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tired-teacher-blog · 2 years

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Title : Only you

Characters : Shouto / Fem reader

Genre : NSFW/ 18+/ Fluff/ Angst

Summary : Your decision to get married didn't sit well with Shouto's family who awakened your insecurities by humiliating you and reminding you of your place. How will Shouto deal with this? And how will he show you what you truly mean to him?

Notes : So, does anyone remember this? Yeah, I finally wrote it down but with slight differences from the original plan.

Please do not read if you're a minor

Masterlist|Second Masterlist

AO3

_ "I'm so sorry, please look at me." Shouto whispered as he gently stroked your cheeks and tried to lift your head up, but you refused, you were too ashamed to look into his eyes.

_ "What if they're right? What if I'm really not good enough?" you mumbled, dark thoughts already fogging up your mind.

_ "No! Stop it! Don't let them get to you please." he squeezed your arms, shaking you gently as despair took over him as well.

Today was supposed to be one of the best days in both your lives. It was the day you decided to announce your decision to get married.

You were nervous as you sat down side by side with Shouto, having his whole family's questioning looks on you.

But that wasn't the worst part, it was when Shouto finally declared the reason of your visit. It was then that their judging eyes stared daggers into your soul.

They obviously thought you were unworthy of him, and if you were to be honest, so did you.

You've always wondered.. why did he pick you out of everyone else around him? What was so special about you anyway? You're as bland as they come, something Enji did not shy to put forth, he made it painfully clear in case anyone else was unaware.

_ "Let's face it Shouto, your father is right.. who am I to be a part of your life? Sooner or later someone had to say it." you wished you could keep your cool as you uttered those words, but your shaky voice and teary eyes betrayed you.

What hurt you the most was that Shouto stood up for you in front of his entire family, yet there you were, throwing all of it into the garbage. But he knew how you truly felt.. how much your own words hurt you, how much you loved him, how you never felt good enough, and how your meeting with his family awakened all of the insecurities you struggled to bury within you.

So he had to do something, he had to pull you out of the pit and bring you back to him.

_ "Listen to me y/n, I don't care about any of the things my father brought up earlier, I love you and I always will. I'm never giving you up, and even if one day you decide to walk away I'll keep following you, that's how much I love you." you didn't know how to respond to him, you wanted to say that you loved him too, that you wanted him to be happy, that you wanted to see him grow, but all that came out of your mouth was a strangled sob.

He didn't push further since he knew how overwhelmed you had been since morning, so instead he dragged you slowly to his chest, securing you in his protective hold and allowing you to clung to him as if he would disappear if you didn't.

He gently traced your back and kissed your temple, whispering sweet and reassuring words into your ear until you finally relaxed a little between his arms.

And without a warning, you felt yourself floating as he picked you up and took you straight to your bedroom.

You didn't question him, you didn't oppose or struggle, you just allowed him to carry you because deep down you felt that maybe that would be the last time you two can be together this way.

He placed you gently on the bed and hovered over you.

_ "You're beautiful, and you're mine," he whispered as he studied your expressions, "never listen to what anyone else has to say, just keep your attention on me." he traced your quivering lips before leaning in for a breathtaking kiss. You got lost in it, his kisses have always had that effect on you, and for a moment you managed to forget the dreadful day you had to go through.

Your tears kept flowing, and you weren't even sure of the reason anymore. Was it because you believed what Shouto's family thought of you? "pathetic and out of your league", or was it because you felt bad for him, for loving someone like you, someone who didn't deserve it.

You laced your fingers through his hair and arched into his chest as you desperately wished to be even closer to him. He took the hint and sneaked his arms under your cute little dress and along your thighs while his lips were still attached to yours.

His usual soft touches seemed even more so, as if he was afraid of hurting you.

His fingers moved up slowly, bringing your dress with them and leaving goosebumps in their path, until they reached your breasts and proceeded to fondle your mounds over the thin fabric of your bra.

You moaned into his mouth and felt him smiling against your lips before breaking the kiss and gazing into your teary eyes.

_ "I meant every word I said, if it's not you then it can't be anyone else." His mismatched orbs held a determination that you have never seen before, not even during his most dangerous missions.

There he was, the love of your life, doing everything he can to keep you by his side. And that was the moment you finally realized that you shouldn't give up on him so easily, that you would do anything in your power to get closer and be accepted by his family. Truth be told, you had no spite for any of them, their reaction to you was out of love and concern for Shouto's future.

Your tears finally stopped, and you tried as best as you could to offer him a genuine smile through your remaining sniffles.

_ "Shouto, I'm sorry I was weak, but I promise I'll do better and make you proud of me." you thought you said the right thing, that when he hears your words he'd be relieved, but the frown appearing on his features proved you wrong.

_ "Shouto, is everything alrigh.."

_ "What makes you think that I'm not proud of you already? that my love for you is conditional?"

He looked hurt, and you were lost for words..

_ "You're smart, strong, beautiful, and you have a heart of gold," his expressions softened and his palms caressed your sides delicately, "if anything, I'm the one who should work harder to be worthy of you," he mumbled softly against your lips, "you don't seem to understand what you truly mean to me." and with that, his warm breath and soft touches left you as he sat up, bringing you with him before removing his shirt and your dress.

He pushed you down gently, eyes studying your heaving chest and flushed skin, "perfect," he smirked before leaning in, nose grazing your neck teasingly and caressing its way down your cleavage while leaving soft open mouthed kisses along your flesh.

Your fingers pulled on his hair and he growled, sneaking his arms around your back and relieving you from your bra in one swift move before latching onto your breasts and swirling his tongue around your perky nipples, one at a time.

_ "Shouto, please hurry and take off the rest of your clothes." and as if on cue, you heard the clanking of his belt buckle as he shed his remaining articles, while his lips were still attached to your teats.

He was as impatient as you were, and didn't even care to hide his longing for you, leaving you no time to react or say a word before ripping off your panties and throwing the shredded garment onto the floor.

_ "Shouto! What.." you started but was abruptly cut off with his lips back on yours.

He moved eagerly against you, slick tongue dancing with your own and your whole body went limp underneath him.

The painful events that had clouded your soul earlier, became nothing but distant memories, and it felt as if you were the only two in the world.

You were lost in him, so lost in fact that you failed to notice when he effortlessly picked you up and sat you on his lap, and only when his hard cock rested against your tummy did you finally come back to your senses.

_ "You're the only one who's able to make me feel this way." he smirked with a nod to his raging dick— in case you missed his point, and your blush deepened at his forwardness.

Though his eyes were a different story, they held love and sincerity, craving and despair, and you knew at that moment that he was as scared of losing you as you were of losing him.

You smiled cradling his cheeks and flashing him a sweet smile that melted his heart, "I'm here Shouto." you shakily propped yourself up on your knees, one hand holding his shoulder for support while the other guided his cock to your quivering pussy, before slowly lowering yourself on him with a loud cry of his name.

His eyes were wide open the whole time, witnessing that mesmerizing view unfold before him. He wasted no time cupping your ass cheeks and helping you slide up to the tip before slamming you back down. He loved the faces you were making for him, the loud moans leaving your lips everytime he was buried deep inside of you, your desperate clutches on his neck and shoulders, "that's it babe, let me hear your voice," his right hand moved to play with your breasts, while the left one still supported and guided your body to move slowly on top of him.

He carefully activated his quirk on your boobs and you shuddered, tilting your head back and pulling on his hair with a whimper.

He loved it, loved the way your nipples perked up due to his freezing palm, loved the way your fingers found their way to his locks as his name left your mouth in a slur, and especially loved knowing that he was the only one allowed to see that side of you.

_ "Y/n, you're mine, everything about you belongs to me," his lips replaced his hand on your breasts as he licked and nibbled on your flesh, "please promise me you won't leave, tell me you'll be with me forever, I can't give you up so please don't give up on me." he begged as he hid his face in your chest, and your heart sunk.

_ "Never, I will never let you go Shouto, I promise I'll make your family accept me, even if it takes years." you lifted his head up and smiled softly before connecting your lips.

His thrusts became faster and rougher, and soon enough, that familiar warmth started pooling within you as he swallowed every moan you let out.

He was close too, throbbing inside of you and groaning desperately until you tensed up, breaking the kiss and crying out his name before slumping onto his chest.

He bounced your spent body on top of him as you fluttered around his cock, "Shouto.. cum inside me.. please.."

And that was all it took for him to push himself against your cervix, releasing everything into your welcoming cunt before fucking his semen deeper within you.

_ "It can only be you y/n." he whispered against your temple as he wrapped you in his protective arms.

_ "Only you Shouto." you smiled before closing your eyes and allowing your body to relax in his hold.

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ckret2 · 8 months

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Failed to resist the urge to post a snippet from chapter 16. This is my way of 🤝ing @godsfavoritescientist over the "grieving ex-worshiper who never figured out how to fill the gap left by a false god" Ford characterization.

Ford didn't move. He was still staring at the neon sign of an eyed triangle hanging in the psychic shop's window.

Did the "psychic" who ran this shop actually know what that symbol meant, Ford wondered? Did Bill have a worshiper here? Perhaps just another believer who'd been recruited by one of the micro-cults Bill left in his wake, five degrees removed from a former "student" that Bill had "inspired" and then abandoned half a century ago? Or had Bill met them in their dreams? Had he been summoned up to give them knowledge of the future—did they remember Bill as the central figure in a visionary dream that now made up the core of their spirituality? Maybe he'd visited them more than once, while trying to decide whether they'd be useful to him? Perhaps he'd been grooming the fortune teller into his minion, feeding them lines he wanted to pass on to a local politician or scientist? Did he ever play board games with them?

Did they worship him still?

Did they know their god was dead?

####

There'd been an ache in Ford's chest for over thirty years—an empty pit that once held awe—a dark void that used to be filled with starlight. Ford knew now that, metaphorically speaking, the divine light Bill put off had never been anything but optical illusions with flashlights and mirrors. But even so—even so, nothing and nobody had inspired such sublime wonder in Ford since.

During his lowest moments out in the multiverse, starving and exhausted and despairing, he'd irrationally wondered if the unimpressable depression left in Bill's wake was evidence that Bill had been truly that great, too great for a human like Ford to understand, and the shadow cast on his life in Bill's absence was the natural consequence of turning away from something godlike.

Ford had gotten over that. He'd recovered, he'd grown. He understood the truth: Bill's parlor tricks had dazzled his eyes so thoroughly that now he couldn't detect the subtler glimmer of the truly wondrous. He wondered if his eyes would ever adjust to the dark again.

Whether he liked it or not, he missed the way mind-blowing awe felt. He missed being dazzled.

There were days when he wasn't sure what he resented Bill for more: vomiting so much glittery garbage into his soul, or stopping.

#gravity falls #grunkle ford #bill cipher #(and even though this is technically platonic I think it's worth tagging—)#billford #(—since like the intensity is there)#about my writing #bill goldilocks cipher #(and four sentences later ford discovers bill pilfered some research from his briefcase and scribbled a coded message in purple crayon)

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halfetirosie · 11 days

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Laughing, Crying, and Laughing Until I Cry

(Prison Cell 05-07 React-os!)

Yup, called it! Shock of all shocks! The GILF is evil!

And before I hear any of you saying, "He was given an in-game sprite, of course he's evil!" I shall respectfully direct you to Eerie Escapade, Silver Miracle, Chase the Rainbow, etc....

2. 😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬

Okay, homies... Time for me to be a Downer....

So, once again we've got an event where a whole-ass room of people is hating on one of our bois, which makes me upset as hell.

That's to be expected. This is a prison, after all; it ain't going to be filled with particularly nice people...

What actually upset me more in this scene is what Eiden says to the asshole guard.

Look. I know he said it mostly as a joke. BUT.

What if the guard actually took him up on that offer??? Things could've escalated in a very nasty, unsafe direction VERY quickly. The Scumbag Guard is already abusing his power; can you IMAGINE how bad it would be if it got "sexual," too????

That was too reckless of Eiden, and for a second there I got legitimately scared. (Not that I think the devs would ever have anything too extreme happen to Eiden, but the possibility that they'd show the Scumbag Guard being a creepy BAD pervert towards Eiden---even briefly, before he's inevitably saved by someone---it gave me the chills.)

Am I over-reacting? Maybe. I don't care; this moment just scared me, okay? Was not expecting it.

3. OUR BOI!!!! A BEACON OF LIGHT IN THIS DREARY-ASS PIT OF DESPAIR!!!!

LOOK AT HIMMMM!!!!!! HE'S SO GODDAMN CUTEEEE!!!!!

And it's so funny to me that, while Quincy was just chilling in his cell, he made that cool little outfit for Topper...XD

TOPPER IS CUTE, AND QUINCY IS EQUALLY CUTE!!!!

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

TOPPER TO THE RESCUE!!!!

THE GOODEST BOY!!!!!!

4. PFFFFFFFT! (≧∇≦)

YAKUMO JUMPSCARE!!!

Idk why I wasn't expecting it, since prisons obviously allow visitors sometimes. But when Yakumo suddenly popped up on screen I audibly snorted in amusement/surprise...

5. YASSSSS KING!!!!!!!♡♡♡♡♡♡

Lemme tell you, as soon as I realized that Eiden hadn't eaten the cookies right away, I fuckin KNEW Eiden had set them up as a trap!!!!

I read this and I was just SMILING MANIACALLY

Like, look at this Human Garbage, putting on a whole show of stealing the cookies, I CAN'T WAIT FOR HIS COMEUPPANCE!!!!

EIDEN, YOU LOVABLE SKAMP, YOU!!!!!

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

6. AND IT SOMEHOW GETS EVEN BETTER!!!!

Eiden, the goddamn genius, just be raising absolute HELL!!!

And he even has the audacity to threaten Quincy, of all people...My GOD....

I'm having such a good time now

#nu carnival #nu: carnival

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unorthodoxx-page · 1 year

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Something Silly #1

I’m a little stuck today so here’s something silly.

Leo slashes through the vegetation with a grunt. He's officially over this place. He's over Draxum and his stupid collection of mystic garbage, and he's over dimension hopping. A bug too big and deformed to be anything other than a demon flies straight for his face and Leo opens a portal on autopilot. The bug soars through it with an audible squeak and Leo goes back to cutting a path. He should not be used to this.

"Donnie! Please tell me you've found a way to send us home?!"

"I'm working on it," Donnie sighs. "It would be easier if I could get access to an actual database. The satellites here are a mess."

Raph pushes through the grass with a scowl. "I'm burning down Draxum's little library when we get home."

"Get in line," Leo huffs. All their problems can be traced back to that guy. They should have never let Mikey talk them into letting Draxum move next door.

A rustling of leaves sets them all on high alert. They move in unison, each scaling a nearby tree without a sound. Leo watches, incredulous, as a group of kids enter the path his brothers just made. It's a small group, two boys and a girl, but they're moving with a purpose. Like they know where they're going. Leo looks at his brothers and nods. They follow the group, feet barely disturbing the trees, but Leo signals to keep their distance. They don't want to alert the animal on the smaller boy's shoulder.

In the end, the kids don't lead them out of the forest, which is disappointing. Leo can't help but watch the kids set up camp next to a lake with a growing pit of despair. They'll never find a city at this point! Are there even cities in this dimension? Mikey lands quietly on the branch beside him. "Maybe we should just ask for help?"

"Absolutely not.”

“But Leo-.”

“We already tried that remember?” Leo cuts in. “It didn’t exactly work out. Look, we’ll follow them in the morning and if they don’t lead us to someplace with an ACTUAL computer then we’ll talk, ok?”

Mikey frowns but Leo ignores it. He turns back to the group and his heart drops. The animal is no longer on the kids shoulder, but on the ground, and it’s looking straight at them. It’s a tiny thing, but it’s posture screams aggression and the kids are already moving behind it.

Leo can make out the faint lines of electricity running up the length of the creatures yellow tail.

“I think it’s out of our hands now, Leo,” Raph says, a sai already in his grip.

"I swear," Leo hisses, but he’s pulling out a sword just in case. "If someone throws another poke-sphere at me I'm going to lose it!"

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yautjalover · 8 months

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I feel like Yautja are loyal to those they call friend. They would be there to help assuage any fears that those friends have. Falling into that pit of despair could lead to a quick end during a hunt. Losing people you care about is probably expected in Yautja culture, so in turn, friendships would be highly regarded and tended to. They wouldn’t up and turn their back on their friend because they’re not doing well. They would probably come to them and voice their problems before it gets really bad mentally for them.

Stick with your friends and check in on them. Friendships are hard to come by nowadays. You never know when it’ll dry up or if you’ll be tossed aside like yesterday’s garbage.

#yautja #yautjalover #predator #pretty hurt but pretty mad #I guess some people don’t care about their friends feelings #at least Yautja would come and say something to their face

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visd3stele · 2 months

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What if...?

requested by: @fantasyfox-101

summary:

a/n: sorry it took me SO SO SOOO LONG. i barely got a break from uni. studying drama is easy, they said. get a real job, they said. and i'm over here working 14 hrs a day.

tw: ANGST. SAD ENDING. CUSS WORDS. DEATH. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH.

Blood soaked through his bright colored tunic, changing its golden yellow to a deep, autumnal copper. If Cardan was there, drunk beyond senses, he'd laugh about it. How stupid the color looks on him, how dumb the fox proved to be, stabbed by his own wife. If Valerian was there, he'd have killed the ungrateful human on spot for daring such an act of treason against His Majesty's best friend. But if Nicassia was there... oh, if the fair, beautiful, cunning Nicassia was there, she'd tend to his wound, cleaning his open flesh with cold hands of a sea creature taking pity on a dying man.

One might think pettiness alone kept Locke alive. Pettiness and a dire need of vengance. One would be absolutely correct. For months he hide in the woods, using the old tunnels of the Court of Shadows to his own benefit. Collecting secrets, intell, the upper hand. Letting revenge grow roots in his heart, spreading its ugly, thick brenches in the fox's body.

And Locke made sure to nurture it. Feed it until it filled him and his whole body became revenge. And when the time was right, Locke made sure his plan would leave everyone who wronged him in the deepest despair.

"Garret," Locke greeted the blond man before the half human could even step out of the shadows of forest. The fae made a home deep inside the ambush of trees, in a clearing so deep in the woods no one would look for it.

"Lighten up, old friend. I have a job for you."

The Ghost kept silent. Once upon a time he hoped his human nature would protect him from odd fae rules, like the secret names and the power they hold. But Locke made sure to challenge his hopes and crush them to dust. Now, the young spy was bound to serve three masters: the jester, the killer Madoc he was sold to as a dawry and the Queen he chose. All of them having conflicting goals.

"Firstly, I want you to tell me what Madoc wants from you."

The Ghost opened his mouth to protest, but before any sound could come out, Locke already spoke again. "I know he called you to him early this morning."

The half fae sighed, closing in the distance between him and his interlocutor, forcing his mouth out of the miserable smile woven in his lips.

"He wants Jude kidnapped by the Undersea. He planned it all, wants me as bait."

"Interesting. The father turns against the prodigal daughter. Very well, then, follow through with Madoc's plan. With Jude out of the way, Cardan's, that traitorous snake, a way easier target."

"You want to kill the king?" The Ghost gasped. He could do nothing but obey Madoc against his friend and queen, but he hoped – no, he counted on – Cardan, whose love for Jude was plain to see even through blinding fog, to save her. If Locke commands him to kill Cardan, then Jude has little hopes to make it out of the Undersea. A faeling would barely survive it's cruelness, much less a mortal, with frail lungs and breakable mind.

"No, Garret. You do. You were struck by a surge of affection for your dear, late king Dain and, in your righteous rage, decided to dispose of the usurpator."

"When? How? This is insane, Locke, you're going too far!"

"Hush, hush, hush, now. No need to get loud. Here, I'll let you choose. You can kill Cardan first, make sure to tell him Jude sent you and stay with his paling corpse until you're sure all life leacked out of his cold body. Or, you could have a trip to the mortal world. How you must miss it, dear you, half human. Take in the sights, breath some mortal air, visit a certain Duarte family, take a page out of Madoc's book and leave but death behind."

"What?"

"Come now, Garret, you're a smart individual. That twin bitch Taryin tried to kill me. Took our son with her in that garbage pit she called home. I want her dead. I want her to suffer. And I don't want anyone who'd try to avenge her make it out alive."

"What if someone sees me?"

Locke raised a delicate red eyeborow at him. You know the answer, it told The Ghost. And, sadly, he knew. "Kill any witness," he whispered, angry eyes making a hole in Locke's.

The foxy fae pat his cheel in mock approval. "Good boy. Off you go. I don't care about the order, as long as I have my dead bodies by the week's end."

"This week? Taryin is still pregnant with your child."

Locke shook a hand in the air. "Doesn't matter. They'll die together, isn't it what she wanted? To be just the two of them?"

The Ghost took several steps behind. Horrified doesn't begin to describe how he felt. He knew Locke, his twists and sick humor, his pride and his ego. But he never imagined such depravation in the fae's soul.

"Locke, think about it..."

"Shut up!" He cut The Ghost off. And the spy had no other choice but to obey. "You will do as I say, I had enough time to think about it. Go!"

And the poor half human made his way out of the forest where he burried his last shred of heart. Left it to rot alongside his dignity, will and sense of self, long since deceased under Locke's games.

♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤

Madoc's plan was fulfilled, much to The Ghost's dismay. Long after Jude dissapeared he stayed on the edge of the water, trying to glimpse through all the way to the Undersea palace to see his friend.

But Locke's words pulled him by the collar towards his other duties. The end of the week was coming with tomorrow's dawns and he had four people to kill, if only there wouldn't be casualties. Of course he wouldn't have that luck.

The Ghost chose the palace. Cardan might want to save Jude, but so would the Bomb and the Roach. She didn't need the king specifically. And he couldn't yet face the time he was supposed to run a blade through the woman he loved. Perhaps he never will and thus won't be able to go trhough with Locke's command. The fae law would punish him, if Locke wouldn't get to him first, but that won't matter.

Perhaps he should try it out now. See what the consequences of refusing a direct order given to his real name were. See if such thing was really possible before he left Elfhame without rulers.

"Hello, Garret." That annoying, familiar voice broke through the loudness of his mind.

"What are you doing here?"

"Enjoying the show. What's the point in hurting your enemies if they don't know it was you?"

So the two snuck inside the palace, following the underground routes to the King's rooms. Cardan just found out about Jude and to call the state he was in fury would be an understatemant.

"Cardan, my old friend, marriage doesn't agree with you." Locke mocked. And for a second the king's eyes chilled, numbed and defocused trying to understand the sight in front of him.

"You," Cardan's brows knitted together, "you're supposed to he dead."

"Oh, don't let my death pain you so. I'm alive and well. But you won't be for long." The fox's smile darkened, motioning for The Ghost to step into the dim light of broken lamps.

"Ghost? What is the meaning of this? Jude, I– I can't find her anywhere, no one knows where she is, I need you to find Bomb and Roach..."

"Cardan," The Ghost intrerupted harshly, closing his eyes tight to shield himself from the sight of the broken man in front of him. "I can't. Jude... you won't see her again, she's down in the Undersea."

Taken aback, Cardan made a go to the door. Locke stepped in his way, ready to push him and laugh just like he used to in their childhood. But the king barely noticed. "Nicassia," he kept murmuring. "She'll know what to do to get Jude back."

"You're not listening!" Locke allowed his voice to slip into a yell like he never did, brought to the surface by the slight mention of Nicassia, again being used by the same boy that broke her heart. "Your Jude is lost to the sea, Cardan. No one knows, perhaps she went willingly. Betrayed you again. Poor her, a simple human wouldn't know the sea is only loyal to itself."

As Locke spoke, Cardan's knees became weaker and weaker until they cave in and the High King of Elfhame fell to the ground before his jester. "She wouldn't. She loves me. I'd know if she died." He kept repeating. The mumblings of a fool's denying mind before it breaks for good.

And Locke laughed. "Don't worry, my king," he bowed mockingly until his forehead touched Cardan's. "You'll be reunited soon enough. None of you should have disregard and discaed me."

And with that he motioned for The Ghost to bring forth his killing arm and let it fall upon the snake king.

A gasp wiped the smile off Locke's charming face. Nicassia. He would have recognized her voice anywhere, even with one breathy sigh.

"Locke? How? What? What have you done?"

The Ghost slowly turned, dagger ready to be thrown into the unfortunate witness heart. "Wait!" Locke screamed. "Not her. Go to the human lands, finish your job. Now!"

Alone with his love, Locke tried to touch her. Hug her against his chest, away from the blood seeping into the carpets of the royal suit. But Nicassia took a stept bak. Two. Three. Until her back hit the wall of the corridor.

"I can explain..."

"I thought you were dead. They said, Cardan said, Taryin..."

"She tried. And our king didn't care. We're his oldest friends. Only friends. Yet he cares more about a daring mortal and her family. He had to pay for it. Just like the human twins and their own have to pay for what they did to me. To.us."

"Us?"

"He used you." Locke approached her swiftly, taking a strand of blue hair and twirling it between his fingers. "He used me and those human girls disrespected us. You should have been queen, Nicassia. Ruling over sea and land. He let the human steal it from you. Helped her. Turned a blind eye to my death and accepted my killer just for that Jude of his. It's not right. I want to make it right. Let me. Join me."

Nicassia locked eyes with her former lover for the first time. She saw the frenzy in their orange, but she also saw the love he had for her. Nothing changed, then. She wondered is he saw the changes in her. The forgiveness. She wanted to help Cardan and his queen, see them happy.

But now Cardan is dead and her mother will kill Jude soon. There is only one future for her. There always was.

♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎♤♠︎

Later that night The Ghost didn't return. His body laid cold in a puddle of blood. His and The Bomb's and The Roach's. The best spies in the realm saw him walking out of the palace, soaked in fresh blood. The rumor of the king's death spreaded, with Locke and Nicassia offering to take over until young Oak in the human realm can take the crown. Of course, Locke hoped The Ghost would have killed the boy too, but he knew better than to rely on soulfull fools.

The Bomb and The Roach connected the dots. Asked him about it.

"Vivienne. Her lover. Taryin," he choked out his confession. He hoped they'd kill him, but survival instincts are strong in a fighter of his calibre, even when he wishes for death.

They fought and they butchered each other, greeting their rulers together on the other side.

Locke was charming, Nicassia was loved and Oak wanted nothing to do with his birthplace anymore. So, the crown forgotten, sitting loopsided on a drunk king's head, Locke and Nicassia stepped in a new distanity of fae and mer folk alike.

#my writing #my work #my words #my fanfiction #cardan greenbriar #locke #jude duarte #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #fanfiction #nicassia

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ocd-kenobi · 1 year

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HELLO BLAKE!! I'm so sorry for the depressing mood at work it's quite terrible I'm sending many virtual hugs and love.

Don't know if it's been asked already but would you share your opinion on Maul? I've been loving him lately and I've been craving opinions/meta/anything really!! Especially about his zodiac sign lol I'm looking forward to that. I just really love how you incorporate that in sw's characters analysis.

(Also I've been meaning to ask you if you maybe have some prompts to spare for my silly little drawings?? I'm asking pretty much all the writers I admire within the sw fandom I'm so desperate. My hands are way too fast for my brain I need to borrow creativity from the outside. I need fuel.)

Thank you in advance!!!

Hi!!! Thank you and your fast hands for sending this <3 Readers, don't forget to send drawing prompts to @senapencontrada !

I love Maul and I miss seeing his face on cereal boxes :(

I hate saying this about antagonist characters, but Maul has got to be a scorpio. I would probably have said this even when I'd just seen the movies, because he's intense, mysterious, conniving, bold and darkly sexy, which is a kind of a lame, shallow stereotype of scorpios but is also often true. But then in The Clone Wars! He literally survives being sliced in half and eating garbage because he is kept alive by the thought of revenge, and manages to scheme and manipulate his way to seeking that revenge. Only a scorpio could stay that single-mindedly obsessed with the person who WRONGED them for so long. (Other signs could be obsessed with revenge, but would find something else to live for or would obsess over other things too, and not just be mumbling their foe's name over and over again in a pit of despair.) I feel like his relationship to loyalty is scorpio-coded, too; expects to receive it but kills it by being paranoid and is incapable of giving it. Like, I feel like even as a Sith he would have turned on Palpatine if he had had the slightest inkling that Palpatine was going to turn on him. Also just, the revenge he lays out for Obi-Wan is coming from someone who's very in tune with how to manipulate people's feelings in order to achieve results (pain.)

Oh, and he's also an arachnid at some point 🦂

#darth maul #maul #🦂#scorpio #happy scorpio season #source: my entire family is made up of scorpios and cancers

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adamwatchesmovies · 1 year

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Death Wish 3 (1985)

Even as an entry in this series, Death Wish 3 is thinly written garbage. Between you and me though, that garbage is nice and toasty when you burn it and once covered with snow, it makes a mean tobogganing hill. Absurdly violent, tasteless and so over-the-top it’ll put you in a catatonic state, I hated the film initially but now I'd consider it "so bad it’s good".

Paul Kersey (Charles Bronson) returns to New York City after 10 years and finds his friend Charley (Francis Drake) dying from wounds a gang inflicted him. Accused of Charley's murder by a corrupt and impotent police force, Paul is let free on the condition he resumes his vigilante ways and cleans up the crime-ridden neighborhood.

This film cuts right to the chase. With all of Kersey’s family are now dead and buried so we're introduced to his “best friend”. Charley has a handful of lines before he is viciously butchered by the film’s villains: an endless gang of psychopaths who have nothing better to do than rape, steal, vandalize and murder. As before, there is no attempt to make any of these villains into human beings, they are simply meat bags for Kersey to fill with lead once the even bigger cartoon that is Inspector Richard Shriker (Ed Lauter) lets him go. After Kersey receives a beating from a trio of officers, Shriker steps in. “This is my jail, Kersey. And I’m the law. That means I get to violate your constitutional rights.” I don’t know whether to laugh or fall into a pit of despair. For some reason, Kersey decides to go along with the man’s instructions and moves into the gang-turf war zone so he can kill as many of them as he can.

This film is just an excuse to have a climactic massacre. The gang responsible for Charley’s death performs ax murders in broad daylight and they commit so many crimes you wonder how they’re able to afford the drugs they’re seen consuming. If you rob people every single day and you murder the ones who don’t cough up money, who will be left to exploit? Anyway, Kersey does his usual thing but this time, all subtlety is thrown out the window. He’s got the police’s blessing so he turns into an urban Rambo. I’m not exaggerating. I wouldn’t have expected to see any buildings explode in a Death Wish sequel, much less 3!

You can tell no one cared. Bronson is zombie-like in his performance even when he’s shacking up with the then-32-year-old Deborah Raffin, who plays a public defender unusually interested in Kersey. Bronson was 64 at the time. Gross! The characters are flat and their dialogue is frequently unintentionally hilarious. The plot is repetitive (within itself and the series) and lazy. At least it’s got the courtesy of going all-out in its climax, a gleefully ridiculous departure from any semblance of reality that jolts you awake. And they made two more of these? @#$@#$% my life.

Death Wish 3 is a long smelly turd but that last squeeze before it’s over is kind of soothing in a way. With a crowd of people who can ignore just how stupid and borderline offensive it gets, I think you'll have a good time. (Full-screen version on DVD, December 13, 2018)

#Death Wish 3 #Death Wish #movies #films #movie reviews #film reviews #Michael Winner #Don Jakoby #Charles Bronson #Deborah Raffin #Ed Lauter #Martin Balsam #Marina Sirtis #1985 movies #1985 films

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jvhdb · 2 years

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spongebob yelling at squidward meme format: i fucking love jean unwittingly enabling harrys addictions and path to self destruction and the subsequent spiral[s] both of them experience as a result of it finally dawning on them!!! i want harry to justify his own misery when jean inevitably gives up and leaves him to rot because jean realised he was garbage, while at the same time jean falls into a pit of despair knowing he should have done more and it was only as bad as it was because he was such a shitty friend and he was too shit of a person in general to handle someone elses addiction and desperation to die on his own!!!!! IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK!!!!!!!

#*tearfully* you are both so fucking horrible and dumb

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lublas1138-blog · 2 months

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A work in progress. A noir detective story I began writing set in the year 3167 on terra-formed Mars. This is just the first draft, I hope it comes out all right.

Chapter one

Gritty dust swept across desiccated farms and neglected grain factories in the Elysium Planitia region on the red planet Mars.

Near the Aeolis quadrangles, in the center of a massive crater, lay a circular pit one kilometer across and fifty kilometers deep. This cavernous pit was New Saigon, the capital city of the solar system and the paramount architectural achievement of mankind.

A subterranean metropolis consisting of seven hundred and ninety-nine levels all choked with filth, crime, poverty, and degradation. A mighty municipality burrowed straight into the Martian rock stacked up on top of one another like dirty dishes. This wonder was unanimously coined by its inhabitants as City Hole; an abyss of filth and despair where a hundred million people lived; simmering to a boil.

Encircling the rim of the pit like the sores of a whore’s gaping mouth was an array of air traffic control towers and landing pads along with accompanying spaceports.

Lining the interior wall of the pit itself, from the surface downward, were a multitude of art-deco constructed apartments with lavish hanging gardens, chic restaurants, sparkling fountains, and high-end boutiques where the ultra-rich resided in luxury and security. This was Level One, known as Shangri La.

Continuing downward, the architecture took on a shabbier and more disorganized appearance. Plastered with neon signs, billboards, and graffiti, the imposing shaft crisscrossed with hazy, vehicle-choked highways, congested pedestrian bridges cluttered in garbage damp with last week’s filth, and oversaturated by darting police drones, the never-ending kaleidoscope of blinking, buzzing neon, the klaxon of sirens, the cries of the helpless, and the occasional crackle of blaster fire.

Along the sides, down level upon level, grey, concrete terraces and promenades were perforated by decaying dwelling cubicles and shoddy cafés, some a few feet deep, others extending out of sight into a maze-like network of dank rooms and graffitied corridors, hidden by pungent mist and steam. The overpowering smells of refried proto-beans, scorched synthomeat, human excrement, and pungent urine wafted along the teeming masses.

Farther below, the air became stifling toxic. Untreated water and filth trickled from upper levels via leaking pipes and broken sewage mains giving the noir impression of a continuous drizzle of fetid rain.

The homeless, the destitute, and the addicted lay in their own waste as congested masses of apathetic citizens bustled down the dank and dimly lit walkways dressed in 1930s retro-style clothing. Many carried umbrellas or utilized breath masks to protect themselves from the toxic waste dripping into the incandescent pools of stinking water on cracked, garbage-filled sidewalks.

Further down the murky hole, past flashing neon signs and billboards, graffitied walls, smashed windows, rotting sewer pipes, and garbage piled on every corner, down past the bustling millions of jostling citizens rubbing shoulder to shoulder on crowded walkways and bridges, past the noise of honking traffic, whirling surveillance drones, the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire, and the klaxon of sirens, was level 759; a crime-ridden district residential locals referred to as Ratbottom.

No sunlight ever reached Ratbottom. Kept in a perpetual gloom of florescent twilight, a steady drizzle of raw sewage leaked from broken pipes from the upper levels of the rich, cascading into the Hole simulating the perception of unending rain.

Located near the rim of the vast shaft in a dank alley adjacent to the local police precinct, was the entrance to a shadowy hole in the wall bar.

Outside the darkened doorway loitered a menagerie of sickly prostitutes and grime-smeared junkies smoking and shooting teht under a flickering, illuminated sign that read The Flaming Comet. Though fetid the denizens were outside, inside the bar was a different carnival.

“Hi. Name’s Plato. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you,” Plato coyly smiled at the bloated tourist.

Around them, an assortment of Ratbottom fags cooed and guffawed and comprised well crafted, lust-drenched comments toward one another. More toward the rentboys who prowled the center of the crowded bar than to each other. Monstrous transvestites clopped back and forth and groped whatever drunken macho held the unfortunate luck to pass within range.

�� The Flaming Comet was an overtly, gay-friendly juke joint patronized with revolutionary college students and hipster kids. The décor of the small bar was much like a Hollywood set depicting a Mexican cantina - old posters of the city, dusty piñatas, Imperial banners, and a string of red lights dangling over a long, oak counter.

The rockola banged out ranchero mixed with Martian Bebop. The pungent waft of beer, piss, and puke issued out of the water closet from the use of a million, purulent fairies.

Plato grabbed his warming beer, took a swig, followed it by a puff of smoke off a borrowed cigarette. He leaned propped against the old, wooden bar and pulled his best Marlon Brando routine – an actor he admired from off an old prewar holodisc - as he watched the smoky debauchery swirling in front of him.

Plato slithered closer toward the tourist; twisting seductively on a metal stool. A lascivious smirk crossed the tourist’s face. Outwardly, Plato was being friendly, but in his mind, he recoiled in utter disgust.

The old, white-haired man smelled of acrid sweat and cheap aftershave. Beads of perspiration formed on his ruddy, glistening face. A large, bulbous gut hung over an ample waist barely contained by a green polo shirt and khaki cargo pants so tight, love handles peeked out like a bursting can of biscuits. Thinning, silver hair had been combed over a red, pumpkinish head. A closely cropped, white beard covered the copious folds of his neck.

Plato placed a slender, brown hand onto the tourist’s sweat dampened shirt, languidly gliding over the ample, squishy moobs.

“So, what brings you all the way down here to 759?” Plato smiled, grabbing the fresh beer placed onto the counter by the squat, hostile looking lesbian who tended the bar. Plato took a sip, demurely returning his attention to the tourist.

“Just visiting. Looking for some fun, you know?” The tourist slurred. His demeanor was both haltingly timid and defensively arrogant.

Typical, Plato thought. “You from Mars?” He asked.

What seemed like an effort, the tourist shook his jowls, “Ganymede” was the curt reply.

Plato noticed the tourist was already slightly inebriated and decided to take full advantage of the situation. The tourist belched - the immediate air reeked of stale noodles and salsa.

Plato kept up the smile, scooched his barstool closer. “Well, I can find all kinds of fun for you, daddy - anything you want. What were you looking for?”

He slid his hand across the folds of fat on the tourist’s neck, felt the stubble of fresh cut hair, read the moles like Braille.

The tourist smirked, glancing Plato over with leering, obscene lust. The tourist admired the boy’s thin, tall frame, the tank-top which accentuated sinewy muscles under copper-smooth skin, the dark jeans which boasted long legs. The tussle of short, jet-black, wavy hair, the pencil-thin mustache over thick lips which, the tourist perversely fantasized, must had sucked a million cocks.

It was Plato’s eyes the tourist admired - large amber eyes nestled in thick lashes topped by heavy, black brows. Plato was exotically handsome and could not have been more than twenty-two years old.

“Some good cock.” The tourist stated flatly, gazing at Plato with bloodshot, rheumy eyes.

Plato continued his slithering massage of the tourist’s anatomy. “Really? Well, I know of a cheap place around the corner where we can have all kinds of fun, daddy.”

Plato ended the appealing statement with a slight brush of his own crotch, wherein the tourist noticed the stiffening of Plato’s long organ.

“Wow.” The tourist chuckled in child-like astonishment. “You are definitely hot. So forward.”

“It’s all for you, honey.” Plato breathed.

The tourist’s face went blank as a poker dealer - gazing out into the bar. He asked with a condescending finality, “How much this going to set me back?”

Plato put on his little-hurt-boy look, “Oh, don’t say it like that, daddy. I’m not a whore. I just want to spend time with you. I really like you.”

The tourist’s face turned a darker shade of crimson, the lights of the bar beamed off his ample forehead.

The fact being, the obese, squat Martian actually made Plato nauseous. He secretly loathed the arrogant Ganymedeans who trolled the bar scene in Ratbottom. Images flashed through Plato’s mind on how these slobbering vampires bore the audacity to filter down to Mars with arrogant certainty. With a fistful of azulos, they’d act as if they were granted free reign to treat all and sundry as they wished – which usually was atrocious - performing as over-heated, aggressive beasts, feeding off the poor and never bearing any responsibility for their horrendous actions.

The tourist sputtered, lifting his beer towards fat, moist lips, “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. I think you are hot. So adorable. So beautiful. I meant, I want to be with you, too.”

“I know,” Plato sighed as he continued the rub down. “Let’s go get a room, baby. I want to show you how much I like you.”

“Sounds good.” The tourist belched loudly and downed the remainder of his beer.

Plato and the tourist stumbled out into the bustling, loud streets of a City Hole night, rushing over crumbling, trash littered pavement which smelled of shit and urine. Shabby noodle stands sweltered with the wafting stench of burnt meats and wilted vegetables. Mangy dogs and small infants played in the black grease pools between the stalls.

Throngs of pedestrians clogged the way as Plato and the tourist weaved through knots of swaggering hip-hop boys. Their arms draped around the waists of their brown, thick-hipped sweethearts with the sad, mascara-painted brown eyes that drooped up to the Saints of Atom. Street vendors with leprosy and missing limbs called out selling leather belts, key chains, lottery tickets, condoms - as tank like para-military vehicles rumbled down the street sluggishly, slowly past ancient and creaking buses which farted black smoke into the muggy night.

Plato led the wobbling tourist down a dimly-lit side street packed with prostitutes of both sexes who wearily leaned against broken, red-brick and grimy, white-washed facades. Roaming addicts - shifty eyed and alert - hurtled down the way, stopping only to snatch small bags of dope from hidden nooks and crannies in crumbling walls. Groups of catatonic tourists from every colony in the solar system stumbled with bloated guts and shirts spotted with beer and puke – all under the wary eye of robotic police patrols. A cacophony of car horns and screeches mixed with the smells of seared meat, steaming hotdogs, and festering garbage flowed up into a crisp, neon splashed night.

Passing a row of tired, fat hookers who flashed silver-capped teeth and unappetizing, staunch bodies, Plato and the tourist arrived at the sordid entrance of a cheap, ten-azulo a night hotel which was reached by climbing a set of worn, wooden stairs.

White paint flaked off the Spanish-style, two story structure. Hotel Sante Fe glowed from a dusty, plastic marquee which sagged over the cracked sidewalk.

At the foot of the stairs, the tourist took out his wallet to pay a haggish, ancient woman behind a metal grate. Plato got a glimpse of the contents of the wallet – it bulged with blue bills. The old woman gave the tourist a key attached to a huge, plastic pad.

“Checkout is eleven o’clock tomorrow mornin’,” the receptionist wheezed.

The tourist paid the fat hag behind the black bars and the two dashed up warped, wooden stairs to a room which bore an overpowering stench of mildew.

Plato flicked on the light and a legion of roaches scattered across the dusty, red-tiled floor.

In a corner, sagged a dresser with missing drawers and across from the bed, a rickety, metal folding chair. The walls were a multicolored hue of scrawled graffiti of both black marker and spray paint. A tired, slutty mattress dominated the room supported by a bent, black-metal frame which was draped in a thin, pink blanket - bedbugs and all. On the wall, commanding the room, was a large rectangular screen displaying the candy-color advertisements of Zik-Zak Noodles and Atom Smasher cigarettes.

“Hold up, cutie - I gotta pee.” The tourist slurred and entered the grimy, white-tiled bathroom. Plato heard him take a long, loud piss.

Plato sat silently on the chair and looked around the squalid space. He overheard the muffled moaning of a whore earning her rent in the next room. From the street emanated the dull pounding of a hundred jukeboxes.

The tourist came out of the bathroom and sat on the bed, which creaked in protest under the weight.

In one lithe movement, Plato stood up and slid down his jeans and white and blue striped briefs. His long, uncircumcised penis swung free. He sat back in the chair.

“You like this?” Plato asked coyly as he stroked his stiffening organ.

The old tourist blubbered, “Oh yeah, baby - you got a nice dick.”

Plato smirked, with a hint of detestation, “What’s so nice about it?”

The tourist fumbled uncomfortably; he didn’t expect that remark. He sat there and stared at the nine inches of erection being swayed in his direction - the smooth shaft, the glistening mushroom tip.

Plato seductively worked the foreskin back and forth over the head, devishly looking up at the tourist who wheezed in mounting excitement.

“I’m so hot, daddy.” Plato sighed. “Why don’t you come over here and do something about it?”

The tourist gawked at the undulating erection - hypnotized by it as Plato smoothly swung it back and forth.

Like a fat kid in a candy store, the tourist dropped to his knees in front of Plato and gobbled his erection.

Loud sucking noises echoed in the spartan room as the tourist slobbered and slurped up and down Plato’s cock. Though Plato had his legs spread wide open, he could still feel the tourist’s obscene stomach rubbing against both his inner calves.

God, please hurry up and cum, Plato thought, I need to get the fuck away from this gross-ass bag of shit.

Plato reluctantly held the back of the tourist’s greasy head as in a matter of short, merciful minutes, felt the surge of an orgasm and squirted his semen into the tourist’s mouth. The fat, old man leaned over and spat the matter - a mix of bubbly sperm, saliva, and blood - onto the scuffed floor.

Gasping, the tourist looked glaze-eyed up to Plato and breathed, “Oh, baby - that was good.”

“It was hot, daddy.” Plato stated mechanically, pulling up and fastening his pants.

With much effort and a series of dramatic grunts, the tourist rose to his feet. He sighed and exhaled an embarrassed chuckle.

Plato stood, also, and blurted, “Hey, you think you can help me with twenty azulos? I need to pay my electric bill and I am low on money this week.”

“Don’t you work?” The tourist asked, snidely.

“Yes. But, you know, this is City Hole and they don’t pay much and I just paid rent.” Plato stated as a matter of fact.

The tourist grimaced as he reached and pulled out his wallet, placing a blue twenty dollar bill in Plato’s thin hand.

The tourist saw the young man in a new light - the lines around the mouth, the dark circles under the eyes, the black grime under the uneven, chewed fingernails.

“Can I have ten more? I have no food.” Plato smiled that smile.

The tourist dramatically sighed. Bitchily acting irritated, he faltered at putting his wallet away. Plato noticed the glint of fear and distrust, the uncertainty of being in a foreign locale in the sobering eyes of the tourist. Plato actually hoped the fat motherfucker would be knifed by some demented junky on his way out.

Plato glared with just the right amount of sexiness and intimidation, “Please?”

“Oh, all right. But, that’s it! I have to get back to Ganymede tomorrow and I can’t spare anymore.”

The tourist frowned, placed a ten dollar bill in the young man’s hand and then quickly slipped the wallet into his back pocket.

Plato made for the door, stopped, “You sleeping here tonight?” He pointed abstractly around the squalid room. “It’s a very dangerous area. A lot of muggings.”

Fear now flamed in the darting eyes of the tourist, “No. No, I have a room somewhere else. I’m going there now.”

“I’ll walk you out.” Plato yanked on the thin door which wobbled a bit from sticking in the frame.

Once downstairs, they separated at the corner with a handshake. The tourist quickly strode toward the safety of the nearest waiting taxi as Plato returned to the shadows of the corner. Several thugs stood in a knot under a leaflet plastered, iron street lamp which emitted no light.

A squat, frog-faced Latinx stood in white athletic gear and croaked as Plato approached, “Que pasa, Plato?”

They swapped a street-wise handshake.

Plato’s gaze swept up and down the sidewalk, “Not much, man. Gimme a paper.”

From a sagging fanny pack, the frog-faced Latinx slapped into Plato’s palm a tiny, cellophane envelope folded into a small square as Plato passed a wadded, ten dollar bill into the pusher’s chubby fingers.

With that, Plato returned to the still congested Flaming Comet and made a direct line to the bathroom.

In a grimy, white-tiled stall, he cut three lines of teht out onto the flat, steel-top of the filthiest toilet paper dispenser in the world and with a rolled peso note, he loudly sniffled the lines up. Plato leaned back, snorted the residue into the back of his throat and casually glanced over into the next stall and wish he hadn’t.

A chunky hooker in a frayed, blue dress squatted down and was blowing some prehistoric fucker in a burgundy-felt fez. However, that didn’t offend Plato - it was the festering toilet next to them which overflowed in thick, muddy feces. Lines of dark brown cascaded over the rim like a boiling pot of beans. The smell of putrid shit punched him in the face.

Feeling the effects of the teht, he walked out of the bar and headed down a long dark set of steps that was a well known cruising spot for homosexual sex. The yellow lamps that illuminated the concrete stairwell that slightly curved downward between two enormous windowless building gave off little light. Most were shattered decades ago.

Plato smiled as he heard the moist slurping of play within the shadows of alcoves.

At the bottom of the stairs, the way opened to a small trash littered street that hugged the rim of the great chasm of the city. Plato could almost see the other side through the choking smog. What he did notice was the idling car parked under a flickering streetlamp. It was a three wheeled Orion K-57 model. Turquoise with two wheels in the front and one in the back. A two seater and someone lurked in the shadows of the driver’s seat smoking an Atom Smasher.

Plato walked over to the automobile and leaned in the passenger side window. Smiling his smile, he asked, “Looking for some action, baby? Want to party? Name’s Plato. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you.”

The persons face was severely shadowed under a wide-brimmed fedora. He wore an expensive suit, though. Plato saw money. He smiled, until he heard the mysterious man say in an electronically altered voice, “Get in.”

Plato furrowed his brow, squinting at trying to see the man’s face. “You a robot?”

“Robot’s don’t fuck,” he said in his electric monotone. He unlocked the passenger door, “Don’t worry. Too many cigarettes.

Plato was still hypnotized by the nice clothes. He smirked and shrugged, “Okay, baby. It’s not the voice that matters, right?”

The boy slid into the passenger seat and the small vehicle raced off, turning onto a ramp that led even deeper down into the sunken city.

There was something off putting about this man. As they drove, Plato caught a glimpse of the face under the fedora, it, too was obscured by a gas mask, The skin that did reveal itself seemed dry and flaky, like spoiled meat. Plato saw that this man was not a conversationalist, but he had money and money was money.

When Plato was about to ask were they were going, the man stopped the car outside the soot covered walls of a waste reclamation plant that hadn’t been serviced in decades and it showed. The bricks were black with grime and all the warehouse windows that encircled the large, blocky building had been broken.

The moment he parked the vehicle, he powered it down, and stepped out of the car. Walking to a thick hatchway in the three story tall wall, the man said, “This way.”

Plato exited the car and studied the large building. Does he live here? Is this some swanky art loft?

The shadowy figure opened the thick hatch with a loud creak and entered.

Inside was dark and long shadows stretched across cracked concrete floors like bars of a prison. The man threw a lever on the wall and industrial lamps high above near the roof snapped on with a crackling buzz. The lights did not help the gloom. The man stood immobile in the shadows.

“You want to do it here?” Plato asked. The air was thick with toxic chemicals, dust, and dead bugs. He looked around in the gloom. “I’ve done it in some pretty weird places, but, I don’t know, this place is spooky.”

“This is where I want to be.” Was the deadpan reply.

The shit I do, Plato thought. This fucker better be worth the azulo. He sighed and flashed a coy grin. Hooking his finger towards the man, Plato moved next to a huge rusting tank and cooed, “You coming? Oh, what’s the matter? You shy?”

From within the pockets of his suit, the man removed a medallion. It was silver and was the emblem of The Church of Atom, a series of spiraling isotopes over the sun. He hands it to Plato. The boy looks at the medal, confused.

“Around your neck,” The man said gruffly.

Plato took the medallion as the man removed a wig from another pocket. It was hair of crimson and well used. Plato saw flecks of vomit and blood in the long strands.

Plato smiled nervously, “You know, I’m always ready to party, ask anybody. But, you know, I don’t look good in this…”

As he held out the wig with his left hand, the man whipped out a large serrated blade with his right and pointed it at Plato. Instantly, the young man’s face turned from petulant coyness to pleading terror. Always in his line of employment, Plato knew you took the chance to come across a psychopathic weirdo. And, that night was tonight.

“Look, mister,” Plato said, “No need for this, I just want to…”

The man lurched at Plato as the boy’s screams turned into gurgling chokes as the blade ruthlessly slashed and chopped at his torso..

In the gloom, the man walked over to the slumped corpse and retrieved the medallion. Clutching it in his hand, he mumbled scripture from the Catholislamic Bible, “Forgive me, Atom, for I have sinned…”

******

On level 759 sat a small soot-covered chop suey joint. Behind the dusty café, down a damp concrete alley wide enough for one person, past bent, overfilled trash cans, stood a bullet-ridden door.

Above the door, a red neon light buzzed and flickered into the perpetual night: BLAKE SKYLARK, PRIVATE DETECTIVE.

Inside the small office, Blake Skylark sat at a dented, metal desk mounted with files, paperwork, cigarette butts, titty magazines, and empty whisky bottles.

The wall to his left was a printed map of Level 759 and its accompanying districts obscured in sticky notes, faded photos, and pinned scraps of paper scribbled with anecdotes and leads which led nowhere.

To the right of the desk, a door led to a small, windowless room offering an unmade cot, sink, and toilet; roaches included.

Behind the detective displayed a floor-to-ceiling soot-streaked window with a panoramic view of City Hole. A large, blue and red neon sign advertising noodles buzzed constantly as a vertical monorail rumbled past every half hour.

The dull ceiling lamp illuminated a rugged face of an Anglo man in his mid-fifties. Square of jaw, stern brow, and a scowl that wouldn’t quit, Skylark wore a grimy, black fedora, and, as was common with current fashion, a buttoned shirt and long tie; both wrinkled and stained from tobacco and sweat.

Skylark smashed a butt into the overflowing ashtray and leaned forward to a speakwrite that sat on the bulky desk.

The speakwrite was a complicated-looking apparatus. The exposed keyboard was similar to a vintage Underwood typewriter. Naked wires and dusty glass vacuum tubes connected the keys to an uncovered, eleven-inch, cathode-ray monitor. Jutting from the side was a chrome microphone on a collapsible coil arm.

He adjusted the dusty microphone and, as he spoke, his words appeared on a small screen perched on top of the mechanism.

Skylark rambled off in a voice both tired and monotone, “Filing police report. Baat 23, 3160. Blake Skylark. Badge number 459902k. New Saigon. Level 759.”

As he spoke, the speakwrite whirred and beeped and clicked as it recorded.

He sloshed a fifth of whiskey into a glass tumbler and continued “City Hole at night. Night? That’s a laugh. Always the same dim light down here. Gloom to hide the poor, the crazies, the drunks, the madness. The rich fucks up in the Cloud District don’t want to see whose teat they suckle, but they sure as hell don’t mind paying. They come down, fuck and suck what they want, then off the next morning to the Church of Atom to ask for forgiveness…”

Skylark threw back the whiskey in one loud gulp.

“I got a confession to make, there’s one sin I can’t forgive – murder.”

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