#key service

[noisilyoptimisticrunaway-blog]

Locksmiths Peoria

(623) 738-6613

9830 W Northern Ave #1740, Peoria, AZ, 85345 http://locksmithspeoria.com

At Locksmiths Peoria AZ, we are here to serve all of your auto, residential, and commercial lock and key needs. Providing you with one of our trained and highly professional locksmiths, you will receive the up most advanced lock solutions for all your needs right at your location. Help will be there in only minutes when you give our dedicated mobile locksmith service a call.

SPECIAL OFFER

15% off Change Locks

$20 off Rekeying Services

30% off Second Ignition Key

Hours Operation

Store:08:00 Am/ 11:00 Pm All Days - Mobile Service 24/7

[morganbritton132]

Eddie’s live-streaming from bed because he was cursed by god to never sleep and he has strong opinions about things. He stops abruptly when an arm cuts in front of his face. Steve gets closer to him, blinking in that way when you’re only kinda awake. He clumsily opens the drawer in Eddie’s nightstand and curls his hand around his car keys.

Eddie grabs Steve’s hand when he retracts it: What’s up?

Steve, talking in his sleep: I gotta go…. To the bar.

Eddie: For a drink?

Steve: Forgot Oz.

Eddie, snorts in an attempt not to laugh:

Steve, frowning: Not funny….He doesn’t have any money. He can’t get Uber.

Steve: They’re gonna make him wash dishes.

Eddie:

Steve: He doesn’t have thumbs.

Eddie, pushing down the urge to laugh in his face: Alright, Stevie. why don’t I go get him? That sound good? You go back to bed.

Steve:

Steve: Kay.

Ozzy, at the bottom of the bed: ?

[leoppipi]

Tsukikage when fans ask them to make a heart

[disabled-dean]

Changing channels 2.0 but Gabriel makes Cas the Bachelor and Dean is the P.A. having an excruciating awakening of homosexual lust

[balu8]

Kiki's Delivery Service 

directed by Hayao Miyazaki

Concept art

Studio Ghibli 1989

[restingcorpse]

[manjikarame]

🚷🩸⛓

[notbecauseofvictories]

I know my experience is not universal, but I biked 5+ miles to do my errands today and I genuinely think we'd be much happier as a human collective if we increased residential density and switched to largely alternative modes of transportation.

[hubbman2]

commission for @calypsolemon eons ago,,

[daydreamerwonderkid]

Dick being a sex symbol isn't an issue for me.

It's the extreme mischaracterization that happens when DC hypersexualizes him that bothers me.

[zylphiacrowley]

Hahahahaaaa.... and what if I reworked the design to fit postcard dimensions and designed a back side? What then?

[fayeandknight]

More find the keys practice.

[marzipanandminutiae]

sometimes I think "I should wait until I have a more permanent living situation before acquiring any big or hard-to-move furniture/household items"

and then I go buy a 26-pound late Victorian mantle clock because life is short and we deserve beauty Now

[danneroni]

Save a life: bring NARCAN! ⛑️🕊️

[lovesickeros]

☆ i dream of embers

{☆} characters arlecchino {☆} notes no au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings none {☆} word count 1.1k

The House of the Hearth is quiet — or, if you really wanted to be precise, the rats scuttling through the walls are working around the bubble you exist in. The children dare not tempt fates hand unless you asked for them by name, a contradiction. An order to the rules — they mustn't approach you with trivialities, but they must listen if you speak. Your words carry more weight than gold in this house, whether you know it or not.

A tenuous position.

You haven't done anything to earn their reverence, their almost acrid fear — but Arlecchino has. She wields her silver tongue with as much ease as her polearm, ensuring your care in her absence. Her devotion, her service, is felt in the warmth of her chambers, the silks she adorns you with, the bed so soft you feel as though you melt into it. A gift, a promise — a gilded cage need not be something undesirable.

You've grown used to the encumbrance of her presence, these days. The deep timbre of her voice, honeyed yet melting into something rougher, quieting into haunting silence as if she seeks not to disturb you. Dim candlelight is all that illuminates her broad frame as she slowly presses the door open and closed behind her, pallid skin streaked with darkening red, her bottom lip smeared with it like lipstick. There is a tension to her shoulders even when she sets aside her polearm, out of sight and out of mind, harsh lines on her face visible in the deep furrow of her thin brows.

Here, she let's the weariness settle deep into her bones — it's just the two of you, even if she hasn't acknowledged you at all. Still, it's a vulnerability she shows no other, even if that vulnerability is hidden behind layers of barbed wire and teeth.

You watch rather idly from the bed as she wets a cloth in a basin of water, the bed creaking beneath you as your feet sink into the plush rug beneath. You know from experience that trying to help her is like trying to soothe a wild dog, but your knuckles brush over the sharp line of her cheek anyway, free hand stealing the soaking cloth from her hands when her jaw flexes and tenses beneath the pads of your fingers.

It is only then that she looks down at you, eyes as sharp as blades yet so indescribably warm — like a flame licking at your skin, burning so deep you feel it linger for weeks after. Arlecchino is not soft, far from it — but she blunts her jagged edges for you anyway, brushes her lips against your knuckles and allows you a moment of adoration. Carves her worship bone deep in the ghost of her touch against your lower back as she leans down, let's you wash away the blood certainly not her own, never blinking as if you'd simply up and leave if she stopped looking at you for even the smallest moment.

You are well aware she is caging you in. You let her.

Though she is still stiff as a board up to the moment you set the washcloth over the side of the basin, her jaw flexing again, a moment of consideration given. She is not used to soft and brittle things, though — not used to touch that does not lead to steel at her throat, in her gut, carving out softness like a butcher carves up meat, section by section.

But this affliction of affection is stronger than the discomfort, at times.

You almost half consider letting her take the room and have a night of proper rest, but she is faster than you — a calloused hand tilts your head back, half lidded eyes glinting beneath the weight of exhaustion, her thumb firm against your bottom lip. She could kill you without even blinking, you are aware, but she is nothing but careful with her touch — not soft, not Arlecchino, but there is adoration in her touch. Like thumbing a locket portrait, trying to imprint their features into memory by touch alone.

Her touch is fleeting, but the warmth lingers long after — you don't need to be touching to feel the weight of her attention. She stokes the flames of the dying fire, has one of the children bring a fresh pot of tea, lingers even when she doesn't have to. You're sure her desk in her office is far more comfortable to work at, but she'd crammed a small desk into the room anyway, stayed even long after you fell asleep most nights. You never did get to stay up long enough to notice her slip in beside you, nor wake up early enough to find her there with you, but the heat lingers — she leaves breakfast at your bedside table, a small note of affection if she's feeling particularly sappy. Even when you don't see her, she makes sure you feel her presence however she can.

Neither of you need to speak to express it. The silence is..oddly comfortable, filled by the shift of paper or scratch of a pen, the clink of a cup or crackle of fire. It's a little too easy to get lost in watching her work, masking a smile whenever she glanced back at you with a question on the tip of her tongue that goes unsaid.

It's better that way, you both think. The silence was best left undisturbed — as if trying to break it would be like breaking the mirror to each others lives. You don't busy yourself in the affairs of the House of the Hearth, and she doesn't make you. It's better that way, too. Maybe that makes you naive, blind even, to the bodies at her feet piled so high she could drown, but you don't want to give up this fragile tranquility.

So you let the dull scratch of a pen lull you to sleep, try not to smile too much when a hand reaches out in uncertainty to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your cheek with so much affection it makes it hard to breathe.

It's a tenuous balance, but come the next night you will wipe the blood from her cheek again and she will care for you the only way she knows how — distant service.

And when you wake up to an empty bed, warm despite the fires long burned out, you'll still feel her presence in the allure of a warm drink and pastries at your bedside, a note tucked beneath the plate.

Just like the day before, and just as you expect tomorrow to be. But one day you'll gently pull apart the barbed wire and be let in — not today, no, but someday. It's a slow process, but you're patient enough to wait — and when she let's you in, you'll tend to the scars that it left like you've always done.

One step at a time, one day.

[glittergoats]

And mother looks away—

father looks away—

for a second.