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[hometoursandotherstuff]

Who doesn't love a perfectly preserved time capsule? This 1968 beauty in Rockford, IL is like stepping back in time. 4bds, 4ba, $450K.

The small entrance has tiled flooring to protect the carpet that runs all through the house.

Why is it always green? This was a dramatic home when it was new- stone fireplace, sunken living room, and wrought iron railings were the height of fashion.

The living area is huge. Note the large stone bench matching the fireplace and the cornice boards that discreetly hide the unsightly curtain rods.

The fireplace stone continues and has a huge mirror. In the corner is shelving and 2 steps up to the dining room.

The dining room has dated curtains that the buyer will inherit. I love the kitty-corner table. That was a common placement in mid-century style.

Next comes the kitchen. Actually, they must've updated it b/c I don't think that 2-tone cabinets were a thing yet. But, the ditzy, small, busy print of the wallpaper with matching shades was definitely the style. Note the original avocado dishwasher and dust shelving above the upper cabinetry, that was later replaced by soffits.

Wait a minute, I'm seeing props here- there's a new dishwasher and new ovens, but they kept the old avocado ones. I wonder if they work or, if it's just nostalgia. There are also 2 cooktops. Wow, they really preserved everything.

Look at the green glass.

Large laundry room off the kitchen.

Oh, look, an avocado washer/dryer set. This is amazing. And, look at the old sink. I hope someone who loves it, buys it, b/c it was so lovingly cared for.

Nice large everyday dining area has a pony wall separating the family room. So much green everywhere. I wonder if this set came that way or if they painted it.

Another stone fireplace flanked by shelving. Knotty pine walls, and folding shutter doors- all fashions of the past. I can't believe that they have the Colonial furniture that was so popular at the time. Even though it was all the rage, you don't see it around anymore. According to the listing, there is going to be an estate sale, so this furniture will be available.

The primary bedroom is pretty big. Geez, there's carpeting everywhere and some of it is looking gnarly.

It has an en-suite, which is unusual. Look at that fancy cabinet. Green laminate counter, too.

This bedroom is also pretty big. Look at the consummate girl's white bedroom furniture of the mid-century.

The den has a big old map probably with countries that don' t even exist anymore.

More bedrooms on the 2nd fl.

Oh, look at that! A hope chest! They were popular for a teenage girl to receive as a gift. Then, she would put in blankets, etc., in the hopes of one day getting married and using them. I can't get over the historic furniture in this place.

And, then they've got a big family room up here. Wow, this house has so much furniture and tchotchkes.

Winter? No problem. Just set the lawn furniture up in the basement.

There's also a finished part of the basement. This is a craft room, and there is also a canning room.

Look at the antique freezer on the right. This place is a museum.

This part of the basement isn't finished even though it has a brick fireplace. No matter, they still used it as a family room, anyway.

According to the listing, this is a 2 car garage, called a "cottage garage," b/c I guess it looks like a residence.

This cool log cabin on the property is used as a playhouse, according to the listing.

Yeah, but look at it, it's really a residence.

There's a lot of land, 3.50 acres.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/6151-Newburg-Rd-Rockford-IL-61108/5537324_zpid/

[conkreetmonkey]

trick or treat

You reach out and knock on the rusty old bulkhead, yelling "trick or treat!" as you do.

It produces a hollow, resounding clang that echoes around you, a vibration you feel in your bones.

Wait, where exactly are you? How did you get here?

Looking around, you find yourself in what could only be described as a "facility." You seem to be at the bottom of a rusted metal stairwell you have no memory of descending. The walls are of a rough, filthy concrete, skirted in decaying institutional white tile up to about your shoulders. The floor is of much worse-off dark green tile, accented with the occasional aquamarine one.

Everything is covered in a layer of dry dirt, building up in the corners and missing tiles, save for where the criss-crossing pipes snaking up and down the walls and ceiling drip foul water from corroded fittings, supporting pockets of green algae and moss, and the occasional unnatural-looking mushroom. A completely rusted drainage grate sits in the middle of the room, revealing only darkness beneath.

The air is stale and musty, with an acrid chemical tinge to it. Motes of dust hang languidly in the air, illuminated by buzzing, half-dead flourescent tubes. Wait, this place looks totally abandoned, why is there still electricity? You have no clue what purpose this area could possibly have served. There isn't even an indication of what floor you're on, let alone who built this place and for what.

The door in front of you is all there is down here, save for a few strewn-about pieces of trash, and some ominous neon yellow barrels in the far corner. You don't even want to know.

The door is odd, clearly old and abandoned, yet at the same time bearing evidence of regular use. The valve that presumably opens it is well worn, darkened white paint rubbing away to reveal fresh, unrusted steel. One of the hinges looks newly installed, its gleaming metal surface starkly contrasting its dull surroundings. Shoeprints not matching your own cover the dusty floor, most saturated at the base of the door.

Most damning of all, though, is the laminated piece of printer paper taped to it, reading "NO SOLICITORS" in calibri bold. Somebody definitely lives here, in the rotting guts of some Soviet-ass brutalist hellhole, and you just knocked on their door and yelled "trick or treat!" Uh oh.

As if on cue, the moment you think this, the valve begins to turn with a mechanical squeak, and the bulkhead opens outwards just a sliver, a seemingly gloved hand curling around the edge as somebody peeks out a-- what.

"Ah! I was starting to think there wouldn't be any of you this year!" a nasally male voice says as the door is heftily shoved all the way open, forcing you to take a step back.

Standing before you is some sort of freak.

The man(?) before you is slightly above-average in height. His baggy avocado green t-shirt obscures his midsection, as do his maroon pants, but based purely on the way they hang off his form and the look of his hands and forearms, you subconciously clock him as scrawny to skinnyfat in build, clearly no athlete. His worn black and white sneakers peek out from under the cuffs of his too-big pants, whatever's holding them up obscured by his even more ill-fitting shirt. Both seem to be scavenged from scraps, repaired over and over again with sloppy hand stiching and the odd strip of duct tape.

This is where the normal aspects of his appearance abruptly end.

His hands were never gloved, it turns out; rather, they, along with the rest of him, is a deep, unnaturally saturated bondi blue, seemingly the actual colour of his skin. Even his battered fingernails are a tealish cyan, his lips and lower eyelids fading to a darker, comparatively less ostentatious shade of catalina blue.

A thick, wild mop of taffy pink hair hangs down to his shoulderblades, and would likely reach down to his mid back without its fluffy, springy texture. It looks coarse and unpleasant, but at least not greasy.

A pair of inhuman eyes stare excitedly into yours, neon yellow scleras clashing against red-40 irises in tones typically reserved for candy or tropical fish. They seem far brighter than they should be in this light, and his pupils glint in the industrial gloom like those of a raccoon or similar nocturnal garbage animal. His boyish face sports a five o' clock shadow of pink facial hair, implying it's his natural hair colour, which wouldn't be too surprising considering the rest of him.

He overall looks rather scruffy, yet at the same time clearly at least somewhat takes care of himself. His stubbly face and tangled hair bring up imagery of some sort of basement gremlin, and your surroundings do little to contest this. He smells like sour fruit gummies an-- Wait, what's that on his lip?

Some sort of ooze is trailing from his mouth, luminescent neon green, looking like the liquid inside of a green glowstick. Before you can get too good of a look at it, he licks it up. Then he speaks.

"Here ya go, little guy! A li'l snacky-snack for ya!" he says, plopping something cylindrical and heavy into a plastic bag you just now realize you've been holding. The blue man, despite looking like somebody rubbed magnets on a TV screen tuned to a documentary about homelessness, clearly means you no harm, even if his demeanour is a little eccentric, his scent a little unusual. Before you can thank him, the door slams shut with a "Happy Halloween!" and the squeak of the valve. You're alone down here once again. You look into your bag and remove a strange object:

Huh, weird. It seems metallic, and your hand tingles against its lukewarm surface. What kind of candy is this? Wait, is it even Halloween?

You look around yourself, weighing your options. You don't want to disturb the blue man, him having been so kind as to give you this... whatever it is. It's not like there's anything else to do down here.

With no other directions avaliable to walk in, you start up the rusty industrial stairs, your strange gift sitting heavily in the bottom of your bag.

[yikesharringrove]

Steve and Billy furniture shopping for their first apartment and Billy keeps measuring the kitchen tables heights and like pushing on them to test their strength and Steves like what are you doing? and billy, as he finds the right table, just licks his teeth and says i guess youll have to find out

Billy hadn't been picky about any of the other furniture in their new place.

He barely voiced on opinion on the bedframe, and only picked one second-hand couch over another because he said it had better ass feel. He didn't care which chairs they got for the dining room (mismatched ones) or that the dresser for their bedroom was the ugliest shade of babyshit yellow ever seen by human eyes.

But for some fucking reason, he cared way too much about the goddamn dining room table.

"Billy, this one's fine." Sure, it was a little flimsy. Definitely not real solid wood, but that was good. That was within their budget. It sat eight people and would be perfect for DnD campaigns, what more could they ask for?

"We just need to keep looking. It's not right."

Steve rolled his eyes.

"We've been to every single thrift store within a twenty-mile radius, this one is fine."

Billy pressed on the table again, shoving it around. It scraped against the floor, causing several people to whip their heads around to see who made the horrible screeching.

Steve was fucking mortified.

"God, if you don't like this one, then let's just go."

"Hang on, shithead." Billy rounded the table, pressing against the next one in the same way. He was standing at the head of it, feeling how high it came up against his thigh, pushing and knocking on it. "I like this one."

Yeah. The expensive one. The one that says it's solid oak and costs four times as much as the other one.

"Billy, no."

"No, Stevie. This is it. This is the one." And he looked Steve dead in the eye, and thrust his hips ever so slightly against the table. "This'll do nicely."

"What do you even mean by that? What are you doing?"

He looked Steve up and down, checking him out in that insatiable way that always makes Steve a little bit hard and a little bit sweaty.

"You'll have to find out."

He grinned at Steve, licking over his teeth, and moving past him to flag down an employee, shoulder-checking Steve on his way past because he knows Steve likes being knocked around a little bit.

-

Billy was nearly attacking him the second they heaved the table up the two flights of stairs, and wrestled it through the doorway into their apartment.

It was two bedroom, with cheap laminate floors throughout. It didn't have AC, the shower was a joke, and the kitchen was minuscule, but it was all theirs.

The had decided the smaller bedroom would be a good dining space. It was right off the main living area, with large double doors. Steve had been hoping for a space to bring their friends over. To cook for them and have game nights.

And apparently, Billy had been hoping for this.

"Bend over the table."

Steve grabbed a fistful of blond hair, tugging Billy back to glare at him.

"You absolute psycho! Did you seriously make us buy a giant table we can't afford, just so you can fuck me on it?"

Billy narrowed his eyes.

"Oh, please. Like you don't have some little housewife fantasy. Making me dinner and setting the table all nice. Letting me fuck you while our food gets cold."

"That was one roleplay."

Steve rolled his eyes as hard as he could.

And bent over the table.

[captain-hawks]

Hi 💝 yuta okkotsu + coffee + green

yuuta okkotsu x reader

c: timeskip yuuta, fluff, feels

It’s not the warm, gentle breeze filtering in through the window that stirs you from sleep—nor is it the insistent chittering of the birds perched in the tree nearby, or the bright morning sunlight that floods across your rumpled sheets.

—it’s the fragrant smell of coffee wafting through the house, your tired eyes flying open the moment the scent hits you.

You don’t drink coffee.

Throwing back the sheets, you stumble out of bed and dash out of the room.

You don’t drink coffee.

The laminate flooring squeaks beneath your bare feet as you skid to a stop in the kitchen, heart clumsily skipping a beat at the sight of the man leaning back against the counter, an ugly, green mug with a chip in it clutched in one hand.

It’s hideous, really—it looks woefully out of place amongst every other cup lined up in your cabinets.

It was presumptuous of whomever made it in the first place, to think someone would want to drink out of something such an unpleasant shade of green.

—that’s exactly what you said when you plucked it up off of the shelf in a flea market stall years ago, laughing so hard at the agreeing frown on Yuuta’s face that it went clattering to the ground. Still not quite past the boundaries of friendship at the time, you’d both been flustered when you bumped heads and brushed hands as you dove to the floor to rescue it before the old woman sitting at the register nearby could notice. 

And naturally, rather than letting you sneak the ugliest mug in the world back on the unfortunate shelf from whence it came, Yuuta insisted on buying it once he realized that you’d chipped it. 

It’s such a goddamn ugly mug.

—and you’ll keep it forever, probably.

He smiles at you conspiratorially over the rim.

You don’t drink coffee, but he does.

“You’re home,” you whisper, biting your lower lip to suppress the size of the grin spreading across your face as you look at Yuuta. “A week early.”

The black strands of hair that frame his face have grown longer in the months that he’s been away, and you step forward, unable to deny yourself the need to card your fingers through the soft locks. Yuuta hums, his posture relaxing under the weight of your familiar touch, the looseness in his shoulders at odds with the dark circles that linger below his lower lashes. 

You’ve missed him so much—so much that it hurts, a splintering ache that’s settled deep in your bones.

“And you’re up early,” he muses, eyes sparkling with mirth as he reaches up and prods at a rogue strand of your sleep-mussed hair.

One of his hands comes to rest along the curve of your hip, the steady, seeping pang in your chest giving way under the warm pressure of his touch fluttering along your nerve endings.

You roll your eyes fondly and lament, “I just couldn’t resist the smell of hot bean water.”

Yuuta’s tongue darts out, passing over his lips, and he huffs, fingertips skating along your collarbone. A shiver dances down your spine as he drags them up the side of your neck, middle finger tracing the curve of your jaw before he finally takes your chin between his thumb and pointer finger. 

“Morning breath,” you grimace, despite the emotions swelling inside of you at the soft promise of his mouth hovering inches away.

“Don’t care,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. “Coffee breath?”

“Don’t care,” you echo.

Yuuta laughs, the noise reverberating through the kitchen and dripping like honey down the taut, yearning strings of your heart.

It’s a rich, beautiful sound.

One you’d do anything to hear.

One you’d trade for nothing—save for the quiet that follows when his lips finally find yours.

[mydisenchantedeulogy]

Rapture [Chapter One] Bait [Albert Wesker]

A/n: It took me forever to write this first chapter, and honestly, I'm not sure when I'll be able to update, so please be patient with me. Please enjoy.

Warning(s): Vampire Wesker, OC, alternate universe, implied death, kidnapping, language, flirting, mixed vampire lore, supernatural elements.

No Minors Allowed!!

Sundown was on the horizon.

Shades of red and orange painted the sky above the SEASHELL facility, a subsidiary of TRICELL Inc. The sunset reflecting off the glass panes was a work of art; a magnificent sight despite the atrocities that occurred inside whenever the sun went down.

Murders. Missing people. Death was everywhere in the Glass City if one knew where to look, and not just one or two; whole families vanished overnight, sometimes whole groups of people. The odd deaths were covered up in specious accidents or simply too inconsequential for the media to report on, but all of them in some way traced back to SEASHELL. The deluded simply closed their eyes to the truth. 

Aria Albright was envious of them. 

In her early 30s, she learned the truth about the world, about the corrupt who hid in the shadows; about the vampires. Her blissful ignorance was robbed from her, and in a way, Aria wished it had not been. No person wanted to be told that the monsters from their nightmares were real. But they were, and she and her team risked their lives every night to hunt them so that those who were ignorant or deluded could continue to be so.  

With an uneasy sigh, Aria glanced at her watch whose face rested on the inside of her wrist. Her heart was racing. It was nearly time. She knew too well that taking down the head of SEASHELL would not be a cinch, but she could not ignore this chance. It was a fluke that she managed to sneak her way into the brain of the facility, a rare chance that the director tossed ignorantly into her lap. 

She would make sure to thank him personally when she saw him. 

At seven on the dot, she strolled into the facility using a laminate guest badge that had been given to her. It granted her access only to the first floor, but she did not mind, waiting near a horseshoe-shaped cherry wood desk. 

In the meantime, she scoped out the area.

The inside was just as basic as she had expected; a vacant well-lit lobby with a comfortable waiting area. While traditional, its walls held a frightening truth. Aria was standing in a building made by the undead for the undead and that notion filled her with uneasiness.

“Pardon me,” came an unexpected voice.

Aria turned her attention, watching a beautiful woman in a peplum skirt saunter toward her. She wore a look of confusion on her youthful face as she took in Aria’s casual appearance.

“Can I help you? The facility is closing soon.”

Aria raised a finger and tapped the badge attached to her sweater. 

“Carina Brink. I'm here to see Dylan Anderson.” 

As though a light had gone off in the woman’s head, her blue eyes widened.

“He told me about you. I'm Paisley, Mr. Anderson’s assistant.” 

Faking a smile, Aria gauged her. Paisley did not look undead, nor did she appear to be a Familiar; her skin tone was radiant and she did not seem to have any visible tattoos or markings, a notion that irritated Aria. She was simply a human, an ignorant human. 

“I was about to head home,” Paisley mentioned. She glanced over Aria’s shoulder to see that the night security guard was not at his desk. “But since Ed doesn't seem to be here yet, I can escort you to Mr. Anderson’s private office if you like.”

Aria was against the idea. She did not want to involve a human in this mess, but chances were that Ed was a Familiar or undead. She was not sure he would search her, but to avoid it, she agreed. 

“That would be great. Thank you.” 

Paisley smiled. Noticing the canvas bag across Aria’s chest, she motioned toward it. 

“I can have Ed hold that for you if you like.”

“No, that's fine. It's the closest thing I have to a purse,” Aria lied.

Paisley snorted. 

“I don't blame you. Purses just don't fit what you need in them anymore. I carry a tote.”

Aria faked a laugh.

With the pleasantries aside, Paisley led her across the lobby to the elevators. Once both were inside, she pressed the button for the top floor. Aria stood silently as the doors closed and the elevator began to rise. 

A keyhole at the bottom of the control panel caught her attention, a sure way to the floors below the lobby. Aria made a note to remember this. Beside it was a digital display, showing a silent advertisement for SEASHELL, claiming to focus on natural resources and their uses. 

She tightened her hand into a fist; she knew better. The only resource SEASHELL focused on was human blood. The very facility she was in, she learned, was a bank, storing hundreds if not thousands of bags.

On the top floor, the doors opened and Aria stepped out into a long dim hall. 

“Have fun,” Paisley uttered with a cheerful grin.

Aria snorted. She had no idea. Once the elevator descended, the blonde took an uneasy breath and then hesitantly strolled down the hall. At the far end was a door. She took a moment to straighten her clothes, revealing her neck and cleavage before she knocked with confidence.

A few moments passed before someone answered; that someone was Dylan Anderson himself, an undead womanizer with pale skin and an appearance that could knock the breath out of anyone who laid eyes on him.

A good trait for a silent predator to have, Aria thought, faking a smile. 

The way his brown eyes sparkled as he looked at her was both good and bad. 

“I like a punctual woman, Miss Brink.”

“I don't like to disappoint,” Aria retorted. “But please, Carina is more acceptable.” 

Dylan flicked his tongue over his top lip and smiled. 

“As you wish.”

He stood to the side and motioned for her to come in. Aria held in a groan as he rested his hand on her lower back, ushering her through the frame so that he could shut the door behind her.

“Would you like a drink, Carina?”

She replied eagerly. 

Dylan sauntered around her silently like a mouse to a liquor bar with a Marquina black marble top and pulled a wine bottle from a crystal wine chiller.

“Make yourself at home,” he suggested, rolling up his sleeves. “I hope red wine is to your taste. It's Cheval Blanc 1947.”

Aria faked a smile. “It sounds delicious.”

Barefoot was more in her price range. She used to enjoy cozying up on the couch with a warm blanket and watching horror movies with Kathy, her sister, and a bottle of White Zinfandel. That was before she learned about vampires. Now there was no wine, no Kathy, and no horror movies. Aria was always on the move, riding one radio transmission to the next. At least there was wine this time. Silver lining. 

As Dylan let the bottle breathe, Aria wandered around the office. It was more of a bachelor pad, honestly, a notion that made her reluctant to touch anything. All it was missing was a bed, though with his money perhaps it was hidden in the wall or floor. The bookcase was her first guess. 

“You like to read?” Dylan asked. His icy breath on her neck brought chills to her arms. For some reason, they - vampires - liked to do that; sneak up on you without a sound. It was eerie and frankly creepy as hell, but the reaction made them giddy. 

Sean Peterson, a teammate, told her it was because they could smell the flesh of their prey. He was a cinephile, a walking encyclopedia. It was his idea to start using a sweet perfume to lure them in. And it worked, paired with her anxious reactions, of course. 

Aria fanned her collar and hummed. 

“I do. This um…library is extensive.”

Dylan rested a hand on her lower back and passed her a wine glass. The scent of baked red fruits was intoxicating.

“Why don't you go to the sitting room while I make myself a drink.”

“Not a fan of wine I take it,” Aria mentioned.

Dylan chuckled. 

“I like my drinks to be much stronger.”

Lovely. Aria sauntered into the living area and sat on the edge of a posh-looking couch. She removed her bag and sat it on the floor beside her. The contents moved with a sharp clank; she frowned at her carelessness. 

“What do you have in there?” Dylan asked with a raised brow. His hearing was as sharp as expected. 

He poured himself a glass of Macallan and then joined her. 

Aria grinned. “It's not polite to ask a lady what she carries in her purse, Mr. Anderson.”

“Of course. My apologies.”

Aria raised her wine glass and took a sniff. It was not practical for a vampire to drug their victims; the blood becomes diluted. She took a drink, the rich and porty mouthfeel made her hum.

“Do you like it,” Dylan asked. 

“So much. It's exactly what I needed,” Aria retorted.

She glanced toward the bookcase again, then to Dylan, noticing his cold eyes on her. 

“I never had the chance to ask at the bar, but what sort of work do you do, Carina?”

Thus began the investigation. Any smart vampire, one who wanted to remain in power and not find themselves on the sharp end of a stake, made sure a plausible tale could be weaved from their victims. It took Aria three years, and one chance meeting to work herself onto Dylan Anderson's radar; three years to make Carina Brink a perfect victim. 

“Travel blogger,” she lied. Anything to imply that she was alone and worked alone.

Dylan faked a frown. 

“That must be lonely work.” 

“Sometimes,” Aria stated. She forced a smile and raised her glass. “It's the people I meet along the way that make this job worthwhile. My parents wanted me to be a realtor - runs in the family - but that sort of encumbrance was not my thing.”

Estranged relationships were always a shoo-in. 

Dylan raised his glass in response, then took a drink. His eyes narrowed briefly as though he was troubled by something, but he simply cleared his voice and set his glass on the table. Aria was on edge.  

“So, a travel blogger–” He paused to cough. “Is that what brought–” He coughed again. “Excuse me.” 

“Oh my. Are you okay?” Aria asked with a lack of sympathy. She downed the remainder of her glass and sat it on the table, watching Dylan go into a fit of choked coughs. 

His skin glistened with sweat as he weakly tried to stand, falling to the floor with a muffled thump. 

Aria was impressed. She reached into her bag and retrieved a bottle with a glass eye dropper. The label was handwritten. Vamp Be Gone. She snorted.

“I have to give it to Sean. When he said fast acting, I was skeptical.”

She stood and ambled over to Dylan, who had turned himself onto his back. One hand was wrapped around his throat while the other grasped at the marble floor.

“That looks unpleasant. Don't worry about it. You aren't gonna die. 

Aria showed him the tag on the bottle, grinning as Dylan's expression shifted from confusion to shock.

“H-hunter.” 

Aria hummed in agreement.

“Let that sink in a moment. I'll be right back.”

She was not too worried about him getting up anytime soon. Low-level vampires like him were highly susceptible to diluted garlic extract. While it was not strong enough to kill him, it would sedate him with the added side effect of burning him from the inside. Aria was no expert, but it looked painful.

As Dylan writhed on the floor, Aria wandered over to the bookcase for a third look. She was not sure what she was looking for, but something seemed out of place. His collection was mostly alphabetized, consisting of non-fiction and books of business. So when she noticed a hardback copy of Bram Stoker's “Dracula” in the mix, her heart began to race.

“That's almost too cute.” 

Removing the book, she opened the cover to see that the pages had been hollowed out into a makeshift hidey-hole that held a single sheet of folded paper in it.

“That's a waste of a good book, Dylan. I hope this paper is important,” Aria chided.

She took it out, slid the novel back into its place, and then read the passage written in sloppy handwriting on the page. 

‘Greet the sun and sing its praise, the king at his feet thou will remain, and pain be all thou will obtain.’

The words sun, king, and pain were all in capital letters. Was this a clue to something? Aria glanced at Dylan for a moment, to see that he would be no help, not with the blood pouring from his mouth, then observed the room again.

Greet the sun…greet the sun.

On the wall behind the liquor bar was a painting of a man bowing before a king whose crown glowed like the sun. Clever man. Aria grinned and hurried over to it, peeking between it and the wall. It was as she thought, there was something there. A three-digit number safe, she learned, after taking down the painting.

“I don't suppose you'd willingly tell me the code, would you?” 

Dylan gurgled a response, but Aria could not understand him. Shit. What was she to do? Peering down at the page again, she reread over the passage, wondering if maybe the capitalized words meant anything. Why else would they be written that way? 

Sun. King. Pain. 

3. 4. 4.

The button at the top of the lock flashed green and the safe came open. Aria was proud of herself. Typically she was bad at puzzles; Kathy was much better. She wondered if her sister would be proud of her too. 

Pushing the question to the back of her mind, she pulled open the door and peered inside the safe. There was another book, though much longer, but instead of being hollowed out, it contained a list of blood types, each categorized. 

‘Type AB, young woman, non-smoker, number 001’

‘Type AB, middle-aged man, alcoholic, number 002’

The list went on and on. Pages and pages were in the same format. Some of them were marked out and Aria had a feeling she knew why. Her stomach churned. These were people whom SEASHELL had kidnapped. They were reduced to nothing but numbers. The gravity of the situation dawned on her and she felt infuriated.

Aria stormed back to Dylan, who was on his side, then reared back her foot and kicked him as hard as she could in the face. His nose broke with a sickening crack and he turned himself onto his back, writing in more pain.

“You sick fuck. If I knew your face wouldn't eventually heal, I'd turn your head into a fucking soup bowl.”

Dylan had the nerve to laugh, but instead of taking her frustration out on him, Aria took a deep uneasy breath.

“That's fine. You aren't scared of me. I get it. This facility is just a drop in the bucket for your kind, but I assure you, someone will notice; someone you are scared of.”

“W-who? Irving. You stupid little insignificant pest. I'm not s-scare of him,” Dylan admitted weakly. 

Something in his voice seemed genuine. Perhaps he did not truly know who ran the operation. Aria snorted.

“You don't know, do you? About him. It must have been Irving who sired you, an ignorant pawn.” 

Him. Dylan had no idea who ‘he’ was, but she was right about him being sired by Irving. The man gave him all the power he could ever wish for and for no price at all, so long as he followed the rules. He supposed there were more important figures on the board than Irving, but he honestly did not care. All he wanted at the moment was for his strength to return so he could drain this bitch. 

“H-have you any idea who I am?”

“Marketing Manager of SEASHELL's Resource Development Division. I know who you are,” Aria deadpanned. Her usual tone returned. “But more importantly, I know who you truly work for, and trust me, that burning in your gut is gonna feel like a tickle compared to what Albert Wesker is gonna do to you when this blood bank goes tits up.” 

Something in Dylan's expression shifted, as though the name itself held a strange power over him. 

“H-he is a martyr. A legend.” 

Now that was a shock.

No. Wesker was very much alive. Aria did not know much about him or his origins, but based on the reports about him, the ‘advancement in evolution’ he granted his followers was no more than a nasty virus. The chosen he sired considered him a primordial God, but it seemed like those lower were under the impression that he was dead for some reason. He truly was playing the deity role.

I suppose that answers my question. 

He did not know where Wesker was. Pawns most likely wouldn't.

“When was the last time you were in contact with Irving?” Aria asked. 

Time was not on her side, regrettably. The garlic extract was useful, but without the potency of silver nitrate, it would soon wear off. 

“Do you h-honestly think I'd tell you, bitch?” Dylan rasped. 

His voice was not as smooth and seductive as it was before. It sounded like he had been a heavy smoker for years. 

“A girl can hope,” Aria uttered. 

For once, she would have liked for the vampires to do some of the work for her. It did not entirely matter if he did or not. 

Aria sighed and walked to the couch to retrieve her bag. From it, she pulled out a remote LED light, the ones found on big trucks to illuminate cargo.

“Have you ever seen one of these before?” She asked, setting it on the floor beside Dylan. “It's not a classic, I know, but in these times it's necessary.”

Aria did not have to explain to him that the bulbs were not normal. Dylan could see that they had been replaced by UV bulbs.

“W-wait a minute.”

“You want to talk now.” Aria chuckled, sitting on the arm of the couch. She removed the wireless remote for the LED light from her pocket and teasingly waved it at him. 

I swear, Bailey should rename this to ‘Silence Breaker’ or something.

She motioned for him to continue. 

“I can call Irving.” 

No shit. Aria could not deal with him alone, however, if he came running over to protect his investment.

“Where is your phone?” 

“On the desk,” Dylan answered. 

His voice was not quite as broken anymore. Her time was slowly running out. 

“Password? Code?” 

“6835,” Dylan answered weakly.

Aria grabbed an expensive contract phone off the top of his desk and put in the passcode on the lock screen. The phone opened, showing a picture of Dylan with his torso bare. He was extremely vain. Going into his contacts, she locates Irving.

“You might want to speak clearly so he can hear you,” Aria suggested. 

She pressed the call button and then tossed the phone down onto Dylan's chest, but before anyone answered, she turned the light on. 

A low hiss filled the air like the sound of grease sizzling in a heated pan, then came the screaming. Aria had seen this before. Vampires had a strange reaction to UV light as though they were allergic. Their skin grew blisters and began to burn. At a low wattage, it gave them a nasty sunburn, one that took time to heal. She turned on the strobe light effect, gathered her bag, then left.

Irving would come, but it did not matter. What the BSAA wanted was to draw out Albert Wesker. Aria had no doubt the fall of SEASHELL would do it. 

In the elevator, she took out her phone, sending a quick message to her squad leader. 

‘Call Redfield. I found something for him he's gonna love.’

[philtstone]

if you’re still taking prompts from that list, I’d love to see your take on the nemesis one for any of your modern AUs!

sorry it's not an EXISTING modern au but it is. a modern au. partially inspired by many many many things most significantly a post i literally cannot find again no matter how hard i look... also by anne from anne of green gables. anyway, this is mostly just vibes. and my own salad shirazi opinions. in that order.

In Arwen's house growing up family dinner was always a shared time of day, so it makes her glad that the small apartment her father moved into last year honours the same principle.

“It’s not that he irritates me,” eighteen year old Eowyn, fresh out of her first term of university and with her long gold hair in a tangled braid down her back, is explaining from the dinner table. “I hardly get irritated easily — it’s just that he’s so sweet and friendly all the time, I am sure he’s up to something.”

“Eowyn dear,” says her uncle. His attention is mostly absorbed by the newspaper in front of him. “If you might repeat that first part aloud, and reflect on it a bit.”

Eomer snorts from the sink. Gandalf had tasked him with washing the dishes — he had more or less nothing to contribute to meal making. Eowyn makes a face at him.

“I am good tempered. It’s just no one who’s normal is that nice. Certainly not a man.”

Gandalf, who’s in the midst of a very complex chess game with Arwen’s father, chuckles a bit. 

“Indeed?” Ada asks, with a wry smile. Eowyn blushes.

“Do not tease her, you men,” Arwen says, sweeping in to add hot water to the tea cups. The pale green flats of the fragrant tea leaves sent in express overseas mail by her maternal grandparents swirl in the kettle’s pour. Authentic green tea has a potency Arwen has not found in anything purchased around here. “You know she isn’t talking about you, and anyway, she’s right.” 

While Gandalf says, “Do tell us more, then,” charitably, Arwen returns to the small kitchen island. The rice is coming into its own in the cooker. Rice is always a comfort; it unites across cultures and races. Admittedly to this day Ada will prefer jasmine to basmati, no matter Arwen's own fascination with the latter. She sets about peeling two thick skinned cucumbers and dicing them, along with tomatoes from Mr Bilbo's garden, into a bowl. Then comes the shallot, and its lilac purple skin. Arwen has always loved the colour lilac. She has a nightgown a shade lighter than this onion, which her fiance sighs over dreamily every time it’s taken out.

Behind her Aragorn chops tarragon for the lentils, which are bubbling. He has embraced jasmine rice since childhood. His hair is tied out of his face and just barely escaping the doom of a man bun (Aragorn is too sincere about everything to accidentally look like the smarmiest versions of his countrymen) and he smells of fried onion and rose oil, like he often does when in this place. In matter of fact he smells like this kitchen is decorated: the multiple little knick knacks lining the sil, the old silver, the warm reds of the woven rug in the floor (one of an innumerable number kept in Iverworn’s house), and the cracked old laminate tiling – brown. There is some comfort in the idea that Gilraen's old apartment is still in the family. Only now, Ada has his little shrine in the den which doubles as his study, and a few more photographs have been added to the baby pictures lining the front hallway.

On the other end of the table Gimli and Legolas sort through Bilbo's rock collection while the old man gives running commentary on where he found each one. Arwen’s cousin is being educated on geology in the process. Frodo and Sam and the rest are still at school; Aragorn has volunteered to go pick them up in a half hour.

“This ought to go in the sedimentaries pile, Legolas. You see the distinctive layering – to really know we’d check for carbonate, but I’d say this is a solid limestone.”

“I don’t understand. Many of them have layers. That one with the crystal –”

“Running in parallel. Look, they’ve sedimented. It’s in the name, for Mahal’s sake. The geode, a sedimentary rock? Preposterous.”

“I found that one in Dale you know. It was, oh, twenty years ago or so now — I’d just had a pint with your dad, Gimli – you remember what he was like twenty years ago, wearing those garish red turbans (though they suited him well) – and when we came out on the street there it was by the lamp post, a little lump of a thing. I thought to myself, why, that looks just like Lobelia’s terrible laddoo – you haven’t tried them, but they’re glorified pebbles, with how dry and small she makes them – and then I turned it over and thought, where might a pretty piece of rock like this come from in the middle of such a town? But then, Dale is very metropolitan …“

Absently, Arwen begins humming to herself.

“Won’t someone put on some decent music?”

“Don’t look at us old men, Eomer. Haven’t the youth got a stereo system?”

“Oh, it's all Bluetooth now. Ah — I have your rook there, Elrond.”

“No he hasn’t; that’ll put his queen in jeopardy.”

“Keep your eyes on your lentils, Estel, my own function perfectly well. He’s been doing this since he was a boy.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” says Gandalf, with the wise knowing of someone who was there to witness such behaviour in person.

Between it all, everyone is somehow still managing to listen attentively to Eowyn as she expounds her theories and suspicions.

“He’s asked four times if we could study together after class. Four times. The next major exam we have is worth sixty perfect of the grade and I’m sure he saw me speaking with the professor last week because I was so determined to pass it. No one passes that exam, according to the third years –”

Arwen stirs the lentils and wonders if they ought to take a little bowl to the shrine.

“Perhaps he’s looking for a friend,” says Gandalf philosophically.

“Maybe he’s a creep, like Wormtongue was,” suggests Eomer darkly.

“He’s only starstruck by a girl in the engineering course,” says Bilbo, with a bit of (not unkind) humour in his voice. Then he reaches into his large duffel, which he lugged indoors with Aragorn and Eomer’s help, and extracts a box of fresh sweets for the table. These, Arwen hopes, are better than Lobelia’s – though she is sure they will be much too sweet for her own taste.  

“There are girls in engineering these days, old friend,” Gandalf interjects with a raised eyebrow, but Eowyn is not really paying attention to either of them.

“Last week at lab he gave me a book about zoological diseases I mentioned off hand almost a month ago,” she says with that earnest way she has. “That doesn’t have anything to do with engineering. Do you think he was trying to throw me off my game before our lab quiz?” 

It is very hard to keep a straight face at this inquiry, but Arwen – and many others present – manage it. “Have you considered that he might have just thought you’d like it?” asks Arwen.

“But that’s none of his business,” Eowyn says, as though this was obvious. 

“How did he know you liked it then?” asks her brother, baffled.

“We’ll — I told him,” says Eowyn. She flushes a bit. “But he initiated the conversation. We should have been talking about closed circuits.”

“Or nothing at all, apparently,” says Ada gravely.

“You don’t know him. He’s got a look in his eye. I can just tell.”

“Oh look, I’ve found him on Facebook.” 

And so Legolas has, and they all converge around his smartphone while Eowyn glares defiantly. 

“Faramir, is it? You know, he kind of looks like you, Estel.”

“Yeah – if you were much scrawnier and looked like a dweeby engineering student.”

“They look nothing alike,” says Eowyn hotly, crossing her arms – Arwen cannot help but catch Aragorn’s eye (he looks like he’s trying very hard not to laugh, not helped at all by Gandalf, who is looking right at him, and skillfully masking his own merriment besides) “and Aragorn would never be such a — a — a snake, anyway.”

Arwen agrees with this hypothetical assessment, at least. She rummages through the fridge and retrieves the fresh clutch of herbs she needs for her salad.

“But what has he done, Eowyn. The poor boy. There is a bit of dweebishness there, isn’t there … indeed …”

“Look at the last name; isn’t that Denethor’s boy?”

“Oh yes, that would explain it. Engineering? Of all things? I always thought he had a poet's soul when he was a kid.”

“I wonder how they’re doing – haven’t spoken to the man in an age, you know.”

“Denethor you mean?”

“Well, not since the incident with that poor tree in the synagogue’s front yard,” says Gandalf sadly. “You were there Aragorn, you remember –”

“Hmmm,” says Aragorn grimly.

“Well I told you,” interrupts Eowyn. “I haven’t got proof, just suspicions! He’s trying to psych me out of this program. But I tell you – I won’t let him!” 

Arwen wonders if perhaps Eowyn had grown up around sisters, she wouldn’t insist so very hard on sticking it out through a degree she is not really interested in. These ruminations are interrupted by a soft touch at Arwen's waist. “Hm?” she says.

“I’m off to pick up the kids,” Aragorn begins in a low voice (the assembly continues to chatter behind them). She smiles at him, then stops: for reasons unexplained he is suddenly offering her a horrified expression he usually only reserves for conservative Tik Tok mommy vloggers and occasions where Pippin is about to grievously injure himself on the park playset.  “... What are you doing?” he asks.

“Adding the mint,” she says serenely. 

“Fresh?” Like she must be mad.

“Doesn’t it have mint?” 

It is his grandmother's recipe, after all; silly man.

“Dried.”

“Your mother always said it had to be fresh.”

“Fresh dried mint,” he clarifies, gravely.

“Really Estel.”

“Take over the lentils.”

“That was your job — and you’ve got to pick up Frodo and his friends.”

“In ten minutes.”

“You’re going to ruin it. Mr I Can Subsist On A Can Of Beans.”

“I can subsist. That doesn't mean you can add fresh spearmint to a perfectly good salad. It tastes completely wrong.”

“Estel …” But Aragorn has already ducked beneath the counter to reach deep into the recesses of their spice cabinet and retrieve an extremely dusty repurposed jar of dried mint, now cradled in his brown hands. The half-peeled label is for sour cherry preserves, which Arwen is sure no one in this family has bought from a store since they discovered the tree in Ada’s backyard.

“This is hardly fresh,” Arwen says archly.

“I dried it last week,” he says, all innocence. His t-shirt is worn and ratty enough that its low collar shows off her old necklace. She can see the jade flower and her own name etched in the characters of her mothers language at the center.

She sighs. Kisses his cheek; takes the mint. “Go fetch Mr. Bilbo’s wards.”

“They’re going to make a mess of my car,” he says, as if he did not happily volunteer for this task.

“Your car is already a mess, my love.”

So he goes, grinning. Arwen adds the mint to the salad and renters the fray.

“Eowyn,” she says. “Perhaps the next time he asks to study, you might take him up on it. That way you can get close enough to catch him at his awful scheme.”

Eowyn's mouth widens in a ponderous oh, as if she had never thought of this. Arwen pats her shoulder comfortingly.

“Food will be ready in ten minutes,” she says. Ada is smiling at her — a true smile, not without its own edges of memory, but no longer the bittersweet thing of three years ago. Arwen smiles back.

[kennyvparse]

What if Kent kept a chart of how many penalties/what kind of penalties the Aces got throughout the season?

(Minor spoilers from my “Up-and-Down and Barely Made” series)

Although Kent had mostly retired his binder from his rookie season, he still liked to look at it from time to time. He had to admire his organization and color coordination when it came to creating spreadsheets for players and teams.

He did love a good spreadsheet.

Since he had been out with an upper body for two weeks and was out for at least two more, he was bored out of his mind. He’d go to practices and get rehabbed. He would go to games and watch his team as calmly as he could, which usually lasted a whole 4 minutes into a period before he had to get up and take a lap around the concourse.

He started paying attention to the team’s penalties his second game in the box because A) it was a dumb penalty to take at a bad time in the game and 2) that would have never happened if he were on the ice. Or at least closer.

By the fourth game in the box he had gone through all of the team’s penalties during the season so far and catalogued them. After doing some calculations and determining which penalties weighed what on his specific scale, he put all of the information together in a nice, colorful, spreadsheet.

He really did love a good spreadsheet.

Especially if it was printed out on some nice card stock with some colorful ink with a good font.

This one needed to be seen.

When the team arrived in the locker room they all noticed something new on the whiteboard that Garrett had dutifully kept track of all the team fines. There was a sheet of paper that was laminated and taped to the bottom left corner. It was a table with everyone’s names, their penalty minutes, and some other statistics. The most eye-catching part of the spreadsheet was the color coded bar to the left of their game that was some shade of red, yellow, or green.

“What the shit is this?” Pierre-Louis asked, the color next to his name obviously red.

“What’s what?” Jeff asked, walking up and seeing the color next to his name some sort of yellow-green. Or green-yellow. “What the shit is this?” he asked.

This brought the entire team to the board one by one.

“Am I in trouble?” Pierre-Louis asked. “Does red mean I’m in trouble?”

“I don’t think so?” Payton said. “Coach never said anything, right?” Not that he had anything to worry about. The color next to his name was green.

“So what the hell is this?”

“Just ignore it,” Garrett replied.

“Easy for you to say. Your name is green. Like very green.”

Garrett walked over and pulled the laminated sheet off and tossed it on the floor. “There. It’s fine. Go shower. You all smell.”

Pierre-Louis went to grab it and brought it to his stall. “Why would someone make this if we weren’t supposed to learn something from it?” he asked.

“If Coach wants to tell us something, he’ll tell us,” Jeff said.

“Yeah. You’re right,” Pierre-Louis said, but he kept the card with him, looking it over. He really had been taking way too many dumb penalties lately. He’d need to change that.

Two games later, after returning from a short roadie, another sheet showed up.

“Red-orange!” Pierre-Louis said. “Not deep red! Let’s fucking go!”

“What?” Jeff said, walking over to the board. He looked at it and frowned. “What the hell?” His color changed from yellow-green to a yellow-orange. Sure he took a dumb penalty against the Sharks, but dumb penalties were to be taken because it was against the Sharks. “Who is doing this?”

Jeff looked around at his teammates who were all stripping down to shower after practice. Kent was in the corner talking to their coaches. He knew Kent was trying to negotiate getting on the ice sooner than his expected timeline.

Thank goodness the coaches were shaking their heads. They were going to let him take as much time as he needed to heal.

Jeff ripped the sheet off and tossed it into Pierre-Louis’s stall. He angrily took off his jersey with the thought that he was going to show whoever it was that was making these dumb spreadsheets that he was going to be better behaved for the next few games.

No one was expecting a sheet to show up after their next home game so seeing a new one put up was a surprise to almost everyone.

Pierre-Louis was the first to the board. “Orange! Fuck yeah!”

“Just take it down,” Jeff said.

“Hey, no. I want to see,” Payton said. “There’s someone more re…” His voice trailed off and he looked up at his brother.

“What?” Jeff asked.

“Nothing,” Payton said, handing it to Pierre-Louis.

“No, not nothing. Give me the thing, Sycs.”

Pierre-Louis held it out to him, but Payton grabbed it and tried to rip it in half. It did not go well. “Stupid. Fucking. Lamination,” he said as he struggled.

Jeff grabbed it and saw it. “Okay, who the fuck is doing this? These colors don’t even make sense!” he yelled as he saw his stats change and the color next to his name go more toward red. He stomped out of the locker room. “Darren!”

Garrett walked up to Kent who was sitting in his stall with his phone. He kicked Kent in the shin. “What are you doing?”

“Ow,” Kent said, looking up. “I’m ordering something to eat.”

“Not that. What are you doing with those spreadsheets?”

Kent looked up and smirked. “How did you know it was me?”

“Because no one has the time to do this. And no one likes making spreadsheets as much as you do. So, why are you doing this?”

Kent shrugged. “I’m bored.”

“Bored.”

“I haven’t made a good spreadsheet in a while.”

Garrett rolled his eyes. “You better be careful before you drive your team crazy with this.”

Kent’s smirk changed into a smile as Garrett walked away.

Kent really, really did love a good spreadsheet.

[heroofshield]

#12 for Shep/Kaidan?

Write about your ship going somewhere new together for the first time.

--

"What about Ryuusi's?" Kaidan asked as they sifted through the take out menus. It was nearing dinner on the Citadel and they were both starving. "I know you like the shrimp rolls."

Rose shook her head, "Banned after the incident with the fish tank."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Rose tried to keep the grimace from showing, the last time they'd had shore leave on the station still left a bad taste in her mouth. Poking at the other menus she tried to find something that sparked her interest but wasn't finding anything.

She opened her mouth to suggest that maybe they just raid the fridge when Kaidan stood while saying, "I found a place you might like."

"And that is..." Rose trailed off, taking the hand that he offered to help her up; still sore from jumping onto a skycar to try and catch Kai Lang.

"It's a surprise." Kaidan smiled as he pulled Rose towards the door and down the hallway. Hailing a cab, Kaidan tapped in their destination without letting Rose see and soon they were zooming through the station. Soon enough the cab pulled over and lowered, automatically opening the door with a slight hiss.

Rose stepped out, taking Kaidan's hand so she didn't trip, and looked at the storefront-raising an eyebrow at the scene in front of her. "Suddenly I feel overdressed." she deadpanned, turning her head to look at Kaidan who just gave her a smile. The exterior was made up to look right out of a scene from Earth that only existed in netshows now; the short plastic grass extending out a few feet and surrounded by a white-picket fence, patio seating with large umbrellas to shade from weather that never happened on the station.

"You look fine." Kadain said as he moved towards the entrance, following the fake looking paving stones that wound a path inside.

Once they were seated, Rose glanced around the interior to take it all in. It reminded her of the kitschy fad that had popped up during her teenage years; a slew of pre-mass effect netshows and movies that were all set during the post-world war two era had made that aesthetic popular for awhile. The white tile floors matched the white formica tabletops edged in red and chrome while neon signs blinked on the walls. Glancing at the menu, she saw that it boasted that the place was dextro and levio friendly-each getting their own section on the laminated paper.

Placing their orders of what promised to be greasy burgers along side french fries and hydroponically grown vegetables, their drinks arrived in honest to stars milkshake glasses with long straws and Rose asked the question that had been on her mind since they arrived, "How did you find this place?"

"Saw it while flipping through a listicle, '10 weird places to go on the Citadel.'" Kaidan shrugged as he drew the large glass towards him and took a sip of the fizzing, bright green drink. "Thought it looked fun."

"So...you've never been here before?" Rose asked slowly, trying to understand that the place was new to both of them. "You seemed like you'd been here before."

Kaidan shook his head, "Nope. First time. Besides it seemed like we could both use something a bit lighthearted on the station this time around."

Rose shook her head while slightly laughing, a smile appearing to show that she was amused most of all. "Well I have to admit that you know how to make it fun."

"Isn't that what you like about me."

"There are a few other things but yes, that's one of them." Rose playfully threw her wadded up straw cover at him and he artfully dodged out of the way, knowing that the smile on his face was echoed in her own.

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

"Disco Inferno!" (Press the button.)

+5 XP

+1 Superstar Cop

MEASUREHEAD - As you slam your fist on the button the man collapses entirely, his head rolling to the side...

MEASUREHEAD'S BABE - "Looks like you're the new Measurehead now."

SUGGESTION [Easy: Success] - Her voice is surprisingly calm.

KIM KITSURAGI - "No one is the new Measurehead -- let's go. Before he gets up..." The lieutenant makes haste toward the door.

+1 Reputation

We can now enter the harbour.

The door is locked and cannot be opened from this side without a pass card.

Guess you have no choice but to talk to the Union leader.

*EVERY WORKER - MEMBER OF THE BOARD* is written at the top of the flyers.

And at the bottom: the Union logo and *DEMAND DEMOCRACY*!

This is a *Dewy* typewriter -- the model name is on the back.

A standard office file cabinet. The drawers seem to be locked.

Someone left the coffee machine on.

The dark liquid in the pot looks almost sentient.

POSTCARD "LE JARDIN '21"

This laminated post card offers a glimpse across the river. A little more than a decade after the war, the eastern bank is already fully renovated. The hillsides are lush with gardens and residences, someone's parked a small beige airship by the fountain. This postcard will sell for a pretty penny.

NEAT OFFICE SHADES

+1 Visual Calculus: Eye of the reckoner -1 Drama: A bit dry

These were stuffed away in the Dockworker's Union office. They're perfect for scribbling down paperwork when the sun tries to get in your eye. Good for staring down suspects too.

There's also a Magnesium in here.

FILE CABINET - On second glance, someone has forgotten to properly close one of the drawers.

KIM KITSURAGI - "It's *unfortunate* for the Union to just leave their paperwork lying around like this..."

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] - ...let's see what's inside, he thinks.

Open the drawer.

Ignore the drawer for now. [Leave.]

FILE CABINET - The drawer opens smoothly. Inside is a well-organized selection of brown folders.

Browse through the folders.

Close the drawer. [Leave.]

FILE CABINET - Hundreds of documents containing logistical data. Two kinds of transactions stand out: materials coming into Revachol from the outside world -- from Mundi, Graad, and even Iilmaraa...

...and the same materials being handed over to companies inside Revachol. Couron, Coal City, La Delta, and Jamrock are listed among the many districts where the imports are being sold.

Anything interesting? (Browse them.)

FILE CABINET - It's hard to make sense of this thicket of company names, dates, quantities, and percentages. You try to focus, but the lines are getting blurry...

2. [Volition - Medium 10] Force yourself to go through the folders.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] - Whatever's hidden here is hidden well. Concentration isn't enough, only a trained accountant, with a background in logistics, would be able to *really* make sense of it. However there *is* a little hand-written note, stuck on the side of the drawer.

Look at the note.

"Never mind the note." (Close the drawer.)

FILE CABINET - It appears to be a to-do list written in large, uneven capital letters:

REMEMBER, LEO!

* EVRART'S SHOES * SPECIAL WHIRLING BORSCHT * WATER EVRART'S PLANTS * SWEEP OFFICE FLOOR * MORE BANNERS

All items on the list have been crossed out and the note itself is crumpled.

(Turn to the lieutenant.) "Look, Kim, a to-do note with a list of errands for *Evrart*."

Ignore the note.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Evrart Claire, probably -- the head of the Débardeurs' Union." He inspects the note. "One of his aides must have left it. Nothing incriminating here."

+5 XP

3. Close the drawer. [Leave.]

FILE CABINET - The drawer slides shut smoothly.

THOUGHT COMPLETE: COL DO MA MA DAQUA

BONUSES: +3 Perception: Golden ear -1 Encyclopedia: No room for anything else

It's not only your eardrums that register sound anymore – your very skin has become an organ of hearing. Looking for a whisper light and low, a god who’s very, very silent. Nothing escapes you – a cockroach in the other room, a candy wrapper falling on dry grass, a drunk falling from a chair in a bar 20 metres away. In fact, you haven’t heard the Col Do Ma Ma Daqua, but you *have* discovered that you have amazing hearing. It must be the only part of you the alcohol hasn’t drowned out. Keep listening!

That's a lot of Perception. It'll be worth looking around Martinaise some more, once we get back on the streets.

ITEM GAINED: BOOK "LA FUMEE, VOL. 1 NO. 4"

The leading intellectual organ of Martinaise communism. Offers a radical Masovian perspective on a range of contemporary issues. The cover features a stylised portrait of the late King Frissel with a pair of white antlers growing out of his head.

Let's read this later.

A giant assprint on the pillow and a pattern of coffee rings on the armrest...

The radio is emitting strange buzzing sounds.

PUNCH CLOCK/PAYPHONE - An imposing combination of a punch-clock and a payphone is looking down at you from the wall. A note on the side says: "Tokens unavailable due to strike. Use change."

Insert 10 cents.

[Leave.]

Why not?

PUNCH CLOCK/PAYPHONE - The machine swallows your coin and seems to be waiting for your next move.

[Interfacing - Challenging 12] Let your muscle memory dial a random number.

[Leave.]

INTERFACING [Challenging: Success] - Your fingers run over the dial pad. 005... that's the dialling code for Revachol -- 49-52... and a moment of hesitation before entering the final numbers: 993.

PUNCH CLOCK/PAYPHONE - Calling...

Calling...

Still calling... then...

VIDEO REVACHOL, 24H - ...a crackle, someone picks up! They say: "Video Revachol, 24 hour video rental. We rent eight- and ten-millimetre film for home use. This is Lemmy, how may I help you?"

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Medium: Success] - The voice of a youngster on the other end sounds as enthusiastic as that of a man walking towards the gallows.

"What is this place?"

VIDEO REVACHOL, 24H - "Video Revachol is a 24 hour video rental. We rent eight and ten millimetre film for home use. This is Lemmy."

"No, I meant, what is this place to *me*?"

"Do you know me?"

"Why did I call you?" (Continue.)

VIDEO REVACHOL, 24H - "Sir, I don't know. It's a video rental. Maybe you rent videos here?"

2. "Do you know me?"

VIDEO REVACHOL, 24H - "No."

3. "Why did I call you?" (Continue.)

VIDEO REVACHOL, 24H - "Maybe you called to extend your rental period? Do you need to extend your rental period?"

"Maybe, but I don't even know my *name*."

"My name is Raphael Ambrosius Costeau. Do you have anything on my name?"

Quietly hang up the phone. [Leave.]

VIDEO REVACHOL, 24H - "Raphaël *what*? Listen, I can't help you over the phone." He sounds annoyed now. "If you need further assistance you can visit us on the corner of Voyager and Main. Are we done?"

+5 XP

Level up!

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] - He thinks you're pulling a prank on him.

VIDEO REVACHOL, 24H - The call is terminated by the other party. You're left with the discomforting sound of the disconnect tone.

That... that's enough for today.

[spierfloorings]

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[randofics]

Hard lessons and love Pt.1

Superboy/Connor Kent x southern reader

Wanted to wright something a bit different so this was made. Superboy from the movie Reign of Superman. More wholesome and not at all 18+ so anybody can enjoy!

When you walked into class this morning you hadn't expected to see the famous Superboy sitting in your seat with a small group of your classmates, particularly the girls standing around him. Uninterested you sat in a seat that didn't have a backpack slung over it and pulled out your books. You pushed your glasses up your nose and read the instructions on the board flipping to the right page number. Patiently you waited for the teacher to come in so you could start taking notes, but soon the loud voices gathered around Superboy grew too annoying for you to bear. "Will yall keep it down! Yall are giving me a headache!" Your firm voice pierced the cacophony and most went silent for a moment looking at you. Someone piped in. "Why don't you shut it teachers pet!" You rolled your eyes at the weak insult and stood walking over to the group. "That's all you could come up with? And I'm not the one's that are practically shouting over each other! Yall don't have any respect for nobody except yerselves. And have any of yall heard of common decency and manners! I mean come on, yall are going to college next year!"

They went silent looking at their feet or something around the room. Superboy suddenly piped in tilting his shades down with a finger to look at you. "Who are you the fun police?" You glare at him and move towards him, the group parts to let you through. Once you're able to see him completely you suck in a calming breath. He's leaned back in your seat with his boots propped up on the desk. You instinctually swat at his feet to get him to move them. "Move, move, move!" He rolls his eyes but humors you letting his boots hit the floor with a thud. "Why exactly do I need to move my feet?" You lean on the desk with both hands and give him a fake smile. "Well Superboy I don't know maybe that's because it's my desk!" His eyebrow rises as he puts his arms behind his head to relax. "Well I don't see your name on it!" You laugh sourly and point to a laminated paper pinned to the wall next to the door. "That don't matter in this case cause we have teacher assigned seats." "Can't you just sit over there for today? Or can't your prissy, teacher suck up heart not take it?"

Just then your teacher bursts through the door trying his best not to lose the bag, papers, and coffee he was carrying. Your other classmates rushed to their seats leaving you as the only one standing. As he was carefully putting down his stuff he told the class to take out their books and flip to the page on the board. He sighed in relief once his coffee was safe on the coaster and spotted you. "Y/n what are you doing standing? Aren't you going to open your book?" You smile at him and gesture to the black haired boy still sitting in your seat. "Ah I see Well it's already a bit late in class cause I'm late so why don't you go ahead and sit over there for today." You nod in understanding and sit obediently as he starts class. Your current seat is one row from the very front and Connor's is one row behind you at the window. As class drags on he gets board, and having looked out the window for a bit he decides to look around the room. Eventually his eyes land on you as you're quietly taking notes. Suddenly he gets an idea and tearing off the corner of his notebook paper he balls it up and aims the tiny ball at your head. With a small flick of his finger the ball is launched at you. It hits its target, that being the back of your head and falls to the floor. You turn and glare at him before returning to your notes.

To say that your first impressions of each other was bad was an understatement. Over the next few weeks you'd throw insults and snarky remarks at each other just to get on each other's nerves. Slowly it seemed like you may start to befriend him despite your own thoughts about him. But one day his jokes and insults started to sting. As the days went by, you grew quieter and more withdrawn. He started hanging out with the spoiled rich kids of the school and seemed to adopt their bullying ways a bit. He only really did it to you from what you had observed.

He walked up to you at your desk one day and you didn't even look up at him. He cleared his throat and you felt his expectant gaze on you. You weren't in the mood for his crap right now. "What!?" You snapped, looking up at him with an intense glare. He held out a single rose for you to take. Surprised you reluctantly took it and instinctually took a sniff, the light scent of the rose and pepper! Overwhelmed you and you started to sneeze. You threw the rose to your desk and the powdered black pepper spilled from its petals.

Through your sneezes you could barely hear his laughter and the laughter of a couple other students. You got up and went to your teachers desk grabbing a couple tissues and immediately blew your nose. When you removed the tissue you looked at the white paper noticing the tiny black specks and a little bit of fresh blood. Just then your teacher walked back in and noticing the small amount of blood asked what happened. "Connor gave me a rose with black pepper in it!" He looked at Connor disappointed. "Why would you do that?" He only shrugged from his seat as you glared at him. "Y/n why don't you go down to the bathrooms and get you some water and try to stop that bloody nose." You nod and stuff tissues up your nostrils as you walk out.

"Ok then let's talk about the project for next week." The whole class audibly groans at that. "Yes there's a project but don't worry too much cause it should be easy enough." As he was explaining the project Connor wasn't paying attention and looking across the classroom out the window. A bird would occasionally fly past and he'd try to guess what kind it was in his head. He looked back at your desk and spotted the rose with black pepper spilled from it across the faux wood. Unexpectedly his heart suddenly felt like it was being squeezed. His thoughts drifted to you and he recalled seeing you in other classes. He sat behind you and watched as you wrote in your books or on a piece of paper. You'd often have a small sketchbook to draw on when you had spare time in class and he'd watch your experienced hand sketch dragons or other animals and sometimes different people around the room. He wondered if you ever drew him but shook his head. You'd never sketch him! You practically hated him! But then again that was kinda his own fault. Maybe he should be nicer to you. You never really did anything to him except bite back when he insulted you. Yeah he'd try to be nicer to you.

Just then you walked back in and the teacher told you about the project. After you sat down he stood and with a small bowl walked around the room letting half the class draw a name. He got to Conner who reluctantly stuck his hand in the bowl pulling out a piece of paper. He opened the folded piece and read the name cursing under his breath. He had drawn you. Out of all the people in class he had to get you!? "Alright class move seats to your partner and we'll do the first part of the project here. The rest you'll have to do at home." He sighed and knowing he wouldn't be able to switch partner's walked over to you and sat down. "Wait you're my partner?" He showed you the slip of paper and you wiped your hand down your face. "Seriously teach!?" He only shrugged as he opened his binder with his instructions inside. You groaned and with a thud your head hit the table. "Let's get it over with then."

After class Connor explained to you that you'd have to come to his place because lex wouldn't let him go to your's for "security" reasons. You checked with your parents and with their permission agreed to go to his place after school. Once the bell for students release rang you met him at the front of the school and hopped in his limousine. The drive there was relatively quiet except for the argument Connor and lex had about an advertisement scheduling. Lex asked you a bit about yourself and you obliged him. "Are you friends with Connor?" "No not really Mr. Luthor, since I met him we haven't exactly seen eye to eye." He nodds in understanding and stays silent for the rest of the drive.

When you pull up to the tower Connor is the first out and Lex offers to take your bag but you respectfully decline and step out shouldering your heavy backpack. You step through the sliding doors and walk into the spacious lobby making your way to the elevator behind Connor. He presses the button and the three of you wait for the door to open. In the elevator you text your parents letting them know that you're at the tower and that you'll call in a few hours. Your mom says to have fun and you send her a simple "k" in response. Lex opens the door to his penthouse and tells Connor to show you where the restroom is and that he'll be busy till late. You follow behind him down the hall and he shows you to the large luxurious bathroom. You nod and follow him to his room. There are posters of a couple bands on the walls and a cardboard cutout of himself in the corner next to his closet door. A guitar that's signed is sitting in a glass case on another wall and a nice desk set is next to it. His bed is in the other corner neatly made and a figurine of himself is sitting next to the alarm clock on the side table. He pulls out the swivel chair and pushes a button on the desk. "Hey Betty can you send up an extra swivel chair, I have a guest over from school." "On it now." He sits back as you set your bag on the floor. "What do you think?" He gestures to his room. "A bit self absorbed but the layout is nice. "I'll take that as a compliment."

A knock on the door frame catches your attention and a man walks in placing the new chair next to you. You smile and thank him as he leaves. "You didn't have to thank him that's kinda his job." Rolling up next to him you give him a glare. "You should always thank someone when they do something for you." "Whatever let's just get this project over with." The project was pretty straight forward and in a few hours you just about had it finished. You put down your pencil and stretched. It was dark out now and you could see the city light shining through the large glass window. Suddenly the need to pee came over you and you excused yourself for a minute. He watched you leave and when you were gone his curiosity got the better of him. He reached into your bag and pulled out your sketchbook flipping through the pages.

You took an art class and some of the sketches were of famous statues or paintings. Some were of people walking on the sidewalk or at the park and turning the page again he was met with a sketch of himself. He was chewing on the end of a pencil and looking forward. From the angle he could tell that you had been behind him and kinda to the side. He flipped the page again and a sketch of him at lunch with his friends greeted him. He was laughing and the faces of the people around him weren't fully drawn as if the focus of the sketch was him. You walked back into his room and didn't realize he had your sketchbook until you were sitting down. You snatched it from him and looked at the page he was on. "Hey I was looking at that!" "You shouldn't go through people's stuff without permission!" "Why were you drawing me?" You pause for a second. "Why can't I? I draw a whole bunch of people." "Wait do you like me?" "You blushed a bit and pushed up your glasses as you looked away from him. "No I do not like you." He leaned back with his feet on the desk. "You totally do!" "No I don't!" He suddenly stood moving to pin you in your chair, his face getting close to your's. "You do and you know how I can tell?" You turned to look at him and he was grinning. "Cause I can hear your heart racing in your chest." Blushing hard you averted your gaze. "Heh you're cute when you blush like that."

"Why are you doing this?" You snapped angrily catching him off guard. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes as you looked at him. He stood holding his hands up in surrender. "Woah hey calm down." "CALM DOWN! HOW CAN I BE CALM WHEN YOU CONSTANTLY INSULT AND BULLY ME IN SCHOOL! AND NOW YOURE FLIRTING WITH ME!? You cover your face with your hands and finally let your tears flow freely a sob wracking your body. You bring your knees up to your chest and wrap your arms around them.

He curses to himself as he wipes a hand down his face in exasperation. He taps his foot as he tries to think. Sighing he kneels down in front of you and places a hand on your arm. You look down at him with tears dripping down your cheeks. That look on your face wrenches his heart and he gives you an apologetic look. "Hey listen this is really hard for me to say so... im-im sorry ok?" A sour laugh leaves your mouth and you roll your eyes. "Really I am! I've been a total jerk to you and after what?! You just trying to quiet everyone down cause you started getting a headache?" "You remembered that?" "Yeah how could I not remember? That's the day I first met you." You attempt to whipe the tears off your face with your sleeve but he stops you. "Here let me." With his gloved hands he swipes his thumbs over your cheeks getting rid of the tears. "That's better, now I can see that pretty face."

You let out a snort and he grins. "You're terrible." "But I got you to laugh didn't I?" "Yeah I guess you did." The loud buzz of his intercom startled the both of you and he reached over to answer it. "Yeah?" Lex's voice came over the speaker. "It's getting late have you finished your schoolwork yet?" "A-almost we've got a little bit left but it should just take a few minutes to finish." "Alright do I need to call y/n's parents to pick her up?" He looked to you and you shook your head no. "No she has her phone so she'll call them in a bit." "Alright then I'll leave you to it." With that he hung up and Connor sunk into his seat with a sigh of relief. You spoke up. "That scared the bejezus outta me!" He let's out a laugh. "Yeah me too, are you feeling better?" "Ye-yeah I am." You fidget with the hem of your shirt as he looks at you. "Well I guess we should get this finished." You nod and the both of you get back to work.

After you finished you called your mother to come pick you up and Connor escorted you out of the building waving to you as you drove off. He had a smile on his face as he walked back into the penthouse. He passed Lex on the way to his room and he gave him a knowing look shaking his head. "Teenagers."

[ambiguouspuzuma]

The Collector

There were collectors for every sort of thing, as Ruahei was slowly finding out. Children hoarded marbles and stickers, whilst adults sought out rare stamps and coins, classic cars and antique clocks, and anything in between. It seemed there was no limit to the human need for cataloguing stuff, and storing it in quantities which far surpassed their need. China plates and Russian dolls, bottlecaps and butterflies, second-hand records and first-edition books.

Ruahei was a collector of collections. Her home was filled with several similar arrays of minerals, stacks of matchbooks and autographs, each of them a trophy from a burglary gone by. There was always something about the satisfaction of a full set, the effort that had clearly gone into its completion, which she found irresistible. Not enough to have the patience for the slow hunt herself - but plenty enough to steal it once the boring work was done.

First of all, she collected information. Ruahei browsed certain forums, auction houses, garage sales and the occasional watering hole, listening out for an ill-judged boast or a proffered tip. Sometimes there was nothing, sometimes a whole glut of braggards, often somewhere in between. But lately, they were all telling her the same thing.

There was a new collector on the scene, a man with broad interests and deeper pockets. He was buying up antiquities, artefacts, valuable objects of every kind - but that wasn't all. The game's latest player was also investing in storage: a whole side of his house remodelled into a private gallery, filled with empty shelves and plinths on which to house his greatest treasures, whatever they might be. Nobody knew for sure, although they all liked to speculate.

A vast safe door, state-of-the-art, was brought in as the capstone to his project, the division between household and vault. That was the last detail they knew - after the works had been completed, the collector's doors had remained closed-off to the outside world. That was itself taken as a sign of the importance of his hoard. The gossipers' accounts differed as to its exact content, from lost artworks to secret letters, but all agreed that his collection must be majestic, inestimable, unique.

In other words, it would be the score to end them all. Ruahei couldn't resist a challenge, and so she began preparing for the greatest of her career. She collected every detail she could, assembling pieces of the jigsaw: the number of security cameras installed, the placement of these elusive pieces, tracking orders of plinths and shelves and bindings, presumably to suspend works from the ceiling. Her imagination ran wild, but her focus remained on what she knew, and what she might be able to do about it.

The front door was simple. Twice as thick as standard, triple bolted, no weak points like windows, a letterbox or even a keyhole. Well, that was easily dealt with: Ruahei went in through the kitchen window instead. The outside took a bit of manoeuvring - one undignified clamber over the garden fence, a second around an awkwardly placed hydrangea, which sat directly beneath the windowsill - but the countertops inside were clear, and she could scoot her way over the marble and onto the laminate floor.

From there, it was plain sailing. Ruahei had pulled old floorplans for the house from the purchase, and she knew exactly what had changed, where a wall had been knocked through and another one installed. She noted where the shade of the paint was slightly lighter, where the floorboards transitioned from old to new. There were fresh locks, too, which she picked the old fashioned way. It felt strange, as a thief, to head towards the place of most security, but that was always where the treasure was.

Ruahei padded softly through the empty rooms, ignoring other potential bounties in her path. A less discerning thief might have sprung for the oils on the walls, the silver cufflinks tossed so carelessly upon a desk, but they were barely even temptations. She wasn't here for a collection of two. A pair was nothing to the glory of a full house.

What she didn't see were the security cameras - although she knew that didn't mean that they weren't watching her, secreted into hidden nooks and crannies. She kept her head low, hood down, and moved as swiftly as she dared. No good could come of lingering. Every moment spent inside this house raised the risk of being caught, and Ruahei had no desire to see all of her careful plans undone by her own tardiness.

Only the safe itself brought her to a halt. The steel door was formidable, and this time there was no side window she could slip in through. Still, she had planned for that as well. It had been the last detail they knew, but the rumour-mongers had noted the make and model, and she had purchased one for her own burgeoning collection.

It had taken weeks to crack, but the men from the company had helpfully shown her how once she'd so carelessly forgotten her code. Practice had made her more adept than even them. It took a few more precious minutes, ears pricked for any movement behind her, but then it finally clicked open, two feet of steel swinging outwards on fresh hinges. Ruahei slipped around it. She was in.

But from the moment she entered the safe, she knew that she wasn't. The cameras were here, on the inside, for some reason - and they were the least of its surprises. There were bodies on the ground, fixed tight with the bindings she had thought meant for art. Some were moving, as if reacting to her presence, and breathed out faint words for her unhearing ears. They drew her focus, she only heard the clunk of the floor plate once it was too late.

Rauhei turned for the door, but two feet of steel could not be bargained with, and she was powerless to keep it from clicking shut again. She turned to face a room in darkness, but heard the security cameras swivel in her direction, followed by a man's deep voice.

"Welcome to my collection." The words seemed to echo within the walls of the safe, and the bodies on the floor cringed to hear it. "Which piece do you prefer? Is it all that you imagined you might steal?"

"Please," Ruahei called, and heard her own voice rebound in the confined space. There were no plinths here. No artefacts. This safe was nothing but a cell. "I was just curious. I promise I didn't take anything."

The voice laughed. "What might you have taken? If you came seeking those objects I purchased, I am afraid that I will have to disappoint you. I disposed of those myself, as privately as their acquisition was public. The bait had been set, you see. I needed only to buy them, and be seen to bury them somewhere in my control."

"But all those pieces... there were enough for a whole collection. Even all this work on your house, which was supposed to be a private gallery. It would have been easier just to keep them. Why go to all this trouble for a lie?"

"Such items hold no interest for me - so easily purchased and sold, relinquished at the flash of silver. The worth of a collection lies in the challenge of assembly, and I am afraid that wealth has taken that beyond my grasp, where mere chattels are concerned." The cameras moved again, as if to take in the others who lay bound around her, its vision piercing through the gloom. "Please, try to understand: I am no hoarder of trinkets. I am simply a collector of thieves."

[fandom-gt]

COMMISSION TYPE: Full Page + 2 Add-On

PRICE: 95

FANDOM: MCU CHARACTERS: Peter Parker, Pepper Potts

REQUESTED SUMMARY: ”I'm fine with my name not being on the blog post. If you feel that this doesn't match with your usual work, I'm fine with this not being posted on your wall as well. I'll leave it up to you

Set after No Way Home in a version of the MCU where tiny people are common and treated as second-class citizens or pets, Peter Parker(who has always been tiny) enters Pepper’s office after being hired for a job by the CEO that was listed specifically for a tiny person that includes free food and housing. He's a bit nervous, feeling weird that she doesn't remember him given how they were somewhat close before everyone's memory was erased. After Pepper greets him and states that he'll be working directly for her, she removes her heels and informs him that his new job is to pamper her by rubbing and licking her feet. Hesitant at first, Peter nonetheless complies and works on her soles as Pepper continues to work. Eventually, she ends up placing him in her heel to act as an insole and reveals that he'll be staying with her from now on, hence the free food and housing. Unable to do anything as Pepper puts the heel back on with him in it, Peter is forced to accept that his new life will be one serving at Pepper’s feet.”

WARNINGS: Objectification/dehumanization, feet, femdom,

——

Peter Parker sits in a plush, mass-manufactured waiting chair in the lobby waiting area of Stark Industries. Which is to say, he sits in a tiny chair, behind the masking-tape line of a three-foot square partitioned specifically for people his size, across the room from the bottom of the reception desk. A gap between the desk’s wooden front paneling and the floor beneath it stands taller than him, and he can see the peep-toed shoes of the receptionist idly tapping away before him. The thuds are loud, rhythmic, constant and, if he’s not mistaken, set exactly to the beat of Nicki MInaj’s Superbass. She probably doesn’t even realize she’s shaking his char with nonstop vibrations, she can’t possibly know that the miniscule tapping of her foot has such far-reaching impact.

He’s tempted to tell her, except that probably wouldn’t be a good first impression for the interview, would it? He sits in his little spider-sized chair, shuffling his paper-printed resume around in its perfect laminated sheets, because his aunt once told him that having a physical copy of it was a good habit. Even though, now that he’s thinking about it, that perfect Arial font at this scale would probably be much, much too small for someone their size to actually read. He feels, all of a sudden, quite stupid.

“Peter?” a voice booms from across the room, and he scrambles to his feet, looking up, up, up at the half-ajar door where Pepper Potts stands, searching the floor for several embarrassing seconds before her eyes finally find his diminutive form. Only when she can finally spot him does she smile, a tight, businesslike, professional expression levied at him as she nods her head toward her office. “I’m ready for you now.”

She holds the door open. He hurries across the scant few feet of flooring, breaking into a jog when the tense seconds begin to stretch and the awkwardness creeps up the back of his neck, searing his cheeks into a blush. He shouldn’t be embarrassed, he knows it — the ad was specifically for someone his size, and besides that, he knows Pepper, whether she remembers him or not. She’s Mr. Stark’s former fiancé, she’s always been nice to him when they met. Some kind shade just shy of maternal, willing to indulge him with gentle smiles, never judgmental, always encouraging of him despite his size making him, technically, a second-class citizen.

It still takes too many seconds for him to finally pass the threshold of her office. The door slams shut behind him in a manner so deep and resonating, he stumbles from the force of it. She doesn’t seem to notice as she steps in deep, booming, heel-clacking thuds around her own desk to sit down, patiently waiting for him to cross the short carpet fibers before her. He stops as close to her desk as he can manage, to the place where he can still see her face over the steep edge of it, and holds up his miniscule little quarter-inch resume as high as his tiny form will allow. “I, um- I brought this. It’s my resume, just in case… you… need it.”

She peers over him, one ginger eyebrow perfectly arched, cool and still, showing absolutely no intention to reach out and take it. “I thought they told you, you already got the job. Technically, you’ve been hired. All the paperwork’s filled out already. This isn’t an interview, Peter. This is your first day.”

“Oh,” he says meekly, hesitantly lowering his resume and tucking it lamely under his arm. “I thought- the docusign, I didn’t realize… I mean, they never even asked me to talk to anybody, I just thought-”

“This isn’t the kind of position that requires a formal interview,” Pepper says, folding her perfectly manicured hands across the desk and staring down at him. “You don’t need any particular accolades or special skills, apart from- your application states that you’re particularly durable and exceptionally athletic. If that’s the case, congratulations. You pass. You’ll be working directly under me, and you’ll be starting today. If that’s a problem, you’re welcome to leave now. Otherwise… I’d like you to get started as soon as possible.”

“Oh! No, that’s- no, ma’am. I mean, yes ma’am. I mean- yes, I’m durable, and athletic, and it’s not a problem. I can do whatever you need, as long as it comes with the room and board like the job listing said, I’ll do anything you need!” After Aunt May passed, with the world forgetting Spider-Man entirely, providing for himself has been a struggle. He can’t pay rent. He can’t pay anything. This job is really his only hope.

Above him, Pepper smiles benevolently and responds with a crisp, impatient, “Good. Then let’s begin.” Under the desk before him, he sees her feet begin to shift. One after another, with great wooshing suction sounds, Pepper kicks off heels each the size of a small apartment to him. Her bare, perfect, pale soles are exposed and then languidly stretched his direction.

“I’d like you to rub my feet, Peter,” she says, her voice thick and loud and ringing in his ears, and for a moment all he can do is stand there before her desk, staring up the sleek wooden surface to her sharp eyes miles above, stunned and uncomprehending. “Your… feet?” He repeats, swallowing thickly.

“That’s right,” she responds, unapologetic and just a little bit sharp. “That’s the job. That’s what you’re going to be doing. Rubbing, licking, massaging. Pampering my feet while I work. That’s why the listing requested someone your size, and someone… athletic. I’m very busy, and we’ve already gone over the time I allotted for your introduction, so if you don’t think this is a good fit, this is your last opportunity before I-”

“No!” He calls desperately, dropping his resume entirely and hustling to across the desk. “No, please, Mrs. Potts, I can do it. I- I’ll do it. I need this job. Whatever you want, I promise.”

“Good,” she responds, and then peels her eyes away from him to settle them on her computer monitor. Overhead, he hears the thunderous clacking of sharp nails on her computer keyboard as she gets to work, and a dozen yards before him lower to the ground at his level, her bare feet flex absently, expectantly. Swallowing, steeling himself, he jogs beneath the wooden slat of her desk toward them.

They loom overhead, each of them four or five times taller than he is, peachy and pedicured, but even despite how diligently she clearly cares for them and lotions them, they still smell… thick. Deep, heady, from the sweat and moisture that comes from shoes. A mixture of natural feminine body odor, leather, and the cherry-almond lotion she must use on them. The smell hits him like a brick wall, accompanied by a radiating and powerful body heat rolling from them. He stares up, reverent and uncomfortable, at a thick-skinned heel leading to a perfect arch, leading to the ball of her foot, leading to toes far above his head that scrunch absently, impatient.

And then, tentatively, he reaches out and presses both of his hands to the sole of her foot. It wrinkles beneath his palms, flexing absently beneath his ministrations, before smoothing out again. He musters all of his supernaturally enhanced strength, and he begins to rub, pressing and grinding his hands and forearms against the muscles and tendons that make up the bottom of her foot. Above his head, the typing falters for one surprised second. No tiny she’s ever hired before has managed to feel like that; as a matter of fact, even when she has them put every single scrap of enthusiasm they have into it, they barely manage it for a few seconds before she wears them out and grins them down into limp, expended nothing.

This, she thinks, might work out better than any tiny she’s employed to the position before. There’s just one thing. She shifts, rolling her wheely-chair out a few feet to stare down beneath her desk, between her legs, beyond the crisp black pencil skirt Peter can almost see up, to lock eyes with the tiny between the gap window of her big and second toe.

“Lick, Peter,” she instructs curtly, staring expectantly. He hesitates, but after her challenging, unblinking stare spans two, three, four seconds, he finally sticks out his tongue and begins to drag it up her sole. She smiles again, approving, and wheels her chair back in, returning to her work, enjoying the sensation of his tiny textured tongue and diligent hands massaging her sore, tired foot.

This goes on for nearly twenty minutes before Pepper retracts her left foot, only to absently and abruptly replace it with her right, nearly bowling him over with her inattentive, uncaring movement. He staggers, the wind knocked out of him, and then rises to begin the process all over again, lathing his tongue against the rough, leathery sole of her fresh right foot. By the time the hour’s up, even with his enhanced stamina and superhuman muscles, he’s beginning to feel the fatigue of the task.

Abruptly, and without a singular word of warning, Pepper’s feet shift. Her right foot slams his tiny body down onto the carpet, so she can absently root around with her toes, dragging them across his face, rolling them across his body until she can pick up the entire length of it with a simple scrunching of her feet, grasping him with the curl of her toes and lifting him from the ground – only to drop him from a few inches high into the perfectly worn sole of her black, close-toed high heel.

She shifts back away from the desk again just enough that he can see the undercut of her chin, rounded from this angle; the bottom of her nose, and her eyes.

“That was very good, Peter. I’d like to show you to your new home,” she says, and he sees her toes begin to encroach over the heel-curve of the shoe he’s now sprawled out in, on his back, staring up. “When I said you’d be working under me, I meant it literally. Your room will be my shoes. You’re going to be living under my foot from now on, for as long as you’re employed. You’ll be sleeping there, eating there, staying there, twenty-four seven. Your full-time job is my insole, unless I tell you to rub my feet. Like I said, no special skills required. Just durability. I’ll let you know when you’re needed again.”

“Wait, no, Ms. Potts-” He starts, but her foot is already sliding forward, looming in, eclipsing the light and his entire vision in darkness as her foot slides into the snug fit of her high heel, smushing him beneath the weight of it as she puts her shoe on proper and melds her entire weight onto his body. He is consumed, enveloped, and smushed under the arch of her foot.

And then she stands. And begins to walk, with great big thudding steps, swooping him over and over again before slamming her weight down on him during her casual stroll to the elevator.

[springfallendeer]

Training Day: Eclipse

Brothel AU Eclipse x (F)Reader

Contains things like toy use, biting, and of course its a brothel AU so the whole thing is about animatronic prostitutes

An anxious tremor rolls through you as you look at the door in front of you. Black, and unassuming. 

You hesitate to knock, rightly nervous of what awaits you on the other side.

But knock you must.

And knock you do.

Once. Twice. Thrice.

The door is pulled open, revealing the animatronic that awaits on the other side.

He is tall. Taller than any human could ever hope to be.

And he is beautiful.

The clothes clinging to his body are stunning. The silken fabric shimmers faintly with the light; their colors shifting from black to blue to the most vibrant shade of purple as your eyes scan them. 

His humanoid shape is painted with all the glimmering colors of the twilight sky. Pink, and blue. Gold, and purple. Speckles of white and silver mark his frame, creating the illusion of tiny stars.

His crown of solar rays shimmer with the colors of the northern lights. Their design is, no doubt, a means of drawing attention to his face. A face marked by the shape of a crescent moon. Shaded silver to gold in another beautiful gradient.

He allows you a moment to take in his stunning appearance. The faintest of smiles tugs at his features as he observes you in turn.

You’re quite plain compared to him. Just another naked ape. Basic, and equally as unassuming as his bedroom door.

“Primrose, I assume?” The animatronic calmly utters. His voice is smooth and deep. Like velvet.

“Daddy told me you’d be stopping by.” He adds, turning away from the doorway. He waves you into the room as he steps out of the way, giving you the space to squeeze by his massive frame.

You internally cringe at his voice of words as you move past him. Daddy.

It begins to dawn on you that you really have decided to work for a Pimp in an animatronic whorehouse. Even though you should have been prepared for this, having already gone through the whole interview process with the Pimp in question.

You’ve been given all of the needed information well ahead of time. All you need to do now is complete your training.

And this is your first day of training.

And this beautiful, intimidating animatronic, is your trainer.

You fight the urge to flinch as he closes the door behind you.

His room is surprisingly simple, compared to him.

The floor is dark blue, almost black, and it is carpeted. Though it's hard to describe what manner of carpet it might be. The material is plush enough that your feet sink somewhat into it as you walk. But the fibers are so densely packed together that the floor itself is smooth. If not for the lack of shine, you would have mistaken the floor for tile at first glance.

Laminated posters depicting cosmic scenery decorate the otherwise empty walls. The walls themselves are the most decorated thing in the room; outside of him. Painted in a blended gradient that mirrors his clothing. Black to blue. Blue to stunning purple.

There’s a flat screen television hung up on the wall next to a mirrored sliding closet door. The closet itself is shut, though you have an idea as to what hides inside of it.

There's a nice sized bed on the far right corner. Everything on it from the blankets to the pillows is a deep, auburn red. The fabric is no doubt equally as pleasant to the touch as his clothes must be. Thanks to its color, it stands out like a sore thumb, drawing your attention as soon as you spot it.

He motions for you to follow him once he’s gotten tired of letting you take in your surroundings.

You’re led to the left, to a small room. A room that might have been a bathroom at some point. Though it's clearly been repurposed to suit the needs of its inhabitant.

One wall is lined with cabinets full of neatly arranged wires. Above those cabinets are breaker boxes. All of them are closed and visibly locked.

There’s an exam table set up in the middle of the room.

He motions for you to approach it.

You curiously palm the padded surface. It’s most definitely been modified in an attempt at being made more comfortable.

There’s also buttons on it.

“Nervous?” The animatronic inquires. He doesn’t sound particularly curious or even worried. He must be trying to make small talk to chase away the uncomfortable silence.

You offer a nod in response, not trusting that your voice won’t crack if you speak.

“That’s normal.” He replies. You anxiously watch him as his eyes scan you.

All four of them.

You didn’t realize it at first, because he was keeping two of them closed up until now. But he has four eyes. The upper set are icy blue. The lower, ashy gray.

His stance changes as he studies you. He goes from seeming relatively laid back and relaxed, to tense. His posture straightens out, making him appear to visibly grow as he stares down at you.

This does nothing to put you at ease.

“My name is Eclipse.” He utters, calmly approaching you “Though I’m also known as Twilight. You can call me either.” He adds, reaching to trace your face with one of his four clawed hands.

“I will be your supervisor from here on out. Whatever questions or concerns you might have, you bring them to me. And I will relay them to Daddy.” He explains, lightly gripping your chin with his thumb and forefinger to coax you into looking up at him.

Again, he uses that unpleasant word.

The word that makes you mentally gag.

“Do you understand?” He inquires.

With him holding your face, you cannot nod. So there’s no choice but to use your voice.

“Y-yes, sir.” You respond. He releases your face.

“No need for the formalities. You’ll find that they make this line of work feel more awkward.” Eclipse replies, gently discouraging you from relying on overly polite pleasantries.

You nod again.

“Now. You’re here for your first day of training, yes?” He asks, taking half a step back so that you can have a bit more space.

Again, you nod.

“Alright.” He replies.

“First, I’ll walk you through your expected duties. After that, we’ll begin our first phase of training.” He states.

You nod once more, anxiously fidgeting with your skirt.

Your very short, very mandatory skirt.

Of course the Pimp would insist that his human workers dress the part. So you’re wearing a maid outfit. Thankfully it's not entirely revealing; if you were to bend over, your panties wouldn’t wind up being put on full display.

But given the context of the situation, you can’t help but assume that the attire was partly chosen for ease of access.

“Good.” Eclipse remarks.

“You’ve been brought on as part of the maintenance staff. Your tasks will include cooking, cleaning, and minor animatronic maintenance. Every shift, you’ll be put in charge of three rooms. The animatronics inside of them will be under your care for that day. You will feed them. You will clean their rooms. You will assess any needs they might have.” He explains, holding out a hand and extending his fingers one by one as he lists off the various tasks that will be expected of you.

“The animatronics under your care will require recalibration once a day. This is your most important task, and absolutely cannot be ignored. Everything else is effectively a formality to keep you busy and validate keeping you around.” He adds, nonchalantly telling you that the bulk of your job is just going to be busy work. Not that you have any issues with that. It's surprisingly refreshing to have a job laid out before you in such an honest manner.

“Once all of the animatronics have been recalibrated, so long as all of your other tasks are done, then you will be free to rest. While the animatronics are with clients, you’ll have nothing to do. But you’ll remain on call. As the animatronics finish with clients, you’ll be in charge of cleaning them up. Your priority is to get the animatronics cleaned up and ready for their next clients. If you get bored and feel like cleaning the rooms, then you can. But you do not have to. We have separate cleaning staff for that.” He elaborates, finishing up with his explanation of what your daily tasks will entail.

You nod again to let him know that you understand everything he’s said.

“Alright.” You murmur.

He nods at you, humming faintly as he does so.

“Once the animatronics are all cleaned up for the night, you’ll be free to retire to your quarters. We’re open from six at night to three in the morning. You’re off the clock from three AM, to eight AM. You deal with the animatronics from eight AM to one PM. You get a five hour break from one PM to six PM. And then you spend the next nine hours on call, helping the animatronics as needed, until you retire for the night. Understood?” He further expands, listing out in full detail what your hours will be.

You’ll get a guaranteed ten hours to yourself a day, in five hour increments. But nine of the fourteen hours that you’ll be expected to work, will be spent on call. So even though a fourteen hour day sounds like a lot, the reality is probably that you’ll spend more time idle than active.

You nod again, confirming that you understand everything he’s said.

“Good.” Eclipse replies, before he begins undoing the pretty ruffles that act as his belt.

“Now, we begin your training. I’d recommend taking off the skirt. Y’know. To keep it clean. But if you’d rather leave it on, that’s up to you.” He suggests.

You feel your cheeks heat up in response to his words.

Right.

Yes.

Calibrating an animatronic involves having sex with them. This was explicitly stated during your interview. Something about the systems struggling to pinpoint potential issues if the animatronic wasn’t actively doing… Things.

Despite having been warned well ahead of time, you can’t help but get embarrassed.

Still, you obediently listen to what he’s said.

You slip off your shoes and stockings.

Then you awkwardly remove your skirt, attempting to keep your eyes on the floor all the while.

Which is difficult, because Eclipse is also getting himself naked from the waist down. You catch the sight of his pants pooling around his ankles as you slide your skirt down your legs.

Your cheeks flush further as you inevitably look at him.

At first, he doesn’t appear to have anything between his legs. But he’s tapping a metal plate that covers his groin.

That plate retracts into his body.

Two very long, very distracting, tentacle-like penises slide out of the freshly exposed silicone mass.

They’re such a lovely shade of lavender.

You have to force yourself to look away just to keep yourself from staring.

You lift your hands to your panties. You hook your fingers into the elastic band.

Momentarily, you hesitate.

Eclipse steps right in front of you.

‘Don’t look’ you think to yourself, knowing full well what you’ll encounter if you lift your face.

Curse your human curiosity.

You look up and inevitably come face to face with his crotch.

Not really. He’s a bit taller than you. But you have such a clear view of what he’s packing and he shows no shame as he effectively puts his dicks in your face.

You naturally freeze in response.

How are you supposed to react to this?

Are you supposed to touch him? Is he telling you to suck on them?

All he’s doing is staring at you.

He’s clearly amused, given the small smirk tugging at his features.

He leans down ever so slightly, thankfully pulling his pelvis a bit further away from your burning cheeks as he does so.

You squeak as his hands cover yours.

He hooks his fingers into your panties.

Down they go. In one fluid motion. Nice and easy.

Using his other set of hands, he carefully guides you back as you step out of your clothes. He picks them up, neatly folds them, and then sets them aside on the nearby shelf.

“Alright” Eclipse chuckles, an obvious note of amusement in his voice “lets get started.” He states.

You instinctively use your hands to cover your bare crotch, embarrassed. He doesn’t say or do anything to discourage it. Likely because he finds it funny.

“We’ll start out nice and easy. I have female parts. So I’ll walk you through the process of making sure everything is up and order down there.” He utters, making his way over to the padded exam table. He makes a few adjustments, extending the headrest and pulling up some leg braces, before he climbs up on the table.

With a few more adjustments, he’s put into a more comfortable position. His legs are supported and held apart by the braces. He’s resting with his back and head propped up on the now inclined exam table.

He very much looks ready for a pelvic exam.

In a roundabout way, that’s what you’re going to give him. Only instead of using proper medical tools, you’re probably going to be using toys.

You shyly approach him as he motions for you to come closer.

“There’s two drawers under me. The upper one contains a simple control panel. Open it, and press the yellow button.” Eclipse requests, giving you some simple, straight to the point instructions.

You comply, trying to ignore his on-display crotch as you bend down between his legs.

Inside of the drawer in question is a big black control panel. It's very simplistic in design. There are four easy to spot buttons. A red one, a green one, a yellow one, and a blue one. These are likely the only buttons that matter to you.

You quickly press the yellow button.

A small computer screen descends from the ceiling above you. You hadn’t even realized that it was there.

“There we go!” Eclipse chuckles, putting a bit of enthusiasm in his voice. Possibly in an attempt to encourage you.

“Now. I can’t see from where I’m sitting. Is the screen on?” He inquires.

You glance at the screen for a moment. It’s on. There’s a window with a white background and red text flashing on the screen.

You nod.

“Y-yes.” You reply, further verifying that the screen is, in fact, on.

“Good. Good.” Eclipse hums, folding his hands on top of his chest as he makes himself more comfortable.

“Now. There should be a flashing window on the screen. It’ll say ‘Detect Animatronic’. Tap the screen to confirm and begin the calibration process.” He requests.

You comply, tapping the little “OK” button on the screen.

Immediately, a loading symbol appears on screen. It looks like a little rolling ball. Not exactly fascinating, but you definitely stare at it in an attempt to keep from looking at Eclipse’s bare genitals.

After roughly a minute a quiet, musical chime sounds from the display. The screen flashes green to confirm that it’s detected Eclipse. His name appears on screen, along with a silhouette of his body plan.

“There we go! I’m connected.” Eclipse exclaims, confirming that he’s connected to the system for the procedure.

“Now. Back to the control panel. Press the green button to begin the diagnostic scan.” He requests.

Again, you comply. And again, you try not to stare at his crotch as you bend over to press the button in question.

The buffering symbol appears on the side of the screen, along with a little gauge that displays how far along the diagnostics scan is.

“Good. Now you can go ahead and close the control panel. We won’t need it for a while.” He requests; you close the drawer.

“Now for the fun part” He chuckles “open the bottom drawer. Pick whatever tool you like.” He requests.

You comply, and your cheeks flush further.

Naively, you forgot that the tools in question were going to be sex toys, and that they were going to be used on him.

You freeze up for a moment, as your mind needs the time to process what you’re doing. Thankfully, the animatronic doesn’t stir up a fuss. He just sits patiently and waits for you to pick your desired tool.

You wind up grabbing a bright red dildo before nearly slamming the drawer shut.

By the time you stand back up to face him, your cheeks are burning so intensely that your eyes threaten to start watering. He pays your embarrassment no mind.

“Alright. I’ll assume you know how to use that~?” He muses, clearly teasing you as he speaks.

You shyly nod, coaxing a chuckle out of him.

“Well then. Hop to it. Don’t be shy~ I’m not that delicate.” He replies, giving you the go ahead to begin the procedure.

Still, you hesitate.

Shouldn’t you be using lube? Or wearing gloves? Wouldn’t it be unpleasant to just stick the rod in dry?

He either senses your hesitation or just doesn’t care. Either way, he reaches between his legs with one hand. 

His wrist sits nestled between his fully erect, very active tentacles.

Using his fingers, he spreads the nearly invisible folds of his artificial vulva so that you can clearly see his vaginal cavern.

“Go on~” He purrs, almost sounding eager.

You shouldn’t be caught off guard by his enthusiasm. He’s an animatronic sex worker. He’s been programmed to enjoy this sort of thing.

Unlike a human, he can’t get tired of having excessive amounts of sex. He probably enjoys himself the most when he’s being deviant.

You take a deep breath as you move closer to him.

You reach out to press the head of the admittedly large dildo against his spread orifice.

You’re admittedly surprised with how easily it slides in. Not just the tip. You’re able to push the entire toy into him in one, smooth motion.

His body really has been designed for this sort of stuff, hasn’t it?

Eclipse lets out a content purr as you fill him up.

“T h a t ’ s   i t ~” He erotically trills, his apparently forked tongue darting past his lips to lick the side of his mouth as he grins.

“Now, pump it as you watch the screen. If a window pops up, all you’ll ever need to do is tap the screen. Easy peasy~” He purrs. For as aroused as he sounds, he’s somehow able to keep speaking to you with perfect clarity.

As an advanced AI, he’s able to focus on you without being overly distracted by the pleasure.

Despite your embarrassment, you comply.

Admittedly, his eagerness encourages you. It motivates you, even. As you begin to slowly work the toy in and out of him, he makes no attempts at stifling his voice.

He’s not loud. But he’s definitely not quiet.

He growls. He purrs. He moans.

He murmurs little words of encouragement.

“Right there~”

“Just like that~”

“K e e p   g o i n g ~”

It's difficult for you to ignore your own growing arousal as you stimulate him with the toy.

It’s also difficult for you to keep your eyes on the display screen when he’s making all of these pleasant sounds. You can’t help but want to look at his face. You want to see his expression.

But he’s told you to keep your eyes on the screen. So you do.

But nothing ever pops up. No flashing windows. No nothing.

The little gauge on the corner of the screen just seems to freeze at 49% for a long while.

You clearly feel and hear Eclipse orgasm when that gauge reaches 50%.

His vulva clamps down on the toy like a vice, making it difficult for you to move it.

You can’t help but look at him.

He’s got such a blissed out expression. His tongue; no, his tongues, dangle from his mouth as he lets out a loud moan.

His whole body trembles as he rides out his orgasm.

You can tell that it’s over when his insides suddenly relax enough for you to pull the toy out of him.

It is very wet.

Eclipse lets out a little chuckle as he appears to quickly compose himself.

“Good job~” He hums, lifting a hand to run his palm along the side of his head.

If he had hair, he probably would have been brushing it out of his eyes. But all he really does is make his pretty aurora hued rays click in and out of his head.

You can’t help but be a tiny bit startled by how quickly he’s recovered from what looked like a very intense orgasm.

“Everything appears to be in order with me downstairs. So we’re all sorted.” He remarks, leaning forward.

“Set the toy aside, I’ll clean it later. For now, pull the control panel back out and press the blue button.” He requests.

You comply. Just as before, you do your best to refrain from looking at his genitals as you bend over to access the drawers.

You pull the drawer out, press the blue button, and hear movement.

You look up as you shut the drawer. The display screen is pulled back into its original position on the ceiling.

Eclipse pulls his legs off of the braces and turns to get off of the exam table as you stand back up.

“... Are we done?” You awkwardly ask. 

The gauge had stopped completely at 50%. Surely you weren’t done yet, right?

“No, not yet. We’re only half done.” Eclipse responds, gently ushering you out of the way as he readjusts the examination table.

He returns it to its original state as a flat bed. At which point, he proceeds to pat the padded surface with one of his many hands.

“Alright. Climb up and lay on your stomach.” He commands.

The startled, embarrassed noise that escapes you in response could have been mistaken for some sort of bird mating call.

“What?!” You blurt out, flustered beyond belief.

Yes, you realize your own foolishness for questioning him. You had been warned that you would be doing this sort of stuff.

But still, you couldn’t help but be incredibly, painfully embarrassed. Especially with how casual he was being about it.

The animatronic lets out a little laugh, clearly amused by your plight.

“You certainly make some fun noises, don’t you~?” He teases.

You shyly cover your face in response, trying to hide your burning cheeks. But you comply with his request.

Up on the exam table you climb.

You settle down on top of it, doing your best to get comfortable.

The table would be surprisingly comfortable, if not for the circumstance.

You nervously shiver as Eclipse approaches you. He spends a short while setting up the table accordingly.

He starts in front of you, showing you how to find a smaller display that was tucked away inside of the exam table. With his help, you pull it out of its hiding place and adjust it so that it hovers a few inches away from your face.

The display is on and clearly shows where you’ve left off with the diagnostics scan.

Once you’re all set, he walks around your side to get behind you. Your nervousness only grows as he does so.

The leg braces are pulled back out, and readjusted.

Your breath hitches in your throat as his hands find your ankles.

You squeak as he casually tugs you backwards so that your pelvis rests right at the edge of the exam table. Your legs are nonchalantly pulled apart and set up on the leg braces.

Your legs are kept secure by some little bars that run along the edges of the brace. You can probably close them if you try, but Eclipse is stood between them. So you decide against it.

Your heart rate quickens as you feel his hands caressing your legs.

He starts at your ankles, allowing his fingers to gently trace the skin. He teases you with his claws as he trails upwards to your calves.

At no point does he harm you, but he certainly teases you with the idea that he might.

When his hands reach the backs of your knees, he’s able to wrap his fingers around you. At which point, he proceeds to run his palms up your thighs, lightly squeezing all the while. 

Until at least, his hands reach the base of your legs.

You bite your lips as you feel him squeezing you there. His fingers rub against your skin. He’s just a hair away from squeezing your ass. Just a slip away from rubbing his fingers against your shamefully damp folds.

“Excited already~?” He remarks, teasing you by calling attention to your arousal. He chuckles in response to the flustered whine that escapes you in response.

“No need to be embarrassed. I do have that effect on people~” He muses.

You squeak as you feel his fingers touch you.

He spreads your lower lips so that he can better examine your body; just as he had done to himself when you were examining him.

“Besides. It’ll certainly make this easier~” He hums.

You shudder as he spreads you wider.

Then you feel something brush against your twitching orifice.

“E-Eclipse!” You stammer out, heavily embarrassed and rightly nervous. For as shamefully excited as you are, there’s absolutely no way that you’re ready to take him as is.

He has two of them. And they’re big. Bigger than any toy you’ve dared to try and use in the past.

He only offers another hum in response, pressing inside of you as he does so.

Oh thank God, it’s only his fingers.

“Fuck~ I’d love to taste you. But business before pleasure~” He remarks, seemingly impressed with the feel of you squeezing around his fingers.

He starts to work them into you. Meticulously.

Starting with two. He pumps them slowly, fanning them out in a scissoring motion every so often in order to stretch you out for him.

Additional fingers are added as needed as your body slowly opens up for him.

No force on earth could hope to keep you quiet as he stretches you out.

But no matter how skilled his fingers might be, he could never hope to stretch you enough to accommodate him. You know it and he knows it.

So you remain anxious when you feel him withdraw his fingers.

“Alright. Deep breath now.” Eclipse commands, giving you clear warning that he’s about to slip inside.

You comply, taking in as deep of a breath as you can muster.

He’s pressing into you before you can even start to exhale.

“That’s it, Primrose~ Now let it out slowly.” He purrs, using your new name, while he eases his way into your body.

You try. Fuck, do you try.

But your exhale leaves you as a brown out, breathless moan as he makes himself at home.

He stretches you to the brink of breaking.

What little pain there is is overwhelmed by the constant supply of pleasure as he presses in completely. He doesn’t stop until he’s buried himself to the hilt; and he only gets bigger as he does.

A tremor rolls through you as his pelvis presses flush against your ass.

He’s put both of those monsters inside of you, you just know it. How else would he have pressed so close to you without you feeling the extra one wriggling about in need.

“B-both?...” You breathlessly stammer out, almost forgetting to expand your lungs again. He chuckles, leaning over on top of you.

Two of his hands press against the padding of the exam table.

The other two reach forward to cradle your head. One wraps under your chin. The other rests on the top of your head.

“Eyes on the display, Rosie~ Show me you can handle your job.” He chuckles, forcing you to keep your face directed at the display.

He starts to roll his hips.

The moan that passes your lips is loud and embarrassing.

But you keep your eyes locked on the display. Even as he begins to fuck you silly. You don’t really have much of a choice.

He grunts and growls as he destroys your body. Not that you’ll complain. For as intense as it is, it feels incredible. Every roll of his hips sends jolts of pleasure rushing through you, and they settle in the base of your skull.

If mindfucking was a thing, then this must have been the closest thing to it.

He could have told you to do anything, and you would have been willing to do it. So long as he kept making you feel so good.

You watch as the little gauge at the corner of the display gradually increases.

60%

65%

69%

A flashing window pops up. “Blockage detected”.

You struggle to bring your hand to the screen to tap the little button that says “Repair now?”.

His dicks-

fucking-

vibrate-

inside of you-

after you press that button.

He lifts his hand to allow you to throw your head back as your orgasm hits you like a truck. The hand that one held your chin moves to lightly squeeze your throat as you submit yourself entirely to the overwhelming pleasure.

“Oh, that’s a fun reaction~” Eclipse trills, gently squeezing your throat. Not enough to prevent you from breathing, but enough to make you wheeze. His hips don’t slow down even as he overstimulates you with the unexpected vibrating of his tentacles. Instead, he seems to just pick up the pace as he leans over further to lock eyes with you.

“Daddy found a good one this time~” He purrs, his tongues darting past his lips so that he can tease your cheek and ear.

You can’t even be bothered to be bothered by his statement.

Especially not when his tongues sneak to your mouth to slip past your open lips.

Your eyes widen as he proceeds to kiss you.

He leads into it with his tongue, shoving it into your throat before leaning down to lock lips with yours.

He sucks his tongue back into his mouth as he does so, leaving only the tips of them in yours by the time his mouth claims you.

It is a passionate, intense kiss.

He gropes your tongue with both of his.

He only stops to let you breathe, before kissing you again.

His throat slides into your throat one more time before he breaks the kiss abruptly.

He adjusts his hands to force your face forward again, assuring that your eyes remain locked on the screen.

But now, as he growls, you can tell that he’s frustrated.

For what reason, you have no idea. But everything about his grip and about how he’s taken to slamming his hips into you establishes that he’s very, very frustrated.

Another popup flashes upon the screen, giving you your answer.

“Orgasm failure. Repair now?”.

The diagnostics are 99% complete. He sure did jump from 69% to 99% fast; but now he can’t get off. He can’t cross that final threshold.

You know what’ll happen if you press that button.

He knows what’ll happen if you press that button.

So why, oh why, does he decide to pin you down?

His hands leave your head so that they can wrap around your torso. You whine pathetically as he proceeds to squeeze you against his chest.

He’s got your arms trapped.

You can’t press the button.

He continues to violently rut against you, but no amount of stimulation can hope to get him off.

But he’s not really trying to get off, is he?

He’s nibbling on your ear. He’s grunting your name as he fucks you into the table.

He’s clearly trying to draw out the pleasure, because this ends as soon as you press that button.

“Eclipse~...” You breathlessly mewl his name as you feel another orgasm rushing to take hold of you. You don’t know why. You don’t know if you mean to try and reason with him or if your sex fogged brain just wanted to praise him for his efforts.

Either way, you clearly flipped his switch.

A sharp sting resonates from the back of your neck as you clench down around him. He sinks those sharp teeth of his into your flesh as you orgasm again.

This time, he makes you squirt.

He makes you squirt like the shameless whore you’ve agreed to be by taking this job.

He doesn’t let go of your throat, but he moves one of his arms so that you can reach for the button.

You can reach for the button if you try. All you have to do is pull your arm.

The pleasure is incredible, you don’t want it to stop.

But you know it has to stop. He might literally fuck you to death if you don’t take this opportunity.

You free your arm. He bites you harder as you reach for the button.

You press it.

He floods your insides with whatever the fuck it is that they use to make his synthetic semen.

He finally relaxes his jaw as he climaxes.

You tremble and whine at the feel of his tongues tracing the bleeding wound as his hips finally start to slow down.

The floor in here is tile. You realize that much when he finally slips out of you. Because when the contents of your vagina spill out, they splatter audibly upon the floor.

The display is flashing again.

The diagnostic is complete. Eclipse is good and sorted.

You are absolutely exhausted. Damp with sweat, and sore all over.

There’s a dull ache between your legs, reminding you of how much of a strain it must have been for your body to accommodate his size.

“You did well~” Eclipse purrs, purposefully tracing the individual puncture wounds on your neck with his tongues. You shudder in response. The pain mixes with the pleasure and makes you tingle in a way you aren’t prepared to confront. He doesn’t pull away from you just yet.

“Goodness, it looks like I overdid it~” He chuckles, shifting so that he can nuzzle the back of your head.

If he could breathe, he would probably smell your hair.

“I’ll get you cleaned up. It's the least I could do.” He murmurs, slowly pulling himself off of you.

He carefully extracts you from the table.

Your clothes are left behind as he brings you back into the main room.

The mirrored closet is revealed to not be quite what you thought it was. One door slides away to lead to the closet. The other door slides in the opposite direction to reveal a washroom.

It's just a big walk in shower. Chances are that every animatronic has one. How else would you be expected to clean them?

He tries to set you down, but you can’t stand. Not on your own. So he moves you over to the wall. There’s a rail for you to cling to.

Cling to it you do.

It starts to rain indoors. The entire room is one big shower. The walls and ceiling are decorated with thousands of tiny faucets. But only the ones nearest to you activate.

You have no idea how they activate, but the hot water is greatly appreciated right now.

Eclipse keeps hold of your hips to make sure you don’t fall as the water sprays against you. It pours from the ceiling.

You stare down at the floor.

His artificial semen is smeared all over your thighs.

It’s thick and sticky. Slightly opaque. The same lavender color as his tentacles. You can’t help but think that it looks like slime.

Eclipse washes you. He carefully wipes down your body with a soft washcloth as the water pours over your exhausted body.

You let out a quiet hiss as his fingers sneak into you.

Not to play with you, but to clean you.

More of his semen spills out of you. It drips all over his hand.

Your face flushes.

You fucked the animatronic.

You took a job where you would be expected to fuck the animatronics, and you actually saw it through.

Do you regret it? Should you quit?

You aren’t sure. But as Eclipse’s hands caress your sore body and the hot water washes away the evidence of the event, you can’t help but feel satisfied.

Maybe it's too soon to say if this job isn’t right for you.

You haven’t even met the other animatronics yet. It would be a waste of all your efforts to quit now.

Might as well stick around until you’ve seen what the others are like.

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