell if I know…’ look.

“Steve…” you ask cautiously as your fork plays with the last of your toast. “What did you mean when you said I keep Bucky on his toes?”

He chuckles. “C’mon cupcake, you know exactly what I meant”.

The two of you stare at one another for a moment and you feel yourself flush as you finish your final bites. Steve picks up your empty plate and takes it to the dishwasher.

“All I’m saying is he’s got it bad” Steve continues as he cleans up. “There’s a reason I’m standing here cooking for you”.

You nod, finishing your coffee as his words sink in.

[constantlymisspelled]

Mandalorian Armour Colours

Armour Colour meanings and Classifications

Perhaps it's a little ridiculous, but with more and more fans wanting a full comprehensive guide to colours, and my own frustration at not being able to find the fanon colour charts of old, here we are. For both your sake, and mine, please don't be upset if anyone doesn't utilise this guide, it is after all a guide, and only a fanmade compilation. If anyone has any criticisms, that's what edit is for, and if you want further definition, do not hesitate to let me know in the comments.

The Classicly Accepted;

[This section is the clolours accepted by Canon Media, both Disney and Legends. I will include a colour swatch and the Taubman's pallet code for ease of use. If there are colours you wish to see evaluated, or meanings you wish to infer, let me know.]

[The tiles above are literally the closest I could find to Jaster's colour, and to Boba's visor colours. The left is Red Alert, T12 26.H5, and the right is Crossfire, T15 196.6.]

Red - Ge'tal

'Honouring a parent.' This colour has been seen on the edge of Boba Fett's visor for years, and has been a staple Mandalorian colour for a long time. Honouring a parent is considered acceptable in most forms of Mandalorian Society, hence its widespread use. Honouring does not have to mean morning, and when some Mandalorians move past the grief of a lost loved one, or parent, they move to change the greys to reds, or oranges, in remembrance not of their death, but the life that family member - usually a provider in this case - had lived.

White - Cin

'A new start/Clean slate.' The literal translation for the phrase describing white on armour (Cin Vhetin) is 'White field,' or 'Snow Covoured Field.' It creates the notion that you are starting over, as winter has come, and it covers all that you used to be, allowing you to completely restructure yourself before spring arrives to thaw it, as a totally new person, with new honour and oaths to fulfil. Often associated with adult adoptions, or redemption vows completed, signifying new life.

[The image above features Jaster as he was in the first issue of Jango Fett - Open Seasons. It is accessible (the pic) on wiki, and I'm pretty sure the comic is available on most comic archives. Jaster's colour are, famously, dark grey, black, red and the yellow Haat Mando'ade Crest.]

Black - Ne'tra

Justice - the colour of Mandalorians whose moral code is unshakable. A notable wearer of this colour is Jaster Mereel himself. Most kute are often this colour, or dark blue (navy) and in most cases that is for cost reasons, and to prevent staining. However, black is the colour of night, and of Death - an important concept to all Mandalorian Sects - and creates a sense of uniformity amongst even the most visually different individuals. Justice, Death, and all that this might entail is a corner stone of Mandalorian culture and perception. One cannot live if they do not accept that Death is a possibility. Black can denote serving of justice, seeking justice, or preserving it.

Grey - Genet

'Honouring lost love, or mourning a lost loved one'. The separate shades of Grey have meaning in some Clans and Houses, but across most of Mandalorian Space, Grey is to signify the passing of a loved one. It can even be worn if either a Clan has been lost, or if a member has been excommunicated. There are also occasions of possible ven'riduur wearing the colour when another warrior gets there before them.

[The above image is the reverse of the New Zealand Free State of Niue's reverse coin. Gold does not promote prestige in Mandalorian culture, but danger. If dressed in gold, one is to be weary.]

Gold - Ve'vut

Vengeance, a common place, and important part of Mandalorian Culture and Law. Methods of vengeance are protected and controlled by Mandalorian Law. Acts that go from vengeance to Revenge can face serious consequence. Outsiders that meet warriors in this colour are warned to practice caution. A Mandalorian's wealth is not decided by the colour of their armour, but of their actions, and gold denotes a thirst for vengeance, in a control, personal manner.

[The image to the left is Nocturne Shade, T15 139.6, and the image to the right is Bright Cerulean, T15 138.7. I included a vivid and deep blue to show the scope of what is considered baseline, before entering Light Blue, Sky Blue, or Navy. I chose as close as I could to Jango Fett's armour, and both Paz Vizsla, and Vizsla House.]

Blue - Kebiin

Reliability, a warrior and Mandalorian who is secure in who they are, what they are capable of, and what they have to offer the galaxy. Warriors in their prime often wear this colour. It is often taken as a show of subtle faith and loyalty to whichever leader these particular Mandalorians serve. Blue is also often worn by mercenaries and Journeyman to create a sense of calm and trust between them and their charges. Blue is often seen as a solid, and dependable colour, and associated with leadership, and their support. Blue is the colour of the Mandalorian Protectors Universal Sigil. Parents who are raising children alone also wear this colour, as a way of reinforcing the belief that they can care for their child alone - a rare occurrence in Mandalorian Space.

Orange -

lust for life, shereshoy

[The colour to the right is literally as close as I could get to Boba Fett's armour. The image on the left is Irish Stone, T15 164.7, and the right is Deep Veridian, T10 54F-2.]

Green - Vorpan

Duty - often considered the workers' colour, green represents hard work, and deep commitment to a cause, a task, an ideal, or an action. Many members of the Fett House predominantly wear this colour as a nod to their humble beginnings, and many farmers and tradespeople wear some small segment of green to denote their occupation. The kind of green, and the way it is worn can also denote different trades and employment types, although like with most colours, each mandalorian is ultimately able to make decisions for themself on what their colours mean to them.

The Observed and Official Greater House uses;

[This section is for Fanon, or non-official colours. The Mandalorian Mercs and other cosplay groups have commonly accepted colour codes, as do some sections of the Fanfic writing community. If anyone has any colour ideas, do let me know, and feel free to leave a link to other colour charts in the notes! It's my ambition to make sourcing knowledge on Mandalorian culture easier and easier for newer fans.]

[Image for Beskar Silver was taken from the Etsy Adds for Beskar Ingots. There are multiple companies and craftspeople that make these - vey cool! I can not let myself buy any. I can not!!!]

Silver - Beskar

The Colour of unpainted beskar, the associated meanings are either that you have not had the chance to paint it, or if you are in full, evidently in use armour, that you have no right to wear paint. It is the assumed non-colours of the Silver Children (An Elite Group of Mandalorian Ori'ramikade) and the Naasaade (the Nameless Society, a group of Mandalorians who have either been put towards the path of redemption by order, or by choice) and of many bounty hunters of the Outer Rim who seek to keep their clan affiliations a secret. It is widely believed that if any Mandalorian is to have honour, it is one in silver, as it infers that this particular Mandalorian will do all that is possible to be seen as honourable once more by themselves, others, their clan, and the Ka'ra.

[The image on the left is Blue Booties (I know right?), T15 142.1, and the image on the right is Reflection, T15 142.2. I included an eggshell blue, and a powder, almost greenish pale blue. I even checked the definition of Cyan for you. Essentially, really light teal, like, really light.]

Cyan, or Sky Blue -

'New Love', often used as the symbol of engagement. Most Mandalorians cannot afford to exchange and modify pieces of their armour from one partner to another, and so instead of this practice from the eras of battlefield weddings, most unmarried warriors are encouraged to carry a small vial of this colour paint instead. This is a practice seen more amongst the traditionalists, who believe in earning armour on your own merit, and not upon the backs of others. Other methods of using this colour is in Cyan Beads upon your kute, or the addition of decorative cord upon a warrior's shoulder to denote engagement, or new marriage.

The Two Shades of Purple

[Purple is a difficult colour. Caught between red and blue, and having so many varied shades and meanings across both Mandalore, and the fandom, I've done my best to create the general feel of what purple means to a culture obsessed with living life to the fullest, and honouring your oaths.]

[Image on the left has Imperial Violet, T15 211.4, and the image on the right has Purple Statice, T15 210.5. I grabbed both a warm and cool variety for those of you with colour schemes to match. Purple is a colour often associated in fandom with chance, hope, and luck.]

a) Lavender, or Violet

The colour of luck and chance, Violet and Lavender are supposed to be a sign of recognition and faith to the old Mandalorian God and Spirit of Luck, and although belief in the Gods has long since faded, folklore still holds most shades of lighter purple as the colour of chance, change, and good futures. It is a common colour for new parents wishing to do right by their children.

[Image on the left is Imperial Purple, T15 213.7, and the image on the right is Royal Indigo, T15 130.7. Again, I have used both warm and cool shades to allow as much versatility as possible with colour palletes.]

b) Indigo

Often considered the colour of hope, Indigo and its shades are often used to mean the same things as other shades of purple, and when paired with colours such as Cyan, and Teal, or even most forms of blue, is meant to inspire a sense of gratitude, or gratefulness for victory, present peace, currently good fortune and such, whilst lighter shades are meant to bring said fortune.

[Image on the left is Tapestry Teal, T15 153.6, and the image on the right is Lagoon Teal, T15 153.5. Both Teals are on the lighter side, but you can absolutely go darker in this colour and have the same meaning.]

Teal -

Considered the unofficial colours of the New Mandalorians, the colour was originally worn only by medics, emergency workers, and those who had retired from active combat. It was supposed to be the colour of those who had seen violence, and stood up to atrocities in the name of peace. It is now considered a cowards colour amoungst Kyrtsaade circles, and New Mandalorians forbade its application in armour as a falsehood and a breaking of the Healers Code. However, Traditionalists and Way Followers still view it as the colour of choice for more reserved, shrewd verde who fight as a last resort.

[images above are to the left, Minty Green, T15 165.3, and to the right, Sherbet Lime, T15 167.3. Once again, included a warm and cool option.]

Light Green -

'Lust for peace', 'The Guardian', or 'Peace Keeper's Colours'. Often used by warriors who practice non-lethal forms of combat - guards that utilise stun batons and blanks instead of live ammunition. Under the New Mandalorians, it became indistinguishable from Teal and its meanings, but in all other forms of Mandalorian culture, Light Green is used for warriors and guards of sacred r special places, such as schools, hospitals, or the water ways. Light Green is a deeply respected, and widely used colour, even if its meaning has been watered down and misinterpreted by the galaxy at large.

Yellow - Shi'yayc

Dark Green

Dark Blue

Tan

Brown

Cream/Beige

Maroon and Burgundy

[I couldn't pick one... Image above contains Baby Girl, Pigtail Pink, River Rouge, Spring Pink, Jaguar Rose, After the Dance, Flamenco Fire, Turkish Delight, Pink Flambe, Pink Clay Pot, Bold Flame and Strawberry Splash. The codes are found on Taubmans website.]

Pink -

Respect, Knowledge, and Respected. Interestingly, pink in Mandalorian Space is a colour of status, as a unification of white and red, it combines the ideas of horouring those that raised you, and your new beginnings, and the outcome became the colour pink. Different shades mean different things in the more secular coverts, but it is important to note that field archivists, officers, and journalists have a tendency to wear at least some pink.

Additional Colours and Varieties;

Metallics

Mattes and Gloss

Patterning

Symbols of the Mandalorians;

The symbols used in Mandalore are vast, and complicated, and often the colour can change the meaning of the symbol. Colour is, as always, up to the discretion and particular tastes of the Mandalorian in question, but there are common associations, and symbols mandated for use by specific beings.

[Extrapolation will be added]

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

[Wrote this for my own use, and as a guide on mainstream Mandalore and the subsects we might actually see in Disney media (can you see me distancing their bizarre writing from myself? can you??) after all, the official website lists Din's armour as grey? What?? Bro, no.]

Resources;

The only copy of the old Fan Canon List I could find:

[Fanon List in image is as follows; Purple - Luck, Pink - Respected or Respecting Someone, White - Purity, Brown - Valor, Maroon - Power, Light Green - Lust for Peace, Scarlet - Defiance, Silver - Seeking Redemption, Yellow - Remembrance, Teal - Healing.]

Found on Pinterest. It used to part of one of the cosplay forums, but I can no longer find it. It runs off old canon. There are some issues with the list, but ah well.

Mandalorian Mercs Forum; [here]

They're rather official, and a great deal of their stuff is incredibly helpful, but I find their website hard to navigate. Probably just me though.

Mandalorian Wikipedia Colours; [here]

It doesn't have any of the extended fanon colours, but it dos have an in depth expose on what colour canon and EU Legends has provided us with.

Mando'a Translator; [here]

Not entirely sure how well it works, but it does simple words fine. Its sentence structure is terrible, just like all translate apps, so be warned.

Mando'a Dictionary and Forum; [here]

This Mando'a dictionary has got to be the most comprehensive I have found, however there are still mistakes. The only reason I know that is I printed the whole thing and read it like some kind of nerd.

Mandalorian Colour Definition found on Tumblr;[here]

This one is made by another user, I am unsure of their sources, but it matches closely with a great deal that I have found, so it’s pretty accurate so far.

Another Handy Mando'a forum; here

If there are any other helpful websites and links you can think of, let me know. The Codex will have reference to this chart at some stage, but I'll get to that later. I'm just religiously ignoring the Mandalorian Cookbook I started whilst sick last year. You never hear of it, it never existed.

[I will update this as I make further research.]

[sims4t2bb]

weekly update

Hello, and happy Sunday to all! We hope everyone had a great time celebrating the 20th anniversary of our favourite game, The Sims 2, around the community yesterday. We know we did! 😎

This week's update can be found, as always, under the cut. Happy Simming! 🌱

— Database

Announcements

All asks, questions and submissions have been answered and our inbox is now blissfully empty! 📭 If your ask/submission hasn't shown up on the database yet, feel free to submit it again!

It's come to our attention that over thirty pages of the database have broken images. We're working as hard as we can to fix all affected pages! 🧚🏻

Because the database was maintained by several awesome people before us, there was some inconsistency in username formatting and shortening. From now on, we will use only full + lowercase usernames to keep it simple! 📉

Fixes

All of the broken images on the affected Kits pages have been fixed.

— Base Game

Buy Mode

Amateur Hour Child's Violin conversion by @platinumaspiration has been added.

Another Wall-Mounted Coat Rack With Shelf and Yet Another Wall-Mounted Coat Rack With Shelf conversions by @lordcrumps have been added.

Bullseye Dartboard, Compact Bar, Guerdon Goods Mini Fridge, and Guerdon Goods NanoCan 2.0 conversions by @platinumaspiration have been added.

Crystal Box Shower Stall, Double Delight, Post Modern Shower Stall, RAW Walk-In, Under the Sea Clawfoot Tub with Shower, and Unicorn Dream conversions by @platinumaspiration have been added.

Happy Camper Picnic Table and Urbanity Concrete Picnic Table conversions by @nuttydazesublime have been added (thanks @kayleigh-83!)

Wall o' Gym Lockers, Large and Wall o' Gym Lockers, Small conversions by @earlypleasantview, plus edits by @memento-sims, have been added (thanks @swishbishbosch!)

Residential/Venue Wall Speaker default replacement conversion by @morepopcorn has been added.

Decorative

Alphabetised all items.

The coding has been cleaned up and standardised.

Better As A Pair and Imagined Landscape conversions by @lordcrumps have been added.

Build Mode

Stonework Wall conversion by ePSYlord has been added.

Debug

The top menu has been updated to include links to the other base game subpages: build mode, buy mode, and decorative.

Crafted Violin conversion by @platinumaspiration has been added.

— Expansion Packs

City Living

Plink Shower conversion by @platinumaspiration has been added.

In the Mood Fireplace conversion by @platinumaspiration has been added.

Short Slate Tile conversions by @nelphaell and @suratan-zir have been added (thanks @swishbishbosch!)

Seasons

Vintage Subway Tile Shower conversion by @platinumaspiration has been added.

Get Famous

Designer’s Deluge and The Swan’s Ablution conversions by @platinumaspiration have been added.

Island Living

In or Out? - Outdoor Shower conversion by @platinumaspiration has been added.

Discover University

Almost InvisiShower 2.0 and EZPZ shower stall - by Umpa Loofa conversions by @platinumaspiration have been added.

Snowy Escape

Steamy Times Shower conversion by @platinumaspiration has been added.

Youthful Yummies Festival Food Stall poster conversion by @creesims has been added.

Growing Together

Generational, but Different Bath conversion by @platinumaspiration has been added.

Lovestruck

Consultant Plaque Decoration, Cornery Feelings End Table, Deep Toned Wooden Table, Horizontal Love Wall Mirror, I Chair-ish You, Interal Wall Shower Head, Kiss of the Night Couch, Love's Little Book Collection, Smooth and Suave Toiletries, and Workout Gear Set conversions by ladysimplayer8 have been added.

— Game Packs

Outdoor Retreat

It’s a Shower Tarp! and Waterfall Shower conversions by @platinumaspiration have been added.

Spa Day

Tranquil Waters Shower conversion by @platinumaspiration has been added.

Vampires

Sheer Will Clawfoot Tub conversion by @platinumaspiration has been added.

Parenthood

Xtreme Shower Tub with Customisable Curtain conversion by @platinumaspiration has been added.

Jungle Adventure

Stereogram Tile Shower conversion by @platinumaspiration has been added.

Strangerville

Epic DIY Shower conversion by @platinumaspiration has been added.

Realm of Magic

Loudini’s Chamber of Sprinkles conversion by @platinumaspiration has been added.

Werewolves

Woodsy Plank Fence conversion by ePSYlord has been added.

— Stuff Packs

Fitness

At One with Shower conversion by @platinumaspiration has been added.

— Kits

Bust the Dust

The page menu has been updated.

The coding has been cleaned up and standardised.

Country Kitchen

The page menu has been updated.

The coding has been cleaned up and standardised.

Courtyard Oasis

The page menu has been updated.

The coding has been cleaned up and standardised.

Some items were recategorised.

Industrial Loft

All the images have been fixed and updated.

The page menu has been updated.

The coding has been cleaned up and standardised.

Blooming Rooms

The page menu has been updated.

The coding has been cleaned up and standardised.

Décor to the Max

All the images have been fixed and updated.

Alphabetised all items.

The page menu has been updated.

The coding has been cleaned up and standardised.

Little Campers

All the images have been fixed and updated.

The page menu has been updated.

The coding has been cleaned up and standardised.

Desert Luxe

All the images have been fixed and updated.

The page menu has been updated.

The coding has been cleaned up and standardised.

Pastel Pop

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[tilecleaningtoday]

Lancashire Stone Expert Reveals How To Resurface Tired Stone Flooring

ncaster. The building was in the process of being completely overhauled and the floor was next on the long renovation to do list.

Caithness Slate from the northern tip of Scotland and is known for its durability and strength however the years had certainly not been kind to this floor and it was in a very bad state.

To restore the appearance of the slate I recommended milling the floor with a set of very coarse pads that would remove a thin layer of stone off the top of the paving slab to reveal new stone underneath. The pointing was also cracked and loose in places so that would also need chopping out and replacing. After milling the stone would also be smoother and once sealed much easier to maintain going forward.

I estimated the process would take four days to complete. Happy to go ahead with the quote a date was booked for the work to start.

Resurfacing Caithness Black Slate

On the first two days there were two of us involved to get through milling the stone which is hard work. We used a set of milling pads applied to a weighted floor machine to cut through the stones surface using water for lubrication. This generates a lot of stone dust so a lot of rinsing and extracting needs to happen to remove it.

Milling carried on into day two but by the end we had started knocking out the old pointing which had already failed and wasn't too difficult to remove. It was one big room with a partition at one end, the building itself was built in the 1870s or at least that's as much information as the client could find as it was bought in an auction.

Due to its age, it had no water or electricity, so we had to work off generators whilst a rudimentary system supplied the water. This was not the easiest job for us as the generators were proving difficult to work with as the relays would overload and cut off the power; this happened more than a dozen times just in the first day alone, but we like a challenge.

As you will see from the pictures the stone flagstones were transformed. This was not a simple clean and seal job, this is milling back the surface using various diamond grits a heavy weighted buffing machine and patience, and some water. Using a wet system, the milling system won't leave a house full of dust and the diamond grinding leaves the stone much smoother and a lot cleaner which makes it a lot easier to clean and maintain in the future.

Sealing a Caithness Black Slate Tiled Floor

Once the milling was complete and the new flexible breathable pointing was applied for which we like to use a product called VDW 800. We then called back the next day and finished the clean, the floor area was left for another day to dry.

Once dry, the floor was then sealing using a single coat of Tile Doctor X-Tra seal which is oil-based sealer that really brings out the colour of the Black slate. Additionally, this sealer is fully breathable so it will cope with the damp conditions you find with old floors that don’t have a damp proof membrane and so won't peel off after a few weeks.

The client was very happy with the transformation and final finish and invited us back to cover more work in the outbuildings which eventually will join onto the main house. For aftercare cleaning I recommended Tile Doctor Neutral Clean which is an effective tile and grout cleaner that won’t upset the sealer.

Source: Slate Cleaning and Restoration Products and Services in Gressingham Lancashire

[esoteric-chaos]

What is Cleansing? The how-to's and methods

The act of removing unwanted energies from a person/place/object.

Cleansing is generally a gentle form of removal, whether it be spiritual or mundane (can also be a very in-depth and harsh process).

Instead of forcefully removing an influence or spirit, you simply brush the energies out of your space.

This process is useful for ensuring that you, or the things near you are clear of energies that could negatively impact you.

It’s useful for creating a blank slate in your environment or preparing tools for spell work and keeping your energy stable and healthy. Negative energies and clutter can impact your spiritual, physical and mental health.

Regular spiritual and physical upkeep is important to keep you balanced and healthy. Spiritual hygiene is a generally important practice for all practitioners. I'm going to share a few ways to do so from my own practice.

Try your best to cleanse every room, not just a single room. Ever had a space so clean but the rest of your house feels gross? It'll be off-balanced that way and it'll be the same way spiritually. However, if you can't you can't. Do what you can, that's what's important.

Remember mundane cleaning is just as good as spiritual. You can smoke cleanse that room all you want but if you still have things all over your floor and molding dishes in your sink, that's still going to bring in both negativity and health consequences. Cleanse responsibly.

Spiritual

Sound - Using a singing bowl, bells, music, chimes, drums, clapping, singing, chanting. A trusty old sound bowl cleansing video on YouTube being openly played in whatever space does the trick just fine.

Smoke - Burning incense with corresponding herbs or herbal bundle. Remember to open a window for negative energy to escape and for safety. Smoke inhalation is generally not a good practice for your lungs. Also, be careful with pets as they have sensitive respiratory systems.

Spray - Infused distilled water with corresponding herbs, oils or salts sprayed around the room to both cleanse and bring in the desired energy. Again be cautious around pets.

Candle - Charging a white candle with intent, dressing it with oils and burning it down to clear your space. Keep away from pets and small children, burn in a fire-safe dish or on tile.

Sunlight/moonlight - Opening your blinds to let solar energy and moonlight to cleanse a space. Only really suitable for that singular space with a window.

Simmer pot - A boiling pot of water over a stovetop filled with intention filled corresponding herbal components that lets off a fragrance to clear the air of negative energy. You can use blessed water for an extra punch if you wish.

Crystal grid - Setting up a crystal grid of crystals for cleansing that room or your house of negative energy. You can either intuitively make your own grid or find one online. Selenite towers as well are lovely for purifying spaces along with being self cleansing. You can use any piece of cleansing corresponding crystal to cleanse but remember you will generally have to cleanse the crystal afterwards to get out any energetic gunk from it.

Salt - Putting out a bowl of salt in what room you’d like to cleanse. Personally I like putting little shot glasses of black salt in high traffic rooms such as shared spaces as I find it packs a punch due to its associations. However do please be careful with salt with pets. Pets have been known to get into things like salt lamps or salt in general and have had very bad health consequences. So please be cautious.

Energy - Your own spiritual energy. You can use energy work to create bubbles of energy around yourself to push out into your space, to burn up and cleanse the energy around the space. This is more of a hard-hitting cleansing method and can be described as banishing. It can also be energetically taxing for fellow spoonie witches or those with small energy reservoirs. Drink plenty of water, have a snack and rest after.

Physical

Vacuum or sweep - Sprinkle sea salt and corresponding herbs on the floor to soak up negative energy. Vacuum or sweep up and dispose of for removal. Historically speaking you move from the back of your house to the front so you can push everything out of your house.

Washing - Physically washing down doorframes and windows with sacred water (holy water, spring water, moon water) and corresponding herbs. You’d go from the back of your house to the front.

Floor wash - Try out a floor wash charged with the intent to wash your floors to fill your space with a spiritual purpose. Get that grime off your floor while reaping both mundane and magical benefits. You’d go from the back of your house the front.

Opening a window - Open that window. Not only will your space be less stuffy but it lets in needed fresh air. If you're in the city near fumes it's a bit harder. Try to get an air purifier if you can, it's very helpful and health-changing.

Shampoo’s and Soaps - For physical cleansing’s try finding herbal based soaps or shampoo with corresponding herbal components for self based cleansing and purifying. For instance I use shampoo with Tea Tree, Lemon and Sage. It’s purifying and I pair it with a Rosemary conditioner for protection. Get creative!

Cleaning products - Cleaning products with lemon for example have been used historically for cleansing and purification. Let the citrus scent leave your space feeling clean and purified with intent. Can either be naturally made with vinegar or store-bought. Either is perfectly fine. Sometimes natural and handmade is good but if you are someone who needs a bacterial spray, it's best to just buy storebought.

Recipes

All-Purpose Cleaner

What you'll need:

One part white vinegar

One part water

Dried Lemon rind - cleansing, purifying

Dried Rosemary sprigs - protective, healing

Combine the above ingredients together, pour into a spray bottle, shake, and then let infuse for a week before using. Strain out the lemon and rosemary. This is great for bringing in purifying energy into your house along with protective properties.

Caution: Do not use acidic cleaners on granite, as they will etch the stone and proceed cautiously on stainless steel. Some manufacturers recommend against using vinegar on their appliance surfaces. Know what's suitable and what's not.

Glass cleaner

What you'll need:

2 cups water

1/2 cup white vinigar

1/4 cup rubbing alcohol 70% concentration

Dried Orange peel - smells good and brings prosperity

Combine the above ingredients together, pour into a spray bottle, shake, and then let infuse for a week before using. Strain out the orange.

Cautions: Avoid cleaning windows on a hot, sunny day or in direct sunlight, because the solution will dry too quickly and leave lots of streaks.

Home Blessings Multi-Surface Floor Cleaner - Not for wood floors

Ingredients

1 cup distilled water

1/4 cup Castille soap

Dried Lavender buds - peace, relaxing

Dried Orange peel

Dried Rosemary sprigs

Directions

In a smaller pot boil together distilled water with the herbal components then strain.

Mix the ingredients and infused water with 2 gallons of hot water to incorporate in a bucket to mop away dirt and grime on tile, vinyl, or linoleum floors.

Remember, store-bought is fine. Look at the ingredients of what you'd like and use your intention. Sometimes making yourself takes up a lot of time and spoons. It's your craft, your rules.

Looking for all of my posts in one place? Check out the Masterpost

[lostmyremembrall]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝑩𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒅

𝑇𝑜𝑚 𝑅𝑖𝑑𝑑𝑙𝑒, 𝐴𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑥𝑎𝑠 𝑀𝑎𝑙𝑓𝑜𝑦 𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: 𝐻𝑢𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑟. 𝑇𝑜𝑚 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑘.

Summary: Every villain has his regrets. So what is Tom Riddle's? Well, not getting to say 'fuck you' to his own father before he accidentally fell down the stairs to his death, of course. But, Abraxas says he needs closure, so you could say the trip to Little Hangleton wasn't a complete waste.

Recommended Music: I'm Sorry by Brenda Lee

This is the first time I’ve felt the need to confess.

It all started with Abraxas’ suggestion to visit my father.

I’ve asked him: why. His answer: closure.

He believed my mental health to be somewhat, “unstable” and “unhinged.” Apparently, childhood trauma does that to you.

So, closure was the answer.

I’ve pondered about it. Why not. Why not go up to the man in the mansion and stick it into his face? Why not tell the rich man in a big mansion, “fuck you,” “I hope you’ll die in a ditch,” and “You will not be invited to my inevitable coronation.”

If this will help me become a better leader, then gladly I would accept the opportunity to cuss in my father’s face.

Apparently, that was not what Abraxas meant by closure.

But, being the open-minded leader that I am, I said why not.

The plan was to visit Little Hangleton on New Year’s Eve anyway, to assess exactly what I will be inheriting. So, why not make the trip more interesting? Why not start off the marvellous year of 1944 with a clean slate?

Needless to say, the closure has gone slightly out of hand.

I stood on the second-floor foyer, overlooking the entrance hall. Perhaps unwisely, I thought I would give my father a surprise, apparating behind him.

Now, a man lay unmoving below me. His body mangled. His eyes, wide open in the shock that ultimately led to his untimely death. The blood, pooling beneath him.

So much for a clean slate.

Abraxas appeared on the first floor, returning from the kitchen, carrying a slice of cake that he had nicked from the New Year’s celebration. His feet, along with the long shadow cast on the marble tiles, came to a halt.

“Huh,” his brows furrowed, tilting his head, still sucking on his fork. “Is a human head supposed to look like that?”

He pointed his fork at the large dent on the inion of the head.

Tom Riddle Sr. lay still, face down on the floor. Even a corpse did not have the energy to answer such a dull question.

“Shit,” I gritted my teeth. “Fuck, Abraxas. Damn!”

Abraxas’ eyes widened, the realisation finally dawning on him. The slice of cake slowly slid down the plate and fell, the splatter marking its timestamp in the silence.

“Tom…!” Abraxas’ mouth gaped and closed like a helpless fish, “When I said closure, I did not mean this!” He waved the fork over the corpse, as if to say ‘Whatever this is.’

“It. Was. An accident!” I hissed in return at his unhelpful contribution, my fingernails digging into the mahogany handrail.

“Merlin’s beard,” Abraxas ran a hand through his hair, devolving rapidly into a panic. “We’re fine. We’re fine. We merely need to get rid of evidence.”

“Just clean up after ourselves. We weren’t here long. Nobody saw us,” Abraxas began pacing about the room. “Nobody can trace this back to us.”

“Ah, shit,” Abraxas paused as his feet stepped into the crumbled mush on the floor. “The cake! They can trace my DNA, oh god, oh god oh god.”

“The what?”

“It’s a new thing, Tom,” Abraxas wiped away the sweat with his shaky hand. “Heard all about it on that crime radio I listen to.”

I paused to close my eyes, willing myself to ignore Abraxas’ pathetic wailing, taking a deep breath. If my brilliance had served me thus far, it was going to serve me now.

“Calm down, Abraxas,” I opened my eyes again, and let out a shaky breath as I began to descend the stairs.

Abraxas turned his teary, desperate eyes to me, hoping that his leader had some incredible plan.

“Look at this,” stopping next to Abraxas, I languidly gestured to the crime scene. “It merely looks like he fell, does it not?”

For the first time in this dreadfully long night, a glimmer of hope and conviction appeared in Abraxas’ eyes.

“You’re right. He did fall,” he nodded fervently, as if attempting to convince himself. “An unfortunate accident.”

“That befell on an unbalanced man,” I reassuringly patted the back of Abraxas with a smirk, ending his sentence, “Now, let us calm down, and enjoy the serenity before we begin rifling through their possessions.”

I sauntered to the stairs, and sitting down on it, took out a flask for a swing. Still shaking, but now considerably less so, Abraxas followed.

Abraxas nodded his thanks as he took the flask that I offered, taking a swing as well. The alcohol seemed to do wonders, as it was always the case for Abraxas, as his breathing evened out and the confidence returned to his blue eyes.

“You know,” Abraxas began, returning the flask to me. “It is impeccable timing, if you think about it.”

I raised my brows at him, urging the blond to continue.

“It is your birthday. And the old man died, giving you everything in this room,” his gaze wandered around the room, to the antique armours guarding the front doors, the expensive Chinese vases, to the crystal chandelier above them. “Shit, you might be as rich as me, now.”

“Hm, true,” I pondered, my eyes also trailing the many valuables in the room. The word ‘closure’ came to my mind. Yes, I suppose, counting these as an apology gift and my birthday gift, I could find it in myself to forgive my father. Maybe.

My eyes landed on the man’s face, still slumped down on the floor a few feet from us. Tom Riddle Sr. was extremely handsome. Deadly handsome, even.

Too soon, perhaps.

I raised a flask towards the body that eerily resembled me. “Thank you, father, for the gifts!”

“And the cake!” Abraxas joined in with a smile.

I smiled against the flask as I took another swing, revelling in the immediate warmth that spread through my core. “You know,” I murmured, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically sentimental all of a sudden. “I’m glad you’re here, with me. On this memorable night.”

Abraxas turned to me with a genuine smile that came more easily to his lips than mine. “Always happy to help, Tom.”

Abraxas fell silent, however, when there was a groan from the corpse. My eyes widened, as my father groaned, and he raised his head, his eyes fluttering open. We froze as our eyes met. Nothing has terrified me more than that moment, when my father’s irises captured us, his son and a stranger, on his stairs, eating his cake, celebrating his death.

“Avada Kedavra!”

My wand had reacted sooner than I’d had the time to think.

The head dropped again with a heavy thud.

“TOM!”

Abraxas’ shriek pierced my right ear, and I winced.

“Why?! WHY did you do that?!” Abraxas was wailing again, “You have to stop casting a killing curse on your reflex!”

“Shit,” I grimaced. “I panicked.”

“Yes, I’ve gathered, Tom,” Abraxas ruffled his hair, leaping to his feet to begin pacing again, his hair now beyond recognition from the neat style he usually kept. “Merlin, now they’re really going to think it’s a crime scene.”

“He saw our faces,” I murmured darkly. A weak excuse, I knew, but Abraxas’ finger-pointing was unbearable.

“Fuck, Tom!” the blond was hyperventilating now. “I cannot go to Azkaban! They will eat me alive!”

I glared up at the rattled man, still pacing back and forth in front of me, his nerves getting to me. A terrible idea crossed my mind, for a moment, whether keeping Abraxas alive was a liability. He did not do well under pressure. He’d crumble under interrogation in mere seconds.

I growled, “Well, there’s nothing we can do at the moment, but to–”

Abraxas yelped when there was a low grumble from the corpse. He turned on his heels, the fork gripped tight in his hand. I widened my eyes at the savagery of the blond, watching him straddle my father and plunge the fork into him again and again. The muggle way.

He screamed at him. Then cursed. Then stabbed some more.

Watching Abraxas go absolutely feral on the poor corpse that resembled me, I had to consider the possibility that Abraxas perhaps harboured some pent-up vehemence towards me.

“Jesus,” I watched him stand up, the sweat-matted strands of hair falling into his eyes. “Could you not? That is my father.”

“Fuck,” he let out a shaky breath, the fork slipping from his hand and rattling on the floor. His pale skin, splattered with red. “I thought he was dead! How’s he still alive?!”

“It happens,” I sighed, scratching my brows at the situation that was rapidly growing out of hand. “Corpses release gas and liquid.”

“Oh god,” Abraxas fell to his knees, as if begging for forgiveness from my father. He began sobbing, the tears streaming down his cheeks. “Oh god, my life is ruined.”

To be frank, I found the situation somewhat amusing. How the tables have turned. I bit my tongue, wanting desperately to say ‘Who panicked this time?’ Instead, I stood up with a heavy sigh, and laid a supportive hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, it does look like ‘fuck you in particular’ now, doesn’t it?”

Despite my solace, Abraxas began to sob harder. Perhaps it was the way I said it.

“Come,” I helped him up to his feet. My father’s blood painted his blond hair and pale skin. His tears and spit have now mingled with it as they trailed down his chin. I sighed, producing a handkerchief from my pocket.

“You’ve always enjoyed crime radios,” I wiped his face clean, until reconsidering the futile attempt as more tears poured. “Now you get to be a part of it.”

Abraxas howled as more tears began to pour.

“There there,” I wrapped my arms around him in a comforting embrace.

“You won’t let me go to Azkaban, will you?” his frail voice came muffled against my wool uniform.

“Of course not,” I patted his shoulder. “I’ll always be here to fix your mistakes.”

-----

A few hours later, in the wee hours of the morning, we stood in front of a roaring fire. The sky was just beginning to brighten as Abraxas rubbed his hands over the fire, trying to warm his pale hands that had gone frigid.

“I’m glad we built this fire,” he said with a relieved smile. “Fire has a soothing effect, I think.”

I hummed in agreement, blankly staring at the flames that reached for the sky before me. There was a hint of nervousness in the voice that Abraxas was desperately trying to quell. I chose to ignore it.

“Say, do you know if they wanted cremation?” another nervous whimper from Abraxas.

I took one last drawl of the cigarette before tossing it into the fire. “Now, how the fuck would I know that, Abraxas.”

Abraxas merely hummed and nodded, numbly staring at the three bodies that had grown unrecognisable. The grandmother and the grandfather had to go as well. Loose ends and all that. They’ve lived a good long life anyway.

“You know, I don’t think I’ll ever be the same,” Abraxas’ voice was dead and despondent as he accepted a cigarette from me. “That image of you, underneath me, as I plunged the fork into it… It’s changed something within me.”

I knitted my brows at his wording. “You mean… my father,” I raised a suspicious brow at my oldest friend as I corrected him. “You felt the urge to kill my father.”

“Hm, what?” Abraxas had borrowed the light from the roaring fire in front of him, his gaunt features light ablaze with orange contemplation. “Yes, of course.”

I fell into an anxious silence, the image of Abraxas straddling someone that resembled me, too similar for my comfort. The animalistic sheer will that burned in his eyes – no thinking, no reasoning, all his focus on simply doing – as he poked holes into my father. The image shall haunt me for the rest of my days.

I cleared my throat, and took a step away from the blond. Suffice it to say that the night had changed something inside me as well.

“Well, father,” I tightened my tie as a respectful gesture that seemed appropriate for the sobering moment. “Grandmother, grandfather.”

Abraxas tossed the cigarette, crushing it underneath his black leather shoes, taking his hat off.

“Wish I got to talk with you a bit more,” I cleared my throat again, not having had much experience with eulogy, despite deaths that seemed to follow me wherever I went. “Maybe discuss my inheritance. Alas, it is what it is.”

I looked down at the bouquet of flowers, gripped tightly in my hands. “Abraxas and I gathered a little something for you. Don’t know what kind you liked, but – there are some dandelions in here.” 

I furrowed my brows, angling the plants in an attempt to name them. “Some… grass. Well, I hope you’ll like them.”

I tossed the bouquet on top of the fire, watching the flowers shrivel as the flames licked them hungrily.

“Closure,” Abraxas leaned over to me and whispered, giving me an encouraging wink.

I nodded and took a deep breath. My eyes surveyed the first hint of light behind the roaring hills at the approaching dawn. I bit my lips in deep contemplation, trying to put a label on what I was feeling.

“You were a shit father… father,” I continued, blinking away the tears that were beginning to pool in my eyes. “I wish I got to tell you that in person. I admit things could have gone better.”

“But,” I sniffed, looking up at the chalk-white sky to dry my eyes. “Rest assured, your assets will be put to good use. I’ll promise you that.”

My eyes landed on Abraxas, who had given me a thumbs-up. I nodded in appreciation of his support.

I sighed, growing restless at the idea that Abraxas and I still had to bleach the entire place. “Goodbye, father. And fuck you.”

I knew I did well by the congratulatory pat on my shoulder. I turned my eyes as the first ray of sunshine hit my cheekbones. The clouds. The birds chirping by. It was strangely serene, even idyllic, betraying the violent night that we just shared.

But, I found myself smiling as the strands of my hair in the breeze tickled my cheeks. I felt it. Abraxas was right. My mind was finally at peace. 

Reflecting the serenity of our environment. Save for the burning corpses.

I knew it in my heart. That was to be the last time I killed a man.

A single tear rolled down my cheek, as I clasped the blond’s hand on my shoulder. A fresh new start, I felt it in my core.

A/N: Written for Quidditch writing competition a few months ago! I am sorry that I haven't been writing/uploading new stories recently. But the new ones are coming!

[yellowkitkieran]

Christening (Kieran Tierney)

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: NSFW! Kieran insists on breaking in the new house in Spain.

The thing about Kieran is, he is a surprisingly territorial man. 

When you met him, on your first date you'd gotten the impression he was a soft, shy sweetheart of a man that couldn't hurt a fly. You liked that about him, drawn to the fact that he didn't fit into the traditional footballer stereotype. He wasn't a partier, wasn't pictured with a new woman every week, and kept his nose clean. 

Your second date was attending one of his matches, when you discovered what a passionate hot head he could be in the right circumstances. Calling out the ref for a bad foul, stepping in to defend his teammates and advocating on their behalf, and in the same breath nearly ripping a striker to pieces for flinging insults. 

But a month into your relationship, you discovered the true Kieran, on a night out with your friends when another man tried to put his hands on you. Kieran hadn't hesitated to put his tongue down your throat and prove exactly who you belonged to. 

And quite frankly, he hasn't stopped since. 

When he played for Arsenal, Kieran made it unfailingly clear that you were his. Rarely a day went by that he didn't find some surface to bend you over- one of his favorites being the bench in the center of the Arsenal dressing room, when no one was around to see but anyone could walk in and interrupt him claiming you. 

Now, in Spain? Clean slate. New people for you to meet. New places to enjoy and discover. And as you're already well aware, Kieran intends to find his favorites sooner rather than later. 

"Look darling, I'm only saying that it doesn't feel like home." Kieran tosses his boots in the foyer, and you're of the mind that this does feel like home, what with the bits of dirt now marring the white tile in the same fashion as it had in your London flat. "It's just… it feels cold, like we've got no connection with it. It's too big!"

"Hearing you say that is a first." You hide your snicker behind your hand, smiling as you shut the door with your hip. Kieran rolls his eyes, that playful spark you fell in love with dancing in them. 

"And you'll never hear me say it again. Like I was saying- it just doesn't feel like us? It was nice of Sociedad to provide it, I cannae discount them for that but it just isn't right."

You set your grocery bags down and move his boots to the boot tray where they belong, attempting to corral the mess before it gets out of hand. Kieran pats your bum in a silent apology as he passes, on his way to the kitchen to put away the frozens you bought to fill the freezer.  

"Give yourself a chance to adjust," you insist as you have ten times already this week. "We've only just got here. It doesn't feel right because it's not London. It's not forever, it's just for now but we do have to learn to live with it… and besides, we have to make a few memories of our own before-" 

You realize your slip up when Kieran's eyes lock on you. You know that look- its his 'I may actually fuck the living daylight out of you if you continue that sentence' look. His pink lips purse ever so slightly, as if anticipating a kiss. His head tips, drinking you in you without restraint. 

You shouldn't let him, you really shouldn't because you've got to cook dinner and finish unpacking your clothes and a million other things you've been putting off since your arrival. 

But… 

But.

You shift on your feet, calculating your next words carefully. This could go so many ways, though there's only one thing you want… 

"We just have to make some memories of our own before it feels like ours," you continue, "you know, something… unforgettable. Something we think about every single time we come home."

Flames lick down your spine when Kieran's eyes glaze over. They drift down your chest, past your midriff exposed by your crop top, and darken when he notes the way your pleated skirt has hiked up on the walk inside, leaving your legs exposed. 

Oh, you were in for trouble. And you'd welcome it with open arms. 

"Kitchen or dining room first?" 

It amazes you how quickly Kieran can turn you into a puddle- and not just metaphorically. His buttery accent with his soft r's and rolling tongue have your thighs slick in seconds when paired with the testosterone dripping off the words.

How could you ever say no, when a simple sound has you starved for him?

"Kitchen."

The choice has barely left your mouth before Kieran's strong arms wrap around your middle and he tosses you over his shoulder, fully at his mercy already. You're powerless to resist when he sets you rather unceremoniously on the marble counter, grinning when the sudden cold against your legs makes you squeal. 

"Kieran-"

"Yes?" He's already attached to your neck, aware you're powerless to resist him the second he sucks a mark onto the delicate skin. Your mind fills with clouds when he leaves another on the opposite side, twin to the first. He licks over that one, then blows cool air over it to raise goosebumps on your skin. 

"We… we…"

"Should fuck? Yeah I know darling." Kieran's hand is already lifting the hem of your skirt, the callouses on his palms scraping your outer thigh. You don't have it in you to resist, nor do you want to. All you can think about are those sweet, nimble fingers curled inside you, stroking that spot that has his name dancing on your tongue-

Quicker than you can process, Kieran reads your mind and acts. Two of his fingers push inside you, coated with his spit, sliding in easily with how wet you already are. God, so full, he's already so much and he's barely started. 

"We have to christen every room," Kieran murmurs in your ear. "We've done the bedroom and the bathroom so far but those are boring, don't you think?" His fingers start to move, pumping slowly whilst you whimper. "Can't have my darling getting bored. Have to keep you satisfied, or else I'm not treating you how you deserve, am I?" 

In truth you barely register a word Kieran says. You're too focused on the drag of his fingers on your walls, on not coming embarrassingly soon. His voice is what has you on edge, the husk that's come over it in the moment. He's unlocked that primal side of him that usually was reserved for match days. But when he turns that side on for you? Without fail you know you're in for the best sex of your life. 

"Garden next," you half moan, meeting his dark eyes with your half lidded ones. You're drunk on him, on his fingers stretching you out. All of this is only foreplay, you have to remind yourself. Because there's more coming, much more. 

"Oh, we can certainly have some fun in the garden, darling. You wanna make sure the neighbors know my name yeah?" Kieran chuckles when your head bobbles on your shoulders, like you can't nod fast enough. "Aw don't worry doll, we'll get there after this. You look hungry though… should I feed you?"

You moan in response to his question, unable to do much more. Your hips buck involuntarily when Kieran withdraws his fingers, licking them clean while he steps back to make room for you to kneel in front of him. Kieran steadies himself with a hand on the edge of the counter when you yank down his trousers. His significant, proud length strains against his boxers. You flick your tongue over the wet patch of fabric near the tip, delighting when his cock twitches under your tongue. 

You don't wait another second to pull him free. Kieran is heavy in your hand. One of his hands fists in your hair and he pushes, pushes, pushes until you're forced to open your mouth and take him. Kieran moans the second he feels your tongue glide over him, guttural and raw. 

"Fuck me darling that mouth is fucking perfect. Keep working your tongue- good giiiirl. So good for me." The praise has your thighs squeezing shut, your hands tucked between them. You know better than to try and help yourself when Kieran is in one of these moods; doing so may mean he fucks your mouth, gets his release and then leaves you on your own as punishment for doing his work for him. And right now, that is the absolute last thing you want. 

Some combination of spit and come drips down your chin as you bob your head. You don't bother to wipe it off. Kieran likes it messy and you are more than happy to oblige, especially when he's rutting his hips like this. He hits the back of your throat again and again, forcing you to relax and take it. The slight pain that accompanies it only heightens your expectations for when he's finally inside you, stretching you out until you're begging for him to move. 

Moans and grunts echo in the room, both Kieran's unfiltered ones and yours muffled by his cock. You gasp for air when he pulls you off him, looking up through your lashes to find him utterly feral for you. A bead of sweat drips down his abdomen, right down the center of his abs. You want to lick it off, so you do. His stomach ripples under your tongue, betraying him to reveal how much he enjoys that surprise. 

"Up," Kieran orders, grabbing your arm and spinning you around. Your cheek brushes the marble countertop when he bends you over it, the contact light but the chill felt through your entire body. A hiss escapes through your clenched teeth. Kieran only laughs. He grabs both your hands and holds them tight behind your back, "don't act like you don't like it. I know you do, you can't lie to me." 

When you open your mouth to reply with a snappy retort, a moan comes out instead. The head of Kieran's cock pushes into you and all hope of coherent thought is lost. Everything is him, the feeling of it, the tingling stretch as he fills you to the brim. 

Once Kieran's hips are flush with your bum, he sits there. Waiting. Teasing you, like the tease he is. It isn't until you start squirming and trying to fuck yourself back onto him that his breath comes hot on your ear, "always so eager. For someone so innocent, you sure are hungry."

"Well maybe if you'd fucked me more since we got here-"

You cry out when Kieran's hips snap forward, feeling like he's split you in two. Your vision blackens around the edges and your heart stutters in your chest. You lose your train of thought, narrowed in on his movements as he draws out only to slam into you again. 

"You were saying, doll?" 

"I… I- fuck Kieran, don't fucking tease!" You whine when he pulls out fully, leaving you empty. You're desperate and needy but you don't care; all you care about is having him inside you. 

When Kieran enters you again, this time he's punishing with it. Your hips bump the counter with each thrust, and you're positive you'll have bruises in the morning. When his hand circles your throat and forces you up and back against his bare chest- where did his shirt go? Lost somewhere in the haze- your pussy clenches around him and Kieran grunts in pure satisfaction. 

"I swear, I could fuck you twice a day and it still wouldn't be enough. You're just that greedy of a slut, aren't you? Never can get enough of this cock." You can hear the smile in Kieran's voice and it only turns you on more. You love it when he's confident like this, empowered by your helpless mewels as he continues to fuck you senseless. 

A searing heat fills your chest when Kieran's hand comes around to drift down your torso, anticipating his next move. Your breathing quickens, chest growing tight until his finger finally meets your clit. You moan when he brushes over it, nearly panting when his impossibly deeper voice sounds near your ear, "are you close darling?"

"Y-yes- yes! Yes Kieran I'm close, but I want you to come in me first-" 

"Of course I will darling, I can't leave you empty can I? And besides, this is a christening… you know that means I'm filling you in every. Single. Room."

Kierans finger rubs circles over the sensitive bud as pleasure builds in your gut. You hold on, dangling impossibly close to the edge but determined to hold on for him. Your core throbs with each snap of his hips, so close you swear you can taste it. 

Finally, Kieran cries out and you feel him coat your insides. He continues fucking you through it, until you feel him dripping out to coat your thighs. It's then that you can't hold it any more, your limbs going white hot and ice cold at the same as you finally find your release. 

Sweaty and panting, Kieran remains inside of you while he kisses down your spine. His thumb traces shapes on your hip while you come back down to earth, smiling over your shoulder when you can see clearly.

"Hi darling," Kieran murmurs, a cheeky grin on his flushed face. "Good start to our weekend, I think."

"I think our ice cream has melted," you sigh, nodding to the tub left on the counter. Kieran laughs and wraps you in his warmth, his arms around your middle. 

"I love you enough that I'll go out and buy you some more tonight." 

"After another round though, yeah?"

"That's a given."

[necros-writing-stuff]

18+, Minors trundle along.

Needing to speak about my other toxic yaoi ship BruDick, so yahoo here we go.

Warnings: Poor Jaylad's descriptive verbs just got downgraded to past-tense (he dead). Bruce punches Dick. One-sided BruDick.

Dick growing up, idolising this man who took him in and trained him. Who kept him fed and warm (though keeping him safe is very debatable). Who refuses to call him son, even on that night he left for college and threatened to never come back.

Now, had he asked to be referred to as Bruce's son? No. Did he need it for his own peace of mind? Yes. If Bruce saw him as family it might have stomped out those guilt-ridden fantasies he'd had first in his bed at the manor, then in his college dorm, and finally in Blüdhaven. The fantasies where Bruce followed him into the cave's showers after patrol, pressed his front to the slickened tiles and took him with a large, scarred palm over his mouth lest Alfred hear and catch them.

It was a fantasy that turned more violent the months he and Bruce had argued. First about Robin being taken from him, then about Jason. Jason, who got Robin - a uniform he designed after his dead parents! Jason, who got to be a Wayne. But it wasn't the boy's fault. It was Bruce's. Over a decade at each other's side and it felt like Bruce was trying to wipe the slate clean. To get rid of him.

Things have been okay recently, at least. Dick feels half-excited as the Titan's ship lands and he steps onto Earth for the first time in what felt like forever. He and Jason could go out for ice-cream when he got back, maybe take a day out at the arcade. He could see Bruce. Maybe even share a smile with him.

It should have been that way. When his phone was flooded with notifications and the TV in the Tower were reporting on Bruce Wayne's first public appearance since his son's funeral, Dick knew he might never get a chance at building his family again.

Bruce's number was not amongst the seedy journalists trying to reach out for comment. Alfred's also wasn't, but the old man knew better than to intercede on Bruce's behalf. He was a grown man. He should have told Dick. He should have tried, even knowing that he was in space.

The cave has never felt so silent when Dick steps down the stairs. It's like the bats above are scared to squeak. Bruce is in front of the Batcomputer, hunched, his face hidden but sparse glimpses of a stubbled jawline peaking through. He hasn't been taking care of himself. Dick almost instinctively wants to reach forward, guide him to the bathroom, shave it for him. As though he were stitching up a shoulder wound for him. As though they were still Batman and Robin.

Even with emotions running high, even with Dick's own temper flaring, he had not expected Bruce to throw a punch. He had not expected his mentor, in all of his grief and heartbreak, to turn it outwards onto him. When Bruce grieved, it was turned inward. That was how Dick knew him. That was what he expected. He thought that when Dick came to him, demanded to know why he didn't hear about Jason from Bruce, that his mentor would emotionally shut down and deflect.

Running his tongue over where his tooth dug into the inside of his cheek, Dick tastes his own blood. As his mentor rips his keys from him and demands he never return home, his chest tightens. Everything feels hot. His chest, his cheeks, the pressure behind his eyes. Things had been good. He had a little brother. He almost had a father again.

It's seems now he never will. Bruce will never acknowledge him as his own. He'll never let him back into his life when the two times he'd blown up at Dick weren't even Dick's fault.

Perhaps Bruce is expecting a fight when Dick stands up and steps closer. Perhaps he's rearing back because he's waiting for a headbutt. The stone-stillness when Dick's lips press to his own, when Dick squeezes his forearmes tight, when an angry tear drips down and taints the kiss with salt.

It's an insane thing to do. To kiss Bruce, now of all times, when the younger man's cheek is already bruising. But it's also the only time. Because Dick knows he'll never see him again.

With all of his training, the legendary dark knight has nothing when his former protégé pulls away. He has nothing when Dick ascends the steps back into the manor and he's left alone once more, his empty mind echoing more than the deafness of the cave.

He just wants his son back. He isn't quite sure which one he means anymore.

[channwie]

𓍯 NONVIOLENT COMMUNICATION ⋆ GOJO SATORU & GETO SUGURU ─ ⋆

maybe satoru forgot he wasn’t the only one who got left behind .

no wc ⋆ fem!reader ˖ implied satosugu x reader ˖ angst, hurt no comfort ⋆ notes ˖ wdym suguru’s not coming back?

He stands in the doorframe of your newly bought studio apartment, cardboard boxes piled on top of each other and scattered across cold white tiled floors.

“How much more stuff you gotta bring up?” He asks, dark sunglasses perched atop his nose, snow white brows scrunching up as he looks around the barren place you’ve told him you’re about to call home. He’s judging you. He really doesn’t know any better, you can’t even blame him.

“Just the silverware and sharp stuff.”

You’re just as unenthused about this clean slate as he seems to be. Something's missing. You both know that.

But when Satoru Gojo asks you to pack your life away in boxes taped shut and cushioned with styrofoam, you do it.

There’s a pregnant pause in the room, arms crossed over your chest as you lean against a pristine wooden bookshelf, a gift from Nanami, empty and lounging in the passage of what’s to be your living room. From one hopeless friend to the next.

You don't even own enough books to fill it.

You hear Satoru thinking of words to say.

“Did he call you?” Gojo asks, a pale and slender middle finger pushes his sunglasses up, blue orbs hidden behind tinted lenses. He never liked it when anyone looked into his eyes for too long. Is it that? Or is he steeling his nerves for more?

No, you know better.

He doesn’t want you to see his eyes when he asks you. He doesn’t trust what they’ll say.

Satoru can’t lie to you with those eyes.

“No, he hasn’t called.”

It’s been days since the incident. Almost a week.

You woke up on a random Sunday with ten missed calls from Satoru and a text that made you drop everything, abandon your post overseas training new freshman and book a flight to Japan the next day.

‘Suguru left.’ It said.

And you, of all people knew, Gojo couldn’t be left to his own devices. Not when Suguru, the one person you and Satoru held dear, ran off overnight.

He hums in response, shrugging your words off with a chuckle, one that doesn’t quite meet his eyes, doesn't rumble from his chest like it should, and you dig your fingernails into the wood of the bookshelf.

I'm not strong enough for this.

“He’ll come back.” You say, and it comes out way shakier and forced than you mean it to. “He always does.”

Suguru wouldn’t leave us like that. You’re insulting him when you talk like that, ‘toru.

Suddenly, your heart betrays you, and you wonder if spending your third year as a transfer was worth it. Maybe if you’d been there—

You're not Suguru.

You can't be what he is to you and Satoru. Geto’s mind is stronger than yours, his resolve unshaken, his temper stalled, his love for you, his love for Satoru—

“He blocked my number.” Satoru says, and you retract your nails, without sparing a glance towards him. You scoff, thoroughly unamused. “No, he didn’t.” You oppose, stalking towards the empty kitchen.

The conversation ends there, Satoru.

Suguru would say.

You wished you had the strength.

But Satoru is persistent, and he pushes his body forward off the doorframe, posture slouched to hell as he follows you. “My calls won’t even go through.” He says, and you ignore him, busying yourself with sorting through a miniature looking cardboard box on the marble counter.

Satoru calls your name and you ignore him again. You dig through the half full box of styrofoam and resurface an egg timer, decorated like a penguin. It’s old, you think. Where did you even get this?

Satoru slides his palm across the counter, contemplates holding his tongue, it’s cool on his fingertips and he pulls back, intruding in your field of vision, forcing you to look at him.

What would Suguru say to you?

There’s no cord. Is this thing electronic? You shove past him, moving to the parasol shaped kitchen table to test the thing out.

“Don’t pretend like I’m invisible.” Satoru complains, his footsteps lag behind you. “If you’d just listen to me—”

Ah, you remember now. No wonder the stupid thing’s so old, must’ve been a dumb drunken gift from Suguru. He only ever gifts quirky household items when drunk.

“And just, I don’t know,” He groans, creeping closer behind you. “Call him from your phone or something.” Cold hands take his sunglasses off, and rake through his hair in frustration.

You click a few buttons on the silly little device, it doesn’t do anything. Did Suguru ever give you a manual with this thing? You inspect it a little closer.

“Will you just fucking look at me, please?”

Satoru never shouted at you. His hand grasps your wrist to turn you around and the egg timer clatters to the ground, the plastic hitting the floor makes a sharp plap sound.

You barely react for a moment. Satoru’s hand is cold on the skin of your wrist, his fingers wrap at your pulse point, and you tilt your head up to look at him— his eyes are dim.

In your gaze, for a split second, he sees Suguru, and he drops your arm as if he’s been burned.

You still scold him when you aren’t even in the room, Suguru.

“I’m sorry—” Satoru begins.

You cut him off, “It’s fine.”

It isn’t.

He’s hurting, Suguru.

Satoru takes a breath. Suguru would kill him if he saw him lay a hand on you like that.

He calls your name, and you shake your head. Satoru takes a step back and you bend down to pick up the egg timer.

He’s not stable, he knows that. Suguru’s been gone for days, he knows that. You don’t deserve this, he knows that all too well.

Something inside you grows tired of housing memories of Suguru in the corner of your heart while Satoru looks for him in every crevice of the earth.

Come home already, Suguru.

Satoru calls your name again, it’s softer, he’s mulling over the syllables on his tongue.

“I’m sorry.” He repeats, and turns away from you.

You’re silent, back turned to him as you kneel on the floor, egg timer with bright painted penguin eyes looking at you.

“You’re not the only one suffering, Satoru.”

It’s a punch to his gut, and he exits, fresh wound reopening. You loved him too, didn't you?

Sorry, Suguru.

I can't even protect her while you're gone.

The egg timer goes off the moment Satoru heads through the door, and you grip it so tightly in your palm, you’re afraid it’ll break.

The three of you have run out of time.