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toweroftickles · 2 years ago

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No Ticket, No Entry

(Miles/Gwen Tickle Fic)

If you're a cop's kid, they say there are only two possibilities: you become a cop yourself, or one of the crooks he chases. For Miles Morales and Gwen Stacy, it was a little bit of both. Equipped with an arsenal of stickers and spray cans, Miles was always the more prone to troublemaking of the two. Gwen usually required a little more prodding.

But what kind of self-respecting teenager, at some point, hasn’t snuck into a movie theater?

The two perched high on lampposts on the street outside, perfectly hidden from passerby behind the blinding lights. It was one of those small local Queens theaters that had been around since the dawn of time, the kind that still used traditional signs, where even the color on the bricks had started to chip off. Red neon letters flashed cheerfully at them above the marquee. It was a chilly spring night.

"Alright, Spider-Boy; let's see whatcha got," the ghostly white Gwen teased with a wink.

“‘Spider-Boy?’ C’mon, that’s a low blow,” chuckled Miles.

“Hey, invisible guy successfully nabs us some snacks; then we can talk about upgrading your moniker," she giggled. With a flick of her wrist, a thin strand of web fluid whisked Gwen up to the roof, and left Miles alone on his vantage point, where he vanished with perfect camouflage. His gloves and boots squeaked on the glass foyer windows. There was quite a crowd...he had to squeeze quickly between the doorframe and a very fat woman in a fur coat, but no one was the wiser.

Both he and his girlfriend felt the pulse-pounding thrill of breaking the rules. A little bit of the old anxious butterflies flitted around their stomachs…what’s worse than getting caught? But they really shouldn't have worried. This was a world where superheroes, aliens, gods and monsters all ran around New York like it was their own personal Super Smash Bros. arena. All that Randall the overweight 15-year-old counter clerk thought about, when he saw a haunted bag of popcorn mysteriously sliding away around the gaudy orange wall corner, was the fact that he didn't get paid nearly enough to care.

Getting through the doors, crawling up the ceiling and behind the counter, and grabbing armfuls of food undetected was the easy part. The tricky thing was getting it all into the screening room. He & Gwen were already a few minutes late...a strategic maneuver. The way-too-loud trailers were audible outside the door. All Miles had to do was hide behind the back counter, wait for a break in the crowd, and sprint in and up the wall, resisting the urge to hum the sneaky Castle Garden music from Ocarina of Time while he did so.

All the popcorn bags, hot dogs, drinks, and what-have-you were webbed up all nice and snug in the back right corner of the theater's star-covered ceiling, opposite from the door and behind the other seats. A soft metal clunking sound that only his enhanced ears could pick up, like a knock on a metal door, lured Miles up back across to the overhang above the entrance. Even the walls were coated in carpet, but there was a single rectangular hole covered by a cheap iron grate, which led to the building's ventilation ducts. And behind it, smiling and waving at him, was his girlfriend.

"Hey there," she whispered. Miles' mask was lifted just enough that his mouth was visible. Even under the mask, though, he was clearly raising his eyebrows in that classic Dwayne Johnson way.

"Heeyyyyyy," he replied, trying to look cool and unaware that his face was wearing a patchy beard of popcorn kernels. Gwen bit her lip and tried not to smile too much...she thought it was cute.

“I can’t believe these dorks still haven’t noticed the opening is unscrewed!” It took nearly a full 30 seconds to crawl out and slide the grate back into place with as little noise as possible. Miles tossed Gwen a box of M&Ms, careful of the rattling. If the guy in the projection booth had looked down through the window, he might have noticed the snickering teenagers crawling along beneath his shadow.

It was like any other movie night, only huddled in the far corner of the room and fifteen feet off the ground. (It was some comedy movie, the details of which they barely cared about. Something to do with horses, a wedding, and Danny McBride eating a truck tire.) They whispered. They laughed. They stole each other's food. They tried to sneak looks at their smartphones, and always chided the other for doing the exact same thing. Miles almost tried the cliche "accidentally hold hands via popcorn bucket" trick, but he was too embarrassed...so Gwen smoothly slid her gloved palm into his anyway. In the dim blue glow, after all, he couldn't see her blush.

"Man, sitting this way is startin' to hurt my back."

"Heheheh...I'm gonna watch from here. You think someone'll notice?" Gwen said playfully. Grinning, the Ghost Spider raised from her place at Miles' left, crawled up above ("Hey! Where you going?") and sat down Indian-style right on the ceiling at his 10:00 position. Twinkling glow-in-the-dark stickers lit up the area around her. Despite her years of experience, she never really got over the novelty of being able to hang upside down whenever and wherever she wanted. When she fully demasked, both of the heroes laughed quietly at the sight of her blonde hair dangling toward the floor.

"Oh, so what, now you don't care about anyone seeing you?" Miles perked up instantly and tossed popcorn her way.

"Shhh! We've gotta still be quiet!" Gwen laughed back at him. The tension in her shoulders had wound down throughout the evening...she was feeling a little more mischievous.

"Oh, we do, huh? Yeah, we do?"

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Miles' left arm reached up and poked her in the side.

These skintight superhero catsuits were many things, but one thing they were NOT: tickle-proof. Thankfully, a character in the movie had just cracked a joke, and everyone in the audience was in a fit of laughter…no one heard it when Gwen’s chipper giggle blurted out.

Her eyes bugged out of her head. Her hand slapped over her vulnerable spot. She tried not to show it, even (especially?) in front of Miles, but the universe-hopping Stacy daughter was remarkably ticklish; even gentle back scratches could make her squeak and writhe like a bowl of jello. And deep down, she hated the sound of her throaty, husky laugh. She always gasped so much; it almost sounded more like hiccups than laughter.

"Quit it!" she snapped, looking back at Miles. Her mouth looked happy...he loved seeing that little gap in her buck teeth when she grinned; it was so dorky...but her eyes were panicked. Which, of course, just egged him on.

As soon as she wasn't looking, her boyfriend stretched out his arm again and squeezed her belly with all five fingers, and Gwen doubled over, giggling fiercely.

"HNGHEE!!" she exhaled hard; all the wind was knocked out of her.

She kept shoving his wrist, hissing at him, trying to get him to cut it out, but he was acting like an obnoxious little brother in the back seat of a car...all that was missing was for him to squawk "I'm not touching you!" on repeat. Every time she moved Miles' hand aside to one place, he swung his arm back and pinched her side or jabbed between her ribs. Limbs flying everywhere...it was practically a slap-fight.

Poke...poke....poke. Over and over.

All these little touches were making her all tingly, building up a storm of hysterics that Gwen was struggling to contain. Her Spider-Sense was blaring a full four-alarm siren, for all the good it did against someone who was just as fast as her.

"Tickle tickle tickle tickle tickle," Miles teased her in a cartoonishly high-pitched voice.

“S-stop it! We’re gonna get caught!” She was frustrated now. It was true…down below, patrons had begun looking around in circles, trying to determine where that annoying noise was coming from, and who exactly they should pelt with half-eaten nachos.

Sealing her lips tightly, Gwen held her breath and swiveled to face the screen again. She was anxiously rubbing her crossed ankles while fixated on the movie, an action that drew Miles’ eye to the seafoam green ballet shoes which lurked, upside-down, just above his hair.

Meh...that'll work.

Just when she started to take her mind off the chortles, Gwen gasped. A finger was tracing along the outer lip of her right shoe.

"Don't...you...dare..."

Miles' hooked digit clawed around inside Gwen's slipper and gently scratched the arch of her foot through her black spandex tights. She could almost feel the electric tingles of his venom-touch buzzing up her leg…it made her whole body jitter, and she jumped nearly hard enough to unstick from the ceiling.

“HAA-Huh! *gasp*wheeze* Huhuh-Heheh, Haha! St-hop!” Gwen snorted loudly and clapped her hands over her mouth. Her flailing legs untangled from their self-made pretzel. “Heehee-Heh, Huh-Huh! *gasp* Heheh!”

She froze. A cold fear dripped down Gwen’s neck. Internally, she was shooting off every curse word she could think of. After a moment to catch her breath, once her laughter subsided, Gwen slowly opened a single eye…

…and there, below her, was her worst fear. The crowd was staring up at her, trying to make out the girl-shaped shadow in the theater’s back corner.

"Hey, it's Spider-Woman!"

"Woo! Spider-Girl, down here!"

"Wait I thought she was called Ghost-Spider..."

Thank god it was dark enough that no one could see her face properly; her mask was back on in milliseconds.

"Oh, shit shit shit; Miles, we've gotta - " Gwen quickly snapped her head to the side, but there was nothing there...nothing but an empty, dark corner where her boyfriend had once sat. He’d gone invisible and slipped out. The eyes of her costume narrowed into burning little strips of pink, like a pair of furious electric earthworms.

".....oh, you've gotta be freaking kidding me."

THUD!! BANG! Hard aluminum sheets buckled and wobbled under Gwen’s fingertips. She scurried through the air vents at a blistering pace, often sliding too far around a corner - CRUNCH! ow, that’s definitely an elbow bruise - and doubling back. Her legs nearly outran her arms, throwing themselves up and over each other, rushing to an ever-closer window of purple moonlight.

Her heart beat a thousand times a minute.

Freedom.

On the rooftop, Gwen yanked up her mask and sucked in the foggy night air. Breathing hard…whewwww….over and over. Its cool touch soothed the burning in her cheeks. Her slippers slapped against the stone and plaster. Alongside her own weary gasps, Gwen eventually heard another sound…one that made her temperature rise once more.

Miles, chuckling to himself right beside her.

“Heh-Heh…kind of a big change-up from how we met, huh?” he offered, a smug smile on his face.

"Miles!!" Gwen hissed under her breath, and slapped her boyfriend on the arm.

"Ow! Why you whispering? We're up here by ourselves."

“Uuugh. This is why you get in trouble with your dad! You are soooo lucky this universe doesn’t have mine. You seriously can't stop goofing around for more than 2 seconds even when...”

“So is that like your Kryptonite? You can’t win a fight if you’re being tickled?” laughed Miles. The question made Gwen go red in the face again. She was about to garble some kind of flustered protest, but something caught her eye and stopped her...from inside his sleeve, Miles produced some sort of shiny metal stick. It was kinda like those memory-erasers from that one dumb alien movie her dad liked.

"Well, you know...I was thinkin' while we were up here, maybe we could have a....uhhh, private show." Miles flipped over to the brick lip of the roof and squatted down. At his feet he placed the little silver tube, centered it, and clicked a button. "C'mere; check this out."

Along its side, a narrow slit opened up, pulsing a deep yellow color. Inside it, glowing photons waved back at Gwen like a sea of tiny stars, humming softly. A shower of light rushed up from the strip like an inverse waterfall until the little particles reached a rectangular shape, then scurried in all directions to paint the night sky alongside their far-off galactic brothers. Draped above Gwen & Miles, like a canopy, floated a holographic screen just for them. (Unknown to Gwen, exactly twelve feet below them, inside the projection booth, a red, spider-shaped, USB-compatible goober clicked into place against the room’s laptop. Its feed was being copied and streamed perfectly.)

"Wow......" Gwen seemed impressed, but paused when she realized….

"Wait, was this whole night just so you could show that gizmo off?"

"Ehhhh....maybe," shrugged Miles. He awkwardly rubbed the back of his head with his left hand. But as she thought about it, Gwen wasn’t even mad. She just laughed all over again.

A little web pillow was all it took to make the setup complete. Grabbing a fistful of popcorn from the sole leftover bag that Miles had carried with him, Gwen laid back against the nearby roof fan and shoveled the snacks into her mouth, excitedly looking up at the big projector above. And her boyfriend plopped down just to her left side, arms crossed and relaxed.

Strangely, the noise of the insomniac city streets below, the feet clicking on pavement, the rushing and honking of cab horns, didn't bother them. The movie played perfectly alongside the calming sounds of New York, and there was something strangely enchanting about it. Reaching up, Gwen’s hands came to rest behind her head and propped her against the pillow, and she sighed contentedly. A sweet smile washed over her.

"You know…" she said, "...I think I do kinda like this better, Spider-Man.”

Miles often made himself sick with worry about how their relationship was going. She was sooo much cooler than him. What was the next step? What if he did something to embarrass her? But for a few moments, all those fears melted away while he watched the projector's light dance reflected on her cheek.

He also realized, as his prankster side whispered in his ear, he was in a perfect position to sneakily tickle her armpit without her noticing. Both her hands were behind her head.

Almost on a reflex, his index finger bent and slowly hovered toward her...

….but he suddenly thought better of it.

Nah. Let's just enjoy the movie.

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talopeiros · 5 months ago

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Learning to Smelt - 2

Part 2! The main goal of my second smelt was to A: Figure out how the sand casting worked B: Try mixing copper and aluminium together to make Aluminium bronze! TLDR: Here was how it went down:

Now into the details! The whole reason I got into smelting was to cast metal into cool items and the like, and to do that I needed a casting flask and some casting sand. All a casting flask is is a wooden or metal box that comes in two sections that you can pack sand and your design into. You want to be able to clasp the box shut so that the heat and pressure of the liquid metal doesn't cause it to pop off. Part of the reason the box in the vid burst into flames at the mid point is because we only clamped down one side of the box, thinking it would be enough (IT WASN'T) For the casting sand we made a mix of bentonyte (bentonite?) clay and yellow bricklayers sand in a volume ratio of 2:8. A lot of other casting vids and forums suggest a similar combination. Bentonyte clay is super fine so use a mask when handling it. With the sand part, you can't use regular sand since the grain shape of that does not lock together too well and will fall out of the vessel really easily (trust me I tried and it was impossible to hold anything in it). Once it's been mixed, you then need to put in 2 or 4 stroke motor oil into it and mix it thoroughly. Don't really have any specific measurements/amounts but what you're going for is to use a little oil as possible for it to be "wet" all throughout. Best way to test is to mix in a bit of oil, clasp a chunk of the sand mix in your hand and, if it can hold its shape, you're good. otherwise, MOAR OYLE

Now a quick heads up, the sand mix we used didn't work so well. best volume mix of sand-clay we used (which I'll go into a bit in the next post) was 6 sand for 4 clay.

Once you have your template, sand and flask, you start loading up the sand into the flask, and packing it in as tightly as possible. If it's not, then there's a chance that some of the sand could fall into the gaps and cause the design to be a bit scuffed.

Once you get to the halfway point of your flask (i.e. 1 of the two sections, the second section should not be on top yet) you press your design into the sand and keep it in there. Once you're satisfied it's evenly at the halfway point, get some talcolm powder or some other separating powder and coat your design/exposed sand in it, using a brush to spread it evenly (YOU NEED TO DO THIS IF YOU DON'T WHEN YOU TRY AND REMOVE THE DESIGN IT WILL NOT SPLIT AT THE HALFWAY POINT EVENLY)

After that, lock your top half on (with the design still in there) and start filling in the sand and really packing it in there as best you can. Once you're done you simply separate the 2 halves and voila! You have your negative space for the metal to FLOW LIKE FINE WINE. (Also sorry I didn't have many pictures in my second smelt, probs should've taken more photos over this part) Of course for it to flow (like fine wine) you need to then carve channels into the sand so you can pour it in in the first place. You NEED to take special care when carving because, even if the sand is packed in tightly, too much force may dislodge the whole thing. You'll need either a drill or a sharpened section of pipe to allow you to make a hole in the top piece for the fluid to flow. Make sure it's large enough for the metal to pour. You also need to make one (or more) vent holes. These holes you aren't pouring down there but they need to be there to make sure there's a place for the gases to vent out. Probably a sharp piece of wire coathanger would be best for these (and of course make sure they connect to your design.

Speaking of your design, you never want to pour directly onto it! Make sure your pouring hole if off to the side a bit with a channel that leads into the main design. This is mainly so you don't damage if from the inital collision of the liquid metal onto the sand.

In the end, you should have something that looks like this! (Hopefully better than it though since again, this one did NOT go according to plan)

There were a couple of reasons this one didn't go well.

The sand composition. 2 Clay for 8 sand was not a good ratio, it needed more clay

More talcom powder as a separation layer. You can't see it but that middle layer was very uneven since some parts of the top layer fused to the bottom layer and it was a whole thing)

The end result of the above pour was this! Another attempt at the channel emblem:

Yeah not too good, looks like really bad aluminium bronze. Plus there are a few holes in it, where I'm guessing the mold began to break down while the sand was burning.

Another reason this one didn't work too well! We used almost exactly the amount we needed! Because we didn't put too much in the crucible, I believe that too many impurities got poured out with the molten metal which caused it to look like a mess. Still, not too shabby! And I can certainly say the next one went a lot more smoothly too! On a side note, make sure if you want to do this that you don't have a crazy uncle nearby. After we had poured out the aluminium bronze, he wanted to "take advantage" of the hot crucible/smelter and put some scrap brass he had into it. Certainly sounds like a good idea if you like efficiency, but of course mixing metals you don't want to mix is a very bad idea. When poured, the brass ended up looking really bad since it was mixed with the leftover aluminium bronze already in the crucible and also I could not use the bronze crucible again until I filed out all the traces of brass I could find. More to come!

#blacksmithing #smelting #metalwork #casting #semitutorial #copper #brass #aluminium #homesmelting

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talenlee · 1 year ago

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Getting Sick And Noticing It

I haven’t gotten sick much lately. Not in the ways that I’m used to thinking of it as ‘getting sick.’ I know for a lot of people ‘getting sick’ can include things like hitting mental health limits, gender concerns, long-term conditions worsening, or just, y’know, suddenly your ears stop working the way you thought they did for literally no determined reason. What I mean though, isn’t that stuff, not because I have had those happen, but because what I meant by ‘getting sick’ is colds, flu, minor infections, things you pick up on the bus, and those other things, things like depression or being emotionally overwhelmed to the point where you’re vomiting or can’t get out of bed, those aren’t the kind of thing I think of as ‘getting sick.’

And that’s screwed up, huh?

Content Warning: Pandemic! Illness! Religious abuse!

This all started as a piece about how I wanted to recommend people keep masking and maintaining a way of life that incorporates ideas from the Pandemic for our general betterment. I wear a cloth mask – not a proper p90 – when I go on any public transport or any public location, and have done so for the past three years. I wash my hands before handling food, I wash my hands after coming home from going out, and I avoid crowded internal spaces. When dealing with my students, I try to make sure I give them space, and wear my mask inside the classroom. Now you might notice some of those things – like washing hands – are just, y’know, good? Healthy habits? That I’m now more mindful of as a grown and boring adult?

And that’s good, and I really do recommend you do that kind of thing. If you can bear the difficulty of wearing your mask and just reducing the general vectors for transmission in common areas, you’re making spaces more accessible for people who can’t risk contracting COVID. You know, you’re making spaces safer for old people and people with disabilities, and people with disabilities have never done me wrong in the past.

There’s your general advice: inconvenience yourself a tiny bit, to the same level of extent as might, you know, make managing keeping your headphones from being tangled, and you make spaces a tiny bit safer for people who you will never necessarily meet or get positive input from, and that’s not why you do these things.

But okay, enough of that, what about my broken meat brain.

Hey, you know how we have national healthcare in Australia? Like, the ability to just go to a doctor thanks to the Medicare service and say ‘here’s my Medicare card,’ and they take care of the costs of things, and if I go to the pharmacy and I can’t afford meds because I’m disabled or unemployed I can show my Medicare card and get a cost reduction on those meds? This is a super cool system. It’s something that is kind of background radiation for people.

I had no idea it existed until I was a late teenager.

I mean it wasn’t like I wasn’t on the system. My mother and father didn’t keep me out of Medicare rolls or anything. I went to the doctor growing up and it was just a thing I didn’t understand. Chicken pox, a very normal early Millenial experience that’s quietly died out (unless the antivaxxers get their way) came and went for me, without a doctor visit I remember. When I almost lost my hand in an escalator, I went to see a doctor who just checked to see that you know, the bones were all in the right spot. I was engaged with the idea of doctors.

But I didn’t know Medicare existed.

I didn’t realise it until well, well after but I was kinda surrounded by a bunch of alt-med weirdoes. It’s a thing that these days I see people associate with ‘lefty’ stuff but my entire life, I’ve been dealing with right-wingers who think that doctors are a conspiracy to drain your precious essential fluids. Particularly, the cult had a pastor who was, amongst other things, running a Multi-Level Marketing scam, which, let me tell you, that’s one reason to start a church. At the time, the stuff promised its healing and curative properties – it still exists, the scam still trundling on – though now it’s much more careful about being about ‘supplementing’ and ‘restoring’ rather than actually, like, curing or fixing or anything.

Not how it was sold, of course.

Sickness was a thing that happened to you; you got it somehow, and therefore there was a cause you could attack. You have headaches? You need to drink more orange juice! You have asthma? Well you need horseradish! You have a fever? You need to stop getting angry! And there was always a superior certainty to it. It presented getting sick as a sort of moral failure, because you should have anticipated it and been prepared. Are you praying enough? Have you prayed about it? Maybe there’s some other thing you could do to anticipate this. Maybe you could show your dedication to your faith.

Possibly with supplements.

And the thing that follows on from this, that’s still nagging away in my brain, something I’m still fighting and trying to address, is that part of me thinks of all sickness as a punishment from something outside me. I was able to kill off the god in my brain, the divine punishment elements, but all I did was transfer that onwards to generalised anxiety: It’s not that god’s judging me for my moral failure, but I should have anticipated things ahead of time and been better at being when I am reminded the ways my body is not working perfectly any more. Whether it’s a sore foot or a difficulty sleeping or just overwhelming, depressing sadness that clutches at my chest when I open an important document and feel like I’m not good enough to write this, I find myself flowing into that same mental pattern. Illness isn’t a thing that happens, illness is a byproduct of moral impropriety and y’know, y’know? I probably deserve this. Even though I’m not really getting sick these days – and then there’s the followup thought that aren’t I? Isn’t this tiredness and sadness a kind of sickness that deserves addressing!?

One final thing, remember that note of ‘oranges cure headaches?’ Yeah, turns out my mother was allergic to oranges. They gave her migraines.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

#Fundie Stuff

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writingquestionsanswered · 4 years ago

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Tattoo Shop AU - a quick, practical guide for writers

Guest Post by lebanon-hangover

lebanon-hangover said: this is based on my personal experience with the industry only, so depending on the era and country you are portraying, it may not be 100% accurate for your setting.

Hygiene

It may not be obvious at first glance, but most tattooists are clean freaks. We work with human blood every day, and we get clients from all ages, ethnic and social economic backgrounds, with all sorts of medical conditions.

We usually mop frequently, bleach the sinks, wipe down everything, and use cling film or bags to wrap everything. I mean fucking everything. We also scrub in, and sanitise the area on the person we work on.

Needles are collected in a sharps bin, and handled very carefully. Medical waste goes in yellow bags, and both are collected by a professional service.

Used ink caps may look full, but the ink gets diluted by blood. Like you dip the inky needle into the person, but you also dip the person’s blood into your ink. These are medical waste too.

Cleaning up must be done promptly after the session. Bin everything disposable, put things through the ultrasonic and the autoclave, and sanitise the area. We may take machines apart, but more for maintenance than cleaning, sometimes we swap parts in them too.

We have two sinks, one for hand washing, one for cleaning.

All inks and needles have use by dates.

The internal dynamics of a studio

Depending on the country, some tattoo shops tend to have ties to biker gangs, and some of those internal dynamics and unwritten rules are often present.

There’s a pecking order and it’s dead serious. Basically the longer you’ve been in a shop, the higher ‘rank’ you are, you get the better positioned stations, first pick of walk-ins, etc (Unless the client is asking for someone by name). Regardless of your actual experience in the industry, like if you move into your old apprentice’s shop, they are still senior to you. If the owner or their partner is an artist, obviously they are on top of the chain by default.

We are self employed, but we have a boss. You are only making money if you are working, but you still have set work hours.

We get paid by the clients, and we pay the studio a cut. In return, there are some items provided by them, and some we buy for ourselves. Usually the chairs, tattoo beds, gloves, cleaning products, clip cord covers, masks, aprons, ink caps, vaseline, green soap, and some basic ink is provided by the shop. We buy our own machines, arm rests, stations, pedals, power supplies, clipcords, tips and grips, needles, special colours, stencil fluid…these are a personal preference, and often depend on the artists’ style.

We totally ask to try out each other’s equipment sometimes, or ask for a certain type of needle if we ran out.

The receptionist is usually just one of us, maybe a piercer, but it also can be a hired person in top studios.

The apprentice in the traditional system is often mistreated, and they have to pay for their education, have to be there multiple days a week and don’t make any money. It’s kind of like a tear them down, build them back up again thing to see if they are really serious about the job. Times are slowly changing, but 99% of them will always need a second job. Most of them are working as bar staff.

When you open a new studio, you must visit all the existing local ones and introduce yourself, otherwise you may get a brick through the window. Otherwise there’s not much beef among individual artists, they are often friends, go to conventions together and party after, etc.

The Artists

Tattooing is a fairly physical job, stretching skin is very important. We have to also keep our clients safely still, so we often use positions to pin them down a bit. Sometimes you hit a reflex point on the foot or under a knee, and you don’t want to get kicked. Sometimes you have to pull away super fast, cos they are sneezing, yawning or giggling.

Most tattooists drink a lot of coffee, tea or energy drinks.

Some people are all rounders, some have specific styles, but we recognise each other’s art styles. Sometimes we delegate work to each other, if we think our coworkers style fits the concept better. For example if there’s a person who does script well, we give them those projects.

We don’t like when people come in with designs from other artists. Art theft is frowned upon, and we work best with our own drawings.

Most apprentices practice on their own legs, and sometimes we tattoo each other when it’s quiet. Most people have cover ups, or bad pieces from their early days. The artists’ own tattoos sometimes are in a different style than what they do, but we like to collect ink from friends or colleagues we admire.

In the first 1-2 years one is an apprentice, then junior artist. At 5-8 years of tattooing, you have earned your stripes and are considered an experienced artist.

Conventions are really fun, but can be stressful. You can make good money working at one, and sometimes get awarded for it too. We can also spend a lot at a convention.

Sometimes we poke our fingers by accident, and it’s a scary thing. Good case scenario is just some random dots on your fingers. Let’s not go into the bad case scenario.

We do guest spots sometimes, just to meet new clients, and change it up a bit.

We spend a lot of time drawing up things, and designs are meant to fall on specific muscles, stretch with the skin a certain way, so they are tailored to the body proportions of the client. A good tattoo is also an optical illusion, complimenting the body shape.

Social media presence is like a second job, you need good photos, and you need to market yourself.

Tattoo ink does not wash out, so some stains are inevitable when pouring it out. Those ink bottles get stuck so easily, and we wrestle them a lot. We try to avoid it, but wearing all dark colours is a thing for a reason.

The Clients

Tattooists need to have a good ‘bedside manners’ too. We get nervous or self conscious people, and we are told personal things during long sessions. For example scar coverups and memorial pieces can be very emotional.

We have pretty good poker faces and first aid trainings. People can faint, get shaky, throw up, some have seizures, have b.o., get sweaty, etc the same way as at a blood donation event? It’s no big deal really. We sit them down, give them some water and some sugar, and re-book them if necessary. Most artists keep some wet wipes, mouth wash, deodorant, sweets, maybe even some clean clothes at work, just in case.

If someone comes in with a wild idea for a jobstopper, we would sit down and have a long talk. If they haven’t got many tattoos, we usually try to stir them towards more safe choices, offering them creative ideas. It’s like those jedi mind tricks sometimes.

If someone is undecided, we show them our own hand drawn flash sheets. Once its gone, its gone tho, we don’t use the designs twice.

Pinterest is full of photoshopped fake tattoos, some that won’t even work as real ink. Many people also touch up their work digitally on photos, so some clients have really unrealistic expectations.

We can totally tell if someone is intoxicated or hangover. It thins the blood, and they bleed out the ink, and it’s super annoying. if it’s bad, they will be sent home and rebooked.

Some folks are self conscious about body hair, their size, stretch marks and scars. Chances are, we have seen similar, and we aren’t bothered by it, because it’s work. Surgery scars, scars from accidents, self harm scars, burns, we see it all the time. We shave some really hairy dudes all the time girl, your legs are fine. Seriously. If something makes tattooing you dangerous we will tell you.

Fit, muscular people are harder to tattoo because they are really firm. Its a workout for us.

Everyone gets midnight messages about the aftercare from nervous clients, and drunken booty calls about getting inked right at this second. We have copy paste replies…

We get creeps sometimes. Stalking, weird conversations, tmi info dumps etc.

Other things to include (for fun, or for plot reasons)

We sometimes have those “oh fuck” moments. We all do, but mistakes can be fixed, and we play it cool.

Tattooing takes time. Usually 30 minutes to multiple sessions though years and years.

Healing tattoos takes about 2-4ish weeks, and your characters shouldn’t go roll around in dirt, sunbathe, swim, pick at the scabs. Nasty infections, and messed up tattoos would be the results.

If you have a strong immune system, and you get a lot of work done in one sitting, you may get a brief bit of a temperature. It’s normal, and will go away.

Its a lot easier to get seriously drunk after getting a tattoo. Be careful.

We sometimes draw on each other for practice with our marker pens.

Tattoos are inside the skin, not on top of it. Imagine a low opacity, skin toned layer over the ink, adding to the healed tattoos’ colour. Please stop making your characters skin fully transparent.

Heavy blackwork and palms are done in multiple sessions.

You can’t cover up moles, because if they develop skin cancer, the dermatologist can’t see the signs.

There’s a stereotype about piercers having blacked out sleeves.

Stencil fluid looks just like cum.

You get that annoying itch on your face when you scrubbed in, put on gloves and finally ready to go.

Some artists have a strong preference for coil or rotary machines, and they bicker about it a lot. Coils are louder, more punchy, and more traditional, perfect for lineart. They can be customised, and they last forever. They are also called glorified doorbells by people who prefer rotaries. Rotary machines are smoother, lighter, and often use needles that are pulled back into the cartridges for safety. They are better for shading and delicate line work. Older tattooists often say they are dildo or butt plug shaped, overly delicate and are for “soft millennials” only.

Every artist owns like 5 to 20 machines, and they have specific machine builders they are loyal to.

The “which cable is broken and cutting out” guessing game. Clip cords and pedal cables get worn out easily, and that results in your machine running really jerky.

Walk-in always show up 10 minutes before closing.

We often look quite silly at work. Sleeves rolled up, folks use all sorts of plastic ppe, headlamps, and we tie up our hair. Add couple of purple smears from carbon paper, and we aren’t scary at all.

#writing guide #writing tips #writing advice #writer's guide #writeblr #writing community #writing #writing help #submission

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hootnhoney · 3 years ago

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dont mean to feel like a bother, i AM wondering if you ever watched breadwinner or song of the sea? (The latter being more similar to the things you seemed to enjoy from Wolfwalkers). These movies are just really dear to me and i dont have a lot of people to talk about them with. That being said, i’d love hearing your thoughts on any cartoon saloon movie :)

I’ll react as I watch ;)

⚠️ Spoilers for song of the sea ⚠️

First impression: I love the music! And voice acting! It’s so pretty and nice on the ears. I need to get that playlist on Spotify.

-this blond boy is a little punk isn’t he?

-oh this little girl is so sweet I want to scoop her up and give her a hug!!

-the animation isn’t as fluid as wolfwalkers but the style is just as pretty. I’m in love with the colors and lighting! Again I love the simple shapes of each character.

- idk who these 3 masked ppl looking for a selfie are but I think I’d trust them with my life. Oh and they sing! I love the music!!!

- ohhhh she has to speak to sinnggg. Ooooooo. Oh she’s precious but poor baby.

- “good neighbors!?” As in fae!? We have selkies and now fae. Ahhh I love Celtic folklore. Love love love it!!

-this boy has got her on a leash :| SHES the selkie let her do her thing bro

- PUPPY IS BACK :D!! Take them home puppy!!

-just like wolfwalkers we have watercolor background which is just gorgeous!!

-CHILD DOWN I REPEAT CHILD DOWN. NOT THE WHITE HAIR

- ok he lets himself get hurt (the stinging leaves) to keep her safe and in return she give him the leaves to alleviate the pain. That’s very sweet and I’m glad they’re not just fighting.

- well now I know what a seanchaí is. Very cool.

-ooooh that’s what that stone giant is?! This is so interesting

- *gasp* mum

- “dad, where’s mum” hear that? That’s the sound of my heart breaking

“The jars can’t be broken they’re enchanted” bro just unscrew the lid

-ah yes on of my my favorite life lessons; Pain is part of life. It comes hand in hand with the happy feelings

- OH MY GOD THE SHELL. OH MY GOD THE CHILD. GET THAT COAT BITCH!!

-ok the dog running scene towards home and the wolf running scene from wolfwalkers really shows the improvement in animation. Don’t get me wrong I still like both but the improvement is super noticeable.

-oooo I love the animation of everyone being revived. So pretty. And all the music!!! The giant!! He’s back :0

-MUUUUUUUM OMG MUUUM,,, oh. Ok ur leaving ur whole family. And for what? Ur just not gonna explain? Just mysteriously leave? :| bruv

-ok that movie was adorable I love the music and all the Celtic folklore in it. All the characters were very lovable and fun, even the ones with only a little screen time (cept for mum and dad. I didn’t get a lot of personality from them for some reason) The good neighbors are my favorite.

#cartoon saloon #song of the sea #recommendation #canvas the florist

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i-lovethatforme · 3 years ago

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Do you have any thoughts/ theories for the next film? I'm already thinking about it as I actively avoid nwh 😭

me and you and most other people ignoring nwh as we should as we deserve! i have thoughts! super strength mj thoughts! i started writing all kinds of things before i stopped to get all my fix its out the way and ignore the plots these would need so subsequently abandoned - but I'll post some snippets from the worlds i would like. aka idc about anyone other than - spidey mj/ black cat mj /venom mj

you'll see me in hindsight, tangled up with you all night

“Fuck my absolute life,” she wheezes, her arms aching more from the length of time she’s been hanging here than the weight of her body. Ever since she found this suit in her bedroom while she packed to move to college, MJ has been working on advancing it. Trying to piece together why on earth she has it in the first place. She doesn’t remember cosplaying as Spider-Man but the suit looks real enough that she probably spent a lot of money on it. It’s also probably why she purged it from her memory. The web shooters work as well - but when she googled it she found that there were a number of web shooters that can actually function. She didn’t know they came with fluid that stuck to walls but it only helped her recreate the formula when she was bored one night during her first term at college. MJ isn’t sure how her occasionally making modifications to this suit she found ended up with her now hanging between two twelve story high buildings on a thin piece of webbing that she knows is going to disintegrate in the next thirty minutes. It probably has to do with her being followed home a few months ago and being furious because she was terrified. And she shouldn’t be terrified because she should be able to walk home in the dark by herself without the threat of attack. But she can’t. At least not in Boston. Maybe if she still lived in NYC. New York has Spider-Man and albeit the crime was still high, there was an air of comfort walking home knowing you might get saved by the masked hero. Here, she has no one. But she did have a suit. So she thought how hard could it possibly be to be Spider-Man? Noone knows anything about him other than the fact he can climb walls but now so can she with the claws she developed. And he can lift heavy things but now so can she with the hydraulic hinges she sewed to the suit. And he can swing between buildings and now - Well. MJ can’t do that yet. This is why she’s hanging way too high above an alley and she thinks she needs to make further modifications but she can’t do them right now because her shoulders are about to give up and she’ll slowly fall to the ground. Ugh. MJ has tried swinging her legs back and forth but she can’t get the spikes she adhered to the suit to hook into the brick properly. Another thing she would change if she wasn’t about to splatter against the floor. She thinks about the leftover lasagna in the fridge that’s going to go mouldy until someone realises she’s gone and ugggh she just put a load of washing in the dryer and some rando is going to get her underwear. She thinks about her mum and the way she’s going to be heartbroken. She thinks about Ned who would probably think she’s cool as fuck for this but won’t forgive her for dying on him before she told him about it. She thinks about the boy from the coffee shop because she’s always thinking about the boy from the coffee shop. She thinks about - “Hello?” “Holy fuck -” she jolts. Spider-Man peers down at her from the roof and though she can’t see his face, he sounds concerned. “Do you need some help?” “Nah, I like to hang here for fun,” she wheezes, thankful that she fixed the voice modulator so she sounds like she's smoked thirty a day since she was four. “Okay,” they laugh slightly and she thinks fuck them. “Can I help you anyway?”

kill me slowly with your kiss

"I don't get close to people," he whispers as his body pushes her against the wall. His mask is tucked beneath his nose and there's a part of her that knows his lips but if he doesn't want his identity revealed, as she doesn't, she'll avoid tugging on that thread.

"Because it's difficult, or because you don't want to?" she asks. She doesn't care because she'd have to want to get close to him to care and she's not sure that she does. Because her last three missions have failed because he's been right there.

"It doesn't matter," he replies, pressing his lips lightly to her jaw. And as he touches his tongue to her neck, following with a suck of his lips, she figures, no, it doesn't matter.

"My lips are up here, Spider," she says impatiently as he marks her. She wants to tug his face to hers by his hair but she doesn't want him to think she's trying to unmask him when really his suit is so tight there's nothing to grip onto.

He laughs lightly, his whole body shaking with the movement and it's a delightful sound, one she'll replay in about five minutes when he's paralysed from her tranquiliser and she can finally go and get the artwork while Kingpin is out of town.

"Someone's in a rush," he teases and she wants to throw him around, have him being the one pinned to the wall but he's stronger than her and she doesn't want him to figure that out so she lets him hold her there instead. His leg wedged between hers as his lips finally touch hers.

It's softer than she thought it would be, with the way he throws his punches and the way he screams at people - she never knew he could be this soft. But then his tongue is in her mouth, his hand pulling at the roots of her white wig and she feels the tingles all the way to the tips of her toes.

She knows him. She knows his tongue. She knows his hands and his breathy moans and she knows him.

She just doesn't know how.

assume you'll be comin' for blood

Her brain no longer thumps painfully, the pressure fading so it doesn't feel like her head is about to explode. Her eyes are no longer black and that's kinda annoying cause she looked cool as fuck.

A few days ago she thought she was dying, hallucinating as the black inky liquid seeped from her skin and crawled along the floor. She was planning on never leaving the house again, committed to sinking back to the bathroom floor and dying there.

But it's been anywhere between five seconds and four years and she feels better. Ish. she ate eight chocolate bars and she's been talking to the voice in her head. So she's probably insane but she's leaning into it.

Besides, the black liquid makes her strong and it can grab her a can of drink from the fridge without her moving from the couch. Sure, she did end up chewing the head of the pizza delivery guy and that wasn't the best but she and venom have come to an arrangement.

No more delivery guys, no more threatening Mr Delmar.

They're only after Peter Parker.

#spideychelle #petermj #ridic hc's from me xxx #fics ill never write #nwh spoilers #ask

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mah-gah-lee · 4 years ago

Text

be stuck with you - owen patrick joyner x (reader)

Word Count: 2303

Request: YES, from that sweet @idontcare011, hope you’ll like it !

Summary: you were late and a random boy comes into the elevator at the last minute. By some incredible force of fate (or pretty crappy weather) you find yourself stuck with the young man in this narrow cabin.

Warnings: panic attack and i think it’s all

disclaimer: I don't know Owen personally or what his life is like. All you will read in this "x reader" is from my imagination. My point is not to invade Owen's privacy. I don't want to offend him or offend anybody else in his life (family, potential girlfriend…I heard maybe he has one, so I don’t know but I don’t want to offend her). All of this is not the reality

Tagged: @asdfghjkl-fanfics @standingtalllove @lukeys-giggle

---

Thanks God, the quarantine was over and everyone could travel again. However, this stupid virus was not completely gone. Since the health crisis, you have adopted new habits, such as taking the stairs instead of the elevator. But today, you were in a hurry, so you entered the cabin eagerly. The conference you were due to attend was starting in no less than twenty minutes, and your itinerary had said it would take you 15 to get to your planned location. But with the weather conditions creeping in out there, you were sure you would need a lot longer than advertised. The automatic door was closing when a hand stepped in the way. A young blond man appeared and slipped into the elevator. You grumbled at the action, making you fall a few more seconds behind.

"Sorry" the boy said through his mask.

But you didn't answer.

You had almost ten floors to go down together. You looked in your bag for a while to make sure you had your recorder when you felt an uncontrolled jerk. Your body no longer held you in balance but you caught yourself on a side of the elevator as the young man accompanying you tended to stabilize you. The lights flashed for a while and then went out. Your eyes widened as your heart pounded.

"oh no no no no no no no. Anything except that, please!" you said, frantically pressing a random button.

“I think we stuck…”

"Oh yeah, what makes you think that?" The fact that we weren't moving or that the lights went out? "

The boy threw up his hands in defense, eyes wide with so much animosity.

"Hey, I'm in the same situation. You don't have to be aggressive."

You groaned before leaning against one of the elevator walls, peering into the face of your elevator failure companion. He had blond hair; his tips reached the base of his neck. But his expressive blue eyes - seeming constantly anxious - reminded you of someone, but you didn't know who. You have pushed the alarm button to warn the staff that there was someone in the lift.

“Sorry, it’s seems to be a bad day. I’m late and now I’m stuck in an elevator with a perfect stranger”

“I’m Owen…Not a stranger anymore”

“I’m y/n, but yes, you still are”

Owen laughed at your outspokenness and you gave him a polite smile before you were silent for several minutes.

After what seemed like forever - when it was only ten minutes - you looked at your phone. No networks. For no obvious reason, when everything seemed to be going well, your heart started to beat faster. The thought of being stuck here forever crossed your mind and ached in your chest. The boy in front of you seemed so calm, which made you even more anxious.

"How the hell can you stay so calm"

"Oh ... I'm dying inside, just trying to play it cool"

You can help with giving him an amused smile, he had been so frank. But this little interaction did not bring you back down from your state. You were breathing harder and harder, your chest was heaving quickly, it was nearly out of control. Owen seemed to notice that and give you a concerned look.

"Panic attack?"

You nodded briskly and Owen approached you cautiously. You saw his hands move towards you and your gaze expressed fear but you were paralyzed to do anything.

"I'm going to take that damn mask off you already."

Gently, he grabbed the fabric mask and pulled a little on it to lower it, he reproduced the gesture with his own mask.

"Look at me, just me. There's nothing around us. Take a deep breath. I'll count to 3 and then you'll breathe out. Okay?"

you nodded and when he shook his to urge you to breathe you took a deep breath, like he told you to.

"1..2..3"

You sighed, keeping your gaze on him. You started once more and when the blonde asked you if it was better, you were shaking your head negatively.

"We're starting over but… take my hands and squeeze them as much as you need. Don't worry about grinding them."

You grabbed his hands and restarted each step over, crushing his hands. But the contact with matter, your breath and Owen's comforting eyes, help you gently. A soothing silence has settled between you. Owen had helped you through this panic attack when you didn't even know each other. But you could feel deep inside that this man was good. Things seemed to calm down for you and you thanked Owen with a genuine smile.

“You know how to deal with it ... Thanks for that.”

“I also suffer from anxiety and panic attack. But the elevator is big enough here that it doesn't cause me one. Although I am a little anxious ...”

“hey, breathe Owen.” You replied with a smirk

Owen laughed and shook his head as if to say "that's a good one!" You look at the young man again, staring at him intently. It was very rude but you couldn't put a name on his face anymore. You were sure you knew him. Was he a distant cousin? A neighbor? A guy you knew in high school? Or just a guy you saw in an ad? Maybe the ad for these new cereals!

“Excuse me but ... I've seen you somewhere before, haven't I?”

“In an elevator, yeah!” he joked

You laughed he was funny

“No, I mean ... I feel like I've seen you before but I really can't remember where.”

he sighed, as if a little tired of the question. You were surprised at his reaction but Owen answers you anyway

“Yeah, I don't usually talk about that when I first meet a girl, especially when I'm stuck in an elevator with her but ... I'm an actor. I played some stuff on Nickelodeon and now I'm supposed to shoot season two of Julie and the phantoms, it's a Netflix series.”

You watched him chattering, you nodded then wide your eyes. This is where you saw it! You had been relentlessly browsing the Netflix catalog and seeing the trailer for the series he told you about, but you had avoided it, the show seemed too childish for you. You first reaction was to make fun of him

"Again, don't forget to breath Owen. But the way, I didn’t want to bother you with that question."

He laughed lightly then smiled politely at you. You didn't seem to be a hysteric or a weird person. He had a deep feeling that you were a good person, which is why Owen seemed to relax.

"It's just ... for a while, I thought you were a fan and I didn't want things to be weird all suddenly "

"Oh don't worry I haven't seen any of your shows.” you said nonchalantly

Owen burst into laughter. Once again, it was bafflingly sincere and he was really starting to enjoy being stuck in an elevator with you. You smiled, the energy in the cabin was positive that you almost forgot you were stuck with this young man for almost half an hour. You didn't know when you were going to be able to get out of here but you didn't really care anymore for the sole reason that you wanted to get to know this man. You tilted your head back, resting it against the elevator wall before sighing loudly. Seconds later, your gaze turned to Owen again.

“So tell me about this series that you’re filming. What is it about?”

"It's a pretty cool show actually. It's directed by Kenny Ortega, I don't know if you see who he is."

"Hell yeah ... he's the choreographer of Dirty Dancing"

"Himself ... So what about the storyboard ... It's about ..."

And then, you listened to him to tell you about the series. Something like a '90s band dying of food poisoning from a bad hotdog and returning twenty-five years later as ghosts to help a super talented young girl to make music after her mom passed away. It made you laugh; it was probably the dumbest death on TV after Marion Cotillard's in Batman. He couldn't even stop anymore so that he sometimes swapped over a few anecdotes from the set. You even got a little exclusive on season two before Owen stopped in the middle of a sentence.

"Sorry, I got a little carried away. But when you like your job, it's pretty easy to talk about it."

You smiled at him and Owen started asking you questions, about your work, your life, your passions and you were giving him back. The conversation was fluid, natural You learned that he was German, that his mother tongue was German until he was about four years old, that he had a sister and had lived with his parents until that year when he moved into his own apartment. Getting to know Owen was really nice and you could feel your stomach twist every time he smiled. He was a boy full of humor but also sarcasm.

You've been stuck with Owen for an hour and a half now. You ended up sitting on the floor of the elevator. Boredom was really starting to take hold of you. You rummaged through your bag for something, anything. An idea crossed your mind when you saw the small block of post-it notes.

"Owen"

"hmm?"

"How would you like to play a game?"

"What kind of game do you want to play here?"

"Who am I?"

"Obviously you are y/n" he tells you with a smirk.

You laughed before pulling out your notepad and a pencil to show it to the blonde. He claimed to have understood your intention, which made you smile even more. Of course, Owen knew the game you wanted to play. He nodded, and you'd write a celebrity's name on a sticky note before sticking it on your new friend's forehead. He did the same for you. Fortunately, your two post-its are well stuck. Owen spoke

"I start: am I a man?"

"Obviously" you say with a smirk, responding to the blonde's previous joke.

Owen laughed, catching the tone of your voice.

“But how funny she is! Is my character a man?” He continued.

You did several parts. You even teased him when he made you guess Julie and the phantoms, because the game didn't stop only with characters, celebrities but also series, movies, musicals. You were laughing when there was another shake, stronger than the first, the lights came back on and you couldn't help but be disappointed. You looked at Owen and he seemed to have the same gaze as yours. The doors barely opened and you found the hotel staff, patiently waiting to ask if you needed medical assistance, while also offering you a bottle of water. You left the elevator car, hurriedly stuffing the many post-its into your bag. You didn't really know how to act with the blond guy next to you. You had formed a little bubble in that enclosed space and now it seemed to have burst. For some strange reason, it made you sad. Now is the time to part ways with your new friend.

“well, good-goodbye, it was nice to meet you.”

you rushed into the hotel lobby a little more, but Owen seemed to catch up with you, his long legs only having to take a few strides.

"wait, y/n!"

You turned to him, you could see the embarrassment on his cheeks, asking with a frown what was the cause.

"I think you let that go"

"No, I don't"

You looked at the crumpled white paper. It even looked like a piece of chewing gum. And at first glance, Owen's perfectly white teeth were chewing one.

"I think you did."

He handed you the paper with a determination that convinces you. You bite your lip as you look at the series of numbers on the packaging: a phone number. His telephone number. Owen swallowed hard as he looked at you. His eyes never leaving your lips.

"It's pretty spontaneous of me but ... I won't start filming until next week. I hope you're still here the day after tomorrow ... because I would really like to ask you to come have a drink with me ... "

Your cheeks turned red, did he really just ask you for a date? You did not know what to answer. The urge to say yes was so present but you were afraid to rush. Perhaps humor was your only defense

"it depends"

"about what?"

"Does this appointment include a blocking session in an elevator? This is the only way it works"

Owen laughed before giving you a genuine smile, showing his perfectly aligned white teeth. God, what a beautiful man.

"I can try to fix this and find a faulty elevator."

"So expect a text from me"

You smiled back at him and gave him a wink before turning on your heels. Owen's heart skipped a beat and he when he arrived several hours late in the hairdressing section of the set, Charlie laughed at him saying that he had never seen him so happy to have a haircut. hair. But in reality, the blond was only waiting for one thing, and that was to receive a message from you, which arrived in a second.

(y/n) text : "After being stuck in an elevator, here I am stuck in traffic ... Are you sure you want a date with me, you might just end up stuck with me?"

Owen couldn't help but smile broadly.

Owen text : "I'm sure. I'd love to even be stuck with you (again).”

(y/n) text : “Fine, ghost boy. See you soon”

#owen patrick joyner #owen joyner #owen patrick joyner x reader #owen joyner x reader #jatp cast x reader #jatp cast imagine #julie and the phantoms #jatp

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bluegarners · 4 years ago

Note

For the bingo card, I'd like to request the "tortured for information" square with Dick being the one who's tortured (sorry Dick alskjda). You can include any other batfam member(s) that you want, I'm not picky 😁.

Oooo, that’s a good one! I was super excited to see your request, I hope this does the prompt right~ @hood-ex

Tortured for Information

The room they’re being contained in is small, perhaps eight foot by eight, and the ceiling barely crests at seven. It’s cramped and hot, the stone bricks that surround them leaving no room for air ventilation or any sort of moisture except their own sweat. They know there’s a door somewhere off to the right, but the enclosing darkness leaves most of it to the imagination. Pitch black inks the area, not a single source of light filtering through its void. They only know there’s a door in the darkness because there used to be four of them where three now sit in anticipation. A few inches rest between each of the three remaining figures, all trying their best to breathe through the heat and not inhale the stench of their own gross fluids.

Time is hard to tell in the dark, minds so used to constant movement that stillness is unexpected and dangerous. What they do know is that, before there were just three, they awoke one by one, feeling out for one another in the darkness, checking supplies (they had none), and trying their best to figure out how to escape. The door was the obvious solution at first, the largest of them using his shoulder as a battering ram against the heavy wood. There’s no give, no weakness, and the eldest stops the biggest before there’s unnecessary hurt inflicted. There are no hinges or door knobs or anything obvious through the touch of careful fingers, so other than hopelessly banging against the door, there’s no way to open it.

All of them were still on the cusp of disoriented when they realized there’s no air flow and that, if they’re as trapped as they believe themselves to be, conserving oxygen was the next priority after a failed escape. Suggestions of being underground were thrown around, all failing to recall how they ended up in the small room in the first place or who took them. The underground theory is plausible, being that there’s no light, but the sweltering heat doesn’t match the coolness of deep earth. Being in a basement was also likely, but seeing as their prison isn’t much of a room for a house or other building also leaves the hypothesis flimsy. They compared notes from what they could remember.

“Patrol,” Tim started, a small voice in the black, “in the West portion of Gotham. I was alone though.”

“Spoiler accompanied me in the South,” Damian said.

“Last I remembered, I was in the Cave with B,” Dick chimed in. “We were going over logs. Hood?”

“Drunk,” was the muttered reply. “Still nursing a headache actually so if you guys could shut up and think, that’d be great.”

They’re still on rickety terms with the estranged brother. Things have gotten better over the years, but the progress only graduated from ‘shoot on sight’ to ‘stay the hell away’. Progress is progress though. They’re getting there, slowly, and one day Alfred will coax him into a Manor dinner.

Silence fell on them, more out of nothing else to say rather than to comply with the command, and the only sound was their breaths filtering through the stagnant air. The heat isn’t unbearable. No, far from it, they’ve all endured worse, but the closeness of their bodies provided little relief. There’s hardly enough room to stand and take a few steps before accidentally smashing someone’s hand and soon enough, agitation was brewing. Britsling words, huffs, tuts, an occasional snap; none of them did well in dark, small, and claustrophobic situations.

The hard part about residing in shadow is that one cannot tell when eyes are open or closed, seeing darkness or dreaming in black. When Jason awakes for the second time, a fierce pounding building behind his ears, he realizes that someone is missing. Someone is gone from their eight by eight confinement. A stutter of breath is absent among the shallow patterns. His fingers fumble loosely against the hard flooring, rough in texture and covered in cracks and pebbles, until he finds a body.

He shakes them. “Wake up. Wake up now.”

It’s Damian. He’s up and alert in an instant, grasping at Jason’s wrist in a move meant to harm the older man. It merely pinches him. “What’s going on?” the boy hisses, grip frightfully tight.

Jason ignores him. Feels around for another body. His hand barely moves a foot before he feels something loose and soft. He tugs at it and a startled yell answers. “What the hell?” Tim growls, low enough to be a whisper but quick enough to be panicked.

A snake of oil and water falls into his stomach as Jason confirms it. It twists around in his gut even as he crawls over to where he thinks the door is, slamming a fist into it over and over again as he feels his own panic settle coolly into his feet. They took him. Dick is gone.

That was, in their best estimate, an hour ago. Now they all sit within reaching distance, careful to watch for the signs of induced slumber, periodically calling out to reassure one another. Tim thinks it was gas. Damian thinks drugs. Jason doesn’t know what to think, just that it happened and now Nightwing is gone. He does not voice his more sinister thoughts aloud on what happened to the man in blue, what might be happening right now, but he does not console the younger vigilantes. Order would dictate that it was now his job to look after them, as the second eldest, but he’s been on his own for years and doesn’t know how to.

Dick is gone and they can only sit and wait.

~oOo~

The vapor takes him last. He’s wedged himself into a corner, straining his eyes to make out even an outline of his brothers, when he hears a body slump to the floor, followed by two after. The noise is alarming because, well, those were bodies hitting the stone floor, his brothers, and Dick prepares himself for something as he holds his breath, clasping a hand over his nose.

The door suddenly opens and white light pours into the small room like an ocean hell bent on taking everything with it. It washes over everything, and for a moment, Dick is completely blinded and overwhelmed with the sudden contrast. Just as quickly as the light burst in, there are hands scraping and clawing against his shoulders and Dick is tempted to shout, but the vapors have finally reached his lungs and he feels the lull of sleep drag at his insides until his eyes weigh a thousand pounds and he is forced to close them.

When he blinks them open, he has to bite back a scream because there’s a masked face in front of him, a ghastly brown mask with gaping holes that peer into the depths. Dick is more than a little startled but finds it within himself to evaluate. His mask is still firmly in place, he can feel the spirit gum sucking at his skin, and he is still fully garbed in his Nightwing suit. A quick glance is easy enough to prove he is no longer in that dark prison he and his brothers had been held in, and another glance confirms that he is the only one out.

His brothers are still trapped.

He, too, is trapped, secured against what feels like a metal cot with leather and metal chains and straps tying his feet and arms to the corners of the cot. The masked face moves away from him, decidedly once it's confirmed he is in fact awake, and retreats back. Dick strains to see where they go but they disappear out his peripherals and is instead replaced with the sight of an old woman, gray, almost silver, hair falling in front of her eyes. There’s bright pink lipstick on her mouth, a dull blue shimmer shade smearing her eyelids, and a coral pink blush struggling to lift up the saggy flesh in what might be an attempt at youth. She smiles down at him. Her teeth are plastic.

“Good evening, Nightwing,” she simpers, reaching out a gnarled hand to stroke at his face. “Did you sleep well?”

Dick says nothing, trying to piece together the woman’s motives. He doesn’t recognize her. She’s new. But old. Perhaps an underground leader then. The masked person from earlier would indicate some sort of dramatic cult. Dick doesn’t know if the concealment of their identity means they intend to release him later, or if the showing of the old woman’s face is a move of power, as if to say that they have the means to keep him stationary and have little fear in doing so. The woman could be anyone from a simple grandmother to an “immortal” mortal, striving for some elixir of youth like the League of Assassins. Really, this could be anything. They, whoever it was that took Dick and his brothers, were clearly very capable.

Just as Dick begins to consider the idea of magic being involved, the old woman snaps her fingers and the wooden face from earlier reappears. The blow is quick, a metal stick coming down to strike at his abdomen, and Dick has little time to brace as metal meets his thin flesh and pain lights a fire inside his stomach. He bites back a scream.

“Now, you listen here young man,” the woman berates, a shaking finger pointing accusingly at him. “When you are asked a question, you answer. Where are your manners?”

Dick is too busy catching his breath to form a coherent response, and the woman snaps her fingers again, another blow striking at his stomach again. Dick relaxes as fully as he can despite the panic that’s quickly taking hold of his limbs, and the metal collides with his side this time with bruising force against one of his kidneys. A huff of hurt escapes his mouth and Dick instinctually begins to curl up into himself, only stopped by the straps that hold him down.

“Do you understand?” the old woman asks, raising her hand threateningly as if to snap again.

“Yes,” Dick wheezes out, breathing through the pain. “Yes, I get it.”

She drops her hand, a pleased and rather pleasant smile marring her face once more. “Good. Lovely. I’m sure you have many questions, Nightwing, but I am not obliged to answer any. However, I want you to answer some questions for me. How does that sound?”

Dick isn’t sure if a head nod is enough to placate her inquiry, so he manages another verbal affirmation.

“Excellent,” the old woman crows. “I’ll begin then. Oh drat, I almost forgot. You arrived with your brothers, yes?”

Dick feels the blood in his face drain. She notices.

“Oh, not to worry!” she reassures, a wrinkled hand coming up to pat his cheek. “No harm will come to them. I would never hurt a child, Nightwing, no sir. Family is very important after all. That’s why you’re here! So, to make sure that you answer truthfully, I would like to propose a bargain.”

“Bargain?” Dick questions. His side winces, still struggling to adapt to the injuries. He’ll have to deal with it later. Later.

“Quite so,” the woman agrees. “If you answer my questions with complete honesty, and I mean that young man, I will grant a few privileges to your brothers. I don’t like shutting them away in their room, but I know otherwise they wouldn’t behave. You can help them though. Here, I’ll show you.”

A screen flickers to life above his head, a monitor illuminating the ceiling.

“If you answer my question, I will turn on one light for them,” the woman says, shakily motioning to the pitch black screen. “That is how this will work. I will tell you what privileges can be earned for your brothers, and then ask you a question. Answering truthfully is the only way to give them those rewards though. Do you understand?”

“And if I don’t?” Dick questions back, the situation finally settling into his head. Rule number something that Bruce had always instilled in him was to never bargain with your captor, especially when others were involved. Innocents.

“Then I snap my fingers,” the woman responds coldly, “and Burtrum will do his best to force the truth out of you.”

Burtrum. The hulking figure in the wooden mask. Burtrum. Okay. Okay. Not the weirdest but- okay, fine. Burtrum.

“We’ll start easy, just so you understand that I am truthful in my promises. Are you ready, Nightwing?”

He can say no. He can say no and get beaten for it, but if he says no, then there’s the chance that his brothers will suffer for it. The old woman promised not to hurt them, she said she wouldn’t hurt children, but he can’t take anything she says as absolute fact. If he says yes, that he’s willing to answer her, there’s no telling what kind of questions she might want to pry an answer for out of him. She could ask about anything: identities, the Justice League, the Titans, Batman, codes, locations, anything. And if he doesn’t answer the way she wants, he’ll get beaten for it. Tortured, more like it, and he really doesn’t want to put himself through that if he doesn’t have to.

“I don’t know how you were raised, but I don’t accept silence as an answer. You will use your words.”

Tell that to Bruce, Dick thinks ruefully, mulling over his options once again. “Fine,” he settles on, “I’m ready.”

“Splendid. Burtrum, do please fetch me a chair. My knees are brittle and it’s cold in here.”

The massive figure of Burtrum, dear lord that sounds like a name Alfred would know somehow, lumbers away and Dick, admittedly, feels a little tension ease out of him now that the immediate threat is gone. Well, the immediate physical threat.

“Now, I promised you that I would turn a light on for your brothers. I understand that children can be afraid of the dark, and it is not my intention to frighten them like this. So, tell me, Nightwing, what is your favorite color?”

“My favorite color?” he repeats back dumbly.

“Yes, indeed. Answer that and I will lighten the room. It’s not a trick question. Everyone’s got a favorite color.”

Dick can’t think of how his favorite color might be used against someone, and he certainly doesn’t use it as his own password or anything, so he says, “I like blue.”

The old woman laughs, a vibrant blue fingernail tapping against the emblem spread across his chest. “I do as well,” she titters excitedly. “Lapis is such a beautiful color, wouldn’t you agree? Such a darling, delicate shade.”

Dick doesn’t know if it’s a question he actually has to answer, it seems rhetorical, but he doesn’t want to take any chances. The fewer bruises, the better as always. “Yeah, it’s-”

“As promised,” the old woman interrupts, talking over him, “I will turn on the light. I am an honest person, Nightwing, so I hope this show of good faith will inspire you.”

Immediately, Dick’s eyes snap to the screen above him, holding his breath in anticipation as he stares into the darkness. A few seconds later and a calm yellow washes over the dark screen, the slumped figures of his brothers finally in view. It appears to be a live feed, something Dick had originally been worried about, but as he sees Jason stand up at the new lightness and Tim’s head whipping around in astonishment, Dick feels his heart sigh.

Burtrum re-enters the room, rumbling with a newer heaviness in his arms as he carries a padded wooden chair. He gently places it onto the ground and the old woman sinks into it with a gratefulness that reminds Dick that this is literally an old woman he’s dealing with. Not some crime lord, not some super villain, not some drugged out meta human. She is, quite literally, just an eighty something year old lady with a singular, large butler like henchman at her service. It all feels quite ridiculous now that he thinks about it, and for a moment, Dick wonders if he’s hallucinating or dreaming.

The smarting ache in his stomach reminds him that, no, neither of those things are true and this is truly a dangerous situation with so many unknown variables. He needs to be careful. Needs to be smart about things.

“Now that we have established my honesty, it is time to establish yours. Let’s begin, shall we?”

~oOo~

The darkness retreats suddenly and unexpectedly. Damian does not jolt, any Robin to a respectable Batman never jolts, but he will admit the sudden brightness leaves him feeling antsy. The lights meant a few things. One, someone was watching them. Two, the room was far more complex than a few bricks and an immovable door. Three, something was going to happen soon with this new development or something already did.

Todd is swearing left and right, making for the door again. Drake is peering around the room skeptically, angling his head this way and that in an attempt to understand the new light sources. And he? Damian is staring a hole into the rough ground, thinking hard. About what, he can’t quite put to words, but somehow, the light does not comfort him. It only reassures him that there was something, rather someone, crucial missing from this entire situation, the darkness having hidden that blatant fact beforehand.

The illumination does not heat the room any further than it already feels, but Damian supposes time will change that. By itself, even before the brightness, the small prison was near sweltering and Damian could feel the back of his suit becoming soaked in his own sweat. Perhaps three hours, maybe a bit more, has passed since the first time they awoke to be trapped in this confinement. Dehydration was inevitable. Escape, by all means, was still a quandary that would not be answered for the foreseeable future. There was no telling if anyone was looking for them currently, no way to communicate a location with all of their materials stripped from their persons, and being trapped inside such a tiny space with two of his least favorite people in the world only worsened that fact.

To top it all off, Richard was still gone. Still missing. Captured. Elsewhere.

The heat must be making him light headed because suddenly his neck feels too weak to support his thoughts. He rests his face in between his knees and continues to think. There is little else to do.

~oOo~

“I have a list of necessities here. Every question you answer is one of them given to your brothers. When I have run through the entire list, of which there are only three elements, I will have Burtrum deliver the items you answered to. Is that clear, Nightwing?”

It’s insane is what it is, is all Dick can think, but his voice says otherwise. “Crystal.”

“We’ll start with hygiene. How often do you patrol in Bludhaven?”

“Whenever I have time to.”

The old woman frowns and taps two fingers against the metal cot. Burtrum and his dark brown mask loom forward and Dick can feel hands rest against his ankles. Dick has the sudden realization that his boots are gone. He has nothing but thick socks and a few band-aids on his feet.

“Do not be coy, young man,” the woman carps. “Answer properly. A schedule will do.”

Will giving away specific days be too much? Yes, likely so. Though it’s true he patrols whenever he has time to, those are for extra patrols when he has the opportunity to do so with a friend or fellow vigilante. Every second month on the third Tuesday, he patrols in Gotham with Batman and Robin. On a ‘regular’ schedule, he takes every chance he can get to go out on the streets of Bludhaven. Even then, if someone watches closely enough, he does have a pattern in the how/when/where he patrols. It’s a bit too far reaching to truly connect dots, but he can’t be sure. He also had to consider that there was hygiene on the line, whatever that meant. It could be a bathroom, a shower, medical supplies, medication. It could be many things, so was he willing to pass over that for his brothers? No, not truly, but he doesn’t really know how far he can push vagueness in order to appease the lady.

He’s taking too long. The grip around his ankles is tightening and though he’s almost sure Burtrum isn’t a meta-human, he certainly looks strong enough to do some serious damage.

“I don’t have a schedule but-”

The twists are sudden, efficient and ruthless, and the sickening snap that echoes in Dick’s ears takes a moment to register. Adrenaline keeps his brain from processing the sight of both of his feet and the tops of his toes pointing straight at him, but the bulge that shines through his socks is enough to jerk his thoughts to a screeching halt. Then the pain comes. It’s blinding. Bones grinding against each other, snapped unnaturally and grating against his muscles, creating a euphoria of fire and cold, cold ice that spreads to the very tips of his toenails. On instinct, he flails and immediately, immensely, regrets it as tears spring into his eyes and his lips contort in a half snarl, half gag of anguish.

“Your brothers have lost toilet privileges,” the old woman mutters unkindly, dull eyes unfeeling for his pain, “and Burtrum has done exactly as I warned. You are a selfish man, Nightwing. Selfish and unwise. I pray this has been a lesson for you on the consequences of being dishonest.”

Dick can hardly hear her over the roar of blood in his ears, heart beating faster and faster as the pain only continues to torment him. It’s crazy, he knows he can’t actually feel the bones touching one another, it’s not something he’s aware of on a daily basis, but right now it feels like his bones are singing and his nerves are their opera house. A raging cacophony of violence and crackling misery. He sucks in a breath. Slowly pushes it out. Repeats. In. Out. In. Out.

“Let’s try again. Water, three twelve ounce bottles. Do you work with the BPD often?”

Even in his agony induced haze, Dick understands that this is something he must answer. Water is important, essential, and he doesn’t know how much longer they’ll be captured here. The offer of water is much too tempting to pass up and he knows that the room the others are cornered in is already hot. Dehydration would take hold of them soon and he only has the flimsy word of his captor that his brothers will not be harmed. He has to have some trust that the bottles of water will remain un-tampered with.

“No,” he manages, words thick like sludge on his tongue, “not officially. Sometimes, I’ll help them with drug factions or serial killers.” Dick closes his eyes and breathes deeply again. Speaking is difficult when he wants to bite through his lip to distract himself from his broken bones. “I don’t have a working relationship like Batman does with the GCPD.”

The old woman hums, clapping her hands together. “I am happy you’ve come to your senses. Your honesty has earned your brothers some water.”

She reaches out to brush some of the sweat slicked strands of hair from his face, cooing in an odd motherly way. He hates the tenderness in her touch, as if she hadn’t just ordered someone to break his ankles. This woman wasn’t just dangerous, she was psychotic. Unpredictable. To further worsen a bad situation, he still can’t figure out what the purpose in all of this was. What the ultimate goal is. She seems interested in him, Nightwing, rather than his secret identity. She’s neglected to pry about Batman, of which all villains do when they’ve got a bird in their grasps, and the soothing motions of her hands juxtapose her violence.

Dick’s head is spinning from it all, the fire licking at his feet worsening the vertigo. He doesn’t understand anything at all and the circulation in his legs is thrumming in the worst way. His feet will turn blue soon, but before that, the flesh will balloon into something almost unrecognizable with the swelling that is sure to come. How long does it take for ankles to heal? Two months? Three? That’s ignoring physical therapy and if all goes according to plan. The breaks look bad, not exactly clean, and Dick is scaring himself with the possibility of never walking properly again.

“Let’s proceed with the final item on the necessities list. Three granola bars, all high in calorie. A real treat with chocolate chips, ho ho. I know children just love sweet things.”

He’s tempted to drown her out, just focus solely on the monitor still hanging over his head and watch his brothers, but once again he evaluates that food is indeed essential too and that he still doesn’t know when rescue or escape will be. His best estimate on timing is that they’ve been captured for the better part of four, maybe five hours. Possibly more. They’re nearing the timing in which someone will notice all four of them gone. Help will come soon, but he’s got to compensate for that large if in all of this. If help arrives. If they escape. Those snacks could end up being a saving grace depending on all of those ifs.

“What do you know about the Anaconda Killer?”

The moniker is familiar. An early 2000s serial killer in Bludhaven that strangled his victims after kidnapping and holding them for a week. Most of his victims were young girls, high-schoolers and undergraduates in college, and all were blonde with blue eyes. The killer was never caught and it haunts the BPD as their first major cold case, a total of seven known victims staining the profiles.

He tells her as much, paraphrasing, and she frowns. For a moment, Dick fears that he wasn’t specific enough despite his little knowledge on the subject. His eyes dart to Burtrum, still stationary at his feet and mask staring at nothing and everything, and Dick waits for confirmation as the old woman closes her eyes.

“You worked on the case?” she asks slowly, hands crawling up to rest lightly against the metal cot. “You know of the victims?”

“Yes,” he answers, careful to keep his tone steady. A jolt of doubt strikes through him though as the old woman’s eyes snap open, a feverish excitement taking hold of her.

“Oh that’s good,” she whispers. “Very, very good.”

~oOo~

They pass out for the third time.

Knocked out is probably the more correct term, but Tim can’t find it within himself to actually care because that was the third fucking time. He can’t figure out how they do it. He’s almost completely sure it’s some sort of gas agent that leaks in through the bricks, but he can’t find any gaps or seams where the gas would invade from. He’s looked, double checked, and he can’t find any discrepancies between the bricks and stones. It’s driving him crazy because if it’s that easy to take them out, why hasn’t anything been done to them yet?

And furthermore, why leave water and food in its place?

He’s holding one of the bottled waters in his hands, inspecting the seal to make absolutely certain it hasn’t been opened. Tim knows there are other ways to tamper with water other than actually unscrewing the cap, but honestly he feels a little desperate for a bit of relief for his thirst. He’s sweat through his uniform, having unclasped his cape about an hour into their confinement. He’s sure his face is a little clammy looking and breathing through his nose feels like he’s sucking in sand, so the water was like some sort of hallucination when he first saw it. The others weren’t sure what to make of it at first either, Damian suspicious that it was poisoned and Jason not really giving a fuck.

Tim’s thirst is winning over his skepticism though, the more he turns the bottle around in his hands, the more appealing the slosh of water looks. “They wouldn’t give this to us just to poison us,” he suggests, trying to reason his way into feeling less guilty about drinking. “It just wouldn’t make sense. Why give us drugged food and water when they’ve already shown they can do that with the air? It would be-”

“Holy shit, just shut up and drink it,” Jason mutters, uncapping his own bottle and taking a large swig. Both of the younger boys turn to him with large eyes, clearly watching to see if there are any immediate, negative side effects. Jason will admit he’s a little nervous to find out as well but his defiance on the subject merely just makes him take another sip.

Ten minutes go by and Tim’s tongue is feeling tacky and borderline dry. He gives in and drinks half of the bottle, swishing the lukewarm water around in his mouth. It’s a huge relief.

“Imbeciles,” Damian says, watching with ill-concealed fascination and disgust. “You are both foolish to accept that from the enemy.”

“Maybe,” Jason tosses back, lying down. His feet almost touch the other side. “Or maybe not. It could be from Nightwing.”

Damian's head snaps up. “What do you mean by that?”

Jason hums. “Well he was taken, what, a few hours ago?”

“Four.”

“Yeah? Huh, no shit. Either way, that leaves time for negotiations. A deal. Goldie just loves making deals.”

“You’re implying that Nightwing is speaking with the enemy about our treatment?” Damian says slowly.

“Speaking, screaming, dying, who knows. But sure. He’s talking to them about our treatment.”

Tim throws a small glare to Jason’s slouched form, irritated that he’s being so casual in such a potentially dangerous situation. A small part is also starting to get more worried though because the older man does make a point. Dick is probably speaking with their captors but it’s a far reach to say it’s voluntary. There’s about a seventy-three percent chance Dick is being tortured at the moment, tortured for information or otherwise. In terms of stubbornness and resistance to torture, Dick was only second to Bruce when it came to that sort of thing, be it threat of pain or mental anguish. His eldest brother has a hard head and an even tougher mindset, but his weak spot is his heart.

If Tim and the others were being used as bargaining chips, well, there wasn’t much Dick wouldn’t agree to. Suddenly, the bottle of water doesn’t feel so much like relief as it does guilt.

~oOo~

“We’re moving on from necessities,” the old woman proclaims, anticipation now tainting her voice. “I have no intention of keeping you and your brothers here forever; children should be allowed to frolic and such. So, Nightwing, this is your chance to earn them their freedom.”

He’s never been offered something like this before. Typically, the go-to style of his torturers always involved a threat of ‘You tell me what I wanna know and I won’t kill you and your loved ones,’ or ‘You’ll eventually talk if I keep you here long enough,’. Dick can’t remember a time where he’s been offered his freedom in exchange for information. It’s just not how these things work.

“I am willing to give your brothers their supplies back as a first exchange, excluding their weapons of course. Such a prize, however, can only be earned through truth and if you lie, I will know and your punishment for lying will be severe. I do not like hurting you, you know,” the woman simpers, “but I will order Burtrum to do so. This is very important to me. Do you understand?”

The stakes are climbing higher and higher with each minute that ticks by. Dick can’t really feel his feet much, only if he chooses to think about it or if he attempts to move anything below the knee, and the pulsating in his stomach isn’t a fantastic sign. He hadn’t originally thought the blows were enough to cause actual harm, maybe a few dark, dark bruises to show for them, but the sharp pin pricks in his side where he had been struck in the kidney doesn’t feel right. Internal bleeding is something that crosses his mind, the symptoms of numbness and a faint migraine building, but Dick forces himself to categorize and shelve the pain. Now isn’t the time. It’s really not the time.

“Yes,” he says stiffly, feeling his tongue scrape against the roof of his mouth. “I understand.”

“Splendid. Who is the Anaconda Killer?”

And wow, that’s a loaded question to start off the promise of liberty with. “The BPD never caught-”

“I don’t care,” the woman snaps, leaning forward. Her breath smells like old soup. “Tell me who the killer is.”

Dick swallows. Takes a breath and releases it. Eyes Burtrum, who is still hovering by his feet. Trails his eyes back to bright lipstick and shimmer eye shadow.

“Kennedy Giavich,” Dick says, unsure if he really should be giving out the name of a civilian that has never been charged. “My investigations pointed to him being the killer but there wasn’t any conclusive evidence.”

The old woman taps a fingernail against the cot and Burtrum moves forward, placing a single meaty hand on top of Dick’s mangled feet. Slowly, languidly, the man pushes against the soles of his feet and Dick sucks in a quick breath, screwing his eyes shut. The pain, like the first time, is laced with fire and ice and Dick is starting to come to terms with the fact that he’s going to have nerve damage if this keeps up. Never mind having to stay off his feet for a couple months, he’s never going to have proper feeling in his toes again.

“Who is Kennedy Giavich?” the old woman presses, leering further into Dick’s face.

In. Out. In. Out.

The woman taps her finger again and the pressure releases, the small scream Dick had been holding back dissipating as well. “Who is Kennedy?” she repeats.

“H-He’s a security guard,” Dick manages to wheeze out, still trying to catch his breath. “Works at a communal library. It’s where he sought out his victims. He, mgh, quit last year though. Brown hair, brown eyes, large build.”

“What else?”

“I tailed him for a couple months but he didn’t have any new victims. He lives near the library he worked at and hasn’t gotten another job since. That’s all I know.”

The old woman eyes him, pressing her lips together in what might be a scowl. She regards Dick with an air of suspicion, as if she could somehow read his mind to discern if he was telling the truth or not. He is, seeing as he really hasn’t done much follow up on Giavich in the past few months. A mistake, possibly, on his part but a cold case is cold, and Dick leaves it at that. Especially when there are more active and pressing things to attend to with the little time he has.

Reaching a decision, she raises a wrinkled hand and waves it behind her, signaling Burtrum to leave the room. Dick’s eyes travel upwards to the screen again, watching with a sick feeling in his stomach as one by one his brothers succumb to whatever invisible agent leaks into their small room. A minute later, the thick wooden door creaks open slightly, Burtrum out of sight of the ceiling camera, and a few utility belts are thrown in. The door shuts quickly, presumably some sort of locking mechanism closing it completely, and Dick abruptly doesn’t feel as bad giving away a supposedly innocent civilian’s name. Hopefully, with their tech back, his brothers will find away to escape and get out of whatever hole they’ve been trapped in.

“You said that he hasn’t taken any victims in recent times,” the old woman says quietly, hands folded into her lap. “That he’s been inactive?”

Dick nods. The sick in his stomach is starting to roll around a bit more violently, nausea taking hold. Burtrum re-enters the room holding something in his left hand, but Dick can’t tell what it is, the large figure just out of his peripheral vision. He swallows at the silence that follows his entrance, the air thick with tension. Dick holds his breath.

The old woman snaps her fingers and Burtrum descends upon him.

The blows are rapid and without prejudice, slamming into every available surface that isn’t obstructed by the straps that hold him down. It’s so fast, so savage, that Dick can’t follow the movements and prepare accordingly, the flash of a weapon and it’s strike zone too much for his pain muddled mind to physically follow. One barely glances against his feet but even that is enough to send his brain into a shock, white fire lacing up his legs and to the tip of his nose. It’s bruising, crushing force, each impact enough to completely paralyze him for a few precious milliseconds. His arms are jerking in their restraints, knees bumping against each other on reflex, and there might be a sound escaping his jaw each time a blow connects, but he can’t be sure because everything is happening much too fast and his lungs are gasping for air that escapes him.

All the while, as Burtrum continues to pummel him and break his bones and bleed him dry, the old woman is muttering, gazing at the beat-down with angered, uninterested eyes and a frown cold enough to freeze the sun.

It’s all Dick can do but try and relax, there’s no point in defending himself like this, but his instincts are going hay-wire. He wants to clench and retaliate, snatch the weapon out of those ruthless hands, but Dick’s own hands are secured tightly. He can feel the marks pulling at the skin of his wrists, indenting and leaving bright red and raw flesh behind in his frenzy. Desperately, his eyes once again travel to the screen above him, his brothers’ forms still and un-moving. The sight brings little comfort, a small and irrational portion of his head screaming that they’re dead, that the old woman killed them, that Dick killed them, that he’s going to die to-

The beating stops. The old woman has a frail hand resting against Burtrum’s huge arm. She’s staring right at him.

“That was unfair of me,” she says. “I should have warned you again.”

Blood dribbles past his lips, saliva and bile sliding out as well and leaking onto the cool metal.

“I told you at the start that I wouldn’t tolerate lies.”

Something shifts inside Dick’s chest. He thinks a rib might’ve been broken. Or maybe that’s his clavicle. Sternum. Something. It hurts. It hurts.

“That Burtrum would extract the truth if necessary. Really this shouldn’t have come as a surprise, Nightwing.”

Breathing is difficult. His stomach spasms with each inhale and exhale. It’s slow and pained. Thoughts are difficult too. His eyes remain fixed on the dull monitor. Jason is moving. Reaching for his empty holsters. Tim is shifting. Damian remains still.

A gentle hand guides his chin away from the screen.

“Don’t lie to me,” the old woman whispers. There are tears in her eyes. “I told you that this was very important to me. Would you like to know why? Why I do this?”

Dick doesn’t have the strength to say yes or no. Doesn’t have the will to nod his head or turn it away. He can only stare through the lens of his mask.

“He has my grand-daughter,” she admits, voice trembling. Her fingers tap a frantic rhythm against his chin and blood flicks in their dance across his face. “I just know it. And I know you must know it too. You live in Bludhaven, don’t you? You work with the police there. Surely you must know? You’ve told me as much, so surely… Surely you know where she is?”

No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t.

The tapping stops and fingernails dig into the sides of his jaw, shaking him. It jars something in his mouth and he coughs, spittle flying out and something hard dislodging. He’s lost a tooth then it would seem.

“Her name is Maria Dunken,” the old woman tells him, looking, searching, for anything like recognition in Dick’s bloody face. “She has blonde hair and blue eyes. She’s only sixteen. Please, you must know what he did to her. Where she is. Answer me! Tell me!”

Dick feels himself drifting, mind floating somewhere between coherence and dizziness. He can’t feel his feet anymore, his heart is beating beating beating, and there’s a dark fuzz building at the edges of his vision.

The old woman releases his face, pulling instead at the heavy arm of Burtrum. “This,” she says almost breathless, the panic building in her voice, “This is her uncle. Don’t you see? You must, you must know where she is. We are her family. Family is important, I know you understand this. See, look at your brothers! You do this for them, don’t you?”

Yes, Dick thinks, a mist falling over his sight. Always.

“I, we both, would do anything for our families. This was my last hope, Nightwing. My last resort. I tried so hard to get the police involved but no one would answer. Do you know how long I searched for you though? How long would you have ignored my grand-daughter if I had not brought you here? How long?”

Dick doesn’t know. The room is getting darker. He can feel his shoulders sagging against the cold table, muscles trembling and collapsing.

“Sorry,” he rasps, because that sounds like the right thing to say. He is sorry about Maria Dunken and her poor grandma. He is sorry he didn’t stick with Kennedy Giavich longer. He is sorry he ever got into this situation. He’s paying the price for it now.

The old woman laughs wetly, Burtrum jerking in her grasp. “All will be forgiven if you tell me where Maria is. Everything will be okay. Just tell me. Please.”

Dick’s eyes are drifting back to the monitor, it’s dull glow all he can focus on. Its bright edges are just enough to chase away the luring darkness that’s clouding his eyesight. Jason is up, pacing, pounding against the door. Tim is picking through his belt, nimble fingers taking stock. Damian is staring right at him. Straight at the camera. Dick feels a smile tugging at his sore features. He doesn’t remember the last time Damian ever looked so small. He’s grown up, hasn’t he?

“Nightwing?” a voice calls to him, distracting him. ��Where is she?”

Slowly, Dick glances back over to the petite and frail woman and her hulking figure of a son. They make a funny picture, contrasting spectacularly against each other, but their faces, even if one is covered, are filled with a dangerous kind of hope. Thrill. Expectance.

Suddenly, a headline crosses to the forefront of Dick’s mind. Two weeks ago, a body was found in an alleyway, stuffed underneath piles of garbage. It was a young girl, a Jane Doe, and she had blonde hair and blue eyes. She was strangled to death. Even now, the details are barely there, the news a similar story to all the other tragedies that happen and continue to happen. But still. Grandmother and son look at him, his bruised and broken body, and think he has the answers they seek.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t.

“She’s dead.”

Dick blinks and finds he doesn’t have the strength to open his eyes again.

~oOo~

Jason is about to punch the door for the fifth time when he hears something click on the other side.

Tim is trying to figure out how to get his communicator to work with little reception when he sees Jason take a step back from the door.

Damian is still staring at the weird indent in the ceiling when he realizes neither of the other occupants are moving.

They all stare at the heavy door as Jason carefully edges towards it, pressing a hand against the far side. There is little resistance and the obstruction that had trapped them for so long swings open. White light pours in and they have to squint against its brilliance. An empty hall reveals itself past the frame, and through the hall is another open door, the sounds of the city filtering beyond it.

Jason is the first to move, taking a step out of the small room that smelled of sweat and old heat. Tim follows, gathering his emptied belt and peering into the white expanse. Damian trails after, suspicion the only thing keeping him from fleeing out into the streets. No one stops them as they walk down the long, clean hallway. There are no doors, no windows, no other exits other than straight ahead and when they step out into the damp and smog filled air of Gotham, life dances before them.

They are free.

They are free and are forced to wonder: At what cost?

#bad things happen bingo #tw:blood #tw:torture #Dick Grayson #Jason Todd #Damian Wayne #Tim Drake #fanfic #prompt #tbh i wrote another version of this with about 10 pages before i decided i did not like it #maybe one day i'll try re-writing it but for now it's just going to be some random draft #uh i don't think dick died in this story? it's an open ending i suppose #so you can make up whatever ending you want #dick grayson whump #angst #in the good ending the boys find dick and take him home and he makes a full recovery with a thousand hugs and some nice hot chocolate #in the bad ending the boys dont find dick and he just kinda lays there and succumbs to his injuries #yikes that'd be real sad wouldn't it?#dick staring down at his broken body: haha don't die you're so sexy #dick looking at his feet: haha don't become lame and lose all feeling haha you're too sexy for that

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canonicallysoulmates · 4 years ago

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🎃Halloween themed wincest fic rec🎃

This fic rec is, primarily, Halloween themed but you’ll also find some horror as well as just in general autumn themed fics all to, hopefully, get y’all in the spirit of the spooky season!

There’s all sorts of ratings, some weecest, a non-related Hocus Pocus AU, hopefully you’ll find something to your liking among all of these fics.

As always please head all warnings and tags as some of these fics do contain graphic and heavy topics.

Happy reading, and Happy Halloween my fellow wincest shippers! 🎃

🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃

Halloween

Eight-Legged Freaks. by anniespinkhouse

Sam/Dean (Wincest) Outsider POV. Takes place early in season 8 but no particular spoilers except for Sam’s hair. Biddy owns a candy store. She also talks to spiders. When FBI agents Sam Smith and Dean Jones investigate a possible haunting, on Halloween evening, the consequence of Dean eating too much candy is disturbing. It’s a race against time for Sam to find a way to return Dean to normal.

The Rocky Horror Sam Show by RockSaltandCherryPie *

Sam goes to a Halloween party and dresses up like Frank N. Furter but ends up looking more like a girl than anything else.

the one that lives behind his heart by Addie_D_123 *

Dean is the spark, Sam is the fire.

The Witch's Dance by brimstonegold and virtualpersonal *

It's either coincidence, or irony, but Sam and Dean find themselves hunting for a witch at The Witch's Dance, a party being given at the local haunted mansion on Halloween. What they find is not the kind of dance they expected.

hell is empty; all the little brothers are here by bellaaanovak

Dean just wants to make the rundown house they’re squatting in look cool for Halloween, but Sam isn’t so excited about strangers in corny costumes knocking on the door for candy. Not when there’s a gang of ghouls wreaking havoc in the neighborhood, anyways.

Greaspaint and Fairy Dust by Syls Darkplace (sylsdarkplace)

It’s Halloween. Sam’s least favorite holiday, and what should be the investigation of a simple salt and burn goes awry when Dean gets caught with his hand in the candy cauldron.

Here is where you’ll stay by belyste

Sam, Dean, and haunted hayride. Halloween!fic.

A Winchester Halloween by ello_kitty *

A short story about how the brothers spend the holiday.

Triple XY Or The Hunter, His Bitch And Their Offspring by mpregloveranon

This is the answer to this Halloween!Prompt over at the spnkink_meme. Without reveal to much already I’ll just keep the summary really short. After being cursed Sam is knocked up by his brother. On Halloween he is heavily pregnant with triplets and completely miserable. Dean feels sorry for his baby brother, especially because he pissed the witch off who cursed Sam, and takes good care of him. Throw in raging hormones, some schmoop, some angst and cute little kids and you’ll get the idea what this fic is about. ;)

Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) by Ignited *

It’s Halloween, and the locals aren’t clued in to the fact that those things going bump in the night are much more than fabric and latex. Sam and Dean learn this fact the hard way as the clock winds down and a town’s about to be overrun by monsters.

The Witches of Salem by Revenant

There's a legend in Salem, of three sisters accused and hung for the crime of witchcraft, but not before they had killed several of the local children and placed another under a terrible curse. It is said that on Hallowe'en night, when the moon is full, the witches will rise again when a virgin lights the Black Flame Candle.

A little over three hundred years later, Sam Winchester is passing through town trying out his newly awarded independence on what he suspects will be a simple salt-and-burn; why can’t things ever go like he plans?

Why not stay and be caught? by deirdre_c *

Sam wishes to go to The Palace.

Pretty Princess by orphan_account *

Sam is excited to go to a Halloween Party… And then his first heat hits.

Take a Good Look by BewareTheIdes15 *

Sam, Dean, and a haunted house with a mirror maze - sounds like pwp to me!

Kids These Days by Magz (sparklepocalypse) *

Halloween parties are never simple when there are Winchesters involved.

Thy Back to the Forest (and Thy Front to Us) by PetraPan *

For the last three years in Stillwater, Oklahoma, children have disappeared—always five young girls, always on consecutive days, and always during the week of Halloween. By the day the Winchester's pull into town, Sam is enrolled for school, he’s stuck once more on research duty, and Dean already has a date. Sam juggles his new schoolwork, the case, and the ever-growing bitterness at the desire he feels for Dean as best as he can, but at some point he can no longer manage all three. With their father constantly absent and a nasty time constraint, Sam and Dean struggle to figure out who—or what—is taking young girls, just as they struggle to find the balance between brothers and something more.

Sugar Sweet by fallingintodivinity

“What’s all this stuff?” Sam asks warily. He gingerly picks up a bottle of red fluid and squints at it.

“Fake blood!” Dean says cheerfully. “It’s cherry-flavored,” he adds helpfully.

“But why,” Sam says, bewildered.

“Dunno,” Dean says. “It was on sale. Tastes pretty good, actually. Here, lemme show you.”

Halloween by EasyTiga *

Sam and Dean go to a Halloween party for a case and at least one of them can't keep their mind on the mission because of the outfit choice.

Hush Little Baby by hellhoundsprey *

Together with his friends, Sam visits a haunted house. It's Halloween. (Sam is 16, Dean is 20.)

Halloween and High Schoolers by onesillygoose *

I'm realizing how bad my summaries are. Anyway... Sam gets invited to a Halloween party. Dean tags along. Things never go as they should for the Winchesters.

Pumpkin Patch by KissingWinchesters

It's Halloween and Dean decides to steal a giant pumpkin.

VII - One candy left by KissingWinchesters

There’s a piece of melting, sticky caramel pressed into the centre of Sam’s back.

Candy, Pumpkin Spice, And Orgasms by KissingWinchesters

Dean takes Sam to a quaint town on Halloween. Their relationship develops.

He Never Saw the Look by orphan_account

Sam's got a secret. He's in love with his big brother. Little does he know, Dean shares the same dirty little secret.

Pretty Little Thing by Miss_Lv *

Teenager Dean goes to a Halloween party for some fun, he spots a pretty little thing and chases her all evening, flirting, and eventually cornering her. Once his got his hands on her though he realizes she is actually a he, but he's fine with that. Sam snuck out after Dean just because he could, he picked a costume he knew Dean would never recognize him in. After spending the evening being chased by his brother Sam ends up in a semi public place with Dean all over him. Sam's stupid crush on his own brother is not helping matters either.

this way comes by estrella30 *

Written for spn_halloween based on prompt #127: Sam goes to a Halloween party his first year at Stanford and gets dragged off by a guy in a mask who makes out with him. He discovers it's Dean, and the making-out continues with a vengeance.

🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃

Horror

Diamond Dogs by kassidy *

Prompt: Supernatural, Sam/Dean, werewolfism - one turns and takes the other down (interpret as you will) for dark_fest LJ comm

A Silent, Creeping Killer by lily rose (annabeth) *

Not long after Dean picks Sam up from Stanford, Sam and Dean go undercover as an engaged couple to investigate the murder of a lesbian hockey player in small-town Connecticut. Along the way, they meet dedicated lovers, frightening ghosts, and the possibility that their ruse might be becoming all too real. How will they handle their changing feelings for each other? Who will protect the lovers and tenants of the Windsor boarding house? And what does all this have to do with the play 'Arsenic and Old Lace'?

darling by allwellandgood

Dean is dead. Sam has a theory that nothing will ever hurt again.

I Wonder as I Wander by dollylux

Bobby sends Sam and Dean to investigate a strange town.

Let Me Take You Far Away by orphan_account *

Season 10. It's exactly what they need. A vacation. That's how Dean can make everything else go away. Cas was right. That's all they need. A nice, little vacation.

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Fall/Autumn themed

Death of the Petals by doctor__idiot

Dean has always thought that fall held some sort of magic.

Where You Are [Is Where I Belong] by non_tiembo_mala

Sam is stuck in class on a beautiful fall day. His mind wanders and it always ends up on Dean.

Hazy Hunter's Moon by GhostlyVoid *

Sam saves a hunter who got attacked by a werewolf, knowing exactly what trouble he's inviting into his home. The hunter, Dean, is predictably less than thrilled owing his life to a witch.

Delicious Autumn by sammichgirl

Dean just wants to give Sam a great day full of some favorite things.

Autumn Leaves by dragonspell *

In the weak light of early morning, the autumn leaves are starting to paint the woods in reds and golds and a burning orange. On some level or another, Dean knows that it’s beautiful; he does. He's just got to find Sam first.

#wincest #wincest fic rec #mine #this was supposed to be up on monday but life hapened #so...it's still halloween in places it's fine #this is probably the longest fic rec i've done

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