#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

[theemmtropy]

I think I've found the wildest piece of music history in existence. So I went to a audio/visual store today, and they had vintage cassettes, and I was amazed to find a Travelling Wilburys one. The Travelling Wilburys were a musical supergroup consisting of Bob Dylan, George Harrison, Jeff Lynne, Roy Orbison, and Tom Petty. (I've linked their most popular songs, just in case you're not sure who they are.) So I was very excited to add it to my collection. (Side note: it plays great.) Upon opening it up this evening, I was looking at the inside pamphlet, you know, the kind that has designs and track lists and such. And I found an incredible piece of fake lore for the band, which I have typed out (CW for brief racial stereotype):

“The etymological origins of The Traveling Wilburys have aroused something of a controversy amongst academic circles. Did they, as Professor “BOBBY” Sinfield believes, originate from the various Wilbury Fairs which travelled Europe in Medieval times, titillating the populace with contemporary ballads, or rather, were they rather derived from “YE TRAVELLING WILLYBURYS”, who were popular locksmiths during the Crusades used to picking or unlocking jammed chastity belts (rather like today’s emergency plumbers.) Dr. Arthur Noseputty of Cambridge believes they were closely related to the Strangling Dingleberries, which is not a Group but a disease, an unpleasant form of crotch-rot; arguing that a “WILLBERRY” is often used as an expression for a piece of crud found in the crevice of an ancient pair of y-fronts; but I think this can be discounted, not only because of his silly name but also from his habit of impersonating Ethel Merman during lectures. Some have even gone on to suggest tenuous links with the Pillsburys, the group who invented Flour Power. Dim Sun, a Chinese academic, argues that they may be related to “THE STROLLING TILBURYS”, Queen Elizabeth the first’s favourite minstrels, and backs this suspicion with the observation that The Travelling Wilburys is an obvious anagram of “V. BURYING WILL’S THEATRE”, clearly a reference to the closing of Shakespeare’s Globe theatre by Villiers during an outbreak of plague. This would account for the constant travelling. Indeed, many victims of plague and St. Vitus’ dance literally danced themselves to death, and it is this dancing theme that resurfaces with The Wilbury Twist. Not a cocktail but a dance craze, reminiscent of The Wilbury Quadrille made famous at Bath in 1790 by Beau Diddley, and the Wilbury Waltz, which swept Vienna in the 1890’s. One thing, however, remains certain. The circumambulatory peregrinations of these itinerant mundivagrant peripatetic nomads has already disgorged one collection of popular lyrical cantata, which happily encapsulated their dithyrambic antiphonic contrapuntal threnodies as a satisfactory auricular experience for the hedonistic gratification of the hoi polloi on a popular epigraphically inscribed gramophonic recording. Now here’s another one. Tiny Hampton (Professor “TINY” Hampton is currently leading the search for Intelligent Life amongst Rock Journalism, at the University of Please Yourself, California.)"

(I've included links that might help contextualize the jokes/puns/references that I could pick up on.)

HELLO?????? WHICH ONE OF THEM WROTE THIS I NEED TO KNOW

And APPARENTLY, they all had Wilbury personas.

And BEST OF ALL, they named their SECOND ALBUM (which this is pulled from), "VOL. 3". IM WHEEZING.

[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!

[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.

[inkfire-scribe]

Once I couldn't find my car keys. Not on the hook, not on the counter.

Jacket pockets? Nope.

Jeans pockets? Double nope.

Starting to get worried. It's okay, I still have time. Check the mud room again.

Hook still empty.

Not on the washer or dryer. (Not IN them either.)

Back to the kitchen. Counter? No. Table? No.

Check jacket again. Pockets still empty.

Starting to actually worry. It's snowy outside. I'm going to be late for work.

Put on my boots, check the car through iced-up windows. No sign of my keys. Back inside for one more check.

Bathroom? No.

Closet? Nope.

Buried in the bedsheets? No - but I really should change these OH DAMN I'M LATE

I've just decided it's a lost cause. I'll call in and then find a locksmith after I have a little snack to calm down.

Open the fridge.

. . .

Why are my keys in the fridge?

I don't know, but there they are by the milk.

I'm gonna be late, but my boss will die laughing when he hears about this.

When you're unsuccessfully looking for something and start gradually increasing your It Could Be There range. Like yeah sure maybe the rice cooker pot is in the freezer, idk

[madmwyrd]

Her name was Lyudmila Pavlichenko, but they called her Lady Death.

Born in Ukraine to a locksmith and his wife, she always found herself acting more "boyish" than her friends. She joined a shooting club before her demon Misha settled. She was a crack shot from the start, leaving her friends in the dust. They used to joke that her demon would settle into a hawk. It never did, of course.

When she married, she found that being a housewife wasn't all it was cracked up to be, so she left, taking her yet-to-settle demon with her. She worked, went to school, and even became a great athlete. All the while, she still took sniping courses, honing her sight so that she could shoot a fly out of the air from twenty meters, then fifty meters, a hundred meters, *five* hundred meters. Her classmates respected her. They feared her a little, too.

When the Nazis invaded, she was first in line. Back then, the Red Army took everyone it could, but someone like Lyudmila didn't come around too often. She asked to join the infantry. The registrar tried to force her into being a nurse, and they say his jaw still creaks from where she hit it, even in Hell. She was accepted to be one of two thousand female snipers in the Red Army. She would leave the war one of only five hundred.

Sent to the front lines with nothing but a frag grenade and her uniform, she was expected to go in and die as quickly as she went. When a dying comrade handed her his rifle, some said she grinned. Her first shot killed two Nazi soldiers, they say. In this baptism by fire, she became a true sniper, and her demon finally settled. Everyone expected a hawk, or an eagle, or something similar.

She was the only one unsurprised when Misha settled into a mouse.

Her comrades witnessed her kill three hundred and nine men. She probably killed hundreds more, before she was hit with shrapnel and went back home. She trained other snipers, then, when the Red Army stopped her from going back to the frontlines.

After the war, she finished school and became a historian. Her mouse-demon was always a shock to the scholars, often with their enormous hulking brutes behind them, cowering from her in fear. She lost her second husband in the war, and drank to forget about it. She died in 1974, her demon Misha carved as a statue on her headstone once she was buried.

There have been few people in history with harmless demons. They're almost always war heroes, of course. Alexander the Great's demon, rather famously, was a songbird. Audie Murphy's demon was a butterfly, some say, but nobody alive today ever got a good look at her. Manfred von Richthofen's demon was a ferret, who always sat in his coat with him whenever he flew. To this day, as far as I know, there's only been one person to have a mouse demon, and it's Lady Death herself.

All this to say, if you ever see someone with no demon at all, or one so small you can hardly tell it's there:

Run.

Run so far away.

Humans are born with demon counterparts to protect them.The more innocent and pure a person is the more mean fierce and terrifying their demon becomes.Today you met an 82 year old woman with the kindest sweetest demon you’ve ever met.

[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

[yourbonafidelove]

embarrassing to want things like love and attention

turn off your flashlights please I don't mean your vehicle headlights

I mean the hand held flashlights you spot me with I'm tired of living in the spotlight of my captors and killers Only for you to miss where I am buried And let him go free, running away with the future I envisioned

My family, for all I have left of them and leave them for, still loves me. ------------------------

As you go forward on a playground swing, You can close your eyes and feel the train cure my cancer, Or through your own head, This is how they left us.

Imagine saying a bunch of shit to me to keep me here, Like one of you cops were coming to take me out of this life, Like you had this planned for 8 years, Only open my eyes And you send me pon di track anyee way.

Its not what we believe in that counts, Its how ever much you gave us to injest when you took me from my bed. Just to show you could.

I will never rent again. I will never work again. I will never fight for a life when the locksmiths hold the keys for their own pleasure -- or they just find a way to let themselves in anyway. I mean you. You're a cop. I know this. You both are.

I'm 12 minutes late for the frieght train. 12:20pm.

embarrassing to want things like love and attention

[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.

[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

[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

[dimensionalspades]

. "Your locksmith uses poor materials," he replied easily, as though the fault was in the smith and not his famously deft hands. "Can't improve if they don't fix mistakes."

. "What's so distinct about my taste?" He asked with a raised brow. He assumed everyone tasted things the same- though, she seemed to enjoy tea more than he did. That being said, she brewed it well, and he'd found a new appreciation for the drink through her.

. He watched her as she moved, still leaning against the table with arms crossed like he was ready to move if needbe.

. "Following a rumor," he said after a moment. "Some rich bastard pissed off another rich bastard, and the first fled to Tyvia." And now said bastard was buried there under dirt and snow. Shallowly, but buried nevertheless. "And I'm down woolen socks," he added with a scoff.

"A poor loc-- I've replaced that lock several times now, I'll have you know." Hinoka tuts at him, a thorn scarred hand waved dismissively, "I've made a new blend and your distinct tastes make for a good tester, no offense."

The witch laughs softly, a whistling kettle silenced once it's removed from heat. A small bundle of various herbs and flowers, even what appeared to be honeycomb, was set to steep in the boiled water.

"I'm hoping it's medicinal purposes will still flourish with a better flavor."

As she waits, she traipse around the small space of her home with the envelope before grabbing an apothecary's jar, and placing the contents reverently inside.

"So, what in the Outsider's name made you go up to that frigid place?"