#you can grab his dick but he jas to be in a suit

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Elaborating on robot!König. He was a man, once, he believes - or that’s what his fuzzy memories tell him. He’s unsure, but he knows that this is his reality now. And he’s built to love it, to love the attention he gets When he walks onto the battlefield, and the praise from his superiors from time to time when he successfully destroys an enemy base with just a flick of the hand. His wrist opens, splitting his forearm and Hand apart, revealing a hole - and a second later, a rocket heads straight for his targets.

Within the destroyed enemy base, someone manages to escape. A frail little being, könig notes, when he scans her from afar. He chuckles to himself, seeing her run around like a lost fly hitting a window over and over again, because one second she’s running this way and the other she’s running that way. She has nowhere left to go.

He decides to kill her. He’s her enemy, and his sensors are going crazy noting that the target is trying to run away. But it all soon quiets, as he hears a voice through the earpiece built into his head. “You noted a target escaping, are they strong?” König stands on the battlefield, unharmed, talking to his superiors as if nothing particular is going on. “Ach, nein, very… weak. Not suited for war. She will to die by exhausting herself, running in circles.” He laughs loudly, making heads turn towards the 208 cm tall crazy metal-man.

“Then get her for questioning.”

“Jawohl.”

He simply walks over to her, not rushing one bit. He loves the terrified look on her face when she turns around and sees him. She doesn’t even try to run away. “Stupid girl, not even trying to escape me?” You don’t answer and he grins, “A smart decision. Jetzt komm schon, hopp hopp!”

He flings her over his shoulder like it’s nothing. His mouth curls slightly upwards at the “oof!” Sound she lets out. He grabs her steadily by the back of her knees and one large hand over her butt. On his walk back to the helicopter, he experimentally squeezes a few times and decides he likes the feeling of it. He sits her down in his lap, ass on one thigh, and he bounces the other every now and then. He wants to stare at her, but he doesn’t want to scare his new little prey off.

Back on base, they keep you for questioning. You know better than to give information away, but you suppose it’s either that or you’ll leave this place in pieces - as they heartily promised to send könig to blast you away into the night sky like a firework.

When they don’t let you go, you’re still confused, but just as you’re about to speak up to the leaving soldiers, two men walk in. You recognise one as König the war machine, and the other must be in a higher position with the way he holds himself. König meets your eyes and grins toothily, not that you could see it because of the mask. But you shudder at the bright blue shining on you.

“She’s all yours, König” the older man pats his back, “we don’t have any use for her, and I could see the way you looked at her. I guess even those like you happen to to want to keep a war trophy, yeah?”

“Ja… jawohl” he keeps staring at you, eyes scanning over your body. Quite literally. The older man nods and tells him that he can take you home, “have a good time, you’ve deserved it.”

He props you up on his shoulder again and leaves to his apartment, built right beside the base to make it easy for him to come and go as commanded. He slaps your ass, and grabs a cheek through your pants, smiling and your soft gasp.

“I’ll show you a good time, trophy girl.”

(Proceeds to show you the 30+ modes he has on his vibrating dick)

WHO ARE YOU?!? Can I marry you…? 👉👈

I mean do I follow you here anon? And if not then wtf?! Give me your blog now if you’re pushing out stuff like this! Gimme! I beg of you!

(I had to collaborate to the awesome bleakness of this: here, have this as a ty gift!)

She literally prayed that some other veteran would have taken her as a “trophy”, just anyone except this machine.

It claims it was once a man, but seems to have forgotten what it is to be human, walks in and out of his apartment that’s really just an old container, disturbs your only moments of peace in the “bathroom” where you’re trying to wash yourself clean, under a bucket shower with a small bar of soap he found for you somewhere.

Doesn’t respect your privacy at all actually, stares at your breasts when you get up and get dressed, scans your body up and down when you hesitantly crawl to him at night. He has a body warmth feature which he uses to lure you in and to his arms because the metal casket you live in with this war machine is horribly cold, night and day. Of course you seek warmth from the giant radiator so that you wouldn't freeze to death.

Due to the many upgrades – or that’s what he calls them – made to his body, he has inhuman stamina. Gets his pleasure out of edging and studying your body, clearly trying to remember what human women were like... How they writhe, what makes them quiver and cum, what forces them to moan.

He wants to know how many orgasms can be pulled out of your weak body, how many times can you take his dick that’s a bit too hard and unforgiving compared to the smoother human cocks, he's especially curious whenever you start to beg for him not to stop.

You feel like you’re more like a guinea pig to him when he returns to probe and experiment on you at night. Asks why you look sad when you curl into a fetal position after the three peaks he just tortured out of you. When you explain to him that you’d like some skin-to-skin contact and cuddling after sex, the automated breathing behind you stops for a moment.

“Ah... Post-coital procedures... Ja, I remember, ganz sicher.”

He settles down next to you and draws you into an embrace, a bit too cold and rough. There’s no heartbeat, but he breathes steadily behind your back, the steady thrum of his inhales and exhales supposed to make you relax. He could probably turn his body heat system up if you asked, but you’re too shaken to even speak.

“You feel good now...?” He asks as if it’s in his protocol to do that these days. That it’s his job to make you feel nice and he must not fail…

“Yes, much better,” you lie as you spend another night with this war-torn but highly functioning cyborg, trying to cuddle and comfort you like a human man.

#könig x you #könig x reader #tw: dubcon #tw: implied dubcon #spoils of war trope #robot!könig #dark

[seeingstarks]

Stroke Daddy Knows Best

summary : You find yourself getting hot after watching one of Ricky's famous promos and he gives you something to suck on- pairing : ricky starks × afab!reader cw : mature, 18+, smut, fluff, oral (m!receiving), daddy dom kink if you squint a/n : It's been a long ass time since I wrote anything so please take it easy on me. 🖤 My writing is definitely not the best, but I hope some can enjoy it all the same. 😊 This is also my first time writing wrestling fanfiction. Reblogs are very much appreciated! No stealing my work! word count : 1,275 words tag list : @josiewrites gif credit : @allelitewrestlings

You watched Ricky Starks from backstage while he roasted Jericho on his promo. Tony Khan made you be Ricky's assistant for the time being, no matter how many times you told Tony it wasn't a good idea because of the the sexual tension which seemed to build between you and Ricky recently.

Tony had told the two of you that you would make for a cute couple but you were always shy compared to Ricky, so he had you work together and your confidence seemed to boost the more time you spent at AEW and with Ricky.

Sitting upon a crate backstage in the catering area, you crossed your legs while opening up bottled water.

Taking a big sip from the bottle, you looked up at the tv screen a few feet away.

Some of the other talent sat around eating, one person in particular took a seat next you but you couldn't really make out who it was just by glacing from the corner of your eye.

While watching Ricky's promo, you were used to his usual antics but when he tugged at the Gucci belt and said, 'But if you're looking for something to suck...' Your cheeks went from their usual shade to a pink hue.

A chuckle fell from your lips when watching JAS look disgusted, but your reaction was the complete opposite.

You spit the mouthful of water on the person sitting a few inches away from you who turned out to be MJF, soaking his suit.

This caused you to laugh even more but your cheeks were still flushed all from Ricky's promo who managed to get you all hot and bothered.

You splashed some of the water on your face but it only made things worse. To make things even more worse, Ricky was wrapping up his promo and he would be back any moment now.

MJF seemed a bit mad about his suit being soaked but also wanted to make fun of you, "Oh, poor Y/N. Spitters are quitters, you'll never have a chance with Ricky." He remarked with a scoff.

The New Orleans Native made his way toward catering. Taking a few breaths you managed to look less pink, but your cheeks still had a slight tint to them. You and Ricky had made lunch plans today, wanting to grab a bite to eat soon.

Your stomach began to grumble when walking away from MJF, thinking a few bites of food wouldn't hurt. Before you even made it to the catering table you felt yourself being grabbed from behind.

"Let me go before I give you a low bl-" Not having the chance to finish your sentence, you heard an all too familiar voice. Ricky. "Low Blow, Hm? So you did watch my promo then?" He teased, lifting you up off your feet.

You punched Ricky playfully, "Maybe."

"What can I say? You look absolutely stunning all dressed up. I'd love for you to tie me up with that Gucci belt of yours and fuck me relentlessly." You whispered in his ear, "Of course after I suck you good, my appetite is quite big."

Ricky licked his lips, "Y'know what else is big too, babygirl?"

You bit your lower lip, "Stroke Daddy's dick?"

He nodded, "Shall we take this back to my locker room and then go for lunch afterwards?"

"Of course, handsome."

One of your arms wrapped around his waist and the other gently rested on his neck.

"I never actually imagined this happening between the two of us. Even our own boss joked we would make for a cute couple. To think a year ago I was nervous to even say hi to you and now I'm hardcore crushing-" The words spilled from your lips.

"I'm so happy you decided to come over to this company, Y/N. You brighten everyone's day with your smile. Especially mine. I know you were hesitant of working with me at first but I'm happy to hear you have a crush on me - gosh, we sound like kids in junior high. Y/N, I have eyes for only you." He looked into your eyes before placing a kiss upon your cheek.

Moments later, the two of you reached his locker room and he set you down on your feet gently.

He locked the door and made sure you were comfortable before doing anything at all.

You were the first to slightly open your mouth and taste his lips with your tongue, encouraging him to let you in. Ricky opened his mouth soon after, as his tongue began to explore your warm mouth.

He sent shockwaves through your body, oh, how this man could make you feel such things from a kiss, was beyond you, but you loved every minute of it. Feeling a little bolder, you moved your hands from around his waist and began to take off his shirt which was tucked into his pants.

"Haven't you heard of the term, ladies first?" Ricky questioned with a smirk before pulling at the ends of your t-shirt, "May I?" With a swift nod of your confirmation, Ricky gently pulled the shirt over your head before peppering kisses along your neck.

Ricky's long sleeve shirt was discarded on the floor, revealing his muscular chest.

Ricky had revealed your extremely lacy bra, he licked his lips when seeing your nipples strain to tear out of the fabric. His face lit up when you stepped out of your shorts, revealing a matching thong.

The New Orleans Native wanted to put on a small show for you so he told you to take a seat on his sofa. With a gentle chuckle you closed your eyes for a brief moment and upon opening them you came to see Ricky doing his signature pose in boxers.

"You're such a goofball, but that's why I like you."

He grinned before walking over and pulling you into another kiss, "I like you too, Y/N. So much."

You both briefly took a breath of air before kissing again, then looking up at Ricky with seductive eyes as he gave you a gentle nod of permission.

You were quick to move your hand lower on his body, then finally cupping his growing erection.

"Oh", Ricky let out a moan as he bit down at his lower lip, to keep from being any louder. You slowly licked down his chest to his stomach and then lower, getting down on your knees. 

Looking up at him with hooded eyes, you hooked your fingers at the hem of his boxers and slid them down freeing his erection. Looking up in his eyes the whole time you lowered your mouth onto his cock. Ricky watched you wantonly and took a large gasp when he felt the velvet warmth of your mouth surrounding his cock.

His hands entangled into your hair, as he let out an unexpected moan while you took his entire member in, sucking on him lovingly. 

Ricky began to pant in pleasure as you continued to suck his length, making the 'pop' noise each time you would bob your head up and down on his cock.

You could tell Ricky was getting close just by the sheen of sweat covering his body as you moaned around his cock. You gagged on his length just to tease him which threw him over the edge.

You looked up at Ricky as he came in your mouth, swallowing soon after, and sticking your tongue out. Ricky then pulled you in for one of the sloppiest kisses ever, mumbling against your lips, "Now it's time for Stroke Daddy to please his queen."

#ricky starks #mjf #ricky starks x reader #ricky starks x female reader #ricky starks x fem reader #all elite wrestling #aew #wrestling #stroke daddy #wrestling fanfiction #ricky starks smut #ricky starks fluff #aew smut #aew fluff

[barkspawn]

Girl I saw the first kiss prompts and you know we gotta see shane and the farmer with the drunk first kisss

I'm still obsessed with him calling her Oats

Shane and Amelia sat on the dock, celebrating Amelia’s birthday with three six-packs. A few weeks back, Shane told her he’d be her company on her birthday. She had spent the last few alone, and Shane couldn’t have that. 

She was always fairly shy but grew close to Shane quickly. He had pushed her away, but she saw something in him. It helped that Jas loved her immensely. 

Amelia cracked open another beer from the cooler, passing one to Shane, who laughed. 

“Fuck, Oats. You’re like half a beer ahead of me,” he watched her as she took another long drink. She hummed and pulled off her sneakers and socks before sitting on the edge of the pier, her toes barely reaching the water. Shane laughed before following suit, his feet able to sink into the water a few inches. 

“You’re,” he teased, reaching over to tap her nose, which she scrunched up, “short as fuck.”

She smacked at him, her lower lip pushed out in a pout, “it's my birthday, don't be mean.”

He laughed, the pillar holding him up, “speakin’ of which,” he took another swig, “whaddya want?”

She blinked over at him, not sure if she was too drunk to understand or if he was too drunk to make sense. 

“I… Don't know what you're asking me.”

Shane rolled his eyes, kicking his feet so the water splashed with them, “for your birthday. Whaddya want?”

She gestured around them, “this is about all I need, Shane. Don't you dare buy me anything or I'll shove–”

“Yoba, okay, damn,” he held his hands up in defeat, “nothing extra, got it.”

“It's already pretty sweet of you to do this much for me.”

He laughed, the sound making her jump and echoing through the woods, “now that's something I don't get called every day.”

She blinked over at him, like he was a madman, “sweet?”

He nodded, chuckling through his last drink of the can. 

“But you are sweet. Like really sweet,” she hummed, shifting so she was leaning against him, “I don't see anyone else rushing to hang out with me. Or setting up our own little party. And definitely not asking if I'd want a gift on top of it!” 

She reached over and poked his stomach, expecting a lot more give. Then, she felt bad for expecting a lot more give.

Quietly she added, “you're sweet. At least you are to me. Don't think you're not.”

“Or what?” he joked, his voice soft, “you'll kick my ass, pipsqueak?”

She huffed and shoved him, “I take it back. You're a dick.”

She laughed as he nearly fell into the water, shooting her a glare. It's not like it would be super cold. It's the middle of summer.  And it only came up to, what, their waists? Well, probably her chest. 

Still, she rolled her eyes, “don't be a baby. It's just water.”

“That you can't even reach from here,” he shot back, not expecting the shove he got in return, “ah, fuck!” he managed before falling into the small lake, submerging for a moment before standing, his eyes a strange mix of surprised, mad, and devious. 

Amelia held her sides, the laughing feeling uncontrollable, “oh my Yoba… You should see your face right now…” she watched as he walked over, assuming he was coming to climb out. She pulled a leg up so she could stand and help, but his hand caught her ankle, “not so fast, sunshine,” her eyes widened as she realized what was happening, letting out a scream as he grabbed her legs and fell backward, bringing her with him into the water. They came up, Amelia clinging to his shirt for dear life as he laughed.

“You are so fucking dead,” she glared up at him, the water colder than she thought it would be. She let go, running her fingers through her hair to get it off of her face, “when I'm done with you,” she just glared, her threats lost in the beer and chill of the water. 

“You're kinda cute when you get all mad,” he teased, her mouth falling open in surprise. 

“I'm so not cute. I'm terrifying, I'll have you know,” she huffed as she started to climb back up the dock. Shane caught her around the waist in an attempt to toss her back underwater, but as she gasped, she clung to his shirt, pulling him down with her. 

This time, they both laughed as they stood, his arm still around her waist while her fists remained balled in his shirt.

“You're such an asshole,” she laughed, starting to pull back before yelping and clinging to him, her arms around his neck to keep her as far from the ground as possible. 

“What–” Shane started, looking around where he could, her arms tightening enough so he could feel her shaking, “what the fuck happened?” He held her there, carrying her to the edge of the lake. 

She seemed to come to her senses, pulling back a little before offering a sheepish smile, “I uh, something touched my foot…”

He looked at her for a long moment before laughing, neither of them quite letting go. 

“You're serious?” he teased, mocking her tone from earlier, “I'm terrifying.” 

As he laughed more, she pouted, wiggling from his grasp and climbing out of the water and heading toward the dock and grabbing his hoodie he removed earlier in the night. She pulled it on, relishing in the warmth of it as his laughter died down. 

He watched her for a long moment, trying to figure out why her wrapped in his hoodie made him a weird mix of sad and happy. After a moment, she noticed the look on his face, feeling very small wrapped in the oversized hoodie. She bit down on her lower lip, arms wrapped around herself. 

“What? I'm cold and you had a jacket.” 

He walked over to her, a smirk finally playing on his lips.

“It's massive on you.”

She pouted, “that makes it comfy. It's big on you to begin with.”

It took them a moment to realize just how close to one another they were, just staring at each other for a long moment before she continued. 

“So, are you gonna make fun of me for being small again?” 

She was going to continue but was stopped by his hands on her shoulders. 

“Oats, I like small.”

She looked up at him, trying to read his expression. In reality, she really wasn't that small. She was shorter than most people in town at around 5’5” but it's not like she couldn't reach anything. 

Shane had always picked on her for it. It annoyed her at first, but it grew on her. She enjoyed their banter and how they made fun of one another. She watched over his face for a moment, subconsciously reaching up to push a wet strand of hair from his face. 

She knew he was drunk. 

She knew she was drunk. 

She didn't care. 

She stood on her toes and pulled him down to her, finding his lips in what was meant to be a far more graceful way. It didn't take him long to respond, his surprised hum shifting into one of need and desire. She ran her fingers back through his hair, her mind fuzzy from the alcohol and kiss. Their tongues met for a brief moment before she stepped back, her hand over her mouth as her eyes grew wide. 

“Shane, I… fuck, I don't know where that came from… I'm so sorry…”

He looked over her face, his heart still racing as he chose his words as carefully as his mind would allow. 

“I'm not.”

She stopped, blinking up at him before nodding slowly, “okay… but you might be when–”

“Nope,” he cut her off, “can promise you I won't be.”

She just looked over at him, “Shane, I…”

“I'm not trying to make you feel bad or whatever, if you're sorry, that’s fine. But you've got a right to know that I'm not.” he finished, staring past her toward the beer. 

She bit her lower lip, concentrating hard on how she felt about Shane. She knew he was sweet and funny and genuine. He's also gruff and rude at times. But he hasn't been lately. She preferred his company over anyone... It's a kiss. They're not fucking or running away together. It's just… Kissing. 

“Shane?”

He crouched, digging through the cooler as she knelt behind him, nearly scaring the life out of him. 

“I'm not sorry.”

He shifted, sitting against the pole of the pier. He looked confused, finally looking over her face. His expression softened as he understood hers. 

“I… It seemed like…”

“I'm not. It just happened fast, ya know?” she started, “I just… Did it. Without thinking. But now I did the thinking.”

His face shifted to confusion for a moment before she pursed her lips, deciding to be blunt, “I want to do it again.”

“What?” 

“I want to kiss you. Again.”

He couldn't help but laugh at the resolve on her face, her eyes narrowing. He started to shift so he could stand, “you're too tall. Sit.”

He blinked, steadying herself as she knelt in front of him. 

“Do you even want me to or am I…?”

“For fucks’ sake, Oats, you think too much,” he leaned forward and pulled her down to him. It wasn't graceful or even completely accurate, but it was enough for them. She had her fingers tangled in his hair as the kiss continued, quiet hums building from their chests as they moved. They broke for air, though she continued pressing sloppy kisses along his jaw and down his neck. 

Reluctantly, he pulled back, looking her in the eye, “can't be doing that. Kissin’ is one thing. Nothing else is happening unless we're sober.”

She couldn't help but smile, moving so her thumb could brush his cheek, leaning in so she could steal a too-soft kiss, “I told you that you're sweet.”

He smiled, stealing one firmer kiss, “only ‘cause I like ya.”

#shane stardew valley #stardew valley shane #sdv shane #stardew shane #shane sdv #sdv #sdv fanfic #stardew #stardew valley fanfic #stardew valley #stardew fanfic #barkspawn oneshot #barkspawn #oh look a one shot

[henlex]

Onlyoneof really have to choose between being fully clothed or having the original choreography

It's ok if it looks like you're headed to the office

I'm glad we got both that first time. Never forget

#idk why this is so funny #you can grab his dick but he jas to be in a suit #final offer #😂😂😂😂 #like WHAT #who makes these rules #onlyoneof #libido

[ofsinnersandsaints]

Pebbles and Sparky

rating: G

word count: 3955

one shot

Fjord knows where Sabian is, and after a long and drawn out negotiation with the Plank King, the Mighty Nein is allowed 24 hours to find Sabian, get their business done, then get off the island.

Or, Fjord and Jester corner Sabian and scare the shit out of him in order to get the answers Fjord desperately needs

Special shout-out to @humble-wayside-flower for the nickname Sabian has for Fjord 😘

AO3

Fjord sat next to Jester in the inn’s dining room with the rest of the Mighty Nein around them as they tried to decide the best way to get to Sabian.

They were on Darktow, having been able to barter their way back onto the island after getting exiled months before. The Plank King had given them 24 hours to take of their business and get off, but if they made any noise, or were in any way disruptive, they would have the entirety of the pirate community after them.

Keeping their heads down and not making a wave wasn’t exactly the Mighty Nein’s strong suit.

Jester had scried on Sabian once they were at the inn, and had been able to narrow his location to a particularly raucous bar in the middle of town. Fjord was worried the second his old crewmate spotted him, he’d run, so they needed a way to figure out where he was and what he was planning.

“I’ll go in,” Beau offered, leaning forward with her tankard in hand. “Get a lay of the land, see if I can get eyes on him. I’m a criminal, I’ll fit in.”

“Hey,” Jester cut in, clearly offended. “We’re all criminals, Beau. We were pirates.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Beau apologized. “But that’s like, water criminals. I’m also a land criminal, I’ll just go in like I’m a wine smuggler. Give me twenty minutes.”

Two minutes of debate later the group agreed to let Beau in go alone, but Veth would trail her and keep in contact with her via message spell so if anything happened, the group could come to her aid.

“Stay safe,” Fjord encouraged as Beau adjusted her cloak, before they’d landed she’d switched it from the Cobalt blue to the plain brown to better fit in.

With a nod, and a quick squeeze of Yasha’s hand, Beau left. Jester scooted her chair closer to his and reached over to take his hand, her body pressed against his. “How are you doing?”

“It’s weird,” he admitted. “Been running towards this for a year, and suddenly I’m a couple of minutes from seeing him again.”

“It’ll be over soon,” she reminded him. “And then you don’t ever have to look back again.”

Fjord wished he could be that optimistic. “Your mouth to the Wild Mother’s ears.”

“I know,” she dug into her backpack. “I’ll draw tarot cards for you.”

He smiled as she pulled out her deck and shuffled them. Fjord didn’t particularly believe in tarot cards, but she loved doing it so much he wasn’t about to dampen her fun by telling her that. And it was fun to see her get so excited about the cards she drew, about finding meaning in them. The way he figured it, it wasn’t much different than him meditating or Caduceus doing communion.

When she looked for answers, this where she found them, and occasionally she found them for him too.

“Cut,” he told her because they’d done this half a dozen times by now.

“Okay, this is for the past,” Jester turned the card over. “Ooooh, it’s the Bed & the Hearth.”

Despite the fact they’d been together for months now he still blushed when she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively at him. “The bed is up which means rest and comfort, but the fact that it’s empty means there’s decisions to be made. Which you’ve done,” she reminded him. “We’re here, we’re looking for Sabian. The next one is the present.”

He told her when to cut the cards. “This is a good card! It’s the Sword & Shield.”

According to Jester, every card was a good one, or an interesting one, but Fjord played along. He threw his arm along the back of her chair. “What does it mean?”

“It means,” she stared as she turned the pages in her little book to find the right section. She read a couple of sentences before hitting him on the leg, proof of her excitement. “The shield is up which means you’re standing up for your beliefs. It’s an indication of protectiveness, but it can also mean you’re under attack.”

Fjord didn’t believe in tarot cards, but shit did they get it right sometimes. “I don’t suppose those cards tell you whether or not I’ll succeed?”

“We’ll do a card for the future, that’ll tell us.”

He looked over her shoulder as she revealed the last card. “Storm & Sun, haven’t we seen that one before?”

Jester nodded, “The storm was up last time, but this time it’s the sun.”

“Sun is good?”

“Unless you’re Yasha, she wants to get this card with the storm up. But for you,” she quickly read the paragraph and he watched the slow smile curve across her face. “Healing, progress, and overcoming hardship. It’s good, Fjord.”

She leaned forward and kissed him. “We’re going to be okay.”

“Well, then.” Oddly enough, the knowledge and her certainty made him feel better. “Here’s to being good.”

Jester spent the remaining time doing Yasha and Caduceus’ tarot cards, and just on time Beau walked into the dining room looking confused and maybe a little angry. Veth came in a step behind her, grinning like an idiot.

“You okay there, first mate?”

Beau sat down and drank almost an entire tankard before she looked at him. “He hit on me.”

Fjord smiled at the confused and slightly offended tone to her voice. “Is he still alive?”

“Yes,” she assured him with a roll of her eyes. “He didn’t even use a good pick up line. Does that shit actually for dudes?”

He shrugged, “Sabian’s always done well with the ladies, but I always thought he was a dick. He was a one and done kind of guy.”

“He’s slick,” Beau judged. “And not in the good way. His accent sounded kind of like your old voice, but less drawl, and more clipped. I don’t like him.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Seven of us,” Caleb corrected. “What did you gather from him?”

“He didn’t give away much, but he’s not here for anything good, I can promise you that.” She reached out and took some food from Caleb’s plate. “He’s got a meeting for later though. When I turned him down he hit on some guy at the bar and they made arrangements to meet up in thirty minutes.”

“They’re going back to Sabian’s place,” Veth added. “That would be a good place to corner him.”

“We can all go,” Caleb offered. “A united front.”

“Yeah, and I’ll hide in the shadows and put a bolt in his ass if he so much as sneezes,” Veth added gleefully.

Fjord smiled, but shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, and I’d feel better knowing you lot were hovering nearby. But…But if it’s alright with everyone, I’d like to talk to him one-on-one to start.”

“I’m going with you,” Jester announced, her narrowed eyes daring him to argue with her.

“Of course you are.” Her expression immediately softened, grinning as if she’d just won an argument he’d had no intention of starting. “If anything goes down, Jester can send an SOS.”

Caleb and Beau looked at each other and after a moment they both nodded. “Okay, but we’ll stay close by, just in case. Ja?”

Fjord nodded and grabbed Jester’s hand as they both stood up. “We’ll talk soon.”

Together he and Jester walked towards where Beau and last seen Sabian. Apparently he’d been living here for a while, which meant there was a better than good chance he’d been here during their brief visit before. What would he have done if he’d known?

“Do we have a game plan?”

Fjord snorted at the question, “No. Should we?”

“Beau would probably have come up with one,” Jester shrugged, but she didn’t seem particularly concerned.

“Probably shouldn’t start out with punching him.”

“Probably not,” she agreed. “We can try being nice.”

He thought about it for a second before shaking his head. “No, he wouldn’t buy it.”

“Then we play it by ear,” she decided. “We’ll see what his reaction to seeing you is.”

“I’m kind of hoping he shits his pants.”

Jester laughed and swung their intertwined hands back and forth. “Me two. Get it? Two.”

“Excellent pun.”

“I thought so. Do you think he knows about the bounty hunter?”

“Probably not, Kotho seemed pretty damn good at her job.”

“Then we’ll definitely have the element of surprise.”

Fjord nodded and kept an eye out for the people leaving the nondescript building a couple doors down from the bar. It only took a few minutes for the half elf to emerge, instantly recognizable with his dark skin and easy swagger. It was bizarre to see Sabian so unchanged.

The past few months had utterly change Fjord, he was stronger, better, and yet Sabian looked almost exactly as he had the morning of the shipwreck. Lean and rangy, he was stronger than he looked and quicker than anyone else on the Tide’s Breath.

Fjord walked along the sidewalk, Jester at his side, and then crossed the street to put himself in Sabian’s way. The half-elf orphan with a quick simile and shuttered eyes widened when he realized who he was looking at.

“Well, well. If it isn’t my old buddy.” Fjord watched as Sabian took in the entire scene, saw those dark eyes dart around as if to make sure there weren’t more people hiding in the shadows. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Sabian’s charm was almost a match for his own, but Fjord immediately caught deception in the casual greeting. Whatever Sabian felt, whatever he’d planned for the night, he was jut a little scared at the sight of Fjord suddenly in front of him. “Nice to see you survived.”

“You as well,” he smirked and tucked his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Not scars, I hope?”

He had three, but Sabian he said, “Nothing I couldn’t survive.”

“Seems you found some treasure at the bottom of the ocean,” Sabian pointed out as he looked at Jester. “Sabian Flint, at your service.”

Jester’s voice was flat as she met the sailor’s eyes. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Fjord barely held back at a laugh at her response. Instead he took a step towards his old acquaintance. “I have some questions to ask you.”

Sabian shook his head. “It’s in the past, let it go.”

“Let it go?” Fjord demanded, anger rising to the surface at the sheer lack of concern in Sabian’s voice. “Those sailors died, they’re gone, men we served with, worked shoulder to shoulder with for years. They had people who loved them, who miss them, and they deserve answers. I deserve answers.”

“Calm down, Pebbles.”

The nickname wasn’t new, and neither was the patronizing tone, but Fjord was more than willing to let it slide off his back. His girlfriend apparently had other ideas, as he saw a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye. He barely had a chance to wrap his arm around Jester’s waist before she socked Sabian in front of a crowd.

“He’s not worth it, Jessie.”

She struggled for a second, and they both knew if she wanted to she could escape, but she eventually settled. “It’s Captain Tusktooth, you asshole.”

Sabian smiled, as if he was looking at a small kitten showing its claws. Fjord was more than a little tempted to release his grip on Jester and let her beat him to a pulp, but it might be a better idea to let him think they were weak. The Mighty Nein would prove Sabian wrong if it came down to it.

“Captain, huh? Got a ship of your own?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, but didn’t elaborate. He didn’t want to give Sabian any more information than was strictly necessary. “And a crew. None of whom would stab each other and then blow up the ship.”

“You really don’t understand,” Sabian shook his head as if disappointed in Fjord. “And you never will.”

“I understand more than you think.”

“And yet you still felt the need to track me down to ask me questions? You’re as clueless as you’ve always been, Pebbles. But you know what they say, ignorance is bliss. Enjoy your bliss, and your lady friend, and stay out of my way.”

Fjord watched Sabian turn around to walk away, and he couldn’t think of anything to say to stop him. Aside from physically detaining him, there wasn’t much he could do.

“What did he promise you?” Jester asked to Sabian’s retreating back. “For every soul Uk’otoa gets, he gives you a little more power?”

Sabian stopped walking, his entire body seeming to have frozen in place. Slowly, he turned to face them both. “Excuse me?”

Jester snorted and crossed her arms in front of her. “You think you’re the only person who knows about the snea snake? Because you’re not.”

“He can’t be that high up,” Fjord added. He had no idea how Jester had connected those dots, but now that she’d said it, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized the possibility sooner. “He probably doesn’t even know about the orbs.”

“Oh, definitely not.”

“What do you know about Uk’otoa?” Sabian asked, but Fjord was drawn to the way Sabian’s fingers had begun to move. He recognized those movements, they’d been instinctual to him after surviving the ocean.

Sabian knew magic.

Before his former crewmate could do whatever he planned, Fjord cast a spell of his own. Throwing out the magic towards Sabian before he could do any damage to himself or Jester.

“What did you do?” Sabian demanded. His voice was strained and Fjord could all but see the muscles tighten as Sabian attempted to fight against the paralyzation which had suddenly come over him.

“I cast hold person,” Fjord explained matter-of-factly.

“Impressive,” Jester complimented him. “He can escape from it though, can’t he?”

“That’s what I’ve got you for.”

Jester’s grin was bright and eager as she patted the axe at her side. “I’ve been wanting to hit him for a while now.”

“Let’s get him out of the open though.” They hadn’t made a scene yet, but it was only a matter of time before someone noticed Sabian couldn’t move. “I don’t want anyone helping this piece of shit.”

“No problem,” Jester picked up Sabian by the waist and Fjord laughed so hard he was pretty sure he pulled something in his rib. “Come on, Sparky.”

She carried him down an alleyway as Fjord followed her. “Fuck, I wish the rest of the crew could see this.”

Jester grinned over her shoulder as she set Sabian back down, still paralyzed but anger and embarrassment darkening his cheeks.

“You dumbass half-orc,” Sabian roared. “I’ll get out of this and then you’ll regret ever finding me.”

“Shut up or I’ll make you shut up,” Jester warned and the look in her eye must have been enough of a warning because while Sabian still threw daggers from his eyes, he didn’t say anything else.

“If we try to take him back to the ship like this, he’ll call for help,” Fjord pointed out, fully aware Sabian could hear them.

“We can stick him in the bag of holding and take him back to the ship.”

“He might die in there,” Fjord pointed out casually.

“He’s got at least ten minutes,” Jester reminded him, voice pragmatic. “But we are in the middle of Darktow, so it might take longer than that. We’d have to walk fast.”

“And work up a sweat?” Fjord asked, feigning disgust. “No, thank you.”

“Good point,” Jester chewed on her lip as if she was deep in thought. “I mean, if he dies I can always bring him back. Or we could just cast speak with the dead and get our answers that way. We don’t actually need him alive.”

Fjord nodded, fully aware Jester was playing to the growing fear in Sabian’s eyes. He wanted to kiss her, but he figured now probably wasn’t the time. Instead, he held out his open palm and summoned the Star-Razor. Turning to face Sabian he put the sword to the half-elf’s neck, putting just enough pressure on the skin for Sabian to feel it. “You’re going to come with me, and you’re going to cooperate.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll kill you.”

“We both will,” Jester corrected helpfully. “We like to do couple things together like get revenge on dumb, small dicked cowards like yourself.”

Sabian’s eyes flitted from Jester to Fjord, confusion mixing with a growing sense of fear. “Fine, I’ll go with you.”

  “Holy shit, that’s him?” Beau asked as Yasha tied up Sabian in one of the storage rooms on the lower decks.

“Yeah,” Fjord nodded. “Yasha, could you maybe gag him too?”

“Love too,” Yasha answered, and passed over two different pieces of cloth before finding a dirty rag and shoving it in Sabian’s mouth.

Fjord was going to buy her a hundred flowers for that alone.

“Hold on, I don’t want him to hear us talking.” Jester turned and cast a quick spell, “There. I cast silence on him, now he can’t hear us and even better we won’t be able to hear him.”

“Thanks,” Fjord ran a hand down her back. “We should get the rest of the Nein down here. I don’t want to go far in case he manages to get out of those manacles.”

“I’ll get the others,” Beau offered, then turned towards the stairs and shouted at the top of her lungs for rest of the group. With a triumphant grin she looked back to Fjord. “There, they should be here in a second.”

“I think you destroyed one of my ear drums.”

Beau shrugged and didn’t even pretend to hide her grin, but good as her word, the other three members of the Mighty Nein came below decks. “You bellowed, Beau?”

“Fjord and Jester kidnapped Sabian-“

“Sparky,” Jester corrected. “We’re calling him Sparky now because he was rude to Fjord.”

“Cool,” Beau acknowledged. “And now I guess we’re going to interrogate him. Is that the plan?”

“We didn’t really plan much further than bringing him to the ship,” Fjord admitted. “But I think Jester figured out why Sabian did what he did.”

“I think Uk’otoa got to him,” Jester explained. “Or maybe Avantika? Possibly Vandran, but either way I think Sabian found out there was a powerful sea god who could give him powers, and what better way to prove your allegiance than to gift him with a dozen drowned sailors?”

“You think he blew up the boat to get in Uk’otoa’s good graces?”

“What other reason would he have had?” Jester asked Veth.

“She’s right,” Caduceus nodded. “It was just a merchant ship, wasn’t it? There was no strategic reason to bring it down, and you said the ship was practically empty, didn’t you Fjord?”

“Yeah, we were on our way to pick up cargo.”

“And it’s not like Sabian had insurance on the ship. There was no reason to bring down the Tide’s Breath except to kill everyone on board.”

“He’s not very powerful,” Fjord pointed out. “If he’s got magic, he doesn’t have a lot of it.”

“Power comes from experience,” Caleb explained. “If he’s been hiding out on the island since the sinking, then he’s not exactly testing his boundaries.”

“Coward,” Beau muttered.

“That’s what I said!” Jester laughed. “I also said he has a small dick, but I don’t know that personally.”

“He looks like a guy with a small dick,” Yasha nodded sagely. “Probably can’t hold his liquor either.”

Beau leaned over to look at Sabian. “You’re totally right, babe.”

“So what are we going to do with him?” Veth asked, refocusing the conversation. “Cause if we have to share our rations with a prisoner he’s not getting any of mine.”

“The Plank King gave us 24 hours to take care of our business, and while I think Jester’s right about why, I still have a lot of questions. After that, I think we should give him over to the locals and let them deal with him.”

“They can’t have good opinions about men who kill their fellow crew members,” Caleb agreed. “They’ll exact their own justice.”

“Hopefully the same kind of justice they gave Avantika,” Jester muttered. “But hopefully this time he doesn’t creepily climb over our ship as an undead sea witch.”

Veth shivered at the memory. “The less we can have that happen, the better.”

“Someone make a scary ‘let’s kill him’ gesture,” Jester ordered and without missing a beat Yasha drew her thumb across her neck and then looked directly at Sabian.

“That should not have been as sexy as it was,” Beau commented and Fjord rolled his eyes.

“Keep it in your pants, Beau.”

She glared at him and then they both just grinned.

“Okay, I’m going to talk to him, see what info I can get.” He looked down at Jester, “Mind being my muscle for a little bit longer?”

Jester put her hand over her heart and looked incredibly sincere as she looked him in the eye. “It would be my honor, Fjord.”

“Let us know if you need any help,” Caduceus offered. “I don’t think I’d be any good at interrogating a live person, but it might be interesting to find out.”

A chuckle rippled through the group and then they dispersed.

“Ready?” Jester asked.

“One thing first.” Fjord tugged Jester out of Sabian’s eyeline and leaned down to kiss her. Jester rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him back, both of them just taking the moment before Fjord eventually pulled away.

“What was that for?” Jester asked.

“I need a reason?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Not normally, no. But that felt like it had a reason.”

“Just… thanks for having my back.”

“Anytime,” she promised. “Now, let’s get Sparky to pee his pants.”

Fjord waited until he stopped laughing before walking into the room. “Mind getting rid of the spell?”

“Oh, right.” Jester waved her hand and they could suddenly hear the grunting of Sabian fighting against the binds and gag.

“Before we let you have your say, there’s a couple things I want you to hear.” Fjord once again made the Star Razor appear and he rested the tip against the wood of the floor and spun it around idly. “I’d like to have answers, it would make everything quite a bit easier, but the thing is: I’ve lived without answers for a while now, and I think I could live the rest of my life without them.”

Sabian’s eyes darted behind him, and without looking Fjord knew Jester and created her serrated lollipop, the slightly purple glow reflecting off his sword was easily recognizable. “So the thing is, I could kill you, and move on. Eventually, I’ll forgot about you and the fish will eat you, and there will be no evidence you ever existed. Or…”

Tearing his eyes away from the terrifying spiritual candy, Sabian narrowed his eyes at Fjord. “Or what?”

“Or you could tell us what we want to know and go back to Darktow. As long as you don’t leave, we’ll let you live. Otherwise?” Fjord picked up the sword and swung it around. “I’m going to see how many times I can cut you before you beg for mercy.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

Fjord stepped forward, all the confidence and self-assurance he’d faked in the past now real, and smiled slow and wicked. “The lady already told you, I’m Captain Tusktooth. And you’re going to tell me what I want to know.”

#critical role #critical role fic #fjorester #fjord #jester lavorre

[miss-kittys-magical-library]

Hi I hope I’m not too late for thirsty Thursday? I had this thought of a Robert character (of your choice) going to an adult store with the reader/ to surprise the reader

Maybe trying new things/ positions/ accessories👀

Your wish is my command 💋

LoveGame (Luba x Fem!Reader)

Word Count: 1900

Warnings: NSFW smutty as hell. Pegging, masturbation, m/f penetration

A/N: Reader is getting married. Luba wants to make sure her last night goes out with a bang 😉

You stood outside Foreign Dreams hugging your arms against the cold. You checked the digital clock chip newly implanted in your wrist. Half eleven. Luba, as always, was late.

You tapped an icon of a phone and waited. Five minutes went by and a beautiful face with lengthy platinum eyelashes answered.

“Guten nacht,” his bored voice greeted you with a hint of mischief. Just a trace of a smile on his full lips.

“Hooker where are you? I'm freezing my tits off out here.” You delighted in archaic epithets.

“Back off hündin (bitch),” a laugh now. “Nicky needed me to pick up one last table. Let me grab my cape, and I'll come warm your tits up in five.”

Rolling your eyes you sighed, “Better not let Benjamin catch you massaging them again.”

“He's a boring prick. Why do all of my exes leave me for the dullards?” You could see him moving around a back room. “These strong, silent types,” he mimicked a gash across his thick neck.

“Because you never fucking shut up. They let us talk hours at a time for once. Just get your tiny ass out here so we can get to Oswald’s store. It was rather nice of him to open on his day off.”

The side door to Foreign Dreams opened and the transmission on your wrist ended. Luba in his leather and tiger skins strode towards you with his muscular arms open. That sweet smelling cigarillo smoke hung in the air around him. Cherries tonight.

He was shirtless as always under the fur with his skin the color and texture of pearls. He hugged you in that dramatic fashion and you melted into his taut chest. Your heart skipping a beat.

“Liebchen you're freezing. Is that why you’re simply trembling?” He began rubbing your arms swiftly.

“Sure, that's why.” It wasn’t at all because he was breath-taking with a heat under his skin. If you lingered it was because you couldn't help it. Luba was hypnotic.

Shaking it off, you linked arms with him and headed towards your simultaneous wedding present and “hen party” for two. One that started off with Luba taking your hand and tipping a white powder on your skin between your thumb and index finger.

“Inhale, you'll feel better.” He held his pinky nail up to his nose and snorted. “It's a little this and that. Nicky's special mix for just tonight. Everyone misses you.”

Following suit you took a breath and the powder went straight to your brain as you seemed to float to the sex shop. Why did you trust Luba to never steer you wrong?

Inside the store, Oswald and his inappropriate Geisha makeup behind the counter. An amused smirk across his exaggerated red lips waved you both on as you followed Luba around the store.

“It's all on me poppet! We just want to make sure none of us catches Benjamin with any of the girls,” he paused and winked at Luba, “Boys or otherwise in between or nothing at all. At the parlour you know.”

Luba was standing in front of a wall of dildos. He was biting his pinky nail as he so often did when he was anxious.

“Ozzy this is too much! These choices, it's overstimulating to my brain and not my penis. Look at this,” he pried a massive cock from the wall using his hands. The suction made a satisfying snap sound that sent you both into giggles. “Who does this fit? Their pussy or asshole MUST be like a cavern. Too much. Ach.”

Luba waved the dildo around in your face and your head dodged out of the way. “STOP! I don't like you wiggling a dick in my face!”

This sent the two of you into further hysterics. Luba’s laughter between infectious and obnoxious as it bounced off the walls.

Your arms already full of lube (I know how you can be if they don't kiss you right. Sahara Desert! Look remember me, its LUBE- A) and vibrators (One for while you fuck, it's a clit stimulator. I remember how you need that. You just.. settle it right in here. The other for when he's gone away or you sex dream about me. You know Clit and G Spot?) Your eyes grow wide with each suggestion.

“Luba, I know how to masturbate. Benjamin knows how to get me off,” you started to put some stuff back in random places. Except for the wireless egg shaped clit stimulator that matched your own vaginal (OR ANAL!) rhythms. That one you pocketed happily.

Luba walked to a curtained side room and threw back the red velvet material. “That's because I told him what you like and how to do it. Ozzy Ozzy darling, what HAVE you been hiding from us?!”

You followed him inside, your mouth hanging open. Everything looked positively medieval, but you both knew it was mostly from no earlier than fifty years earlier.

“Mid- 1990s BDSM. How delightful. Berlin, London, New York. They all had a renaissance after the AIDS pandemic terrorized the world. We're like cockroaches, you can't eradicate any of us in the community.”

Luba was lost in his own diatribe. His long white fingers running over the leather binding of whips and flogs. He nicked one and slung it over his shoulder. Then clicked his tongue a few times deciding between a realistic flesh penis attached to a harness or a silver metal one.

“See this, THIS!” he held out the slender metal version towards you. “I might be a sex worker but this is what fits my holes best.”

“LUBA that's a strap-on. Are most of your clients even into that?” You took it from him and held it up. Fascinated despite your protest.

“Liebchen, don't be so judgmental of others appetites. You were hungry for all of this once,” he ran his hand dramatically over the length of his torso.

You still were. The way you were staring at his svelte body and pert nipples as you bit your lip slightly, he knew it too. His eye brow was arched in satisfaction as he took your hand and dragged you towards the back of the room.

“Why don't we test some things out?” Luba tossed the question over his shoulder while closing the curtains to block Oswald from catching a glimpse.

“I'll try it on, but I'm not pegging you.”

“Sure you won't. I am curious what’s in these drawers though.” He had made his way over to a cabinet with wooden drawers and began pulling them out one by one. “JACKPOT!”

You joined Luba, strap-on still in hand. The drawer was lined with crushed velvet that matched the curtains. It was lined with rings and clamps. There were other devices, but you didn't have the guts to ask.

“Vier.. Fünf.. Six.. Ja this would fit,” Luba held up a deep jade cock ring. “Look it even matches my eyes!” He giggled and held it up to his face. “Take my jacket. I'm going to try this on.”

He tossed his coat but you dodged. Luba paid no mind as he unbuttoned and zipped his leather pants. He let out a satisfactory sigh as his cock was let free. You covered your face and chortled unable to understand that this was your life right now.

“Come here, liebe. I want you to put it on me.” Luba’s eyes sparkled.

“What does it even do?” You took the ring from him and held it in your palm.

“It keeps the cock erect so you last longer. I'm getting hard just thinking about it,” he gestured towards his junk.

Shrugging your shoulders you used your fingertips to slip the cock ring on much like Benjamin had your engagement ring. Almost tenderly and with great care. Luba twitched just ever so slightly as your hand and the smooth jade traveled the shaft so that it fit snug at the base above his balls. You let your fingers glide back upwards towards the head and made a circular motion with your thumb over it. Repeating yourself a few times

“Fuck. You always were good at that.”

Luba gazed up at the ceiling in ecstasy. His eyes closed and throat exposed as he moaned under the pressure of your touch. You pressed your mouth into the warm, ivory skin and lingered a moment over his Adam’s apple. Your fingers pumping harder over the shaft and head, twisting and stroking. Your tongue leaving a wet trail down to his clavicle. Your other hand was free to grab his ass and squeeze.

“If you're going to play with my ass, make it worthwhile, darling.” Luba demanded.

You stumbled a bit away from your ex standing naked without a care. His cock completely erect and being held steady by a jade ring. You did that, you thought. He loves sex, but you still can get him hard.

“Only this once, right?” you informed him as you stepped out of your skirt.

It took a few minutes of struggling, of swatting Luba off when he offered assistance, but you finally had the harness over your legs. In place as the metallic and futuristic dick hung between your legs. It was a strange sensation, one you weren't quite sure why you never tried before.

“Did you keep any of that lube?” he asked as he sat down on an old fashioned settee against the back wall.

“Of course.” You pulled it out of your discarded jacket on the floor and held it up.

“Güten. I'm sure you can figure out what to do with it.” Luba flitted his hand towards the device you were wearing as he kneeled on all fours. His forearms purchased on the arm of the couch so that his ass was higher than his head.

You climbed up behind him and put one hand on his thin hip. The other on the slick silver cock that you positioned outside of Luba. You bent to kiss his shoulders and once again allowed your lips and tongue to trace over his spine as you tentatively pushed the cock inside of him.

“Is that ok?” you asked.

“Deeper. Keep going. I want your hips to touch my ass.”

So they did. You lost yourself and let the sensation take over as you pumped completely inside him. God it felt good. Weird and new but good as you slid out almost entirely. Repeating. Your nails scratching at his perfect skin.

“Your ass is tight. This is fucking amazing.”

There was no more control as you started pulling him towards you at the same time as your thrusts in.

“Jerk me off,” he begged. His breathing was labored with pleasure.

“At the same time?” You were confused but silently agreed.

Your hand taking his cock again, it found a rhythm with your rutting. Your future husband would never, you thought as you almost yanked roughly on Luba’s erection. Your hips bucking wildly into him as he struggled to stay upright.

Plunging fully inside of him only two more times, Luba exploded in your hand. You pulled the strap on out of him and gasped as you were covered with that warm, sticky substance. He laughed in return, still moaning and jerking barely as he came again. Yet his dick was immediately hard because of the cock ring

“Tell me liebchen, why are you marrying him again?”

There wasn't time to answer because Luba had flipped underneath you, parting your legs and maneuvered the metal cock out of the way. He buried his own inside of your cunt taking you by surprise for the umpteenth time this evening.

Luba lifted his hips off the couch and pulled you forward so that he could penetrate you as far as he could manage. All you could do was cry out in pleasure. It was the only way you thought to answer him.

Tag list: @elliethesuperfruitlover @super-unpredictable98 @sean-falco @magic-multicolored-miracle @robertsheehanownsmyass @slutforrobbiebro @nightmonsters @badsext @bisexualnathanyoung @firstpersonnarrator

#robert sheehan #luba #luba x reader #smutty smut #request #thirsty thursday #robert sheehan character fics

[thorne93]

History Repeats (Part 5)

Prompt: Life’s hard, right? Well throw in a not so great job, a broken heart, and chasing a pipe dream in LA. But could someone come along to make all the bad shit disappear? Or is he just another heartbreak waiting around the bend?

Warnings: language, drug addiction, alcohol addiction, angst/heartbreak, adult themes (??)

Word Count: 2039

Note: Aesthetic made by @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo because she’s absolutely amazing Beta’d by @like-a-bag-of-potatoes and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo . Brainstorming from @carryonmyswansong​

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a grueling day at work, you left to go pick up some aspirin for a headache you’d acquired, and luckily, you’d remember that you'd ran out of meds at home. So you gathered your jacket, purse, told the next shift goodnight as you left. Hayden must’ve slipped in at some point in the night through the lobby because you didn’t see him all night and typically he at least waved to you or asked you to come up, but tonight you hadn’t seen him at all. 

You stopped in at the pharmacy closest to work, hoping to pick up the pills and a coke to wash them down with, so that the pills could work while you drove. 

After grabbing the pills, you some how ended up on the candy and greeting card aisle, looking for a candy bar to splurge on and maybe grab a stupid card for Hayden, to just thank him for being a sweet friend. Mid way through your long browsing, you heard two people laughing a few aisles over. They weren’t loud, it was just empty in the pharmacy except for the cashier, you, these two people, and one other man you’d passed earlier. You smiled a bit to yourself, happy for the young couple. 

That was until the laugh continued and you recognized it. 

Frowning, you made your way around the corner of the candy and went over to the source of the sound, your body moving on a mission, against your will. You weren’t sure you were ready for the sight you saw. Jason, and a girl you’d seen maybe once or twice before, in the condom aisle. He had two boxes in his hands and she was laughing and touching all over him.

“Jason?”

His eyes shot up to you as his face lost all humor and the girl turned to you as well, her face starting to falter. 

“Y/N,” he breathed, staring at you. “What are you doing here?”

“Headache. Need meds. What’s--uh, what are you doing?” you asked, trying to be polite, a strangled smile painting on your face. 

“Just...Uh…” he answered, putting the boxes back on their hooks. “I’m just…”

You shook your head, then nodded. “No, that’s okay. You don’t have to explain anything to me. I’ll just be going,” you said, smiling and turning, your cheeks turning red with embarrassment and anger and the tears welling in your eyes.

“Y/N, wait,” Jason said as you were turning, he moved past the girl with him and reached you, gently grabbing your arm.

As soon as you looked up at him, he had a sorrowful look on his face and his hand dropped from your arm. 

“I’m sorry,” he offered. “We just...we started talking and--”

“Jason...I really don’t need an explanation. We’re not dating anymore.”

“I know but…”

“But it’s only been a little over a month?” you added, a little bit of sting in your voice and guilt colored his expression.

“What do you want me to say, Y/N?” he asked with a shrug, his hands shoved in his jacket pocket. 

“Nothing,” you assured. “I don’t need you to say anything, Jason. You live your life. We broke up for a reason,” you reminded, surprised at how well you were holding together, not crying or your voice cracking.

He nodded, stating, “Yeah, you’re right. We did. We broke up because we aren’t compatible, but me and Samantha, we--”

“Jason, save it,” you said. “I really don’t need to know how I was such an awful girlfriend and she’s fantastic. I get it. You don’t fucking love me. Move on. Jesus, why do you have to pour salt in the wound?” you snapped.

“I’m not trying to do that, Y/N, I just thought you deserved an explanation for--”

“For what? Sleeping with some new chick a month after we get out of a two year relationship? I think the picture is pretty clear, Jason. Thanks though, for belittling my intelligence yet again.”

At that, you turned and stormed off to the counter, grabbing your candy and coke on the way, checking out, and rushing to the car before he could see the tears on your face. As you started the car though, and put it into gear, you didn’t want feel the pull to go home. You didn’t want to go back to the place that was saturated with Jason’s memory. You needed someplace else. But where could you go at one in the morning?

With hope in your chest, you drove out of the parking lot and headed for the hotel, taking your bag of headache remedies and purse with you. You ran through the lobby, earning some looks from staffers and guests alike as you bee lined for the elevators, waiting impatiently for them to descend to pick you up. Finally, it arrived and you slipped inside as fast as possible, luckily, you were the only one on the elevator, and your few tears had already dried. The elevator seemed to have a personal mission to go as slowly as possible, however. The doors closed after what seemed like a decade, and it took twice as long to reach the sixth floor, where you bolted for Hayden’s room.

You stood there and knocked, praying he wasn’t asleep yet. No answer came for a while.

After a few minutes, you gave up, turning and ready to leave when the door unlocked and opened.

“Y/N?” he said, seeming tired.

At the sight of his face, the dam broke, and the tears burst hot onto your face. Ugly weeping began and Hayden’s face went from tired to alarmed. 

“Oh my god, are you okay?” he asked as he opened the door wider, letting you come in. 

You nodded as you stepped past him, standing in the little entry way of his suite, noticing he was clad in a cute dark green t-shirt and plaid pajama pants.

“Last I checked, sobbing in the middle of the night at a friend’s place isn’t a good sign for ‘okay’,” he said, a small smile pulling at his lips and you couldn’t help but let a small laugh come out at his joke. He walked closer to you and put his hands on your biceps, gently holding you. “Y/N, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“Ja--Ja--Jason,” you stammered, the ugly sobbing continuing. 

“Here, come here,” Hayden instructed as he pulled you to the couch. “Do you want water?” he asked. 

You shook your head and held up the bag, showing him you had a coke. He took the bag, pulled the drink, got a glass and ice, and poured the drink for you and came back and you sipped the drink.

“Shh...Y/N, calm down, calm down, just...collect your thoughts, take some deep breaths,” he offered, sitting across from you and stroking your back comfortingly. 

You took his advice, taking a few deep breaths, sipping the coke, and slowly, the hysterics died down. 

“You okay now?” he asked after about five minutes, a friendly smile on his face.

You nodded.

“Do you want to talk about whatever happened?” 

You nodded. “I...I was out getting some aspirin for my headache, after work. I heard someone laughing, and I recognized it as Jason so I went over to him...and I find him with Samantha, a girl that used to sort of hang out with his friends, and they’re…” You stopped, feeling your throat swell again. You took a deep breath, stopping the release of fresh sobs. “They were checking out the condoms,” you said, rushing it out of your mouth as your face went into your hands, some more tears coming, but not quite as violent as they had.

Hayden shushed you as he scooted closer and put his arms around you, resting his head on your shoulder as you were bent over.

“Shit, Y/N, I’m sorry…” he offered. “That really sucks. He’s a dick,” he responded.

You slowly sat up and his arms dropped from you as you shook your head.

“No. He's not. He’s got a right to date or do whatever he’s doing...It’s just that it’s only a month after we broke up and he’s already moving on? What does that say about us? I mean...we were together for two years. If it was six months, I could see it, sure we weren’t that close. But we lived together, we shared a life, we talked about getting married.”

“I can’t imagine how much this hurts you,” he said. “But if it’s any consolation, he’s an idiot.”

You laughed at his comment. “No, he’s not,” you said.

“No, he really is. You don’t just leave someone and then start dating a month later. Like you said, you two were pretty serious for a long time. If he’s sleeping with her, then...you know, maybe it’s been going on for more than just tonight, ya know? Either way, it’s really shitty what he did and you didn’t deserve that, so I’m sorry that happened.”

You waved it off. “The worst part was how he went on to say how good he and Samantha were, and how we weren’t compatible.”

“What? He said that?”

“Verbatim. I saw it, told him I was sorry for intruding, and as I was leaving he made it a point to try and explain to me why he was with her, what he was doing, as if I was a fucking idiot. I know what he’s doing with her, there’s no point to rub it in.”

“God...You know, I know you’re hurting, but in all honesty, I’m glad you’re not with him any more, he seems like a grade a asshole who doesn’t deserve your time,” he noted.

“Thanks,” you said as you took his hand and squeezed, smiling at him and he smiled back. “I know...That little comment tonight reminded me of how he always made me feel stupid and...worthless, you know? But it’s whatever. He’s moving on and so am I.” 

Hayden nodded and smiled at you. “Good. You should.”

After a moment of staring at your newly found best friend, you came to your senses. “I’m really sorry for bothering you,” you suddenly offered, shaking your head and standing. “I shouldn’t be here bugging you in the middle of the night.”

“Woah, woah, where are you going?” Hayden asked as he stood with you.

“Home. My headache is worse now that I cried and haven’t taken anything. I’ll just go home and crash,” you said with a sigh.

“Wait, why don’t you just take the aspirin here, and when you’re feeling better, you can go home? I don’t want you driving when you’re upset and still have a headache.”

“That’s nice but no, I’ll be okay,” you assured.

“Really...If you left here upset, and something happened because I let you go, I’d never forgive myself. Just stay, relax,” he instructed.

“Okay, but just for a little bit,” you said as you took off your jacket and got the aspirin out, taking it with the coke. “Care if I lay down for a minute?”

“Go for it,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the bedroom, housing two beds. 

“Thanks,” you murmured as you wandered over and gently sat down, then laid down, getting comfortable and trying to ease your throbbing head. 

After a while, you hadn’t realized you were drifting off to sleep. You must’ve been so tired from the long day, headache, and the Jason ordeal, to really notice. Hayden heard your breathing as it went from normal to sleeping, even, soft breaths. He was on his bed, playing on his phone, trying not to make noise or disturb you. At the sound of your slumber though, a soft smile grew on his face as he glanced over to you.

He got up and went to the closet to grab an extra blanket he had requested a long time ago, draping it over you. 

“Night, Y/N,” he softly said as he crawled into his bed, clicking out the lights and quickly falling asleep in the darkness, letting the sounds of your breathing lull him to a comfortable sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Forever Tag:

@essie1876

@magpiegirl80

@letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked

@marvel-imagines-yes-please

@missinstantgratification

@thejemersoninferno

@rda1989

@munlis

@thefridgeismybestie

@bubblyanarocks3

@igiveupicantthinkofausername

@kaliforniacoastalteens

@feelmyroarrrr

@kaeling

@friendlyneighbourhoodweirdo

@damalseer

@heyitscam99

@yknott81

@sorryimacrapwriter

@glitterquadricorn

@bittersweetunicorm

@alyssaj23

@sea040561

@princess76179

@thisismysecrethappyplace

@sarahp879

@malfoysqueen14

@ellallheart

@breezy1415

@marvelmayo

@lyniboy

@paintballkid711

@pandacookieowo

@beiroviski

Hayden Christensen:

@coldlilheart

@haydens-moles

History Repeats:

@multifandomblog315

#history repeats #hayden christensen x reader #hayden christensen fic #hayden christensen

[critical-derolo]

Beau always gets up.

It's something that she's noticed, something that's she takes comfort in, something she she wraps around herself like a blanket of reassurance. She's a healer - yes, but healing isn't her strong suit, well, it's not her preferred suit and maybe liking a suit has something to do with how good you are at wearing the suit, but that's not even the point. Jester doesn't not like healing people, especially her friends, but she much rather hurt them. Bad guys, not her friends. (sometimes her friends but, like, only if it means she wins and not super badly, she's not a dick.) Her point is that Beau only rarely needs her healing, she barely even needs Caduceus' healing because even when Beau goes down - she always gets back up.

Jester isn't totally sure when she started noticing Beau. She's always noticed Beau, but it was sometime around The Ball Eater that she started noticing Beau like she notices Fjord. Maybe it was all of the lonely nights amongst the creaking ship when she couldn't sleep and Beau would drag herself out of bed to talk until the sun came up. Maybe it was all of those awkward but sincere words the monk stumbled through as Jester nursed her wounded heart, knowing Fjord was just below in Avantika's cabin.

It might have been - even could have probably been when for the first time in her life, someone other than her momma told her they loved her. (Beau loves her. Beau loves her. Beau doesn't love anything, Beau barely likes things. But she loves her.) It just kinda struck her, just kinda carved through the pain she felt herself getting lost in.

Lost in so many ways. So far from home with no land in sight, following a fickle purpose that had so quickly been taken from them and pointed at something that was bigger than they understood. Shuffled together with... with strangers that were drifting apart like debris on the very water they sailed through. She was scared and alone and locked away in her bedroom all over again.

"Love you, Jes."

But Beau was there.

(Beau is always there.)

An anchor, something to hold onto in a sea of uncertainty. Whatever happened, wherever they went... Beau loves her.

So lock her away in a bedroom, she knows that Beau is on her way.

Wherever she goes, whatever she does, it doesn't matter. Beau is always there because Beau always gets up again because Beau will always fight.

So when Beau goes down. When Beau falls and lands so heavily. When the dust settles and she's just there. Laying on her side with her bo inches from her unmoving hand. When she doesn't get up, when she doesn't spit blood and snarl at the beast, when she doesn't throw herself right back at it...

Jester feels her heart seize in her chest. Cold, wet dread shoots down her spine like an icicle impaled at the base of her neck. She doesn't blink - can't blink- won't blink, not if it means she might miss movement. She has to know, has to see if Beau will move or... or if she won't move. If she isn't moving.

She isn't moving.

It didn't hit her but it hurts so fucking bad that she can feel the ice building in her veins, feel the chill creeping up her throat, and throws her hands forwards. The shards of ice find their mark, enough force behind them to send it stumbling back a couple feet.

Enough for Yasha to get between it and Beau.

Beau, who still won't get up.

Beau, who Nott stands over as she fires her crossbow at the beast, another wall between their fallen friend and danger.

Jester doesn't realize that she's screaming until Fjord claps her on the shoulder with one hand, a blast of dark eldritch energy exploding from the other. "Go!" he shouts and lifts his hand from her shoulder, sending another blast.

She drops to her knees, skidding through the gravel and into Beau's side. Nott steps to the other and they both flip the monk onto her back and -

"Beau!" Jester cries and presses her hands against the blood. It's everywhere, thick and warm but going cold so, so fast. She can't find the wounds through it all, through Beau's vest. "Don't leave me, don't leave me, please, don't leave me," she chants under her breath.

"Do you have a diamond?!" Nott shrieks. Grabs Jester's trembling, bloody hands and squeezes hard enough to ground her. Until wide purple eyes meet yellow ones and they both duck under the beast's swing. Yasha snarls and forces it back. "Do you have a diamond, Jester?!"

"No, I..." she shakes her head helplessly. Numbly. Like it's not really her head, like she's a puppet with her strings being pulled, like this isn't actually happening.

This can't actually be happening.

It's not happening.

Nott blinks and looks down at Beau (oh, Beau, no... why did you take that hit?) with growing fear. Her little green hands cup the monk's face, holding it like Beau is something precious and fragile. She gasps and looks up, scrambling to her feet. "Caduceus!"

He raises his shield against the enormous flying insect, gritting his teeth and looking back at them. His pink eyes land on Beau and the strain in his body gives just slightly, just enough that he's forced back another two steps before he digs back in. "I have no-"

His heartwrenching answer, his cursed response is lost against the clash of bug-claws against his shield and Caleb's wall of fire. The wizard turns, arching his hands through the air, and drags the wall around in a fiery shield against the danger. His chest heaves heavily, his eyes wide and frantic and searching, staring, studying. Scrutinizing Beau's form. They flick to Jester. "Heal her! Jester-" he staggers forward and drops to his knees beside her, a hand over Beau's abdomen. "Please, Jester, heal her. I can't... she's... you have to save her. I need her."

"I don't have a diamond!" she snaps angrily. Pissed. She's so fucking pissed. At Caleb for thinking she would hesitate even a second to bring Beau back if she had a fucking diamond. At this monstrous beast for taking her in the first place. At life for being oh so cruel, to have dangled this family, these people in front of her, only to steal them away again.

At Beau.

At Beau for being such an asshole. Such an asshole to be so kind, so gentle, so compassionate that Jester really didn't have a choice. How could she not love Beau? How could anyone not?

Caleb's warm, rough hands cup her face and bring her back to a moment she wants to leave, to forget forever. His lips move, form her name, and she has to squint to hear him. "Jester! Save her! Look!"

It takes too much effort to follow his line of sight, to try and make sense of what she's seeing. It doesn't click until he's grabbing something from the pouch on Beau's belt, spilling chunks of bloody diamonds into his palm. Some are smooth and finely cut, small but expensive, while others are larger and jagged. Picked up along the way somewhere, maybe from the city of beasts or merely in their travels on the road.

It doesn't look like enough.

An incomplete collection that Beau had been working on. What else was she doing that the others didn't know? How was she the loudest and yet the most secretive of the group?

Questions Jester will never be able to ask, quirks she won't ever be able to notice again.

"It's not eno-"

Caleb presses them into her hand, squeezing tight enough that the jagged edges dig into her palms. His eyes are so blue, so earnest that it breaks her heart just a little bit more. "Just try!" he insists and - Nott winces, she ducks her head when his voice breaks off at the end. "Please."

Jester finds herself nodding, grabs onto the spark of hope in her chest and refuses to let go. Beau always gets up. Beau never gives up. And neither will she. It may not be her preferred suit, maybe not even her strong suit, but she can do this. She can bring people back. She can keep this group together against all odds. Against death itself.

The diamonds tremble in her palm until a soft light breaks through the smere of blood - dim, flickering very slightly, but there. She can do this.

She can do this.

"Beau," Nott calls as gently as she can while screeching over the noise of battle. "Get your lazy ass up! Join the We Died But We Lived club with me and Deucy and maybe Fjord." She leans down to press her forehead against the monk's. "Between you and me, I think he's just trying to steal our thunder. Drowning's not half as bad if you don't die, he just doesn't want to admit it."

Some of the smaller diamonds lift into the air, floating over Beau's chest. Jester digs deeper, closes her eyes to focus and channel more of her divine magic. A few larger chunks drift towards the others.

"Beauregard," Caleb said. Sniffs and scrubs his chin with the back of his palm. He looks down at the ground beside her head, at some of the more colourful pebbles in the dirt there. None of them have enough blue. "You and I made a promise, Beauregard, so I shall uphold it and tell you that you're being an asshole right now. Turning in the gloves so easily. It's a... what did you call it, a dick move? Ja." His fingers twitch, the fabric of her sash caught easily. Very smooth. Very nice. "I get it though. Life can be... difficult, especially for you and I, it seems. So I'll tell you what, if you come back, I will... I will let you borrow Frumpkin for a whole week. Or-or a month, even. He makes life easier." Caleb ducks his head. "You make life easier."

The diamonds burst into glittering dust that moves like waves in the ocean over Beau's body. Jester's veins burn, the exertion of her magic sapping quickly, reaching for more and coming up with nothing. There aren't enough diamonds.

"Miss Beau!" Caduceus gasps and drops to a knee, hanging on his staff. He looks... bad. Rough, his pink hair dishevelled and face covered in dirt. The giant bug's wing twitches behind him, body smushed into the ground. "Sorry it took me a second," he says around a smile and places a big hand on her abdomen. The glowing from his hand brightens the diamond dust in the air. "All things that begin must end, all that lives must die. Life is precious not because it's forever." He closes his eyes and focuses harder. The others watch the glowing diamond dust sink against Beau's skin and rest there. "But your grave is not yet ready for you."

The energy that crackles between Jester and the diamonds fights to stay strong, but she can feel it fading. Slipping from her grasp like smoke between her fingers. "Come on, Beau," she grinds out between clenched teeth. "Come on, Beau!"

Blood drips through the glowing dust, a shadow falling over them. Yasha leans down between Caleb and Nott, reaching forward to cup Beau's cheek as her own palm lights up. The gashes in her arm look bad but she doesn't tremble, doesn't blink. "They can't have you," she tells Beau quietly. Grimly. "Not you, too."

A pulse of magic echoes up Jester's arms from her palms. The dust settles into Beau's skin, starts sinking in until they can't see it anymore. Jester catches her second wind and digs back in again, presses her hands against Beau.

"Right, okay," Fjord ducks beneath the behemoth's swing and drags his sword against the underside of its arm. "See, Beau, I'm gonna need you to get up now because you and I are the only ones who don't get distracted in a fight, apparently." Claws catch his leather and he's launched back, tucking into a backwards somersault. Eldritch magic bursts from his palms when he settles on his knees, standing up to send two more. "Gonna need my First Mate to finish this guy off!"

Something jumps in Beau's chest. Jester gasps, her eyes widening, and... waits. And waits. "Beau?" She waits some more, she waits until the hope in Caleb's eyes turns brittle and threatens to shatter. "Oh! I didn't say anything. You don't have a Wildmother or a super cool, like, super awesome, super talented Traveler, or a scary but badass storm lord like we do. But!" She brightens and bounces on her knees. "You have us! And technically we didn't have enough diamonds but also technically fuck that because we need you. So tell Molly you'll see him soon or whatever but not today because there's shit to do!"

With every last bit of magic she has left, Jester pours it into her friend. Into Beau - kind, funny, abrasive, wickedly clever Beau.

"Oh, plus I love you," she whispers and swoops down to press a kiss against Beau's lips. "So please don't leave me."

Considering how immediate it was with Caduceus, Jester really shouldn't be surprised. She really has no reason to shriek when Beau jolts up, when her blue, blue eyes shoot open with wild frenzy in them.

Beau's chest heaves. Colours separate and details form, the world comes rushing back in, all at once. Pain lingers just behind but mostly... mostly she's okay. Right? Beau looks down at her lap, where she has Jester mostly gathered in her arms and the tiefling stares up at her with tears in her eyes.

Beau licks her lips, tastes something sweet, and feels herself smile. "Did I fucking die?!"

#critical role #the mighty nein #beau #jester #nott #caleb #caduceus #yasha #fjord

[grovestep]

Ghostwatch: Chapter 1 [R76]

Title: Ghostwatch Chapter: 1 - Episode 1 Rating: M Ao3: Click here, remember to leave kudos! Summary:  Jack, Ana, and Gabe have their own webshow called Ghostwatch. They're just three regular people pulling stunts, creating monsters, and fabricating ghost encounters. Until one day, shit gets very real.

The camera jittered into focus, pulling into view a dilapidated house with a yard that hadn’t seen a lawnmower in a decade. Jack Morrison stepped into the frame, his attention trained somewhere in the middle distance behind the camera. The cameraman said something that the mic didn’t pick up, but Jack nodded, beckoning with one hand. The camera jittered again before coming to a rest, the cameraman’s fingers brushing against the mic and creating deafening feedback. Gabriel stepped out from behind the setup, crowding into the frame with Jack. His hands were jammed into his hoodie pocket and his beanie was pulled down over his ears. He glowered at Jack. Jack either didn’t notice, or pretended he didn’t see.

“Are we rolling?” Jack asked.

“Of course we’re rolling. That’s what the green light means.”

Jack snorted, elbowing Gabriel in the ribs. “Don’t be an asshole,” he said, then turned back to the camera with a stellar smile. Gabe braced for impact, knowing full well what was coming.

“HELLO AND WELCOME BACK TO GHOSTWATCH!”

No matter how much Gabriel braced himself, the enthusiasm and volume that Jack managed to achieve in their intro still rattled his teeth and rang in his eardrums.

“I’m Jack,” he said, pausing a beat.

“And I’m Gabe,” Gabriel said, taking his cue.

“Ana can’t be here tonight because she’s down with the flu,” Jack said. “So we’re going to have to explore this haunted house without her.” He stepped aside, revealing the derelict house behind him. “Do you want to give the viewers a rundown on the history of the house, Gabe?”

Gabe shifted from foot to foot, looking at his palm where he had hastily scrawled some made-up history about the “haunted” house. He wavered a moment, realizing all he had written was smudged by his sweat. He cursed under his breath. This was usually Ana’s job. Gabe was fine with staying behind the camera and making occasional cameos when they were exploring. He looked up at Jack with a panicked expression.

“Make something up,” Jack said in a rushed whisper.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious!” he whispered back, before putting on his best smile for the camera. He cleared his throat. “So, this is the uh...Poltergeist House. Many years ago, some old guy went nuts and killed his only daughter. So now she takes the form of a vindictive spirit, looking to...steal the eyes of anyone who dare to enter.”

Smooth, Jack mouthed. Gabe flipped him off just out of frame.

“We gotta be real careful here, folks. We don’t want to get our eyes snatched,” Jack quipped. “Let’s go in.”

Gabe was thankful for that. He knew Jack was giving him an out. The blond man barely knew how to operate his own phone, let alone their camera. Gabriel was the only one of the trio who really knew the ins and outs of the tech. He took his place behind the device once more, comfortable to be the gruff, disembodied voice giving Jack hell. He detached the cam from the tripod and followed Jack up the stoop.

Jack pushed open the giant oak door. Gabriel got a fantastic shot of the door creaking open, slowly revealing the inside. The door opened into a hallway. To the immediate left was a staircase that lead upstairs. Jack ignored it and went straight forward. Gabe was sure to get shots of the walls, which were covered in graffiti. He turned the camera quickly away when he realized a giant, purple dick was plastered on one of the surfaces. That was a quick way to get demonetized.

“It was in the room just ahead that it happened,” Jack said, playing off of Gabriel’s story. “The old man killed her right in the kitchen.”

They had scouted the house out before filming, making sure everything was in place. The last thing they wanted was to get jumped by a squatter or killed by a roof falling in. Jack was sure to close the kitchen door before they left on their preliminary expedition. He claimed it created more suspense.

He hovered at the door now, one hand on the doorknob, his other hand pressed flat against the wood. Gabe stifled a laugh. He looked like a parent eavesdropping on their kid in the bedroom, ready to burst in at the first sign of trouble.

“You gonna go in or what, Jackie?” Gabe asked.

Jack shot him a glare and slowly opened the door. Inch by inch the kitchen became visible. A dirty, scratched up sink filled with some unknown liquid. The once-white refrigerator, doors open to expose the rotten food inside. The roof sagged over the stove, and both Jack and Gabe made a point to avoid that area.

Jack pulled out a small device, presenting it to the camera. “You guys remember this right?” He clicked on the device, and it began rapidly shuffling through radio stations. The static noise filled the small kitchen, with the occasional bit of a word coming through the chatter. Jack flipped it back off. He pulled up a chair at the small kitchen table, which they had pre-cleared for their “conversation” with the spirits.

Gabe sat the camera down on the table, angling it so they were both in the shot. He pulled up a chair across from Jack, leaning back and stretching his legs out as Jack explained the uses for the device for new viewers.

“This is a ghost scanner. It flips through hundreds of radio channels in seconds, giving the ghosts a medium to speak to us,” he said, flipping the device between his hands. “We’re going to ask the ghost in this house a few questions and see if we can get some answers.”

He turned the scanner back on. The noise made Gabe grit his teeth, but he smiled through it for Jack. “Ask it why it wants eyeballs,” Gabe said, leaning forward as though to take the scanner. Jack pulled it closer to his chest.

“Wait your turn, Mr. Reyes,” he said, his laugh drowned out by the static. He then spoke loudly, addressing the whole room. “If the girl who died here is still lingering in this house, can you tell us your name?”

The scanner jibbered static and broken words for a few moments. Jack grunted, beginning to repeat his question before a voice came over the device, barely discernible between the white noise.

“Jas…” Scrrrrt. “Mine."

“Jasmine? Your name is Jasmine?”

Jack’s second question was met with more static. This time, the ghost didn’t reply. Jack motioned to Gabe.

“Uh, what happened to you, Jasmine?” Gabe asked, drumming his fingers on the table.

“....loud bang,” the voice wavered over the static. “Then dark.”

Jack quirked his eyebrow. Gabe shrugged his shoulders. He waved his hand at Jack.

“Why are you still here?”

“Want…” the voice said. It repeated the word over and over and over, the voice getting louder above the static. Gabe fought the urge to plug his ears.

“What do you want?” Gabe shouted over the cacophony.

“Your...eyes!”

Gabe took his cue and flipped off the video feed. The audio was still live, picking up their scuffling in the small kitchen. There was a loud thud as a chair fell over. Jack had turned off the scanner, shutting out the terrible static and garbled words.

“What the hell was that?” Jack shouted.

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Gabe shouted back, picking the camera up from the table.

The light seemed to have been sapped from the room, casting them in darkness. Jack smiled, looking at Gabe out of the corner of his eye. Gabriel always had a talent for their theatrics. He gave him a thumbs up.

Gabe nodded, flipping the video feed back on. Jack’s expression changed from satisfied to wild-eyes terror in microseconds. Gabe forced his hands to shake, which caused the camera to jitter, giving the impression that he was literally trembling in fear. He panned the camera back to where they had been sitting. One of the chairs was overturned in the corner, and in the other chair was a woman.

Her skin seemed to glow in the dim light. Her hair was streaked gray and pulled into a braid over one shoulder. She wore a simple dress that was stained down one side with...something. Something dark and red.

Her attention was focused on something on the table; a cup and saucer. She brought the cup to her mouth. Jack let out a slight hiss through his teeth.

“Ana,” he whispered, breaking scene. “Ghosts don’t drink tea.”

Ana paused, looking at Jack out of the corner of her eye. She let out a sigh, putting the cup back down. “Well this one does,” she said. “Besides, Jack, you’ve never seen a real ghost. How do you know?”

Jack started to say something, but stopped himself. He let out a frustrated grunt. “Fine, have it your way. But you deal with the comment section.”

Ana shrugged, looking to Gabe. He gave her a thumbs up to signal that they were, indeed, still rolling. She took a deep breath and resumed character.

Ana slowly turned her head toward the camera, revealing the red mess that was the other side of her face. At that precise moment, she let out a blood curdling scream. Gabe prayed that none of the neighbors called the cops. This would be a hard one to explain.

“J-Jasmine?” Jack stammered.

“Get out,” Ana said, casting her voice as low as she could.

“We want to help you, Jasmine, it’s okay. We won’t hurt you,” Jack said, stepping forward, his hands out like he was approaching an injured animal.

“Jack, you can’t reason with a ghost!” Gabe said, reaching out and grabbing one of the blond man’s sleeves. He yanked him back.

“My...you have pretty eyes,” Ana said, getting up from the chair. She let the legs skid against the hardwood, punctuating her statement. “Mind if I…take them?”

Now it was Jack’s turn to grab Gabriel by the shirt and yank him out of the room. Gabe followed suit, making sure to handle the camera as sloppily as possible. He turned the camera over his shoulder, getting a shot of the “ghost” chasing after them.

They clattered down the front steps, landing flat on their asses. Gabe got one last shot of Ana standing in the doorway, leering at them in her blood stained dress and ruined face. He thought he caught a glimpse of a looming shadow in the foyer, but he shrugged it off.

Camera always fucks with my eyes, he thought, shutting the camera off.

#r76 #reaper76 #morreyeson #overwatch #Jack Morrison #gabriel reyes #ana amari #overwatch fanfic #overwatch fanfiction #AU #ghost AU #alternate universe #overwatch AU #ghosts #cryptids

[aconitemare]

[jaydick] to all the (D)icks i’ve loved before

JayDick during the famous (first) field scene from To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before.

Read it on AO3.

“Are you really going to audition?” Roy asks. He’s got a sheen of sweat across his forehead that’s probably more due to the heat than the exertion on the track field.

“Maybe,” Jason answers. He does actually, one-hundred percent, but he doesn’t feel comfortable sounding committal. “Why not,” he says instead without making it sound like a genuine question. It isn’t.

Roy knows it’s not a question but caring is neither of their strong suits, so he presses. “I dunno’. Doesn’t really seem like you, I guess. Don’t get me wrong,” he switches. His hand reaches out to touch Jason’s shoulder, but it’s been almost an hour of gym outside and his hand misses the mark as they maintain pace. “You’ve got the drama down pat,” he quips. Jason sends him a glare but Roy just snickers. “Maybe, like, if this was Phantom of the Opera-type shit, I’d be like, yeah, that’s you, and I’d be there in the front row telling everyone that the disfigured creep under the basement was my dude, but. A high school performance of Footloose though? That’s some cheesy shit.”

Jason shrugs. Roy isn’t entirely wrong. Jason would’ve joined the drama club last year except their big show was Shrek the Musical. He was tempted to sign up anyway because it’s not like anyone would see a tech on stage, but he really didn’t want to be associated with something that was bound to suck hard. Footloose was comparatively better. He could work with that story.

“You can still sit front row and tell everyone I’m the guy moving props off the stage,” Jason replied.

“Oh, what?” Roy says with his nose scrunching. “You’re not even going to be an actor? Fuck that noise, you should be that dude who fucks the pastor’s daughter.”

“You want me to be Ren McCormack,” Jason supplies.

“Whichever, man; you could tell me the character was named Rhino McJackoff and I’d have to go along with you.”

“Fair enough,” Jason retorts. One of their gym instructors holds out two popsicle sticks as they pass. Roy grabs them both and hands one to Jason. They get a good distance between them and the teacher before they start speaking again because neither are good at censoring their language. Roy has just asked him about Red Dead Redemption 2 when Jason hears his name being shouted.

“Jason! Jason!” Jason turns around to see Dick Grayson jogging towards them. He’s wearing the school’s proper gymnasium uniform, unlike Roy and Jason who both got points deducted for bringing normal gym clothes. GCHS is embroidered in the corner is tiny white lettering. If Dick were to turn around, a cartoonish owl would blink stare hollowly at them.

Neither Jason nor Roy slow their pace so Dick is forced to catch up after he’s caught their attention and maintain speed. “Sup, Dick,” Roy greets, making room for Dick to insert himself between them. This close up, Jason can smell Dick’s shampoo. It’s lighter than he expected, more fresh than spiced like Jason’s cologne.

Dick smiles at Roy and shakes his shoulder. He definitely showed up late to class. Jason knows this not just because he isn’t sweaty like everyone is, but because he missed him during the warm-up. Jason hasn’t liked Dick like that since middle school, but he can admit to himself that he still watches him. He doesn’t think that’s weird or anything because everyone watches Dick — most of all during gym.

“Where’ve you been?” Roy asks easily. Meanwhile, Jason subtly runs a bit farther to the left so he’s not inhaling Dick’s scent with every heavy breath.

“Nurse’s office,” Dick says with a bright grin. “I got into a bit of fender bender this morning. Security guard saw me parking with my bumper torn off and insisted I check in with the nurses while they ratted me out to Bruce.”

Jason remembers Bruce rather well considering he’s only met him once. It was during a birthday party at Wayne Manor for Dick’s younger brother Tim. Bruce was an imposing man who now looms over Jason’s memory of that night. Jason can well imagine Dick crashing his fancy car daddy’s money bought him. Jealousy, not sympathy, clouds Jason’s mood as Roy talks about that sounds rough. Jason hopes he doesn’t mean it so they can talk shit later. But Roy and Dick actually do get along, so he’s probably for real.

“That sucks, Dick, especially on top of stuff with Helena,” Roy seems to commiserate. Jason’s attention perks up here. Helena is Dick’s girlfriend. She’s not the worst person Jason’s ever met, but she’s pretty freaking terrible. They used to be friends in middle school to the point there were rumors about them getting together. Then came the day Helena leaned forward, lashes brushing her cheeks as her lips puckered, and Jason didn’t think, he just confessed. Within a week, Helena had excommunicated Jason from every social circle she touched. Within a week, Jason had to watch his ex-best friend holding hands with the boy he dreamt about.

Helena and Dick had been on-and-off since the advent of high school. Clearly they are off now. Even though Jason holds no hopes for reconciliation with Helena or — delayed wish fulfillment with Grayson, he still eagerly awaits the permanent destruction of a couple that’s tainted much of school for him.

Dick’s expression is uncomfortable after Roy’s comment. Jason lets Dick catch the smirk playing on his lips. Dick takes a deep breath before looking back at Roy and clapping a hand down on Roy’s shoulder with a familiarity that irks Jason. “Hey, we’ll catch up, alright?” promises Dick. “But actually I have something I need to talk to Jason about one-on-one.”

Roy is no stranger to Jason’s tragic backstory regarding Dick Grayson. “Sure thing,” he says dubiously, raising his eyebrows at Jason. For added measure, he waggles them in a way that has both Jason glaring and Dick looking uncomfortable away. Jason opens his mouth slowly because he’s not sure what he wants to say, maybe “wait,” Roy puts a burst of energy into his step until he’s catching up with Wally West who’s already finished the course and is still running for fun.

“Cool dude,” Dick says weirdly.

“Uh, yeah,” says Jason as Dick’s words settle in. I actually have something I need to talk to Jason about one-on-one. What the hell? The most they’ve ever spoken to each other after middle school was while setting up for last year’s homecoming dance. Dick had roped in Kory who roped in Roy who roped in Jason. It was an unfairly good night. Roy fed off Kory’s attention and made Jason laugh so hard he nearly pissed himself several times. Helena had practice all night for her archery league, so Dick was on his own and for whatever reason, he stuck to Jason’s side the whole event.

Jason didn’t let himself think about that night afterwards, but during the moment, Dick had a way of making everything between them feel fresh and new. He hadn’t been weighed down by his private history — a history revolving around Dick that Dick probably didn’t even realize — at all.

“So,” Jason says, toying around with his popsicle sticks as they jog. Without meaning to, Jason has slowed down to Dick’s leisurely walk. “Speak.”

Dick smiles and laughs softly, if a little nervously. He really smiles a lot. Jason wonders how he ever thought Dick was viable partner with his Pollyanna temperament. “Right. Well, here comes the hard part, I guess, right?” Dick asks. Then he seems to wait for Jason to actually dignify that with a response despite it containing no legitimate content to respond to. Dick’s tongue swipes across his bottom lip. He shrugs, smiles. “Here goes,” he says and stops walking altogether. Jason rolls his eyes and stops, although what Dick could possibly say that requires an utter stand-still is beyond him.

Dick’s hand rummages in the pockets of his gym shorts. He pulls out an envelope which he then fiddles with. “I honestly had no idea you felt this way,” Dick begins. Immediately, Jason is on his guard. “I mean, I suppose there were signs and I suppose I ignored them on purpose. Maybe I was wrong to, but it seemed simplest that way, you know, if we just carried on with our own separate lives? What with Helena and me, and you and — someone who’s not in a relationship. Or just freshly out of one, in my case.” Here, Dick chuckled. “You hardly left time for the dust to settle on that one. I actually admire your boldness — for real, it’s refreshing for someone to just lay out all their cards and say, ‘Hey, this is how I feel.’ No dumb high school politics or the proverbial closet, just honesty.”

Jason is barely listening to Dick’s rambling bullshit. His eyes are glued to the envelope that is surely connected to whatever Twilight Zone thing is going down. Dick Grayson is talking to him about feelings and cold dread is rapidly filling Jason like water on the Titanic as he remembers what he did three years ago that can fit inside a tiny envelope.

Dick inches closer, his head tilted slightly upwards as Jason stays staring down at the object in Dick’s hands. “And if I’m also being honest, you wrote things to me that kept me up at night. I don’t think anyone’s ever thought about me that way, about my eyes — well, you know you wrote.”

That’s the last straw, the confirmation Jason needed if not wanted, and he roughly rips the letter out of Jason’s hands. Dick nearly stumbles back in surprise. “I don’t where you got this,” he says, voice low as he glares daggers into Dick’s eyes — blue like clean waters that shimmer in the sun and give life to those desperate for a drink — and steps threateningly into his space. “But it is not yours and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from me and keep everything you read to yourself,” he warns. His embarrassment is bearing down on his shoulders, heating his cheeks and hitting his chest in harsh heartbeats. He stands his ground only because he’s worried the ground might swallow him whole otherwise.

For the second time during gym class, Jason hears his name being called. Jason breaks the intense moment and looks up to see no other than Konnor Kent, Tim’s newly-exxed boyfriend, walking towards him. He’s wearing that leather jacket Jason’s always loved on him and a pair of skin-tight jeans with tons of buckles that should be cringey but instead is just super hot. He’s slighter than Dick although they’re both lean and his thick dark hair curls up at the front rather than lying in a mess of waves like Dick’s. He’s got style to him and although Dick isn’t one to put as much thought into his wardrobe, Jason has to admit now that they’re almost side-by-side that he has a type.

He interrupts his admiration first with the reminder to have a little shame, Konnor is Tim’s, not his, even if they’re not together anymore. His self-flagellation is ended early when he spots a thin piece of paper in Konnor’s leather-clad hands.

Dear Konnor,

Fair warning, what I’m about to tell you is wrong. But that’s why I have to say it. Because if I keep it to myself and refuse to acknowledge what’s between us, then I’ll always feel that way. But if I get it out all on paper now, then I can come to terms with the fact that you’re not mine. You can’t ever be mine.

Jason went on like for five pages, front and back. And now Jason’s heart is on Konnor’s sleeve. Tim just left him and Jason is swooping in for the kill like a vulture. What if Konnor has already told Tim? What if Tim is the one who found these letters? Did he send one to Dick as revenge for his feelings towards Konnor? Would Tim be that petty?

Yes. Tim would absolutely be that petty.

Konnor is almost closing the distance. “Jason, I need to talk to you,” he calls out. Jason honestly cannot handle this. He can’t handle the repercussions of his letter reaching Konnor, let alone of them discussing the letter. Konnor either came here to reject him or, or — to not, and he can’t say which would be worse. Over the years, Jason has landed himself into some pretty risky scenarios from foolhardy adventures, but never has he felt this panicky before.

Konnor is only a few yards away. Jason’s mind has cleared of all things except: I cannot talk to him.

Jason’s body has a solution for this. Jason’s body does not at all consult Jason’s head when it throws itself at Dick Grayson. One hand cups the back of Dick’s neck while the other grabs his arm. Dick isn’t expecting Jason’s full weight and when Jason’s foot slides between his, Dick goes tumbling backwards. The two fall to the ground in tandem but Jason doesn’t break the kiss. He’s vaguely aware of Dick’s little yelp, but he’s more keen on the plush of his lips and the smell of his shampoo. Dick’s chest is solid beneath his. Jason moves just enough to take some of the weight off him, his hand lifting Dick’s neck for a better angle.

Jason’s name is shouted a third time. “Todd, get off him!” he hears an instructor bark. Jason has an arm on either side of Dick’s shoulders as he looks up to see Mr. Queen running towards them, popsicle sticks in hand. Jason gazes down at Dick whose eyes are blown wide and staring straight into Jason’s, lips gently parted.

Jason gets off the boy he’s just tackled. Mr. Queen is asking him what’s wrong with you but Jason is busy watching Konnor’s retreating form. Mr. Queen demands Dick and Jason go to the principal's office. Jason’s head whips around to the teacher. “No, sir, don’t do that,” he nearly begs. He can hear Dick push himself to his feet but he’s stubbornly not looking at him. He doesn’t think he can ever look at Dick again, actually, which is a pity since it’s one of his pastimes. “It’s on me, sir, I tackled him.”

“Yeah, I can fucking tell!” Mr. Queen snaps. Unforeseen, Roy and Wally have lapped around to the three of them. Roy grabs two popsicle sticks, says “dude,” and keeps going. Jason glares until Wally stops rubbernecking.

“Dick can stay. I’ll find my way to the principal’s,” Jason says. He’s relieved when Mr. Queen merely says, “I’ll be checking,” because Jason would die on the spot if he had to then walk with Dick and sit next to him as he explained why exactly he bodyslammed Gotham City High’s sweetheart and planted one on him for all gym class.

Jason shoves his popsicle sticks into Mr. Queen’s hands, still ignoring Dick as he turns on his heels and gets the hell out of there.

#jaydick #jason todd #dick grayson #dc #fanfiction for the void

[averycanadianfilm]

Deleted - Gangsta Scene

Setting: A bar somewhere in rural Saskatchewan.

Characters: Tshi, Lakshmi, Tyger, Skat, Heidi.

Dragon: Retired Hells Angel guy who picks up Lakshmi, Tyger and Skat on the highway after their van breaks down. He gives them a lift to the bar and then leaves.

Gangsta Scene:

Dragon picks up Lakshmi, Tyger, and Skat late at night, on a remote stretch of the highway, in rural Saskatchewan, and drives them to a "rustic" bar. They get out of Dragon's truck, say their goodbyes and enter the bar. The bar is about 3/4 full and Heidi is playing the acoustic guitar and singing. People are enjoying themselves and enjoying her performance. They sit down at a table just as she is finishing her set to an enthusiastic round of applause.

Heidi walks over to the table, it turns out she is also the bartender/server.

Heidi: What can I get you?

Lakshmi: I'll have a rum and coke.

Tyger: Same here.

Skat: Whisky!

Heidi: I don't think so honey. Id?

Skat: I lost my wallet (long pause), a few days ago.

Heidi: Really?

Skat: Really!! I'll have a Whisky, thanks.

Heidi: You'll have a Whisky?

Skat: Ya, dude, a Whisky!!

Heidi: {Smiles and goes to fill their drink order}

[The three sit in silence taking a close look at the people in the bar, who are of course all staring at them. They are nervous. Unseen by them is Tshi, who is sitting in the corner with his back to the wall, arms folded across his chest, feet stretched out in front of him, tam pulled down over his eyes, he appears to be sleeping, but he isn't.]

[Heidi returns with their drink order. She places Lakshmi's and Tyger's drinks in front of them and as she is placing a glass of milk in front of Skat, she says to him]

Heidi: Here, because you're still growing.

Skat: Fuck off.

Heidi: Right back at you dude.

[Slowly the patrons start to leave. When the place is almost empty, Heidi walks over to and sits at Tshi's table and that's when Lakshmi, Tyger and Skat notice him. They get up, taking their chairs with them and go over and sit with him and Heidi. Just then two extremely well dressed Asian men in black Armani suits and dark glasses enter the bar and sit at a table. They look decidedly out of place. Heidi gets up to get their order. As she is walking to their table, three tall Rastas with thick Jamaican accents enter the bar and sit with the two Asian guys. They are scary tough guys. Then five guys enter the bar who look like they have been living in the woods for months. Thick beards, long hair etc. They sit at another table. The bar becomes tense! The interesting thing is the Rastas are speaking such heavy Jamaican patois subtitles are required, but the Asian guys are understanding every word, nodding their heads and laughing etc.]

Tshi: What are you guys doing here?

Lakshmi: Van broke down on the highway.

Tyger: Scary guy gave us a lift here.

Tshi: Dragon? Dragon isn't a scary guy.

Tyger: You know him??

Tshi: {Smiles and nods his head}

Skat: {whispering} Dem bredren over dere suh, dem gangstas fi real.

Tshi: Bredren?

Skat: Ya mon, mi down wit de JA posse.

Tshi: You've been watching too much TV.

[Slow close up of Heidi's face behind the bar, panning all the way in so you can only see her extremely deep blue eyes. She is staring intently at Tshi. She gets his attention, he looks at her. With only her eyes moving, she indicates that it is time to leave. Tshi immediately gets up, his glass of mango juice half full, he motions to the other three that it is time to leave. Tyger is in the middle of a story and wants to stay and finish her drink but Tshi just keeps moving, very calmly, towards the door. They all get up and follow him. They get in his van and as they are driving away, all hell breaks out in the bar. They hear the sounds of yelling, cursing and rapid automatic weapons fire. Lakshmi and Tyger sit in shocked silence in the back of the Van as Tshi calmly drives down the highway. Tshi turns to Skat who is excitedly sitting in the front passenger seat, and says]

Tshi: Still wanna be a gangsta?

Skat: I'm not afraid {but he looks afraid}.

Tshi: {Silence}

Skat: I hate working at Mcdonalds!

Tshi: Who says you have to work at Mcdonalds.

Skat: I hate working at Tim Hortons!

Tshi: I see.

[They drive on in silence as a fleet of RCMP cars speed by in the other direction, towards the bar, with sirens screaming and lights flashing.]

Lakshmi: Men are such dicks!

Tyger: Men "can" be such dicks.

Lakshmi: Whatever.

[They drive on in silence. Fade to Black. End of Gangsta scene]

Written by Hubert Hugh Burke August 7 2008 7:40PM Victoria British Columbia.

Revised Sept. 13 2008 11:30PM Toronto Canada.

--

Luna: Hey, you can't stop there! What happens?

Sol: That's enough.

Luna: That is not enough you have to finish the scene!

Sol: No, that's enough.

Luna: {Silence}

Sol: {Silence}

Luna: I like it.

Sol: I’m happy that you like it.

Luna: What happens in the next scene?

Sol: I can't say.

Luna: Yes you can.

Sol: {Silence}

Luna: {Silence}

Sol: Okay. Here is the beginning of the next scene, but that is all.

Luna: Okay.

Sol: I'm serious.

Luna: Okay.

written by Hubert Hugh Burke Sept. 11 2008 2PM Toronto Canada.

Revised Sept. 13 2008 11:50AM Toronto Canada

A Very Canadian Film: The Spooky Drive to Calgary Scene

Characters: Lakshmi, Tyger, Tshi, Skat.

Jeb: (Old, White Male, born and grow in Saskatchewan, in fact, he has not ever left that Province.) Speaks English.

Jeb is a Tow Truck Driver/Mechanic who is a Jehovah's Witness. His connection to Tshi is unknown.

[Sunrise on the extremely flat prairies is extremely beautiful. Tshi pulls up to Lakshmi's van and parks in front of it. He gets out of his van, stretches, lights a cigarette and slowly walks over to her van. Lakshmi, Tyger and Skat tumble out of his van.]

Tshi: {smoking, exhales, looks at the van} You need a mechanic.

Lakshmi: Aren't you going to even look under the hood?

Tshi: {Shakes his head}

Lakshmi: How are we going to get a mechanic? We're in the middle of nowhere.

Tshi: I'll call one for you.

Tyger: We lost our cell phone!

Tshi: I don't like cell phones.

Tyger: Then, how, are you gonna, call, a, mechanic? Do you see any payphones nearby?

Tshi: {laughs, continues smoking as he leans against the van admiring the sunrise}

Lakshmi: {sighs deeply}

Tshi: Here's your mechanic, now.

[East of them, driving west out of the sunrise, is an old beaten up tow truck, it slowly pulls up beside them and stops. Jeb gets out and walks up to Tshi.]

Jeb: Trouble last night at the Roadhouse.

Tshi: {Nods his head}

Jeb: That Mckinnon boy is such a hot head.

Tshi: What happened? {Gives Jeb a Cigarette}

Jeb: Well, long story short, Jimmy Mckinnon got together with Jenny somebody or the other, the problem was Johnny MacDonnell thought Jenny was still his girlfriend. They fought, Jimmy emptied a few rounds in Johnny. No one knows where he got that kinda gun.

Tshi: I see. Anyone else hurt?

Jeb: Fortunately no. It's a good thing Neville, Mortie and Sekou were there. They grabbed a hold of Jimmy until the cops arrived. We're hoping that the fuss won't stop the Ng brothers from investing in Old man McTavish's farm.

Tshi: Ng brothers?

Jeb: Two Vietnamese brothers from Richmond BC, just got into town yesterday. Apparently, Neville, Mortie and Sekou helped rear those two back in Ontario, on a large farm in Wellington.

Tshi: They don't look like farmers.

Jeb: Well, they were adopted by Mctavish's cousin back east, as babies, so they grew up on the farm back when Neville, Mortie and Sekou were migrant workers helping out every summer and autumn.

Tshi: What are they doing now?

Jeb: Well, long story short, they're brainy guys who won a scholarship to UBC, met some Hong Kong high rollers, made a killing in the market, living well in Richmond. We're awfully happy they're here now, McTavish needs the help, especially since they're not yet fully recovered from laser eye surgery.

[Takes a long drag from his cigarette and looks meaningfully at Tshi.]

Jeb: That Swedish girl is pretty upset.

Tshi: Which Swedish girl?

Jeb: Emelie somebody or the other, she was there last night, doing some kinda ethnographic study of farmers here.

Tshi: Who let her in that bar?

Jeb: We advised her that it wasn't a good idea, but, well, she's strong-willed and strong-headed for only being sixteen.

Tshi: I see.

[Jeb finishes his cigarette and walks over to Lakshmi's van, he pops open the hood, and takes a long look]

Jeb: This is going to cost you young lady.

Tshi: {Looks intensely at Jeb}

Jeb: {Looks under the hood again}

Tshi: Doing God's work today, eh Jeb.

Jeb: Looks that way, brother, looks that way.

[Jeb walks over to his truck to get his tools. Tshi gets in his van and starts it.]

Tshi: As soon as he fixes your van, I suggest you head west immediately.

Lakshmi: We don't have much money, how much is this going to cost me?

Tshi: Not a cent, he's not going to charge you.

[Tshi, drives off in his van heading west, and then turns right, and heads north.]

-End of the beginning of the "The Spooky drive to Calgary Scene"-

Written by Hubert Hugh Burke Sept. 13 2008 3PM Toronto, Canada.

Critic:  FYI - in the interests of accuracy, Jehovah's Witnesses don't smoke.

Sol:  He's not perfect, no human being is, and this is not a documentary.

#Hubert Hugh Burke #A Very Canadian Film #Script

[adambstingus]

The International Competition Where Master Lock-Pickers Do Battle

This story first appeared in WIRED 13.02 published in February, 2005.

For a lock picker, the world is a different place. Take, for example, a typical suburban house, with a bicycle in the front yard and a five-pin Weiser bolting the front door—a basic pin-and-tumbler lock, employed by millions of home owners.

When most people see that lock, they see security. But a lock picker sees a game. And maybe 15 seconds with a rake pick and a tension wrench. As for the bike Kryptonited to the railing out front? Please. Ten seconds, tops, with a Bic Round Stic ballpoint.

Or take a jewelry store on Main Street. The world sees the shatterproof Lexan windows and stone walls. Sure, you could melt the Lexan with a lighter or turn that wall into lava with a few strokes of a battery-powered thermal lance, but that’s not fair, that’s forced entry. Besides, why bother when you can go through the door? The dimpled 437-rated high-security lock, the one Underwriters Laboratories considers a 20-minute pick job? A 12-year-old with a bump key could hack it in 20 seconds.

To understand how, drive two hours north of Amsterdam, to a small brick building in the Dutch village of Sneek. The Sneek Wigledam Youth Hostel appears to be nothing special, just bunk beds and a bar-and-breakfast space of unpainted wood and colorful furniture—something like an Ikea Gulag. But to a lock sports aficionado, this is Wimbledon.

Arthurmeister, the Master of the Universe

It’s 20 hours before the third annual Dutch Open lock-picking competition will begin, but the room is already packed with 50 or so men and women wielding burglar tools and representing the international steel bolt-hacker diaspora. By the kitchen you’ll find Jean-Marie, a debonair French military “surreptitious entry” instructor in a black commando sweater, chatting with a lock enthusiast about his collection of Abloy disc tumblers. At the door is Barry Wels, the event’s host and a coinventor of the CryptoPhone. He’s hacking an expensive, high-security, dimpled Mul-T-Lock using only a filed key and a steak knife handle. Behind the bar, a pair of locksmiths are speculating about which of the newbies is really an undercover cop. By the pool table, a gaggle of Dutch programmers probes the latches of a combination padlock with a broken tape measure, while behind them a German cyberpunk sells a hand-milled Kryptonite skeleton key to an American satellite engineer: 100 euros – cheap.

Arthur Bhl, the Dutch Open lock-picking champion. Charles Graeber

Standing above them all, with a beer stein in one hand and a cigarette in the other, is Arthur Bhl, a private dick from Hamburg and one of the most successful lock pickers of all time. Even in this crowded, smoky room, you can’t miss him—he’s the one standing 6’5″ in snakeskin boots, with a kidney-length mullet cascading over the broad shoulders of his double-breasted zoot suit. Bhl’s Fabio-the-Barbarian look stands out. So does his record. Although he’s never won a Dutch Open, he’s won most everywhere else, earning him Germany’s ultimate lock-picking accolade: Master of the Universe.

“Arthurmeister!” booms Arthurmeister. Across the room, beer mugs chink at the cry of his name. The Master of the Universe ranking reflects his cumulative lock-picking score—it’s a title that the lock sport commissioners bestow on the world points leader. IfBhl wants to keep it, he has to keep winning. Tomorrow, his sights will be set on toppling the current Dutch Open champion—a slight, mustachioed man in a T-shirt and acid-washed jeans named Julian Hardt. Back in Germany, Hardt works as a rainmaker, piloting his twin-prop to seed thunderheads with silver iodide.

“For me, a lock is an intellectual puzzle, like chess!” Julian the Champ yells in Bavarian-accented English. He yells because two men behind him have started pithing a steel safe with a cobalt-tipped drill. “But when you break a lock, when you crack that first puzzle, when you feel pins click and the cylinder go – it’s like a drug,” he continues. “So then you want to try a harder one!”

Arthurmeister throws an arm around Julian the Champ and laughs as only a Master of the Universe should. “Ja, life is good,” he declares. “But tomorrow, you are mine.”

Hardt smiles in concession. His eyes level at Arthurmeister’s chest hair. “Arthur, tomorrow is tomorrow.” Hardt says. “Why not have another beer today?”

‘Death is a fantastic motivator.’

Marc Weber Tobias is the author of Locks, Safes, and Security: An International Police Reference, a two-volume, 1,400-page compendium referred to here as De Bijbel. Last summer, Tobias’ report on how to use a ballpoint pen to hack tubular locks—locks with circular key interfaces, like those made by Kryptonite—made headlines coast to coast. Much to the company’s horror, Tobias publicly ridiculed their bike lock as an overpriced horseshoe. “Those people are unbelievably arrogant,” he says with a smirk. “I can’t wait to break their next design and destroy that company.”

Tobias shrugs off the notion that by publicizing the vulnerability, he’s creating a crime wave. “People are just mad because they wasted 50 bucks,” he says. “People trust their lives and safety to these locks. But most locks are garbage. Look around, they’re easy to open. Not knowing that doesn’t make you safer.” Tobias rolls his eyes and waggles his head incredulously. “I mean, what do people want—security through ignorance? Wake up.”

This rumpled 59-year-old ur-nerd isn’t in Sneek to compete. He’s staying in this “godawful miniature prison” to give a PowerPoint presentation (“Vulnerabilities of Master Key Systems”) and to videotape the newest attacks against the latest locks. So he’s perfectly happy to offer a few friendly tips to a fellow American who’s new to the sport and struggling to learn the ropes.

“You’re retarded,” Tobias says, watching the neophyte wrestle with the pins. Tobias takes the lock and looks inside to make sure it isn’t broken. It’s fine. “I’ll tell you how they teach it in covert-entry camp,” he says, laying a hand on the poor picker’s shoulder. “First, I stick you in a cage. Then I lock the door.” Tobias straightens and smiles. “End of story. Trust me, it works,” he says. “Death is a fantastic motivator.”

The Master of the Universe Is Ready to Rock

Diamond picks, snakes, rakes, combs, shallow picks, and handmade tension wrenches of black spring steel—the tools are readied for battle. It’s 10 o’clock the next morning in the tournament hall. The competitors sit before their instruments.

The rules are old-school, head-to-head. Each person gets a different lock. Eight minutes to open your lock, then switch locks across the table and begin again for another eight. That’s a round. At the end of each round, whoever has a shorter combined time is the winner. The rounds continue until it’s only two, then one.

It’s locksmith against space engineer, programmer against undercover cop, French commando against American college student. Julian the Champ, who grips the lock in one hand as he picks it with the other, dries his fingers on his pant leg and tries to remain calm. Arthurmeister prepares his vise. Amazingly, although last seen at 4 am manning the keg and shouting his own name, Arthurmeister is downstairs looking fresh in a double-breasted suit and vest, a key insignia on his red silk tie. His meaty hands are shaking and his eyes are bloodshot, but the Master of the Universe is ready to rock.

“Three, two, one, go!” The pickers grab their tools and begin. Most combine the tension wrench with a rake—a tool with multiple heads that can be dragged quickly over all the pins at once. As they work, they stare down at the table or into space. They’re visualizing, using the pick like a catfish uses its whiskers, mapping the dark recesses by feel. It’s a cold hard world inside the keyway. There are special pins, mushrooms, telescopes, wedges. Pins designed to foil people, pins that don’t cooperate. And always, there’s the pressure of the clock.

“This isn’t pressure,” Tobias says. “Try real-world covert entry. Either you pick the lock fast or you get shot or arrested. End of story.”

“Open!” says Julian the Champ.

“Open!” yells Arthurmeister.

It’s Like Chess, But Without a Chessboard

Round after round, the competitors fall away, until finally, inevitably, only these two remain. They sit down across from each other at a table. The spectators and fallen competitors gather around.

A lock is placed in front of the Champ. He scoops it up and squints into its mysterious darkness. It’s a Lips 8042C, a five-pin cylinder with a straight keyway. It’s tough, but fair.

Arthurmeister receives its sister lock, the Lips 8362C. It’s a six-pin high-security model. Several of the pins are mushroom-shaped. Working them with a pick is difficult, made all the more so by the keyhole. It’s paracentric, shaped something like a thalidomide lightning bolt, and expressly designed to hinder the motion of a picker’s tools. In technical terms, the 8362C is a bitch.

Arthurmeister stubs out his cigarette and tightens the demon lock in his vise. Then he rubs his hands and leans over his challenge like a hungry giant. Go! The opponents wedge in their tension wrenches and begin.

Not much is happening at the tables. It’s like watching a chess match, only without the chessboard. But to a knowledgeable lock picker, this is an epic showdown. “Intense!” whispers Tobias.

Hardt works his picks in his cupped hand as if he’s applying lipstick to a hand puppet. Arthurmeister scrapes away at the monster in his vise like a dentist on Benzedrine. The tools of the trade look like toothpicks in his oversize mitts.

“Open!” cries Arthurmeister. He smooths his plumage back and sits upright in his throne, triumphant.

The other lock pickers gasp. Someone claps. Arthurmeister has picked the 8362C in only 20 seconds. It was a rake pick on a supertough lock, an opening that uses luck almost as much as skill.

Meanwhile, Julian the Champ can’t pick his lock at all. The clock runs out at eight minutes.

Julian looks up through his tangled eyebrows. “Oh, Arthur,” he sighs. He sucks his teeth and grimaces like a beaver. They switch locks. The Champ has to beat Arthurmeister’s time or he loses. It’s almost impossible. Julian works at the 8362C intensely, but 20 seconds is not time enough. It’s over. He stands, defeated. His opponent inhales him in a bear hug.

The crowd claps and hoots. “Arthurmeister!” they yell.

“Beer!” Arthurmeister booms back. The Master of the Universe lopes to the bar to celebrate, more, again. And a new Dutch Open champion is born.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/the-international-competition-where-master-lock-pickers-do-battle/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/172952927012

[samanthasroberts]

The International Competition Where Master Lock-Pickers Do Battle

This story first appeared in WIRED 13.02 published in February, 2005.

For a lock picker, the world is a different place. Take, for example, a typical suburban house, with a bicycle in the front yard and a five-pin Weiser bolting the front door—a basic pin-and-tumbler lock, employed by millions of home owners.

When most people see that lock, they see security. But a lock picker sees a game. And maybe 15 seconds with a rake pick and a tension wrench. As for the bike Kryptonited to the railing out front? Please. Ten seconds, tops, with a Bic Round Stic ballpoint.

Or take a jewelry store on Main Street. The world sees the shatterproof Lexan windows and stone walls. Sure, you could melt the Lexan with a lighter or turn that wall into lava with a few strokes of a battery-powered thermal lance, but that’s not fair, that’s forced entry. Besides, why bother when you can go through the door? The dimpled 437-rated high-security lock, the one Underwriters Laboratories considers a 20-minute pick job? A 12-year-old with a bump key could hack it in 20 seconds.

To understand how, drive two hours north of Amsterdam, to a small brick building in the Dutch village of Sneek. The Sneek Wigledam Youth Hostel appears to be nothing special, just bunk beds and a bar-and-breakfast space of unpainted wood and colorful furniture—something like an Ikea Gulag. But to a lock sports aficionado, this is Wimbledon.

Arthurmeister, the Master of the Universe

It’s 20 hours before the third annual Dutch Open lock-picking competition will begin, but the room is already packed with 50 or so men and women wielding burglar tools and representing the international steel bolt-hacker diaspora. By the kitchen you’ll find Jean-Marie, a debonair French military “surreptitious entry” instructor in a black commando sweater, chatting with a lock enthusiast about his collection of Abloy disc tumblers. At the door is Barry Wels, the event’s host and a coinventor of the CryptoPhone. He’s hacking an expensive, high-security, dimpled Mul-T-Lock using only a filed key and a steak knife handle. Behind the bar, a pair of locksmiths are speculating about which of the newbies is really an undercover cop. By the pool table, a gaggle of Dutch programmers probes the latches of a combination padlock with a broken tape measure, while behind them a German cyberpunk sells a hand-milled Kryptonite skeleton key to an American satellite engineer: 100 euros – cheap.

Arthur Bhl, the Dutch Open lock-picking champion. Charles Graeber

Standing above them all, with a beer stein in one hand and a cigarette in the other, is Arthur Bhl, a private dick from Hamburg and one of the most successful lock pickers of all time. Even in this crowded, smoky room, you can’t miss him—he’s the one standing 6’5″ in snakeskin boots, with a kidney-length mullet cascading over the broad shoulders of his double-breasted zoot suit. Bhl’s Fabio-the-Barbarian look stands out. So does his record. Although he’s never won a Dutch Open, he’s won most everywhere else, earning him Germany’s ultimate lock-picking accolade: Master of the Universe.

“Arthurmeister!” booms Arthurmeister. Across the room, beer mugs chink at the cry of his name. The Master of the Universe ranking reflects his cumulative lock-picking score—it’s a title that the lock sport commissioners bestow on the world points leader. IfBhl wants to keep it, he has to keep winning. Tomorrow, his sights will be set on toppling the current Dutch Open champion—a slight, mustachioed man in a T-shirt and acid-washed jeans named Julian Hardt. Back in Germany, Hardt works as a rainmaker, piloting his twin-prop to seed thunderheads with silver iodide.

“For me, a lock is an intellectual puzzle, like chess!” Julian the Champ yells in Bavarian-accented English. He yells because two men behind him have started pithing a steel safe with a cobalt-tipped drill. “But when you break a lock, when you crack that first puzzle, when you feel pins click and the cylinder go – it’s like a drug,” he continues. “So then you want to try a harder one!”

Arthurmeister throws an arm around Julian the Champ and laughs as only a Master of the Universe should. “Ja, life is good,” he declares. “But tomorrow, you are mine.”

Hardt smiles in concession. His eyes level at Arthurmeister’s chest hair. “Arthur, tomorrow is tomorrow.” Hardt says. “Why not have another beer today?”

‘Death is a fantastic motivator.’

Marc Weber Tobias is the author of Locks, Safes, and Security: An International Police Reference, a two-volume, 1,400-page compendium referred to here as De Bijbel. Last summer, Tobias’ report on how to use a ballpoint pen to hack tubular locks—locks with circular key interfaces, like those made by Kryptonite—made headlines coast to coast. Much to the company’s horror, Tobias publicly ridiculed their bike lock as an overpriced horseshoe. “Those people are unbelievably arrogant,” he says with a smirk. “I can’t wait to break their next design and destroy that company.”

Tobias shrugs off the notion that by publicizing the vulnerability, he’s creating a crime wave. “People are just mad because they wasted 50 bucks,” he says. “People trust their lives and safety to these locks. But most locks are garbage. Look around, they’re easy to open. Not knowing that doesn’t make you safer.” Tobias rolls his eyes and waggles his head incredulously. “I mean, what do people want—security through ignorance? Wake up.”

This rumpled 59-year-old ur-nerd isn’t in Sneek to compete. He’s staying in this “godawful miniature prison” to give a PowerPoint presentation (“Vulnerabilities of Master Key Systems”) and to videotape the newest attacks against the latest locks. So he’s perfectly happy to offer a few friendly tips to a fellow American who’s new to the sport and struggling to learn the ropes.

“You’re retarded,” Tobias says, watching the neophyte wrestle with the pins. Tobias takes the lock and looks inside to make sure it isn’t broken. It’s fine. “I’ll tell you how they teach it in covert-entry camp,” he says, laying a hand on the poor picker’s shoulder. “First, I stick you in a cage. Then I lock the door.” Tobias straightens and smiles. “End of story. Trust me, it works,” he says. “Death is a fantastic motivator.”

The Master of the Universe Is Ready to Rock

Diamond picks, snakes, rakes, combs, shallow picks, and handmade tension wrenches of black spring steel—the tools are readied for battle. It’s 10 o’clock the next morning in the tournament hall. The competitors sit before their instruments.

The rules are old-school, head-to-head. Each person gets a different lock. Eight minutes to open your lock, then switch locks across the table and begin again for another eight. That’s a round. At the end of each round, whoever has a shorter combined time is the winner. The rounds continue until it’s only two, then one.

It’s locksmith against space engineer, programmer against undercover cop, French commando against American college student. Julian the Champ, who grips the lock in one hand as he picks it with the other, dries his fingers on his pant leg and tries to remain calm. Arthurmeister prepares his vise. Amazingly, although last seen at 4 am manning the keg and shouting his own name, Arthurmeister is downstairs looking fresh in a double-breasted suit and vest, a key insignia on his red silk tie. His meaty hands are shaking and his eyes are bloodshot, but the Master of the Universe is ready to rock.

“Three, two, one, go!” The pickers grab their tools and begin. Most combine the tension wrench with a rake—a tool with multiple heads that can be dragged quickly over all the pins at once. As they work, they stare down at the table or into space. They’re visualizing, using the pick like a catfish uses its whiskers, mapping the dark recesses by feel. It’s a cold hard world inside the keyway. There are special pins, mushrooms, telescopes, wedges. Pins designed to foil people, pins that don’t cooperate. And always, there’s the pressure of the clock.

“This isn’t pressure,” Tobias says. “Try real-world covert entry. Either you pick the lock fast or you get shot or arrested. End of story.”

“Open!” says Julian the Champ.

“Open!” yells Arthurmeister.

It’s Like Chess, But Without a Chessboard

Round after round, the competitors fall away, until finally, inevitably, only these two remain. They sit down across from each other at a table. The spectators and fallen competitors gather around.

A lock is placed in front of the Champ. He scoops it up and squints into its mysterious darkness. It’s a Lips 8042C, a five-pin cylinder with a straight keyway. It’s tough, but fair.

Arthurmeister receives its sister lock, the Lips 8362C. It’s a six-pin high-security model. Several of the pins are mushroom-shaped. Working them with a pick is difficult, made all the more so by the keyhole. It’s paracentric, shaped something like a thalidomide lightning bolt, and expressly designed to hinder the motion of a picker’s tools. In technical terms, the 8362C is a bitch.

Arthurmeister stubs out his cigarette and tightens the demon lock in his vise. Then he rubs his hands and leans over his challenge like a hungry giant. Go! The opponents wedge in their tension wrenches and begin.

Not much is happening at the tables. It’s like watching a chess match, only without the chessboard. But to a knowledgeable lock picker, this is an epic showdown. “Intense!” whispers Tobias.

Hardt works his picks in his cupped hand as if he’s applying lipstick to a hand puppet. Arthurmeister scrapes away at the monster in his vise like a dentist on Benzedrine. The tools of the trade look like toothpicks in his oversize mitts.

“Open!” cries Arthurmeister. He smooths his plumage back and sits upright in his throne, triumphant.

The other lock pickers gasp. Someone claps. Arthurmeister has picked the 8362C in only 20 seconds. It was a rake pick on a supertough lock, an opening that uses luck almost as much as skill.

Meanwhile, Julian the Champ can’t pick his lock at all. The clock runs out at eight minutes.

Julian looks up through his tangled eyebrows. “Oh, Arthur,” he sighs. He sucks his teeth and grimaces like a beaver. They switch locks. The Champ has to beat Arthurmeister’s time or he loses. It’s almost impossible. Julian works at the 8362C intensely, but 20 seconds is not time enough. It’s over. He stands, defeated. His opponent inhales him in a bear hug.

The crowd claps and hoots. “Arthurmeister!” they yell.

“Beer!” Arthurmeister booms back. The Master of the Universe lopes to the bar to celebrate, more, again. And a new Dutch Open champion is born.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/the-international-competition-where-master-lock-pickers-do-battle/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2018/04/15/the-international-competition-where-master-lock-pickers-do-battle/

[allofbeercom]

The International Competition Where Master Lock-Pickers Do Battle

This story first appeared in WIRED 13.02 published in February, 2005.

For a lock picker, the world is a different place. Take, for example, a typical suburban house, with a bicycle in the front yard and a five-pin Weiser bolting the front door—a basic pin-and-tumbler lock, employed by millions of home owners.

When most people see that lock, they see security. But a lock picker sees a game. And maybe 15 seconds with a rake pick and a tension wrench. As for the bike Kryptonited to the railing out front? Please. Ten seconds, tops, with a Bic Round Stic ballpoint.

Or take a jewelry store on Main Street. The world sees the shatterproof Lexan windows and stone walls. Sure, you could melt the Lexan with a lighter or turn that wall into lava with a few strokes of a battery-powered thermal lance, but that’s not fair, that’s forced entry. Besides, why bother when you can go through the door? The dimpled 437-rated high-security lock, the one Underwriters Laboratories considers a 20-minute pick job? A 12-year-old with a bump key could hack it in 20 seconds.

To understand how, drive two hours north of Amsterdam, to a small brick building in the Dutch village of Sneek. The Sneek Wigledam Youth Hostel appears to be nothing special, just bunk beds and a bar-and-breakfast space of unpainted wood and colorful furniture—something like an Ikea Gulag. But to a lock sports aficionado, this is Wimbledon.

Arthurmeister, the Master of the Universe

It’s 20 hours before the third annual Dutch Open lock-picking competition will begin, but the room is already packed with 50 or so men and women wielding burglar tools and representing the international steel bolt-hacker diaspora. By the kitchen you’ll find Jean-Marie, a debonair French military “surreptitious entry” instructor in a black commando sweater, chatting with a lock enthusiast about his collection of Abloy disc tumblers. At the door is Barry Wels, the event’s host and a coinventor of the CryptoPhone. He’s hacking an expensive, high-security, dimpled Mul-T-Lock using only a filed key and a steak knife handle. Behind the bar, a pair of locksmiths are speculating about which of the newbies is really an undercover cop. By the pool table, a gaggle of Dutch programmers probes the latches of a combination padlock with a broken tape measure, while behind them a German cyberpunk sells a hand-milled Kryptonite skeleton key to an American satellite engineer: 100 euros – cheap.

Arthur Bhl, the Dutch Open lock-picking champion. Charles Graeber

Standing above them all, with a beer stein in one hand and a cigarette in the other, is Arthur Bhl, a private dick from Hamburg and one of the most successful lock pickers of all time. Even in this crowded, smoky room, you can’t miss him—he’s the one standing 6’5″ in snakeskin boots, with a kidney-length mullet cascading over the broad shoulders of his double-breasted zoot suit. Bhl’s Fabio-the-Barbarian look stands out. So does his record. Although he’s never won a Dutch Open, he’s won most everywhere else, earning him Germany’s ultimate lock-picking accolade: Master of the Universe.

“Arthurmeister!” booms Arthurmeister. Across the room, beer mugs chink at the cry of his name. The Master of the Universe ranking reflects his cumulative lock-picking score—it’s a title that the lock sport commissioners bestow on the world points leader. IfBhl wants to keep it, he has to keep winning. Tomorrow, his sights will be set on toppling the current Dutch Open champion—a slight, mustachioed man in a T-shirt and acid-washed jeans named Julian Hardt. Back in Germany, Hardt works as a rainmaker, piloting his twin-prop to seed thunderheads with silver iodide.

“For me, a lock is an intellectual puzzle, like chess!” Julian the Champ yells in Bavarian-accented English. He yells because two men behind him have started pithing a steel safe with a cobalt-tipped drill. “But when you break a lock, when you crack that first puzzle, when you feel pins click and the cylinder go – it’s like a drug,” he continues. “So then you want to try a harder one!”

Arthurmeister throws an arm around Julian the Champ and laughs as only a Master of the Universe should. “Ja, life is good,” he declares. “But tomorrow, you are mine.”

Hardt smiles in concession. His eyes level at Arthurmeister’s chest hair. “Arthur, tomorrow is tomorrow.” Hardt says. “Why not have another beer today?”

‘Death is a fantastic motivator.’

Marc Weber Tobias is the author of Locks, Safes, and Security: An International Police Reference, a two-volume, 1,400-page compendium referred to here as De Bijbel. Last summer, Tobias’ report on how to use a ballpoint pen to hack tubular locks—locks with circular key interfaces, like those made by Kryptonite—made headlines coast to coast. Much to the company’s horror, Tobias publicly ridiculed their bike lock as an overpriced horseshoe. “Those people are unbelievably arrogant,” he says with a smirk. “I can’t wait to break their next design and destroy that company.”

Tobias shrugs off the notion that by publicizing the vulnerability, he’s creating a crime wave. “People are just mad because they wasted 50 bucks,” he says. “People trust their lives and safety to these locks. But most locks are garbage. Look around, they’re easy to open. Not knowing that doesn’t make you safer.” Tobias rolls his eyes and waggles his head incredulously. “I mean, what do people want—security through ignorance? Wake up.”

This rumpled 59-year-old ur-nerd isn’t in Sneek to compete. He’s staying in this “godawful miniature prison” to give a PowerPoint presentation (“Vulnerabilities of Master Key Systems”) and to videotape the newest attacks against the latest locks. So he’s perfectly happy to offer a few friendly tips to a fellow American who’s new to the sport and struggling to learn the ropes.

“You’re retarded,” Tobias says, watching the neophyte wrestle with the pins. Tobias takes the lock and looks inside to make sure it isn’t broken. It’s fine. “I’ll tell you how they teach it in covert-entry camp,” he says, laying a hand on the poor picker’s shoulder. “First, I stick you in a cage. Then I lock the door.” Tobias straightens and smiles. “End of story. Trust me, it works,” he says. “Death is a fantastic motivator.”

The Master of the Universe Is Ready to Rock

Diamond picks, snakes, rakes, combs, shallow picks, and handmade tension wrenches of black spring steel—the tools are readied for battle. It’s 10 o’clock the next morning in the tournament hall. The competitors sit before their instruments.

The rules are old-school, head-to-head. Each person gets a different lock. Eight minutes to open your lock, then switch locks across the table and begin again for another eight. That’s a round. At the end of each round, whoever has a shorter combined time is the winner. The rounds continue until it’s only two, then one.

It’s locksmith against space engineer, programmer against undercover cop, French commando against American college student. Julian the Champ, who grips the lock in one hand as he picks it with the other, dries his fingers on his pant leg and tries to remain calm. Arthurmeister prepares his vise. Amazingly, although last seen at 4 am manning the keg and shouting his own name, Arthurmeister is downstairs looking fresh in a double-breasted suit and vest, a key insignia on his red silk tie. His meaty hands are shaking and his eyes are bloodshot, but the Master of the Universe is ready to rock.

“Three, two, one, go!” The pickers grab their tools and begin. Most combine the tension wrench with a rake—a tool with multiple heads that can be dragged quickly over all the pins at once. As they work, they stare down at the table or into space. They’re visualizing, using the pick like a catfish uses its whiskers, mapping the dark recesses by feel. It’s a cold hard world inside the keyway. There are special pins, mushrooms, telescopes, wedges. Pins designed to foil people, pins that don’t cooperate. And always, there’s the pressure of the clock.

“This isn’t pressure,” Tobias says. “Try real-world covert entry. Either you pick the lock fast or you get shot or arrested. End of story.”

“Open!” says Julian the Champ.

“Open!” yells Arthurmeister.

It’s Like Chess, But Without a Chessboard

Round after round, the competitors fall away, until finally, inevitably, only these two remain. They sit down across from each other at a table. The spectators and fallen competitors gather around.

A lock is placed in front of the Champ. He scoops it up and squints into its mysterious darkness. It’s a Lips 8042C, a five-pin cylinder with a straight keyway. It’s tough, but fair.

Arthurmeister receives its sister lock, the Lips 8362C. It’s a six-pin high-security model. Several of the pins are mushroom-shaped. Working them with a pick is difficult, made all the more so by the keyhole. It’s paracentric, shaped something like a thalidomide lightning bolt, and expressly designed to hinder the motion of a picker’s tools. In technical terms, the 8362C is a bitch.

Arthurmeister stubs out his cigarette and tightens the demon lock in his vise. Then he rubs his hands and leans over his challenge like a hungry giant. Go! The opponents wedge in their tension wrenches and begin.

Not much is happening at the tables. It’s like watching a chess match, only without the chessboard. But to a knowledgeable lock picker, this is an epic showdown. “Intense!” whispers Tobias.

Hardt works his picks in his cupped hand as if he’s applying lipstick to a hand puppet. Arthurmeister scrapes away at the monster in his vise like a dentist on Benzedrine. The tools of the trade look like toothpicks in his oversize mitts.

“Open!” cries Arthurmeister. He smooths his plumage back and sits upright in his throne, triumphant.

The other lock pickers gasp. Someone claps. Arthurmeister has picked the 8362C in only 20 seconds. It was a rake pick on a supertough lock, an opening that uses luck almost as much as skill.

Meanwhile, Julian the Champ can’t pick his lock at all. The clock runs out at eight minutes.

Julian looks up through his tangled eyebrows. “Oh, Arthur,” he sighs. He sucks his teeth and grimaces like a beaver. They switch locks. The Champ has to beat Arthurmeister’s time or he loses. It’s almost impossible. Julian works at the 8362C intensely, but 20 seconds is not time enough. It’s over. He stands, defeated. His opponent inhales him in a bear hug.

The crowd claps and hoots. “Arthurmeister!” they yell.

“Beer!” Arthurmeister booms back. The Master of the Universe lopes to the bar to celebrate, more, again. And a new Dutch Open champion is born.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/the-international-competition-where-master-lock-pickers-do-battle/