#☆.⠀⠀⠀larger than life⠀⠀⠀⎯⎯⎯⠀⠀⠀⠀(⠀verse i !⠀)

[musicalgifs]

i'm sorry sometimes i wish i could be more critical of things i enjoy but i simply loved the production so much. i love natasha's teddy bear i love the duel in an actual club i love the lights i love leather daddy balaga i love anatole's endless flowy shirts with a single button closed i love every single one of the actors and musicians

[cagcd]

      Sympathy swells in a heart once too careless to understand.   A newborn sense of compassion which grew stronger by the hands of maturity and experience.   His father had never been an example he wished to follow,   never desired the responsibility for a life he may be the cause of its eventual ruin.   He had gotten close,   once,   too absorbed in his own world with one too many glasses to be made aware of an unconscious instance of neglect,   once   &.   Never again.   It was a wake up call much needed to restore a life he had nearly drove to an end of no return.   He sobered up,   took responsibility and vowed to be the father his own could never be.   A fault he's most grateful to despite the guilt,   for he is now aware of all that he could have missed in his daughter's life if self destructive tendencies were to go on.   And he's proud,   so immensely proud,   that the weight of that massive ego is reduced into non-existance when she was the topic of discussion.   Since the first time she rode a bike to the day she bested her mother in combat and earned her spot as commanding officer.   Still,   it would be a lie to say to his faith was blind,   that he hadn't felt concern to an unbearable degree at every scraped knee and bruise.   To lose one's only child,   he couldn't fathom the idea.

        ❛❛   What was he like,   your son,   I mean ?   ❜❜        Johnny asked,   curious but not as pushy as ever is his habit.   He only heard Hanzo utter his name,   but never once had he spoken of him,   too pained by the gravity of his loss to reflect back on the good,   on that same joy he must have had seeing his own flesh and blood excel in life.   He had often known something was amiss,   that that rage had a purpose   &.   Not some mere villainy of nature like the rest of their foes.   But it had never occurred to him how difficult it truly was until he had a family of his own to lose,   fame and fortune were always fleeting,   but family ?   No treasure could compensate for it.        ❛❛   If             you don't mind me asking,   that is.   ❜❜

@scorpiun // plotted !

[nostalgebraist]

I feel like I've had the same experience several times now: someone does a new translation of a non-English literary classic, and all the critics praise it to the moon, so I go and try to read it, and it's turns out it's just . . . bad? Like, really bad? And weirdly bad?

A while back, I wrote about the case of Pevear and Volokhonsky. Here's another example, which I encountered while doing background research for my novel Almost Nowhere.

----

One of my novel's major characters is a literary translator, famous for his rendition of the Persian epic poem Shahnameh ("Book of Kings").

To help me write this character, I tried to read the Shahnameh myself. I started out – where else? – with the translation that seemed to be the gold standard, and which was certainly the most critically lauded.

Namely, the 2006 translation by Dick Davis, in prose with occasional shifts into verse.

Here's how the Shahnameh begins, in Davis' translation:

What does the Persian poet say about the first man to seek the crown of world sovereignty? No one has any knowledge of those first days, unless he has heard tales passed down from father to son. This is what those tales tell: The first man to be king, and to establish the ceremonies associated with the crown and throne, was Kayumars. When he became lord of the world, he lived first in the mountains, where he established his throne, and he and his people dressed in leopard skins. It was he who first taught men about the preparation of food and clothing, which were new in the world at that time. Seated on his throne, as splendid as the sun, he reigned for thirty years. He was like a tall cypress tree topped by the full moon, and the royal farr shone from him. All the animals of the world, wild and tame alike, reverently paid homage to him, bowing down before his throne, and their obedience increased his glory and good fortune.

And here is the same opening, in the 1905 translation by Arthur and Edmond Warner (which I only discovered much later in the process of writing Almost Nowhere):

What saith the rustic bard? Who first designed To gain the crown of power among mankind? Who placed the diadem upon his brow? The record of those days hath perished now Unless one, having borne in memory Tales told by sire to son, declare to thee Who was the first to use the royal style And stood the head of all the mighty file. He who compiled the ancient legendary, And tales of paladins, saith Gaiúmart Invented crown and throne, and was a Sháh. This order, Grace, and lustre came to earth When Sol was dominant in Aries And shone so brightly that the world grew young. Its lord was Gaiúmart, who dwelt at first Upon a mountain; thence his throne and fortune Rose. He and all his troop wore leopard-skins, And under him the arts of life began, For food and dress were in their infancy. He reigned o'er all the earth for thirty years, In goodness like a sun upon the throne, And as a full moon o'er a lofty cypress So shone he from the seat of king of kings. The cattle and the divers beasts of prey Grew tame before him; men stood not erect Before his throne but bent, as though in prayer, Awed by the splendour of his high estate, And thence received their Faith.

Now, I can't speak at all about the source text. I have no idea how faithful or unfaithful these two translations are, and in what ways, in which places.

Still, though. I mean like, come on.

This is an epic poem about ancient kings and larger-than-life heroes.

This is a national epic, half myth and half history, narrating the proud folkloric lineage claimed by a real-world empire.

There is a way that such things are supposed to sound, in English. And it sure as hell isn't this:

What does the Persian poet say about the first man to seek the crown of world sovereignty?

Excuse me? That's your opening line? I thought I was reading a poem, here, not taking a fucking AP World Literature exam!

----

Postscript

Some of the critical praise for the Davis translation, quoted on the back cover of my copy (emphasis mine):

"A poet himself, Davis brings to his translation a nuanced awareness of Ferdowsi's subtle rhythms and cadences. His "Shahnameh" is rendered in an exquisite blend of poetry and prose, with none of the antiquated flourishes that so often mar translations of epic poetry." (Reza Aslan, The New York Times Book Review) "Thanks to Davis's magnificent translation, Ferdowsi and the Shahnameh live again in English.” (Michael Dirda, Washington Post) "A magnificent accomplishment . . . [Davis’s translation] is not only the fullest representation of Ferdowsi’s masterpiece in English but the best." (The New York Sun)

[gay-dorito-dust]

How about something about being a very soft and feminine person, strong independent in their own way, with Mizu. I like to think she is joins the party and acts as the “woman” for the group, and she just genuinely is a good person. I just want to see Mizu with someone who just cares about them.

This was way too long and whatever else you wanna call it.

‘You’ll die.’ Mizu puts bluntly.

‘I don’t care. I’m coming with you whether you like it or not.’ You shrugged, mind made up as you already have packed your essentials for the departure overnight.

Mizu closed their eyes, sighing deeply through the nose before opening their eyes once more to look directly at you with their usual stare. ‘I won’t be held responsible if you were killed unawares.’ They said but the fire of excitement and adventure within your eyes hasn’t faltered once.

Mizu can only wonder how they attract people of similar natures in one way or the other to trail after them like a little horde of stubborn ducklings; A question they’ll couldn’t quite find the answer for.

You have been prone to leave Mizu perplexed since your first met after healing them of their wounds after a particularly heinous fight. Your soft touches and kind encouraging words brought about uncertain feelings within Mizu. Making them feel as though they have somehow ventured off into unfamiliar territory, immediately sending them to act out in self defensive tactics.

Constantly looking over their shoulder, hand clutching at the hilt of their sword, ears and eyes honing in on every snaps of branches and the rustling of bushes, waiting for a potential ambushes or ransacking attempts. Anything that would put their life in any and all levels of risk.

Mizu found themself in a battlefield they weren’t well versed in whenever your face shone with a bright smile upon seeing them in the mornings, presenting them with the clothes they’ve entrusted to you to sew up the worn and torn fabric, seeing as how only you were the one with the tools and the experience for the job. Or how you would often help fix up breakfast for everyone but always end up making yours last, when Mizu asked about this, you just shrugged and told them that you’d rather survive off of scraps if it meant others having full, warm and satisfied bellies.

Mizu only scoffs at this, not thinking too much into your words, but their sharp eyes would immeditly notice the difference in the amount of food you gave them before looking at your own proportions; which was enough to satiate your hunger for the time being but it was obvious that you gave larger portions of food to them. Their eyes would soften somewhat at the gesture, knowing that your words were more than just words, only to harden afterwards when catching you given them frequent side glances.

You would also patch up reopened words that were in harder to reach for Mizu or Tiagen to get to by themselves , much to Mizu’s dismay at the thought of being in such a vulnerable and open position for sabotage. However under your watchful eye, Mizu had learnt over a long period of time to put their trust into you and your seemingly never ending well of talents.

‘Stop doing stuff that’ll only reopen your wounds,’ you scolded, finishing sealing up the last of Mizu’s wounds with a final stitch. ‘I’m staring to run out of thread and alcohol to disinfect the needle with the rate you and Taigen are going at!’ You added, putting your hands on your hips like a disappointed parent.

‘If it displeases you so much to waste resources, then why bother healing me in the first place.’ Mizu responded straightforwardly as they slowly refitted their clothing on their body whilst trying not to reopen any wounds as to not waste the effort you put into putting them back together again. You huffed, knowing that Mizu was still a little on edge with you and the kindness you went out of your way to give them.

You didn’t blame them for being the way they were and only accepted this as their way of acting the only way they knew how and went to sit down next to them, remembering to keep some distance for keep Mizu from unwarranted contact. ‘It’s not the resources that I’m worried about. It’s you.’ You admitted, seeing Mizu look at you from the corner of your eye, looking as though they weren’t expecting that type of response to come from your mouth. That reaction only hurt your heart knowing that a concerning about of people lacked empathy towards their fellow man. It genuinely disgusted you at how easy it was for them to show you their back the moment you’ve outgrown your usage.

‘Me? Why?’ Mizu asked.

You chuckled humourlessly. ‘Is it a sin for me to be concerned about you? To worry about you whenever you come back from where ever you wander off to, suddenly unable to stand on your own two feet without collapsing from immense blood loss?’ Mizu reminded silent and so you took that as a sign to continue. ‘Am I expected to just stand there and not do anything? I’m sorry but I’d rather wast every resource I own on you because if it meant bettering your chances of survival, even if by a margin, then I’d do anything to make that possibility into a guarantee.’ You finished with a smile before getting up to your feet and leaving the room to give Mizu privacy and time to process your words.

Meanwhile Mizu was back to feeling those foreign emotions. They weren’t use to someone caring for them to the extent that you did, not without wanting something in exchange but Mizu noticed that you haven’t even once asked for anything in return for making them breakfast, sewing up their clothes, gifting them sharping stones for their sword nor patching up their wounds. All you did was take care of them and their every needs, so much so that they felt a weird warm within their chest at the memory of your bright smile that you gave them after everything.

You were sweet and soft but strong, firm in your beliefs and posses a strong independence. A true diamond in the rough in regard to everything they’ve bore witness to since childhood. Your attitude towards them was an extreme contrast to everyone else’s, it often caught Mizu off guard in the odd occasion but it wasn’t until now did Mizu come to realised how much their body ached to be tended and cared for by someone like you. They’ve persevered through the hardships they’re forced to call life and bore the scars of said hardships in a multitude of places upon their body, both new and old.

Mizu was use to being alone but now that you entered their life, they were starting to think that they don’t wanna be alone anymore but was a tad hesitant to make the first move on their own accord. If Mizu was grateful for one thing in life, it was the fact that you were in it and by their side for the indefinite future.

[ajaxbell]

Fangs of Fortune (Bai Ze Ling): perfect on pure aesthetics alone, but also it will tear your heart out while being very gay.

I was lured in to this show by Tumblr gifsets and friends on Bluesky talking about how queer and poly this show is. I'm old and I've been in fandom more than half my life. I know how to read queer subtext. I'm also pretty well versed in cdramas, so again, I know how to read subtext. So I went into this ready to, well, read the subtext.

But no this show is just puts the queer it right there in the text. The vague information we have about Chinese censorship repeatedly left me asking, 'wait how are they getting away with this?' Like some of these jokes and implications are just so blatant it seems incredible this show ever made it to being broadcast. It just feels very much like queer media made for queer people even if t's more subtle than something western like Queer as Folk.

Even without the heavy coloring of gay this show is incredible and so much more than I expected from the title and the promo. The premise is essentially the death of the goddess, who governed relations between humans and demons, leads to an influx of demons in the human world. This brings together the goddess's disciple, Wen Xiao--seeking to restore the goddess's power. WX's childhood sweetheart, Zhuo Yichen--seeking to restore the demon-hunting bureau after the powerful demon Zhu Yan killed his father and brother. It opens on Zhu Yan, in human disguise as as Zhao Yuanzhou, volunteering to help the imperial court restore the demon-hunting bureau to quell the chaos. They are joined by Pei Sijing, a retired female general from the rival demon hunting sect, and a very young doctor (and comic relief) named Bai Jiu. It starts off as a sort of monster-of-the-week with a grim Scooby gang doing detective work and fighting monsters. Each major demon has a mini arc that relates to the larger case (restoring the power of the goddess to balance the realms), and they are repeatedly blocked by either the demons or the rival demon hunting sect. Each mini arc also acts as a mirror or parallel story to slowly revealed backstory of all the main characters as well. In true cdrama fashion it's a mix of adventure, intense emotional drama, romance, and comedy. And queer and poly jokes and romance. It also has a kind of manga vibe in the way the comedy is woven into the more serious story, and in the fantastical depiction of the characters and how the story unfolds.

It is also just insanely beautiful. Every single shot is lovely. The costumes, make up, and hair are incredible. The casting director made all the major demons inhumanly beautiful. The sets are spectacular. The effects are nicely done. Every bit of has the vague surreality of a fairytale. The perfection of each shot ads to the manga vibe, as if we're seeing each critical storytelling panel come alive. There's recurring water-based special effects that are just gorgeous. Based on aesthetics alone this show would be worth watching to me. That it is combined with a complex, very emotional story is a spectacular gift to the watcher. A lot of the negative reviews of this complain about the staginess or that it's overly contrived in how each scene is shot. But I think it's gorgeous, works perfectly with the storytelling, and if we criticize art on whether it achieves the goal it intended then this show is doing exactly and perfectly what it means to do and doing it beautifully.

Additionally the acting is also very good, but Neo Hou is the stand out for sure. I enjoyed him in Back from the Brink, especially the later part of the story, but in Fangs of Fortune he's transformed, utterly embodying the role, the way Dylan Wang is Dongfang Qingcang in Love Between Fairy and Devil. Neo Hou has the right look, a slightly uncanny beauty perfect for a gorgeous immortal not of this world. The show does incredible things with his styling between the various looks and personas the role requires. But in acting he somehow manages to utterly transform his face and demeanor to manifest each aspect of the character as story demands changes from him.

There is a lot of crying in this drama. Like early on I joked that there was going to be a character crying a single perfect tear in every ep. Lol nope. Multiple single perfect tears per ep and many outright full on sobbing scenes. This show is just waiting to rip your heart out and you see it right from the beginning. But it was such sweet pain all the way through. Just a truly engaging and utterly wrenching set of intertwined stories.

My only criticism is that the pacing falls apart in the last 3 episodes. But overall the story is solid through the end, though like so many cdramas, it's saved by the epilogue.

You should absolutely watch it if you want the chaotic bi polycule (it's her, her girlfriend, her boyfriend, her boyfriend's boyfriend who is also her boyfriend, their two idiot sons, and her boyfriend's ex-who is also eventually sort of his boyfriend again), or if you want your heart torn out and stomped on. Or even if you just like really gorgeous cinematic things. Also if you watch, please don't skip the ending credits, as they change as the arcs change, and the radiant joy Tian Jiarui has as he dances is an excellent antidote to the emotions of each episode.

[apoemaday]

Eurydice

by Carol Ann Duffy

Girls, I was dead and down in the Underworld, a shade, a shadow of my former self, nowhen. It was a place where language stopped, a black full stop, a black hole Where the words had to come to an end. And end they did there, last words, famous or not. It suited me down to the ground.

So imagine me there, unavailable, out of this world, then picture my face in that place of Eternal Repose, in the one place you’d think a girl would be safe from the kind of a man who follows her round writing poems, hovers about while she reads them, calls her His Muse, and once sulked for a night and a day because she remarked on his weakness for abstract nouns. Just picture my face when I heard -- Ye Gods -- a familiar knock-knock at Death’s door.

Him. Big O. Larger than life. With his lyre and a poem to pitch, with me as the prize.

Things were different back then. For the men, verse-wise, Big O was the boy. Legendary. The blurb on the back of his books claimed that animals, aardvark to zebra, flocked to his side when he sang, fish leapt in their shoals at the sound of his voice, even the mute, sullen stones at his feet wept wee, silver tears.

Bollocks. (I’d done all the typing myself, I should know.) And given my time all over again, rest assured that I’d rather speak for myself than be Dearest, Beloved, Dark Lady, White Goddess etc., etc.

In fact girls, I’d rather be dead.

But the Gods are like publishers, usually male, and what you doubtless know of my tale is the deal.

Orpheus strutted his stuff.

The bloodless ghosts were in tears. Sisyphus sat on his rock for the first time in years. Tantalus was permitted a couple of beers. The woman in question could scarcely believe her ears.

Like it or not, I must follow him back to our life -- Eurydice, Orpheus’ wife -- to be trapped in his images, metaphors, similes, octaves and sextets, quatrains and couplets, elegies, limericks, villanelles, histories, myths…

He’d been told that he mustn’t look back or turn round, but walk steadily upwards, myself right behind him, out of the Underworld into the upper air that for me was the past. He’d been warned that one look would lose me for ever and ever.

So we walked, we walked. Nobody talked.

Girls, forget what you’ve read. It happened like this -- I did everything in my power to make him look back. What did I have to do, I said, to make him see we were through? I was dead. Deceased. I was Resting in Peace. Passé. Late. Past my sell-by date… I stretched out my hand to touch him once on the back of the neck. Please let me stay. But already the light had saddened from purple to grey.

It was an uphill schlep from death to life and with every step I willed him to turn. I was thinking of filching the poem out of his cloak, when inspiration finally struck. I stopped, thrilled. He was a yard in front. My voice shook when I spoke -- Orpheus, your poem’s a masterpiece. I’d love to hear it again…

He was smiling modestly, when he turned, when he turned and he looked at me.

What else? I noticed he hadn’t shaved. I waved once and was gone.

The dead are so talented. The living walk by the edge of a vast lake near, the wise, drowned silence of the dead.

[cagcd]

      He had always seen a glimpse of something raw   beyond the soldier's front that was lieutenant Blade.   Caught a fleeting softness to her smile at unexpected moments,   heard an occasional lightness in her tone at those instances of teasing when he was sure she was merely messing with him rather than to carefully express something so substantial.   Her external rigidity had never phased him,   for a man who enjoyed learning of the inner workings of others' personalities,   he knew there was more to it,   had always been eager to tread so dangerously a little closer,   bring out a smile or an eye roll if he can.   It was in his nature to be so loud and flirty,   he had tried to get his way with her during the first tournament,   but contrary to common belief,   he was the loyal kind,   even more so throughout the two years of war against outworld's invasion.   They only had each other to rely on,   and he had unintentionally felt himself being dragged closer   &.   closer to the point he would lie awake with nothing on his mind but her,   wondering if she felt the same,

   only to have his answer laid out so boldly. 

      ❛❛   You know   ...   ❜❜        Johnny groaned,   recognizing that tone of hers all too well,   she's teasing him again for her own enjoyment,   perhaps pleased to see the actor so short on words for once                  which was unheard of until now,   but he can't be blamed,   not when the impact of those years being delivered with such a quick blow.   He wonders how he's able to keep his wits about him,   from almost losing her,   discovering this strange powers   &.   now this vague but all too obvious admission of feelings.   He's strangely thankful that she would get him to shut up again,   he followed her lead once more,   as effortlessly as it was to breathe,   willingly this time now that the shock had worn off,   as brief as that lasted,   for this time she seemed to pour every ounce of every unspoken feeling and if this was a cartoon he'd have steam blowing out of his ears.   He smiled nonetheless,   eyes shut close as she drew even closer,   his arm around her tightening its hold while a hand cradled her cheek,   she had every right to be careful,   because from now on he would be too stubborn on letting her go.

   He doesn't think he'd be recovering from this as well,   he had the wind knocked out of his lungs so effectively that he needed a moment.   All he could is smile whilst leaning forehead to forehead,   a breathy chuckle sounding at her question,   that was way more than what he was aiming for but he'll be damned if he doesn't take it.        ❛❛   I didn't take you for a softie,   Sonya Blade.   ❜❜

Long ago--or perhaps in another timeline--Sonya had told Johnny that patience was a virtue. It was as close as she could bring herself to telling him that there was, indeed, a chance for him to get his way... but that it would require a Herculean effort, and even more patience beyond that. If courtship was a battle, then Sonya was a fortress that he had laid siege to using damn near every tactic in the book to conquer. Ultimately it was sincerity that had broken down the gate to allow hm entry to the vulnerabilities those walls protected. It was a huge risk for her to let him in, to let him close... but part of her knew it was the right decision, and it was growing larger and larger by the moment.

It was freeing to allow herself to feel what she had been denying for so long.

"Feel the same..?"

Amusement colored her tone as she chuckled softy to herself. She couldn't hold not being able to put feelings into words against him--shit, it was probably one of her biggest flaws when it came to matters of the heart. It was entertaining, though... and while the urge to further prod at his flustered state by asking for more specifics was strong, she recognized that doing so would be cruel. Besides, if he was going to tell her that he loved her, she wanted him to be at least partial brain capacity when he did it. That, of course, led back to how she was going to answer that question when words wouldn't do the trick...

It was surprisingly easy to guide him down into another kiss--it was as effortless as breathing, yet it filled her with the adrenaline that made charging headlong into danger something she secretly adored. And there was danger here, the kind that had her shifting her position without giving up that liplock so she was straddling his hips and doing her damndest to get close to him as if she'd die if she didn't. The previous kiss had been hesitant, exploratory. This one, though... well. Johnny would never be able to hear someone call Sonya frigid again and keep a straight face. It was only the need for oxygen that had her pulling away, her forehead resting against his.

"That answer your question?"

Her words came out in a breathless murmur against his lips.

[cagcd]

     It wasn't the idea of this man shaped spider which got him,   but that dreadful glow of dotted eyes that he had seen one too many times and still finds himself flinching effectively at the encounter,   what's with unearthly beings and glowing eyes ?   Couldn't anyone invest in a pair of sunglasses to save for an unpleasant fright at such an unholy hour ?   All Johnny wanted to do was drink himself out into the bottom of another bottle and forget,   but it seems every time he had planned on it something or someone comes to interrupt him so rudely.   He supposes that's what it must be like to have actual friends,   those who's mere presence can do a world of good without ever intending it,   but he would rather break a knee,   [   again   ],   than to admit that to Miguel of all people.

       ❛❛   Like that would stop you from crashing straight into one.   ❜❜        the actor scoffs at the suggestion,   seeing no point in attempting such,   and perhaps a little too confident in himself and his ability to all be the security system he ever needed,   but despite how much he tends to get on the man's nerves,   Miguel wouldn't go as far as try and do anything.   There was an unspoken friendship between the two,   wrought stronger by a mutual need to be free of all burdens or to simply drown in them without any sense of judgment.   He thought he was miserable tonight,   grown weary of the same broken record of soulless eyes and empty smiles,   all so beautiful   &.   grand to the eye in true Hollywood fashion,   except those with a keen eye and a soul yearning for what's real,   never to be found in the plastic mold that was stardom.   However now,   seeing that absent-minded look on his friend's face,   the way he would reach for the bottle regardless of his sensitivity for stronger taste   ...   asking for games,   a movie,   that's misery in it's true form.

       ❛❛   What side of the web did you wake up on ?   ❜❜        Johnny would ask but allows Miguel to roam his mansion freely,   bothered with the intrusion but never the kind to turn a friend away at an hour of need.        ❛❛   the games are on the shelf over there,   pick any movie you want too as long as it's one of mine.   ❜❜        he gestured,   not too encouraged on looking through them himself,   Cindy used to love board games,   made him and her guests play them all the time,   that was a time ill-spent.   He sighed at the thought,   turning to the kitchen while Miguel took his pick.        ❛❛   You want anything to eat ?   I think I have some leftover pizza.   ❜❜

@spidergene // [ ☆ ]

[ceilidho]

why is your brain so wrinkly i'm eating up your ideas and thoughts about the cod boys in the fallout universe.

just ghost being unapologetically unbothered in the wastelands, soap being a raider because he's a wild man that needs something to do, price as a CULT LEADER (i eat that up every time) and our poor vault dweller gaz i just UGH

Ghost just lives on his own, eats whatever he can, sells the remains of whatever happened upon his property in town, and then uses that extra income on RadAway. he's either full ghoul or just deformed and deteriorating, but in either case he still wears the mask, and in this 'verse the skull on it is real. a grisly little memento of someone who maybe got too close to killing him. he catches you wandering a bit too close to his property, dehydrated and hallucinating because you've been out on your own for too long and rather than killing you, he hogties you and drags you home. it gets lonely without a pet to call his own.

Soap is a scavenger/raider who's been travelling with the same band of raiders for several months. before that he was on his own for a spell and before that he was in a much larger group that dissolved due to in fighting (dissolved = bloodbath, very few made it out). when his group breaks into your vault and kills most of the people inside, he takes you as his own and guards you jealously, territorially. bites you in order to put his mark on you. he makes you bunk with him and gets vicious mad when you stray too far from him because it's not safe. it gets to a point where he's too paranoid to go on raids anymore because he can't trust you to be on your own and he also doesn't want you coming with them and getting hurt. tells the group he's leaving and goes to take you with him and when they refuse to let him take whats "theirs" (aka anything they took from the vaults), he snaps and kills all of them

Gaz is a vault dweller who volunteered to come to the surface after his community's vault door failed, forced to scour the wastelands and nearby towns for replacement parts. when he comes across you working as a freelance mechanic, extremely taciturn and hard to get to know, he can't help but bring you back with him when you help him acquire the parts that he's been looking for, convincing himself that kidnapping you is for the greater good. he'll be able to give you a proper life free of stress and scarcity back in the vault, and you'll be able to ensure that the door never, ever opens again.

Price is the overseer of a vault that over the years has gradually devolved into what most would consider a cult. it's only too bad that there's no one objective enough to label it as such. his vault is also part of a dual vault system similar to vaults 31/32/33, but the two vaults haven't had any communication in the last two hundred years, so the other vault has no idea what's become of Price's vault. it's only too bad that due to a catastrophic blight in your vault, you're the only survivor of a plague that wiped out your entire community, forcing you to enact the emergency protocol and contact the vault adjacent to yours. Price is quick to welcome you in with open arms, but you only start to feel a bit uncomfortable when the other inhabitants start making comments about how nice it'll be to have a new resident as they've been lacking members of "good breeding stock". you don't like the way Price hums in agreement when someone brings that up at the welcome feast.

[koimethehorizon]

Fionna and Cake theory: Simon the Artist

Nothing like a good old creative panic attack.

Fionna and Cake good. Haven’t been excited about a show like this in a long time, though it being a part of Adventure Time does help quite a bit. I was holding on to some cautious optimism for the show when it was announced as yet another big IP series covering the multiverse (still waiting to groan at THAT scene where Prismo has to explain to us about there being infinite universes), but as usual, Adventure Time’s crew continues to surprise me with its creativity, humor, and thematic resonance.

The most striking part about Fionna and Cake so far is just how deliberately the show wants us to differentiate it from the original Adventure Time.

We’re getting shots where Simon pops an artery from his arm, a theme song that explicitly talks about suicidal ideation, discussions of rent and financial problems, and curses no longer disguised with AT’s usual dialogue. Adventure Time has always had violence, thematic density, and juvenile rating pushers, but they were always reserved at small points. Meanwhile, these are factors that are just casually shown and discussed in Fionna and Cake every 3 minutes or so. This is not an all-ages miniseries, it’s for young adults. (hint: this will be relevant later)

Let’s get right into it. This is much less a speculative lore theory and more on what thematic direction the story may be going.

Before we do, let’s get this out of the way first. This theory assumes that the current Fionna and Cake world is all a part of Simon’s head and not merely a separate multiverse, which… I’m certain is fact for the following reasons.

The immediately obvious piece is that Fionna and Cake was always the Ice King’s fanfiction. Now if you’re versed in AT’s continuity you’re probably going to be asking about the red light in Fionna and Cake + Fionna and… I’ve no answer for it unfortunately. It’ll probably be relevant later in the series and possibly age this post like milk but for now, we’re not here to focus on the how, but the why.

Second is that the intro and the ending of Ep 2 literally show Fionna’s world spilling right out of Simon’s head like an animated world out of a frozen brain. If that isn’t clear enough-

Didn't realize this until writing, but these glasses are just plastic made to look like Betty's

There’s no other explanation for this other than that this world is artificial or influenced by Simon in some sense. Fionna even specifies that the statue went under renovation 12 years ago, but nobody seems to know who it is. Considering how Finn looks in the episode, it’s likely that it’s been that long since Betty’s sacrifice in the finale.

With that out of the way, here it goes.

The reason Fionna and Cake exist in the first place is because the creators found Natasha Allegri’s genderswap designs charming and wanted an in-universe reason to use them the Ice King wanted to create trashy, wish fulfillment through art. It was a phase.

Definitely changed that image for publishing.

Simon can argue if they’re good or bad but it’s undeniably his art. It’s not just a portfolio he left behind in a closet, it’s an experience that was shared with a larger audience.

And even if wasn’t liked at first, the citizens of Ooo seemed to have come around to it. And some of them love it!

Whether Simon likes it or not, he has a fan base that is so endeared to the story he made all those years ago that they demand he makes more. Why let a good story, loved by many, go to rest when you still have some life and creativity left in you?

Can't move on in more ways than one.

Except, the problem is that Simon isn’t Ice King anymore. He’s aged out of it.

His real passion is history, he's an adult who who finds passion in the mundane and antiques from the past. And frankly, there isn’t much room for wish-fulfillment and fantasy anymore. Simon has responsibilities. He has a job and a daughter in a world that is moving faster than he can process.

And where Ice King wrote about looking for love, Simon has already had it.

And lost it. His mind isn’t focused on the rosiness of finding new love, it’s grieving the one he already thought was the one.

Wasn't he supposed to be good with kids?

Despite his new life experiences, all his peers seem to want from him is to make more of what they’re familiar with.

A story made from wants and wishes that he doesn’t even have anymore.

A story that was literally made by someone else at a different time. It’s a fiction he cannot connect to anymore, art that he’s embarrassed by. Yet also jealous of. Because at one point, the body Simon used to be in understood what exactly was missing from his life and could express that easily.

Seeing it again is like experiencing a retrospection of a cringey loser you don’t want to imagine having ever been. It’s not you anymore, and you don’t want to be reminded of that.

Because despite him having a new creative passion, no one seems to care about that. All they want is Fionna and Cake. And what is more lonely than other people misunderstanding what you’re trying to express?

If I failed to make it clear somehow, my theory is that: Simon’s relationship with Fionna and Cake is a metaphor for creators growing out of their art. And this new Fionna and Cake world is still comfort art born out of Simon’s current desires and perceptions.

The snippet subtitles this “child holding a phone”. I guess I’m wrong. Essay over.

Episode 1 and 2 both have direct parallels with each other. They’re both about a protagonist who are feeling displaced from their world, living a phase of losing a significant other, leaving a thankless job, wearing a mask of stability in front of the people they care for, seeking a guru at the heart of the forest, and concluding that they no longer belong in their current world.

But more importantly, Fionna and Cake (the characters, the world, and the show) are no longer for an all-ages crowd. Fionna and Cake now feature young adults, curses, gore, alcohol, partial nudity, financial issues, morning routines, mid-life crisis, and overt suicidal ideation. These are the feelings that Simon relates to and possibly desires to express through art. Thus, his story and our new miniseries have warped that way.

Am I overthinking this? No. How dare you assume that.

Is equating the unconscious writings of his dementia-ridden self to Simon as his younger self seem a bit odd? ….Kinda. Again, it’s not the how but the why that matters in this case. I'm NOT crazy, I have proof that there is some acknowledgment of this directly in the show.

Rewatch the bar scene and apply this reading of the episode to what Simon says there:

“Your old stuff, Fionna and Cake, honest to glob my man, is an inspiration to me.”

“My old stuff, I don’t really want to talk about my old stuff…”

“Why not? You should be proud! You wrote an entire extended universe in a fugue state if you think about it.”

"Simon cringes"

If you have ever shared art with a group of people in the past, you’ve had this conversation.

Not likely, not possibly, no perhapses. You HAVE.

And Fionna and Cake being an epilogue to a massive award-winning, near-decade-spanning, cultural sensation 5 years after it ended, might result in its creators feeling very retrospective about what audiences want from them now.

And how difficult it’s going to be to tell new experiences and tones from what’s come before. Also, come on. “Extended Universe?” That doesn’t sound like Fionna and Cake. That sounds a lot like something else.

Again, seems bad with this kid.

One of the more profound shots in the main trailer for the show features the inconspicuously Finn-like kid crouching at her Fionna and Cake book in Simon’s trash. I believe this character is going to have a major role in two ways. Convincing Simon to be proud of what he’s accomplished and/or embracing that Simon wants to move away from his original work in order to create something new, or perhaps more likely, reinvent Fionna and Cake into what Simon relates to now.

We’ll just have to see what Simon thinks of his new Fionna next week.

PS. Talking as a fan now, WHAT IS UP WITH THE 1000+ TREEHOUSE IN THE INTRO?!!! ARE WE REVISITING THIS TIMELINE AGAIN?

SOMEONE TELL ME NOW!!!

[cagcd]

      The weight of those long years in seperation had always been present,   never forgotten for a minute,   a rock that had dragged him along into the depths of the darkest seas.   How long had he felt like drowning ?   as if the very air he breathes could never quite reach his lungs ?   Until now he still feels that weight pressing to the point of suffocation,   when the words he had wished for so long to tell her should be liberating,   he felt as though the air had been sucked from the room,   chest tight,   throat in a knot.   He's somewhat relieved nonetheless,   she seemed as though she had woken up from an illusion by her own design,   broke through whatever barrier that had                  for most of her life                  took her willingness to live for herself rather than others.   Always the martyr,   cursed to live in a constant state of purposed detachment from those she loved to ensure their survival.   But what of him ?   Who found no sense in that endless struggle if it wasn't by her side ?   To lay the blame,   say who hurt who the most,   it's a game he never wanted to be a part of,   [   had his fill from since his first marriage   ],   &.   regardless of all that had passed between them,   he doesn't hold any grudge against her,   only a deep melancholy born from watching the woman he loved proceed to live a life she isn't truly living.

        ❛❛   It's                   okey,   I've done my fair share too,   I'm sorry for that as well.   ❜❜        he says,   dismissing her apology with a shake of the head.   It wasn't an apology he was seeking,   not for her to tell him he was right to satisfy his ego or heal a wound that's been left open.   He wanted nothing more than her happiness,   whether it included him it not,   if she could find a sense of tranquillity away from the constant war she had forced herself to endure inwardly,   it should be enough   ...   no,   it's a fool's attempt to sooth a bleeding heart.   For his love for her had still burned within him as fiercely as the first moment it ignited,   the same love that clouds his senses,   overwhelms his being to the point that he feels sick to his stomach with longing.

   For that,   Johnny spoke his mind,   laid his heart out as he had the first time in the Jinsei chamber,   leaving himself in a vulnerability only she got to witness in its fullest.   There was so much that was left unsaid in their eagerness to get away,   a regret he held in his heart ever since   &.   desired nothing more than to fix. I love you,   I could never hate you,   I'll be patient for as long as you want me to                     could it have been any different if he bit the bullet back then and gave her that comfort of mind ?   Perhaps,   there's no point of dwelling on the past,   he agrees on that point,   and is aware how he spent too long looking back than to move forward.   It was difficult to consider leaving her behind,   pretend as if she never mattered anything to him when he hadn't loved anyone as much as her,   the more it hurt the more he knew it was real,   a heartache he'd rather hold onto than a shallow happiness with someone else.   Taking accountability was a step that needed to be taken from both ends.

   What now ?   He wonders,   that familiar silence passing between them.   Discomfort grew with every stretching second,   it felt as if they would stand there in limbo for days on end.   He can't think of anything to say,   to fill in that gap of those long years in one sentence,   for a man who always seemed armed with the right words,   he was quite speechless.   Her touch breaks through the heavy mist of his mind,   slow   &.   hesitant until she gathers up the courage to seize his figure into an embrace,   choosing to be the one to cross the distance that was keeping them asunder ;   a final barrier he was the one to keep up,   aware that he would break without its protection.   He reaches forward almost automatically,   grabbing at her waist to bring her closer to him,   lifting her up over the table and into his arms,   which tightened around her instantly,   head buried into her shoulder.   Then,   and only then,   that this boulder-like weight finally lifted off his chest.   He has her now,   he's not letting go,   never again.   He let out a shaky breath,   tears stinging at the corner of his eyes.

        ❛❛   I still love you since the first time you pinched me in the face.   ❜❜

"We..."

A hard swallow. He was absolutely right--she was terrified in the moment. Terrified of failing to mend what was broken, terrified of losing the future that was still possible between them--terrified of being so exposed in spite of how little physical modesty mattered to her. There was no going back to the fortress that was General Blade now, no retreating into cowardice--not if she wanted him to climb over that Goddamn table that separated them.

But then again... why did he have to be the one to make that move?

For so much of their relationship, he had been the one that was willing to bend--and at more than one point, he'd bent so far that he'd broken beneath the strain. Her inflexibility and rigidity had been one of the biggest problems in their marriage on her end and if she wanted things to improve? That unwillingness to yield was just--not going to cut it, not if she wanted to do all she could to prevent past pain from repeating. Fingertips rested upon her side of the table as she leaned forward herself.

"We can't keep shoulding all over ourselves about the past. It's just--it's holding us back since we can't change any of it no matter how hard we wish we could. But..."

Sonya took a deep breath and shook her head.

"No, fuck 'but'. It was wrong of me to keep you at arm's length for so long, denying what I felt because I was scared of hurting you again when all it did was hurt you worse--hurt both of us worse. I'm sorry."

Those two words... God, it felt liberating to say them, to begin to take accountability for her mistakes. Even if they lived hundreds or thousands of years, she would never feel like she's apologized enough--but she needed to remember her own words and focus on the future she wanted to share with him. Judging by how he was looking at her with his heart in his throat, he wanted the same thing she did--and just as desperately at that. She was fairly sure he missed her--it was writ large over his features every time they were in the same room--but she couldn't assume. No, she needed some sort of confirmation she couldn't deny.

What he said next was the proof she needed.

Tears crept into the corners of her eyes unbidden when he delivered another of those too-good-for-Hollywood lines--the most impactful one since that night in the Jinsei Chamber. What made it so impactful was the utter and absolute absence of pretense or showmanship. The man who stood before her was the one so few got the chance to experience, and being privileged enough to see it exposed was... no, she couldn't find the words to describe how she felt.

"I--"

She did her damndest to try, but a single letter was all she could manage--and in a moment of instinct, she defaulted to the mode of communication that she was marginally more comfortable with. It was awkward as all Hell, reaching for him across the table like she had to... but as her arms encircled his shoulders and she found herself all but climbing over the desk to draw him near, her actions spoke volumes--and once she was back within his orbit where she belonged?

"I never stopped loving you, not for a minute."

The words she needed just tumbled free of her lips.

[broidobe]

𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔞𝔣𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔲𝔰

requested! this is a sequel to "the silence between us" so please read that first!

⁎⁺˳✧༚the silence between us

⁎⁺˳✧༚guns and roses masterlist

months had passed since that morning at the diner, but the weight of those final words lingered, heavy and unrelenting. life didn’t stop, though. the world outside moved on, indifferent to the pieces of your heart that axl’s temper had shattered. you’d left the city, settling in a quieter place where the nights didn’t hum with the sound of his voice echoing from crowded venues.

but even here, in this borrowed stillness, memories of him found you. it was in the songs on the radio, in the way the rain drummed against the roof, in the dreams that never quite faded upon waking. axl’s face was a ghost haunting the spaces between the mundane moments of your days.

you told yourself you were healing. maybe you even believed it sometimes.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

axl’s world had changed, too. the band was busier than ever, their shows selling out night after night. but fame didn’t erase the ache of loss. if anything, it amplified it. he buried himself in the music, in late-night sessions with his guitar, in lyrics scrawled on napkins and crumpled pieces of paper.

even so, he felt you everywhere. in the crowd’s faces when they screamed his name. in the empty hotel rooms after every show. in the way his bandmates stopped asking about you but still cast him worried glances when he’d retreat into himself. axl rose was larger than life to the world, but in the quiet of his own mind, he was just a man with too many regrets.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

it happened by accident, as these things often do. you hadn’t meant to be at the same venue where axl’s band was playing. a friend had dragged you to see the opening act, swearing up and down that they were the next big thing. you’d tried to leave before the main set, but the crush of the crowd had kept you pinned in place.

and then he was there. axl, stepping onto the stage, larger than life and painfully familiar. your breath caught as the spotlight hit him, and for a moment, you thought he saw you. but his eyes swept over the crowd, distant and unreadable.

you tried to leave again, but your feet wouldn’t move. his voice filled the room, raw and unyielding, and it was like no time had passed at all. the songs were the same—fierce, unapologetic—but there was something else now, a sadness woven through the notes. it was unmistakable, and it felt like he was bleeding out every unspoken word between you with each verse.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

against your better judgment, you waited outside the venue. the night air was cold, biting through your jacket, but you couldn’t leave. not yet.

when axl finally emerged, flanked by security, his eyes found yours instantly. he stopped, his expression shifting from shock to something softer, something fragile.

he waved off his entourage and walked toward you, his steps hesitant. “you’re here,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“so are you,” you replied, trying to keep your tone steady.

he laughed, a short, humorless sound. “i didn’t think i’d see you again.”

“neither did i.”

you stood there, the silence between you filled with all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t. finally, axl spoke.

“i’ve… i’ve been trying to be better. i don’t know if i’ll ever be good enough, but i had to tell you.”

tears pricked at your eyes again, but you blinked them away. “i know you’re trying, axl. but we… we can’t go back to what we were.”

his face fell, but he nodded. “i know. i just… i needed you to know i’m sorry.”

“i know,” you said softly. “and maybe someday, we’ll find our way back to something. but for now… take care of yourself, okay?”

he smiled faintly, the sadness in his eyes still there but tempered by acceptance. “you too.”

as you walked away, you felt lighter somehow. the pain wasn’t gone, but it was quieter now, like a wound finally beginning to heal.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

you didn’t turn back, but for the first time in months, you allowed yourself to smile. life would go on, and so would you both—separately, but with the echoes of what you’d shared lingering in the spaces between your steps.

[uzumaki-rebellion]

"Pot Liquor" Afropunk!Erik Killmonger

Pairing: Erik Killmonger x Black Plus-Sized OC

Warning(s): 18+, Smut, Angst, Romance, Drug Use, Bisexual Characters, Threesomes, Foursomes, Queer Characters, Cursing.

Summary:

Three women. One man.

Erik “Killmonger” Stevens is the guitar player for a female dominated Black alternative rock band fronted by the powerful larger-than-life lead singer, Oya Mason. About to perform in front of their largest audience ever on one of the most influential stages in the music world, Erik and Oya have to face band in-fighting, jealousy, drugs, sex, and the love of rock-and-roll.

Can they keep it together before their big night?

Word count: 14, 890

A..N.: Bringing this back for @blvcksundays !

"I said if I'm in luck I just might get picked up I said I'm fishin' trick and you can call it what you want then I said I'm wigglin' my fanny I want you dancing I'm a doin' it doin' it This is my night out

So all you lady haters don't be cruel to me Don't you crush my velvet don't you ruffle my feathers neither I said I'm crazy I'm Wild I said I'm nasty Say you will for a little while Say you will Say you will"

Betty Davis –"If I'm In Luck I Might Get Picked Up"

Begin at the beginning...

Eighteen-year-old Oya Mason stood in the middle of the stage of the National Poetry Slam Finals in Oakland, California ready to recite a three-minute free verse that took her two weeks to dream of and three days to write. It wasn't her best poem, but it was the most potent that she had ever written and would be reciting for the first time in public. She hated America and everything it stood for and the words swimming in her brain and marinating in cerebral spinal fluid were ready to erupt on stage.

Thick black leggings covered her dimply thick thighs that rubbed tightly together and the black Buckethead baseball t-shirt she had on accentuated her heavy breasts and generous stomach. Her toes were jammed into brand new black chucks and her nose septum piercing was a shiny silver like the frosted silver tips of her frohawk locs. She was a big beautiful Black woman with an even bigger first name to live up to. Her parents plucked the name from a book they had in their home. "Oya: In Praise of An African Goddess."

"We knew that if we had a little girl, we were going to name you that," her father, Teigen Mason, had told her.

Her Mama, Gia, squeezed out a big fat dark brown loud crying baby that grew up into a big beautiful teenager that could no longer be simply called full-figured or extra thick. No, those words were too small for her. She was a Goddess and a Goddess took up all the space she wanted. On that stage, Oya, the Goddess of the Hurricane winds, the warrior, and the protector of the dead looked out upon an eager audience of poetry spectators waiting for her to do linguistic tricks and over-enunciated theatrical emoting with her culled words.

Well...that didn't happen.

Oya Mason stood there with her Goddess frame and shrieked out every single word she had written in the depths of her gray matter and birthed her first metal song live onstage. The poem-turned-rage-clarion call was titled "To Sleep With Anger", an ode to the movie that was filmed in her grandparent's house in South Los Angeles way before she was born. She found the old Danny Glover movie online and watched it over and over until she fell asleep and dreamed of the actors walking in her family's kitchen, living room, bedrooms, and backyard, and the words to the poem came to her in the underworld of slumber and there was a burning there. A heated twisting of past and present that had her worried about her future as a big boisterous girl with a runaway mouth making it in society where Black women were expected to be quiet mules for the world.

Not her.

Oya dreamed about that old house for two weeks waking up enraged every morning and thought about what the movie meant and pondered why she was already hating a world that she was barely stepping into. It had to be ancestral rage. A fiery anger handed down like generational trauma and the unyielding hair texture on her head.

A three-day heat of writing on yellow legal pads and listening to Bad Brains and Mother's Finest while trippin' on shrooms in her bedroom while her parents were away, produced a piece of work that she could get down with.

Other poems in her extensive repertoire allowed her to advance in poetry slam rounds in local competitions and by the time she was on the National level, she was tired of the scene. The performative aspect of it seemed disingenuous. Many of the older poets she watched seemed to be interested in shocking people instead of sharing real evocative language that opened the heart and mind.

That was probably why Oya screamed her words and left the stage switching her meaty hips and not caring about her scores or if she won.

She did win that year.

The individual poet category. At her young age.

The previous winner, another full-figured Black woman with thick braids, full lips, and a body of work so blistering that she was named the Poet Laureate of her city approached her backstage.

"You don't belong here," the woman said.

Oya blinked. The fuck?

A sly smile creased the woman's glossy lips as she pointed at Oya with a commanding right index finger.

"You belong out there doing what you just did. This is too small for you," the former champion said.

Oya Mason bid adieu to poetry slams.

She returned to Los Angeles from Oakland and started a part-time job at Amoeba Records on Hollywood Boulevard. While selling records and sorting vinyl and CD bins, she met her best friend, Deidre who rocked short hair and a smooth undercut, Oya fell in love with Deidre's whole vibe instantly and they fell into creating their first band together.

To Sleep With Anger.

Oya named them that. Deidre played electric guitar just like Oya did and after work and university classes at USC, they shredded in Deidre's parent's garage in a sizeable house at the bottom of Baldwin Hills. The Black Beverly Hills. The house sat on forty-eighth and Crenshaw, so the upwardly mobile Black folks couldn't get too far away from the bustle of working class and working-poor negroes down the street. Oya's parents couldn't handle two loud Black metal chicks screaming about capitalism, death, and societal destruction right next door to the neighborhood church at their small home near Leimert Park. Deidre's house was ground zero for their start as a unit.

School. Work. Shredding.

That was life for three years until Oya had written a ton of songs that were good enough to put together a fuller and more serious band. They had both become better axe players. She and Deidre posted up an ad for a drummer and bass player at the Amoeba Community board and online, and that was how they met Shameika, a mean pocket queen originally from Long Beach who went to UCLA.

Deidre and Oya had to set aside their USC rivalry because Shameika was nasty on the skins. Their bass player, Jody, was discovered by accident when she came into Amoeba asking for Me'Shell N'degeocello vinyl. Anyone into Me'Shell had to be hip, and Oya asked the lithe light-brown beauty if she were a musician. The stars lined up. She was their missing link.

They were complete and of one accord by the time they began playing publicly at gigs around L.A. and making road trips to San Diego and also local music festivals. Shameika handled their webpage, Deidre handled booking, and Oya fell in love with Jody. Then broke up with her. Then got back together. Then broke up in one final blow-out that thankfully didn't tank the band. It did become a little awkward when Jody and Shameika became a couple, but Oya grew past it. They were picking up traction as a band. Getting better paid gigs. She was writing better songs. Blending genres. Learning to control her vocals better with a private coach. It took them awhile to be taken seriously as a band. People expected them to be an R & B singing quartet and did double takes when they walked into venues with their gear. They were tested a lot by the mainly white male audiences. Lots of booing at shows and sometimes beer bottles were thrown at them onstage. Oya was often brutally called names because of her size. She didn't know how many times she had climbed onstage to bring the noise with her girls, and there was laughter tossed her way.

"Look at this big bitch!" was a common jab along with a few expletives.

But the music shut them up. They could play fucking circles around many of the bands, even the headliners.

"It's here!" Deidre shrieked as they opened boxes for new stock.

Oya stared at the twelve-inch vinyl of a song she was hearing about on every streaming platform and alternative music chatroom. She knew the group.

Slippage.

An alternative band that she used to fuck with heavily until they started going a little too commercial and polished for her tastes. Oya did feel excitement about new music from them. She hoped they were returning to their roots of hard driving sounds and not the softened new-branding that recent major-label signed groups were morphing toward. Deidre was practically salivating, her copper brown skin glowing and matching the copper brown of her short fade.

"This dude right here...I swear, I would buss it wide open if he walked in here right now. You think the scars are real? I heard they weren't," Deidre said.

Oya picked up the album and stared at the four guys on the cover. One Mexican with long glossy raven hair. Two white guys with stringy pony tails and tats on their faces and arms. And the Black guy.

Erik Killmonger.

Gold grills. Perfect locs. Scars.

His upper body was covered in small shiny lumps of skin.

"That looks real," Oya said.

"That's hardcore. I get the tats and piercings...I mean I have that shit, but...cutting your skin like that. All over. You think he has scars on his dick?"

Oya burst out laughing.

"Only you would ask that!"

"That would be kinda sexy," Deidra whispered admiring the man's shirtless body as he held his guitar.

Deidra stroked the cover.

"He's so rude for biting his lips like that. Letting us see all that gold in his mouth," she quipped.

They stocked the store with all the new vinyl before heading to the registers to help customers purchase music. When they had a break, the assistant manager let them listen to the new Slippage single. Deidre loved it, but Oya turned her nose up at it. Killmonger sounded dope as always, but the song itself was weak. Defanged.

"We should make something like this," Deidre said bobbing her head and air playing guitar with her nimble fingers pretending to be Killmonger.

"I think the fuck not."

"This is good!"

"No it's not. It's just loud and...vanilla."

"You're buggin'. This is the best thing they've put out."

Oya stood behind the counter and watched Deidra, the assistant manager, and several customers nod their heads and give kudos to Slippage.

"Tasteless," Oya muttered as she grabbed a stack of country CDs from a young woman and began ringing up her purchases.

The music blared from their store speakers and Oya couldn't help but think about Killmonger's grill and the scars that went up and down his muscled arms, wide chest, and down his chiseled stomach...

Begin at the beginning one 'mo' 'gin...

They knew they had something special when Amoeba allowed them to play in their in-store mini-concerts when another group failed to show up because of a delayed flight from Phoenix. The four of them wore tattered jean skirts with leggings and old vintage bullet bras they found at a thrift store in Venice Beach. Oya had to add a bra extender for hers. Thick extra-large safety pins prevented the weak hooks from bending across her back and gave the right touch to the stylized look. She kept a t-shirt handy in case a titty or two broke free and slapped a customer unexpectedly, which would've been the most punk thing ever, but luckily that old 1950's find held on as she sweated her way through raw, screeching vocals that caught her boss by surprise. Hamp was forced into a bind with a store full of patrons waiting to see Desert Troll City, so he gave in when Oya said they had equipment in their cars ready to plug in and rock out. Instead of ambient new vanguard trip music, the customers were treated to ear-splitting altie sounds that tip-toed between experimental and...what? Oya and her bandmates hadn't quite found a true name for their sound, but the crowd there loved it. The music attracted spectators from off the street and it became their first viral performance online.

Hamp started acting like their musical godfather, allowing them to sell their CDs at the counter on consignment as part of their local indie musician sales program. It was a boost to their confidence watching people buy their homemade EP. Gigs followed. The new visibility started their small music festival appearances. Their biggest live performance before their second full album came out was the Joshua Tree Music Festival. The drive to the desert had been joyous. They performed before the closing night's headliner and killed it. They were so good that the headliners gave them a shoutout during their set making Oya feel like a Queen.

And like any great rock-and-roll story, it was where the first rift in the band appeared. All because Deidre felt the need to insert an unnecessary guitar adlib that threw Oya off their closing number. The audience, blitzed out on 'shrooms, weed, liquor, pills, and whatever choice narcotics they brought for fun, became mesmerized by Deidre doing Jimi Hendrix tricks on her axe. Oya could concede that Sis was in her bag at that moment, but they had always stayed in tune with one another by using eye contact and onstage whispers to let each other know if they were going to go off. Sometimes it was just a well-placed guttural sound from Oya's throat to clue the others in, or Deidre would swing her guitar a certain way with a slight chord change. J Tree organizers had the performers on a strict time allotment, and Oya knew they had to finish with a new song in just the right intro...but Deidre fucked it up by trying to upstage Oya with the ole razzle dazzle. The normal thunder growl that would erupt from Oya's diaphragm kicking in "Acid Babe Blues" was usurped by some random guitar wah wah licks from Deidre's foot pedal muting her guitar.

Oya felt the "Acid Babe Blues" lyrics dry up in her throat as her eyes cut to Deidre's. Sister girl was oozing with charismatic energy and the people ate it up. Rightfully so. Oya stood down for twenty seconds before she turned to Jody on bass with aPlease gather this bitch uplook.

Jody slapped her bass and snapped Deidre from her moment. Time ran short, so Oya had to improvise and just gave an improper snippet of the new song before their time ran out. That meant Deidre had to sing the bridge to start the song, and Oya had to fake her way into the second verse. The fierce tone she gave thrilled the music lovers, but Oya was full of piss and vinegar. "Acid Babe Blues" was their lead single from the new joint, and the audience didn't even hear the true beginning.

As the crowd switched their positions to watch the main stage for the closing act, Oya and the others packed up their gear. Her hackles were up.

"What the fuck were you doing?!" Oya snapped.

"Vibin'," Deidre said.

"You stole valuable time for 'Acid'."

"They heard you scream when you first started twenty-five minutes ago. It still sounded great without a closing field holler—"

"That's not the point, Deidre," Shameika interjected as she shoved her drumsticks into a case, "it threw us all off."

"Ohmigod, we murdered this gig. It's good to shake it up sometimes.Ididn't hear a mess up—"

"It would've been nice to know what you were going to do. I'm the lead singer. I wrote that song. We all agreed that 'Acid Babe Blues' was to bring it all home and we practiced the hell out of it and you fucked it up!" Oya said,

"They loved us. That's all that matters."

Deidre did her usual lip pout when she was done discussing anything.

"I know you're feeling yourself right now, but this is becoming a habit with you," Oya barked helping Shameika break down the rest of her drum kit.

"So I can't get no shine too?"

"We all get shine—"

"Only when you let us. Don't forget, I write a lot of the songs too. I'm on the cover of the EP too. So is Jody and Shameika—"

"Are you failing to understand what the problem is? Am I trippin'? I'm not talking about getting shine, I'm talking about you disrupting and switching up how we do things mid-performance without a cue or an okay from the rest of us."

Deidre pressed her lips tight. An irritated exhale followed with a roll of her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I was carried away by the energy of the crowd. I wanted to jam for a minute..."

Deidre clutched her guitar pedal to her chest.

"I wanted to be that bitch...okay? I mean, look at us. We look amazing in these little black latex dresses! We're serving hot and sexy and being all sweaty and nasty up here. Tell me you didn't feel that rush?"

"We felt it, but...teamwork," Shameika said with her soft-spoken voice.

"I'm tired," Jody said holding her bass case.

They were assisted by some J Tree staff as they loaded up their gear into Deidre's S.U.V, and Oya's Jeep Cherokee.

"Are we staying to watch the closer or what?" Shameika asked.

Jody stayed in Deidre's S.U.V. to sleep, and the rest of them sauntered back in their laced-up pit-stomping boots to watch Boredroom, a band on the brink, sing out To Sleep With Anger's praises. Deidre turned her head and smirked at Oya as the lead singer of Boredroom pointed to all their latex-wearing greatness and shouted them out on the mic.

"See?" Deidre said, "We are the shit."

"It's about the music, Deidre, not just showing off," Oya grumbled.

Oya new instinctively that Deidre wanted to be the main shit. She wrenched her eyes away from her friend and tried to engage with the rest of the festival, but there was a sour taste in her mouth. That taste would grow and root deep. Then it would spread, choking them all.

Begin at his beginning...

Oya knew how to hustle a job.

When Amoeba became less flexible for gigs, she took a job at KCRW assisting the COO. On Saturday nights she worked the cashier booth for a trashy West Hollywood dance club to supplement her income.

Those were rough days for To Sleep With Anger ever since Deidre left for a high-profile band's line-up switch the year before. It was right after a showcase with an East Coast label. They were all broke, still hungry to make their own music, and lucked out when an A & R rep from Sony Music Group caught their live show at the Austin Music Festival.

Hair cut into a short bob that she slicked up to look like a match flame, dramatic make-up, and low-cut tight dresses with oversized coats that doubled as capes became a signature look for Oya. Her shoe game grew sick, with custom thigh-high boots, and walking canes to match her seductive stroll onstage. Their band logo was a black flame with red highlights. Her signature do always matched the logo onstage, and it became an instant hook with their audience. Sophisticated Punk. Seductive Alternative. Oya leaned into the sensual side and the other women found their looks too. Deidre became pure femme fatale, Jody, the edgy stud, and Shameika was their darling Goth ingénue.

Oya's lush body became the center of think pieces in the music scene and she welcomed the coverage and even took the hits with some women musicians who questioned the overt sexuality of the band. Were they sex kittens, or hard rockers? Cock teases for a gimmicky come up? A flash in the pan for some future music history footnote? She ignored them and the other women did too. Her favorite moments were to stroll onstage after Jody plucked the bass like a beast sporting her flamboyant capes and big hats and do a twirl wielding her cane before dropping the cape to the floor revealing couture that accentuated breasts, flared hips, thick thighs, and a rump to die for. The more popular they became the more she found herself amazed at how people projected onto her. She rarely showed any explicit skin other than the tops of her breasts with dep cleavage, but the audacity of her being her bold self with tight clothing was a problem for so many people. But a revelation to others.

Especially men.

Often teased for not having a body that conformed to whatever was in fashion at the moment, that quickly changed when she sang. Her voice shifted the critiques. People had to listen to the music because it was fucking divine. Oya's talent made people notice she had a face. A gorgeous one. And that face was attached to a stunning big body. Online chatter brought out the lovers of her plus-size physique, especially when she catwalked up and down a stage and pointed her cane at the audience, then stuck it in front of her as she wiggled down and back up from the floor with it. There was a shift in the air. The thirst for her was just as great as her other bandmates.

They were on the cusp of reaching greatness and Oya was going damn near bankrupt funding her on stage style to create her visual greatness. They all were.

The Sony Rep schmoozed them and set up the showcase for the "Yes Men". Oya could taste victory, money, fame, freedom...

The showcase was a disaster.

Not because Oya didn't incinerate the Sony office with her talent or the girls didn't bring it with their playing. The Yes Men wanted Deidre to front the band and insisted on smoothing out their rough sound. Less edge. More mainstream puff rock. Less 90s Trent Reznor-esque proto Black Girl Rock/Metal and more old school Gwen Stefani cutesy kitsch.

Oya put her foot down. Get set aside because they found Deidre the more marketable? She didn't have the voice. She didn't have the vocal chops to strike people down from the stage like Oya did every time they performed. To Sleep With Anger laid out the roots of Betty Davis, Bad Brains, A Band Called Death, tastefully gave homage to Tina Bell, Mother's Finest, plus a smidgeon of early Prince with the heavy guitar opening of "Bambi" that Oya played herself, and all they could mention was Nine Inch Nails and No Doubt?

They weren't signed.

Deidre left them.

Six months later Deidre was on tour and became a media sensation by joining Ark Ten. They were top tier. Grammy winners. Global fanbase. English darlings credited with reviving the UK rock scene. Deidre joined them right when they went in to record a second studio album. An all-male band that fired their lead guitarist, Ark Ten recruited Deidre to become the new focal point of hyped publicity for the group's sophomore outing. She looked like a High Rock Glam Priestess on their magazine photo spreads. Their album went triple platinum within months as Oya took credit cards and damp dollar bills at a cashier's booth while listening to her ex-bandmate's overdone guitar flourishes in songs at her crappy club job.

Shameika and Jody moved in with her in an upstairs apartment near Slauson. They turned the small dining room into a second bedroom and pooled their resources to perform where they could. Oya wrote new songs and just as Deidre predicted, Shameika and Jody followed her lead without pushback.

After a long day in Santa Monica, Oya walked into their kitchen and made an announcement.

"We're going to audition a new guitar player. We need a fourth member. I'm better at singing and not playing at the same time."

Jody fried up some sliced potatoes and onions at the stove. Shameika washed dishes.

"Another woman?" Shameika asked.

"Black?" Jody added.

"Let's just put the call out and see who shows up. I have a hook up for a try-out space next week. There's a music studio moving to another location in Santa Monica. KCRW used it for live shows and one of my co-workers has access to it for a Saturday before they leave. We can sneak in and use it for four hours. Six to ten at night."

"But you're great on guitar," Shameika lamented.

"I can't do all my theatrics if I'm playing the whole time too. It's too difficult. Plus, it's part of our brand. Jody?"

Jody set down the spatula in her hand and turned down the fire under the food.

"I want another Black woman," Jody said.

"But if we can't find one?"

"Hold another audition?" Shameika suggested.

"In time for Afropunk?"

"We can do a stripped-down show. Jeans, tees, and chucks."

Oya put hands on her hips and closed her eyes.

"No, we go full out. We need this moment more than ever. We have to look ready-made."

Shameika stopped stacking plates in the drainer.

"You don't think we'll ever make it big, huh?" "It's not just making it big...it's our music... we could change the game. I'm tired of us struggling and trying to be creative. I'm tired of us eating potatoes and spaghetti all the time."

"We'll make it," Shameika said.

"I'm tired,"

Oya let her arms drop to her sides. Jody pulled her in for a hug and Oya buried her face in the woman's neck and wept.

"I'm tired of seeing her out there...winning," Oya huffed.

"We'll do the audition. We'll make it work," Jody said.

Her fingers trailed up Oya's face and wiped away her smeared eye make-up. Shameika joined them and threw her arms around Oya's waist.

"Look at me blubbering like some loser. We're not losers."

"No, we're not," Jody said.

Her lips touched Oya's cheek and the loving pats from Shameika made her feel tons better. She broke away from the two of them.

"Just a tiny woe-is-me moment and now we'll get this new axe. Right?"

Jody and Shameika nodded sharing gentle smiles with her.

"We're too talented," Oya said taking up the spatula and turning over the potatoes for Jody.

She kept that mantra up as they sat inside the borrowed music studio a week later watching woman after woman jam with them. Oya watched Jody's weary face as she cradled her bass and studied a new guitar player plug in and prepare to audition. Shameika twirled one of her drumsticks in her left hand and gave Oya an encouraging wink, but the sentiment didn't help. After two hours, they hadn't found one musician who felt right. Benji, Oya's co-worker, sat next to her on plush red couch. There was a small line of women taking up the sidewalk outside waiting to come in and it gave Oya a headache.

"Give me a minute," Oya said, "I have to pee."

In the restroom, she splashed water on her face to hide the tears that threatened to drop.

"Please..." she whispered as she rinsed her hands and dried them.

Oya stared at her face in the mirror.

"Go back out there with your game face. Our new guitarist is coming. She is going to walk in and wow everybody. The band will be whole once more. We'll go to Atlanta and the record deal will come. We'll bring the heat. We'll bring the bodacious Blackness. Deidre won't be the only success story."

Oya walked back into the studio and nearly shit in her cargo pants.

Benji stood chopping it up with Erik Killmonger.

Killmonger wore dark shades, but Oya recognized the braided locs, the scars on his skin shown by his sleeveless white t-shirt, and the gold slugs in his mouth. He was bigger in person than what she imagined. Her eyes glanced over to Jody and Shameika and they were equally starstruck along with the white woman with tattered dreads waiting to audition.

"Oya, this is my old buddy, Killmonger. Killmonger, Oya. Lead singer—"

Oya did a one-eighty and hot-footed back to the restroom. She pressed her back against the door. Her breath sped up and she couldn't stop hyperventilating. Leaning forward to lower her head to her knees, she squinted her eyes and blew out long streams of air.

"Fuck."

Clenching her fists, Oya patted her hands up her thighs until she stood upright.

"Fuck."

She went back out to the studio area and threw her shoulders back.

"I thought I left the water running in the sink," she lied.

Killmonger sat on the couch next to Benji. Oya avoided contact to help keep her voice steady and non-chalant.

"Oh. Well, I'm sure you know who Killmonger plays for—"

"Played for," Killmonger corrected.

Oya felt a tickle in her stomach. His scratchy voice had a rasp to it like he'd been smoking before he came in. He probably toked a good expensive strain that rich people smoked. They always had memes of him up every Four Twenty with kush sitting on his guitar. The shades were off and his bright brown eyes planted themselves on her face.

Played for?

"You're not with Slippage anymore?" the white woman asked.

Nosey.

Killmonger's eyes cut to her and the woman shrank into her guitar.

"How 'bout you play and mind ya business," he said.

Oya took her seat and stared at Jody. She mouthed the words "Play" to her homie, and Jody slid her index and middle finger down the neck of the bass to begin "Palo Alto", a song they liked using to test the guitarists. It had several difficult chord progressions and they wouldn't have to waste time seeing if a person could really play or not. The woman, Heather, got halfway through the song before they knew she wouldn't cut it. Deidre and Oya could slide through the song like butter. Even Jody could fake her way through it when she played around with Oya's guitar.

They allowed Heather to play another tune and jam for a minute before Oya took to the mic and sang a bit with the entire ensemble. They sent her away after asking a few personal questions about her background. When she left, Oya ran her hand over her hair. Jody adjusted the volume knob on her bass and Shameika tapped her sticks lightly on her ride cymbal. No words were needed to veto Heather. A statuesque Black woman came in next with a bright smile and high energy, and they all perked up, but she wasn't able to improvise all that well as they jammed together. Another no. They had an hour left and only two candidates had viable potential from the fifteen women they saw from the first three rounds. Oya was happy she pre-screened so many musicians online ahead of time. They were efficient and knew what they were looking for. The only problem was, no one fit.

They had a fifteen-minute break slotted before the last three candidates scheduled would come in. Benji gave Oya a supportive grin.

"Don't throw in the towel yet, Oya," he said shaking his ginger curls.

Killmonger stood up and walked over to their set up. He moved like king. She tamped down on the squeal in her throat fighting to come out.

"I can't believe Killmonger is in the same room with us!" Shameika blurted.

Thank God. Someone finally said it out loud. Jody and Oya laughed with relief.

"He ain't nobody," Benji said punching Killmonger in the arm.

"How do you know each other?" Oya asked keeping her eyes off of Killmonger.

"Before he was a big head star, Killmonger used to nag me to play his shit on KCRW years ago. We used to sweep up this place together as interns."

Killmonger glanced around.

"The place is a little different from when I worked here. Didn't last long though."

"Slippage?" Oya asked.

Dark orbs captured her gaze.

"Yeah."

"But you said something about not being with them earlier."

Benji stepped in.

"News is just now getting out," Benji said hitching his shoulders.

"Can I?" Killmonger asked pointing to Oya's guitar.

She stepped away from it and he lifted it off of the stand near her and draped the strap around his body hooking it to the instrument after adjusting the leather. It only took him two seconds to launch into "Acid Babe Blues" and Shameika brought in the drums automatically. Jody slapped her bass and they played for two minutes before Oya felt brave enough to jump in and sing.

Killmonger knew their song. By heart.

He stood in the middle of the recording studio slaying Oya's electric guitar and ripped into a blistering riff that made her jump and lose her shit in front of her desperate band.

"Give it to me from the top!" he yelled.

His fingers thrummed out the beginning again, and Oya gave a Black rebel yell,

"Show me someone not full of herself, and I'll show you a hungry person!"*

They tore through the song with Killmonger's lips peeled back to show glints of gold as he howled encouragement with whoops and loud shouts to them.

"C'mon Jody, dig into that bottom!" he called out.

Jody let her thumb do the most as Oya felt the vibration of Shameika sitting in her pocket on the drums from behind as she followed Jody's dip into a groove that Killmonger supported with tasteful licks from his fingers. They jammed for twenty minutes until Oya noticed their next band candidate standing wide-eyed and mouth agape staring at Killmonger.

"Sorry," Killmonger said unhooking himself from Oya's guitar.

They finished seeing the last three women and sat down on the floor together in a circle to discuss what they liked and didn't like. There were three women they agreed to call back for another try out just to be sure.

"We have to lock one in fast. Get them set with our music and stage cues," Oya said picking at her nails.

"When's your next performance?" Killmonger asked.

The three women glanced over at him on the couch. Benji had his arms folded watching them too.

"End of the month. Atlanta," Oya said.

"Afropunk?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Let me play for you."

Oya thought her lungs would implode in her chest right behind her heart.

"I'm not doing anything. I quit Slippage. I like your sound. Benji says you want more festival exposure. If I play with you, you'll get that."

"That would be a boss move...but..." Oya's brain grew dizzy.

"But what?"

"People would want you. Not us," Jody said.

"Then hire me. Let me join the band."

Benji chuckled but then he shut up when he realized Killmonger wasn't joking.

"Why?" Oya asked.

"I like your sound. Your style. I quit Slippage because it's tired. I outgrew it. Y'all got something fresh...different. Sticks to my ribs."

"People would just think it's your band," Oya said.

"How's that?"

"Your famous. You'd overshadow us."

"Did I overshadow Slippage?"

"You were Slippage," Jody mumbled under her breath.

Oya reached over and tugged on one of Jody's long straight backs. Jody slapped Oya's hand away from her hair. Killmonger chuckled.

"You have a strong personality," Oya said.

"Benji told me to come here to give you some tips. The best thing for you is to let me become part of To Sleep With Anger. You don't even have to pay me cuz you know I'm set. I just want to play pure music that's slowly becoming its own thing. I miss that."

"Will you dump us when you get bored?" Shameika asked.

Shameika tilted her head and the purple tips of her hair on the left side of her head touched her stomach. The right side was shaved with one long tuft left on the temple that was beaded with cowrie shells. When Killmonger's eyes landed on her, Shameika's top teeth tugged on her bottom lip making her lip ring more visible.

"Who would get bored with you, Princess?" he said.

Oya caught the territorial glare from Jody, but Killmonger's smoldering drag across Jody's lean athletic form made her flustered and forget the man was flirting with her woman. He flirted with Jody openly too. Dropping his body on the floor next to them all, he held out his hands.

"Let me come to Atlanta and play. Just as a featured guest. We can talk about permanent stuff after."

"You do sound good with us," Shameika said.

Killmonger pointed to her.

"See? Taste."

Oya's heart pounded in her chest from being next to him. She could smell his light cologne and the hair oil he used for his air. The scent of roses and pumpkin spice lingered near him. Moisture left her mouth and everything tasted like cotton. A miracle walked into their audition and served himself up for their use. Oya glanced over at Jody and Shameika. They were just as gone as she was by what was being offered. She swallowed dust and thought of Deidre. Ark Ten was a smart move for her career, but what she would never have was the baddest guitarist around who left an exceptionally better band, and wanted to play for them. But knowing Deidre, she would be flattered to be replaced by someone like Killmonger. Oya ground her molars and pushed her fingers into her thighs. Her cargo pants pocket vibrated. The cell alarm went off. Their time in the studio was up. It was now or never.

"What do you think?" she asked the others.

Shameika held a thumb up and they all saw her sultry eyes turn gooey staring at Killmonger.

"He makes us hustle and I like that," Jody said. Her forehead creased.

Oya gave her a curious look when she took forever giving her answer.

"Me and Shameika are together," Jody finally said.

"That's not a yes or a no," Killmonger said.

"I see how you are and I want you to know the dynamics," Jody said pursing her lips.

"That's your lady, aight beautiful, cool...so am I in?"

Shameika lowered her eyes and Oya felt second-hand embarrassment watching the jockeying for the drummer's attention.

"What's your vote Oya?" Jody asked.

Those magnetic eyes of Killmonger's became daggers on her skin and Oya couldn't shake the arousal affecting her decision-making. He pushed them into excellence with just one jam session. Imagine what they could glean from him with full rehearsals?

She raised a thumb, and Shameika squealed. He wrenched his eyes away from Oya.

"Jody?" he asked. His voice was a raspy assertion. Answer him.

Oya saw the attraction Jody had for the man too. They all were drenched in it. Carnal danger oozed from his pores.

"Okay...yes," she said.

Killmonger clapped his hands and jumped up from their circle on the floor.

"We rehearse at our place in the mornings when our neighbors are at work," Oya said shifting her body to stand up. Her foot fell asleep and she shook out her leg to get the circulation moving.

He took out his phone and they all exchanged numbers.

"I'll bring my stuff at nine if that's cool," he said.

"Yeah," Oya said.

She was almost his height. There was a gleam in his eye as he flashed them all big white perfect teeth and four gold slugs. Two at the top and two at the bottom. His scars were real and if she didn't know him a little better from hanging with him that night, the man could come off menacing. He took up so much space.

Oya threw back her shoulders again.

So did she.

Begin at their beginning...

Afropunk brought two things to fruition.

To Sleep With Anger became that bitch and Deidre felt the heat.

They didn't announce that Killmonger was with them. Flying into Atlanta with hours of tight rehearsals behind them brought them to a different level of being. He was a task master, but he made sure they were in control. Over four weeks Oya saw how he could influence them without it being obvious manipulation. Helping them improve their songwriting, playing, and bolstering their confidence to challenge themselves was something she came to love about him. Oya fell for him quietly and in secret, and unlike his first time meeting them, all flirtations vanished. He was about the music twenty-four seven. She wrote several songs with him at his home studio in Silverlake, and he even helped Shameika compose her first solo creation. It was a cold ass song and Oya wanted them to open with it. Shameika burst into tears when Oya said that and Killmonger gave their sweet Goth girl a hug and encouraged her to write more and take chances with her lyrics.

They left the stage itself in shambles after their quick set. It was like they took a grenade, pulled the pin, tossed it, and made sure the destruction was complete before their exit. No one wanted to follow them after that performance. The shock of Killmonger leaving Slippage hadn't fully been processed before the world saw him on a smaller stage obliterating all competition around them in Atlanta.

Shameika beat out a master class of percussion before Jody sank her teeth into the bass ushering in the deadly claws of Killmonger's fingers making his guitar roar as Oya stalked out from behind him. The moment the audience saw him, shocked gasps rippled out and then she pounced on them all, lacing her voice around Shameika's lyrics throughout the soundscape they weaved for the audience. Her signature flame upswept do became the rage after their first performance as a re-grouped band. The biggest surprise was that Killmonger didn't steal their thunder. He harnessed it and threw it out for the world to accept as a class act worthy of recognition. They trended on social media. Deidre and Ark Ten had been number one for two hours because of their new Coachella line-up announcement. To Sleep With Anger knocked them out of the top ten trending topics soon after. Pictures of their Afropunk performance were shared all over. Oya couldn't help but float and feel hopeful.

The man made her feel reckless and powerful onstage. Their styles meshed and the thrill of prancing around and growling at him with throaty moans while he jerked that guitar around her shirtless like he was working his manhood made her invincible. He underplayed his position as mega star to allow them all the shine. He got off on it. Flirted heavily with all of them while he worked the stage. Oya threw him solos but he would bring in Jody, opening her up to the point where she was dancing around the stage which was something she rarely did that fiercely.

The fans loved Shameika's song and they played it again at the end for their encore. Their short set grew longer because of Killmonger and he pushed it. Shameika broke one of her sticks by the end and it was the omen of more good things to come.

Standing there with applause washing over them, Oya looked over at Killmonger. His eyes were slightly hooded. He was faded in a good way and she was too. They shared a joint before hitting the stage and she watched him make smoke offerings to someone named Bast. Oya gave a final bow and Killmonger leaned over covering her mouth with his lips. The crowd roared and she reached over with fresh acrylic black nails to scratch the scars on his nude shoulder. He bowed down to her like she was a queen and the audience lost it again.

"Let 'em see you, O," he crooned in her ear.

Oya swung her wide hips to the left and right of the stage with her black wolf's head cane in her hand. Her black laced combat boots matched the black mesh drawstring skirt and tank she wore with a short-waisted red bolero jacket. Their black flame logo was emblazoned on the back in satin emboidery. She sauntered over to Jody and Shameika who were shy about prancing around, but they basked in the sea of applause. Oya pulled them next to her so they could get their due.

Taking the mic from her hand, Killmonger stepped to the center edge of the stage.

"You're looking at three of the baddest musicians to come out of L.A. It's a privilege to play for them. Don't fuck around and miss out on this moment. Follow them. Support them. Snatch their EP at the merch table before it become a collector's item and you can't afford it. Take plenty of pictures so you can say you were there before they blow up. Give more love to Oya, Jody, and Shameika...To Sleep With Anger!"

Offstage they were mobbed by people trying to talk to them and get pictures. Killmonger was adamant that he took no solo pictures with fans. It was the group or nothing. That didn't stop people sneaking shots of him sipping on juice or talking to people. Security had to help them when the reality of his status went into warp drive. They had to have more security with them for the rest of the event.

Gracious, accommodating, protective, and a total fanboy, Killmonger acted as their professional handler. His personal bodyguard, Tyson, was a bruising giant that suffered no fools when it came to his boss. If Killmonger felt a fan was being rude to them, he sent Tyson after them. By the end of the festival night, Oya was exhausted by the lack of respect fans had for the personal space of huge stars. Oya wanted the same accolades, but the rudeness was astounding. So used to being ignored, or looked over, she adjusted to it quickly until a male onlooker reached out and squeezed her ass cheek near a speaker as she watched a headliner from Canada. She shoved the man and his weed-laced eyes narrowed. His lips became a snarl when he realized she wasn't interested in his tasteless unwanted sexual advances.

"You should feel lucky, bitch!" he spat.

A fist sliced across her peripheral and the next thing she knew, the man's face was punched in one direction while two of his teeth flew in the opposite. A crowd of male fans snatched him up and carried him off while Killmonger stalked after them cursing him out. Tyson pulled Killmonger back but he jerked away from his grasp. A random girl with long pink braids picked up the teeth with a napkin and ran after the owner of them.

"Shit!" Oya finally exclaimed. Killmonger only needed a bodyguard to protect fans from his fists.

Jody and Shameika were stunned and the crowd stood back from them when Killmonger returned.

"You alright, O?"

"Yeah."

He shook his head as Tyson made a wide berth for them to continue their evening.

"I've had my ass slapped, my dick grabbed, kisses placed on me without my consent..."

Killmonger's eyes looked them over before giving them a dimpled grin.

"See what you have to look forward to?" he told them with flashing gold teeth and drying blood on his fist.

On the way to Coachella and uneasy alliances...

Oya carried bags of Chinese food and soda to the apartment. She had to carry four bags carefully by herself because no one answered their cell to come help her. Climbing up the stairs and fumbling with keys, she entered the apartment hearing music, and smelling frankincense incense, weed, and burning vanilla-scented candles. The room divider from the living room to the dining room was up and Oya saw shapes moving behind the shadows of flickering light. Jody and Shameika were at it on their bed. They probably thought Oya was going to take a long time picking up food, however, she called ahead for once.

She ducked into the other doorway that led to the kitchen and placed the bags on the counter. Clearly there was no rush to eat. Oya needed time to shower. Turning her head, the flimsy curtain they used to separate the kitchen from the dining room was parted and Oya could see Shameika on her back with Killmonger on top of her.

The hell?

She froze.

This was the fucked up shit that killed bands throughout history. Illicit sexual liasons...

Wayment.

Jody's fingers slid down from behind Killmonger's back and pinched his nipples. He turned his head to the side and they shared tongue kisses. Oya watched the man pull out his dick from Shameika, and dear God, he threw Jody down onto her hands and knees and plunged his sheathed thickness into her from behind. She watched him turn Jody into a quivering mess on her bed while he pulled on her hair. Shameika bent down and licked her tongue from the middle of his chest up to the side of his neck.

"Bounce on it," he whispered to Jody and she threw her ass back on him while Killlmonger

slipped fingers inside of Shameika's pussy. Oya could hear the squelching wetness and the woman's whimpers twisted around Killmonger's groans.

"Oooh, fuck!" he roared as Jody gave it her all.

Jody pulled off of his length and flipped over allowing Shameika to fall against her with her legs up in the air. Killmonger sank into her as Jody played with her peach-sized breasts and anchored her girlfriend's body for him. Their eyes stayed on that man's dick as it plowed deep and hard.

"Fuck me...Killmonger...!" Shameika was losing it.

"Shit," he yelped biting his lip as he hunched over her.

He was deep in her guts now and the thrashing she did under him made Killmonger double down on the snaking of his hips. Her arms flew back and Jody cradled them, sucking on Shameika's fingers before Killmonger pulled out again. Both women scrambled to get at his mouth for kisses and he held them both close to him as he fondled both their asses with greedy hands.

Oya slipped out of the kitchen and heard more movement. She wondered what position they were in now before jealousy seeped into her heart. She closed her bedroom door and sat on her cold bed in the dark. It was sad to think of how long it had been since she had sex with anyone. She didn't count the clumsy attempts of a man trying to fingerfuck her the previous year at a party, or even the coat check girl at her job. They were unconsummated misadventures.

She had no clue the three of them were fuck bodies. Killmonger kept sexual energy on stage and in their real life he was a gentleman guitarist coaxing the best out of them for work only. It was obvious Shameika had a big crush on him, but they all just settled into a mentor Rock-God relationship with him. He was playful during downtime, bossy during rehearsals, and flirty for shows.

"Cum in my mouth!" he shouted

His voice roared through the door and Oya pulled a pillow over her face and screamed. They were getting all that sculpted body. All that dick. All that mouth. Kicking her feet, Oya threw her pillow across the bed. Fuck 'em.

She turned on the lights and prepared to take a shower, not even bothering to keep quiet. They kept being loud even as she went into the bathroom and took a long shower.

Twenty minutes later she could hear their bed still rocking and rolling. Bitches!

Hunger trumped all and she made a ton of noise going back into the kitchen to fix a plate for herself. Dumping fried shrimp rice and walnut chicken on a paper plate, she yanked open the fridge to get a can of Pepsi.

Jody tumbled into the kitchen and washed her hands at the sink. She was fully dressed in a t-shirt and shorts and Oya could tell she was pretending that nothing had went on in the next room. She also wouldn't look Oya in the eye. Whatever.

Oya padded into the living room with her plate and drink and found Killmonger on their couch watching TV.

"Sup?" he said ogling her plate.

The shower went on again and Oya assumed it was Shameika in the bathroom. Jody walked out of the kitchen with two plates. She handed one to Killmonger who took it with gratitude as he tucked in with a fork.

"I would've gotten some egg rolls had I known you were coming over," Oya said with a little bite in voice.

"No worries. I just popped over."

"Yeah. I heard."

Jody's eyes almost fell out of her head. Pressure began to build behind her neck and Oya tried to eat her food next to Killmonger on the couch, but she barely tasted it. When Shameika came into the room with a small plate, Oya couldn't hold back.

"Is this going to be a regular thing?"

"What?" Killmonger said.

"Nigga, don't play dumb. You're fucking two of my bandmates. I'm really not trying to have no bullshit when it blows up in your faces."

Shameika's lip trembled. Jody studied the paint on the wall.

"It's none of your business what we do," he said poking out his full lips.

Oya knocked his food out of his hand.

"Oya...fuck..." he grumbled picking up the mess all over the floor.

Shameika jumped up to clean it and Oya shoved her back.

"Let him pick it up since he's trying to create a mess."

Oya's jaws clenched and she stood up to tower over him while he cleaned. He jumped up to face her.

"If you want some dick too, just say so. We don't need all the dramatics to get my attention."

"You think I wanna fuck you?"

"Every time you see me you want to."

"You said you wanted to see us win. This threesome will interfere with the work."

"Yeah...you wanna fuck."

"Killmonger, stop," Shameika said.

"Kill-monger, stahpppp," Oya said mimicking Shameika's mousy voice.

"Don't do that," Jody said stepping to Oya.

"Whatchu do? Let her fuck him so you wouldn't lose her?"

"Fuck you, Oya!" Jody shouted pushing her in the chest.

Oya pushed back and Killmonger stood between them.

"You are such a weak little pussy!" Oya shouted as the rage surged through her body.

Shameika ran to her bedroom and Jody followed after her.

"Weak bitches," Oya shouted to them.

A shock of pain blasted up her arm as Killmonger grabbed it and pulled her toward her bedroom. He opened the door and shoved her inside flicking on the lights and slamming the door behind him.

"What the fuck is your problem?"

"Why are you fucking them?"

"Why is it your business?"

"The band is my business. You fucking up my business."

"What I do with them is between me and them—" "How long has it been going on?"

Killmonger rolled his eyes and she couldn't help but stare at his teeth and the locs flopping in his eyes. His blood was up and the look on his face was mean and it turned her on. She wanted to punch him and kiss him, but if she did that, it would only prove that she did want to fuck him and was angry that her friends got to him first. Wasn't she good enough? He was always gassing her up as the Queen Bee but he settled for drones...

Oya closed her eyes.

That was cruel. Jody and Shameika were her girls. Her sisters. She was acting like Deidre. Thinking she was better than all the rest. Fuck. Maybe Deidre was.

Oya flopped down on her bed.

"I'm sorry," she said.

His eyes were still tight, but he uncrossed his arms.

"What's going on?"

"I don't like being left out."

"Left out of what?"

"Inner circles. I thought we were a team...I feel left out."

"Because of sex?"

"No...yeah...I dunno. I'm stressed...Coachella is coming..."

Killmonger sat next to her and threaded his fingers in hers.

"Coachella is big for you guys, but it's just a music festival. Like all the others you've played before."

"Easy for you to say. We only got there because of you."

"So."

"People are saying that's the only reason we were invited to play."

"So."

Oya shook her head and he squeezed her hand.

"If you're scared because Ark Ten is playing just say that."

"I'm not scared of Ark Ten."

"Deidre then."

"She's a star."

"You're a star. You, Shameika and Jody."

"This has to be the best performance of our life, and I want to show her up. I want her to regret leaving us—"

"She's living rent free in your head and not even thinking about you. We had three dudes jump ship on Slippage before we even signed with Warner. Shit, I wasn't even in the original line-up. People leave when opportunities open up for them. Deidre is where she's supposed to be. I'm where I'm supposed to be. So are you. This is your come up, O. Enjoy it. Stop worrying about Deidre and stop worrying about my dick."

She punched his arm and he kissed her cheek.

"You stink," she said wiping his kiss off of her skin.

"I smell like good pussy."

"Please don't play with them."

"We're having fun."

"You're having fun. They are in a serious relationship."

"I hear you, okay?"

Killmonger released her hand and left the room to shower and clean up. Oya meandered into the kitchen then knocked on the wall near the curtain divider.

"What?" Jody called out.

"It's me. I want to apologize. Can I come in?"

There was no answer.

"Jody? Shameika?"

Jody pulled the curtain aside. Her face was contorted with anger. Oya saw Shameika on the bed bundled up under the sheet, her eyes wet and puffy from crying.

"I'm sorry. It wasn't my place to talk to you both like that. I don't want this thing you have with him to blow up in our faces. Shameika, sorry for teasing you...I was...jealous."

Shameika cut her eyes and Jody crawled onto the bed and put her arms around her. They both ignored her.

"Sorry," she said again and left them alone.

Oya went to her room and broke out her weed pipe and smoked alone on her bed. With her bedroom door open she saw Killmonger walk out wrapped in a towel brushing his teeth.

"I stole a toothbrush from the pack under the sink," he said.

Oya shrugged and he ducked back into the bathroom to rinse his mouth. He returned fully dressed and barefoot. He grabbed the pipe and lighter from her and took a few puffs and cooled out on her bed.

"They are pissed at me," she grumbled.

"You were foul."

"I know. I apologized."

They smoked and the high was easy. Languid. She fell back on her back and stared at the ceiling. Killmonger curled around her and threw an arm across her stomach.

"I wrote a new song," she said.

"Lemme hear it."

She giggled.

"I'm high and my lips are rubbery right now."

Killmonger licked her face and it felt like warm velour caressing her skin.

"Sing it to me."

He nuzzled his face in her neck and kissed her there.

"You ain't slick," she said moving her neck from him.

"What?"

"Tryna get in my panties too right now because I'm floatin'."

"I would never do that. My dick is tired anyway. They had my shit spittin',"

"Oh God, TMI."

"I couldn't get it up if I wanted too. Give me the song."

"Hmmm..."

"It sucks."

"Shut up!"

She slapped his cheek and he cradled her hand and kissed her palm. She raised his hand to her lips and kissed his fingers.

"Sing," he said.

Oya closed her eyes and thought of the yellow legal pad she wrote the newest song on. The words floated above the paper as the melody danced around her ears.

"There is no place for a soft Black woman... there is no smile green enough or summertime words warm enough to allow my growth...and in my head...I see my history standing like a shy child...and I chant lullabies...as I ride my past on horseback...tasting the thirst of yesterday tribes..."*

The words flowed from her lips and Killmonger caressed her hip as he listened to her. He gave her suggestions for word changes when she was finished, and they moved from the bedroom to the living room to work out the song with her electric guitar. He played her instrument while she sang to him. Shameika and Jody emerged from their bedroom to listen and after a few more word changes they joined in on bass and drums that sat ready in the room all the time. They jammed, worked out a decent intro with the drums and Killmonger shoehorned a bass-heavy bridge that added a full body sound to the lyrics. Oya felt the sexual tension between the four of them. It was thick and undeniable. They were all drenched in sweat by the time they had a complete arrangement that worked well.

"We should close with this," Killmonger suggested.

Oya glanced over at Jody and Shameika.

"What do you think?" she asked them.

Jody shrugged and Shameika stared at Killmonger.

"You like it Shameika. I can hear it in your drums," Killmonger said.

Shameika's foot tapped on the floor. Killmonger stood Oya's guitar on a stand and he walked over to Shameika and pulled her up to her feet. He blocked their view of her as he talked softly with her. Oya left the room to grab a bottled water and when she returned, Killmonger had his lips on Shameika and she had her arms around his neck. Jody stood with her arms resting on her bass watching them.

"You good," Killmonger asked.

Shameika nodded her head and Killmonger went to Jody and gave her a hug.

"Team, right?" he asked Jody.

Jody twisted her lips and Killmonger grabbed her chin and tilted it up toward him.

"Jody?"

"Yeah. We're a team."

Killmonger pressed his mouth on Jody and she gave in. His hand squeezed her left butt cheek and she swatted his chest with a laugh in her throat. Fiery eyes raked over Oya's form as Killmonger strode over to her.

"I'm not leaving you out," he said.

His mouth devoured hers overwhelming her with the pressure of his large tongue sweeping around her teeth and making her own tongue submit to his will. A trembling in her thighs commenced, and she grew bolder as she pressed her body into his. Whatever he said about his dick not being able to rise to the occasion again was a blatant lie because the hardness she felt pressing against her mound had her panties damp. His arm slipped around her waist and he walked her backward a few inches before he let go of her lips. He reached for his shirt and took it off allowing the hard slick scars all over his chest excite her even more.

No words were spoken as he forced her back into her bedroom and undressed her. He groaned when her breasts were freed from her bra, and she moaned as his thick fingers pulled off her underwear revealing a glistening prize for his mouth. He ate her out on the edge of her bed, pushing her thighs back so that he could smear her juices all over his face. He licked her folds until she was clawing her bed. Sucking on her clit made her cry out and she knew Jody and Shameika heard her.

Killmonger stood up before she could release again and she watched him fetch a condom from his wallet and roll it down his turgid erection.

"You gon' play nice?"

"Huh?"

Breath was cut from her throat as he sank into her. He threaded his fingers in her hair and locked her body down good and tight. Hard thrusts made her pussy clench around his pipe. He brought his face close to hers and the gold in his teeth looked sharp and threatening.

"I'm giving you this dick, but you better place nice with the other girls from now on!" he growled in her ear.

Oya lifted up so she could see his dick beating up her walls. The aggression of his fucking made it hard to breathe. His hips swiveled and hit another part of her pussy that she wasn't expecting and she clawed his back. The scars on his body rubbed extra sensations into her needy skin and she whimpered into his shoulder to keep her bandmates from hearing, but the dick was so good that she was panting his name every time he sank back into her.

"Be a good girl, alright? Don't be jealous..."

"Killmonger!"

He palmed as much of her breasts as he could and forced her back to arch just to catch all the length he was throwing into her fast. She took the pounding gratefully.

"I'll be good! I'll be good...ooh shit! I'll be good...fuck!"

She went cockeyed trying to match his pace and gave up when he was balls deep and making her toes bunch up. His teeth tugged on her nipples and she took that moment to breathe deep and catch her bearings.

"Turn around!"

Killmonger stepped back from her and his heavy dick bobbed with her shiny slickness all over the condom. She dropped her legs down to the floor and shifted her body so that she faced the bed. Before she had a chance to position herself, he had his hand on the back of her neck pushing her down. Her ass jiggled as he thrust into her again, and she gripped the blanket on her bed to brace herself. Oya's ass clapped loud and she was unable to make a sound from her mouth. The shouting she had done made her voice hoarse, and she snapped her eyes shut and sucked on the blanket.

"Hold these ass cheeks open!"

Reaching behind her, she stroked her backside with her long nails and pulled her fleshy cheeks apart.

"Look at that pussy!" he choked out.

His groans rained down on her and once he started grunting and slapping her ass, she knew she would fall apart all over his dick soon.

"...being my good girl...pussy stretched all around me...fuck...Oya..."

She couldn't take it anymore. He was rooted in her way down deep until he bottomed out and gripped her hips.

"Right there! Right there!" he groaned.

"Fuckkk..."

Her orgasm exploded when he slipped demanding fingers across her clit and stroked her to completion. Bucking his hips, Killmonger's body went rigid and he cursed a stream of expletives until he collapsed over her.

Panting together, she felt kisses planted down her spine from his lush lips. He pulled out of her and bent down to kiss her pussy, licking the essence that flowed out of her. When she sat up, he left the room to go into the bathroom. Killmonger returned with a smile on his face.

"Let's record your song tomorrow at my place around nine—"

"I can't, I have to work at eight."

"Jody...Shameika..."

He padded out of her bedroom nude and went to the living room. Oya grabbed her t-shirt and pulled it on. She rummaged for a pair of sweatpants and sought out Killmonger. He stood in Jody and Shameika's bedroom talking quietly. She watched his shadow on the living room divider and felt a bit miffed that he didn't bother to dress before going to them. Her scent was all over him. The divider shook and she watched Killmonger pull it aside. Jody and Shameika stared at her. The smirk on Jody's face made Oya feel uncomfortable. Nothing like fucking a dude her ex had just rode hours before. Messy.

"We'll record before you go to work then. We need to lay it down fast. Skip rehearsal in the morning and just record. Cool?"

She nodded. The others seemed pleased with the idea.

"It's a great song, Oya," Shameika said.

Her eyes were still shiny and the lilt in her voice was relaxed. That man was working them all over. It worried her. Worried her for the next two weeks that they recorded tracks at his house and took promotional pictures for Coachella with a photographer he hired. The PR machine for Coachella was going into overdrive. Killmonger made them cancel all appearances until the festival. He paid them all out of his own pocket to make up for gigs they passed up.

"It's to build anticipation," he assured them.

Their streaming numbers jumped, especially when they posted the new pictures of Killmonger with them on their official website. He was part of the group now. The man drove them to play until their fingers swelled up and bled and their voices felt like they chewed chalk all day. Their bodies ached from working so hard. Killmonger's work ethic was stringent but worth all the effort. Oya's stamina improved. Musically and sexually.

They all shared him.

He was more discreet with their liaisons. The new polyamory created a push and pull that made their music racy. Electric.

The only foursome they indulged in was a weekend before Coachella. They tripped on 'shrooms with Killmonger in his house after swimming in his pool, and danced in their swim suits his den listening to all the new music they had created together.

"If you bring this fire to Coachella, it's a done deal," he said lying on his floor gazing up at his skylight that covered half of the ceiling.

"Done deal?" Oya said watching her fingers grow watery-looking as she allowed her body to trip with the high she felt.

"Yeah, Warner will sign us," he said like it was no big deal.

She screamed with Jody and Shameika as they peppered kisses all over his face. He stayed on his back as they sat around him like a harem.

"All this work you put in, it's all simmering on the stove. I gave y'all some extra seasoning and now we're all cooked down to the pot liquor now," he said.

His eyes were seductive, and his mouth was lax showing them his bottom slugs. Shameika stroked his cheek and he smiled. Oya bent down and kissed him and he accepted her ripe lips with a moan and wandering fingers. Stripping for him, they all took turns riding his face and going through condoms as they rode his dick too. Reconnecting with Jody intimately was a sweet reminder of how they used to be years before. Shameika and Jody sucked on his balls as she ran her tongue around the bulbous tip of his glans and she felt extra special when he came in her mouth. Jody and Shameika cleaned him with lusty licks and were rewarded with slow drips of extra semen that spilled all over their lips. They slept together in a warm heap of arms and legs on the floor and she woke up with his Killmonger's tongue sucking on her tits. She climbed on top of him and bounced on his dick with her heavy breasts teasing his face, letting him cum hot and raw inside of her. Jody and Shameika watched her make Killmonger holler her name like he had the holy ghost and they giggled when his eyes rolled back from his orgasm.

All was well.

Until it wasn't.

Carrying coffee containers from Starbuck's, Oya and Jody returned to a final mixing session in the home studio catching Killmonger fucking the shit out of Shameika on the sound board. Jody dropped the coffee she had for herself and Shameika and cursed a blue streak. Killmonger yanked off the condom and fastened his pants looking confused by the reaction. Oya was just as confused when Jody snapped and she pulled her back before it turned physical.

"Why you trippin'?" Killmonger yelled.

Tears welled in Jody's eyes.

"You promised!" Jody screamed.

Oya glanced between them. Shameika hung her head in shame.

Shit.

It became clear to Oya.

"I thought we were all good," Killmonger said still searching for understanding.

"This is why..." Oya mumbled.

"It just happened!" Shameika shrieked.

Jody stomped out of the studio and left the house.

"Jody!"

Oya grabbed Shameika's arm to stop her.

"Give her a minute, Shameika. Just go to the bathroom for now and –"

"What is going on?!" Killmonger said still out of the loop.

Shameika cradled her waist. Killmonger stepped to her and stroked her arm.

"Shameika?"

"We had a rule. I wasn't supposed to be with you by myself."

"Well damn, why didn't you tell me that?"

"Cuz I wanted to be alone with you like Oya is!"

"Shameika, bathroom, now!" Oya pushed.

Shameika left them alone.

"I told you," Oya hissed.

"I didn't know about their rule. I would've respected it."

"That was their fault for not cluing you in from the beginning."

"Shit. Jody won't quit will she?"

Oya pounded her fists on top of her head. The doorbell rang. Killmonger glanced at his security video screens near the sound board.

"It's Doug and Anderson from my management. I invited them to hear the final mix. Fuck."

Oya left Killmonger and hustled Shameika out of the bathroom.

"Get it together. Deal with your problem at home, you hear me?" Oya clucked like a mother hen.

Jody wandered back in with her lips set in a scowl and she sat away from Shameika as they heard the playback in the studio. Doug and Anderson loved it. It was a full album worthy of representation. Doug, balding, in his late forties, and deadly serious with his facial expressions kept squinting his eyes as he listened.

"What do we call this? Seriously? What is this sound?"

"Pot Liquor," Oya said.

Killmonger chuckled.

"What?" Doug asked.

"Inside thing," Killmonger said winking at Oya.

They played the album back again and the three men chatted with big plans for the band. But Oya could only watch the tension escalating with Jody and Shameika.

It was hell in a hand basket and Killmonger kicked it on its way by seducing them all into thinking they could handle open sex, drugs, and rock and roll.

Fuck.

The end of the beginning making way for new beginnings...

Oya stood behind the stage of the Mojave Stage tent with a nervous heart hammering in her chest.

The press, Killmonger's fans, and online pundits billed it the battle of the bands when Slippage was to perform after them, and Ark Ten before them. It bummed Oya when she watched smaller more talented bands get pushed aside for big name acts that didn't need the exposure that Coachella gave. A-Listers ruined the vibe for her. Everywhere she looked people were there to be seen. It had ceased to be about the music for many there. Influencers had some pull, and she was able to speak with a few before she dressed for their set. Shiny black dress. Blood red overcoat. Hair slicked down, titties propped up, she twisted all the silver rings that covered every finger on her hands. Two chunky silver chokers rested around her neck. They all agreed to dress their personality, and for Killmonger, that meant topless, black basketball shorts and black trainers.

Jody and Shameika were barely on speaking terms. Oya stayed at Killmonger's place because hanging around the apartment was brutal. Icy stares. Early morning cuss outs. Crying. She stayed out of the way as much as possible, but left after two days. All her time spent before Coachella was used to play her guitar, get her voice pampered and ready, and pray that the audience was receptive. They were part of the two Saturday weekend line-ups, and she prayed Jody and Shameika could keep it together for the following Saturday.

It felt like she and Killmonger had a lot to prove. Oya facing Deidre with Ark Ten, and Killmonger peeping Slippage without him.

"Is it mean to want the other band to suck?" Oya whispered to him.

"Nah. Slippage is a different animal without me now. They have new music. It's a new era for them."

"You miss them?"

"No."

"If people don't like this, you don't have to stay with us. We can say you were just—"

"Shut up," he said slapping her butt.

The thumping of music from a small monitor screen drew her eyes toward it where she watched Deidre shred. They hadn't spoken since she left them high and dry. Deidre had on a revealing black dress that showed a lot of breasts without nipples, and a thigh high split that Oya hoped had a g-string at the top. Killmonger bobbed his head as he listened to Deidre do a solo. She was a star. It showed.

Oya inhaled deep.

"You got this," Killmonger whispered in her ear. He kissed her and she felt her nerves move to her neck.

So many people. So many high expectations.

Oya shook her hands and glanced over at Jody who paced with her earbuds on listening to meditative sounds. Shameika stood still tapping her drumsticks against the top of her thigh, her eyes glassy and focused on some netherworld.

Tyson stood nearby keeping his eyes on the crowd and people backstage.

Martina, the stage manager walked over turning down her headset.

"Ready?" she said.

Oya nodded and the band circled up. She stood between Jody and Shameika.

"Go out there and be yourselves," Killmonger said.

The glint from his slugs made her tamper down her nerves.

"You don't look nervous at all," Jody said.

"I still get butterflies. I want to do my best for all of you."

They bowed their heads and Oya did a simple prayer and they all squeezed hands.

"Do it Shameika," Oya said.

Shameika shook her hair, tugged on her tiny black halter and shorts and pranced out to her drums. Colorful lights made her look glamourous and there was a smattering of applause as their logo lit up above her head. One twirl and she slammed on the skins and got right into her lane as their pocket queen. Oya saw a sly smile spread across Jody's face and she stomped out to where her bass waited for her and hooked in. When the lights struck her face, her head whipped toward Oya.

"What?" Oya mouthed.

Jody put stank on the bass as her thumb slapped hard. Killmonger hooked into his guitar backstage and when he heard his cue, he began to play and a roar shook the open tent. Strolling out like he had always been with them made Oya grip the mic in her hand tight. She was bigger than life. Bigger than the stage. Bigger than the biggest galaxy in the universe. Switching on the mic she called out,

"Buckle up Coachella, you ain't ready for this shit. I promise you. Hold onto to your edges..."

She stepped out and her eyes bugged. Holy fuck. The Mojave Stage tent they were under was packed. More than packed, the crowd extended far out of the tent and many people had to watch them on monitors outside.

Killmonger sidled up to her to help her regain her focus as she felt disoriented for a second. She looked down at his fingers working his chords and he bit his bottom lip giving her a flash of his face when he orgasmed and her clit thumped thinking about the way he handled her body. Oya shook her hips and he moved against her body.

"This bad boy right here is ready...are you ready Coachella?"

The roar of the crowd rattled the stage and instead of feeling like an indie band, they performed like they were on the main stage as the sun disappeared. Killmonger took over and scorched the guitar intro that Deidre ruined so long ago at Joshua Tree. When his eyes sought hers out and he suggestively wiggled his tongue at her the way he liked to work her clit, she growled deep in her throat then let pure rage flow out as she threw back her head.

"Show me someone not full of herself, and I'll show you a hungry person! Ahhhh, yeahhhhh!"

Everything poured out of her and Killmonger drove the rhythm hard, pushing her to dig deep and leave it all on the stage. Sweat made his scars shine like perfect little jewels just for her fingers to touch, which she did like always making people scream with delight.

She dropped to her knees and he placed his guitar close to her face to simulate fellatio. She spun herself toward Jody who did the same as she screeched out

"Give it to me!"

The first song raised the crowd into a tizzy, and it was easy to slip into the next song. She adjusted to the more than expected size of the audience under the tent and outside of it. Fifteen minutes in she took off her coat and slipped on her own guitar and joined Killmonger for a battle and by the time she caught her second wind mid show, her eyes caught a familiar face in the wings.

Deidre.

There was a smile on her face.

Feeling a way, Oya strummed her guitar and stepped to her mic stand.

"I want to introduce you all to the newest member of To Sleep With Anger...you may recognize him from some other band...who did you use to be with?" she asked Killmonger.

The crowd laughed.

"Everyone put your hands together once more for Erik Killmonger on lead guitar!"

Killmonger showed off a bit, and they went off script and jammed.

It felt like magic. Oya's heart swelled and she felt generous when Jody finally noticed Deidre on the side.

"Would you all mind if I bring out an unexpected guest?"

The audience clapped.

"All the way from the Outdoor Theater across the way, Deidre Peterson of Ark Ten!"

Deidre held her hands up, but Oya put a hand on her hip.

"Don't make me come over there and drag you out!"

Deidre walked out humbly, her face showing doubt about what was happening. Her eyes lit up when she saw Killmonger looking at her, giving her dimples and a wink.

"Use my guitar, Deidre," Oya whispered in her ear when she leaned in for a polite hug.

She glanced around at Jody and Shameika before she took in the crowd.

"Go ahead," Jody shouted.

Deidre picked up the guitar and Killmonger gave her space as she strummed it then broke into the very first song she and Oya ever wrote as teenagers.

"Bitch!" Oya teased before Jody stepped to her mic.

"I won't let you suffer all the way through it. We were just learning!" Deidre joked.

Oya faced the audience.

"We wanted to be heavy metal queens because metal, like all good American music started with Black people... you know it's true!" she catcalled the audience.

Deidre played one of their last songs they performed together and Jody joined her with Shameika rounding out the sound. Killmonger followed the rhythm adding his gentle flourishes.

"Can we give 'em a tiny taste?" Oya asked.

Jody held it down as Deidre shared the mic with Oya and they harmonized two verses before Deidre stopped playing. There was too much emotion on her face and she unhooked herself from the guitar and placed it back on the stand behind them. She blew kisses to the audience and hugged Oya before leaving the stage in a near run. Killmonger brought the music back up and forced Oya to let go of the past and look toward the future. There was pain still there, but they were both where they were supposed to be. They couldn't hate on the universe for being correct in the outcome.

They jumped back into kicking ass and taking names with Oya showing off her octave range and playing off of her bandmates. Killmonger tried to spit bars to one song and she covered his mouth with her hands making the audience cackle as she took over and showed him how it was done. Their songs ran the gamut of sexual politics, race, class, love, and the rage of Black women who were overlooked and forgotten. She sweated out her hair and rivulets of her exertion ran down her neck and breasts. Wrapping up with a strong closing, they all knew that the world was their oyster now. They carried sharp knives on the stage to cut the oysters open from now on. She waved for Shameika to come away from the drums and the four of them stood side by side. Jody threw an arm around Shameika and Killmonger held Oya's hand as they took in the applause and whistles, and shouts for more.

Deidre was absent from backstage but it was just as well. It was To Sleep With Anger's moment. Not hers.

Bigger acts sought them out to chat and they took some time to watch Slippage perform. They weren't as good anymore without Killmonger. She saw the smirk on his arrogant face when their reception without him was less than stellar.

Killmonger had hired a crew to break down and pack up their instruments and they were driven home in a large black S.U.V. to Killmonger's house at the end of their Coachella stay that first weekend. Jody and Shameika went off to one of his guest rooms to work out some things leaving Oya alone with Killmonger. They had talked all night after their performance. There was hope.

"Think they'll make up all the way now?" Killmonger asked.

They sat inside his jacuzzi easing their weary bodies. It was early in the morning.

"They're in love. But we'll see what happens before next weekend."

Oya sat up on the edge when the water got too hot for her.

"What about you?" he asked.

"What about me?" she said flicking hair from her eyes.

Killmonger swam up to her and pressed his body in between her thighs and gripped her backside.

"You were letting the world know some things with how you were acting on stage with me."

"Know what?"

"We're feeling each other. More than just an occasional hook-up."

"We do have mad chemistry."

His eyes became dreamy looking up at her.

"You are amazing, Oya. Tonight...shit all three of you were just fucking raw. Coachella hasn't seen that in a long time. Fuck, music hasn't seen that in a long time. Period."

She stroked the top of his head fingering his locs and he closed his eyes and rested his head against her stomach. Rubbing gentle circles along his back, she touched his scars that had become so precious to her. He had become precious to her.

"Killmonger?"

He raised his head up and she lowered hers and kissed him. Their lips fought for leverage together and when their tongues sought heat and wet mouths, he stepped out of the water and held her hand. Her eyes felt heavy. Sleepy. She was still high from being onstage the night before.

"Where are we going?" she said.

"To make some music together."

"Oh, yeah?"

"All day, And the next day, and the next..."

He pulled her along and they took off their wet swimsuits and shared a shower together before he took her to bed. The man played hymns on her breasts with his calloused guitar fingers and hummed a sultry blues on her slick folds. Musical notes danced across her clit with the tip of his tongue and when he sucked sweet orgasms from her one after the other, she finally understood what Betty Davis meant by the lyrics in "Anti-Love Song" about a nigga making a woman "scrawl", because she was screaming and trying to crawl up the walls once he penetrated her, parting her folds like soft fleshy curtains. His short teasing thrusts had her begging him to fill her up with his entire length, stretch her wide open, and take her to the place where love rested easy.

They held hands as he went deeper and deeper and Killmonger made her lose all hope of ever letting him go.

The world made her a little less angry with him in it, and she was so grateful.

A.N. Song lyrics were from poems.

Nikki Giovanni poem ""Poem for a Lady Whose Voice I Like"

Sonya Sanchez poem "Present"

A.N.: This was originally published June 6, 2021. Brought it back for fun! I thought I would expand it as an indie book, but I'll wait on that!

[wedriftlikelonelyplanets]

Imagine Landoscar having a fight about their weird situationship and lestappen take the opportunity to have Oscar for themselves since they've always been interested, making sure Lando knows, and when they do it, Oscar moans Lando's name the entire time, which they're all into ofcourse so max records it and sends it to Lando.....so that idiot can man up and take his man....

c:

ANON

OH ANON, I hope you're proud of yourself you have once again made the brain go brrrrr. This wouldn't happen in like canonical GITHHHW verse, HOWEVER it's fun to think about it as a spin-off.

PLEASE APPRECIATE this drabble under the cut. USFW warning for phone sex (kinda?)

Lando's fucking miserable, sprawled out on the couch, he doesn't think he's understood a single word of the fucking anime show that he queued up on Netflix. Can't stop thinking about Oscar, the jump of his jaw, his clenched fists, "Lando, can you just fucking listen to me for one second?" desperation bleeding into his tone. "Can we talk about this?"

Lando wasn't ready. Doesn't know if he is ready to commit to a relationship with the teammate he's worried is going to edge him out of the team. He already knows his feelings for Oscar are larger than life, but there's an inherent level of vulnerability that comes with admitting them. Doesn't want to feel like a sad, drowned cat in the rain when Oscar admits he doesn't feel anything near the same.

Though, he supposes, that's likely impossible, when Oscar just fucking walked out because Lando was refusing to define things.

He's not used to seeing Oscar angry, it's another piece of the puzzle slotting into place of the things he knows about Oscar. That even his anger is a subtle thing. Tense jaw, a squeeze of his hand on the back of his neck tight enough to mark red crescents into the skin, long sighs, narrowed eyes. Thinks maybe the only other time he's seen Oscar prettier is when he's laid out underneath him begging to come, or when he's standing on the podium with that first place trophy in his hands, eyes glowing.

He buries his face in the throw pillow with a pathetic sound, half-sob, half-whine, wants to pull out his phone and apologize, but there's pride in the way. The insurmountable barrier. He wants Oscar to come running back to him, not the other way around. Wants Oscar to realize what he's missing.

His phone vibrates insistently on the coffee table, and he ignores it until it stills. He glances at it with teary eyes, with a sniff, hopes that it rings again. It does. It's not Oscar though, it's a facetime request from Max.

He wants to ignore it. He's not in the mood to fucking talk to Max right now, to listen to him talk about iRacing, or whatever fucking race shit he wants to bring up. He's not in the mood for a debrief. Isn't even in the mood to be social, unless it's downing shots at Jimmy'z.

He lets the phone fall silent a second time, thinks it's the last of it, shifts on the couch and reaches out to check the notifications, despite the fact that he knows it's just going to be the two ignored FaceTime requests from Max.

A text from Max pings through as he opens his phone.

Answer your fucking phone, mate

Then the FaceTime starts again. He tilts his head back, swipes away the vestiges of the tears that he felt gathering earlier, and composes himself. Takes a deep breath and lets it out. Swipes to answer, and is met with Max's face, smile canine and sharp.

"Are you missing something?" there's something assured in his tone of voice, almost superior, and Lando's confused for a moment, head tilted as he focuses on Max. He almost misses the background noise, almost misses the brief shift in the camera, of Charles' face, head tossed back. Almost misses the soft murmured whine of his name.

"Lando," It's Oscar's voice, Lando's name punched out of him breathlessly.

"What the fuck, Max," Lando's tone is sharp, hand clenching into a fist where it's settled in his lap.

"He came to us, asking so prettily for it. He's lovely, Lando, really," Max's voice smooths into something a little softer, adoring, glances back at the scene behind him. His eyes soften immediately, as Charles leans over to press a kiss to his lips. Stays like that for a moment, before he returns to the task at hand. "Very good at listening to instructions,"

"He is not saying anything other than your name," Charles voice is soft from the background, "Isn't that right, mon petit?" Charles is presumably asking Oscar, where Lando can't see him. Hears the whined "Yes," in response to the question, and curses his traitorous cock when it twitches in his sweats.

"Even when I'm fucking him, it's your name he is crying," It's punctuated by the sound of skin against skin, and Lando can't help the whine that escapes him.

"Do you want to see?" Max asks, and Lando nods, on autopilot. Max switches the camera view, and it's enough to make Lando breathless. Oscar's lying on his back, chest flushed, eyes teary, legs wrapped around the narrow dip of Charles' waist, mouth open. Thoroughly fucked out and then some. His cock is hard, flushed and red, leaking pre-come all over his abdomen.

If Lando squints, he's pretty sure he can already see come streaked across his chest.

His fingers are fisted helplessly in the sheets, head tilted back as Charles fucks into him, as he whines. "Lando, please," Lando's name a sob on his lips.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Oscar," Lando's voice is almost reverent, "With them and even then you can't stop thinking about me?"

Oscar's eyes fly open at the sound of his voice, he meets Lando's gaze from the impersonal barrier of the cell phone, and with a particularly well timed thrust from Charles, he's coming all over again. Back arched, come streaking over his chest, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. "Lando, Lan, oh my god," Lando's name a chant on his lips.

"I'll be over for him in a few,'' is Lando's snarled response through the phone, and he hears Max's sharp laugh before he hangs up.

Is glad he's got the browser tabs open on his phone for a few select toys, because no one else gets to have Oscar after this.

[cagcd]

     He knew the Lin Kuei was the rigid sort,   but not to the extent of having zero-to-no-taste.   Sure,   his early movies were poorly made,   somehow surviving the years on a tight budget and badly written scripts,   turned into favourites despite how awful they were,   the dedicated fans had a way of overlooking those flaws,   which was completely beyond him.   Admittedly,   Ninja Mime was a flop in the US,   but a great success in France,   that caused an overwhelming demand for more.   Johnny liked it with all its series,   it wasn't for the acting itself that he was sometimes drawn to a role but the ability to produce good fighting sequences   &.   introduce something new whether it was silly or not.   A matter of personal taste none of his friends or other kombatants seemed to understand and used that movie in particular as the main target of mockery,   but anyone who knew Johnny cage,   he would rather defend his reputation in all it's all failures till his very last breath than to be silent like in his school days,   never again.

  To say someone ever had a personal vendetta against him wouldn't be out of the ordinary,   such was the case with martial arts professionals turned actors,   there was always someone out there wanting to prove his skills were all make-belief,   edited and beautified with effects.   However,   to say either of the enemies of his career would be bitter to the point of holding a grudge for years was a new occurrence,   he would be impressed if he hadn't been so deeply offended.        ❛❛   Sour much,   are we ?   ❜❜        the actor retorted,   unphased by the threat Cyrax had posed.   It was true,  his ego would survive the mere loss of $8,   fortune had long since lost its appeal to him and he was happy spending it on others than himself.   But it was a matter of principle just as it is for Cyrax,   there's no way he's going to bend his knee to cater his distaste.

        ❛❛   You know,   normal people would ask for a refund from the theatre not the actor himself,   besides,   you went ahead and watched It,   you didn't like it ?   That's a you problem,  and a bad taste on your behalf.   I'll give you one advice though,   next time you get an upgrade,  ask them to pull out that big stick up your ass,   would do you a world of wonders,   trust me.   ❜❜

@maximummuses // [ ☆ ]

[darklordofthesimp]

Reconcile (John Price x Reader)

Anything Verse

Summary: When a Task Force 141 sniper is rushed into your surgery at the end of your shift, you know you're in for a rough night.

A/N: OOOH a Price fic?? In the Anything Verse?? Wish me luck. I'm so sorry if he's OOC I know nothing.

Category: Angst || Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Description of Injury, Allusion to PTSD, Swearing.

The day you met Captain John Price was not a good day. It had been one of the worst shifts of your career, actually.

"Get them straight into surgery!" 

You were no stranger to the horrors of war. Every twisted wound, every deformed face, every tragic passing of a young soldier reminded you of why you enlisted. 

"Vitals are dropping!" 

You remembered the trolley squeaking as you rushed a twisted, limp body to surgery. The shouts of your nurses all worked in tandem to inform you of the signs that this soldier was dying before you. 

"Birdy!" 

You recognised the callsign, horror prodding at your lungs. Forcing down your realization, you focused on the man screaming behind you. He was larger than life, bounding down the hallway after your team. He bellowed the callsign again, his voice desperate as it climbed over the chattering of your medics, begging for a response. 

The body on the bed said nothing. 

"They're critical!" 

The body on the bed barely breathed. 

As you disappeared into the surgical ward, your heart held captive by anxiety, you risked a glance over your shoulder. 

The man's eyes were bloodshot, wild in a way that only love could cause. There was a soldier who held a firm hand to his chest, reminding him that 'Birdy' was going somewhere he couldn't follow. 

His gaze followed the trolley until the doors closed on him. 

John Price had been watching on with the eyes of a man that was already mourning. 

____

Twelve hours. 

Twelve hours spent trying to save a life because of miscommunication

The team had been swapped out on the sixth hour of surgery, your secondary group scrubbing in at around 0100 hours. You didn't take the break. 

Your hands shook as you pushed the doors open, emerging from the surgical ward like you'd just crawled off the battlefield. Your knees were weak, barely holding your body up as you trekked down the hall. 

Images of the crumpled sniper flashed across your vision like a stop motion film, reminding you that although you'd saved their life- this wasn't the end of their struggle. Your heart bled for them, bled for the person that they would have to become to survive this. 

"How are they?" The words attacked you from the side, throwing you off balance as you flinched away. Trying to catch yourself, your arms flailed and a gasp ripped from your throat. You were dizzy, exhausted and low on all forms of fuel, you were definitely going to hit the deck like a sack of shit. 

"Jesus-" A pair of rough hands shot out to grip your shoulders, pulling you upright and steadying you on your feet. You raked in a breath, tilting your head up to glare at the culprit. 

It was the man from earlier. 

"You fuckin' serious?" You tried to straighten up as you growled the words but there was no venom behind them. You didn't have the energy for that, and as you looked into the haunted eyes before you, you knew that he didn't have it either. 

"Sorry." It was muttered as an afterthought, bloodshot eyes barely focused on your features, as though he was looking at you but not actually seeing. "Is Birdy okay?" 

You sighed deeply, scrubbing at your eyes with the heel of your palms. If you rubbed hard enough maybe you could chase away the crippling exhaustion. 

"Yeah," you rasped. "Someone really did a number on 'em though." 

The man's face grew stormy at the words, his jaw clenching. You knew then that there had been no justice for the sniper, that their assaulter had escaped the clutches of the infamous 141. 

"I want the report." The man stated simply, his tone carrying the familiar weight of authority. 

You raised an eyebrow. 

"Are you Birdy's chain-of-command?" You queried, crossing your arms over your chest. 

"Captain John Price," he nodded. 

John Price. 

He was something of a legend within the unit, the forefront of Task Force 141- the leader. You would have been in awe had he not looked like a pathetic shell of the man he should have been. 

Your eyes trailed his figure, stopping at his hands with a startled gasp. 

"Whose blood is that?" You stepped forward, suddenly on alert. You dragged your gaze over his shocked features, analyzing for injury and wounding. 

"Bit of mine," he rasped, eyes wide as he took in the state of his skin, "...mostly Birdy's."

You could have left him there. Your shift had been over 15 hours ago and you were planning on going home and stuffing your gob with whatever you could get your hands on. 

The Captain wasn't your responsibility. 

But the broken man before you was.

"Come with me," you murmured softly, taking a step towards the door. Price didn't move, that thousand yard stare drifting over the entrance to the surgical ward. His body might have been here but his mind was far away. 

You'd seen it millions of times, yet every instance still rips on your heart. 

Gently, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist. Cerulean eyes snapped to meet yours, wide and hard. He gripped your offending limb with his free hand and your heart hammered in your chest. The Captain was fresh from war, blood smeared across his jaw and dried under his nails, he was unpredictable. 

Your hand trembled in his but you didn't loosen your grip. 

John Price was a large man, broad shoulders and a presence that demanded your attention. He was a combatant, he'd been through hell and back and willingly made the journey thousands of times. 

When you dealt with soldiers like this, there was always a security detail to protect you in case they snapped. It was common, it was understood- survival instincts and adrenaline doesn't just disappear overnight. 

But you were alone. 

And Price's grip tightened. 

"John," you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady but failing. The words wobbled and your body tremored but your gaze remained consistent. Your eyes appealed and pleaded, fixated on the bright blue of his own. "John, let me help you." 

His eyes flickered down to see where he held your hand. 

Then he released a breath. 

"I'm so sorry," Price murmured, broken and small. 

You offered a genuine smile, breath settling as relief flooded your chest. "You're okay, John. Come with me."

You told yourself to say his name often, reminding him of who he was and where he was. It was your job to ground him, to patch him up- body and mind. His grip on your hand loosened but he didn't let go completely, his shaky inhale telling you that he was overwhelmed. 

He wasn't used to being rattled.

Captain Price wasnt supposed to ever get rattled. 

John followed you into your office, letting go of your hand to close the door behind him instinctively. Your heart skipped a beat at the sudden isolation, you weren't meant to be alone with a volatile patient. When he turned to face you, he raised a brow at your hesitance. 

"Would you prefer I kept the door open, Doc?"  

You swallowed thickly, controlling your breathing as best as you could. 

"It's not a problem," you lied. 

There was a soft snort, the first sign of humor you'd seen in him. John opened the door back up,  resting it gently against the stopper as he offered you a meaningful glance.

"For my ease of mind," he joked dryly. 

Your lips twitched upward and you ducked your head.

 "Thanks," you whispered quickly before clearing your throat. "And they call me Saint. Not Doc."

"Saint," John trialed the word on his tongue. "Fitting."

You rolled your eyes light-heartedly before gesturing to the tap and basin at the back. "Clean up a little while I prep."

The Captain offered you a nod, sobering as he moved to the sink to scrub the blood off his hands. You prepared your equipment, pretending not to notice the way his body shook as scraped the blood off his skin. 

He was there for longer than he needed to be but you didn't push. You wouldn't rush him, there was nothing more important than letting him watch the crimson stained water disappear down that drain. The way he stared at his hands, those unsoiled palms raised upright, it had you thinking that he could still see his sniper's blood tattooed across his fingers. 

When John finally sat down, his face was drawn and solemn. You took in a sharp breath, taking the anti-bacterial wipe and approaching the Captain slowly until you were inches away. 

His gaze lifted to watch you through his lashes, the scent of gunpowder, sweat and blood rolling off of him in waves. You were used to it, it was a smell that you'd gotten used to over the years. 

"I'm going to wipe the blood from your face and sanitize your wounds," you stated clearly, breath trembling as his attention fell to your lips. 

John said nothing for a long moment, leaving you inches from him, praying to God that he wasn't going to snap. 

"Yeah," he finally rasped. 

You set to work, ignoring the way his eyes followed you emptily. You wished there was emotion  behind it, you wished you could say that he was leering, but the Captain was watching you work as one would watch a plain car go by: no thoughts, simply caught by the movement. 

Thousands of conversation starters fought for use, they begged to be spoken out into the small space between you. All of them fell short, nothing could drown the silence of his grief. 

"Will Birdy recover?"

You were startled by the question, fingers brushing against the heat of his skin as you flinched.  His eyes were glued to yours. They waited hungrily for a response, watching carefully for any indiscretions that could give away a lie. 

"Yes." You replied simply, moving to continue your work. 

"Saint." The Captain's fingers reached upward to grip your wrist gently, lowering your hand from his face. You took in a sharp breath, eyes narrowing. "That's not what I was asking."

The look John gave you was intent and revealing, stripping the veil from your answer. You were bare for him to see, inches away with no room to hide from his gaze. His hand was hot against your skin, burning every square inch that he held. 

You knew what Price was truly asking. You knew that you'd hadn't answered the question he was offering, hidden behind smoke and mirrors. 

Will Birdy forgive me? 

You sucked in a breath, bringing a hand to softly rest against his shoulder. 

"Yes," you said again.

 Only, this time, you lied.