#Oil on fuckin board

[dog-park-dissidents]

Went to my first pride parade. I swear, only 10% of the people in the parade were from local groups and the rest were either corporations or people running for office with nothing about queer people on their platform

Oh yeah, Pride parades especially in North America have gotten so far from our roots with how much it costs to get permitting and logistics that most actual queer orgs get priced out of participating. Corporations can afford it but of course, instead of decentering themselves and just being okay with like, Dykes On Bikes (Sponsored By Chipotle), they cannot help but make it all about their fucking marketing. We are literally dogs and we couldn't even dream of pissing on parts of public space to claim them as our own on the sheer scale of a corporate logo.

Local Pride organizers are generally part of the problem and lean all the way into this, cause they're usually shitlibs who feel super fuckin validated because Shell Oil turned their logo rainbow, and don't you know how great it is that their HR department has a nondiscrimination policy. Zac was dating the person put in charge of organizing New Orleans's Pride parade and he was like, what if we save money by not allowing floats, just make it a walking parade so more people can participate? And the rest of the goddamn board of directors was like, no, absolutely not, what would our corporate sponsors think.

So anyway that was the year he used his clout to at least let our local pup group lead the parade, which we did looking like this

Needless to say Shell did not return as a sponsor the year after that

[boop-le-snoot]

masterlist

untitled

I just had this vivid scene play out in my brain. Dropped to my knees in a local chain grocery store, had to pretend I was grabbin the bootleg brand chips from the bottom shelf. I'm definitely normal about this. Yea, I'm so abso-fucking-lutely normal about this.

So what if I'm ovulatin'? It ain't me sittin' here clenching my fuckin' thighs, no ma'am, nu-uh. Even my predictive text talks like Daryl now- okay, I may have a tiny little problem. I hope I never, never ever get the chance to look Norman Reedus in the eye.

4.5k words. VERY VERY NSFW. Just sweet and a little rough monkey lovin' where Daryl enjoys something for the simple sake of it feeling good. A little undercooked plot-wise but the smut has been grilled to a perfect medium-rare, slightly juicy, collard greens and mashed potatoes on the side with the mushroom sauce. Two packs of cigarettes later (he owes my lungs an apology),

Imagine you and Daryl going out on a - run, scouting mission, whatever - and hunkering down in a secure cabin for the night. It's summer, it's hot and stuffy inside, but luckily, the cabin has running water, even if it's ice-cold. So you wash up and apply some of the essential-oils-homemade-perfume-thing that someone at the community made for you.

You change into your PJs and come downstairs to amuse yourself til the sun sets completely.

He's smoking next to a crack in the boarded up windows and you, being on friendly terms, banter a bit and bum a cigarette off him. He doesn't mind when you use one of his knees to sit down. As you two joke, you ruffle his hair slightly, not missing the way his eyes narrow in pleasure.

That sparks a conversation about letting oneself to feel good things.

You say that it's different for women because they get judged for wanting to experience pleasure just for the sake of it and Daryl says he always thought it to be stupid. You say that he's not exactly the resident expert on that, which briefly makes his natural competitiveness overshadow his shyness and self-loathing.

Petulantly, he places your hand back in his hair and stresses the purring growl of pleasure as your scratch his scalp and let his moist tresses glide through tour fingers.

You laugh and say you're gonna braid his hair one day, in jest, and he growls back "yer pushin' yer luck, pretty girl," but his smile is hidden rather badly.

In revenge, you stomp out the cigarette and straddle his lap fully, attacking his head with a massage worthy of a spa parlour professional.

He grips your waist as his head hangs forward, a low rumble coming from his mouth as his nose comes that much closer to your neck.

Daryl takes a deep breath, and sensing you unbothered by it, says "ya smell good. like apple pie."

"Oh," he doesn't miss the slight hitch in your breath, "'member when I fixed up the 'lectric in number twelve? they paid me in some essential oil perfume they made. feels nice to... not smell death all day, every day. 's a nice change."

He nods, agreeing, remembering your strong feelings about doing some things just because they feel good. Not because it's useful or to survive, but just for a surge of happy hormones in your bloodstream.

Despite his best efforts to distract his body, one wiggle from you is all it takes for his excitement to be obvious. He freezes, but you adjust simply, politely, keeping your weight off his boner. Confused by your chill attitude, he lifts his head, forcing you to brush all of his hair out of his face.

Daryl feels vulnerable and exposed.

Your eyes slide down to his lips, once, twice, but you - just as stubborn as him - pick them back up. As he parts them to run the tip of his tongue over them in hopes of finding something to say, he notices it fully.

He notices the flush of your skin. His hands move on your waist, provoking another blink-and-youll-miss-it twitch of your fingertips and toes.

Gathering his ducks in a row, Daryl leans into you - your neck, not your lips, not yet - softly running the tip of his nose along your collarbone and up to your jaw.

"That feel good?" Voice gravelly low, it sends reverb through your chest.

"Yeah," you breathe quietly, your fingers in his hair shaking slightly. You lean more into him and that is all the encouragement he needs for the time being.

"Wanna make ya feel good," he admits, dry lips and scratchy stubble gliding along the length of your jaw. His breath is hot on the shell of your ear. "Can I do that, suga'-pie?"

"Mhm," you respond, his cheek now against yours - you rub into him gently, like a cat. The affectionate headbutt makes him chuckle quietly in his throat.

He continues nosing around your neck, feeling the muscles in your back and your thighs unclench one by one. You're practically on top of him, almost right there, over the throbbing erection in his pants, and he feels your control slip away bit by bit.

The flimsy wooden chair you two are sitting on creaks; Daryl doesn't place much trust in it. Planting his feet wide, securing his position, he inadvertently lands your cunt right over his cock. Both of you shudder and hiss at the contact.

The damn chair creaks again.

He curses under his breath, hands sliding down to your ass, hoisting you up and urging you to wrap your legs around his waist as he stands up, sending the raggedy chair clattering to the floor.

Your breath catches in your throat, your hands grab at his shoulders, kneading into the meat there. A few steps later, both of you land on the couch heavily; it creaks, too, but your legs have room and your body can finally relax against Daryl as you stabilise yourself on the surface.

He's panting, open-mouthed, looking at you with those stormy blue eyes, searching for something in your earnest, open face.

The corners of your mouth tug up.

He runs his palm over your back, settling on your nape to pull you into him. Your mouths connect; the kiss is slow and unhurried as you take the time to explore each other's mouths. There is no need to rush, no risk of being caught or ambushed; it really feels good. Following someone's advice for once, Daryl lets himself become utterly lost in the sweet kiss.

Your hands are in his hair, tugging softly every now and then, tipping the cup of him ever-so-slightly for short groans to spill into the kiss. Sometimes, you let your hands traverse the hills of his shoulders, the plains of his chest, fingertips poking around the collar of it.

It's overstimulating but at the same time, it's not enough. To give you a hint, Daryl timidly strokes the single bare inch of skin between your shirt and your pants, feeling the goosebumps even through the thick, calloused skin of his working hands.

The way your hips respond: restless and fluid, pressing into him just that much closer, prompts him to slide his hands further under your shirt, mapping the bony ridges of your spine. The skin along it is sensitive on any mammal, that much he knows, so he expects the twitch, expects the breathy moan leaving your lips; he revels in it, the kiss growing humid and sloppy.

Your hands slip into his shirt, finally, your warm palms on his hot skin. He's burning up inside out and you're- you're diligently adding fuel and accelerant to the fire. Blunt nails scratching over his uneven skin, you snag his bottom lip on your teeth as moisture gathers in the corners of your mouths.

The need for oxygen is strong.

Daryl inhales deep as he rests his forehead against yours.

Both of you are panting. Necking like horny teenagers, not a care in the world, no worry for tomorrow; it's near impossible to focus on anything else but the pulsating need at the spots where your bodies are pressed together.

It's all too much but neither of you want it to stop.

"Holy shit," your awed mumble causes Daryl to smirk lightly; as you shift in place, he swears he can smell how wet you are. His jeans must've gotten ruined by now, if not by you then by the weeping of his own cock.

It feels almost regretful to proceed. This exact feeling, if someone could figure out how to bottle it, would have people sellin' their soul for it, Daryl is damn sure.

It's the moment before lightning spears open the stuffy air of a muggy, stormy day. The millisecond before a heavily pregnant cloud gives birth to a solid wall of ice-cold rain; the blink of skies as they generously cool the overheated earth, filling up its parched cracks with invigorating liquid.

"Fuck," Daryl groans, tossing his head back onto the backrest of the couch, watching you through lidded eyes, "whatchu doin' to me, girl?"

You offer him a shaky, sheepish grin before your lust takes over your senses, pushing you back up to him. Your mouth connects with his neck, suckling, licking, nipping at the caramel skin there.

Daryl tastes of cheap soap and clear sweat, that musky scent of gasoline and leather unfurling into notes of pinewood and smoke as you nose deeper; right next to his ear, tickled by his hair, he smells and tastes like the best dessert at the carnival inside the town fair.

A little greasy and drenched in spices. You can't get enough of him. Opening your mouth, you stick your tongue out flat and lick.

Daryl groans. It's open-mouthed and loud. His hands grab your hips firmly, dragging you over the tent in his pants.

Both of you hiss at the friction.

Your knees wobble as your stance widens in an attempt to cover more surface are, to bring the feeling closer to your clit. There's at least four layers of fabric between your skin and his and it is something that is so sweetly, arduously annoying.

He pushes down again, harder this time, offering another delicious groan that you can't help but swirl in your mouth and recreate. The noise attracts his attention; Daryl watches you, watches your face, the flush on your chest, your heaving breasts. Like many men, he licks his lips utterly unintentionally when his eyes settle on your hard nipples.

Inwardly, you find enough clarity of mind to chuckle. Men and breasts nevel fail to amuse you when placed in close proximity. You push them outwards and his mouth is immediately right there, shirt and all, rolling a stiff nipple gently between his teeth.

The soft, damp cotton adds an edge to it; you feel your underwear slide over your cunt, the fabric absolutely saturated with your arousal.

Daryl's hands knead your ass as he takes in his fill of your breasts.

"That's, fuck," you pant, needing him to know, "that's really fuckin' good."

"Yeah?" He groans wetly before taking in as much of your breast as he can fit in your mouth; there's no finesse to it, just raw, unadulterated need.

"Uh-uh," you nod: his eagerness is what takes the cake.

Daryl tugs your shirt up; up and over your head and fuck knows where it flies, forgotten the moment his lips are back on one nipple, his fingers on the other. He rolls, he bites, he sucks.

Your breasts are wet with spit and sweat.

His breath ghosts over the damp areas, pebbling the tender bud to a state almost frigid.

You moan, loudly, wetly and openly. You gasp, you squirm, anything to quell the restlessness. It's like an army of fire ants trotting their primal, tribal dance under your skin, reducing you to a disoriented mess with a one-track mind. Your fingertips are pale where you hold onto Daryl in a feeble attempt to ground yourself.

He's smirking when he surfaces up. There's spit glistening on his chin, his lips are puffy, the deepest, most delicious shade of maroon. It's obvious the state of your undress and the intensity of your want is echoed by him.

"Feel good?" He has the audacity! to ask.

"Yeah," your response is lackluster in words but the tone and the pleading expression on your face conveys it all: your desire, your desperation.

With you on top of him, the only relief to your aching cunt so far has been provided by his bulge rubbing against your clothed slit. It's not enough, it's not even nearly enough.

Daryl's biceps bulge as he effortlessly lifts you up, "c'mere," placing you back-to-his-chest.

Your legs fall open on your own accord, hanging limply over his muscular thighs. The meat of his cock digs into the cheeks of your ass; you feel it twitch along with you when Daryl's thick palm cups the mound of your pussy in a gesture both tender and possessive.

"Fuckin' shit," his low mumble travels down the shell of your ear, "this all fr'me, sugar?"

"Yes," you breathe out as he slides his middle and ring fingers up and down your slit. There is no hiding it: your cunt had soaked right through your panties and the cotton of your pajama pants.

With some more maneouvering that comes unfairly easy to him (in your opinion), your pants join your t-shirt somewhere in the deepest pits of hell (a far corner of the room). The panties stay on and for that, you're grateful - a little - as the simplest, straightest of touches on the sensitive meat of your cunt feels like clear honey being poured over a-

Daryl taps two fingers at the top of your slit, right where you outer lips part to reveal your swollen clit.

"Fuck!" You yelp.

"So responsive," he mumbles. He sounds fascinated as he spreads his fingers, the rough tips gliding along the skin and the thick meat sliding over the soaked fabric. You quiver and he can't resist running his mouth, "that feel good?" His smirk is a little mocking, a little breathless.

Your resolve hops between strangling Daryl and begging him, the rabbit of your heart leaping in your chest, doing a binky when your lover shows you mercy by moving aside the sticky fabric covering your crotch. It immediately cools and you wince as it touches the hot flesh of your thigh.

Daryl's inhale is sharp, deep and loud as he dips the same two thick fingers inside your slit.

You're swollen and so wet, its practically dripping. Your clit twtiches under his fingers.

"Jesus Christ," he exhales his disbelief, "you like that, huh? This all for me?" The question proves to be rhetoric when the arm that holds you by your waist tightens on you and Daryl grinds his hips up into the small of your back.

The pitch of his voice drops impossibly low, "bet you taste sweet," as he scoops up some of the fluid, fingers snagging on the snug ring of your entrance, before bringing them up to his lips. He noisily sucks your cunt off his fingers, slurping, "fuck yes!"

Your eyes flutter shut as you cunt pitifully clenches around nothing, no doubt making an ever bigger mess between your legs and on his jeans. Your soft whine is an earnest compliment to the man doing his best to clean up your mess.

Daryl repeats the motion several times, scooping up the sticky droplets of your cunt juice, immediately sticking his fingers in his mouth.

You feel a little sad you can't see it, but your imagination supplements that which is lacking. You imagine his brow, furrowed; his eyes, closed; the tight 'o' of his lips around his fingers. Your cunt flexes again, spasming.

Daryl's reward for it is to circle your clit with a featherlight touch of a single finger. His breath is heavy as he reaches lower, same finger sliding to your entrance: not breaching it, just circling, like a predator circles its prey. He must have the patience of a saint.

You, however, do not. Your hips have a mind of their own as they arch into him, your cunt so empty, it practically hurts.

"Tell me whatcha need," Daryl orders, the low of his voice seasoned with a pinch of pride and a pinch of desperation, "tell me, sugar."

"Inside," you keen, out of your mind, "I want you. Inside." There's drool gathering in the corners of your mouth.

Daryl obliges, but not before lubricating the entirety of his thick finger by sliding it over the outside of your cunt, causing another loud keen to fall from your lips.

When he pushes in, you swear you could cry from the sheer relief of finally getting something for your hungry cunt to wrap around.

Experimentally, he drags his finger in and out, slowly, tense as he watches your reaction, before adding in another. To say they're big would be an understatement: long and thick and textured, it's everything your cunt has craved for the past some minutes. Daryl pumps them in and out as you pant through the new sensation, acutely aware of the loud squelches coming from your hole with every plunge.

Your swollen lips and throbbing walls attempt to keep him hostage with every pull.

Daryl curses, something completely unintelligible, his rough voice completely lost to lust. "Gonna cum for me, eh?" He breathes as the contractions of your cunt become quicker, more rhythmic.

Your neglected clit pulses, your nipples are stiff as rocks, your breathing is uneven and shallow. You couldn't find your voice even if you tried; you don't try at all, letting your body do the talking. You fuck back onto his fingers to the best of your limited ability to move as short, loud, primal noises choke their way up your throat.

The throb of his cock against the small of your back is what sends you over the edge.

Daryl's panting, whimpering himself at the unabashed state of your being; you don't think he realises it, even, his eyes set on your cunt gripping onto his fingers.

When it clenches for one last time, you arch, you paint the walls of the room with curses and whimpers that would make even a prostitute blush as more sweet slick drips out your spasming hole and onto his fingers. Your legs tremble as your entire body goes limp in Daryl's hold.

Soft lips rest on the crown of your head, hot, uneven puffs of air frizz your damp hair.

As your brain does a factory reset, you become hyperaware of the hard, thick flesh pressing into you; a stark realization comes over your being, washing your body in a new layer of shivers. Your cunt still tingles, still aches for more.

"Daryl," you mumble, feeling him go stiff and hot, his name like the sweetest honey on your lips, "I want you inside me."

He shudders, he pants, his cock twitches pitifully once again in his pants. The tight denim had provided some relief, enough to focus on you, enough to stretch the time a little bit more. But now, with your body warm and lax and fucked out of your skull, how could he resist?

He didn't want to resist. He wanted to feel good.

In your dazed state, it was easy for him to pick you up, bridal-style, and carry you towards the singular bedroom in the cabin. He grinned at the clumsy way you immediately reached out to him, tangling your fingers in his hair, placing sloppy kisses on the nearest inches of skin you could reach.

The whine you let out when dropped onto the cool comforter?

Daryl's cock twitched demandingly.

The man stood at the foot of the bed, admiring the view: you, blinking up at him, breasts moving with each shallow breath, feet on the comforer and legs bent at the knee, a hint of flushed, swollen pussy peeking out from the crooked gusset of your underwear.

This may not be heaven but it was as close to it as he'll ever get.

The buckle of his belt clinked, denim shuffled as it was left somewhere behind him- Daryl wasted no time dropping to his knees, using two strong hands to bring your cunt up and into his face. The force of his inhale made your sensitive pussy quiver, it was something that made him smile against the fabric of your panties as moved it aside once more - this time with his teeth.

"Oh, fuck!" You yelped as the broad, wide, flat expanse of Daryl's tongue licked messily up your cunt, hole-to-clit.

"Mmm," he groaned, "fuckin' candy apple pussy," taking another taste. And then another, and another until your skin was raw from the stubble of his beard and you were left in a shaking, whimpering, wet mess of a human. His face was drenched. "Messy girl," he chided in a soft mock as your cunt provided him with another gush of arousal, "ya like bein' messy for me, don't cha?"

"Uh-uh," you arched, your usually concise vernacular reduced to whimpers, groans and two-syllable words that barely made any sense to your own ears, much less anyone else's.

Daryl was like a wild animal, lapping up the liquid, uncaring of the mess he made of you and of his own face.

"Please," you fought with your tongue and finally, finally won, "I wanna- uhh," well, maybe not quite.

Momentarily, he withdrew, wiping the side of his face on the inside of your thigh, "you want what? Tell me."

In your state, he could have touched you anywhere and it would have reduced you to a mindless, blabbering mess. So you settled on the next best thing. Your hand, the one that was in his hair, tugged him up - or tried to.

Daryl's responding growl, the shift of his shoulders, the absence of a single hand on your thigh - you knew the tug had him palming himself through his boxers. Another, purposeful tug was given, another growl followed as he stood up.

You weakly pushed yourself up higher on the large bed.

In the dim twilight of the bedroom, Daryl stood, shirt soaked through and through with sweat; his chest heaved as damp strands of hair fell over his face. They were unable to conceal the glistening layer of you on his chin, neither they could hide the blown pupils of his stare. There was almost no blue visible in his eyes.

You licked your dry lips, forcing them to cooperate, "c'mere," your hands stretched out towards him.

Daryl crawled on the bed and over you, sitting between your spread legs. Obedient, he leaned into you, placing sloppy, damp kisses over your face as you wound your arms around his neck. The tent in his boxers hovered less than an inch away from your bare cunt.

"I need ya'," you breathed, tasting yourself as you licked into his mouth, hoping to convey with you body what you couldn't with your words.

"Ya sure, sugar?" Ever the gentleman, Daryl pressed his clothed cock over your bare cunt, ruining his underwear even further; his muscles flexed under your palms.

"Uh-uh," the heat, the feel of his thick cock backtracked any progress you'd made on getting your vocal cords and your brain cooperate. There was nothing but lust and saliva gathered in your mouth now, something that both of you shared during another slow, wet kiss. Your teeth clashed, your tongues ran over each other, all graceless and sloppy.

With one swift, ragged motion of his hand, Daryl shoved his boxers down and over his cock, freeing it from the tight confines; that action alone was enough for him to let out a grunt as the cool air hit his leaking, flushed tip.

The same tip that slapped against your clit, jerking your body and his.

"F-f-fuck," Daryl wheezed, fisting his cock at the base, running the tip slowly over your lips, your clit and down to your hole, "m'not gunna last for shit like this."

Just get inside me!!! You wanted to scream. Instead, you wiggled your hips, you squeezed his shoulders.

The fat head of his cock slipped in, slowly, steadily. More wet, sticky noises got lost in the growl coming from Daryl's gritted teeth.

Your cunt was sucking him in, all wet and hot and snug and constantly flexing, rippling as it adjusted to his size. The roll of your hips that followed was utterly unintentional, driven by the most primitive of instincts.

"Oh, sugar," Daryl grasped your hip tightly, holding it in place, "fuckin' shit. What're you doin' to me, woman?" His speech slurred.

All you could reply was a series of small breaths, 'ah-ah-ah's' with every inch of his cock sliding into you, until you felt his heavy balls pressed against your ass.

If your eyes weren't clenched shut, you would have seen the wild look in Daryl's eyes, the way they darted between the blissed-out look on your face and the root of his cock secured against the entrance of your cunt.

Slowly, he withdrew, hissing at the smooth pleasure of your wet pussy sliding over his cock, and then he slammed back in.

Your body curled, arched; a shriek left your lips at the sudden realization. You held onto him tightly, his shoulders, his arms; the sweet feel of his skin, slick with sweat, bombarded your senses, drowning you in that natural, masculine smell of him.

You babbled some nonsense, something about how good he felt, how he fit just right and so nicely, how he was so good to you-

"You're so good to me," Daryl objected, Daryl stated, "s'fuckin' sweet. My sweet, messy girl."

The words alone brought you closer to the edge as he hammered away inside your oversensitive cunt. In fairness, he could have flicked your clit just once, or even taken his mouth to one of your hard, throbbing nipples-

Daryl's need to feel you come, to clench and gush around his rock-hard cock was at the forefront of his mind, followed closely by awe at the way your body molded perfectly against his. The way your thighs quivered as they attempted to wrap themselves around his hips, the desperation in your grip on his shoulders.

"Fuck!" He cursed, teethering at the very edge of his orgasm, "come for me, pretty girl, c'mon," he urged, swallowing his own moans and gasps.

"I- uh," you, too were almost right there. The coil in your stomach at its most tense, it sent small tremors inside your cunt, shocks of pure, hot, liquid ecstasy-

That traveled down Daryl's cock. Like damn rings during a heated game of muckers, the spasms of your cunt collected at the root of his shaft, one on top of the other, until he could do nothing else but rut roughly, sloppily into the equally sloppy mess of your cunt.

He felt it. It began somewhere at the deepest part of you, squeezin' the head of his cock firmly and traveling all the way down his shaft, until each ring of pleasure popped, releasing his seed into you-

Throbbing, your cunt pushed and gushed, a flash of lightning zapping your clit as Daryl's pubic bone ground into it with force. A hoarse scream tore from your throat, your body curling inward with the force of your orgasm. Strong, heavy spasms of his cock shooting hot ropes into you lulled you into the aftershocks.

It made both of your bodies limp with exhaustion. The cord had snapped and tension finally leaked out, dissolving like smoke and fog into the open air.

Sweaty, sticky and hot, the two of you panted your relief onto each other's cheeks.

Your lips connected with the rough stubble on Daryl's. Hair hung over his face, obscuring your smile.

"Whatchu grinnin' at?"

Boy, did he sound fucked-out. All smoke and gravel and spice and everything nice.

"Feels good."

"Heh," he chuckled, the noise coming from somewhere deep within his chest, "sure does."

[turquoizxe]

𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲

Hobie Brown x Black!Fem!Reader

content ― drabble; sweet, and straight to the point, black hair appreciation with a lot of fuckin’ , pain kink if you squint

wc ― 0.9k (got a little carried away)

There were no words that came close to how enamored your boyfriend was with your hair.

Hobie Brown, Spiderpunk himself ― not a day went by that he would get his hands on you, whisper sweet nothings in your ear as he fucked you as you wanted, hands tangled into whatever style you had on.There was almost nothing that he wouldn’t do for his girl, and boy, was he down for anything as long as you were involved.

He loved your versatility, the way you could rock any style you wanted so effortlessly, it made his cock hard in ways that even as bold as he is, was too scared to admit.

Hobie always let you mess with his hair, and that’s because it always remained the same, often letting you wash it, and sometimes you’d place hair accessories whenever he wasn’t paying too much attention. Your hands on him put him at ease.  

No, no wigs, absolutely not. He loves the wigs ― a little too much. One night on the couch, he tugged your hair too hard, that shit went flying and you found it behind your television after you pushed him off you. Ya’ll didn’t fuck for at least 2 weeks after that.

When you did the big chop, and went bald, you’ve never seen a nigga so feral over you, and not just sexually. Oiling your scalp, his fingers running over your soft coils. And when you dyed your hair, you just had to pray for your cervix.

You weren’t on board with him touching your hair at first, especially when it took hours for it to look the way it does. However, he was willing to start off slow and sweet. Whenever you got a style done, you always told him to wait at least a week before he touched your hair. He would always ask beforehand.

The first time he touched your hair, you had in knotless braids, nearly down to your supple ass that Hobie also loved very much. You were giving him head, the braids were on the floor, refusing to put them in a ponytail due to being tender headed, despite how heavy they were. The braids were getting in the way of your beautiful face, and Hobie wasn’t having it.

“You too pretty to be hidin’ from me, baby.”

Slowly, his hand moved your braids, one by one, out of your face so the pain wouldn’t be overbearing. He would still sneak in his fingers into your scalp, softly massaging it with the oil that was present, and keeping your braids out with way so they wouldn’t be stained along with your face when he came. He lifted them up, and he saw your eyes roll back from the sudden relief. You loved when he touched your hair, you just never cared to admit that. But he knew.

The second instance, it was soft locs, and as much as they cost in your area, not even your boyfriend would find a way to play in your hair. You wore your bonnet around him. While he couldn’t see your hair unless you were out together, he loved tugging on your slipless bonnet when he fucked you from behind. You moaned for him to stop, but he felt your walls clench everytime he pulled at your locs. You loved that shit, and he knew it. Or, when you ended up fucking in your car, pushing them out of the way so he could tell you how pretty you looked for him. His hand, wrapped around your neck, pulling you back to kiss your neck, making your body feel even hotter.

“Your cunt was made f’me, yeah? I know you like that shit.”

That was the first time he was actually able to see them, and you could tell he loved it, still fucking into you after he spilled his seed, his fingers toying with your clit, etching another orgasm from you.

The third interaction, your hair was in its natural state, because it was wash day, and you were sure that Hobie would have to wait a while until the water was hot again with how long you took. He would start taking it upon himself to join you, washing each others hair, him eating you out, and fucking you against the bathroom counter while your hair was conditioning in a hair mask. You often liked having your hair done for your boyfriend, but mostly for you. You didn’t wear your hair like this often, so you would wear a bonnet around him whenever your hair isn’t done, which is a rare occasion. For him, it’s a shame, he loves playing with your hair in its natural state, his loving hands offering to massage and oil your scalp, as your hands were also occupied, playing with his guitar. Because of him, wash days slowly became your favorite thing to do together.  

He had grown to be more affectionate with your hair, he loved it so much because it was apart of you, not physically, but spiritually. The way your hair accentuated your beauty, no matter what style it was in.

And no matter how expensive it was, he started paying for your hair, so he could play in it as much as he wanted. He paid for it anyway.

He still made sure to wait a week before rocking your shit tho.

Just a small break before I continue my series lmao, back to scheduled programming! If you haven’t checked out my series, it’s in the link below. Enjoy :)

-turquoizxe.

‘Just For You’ (Hobie x Spider!Fem!Reader) Masterlist

[taylor-titmouse]

Meatheads, by R/L Monroe

it's another month gone by, which means another cover for another @petitemortality R/L Monroe book! this one goes hard and sweaty and meaty, and the worldbuilding is both really funny and really fascinating in the little glimpse of it we get. and also there's three huge fuckin dudes going to town on each other. check it out, and follow along on the process for designing the cover below!

FYF 3: Meatheads $3

Trapped by a lethal boiling sun, in the neon ruins of a fallen supercity, three tank-grown ultrasoldiers have nothing to kill but time and no enemy but their own overheated flesh. Daily hormone shots gave them hard bodies, but without a seedsucker to offer them relief, they soon have something even harder to contend with. It's not gay if you come out on top...right? Almost 7k words(!), EPUB and PDF format. Content: -M/M/M -straight turned gay -testosterone dosing -cum harvesting/drinking -dominance struggle -sexual hazing -rough sex

THUMBNAILS

i lost track of the initial notes for these, but the first two were really just me spinning my wheels. my instinct was something with greek wrestling, stylized like pottery. we usually do the covers early in the month, so i hadn't read the finished book yet and didn't have a clear sense of the aesthetic yet. i did know there were three guys, which made composition tough. fighting is not, typically, a three-man's game. lee suggested looking at WWE and rugby

which led me to looking at turkish oil wrestling, because truly, what is greasier than that. originally there was a reference image of turkish oil wrestling here, but tumblr hated it so much that they flagged the post and denied appeal. those men were wearing pants. this post is free to read on patreon so you can see the greasy boys there.

moving on.

AH SHIT THAT'S TOO SCARY

so while we were talking about the color palette, lee brought up 80s splatterfest VHS cover design. we agreed on violent red and purple, but the topic of horror led me in a horror direction. gritty lines, harsh light and shadow, scary imagery with the single red eye, etc. and we agreed this look is Sick and Rules, but wasn't quite right for neon future climatepunk.

so i went back to the drawing board and totally got rid of the hatching. we're looking for neon, for black velvet, for graphic

definitely closer to the final product! though of course as soon as i saw it in discord i realized the purple on the middle guy's back and the third guy's leg were competing too much with the top guy's back and making it hard to know where to look. so: more variants

adding the paint strokes down was just something i wanted to try at the last minute, and it was definitely the right move! there were like five more variations of just That with the gradient map very very slightly adjusted, but honestly it's not worth posting all of those lol. the version we settled with was the best one!

and that's the process for this month's fuck yourself friday cover! this is both my favorite cover so far AND my favorite story. i love high concept worldbuilding that serves the fucking. if you're here and supporting my work, i bet you do too! so go read it! it's only $3 dude!!

[echoingbirdsofprey]

Lightning On My Lips (Every Time You Kiss Me)

19 - Home Was A Dream, One I'd Never Seen, Til You Came Along

Pairing: Tyler Owens x OFC Georgia Tennley

Rating: Explicit (MDNI!)

Warnings: SMUT, talkin' bout babies again, piv, rough!Tyler (even when he's rough he's gentle though)

A/N: This was a little self indulgent hehehe

Playlist

Kate and Javi left the next morning, heading to her mom’s to clean up the old barn and set up a base for themselves. Tyler was going to suggest they just set everything up here, but he didn’t have full reign of the property quite yet. Emmaleigh and Mattias' things were all still here. Good thing about that was that they could use Mattias’ tools. So Tyler had begun to tinker with Georgia’s truck again. It was mostly body work that needed to happen and luckily Tyler was pretty handy at that, so over the next few days, he didn’t see much of Georgia as she had begun to clean up her saddles and bridles and get the two mares back into light work. She was mostly just walking them around the arena in hand, but it was a start. She’d sat in the house for a bit on her laptop, wondering if Tyler had been serious about getting her another horse.

She looked through some of her old Facebook groups and Instagram accounts. She hadn’t touched any of it for the past year or so, after the mares had retired. She still had messages from old friends asking if she could help them with their horses. She decided to message a few of them, offering her services if they were interested. She was surprised when over the next few hours she received several messages asking her when they could trailer out to the ranch and take a lesson.She even had a girl ask about working for her in exchange for lessons. She took a break, trying to digest what exactly was going on. She went out to the garage and found Tyler underneath her truck, having changed into a tattered hi-vis yellow t-shirt that had the name of Bobby’s garage on the back. He heard her dainty booted footsteps and crawled out from under the truck, standing and wiping his hands on a rag that he’d hung from the damaged side mirror. He’d replace those completely soon enough. 

He smiled at her. “I’d kiss ya but I’m kinda fuckin’ disgustin’.” He said, and she leaned against her truck. She was quiet and glanced down, toeing the ground, tapping her heel, and then sighing deeply. Tyler stepped closer, his fingertips gently connecting with her upper arms. “What’s’matter, Peach?”

“I messaged a few people about teaching. I had some replies. Even someone asking to work for me in exchange for lessons.” She murmured and Tyler’s grip tightened and he did kiss her, and he smelled like diesel and oil, but she was totally fine with that. 

“That’s amazin’! You gonna take her up on that?” Tyler asked and she shrugged.

“I wanted to ask you if you thought it was a good idea. I feel like if I’m gonna do this, I should try to write up some contracts and rules and shit. We have six more stalls...I could offer boarding as long as they’re not high maintenance...but we’d need to separate the pastures because Wilene will beat the shit outta other horses. She only doesn’t kill Twist because they’ve lived together their whole life.” Georgia explained and Tyler stepped away, nodding his head in agreement at all of her thoughts.

“I think that all sounds great. I think it’s up to you...I know you wanna include me, but it’s ultimately your decision. I’m just the labor.” He joked and Georgia smacked him lightly on his arm.

“You’re not just the labor, Tyler. You’re a part of this too. You included me in everythin’ with Kate and Javi, even though I only had a basic understanding of some of the shit you were talkin’ about. I wanna include you.” Georgia said, invading his space. She could smell his cologne through the diesel soot and engine oil and the mixture of it sent a shiver down her spine. Her cheeks went rosy as she gazed up at him.

“ Oh, Peach...” He purred, noticing her complexion change as their bodies connected, belt buckles clinking together. “You know how pretty you look when you want somethin’ from me? And God , I’ll give you everythin ’, that I fuckin’ promise.” His tone slid down an octave, still bearing softness and sensuality in several notes, and Georgia’s lips turned up, lids lowered, as she draped her arms around his well-built shoulders. His hands landed at her hips and drew her in. They stayed quietly connected for a few more moments before they parted. 

“Can I help with my truck?” Georgia asked and Tyler kissed her once again.

“Nah, Peach, you can answer those people back and look pretty while doin’ it though. Lemme play around with the truck a bit more and then I’ll come in and make dinner for you. Boone and Lily should be here in a day or two.” Tyler explained and Georgia nodded and smiled, as she waved and turned to head back into the house.

Twist and Wilene whinnied as they saw her come from the garage, so she stopped to give them some love before going to sit on the porch with the puppies. The puppies who had settled right into being wonderful little farm dogs, and had been relaxing by the front door, waiting for Tyler and Georgia to come back. They had become accustomed to their humans flitting around, doing all kinds of things so if the puppies didn’t feel like it, they didn’t follow, and just chilled out on the porch.

Georgia sat in the rocking chair on the porch, answered some messages and emails, 

When Boone and Lily arrived the next afternoon, Tyler let the puppies out first. Boone jumped up and down with excitement and Lily immediately sat on the ground, so she could get bowled over by the three puppies. Tyler stepped down off the porch, making his way to the truck, a newer Dodge, another dual-wheeled diesel but with a long bed, painted a dark pine green. It had a rack like Tyler’s truck and bright KC lights, a busted tail light, a fucked up tailgate and performance shocks underneath. With some modifications, and welding a roll cage onto the frame, it would be tornado ready by next season. 

“Boone, we’re gonna look like fuckin’ Christmas chasin’ these storms.” Tyler joked and they hugged and shook hands. Tyler hugged Lily too and proceeded then to check over every inch of the truck with Boone. Georgia came outside a few minutes later and hugged Lily.

“How are you doin’?” Lily asked, and Georgia smirked. 

“Did Tyler tell you yet?” She asked and Lily shook her head.

“Tell us what?” Boone inquired as he pulled Georgia into a tight hug as they’d rounded off looking at the truck. Tyler put his hands on his hips and smiled.

“Gee and I are havin’ a baby.” Tyler said, proudly, and both Boone and Lily’s eyes went wide before Boone jumped in the air and whooped loudly. He skipped around for a couple seconds, then hugged Tyler and Georgia separately and then he kissed Lily, which took her by surprise.

“We’re gonna be Uncle Booney and Auntie Lily, baby!” He exclaimed and Lily just smiled and pulled Georgia into an embrace. 

🌪⛈️🌪

Georgia stared out the window over the kitchen sink, taking a sip of water and feeling immediate nausea. She wished it would stop, but now she knew the reason. She just wished she could have it both ways, because a few weeks in and the nausea was draining her completely. She had no problem with being pregnant, but the morning sickness was horrible, and sometimes it would persist into the afternoon. Today in particular was a bad day, halfway through the morning and she’d just gotten out of bed. Tyler spent day and night with Georgia, hidden away in their-soon-to-be home and even though he was always doing something, he made sure he made time to check in with Georgia, even if they weren’t in the immediate vicinity of each other. 

He’d been out most of the morning, having come back in several times to check on her. This time he was thinking maybe he was getting hungry, and he wanted to see if Georgia was feeling up to eating anything yet. She’d made a doctor’s appointment at his behest, knowing that he was worried about how severe her morning sickness had been right away. She wasn’t at a point that it was debilitating, but Tyler was ready at any moment to take her to the emergency room if needed. 

She heard footsteps behind her but she didn’t look because she knew it was him. She could tell by the slight hesitation in his left foot as he stepped. It was as if he didn’t place all of his weight across the whole bottom of his foot. If he did, he’d get a sharp sting running up his leg and through his hip. It was the smallest limp, but it was noticeable to her. She’d clocked it the first time she’d met him and he had been pretty damn good at hiding it, but he always let his guard down around her, especially if they were alone. He knew he could relax and show a little weakness with her. She accepted him as he was.

She felt a hand weave around her waist. The other around her jaw, turning her head slightly so that he could capture her lips with his. His body was warm as it enclosed her from behind, his hips pressing hers into the counter. In fact, his shirt was sweat soaked and she could smell the soot from the trucks on him. 

“How ya feelin’? He asked, his voice raspy and deep. Georgia pushed her back into his chest and his hand that was on her jaw traveled down to cup a tender breast and begin to knead it gently through her tank top. “I just sent Boone and Lily to the store for a few things. Should be back in a half hour or so...” He said, as Georgia moaned softly at the feel of his hand on her tits. They were so sore and his warm, calloused hands felt wonderful to her. His other hand pulled up the hem of her shirt, fingers caressing circles around her belly button.

“Tyler...I...” She began but she gave up saying much of anything as he ground his hips against hers. She reached down and unzipped her jeans. She pulled them down just enough to expose her most sensitive parts to the humid air. Tyler did the same, freeing his cock from the confines of his tight jeans. He licked his lips as he pressed kisses up and down the side of her neck and cheek. He moved her hair to one side so that he could nibble her earlobe and kiss her jaw. 

“You want me right here, over the kitchen sink, darlin’? He asked, lust evident in his tone as it took on a thick and sweet quality that only reminded her of a top shelf bourbon that they used to never be able to afford.

“Yes, Tyler, please.” She groaned, not wanting to wait any longer. The nausea had gone, and more than a few times now it was because Tyler had come in, hot and heavy and ready to fuck her again. Her desire for him overcame everything at this point. She knew a lot of it was her hormones were on overdrive, but Tyler certainly wasn’t helping any. He took his length in hand, swiped it through her very wet and very ready folds before pushing inside her. She grasped for purchase on the window sill with one hand, and the counter on the other. Tyler pressed forward, wrapping one arm around her waist, holding her away from the edge of the counter so she wouldn’t have bruises. His other hand intertwined with hers on the window sill, as he thrust, rough and sloppy. 

“Oh, fuck, Ty!” Georgia’s moans were long and drawn out as he continued carelessly rutting into her. His grip tightened, lack of rhythm apparent as he struggled to connect his lips with her neck. The only sounds that reached her ears then were their belt buckles jingling, the slap of their skin together as Tyler thrust roughly in and out, and his breath at her ear, whispering the dirtiest shit he’d ever said to her. 

“You’re such a fuckin’ naughty girl, Gee. Where else you gonna let me fuck you, darlin’, huh?” He asked, voice deep as the depths of the ocean with an almost animalistic yearning. Few times had she felt Tyler like this, and she knew when he was this riled up, he was tired. 

“Wherever you want, Ty. Whenever you want.” She breathed, as he thrust once more, coming undone. She didn’t even need to finish, because the feeling of him spilling inside her, as he bent her over the kitchen sink, had her pretty damn satisfied. 

“Goddamn, Peach. I almost forgot how wild you are.” His words were drawn out, strained, as pressed his nose into her neck, breathing in the faint fruity scent of her shampoo and soap, mixed with her sweat. His hips stuttered and stilled, as he settled in weight behind her, his knees shaky. He’d feel this later. 

“Why are we so horny, Ty?” She asked jokingly and it made him laugh and press his lips to the back of her neck. He sighed, resting his head against her back. She settled over the sink, nostrils flaring, feeling nausea creep up again, but she pushed it down as best as she could. 

“Cause we’re in fuckin’ love, Gee. We’re stupid in love.” He said as he reached up to pull her shirt aside so he could kiss her shoulder. He rubbed his stubbly cheek against her soft skin before stepping away. She felt a rush of warmth and emptiness as he pulled out. She whimpered and glanced over her shoulder at him. He was tucking himself back in jeans and she wiggled her own back up. 

“We should probably clean ourselves up before Boone and Lily get back. This kitchen smells like sex.” Tyler laughed and he grabbed her hand, not even letting her zip her jeans.

“But Ty, I was...” Georgia began and he shushed her.

“ Peach, I can fuck you again in the shower .” He smirked and guided her up the stairs. 

“You’re so bad.” She mused, her grin widening, and he kissed her, twirling her slowly before they reached the bathroom.

“You said I could have you anywhere, anytime. Figure we should take advantage of the alone time.” He said and she giggled, nearly jumping on him as they passed the threshold of the bathroom.

[nochi-quinn]

exandria unlimited: divergence: episode four: from eternity until forever

HOW many hours??

BABIES

I have no idea what's happening, I just looked up & saw sam's kids

oh, apparently sam's youngest is a they? good for them

y'all are gonna make matt cry

pullover hoodies my behated

give me zippers or give me death

"big."

"what else am I supposed to say about that"

matt who u textin

child? stabbed child??

"maybe she just hasn't slept in a century" mood

"oh you were homeschooled"

well that's one way to do it I GUESS

brb changing my bsky name to A Woman With A Ruined Vibe

A Cube of A Woman

"I know I cannot hear you but please hear me" :(

"keep faith in a god far away"

"strength starts now" bless crokas

the noise alex made about celia's unreadable dice

I have been tempted to title every single one of these posts Please Read Edda-Earth but like. please read edda-earth.

"she watches elton john perform in vasselheim"

"why do I call you boss when you're my mom"

crokas developed an existential crisis

well okay crokas has probably been having a crisis for a while, he just got 6 int and a month on a boat to put words to it

liam spent an entire campaign having a conniption every time sam refused to reroll a 1 and devoted his life to harassing halfling players

are you there key it's me fiedra

wait I'm only half paying attention are we sure it's him

okay yeah it's him

brennan should grade on a curve

if that's the last thing crokas ever says to fiedra he's going to throw himself into the ocean

"it's the perfect episode to kill people"

liam

well

WELL

giant monk shit GIANT MONK SHIT

THERE ARE NUMBERS BESIDES THOSE

THERE ARE. NUMBERS. BETWEEN. THOSE. TWO.

well.

this is SO EARLY for a break

I keep getting pulled away from my computer kdfjslk

garen in color??

crokas ready to just tear the city down

and he's valid

"don't clench so much" made me unclench my jaw dksjfslk

"laura bailey would be so proud of you"

near-death experience will do that to you

(let's play "did crokas mean 'boss' as a 'that's what I call my mom now' or did crokas mean 'boss' as 'too little too late, the status quo persists'")

(cooldown is the only thing tempting me into a beacon sub)

I Desire Updated Art

AGAIN? FUCKING AGAIN?

flashbacks to pike's stealth checks

MAP

I'm crokas and I can breathe in space

no plan survives contact with a -3 dex

"question about invisibility" "can you see it"

matt making a hallway rq

alex no you're not a vampire anymore

oh NOW a fly speed of 30 is awesome, matt

"I DON'T LIKE THIS [SHIELD]"

THE DEVIL? FROM THE BIBLE?

you can take liam out of orym -

brennan: please give me literally any reason to Exalt your vestiges

"I got to shut the fuck up"

STOP FIDGETING

liam's face is my face

"you have a better relationship with a key"

plot twist the kid is asmodeus

matt just had the same idea I did

okay but: if you know there's a chance the kid is The Devil, From The Bible, but you don't know for sure, do you still help the kid on the basis of That's A Kid

(I know they don't know but)

"I ignore hardness. With the hammer."

remove the pillar from the board

NOT THE GAREN V PILLAR MAP CAM

OIL CAN

not the godzilla laser down the gullet

aw, he did mean it as "that's what I call my mom now"

KEY

THE DEVIL

FROM THE BIBLE

"I don't care" is such a badass thing to say to The Devil, From The Bible

"I need to know what I don't know, right now" time to watch 400 hours of d&d content

can't bullshit a bullshitter

"YOU'RE A FUCKIN MACGUFFIN"

"add timothy to your inventory"

"I have an Exalted Timothy?"

his last act was trying to save garen

you can't make me not ship it

matt's not helping me not ship it

"in draconic, that erro taught him" lays in the floor

(they keep calling him "erros", that means something else, stop that)

"I lied 8D"

quietly passing alex a tissue

"don't fuck it up"

kephkedriel cult one-shot when

crokas walking the earth comic when

alright, who had Crokas Cobalt Soul

bend? swamp? stilben?

matt's been over here writing poetry this whole time

HA

matt like "the fuck are you doing now"

old 👏 man 👏 yaoi

ART

"gotcha :)"

dramatic tissue toss

ART 2X COMBO

"this world that you created"

if there's one thing liam's gonna do it's go straight for the emotional weak points

brennan just sitting back with popcorn almonds

liam's show now

if this is legit the last game set in exandria I'm gonna break down crying six weeks from now when they announce it

like I'm whatever about them moving on but this? this, in hindsight, will destroy me emotionally

[lagunned]

PROLOGUE

w.c 1.2k

tags. original female character, mentions of smoking, busy work environment, i don't think theres any more warnings. this chapter is pretty tame but duff is smitten.

a/n. once again thank you all for the support and encouragement on my works! i put in a lot of time and effort and i hope you all enjoy them as much as i do writing them. feedback is always appreciated!

taglist. @prettypersuasion, @creepindeaathh, @nelnroses, @hyperiondickrider, @hollywoodroses, @tranquilitybasegrunge. if you would like to be added/removed from my taglist, send me an ask!

pinned so fine masterlist next chapter

Los Angeles smelled different.

Back in Seattle, the air was damp with rain, laced with the sharp bite of gasoline and coffee. Here, everything was drier, hotter—like a sunbaked concrete jungle mixed with car exhaust, grilled meat, and something vaguely metallic from the kitchen vents.

Duff McKagan had only been in LA for a few weeks, and the reality of it was setting in fast: dreams didn't pay rent. He needed money, and fast, which was why he was standing in front of a steakhouse instead of playing bass in some dingy club.

Black Angus wasn't exactly where he pictured himself when he decided to move here, but his brother, Bruce McKagan, had a job lined up for him—but not on the dining room floor. Oh no, his day-glo blue hair was too distracting. Duff's new job: dishwasher. It wasn't glamorous, but neither was being homeless.

With a long, deep breath, Duff pushed open the heavy wooden double doors and stepped inside.

The noise hit him first—forks clinking against plates, the low murmur of conversation, waitresses calling out orders. The kitchen, partially visible from where he stood, was alive with movement: flames flaring up from the grill, line cooks moving in a well-rehearsed dance, the clatter of pans slamming onto burners.

And then—

"Look who finally showed up," a familiar voice called.

Duff turned as Bruce emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a rag. His older brother was dressed in the standard manager get-up: button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled, hair slightly disheveled, expression hovering between amused and vaguely exasperated.

"You look a bit lost," Bruce smirked.

"Just taking it all in," Duff said, shoving his hands into his jean pockets.

Bruce clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Welcome to the glamorous world of dishwashing, little brother."

Duff snorted. "Yeah, can't fuckin' wait."

Bruce grinned and jerked his head toward the back. "Come on, I'll introduce you to everyone."

The kitchen was hotter than the front of the restaurant, thick with the smell of butter, charred meat, and something greasy sizzling in the fryer. Steam curled from the dish pit where another worker was elbow-deep in sudsy water, stacking plates onto a drying rack.

"Alright," Bruce said, steering Duff past the prep station where a guy with a cigarette hanging from his lips was aggressively chopping onions. "That's Tony—he preps in the afternoons and works the line at night. Don't piss him off."

Tony didn't even glance up from his cutting board, but he grunted in acknowledgment.

Bruce continued walking. "That's Manny on grill, Paula on fryers—"

The introductions blurred together, a mix of names, faces, and brief nods. The kitchen was a well-oiled machine, and Duff was pretty sure he was about to be the next wrench thrown into it.

And then—

"This is Cynthia."

Duff turned, and for a second, the noise of the kitchen faded into the background.

She was leaning against the counter near the order window, flipping through a notepad, her pen tapping absently against the stainless steel. Her blonde hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She had a sharpness to her—something about the way she carried herself, like she had everything handled and didn't need anyone's help.

When Bruce said her name, she glanced up, her brown eyes flicking toward Duff for the briefest moment before dropping back to her notepad.

"Cynthia," Bruce said, "this is my brother, Duff. He's the new dishwasher."

She gave a small, barely interested nod. "Cool."

Duff felt like he should say something—anything. "Uh, nice to meet you."

"Yeah, you too." She didn't look up.

Bruce smirked. "If you have any questions, ask me or Cynthia."

At that, Cynthia finally looked at Duff properly. Her gaze wasn't unkind, just assessing—like she was trying to determine if he was worth acknowledging.

"Just don't get in my way, and we'll get on fine," she retorted.

Then she was gone, striding toward the dining area, already focused on something else.

Duff exhaled. "She's... efficient."

Bruce snorted. "Don't take it personal. She's been here a while—knows this place inside and out. You? You're just another new guy."

"Right. Another dishwasher she won't remember by next week."

Bruce clapped him on the back. "That's up to you, kid."

Dishwashing was exactly as awful as Duff expected.

The sink water was too hot, the plates were crusted with food that had no business existing, and the steam from the dish machine made everything feel soggy. His fingers were already bright red and pruny, his arms sore from scrubbing.

Still, it wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was Cynthia.

Not in a bad way—just in a distracting way.

Duff caught himself watching her more than once, though he tried to be subtle about it. She was quick on her feet, moving between tables and the kitchen with practiced ease. Her voice cut through the noise whenever she called out an order or shot back a sarcastic remark at the cooks.

Cynthia was confident. Unshakable. Completely at home in the chaos.

Duff, on the other hand, was struggling to keep up with the never-ending pile of dishes.

At one point, Cynthia came back to the kitchen to grab a refill. On impulse, Duff decided to try and talk to her.

"So, uh... Cynthia, do you like working here?" Duff liked the way her name felt in his mouth—soft but steady, like a melody that stuck even after the song was over.

She barely glanced at him as she filled a glass with Coke. "It's a job."

"Right." He scrubbed at a stubborn stain on a plate. "Seems kinda crazy."

She let out a dry laugh. "You should see weekends."

Duff smiled, encouraged. "Guessing it's not your dream job either?"

"Dreams don't pay rent."

He hesitated. "Yeah, but if you could do anything else, what would it be?"

For a second, Cynthia looked at him like she might actually answer.

Instead, she grabbed the drink and walked off.

Duff sighed. Strike one.

By closing time, Duff was exhausted. His back ached, his arms were sore, and his shirt was damp from the heat of the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Cynthia, looked as composed as ever. She was leaning against the counter, talking to another waitress, her laughter carrying over the low hum of the closing shift.

Duff didn't realize he was staring until Bruce walked up beside him.

"You survived," Bruce said.

"Barely."

Bruce halfheartedly chuckled. "You'll get the hang of it."

Duff rubbed the back of his neck. "Place is busier than I expected."

"You should see Saturdays." Bruce glanced over at Cynthia, then back at Duff. "What do you think?"

"About what?"

Bruce raised a confused eyebrow. "The job."

"Oh. Uh—yeah. It's fine." Duff paused. "It's work."

Bruce studied him for a second, then shook his head, amused. "Right."

Duff wasn't sure what Bruce was implying, but he didn't ask. Instead, he stretched, rolling out his sore shoulders.

Across the room, Cynthia grabbed her denim jacket, slinging it over one shoulder effortlessly. As she turned, the dim dining room light shined a few pins fastened to the fabric—one of them the unmistakable winged logo of Aerosmith. The red and white design was a little faded, edges worn like it had been there for years.

Duff's lips quirked slightly. Aerosmith. He wouldn't have pegged her as a fan, but then again, he didn't know much about her—not yet.

She disappeared through the door without a second glance.

But he had a feeling he'd be learning soon enough.

previous chapter ← → next chapter

[almostourgalaxy]

GOES >:3 AT YOU BC YESSS GIVE US THE DEATH DEETS !!

God, I'm gonna do a comic of it evvwentually, but:

He fuckin SNAPPED. In the wwvake of the Dolorosa's death, he just lost that tiny bit of a wwvill to be a decent person she'd put into him. Wwvent on a twwvo wwveek drinking binge, stayed in a haze of booze and blood.

Until he came to, in a bar surrounded by corpses, suddenly awwvare of himself.

He could'vvwe turned around and left that port towwvn, gone back to his ship and gone back to the Empress.

Been her dog again.

But he wwvas tired. Tired of orders, tired of losing people. Tired of being ALIVVWE.

He could at least do one thing right by that damn Jadeblood and her son.

He and Jauqel wwvere nevvwer "friends", but the clowwvn had no reason not to open the door.

Jaekel had recognized her twwvin's severed head wwvhen Saturn threwwv it at her feet, after he'd kicked the doors dowwvn during a sermon.

He'd been too much of a cowwvard to shoot himself, but he'd also been angry enough to take as many people dowwvn wwvith him as possible.

Jaekel had attacked him, as he'd expected. He'd latched into her throat, and torn at her as much as he could before she threwwv him off.

She'd forgotten about his teeth, and her throat ripped awwvay as she flung him into a wwvall. She dropped fast after that.

He used the momentum to leap at another one of the congregation, ripping into their neck and spring boarding into someone else.

This lasted long enough to slick the floor wwvith blood, oil dark and thick.

He'd managed to land himself in a corner wwvhen Bachus finally seemed to snap out of the shock of wwvatching his ex matesprite massacre his church.

He'd hoped to get far enough to get a shot at the Empress, but he could settle for taking the Grand HighBlood dowwvn.

He misjudged the jump. Hatdag, Jaekel's matesprite, had damaged his prosthetic, and he hadn't adjusted for the lack of powwver behind his lunge, to exhausted to notice the falter in his prevvwious landing.

Bachus had landed a sturdy blowwv to his stomach, the spikes catching and tearing against flesh, Saturn's chest plate torn ajar by someone else's clawwvs earlier in the fight.

His clawwvs caught Bachus' face, but only enough to leavvwe a trail of gashes and a smear of blood.

He landed hard, and his hands slipped in the growwving blood pool around him as he failed to get back to his feet.

He'd been cackling before this. He couldn't stop sobbing and shrieking nowwv. His intestines wwvrithed like eels as they sloughed out of him.

He wwvas pretty sure he'd pissed himself wwvhen Bachus slammed his club dowwvn on his spine to stop him from crawwvling awwvay.

Another blowwv, to his head this time, knocked his jawwv off its hinges, but didn't kill him.

That came almost half an hour later, wwvhen bloodloss finally took him.

He could'vvwe swwvorn he heard someone screaming as he blacked out, but the sound of his Jade's vvwoice drowwvned out evvwerything else as the numbness ebbed into a comforting wwvarmth, and he lost consciousness.

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

The Eclipses Show

Pairings: None

Word Count: 1,485 Words

Summary: The Backup wakes up a day after his death and Solar makes a deal with him.

Warnings: Injury, Eye Trauma, Limb Loss, Head Trauma, Cursing, Blood Loss (Oil), Surgery (kinda), Dead Bodies (mentioned only), let me know if I should add anything else.

Chapter 2: The Bitch Came Back

Eclipse gave a pained groan as he woke up, turning onto his side and his claws dug into the padded floor under them, eyes cracking open. Well, one of them opened. His right eye was there, the other was nowhere to be found and the wires were fizzling with sparks of violently disconnected machinery.

His left arm. He couldn’t feel it, but he could see it there. He tried to flex its fingers but, ultimately, it didn’t move. He looked at his body and found he was missing from his right thigh down and his back felt like a train had run him over.

“Oh Jesus fuck.” He heard a voice and looked up at a copy of himself. Wait…the other Eclipse? The nice one? He groaned and pressed his face into the padded floor to wince at the way his rays were bent at uneven angles and some broken off.

He tried to retract his rays to show he was in pain, that he wasn’t going to do anything. God, it was a migraine. Some were broken off and the warped metal slid into his faceplate with a high scratching sound like nails on a chalkboard. Others simply didn’t pull in at all, too warped to do so without breaking his faceplate off entirely.

“Okay. Alright. How the fuck did you survive even?” The other Eclipse asked.

“Dunno.” He answered honestly. “Put me down. Please.” Eclipse told him. He had made it easy, all the other had to do was yank out his wires from the back of his head, which was exposed to him. Maybe step on and crush his circuit board and take out and break his personality chip.

It would be so easy to just kill him and get it over with, but-

“No. Sit up.” The other demanded. Eclipse gave a look back at him and slowly sat up with his right arm as support, shaking with effort that just sitting up was for him right now.

His head pounded and his back throbbed with exposed internal workings, his right leg was stinging with pain and oil loss. He was woozy from the effects his body gave. Loosing oil was like losing blood and warnings were flashing in his eyes that he was within critical damage and his oil was at past critical low levels. He would die if he tried to move one more time probably.

“Look me in my eyes and tell me why I should let you live.” The other demanded of him.

“You shouldn’t.” He immediately told him. This seemed to take the other by surprise a bit.

“Alright. Then you sit still until I give you an oil transfusion.” The other knelt with him, moving his right stump, clamping the oil lines there with a piece of twine, probably what he had on him that would do the job. But it did stop the oil loss.

Eclipse did as the other asked, stayed where he was. Though he was questioning why he was being helped instead of killed and his dead body thrown into the portal to his old dimension for Moon to torment and destroy.

Solar came back with a machine full of a gallon of oil, which he put into an oil line in his right arm with tape over it so the needle wouldn’t simply fall out and leave an extra wound where he was leaking oil.

“Why are you helping me?” Eclipse asked.

“Look. I don’t give a fuck if you’re evil or whatever. I can’t kill you. I physically can’t. I’ll have a nervous breakdown over it and I know it. It would be like killing myself. I am not putting my mental state into that place. So you are gonna fuckin sit here, take your oil replacement, let me fix you, and you are going to be a good person after. Got that? I will fix you and you will behave. Or I will ship you to Moon otherwise. Then you get to beg for mercy he doesn’t have for you.” The other told him.

“Th-Thank you.” Eclipse sat letting the oil fix the detrimental levels in his systems. He simply let the other, maybe he could call him Solar?, look at his injuries and begin to get the parts together to go to Parts & Service.

By the time the oil was in his system, Eclipse felt less deathly sick, less trembly and dizzy with oil loss. Solar? had looked over his exposed internal machinery in his back and had thankfully not found anything damaged. Solar had also replaced his back casing already and calibrated it while the oil was transfusion was running into his system.

“Alright, up you go, hobbles.” Solar demanded him, unhooking the oil transfusion machine and took Eclipse’s right hand, hooking his other hand under Eclipse’s left ribs. Oh…his left arm was a goner of Solar wouldn’t even touch it to support him. So he was losing two limbs today.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna drop ya.” Solar told him, putting Eclipse’s arm over his shoulders and letting himself be used as a can on Eclipse’s right side for his lost right leg. Eclipse winced with walking but Solar must be proving he could still use his left leg on the wait down to Parts & Service.

Eclipse gave a groan as Solar set him into the tube’s chair and put the new white and blue full right leg and a whole black and purple arm into the part machine. He also could see a new green and black faceplate and a pink left eye.

“This might be a little painful, it has to take off the remains of your right leg and left arm to attach the new ones and it’s going to take your rays out.” Solar told him.

“Solar?” Eclipse asked.

“Is that what you’re gonna call me?” Solar asked with a chuckle. “Yeah, what?” Solar asked.

“Can…Can you hold my hand?” Eclipse asked.

“Yeah, fine.” Solar stepped into the tube with him and shut the door, slipping his left hand to hold Eclipse’s right hand in his own. It made Eclipse relax to have someone with him when this process was absolutely terrifying.

He saw the machine begin to do its work, disconnecting his right leg at the hip joint and his left arm at his shoulder joint. He shut his eye tight and tried to focus on the feeling of Solar holding his hand, anything but the searing pain of disconnected limbs.

The tube connected the new limbs and started instantaneous calibration. Eclipse opened his right eye to see the machine descending an arm and taking off his remaining faceplate and rays and he squeezed Solar’s hand as it put his new left eye in and replaced faceplate.

“It’s over. Breathe.” Solar assured him and Eclipse nodded softly, taking a big breath to assure Solar.

“Alright. Let’s get back to the daycare and get you new clothes. You can’t go around with half your clothes basically.” Solar told him.

“Thank you.” Eclipse was a bit shaky on his new leg but he held to Solar’s hand still, letting Solar lead him to the daycare.

Once there, Solar threw a pair of black pants and a night cap with white constellations on them and a black shirt and new black and white ruffles. An entirely new outfit. It looked like it was a moon model’s kind of outfit.

“Yeah, we almost had a Star and Sky model here. Turns out Fazbear didn’t like their AIs and wanted to just scrap them. I kept their base models and outfits because I figured maybe I might need em. I’ll probably replace your casing for Star’s later so you match or whatever. Just so they don’t question why you’re here. I can say you just activated for some reason.” Eclipse looked at him with a cringe.

“You really kept two basically dead bodies?” Eclipse scrunched his nose at that.

“It’s not like we don’t already.” Solar gestured upstairs meaning his brothers.

“Oh…” Eclipse realized Solar must not have had an easy separation from that. He decided not to pick at it and simply went to get changed into the outfit.

When Eclipse came back, he saw Solar and his Moon. A temporary panic came over him as he saw Solar’s Moon.

“Eclipse, this is Crescent.” Solar introduced him.

“Hi, extra parasite.” Crescent greeted him.

“Be nice. Please.” Solar sighed.

“What? He is.” Crescent growled. Solar gave a bigger sigh and pinched his nose in annoyance.

There was suddenly a rustling in the ball pit and Solar and Eclipse looked up to see a third Eclipse in the ball pit looking panicked and confused as he looked at Solar and Eclipse.

“And now you have fucking two friends here! Worthless parasite, come get your little child!” Crescent announced angrily.

“Oh fuck.” Solar breathed out.

[snowyknight-17]

I’m gonna leave this WIP here for a bit…

NSFW under the cut

Featuring Hancock and other FO4 mentions

“Let me ask you something,” John sat lazily on his sofa drawing another puff from his cigarette; eyes hooded under a tilted tri-corner hat,

“Why me?” Hancock paused for affect watching Annie twiddle her thumbs and pull at her jacket,

“You come all this way for a tussle all the while passing up 3 to 4 other dicks on much prettier men.”

Annie only now realized she’d been holding her breath and let it out loudly; but before she could make her plea John put out his cig and lit another.

It was hard to not notice how smooth Hancock moved, like water, and Annie was here to swim.

“For instance, that ‘holier then thou’ Paladin of yours. Yeah I see him get an eyeful every time you turn around, big lumbering soldier gets all pink in the cheeks when you take lead. Or that boss of his,”

Hancock snapped his fingers trying to remember Elder Maxson’s name,

“Elder Scarface. I fuckin hate that bigot but don’t mean he wouldn’t turn to putty the second you touched his shoulder. Guy’s so frickin tightly wound, I bet he’d cum by the fifth bounce. Sure he acts like a war tactician, bloodline bred for excellence, deathclaw slayer but I’d bet my last cap he’d turn into a little red faced bitch/sub underneath you.”

The conjured image was not unpleasant. Maxson begging for release, reduced to a tear stained, blubbering mess. Hands bound of front of him trying to feel any inch of her sweat slicked skin…

Her ears began to beat to the rush of blood to her face, had the room always been this hot?

John was standing over his coffee table, fingering through his stash of chems; amongst the stash were random bullets, poker chips, buttons and a magazine of some porno called “Three’s a crowd”. The cover showed 3 men in a cramped space with the same amount of lust in their eyes that Annie had for Hancock. He pocketed a jet then shot a round of hydra into his shoulder.

Annie remembered the last time they traveled together a couple of months ago. Helping out the folks at The Slog, when suddenly 3 super mutants appeared. They were low on the totem pole though; carrying only one pipe rifle the other two had 2x4’s, so they went down pretty quick, but not before John took a wack to his right side from one of the boards. He recovered fast due to his ghoul flesh, but his shoulder joint would always get stiff in rainy weather. If he would only ask, she would rub it.

Hancock made no sign he’d just been jabbed by a needle. Just rotated his arm adjusting the tight muscle, retuning his cigarette to his lips. Giving her body a quick once over before continuing,

“How about that Boy Scout lieutenant of yours? He’d practically marry you if you asked nicely…”

“Preston is an angel and wouldn’t know how to fuck me into a mattress of his life depended on it.”

John snorted, “Don’t be too sure about that chica. Every time I meander my way to your castle, I can practically feel the buzz coming off him when you’re around. He may be a saint but he’s still a man.”

Preston was Annie’s friend. Her first friend. She knew he wanted more, but she didn’t feel the same. It felt wrong to think of him that way when she had no intention of cultivating a relationship with him.

By now Hancock was close. Close enough to feel his warmth, smell his tobacco, see little stains on his red coat from when he refills the oil lamps. He huffed a final draft of smoke just to the side of her, before dropping and stepping on the butt. He adjusted his hat and looked her in the eye. Black voids meeting pale blues.

“Or perhaps this is a social call for a whole other reason.” His rough hands were barely touching her hips. Gentle caresses over her dirty jeans, his fingers sliding into her back pockets, heat radiating off him now. The front corner of his hat brushing against her hair,

Annie looked up and saw a restraint set in his jaw. As she leaned in to kiss the ghoul, he leaned back away from her mouth, and with a softness asked,

“Any chance you’re here to forget about that doe eyed, southern man you’ve been chasing?”

The mention of Jake sucked the heat out of the room. Annie felt a humid cold spread over her, tears pricked at the corner of her eyes and weakness began to build.

Jake.

Gods she loved him. Wanted him. Needed him; and what’s worse is Jake wanted her too. They kissed once after GNN was won. But Jake had to talk her down from taking more. While he wanted something between them to bloom, he just couldn’t give himself fully until his daughter was found. She understood. Hell she knew better than most what it means to have a child missing; her own son still in the clutches of ‘lord knows where’.

It made her sick to think about. Her baby boy, out there, somewhere. Was he safe? Well fed? Happy? Annie didn’t know. Was she terrible for wanting a distraction now and then in the arms of a lover while her dream guy worked endlessly looking for his baby?

Thick, wet tears trickled down her flush cheeks. They culminated in salty pools in the crease of her mouth only to be swiped away by Hancock’s thumb.

“What makes you think a boozy night with a mug like mine would make the ache go away?” His hands were no longer on her ass but on the small of her back, rubbing soothing circles.

[iburntthewateragain]

random lines that I made for murder drones characters because I’m fuckin bored and I’m a board (some of these follow what I think happened after the last episode8

J:

“I’ll have to write this down- ..WHERES MY PEN!?”

“Get ready to have the worst time of your life.”

“N GET BACK TO WORK!”

“I’m surprised you found out about that with that small robo brain of yours.”

V:

“And yet.. I still don’t know what 2 + 2 is.”

“HAAHAHA, HAAAHAHAHAA! ITS TIME TO DIE!”

“Fresh worker drone oil… mmm”

“W-why would I kill you? That would complicate things more.. I kept you in the dark for a reason.”

N:

“Aw shit- I mean biscuits-“

“Scraping, cutting, burning, yet your still yearning.”

“You don’t acknowledge the most important part, equality. Everyone here isn’t better or worse than everyone else, we are equal and can do our job as good as you can.”

[roboticartinspo]

Them Fuckin’ Robots

Them Fuckin’ Robots (1988) Laura Kikauka and Norman White

"White and fellow artist Laura Kikauka each built an electro-mechanical sex machine (hers, female; his, male) without consulting each other on the particulars, apart from the dimensions of the engaging organs. They then brought these two machines together for a public performance. The male machine, “the first and last anthropomorphic robot I’ve ever built”, according to White, responds to the magnetic fields generated by the female organ, thereby increasing its rate of breathing and moving its limbs, simultaneously charging a capacitor to strobing “orgasm.” The female machine, on the other hand, is a diverse assemblage including a boiling kettle, a squirting oil pump, a twitching sewing machine treadle, and huge solenoid on a fur-covered board — all hanging from an old bedspring and energized by an electronic power sequencer."

Source: Norman White—Works. (2020, September 25). DAM MUSEUM. https://dam.org/museum/artists_ui/artists/white-norman/works-norman-white/

"Donna Haraway’s essay ‘The Actors Are Cyborg’1 explores notions of the cyborg as a performative ‘monster’ and ‘boundary creature,’ and Canadian artists Norman White and Laura Kikauka’s performance Them Fuckin’ Robots (1988) features two robots that violently and comedically copulate. Themes concerning the monstrous, the transgressive, the violent, the sexual, and the humorous have each been applied to cyborgs and mechanical anthropomorphic igures. To these I would like to add the term ‘metallic camp,’ which relects a particular ideology and aesthetic at play within metal performances".

Source: Chapter 29. Metal Performance: Humanizing Robots, Returning to Nature, and Camping About. Arthur Kroker, & Marilouise Kroker. (2013). Critical Digital Studies : A Reader, Second Edition: Vol. Second edition. University of Toronto Press.

[complete-idiot-in-love]

Once Upon a Witchlight: Episode 49 (SPOILERS AHEAD)

I'm not prepared for having to wait for these episodes, watching episode 50 will BREAK me fr fr because I love these goofy bitches so much

No Derek/Frosty in this episode :(

Kremy singing to the unicorn is so sweet!!

Mikey does a really good Frost impression

I feel really bad for the unicorn :(

The newest party “Grinko, Steve, Frank, Gideon and Kevin” /j

Please give Kremy a unicorn named Mia

“We’re all just pawns on the chess board of life” I love it when Torbek gets philosophical, its so funny fr fr

Gideon saying he's only accidentally killed five clowns is really funny lmao

THE SMART UNICORN DOESN'T KNOW WHO THE KING OF HEARTS IS, HE'S SO SUS!!!

ALSO THEY CONFIRMED MY THEORY THAT ZYBILNA IS TASHA FROM TASHA’S HIDEOUS LAUGHTER

KREMY STOP CURSING IN FRONT OF THE UNICORN, SHE ASKED YA NICELY

“I’m not a bard, you see me wearin fluffy pantaloons and a ridiculous instrument I strum around with and a crazy hat?” WOW, RUDE GIDEON! I’M LITERALLY RIGHT HERE AND YOU’RE INSULTING MY CLASS

I DON'T SAY HEYNINNY HEYNINNYHO EVER, STOP BULLYING ME >:( I'M JUST A BARD!!!

Gideon bullies his adopted satyr child (canon) /j

I swear to the gods, if Twig’s patron is the Baba Yaga I’m gonna scream. I love folktales and mythology

It makes sense cause they both have houses with feet and it would be so funny if Twig’s patron is the BBEG

Oil can named Squirt HAHAHAHA

The peter pan reference was hard to understand but funny

GUYS NIGHT!!! (With my S/I!!)

BUTTERFLY BARD!!!!! BARD BESTIES!!!!!!

I LOVE THE BUTTERFLY BARD

Mia and Jeff!!!

This butterfly bard is so weird, stop speaking in rhymes I can't understand anything you're saying!!

I love it when Torbek tries to be artistic or acts more artistically inclined than he actually is, makes me think that my S/I’s artistic nature is rubbing off on him uwu (Two a((r/u))tistic besties!!  /j)

Torbek being absolutely terrified of hippos is so damn funny

NO GIDEON, DON'T FIGHT A HIPPO!!

“Gricko, what the fuck is a lion king and a SNES???” - My S/I (Gricko breaking the fourth wall is so damn funny to me, bro is an eldritch god fr fr /j)

Grinko grimgrin :)

STOP RHYMING, YOU'RE CONFUSING THE HIMBOS!!

If Gricko multiclasses into Bard, I would be very happy fr fr. That dude is always singing or making song references

OH GODS THE BUTTERFLY GOT US LOST

My headcanon is the reason my S/I doesn’t participate in the conversations is cause they're busy knitting while riding on Hootsie

Nikkie’s goat plush is so cute!!

OH NO, AN OLD LADY HAS FALLEN!! SHE NEEDS LIFE ALERT!!

I bet she’s a hag tbh

Gricko has a foot fetish /j

I may have Baldur's Gate 3 on the brain but AUNTIE ETHEL??? LIKE THE FUCKIN HAG FROM THAT GAME????? WAS I RIGHT???

Aw, she’s a widow :(

KREMY NOOOOOO, DON’T GIVE THE OLD LADY CURSED FEY COINS!!!!

NIKKIE TOTALLY SHIPS GIDEON X KREMY “You look to Gideon and think about what you would do if Gideon were to pass away suddenly” “you don't have to call me out like that!” I LOVE MY DADS >:3

RUFIOH FEYWILD CHILD WITH A WOODEN SWORD, IS THIS WILL OF THE FEYWILD??

[sekhisadventures]

Familiar Faces

Deep below the surface of the Isle of Dorn, two vehicles were descending.

One was a large woven carpet, crafted and enchanted years ago to hold even the weight of its huge rider and her passenger.

The other was much newer, created with a joint effort of the Explorer’s League, the Machine Speakers, and one very enthusiastic goblin who was taking it for its maiden voyage.

Grimo had left Bilgewater Harbor without any means of transportation of his own. His Deathwheel bike and his ATV couldn’t fit on the ship and, even if they could, they required fuel that the Isle of Dorn might not have had. Waste of space if they just wound up being useless hunks of metal without the oil and gasoline needed to run them… and without the goblin-built refineries of Bilgewater Harbor there was good odds they would have.

Fortunately the earthen had centuries to find alternative fuel sources and working with the Explorer’s League and the engineers who had survived Dalaran’s fall had achieved success. Stormrooks were rare before the Rookery had fallen to Xal’atath’s minions, and without the ability to summon their mounts the heroes of the Alliance and Horde were hamstrung, there needed to be another option.

They’d found it. If they couldn’t summon mounts, they’d damn well build them.

Grimo had been on board the moment he’d seen the blueprints when passing through Dornogal. A fully customizable, compact, and fast flying machine? He almost teared up a bit at the idea.

There were several of them now that had finished production, and one of them belonged to Grimo Blamstick and he’d fight anyone who said otherwise. Now that it was finished he, Nitika, and Edwood (via Nitika’s carpet) were heading down into the caves to find their allies who were already in Azj-kahet.

However, they now encountered a new problem.

“WHADDYA MEAN YA DON’T HAVE TH’ FUCKIN’ MAP?!” bellowed the goblin over the roar of his flying machine’s engines.

“YOU WERE THE ONE WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO GET IT GRIMO! THAT THING HAS A STORAGE COMPARTMENT!” the tauren shouted back, gripping her stave tightly in annoyance.

Edwood sat cross legged on the carpet next to Nitika, his bony fingers rubbing his temples in frustration as he closed his eyes and sighed. Their gemstones could pinpoint where the others were, but they had realized a fatal flaw with them. The gemstones only worked on a two-dimensional plane for that. They could tell where they were in relation to the surface of the Isle of Dorn… but when they had to consider elevation as much as longitude and latitude… well… that would cause issues.

Grimo snarled, his goggles on over his eyes to protect against the wind going past. The goblin hit several buttons on his gauntlet, activating the energy sensors on the goggles, then snarled and shut them off before shouting to Nitika, “ITS NO FUCKIN’ GOOD! MY GOGGLE’S SENSORS ARE ALL FUCKED UP BECAUSE SPOOKY KNIFE LADY’S ENERGY IS OVERLOADING ‘EM THIS CLOSE TA TH’ NERUBIANS! I CAN’T TELL WHERE ANYTHING IS DOWN HERE!”

Grimo’s goggles weren’t just for eye protection. They had several built in features such as telescopic zoom and several energy detection tools built in, allowing him to spot heat signatures (helpful for tracking beasts and ordinary humanoids,) necromantic energies (the undead,) elemental energy (dragonkin and, of course, elementals,) and the like… but this close to Xal’atath’s base of operations all he got when he tried to look was a massive error message as the nerubian city lit up like a Winter’s Veil tree in the distance. Even if he wasn’t scanning for void energies specifically, the sheer power of the Dark Heart overloaded the goggle’s sensors.

This was bad for multiple reasons, one of the bigger ones being that it told him just how powerful Xal’atath actually was. The last time he got a reading like this it was when he’d tried to use it to track down Zovaal in Zereth Mortis and was almost blinded when the necromantic energy meter filled his vision with the biggest signature he’d ever recorded.

Edwood scowled and opened his eyes, letting his hands flop into his lap, then he paused and looked down. “Eh?” he peered over the edge of the carpet, seeing some small creatures along the path… they didn’t look like nerubians. Infact…

“WELL DON’T EXPECT ME TO DO ANYTHING! DARKHOOF SAYS THIS WHOLE PLACE IS SO FOULED UP WITH VOID ENERGY THAT ITS LIKE TRYING TO FIND A PIECE OF HAY IN A NEEDLE-STACK… AND YES, I DO MEAN THAT HOW IT SOUNDS!” the tauren shouted back to him.

“Oi! Mateys!” said Edwood, holding the edge of the carpet tightly to keep his balance as he looked down.

“OH HA-FUCKIN’-HA DAWNHOOF!” snapped Grimo, “KEEP BEIN’ FUNNY! ITS NOT LIKE WE CAN JUST STOP ‘N ASK FOR GODSDAMN DIRECTIONS!”

“HEY!” shouted Edwood over the both of them, “THAT MIGHT ACTUALLY BE AN OPTION! LOOKIT THOSE LITTLE BUGGERS DOWN BELOW US!” he called over the rumble of the flying machine.

Nitika peered over the edge of the carpet, the tauren’s eyes widening, “… are those niffen?!”

As they coasted over the landscape of Azj-kahet a group of creatures paused to watch them go, having heard the shouting above and grown curious. These were no nerubians however, but rather small squat humanoids with beady little eyes and huge snouts, their hands sporting long sharp claws for digging. There was no mistaking it after their time spent in Loamm under the Dragon Isles. These were the mole-like niffen!

They’d first encountered them in their village in the Zalarek Caverns, having helped them to secure their home against the Primalists and their Djaradin allies, then helped them rebuild Loamm after Fyrakk became infused with the starcursed energies of shadowflame and rained devastation upon it before fleeing the caverns altogether to terrorize the Dragon Isles. They didn’t know these niffen, but in their experience the mole-people were friendly, curious, and open to ‘upsiders’ of all types visiting their home.

Nitika looked around, her eyes flashing violet as Darkhoof took over and reached out with her senses, detecting the thoughts of nearby creatures as she tried desperately to ignore the sensations coming from the city… and then she pointed to a nearby cavern. “THAT WAY! I THINK THAT’S A VILLAGE!” she called to Grimo, the goblin giving her a thumbs up as he angled the nose of his ride downwards.

Grimo’s machine coasted low over the land as a set of small wheels extended from the base, hitting the ground with a sharp squeal as he reduced power to the engine, allowing it to slow to a gentle cruse as Nitika swooped down next to him, the group now able to see into the cavern ahead and confirm their suspicions. Inside it were the familiar rounded structures that made up niffen style buildings as well as a few of their owners outside watching the road.

As the flying machine came to a halt one of them walked forward and waved to them. “Howdy upsiders! Welcome ta Mmarl!” they said in a cheerful tone, “Ya’ll come far? Not often we see anyone but th’ nerubians ‘n a few arathi this deep…” he began, then he saw Grimo get out of the flying machine and lock it down securely, taking his key out and tucking it into his pouch.

“Ohhhh! Ya’ll must be with th’ others!” the guard nodded with a grin, “Been seein’ a lotta ya’ll goblin folk lately.”

Grimo raised an eyebrow, walking towards them as Edwood stretched out his body and Nitika rolled up her carpet, sticking it into her pouch. It was always a bit surreal to see a carpet big enough to hold a tauren aloft sliding into a small leather pouch on her hip, but standard kit for most any adventurers included bags that were far bigger on the inside than the outside.

“Huh, other goblins? Shit did some of us escape from th’ bugs?” he grunted, taking out a cigar as he drew closer and biting the tip off, spitting it into the bushes before he lit up. Nitika gave him an annoyed look. She didn’t know how on earth he hadn’t run out yet. They’d been gone from Bilgewater Harbor for over two months now, yet somehow he always had more of the horrible smelling things…

The group followed the guard into Mmarl proper and Grimo’s eyebrow went up, the goblin seeing… well… other goblins! There was a whole section of the city with electric lights strung up, whirring and clanking machinery, and a few grills going serving the kind of deep-fried delicacies (or at least by goblin standards) that you could normally only get in Bilgewater Harbor anymore.

“Huh… I don’t recognize any of these mooks… but…” he began, then stumbled to a halt as he got closer. The machines all had markings on them to denote what cartel the goblins were with, standard practice. Grimo was Bilgewater Cartel, and their symbol was a cogwheel with crossed wrenches behind it…

This one, however, had the symbol of a circular sawblade like one would see on a shredder machine. The moment Grimo saw it his eyes bulged in fury and he damn near bit his cigar in half.

“Oh fuckin’ FEL no!” he snarled, unholstering his gun and cocking it. “Nitts! Get Darkhoof goin’ spooky! Ed! All the fel! ALL OF IT!” he snapped, taking aim as the niffen stumbled back in shock.

“Grimo!” shouted Nitika, moving to push his rifle barrel down towards the ground, “What are you doing?!” she demanded.

“This is a fuckin’ principle thing Nitts! Those goblins are Venture Company!” he growled.

Nitika paused, then looked up herself and narrowed her eyes as they changed from yellow to purple. “Oh really…” she said icily. She hadn’t seen their symbol in a long time, but oh she knew about them! They’d made quite a mess out of one section of Mulgore that their druids were still trying to heal to this day.

All the Goblin Cartels were known for being a bit… shady. It came with the territory really… but they would at least try to angle for sustainable profit when possible. Log sure, but at least leave some trees to regrow for next time. Mine alright, but don’t completely wreck the place in case you could turn it into a farming venture later. Fishing? Why not? But leave some of ‘em to repopulate. You cut it to the quick, but not one hair deeper.

The Venture Trading Company however was rotten even by goblin standards.

I’m going to repeat that. Even By GOBLIN STANDARDS.

The Venture Company was known for being utterly ruthless, totally ruining wherever they did business to the point where recovery was all but impossible and allying with not just criminal organizations like the Defias Brotherhood, but even the likes of the Burning Legion.

They would strip mine entire mountains, leaving them ruined and lifeless. They would clear cut whole forests in a way that made the Bilgewater Cartel’s own operations in Ashenvale look like ants carrying sticks by comparison. They would even kidnap members of other cartels and force them to work for them!

They had worked with Kael’thas Sunstrider to attack the Exodar and strip mine it out from under the Draenei on Azuremist Island. They had traveled through to the Alternate Draenor and allied themselves with the Iron Horde to supply them with gunpowder and advanced weapons. During the Blood War they had mined for oil off the coast of Stormsong Valley in a way that had almost wiped out the local Tortollans before being driven away by the Alliance.

Goblins had fewer scruples than most other races when it came to business and profit, it was seen as a sign of cunning for most of them… but as far as the other cartels were concerned the Venture Company went Too Far.

There were very few things a goblin would consider Too Far… and if you crossed those lines you likely had the Horde, Alliance, or both very very angry with you.

Edwood walked forward, narrowing his eyes, “Hold yer fire matey… if that’s th’ Venture Company, why are they here?” he asked.

Grimo scowled, readying his rifle again as the niffen behind them waived for the other guards to join them. “Don’t know. Don’t fuckin’ care!” he spat, taking aim with the weapon only for Edwood to shove it down.

“Bloody fel Grimo, THINK!” he snapped, “Th’ Ventures ally themselves with world endin’ shite all th’ time. It ain’t outta th’ realm o’ reason that they’d work with Xal’atath… but if they would, why are they feckin’ here and not out there?” he insisted, pointing a bony hand towards the nerubian city in the distance.

Grimo hesitated at that, raising his eyebrow. “… huh… that’s a good point actually…” he muttered, then he looked up at the sound of running feet walking towards them.

“Ah shit… PUT THE GUN AWAY!” snapped a new goblin jogging into view. He was dressed similar to Grimo, but wearing what would be called a baseball cap (if baseball existed on Azeroth,) and had a heavy toolbag at his hip.

Grimo goggled at him, almost dropping his gun. “Boss Gazlowe?! You’re alive?!” he shouted.

Standing before the group was none other than Monte Gazlowe, a goblin who had helped build Orgrimmar back when the Horde first settled in Durotar. After Sylvannas abandoned the Horde to openly side with Zovaal at the close of the Blood War Jastor Gallywix, who was the leader of the Bilgewater Cartel, had vanished.

Jastor was the one who taught Sylvannas about Azerite, likely being a major factor in what started the war and had driven the Horde to seek out and claim as much of it as possible to make weapons (and make him a gigantic profit.) After the war ended a group of Bilgewater Goblins who had been getting pretty fed up with their boss got together and said ‘Hey, who was the asshole who told Sylvy about this Azerite shit in the first place?’

By the time they got to Gallywix’s estate atop a mountain in Azshara, the face of it engraved with the literal face of its owner, it had been abandoned. Jastor knew the jig was up, and he’d taken off first chance he’d gotten. Rumor had it that he’d been spotted in the Shadowlands working with some of the Brokers (gods only knew how,) but that was all it was. Rumor and hearsay.

Still, with their leader gone someone had to step in… so Thrall went to one of the few goblins he trusted. Monte Gazlowe was named the new Trade Prince of the Bilgewater Cartel and under him it had gone from a typical goblin cartel to one of the first worker’s unions in all of Azeroth.

Gazlowe was a popular leader, though some goblins were extremely confused by his leadership. He allowed unionization, gave his workers days off, and was known to believe that a good boss had to respect his crew in order to get respect back. He even gave those whose relatives died in service to the Cartel insurance payouts, full value and no haggling, and tried to avoid situations where such was even necessary (and paying full hazard pay when he couldn’t.) These were all very new concepts to the goblins, but very welcome… and the Bligewater Cartel was flourishing under him.

“Last I looked…” grunted the goblin as Nitika and Edwood relaxed a bit, the tauren lowering her stave, but still glaring at the Venture Company goblins nearby, most of whom seemed to be pointedly ignoring them. It likely wasn’t the first time some of them got this treatment from members of the Horde.

“Damn… heard ya were in Dalaran when it went tits up, but… didn’t expect ta see ya down here.” grunted Grimo as he holstered his rifle. “But what th’ fuck is the Venture Company doin’ here?” he asked.

“Yeaaaaaaaaah, that wasn’t intentional believe it or not…” came a new voice, a higher pitched goblin voice.

A goblin woman walked into view, a redheaded woman wearing a black leather jacket and pants, a pair of shiny glasses covered in rhinesotnes over her eyes. “Jenni Boombuckle, and yeah yeah I’m with th’ Venture Company. Don’t bother, I’ve heard it all before.” she sighed, waving her hand dismissively.

Gazlowe nodded to them. “I got th’ story after I got here. Jenni ‘n her crew wound up in Azj-kahet when they dug wrong ‘n caused the floor under ‘em ta cave in, stranding ‘em here. Apparently the came here all the way from th’ Undermine.”

This got Grimo’s interest, the goblin immediately walking forward. “Woah woah… Th’ fuckin Undermine survived th’ Cataclysm?!” he asked, his eyes huge.

Jenni shrugged, “I mean it fucked up th’ city good, but yeah more or less.” she nodded.

Nitika looked at them, raising her eyebrow. “Sorry, the Undermine?” she asked.

Grimo sighed wistfully, looking off into the distance for a moment as he took a pull on his cigar. “Its like Orgrimmar Nitts, but fer goblinkind. A huge sprawlin’ city under Kezan, tunnels leadin’ off everywhere… massive buildin’s under the surface, neon lights turnin’ th’ whole cave bright… engineerin’ projects that’d make even th’ fuckin’ draenei sit up n’ take notice…” he grinned, “Ah man, I miss it… I used ta go there whenever I could back before Kezan got wrecked…”

Nitika tried to imagine a city that Grimo would love in such a way, then suppressed a shudder at the idea. “R-right…”

“Point is, they ain’t here on Venture Company orders. They’re just as stuck in Khaz Algar as we are.” nodded Gazlowe. “They shacked up with th’ niffen ‘cause the nerubians wouldn’t look at ‘em as anythin’ but potential prisoners, but th’ niffen manage ta keep independent. Apparently, some of ‘em even trade in th’ City of Threads…” then he added, “That’s th’ nerubian city ya probably saw on th’ way in.”

Grimo nodded, “Huh… well… I guess… maaaaaaaaaaybe I can keep from blowin’ their shit up for now… maybe…” he grunted, shrugging.

Gazlowe gave him a look, “Blamstick, c’mon. I try ta be less strict than other bosses, but sometimes I gotta put my foot down. This is an order from th’ trade prince Grimo. Th’ Venture Company workers in Mmarl get left alone. No killin’, no bombin’, no smackin’, ya don’t even fuckin’ shortchange ‘em, get me? As far as I’m concerned, down here, a goblin is a goblin, ‘n we need all the goblins we can get right now. Alright?” he asked, nodding firmly.

Grimo threw his head back and sighed loudly, rolling his eyes, “Fiiiiiiiiiiiine… fine… whatever ya say, boss.” he grunted.

“Good.” smirked Gazlowe, “Glad you see it my way Blamstick, ‘cause the niffen here are better fighters than they look.” he glanced over Grimo’s shoulder, nodding to the group of guards behind him. “Its alright guys! He’s not gonna cause any trouble.”

Grimo looked behind him and gulped, seeing a half dozen niffen standing there, claws at the ready. Their big sharp claws which could easily dig through hard packed dirt and even gouge out chunks of stones… and he was just now realizing could likely do some serious damage to things not made out of dirt or stone… like goblins.

“Now, c’mon. I’ll buy ya a drink and ya can fill me in on what’s goin’ on up top.” grinned Gazlowe as he waved for Grimo to follow him as he and Jenni headed towards a nearby goblin-run bar. The bartender was a goblin, but there were two niffen working the grill.

Nitika and Ed looked at each other, then shrugged and followed along, taking a seat next to the goblins… or at least Ed did with some difficulty. Nitika had to sit on the ground, the goblin sized stools far too small for her much larger body.

Gazlowe ordered a kaja-cola for the three of them and some springwater for Nitika (Edwood had his own drinks, as he often did,) then he turned to Grimo. “Alright Blamstick, talk to me. Whats happenin’ upstairs?” he asked, “You’re here, did th’ rest of th’ Horde show up yet?”

Grimo cracked his can open and downed half of it in one go. He liked Zhan-min’s drinks just fine, but there was something about kaja-cola that every goblin craved, and he’d drank through his stash a few days after they’d picked up Avalon in Westfall. He sat the can down with a satisfied sigh, then replied, “Nah, not yet… but we know Thrall ‘n Jaina made it out so they gotta be close by now. Me ‘n my crew got here under our own means. Some of my team ‘n a few of these Alliance mooks we work with sometimes were in Dalaran when it got wrecked, so I bought ol’ Picknozzle’s boat off him ‘n fixed it up, then got th’ rest of Savage United together ‘n went to pick up th’ rest of that Alliance group. Some of ‘em are in Azj-kahet too, th’ rest are upstairs keepin’ an eye on shit and watchin’ out for th’ big boys ta get here.”

Gazlowe nodded, grinning. “Good resourcefulness there Grimo.” he smirked.

“It was my idea, Grimo.” pointed out Nitika, raising her eyebrow at the goblins.

“Yeah, but it was my money, Nitts.” retorted Grimo.

Gazlowe waved it away, “Th’ POINT is, good thinkin’. Pity there ain’t more teams who thought ta do that… probably gonna be comin’ with th’ rest of th’ Horde I’d guess. Anyway, you guys hungry?” he jabbed a thumb at the grill. “It ain’t Bilgewater chow, but its pretty damn good regardless.”

Edwood grinned, then looked at the niffen. “Oh I got a request… haven’t had it since th’ Dragon Isles. Do ye have nightcrawler noodles on th’ menu?” he asked.

The niffen looked at him, then one grinned toothily. “Hot dang! We got a genuine conn-e-sewer here! One order o’ nightcrawler noodles comin’ RIGHT up!” he nodded, getting out a bowl and beginning to fill it with a mass of large purple ropey objects… which he had to force back into the bowl as they tried to escape.

Nitika snorted a bit, “We’ll have to tell Sekhi they have these too. Just a grilled… um… skewer for me. What sort of meat is it?” she asked.

Gazlowe cleared his throat meaningfully, “Best just accept that its meat. Good honest protein. Trust me on this. Not a ton of options this deep underground, ya get me?”

As the niffen cooks brought over a large bowl for Ed and several skewers of deep-fried… basically beef… for everyone else Nitika’s crystal began to whistle in her pouch, the tauren taking it out and drawing the rune to connect the gemstone to whoever was calling to it on the surface, and Nelen’s face appeared over it.

“Nitika, are you guys alright? We expected you to catch up with us by now…” asked the magus, his voice sounding concerned… but also not really surprised. He had expected something to go awry with Grimo travelling with them.

“We’re fine Nelen. We got a little turned around, but we found a village of niffen. Turns out that Monte Gazlowe is here too…” she replied, then added, “He’s one of the members of the Horde Council, leader of the Bilgewater Goblins.” she clarified. Nelen was in the Alliance, he might not recognize the name after all.

“Oh good, hopefully he can help us with the nerubians… we found something odd ourselves. Apparently, not all the nerubians are on Xal’atath’s side…” he nodded to her.

Gazlowe looked at the gemstone with interest, raising his eyebrow. “Interestin’ device there…” he muttered, “Sounds like you guys met th’ Weaver too huh? She’s the reason me ‘n a bunch of other mooks made it out of one of the nerubian military bases. She’s got one of those big scarab-guys on her side, calls himself Anub’azal… I think… nerubian names are tricky.”

Nelen blinked in surprise at Gazlowe’s statement, “… yes actually. We didn’t know about her allies among the nerubians, at least not in detail yet, but she sent a smaller scout of her’s named Spindle to us and we followed him back to her base. She says she’s willing to work with surface dwellers if it means that we can help her rid her people of Xal’atath’s control.”

Nitika snorted, “… and you believed her? I thought you smarter than that Nelen…” she frowned.

Nelen shook his head, “I know it sounds suspicious Nitika, but her offer seems genuine and Samantha said that Annulus can’t sense any of Xal’atath’s power on her at all. She even… arranged matters… so that Dareley, Sekhi, and Laurelgosa were able to help rescue a group of prisoners from the nerubians mid-transport.” he shrugged, “Besides, its not the first time we’ve teamed up with someone who would normally be our enemy. We wouldn’t have been able to go after Dissonantia if it wasn’t for Malgum’s help, remember.”

The tauren sighed, glancing away, “I suppose you have a point there…” she replied, taking a bite of her skewer and finding it delightfully crunchy, buttery, and oddly similar to shellfish in a way that she tried very hard not to think much about.

Gazlowe spoke up, “Where’s your crew Mister Wizard? I’ve been down here long enough to know th’ general area. I can at least get these guys pointed in th’ right direction for ya.”

Nelen nodded, “We’re in the northernmost part of Azj-kahet. Some of the Arathi and a group of Dalaran’s survivors have set up camp here. We’re trying to evacuate them to Hallowfall, but we’ll need an airship to transport them out. The cliffs are too steep for anything but nerubians.”

Gazlowe nodded, “Ah yeah. We’re in the eastern end. Its…” he looked around, then pointed in a northwesterly direction. “That way, just follow th’ cave wall for a few hours ‘n you should get to their area.”

Grimo nodded, “Alright, we’ll have some food ‘n head out in a bit Fullmoon. Give us a few more hours.” he nodded, “Hey barkeep! Another kaja-cola man!”

Thus, the trio of adventurers had a respite in the newly discovered niffen village, Edwood happily fighting down his bowl of nightcrawler noodles (actually fought it down as the name was quite literal and the noodles were quite alive) as Nitika and Grimo had their skewers and drinks. Danger was close, but it often was on Azeroth, and the members of Savage United had learned how to cope with such situations over the years.

Elsewhere…

They called it the Maddening Deeps.

When Sargeras’ Sword pierced Azeroth, the Black Blood had pooled here worst. It was a vision out of a nightmare, warped and twisted, with moans and cries of pain on the wind from voices just on the edge of hearing.

The ground was covered in twisted and flesh-like substances, the plants looking like some sort of mixture of fungus and animal… or perhaps even person. Eyes blinked in and out of existence here and there, but the worst of it was the voices.

Those who came into contact with the Black Blood for too long risked losing their grasp on the mortal world, being flung into a ghostly nightmarish state where none could see them… save for other beings in the same state, few of which were friendly, even less were sane.

Standing near it was the elf-troll woman that had saved the group from the nerubians when the arathi airship, The Reckoning, had fallen into their trap.

She gazed below at the pools of the vile liquid, her teeth gritted as her fingers clenched tight. “Dat song… it hurts just to hear it…” she hissed. Her voice was accented like a troll’s, but not quite as thickly as Mola’raum or Uh’kue’s.

“It be no good… I’m going to need help. Dose ones who were followin’ us…” she mused, glancing over her shoulder towards the rest of Azj-kahet. “One of dem… she can hear it too.” she raised her eyebrow, “De Song of de World…”

A moment later a large bat with quills in its back fur took flight into the caves…

Next Story

Previous Story

[mcgiggers]

New York - September 2023

Just back from a long-anticipated return to Armory week festivities in the Big Apple. Fueled by the pent-up excitement following a self-imposed two-year hiatus and not deterred by the sweltering heat and overcrowded New York streets, the art viewing experience was over the top - fantastic fairs, surreal MoMA moments and great gallery shows. Stopovers included: The Armory Show, Independent 20th Century and Art on Paper fairs; a pilgrimage to the MoMA; and a half dozen or so gallery visits.

The Fairs

The Armory Show held court as the centerpiece of the two-day jaunt. While the fair has long been part of the city’s cultural landscape, bringing together the world’s leading contemporary and modern galleries in the revamped Javits Center elevated the fair-going experience for all stakeholders. Art fans, exhibitors and artists have all benefited from the move two years ago from Piers 92 and 94. While the art is ultimately what matters most, venue counts as well, and creating an atmosphere where art fans can best appreciate wonderful pieces and exhibitors can best showcase their artists is important. With its outstanding gallery lineup, topnotch presentation space and user-friendly layout, The Armory Show delivered on all fronts.

This year the fair assembled over 225 leading international galleries representing more than 35 countries and over 800 artists. Along with the revitalization brought about by the venue upgrade, the show’s focus has also evolved to having a more contemporary and emerging artist bias where previously older post war painters also shared the spotlight. With that change, the crowds also seemed to get younger, less staid, and more eclectic, all making for a vibrant and exciting ambiance.  Some highlights included: Landon Metz’s organic flowing shapes in “Untitled”, 2023, dye and canvas, diptych (40 x 64 in.); Mario Martinez’s abstract expressionist inspired “Inside, Outside”, 2004, acrylic and charcoal on canvas (86 x 133.5 in.); and Nicole Coson’s imprinted found objects in “Untitled”, 2023, oil on linen (79 x 51 in.).

The vibe at the Independent 20th Century fair was more reflective and subdued but also enjoyable in a different sort of way. Set in the historic Battery Maritime Building, the focus of this 35-exhibitor show was to celebrate unsung artists that applied their trade between 1900 and 2000. Donning the walls were works of lesser known heroes such as Jack Tworkov, James Brooks and Midred Thompson, among others. The fair highlights included three large scale works from Paul Feeley featuring his archetypal jack-like forms set in a colour field backdrop, namely, “Vespasian” and “Germanicus”, 1960, and “Untitled”, 1961, each oil-based enamel on canvas.

Art on Paper was staged on the courts of Basketball City on Pier 36 and celebrated its ninth edition with a 100-plus gallery roster featuring top modern and contemporary paper-based art. The atmosphere was light and lively and lent itself well to the creatively used to highlight the fair’s signature medium. Highlights included: Eric Stefanski’s earnest and satirical “Im Fuckin Trying”, 2023, oil and graphite on paper affixed to panel in artist’s frame (44 x 34 in.); Gigi Mills’ “Night Sail and Shephard”, 2023, oil, paper and crayon on paper (43.5 x 38 in.); and Alyssa Salomon’s “Time & Place for Considering Optimism & Sunlight”, 2020, cyanotype on Abaca/Kozo paper (38 x 25 in.).  A showstopper also included a collection of six exquisite Michael Loew cubist nudes, 1951, india ink on paper on board (each 9 x 6 in.).

The Museum

The MoMA experience kicked off with early morning access tothe Ed Ruscha / Now Then exhibit. The show surveyed six decades of output and featured over 200 works in mediums including painting, drawing and photography. Peppered throughout were many of his easily recognizable images mined from Los Angeles iconography such as the Hollywood sign, Standard Oil stations and the Twentieth Century Fox logo. Equally impactful were the word paintings reflective of guttural utterances he came across in his day-to-day activities. Special pieces among these included: “Honk”, 1961-62, oil on canvas and “Oof”, 1962, oil on canvas.

The Ruscha exhibit then flowed into a pilgrimage to several extraordinary works in the MoMA permanent collection. These included: Andy Warhol’s “Campbell’s Soup Cans”, 1962, acrylic with metallic enamel paint on canvas, 32 panels; Jasper Johns’ “Flag”, 1954-55, encaustic, oil and collage on fabric mounted on plywood, three panels; Jackson Pollock’s “One: Number 31, 1950”, 1950, oil and enamel paint on canvas;  Henri Matisse’s “The Red Studio”, 1911, oil on canvas; Pablo Picasso’s  “Les Demoiselles d’Avignon”, 1907, oil on canvas; and, Vincent van Gogh’s “The Starry Night”, 1889, oil on canvas. While these works are all very familiar and are plastered on everything from mugs to T-shirts, a firsthand visual of their mastery is a magical reboot and a reminder of their greatness.

The Galleries

Memorable gallery exhibits visited outside the fair circuit included: John Zurier “On the Back of a Mirror”; Caroline Monnet “Worksite” and Ellsworth Kelly “Ellsworth Kelly at Gemini: An Exploration of Color”. Standouts among these included: John Zurier’s dreamy “Langspil(Echo)”, 2023, oil on linen (25.6 x 19.6 in.); Caroline Monnet’s biological experiment “Depredation”, 2023,  mold on gypsum board, 15 parts (each 13 x 13 in.) and powerful “In Silence We Speak Volumes”, 2023, oriented strand board, acrylic (47 x 47 in.); and Ellsworth Kelly’s stunning “Red Curve (State ll)”, 1988, 1-color lithograph, edition of 15, #3 (26 x 84 in.).

While art fans were scurrying about to the various venues sharing the New York City stage with sportsfans who were in town to witness Coco Gauff’s crowning achievement, on the other side of the world in the Philippines, hoopsters were being treated to a different brand of basketball at the FIBA World Cup, the toughest albeit not glitziest of international hoops tournaments. When all was said and done, the gold medal went to Germany who outlasted Serbia in the finals while Canada upset the USA in an overtime thriller for the bronze. That was a historic finish for Canada on the FIBA world stage and a major disappointment for the USA who fielded an all-NBA team - true, maybe not the best of the lot and three players were out with an undisclosed illness (bad pancit, maybe), but still, a great victory for Canada thanks to standout performances from Shai Gilgeous-Alexander who was named to the All-Tournament team and bronze medal game MVP NBA villain par excellence Dillon Brooks. Another huge positive stemming from the tournament was the show put on by Dennis Schröder who led the German team to the top podium finish. The speedy and crafty guard was named FIBA World Cup MVP and will be bringing his talents to Toronto. Let’s hope Flash can carry over his success to the Dinos as he steps into the prime ball handler role vacated by Steady Freddie’s departure. Something to look forward to.

For more information on any of the artists or works mentioned, the MoMA, the gallery exhibits and Schröder’s transition to the Dinos, “Just Google It”.

There you have it sportsfans,

MC Giggers

(www.mcgiggers.tumblr.com) Reporter’s Certification

I, MC Giggers, hereby certify that the views expressed in this report accurately reflect my personal views and that no part of my compensation was or will be, directly or indirectly, related to the specific views expressed herein.

I also certify that I may or may not own, directly or indirectly, works of artists mentioned in this report and that I may or may not have a strong bias for such artists and, more generally, for “Pictures of Nothing”.

[dovabunny]

Part 2 - (big) baby steps

Soap pov - under the cut

Price had warned him Ghost was difficult, spoke as if he was already apologizing for something the man did before Soap even met him. He alluded that Ghost doesn't allow anyone to touch him then quickly said bye and hung up.

But Soap knew the wounds a life in the military could leave, knew having walls and distrust. So he decided to do everything he can, even if Ghost still leaves.

He makes sure he isn't booked the hour before or after, so Ghost won't have to see anyone else.

He makes sure to use his softer incense to calm, instead of the sweeter ones for rejuvenation and 'happy vibes' as his sister calls it. Hell, he even takes extra time cleaning and doing his hair.

You'd swear the fuckin queen was coming and not a grumpy lieutenant.

Then the man was there. Ghost - Simon. With awkward shuffling feet, a voice deep and rough and sexy.

But even the air around Ghost, without a word, felt defensive and closed off.

But Soap was nothing if not stubborn and patient.

The first session was hardest, as he expected. He told Ghost to say when he's ready and turned away to busy himself with refilling oil containers while listening.

Ghost stood at the door for a long time, probably debating with himself.

A few minutes later he shuffled in and closed the door - progress! Soap thought he might want it open. But maybe the feeling of being closed off and hidden was something he found comfort in. He'll remember that.

"Jus take off yer outer clothes and on the bed, belly down."

Soap listened carefully while pretending he isn't. He hears laces and shoes, a pause, a belt buckle and heavy fabric...

It took a few minutes of shuffling and pauses and rustling before he heard the man sit on the bed and lay down.

Probably stiff as a board.

"Ok. 'M ready."

Soap kept his movements fluid and gentle, making enough noise that Ghost could tell where he was and what he was doing even with his head down, hoping it'll help settle his nerves.

At the first touch of skin he flinched so hard Soap braced for a punch, but got a mumbled 'sorry'.

Soap used his usual method, working in silence with light touches and hot oil.

But that didn't work on Ghost who just stayed tense as hell.

So Soap tuned himself into Ghost's body language and changed his approach according to what made him relax even a bit more.

Firm hands, broad strokes, an oil based cream that wasn't as slippery. When thumbs dug into his lower back he could feel a ripple through his body, but he quickly tensed as if ashamed of his reaction.

Okay. Distraction then.

So Soap talked.

He kept his voice low, didn't ask any questions, he just talked about anything and everything. It worked like a charm. With something to focus on besides his body Ghost started to finally thaw under his hands.

And Soap had to focus on keeping his voice steady and level and not reveal his own feelings.

Because what he felt.... It was expected that an experienced lieutenant in the special ops would have scars, but this... Between the usual scars were ones more sinister.

Burns, long strips of raised skin layer over each other, and small dips that felt like the skin had been cut away.

The man was a flight risk for a reason. Soap wouldn't pry but he felt for the man and made a promise to himself to do whatever the man needs.

Then his warmed hands moved to his neck and felt some kind of material that covered him from the neck up, he felt Ghost tense again. So he moved on without response, focusing on his broad shoulders while talking about his nudist neighbors.

That was 9months ago. Ghost had been so disoriented when he broke out of his relaxation, he left without paying. Soap was fine with that, till he got a call from the man himself asking when he could come again. Soap beaming a smile at no one in the room in happiness.

Ghost kept coming back. Sometimes twice a week, sometimes once every two weeks. Sometimes he was easy and calmed quickly, other times he came and went without making a sound.

Price rang him one day to ask how it was going cause from their end, Ghost was a changed man.

He walked with more confidence, stood straighter, didn't snap as quickly, and if things got rough instead of drinking or throwing rookies around in 'sparring practice' he'd get on the phone asking for an appointment, then leave the base for two hours.

Knowing that, at least in some small way, he had become Ghost's hiding place stirred a part of his heart he'd thought long dead.

That was a problem.

As was him having to adjust himself in his pants everytime Ghost moans in pained bliss.

Turns out Ghost was vocal.

Fuck.

GhostSoap AU Concept - blind love

Soap is an army vet who lost his sight in an explosion. He now works as a masseur, he's good with his hands and his options are limited.

Ghost is a scarred, disfigured man in pain with insecurities he hid behind thick walls and a mask.

Ghost's body is a mess of injuries old and new, he can't even remember what it's like to not be in pain but always pushes through it. That he's getting older doesn't help either.

Until his back locks up mid mission and he's left in pain that has him limping and wincing.

Price has had enough of him dodging the question and actually orders him to get it looked at. Ghost refuses. First, he will not take off his shirt in front of a stranger, and he most certainly will NOT let a stranger touch him.

Price sighs and says he knows just the place.

If it wasn't an order Ghost wouldn't be here, no way in hell. He's just gonna go in, tell the guy to say he was here and leave.

It's a small parlour, if it can even be called that. A small two story building with a tiny waiting room and a door leading to the back.

But it was at the edge of town away from the bustle of the city, the wilderness literally just across the river next to it.

It helped a bit, the place being so out of the way. Ghost appreciated privacy, after all.

There was no one in the waiting room, but the door jingled when he entered. Soon enough a voice yells 'with you in a sec!', accent thick and Scottish.

THAT was unexpected. He was expecting a woman, possibly old and creepy. It helped a little bit more.

Then the door to the back swung open and he lost his breath a little.

The man walks out with a beaming smile, hair in a fkn mohawk that somehow looked great on him, built like a damn rugby player.

But it was his eyes.

A striking deep blue, but clouded.

At Ghost's silence the man's smile is a bit more forced. "I can tell you're there, ya know."

Ghost snapped out of his daze and stuck out his hand in greeting, then felt like a fking idiot and yanked it back. "It's Ghost, I mean, Simon. Price called about me."

"Ah. The lieutenant! Price told me you might be a flight risk," he chuckled, but somehow it didn't feel condescending or cruel as laughter towards him usually was. It was friendly, warm.

He felt entirely off kilter.

"I'm John MacTavish, call me Soap." He stuck out his hand. Ghost took it and shook, feeling callouses on his soft hands.

"Kind of name is Soap?"

Soap smiled. "It was my call sign. Was called by it so long anything else feels odd."

"You're military?"

"Was. Just entered SAS when," he gestures at his eyes with a strained smile.

Ghost didn't know how to respond, which Soap must've picked up on too cause he quickly followed with a "So! Shall we get started?"

Without waiting for a response, Soap walked to the back, Ghost snapping out of it and following after a beat.

He stood in the doorway and looked around. It had soft lighting, soft music from somewhere that sounded almost Celtic, it smelled... Amazing. Gentle and warm, but no distinct scent he could place.

Soap was moving around with precision, washing his hands and putting things ready.

Ghost had fully intended to go through with his plan - pay the masseuse to tell Price he was here then leave. Maybe buy a heat patch form the pharmacy.

But here, now, in this room with Soap - a veteran who'll understand, who can't see how ugly disfigured he is...

He decides to give it a chance. For the first time since he became a dead man, he's going to get out of his shell and try to take care of himself, to stop waiting for his inevitable death and actually work towards getting better.

In the best hands he could wish for.