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rustedhearts · 6 months ago

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the one where rafe shows his true colors…

rolly’s blurbs

“get in the truck.”

the slow crunch of gravel follows you at snail’s pace down the road. flanked by heavy willows and the fading hum of young-adult-debauchery, you feel safer on the one-way road back home than you do in small confines with rafe.

the truck headlights beacon over the dirt, and he has the windows rolled all the way down to hang out from. his signet ring glints in the corner of your eye when his hands twitch, but you don’t look over. you glare straight ahead and keep a steady, nonchalant pace. arms crossed, sweater wound tight around your waist.

you refuse to let him know he’s rattled you, though everyone at the house now thirty paces behind you knows he did.

and despite the blowout between the pair of you in the corner of the laundry room, rafe seems more concerned with finding the right song. beats start only to abruptly end as he bangs on the skip button.

“honey. just get in.”

he sounds bored. he sounds expectant.

he sounds like what just happened is going to happen again.

and something about that thought wires your mouth shut. it sends a cold shock through your chest and in the cool autumn evening, you shiver.

you thought he loved you. you thought you loved him. but you couldn’t love a man like this.

rafe settles on a song and it pulses through the truck with heavy bass. he turns it down until it’s nothing but a low buzz.

“jesus, just—just get in the truck.”

he’s losing the steadiness to his voice. he’s getting impatient, and you just saw what happens when he gets impatient.

“i want to walk home, rafe,” you tell him, and it’s far too kind.

much too quiet for what he just did to you.

“what? no. no, get—honey, just get in the truck.”

you speed up a little. truly, you didn’t mean to. you just want him to go away, leave you alone. you need to breathe and even in all the open air of the night, you can’t fucking breathe.

the tires give a little whir when he speeds up to match your pace.

and now you’re running away. from him?

rafe leans further out of the window, and you jump when he bangs his hand hard on the steel door.

“get in the fucking truck!”

your eyes begin to burn, blurring with wetness. you sniffle and wipe your nose with the cuff of your sleeve, feel your chin quiver. there’s so much aching in your chest and it hurts.

the truck comes to a hard stop, and you’re a few paces ahead when rafe disrupts the yellow glow of the headlights. it’s dark for only a split second before he’s on the road behind you, a big and heavy force of heat.

“goddamn it, stop,” he barks sternly.

his hand stops you himself, latching onto your elbow to whip you around. you instantly plant your hand on the center of his chest for distance.

“rafe,” you gasp.

that’s why you were here. for this exactly. his hand around your arm, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes like small slits under angled brows. that distant look he only gets when he’s coked out—but now, you realize it’s how he looks when he’s upset, too.

it’s a quick but miserable realization.

he’s high. he gets angry when he’s high.

he hurts you when he’s high. shoves you into the washer of his friend’s house and yells so loudly that people start poking their head into the room to check on you. towers over you until you cower. grabs you so hard it stings. growls at you like a spoiled child until your heart hammers.

“don’t look at me like that,” he demands, pulling you closer and forcibly bending your arm between your chests. “you have to learn your place here.”

the tears burn intensely on their way out. a scoff shoots from your mouth and it’s thick with disbelief and the onset of a cry.

“my place? what—“

“d-don’t what me. don’t what me. i’m in charge here, alright? i am.”

you give your arm a tug, use the other to push as hard as you can. “let go of me.”

“get in the truck.”

your hand stings when it makes contact on his cheek. “no! no, you’re fucking crazy. let me go, rafe.”

you’re crying now, whimpering out words you can’t tell if you mean. you love him, it aches so horribly in your heart. but he isn’t supposed to love you like this.

this wasn’t the rafe four months clean and doing well. this wasn’t the rafe that brought you flowers and kissed your cheek. this wasn’t the rafe that asked where you wanted to go to dinner, that listened when you rambled from across the candlelit table.

this wasn’t the rafe you knew.

it was the rafe you’d been warned about. the rafe you promised no longer existed.

the rafe he promised no longer existed.

“you’ll leave,” he mumbles and he was stepping closer again, his cheek flaming red and white in the shape of your fingers. “if i let go, you’ll leave.”

a snotty sniffle answers him. his fingers loosen on your arm.

“you can’t treat me like this, rafe.”

his touch softens to a cradle. his hands move down to your waist, molding to the divots above your hips.

“i know,” he coos. “i know, baby. i-i didn’t mean to.”

“you’re high.”

he sighs, head falling to your shoulder. he tips it, nose dragging along your neck. his shoulders are hunched, knees a little bent to fold into you.

“jus’ did a bump. one time, baby, promise.”

you close your eyes, squeezing a tear loose across his neck. your hands ball together tightly at your sides. he runs his hands up and down your waist under the flaps of your sweater. his thumbs massage into your stomach. his breath is hot on your neck.

“i love you,” he whines. “i love you, i do. i’m sorry.”

you bring your hand to his back, letting your fingers unfurl. they splay flat across his t-shirt, and soon you find yourself petting him. comforting him.

“i know. i love you, too.”

you find yourself asking—as he stands to his height and laces your hands together—just how much.

he hoists you into the passenger of the truck and clicks your belt on. takes your head in his hands and tugs you down to kiss your head. he turns the radio dial and boosts the bass of the music as the truck zooms down the road toward his house.

you’ll stay the night in his bed, in his clothes, and let him kiss the bruise from the corner of the washing machine like it was meant to be there.

evidently, you realize:

a little too much.

#rolly!#rolly’s blurbs #rafe cameron #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron x reader

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brineoffire · 4 months ago

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Next day of my schedule is a fic update! BTW I'll pin my posting schedule after my poll finishes!

Chapter 3 of Wings and Wires!

Previous chapter link

vvv

Around you many of his guests stare and you all but ignore all of them. You keep your chin up, staring at the rafters once again. Do exactly what you were trained to do. Grit and bare the looks you get and the hands of your owner that trail over your knee and thigh absentmindedly. You've dealt with this over and over again, and you'll continue to deal with it as long as you're here. As long as you belong to Alphonso.

The worst part of it all was still when he allowed his associates to touch you. When he let them line up to get their hands on you. Greedy hands brushing through the fur on your wings and tail. Those closer to him he allows more intimate touches. Those more important guests are able to see you as you strip off your fancy silks and satins. Left in nothing but your tight underwear, lacy tank top and short briefs that lay low on your waist.

He usually leads them, pulling you down to your knees by the chains on your muzzle or collar. Keeping you between his legs he allows them to run their hands over your exposed body. They rub over where scales meet flesh, too many fingers tangling in the streak of fur that follows your spine. A select few would slide eager fingers over and into the edges of your underwear. Those touches still sent a chill down your spine and the sting of bile up the back of your throat.

It's easy to recall the time you first fell into Alphonso's hands. The first few months he kept you all to himself, breaking you in as you fought back. Heavy chains and straps always kept him just out of reach of your claws. In those times he kept your mouth fully covered with muzzles made fully of steels and metals, your teeth would snap behind them uselessly. For two months you fought him, each time your punishments getting worse and worse.

Bindings tightened. Dark rooms where he kept you isolated and hungry. When your fits had been at their worst he'd have you pinned down, your limbs immovable. He knew the slowest and most painful way to remove scales, claws, and fangs. Always pulling from the same spot after they'd regrow, relishing in your extra pain from the fresh growth. It broke you down after the third month. Three months of blood and tears. Three months of sobbing and anger. Three months of being forced into a mold to become the perfect pet for the mafia head.

You had no one to get back to after all. Your family would be the first ones to pay the price if you ever actually escaped. There was no love lost there, but you understood what happened. Understood the bleakness of all of your futures if Alphonso didn't get exactly what he wanted. So you played the role he forced you into. Became his attack dog, his lap cat. Followed every order to the letter ro win his praise.

Now here you are, sitting in his lap like the pet you've become. Answering every one of his demands no matter how outrageous just to avoid his wrath. It's easier now to ignore the eyes, the hands, the cold voices talking about you like an animal. You've spent so long tuning it all out while he totted you around, just like you do now, staring up at the rafters as if they were bars to the cage your life has become.

When everything from your sleep to your exercise has been dictated it's easy to fall into an autopilot. You've gotten to a point where you can tune out all voices but his, can focus only on his scent, but today is different. Somewhere on the edge of your consciousness you feel a pull. A little tug that threatens to pull your focus back to your surroundings and onto something other than Alphonso’s call. More than a scent, or a voice, it's something that tugs on your mind itself, pulling you to look in the direction of the other dragon and his harpy.

Your vision comes back into focus and you can't help but slowly glance that way. When your eyes finally settle on them again it confuses you to see concern from the bigger man, his brow furrowed even more as he watches you carefully. The harpy conceals it well, no one else would notice, but you see anger, though it's not directed at you. Following the line of his vision you know he's looking past you, at Alphonso. You know that sense is somehow coming from both of them, and you're about to give into it, about to turn to look at them directly, when Alphonso clears his throat and has your full attention.

Your eyes shift back to his face as you watch him talk. He thanks the crowd for attending and rattles on about his plans. Letting them know a vague outline of his manufacturing, subtle details and hints mean those who know the plans are reassured and those who shouldn't are kept in the dark. He has your full attention as he talks yet you feel that same odd sense again. That same pulling desire to give your attention to the two men across the dining room. For now you keep yourself in line and focused on Alphonso.

His speech finishes and the crowd claps lightly. In your peripherals you catch a blur of movement, and you know exactly what it is. Snapping your head towards the source you react in a split second. Launching yourself off the seat, using your wings to lift your weight off Alphonso before springing into action. A gunman rushes forward, shotgun in hand as they sprint to get a good shot.

You’re used to these attempts by now, though what you’re not used to is a smaller blur of movement. The gunner stumbles forward, their speed broken as one of their knees buckles forward, a gasp of surprise leaving their mouth as you continue to bound towards them. Grabbing the gun’s barrel you knock it upwards, kicking at its wielder's chest with enough force to drop them backwards. They cling onto their weapon desperately but you slam the butt of their gun into their face hard enough for them to lose their grip.

As they fall you press a knee to their chest, your wings flaring backwards as you drive your weight into them. Your clawed hands dig into their shoulders and they cry out in pain as your thumbs dig into their neck hard enough to draw blood. You hear Alphonso laughing loudly and clapping as you glare down at the would-be assassin.

“Well now ladies and gentlemen! Isn't this nice? Dinner and a show!” You hear mummers mixed with a few chuckles around you as your focus stays on your quarry. They struggle in vain under you, calloused hands gripping at your wrists as they squirm fruitlessly. Out of the corner of your eye you catch something falling from behind the leg they stumbled on. Something thin and pointed, made up of several brown shades with a slight glint of red.

Behind you Alphonso's footfalls ring out as he gets closer to you, his hand falling on your head, patting you.

“Good boy.” He raises his arm, a signal for his regular guards to approach as he laughs again.

“You fucking idiots never learn do you?” Your grip only loosens once the guards have their shoulders, yanking them to their feet roughly. Your tail subtly slides over what you now see is a feather. While the attention is on the assassin you deftly slide it under a scale on your tail, hiding it just under your fur. You can almost feel its owners' eyes boring into you, but you keep your focus on the task at hand.

#task force 141 #141 x male reader #141 x reader #141 x trans male reader #poly 141 #tf 141 #141 #poly 141 x male reader #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #brine scratch #141 hybrid au

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smutstationchoochoo · 8 months ago

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A little John Price x FemReader drabble because I think about John Price far too often for it to be considered healthy and my mind always comes back to this: he always seems so in control. Not just of his people, or whatever environment he is in, but of himself. He’s cool calm and collected and honestly?- I don’t think that aspect of Price would shift too much during sex. Actually, I think it would kick into overdrive. I think that cool calm collectedness would shift into a calculating tenderness.

You see, he knows you. Knows how you take your coffee in the morning, knows what makes you laugh, knows your favorite movie, he even knows what kind of toothpaste you prefer. And he knows what makes you shake and cry and beg and plead beneath him.

John Price has had you pressed into his bed for what feels like an eternity now, one of his strong arms holding your hips down as the other is busy working two thick fingers in and out of you as he eats you out not like a man starved but like one who knows how to savor a good meal, how to taste a fine whiskey, how to suck in the smoke from a cigar and discern every single note.

Your legs are trembling, your hands grip onto the back on his head and you try to grind your hips against his molten tongue, chasing the release he has denied you since kissing his way down your body and planting himself between your legs. He of course pulls away, as he has done every single time you finally got close to falling over that edge. Price prides himself on his patience.

Your throat is raw from the sounds he has been wrenching from you and your mind struggles to catch up from another stolen orgasm yet you still try to form his name though it comes out slightly slurred as you lift your head to look down at him.

He lovingly kisses the inside of your thigh, running his rough bearded cheek against the soft skin before glancing up at you. His hair stands up at all angles from your hands desperately clutching at it. His eyes glint like sharpened steel but crinkle beneath a lazy warm smile spread out over reddened cheeks. He blinks at you, your hair wild, a sheen of sweat glistening across your body, and offers a low rumbling hum as if deep in thought.

“What’s that, love? You need to speak up.”

His eyes never leave yours, your gaze just as locked beneath him as your body in his arms. You drag in a breath, trying to fill your lungs with as much oxygen as you can muster and you begin to beg.

He patiently listens to your pleading, nodding his head with your every demand, that grin on his face never wavering, until you are finished.

He shakes his head and sighs, “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

And god bless him, he lets go of his hold on your hips and moves his looming frame until he is kneeling on the bed just below you.

His huge thighs shuffle until they are flush with the backs of your own. His cock is flushed a vicious red, precum glistening from the tip, as he takes it in hand and rubs himself against your clit. You shake, your body body a live wire of pleasure beneath him, and your fingernails dig into his thighs.

“Look at you,” he huffs with a smile.

When he finally lines himself up with your entrance, you can feel your arousal dripping down between your cheeks and creating a small wet spot on the sheets but you don’t have time to care as John’s huge rough hands grip onto your waist and pull you onto the hardened length of himself as he pushes in. You’ll never get used to it, you think for a split second, before the stretch of him inside of you catches up to your brain making your back arch off the bed so harshly that you grit your teeth in pain.

Those hands of his soothingly rub your hips and one slides up to cradle the small of your back.

“There we go,” he praises, his voice low and sticky in your mind, “Such a good girl for me.”

This has you clenching around him so hard that your vision nearly whites out, and even gets you a little huff from John as he closes his eyes and relishes in the feeling of you around him. Then he begins to move.

John’s thrusts are not fast but they are not gentle either. He grinds into you, cock hitting a spot that has you gasping, clawing at his arms as he watches you. He watches as you fall apart beneath him, that smile still there, though his mouth now hangs slightly open in awe. His eyes are hard and focused as he completely gives himself over to the task at hand. Tears begin to gather in your lashes, slipping down your temples, as you blink up at the man breaking you apart. It’s only when his hand shifts to where the two of you meet, and his thumb begins an onslaught of circles against your clit do you begin to grasp the enormity of the cliff you are about to fall over. You sob out his name, the sound of it wretched from your chest, and you shake your head as your hands try to push him away, or drag him closer you have no idea which at this point.

“C’mon, just let go for me,” he urges, “I want to see it.”

And you do. You immediately fall over that cliff and you let go. You can’t even cry out his name, the ability to form any words seemingly lost as you grind yourself into his thrusts and brokenly sob incoherent nonsense as pleasure ricochets through your body electrifying every nerve in your system.

“There it is,” his voice comes to you amongst the waves of your orgasm, proud and praising, as he continues to grind into you, carving himself into your pleasure until he finally gives one last thrust, burying himself deep, before emptying inside you.

You stay there like that, him inside of you, as you try to will yourself back into your own body, listening to the sound of his breathing.

The feeling of those hands softly rubbing against your thighs helps bring you back, eyes blinking up at him. He grins back at you, all tousled hair and flushed faced, before leaning down to kiss you. You sigh into his mouth, but then you feel him twitch inside of you.

“Now give me one more.”

#john price smut #captain john price smut #captain john price x reader #fem reader #call of duty smut #cod mw smut

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sallysavestheday · 2 months ago

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For @queerofthedagger, who opened a delightful firehose of new Russingon on the fandom this year. Here's a little bit back at you. :)

They do not wed. Masters of politics, they know its chilly wires must weave between them, shaping a space for alliances and heirs and all the trappings of a stable realm. Maedhros will take no wife, from inclination and concession both: no child of his will live to haunt the throne. And if Fingon names no maiden of the Sindar Queen – well, four hundred years is a blink of the eye. There is still time, he hears from his father’s hopeful councillors. And ignores them, and then his own. Nor do they bed. Maedhros has never known desire, and Fingon’s will never shape itself to any other soul. But he would no sooner make unwelcome demands of his cousin than break a falcon’s wing. Better the gallop, the flash of steel, the battle’s dance. Better the dragon. Better the songs. Still, they are bound. Fingon stands behind Maedhros at his desk and wraps his arms around his shoulders. He rests his cheek on Maedhros’ head, closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of smoke and ink that always clings to him. I love you, he whispers, over and over. Maedhros’ scarred face stretches into a rare and tender smile. Oh, Fingon, he says, with gentle thankfulness, I know. And whenever they meet before the world’s sharp eyes, Maedhros bows deeper than any other, all his great height folding itself into humility over the warmth of Fingon’s hand. He brushes his lips against the skin of Fingon’s forefinger where a marriage band would rest. My Lord, he says, and it is as rich on his tongue as any other words of loving. My true lord. Into thy hands my self I do bestow.

Also on AO3, as the very last installment of Melody's Shards.

#fingon #maedhros #my fics

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whereserpentswalk · 7 months ago

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There was a church who started worshipping a god built of machine.

They started out as a normal church. Culty and strict for sure, one of those tiny American high control protestant sects. They were just kind of doing their thing for awhile, but than some of the elders said that an angel had come to them, an angel made of steel and wire and plastic, and that he told them how to build God on earth.

The first thing they did was connect every church they had in North America with these massive underground wires. The wires were large and thick and made from this unknown red material. The stats tried to stop them, but once it was built nobody seemed to be able to remove it without causing worse damage. So the wires stayed.

And in every church they owned they brought in big machines to hook up to the red wires. Nobody saw the machines, everyone other than the high ranking priests were forbidden from seeing them, they always kept them under cloths. Nobody knew what they did either, they just knew the priests were constantly interacting with them. But they heard them. It was an awful noise. Sometimes it was like a great churning or screeching, but most of the time it sounded like singing, a horrifying and strange song like nobody had ever heard the likes of before, in a language no one knew.

They showed the world a map of the network and the machines, and told them that that was their god. They believed that if their god had come to earth before as a mortal man, now he had come to earth as a network of machines. And now the entire church bore the bloody hands of Saint Maria.

As time went on they started replacing normal church images with ones that fit their vision of God. Security cameras, computer screens, factory engines, headlights, and the hard and glowing things. And when they depicted angels, they seemed like beings of mechanical creation.

Then they started putting machines inside of people. Little computers. More advanced than anything that humans had made before. Some of them seemed to be to watch their followers. Others to effect their mood, or the hormones, or other subtle things. Others to tell them things. And still others were to do things nobody could figure out the meaning of. Soon all the followers had little computers in their body, and the church knew everything about them. They were entertained, the songs were always with them now.

Then the angels came. Strange mechanical creatures, they looked like something from outside of humanity trying to imitate it. And the angels told the church things, about other planets, and other planes, and war amoung gods and spirits. Some of the church leaders went mad or became disturbed, but they all disappeared, and the ones who stayed were the most loyal. They handed them a map of many universes, and told them to keep it secret.

Soon the angels began demanding sacrifices, though they wouldn't call them that. They wanted humans, to take, nobody knew where. Though they would take anyone, and the church could make anyone with the machines inside them go. Children who didn't follow the pure lifestyle of the church, those who doubted their doctrin, loose women, unmasculine men, those who knew too much that they couldn't be trusted with, all went to the angels, never to be seen again. It's not even like there were bodies to find, they looked but it was like they just exited the universe.

The church left soon after that. The state never cared about them, but journalists broke the story, and the church became too hated to continue. And when their crimes were found, most of the leaders were arrested, tax fraud, embezzlement, crimes more boring than they deserved. The angels left, but warned of darker things from further places and stranger masters. And the god from wires and machines was pulled apart, it didn't even get to be seen in full condition, it just seemed to fall apart and than they had to clean it up.

They say there's still something lurking out there with interest in our world, something that was kept quite, but can now listen thanks to new technology. There is something living in the wires and the glowing machines.

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biteofcherry · 1 month ago

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Happy Wetnessday 💦

I hope you're doing well.

This Wetnessday you're a professor in professor Rogers universe. Since he is already taken (sorry) you fall into a romance with another professor.

Who is he? What does he teach? How did you meet? How is your dynamic? Does he make you forget about Professor Rogers?

xoxo Wetnessday anon 💦

Hi Wetnessday Anon! 🩷

Now that was cruel. Not because you took away Steve, I would be only pouty about that. But you said I'm in professor Rogers' universe AND THEN took him away! That's like hanging a delicious, stuffed chocolate bar in front of me and then taking it away 😤

But fiiine, fiiiine, I will find myself another hot professor to erase the pout from my face.

I could go for the welcoming, flirty and approachable professor Ari. He's so hot and such a sunshine, it's so easy to be around him and with him 🥹🫠 I really should go for him.

But there's something wrong with me today, because I crave mean professor Andy 😳🫣 I blame it on all the evil pixies drowning me in awful Andy content last year. Professor Andy isn't a crazy psycho, but he is very mean and degrading in the hottest way.

He is admired and described as a hardass, but a fair one. He can be a bit moody, but students forgive him the more demanding lectures, because he also carries passionate and fun ones.

Andy is a law professor and as such you shouldn't have a lot of common with him when you start working at the university, since you teach a different faculty. You'd probably only meet in passing and spend some time at the official parties.

However, he's the one the dean introduces you to first, simply because you bumped into him on your tour after signing the contract.

Andy wasn't in a welcoming mood at all, but he still offered a smile and a warm if short greeting. Though his face shifted into cloudy annoyance when the dean got a phone call and without previous agreement he sort of dumped you onto Andy to show you around.

And he's not happy about it.

No, he's not in rush, but he's not much interested in playing a babysitter for the Ice Queen. And he says as much, readjusting his cufflinks.

Your spine hardens into steel at the mention of the nickname you've been given by colleagues in the past.

Because you don't enjoy getting wasted after the conferences, because you refused quite a few flings, because you focus on keeping to yourself and allegedly reported a romance at your past job (you didn't, but that fucker Ransom still thinks it's because of you that he had to break it off with the student; he's the one who gave you the nickname and a snide remark that you were jealous of him not wanting to touch your frigid ass).

"I may be the Ice Queen, but you're an asshole." You tilt your chin and give him a freezing look.

"Someone should play with your asshole to loosen you up."

There should be retort at the tip of your tongue. You're already forming it. But for a second your brain stumbles in attaching the right wires into right spots, instead igniting with the image of Andy's velvety voice cooing at you as his fingers scissor that tight hole.

"Ah!" A dark spark ignites in his blue eyes at your pause.

"Is that it, Ice Queen?" He takes a step into your personal space and you make the mistake of taking a step back. Which he follows, backing you against the wall as he taunts:

"Do you need to be used thoroughly like a needy slut, so that your brilliant, calculating brain switches off and you melt into a puddle?"

"Stop it." You huff, trying to glare at him. But you can't hide the shortening of your breath as Andy presses even closer.

"No, I don't think I will." He chuckles and it's a scarily seductive sound that heats your blood. "And I think you will love it when I keep pushing... and ruining... and filling your holes."

#wetnessdayanon #reply #andy barber x you #professor!andy barber #mean andy barber #andy barber imagine

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catenary-chad · 14 days ago

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The SNCF CC 40100 (and its Nez Cassé relatives)

Thought I’d do an info/context post on these engines since a lot of the fandom doesn’t seem to know much about them. It’s more or less implied canon that this is the engine Electra is, his replica helmet is based on SNCF 40104 specifically, complete with number plate. Further down I also go into how I like to incorporate/interpret some of the history of these engines with the character.

For those of you totally new to trains: SNCF is the French nationalized rail system. The CC 40100 came out in the mid-late 60s as the first of the Nez Cassé line of locomotives, probably the most iconic French trains until the TGVs. They were a line of express passenger/fast freight locomotives that came out between the 60s and early 90s that all had a distinct “broken” front silhouette that looks very 80s despite being first designed more than two decades before Stex came out.

The CC 40100 was a funky, relatively experimental model designed to take four different voltages so it could travel over most of western Europe on the new, high-end Trans Europ Express services. In both the northeast US and much of Europe, electrification was done piecemeal over several decades by different companies/nations, resulting in a patchwork of AC and DC lines running different voltages and/or frequencies, as well as both third rail and overhead wire. Dual voltage electric engines have existed since the turn of the century, but demand for triple and even quadruple-voltage electric trains didn’t develop in Europe until the rise of the EU and border-crossing trains like the TEE that would otherwise need an engine change or use diesel power to run on multiple countries’ systems and standards. There were a number of triple and quadruple-voltage engines and MUs developed in the 60s for this purpose, but the CC 40100 was notably stronger than many of them, to work heavier trains and due to anticipated use on mountainous lines in Switzerland.

Technologically, the CC 40100 had DC traction motors, technological limits restricted the use of AC ones until the 80s-90s. They ran at 1500 V DC, could also take 3000 V DC by changing motor connections, and had transformer and rectifier equipment for taking two voltages and frequencies of AC power. Unusually, they had four pantographs, many multi-voltage engines were built to work on third rail lines and a more common setup was one or two pantographs and a “shoe” collector for third rail. They also never ended up using their fourth 15kV 16 2/3 Hz AC voltage for German/Swiss running in regular service and it’s a little hard to find out why, I’ve heard both technical concerns with equipment getting hot or political factors.

It made the CC 40100 relatively complicated, unreliable, and expensive to run (and the weight of the equipment is why it had six axles in a Co-Co arrangement vs the more common four—axle Bo-Bo setup). There were some interesting features like a gas-filled vs oil-filled transformer to save weight, and corrugated stainless steel body panels like American Budd railcars. They never got used to their full potential for various political/practical reasons and the quad-voltage capability became a delicate overkill, so only ten were made. TEE also fell out of relevance into the 80s as business travelers moved to planes and the market for first-class trains declined. They had a more limited use and service life than other Nez Cassé engines as a result, though 25-35 years is still a decent run and comparable to other TEE multi-voltage engines of the era. As a fun bonus, one was restored and runs excursions today (40110) and there’s lots of video on youtube! Apparently the group that runs it also has a steam engine and I can’t help but wonder how maintenance compares.

youtube

Canon Electra accurately reflects a number of traits of these engines (though I take issue with them being picked as a representative of electric traction because they’re pretty specialized and atypical). AC and DC are both okay by them, they almost exclusively ran first-class TEE services, and were prone to overheating and catching fire. Not exploding though, THAT’S almost purely the domain of steam engines. Bidding the Nationals farewell in “No Comeback” in their various languages and not having a clear country of origin also tie in well to the 40100’s intended use as a pan-European engine. As a very fun cultural link, the Kraftwerk song “Trans Europ Express” mentions David Bowie and I can’t help but wonder if that’s why they chose this engine as a basis for Electra. The song definitely has a similar vibe to the character, though the CC 40100s never ran the exact route mentioned in the song, since they never ran in Germany in general. As an even more fun cultural link that was probably unintended, this song and Kraftwerk in general were really popular in early hip hop and techno circles…. which also checks out to the direction Electra took in the actual production.

From the illustrious sources of reddit and translated youtube comments, French railfans really like these engines, even if a lot of the Anglophone internet thinks they look weird. They have a status akin to the Concorde as a symbol of attempted European collaboration and unity. They could also be compared to a more modern Santa Fe Super Chief, in terms of being a flashy luxury train that was popular in model/toy form. The Nez Cassé classes in general seem to have an E/F-unit esque “iconic colorful, glamorous old engine strongly associated with a specific country” reputation on general. “The TGV is numerically better but these are SHINIER” is a common sentiment. They were physically loud in service between the motor whine and loud cooling fans, there’s some good cab ride footage on youtube where you can hear it. “Diva Electra” is a lot closer to their reputation than the eerie lifeless zombie of the workshop. There are/were eerily silent electric engines, but those with DC motors rarely were, they brake with giant resistors that get hot like a space heater or toaster and need loud, powerful cooling fans.

So ironically, Electra’s “face” is an engine more akin to an electric, European equivalent of Greaseball culturally. Actually very dated technologically, if anything most of their problems were because they were designed well before computers. Hardly threatening and if anything more seen as a symbol of optimism and progress. Which ends up reflecting a lot when it’s demonized by media from a country with infamously limited electrification progress vs mainland Europe (the more I learn about British train politics then and now the more I can’t take Stex at face value).

OTHER NEZ CASSÉ CLASSES

These videos give a great overview (in French but have English subs)

Co-Co (larger) models:

youtube

Bo-Bo (smaller) models:

youtube

First of all, if you ever want a cheap idea for an Electra recolor OC, there was a Belgian equivalent to the CC 40100 that looks just like that. These ones actually ran services in Germany!

I’ve joked about it before but there was also a very successful diesel Nez Cassé, the CC 72000, which is basically the French equivalent of Greaseball. Big (by European standards) mixed traffic fast freight/passenger engine that lasted about 50 years, covering the increasingly few non-electrified lines in France.

There were also a bunch of more typical 1-3 voltage electric Nez Casse types built for use in France and a number of other countries (Portugal, the Netherlands, Slovenia, Korea… and some failed systems in Morocco and Brazil). Most of these worked notably well and ran for 30+ years, quite a number still run today in Slovenia, Portugal, and on some low-end French trains that haven’t been replaced by EMUs. I would broadly describe them as very typical European-style mixed traffic engines capable of passenger or faster freight services, their role is comparable to something like a Siemens Eurosprinter or Bombardier TRAXX today. Ironically NOT a dedicated high speed train power car and a relatively antiquated but durable and versatile style. Locomotive-hauled trains have become increasingly uncommon in Europe in favor of EMUs with the decline in rail freight, among other factors. People seem to really like the old loco-hauled French trains still running since they use really comfortable older coaches and are pretty cheap, lower-speed options.

I’m prone to swapping Electra’s basis a bit to the related CC 6500 and its variants because it opens a lot of interesting history and is a more “typical” electric engine. These were a beefier, more versatile first-gen Nez Cassé model also used on pre-TGV fast trains and later heavier freight trains. There’s some amusing youtube videos of them pulling big gritty tanker trains with their pretty flashy looks. They also weren’t used as long as the later smaller Bo-Bo electric models since they’re a bit overkill for most uses, EMUs have gradually taken over passenger services, freight services declined, and the Co-Co arrangement can be tougher on track. Their freight-oriented close relatives in Slovenia are still going though!

But they have the VERY interesting link of one (X996) being trialled by Amtrak in the late 70s as a replacement for the 40+ year old GG1s that were physically falling apart, and the freight-derived GE E60s that couldn’t manage the speeds required on the Northeast Corridor. Sources seem to vary on just how hopeless and ill-advised the endeavor was, but basically, X996 didn’t work well due to the terrible track condition of the Northeast Corridor vs typical French lines. To summarize a very deep-seated and messy issue: it was cobbled together from several 50+ year old, often poorly maintained mainlines and has been underinvested in since until VERY recently. They went with the X995 instead, a Swedish Rc model that worked a lot better since Swedish rail conditions are generally closer to the US. And also a design that dated back to the mid-60s. The AEM-7s based on them ran until the late 2010s, the last one actually got retired right around the time Electra got de-toothpasted in 2018

This alternate timeline aspect is what got me into Amtrak history and eventually American electrification in general. I doubt any of the creators were aware of X996, but the context behind a Nez Cassé style engine running in a vaguely US environment changes a lot. It implies an alternate timeline where the NEC was improved enough for it to actually work practically and opens the door for some tragically attainable sci-fi about “what if neoliberalism hadn’t taken over and the US invested in a passable passenger rail system?”. It makes me imagine nearly 50-year old funny nosed French trains running grimy fast freight trains in Pennsylvania or dragging on New Jersey Transit commuter trains in their twilight years. It feels weirdly natural with just how violently 70s they look with the Amtrak livery, they’d blend right in with how violently 70s many US trains look today, that’s how old they actually are.

It’s also where my more unhinged and sacrilegious opinions flipping the steam/electric dynamic and rejecting canon’s framing came from. Because it totally flips the circumstances of rail transport and gives a cohesive explanation for many“stupid and incorrect” aspects of Electra. Now Electra is more a business-class train at best, running on a notoriously run down and underfunded network in an era where electrification looked like it would finally expand but never did (due to the party and politics of “needn’t ask the world to turn around and help you”). No Comeback goes from a shitty tantrum to pretty tragic in light of the US resoundingly turning to fossil fuels in the 80s and even steam preservation doing better than electrification did then. And in the context of a country that’s 99% unelectrified that was running electric trains from the 30s and even as old as the 1910s… suddenly a 60s-70s era engine is actually pretty futuristic and being electric is an important selling point and being proud and defensive of it makes sense. Electra skewing Grace Jones at times even works out well because being unappreciated and running off to Europe fits the rejection of X996 and expanding electrification in general. I think early Amtrak is a compelling setting for the show in general since there was a chaotic mix of secondhand equipment and trials of foreign engines to explain the races, and basically every character could feasibly coexist besides Rusty (and my fundamental problems with him are their own even longer post).

Electra as a more “typical” Co-Co Nez Cassé is also why I gravitate towards a lot headcanons/preferences that are far removed from the original or typical character choices. Tall and thin? The Northeast Corridor has fairly low clearances, it makes sense to be medium-short, modernish electric engines usually aren’t that big anyways, especially compared to other US rolling stock. X996 would be a bit smaller and comparable speed-wise but actually stronger than Greaseball. Internal combustion was still fairly competitive with electric traction speed-wise in the 70s-80s, you still had attempts at high-speed turbine trains and the TGV had originally been planned as one pre-oil crisis. Ironically, the big advantage pure electric engines had (and still have) IS strength and power (especially per weight) because they don’t have to carry their own fuel source and massive electric motors were established long before effective high-horsepower rail diesel engines were. I really can’t overstate how weirdly impressive it is that Mykal is the most train-accurate Electra and I love that he ends up being a lot of people’s first exposure to the character due to being in almost all the English legal video. The hotter/bolder personality vs being delicate and anxious. The jarring mix of being a glamorous diva train but ridiculously beefy physically is so dead-on to how French people describe the 6500s and Co-Co models in general. Even being unusually old and increasingly visually beat up while slapping a coat of glittery paint on it is so dead on to struggling passenger networks running sometimes absurdly old trains and putting on a sparkly veneer to improve PR.

Anyways, this has been an exploration of the irl engines behind Electra and their often underappreciated yet widespread significance. This also explains a lot of the method behind my madness and contrarianism with this character. Go forth and make an army of funny nose French trains in any color and country you want. Seriously, this style was so widespread and generally beloved you can justify them almost anywhere and even some of the old diesel units are getting moved to secondary markets today.

#stex #starlight express #stex electra #reference #if you want more explanation on something or are more acquainted with these engines and have a correction let me know #info on them can be a little tricky to find in english and i was delighted that those subbed videos even exist #Youtube

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reveryfics · 2 months ago

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Cheer For The Holidays

Pairings: Bruce Banner x Male Reader

Summary: You were never one for the holidays, never enjoyed how they were celebrated and everyone knew that. However Bruce was determined to show you some holiday cheer.

A/n: I personally don't celebrate Christmas (I'm Jewish), but I still wanted to post some fics considering Christmas is around the corner. Happy holidays, and bare with me while I still work on requests.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The snow fell in thick, heavy flakes, blanketing the Avengers Tower in a pristine white shroud. Below, the city streets shimmered with the warm glow of extravagant Christmas lights, casting a festive spell over the bustling metropolis.

Inside the tower, a different kind of magic was unfolding. The air thrummed with the lively sounds of music and laughter, echoing through the grand halls and spilling out into the festively decorated common room. As the hours ticked by, more and more guests arrived, eager to partake in another of Tony Stark's legendary holiday extravaganzas.

The atmosphere was electric. Guests mingled, their voices a cheerful cacophony as they enjoyed the festive cheer, indulging in delicious treats, and occasionally erupting in laughter as they participated in boisterous party games.

But amidst the revelry, a solitary figure remained hidden away. He had retreated to the sanctuary of his laboratory, barricading himself behind a fortress of steel and glass. The vibrant energy of the party, the boisterous laughter, the forced merriment – it all felt like an assault on his senses.

Holidays had never been his forte. He preferred the company of his technological creations, the intricate dance of circuits and code, the quiet hum of innovation. The idealized notions of holiday cheer, the pressure to conform to societal expectations, it all felt suffocating.

Bruce, his ever-patient and understanding boyfriend, had tried his best to coax him out, to lure him into the warmth of the festivities. But he remained stubbornly entrenched in his solitude, his mind consumed by the latest technological challenge he was grappling with. The holiday season, with its insistent demands for joy and togetherness, felt like an unwelcome intrusion into his carefully constructed world of logic and reason.

The lab, usually a sanctuary of order and precision, was now a chaotic mess of wires, schematics, and half-finished prototypes. His brow furrowed in concentration, wrestled with a particularly stubborn piece of code, oblivious to the world outside.

The door slid open, revealing Bruce, a steaming mug of hot chocolate clutched in his hand. A gentle smile played on his lips as he approached, pulling up a stool beside his boyfriend. "Looks like someone's been working a little too hard," he observed, his voice a soft counterpoint to the whirring machinery.

Startled, he looked up. "Bruce! What are you doing here? You should be out there, enjoying the party."

"I was," Bruce replied, settling into the stool. "But I missed my favorite grumpy genius." He handed him the mug. "Thought you could use a little holiday cheer."

He took a grateful sip, the warmth spreading through him. "You know I'm not much for parties, Bruce."

"I know," Bruce chuckled. "But everyone's having a wonderful time. Pepper made her famous eggnog, and Clint's been trying to teach Thor how to line dance."

He chuckled, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Thor line dancing? Now that's a sight I'd like to see."

Bruce leaned closer, his eyes twinkling. "Maybe, just maybe, you could join us. It wouldn't hurt to loosen up a little."

He hesitated, the allure of the party tugging at him despite his initial resistance. "I don't know, Bruce. I'm not really in the mood for..."

"Come on," Bruce interrupted, his voice coaxing. "Just for an hour? Please?"

He sighed, defeated by the pleading look in Bruce's eyes. "Fine," he conceded, "But only for an hour."

Bruce grinned, a triumphant glint in his eyes. "That's all I ask." He excused himself, disappearing into the adjoining room.

A moment later, he returned, carrying a small, wrapped box. "Happy holidays, love."

He raised an eyebrow, taking the box. "What's this?"

Bruce shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes. "A little something to get you in the holiday spirit."

With trembling fingers, he unwrapped the box. Inside, nestled on a bed of tissue paper, lay a pair of matching Christmas sweaters, one in a deep emerald green, the other in a vibrant crimson.

He stared at the sweaters, a mixture of amusement and exasperation washing over him. "Bruce, you know I hate Christmas sweaters."

Bruce chuckled. "But they're matching."

He playfully rolled his eyes, but a genuine smile spread across his face. He pulled on the emerald green sweater, feeling a surge of warmth, not just from the soft fabric but also from the love radiating from Bruce.

Bruce, in the crimson sweater, reached for him, their lips meeting in a passionate kiss. The taste of hot chocolate lingered, a sweet counterpoint to the intensity of their embrace.

Finally, they pulled apart, breathless. "Ready to face the music?" Bruce asked, his eyes sparkling.

The other, feeling a newfound lightness, nodded. "Let's do it."

Hand in hand, they left the lab, the sounds of the party growing louder with each step. The festive chaos that had once seemed so daunting now held a certain appeal. Perhaps, just perhaps, the holiday season wouldn't be so unbearable after all.

#fanfic #fanfiction #mlm #queer fanfiction #third person #x male reader #xmalereader #gay #gay fanfiction #marvel #bruce banner #bruce banner x reader #happy holidays

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docgold13 · 8 months ago

Text

Heroes & Villains The DC Animated Universe - Paper Cut-Out Portraits and Profiles

Live Wire

Leslie Willis was a popular radio shock-jock who made a habit of ridiculing Superman. Leslie's outspoken and polarizing style garnered her as many supporters as disputants, all of which made her show quite popular. Hoping to further her fame, Leslie produced an outdoor show demanding that Superman come and answer her hard-hitting questions.

Superman did indeed show, but only because there was an approaching electrical storm and Willis’ out-door antenna was putting her and those who gathered to see her all in danger. Before Willis could be coerced to call off her show, a bolt of lightning struck. Superman stepped forward to shield Willis, absorbing most of the bolt; yet the current bounced off of Superman and electrocuted Willis.

The lightning coupled with Superman’s alien physiology had a strange impact on Willis. It transformed her into an energy being possessing vast electrokinetic powers. Now calling herself ‘Live Wire,’ Willis became a super villain. She blamed Superman for what had happened to her and has attempted on several occasions to take her revenge by killing the Man of Steel. Fortunately, Superman has been able to fight off these attacks and Live Wire has been detained until a cure for her condition could be found.

A discovery at Wayne Enterprises looked as though it could prove promising in potentially reversing Willis’ transformation. When Live Wire was being transported to the Wayne Enterprises facility in Gotham, however, she broke free. She found kindred spirits in the fellow vilenesses, Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn, and the three of them went about a destructive crime spree.

Live Wire and her allies were eventually defeated by the combined efforts of Batgirl and Supergirl. The villainess was subsequently returned to incarceration in Metropolis. She would later escape once more and joined both The Superman Revenge Squad and later The Legion of Doom.

Actresses Lori Petty and Kari Wahlgren each provided the voice for Live Wire with the electrical menace first appearing in the fifth episode of the second season of Superman: The Animated Series, 'Live Wire.'

#superman the animated series #batman the animated series #Live Wire #DCAU #Lori Petty #Kari Wahlgren #Legion of Doom #cut-out #paper art

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goshdangronpa · 24 days ago

Note

Thoughts on Tsumioda Medical Malpractice?

Absolutely! Mikan regularly disregards doctor-patient confidentiality. It's a power thing.

For the comfort of squeamish types, a more serious (less unserious) response is hidden below the readmore ...

You wouldn't know Ibuki Mioda was any different as a member of Ultimate Despair. Teruteru upgraded to a blood-red chef outfit, Peko's sporting skimpier clothes that really bring out her tatas, Gundham is draped in a freaking snake. Everything Ibuki tries just looks like more of the spunky punk fashion she'd wear in school.

It's not just that it's the same-ol-same-ol. It's that Ibuki looks like a kid. And she IS a kid. But so are Sonia and Fuyuhiko, and her pristine regalia and his spiffy tailored suit serve up a more mature brand of evil. That's the other thing: punk fashion isn't evil! This isn't an 80s movie. How unfuckwithable can you really be when your top's most distinct feature is a bunch of SAFETY pins?

But what if ... no, that's crazy. Wait, that's exactly why she should do it. Ibuki vaguely recalls catching this crazyass art movie late one night. She tuned into Tetsuo: The Iron Man thinking she'd watch Robert Downey Jr., and what she got was way more disturbing. After successfully blocking it from her memory, it returns in a flash of inspiration.

Ibuki could ask Kazuichi to help. And he encourages her, the way they'd encourage all their worst fashion ideas back in school. But the reward he demands in exchange is, um, not something she wants to give him. Jeez, he's gotten even creepier lately. After giving him the slip and jacking some of his junk, she knows who can help ...

Mikan is Ultimate Despair's most loyal lieutenant, and one of its busiest. She doesn't usually have time for Ibuki's foolishness these days. There are experiments to run, scores to settle, and the world's most amazing girlfriend/cult leader to please. But when her old classmate comes in with a box full of debris and an unusual request, it gets her attention. She's put metal into people before, but that usually means slicing organs with scapels or drilling into skulls. Turning Ibuki into a half-baked cyborg ("Half-baked PUNK ROCK cyborg!") ... There are possibilities.

Granted, the odds of terrible infection are sky-high, and the payoff on Ibuki's end seems minimal. The impulsive brat will probably balk at the pain and cut things off early with a couple new fixtures on her body. But torturing her a little could be fun, and Mikan might even learn something useful - something she could take back to Junko, something that might get her a reward. To everyone's surprise, she agrees.

When the time comes, there's no anesthesia. Mikan assures the gullible girl that it's not punk rock. Think of it, she says, like any other tattoo or piercing. The nurse cuts a fissure into her wrist, which is quickly plugged with a scratched-up steel hex head. Careful burning seals it into place.

To Mikan's aggravation, Ibuki screams the whole time. It's like one of her concerts, except right into her one-woman audience's ears. The pain must be incredible. But when it's done, the patient, her makeup smeared with tears and her whole prone body shaking, asks for a short break before the next procedure.

One becomes two, then three, with another scheduled for tomorrow. Across several days, Mikan covers Ibuki's skin with smelted hardware, broken fasteners, dead wires, spikes, tubes. Despite the pain and all the bed rest, Ibuki has a swagger in her step. Punk was fun, but cyberpunk is the way of the future, baby! At first the ornamentation is only on the arms and shoulders. But Ibuki wants them on less visible areas, too.

Sex has always been part of Mikan's experience in Ultimate Despair. Junko likes for her to wear a skimpy Halloween costume in lieu of more professional and sanitary attire, and the power trip of operating on terrified and helpless patients can leave her hungry for attention that her mistress sometimes gives. But something about Ibuki's resilience in the face of such profound and pointless agony, and her willingness to let Mikan experiment on her body, awakens something in her. At first this work was both a chore and a lark. Now, it's a reward unto itself. The more she savages Ibuki, the more beautiful she seems. Her nightly vigils take a more amorous turn, which Ibuki eagerly accepts.

But Ibuki can't do much with her body anymore. She's weak. Infections run rampant. Microscopic flakes of metal almost certainly course through her blood, shredding every vessel along their circulation. This is not the right way to get more iron in her body. Mikan finds herself backing down from more procedures, even as Ibuki asks for them. The patient babbles about some movie she once watched, saying something about conquering the world with their love.

She wouldn't be the first person to die from Mikan's perverse idea of medical care. But this is the first time that possibility fills the nurse with guilt and horror. Ibuki trusted her. Ibuki relished her company. Ibuki saw Mikan at her worst, a sight many do not see and survive, and wanted more.

The truth is, Mikan was never in this for despair. She did it because she loved Junko - the way she treated her, the way she paid attention to her, the way she forgave her for being nothing more than her sorry self. As she spoonfeeds Ibuki, helps her wipe herself in the bathroom, watches her decompose before her eyes, a new purpose arises in Mikan.

Junko calls her over one night. It's been a while since she's even heard from Mikan, who normally doesn't go more than a day without a breathless report, or at least a booty call. Mikan breaks down and tells her almost everything. Ibuki wanted to do this stupid thing. Mikan did it, again and again. Now she's dying.

"Damn, that bitch is crazy," Junko says. "Kind of a waste, but all for a noble cause."

Mikan's face must have visibly fallen, because Junko is going awww with a finger on her chin. "Know what we can do?" She looks up at her beloved. "We can ask Kazuichi to cube her. Like a junkyard car. You can keep her around."

Junko smirks now. "So. Wanna take a break and fool around?"

Future Foundation was always on the hunt for Junko Enoshima and her minions, following rumors, horror stories, and evidence from the cryptic and disturbing work of the former Ultimate Photographer. The leads are often scant. They're guided just as much by hope as by intel.

So no one expects it when Mikan Tsumiki, one of the most feared and dangerous and wanted members of this movement's leadership, staggers to a field camp set up by the 14th Division with another notorious member in her arms.

She'd walked all night. Now, she falls to her knees before a crowd of locked-and-loaded soldiers. A few reel at the sight of Ibuki Mioda. Much of her mutilated form glints with the rising sun.

Cooler heads among the gunmen yell for Mikan to put her hands up. She can't. That would mean letting go.

Ibuki makes a soft sound.

The soldiers close in, rifles still aimed at heads and hearts. "Save her," Mikan sobs. "Save her."

#thanks for asking!!#it's way too late and I'm running on too little sleep too do shit like this #that's what this ship does to me ...#ibuki mioda #mikan tsumiki #tsumioda #what content warnings do I even put for this #cw mutilation #uhhh #cw medical malpractice #cw self harm #ultimate despair #junko enoshima

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cigarettesandinevitablebetrayal · 2 months ago

Note

63 for whump prompts?

Thank you for the prompt! I had a lot of fun with this one.

#63 from the Whump Prompt List - Too dark to see. Listening. Feeling. Something hurts. for Corin Brooks

Content Warnings for injury, helplessness, isolation, sensory deprivation, suicidal ideation, and dehumanization

One second, two, drawn out across a single inhale. Lungs expanding, or trying to, but they catch on the bruised and broken ribs that wrap around them like a wire cage. Corin's senses are failing him, it seems. That much he's aware of even as he's cast about on the stormy sea of his own mind. There's no sensory input from his eyes. Is he blind or is it just dark as pitch here? Wherever here is. Nowhere good. He scrabbles mentally for anything to grip onto but can only find static. Static and dark and his own tumultuous thoughts.

He doesn't bother trying to physically reach for anything. He already tested that…seconds ago? Minutes? Hours? Days? Time holds little meaning without sight or sound. He can feel, though. Dear God, can he feel. There isn't a nerve in Corin's body that isn't screaming. Every inch of his body demands his attention all at once, all urgent, none of it wishing to wait its turn. They're all transmitting the same message up to his misfiring neurons: something is wrong - you are in great pain.

One second, two, three. Exhaling is somehow worse than inhaling. Every muscle in his torso remaining tense despite his best efforts. Maybe it'd be best to stop breathing altogether. Yes. He's been breathing too long now. Should've stopped when the ground knocked it from his lungs. He fights the next inhale. Pressure builds in his chest, his throat, his nose. There is a vice around his lungs and he tightens it with each passing second, hoping the next will be the last. But his mind and body put aside their problems to conspire against him as his very blood seems to cry for air. His jaw snaps open, desperately dragging air back into his lungs, and the agony reawakens once more.

He wants to scream, but what escapes him instead is closer to the whimper of a dying animal in a steel trap. Steel in his throat, keeping his vocal chords still. Steel beneath his skin, sharp and cold. Steel in the waves that fill his mind, cutting his thoughts and willpower to shreds. But it's not water he's trying to keep afloat in. It's oil. Viscous and black as tar, just like his surroundings. Maybe that's the trick. Maybe his mind has to give up before his body follows suit.

Taking another, ragged breath, Corin stops kicking in the mire and lets himself sink into its depths. Let go of reality and find something soft to die to. The oil drags him down into its depths, the torrents calming as he drops further into himself.

He flexes his fingers, feeling dry and brittle grass beneath his hands. He knows that grass. It's impossible to keep the grass green and soft in Los Diablos. His head is propped up in a familiar lap, calloused hands carding through his tight curls, practiced enough to not catch and pull. The occasional static shock disperses from the fingers and against his scalp but he doesn't mind.

"You're going to get a sunburn like this, gringo." Amusement makes Julia's chastising warm and fangless.

Corin cracks an eye open to look up at her. He only braided her hair an hour ago, but she's already managed to collect an army of flyaways. The midday sun flatters her bronze skin and casts her brown eyes closer to amber. He cocks an eyrbrow up at her. "I thought you said I could use a better tan."

If Julia laughs like music, it'd have to be a brass band, loud and boisterous. She ruffles his hair and he doesn't bother to fight the smile that breaks across his face. "Lobster red is not a tan, Cor." A nickname for a nickname. If Julia could shorten his name to one letter to get it out of her mouth faster, she would. "Are you even wearing sunblock?"

He winces in response and Julia gasps. "Okay, no, come on. Get up." She shoves him off her lap and Corin lets himself hit the ground just for effect. "I'm saving you from yourself."

Corin groans dramatically, trying not to laugh at the absurd perspective as she stands up. "But I was comfortable."

"You'll thank me later." She comes around his side and holds out her hand. He moves to sit up, reaching out for her hand. She's smiling down at him, eyes fond, and he wishes he could stay in this moment forever.

But he couldn't then and he can't now and as Julia opens her mouth, a voice that is not her own comes out. "Fuck. It's still alive."

Corin's smile falls as the memory cracks, splitting Julia's form clean in half. The sky pales and Corin feels himself begin to sink through the memory as though the ground has become quicksand. No, no, no, please, let me stay here, Julia-!

But his fingers slip through hers like smoke as he free falls through reality. He scrabbles at the air, trying to find purchase, to cling to any shred of comfort. He couldn't catch himself before, either.

He hits the steel examination table with enough force to break his psyche. Unfamiliar hands prod at his sides, sending starbursts lighting up his vision like sparks from a frayed wire. The voice keeps speaking, but Corin can't make out the words through the pain. He lunges for the stranger's mind, but their walls are smooth and slippery and full of the static of numbers.

There's only one place in the world where he's called it. The confirmation makes him want to run, to flail until he falls from their table so that he could, at least, crawl away. His body doesn't listen. Of course not. He's trapped. Trapped in his mind, in his body, in the Farm. He can't even scream. All he can do is breathe, each laboring gasp taking longer than it should. It'd be easier to just stop. But even that would be too easy.

#Fic: Corin #Charge #Chargestep #Julia Ortega #FHR #fhr fic #cigs writes

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orsinium-scholar · 18 days ago

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Orcish forging language: a treatise

Notes on Orcish forging language, by Aurelius Marenius.

As anyone who has listened to an orc working her forge will tell you, orc often say they “say a lot with their craft”. Some may discount this as mere flowery language, or as close to flowery as an orc can be. However, this in fact, quite true. Orcs often struggle to express themselves emotionally, bound by a culture that demands strength in the face of suffering, but where words might fail them, forging language can speak that which they cannot bring themselves to say, as well as providing a swift way of delivering messages in areas where literacy may be lacking.

Forging language involves the use of knife material, adornments, and the binding on the handle in order to pass along meanings. Each knife does not simply hold one meaning though, and by the combination of these parts, quite complex messages can be sent. For example, via the use of this language, one can say: “Come home, we are not safe, we have been betrayed” with no risk of misinterpretation.

Orcs are often reticent about this language to outsiders, and the list of meanings I have compiled is incomplete, gathered from those rare outsiders who have been made blood-kin, or orc smiths made loose lipped with drink. Any further meanings would be appreciated.

Handles and bindings.

Thin horizontal leather bands, no other marks: Obligation. “I have made this to be sold.” Found on mass produced orcish weaponry.

Base, unpolished iron that has been allowed to rust slightly, no adornments: “You are beneath my contempt, you are unworthy.”

Thick horizontal leather bands: “I am learning my craft still.”

Thin diagonal leather bands, widdershins: “Will you marry me?”

Thin diagonal leather bands, sinestral: “I refuse your proposal.”

Thin diagonal leather bands widdershins, centre band braided: “I accept your proposal.”

Thin diagonal leather bands sinestral, centre band braided: “Were circumstances different, I would marry you gladly, but I cannot.”

Two leather bands criss-crossed over other bindings, centre of the handle: “Please come home”

Two leather bands criss-crossed over other bindings, top of handle near the blade: “Go with my blessing”

Two leather bands criss-crossed over other bindings, bottom of handle near the pommel: “Don’t come back.”

Leather bands with inverted triangle: “I miss you.”

Leather bands with upright triangle: “We are not safe where we are.”

Polished wood: Indicates recipient has passed trials of adulthood.

Plain orichalcum, roughly forged: “I declare war on you.”

Polished orichalcum: “Congratulations on a healthy child.”

Goat horn: “I’m sorry.”

Ivory: “I miss you”

Unadorned steel: “Please protect them.” or “safe travels.”

Well engraved and lavishly decorated steel: Likely indicates wedding gift.

Materials used for tassels

Tundra cotton tassel: “Stay safe.”

Silken tassel: “I love you.”

Leather tassel: “I hate you.”

Horse hair tassel: “Fight well.”

Harpy feathers: “I know you will not come back alive from this. You will be missed.”

Metal wire such as gold or silver: Gift for chief or someone of high standing. Indicates wealth of the clan.

Colours of tassels and bindings

Red: Intensity of feeling. Red threads are often interwoven with other colours to add emphasis.

White: Grief

Blue: Love

Green: Joy

Black: Hatred, betrayal.

#tes #apocrypha #books from the library #orsimer #orcs

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a-sin-to-be-rin · 5 months ago

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One Way Out

Dick Grayson knows what it’s like to be used as leverage. To be a bargaining chip rather than a competent player. He was one of the first sidekicks, after all. “Boy Hostage” was his least favorite nickname, but it wasn’t always inaccurate.

But Dick moved on from that. He became Nightwing. He’s more than just the kid that followed Batman around. But try telling that to the Crime Syndicate. Because Dick is feeling a lot less “Nightwing” and a lot more “Boy Hostage” right now.

---

“You don’t need to do this.”

“Hush,” Superwoman orders.

“No, really.” Dick shifts in the giant metal device, trying to look past the mini operating team in front of him. “Owlman, you won’t let-”

“Hush,” Superwoman demands. A golden lasso appears out of nowhere, cutting off Dick’s airway. He gasps and struggles in his restraints until black spots crowd his vision. Then the lasso disappears, and the prepwork continues.

The surgeon (or whoever he is) messes with a jerry rigged heart monitor. A few others in scrubs prep trays of glinting steel instruments. But Dick can’t pay attention to the instruments, because he’s distracted by the blue scalpels wrapped in plastic.

Dick swallows hard. Feels the metal cuffs tighten around his hands. Tries to ignore how he’s trapped, he’s trapped, he’s trapped. He can feel every cut and bruise and burn and break in his body. He can feel the days (Weeks? Months?) of torture. They weigh him down too much. He doesn’t have the energy to fight, so he silently endures the anticipation.

But then someone places something cold and wet on Dick’s bare chest. He flinches, but with no room to move, he only slams his back against the metal device he’s strapped to. The whip marks on his back scream in agony.

“Just disinfectant,” the person in scrubs explains.

Disinfectant for what?

“Disinfectant for-?” The lasso finds Dick’s throat. By the time he can breathe again, the surgeon has already started cutting through his skin.

Dick yelps, but once again, he has no room to flinch away. “No anesthesia?” Dick asks shakily, voice tight with pain. “Li’l barbaric, dontcha think?”

“Silence,” Superwoman orders. And considering she’s the one with the lasso in her hands, Dick doesn’t want to upset her. He grits his teeth, grunting and gasping as scalpels slice through muscle and wires are placed in the incisions. The surgeon is efficient, stitching the cuts with the wires still inside. There is no excessive pain. Nothing beyond whatever the goal is.

Dick hates him anyway.

Once the surgeon steps back, snapping off bloody gloves and wadding up his blue gown, another scrubbed person steps forward with the heart monitor. They position it on the ledge just below Dick’s chest, and it clicks into place. Then they connect the wires on Dick’s chest to the heart monitor.

Instantly, the monitor begins beeping out a cheerful rhythm. Except the rhythm is racing, desperate and confused and in pain.

Once Dick’s breath returns to him, he dares to ask, “What did you do? What is this?”

But the surgeon and the scrubbed people are already leaving, and they don’t turn back. Superwoman steps forward, and Owlman watches behind expressionless goggles.

“It’s called the Murder Machine,” Superwoman explains.

“Oh. That sounds… pleasant.”

“It was designed to hold Doomsday,” she continues. “But I think it will serve our purposes just fine today.”

“Oh.” He really doesn’t have the strength to probe further. Fortunately, Superwoman seems eager to monologue.

“The Murder Machine is a bomb. It’s set on a timer. But it also monitors your heart activity. As long as your heart beats, the timer counts down. Unless you flatline - asystole - the bomb will go off.” She tips her head, lifting Dick’s chin with a finger. “It’s been fun, but you’ve nearly outgrown your use. You’ll keep Batman busy. That’s the important part.”

Dick can’t even pull away. He’s forced to look at Superwoman’s cruel smile. She looks like a tiger, playing with her food before going in for the kill.

“O-Owlman…”

He’d promised. Owlman had promised. If Dick went with him, if Dick agreed to help, Owlman would set him free. And Dick had agreed to help, so why isn’t Owlman doing his part?

Owlman says nothing. He stays rooted in his spot, arms folded.

“Batman… Batman won’t bother with me.” Dick is sure. Bruce has always had an analytical, cost-benefit view of vigilantism. If Bruce has the choice between trying to save Dick and saving the world, he’s going to pick the world every time. And in this instance, it’s a non-issue. Dick will die no matter what.

“I’m doubtful, but if you say so. Don’t worry, Nightwing,” Superwoman soothes. “You’ll see Batman again. That, I am sure of.”

Dick’s stomach sinks. He’s bait, once again, dangled in front of his former partner. Of course. And there’s… there’s really no getting out of this one.

By the time Superwoman and Owlman leave Dick alone, Dick has already come to terms with the truth:

One way or another, he will die tonight.

---

The world is fuzzy when Dick comes to. He feels hot and cold at the same time. Lights burst across his vision. His head spins, and every square inch of him aches.

“Dick? Everything’s going to be alright. I’m here.” There’s a cowl in front of him. Two white eyes, one tense jaw.

“Batman…?” When did Bruce get here? How did Bruce get here?

“I’m sorry I shut you out.” There’s a gloved hand in Dick’s hair. Bruce is murmuring apologies and regrets and atonement like he’s got somewhere else to be. “All of you. I didn’t want you getting hurt.”

Hurt. Hurt?

… the bomb. The bomb, the bomb, the bomb-

“No…” Dick gasps. Bruce doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know.

“I’m going to get you out of this,” Bruce promises. His fingers fly as he tugs on the wires and messes with the heart monitor.

“You need to… leave.” Dick can barely get the words out. His lungs feel like deflated balloons. “You need to go.”

Bruce ignores him. He’s an expert at that.

There's an explosion from outside the door. Everyone - because there are other people here, though Dick isn't sure when they showed up - quiets. The room is so still that the heart monitor is audible.

Ba-deep. Ba-deep. Ba-deep.

It's slower than before. Even being stressed about Bruce and the bomb isn't enough to speed up his heart rate. Not anymore. Now his heart sluggishly chugs on.

“What is that?” a woman asks. Dick can't see who's asking. He decides it's not worth worrying over.

“It's a countdown.” And this voice is a man’s, but it isn't Bruce. “This isn't just a fancy pair of handcuffs, Catwoman. It's a bomb.”

And the voice is right. It is a bomb. Dick is a bomb. Dick’s heart is going to kill them. And why is Bruce still here?? Why hasn't he left yet? Is he… Does he not get it?

“You don't understand,” Dick wheezes.

“I’m going to disarm it and get you out of here, Dick.” He’s being suspiciously chatty. Almost like he's talking to himself. Like he's trying to convince himself that Dick can be saved.

There's crashing and rumbling. Dick feels lightheaded. The world shifts in and out of focus.

“Is the countdown monitoring his heart?” Catwoman.

“Yes. The detonator is hooked into it.”

Dick tries to push through the fog. Tries to will away fatigue and dehydration and severe blood loss. “Batman… The… The bomb…”

Bruce’s expression hardens, furiously cutting and prying pieces off the monitor.

“It only disarms…” God, has it always been this hard to breathe? Everything is just spinning, spinning, spinning. “... only disarms if my heart stops.”

Bruce stiffens. He pauses for a second, and Dick capitalizes on the moment.

“Please,” Dick begs. Sweat rolls down his temples. Blood drips from his nose and mouth. “Listen to me. You… You still have time to… to get out.”

And Bruce's voice turns to sharpened steel. That's his really angry voice. The voice that a young Dick Grayson would do anything to avoid. The voice he listened to without question. “I’m not leaving you, Dick. I am not abandoning you.”

Oh. This.

But Dick won’t let Bruce die because he thinks he's a bad father. Dick won’t let Bruce die over stupid principles.

“You aren't, Bruce. And you never have.”

Bruce shakes his head, returning to the wires. “The only way we’re getting out of here is together,” he growls. He desperately disconnects and swaps and twists, but his voice rises in pitch, shoulders drawn tight like a bowstring. “No…” he mutters to himself. “No, the wires…” He bites back a snarl. “Every time I disconnect a relay, it fixes itself.”

“Then there's only one way to disarm this bomb, Batman,” the mystery voice says.

There's a loud buzzing and a whoosh. Bruce collapses, disappearing from Dick’s line of sight.

“What the hell are you doing, Luthor?” Selina is shouting. Dick’s vision is too blurry to see it, but he can hear the crack of her whip. There's a scuffle.

And then Lex Luthor steps over Bruce and glares down at Dick like he's gum on the bottom of his shoe. “I’m making an executive decision, Catwoman. I’m saving our lives by ending his.”

And then he clamps his hand over Dick’s nose and mouth.

Dick can't struggle. Even when survival instinct kicks in and the last of his energy is used to fight for air, he's still trapped. There's no room to struggle.

On some level, Dick knew that he might be killed to save the others. And he was okay with that. He is okay with that.

… maybe.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Grayson,” Luthor says. But his eyes aren’t sorry. They look like the eyes of a murderer. Angry and hurt and decisive. Not truly apologetic because otherwise, he wouldn't do it.

“LUTHOR!!” Bruce roars. (Roars. Bruce is roaring, he’s so livid.) “If you hurt him, I will kill you!!”

There’s more crashing, but Dick can’t pay attention to it, because the world is getting dark, and he’s struggling to turn his head to the side. To get away from Luthor’s hand. To breathe.

(Even if he knows he has to die, his body won’t give up so easily.)

“It’s the only way to save us, Batman,” Luthor laments.

Dick’s eyes roll up into the back of his head. The last thing he hears is Bruce screaming his name.

And then, he’s gone.

---

“Dick??”

Bruce wants to believe that he’s mistaken. But then the heart monitor lets out a never-ending whine. The final nail in the coffin.

The air catches in Bruce’s throat. He doesn’t know whether to feed into his grief or apathy. So instead, he falls headfirst into a roiling tidal wave of fury.

“No. No… No!” Bruce tackles Luthor to the ground and starts throwing punches.

One punch. Split lip.

“Batman,” Luthor gurgles. “Wait.”

Two punches. Broken nose.

“You murderer!!” Bruce bellows.

Three punches. A hand around Luthor’s throat, squeezing tighter and tighter.

“I have this… under control…” Luthor chokes. “Grayson- kkk!”

“Shut up,” Bruce growls. “Shut up.”

“Batman!” Someone is pulling on Bruce’s shoulder. “Batman, stop!”

Selina.

“He killed Nightwing,” Bruce hisses, still staring at Luthor’s cruel, traitorous eyes. “He… He killed Dick, Selina.” And just saying the words steals the breath from his lungs.

Luthor’s suit expels a heavy dose of electricity, and Bruce shouts as he’s knocked to the side. “It’s not too late, you idiot,” Luthor seethes, rubbing his throat. He climbs to his feet, keeping Bizarro between himself and Bruce.

Bruce recovers quickly, but it’s still not fast enough. By the time Selina helps him up, Luthor is standing in front of Dick again, ripping away the wires stitched to his chest. Blood wells up at the incision points, but Luthor ignores it all, digging something out of his own belt.

“Get away from-!”

Luthor silences him with a hand. “I made him swallow a cardioplegia pill.”

“A what?” Selina’s hand rests heavily on Bruce’s shoulder. It might be her way of providing support. But it’s more likely to keep Bruce from attacking Luthor again.

“It paralyzes the muscle surrounding the heart,” Bruce explains. But Luthor’s admittance doesn’t make things better, because how is killing Dick with a drug any better than smothering him?

Luthor pulls out a syringe and removes the needle cap. “If this boy’s heart doesn’t get a shot of adrenaline right this very second, he’s going to stay dead.” He stabs the needle into Dick’s chest and depresses the plunger.

For a long, long, long moment, nothing happens. Luthor throws the needle to the ground and shuffles his feet. He’s nervous, and he should be. The odds that a single dose of epinephrine will start the heart three minutes after death are astronomical.

But this is Nightwing. This is the Justice League. The odds have always been astronomical.

Bruce still doesn’t expect it to work. At first, he thinks Luthor is the one that makes the pitiful little cough. And then he sees Dick shaking, and his heart jumps to his throat.

“Dick?”

He’s running before he realizes it, pushing past Luthor to embrace his son.

“B-Batman?” Dick whispers, vocal cords rough and spent.

“I told you I had it under control,” Luthor sniffs. “There was no need to worry about him.”

But Bruce has stopped paying attention. He’s too busy holding Dick to his chest. And Dick… Dick grips Bruce’s cape like a lifeline. And for a moment, everything is right. Dick is here. Alive. Okay.

For this moment, that’s enough.

#whumptober2024 #no.8 alt #used as bait #batfamily #fic #canon character death #surgery #needles #scalpels #blood #murder #dick grayson #bruce wayne #nightwing #batman #2k words #cross posted on ao3

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dreadsuitsamus · 1 year ago

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Anytime | Kensei Muguruma x Reader |

author's note: this hurt a little bit to write lmao and i apologize in advance if it hurts you too

pairing: kensei muguruma x fem!reader

warnings: reader and kensei are divorced, a little bit of angst and jealousy

"I'm on my way."

It rings in your head, over and over, as you sit on the side of the road and wait for your ex-husband to come save you. Stomach a pit and each and every nerve wired and frayed, tears nearly brim in your eyes at the anticipation of his arrival. Being stuck on the side of a road you're sure hasn't seen a single driver on it in at least a week is one thing, and it's another when you've got three flats and an ex-husband with a hefty I told you so locked and loaded.

Your divorce with Kensei was finalized over two years ago, but the sad fact remains that he's the most important person in your life, and vice versa— which is why you informed him of this last-minute road trip, only to be warned against it.

"I don't think your car can handle that trip. Put it off until I can make sure everything is functioning properly."

And like a fool, you neglected to take it seriously and off you went to the festival. Perhaps it's why you had as great of a time as you did— karma was evidently waiting with a dish best served cold.

Your heart jumps at the sight of a black Silverado truck pulling up. He hates that damn truck, much preferring his fuel-efficient Elantra, but you've left him with no choice today. You're so distraught you can't even take much time to appreciate those long legs of his as he steps out of the truck; sometimes you wonder how you could be divorced from the most handsome man you've ever known.

Dressed in jeans with the platinum chain you'd gotten him many moons ago attached, boots and a black button down shirt, your gut tells you he was busy when you called. Looking so fine… He was on a date, wasn't he?

It burns.

With a resounding sigh, you meet him in the halfway distance between your cars. Kensei's never been particularly talkative and mouthy unless angry, and though there's certainly some simmering beneath the surface, he's calmer than you initially expected. He passes you a bottle of water and a protein bar before going to inspect the damage, subsequently sighing and rubbing his temples with his long fingers. "I'm amazed that your luck is so shit that you only got three flats so your goddamn insurance wouldn't cover it."

"I'm still trying to figure out how I only got three."

"Divine intervention." Kensei mutters bitterly and starts to roll up his sleeves past the delicious forearms that once would hold you up against the inferno that is the rest of his body at night. "When's the last time you even got these rotated, let alone changed?"

"I don't even know what having them rotated means."

Kensei sucks in a sharp, irritated breath and steels himself; it'll do no good to get upset this early into the project. He just… Wishes you fucking listened to him. About anything, at this point. "New rule. Get it done every time you get an oil change." And thank God your car is one that will bug the hell out of you about your service interval— he doesn't want to consider what your oil and other fluids would be like otherwise.

"Okay." You mumble and crack open the water, taking a long pull from the cold drink. It's refreshing and perfect, pulling your spirits up just a tad as you start to feel a little bit better physically.

"Eat that protein bar." Your ex-husband demands, heading for the bed of his truck and lowering the tailgate. He's got everything he needs for the swap— including time. "I know you, you little shit. You're running on a refresher from six hours ago and had a hearty helping of hopes and dreams to eat, didn't you?"

You scowl as you chew the protein bar. It's terrible, like every protein bar you've ever tried, but at least he got one that doesn't make you want to vomit. "I didn't call you here so you could lay into me about my eating habits."

Kensei's brown eyes cut to you as he lowers a tire to the ground. "You rather me go off about the rest of the shit you got yourself into now, then? 'Cause I was saving it for later."

Rolling your eyes, you look away from the man you married six years ago. He huffs and resumes himself, setting up a workstation and prepping your car to start swapping the new tires on. You find a spot nearby him, settling down onto the lawn chair you took to the festival as he begins cracking off lugnuts. Sparing a glance your way, Kensei feels a bit of a tug at his heart despite his rage. You may be his ex-wife, but you've never been bad to him a day in his life. "How long did you sit here before you called me?"

"About two hours." You sigh, finishing the water after forcing the protein bar down. "I tried to get my insurance to help me. They wanted to charge even more because it's a Sunday and I just don't have the money for all that. I considered just camping out for a night and having them come out tomorrow, but…"

Kensei shakes his head. He was waiting for your call or text announcing you were back home; that plan would never fly as long as he's in your life. "We gotta get you a new insurance policy, babe. You're done paying for one that would leave a woman stranded like that."

"Yes sir."

Silence settles in for a while as you watch Kensei work. A light bead of sweat trickles from his temple to his neck, and then he tosses his tools down to carefully slip the buttons open and take off his shirt. If it's somehow possible, his biceps are bigger than they used to be. Leaving himself in a white tank top, he tosses the shirt your way. "Keep that clean for me, yeah?"

"Mhm." You slip into the oversized shirt, his handsome smelling cologne flooding your senses. He's not slick at all; it's chilly out in this wasteland, and rather than simply ask if you're cold, he'd rather ensure you won't be.

His unstoppable air of authority wraps you up, even now.

"Were you busy?" Tumbles out of your mouth after the beat of silence lasts too long. He's finished one tire already and it's really hit you how much you relied on him during your marriage.

It's no wonder he didn't fight to salvage it.

"No." He lies through his teeth and it's easy. Just a little too easy.

It's no wonder you served him divorce papers.

Huffing softly, your brow draws together. "Yeah, right. You got dressed all nice just to come bail me out? Bullshit. I'm smarter than you give me credit for, Ken."

"And yet, you went on this trip without getting your car checked out." Kensei snaps right back, irritation creeping up and warming his neck and ears. "If you didn't wanna wait for me, fine! Why not take it to Abarai's place?" He's got a point— You've known Renji for years now, and he'd always make time for a friend, his business needs be damned. He'd have it done in a day, easy.

Still, the embarrassment of being scolded like this lights your temper. "I told you, Ken, this trip was not planned. I had a friend up north mention the festival and we decided to go to it and meet up."

"Even if I accept that answer, which I don't, there's no reason for you to let your car get this bad! I don't even wanna look under the hood! Why do I always have to take care of your shit for you?? Time and time again, you fuck up and then you call me to bail you out!"

Your eyes widen with a series of blinks. He doesn't sound pissed as much as he's simply… Tired. Upset. Kensei being angry or frustrated is not foreign to you— on his surface, it's the only emotion he knows. But as his wife, you saw the softer side of his feelings. He does get sad, he does cry and he does have bad days like anyone else. And as you take in his tirade… The realization hits that those glimpses of his belly showing were almost entirely gone by the time of your separation.

That marriage was already doomed by the time you attempted to save it. Serving the papers to him wasn't supposed to do anything but show his true colors— he'd fight for you, or he'd give up. And Kensei chose the latter.

"Ken." You murmur carefully. "What were you doing when I called you?"

Kensei throws the tools down, rubbing his hands over his face. "I was on a date."

You'd rather have been left on the road to die than hear him say those words to you. The sinking feeling in your stomach threatens to send that protein bar back up just at the thought of him sitting at a restaurant with another woman, treating her in the same ways he'd treated you way back when. Kensei dating isn't unusual, per se. He's a single man, attractive and still quite young…

But he's yours.

"And you came for me?"

Kensei's hands drop to his lap. "For better or worse, babe: that's the promise I made you."

"The wedding vows don't particularly mean shit after the divorce." Tears of shock and hurt fill your eyes, though you refuse to blink and let them fall. He will not make you cry again, ever, but… The turn of your head to look away from him sure does accidentally force them out.

Kensei drops his head— he hates it when you cry, and hates himself for being the reason. He should've just lied again, brushed it off and moved onto the next flat. It wouldn't have worked though; the guilt he shoulders when he lies to you eats him alive, and it triples due to the look on your face when he does lie. You know he's not telling the truth, every time he tries it.

"I don't know why you think I'm the type of man to leave any woman stranded, much less you. You're the exception to every rule I have, always have been."

Your lip wobbles. It's true, you've always been the one to break Kensei's rules. He said he didn't date coworkers. But he dated you. He said he wasn't after a serious relationship. He married you. He said you shouldn't see each other after the divorce. Yet, he was calling and asking how you were doing not even a week later.

He's always loved you.

It's quiet for a while, and eventually Kensei gets back to the entire reason he's here. Clouds are rolling in, and he'll be damned if he gets caught in the middle of a rainstorm right now. His chest cavity feels empty and he wants nothing more than to crawl into his bed and sleep these horrible feelings away.

"Why?" You ask after a while, your few tears mostly faded now.

Stop, stop, stop! Stop asking questions, stop crying over your ex-husband moving on!!

"Why what?" Kensei mutters as he torques the lugnuts on the second tire.

You sigh to yourself, a beat of silence taking over again. Kensei's amber eyes flick over to you, snuggled into his shirt and avoiding his gaze as you curl into your chair. You're at war with yourself, that mental battle clear as day on what he can see of your face. His heartstrings tug, and next thing he knows he's wiping his hands and kneeling in front of you, cupping your cheek in his hand so you'll look at him.

His thumb swipes away a small tear. "Babe. Talk to me. You're not gonna feel better otherwise."

Your chest heaves at his touch, at his sincere eyes and warmth that keeps you so in love with him even now as a shudder wracks your entire body. "You keep your promises to me. You're always there when I need you. But why didn't you fight for our marriage?"

Kensei's silver brows raise before knitting together. "You wanted to leave. I wouldn't force you to stay if you weren't happy."

"I wanted you to care! I wanted my husband to tell me he still loved me and that we could work it out, but you didn't! You let me leave without so much as asking why!"

Kensei withdraws his hand. "Of course I cared! Does this—" He gestures back to your car. "Look like I don't care?? You had my whole heart in your palm, and you broke it! But I still come for you! All I want is for you to be safe and happy, and if it's not with me, so be it! You matter more to me than I ever have!"

"I've never wanted anybody else." Your eyes burn with fresh tears. You've never so much as entertained another guy for a potential date, let alone go out with someone after the divorce. There's nothing but your love for Kensei stopping you, but foolishly you hoped he would do the same; how unrealistic and unfair of you.

How many dates has he been on with this woman? Has he kissed her yet? The entire idea makes you want to scream and cry and cuss an innocent woman out for banging your husband. Ex or not, he's still so much of your heart that to lose him would ruin you.

"Then why divorce me?" He murmurs, standing and stepping back. The clouds are darkening, and he feels a hefty drop on his shoulder. "Why put me through a divorce if you wanted to stay together?!"

Anger boils inside your stomach, blood churning at an incredible pace as you rocket out of the lawn chair and fill the space he's created between you. "Why not fight?! If you love me as much as you keep saying, why didn't you fucking try?!"

"I already told you!" Kensei yells right back. "You wanted to go! So I let you go, because it's what you fucking said you wanted! You ended our marriage over a goddamn test, like the six years we spent together were some kinda fucking joke to you. You can't accuse me of not caring when you ended a four year marriage over petty shit!"

"I gave you a choice, Ken! I served the papers, but you signed them." You poke his chest harshly as two raindrops bounce against your forehead.

"I'm not having this argument with you; the shit's been said and done with for almost three years." Kensei turns his back to you as the rain starts a steady fall to swap out the last tire and get the hell away from you.

"Is she pretty?" It's beyond petty, so stupid and childish but you've got to know. If he likes this woman, or God forbid loves her, you'll never call him again. You'll die cold and alone before even considering reaching out to him, as an ex-wife to an ex-husband should.

Kensei stops in his tracks. "Yeah."

"Do you love her?"

"Never."

"Why?"

Kensei looks up at the sky, the gray clouds swirling as the rain descends. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, and it's the same as always every time he's left to gaze at the back of his eyelids— you and him on the night of your wedding, laying together in bed and giggling like teenagers at the prospect of your happy life together starting.

He turns, white tank top half soaked as he comes back to you and holds your face like porcelain. This beautiful face drives me crazy… "Nobody's ever gonna be able to be you."

You whimper and a fresh set of tears mixes in with the rain as Kensei leans down and kisses you, his passion so pent up that he's picking you up and pressing you to his truck before you can make heads or tails of anything. His shirt is swiftly bunched into your hand as the surprise subsides and the gratification fills you to the brim, your lips and tongue sliding with Kensei's in a messy reunification. Too long, it's been too long since you had this, since you felt his warmth on you and reveled in it.

His silver hair is silky between your fingers and he groans as you massage his scalp with your nails. He's always been a bit like a cat in that sense. Your legs around him and his arms around you tighten as you urge your bodies closer, leaving no room for even Jesus now. The rain pours around you, leaving you drenched by the time you've got no choice but to pull back, lest you die making out with your ex-husband.

All in all, not the worst way to go.

Kensei kisses your cheek gently, his lips lingering as he maneuvers to open the door to the passenger seat and shield you from the onslaught of rain. Peppering small kisses while he wipes the rain from your face, he turns the truck on and sets the heater up to keep you from getting sick.

He strips himself of his tank top once he's left you safely in the truck, tossing it in the truck bed before running to finish up the last tire change with this lucky break in the rain. Your fingers come to touch your tingling, smiling lips and you close your eyes as the space of Kensei's truck encompasses you.

By the time Kensei's back, his tools and your old tires all loaded up, you're beyond sleepy. Scooping you into his arms, your husband walks slowly and kisses your temple as he carries you to your car. "C'mon. Time to go home."

You steal a kiss off his lips, and by the time you're back in town, you weigh every option as you sit at a red light behind Kensei. Taking the next turn leads you home, but going straight will bring you right to Kensei's apartment building.

The light turns green.

#kensei muguruma x you #kensei muguruma x reader #kensei imagine #kensei x reader #kensei x you #bleach imagine #bleach x reader #bleach x you #x reader #reader insert #it's open ended but i'm sure y'all can guess what route i'm personally taking!!

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