#thread; miles & beck
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+ ODESSA / SCOUTING
"Still nothing?" Beckett asks as he approaches the cliffside perch beside Odessa. He's secured the area for the second time in two hours, and moves back to the space beside her. It could be selfish to want her with him on these scouting missions, but there's no one he'd prefer to have beside him. If only because he's confident no one can protect her the way he can, even if she's a formidable force on her own. Beck still feels better when it's the two of them. It's the thought that crosses his mind when he settles back on his stomach next to her, brushing a kiss to her temple as they lay low to avoid detection. "I didn't see anything either, but they'll be approaching soon." He guesses before he shuts his eyes and splays his hands on the ground to check.
It's a subtle art, one that requires patience and focus, as though chasing a thread before he catches it. Only then can he feel the rumblings coursing up through the earth, sinking into his palm from miles away. Like his very hand is an extension of the cool, damp ground beneath it. Once he feels the tell-tale tremors, blue eyes flash openand he grabs his binoculars. "They're definitely getting close." He asserts, peering at the tree line far below their perch. The only shapes he makes out are those of animals scurrying away, rather than people. "Fifteen minutes. Maybe less." Beck conjectures, based on his interpretation of the shaking ground.
Another moment passes before he pulls back, handing his wife the binoculars so she can see. Odessa is as keen as they come, and if he misses something, Beckett is confident she won't. "Once the caravan passes, we'll had back." He says, observing her now even as she looks through the lenses below. When he focuses on the damp tresses clinging to her temple, Beck reaches out to adjust her hood. "Are you good?" Conditions are still hard with the weather in this part of Canada. But he'll take rain over snow for ease of travel, even if he doesn't prefer either when it's this cold. @rviner
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19. how many serious relationships has your muse been in? are they experienced or inexperienced when it comes to dating? SPILL THE TEA ON ALL THE GUYS
{ 🍵 You know you want: ALL THE GUYS }
*all muses are multiship. mentioning a few of youses muses cos i feel it's important.
🫗 music!ben
He is experienced, and he enjoys new experiences, sensual/sexual encounters included. However, as you can imagine, Music!Ben bores easily, and as a jumper, tends to keep a few sex partners at once. Music!Ben really doesn’t like to be alone. (* Unlike the other Bens, he is most comfortable surrounded by people, and things, and noise. The ‘biz’ is his war zone. *) Thankfully, he’s responsible about the physical aspects of sexual health, but he doesn’t like his partners knowing about each other and won’t tell one partner whether or not or who else he’s seeing unless directly asked.
That’s the thing, too. A lot of his dates wind up being sex. If not sex dates, drink dates. Maybe dinner dates, maybe something completely random. Oddly, he won’t usually take his dates to shows. Going to shows is a serious enterprise and he doesn’t need someone hanging on his arm when he’s stalking Beck. (Who he hates.)
Serious relationships? Three, and at least two were genuine and reciprocal. One with a Scandinavian avant-garde artist named Susanoo, one with indie folk singer Rey, and one with none of your fucking business.
He’s deeply committed, maybe too much so. He can spin into obsession, he can be possessive. He never cheats.
☕️ modern!ben
Never cheats. Having his heart shattered in California was a learning experience. He left an attempt at a life with another human being in San Fransisco, or at least within a few dozen miles of San Fransisco. That makes one serious relationship, ended.
Apart from that, there was an attempt. He fancied one of his childhood friends, Marciela Hodgson, who rejected him with a little laugh. Modern!Ben has never recovered from this. He should probably stop being friends with Marci.
In other threads, in other futures, he’s involved with his best friend Beth in what mun and muse believe to be quite a serious relationship. In another world, with Brunnhilde, who even follows him across oceans. In another, he’s reconnected with the childhood crush, Shiloh, and in yet another, he’s just slept with his friend Rashad, and he’s confronting his interest in exploring sexual intimacy with men.
Many of his partners/subjects of affection are friends first, which must mean he’s good at finding fun and interesting things to do around cities, or, or that he’s somewhat tolerable, and they’re awfully patient.
🍺 ex-con!ben
Nope.
All right, well. He’s committed to someone named Beth. That’s one world, one dream. Then he. Well, he might have taken a shining to a guy named Tony, but that’s not…
He doesn’t know a lot of people.
So. So, no.
🧊 smuggler!ben
Can’t answer his comm right now. He’s left a note.
It’s practically illegible. It may say,
“Trapped in sham marriage with the Inujan Queen send help.”
Or it may say,
(He doesn't know any Tynnans)
“No time to explain!”
🍷 ren
Lifelong sacrament to the Ren doesn’t typically include dating.
@birkenzeisig
#birkenzeisig#sunday funday#music!verse headcanons#modern!verse headcanons#excon headcanons#soft!ren headcanons#dark!ren headcanons#smuggler!verse headcanons
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Old Man, Little Fox
I’ve wanted to write a drabble like this for a long time. Because this is a very Beck thing to do---see a lonely, hopeless person and hang around them to befriend them but never reveal herself for her own safety. I’ve never had the right setting to write it though.
I also wanted to write something in Daniel’s point of view to maybe give people an idea of how I write him since I don’t have any active threads yet. The two ideas came together pretty well in my opinion. As always this might get tweaked. I haven’t even edited for spelling/grammar errors and I’m too tired to right now, to be honest. Yes this is probably cheesy. Yes I like it as it is. Enjoy the cheese. Cheese is delicious.
...
The park was empty.
Probably the cold. Daniel thought to himself. Aside from the stray, dedicated crazy person out for a morning run, he had the park to himself.
He crossed a frozen bridge, gripping the rail with trembling hands that had nothing to do with the cold. He was just as crazy to be out here. Especially after a snowstorm. A fall in his condition could break something if he was lucky, or very likely kill him if he wasn’t. But he had to come. He came every Sunday.
It’d started back in June when the weather was a lot more reasonable. His doctor had warned him if he didn’t get moving, he was going to go downhill fast. He needed to get out, to meet people, to challenge himself. He’d had enough of strangers for a lifetime, and he didn’t see much reason trying to preserve a dying body—but he did it for his girls. He hadn’t spoken to either of them since the Christmas before, and the conversation had been short—and forced. The hope that he could change that was all he really cared about. He hadn’t been looking to make friends… And yet he had.
He sat down with a groan on a snow-covered bench and watched the wind whip through the trees. When the gust caught up to him he couldn’t help but flinch from the slap of cold.
“Took you long enough.” He said as he opened his eyes. There, not twenty paces away, was a little orange fox. Its black-tipped ears were pointed forward, straight at him, as he reached into his inner coat pocket. His shaking fingers bit into the custard flesh of the persimmon without meaning to, and the juice dribbled out onto his fingers.
“Come on then.” His back popped as he leaned forward and extended the fruit. “We both know you aren’t shy.”
He’d never cared much for animals. He barely liked people. When he was younger he’d bought Steph a dog—more accurately he’d won it in a poker game drunk off his ass and didn’t know what to do with it the next morning. She’d named it Tucker. He’d called it Fucker, another thing for Alice to add to her endless list of things he did that she hated. Tucker had been some ungodly half-spotted mix between a collie and a demon. Alice gave him away to one of her cousins who had a farm out of state, and somehow that had been his fault too.
His doctor had suggested getting a dog multiple times to keep himself active. Even before the Parkinsons. He’d always laughed at the idea. If anyone had suggested he’d be walking half a mile twice a week to feed a wild animal in the park, he’d have laughed at them too.
But here he was.
The fox sniffed the air and stood. She trotted large, arching circles around the bench, getting closer each time. Her nervous amber eyes looked everywhere but him, until finally she was close enough to touch. Then she looked at him properly, fluffy tail wagging low and wild. He could almost swear that she was smiling when she opened her toothy mouth.
By now the cold was making his hands stiff, but he forced his fingers to rip off a piece of the persimmon and the fox eagerly snapped it up. The wet fruit smacked loudly in her mouth for a split second, and then it was gone, and she was pawing his wrist for more.
“You’re greedy, ya know that?” But he laughed. It was a rare thing to laugh anymore. Another bit of fruit, it was gone just as fast as the last. And another and another until it was gone. Daniel sat back against the cold metal. “Well, that’s that.”
He’d been feeding the fox every Sunday and Thursday for the past three months, ever since the weather had turned bitter cold in New England, but he’d known her for half of the year. She’d just—started following him one day. For weeks she sat at a distance, watching him, but always following him–always finding him–everywhere he went in the park. Then she’d started to sniff his shoes, paw at his pants. For lack of anyone else, he talked to her. Told her about the Parkinsons, about his girls, about the dreams that tormented him in the middle of the night. Awful vivid dreams that he forgot on waking and how they made him avoid sleep as much as possible.
He’d turned into one of those crazy people who talked to their dog. One of those sad idiots who thought things like “I don’t know where I’d be without her.” Something he never imagined saying about an animal. Something he’d never say out loud to anyone---not even the fox.
“Where’s your boyfriend? Huh?” He asked. The fox tilted her head right, then left, then put her two paws on his knees. He patted a thigh. “Come on.”
And she was up in his lap. He’d never known how big foxes were until her, or how they radiate warmth. The feeling started to return to his legs, and he pushed his cold fingers into her fur and scratched gently. Little high pitched grunts of happiness broke through the silent air.
“You’re not gonna be young forever, ya know. You oughtta find a nice boy. Have little—uh—baby foxes. Whatever they're called.” He reached up to rub her ears, noting the way that the trembling in his fingers had stopped. “You can’t waste all your time on an old man–Ow! Jesus!”
She bit him!
It hadn’t been enough to break his thinning skin, but still!
A cloud of silver mist left his mouth as his chest shook, and he began to laugh in earnest.
“You bitch.” But he patted the fox’s side all the same. Sometimes it felt like she understood him too well. Sometimes it didn’t feel natural. His mental state had to be deteriorating faster than he thought.
They sat in silence for a long time. It felt good to touch something. Even an animal. She was warm and soft, and she didn’t want anything from him but a bit of fruit or meat now and again.
He sighed, “Come on. We can’t just sit here all day.”
She jumped down to the ground, and he braced on the back of the bench and hoisted himself up. With her at his heel, they started down the hill and onto the wooded path where the trees were tall and old. It might have been enough to fool him into thinking he was miles away from the city if not for the distant sounds of cars and the occasional shriek of children from the far-off playground. It’d gotten warmer as the morning turned to afternoon, and they weren’t alone anymore in the open. The shade of the barren trees was enough to ward off most other park-goers and preserve their solitude.
His canine companion stopped for a moment and then darted ahead. She cleared a fallen log to the side of the trail and then halted on a dime. Her head twisted one way, then the other, and then she leaped straight up into the air and went face first into a pile of snow. Nothing but two wriggling back legs and a fluffy tail remained visible. A few seconds later she emerged. Empty handed.
“Good thing I bring you snacks. You’d probably starve.” He grumbled, grinning into his coat as the fox ran past. She paused, and again he got that eerie feeling she understood him. Her amber eyes locked in on his in a way that just wasn’t right—wasn’t natural, and then she dropped her front end to the ground, squealed with animalistic glee, and took off running again. She was always good for a free show.
“Had that dream again.” He said when she’d calmed down enough to walk beside him once more. This time when he sighed, it was pained and tired. “Doesn’t matter what they give me, it comes back. He’s so—real. I know everything about him. The way he walks. How he talks. I know what he likes. I know every inch of his body. It thrills me, terrifies me too, and then I’m awake and it’s gone. It’s like--- like being spied on in my dreams.”
He felt a brush of fur against his leg as her side pressed against him. It soothed a bit of the pain.
“They suggested hypno-therapy last time. ‘To discover repressed memories’. Bullshit. What hope do I got if a bunch of crackpots are giving me hairbrained advice like that?”
Daniel stopped, and the fox stopped with him. He stared down at her, his hands opening and closing helplessly.
“That’s the thing, isn’t it? There’s no hope for me. Doesn’t matter what I do. I could walk a hundred miles. Lift weights until I’m Chuck Norris. It isn’t gonna change anything.”
He watched her put her two paws on his knees again, and went to reach down to stroke the animal, but before he could bend properly, she’d vaulted herself up into the air. For a brief second they were nose-to-nose, her claws dully dug at his coat, and he closed his arms around her instinctually. His heart was hammering, like he’d bumped into a priceless vase at an art museum and just barely managed to catch it.
Frozen whiskers tickled his neck, and then a muzzle as soft as silk. The fox laid her head on his shoulder.
“You’re too clever for your own good.” He was still a little breathless, but he started walking again. “What is it? Is it a body language or like a scent thing? You just smell it when I’m being pathetic?”
His only answer was the gentle thump-thump-thump of her tail against the side of his coat, and he held her a little tighter. The gaping black hole of despair that threatened to swallow him up shrunk down and faded into the back of his mind.
At the entrance of the park, he knelt down to the icy path and reluctantly placed the fox down. His arms ached from carrying her, but it hurt worse to let her go again. She mouthed his watch as he stroked her head and whined. Did she know how much he didn’t want to leave her there?
“I won’t be back this Thursday, hear me?” He cleared his throat. He had to go to Dubai. He had to finish the interview. But what would he have when it was all said and done? His curiosity sated, and a decent inheritance for his girls. Nothing else. But strangely, that almost felt like enough.
“It feels like dying, ya know.” He confessed. “One last hurrah. The big number before the curtain falls.”
He grunted, and then smiled a little. “It’s kinda nice. In a way.”
The fox licked his hand as he stood to his feet, and then darted back a handful of paces. He wished he could stuff her in his coat. He’d sneak her on the plane, hide her in his hotel room. And she’d probably die too, from the stress of it all.
No. This was better.
She turned and ran toward the tall golden grass by the creek. It shivered, and then stilled, and she was gone.
“I don’t know where I’d be without you...” He said quietly. Daniel stuffed his hands in his pocket and turned back to the road.
He needed to pack.
It was near midnight when he slumped over in his armchair and when his alarm went off at nine the next morning he woke without startling. For the first time in weeks, he hadn’t dreamed.
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4eat oil spin on filter
4EAT Remanufactured Transmission Solenoids Kit with....
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It has an oil filter, cooling system, and a 1 9 fixed ratio using very beefy gears. If I listened correctly.... It's like the spin-on filter on a older Subaru 4EAT, or an Allison 1000/2000 or older Saturn. Wise move on Tesla's part - Toyota doesn't have filters for their hybrids - one of the bearings in a Prius is a known weak spot in.. I've had good success with the Wix equivalent for the "behind the battery" filters (for the 5EAT-Outbacks) and the ATP/Pro-King filters for the "direct thread-on" 4EAT. Granted, I change it every 30K miles, but at $8/ea, that's fine by me. Even at $26, if you only change it every 100K, how many more are you going to buy? 1 Lucky Texan.
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4EAT spin-on filter -- Purolator model okay? | Subaru Outback.
232 Posts Discussion Starter · #1 · May 31, 2013 Hi, In doing the ATF drain and fill, I noticed the spin on oil filter on the side of the transmission. Going back through the FSM, it makes no mention of a change interval. Some quick searching on the 'net shows that there isn't a consensus on the change interval.
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With the engine filter, all the oil is supposed to go through the media except when the by-pass valve is forced open due to excessive pressure drop across the media (e.g., blockage or thick cold oil or high engine rpm), at which time the unfiltered bypassed oil goes into the engine. In the case of the tranny filter, this doesn't happen..
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. It's an external spin on Fluid has been checked and checked and checked some more. Monthly ritual of mine is to check fluids, tire pressure, tread depth, visual brake check, etc once a month. Just give the vehicle a quick checkup. It's right at the top mark when warm, warm being after a 35 minute drive home from school Last edited: Apr 15, 2015 L..
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|| Miles & Beck for @inconvenientxfireworks
Miles sipped on his iced coffee, thankful he worked in a coffee shop or else he’d probably not be able to afford this shit as much as he usually drank it. He’s just finished his shift, briefly wondering whether it was worth finding his cousin and irritating her when he saw him.
The familiar figure made him hesitate, pausing in his tracks as he sipped on his coffee. It looked like Beck, but the other was still in New York. Right? Except, as he walked over, Miles was certain it was the other. “Beck?” He called out, face lighting up into a cheeky grin.
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A Hole In the Head//8
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight
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About this: 4.5k. Smoking. Alcohol. Mention of wounds, healed (burns specifically). Masturbation. Threatening as foreplay. Typical winterspider stuff. Daddy kink.
-
Hours later finds Peter still staring upwards, only the ceiling blocks his view of the stars. Most nights he crawls into bed naked (or ends up that way thanks to his lover). It’s more comfortable that way, his sensitive skin against the high thread count sheets. But Peter doesn’t hold much hope that he’ll sleep at all tonight, so instead he dons one of Tony’s dress shirts pulled from the laundry basket, pressing his nose to smell the fading cologne whenever his heart starts racing.
The bed is far too big for one man. Far too empty.
Peter picks up his phone and opens a message to Bucky. Come lay with me. Even though it’s two in the morning, Bucky’s response is almost instant, a bullheaded, No, that Peter can almost hear in the man’s rasping, no-nonsense voice.
No fucking, Peter promises. He sends the message, but his thumbs hesitate over the keyboard, fluttering anxiously before he decides that nothing ventured will mean nothing gained. I can’t sleep, he admits. Help distract me?
In a few moments, the bedroom door opens a fraction and Bucky’s figure is there. He’s wearing sweatpants and an undershirt, hair mussed like maybe he was laying in bed the next room over just like Peter. The sight of him makes Peter’s heart flit upwards to his throat. He’s much more aware of his own outfit: nothing but one of Tony’s shirts and the softest boxer-briefs.
“No fucking,” Bucky mutters.
Peter crosses his heart.
The snort Bucky gives shows just how much he thinks of Peter’s promise. The armchair is still beside the bed where Bucky left it earlier. Peter had thought about pushing it back to the spot in the corner, but a part of him likes the new spot for it. It was a fond reminder of the man who had just sat it in hours before and who was there again now. Maybe it was time to redecorate—call it fengshui.
Peter settles in amongst the blankets and sheets still smelling of Tony’s scent. With his lover miles away, this is the most contentment he can find. Against his will, he feels the sting of exhaustion at the back of his eyes, the tender ache relieved only for a moment when he blinks.
“Can you believe I don’t know anything about you,” Peter says, resting one hand beneath his cheek on the pillow.
Bucky shrugs one shoulder—the one without the terrible scarring. “Not much to know.”
“You’re the Winter Soldier,” Peter says with no small amount of awe in his voice. The way Bucky’s shoulders tense at the title isn’t lost on him, but by then the words are already tripping their way out of his mouth. “You must have plenty of stories you could tell—”
“They aren’t bedtime stories.”
Peter winces. Maybe Bucky has a point. “Then just tell me about Bucky Barnes. What’s your middle name?”
The man’s mouth twitches, his eyes glinting in a way that makes Peter feel like the butt of a joke. All at once, the expression is neutral again as Bucky says: “Don’t worry about it.”
“Oh man,” Peter says with vicious glee. “It must be awful, then.”
“Terrible,” Bucky agrees.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Pick one.”
“Pick one for me.”
Peter sighs. “That’s not how favorites work.”
Bucky stares at him, solemn. “It’s not how I work, kid. I’m not that kind of man.”
“Your favorite color is blue, now,” Peter says. “I’ve decided.”
Bucky rolls his eyes in answer.
“You said you lived in Russia. Were you born there?”
“No.”
When the man doesn’t elaborate, Peter presses. “Where were you born?”
“The west.”
“I’m sorry, the west? That’s not a satisfactory answer.”
“What do you want me to say?” Bucky asks. “I’m wanted internationally. Telling you anything about me could get me killed one day, or—”
“Or?”
“Or it could get you killed,” he says, expression dark. “I have powerful enemies.”
“Powerful allies, too,” Peter points out. “Not that I can imagine anyone ever getting one over on you.”
“It’s happened before.” Bucky’s hand comes up to trace at his shoulder along the mottled scars that circle the shoulder joint. With the attention drawn to it, Peter allows himself to look. The skin is heavily textured, shiny pink in some lights and a dark purple in others. Fresh, he thinks. Maybe a few years old. During Tony’s employment, he thinks. “I’m human, kid.”
“Does it hurt?” Peter asks.
Another one-armed shrug.
“Is the person who did that—are they dead now?” A slow, mirthless smile stretches across Bucky’s face; an answer in itself. Peter finds himself mirroring it. “Good.”
Without a further thought, Peter throws the blankets off of his bare legs. Bucky’s eyes flicker over them: pale and soft with dark, sparse hair, gaze lingering on Peter’s glossy clear-polished toes. When Peter crawls towards that side of the bed, Bucky’s chin ducks down like he’s preparing for a physical attack, though the way his eyes shimmer like molten mercury makes Peter think it wouldn’t be altogether unwelcome.
Peter opens the bedside drawer on Tony’s side of the bed. Tony’s personal handgun is gone, which makes it easy to rifle through the condoms and lube to find the half-empty tube of cream the older man had received from the dermatologist.
“Come here,” Peter says, patting the bed.
“Why?” Bucky asks, eyes narrowed at the tube in Peter’s hands. “No fucking.”
“No fucking!” Peter says. It takes all the mental fortitude he has not to roll his eyes. Who could have imagined that an international assassin would be such a prude? “Tony—he’s got a scar too. They gave him this cream that he was supposed to rub on it three times a day to help the scar tissue break down and lighten, but he’s too fucking busy for that.”
“And I’m not?”
“You’re with me two-thirds of the day,” Peter says, opening the tube. He squeezes out a generous amount of pale colored cream onto his fingers. “And I’ve got nothing better to do.”
When Bucky makes no move to come to the bed, Peter lets his legs dangle over the edge, reaching out to where the man sits at the bedside, but before his fingers can come close to Bucky’s shoulder, the man flinches backwards, catching Peter’s wrist in a fierce grip.
“Don’t,” Bucky rasps. “You don’t have to touch it.”
“Is that what you’re worried about?” Peter scoffs. The grip around Peter’s wrist tightens to the point of pain before going slack again, Bucky’s thumb pressed against his pulse point which must be hammering. “When will you learn that there’s not a person in the world who could make me do something I didn’t want to do?”
After a long moment, Bucky lets go.
Gentle, Peter lets his fingers trace over the ring of scars. It lacks the clear edges of Tony’s stab wound; if Peter had to guess (which he doesn’t, he doesn’t have to think at all about what gave Bucky those scars, about how badly it must have hurt, about how long it must have taken him to heal), he would say that the scars look like burns.
The scars don’t have the same texture as the surrounding skin, no softness, no stretch. Peter rubs the cream in with the utmost care, working hard not to cause any pain. He coaxes Bucky’s arm to shift so that he can reach the scars that extend towards his armpit and then stands, t-shirt touching his thighs to walk around the other side of the man and make sure every inch of tissue receives the same attention.
“I hate this.” Bucky’s voice makes him jump, jerking him from where he’d become lost in his own thoughts and in the pleasant monotony. His hand freezes, but Bucky goes on: “I hate the way I am around you.”
“Nobody said you had to be such a hardass,” Peter says. He reaches out and gathers Bucky’s hair where it’s falling onto his shoulder and getting stuck in the cream. When his fingers brush the back of the man’s neck as he brushes the hair to the other side of his head, Bucky shivers.
“That’s how I’m supposed to be,” Bucky rasps. “I hate how you make me so—”
Bucky cuts himself off and Peter waits one endless moment before he prods the other man. “So?”
“Weak.”
Peter isn’t sure what to say. There’s a queasiness in his stomach. He remembers when things started to get serious with Tony, when his older lover had explained that affection was weakness. There’s a reason why cold men make it so far. When you fall in love with something, it becomes a part of you, an extension of you. Suddenly, you’re taking up more space in the world, Tony had said. The man had turned his hand into a makeshift gun, pressing the barrel of his pointer finger to his temple. Bigger targets are always easier to hit, sweet thing.
He’d lifted a hand, shifting it between Tony’s finger and his head. Then, it had frightened Peter. Tony was right; love could be a liability. But after Beck, Peter knew that for people like them, that wasn’t true. Love could make him colder, braver, bolder. Strong.
When he opens his mouth to tell Bucky that, he notices that the man’s head has slackened, body loose in the chair. One glance at his face shows that he has fallen asleep.
-
Peter falls asleep himself, somehow. When he wakes he can see the dim signs of impending morning through the window, but the chair beside the bed is empty. He stretches, groaning with satisfaction before reaching for his phone on the nightstand to make sure that he hasn’t missed his morning Facetime with Tony.
He has a handful of unread messages from the man, which is more than he fell asleep with hours ago. Smile stretching his face, Peter opens with one hand while the other reaches down to palm his morning wood (more out of habit than anything else). When he sees the wall of text sent, eyes skimming it quickly, he squeezes his erection tightly and hisses through his teeth.
Fuck kid, Tony begins. I just finished that footage and I don’t think I’ve ever been so hard in my life. I’d kill to have been a fly on the wall, to hear whatever filth he was spewing in your ear. How did his cock feel pressed against you, honey? Looks like it felt good with the way you rutted against him like an animal. You looked like an absolute slut pinned underneath him and so desperate for whatever scraps he’d toss you. When I’m home, I want to see you suck him off and show him your gratitude properly, is that understood?
If there’s any doubt how I feel about this, see the enclosed.
Next Tony sent a video. The thumbnail tells Peter everything: just a still of Tony’s shirtless torso. He clicks on it frantically and makes it full screen, mashing the button to turn up the volume. For being in his forties, Tony looks incredible. He’d worked hard with the physical therapists hired to come to the mansion after Beck, and it shows in the flat lines of his abs. Dark hair is smattered across his chest and then against below his belly-button. The scar at the center of his chest is dark with shadows from the dim lighting.
Tony fiddles with the placement of the phone until it is propped up on what appears to be the desk of his hotel room. A glass rests just barely in view, drained. Tony sits back in his chair, the movement flexing the muscles in his core. Peter can only see him from nose to knee, but it’s more than enough. His dress pants are open, cock tenting his boxer-briefs obscenely. But he doesn’t touch it; instead, he takes a package of cigarettes from where they rest offscreen on the desk and expertly taps one free. Just the sight of his capable hands has Peter’s throat bobbing, the hand on his cock squeezing to the point of pain just to pace himself.
Tony lights the cigarette with the lighter Peter bought him at the mall, and Peter swears he can feel the flame.
“There’s no smoking in this room,” Tony says after the flame catches. “But with a sinful little thing like you at home, a fee is the least of my worries. I haven’t smoked cigarettes in over a decade, pumpkin. You see what you’re doing to me?”
Holding the cigarette in his lips, Tony reaches down to work his cock free. The sight of it evokes a physical response, Peter’s mouth salivating, his throat tightening. Leisurely, Tony fists it while his other hand comes up to take the cigarette from his mouth, smoke rushing from his nose.
“You can show this to him, if you feel so inclined. If you really think he’s interested.” The handsome, full mouth twists into a smirk. “You know I’m not shy. And if he’s going to have you, he’s going to have to get used to me, too. The things I’m going to have him do to you,” Tony sighs wistfully, shaking his head to clear the illusions. “You’ve got no idea what you’re in for. I’m going to take you apart, sweet thing, and he’s going to be the tool that does it for me.”
Peter can imagine. Beneath the sheets, he shimmies his underwear off and runs his fingers over his cock. All at once he remembers that he isn’t allowed to touch himself and his expression sours. On screen, Tony taps ash onto the desk. Peter hopes he has to pay a big fine. Huge, he thinks sulkily.
But if Peter is anything, he is resourceful. Rolling into his stomach (kicking when his legs get all twisted up in the sheets), he presses a pillow down between his legs and groans at the pressure on his aching cock. It’s juvenile, but it will work, and if Tony didn’t want him to exploit loopholes in his orders, then he shouldn’t have left the loopholes in the first place. He turns his head until his cheek is pressed into the pillow, holding the phone inches from his face.
Tony’s stamina and cool head always impress Peter. Surely it is something that comes from twenty more years of experience, but Tony always strokes his cock like he has all the time in the world, like he’s savoring the feeling of himself in his hand and cumming is secondary. His knees are spread wide, the perfect place for Peter to kneel between.
Behind him, the door opens.
He sucks in a breath, rolling onto his side to take in Bucky’s figure where he leans against the doorframe, eyes narrowed at Peter’s suspicious figure on the bed. Peter lets his back arch, emphasizing the obscene curve of his ass where he continues to rut against the pillow, leaking precum.
“Jesus, kid, it isn’t even eight AM. What the fuck has you so worked up?”
Peter grins. Holding up the phone, he says, “A gift. From Tony.”
A muscle in Bucky’s jaw twitches as if he is clenching his teeth. The otherwise unimpressed look stays on his face until Peter adds: “He says it’s for you, too.”
A normal person might react with interest, pleasure. Bucky looks as if he’s only been pushed a fraction closer to a murderous rampage. He stalks closer to the bed, boots silent against the floor. How a man with so much mass is so quiet, Peter will never know. “The fuck do you mean it’s for me?”
When he gets close enough, his eyes flit to the phone and there’s no hiding the widening of his gaze. His whole expression shudders as it struggles to return to a more neutral position, but it’s difficult when those pale eyes are glued to Tony’s tan hand where it leisurely jerks the impressive cock between his legs. Has Bucky always been this expressive, Peter wonders, or is Peter just getting better at reading the few expressions he has?
It was one thing to hear Tony’s sinful mouth yesterday on the phone, but it’s another thing entirely to be confronted with the image of it, the overt sexuality of the cigarette dangling from his lips, the way his head tilts back on screen as he draws closer to his orgasm. All this and Peter hasn’t taken his eyes off of Bucky’s face. On screen, Tony mutters, fuck kid, take it, and Bucky’s pupils dilate, and Peter is lost, the phone lax in his hand as he presses his face into the pillow until its hard to breathe, hips jerking through his orgasm.
He comes to in time to lift his head and watch Tony cum, all the muscles in his abdomen thrown into sharp definition as his hips jerk upwards into the tight circle of his fist, cum pale where it lands on his tan skin and the dark fabric of his dress pants. The groan he gives is music to Peter’s ears, one hand coming up to take the cigarette from his mouth so that he can pant properly.
“Look what you fucking do to me,” Tony sighs smoke curling from his mouth. “And nobody here to clean me up. What a tragedy. Shakespearean proportions. Next time I cum, I’m doing it down your throat, sweet thing. Be good for Bucky. I love you.”
He stands onscreen, tucking his softening cock back into his dress pants (though he leaves them undone as he reaches out and turns off the video). Peter dares to give Bucky a glance and finds him glaring at the phone. He waits to see what the other man might do, but eventually the phone screen goes dark and still Bucky stares, now at his own reflection.
He drops the phone onto the bed with a quiet thud, fingers flexing and smoothing at his jeans as if he’s trying to wipe away a filthy touch. When he speaks again, it’s with a mixture of hostility and resignation that makes Peter shiver: “He knows.”
“If you mean how obsessed you are with him, then he doesn’t. But to be fair,” says Peter, edging towards the far side of the bed just in case he decides to run for it. “You’re a little obvious.”
“Obvious?” The word comes from Bucky’s mouth sounding like a curse. He shifts on instinct until he is between Peter and the one exit. Fucking assassins. “I’ve worked for him for eight years and he never caught on. Three weeks with you and now I’m fucked. What did you tell him?”
“All I said was that I thought you had a hard-on for him!” Peter says. He pulls the blankets up, cocooning himself in soft cotton. A slip of dark fabric appears - his boxers, score! - so he works to tug them on instead. “He seemed shocked, but in a good way. Look, I don’t want to be presumptuous or anything, but I feel like this is a very natural progression given where we were heading. I don’t get why you’re freaking out.”
“You don’t understand,” Bucky mutters. He breaks from standing between Peter and the door and chooses to sit in the chair Peter is beginning to think of as his. Slumped over, he looks like the picture of dejection. He mutters something under his breath but it doesn’t sound like English.
With all the care of a man approaching a feral animal, Peter carefully slips off the bed (tugs up his boxers the rest of the way, even if there is cooling cum clinging to his well-trimmed pubes) and pads to the chair Bucky occupies. The carpet is soft and not uncomfortable to kneel on. When he tilts his head to rest it on Bucky’s jean-clad knee, the man flinches. After a long, still moment, he lets a hand come down to pat condescendingly at Peter’s head.
Rolling his eyes, Peter says, “I don’t understand. Then tell me.”
Bucky lets out a breath. He tugs on a lock of Peter’s hair until Peter turns, resting his chin on the man’s thigh to look up into his tired, uncertain face. “You want to know more about me? Tony is all that’s worth mentioning. This thing with you,” he begins. “It’s big. I’m not saying it isn’t. But this - thing - I’ve had for Tony? It’s been so long. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s formative. It made me.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“I’m still talking, aren’t I? Do I sound finished?”
“Start from the beginning.”
“You’re a bossy little shit,” Bucky mutters, flicking Peter between the eyes. “There’s going to be none of that when we’re fucking, you know that right?”
Peter grins. “We’ll see. Quit stalling.”
“About eight years ago, I reached the end of my rope. Lost my mind, a little. I convinced myself that I was being followed, that the people I worked for had put a hit out on me, and I ended up isolating myself in a tiny cabin - somewhere, don’t give me that fucking look, kid, be lucky I’m telling you this much. I was there for twenty days. Starving to death. Spiraling...then one day out of the fucking blue, Natasha called me.”
“Nat?” Peter asks, eyebrows raised. “You two knew each other?”
Bucky nods and doesn’t deign to explain their relationship any further. “She called me to say she’d been stateside for three years, working for a man she couldn’t even name over the phone. She promised that if I ever wanted a change of scenery, I could catch a plane and there would be a job waiting for me.
“I thought it was a plot. Maybe she was in on it with the others, maybe they were just trying to lure me out. Maybe there was no job, maybe as soon as I stepped foot outside, they’d have my location confirmed and they’d send someone to kill me. The no food, no water just made me more paranoid. In the end, I told myself that even if it all was a plot - if I died trying to get out - it wouldn’t matter. Who’d fucking care if I died? Not anyone I worked for. Not Natasha. Not some boss in New York City. Least of all me.
“So I caught a plane to New York, drank water out of the faucet in a bathroom at JFK International and met up with Nat. She took me to Le Cinq in downtown Manhattan, that fancy French place. Fuck, I must have looked like a nutcase walking in there, smelling like a homeless person, thin enough that a stiff enough wind could have carried me away. And there I was surrounded by all these white table clothes and maître d’s, luxury like I’d never been treated to. Then there was Tony, sitting alone at a table dressed in one of his suits but without the jacket. He stood up when he saw us coming, like some kind of gentleman in one of those old black and white movies. You know what he looks like. But it was more than that. He’s got a presence, and once I was in it, something inside me just - burst.
“We’d never even fuckin’ met. Never even spoken. But I told him that my gun was his, my skills were his, my life was his, if he wanted it. We hadn’t even sat down yet. He asked me what did I want, and I said I didn’t know. Trust, maybe. Rest, but I didn’t fucking say that. And he just smiled and said, ‘well, how about a hamburger’?”
“No,” Peter says, one hand clutching at his bare chest. “No, tell me you did not force Audric Ansel, head chef of Le Cinq, make you a fucking hamburger at the finest Parisian restaurant in the tri-state area. They don’t even have beef on the menu.”
“I didn’t,” Bucky says. He reaches out and threads his fingers into Peter’s hair, pulling to coax him to rest his head back on the man’s thigh. Just that act of dominance alone starts a fire simmering low in Peter’s belly. “Tony did. Is that the only point you took from that story? Shows how fucking often I’ll open up to you.”
“Not the only point,” Peter says, eyes heavy lidded. He’d need a few more minutes to become hard again, but that doesn’t mean his cock doesn’t tingle with the threat of it. “I know now that you’re in love with him.”
Peter feels viscerally when Bucky’s hand tightens in his hair, pulling at his scalp to the point of pain. He loosens them right away at the wince on Peter’s face, patting clumsily as if to soothe the ache he caused.
“If you tell him,” Bucky warns. “I’ll make you regret it.”
“Fuck, yes, threaten me again,” Peter groans lowly. He has to bite off the end of that sentence, the way the word daddy came so easily to his tongue. But the other man isn’t ready for that, hasn’t expressed any interest in it. Not to mention, maybe it makes him a sentimental fool, but Tony is the only man he’s ever called daddy, and it doesn’t feel right to pass the moniker along. Not without permission. Peter opens his mouth wide and plants his teeth into the muscular thigh that was resting beneath his cheek. When he pulls back, there is a shadow of the imprint in the denim. “It turns me on.”
Bucky pulls his hair again, this time harsh and purposeful. Peter’s neck cracks, an unsettling sensation that makes him shiver. He leans down until his breath fans across Peter’s upturned face. “I mean it.”
There is a real trace of fear that trickles down the back of Peter’s neck, but he leans into it. This is what he wanted. A dangerous man brings danger with him. His mouth opens to taunt Bucky more but the eyes - those pale, sea spray eyes - they are wild. Maybe frightened. It takes herculean effort to decide between egging the man on and comforting him. Well - it takes effort to choose what he knows to be right.
“I’m joking,” Peter says, throat hoarse from how his neck is exposed. “I won’t tell him.”
He’s left pinned under that fervent gaze for a few more endless seconds and then Bucky’s fist loosens. Brings him back down to rest his head where he had moments ago planted his cheek. Between Peter’s legs, he is throbbing. He can’t help but reach a hand down to palm at the tented fabric of his boxers.
“None of that,” Bucky says sternly. “Jesus, how desperate are you? You came just fifteen minutes ago and you’re already thirsty for more. You’re going to learn some patience, kid, if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Good luck,” says Peter, breathless.
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A Templar's Vice
Part 9 - "The sweet taste of sin"
A Cullen Rutherford x F!OC Apostate Witch Dragon Age: Inquisition - fanfiction
Rating: 18+
Warnings: contains subject matter that maybe triggering for the vulnerable or victims of abuse and trauma.
Also contains alcohol, drugs (alludes to substance abuse), detailed lewd and violent scenes.
Reader's discretion is advised
Link to Master List
------------------------------------
(Feat. Varric)
---------------------------
Cullen now had a powerful demon at his beck and call.
A demon of desire whom possessed the body of an apostate witch whom he has been fucking almost nightly.
Maker he was truly damned...
...
"Are you hungry, my love?"
Cullen asked as he shifted the blanket away from his crotch. Exposing his large harded girth...
"Because your "dinner" is ready..."
...
Cullen liked that she belonged to him and he to her...
He knew before she met him she slept around a lot... but not with just anyone...
However, that seemed to irk him a bit.
He knows that it was unfair to put that on her and think that way but... he could not help it... to think that others had the privilege to have her... before him...
However, she is all his now.
That was a part of their deal and contract. She would be loyal to him....
And he...
Wanted her to...
Worship and love him-- and only him.
...
He made her lick and worship his hardened thick large member and engoured ballsacks with her mouth-- and tongue. As he held her head in place with one of his large strong battle worn hands threaded through her beautiful, light golden, blonde hair.
His is the only cock she should want inside of her from now on...
And he was surprised to learn that even though she has had many partners in the past...
He was the only one who's cock she put in her mouth and would willingly do so only for him...
That made him feel a twisted sense of pride and curbed some of his immature jealousy that he was the only one who could...
Fuck her between the beautiful lips of her mouth...
He was also directly feeding her the source of his illicit desires as well... He had to... That was also in their contract... She would starve otherwise... because normal food does not actually sait her...
She could only be saited by consuming people's desires, because she is also a demon of desire...
And sweet maker he had an endless supply of it seemed...
To give and feed her with...
And she's so good at taking and sucking on his manhood between her beautiful soft lips...
Maker's breath... he loved the sight of him in her mouth...
He burned the scene of this into his head...
"Mmmm you really like this... don't you... my love..."
He breathly stated.
She could only reply by continuing to take his thick large hardened member inside her mouth... She moaned to confirm she did like it...
...
She was always gone before he woke up.
He always felt…
Empty…
However, he was sleeping a lot better. His nightmares were also happening much less as well and he had a much better time handling the headaches– from his lyirum withdrawal…
He was also in a better mood over all and people noticed.
Especially…
“Hey Curly! Mind if I join you?”
Varric.
…
Cullen was at the local tavern they set up in Skyhold. It was good to have a place where people can relax, chat, play social table games and have drinks. It definitely helped to boost morale.. Maker, they definitely need all the morale boost and help they can get right now…
“So how are you doing?”
Varric asked.
“I’m fine, thank you for asking.”
Varric nodded.
“Indeed, you seem to be… glowing…”
Cullen blinked.
“E-Excuse me?”
“Found yourself a partner have you? Common, Curly, I can tell from a mile away you got yourself someone special.”
Cullen got defensive.
“I- I don’t…”
Varric put up his hands.
“Alright alright I get it. You wanna keep it on the downlow, but hope whomever they are– and I could probably guess who it is– that they continue to make you happy and vice versa.”
Cullen's eyes went a bit wide for a moment with shock when Varric said “I can probably guess who it is.”
Varric playfully punched Cullen in the arm.
“Don’t worry I won’t tell anyone… Cause after all the shit you’ve been through I think you deserve to have something good… Or at least… Something beautiful.”
Cullen blinked, surprised again, he really was not expecting that.
“I umm… thank you…”
Verric chuckled.
“It’s too bad you wanna keep it a secret though… would make a really good story… but I understand.”
Varric took a swig of some dwarin ale.
Cullen rubbed the back of his head and looked down. It was his nervous tell…
…
Cullen was sitting at his desk in his office and taken aback by Varric’s comments about him being with someone, and Varric knew it was the witch.
Maker! Was he that bad at hiding it?!
Well… people like Varric are extremely good at reading people and he pays attention to things others miss or do not realize what signs they are giving off without thinking. Signs and signals Varric is gifted at deciphering… Luckily not everyone has that…
And Varric did not seem to mind him being with her, but Varric is a very easy going kind of person…
Oh but Cassandra… Might think he’s gone mad and been bewitched or possessed by a demon for sure…
And Cullen was not sure what others in the inquisition forces he was incharge of would think?
Maybe they would also think he is crazy, or gone mad, or even been possessed because…
If you asked him a year ago if he would think to have a relationship with an apostate witch who is also possessed by a demon. He would think that person would be raving mad.
But here he is now…
In a relationship…
With an apostate witch who is possessed by a demon…
Cullen sighed, pinching his nose in frustration.
He felt a headache coming on from worrying too much about this…
Thankfully no one ever saw them together…
Well not intimately anyways…
She seemed to know and understand his worry though– because she was always sneaky and knew how to dance around prying ears and eyes.
Made all the more easier with magic.
…
“C-Cullen! Ah ha… ah!”
They were in his room again.
Cullen was sitting up with her. She was straddling his lap and holding on tightly with her arms wrapped around his head and neck– as he was thrusting up into her with reckless abandon. Making her cry out his name drove him harder to make her cry out for him even more…
He loves to make her scream in pleasure for him… because of him…
His nightly… sexy… witchy mistress.
His guilty pleasure…
He kissed and bit into her beautiful soft skin as he continued to mindlessly pound the source of his desires into her, and made her pass out afterwards from physical exhaustion. She did not have his incredible stamina, but he always was able to finish inside of her– before they were both done.
Filling her with his love and cum.
And she told him not to worry about her getting pregnant… She had a spell upon her to prevent that.
So he could freely let go of any worries and pent up lust for her…
Maker, she's perfect…
For an apostate witch– possessed by a demon…
...
Continue to Part 10
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SEVEN MILES HQ EVENT: CRUEL SUMMER
It’s all about going the distance in the Keys, whether it be running away or finding your way back home. This time, with the simmering heat, it’s about finding ways to make moving under the swelter worth it. Just 166 miles away, the bustling city of Miami has wrapped up the kick start of its endless summer showcasing all you need to feel the right kind of way to carry on through Swim Week sponsored by the K. W. Women’s Club. However, a wave always crashes at the shore and while it’s a little late, it’s time for the Keys to have a taste of sophisticated fun.
Commencing Friday afternoon, the Women’s Club will be hosting a social event where entrepreneurs and local business owners have a chance to tease what they have in store for the week coming. But don’t have too much fun, because the Key West Yacht Club will be opening it’s doors bright and early on Wednesday to show off swim wear and the newest sailing gear in action with a race along the water that will even get residents the incentive to push past tourists on the beach for a view. To wrap it all up on the seventh day, the club once again extends an invitation beyond esteemed reservations where buying local, the backbone of the islands, is put on full display. Valued club members will offer their pride and joy vessels to be the runway for local businesses to strut their creations along the illuminated dock. With models plucked straight off of Duval Street, Key West Swim Week is the spice for the place where vacation never seems to end. Just remember, though, that as sweet as summer can be with what sloshes over your cup at the local dive bars, it can be just as cruel.
Our first event is finally here! Starting this Friday, the residents of Key West will be participating in local Swim Week full of interactions at the Yacht Club, the pier, and so much more on the Waterfront. Characters will be able to claim certain roles in the event which can be found below. A schedule, roles, and in-character as well as out-of-character guidelines can be found below.
IN-CHARACTER SCHEDULE & ROLES
PART ONE - Friday, June 16th || SWIM WEEK KICK OFF SOCIAL @ KEY WEST WOMEN’S CLUB, 9PM: All residents of Key West are invited to the Women’s Club on Duval for the chance to merge the bridge between investors, entrepreneurs, and consumers through champagne, live music, and more.
LIVE MUSIC (1/1): Atlas Chugged
BUSINESSES [THESE ARE LOCAL BUSINESSES LOOKING FOR INVESTORS] (1/X): Red Garter Saloon, Kip Roose for Veterinarian Clinic, Drusilla “Drew” Elliott for Sexual Health Clinic
INVESTORS (1/X): Lukas “Lucifer” Hale for Second Circle & Red Garter Saloon, Drusilla “Drew” Elliott
HIRED WAIT STAFF (3/7): Jeb “Bowie” Boregard, Briar De La Rosa, Avery Vanek Vygotsky
PART TWO - Wednesday, June 21st || SAILING RACE @ WATERFRONT, 10 AM: Hosted by the Yacht Club, the most expensive and the most luxurious sail boats hit the water alongside whoever is bold enough to try and be their competition. After the race, the winner wins a year membership with the Club for free and their victory is celebrated by the models for the fashion week showing off some of their personal favorite pieces from the show they will be participating in at the end of the week.
LIVE MUSIC (1/1): Clairvoyance
SAILING COMPETITORS (2/5): Jacques Mathieu, Jeb “Bowie” Boregard
JUDGES (1/3) [MUST BE YACHT CLUB COMMODORES]: NPC Yacht Club President
MODELS (4/5): Skyler Cameron, Diamond Bellevue, Poppy Rousseau, Thae Cameron
PART THREE - Friday, June 23rd || KEY WEST SWIM WEEK FASHION SHOW @ KEY WEST YACHT CLUB: The Club opens its doors beyond those willing to be patient for a reservation in order to give local business the stage to show their creations in the lime light. Appetizers and drinks will be served all night long by the beck and call of guests by the Club’s infamous wait staff while the pier serves as a runway. While the band plays, each yacht owned by prestigious members serves as a personalized platform for each business to have models mingle with guests with a selective wardrobe before all of its on display down the pier.
LIVE MUSIC (0/1):
YACHT OWNERS (?/X): Lukas “Lucifer” Hale [Steel Magnolias], Conrad Odair [Name of Business on Yacht TBA]
BUSINESSES ON DISPLAY [THESE BUSINESSES/ DESIGNERS SHOULD BE CLOTHING BASED] (1/X): Steel Magnolia’s
MODELS (2/7): Skyler Cameron, WIlla Henley-Pope
OUT-OF-CHARACTER GUIDELINES
The event in-character mirrors the same timeline as that out-of-character, except that the event as a whole ends ooc on Sunday, June 25th @ 11 PM EST.
You may continue non-event threads prior to the event, but should not start new non-event threads until its conclusion on Sunday, June 25th at 11 PM EST. Please prioritize event threads.
The first two open event starters for each part do not have to follow the starter rule, but there is a limit of 5 open starters per event part. Open starters are limited to one per mun.
All characters must have at least one event thread.
You must contact the main in order to claim a role in each part.The first five models will be the same for both part two and three.
Please tag all event starters and content under #sevenmiles.event
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(And with that, the team has gone into training! As stated before, I will be taking a couple weeks break here. But before I go, some things will be mentioned.
(First, Miles and Angel will be taken off of the board. I just wasn’t using them as much, and wanted to clean up a bit seeing as I have so many muses here.)
(Second, Beck and Misha will not be sunset. Even though they have officially retired from rescue work, they will be moved to being side characters. Ones that will still pop up from time to time but won’t be a part of the main cast. They can still be asked questions and are open for threads, but they are no longer a part of the action.)
(Finally, I just want to say thank you to you all. Never in my wildest dreams would I almost find 100 people who enjoy my writing and my cast of characters. And it means the world that I have so many of you here. To get a bit sappy, seeing you all wanting to interact and reacting to the crazy adventures these goofballs end up in has helped me through this crazy time I’m going through right now. So from the bottom of my heart, thank you so so much.)
(With that being said, have a wonderful evening. And I will see you all star side.)
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cady’s english assignment— [golden cat emporium.]
hehehe i wrote this descriptive piece for my english class and i liked it so here it is retyped :))) criticism is welcome !!
A series of marimba-like comes tinkled as the door swept by its pivot, allowing me into an alcove of treasures ready to be found. Stretching from the floor to the ceiling were warm, ochre shelves of different widths, branches growing from its corners, crystalline trinkets dangling from the ends.
Along the narrow walls were coloured windows that told of great adventures and brave travellers, sunlight pouring into through the panes to project a gallery of untouchable paintings. Warmed tones in all shades of red, yellow and brown decorated the shop, natural light shining onto the dust waltzing in the air. It was difficult not to look around in awe— At every angle, every corner, every inch was an artefact that your eyes could feast on, endless marvel pouring into your soul until numbness overcame your senses.
Up, up, above were mazes of wooden beams, tilting at random angles to criss-cross over each other into a structured tangle of architecture. Hanging from the beams on spiker-silk-thread were an array of paraphernalia, ranging from antique-looking bronze lanterns to complicated models of the inaccurate perception that 17th century scientists had of the solar system. Tucked among the beams were also rolled, yellowing parchments— Maps that held the answer to life, perhaps?
Sheltered by a velvety, ebony curtain in the front corner was a masterpiece, a one-of-a-kind object that typically belonged in a royal’s safe room. An overly-elaborate telescope, bronze body adorning the jewellery of golden details. A curved piece of convex glass fitted snugly into the frame, completely unscratched and routinely polished— A spoiled prince that had servants at his beck and call. The telescope stood proud and tall, cocky attitude radiating off in a high frequency. Dancing on a golden chain from the tip of the scope was a pocket-watch, the secondhand mimicking the heart of a human.
Tic. Tic. Tic.
Surrounding the bases of the towering shelves were stacks upon stacks of miscellaneous boxes of all sizes. All of them had labels on their sides, a golden ink highlighting the details and content of the boxes in a language foreign to me. The city of stacked boxes— Unpacked inventory begging to be set free— Restrained my navigational ability, as I had to toe around the stacks, as if I didn’t want to wake a baby.
The shelves stretched upwards seemingly forever, like a giant beanstalk that showed no signs of slowing growth. A pain erupted by the nape of my neck, a flare of frantic electrical impulses telling me I was going to regret it if I kept my head craned up. An archive of bronze machinery littered the ochre shelves, possessing fine needles and geometrically-pleasing cogs. A low, deep purr shook the building— A simultaneous rumble of the machinery, vibrations slithering through the walls and floors like a million millipedes under the concrete.
I ventured further into the workshop, curiosity tugging me along. All around me, the machinery came to life, squeaking, purring, rumbling into an orchestra of tremors. The further I went, the bigger the machinery got— From small, chirpy cuckoo-clocks to quaint, dainty sewing machines in their flowered skirts, to automatic weaving looms that clacked to life, gossiping among themselves with the energy alike to a grandmothers’ knitting club gathering.
At last, after having walked a mile into the workshop, I met another soul. A man with a king’s robe over his shoulders, vermillion fabric a sharp contrast to the deep green-and-gold patterned silk shirt he wore. Flowing around his body like a Roman toga come to life, his robe waved its’ frilly gold corner at me, swirling around the man like an excited puppy.
My eyes flicked back at the man— Except he wasn’t quite a man anymore. Feline irises surveyed me, silver-white whiskers twitching judgementally as I was assessed. After what felt like a million years, he flicked his pointed cat ear, all the machines starting up in an orchestral unison taking the conductor’s cue. He stepped back, walls parting like the double doors of a giant’s mansion.
“Welcome,” He said cattily, “To the Golden Cat Emporium.”
w.c | 681
#original work#english#assignment#descriptive#descriptive essay#metaphors#fantasy#fantasy writing#[ris writes]—✧
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Everything You’ve Come To Expect -- Quentin Beck/Reader
Masterlist
Summary: A former employee of Stark Industries hides in solitude from her past, until she is forced to confront it years later. After all the time away, she realizes still hasn’t recovered from her heartbreak.
Words: 1.7k
A/N: Listen, this isnt probably canonically accurate, but I’m convinced Quentin is still alive. This might be trash, but also...I might turn this into a mini-series if you’re interested. Let me know if you’d like to be tagged!
****
The nights were peaceful. Silent. In the middle of the wilderness, she could make out all the constellations, scattered across the sky like jewels in a display case. Every star was visible out here, she’d never been able to see them amongst the light-polluted sky of the city. And she was completely alone. This was how it was supposed to be.
So when she was curled up on her couch with a book, a fire burning in her hearth only a few feet away, eyelids heavy as she dozed off, the knock on the door startled her. Of course, she wasn’t completely alone. A mile down the road was her closest neighbor, and she occasionally had visitors. But she was far from her past, that was what mattered.
She approached the door with caution, and contemplated retrieving the old pistol she owned, just to be safe. But, she knew she was just being paranoid. After all, she’d managed several years of safety. Anyone still searching for her had given up by now. Right?
So when she opened the door, and saw the face of a man absent from her life for what felt like ages, she almost instinctively slammed it back in his face. But he reached out, stopping her.
“Wait, Y/N please,” he said. “Please, I can explain,” his hand gripped the end of the door, eyes pleading, voice cracking in desperation.
Questions spun through her mind, a million emotions stormed inside of her, and she decided to dwell on anger, annoyance. She couldn’t betray herself and allow anything else. “What do you want, Quentin?” she asked.
“Five minutes, please,” he said. “That’s all I ask, and if you want to send me away, you can.”
Her chest was heaving, she wasn’t expecting to see him ever again. It took a few breaths before she made her decision, even if she knew it wasn’t the smartest. With one hand, she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Fine. Five minutes.”
Opening the door a foot or two wider, she jerked her head and he muttered apologies as he scurried past. She took a sweeping view of her front yard, satisfied when she could make out no other figures in the darkness, and finally turned to focus on Quentin.
What she hadn’t seen as he stood on the dim porch was apparent now. Face riddled with scratches and blood, hair unkempt, eyes bloodshot, all areas of his exposed skin now covered in bruises and marks. And despite all this, he was still horribly handsome.
“I got into some trouble,” his mouth twisted in a half smile, which disappeared quickly as she crossed her arms.
“Clearly,” she said. “And at whose expense?”
“No one’s hurt. I promise.” He shook his head. “I need your help, Y/N.”
Over the years, she’d made a point to avoid the news in general, but particularly anything involving Quentin. It was too painful. To her relief, she’d never heard much about him anyways. But based on how he looked right now, he clearly was up to something. No good, she suspected.
“Sit down,” she instructed, eyeing the bruise forming at the corner of his eye. She was still weary, and could hear it in her voice. “Let me get you something to drink, we’ll clean you up a little bit.”
She cursed under her breath the moment she entered the kitchen. What was she thinking, letting him into her home like this? Where was her resolve? She’d thought after all these years she’d built up a resistance to not become a complete idiot if he’d ever come back into her life, but she hadn’t expected him to show up looking like a kicked puppy, defeated and tired. All she wanted to do was comfort him. And she was angry with herself for being so empathetic, so desperate.
When she returned to the living room with a cup of tea, first aid kit and an icepack, Quentin was walking around the perimeter of her living room, taking in the minimal decorations, peering out her front window. The cabin was small, and rundown when she’d first bought it, but she’d worked hard renovating it over the years, until it finally felt like a home. She cleared her throat and he jumped with a start, closing the curtain that looked out to her front yard, and giving her a weak smile.
“I made you tea,” she said flatly.
Quentin approached her with some hesitance, until she finally sat down across from him on the couch. Her hands tangled together for a brief moment in her lap, rubbing the base of her ring finger absentmindedly. She eyed him carefully, every detail and fine line of his visage. Not much had changed, though his features may have become a bit more defined. Full lips she once drank from with unbridled fervor, deep blue eyes that had first captured her own in stolen glances at one another across the lab. It was still him.
Then something occurred to her. Without a second thought, she reached out, pressed her hand to the center of his chest, and felt him, warm and solid under her touch. “So it’s really you,” she said. “You’re not playing tricks on me.”
Quentin swallowed hard, his hand grasping hers as she moved to pull away. His touch was firm and steady, though his palms were rough. “I’d never do that. Not to you.”
The technology she’d helped him create, what had caused all this in the first place. He’d never used it to take advantage of her, to trick her. If anything. His first experiments had simulated sunsets on a Carribean beach, the quiet solitude of a moss-covered forest, and rolling, green hills covered with flowers. Anything he thought was romantic that he could dream up, he took her there. And she knew, before she left, that he didn’t have the best intentions, but he was right about that. He’d never used it to manipulate her.
And she wasn’t sure if it was better that he was really here or not, his hand wrapped around hers, his fingers now threading through the spaces in between her own. If he pulled her closer, she wasn’t sure she could resist him.
This isn’t the man you fell in love with. She forced herself to remember. After they’d gotten fired from Stark Industries, he’d changed. He was distant, vengeful. It was a slow change, slow enough that it took her awhile to realize what his intentions where. Ultimately, he’d broken her heart. He’d hurt her. And she ran.
Y/N looked down at their intertwined hands, frowning when she saw the golden wedding band on his ring finger. Recoiling in disgust, she pulled back, released him. Quentin removed the offending object as she opened her mouth to object. “It’s not real,” he said. “I promise you, it was all a part of the plan, I forgot to take it off.”
Studying him carefully, Y/N narrowed her eyes. His hand had come to rest on her shoulder, he was leaning forward, closer to her than she wanted for ideal focus. She knew him well enough to know that he wasn’t lying. He’d always been a bad liar. Well, convincing to others, but never to her. “It’s not like it matters, anyways,” she stated bluntly.
Quentin’s jaw clenched at her words, and Y/N was startled by how good it felt to see him hurt, even if it was just for a brief moment. Because within the next few seconds, she was lifting the icepack to the side of his face, gingerly pressing it against his eye, placing his hand over top it. “Keep that there.”
She didn’t want to ask questions, despite how quickly they were firing through her brain. So she worked in silence, cleaning the cuts and bruises on his face and body. It was clear he was tired. He hunched over slightly, undereyes puffy and eyelids drooping, even though he kept a steady gaze on her as she worked.
“Well,” she said, once she was finished. “We have a lot of talking to do, but I’d rather do it after a full night’s sleep. You can stay in my spare bedroom.”
“Are you sure?”
“No,” she answered. “But you need rest.”
Quentin rose from the couch alongside her, followed her down the hall to a linen cabinet, where she retrieved a couple towels and some oversized clothes that would likely fit him. “Take a shower, go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Quentin nodded as she gestured to the spare room, which he entered, hesitantly moving to close the door behind him. When she turned her back, she was surprised to feel a hand clasp gingerly around her upper arm. “Y/N,” he said. “Thank you.”
Turning her head, she looked at him over her shoulder. He was expectant, waiting. “You’re welcome,” she muttered.
“It’s….it’s really good to see you,” he said, hesitant. He was looking at her again, his eyes warm and insistent. And she couldn’t tell if he was manipulating her, or being honest. Somehow, sincerity would be worse, she thought. She was angry.
But she was mostly frustrated with herself. Because the easiest thing to do would be pitch herself into his arms, nuzzle her face in his neck, let him tell her it would all be okay. Why was that easier than pretending she didn’t care? To act cold? It was delusional. She’d so desperately wanted things to work between them, she had her whole future planned out with him. And it was pulled from underneath her. And all these years had apparently done nothing to quelm how badly she still believed things would work out.
****
Quentin stared at the door long after she’d closed it. There was a solid chance he wasn’t doing the right thing. But despite her cold, he knew he couldn’t be vulnerable, or at home with anyone else. Though he wasn’t quite ready for everything that was associated with seeing her again.
She’d left him suddenly. With almost no explanation. And he had been angry, for a long time. But now he was beginning to think he hadn’t understood before. Maybe it had been harder to cut herself away than she’d made it seem. Tonight, she’d appeared conflicted. And she was still beautiful as ever. And sweet as ever, despite her clear reservations.
He needed a place to regroup, rethink. Coming here was probably not the solution. If anything, it only complicated his current situation. But now, he wasn’t sure if he could take himself away. After all these years, maybe he deserved to be selfish.
Part II
#spiderman#spiderman: far from home#jake gyllenhaal#mysterio#quentin beck#quentin beck x reader#quentin beck imagine#mysterio x reader#mysterio imagine#jake gyllenhaal imagine#jake gyllenhaal x reader#spiderman fanfiction#spiderman fiction#marvel writing#mcu writing#spiderman writing#quentin beck writing#jake gyllenhaal writing#quentin beck x you#quentin beck x y/n#mysterio x you#mysterio x y/n
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Verses: Revolution
Age: 25 in 2028
Location: Wanderer/Primarily out west
I have this stated in my rules but I’ll reiterate here: I don’t do non-witch verses for Beck. And seeing as this show’s grasp of its own damn genre was so tentative anyway it’s not like it matters. You can give your/other characters magic is you want, or you can leave them as they are.
I also tend to write Connor in these verses. I used to write him on an old blog, and in a lot of ff, and since the fandom is mostly dead I don’t figure it matters.
Beck only has two familiars in this verse: her dog Ringo and her horse, Grani
Beck met Connor Bennett when she was only five years old. Her father had just passed, and her mother decided to move back to Indiana where more members of her clan resided. They were next door neighbors who became fast friends over their childhood, and Beck spent as much time as she could at the Bennett’s to avoid her mother.
When her mother died in a crash during the initial blackout, Beck was left on her own. The witches in her mother’s clan attempted to take her in, but after a long childhood of abuse, Beck didn’t trust any of them. She ran away again and again, until finally getting up the courage to tell Emma the truth. Upon hearing this, Emma took her in.
Beck was happy for several years after that. She’d never been fond of the indoors, never had any need for electricity, and she didn’t miss it once it was gone. She spent hours upon hours with Connor exploring abandoned places, swimming in the creek, and playing pretend. He knew she was a witch, but if it worried him it never showed. Now and again Beck still ran off, that was simply her nature, but she always came back a few days later.
When Miles took Connor south, Beck followed. This was the start of Beck living life on her own. Connor found refuge with his family down south and for a while Beck was allowed to stay with him, until Connor’s aunt saw her doing a spell and kicked her out for being a devil worshiper. From then on, she lived her life fully out in the wilds around the city, and she would wander for longer and longer periods of time.
After Connor joined Nunez thing between them started to grow sour. Connor was starting to get paranoid and closed off. When Beck is brought back to Puesta del Sol after being mauled by a mountain lion, things only got worse. A lot of things happen in this time period that we can get into in a thread if you want but we won’t talk about here, but basically Nunez does some real mean things to Beck and Connor doesn’t try to stop him, so Beck leaves permanently.
It is possible to meet Beck in an s1 timeline seeing as like she’s 25 in the events of s2 and she and Connor have been estranged for quite a while, but s1 will probably be easier to work with.
#verses: nbc revolution#day two of me finishing shit and not editing it#even tho i know it needs to be edited terribly
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Electric Shock (Ch. 1, Aurora)
When you dance it’s like you’re electrified. Everything tightens and your muscles create a read thread that ties it all together. Set in a trance your body climbs up while your mind descends into different spheres while you choose the rights steps to conquer your movements. I was in control of my happiness in those moments and no one could take it from me because any time I would take the pole into my hands no one could resist me. An irony I couldn’t laugh off as easily as I’d like to. As much I craved to be in control, I craved to be invisible from the world.
“Well, well, if that ain’t my favourite pincipessa”, a smoky voice groaned from beneath me. Absent-minded I opened up my eyes and looked into its direction. Gary, one of my – our – oldest clients smirked up at me and waved at me with a fifty dollar bill. I raised an eyebrow and taunted him with a little shake from my right index finger. “Oh, you little beast”, he chuckled and dug his wallet out of his trouser pocket.
I looked over the club as I crouched down on the stage, sliding closer to the edge of it. It was slow night, tonight. Only a few clients having a drink at the bar or in front of the stages watching their dancers perform only for them. Or so they thought. I smiled as I took the hundred dollar bill out of Gary’s hand. He should have known better than to pay me the rest of what he owed me three days ago just now. It wasn’t like my brother endured back payments easily.
“Your eyes, my dear. Your eyes and the looks you shoot me with could kill. Will you perform on the center stage when you are riled up like that?” I turned away as he casted me a look of playful defiance. “I would pay triple to see your temper show through”, he whispered. “You know that I love a little bit of resistance in the bedroom as well.” I rolled my neck, disgusted at his advances. I couldn’t wait till this night would be over.
Frustrated at what my life has come to although it was never really destined to be … nice … I couldn’t shake of the pressure in my chest I felt around my brother lately. Sure, it made sense that some elderly men were oblivious to the sophistication of a young woman. A young, beautiful women, as my brother told me. And since I wasn’t only some young woman but his sister, I became more of a value to these men since they thought that this connection would bind them even closer to my brother.
Oh, fools on parade cavort and carry on for waiting eyes.
“How is your daughter doing, Gary?”, I asked as I bend my beck while holding on to the pole. With my left leg, I hocked the metal whereas my right one stood up straight, in a fine, tight line. Gary sighed, yet again. I rolled my eyes.
“She is well, off to Oxford, you know?”, he replied, sipping on his whiskey and following my every move. It was naïve to initiate a serious conversation with a man that only thought of me as a source to his pleasure. But I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about his family, especially his daughter - same age, same graduation year. Yet, we went into completely different paths. And as much as I had any reason to dislike this man sitting before me, cheating on his wife regularly, he gave his daughter the permission to live providing her the appropriate resources.
No man in my life had taken care of me that way ever. No man in my life had seen any potential in me. I shook my head, putting some distance between me and my thoughts. “What will she major in?” I slowly swayed down to the ground of the dance floor. I pushed my hands onto it and glided down. Pushing my face up with hands as I lied down in front of Gary, I tore my lips up into the sweetest smile I could give.
“She will master in business administration. You know that I want to make her my successor one day.” He shot out his hand to circle my chin and caress the skin. I tried to maintain as still as possible. He couldn’t possibly know that his touch unsettled me because frankly I wasn’t used to it. I wouldn’t ever get used to it. “She won’t have to know everything, but prestige matters a lot. I just want her to be able to think.”
“Think? Focus on her studies, miles away from her parents. In a student dorm, surrounded by people of the same age, only a second away from causing mischief”, I pondered out loud. Something picked at my skin as goose bumps crawled down my skin. Gary pushed his knife that he keeps hidden in his bracelet. I laughed out loud, not in the least scared but satisfied that I got to him. “Is she still a virgin? I heard that British boys show their true colors after some drinks. Ever wonder if their drinking habits will ever rub off on her too?”
“I should put you right across …”
“Yes?”, I interrupted him with glassy eyes but a pounding heart. I didn’t know what it was that made me provoke others. The frustration with myself, my life, the men I had around me but didn’t really know or care about me, the women that weren’t even in my life. Everything was ephemeral, including human relationships. I never understood how humans could connect on a deeper level, much beyond lust, hatred, aggression or mutual indifference. I rarely even felt the connection to myself, and so I started this game at 13 until my brother decided that I was so good at it and made it my profession. “Are you hard?”
“I think you should move this conversation into one of the playrooms, Aurora”, a hard voice interjected our spell or rather Gary’s enchantment with me. I crunched with my teeth as I jumped off stage and rounded Gary’s table. Genzo, my older brother, stood in the center of the room and looked at us with narrowed eyes. His shoulders were pulled back, tense, which one could see even beneath his layered three piece suit. His hands were pushed into the pockets of his jacket, while his legs stood wide and firm in place. His dark eyes brushed me over as I approached him, then the look on his face softened. Subtly. “It would be much cheaper for him to take you now, than take you home.”
I scoffed, holding my hand out for his face and brushing his hair back. He knew that I hated to be close to him and this place during work - my real work. As much as I enjoyed mind games and hated human beings like no other, I couldn’t completely shake off the last sparks of humanity. It took effort to be unscrupulous and I was better at it with no audience that could see or hear me. “I wouldn’t like that. Gary wouldn’t like that. We both prefer to hold our foreplay here and do the action at home. Unless it’s something that you truly want to experience too, big brother, I can’t think of anything else that would make you want me here”, I mused, sweetly.
“Brat!”, Benzo spat out and twisted my hand out of his hair. Benzo –shortened from Benedict Solon Storm - was five years older than me. The Storms adopted me at the age of 7 after I had endured a year at the house of my mom’s estranged aunt. She had mercy with me after all. However, due to her schizophrenia she couldn’t handle life with a 5 year old and so her doctor put me back into the foster system. Out of all the kind mommies and daddies that were looking for a daughter, it had to be Cecilia and Stephen Storm who took a liking on me. Cecilia and Stephen Storm: the inglorious money launderers of Manhattan. So they made me Benedict’s little sister and initially he hated me.
Benzo – the little king of Long Island. The one who ran my home for ten years and terrorized my school years. The one who made me find a way to disappear into the walls, whenever he crossed my way. The one who subconsciously taught me how to lie. The one who was mom’s favorite and treated her with care and love – she was the only one he ever loved. The one who taught me how to fight. The one who chose to save me instead of our parents. The one who broke down in my arms after they died. The one who dragged me out of our privileged life into this shallow silhouette of it.
His eyes were dark as they lied on me, but they always seemed dark. Chocolate brown eyes, under rich thick eyebrows, that carried a golden touch to it and pierced at you when he was angered. A smooth, concise face with perfectly curved cheekbones, plumb lips that looked to beautiful to fit on his face, and a strong chin. He was beautiful, but he didn’t want to acknowledge it. His thick brown hair fell over his forehead, scattered from my hand. I used to think that he was gorgeous even, before he taught me that he was ugly from within the inside.
“I mean I knew that you guys had some tension going on, but I never thought that you, Benzo, would ever cross that line. I thought that you were raised religiously”, laughed Gary at my reply. I didn’t turn around to reply, neither did Benzo. He kept his eyes on mine, tense, heated. He didn’t like my jokes. Notably when they concerned our family status. He didn’t want people to know I was adopted.
“I think she’s had too many drinks with Peter from the bar. I’ll forbid him from giving her any shots anymore”, Benzo bit out. “Her tongue’s way too loose and should be put into use more purposefully. Don’t you think, Rora?”
What do you expect of me? Life is hell, you’re hell. This place is hell. But instead of telling him all the things that went through my mind I nodded. It had no use to anger this one and wear him out. He’d devour me with his fangs and spit me out on the next street. I didn’t know why he kept me after they died. I guess now he had some puppet to play with, at least. I was only a toy, among his many toys.
“The dance starts in thirty minutes. Gary will only be able to get me in two hours. The earliest.” Benzo’s right eye twitched as I said it but he nodded. It seemed like he wanted to turn away, so I turned out my hand and showed him the money. “Here is the rest of the money for last time. I guess now you have something to say to him.”
I turned away, escaping from his glare and crossing the room to get into the backstage. No matter what I did, he was always unhappy. No matter how hard I tried to seem unfazed by what we did, he couldn’t reciprocate with the same sentiment. Why always anger? Why was he annoyed twenty-four-seven? I didn’t escape. I didn’t run. I didn’t complain as much as I could.
Still clouded by the growing anger and tension in my chest, I made my way through the rows as suddenly an arm snaked around my waist and pulled me to a strong, hard body. I held my breath as I came to close with a male chest. I only saw tan skin, disclosed by an open collar, tight muscles above the collarbone. I saw a hint of ink beneath the fabric, as a strong hand tipped my head back. Green eyes, glowing like emerald that seemed to be boundless took me in. I set out a soft moan as I realized how close we stood together.
I didn’t touch men and men didn’t touch me. No one did but it didn’t linger in the back of my mind to tell him that. I couldn’t speak under the heat of his stare. His eyes seemed to break something in me as they caressed my face, and dived deeper to take the rest of me in. “Who are you, my muse?”, he whispered and leaned in closer to me. I held my head back, even if it was helpless. I felt his strong, warm grip around my waist. I felt the tight muscles of his chest and his legs on mine as we stood there and just stared. God, why did he stare at me?
His black hair was short and accentuated his face and his darker skin. His piercing green eyes shined in the purest form of its color I had ever seen. His fine nose embraced by his prominent cheekbones curled up under his smile. God, his lips. They looked so soft, a mix of red and rose. I blinked as I looked at his mouth. Suddenly my insides felt extremely cold.
Get it together, my mind screamed. He’s not the first handsome guy to enter this club and he won’t be the last. What if he wants you? Everyone wants you! But I didn’t want anyone … He was tall. He towered over me, about a couple of heads taller than me. My face reached his shoulders, and he looked as if he could just carry me in his hand. I was so small, I felt so small.
“She’s Aurora”, my brother murmured. Confused I turned my head, broken was the spell the stranger held me captive in, around to where his voice came from. He stood next to us, very close and his face sat unmoving. He didn’t show any emotion, but I could tell from the tension in his body that he was … angry. His knuckles were white, fists unmoving next to his body. “She is the one I’ve been talking about during our meetings. My little sister.”
Meetings. I gasped dismayed.
Who. Would. Want. You? No one.
I turned my face down to the ground, unable to look at the stranger anymore. My body quaked and he must have felt it because he only tightened his hold on me. “I like her already and will give you five of what I originally promised to pay for”, the stranger replied in a calm and soothing tone almost as if he wanted to comfort me. “How old is she? She looks young. You told me she was legal.”
“She is”, Benzo countered, almost impatiently. “She is legal and she is popular. I told you to come by next week, not the next day. She is booked and done for tonight. We can meet in my office and talk about it but you won’t have her tonight.” Something simmered in my brother. I was unsure of its origin as I knew that anger and possessiveness were part of our profession. This time it seemed to go deeper and whereas he usually didn’t escape from the opportunity to make more money than usual, he wavered this time. Why couldn’t this guy have me now? Why next week?
“Hmm.” The stranger took a curl from my hair and raised it to his face. He sniffed on it. “It won’t be long till you’re mine, my sweet muse”, he whispered, almost inaudibly. Then he let go of me and nodded to my brother to lead him from here. I shook a breath out as I watched the two of them distancing themselves from where I stood. My heart throbbed in my throat as it was racing for survival, almost. I brought my hand to my head where he’d touched me. Just then the stranger turned around and gave me a last heated look. If it wouldn’t have seemed so ridiculous, I would have guessed that it meant: You’re mine.
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below is a list of my currently updated thread tracker since the website hasn’t working lately.... but here’s the link anyway. the threads are listed in abc order (as best as i could) by partner url !!
now that i have updated my tracker, i am willing to take on more threads (will probably post some starter calls for muses without any threads since they need love too) .... with exception!!!! as well as bust out my currently old memes in my ask box :P
and figure out relationships & verses & bios & which muses to keep / get rid of since my last update and clearing out my followers / following lists !!! pretty much everythiiing!!
i will probably from now on, as replies come in for me, i will most likely reply & add them to queue as i do them so they don’t build up and i can also work on other things in between however some might get posted right away depending on how much muse and how much interest i have towards that specific thread at the moment.
if I’m missing ANYTHING please let me know.
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already replied and added to queue. if you want to drop or move any of the following threads, feel free to let me know. i will delete it from my tracker & my queue if it hasn’t already been replied to !!
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A Brief History of the Austin Champ – Everything You Need To Know
Introduction: To Build a Better Jeep
My first, and only, working experience with an Austin Champ was on a farm down in Australia where I was helping the property owner with some vermin control. We were racing across a sheep paddock doing at least 30 mph, although it felt like a lot more, in hot pursuit of the aforementioned vermin with me riding shotgun, literally, sitting on the bare metal of the Champ’s rear. Sitting is probably the wrong word, hanging on for dear life might be closer.
Suddenly the farmer yelled out an expletive and “HOLD ON”. No sooner had he bellowed that than we came to a ridge hidden in the crop and the Austin Champ was airborne a few feet off the ground. Suffice to say that gravity being what it is and an Austin Champ having no ability to fly whatsoever we landed with an almighty thump made all the more painful as my backside impacted with the hard steel of the Champ. Though my bodywork sustained a degree of painful injury the Austin Champ continued unharmed and unabated, a tribute to British engineering.
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History is fascinating in part because it takes so many twists and turns that you just wouldn’t expect. That’s the difference between history and fiction: fiction is planned and sequential whereas history contains twists and turns that a human being just couldn’t imagine, until they happen. The origin of the Austin Champ has elements of that. Over in the United States back in 1940, as the Department of War realized that the nation was going to be in a major war sooner rather than later, they got stuck into preparations in the fast lane. One of the pieces of equipment they knew they were going to need was a multi-purpose scout car.
The Department of War sent out requests for designs for such a vehicle to no less than 135 manufacturers giving them 11 days to respond with a bid, 49 days in which to have a prototype ready, and 75 days in which to produce an initial run of 70 vehicles. The specifications for this new vehicle were that it had to be a four-wheel-drive capable of carrying a crew of three, have a wheelbase of 75″ and a track of no more than 47″. The empty weight of the vehicle was to be no more than 1,300 lbs and it had to be able to take a payload of 660 lbs.
Above Image: A Bantam Jeep, towing a 37 mm Gun M3, jumping over a small hill in New River, North Carolina, United States, Circa 941.
Of those 135 manufacturers who were asked just one, American Bantam, which used to be American Austin, took up the challenge and they created the Bantam BRC 40, a “Jeep” that could tow a field gun so fast it was able to get both itself and the gun airborne. So it was actually American Bantam, which had previously been a branch of British car maker Austin of England, which created the first “Jeep”. And it would be through another twist of history that one of those American Bantam “Jeeps” would be captured by Japanese troops during their invasion of the Philippines and sent home to Japan where it was copied and then improved on by Japanese car maker Toyota to become the Toyota Land Cruiser.
Over in Britain however they found themselves starting World War II in a Jeepless condition, and so they had to get their Jeeps from the United States and some of these early Jeeps were in fact American Bantam (i.e. American Austin) BRC 40’s, which were nicknamed the “Blitz Buggy” after the Blitz, the Nazi’s rather unfriendly practice of flying over Britain and dropping bombs on people.
Once the war was over however and the Nazis had been suitably dealt with, the British Army decided that they wanted a vehicle like the Jeep but better: a purpose built combat vehicle that could do rather more than a Jeep. And so in that aura of “the British are best at everything” sort of thinking they began the process of creating their very own “Rolls-Royce of Jeeps” complete with an actual Rolls-Royce engine.
Development On The Austin Champ Begins
The British Army lost no time in getting to work on their new multi-purpose light combat vehicle. Just because the World War was officially over didn’t mean that the nation was in a time of peace. The Maoist Communists were still fighting to take over mainland China, and would succeed in 1949, they would then go on to play a significant role in the Korean War the following year.
The relations with the Soviet Union became increasingly unfriendly and the Cold War developed. The world had not suddenly become a safe place at the end of the war and the British Army knew they needed to prepare and re-equip so they could competently deal with more conflict.
The creation of the Austin Champ was one part of the process of re-equipping and work on it began shortly after the end of the Second World War in the late 1940’s, with work officially beginning in 1947. The proposed vehicle was to be “Car, 4×4, 5 cwt. FV1800-Series”. It was to be able to function with complete reliability in all possible theaters of British Army operation whether that was the arctic, the deserts of Africa, jungles of South-East Asia, or anywhere else. The first prototype was the Nuffield Gutty and it was fitted with a horizontally opposed four cylinder “boxer” front mounted engine which was also planned to be used in the planned Nuffield Morris Mosquito small car.
The Nuffield Gutty served to point the way to the design improvements needed and the British Army Fighting Vehicles Research and Development Establishment (FVRDE) undertook the task of creating a new design to fulfill the Army’s requirements.
The design team was led by Charles William “Rex” Sewell and included Alec Issigonis who designed the suspension system and who would later design the Austin/Morris Mini, 1100 and 1800 series of civilian passenger cars for British Motor Corporation (BMC).
The first thirty prototypes of the new vehicle were made by British car maker Wolseley and named the “Wolseley Mudlark”, presumably because they were intended to be a vehicle well suited to larking about in the mud. These Mudlarks were fitted with the Rolls-Royce B40 No. 1 Mk 2A petrol/gasoline engine. There is some debate as to whether there were only thirty Mudlarks made, one was listed as being a “saloon” which would mean an enclosed car and it may have been additional to the thirty.
The FVRDE “Austin Champ” Design
The Fighting Vehicles Research and Development Establishment left no stone unturned in their quest for the “Holy Grail” of a new combat vehicle that front line soldiers could trust their lives to. There were to be just three trucks given the “CT” Combat designation. The smallest of these was to be the “Truck, 1/4 Ton, 4×4, CT” which would be more commonly referred to as the “Austin Champ”.
Next up in size was the “Truck, 1 Ton, 4×4, CT” which was manufactured by car and commercial vehicle maker Humber.
The third and largest of the “CT” Combat vehicles was the “Truck, 10 Ton, 6×6, CT” which was manufactured by truck maker Leyland and commonly known as the “Leyland Martian”.
The British Army “CT” Combat vehicles were made with a view to ensuring the designs were standardized and coordinated so that there was maximized parts interchangeability thus minimizing the range of spare parts that were needed to keep them operational, simplifying provision of spare parts for vehicles on active service.
The new vehicle was designated the FV1801a as the first model of the FV1800 Series. Translated, the full name of the vehicle “Truck, 1/4 Ton, 4×4, CT, Austin Mk.1” reads as “Truck, with a 1/4 ton carrying capacity, 4×4 = four wheel drive, CT being short for CombaT, and “Austin Mk.1” meaning that this was Austin of England’s first manufacturing effort.
The Rolls-Royce B40 engine for the Austin Champ was based on a 1936 Rolls-Royce design that had been created with absolute reliability in mind. The pre-production and early production Austin Champs were fitted with the same engine as the Mudlarks; the B40 No.1 Mk 2A using the BSF (British Standard Fine) thread system on studs, bolts and nuts etc.
These were crossflow inlet over exhaust in-line four cylinder engines with a capacity of 2,838cc and featured a cast aluminum cylinder head with screwed in hardened steel valve seats. This would change after the 1949 standardization to UNF (Unified Fine) threads for later production Austin Champs to use the UNF thread engine B40 No.1 Mk 5A [UNF]. This engine featured some manufacturing simplifications, used a cast iron cylinder head, and was painted light blue with “UNF” cast into its rocker cover.
Early production engines were manufactured by Rolls-Royce at their Crewe factory but most Austin Champs were fitted with the later Austin manufactured engines made to the Rolls-Royce designs. The engine drew its fuel from a 20 Imperial gallon fuel tank. Fuel consumption was expected to be around 15 mpg giving a range of 300 miles, although if being driven enthusiastically fuel consumption would drop into single digits and the vehicle range would be somewhat shorter.
The engine, transmission and electrical system were all waterproofed so the vehicle could operate submerged to a depth of six feet. The air intake featured a folding snorkel that could be raised if the Champ needed to do a water crossing.
The transmission of the Austin Champ was quite unusual. The gearbox was a solidly constructed all synchromesh five speed unit. This was connected to a standard Borg and Beck clutch with a mechanical linkage for optimum reliability and ease of repair. From the clutch was a drive shaft to connect to the rear mounted transfer box and differential assembly.
The need to place the transfer box at the rear and make it in unit with the differential came from the cruciform shape of the chassis which precluded attaching the transfer case to the gearbox in the more common way. This led to the Austin Champ gaining a rather unusual feature: the reversing gear was located in the transfer box meaning that the Champ had five forward gears, and five reverse gears. So, the Champ could do over 50 mph forwards or backwards, which could be rather handy if one needed to beat a hasty retreat.
The Austin Champ’s suspension was fully independent front and rear using double “A” arms (i.e. wishbones) with torsion bar springing. The system, designed by Alex Issigonis, had the torsion bars set longitudinally under the center of the cruciform “X” shaped chassis and fitted into the base of the “A” arms. It was an ingenious design that provided good wheel travel for off-road driving and good handling whether on the rough or on a road.
Steering was by rack and pinion, brakes were non-servo assisted hydraulic drums by Girling with a single hydraulic circuit to simplify maintenance. The drive shafts to the wheels used Bendix Tracta constant velocity joints. The front and rear axles were in a cradle sub-assembly to enable easier repair or replacement in the field.
The electrical system on the Austin Champ was 24 volt in accordance with the standards set by an agreement between the British, Canadians and Americans. Electrical parts and systems were by CAV, Delco-Remy, Simms, and Lucas (sometimes referred to as “Lucas, Prince of Darkness” by those who had to fix them), and instrumentation was by Smiths of London.
The bodywork of the Austin Champ was designed to structurally integrate with the chassis and provide supplementary structural stiffness. It was made by British Company “Pressed Steel” who made automotive bodywork for Rolls-Royce, Jaguar, and various other car makers.
The equipment provided for the Austin Champ varied depending on its role. It was provided with a simple “Rexine” PVC covered cloth top and side screens for a measure of protection in rain, hail, sleet and snow. The windscreen was able to be folded forward from the underside to assist with de-fogging and the whole windscreen could be folded flat onto the bonnet/hood if the top was down. This was a necessary feature for a military vehicle as one would be quite likely to want to be able to fire a rifle or pistol without having a windscreen in the way. It was also a useful feature for civilians doing vermin control or wanting to reduce the vehicle’s height so they could drive it through the shrubbery into more inaccessible places.
Standard equipment would include a shovel and a pickaxe for digging one’s Champ out of a sticky situation, and the vehicle was fitted with a carrier for a 20 liter jerrycan for water.
The Austin Champ was optionally fitted out for a variety of roles. The vehicle could be set up as a FFR (Fitted For Radio) vehicle with a 50″ sliding table, battery mountings etc.
The Austin Champ was also fitted out for armaments in much the same way as the American Jeep. Armaments could range from a .303 Bren Light Machine Gun, .303 Vickers Water Cooled Heavy Machine Gun, 7.62mm NATO Browning machine gun, or for an adversary who was being particularly troublesome an ATGM (Anti Tank Guided Missile).
Versions of the Champ included those fitted out for ambulance transport, cable laying, and a fire fighting model called the Firefly which carried a 60 Imperial gallon water tank.
The “Truck, 1/4 Ton, 4×4, CT, Austin Mk.1”, which became known as the Austin Champ entered production on 1st September 1951. The British Army contracted with Austin to produced 15,000 of them and both the Army and Austin were happy with the deal. The Army was happy because they at last had their “British is Best” perfect small combat vehicle complete with Rolls-Royce engine and the ability to do 50mph in reverse, something the American Jeep could not do. Austin were happy because of all those lovely crisp British Pound notes flooding into their company bank account.
The happiness was not to last however as the shortcomings of the Champ began to show themselves. This expensive combat vehicle proved to be heavy, and unexpectedly prone to rear axle failure. It was also discovered that the humble Land Rover was able to do almost everything that the Champ could do, and the Land Rover was about half the price of the £1,200 Champ. The Army had to face facts and decided to curtail their contract with Austin in 1955, so only 11,732 Champs were made. Land Rovers became the standard British Army light vehicle and the nice crisp British Pound banknotes flooded into Rover’s coffers instead.
The Champs were moved from front line Army service to the Territorial Army by the mid 1960’s and were all put up for sale by 1968. So despite their amazing cross country performance, such as I experienced with my farmer friend and our airborne Champ, they did not have a long service life with the Army.
The Civilian Version of the Austin Champ
There came to be some confusion over the names and specifications for the military and civilian versions of the Austin Champ. This is in part due to the fact that the Champ did not remain long in military service before it was declared obsolete and the vehicles were sold off to the civilian market. So there finished up being a mixture of military and civilian Champs in private hands. This in part led to military and civilian vehicles all being referred to as Austin Champs regardless: and it must be confessed that calling the vehicle by its military name “Truck, 1/4 Ton, 4×4, CT,” or “FV1801a” (Fighting Vehicle 1801a) is a bit of an effort, while “Champ” has personality.
The civilian models of the Austin Champ were either fitted with the Rolls-Royce engine or the civilian 2,660cc Austin A90 engine. Electrics on the civilian Champ were by Lucas as they were for the majority of British cars of the time and the electrical system was 12 volt rather than military 24 volt.
Austin did not only produce the Champ however and seeing the success Rover were having with their Land Rover Austin decided to create a model that was in some respects like a cross between the Champ and the Land Rover. It was called the Austin Gypsy and despite its independent suspension it did not prove popular.
Austin Champ Specifications
Engine: Rolls-Royce B40 2,838cc inline Inlet Over Exhaust crossflow four cylinder petrol/gasoline producing 80bhp @ 3,750rpm.
Transmission: Five speed all synchromesh manual gearbox with mechanically actuated Borg and Beck clutch. Rear mounted transfer box with reversing gear and differential as an integrated unit. This provided 5 speeds both forwards and in reverse. The civilian version had optional provision for a power take-off from the transfer box.
Brakes: Girling drum brakes with single hydraulic circuit.
Steering: Rack and Pinion
Chassis and Body: Cruciform box steel chassis, steel four seater body with stress sharing between body and chassis. Length 12′ (3.66 meters), width 5′ 5″ (1.65 meters), Height 6′ 8 1/2″ (1.87 meters).
Suspension: Independent all around with double “A” arms (wishbones) front and rear. Longitudinally mounted torsion bars.
Conclusion
The Austin Champ was all it was designed to be but turned out to be expensive, and not to have the absolute bullet proof reliability that had been hoped for it. It was and still is a superb cross country vehicle and probably holds the world speed record for a standard production vehicle in reverse gear. The Champ has acquired a dedicated following by owners who appreciate the vehicle’s qualities and so there are significant numbers of Champs which are well looked after. It was a great attempt by Britain to build the perfect “Jeep”, but like so many human efforts at creating perfection, it didn’t quite live up to the high expectations people had for it.
Photo Credits: FVRDE, US Army, Austin, British Army.
The post A Brief History of the Austin Champ – Everything You Need To Know appeared first on Silodrome.
source https://silodrome.com/austin-champ-history/
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finally got the time to work on my muse tab today & finally ready to get back on the dash today!! i gotta go to bed now, but i’m planning on continuing old threads & making new one SO here’s a starter call –– feel free to like for a starter & specify the muses:
angel ( borderlands ) – random for hvddensorrows
ben hargreeves ( the umbrella academy )
fiona ( tales from the borderlands )
miles morales ( into the spiderverse ) – quentin beck, gwen
sam giddings ( until dawn ) – random for hvddensorrows
tadashi hamada ( big hero 6 ) – ben hanscom, honey lemon
thomas ( the maze runner ) – donovan
toph beifong ( avatar: the last airbender ) – ty lee
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