#locksmith in bury

[mattsinclairvo]

Also been inspired to write some protective G/t vore lately, been seeing a lot of it on Tumblr. I am trying my hand at the concept for the first time in a while and wanted to do something romantic and with Kaijus.

“Just gotta get to the highway…” she mumbled into her steering wheel.

Though she wasn't sure how much she believed that at the moment… An ancient instinct in the back of Sasha’s mind told her she was being followed in the night. A pursuer unseen lurking somewhere close by.

Her phone was still vibrating in her pocket. She hadn't even looked at the newest alerts to see what kind of Kaiju it was.

I'm only a couple blocks away from the bar and it'll take me thirty minutes to get home. Maybe I pull over and check the news.

As much as Sasha loathed the idea of going back to her job and sheltering there for who knows how long after an exhausting day, the alternative was becoming Kaiju chow.

She began steering her car into a familiar alleyway.

While she did that, the flying beast of the night, unwilling to lose this chance, dropped from the sky. Its eyes were primed on the shiny little black car as it tried to escape into a narrow crevice. It bared its fangs and released a loud screeching in an attempt to stun its prey.

It had the opposite effect however.

Sash startled and thoroughly, released her foot off of the break. The front of her car went barreling through heaps of trash left out by the restaurants on either side. Some were launched over the roof and into the creature’s face.

The monster was unfettered by this, unable to change the course of its plunge. Before the little morsel could slip totally from its grasp, the giant monster bit into the top back half of the little hatchback’s roof.

Giant slimy fangs speared the backseat of Soph’s car. The hatchback let out a death rattle, ignition cutting as its front half was lifted in the air from the force of the puncture.

Sasha let out a howling scream of terror when the monster made impact. Then, she scrambled for her seatbelt while the car titled up.

“No no not like this!” She cried, kicking open the driver's side door.

The monster, certain it made its kill, began to flap its wings once more, prepared to lift back off into the sky with its prize.

The gale was the last bit of momentum Sasha needed to fall out of the car's cabin. Now on the cold wet concrete, surrounded by trash and muggy funk, did she get a good look at her pursuer as he made his escape.

It was a monstrous bat, with a wing span more than a couple of city blocks wide. It had a tail lined with spikes that swayed back and forth as it rose into the sky, while its horrible clawed feet dangled lower. The creature kept a tight hold on the back of her car as it ascended away, locking its lower jaw in place around the back wheels.

A nightmarish spectacle, Sasha could do nothing but watch on helplessly as the beastly bat disappeared into the dark sky.

The wind slowly died down as the creature left the immediate area. Everything grew quiet and still. The normal ambiance of the city was replaced with a tense silence, punctuated by the sound of her phone’s Kaiju alert notification.

Sasha was still on the ground long after it vanished from view.

Her legs felt too numb to stand. And even if she did, where would she go?. All the stations would no doubt be shut down till morning thanks to cause of the attack. Ride share would also be out of the question at this point.

And even if she did make it back to her apartment, that monster took off with her keys still in the ignition of her car. There would be no getting inside without a locksmith.

It was a truly hopeless state of affairs. The bartender, though well seasoned, buried her face in her hands, eyes brimming with tears. She let them fall into her palms.

Sasha’s phone vibrated again, the booming tone continued to echo against the bricks of the alleyway.

“No shit, there's a Kaiju in the area!” She said through choked sobs.

“It just took off with my car…”

A warm and wet wind bared down from behind her suddenly. Sash was knocked to the ground, ribs colliding with the pavement painfully.

“Ugh! The hell!” She strained. Sasha attempted to stand, but was knocked back to the ground by this new force.

Something cold was at her back, burrowing it's way into her clothes. Sash believed the wind itself had now taken to harassing her.

The cold thing then poked at her sides, curiously.

“C-cut that out!”

Sasha let out a gasp and shrill giggle, an involuntary reaction to this strange sensation rubbing up and down her skin. Fed up, she flipped herself on her back to get a good look at her new assailant.

She was greeted with a great big pair of yellow eyes staring down at her and a long, red, and fuzzy snout dotted with a dark shiny nose pointed at her head.

The nostrils of the titanic beast widened and took a deep inhale.

Next thing Sasha knew, she was pressed chest first against the monster’s nose, trapped there by the force of suction.

“H-Hey! Don't you bastards have anything better to do than harass me??” She yelled.

Horrified, the poor bartender did her best to pry herself free, pushing her hands against the Kaiju’s snout in an attempt to break the seal. It was too strong for her to over come on her own however, and the creature shows no sign of letting her back down.

Instead the giant monster parted its jowls. A long dark tongue slithered from the side of the creature’s scaly lips. It didn't hesitate to swipe the perimeter of its mouth, dragging poor Sasha into the monster's maw.

Sasha was being swallowed before she even had time to process what was happening, tumbling down the beastly throat of the Kaiju.

She slid down the slick and darkened tube for what felt like an eternity, before finally settling into a wider pit, the monster's stomach.

“This- This can't be happening…” Sasha stammered, “I escaped one Kaiju just to be eaten by a different one?”

She felt like she was going crazy, alone in the muggy darkness. Sasha reached for her phone in her back pocket, to make use of its flashlight.

When she brought the screen to her face, something on it caught Sash’s eye.

It was a new notification. It looked similar to the standard “Kaiju in area” message but instead of being bright red, it was green and pulsating.

“KAIJU RECOVERY AND RESCUE: SUCCESSFUL.” It read in that chunky font.

“TAP HERE FOR MORE INFO AND NEXT STEPS.”

“What? I'm far from being rescued!” Sasha hissed incredulously.

She tapped the notification. If she was lucky maybe it could provide her with a way to actually be rescued.

The notification took her to a blank screen with a green loading bar in the middle.

Black text appeared under the bar saying, “Establishing secure connection…please wait.”

There, Sasha sat. Hunched over her phone, in the dark, with soft gurgling and low pulsating all around her. The dampness of the ground was starting to soak into her jeans.

At last, the white loading page cleared. A video began playing on her phone screen with overly cheerful music and a colorful background.

A man faded into view on the screen. His dark hair pulled into a slick ponytail, though a few stubborn curly strands escaped the bondage of his hair tie and hung over his eyebrows. His eyes were a deep brown and shined with an usually high enerand eagerness. His nose was hooked and pointed through his nostrils and sat wide.

He beamed a bright smile through her phone screen.

“Hey there! Good to see you're in one piece.” The man started.

It was a face Sasha was used to seeing on Kaiju related PSAs on television and billboards. He was one of the hot models some marketing team hired to make the safety commercials more eye-catching.

“I’m Izzy Asaochi, a Kaiju ambassador. And I'll be heading up your rescue and recovery communications.” He flashed a bright smile at the camera.

Sasha could hardly believe it. Here she was in the belly of a giant monster, watching a thirty something tiktok star on her phone for help.

“It seems you've had a close call with a Kaiju currently hunting in the downtown area. Unfortunately the giant bat subtype, like the one you came in contact with, tend to be persistent hunters. Which is why for the next twelve hours, you'll be in my protective custody!”

She blinked at that.

The droning of bodily functions were interrupted by a particularly large gurgle welling up from somewhere much deeper, than Sash dared to imagine.

All of the pieces were coming together in her mind. Sasha let her phone fall from her hand, head reeling from the shock.

“No…” she hissed in disbelief, “No, no, no,no! There's no way!”

“That's right!” Izzy nodded, “That handsome beast that scooped you up just now, was your's truly.”

Sasha’s hands flew to her face, as she let out a groan of despair.

“This can't be fucking happening! Why would rescuing you from a Kaiju involve being eaten by another different Kaiju!? This has to be a scam…”

Izzy's voice over started again, “ W-We understand you may have questions and concerns! But I assure you, you are perfectly safe, with me!”

Sasha's face was settled into a deep frown. The crease of her brow aged her years and her eyeliner was dripping down her cheeks and nose in streaks of obsidian. With only the dim light of a cellphone to show her. Even the tiny thumbnail image of herself gave off an imposing aura.

Another gurgle, carrying a bubble of anxiety, rumbled its way from deep within the beast.

If Izzy wasn't certain he couldn't, he'd have thought she was being digested.

“So um, if you could look directly into your front camera and state your full name?” He was almost too afraid to ask, even if it was protocol.

Izzy watched as instead, the woman, shrouded in darkness, stood up.

She walked out of his view, though he could still feel the strange sensation of her footsteps on his stomach lining. That was followed up swiftly by a series of heavy thuds accompanying sharp cramps in his stomach.

“LET. ME. OUT. “ Sasha yelled, punctuating each kick she let off into the beast’s belly.

“YOU OVERGROWN MUTT!”

“Woah! Woah! Cut that out lady!” Izzy said. His voice was choked in his throat from the sudden intense nausea that followed those “cramps”.

More great gurgles rolled up past Sasha.

Good. She thought.

With any luck she'd hitch a ride on one up and out this nightmare. Then, a thought suddenly occurred to her. The bartender scrambled back to her phone and picked it up. Izzy was still on screen, eyes glassed over and face pale.

“This isn't a recording? This is a live feed!? How??”

Izzy tried to respond through belches,“Ugh... It's a brain link thing some people a lot smarter than me came up with.”

Sasha frowned, “Well no, duh. You're just the sexy talent they hired to make the billboards pop. Or at least I thought…”

Izzy flashed that smile again, this time featuring two golden canines.

“You think I'm sexy?” He said in a wondrous mutter.

The gurgles were now happening all the time, along with a deep groaning churning. The slippery walls and floor of the stomach interior began pulsating at a slow but continuous rate.

All at once Izzy's face on the screen fell again. His skin was coated with a thin film of sweat.

“Uuuhhg, hold on to that thought, Miss. Also your phone, things are about to get bumpy.”

[vanalex]

“I decided, ‘Listen man, it’s been 17 years since we’ve been together, and I know it feels like 17 centuries, but let’s do something different. I have no ideas for this album, so let’s just go into the studio and make shit up on the spot and play it live.’ So I came up with riffs and asked the band, ‘Do you like it?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Do you like it?’ ‘No.’ And any riff they said no to, that’s the riff I made the song out of.”

“I think it was more of a jam kind of thing than normal,” Silver agrees. “That’s what probably gives it its more rock roots feeling. It has more of a hard rock kind of vibe than the other records, and I think that is partially due to going back a little and writing live and falling back to more of what we did when we were 17. So we have lost any maturity we may have gained. Hard to say whether that’s good or bad.

It was just a decision. We’ve developed stuff live before, but this one was more of a live thing. The four past albums were a drum machine, and even though they were developed live, this one we just kept as a live thing. We didn’t want to polish it too much this time, not too much at all. Keep it a little more raw, but I think that’s what also made it—I hate to use this phrase—‘classic rock.’”

“It’s just because we all sat down and I came up with that riff,” Steele adds, talking about the track “An Ode To Locksmiths,” “and how that song begins, it is in four-quarter time, but the pickup to the song, the rest of the band couldn’t get it. I was beating them over the head with mic stands. It’s more riff-oriented. That’s why I feel the album has more of a live attitude. The other band members had more input into the songwriting process, which I completely ignored. They think that they contributed something—yeah right. I just play Beatles albums backwards and steal all the fucking riffs, and it’s not, ‘I buried Paul,’ it’s, ‘I buried Pete.’”

~Peter Steele and Josh Silver~

Aquarian Interview 2007 promoting the Dead Again album

[emmg]

Aftertaste

Chapter 2: Rats in the Walls

She is a rat—an enchanting little beggar, draped in the rags of some tragic poetry only she can hear. And he, a fool of the highest order, fingers the cold edge of his credit card, wondering if the universe might accept a transaction in exchange for the ghost of her cheek against his skin.

Read below or on Ao3. Hehe.

Is it more appropriate to return a young woman’s car keys the following day, or to personally deliver her vehicle to her residence? Which option is least likely to suggest predatory intent, particularly when one is several decades her senior?

He hits enter, the steam from his coffee curling around his face like an ironic halo, and watches Google sputter out results about designated drivers and locksmiths. It strikes him, not for the first time, that the internet is woefully unprepared for nuanced questions of morality, especially when phrased by an idiot as gloriously long-winded as himself.

Google might as well have responded with a condescending sigh and a flashing banner that read: "Oh, sure, let’s solve your existential crises for you, Professor. Maybe try ‘Don’t be creepy’ and call it a day?" Or perhaps it would simply send him a link to a DIY guide on digging one’s own grave, captioned: "You’ll need this soon enough."

Finally, he resigns himself to the only logical option: going straight to the source. Rook.

Good morning, Rook. This is Emmrich. Where would you like me to deliver your car keys? Take care.

The message is sent, painfully polite, carefully worded. And then the waiting begins. Two hours of excruciating silence during which he oscillates between pacing the room and contemplating whether clawing at the wallpaper would be an effective use of his time. Surely, this is the moment she decides it’s all been a colossal mistake. She’ll call Bellara in disgust, declare this the most catastrophic setup of her life, and promptly vomit out a window at the mere memory of his existence.

Perhaps she’ll even hire a falconer to dispatch a well-trained hawk to retrieve the keys from his pocket—anything to avoid providing him with so much as a postal code.

But lo and behold, the miracle occurs: Rook responds.

y r u up so early?? drive it. thx xxxxxx

He stares at the trailing row of kisses, dissecting them as though they were a cryptic manuscript. Does she mean it? Could this possibly be intentional? Or is this just the accidental poetry of a girl who sat on her phone, and this is the unfortunate result of her backside pressing random keys? A mystery indeed.

****

He prides himself on his attention to detail. Or, more precisely, his attention to people—their little inconsistencies, their telltale cracks. Judging from her reply, he must have woken her up, so he detours to a café so quaint it practically curtsies when you enter. He orders a latte to go, then, seized by a bout of overthinking, adds a mocha and an Americano. Lactonic, bitter, or sweet—let her decode his intentions from that trifecta.

Into a dainty box go a pain au chocolat and a cinnamon-apple babka, the kind of gesture that tiptoes the line between charming thoughtfulness and embarrassing overcompensation.

When he arrives at her car, it is, of course, exactly as described: ugly, silver, scratched, a two-seater that looks like it’s been cursed by a vengeful valet. A library bag slumps on the passenger seat, an insult to the word “placed.” He hesitates, torn between decorum and the kind of nosy curiosity that makes the elderly peer through lace curtains. Then, naturally, he peeks. Just a little. There they are—books. Actual books. Proof that she possesses not just a mouth but a mind, however buried.

And then he notices the fuel gauge. It’s not just on empty—it’s somewhere below it, in the realm of last gasps and whispered prayers. The fact that the engine starts at all feels like an act of divine intervention.

He exhales, a martyr to his own compulsions, and pulls into a gas station. As he fills the tank to the brim, he pictures the car sighing too, smug and sanctimonious, its imaginary lashes batting in shameless gratitude. Oh, thank you, kind sir, it coos, she never feeds me, you know. Neglectful creature, isn’t she? Meanwhile, he calculates whether this—along with the coffee and pastries—might earn him so much as a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. Or perhaps, knowing Rook, an insincere "thx" text with a typo thrown in for good measure.

****

He’s seen buildings like this before. He’s lived in them; during his undergrad days and, embarrassingly, well into graduate school. The kind of place where the rent is cheap enough to attract students but still overpriced for what you get: walls so thin they might as well be spun from dreams or discarded cereal boxes, and windows that rattle ominously in the gentlest breeze.

It stirs a certain grim nostalgia in him, though he’s not entirely sure why. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that if he wandered two blocks south after dark, he’d almost certainly be mugged or shanked. But even that, somehow, feels quaint, a sentimental nod to his younger, poorer, stupider self.

He briefly wonders about Gustave, the unofficial fourth roommate from a similar apartment in his past. Gustave never made it onto the lease—being a rat who lived, quite literally, in the wall. His wall, precisely. Hopefully, Gustave moved on to bigger and better things. Perhaps a restaurant dumpster, or the seedy underbelly of pest control fame.

"Oh gods," says Rook when she finally opens the door to him. 

Her apartment is a sauna, the air thick and cloying, and there’s a line of sweat tracing her throat—a small, shimmering trail he, embarrassingly, cannot stop staring at. She’s wearing shorts so short they're practically theoretical, her sharp hipbone protruding like a cruel little accent mark. 

He stares, horrified at himself, and immediately envisions shoving the pain au chocolat and babka into her mouth, muffling whatever inevitable complaint she’d utter, and dragging her out to find the greasiest, most cholesterol-laden burger in the city. Anything, really, to erase the absurd eroticism of this sweltering, sticky scene and put some meat on those bones. 

"Good morning," he says, because the clock hasn’t quite betrayed him yet, and hands her the drink carrier and the absurdly elegant box of pastries—an offering so pristine it looks like it belongs in a museum, not in her battered doorway. 

"Are these for me?" 

No, Rook, they’re for Gustave. The pesky freeloader is your new tenant, congratulations. I thought I’d drop by to reminisce about our shared history. "Of course," he replies instead, his smile a polished shield of civility. "A small apology for disturbing you earlier. Your car is parked directly across the street; you should have no difficulty locating it." And, of course, the full tank of gas, a silent ode to his own sense of decency. "Allow me to retrieve your keys, and I shall leave you to enjoy the rest of your morning."

"You’re not coming in?" she asks, setting the coffees on the floor. She rifles through the pastry box, her finger stabbing into the babka, collapsing its tender surface in a sugary implosion. Sweet bread weeps, and she glances up at him, licking cinnamon from her fingertip. 

"Come on," she says, not bothering to wait for a response. 

She takes the pastries, leaving him crouched like a penitent to gather the drink carrier and push the door closed. Heaven forbid someone should slip in while it’s ajar to steal… what, precisely? The peeling wallpaper? The tragic humidity? The distinct aroma of youthful neglect? There’s nothing here worth the trouble of theft, save perhaps the raw comedy of its existence. 

"Did you sleep well?" Rook asks, lounging on an offensively green settee that seems to defy all principles of taste. She pats the cushion beside her like someone coaxing a dog onto furniture it has no business occupying. He raises an eyebrow, but the patting only grows more emphatic until, with the reluctant precision of a wooden soldier, he lowers himself beside her. His posture is unnervingly straight, as if the settee might collapse beneath anything less rigid. 

"I did," he answers. 

"Hm. Good," she says, already distracted, looking through the lineup of drinks he foolishly overthought. He feels his cheeks heat, a blush of shame at his own ridiculousness. How he—a man of supposed intellect—managed to embarrass himself with coffee is beyond comprehension. 

"You know," she continues, "I even got out the good instant coffee for you. Being a decent host and all that. But here you are, outdoing me, bringing breakfast."

"The good instant coffee?" he echoes.

"Mm-hm," she murmurs, not even glancing up. "The one without the clumps." 

For a moment, there is silence, broken only by the faint shuffle of her taking the mocha and handing him the latte. He glances around her apartment, and there, in the peeling paint and mismatched furniture, he sees a ghost of himself. A younger man, not yet grey, not yet creaking, back when staying up all night wasn’t just possible but a point of pride. When energy came in the form of a sharp, powdery line, questionable in origin, certain in effect, snorted off some equally questionable surface before stumbling into the university labs at sunrise. 

The sink catches his eye—cheap, dented, and familiar, as if resurrected from his second year of graduate school. He’s almost sure it’s the same model Johanna used to brew her kaleidoscopic, mind-altering concoctions. She’d turned their shared apartment into a mad chemist’s lair, dosing their friends with drinks that looked like party favors and hit like freight trains. He doubts Rook’s sink has witnessed quite the same level of chaos, but, then again, he wouldn’t bet on it. 

He wonders, idly, why he never married Johanna—or, more to the point, why Johanna never married him. And then, as if summoned by the memory, her voice returns, sharp and amused, calling him a "sentimental twat." Ah, yes. That. That might have had something to do with it. 

"How does a professor get rich?" 

He considers dragging a hand down his face, perhaps peeling it off entirely in the process, leaving behind nothing but gleaming bone and raw sinew—far easier than answering. 

He exhales slowly, as though summoning air from the depths of his being. "I beg your pardon?" 

"How did you get rich?" she repeats, her voice maddeningly even, infuriatingly direct. "I know what faculty earn. Well, Leliana knows, and she tells me. Nobody in academia is rich. So, how?" 

He sighs again, deeper and longer. "Happy circumstances," he says at last. "Commercializing research. Licensing patents to biotech and pharmaceutical companies. Dry, tedious work, I assure you. A footnote in the annals of capitalism." 

"I’d rather be bored and rich than intellectually stimulated and eating ramen every night." 

To his great horror, he barks out a laugh—loud, inelegant, entirely unplanned—because, damn it, she’s right. Whatever self-congratulatory narrative he might spin about his own brilliance, wealth is far more tolerable than the romance of poverty. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her set the now-empty pastry box aside and slide to her knees with the casual grace of someone entirely unaware—or perfectly aware—of the effect such movements can have. She sits before him, her hand resting lightly on his thigh, and he feels his spine stiffen in response—defensive, awkward, as if he were preparing to be knighted or executed. 

"You’re such a pretty, pretty man, Emmrich," she says, her tone a languid sigh. "Bellara was right. You do smell good. And look at you—here you are, sitting with me, when I’m sure there are far more important things demanding your attention." 

"There are not," he blurts, far too quickly, the words escaping before his dignity can intervene. The moment they’re spoken, he wishes for an immediate and painless death. Here he is indeed, reduced to this—a puddle of nerves and idiocy, heart thudding far too loudly, all because a young, pretty girl has deigned to offer him a handful of meaningless compliments. 

He can practically hear the tragic violin score accompanying his descent into lunacy. 

He should reward her graciousness. Maybe with a marriage proposal and a very shiny ring. A joint credit card, embossed with her name in gold. Champagne served every morning, the flute garnished with a delicate rim of his own pitiful tears—tears of rapture, of gratitude, of sheer disbelief at being noticed, indulged, condescended to by someone so exquisite, so radiant, so preposterously, infuriatingly young. 

"Do you want to see me again?" she asks, her hand on his thigh beginning a slow ascent. 

"Yes," he replies far too eagerly, watching helplessly as her uneven nails snag a thread from his trousers and tease it free. 

"I want to see you again too," she says cheerfully. There’s no vanilla clinging to her today, yet he smells it anyway, a phantom scent mocking his self-control. "What happened to the oysters?" 

"The oysters?" he repeats, blinking, as her hand reaches his belt, casually dismantling him one buckle at a time. 

"Yes, the oysters. I didn’t eat them. You didn’t eat them. What happened to them? Were they just… thrown away?" 

"Oh," he says, fumbling for coherence. "No, I—I do not eat meat. I assume they were discarded." 

Or, quite possibly, consumed by Xavier, who he distinctly recalls once eating salmon off the kitchen floor with an abandon that would render the oysters’ fate positively dignified by comparison. 

She tugs his belt loose and it’s only when her hand slips inside that he, embarrassingly late, understands exactly what she’s about to do. His body reacts with humiliating predictability—his cock twitches eagerly, his hips offering a mindless little jerk, as if they’ve made the decision for him. 

"Oh, Rook, Rook, no, no, no," he stammers, his voice rising and falling like a badly tuned instrument. "You don’t—oh, oh—Rook, no, you do not—" The protests disintegrate entirely as her hand wraps around him. 

"You don’t like this?" she asks, and for the first time, her voice carries a note of something almost shy, almost hesitant. 

"Like is not the word," he whispers, a pathetic mixture of panic and pleasure. "I simply—oh, you do not have to—" 

"Yes," she agrees, withdrawing her hand and licking her palm in a motion so drawn-out it could belong to a cat grooming itself, smug and self-satisfied. He half expects her to stretch luxuriously and yawn. Then, with that same calm, she wraps her hand around him again, resuming her rhythm. "I don’t need to do anything. So glad we’re on the same page."

He lets his head loll back against the settee, his chest heaving as she strokes. Just as he dares to believe his heart might settle, her mouth closes over the head of his cock. She lingers, her tongue swirling just enough to drive him mad, before releasing with a slick, depraved little pop. The added saliva gleams as she smears it down his shaft, her little hand so very diligent in its efforts. His hips buck forward, thrusting into the tight heat of her fist like he’s already forgotten what dignity feels like. 

"I was very good at these," she remarks. "We called it hand of glory in camp. As a joke." Her own hand doesn’t falter, her rhythm infuriatingly consistent. "Not so much with the other part, though. I think I tried it once. Well, one and a half times. It sucked. No pun intended."

She hums thoughtfully, her mouth hovering close, warm and parted, without making contact. 

"I could try it with you, though," she says, her tone breezy, as if she’s offering him dessert. "If you'd like. You’re an educator, after all. Could... educate me through it."

And just like that, his approaching orgasm tips its hat, mutters a polite farewell, and strolls out the door, leaving him stranded in awkward lucidity. He catches her hand, presses it briefly to his lips, then releases her and begins restoring himself to decency with the haste of a man escaping a crime scene. When she moves to stop him, he almost bats her hand away, the rising tide of mortification making him clumsier than usual. 

"Well, fuck," Rook mutters in sardonic disbelief. "That’s one hell of a way to say no to getting your dick sucked. I’m not that bad, and I don’t exactly have anything else to offer you."

"You do not have to offer me anything," he whispers, appalled. 

He’s a sentimentalist. A romantic. The sort of man who still believes in flowers and candlelit dinners. Let him be old-fashioned. Let him take her out, hold her hand, meet her parents, and have her wave awkwardly over the graves of his long-gone ancestors—long before his cock ever finds its way into her mouth again.

This is who he is. A "sentimental twat." He holds doors open, writes to ensure someone got home safely, and even if he does wander down the dark alley of a casual fuck, he always provides coffee and a thoughtfully curated set of toiletries the next morning. 

"Let me take you out again," he pleads.

Rook rests her chin on his knee, her face tilted upward, her long hair brushing the floor. "I don’t have anything nice to wear." 

"Then we will find you something," he says, already constructing the image in his mind. Blue—of course, blue. The color would suit her eyes, her not-quite-blonde-not-quite-brown hair, the color of noble blood, though the nobility it evokes is long since impoverished, reduced to faded titles and empty accounts. Just like her. Perhaps he could wear purple beside her—a royal contrast to her threadbare charm, the two of them a mismatched tableau of aspiration and ruin. 

"I just said it to see what you’d say." 

"And I meant every word of my reply." 

"Oh. So if I see a pair of shoes to match whatever dress you’re buying me—you’ll get those too?" 

"Naturally. A proper ensemble demands completeness." 

She buries her face against his thigh, giggling into it. "You know what would really suit me, Emmrich? What would make me look, like, so good?" She pauses, forcing him to lean closer, her breath brushing his lips like the prelude to a secret. "My tuition being paid."

And with that she snorts, leaving him to wonder if she’s laughing at the joke or at the certainty that he just might say yes. 

[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

[botanicalbonelord]

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.

[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

[serrurierphillipe]

Unlocking Life’s Everyday Journeys

A Fresh Locksmith Anecdote Collection

Locksmiths are often called at the intersection of ordinary days and extraordinary discoveries. Every lock they open holds not just a mechanical challenge but a window into someone’s cherished memories. Here’s another collection of locksmith tales where each job becomes a unique adventure.

The Wedding Day Capsule Rediscovered

While preparing for their 40th wedding anniversary, a couple found a sealed time capsule buried at the back of their attic. The key was long lost, so they contacted a locksmith.

Inside were handwritten vows, vintage photos, and a bottle of well-aged wine. Smiling warmly, they said, "You’ve helped us relive one of our happiest days."

The Cat’s Unexpected Trick

Chasing a sunbeam, a curious cat leapt at the door handle, accidentally locking its owner out.

The locksmith arrived to find the cat staring out smugly from the window. Chuckling, he opened the door and joked, "Seems like someone’s claimed the throne today."

A Family’s Lost Legacy

While sorting through her grandfather’s attic, a woman uncovered a dusty, locked chest. Intrigued, she called a locksmith.

Inside were old letters, sepia-toned photographs, and a delicate gold locket. "You’ve helped us rediscover a part of our family we thought was lost," she whispered.

Superhero’s Unplanned Pause

At a lively community fair, a performer dressed as a superhero accidentally locked their costume props inside their vehicle.

The locksmith arrived smiling, "Even heroes need a little help sometimes." In minutes, the door was open, and the hero returned to entertain the crowd.

The Desk’s Hidden Love Story

While restoring an antique desk, a couple stumbled upon a locked compartment cleverly concealed. Eager to see inside, they called a locksmith.

Inside were fragile love letters, a silver locket, and pressed flowers. "Feels like we’ve uncovered a love story lost to time," they smiled.

Winter’s Frozen Lockout

One bitter winter night, a man stepped out to collect firewood and found himself locked out. Freezing, he called a locksmith.

The locksmith arrived quickly, unlocking the door with a grin, "Another minute, and you’d have been part of the snowdrift."

Final Reflections

For locksmiths, every call is about more than unlocking doors—it’s about opening windows into people’s lives, reconnecting them with lost moments, and safeguarding precious memories.

So next time you’re locked out, remember: a professional Serrurier might not just open your door—they might unlock a story you’ll always remember.

[transponderisland]

Everything You Need to Know About Automotive Locksmith Key Programming and Car Key Cloning

One cannot stress the value of automobile key technology in the fast-paced environment of today. As modern automobiles becoming more sophisticated, car key solutions have also changed to provide creative security and convenience tools. Car key cloning and automotive locksmith key programming are two very vital features of contemporary automotive locksmith services. These systems guarantee that, in case of lost, broken, or malfunctioning keys, automobile owners have consistent and safe access to their cars. Here is a thorough analysis of the features of these services along with their reasons of importance.

Definition of Car Key Cloning

A duplicate key is produced to replicate the original’s functionality via car key cloning. This creates a cloned key able of starting the car by transferring the transponder chip data from the original key onto a blank chip. Unlike conventional replication of mechanical keys, current cloning calls more sophisticated tools to copy the electronic signal buried in the transponder.

Those who require a backup key without the trouble of changing the internal system of the automobile will find especially helpful this service. For car owners who could forget their main keys, car key cloning guarantees flawless functioning and provides piece of mind. Nonetheless, it is noteworthy that certain automobiles permit cloning because of special encryption systems while others do not.

Automobile Locksmith Key Programming Mechanisms

Beyond cloning, automotive locksmith key programming creates a new key and pairs it with the onboard system of the car. Modern vehicles have complex security systems meant to stop unwanted entry. Previously lost or stolen keys are useless when a new key is programmed because the Electronic Control Unit (ECU) of the vehicle is updated to identify the new key.

Usually, this procedure calls for certain diagnostic instruments and software to reach the key programming system of the automobile. Either erasing old keys from the system or reprogramming the automobile to identify a new key, an automotive locksmith may do. This guarantees best security and prevents any theft resulting from illegal key duplication.

Variables Between Key Programming and Car Key Cloning

Although automotive locksmith key programming and automobile key cloning look similar, their uses are really distinct. Often for convenience or backup, cloning is the best way to produce an identical replica of the original key. Conversely, key programming upgrades the internal system of the automobile to identify or reject certain keys, therefore providing a safer procedure.

Although it is restricted to replicating the functionality of the current key, cloning is typically faster and less costly. Though more time-consuming and expensive, key programming provides improved protection by turning off stolen or lost keys. A skilled automotive locksmith can assist decide the best course of action based on your demands and the security requirements of your vehicle.

The Value of Professional Services

Both automotive locksmith key programming and automobile key cloning need for modern equipment and technical knowledge. Trying do-it-yourself projects could cause problems such non-functional keys or damage to the electrical systems in your car. Professional locksmiths guarantee precise and dependable outcomes by learning to handle several car types and manufacturers.

Hiring a seasoned locksmith is the ideal method to ensure a seamless and safe procedure whether you want a replacement key or wish to change the security system of your car. Their particular expertise enables them to diagnose problems and provide customised remedies depending on the particular features of your vehicle.

Finally

Knowing the variations between automotive locksmith key programming and car key cloning will enable you to decide on the security of your automobile with knowledge. Professional locksmith services are crucial whether your needs call for sophisticated key programming for increased security or a copy key for convenience. See dependable sites like transponderisland.com for premium tools and solutions. Investing in professional services will help you to guarantee that your car stays accessible and safe regardless of the circumstances.

[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

[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

[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