#locksmith in bury

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

The little group of citizens looked at the jack-in-a-box with no little apprehension. They were safely huddled up together on the other side of the room, but the box was shaking and groaning. It wouldn’t hold much longer. They all knew that Villain was inside, but their abilities were... unclear. No one wanted to know more. They nervously glanced at the Hero who'd brought them all together.

"What are we doing here ?" someone asked.

Hero gave them all a kind, reassuring smile.

"You know, there's something I believe deeply", she said, her hand on her heart. "I think all of us are heroes inside."

"What does that mean ?"

Hero kept smiling while putting her hand on the door knob:

"That means, dear citizens...that I'm sure you can deal with Villain all by yourselves ! It will be good for you ! Byyyyye !"

The door closed on her, leaving the citizens frozen with surprise. A key turned into the lock. For a moment, all they could hear was her running away.

“It’ll be all right”, said someone to break the terrified silence.

“Really ? How can you tell ?”

“Well, you've heard her ! We’re all heroes, aren’t we ?”

“No we’re bloody not !” yelped the other one. “I am an accountant, and you work at the post office ! It’s not a hero we need, it’s a locksmith ! Is there one in the room ?”

“Yeah”, said a middle-aged woman, “but I don’t have my tools.”

“Then improvise something, lady ! We’re running out of time !”

The locksmith scratched her head and knelt in front of the lock.

“Does someone have a hairpin or a paper clip ?”

“Yes,” answered a nurse who was on her coffee break, “take it”.

“See ?” asked the accountant. “That’s what real heroes look like to me. Doing the real work for us so we can run the hell out of here.”

“It can’t be that bad,” insisted the postman stubbornly. “A real hero wouldn’t have put us in danger. The box is locked, after all. Maybe it's a test. Maybe she went out to find help.”

“For what, burying our bodies ?”

The box exploded. Confetti flied across the room. Slowly, Villain raised from their former trap.

“Muahaha”, they said in a polite effort to keep the conversation alive.

It didn’t quite work, so they added:

“Beware mortals, for I take the shape of your greatest fear !”

“Calm down,” barked the accountant. “We don’t have the key either. We can’t free -”

He stopped, as he suddenly realized that admitting to the villain that they couldn’t run away was probably not the best idea. Meanwhile, the nurse gasped, having made a realization of her own:

“That’s why we’re a group ! You can’t be the fears of everyone at once!”

“True, but I can take the shape of universal fears. It’s your choice, really.”

To prove their abilities, the Villain shaped themself into an abyss of absolute darkness, the grim reaper, and a very expensive medical bill.

“Aaaaah”, howled the whole group, convinced.

The locksmith, who was in tears after seeing the bill, whispered:

“We have no choice. Someone has to face their fears. It’s the only way to win alive.”

“All right, but who goes first ?”

The postman went first. He tried hard. He tried really hard at every step. “After all, we’re all heroes”, he repeated to himself, until Villain transformed into the brother who raised him saying “I’m disappointed in you.”

He collapsed.

The accountant went second. It is a known fact that most accountants are full of repressed rage. This one was very eager to share it with Villain and, if he may be quoted, “to punch their fucking guts out”. He ran and nearly landed a hit, but Villain dodged and showed him his own body with his insides out, in a sea of blood.

He collapsed.

When the nurse went, she was rather sure of herself. She had a fear of blood but with her job she had it under control. Then the Villain showed her all her patients dying, and she realized she couldn’t erase this fear or that would have made her a monster.

So she collapsed.

Villain stepped towards the locksmith, who during all that time was desperately trying to open the door. It wasn’t that the lock was hard, but her fingers were shaking too much, tears blinded her, and she was huddled in a corner, crying her eyes out.

Villain frowned. They transformed again – and again, and again. They screamed in frustration, then in terror. That didn’t help them.

They exploded.

When all the group regained their consciousness, they demanded an explanation. The locksmith squeaked:

“I didn’t know ! Of course I didn’t know ! But...when I think about it...that makes sense.”

“What makes sense ?”

“I think...I forced them to take too many forms at the same time, and at the end they couldn’t cope.”

“How did you do that ?”

“Oh”, said the nurse, who nodded.

“What ? It’s some kind of special ability ?”

“It depends from the point of view, I suppose.”

“Well, what is it called ?”

“Generalized anxiety.”

*

Back to Hero x Villain Masterlist

[slafkovskys]

"I have a key, it's not breaking an entering," with blanks bc he would have keys to everyone’s place when he was the captain

you won’t lie and say that it wasn’t a surprise to see his car pulled tight against the curb on your street. it was a surprise because as far as you knew, he was supposed to be going to his own home that day to spend time with his family before midterms.

you pull into the otherwise empty driveway and make haste of grabbing your bag, fumbling with your keys to find the one that would unlock your front door because you weren’t exactly sure when your brother or his teammates were supposed to be home.

you find nick splayed out on the couch like he paid rent, head tucked on his arm and lips parted as he slept. some show he always watched, but you had yet to learn the name of, was playing on the tv as you cross the creaky wooden floor to him. you grab one of the pillows he wasn’t propped on and wack him across the head, startling him out of his slumber, “wake up!”

he shoots up, searching around the room frantically for the culprit, but once he finds that it was only you, he sinks back down onto the couch, “why would you do that, y/n?”

“why would you fall asleep on the couch knowing that anyone could come home at any second? like,” you throw the pillow on top of him and make your way to the kitchen, setting your bag on the counter, “do you want us both to wind up on missing posters?”

“i did a subtle location check. i thought we would be good,” he sighs. “i didn’t count on you not being here.”

“i have friends here too, nick,” he rounds the corner with a pout on his lips. he crowds you against the corners and leans forward, but you put a hand to his chest, “first tell me how you got in here and do i need to call a locksmith to come to fix the door because you decided to do a little breaking and entering?”

he sends you a sly smile, “i have a key. it’s not breaking and entering.”

“why do you have a key to my brother’s house?” he avoids your question, choosing to trail kisses down your neck instead, “nicholas van blankenburg, answer my question.”

“you don’t have to government name me,” he mumbles, squeezing your hips and burying his face in the crook of your neck. “i either have a key to everyone’s house or know where they keep the spare in case they don’t show up for practice so that i can come and check on them. i am a good captain, y/n.”

“are you? because instead of using the key for its intended purpose, you’re using it to get laid,” you click your tongue, “with your alternate’s sister no less. that doesn’t sound very good to me, babe.”

“wait, i’m getting laid?”

come join prompt night!

[katelynnwrites]

pairing: Ona Batlle x f!reader

warnings: big ouch sorry

word count: 1734

summary: ona is the only one who can unlock your heart, even after she left you to go back to play for barcelona. based off sadie jean’s new song, locksmith which i waited months for

a/n: can you feel my heartbreak?

Locksmith

This is the last song I'll write about you

I need to move on, I think you do too

The last of the clothes Ona had left in your apartment was packed up but you couldn’t bring yourself to make the short walk to the post office.

Mailing it to Barcelona would mean losing the last part of her you had to Spain. It would mean finally admitting to yourself that she was gone. No sign of her would be left in your life.

Except in your journal and in your heart. Today, you decided, would be the last time you wrote about Ona in it.

You were all that I wanted, you know that you still are

'Cause I've been alright, yeah, but you showed me better

I know that we're changin' but nothin' feels different

I'm breakin' the silence to say

You never thought you would break up with Ona. Maybe that’s why you didn’t see her breaking up with you as a possibility either. You loved her. You really really did. She made your life better. The Spanish girl came into your life and showed you that you weren’t really living till you met her. She taught you how to enjoy life.

She was your girlfriend for two years and now she was your ex. You didn’t quite know how to process that piece of information.

She was, is the love of your life and now that she had broken up with you, you were just supposed to stop loving her? You didn’t know how to do that.

You always knew that her time at Manchester United would be temporary but you never thought she’d end your relationship when she left. Especially without talking to you about it. She’d just left.

If in ten years time I'm still on your mind

Would you call and say you want this?

You end up mailing Ona’s things to her. Two months later and you mail your journal to her too.

You simply couldn’t stand having it in your apartment anymore. All your best memories of your time together were carefully written in it.

Too many late nights had been spent crying over those pages, your tears smudging the ink. Too many other nights had been spent filling the remaining pages of the journal with thoughts about how much you missed her. With how much you still loved her.

You couldn’t bear to throw the precious journal away so late one night you brought it to the post office and mailed it to Barcelona before morning could come and change your mind.

No matter where we are, you still have my heart

'Cause I locked it, and I promise

You're the locksmith

Ona was more than a thousand miles away from you and yet your heart still belonged to her. Despite the fact that she was the one who had broken your heart in the first place, you locked it for her. Only she could unlock it now.

You saw her life through pictures and it ached that she was so far away from you. Ona looked happy, playing for Barcelona and you were happy for her. You knew that it had been her dream since she was a little girl and you were proud of her achievement.

You just wished you had been beside her when she’d achieved it.

We said forever and said it too soon

At least now I know, nobody feels like you do

‘I want you with me forever.’ Ona murmurs as she kisses the side of your neck. Her hand which is resting under your shirt, begins to rub tiny comforting circles into your skin.

‘That sounds good to me.’ You whisper back, soaking in the feeling of being loved.

Ona can’t help the way her eyes widen. Forever is a long time. A long time to promise.

‘Really?’ Her voice comes out quiet and vulnerable. The girl she loved more than anything couldn’t be saying she wanted to be by her side forever?

‘Yeah. Really.’ You promise, sealing it with a kiss placed against Ona’s lips.

Ona hugs you tightly, burying her nose in your hair and inhaling the beloved scent which she had come to know and love so dearly.

Barely holding back her tears, she moves her hands to cradle your head, kissing you as lovingly as she could.

The feel of someone else’s lips on yours snaps you out of the memory. Drunk as you are, you know that whoever’s kissing you isn’t Ona. Now you know that nobody feels like Ona.

Stuttering apologies at the other girl who you had unintentionally led on, you stumble out of the bar.

You should have known that letting Alessia and Tooney set you up would be a bad idea.

You were all that I wanted

You know that you still are

I'm breaking the silence to say

You never heard back from Ona after you sent her her remaining belongings. You don’t know why you got your hopes up that you would hear back from her after you sent her the journal.

If in 10 years time

I'm still on your mind

Would you call and

Say you want this?

The former Manchester United full back stared at the journal on her coffee table. It had been left in the exact same spot for the last month. Ona couldn’t bring herself to read it and yet couldn’t bring herself to mail it back to you, or worse, throw it away.

No matter where we are

You still have my heart

'Cause I locked it

And I promise

You're the locksmith

Ona reads the journal. She picks it up after a bad game and after reading the first sentence, couldn’t stop. Her fingers trace over your tear stains on the pages. She reads all about the happy memories the two of you had shared, discovers all the little things you adored about her and learns about the love you still have for her.

The sheer amount of pain that had hit her after that, she couldn’t even cry. Entirely broken, the Spanish girl curled herself into a ball on her couch and stayed there.

You're the one that I can see me growin' old with

Build a house, I see it now, you plant me roses

And everything we dreamed about, came into focus

Here's to hopin'

It wasn’t unusual for you to wake up with dried tear tracks on your face. It happened whenever you dreamed of Ona which occurred far more often than you would dare admit out loud.

This time, you’d dreamt of a house. A house that you and Ona had once talked about late one night as she held you in her arms.

A house with a backyard and a mini goal that Ona insisted your future children would make good use of. At the time you could see it focus because you couldn’t imagine spending your life with anyone but your girl but now it was all blurry and out of focus.

You knew that your teammates worried about you. You knew that they were protective but you didn’t know the extent of it.

A couple of months after Ona had left you, Millie found you crying in the empty locker room as you stared at what used to be Ona’s locker.

Right after giving you a big hug and letting you cry on her shoulder, she’d left a rather nasty voicemail for Ona, detailing and blaming her for your heartbreak.

It brings the Catalan to tears when she hears it. She’d never meant to hurt you this badly, had never meant to break you. Ona had wanted to spare you the pain she thought a long distance relationship would bring you. She was willing to break her own heart for you but now the full back wasn’t sure if what she had done was the right decision

And Ona didn’t know how she could fix it.

Not talking to you before she packed up all her things and left you gave her nightmares. That devastated expression on your face haunted her.

She’d wake up sobbing for you, reaching out across the bed only to realise you weren’t there. You would probably never be there again, would most likely never hold her, kiss her or comfort her again. She’d lost those rights when she had left you behind and Ona knew that it was no one’s fault but her own.

If in ten years time I'm still on your mind

Could you call and say you want this?

It wasn’t ten years but ten months. Ten months of heartbreak before Ona can’t take it anymore and picks up her phone, dialling your number.

‘Hello?’

The moment’s silence before you answer makes Ona’s anxiety spike.

What if she was too late?

‘Hi Ona.’ Your voice is measured and calm, hiding just how anxious you are.

Why was she calling you? Did something happen to her? Was she missing you just as you were missing her?

‘Hi.’ She whispers. Ona could cry just from hearing your voice alone.

Hearing it causes words to tumble out of her mouth and she says what’s been on her mind every minute since she left.

‘I want this. I want us. I’m so sorry I ever left mi amor. I’m so so sorry. Please. Please give me another chance. I won’t break your heart again. Please.’ She begs.

There’s a choked sob on your end and Ona takes it as a sign that she’s gone and hurt you again.

‘I’m sorry I shouldn’t be doing this. You probably don’t want to hear this. I should be the last person you want to hear from.’ Ona rushes out.

You stop her before she can hang up, quietly admitting, ‘I miss you.’

‘You do?’ Disbelief colours her words, her heart rate speeding up.

‘More than I ever thought possible.’

Ona is openly crying now.

‘I don’t want to play for Barcelona anymore. I don’t want to play or be without you. Can I come home to you? Please…’

There isn’t any hesitation on your part.

‘Ona come home.’

No matter where we are

You still have my heart

'Cause I locked it

And I promise

You're the locksmith

When Ona walks back into your arms, she unlocks your heart.

Spanish Translation:

mi amor - my love

[forlornmelody]

Bury A Friend: Chapter 2 -- Say it, spit it out, what is it exactly?

Rating: Explicit (previous and future chapters have smut)

Ship: Jayrose, Roseroy, eventual poly dynamics.

AO3 Link: Here

Summary:  As Rose's employers tighten the net around them, she has a harder and harder time hiding her feelings for Roy from Jason.

Note: Aaaah, one of the scenes for this fic was DIRECTLY inspired from the fic's namesake, and was one of the first scenes I wrote for this fic. In my head, anyway. So excited to finally share it with y'all.

---

Two days after the first kidnapping, Rose’s in the same room, but this time her captors didn’t bother with the bag. No, a blunt-force knock out proved much more efficient. Someone else might have died. Rose, on the other hand, has a killer headache. On the bright side, she isn’t going to have a headache for much longer.

“I’m disappointed in you, Wilson.” Why do they always have to monologue? “So much potential gone to waste.” Seriously, Rose has a fucking supervillain for a father. She’s suffered enough monologues to last her a lifetime. 

Rose breathes in and out, focusing on her breath the way Joey taught her to meditate, staring down the barrel of the gun as if there’s a light at the end of it. 

BANG!

Rose blinks, watching as the woman in front of her, her former employer, flops face first onto the table, blood spilling from her forehead across the steel surface. She blinks again as Jason opens the door from the other side of the two-way mirror, Roy right on his heels. 

“You really thought we were gonna let them kill you?” Roy says as Jason slashes through the zip tie holding her wrists. 

“Maybe you should have.”

“Maybe they should have made the glass bulletproof,” Jason mutters as Roy helps her up.

—

None of them return to the safe house, as it’s no longer safe. Rather than take any of their vehicles, or those belonging to Bruce Wayne–too many chances of being tracked–they decide to hotwire a generic chimo van. Roy wins rock paper scissors, and so he breaks in with a trick arrow, and hotwires the ignition with both Jason and Rose watching over his shoulder. 

“Really-Roy-toy? You’re making a huge mess.”

“We’re only using it once, Jaybird.”

Rose’s head knocks back against her headrest. “Ugh. I could’ve done it faster.”

Roy wipes his brow. She wonders what it would be like to watch it drip down his chest. “Not all of us are blessed with visions, Rose.”

“You mean cursed.” 

Jason shoots him a look. Gritting his teeth, Roy says nothing at first, then sighs. “Sorry. Could I get some space here?”

“C’mon. Ginger Snaps needs more room to work his magic.” Jason and Rose snicker together as they exit the van in search of tacos. It’s Tuesday, after all. 

There’s a taco truck around the corner. There’s also a line ten people deep.

“Fuck. Maybe we can order delivery?” Rose spins on her heels, but Jason grasps her shoulder, stopping her. 

He leans over, his whisper stirring her hair, and making her shiver. “And how would we explain Roy hotwiring a van to the driver?”

“He lost the keys. And we don’t want to pay for a locksmith.”

“Delivery would also take longer.”

“Fine.”

“I know how we can pass the time.” Rose waggles her eyebrows playfully, leaning her head on Jason’s shoulder. 

Jason runs his hands through his hair, and it makes her want to mess it up even more. Pull on it until he hisses with pleasure. His shirt pulls up with the motion, exposing a delicious sliver of skin. Rose traces it with her finger and he bats her hand away. “Rose.” 

“C’mon.” She grins, giving him a lingering kiss. “No “we almost died so we’re gonna fuck in an alley” sex?”

He matches her grin, despite himself. “Not yet.” He pushes her to arm’s length. “If we’re gonna keep doing this, you have to promise me something.”

“Mm, weird way to ask for a safe word, but okay. I’m game.”

“No,” he snorts. “No more secrets.”

“Jason,”

“Rose. Please. Promise me.” He takes both her hands in his own, kissing them like they’re in some historical drama. The sop.

But it gets under her skin regardless. “Okay. I promise.” 

Just when Rose starts to squirm, her phone buzzes with a text message. 

Van’s ready. I want carnitas with extra guac. 

—

Y’know. Maybe this whole running from death thing is overrated. Maybe Rose is going to save her ex-employers the trouble of taking her out. Anything to avoid this. 

The hotel is full of people–good, yes. More crowds to disappear into. More guests for the staff to pay attention to. More noise to mask the sound of their voices. Only one problem, really.

There’s only one room left in this entire hotel. And it’s a fucking honeymoon suite. Only one king-sized bed for the three of them. Oh, an entire kitchenette and a fully stocked fridge. But only one fucking bed. Rose is going to murder someone.

“I could sleep on the couch,” Roy volunteers.

“Absolutely not,” Jason and Rose snap. 

The room is too hot to sleep in, even with the AC. These stupid fucking synthetic sheets that feel so luxurious until you’re fucking baking like a cake beneath them. And so, Rose spends the night sandwiched between two very hot guys (in both senses of the word) and she can’t do a thing about it. Facing Jason to ignore Roy and his Old Spice aroma does nothing. And her fucking boyfriend falls right asleep. 

She must’ve passed out sometime before dawn, because Rose wakes wrapped in Roy’s arms. If only Rose can extricate herself before Jason wakes–and that’s when she smells french toast. Rose looks up just in time to meet Jason’s eyes, watching her. Does it bother him? She can’t tell. Jason and his fucking poker face. “Hungry?” he asks.

In more ways than you know. Fuck. Does she wake Roy up? Does she let him get his beauty sleep? (Like the fucker needs it.) Rose is almost about to move regardless when his murmur stirs the nape on her neck. Roy tightens his hold, as if she’s a full-size teddy bear.

“Might as well wake him up, unless you want to spend the entire morning in bed.” Jason says neutrally over the sizzle of the frying pan. Is he suggesting—?

Rose stammers, “I swear I woke up like this. I didn’t–” She pries Roy’s arm off her middle and slips out of bed like she’s bypassing security. 

A ghost of a smile appears on Jason’s face as he focuses on the french toast. “Roy’s a total cuddle bug. You look cute together.”

Her heart hammers in her chest, and her cheeks flush. Really? She mouths, too afraid to avoid the question out loud. You think so? Instead, she darts to the kitchen and pulls Jason into a kiss, breakfast be damned. 

“Mm,” Jason kisses back, briefly, before pulling back. “You’re in a good mood. Something happen in your dreams?”

Rose searches for a suitable answer, but Roy breaks the silence first.

“Huh? What’d I miss? Mm…you cookin’, Jaybird? Save s’me f’rme.” Roy twists in the sheets, tangling himself up further. 

Rose is in the middle of coming up with a convincing lie when the vision hits her. Sighting lasers. The countertop peppered with bullets. Jason’s head knocked back by a bullet in the forehead. Red circles blooming on the sheets covering Roy’s body. “Get down!” she shrieks. 

Both Jason and Roy duck. They know better than to hesitate when Rose uses that tone. She sees the lasers a second time–in real time, and the sound of the bullets hitting and cracking the granite above their heads. The ping of bullets going through the pots and the frying pans. “Should we call security?” Roy yells over the din, still in his boxers. 

“Don’t bother. They would have been called by now.” If hotel security was on their side. Which it isn’t. 

“Shut the fuck up, both of you.” Rose needs to concentrate. Lean into her adrenaline rush. Her dad once said she had a brain like a computer. She just needed to use it. 

Use it. 

Rose waits for a break in the covering fire, grabbing the bag of ice they stuck in the freezer, dumping it on the frying pan. Sorry, Jason. The ice cubes crack and hiss, filling the room with steam, the grease spilling over and catching fire, following the steam with smoke. She needs the phone. But not for a phone call. She pitches the phone at one goon’s head, shattering his visor and knocking him back. The base she rips out of the wall and strangles the next guard with the cord. 

C’mon, c’mon. Always living three seconds in the future means she’s always waiting. Waiting. Waiting. 

BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. Jason found his pistols. Twang. And the hiss of a smoke-bomb arrow. But it doesn’t hit its target in time. Rose hears the SMACK of a body hitting the kitchen floor. She doesn’t wait. She lunges, grabbing the last goon and ramming him against the counter. Jason stops firing, and the smoke slowly clears.

Roy’s on the ground, and he’s not moving. Shit. Rose should have seen it coming. She should have blocked it. At least she heals on her own. There’s blood trailing down the side of his temple.  C’mon, c’mon. Pressing her fingers against his neck, Rose bites her lip as she waits for his heartbeat. It’s faint, but it’s there. “Jason, get some cold water.”

The moment the water hits him, Roy shoots back up with a gasp, and Rose has to hold his shoulders down to keep him from rising too fast. “Easy. You got hit pretty hard.”

Blinking several times, Roy slurs “Rose? Why’re there three’f you?” 

Fuck, she could cry night now. “Shut up.” And then she’s kissing him. Maybe it’s the fact he could’ve died. Maybe it’s the way he’s sloppily kissing back. Or maybe it’s those energy drinks he’s always pounding–Roy tastes so sweet. 

And then he pulls back, bumping his head on the floor. “Ow.” He opens his eyes, looking up at her. “We shouldn’” Roy’s blue eyes pop against his flushed cheeks, and they slide to the right, drawing Rose’s attention to the man watching this entire exchange. Her boyfriend. Shit. Fuck. Fuck.

“Jason,” Rose says quicky. 

He holds up his hand. “Can we talk? In private?”

The air leaves her lungs. Rose manages to nod, stuffing her hoodie under Roy’s head. “Stay.” She mutters, dragging herself out of the kitchen and into the bathroom. Jason shuts the door behind them.

“Jason, I wasn’t thinking. I was just happy he’s okay.”

He watches her with his goddamn poker face. Why couldn’t he just be angry? Like a normal person? “Was that all?” 

“I swear.”

Jason shakes his head. “Rose, you promised. No more secrets.”

“I’m not keeping any! I told you about my employer–my ex-employer.”

“I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about Roy.”

“There’s nothing about Roy!”

Jason’s face finally breaks–his eyebrows crinkle and his eyes waver, but otherwise he keeps that perfect Wayne composure. “Rose. Please.” He swallows. “I know this isn’t the first time.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She can’t lose him. Not like this. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

Releasing the breath he was holding, Jason runs his hand through his hair. “Rose. Listen. Please. Do what you want with Roy. Just don’t hurt him.”

“But–” I love you, she finishes in her head. “I want to stay with you.” Yeah. Safer to say that instead. 

His eyes light up as he brushes his thumb across her cheek. “Why does it have to be one or the other?”

“Huh?” Rose’s brain short circuits. 

Jason reaches for her hand, squeezing it. “Who says you have to choose between us?” He falters before she can answer. “Well, Roy might.” Licking his lips nervously, he adds softly, “but I won’t.”

“You mean it?” Rose squeezes his hand, and Jason opens his mouth to answer her.

“Guys?” Roy calls out groggily from the living room.

“Shit, Roy!” They tumble back into the living room together.

[gildcdglory]

APPLICATION.

*     ◟    :    〔   ryan destiny  , cis woman , she + her   〕      maeve sinclair,  some say you’re a thirty-year-old lost soul among the neon lights. known for being patient and aloof,  one can’t help but think of yellow flicker beat by lorde when you walk by. are you still an associate / freelance locksmith/ at hanging man, even with your reputation as the moon? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and soft echoes of locks coming undone under your touch, a quiet anger burning a hole in your chest after the taste of betrayal, the weight of a shattered legacy burying itself into your shoulders,  although we can’t help but think of sun bak (sense8), mikasa ackerman (attack on titan), and temperance brennan (bones)  when we see you down these rainy streets.      (  alyx, 25, she/her, est )

FILE.

full name: maeve sinclair, though she's gone by several aliases in the past

age: thirty

gender / pronouns: cis woman, she/her

orientation: bisexual

affiliation: associate for hanging man

occupation: locksmith/safe cracker/thief for hire

family: clark sinclair (father, presumed alive), siobhan sinclair (mother, presumed alive), UTP sinclair (brother, alive)

faceclaim: ryan destiny

inspiration: sun bak (sense8), mikasa ackerman (attack on titan), temperance brennan (bones)

Pinterest

BIOGRAPHY.

You were born into a legacy that echoed through the halls of the underworld. The Sinclair family was well-known in the underground thief world due to the family's long lineage and knack for getting away and leaving no trace behind. You were just another jewel on top of the Sinclair crown-- a daughter created to help continue to build the reputation and rob the world blind.

You and your brother began training for heists from an early age. Your family sought to determine the best fit for your skills, to see where they could place you in the family's never-ending puzzle. They initially tried to train you to follow in your mother's footsteps as a grifter, then shifted to see how well you'd do in your father's role as a mastermind. You weren't nearly charming enough for your mother's legacy, and though you did well under your father's tutelage, your eyes were always drawn to safes, locks, and uncrackable codes.

Your father longed to make you his heir, to pass down the mastermind role to you once he retired, but even he couldn't deny your skill with picking locks and opening safes. You soon became accepted as your family's safe cracker/locksmith, and your brother, though he tried to earn the approval of your parents, got defaulted into the lookout/getaway driver position.

The four of you flew around the world to rob safely guarded banks of all their contents. Your diverse skillset helped create an almost formulaic process that helped keep you all from getting caught by the police or tipping off the bank owners of your arrival. Your dynamic operated smoothly for years, but everything came to an end when you targeted the Bank of England.

The evening had gone smoothly at first. Everyone had their assignments, and for the most part, they operated as they normally had. Your father had scoped out the places weeks ago, so he worked on sharing the locations of the security cameras, vault, guard rotation schedule, and additional information. Your mother went in and distracted the guards and bank tellers, you slipped past her and made your way toward the vault, and your brother was there to let everyone know if any dangers lurked around the corner.

The evening went downhill about halfway through the mission. Your father's communication device was the first to shut down, but not before you first a slight gasp from the other end of the line. You struggled between wandering back to check on him and moving forward with the mission, but ultimately, you knew which choice he'd prefer. The choice became harder when your mother's communication device shut down moments later. You heard a scream on the other end, but you were in the middle of cracking open the safe, so you decided to stay put. You only left when you heard the panic in your brother's voice as he asked you to abort the mission and slip away with him.

The first thing you saw when you emerged from the bank were the police cars scattered around the area. The second thing you saw were your parents in handcuffs. The last thing you witnessed was a horrifying smirk on your brother's face as he pointed you out to the cops. You knew he wasn't satisfied with his current position, knew he longed to do something other than stay behind and monitor the situation, but you didn't expect he'd sell out your entire family just for a chance of notoriety and fame.

You were always the quiet, sensible daughter, but as you sat in prison because of your brother's betrayal, a small flame of anger began making a home in your chest. You watched the news as they discussed your brother, aptly named "the thief who catches thieves," and you vowed to make him and his allies pay.

Now that you're out of prison and working for HANGING MAN, you know your goals have a chance of becoming accomplished. You just need to do what you do best--- wait in the shadows, consider things from all angles, and strike when you know he'll least expect it.

CONNECTIONS.

I'll dive into these more once I finish my WC page, but here are some quick ideas:

Individuals who have been robbed by Maeve in the past. Typically her family robs banks or companies, but they've done a few house robberies if they know the contents are worth the effort.

Individuals who have hired her to steal stuff. She's always down to help steal items from someone's home or help a disgruntled ex-employee punish the corporation they got fired from.

People who would recognize her from the underground thief circles. Anyone who has done a lot of professional heists in the past might recognize her last name, but UTP whether they'd know her specifically or just remember her family's legacy and downfall.

Members of the government who are friendly with her brother. She'd love to take you down as well :)) gotta crush everything her brother holds dear.

An ex-spouse/fiance/partner. Maybe it was someone she was using for info related to a heist, or maybe it was just a secret she kept from her family, since an outside relationship could've disrupted the routine they carefully crafted. either way, would be fun to see them reunite after years of being apart.

[docgold13]

365 Marvel Comics Paper Cut-Out SuperHeroes - One Hero, Every Day, All Year…

Team Supplemental - The Night Shift

The WestCoast superhero known as The Shroud came to the conclusion that he would prove a much more effective crimefighter were he to pose as a villain and take on the underworld from within.  To this end, The Shroud gathered a team of costumed villains, many of whom had been the captive of the villain known as The Locksmith.  

Although most of the members of The Shroud’s Night Shift believed they were involved in a criminal endeavor, The Shroud was able to steer them on a course to take down the other criminal factions active in the Los Angeles area.   Based in the Tower of Shadows, The Shroud led the Night Shift into battle against a host of criminal organizations, stealing their wealth and splitting it among themselves. The Shroud also kept careful watch over his team, ensuring that none of the group members preyed on the innocent. Under the Shroud's leadership, the Night Shift even allied with Captain America against the Power Broker.

The Shroud’s chief lieutenant on the team was the former Spider-Woman foe known as Dancer Macabre.  She often acted as leader of the team during times in which The Shroud’s duties took him elsewhere.  During one of these times, Dancer Macabre led the Night Shift in an attack against The West Coast Avengers.  

Not long thereafter, the team was taken over by the villain known as The Hangman, who was actually in league with the demonic entity known as Satannish.  All this resulted in The Night Shift rebelling against The Hangman and joining forces with Dr. Strange and The West Coast Avengers in order to defeat Satannish.  

The squad subsequently disbanded yet a new version of the team later reformed under the leadership of the Superior Spider-Man.  

Members of the team included:

The Shroud

When he was ten years old, Maximiliian Coleridge witnessed his parents gunned down. He dedicated his life to fighting crime, gaining a law degree and studying the Cult of Kali. During his studies, he developed mystical perception and the ability to manipulate aspects of the Darkforce. He became the Shroud and used this costume identity to take down criminals in a very covert manner. He encountered the Fantastic Four and Captain America, and later established a club in Los Angeles called the Cat's Jazz Club, where he could keep watch over the criminal underbelly.

Dancer Macabre

Dansen Macabre was a skilled dancer and priestess of Shiva who visited the Shroud's club in an attempt to kill him because he was empowered by Shiva's rival Kali. This led to an encounter with Spider-Man.

Digger

Roderick Krupp was a grave digger in Los Angeles who encountered the dangerous, haunted mansion called the House of Shadows. He soon moved into the house and from there hosted several late night horror television shows, taking the name ‘Digger.’ After his television shows were cancelled, Roderick started to go insane, believing everyone alive was actually dead. He started to bury people alive, but was apprehended by Jessica Drew and taken into custody.

Skein

A mutant with the ability to control natural fibers, Sybil Dvorak was brought to the United States from her native Rumania by the actor Jason Reed, who promised her fame and fortune, but instead kept her effectively a prisoner in his mansion. Bored, Sybil created a costume and wove delicate wings to become ‘Gyp$y Moth’. She became hedonistic, seeking pleasure and adventure, and when Reed died, his wealth was left to her. She also became an American citizen and encountered Spider-Woman on multiple occasions.

Werewolf by Night

Jack Russell inherited his father's curse of lycanthropy.  He has had many adventures with the criminal and super human communities and joined the Night Shift following his encounter with The Locksmith.  

Needle

Josef Saint was an elderly tailor who was attacked by hoodlums and lost an eye in the process. He grew enraged by this, and developed the ability to paralyze people with a stare. He battled Spider-Woman prior to becoming a member of The Night Shift.

Tatterdemalion

Arnold Paffenroth was bit-part Hollywood actor who could never really catch a break. He eventually became homeless and bitter towards the upper class, which led him to being mind-controlled by Sarnak, who gave him the ragged costume which he would wear as a super villain.  Following encounters with The Werewolf by Night, Ghost Rider and Spider-Woman, The Tatterdemalion ended up a member of The Night Shift.

The Brothers Grimm

Percy and Barton Grimes were corrupt realtors who purchased an old theater in Los Angeles, where they discovered the long-abandoned Brothers Grimm costumes which had been imbued with magical powers. Taking the costumes for themselves as the Brothers Grimm, they fought Iron Man and later Spider-Woman before being captured by The Locksmith.  Thereafter, the pair were recruited into the ranks of The Night Shift.  

Misfit

Jason Roland was a handsome Hollywood actor who struggled to get his break in the industry. He eventually made a deal with a make-up artist who claimed to be an emissary of the devil;  He traded his soul in exchange for success. The make-up artist created a monstrous design for Jason to wear in the film ‘The Demon that Devoured Hollywood,’ which led to Jason's increased popularity. Jason threatened to break off the deal but, on the final day of shooting, he discovered that he was unable to remove his costume, effectively trapping him in a monstrous form.  Now known as The Misfit, he battled Spider-Woman prior to being captured by the Locksmith and subsequently joining The Night Shift.

Waxman

The monstrous Waxman had been a scientist suffering from a rare skin condition.  An experiment meant to cure him instead turned him into the creature composed of a malleable wax-like substance. He appeared at popular clubs throughout Los Angeles disguised as handsome men and seduced women. Bringing them someplace alone, his body turned into a waxy form during a moment of passion and he would smother them to death.  The villain was defeated by Spider-Woman and then imprisoned by Locksmith.  he served for a short time as a member of The Nightshift until he was dealt with more permanently by Moon Knight.  

The Night Shift  first appeared in the pages of Captain America Vol. 1 #330 (1987).

[dazepoetrysworld]

We made it

I’m sorry for the choice that I’d made last night.

If this is the last time, come closer, and hug me tight.

I’ll remember us in every corner of this room,

And never forget how you sheltered and cured my soul.

You’re stunning on your toga, we made it, Doc.

You look good with your new found smile, holding your diploma.

It’s nice to see your eyes shine, after you lost them from me,

I’m sorry that it’d takes all of you, to heal someone like me.

We made it; to the future we both conceived.

Cheers, to the history, and things we’d done to climb up here.

We made it, Doc. And may our paths not cross again, in future.

’Cause you look at your best without me.

Buried deep in my heart, you’ll always be remembered, the sole locksmith.

But, please, forget that I once been a part of you.

—Ned Laze

[ancestral-anecdotes]

On this date, June 26, 1748, great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, Jacques Martin, died in Nemours, France. He was a master locksmith, as were his father, Pierre Martin, and grandfather, Jean Martin. His first wife, Marie-Magdeleine Colinet, died in November 1727, probably as a result of complications following the birth of their first child, Marie-Magdeleine Martin, who was buried just two days before her mother. Jacques's second wife, Claire Landry, was our ancestor. Their son, Jacques Martin, a shoemaker, is our immigrant (sort of) ancestor. He was born in 1732 and left France around 1760 to go to Québec. His great-grandson, Maxime Martin, left Canada with his family around 1868 and went to the Providence, Rhode Island, area. Follow this link to see a postcard of the interior of St-Jean-Baptiste, the church where all the Martin baptisms, marriages, and burials in Nemours took place. The note on the back of this postcard (mailed in 1904) reads: Un bon Souvenir de Nemours, Jeanne Noël.

[mcrlocksmith247]

Manchester Locksmith 24/7

Manchester Locksmiths | Residential & Automotive – Qualified Locksmiths To Unlock Any Lock! Covering Wigan, Bolton, Bury, Rochdale, Oldham & Surrounding Areas!

Contact Us:

Manchester Locksmith 24/7

286 Kingsway, Manchester, M19 1QA

07932 327017

info@mcrlocksmith247.co.uk

[europa-locks]

Everything You Need To Know About Locks In India!

Did you know that burglaries, thefts, and robberies accounted for 70% of all crimes in India? So, whether old or new, you must maintain the locks in each home where you reside with your loved ones and assets. High security door locks can assist in maintaining this trend by preventing would-be burglars and maintaining privacy. 

Internal locks for doors, cabinets, and cupboards are required for security. We are all aware that there are several lock solutions available. However, to choose the ideal one for your organization, you must first understand their main differences. 

Our article explains the seven most common door locks, how they work, and when to use them. Here are a few different types of door locks available on the market: 

Knob locks are one of the most often used types of locks on most doors. It is simple to use and secure as well. However, despite its many applications as outdoor, wardrobe, shed, or bathroom door locks, it is not the ideal door lock.

Cam locks use a fastener with a rotating arm or cam to lock. They are typically cylindrical and have a metal tube with a hole on one side to aid in positioning the bolt when inserted. They are usually found on vending machines, desktops, and display cases.

On external doors, Mortise locks with light-duty and heavy-duty variations are utilized. They have an internal mechanism, making them more of a lockset than a lock. These locksets, which may incorporate knobs or levers, provide more security than cylinder locks alone.  

The cost of the best locks in India varies according to the type of lock you choose, and the kind of lock you want influences the cost. It ranges from Rs. 10 and Rs. 10,000 and above. If the locking system offers additional functions that you wish, the price will be greater as well. The most commonly used locks have essential, affordable, and functional characteristics.

Because the door lock decides the safety and security of your property, you must check that it fulfils your requirements and has a dependable locking mechanism.

 

Before burying door locks, establish what type of door lock you need for your house, workplace, etc.

When it comes to smart door locks, you may look for ones with built-in video cameras, two-way intercoms, emergency sirens, and other features.

Door locks are desirable to prevent lock break-ins and potential theft. Lock businesses such as Europa Locks provide locks designed for this purpose. They are constructed by specialists using the latest techniques and are strong enough to make your front door indestructible.

Most home security pros recommend mortise locks with five to six lock levers for the best security. If you're considering putting a mortise lock in your home, talk to a competent and trustworthy domestic locksmith about where to get the best locks in India.

[bwrynxxprv]

On Endings

I want tell you about The restlessness I’ve been experiencing these days In this stone tomb I’ve named my Heart Where each piece of you Smeared across every inch Of Its walls I want to tell you that I long for you How do I explain that when I look at you I can’t tell if I’m breathing; Petrified That if ever you stare back Too long The yearning that I keep Trying to bury Alive Will swallow me whole For each second that I look at you I feel a rib Shift and crack

And now my hands tremble As I write this poem of my longing I don’t know how to narrate This parable about how This tomb aches to have you All of you and only you How do I tell you That I miss you? That I want you To miss me Too

If in ten years time

I'm still on your mind

Would you call?

If in ten years time

I'm still on your mind

Could you call?

No matter where we are

You still have my heart

'Cause I locked it

And I promise

You're the locksmith

happy birthday

your happiness is all i wish for :))

[erinpaula-blog1]

LocksmithinUK.co.uk are a locksmith directory,  we provide access to certified local locksmiths in a number of UK Cities and Towns, available 27/7. We operate all around the UK, ensuring that you never need to look any further to find a locksmith providing a high-quality service. The locksmiths that we provide access to have extensive experience within the industry and are well-trained to use the latest tools and techniques, helping you gain access to your home, business, or car as quickly as possible.

Bolton locksmith

Bury locksmiths

Chester locksmith

Leeds locksmiths

Liverpool locksmith

Manchester locksmiths

Newcastle locksmith

Oldham locksmiths

Rochdale locksmith

Stockport locksmiths

[oonajaeadira]

Have Any Interesting Dreams? (Thief x Locksmith 5)

Fandom: Casillero del Diablo Wine Commercials. You heard me.

Pairing: The Thief x f!reader (the locksmith)

Rating: T

Warnings: This might be confusing and I apologize for any pain it might cause. 

A/N: Okay. So there’s a lot of metaphorical walking forward while looking backward here and this installment certainly won’t make any sense on its own. There are a lot of references to little moments from the commercial and to previous chapters (especially 2: I Know You Can Do It, aka the opera heist). I took a lot of threads and decided to play with them until they ended up in knots. Apologies for any clunkiness you encounter; I stretched my skills to the limits here and things kinda derailed. But eff I had fun. Hope you do too.

The extended commercial is here.

The unintended Thief x Locksmith series is here:

What Do You Want

I Know You Can Do It

Come With Me

Let Me Show You Around

Summary: It’s time to find out what your Thief wants from you, what the key is for, and you have nothing but your own smarts and his memories to light your path.

(gif by magsam)

When you arrive for breakfast, he’s already feasting on a scone with jam and cream, his plate piled generously with bacon and eggs, surrounded by a dozen covered dishes scattered all over the huge table at one end of the open hall. He hums an urgent note of acknowledgement when you approach, folding what he was reading and standing to pull out a chair for you.

“Good morning, Angel. What are you hungry for? Anything you want.”

As he pushes you into place, you scoff. “Anything I want? I doubt any of these cloches are hiding adequate answers.”

Bending over you to reach for the carafe, he places a kiss to your temple and speaks softly at your ear while he pours a cup for you, “Let’s start with coffee. Maybe some eggs.”

It’s an odd breakfast for such a sumptuous place. The plates all hold something to tempt you, nothing out of the ordinary for a breakfast you might like. But it’s all set up over what had been on the table previously--scattered blueprints and charity pamphlets, timetables and show programs, a stack of books shoved to one side, a letter opener stuck into the tabletop, spearing down the plans for this very estate. The table itself doesn’t sit in a dining room--or any room--but near the staircase into the main hall, a big open space spilling out behind your Thief littered with unhung portraits and scattered relics, the white stone figure of Pandora and her Saxon crown overseeing the procedures.

“So,” he sighs, sipping his coffee, burying his nose in a set of folded blueprints, emulating a businessman with his morning newspaper, “did you sleep well? Any...interesting dreams?”

You let out a slow breath, prepare your strategy, and take a sudden, focused interest in the pile of toast. “I slept as well as a girl can in a room decked out like a cloister on loop. The sheets are nice though. I took your suggestion about forgoing nightclothes.” You avoid his eyes but see them flick to you in your periphery. You’re not sure if it’s a reaction to the image you’ve just laid down for him or if he’s noticed that you neglected to address his inquiry about the dreams. Hopefully both. You tap the locket nestled close to your breasts. “Just the sheets and this.” 

The locket. Let’s see if I can do this right.

He tries to hide a soft clearing of the throat. And fails.

You’re no dummy. You spent enough time researching alchemy and magick and demonology to know that someone under contract or pact can’t speak about it at all. Sometimes they are physically restricted, sometimes they’re given free will. But if they crack--if they willfully tell someone about their curse--they run the chance of losing everything. 

However. If the human in thrall is clever, they can talk around it.

You learned last night that answers come not when you ask questions, but when you listen carefully. And you learned equally... that you must speak carefully.

“It’s nice to have a vacation for a little spell.” The spell. “Lately it’s just been a string of setting locks and the usual Tuesday afternoon visit from the cops. You realize that they won’t stop questioning me about that safe I gave you the combo for, right?” The Lewiston safe. 

Pride gleams in his eyes as they lock to yours. You’re playing the game and he understands you perfectly. “I’m not apologizing for that, you acted under your own free will. Although, you’re easy to manipulate. I can read you like a book.”

And now you catch his meaning. Possibly. Not completely sure. Unfortunately, this is how it has to be--speaking in riddles and codes. He can’t tell you about it or lead you in any way. If you can guess, that’s acceptable, but there must always be some doubt. Another mortal fully knowing the details of his supernatural deal will breach it, and not in his favor.

Keep it cool, casual. “Well, I”m not so complicated that you’d need to study a whole book. Maybe just a few pages.” Your fingers play idly with the locket as you sip your coffee. 

Or not so idly.

His nod is heavy, understanding, but with a hint of warning. You may have been a bit too literal with that one. Careful, his look tells you. And you spill a small, coy smile of apology over your lips. I’m doing my best. 

You shrug it off. “Although, one glass of wine and I’d do whatever you ask.”

“Like Blackwell at the Opera.”

Like Blackwell at the opera. Like Blackwell at the opera. What does that mean? I’ve lost the thread.  “Hm? Like--?” It must show on your face.

“Speaking of study,” he sidesteps your confusion to fall back a few paces in the conversation as he starts pulling papers and plans together into a neater pile, “why did you ever give up yours? Seems you were on a path to unlocking the great mysteries, and you gave it all up to unlock car doors and the errant bedroom handcuff?”

It’s a slap to the face that zings straight to your heart. That..was a low blow. It’s impossible to eat with your lips pressed together, so you stare hard into your coffee instead. You have half a mind to ruin everything right here. Because you killed it for me. Because you walked off with my book; that was supposed to be my trophy and my livelihood. Because you took up with a demon and got yourself wound up in something too big for you and now you’ve come pulling me out of my just-fine life to bail you out of it, you incredible ass--

A fingertip hooks itself under your chin, guiding your face to his as he stands above you. Oh God, those dark eyes, eyebrows arched in care.

It’s maddening how he can melt you with a look, how tapped in he is to your feelings, and it frustrates you how he can parent them better than you can; why they’ll listen to him over you, you’ll never quite understand. 

His serious look tells you to steady yourself. That you’re strong enough for this. To look past anything he says that is hurtful and to listen. That he needs you. It’s you he...it’s you he--

“Angel.”

You love him too. And you can’t fucking help it.

He watches as you hold onto your hurt, but let go of your wrath and continues. “I just know you enjoyed your books so much. I thought maybe you’d like to visit my library while I’m gone.”

“...Gone?”

He hauls you to your feet and folds you in against himself, fanning you with the stack of blueprints. “I have a job to do. I apologize that I’ll be out all day, but lunch will be waiting here for you when you want it and Pandora,” he nods to the statue, “will be happy to keep you company. She has at least one good story to tell. I should be home by dinner.” 

And now you let go of the hurt as well, follow his lead in a slow dance. He turns you, silently swaying and guiding you around to his side of the table. Just inches apart, he willfully keeps your lips free from his, although you cannot say the same for his eyes--their gaze drips over your mouth as he pulls you along.

“In the meantime,” stopping at the villa map peeking out from under the butter and jam, he indicates, “the library is here.” He doesn’t point at the location as much as stroke it...and even then, not at the middle, but off to one side near the window.

The smile spreads over your face like a slowly creeping wine stain. “And every book is stolen?”

A matching spill, this one upon his own lips. “Every book is stolen.”

A long kiss is pressed to your temple, carrying warmth and breath and closeness, conveying praise and good luck and deep gratefulness...and then he’s gone, his working shoes making no sound on the stairs on their way down to the garage.

Time to get to work.

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

The library is a hike from the main hall, but you managed to put away a good breakfast to fuel your way here. It’s exactly what you expected in a place like this--bookcases all the way up to the vaulted ceilings filled with beautifully bound volumes, two tall multi-paned windows along the outer wall framing the central fireplace, a large ornately carved table and lamp, scattered plush reading chairs. The fireplace is ample, and of course the fire is lit, waiting for you to find something worth reading and claim a warm spot nearby.

Shit. Even if he indicated a section of shelves for you to focus on, there still has to be thousands of books in this area. You’re fairly certain of what you’re looking for, but if he was smart--and he is--yourThief would have had it rebound and either left it untitled or given it one himself.

The book he stole from you was bound in black leather. You can start there. Rolling the ladder around to this side, you begin pulling out and scanning all the black leather volumes, making your way from bottom to top, an hour of nothing but first editions, old bibles, and illuminated manuscripts. 

As you search, your mind churns through the dream you woke from this morning and the few clues you could give him as to what you discovered from it. 

The locket. The spell. The Lewiston safe. Just a few pages. The wine. 

________________

Gloved hands stretch out before you. Your hands, but not your hands. They’re sturdy, long and wide, thick fingers, making quick work of the three dials of a grey safe.

The Lewiston safe.

These are your Thief’s hands. You’re seeing what he’s already seen. You’re watching from his vantage as he uses your combo to break in.

The safe is lined with stacks of bills, a number of watch and jewelry boxes, a few gilded objects, and some large file envelopes. His hands leave all the valuables alone and sift through the envelopes, opening each until he finds one containing three leaves of folded greying paper, all of them torn on one side. 

Three pages from a book. Three pages from YOUR book.

________________

No luck with the black leather books, although you’re hardly surprised. 

So it’s been rebound then. To keep it hidden. But if you’re meant to find it, then it’s hidden to everyone but you. How would he make it stand out for you specifically? Think.

Scanning the shelf, your eyes are drawn here and there to those books bound in your favorite color. A preference of yours that he would know.

Once you’ve solved that piece of the puzzle, it doesn’t take long to find it. Halfway up the shelf, clinging hard to the ladder, you read spine after spine until the intentional typo catches your eye; The Book of Angel’s. 

Not plural. Possessive.

Clever, my nameless Thief.

It’s wedged in tight, on an intentionally packed shelf. Remove one book and the rest will breathe and expand...and easily shift so that nobody might know that a book had been taken.

Wrenching it free and hefting the heavy volume down the ladder, your breath pulls heavy through you, your fingers tingling as they clasp the spine, growing excitement coils in your ribcage. After all these years, the book is here in your hands, the book that you spent half a life tracking down through undermarkets and whispered rumors, the book full of spells and secrets and instructions for obtaining everything you’ve ever wanted, the book you had planned to use to build yourself a better life. Only for it to be stolen from you. By the man you loved. By the man you wanted to start that better life with. The nights you spent in your bed, staring at the ceiling, planning your acquisition of this book, and then, after it was gone, the nights you spent cursing it and him….

Your fingers trace idly over the cover. The new binding is taught and slick, not soft and supple like the old black leather. 

You could just ...take it. You could just tuck it in your bag and walk out and away down the forested driveway, leave him to his fate.

But he’d find you. It doesn’t end that easily. You have to break his hold on magick. Which means you have to break her hold on him. It was a spell in this book that summoned the demon, so if you’re going to help him, the answers have to be in here.

And it’s impossible to think you could just walk away and leave him to her.

Sitting on the floor by the fire and opening the book to the inside cover, the familiar family tree greets you, one you know and never gave much thought to. The name of the book’s original creators gracing the thick trunk, that family long gone, their line grown out. 

There’s a smudge on one of the smallest, far-flung branches, a clan that briefly married into the root family at least a dozen generations back and then just as quickly split off. The name seems to have been scrubbed out or somehow blurred, like the ink decided to feather and bleed in just this one spot. Something tells you that you should know what the name was. 

At least you have an idea of whom it might belong to.

And there, on the opposite side, another family name that dipped in and stayed at the edges….your own. It is this small vine in the tree that allows your claim on the book in any way. 

He probably felt the same claim.

But there are more prominent offshoots here you never noticed until now.

Lewiston. Blackwell.

The Lewistons you know. They wanted nothing to do with the book outside of the few pages they’d stashed away, and you’ve already helped your Thief to recover those. 

But Blackwell. Huh.

Like Blackwell at the opera. 

Blackwell at the opera. 

Blackwell is still a mystery. The dream last night had no Blackwell revelations in it, although the rest of it did take place the night of the opera...

________________

Suddenly you’re in your home. No. HE is in your home. You can just see him out of the corner of your eye in your bedroom mirror, greying temples and red velvet jacket. You see what he sees as he lays a garment box on your bed. There’s a black satin dress inside. You know, because you’ve already worn it. This is the night of the opera heist; you’re seeing his memory of it...

Then he’s at your jewelry box, delicately pushing trinkets aside until he comes out with your locket, all crystal and gold and glinting in the low light.

Coming back to the living room, he assembles objects from around your home--a few candles and matches, a kitchen knife, a glass of wine. And from his inner vest pocket he pulls the three greying pages obtained from the Lewiston safe.

One of them contains instructions. A spell.

Candles are lit. A quick altar is laid. The locket is placed among the objects. And a ceremony begins. There are words and offerings--a finger is pierced and blood drips onto your necklace and into the wine....

The dream jumps, the sun slanting much lower through your windows now, and you’re looking at...you. In your bedroom, searching your jewelry box. “Then why is there a necklace missing?” You shout and then look over your shoulder to meet your eyes...or, rather, his eyes.

Procuring the locket from his pocket, you hear his voice in your ears, “Because I want you to wear this one tonight.”

________________

And that exhausts what you could learn from the dream.

The locket. The spell. The Lewiston safe. Just a few pages. The wine. Like Blackwell at the opera.

Shit. What does this all mean? Breathe. It’s all here. Somehow it’s all here in front of you. Like deciphering the tumblers in a lock. Get everything lined up, and the puzzle will spring.

Tracing the family tree with light fingertips, you have two names. Blackwell must be the old balding man from the opera that night, the one you spilled wine on, the one your Thief marked to steal something from. A member of the old family of this book. What did he take? Unknown at this time.

Lewiston. And from their family safe your Thief took...three...pages….

You’re immediately and madly flipping through the book, looking for loose papers, remembering when you first acquired it that there had been pages missing, torn out, not uncommon for a tome this old, but as you paw your way through, you find all pages intact, nothing free or floating, no torn stubs. 

That can’t be right. There had been torn pages. How--

The new binding.

Clapping the book shut and tipping it up to look at the signatures binding...there it is. Three stripes of blue distributed within the grey. Using a fingernail, you carefully discern the refreshed leaves.

Three different spells, all of them supreme level, the ones that cost blood and expect a high grade of working to cast, valuable information the Lewiston family seemed eager to keep for themselves even if they denounced the rest of the book.

One for protection against evil.

One for the manipulation of time.

And the final one…

A spell for the confluence and relay of dreams.

The locket lays heavy on your chest. He obviously charmed the pendant the night of the opera so you’d be able to see his memories and dreams, so he could give you answers and clues via this somnambulant route, a shortcut, a loophole.

A beautiful, glorious cheat.

Oh, he’s clever and wonderful and you grip the locket, pressing it to your lips, understanding now why he wants you to wear it always--even when you sleep. But.

You could try to ignore the plummet of your heart, try to brush it off and put emotion aside, but here it is…. There’s a little pain knowing he had the means that night to endow it with protection from evil and that wasn’t his first choice, that he gave it the enhancement that served his needs first and foremost.

It hurts. But then. Desperation makes us all a little selfish. You can hardly expect anything else.

________________

Pandora stares down on you with blank, white marble eyes as you take advantage of the lunch spread out on the table in the hall. Rich lobster rolls, perfectly fried chicken, a mountain of falafel and hummus, creamy tikka masala, cold sushi in a rainbow array--at least a dozen different savory offerings for you to choose from or mix and match, far too much for you to eat by yourself, but enough of everything that you might choose one and have a satisfying meal.

It was all here when you arrived, no staff to be seen. 

The flowing silk dress you’re wrapped in--not one you’d packed, but one that came out of your bag anyway--the fireplaces lit in the rooms where you’ll be spending time; the house is full of mysteries, not really that surprising in a place frequented by demons and curses. You’re being provided for, no need to ask by whom or how.

No matter. There are bigger knots to untangle.

After pouring through your book and coming to a dead end, you’d brought it back to your room of saints and tucked it away in your bag for safe keeping--deciding against better judgements not to run off with it--before making the trek back down to the main hall. 

Now what are you supposed to do until he comes back to dinner to give you more hints? This is maddening; you’re anxious to know what’s next. Did he really think it was going to take you all day to find the book and the answers there? You live your life walking through mental puzzles and finding the right keys for things, you’re a damn locksmith for heaven’s sake--

The key. That’s the next piece to all of this, yes? What does the little key on your necklace open? You don’t have anything to work with, but you can sure as hell start looking around and getting acquainted with the objects and doors in the house.

Determination winning out over food, you leave behind half a stuffed crepe and give Pandora a little salute before heading off down through the east wing to explore.

There’s the beautiful clock under glass--no discernable keyhole that you can see--several lacquered jewel boxes--all open, their treasures on display--music boxes, ancient instruments, intricate suits of armor, glass cases full of decorative weaponry, armoires whose keyholes are much too large stacked with furs…. You even start to look at the paintings for any signs of locks or keys, you run to your room and check the reliquaries and statuary to see if there’s something that’s been placed in your proximity, then back to the east wing to inspect doors and cabinetry, studying patterns in the tile and carpet and wallpaper, anything, anything that draws the eye to something secret, something hidden. But everywhere you turn there seems to be a possibility of mystery, that anything beautiful can be hiding a solution, and yet, none of them definitive or fruitful.

After hours of wandering the halls, fatigue starts setting in. You’re nowhere close to an answer, you don’t even know the question anymore. The villa is huge; all you need is one little crumb, anything to just point you in a direction. Any direction at all. It’s like searching for a tiny, specific needle in a haystack, except the haystack itself is made of needles.

Don’t give up, maybe check the paintings again. In the east wing hall, you find yourself squinting at the images. The light is fading, the day is late. A clock chimes somewhere from a far off room. 

Speaking of crumbs….Dinner time.

Even though you’re weary from the search and walking room to room through the afternoon, you quicken your pace toward the main hall. You’ve pressed yourself hard today. Giving in to hunger and frustration, the promise of another meal and more information waits.

The table is almost as you left it--covered in food and blueprints. The blueprints are the same, but the offerings sitting atop them are new. Beef Wellington, beet and truffle salads, Lobster Thermidor, stuffed dates, paella, soft patés and cheeses, the flatware is gold, there’s a massive candelabra, wine of every color, the table is almost overstuffed with beautiful and delicious delights, almost as if it is consciously making up for the one thing that’s disappointingly missing….

Him.

Okay, so he’s a little late. He’s most likely changing clothes and since you happened upon the table first, the food is waiting and ready for you. You can start without him, right? A well-timed rumble from your gut gives you permission and you reach for the serving spoons.

By the time your plate is almost empty, so is a second glass of wine. 

And his chair is still unoccupied.

You’re lightly pressing the back of a golden spoon to your lips while you fume, every once in a while turning it and putting it in your mouth to tongue at the smooth, tasteless metal even though you really feel the urge to throw it.

It’s not even that he isn’t here to guide you to the next step, it’s that he isn’t here, period. The miles of walking, the mental work, nothing to keep you company but the echoing click of your shoes on endless tile and the snap of flames in a few fireplaces; really what you yearn to do is hole up in that little sitting room you saw last night, forget all this, curl up in his lap by that pleasant mantle, after spending a day in cavernous rooms and halls, just to have a warm corner in close proximity to broad shoulders and big arms, a soft cheek on your forehead….

Tossing the spoon down and replacing it with something crunchy from one of the salads, you bite hard into the snap of the vegetable, no longer hungry, but feeling the need to clench your teeth into something. 

What are you even doing here? If he wants you to help him, he could at least give you the gift of his company.

“How dare he. How dare he, Pandora?” Leaning a cheek in your hand, chewing on the veg, you whine up at your dinner companion as she gazes blandly down at the table, not even having the decency to give you any indication of empathy or pity.

You contemplate the statue with misdirected irritation. Feh. She looks so calm. Should she? Didn’t Pandora let all the evils of the world out of her box? Shouldn’t she be more ashamed? Dismayed? Perhaps she’s comforted by the hope she found at the bottom--

Pandora will be happy to keep you company. She has at least one good story to tell.

You stop mid-crunch, his words from last night lighting up your synapses like a starfield.

Pandora. Best friend I have in the house. Good listener. Has full dominion over the main hall. Holds things for me. Not many people trust her after the whole loosing evils unto the world thing, but she can’t get into much trouble out here. Keep mysterious boxes out of her reach and no secrets should tumble out, am I right, Pandora?

You drop the veg and take one last desperate draining draw from the wine glass as you scramble to rise, presenting yourself in front of the girl, gawking stupidly. Why didn’t you notice it before? A statue of a beautiful woman, gesturing with delicate open palms, wearing the crown that your Thief has bestowed upon her. She could be anyone, any goddess or myth, any queen or muse. You would only know her as Pandora by her signature box of evils.

But her hands...are empty.

What would a box of evils look like? 

Would it fit in her hand, thumb crooked delicately around an object that was not there? 

Would it be patterned gold to match her crown? 

Could it possibly have a porcelain top painted with devils?

You’re crossing the hall to the frosted glass doors without telling your feet where to go. The cozy sitting room is overwarm with the fire blazing in the hearth, the mantle still piled with books and little objects, but your eyes and fingers go instantly to the only one that matters.

As you pick up the ornate jewel box, a light burning sensation pinches at the nape of your neck and you turn to the doors, expecting to see your Thief’s eyes boring into you again. But the threshold is empty, the firelight reflecting off the glass.

The little box in your hands doesn’t open. Because it is locked. The keyhole is tiny, set in a pretty filigree circle on the front.

Reaching up behind your neck, your fingers fall on the clasp of your necklace and the delicate key there, warm, as if it had been hanging by the fire.

Or...magically telling you that it is in proximity to its lock.

Fumbling with the clasp, swearing at your shaking fingers as you work to remove the chain, you finally get the key inserted. And twist.

You’re not sure what you expected to find inside. But it certainly wasn’t this.

Sitting down in the chair by the fire, you stare at the little box and try to make sense of the contents. You’ve gathered that he gave this key to you to hide it away from the demon, that she was out in the world looking for it, meaning the box it opens is precious to her, that there must be some heavy spell on the container that she could not in all her demonic influence open it without this one key.

Rings. The box contains at least a dozen, crammed in, a jumble of gold and silver, each of them set with some large, chunky, precious gem. A ruby here, a sapphire there, sparkling, well cared for….but, at the end of the day, just...just rings.

This is what she is hell-bent on recovering? Why? Think. Think. They must be enchanted. Or cursed. You’re smart enough not to touch them, not to try them on as much as you’d like to, to festoon your fingers with their chunky sparkle. Instead, you close the lid of the delicate box and contemplate the painting on it, the demons dancing in their hellfire. You can guess at the rings’ significance all you want, but you need more information...and your mind is exhausted.

And you’ve had a couple glasses of wine. 

And it’s very warm in here. 

And it’s easy to doze off.

_______________

From his eyes, you can see yourself, resplendent in black satin, sitting next to him in the opera box, the hum of an audience at intermission buzzing around you both, the chandelier light playing on your hair....and you’re PISSED. Do your eyes always spark fire like this when you’re irritated? You’re terrifying and, you have to admit, the fury makes you beautiful.

“You little shit. You brought me on a HEIST? I cannot. Believe you. Right now.” You close your eyes in a huff, trying to calm yourself.

And when you do….

His hands reach out and deftly spring the clasp on your necklace, lifting it away from your breast. You don’t even notice because he reaches out at the same time to poke your earring playfully and set it swinging.

“I know you can do it.”

From here, behind his eyes, you see the next few minutes play out. How he sends you off with a glass of wine, watches from behind his opera glasses as you make a scene with it in the front row, spilling it all over the older balding man. Then the thief is up and moving to the lobby, waiting patiently at the men’s toilet, catching your eye and giving you a wink just before he follows a gaggling group of red-jacketed valets ushering the wine-soaked man into the privy.

This is the part you didn’t get to witness that night.

As the valets swirl around the man, doing their best to dry and placate him, your Thief reaches into his own pocket and retrieves your necklace, slipping the tiny key into the locket and giving it three swift cranks, its exquisite gears spinning within its crystal housing….

And time...slows...to an ooze….

Everything happens incrementally. The hurried valets now taking an eternity to blink, their flapping hands reduced from butterflies flitting about to snails trailing heavy through the air, but your Thief’s capable hands move at their normal pace, reach out and cup the man’s face and he mumbles some Goetian words you don’t quite catch.

The balding man startles, coming into time and, noticing the thief now, settles into recognition. “You.”

“Hello, Blackwell. Don’t have a lot of time, even if it is slower. Try not to move too much. You know what’s happening here?”

Blackwell’s eyes dart around as the thief lets him go, assessing first the situation, then your man in front of him, regarding the thief with a mixture of apprehension and spite. “What do you want from me? I’ve got nothing left to teach you, you selfish--”

“Shhh. I’m here to give you a present.”

This raises a scoff from Blackwell, trying not to let it rock him on his feet as a towel in a valet’s hand continues to drift minutely closer to his wine-soaked chest. “Something you stole, no doubt.”

“Of course.”

The thief is looking at Blackwell. You can’t see what he’s holding in his hand.

But his companion can. The man’s eyes round out and his sneer slides off his face. “That’s...that’s my…”

“I’ve been watching you, Blackwell. You must be counting your remaining days, trying to get in good with the choirs upstairs, taking all that mysteriously acquired wealth of yours and spreading it around, anonymous relief funds, scholarships, medicinal research and degenerative disease eradication. Generous. You’ve been busy.”

The man’s eyes begin to well as your Thief recounts all of this in his most soothing, sonorous tone. A tear spills over and runs down Blackwell’s doughy cheek before dripping off his chin and barely missing the hand of the valet, now nearly in contact with the wine stain dampening his shirt. “Thank you,” he whimpers, “oh, God, thank you.”

“God has nothing to do with this. Now listen. I give you back your soul and my debt to you is paid. But it also means your contract with her is broken. You know what that might mean. You still want it?”

Blackwell goes to nod, but remembers just in time not to move too much. The valets are still crawling through time around them, still moving in micro beats but starting to gain more speed now. Best not to cause a blur by moving too fast for them to see.

“I understand. I want it,” the man swallows thickly, trying not to sob. “But...you could just let me suffer. Why are you...doing this?”

“Because,” the thief looks down at the ring he holds in his palm, gold, the older man’s soul looking for all the world like a large, rectangular emerald, “I’m hoping someone will do the same for me.”

As the scene around them slides back into time--a slow stretch followed by a gradual quickening and then a snap, the same momentum as the next tear that stretches from Blackwell’s jaw before breaking free--sound pops back to rights and the red-jacketed men are swirling around the balding man, patting and blotting and apologizing, but his eyes are still locked to yours, that is, to your Thief’s.

The man you love holds up the ring, putting on his best impression of opera quality service. “Sir, I believe you dropped this.”

Blackwell nods with shaky breath, just barely choking back a cry. “I thank you.”

From here, your Thief makes his way back to the box seats, taking off his red velvet jacket and leaving it on a bannister along the way. By the time he returns to you, the second half of the opera has started. But he hangs back for three, four songs in the shadow of the curtain. He doesn't even look toward the stage.

He simply watches you.

As a casual observer to this purely sensory memory, you can’t know what he’s thinking, can’t feel what he’s feeling, but you can see what he sees and what his eyes follow is the line of your neck, the curve of your ear, the bounce of light off your shoulders.

Finally, after making his way around and taking his seat closer to the stage, he runs a finger around your ear, pushing a lock of hair back into place, tapping the earring to set it swinging again.

Your eyes are so transparent, a straight window to your heart as he bends a knuckle under your chin to take you in. He watches as your mouth curls in a whisper, “Get what you wanted?” 

“For now.”

“I can’t believe you made me do that. You could have hired anyone else. Someone more savvy.”

“It had to be you,” he whispers, and, as it had lately happened in the men’s room, time comes to a grind, just as your brows lower and your lips come into a pout.

You watch now from behind your love’s eyes as he reaches up and quickly returns the necklace to its home hanging just above your cleavage, its elegant gears glinting in the low light as they spin out the time.

He doesn’t bring you out of it with his Goetic words, doesn’t do anything but drag fingertips lovingly down your cheek before settling in for long minutes of stretched time, using the stolen moment to be still and study you from this angle, the stage lights making a soft spectacle of your features, keeping his gaze trailing over nothing but you, you, you until everything finally slides back into his momentum.

You cannot tell what he’s thinking or feel what he’s feeling.

But you have a good guess.

________________

It’s disorienting, having just come from his eyes as he surveys you in the dark opera box to being back behind your own as they open, finding him lounging in the stuffed chair across the fire from you.

“Sorry I was late,” he says sweetly, his smile soft, but his gaze drilling into you. “Have any interesting dreams?” 

Everything comes rushing in as you take up the little box in your lap, scrambling to open the lid and jingle the rings around, looking for….looking for…which one? Which one was it? A flash from your own memory, the night the demon took him...

The malicious curl of her red velvet lips. The winding of her other arm as it comes from between them and around him, a finger now bearing a ring with a russet stone.

The jewels rattle and glint in the box, but no sign of that particular stone. No. No. It’s not here. It’s not here. “Dammit, it’s not here!”

“Shhhh. I know.” Sitting calmly in his cozy chair by the fire, he stills you with a small, sad smile. Lifting his fist and opening it, your locket tumbles out, yanking to a stop on its chain that’s looped around a finger. “I believe you dropped this, my brilliant Angel.”

You’d taken it off to unlock the box...it must have slipped off your lap as you slept. But he’s not admonishing you for it. 

He’s summoning you to come and take it back.

Leaving the demon’s jewel box behind and crossing the distance between your chairs, you slide yourself gracefully onto his lap, knees clamping around his hips, arms around his shoulders, shivering a little as he feathers his hands around your neck to replace your trinket. “I thank you.”

His sable eyes flash when you echo the dialogue from the memory. Then they dance for you as you run the clasp around on its chain to fit the key into the locket. He smiles broadly as you twist--once, twice, three times--a smile that broadcasts how proud he is of you, a smile that suspends as the flames in the fireplace slow to a sliding glow, a smile you indulgently kiss four times while he can’t get away from you.

Once, for imbuing the locket with the ability to circumnavigate the rules through dreams.

Twice, for placing upon it the power of time you anticipate needing for a final, dangerous task.

And another, because you’re sure now, if he took the time to put two enchantments on it, then he would not have neglected to add the third, spilling more blood to ensure that you are protected from harm by a little heart made of crystal and gold.

The last kiss though, the last you take for yourself, your reward for picking the lock of this puzzle and for enduring whatever undertaking is yet to come. You lay claim to him until the fire crackles to life again, until his lips slide out of the smile and meld gratefully into your own.

_______________

Final Chapter: Share it With Me (Thief x Locksmith 6)--->

LOCKSMITH SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @14mcmd1122 @adriiibell @allthe-ships @amb-bam @amneris21 @bison-writes @blackmarketmummy @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @cannedsoupsucks @chatterbean @deadhumourist @deberiaestarescribiendo @dihra-vesa @elegantduckturtle @eri16 @extraterrestrialdork @ezrasbirdie @feralhotmess @fromthedeskoftheraven @galaxyofmando @goblinsimp @gracie7209 @greeneyedblondie44  @grogusmum @grumpymuffinmama  @hauntedmama  @heavenseed76 @honestly-shite @hopplessdreamer @horton-hears-a-honk @hypnoash @janebby @javierpinme @jediknight122 @jitterbugs927 @just-here-for-the-moment @justreadingthings @kesskirata @kirsteng42 @kotemorons @likes-good-reblogs-even-better @literallydontlook @liviiii98 @lorecraft @lowlights @luthientinu @luxmundee @magpie-to-the-morning @maievdenoir @mando-amandk @midnightartemis @mostclevermiss @mswarriorbabe80​ @mylovelycomandante @neonvagabond @ohlawdthebirds @pbeatriz @pjkimrn  @princessxkenobi @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @quicksilvermad @radiowallet @raspberrymama @recklessworry @red-velvet-panda @seasonschange-butpeopledont @sheahoneygoth @solemnlyswearss @spacenerdpascal @stevie75 @sugar-foxx @tenderwhat @the-blind-assassin-12 @thirddeadlysin  @thirstworldproblemss @thisisthewayyy @thisshipwillsail316 @tintinn16 @toomanystoriessolittletime @trash-dino-5000 @writeforfandoms

[fanficshiddles]

Losing Control, Chapter 5

Emilia spent the weekend pretty much wondering what the hell had just happened on Friday night with Professor Laufeyson.

What scared and confused her the most was how much she actually enjoyed it.

And that as soon as she had gotten back to the safety of her flat afterwards, she had to make herself cum multiple times to get rid of the frustration. Even though it wasn’t as good as it would’ve been to have had his fingers make her cum.

On Monday, his class wasn’t until afternoon so it gave her some time to try and forget about what happened. To try and just focus on him being her professor, that was it.

When she entered his class, she made sure not to even look at him. She quickly put her assignment on his desk, not looking at him at all, then went straight to her seat and just pulled out her books and buried her face in them to hide.

Loki was amused with her reaction as he pulled her assignment over to him. He flicked through it before starting the class, while the other students got settled. He was happy with her work, she finally did it right.

But he still wasn’t going to let her get away with it being late.

‘Miss Cooper. See me after class for handing in this assignment late.’ He called to her firmly, making her stomach drop.

She got some pitying looks from some of her classmates.

If only they knew…

Keeping her head down, she managed to get through class unscathed. But even as she tried to sneak out amongst the crowd, Laufeyson noticed and barked her name. So with her head low she meekly made her way over to his desk.

‘Mr Laufeyson.’ She said quietly, struggling to actually look at him.

‘I told you this was due Friday.’

‘I said I would have it in today.’ She retorted, only quickly glancing at his eyes.

‘I also told you to see me before class today.’

‘That wasn’t exactly within Uni hours, professor.’

‘But I am still your professor and told you to see me beforehand. Are you really so incapable of following orders, hmm?’

She started getting a little irritated now, her usual self coming back. ‘I think we’ve both learned that seems to be something that excites you… Sir.’ She said as she looked directly at him and narrowed her eyes.

Loki’s eyebrow shot upwards, rather amused at her witty remark.

‘Watch that tongue of yours, Emilia. Or it will be put to much better use.’ He growled low, pointing his pen at her.

‘You have the assignment. Can I go now?’ She asked bluntly.

Loki was going to say no, but he heard the footsteps of his next class approaching in the hall. There was a time and a place for everything.

‘Off you go.’ He dismissed her with a nod of the head towards the door.

Not waiting another second, she high-tailed it out of there as quickly as possible.

-

She managed to get through the rest of the week without too much attention from Professor Laufeyson. Kept her head down mostly and just ran out of his class whenever it ended.

On Friday night at the bar during work, Sky noticed that something was a little off with Emilia.

‘Come on, spill. What’s going on with you?’ She asked after she served a customer.

It was a quiet night for a Friday, not that they were complaining. It was nice having easy nights sometimes.

‘So… Professor Laufeyson has been flirting with me.’ She said quietly to her friend.

‘Really?’ Sky asked, shocked.

‘Yeah. To the point that he took me into his flat when I locked myself out, said he called a locksmith… then after some major flirting, he revealed he had a key all along from the previous tenant.’ She deliberately left out the part where he spanked her and scared the shit out of her.

‘Oh my god. Emilia, this is HUGE! You need to flirt back, ride that dick!’

‘SKY!’ Emilia chastised quietly as she nudged her.

‘Oh come on. He’s sexy! And there’s nothing kinkier and exciting than a professor fucking a student, so hot.’ Sky winked at her.

‘Oh my god. Why did I tell you?’ Emilia shook her head and face-palmed.

Sky laughed and draped her arm around her shoulder. ‘Because I’m your bestie. Hey, why don’t we see if we can have the rest of the night off to go clubbing? It seems you could do with a big blow out. It’s quiet here and only a few hours left anyway.’ She suggested.

Emilia’s face lit up. ‘That sounds like a perfect idea!’

‘Hey, Billy.’ Sky called over to the old man who was cleaning some glasses. He was the owner and was also working the bar that night. ‘Do you mind if Emilia and I have the rest of the night off to paint the town red?’

Billy laughed and threw his arms up. ‘Of course, of course. It’s been a while since you two have had a night off, go enjoy yourselves.’ He said with a big smile.

Emilia and Sky were good workers and Billy adored them. He was like a grandfather to them, was always there to help them out too. He had been such a lifeline to Emilia when her parents passed away.

‘Thanks, Billy.’ They both said at the same time as they rushed over and kissed his cheek.

‘Go, go on.’ He laughed and waved his towel at them. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do though!’ He winked at them.

‘There’s nothing you haven’t done, Billy!’ Emilia laughed as they headed out the door.

‘Touche!’ They heard just as they left, making them laugh.

-

It was just before two in the morning, Loki was still up working late that night at his desk at home. He liked to get any marking done out of the way and prep for the following weeks classes. Then he could enjoy the rest of his weekend without worrying.

But he heard an odd noise from outside in the hall, a repeated banging noise. Curious, he went to take a peek out of the peephole. He smirked at what he saw.

A very very drunk, completely smashed, Emilia was stumbling about into the walls as she tried to keep herself upright to get to her door. She was also balancing a half-eaten tray of kebab, chips and cheese in her hand.

‘Shhhhhhh.’ She said to herself with a finger to her lips, when she walked into her door, making a rather loud bang.

Then she started laughing hysterically as she realised she was talking to herself.

It took her a while to get her keys out of her bag, she had to put down the tray of food which was a task in itself. Then she tried and failed multiple times to get the key into the keyhole.

‘Do you need a hand?’ Loki asked with a smirk as he had decided to step out to get a better view of the show.

She jumped and turned around, hand over her heart. ‘You… You scared me!’ She then rushed over to him and poked him in the chest, put her hands on her hips and glared up at him as best she could. While swaying very slightly. ‘You are a meanie. You can unlock my door. As a sorry for last week.’

Her words were very slurred, and she was amusing Loki to no end.

‘Oh, I’m a meanie, am I?’

‘Yes! Very mean. Just cause you’re hot you think you can get away with it.’

Loki managed to prise the keys out of her hands and he steadied her by gently gripping her upper arm as he walked her the few steps to her door. ‘You think I’m hot?’ He smirked as he unlocked her door and pushed it open.

She bent over to grab her food before replying, but stumbled forward. If it wasn’t for Loki quickly swooping down to grab her with an arm around her middle, she would’ve head dived to the floor.

‘Just how much have you drunk?’ He asked in disbelief as he practically carried her into her flat, while she was more occupied with saving her food from falling.

‘Dunno… shots. Tequila. Vodka. Cocktails.’ She rattled off as Loki managed to get her over to her sofa, where she plopped herself down and continued eating.

‘And you couldn’t have found something healthier to eat than that?’ He folded his arms over his chest and glared at the food she had.

‘Ew, healthy food.’ She scrunched her nose up, making Loki roll his eyes.

‘That is probably the worst you could get. That’s a heart attack right there waiting to happen.’

‘If you have it daily probs.’ She shrugged. ‘And who the hell do you think you are telling me what I can and can’t eat?’ She snapped.

‘I was merely pointing out the fact that your decision making when drunk is clearly not good.’

‘Have you ever tried this?’ Emilia asked as she held the tray out towards him.

‘No. And I don’t wish to try that greasy mess.’ He scoffed, scrunching his nose up.

‘Your loss.’ She said chirpily.

Loki disappeared into her kitchen to get her some water. When he returned though, she had passed out and her food was spilled over her lap and the sofa.

‘Oh christ.’ Loki shook his head and put the glass down, then tidied up the food around her.

He scooped her up into his arms once he was finished and carried her through to her bedroom. After placing her on the bed, he started removing her clothes just as she roused a little.

‘Whatcha doing? Get off me, perv.’ She tried to shoo him away with her hands but was too weak and drunk.

‘I’m getting you into bed, you need to sleep it off.’ Loki growled as he continued removing her dress. He held back a groan as she wasn’t wearing a bra underneath.

He pushed his urges to the side for now and raided through her drawers until he found a nightie for her. With some struggling, as she kept trying to fight him off, he eventually got it on her and put her under the quilt.

But with the state she was in, he didn’t really want to leave her alone just incase she was sick and choked. So he got a basin from the kitchen and put it at her bedside just in case, along with the glass of water on her nightstand.

Then he took up residence on her chair by her desk opposite her bed.

-

When Emilia woke up, she felt like death. She practically fell out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom, after throwing up a few times she downed as much water as possible before brushing her teeth.

Then she pulled off her nightie and knickers, then got in the shower. The warm water caressing down her skin helped a lot, making her feel a little more human already as she sighed.

But that’s when some flickers of last night returned. She remembered Loki’s face was part of it, but she couldn’t think how. Then she realised the state she was in, how the heck did she get into bed and get changed?

That’s when flashes of her trying to push Loki away as he took off her clothes came flooding back to her. Making her feel sick again.

‘Oh god, no. He didn’t, did he?’ She gasped to herself, feeling horrified at the thought.

With anxiety settling in her stomach, she finished up her shower and got dried in the bathroom, then wrapped her hair up in a towel and wandered back into her bedroom, still naked till she got to her drawers. But that’s when Loki walked right in like he owned the place with a tray of breakfast.

She screamed in shock at him being in her room, never mind her flat, before even thinking about pulling the towel down from her hair to cover herself, she threw the nearest item at him, which was her deodorant that was sitting on top of her drawers.

Loki managed to avoid getting hit by the deodorant and he raised an eyebrow in amusement as she quickly covered herself with the towel.

‘Well, that’s a delightful feast for the eyes in the morning.’ He purred, his voice doing things to her. Things she really didn’t want to think about right now. Or ever.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ She snapped at him, clutching the towel tightly around her. ‘Did you rape me last night? I remember you taking off my clothes!’ She accused.

Loki calmly placed the tray down on her desk and walked towards her, making her back right up to the wall nervously as she stared up at him, trying to remain confident.

‘Darling, if I had fucked you, you would most definitely remember it. Drunk or not. You would certainly feel it, even now.’ He narrowed his eyes at her, they flickered down to her lips briefly then back up to her eyes. ‘And I know you don’t think much of me, being a Norse mythology professor and all, but I would not take advantage of someone in such a state.’

Emilia’s breathing calmed a little bit, realising he was right. She probably would be able to tell if she’d been fucked or not. And it certainly didn’t feel like it.

‘You didn’t answer my question of what you’re doing here.’ She mumbled.

‘I had to carry you to bed, you passed out. Did I undress you? Yes, I did. To get you into bed to sleep, which you clearly needed. The state you were in, I didn’t want to leave you alone in-case you choked to death on your own vomit.’ He said dryly as he walked away from her to the breakfast tray.

‘Food. Painkillers.’ He stated.

Her head was absolutely banging, so she was glad to see he had thought of that, at least.

‘Why weren’t you in bed by the time I got home?’ She asked as she crossed the room to the food and pain relief, and that meant closer to him, so she still eyed him warily.

‘I was still working. Then I heard what sounded like an elephant in the hall.’

Emilia glared up at him as she drank the water.

‘You called me hot, by the way.’ He smirked.

‘No, no way.’ Emilia said defensively.

‘Oh you did, I wouldn’t lie.’ Loki said cockily, winking at her.

She just grumbled in annoyance under her breath at him.

‘Well… Thanks for making sure I was ok. I’ll be fine now.’ She tried to keep the coldness out of her tone since he had helped her, after all.

‘Anything for a damsel in distress.’ He grinned widely and began backing out of her bedroom door. ‘Oh, one last thing…’ He said after pressing a finger to his lip.

‘When I fuck you, it won’t be unwillingly. You will beg me to.’

Emilia almost dropped her toast in shock, as he quickly disappeared out of her flat.

‘Motherfucker.’ She hissed.

[ancestral-anecdotes]

This day in history...Our ancestor, Jacques Martin, was buried on January 11, 1814, at Yamaska, Québec, having died two days earlier. It was Jacques, born in 1732 in Nemours, France, who emigrated from France to Québec around 1760. He was a cordonnier, or shoemaker, having not followed the trade of his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, who were all master locksmiths in Nemours. He married Marie-Anne Joyelle-Lafreniere on October 20, 1760, at Saint-François-du-Lac, Yamaska, Québec. She died in 1815. The document above is the burial record. You can read all about great-great-great-great-great-grandfather Jacques at http://bryan-martin.net/genealogy/getperson.php?personID=I1760&tree=gam.