#keeping my shit fast and loose!!! painting all on one layer and going by the Vibes!!!

[splickedylit]

You can't fight the role the Mother had in store for you

#Homestuck #Karkat Vantas #Eridan Ampora #Sollux Captor #Gamzee Makara #Kanaya Maryam #Aradia Megido #Tavros Nitram #Feferi Peixes #Terezi Pyrope #Vriska Serket #Equius Zahhak #Splickedydoodles #I started drawing Karkat last night at like nine PM and then I pretty much blacked out and woke up with these at eight AM #this style is VERY fun and relaxing to work in it turns out it's been a minute since I got in my flow that hard for a piece of art #keeping my shit fast and loose!!! painting all on one layer and going by the Vibes!!! #anyway here's these I might have to queue them to post later tonight too haha #I'm not good enough at delayed gratification to just wait till later when more people are on and I need to go to bed tbh

[unokins]

No Truth Left - part 6

CW: N/A

Link to Archive

Maverick mentally shook himself. Now was not the time for self doubt. He needed to act with confidence. 

Further ingraining himself into Chie's arms, he searched the pile. The pain made moving her difficult, making the simple task all the more annoying. Bodies were such an inconvenience, though Maverick knew he had dealt with such things before, however recalcitrant he had been. Pain was a sensation best experienced by those who were not him. 

Several minutes of searching finally yielded a suitable result. Rings were too unnoticeable, necklaces and tiaras too bulky. But Chie's hands held up two gold bracelets. Maverick pressed a clasp and the bracelets swung open to snap around the wrist. Two thick rings of gold provided the support for the worshipping Deep Ones that danced around the metal. 

Maverick clamped one on Chie's wrist, then the other. They were lightweight and ran halfway up her skinny forearms. Maverick shook her arms, bouncing the bracelets around bony wrists.

The gold shuddered and squeezed, becoming flush with Chie's flesh. Not tight enough to cut off circulation, but they no longer hung loosely. The golden Deep Ones glinted menacingly against Chie's brown skin.

That's fine, Maverick thought to himself, letting Chie's arms drop as he pulled away. The needling pain vanished and he sighed. That's fine.

Chie awoke several minutes later with a breathless wheeze. Groaning, she sat up, body shaking from cold, head pounding, and chest burning.

Took you long enough. Maverick sounded impatient and Chie sighed.

"How long was I-" she stopped, incredulousness pulling her face down as she stared at her wrists. "What are these? Shackles? How did I-" She demanded.

They’re bracelets, came the exasperated reply. They should give us some measure of protection. The Deep Ones should think we're worshippers. Well, that you're a worshipper, anyway.

"No way," Chie started, examining the jewelry. There was the latch and Chie clicked it. "Last time I listened to you, I almost drowned. These-" 

She pressed the latch again. It didn't release. “Oh, come on.” She pressed and pulled the bracelet at the same time. Nothing. Using her nails, Chie dug into the hairline crack where the ends met with futility. 

"Shit."

We can worry about getting them off later. Get up and move. We've got a moment alone.

She could feel scrapes on her belly, shoulders, and legs throb. That tunnel had been so- Don’t think about it. Her fingernails were torn and chipped from where she had- Don’t think about it. Bracing herself against the wall, Chie stood. Her legs wobbled and her head spun. What did almost drowning- Don’t think about it. If she wanted to live, she couldn’t afford to think about it.

Once the world settled, Chie clicked on her flashlight and explored the cavern. It was like many of the other tunnels she explored earlier, just wider. Sloping walls surrounded her, and a few puddles dotted the floor. The piles of gold were new. Some stood at knee height, others stacked in disarray to waist height. They dotted the tunnel like haystacks in a farmer’s field, and Chie weaved around them, trying not to disturb them. The air was brisk and waves lapped against stone gently. Even though the rank, fishy odor still hung in the air, it wasn't as overwhelming as the island's topside.

As Chie passed one of the many piles of gold, she lingered. Admiration for the details was marred by a feeling of grotesque discomfort. It almost felt as if there was something more within the angled lines and swirling metal, as if she should be putting something together. But the more she tried to piece something together, the more it slipped away.

Shaking her head as if that could rid her of the unease, Chie took a step forward and felt her leg buckle. She shut her eyes, bracing herself against a stalactite as a wave of dizziness washed over her. Her throat still stung from earlier, and she didn't want to vomit again.

Keep moving, Chie, Maverick prodded. She could almost feel him poking her in the small of the back.

"Give me a minute." Slow, deep breaths. If she took it slow, she'd be fine. 

We can't afford a minute. Move!

"I almost died, Maverick!" Chie snapped at him. "I almost died." Chie blinked back tears and focused again on breathing. It came crashing back with terrifying clarity, refusing to be ignored. Her shoulders shook. "I need a minute."

And the more time you spend moaning about it, the more likely something will find you.

Chie's muscles tensed. "If I'm not moving fast enough, why don't you take control and move me?" Chie paused for a remark, but none came. "If I'm such a spineless pushover, then take my body from me!"

Maverick was silent. Chie didn't push him, slipping to the ground. 

"I almost fucking died and you just..." Chie laughed weakly, running her hand over her face. Did her parents know where she was? Her friends? Would they have spent years wondering when she'd come home, only for her corpse to be stuck in a flooded tunnel surrounded by monsters? "I'm- I just-" 

You're alive. Maverick sounded chastised, and his words had the strained tone of someone who wasn't used to being patient. Steady yourself. Spiraling won't save you.

"You suck at giving advice," Chie muttered. Maverick didn't reply and she was thankful. A moment for herself wouldn’t kill them. While water dripped from the ceiling above, she could hear no slapping footsteps approaching. 

Chie breathed deep, and slipped to the ground, pulling her knees up to her chest and burying her face in them. Would she lose everything important to her? The burning in her chest refused to relent, and Chie coughed. She coughed again, as if there was more water to expel, and tears tracked down her cheeks again. She didn’t want to be here, where monsters were real and death was closer than she ever imagined.

Several minutes of feeling sorry for herself wasn’t as fulfilling as she thought it would be. When the tears ran out, and Chie’s breathing steadied once more, she just felt hollow. There was nothing for her here except answers as to why this happened, and she wouldn’t find them sitting on the ground and moping. Chie pushed herself up. She was still alive. She kept moving. Maverick's satisfaction hummed from within.

Turning a corner led Chie to a new, larger cavern. Smooth ceilings sloped down to walls filled with both carvings and multiple tunnel entrances. Large pillars, boasting more of those strange carvings, ran from floor to ceiling, and Chie wondered if they were the same pillars she saw on the surface. Perhaps giving them a wide berth was the smart idea. 

The back of the cavern opened to the vast ocean stretching beyond the reef. There was no shore, just a short, sharp drop from rock to water. Shadows from the overhanging cliff danced on the murky water. Thankfully, no Deep Ones stalked the area. Chie picked her way to the ocean, weaving around shallow pools and discarded gold jewelry.

While the gold was stacked more orderly against the stalactites and carved rocks here, they had been set aside like a child's least favorite toys. Grime marred the jewelry, and bits of ill-looking moss had begun to grow at the bottom of some of the piles. She frowned, running her finger along the maze-like lines of a beautiful tiara. A thin layer of muck was cleared away from the once gleaming surface.

Chie, look up! 

Her head twitched, and Chie’s eyes widened with awe. While she had seen boats run through the river Miskatonic, she had never seen a ship like this before. It was more decay than wood, and a large hole gaped in the bow where it was moored against the cavern's stone floor, several dozen feet from a stone dock.  One large mast jutted up from the deck, the other two broken fragments of what they once were. White sails were rotted to grey tatters that clung stubbornly to their riggings. No longer fit for sailing, but Chie was in awe of how majestic it must have been decades ago. The name Sumatra Queen was faded but still visibly painted on its side.

Chie paused in front of the ship, shining the flashlight up into the massive hole. Shadows clung to the dark wood, but she could see stairs leading to the rest of the ship. 

To your right.

Chie looked over to the dock. Next to the dock stood a metal and plastic folding table that held a battery powered lamp, papers, and pens. As she walked over to it, she saw more sturdy nylon rope on the dock. A frown tugged at her lips. 

Let’s see what these say. 

Chie turned on the lamp and picked through the papers. Laminated star charts, maps, spreadsheets, and receipts littered the tabletop and the more she looked, the more confused she felt. She examined a star chart, eyes methodically moving over the grid.

“While I’m not an astrology buff,” she started, glancing over another chart. “I should be able to pick out some constellations. But I can’t find anything, not even Polaris. Do you recognize anything?”

Vaguely, Maverick replied with a hum. It’s… strange. I’m not too sure what, exactly, I’m looking at.

“...Stars?” Chie asked as she looked at receipts. Iron, chisels, old books…

I don’t think they’re any stars of this world, Chie.

“We are not going to unpack that right now,” she replied bluntly, tossing the receipt back down. “Just who are you, Maverick?”

Wish I knew. He paused. Hey, there’s a letter.

Chie picked that up. It was less of a letter and more of a to-do list. Hastily scrawled notes, some scratched out, others circled, covered the paper. Some of it was illegible. Other parts didn’t even seem to be written in English.

“Gather materials. Prepare the gates,” Chie read out loud. “Innsmouth, Arkham, Ipswitch…”

Looks like the rest are just coordinates. Probably not near any cities, Maverick said. 

Chie pulled out one of the maps and picked a coordinate. “Here,” she said, pointing to a red circle drawn on the map. It was a few miles into the open ocean, just off the Devil’s Reef. “And… Here. Dunwich.” She frowned, pulling up a world map. “This one has marks… all over the place. More in America, some in the UK. Russia, Brazil, Antarctica, Egypt… More just… in the ocean. What is this?” 

I don’t know. With each question Chie asked, Maverick’s annoyance flared. But I do recognize the name Ipswitch. 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Chie said, looking at the to-do list again. Contact J.H., contact N, find M. “I went there for a school trip once. Decent sized town. Nice historical district.”

No, I mean it feels… personal, in some way. I remember… an address. Maverick paused, and Chie could feel him thinking, almost mouthing the words to himself to pull any more familiarity from them. 97 Washington Ave.

“Hm…” Chie lingered on the to-do list.

We need to go there next.

“Hold on,” Chie said, shaking her head. “I thought we were supposed to get answers here! We just have more questions! I can’t just go galavanting all over Massa-”

The gentle hum of an engine cut her off. It was quiet, but fast approaching, the sound echoing all through the cavern. She couldn’t see it yet, but knew if she didn’t hide somewhere fast, it would get her. 

Chie dropped the list and stepped away from the dock. She lingered. That was an actual boat. With an engine. No fish monster would need a boat to travel over the water. Which meant people. 

The engine’s puttering grew louder.

No, Chie, Maverick cut in. You need to hide. You don’t know who these people are. And if they’re coming out to the Devil’s Reef, they’re going to be trouble.

“We’re out at the Devil’s Reef,” Chie returned as she held up her hands, bringing the bracelets into plain sight. “And what was the point of putting these on if you want to hide? If this person thinks we’re on their side, maybe they’ll help us.”

He’s going to hurt us.

“Maybe they’re just a fisherman. Maybe they saw our boat. ”

Chie! Go hide!

>Hide >Wait

#horror #writing #horror story #choose your own path #choose your own adventure #original writing #ocs #original characters #lovecraft #lovecraftian horror #lovecraftian #lovecraft horror #let me know in the replies or reblogs what they should do #thank you everyone who continues to read my writing #no truth left

[let-it-raines]

another kind of green (7/10)

Emma Swan spends her days in pretty white dresses and heavy layers of makeup. Day after day and dress after dress, she poses for pictures and acts like she’s in love and having the happiest day of her life with the man standing next to her.

It’s not. This is all a gig, and at the end of the day, she’s no longer the girl in the pretty dress who’s faking getting married for a magazine cover or a wedding convention. Instead, she’s the girl who probably never wants to get married.

Little does she know, she already is.

Rating: mature

a/n: I apologize for the wait on this one. I’m obviously super spacey lately because I forgot I was supposed to be posting this story🙈

ao3: beginning | current

tumblr: 1 | 2| 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

-/-

Emma didn’t notice the leaves change.

Yesterday, she swears that she looked outside and all of the trees were full of deep green leaves and that the grass on the ground was an equally vibrant shade. Today, however, there are brown leaves on the ground and orange and yellow leaves hanging off of limbs, and the grass growing next to the sidewalk is browning the slightest bit. She blinked, and the days changed from early September to mid-October.

How in the world?

Where did all of the time go? Wasn’t she just doing a local commercial (her least favorite kind of job) for the autumn festival that’s happening downtown? How is time for that to already be happening? They shoot those weeks and months in advance.

“On your left,” Killian calls out, and Emma doesn’t flinch. She’s used to it.

“You’re late.”

“Traffic.”

“You walk here.”

“A hell of a lot of pedestrians, Swan.”

She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t slow down her pace, letting her legs keep powering her through this run. She’s on mile two, so Killian really is late. They’ve been getting up and going running a little after six most mornings for the past month. It’s far earlier than Emma would ever normally do it, but she likes having a running partner surprisingly enough and Killian has to go to training at eight every morning. It’s either this or run by herself so that every step is pretty much agony.

Just like she didn’t notice the changing leaves, she never really noticed how Killian wormed his way right into her run.

(At least he buys her smoothies…most of the time.)

(He’s grown fond of his mango one as well, and sometimes she does foot the bill.)

Emma turns to the side to finally look at him. He’s dressed in a pair of joggers and a BPD training sweatshirt he has to wear to the Academy, and he must be leaving directly from here instead of heading back to his apartment to take a shower.

She ran into Graham while grocery shopping last week. He was with his girlfriend, so she didn’t talk for a long time because that’s awkward as hell and she wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible, but she did learn that Killian told Graham that their marriage wasn’t something intentional. She’s not really sure when or where or why, and while something like that would normally piss her off, she’s relieved that the guilt of Graham finding out she got married like that is off her shoulders.

She’d forgotten about seeing him until she saw Killian’s sweatshirt. Graham had one just like that, and life seems to like bringing things back around for her. Maybe she should ask him about talking to Graham, or maybe she should just forget about it and move on.

Everyone else seems to have done so.

“You want to race?”

“Huh?” Emma asks, blinking away until Killian comes back into focus. She’d totally zoned out.

He raises his brows before reaching up to push his hair off his forehead. “Do you want to race me, love?”

“Please,” she scoffs, turning away from him to focus on what’s in front of her, “you couldn’t handle it.”

“Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it.”

Emma quickly turns to him again. His smirk is obnoxious, and she’s not about to pass that up.

“First one to the bench with marks from where that guy sat on wet paint wins, okay? Loser buys smoothies.”

“You’re on. When do you want to – bloody hell…”

She doesn’t hear the rest of his curse, and she does know that it’s a curse, because she’s already increased her speed and is sprinting as fast as she possibly can. It’s at least half a mile until that bench, maybe a little over, and Emma can run that far this fast without any issue. Her problem is that Killian, even though he was slower than her when he started, has started to catch up to her. His strides are already longer than hers, but with his speed catching up after so much training, she needs every advantage she can get.

Smoothies aren’t something to play around with.

He’d be so obnoxious if he won.

Killian’s on her heels for every step of the run. His muttered words and the panting of his breath hover just behind her, and she knows that if she were to suddenly stop running, he’d stumble over her. But she doesn’t stop. She lets her legs and her lungs burn and keeps going until she gets that adrenaline high that she’s been searching for. It’s been elusive lately, most of her runs dragging along at a snail’s pace, but this isn’t a long run anymore. It’s a sprint to the finish line.

Very literally.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

The bench is in her sight now, the poor markings left behind by someone who ruined their pants by sitting in wet paint last week, and she propels herself forward to get there before Killian when she feels a hand on her wrist, tugging her back, until she’s falling to the ground, her elbow hitting hard against the grass until she rolls over onto her back and feels the weight of Killian on top of her.

“What the fuck?” she grunts. All of the breath has been knocked out of her, and Killian’s entire body pressing down on her doesn’t help. “What was that for?”

“Sorry,” Killian grumbles, propping himself up on his elbows to lessen his body weight. His cheeks are flushed a slight pink, and his hair is falling over his forehead in sweaty sections. It makes him look younger than his usual penchant for styling his hair off his forehead. Maybe her brain just isn’t functioning correctly and he looks exactly the same. “Are you hurt?”

“I imagine my ass and my elbow are going to be bruised, but other than that, I’m fine.”

“You were about to be run over by a bike, love. Did you not hear me calling you or the incessant ringing of the bell?”

“Uhhh.”

“Exactly. I saved your life, and I think a little gratitude is in order. I do normally prefer to do more enjoyable things with a woman on her back, after all. Of course, you would know.”

His brows quickly wiggle across his forehead, and when his tongue runs over his bottom lip, heat curls between Emma’s legs that has absolutely nothing to do with how sweaty she is from running.

“Just like our marriage, I’m wiping that part from my memory.” “Ah, but you weren’t drunk for it. You actually remember it. Tell me, darling, what was your favorite part of that night? Was it when my mouth pressed into your neck in the hallway or was it when it pressed into another rater delicious – ”

“Okay,” Emma mutters, pushing her hands up against his chest until he rolls off of her and onto his back on the grass, “that’s enough of that. I haven’t eaten yet today, and you owe me a smoothie.”

Changing the subject. She has to change the subject.

“I don’t believe you won the race.”

“I was going to if you hadn’t tugged me down and nearly caused me to break a bone.”

“I was trying to pull you to the side. You’re the one who went down.”

“Semantics.” “I don’t mean to upset you, Swan, but I think we make quite the team. When it comes to running, of course. I save your life from a horrific bicycle accident, and you, well, I’m not sure what you do.”

Emma sucks in a deep breath before exhaling and twisting her head to the side. Killian’s already looking at her, lips pressed into a soft smile, and he reaches over toward her until his fingers are brushing against her skin as he tucks loose tendrils of her hair behind her ear

Did she just get a chill or was that her sweat drying?

Getting her sports bra off is practically going to be impossible. At least she can do it in privacy.

Sports bras are obviously both the best and the worst.

“I kick your ass in races.”

Killian laughs, finger brushing against her cheek again. Her body is basically a puddle now. “I’ll buy our smoothies, Swan, but you have to agree to let me take you out for your birthday next week.”

“How do you even know my birthday is next week?”

“It was on our annulment papers.”

“Oh.”

Killian twist over until he’s on his side and propping his chin up in his hand and tapping his temple. “I know you may not remember things, at least according to your manager, but I do have an excellent brain up here.”

“I’m ignoring you basically calling yourself a genius because I have to ask: when the hell did you talk to Mary Margaret?”

“Last week. Ariel was talking to her on the phone at a shoot, and they got to talking about how I’m reliable while you are not.” “I have only missed one appointment, but Mary Margaret holds onto that and brings it up every time I almost forget something. It was for an understandable reason, too.”

“And what was that?”

Emma blinks, and her mind catches up to what she just said. Shit.

“It was nothing.”

“Oh, no, it was definitely something. Inquiring minds want to know.”

“Yeah, well, inquiring minds don’t get to know.”

Emma quickly gets up from the ground, moving so quickly that she’s dizzy, but she doesn’t want to be lounging on the grass any longer. People are running by them, dirty shoes near her face, and she doesn’t even want to think about how many animals have relieved themselves where she was just resting her face.

She doesn’t want to think about anything other than getting some calories in her, taking a shower, and meeting Ruby at Flock so they can shoot next month’s catalog of clothes for the website.

“Swan,” Killian calls out, but she keeps on walking. “Swan! Love! Emma!”

“Not in the mood, Jones.”

“You were two minutes ago, and I cannot figure out what I possibly could have done to piss you off in that time.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“I obviously did something.”

“Can’t you for once just do what I say and leave me alone?”

“Perhaps if you had actually told me to bloody leave you alone.”

Emma quickly turns on her heels to look at him. She nearly smacks herself into his chest, but she doesn’t need another collision with him, not today.

“Killian,” she says slowly, “leave me alone.”

His gaze doesn’t move away from hers, deep blue staring at her and making her want to back away, but she doesn’t. In the back of her mind, she knows he’s done nothing wrong, that he isn’t the one who’s actually pissed her off, but he’s here. What better excuse is there than that?

“If that’s what you want,” he begins, leaning down and giving her a mocking bow with a flourish of his hand, “then that’s what I’ll do.”

-/-

“This is the smallest piece of fabric I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ve seen your underwear drawer, Ems. I know that’s not true.”

Emma rolls her eyes at Ruby and tugs on the top, adjusting it until it covers her boobs. How this boutique expects any normal person to be able to wear this piece of fabric is beyond her.

“It’s ridiculous,” Emma continues, still trying to tug it down, “and this is supposedly a winter sweater. Has anyone here ever actually experienced a winter in Boston? This isn’t going to cut it.”

“Who peed in your Cheerios this morning?”

“That’s a disgusting phrase.”

“It’s obviously very apt today, though.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a liar.”

“No, I’m just cold.”

Emma turns on her heels and walks back out in front of the camera and the white wall as the photographer and the owner of the boutique wait for she and Ruby to be ready. Emma does the standard poses, flipping her hair and fake laughing, and then she trades off with Ruby until they’ve both gone through the entire catalog of clothes that were on the racks in the side of the warehouse.

This is the weirdest job, and she’s honestly not sure that she enjoys it much anymore. That seems like a problem for a day where she’s not already pissed off at the world.

“I will buy you lunch if you tell me what’s wrong with you.”

“Nope,” Emma sighs, tugging on her coat and fluffing her hair out as they get ready to leave the warehouse. “You cannot bribe me.”

“Okay, but what if we go back to my place, and I make Granny’s onion ring recipe?”

Emma stops and turns to Ruby, her eyes narrowing at Ruby’s wolfish grin. “You’re evil.”

“But you love me.” “That’s debatable.”

“Nah,” Ruby sighs, wrapping her arm around Emma’s shoulder, “it’s really not.”

They walk the fifteen minutes to Ruby and Mulan’s apartment, the chill of the air nipping at Emma’s nose, but once they’re inside and the heat is on and there’s that wonderful smell of onion rings and grilled cheese being cooked, Emma’s no longer freezing. She’s warm and calm and maybe she doesn’t have to be as pissy as she has been today.

“So, Mulan says you haven’t come to class in a few weeks.”

Ruby says it casually, doesn’t even bother to turn around, but Emma knows that this is the beginning of her fishing into what Emma has been doing. The woman isn’t sly at all.

“I’ve been doing other things.”

“Other things or…men?”

“Running. I’ve been running, Rubes.”

“Mhm, and you wouldn’t happen to be running every day with a very handsome man that makes me thankful that I am interested in both men and women while poor souls like you only get men?”

Emma huffs into her glass of water. “How could you possibly know about that?”

“Because I, too, avoid my girlfriend’s Pilates studio and like to go running that path sometimes.”

Well, shit. She didn’t think anyone really knew she was doing that.

“We both run. We happen to run into each other. It’s a thing.”

Ruby turns around and arches a brow, cocking her head to the side. “What’d he do to piss you off today? Might as well just skip to that question.”

“He didn’t piss me off.”

“You don’t get onion rings if you don’t tell the truth.” “Screw you.”

“That was the deal.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not very good at keeping deals.”

Ruby sighs and plates another few onion rings before turning the stove off so that the cackling of the grease quiets down. “You’re going on runs with the man that you married.” Emma opens her mouth, but Ruby holds her finger up. “Yeah, I know about that. You know Marg can’t keep things to herself. I also know that if you want to shake him off, you wouldn’t be spending so much voluntary time with him. So did he actually do something to piss you off that I need to kick his ass for, or is this just Emma being Emma?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what that means.”

Emma ignores her and reaches up to take an onion ring only for Ruby to hold the plate away from her. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

Sighing, Emma crosses her arms over her chest and leans back on the barstool. She was pretty sure Ruby was joking about Emma having to talk about her mood, but apparently, she wasn’t.

“Nothing is wrong with me.”

“Yeah, and I’m a rocket scientist.”

“You could be.”

“Emma, do you like your husband? Is that what’s freaking you out?”

“He is not my husband.”

“You’re evading the question.”

“No,” she mumbles, “I’m not, and no, I don’t like Killian. I guess I just slept on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Can I have my onion rings now? The full plate?”

Ruby’s brow stays arched until it falls so it can furrow with her other one. “Do you really not want to talk about it?”

“There’s really nothing to talk about.”

-/-

Emma’s a liar.

She’s a lying liar who lies, but she’s not about to admit that to anyone other than her glass of wine and the can of icing that she’s eating. However many calories she burned today don’t matter because she’s consumed all of them since this afternoon.

It’s totally been worth it.

Mostly.

She can’t binge watch Poldark and not drink wine and eat icing, right? That would just be stupid.

Her phone buzzes on the couch cushion next to her.

Killian Jones: I owe you a smoothie. Is there a chance I can buy you one tomorrow?

Shit. Of course he’s texting her.

And of course he’s being nice.

The man knows exactly how to be an ass. Can’t he be one of those right now?

Can’t she not want to text him back?

Emma Swan: I feel like I should be the one buying you one since I was so bitchy today.

Killian Jones: I wouldn’t say that.

Killian Jones: Because I think you’d murder me if I did.

Killian Jones: And also because it’s not true.

Emma snorts into her wine, taking another sip, and then leaning forward to put the glass on her coffee table.

Emma Swan: It was true. You can say it.

Killian Jones: I’d rather you not kick my ass. You could do it anyways, but training already beat me down today. I’m in a weakened state.

Emma Swan: That bad, huh?

Killian Jones: It was like I ran for six hours without stopping while also having to climb over obstacles and have men my own age yelling at me while twenty-one years old just ran by with no hesitations.

She laughs again before stretching back onto the couch. She should crawl back into bed and get herself comfortable, let herself fall asleep, but this is pretty comfortable too.

Killian Jones: But I love it.

Emma Swan: Yeah?

Killian Jones: It’s awful, but I also feel like I have a purpose, you know? I’ve wanted this for so long.

Emma’s heartrate picks up, and she closes her eyes and drops her phone to her chest. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t have some kind of great want that’s driven her life. She’s always been a foster kid, someone who isn’t sure what’s coming around the corner, and even when she aged out of the system, she still didn’t know. There was Neal and jail and…he ruined her life. Neal ruined her fucking life. He took away her choice for her life, and even though she’s doing okay now, she could be doing better. It’s not something she wants to think about because a decade has gone by since then, since he abandoned her like most everyone else has, but rarely a day goes by where he doesn’t come up in some way.

But really, it hasn’t been a decade. It’s been three years since he showed up at her apartment door, finding her somehow, and acted like not a day had gone by, like he hadn’t done this awful thing to her and like she must still love him.

She didn’t then.

She doesn’t now.

Neal will always be her first love and the person who loved her first, and what a shame that is.

That’s why she missed her shoot that day. Mary Margaret had been pissed, had gotten angry with Emma for maybe the first time ever, but then she’d sobbed into Mary Margaret’s shoulder as everything in her life felt like it was falling apart.

Again.

And here she is letting Neal worm his way into her thoughts again, into her life. He’s not around anymore. She doesn’t know what he’s doing with his life, and he really doesn’t deserve to occupy so much space. She’s been doing it for years, wearing these pretty white dresses at least once a week and pretending to be someone who could even think about getting married when it’s never been what she wanted, not after him.

Not even with Graham.

Maybe one day she’ll figure out how to move on completely and how to leave Neal in the past where he belongs.

She’s got to get out of this headspace before she drinks herself into an oblivion, so she opens her eyes and looks back at her phone. No one can see her face or hear her thoughts, and even if she is absolutely terrified of Killian Jones, he’s the only thing that’s making her feel remotely safe right now.

Emma Swan: I’m happy for you!

Killian Jones: Thank you, love.

Killian Jones: Did I tell you about the guy who is now wearing an eye patch because of an unfortunate fall on the rope climb?

Emma Swan: This sounds like the beginning of a really bad high school soap opera.

Killian Jones: Oh, but it’s even better than that.

Killian tells her the story, as well as several others from his first few weeks at the Academy, and Emma distracts herself with it, finding that it’s easy to get lost in Killian’s stories. Even texting, he has a way with words that has her easily being swept up into the conversation so that her lips tug at the corners and there’s a smile permanently press into her skin. He’s funny and charming and he deals with her shit even when he shouldn’t. He should run away and never look back.

The thought causes her breath to hitch and her chest to pang and…

Maybe Ruby was right. Maybe she does have a thing for Killian.

Oh shit.

-/-

-/-

Tag list: @xemmaloveskillianx​ @therealstartraveller776​ @stahlop @shardminds @carpedzem @captainsjedi  @galaxyzxstark @thejollyroger-writer @kmomof4 @tiganasummertree @xellewoods @idristardis @karenfrommisthaven @shireness-says @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @a-faekindagirl @ultimiflos @jamif @dreameronarooftop15 @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke  @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @teamhook @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @superchocovian @ultraluckycatnd @cs-forlife @andiirivera @qualitycoffeethings @jonirobinson64 @mariakov81 @spartanguard @snowbellewells  @onepunintendid​ @bluewildcatfanatic​

#another kind of green #cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #captain swan fanfic #captain swan

[lacielre]

whiskey neat & whisking trips  part i. whiskey neat

summary  this is a story about the night you poured your heart out to your ex outside his apartment building as a stranger yelled at you to “shut the fuck up,” and that stranger, who was just as wounded as you, was taehyung, and he needed your help. 

pairing  taehyung/reader, seokjin/reader

genre  fake/pretend relationship, post-breakup, infidelity, veterinarian!taehyung, baker!oc, an attempt to comedy, pillow-screaming fluff, eventual smut

rating  mature

warnings  swearing, alcohol consumption, a bit of second-hand embarrassment

parts  prologue, 1

“HEAR ME OUT!”

There was one thing you promised yourself you would never do: chase someone who had told you at least once that they don’t feel the same way about you. Not even as a last resort. In this case, for that someone, it wasn’t that he didn’t feel the same way about you, it was that he didn’t feel the same way about you anymore. There was a big difference. Or at least, you convinced yourself that there was.

That was probably why you chased after him.

Here, outside his building, under the downpour of the casted rain, with you screaming directly to his exposed window. Because plain screaming just wasn’t enough, rain had to be an accompaniment. It had to be movie-like but a blatant contradiction to your dreams of being swept off your feet and get married to him one day. Those dream-like scenarios ended up winding up somewhere else while you were stuck in their consolations, thinking they could still be possible.  

“PLEASE!” was your shrieking scream. “I KNOW WE CAN WORK THIS OUT!”

Syllables being grazed against your throat like large tires screeching against rough asphalts on sudden halts weren’t enough for your boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend. But the tiniest hint of optimism, a rare feat of positivity within you, was sparking to its diligence.

“FUCK!”

In your head were the runs of thoughts, one being that he couldn’t hear you because of the deluge of heavy droplets.

That must be it.

“I’LL—I’ll call you!”

Even if you believed that it was the rain that drowned your voice, you still shouted an announcement for your impending call.

The simple act of fishing your phone and making a call had your entire body shaking. It was cold. No amount of layers of clothing protected you for the cascades that only found purchase in drenching all there was on land, including you. Because to them – to the gods or whoever was there – your tears were not enough.

“Pick up,” you muttered under your breath, false hope clinging onto your running nose and trembling figure. “Please. Pickuppickuppickup.”

First try.

Second try.

“Fuck. Please,” you sniffled, “please.”

Third, fourth, fifth. “Nonono. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Please.”

You dialed again, over and over. Sixth, seventh. Repetitive taps on your screen barely recognized your touch from the water infiltrating it. There was no clear indication in your head on the reasons for your tears. They were becoming too much.

Everything was too much; you couldn’t believe it was real.

Your boyfriend – okay, ex-boyfriend – ran off from your apartment after picking up all his stuff and choosing not to hear you out, despite your calm and disorganized rambles. To you, “falling out of love” wasn’t enough. You didn’t believe it. There was no way he suddenly felt that way about you because there was no point in your relationship that he made you feel that way.

Now it was your phone’s turn to create troubles with you through its glitches and unresponsive retorts. And you’d be spending a whole month of salary to buy a new phone. But fuck it.

With your boy—ex-boyfriend, it was ride or die.

“PICK UP YOUR PHONE!” you cried out loudly. “PLEASE!”

In rapid pace, you shook your head from side to side.

“NO! YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME, SEOKJIN!”

It pained you to mention his name into his neighborhood but this was it. This was the last resort. It was either this or everything was over, and there was no space for empty fills of journey. You had to fill them up with risks. Risks like this.

“WE CAN WORK THIS OUT!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” one of the tenants shouted back.

You ignored him with tight-closed fists. “LET’S WORK THIS OUT!”

The sobs in between your shouts were as painful sounding to you.  This was a level of humiliation you never thought you could fathom. A level of humiliation you presented upon yourself to dozens of lit-up rent-controlled apartments within an old, drenched building.

“I KNOW WE CAN WORK THIS OUT!”

For the last resort.

“WE CAN! WE JUST HAVE TO TALK!”

Some of his neighbors were already peeking from their wrinkled up curtains, eyeing you with either apathy, genuine concern, curiosity, or pity. Mostly the latter. Fuck. You were embarrassing, weren’t you?

“LET ME IN! PLEASE!”

Your teeth quivered, a desire to aid the cold creeping into your skin.

“LET’S TALK IT OUT!”

For the last resort.

“WE CAN WORK THIS… o-out.”

And he showed up to your vision finally, exposing himself on the curtain-less, bare windows of his dimly-lit apartment.

Yeah, he showed up to you alright.

For your last resort, the picture he – Seokjin, your boyfriend, your ex-boyfriend – painted to you was his naked upper body with a woman behind him wrapped in soft pink-colored cotton robe, loosely tied around her tiny waist. Her dewed up cleavage haunted you in all ways possible, good and bad.

She was looking at you with pity, too much of a hint that she knew about your relationship with Seokjin beforehand. Why would someone do such a cruel thing to you? You shook your head. It wasn’t entirely her fault; it was still mostly his. And yet, you still had a hard time believing it.

No.

No, it can’t be. But fuck.

“You…” Your teeth chattered in both the breeze tightly hugging onto your skin and the anger summoning until the tips of your fingers.

You wanted the next word to come out strong, not soiled up by the looming sobs from your heavy chest and aching stomach. This was it for you. This was your last resort.

“You…” was your repeated indulgence. “You f-f-fucking—”

Then you inhaled deeply, partnered with closed fists, nails biting into your palms too much they had bled.

“ASSHOLE! YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

Your knees were too close to giving up but you weren’t going to allow more humiliation to come out one by one at a single scene. This was your movie and you were only willing to show devastations to come up on the screen scene-by-scene. Not like this.

“FUCK YOU!” You swallowed. “FUCK YOU AND YOUR BIG DICK! I HOPE YOU KNEW HOW TO USE IT! BASTARD!”

With the last drops of grueling frustration, of anger and sadness, you permitted your gaze to melt into his for a fleeting moment. This was a picture that will forever be engraved in your head, even if you had a water-like memory.

Him, looking down on you with unfiltered emptiness that made you feel like vomiting. The woman behind him, mustering to attain the same gaze as though practiced, but failed to do so, as hers entailed ushered pity. The look that said, she will never hit rock-bottom, the same you did and you were still at. You were a debacle. But she could do better.

Then you let go.

The turns of your heels were both aching and liberating. It was as if your hands were in shackles for so long, and you had also been pulling for so long. And when your wrists were free, you were in pain. A pain accompanied by a sense of freedom.

That you will never be stuck with someone who was a lying bitch.

A fucking cheater.

  “Yoongi, my usual,” you ordered as you slumped to the bar stool tucked under the counter.

“Sure—holy shit. What happened to you?” It was him turning that triggered the pause between his sentence and made you aware of the fact that you looked like shit on a Friday night. “What the hell, _____? You’re trembling.”

“I’m okay,” you breathed out almost emotionlessly, looking at your fingers splayed upon the counter. You tap them to create cheerful sounds, a forced contrast to your appearance before pulling your eyes heavenward, mustering courage to stare back at Yoongi. You repeated, “I’m okay.”

In any minute now, you would bawl. Again.

“Stop—stop tapping your fingers,” Yoongi said weakly, leaving the bottle he was once taking care of to the counter behind him. He rolled around a white towel around his palms, getting rid of the remnants of alcohol staining his hands. “What the hell happened out there, _____?”

“You got anything warmer in there?” you asked instead.

“Y-Yeah, shit, I’ll check,” he said, thinking if there were some dry towels or blankets upstairs at his cave. Then his voice was fleeting away. “Hey, Hobi, could you cover for me there? I’ll just grab some stuff upstairs.”

And his colleague was happy to, nodding his head and repeatedly saying “yeah” to Yoongi.

The simple image made you swallow. Fuck. You wanted to feel happy too but your chest only swelled painful verves, pumping endlessly into you to the point that Seokjin and the girl behind him were the sole picture in your head.

“Here you go.” Yoongi appeared out-of-nowhere, or it seemed like so to you, as he wrapped your body with a warm, thick blanket. “You sure you wanna stay here? You could just rest in my office. I don’t mind, _____.”

“I want to drink,” you simply mumbled.

“We can do that upstairs too.”

“It’s too quiet up there,” you probed.

“I can play some music,” was his fast counter.

“Yoongi,” you called his name almost as faint as a shy breath. “I don’t want to be alone with myself or with you. Everything keeps ringing in my head. So, can you please just serve me my fucking drink?”

Yoongi tested a few seconds for you to retract your statement but when you didn’t, he got back to his place behind the counter and fidgeted through his bottles of alcohol to serve you your drink – whiskey neat.

“Thank you,” was your weak appreciation as he slid the drink to your yearning hand.

“Is this because of Seok—”

“Don’t,” you sternly warned.

“You can talk to me.”

“Few more drinks.”

He nodded, giving up. “Okay.” Then he left your space to serve a newly-entered customer who sat with an empty seat between the two of you. “What you want, boss?”

“Whiskey neat,” was his succinct reply.

“You got it,” Yoongi said, picking up the same bottle he had used for you and pouring some of it for the gentleman next to you.

The gentleman next to you reciprocated your gaze. He nodded at your sodden self. “Rough night?”

You chuckled at his attempt of small talk. “Like you’ve never imagined.”

Taehyung’s night was supposed to be perfect.

He had a major work turn-out this morning to kick-off his day. The clinic’s pantry had donuts on the counter available until noon. From then on, he felt like everything was going to fall into place for him. He celebrated a few drinks with colleagues at a bar downtown. He had waited for things like this to happen to him. Simply, it was because he was a romantic. He believed in make-believes, the pretense of life.

Until at around 11PM that night.

Taehyung’s fiancé – ex-fiancé – had emailed him a night before and he had just opened it. He regretted doing so. He hoped he’d seen it sooner, so that today was perfect. No bumps. Just his – his movie.

Her email was a bad omen.

He should’ve known.

It said:

Hi, Taehyung.

I’m not sure if you’re willing to open this message but if you do and read it, then thank you, and I couldn’t thank you enough for doing so. For the longest time, I had been thinking that what you and I had was special. And maybe it was it being special that made it short-lived.

Taehyung scoffed loudly at that part. “Bullshit.”

I know that it was my fault why it was so short-lived too. Granted, I cheated on you. But that was fate’s way of telling us we shouldn’t be together.

“Bull—shit!” was his sonorous amen.

You will never forgive me and that’s not something I could change. And it’s valid that you feel that way about me. I still love you not in the same way as before but I love you, Tae. But this message isn’t about forgiveness or apology.

He took a deep breath before rolling his eyes and attaching them to the screen of his desktop.

This message is a message from me to you.

Again, he rolled his eyes at the dramatics. “What a dramatic fucking bitch. Get to the point already.”

I’m getting married in a month.

His heart dropped, and now he understood the depth of that expression. Still, it wasn’t enough. His heart felt like it was going to drag his entire body to the core of the Earth.

“What the fuck,” Taehyung had muttered under his breath. “I’m getting married in a month,” he repeated, not believing merely his own eyes to read it out to him.

And this is my formal invitation to you, Taehyung. I hope you’d come. If you can’t, maybe at least reply? That would be enough for me to know… something. Thank you, Taehyung. For everything. You taught me a lot.

And just like that, everything was washing down to him, his self-declared luck and the façade of what he thought was a movie – his movie. He slumped his back onto his swivel chair, allowing his lower body sag to the pulls of gravity, before rubbing his palms into his face, squeezing his eyes tightly. He wasn’t jealous that his ex-fiancé was getting married.

Fuck, he couldn’t care less about that.

What he couldn’t believe was that she was getting fucking married in a month. And he was not an inch closer to such a desirable feat. If it were his movie, then he would have gotten married first. Better yet, their engagement should not have been called off in the first place.

But the lingering prints of “in a month” in black Arial font on his screen was a blow.

Hell, he had not dated anyone for over a month. Casual hook-ups were his thing, he thought, until tonight, he felt like they were suddenly not.

“In a month?!” he yelled into his palms. “In a fucking month?!”

He needed to get somewhere, at some point near because there was no way he was going to attend that wedding without a date. There was also no way he was not going to attend that wedding.

His mantra went on. “In a fucking month? One month? Is this some sick joke?”

Taehyung counted his blessings, relishing on the impossible idea that his date should be someone who had been with him for at least over six months but fuck, the wedding day was in a fucking month.

“HEAR ME OUT!” was a roar that came from outside.

“What the fuck…” Taehyung mumbled, standing up to check through his window. He brunched up his curtains to the side and saw a blurry figure of a woman standing by the garbage bins, drenched in cold outpours of the unforgiving weather.

“PLEASE!” came another scream. “I KNOW WE CAN WORK THIS OUT!”

Taehyung chuckled. “Romance is fucking dead.”

He continued watching, finding the display of a woman in soaked covers of multiple garments quite amusing. He listened to you scream, curse, and lash out to the window about four windows to his left. To be honest, his heart was rooting for you to heal on its own because he felt how it was ripping itself apart, little by little each time you screamed, only to receive disturbing quietness.

But there were times when it was too much.

Taehyung couldn’t, wouldn’t tolerate screams at this time of the night.

Not when he needed some time to escape his mind, too, and your screams weren’t helping him at all. You weren’t the only one who needed the time and the sound of peace. It wasn’t a thing that only exists in your movie; it was also in his.

“WE CAN WORK THIS OUT, SEOKJIN!”

Taehyung had thought, oh, him. It was to an effect that his mouth formed an “o” at the realization that dawned him. He knew Seokjin at a certain extent, an extent that only bared itself to a standard of being at the neighbor status. Taehyung didn’t know Seokjin had a girlfriend, having seen different girls coming in and out his apartment. It wasn’t any of business. But seeing you now – fuck.

You were the girlfriend.

“WE CAN WORK THIS OUT!” you cried.

He heaved a sigh drawn from the bottom of his chest. You were a bit irritating and pushy. A fighter.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Taehyung shouted but he immediately regretted it, hiding from his curtain but you didn’t even try to look for his voice.

You ignored him. “LET’S WORK THIS OUT!”

More countable minute ticks on the clock and your voice suddenly drowned. He thought that there it was – the tranquillity he had been ready to give his legs out to to worship, to bless him and reward him another “perfect day” because he deserved it. Or he believed so.

He watched you silently ponder at a small spot of the concrete, standing straight, wordless, and unmoving.

But as the trickling hums of the noise brought by the rain became the only noise in the neighborhood, suddenly, you took charge of what people could hear – it was you. Only you.

“ASSHOLE! YOU SON OF A BITCH! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU AND YOUR BIG DICK! I HOPE YOU KNEW HOW TO USE IT! BASTARD!”

Taehyung’s jaw dropped at your second wave of lash out. His jaw plummeting was a testimony of your rage and that to aid his charmed disbelief over you, he picked up his jaw by forming a laughter as he shook his head.

You were a fighter.

And that deserved a toast.

  It was not in Taehyung’s rule book of Watching a Woman Drown Herself in Tears and Rain to follow said woman on her stride to one of the closest bars within the area. Given that you began your voyage to the bar earlier than he did, your groggy footsteps were a giveaway to how he was able to follow you.

Taehyung entered the bar and it was just what he had expected from you. Quiet, a bit of a crowd – the moderate amount – and dimly lit. Most of all, vintage.

He sat next to you, leaving a seat in between, not to take up too much of your space as your energy, he felt, was creeping up to him.

“What you want, boss?” was the bartender’s swift service.

“Whiskey neat,” was his succinct reply.

“You got it,” the bartender said and got to work, pouring Taehyung a glass of a bottle of whiskey that was already encased in his hand.

If Taehyung would give a rate to this bar, he was already prepared to give it a five out of five. 

Taehyung gripped the glass in his slender fingers before finally getting a scan of your face. Contrary to the loud, roaring screams you delivered outside the building, you actually looked quite soft on the edges, dare he’d say innocent.

“Rough night?” he asked with a bit of fear when he did.  

But he was glad you took it well. Chuckling, you replied after taking a huge sip of your drink, “Like you’ve never imagined.”

#f: whiskey neat and whisking trips #bts smut #taehyung smut #taehyung x you #taehyung x reader #taehyung x oc #fluff #angst #by:lacielre

[we-are-all-obsessed-here]

Heart Strings And Melodies (Modern Musician!Poe AU) Part 21 ~Ending~

(Not my Gif)

Summary: Little Shara finally decides to meet her mother and father.

(Proof-read when tired, so, sorry for any mistakes that might crop up. Please enjoy folks!)

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

“It’s starting to get bad out there.” You noted, turning away from the window in the lounge. Beebee was curled up in front of the fireplace enjoying the warmth from it. Meanwhile Poe was sat on the floor by the coffee table putting new strings on his guitar and keeping up to date with any maintenance.

“The snow will let up soon. We’re not planning on going anywhere. So, we’re good.” Poe stated. There was a slight static like noise before the only light in the room was that of the fireplace.

“Shit.” Poe exclaimed.

“Cursed is what you are Poe. Every time you open your mouth something happens.” You sighed, a smile betraying you.

“Haha, hilarious.” Poe rolled his eyes, his lips quirking up into a ghost of a smile.

“I’ll go get the candles out for later, for if the power doesn’t come back on before it gets dark.” You stated as you began to move slowly towards the cupboard where all your odds and ends were kept. Poe called your name and was at your side in a second.

“Take it easy. Go sit down, I’ll sort the rest out.”

“Poe.” You whined. He gently placed his hand on your bump.

“You’re already a few days past the due date. Lets not have a home birth in the middle of a snow storm.”

“You’ve definitely cursed us now.” You teased. Poe lovingly squeezed your hand and offered you a smile.

“Go read some more of your book. Relax. I’ll go grab the candles for later.”

“Love you.” You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek before starting to return to where you had been sat in the lounge while Poe gathered several candles and placed them on the coffee table. Poe then continued to tinker with his guitar and gathered paints to finish the decorations he’d planned for the body. Meanwhile you settled in a cosy chair by the fire and opened the book you’d balanced on the arm earlier on. Beebee jumped and curled up on your lap as you leaned back and lost yourself in the tale being told on the pages. Every so often you’d close your book and simply watch as Poe painted his guitar, following the lines he’d planned out a few days prior. Poe would bring you a warm drink every now and again, as he’d step away to return to his guitar his lips would press a kiss to your temple. A laugh escaped your lips on the occasions where Poe would absentmindedly pick up one of the two mugs on the coffee table and almost drink his paint water rather than the coffee he’d made himself. Poe cleared his throat, and kept his head down in an attempt to hide the flush across his cheeks.

“God I love you Poe Dameron.” You smiled lovingly at him. Poe looked at you, an almost identical smile on his lips.

“I love you more.” He countered.

“Not possible.” You replied before opening your book again.

A twinge of familiar pain flashed through you and a small sound of discomfort escaped your lips. Poe moved from his kneeling position within a split second, his hand reaching out to take yours, his face etched with worry as his eyes searched your face for any indication that something was wrong.

“I’m fine. Just Braxton Hicks again.”

“You’re sure?” Poe questioned, moving a little closer to you.

“Sure.” You offered him a smile in an attempt to allay the worry in his expression. Squeezing his hand, you then began shuffling to the edge of your seat.

“I’m going to run a warm bath, my back is really starting to hurt again.” You grumbled. Poe helped you to your feet and despite you assertion that you would be absolutely fine running yourself a bath, your husband refused to leave your side. As you stood in the bathroom which Poe had littered with several lit candles, the steam from the freshly filled bath beginning to fill the room, Poe helped you undress. He pressed kisses to each exposed piece of skin, across your collarbone, your shoulder, between your shoulder blades and then slowly further down. Each kiss was a simple declaration of love and care, never once was there intent of anything sexual, just love in its entirety. Poe helped ease you into the bath, made sure you were comfortable then pressed a kiss to the top of your head. He cupped your cheek in his hand and you gently nuzzled into his touch.

“Just shout when you’re done, I’ll come and help you out.”

You nodded your agreement and then you were left to enjoy the peace and warmth of your bath. You began going through the mental list you’d created, making sure that everything was ready for when the baby did decide to arrive. The bedroom was fully decorated now, there was nothing left to do there. Shara had a handful of clothes ready for when she would come home, so there was nothing left to do there. A whole week had been spent making sure all the key items, from baby bottles to sterilisers to just about everything that could be thought of were well stocked in the house, definitely nothing else needed there. Searching through your mental list took you until the bath started dropping cool. Giving Poe a shout, you began shuffling around in the bath, trying your best to get yourself in a position that would make it slightly easier to get out. He appeared a moment later, a towel in his grasp.

“It’s somewhat warm.” Poe admitted, gesturing to the towel.

“What do you mean, somewhat warm?”

“I couldn’t throw it in the dryer for a few minutes, so I had it by the fire instead. Fires out now though, it was getting a bit too warm in there.”

You chuckled softly.

“Thank babe. King of ingenuity.” You smiled sweetly at him. Gently Poe helped you up and out from the bath, pressing a kiss to your cheek he wrapped the towel around your body.

There was a moment between a sudden splash of water hitting the tiled floor and when Poe spoke.

“That’s not…” He cocked a brow.

“No, it’s not bath water Poe!” You sighed. “I think my waters just broke.”

An abrupt wave of pain hit you and you gripped Poe tightly.

“We need to get you to the hospital.” Poe started to guide you out of the bathroom.

“Not in just a towel I’m not Poe Dameron!” You growled out.

“Okay… erm stay here I’ll be right back.” Poe carefully helped you lean against the wall outside the bathroom for support before he dashed towards your bedroom. Several moments passed.

“Poe! What’s taking so long!” You called.

“I’m coming! Hold on!” He shouted back. You could hear footsteps rushing around your room, saw a blur of a figure disappear into the baby’s room and the sound of more hurried footsteps. Then a crash. A curse. Then a very dishevelled Poe appearing, his arms crammed high with clothes and only God knows what.

“Poe we have a to-go bag for a reason y’know.” You sighed, looking at the several days worth of clothes in his grasp.

“Shit.” The handful of clothes dropped to the floor and as Poe went to dash off again he suddenly turned, picked up then handed you a few bits of clothes to get changed into before he disappeared for a second time to reappear with a travel bag.

“Ready?” Poe asked after he helped you shimmy into some loose fitting clothing.

“Ready.” You replied. The walk to the car was slow, especially when it came to passing through the thick layer of snow that covered the path to the car. Poe made sure you were sat securely in the passenger seat before he went to get in the driver’s side, he pressed a kiss to your forehead before he closed your door. The engine roared to life and Poe carefully pulled out of the driveway. The snow was still coming down heavy and despite the roads already having been cleared, the snow was starting to stick and gather across the surface. Another flood of pain overcame you, a short cry left your lips and you screwed your eyes shut and pressed your head into the headrest. You felt Poe grasp your hand and rub comforting circles into your skin.

“Just breathe. You’re going to be fine. I’m going as fast as I can sweetheart.” Poe tried to reassure you. Looking towards your love, his eyes were focused solely on you, filled with worry.

“Poe!” You gave his arm a whack as you shouted, having noticed the cars in front braking. Poe quickly brought the car to a halt as smoothly as possible, just managing to stop as the cars in front began to set off again.

“How about, I focus on trying not to give birth in the car. And you focus on driving.” You gave a nervous chuckle.

“Deal.” Poe breathed.

As you came to the main junction for the turning towards the hospital, the two of you noticed how traffic was moving ever so slowly.

“This doesn’t look good.” Poe noted as you drew closer to the turning you needed. The road had been closed off, traffic being diverted, as an overturned car had been t-boned by a small van and now blocked most of the road.

“Shit.” You cursed, a grunt of discomfort following. Poe slowed as he passed an officer which was directing traffic, much to the frustration of the drivers behind who started to use their horns. The officer came to the window once Poe rolled down the window, the cold air entering the car and making a shudder rush through you.

“We need to get to the hospital, my wife is in labour.” Poe explained, looking over to you quickly to make sure you were alright.

“Carry on and at the next junction keep going straight ahead then take your next right at the junction after that. Should bring you guys back onto the main road,” She directed. “Oh, and congratulations.” She added as Poe started to pull away. Following the directions given, it wasn’t long before you were back on track towards the hospital. Poe turned on the radio, hopeful that it might offer a slight distraction.

“We need to call your dad.” You suddenly remembered. Leaning forward you pressed several buttons on the screen in the centre console and soon the sound of a phone dialling came over the car’s speakers. It took a couple rings before Kes picked up.

“You alright there Poe?” Kes asked immediately.

“We’re heading to the hospital, baby is on the way.” Poe explained briefly.

“I’ll head over as soon as I can, take it easy out there it’s dangerous.”

“We know, there’s already been one crash, had to be diverted to the hospital.” Your disgruntled voice called out. Kes spoke your name softly.

“You take it easy too, I’ll see you both soon, just focus on getting to the hospital.”

The two of you called your goodbyes before Kes hung up. Suddenly you took Poe’s hand tightly in yours as another wave of pain flooded your system, surprising you as you had not expected it.

“We’re almost there.” Poe reassured you.

“Good,” You grumbled. “I’m sick of sitting in this car!” You complained, shifting in your seat. Poe chuckled, he quickly squeezed your hand before returning to focusing on the road.

It wasn’t long after you’d entered the hospital that you were rushed to maternity. After being hooked up to monitoring machines, examined and made comfortable, it soon became a game of waiting for the contractions to be closer together. Poe sat beside you as you reclined in the bed, he held your hand in his.

“Is Kes on his way?” You wondered aloud.

“Dad texted, he set off a bit ago. Might be an hour or two, depending on how things are out there.” Poe answered. You hummed to acknowledge his words then closed your eyes, the contractions beginning to tire you slightly.

“How are you feeling?” Poe questioned, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand.

“How do you think Poe.” You grumbled, a small smile tugging at your lips. Poe shook his head the leaned over to press a kiss to your forehead. His hand rested on your bump for a moment.

“Hurry you, you’re driving your mother nuts.” Poe teased.

“Reckon she’s like your mum?” You joked.

“Headstrong and stubborn when she wants? Wouldn’t surprise me.”

It was a long waiting game, Poe would tell you random stories, some you’d heard before and others which were new, it took your attention away from the examinations and the slowly growing closer together contractions. You squeezed Poe’s hand tightly during one particularly harsh contraction.

“You’re alright.” Poe spoke your name, trying ever so hard to comfort you but knowing there wasn’t much he could do.

“I feel like I want to push.” You grunted. Poe called for a nurse who gave another examination before confirming your instinct. You hadn’t realised how long labour could last for, although it had all become a bit of a blur, the contractions becoming stronger and the instinct the push taking over. Poe held your hand, helped you change positions when the one you were in became uncomfortable, when possible he’d rub your back in comforting circles. He’d whisper words of encouragement into your ear and hold you close when he could. It was a long while later before the nurses instructed you to stop pushing and to take breaths instead, the baby almost ready to be birthed. With a final yell your baby was brought into this world. Poe cuddled you tightly as high-pitched cries filled the room. Poe let out a small excited laugh as he watched as your baby was cleaned and wrapped in a blanket before being handed to you.

“She looks like you.” You commented tiredly. Poe gently moved the strands of hair that were matted to your sweat streaked forehead and pressed a kiss to your brow.

“She has her mother’s eyes.” Poe added. The small bundle in your arms instinctively cuddled close and you cradled her ever so softly.

“She’s beautiful.” You grinned.

“Just like her mother.”

“Not so much at the minute.” You groaned, shifting slightly in an attempt to get comfy.

“Believe me, post-labour you is looking stunning.” Poe reassured, giving you a bright smile. You laughed.

You eventually found yourself freshened up and dressed in more than just a hospital gown, settled in a bed on the ward. Kes had arrived a few hours ago but now that labour was over he was able to finally visit.

“She’s gorgeous.” Kes admitted as he held your daughter.

“She is, isn’t she.” You smiled.

“How’re you feeling?” Kes wondered, gently passing little Shara back to you.

“Exhausted and everything hurts and aches, but otherwise I’m absolutely fine.” You answered.

“Good.” Kes gave your hand a squeeze then turned to his son who had just entered your room. He passed one of the coffee cups in his hand to his father then came to sit by your side.

“We might be stuck here for a bit.” Poe explained, taking a sip of his drink then placing it down on a nearby table.

“Why?”

“Since we’ve been in here, the snow has really come down. It might be a longer drive home.”

You groaned in annoyance.

“As if the ride here wasn’t bad enough.”

You searched for the nearest window and seeing the still falling snow, you frowned.

“You just had to arrive in the middle of all this didn’t you?” You looked down to Shara whose hand was trying to grasp at your clothing, little unintelligible sounds escaping her mouth. The vague annoyance you had about the weather outside melted away and you gently stroked Shara’s cheek, a smile finding its way onto your face. Poe leaned forward in his chair and took your hand, his thumb gently rubbing small circles into your skin, he then pressed a kiss to your knuckles and offered you a smile as he pulled back.

“I almost forgot.” Kes noted, bending down to pick up a gift bag. Poe gently took Shara from your arms, and you watched in adoration as he slowly stepped towards the hospital cot, bouncing her softly in his arms and making unintelligible noises as he put his face close to hers and smiling. You smiled as Poe made his way back to your side once Shara was safely in the cot. Kes offered you the bag and shuffling to a sitting position you then opened it. A small teddy bear was the first thing you took out. You gave it a quick squeeze, feeling how soft it was and with help from Poe, placed it in the corner of Shara’s cot. Reaching in again, you grasped a crocheted blanket. Lifting it out, you held it up to get a good look at it. It was primarily white and in the corner you spotted Shara’s name stitched in black.

“Kes this is beautiful.” You beamed.

“Reminds me of-“

Kes nodded towards the bag. Poe cocked a brow and peered inside. A smile tugged at his lips as he reached in and pulled out another blanket. This one looked a little worn, the wool frayed in areas. Poe showed it to you, spreading it out across your lap, his thumb running slowly over the name in the corner. Poe. 

“Shara made that one too” Kes motioned to the blanket with Shara’s name on it. “It was blank of course. I added the name,” Kes went on. You glanced at the two names and noted how one seemed a little neater than the other. “I’ve been practicing, but I’m still not as good as your mother. Anyway... she thought or well… she hoped that you’d have children of your own someday and she knew she might not be around for that day. So she made a couple before she passed-“

“A couple?” Poe cocked a brow, a smile playing on his lips but when you looked over you could see his eyes becoming glassy with barely held back tears.

“Your mom was… very hopeful,” Kes smiled. “I’ve kept them safe and well-looked after over the years so I could give you it when it was time.”

Poe was speechless and simply brought his father into a tight hug, burying his face in his shoulder. You wiped a tear from your cheek, touched by Kes’ and the late Shara’s gift. Poe cleared his throat as he pulled away from his father, his hands coming up to wipe the tears away. Kes himself was fighting tears and offered his son, and then you a soft smile.

“Thank you so much Kes. I haven’t got the words to say how much this means. I really wish I could’ve met her.” You sniffed a little as you gently rubbed the soft wool of the blanket in your grasp.

“I know I’ve said it before but she would’ve loved you,” Kes smiled at you, a glimmer of sadness in his expression. “I should let you get some rest. I’ll come by later, probably with some better food than what you can get here.”

“Thank you Kes, for all of this,” You looked over to Poe. “I imagine you’ll want to talk to your dad. I’ll be fine on my own for a while.”

Poe stepped over to you and captured your lips in a loving kiss. He gave you a nod and turned to leave. He stroked little Shara’s cheek before leaving with Kes.

The following morning you were cleared to go home, Kes and Poe walked on either side of you as you took the slow journey back towards the car. Once you were in the passengers seat, Kes leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“Take care. The both of you.” Kes then turned to Poe who had just finished securing your sleeping newborn in the vehicle. 

“We will.” Poe smiled then brought his father in for a hug.

“I’ll speak to you both soon. For now I’ll let you get home and get some rest,” Kes clamped a hand on Poe’s shoulder. “Get it while you can, this one always decided to cry the moment you shut your eyes.” Kes motioned to Poe with his thumb.

“Well lets hope Shara doesn’t take after her dad in that sense.” You smiled softly.

“I love you both. Take care.” Kes stepped back and watched as Poe got in the car and began the trip home. Thankfully, the journey was uneventful, the thick layer of snow that had fallen luckily hadn’t effected the roads too much, and soon enough Poe was pulling up the driveway. The warmth of your home welcomed you as you stepped through the door. Poe had already made the trip home a few hours after the birth of Shara to make sure the power was working and to feed his tabby. A few steps in and Beebee was at your side within a moment. The tabby appeared curious at the bundle in your arms, pawing at your leg and becoming rather verbal.

“Beebee, hold on a minute.” You chuckled, stepping further into your home. Shara still remained asleep in your arms. Poe followed in behind you, carrying the to-go bag and heading towards your bedroom.

“Hungry?” Poe called as he came back into view. He placed the moses basket in his grasp in the lounge, ready for you to place Shara in.

“Definitely!”

“Get comfy and I’ll whip something up.” Poe rubbed your shoulder as he passed by, offering you a gentle smile. While the sounds of Poe cooking emanated from the kitchen, you decided to find a comfy spot on the sofa. The moment you sat, Beebee jumped up beside you, his head moving to try and get a clear look at what you held. Very slowly you tipped Shara in Beebee’s direction, the tabby putting its front paws on your leg and peering at the newborn. Beebee took a tentative sniff then drew back before curling up at your side and purring. Eventually Poe returned to the lounge with two plates, he placed them both on the coffee table in front and motioned for you to pass Shara to him. After, Poe very carefully laid Shara in the nearby moses basket. You shuffled forward and took the two plates, passing one to Poe once he sat beside you.

“Thanks.” You spoke before starting to eat.

“Welcome.” Poe replied through a mouthful of food. For a time the two of you enjoyed the temporary silence that filled your home. Waiting for the moment little Shara would wake and call desperately for her parents attention. 

The remainder of the day passed, Poe and yourself interacting with Shara during the moments when she would wake, then enjoying the moments when she was asleep to get some semblance of rest. Before you realised, it was nightfall and the exhaustion that had been hampering you all day finally started to tug at you. Looking at Poe, whose head was resting slightly on your shoulder, his expression was that of a tiredness.

“We should head to bed babe.” You whispered. Poe hummed in agreement and after a slight groan he shuffled off the sofa and held a hand out to you. You took it gratefully and eventually found your feet. Poe took the little bundle out of the basket and carefully passed Shara to you before lifting the basket itself and carrying it towards your bedroom. Shara didn’t stir as you followed behind Poe and once the basket was placed near to your bed, you slowly placed her back inside. Leaning down you pressed a kiss to the top of her head. It was a slow process getting ready for bed, but soon enough you were under the covers with Poe by your side.

“It’s been a long day.” Poe noted, propping himself up with the last reserves of energy he had.

“It’s going to be an even longer couple months before things settle back down.” You added. Poe smiled softly, his gaze passing over the basket before returning to you. He shuffled closer and wrapped you in his arms, his fingers gently playing with your hair for a time before he rested his head beside yours.

“Completely worth it. Sleepless nights here we come.” He teased, you could hear the tired smile in his voice. You turned and pressed a loving kiss to his cheek, as you began to turn away, Poe’s hand came up to cup your cheek gently to keep you close. He leaned in and pressed several kisses your lips, some long and passionate, others short and sweet, either way you were both left breathless.

“You’re a remarkable woman.” Poe spoke with certainty. He gave you a quick squeeze then settled down beside you.

“I’m also lucky,” You added in a whisper. “To have you. To have you both.” Your gaze fell on the basket where your baby slept.

“We’re lucky to have you too.” Poe replied in a whisper, you felt his lips against your skin then felt as he relaxed. With Poe holding you, and the exhaustion of the day, it didn’t take too much longer for sleep to find you.

A cry woke you from your sleep and you grumbled as you slowly slipped out of bed, Poe stirred but after some reassurance he seemed to drop back off to sleep. You stepped over and took Shara in your arms then quietly stepped out of your bedroom, shushing your newborn and gently rocking her in your arms. You soon settled down in the armchair placed in Shara’s bedroom and started to feed her.

“You’re going to be trouble I can feel it.” You smiled lovingly at your little girl. For a time you just sat there, enjoying the relative peace and the quiet sounds of your baby. You held her close against you afterwards, rocking her and shushing her as she began to fuss again. The sound of heavy shuffling footsteps drew your gaze to the door where Poe tiredly stumbled through.

“Everything alright?” Poe wondered, his voice full of sleep.

“She’s just hungry. Go back to bed.”

“Not without you, I’m not.” Poe rubbed the sleep from his eyes and came to sit on the arm of the chair. He stroked your hair softly, humming gently as he watched how you soothed little Shara. Slowly you passed her to Poe, letting him gently stroke her cheek and whisper soothing, loving words to her. He held her for a time, gently bouncing her to encourage her to back towards sleep. Poe carefully placed Shara in your arms and placed his hand on your shoulder. You pressed a loving kiss to the top of your little girl’s head then cradled her close to your chest as you leaned back in the armchair.

“Isn’t she just gorgeous Poe?” You enthused.

“Just like her mother.” Poe smiled, his fingers running through your hair before they rested on your jaw to guide you in for a passionate kiss. He then disappeared from the room for a moment before returning, his guitar case in hand. You smiled softly at him as he began to take out the instrument.

“Daddy is going to play for you Shara. Your daddy makes the most beautiful music, just listen.” You spoke gently to your newborn. The small bundle made an unintelligible noise before nuzzling closer. Poe sat beside you, his guitar resting on his thigh and he began to play. The music was quiet, slow, calming. A lullaby. Then a moment later, Poe began to sing. You realised then why the music sounded familiar, Poe was singing his Mother’s song. Your baby’s namesake. There in the dim light, you shared a loving look with your husband before gazing at the child in your arms. The music drifted around the three of you, wrapping you in its comfort. You watched as little Shara closed her eyes ever so slowly and eventually succumbed to sleep. And as you sat there with your eyes beginning to flicker close, a mix of exhaustion and peace coming over you, you thought fondly of all the years to come. Of all the years of love yet to share between the three of you. Of the memories to be made. Of how perfect all this was. And how it all started one night in a bar listening to a wonderful man playing the most beautiful music you’d ever heard.

~Fin~

Tagged:

@petah-parkah-and-potahtas @mirkwoodshewolf @sleepretreat @jessicaguerreiro07 @pdamn-eron @imagine-that-star-wars @yourwonderbelle @imaginecrushes @simplyonehellofapilot @unstoppableforcce @mirkwoodavengersherlockianwhofan @pinkdreamsandglitter @i-said-goddameron @ghost-with-spaghetti-arms @sassy-satanunicorns

@ponycake27

@playbucky​​

@arrowswithwifi​​

#Poe Dameron x reader #Poe Dameron

[secretagentfan]

Belly of the Beast

The Seventh Chapter of Lure of the Damned a Xillia 2 zombie AU fic

On Archive! Warning: GORE 

      When Ludger was sixteen he’d grazed Julius’s car on the concrete base of a streetlight in the grocery store parking lot two minutes from their apartment complex. The metal had made the worst sound imaginable: crunchy and shrill. Definite.

     He’d somehow managed to drive the car home, but when he pulled (sloppily) into their parking space and tried the door, it wouldn't budge. It was jammed— the crash must have warped it. Ludger should have used the other door, gotten out of the car, and inspected the damage, but he didn’t.

     In that moment, Ludger sat there.

     Left hand still clutching the broken door handle, he just sat there, staring at nothing in particular. His gut churned in a mixture of guilt and pure nerves. A bird chirped in a tree outside the car window, hopped up a branch, and flew away. Ludger watched it, wished it luck. He was breathing, simple, mechanical breaths. The air conditioning had shut off, which was unpleasant, especially since the car was emitting a rather wretched burnt-rubber smell. The inside of the car was heating up, and so was Ludger, but he couldn’t bring himself to lift his hand from the broken door. He couldn’t move.

     Ludger would never forget that feeling of vacant, regretful, stasis.

     The feeling revived years later, no less potent than it was in his childhood, fitting to his body like an itchy moth-eaten sweater as he sat, perfectly still, on the massive canopy bed inside Erston’s ridiculous orchard mansion.

     The bedroom door was shut. Ludger looked at it, hands on his knees.

     Wander around, see what happens, Agria had said. Staring at that door, overtaken by all the horrific possibilities, Ludger was 100% certain he did not want to take her advice. He was also 100% certain he had to.

     Elle was napping beside him, arms and legs spread out wide. Each limb was wrapped in a different blanket. She looked like the cutest, comfiest octopus in the world.

     Ludger looked at her instead, lifting a blanket that had been shoved to the foot of the bed so that it covered her stomach. Jude was fussing around nearby, putting on his worn, fingerless gloves and organizing their bags by the door in case they had to make a quick exit. He had the right idea.

     Something was going on here. It was probably bad, definitely dangerous, and they had walked right into it—or at least selected it over a potentially more dangerous option. They needed to be ready to confront what they agreed to, whatever it was.

     The bedroom was safe. The shower was great. But eventually, they were going to have to leave this room and deal with the damage. Ludger needed to stand up. Julius wasn’t going to tap on the window and coax him out this time.

     He took a deep breath, crossed the room to his bag, and pulled out the small-but-mighty sledgehammer he had looted from a home goods store. He set it by octo-Elle, the corner of his mouth quirking downward when he noticed the mattress sink a little with the weight.

     “Hammer’s next to you, Elle.”

     “Yeah ‘kay,” she mumbled, still half asleep.

     “You have your whistle?” he checked, hand on her shoulder. Elle groaned pushing his hand off. She reached under her shirt, producing the large metal whistle Julius had stolen for her on her sixth birthday. It was loud, awful sounding. Elle loved it, but after a week of no sleep for either of them, and lots of regrets, Julius and Ludger had to lay down the law and say it was for emergencies only.

     “Yeah, got it, go away,” Elle grumbled, turning on her side. Ludger smiled, brushing her hair back once, for courage, before looking to Jude.

     “Want to take a look around?” he asked.

     Jude’s eyes were wide. Ludger blinked, confused for a moment, before realizing that handing an 8-year-old a sledgehammer was probably a bit eccentric. He shrugged.

     Jude was not deterred. “Has she ever used that?”

     “Seeing it is enough, usually.”

     Jude’s shoulders relaxed, as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll admit, it does make me feel a little more at ease to know that she can defend herself.”

     Ludger nodded, glancing at Elle one more time. He hated leaving her, but it wouldn’t be the first time. Elle was capable and independent when she needed to be. She would be fine. He had to keep telling himself that. He picked up his metal pipe and went to the door.

     “I’m right behind you,” Jude offered. Ludger felt a small spark of courage at the optimism in his voice, or maybe it was the surprisingly sturdy golf club he was holding. Whatever magic it was, it gave Ludger the ability to close his hand firmly around the door handle.

     With a deep breath, he let in the rest of the world.

     The mansion was massive, absurd. Their room was situated at the end of a long hallway. Following the hall to its natural conclusion seemed to be as good of a path as any. They took turns jiggling the handles on ornate doors, shrugging at each other when they were revealed to be locked.

     Ludger wasn’t sure why he expected anything in this place to be easy. They pressed on, navigating farther and farther away from Elle. The sound of the whistle would carry. Ludger knew it would, but he couldn’t help but fear.

     A large, dilapidated mural of four horses running through the orchard on the wall between the two master staircases pulled him from his thoughts. It screamed wealthy excess in loud capital letters. He was reminded of his brief stint as a window painter in high school. Never again— just looking at the size of this thing made his arms hurt.

     He made long suffering eye contact with the horse on the left: it was mid-gallop, neck tilted down just a little more the others, like it was questioning why it was running in the first place. Someone had chipped the paint on its muzzle in the shape of a moustache. He pointed at it, and Jude laughed.

     “It looks like Erston’s group isn’t so focused on maintaining the original interior design here,” Jude said. “At least, not the usual kind—have you noticed how clean everything else is? How long do you think that took them?”

     “Depends on how long it took for survivors to come back here,” Ludger replied, watching as the smile on Jude’s face faded into something more knowing, tired.

     In the early days most people had yielded to the rules set out by the authorities and abandoned vast regions that had been labeled “infected.” Anything to stop the spread. People lost their homes, livelihoods, in order to run to the next safe area. Of course, that safe area would quickly turn unsafe, and they would have to run again. It was untenable.

     Ludger had spent those days barricading in the break room at the hospital with Julius and Elle. Stealing baby formula and looting vending machines, just biding time, praying for aid.

     Instead of aid, the rules changed. Fences and walls were built, not to protect, but to contain. Entire countries were determined lost causes and cut off like a rotten limb. Anyone who was counting on assistance, Ludger, Elle, and Julius included—learned a painful lesson.

     Time marched on, even through the rot. Cracked windows, layers of dust.

     “Ludger,” Jude said, interrupting his thoughts. He was pointing to a door nestled to the far right of the mural. It had been painted to look like it was part of the base of one of the orchard’s trees, the steel doorknob molded in the shape of a cute cartoon apple.

     “I think I saw Presa carrying the bodies through there. I’d like to check that out, if that’s alright with you.”

     Jude really was just going to tackle the worst possible place as fast as he could, wasn’t he? Stomach sinking, Ludger nodded.

     The apple door gave way to a descending staircase, leading to a short hallway, and crusty cellar door. There were brown bloodstains on the wood stairs and white walls. Some looked like handprints.

     Ah, so they went with a murder basement, Ludger thought. He wished he could have been more surprised. He sighed, stepping forward, when Jude’s hand hit his chest.

     There were voices coming from behind the door. A man’s voice, too high to be Erston’s, was arguing loudly with an airy voice that could only belong to Muzét.

     Whatever they were discussing, it was heated, at least on the man’s end. Ludger hesitated for a moment, making eye contact with Jude. He nodded, and they quietly advanced.

     “—telling you they just need to be disposed of.”

     “But we carried them all this way.”

     A scream, high-pitched, agonizing. The sort of sound made only when someone emptied out their lungs completely.

     “Muzét’s in trouble!” Jude cried.

     Without thinking, Ludger’s hand flew to the doorknob, twisting it ineffectively. Locked. Jude caught his wrist, pressing the golf club in his hand.

     “Hold this please and get back!”

     “Huh?”

     Cluelessly, Ludger pressed himself to the wall, armed with Jude’s golf club and his own metal pipe, and watched as Jude took a few steps back, exhaled, and ran toward the door with all the intensity of a football player about to tackle.

     Shit, was he going to break the door down?

     “Jude, hold on!”

     “We don’t have time!”

     He crashed into the door, right shoulder first. The door made a loud cracking sound, splintering at the lock, partially cracking open wide enough for Ludger to kick it out fully, as Jude stumbled back, clutching his shoulder.

     Opening the door was a mistake; the smell of rot was intense enough to make Ludger’s eyes water.

     “What the—”

     A man in a white lab coat was staring at them, wide-eyed. He was wearing a too-loose medical mask, secured to his face with a pair of dirty spectacles.

     “Oh,” Muzét said, from where she was sitting on the floor, pristine and uninjured. “There were a couple of cute boys under all that blood and grime.”

     “You’re not hurt,” Jude said, breathless. He was wincing a bit, holding his shoulder.

     “My door!” the man in the lab coat exclaimed. “Why would you just break it open like that? Are you animals?”

     “We heard screaming—” Ludger explained.

     “So you break down a door to head toward the scream? Altruism is well and good until you’re bitten for it. How on earth have you managed to survive this long?”

     Ludger flushed. His body had just reacted without thinking, but the man made a point. What was he going to do? He had a metal pipe, and a golf club. Still…he couldn’t have just ignored the scream. He glanced toward Jude for back-up and felt his stomach drop.

     Jude was ghostly pale. He was staring in straight ahead at the right side of the room which had previously been hidden by the doorframe. Steeling himself, Ludger followed his gaze.

     Bodies. A good amount. They weren’t piled, exactly; they were resting in organized lines on old, deteriorated mattresses. Some were tied down with rope and wire, others were just lying there, still. Isla and her husband were in the still category. Their crushed skulls and shotgun wounds were on full display, just two more corpses in the room, but corpses Ludger knew, recognized— assisted in. Somehow seeing their bodies again, like this, made guilt pierce through his stomach more forcefully than killing them had.

     At least they were quiet. A woman, heavily decomposed, was tied to one of the mattresses in the center. A tube in her wrist was connected to an IV drip, and an incision had been made in the base of her neck, all the way down to the lower border of her ribcage. Her skin had been peeled back and held in place with metal pins; rusty brown organs were pulsing, shifting in her chest as she writhed, jaw opening and closing.

     Ludger made the mistake of meeting her eyes, wild, bloodshot and desperate. She was making high, cooing sounds, spittle trailing down her chin. The image of Elle as an infant flashed in Ludger’s head; the sounds she made as a baby, teething, adorable— fuck.

     The involuntary comparison made something harsh lurch in his stomach, wretched, awful; his whole body recoiled, rejecting the sight in front of him, emotionally, physically, whatever it took— as long as it was away from him.

     Reflex pushed his hand to cover his nose and mouth, as he hunched forward, shutting his eyes, silently willing himself not to get sick. Not here. Not now.

     The woman yelled, and Ludger realized she was the scream they heard. She was who they came to help. This was worse than he could have imagined. Why did they leave the room, no, why did Ludger ever leave the car?

     “Ah, Balan, they don’t look so well,” Muzét announced. “A little green.”

     “They weren’t supposed to come down here…” the man in the lab coat mumbled. “Oh, this is a fine mess. Erston is going to levitate.”

     “Oh boy, I hope so,” Muzet said. “I think he’s more likely to freeze over though. Destroy you with a single stare, how wonderful.”

     “You and I have very different definitions of wonderful.”

     “What are you doing to them?”

     Jude’s usually quiet voice rose over Muzét and Balan’s chatter with ease.

     The scientist’s voice was calm, as if trying to calm a wild animal. “I know how the mattresses look, but I assure you what is happening here is purely scientific—"

     “—What, no! I don’t care how “scientific” it is,” Jude burst out, all sincere anger. “This is inhumane!”

     “Pardon? Look here,” Balan said. He seemed genuinely taken aback. “These corpses are infected. They stopped being human a long time ago.”

     For a moment, Ludger thought Jude was going to take a swing at him. His gloved fists were clenched, eyes blazing, but they hung still at his side. Ludger opened his mouth to try and say something, anything calming, but Jude pivoted, changing direction and booking it toward the infected woman.

     “Jude—!” Ludger called out, reaching to grab his elbow a second too late. Jude didn’t notice. He walked past the dead bodies, stepping over some of the still-moving infected to investigate the woman’s IV.

     His voice was calm, confident. “If this is legitimate research, I want to look at it for myself, not hear about it secondhand. I won’t touch I prom—…"

     Jude trailed off. He blinked, once, twice, frozen in place, as he read whatever was written on the IV bag. His whole posture changed. His composed confidence from seconds earlier flipped into animalistic desperation. He reached up, roughly tugged the bag from the hanger. The whole thing shook.

     “Hey! Hey, hey! Do not touch that!” Balan yelled, clearing the corpses with practiced ease. Jude dropped the bag, hardly seeming to see it. It hit the floor with a wet squelching sound. His hands were shaking. Ludger was already running toward him, dropping the pipe and golf club. Something was wrong, something was definitely, definitely, wrong.

     “What the hell are you doing, man!?” Balan shouted, crouching to pick up the blood bag, when Jude punched him, hard across the face. He toppled at the force of the impact, slamming onto the infected woman, who screeched, arms and legs struggling against the restraints, mouth opening and closing, going for Balan’s head.

     “What on earth!? Balan!” Muzét cried, frantically attempting to untangle Balan from the infected woman. Ludger had his hands full, arms locked around Jude’s midsection.

     “Ludger, let go of me!” he yelled, but his voice sounded shattered, fragile. Unfortunately, his struggling was anything but.

     “You have to calm down first!” Ludger commanded, but Jude only struggled harder. His elbow slid against the bandages on Ludger’s arm purposefully, and Ludger sucked in a pained gasp, grip loosening enough for Jude to scramble out of his hold.

     “Sorry,” Jude said. Regret flashed on his face for a fraction of a second, but it melted into something else, something stronger. He lunged for Balan again, who Muzét had managed to get upright, away from the infected woman.

     “Jude!”

     Whatever Jude was trying to do wasn’t going to help him; Ludger knew the look in his eyes. Pure, unadulterated, despair. Whatever he wanted to fight; he had already lost. Ludger grit his teeth, knowing what he had to do, but hating the idea of it.

     Sorry, Jude, he thought. But you’re not giving me much of a choice here.

     Ludger leapt forward, hand flying to Jude’s injured shoulder. Jude’s eyes widened as Ludger’s fingers closed around it, squeezing. The sound Jude made— a sharp, pained intake of breath— made Ludger's heart ache. Dislocating it from this angle would be easy, but Ludger wasn’t looking to do that.

     “Listen to me—” Ludger whispered, pulling Jude down, other hand pinning his left wrist to his back. “What you’re trying to do— you’re going to regret it when you can think clearly. Stop attacking and breathe.”

     Jude continued to struggle for a few painful seconds, before his eyes shut, and he went limp. Ludger released him immediately.

     They were both breathing hard. Muzét and Balan were staring at them with baffled expressions. Ludger swallowed, returning his focus to Jude, who was curled in on himself. His breath left him in quiet, choked sobs. Ludger rubbed his back.

     “Can someone please explain what’s going on here? I’m so confused,” Muzét said, finally breaking the silence. Balan and Ludger both shook their heads at her, but evidently, her words were all it took to get Jude to start talking.

      "My name is Jude Mathis,” he said, voice pure fury. This clearly meant something to Balan, as his entire face seemed to go slack with shock.

     “That’s…” Balan said, “Oh, god.”

     “I think I see it now…” Muzét mumbled, finger to her chin, held tilted just so.

     “Then you should understand why—you should know!” Ludger’s heart pulled at the agony in Jude’s voice. His fists were clenched hard against the floor.

     “That blood bag of yours says Ellen Mathis.”

     He looked small, furious, lost.

     “What the hell have you done to my mom?”

#Tales of Xillia 2 #Xillia 2 #LudJu #Ludger/Jude #fic #myfic

[clansayeed]

Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 3: Of Monsters and Men

PAIRING: Nik Ryder x trans*M!MC (Taylor Hunter) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

Taylor Hunter (MC) has made it good for himself in New Orleans; turns out moving to a new city fresh out of college to reinvent yourself isn’t as hard as people make it out to be. Things only start to get confusing when he finds himself the target of a malevolent wraith. Good thing someone’s looking out for him though — because without Nighthunter Nik Ryder as his bodyguard he definitely won’t survive long in the twisting darkness of the supernatural underworld he’s tripped into.

Bound by Circumstance and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the book Nightbound and the rest of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Circumstance only loosely follows the events and plotline of Nightbound, and features a separate antagonist, different character motivations, and further worldbuilding.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Circumstance/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Taylor meets his new bodyguard, debates casual necromancy, and learns the truth behind his hallucinations. All while a fae makes him cream soda.

[READ IT ON AO3]

Taylor doesn’t remember waking up — one second he’s asleep and the next he just isn’t.

Despite the things he’s seen (not really seen, but thought he’s seen) he’s not a fan of these kinds of wakings. Would rather emerge slowly as if from a cocoon. With enough time between breaths and heartbeats to let the dreams that plagued him fade away into fuzzy oblivion — forgotten despite all efforts to bring them back to recent memory.

He prefers it because when he wakes all at once there’s no helping remembering his dreams.

And all of that — the cemetery, Vera’s gloves, Kristin’s tears, the moon and moldy flowers — definitely isn’t something he wants to linger on.

“Are you gonna freak out now? Because these walls ain’t soundproofed.”

The voice resists its accent; clips sounds the Louisiana slang wants to let hang. He’s never heard it before but doesn’t need to.

It does the trick. Reminds Taylor how easily the world of dreams can blend with reality.

He takes in his surroundings with eyes still shut. The scratchy pilling on the cushions underneath, the stale air that’s made his shirt stick sweaty to his body, the repetitive squeak of a portable fan that should have retired a lifetime ago.

If he keeps his eyes shut will it all go away? Can it really be that easy?

Of course it isn’t. He knows it, the stranger knows it… but still a guy can dream.

“I know you’re awake, kid,” the stranger continues, “sleepin’ people don’t breathe like that.”

Taylor’s nose scrunches. “Don’t watch me breathe.”

“Then don’t breathe weird.”

The fact I‘m not hyperventilating right now is a fucking miracle, Taylor wants to say back — doesn’t in favor of inhaling so hard his nostrils burn before letting it out in a whistle on his dry lips.

Instead he snaps his eyes open and stares at the bald patches of peeling paint on the popcorn ceiling.

Something shifts behind him; the squeak of leather on pleather.

“You’re handlin’ this awful well.”

No, he’s really not. “I’m not unfamiliar with waking up on strange couches.”

“Is that so?”

Taylor doesn’t like the way the voice drops into a suggestive purr. It’s enough to get him to sit up on his elbows and try to shake the fog from his head. The familiar words, “how much did I drink last night?” are on the tip of his tongue but without the pounding headache there to accompany them they just don’t feel right.

A hand appears out of the corner of his eye. He watches scarred knuckles on tanned skin flex silvery as a nondescript flask is placed on one of the coffee table’s few bare spots.

“Here — this’ll help. Trust me.”

Taylor takes it. Can smell the familiar simmering honey and spice of whiskey. But he isn’t even tempted — screws the cap back on and sets it pack with a little too much purpose.

The stranger gives a ‘huh’ of surprise. “You sure? It’s not top shelf, but —”

“I’m gonna say this once;” as he does Taylor sits up and digs his knuckles into his eyes to quell the dizzy rush, “don’t ever offer me alcohol again. Please.”

As bright and inconsistent colors flash before his sight there’s silence.

Then, “fair enough,” and takes back the flask.

He can’t immediately tell if the stranger is just prone to dramatics or if the positioning of the lamp-sans-shade is purposefully there to shroud his rescuer (or kidnapper) in all the shadows the apartment can offer.

But it’s definitely him: the guy from the dive bar. Where his memory ends his eyes pick up the slack and fill in the sharp face like a puzzle. Dark eyes — almost black — and evidence of a five o-clock shadow. A little bit of a greying sheen to the hairs at his temples. And a strange scar like an inverted triangle brushed flippantly from left temple to eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone.

So he’s the quintessential ‘rugged, grizzled, don’t-play-by-the-rules’ type. Which, in Taylor’s opinion, just makes the worn leather trench coat overkill.

And his very presence makes things very very complicated.

Makes his head incite a full-on civil war between the things he knows and the things he’s seen — not to speak of the independent faction trying to resist both.

The man grabs something small off of the stand beside him and a glass of water — takes one of Taylor’s hands off of his jeans and pushes it into his palm in a very non-negotiable style.

“At least take this. That headache looks real fierce. Won’t work as fast as the booze, though.”

Oh, he knows. But he’s glad for something to help no matter how little and washes down the aspirin tablet with the entire water glass.

Judging by the awkward silence that follows neither Taylor nor the man know how to actually… begin. Because there needs to be a beginning — maybe not right now but there was earlier and if he thinks about it too much, if he lets his imagination run wild and spiral, he’ll start to panic.

Last time he checked panic wouldn’t bring Kristin back from the dead.

Kristin. Oh god. He needs to find her body.

“Can I…?” He raises the glass. The stranger slaps his knees and hauls himself up with possibly too-much dramatic effort and takes it to refill. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

It’s a small apartment with only as many walls as needed. Ideally Taylor would prefer a room between him and the man to make his escape (which will be the exact opposite of stealthy) a little bit easier, but…

He waits until the leather-clad back is turned before slowly starting to stand. Not one step and the fucking floor creaks underfoot.

Shit. “Uh — can I get some ice?” Taylor asks; louder than necessary to cover it up.

The man (probably) rolls his eyes. “Want a straw while I’m at it? Maybe a little pink umbrella?”

“I’d prefer yellow.”

“I bet you would.”

Taylor waits, poised like a viper, and strikes when the ice maker on the fridge door begins to rumble to life. Dashes as fast as he can — though it isn’t until he moves more than an inch that he realizes just how sore everything is — to what looks like every closed front door he’s ever seen.

Aaaand it’s locked.

There’s a deep rich laughter behind him as Taylor yanks on the brass handle; twists the lock this way and that in his growing panic and previously undiscovered claustrophobia.

When he looks back the man is behind him, glass in hand — with ice, too.

“Stop laughing!” Taylor’s voice cracks — makes him wince.

With a shake of his head the man approaches. Taylor tenses for some sort of assault but instead watches dumbly while his personal space is invaded. Damn this guy is tall.

“Stop being so funny.”

“What kind of fucking sicko locks an apartment from the outside?!”

Bemusement falls into a slight frown. He flinches, feels the stranger reach around…

The door unlocks with a click.

“Dunno, but I’ll let you know when I meet one.”

Not a second into looking up and up into the man’s face does Taylor push him back. Keeps his back pressed against the door and blindly searches for the knob but forces distance between them.

It doesn’t take a psychic to know he’s wary. The stranger sighs and scratches the back of his head.

“Listen — I ain’t holdin’ you hostage, or anything. You’re free to go.” But before Taylor can even twist his wrist he adds; “Not that I’d really wanna run the risk of facing Casper’s Cannibal Cousin again but that’s just me. You seem like a strong, capable guy. Lemme know how it goes.”

Fuck.

Taylor gives him a wary eye. “Are we — I mean… am I actually safe here?”

“With the wards on this place you’d have a hard time being stung by a really pissed-off mosquito.”

“Not funny.”

“Who’s laughing?”

Somehow they end up back in the same positions they were a minute earlier; Taylor’s fingers wet and numb from the glass and the other, well, he couldn’t look more like a middle-aged drunk if he tried; especially now with the coat off and thrown over the back of his chair.

“Do you have a name?” Taylor tries — and fails — not to let it get to him when he gets only a nod. “Wanna share?”

“Just call me Ryder.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It’s not your name.”

“Yes it is.”

“It’s dumb.”

“You’re dumb.”

A tense and silent stand-off follows. This is why he doesn’t spend much one-on-one time with cis-men, not that Taylor would say that out loud.

Finally ‘Ryder’ relents; “My first name’s Nik. Nobody calls me Nik — they just call me Ryder. That means you’ll call me Ryder, too.”

Well he won’t, but that’s beside the point. “And where are we? Are we still in New Orleans?”

The question catches Ryder by surprise.

“‘Course we are. Just a couple’a blocks over from Bourbon.”

“Oh, good.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

He tries not to feel peeled back into layers by the scrutiny of Ryder’s gaze but with eyes like that it’s kind of impossible. Makes him freeze up — words forgotten.

“Is that really all you wanna ask?”

His face flushes hot. “No, of course not.”

“Then ask.”

“Ask what?”

“You know what.”

“No I don’t,” again his voice cracks — makes him focus on the wet spot the glass leaves on his jeans rather than the look on Ryder’s face, “like — I really don’t. Because… because my head is telling me to ask ‘what happened’ but when I think about it I automatically default back to the fact that nothing about it makes sense — nothing about it could have been real.”

Ryder takes too long to respond.

“Just because it doesn’t make sense doesn’t mean it wasn’t real, Taylor.”

And doesn’t that just fire off a spark in his brain. Makes him turn and slam the glass down and give Ryder the hardest, worst, and most rueful look he can.

“Fine — you want me to ask questions? We’ll start with — with that. How d’you know my name?”

The man shrugs. “Because I’m being paid to.”

“You’re being…” —oh the headache— “so you were stalking me in the bar?”

“No.”

“Uh, you just admitted it.”

“Uh, no I didn’t.” Taylor must’ve hit a nerve judging by the tick in Ryder’s scarred brow. “Strange as it may seem — and we really ain’t short on strange with all this — I wasn’t hired until after I left the Touristy Unicorn.”

That doesn’t help. “Hired for what?”

“For protection detail; bodyguard stuff. For you, kid.”

Does he look like his brain is short-circuiting, because that’s definitely how he feels. And in his silence Ryder takes the opportunity to keep talking without being harassed. “I wouldn’t’ve taken it on a normal day but, shit, you ain’t normal. Not even taking into account that you saw me in my booth —”

“— No shit I saw you. You were just sitting there.”

Ryder shakes his head. “Sure was but I was glamoured up to the nines. Nothing under a century or without some heavy magical aid should have been able to see me.”

Taylor disregards his crazy talk — he has proof. “My friend saw you first.”

“Who, the tipsy co-ed?” he barks a laugh, “Nah, she was more focused on the two mashing mouths to my side. Was too hard to enjoy my drink with the sound of sloppy spit-swappin’ for me to forget.

“She may have been seeing the world a little liquored-up but she definitely didn’t know I was there. But you? You looked right at me; saw right through my glamour and with no small amount of effort judgin’ by how sick you looked after.”

His headache. And wasn’t that what had started all of… of whatever this was? His headache and wanting to go home, getting lost with no signal, and then…

There’s no resisting the permafrost that blankets over his bones. When Taylor looks at Ryder he doesn’t see him; just sees the outline of him and that awful haunting thing in his mind’s eye.

Ryder continues; “You can turn the paranoia down a notch. I was content to mind my own business until I got a call on a damn payphone nearby.”

“A… payphone?”

“Well they don’t ring on their own. And in this town if someone in the know crosses by a phone ringin’ on its lonesome then that means its for them.” He sniffs; brushes something off like it’s no big deal and Taylor’s the fool for not just knowing. “Picked it up and there it was in my head: your face, your name, and the message. That’s how you know there’s something heavy hangin’ in the air… the kind of spellwork that can dig into your head without a trace.”

Magic. Spellwork. This is too fucking nuts.

Still, he has to ask. “What was the message?”

“‘Protect him.’”

How foreboding and creepy that is — well he’ll deal with that later. Because up until shit went down he didn’t need protecting. Had done a fair job of protecting himself all his life. But how can you protect yourself from things you don’t know about?

“What was it?” When there’s no quirky quip Taylor knows he’s starting to ask the right things. “What was that thing in the cemetery?”

“I…”

“Come on, Mister Answers. Where’d your answers go?”

“Hey, now you just —”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know!” Ryder growls through gritted teeth. It’s the first time his posturing slips — shoulders slumped and instinctively seeking comfort in the contents of the flask. “I don’t… I don’t know. I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit; the dead, undead, the undead-dead. But I’ve never seen anything even remotely close to whatever the hell that was.”

Some bodyguard, he wants to say — doesn’t. Strange as it is Taylor finds himself comforted by the fact that he’s not the only one completely ignorant.

Not that it lasts long. Because when his brain finally puts everything together — shadows and skeletal killers and spellwork and the fact that the thing he’s been thinking was a flagpole leaning against the wall has a bright crystal atop it and is most likely something ridiculous like a wizard’s staff — it shuts off.

At least he’s got his answers.

Ryder knocks back the rest of the flask and tucks it between the cushions in his chair. Leans forward elbows-on-knees and studies Taylor’s face.

“I’ve been waitin’ for you to ask me what happened before you keeled over,” he says finally, “but now I’m not so sure you wanna know.”

“I do,” he answers on autopilot.

“You sure?”

He’s sure.

The story Taylor expects goes something like…

“I drew a circle around the creature, sated from its kill. Using the blood of my ancestors and sacred herbs I’ve been cultivating for this exact moment, I conjured magical holy fire and banished the demon back to the depths of Hell.”

But that’s not what he gets.

“I thought I had a shot when you went into hiding — you know how damn hard it is to chase something chasin’ somethin’ else through that shit? — but lost it again. Finally found you at the entryway and used the thing’s distraction to get a few arrows lodged in its, uh, well I think it was its back.

“Thing is those were holy light arrows I used. Blessed by every priest in every religion you’ve heard of and some you ain’t. I’ve used those things to take down malformed conjurings, hundred year-old revenants, the works. But it was about as effective as throwing a rock at its head.”

“I’m guessing that’s a bad thing.”

“You’d be guessin’ correctly.”

Taylor runs his hands over his face. Shoves down the thickness that wants to consume his lungs and keep him there; solid, immobile.

“Okay, okay —” talking more to himself than Ryder, “— okay. This is good. Crazy, but good.”

The look he’s given really shouldn’t be a surprise. “Did I break ya?”

“No — I mean, maybe, but not with that — no you… actually you saved me. So I’m grateful for that. Thank you.”

Ryder snorts. “Finally…”

“But you didn’t save Kristin. So I’m going to push down every… every problem I have with everything you said and pretend with all this crazy that conjurings and holy arrows and whatever-the-fuck-else is real —”

“It is. But, kid —”

“— And you’re gonna help me find some voodoo or hoo-doo or whatever kind of spell you can that’ll bring her back.”

The fact that Ryder doesn’t look the least bit remorseful is an issue he’ll deal with later — though that plate is starting to get a little crowded. But if the universe seems intent on throwing him into this fucking insanity with no warning or even a tutorial mode then he’s going to meet it head-on and screw the rest.

He leans forward and starts rifling through the leather-bound books, tomes, and sheets of paper scattered on the coffee table. “So what here can help us? Do we need a lock of hair, or a personal item, or —”

“She ain’t dead, kid.”

Taylor nods but doesn’t really register what he hears. “Got it. Dead meaning, what, her soul hasn’t crossed over yet? Is she still on the, uh, the mortal plane or something?” He looks around wildly; lifts up his feet like he’ll find her hiding there in miniature.

“Shit — is she here with us? Can you see her? Kristin? Krissy?”

“Whoa — okay, yep, you’ve cracked.”

Then Ryder’s hands are on his shoulders and oh hell no. His body reacts before the brain can catch up and he’s pushing Ryder away — giving himself breathing space.

“Don’t touch me.”

Much like the flask it’s an issue Ryder doesn’t push. Holds his hands up and gives a curt nod but that doesn’t make him look any less concerned. Now he’ll start to argue with the man, because technically it’s his fault Kristin died in the first place.

“There’s gotta be something —”

“To get you to chill out and listen to me? Yeah I doubt it.”

“— No. To help us contact her.”

“Could try a phone.”

Taylor snaps. “This isn’t a joke! I don’t know this crazy stuff like you do. So stop making jokes and — and help me!”

“Christ,” Ryder rubs his head — leans forward but doesn’t make a move to put his hands on Taylor again, “if you’d listen you’d not sound so damn stupid! She’s not dead, Taylor. The thing didn’t kill her.”

No, no… he saw…

“I won’t say it didn’t get close but she wasn’t the target. I don’t know if that limits it’s powers or… or hell, maybe it was feeling merciful or malicious. But your friend ain’t dead. — In a bad way… but not dead.”

It’s not even in the realm of good news — what did that mean, ‘in a bad way’ — but it’s the best news he’s heard yet so yeah he fucking runs with it. Leaps to his feet and doesn’t even bother trying to misdirect Ryder this time because not only is the door unlocked but he’s going to see Kristin alive.

And, really, with the zeal in which he was ready to pursue some form of necromancy to bring her back he’s kind of disappointed in how surprised Ryder sounds behind him.

“Kid — where d’you think you’re goin’ exactly?”

Still walking to the door, only backwards now. “Where do you think? Is she at the hospital, which one? Come on — take me there.”

“Well that ain’t happening but regardless how about we stay up here instead?”

“How about we don’t?”

“Kid —”

“First I need you to stop calling me that. Second I’ll grab a cab if I need to. Thanks, Nik—Ryder—whatever for saving me but I need to go see her.”

Ryder doesn’t stop him from slamming the apartment door behind him and finding his way out. That must mean he’s not entirely devoted to this bodyguard job, right? If that’s even really the case. Not like he has any proof.

It’s probably guilt at not saving her in time, rationalizes Taylor as he looks around the crowded hallway only to spot a winding, iron-wrought staircase almost hidden in the corner.

That makes the most sense. He feels guilty and there was nothing he could have even done in the first place.

Though, finding out where Ryder gets those hallelujah arrows might help.

He’s at the bottom of the steps when he remembers Vera had his phone last — is halfway through entertaining the idea of going back up to ask Ryder if he could borrow his when he takes in the ground level.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

It’s still dark outside but dawn has to be on the approach — last call having already been there, done that.

The bar is small and he can only think of it as oaken. Wood floors on wooden-panel walls with a wooden bartop in the corner decorated in carvings so small and detailed they could only have been done by hand. Even the booths are wooden on the outside with what look like rich mossy-green velvet lining.

But the place doesn’t smell like a woodshop — not how one would expect what has to be a quarter of the population of Louisiana’s deforestation, has to be — rather a forest. Like all the wood is still growing and alive. Pine needles and sap and mulchy earth digging into his bare toes and proving life continues to live underfoot.

Though when he wiggles his toes Taylor is almost surprised to discover he’s got his shoes on.

The place is empty save for two patrons and a lanky young man behind the counter.

One man, hulking in stature no doubt even if he’s bent over the table before him, scribbles diligently in a notebook with a glass of something bright at his side. Must have one of those cheesy lite-cubes within because he could swear the drink is pulsing color.

The other is a woman mostly obscured by the bar and her ombre violet sheen of hair. She’s gotta be decorated for Mardi Gras though the bone-white hand she twirls a lock of hair around would be more suited for a Día de Muertos party.

She notices him first — offers a flawless grin of black lipstick and white teeth before she learns forward and whispers something to the bartender.

He rounds on a practically choreographed flourish of his heel. Beams wide and unabashed as though he’s greeting an old friend and not a complete stranger.

“Taylor, my mortal! Good to see you again. You look famished. Are you famished? You look famished. I should get you something. Are you a vodka-type or a gin-type? You know what — I’ll fix a couple options up. Variety is the spice of life!”

Before Taylor can even process the English language enough to turn him down the bartender disappears in a shock of his albino-white hair. Leaves him staring at the silvery fabric of the partition.

“Garrus is a hoot, isn’t he?” asks the goth girl — she waves over a hand and pats a stool beside her in invitation. “Come, come! I wanna see what he whips up and you will too.”

He casts a longing look to what has to be the front door of the place — the only thing that isn’t wood, as he notes the iron decor with irony. But can’t even step in that direction before she clears her throat in a way that says she won’t take no for an answer.

So… he sits? He sits.

“I’m surprised Ryder didn’t come down with you. Or did you let him drink himself asleep?”

Taylor shakes his head. “No, he’s… he let me go.”

“Huh, funky.” She taps long dark nails against her cheek and stares at him with wonder. Underneath the strange combination of lights she looks even more pale than he thought — almost translucent. It must be her makeup that makes it look like her veins run black under her skin.

There’s a throbbing in his temples so Taylor looks away out of habit.

“You should call your friend back.”

“Why? It’ll be a good show — and even if it’s not your fancy you’ll still get free booze out of it.”

“Well I don’t drink.”

“Drink what, vodka, gin? I knew I called you for a tequila man.”

“No,” and headache aside he looks grim into her purple color-contacts, “like at all. I’m sober.”

Just as the girl’s expression falls into embarrassed horror the curtain brushes back as if by a gust of wind. The bartender Garrus barrels forward with an actual cauldron in his arms and every nook and twiggy-armed cranny filled with various corked bottles and vials.

“Not for lo~ong!” he sing-songs. Drops his things carelessly on the bar surface and starts picking through them intently. “Now I could have sworn I had more cane root than this, but maybe if I sub in —”

Taylor goes to speak but the gaunt hand on his arm stops him short.

“Garrus, he’s sober.”

“I know, Ivy my love, I heard. Honestly what was Ryder thinking trying to unload all this on the poor man without even offering him a drink?”

Ivy gives a sigh of honestly and precariously balances on thick-sole heels to reach over and grab Garrus’ next glassy victim out of reach.

“H-Hey,” he practically whines, “that’s not in the spirit of things!”

“Listen to me,” and Taylor’s grateful she’s going through all the trouble but can’t not laugh when she sandwiches her friend’s face in both hands, “sweetheart — he is sober; dry, straight-laced, whatever you want to call it — go for it. But this human no drinkey.”

If that’s what it would have taken for Taylor to get the man to stop he isn’t entirely sure he’d have had the guts to do it.

As it is Garrus looks like he’s taking it personally before their eyes meet and his face goes flushed pink all the way to the tips of his rather pointy ears.

“Oh.”

Ivy resumes her seat cheerily. “My work here is done.”

“S-Sorry,” Taylor tries to offer, “I’ll take a coke if you’re really, uh, insistent.”

Garrus is interrupted before he can answer. And by a voice that rings startlingly familiar, too.

“Why not whip up one of those old cream colas for him, Garrus? You were just talking about how much you missed making them.”

It’s enough to put the pep back in his leather-booted step. Has Garrus clapping in delight and pointing between them to the only occupied booth with a wink.

“Darling, you’re a genius!”

Garrus gathers up his cauldron and brews; dashes back behind the curtain. Taylor meanwhile whirls around on the stool cushion to the vaguely recognizable face previously ducked in concentration.

Krum — that was his name, right? The more-mountain-than-man he had bumped into heading home from rehearsal earlier that day.

Who gave Taylor the early triggers of a panic attack in how his skin seemed to turn to a literal mountain under the company lights.

Who pushes up an almost comically tiny pair of spectacles and gazes back at Taylor with similar vague recognition.

“Understudy-boy?” He pulls off his glasses and wipes the lenses with the hem of his sweater — as if he’s the one hallucinating things and not the other way around. “Well I’ll be, it’s you!”

Ivy joins the conversation while sipping her margarita through a stirring straw. “You know this guy, Krom?”

“K-Krum.” corrects Taylor.

“Well actually,” says the man in question sheepishly as he slides out of his seat and comes to join them, “it is Krom. It’s a family name, too, and I’m very proud of it. But mortals never hear it right and I just sort of stopped correcting them.”

Ivy croons. “You gotta get thicker skin you big lug.”

When Krom tries to take the stool next to him, though, Taylor flinches back violently. Practically falls off his seat in his haste to get back. His ‘little throbbing’ is a full-on migraine now; the lights too bright and the smells too weird and he has to back up and steady himself on the nearest support column to keep from vomiting all over the nice shiny floors.

Like most concerned samaritans Ivy and Krom are on him in an instant. Their voices blurring together with the ringing in his ears; “Honey are you okay? — what happened — oh no did I hurt him — go get Ryder!”

“NO!”

He’s startled when he realizes it’s him yelling — not them. Blinks through teary eyes to look into the expressions of two ordinary people warped and twisted by his traitorous mind.

Ivy’s makeup looks melded to her face — like if she catches the light a certain way he’ll see her skeleton and the lines above are the tension of her muscles. And Krom is still a literal mountain man but in high-granite definition; he swears he even hears stone grind with every movement.

“Oh god…” he wails and covers his eyes. Scratches at them like maybe he can claw off the tears instead of just wiping them away.

In the bright darkness there’s muttered, muffled noises. Footsteps echoing on wood, then metal.

Then the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He knows there’s a hand hovering just above the surface of him.

“The more you go on fightin’ it, kid, the more it’ll hurt.”

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to imagine the look on Ryder’s face.

Words seem impossible but he finally manages to grit it out. “I won’t.”

“Won’t what?”

“I won’t give in. I’m sober. I’m sober!”

He manages two good smacks to his skull before Ryder snatches his wrist ironclad. “Hey—Hey! Stop that!”

“I’m sober fuck’s sakes! This should have stopped! I’m sober and I’m not. crazy!”

They struggle over his hand but Ryder’s strength beats out Taylor’s fright and panic. Just lets it hang limp in midair in the calloused grip.

“You were up there with me fully ready to take on some high-level necromancy bullshit and this is what sets you off?”

“You were gonna let him do what?!”

“Relax, Iv’, relax,” Ryder sighs, “I wasn’t gonna let him do it. But still he believed. You did believe, didn’t you?”

Did he? He doesn’t know. Can’t even tell if he’s still awake right now or if this is all some awful feverish nightmare he can only hope to never have again with the help of his sponsor.

Ryder tries again. Closer, this time — almost a whisper.

“Didn’t you?”

“I —” the whole bar hangs on his every word, “— I think so.”

“So believe me now when I say this: you aren’t crazy. Weird I guess, and maybe a bit gutsy. But not crazy.”

It isn’t much. But it’s enough for him to pry his eyes open and look at the man above him through the tears.

“You don’t get it. I… they look like…”

“Like what?”

He shudders the words out; “Like monsters.”

“HA!”

The cackle — or shriek — is so loud and so close it startles both of them out of their closeness; out of the intimacy of his admission. Makes them both look at where Ivy sits cross-legged on the floor with them sucking on a lollipop.

“Well I should sure hope so,” she teases, “because my glamour looks like a cheap imitation of the real thing! That’s what I get for skimping with B-O-G-O spell goods.”

Glamour. He knows that word. And Ryder knows he knows too judging by the wry little smile he gets. “Yeah, them too.”

“But —”

“Glamours are for all kinds’a things, kid. Here, c’mon up ya get,” with both hands Ryder helps him stand, “that particular one of mine was for secrecy. Most common ones you’ll run into though are harmless little shifts — ways to make the not-so-human look a little bit more that way.”

There’s a gasp and all eyes fall on Krom, now fully stone. His hairline replaced by filed-off pointed edges and skin rippling with crystalline sediment.

“You can see through glamours?” He asks, mortified.

Ivy’s black lips peel back with her grin. “Wicked.”

Garrus appears from around the bar with interest. Still pale but there’s no denying the actual point and tilt of his ears or the way his skin seems to almost shimmer. His eyes pale but reflective like bright diamonds.

“I wondered what set off my wards when Ryder here dragged you in. Seeing through glamours is some high-level magic. What’ve you charmed?” He looks Taylor over with interest.

“What have I… what?”

Ryder answers for him. “Already did my due diligence, guys. He’s not wearing anything charmed — he is charmed. Can see through the veil au natural.”

“Wicked.” repeats Ivy.

“Guess you’re my not-so-mortal, huh?”

Krom shakes his head with hands clasped together. “No wonder you were so frightened at the company. I’m so sorry, Taylor. I had no idea.”

Taylor swallows but manages a smile. “It’s… it’s okay. Not your fault, right?”

And the more he looks at them — really looks instead of seeing passing glimpses and resisting their existence — the less everything hurts. The ringing in his ears fades and like a drum at the end of a song his head abruptly clears. Along with the clouds that seem to hang invisible over his head every time he has one of his hallucinations.

But they aren’t hallucinations. They’re real.

It’s all real.

There’s a hesitation before Ryder lightly touches his shoulder. Taylor doesn’t flinch away — in fact a little human (maybe?) warmth is kinda comforting.

“You good?”

“Y-Yeah, I think so,” he inhales shakily, “I just can’t believe it’s all… I mean that it’s not in my head. It’s real. Everything I’ve seen is… is real.”

But everything means everything. Makes his heart settle down somewhere in the region his stomach ought to be occupying.

Makes him look Ryder head-on.

“So why does it want me dead?”

#nightbound #playchoices #choices nb #nik ryder #choices nightbound #garrus #ivy #krom #nightbound mc #mc: taylor hunter #nik ryder x mc #oblv: bound by circumstance #oblv: new chapter #; my fics #tw: hallucinations

[oldbluethings]

St. Clarity

Tony Stark/Stephen Strange

Rated M for mature content

Prompts: flowers, Tony has a mild panic attack

This my @ironstrangehaven gift fic. My giftee was  @fromthemalfoymanor. This is probably not at all what you wanted—I tried for fluff and failed—but it's done!

He's been here before. Many times. But it never gets any easier.

Tony gulps down a panicked breath, looks around at the desolate world his mind has created. A dry wind blows red dust over crumbling ruins—the wreckage of skyscrapers and brownstones. New York, maybe.

Sometimes it's Titan, and he's already alone, covered in dust that's all that remains of his friends. Of Peter. And the idiots. The wizard. Good people who never had a chance.

There's someone here with him this time. Strange, the wizard—not the kid, thank god—sitting by himself on a piece of wreckage across the barren plain. Tony waits for him to turn into dust and blow away.

Fuck. He doesn't want to see this again. He can't.

He's seen Strange in his dreams many times. Sometimes he's himself, or what Tony imagines he's like. Sometimes, in that weird logic that only makes sense in dreams, he's a bizarre amalgamation of himself and the kid, both dusted together. Sometimes Strange just repeats the last thing he'd said to Tony—there was no other way—over and over until Tony finally wakes up in a cold sweat, stuffing his fist in his mouth to suppress a sob.

But Strange doesn't disintegrate this time. He gets up and walks slowly toward Tony. Where he steps, green shoots sprout from the dry ground, and flowers bloom in his wake, tall and purple, small and yellow.

Tony can't help it—an incredulous laugh bursts out of him. It's just too much, too surreal suddenly.

He knows this is a dream. Has known from the beginning, he realizes. Usually, he’s so trapped in his subconscious that he can't recognize the nonsensical details that would give a dream away. But tonight he can. This isn't New York, and it isn't Titan. This is just something his pathetic brain made up to torture him.

Tony takes a deep breath and whispers, “This is a dream. It's only a dream.”

Nothing happens. The dream world doesn't come crashing down around him with that revelation. He doesn't wake up, heart beating too fast and body covered in sweat, in his narrow little bed on board the ship.

“Huh,” he says. He can feel the impending panic attack edging away. He's almost calm again. Maybe because of Strange’s silly flowers, maybe because he knows this isn't real.

Is this lucid dreaming, he wonders. He's never done that before, had always thought that was just new-age granola bullshit.

Strange stops in front of him and tips his head in greeting. He looks like he did on Titan, dusty and tired, the way he always looks in Tony’s dreams. “Tony,” he says.

Fine, he can play along. He nods back. “Strange. What's with the flowers?”

Strange turns and looks. Behind him, an entire field of flowers is blooming, the edges still creeping further and further out along the horizon.

Strange turns back. “They're lavender and sage and chamomile. Good for calming your nerves. I brought them here for you,” he says with the casual absurdity of dream logic.

“I like them,” Tony says because it's the truth. He's already feeling better. If this is a dream, it's not a bad one.

“Tony.” There's a flicker of pain in Strange’s eyes. “You don't need to keep coming back to this place every night. You need rest.”

Does dream-Strange know he's in a dream, too? Maybe he knows whatever Tony knows. “I am resting. I'm actually asleep right now.” Tony narrows his eyes. “If this is my dream, what are you doing here?”

“I am often in your dreams.”

“Yeah, but not like this.” Tony gestures at him. “Most of the time you just tell me there was no other way and then you die. You're not usually so… interactive.”

“I…” A look of confusion passes over Strange’s face. “I needed to tell you something, I think…” He glances around at the bleak landscape, the flowers, and frowns. “No… This is your dream. You needed to tell yourself something.”

“What do I need to tell myself?” Despite everything, Tony’s intrigued. This is by far the weirdest dream he's ever had.

“I don't… know.” Strange looks up at him like that's a surprise.

Tony can't help smiling. Gotcha. “I think you did come here to tell me something. So what was it?”

Instead of answering, Strange shakes his head and suddenly stumbles to the side. Tony reaches out to grab him but the world shifts around them, folding and refolding, and suddenly they're in a… bedroom?

The walls are painted a garish, deep red—the same color as Titan’s dirt. It's, well… the best word Tony can come up with is a boudoir. There's an awful lot of ornate, black-lacquered furniture—far too much, in Tony’s opinion—a huge bed layered with embroidered pillows. The flowers have followed them—their delicate scent, too—only now they're in ceramic vases scattered about the room. White with delicate blue designs. Deep indigo and gold.

A breeze blows in through the open window, making the curtains billow, the flowers spill out of their vases onto the floor. It's night outside. Red dust settles over the coverlet on the four-poster bed.

“This is… interesting,” Strange says. He's kneeling on the floor, in the center of a plush-looking oriental rug. His robes have turned black, loose and pooling around him like silk. His legs and feet are bare.

Tony takes another moment to look around. Weird shit. “That's one word for it.” And then down at himself. He’s sitting on the edge of the huge bed, wearing black silk pajama pants and no shirt. The arc reactor in his chest looks like a parody of the real thing. He runs his hand over it—yep, not real. He doesn't feel at all self conscious. He feels comfortable and… like he's waiting for something.

Strange is still kneeling, hands folded neatly in his lap, watching him.

Tony smirks. “Is this a sex dream?” he asks. “Because this looks like that kind of a place. I'm getting a very kinky vibe here.”

“Do you want it to be?”

“No…?”

“You don't sound very sure about that.”

“Because I'm not very sure about it,” Tony says reasonably. “If this is a sex dream, shouldn't Pepper be here? Instead of...” He gestures vaguely at the other man.

“Do you want her to be here?”

Tony shakes his head, snorts. “Man, you're just as cryptic and annoying in my dream as you were in real life.” He stands and brushes orange dust off his hands, starts to untie the drawstring on his pants.

“What are you doing?” Strange’s eyes are wide. He looks very surprised for a figment of Tony’s imagination.

“This is my dream, right? So I can do whatever I want?”

“I'm…” Stephen looks around them at the red walls, the flowers, back up at Tony. “I don't know.”

“That doesn't sound like you.”

“Maybe it isn't me. You said this is only a dream. Your dream. Maybe I don't really exist.”

“I know you don't. I saw you”—he swallows—”I saw everyone die.”

“Tony,” Stephen starts, but he ends up just shaking his head.

“Shut up,” Tony says automatically. He can feel his heart speeding up, panic creeping back in. No. He can't do this right now. “Sex dream, remember? Get over here.”

Strange starts to stand up, but Tony says, “No. Just like that—on your knees.” Because this is his fucking dream and he’ll do what he wants.

And Strange shuffles over, seeming surprised that he's actually doing it. He stops in front of Tony and just looks up at him.

Tony nods at his crotch and Stephen lifts his hands and rests them on Tony’s thighs, slides his shaking fingers up.

That's right, Tony thinks, the wizard’s hands shook. He'd forgotten until just now. Or had he even noticed that detail while they were fighting for their lives, the universe? He honestly can't remember.

Strange hesitates right there, fingers nearly grazing Tony’s dick. He tips his head to the side. “Are you…? Is this a test to see what I'll do? To see if this is really a dream?” Tony catches a hint of amusement in his voice.

Even in his dreams, Strange is shrewd. Too shrewd to be imaginary? Or is that just how Tony imagines he would be?

Tony sucks in a breath, lets it out. “Maybe.” In the moment, right now, everything feels too real, as if screwing this up will have consequences. Who's to say how he’ll feel when he wakes up. “Is this really a dream? Give me a straight answer this time.”

Strange frowns. “I told you already. I don't know.” It's the truth, Tony sees.

He's been angry, he realizes, at himself, at Strange. But he's not anymore. They had no chance, really, against Thanos. Delayed the inevitable, but that was it. His death wouldn't have been a benefit to anyone. Thanos would've gotten the Time Stone another way.

He doesn't need Strange to grovel at his feet, to suck his cock or whatever he was going to do in this fake room, or to beg forgiveness. Because there's nothing to forgive.

He rests his hand tentatively on the back of Strange’s head. His hair feels softer than he thought it would. Still dusty. “Is this your dream?”

Strange looks up at him and blinks, stunned. “Tony… I don't—”

“Shut up and let me talk.” His hand strokes gently over the other man’s hair. “You were right—I needed to tell myself something. I hadn't realized… But I'm not angry at you for… for doing what you had to do back there on Titan. For saving my life. I know you had your reasons. I just wish you could've told me what they were.”

“Tony, I couldn't. You—”

“Not done talking,” he says quietly, and Strange bows his head. “There's no way I'd ever come up with something like this bedroom. I mean”—he looks around, grimaces—”it's fucking atrocious. Not my style at all. My arc reactor never looked like this. I don't know what those flowers are. Those things didn't come from my subconscious.

“If this is real—if you're real—and you're in my dream somehow, or maybe I'm in your dream… That means maybe you were right. Maybe there's a chance for us.”

“There is a chance,” Strange murmurs with conviction.

“Come up here.” Tony tugs at Strange’s arm and he stands, eyes searching his face. “I never wanted you on your knees. That's not me.”

“Tony, what are you—”

“Just shut up,” Tony says, and he grabs the back of Stephen’s head and drags him down into a kiss.

It's barely even a kiss—just a gentle press of their lips together. Soft and uncomplicated. The dry wind through the window stops, the sweet smell of the flowers grows stronger around them.

Strange pulls away first, looking down at Tony, brows drawn in confusion. “Why?” he says. “You have a fiancée…”

“Dream, remember? Doesn't matter whose it is. I can do whatever I want.” Tony pulls Strange down again, rests his forehead against the other man’s, and closes his eyes. “I forgive you,” he murmurs. “Is that what you needed to hear?”

He can feel Strange nodding against him.

“You really don't need me to forgive you, you idiot. There's nothing to forgive.”

“Tony…”

“Shh… It’s okay. I'll be okay. Go back to wherever you came from, sleep,” Tony says. He holds on to Strange’s head, keeps his eyes closed. And the solid warmth of him slowly fades until Tony’s alone again. He blinks, but the dream world drops away around him. And then he's awake in his bed, staring at the metal conduits that crisscross the bulkhead.

Nebula doesn't sleep. She sits awake during their night cycle and watches over the ship, the endless stars outside, his fragile Terran body. He didn't thrash himself awake this time, hyperventilating. Nebula didn't have to come in and shake him awake, reassure him that it wasn't real, they're not still on Titan. Tony knows that when he gets up looking happy and well-rested, like he got some actual fucking sleep for once, Nebula will look at him with her knowing smile and ask him what he dreamed about, if it was a good one.

He knows he’ll have to lie. He can't tell her that he dreamed about the woman he loves because he didn't. He dreamed about the salty, sarcastic bastard of a wizard who traded away their only chance at victory to save his worthless life. The man who said it was the only way with such sorrow in his voice.

The man who gave him hope again.

#ironstrange #ironstrange haven gift exchange #mcu fanfiction

[veridium]

skyway avenue

Hey, @bitchesofostwick, LOOK ALIVE. 

So if ya’ll remember last week, Isabella was wonderful and did a ficlet as a birthday gift. It’s a modern college AU of her OC Elllinor Trevelyan, and my OC Olivia Sinclair, as they contend with live, love, and being 2cool4school. I was so giddy that I wrote a continuation of it!

To read that glorious piece of literature, now Part One, click here!

This is (maybe) gonna be a nice way for her and I to take breaks from being in Long Fic Hell. So, Enjoy!

--

“Is this...is this too colorful?”

“Liv.”

“I mean it!”

Ellinor’s sprawled across her twin bed, an unamused accent to the room that has fast become a disaster. Clothes thrown all over the place, bags hanging off of chairs and doorknobs. Ellinor’s been ready for an hour and a half, of course, wearing one of her four oversized flannel curtains, black ripped jeans, scuffed vans, and a lollipop.

She wouldn’t admit the lollipop was apart of the ensemble. But Olivia knows better. Even if she is currently pacing back and forth from her hole-in-the wall closet in the corner of the dormroom.

“Liv, you only have two colors in your entire pile.”

“Ugh!” Liv collapses back onto the floor and starts sifting. Tossing and pulling out shirt and pant sleeves out from the mountains she has made of molehills and Abercrombie.

A popping, sucking sound. Ellinor has done that thing with her lollipop again where she pulls it out between her tight, green-painted lips. The sound that makes Olivia flinch.

“They’re gonna be here soon. You told them 21C hall, right?” she asks. An adrift tone, the one she has when she’s searching through her phone.

“Yes! Or...shit, wait, did it autocorrect again?” she twists around to look for her own phone, but it’s lost in the melee of black polyester and satin. “It keeps doing that...shit.” She starts searching.

Ellinor, unmoved by the drama as always, crosses her legs and sprawls herself more, reaching back and pulling one of her goth teddy bears and tossing it to the other end of the bed. “Maker…” she grumbles, as if the thing was wedged in her back.

Finally, under a pair of skinny jeans, Olivia finds her phone. Lit up, because of course it is. She unlocks it and checks her messages, finding the number “10” next to the app symbol.

“Ah, fuck!” she scrolls, seeing the number she has yet to add into her phone. “They’re on their way...oh, I did say 21C. Okay...okay,” she takes a breath, fanning her face to save her eyeliner from sweating prematurely.

Ellinor smirks. “I don’t know why you’re so...well, actually, scratch that.”

“Oh, shove it,” Olivia climbs onto her stocking-laced feet. “The more you play this cool, the more I know you’re in it.”

“In what?!” Ellinor shrilly asks, brow furrowed. As if it is some obscene suggestion that she has emotions and is phased by life events.

Olivia cocks a brow as she slides on her mini-skirt, hips shimmying from side to side against the stiff leather. “Oh, you know.”

“I don’t, which is why I asked.”

She zips up the front and yanks down the hem. It’s gonna be a sweaty night in this thing, but no matter. It looks so cute with the tank top she has on, and will go with her jacket. “You like him, and he likes you, and you’re liking that he likes you.”

Ellinor rolls her eyes so hard they risk popping out of her skull and running away like she probably wants to. That is no small matter, of course. Ellinor likes running from things, as Olivia does. It was a scraped up and smartass mirror they each hold onto one another’s faces. The only thing they fight about -- besides just about everything -- is who’s taking up the runner’s lane the most in a given day.

A phone vibrates, and both of them flinch. It’s Ellinor’s this time, and her eyes go wide. She crunches down onto her lollipop. Rest in pieces, cherry tootsie.

“Liv, what the fuck is this?!” she lurches up, tossing her phone at her with indignance.

Olivia catches it, but barely. Holding it out with the screen still on a message box, she starts to giggle.

“Oh, shit…” she says through her glee, “he’s sweet!”

“His ass could be made of maple syrup for all I care, Liv. The point is he got my number! You didn’t! Please tell me you didn’t!”

Olivia rolls her lip and clicks the phone, locking the screen. She holds it behind her waist and begins rocking back on her heels, like a kid in trouble and making penance with their cuteness.

“Well, see, a certain sullen boy came around in the hall in Woodsen and said he wanted to get ahold of you...you know, for the plans you made with him...and said you didn’t give him a number. Thinking he’d have to communicate via smoke signal otherwise, I gave him your number.”

“Ugh! Maker!” Ellinor slides off the bed like a bedrudgened slug, upper body limp until she has to stand.

“‘Nor, what the hell is the guy supposed to do? You agreed to go out with him!”

“I agreed to the concert! Who’s gonna not agree to a Strokes Concert?” she says as she yanks up her jeans. “You are the one who agreed to a date! Or is it gonna turn into a scripture study?” she asks, grinning as the yanks her phone back.

“Don’t even joke about that,” Olivia frowns, walking to her mirror and grabbing some more bobby pins. Her braids were coming loose already, damn her thin hair. With a pull and a couple sharp pins against her scalp she tamed her lackluster head of blonde. One day, she swears, she’ll dye it all pitch black to complete the aesthetic. But something always stops her from pulling the proverbial trigger.

“You look great,” Ellinor manages to spit out, leaning against the wall. Careful not to rock against Liv’s study diagrams, or her desk piled with library checkouts and notebooks.

“I look like the kind of people her family must think needs an exorcism or something,” Olivia scoffs, spitting out the remaining bobby pin she had between her teeth. It was no longer necessary.

“Nothing says hot first time like asking if your date is an abomination.”

“As if she needs to ask.”

Ellinor snorts and tucks her phone in her pocket, crossing her arms as she looks about the room. She is always so calm and smugly distant from everything, even when all the writing on the wall says panic or distress. It’s good to have in a friend, but concerning to see in one you want to be happy. Olivia was not one to talk, though, and she knows that well enough. So does Ellinor.

“You think they’re gonna park out front, or come up?”

“No idea,” Olivia slides on her boot heels. Any extra height is a welcomed benefit. “I don’t think we can park out front, right?”

“Fuck if I know, I toss my bike in the hedge and call it good, you know that.”

Knock, knock, knock.

Oh, shit.

Olivia flinches and backs away. So does Ellinor, oddly enough. They stare at the ugly brown door like it’s the only thing keeping them from the rapture or something.

“Oh fuck,” Ellinor mutters, “they came up.”

“Agh!” Olivia hisses, lunging herself at her bed to slide all the clothes off of it. “This place is a clusterfuck!”

Ellinor turns and doesn’t need a word, she starts kicking and shoving the clothes back towards the corner closet.

“Maker, Liv, how do you fit all this in there?!”

“I don’t! Hurry, before the--”

Knock, knock, knock.

“...Uh, Ellinor? Olivia?” a guy’s voice. Cullen. “Are you there? It’s me, Cullen.”

They freeze at the sound of his voice, Ellinor with her foot stuck in a laundry pile and Olivia hugging another clump of it to her tiny frame. Ellinor glances at her and rolls her eyes.

“‘It’s me, Cullen.’ Dude, of course it is.”

“Shush!” Olivia scolds, throwing her clothes out of the way. “He’ll hear you!”

“Maybe he should!”

“...Ellinor?” Cullen’s tone asks again, muffled through the wall.

Olivia is stomping on her laundry in her plastic hamper like it’s a matter of life or death. For reasons she can’t explain, the thought of anyone who has any weight in Cassandra’s ear for opinions seeing her hell hole of a dorm room feels more dreadful than the electric chair in a bathtub.

She jumps out, looking one last time at the sequestered pile almost as tall as her in the corner facing away from the door. Maybe he won’t notice. Maybe he’ll stay in the door.

Wait a minute, Ellinor is here. Of course he’ll stay out in the hall.

She takes a breath and wipes the rim of her bottom lip. Ellinor is standing with her arms crossed, leather wallet in her back pocket and phone in the other. That’s all she needs. Well, most of the time.

“Okay,” Olivia grabs her clutch and shoves her gloss in it mercilessly. “Okay let’s go.”

As they approach the door, though, Olivia notices the golden moment. The rare, rare species that is Ellinor caring about her presentation. She slides her hands over her tied back hair, smoothing out the fly-aways and tucking the sides behind her ear. Neatness, in this economy? Olivia jokes to herself as she unlocks the door.

No surprise to anyone, Cullen is standing in the hall. He’s wearing a heather grey knit hoodie, layered on by a rain jacket. Was it going to rain? Fuck, rain is the worst for…

“Olivia,” he grins, shoving his hands in his front pockets. “I thought I heard...oh, hey...Ellinor.” Oddly, his voice lowers, as if a low-key nemesis has entered the scene.

Ellinor stands still behind Olivia, for once the taller one seeking to use the shorter one as a human shield. She shoves her lollipop back between her teeth -- where had she hidden that thing? -- and nods without eye contact. Is that...panic?

Olivia looks back at her, discreetly nudging her in the arm, before turning back to him.

“Hey Cullen, thanks for coming all the way up. I know the stairs are murder,” she chuckles, waving her hand.

“Oh, uh yeah,” he replies, “it’s no big deal. Workouts...uh, they help.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“...Yeah.”

He’s resisting staring at her. It only takes a few seconds to notice. Olivia feels all the more pressure to compel Ellinor to acknowledge him. She nudges again, a little more openly, while maintaining a smile in his direction.

Ellinor flinches and sighs, pulling out her lollipop. “Since when does working out help with murder?”

Thanks, Ellinor.

“Alright,” Olivia intervenes, before any more trains could be wrecked. She links arms with her and pulls her out into the hall, using every muscle worth its salt in her 5’5” frame. Locking the door at once so Ellinor -- and well, maybe she, herself -- lose their escape route, they make short work of the hall onto the stairs. Cullen is keeping up, but Ellinor is leading.

Leading to what is actually his own damn car, because, of course.

When they get out to the drop-off lane behind the dorm, Olivia realizes she’s taken too convenient of a refuge in Ellinor’s own concerns to prepare herself for the sight outside. There, back against the black SUV, is Cassandra Pentaghast. Suddenly she grips her keys and wonders how long it would take to bolt and reconsider locking herself away, but Ellinor is right behind her and digging her hand into her side to make up for her cheerleading.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Ellinor grumbles, pushing her forward. Cullen has taken the lead, walking towards the car to link up with his friend.

Olivia rolls her lips shut. Cassandra -- that Cassandra -- looks nothing as advertised. She’s wearing a black, sleeveless turtleneck, tucked in with a belt around black tight slacks. On her feet are riding style boots no higher than just above her ankle, neat and polished looking.

“Go on,” Ellinor continues to chide in her ear, “ask her to teach you how to pray.”

Olivia growls and shakes herself free, stumbling a bit in her heels. She scowls for a moment, but forgets that in the goading process they have been walking closer and closer to them. When she recenters her attention they are only about a yard and a half away, and Cassandra pushes away from the car.

“Hello, Olivia,” she greets again. Cordial as she ways that day on the field. It’s nearly upsetting.

Shit, is that...is she wearing eyeliner?

“Hey, Cassandra. Nice. Nice, uh,” Olivia struggles while Ellinor chokes back a laugh. “Nice...boots.”

“Oh,” Cassandra’s face falls a bit, and she looks down at her feet, lifting up one of them just a bit. “Thank you. They’re really comfortable.”

“Yeah, they look like it. Just like y--I mean, just like you probably like it, because...you, walk a lot.”

“...I do, that is a...good point.”

Ellinor raises her brow and whistles, shooting her friend a glance of real smooth there, lady killer. Olivia’s grip on her keys is a deadly one.

“We should...maybe get going. Traffic is going to be a nightmare,” Cullen rubs the back of his head, gesturing towards the car doors.

“You sure? I like nightmares,” Ellinor responds, dead-pan. Everyone goes quiet, before Olivia giggles to sever the tension.

“What she means is, more time in the car means more music and...conversation. Lots of…” she leans into her with a grin, “good, thorough conversati--”

“Maker, let’s get in, I hate traffic,” Ellinor says fast, eyes wide. She shoves the lollipop stick in her mouth and tries to make a break for the door, but Cullen intervenes, grabbing the door handle to the shotgun seat and opening it. Opening it, more like getting out of her way.

Before Ellinor could decipher that it was her getting in the seat beside him, she climbs in and buckles herself up. With a polite smile he shuts it, doing that thing where he pauses to ensure he’s not going to close it on her fingers or toes. That’s kind of cute.

Olivia once again loses touch with her predicament. That is, until she feels someone come to stand close to her. Someone who doesn’t smell like Old Spice like Ellinor has...but...kind of does? Wait, shit, does she wear Old Spice?

“You would probably be smart to sit behind Ellinor, since Cullen has his chair all the way back,” Cassandra advises, gripping her elbow with the opposite hand.

Olivia shakes her head and jolts herself back into present thought.

“Oh. No, I’m good. I’m tiny, I can fit.”

Cassandra grins crookedly, air snorting from her nose. “Is that how you regard yourself?”

Regard myself? What is this, Jane Austen? “I don’t ‘regard’ myself, I know myself.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Uh...yes.”

“And what would that be?”

“Because ‘knowing’ is less pompous to say.”

Cassandra blinks and jerks her head back. Shit, wait, that came out really...oh, shit.

Olivia grimaces. You never go full political brat on the first conversation, right? Dammit. It was impossible to hold back. 

“Wait, I’m sorry, that didn’t...agh,” her fingers go to her mouth. “I did--”

Her phone buzzes again. She pulls it out and looks at it, perhaps for mercy, or a distraction from her own bullshit.

Olivia, get ur ass in this car before I turn on Taylor Swift! He’s asking me if I know anything about chevy’s!

Ellinor.

Olivia sighs shallowly and tucks her phone back in her clutch. Cassandra is still standing there. For some reason.

“Ah, we should get going,” she admits, stepping towards the door. “I’ll sit behind El--”

“No, by all means,” Cassandra cuts in, her pixie cut flowing a bit in the breeze she builds in her sudden step. “You should get the seat you want.”

Olivia faces her. She’s softened, but not entirely vulnerable. Polite. What’s her deal, then? Is this gonna be another well-meaning straight girl who likes to kiss you on the mouth at parties for fun? Or is this like her and Ellinor wondered: a Churchie conversion waiting to happen?

Either way, she narrows her gaze. “Uh...thank--”

Another text:

OLIVIAAAAAAAA! I DON’T CARE ABOUT CHEVIES!

She blows air through her rounded mouth and walks for the other side, while Cassandra opens the door and gets in. It’s going to be a long night for more than just the traffic on the Imperial Highway.

#oc stuff #olivia sinclair #other people's ocs #ellinor trevelyan #friendship fic!! #mutuals!! #bitchesofostwick #thedas modern au #cassandra pentaghast #cullen rutherford

[officialleehadan]

Red Ship

“Move.” Luka elbowed Tusca out of the way, a fierce, furious expression on his face. Before Tusca could say anything, the prince settled himself in Carlito’s empty seat. Electricity crackled across the console, and he wrenched open a cerebral socket that Tusca didn’t know he had.

“When-“ he started, and made for his chair, because he knew that look and he wanted to be strapped in for whatever came next. “You-“

“You gave Roja permission to teach me,” Luka said with a coldness to him that he must have learned before he ran away from home. “He taught me. When I hit my human limit, he gave me this, so I could be better.”

The ship groaned and the crew called their worries or curses as suited their natures. Luka ignored them as wires snapped free all over the bridge and wired themselves into his console. Soon it was a spiderweb of glittering wires, and Luka fitted a small plug onto the nearest coil and plugged himself straight into the ship’s control center.

Then he flipped on the comms.

“My name is Lucas Rayhan Goliat, Crown Prince of the Human Galactic Empire,” he snapped, imperial accent crisp as he bit the words off with a viciousness no one could miss. The pirates on the other end stared at him, and Tusca smoothed his face of any expression. If Luka thought he had a winning play, well, it wasn’t like Tusca had anything better to offer. “You are currently in violation of eighteen Galactic laws, guilty by your own admission of more than that, and are pissing me off. If you do not vacate this area immediately I will personally and with great pleasure, blast you out of the goddamn sky.”

He flipped the comms again, and Tusca could only stare at him as electricity crackled around them again and the web around Luka pulsed. The ship rumbled, and Luka smiled coldly.

The pirates, apparently, weren’t smart enough to take the hint. Weapons began to power up, and their own shields flickered on in time to block the first few salvos in a bright splash of silent light.

Then they were moving.

“Captain?” Do’ was white-knuckled in her chair as a coil of wires jacked into her console on their own.

“Luka’s in charge,” Tusca decided as his ship shot forward, dodging between blasts like Luka had grown up a fighter pilot. “He says to do something, you do it.”

“Yes captain,” Left replied for Do’, his hand tight on his twin’s shoulder. Right was focused on his console, but they all knew there was nothing he, or anyone else, could do.

Luka flipped the comms back on as the pirates tried to circle around them. “Galactic control,” he said shortly. “Alpha-Delta-Eta-eight-four-two, by the sign and Order of the Imperial Throne. I want an open channel to every goddamn Galactic ship in range.”

There was loud silence over the comms, and for a moment Tusca wondered what was going on.

Then; “Yes, your Imperial Highness,”

The comm tech sounded rattled. That was telling in and of itself. Comm techs were known for their complete control during transmissions. To shake one of them was a feat in and of itself.

Luka dropped the shields suddenly as one of the other ships got just a little to close.

Lightning blazed along their hull and leapt to the enemy ship in a long bolt that left an ionized trail behind it.

The other ship shuddered violently and Luka’s hands danced across the controls.

Tusca wondered how he could split his attention in so many directions at once. Flying, controlling the Power no one knew he had, and broadcasting all at once.

Speaking of the broadcast…

“This is Luka Rayhan Goliat, crown prince of the Human Galactic Empire,” Luka said crisply with the air of a perfect orator. “My ship is under attack by self-declared pirates. With this broadcast I am including my exact location, and the identifying information on those ships. Anyone who brings me proof of destruction will have my thanks, and all that goes with it.”

He flipped the comms off again. Tusca stared at him.

“Did you just put a bounty on them?” he asked incredulously. The ship Luka had zapped trembled furiously and tried to dart back into the pack that was after them. The moment it got close, lightning leapt from its’ hull, and those ships began to tremble too.

Moments later, the first ship went dark, completely dead in the water. The others followed quickly, infected by the small carrier ship.

“Yes I did. Rank has one or two good sides,” Luka said darkly, and yanked hard on the helm controls. They pitched planetward in such a steep dive that the hull began to warm. “Let’s see how many of them stick around to find out what happens next.”

“Boy, if you don’t stop the spinning I’m gonna puke on you,” Do’ yelled from her station. She was clinging to her chair and her dusky skin was decidedly green.

“If you gotta, you gotta,” Luka replied, and didn’t stop their tight, corkscrewing dive even as they hit atmo and the heat picked up. “I’ll deal with it if you do. Graat, you alive?”

“Yes,” Graat somehow rallied enough to speak. Tusca was proud of him. “What do you need?’

“The exact density of the atmo layer directly over those mountains.”

Why-“ Graat cut himself off and scrabbled for the nearest screen to pull up the information. Cannon blasts rained down around them, and if Tusca didn’t know better, he would think it was sheer luck that kept those blasts from touching their hull. “Scanning now.”

He might have thought that anyway, except that every time one got a little too close, more of that lightning crackled around them, and somehow they managed to be anywhere but in the line of fire.

Information glittered down a cable from Graat’s station to Luka’s, and up the wire to his brain. “Got it. Left, throw our altitude up on the screen. Graat, I want a countdown to that thicker air layer. I can’t afford to calculate it myself right now.”

Numbers flashed up on the screen, bright and counting down fast.

“Do’, how close on our asses are those guys?”

“Less than a thousand meters and closing!” she might be green, but neither Heaven nor Hell would keep Do’ from fighting for her family. “Hope you have a plan!”

“I’ve got better than a plan,” Luka said. Tusca caught a glimpse of his eyes and swore mentally while checking the straps on his chair. He knew that look, but the last time he saw it was in Roja’s eyes right before the Red Baron slingshotted a whole fleet around the outer edge of a black hole, nearly killed them all, and won a war. “I have science. Right, prime our inertial dampeners and fire up the anti-gravity we use for cargo transport.”

“You had better be sure about this,” Right muttered, and hurried to do as their prince asked. “Priming.”

“How long?”

“Fourteen seconds to full power.”

“Good. I got it from there.”

The mountains, and the invisible layer of air that surrounded them, plunged into view, black and ice-capped and looking like nothing so much as teeth.

What happened next was pretty spectacular from any angle, but honestly, the pirates got the best view.

The wires around Luka lit up like a thunderstorm and channeled across his hands as suddenly their engines twisted all the way around and emptied the full force of their fury against that heavy-air layer. So quickly after that, that it might as well have been the same time, Luka threw on their inertial dampeners and the anti-gravity field through the whole ship.

The effect was a shocking sense of weightlessness as all the force of their speed emptied into the dampeners, and the anti-gravity kept the crew from turning into chunky salsa on the view-screens.

The speed boost was, frankly, impossible, and Tusca fought to keep his monkey brain from loosing its’ shit as all the Gs that came with that kind of inertial change translated directly into more force for the engines to push against.

Without a technopath holding the ship together by sheer will, they would have ripped apart. Hell, they might have anyway, except, well…

Probability got a little weird with a Red Baron at the helm.

“Luka, we got a lot of company,” Do’ yelled even as they blasted straight through the swarm of pirates on their asses and into open space. Jump-Holes ripped themselves through the fabric of space in every direction and ships roared out. Tusca swore when one of the Galactic Empire’s feared space stations appeared with a smoothness that spoke of a whole lot of money in one place at one time. “Boy, that is an Imperial Carrier. What in the hell-“

“It’s not an Imperial Carrier, it’s the Imperial Carrier. Specifically, it’s the Pacifica.”  Luka grinned wolfishly and reached for the comms one last time, lazy like he hadn’t just defied four or five laws of physics at once. The viewport flickered and revealed the face of a regal man with thick, greying hair. “Hello Father.”

The Emperor of the Human Galactic Empire looked at his son and heir, and then at the stunned crew who nonetheless rallied behind their youngest crew member.

He sighed and ran a hand over his face, amused, fond, incredulous, annoyance all apparent in his face.

“Do I want to know?” he said at last, and Luka grinned as explosions lit up around them, the result of a great many pirate ships losing the impossible fight against physics and an angry technopath.

“Probably not,” Luka told him, and looked over his shoulder at Tusca. “Captain, you mind if we dock? I’ve… kind of made a mess of the ship.”

“That’s fine,” Tusca said dryly, and wondered how in the hell this had become his life. “Might as well have them paint it red while we’re at it, huh?”

Luka laughed, and the rest of the crew began to relax by inches. “And here I thought I would be banned form the helm like Roja was.”

“You are” Do’ said before Tusca could reply. “You come near that goddamn helm ever again and I swear all hell will rain down on you!”

The Emperor didn’t seem to know whether to laugh or go beat his head against a wall somewhere. Tusca could sympathize.

“Hanger five is open to you,” he said at last, and nodded to someone they couldn’t see. “And Luka, I would say your captain is correct. Red is the right color for your ship.”

+++

HGE - Learn to Fly, Learn to Breathe

Red Sun

Red Baron

Red Prince

Red Sky

Red Heart

Red Ship

+++

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#space #space ship #red baron #flying #flight #ship #pilot #pilots #HUMANS ARE WEIRD #humans are space orcs #Humans are scary #human galactic empire #humans are insane #humans are space australians #humans are space oddities #alien #aliens #magic #space magic #scifi #sci fi #science fiction #science in magic #precognition #technopath #tecnopathy #the Others #fantasy #fantasy magic #writing

[killmvnger]

What You Need (Part 2) / Part 1

Killmonger/Black!Reader

Warning: Sexual content, use of n-word

Summary: You didn’t go to the club to find a man, but you sure as hell leave with one.

Lights blurred as you passed them, cars whizzing beside you like clashes of colors and you stuck your hand to the window in awe. You didn't care much if he was watching you from the driver's seat, you rarely traveled to this side of town and definitely not at such a pace, so your eyes moved quickly to capture the expensive life you were obviously being dragged into. This wasn't the kind of place you imagined he'd be taking you to, but then again you couldn't get that accurate a read on him anyway. You used the last of your phone battery to text your friends where you were and who you were with just in case it all went south.

He ditched his little crew in the club without saying goodbye, just a weird nod of confirmation that made you squint. His car was pulled up by the valet, a navy blue sports car that probably cost more than your apartment. He had a smug look when you admired the leather seats, which only made you want to find something wrong with it. When he started the car, his speakers turned on with it blasting hard west coast hip-hop, which he sure as hell didn't turn down despite your wincing.

Sure, he's not someone you'd want to bring home to your family, but you figure it's worth it to get a good night out of him. Even if he does drive you all the way to the other side of town.

You wanted to ask him what he did for a living, but that would be too personal for a one-night-stand. The less you know the better. The last thing you want is to catch feelings for someone like him, it'll only end with you getting hurt. You stare at him as he speeds through the streets, no doubt running a few lights. You smiled to yourself because you really got the finest man in that place. He noticed you looking at him at a red light, then bit his bottom lip. His eyes took you in from head to toe.

"You like how fast I'm going?" He asked, teasing.

"I think you could go faster." You reply with a cheeky smile.

"That's how you like it?" His eyes glint in the streetlights, looking wild and unrestrained. You clenched your thighs together helplessly, hating that his crazy ass unpredictability is what gets you going.

"Yeah."

The speed he takes off with feels dangerous like you're freefalling. You don't even have time to gasp, he's swerving down the highway and taking your breath away. An excitement you haven't felt in a long time sneaks up on you and you find yourself smiling as you fly past other cars. In a moment of giddiness, you shout your enthusiasm. He laughs as you continue your whoo'ing and enjoying yourself. He increases the bass (to show out, you presume) and your entire body is buzzing to the beat of a familiar hip-hop song. You rap a couple of bars, swaying side to side and you can hear him joining in on your impromptu karaoke.

You were afraid that the police would pull you over. Two black people in an expensive sports car blasting hip hop? Clear target. The shots you took at the club didn't help the situation, either. In any case, the cops didn't interrupt your fun, which was a little suspect because usually, you couldn't go above 50 MPH without getting stopped. He seemed to have everything suspiciously under control though.

The song switches to a softer r&b track and Erik turns the radio down a few notches. You smile over at him, admiring his beautiful brown skin and the gold that continued to shine on his neck. Curious, you reach your hand over and caress down his neck, trailing your wandering fingers from his nape to the cold of his chains, then over to his shoulder which you gripped. In your trance-like state, you hardly noticed him staring you through the corner of his eyes, smirking.

"Look at you. Can't keep your hands off a nigga."

"Shut up," you reply as you lean the rest of your body over. He gives you a questioning side eye as you propped yourself up on the armrest, your face beside him.

The ride was taking too long and you couldn't even help yourself anymore, you needed to feel him on you again, you needed the thrills he's been giving you since you first locked eyes. You leaned in and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek, then hesitantly, to his lower jaw. He hummed in approval. You smirked and continued planting soft kisses on his skin, inhaling his intoxicating scent of soap and cologne. Cheekily, you poked at his neck with your tongue, giggling afterward. He bit his lower lip and began tapping on the steering wheel.

"Baby girl, you must be tryna run our asses off the road." He chuckled, though you could hear the clear frustration in his voice. "You always been a thrill-seeker?" He asks.

You peck at his collarbone, delighting in his clear muscle definition. "Not really, no." You whisper into his neck.

"I just bring that out of you?" He says as more of a statement than a question. You turn hot as you reflect on your behavior, but it doesn't stop you from sucking at the side of his neck - which, in retrospect wasn't a good idea. He, however, remained cool and confident, driving as he has been before you started assaulting him with your tongue. A lesser man surely would've swerved with how forward you were being, but that's what you liked about him, he wasn't like anyone you'd ever hooked up with.

Slowly, he released his right hand from the steering wheel and pushed it down to his jeans, adjusting himself as you tried to create a kaleidoscope of hickies on his skin. His breathing pattern changed, getting faster with every exit that was passed. You were absolutely on cloud nine.

"Feel good?" You whisper into his ear as your hand descends down his chest. His eyes are now struggling to stay on the road. You take his gulping silence to mean yes and continue on with your ministrations. Your hands slide down to his crotch, experimentally pressing down on his confined dick. Erik groans, slightly pushing up into your touch.

"Fuck," he grunts. You keep rubbing against him, feeling the hardness underneath his layers and giving his neck sloppy kisses. "Goddamn. I'm gon' fuck the shit outta you." He promises, still trying desperately to pay attention to the road and drive to his place faster. You giggle to yourself, peppering light kisses up to his jaw now.

"I don't like how you teased me back there," you whisper against his skin.

"You won't get teased again if you be a good girl for me. Can you do that?" He asks in huffs, slowly grinding up into your palm. You nod. "Baby, speak up."

"I can be a good girl for you." You chime with absolutely no sense of pride. Fuck that. Your inner ho is on the loose and she deserves this. He groans, then without hesitation he turns and smashes his lips to yours. It's messy, chaotic, and wild, your mouths hungry for each other. You lose yourself in his rough kisses a little too much because a car horn is what separates you two. You snap back to reality and, yeah, he's fucking driving. Right.

"Buckle up because if we not at the house in two minutes, I'm pulling over and fucking you raw in the backseat." He pressed down on the speed and continued on this unknown route. You strap yourself in, smiling to yourself because you were down for either option if you were being real.

Less than two minutes later, true to his word, the car turns into a large driveway leading into a two car garage. He cuts the engine and leans over to press a chaste kiss to your lips, lingering just a second too long for it not to feel romantic. You smile as he unbuckles your seatbelt for you, savoring his undivided attention. He presses another kiss to your temple, whispering a fond "my lil daredevil" before opening his door.

You follow his lead, unbuckling and exiting his car. You appreciate the cobblestone ground of the driveway as he leads you to the front door of his house. It was impressive, two stories high and as large as a house you'd expect in the richest of suburbs. It was far too luxurious for only one person. Surely, he didn't live by himself, you thought. What does he even do to make enough to afford all of these things?

"You live here alone?" You ask, walking into his house, though it looked more like a museum than anything. African artifacts were showcased on a few walls in glass boxes, Afrocentric paintings lined up in between them, and there was even a small rustic statue by the staircase. He shrugged, walking to his living room couch to sit as you still spun around trying to take in how amazing his house was. His living room could probably fit most of your apartment in it. You glance up, surprised to find expensive looking chandeliers.

"Sometimes my cousin stays over if he's in America." He explains from the living room. You mindlessly wander towards him and sit next to him on the couch, still discreetly checking out the interior design of his house and large pieces of art decorating his walls. Definitely Mediterranian style architecture, you silently commend. He laughs at you, efficiently snapping you out of your E Network fantasy.

"Damn, you need me to give you and this house some alone time? You getting wet looking at chandeliers and shit."

You huff your embarrassment and hit his shoulder. "Fuck you, I can appreciate art if I want, nigga."

"Peep all that shit in the morning, baby, come over here and appreciate this dick." He smirks, pulling you in by your waist to sit on his lap. You roll your eyes, but slowly prop up on your knees and straddle him on the couch. You run your hands up his arms to his shoulders. He's so muscular, he doesn't even need to flex.

"Yeah, that's perfect." He says as his hands explore your waist to your backside. His lips quickly attach to your neck, sucking any patch of skin he could get to, pushing you down to grind in his lap. You bit your lip to keep the shameless moan from coming out.

"Ah!" You yelp at his hand smacking your ass. He pulls you back so you're level with his face, foreheads pressed against each other.

"That ain't loud enough for me, baby."

"Give me a reason to get loud, baby." You tease with a wicked smile. You enjoyed messing with him more than you'd ever admit. His eyes blink in surprise, a devious smile pulling at the edges of his mouth showcasing his dimples. He stares at you for a moment like he'd just found out something important about you.

You blush at his dazed facial expression.

"Stop looking at me like that," you laugh, covering your face. Erik pulls your hands from your face, intertwining it with his. With nowhere to hide from his intrusive stare, you duck your head and continue laughing.

"Oh, you shy all of a sudden?" He asks rhetorically, but you shake your head anyway. The giggles were just a side effect of you drinking and sometimes it was hard to control.

"No, I just laugh when hoes can't make me cum," you say boldly, and it's obviously meant to be taken as a joke, but that dangerous gleam in his eyes comes back stronger than ever and you realize you've made a grave mistake. Your eyes caught the harsh clench of his jaw as he regarded you, glaring a hole into your face and you couldn't even stutter out an apology before he tossed you beneath him on the couch. During the transition, your dress had risen past your belly button, displaying the ruined black lace wrapped around you. He gripped both your wrists in his hand, pushing them above your head as his other wrapped lightly around your throat.

"You talk too fucking much," he grunts, sliding between your legs to push his erection into you. "That slick ass mouth gon' get you in trouble." His jeans grate against your wet underwear making you whimper. You try thrashing against him, but a quick thwack! to your thighs stop you. You try to speak again, but his hand moves from its firm place on your neck to your mouth, effectively stopping you from making the situation worse. Your whine is muffled by his hand.

"I bet that's what yo lil freak ass want, ain't it?" He leans over so that his lips are flush against your ear. "Fuck the foreplay shit, you tryna get that punishment, that's what you want." He chuckles darkly as you wriggle in his grasp, trying to get more pleasure from his hips. "How'd your old niggas punish you?" He asks and this time removes his hand so you may answer him. You inhale all the air taken from you, panting as you stared up at the ceiling.

"They d-didn't..." you whisper, hoarse. He laughs then, sliding his hand down to your breasts.

"You used to run all over them, huh?"

You shook your head. "No, it wasn't even --"

Thwack!

Your thigh stings.

"No more lying, baby. If I think you lying, yo ass sure as hell gon' be dying laughing because you ain't gon' be cumming." He threatens. "Now, did you run all over your exes?"

"Yes," you whimper, hoping to make some sort of atonement for your earlier words.

"That's what I thought." He huffs, then releases your wrists from his grip, instead of reaching down to grab hold of your waist. Before you could question his intentions, you're being lifted.

Like a rag-doll, you were picked up and tossed over his shoulder. You fixed your mouth to complain as he stood up and began walking, but thought against it. You were in enough trouble as it was. You settled for tsking because the only thing in your line of sight was the hardwood floors of his house and his ass. You entered a room with a beautiful double door entrance that you couldn't even fully admire because he decided to toss you off his shoulder.

You landed on a bed haphazardly, grunting in irritation.

"Seriously?"

"Deadass." He replies snarkily. You roll your eyes. "Take them shits off." He gestures towards your dress that turned into a shirt and you lace underwear. "It's not a suggestion." He says when you don't immediately move. You rush to get the dress up and over your head, then kick your heels off and start pulling your underwear down. In front of you, he's removing his clothes, too, a show you'd be damned if you missed, so your attention zeroes in on him taking off his shirt.

Scars. So many damn scars.

You're worried initially, but upon seeing his unbothered face realize that he's probably done it to himself. But why? What's he tallying? You're so caught up in his markings that you don't notice he's glaring at you. Like you were about to run out screaming because of his scars. You crawl towards him on your knees and hesitantly lean to touch the bumpy grooves in his skin, fascinated more than anything. He looks down at you blankly.

Experimentally, you lean in to kiss his chest, then look up at him for confirmation. You can't decipher what he looks means, so you move back to his chest placing sloppy kisses down his torso and using your hands to feel the scars. The only instance you get that he's enjoying what you're doing is the small sigh leaving his lips once you lightly scrape your fingernails down him. He lets out a soft laugh that has you looking back up to him.

"You something else." He said fondly. You smile, wrapping your arms around his neck. He kisses you hard, pushing back down to the bed with him on top. You help unbuckle his pants as you two explore each other's mouths, sucking and teasing and biting.

"I want to hear you begging for me." He comments as he gets his jeans down, crawling up on the bed. You stare down to his length as it pops out of his underwear, then bite your lip. He's bigger than you expected, longer and girthier. You wondered how you would even get him in you.

"Want me to fuck you?" He asks with a smirk.

"Yes."

He settled over you, shoving your legs apart. The tip of his dick nudged your entrance. "You ain't doing enough begging, ma."

Your voice cracked. "Please, fuck me."

He snickers under his breath obviously finding amusement in your weak pleas. You feel his tip brushing up and down your pussy, never pushing in but slowly pleasuring your clit. You can't help but to whine and try to move towards him so he'd fill you up. His hand slapped your stomach, stopping you from moving further.

"Did I say you could move?" He asks. Pouting, you shake your head.

"Please, baby, I need it. I need you to fuck me, please!" You beg sternly albeit a little pathetic. He smirks, then you feel him sliding inside of you, stretching your pussy out farther than you expected. He snapped his hips and you went from having barely any satisfaction to being the most filled you've ever been. He didn't give you much time to adjust, thrusting hard into you again and groaning out his pleasure.

"Damn, baby. Look how wet you getting." He reaches down to your cunt, rubbing your wetness on his fingers as he fucks you, then giving your clit a quick rub. Your body jolts feeling a hot course of electricity zing through you. Your eyes close on their own accord, you feel dizzy from the sensations. You can hear sucking noises like he was tasting you on his fingers. Your head falls back with a cry at the thought, a stinging sensation of tears welling up in your eyes surprising you. One tear escapes when you open your eyes again, sliding from your cheek to your jaw and he leans down to kiss you.

"Why you crying?" He whispers, and for a moment you think he's being genuine, but he follows up the question with a deep chuckle. "The dick too good, ma?" He laughs against your mouth, pressing his forehead against yours. Your eyes flutter open and get trapped in his deep brown ones. Everything about him is hypnotic and mesmerizing, even as he's driving you crazy. He stares you down, hips thrusting passionately in and out of you, hands cupped around your waist to push you on him more.

"You so fucking beautiful, lil daredevil," he confesses. "I might just keep you around."

Another jolt of pleasure flows through you. He kisses your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, all down to your neck where he rested his head on you, peppering you with fervent, sloppy kisses.

Your body convulses, driven to its breaking point and ready to release all the tension that'd been building. You shake, holding onto his shoulders, scratching your fingers down his scars in the heat of pleasure.

"Fuck," you moan. "I'm gonna cum."

That's when he pulls out.

"What? Nah, none of that. I ain't forget that shit you said on the couch, you got me fucked up." He pulls and twists you around on the bed so you're face down instead. "On your knees."

It's wobbly, but you slowly ascend to your knees, presenting yourself to him. He hums his approval, then smacks your ass so hard you almost fall back to the bed. He laughs as you shakily regain your footing.

"You like that?" He asks. "You like when Daddy smacks that ass?"

You whimper in response, nodding frantically.

"Say you like it." His palm cracks on your ass again and you moan shamelessly, trying to back yourself into his touch. He rubs the stinging spot on your ass as you gather the courage to speak. You really didn't wanna call him that, but the less rational part of you, the wreck of a girl begging for his dick feels very differently.

"I like when you spank me, Daddy." You stutter out, but it's enough for him because he shoves his dick back into you without another word. His hips smack against your ass lewdly and the pace only gets faster the more you moan.

"Yeah? You gon' throw that ass back for Daddy?" He asks, slapping your ass repeatedly until you start pushing back against him. He groaned seeing you fuck yourself on him, yelling and panting for more.

"Please!" You finally shouted.

You screamed for him to let you come, but he continued denying you, mocking you. You could feel the pleasure building to its highest point, making you squirm out of his vice grip and vibrate out of your control. He pulled you back in, hooking his big arms around your body so that you stayed put.

"Stop fucking running from me, take this dick." He grunted and you genuinely clawed at his sheets trying to let up on his rough thrusting. You could hear how wet you were with every thrust, a fast rhythm that your body couldn't keep up with anymore. "Yeah, that's it, baby, you like that?"

"Yes! Please, let me cum, please!" You begged with tears forming in your eyes. Your body was giving out on you, aching and burning under his command.

"Fuck no. Tell me who owns this pussy."

"You! You do! Please, Daddy, please, I'll be good!" You cry. He slaps your ass cheek hard and you arch back feeling overstimulated. "I can't do it, I can't!" You cry, then try to crawl away again, needing to be released from his endless cycle of pleasure-pain, but his hands keep you stuck in one place.

"What's wrong, is it too much for my lil daredevil?" He asks teasingly. Hot tears run down your face as his dick hits your most sensitive spots.

"Yes!" You scream, throat stinging because of your abused vocal chords.

"I thought you liked this shit. I thought you said I couldn't make you cum." He punctuates his words with sharp thrusts.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you can! You can! Please! Please!"

He pulls you up to him, hand wrapped firmly around your throat. His chin is tucked into your shoulder, his breath warm and faintly smelling of mint. "I should just pull out and leave you like this." He threatens, uncaring of the cries coming out your mouth. "So fucking disrespectful." He slowly pulls out, causing you to whine.

"You think you deserve to cum?"

You weren't even sure you were forming real words anymore, you have swept away in such an intense vibrating pleasure that left you a quivering, sputtering wreck. His hand squeezes your neck just a little tighter, pushing you, and your senses begin dying out, leaving you with the rapid pounding of your heartbeat and blurry vision. It was like when you'd first seen him, how everything else faded into the background, how he stole your attention from anything else. His belittling words were muffled in the background as you focused all your energy on not climaxing before he told you so. You were floating through time and space, new tears falling to replace your dried ones, muscles burning from the position changes, ears ringing in the sweetest way possible.

His lips are flush against your ear when you finally, finally, hear what you've wanted to hear all night.

"Fuck, baby, cum on this dick. Now."

He slams back into you shamelessly and you're done for. You screamed as the line between pain and pleasure blurred dangerously close, then erupted into euphoria. Your pussy clenched around him tighter than ever, making him moan as audaciously as you were. He started thrusting faster, reaching his own orgasm as you melted through yours feeling your juices running down your thighs.

"Fuck, I'm 'bout to bust all in your pussy, baby." He warns.

"Do it, I want your cum inside me. Please, Daddy." You beg between pants. He climaxes with a loud grunt, whispering something about you being such a good girl. You fall to the bed, him following along after you on your back. 

The world went black and the last thing you remember before sinking into the deepest sleep of your life was him wrapping his arms around you and kissing your forehead.

(That was inch resting. Give me your thoughts. Continue or no?)

@sweettea-and-honeybutter @coldcrevices @nakh-es @shesfromwakanda @nyxieso @jaaystaar95 @tiava143 @lafayettes-baguettes-1 @tenxouttanine @ashleychristina73 @panthergoddessbast @artpoetx @im-not-always-a-jellyfish @thehomierobbstark @muffytheaardvarkslayer (sorry if I missed anyone, thanks for the love & support)

#black panther fanfiction #erik killmonger x reader #erik killmonger x black reader #killmonger x reader #i'm so embarrassed like wow i really wrote that

[millsogara]

Captain’s always right

Not all worlds are born equal. Some, like the lost forest planets of Hickory Doon, can support thousands of eco systems, rare birds, civilisations and insectoids and, were it not for the cripplingly high gravitational pull, would be a thriving tourist trap to this day. (As it is, there are enough splattered corpses and puddles of bone visible from the passing shuttle window and it’s hard for even the most hardened adventurer to look on undeterred.)

Others, like Demento, have nothing but ash.

“Bit hot.” Said Jager, fanning himself with a pack of plasters from his med kit.

“Borderline inhospitable, “said Micha, who could already start to feel her fair skin tighten as a rich layer of crackling formed on its surface. She turned to her captain, Franklin U.Saltese, who ordinarily stared down every planet with stoic resolve, but now wilted before her eyes like a dry petunia. She wanted to water him, but in all likelihood that would just boil him alive. “In fact, I don’t think we should stay here a moment longer than necessary. Let’s find the source of that distress beacon and get the hell out. I can feel my veins starting to froth.” As soon as she said it, her blood began to itch. All psychosomatic, she told herself.

Like a pustular youth, the planet’s surface was all cracked and broken, bloody scabs rose from the bubbling mire in great towers of molten rock and the whole place gave off a sickly, infected heat. The atmosphere was almost too dense to see through, but somewhere, pinned to the sky high above, shone a watery sun. This was not solar interference; this village was built on a huge volcano.

The island on which they stood, 13foot by 13 foot- just big enough to land a shuttle-bobbed and swayed with the fiery currents. A few steps away, a gap large enough to leap, lead to another rock and another. Some of the floating outcrops were more substantial, as such were home to houses. Quite ordinary buildings woven from stone and white picket fence, they clung to the side of the rocks like limpets.

“This place is not hospitable Mich’.” Frank panted, already breathing in more sulphur than he’d like. “In the same way as my aged mother is not hospitable; she doesn’t like visitors, and neither does Demento. Red is the colour of danger, the whole planet’s trying to tell us something. Let’s make this an ‘in out job’.”

“A Men to that.” She rolled up her sleeves. “The sleeves are up, Frank, I’m physically uncomfortable.”

Ordinarily, in any temperature below say 200oc, Frank was far from a sweaty wilting carrot- he took pride in his tan, his appearance, his toned physique. He enjoyed spending time at each locale they visited- picking up local cultures and striking bonds with the people. Some bonds were stronger than others. The Star force code- 1) Do not interfere with the natural order 2) keep calm and 3) don’t mate with the locals, only vaguely applied to him. He was captain after all. He did keep a condom tucked away for safety. Don’t want to leave the planet with one more problem when you leave.

As it was, he could already feel the condom dry and crack under the intense heat. He would have to throw it out as soon as they got back. Damn thing would be useless now.

He cast an eye around Dante’s inferno. Very unlikely to be used today anyway.

“Where did the distress signal come from?” Asked Jager.

Mac studied her tablet. “That building there.” She pointed ahead at the closest building, five times bigger than the rest, a huge triangular roof held aloft on three roman columns- the sort of simple structure that a child might make with blocks. From this distance, and through the vaporous fug, it was impossible to make out the intricate carvings, but it was clear this home was important. For one thing, unlike the limpet cottages, it did not look about to tumble off the side. A mayoral residence?

White paint reflected the hellish heat well, she was forced to close her eyes for a second, lest it blind her. When she opened them again, Frank had vanished.

“I’ll just head over here to enquire,” he yelled, bounding over the stones towards it. Micha winced. The heavy-footed bugger partially submerged every stone he landed on and it was only a matter of time before he fell too hard on one that was too small and ended up with first degree burns from the waist down. By a twist of fate, he made it, and they watched his stumpy frame climb up the mayoral boulder.

“What’s fleet footed Frank’s rush all of a sudden?” She asked.

“Hollyoaks is on in half an hour.” The doc shrugged. “He won’t want to miss it for this.”

“Oh shit, we finally get to find out where Brendon hid the moondust? I can’t miss this episode-“

“And you won’t.” He cast an eye around the bubbling lagoon. “Nothing much amiss here. No invading hordes, no star destroyers. No locals in sight, actually. It seems quite peaceful.”

She nudged his shoulder, pointed due East. He turned, careful not to rock their pebble, “there are some guys over there. We could ask them what’s going on.”

Sure enough, there was a small gaggle, three doddery old codgers lined up on the edge of a rock, staring gormlessly into a stream of lava as it went by, as if in search of their own reflections. With their bright red shells and puffy faces, the lava was a pretty good likeness. As was a slice of Margareta pizza with the topping peeled off. Dementans were meant to look like that. Scabby faced creatures, lepers with tortoise shells and pus spots. An odd race raised in sulphur and smoke.

“This better not be another prank distress call. “She grumbled, beginning the long shaky march over to where they stood. “I swear, if we miss Brendon’s last episode because of some joker who wanted to see a StarForce vessel fot the first time-“ she stopped mid stride. Mid moan.

They weren’t on their rock anymore. With a serine smile and a faint ‘plop’ they all put their palms together in a diving position and disappeared face first. Micha stood there, three rocks from Jager, three rocks from the suicide cult, unsure how to proceed. Demento’s weren’t meant to do that. And granted, it was quite distressing.

#

Frank scrabbled up the boulder. He had almost lost his footing once or twice down there, but each time, instinct took over. You may let yourself slide down the bark of a tree should your grip come loose while climbing in the park, or give into the inevitable halfway up a cliff, so long as you have faith in the harness round your waist, but when faced with certain death below, most people can find a handhold somewhere. Anywhere. They make do. Frank was Lazy, but death seemed like a drastic excuse for a rest break. Whenever he slipped, he scrabbled further up, his own momentum and the boulder’s slight curvature keeping him going until he finally reached the precipice on top. Smooth flat rock. He melted into it, exhausted. Knees scuffed and torn, his palms blistered blisters. This better be worth it. They best be in SERIOUS trouble. Frank rarely prayed for an air strike, but for the sake of whoever summoned him…

He rolled up onto his stomach, then to his knees and lumbered into the comparative shade of the building’s foyer. Lining the hallway were a hoard of Dementons.

He could tell by the effervescent ruby red of their shells, and the effort that had been put into polishing them, that these were the females of the species. They batted their burnt tomato eyelids and held out their sweaty hands. He gritted his teeth. Certainly, this had been a job for Misha, as foreign dignitary. Why had he stormed on ahead? He shook their hands, grimaced at the crispy flakes of skin that peeled off and accepted the odd little notes they pressed into his breast pocket.

He hated foreign cultures, traditions that he did not understand. That’s why he became a StarForce captain, to learn about other civilisations, so they weren’t so alien any more.

He continued down the corridor, shaking and nodding and smiling and by the time he reached the end, the big oak door, the mayor’s office, resting place of the big Kahone, he was none the wiser. But he was determined to have a good read about the Demeton culture later when he got back to the ship. Back to the ship with its library, it’s fridge full of ice-cold drinks… A sweat bead drippled down his forehead… With its luxurious airconditioning….

Then he set foot in the office and remembered why he had been so eager to rush on in the first place. The mayor had air conditioning too. Of course, he did.

“Hello sir-“

*She * did.

The lady major rose elegantly from her seat and wandered round the desk; hand outstretched. By now, Frank knew the protocol, he would not let himself down again. He smiled in greeting. Tried hard not to loom over her petit 5” frame as he pumped her clammy palm.

“We received you distress signal, madam!” he said, pulling back. “My crew and I came as fast as we could.”

“Oh yes,” her voice a sing song trill he had not expected from that body,” you did come fast. I thank you, captain. That shall be all.” She pottered back round the desk. He watched, dumfounded. She fought to wrestle her awkward backside back into the seat.

“Excuse me?”

“Crisis averted, captain- you’re free to go.”

“Yes, but what was the emergency? You sent out a Band One distress signal, with maximum penetration- you yelled for help at the top of your lungs, and we came to help.”

“Yes, captain, and I must say your alacrity did you proud. You’ve done very well for us and we’re hugely grateful. Now you and your crew are free to stay as long as you wish. But do not stay for our sake, we’re quite satisfied with your performance, and shall need you no further.”

“Quite satisfied?”

Her beady little eyes bulged; she gave a curt smile. Eager to be rid. “A good firm shake, yes.”

Frank bristled. “I’ll have you know that we do not come running for entertainment value, for whimsy or some cry for attention. There are penalties to wasting a Star Cruiser’s resources madam. Not to mention, in the time we’ve been here- proving ourselves to you- we may have been seriously needed elsewhere. If that’s true, may it hang guilty on your conscience-” He paused for breath, rants hard to maintain in such low oxygen, “but I am glad we lived up to your so very high standards.” There was paperwork for this. He could file a report back on the ship, get them fined for improper use of Force time. He glanced at his watch.

10 minutes till Hollyoaks - the deceitful decapod had held him up enough. In 10 minutes, they would finally be rid of bloody Brendon, the prancing arse had ruined his favourite galactic soap opera for weeks, and if frank missed this pivotal instalment because of… Whatever this was. Because he was trying to track down the requisite forms, scan them in to the trans molecular telefax, make the cavalcade of calls to Commander Chutney-

“But today, as it is your first offence, you shall get away with a warning.”

“Oh?” The Demento mayor was unperturbed.

“Yes, and a slap on the wrist.” He leant forward, smacked her arm, and turned on his heel to leave.

“Ohh, you are a saucy number.”

Frank gave a shiver and turned back. That was not the sort of comment you could leave the room on. It was cringeworthy. He certainly could not leave the planet on that note.

“Saucy… How?”

“We were lucky, captain, lucky it was you who received our distress signal. Do you know often we must advertise for foreign seed? How often that seed is vastly inferior to our desires?”

“What seed?”

“You even moisturise your hands! So soft, so considerate. You didn’t have to. We’ve been forced over the generations to mate with some very crusty dockers. Dockers with blistered finger tips and,” she shuddered,” hangnails that catch.”

“Thank you madam mayor, but I really must know what you meant by-“he was cut off by manic grunting as the woman strained and contorted before his eyes. One moment she was fine, aloof, the next bent forward in a hideous gurn, her stomach clutched in claw like hands. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Indigestion?” Instinctively went to hold her hand-

“No silly- I’m about to lay our egg.”

“What?”

“Your finger prints and my fingerprints,” she looked up at him, cheeks rosy, puffed, eyes crossed in concentration; all her features scrunched up contorted disarray. He whipped his hand back and stumbled to the door. This was no birth, this was a transformation, and he didn’t want to be around to see what heinous beast she turned into-

All too late. He found the handle, but the deed was done. The metamorphosis was complete. Her lips parted in a wet, exulted gasp. Her dress gave a flutter. A ruby red egg rolled out from underneath. Shiny, round, no bigger than a football. Frank resisted the urge to boot it through the window. He pressed himself to the door, as far away as possible from the inhuman Pez dispenser. “Our fingerprints bonded to make this blessed child!”

“Wait wait wait wait wait! You people do it with your… fingers?”

“Well of course- what do your species use?”

“That doesn’t matter.” He was already bright red, she couldn’t see the blush. “But… How could you let me come here and just… just.. harvest my DNA like that?”

“Are you calling into question the miracle of birth?” Her beady eyes narrowed. She bent to scoop up the egg in her arms.

“I’m calling into question your shonky set of morals, woman. I don’t know if that was rape, but it was certainly taking advantage. I didn’t know. I didn’t know what we were doing.”

“Well now you’ve been educated.” She continued to rock the large ball, made little cooing noises to it. Frank’s stomach flipped; he felt as though he were about to give birth too, or at the very least have kittens. This was his child, 50% of his genes, and the hideous Dementon was treating him as though he had no further claim to it. She had carried it in her intestinal papoose for what- maybe three minutes?- and shat it out on the carpet- that made it entirely her property? Did it hell as like. Protocol number 1 may be not to interfere with the natural order, but if Dementon didn’t have a Father’s for justice programme already, he may just have to set one up.

Frank settled for a strangled meow, and fled through the door.

The cast of dignitaries and well-wishers, which he now knew to be dirty dirty slags, only in it for his chromosomes,  watched him on the way out. He kept his chin up, strode past with nary a glance, but he could feel the wall of eyes. See the beautiful red prizes they clutched to their bosom. Out into Dante’s inferno. Out of the frying pan and into the fire-

“What’s this?” Micha storming towards him, arms pumping like pistons, steam practically puffing from her ears - a pissed of steam train.

“Oh… nothing…”

She came to a halt, none to nose. Held up a little red ball. Fantastic. They’d already travelled. “Cos they’re getting pooped out all over the place- and I was just wondering if you had any fatherly wisdom as to what made them?” The way she cocked her eyebrow and made that forehead vein throb, Frank got the feeling she knew full well what made them. Still, he decided to play along with her game of Guess Who.

“A very large hen?”

“No. I think you’ll find it was a very large cock!”

“I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“Oh great, well fine,” she stomped back and held the egg aloft above her head,” why don’t we celebrate then, with on massive, creepy omelette? Floor should be hot enough to cook it, don’t you think?”

With that her arms flexed and she went to smash his blessed child-

“No! Micha,” he sprung forward, grabbed her tightly, “no!” His voice crackled like the steam,” don’t cook my child!”

She wrestled out his grip. ““Ah, so you admit it!”

“Please, where did you find this one? Where’s the momma? Where did you get it?”

“Just lying round in a bush over there. Mum tried to sell it to me for $5 but she accepted some scotch eggs and pocket lint instead. I don’t think 90% of these mothers are very attached.” Frank was, Frank was very attached, he glared daggers round the island in case one hit a shameless hussy. Sell my child for snack food, he thought. Micha glared too, though her daggers were aimed at him.” What’s the main rule of star force Frank?”

“No intervention.”

“Yes. And keep calm.” He nodded emphatically.” And don’t mate with the locals.”

“I kept calm.”

“And you mated with everyone!”

“That’s a bit of an understatement.”

“You impregnated more than that??”

“Over statement! Overstatement! “He patted her arm.” You know what I mean.”

He scoured the area for possible allies. Jager. Where was Jager? Old bosom buddies from back in the academy days, the ship’s doctor would take his side. He’d certainly be nowhere near as judgemental as Micha here. The grey haired fool was miles away, poking a branch into some lava-flows- God knows why-  so he snapped his fingers at a rather well dressed woman instead. The woman had an egg of her own, and perhaps a husband.” You there- is that my kid?”

“Yes.” The woman nodded.

Perhaps not. “Okay, bad example. But how was I meant to know? How could I possibly have known?”

“Read the case file for the planet before you touch down. Don’t be a stumbling bumbling boob. I don’t know Frank, some element of forethought and research.”

“Okay, ‘read the case file’ is all very well and good, but it would help if that was in the StarForce code.”

“The code neglects to warn you about the perils of an open flame- would you burn yourself alive because the code doesn’t explicitly sate otherwise?”

“No. Not unless this whole planet wants me to pay child support. Then I might consider it.”

“Well while you’ve been spreading your wild oats, Jager and I have been actually getting to the bottom of the issue. You remember the planet-wide issue we were summoned here to sort?”

“Oh yes, about that-“

“Shush now frank, you’ve had your time to speak, let the adult finish her bit” Frank shut his mouth. If anything, her sass would make him relish his juicy revelation even more later. “It turns out, this planet has a massive suicide problem. Now I don’t know what it is- psychological manipulation, some brain rotting bacteria, death cult, but all of the old people have suddenly started killing themselves and if we don’t intervene-“

Micha stopped, shoved out the way by two decrepit locals, as they fought their way past to the edge of the precipice. One gave Frank a fleeting smile. He nodded politely. She didn’t see. She had already plunged head first into the lava. It was quite a drop, but in moments, her shell sank with a sickening hiss below the surface. Turtle soup. His stomach growled. He dropped his egg. Luckily it bounced.

“Jesus Christ, Micha-“ he couldn’t process the events- no sooner had the woman jumped, than her partner went to do the same-

Micha bounded forth to stop them- shot forward like a bolt. She would have made it too, were it not for one stray egg rolling idle along the floor. She saw the little beach ball, but saw it far too late.

Frank watched in horror as she stumbled with a crack and his beautiful child spilled greasy see-through innards all over the ground, instantly fried to a white and orange disk beneath their feet. His second in command slipped on the omelette, completely off balance, her arms a pinwheel blur-

He went to catch her

She toppled off the edge.

There was a flash of silence, before the sickening acrid splash.

#

Not all worlds are born equal, but all worlds are born to die. Demento is in full bloom now, but one day the sun will set, it’s coal fire cool to embers.

The final credits rolled, though Frank had barely paid attention. Hollyoaks, with its particular brand of melodrama, seemed a like crass interlude to the day’s events. Surreal and distracting when he had his own dramas to consider.

Micha.

He closed Demento’s file, the one he should have read before they landed, but didn’t let himself feel guilty for neglecting. Afterall, Micha had not read the file either; otherwise she would have known. When one a new generation is born on the sterile planet down below- the oldest generation are driven to their death. It is a cycle as old as time, a song set in their DNA. Some primal instinct sent to serenade them to the grave. Like plants drawn to light… moths pulled to a flame. Their time is up. From fire they are birthed, and in lava they remain.

It is the natural order of things, and thus not her place to interfere.

By trying to save the bewildered pensioner, Micha was in fact in breach of protocol number 1. Frank felt a smile. Yes, Micha was even more wrong than him. He only broke protocols 2 and 3.

#scifi #scifi story #scifi series #short story #funny #thoughts #writers on tumblr #writers #writer #fiction

[mechagalaxy]

John T Mainer 28840: Day of the Jackal

Day of the Jackal

My name is Jack Burton, I pilot the Regis "Pork Chop Express" for Jackal's Lanterns. This is just another crappy story about getting your ass kicked, and getting some payback here in Mecha Galaxy.

Jackal's Lanterns were not the strongest Clan in existence, but those who served the Great Pumpkin as "Jackal" Jackson's mecha squadron was known, were known for punching their weight among the mid ranked clans of Mecha Galaxy. No one was going to mistake them for Dragons, even in a bad light, but if they took your coin, they got the job done, even if they had to bleed to do it. There was bleeding happening right now. Sawchuck's Savages came here, and they came heavy.

Jackal's Anubis was flanked by his best warriors. Jose Chu's Boreas, my Regis, Charles Bear's Rook, and Serena's Notas. That was a decent line, all niode machines. The lightest was Charles Bear's Rook at 75 tons of missile launching fury, and the heaviest Serena's 100 ton Notas the Red Witch. We were a lot stronger than the rest of our troop, but the second line was Torrents and Dreadnoughts, so not pushovers either. It wasn't going to be enough. Jackal lowered his Anubis head to bring his shoulder missile batteries to bear, his 95 ton monster against the 110 ton Spectre. Serena danced her Notas lightly in the face of the 105 ton Kami that promised fire to her fire, while I paced my Regis against the Xango. Both Chu's Boreas and Bear's Rook faced nothing less than the grinning death's head of a 110 ton Penner.

I had the highest damage lasers on my Regis, and maximized my damage through enhanced targeting. I could pretty much guarantee doing x2 x3 damage on top of my already optimized laser damage. My shields were drawing on the wide open engine resonators to give me enough auto repair I feared getting cancer standing next to them. I knew how to face big mecha, but not so much the BFM, the over one hundred tonners of the next generation mecha. We were Jackal's Lanterns, and we had taken gold to defend this ground, so the big boys would have to go through us to take it.

They did.

My Twin Grazers screamed as I laid the targeting crosshairs on the faint haze of green and blue that was the Xango behind its layered shields, and cut loose. My beams split, attenuated, and even bounced back to strike me deep enough to carve half my armour from my right arm. A huge explosion marked the end of Charles Bear's Rook as a Mjolnir fired by the Penner struck like the hammer of Thor and didn't just kill the Rook, but shut down the Torrent behind it. Serena scored with her Illyrian Flare, but ate a Hellbat in return. Chu's Boreas dodged the incoming fire he was facing but was out of line to return fire himself. Then the Xango fired. I thought I had seen what a mecha could do with lasers, my Regis was once the top machine in existence at lasers, but no more.

My laser shield stopped 1500 points of damage, my inner shields another 550. My armour....exploded. Do you know what it feels like when you are riding 90 tons of living metal and crystal, your every never fiber echoing and controlling the myomer pseudomuscles, the create crystal matrix bones, the ferrite armour scales, biopic cable nerve systems controlling a fusion reactor power that rivaled a starship or small sun? Now imagine being bonded to a niode matrix living intelligence, a living AI bonded though you sharing your organic brain with its niode matrix to make controlling this machine an extension of your own body, only with machine processing speed to allow conscious control of every ounce of overpowered killing machine. Then imagine being hit with a fifteen thousand point plus spear of coherent light. Light that is so compressed and energetic it converted my armour into a low grade fission explosion as it shattered the atomic bonds and liberated the bond energy as a plasma blast wave that tore through my mecha like the fist of god. Too fast to trigger the shut down protocols, so no mercy shut down of the link to my Regis brain as it/our/my body converted to metal/crystal plasma. No emergency shut down of the reactors, only blind chance and brute trauma tore through the back of my mecha to vent the explosion of my reactor core outside the husk of my hollowed out machine, shutting down, and knocking down the Dreadnought behind me.

I was conscious, unable to move, unable to break the link to my dying machine as the Xango stepped over me. I/we drank in the input from my eyes and his sensors. We could see the spot on his hull that our Twin Grazer, a 120 point weapon before any of my bonuses or damage stacking got added had hit. The paint was untouched, and it was slightly warm. The beam had pulsed in a Wide Fork, strobing across the whole front rank like some mad DJ at a dance rave, only instead of bringing the funk, he was funking us up. I was the only kill, but everyone else was shut down by the damage and easily swept away.

The other ranks didn't take as long to die as we did.

Sawchuck's Savages lost one mecha to a lucky shot from Kitty Carlson's Smilodon. We were a week putting our machines back together, and morale took longer.

Jackal came to see me in the bay, he had put up his own Justicar for sale to finance some improvements. He couldn't pilot it yet, it was locked, but still that was something he was counting on upgrading to for the future. He was with our chief tech Nokomura, a dour Japanese man who looked like a depressed basset hound with a cigarette and five o clock shadow.

Jackal cut straight to the point.

"Listen Jack, you can't trade punches with a Xango or he will hand you your head and beat the next rank to death with it. I bought some Predator Targeting to boost your critical kill and speed. They don't damage stack for shit, but you were not winning that game anyway. He will always hit harder than you. That is as much as I can do for you." Jackal slapped my shoulder and slumped off, looking as beat as I felt. Nokomura was talking, he jabbed me with the data slate when he realized I was tuning him out.

"Hey halfwit, I was asking if you wanted to swap with the two Dilophos pilots. They have been dying to get a hold of your Prism Beams, and they are willing to swap for their Galaxy Eyes. Same deal with your Twin Grazerrs, the Apis pilots are willing to trade their Tri Slaggers for them straight across. I opened my mouth to object when my data implant ran the numbers again, and caught the flashing highlight Nokomura had added. I was losing as far as base damage, and as far as damage stacking went, but I was gaining Critical Kill, a lot of it. I reran the fight and all my simulator training since the fight and realized that playing one punch with a Xango on strength per strength was not a game I could ever win in a Regis.

I can't outfight a Xango. But I can kill it.

I ran the numbers again. I grunted. It still wasn't working. I am technically faster, but the Xango has so many weapons that technically and practically are two different things. He still usually fired first. If he hit, I was vaporized. That REALLY HURT. I looked at Nokomura, he was pointing those droppy sad eyes at me from behind those stupid shop glasses he always wore. He had a suggestion, but wasn't going to waste it if I wasn't listening. Well, I didn't see the answer, so I finally bit and asked.

"Alright Noko, what do you think I need to do?" Nokomura didn't smile, he never smiled. He just dumped a data file to me. Two listings, one an offer on the Fides that I swore I was going to get around to levelling up but just kept falling farther behind. The other a deal right now on Quantum Bus engines. OK, now those were FAST.

Nokomura began talking

"You are running Reverse Rotary and Dark Matter right now. Fork, some damage stacking, but we already agree you aren't winning the damage stack fight, and neither of those is all that fast. Quantum Bus make you enough faster that you will fire first over half the time, and as a bonus, you can patch up Bear's Rook and keep him in the fight longer. He can lay out the damage with his missiles, but at 75 tons he lacks the armour to hang for long in a big boy fight, unless you can help out."

It was a point. Medbot would fix me up sure, but it would also patch up my line mates if they were hurt too. Stack them like that and not only was I faster than snot, but I was a walking medic for the line. Punching above our weight means surviving the big hits where even splash can take you half way to the grave, and fork will finish it. OK. Lets face it, that Fides was not going to get urgent enough to ever get up to level, so at least I can make enough on it to upgrade my engines. Plus the ones I am taking off can strengthen the rest of squadron, especially the third rank where most of the gear was crystal. I nodded the OK, and gave my implant code to authorize the sale.

Weeks later, Sawchuck's Savages came back for more.

This time Jackal was the unlucky one as the Specter caught him with a spread of Predator Drones which critical killed him before he could do more than pop his missile launcher bay doors. Then it was my turn. I tried to get lock on the Xango with my shoulder spike Trislagers, but the laser shields kept defeating my lock. I didn't have time to wait. I pivoted on my left foreclaw and allowed a Hammerhead beam to pass through where I was almost standing and cut loose with the light blue scream of a Galaxy Eye. About one third the candle power of the Twin Grazer I used to fire, the strange blue beam seemed to compress as it passed through the stacked shields of the Xango, attenuating almost to nothing as it reached the hull without enough force to penetrate the heavy energized hull plating of its inner shields. It played across the Xango like St Elmo's fire, a dancing sparkling energy surge that swept over the machine, polarizing, depolarizing, connectors and shields internal and external until the engine buffers and weapon capacitors of the Xango began to chain fire like plasma level fireworks inside the great machine. The massive armour that protetcted the Xango killed it by reflecting all that power into the gyro and main fusion engine, causing the great machine to topple and explode as its balance systems failed and main power blew out the back armour baffle panels to gut the machine but save the pilot. Critical kill baby.

Tandem Bombs Wide Forked from Charles Bear's Rook as Serena landed a Birthday Fist that ended the Kami in a flowering of fire. We traded mecha for mecha in the next round, trading a Boreas for Penner, then a Notas for Penner. I killed the Spectre to avenge Jackal but when Charles and I advanced into the next rank, Rook and Regis against the world, we got one kill before something bad happened and the ground came up and smacked me in the face. I must have been tired or something because I napped the rest of the fight.

I am told it was spectacular. Two of Sawchucks's Savages were left above the last Magnus of our back row. It must have made an impression, because when the pilot from Sawchuck's Savages pulled me from my Regis, being very careful to keep my spine supported which tells you great things about the condition of my cockpit at the time, and strapped me to the spinal board for the field ambulances, she gave me a data crystal.

"Hey, you guys really gave us a run for it. The boss says he likes what you showed him, and Faction War is coming up. I think it would be good for both of us if you came with us when the wheels come off and the Factions start forming. Its always nice to have someone you know will fight smart and go the distance having your back. Pass that along to your boss. Maybe next time we meet on the field, we will be fighting together, not fighting each other."

Could be the concussion, but that was far from the worst idea I have ever heard. I would think on it, at least until I felt OK to get off this damned board. I would think about that, and the sight of that Xango sparkling and blowing up. Revenge is a dish best served sparkly, at least here in Mecha Galaxy.

John T Mainer 28840

[onclouddesign]

This street artist’s work really gets my tail wagging, so I decided to interview her on her studio and working practice. So inspiring . . .

✭ SARAH MASSON INTERVIEW ✭

Recount on how you have gotten to the point that you are at now / your background. What influences (people, life events etc.) have lead you into the creative industry? 

Graduated communication design at RMIT 2009 

Worked as a graphic designer & creative director for many years 

Started painting around 2014 & exhibiting straight away 

Started spray painting, doing street art painting murals 2015 

Quit my job in design worked as a an artist exhibiting and selling works independently both nationally and internationally whilst doing different commissioned private and commercial work in art, design, photography and performance. 

Curated indépendant gallery spaces in VIC & NSW 

Why did you choose to become a solo practitioner rather than working in a group environment? 

I enjoy going deep with a project idea and seeing a piece from beginning to end I prefer to work alone because it is less messy with too many cooks, also more money if you do it all yourself. I prefer to work alongside artists from other disciplines like musicians. I lived and worked in a recording studio, art gallery, creative space called Lupine Studio last year.  That was good for me to collaborate with artists coming and going and maintaining my own practice and keeping my own space. 

How does the urban environment help you to generate ideas? 

If I am painting a wall I have to really consider the surface texture and surrounding environment. Always returning to the art elements & principals colour, contrast, composition etc to find the best result in the space because my original concept or sketch may not work. 

What types of paints, instruments, materials and tools do you use to facilitate your work? 

Spray paints, acrylic paint, texts, charcoal, pastels, scrap paper for sketches, brushes, rollers, sponges, sometimes projectors, a mask, ladders, milk crates. 

To produce your work, do you have readily available resources and is it cost efficient? 

 It is more cost effective if you use similar colours and explore a colour palette across a few paintings/murals. Getting on the tools and stretching your own canvas or going to the hardware store and buying a sheet of $12 plywood to cut my own round canvases instead of buying one for $150 at deans art. I also reuse canvases and paint over them if they have been sitting around for a while its good not to be too attached to your work. 

In what way do you focus on sustainability? 

 I try to use as much recycled materials often at the moment I am painting on recycled plywood boards that used to be festival gallery walls, they have holes in them etc but I like that they aren’t perfect it adds character.  I use my computer to collage up ideas and trial colours and only use scrap paper for sketching. I mostly sell prints to order these days instead of getting a bunch printed.   

Who is your main target audience and demographic, and how do you attract them individually? 

I don’t make art for anyone in particular. I have exhibited & live painted at a lot of bush doof festivals over the years young earthy conscious people seem to resonate with my work.  They often don’t have any money so they support my work by buying prints and small pieces. 

What clients seek your finished creative work? 

My main demographic who buys my bigger canvas artworks are fancy housewives and people 30+ often in the queer community. 

 Are all your paintings completed in the studio? Or are they taken home on some occasions? 

 Over the years I have gone between working in studios and from home. Because I use spray paint I need access to an outdoor space for ventilation. I have a good work ethic so working from home isn’t really a problem. I have been mostly creating minimalistic works on paper the last few years so I haven’t had a need for a studio I can just work from my kitchen table.   

How does your individual design process differ from other artists? Describe how your culture enables the public to recognize your work? 

All of my visual art is accompanied by a long title story or poem, I feel the written work is as important as the visuals. I try not to over work my pieces even if they are messy and layered I want the piece to have as much movement and emotion as possible. Most painters I know work on pieces for days or months and thats great but it is not in my process I prefer to keep my work as expressive as possible. 

Describe the stimulus for ideas? How do you find and develop concepts?

I keep a notebook and write down ideas and quotes from conversations with friends everyday. In my work I am exploring what it is to be human and what it is to be human in relation to others it provides me with an infinite amount of stimulus for concepts.  I develop concepts when I am doing yoga, meditation, walking or in conversation with people. 

Pick a project - what problem were you trying to solve? Barriers? Successes? Failures? What is your most well-known piece of work? 

 My solo exhibition ‘Oxytocin’ for Melbourne Fringe Festival was one of my favourite bodies of work exploring love, sex, gender and queer relationships. Intimate themes 

Timeframes and constraints - as an individual do you work in a fast-paced manner or do you focus primarily on detail? 

 I work very fast. I come from a graphic design, creative direction background so I have skills to develop ideas, make decisions quickly and usually paint a canvas or a mural in a day. Or for the last year I have mostly been selling minimalistic black and white continuous line drawings which take a minute or two. Quicker doesn’t necessarily mean better or easier. Most of the time I don’t plan what I will paint so to create something on the day I need to have a clear mind, and clear space to get in the zone. My painting style is quite expressive and often quite layered, I am not really interested in fine details more interested in the mood that the lines, shapes and colours create. 

Do you prefer working in an outdoor studio or indoor? How do these differ and what challenges do they project? 

 If I am using spray paint I will work outside. I often use mixed media on pieces so I may alternate between spraying and bringing the piece back inside if the weather isn’t great and add different elements with paint, pastel or charcoal and keep alternating between inside and outside until I feel the piece is finished. 

What is the key to success when communicating with the public? How do you distinguish a successful mural that you painted in a public setting to an unsuccessful one? 

 Taking your time. I paint quickly sometimes maybe too quickly because painting live or on the street the public is talking to you, telling you their opinions on what looks good, what looks shit, judging you, being sexist assuming you can’t do street art because you are a girl etc so it is best to stay true to your art and trust your own process and don’t speed it up if you get nervous. I really love the process of creating and sometimes I get too carried away with it I don’t take a literal step back, to view with a critical eye and consider what works and what doesn’t. Marking up the wall first even just loosely because pretty much every I do is free styled probably with no sketch maybe with a few printed out photos for reference so the murals are always a million times better if i draw up a simple grid first even if its just a 9 square grid on a 3m x 6m wall it still  helps, there is nothing worse than a big piece of art on a wall thats out of proportion by accident. 

How do you decide which colours to use for each project? Are they randomly selected, or do each convey a meaning? 

 There is always meaning whether I am conscious about the meaning before I begin the painting or after I am reflecting on what the piece means and how the colours relate to the meaning of the piece.  If I am working on a commission especially if it is a commercial job I or the client may want to chat about relevant colours to their business or the mood we want to create, or the way we want people to feel when in the space with the artwork. 

Who are your competitors? 

 I don’t really have competitors it is not how I see it. The art communities I am involved in we mostly try to lift each other up. I have friends in the industry that have similar styles or themes like: Doug Bennett, Hera Wing, Roy Wilkins, Miss Darq, Unwell Bunny, Heidi Valkenburg, Mimby Jones Robinson. 

What are some things you do to ensure quality work?

 I will post photos on social media of works in progress or send to other artists, get some opinions, share ideas. I have too much pride to exhibit average work. I make sure I don’t leave creation to the last minute. The actual drawing or painting takes about 20% of my creation time the other 80% is conceptualizing.

On Cloud Design ✥