#shrapnel preview

[waleedgamil]

MOVIE : Shrapnel

watch full movie for free : https://bit.ly/4aytBsZ

[galahadwilder]

Never Giving Up On You (Blisters and Bedrock)

Chapter 3: All the Ghosts I Carry

This is a preview. Read the full chapter on my AO3!

_

The other Powder looks wrong in so many ways.

She's skinny, unhealthy skinny, in a way that makes Powder thankful that Ekko and Claggor are always reminding her to eat while she's working. The girl seems to be practically starving herself, leading Powder to wonder if she's got anyone in her universe who cares about her, who takes care of her. She knows so little about this girl, this other her.

Some things, though, are readable on her skin. The network of scars across her arms and exposed midriff speak of shrapnel, of bullet wounds, of electrical burns and worse. The prosthetic middle finger on her left hand indicates a brutality that Powder has never known, never had to fear, not since the Peace began.  The tattoos on her arm are old, older than the scars, and Powder wonders who made them for her, and why that person hasn't been feeding her. Or clothing her—all of her clothes are torn, the wrong size, either made for a child or hanging off her like she stole them from someone much, much larger.

Worse, the girl looks sick in every way that someone can look sick. Her skin, instead of Powder's healthy peach, looks almost gray, like all the blood has clotted within her veins. Her excessive mascara does a poor job of hiding the exhaustion bruises under her eyes, the emptiness of her gaze.

Her eyes, though, are the worst part. Powder's eyes are blue. They've always been blue. While Vi inherited their mother's stormy grays, Vander always said that Powder had Connol's eyes. Her father's eyes. This other girl, this... off version of her, has eyes of an impossible sickly pink. They shouldn't look like that. No eyes should look like that.

"Are you real?" the Other Powder rasps, holding her gaze unblinking, with a stare that chills Powder's bones. She's hunched, tense, like she's about to explode into violence at any second.

"I'm real," Powder says. She knows full well how this must look to the Other Powder, knows exactly what she would assume in the same situation. She holds out one hand, palm up. "Here, touch me."

The Other Powder leans forward without moving her feet and sniffs, looking for all the world like a feral cat. Then, much to Powder's surprise, she takes her hand in both hands and licks, rough tongue running up her palm.

"Ugh!" Powder yelps, yanking her hand back. "What the hell?"

The Other Powder smirks. "Just saying hi," she says.

She's starting to understand why Ekko was so scared of her. Everything about the Other Powder screams unstable, like she's a tightly-coiled spring waiting to erupt and stab someone with the end of the curved wire. For the first time, Powder notices the bizarre gun strapped to the Other Powder's leg. How many times has she pulled that trigger? How many people has she used it on?

"I met your Ekko," Powder says. "He seems like a good guy."

The Other Powder rolls her eyes, turning and pacing, flickering between spaces of the Anomaly as her body seems to break down, then snap back into place. "The Boy Savior," she sneers. "Of course perfect, prissy me would like him."

Powder grinds her teeth. "Powder—" she begins—

Only for Other Powder's eyes to snap back to her, her head lolling backward to look. "Jinx," she snaps. "Powder's been dead for years. I’m Jinx.”

You're just a jinx, child Milo says in her ear.

The last thing he'd said to her before Vi—before Vi—

"Why would you willingly call yourself that?"

The Other Po—Jinx—spreads her arms like a circus ringmaster. "Because it's what we are!" she says. "Everyone's favorite bad luck charm, who won't even have the decency to die when she's supposed to!"

Powder gets a sinking feeling. This girl cannot be her. The amount of things that would have to go wrong in her life... the very thought is staggering.

“…Jinx,” Powder says, her voice quiet, “what happened to you?”

Jinx laughs, and there's an unsettling, mirthless hyena quality to her laugh—before, suddenly, she cuts off mid-cackle, her expression dead, her eyes boring into Powder's. "I killed Vander," she says, her voice flat.

Powder's eyes widen as her heart seizes in her chest. Vander? Kind, gentle, fatherly Vander, who'd held her when she had nightmares, who'd opened his home to her when she had nowhere else to go, who'd given her every birthday cake and every kiss goodnight, who always told her he was proud of her and he believed in her, and Jinx had just... killed him?

"And Mylo. And Claggor," the emaciated girl continues. There's no emotion in her voice. It's like she's not even there, not even present in her own body as she speaks.

For a moment, Powder can't breathe, can't find her voice. Losing Vi was hard enough—she doesn't know how she could've survived losing her brothers too. She can see it, Mylo's frantic joy and Claggor's gentle kindness, snuffed out in an instant, taken by flames of electric blue, and her body hollows out at the thought. And for it to be her own fault?

"...Why?" she whispers, through tears, desperately wrapping her arms around her stomach as if it'll stop her insides from escaping. "Why would you...?"

Jinx's eerie, inhuman eyes—previously blank and empty—lock on hers. "Because that's what we do, Pow-pow," she sings. "We kill everyone we love."

"No," Powder whispers.

"It's our fault," Jinx continues in her unnerving sing-song. "Always our fault."

"Your fault," Vi echoes, blood streaming down her face.

"No!" Powder screams, wildly flinging a fist through Vi's face. "It wasn't my—it wasn't my fault!"

Jinx grins savagely. "You hear 'em too?" she says. "Who'd you kill?"

"I didn't kill Vi!" Powder shrieks, and for a moment, she feels her face split into a thousand faces, all screaming at once. "It was an accident!"

Every one of the thousand colors around Jinx suddenly bleeds pink, the same pink as her eyes, and suddenly Jinx is standing in front of her, lifting Powder by a thousand necks forced down into one by her inhuman grip. "You... killed Vi?" Jinx says with a broken voice, naked anguish raw on her face.

Powder struggles in Jinx's grip, barely able to breathe—but part of her notes that Jinx's tears are the same glowing pink as her irises. What—what is she?

“Your Vi,” Powder gasps, scrabbling at the hand on her neck. “She’s… alive?”

There's an indescribable pain in Jinx's eyes, one Powder can't even begin to understand. “…yeah,” Jinx says, blinking away poison tears. “She’s… she’s happy.” She looks down, opening her hand, releasing Powder to drop to whatever surface they're standing on. “I hope she’s happy,” she mumbles.

Everything in Powder stops.

She'd been right. Ekko had known that Vi, that strong, brave woman he'd painted on the walls that Powder had never gotten to see. Vi, somewhere, somehow, had lived.

"Does it matter?" Vi says. "I'm still dead."

No. No, her sister—she cannot stay dead. Powder has spent a month working on this, she's barely slept, she's barely eaten, Vi has been in her ear more and more every day, and it has to have been for something.

"Please," Powder says, climbing to her knees, clasping her hands, begging. "Please, I have to—I have to see her."

Jinx stares down at her, horror in those monstrous, yet somehow innocent eyes.

"Please." Powder sobs. "Bring me back with you. Carry me to Zaun. I need—" Her voice breaks. "I need to see my sister."

"I'm not going back," Jinx says. "I'm not taking you with me. Weren't you listening?" She grabs Powder by the chin. "We kill everything we touch," she growls. "If you want her to stay alive, never ask me to go back again."

Powder feels her chance, maybe her only chance, slipping away. She has to get to Ekko's Zaun. She has to find her sister. She has to get past Jinx, she has to know. She has to know.

She has to see Vi.

"Have fun in your universe," Jinx says, turning, striding towards the edge of the anomaly. "Try not to fuck it up."

"Jinx!" Powder screams, trying to stop her alternate before she vanishes. "Jinx!"

Oh, hell. She's not stopping. Jinx is ignoring her, charging off—she's going to have to do something drastic—

"Felicia!" Powder screams.

The effect on both of them is immediate.

Powder finds herself standing on the bridge again, fire and gas and blood, so small and so scared, Vi's hands covering her eyes, and Powder's heart stops.

But, however bad she has it, Jinx feels it worse. The emaciated girl immediately collapses to her knees and shrieks, a sound of raw and bloody agony tearing itself from her chest. She starts scrabbling, desperately, at the spars of magic that pass by, but each rainbow spike passes through her fingers like ghosts.

Powder forces down the bile in her throat, the rock in her stomach, and drags herself to Jinx, wrapping her arms around the other girl. "Come on," she whispers. "Dear friend, across the river..."

Jinx's fist smashes into her cheek with astounding force, launching Powder a full three feet and filling her vision with stars. When she looks up, Jinx is standing over her, bizarre gun in her hand.

"You're not my fucking mother," Jinx says. "And nobody gets to use my real name. Not even you."

Powder grins weakly, even though the very act sends daggers through the cheek Jinx struck. "Got you to stop, didn't I?" she says.

Jinx glares at her. "You're just like Vi," she says.

Then she jams her gun into Powder's gut and pulls the trigger.

Electricity courses through Powder's body like copper-hot fire, her muscles all seizing at once, dropping her to the nonexistent ground as every limb locks up in agony. She barely sees Jinx sneer at her as she turns and leaps out of the Anomaly-space, as the whole space begins to collapse.

The last thing she thinks before she blacks out is, Her gun was nonlethal?

@embershroud108 @mellkellyismyhero @echo-has-queries @citizensun @unhingedaccuracy @something-broken-failing-rotting @chaoticpinetree @jaijeijayjei @robylovi @darlingitsagathaharkness

[simstationdance]

Anto Patricia converted for male sims - 16 natural colors + volatile recolor base

(shown above in Shrapnel)

I guess now you could call it Anto... Patrick...? sorry-

AGES: CM-EM POLYCOUNT: ~11k INFO: - Two families, grey linked to black. - All files are tooltipped and compressed. - Mesh included. - Animated. - Turnaround (shown in Volatile)

The volatile recolor file is located in the custom bin.

SIMFILESHARE | SIMBLR.CC

CREDITS: Microscotch, PlatinumAspiration, Rudhira, Io, Pooklet, DigitalAngels, Celestialspritz (thank you for helping me out 🥺) and uh me too I guess-

Extra info and long winded backstory under the cut.

Okay so, you might remember that a while back I asked on Garden of Shadows if anyone would be willing to convert this hair for male sims. I usually try to do hyper-specific stuff like this by myself, but in this case I felt like I needed outside help because a. I didn't know how to use Milkshape at all because it had been a solid year since I last tried to use it, and b. I was afraid of Milkshape because I once attempted 4t2 conversions and it went so catastrophically wrong that the bones/joints mesh explosion monsters haunt my nightmares to this day.

But despite that, I decided to start learning how to use Milkshape again, mostly to make clothes - minor things like shoe swaps and small edits. But also I guess for this too. Not that I'm complaining, I liked the learning process, and I like to make things gender neutral. It turns out that, as a beginner, editing pre-existing meshes is significantly easier than trying to create a new one. Who would've guessed.

The hair gave me a bit of trouble, especially around the ears, but with some finagling as well as advice and assistance from some kind souls, it now looks tucked behind them, like the original. The child mesh is unchanged, because CM and CF might as well always be CU.

I didn't retexture the female version of Anto Patricia, and I also only did it in a handful of natural colors (the ones I use in my own game), because at the end of the day this was for my own use for the one (1) sim pictured above in the preview. There would've been binned unnaturals too but the conversion really was just for This One Guy and he's not really a hair dye kind of person.

But I included a base texture, and a bodyshop recolor package for the male mesh, if anyone wants to add more colors or retexture it or whatever. The mapping is the same for both so you can use the texture/colors on the female mesh as well.

If I get more energy in the future, I'll attempt to do the 33 colors in my Io/Pooklet swatch and possibly a Remi V2 textured version for both. For now though, this exists.

[amybabyssims2]

I'm running out of men's hairstyles at the moment so I thought I'd throw a female hairstyle out here. In my colors except for the brown which is Shrapnel. Credits and preview in file.

DOWNLOAD I SFS

[sapphicscholar]

A/N: happy holidays! For the first time in over 2 years I’m back in the supercat tag thanks to the @supersantafemslash gift exchange! Be sure to check out all the works and leave the authors and artists some love in the comments!

Fic Preview:

Standing amidst the rubble of Airforce One and stepping over metal shrapnel with Cat Grant clutched in her arms, all Kara can think is: Thank Rao.

The possibility that the president is dead will hit her later.

For now, what matters is that Cat is safe. Shaken—not that she’d ever admit it, even under the threat of torture—but alive.

Kara blinks down at Cat. Her fingers flex, pushing ever so slightly into the soft flesh of Cat’s oh-so-human body as if to convince herself that the woman is real and safe and alive. Still standing at the end of the world. Again.

“Cat,” Kara whispers. A piece of metal crunches under Kara’s boot as she slowly lowers Cat back to solid ground, and it’s only then that the realization of exactly what has happened washes over her with a sickening wave of guilt. Guilt, yes. Not regret—never regret; not when the alternative would have been stumbling through the wreckage looking for any sign of Cat’s small, lifeless body. Still… “The president,” Kara gasps, her eyes scanning the area.

A piece of the plane bearing the seal of the American presidency rises off the ground and out of the smoldering ashes, and Kara feels her eyes widen at the sight of some alien in President Marsdin’s clothing dusting herself off as her face transforms back into the one Kara thought she had known.

“I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

[mxtwister]

Same Old Story - Part 1 of Discordant Days

Chapter 3: The Stranger Pt. 3 - Discordia Concors

Rating: Teen and Up

Characters: Player Character, Kayleigh, Morgante, Eugene

Warnings: Mild Gore and Body Horror Elements

Summary: Backed into a corner by a horrifically powerful Archangel, Kayleigh and The Stranger make a last-ditch attempt to save their lives, and do it together.

Read on Ao3

Preview under the cut

Oh no, you won’t dare stop and stare again.

There was a bang and a whistle. Air like the edge of a blade dashed across white static flesh–if it could even be called that–while soda-pop acid spray liquefied stone and metal until it sagged into open wounds in the earth. The station was dying. It’s master, too.

But not quickly enough.

Your fingers and toes have turned ice cold.

“Over here!” Kayleigh’s cry pierced the nearly unbearable pitch surrounding them, a sound that could not be heard but felt in the brain like a tight, twinning wire. She swung around the Archangel’s head, taunting it, splitting through its barely-parted fingers when it swung its hands at her and curving delicately around the shrapnel still hovering in the air like little fighter jets awaiting their commands. Her wounded wing faltered. Little spits of blood dappled her still-booming stereos.

“Quick, while it’s distracted!” She didn’t need to say it aloud for The Stranger to understand. They knew it just as they knew it wouldn’t be distracted for long.

This thing wasn’t fighting for its life. No, despite its broken, half-scattered form and the air of death that lingered out from between the cracks in its skull, they knew that survival was far from its mind. It wasn’t fighting because it had to. It was fighting because it wanted to.

Oh no, there’s nothing up your sleeve this time. With all of my might I’ll shut your eyes.

When it twisted around, grabbing at the air where Kayleigh nearly was, The Stranger seized the chance and ran in close enough to score a hot streak across the side of its face. The Archangel reared back, a fracture blossoming where the blow had been struck spewing black ooze–inchor?–that dripped down in a long, swelling tear that The Stranger knew instinctively would burn if they touched it, feeling the way it sizzled the air. Its lips curled, a black-bordered snarl of anger. Its hand tore away from Kayleigh and came down towards them. They lunged out of the way, but just as they felt the wall of rushing air close in behind them a scalding, electric agony seared up their spine and they realized with a stab of horror that it had caught them by the tail like some kind of sickly humorous mousetrap.

You can’t climb these stairs, they’re far too steep for you

The Stranger scrambled desperately against the slippery, fluid-stained ground, failing to find purchase, their claws scratching uselessly until they were cracked and raw and their own blood mingled with that surrounding them. A well of iron taste rose in their mouth, their lungs. All they saw was black. Black blood, black shadow, black shards pulling off and away from the Archangel’s skin, terrifically sharp and all angled right at them.

CODA MORGANA

Pack your bags  and say

A final surge of adrenaline ripped through them; they wrenched themself free of its grasp and leapt towards what they hoped–prayed–was safety.

goodnight.

[eponymous-rose]

So I've been rewatching Star Trek: TNG as comfort TV during/post-move and just got to Yesterday's Enterprise, which I remember liking well enough, but man, it's really unusual in the context of the rest of these early episodes. For one thing, the violence shown is a lot more stark than we've seen in the show thus far - Riker with his throat cut, Captain Garrett with the metal shrapnel in her head, lingering close-ups on dead faces. It's dark and moody and the "happy ending" resolution (as far as we know at this point, anyway) is saving the few survivors of a brutal battle, patching them up, and then shipping them straight back into that battle to be killed.

Given the show's not-so-great track record with its female characters, it's weirdly refreshing that we get a re-do for Tasha Yar. And yeah, she falls in love with a dude and goes off with him on his ship, but she was ready to say goodbye to him and that would've been that - what finally prompts her to step willingly into the meat-grinder is the realization that she had an "empty death" (Guinan had some really raw lines in this one) in the other timeline, and that now her death can have some meaning. It's nicely done, if a bit of a self-flagellating "mea culpa" on the writers' parts.

The alternate timeline isn't the gleeful, campy evil of the Mirrorverse, it's just an exhausted grind through the final days of a losing war. Lots of little touches show how desperate things have become - Wesley's been fast-tracked to a full ensign, Picard is a tactician first and foremost (he takes officers' opinions under advisement, yes, but he's also keeping from them the inevitable, imminent surrender), the bridge is laid out so the captain is front and center with everyone else in the background. As a contrast with the actual Enterprise's chill 90s living room lounge vibe, it's pretty striking. It's like a sneak preview into the bleak and war-heavy sci-fi that would start saturating pop culture a decade or so later, and then it's a firm rejection of that premise - "This isn't a ship of war. It's a ship of peace."

I have a long, long history with TNG - DS9 is my favorite Trek on balance, but TNG is encoded in my DNA. From around ages 3 and 5, my brother and I were watching and rewatching TNG constantly. (My parents would laugh over the fact that my brother didn't know how to read yet but had memorized the episode titles of the first couple seasons.) We had pajamas. We scoured every garage sale and had a giant metal can full of action figures and phasers and tricorders and ships and even, shockingly, that transporter toy that made things disappear using mirrors.

The tactile experience of those toys is burned in my brain - the loose nacelles on the Enterprise model, the click of the left phaser button, the little hole at the bottom of the Borg cube that we once stuck a pencil in and had the tip of the graphite snap off and rattle around forevermore. My brother and I played incessantly with our action figures, to the point where most of them had the paint at least partially rubbed off - we created hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of new episodes over the years. The first time I ever used a touchscreen was at some sort of Star Trek exhibition in Canada in the early 90s that we stumbled across on our way to visit my grandparents.

I'm always fascinated by how kids interact with fictional media - my brother and I were so young, but we obviously knew Star Trek wasn't real. Except... I just always assumed that important people watched it, realized "well, that seems nice", and were actively working to make that future happen. I was (perhaps a little embarrassingly) older when I realized that no, we weren't gonna be out there on science missions to the stars during my lifetime. At least, not in an Enterprise kind of way.

At any given time, there's just this Star Trek filter over how I experience the world - when I got to go to college thanks to scholarships, I had that weighty feeling of responsibility and awe that came with daydreaming about Starfleet Academy. I saw my career shift from the gold of engineering to the blue of science to the red of command. And the older I get, the more I appreciate a show that, for all its flaws, managed to make a utopia interesting and complex.

Because TNG was such a phenomenon when I was a little kid in the early 90s, a lot of my family relationships also have TNG tied up in them. I remember going to my grandparents' apartment and my uncle showing us a fan magazine about the show. I remember another uncle who didn't really "get it" but gifted me and my brother astronaut ice cream because he knew we liked that space stuff. I remember watching most episodes curled up on the couch or my parents' bed with my brother and my mom and dad. When Mom got sick and we talked about death, I remember the way she wistfully brought up the Nexus from Generations or how she hoped she could see the next season of Picard (she didn't, sadly, but she really enjoyed that first season). Hell, one of the first real bonding moments I had with my otherwise hyper-professional and businesslike PhD advisor was when she made a TNG joke, I laughed at it, and she said, "I just love that show, everyone's so nice to each other."

It's just been a lot of fun coming back to this show, is all. I think I periodically forget how much it's affected me and the extent to which it was a fundamental, formative influence. While a lot of it either hasn't aged well or fails to hold up to modern media analysis, so much of it is still lovely, and occasionally there are these moments of shockingly good storytelling.

Star Trek good.

[picturesofthegoneworlds]

Preview for Intertwined, chapter 14

Laudna holds the freshly de-scaled fish under the surface of the running river, its underside slit open from gill to tail, dyeing the water around it in crimson tendrils that are shaped by its current, decorated by errant shining scales, motion fast and twisting so it creates shapes more akin to bolts than clouds, magic-

Blood strikes away from her pallid skin; carries down the river back towards their camp nestled in the alcove of giant tree roots.

Laudna had insisted that Imogen stay on her bedroll that morning, to try and get the rest adequate to fully heal-over the puncture under her ribs. She woke with no nightmares to report, but all of the tossing and turning Laudna watched her conduct in her sleep had her grimacing when her own slumber had abandoned her, fumbling for what to do and ending up paralysed within arm’s length of Imogen in her own bedroll.

Last night was-

well.

Laudna had made a choice. Exposed herself, past how much she already did so by travelling with a telepath

That still felt remarkable in and of itself (Imogen is remarkable).

The freshly removed fish guts on the bank of the river

Laudna drops half of them into the stream organ by organ, leaves the other a platter on the floor for whom or whatever finds them.

Out of innards

Torn and bare, bared, raw. Imogen had seen the molars through the ripped flesh in Laudna’s mother’s cheeks, had last night seen her attempt to just peel her whole face off, remove the ability to be a doppelganger for an elf with tan and pink skin.  

Mourning. Veiling. What she had or what she had lost. She was never sure if that was for one or the other or both.

Either way, it was inspiring. She kind of enjoys it, actually, now (especially now. Excited, even, at how she perhaps has an audience to appreciate her fine outfitting)

Laudna will make them both breakfast. Fish fried in butter with chickweed - she had seen a fair amount tangled in the vines.

Moss, she should collect and dry out more moss. A lot more.

Silt is disturbed on the calmer slight-bend at the bank of the river.

A larger fish with rough and warted skin like a toad crawls out on hind legs from under flat rocks that are surely slick with algae and moss.

Rivers of red

It has whiskers like a cat fish, though much longer, must have noticed the disturbance in the water with such, using them as rods to lasso swimming organs into its gullet.  

Laudna had scooped the offal out of the clean line of dissection she had made, scraped against fleshy ribs with the tips of her talons.

She could have plunged a finger into the tear in Imogen’s side, the gap was accommodating enough. Could have pulled out her intestines in one long string and gathered them like rope under her arm-

Not that she would

Someone else, maybe

Maybe under their rule

(she can’t have her. she can’t give her the chance.)

It feels like heartburn

It’s not warming

Imogen's breath came out as mist when she stood in Laudna’s vicinity. Veil covering, buffeting the touch between Imogen's hand and her shrapneled jaw. Warm flesh on bone. Delightful. Laudna does not think on how bone should be able to receive the feel of the touch without the nerve endings.  

Perhaps she muses on it for a moment. Magic.

(you can read the previous chapters here)

[yes-i-am-happyaspie]

Sicktember Fic Preview Time!

This fic uses prompts:

24 Tales From the Waiting Room

26 Heart Condition/Cardiac Arrest 

Alt 1 Hospital Bed

With a glint in his eye, Peter grabbed a hold of a nearby support pillar and ascended towards the lofty ceiling. He planted one hand, then a foot, followed by his other two limbs. Then he gradually crawled his way over to Mr. Stark’s desk. He could barely contain his delight as he suddenly disengaged his sticky prowess and dropped to the floor directly in front of Mr. Stark.

A loud gasp escaped Mr. Stark’s mouth as he reached up to clutch his chest.“Christ. Pete!” he shouted, sending Peter into a fit of laughter.  He sucked in a harsh breath and rubbed his knuckles over his sternum. “Are you trying to kill me? I have a heart condition!”

The dramatic reaction was exactly what Peter was hoping for. Something amusing to break away from the monotony classes and school work. He reigned in his cackling just enough to speak. “Don’t worry Mr. Stark.” He raised his hands in a placating manner. “Fear-induced stress cardiomyopathy is like- super-duper rare.”

Mr. Stark released an extended breath and leaned back his chair. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then asked, “How would you know?”

Peter grinned. “I looked it up.” 

“Why?” Mr. Stark demanded, his face twisted into a look of combined horror and distrust. “Why would you look that up, Pete? Are you plotting more jump scares in my future?”

“No.” Peter smiled. As much as Mr. Stark liked to joke about having a heart condition, the truth was, he did have one. It was a result of the shrapnel that had pierced his body, the arc reactor he’d embedded in his chest, and the eventual removal of both. Although, he’d never admit those were the reasons he’d started researching cardiac health. He shrugged his shoulders and rocked back on his heels. “I just like to know things.”

[fandomworld9728]

The Life of the Morningstars: Chapter 20 Preview!

"No! No, no, nonono! Fuck!" Even in his full demon form and using all his strength, Lucifer couldn't break a door, a wall, nothing. They were trapped. "I can't believe they warded the Embassy!"

"Lulu, it's okay. We'll find a way out of here." Beelzebub tried to reassure her baby brother. "Would it make you feel any better to see how they're doing in the battle? I know our precious little niece and her friends are probably kicking ass right now."

It honestly would help calm his nerves to see that his daughter and her ragtag group he had come to love and care for were faring well against Adam and his army. But he couldn't extend his reach past the wards on the building. Unless... "Someone pull up a live fed of the Exterminations on your phone and use your magic to project! Someone is always covering it!" 

Walking over to one of the tables, Lucifer sat down with the other three sins as Asmodeus had done as he requested. Carefully watching, he pulled out his own phone to make a call. He hated asking them to come out in the middle of the Extermination, especially now that the treaty was broken, but they needed out of this building.

So far so good. Seems like Alastor had put up a barrier, keeping any more of the angels to get near them so they could take down the ones already caught inside of it. That creepy bastard was coming through better than the king could have hoped. Wait. Were those...?

"Uh... Luci? Why are there tentacles coming out of that barrier?"

"Yeah. That's something I'd expect to see from Ozzie, mate."

"That's really cool though. They're wielding weapons. I bet that guy is fun to party with."

Well, it was effective at the very least. And very on brand for the radio demon. "I doubt a guy from the 1930's is gonna wanna party the same way you do, Bee." 

"Come and get some!"

"Eat shrapnel fuckers!"

"....Those two on the other hand might be more up your alley."

"Is that Angel Dust?!"

"Of course, all three of you know who he is!" Who knew Angel Dust was so popular in the other rings? Maybe he could get the spider demon a new job with Ozzie after the battle.

[joz-yyh]

Rust - Ch. 7 (Preview)

SUMMARY: A “how they got together” and “where they are now” fic in which I detail how Damian and Tardif meet and consequently fall in love. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: T (for preview only / descriptions of gore/injury)

PAIRING: Bounty Hunter x Flagellant

WORD COUNT: 2,135

A/N: Damian needs to enlist the aid of a fellow hero if he’s going to overcome the nature behind Tardif’s surreptitious injuries. Everything has it’s price, even life itself.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Damian stalks his fingers along the severed object embedded in Tardif’s abdomen, the shape of it round like a tusk. He doubts the foreign gouge can be removed conventionally, needing a razor's edge to cut the gear off of him if he wants to see how deep it runs.

The sheer size of it is worrisome. If this was truly some relic of a creature's tooth or claw, it must've come from something massive and the flagellant cannot place it's origin to any of the foes he knew, wonders what kind of mess Tardif had gotten mixed up in order to end up like this.

“Perhaps you’d be more agreeable to the infirmary," the flagellant presses, anger lines forming on his face, this better to accept than the sadness gripping hold of him.

Even if he assembles some crude means of transport to drag Tardif through the woods, the man had lost too much blood and would not likely survive the trek back to the sanitarium.

“Not … gunna be … poked and prod at," the bounty hunter protests, grumbling weakly, "ye can't anyway. It's ... it's... holdin' everythin' in."

“Holding everything in …,” Damian echoes, his overwrought mind steady piecing the euphemism together.

He can’t remove it, not when it’s the only thing keeping his partner's insides from falling out.

The flagellant no longer cares about being thorough. He gets to work healing what flesh he can, only getting so far before he's repelled, an unseen barrier protecting the object and the eviscerated organs surrounding it. Perplexed, but no less persistent, the morbid priest tries again and again to mend tissue, cauterize veins, and each time he is met with the same unfortunate result.

No ordinary opponent could have done this. A force of darkness so strong that even an oversized piece of shrapnel could command such power spoke of something incredibly evil.

"Tardif, what was your enemy,” Damian insists through a grit of teeth, “Describe it to me.”

"Don't know," the brute churns out, panting with the effort it takes to speak.

"Now is not the time to��” Damian starts, an exhorted cry, but the bounty hunter’s garbled bark interjects him.

"Couldn't see the damn thing," the brute growls, running himself ragged.

The flagellant shakes his head, eyes widening under the shroud of his hood, stumbling upon a realization that devastates him.

“I can’t heal this,” he admits, feeling useless and hating every part of himself that brought them to this point, “There's dark magic here. We need Alhzared."

"Great," Tardif offers sarcastically, fatigue weighing him down, sinking further into his partner's grip, “why didn’t I think of that.”

"I will be quick," the flagellant promises, withdrawing himself from around the bounty hunter, laying him down as considerably as he can.

"Survived this long. What's another 30 minutes," the brute jokes, understandably more irritable than usual as he shifts to lie on his side, bereft of his partner's scaffold of limbs and the comfort it brought.

"Try not to move," comes Damian's propelled instruction, fearing that the stubborn ox would make his condition worse if he lurched around too much.

"Then, don't take too long," the bounty hunter retorts, holding a hand over the hole in his stomach, plugged as it was with the worst kind of cork.

“I won’t,” the pale man pledges, already out the door, his steps beating like swift wings as they carry him into town.

—---

Damian clambers into the barracks, his sprint jostling some of the other heroes from their slumber, knocking into a bed frame, jumping over another's mattress so not to slow himself down.

He's met with resounding groans of annoyance, the squeaks of box springs and the rustling of sheets, but the hasty messenger pays them no mind, finding that the occultist resides the farthest away, against the back wall.

Candles provide a beacon to the pitch blackness, a projection of rotating lights, constellations of stars hung upon tapestries and persian rugs.

The flagellant skids to a halt once he enters Al's niche, the mystic sitting amidst a collective of pillows, absorbed in meditation.

"Tardif in danger," the priest heaves, having no time for proper sentences being out of breath as he was, "please, help."

The mystic inhales deeply, regarding his visitor with sage patience, "The stars spoke of darkness on the horizon. Now I see what form it takes.”

The flagellant cares not for cosmic mythos, not now, not at this moment. He needed action. Every second was another wasted.

"Please, I will do whatever you ask," the flagellant begs, frantic to get moving, "There is no time. He is dying."

"Yes, cursed with a very slow and painful death, I imagine," the mediterranean man nods, opening an enlightening eye, "I warned him not to underestimate the other side. See what suffering it brings."

Damian doesn't appreciate that remark, lets it show on his face, not that the other man is bothered by his offenses.

"Will you help us or not," the flagellant insists, unable to quell his anger despite needing this man's eldritch expertise.

“I am not a monster," Al declares, rising from the floor, taking up his effigy from the wooden dias in the center, “I will aid you, but at great cost.”

“I will pay it," Damian vows without hesitation.

“Oh, I have ways that will ensure you do,” the occultist warns, holding the old skull towards the holy man with careful instruction. "Place your hand in the flame."

Damian looks down at the haunting relic, sees that it's wick is yet unlit.

"What fl–," the flagellant asks, cut off by a supernatural gust of wind that circles the room, snuffing out what traces of light there was.

"That flame," the mystic explains, a knowing smirk curling beneath his mustache as his spectral phantasm burns brightly, it's vacant eye sockets seeming to flare eerily along with it.

Damian scowls with uncertainty, the doubt only lasting a moment when he considers what he must do, whose life is at stake.

As soon as his digits are within reach, the flame blazes, his hand consumed within an explosion of pyromancy as if the ghastly fire is alive, sensing his intent.

The flagellant pulls back, the fire making him feel deathly cold as it trails up his arm, turning his skin blue, illuminating the tissue and bone within, but there comes no pain.

“The contract has been made,” Al tells him, the candles returning to their normal steady glow, the skull talisman as well appears as nothing more than harmless decoration.

Al chuckles, a cocky triumphant grin, "I didn't expect a warrior of Light to be so quick to offer their soul to my great benefactor, but we thank you for your sacrifice."

Had he really done as the mystic said? Damian looks down at his hand, turning it over. There was no evidence of a pact, no burns, no marks that he could see. One could easily say the seance never happened.

"Come, we must fetch Paracelsus as well," the occultist instructs, calling his attention, “Follow me.”

"Y'LW'NAFH N'GHFT," he chants, gesturing with his hand as a conflagration of sigils appear, manifesting a swirling vortex of time and space.

–

"No use hangin' out by the door," the bounty hunter grumbles, a mild invitation cloaked in sheer practicality.

Looming just out of sight, ripe with hesitation, Damian gasps lightly. Even with the wall dividing them, Tardif still knew he was there, waiting on the other side.

The priest keeps his head bowed as he plods into the bedroom, the cowl seeming to eclipse his whole face, fearful of what emotion his presence would have on the bounty hunter.

"H-how are you fairing," parses the flagellant, hovering outside the bed, keeping his distance as they exchange platitudes.

He's nervous. Tardif can see it in his every move.

"I've had worse days," the brute shrugs, a lame smirk tugging at his lips with no humor to accompany it.

"Paralecus said you should stay in bed," Damian reminds him, trying to play along with the levity, force a smile, but it doesn't keep. "I meant to take care of you, change your bandages."

This time, Tardif is the one who bows his head, his gaze fixated on the sheets pooling in his lap, the clench of his own fists that rest there.

"Guess ye have the gift of prophecy," the bounty hunter scoffs, now staring at the wall ahead with a moderate degree of contempt.

Damian frowns, inclining his neck, clearly befuddled by the insinuation.

"Ye don't remember," Tardif asks, surprised, angling his focus towards the absent-minded priest. "In the weald," the mercenary continues, the occasion forever branded into his memory, "when ye held a knife to me, tottin' leeches and bedrest?"

Ah, that. A scarred mouth opens to speak, then closes again. He can't seem to stop his shameful eyes from drifting toward the floor, jagged fingernails digging into the muscle of his right arm, clutched in punishment.

"I did not mean--" Damian finally starts, but the bounty hunter is quick to correct him.

"Heh, I know," he chuckles weakly, "Bad joke."

The flagellant isn't laughing. If anything the somber daze surrounding him grows deeper, more profound.

Damian risks treading closer, the brute turning to meet him, receptive and curious of his intentions.

A bloody hand reaches out as the holy man leans over the mattress, thumbing across the faint sheen of sweat collecting on the crest of dark brows.

Tardif is on the tail end of a fever, the priest can feel traces of it as he threads each tousled strand back into the damp plume of raven-colored hair.

Mismatched eyes close amidst the gentle pandering, the brigand becoming a meek disciple under these ministrations, letting his partner bless him with whatever tender ritual he wished.

Damian swallows, the action audible in the heavy silence. These informal gestures of trust fill him with such unabashed longing he can barely contain it.

"Let me get you something to drink," the blonde says, giving himself an excuse to pull away, mask his own desire for closeness just as another hair falls out of place.

A callous hand grasps at his wrist, warm and grounding as it tacitly holds him there.

"Just a little longer," Tardif asks, ruining the flagellant with those words, that beautiful aching smile.

This alone was enough to say what went unsaid, that Tardif still desired him, wanted him near.

The dam breaks, Damian's composure along with it as he falls to his knees, Tardif's hand is now in both of his, pressing them to his head like a crucifix in prayer.

"Where did you go," Damian sobs, a desperate slew of questions borne from his troubled mind, "Why did you leave?"

Tardif feels shame claim him as he considers the answer, letting precious seconds tick by, unable to voice what his partner wants to know because he's not ready to admit it, not even to himself.

"I feared the worst," the blonde continues when the other will not, his repressed feelings stripped free if their mortal coil, "I-I prayed for you I–"

"It's not important," the mercenary deflects, a curt grind of teeth. His insides squirm with a self-loathing sickness, knowing Damian weeps because of him.

"Of course it is," Damian insists, finally looking up from his lament, "I–I ���!"

He's too afraid of what comes next, his throat closing too tightly around the words, leaving them there to trickle down and die.

"Later …," Tardif mumbles, growing weary thanks to the plague doctor's potent syringe, "… too tired now."

Damian goes quiet, blinking one last band of tears, nodding in obedience.

"Lay beside me," the bounty hunter tells him, slouching with disoriented cognition, shifting to make room on the bed.

Damian hesitates, weary of upsetting his partner's wounds even as Tardif tugs on his hand to join him.

"But your–"

"It'll help me sleep," the bounty hunter explains, distantly, his eyelids already getting heavy with the abetting cocktail of drugs in his system.

As awkward as it is, the flagellant doesn't let go of his lover's hand as he climbs into bed, mindful that none of his other body parts touch Tardif's, his scarred back curled towards the edge of the mattress.

As Damian lies there, he listens, waiting for heavy breaths to even out, squeezing at the thick fingers clasped in his, proof that this man was still here with him: real and alive.

Perhaps, it is out of mere reflex, a lucid dream that his gesture is returned, but flagellant doesn't care, he smiles all the same as he presses a surly hand to his lips, kissing the backs of tattooed knuckles.

He swears he catches Tardif smiling too, the sight filling him with a weightless salvation, a sense of belonging, knowing that this angel of death and carnage had come back to him.

The priest's eyes fall shut, meaning just to rest them, but before he knows it, he's already fast asleep.

{End Preview}

[amybabyssims2]

In my standard colors except for the brown which is Shrapnel. Made by @spell-bloom. credits and preview in file. DOWNLOAD I SFS

[swldx]

BBC 0408 19 Oct 2024

12095Khz 0359 19 OCT 2024 - BBC (UNITED KINGDOM) in ENGLISH from TALATA VOLONONDRY. SINPO = 55445. English, dead carrier s/on @0359z then ID, pips, and newsroom preview. @0401z World News anchored by Chris Berrow. § An Israeli air strike has killed at least 33 people including 21 women at a refugee camp in northern Gaza, the strip's Hamas-run authorities say. There was no immediate comment on the reported attack at Jabalia from Israel, whose forces have been besieging the densely-populated camp for weeks. The killing of Hamas leader Yahya Sinwar this week raised hopes in some quarters of an end to the war but the group's deputy leader said Hamas would only be strengthened. The pathologist in Israel who conducted his autopsy told US media he had been shot in the head. Dr Chen Kugel also found injuries to his right forearm from "missile fire", a damaged left leg from "fallen masonry" and shrapnel injuries. § Kamala Harris and Donald Trump have exchanged personal insults while campaigning in Michigan for the upcoming US election. The Democratic candidate mocked her Republican rival for avoiding debates and cancelling interviews. § Cuba is experiencing a nationwide blackout after its main energy plant failed, knocking out power to its 10 million people. Its power grid collapsed at around 11:00 (15:00 GMT) on Friday, the energy ministry announced on social media. Grid officials said they did not know how long it would take to restore power. § The UN Security Council has voted unanimously to expand its arms embargo in Haiti because of grave concerns over extremely high levels of gang violence. The embargo will extend to all types of arms and ammunition in the Caribbean country, which faces multiple challenges. § Colombian land dedicated to the cultivation of coca leaves, a raw ingredient for cocaine, jumped 10% last year to reach the largest area in over two decades, a report by the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC) found on Friday. § Sydney beaches that were closed earlier this week when thousands of black balls washed ashore are set to reopen this weekend, with NSW Maritime deeming it safe to do so. On Tuesday, hundreds of tar balls, which occur when oil combines debris, water and other pollutants, washed along Sydney's coastline, first appearing at Coogee Beach. These tar balls have since been confirmed as a mixture of chemicals consistent with those found in cleaning and cosmetic products as well as fuel oil. § Liam Payne's father arrived in Buenos Aires on Friday, just two days after the former One Direction star plunged to his death from a hotel balcony. Geoff Payne identified his son's body at the morgue, as well as visited the prosecutor's office to arrange plans to return the pop star's remains to England, authorities said. @0406z "The Newsroom" begins. Backyard gutter antenna w/MFJ-1020C active antenna (used as a preamplifier/preselector), JRC NRD-535D, 250kW, beamAz 315°, bearing 63°. Received at Plymouth, United States, 15359KM from transmitter at Talata Volonondry. Local time: 2259.

[theivorybilledwoodpecker]

Had to google this. Never have I seen a less sympathy-inducing headline.

For anyone curious, it's called "Shrapnel and Sturgeon: Making Caviar Under the Rockets in Israel."

I stopped subscribing to the NYT after they fired a writer for supporting Palestine, but from what little the preview lets me read, it seems like it's about the woes of a lsraeli caviar farmer near the Israel-Lebanon border who needs to deal with Hezbollah rockets. And like, I can't read far enough to tell what type of person the article is about. Obviously, not all Israelis are progenocide, and of course I don't feel like all of them deserve to have to be in danger.

But the fact is that Israel is the main aggressor in the war with Hezbollah and the Palestinian genocide. The rockets are being sent in retaliation for Israel's attacks on Lebanon.

The israeli socialist caviar farmer is experiencing troubles according to the new York Times

[michaelcosio]

Stolen Valor Phony Navy SEAL of the Week… The Russian Deck Ape Head Shrapnel Havin PTSD Dude.

Nov 30, 2023

Phony SEAL Todd Lamarsh Preview.

Retired Navy SEAL Don Shipley ENGAGES a clown who's ripping off a young Army business partner claiming SEAL.

[whispermask]

gasoline in your heart ch.4/10 | ghost/soap/könig

read on ao3 | first ~ next | ch wc: 2.2k, total: 34k | completed

tags: smut, eventual ot3, fwbs to lovers, porn with feelings, jealous!ghost

summary: soap and ghost start hooking up; soap and könig have apparently been hooking up; ghost doesn't know how to deal with it (eventual polycule), chapter 4 is more ghost/könig-centric 

preview: He almost gives himself whiplash turning to face the source of the voice. It’s König. Simon realizes his mistake instantly, the sleeves of his heather-grey thermal sweater pushed up so that the tattoos on his left arm are clearly visible. He’s usually so careful, covering his tattoos when he’s in London, the obverse to wearing a mask while deployed. König flushes, clearly embarrassed at having guessed right, probably wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.

Once the mission is completed—all six missiles recovered safely, the big bad gunned down in Istanbul after going on the lam—and he’s shaken hands with just about every bureaucratic officer in the chain of command, Ghost is required to take two weeks leave before his next assignment in Azerbaijan.

Home for Christmas. Hurray.

As a rule, Ghost spends his leaves resting and healing. When he settles into bed on his first night back in his Chiswick flat, he sleeps for fourteen dreamless hours. Once he manages to drag himself into the loo for a piss and a shower, he catches sight of himself in the mirror. He’s wearing civvies, pajamas at that, maskless, not a piece of tactical equipment in sight. He grips the bathroom counter and leans forward to get a closer look at his face, seeks to recognize the person staring back at him. He catalogs what he sees. Tries to fit the puzzle pieces together. 

From his right cheekbone to the corner of his mouth is a silvery white scar, keloided and gnarled. Got that one in Somalia over a decade ago, from a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen. She had come at him after he’d forced his way into the target’s home, a man who was wanted for a slew of things but chief among them in Ghost’s mind was the child trafficking. She hadn’t even hesitated to throw herself at him with her arm raised above her head, the blade already arcing down to cut open his face. Ghost had only realized after he’d killed her, firing the gun in reflex, blinded by his own blood and driven by his body’s stress response, that she was likely one of the victims. He had neglected to treat the wound, instead letting it become infected so the scar would never fade. He’d ended up in the hospital for sepsis two weeks later. He was pulled from active duty for two months after that. 

A scar on his neck, red and thin, an attempt to slit his own throat at twenty-eight, just returned from the dead after a seven month stint as a POW in Afghanistan and pissed to the point of alcohol poisoning;

a smattering of small, thin scars above his left temple, shrapnel he’d caught after a helo had gone down with him in it, the pilot’s lifeless eyes staring at him where he laid twenty feet away from the carnage, having been ejected from the cockpit by the force of the impact;

a cigarette burn on his left brow, a gift from his father when he was only nine years old. His eyebrow had never grown back the same, the line of it permanently broken by a slash of purplish skin. 

The list goes on.

Ghost struggles to reconcile the man he sees before him with the black-eyed phantom he sees from under the mask. It’s like uncanny valley, there’s enough there that he registers his own face, he just can’t tell if it’s real, doesn’t know who he is right now. Simon, he supposes. In all his naked, scarred glory. A creature of flesh, exposed and fallible.

Simon sighs, roughs his palm over his stubble, grown out enough now that it’s nearly a beard. He goes for the shaving kit in the vanity and then changes his mind, decides to let it grow out. 

-

Bam is Simon’s seventy-seven year old neighbor. Born and bred in Chiswick, she mother hens the hell out of him during the few times a year he’s actually home. She’d even talked him into taking up yoga and meditation “for your mental health, Simon, don’t be dense.” Had strong-armed him into attending a class with her, where other blue haireds had cooed and fawned over his first attempt at downward dog. It’s a practice he’d taken to rather quickly, reserving thirty minutes of his mornings for sun salutations, circumstances permitting. 

She doesn’t have any family, like Simon, and he often finds himself accompanying Bam on her shopping trips, chuffed when she insists on buying him a chocolate at the register like how he'd imagine his Nan might've if she hadn't passed when he was a baby. He helps her get her cat to the vet one time, the wretched thing hacking and howling, clawing the ever-loving shite out of Simon’s arm. He doesn’t tell her he’s allergic, but she brings him benadryl and a cuppa while he’s sitting on her sofa once the cat had been determined to be healthy and whole, just royally pissed that his owner had changed cat food brands. 

She takes him to see Rage Against the Machine at Finsbury Park for his birthday after Somalia. He wines and dines her to show his appreciation the next time he’s on leave, kisses her cheek after he drops her off at her flat. She always pats his face and says he’s a good boy, that anybody would be so lucky to have him. It’s the healthiest not-relationship he’s ever been in.

It’s Christmas Eve morning. He’s in St. James’s, shopping for a Christmas gift for Bam at her favorite jeweler. The shop is quaint and bright, playing Frank Sinatra’s Christmas album softly. He’s debating which style of chain to get for Bam’s necklace when he hears the bells on the front door jingle and someone behind him says “Ghost?”

He almost gives himself whiplash turning to face the source of the voice. Ghost recognizes those burning blue eyes. It's König.

Simon realizes his mistake instantly, the sleeves of his heather-gray thermal sweater pushed up so that the tattoos on his left arm are clearly visible. He’s usually so careful, covering his tattoos when he’s in London, the obverse to wearing a mask while deployed. König flushes, clearly embarrassed at having guessed right, probably wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.

“Not on leave,” Simon says. “Here I’m just Simon.”

“I will not be calling you that,” König says. He is blond, Ghost realizes with a twinge, a creamy ash unlike Simon’s dishwater. But blond nonetheless, and well groomed, dressed in civvies, a black peacoat overtop a pale blue button up and grey fitted slacks. He’s almost too pretty, face unmarred and symmetrical. His eyes are deepset and penetrating, even more startling blue like frost without the veil.

“Have it your way.”

“I didn’t come here looking for you,” König hurries, putting his hands up in defense. “I promise, I wasn’t following you.”

“Never said you were.”

“I’m visiting my sister in South Kensington for Hanukkah.”

“Happy Hanukkah,” Simon says.

“Merry Christmas,” König responds.

The bells jingle again and a young woman, similar in likeness to König but much shorter, enters the jewelry shop, a small dark haired child clutching her hand trailing behind her. König’s sister, Simon guesses.

“Klaus, wir werden zu spät kommen — oh, hello,” the woman says. 

“Petra, this is—” König starts, stops, brushes a hand through his hair. “Simon.” 

“Are you sure about that?” Petra asks, teasing, brow arching. Her accent is a bit posh but undeniably Austrian, like her brother’s. 

“Well—” König starts.

“A pleasure,” Simon interrupts, and shakes Petra’s hand. The child, still a toddler Simon realizes, stares up at him from behind Petra’s leg. “Hullo,” Simon tries, and the child tucks his face further out of view.

“Joachim, say hi,” Petra encourages. Joachim shakes his head against her leg. “Sorry, he’s a bit nervous around strangers.”

“My ugly mug doesn’t help, I’m sure,” Simon says, going for playful.

“Oh, not at all. That is, not that I–I mean, you’re very tall,” Petra stutters. “The scars are kind of working for you.”

“Please make this stop,” König whispers from behind the hand he’s slapped against his forehead. 

“We’ve got to go anyway,” Petra says. “We’re meeting mum for lunch at Fallow.”

“Oi, ‘aven’t they got one of those stars?” Simon asks

“A Michelin star? Yes, that’s right—” Petra responds, smiling. 

“Ja, ja, Petra is a successful barrister, a real wunderkind, she takes mum out to extravagant, Michelin-starred restaurants and puts me to shame,” König intones and waves his hand. Simon laughs. König stares like he's grown a second head.

“Right,” Petra says, looking between the two. “Anyway, it was lovely to meet you Simon. Klaus, wir sind spät. Let’s go, ja?” She hooks her arm in König’s and begins walking the three of them towards the door, Joachim still clinging to her other side. 

“Likewise,” Simon says. “Happy holidays.” 

“See you,” König says, hesitating in the doorway. He seems to want to say more but Petra’s not having it as she drags him out.

“Scheiße, Klaus. Just ask for his number next time,” he hears Petra say as the door closes.

-

Simon picks out a delicate silver chain with a dove shaped pendant surrounded by quarter karat diamonds. He's allowed to spoil Bam, has so much money in his savings account it’s a little sickening. He’s not one to splurge, especially on himself, but once he sees the dove he knows it’s the perfect choice for her, his saving grace.

As he’s rounding the corner for the tube station, he sees König leaned against a building across the street. When he spots Simon, he jogs over, nearly getting himself rundown by a black cab who honks at his wave of apology.

“How have you survived this long?” Simon asks.

“He knows jokes!” König says. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at lunch?”

“I told Petra I left my wallet at one of the shops.”

“And did she say it doesn’t matter because you’re not paying for lunch either way?”

“Ha! Johnny said you were funny, I just didn’t believe him.”

And there it is, this unspoken thing between them. Simon recalls the way König’s back had flexed under the red light, how he had lifted Soap with ease, graceful line of his body coiled with power but not violent, almost tender in spite of how hard he had been fucking Soap. 

“Look, I didn’t know you two were—”

“It really isn't like that,” König interrupts. “Well, it is. But, it’s just not realistic for men like us is it? Doing what we do, the risks we take. ” Any promise they’ve ever made outside of their professional careers—to lovers, friends, family even—inevitably broken, disappointment festering into resentment. 

“S’pose not,” Simon says.

“I think he misses you, though he won’t admit it.”

“Could you. Well, would you give me his number?”

“Of course! Here take mine too while we’re at it” König responds and pulls out his phone. “What’s your number?” Simon gives it to him.

“Thanks,” Simon says when his phone lights up in his palm with the notification.

“What will you say?” König asks.

“You’ll just have to wait to find, won’t you,” Simon says. König flinches. He doesn’t mean it to be cruel, and isn't particularly bothered that Soap has shared the details of their escapades with König. He has every right to talk about it with whomever he pleases, trusts Soap wouldn't forgo professional decorum outside of this thing he has going with both Ghost and König. 

“I didn’t mean it like that—” he starts.

“Nee, nee, warte," König interrupts, holding up a hand. "Johnny likes you. He really, really likes you. And I could too, for him, I think.” König flushes, and Simon’s eyes watch it spread down his neck to the v of his shirt. Snaps his eyes back up to König's face, his pink lips. Then he turns on his heel and leaves, Simon staring after him. 

-

It’s a rare thing that he’s home for Christmas, so Bam had insisted on doing it up right. Had him carry a tree up three flights of stairs and forced him into a Santa hat while they decorated with popcorn garlands and dusty ornaments Bam had pulled from the depths of her hall closet. 

Christmas day, he helps Bam prepare dinner. Honeyed ham, roasted potatoes, rosemary brussel sprouts, yorkshire pudding, and Christmas trifle for dessert. They feast and get pissed on Kentucky bourbon, swapping stories and hurling jabs, bantering. Simon hadn't realized how much he missed Soap until now, sharing Bam's easy company and wishing Soap was there with him. They sway to Rod Stewart’s Merry Christmas, Baby and chain smoke an entire pack of Davidoffs. It’s midnight by the time Bam’s falling asleep at the table, cigarette dangling from between her fingers. Simon stubs it out in the ashtray and carries her to bed, tucks her in with a kiss on the forehead.

“Such a good boy, Simon,” Bam mutters, half-awake. “All alone in this world. Simon, when you find someone, don’t let them go.” She then turns over, pulling the sheets around her, and begins to snore. Simon backs out of the room and closes the door softly.

He sits in the armchair by the fire, basks in the warmth of it, dazed and well-fed. He considers what Bam said and isn’t surprised to find Soap waiting on the other side of that door once he’s dared to open it. König's words ring in his ears. “I could too, for him.”

Could he…? For Johnny? 

He would give Johnny the world on fire, he thinks, if he asked for it, but maybe he’s just drunk.

His blood pulses in his ears as he considers it. What it might be like to fuck Soap with another man’s dick shoved deep down Soap’s throat, in Soap’s ass rubbing against his. The bourbon sings in his blood: yes, you could. yes, you could.

Before he’s even decided, he’s got his pants unbuttoned and pushed down his hips. He palms his cock, rubs over the sensitive head, gets himself to half mast and grips the outline of it through his briefs. Snaps a picture. Send it to Soap with the caption ‘ You were right. ’ Then he adds ‘ Merry Christmas ’ and turns his phone off. He does up his pants and finds a throw blanket and settles on the sofa. The room spins. He closes his eyes.

*******

wir werden zu spät kommen: we’re going to be late wir sind spät: we’re late Nee, nee, warte: no, no, wait (what I read about this was that it’s often used by a teacher/instructor when speaking to a student which I thought was kind of appropriate for this interaction and also König talking down in a way to Ghost is doing things for me)