#metal slat railing

[chronologynut]

Modern Basement San Francisco Large minimalist walk-out porcelain tile and beige floor basement photo with gray walls and no fireplace

[yuri-on-ice-ice-baby]

Large trendy backyard deck photo with no cover a sizable, modern backyard deck photo without a cover

[hoytsheriff]

Exterior - Modern Exterior Ideas for a medium-sized, contemporary blue, three-story remodel with a flat roof

[controlsfortheheart]

Large - Contemporary Garage Ideas for remodeling a large contemporary attached two-car garage

[wanderers-of-sornieth]

Stucco Exterior Inspiration for a mid-sized contemporary beige two-story stucco flat roof remodel

[humanityinahandbag]

Steddie: National Poetry Month

With National Poetry month still on the brain (April, for those outside the US), this was bouncing around my head incessantly and I needed to get the idea out before it drove me nuts.

So please, if you would, imagine;

Eddie admitting offhand during a pool party that (as a very secret romantic) he wishes that someone would woo him with poetry.

He imagines it like Lord of the Rings. A paladin on horseback, all gleaming armor and quaffed hair.

"I know it's not metal," he'd whisper to the group, kids far out of hearing range in the pool. Robin and Nancy huddled on a pool chair, Eddie cross legged on the cool concrete doing his best not to look at Steve. Steve, who is sitting beside him, glowing in the blue moonlight. "But it's... I don't know. It's-"

"Nice?" offers Steve.

And Eddie was never more grateful for the night as he was right then, the dark hiding his pink cheeks. "Yeah," he says, tugging his hair to hide a hopeless kind of smile. Wishing he could do to the same for his poor, lovesick heart.

He doesn't think he has a chance.

The thing is, he has more of a chance than he'd ever imagine.

And the thing also is, Steve is a romantic. And the moment that he hard Eddie's confession - that he wanted a grand, romantic gesture?

Oh. Steve was gone.

There was just one problem.

Steve isn't a poet.

He's barely a writer. He hated school, and barely squeaked by twelfth grade English with a D-.

"Poetry is just words from the heart, dingus," Robin tries to tell him during a shared shift. "It's not rocket science. Just, yunno... find some words that he'd like and get them down."

"Huh," says Steve, gnawing on a pen cap. "I think I can do that...?"

It's only a few days later that Eddie's roused from a D&D planning session by Wayne knocking on his bedroom door. "You got a visitor."

"... I do?"

Wayne grunts, smiling fondly. "I'll put on coffee for you and your boy," he says, and before Eddie can ask who his boy is, Wayne was already gone.

Eddie would never get a knight on horseback in shining armor reading him sonnets. But he would get a Steve in a green, polyester Family Video vest sitting on the hood of his Beemer. He stands up when Eddie comes outside. He doesn't even give Eddie a chance to start talking before he's unfolding a bit of paper, clearing his throat.

"Roses are red," he reads, peeking up at Eddie. "violets have petals, I just came to say... your butt is very metal."

Eddie's hair is in front of his grin again, twisted around fingers. His heart is beating its own poetry. "Steeeeve Harrington," he says, face red. "Did you write me a poem?"

"I wrote you poems," corrects Steve. "Like... multiple. But a few of them are explicit and I don't think your neighbors or Uncle would want to hear them."

Eddie gets to hear those much later. After they've had coffee and gone to the movies and waited a respectable two weeks or so before he was letting Steve rail him into the mattress.

In the end, it turned out-

(beneath the slats of moonlight through the curtains, Steve's fingers drawing shapes down his bare spine and face close enough for Eddie to count every freckle, mole, eyelash - close enough to hear Steve whispering soft words of love and hope and forevers)

-Steve was a better poet than he'd give himself credit for.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Crossed Wires 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: silverfox!Andy Barber, Cole Turner

Summary: you try to balance your work with your private life as your boss and a new client try to blur the lines. (short!reader)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The gravel mulches loudly under the tires of the truck. You grip the ridged wheel as the seat belt strains against your shoulder. You make yourself sit back, the seat slid up as far as it will go. Still, the bumper shortens your perspective.

You figured you’d get a call to the old Orson place when you heard it sold. That was months ago though and the new owner finally set down roots there. You haven’t seen them, you’ve only heard the whispers that accompany any happening in Hammer Ford; from a new recipe to the juiciest of scandals. You pay much attention to any of it.

You keep your hands at ten and two as you follow the long gravelly drive to the farmhouse facade. There’s a single car parked outside the garage. It’s a sleek white SUV, luxury by the looks of the hood ornament. It’s not what you expect around here. That paint job will be dusty in now time, if not scratched by errant pebbles.

You pull in and shut off the engine. You undo your seat belt and check your watch. Right on schedule. You open the door and step on the rusted step below the door, letting yourself down with a hop. Your tan work boots kick up dirt as you round to the passengers side and swing the door open to retrieve your heavy work bag.

You sling the thick strap over your shoulder and snap the door as you head towards the house. You rest your hand on the side of the bag as you near the steps, searching for any sign of life. The stairs creak as you climb onto the low porch.

“Can I help you?” The deep voice startles you. 

You blink and turn to face the man sitting on the wooden boards, bolts and screws around him along with metal parts and wooden boards. You hadn’t seen him through the tight slats of the railing.

You keep your usual vague stare as you sniff, “got a call about the breaker.”

He squints at you, a squiggle forming between his brows. He’s older. His grey hair has a single bolt of its former dirty blond just above his forehead. Despite the heat and the dirt sprinkled over the boards, he wears a pair of dark slacks and a button-up rolled to his elbows.

“You’re the electrician,” he states as he sets aside the small screwdriver in his hand. He stands with a grunt, grasping his knee before he straightens.

“Sure am,” you reply flatly.

“I spoke with a man,” he intones, hands going to his hips as he looks down at you.

“That’s would be my boss. Cole.”

“That’s his name,” he steps forward, wiping his hand on his shirt, staining the light gray fabric, “Andy.”

He offers his hand and you shake it curtly. All the farmers pride themselves on keeping a firm grip and you never faltered with them. He squeezes before he lets you go. He doesn’t have the typical callouses, you even have a few.

“How’d you get into this work?” he wonders.

“It’s work. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I don’t– I don’t mean anything,” he stammers.

“Didn’t think you did,” you sniff, “so, what am I looking at?”

“Well, I don’t really know,” he reaches back to rub his neck. The power keeps… flickering.”

“Ah, been a while, probably just need to wait for it to stabilize. City worker came out months ago for the meters,” you explain.

“Right, well, I heard sizzling.”

“Show me where you heard it.”

He nods and gestures you towards the door. Before you can reach it, he pulls the wooden screen door back and waits for you to enter ahead of him. He tells you it’s just down the hall and stop you near the basement door. You peer down the stairs and flick the light switch. There’s a low buzz.

“I don’t think you need to worry about it,” you look up, “but I can have a look.”

“Oh, okay,” he utters, “I also had another question. You might know something about it.”

You look at him. He seems put off by your expressionless stare.

“I wanted to install an automatic opener in the garage…”

“I can do the wiring, sure, long as you buy the parts,” you answer. “I can give you recommendations, odds are, you’ll need a whole new door as well.”

“Sure,” he agrees uneasily.

“Can schedule an appointment when you decide,” you turn your palm out, “I’ll just go grab my ladder and have a look then.”

You go to step past him but he’s not quick enough. You nearly collide and find yourself moving back and forth with him, trying to get by. You stop and stare. He stills himself and turns sideways, waving you by. You pass and let out a slow breath through your nose.

You stalk back down the hall and onto the porch. You hear him following you. You come down the steps as he continues his close pursuit. You don’t exactly know what he’s doing but you won’t ask. Cole says you need to work on customer service and not tell people to get out of your way.

You go around the bed of the truck and open the back. You reach for the ladder but another arm stretches further and faster. He pulls the ladder out before you can and you step back with a grunt.

“Hey, I can get it,” you insist.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind helping.”

“So why am I here?” You ask curtly, immediately knowing you asked a bad question.

“Sorry, I was just… being nice,” he says.

“Right,” you try to soften your tone, “it’s just… it’s my job. I can carry the ladder.”

“I know you can,” he looks down at you and you feel even smaller. You don’t like it when they try to play gentleman, it’s condescending. You might be short but you’re strong enough. 

“Thanks,” you grab the ladder and yank it from his grasp.

He lets go and you continue past him. He huffs and follows a few paces back from the end of the ladder. You angle it up the steps.

“At least let me get the door,” he inches past you, “okay?”

“Thanks,” you repeat in the same even keel.

You enter and take the ladder down the hall. He hovers just down the hallway, watching as he shifts his weight between his feet. He’s the worst kind of customer, the kind that have to supervise. 

You step up the ladder and look past it. “Mind holding it?”

“You sure?” He gives a trite arch of his brow.

You blink and keep your eyes from rolling, “I’d appreciate it, sir.”

He comes forward and braces the ladder staunchly. You climb up and suppress a snarl. City folk think you’re all backwards out here but they can’t wrap their damn head around a woman with a brain.

[bardic-tales]

Steel and Shadows - Biker AU - Chapter 1

Steel and Shadows Masterlist | Prev Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Bianca Moore, an author seeking inspiration in the underworld of Midgar, steps into Seventh Heaven for research, only to find herself entangled in a dangerous game of power and control with Sephiroth.

Pairing: Bianca Moore(f!OC) x Sephiroth

Possible Trigger Warnings: Alcohol consumption, cigarettes, criminal activity, dominance/submission dynamics, intimidation, mention of past trauma, power imbalance, psychological tension, smoking, toxic attraction, violence.

1.

Location: Midgar, the Planet

“This is the place,” she thought to herself, as she looked down at the paper again with several characteristics of the type of man she would be looking for, and, then, at the ramshackle bar with the extended, weathered pecan porch. Several burly men with bushy beards leaned against the railing, as their tight leather vests stretched across their broad chests and shoulders.

The low hum of emerald neon lights buzzed above Bianca Moore as she stood outside Seventh Heaven. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her her leather bag, as the cool leather caressed her fingertips. The bar sat nestled on the corner of a dimly lit street. Its worn wooden sign barely illuminated by the flickering glow of a streetlamp overhead, casting a soft glow over the concrete sidewalk and her delicate features.

To the untrained eye, this bar was just another hole-in-the-wall joint, but Bianca knew better. She opened her purse, placing the small sticky note deep within the pockets and shouldered the leather bag. This place was the meeting ground of Midgar’s most dangerous players: the place where men with gasoline in their veins and blood on their hands came to drink, deal, and dominate.

She took a deep breath, steadying the flutter in her chest. This was how it always started when she started a new project. This wasn’t fear. No, she never feared starting a new work: especially after a heartbreaking four year block after a serious breakup. This was not fear; it was anticipation and excitement.

“Bia, you don’t have to do this.” Cloud’s voice was rough and edged with irritation. She had twisted his arm for him to come with her, helping her experience this world of fast bikes and danger. He stood beside her with his arms crossed against his black knitted turtle-neck-covered chest. His blond spikes dulled by the dim light overhead.

He frowned. Cloud had been against this from the moment she brought it up two months ago, but he had learned long ago that the more he protested, the more Bianca was drawn to the allure of the risks. He had gotten out of that world, only for her to pull him back in.

“You worry too much,” Bianca teased. Her crimson-painted lips tilted aloft in a widening smile. At this moment, she really didn’t care what Cloud thought, as she was experiencing that high from pursuing a new story.

She looked away for a moment at the bikes lined up next to the sidewalk. Steel glimmered beneath the muted lighting, but there was one sports bike that stood out among the rest. It towered over the lesser vehicles.

The black metal glowed menacingly, dominating the smaller bikes.

The jagged chrome stripe on the bike’s full-fairing body reflected Bianca’s visage: her soft brown of her eyes and her long, wavy midnight tresses brushing against the soft slope of her neck and tumbling over her shoulders.

Bianca ran a hand through the locks, pushing several strands falling in front of her eyes off of her face while Cloud watched and frowned at her. “I don’t know why you’re so worried. It’s just research.”

“Remember Dimetri?”

Rolling her eyes, Bianca reached for the door handle. The brass handle felt moist to her touch, as she turned the knob and pushed the wooden door with black slats crossing it open.

2.

The air was thick with the scent of old whiskey and stale cigarette smoke, choking in its intensity and making her head swarm. The faintest hint of gasoline clinging to the leather-clad bodies that filled the bar. It was darker than she expected. The overhead lights dimmed so that the brightest glow came from the neon signs behind the bar. A jukebox in the corner crackled with a bluesy tune, barely audible over the low murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of pool balls.

Bianca adjusted her cream-colored coat, walking deeper into the room as Cloud trailed behind her like an irritated shadow. The patrons barely spared her a glance. At least, not at first. Men with broad shoulders and worn, black leather jackets hunched over drinks. Their conversations murmured in conspiratorial tones. Women were the first ones to noticed her, as they draped themselves over muscled arms, whispering in ears and exchanging lazy, painted, predatory smiles.

This was their world, and she was stepping into it like a trespasser. With her ruby-red polished nails, her black slacks, and a soft, warm sweater, Bianca felt as if she didn’t belong. She didn’t. This wasn’t her world where a warm espresso and cinnamon warmed her hands; this was a rough and tumble crowd where fights between burly men and women often broke out.

From behind the bar, Tifa glanced up. Her sharp red eyes narrowed slightly, hiding behind thick, dark eyelashes. She wasn’t unfriendly, per say. Her gaze bore into Bianca’s darker one as she swirled the inside of the whiskey glass with a white rag. She was just assessing. A protective energy clung to her like armor. Her other bartender’s towel slung over her left shoulder like a weapon.

“New face,” the other dark haired woman remarked. “You lost?”

“Not lost.” After Bianca slid onto a barstool, she crossed her slim legs and rested her arms against the counter. She had to play the part and observe. This was one of her favorite things as a novelist: the people watching. “Just curious.”

“Curiosity can be dangerous around here.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Cloud groaned behind her, but, like she did when he mentioned Dimitri, Bianca ignored him. Instead, she glanced around, absorbing every detail and conversation. This was what she had come for: the raw, unfiltered energy of a world that existed in the shadows of the city, a muse for the work she hoped to complete before the summer’s end.

And then, she felt it: a shift, a ripple through the air, as if the very fabric of the bar had tightened around a single presence. She felt a presence staring at her.

As she turned her head to the side, she met a pair of cold, cyan, feline-like eyes. For a brief moment, she thought that the owner of the eyes was wearing contacts. Those eyes couldn’t have been real, but they were.

He sat in the back corner of the bar, at a table that was obviously too small for him. His knees bumped together under the table, as smoke circled around his head. His presence was somehow sharper and more defined than anyone else in the room.

This man didn’t lounge like the others. No. He commanded the space around him. Long, silver hair cascaded over the shoulders of his midnight, black leather coat. With every movement, the dim lighting from the overhead metal lamps cast a glossy sheen over him. His long and elegant fingers lightly on a crystal glass filled with amber-colored liquor, though the man hadn’t taken a sip.

He was watching her. A shiver ghosted down Bianca’s spine: not from fear but from something far more intoxicating. It was something that she never felt before, something far more than fear. Interest.

“You don’t belong here.” His voice was quiet — almost a whisper — but it cut through the background noise with lethal precision. This man was used to be in control. It screamed from the way he commanded her attention.

She tilted her head, meeting his gaze without question. “So, I’ve been told.”

He exhaled a slow breath. For the briefest second, she could read the amusement — the subtle corner of his lips flicking up in an almost smile — but it was gone, slipping beneath his unreadable mask. The man sat back in his seat, tapping his finger against the rim of his glass. “If you’re looking for danger, you’re found it.”

Bianca arched a slender, well-sculpted brow. “Who are you?”

“Sephiroth, and I know who you are, Miss Author. Bianca Moore, the woman who makes a career of selling cheap, dime-store romances.” His lips curved upward now into a knowing smirk. “You’re biting off more than you can chew here.”

“That sounds an awful lot like a warning.”

“It is.”

Tifa shot Bianca a sharp, warning glance, her deep red eyes flashing with a silent plea for restraint. Her lips pressed into a firm line as she subtly shook her head. Strands of her dark hair, loosely framing Tifa’s face, swayed slightly as she shifted her weight. The dim, amber glow of the bar lights caught the faint sheen of sweat on her brow.

This was the look of someone who had seen tempers flare too many times before. It was a silent but urgent command not to test the boundaries of the man before them. Bianca understood immediately— whatever fire she was playing with— Tifa was urging her to step back before it burned her.

However, Bianca had never been the type of woman who backed down from a challenge: especially when it concerned her research for a new manuscript, especially after such a long creative block.

“I think I can handle handle myself.” She could feel Cloud leering behind her, urging her to not engage with Sephiroth.

Once more, his lips curled at the edges. It wasn’t quite a smile. It was a little too wide and a little too bright: almost like he was a predator who was watching prey wander too close, only a second before his jaws would snap shut.

“Is that so?” he mused.

“I don’t scare easily.”

A heavy silence stretched between them, charging with something electric beneath. Around them, the bar carried on as usual: obvious to the game that was being played by this man and herself. Except for Cloud. Cloud had gone rigid beside her. His entire body wound tight like a coiled spring ready to snap at the slightest provocation, but Bianca barely noticed.

She was drowning in those inhumane green eyes, the kind of color that belong to the ocean and venomous things. They were reminiscent of a panther, and that was what he was was, as he studied and watched her every move. He shifted shifted slightly, mirroring her own head tilt.

“You’re not here for the drinks,” he said. “You’re watching. Studying.”

Her fingers curled against the bar. This man was too preceptive for her own good. He could see through her bravado to the depths of her soul and motivations. Sephiroth wasn’t a normal man. That much was sure. “I’m a writer. I like to get things right.”

His eyes darkened. The shadows shifting in their depths like a brewing storm. Something unreadable passed through them: calculated, dangerous, and assessing. The weight of his gaze made the air between them heavy and thick with unspoken tension.

“And what are you trying to get right?” There was a slight edge to his words.

She hesitated, sending that whatever answer she would give him he would dissect it and turn it over in his mind like a predator toying with its prey before the bite to the windpipe. “Power. Control.”

He let out a mirthless chuckle: so quiet and empty of real amusement. “And you thought a bar filled with actual criminals was a good place to start?”

As she refused to let him see the way his presence was a bit unnerving, she shrugged. “They say the best best stories come from the most dangerous places.”

His bright gaze flickered downward, dragging over her slowly. It wasn’t a lecherous or dismissive look. No, he was reading her the way one might study a map before a battle, searching for weak points and deciding how much of a threat she posed to him and his world. If any at all.

“You don’t know what you’re playing with,” he said after a moment. His voice was quieter now, almost thoughtful, and almost lost in the din from the other bikers. “Men like me don’t make good characters in fairytales.”

Bianca bit her inner cheek, as she often did when she was nervous or excited. “Who said I’m writing a fairytale?”

Something shifted in him, subtle but noticeable to her. He lifted his glass and took a slow sip, before he sat the empty glass on the wooden counter-top. Then, without a word, he stood.

He was taller than she expected: taller than anyone in the room, actually. He easily was over six foot five inches. And his presence now? It was an overwhelming force of nature up close. The raw power of his movements was precise, honed, and restrained like a lion gazing at an antelope, knowing that it didn’t need to rush the kill.

When he stepped forward, she realized she held her breath, waiting for his next words.

He leaned in close, close enough that she caught the faintest scent of gasoline on his skin and a heavy cologne that made her head swim. “Stay out of my world, Miss Author.”

Bianca’s pulse hammered at the base of her throat. Her body screamed at her to react: fight, flee, or stay frozen with him so close to her. She did none of that. Turning her head, she met his gaze, even as her instincts warned her she was standing at the edge of something she didn’t understand or control.

But, then, as quickly as he had closed the distance, he stood back, turned, and walked away. The moment he left, the tension in the air snapped like a stretched wire finally breaking, leaving her breathless in the aftermath.

Tifa let out a slow breath, shaking her head. “I’d listen to him if I were you.”

Cloud, who had been silent the entire time, muttered under his breath. “This was a bad idea, Bia.”

Maybe, it was. She stared as Sephiroth opened the bar door and light filtered in the hazy room from outside. She savored the thrill of the encounter, as Cloud’s words echoed in her head. Bad ideas always made for the best stories, and now that she found the inspiration for her novel’s love interest, she couldn’t resist.

@themaradwrites @craftyhal @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon

@projecthypocrisy (since you're as excited as I am with this AU lol)

[beanmom-blogs]

Linger/Gaze - Day 3

One big hand, or paw as he liked to call it, polished a cloth over the marble bartop. The hand moved up a bit on the metal posts, his whole body swinging out from behind the half-moon to start a lazy dip around the room. Wiping the cloth over the top of the sofa cushions, a quick swipe over the marble where the guestbook stood. Then over to Lucky. Lucky was the unofficial name of the sizeable gold (gold plated?) lion statue that sat on a raised dais, surrounded by greenery. One paw stuck out from between the slats of railing, and one of the quirky gimmicks of the Pub was that if you rubbed the Lion’s Paw, it brought you luck. Dian, the cook of the establishment, had taken to calling the lion itself Lucky, and it stuck. Marti thought it was cute really.

As Marti tilted his head back to gaze at the unseeing yet ever seeing eyes of Lucky, he gave a pause. He could see himself in the lion in many ways. Strong. Proud. And with a mane that was something he loved to believe was enviable. The look on Lucky’s face never changing, much like Marti’s smile. Ever present, to anyone who happened to pass their eyes over him. Marti’s own bright green eyes lingered on the statue, wondering what sort of secrets its golden ears had been privy to. Knowing that it had ‘heard’ some of his own.

He gave a pat to the giant gold head before reaching the cloth up, continuing on this menial but necessary after hours pub task.

@daily-writing-challenge​

[kodiakfencecompanytx]

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Pros:

Low maintenance

Long-lasting and durable

Sustainable, eco-friendly material

Resists rot, insects, and fading

Cons:

Higher cost than wood or vinyl

Limited color options

Can look less natural up close

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[spindle-girl]

Shadow 5.5

end of the fight, some talk with Prancer and Mayday, and then besties

Orange motes began dancing around the trucks and railing that were serving to slow Prancer’s group down.  The people who hadn’t been pushed very far back actually backed away from the motes. Glowing particles from one parahuman could be harmless or negligible, they could be concentrated points of energy that cut through flesh like a hot knife through butter, or they could be concentrated points of energy that un-concentrated into sizable explosions, given an excuse.

fair enough

“Hey!” Prancer called out.  “Civilian property.  They pay us, we leave their stuff alone.” Ashley said something I didn’t hear.  Nailbiter sniggered. Natalie was going to get upset with us again.

if Breakthrough does more damage than Prancer's group does...

rip Victoria, your rep will never recover

Off on the other side of the street, Velvet sent a trash can sailing through the orange sparks.  Metal rings held wooden slats in place, prettifying the exterior of a half-filled plastic bin.  Trash emptied out as it turned over, and it passed harmlessly through the orange points of light and the trails they’d left. Testing them.

i do appreciate this. now throw one at Rain, he deserves it

“I got a compliment from a girl, she thought it was gnarly,” he said.  “It’s not all bad.” “Stop fucking flirting and get us through, Moose!” someone called out, on the other side of the wall.  Velvet, I was guessing. “My mom would cry if she saw it, though,” Moose said.  He lurched forward, shouldering his way through the hole he’d made, leaving a Moose-shaped hole behind him.

oh Moose, I would have taken you, Love Lost, and Snag in exchange for the rest of the villains

Just behind Prancer, Velvet drove a truck through the hole Moose had made, the side view mirror on one side scraping off on the wall’s edge.  Capes were in the vehicle and perched on top.

okay, Velvet and Prancer too, but they're on thin ice

Ahead of the group, Anxiety Chris was at the corner of the street, clutching at his face with all of his legs.  He screamed as he saw us coming.

what the fuck is going on with you Chris. dude's great

“Aauuughhh!” Looksee cried out, in a not-very-convincing agonized scream.  “I’m dying, I’m dead!  Auughh!”

at least Kenzie's funny

“If she’d been real,” Beast of Burden said, making the truck bounce as he climbed out of the back, “She still would have been causing trouble on our turf.  It wouldn’t have been undeserved.” “No,” Prancer said. “Yes,” Beast of Burden said. “No,” Prancer said.  “That’s not how we’re playing this.”

this makes some of the spoilers I've seen make sense

Rain bent down and picked up Looksee’s camera, shaking it slightly, as if that would dislodge the cooling black glass that caked part of it. “Cameras,” Prancer said. Rain nodded. Prancer raised a hand to his head, found hair that was sticking up after his tumble of a fall, and pressed it down, running fingers through it to try to set it in place.  “How long?”

nice of Rain to get Kenzie's tech. i'm glad they didn't actually have Kenzie show up to the fight

“It’s handled,” Prancer said, echoing Snag.  “This isn’t about the PRT, or about heroes and villains.” “What’s it about, then?” Sveta asked.  I had to look past Rain to see her.  He was remaining silent. “It’s about monsters,” Prancer said, pacing slowly. “Speaking of.  Garotte?”

man. this would be so cool if he didn't focus on Sveta

Circe says hi,” Prancer said. I could see Sveta’s expression change. “Yeah,” Prancer said.  “If you’d only arrived a few hours later.  Whatever.  We have resources.  This is about standing on our own two feet.  If we do this raid right, no matter how you interfere, no matter what Beast does, breaking off with his people, Cedar Point is going to be a thing.”

it'd be nice to see the Irregulars again

“We had messages.  Cedar Point was asking for help, Civilians asked us.  It’s not a shock.  We’re prominent,” Mayday said. “Can you forward those to us?  Help us trace them?” I asked.  “I think it’s more likely a mastermind in the background pulled this.”

i really hope it wasn't

don't answer cries for help, it may be Teacher ooooooooohhhh

“Except I don’t know if I’m as nice as they are,” Mayday said, not finishing the thought he’d left to trail off.  “I took over the department because that kid sank my predecessor.  The question mark hovering over the bathroom thing was part of what cost me one golden opportunity to get up to the Protectorate core team, during the final year, when we were dealing with the new Endbringer situation.  She ruined a lot of careers, teachers, heroes, social workers, and I can’t be fair to her because I’m pretty fucking bitter about it.”

dude who gives a shit. you're not on a poster, big deal. she's like, 12. this is more embarrassing than Faultline having a rivalry with Lisa

i swear, there has to be some perk heroes get for being where Armsmaster was. why do people fight and kill over this stupid job?

Mayday raised a finger, while Spright’s head was turned toward Flapper.  Beside Spright, Signal Fire reached out to seize his arm. “What gives?” Mayday walked up to him, seizing his other arm.  With his free hand, Mayday patted Spright down. He reached beneath a flat armor panel, and withdrew a notebook with a rubber band around it.

okay, i get it. these guys are assholes. they're all like Armsmaster. please let us never see them again

We had notes on the other work he was doing.  Drugs.  Robbery for hire, moving things between the illicit, villain-run camps on corner worlds.  There were plans for other things.  In the future, he seemed to have two days where he and his people would be moving humans.  It wasn’t clear why or for what purpose, but they were to be delivered from one corner world to another.

human traffickers, fun

there goes the interest Prancer just earned

“It’s a really fucked up thing, if I consider myself one of the more trustworthy members of the group,” he said. He turned around to look up at me. “Rain- he’s in a bad place.”

damn. Tristan really thought Rain and Erin would kidnap Kenzie or something? i'm here for that paranoia if Rain hears about it

“Circe,” Sveta said. “Whippersnap. Bristle. He must have researched me or asked Tattletale about me, and then reached out to them after. They were teammates, once. They know me.”

i don't remember any of them, but heeyyy. some Sveta + Irregulars focus?

I recognized Tattletale, from the lead car. She had a kid with a bird on his shoulder with her. She smiled.

HEEEEEYYYYYYY

The Undersiders chatted like long-lost friends.  Tattletale was exempt, standing back, smiling.

or goodie her life sucks

“You located him?” “I’ve known where he was for a very long time,” Tattletale answered Snag. ... As they had that exchange, Tattletale looked around idly, her eyes turning skyward. Her eyes locked on the camera, looking directly at us. ... “Just don’t tell me whatever you end up doing to him, and we’re golden,” she said.

Tattletale seems to be playing both sides here. if she was purely helping the cluster, she would have told them where Rain was sooner and alerted them to the camera. on the other hand, if they do succeed, she'll wipe her hands of the mess

End thoughts:

are we done with Hollow Point? seems like they're going to get killed fighting the Fallen for Snag and co. of course Rain had to leave before this happened. good news is that Mama Mathers won't be alerted, but uh, Rain's def going to get tortured first by the cluster

still don't care for the group of heroes that's beefing with a 12 year old. Prancer's getting into human trafficking, so uh, fuck em too. the bit at the end where he's helping clean up after the fight doesn't really balance that out. unless they aren't actually trafficking people and they're just transporting people willing to fight the Fallen, but that doesn't seem to line up with the fight happening later this night/the next day.

maybe they're people who can't get through the interdimensional TSA for whatever reason? no one seems to have listed trafficking on Prancer's list of crimes in the few discussions about him that i've seen, so there's hope

[theoriginalladya]

Sunday WIP Whenever

I was tagged by @cr-noble-writes - thank you, my friend!!! Loved the Jackson snippet, btw!!!

Here's a snippet of Rhys talking to Anderson in the next chapter for Everybody Loses It that I'm in the middle of editing. (sadly, Hell Week for work caught me in it's clingy tendrils before I could finish. sigh).

“How are you holding up, son?” he asks, genuine concern in his voice as he joins Rhys at the railing, resting his arms across the metal slats.  It’s a refreshing question, to be honest.  Anderson’s not the first one to ask him that, but the first once since arriving on the Citadel and after all of the stuff with Udina and the Council.  But it’s the endearment that hits home.  Son. How long has it been since I was last called that?  “I’m fine, sir.  A little out of sorts, maybe.”  His lips purse into a thin, wry smile.  “Wasn’t aware a civilian could be recruited by the Alliance.” Anderson chuckles and pats Rhys’ shoulder.  “Don’t worry, you aren’t being recruited.  Not really.  You’re just doing a favor for an old friend.” And old friend.  Just how much Anderson knows about Rhys and Kaidan’s relationship prior to today, Rhys has no clue.  For all he knows, the man could be a confidante to Kaidan as well.  Still, Anderson isn’t the type to judge, Rhys knows that from past experience. “Good to know.  I’m a bit…short on the training side of things.”  He flashes Anderson a wide smile.  “Sir.”  He side-glances the man warily.  “You aren’t…This isn’t getting back to my mother, is it?” “As far as I’m concerned, you are an adult of legal standing and more than capable of making your own decisions,” Anderson assures him.  “I can’t guarantee she isn’t going to hear about it some other way, but it won’t be from me.  Why?” “Just curious if she had her hand in it somehow.”  It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Kaidan – of everyone he’s come into contact with since Eden Prime and even after they parted on bad terms the last time they’d seen one another a decade ago, Rhys trusts him.  He always has.  “You know how she likes to meddle in my affairs, and it rarely ever turns out for the best.”

[kikiiswashere]

It Takes a Village

Summary: Katya gets word that Viktor is sick and needs to be picked up from the Academy. The news sends her into a fearful tailspin. Luckily, Silco and Enyd are there to remind her that she doesn't have to care for him by herself.

Pairing: Silco/Katya, established relationship

Rating: General, SFW

WC: 2.1K

Notes: This is a little diddy that has been sitting in my computer for a while. Inspired by a prompt by SacrificedSin87 over on AO3 :)

Please note, this one-shot exists on its own AU, and is not necessarily informed by events and major plot points in Children of Zaun.

-------

“Keep up, Silco!” Katya called over her shoulder as she scrambled up the side of one of the thousands of Undercity catwalks. Her boots clanged against the metal slats as she ran towards the Promenade.

“I’m trying!” he wheezed, hurling his lithe body over the bridge’s railing. “I didn’t know you were this fast.”

“You should stop smoking,” was all she said, launching herself up a flight of twisty stairs.

Silco grimaced, and as if to make a point, sprinted even faster behind her.

The pair bobbed and weaved through milling bodies, receiving angry looks, and angrier gestures and words from people they accidentally jostled or bumped into. Katya didn’t care, though. She cared about getting through the Promenade, across the Bridge, and to Piltover’s Academy as quickly as possible.

Earlier that day, just as she was preparing to leave the mines, she had received a tube that Viktor had fallen ill. While he could (and perhaps should) stay on campus, he had requested to go home to recuperate. And Katya couldn’t bring herself to deny him.

She had sprinted past Silco – who was on his way to collect her so they could walk out together – shouting the news at him over her shoulder, before throwing herself in the mine’s elevator and slapping the ascend button repeatedly.

She fought her way through the miners coming in for their shift like a salmon swimming upstream. Once she breached the mine’s perimeter, she heard Silco call behind her. He eventually caught up and they sailed through the Undercity together.

“Kat! Wait! Wait a second,” he gasped, reaching out and grabbing her arm.

Her body jerked under his hold and she grunted in frustration, turning to him.

“I need to get Viktor!”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Silco said between heavy breaths. “Just take a moment – “

“He’s sick! He needs me!”

“I know, I know” he said, taking hold of her shoulders. “Just . . . take a breath. I know it’s more precarious for him, but kids get sick. We’re going to take care of him, and get him healthy, and back to school.”

Katya stared up at him, breathing deeply through her nose. Her heart pounded in her chest.

“We?”

The corners of his lips lifted as they so often did when looking at her. He nodded.

“I grabbed Sevika before I followed you. Told her to let my mum know what was happening and prepare my bedroom for him.”

Katya’s brow crumpled, confused.

“Your bedroom?”

He nodded again.

“Yes. We’ll take him to my mum’s and my apartment. That way you won’t have to worry about him all the way down in the Sumps.”

Katya’s brows knit together, concerned that Silco had not thought this plan through.

“I can’t ask you or your mother to watch him,” she started.

“No, I know. That’s why you’ll stay, too.”

“Where – “

“On the couch,” he answered. “I know it isn’t ideal, but it’s better than you being away from him.”

“What about you? Where will you sleep?”

“I’ll crash at the Drop until he’s well.”

“Silco,” Katya sighed. “I cannot ask you to – “

He gripped her chin, placing his thumb over her parted lips. Once the fight left her eyes, he dipped down and replaced the digit with his mouth.

When they drew back from one another, Silco huffed a small laugh.

“Besides,” he said, “if my mother got wind that Viktor was sick, and you had taken him back to your place in the Sumps, she would’ve broken down your door and brought him to our place herself.”

Katya smiled, knowing that it was true. Enyd would be insistent – borderline pushy – about Viktor recuperating in a less smog-filled environment. Finally, she conceded with a nod before lifting on her toes and kissing him again.

“Thank you,” she murmured against his thin lips.

Silco took her hand in his, and they continued toward the Bridge.

As they neared the attendant hut, a jolt of nerves poked Katya’s stomach. She had a pass, but Silco did not. Her mouth went dry as they got closer, scared that the attendant would not let either of them through, suspecting Zaunite mischief. However, her worries eased when she spied Ivy Banforth just beyond the gate. Seeing Katya, the Academy aide strode forward, a kind and reassuring smile on her face.

As the medic assumed, the attendant looked at her and her partner with distrustful eyes as they approached the gate. Silco gripped her hand tighter, and she could feel the sneer on his face. Luckily, Ivy filled the space between the attendant and the two Fissure Folk, flashing an official looking notice at the guard.

“They are here on Academy business,” she said sweetly. “I’m here to escort them.”

The attendant eyed Heimerdinger’s seal at the bottom of the paper and reluctantly waved Katya and Silco through.

“How is he?” Katya asked hurriedly as the three headed for the campus.

“He’s alright,” the aide assured. “Just a fever and cough. A little nauseous, too, but with some rest he’ll recover quickly.”

Katya had to fight the urge to protest the Piltie’s patronizing diagnosis. Didn’t she realize that being sick was more dangerous for her brother than other children? How dare she assume that everything would be alright.

“I’ve already gathered his things and brought his bag to the medical office,” Ivy said. She shot an interested glance to Silco and added, “I’m glad you brought someone to help you.”

Katya gripped her partner’s hand possessively and quickened their pace.

The Academy’s medical offices were ones that Katya had not been to before. She had hoped to never need to visit them. Although she supposed that Silco was right: children got sick. It was only a matter of time until she would need to see her brother in such a place.

Despite having a very pragmatic purpose, the medical office was still ostentatiously designed and decorated in Piltover’s preferred gilded fashion. Ivy wove them through the echoey marble halls until they reached the small, dimly lit room Viktor was being housed in.

Katya broke out of Silco’s hold and rushed to her brother’s bedside. She gently carded her fingers through his sweaty hair, and her heart ached to see the sickly pallor of his skin: angry, rosy splotches on his cheeks against the green-gilled sallowness of the rest of his face. His breath was wheezy and snotty. It hitched when he opened his fever-fogged eyes and saw his sister.

“Kat,” he croaked.

“Shhh, shhh, shh,” she hushed. “I’m here. We’re here to take you home, okay?”

His eyes slid to Silco’s figure over her shoulder and he sniffed. The sniffle turned into a string of phlegmy hacks, and he turned his face into the pillow to shield his sister from it.

“I gave him some cough syrup and pain relievers,” the nurse said.

Katya jumped at her voice, not realizing that there was another body in the room.

“I put some more medicine in his satchel,” the nurse continued, gesturing to Viktor’s large rucksack at the foot of the bed, “along with some care instructions. Once he’s been fever free for twenty-four hours, he can return to school.”

Katya nodded, her hand still petting her brother’s head. Her eyes fell to the large bag, then to Silco.

“Carry him, please.”

Silco nodded and stooped down to gather the boy up as Katya went for the bag, hefting it onto her shoulders.

“No, I want Kat to carry me,” Viktor protested weakly against Silco’s chest. He was only able to vocalize his dissatisfaction, as his body limply slumped in the man’s hold.

“I know, Vik, I know,” Katya cooed, taking up the blanket and draping it over him. “But we will get home faster if you let Silco do it.”

Her brother grumbled, but nuzzled against Silco’s shoulder.

Katya thanked the nurse and Ivy escorted the group back across campus, and to the Bridge. She bid them good-bye – taking an extra moment with Viktor – and waved to them as they headed back toward the Undercity.

-------

The journey to Silco and Enyd’s apartment was made slower by Viktor’s sickly addition. Usually, Katya and Silco would roof-run, arriving at the door in mere minutes. Walking the gangways and taking the stairs and tunnels meant it took them almost an hour.

Silco had barely put the key in the lock before Enyd wrenched the door open. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun and her sleeves were rolled up.

“Oh, come here, my love,” she fussed, grabbing for Viktor.

The young boy seemed unperturbed by the fact that this was not his and his sister’s home, willingly sliding his arms around Enyd’s thin shoulders and resting his head against her neck.

“Come in, come in,” she called to her son and Katya as she carried the boy down the hall. “I ran him a warm bath. There’s vegetable soup on the stove.”

She disappeared into the washroom, and Katya finally let out a sigh of relief, allowing her heart to fully settle into the gratitude of Silco and Enyd’s gift. She stepped down the hall to Silco’s bedroom, a warmth blooming across her chest to see the fresh linens on the bed and a tall glass of water on the end table. Setting the rucksack down, Katya turned to Silco, who had followed her, and wrapped her arms around his narrow middle.

“Thank you.”

His limbs enveloped her and he kissed the top of her head.

“Anything for you.”

They stayed that way for a moment longer, before Katya knelt and fished Viktor’s pajamas and crutch out of the sack. She knocked on the bathroom door and poked her head into the steamy room. Viktor sat in the milky bath while Enyd used a cup to pour warm water over his head and back. The older woman looked over her shoulder and smiled as Katya set the clean clothes on the toilet lid, and leaned the crutch against the sink.

“We’ll have you right as rain in no time,” Enyd promised, scratching her fingers across Viktor’s scalp. Katya was sure the sentiment was as much for her as it was for him. And she appreciated it.

After a few more minutes, Katya helped her brother out of the tub and the older woman toweled him dry. Before his pajama’s were put on, Enyd slathered an herbaceous salve across the boy’s chest. Viktor looked uncertainly at his crutch as he adjusted his pajamas against his damp skin. He sheepishly looked up at his sister, and she smiled warmly.

“Come here,” she said, and scooped him up.

Enyd grabbed the crutch and they went to the kitchen. Silco had ladled out four bowls of soup and set them around the table. However, Viktor opted to stay in Katya’s lap, and was only able to take a few slurps of dinner before he started to fall asleep against her shoulder.

“We’ll try again when he wakes up,” Enyd whispered, gathering the bowls, and looking sweetly at the drowsy child.

Katya nodded and awkwardly made onto her feet, carrying her brother to Silco’s bedroom. She tucked him snuggly in the bed and fluffed the pillows under his shoulders. Half asleep, he grabbed for her to stay and she murmured lullabies to him until he fully landed into slumber. She kissed his warm forehead and silently shuffled out of the room.

She stepped into the living room to see Enyd placing a pillow and stack of blankets on the couch. She heard the running of the kitchen tap and the sound of dishes clinking together as Silco washed them.

“Thank you for this, Enyd,” Katya said in a hushed tone, not entirely able to look the other woman in the eye.

“It’s my pleasure, dear,” she said, before walking up to the young woman and cupping her jaw. “You’re alright?”

Katya swallowed and nodded. “This helps. Thank you.”

Enyd grinned back and patted her cheeks as Silco stepped out of the kitchen.

“I’m going to head to the Drop,” he said, wiping his hands on his trousers.

Katya’s face pinched into an expression of reluctant appreciation and went to him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, kissed him, and then rested her face in the crook of his neck.

“Thank you,” she murmured again. “I love you.”

Silco held her back, her spine nearly cracking under the strength of his hug.

“I love you, too.”

Gently, they parted and Enyd bussed her son on the cheek before he quietly left the apartment.

“Tea and cards, Katya?” the older woman asked after a beat.

“I would love that.”

-------

Notes: Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this little drabble, please comment and reblog! If you'd like to be added to my taglist, hit up my inbox!

Smooches for all of you!!!

Taglist: @dreamyonahill@pinkrose1422@altered-delta@beardedladyqueen

[unbreakabledarkheart]

Fresh New Bedroom Décor Ideas - Platform Beds

Not all beds are created equal. In fact, many are made to be different. In the large furnishing category of bedroom furniture there are a variety of beds available that offer something different and fresh to bedroom décor. They are referred to click here to learn more as platform beds and in this article we’ll take a look at the platform bed, how they are available and what they bring to your bedroom.

Your bedroom décor is ready for a change. It has enjoyed the mattress and box spring combo for many years now but you’re looking for something different, new and fresh. Aren’t all beds the same though? You’d be surprised to know that there are many branches of sub-categories of beds that exist today that came about because of people like you and me that needed something more specific for our space than just a simple metal frame on the floor. In this article we’ll take a look at just one of these sub-categories of beds referred to as the platform bed.

Platform bed designs have actually been around for some time. The platform bed is defined as a bed that has its own platform foundation built into it for use with only a mattress. These beds typically offer a lower profile than other beds and often have space beneath the bed that allows for the use of drawers or drawer systems or other unique features not available with conventional beds. Which now leads us into the foundation for platform beds.

The foundation of these beds can vary from manufacturer to manufacturer. The most common is called the slat roll or slat system. These are a series of wood slats that are strapped or banded together with a polypropylene material that allows for proper spacing. The rails of the platform bed will have a ledge or shelf built into them that the slats rest on. Another form of foundation would be solid panels. These also rest on a ledge but provide the advantage of a solid surface without gaps for mattress manufacturers who require their mattress be on a solid surface.

Platform beds are available in a wide variety of designs and styles. Many are available in solid wood construction. Domestic platform beds that are made in the United States will be made from common woods such as oak, maple, ash, cherry and hickory just to name a few. Typically most import beds you’ll find are made from rubber wood which is close in characteristics to maple in its tensile strength and durability. Rubber wood may sound like its rubbery but the sap that comes from this tree is used in many products such as rubber and latex.

You’ll also find these beds made from metal. Metal platform beds can be made in traditional, transitional and modern bed designs. With metal you can create anything from intricate ornate styled headboards to smoother designs. Metal can also be finished in a wider variety of finish styles and colors. These beds will usually use a steel cross bar system as the foundation and some styles may make use of masonite panels over the top of the cross bars to create a solid foundation.

Since there is no box spring unit used with these beds, the platform that the mattress rests on is made higher. This means that there is ample space beneath the bed to incorporate other design elements into the bed. These may be anything from integrated under bed storage systems to bed lift systems that reveal storage. Manufacturers can get pretty creative when given additional room to work with and platform bed frames offer an interesting canvas to create new ideas in bed design.

In this article we’ve examined a sub-category of beds referred to as platform beds. Platform bed frames are defined as being made to accommodate just a mattress and have their own foundation built in. They’re available in a variety of woods as well as metal with a wide selection of stains of finishes. Whether you need traditional or contemporary platform bed frames come in almost every flavor. So if your bedroom is ready for a fresh start, consider adding a platform bed into your room’s look for a new and different take on a good nights sleep.

[doom-dreaming]

Blue Team Beach House: Overview

So you're a supersoldier in the UNSC and you're being ordered to take mandatory R&R and for the first time in his life, your squad leader doesn't finagle some way to avoid this. But you're sick of being shipped off to places that aren't built for you (because there was that one time you broke a whole couch) but the UNSC hasn't gone out of its way to make a vacation resort for Spartans (because when do they ever go on vacation, right? Ha.) And you're sitting on a lifetime of hazard pay, more money than you know what to do with, but hey...actually, this time you do know what to do with it. You're gonna build a house on the prettiest white sand beach in the galaxy, specifically for you and your Spartan siblings because if the brass is forcing you to take some shore leave, then goddamn it, you're gonna take that literally.

Welcome to the (actual, official) series of Blue Team Beach House posts. If you made it through that whole opening paragraph and still don't know what I'm talking about: I want Blue Team to fucking relax, so I imagined a (beautiful, unrealistic) timeline in which they'd be able to custom-build a vacation home to use when they need a break (and to eventually retire to? Like I said, unrealistic).

The idea is that they'd do their best to tailor it to their own preferences and truly make a place designed by and for Spartans. And then I started thinking about this so hard I had to build the dang thing in Sims. So that's what this is. It's me showing off pics of a fun beach house build and bullshitting about why the architecture and design are (mostly) Spartan-Approved(tm) based on what we know about them from Halo canon. And if you're wondering, yeah, I do things like this for fun more frequently than you'd think.

CONSIDERATION 1: LOCATION

Spartans are always thinking strategy. They can't turn it off. So naturally, if they were making a place where they'd be relaxing - somewhere they'd have their guard down - they'd want it to be naturally, geographically safeguarded, in case there were an attack (hey, you never know). What's better than a narrow strip of land from the front and a reef in the back to discourage access from the water? They wanted to have an anti-aircraft missile system on the roof, but their design team said no. They settled for solar panels instead. (Note that the roof edging the third floor is also made of solar paneling. We know green energy is standard in the 26th century.)

CONSIDERATION 2: FUNCTIONAL ARCHITECTURE AND EFFICIENT USE OF SPACE

They might have the funds to make this a reality, but that doesn't mean they're going to build superfluous balconies when they can just use the roofs of the floors below for deck space. It keeps things compact without being cramped.

Also, see those pretty wood slat facade pieces on the corners of the first and second floor? Not only are they a nice design touch, but they're also makeshift ladders. Need to get to the roof very quickly from the outside? Climb the fucking walls. Let's be honest, they'd do this for fun.

CONSIDERATION 3: OUTDOOR SOCIAL AREAS

It's canon that John is a little claustrophobic. Yeah, he can fight it off, but he doesn't like spaces that are too small for him. I'd venture a guess that this is common for most Spartans, just by virtue of them being nearly seven feet tall. That said, given the options, I think they'd much rather be outside than inside, even if that inside was built to their standards of comfort. What's better than a nice big porch to hang out on and enjoy the gorgeous tropical weather?

Glass railings keep their view open and unobstructed - great for defense (again, you never know). The furniture is sturdy, either sculpted metal or durable wood (with the exception of some pieces that don't have to support a Spartan's-worth of weight). These themes will show up in other areas of the house, too.

Oh, and the vertical wall planter in the corner? Strawberries. What's better than a self-sustaining food source to cut down on trips into the city for groceries? This is only the tip of the iceberg on edible plants, by the way. Just wait.

Things stay well-lit at night, because even though they can see near-perfectly in the dark, it's easier to relax when you know what you're looking at. And while those palm trees are nice landscaping, they're also great for climbing (and coconuts).

[bloomspellwritings]

[Case Study of Vanitas] suit of swords

A sword is still in her hand, and a bitter call in her heart. For a moment, a blink of an eye, Dominique questions. Misha said everyone against them must be fought. She has to do it, or she'd be betraying yet another's expectations of her.

Who is the enemy?

What does she want to do?

For anyone coming to the manga later, chapter 54 originally published just the first fifteen pages or so, then there was about two months where no update came. This ficlet started within that space mostly as an excuse to get back into basic writing after years of blocks, but was also me really wanting Domi to finally fight with a sword. When the manga continued I simply let the project drop and forgot about it. But I've dusted off the draft in hopes of getting constructive criticism to my action scenes, and to also possibly end my own hiatus of sorts. The title comes from a minor arcana within tarot reading. I thought the associations with it fit Domi's character, so it gets the honour of helping me not have to think of a title of my own.

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They are surrounded, above and below. Mikhail's crowd of afflicted vampires normally would not be enough to stop a royal guard and the Hellfire Witch, but Dominique still wavers where she stands, and Jeanne's gauntlet hangs dead upon her arm.

The clinking of chains rings through the air. Dominique's eyes shift to Mikhail, clutching his wrist as his automaton tugs at the hem of his clothes. She wonders briefly if he'd dropped his grimoire or if a metallic tail had struck it from him. Though the answer doesn't matter, as he lets the mechanical dog whisk him away, face twisted in pain.

Despite everything, at the sight of the boy's tears, she wants to reach for him, to tell him she understands – she's lonely, too.

Her eyes move to Noé, injured arm useless as the other holds Vanitas close, his legs trying to shift them away from circling attackers.

A sword is still in her hand, and a bitter call in her heart. In front of her, Jeanne swings the gauntlet with all her strength to disperse the crowd, even as the vampires lunge at her over and over.

For a moment, a blink of an eye, Dominique questions. Misha said everyone against them must be fought. She has to do it, or she'd be betraying yet another's expectations of her. The echoes of her family belittling her, of how she'd hurt Louis, never leave her. But now, like a struck match flaring, she remembers wanting to save Jeanne even in the face of Veronica's anger, she remembers how Noé wanted her to be more like herself as she'd grasped at her cut hair.

She looks at Jeanne, unbuckling straps as crimson eyes glance from Dominique to the crowd.

Who is the enemy?

What does she want to do?

She charges forward, Jeanne only has time to brace her feet and gasp as Dominique passes her. A sweep of the sword is enough to make the few vampires on the tracks flinch away. Quickly, she uses the edge of the blade and her arm as a shield, but it's not enough. A man bites her forearm, fangs piercing through cloth down to skin. A woman tries to push past her, clawed hands catching at her loose hair and epaulets. Dominique's arm trembles as she tries to hold steady. These are innocent people, she doesn't want the sword to cut through them.

Clattering and a shudder through the coaster's structure is the only warning she has of the gauntlet being off before Jeanne calls, “Get back!”

She overestimates her step and her heel slips between wooden slats. Reflexively her hand grabs the guard rail as she falls. The floodlights glint off a rapier thrust in the space between the attackers' heads.

It must have come from that giant pack she carries, Dominique thinks as she untangles her legs and pulls herself up.

Jeanne doesn't look back as she kicks a man away and says, “I can fight on my own! Go!”

Dominique wants to say something more, anything better than the hatred she'd spat earlier, but knows she doesn't have time. Thank you is lost to the noise. She runs further along the incline and grasps the rail with both hands. A chill runs through her arms to her clenched fingers.

She needs to jump.

Her breath quickens as she pleads with herself that this time is different. She can see Noé far on the ground, up and fighting off the mob surrounding him, but he doesn't stray far from Vanitas's body. He's in danger of being overwhelmed if someone doesn't help him.

Dominique grits her teeth, tenses her legs, and swings out over the rail. Rain stings her face – had that happened last time? She can't remember – before her heels crack into the ground from an impact that would have broken a human's ankles. She springs up and runs to the swarm in front of her, as the Book's page flutter audibly in a nonexistent wind.

Noé backs away from the crowd, his legs tremble and he crouches over Vanitas, cornered like an animal. Dominique can see his chest move like a bellows before she screams his name, a glimpse of white and crimson looks back at her before he ducks. She arcs her sword over him and his charge, spins on her feet to make the other vampires cower away again.

She fumbles on her heels and barely thinking kicks off her shoes. Rainwater chills her stockings but she can't risk any instability. Noé shouts her name, but she doesn't look back. The people pulled into this conflict don't know how to fight, but they are pulled by a child's strings to do so. She only has to keep them away from her.

She dances around the mass aggression as best she can. Her heart pounds at her throat and breath grows sharp, her gaze flicks between the crowd and Noé at the edge of her vision; he's up again, Vanitas held close in a crude sling of his arms. She aims at legs and spaces between torsos, anywhere that could sting but heal. Once she may have even struck someone in the head with the pommel of her sword, but she can't be sure.

An escalating whine like electricity building within machinery rises from the Book, still fluttering wildly. Suddenly, it sounds like the world itself shatters and the crowd collapses. Dominique freezes mid-parry, panting in the silence. She looks over the people, murmuring as if they're merely asleep now, and sees starlight glimmer on the ground. The bulbs of the park's streetlights had broken in that final snap of energy, she realizes, and glances back where Mikhail's book fell. The grimoire sits on the dirtied walkway like a lost brochure, still as raindrops blot its blank pages. It is silent and painfully normal.

A thud makes Dominique look back to see Noé half-collapsed on the ground, Vanitas held haphazardly in his lap. She scans briefly around the quiet of the park, then walks to him, falls to her knees and leans her side against his back. She should probably care about the mud seeping through her stockings, but it doesn't seem to matter now.

“Domi... Thank you,” Noé can barely speak through his own exhaustion, words come beneath exhalations. “Thank you, for being here, for saving me.”

Is that what she'd done? Now that the fight is over, it feels like she'd never known what to do, only stumbling from moment to moment on split-second whims. She closes her eyes and tries to catch her breath, cheek pressed between Noé's shoulder blades.

Dominique hears footsteps approaching, but stays resting where she is. It's only Jeanne, also tired but steadier than the rest of them.

Jeanne takes a deep breath. “Now then,” she sighs, “what happened here?”

Noé is quiet a moment, inhales sharply before he speaks. “That boy was Mikhail, he's also kin of the Blue Moon. He took Domi hostage to lure us both out here, and get me to drink Vanitas's blood. He wanted to take Vanitas away with him.” His voice stutters, grows faster. “I tried to, I almost did because Domi would have – I didn't know what to do! I lost control, I attacked first and Vanitas fought back! It's no one's fault!”

Jeanne waits, Dominique can see her expression above them, patiently neutral. When Noé says nothing more, she mutters to herself how that raised more questions than it answered. She drops to one knee and holds out her hands. “I can take him now.”

Dominique can feel the way Noé freezes. “Huh?” leaves his mouth so quietly she barely hears it, almost as if it were squeezed from his chest.

“I'll go to Count Orlock's and ask for directions to the nearest hospital that hopefully won't ask too many questions. I can travel faster than you or Lady Dominique right now. Vanitas needs better help than any of us can give.”

And beyond Noé's adrenaline-beating pulse, Dominique can hear it; even unconscious, Vanitas's body drags air into his lungs and his heart hammers erratically. He's along a precipice, and she can't guess which way he'll fall.

Noé jerks back, accidentally nudging Domi off him. She can even hear one of his shoes scrape the dirt as he tries to move further away.

“You can't!” He exclaims. “He doesn't want strangers prodding at him!”

Jeanne's eyes glance over Vanitas as if she's clicking puzzle pieces together, before she looks straight at Noé again. Her voice is quiet but blunt. “His discomfort isn't important right now. If you or I had a choice on how to die, it wouldn't be in this park.”

Even though Domi knows the words weren't meant for her, they still choke her and prick at her eyes, and she looks away in shame.

“Vanitas said he'd rather die than be examined by a stranger,” Noé says, hesistant and wavering. “I heard him say it only days ago.”

Jeanne replies gently, “He can hate me for the rest of his life after he wakes, then.”

Aside from rapid breathing, Noé is silent. His fingers tangle in black hair and his arm tightens around Vanitas's coat as Jeanne waits, the firm set of her jaw the only sign she won't be patient much longer. Dominique's eyes flick between the two and their stubborn stalemate. They talk as if they barely know each other she idly thinks before she breathes Noé's name.

His face snaps back to her. His wild eyes remind her so much of the night Louis died, the memory strikes through her heart like a pin. She doesn't care about Vanitas, she thinks he's selfish and awful, but she doesn't want him to die, either. She needs to get Noé out of whatever trap between logic and loyalty he's spiralling into.

All she can say is, “You can trust her.”

Noé blinks, nods, and finally, finally loosens his vice grip on the human in his arms. Jeanne's hands slips between the gaps of their bodies and takes Vanitas, cradling him close; the motion barely pulls a strained gasp from him. Similar moans around her draws Dominique's attention away to the crowd she'd almost forgotten. Under faint city lights, she can glimpse other vampires shifting into wakefulness, a scattered few twitch their hands and arms against the pattering rain. Amidst that she half-hears Noé giving information that Vanitas took two shots of the same drug the chasseurs use, though he isn't sure what that is, or where the empty syringes are to give to doctors who may know.

Dominique calls Jeanne's name and the woman faces her. For a fraction of a second, she wants to cower from someone so much stronger than her, who had shaken off harsh words as if they were nothing. Instead Dominique raises her head high. “I hope we can talk later,” she says, too many apologies within her and not enough time to sort any of them into words. But she promises herself she will try. Tonight won't become another moment she hides away as if that means it never happened.

Jeanne nods. “Of course, Lady Dominique.” Then with only a few long strides, she's gone with barely a draft to disturb the misty air.

“I'm sorry, Domi,” Noé says, over and over in the quiet.

“It's fine, it's alright,” she whispers after each apology, until they can almost believe it.

Dominique rests against Noé again. He's wrung out and slouched, but braces himself to support her weight. The other vampires push up onto elbows and knees, mumbling questions, but the pair don't move.

“I was awful,” suddenly rumbles through Domi's ears.

“No, you weren't.” she tells Noé, and can feel through his shoulders how immediately he shakes his head.

“I lost control of myself,” he admonishes.  “I became a monster.”

Domi presses closer to him. If he won't listen, hopefully her presence will show she won't leave him, no matter what he thinks of himself.

Noé's words come out wet and choked. “I let myself become that thing and didn't care.”

Dominique closes her eyes. Unbidden she remembers Noé's face halfway down her fall, and holding a little girl back from her own pain.

Her only response to Noé's self-hatred is to say she understands.

She thinks she should pick up her shoes from wherever they are in the mud, as the crowd around her wonders how they all got here, but her body is too heavy and tired to do so yet. It's fine if she rests a moment more.