#making pieces that i could probably do in half a day and would charge like a third of the price of

[tealfruit]

I will never disparage another artist for getting that paper or having a different skill set from me but it is the most discouraging thing to see a popular artist making fucking BANK because since they are popular, theyre able to charge more for a lesser amount of work AND still pull in a mad amount of clients doing it. like good for them but why can't it be me

[witchkami]

Goodbye for a while ♡

I need to take a break for a long time. I'll explain why, but I'd like to start by saying I'm going to be pausing my Patreon's billing, which means none of my patrons will be charged any money in the time that I'm gone. Since I won't be posting art, that only seems fair to all of you.

I don't normally open up about my personal life, however this is one of those rare cases where not only do I feel I owe it to you, but I'd also like to give an explanation. Back in March of this year the most terrifying thing I've ever experienced happened to me, and I was hospitalized for a week and a half. I hope it's understandable that I don't quite feel comfortable sharing what it was, but what's important is that I am currently okay and safe.

When I got out of the hospital, I started working as soon as I could. I've always been the type of person who could still be productive and work despite any hardships I've been through, but even though the drive to create art was there, I found this time was different. It was difficult to put myself together and draw. Everything started becoming an uphill battle. Every month I would try to push myself to draw as much as I could, but I would continue to feel disappointed because of my own expectations for myself. I realized that my mental health wasn't where I wanted it to be, and it was going to take a long time to heal.

Five months later, and although I'm doing a lot better, there are still broken pieces I'm trying to put back together. Which is why I'm making the decision that I need to take a long break to focus entirely on my mental health. This is not a decision I came to easily, I really didn't want to step away for a while. I kept wanting to believe that if I just kept pushing myself then one day it would all feel normal again, but that's not how these things work. And so as sad as it makes me, I truly do think taking time off is the best thing for me right now.

I don't know how long I'll be gone. It'll probably be multiple months. I want to give myself however much time I need to feel better, and I hope you understand. I wish to come back stronger than I've been this year, and stronger than I am now. I look forward to when I will eventually return and be able to share art with you again. I make art to comfort myself, and it means the world to me that someone could feel that way about the things I draw too. Truly, thank you so much, for everything. Although this is goodbye for now, I can't wait for when I'll return.

Much love, -Kami

TL;DR I'm going to be taking a mental health break for a couple of months. I'll be pausing billing on my Patreon so no one will be charged anything during the time that I'm gone.

[grif-hawaiian-rolls]

The Reds the Feds and Wash : Car Trouble

Lil writing and bonus under the cut >;3

Locus slammed the mongoose into park, scowling as he approached the stopped Warthogs on the road. One job. He gave them one fucking job. Take the Warthogs, go from point A to point B. It should have been, by all counts, impossible to screw up. AND YET! Here he was, having to come to their rescue. Unfortunate and worse, irritating. At the very least, most of them had the good sense to keep their helmets on. The same could not be said of Donut and Neko, who were both helmetless and mid-conversation like it was a nice day in the park, not high value targets stopped in the middle of the road in a warzone. Not to mention Neko’s… frankly ridiculous perch across the top of the Warthog, legs wrapped around the barrel of the turret and his head on the windshield. Genuinely, what was that idiot doing? That couldn’t be a comfortable position to maintain, especially while talking to Donut who was leaning against the driver side of the vehicle. Locus wondered if the sergeant would shoot him if he walked over there and threw a blow at Donut to prove a point. Agent Washington almost certainly would. Better not to risk it then, no matter how effective it would be at proving a point. Neko was a lost cause at this point, short of taking a blade to that ridiculously long braid, but there were some lines even Locus hesitated to cross. Actually, where was the sergeant? Or Pavoz for that matter? He was so focused on the thought for a moment, Locus almost tripped over Lopez’s legs. The robot was half way underneath the other Warthog, no doubt checking for anything else that could be wrong. Locus’ half a stumble was easily brushed off as him nudging the brown calf plate to get Lopez’s attention. "<You have my part?>" He asked as he pushed himself out from under the car. He was without his helmet as well, surprisingly. But forgivable, seeing as how the light under the Warthog remained steady enough to assume Lopez had been using his helmet as a light source. Lopez, despite being a robot or maybe because of it, was very quickly becoming the second most competent soldier in this group. If nothing else, at least Locus knew he wouldn't fuck around half as much as the rest of them. He pretended he didn't notice Neko's helmet hanging off the turret of the other Warthog. "I do." Locus removed the mechanical component from the compartment in his chestplate, leaning down to hand it to Lopez. "What happened?" "<Dunno. Bad luck, from the looks of it. Or someone drove this thing over a fucking tree, and picked up a squirrel nest or twelve. It's a mess, but this,>" Lopez gestured the piece Locus brought, "<seems to be the only part that needs replacing to at least get this disaster on wheels to a base.>" There was that, at least. Locus crossed his arms. "How long?" "<The rest of today, probably. I need to actually clear this shit out of the undercarriage or it's just going to cause more problems,>" Lopez rolled his eyes, a very human gesture set in a metal face. "<And even then, we won't be able to get moving again until morning. Sarge kept trying to start the damn thing and killed it's battery. It needs time to build up a solar charge before we jumpstart it with the other one.>" Unfortunate. At least the question of the sergeant and Pavoz was answered, as the pair of them came through the underbrush off the side of the road like they were summoned by Lopez mentioning Sarge by name. "-make a Red out of you yet, boy!" Sarge laughed, clearly mid sentence as they rejoined the rest. Pavos nodded along, though how much he actually agreed with the conversation was debatable. The sudden sound of a horn going off had every weapon in the vicinity raised in reaction, before the source became clear as the sound dragged out. Agent Washington's helmet rested on the wheel of the second Warthog, defeat written in the angle of his shoulders. Donut laughed at something, presumably the same thing Washington was reacting to. Neko looked smug, so safe to assume it was probably something he said. Idiots. All of them. Unfortunate.

----

I'm not immune to roadtrip arc, and Kimball does say the Federal Army of Chorus moved the Reds and Wash around a lot sooo like >> i'm just saying, it'd be a shame to not make Wash suffer through a red team roadtrip Bonus, sometime the s12 finale and reveal of the armies:

felix's text is so much harder to read off my tablet screen than i thought it was fuck okay transcript time Felix, while reaching for the radio: I'm gonna lose it if we do this entire drive in silence, I swear- Locus: DO NOT

[coldfanbou]

Breeding Bull

Here's the Sohee piece; sorry it's a bit late. So here we have the tale of a cheating wife trying to get pregnant through any means necessary. Well, you can probably figure that out when you read it. Anyway, there is cheating and breeding.

Length 1.8K

Sohee x Mreader

You wait at the door of your new neighbor's apartment. They had invited you over for a meal sometime after they moved in, and you found it difficult to refuse. The woman, Sohee, had kept pushing you to come over. She would only leave once you agreed. The door opens for you, and Sohee stands there with a giant grin plastered on her face. You try to seem happy about being there. "Hi, Sohee; nice to see you again."  She immediately takes your hand and pulls you inside.

"It’s nice to have you over. Follow me." Sohee leads you to the dining room, never letting you go. She turns to you, "I hope you'll like the meal. I've been working on it all day." As you reach the dining room, Sohee puts you in your seat before heading to the kitchen. You sit there looking around the room. Sohee had already set out utensils, and the place was spotless. She had spent what must have been hours cleaning. Your fingers run along the dinner table before you begin nervously tapping on it. Her husband walks in from another door; he looks shocked at seeing you sitting there. 

"Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?" He asks.

"I'm your neighbor." You say with some skepticism. He should know that. Sohee had mentioned that her husband recommended inviting you over. "...I was invited here by Sohee."

"Sohee never told me about this." He states before heading to the kitchen. You can't hear the conversation, and a long time passes before the man returns. He takes a seat at the table, looking incredibly angry. The tension in the room makes the situation uncomfortable. You keep your head down while you wait. Eventually, Sohee returns carrying the food she has cooked. She places the plates of food in front of both of you before returning to the kitchen. She repeats this process until many dishes cover the table. At the very end, Sohee brings out two bottles of wine, one much larger than the other. 

She hands her husband a glass before grabbing the smaller of the two bottles. "Here, honey, let me pour you a drink." She says as she pours a large amount of the alcohol for him. He remains silent, shifting the wine in his glass before drinking it all in one swift motion. He grumbles something before beginning to eat. Sohee pouts, "Can't you say something? I gave you the better wine." He remains silent. Sohee places the small bottle on the table and picks up the larger one pouring you both a glass. She hands you your glass before taking her seat at the table; you take a swig of the wine, eventually drinking a few glasses. The feeling of the room is a mix of frustration and infatuation as Sohee watches you carefully. Her husband continues munching on his food, and you and her begin soon after. As you eat, you feel something touching your crotch; as you glance across the table, Sohee hides her mischievous smile from her husband. Her foot slowly moves up and down the length of your half-hardened cock. You glance at her husband, his head in his hands; it looks like he's struggling. As your gaze returns to Sohee, she puts a finger to her lips and winks at you. 

"Just enjoy," she mouths. Sohee continues to eat, bringing a spoonful of rice to her mouth. Her pink lips close around the end of the spoon, and you watch her slowly pull it out of her mouth. Her tongue sneaks its way out of her mouth as it rubs against the bottom of the spoon. All of her actions seem sexually charged now; they all work to arouse you. She smiles as you watch her. Her foot continues to rub your cock as you watch her sensually eat.  A sudden thud on the table distracts you. Sohee's husband is on the table, unconscious. He had collapsed on the table; he was still breathing, from what you could tell. The next thing you know, Sohee is at your side.

She leans over, her hand over your clothed bulge. "Don't worry about him. He's just a lightweight; the smallest bit of alcohol will do that to him. Why don't you come with me? I can take care of your little friend here." Sohee latches onto your arm and pulls you up. "Let's get to my bedroom. I'll even slip into something more comfortable for you." You don't resist; you're becoming entranced by Sohee. Her soft breasts press against your arm as you walk toward her bedroom. Once you get to her bed, she heads to the bathroom, saying, "Why don't you get comfortable too? I'll be right back." You follow along, taking off your clothes before lying on the bed.

When Sohee returns, she's wearing only a sheer nightgown. It's a very light blue and shows off every part of her body. Her small buds stand erect, and her nether region is completely smooth and shaven. Still standing in the doorway, she turns to the side, allowing you a view of her shapely ass. She giggles, "Liking what you see?" She asks as she slowly walks toward you. 

"You look amazing." That’s all you can get out as you stare at her body. How you couldn't recognize her beauty earlier is a complete mystery to you. As she gets closer, you notice her thighs glistening as her juices run down her legs. 

"I don't think I can wait any longer," Sohee says as she crawls onto the bed. She climbs over you until your cock rubs against her lower lips. She's kneeling over your cock; Sohee grasps your cock and runs the head between her folds. Her juices coat your cock as they drip down from her slit. Sohee's moans flood your ears as she grinds on the tip of your cock for what seems like forever. In reality, it was only a few seconds. Sohee sinks down on your cock. Her pussy welcomes you, caressing every part of your cock as she takes more of you in. You both moan, the feeling driving you wild.

When Sohee's buried your cock inside her, you can't help but start thrusting, giving her no chance to adjust. You reach for her ass and squeeze the soft flesh. Your grip tightens as you slam Sohee down on your cock. She holds onto your arms as you use her. "Yes! Give me your cock!" She shouts before her body collapses on top of you. She forces a kiss upon you, her tongue desperately trying to break past your lips. "I've wanted you for so long." She moans. You feel her walls tighten around your cock, squeezing you with great force. "I've wanted this cock for so long, and you didn't even know." Sohee's tight body twitches as she bounces quickly on your cock. "Oh god, I'm gonna cum!" She screams. 

Sohee grabs your head and pulls on your hair as she cums on you. Her back arches, and she throws her head back. "Oh fuck," She groans as you continue your thrusts. You feel your orgasm coming as you drive your cock deeper into her, a bulge where your cock is, is apparent. Your thrusts continue, and you hold onto Sohee's hips as you slam her down. "Cum inside me. Breed me, get me pregnant with your baby!" She yells as she drops herself on your cock. Your throbbing cock releases wave upon wave of sperm into Sohee's awaiting womb. She drops her upper body on top of yours, wrapping her arms around your head. "Your cum is so hot, and you pumped so much into me." She whispers into your ear. "I'll definitely get pregnant; I can feel your sperm swimming in me." Sohee's words in her breathy voice arouse you, and your cock hardens in her.

She climbs off you and turns around, "You liked touching my ass; why don't you fuck me from behind." Sohee raises her ass into the air, shaking it to taunt you into fucking her again. You couldn't resist; grabbing it earlier made you want it more. 

You position yourself behind Sohee; your hand runs across her ass before you spank her once. She yelps from the hit, "Fuck me, and you can play with my ass as much as you'd like." At those words, you ready your cock, impaling Sohee's cunt with it. In one smooth motion, you're once again buried inside her. Your cum provides the perfect lubrication as you thrust like a madman. You dig your hands into Sohee's ass while thrusting into her tight pussy. Sohee arcs her back further, allowing you to push deeper. Her moans grow louder, and she clings to the bed sheets as you send your cock crashing into her womb. You repeatedly spank her ass, turning it a bright red. The soft flesh feels great when you choose to grope it. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Sohee chants as she cums again. Her head falls to the side as she weakly moans for you to cum inside her again. "More, please fill me again." 

You lean beside her, "You'll have my baby." 

"I'll have your baby; just give me more," she responds. Her body is nearly limp as you drive your cock back into her. Feeling your orgasm building, you pull back Sohee's arms and pump your cock into her petite body with the speed of a piston. Drool spills from Sohee's mouth as she begs for you to cum. As you cum you force your cock as deep as you can. Her small body struggles to contain it all, spilling out of her used pussy. Releasing her arms, she drops onto the bed. When you pull out your cum flows out of her like a river. You fall to her side and immediately fall asleep.

The following day you wake up in your room. You look around, wondering how you got there. On your nightstand, you find a note. "Thanks for last night, hun." She signs off with a heart. You see her every so often when she passes by. She'll usually give you a small wave and a knowing wink.

Months later, you see her walking around the neighborhood with her belly now sufficiently swollen. She looks around before coming up to you. She whispers into your ear, "I hope you know this baby is yours." She takes your hand and rubs her belly with it. "It’s all yours, but don't worry. I won't tell anyone. My husband thinks it's his. He doesn't remember that night." Her hand leaves you as she reaches for your cock. "If you want, we could always have sex again, even if I am pregnant." A twisted smile on her face. She looks into your eyes. "Or do you want to wait until I've given birth so you can pump another baby into me? We could have another dinner party." Seeing that you weren't going to answer, she cups your cheek. "You don't have to answer now; just let me in when I visit you later." With that, she walks away, holding onto her belly.

[suzukiblu]

NaNoWriMo day three; obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon AU.

Still, Kon's been taking care of himself this long, Tim guesses, so maybe . . .

No. No, this is definitely fucked-up and a terrible idea.

But he has no idea what he should do about it. What he even could do about it.

Kon finishes a whole order of cinnamon bread and is eyeing the next one before they even get back to base. Tim doesn't say anything about it because he's apparently been living on laboratory cafeteria food all this time, but does make him carry the highly precarious stack of food in. In his defense, "precarious stacks" are basically what TTK is made for, and also it'll hopefully distract Kon from potentially feeling weird about getting paid for or eating "too much" or just whatever.

Tim is going to burn Cadmus to the ground and stock up on kryptonite and a whole lot of explosives, but he's going to do it in the least Kon-upsetting way possible. Plus his supervillain timeline is a long-term plan too, and Kon should be eating things that aren't cafeteria food right now. And also not working for and living in a shady lab. And also–

"Shit, do we have any cups left?" Kon asks, looking around with a frown.

"Top of the fridge," Tim says, both because it's his job to know as much information as possible and because he's trying to avoid stressing himself out any worse. Stress is not productive. It's not going to fix the problem. Kon doesn't even want him to fix this problem.

"Cool," Kon says, then thumps the stack of pizza boxes down on the table and goes right for the cinnamon bread again, flipping the box open as he heads off to, presumably, retrieve the cups. Tim is entirely unsurprised and has no illusions that he'll be getting any of it himself.

He arranges the pizza boxes and everything else they ordered a little more accessibly on the table, trying not to obsess over the problem of Kon's current lifestyle. He's living in a lab getting by on cafeteria food and not getting properly compensated for doing a dangerous job and doesn't know Superman has a secret identity and is never, ever anything but "Superboy" himself. He doesn't have another identity to hide inside or fall back on or just take a break in. Didn't even have a real name until just recently, and that real name isn't anything he can use outside of still being Superboy.

Tim can't imagine never being able to take off Robin, but Kon probably can't imagine ever having to take off Superboy.

Tim doesn't even know what that would feel like.

Kon comes back with the cups, tosses them on the table, and stuffs another chunk of the already half-gone cinnamon bread into his mouth. Tim is starting to doubt the quality of that cafeteria even more than he reflexively did.

He opens the Zesti and pours them both a cup, and Kon looks oddly–not surprised, exactly? But a little puzzled, almost, watching Tim fill a cup for him.

"I can pour my own drink, Rob, geez," he snorts.

"I had it open already," Tim replies with a carefully dismissive shrug, screwing the lid back on the two-liter. Kon huffs, but picks up a cup and takes a drink.

"Sure, whatever," he says. "This is so much pizza, man. Think we can get through it all or should we call in Imp for backup?"

"If we do that, we're not getting any of it," Tim points out dryly.

"Okay, good point," Kon says. "Guess that's why you're the one in charge here, Wonder Boy."

"I had to get my qualifications from somewhere," Tim says, sparing him a wry smile. Kon sniggers, then rips off another chunk of the cinnamon bread and holds the mostly-empty rest of the box out to him. Tim blinks, a little surprised, but takes the last piece. "Thanks."

Note to self: Kon really likes cinnamon. Or icing, maybe. Or both.

Actually, that thought makes Tim feel a little flustered over Kon giving him the last piece of the cinnamon bread, given how thoroughly he destroyed the rest of it. Which is stupid, since he also hogged the rest of it and could've shared way more than just the last piece, the asshole.

Tim is absolutely still flustered anyway, though.

Yeah, he has it embarrassingly bad.

Ugh.

"Sure, man," Kon says, flashing him a grin. Tim swears to himself that this bastard can never, ever know how cute that grin makes him. If Kon knew he had a crush on him, he would be absolutely insufferable about it. Insufferable and smug.

Or, possibly, uncomfortable and freaked out. Or worse, angry and hateful. But Tim would rather not assume the absolute worst of an ally who almost counts as a friend, to whatever extent he can count anyone who hasn't seen his actual face before as a friend.

Both more and less than the guys at school, probably.

Tim's not sure what that actually says about his life these days.

But Kon . . . Tim doesn't really think Kon would be an asshole about it, if he knew Tim wasn't entirely straight. He's never really said anything to give him that impression.

He'd definitely be unbearable, though, so Tim will be taking the secret of this particular inadvisable crush to his grave, please and thank you.

They both sit down at the table–well, Tim sits, Kon more sprawls, and looks unfortunately attractive doing it–and grab a couple slices apiece and then crack open the wings. Kon eats much faster than Tim, who deliberately takes his time about it. Technically, avoiding getting pizza grease and barbecue sauce on his gloves is reason enough to do that, which is what he's going to point out if Kon comments on it, but obviously he's doing it to make sure Kon gets to eat as much as he wants.

Seriously. Cafeteria food for every meal. And not from a private school or fancy company's cafeteria; from an underground cloning lab with, again, incredibly dubious ethics.

Tim really can't imagine Cadmus is all that committed to food safety and quality, given all the human rights violations they've committed in just their day-to-day operations–to say nothing of any special projects like Kon.

Maybe Tim should release all their classified files onto the internet and just let whatever happens to them as a result happen.

. . . no, no, nobody needs any random weirdos on the dark web reverse-engineering any Kryptonian DNA or anything. Which they definitely would. Hell, just the front page of Reddit and a few YouTube comments would probably be enough to do it, and then somebody'd try to actually go and produce it "just to see".

Though it's still tempting, honestly.

Extremely tempting.

"Are you going to be here next weekend?" Tim says once Kon's mauled his way through a good dozen wings and four slices of pizza with very little sign of slowing down, and Kon stuffs most of another slice into his mouth with an easy shrug. He still looks cute even with terrible table manners, Tim notes resignedly. How is that possible? Why is that even a thing?

Kon is so goddamn annoying that way.

"Probably, yeah," Kon says around a mouthful of pizza before shoving the rest of the slice into his mouth. Tim watches in vague revulsion, wondering how he still finds him cute.

Gross, definitely, but still cute all the same.

"I mean, unless Cadmus needs me for something, anyway," Kon amends as he gets himself another slice. "Sometimes there's emergencies and shit, you know how it is."

"Definitely," Tim agrees, though "and shit" doesn't really cover Gotham-level disasters, as a descriptor. Still gets the point across, so whatever. "I'll be here, barring Gotham."

"You mean barring Batman," Kon snorts, rolling his eyes, and Tim feels a very weird way about the fact that Kon doesn't have a Batman in his life. Well–doesn't have a Bruce in his life, more like.

Or a Jack Drake.

It's kind of a sad thought, to be honest, though it probably makes the vigilante work a lot easier.

"Barring Batman," Tim agrees again, smiling wryly. "You realize you have a boss too now, right?"

"I could still be Superboy if I quit Cadmus, though," Kon says, which is a valid point, if not quite the one Tim was trying to make. "No way Batman wouldn't flip shit if you kept being Robin out from under his big black cape."

"Well, historically that hasn't always gone so well," Tim says, taking a sip of his Zesti. Kon tilts his head, looking curious.

"Wait, you've actually done that before?" he asks. "Seriously?"

"There's been other Robins, you know," Tim reminds him, wry again. Kon blinks.

"More than one?" he asks. "I thought it was just you and that Nightwing dude. Who else?"

It occurs to Tim, very suddenly, that Kon not only wasn't a superhero when Jason was Robin, he didn't even exist when Jason was Robin. He wouldn't have heard anything when it happened, even in rumors, and it's not like many people talk about Jason now, even in the community. At least not anywhere that Tim's ever heard, anyway.

Admittedly, that might be survivorship bias, all things considered.

"My immediate predecessor," Tim says carefully, taking another sip. "After Nightwing and before me. He's–not active anymore."

"Dead or just maimed?" Kon assumes. Tim doesn't bother wondering why "retired" doesn't occur to him as an option.

It's Kon. Of course "retired" wouldn't occur to him.

[mama-qwerty]

Rescue

So here we have another self-indulgent piece that I had started months ago. Finally got around to finishing it and boy does it feel good to write.

Takes place in my Knuckles MacPherson au.

~~~~~

Under any other circumstances, Callie probably would have been intimidated.

She stood in the large office, decorated with ornate display cases containing trinkets and artifacts, many of which she was pretty certain weren’t obtained fairly or legally. Some were weapons, spears or shields or swords, while others contained relics that most likely held a more spiritual or symbolic meaning. Masks, headdresses, and statues of various sizes. Each item was carefully labeled, well lit, and positioned inside a glass case. They lined the walls, trophies on display for their owner, the large elephant Callie was currently staring down at the opposite end of the room.

Or she supposed he could be a mammoth. He was covered in brown fur, his long tusks curling toward the ceiling. They were actually fairly impressive, as far as tusks went. Obviously this guy had been around for a while.

He was currently on the phone, exchanging words with someone on the other end about her presence. It had taken some effort to make her way here, and she hadn’t even had the decency to have an appointment. She shifted the bag slung across her as she waited for him to finally hang up and address her.

She flicked her eyes to the right, where Knuckles stood. His eyes were half lidded, one swollen and sporting an ugly purple color that was almost black. A split marked his bottom lip, and his tongue dipped out to run over it as she watched. There were obvious bruises along his body, what looked like a healing laceration across his chest, and his large formerly white mitts were now stained and torn.

Shackles weighed on his wrists and ankles, with some sort of energy charge tethering them together. A large collar was clamped around his neck, with a larger box-like protuberance on one side. A little green light blinked regularly on that box, steady and menacing.

She may not have had a lot of experience off-world—this being her first time, after all—but she knew a shock collar when she saw one. Judging by the darkened fur peeking over the edges, it had been used often.

She simultaneously wanted to rush to her boy, take him in her arms and comfort him, and launch herself at this smug mammoth to tear his tusks right out of his face and beat him with them.

Knuckles had been taken two weeks ago. A ring had opened, allowing six humanoid beings to come through. There’d been a short battle, but these beings—bounty hunters, most likely—had been ready with electric staffs. They swarmed him, weakening him just enough to attach that cursed collar, and drag him back through.

She’d been panicked, worried sick for him, and the Wachowskis had been a godsend at keeping her sane. It had been a frantic search, Tails had put out all possible feelers through the galaxy for any sign of his location, when they suddenly got a hit three days later.

“The return of the most dangerous warrior in the galaxy! He’s back and tougher than ever! The battles have never been more intense! See him take down any challenger!”

The arenas. They’d taken him back to the arenas.

They would regret that. She’d make damn sure of it.

The mammoth finally hung up the phone with a slam, drawing her eyes back to him. The look he leveled upon her spoke of a man short on patience, and an overabundance of a nasty disposition, with the desire, and means, to do whatever the hell he pleased.

An intimidating situation, in most other circumstances.

These weren’t most other circumstances.

“Well,” the mammoth said, his voice not quite a sneer, but not quite not. “You seemed quite eager to meet with me. Tell me your business, or stop wasting my time.”

He sounded simultaneously annoyed and bored. Again, the idea of beating him with his own tusks flashed through her mind. She pushed it away with some effort, and stood tall, pushing her shoulders back and leveled him with a cold, sharp glare.

"I'll give you one chance to give me the echidna, and render his contract void." Her voice was tight, clipped, and dripping with barely contained rage.

The mammoth behind the equally sized desk leaned back in his chair, the springs straining beneath his weight. A smile curled his lips—a smirk, really—and he rested his elbows on the armrests of the chair, steepling his fingers before his chest.

"I find it very entertaining that you think you can simply waltz into my place of business and issue demands."

"Oh, this isn't a demand," she said, a similar smirk curling her own lips. "It's a courtesy. This is me, being polite, giving you a chance to avoid a whole lotta trouble."

An amused sound rumbled through his trunk, and he ran a hand along one of his long, curled tusks. Callie thought it was probably similar to when men caressed their own mustaches. "Trouble? Little lady, you'll pardon my amusement. You don't strike me as capable of giving me much trouble at all."

She shrugged. "Underestimating someone is a sign of either overconfidence, or bigotry, and right now I'm not sure I care which you're doing. Either way, that gives me the advantage."

"I doubt it."

"Try me."

"Me'na," Knuckles said, and the croak in his voice hurt Callie's heart. "You must go. He will—"

He was cut off with a sudden cry of pain, the lights on the collar around his neck lighting as electricity coursed through him. He grit his teeth, falling to one knee as thin tendrils of smoke trailed up from beneath the collar.

Callie's poker face fell momentarily, and she reached for Knuckles as he panted from the pain. Mogul chuckled at the sight, and that made Callie see red.

“Do that again and I will personally shove that tusk of yours so far up your a—”

The mammoth cut her off with a more annoyed huff, his chair giving a squeaky groan as he leaned forward. "Enough of this. I've wasted enough time with you. The echidna is mine, and will be until I see fit to release him from the contract he signed."

"As a child, with no legal guardian to permit such an agreement to take place," she said, her lips pulling into a tight line. She stepped closer to the desk, her shoulders back and gaze locked onto his. "I'd bet my ass that contract was signed under duress, if he even signed it at all."

“The boy was an orphan, and as such became my property—“ He gave her a sneering smile with a little amused snort when she bristled at that. “Ahem. I took . . . responsibility for the boy, and gave him opportunities he wouldn’t have otherwise had. I made him strong.”

“His father made him strong,” she said, and had to grit her teeth to keep from yelling. “His tribe made him strong. You made him an attraction to line your pockets.”

He lifted one massive shoulder in a shrug. “Agree to disagree.”

She pointed to Knuckles, and oh how her heart clenched when he flinched. “Look at him. I highly doubt he’s making you the money you want when he’s obviously too tired to fight properly.”

Another shrug. “That’s the advantage of a famous name. He doesn’t have to win. He just needs to appear. He’s one of the most famous champions I’ve ever had, and people flock to see the legendary last of the echidna, even if he’s getting his tail handed to him.”

“And what happens if he’s killed?”

His sneering smile returned. “Then I have exclusive rights to the only recording of the most dangerous warrior in the galaxy being defeated, in addition to a new owner of that title.” He sat back again, much to his chair’s very loud protest, bringing his hands to that steepled pose once more. “This is the way things are done here, lady. It’s just business.”

“More like extortion, kidnapping, and slavery, likely with a little dash of blackmail sprinkled in, too.”

His smile dropped. “I’d watch your mouth. You have no idea who you’re talking to.”

Her smile returned. She stepped forward and picked up the name placard on his desk, turning it toward him. “Mammoth Mogul. That’s you, right? The same Mammoth Mogul who not only owns the biggest broadcasting stations in the galaxy, but also half of Casino Zone, and majority shareholder of every arena this side of the Milky Way. Oh, not to mention a major contributor to a lot of the high muckity mucks around these parts, who always seem to turn a blind eye to the questionable goings on in your arenas and casinos, yet crack down pretty darn hard on other ones.”

Mogul’s face darkened, his fingers slipping from the steepled position to interlace and tighten. Oh, he didn’t like that.

“I believe you’re mistaken.”

“Yeah, your incredibly convincing poker face tells me I’m not.”

Silence settled for a moment, and Mogul leaned forward again, planting his elbows on the desk as he watched her with sharp eyes. He spoke through grit teeth. “And where did you hear these . . . wildly fabricated things?”

Her smile turned a little sharper. More predatory. “I’m a librarian. Curious by nature. I research. I dig. I sift through page after page of newspaper articles, and connect dots.” She dropped the placard back onto the desk with a clatter. “And you really should invest in a better firewall for your network. Once we got through, it was just a matter of searching your files to gather the info we needed to get in here.”

His eyebrow raised. “We?”

She shrugged, turning slightly to assume a more bored demeanor. Truth was, she was scared out of her mind, not only for herself but for Knuckles. This mammoth could theoretically snap her neck at the slightest provocation, and she wasn’t exactly playing it safe. She just hoped the plan she and Wachowskis had come up with actually worked.

“My associate zeroed in on where the echidna was being held, and then it was a quick job of bypassing all your so called security so we could get a peek at your internal files. Ticket sale tracking, profit expectations, bookkeeping . . .” She cast him a side eye. “How interesting that there seemed to be two copies of those. With vastly different numbers.”

The silence that settled then was heavy and thick and Callie could feel it seep into her as though it were a physical thing. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, as the mammoth’s gaze bored into her.

“I could kill you right now. You realize that, don’t you?”

She resisted the urge to swallow hard, but her hands clenched tighter on the strap of the bag slung across her.

Steady, Cal. Steady.

She had three rules to follow: Don’t show fear, stand your ground, and get Knux out.

“There’s that underestimating thing again.” Her voice was soft, and she pushed a little smirk to her lips. “Do you really think I came here without a plan?”

“And do you think I’ll just let you leave?” Mogul reached beneath his desk, presumably to press the little secret button all big important crooked bosses seem to have to summon his security team. “Maybe I’ll put you in the arenas. You wouldn’t last long, but hey, you’d be an interesting draw, nonetheless.”

“Oh, ya think? I’m actually a little flattered.”

Seconds passed, and no big burly security guards burst through the door to apprehend her. Mogul kept flicking his eyes to the door, the agitation in his expression growing every second they didn’t appear. Callie stood before his desk, watching him with a little smile.

When it was clear no help was coming, the mammoth pegged her with a dark glare. “How the hell did you get in here?”

Her smile grew. “Ah, now he’s asking the right questions. Your guards tried to, shall we say, convince me to leave, but I was pretty determined to speak with you. So I made sure they wouldn’t interrupt us.”

Okay, truth be told, Tails’ inventions made sure they were nicely contained for this little rescue mission. That little fox had been busy building as many weapons and traps as he could, while Callie searched through Mogul’s database to find information to, well, blackmail him with.

Sonic had wanted to come along to do his hero thing, but the adults decided it would be best if the other boys stayed behind. The rest of the universe didn’t know about them, and if this guy discovered there was a super fast hedgehog, and a super intelligent fox with a talent for building weapons, he would likely stop at nothing to snag them for his little gladiator games, too.

Best to keep them out of sight, and off this jerk’s radar.

Mogul pushed himself to stand, his chair giving one last groan as he hefted his weight from it. Callie’s heart pounded in her chest—holy crap he was huge. Now she did swallow hard, and it took all her bravery to stand her ground and not step back.

“I don’t need them to take care of you,” he growled, leaning forward to rest his fists on the desk and glare at her. “You’ve wasted enough of my time.”

“Me’na,” Knuckles called again, and Callie didn’t spare a look in his direction.

“It’s alright, sweetie,” she called, and was surprised when her voice came out steady. “We’ll be home soon.”

A snort of laughter traveled down the mammoth’s trunk at that, and he shook his head. “I can’t decide if you’re delusional, or just plain stupid.”

She smirked. “And I can’t believe you never wondered what was in my bag.”

His smile faded as his eyes flicked down to the worn messenger bag slung across her. She reached inside, pulling out a small cylinder shaped object with a button on the top. Holding it in a fist, she let her thumb hover over the large red button.

“We could have done this the easy way. I get the echidna, and you keep your arena in one piece.” She shrugged. “But you decided to be a dick.”

He scoffed. “Your poker face isn’t as convincing as you think it is.”

“I don’t think you understand just what’s at stake here,” she said, her voice quiet. “I didn’t just take out your guards. Before I came up here to talk to you, I took a detour to check out your arena. Then I found my way to the holding cells beneath it, where you keep your fighters contained. Nifty little prison you’ve got down there. Exactly how many are here of their own free will?”

His lips pulled into a tight frown. “They’re fairly compensated for their participation.”

“Mmm, that’s not what they said. Had myself a little chat with some of them. Seemed like most are here due to some debt they couldn’t repay. Some were captured. Others snagged as kids, like he was. All forced to fight, to put money in your filthy hands.”

He stood tall, crossing his arms before him. “They all signed contracts. It’s legal and binding.”

“And I’m sure they all signed them completely of their own free will, too,” she said, the scoff in her voice apparent. “But you know what? I’m willing to be nice and give you one more chance.” She nodded toward Knuckles. “Let him go. Never send any of your bounty hunters or goons after him again. You can sit up here, making bank off the misery of others. Just leave.us.alone.”

Mogul stared at her for a moment, seemingly considering her offer. “And if I refuse?”

She shrugged. “Then I push this little red button, and all the explosive devices I planted around the building go kaboom. All your fighters will be released, and some of them really didn’t have nice things to say about the guy who forced them to fight against their will. So I’d be a liiiittle worried about payback if I were you.”

The mammoth snarled at that, his hands dropping to curl into fists by his sides. “I’ll never stop hunting him.” His voice was little more than a growl. “Whatever you do I’ll rebuild from. A minor setback, at best. But I will make it my mission in life to see you both in that arena, beaten within an inch of your lives. I will revel in your screams. Your begging for your lives.”

A chill ran up Callie’s spine. He meant it. He would never stop looking for them, and especially now that he knew what planet they were on, he may not stop with just her or Knuckles. The other two boys would be in danger, as would any other person or animal on Earth.

Which meant that what she was about to do was for the good of her entire planet, and not just her boy.

But truthfully, her boy’s safety would have been reason enough.

“Big mistake,” she said, lifting her thumb. “Huge.”

Her thumb dropped, and there was a soft ‘click’ as the button depressed.

The entire building shivered. Explosions rang out all around them, deafening for a few seconds. The trio on Mogul’s office staggered on their feet, as the display cases around the room trembled from the force of the blasts.

That was much bigger than Callie expected. Tails really went all out with his weapons. She’d have to tell Maddie to keep an eye on that kid.

“NO!” The mammoth bellowed, moving to the windows that overlooked his arena below. Flames engulfed the spectator seats, and great pillars of smoke billowed out.

Callie didn’t waste any time. She hurried to Knuckles and jabbed the detonator against the collar. “Touch the end to any exposed circuitry, and twist the top,” Tails had told her, and she did as he instructed. The cylinder vibrated in her hand, and the sharp cackle of static floated up, right before the collar shorted out. The blinking green light went dark, and Knuckles gave a little grunt of relief.

“Look out!” he shouted, just as Callie was grabbed from behind by a long trunk, and thrown across the room. She landed hard, sliding across the floor, before smashing into a display case. The glass shattered, raining down on her as she tried to regain her senses.

“You’re not going anywhere!” Mogul smacked Knuckles into the corner with a swing of his trunk. The echidna crashed hard against the wall, crumpling to the floor with a painful groan.

“Leave him alone!” Callie screamed, the fear inside her quickly being overtaken by her protective instincts.

Mogul turned to her, his eyes hard and sharp, full of rage and fire. “I’ll kill you first, and make him watch,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. He stalked toward her, hands curled into tight fists. “Then I’ll make him fight until he begs for death.”

Oh shit.

Callie plunged her hand into her bag, fumbling for a moment in her panic, before her fingers curled around a flat disk with a button on the top. She pulled it out and clicked the button before throwing it like a Frisbee. Little arms jutted out around the circumference as it flew through the air, creating a crackling electrical net which wrapped itself around the mammoth, pulling his arms tight against his body as it delivered a strong shock.

Mogul screamed before going to his knees, and Callie moved as quick as she could to get back to Knuckles, her hand dipping into her pocket to retrieve the portal ring meant to send them home.

She wasn’t quick enough.

Just as she managed to half crawl, half run toward Knuckles, Mogul broke free from his electrical restraints. He clamped a hand on her ankle, yanking her backwards toward him.

“Oh no you don’t,” he sneered, tearing the bag strap to toss it into the far corner of the office. “No more toys.”

“Me’na!” Knuckles pushed himself to his knees, but he was obviously too exhausted and injured to help much. Mogul must have really put him through it for the echidna to be that sluggish.

The ring was still in Callie’s hand. As Mogul pulled her back, she closed her eyes and thought of the Wachowski’s backyard.

Then she slammed the ring on the floor, and pushed it toward Knuckles. It slid along the floor, coming to a stop right beneath him, and he had time to give her a shocked looked right before it opened, dropping him through.

“No!” His cry echoed as he traveled from this world to Earth, and a second later the portal closed.

Safe. Her boy was safe.

And then she was flying through the air when Mogul tossed her like a rag doll. She smashed into another display case, vaguely aware when the glass sliced her open in various places.

“I’ll admit, you took me by surprise,” he said as he came toward her. He moved slowly, shedding his suit jacket as he approached. He unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. “Not many can make that claim. But then again,” he lifted her by the throat, and slammed her into another case, “they never make it for long.”

Callie’s feet dangled above the floor, his fingers tightening around her throat.

Acting out of pure panic, Callie reached into the case behind her, hand searching for something, anything, to help. Her fingers curled around something solid and heavy, and she brought it around with all the strength she had left, smashing what seemed to be a solid iron statue straight against his temple.

Mogul uttered a strained growl, releasing her as he staggered back. Callie dropped, coughing and gasping, but kept her eye on the mammoth. He turned away from her slightly, his large tusks facing to her left, and an idea struck. She moved before she could think too much about it.

Lunging forward, she grabbed hold of his nearest tusk, and swung her body like an Olympic gymnast on the parallel bars. The momentum jerked him to his left, whipping his head to the side as her weight carried her forward. She was just heavy enough, and he off balance enough, that it made him cant to the side, and he fell with a hard thud to the floor.

Scrambling like a madwoman hellbent on surviving—which is, honestly, what she was—Callie whipped around to plant one foot on each tusk, and grab hold of his trunk. She yanked the appendage, drawing a pained cry from him as it stretched beyond its limit.

Yelling from outside. The freed fighters were coming. She’d told them of her plan, and promised them the opportunity to deal with Mogul after they were freed. She was sure there were probably some other guards she hadn’t run into, and they may be giving the fighters some trouble, but had no doubt the warriors would prevail.

It was amazing what you could do when you were fighting for your life.

Case in point.

Callie gave a hard yank on the mammoth’s trunk. “Still surprised?”

Instead of answering, Mogul reached up to grab her feet, and lifted her to slam against the floor. She lost her grip on his trunk, and all the air rushed out of her lungs at the impact. As she lay there, stunned, he moved over her, wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing hard.

“You’re all out of options,” he hissed, a wicked smile curling his lips. “Time to die.”

“Guess again.”

Mogul had time to look to his right and then he was hit with a blast of energy, sending him flying back to land on his giant desk, smashing it to bits. Callie coughed and gasped, rolling slightly before a hand was on her upper arm.

“C’mon,” Tom said, pulling her to her feet. A large weapon that looked like a portable cannon was slung over his other shoulder. “We gotta go.”

Tom practically dragged her toward an open portal, just as the door to Mogul’s office burst open, letting in some of the most dangerous, and angry, warriors he’d all but imprisoned below the arena.

She had just enough time to look back and watch them descend on the downed mammoth, right before the portal closed.

And that’s when she was hit in the middle by a worried echidna. She let out a strained grunt, going to her knees as she gathered him into her arms.

“Watch the ribs, kiddo,” she said through grit teeth. There were likely a few cracked ones, if she had to guess. Among other injuries.

Knuckles wrapped his arms around her, gathering her shirt into his fists. Tails must have removed the collar and shackles. Good.

“You should not have gone,” he said, his voice cracked and broken. “You should not have done that. He would have killed you.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, burying her face into the safe spot on his forehead, right before where his quills started. “Like I’m gonna just let him keep my boy. It’s like you don’t even know me, ki’kone. Honestly.”

He uttered a soft chuckle, gently nuzzling against her chest. The two stayed like that for a moment, before Maddie moved closer and gently laid a hand on her shoulder.

“We should get you two cleaned up,” she said, her voice soft. “Come into the house and I’ll take care of your injuries.”

Callie gave a little nod, before looking over at Tom. “Thanks for the save.”

The sheriff gave a wave of his hand. “Don’t mention it. Although,” he looked down at Tails, “I was a bit surprised at the power in that gun of yours.”

“Yeah,” Callie said, slowly pushing herself to her feet. “I was glad to have the stuff you made, but hoo boy, they packed a punch.”

Tails smiled shyly, pulling his fists to his chest. “But they did the trick, right?”

“We’re gonna have a chat about that stuff, later,” Tom said, giving the boy’s bangs a quick ruffle. “But yeah, they did the trick.”

“Man, I wish I could have helped!” Sonic said, rolling his head back. “I knew it was a bad idea to send you alone. I should have gone with you!”

“She needed stealth if this was gonna work, bud,” Tom said, crossing his arms. “You are anything but stealthy.”

Tails looked to the hedgehog with a shrug. “He’s got a point.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“C’mon, guys,” Maddie called as she headed toward the house. “Let’s get these two fixed up.”

The Wachowskis headed back into the house, Tails grilling Tom on how his rifle worked, when Knuckles gave Callie’s hand a little tug to hold her back. She turned to him, giving him a cocked eyebrow in question.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice soft. “For coming for me.”

She smiled, going to one knee with a soft grunt as her ribs protested.

“I will always come for you, baby.” She caressed his muzzle with a knuckle. “Always.”

Knuckles smiled, leaning forward to rest his forehead on hers. They shared a quiet moment, before limping into the house, eager to rest and begin healing.

[husbandhoshi]

Heheh mingyu + cute + 9:27am

[9:27]

on god, i will kill whoever shares a wall with mingyu, is your first thought of the day.

you lay there, head positively spinning, as you hear the perpetrator snooze their train horn alarm for the fifth time that morning.

your second is, fuck, i actually went home with him, and your third falls somewhere along the lines of having the worst hangover headache of your twenty something years of being alive.

the bed next to you is cold (mingyu probably has class), you’re in a big white shirt (must have put it on after getting your back blown out), and curiously, mingyu has a studio ghibli poster you never noticed on the back of his door (good, although it would have ruined the mood if you knew totoro had witnessed all of that).

the unsavory details from last night come flooding back to you like the final chapter of an agatha christie novel, except you still don’t really get it.

kim mingyu, resident heartthrob of sigma alpha epsilon and the guy you just happened to tutor on tuesdays, not only invited you to a party, but somehow landed you in his bed, wearing his clothes.

on an average day, sleeping with a guy five million miles out of your league would be the college fairytale of your dreams, except you have class in two hours and the room is so bright, so flooded with sunlight, you think you will actually die if you open your eyes any wider.

you kind of wished things would be different.

(let’s get out of here, mingyu had said last night, and a part of you already knew what was going to happen. but instead, he walked you to in-n-out, draped in his big letterman jacket, and you spent the next two hours talking about everything and nothing over an order of animal fries.

and you remember him hovering over you, his silver necklace tantalizing and cold against the skin of your neck, asking in that awfully low voice of his—are you sure? we don’t have to.

and you pleaded and begged yes, yes, want it, want you, because you actually had the most embarrassing crush on him and somehow you fell in love all over again watching him get thousand island sauce on that nice button up of his.)

but in true fratboy fashion, he’s gone, and you’re just another girl left to dry in the wretched sigma house.

it’s then that you hear a knock on the door, at first frantic, then softly.

“mingyu’s not here,” you holler, although it’s more of a croak than a shout. “i don’t even live here.”

“um. this is mingyu,” comes the muffled voice. “sorry, i—” you can just picture him rubbing the back of his neck, piecing his next sentence together. “i thought you might want some breakfast?”

hearing the same voice that said basically unrepeatable things last night now shy as ever, asking permission to enter his own room, gives you the worst whiplash of your life. on top of that, you’re embarrassingly relieved that he did not, in fact, abandon you.

“yeah, uh, sure. thanks.” you scramble for your phone to make sure you look ok, but promptly realize the fool is charging it on his desk. so instead you just lay there, trying to look as alive as possible.

the door opens slowly, and through your half-lidded, squinty eyes, you make out what possibly could be the most beautiful man alive, looking like a dream in low hanging sweats and a muscle tee. and he has a plate of pancakes and orange juice.

“sorry, i look terrible.” the words just fly out of your mouth.

“no you don’t,” he chides in that awfully attractive pout of his. “was gonna say you look great. especially after everything that happened last night.”

he grins, all teeth and pretty pink lips, as you fight to not pull the covers over your head and just perish on the spot. “please shut up. i thought you abandoned me, you know. and i decided i was gonna stop tutoring you and let you fail organic chemistry.”

mingyu laughs and sits beside you on the bed, warm gaze falling on you. “i’m sorry. please don’t do that. i need you,” he jokes, and you both laugh again, feeling that post hookup awkwardness permeate the space.

he moves to brush the hair out of your forehead, but stops himself. he’s not sure what to do (he likes you, a lot actually, and that itself is enough to zap all rational thought from his brain).

“are you feeling ok?” mingyu asks instead. “i brought a warm towel and an advil. you know, uh, if you had a headache or something.”

it’s cute seeing him trip over his words, and you nod, giving him the ok to fuss over you.

“can you sit up? do you want me to feed you?” the questions come a mile a minute, but you’re never one to complain over a real life disney prince fawning over you.

so you let him, god, for some reason him propping you up against his pillows is a thousand times hotter than whatever he did last night, and you make the executive decision to waste your entire friday morning to spend it with him.

you’re still not sure what you are—friends, acquaintances, or something in the middle.

you wouldn’t dare think lovers though, except when he blows on a forkful of pancake to cool it down, you briefly consider marriage.

(before you go, he kisses your forehead. “catch a movie with me tomorrow?” he asks, taking his sunglasses off the top of his head and sliding them onto your face—he knows you lied when you said your head wasn’t hurting anymore.

“is this because you wanna—”

“it’s because i want to take you on a date. a real one. can i?”

he smiles at you again, radiant and honest, and you find you don’t doubt him for a second.)

[gumballavocadoharry]

Unjust Corporate; Jack Chambers:

*This is the 50s, so corporal punishment was around and that meant teachers were allowed to administer swats with paddles or canes then. It's unethical, but I have to be historically correct to set the scene. I do not agree with this, and it's a trigger containing: mentions of abuse, abusive childhood, student abuse, hitting, beating, some racisms, bad parenting and bad educational system. *

Mr. Driscoll. Hated by every student (and teacher) in the building. Possibly the district. 

A very strict and callous type who would punish for even the simplest infringements. Assignment was a day late- an F. One word misspelled on a paper- F. Whispering in class- a hard paddle against your backside. None of the teachers in the school used the paddle or the cane. But Mr. Driscoll did. He expected perfection from every student, despite even if their best attempts couldn't come to par. A painly thin older man with white hair, a thin pasty mustache and liver spots all over his hands. A slight slouch in his posture, but still managed to stand a solid six foot in a half.

Then he met Roger Chambers. The boy swore he hated him from day one. His name was spoken stringent against his lips. Sharp and stern looks into Roger's mischievous but innocuous green eyes where filled with this utter disgust like the way you spot maggots in rotted fruit. "ROGER! STOP TALKING!" Roger wouldn't say a word. 

"ROGER STOP DAYDREAMING AND PAY ATTENTION!" Roger would force himself out of his gaze through the classroom window and snap back to the teacher's lesson. It was during class that Roger realized he could use both hands when writing. Left and right.

Finishing the last piece of his Benjamin Franklin- using his left hand- a harsh burning sting was slapped to his wrist. "Ow!" grabbing his wrist and looking up to Mr. Driscoll. "Use your right hand, Mr. Chambers!" Tapping the ruler against his palm, Mr. Driscoll gave Roger a acrimonious glare. Tears brimming his eyes, Roger slowly picked up his pencil with his right hand; ignoring the mordant pain that was shooting through his wrist. 

The walk home from school was quiet. "Hey Roger, what did you get on that Algebra test?" Roger shrugged. "Maybe, a 56- I don't know." Susan glanced to Roger with a slight furrow. "Did Matthew Malkin give you wedgie?"

"I don't know, probably." "Did Mom and Dad jump across the moon and into a pile of turnips that shoot out raisins?"

"Yeah, probably." A laugh escaped from Susan. "Did you even hear what I just said?" Roger turned sharply to Susan, almost ringing himself out of his world. "Uh... what?" Susan crooked her head to the side. "Roger, what's wrong?" Roger scratched the side of his head. "Oh, nothing. It's just.... I have a lot of homework." Susan bit the edge of her lip and kept quiet. Letting the sound of the swishing spring wind bellow her skirt, Susan would occasionally look to Roger and then back to the sidewalk. "Hi sweeties," Alice wiped the last path of suds off the tables from the cleaner. "I'll make you a snack in just a minute."

"Thanks." Susan said, taking a seat on the couch. Roger smiled before charging toward his bedroom. His wrist brushed against his slacks, twinging the boy with pain. Roger scanned his left wrist again. A thick red welt formed in the center of a purplish-pink bruise. Roger stared at the sore. Watching it ooze from his skin like an ugly patch. Changing into a droopy maroon sweater that hovered over his legs, making them look little under the cloak of garment. Roger trollied down the stairs, ignoring the stares from his sister and mother. "Roger, you changed your shirt." Roger smiled and took a seat at the bar, reaching for the fresh baked cookies on the platter in front of him. Alice let a slight furrow arch through her eyebrows. "I got cold, so I changed my shirt." As if Roger could sense Alice's buried question. Alice raised an eyebrow. "Okay...." Roger kept his gaze on the counter. A fear slithered through him- wafting in this musky glower of already having blown his cover.

Roger perked himself up with a smile. "Sorry, if I'm coming off mysterious.... it's been a long day." Alice gave Roger a small smile. She leaned in closer, pouting her lip a bit. "Are you alright honey? Feeling okay?" Alice put her hand on Roger's left wrist and rubbed- pressuring the fore of it against the brim of the counter. Roger bit the inside of his bottom lip. "I'm fine- it's just that- my new history teacher had us doing a lot of work in class today." Alice smiled wider. Rubbing her hand against Roger's cheek, she leaned back and went back to the stove. Roger kept his stare on her a bit longer- wondering if her mind was already made up. And.... it was.

Jack came home and hour later. Roger was already at his grainy oak desk, finishing the last of his assingment. Signing the last cursive word on the paper, Roger's heartbeat sped up. A warm patch heated against the nath of his neck. A burning heat flashed through his skin. Mr. Driscoll taught history. Mr. Driscoll would fail him for one mistake. Or maybe not one at all. He hated Roger after all. He would cane his wrist again. Or berate him in front of the entire class. Roger didn't tell anyone of how Mr. Driscoll seperated his desk to the outside of the classroom for laughing too much. The memory burned deep into his brain- sauntering the grimness of how he couldn't even cry because of the passing students and teachers. Embarrassed and angry, Roger was banished to the outskirts of the class until lunch, where his desk was brought back inside, but with his crayons sprawled out over the hallway. They were swept up and thrown into the garbage when asked about them.

Roger scratched the itch by his eye. His finger became wet, letting the realization of brimming tears that trickled down his face sink in. He swallowed hard- letting the hollow of his woe slide down into his gut to loll there.

A knock on the door sounded. "Rogie?" Jack's soft voice was both a reassurance, and a parcel. Roger couldn't afford to carry a burden. His mind was weighted with Mr. Driscoll's rasping jarring voice. Jack invited himself in. He always did that when he thought the problem was big. It annoyed the children, but it would disperse with realization of Jack's love and concern. He took a seat on the bed, letting his eyes- filled with worry- bore into Roger's. "Hey bud.... you've been quiet today... everything okay?" 

"Yeah. Why, why wouldn't it be?" He frowned. "Because, you came home and didn't say anything-"

"I was tired. Mr. Driscoll piled on a lot of homework." Jack raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Driscoll?" Roger nodded. Jack rememberd Mr. Driscoll. He hated him too.

He never taught Jack's grade as a child, but when he moved to California as an adult, he found Mr. Driscoll to be the biggest prick of an educator he met. Uttering several words about him behind his back, the old man was embittered, in Jack's mind. He hated how he demanded unquestioned respect, despite never showing it back to anyone. Sometimes, even to his own superiors. Jack never forgot how in the line at a supermarket, Mr. Driscoll glared at the young ebony man, a bagger, who was extraordinarily polite and kind. His name tag read, Dan, and Jack didn't think twice about him. He just thought good business was good business. 

"I bet he steals from the registers." Mr. Driscoll snarled. Jack puncated his frown to the elderly man, who was in his early sixties at the time. "He probably has kids all over with different woman." Mr. Driscoll didn't say this to anyone but himself. But Jack heard him. He heard everything the man said. "I think he's doing a good job." Jack wished he hadn't opened his mouth. But was still glad he did. Mr. Driscoll turned around, but Jack stared straight ahead. "Respect your elders." He said before turning back towards the line. Jack towered over the man slightly. He stared deep into the back of his head like he wanted to burn holes through it. He did want to.

Mr. Driscoll turned around with a scowl over his face. "Maybe you could learn something from us elders, hm?" Jack smirked. "I think society's already beat me to it, hm?" 

"I can help the next customer!" A lady clerk yelled. Jack happily took his cart to the next line. Ringing up faster, Jack pulled an extra five from his wallet. Handing it to Dan, he smiled. "Thank you very much sir, have a nice day." Dan smiled. "You too!" Mr. Driscoll watched as Jack walked out of the store with the biggest smile across his face, before turning around to share one last smart alec smile toward the old man. 

The name sent this ping of anger through Jack. "Mr. Driscoll." He repeated. "He's your new history teacher?" Roger's eyebrows furrowed as he gave another nod. "Racist bastard." Roger gasped. "Oh! I'm sorry Roger! Don't repeat that, okay?"

"Mr. Driscoll's racist?" Jack nodded. "I know him. Don't worry it'll be okay." Roger felt reassured. A warm glow had illumentated through him like a candle in the dark night. Jack's face was set serious. Serious into this deep rigid frown. Jack turned back to Roger after staring at the specks of carpet for too long. "What did he do in class?" A cool fanned through Roger's chest. He didn't want to tell him what happened today. But he knew Jack would find out. He would come to the classroom and surveillance Mr. Driscoll like a prison guard. And he would deserve it. But it wouldn't help Roger forever. It wouldn't etch the pain from his mind, or the fear in his gut... or the twinge of heat from his bruised wrist.

"Roger?" Jack's voice softened and warm. "He.... was strict. Very strict- he always is with everyone. Even some of the teachers." Jack narrowed his eyes. "But what did he do to you?" Roger swallowed. 

"I was talking too much in class. So....." Roger looked down. Jack wanted Roger to come closer to him, but couldn't choke out the words to say so. "What did he do Roger?" His voice laced more thickly in concern. 

"He yelled at me." Roger held in his tears. But Jack could sense them. He could sense the pain snaking through Roger, while his head was held down and his voice as frail as parchment paper. "What else?" Jack knew. Roger didn't know how, but he did.

"He put my desk....." Roger choked. Tears- not even having time to brim- begin dripping onto the carpet. He looked back up with tears and a wobbly mouth. "He made me sit out in the hall because I was laughing too much!" He brokedown. "Today in class, I decided I could use my left hand to write. And I did pretty good. Mr. Driscoll- ow!" Jack perked up. Roger had brushed a particular sensitive part of his wrist against his pants. "Ow.. ow...ow." He cried. Jack hurled himself up from the bed and grabbed Roger's wrist without question.

A big welt on his wrist. Bruising and burning with pain. The sight shattered Jack's heart to a million pieces. David would whip Jack's legs with a thick belt, till welts would sprout over his little calves. Sometimes, he whip his bare back or strike a paddle against his bare bottom. Coupled with slaps across the face and a throng of curses thrown at him, the sight of Roger's wrist nearly made Jack sick. He never bragged about his disciplines- there was nothing to brag about. Who could take pleasure in being beaten senseless for pratically nothing? Some boys at his school would laugh or brag about how many beatings they took from their fathers. Jack never joined in and in fact, would judge the boys. 

"What's so great about that?" he said once. Steward Hollister looked around before piping up. "Well, hasn't your dad ever beat ya?" 

"Yeah. I just don't laugh about it. It's ridiculous and abusive..... I'd much rather take pleasure in striking him back." He said, before walking back to his locker. "Sensitive little pussy." Steward laughed along with his friends. Jack slammed the books into locker and continued to the bleachers for the rally.

Looking at Roger's little wrist- his soft little wrist that was hurting, causing his little boy to welp in pain- sent an angry shiver through his spine. A muderous desire to wrap his bulky hands around Driscoll's neck and choke the life out of him until his face was as blue and purple as the bruise forming around the welt. 

"He... caned me." Roger's voice was so little. So innocent and fragile. Jack looked into Roger's eyes before cuffing his little lanky body into a bear hug. "Oh my little baby.... it'll be okay. Daddy's here. I'm so sorry.... I'm so sorry." Jack sounded regretful, despite not doing anything. "We'll take care of the boo boo." Roger didn't mind Jack's baby puns. In fact, he wanted it. He needed it. Clinging to Jack as he took him into the bathroom, Jack smoothed an ointment onto the welt before applying some kitchen ice. Placing a gentle hand on Roger's cheek, Jack looked into Roger's eyes with unfathomable sympathy and blazing fury. "Just hold it onto the welt and the bruising will go down in no time." Roger nodded, still sniffling. Jack placed a long big whistling smooch to Roger's cheek. Then another one, then another one. He didn't want to leave Roger's side for a second and would rather hold him in the hollow of his chest, placing candy kisses onto the ridge of his forehead.

Caned. It stuck out in Jack's brain all night. He would cane Mr. Driscoll. What he did to Roger, Jack would do to him thrice as hard. Jack kept his fists balled up all night, making the knuckles stiff in the morning. Jack finally hit it.

He would surprise Driscoll. He had no idea Roger was his son... but he would soon find out. Today... in the middle of history class.

Roger was sitting quietly at his desk. Mr. Driscoll spiting out nonsense facts about the british war of whatever. "ROGER! SIT UP STRAIGHT!" 

Jack could hear the harsh address from down the hall. Storming harder up to the classroom door- Jack dressed in his navy blue office suit, neat matching black dress shoes with a very stern look- peeked through the window of the classroom. 

"Roger come up here now!" Roger gulped, taking little steps up towards Mr. Driscoll. "It's funny. It's really funny how you think class is a joke? That all these students don't deserve to learn in peace!"

"But-"

"Hush up!" Grabbing a thick wooden paddle, Roger's eyes widened. "Turn around." Mr. Driscoll's voice venomed with hatered. Grabbing Roger's arm and snatching him around, Jack barged through the door- without thinking and yanked up Mr. Driscoll's arm- dragging him out of the classroom.

He practically slammed the old man against the walls of the corridor. "How dare you!" Jack hissed. "How dare you even lay a fingernail on my son like that!"

Mr. Driscoll straightend his suitjacket. "I didn't paddle him for your information- I was about to and he deserved it!" Jack came closer to the teacher's face. "I don't care what he did or didn't do. I saw you. I'll be the one to decide how and whether my child gets punished or not!"

"I am fully qualified to do my job, sir!" "To hell with your job- you ever touch my son again, it'll be the last time, you ever touch him... is that clear?"

Mr. Driscoll squinted his eyes. "Do I know you?" Jack didn't respond. His gruff breaths puffed out like steam out of the nostrils of a dragon. "That man.... you were in the supermarket- defending that colored boy-"

"He was a man. A grown man." Jack hissed. "How dare you." His voice trailed a little. "And yes! It's me! And that's my son."

Mr. Driscoll scoffed. "No wonder. The boy never knws when to keep his mouth shut- I'd pop him if I could." Even the burning glare from Mr. Driscoll, didn't save him from being lifted by the fringed of his collar.

"You're lucky I don't break your jaw into a million pieces! If you ever take that paddle out again- then you can shove it up your ass, because that's the first place I'm gonna come looking for it!" Dropping Mr. Driscoll back to earth, feet pinging so hard against the ground, that an ache begin to radiate. Jack's deadly glare riveted the man, before he whizzed past and into the classroom.

"Roger," Jack took Roger's hand and led him back outside. "How about you and me take the day off? Just the two of us?" A bright smile fell over Roger. "Oh boy! You mean it?!" Jack bent down and hugged Roger tightly. "Of course! I thought you could use some fun after that awful day you had." Jack cooed. Kissing the side of his temple, Jack took Roger's hand- both skipping down the hall with peps in their step. 

For Mr. Driscoll, this would surely be a day that would go down in history for him. He counted that as walked back into the classroom, wobbly and red faced.

The same way he left Roger yesterday, but with more vigour. Not able to look the class in the eye. He picked the paddle from the ground and set it on his desk.

"Class dismissed." He said shakily. As the classroom emptied out, Mr. Driscoll sat his desk and started his resignation letter. Somehow, he believed Jack. And he didn't want to take that risk.

[enjoythesilentworld]

Simon's Month - Home (Improvement)

day 30 @youngroyals-events one more to go i could cry

Simon owns a home renovation business with his sister. Wille has recently purchased a fixer-upper.

read below or on ao3 (T, 1.3k)

“You have to be nice,” Sara says as they drive down the unassuming backroad, lined with thick vegetation.

Simon scoffs, staring out the window and peeking between the gaps in the trees to get a glimpse of the types of homes around here. That one needs a new roof, but that one's got some good landscaping.  

“I am nice.”

“You’re nice in a special Simon way. Once someone has had time to get to know you.” Sara puts on the blinker, turning up a gravel street. “There’s a reason I usually bring Ayub with me— Get out and open the gate for me, please.”

Rolling his eyes, Simon climbs out of the car and swings open the simple metal gate, which could really use some oil on the hinges. The fence has a few nearly broken posts, too. If this is what the entrance looks like, he can only imagine the actual house. It must be further up the hill, but it’s way too overgrown for Simon to be able to see anything yet.

Usually, Ayub went with Sara on these consultations, because, allegedly, he's the better at talking to the clients. Apparently it didn’t matter that, technically, Simon was in charge of the construction half of his and Sara’s business. Not that it really bothered Simon. At the end of the day, he trusted Ayub to do the initial walkthrough and markup, allowing Simon to focus on getting everything ready to start the actual construction. Today, though, Ayub is busy, so Simon’s been tagged in.

“I’m just honest,” he says, once back in the car. “You are, too, Sara. That’s why people like you as a designer. Because you'll tell them if their shit is ugly.”

She pulls further up the drive and the house comes into view. That is, if it can even be called a house. Simon barely hears Sara’s response, his mind already flitting through the long, long to-do list that will be required to get this pile of wood back to living standards.

“Yes, but I do it in a nice way. This is Felice’s very good friend, okay? She said he’s great. Don’t make him go back to Felice with a bad review.”

“Yeah, yeah, I won’t,” Simon waves her off, stepping out of the car to get a better look at the building. “This place looks like a piece of shit.”

“Hey, that’s my piece of shit you’re talking about.”

Simon turns at the sound of the new voice. In the front doorway of said piece of shit, there’s a tall, handsome man with auburn hair and a crooked smile. It’s quite the paradoxical image, this pretty, clean-cut man walking down the porch steps of such a dirty, overgrown house.

Sara steps up to greet him, apologizing for her brother's snark, while Simon hangs back, still assessing the integrity of the columns holding up the overhang roof. Most of the shingles are in place, at least, and he doesn’t see any sagging that would indicate leakage. Not yet, at least.

“Good to see you again, Wille,” Sara smiles, using that sweet customer-service voice of hers.

“You, too, Sara. Thank you for agreeing to take on this project. I know it’s a bit of a mess.”

“Well,” Simon cuts in without introduction, “she’ll only be able to do her part once we make sure this place won’t blow away in the first storm.”

Wille turns to him and smiles brightly, somehow rivaling even the midmorning sun that shines above them. “You must be Simon.” He extends a hand. “I’m Wille. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Simon takes his hand and shakes it once. They’re bigger than Simon’s, but less calloused. He probably works for some stupid finance company and sits in a fancy ergonomic chair all day, drinking filtered water and fucking off to business lunches with Sweden’s elite.

“Yep. I’ve heard almost nothing about you. Shall we take a look inside?”

If Wille’s surprised by Simon’s attitude, he doesn’t show it. He just nods, still smiling like the sun.  

Sara hisses at him as Wille leads them inside, telling him to cool it. Simon nods distractedly, but he really can’t be bothered to be nice because he’s already annoyed with this rich kid who’s probably bought this house to fix up and turn into a 20,000kr per night rental.

It’s not as bad inside, thankfully. The remaining yellowed wallpaper is peeling, and there's random trash scattered around, but there are no cracks in the walls or water stains on the ceiling. Wille leads them through, pointing out which rooms are which. The whole tour doesn’t last more than ten minutes as it’s only a two-bed, two-bath. The windows are half-boarded, and there are a few unnecessary walls, and Simon is already itching to get started. 

“I want to keep as much of the original structure as possible,” Wille explains when they stop again in the kitchen. He runs a hand over the dusty countertop, looking lovingly around the small, cramped space. “I might want to add an extension in the future, but it’s just me here, so this is definitely plenty of space for now.”

“You’re going to live here?” Simon asks, surprised.

Wille tilts his head at him. “Yes?”

Simon hums, crossing his arms and leaning back on the archway that leads into the living room. “Damn. I would’ve thought you’re more of a city high-rise type. You seem too posh for country living. You know, I don't think take-out drivers come out here. And the nearest Michelin restaurant isn’t for, like, 100 kilometers.”

“Simon!” Sara glares at him.

“It’s okay,” Wille chuckles. “No, I’m not the high rise type. I prefer the quiet of the countryside, and I also prefer to cook my own food. Michelin restaurants are way too overhyped, anyway.”

He’s smirking through his smile and has met Simon’s challenge, and so Simon decides he can let up a bit.

He and Wille spend the next two hours walking through the space again, more slowly this time, while Sara steps outside to make a few calls. She can’t do anything yet, anyway. Not with the house in this state. This part is Simon’s job, his specialty.

“Knocking down this wall will open up the space a lot, especially if you still want to be able to host while in the kitchen. It’ll give you a good view out of the front of the house, too,” Simon rambles, marching through the space and gesturing as he goes. Wille is hot on his heels, nodding along. “I’d put a countertop bar here, though, for some extra seating and to break up the space a bit. We’ll have to rip out all of these cabinets, though. I’ll need to get my plumber out here, too, to check the piping. These old builds are a little iffy sometimes on how well things have held up.”

Simon continues to talk, and endless stream of consciousness and notes about electrical wiring and comments about the state of the hardwood floor. Wille follows him all the way, making notes in a little notebook and asking the occasional question.

They finish just as Sara’s car pulls back up the driveway. Simon hadn’t even realized she’d left.

“I brought lunch,” she tells them, holding up a brown bag. “You two were pretty distracted, so I figured I shouldn’t bother.”

Wille thanks her graciously, and they all sit on the porch together to eat. Simon starts to make notes in his phone, setting reminders to call certain inspectors and logging how many people he’ll need for demo-day.

After lunch, they take a loop around the outside of the house, inspecting the gutters and stonework. Now that the initial tension has faded, he and Wille get distracted a few times by other topics. Simon learns that Wille is actually not an insufferable spoiled brat. In fact, he’s quite nice and quite funny. He keeps up with Simon’s jokes, and when Simon pushes him, he pushes right back.

Simon tells Wille he’ll have to check with his team, but he’s pretty sure most everyone is in between jobs and will be able to start in the next few days. Wille agrees to meet them at the house for the first day of demolition, and Simon and Sara leave for the day.

“You like him,” Sara says once Simon’s back in the car after closing the front gate behind them.

He shrugs, refusing to give her the satisfaction, and casually admits, “He doesn’t totally suck.”

Perhaps, Simon thinks, this renovation job won’t be too bad.

[changingplumbob]

A Guide to my Content Warnings

Please note I will not label posts simply for having LGBTQIA+ characters because a)I'd probably label every post and b)LGBTQIA+ people exist, I'm one of them. We're not going anywhere and if our existence offends you I humbly invite you to unfollow me.

Most of the time my stories are in the G/PG realm but occasionally they'll drift into the M realm, or mention topics which may be hard for some people. I thought I'd make this guide to attach to my future posts with content warnings (cw) so you know what to expect. I do overuse content warnings but I'd rather take the time than have someone be surprised in a way that will muck up their day. If you feel I haven't labelled something I should have that occurs in my stories just let me know.

Common or repeated topics are

Low Level Sim Spice Moderate Sim Spice Mentions/Discussions of Death Pet and/or Sim Death Mentions of Violence Distressed Infant/Toddler/Child Language Mental Health Struggles

Low Level Sim Spice

My sims being extra flirty. Usually contains innuendo or talk of what they want their woohoo to be like. It also includes sims using suggestive language.

Examples

Rahul: *chuckles and winks* Later, we’ve got to get these ones sorted. But you are also looking very tasty Mrs Chopra. So maybe we’ll both have some private dining later Samir: Jerk. Almost makes me want to bend you over the table just to spite him Reece: I mean you could and I would endorse such action

Moderate Sim Spice

Contains a scene with woohoo that's more than the sims disappearing under the covers. Will sometimes have what sims are saying as they woohoo or vague descriptions of their actions.

Examples

Rahul manages to maintain his composure until she begins to slide his fingers into her mouth and his lust overcomes him. Now he knew every sigh, shiver and squeal Cassandra made meant that she loved him. Tuesday: You see how I did that, you try Monica: But will he really like that Joey: Most guys do Tuesday: Trust me. A girl can do a heck of a lot just by playing with things in her mouth

Images will not show pixel parts (genitalia or female nipples) but occur during woohoo.

Examples

Mentions/Discussions of Death

There will be mention or discussion of a sim having passed away. Sims may also talk about how the loss affected them.

Examples

Charlie is understandably devastated. She had Allie for half of her own life, and doesn’t have many happy memories that don’t include the dog. Marta: I didn’t have to leave after padre and mama died. I had the community still but I felt alone

Pet and/or Sim Death

Either a pet or sim dies. I have changed to NOT show the pet/sim when dead, but my older content may have a few dead human sims. I normally show a photo on the wall of them and/or the urn. When my characters die they go to the timeless save where they are young so this will also be shown.

Examples

In the early hours Allie crosses the rainbow bridge After taking Sachiko’s remains to the cemetery... Indeed, a hop skip and jump later he’s in the timeless save with his mum and fellow litter mates. Dale happily plays at peace... Olive: All sims deserve to rest, no matter what they have or have not done

Mentions of Violence

I don't like to show violence, the most you'll get from me is the clouds when sims fight. However some of my sims have had violence in their pasts. Mentions can range from stating what happened to more vivid descriptions but these will not be shown.

Examples

Unfortunately Joey is knocked down before he can get a word out. Liam yells and charges at Keira, beginning an all out brawl. I’m sorry to say Othman was in several pieces, and the blood pools around him appeared to have been walked through.

Distressed Infant/Toddler/Child

No one enjoys seeing a kid panicking so I like to warn people before hand if it will be more than the usual tummy time or night night time crying.

Examples

Viola sniffles and wipes her tears from under her glasses. Why won’t this lady just pick her up? She loves being carried and desperately wants a cuddle. Tiana panics... She is alone again! Feeling betrayed she bursts into tears.

Language

Most of the time I do enjoy keeping the vocab family friendly as that's what I enjoy reading. But with some of my side projects the characters feel like they swear so I will be letting some of them use mild swearing.

Mental Health Struggles

I like to flag these so that anyone having a tough day can get a heads up. Generally it will be mentioning a sim struggles with depression or anxiety. There may be descriptions of their moods, thought patterns or conditions. This will not include suicidal thoughts.

[longdeadking]

By the time Mia was done asking Larry questions, they'd actually learned a lot.

The murder weapon wasn't just a statue, it was a clock — and one that was handmade, too, with only two in existence in the world. Larry had made it himself and given it to Ms. Stone as a gift, keeping the other one for himself.

Ms. Stone had been in Paris until the day of the murder. Larry thought she was going for a photoshoot, probably, but neither of them had an international plan, so they didn't talk while she was abroad.

Larry went to her apartment after she was scheduled to get back because she hadn't called yet, even though she promised she would as soon as she got home. But she wasn't there, so Larry left, assuming that her flight had gotten delayed, or there were problems with her luggage or something.

There was nobody with motive and means to kill her, as far as Larry knew. She was private about her address and her job was pretty low-key. Ms. Stone had been gone for two weeks, so neither she nor Larry would know if anyone had been hanging around.

It was a surprisingly helpful interview.

Of course, it only started being that helpful after he and Mia had gone back to the office and pieced together the information out of Larry's dramatics and unfortunately suspicious word choice. Phoenix, having expected something along those lines, had snuck in a little recording device so that he didn't have to take notes. It was probably not legal to bring something like that into a basically-prison, but it was really the security's fault for not checking him more thoroughly.

That was his philosophy for most of the things he did. If the police were more effective, if there were actual programs in place to make sure people never had to turn to crime, if he could trust the people in charge to have the citizens' best interests at heart, then he wouldn't need to be Spider-Man. He'd just be a regular old civilian with superpowers.

They wrapped up the day with a much more substantial case file and a trial looming in the morning, but before Phoenix could grab his bag and get home, Mia stopped him.

"You said you know the client, right?" she asked. It was a leading question. Mia loved those. Phoenix sort of hated them, but he answered anyway.

"Yeah." And then he didn't elaborate.

Mia didn't scowl exactly, but she wasn't smiling. "He seemed very familiar with you. And you him."

"Oh, yeah, we go way back," Phoenix shrugged. His mouth was starting to feel dry. This was the most he'd told the Chief about his life since the first time they met.

"How did you two meet? College? He's an artist, so maybe you crossed paths with him then," Mia offered, knowing very well it was a lie. She'd met all of Phoenix's friends from college. One of them was a murderer and his girlfriend. The rest of them didn't exist.

She was extending an olive branch, but Phoenix was just too tired to file away the lie to keep up later, so he sat back down at his desk with a huff. "No, we've known each other since we were kids. We went to grade school together. He's one of the reasons I'm doing what I do today."

Doing what I do. Very smooth, Phoenix, not vague and weasely at all. But you couldn't blame him, really. He spent all his time around lawyers, the weasel supremes.

Mia raised a perfectly-shaped eyebrow. "And what is it that you do?"

"Y'know," Phoenix shrugged. "Justice."

A loaded word, justice. For Phoenix in particular. In this moment, he meant his night job beating up muggers and creeps, gathering information for Mia to pull out with a flourish in the courtroom. He was the underbelly of her high society, the stain on her perfect conscience. She appreciated him as an assistant, but she didn't love the vigilantism. It made sense. She was a lawyer. She couldn't fraternize with criminals.

Still, Mia smiled, looking half-relieved. Phoenix had talked around the point, like always, and like always, Mia caught him in the act.

"I'm glad he's there for you, then," she said.

"He won't be if he's stuck in jail."

"Then we'll just have to make sure that doesn't happen."

Mia said it with such certainty that Phoenix didn't even hesitate to believe her. She would get Larry acquitted because he was innocent. No prosecutors or police detectives or warped reflections of justice would stop her. Nothing would. She was Mia Fey, unstoppable.

Phoenix left the office with a light heart, despite the circumstances.

Night hadn't fallen yet, but the sky was just starting to go dim and orange at the edges. He had a couple of hours of down time before he had to go out. Usually, he'd spend those hours texting Larry or Googling case precedents for Mia's next trial, but Larry wasn't available and the Chief already had her case laid out. Murder trials always went by quick. Another way the system failed.

At least it meant criminals got put away quickly.

Phoenix decided to spend his free time actually stretching and warming up. He'd had a good yoga tutorial saved on his laptop for a while, but he used it less than he probably should. His body was pretty resilient, was the thing, so he tended to ignore the aches and cramps, fighting them off with painkillers and heating pads if they were making it hard to move, because by the next morning, they'd be gone.

The yoga still felt nice, though. It got his brain in gear.

Night fell as Phoenix stretched, and once the video ended, he was ready to suit up and hit the bricks.

Miles Edgeworth was still in his office.

It was dark, and nearly every other prosecutor was gone, trickling out over the course of the few hours after five o'clock.

The Chief Prosecutor was still here. Her door must have been open, because Miles could hear someone speaking to her from down the hall. The chief of police, most likely, considering the topics brought up in the few snippets Miles could decipher. Chief Prosecutor Skye seemed to never speak above a firm but close-quarters tone, but Police Chief Gant was much louder, projecting his voice seemingly by accident. As such, the conversation from Miles' perspective seemed to be rather one-sided, although knowing Prosecutor Skye, she was speaking back constantly.

The pitch and volume of the conversation rose until Miles could almost make out what Prosecutor Skye was saying, and he could clearly hear Chief Gant. It was an argument about misfiled evidence, apparently, and an attorney requesting a retrial for which no evidence or interviews were recorded. Gant was furiously defensive, but Prosecutor Skye had taken control of the conversation, and she was not going to back down. Miles respected that about the Chief Prosecutor. Like his mentor, Prosecutor Skye would not be dismissed, and her words were law, often even over those of the judge. Before she was Chief Prosecutor, she was much more timid, often letting the opposing counsel lead the trial, but since her promotion, she had developed a confidence that even Miles could not match. Were they not working for the same cause, on the same side of the courtroom, Miles would have loved to be put against Prosecutor Skye.

However, she was his superior, and more importantly his coworker, and so he pushed the daydream from his mind and turned his steely focus back to the case.

A murder trial, investigated headed by Detective Gumshoe. The victim, a model, murdered in her home with a blunt object. The key witness, Mr. Frank Sahwit, whose police interview was the central point of Miles' argument.

The accused, one Mr. Larry Butz.

That was what stopped Miles the first time. And then the next several times.

All of the defendants that he prosecuted against were guilty, as their verdicts agreed. If a criminal crossed his path in court, they would be punished for their crimes. It was impossible to empathize with them. It was impossible to think that they could be innocent or misunderstood. The evil it took to kill another human being was too great for that. It could not be forgiven.

And yet, Miles could not make himself believe that Larry Butz was guilty.

He'd tried. Over and over again, he'd scoured the evidence, spoken to Gumshoe, visited the crime scene himself, and yet, he still found himself feeling sympathy for the man. It was embarrassing. He had no connection to Mr. Butz outside of a single year of grade school that, in the face of von Karma's legacy and Miles' own success, was so small that it was laughable that he even remembered the man's name a all. He had no idea how his character had changed over the fifteen years they had been apart. Miles certainly grew more ruthless, but his wrath was trained, focused on the ultimate good of bringing justice to the world. Larry Butz, a monstrous and chaotic child, could not have been groomed into perfection as Miles had. Really, murder was the natural progression for him.

Miles repeated it to himself again. It made sense that Larry Butz killed Cindy Stone. Mr. Sahwit's account was airtight, and Butz was the exact kind of person that would commit such a violent crime. There was no reason to doubt, and therefore by doubting, Miles was being unreasonable. Imperfect. He would sit in this office and reread the file until he saw reason. That was the only way.

Miles' pen exploded in his white-knuckled grip.

Chief Gant and Chief Skye went suddenly very quiet. There was a moment of silence as they, probably, finished their conversation in hushed tones, and then two sets of footsteps departed from the office in two different directions.

One of those directions was towards Miles' office. He felt his stomach sink into the basement — a feat, considering his office was on the twelfth floor. His desk was a disorganized mess of papers, he certainly looked terrible, and his pen was still leaking ink onto his hand. He was frozen as the footsteps grew nearer and nearer, and then the door opened, and Chief Prosecutor Skye stepped inside.

"Edgeworth? You're still here? It's nearly ten," she said. When she noticed the smashed pen, she asked, "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, of course everything is fine," Miles said quickly. "I simply didn't notice that my pen was partially broken, and I used slightly too much force while making a note, causing it to snap. The documents are not stained." They weren't, he'd checked. It was the first thing he did after breaking the pen, before even considering washing his hands. Legal documents were much higher priority than his own stained fingertips.

Prosecutor Skye looked down at the papers, recognizing them as the Stone case. "Is this case giving you trouble? I could have it transferred if you'd like. I think Payne has an opening."

"No, please, I have it perfectly handled. I simply lost track of time while ensuring that my case is perfect for the trial tomorrow morning. There is no need to transfer the case to someone else," Miles said, face pinching as he realized that he was very obviously begging the Chief Prosecutor. Clearly this case had rattled him very badly, if he was acting so immature.

"Right. Well, if you need anything, you can call or send me an email," Chief Prosecutor Skye said slowly. "I'm going to leave as soon as I gather my things from my office, and I would prefer that you leave then as well."

Miles nodded. It made perfect logical sense that the Chief Prosecutor would not feel comfortable letting anyone other than herself lock up the building for the night. It was yet another example of her level-headed intelligence. It contrasted terribly with Miles' overemotional outburst. He did not make eye contact with the Chief Prosecutor as she left, and he neatened his office as well as he could with one hand before practically sprinting out of his office to avoid meeting her in the hall. His hand was still covered in ink, although he'd wiped as much as he could off with tissues from a little tin container at the receptionist's empty desk. He used more tissues to protect his steering wheel from the ink as he drove home. He did not think about Larry Butz. He did not think about Spider-Man. He did not think about court.

He did not think about anything at all.

Japanifornia never slept.

Phoenix thought that was probably another city's slogan already, but it worked in this situation, and hey, what's a little copyright infringement to a superhero?

He was currently perched on the rooftop of a high-rise kitty-corner to Eldoon's Noodle Stand. He'd made a habit of stopping by for food when their paths crossed, but Mr. Eldoon was getting sick of him stealing the bowls so he could eat in privacy. Lifting his mask, even for a second, was not an option, so tonight he'd come prepared — in the tool belt around his waist, among the gadgets and helpful trinkets, was a small soup thermos.

He pulled out the thermos first, then tucked it under his arm as he used his free hand to swing down right in front of the stand's path.

Mr. Eldoon didn't even flinch.

"Mr. Spider-Man, Terror of Noodle Stands! Have you come to kidnap more of my family's heirloom noodle bowls?" Mr. Eldoon drawled, coming to a stop.

Phoenix grinned even though Eldoon couldn't see it and held out the thermos. "It's Terror of Japanifornia, actually. And nope! This time I came prepared."

"It should be Terror of Noodle Stands," Mr. Eldoon grumbled, reluctantly scooping broth into the mug. "I'll have to contact that woman from the press and make her change your tagline."

"If you're going through all that trouble, could you ask them to make it something a little nicer?" Phoenix asked.

"You don't deserve something nicer."

Phoenix sniffled, doing his best to communicate being on the verge of tears without facial expressions. "I'm hurt, Mr. Eldoon. I thought I was your favorite customer."

"You'll be my favorite customer when you start paying for your dinner!" Mr. Eldoon snapped.

Phoenix just laughed. Mr. Eldoon never let him pay. "You'll stop being my favorite vendor when you start charging me!"

As Phoenix tucked the thermos back into his belt, he felt a wavering sort of sensation behind him. His back tensed.

Trouble was always around in Japanifornia. It was everywhere, if you knew where to look. When Phoenix got his superpowers, one of the thing he'd noticed was this sixth-sense for danger — not to himself, but to others. Buildings about to collapse, muggers about to pull a gun, manipulators about to spring a trap. It was the reason he could be a hero. Without his spidey-sense (as he'd coined it when he first got his powers, a decision he regrets every day), he'd be useless.

So he waved goodbye to Mr. Eldoon and swung away, towards the growing danger.

The city looked different at night than during the day, and it looked different on the rooftops than on the ground, but Phoenix would have to be blind not to recognize the area. His spidey-sense was taking him right to Fey and Co. Law Offices.

He stopped on the roof of the neighboring hotel, the Watergate or something, where he had a good vantage point into Mia's window. The office lights were off, which was a good sign, but Phoenix could sense some movement through the glass.

A car passed by, and in the second that the headlights illuminated the room, Phoenix saw where the movement had come from.

A gigantic man in a pastel pink suit was standing at Mia's desk, apparently taking apart her office phone. His hands were covered in massive, heavy-looking gold rings (that would fucking hurt to get punched by, Phoenix noted), and as a result, his progress with the tiny screwdriver was slow. He definitely didn't look like a repairman, and it was almost midnight — even if he was a repair guy with a weird personal style, there was no reason for him to be in the office so late. Mia would never schedule something like that, and she owned the place.

The only conclusion was that this guy was bad news.

Phoenix was conflicted. He could burst through the window right now and stop this weirdo from doing whatever it is he was doing, but as Spider-Man, he had no reason to. Spider-Man didn't know Mia Fey, and had no idea that this stranger wasn't the owner of this office. Intervening would mean drawing a connection between Mia Fey and Spider-Man, and Phoenix didn't want to put the Chief in that position.

The man was definitely breaking and entering, but until he did something that would get the cops suspicious, Phoenix couldn't do anything about it. He resigned himself to memorizing the man's face, so that if anything turned up stolen, Phoenix would be able to identify him. He certainly had a memorable enough appearance.

Once he was sure he'd memorized the trespasser, Phoenix turned away from the office and followed another trail.

The night was busy, like it always was. Not many actual fights or threats, but a lot of drunk kids who needed someone to call them a cab, girls who wanted someone to scare off a creep, and shady deals that needed someone to supervise them. Plus, Phoenix swung by Ms. Stone's apartment building to see if there was anything suspicious going on. Ms. Stone's apartment was dark as far as he could tell, and after hanging around keeping an eye on it for a bit, he left, satisfied that nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

There was always trouble on the streets of Japanifornia, but as Spider-Man, Phoenix could do something about it. He could save people.

If only he'd had superpowers back then. If only he could've saved him.

Miles arrived at the Prosecutors' Office at eight a.m. exactly, parking in the garage and scaling the thirteen flights of stairs with practiced swiftness. The Stone case was organized perfectly within his briefcase, and his head was clear of any thoughts of vigilantes or innocent defendants. He was prepared to crush his opponent, whoever they would be. His argument was flawless. The previous day had been embarrassing, but he had put that behind him now. It was irrational to linger on the past, however recent that past may be.

Miles opened the door to his office to see Chief Prosecutor Skye already inside. Immediately he was on edge.

Chief Prosecutor Skye smiled sadly at him. "Edgeworth, I have bad news about your case today."

"What is it?" Miles said, trying not to let his dread show in his tone.

"I've transferred the case to Winston Payne. He requested it, and after seeing how stressed you were last night, I thought it would be for the best."

Miles was speechless.

This had never happened before. Not to him. He'd had many cases transferred to him on extremely short notice (once, notably, only ten minutes before the trial began), but he had never had a case of his transferred to someone else.

Chief Prosecutor Skye did not trust him with this case. She must have realized, somehow, that he was faltering in his resolve, and acted accordingly by removing him. It was a logical decision. Surgically so, Miles thought, like removing a diseased limb to prevent the infection from spreading. Was the case the diseased limb? Or was Miles?

"That's not the only reason," Chief Skye continued after a pause that felt much longer to Miles than it was in actuality. "I was recently made aware of who exactly would be representing the defendant, and with your history, I thought you wouldn't want to be against her again."

"Chief Prosecutor, I completely understand your decision. There is no need to justify yourself. I will pass my current notes to Mr. Payne right away," Miles forced out.

Chief Skye nodded. "Thanks for being understanding. I'm sorry about the short notice."

"You're perfectly alright," Miles said.

He turned around, briefcase clutched in shaking hands, and descended the stairs to search for Mr. Payne's office.

Usually on trial days, Phoenix would just meet Mia at the courthouse. He'd sleep in a bit, get dressed slowly, and enter the defendant lobby with a relaxed, well-rested air.

This morning, though, the memory of the man inside the office the night before had Phoenix tossing and turning, and when his regular work alarm went off, instead of silencing it, he grudgingly got ready to head to the office. The August heat was enough to kill a normal man, and biking in a full suit was nearly enough to finish off Phoenix, abnormal as he was. The lack of sleep definitely wasn't helping. Not for the first time, Phoenix was thankful that he wasn't the one doing the thinking in court — he'd be flying by the seat of his pants.

Mia was already in the office when he arrived, and she seemed reasonably surprised to see him. Phoenix stopped before he had a chance to start talking as his eyes caught on a new piece of decor.

"Morning, Chief. Cool lamp."

Mia looked behind her at the glass floor lamp balanced precariously on a short bookshelf. "Oh, that. I ordered it a while ago. It just shipped last night, so I stayed late to set it up. What do you think?"

"Looks… fragile, but very fancy," Phoenix decided. "Actually, speaking of last night, I was around and I saw something kind of weird."

"You were 'around?' Did anybody see you?" Mia asked, eyebrows furrowed.

"Nope, but I saw somebody. He was big, purple hair, pink suit, a ton of rings. He was messing with the office phone." Phoenix tried to sound casual.

It didn't work. Mia's face was deadly serious. "Purple hair and a pink suit? You're sure? It wasn't just the light?"

"It could've been, but the colors weren't exactly muted," Phoenix said.

"Did he take anything? Move anything?" Mia stood and started scanning her bookshelves.

Phoenix shook his head. "No, he just did something to the phone. I think he was taking it apart. I didn't stay for long, though, and he was already there when I showed up."

Mia wasn't listening. She was pulling files off of her shelf, scanning through them with single-minded focus. The files she pulled out seemed random. A few under "W," some under "S," specific files from "F," "E," and "G." Only once she'd pulled files and folders from all over her shelf did she lean back, satisfied.

"Okay. I need to check the phone. Can you look for anything else suspicious in the office?" Mia asked.

Phoenix gave a thumbs up, but hesitated. "We've only got an hour until the trial, Chief. We should wait."

"If the intruder is who I think it is, we can't afford to wait," Mia argued. "Do you se anything? Any bugs, anything moved?"

Phoenix gave the office a quick scan, but nothing stuck out. Mia was leaning over the office phone with a mini-screwdriver, meticulously taking it apart.

The cover popped off, and Mia sucked in a breath. Phoenix was at her side in a second.

"It's a wiretap," Phoenix whispered. "A listening device. Chief, did you call anybody this morning? About anything?"

Mia shook her head. "Not yet, thank God. I don't take calls before trials."

"Right. Okay. So, we take this off and lock the doors and hope the guy doesn't come back." Phoenix felt dread rise in his stomach as he laid ut the plan.

Mia looked desperate. "Is there any chance you could stay behind and watch the office?"

Phoenix hesitated. "Larry's my friend. I owe him. Plus, I can tell when he's about to say something stupid."

Mia nodded and started gathering her case, but it was slow. "You're indispensable behind the bench, Phoenix. You know that. But if White comes back, I trust you to be there. I don't want to leave all this unattended."

"White? You know the guy who bugged you?" Phoenix asked.

"Maybe. I hope it isn't him, but… Prepare for the worst, right?" Mia gave a weak smile.

"This is the worst? Why haven't I heard of this guy?" Phoenix was following Mia out of the office. He locked the door behind them, and for extra measure, sealed the gaps with some webbing. Risky in public and out of costume, but the tension leaving Mia's shoulders was worth it. It was only a little bit, though.

"You've heard of him," Mia said. "You just don't know it. He keeps his name out of criminal business."

"But how? No one's that sneaky."

"You can be when you've got all the hush money in the world."

Phoenix and Mia made identical faces of disgust. Any other day, it would've been funny.

"I'll tell you more about White after the trial," Mia said as they approached the courthouse. "It's a lot to explain right now. I didn't want you involved, but if he's getting this bold, I might need your help."

Phoenix had a hundred more questions that he wanted to ask, but they were running late already, and Larry was waiting for them. He'd just have to be satisfied with an explanation later.

As Mia stepped into the courtroom, all of her lingering anxiety seemed to wash away. Her shoulders relaxed, her posture straightened, she walked with purpose. Phoenix loved seeing Mia like this. She looked more like a superhero than he ever did. She was saving lives in this courtroom, sparing the innocent and putting away the guilty with her total loyalty to the truth.

She was better than him. Maybe it was hero-worship, but Phoenix didn't care. He'd chase her shadow for the rest of his life, if it meant knowing that she was still saving people. He might be the superpowered one, but she was the hero.

That was all he needed to know.

ao3

[lucaaazd]

Bertolt made up his mind. He was going to do it.

His entire life, he’d been busy hiding behind his father’s leg and his brother’s glare. He’s done hiding. Today was the day. He will do it, even if it kills him.

Clutching the fated piece of paper as if his life depended on it, he raised his chin and stepped forward. Screwing his eyes shut, he jammed the card into the machine.

“It’s backward,” The bus driver said.

Impossible. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He opened his eyes just a slit and with trembling fingers, withdrew the yellow metro card and turned it upside down.

“The. Other. Way. Sonny,”The bus driver glared down at him.

Oh no. Bertolt opened his mouth and no sound came out. What do you mean the other way? Like the other way other way? Not upside down? His throat was paper dry. A line of people was trailing behind him, smacking their lips grudgingly. “Gimme that,” the bus driver snatched the card from Bertolt’s hand.

“Hey!” Bertolt protested weakly.

“Have a good day,” said the bus driver angrily as he waved him off to the back of the bus.

Bertolt almost whimpered. He wobbled his way through people’s legs, dodging incoming shoulders and almost falling face first into a woman’s lap. She looked about his mom’s age and horrified at his audacity. “So - sorry,” Bertolt squeaked.

There it was. The window seat in the very back, safe and secluded, promising a sweet undisturbed journey for the socially inept young boy with low self esteem and a fully charged iPhone SE. Bertolt climbed into his seat and opened his messages with clammy fingers. He paused between “💕🕊️” and “Mommy” and with only a moment of hesitation, swiped to the latter and typed, “On the bus.”

Sent. Bertolt waited a few seconds for the dotted message bubble to pop up, but it didn’t. He added, “Where do I get of again?”

Still no response. Bertolt chanced a look around him. The bus is half full but no one’s making eye contact with him. He perceived the screen hanging above the ticket machine and to his horror, only a map of the city with a little gps icon of the bus was shown. The stops weren’t named. How are people supposed to know where to get off then?

He went back to the chat and typed, “How do I get off”.

He knew it’s 22nd street something. 5th avenue? Maybe he would know when he saw it. He’d never been to the restaurant his brother worked at but he knew it was a fancy Italian one with nice green booths and tons of vines and bouquets up front. He just had to pay attention.

However, he couldn’t help but notice that the bus hadn’t stopped for a long time. If felt like it’s been chugging along for at least twenty minutes, unless his mind was playing tricks on him. Time always went by slower when he’s nervous.

Ding. Yellow letters flashed across the screen, Stop Requested.

The bus skidded to a stop and the back door opened, letting off an old lady lugging her grocery cart. A blond boy his age got on and paid with his phone. Bertolt didn’t know you could do that. He just sort of like, tapped it. This other boy looked familiar and way more confident than Bertolt had felt moments ago. He cowered further into his seat, pulling his hood over his head. He found his brother Benny’s chat and texted, “Hey, on my way. Where do I get of?” He waited for exactly twelve seconds before going to his dad’s chat, “dad, on my way. what stop? 👀👀”

In that exact moment, Bertolt felt a broad figure closing in on him. His heart jumped to his throat. The beefy blond boy from earlier had skirted around him and plopped down a mere two seats away, sitting with his legs wide open in a content sort of way. Bertolt said the S-word in his head and in a moment of franticness, pressed the little telephone next to his mom’s name. He hung up immediately, remembering his mom’s still at work and didn’t like to be disturbed. Neither did Benny, and he’s probably in the kitchen right now. Dad’s his only hope.

Their conversation in the doorway before he departed into the unknown flashed in his mind. “Are you sure, buddy?” His dad had said, concern etched into his lined face, “Aren’t you a bit too young for such a feat? It seems only yesterday we let you download Instagram on your cell phone, and now you wanna take the bus all my yourself? Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

Bertolt had nodded solemnly, “I am sure, father. I’ve decided. I’m going to be just like Arthur.”

“Like - like Arthur, you said?” His father clutched his chest, tears welling up in his eyes, “Oh, my little Bear Turtle is all grown up.”

“No more Bear Turtle,” He remembered tightening his grasp on his backpack straps, “it’s Bertolt.”

Bertolt exited out of his father’s chat. He would not give in. He would not ask for help. He said he was going to do this all by himself and he will honor his words. A surge of bravery welled up in him. He found himself typing, “Hey, wyd?”

A moment later, “💕🕊️” was typing. Bertolt’s heart swelled twice its size. Another moment later, her speech bubble vanished.

What a bummer. His soul punctured, Bertolt put on his headphones, opened up YouTube and scrolled through videos about Multiverse Battleground, Roblox Death Balls and Ice Spice edits. He clicked on one of the Ice Spice edits.

“Still can’t believe Ice Spice got an entire room of adults to sing,” He read in his head as the video started playing, “‘You think you’re the shit? Bitch you aren’t even the fart.‘“

He bursted out laughing. That’s the best thing ever. You aren’t even the fart. That was just awesome. She’s so cool. He finished the ice spice video and the next one started playing automatically. He’s really curious about her music now. Everyone at school talked about her ‘melons’, but Bertolt wasn’t sure he was quite there yet. He liked the fart song, that’s for sure.

He finished the next one, and then the one after next, before scrolling down and clicked into the thumbsnail of a woman screaming her head off while pointing at a kid holding a diaper with disdain written all over his face. That’s weird. He’s intrigued.

A pop up appeared on his screen, informing him that his phone was on 20% and asked if he wanted to put it on low battery mode. Bertolt groaned. He forgot how old the damn thing was. Reluctantly, he clicked yes and went back to YouTube. However, he couldn’t help but notice the sky was starting to darken.

Wait. Where was he?

Bertolt scrambled out of his seat. He could not tell where he was at all. He looked around as if someone would miraculously read his mind and tell him exactly what to do, but help did not come. He might not know where he was, but he was 99% sure he’d gone too far.

He looked down on his phone and saw the screen light up with a message. “Watching Case Closed with my Dad. Wbu?”

He typed furiously, “Annie, how do you make a bus stop?”

She responded right away. “Wdym? Like with your body?”

“No,” Bertolt felt like crying. He’d screwed up big time. “I’m on the bus.”

“Oh!” Annie replied, “Idk. Tell the bus driver.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Is there another way?”

“Let me ask my dad.”

A moment of silence elapsed as Bertolt stared at her message bubble, reciting prayers quietly in his head. His eyes flitted to the 3% on his battery before the screen darkened and he could see no more.

Bertolt bursted into tears.

“Hey,” a hand found his shoulder. Bertolt wheeled around, sobbing and wiping his face with the back of his hands.

“Oh, woah,” the blond kid put his hands up defensively, “So - sorry. I was wondering if you, uh, had a phone.”

“Not anymore,” wailed Bertolt miserably.

“Oh. Hm,” the kid wavered, “Do you know where we are?”

“No,” Bertolt sniffled, “D - do you?”

“No,” said the kid, “but I’m pretty sure we’re in Queens.”

“QUEENS?” Bertolt yelped. That’s like, the suburbs. Holy fuck.

“Yeah. I think we’re screwed,” the kid said.

[oceansprompts]

adjust pronouns, names, and details as needed… assorted quotes taken from marvel ultimate alliance 3: the black order. part 2 of ???

❝ Your pocket is not safe place, space-bro.❞

❝ Really?! Come on, man, I only to make speeches like that once, twice a year tops! ❞

❝  That may be true, but a war is won by fighting one battle at a time. ❞

❝ As long as we have each other's backs along the way, victory will stay without reach. ❞

❝ I have seen my fair share of dark futures. What I have learned is that no fate is sealed until we choose it to be. ❞

❝ If the ending you saw is not the one you desire, then we will fight for a better one together! ❞

❝ Took you long enough. Good thing I charge by the hour... ❞

❝ Just look for the ancient ninja temple of top of a skyscraper. You can't miss it. ❞

❝ Oh, you know me. I just love this superhero stuff… ❞

❝ Oh, did I mention that the ancient ninja temple is guarded by actual ninjas? If not, I probably should've… ❞

❝ Whatever it is, they're sneaky little jerks. So watch out! ❞

❝ Stick to the shadows or you'll never make it to the temple… at least not in one piece. ❞

❝ Way to go. You've been made. Why not just announce you're here? ❞

❝ You don't really seem like the "super-team" type... ❞

❝ Oh, I'm not. Spandex is my arch-nemesis. ❞

❝ Someone's gotta keep the streets safe for normal people while all the other heroes are busy fighting giant squids on the moon or whatever. ❞

❝ You gonna tell me how you got through all that without gettin' caught? ❞

❝ Nope. Gotta keep the mystery in our relationship alive somehow, babe. ❞

❝ The soul is eternal, but the flesh is weak. Allow me to show you, as I rend it from your bones! ❞

❝ After all, I make killing an art. ❞

❝ Do me a favor and die already. ❞

❝ I have a reputation to maintain! ❞

❝  Heh. You think you won, but you really missed the mark. ❞

❝ When the big man gets done with you... you're gonna wish you'd let me put outta your misery. ❞

❝ I'm no defender of the innocent. What use could you heroes possibly have for an assassin? ❞

❝ Why so glum, chum? ❞

❝ All of this is so much bigger than us. I mean, I can barely do my own laundry. Stopping cosmic annihilation is a bit outside my comfort zone. ❞

❝ Sure. At least for today. Go ahead. Say it. You know you want to. ❞

❝ Avengers Assemble, baby! ❞

❝ You are such a nerd. ❞

❝ Which leads me to an extremely important question... Can I keep 'em? ❞

❝ Suddenly less worried about external threats and more concerned about the ones in here. ❞

❝ You bet. Not even a ripped seam. Which is a good thing, because I just spent a fortune redesigning this costume!❞

❝ It's...complicated. But let's just say he's from the side of the family that isn't invited to be in holiday photos anymore... ❞

❝ There's no chance I'm jumping ship now, even with an evil robot army ripping up our home! ❞

❝ Would you mind if I include this conversation on my latest Avengers fanfic? ❞

❝ I'm scrapping it after this and putting in a Zen garden! ❞

❝ You are the wind beneath my wings. ❞

❝ Just hold back that oversized Iron Man knockoff and clear me a place to land! ❞

❝ Almost there, team... and I'm headed in hot! ❞

❝ How come giant robots always attack on my day off? ❞

❝ You gave it your best shot, bolts-for-brains... Now I'll take mine. ❞

❝ Oh, you know. Just grappling with a synthezoid the size of a skyscraper. Typical day at the office. ❞

❝ Seriously, who stores a giant killer robot in a warehouse in New Jersey? ❞

❝ Umm, Couldn't you have asked me that, like, twenty punches ago? I mean, REALLY! That totally would have made everything so much easier! ❞

❝ Were you guys having a party without me? ❞

❝ You know… I'm not so sure they meant that as a compliment… ❞

❝ Guess it wouldn't be Earth if New York wasn't under attack by giant robots… ❞

❝ I bet you've seen way stranger stuff in space, right? ❞

❝ Well, we're half way there… …ahem… Seriously? How do you not break into the chorus of an '80's rock anthem after that set-up? And you call yourself a hero… ❞

[cheese-ducks]

TWRP ORIGINS

Chapter 3: Meanwhile

(Warnings: There's a lot of swearing in this one) Main master list

Previous chapter

Next chapter

Sung's direct orders were to stay on the ship, attempt to fix it, and stay out of sight. Meouch thought it was utter bullshit. Sung wasn't stuck inside for days like the rest of them! What was he even doing? The self proclaimed fearless hero said he was 'gathering information about how to integrate on this planet' which no one believed but Phobos, the poor sucker. Meouch knew it was code for 'I don't wanna deal with you guys because I'm too good for you'. They'd been making great progress on the ship without him, anyway. The power was back on, most of the systems were online, and the ship's bay was finally clean. All that was left to do was wait for Sung to get back so they could jam. 

"Wasn't that dumbass supposed to be back by now?" Meouch asked no one in particular. He knew no one would answer. Havve was sitting in a corner, slouching forward, eyes dark. The robot hadn't been able to recharge since the crash landing so he was probably gonna be out for a while. Meouch shuddered thinking of what a fully charged Havve could do. 

Phobos was sitting on his bed, taking notes while reading the ship's manual. It was one of the few things that made this situation feel normal. Days were too short on this planet, his room was practically a closet, he hadn't had a full night's sleep in days, he was sure he'd start crying if he thought about it too much. So, he decided to devote all his energy into fixing the ship and improving his guitar skills. 

Phobos poked his head into the control room and looked around, wondering the same thing as Meouch. 

"That bastard isn't here yet." Meouch said through bites of Food Bar. Phobos threw his head back and sighed. 

"Exactly. Fuck us, right?" 

The usual routine was pretty simple. Sung would go 'gather intel' when the sun rose, then he'd come back a bit after sunset. They stuck to that metric for time because the way humans told time was so confusing. Meouch stood up and looked out the windshield. It was already the middle of the night.

"I can't keep eating fucking Food Bars." He said as he chucked the half eaten bar into a trash can. "I want a sandwich or something."

Phobos nodded in agreement and turned to a fresh page in his notepad. He showed the page to Meouch when he was done writing. 

Absolutely, I need to eat ACTUAL FOOD. "Yes!" Meouch instantly went for a high five. Phobos cautiously put his hand up as he braced for impact. Were high fives supposed to hurt? His pained expression didn't deterr Meouch's enthusiasm. 

"I want two pieces of bread and some sort of deceased animal inside!" 

Phobos immediately went to his notepad,  his white eyes filled with fear.

I suppose anything would taste better than stale, prepackaged bars of cone food.

Meouch laughed as soon as he read it. "You've got a way with words, my friend." He shoved the notepad back into Phobos' hands. 

"Y'know what, fuck him. I'm going to get some actually good shit, what do you want?" Meouch began taking various items out of his vest pockets.

You're going to sneak out? Phobos gasped, his usually bright green skin looking a bit pale. 

"You got a problem with that, Lord Perfect?" Phobos scoffed as he wrote his response. He was just worried, that didn't make him perfect. It made him sane.

What if Havve wakes up while you're gone?

"Like that bucket of bolts could stop me!"

What happens if Sung gets back and you're still out?

"It's none of his fuckin business where I'm going."

It kind of is because he told us to stay here.

"Who's side are you on?" Meouch walked towards the door but Phobos blocked his path. 

I just don't want you to get into trouble!

Phobos knew Meouch could handle himself. He'd been to tons of other planets and fought his way out of tight spots Phobos couldn't imagine, but he couldn't help remembering what Sung said. This planet wasn't used to intergalactic life and it could be dangerous. 

Maybe Sung told us to stay on the ship for a reason. He looked dead serious, scared but serious. 

"I'll be careful, alright?" Meouch reached for the hatch door. "You're not gonna narc on me, are ya?" 

Phobos shook his head defeated. He wasn't changing Meouch's mind and whatever happened to him after he walked out was his problem. Maybe he would wake up Havve, just in case.

Phobos wasn't sure how long Havve had been out, he usually avoided him at all costs, but it was his last resort. Meouch knew better than to mess with Havve. He learned that lesson while they were attempting to fix the hyperdrive the day before. Taking tools from a murderous robot was not a good idea, it ended in a fight that nearly took Meouch's tail off. A knife was still stuck in the wall where Havve threw it.

Phobos wondered what could wake him up. How do you wake someone who wasn't technically sleeping? He had one idea that might get him killed, but nevertheless he went through with it. He wrote down the explanation for why he was doing this, hid in the small hallway between the cockpit and Havve's room, which was an actual closet, and periodically threw random things at him. Food Bar wrappers, loose screws, anything he could find really. It wasn't until a drum stick hit his jagged, metal jaw that he jolted upright and his eyes began to emit an intense red light. His head violently jerked in all directions, searching for the source of the attack. Phobos rushed out of his hiding place and showed the notepad explanation to Havve, almost using it like a shield from whatever brutal punishment Havve had in mind. He stopped to read the page; 

Meouch snuck out and said you wouldn't be able to stop him.

His eyes were even more intense than before, they were practically laser pointers. He ripped out the page, crushed it into a ball, and threw it across the ship. Phobos watched in terror as Havve pushed the hatch door open, making a loud slam as it banged on the side of the ship. When Phobos poked his head of the doorway, Havve was already gone. It dawned on him that he'd made a terrible mistake unleashing the two most chaotic band mates onto this planet. All that was left to do was wait for Sung to get back so he could deal with the aftermath.

[alatariel-gildaen]

Everything's going wrong, and I really feel like I'm about to lose it.

Firstly, we're stuck in a maisonette with rising damp and mould, and the freeholders are doing precisely NOTHING about it all.

This has caused major respiratory conditions for all three of us. The worst of the damp and mould is in my disabled son's bedroom - this is what it currently looks like in there

The wallpaper and plaster have fallen away, the wall itself is actually wet, I'm cleaning mould up every day. We've had to throw away toys, bedding, books, and clothes of his that have been destroyed by mould.

We can't move, because we own the flat and no one will buy it with this problem, and we can't fix it ourselves, because its a structural issue that is the responsibility of the freeholder, and they have done nothing but ignore our pleas for the last 2 and a half years.

Ok, ready for the rollercoaster that's making me lose it? Strap in.

Now, as my son is disabled, and we're a relatively low income family, we were able to apply to the family fund for a holiday, something we've not been able to afford to do for YEARS.

This Friday, we're due to fly out to the south of France for a week. The FF awarded us £500 towards the holiday, but we had to pay the rest out of our savings, costing us just about £1200, and depleting our savings to nothing. We figured it'd be worth it - the holiday park we're going to sounds utterly perfect for him, with lots of nature, wildlife, and secure facilities with easy access. Something we simply wouldn't have even considered without the FF's help. Yes, it was still expensive, but the memories would be utterly priceless.

A couple of week's ago my car's engine light came on. Honestly something I'd probably be ignoring right now normally, but my husband was due to take his driving test in it this week before we fly out, and we are pretty sure that you can't take it in a car with the engine light showing. We managed to get it seen, and it requires around £800 worth of repairs. I cannot function without a car - it's absolutely vital for transporting my son and keeping him safe.

As I mentioned before, we've all had respiratory problems linked to the mould. My poor son seems to have a permanent frog in his throat. I've been diagnosed with asthma following a cough that I've had now since last November. A few weeks ago, my husband developed a similar nasty cough. And last week that cough suddenly got worse. He was vomiting due to the cough, in pain from head to toe, shivering and shaking.

Yesterday it was so bad, we called NHS 111, and they were so worried, they sent out an ambulance.

He's been admitted to hospital with pneumonia caused by the damp and mould. He can't take his driving test (obviously) and we are most likely going to lose out on our holiday.

I'm self employed but been unable to work much due to illness, but I'm going to have to put that aside.

So, I'm begging you, please help out a struggling artist, mother to a disabled child, and wife to a terribly ill husband. If I can book in a few pet portraits, I'll be able to cover our mortgage this month, and hopefully recover some of our lost holiday money, as well as keep my car on the road.

Here are some examples of my work.

Mostly I work in coloured pencil on pastelmat, although occasionally I can also do drafting film (if the subject allows for it) Commissions are £140 for an A4 piece and that will include postage to anywhere in mainland UK - outside of the mainland, of course I'll have to charge extra for postage.

I appreciate these aren't cheap, but a lot of work goes into them. If you could please reblog to get this seen, I would appreciate it so so much.

I am in the process of setting up a website for these, but feel free to contact me here in the meantime.

Thank you so much for taking time to read, and reblogs to signal boost are hugely appreciated

[labyrinthofsphinx]

Statistical Outliers

Working on my next little comic, so I figured I'd post a short drabble in the meantime.

Time is everything. It was everything when he was alive, and it’s been everything since he died. The only thing that’s changed is now he was the one that determined time. The citizenship of hell held only two real concepts of time, which is probably why there’s plenty of old badgers still holed up in their ways. First was, of course, the need to keep track on the way to doomsday. The yearly extermination was held on the same day, every year, so it became a timepiece as a consequence rather than by any actual effort. On the other hand, the second was very much an invention of his own.

TV had a way of warping time. When he was alive and doing something similar, people would work their days around the TV because it was only on for a certain amount of time, and there were only a few things worth watching. But, for that hour basis, it was the most drawing thing in the world. Things have changed obviously, now TV shows play all day. People still checked their clocks for the start of their favorite program. The internet and cellphones constantly show the time, even if as more of a background piece to the dramas that play out behind the screen. People are absorbed by media now. They couldn’t escape it entirely. Their time was his plaything and the more time they spent obsessing over his empire, the more control he had.

Of course, with Heaven’s little hunting safari out of the way, his became the only time relevant to the cesspool down here. And most of his own time was spent cultivating that: talks shows, game shows, news, commercials, streaming platforms, you name it.

Time may be something he stole from others, but perhaps only because he had so precious little of it himself.

So, time was important to him. And when someone or something wastes his time, well…

 He glanced across his screen, the blue light from the aquarium getting lost in the blue light of the devices. They glared off his face, itself a screen, and reflected off too bright to see much of anything. And Val wonders why this room is always so dark. He turned down the brightness again.

The leftmost screens were devoted to Val, his studio, and his workers. Not that he liked staring at those while shooting, mind you. There was only so much of that that anyone could watch and still be productive. Still, he noted, he really needed to get an electrician over there. You’d think spending all this time literally surrounded by devices, Val would’ve learned something about electrical outlet safety. But, he supposed Val wouldn’t bother. Just like he never had to worry about how he was going to get his films distributed, or edited, or formatted. He had Vox for that, after all.

Because Valentino’s problems were ultimately Vox’s problems.

Right next to Val’s studio on his surveillance was Velvette’s designer pad. He enjoyed watching her in the background of his day, barking orders and snapping people in line. You’d think she’d been the top of fashion when she was alive too, the way she acted. He had to remind himself that she wasn’t actually as old as him or Val sometimes. Other times though, well, her age showed. She played the game of likes and shares. She didn’t play the game of politics. Why in hell did he ask her to attend the overlord meeting again? She hadn’t even had the courtesy of explaining just what went wrong, only that the meeting was full of outdated morons, half of which should be wearing adult diapers. So, yeah, that hadn’t panned out well. And, no, he didn’t try to correct her either. She wouldn’t listen on a good day. And why should she? She was the one whose opinions mattered. Everyone else can shove it. Or, rather, Vox was in charge of making sure other people shoved it, or themselves, off a cliff.

Because Velvette’s problems were Vox’s problems too.

His own office and set were up there as well. It was a little redundant, sure, but he’s always insisted on the extra security. Or maybe it was his own obsession with having to have eyes on everything at all times. Hard to tell, really.

It all seemed so sterile compared to the messes that were Val and Vel’s setups. Even in the midst of a show, it was mostly just him, either plugged in and projecting or sitting behind a chair talking. Any other people in his space were either there for a short segment, or part of the backstage cronies he employs to keep things running smoothly. Sometimes he’d have one of the others up there as well, usually for promotional work: ‘Voxtec presents Valentino’s newest project’ or ‘Velvette’s new perfume line’. Something of that ilk. He wasn’t just the face of the Vees, he was the one advertising them, keeping time set to them.

But if it was a Voxtec product that didn’t involve them? Nope, wasn’t their problem.

Because Vox’s problems were Vox’s problems only.

So, he wasn’t at all surprised that his newest problem, the most recent waste of time, was shown to him sitting on his couch watching re-runs.

Part 1/ Part 2/ Part 3/ Part 4/ Part 5/ Part 6/ Part 7/ Part 8/ Part 9/ Part 10