#ship: gilded chrome

[another-corpo-rat]

thinkin bout Victoria grabbing Smasher by the chest-carapace so that she can hike herself up and wrap her legs round his hips

[bexterbex]

A Soul to Mend His Own | Ch. 80

Warning, PLEASE CHECK TAGS IF YOU SEE SOMETHING YOU DON’T WANT TO READ THEN DON’T READ. | Tag lists are closed | INBOX OPEN

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Will tag as I go along, Will update tags, Slow Burn, Influenced by Star Trek and other Sci-Fi themes, References to We Happy Few, Tons of References and quotes to George Orwells 1984 see if you can find them all, The First Order is the new Big Brother,  but who is really surprised, Blatant Nazi Symbolism, Interrogation Themes, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Really just drawn out Slow Burn, Don’t repost without permission, Torture themes, Suggestive Themes, Execution themes, Disturbing Themes, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Verbal Abuse, Controlling Kylo Ren, Physical Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Possessive Kylo Ren, A character shamelessly based on Zelda

A Kylo Ren x Modern! Reader in a soulmate au with canon divergence. —————————————SLOWBURN————————————–

He is already the Supreme leader, searching the universe to find you, his Empress. Your name on his wrist has been the only constant in his life, while you have doubts about his existence and his acceptance of you. He isn’t in the database and why did the name Kylo Ren cover Ben Solo?

MASTERLIST

Chapter 80: Epilogue

You woke up alone, one of your least favorite things to do, right up there with presenting at public executions and planetary political banquets. You got up and headed to your dressing room, where you were attended by your two ladies-in-waiting. One heavily pregnant with her second child, and the other coming gracefully out of middle age. These were the two women who prepared you for war every single day, the ones who put you back together when you needed it. Today war would end, at least temporarily.

They dressed you and prepared you for the day. You took your breakfast peacefully out on the balcony like you did every morning. The planet had changed; it was no longer the dark dreary thing that you first saw, now it was thriving with life. A beautiful utopia, all built to please you as Empress and as a capital to build your Empire. It was now a planet that could see its sun, you watched as ships buzzed around in the atmosphere, your people were alive and thriving.

But you watched as one particular ship landed down beneath the palace, one that always caught your attention. A unique TIE Silencer. You were off to the palace entrance, servants and officers dodging out of your way as you stormed to the platform. You were lowered down to the surface of the planet, guarded by your trusty captain in silver armor, and her golden comrade. Both very used to keeping up with your quick paces and split-second decisions. You exited the palace with them at your heels; they knew your destination and were unconcerned about your immediate safety as a result.

You rushed to the ship, its pilot not yet departing it. You waited as patiently as you could as you watched the pilot disembark from the intimidating craft. His black uniform blending in with the ship itself. Both of which were now out of place in your bright planet. But you felt every molecule in you rejoice as your eyes made contact with the chrome encompassed visor. The pilot offered you their hand which you took, happily, the soft leather warm against your bare palm. You lead the pilot silently into the palace, your gilded guards leaving you. You waited patiently for the platform to lower you down into the big chamber. Guiding the pilot passed the large statues, and passed the throne and side chamber, into the little piece of hidden paradise within the palace.

Servants and staff dissipated when you entered, leaving you alone as you brought the pilot to the fountain in the middle, where you both sat down along the fountain’s edge. You leaned in and kissed the mouthpiece of his helmet before ordering it off. You were met with the beautiful eyes of your husband. You leaned in for another kiss, this time he held you against him. After a few moments of sweet bliss, and the only sounds to be heard were running water and of the birds in the garden, you spoke up.

“How was your mission?” You pushed back a lock of hair from his face. He looked as if he hasn’t aged a day since you first met him.

He gave you a peck on the lips before responding, “Good, the revolution of Jakku has been squashed. The leader executed, and all seems to be right in the galaxy once more.” He held you in his arms like a damsel in distress, like he was your personal savior, which wasn’t far off from the truth.

You smiled up at him. “And your home just in time for our anniversary tomorrow.” One of your hands braced itself against his broad chest, feeling the ribbing of his armor underneath it. A familiar texture that your body deemed as safe.

He kissed your forehead as you leaned against his chest, “Five years of marriage.” His hand rubbing circles into your back.

You made a small noise of contentment, “Five years of forever.” You could feel his Force energy surrounding you with a happy feeling, one that you now recognized as his version of love. Your husband was a complicated man, one you were the only person to understand, your match.

He chuckled at you scooting to get closer to him; he picked you up and placed you in his lap, his chin resting on the top of your head, just avoiding your Empress Crown. “Do you have anything special planned for us,” he asked. He knew you did, but he asked anyway.

You gently removed your head from out from under his, avoiding him being hit with the points of the crown. You looked up at him, with a face, “Of course I do, but do you have anything planned mister?” You crossed your arms over your chest.

He leaned in real close to your ear, “Of course I do, it is my number one priority, as guard dog to the Empress, to keep her happy.” His lips then caressed your cheek as they made their way to yours.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, allowing the kiss to deepen. It has been days since you last saw him, and you were worried about the small revolution taking too long and that he would miss your anniversary. You could stand strong without him, but everything was much easier when he was by your side. When the kiss broke, Kylo was the first to speak.

He teased, “So are we going to have a proper reunion, or are you going to make me wait until tomorrow?” His hands trailing down your sides before coming to rest and squeezing your ass.

After all these years your body still responded to his advancements with blush and squeals. Essentially a hormonal inexperienced teenager, but you two had been used to each other so much that it wasn’t the case. You could feel the heat growing between your legs.

You buried your face into his neck trying to hide your already evident blush, “A proper reunion.”

And that’s all he needed to carry you off out of the garden, down the hall, up a flight of stairs, down another hall, before dumping you onto your large bed. Causing a squeak from you before he climbed up over top of you. A proper reunion indeed.

You were two halves of the same soul, combined, mended together to become one. You saved him and he saved you, together you held the galaxy in your hands. Together all the stars were yours to have, all the stars in the galaxy were yours to share together. Both of your dreams came true, but together they were one dream, one soul, one eternity.

A/N: Thank you all for joining me on this journey, but the time is here my friends, the story must end. I want to thank every single one of you for leaving kind comments, likes and reblogs. It really does mean a lot to me that so many people like my story. I am glad to have shared a part of myself with you all. I hope you are well and happy my friends.

[kingquest]

II

There's a slow, burning tension in his leg. It pulses, aches, like a knot strung too tightly around some distant extremity, the pain reverberates through his bones and marrow and finally congeals somewhere in his head. Dizziness threatens to suffocate and lethargy pools with his blood; he's too distracted to notice the newfound scrapes and tears trailing up his torso.

His helmet weighs heavy against his chest. He stirs, struggling to pull his head up. He stares blearily at his boots, only half-noticing the binds that tie them. He glances at his leg, which by all accounts should be splattered against moonrock, only to find freshly applied bandages instead. A fibery gauze has been wrapped underneath his clothing, snug and bloody.

He tries to pull himself upward, but his muscles reject him. His back falls onto a rocky surface behind him, followed by his hands and elbows, both also bound.

"Morning."

He freezes. White noise gnaws at the following silence. Adrenaline shoots through him, his fingertips lighting up with stars, but no matter the strain, no matter the exertion, he still can't fucking move. It takes all of his willpower to jut out his chin just enough to get a better angle, to peer out from behind his mask to find the voice, and in the end the tendons in his neck scream nearly as loud as the bullet wound. His effort is finally rewarded with the sight of a terran sitting atop a storage device in front of him, a thermos in one hand and his own gun in the other. She smirks at him.

Recognition comes slow. The memory of how he got here is trudging behind. Still, when the other shoe drops, so does his gut. He tenses, fighting against the ropes, only for a headache to strike back with a vengeance.

Skullcap droops.

His target sneers.

She says, "I was worried you might not wake up. Some people don't."

She leans forward, the gun not leaving her hip. She squints.

"Seems like the paralyzer's still in you some. I'll have to let my tox man know."

Skullcap says nothing.

"It'll probably fade," she says. She sips at her drink, shrugging. "If it doesn't, well, I can at least say I tried to opt for mercy."

She sits, waiting. Her eyes roll over him, like she's sizing him up. She adjusts the gun ever so slightly, taking a glance at it. Skullcap keeps his mouth shut.

"I knew you were coming. I mean, obviously. What'd he say, 'alive, not dead?' Bet he wants a crack at me himself." She laughs, tilting her thermos back.

As she swallows, she goes silent, almost expectantly so. She tilts her head, pursing her lips. The back of her heel bounces off of her seat.

"You're making this so boring. The silent, intimidating thing doesn't work on me, babe. I've already got you cornered." She sighs. "Come on, don't you have any questions for your predecessor? Or were you just going to shoot me down?"

Skullcap doesn't have an answer for that. He watches her, his head hung low. His hands clasp and unclasp behind him.

She scoffs.

"If you're not going be any fun about this--"

"How do you figure this is mercy?"

Vaira's brows raise. Then she huffs a laugh.

"For one thing, I didn't take your silly little helmet off."

He sighs. It teeters on relief.

"That, and you're still breathing. Moron." She swings her legs. "Is it not enough that I wanted to meet you? I hear he's put quite a bit of stock in you."

Skullcap bristles.

"Though," she says, "he did send you on a bit of a suicide mission."

He clears his throat. "How's that?"

"Either he overestimates you or he underestimates me. And I'm fairly certain it's not the latter." She examines her nails. "The way I see it, it's more than likely there's a bug on your ship. Aside from the literal vermin you keep, of course. They're tracking you, so if you end up keeling over somewhere, they've got a better idea of where I am."

This flood of information is too much at once. He hesitates, processing. His kneejerk response is defensiveness. "It's... not vermin."

She laughs. "Do you even have a license for that thing? If it's your partner, you know you'd need a contract with the guild, yeah?"

Her words buzz around in Skullcap's head. They refuse to stick. He just stares at her, adjusting his arms.

She waves dismissively. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. Besides, we've gotten so off track anyhow." In a quick gesture, she leans behind her, his gun unmoving. She plucks a tablet out from somewhere, scanning through it.

"Shocked we couldn't get a proper name on you. I would've dug further, but," she gestures to her surroundings. "Let's see. God, Typhor? Of all places? I suppose that was a given, but... still." She grimaces.

She glances up at him, scrutinizing. She adds, as if speaking to herself, "I wonder if he pulled you by your scruff from the dunes or if you actually wax pious. I've seen those scars of yours; my initial assumption feels apt, but I could be wrong. Either way, he's got you hooked somehow."

Skullcap pushes himself forward, heat gathering in his throat and jaw. "Now, look--"

"--You've had some decent jobs," she says, as if he'd said nothing at all. "But you've also had some real shit ones. I heard you shot someone in court." She clicks her tongue.

He stifles a groan. "None of this is any concern to you. It isn't your business."

"Honey," she says. "I've already strip-searched you. And dressed your wound--"

"From your bullet."

"--Which was an act of kindness on my part that none will see the likes of again. May I remind you, you were sent to disable me, or perhaps even kill me, so therefore I consider myself privy to all your dirty little secrets. Unless you'd like to do something about it?"

Skullcap stares at her. She leers.

"I thought not. Now, where were we?"

"Can you just cut to the goddamn chase? Please? If you're gonna kill me, get on with it, but if not--"

"Do they not have rapport in Typhor? Or do they just shoot people down like bloody dogs when they disagree?"

Skullcap's head tilts, indignant. She sighs.

"I suppose you're right. Even still, there's nothing wrong with a little conversation. I'd prefer that over a bullet in my head. And it's not like you introduced yourself. You just stormed into what you assumed was my hideout, gun drawn. Where are you manners, Skully?"

They watch each other wordlessly. Her nails tap rhythmically against the aluminum of her thermos. Her brow is quirked. His helmet hangs low, his eyes cast over in shadow. If no one knew any better, it'd be easy to assume there was nothing behind the gaping holes of his headwear at all.

It dawns on him that she, however, isn't so easily fooled. It's like she stares right through him, past the metal and chrome. Like her pupils are little scalpels, probing and dissecting. He believes that she's true enough to her word, that she didn't remove it, only because he's not sure if it would even matter if she had. She's playing like she's already seen everyone else's hand, and yet the only other player at the table that's losing is him.

He grunts. She huffs a laugh.

"Perhaps they don't teach you any of those on Typhor either." She shifts her legs, refolding them. "Would you prefer that I go first?"

Silence. He is trying to stop himself from sinking lower onto the floor.

"Very well." She straightens herself, extending her hand as if she wasn't several meters away and his hands weren't already bound. "Allow me to make your acquaintance. My name is Vaira Talwar and I'll be your mark this evening. Welcome to my home away from home."

Vaira gestures to the cave surrounding them. The humidity compresses into him; he's able to make out a distant dripping of water. The caves probably lead to a reservoir, or something of that nature. Must be how she's survived.

"I'm sure you've met my partner on the way in. She was very excited to meet you."

He stutters then, as if buffering. His helmet raises to see her better; her expression is stone, smug. He was warned of no accomplice. Her eyes brighten considerably, as if the helmet's somehow conveyed his alarm. Her mouth twists into a smirk.

She sets her drink down, raising her fingers to her lips. She whistles a sharp, airy sound unlike anything he's ever heard, and in an instant, the dim light behind him is blotted out by a massive silhouette. The shadow cuts through the cave's stilled air as dust swarms behind it, loose particles filtering in from underneath his helmet. He coughs through it, unable to wave away space to breathe, and once the debris settles and his breath is steady enough to see, he is filled with a deep understanding, one that piles onto to the preexisting load of dread hanging in his chest.

Vaira's arm is outstretched, covered with a metallic sleeve he doesn't remember seeing her put on. It's armored fabric, perfectly able to support the massive talons of her apparent partner. The thing's feathered head tilts at him, brassy and angular. Its beak comes to a wicked point and, at a passing glance, seems to have been gilded with gold. Vaira clicks her tongue at it and it shrieks, its golden eyes not leaving him. She places the gun down long enough to run her fingers through its feathery chin.

"Aquila, Skullcap. Skullcap, Aquila." She leans forward, cupping her hand over her mouth as if relaying a secret. "And of course, she's a guild member. Licensed and everything. I'd hate to get fined, or worse!" She barks a laugh. The eagle ruffles its feathers.

Skullcap simmers. Of course, she takes notice.

"Come on. Don't be so chuffed. It's not my fault they didn't warn you, is it?" She adjusts her arm and Aquila shimmies to her shoulder. Vaira points to her claws. "If you're wondering what exactly you've got running through you, take a look."

At second glance, the points of the bird's central nails shift into an almost transparent finish; a middle-ground between grey and pink. They're hooked inward and almost... hollow looking. Like fangs, he realizes. The weight from his chest spreads through him like nausea.

Vaira, unphased, coos at the monster upon her shoulder. It preens in return, chittering from somewhere within its throat.

"I've always been the type to work from above," she says, "but Aquila can see what even I can't. It's why we work together so well." Vaira pauses, not once casting a wayward eye back to Skullcap. "I've got a mate who distills her toxins. The bullet breaks down with its own velocity and melts like butter on impact. Penetrates, but not enough to shred through entirely. Just enough to dig through to an artery."

She turns back to him now, her grin slow and easy. "It's a bounty hunter's best friend."

Skullcap opts to stare. He would rather not give her the satisfaction.

Her expression gradually flattens. Her eyes roll. She shakes out her shoulder and Aquila jumps, swoops over him, and perches behind his rock; her shadow looms before him.

"I weep for our mutual friend's taste. Seems like it's worsened since I knew him. Maybe he thinks boring would keep him safer. Or at least, less likely to lose his new favorite toy."

"I'm mostly wondering what this is all leading up to."

She pauses. "Oh?"

"At this point," he says, "You've had ample chances to kill me. Between your gun, my gun, and whatever the hell she is, the way I see it, you're either stalling or you're lonely."

Vaira's brows raise. Her lips purse. Skullcap can't quite read her expression. He talks past it regardless.

"So," he says, "which is it? You keep talking about him, but as far as I'm concerned, you're the one who ran out on him. Just now figuring out crime doesn't pay?"

Her cheeks twitch. The corners of her lips draw deeper into her face, panning out into a barely restrained simper, before the first peal of laughter escapes her lungs entirely. She's overwhelmed just as quick, nearly doubling over and off her seat. He watches her wipe a false tear from her cheek with her shooting hand's pinkie and even as she composes herself, she's racked with occasional chuckles.

"You think--" she pauses to laugh, "--You think I'm lonely? You think I'm lonely because I quit my job?"

"Now I didn't say that."

Vaira throws her head back. She leans forward again with an amused sigh, shaking her head.

"Listen babe. You've got me all wrong. Let me tell you something." She leans forward, almost conspiratorial. Her voice drops to a whisper. "I've never felt more free in my goddamn life."

She drops her legs from the container, sliding off into a stand. She takes a step closer, his gun dangling at her thigh.

"And maybe," she says, "maybe if you'd open your eyes for once, you'd see I'm trying to pay you a fucking kindness. Mercy, remember?"

He squints. "I don't follow."

Vaira takes a deep, dramatic breath. Her thumb digs into her brow. "Fuck, mate. Are you really this dense? I'm trying to give you an out."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Do you even hear yourself?" She scoffs. "Of course I've had ample time to kill you. I could've done it a dozen times now." She lifts the gun, shuts an eye and takes aim. "Bang. You're dead. Or, bang," she points somewhere lower, "Dead again. It's so easy I could do it in my fucking sleep. But I haven't. Because here's the part you're missing, you stupid arsehole; we can be of mutual aid to each other."

He feels like she's struck him across the helmet with the gun. He works through the false tinnitus.

"What about any of this is mutual?"

"Must I spell it out for you?" She rolls her eyes, taking a step forward. "I'm letting you live. I'm letting you live so that you can let me live. And if we're lucky, we can both get out of this rotten deal we've found ourselves in."

"You mean... this?"

"No," she says, "his deal."

He hesitates, considering this for a moment. "There's no deal. I'm a freelancer."

"I thought that too. Like I said; I'm your predecessor, mate. In every sense." Her expression shifts. Humor leaves her in waves. "I was independent until, one day, I woke up and I wasn't."

They hadn't told him that, either.

"So, what?" He shifts his weight, the joints of his hands afflicted by pins. "You just up and left?"

She turns to stare at him for a moment. "How long have you been under his employment?"

"You're avoiding the question."

"I'm gauging how I'll answer. You go first."

His breath gets caught between a groan and a sigh. Every exchange is a new defeat.

"Two jobs," he says.

For an instance, a fragment of a second, something close to sympathy--or empathy?--softens her features. As soon as it comes, her natural sharpness returns.

"Then you don't know what he is. You can't see how deep in it you are yet."

"So," his brow furrows behind the helmet, "you're saying that if I help you now, you'll be doing me some favor by... what, saving me from the very same man that hired me to catch you?"

"Something along those lines."

"Right," he says. "Alright. Question."

"Shoot."

"Is your head screwed on right?" He lifts his neck, measuring his own strength. "How dumb do you think I am?"

A laugh rumbles in her chest in spite of his tone. "I don't think you want me to answer that."

"Har har." He huffs. "Can we be serious? I mean, why in the name of anything would I believe you, Kingfisher? After all of this?"

She brushes her hair back. She inhales slow. "Look. I know this seems like a classic case of the devil you know versus the devil you don't, but I'm trying to play in good faith. I'm turning a new leaf, yeah? I don't know how much of my reputation you've caught wind of, but--"

"--You killed eight people. Nine, if we're counting the decoy from the cave. 'Far as I know, that's all I need to know."

"Eight still," she replies, "But even then, they were eight bad people. Eight people who have been around him much longer than I have and still want nothing more than to exist in his shadow, hoping he'll even pass a glance towards them." She purses her lips with a sigh through her nose. "I'm not naive nor insane enough to suggest that what I did set them free, that it was justified somehow, but if I was so deluded as to fall completely victim to his bullshit like that, I'd rather die."

He hums. "Is this supposed to get me to believe you?"

She rubs the bridge of her nose. "Alright. Sure. Think of me as awful or evil or whatever the hell you want. Go on. I don't need to explain myself to you and, quite frankly, I don't care to." She shifts, jutting a finger out at him. "But I need you to know--to realize--that whatever you think I am or however you see me, he's ten times as bad. He's the worst kind of person there is, hell, even calling him a person would be an undeserved compliment."

He watches her jaw clench, the strain of the tendons in her cheeks. Her gaze drifts, following a thought unseen, before she trains herself upon Skullcap again.

"He's a monster," she says. "The kind that makes running with an inevitable bounty seem like a far better alternative."

A chorus of thoughts speak over each other, everything suddenly hurtling toward him too quickly. It muddles together, registering more like the echo of blood against the shell of his ear. His focus becomes overwhelmed by parsing through each voice before it dissolves into nothing, his judgement clouds over. He feels himself approaching a threshold of a decision, whether to believe her or not, and while his senses scream at him to deny her, to resolve himself against her, there's something else there, something that's pleading with him to hear her out. It comes anytime he looks at her now, anytime she stares back, and despite her hard expression, despite the tension in her frame, her eyes refuse to settle. They wander, searching, almost uncertain. Or desperate, he thinks. He's seen desperate before in marks, but not quite like this. Not quite so... reliant.

Frustration burns like acid in his gut, rising through his chest and drying his tongue and he's not sure if it comes from her or his own mental strife. His boot wiggles in its binds.

"If you were anything like me," she says, like she's read his mind, "you'd have your eye on this gun. You'd be waiting for me to slip up, for my grip to falter. Waiting for your chance. You wouldn't even be listening to me, you'd just watch and wait."

"Look--"

"--But you're not like me. I've read your files. I studied your cases, waiting for you to show up. I had a hard time figuring out what drives you at first, but I'd neglected to consider Occam's razor. A good shooting hand can pay for most meals, can't it?"

He doesn't respond.

"But you don't go for the messy jobs. You'd rather take shit pay for something that'll let you sleep at night. Sure, you're a killer, but you've got a conscience. More than most of us can say for ourselves."

"What's your point," he says.

"You want to know what I'm saving you from?" She lowers herself to her haunches in front of him, her forearms resting over her knees. "I'm saving you from becoming like me. So you don't have to look at yourself in the mirror and ask yourself how your decent heart ever turned so black."

He mulls on that. The flood of thoughts have softened to an erratic buzz.

He clings to his instincts, clearing his throat. "But you don't care about that. You're not even doing this for me. You're doing it to get an extension on your clock. And at the same time, you want to drag me down with you." He pauses. "I'll end up like you all the same. Running for the rest of my life."

Her brow twitches. "Isn't that better than losing your integrity? Or, hell, your sense of self?"

He isn't sure. The acid builds.

He shakes his head, pushing his doubt away. "The way you talk about him like that, it--it's ridiculous. I've got no reason to suspect him the way you say."

A memory unclogs itself and bubbles upward, but his trust is an ever-moving metronome. He hesitates, uneasy. He swallows harshly before opting to share. "You were right. He wants you back breathing. But he didn't seem angry so much as he seemed... disappointed. Or something between the two."

Her eyes narrow. "Betrayed?"

"Kinda," he says. "The impression I got was he wanted to, well, negotiate your terms."

Vaira's brow creases. No words follow. She instead focuses intently on his helmet, almost studious, her mouth pressed into a firm line.

"All I'm saying is--"

"--You're wrong," she says. "Your impression was wrong. You were lied to."

"How do I know that? Better yet, how do I know you aren't lying?"

"I don't have any reason to lie. I could've just killed you."

"You have every reason to lie," he says. "But I reckon that's a fair point."

"If you're so concerned with thinking I'm bullshitting you, then I'd like to make myself tremendously clear, for a moment. If we're being honest and all that."

Her voice lowers. She leans forward. "If you decide to take him at his word and bring me back to him, if it even crosses your mind, I swear to everything in my life I hold dear that I will not stop fighting you until one of the two of us is dead. And if you get the upperhand somehow, if you get your chance, I want you to promise me you won't miss."

He flinches. The air gets caught in his chest.

She adds, "They'll punish you less for that, if it helps. Better to lose one plaything than two."

The thoughts in his head have gone quiet all together. The metronome's gears grind.

He speaks again after a spell. "Say I believe you," he measures his words carefully. "Say I'm in. What then?"

Her expression clears ever so slightly. "Then we find the bug on your ship."

"My ship," he repeats.

"The three of us won't fit in mine," she says, simply. "We find it, tear it out, and leave it here. They'll send someone else in your place and by that time, we'll be long gone. I know a few good hiding spots, I'm sure you do too. You can drop me off somewhere, if it so bloody pleases you. It's easier for you; no one knows your face, your name. I could change mine I suppose, maybe swap species entirely."

"You might have the cash for something like this. But I sure as hell don't."

Vaira snickers. "Well, that's easy. I'm greedy, not stingy."

"We're still fucked, Kingfisher, no way around it."

"You've been fucked," she says. "You've been fucked since he found you as my replacement. I'm trying to unfuck you, 'Cap. This is our only chance."

His helmet lulls. Anxiety leeches the warmth from his hands.

"You offered a pretty good deal earlier, you know. If I shoot you, everybody gets off square, justice gets dealt. This shit fades, we'll be in my ship, I get a gun and it's over. What's to stop me from doing that?"

"You won't," she says.

"I won't," he repeats.

"No." She's smirking now, white glinting past her lips. "Because you're not like me."

His head jerks back. "What's that got anything to do with it?"

"For starters, you didn't notice that I lowered the gun ages ago."

His eye follows her arm. His gun sits between her knees, rocking back and forth, its grip held loosely between her thumb and index finger.

Skullcap exhales slow.

"That ain't any fair."

She snaps the gun back into her palm before he decides to prove her wrong. It's twirled into the holster on her leg and she stands with it, her hands finding her hips. She towers over him, shifting her weight to one leg.

"What is, in this business?"

From the ground, he isn't in a position to argue with that. He redirects instead.

"You sure keep acting like my opinion matters any, like I got some say."

"You're not a hostage," she says. "We'd be working together."

"Sure doesn't feel like it from here."

Vaira hums. "Do you trust me?"

"What do you think?"

"Then the feeling's mutual," she says. "And until you trust me, I can't trust you. But."

"But?"

"I'd like to. And I understand that earning your trust is not an easy feat, but we can work on it."

He laughs dryly through his nose. "You could start by untying me."

"You're so cute." She sighs. "Fine. Little by little. I'm not such a hard arse that I'll drag you there again this time. I'll free your legs once I'm ready."

"On the flip side of things, then." He readjusts, finally able to bend his knees through the binding. "What if I say no?"

She shrugs. "Would you prefer being left to die?"

He gestures loosely with his shoulders. "But wouldn't that be easier? What exactly do you gain from taking me?"

Her head tilts. She narrows her eyes, as if in thought. Her cheek twitches.

After a moment she says, "I'm not entirely sure." She sucks air through her teeth. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I am lonely. It's nice having someone to talk to after so long. Or, well, someone who talks back." She glances at the shadow behind him. "Sorry, my love."

The bird snaps its beak.

Skullcap dwells on her words. It was an intuition he'd pulled out from somewhere, but with hindsight, perhaps it'd been projection. For the first time he considers if this is some universal hunter experience, why so often those of his creed join together as a group. He reflects on his many hours spent within silence, between his own breath and the groan of his ship's hull. Sometimes he didn't mind it. Sometimes he did.

He wonders how Vaira spends her time alone. He wonders how she copes.

These ideas come at a surprise to him and he wills them away. They recede, but not far.

"Right." She bursts through his bubble and he jerks back into focus. "Well, I'm going to collect my things. Let me know what you decide. Or if you, ah, need anything."

She turns on her heel, stepping beyond the storage device, deeper into the cave. He hears the pull of metal across dirt and rock, the opening and closing of clasps unseen. Her head bobs distantly, wandering deeper into the stretch of cavern than he realized initially existed.

Aquila's nails drag across the rock above him, as if to remind him of her presence. He doesn't concern himself with it. Instead, he deflates with a breath he hadn't realized had accumulated, shrinking into the stone at his back. Neither his judgement nor his morals have any answers left to give him now. He visualizes his thoughts as a mass of white, intangible and empty. He opts to go limp, then, letting his head fall back with a clunk as he stares at the clusters of moonrock above.

He can't help but ask himself what she would do in his position. Then he realizes, of course, she'd already given him her answer. A gun provides an easy solution to any ethical dilemma.

Her earlier threat suddenly returns to him and settles anew, like something raw in his stomach. He suppresses a shudder. Skullcap has to remind himself that easy does not always mean just. Too many unanswered questions. Too much doubt.

His thoughts then, naturally, turn to the emperor. Skullcap cannot reconcile his own predicament with even the smallest proximity to Zusk; it's like his parts can't fit right in the picture, like if he willed it, the matter would simply dissolve before him. But as he considers it, he can't quite visualize how Zusk would address any transgression against him. The various middle men he's sent to deal with Skullcap can only convey so much about him, let alone his motives. Vaira's bias threatens to sway him; was that his intent all along? Or just an inadvertent flaw illuminated by hindsight?

Skullcap didn't know. He doesn't know. The uncertainty churns away at his insides and his knuckles dig into his forearms. He isn't sure what's worse: stuck, forced idle, waiting at an unknown precipice or not knowing which way he'd run even if he could.

So he opts to breathe. To focus on each breath as if it were his last, to savor them like a last meal. Every inhale welcomes a new exhale, another tick of the clock that he can claim as his own, something definitively his.

Until he's forced to move, to act, at least he will have this. At least this solution was still his own.

[border-spam]

Seifa’s thoughts on isolation and the loss of her friends and the twins, having fled the Holy City towards late COV.

She mostly deals with it by being so goddamn angry with herself.

Every new update from the city is a reminder of her utter failings over the last 5 years. She fucked up. Completely and utterly. She made every wrong choice she could have. She walked straight into every mistake that she should have been smart enough to see coming, and she’s pissed. Constantly pissed with herself.

It’s inescapable, there is no one else to blame. 

If a friend had told her they were planning on taking the steps she had - settling with a cult, not cutting ties with its leaders even if she cared about them, putting down roots when that way of life had never worked out before, she would have laughed at their naivety. And still, she’d charged ahead and done it all anyway. like she was better than the people she would have advised against it, as if it wasn’t going to be a mistake if she did it. Like things were somehow going to work out because it was HER making these shitty choices and not someone else… stupid, egotistical moron.

She wasn’t herself out here, she was lonely, something Sei had never felt before, had never been in a position to feel. Really lonely, and the messages from oil hands, friends in the city, or traders with ears on the ground and fingers on their ship ignitions ready to rocket off planet and pretend they’d never heard of the Children Of The Vault? They just keep cutting deeper.

Ven, JK, Eli, a hundred scarred faces of mechs and engineers with missing teeth and twinkling eyes, drinking buddies, hell, even some of the clergy - she’d had friends there and nothing on this off planet base. Just a title and a lot of fearful glances, the luxury quarters of a Saint and the lingering fear of being hunted down as one. Thank fuck she still seemed to have friends in very high places… but then again, that was one of her mistakes.

She’d let people in, given little pieces of Seifa to those she cared about rather than hoarding those facets safely like she always had before. Now she was weak, isolated on this shitty little dead planet surrounded by asslickers and morons, spread too thin and too far apart in the hands of other people to be safe and whole in herself anymore. She wasn’t a rock, she didn’t feel like her. She was unsure.

Sei had put down roots on Pandora when she’d known damn well it was a bad idea. She’d played pretend that this was a long term gig, that it wouldn’t go tits up for once, that she’d be able to scrape out some mockery of a life with the same faces and the same friendships and a family of some sort. Stupid. That wasn’t something people like her got, she’d.. she’d set up a home for fuck’s sake, hung ornaments from the ceiling, potted goddamn plants like a little girl playing house. Idiot.

There was a strain in Eli’s messages, his upbeat friendliness didn’t flow the way it used to, voice mails had an edge to his laughs, the energy wasn’t there. He was drained, the world she’d run from was weighing heavy on someone who didn’t deserve the burden or the pain. His brother was breaking and it was impossible to miss. 

Ven would drop painful truths in between jokes with her when they would call or message, he’d share updates on the city and districts. Hint that Troy was pushing him far further than he could manage, demanding flawless results in every project or operation the departments he managed ran, then turning on Ven if he hadn’t warned of poor outcomes when the inevitable happened. That hadn’t been part of his contract, that wasn’t his job. 

Ven’s foresight had been offered to the twins as a way of steering major choices towards the best possibilities, but he’d been clear even when he first approached them that Siren touched futures were blurry and difficult to read. He’d guide them, and he had in return for the medical support Eli needed like they’d agreed on when he joined the cult, but Troy’s desperate fixation on perfectionism was eating him alive while working him to the bone. Ven was losing himself to exhaustion and fear of what would happen to his brother if he stopped being useful to Tyreen… and Seifa wasn’t there to help.

Jak-Knife would send on photos mostly, things they thought would make her smile. Landscapes, the dunes at night, the lower city in the early morning as grates steamed and cool sunlight gleamed off chrome and neon. Delicate waxy petals of desert blossoms, a flock of Rak outlined against the moons. Their text updates were sporadic, they had still been learning to read and write when she’d left, but Ven filled her in often. 

They were falling apart. Weight lost and muscle heavy over bones now, The Blight Devil was torn between serving the twins and protecting their people. Troy’s Vanguard and the Crusaders as a whole were stretched thin, overworked. JK was leading raid after raid with no time to rest, being pushed as hard and for the hours on end that Troy forced himself to, and Ven’s concern was palpable. 

They were going to get hurt, he’d said. And they had. She wasn’t sure if it was the injury, or the betrayal of a brother’s cruel claws that would take longer to heal.

She missed the twins desperately. Both of them differently, but both of them still. 

Tyreen was terrifying even now. Every time a new message arrived treating this situation like it didn’t exist, like everything was normal and she hadn’t spent a year threatening Seifa with gallows humor and a smile that never reached her eyes, she felt that grim panic again. Even then, she missed her so much. Missed that beautiful girl with the laugh like tinkling glass and nothing but a drive to be loved fueling her. Missed the late nights, the long talks, the bitching about a lanky asshole.

Troy… she’d let Troy get far too close, and he was eating her alive. 

Another stupid fucking mistake she knew was wrong but had walked into regardless, like she had pretended she couldn’t see it coming. She’d said it wouldn’t happen again, promised herself that “love” shit was over well before she’d met the twins, and yet it had happened anyway. He’d been so broken and so alone. She’d cared too much, pitied him enough that she’d slowly, painlessly, split her ribs apart and taken him in, embraced the flickering light of who she saw he could be if given the chance.

She’d protected him inside the cage of herself for so long that she’d not even noticed when it was he’d sunk gilded fangs into her heart. God, she wanted to fucking dig him out now, claw him out of her chest like rot, but it was too late. She’d been too stupid. Cutting him away now would bleed her dry. She couldn’t even run properly because of him, and that’s all she’d ever been really.. good at. Running, being free, now she was trapped by the threads she’d woven herself into willingly, it was all her fault.

He wouldn’t respond, and being ignored would be bearable if he wasn’t still sending her things. The idiot, the pathetic joke of a man, refusing to reply to any of her concerns but still making sure she knew he was thinking about her, like the packages of components she’d mentioned being interested in years ago, or the gifts of jewelry that suited her better than any she’d think of choosing meant anything in comparison to just saying sorry. Like he was punishing himself by refusing to communicate and not understanding how much it was hurting her too.

God.

She found herself often thinking she never should have helped them. That if she’d laughed at Ty, kept walking and ignored her pleads for help instead, maybe she would have found someone else in that junk yard. Someone who would have helped her and Troy properly.. helped them better than a train wreck like Seifa could have, and they would have turned out ok.

Maybe all three of them would be happy, the COV wouldn’t be scouring across Pandora like a cancer, maybe in the end it was all her fault for pretending to be a good person and helping, when she knew damn well she wasn’t. She was just trash, it was all she’d ever really been.

The updates from planet side confirming what she knew would happen just made it worse, every day. Rubbed in the failures, made her ignored messages sting sharper. She missed her friends. She missed the Twins she’d known, she missed that stupid, pointless fake little life she’d lied to herself she might have. Every day is just another tick on a sheet, a fraction of herself and the woman she was slipping away, and a step closer to running and never looking back.

Asks are Open!

[quirkykayleetam]

The Courier: Cloud City

“Cloud City is a beautiful place to die,” the smuggler said.  The muzzle of his blaster pressed into the Courier’s back.  “After all, where else can you get this view?”

Pressing the Courier against the gilded silver railing of the balcony, he gestured at the sky.

The pair stood at the very top of Cloud City’s 100-story dome.  Around and beneath them clouds, soft and white, filled the robin’s egg blue of the sky.  Tourists and drivers in cloud cars zipped through the space around the station, leaving slight streaks of silver in the ether

It was beautiful from the top, sure, but the Courier couldn’t help looking down.

Perched 59,000 kilometers above the planet Bespin, Cloud City promised a sickening death for anyone who stepped of its beautifully crafted pleasure decks.  Its domed upper stories tapered off into a straight spindle that held the station’s Tibanna gas mines and the homes of its miners.  The smooth silver chrome of its sides gleamed in the sunlight, but didn’t allow any hand holds for anyone scrambling for life as they fell.

The Courier’s head spun as she contemplated the dizzying drop.

Her captor twitched the blaster and the Courier turned to face him.  Her back pressed painfully into the railing, the only thing keeping her alive.

“Now, we both know I could just shoot you.  I’ve done more to thieves for less.  But I’d rather not disturb these fine folks.”

The smuggler spared a glance for the crowds around them, dressed in feathers and gold, betting more on the spin of a single roulette wheel than most citizens of Cloud City would see in a year.  The Pair O’Dice casino was for the best of the best.

“So why don’t we handle this quietly?  You have to ask yourself,” he said, shaking the metal briefcase he held in his left hand, “is this tech really worth you life?”

The Courier could barely hear her answer over the blood thumping in her ears.

“Yes,” she said.

In one fluid motion, she lunged.

Her right hand struck true, shocking the smuggler with a hand buzzer she kept hidden in her sleeve.  It hurt him just enough to pry his fingers from the handle of the briefcase.  The Courier grabbed it, her mind already planning her escape.

Her left hand, moving to grab the blaster, was less successful.  The smuggler cursed and pulled the trigger.

Pain.

While the Courier was able to stop the shot from hitting her in her stomach, it blasted a hole in her right thigh.  The shot burned, charring a hole in the Courier’s leather pants, through her skin, straight to the bone.

Worse, the power of the blast threw her backwards.  The Courier hit the railing at an angle, failed to right herself, and plunged over the side.

It happened so fast that no one heard her scream.

The Courier fell.

Clouds that only seconds ago looked solid and fluffy disappeared beneath her in a puff of water vapor.  It coated her jacket and windswept hair.  Gods, it was cold.

The Courier’s stomach launched itself into her throat.  She tried to just breathe.

It wouldn’t be the fall that would kill her.  The Courier knew she would be dead long before that.  As soon as she fell through the Life Zone that surrounded the City, the percentage of oxygen in the atmosphere would change.  Eventually more and more hydrogen would fill her lungs and she’d die choking long before her lifeless body hit the surface of Bespin below.

The Courier clutched the briefcase to her chest.  She closed her eyes.

The force of impact took her by surprise.

The open cargo bay of the short-reach freighter was filled with the thickest mattresses the Courier could purchase on short notice.  That didn’t stop the Courier from hitting the ship hard enough to break at least two ribs, jostle her wounded leg, and pepper her body with more bruises than she wanted to think about.  She whited out for a moment before staggering to her feet.

If she thought breathing was hard before, it was down-right agony now.  Every gasp she took sent knives searing through her chest, making her want to gasp even more.  Just standing, all weight on her uninjured right leg was painful.  Moving was going to be excruciating.

Still, she could see the freighter’s captain moving in the cab.  By now he would have discovered that she’d chartered his ship to park at that particular spot for illegal reasons, not to unload his cargo.  He would be contacting the authorities as she panted behind him.

She was alive and she had the case.  That’s what was important.

With a labored weaze, the Courier took off down the corridor in front of her.  It didn’t take long for the authorities to catch up.

The lower 50 floors of Cloud City were filled with sprawling markets, some more legal than others.  Black market tech flourished.  It was what had brought the Courier here in the first place.

She winced as she jumped over a cart of hyperdrive generators, landing hard on her wounded leg.  She was lucky that Cloud City furnished its interiors with white foam padding.  It was ripped here and there in the lower decks, but it still allowed the Courier to perform more acrobatic maneuvers than she usually would.  That was probably the only thing that kept her out of range of the authority’s stun guns.

Grunting, the fugitive jumped into a work hatch.  There was a ladder, but she didn’t take the time to use it.  She simply gripped the rails loosely and slid down as quickly as she could.

The Courier tried counting floors, but the pain in her chest compounded with dizziness in her head from lack of oxygen made it hard to concentrate.  She’d have to risk it.  Without looking behind her, she picked a work tunnel and ran off.

As soon as she made it through the mine’s double doors, she risked a sigh of relief.  The lights were blue.  

When Cloud City started its gas mining operation, they recruited Ugnaughts, short porcine humanoids from the planet Gentes to staff the undertaking.  While the Courier loved the aliens, especially for their undying loyalty and brilliant drinking songs, she did not relish interrupting one while it was focused on its work.  Most urgently, Ugnaught work tunnels weren’t made for human transport.  Bathed in red light they were small and oddly shaped.  The Courier would be cornered if she ended up in one.

There was pounded on the door behind her.  The Courier was running out of time.

Last ditch effect it was then.

Gathering together the last of her energy, the Courier pressed the big red button beside her, held her breath, and ran for her life.

Tibanna gas from the city’s mines was expensive, but it couldn’t be sold until it was condense into a solid.  That meant that each work tunnel contained a carbon-freeze chamber that could flash-freeze anything to 0 degrees Kelvin in less than a second.

The Courier heard shouting behind, but she didn’t look back.  She didn’t have the time.  When she hit that button, she filled the corridor around her with gas.  When it reached capacity, the chamber would activate, freezing everything inside.  The Courier had to make it out before then without inhaling Tibana into her lungs.

The doors the Courier needed to reach were right in front of her.  If she reached out her hand, she thought she could feel them.  But they were already closing, ready to seal the tunnel off and her vision was going black around the edges as her aching chest demanded air, air, air.

Closing her eyes, the Courier jumped, aiming to torpedo her body through the closing hole in the middle of the doors.  It wasn’t graceful.  Her wounded leg hit the side of the shrinking doorway, leaving blood and burned cloth behind.  That knocked her body sideways so her shoulder hit too with a sickening crunch.  In the end, the Courier had to hit the ground flailing, crawling forward desperately so her feet wouldn’t get crushed behind her.

But she made it.  She clutched the suitcase to her chest and breathed.

She was alive.  She had the tech.  Nobody was going to stop her now.

***

It took the Courier several hours to maneuver her way back up a few floors from where she landed.  Her object was in the middle of the city’s winding white corridors, but she found it eventually.  It was what she did.

There was a door.  The Courier knocked.

“Delivery for Ginnifer Oswin.”

“We...I didn’t order anything,” the young woman at the door said.

The Courier undid the buckle on the briefcase, showing her what was inside.

“No, but I think you’ll want this.”

“Oh…!  I mean...we....”  She almost dropped the suitcase in her urge to get at it, turning behind her at the same time.  “Lena!  Lena, you won’t believe…!”

When she looked again, the Courier was gone.

Inside the cramped miner’s apartment, Ginnifer Oswin took the device out of the briefcase and applied it to her 8-year-old daughter’s spine.  It sank into the skin, fusing with the vertebrae there and sending wiring throughout the whole of the girl’s nervous system.

“Mom?  Mom!” Lena cried out.  “I can feel my toes!”

For the first time in years the paralized girl took a step on her own.

Somewhere in the depths of the station, the Courier limped away, smiling.

For Lena and her mother, she thought, Cloud City should be a beautiful place to live.

Hello!  This is fulfilling the “Hurts to Breathe” square for @badthingshappenbingo​

It’s was also part of a challenge for me to write “Environmental Whump” in an otherworldly venue.  I must confess that Cloud City is not my invention.  It belongs to the Star Wars universe and can be read about extensively on Wookiepedia.  I hope you’ll find that I did my research well.

Tagging some folks who were interested in this piece: @stoic-whumpee​, @untilthepainstarts​, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog​, @whumposaurus​, @burtlederp​, @straight-to-the-pain​

[fearfcrged]

@vateras​ asked: “Flashback” 

The door fell with a resonating crash. Ravid’s dance partner startled and the boy almost fell from the air as her hands slipped. He did a half-somersault and landed on the banister, regaining his balance. Soldiers clad in all white armor marched in, spreading out into pairs, breaking off down the hallways and up the massive staircase.

❝Sorry, sorry.❞ Ashara was white-faced as she apologized, grasping his waist as he climbed down. Ravid hushed her, analyzing the chaos with watchful eyes. He reached out to pull her protectively close, but a Trooper grabbed him by the arm and he ended up holding only onto her hand. She followed quickly behind as they were steered away from the bar. The Trooper didn’t seem to mind as long as Ashara followed. ❝I’m coming!❞ Ravid hissed, ❝Let go.❞

Doors were being slammed, Troopers yelling commands. The halls erupted with startled yelps and the angry protests of patrons. Dozens of bodies in various arrays of nakedness were herded into the entryway. Xian Li, in all her golden-white finery and silks was corralling the younger girls behind her, protectively shielding them from whatever horrors were about to happen.

There was a buzz of unease in the main room, too many bodies packed too close in the small space. They waited for something: another command, an explanation, something. An officer entered, flanked by two others--Troopers, one white and one chrome-plated and shining. The ginger-haired man surveyed the chaos looking unamused and apathetic. Ravid gathered that the bodies around him were not why he was there.

❝Unhand me!❞

The uncomfortable silence was broken by Tak Yoru’s booming voice from the landing above. The man, wearing only his frivolous robes of satin, was forced down the staircase and towards the small army.

❝Sir. We found the smuggler.❞

The man in the dark uniform seemed to take a moment to acknowledge the announcement. He surveyed the captive with pursed lips and Ravid could only describe the look as one thing. Boredom.

❝We have what we came for. Let us leave.❞

Ravid’s fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his skin. They were simply taking him away. Just like that. Ravid realized that once the smuggler disappeared beyond those doors, he would never have another chance to enact his revenge. He couldn’t rest if he was haunted forever by the ghosts to whom he’d sworn vengeance.

He sidled up against one of the patrons, much like many others were doing. Soothing, entertaining, desperately trying to make sure they would not be punished for this interruption. Ravid didn’t care about the cream-coloured Twi’lek, only the blaster strapped to his thigh. The boy waited patiently for the Troopers to pass. He’d waited years for this moment--this chance--a few more seconds were nothing.

Two Troopers brought up the rear and Ravid traced his hand down the Twi’lek’s pants leg. The Twi’lek made a soft, yet animated sound that Ravid ignored. He counted footsteps. Just a few moments more. Five paces later, his fingers latched onto the blaster and he bolted forward.

He launched himself at the leftmost Trooper, climbing up his shoulders and blinding him with the dancing silks. At the same time, he kicked a second Trooper in the face, catching their blaster while rolling forward. By the time he landed, he had both blasters up, one aimed at the final Trooper and the other in Yoru’s direction.

❝Hold your fire.❞

The officer now stood between him and Yoru, with every Trooper’s weapon already poised and ready.

❝Move,❞ Ravid demanded, forcing the words through clenched teeth. He was so close. He couldn’t fail. He wouldn’t. The officer lifted Ravid’s chin up with the end of a blaster, blue eyes boring into his as if searching for something or waiting.

❝Go ahead.❞ Ravid didn’t flinch as the cold metal pressed against his throat. He would rather die than let Yoru slip through his fingers.

❝You first.❞ He must have imagined the smallest hint of a smirk on the man’s face.

All he had to do was fire twice in quick succession. First the officer, then Yoru. He just had to be quick. Ravid’s finger pulled the trigger, but the officer was faster. He knocked Ravid’s wrist into the air, the blaster firing uselessly into the ceiling. In the same movement, the officer shot the boy in the arm.

❝Are you trying to kill me? Stupid boy!❞ Yoru shrieked, drowning out Ashara’s distant cry.

Ravid collapsed with a gasp, dropping the blasters as he reached to grip his wounded arm. His teeth dug into his bottom lip, hissing through the pain. Through blurred vision he watched the officer turn away from him, Troopers dragging Yoru towards the carrier.

❝Bring that one too. I want to question him.❞

❝Yes, sir.❞

Wordlessly, two Troopers grabbed Ravid under each arm and began to drag him. He tried to wriggle free, but sharp pain stabbed through his arm and he realized it was hopeless. At least the pain distracted him from his fear. They would surely torture him or worse--imprison him.

❝And get some bacta for that arm. I don’t want him bleeding all over the ship.❞

The chrome-wearing Trooper seemed to look him over--even through him--as they approached. ❝Yes, General.❞

Ravid’s body went limp as they crossed the threshold of the First Order ship. Yet another gilded cage.

[turuses-blog]

Space Suede

Space~Suede

  }}}}

UUUNNNN

       Copyright 2017 Johnathan Urbalonis… Meant to be read, rendering the borders of thy most – mephistopheles, intertwining tango.

         E

  taste

Without spectacle or speculation To disprove either, why this contrite act Of order - wrought twice over now - with patience Is an obedience foreign to lapse… Within perfect solitude and solace that To rend an addict’s said, dictatorship… Oh! in bellows, battling always, lapsed Steering clear of crystals from any hip… Oh! trapped for good in ambient control A wave formation, phalanx, to peruse Notwithstanding ministry! to unfurl Freedom, from nothing in essence. Peruse A’ some chapters’ few, and connect To an indeterminable static.

    sallow / pallor

it must be the burnt lemon tree fall upon us solid-crysallids of almondine kiss and please, never let go of this almond fists’ criss-cross lisp to hold boiling fugue it is that the dusky forever’s took a tan gentle shrub enough of a lover’s hug wild at first yet plunging into cupid’s burning lungs o, that sweet passion, to be thy mouth of windless notion… promontory, flora where to end thy’s pursed-when, or  begin, what fond of recoil and jettison-nonplus we’ve bout begged to dine at its smouldering tartine  plagued with ragged snakes and flame to please for the sakes of this lonely burnt lemon tree I’ll assail all with what the burnt lemon takes to consume

                  breakneck

the ivy has pigment on the crux of the arch. the sagging arch of ivy’s pass. it used to be a pasture for silent matters and setting an eye-on and detach. i fear yet the ivy grows me down to this domicile. in the atrium for tea. oh i hate making flavored drinks for such a characteristic ship, sewn together by and by leaves. dare i yank it dare i pull, double-dare i uproot it; and tassle with it’s finland barbs…  wait does it flower? does it own this home? where does it retreat at night when the lamp post posits chrome * no this ivy has a freedom. almost sent from thy heaven’s aftermath… calculating cold evenings alone, and sunny days for scaffolding craft… *it has the right to my door I guess, yet, I must depart tonight… I wish it wasn’t that easy to spot the lamplight’s goneth out tight a splaying, praying, hinge!, yet amorous as pups, that gild by day, and sleep by night… ’just where to go, least infected, so and so, I had for breakfast… as yet, to, I follow the light trodden path out of this dwarve’s town quite, all the while pretty sure - with baggage, light - I may endure a night made up for sleep, not just the itch of playful ivy. and which it’s poison is though soft, maest expedia is complicated as if gazing on twilling willows, accord perpindicular armed these pillows made by man, i completely can’t understand how it got there, or if it’s coming down, whether or not storm of protest, or friendly nether… I’ve tide us together… with a silent jag… the keystone pocketed by horse… to ride out until yet

              serious settlement issue

“oh its just an odd-knocker, this storm.” Praytell forsooth not for teeth clenching prone to roarish brethren. the typeset that abhors onlookers and grave shade yet, whet for grass movements in an erroneous of swivel-floods and tourist. oh and Percival protecting the glass sass root, cellar with ornament and scone (already on hand) “oh it is quite an odd-knocker, this storm.” grassroots do tell of its aberration, the middle of fall.  When and where a witch could scold up a cauldron of cabbage and sugar… to melt your eyes, she switches the lever on… yet no flying, nor sabbotage, in the old bottom-smith, glass loot, cellar for pause. “oh its dying down. this storm, what an odd knock.” as I was in teem, miserable-mind-sleeping… the middle of this seeping womb - the steady creaking of antiquated quaking - without cause. and till the water breaks I shall whisper twas an odd-knocking, as if nothing at all. nothing devoid of a forecast for glasses to toss shadows on the floor which soon shall bind all my fastest convex as storm!

          peti teach

if it weren’t as bad as it was the shelter would have taken scorned crops to this hearth but snowfall brawn on the spruce young guns - find the children-chimerical toast points everywhere… green pea pods appear! everywhere, just for a few seconds from way up here…looks toyish, wonda’ if it id be a boy’s-wish!I

‘lest ye revolve around a stick! (once again) a kernel of hope! a bravish…with wits, rope and vhs tapes as these oils, and balsamic vinegarette! my choose, you,

the scalding hot crouton, bouillin outside like noodle… the exposures almost ready….! ‘spooky’-A.R. battle for the prestige of having a show to perform, the second night… the sun is a baffling cradle, lullaby magnets to master for when rapheal posee’s 

                     tittilage

a truck stop south of the horizon… three perfect miles tilled in tile and daily tallied, the lapse being ticket to a calm shout-out…I’m ’talkin max shout out

                  too many at the table...

shelter… pass it around, At least floridian-meritous, pass the dish… thanksgiving gobbs, out his final mouth. “what is this? a poet convention? I’ve heard the cooking from the fridge. “strange postulate…mmm” Jason takes a sweet friccasi… pass the dish… the moon lost its directions, sitting clock-wise, to floridian-merit boasts! lucky guise… pass that dish… and someone reignite this/that candle, oh yet…” the braille-felt ham tasted too-full, aux musing at last “is that ham from the fridge Jason? is already cooked? shelter, why, I will get it…

                       oh, it has to… bottom of the jar stuck in pretzal’s sobriety… it has to so it can reach the others! the end of the bag, I do say! inquisitive little grasshopper… oh, it has to last… past the two twilights we caught… develop sobriety like a hawk’s bitten chalk… screeching out the taffy just to feel how hops oh, it has to last shorter? why are we backwards like arks? why do we persevere on this quest for the arts? sobriety teams with the green, forensics will catch sight… of a drunkard, with wallabees stationed peruvial at night…. but, might, this door, be friendly? be friendly this door? how can i call my licensure insured? sobriety oh it has to last longer, take a look at this fjord, theres room for candy, Now, I wonder, it’s make! high fortutious exhibition that three some odd twilights i see on television… all requited and paid trick fore, “i keep mine in elastic bands twirling orange fashioned melt-corn-caramel-candy…’ ‘where did i put my sword…’ ‘in fact next year I’ll get the hang of this and cut the corn out’ “bags of melt-caramel-candy” which is what i would frau, to peaceable elements of the nightgown i see crown…” “oh, the door,” “can this last any longer?” the fastest way to sink a tooth into something, valued like sales!, when the aliens embody us, do they where costumes… pouring ale?  ‘i sent a message to an alien once, now in closest procedure, it said, nothing like servicing the eccentric and the outfit’s they where, colloquial as procedure!…’ that’s enough flapping your lonely gums, man, the candles are out…yours?

         jump

the snowy peat piques under our feet a week to bend around the corner till cumbersome cleets - may! - be whittlin the trees and run, ran, tepid in a gauzy defeat all along the terrace, yet not where whet marks’ from… oh the dance of fall, trance-like snow and inward expansion, that is, from a handsome dole of ears on farmer’s land some mottled and took shape to swindle ransomed territorial foot jerks, root/root-marm type glances - a lot of this would happen  the peckish birds in order the final cloud stops to talk the defunkt plough hits its rhythm when they crash into Noah’s Arc

                       block-q

liquid frozen cherry hearts

“used to plunder, here, pitch” “nitrogen in the gun, a black shark”  appointed toward with the pistol ridge. sequential ultra-violet lights hearken

now, aiming at perfect concentric circles a miracle to miss, a martyr scorned at every outer or other disc a lively ancestral adagio of bank clutching triggers affronting notions of hands with gifts on cigarettes, alleviating the end of this type of pistols’ training measure, arriving behind, now, through doors, a field of ace-cards, to score, Since, as all alive, they arrive via assault rifles brought by forklift to the mire

                       january in code

although they do know hospitality, and efficiency among the dreary… well, since the nurse left,   it was sweltering inside the cabin.  which forsook the season came early, Good Heavens  and when we couldn’t take it at all, we issued out into the ramps of snow as blockade and like beforehand spotted the of tufts tobacco far off, gunfire outlets and discoed merrily gauging, yet gouging our gait…

we still had the ridge around this necropolis half-faced, and as we spread, like butter on a skillet, we lost contact, our breathe no longer visible, plodding on into the flurries laying in graves

possibly still warm, we had moved out earlier than as expected… the extra flattering isometric movements we made were cantankerous. at mortar - we lay along the ridges - a fresh footsteps’ walkway past the trekked banks, still with us. ,  digging now back, surrounded by snow, towards the cabin, which this bearing clod and snow curtain imposes in testimony to a feverish loan, …before we start freezing, submachine guns on our postuler comprisals’ with whoady-demons hiding in the banks… whoa… I had strong, black coffee in a flask, which acted fast, yet put me at a loss with the frostbite of that cabin drought…

                       etc

As he gaze past the blinds, blinded by sun and shade, he pulls the chord aperture, at an angle and walks away to the study… Now as some say he makes beautiful sonnets… he to turn on the light to dawn it - these unbelievable inexplicably structured poems, which, in delight - glaze as he flips through; and raise the top right hand corner at the dancing wick to see the roman numeral to expedient light…  Waiting to shop for milk and cheese, just to go ‘home… …and count [his] poems.’ again - replete, with pen names and invisible device, catalouge and camoflauge - jagged jarring shadow mare, bleached-Marrakesh, displaying their centre of weight. - just to eventually feed the perishable… Yet so - conceited,  fashion to vague response and acquisitions, sometimes wrought - not just with his abundance of makes and modellas - conceited to the even very first time he ridiculously took time to stray from couplets and into: haikus, tankas, couplets, stanzas, coupons, colored leaves, radio jazz limericks, sonnets and shoes, just you-bet that until you read his work, that’s all you hear about, etc…

           spot spice

i trot alien to the moon, passive and plausible to make the rise soon… its still early - while she ties her frown in thoughts, laying down - for her. mirth married to tarrier, wincing fairy-gilded to answer the wrought specs ‘in step with the window - the next possible contact swoon so certain and so far away the curtains of fall and May destined to be some other day - the dry champagne - co-ordinates slow - and the clamor, cauterized by locks of snow… until, ray upon ray of thy whetted smile - the merry festoon parlay as he gestures in a hard place… ‘I shall climb this tower, and rescue thee, not since Aesop, hath I believed, that there, a way to contest in speech, win and render this read heir besmirched your fate-meet, to a tender of every mention of my search… to seek. if I don’t climb to Luna, I may not resolve A pageantry for my waking ours’ and roses, in which to impeach.’

            sandy welts

I went through there a while ago… it was fun crouching and dodging the trees… pressed to be, at war with the cite pleading-seething, not early enough to sneeze, yet being and in the beating pulse fleer of a rich,slow, (atomized) culture… in a way it felt untouched, I author… yet as i went on it seemed the way was receding towards an uncomfortable nature. First: the crickets’; sharp territorial lacerations, and the grass; against my calves, the smells of raw dirt; sobbing & the static-firecracker chlorophyll, all dashing ample pressure without building moisture, nonplus- with a bark of tree-like controlled temperature, ready as the rain and sun… it was cool, like an artic-submarine, as i wilted my holder’s keep then yet the thinning sun through the vertices’ expenditures clearly dipped to keep what expedience eye to eye… - I had trekked in a straight line so I took an about-face and marched back through…

‘talk about a red forest; passchendale spread dirt worked crescendo in quiet anticipation… scene from fantasies with a clumsy flourist…(stocked to the teeth) possibly enroute to explore the extra toxic mycological experiential plummets of the sport, known around here as half-plums - down-the-road, flash-back driven to protect snails…that’s all to say about it… yet I know they left trails… all waiting beside, an unevenly undulating mossy-short-fringed-shore… 

The forrest sweat with me. It was on fire, the sun reached the luminescence cast from mark… on this relief of a march (more a thoroughfare) I couldn’t remember sites or paths or anything except the cyphered boughs… I dare say the leaves (in control) had me trapped, or lesser-oblong, blinded a gigantic swirling record of historians…! twas, more a terrestrian color brigade’s way of choosing way; and off to the sides: hay and what have you on one side, and a hedge high as high buildings envisioned from the fence ‘far off feudal.  ‘all it needs is a fashionable mortuary on this plot to clear the woods I say… ‘next to congregational fences therefore, for they say the woods ain’t no normal woods…could be… I don’t frequent forrests too much, but maybe

 the cedar incarcerated graveyard to last past wroughten fig draws

the screech of an antique drawer… the ‘screams at night to be extra visible, in the swift wind. almanac worthy, sale-item, pearl-obelisks of miniature mince through acumen fro-whistling.  thats it with the fields, yet a myriad of several more super-imposed ghastly victims float through the dying leaves, kicking up dusts and leaf-coupons…  I hear the roof belongs to the moon, and the smallest matters’ seek the light…

            partridge

a twisted piece of grass in his responsible thumbs. he takes in, and lets out and some crickets jump in. had he known, grass-gowns for licorice, he’d had not blown his cover, oh so covetted as a tomb ground nearby, so surly, metamorphic reprise done under. what with a sandal stepping on top of small hills. ants and moth and flower and soil… best if he heads home the sun seems to be toiling

           may weather

the bulbous’ businesses bias is of this hyacinth park - next to a frequency-trip rhododendron mention -parched my upper and hidden tensions of sinuses on a timeprint trip toward the sun. blocking the way a few feverish violets graying on the task ‘afront. ‘ i uncontrollably thought of sneezing, i know just the one… with a muddy print flurring off into the grassiest patches of hatchwork passes… chastised with practices of cold mashed potatoes and born of bread in sandwhiches…just to get past this…

she wore along with a song of the ancients - some climactic recession - that of butterflies and their swift tangential progressions; more than half - by a bit - past suspension… yet hammer’s smith smith moat,  floating - to say - and blinking infinitely on a saucer of dismay… what several willows’ pillows at thought to bade, arrays of colorific centrepieces no more than just a bit clay… yet cloisters holsters sprays and sprays… while indeed the worthiest longlash fashions the gray. running away takes more time… i guess

              rest

it was like destiny’s letters… cheavauh brawten… myriadical faucet (on) break-up patents, loose jean, palindromatic headdress on the lap of conclave…

‘just building, destroying miracles.. sorry worry-issue,  razing glass tubes with the fictitious friction, how so~ felicitous                                                         at mention… rented a co-op back to baccyus (too)      painted leisurical

   praytell

an oriented cat figured its way across my lap and sat  ‘correction, with articulation… and that, these

witchy-cat’s-eyes did stare at my frozen-folded slacks of worrisome pseudo turmoil - contingent on witches-cats’ body prompting hyphenetic enfolding upon, yet may not capture, the riding - crumpled - as i got up. and, yet let the yarn of her fretful sorcery fold mercurially into a snow man’s legs…which happened backwards…accidente’ ‘thought i might snatch my in-hand-done papers; plucked like a c string…out and on this same diaspora singular-editions… of which might defribulate a countenance leaving hooks cards’ on door knobs…quo now and forever, and with thinning trim as, whispering spurs dropped that witchy cat into the time-signature of my noumenal greeting prepositions to date, and all anti-slack band fashion - to temper to hands off and on… for instance I grasped the gnomon that i construed out of wrought natural materials, including but not limited to mangoes, caramel and magnesium… shaving the time…~ it wears like glue I had forth created the sheathing effect of its width set, scent, and scoal that is that time and time again cat’s are proven to exist forever… the scary-witch-cat caught up with me at the door harboring a big, black, bubbly cauldron-stir… with a peacemeal glance back at the forth chapter and muttered, just a bit, whetted. the air quickly jetted to phenomenal… what time was it, was it? i left my apothecary, things were looking up! soon to spread the time ah the settlling slug, the maniacal ant reserves the bald men selling rugs and the pills that people deserve…  - always awake yet - and feverishly asleep;  sleeping all the time away my undulations and motion-derivatives tart in series and sets complexed the fluish tenders of the herrendous heat tarp to act art contradictory veritas minutely and breathe hearty of the daze chalk if thats what is entailed - the job was simple yet met with some combattant like.

            - perhaps outside where the cigarettes burn;  platonic mnemonic, reindeer begged for antlers cash spent enroute to the spot, most of it traditional cat’s telephone machine… who knows?

 a semi-efficient compromise of plexiglass scratch flat - the vivid pock marks of the projector, which’s capacity was quite muddled. and the cat had it (either way) yet the cat call worked the cat, santa claus, some other big names… kicked a freestyle session, pretty dope stuff. for instance… “i bring you presence” that guy has way too much time on his hands.

   Houndstooth is soundproof

  1.         quay

1.tell everyone, the basement’s done flooding…

1.my house, a crumb within a flute sharps of embankments

1.patients testing lesser things for flooding or dried fish

1.“you’ll have yours”

1.“its windy outside”

1.the basement is whetted while i rinse through blades and shower my facial

1.while spirits sink from the comforter - morse code balancing, with this art

1.blinking, blinking, blinking…

1.stridents

1.0

1.kneedeep

1.‘back in the day, when i was young, i’m not a kid anymore’

1.

1.bliss crystals sift through stealth, miss you ‘xoxox’

1.

1.plagarize dexterity for another half-surmised

1.blur of the edges insofar fit for a fistful of life, twitch, came short and sought wife-

1.Those, curious pledges to deltoids, the -esiuz of the ledger

1.blasting surfeit in two lasting past the forth, fortnight eclipse…

1.you get to fight; aside a private glass of modern man’s ant-hill

1.some tvo granted chain of command through the grass blades,

1.

1.sit, fantasy, break, elven toxicology…speak worldly through a spasm i once had…

1.no doubt it would wash away in mineral deposits, so accursedly shallow… 

1.

1.

1.

1.

1.pressur

1.patches, on delt’s quay -

1.milk and chips…

1.chocolate on the mint press procedural stress

1.need so many…

1.

1.tell me about it,

1.abdicate

1.

1.

1.

1.

1.

1.

deltoid

i fell into a double-pronged - gift - marriot of song. play flacons fillial fish bladed oblong…merro sketched on sever audacity (semblance) with a crew-dillitant - as if fading hair to a nightmare of irrevocable capacity, to grow there…

poppin off, lots of toss, to the clouds though, the floss (ignoring bliss?) which topped my chart, on my single hit-or-miss mark… flakes of gentle seabass, of which it wash… bark bark! 

seriously took a reel in to exist…

chalk melted and bladed the number’s drawn on a pheonix,

of which was sent to bring her flowers? can you believe that, ‘girls in the shower’

metabolizing her voice, rainy day style opaque sky? cast me a derivative - oh ‘that.

coy, built, fahrenheit height, instant passion

the bastings

it truly is beautiful,

which does not

for some instance, at insinuating loss

most of all, the givance-

of tectonic call & calf

which tends to break ocean’s in full yet in half…

mildly tending an impish flame,

the fire texture, fixed-ie-feeling pane

and a flame, for all - yet the forth!

a myriad of haggus or something borne

blurring ant mimic in god’s resin - like an earthworm

nu

a notable fishhook… scraggled into my salmon… my salmon; port.

in don quiote’s fashion he swam on land, like a sailor; port.

a wednesday never came faster in the history’s of monday; though I don’t calm thence…

and an umbrella-spider taut, taught me spider-lingo: i was like, one cheese order…

a peacable reason to deal with whilst vacant… perhaps a book caught the fish, caught the grip, caught the sights, hit the port

2.         waltz

2.oh willow, play me crazy, breeze by my censorship on your trip up to a bird’s eye-spicate-spies-especially-willow in my eyes…

2.with each farther and ruse planted to ferment the lurch of dues, of perfect clot and tie, why don’t you turn to the appeasement of the highest skies in you 

2.they say

2.be forth written and climactic, aimed at with telephones, tilled derision, still precision, still precision and make marks sifting shifting sniffling, to , to mother, to bride bring down your own centre and break the sky… ive been there, many times

2.what will open the dice face, for miser, in fact, ive never seen a bead of it’s echo the perpetration of a perpindicular tie. 

2.start first and end where you began in fact, delineate between a restitution that each petal will latch; yet closest, the fountain needs tract, spritz and follow ornate heaven’s grasp…

2.blasphemy bounded and gave you a match!

2.… pluck a further moment with the lass, who brought sew… she writes, willow, oh you breezy, easy going, so-so. 

2.response edition 2

2.s’matter o’dillitant to the number 2

2.catoring brevity points for instant revery’ dilute with two thirds hair and rose…

2.i spose i could check the bars again,

2.

2.mine would be “diaspora co-lect’ my favorite make to model, yet i have one lingering rose point, stemming off and finding water in …well

2.

2.i just walked from here to tim hortons three times in 3 hours, thats prosaic dystolic for a fortress made of forgotten lure…

2.

2.tho’ yo’ spoiler, which stands accrued such as more luke warm cadmium.

2.playin safe here, the number, the winter, you forgot about me… iced percentages, that may melt

2.

2.no edit

2.‘past the point of g hosts’, a dendria lantern for my soul *i press the tip of clasp-broken oration to extend my thumb like a chapter, in the book of yet to put down (robert frost, selected poems) it moved my lighter into a rolled lighter, and right now i was ignorant of the place, where I watched, and what i’ve got. blink

2.20 fast minutes clocked a wall of brick to assail my placard heart, hearing art - and arabic insinuendoes… mesmerized by chalk…when? my knee placed my whole shoe, yet built with the shock, destitute rhythms i misused… i did not want to die, fore my word, lifts strong, then or now a peacable remission into what i thought cool lingo for was ‘friction’… and i stuffed my pecan dish with egyptian ecstacy bliss crystals’ remarks… plark, quarked down and through the nicest police car parlor with talk of being stopped. and there i was for 3minutes i was responsible for, divining my belief in stop…so awake… so awake… the ghosts sought a magistrate… i told my sister of mummy-eating practises in Egypt.. what saved me was television’s widest spectrumx2 tv… on TVO…. i i, and today, more subtle it was Ron Burgundy 2… 

2.

2.for the record, i prefer articulation to humour 4 times out of 5

2.

2.

2.

2.

2.double minks

2.the pharoah decreed: we shall not stop, till, there is a top… and with lightening fast reflexes Albert Camus later recites loop and/or ladder building as a mechanism distributed by mountains and rocks… that lead to an uphill battle, all around - yet more importantly - he with the thalidomide predominantly scare out the bliss that’s inside of us, mark, he felt the only logically question is…

2.

2.the pharoah walkled up to the ledge of his honour and a hissing snake caught his attention - waltzing primarily in its unyarned crinkle, and shushed it with great calamity… oh what a great calamity it was. and so, he, was, rejoiced~

2.the outsider l’etranger, excites a little snake into the forces of egyptian solitude, at a reasonable price…

2.

2.

2.

2.

a list of treason

a single wrinkle on the rose petal, arose such suspicion, roses’ thorn’d build failed to permeate…

a paschendale of artifact magic cards crinkled in the pack age… in jumps a soldat- of basketball-talent!

left remission for the hard-wood floors,

a list of treason

 —-bleek bloom

watching the 9:10pm its darker than most, clouded thou drought. thought-catching

a misty 9:30pm, conceptualized way far for enough backings baccus  flow like foam,

a wooded section of way back.

attaching to too petals, square like a orchid-skin-electric game-docket…

 3.         russians

3.braille she dots furtive longeurs parting…

3.into a frosted flute

3.braking and entering into the fury of a jazzman’s jazzhand

3.which came with a breathe of fury…. wasn’t, chapped-so

3.

3.quite why i had a myriad of worry

3.so surly to surely moresal-piece wear and tear the lury,

3.whilst penury from pencil tip equitable myriads of lury… into

3.questing for a stop-end bureau or bearer… to bust open the dirty, six-piece cylinder making shift shift shift shaft and lury…

3.and spin

3.

3.

3.a sizeable gap of educative dually provocative slurry, of a book!

3.and rampart the ignitable fruition of a head(strong) blasphemy out of order..

3.departed… roman,

3.arrived… prosaic,

3.middleman… Proxy,

3.-to the cause,

3.and manage the intern, pattern-stripped clasp of a low-riding pair of jeans’ilk

3.bludgeoned to malady, (my lady, my silk) myriad….

3.

3.

3.rare wilting sun of the sun… run with me, ‘till i see the pageantry, build… let alone a quill, that does

3.

3.

 stacked mind

i battled minutely and broke the index chapter-area-rearish and pristene in itself; that is an arrangment cloaked within a book’s barriers thinner than the thick letter-plaque, laced and unthinned; it didn’t get me down so much as to renew it, in fact, it seems like its gaining worth, like precious candy, i don’t know, obviously there is a worthier cause to incur growth, yet, none as sweet.

oh the smell - elemi - delicatesans’ sanitation with food… green, mini blade thickets…. ie. take some brick laying liasons… how meddlesome…and obstruct passage in libraries - and those the thought.

  turuses

oh its like we are entitled

to every fabric across from this foliage, even the varying fabrige undergrowth wrought of this, a mason's fable, nightmare or shovel

catch us

tracking a whirlwind of pollen as dust onto available petals

and i wonder, if any cross-pollinated beeless… 

and that bugle’s horn is to die for

submissive in pledges to and fro, discerning incoming autos

 ________

turuses

wrags

many…pennies-weight, within the jurisdiction of an edicette known to falter, pre-empts, plausible postulates of which, from all but one can hitherto alter. and yes you or you may have pennies for all the angles of a pressed coin, yet, emblazoning idols with them spastically hurdled through the air in one show of robust emblazoning, does not yield it’s capacity to promote growth against time. and against time is supremacy I guess forthwidth the renegade that it is… whatever bevels it connects eventually in surplus determines the surface of the moment a wrecking ball broke through; entrepreneurial, sadistic. Neitzsche’s “atavism” clocking in….

a direct line of command somehow got contraband…

r.i.p.

     4.         herbs.

4.a well, felt next to the smooth-shop, and rainwater doused it from time to time.

4.it fell upon the worthiest of the town, to stop and take some time.

4.at once one day,

4.a coin did break,

4.the surface of the water…

4.and just on time - or the clock that authored - it was surfeit with tea and proper.

super

cajolery

blazon, directory from the mashed out

maison, perfunctory list watchers, flout…

grazin’ perfunctory wist latchers, gout…

break the beak or break bread? i mean, what is the dire mutation doing now?

                safety

on a samosa of a backwards warpath, petty - perhaps pedestrian - recall from the HQ led Preston into the net structure and pronds of the opposite of oblivion, ‘eh sos goes for us all… by that mark…. engagement where, in the microscopic-frothing-tangiblity experiment-ecosystem, the variety of decedent in   ‘sublimated level 3″ unknown section to requisition note biene  , ‘a new verse of well-crystalized piety was tinging for recall as those Mills marbled the petrie-centre. some powder, of, magnesium, later; the very small, yet informed hallo-wentrepreneur took just under full form…element 7.5 tacked to his right wrist band with insignia from some government chap, beside~ it

before much, and before long, the thing surprisedly formed around one side of the dish and taut predictable effervescence… again, more much, same long. as it stands, a hatching period known to the subdivision failed to mention or document that this was subservience of the…device!? willing to form - and that it was taking shaped around the slight, circular concave that- thinning?-turning to water? which was growing in uniform metabolism… like the focal prism scratch on the refracted index… element 7.5, has been recalled, ad diminue’ pro quo, and as deciduous’ are pronounced, tangled - appropriately - into the vacuumed perforations of the topiary inert proficiency of shell-like…larger than usual octopus vessels…

 str

beyond progress within the computer mainframe and it’s strictly-digital capacity to preface backing up several attempts to testify -  these as experienced coherent hackers - sent a rumikab of articles (known as an infinitely singular testament) wheeled light… gyro-cryptic, ‘shells, had a light disco sliding through the avenue fresh with baking soda and drink… blotches of small resisters; which accounted for the eerie glow, tilt-pink. i pieced together the sata and its particle party-favour cable… instant spring…

        stand tall

placid it sits; a remonstrance, in the midst… of what-is-it? that of where the best cherry blossom hath splits… cider says hard: its the pits, the fits, the ritz russet-dark cherry molasses tis’ it for a list of super nintendo-binding dualisms to exist,, so jinxed…ummm it would take minxs to douse themselves - and we’ve two shots at this… quick, as a back up, before a tail up, yet ipso-facto… elastic like that of dopamine to endorphins perhaps yet the cherries ferry chariots and arrive in focal piety…the pits,  again! we sit with the cherries across the fence. to climb, to the condensation-swine-rhetoric, sits… uhh, blimp? clenched like a rinsed hand, i grab the retrograding-officiated root, and route my right foot for the first elbow of a live one… pinching 2 bundles of hoodlum-ante and jump down and then to eat them… the cabbage-like puncture, to just graze the centre, piece, tincture of light vinegar…. and He’s cleaning the eavestrough for another… on second chomp, a brandish of sheer pheromone, thigh… spots a ladder to the shed and fro… before i brandish another, i’ll throw the rest in my pockets to rest - professed to cherish! yes, they’re unbreakable… —————hey you, where’d you get those… like he didn’t know?

      eucalyptus

I”ve gots a shallow for-aloe, wound, wound from malpractise already, 

my atlas stabbed my marble backward ‘back gammon theism, with warding capabilities crestfallen to thee tree, and it’s galvanized antissory film decay’a’wedding with the moisture involved in distraught dust and underage car… my first wishes was to dish wash the woven bovine roving of a uut disorganizing pallete entrepreneur in sevens… yet when i arrived tango, it was obviously a “jericho” moment, and i clicked the six six six… my emblem was duty; payed.

 (mind on plinko, straight shooter on the hip) -turuses which has x2 paved the way for an astral projection that’ll guide me into the centre of the known solistice - forever just a teem - to deserve uut zero inert… inertia to a rotisserie clocked, rocketflag tango. Bounced that check ‘thralled, in specs. flekked one gold - the army stock in check, slivered to the dentist cuz i swallowed a praying mantis- at best and was the width of elastic band with working man’s best specs… perhaps>>> might need to run through a bit more radial arguments in the past; to, durst, deposit seriousness in my clay-abiding ipso-nouns, pro-abiding, to send in my resume of duality when it comes to rooting out clowns! thanks for the lovely slug you set loose on my concrete slab… x

                     Set’till

contralto vivified in plurality reign to indict the heart ache of such departure sparks in-dissent the friction of smart boxing, in three fold. a diorama 

from

the pandering window, maybe the soda water crystals aside at my desk. Sometimes its good to hear about perfect leisure, when the legions are brass-steel self-alleged

   i use to be quite a pro with pencil-spinning, and its strictly from my heart, the art that begins with pencil-rinsing… oh, i gave mechanical pencils something to believe in. doesn’t matter, twas a glorious match up of mechanical pencils, and spinning them, that i partook in. clad in an unsharpened… no question…

 bark

a larger than normal tarantula poised to eat a small tree outside the restrictive park area came to the conclusion that, if he had studied medicine, he might have enjoyed eating sooner.

who knows?

              title wave

darling loss, providing hosts with mothballs, independent of cause… the objection of walls corrects its paucity - dash costs… and in betrothal of sauces, paints - if thats what you call them - a dish, is left… cold fish… best viewed with a hook

its all wrong, maudlin fathoms, deep brilliant eyes of squid… the watch of witches in the crow’s nest, explode, then make fire for fish 

        the ice has originally melted - that, thin straw stout route to two too nihilist dire platforms of the underaffected that are down for precedence, that be: ignorance, either side of the fence with indescribable turmoil already, or even just because of the actions which seem impossible; and a strict mouthpiece, within limited to authority, via sanctioning and the underfunded promises therein…  yet… as Mephistopheles has it, logic lasts till the last sentence… and the USA is in jeopardy 

 order some CATs to skulk around and sit and dig

tunnels to offshore…? trenches from spawn fly some jets in there if it helps with aerial footage perhaps isolates of pressure. ie. lots of liquid nitrogen! & even some type of bomb….. i know, bomb a hurricane w/ convoys of concrete trucks and/or logs

 yet my venture permits both lines of caring to be merry, i was ready to say fish may need to swim onland for some reason and no that doesn’t help anybody, studying where fish are during so might be beneficial…same thing with people…helicopters!

makeshift trailer bridges? leaving taps on? gtfo of there? the final clue is: where would you like to live? and, the answer: florida

    bitter stasis

why is it the sand gold? speakth before’n to see the moulds: grazing iguanas claim, climb, clad the folds, where ‘ and all the little pharoah scald with drolery- it must be the summer-line, crossing into the spill, long-horn, to horn, to horn exploding instruments turn to soil and nefarious- deltoids rest in summer-line wrest,

and as I am for ease of etching…sorry,  possibly just saw a necklace-peice of a pendent permeate itself into an anubis coat-  of- strictly fashionable-that-some-green,  which as the light accustom brown-pouting was incandescent at best,   maximized i, its deliverance as a frosted-scarab… motionless, iceberg of fabric from the mathematical subscriptions limited upon brick face, to seize armiture as one and one, yet but not captured… either purpose or meaning… tbc

               pick me up twice

that and a night drought came in with a robust, roving massive darkness; across spanning over the minute divits of thunder clods, over this land gratefully, without its gander of low pressure; finally welcomed where the lakefront promenade - municipality to mine own - met the lake. i heightened up and spritzed the window to a cramp. like i say its not everyday one can live among confused feathers and disco lamps. i sped to my notebook and sketched the nuthatch i saw dabbling the air - like my vision was relegated to all and/or most of the movement in the bands - of sleevefilled horizon lines and the figurines. the hedges here to there, the short paved escape, the trees; flanked so-on forever, and the firmament.  yet it moved fast, twas twice as vast, iconoclast clear skies bank where aroused was a shaky 5pm red sun- only visible now and so-where, a wind picked up and doused the downed whiskey rinsing through some impossibly pretentious banter, along the shore.

               diagonally

it hasn’t even been a lock since my prized synced sundial ammended even blacksmith’s blind… the twilight hour… a still rather elliptical - outfit of my lot’s labor had I could sense turning a final austerity and gently top-heavy field gamon alotting that which continues moderate growth without locusts. at first its like watching a fire, then they settle down around 4:00am. but thats neither here nor there. unless you count the visits I get from Samson I get at all hours. and here we shall share him odd on envoy particular. reticent, self-evident.. my weather vane was drowsy so and so… wishing it could give me a clear patch as a black horse stamped with rider and pulled up… at the hour of 10:00pm Thelma made him a scarlet blend of herbal tea, I the same. Upon courtesy I seated him in my study and we both had at some fresh lemon tobacco. “how are the yellow and red water?” “fresh coal, have you another blend?” “why yes.” I fetched a Drumson Wood and asked Samson, “how long will you stay?” “Oh, just on my way back from town.” Samson took out a newsprint partially twisted in his back over-all pocket. “I’m gonna lay it straight for those aliens.” “…The crop circle people?… they seem vengeful and organized…” “More Drumson Wood, and I’ll just finish this tea here. I say, a price on their heads…” Samson pulled out the page, “seems a group of people do the circles too in order to show the ‘aliens’ we are intelligent too, near the back, smaller part of the publisher, called locustfocus.” “Why that’s as clever as it sounds.” “it says here we’ve seen the last of them this season, or they’re spreading, ready to ground.” “so what am I to do? What are we to do?” “stay vigilant. drink tea. in the extra fine print it says they are a judgement call, a reflection tranmorgified, a mirror as transition through life can only manage, all run by those who use livestock, those who value life.

            onew one

its so noiseless that i ask you nobody knows this if i left without a trace to let loose my face,

existence, would start with thee last left bashful eyelash by alibi that to leech around a winding hill of coal at rest and, yet when abreast two fifths fine grass, and a wine glass, broke at home

finishing with an invisible penny for twisting, an oasis reminding me that im out one seashells finding colored beigh with patina of five sevenths temple displacement that striking up on mine own binds of

where my eye is a filament for the engrossment of ‘those’ others - skeptically close- but don’t you know you were never one to run away, from the salted roads

                    hey cold warm 2

I was on the brink of falling asleep, late and complacent on the couch in the front - for once one floor above the basement. My eyes slightly jumped open now and then, revealing - honestly - the life that played with myself and the scene… Decorations abounding around the walls and shadows from all that was seen. On one extended viewing of the partially lit walls covertly at the door - the indigo ceiling melting into normal orders - did buckle and remotely douse me with ubiquity and order of operations to discretion in architecture, the culpability of movement arrayed. my blanket in disarray - knit and white - became a sleeper’s foyle as it reigned on me as ordinary occurence; yet this, I was deeper.

why yes, the blocks of ceiling, my ballast; window and furniture, shifted, all to make something, something I either slept through or woke up suddenly into subriety - and had come about from all my condescension, with an expedient opt to reassign the ceiling to whatever it was. That know I knotted locales and a opaque ceiling.

My eyes began doubting the stillness, several times. My best guess was a moving candle operative, of fairy or pixie dissent, ushering me into the basement through the vent… the comfort from the blanket growing exponentially, I jarred my eyes, feigning fright. at which the ceiling came bearing down on me and started a lament for the rug in front of the door… I swear I wanted to move; somehow I just knew I was not in the malady of a malevolent being, perhaps just proverbially and most likely - an impish flame rekindling from closed eyes’ near blind, and sallow angles reshaping…

I had been in this purgatory gearbox, for an hour or two… I waited for the birds to chirp. when the candle went out… it was now well-past midnight hour and I lay in the darkness, comfortable, yet partial to wakefulness. I lit another candle… the indigo folds, the impish flame, the blanket, all the same

There it was… the first bird chriping like a lovely siren.f

   hey cold warm

a brazen on the barometric deep in the throat of recognition, plumes in loose flute position, angled a slolom solemn, so-seam - so-so - slotting into my lower chest, such as do dotted candy strips and just as memorable as the swindle mentioned specifically its the purple opal octagonal-pointed and the brunt cindrous dazzling cinammon my eyes yet its dark

arising phase I flew on land, a kite that racked from a bird’s nest in the clouds… angels… swiftly upon me eleven albatrosses came down I"m like, “where’s the waitress?” once as was thought, I throttled the full-armor-car-aft-facade on quickwork-flat blatant dune backing up to pull the chord down “all this from from the former backseat the lower order keeping distracted with menial attempts at diction    drifting through the world, there she was,     she cast a thoroughfare glistening aura,      beside - on the board walk

Guage of an arrow, splinted roughhousing nothing more to climb, cherries full and waiting - and flagstone, drops in x. waiting for labels

razings’ dreams    drifting through the world… heralding minutely, and casually on a mini skateboard, albatross full foyle ~ about. most - some pure coasting,.., buoyantly why I mean Cinderella had some natural artifice actually restricting limitation the wake of sheer wind, her able lateral shark of compute, which limiting more but hair it just comes to some things thats shes just into and really, across, where onto the window my reflection plucked my core,

the flagstone remorse. searching distance.

"check them, check them.” the limits that attest to, ward, all those feesible mentions… in both edges of a carrion dispositions of regret now, now… I’ve pent the stencils to be filled in and over with ink, the nets can’t even capture prize still frames to sync can’t even think in the now its so quick - the odd neglect cubism tares cares to fasten - yet? so -  so finish quick

~moon cycle had i

it gets predictable the miserable  the madness talent and those who wrap the falcon’s beak around and break the brow from beaten artists,  (going )far'n finite for    marbles quark, florid fauna, fond of a final fantasies for real, just how those are where those naught (reached…) phantoms lanterns saturn asprin a symposium where shadows’ riot for platony, create a credenza of its spectrum, a two-something measure of disparity insofar as he who was brought pox inequal pressed-to silhouettes  of rockness frets, yes, sir, thats rounded-edges-talk of  fast-misery wave-technology all-so spaced out like emaciated chocolate or space cadets… spying loch ness even the uneven

!54   104

as will lace’d rivulets of feathers felt into italic line, become barbarous against a feverish fire where no friction echoes of finite time  perhaps already forgotten there own make marking burning - like this very poke - spokes of wind super-tropical winnding and,

nothing but glorious ignition as soon as bent backwards…to the ground, from the grind, as iconic rivulets of home break apart the hands… and posit… pheonix seeds, brought to term in ff7 to plant and plead with reality sometimes…

130

to sew the wounds up… my hand to play the part of spoon, hook, ransacking tolerance. I, with swoon in hand and maudelin talent  even if i make a pamphlet on benelovent rancor, someone’s prediliction might ignore the horseshoe plants still stiff as to lay on my to-do list as one thing to hand out once its… in print and then wander into the abyss. till vastness becomes iconoclastic and I last this matress out till its endoplasmic reticulum becomes a magnet, and then on until it fractures, and polarity shifts, do it all backwards, with stronger magnets

farther into the w

breaking broke stuff that’ that satellites back-up flashes that sound as diamond scratches on doctor’s recommendations I vaccine some dollar bills for entertainment crystals - thats non-nickel-cadmium adjacent the cinema with her

just flashin’ against the line

I broke through the borrowed past, presented myself - bounced on calves… neck nexus to the side panorama first strident, an attack secondly merely contender ballast dear hearts with the task of fast or faster.

assured,

                    entry 3

Journal Entries in Blood Part three I went out to the market at midnight tonight, just to look around. A howling the other day made me think there might be a stray dog or wolf or something. I could probably train a wolf couldn’t I? The shop was dim though the neon open sign still cycled, coupled with metal bars and the lock, I somehow found my way home, and then it was… a howling, not of wolf, but of upset life or wind. It grew closer with another, then it stopped. My eyes were out like a dog, not a wolf, surveying the area for something other than leaves twisting attached to branches. I started my way home, a different way this time, I ate my trailmix and made safely to this attachment. It is nearly waking hour, and there it is again.

                       new new 1

i reckon there was a coast about 20 seconds ago, the earth drops’ moon cycle

i left without a trace to let loose my face, by alibi that to leech around a wind of fine grass, a wine glass, broke at home reminds that im out one seashells find that striking up on mine own binds of my suitcase working my shovel into an ovendouble shift one for mistakes, one for muscle… and one for miscellanious my find was called a jarhead and was for strictly  pure profit in the warbly march sand and soil at this time of night

yes, yes here, where fleeting doesn’t cost - anything - except the loss of a waist here and there, below the flaying gargoyles which embed one’s soul lies some treble conspiracy quo and today in cue stone, turnt to evening fire cutters, even welcomed evening grace, and i don’t see it happening any other way

little foggy, like always probably won’t rain, but i’ll jog if it gets on me… twenty past a single digit, and drunk mates had made a religion to stop me… not on my map, they don’t even know where i live systems down, this was hardly… what you would get out of me.. like always i shutter and i see a zombie, it’’s me

        new new 2

i reckon there was a coast about out and abrupt up about 20 seconds ago, the earth drops’ moon cycle had it different

on land. oh how!   docking reminds that im out one seashell - my first boat - and up around $1000 each toss of the new one. for that striking up on mine own binds - of my bane suitcase - working my shovel into an ovendouble shift one for mistakes, one for muscle… and one for miscellanious a net growth my find was called a jarhead and was for strictly  pure profit in the warbly march sand and soil at this time of night ‘that in treasures found scintillating matches, sparks, and clods

yes, yes here, where fleeting doesn’t cost - anything - except the loss of a waist here and there, below the flaying gargoyles which embed one’s soul lies some treble conspiracy quo and today in cue stone, turnt to evening fire cutters, even welcomed evening grace, and i don’t see it happening any other way

little foggy, like always probably won’t rain, but i’ll jog if it gets on me… twenty past a single digit, and drunk mates had made a religion to stop me… not on my map… they don’t even know where i live systems down, this was hardly his heart, always bound… what you would get out of me.. like always i shutter and i see a zombie, it’’s me

 one one

its so noiseless that i ask you nobody knows this if i left without a trace to let loose my face,

existence, would start with thee last left bashful eyelash by alibi that to leech around a winding hill of coal at rest and, yet when abreast two fifths fine grass, and a wine glass, broke at home

finishing with an invisible penny for twisting, an oasis reminding me that im out one seashells finding colored beigh with patina of five sevenths temple displacement that striking up on mine own binds of

where my eye is a filament for the engrossment of ‘those’ others - skeptically close- but don’t you know you were never one to run away, from the salted roads

                    zrunning

breaking broke stuff that’ that satellites back-up flashes that sound as diamond scratches on doctor’s recommendations I vaccine some dollar bills for entertainment crystals - thats non-nickel-cadmium adjacent the cinema with her

just flashin’ against the line

I broke through the borrowed past, presented myself - bounced on calves… neck nexus to the side panorama first strident, an attack secondly merely contender ballast dear hearts with the task of fast or faster.

I lick my pen against the flower to appear chic yet damage nothing… How subject - of abstraction - forms torque on normally debatable craft ending, mending within art’s perametre; thus stated reverence, may exceed instead of submit to vision - though limited - image which is contrary in most cases, hitherto where this percent of contraction may hold true in reverse for cubism garullously settling upon it’s true form…

            sober slurry

a puzzling equivalent - unto which i know of at very least twofold - habilitated itself with my side order of large onion rings…to go was and will be, cheddar jalapeno dip, oh, and a bottle of soda, a small pricey one…  it seems these were on side as i gazed at the game sippin on my gazzeiu, that of the way over yonder to the other half of the staggering petition to heresay glee club mods who say no and who’d attribute new age convention with extremely age’d tradition… bless them. and their future seeds

      nor zeus, nor he be the king of wizards, and poseidon - damned to eat plankton, that i relish eating wagon wheel cookies

— 

turuses

       curiously appetizing

I passed the telephone company’s brick building on the way back (like always) and like always it caught my glance (and probably, properly stored my electrolytes’ dot product in it’s heaving face) 

I couldn’t fit inside the telephone machine building. for some reason, the telephone, had it in for me! yet, after 3 hours i sit by it’s ‘therefore’, wondering… why i must get inside this telephone.

               soma

a riddle what starts with a middle four fretting that is, not ice cream, yet just as meddlesome when together between them specimens vary very robust, that is when not brushed… you can pick it up some say you can master it, some do as a clutch rapport, and clash together, with so much but sport. some think silence can take hold of the being… calming astronauts and marrying marigold flocks all abandoning the forge of earthly locks… consuming this tug of war with this rebel heart

destined for back pane, yet strained resonating with two thumbs on next whatever that may mean its suspect to a violence sometimes only ascribed to in old folks home, where the bloods been beaten hot and that 

                  outer space

fare long freight to dim dimensions rate penchants whilst trenches, in… a way.. never saw them coming yet hospitals frost the tips fitness and fair stipulation lips conjugation of list - equivalent -  while separation wiles, stat-wiley over intact, nothing - like platitudes dilution of concrete blocks add attitude yet painful memories by diminished blocks are subdued?

        wool

Oh, it’s certain… hundred-thousand militant measures of a broken yard by metre (estranged for the reader) a meteor shower amends the broken pleasures of such a Neapolitan attack on the criticism for the cynicism had me open! Yes, oh my… plenty coin-like credit-card-scam-brilliance, sign the marks on my frail, weathered effacement into a blithering commensurate, yet forever emblematic union of staccato! The moon, was following me yet, and As I had sprained my ankle, I were had to, run over roots, scurry past pledges, that with a fluid limp-jump… mildly hopping over tracks, which my upper-back, caught on to splayed roots on the ground… as to be seen, wildly kicking up the scarce twig and twixt, ‘and anon: oxygen millennials - when and where necessary my powers of narration became anaesthetised and somehow configured itself somewhat, that into an old VHS tape conception format. After a little tracking the odour of odium prices on wolf masks with that plastic diffraction slips And the moon by the window, cocked it’s wonder-gun at me, Pleasure of unthinkable amounts, resting in negative, all conceived

   v.1 “lemon tree”, postaged bout 10 days, (lemon-earth days)

sallow / pallor

it must be the burnt lemon tree fall upon us solid-crysallids of almondine kiss and please, never let go of this almond fists’ criss-cross lisp to hold boiling fugue it is that the dusky forever’s took a tan gentle shrub enough of a lover’s hug wild at first yet plunging into cupid’s burning lungs o, that sweet passion, to be thy mouth of windless notion… promontory, flora where to end thy’s pursed-when, or  begin, what fond of recoil and jettison-nonplus we’ve bout begged to dine at its smouldering tartine  plagued with ragged snakes and flame to please for the sakes of this lonely burnt lemon tree I’ll assail all with what the burnt lemon takes to consume

   dendrose

1 this is for that usury,

used to be     awake, censorship encumbered-package, usually~ Asleep,             clad in yesterday’s haze, beep, beep, beep first to rise, which just happens to be a phase… 6, clock, spearmint 6:15, cries. 2 identical clock cavities, brustlin’ busts of oven-cannot, trallop suites… I’ve officially dye-cast silver from coin to sweat, wheat and parametres, of which i’ve never spoke! 3 down by the second leap of day’s scales, the moon’s lymph tickle, play trick on the sicler…  ‘say Death creeps out like how it does North Farther… ‘say don’t be scared of the ion, curtain, cascades… they say they break soon enough, that is                                                                  as the iris tissue combusts!

4 and the parliament in laymens, rise like spite, muscly, and whelk; totally combobulated enough to qualify for thalidomide and seeing wealth. documents privvy to a living type of surrepititious musical scale.

5 around noon, the shops are broken into, the salad’s tossed, the forks, mashed in the gravy… without the sauce… stocktips holdfast like plateaus - how pleasant - bout the size of a yogurt…  rain flares out of specifics… and barbers, leave there parlors… cars park - forward and backwards! 6 round about now the static combs diagonals,   slate and tie, like an Egyptian wedding order for two,  who killed you, and how you survived… 7 soon enough one must become one, and it always may… if i had to I would pat your heart a lullaby in your mummified chestplate just to be certain that I could breathe ~somehow.

8 its safe now for the mystriant, or the leader clad in torn bloody clothes in plain deniable site… to march upon the moons tumultuous creators,  now maybe high noon                                      all night.

     just x 3

(bystand…)s are outnumbered by and yet while the juri is in… weather the atmosphere is tight enough, expediant and gruesome for the sudden fog! !oh what a sudden fog! plus, the lust for cummulative lush and hush, of, flesh, rut rooted room for relish, oh, im out of legalities to logician’s flexfit fever, ferver-fluish…                                 “rabbitfoot-talisman” and, that they are

    at least     for now     and sheesh     I couldn’t count all these…

maudlin, vaudvillian pleats and hill battling in fleets, bleeding the tattle, in thieving the leaves,     as this somehow presents itself,     in a waltz within the season -

whilst, some reassuring sequence that thy betwixt bane and bosom, slaying, and slalom straight, out the demonic cellar of  Helen Keller, ~looking for a piece of plastic - bendy, black -  whilst sweating through tissues as would molasses !oh quite reluctant~

just to envelop the feasting concept in enamel-persona, that, “looks”, could be a snug fit as slang for glasses!oh

well, no match for shelves or sleeves in it among mashed-out color additives, “Madvillain” - trapped like tylenol packages… just too, pry that thing off my sling, slang sugar rifle, .35s to just need to carry this for triflin’ broken-oxen+wrought-trophy, a token for the inert.

marching through the swampy mud

          balm

~a drag with bisquick, mistaken. a martyr broken, out spoken a pledge  ‘though,’ mystics saw - in blind pageant -  that it had been coming, the change in self / perpetual melting (maybe even wealth      and static (theduality ))(- of practise expedient…) patient momentum  quite like:                 eddies now, that tend to slop up off with the the prophets.’ toxicity and all textures on hand! mesmerism-synthesizing-metabolic, clox                  “A tall tail of uncommon fixtures to abed the solstice!” Ail uncommon Oxbridge- flyers…

who! ~ never saw this it coming - it, being.  antithesizing avec beau shashay - passing by  -round noon -,a  slash a dash of anti-septic aid from the atmospheric changes )oh what a terrible 1 haiku )                             2 cacoon cannot forget the forfeit with a timurus attendant addendum of excess lemonade, -the patchy landing on cobblestones as a final order of direct ability to access sweet lemon merange pie! so cold! slay the dragon Oh, how moylent  whoa, whoa, whoa dragon wings circled, moving more tweaked than lofty, that the shady concentric, crown-ambulent missletoe fleers stocatto flamed resisting arrest,  sat down to rest on the ashy rooty charred bark deposit, chalk outline and all. And he seemed to pout, resting in his petulance, all on final penguin-feat exhuming the fallen lemon tree + roots Why? The sky - a death sentence, yet the crestfallen three-dimensional tilt of matter integrity beaming so honest from the sky’ now just past noon, sliding through like a dull lens (ingenuity), christened expedia! as and sent through the bloody-rack of fossilized hub temperature, gaily enjoying and blasting & mashing hulls lithosphere to the dragon, for now. the size of one third day, tending in an ache, forced tired like ambulances, and breaking off chips of lemon rinds like toothpaste…. oh! perambulating fonder chest cavitity status by chasing marche,’ strips, off commonly dragon mouth chaste stasis places, ready to eat pate’ and break blades off a graceless fairy ring,  situated for bleak outlooks with its correct gargoyle smile missletoe at every sharp corner and as it was granted that this crystallizing dead tantrum of claws, wings, thighs, to be scaled for consumption 

        boe-loose

it crumbled like cartlidge, brisky-brisk then nonchalant at its content - ever so rich, in, conch shell whistleblowing labella, labelled able in its lapel to cache and cast a spell,  upon which the worthiest pearl-whirring, cat-nip tail made for cats, some effect… for people, zizing - and whizing the cats backwards-bats… out of hell, surprisingly distasteful… cruella deville

perhaps atrocities, within the minds of these pilfered oddities by the hundreds, take malnurish me,  on second thought its usually redundant asunder opposition to Gravity that spots of wine cause catastrophe

flying, like snails at a clean stop operation ~loosed from the grave

                    topsicology

the scarecrow glided past as apostacy towards err. perhaps more than air. the long corn crops gilded the found floundering stare-off. perhaps more wispy than fair…  the greatest movement jackal, basically all impaired… just waiting in its frothy, slow-growth to find a child or conjugate terror why, ‘see that, I am a child of burden,  sent from ion ridges and whisked past ice-sturgeons with respect to facilitate the growth - that in tandem - sent into the proximate atmosphere for a slow-burning ‘till its torn apart, and till its worn to wrought all a vision a scarecrow, which rends his smarts, filled totally gut of surroundings, and one day imparts a version of itself, which had lorn to lock, but had to step down from the part.

                               bark

a larger than normal tarantula poised to eat a small tree outside the restrictive park area came to the conclusion that, if he had studied medicine, he might have enjoyed eating sooner.

who knows?

[activatingaggro]

I’LL BRING THUNDER (i’ll bring rain)

RICCIN KAYATA | 9 SWEEPS / 21 YEARS OLD

A SEATOWN IN THE EASTERN SEA | 5860 WORDS

"You look nice," Liyiji tells you. "Almost like you're a decent fucking person."

The times that you've worn full paint can be counted on one hand. True paint, at least - concealer and cover-up has always felt lighter than the pigment smeared across your skin, pulling it gray enough to match Gliese, and it's always let you breathe. Concealer and cover-up have never felt like a shield between you and the crisp night air. You'd thought, even only a few perigees ago, that wearing full paint was just another burden that the indigoes were forced to adorn. The dank sort of joke that the Messiahs laid down upon the most blessed of castes, to even them out and pull them the fuck down when they got uppity. Grease paint always seemed like it was a punishment, as much as it was proof of your devotion.

But the weight of the paint's almost fucking merciful, right now. It's a different sort of sensation, something new and novel, and exactly what you need to distract you from your deja vu.

Because as you step off of Li's ship, and onto the thick, pink bridge anchoring his to the nearest houseboat, it feels almost like you're four perigees again, and you're finally coming back home.

You're deep in the Eastern Sea, at one of the seatowns that you'd used to visit as a sprog. It's too small to have ever gotten a name from the Empire. Only the largest of the Rickshaws get that sort of endorsement. No, the only name you've ever learned for it is what the locals called it: Kah Kin, to hurry, the place where everything is always moving, and nothing ever stays still. Because while some of the seatowns are anchored, entire flotillas of planks and boats permanently anchored around abandoned oil rigs and flooded lighthouses, Kah Kin is different. It's mobile, and the location changes every perigee.

So does the size. High above you, the moons have tucked themselves away behind their veils, and the sky is blood deep in its absence, deep enough that even the spackling of the nebula far above can't fucking light it. In the distance, it streaks into the horizon, rich purples blurring into the wine-dark sea until there's no way to tell them apart. If it weren't for the lanterns aboard each ship, you might've missed them entirely. But the sails are bright tonight, huge banners of white that pulse in the night sky like clouds, and fires sit on the deck of every boat, casting off just enough light to illuminate the next. Some nights, there's hardly any ships here at all.

Tonight, you think, there might be six hundred ships here, all hooked together by teetering ladders and bridges made of rope. It certainly sounds like it could be that many, the din loud enough that even you can hear it.

It's a queer feeling deep in your chest as you take it all in. You hadn't known you could be nostalgic for something like this, but here you are, mooning like a wriggler witnessing their first murder, and.. it's not often that you want to stand still, soak in the atmosphere. The air reeks of salt, harsh enough that your throat chafes at the stench of it, but it smells like the markets, too, that you'd grown up in. Prior to the program. Prior to Kindra, even, back when it was just you, Myrrha, Orpheo, Melete, and -

"Stop gawking," Liyiji scolds you, and gives your braid a sharp tug before he pushes past you on the rope.

"Who says I'm gawkin', brother?" You shake your head, casting your braid back over your shoulder, and the way the veil shifts across your shoulders is unfamiliar enough to stir you from your thoughts. "Maybe I'm just thinking." The last time you'd come here, you'd been four and a half, bright-eyed and eager for an adventure that Melete had promised you. Your hair'd still been short back then. That's another difference. You just need to keep remembering those.

"I said you're gawking. Are you deaf," he drawls, warm, "or just fucking stupid?" Liyiji's pushing forward, ignoring the welcoming volley of words from the shopkeep he passes. The way the boats are set up, everything's connected. If you were the right kind of psionic, you could leap high into the sky, take it all in proper, but you don't have to - you know how things are situated, out here. The boats are woven together like the strands of a net, tied to each of their neighbours like flies caught in a web. If a Rickshaw came across the lot of you without that network, you'd be ruined. There's be no room to flee, no room to flee: the boats would crash into each other in their hurry to get out, the frantic rush to save their own hides even at the expense of everyone else together. If the ropes were hemp, this sort of set-up would never be viable.

But the nets hooking the lot of you together ain't hemp. It's biowire, harvested by some stalwart soul before the adult Exodus, and kept in hand ever since. It's not made for space, these gunky pink lines: nah, they're old, made specially for ships, and the Empire can't bring itself to care about tech so fucking outdated. The biowire connects the logic centers of each ship together, like cells in a brain, and when one sends off an alert that they're being attacked, it draws on the energy from all of them to put up a shield, made of the same psionic energy that some folks use to go deep underwater. It'll let things out, but anything bigger than air just can't filter in.

It's the sort of thing that means there's a helm here, buried deep into one of these ships guts, with just enough ability to put that sort of thing up.

It's the sort of thing that's got you dressed in indigo from head-to-tail, with a clown's full paint coating your mug, all despite the fact that your veins run with liquid gold. You can be whatever chrome you want on land, where the law protects you, and folks have the Messiah’s sense to know what the white on your face means. Out here? The only time law matters is if it’s around to see you.

And the legislacerator’s on the seatowns keep their eyes closed shut.

"If you gotta ask.." You fall in step beside Liyiji as he steps onto the next bridge. The air's heady with incense here, drifting from the burners resting on each ship you pass through. None of 'em have had the courtesy to coordinate: the first you pass by has oranges burning away, the sticks still smoking, and the next has cloves, heavy enough that you can taste them on the back of your tongue. For you, it's just a bother. For Liyiji..

Well. Your invertebrother might be navy, but he's always been the weakest out of all the motherfuckers you've ever met. His ears are pinned as he navigates the crowds, dead-set on a spot that you ain't quite sure either of you know. Wretch must be bothered by the smell, living as he does all on his lonesome - but least he ain't showing it. Ain’t like there’s anything the either of you could do, if he did. "Oh, brother, look at this mug. Look at this goddamn rack. This pan’s too gilded to be fucking empty," you tell him instead, as a distraction, and he snorts, ears flicking forward for the briefest of seconds. "Unlike your ugly-ass mug. You tip out your pan to the gods, brother, or you actually know where we goin'? ‘cause when you said you had someone for me to meet, shit, I was expectin' - iunno - a goddamn teashop?"

You pause, peering at the next ship over. They're a ramshackle of a boat, with plywood nailed in to cover the holes in the cocoon, and a deck that keeps leaking what you hope's gotta be slime. They've got the door of their cabin swung wide open, covered from top to bottom in bowls, and the rest of their ships covered in baskets and displays, each full of stoneware that mostly ain't broken. "I ain't seen a teashop anywhere," you complain. There's snakes coiled over the plates, their eyes strange and wet like they were freshly painted, but that ain’t uncommon. The seafolk always decorate with snakes, like calling down on his kin will stop the Leviathan from wreaking their homes. "One that don't look like a lusus took a bite out of it."

"Why the fuck would I take you to a teahouse? So you could hit on the waitress, and I have to tip to make up for it..? Please, Riccin." He sounds peevish. But that's the delight of Li, you reckon: if he’s got the energy to act like someone shoved a sack of bees up his nook, then he’s still calm, not letting himself get bothered by the crowds brushing past the both of you. He’s navy, and you’re dressed in indigo, but that’s the wonder of the seatowns: so’s everyone fucking else. "No, I'm taking you to someone I think you want to meet. That's all."

He pauses. The tip of his ears flush blue, same way they always do when he gets to paying attention. Then he looks back at you, lashes low. Boy's got heavier lids than even Dysseu: when he does this, it's hard to get a feel on him at all, but for a moment, you almost think he's going to apologise.

The moment passes. "She's almost as foul as you," he says instead, then sets back to walking. "But she's got foresight. And you have questions. She takes payment in alcohol. She'll cut you for it to work."

Foresight. It's a tricky psi, that, and one of the rarest: there was a jade in Chiloa and Ico's creche that'd sported it, back when you were young, but you haven't thought of her in sweeps.  You whistle, low and impressed, then arch your eyebrows at him. "Foresight, brother? Does that shit work better than yours, or are we about to get fucking fleeced?" The crowd’s thinned around you as you’ve walked: it’s just the two of you on this next boat, and the boats surrounding you, the merchandise abandoned as their residents drifted towards the center.

"Mine is perfectly standard." Li's got a way with words. Each one drops like it's a personal goddamn disappointment, but you know him: the fact he's saying them at all is a sweet enough kind of affection. "And more useful. So fuck off. She does probabilities. She can tell you what’s most likely to happen, and how likely it is, and divine from there. Or you could just ask me, and I’ll -”

“- tell me all the grisly ass ways a motherfucker could die?” Something shifts inside one of the houseboat’s doorways, but when you squint, it’s just a ward, catching in the wind. A snake winks at you from the edges, all gild in gold, even as the shape calls for protection. “You ought to give up the divin’, brother, and just sell here. Why, look at these poor fools. Look at the lines they have fucking writ.” There’s another set of wards on the next boat’s shack, three stacked in a row, calling for protection, for health, for light. This tradition isn’t of the Mirthful faith - it’s some remnant kept live on the ocean floor, the sort that trickles up in streams and gasps to the sea’s surface, so you’ve got no qualms pulling it from the wall, waving the ward right at his face. “Look at this shit!” you crow. “They fear death so hard, they bring it into their fucking homes.”

“Sell divinations, so I can be surrounded by strangers, even when I’m asleep?” he asks, dry. “I’ll pass. Stop playing with the deco, Riccin, and hurry up. We’re almost there.”

And indeed, you almost are. The ships are abandoned this far out. The air’s clean, with naught but the fucking salt on the wind, and even the sounds are so far away, they’re muffled. The last few ships are spartan in their solitude. There are no lights on their rails, no candles in the windows or leds along their awnings. There’s just wards, their gilded edges catching the stars light, and the faint pink pulse of each bridge, visible now in the absence of the light.

When you cross the final bridge, onto the boat at the farthest outskirts of the town, you think the sea’s churning around you. But then your eyes adjust. It’s not the sea.  It’s a dozen little canoes with shutters drawn tight on their lanterns, staring in.

You pause mid-step.

“Li,” you say, but he’s seen it, too, and he’s pushing past you.

“Loxias!” he calls, then he pauses.

The brownblood sits in the middle of the boat, her head thrown back and her braids strewn across the floor around her like a cloak. From this angle, the line of her long neck looks like the sort of things trolls would've fought wars for, but then she moves. She's too long-limbed, too bony: the skin pricks at the back of your neck as she pulls herself to her feet, hands splayed with their spider-thin fingers flat against the deck.

She stands up, each movement jerky, like she ain't quite sure how to make each bit of her move on its own, and you take a step back. Liyiji’s paused beside you, his ears pinned back, eyes wide in the darkness.

"Something's wrong," Liyiji says, his voice strained. "Just -" He drags a hand down his braids, mouth drawing thin into a slash, then he glances at you side-long. "Just wait here? I'll check in on her."

She's not looking at the either of you. She's standing, half hunched, her back crooked like she can't quite manage to stand straight. She's still got one long, ungainly palm lying flat on the deck, but she doesn't look up when his feet hit the deck. She doesn't react at all, even, as he steps in closer, but your mouth's gone dry. You're right behind him, never mind his goddamn order, because there's something feral about the way she's holding herself.

It's the sort of look that you've seen on lusii gone rabid, and while you're sure trolls can't go rabid..

Well. It's not worth a risk, is it? Because she’s not looking at the two of you yet, but when Liyiji’s heel catches the deck hard, her ears twitch up. She looks at the two of you then, braids falling away, and there’s something queer about her eyes --

"Oh, for fuck's sake - don't go over there!" someone shouts from the nearest boat, hangs cupped around her, and Loxias pivots.

There ain’t nothing troll about the way she moves, that's the thing. It's limbs pushing like they don't know how limbs work, like a puppet with three strings cut: she jerks and she tilts to the side hard enough you think she must be about to fall right over with those foot long horns, but she manages to haul herself upright just in time.

She lunges for the side of the rail, fingers wrapping hard around it, and she tenses -

- then screams as the troll snaps the shutters on their lantern open. They swing it out wide and hard, so the oil splashes up against the walls and her face is caught in the full light. Your eyes ache with the change, enough that orange floods the corners, but it ain’t any cause to scream. It’s a sting, that’s all.

But she’s howling like something hurt, like the oil has gone through the glass and is eating into her skin.

"She's gone dark!" the troll hollers over the noise of her. "Get off the fucking boat! We’re burning it to the ground!'

"Gone dark," you repeat, looking at Li - but his face's gone bone pale, all his blue fading at once. "Li, what the fuck they on about?"

He wets his lips. But he's not looking at you. He's staring at Loxias, who's taken in a long, shakey breathe, deep enough that you can see her ribcage rattle with it. She slips back to the deck like all of her bones have been lost, her hair falling forward, her hands pressed to the front of her face to block out the light. She's back to moving her lips, words too high for you to hear proper, but you catch snippets - shit that don't make any sense, angels and songs and homes, but said all wrong.

"Li!" you snap, and you lean in, landing an elbow hard on his shoulder. He doesn't quite react, not until you hook around his horn, claws curving in - then he jerks away with a snarl, his pupils slit fear-thin against the blue of his iris.

"The fuck do you think it means?" He starts to curl his arms around himself. Then he stops, shoulders drawing up, and he drags a hand down his face instead. "We've got to go, Riccin," he says, ragged, but for all that he's speaking to you, he's looking at her. Loxias is back to looking almost harmless, but after the way you saw her moving.. there's nothing attractive in that shit now. "She's contaminated. If we stay near for too long, she might infect us, too."

"Contaminated with what?"

"With something dark," he snaps, "something worse than any of your fucking gods! Seatown bullshit! The reason they had those wards up! And we don't have anyone here to get rid of it, so we're just - we -" He swallows, takes a step back. "We're just going to have get rid of her. And if we stay on this boat any fucking longer, they're going to get rid of us."

"Get rid of her," you say, slow. "As in - what, brother, they gonna burn her? Her own people?" But of course they are. The troll off in the distance is still waving their lamp, their face too bright under it to make out their colour. And for all that there's a sea of faces all around you, everyone collected against the edge of their canoes to watch, ain't nobody stepping up to do a damn thing. Should you care? You don't suppose you should. This isn't your town. This isn't your fucking people.

The ward hangs heavy in your pocket, where you’d crammed it down. What point to care is there, when their own ways did fucking naught?

But you know what it's like, to have folks that ought to stand by you turn on you instead. Raphae did his job right when you asked him, no matter how Chiloa sniffed, or how distraught Kindra became. There's no ache left when the thought strikes you anymore, no pain: nah, there's just the sour-sweet sting of the truth, and that's a taste you're learning to get used to. You've never wanted to get used to it. But there hadn't been a choice, had it?

You’ve got a choice now.

"No," you decide. "We ain't."

"Riccin -" He snatches at your shoulder, but you're already striding forward. He doesn't follow, and that ain't a slight. Li's seatown raised, seatown bred, and who are you to ask him to turn against himself? He's true to his nature, same as any lusus, but he's loyal, too: when you look back, he's pulled his trident off of his back, and angled to look towards the crowd. His chin's up, his horns angled in a rake, in the sort of dare that no one seems keen to protest.

He won’t follow you on, but he won’t let none of ‘em intervene, either.

Let him hold them back, then, as you approach the girl. Or, no - the adult, for what you'd taken as an adolescent's gangliness is just the queer shapes of an adult underfed, lengths all wrong for any troll ascended. She's got the knobby knees of Dysseu, when you get closer, stretched thin whereas Sipara'd been squashed short. She's got his long fingers, too, and when she looks up, she's got his gaunt cheeks.

But her eyes are the opposite. These ain't bone-white: they're black, deep as any pit, and your breath catches in an involuntary growl when you see them. The colour's too dark for psi, too curved to pass of as an empty socket. You would've blamed contacts, if you thought anybody was fool enough to play that kind of game. But it ain't contacts. It's like gas, almost, and as you stare into it, you think you can see it moving, strand by strand, thick as an atmosphere over a planet. You can't see her bulbs behind all of it, but she angles her head towards the sound of you, like she can see you.

You can't even see if she's got bulbs, still.

She pulls herself up, rickety, her shoulders bending like they might pop straight out.

"What's going on? Is she - is she burning out?" Liyiji calls, but it's not quite a question

For the best, because it ain't one you can answer. Loxias isn't stepping towards you. Nah, girl just flings herself straight at you, hard enough that you have to catch her with your hands, and she's keening, low and heady in a set of sounds that just don't work together, a lusus's keen of 'come here' hooked in with a pupa's screech for blood, for food, for attention, for anything and everything they can receive. It’s all slip-slod over words too low for you to properly hear, her mouth-gestures too mealy for you to properly read, if you had the attention for it.

You don’t. It's a good thing she's bone thin, more waifish than even Pheres for her size, or else she might push straight past your grip. As is, she pushes and she presses, making that sound until your ears pin to escape it, and - Messiahs fucking above.

This close, you can see the way the things over her eyes coils, the movement undeniable. It's like watching stormclouds, almost, in a way that makes you bare your fangs, your words caught in a tangle at the back of your throat. You hate it, is the thing, for all that you don’t know what it is. A pupa doesn’t have to know the sun to fear the light, and the urge to pick her up, throw her into the sea or the flames each time that smoke churns, is almost impossible to fight.

But you're not going to cull her, no matter how much your pan’s screaming it needs to be done. You're going to help her, and with that thought, you shove her back, hard, then step into her space while she staggers. Your elbows brace against her shoulders, then you hook your hands under her chin, thumbs pressed firmly to the corners of her eyes. Part of you is surprised, when the ink rolls over your fingers, that it doesn't hurt. It doesn't stick, either, because it's not liquid at all. It's like gas, almost, or smoke from one of Iconic's cigars. It doesn't stain your hands: it just pours over them, like something curious, or like aura. And that's it.

This must be psionics, you think, but then you catch a whiff of something else, something sharper, like the smell of ice at the heart of winter. She’s stilled under your hands, losing the wild energy that’d overtaken her, and now you can read her lips. It’s still nonsense, for the most part.

But part of it’s legible enough. "The angels are calling me home," Loxias mouths at you, with a cadence just short of song, and then your hands are burning, a sharp, aching pain that cuts straight through to the depths of your awareness. It's more than just hurt. It's everything, for one heart-stopping moment, sensation so much that it blocks out everything else -

- you're jerking your hands back, hard as if they were scalded.

When you look down, they're bleeding, gold seeping through the lines of your palms and curling down your wrists like water. It aches like frostbite, or like needles in your skin, soaking all the way to the deepest parts of you, but there's a kind of shock to it. There's gold meeting the indigo, brilliant as Grand Highblood Myddus's palms, and.. you can taste the pain in your mouth, almost, the sickly sweet tang of iron, but you can't quite process it.

So you take a deep breath, then grab her face again, more firmly this time. She actually chitters at you, baring her teeth. This close, she could tear out your wrist. This close, with your palms bleeding and bile falling from her eyesockets, she could be contaminating you with the same filth that's taken up in her core. What proof would you have? What protection could anyone fucking give to this?

"Oh, sister, sister," you breathe, like your heart ain't wrenching to escape, like there ain't bile on your tongue. No: your words are like the water around you, still and soothing and more weight than any one troll ought to muster. You speak to her like she is a lamb in your flock, and she has been lost, and like your soul isn't curling away at the sight of the black coiling over your fingers. Because what else can you fucking do? "What have you done? What lies with which did they fucking lure you? These mirthless fucks have taken you astray. They have stripped away your sense. They have stolen away your dignity. But they ain't taken your mind, have they? There is a soul in here, one that is being bound in the chains of this noissome song. There is a troll buried in that deep, dank space, too weak to break free."

"But don't you worry none, little brown," you say, "for I have brought a fucking light."

Deep within you, you pull your psionics together like armour, curling them one point at a time over your mind. You link them together, tight as a shield, and you take a breath, and you think to the past. Myddus of the Golden Palms, they'd called him back before he was the Grand Highblood, and Myddus of the Golden Tongue. He'd pulled the angels from the heart of a sinner, and he had called her soul back with the song on his lips, and the Messiahs had loved him for that.

They'd killed him for that, in the end, but it'd been his place. And what troll can reject their place?

It strikes you, suddenly, that you might die here. But you don't want to die, no matter if it's your place, no matter if it's the Messiah's fucking plan, so you draw your psionics tighter. You think of the Messiahs, their eyes bright, their words full of mirth. You think of the light of their moons, the cast-off spawn of the terrors, and how they'd caught them in the sky - how Pink had stripped them of their tails, and Lime had stripped them of their feathers, and those castoffs had become the angels, who longed for their old bodies, but were destroyed by the glow within them.

You think of the ward in your pocket, painted with the gold of the angel’s servants, and the call for light scribed upon it.

"I'm going to help you, girl," you tell her, and if your voice is shaking, then who is around that would tell?

Then you lean in, placing your mouth to her nearest eye.

The stories had never mentioned the sting of this. To breathe in the gas is like swallowing the sun. It feels like it's flaying away your flesh as it pours down your throat, stripping away everything it touches and making it its own. You've never tolerated pain well, never had much cause to learn, but what other choice do you have? To let her die at the hands of her own? To toss her away, like so many have tossed you?

Life is a sacrifice, the fifth Highblood told his choir. Life is naught but a set of strings set to be snipped, and the joke of it all - the truth of it all, the noise that the Empress tries to filter is  - is you decide if you'll be the strings, or the hands holding them. You'd never thought much about that quote, before, but now it's weighing.

When the sting is too much - when you can't handle it any longer - you pull away. Her face is sallow under your hands.

"Sister," you say, or you try, but the words that come out ain't nothing that you've ever heard before. They ain't words at all. They're just filth, tearing out of your throat like cicadas from their coons, and there's iron in your mouth, coating your tongue as thick as the ink on her face.

Chiloa and the IEP - they'd raised you to be the string, and they told you there would be nothing sweeter than the snap, and they held the scissors to you, and you'd never even thought to fray, not until it was nearly too late. And has it ever helped you? Has it ever done jack shit but cost you?

Maybe it's worth it to be something else, just for one night.

You’d made a choice, when you stepped onto this ship. Right now, all you’re doing is abiding by it.

Loxias blinks. When she opens her eyes, one eye is clear, free of the filth, and flooded with only her blood.

So you lean in, you press your lips to her other eye, and you pray.

Second time around, it's not any better. If anything, you think it's almost worse, for now you've got the taste of the pain in your soul, and you know what's coming. There's no shock to keep it away from you now. It's just pain, washing over you like a wave, and all you can do is close your eyes, and kick towards the surface. Because sure, there's pain, but you know, now, what sort of sick beast is raining discord upon her soul. You can feel the coils of it, pressing in on you from every side. You can feel the way it -

- and you can feel the way it recoils, when it brushes up against your psionics and the light flares.

The world flashes orange. When you open your eyes, the sky's bright, brighter than it ever should be, even this late in the sweep and with the boat lit aflame. But nah. The boat ain't lit. There's no heat save for the reek of your own blood, streaming down your face and leaking from your hands. Loxias's eyes are clear, but the light ain't from her or hers. Her irises are blown big, large enough to take over most of the yellow, but there's scarcely any glow to them, even this close: the dusting of brown light across her cheeks could just as easily be blood.

No, the light's coming from you. When you reach out, careful, to wind it back in, all it does is flare brighter, with a pulse of energy that leaves your veins burning in the aftermath. Your eyes are shining, bright enough that they feel ready to start weeping. There's sparks drifting down around you, like the snow that ain't yet come, but it's fine. There's none of the pain of burnout, none of that sick siren call that comes with destruction. Your psionics are just there, flared, caught up in the grid of armour you'd wound them into, and you'll have to figure out how to fix that later.

And you’re just tired, right down to the bones.

But right now, you have different problems. Loxias's gone limp in front of you, but when she lifts her hands, it's with the movement of a troll, not whatever fuck had been wearing her skin. And when you turn to face the crowd behind you..

There's a few hundred eyes all on you, watching, and in the darkness, with shadows cast harsh on their faces and jaws, it's impossible to tell what they're thinking of you: all dressed up in indigo, with the morning sky in your eyes and the sun's light dripping from your palms. You ain't Iconic. You've never had to go and figure out the beat of a crowd, whether the crook of their arms was to clap, or to grab a rope. You've never fucking wanted to, but Liyiji's tongue-tied and pale next to you, and you know he won't be any help at all.

So you take a breath, you cast your eyes across them, and you pull yourself up tall.

"And what the hell," you ask, voice pitched low, and oh - your throat's gone raw, so the words fucking rasp, deep as any highblood's purr. "Are all of y'all looking at? Do you even fucking know? Has fear stripped the sense from you, that I have laid down salvation in front of you and all you can do is stare? A terror would've plagued your goddamn cities. They would have ripped the bones from your flesh. They would've supped on your quadrants, and left you to fucking watch, for how could some fucking flame - the detriment of the land, the Messiah's first joke - ever quench what comes from the origin of us all? Do you drown your fish in the waters, cousins? Do you hold them there until they stop fucking moving? Because if one does - if you have ever - that would be the most rank of goddamn miracles."

"And you have not earned a miracle." Your mouth tastes of iron. It drags down your throat when you breathe in, but what is that discomfort compared to the patter of your heart? There’s a fire in your veins, burning like it’ll eat its way free of you, and it pours out in your words, like a lash with which you could burn away their sin.  "You have earned jack and shit, motherfuckers, save for the most righteous of ire. What sort of shit is this? Trouble comes, and you sinners, you feckless fucks, all you do is fucking cower. You swing a lamp, and you promise a resolution that you cannot - will not - fucking deliver.  You don't deserve a fucking miracle.”

“If the gods were just, I would have let this motherfucker wreck all of you."

"But the gods ain't just," you tell them, heat enough to match the pulse in your veins, "so we must be, you worthless wretches. Remember that, next time you think to fucking cower. Think of that the next time you go to claiming you'll light a flame upon a motherfucker still occupied. C'mon, Li." The crowd isn't moving. They're just watching, but that's fine - you don't expect they'll move at all, not after that show. "Get your girl, and let's fucking go."

[mastacosplay-blog]

Purple Tulsi

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Alia Bhatt appeared gorgeous by staying away from typical necklines and carrying a mandarin collared kurti in the movie 2 states. She also made a bold assertion in her white chikankari embroidered outfit with around V black embroidered neckline apt for each formal in addition to casual events. She also gave the standard kurti an urban avenue twist by pairing it with kurtis wholesale hot denim shorts.

However, the common issues in Indian outfits are the material and the gildings, and the wealthy materials which are available in markets are georgette, sheffon, tissue, nylon, crepe, brasso, blends of silk and cotton, and the varied gildings are ari patti, block, brasso, bandhani, resham chikan, butti, zardosi, kundan and zari.

This is one other newest piece that's certain to make heads flip and make you appear like a sublime girl dressed to make her own future. The perfect function about these styles is that they can provide an impression of an ethnic suit as well as the robe and can be worn at parties, occasions, and different significant functions.

Fits that hailed from the Mughal era nonetheless continues to be interestingly part of our ethnic essential ensemble rescuing us each time. Anarkali is the head of finesse and trend. It exemplifies magnificence and is tailor-made for Indian body and skin tone.

[dawnjeman]

Interior Design Ideas: Colorful Interiors

  Today on our Interior Design Ideas series I am sharing a very sweet and dreamy little bungalow. Designed by my friend Bria Hammel of Bria Hammel Interiors (who’s been featured many times on Home Bunch: here, here & most recently here), this home had great bones to start with, so the interior designer focused on functional layouts and all the little design details that would bring this home to the next level. The clients had no problem when it came to using color and pattern which made the job that much more fun.

Save your favorite pictures and have a relaxing time, everyone!

  Interior Design Ideas: Colorful Interiors

You had me at hello…

Blue Dutch Door paint color is Denim Wash by Benjamin Moore.

Flooring

Flooring: 1: Hex Tile in White. Tile 2: Satinglo in Light Smoke.

Similar Pillows: Denim: Here, Here, Here, Here. Solid: Here, Here, Here, Here, Here & Here.

Cabinet

These custom cabinets feature shiplap and quatrefoil insets. Notice the drop zone passing the powder room.

Hooks: Anthropologie.

Countertop

Countertop is a marble-looking quartz; Calacatta Laza.

Beautiful Small Vases: here, here, here, here, here & here.

Living Room

The living room features a pastel color scheme that is fresh and very summery. This makes me want to refresh my decor and add more soft hues all over the house!

Rug: Soleil Rug by Caitlin Wilson – similar here (70% off).

Ming-Style Feet Coffee Tables: Serena & Lily & here.

Beautiful Sofas: Here, Here (I love this one!), Here, Here, Here, Here, Here, Here, Here, Here & Here.

Similar Sofa Pillows: Blue, Esmerald Velvet.

Fiddle Tree: Here, Here, Here & Here.

Fireplace

Fireplace features curved millwork with shiplap paneling and Carrara marble tile.

Similar Spindle Chairs: here, here, here & here (natural).

Rattan Side Tables: Here, Here, Here, Here & Here.

Striped Blush Pink Pillow

Blush pink striped pillow: here & here.

Living Room Furniture Layout

The furniture layout of this living room invites you to sit and enjoy the space.

Similar Floor Lamp: Here – Other Affordable Lamps: here, here, here & here.

Wooden Beads

Wooden Beads: Here.

Blush Pink Chair

Blush Pink Velvet Chair: Julienne Chair – Fabric: Velvet, Rosewater.

Fireplace Vase

Vase: Wayfair. (Pitcher with same design: here). See more beautiful vases here, here & here.

Faux Silver Dollar Eucalyptus Spray Stem: here.

Window-Seat

 I love the idea of adding a window-seat on the other side of the living room (instead of flanking the fireplace). This expands and balances the room.

Bookshelf Styling

Beautiful pottery can be found here.

Bookshelf Decor Inspiration

Bookshelf Decor Ideas:

(Always check dimensions before ordering

)

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Sconces

Sconces are Ro Sham Beaux Piper Sconce in Brass.

Paint Color

Lacquered Cabinet Paint Color: White Dove by Benjamin Moore, Satin.

Pillow Combination Ideas

Bria Hammel Interiors.

Green Velvet

Green Velvet Pillow: McGee & Co.

Paint Color

Millwork: Benjamin Moore White Dove in Satin finish.

Bench

Bench: Bruno Bench in Sky by Serena & Lily.

Details

Gorgeous color scheme! Blush pink pillow can be found here and floral pillow here – similar here.

Beautiful Pillows

Pastel Pillows: here, here, here, here, here, here & here.

Brass & Blue & White

Bria Hammel Interiors.

Mirror

Mirror can be found here.

Beautiful Mirrors:

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Kitchen

This white kitchen is on the small size but it’s beyond beautiful! I love the white cabinets, the pale grey backsplash tile and the wide plank hardwood floors.

Kitchen Island

Kitchen Island Dimension: 72” x 30”

Lighting: Visual Comfort in Gilded Iron.

Counterstools

The white counterstools with striped blue and white fabric are custom. You can find a beautiful blue and white striped counterstool here.

Countertop

Countertop is Calacatta Laza – Quartz.

Cabinetry

Kitchen Cabinet Style: Paint grade, inset, flat panel doors with custom x door insets.

Kitchen Paint Color

Most Popular White Kitchen Paint Color: Benjamin Moore OC-17 White Dove, Satin.

Stove: KitchenAid.

Backsplash

Kitchen Backsplash: Glazed terracotta Subway Tile – Zellige Weathered White Subway Tile – similar here, here (weathered white) & here (pale grey).

Kitchen Appliance Layout

The dishwasher is paneled and it’s located on the left by the kitchen sink.

Refrigerator: KitchenAid.

Kitchen Roman Shade

Kitchen Window Roman Shade – Sara by Lulie Wallace.

Lighting: Visual Comfort & Co. Antiqued Brass – Sconce can be found here.

Sink & Faucet 

Kitchen Faucet: Rohl Two Handle Kitchen Faucet in Polished Chrome.

Kitchen Sink: Kohler –in White.

Hardware

Hardware: Knobs: Gilmore Knob in Aged Brass (Restoration Hardware).

Pulls: Chatham Pull in Aged Brass (Restoration Hardware).

Hardwood Flooring

Hardwood Flooring Throughout the House:Hallmark Floors Alta Vista in Malibu 7.5” – similar here.

Dining Room Table & Chairs

Dining Chairs: Capitola Armchair by Palecek with custom fabric – similar here.

Dining Table: California Dining Table in Malibu by Universal – similar here. Other beautiful dining tables: here & here.

Chandelier

Chandelier is Carmen Chandelier by Madegoods – similar here, here, here, here & here.

Wall Paint Color

Wall paint color is White Dove by Benjamin Moore, Flat.

Similar Fiddle Tree: Here, Here, Here & Here.

Powder Room

Washstand: Restoration Hardware Gramercy Glass Washstand – similar here.

Wallpaper: Soft Blue Chinoiserie Wallpaper by Caitlin Wilson – similar here & here. (Pillow: here).

Faucet: Kohler in polished chrome with cross handles.

Mirror

Mirror: Bartlett Mirror by Gabby.

Lighting: Anthropologie Vetro Sconce in Brass – similar here.

Floor Tile: Tile 1: Satinglo in Ice White. Tile 2: Satinglo in Light Smoke.

Basket: here, here, here, here, here, here & here.

Master Bedroom

The master bedroom features white walls, painted in Benjamin Moore White Dove OC-17, and a soft blue & white and grey color scheme.

Bench: Serena & Lily – Fabric: Sky.

Similar Bed: Here.

Drapes

Drapes – Audrey Stripe by Schumacher – Beautiful Striped Drapes: here, here, here, here, here & here.

Grey Linen Duvet Cover: Here.

Check Pillows: Caitlin Wilson Black Burnside Buffalo Check Pillow.

Floral Pillow Here.

Similar Blush Pink Throw: Here.

Similar Artwork: Here, Here, Here, Here, Here, Here & Here.

Chandelier

Master Bedroom Chandelier: Dauphine Wood Empire Chandelier in Weathered White – similar here.

Blue Rug

Blue Rug: Emma Rug by Caitlin Wilson – similar here.

Table Lamps

Similar Table Lamp: Here.

Nightstand Decor Inspiration

Blue Velvet Lumbar Pillow: Here & Here.

Similar Grey Quilt: Here.

Nightstands

Nightstands are World’s Away in Grey.

Flooring: Dreamweaver carpet in Santa Monica Eggshell.

Decor

Beautiful decor can be found here.

Inspiring Bedroom Color Scheme

  Shop the Look:

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  Interior Design: Bria Hammel Interiors – Instagram – Facebook.

Photography: Spacecrafting

Bring the Holidays Home!

Online Holiday Shopping = More Options & Less Crowds!

Exciting Holiday Sales!

Thank you for shopping through Home Bunch. I would be happy to assist you if you have any questions or are looking for something in particular. Feel free to contact me and always make sure to check dimensions before ordering. Happy shopping!

Wayfair: 72 Hour Blowout!!! Huge Sales on Decor, Furniture & Rugs!!!

Serena & Lily: A winter beach celebration: Up to 30% off!

Joss & Main: Best Prices of 2018 – Up to 70% Off

Pottery Barn: 20% Off plus Free Shipping with Code: CHEER!!!

One Kings Lane: 40% Off Holiday Decor.

West Elm: 20% Off plus Free Shipping with Code: TREAT

Build: Up to 80% OFF on Kitchen, Bathroom, Hardware & Lighting!

Neiman Marcus: Up to 50% Off on regular prices!

Pier 1: Huge Christmas Decor Sales + Free Shipping – Use Code: FREESHIP49

Anthropologie: Extra 40% Off on Sale Items!

Posts of the Week:

New-Construction Family Home Design.

Kitchen and Bathroom Reno – New Renovation Ideas for 2019.

Newest Interior Design Ideas.

Georgian-Style Manor with Traditional Interiors.

Kitchen and Dining Room Renovation.

Interior Design Ideas.

Modern Farmhouse Renovation.

Beautiful Homes of Instagram: California Beach House.

Corner Lot New-Construction Home Ideas.

  Beautiful Homes of Instagram: Christmas Decor.

  New England Home.

Interior Design Ideas.

Small Lot Modern Farmhouse.

Family-friendly Home Design.

Transitional Home Design.

Bedroom and Bathroom Reno.

Texas Gulf Coast Beach House.

Cyber Monday Best Sellers.

Newlyweds Home Design.

Family Home Renovation with Casual Interiors.

2018 Norton Children’s Hospital Raffle Home.

Beautiful Homes of Instagram: Canada.

Beautiful Homes of Instagram.

Southern Beach House with Modern Interiors.

Beautiful Homes of Instagram: Lake House.

Custom Home with Artisan Craftsmanship Interiors.

Beautiful Homes of Instagram: California Beach House.

Neutral Home Interior Ideas.

Grey Kitchen Paint Colors.

You can follow my pins here: Pinterest/HomeBunch

See more Inspiring Interior Design Ideas in my Archives.

“Dear God,

If I am wrong, right me. If I am lost, guide me. If I start to give-up, keep me going.

Lead me in Light and Love”.

Have a wonderful day, my friends and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”

with Love,

Luciane from HomeBunch.com

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[another-corpo-rat]

kintsugi

a lil something of the mainlines that was all i could focus on until i got it outta my head

Adam Smasher/OC Summary: Victoria’s asleep, Adam takes the time to admire. NSFW for like two sentences towards the end. General warnings for an unhealthy relationship.

Victoria sleeps soundly tucked against his frame; nestled in the space between his arm and torso, her breathing a soft, contented rumble bordering somewhere between a purr and snoring. A gentle sound granted, but still something Adam has maybe too many recordings of for when his little netrunner gets too big for her boots.

She’ll still deny it. Raise her chin and click her tongue with a disparaging tsk, claiming it to be doctored audio. She’ll work in a way to call him a gonk, he’ll call her a cunt, and then they’ll be bickering throughout the entire day.

But her? Oh, a fucking genius apparently.

Because geniuses complain about the heat, and then proceed to press as close to their running-hot mainlines as they can manage. She’d bury herself in his circuitry if she could; the soft meat of her thighs are flush against the hard panels of his own, chromed claws gently prick at his cabling.

It’s hardly anything to him, not even a nip, but he wraps his fingers around the offending digits, taking her hand into his own. He stopped noting how small she felt in his hold long ago, even with cybernetics designed to harm she felt…delicate, more porcelain than chrome. Like he could shatter her again with a thoughtless motion.

He has no intention of it nowadays. His grip is gentle, a cradling thing as he ghosts his thumb across the gold of her palm, painted in warm hues from the soft light of the bedside lamp. She stands out starkly against him, polished and shining even in the faint glow. The panelling and design of her cyberware is intricate, needlessly complicated for the sake of aesthetics but – it suits her. Sits right.

Across her collarbone, the soft light glints against a thin line. A thread of gold through warm brown skin, so fine as to be unnoticeable. Surgical scars. He’s familiar with each of them; knows well the ‘Y’ shaped line where she was cut open, shattered ribs replaced with titanium, punctured lungs with synth. He traces that line down her sternum, to where his dog-tags sit against her chest. The old dull metal is cared for, dutifully maintained. His half-faded name preserved and just about readable.

“Your name over my heart,” she had hummed once, wine-drunk and sappy. Stupidly affectionate as she tended to get, leaning into him with a lovestruck glint to hazy eyes. He had scoffed, replied in turn with something about her tits and was promptly smacked across the head with a cushion and a scandalized “Unnecessary!”

It had devolved from there, ended with his cock buried in her wet heat and her moaning for him like a whore desperate for eddies. He knew from that little smug smile that she had noticed how his attention slipped low, optics on where his tags bounced with her.

They looked good like that. Look just as good now, as fitting on her as the gold cybernetics and threading, coaxing a patience he didn’t think he had anymore. It took him being turned into a bloody heap of viscera and bone to become what he was; he could wait for her, let the change come at her pace and admire it, watch her hail the loss of meat with a coat of gold.

Bit by bit, step by step closer to perfection.

[bexterbex]

A Soul to Mend His Own | Ch. 36

Warning, if it hasn’t been obvious in the movies there is Nazi symbolism within the First Order. I will expand on this much more throughout the story. If this is something that bothers you, please just exit the story. The author does not condone any Nazi ideals, this is just for fictional uses only.

A Kylo Ren x Modern! Reader in a soulmate au with some canon divergence. —————————————SLOWBURN————————————–

He is already the Supreme leader, searching the universe to find you, his Empress. Your name on his wrist has been the only constant in his life, while you have doubts about his existence and his acceptance of you. He isn’t in the database and why did the name Kylo Ren cover Ben Solo?

MASTERLIST

Chapter 36: Woman's Stuff

You woke up, better than the last few times you slept but not a restful sleep. You were beginning to wonder if you needed to take a step out to the medical ward to get a sleeping pill or something.

You made your way to your room, not caring what you wore or how you looked, that really went out the door when you started sleeping like crap. You went about your usual morning; greeting the lieutenant, ordering breakfast and coffee, taking your vitamins…

“Would you like to go over today’s schedule m’lady?”

“Yes, please.”

“This morning and this afternoon you are to be out with Captain Phasma. She has the details of what the Supreme Leader would like you to do. And then you have your lesson with Allegiant General Hux. Tonight you shall be dining with the general and captain in the officers’ lounge.”

“Of course,” the lieutenant seemed to sense the annoyance in your voice.

“Ma’am?”

You let out a large sigh and asked, “where and when are we to meet the captain?”

“In the hangar in 10 minutes. Is something the matter ma’am?”

“Nothing you can fix, lieutenant but thank you.”

You were then off down the hallways to meet with the captain. She greeted you and took you onboard a stormtrooper transport, which was definitely less luxurious than the command shuttle you were used to. You were joined by a rather large number of other ‘troopers. Among their armor, you and the lieutenant seemed to be very out of place.

“Where are we going captain, and more importantly what are we doing,” you asked.

“You shall see when we get there m’lady, it will not be long,” said the chrome warrior.

You were growing more impatient by the minute. You were really sick of not knowing what was going on until the last minute. Would it really kill Kylo to tell you what you were supposed to be doing? What would it really harm, if anything?

You landed and the exit ramp lowered, you allowed the troopers to exit before you, and then you followed. When you got outside you realized where you were.

“Why am I at a mall, more specifically why am I at Harrods in London?”

Certainly the decent to earth didn’t take longer than usual did it?

You were sure your eyes were fooling you until Phasma replied, “Is this not a luxury store on your planet? The Supreme Leader would like you to get new clothes.”

“What is wrong with my clothes?”

“He said and I quote, ‘she needs to look more like an empress.’” Even through the vocoder, you could tell she was telling you in a deadpan way.    

“And he didn’t want to tell me this before?” You were fuming.

“Again he said and I quote, ‘I want you to go with her Phasma because I can’t handle that woman stuff.’” You could tell she wanted to be here as much as you did. You could see out of the corner of your eye that the lieutenant was rather scared.

You turned back towards the mall, “I can’t afford any of this.”

“The Supreme Leader is taking care of it. My suggestion to you m’lady is to have fun with it, at his expense if you feel like it. You might as well make the most of this opportunity.” You could tell that she was trying to make you feel better. She obviously didn’t want to go shopping either but here you were, at one of the greatest malls on the planet and your match was going to pay for everything. You were going to show him.

When your landing party entered the building it was oddly quiet. No other patrons were roaming about so you turned to Phasma who answered before you could ask. “The Supreme Leader requested a private shopping party for you. You have the whole shopping center to yourself.”

“That’s rather unfortunate for the workers. Is there anything we can do for them, like if I am not in that store can we pay for their food bill in the cafeteria?”

You saw a smirk on the lieutenant’s face so you suspect you had said something good, the captain nodded to you and said, “we can most certainly do that ma’am.” She then signaled to one of the ‘troopers who made his way to a concierge desk and spoke to the woman behind the desk.

She spoke to the man next to her and he worked on his computer. She then stepped out from behind the desk and walked towards you. “It is a pleasure to meet you, ma’am, my name is Olivia-Rose Gordon I shall be assisting you today.”

“Thank you Olivia-Rose, do you know why I am here?”

“We were told that you needed some shopping done.”

“Do you know who I am.”

Before she could answer Phasma stepped in and said, “she doesn’t none of them do and we would like to keep it that way.”

You nodded to her. So you were to remain a secret, but for how long? When were you supposed to take your place as ‘Empress’, if that was still something Kylo wanted.

“Where would you like to start ma’am,” asked Olivia-Rose.

“With anything that Kate Middleton or Meghan Markle would wear. How is that?”

“Are those two your style inspirations ma’am?”

“Yes, but also throw in some Audrey and Katherine Hepburn, some Elizabeth Taylor and especially Grace Kelly and I think we have hit our mark.”

“Then we should start with Chanel. And we shall move on from there.”

You moved about the store, finding a few items here and there, all of the store employees seemed to be very enthusiastic about finding you this piece or that. You then moved on to Dolce & Gabbana which had much more of what you were looking for.

One of the male workers brought you a rather short dress and before you could say you didn’t want it the lieutenant timidly spoke up, “it has expressed that he would not like anything above the knee, anything too low cut, or anything strapless.”

Your eye twitched, “I wasn’t aware that I was buying him dresses.”

You heard a loud snort come from the silver-plated captain. She seemed to have lost her impeccable composure at your comment.

You glanced at the lieutenant who seemed a bit distraught, “I’m sorry lieutenant that was rude of me. Next time I will tell him to his face exactly where he can shove his opinions. Especially when he won’t share them to me himself.” This didn’t quite seem to help the lieutenant, but you watched as Phasma braced herself on a clothing rack. Her laugh was distorted but was still a sound you were glad to hear.  

You turned back to the worker and told him about your new qualifications for your wardrobe. Olivia-Rose seemed to be very helpful throughout the store. She was finding many pieces that you liked, which you were grateful for.

You moved through three more stores before needing food, which you were given the whole selection of the cafeteria and the cafes to choose from. During your lunch was the only time the store’s employees were not allowed to be there as the ‘troopers took off their helmets to join you. You watched as they seemed to enjoy the really delicious food that they were privileged to eat this time around. Like the knights, they seemed to have a soft spot for sweets.

After lunch you spent time in the Hair Salon and spa, all while you were in there various personal shoppers came in asking for your approval on this or that dress, top, skirt, and bottom. They also brought in various accessories and jewelry. Once you were finished with a manicure, pedicure, haircut and facial you mad your trip to the beauty counter picking up all of the different luxurious makeup that interested you. After all, if he was going to be a jerk but was offering to pay why wouldn’t you?

By the time you left, you had 300 some shopping bags filled with this or that. You weren’t sure how much you had spent but you didn’t care, either way, it wasn’t your money and you were taking advantage of it while you could. If he really was the Supreme Leader of the First Order and if he desired for you to be his empresses then no expense was too small right?

“You did better than I expected m’lady,” commented Phasma.

“Well captain I took what you said to heart and I made the most of the opportunity.”

She snorted again, “I would say so.”

You were pleasantly in a better mood than when you got there. You had no idea where you would wear everything you got, but you sure as hell did not care, you now had something for every type of occasion.

You arrived back at the ship and the general greeted you in the hangar. Upon seeing all of the shopping bags his eyebrows raised before you could say anything Phasma spoke up for you. “She heeded my advice.”

A smirk then appeared on his face, “of course she did. Remind me to take your advice more often captain.”

Another snort came from the chrome-gilded amazon, she seemed to be in good spirits.

“Well m’lady your lesson today will be a bit different, the Supreme Leader has requested that you take some diplomacy lessons,” said the redhead.

“Diplomacy lessons?”

“Yes, he has already seen the great work that you have done with the Health Committee and would like you to learn more.” He could see the look of confusion and slight frustration on your face before he expanded, “I believe you will do well m’lady, the Supreme Leader is not known for his diplomacy skills, rather he is known for his lack of them. We are all hoping that you can use your strengths in this area to help the First Order expand to other parts of the galaxy.”

You then followed him through the halls to your usual conference room, the projector had the image of an alien man on screen, he jarringly looked like a human but with blue skin and red eyes.

“Today we will be watching some of the Empire’s Grand Admiral Thrawn, he was brilliant and ruthless, tactical and cunning. Someone you can learn from.”

You watched this man for a few hours. You could see why the general admired him in many ways, you wondered if you could convince the general to watch some former diplomats from your own planet, not just ones from the First Order or the Empire. When you were finished you got up to leave, but before you left the general informed you of something.

“I had someone look into your flowers m’lady. There seemed to be traces of Force energy on them, which is probably the explanation of why they turned black. The Supreme Leader would be better at explaining this, I will let him know that it was a concern to you and he should answer it when he gets back.”

“Do we know when that will be?”

“Not as of yet, m’lady. I do know that they have reached their destination, but as of now they have been comms silent, which isn’t unusual. But do take care in knowing that he is one of the strongest things in this galaxy, so there is no need to worry.”

And with that you did worry, he was one of the strongest things in the galaxy, so what caused the long jagged scar across his face?

When you went back to your chambers you glanced at your wrist for the first time in a while, the name  Ben Solo seemed to be more faded than before. Is that what he was doing? Finding another way to kill that part of himself? You felt sick. So you lied down before dinner knowing that someone would come and get you.

Once more your dreams were filled with blue and red lights, but there was something more this time. There was water, an ocean, you didn’t know where but you could almost smell it and feel the mist on your face.

A/N: In this fic, I will try to never describe the reader's height, weight, etc. So even though these brands don't do plus size, pretend that they do, because you are an "empress" and you get what you want...............

[another-corpo-rat]

:3 for the smut sentence starters "you're mine, and i take care of what belongs to me."

ty ty for the prompt 😘😘 tho i have to admit this one is not as smutty as i wished but hey, i like what i wrote anyways \o/ it's a pseudo follow up to Gemini in a way prompt list is here!

❛ you’re mine, and i take care of what belongs to me. ❜ Adam Smasher/OC

At some point Adam’s giddiness at her conversion, the pride that radiated off of him like a welcoming heat, dulled. It didn’t vanish, not entirely, Victoria could still feel the fondness in his hold and the stolen presses of mandible to lips, demanding where once he merely tolerated, but something changed. Shifted.

It was more obvious now, when that hold tightened into something that could crush bone and made her HUD flash a warning of external pressure as his thumb traced a scar that didn’t exist anymore. Not truly. The threads of gold through skin was a recent aesthetic choice, a replication to make her change easier; to help her resettle into a new body distressingly similar to her own. She wasn’t sure how effective it was, but well…she hasn’t had shaky hands or glitchy visions just yet.

She huffs a needless breath where her lips work against the cables of his neck, pausing to ask; “An enny for your thoughts?” The tilt of his head is a miniscule thing, a quiet acknowledgement that she feels with where her fingers are curled against the hard line of his jaw. He furthers it with an ease in that crushing grip, thumb ghosting circles over her hip as if to soothe the never-forming bruise.

There was some irony there, that he’d be gentler with her in a body that could handle his strength.

“The princess’s,” a rebuke brews on her tongue, Michiko has long outgrown being a mere princess— “little spies found him.” It dies.

An audible clack in the space between them as she gnashes her teeth together. A stagnant heat builds in her circuitry, so hot it burns cold.

He was a horrible thing; busted jaw and crooked nose. One eye cybernetic and the organic one cloudy white, what little left of his iris torn. His hand was shaking. Thrill or adrenaline; not nerves. Not with that smile. Not nerves. A hum rose in her ears; the building charge of a tech weapon, buzzing like static or flies or—

“Victoria.” Adam’s voice cuts through, stern in demanding her attention. His free hand had moved, coiling a blonde lock around a thick finger, tugging gently until her vision unblurred after quick blinks and deep breaths.

The hand on her hip continued the soothing motions; “What do you need?”

Nothing. Everything. Too much to ask for but— but demand is instinctual, so deeply embedded it’s woven through her internal mechanisms. She wants to know why Michiko alerted him first and not her. She wants that bastard on the brink of death, suspended in limbo and agony, taken apart and pieced back together with rusted parts grafted onto peeled skin.

But what she needs…

Well, that’s ridiculously simple.

“You.”

Adam hums at her answer, and she wonders if she really needed to say it at all as he adjusts her position on his lap. Her thighs frame his hips, arms wrap loosely around his neck. There was hardly any space between them but his hand cradles the back of her head and draws her in those final inches.

A lot of things taste different now, but he’s always had that tang of bitterness that lingers on her lips for hours after. An unexpected but delightful constant that she can’t imagine ever getting sick of.

“You’re mine, Buttercup,” the mechanized croon against her lips shouldn’t be as tender as it is, not with that accompanying tell-tale click of a panel sliding open and the hard press of his cock between her legs, “and I take care of what belongs to me.”

[another-corpo-rat]

❛ you're such a fucking tease, you know that? ❜ for Adam/Vic 👀👀👀👀👀👀

ty for the prompt 😘😘 i took liberties / paraphrased it cos Smasher was just. not working with me that piece of shit- Prompt list is here!

❛you're such a fucking tease, you know that?❜ Adam Smasher/OC

Too short of a dress, too high of a heel. Victoria knows what she’s doing as she strides into Arasaka’s shooting range. Knows who she’s doing. Chin high and eyes forward as if she was dressed for a Monday morning meeting, not a Friday night riding someone’s thigh.

The distinct sound of chatter quietens when she enters, greeted with a wolf-whistle cut short with an elbow to the ribs. And Adam—

Adam doesn’t lower the HMG, no – there’s a deafening clatter of a significant weight meeting the floor, the telling skid of some parts flying across the wide space. She makes a show of rolling her eyes, casting them about the width of the room as if she hasn’t been here before. Ignoring him in his approach, the heavy, deliberate stride in her direction and a sharp bark of: “Leave” that his assigned unit scurry to follow.

She continues to ignore him as his hands come to rest on her hips. Squeezing possessively, enough to bruise skin but not bone.

“You aren’t being subtle, Blondie.”

“Aren’t I?” She croons, lips quirking with a small smirk as her hand follows up the expanse of a cybernetic arm, squeezing at a chrome bicep. “Was it the shower nude or showing up in this dress without underwear that pushed the boundary too far?”

The rumble from his chest, somewhere between a growl and a chuckle, is a telling thing. A warning. And one she smiles at as he hoists her up. She wastes no time wrapping her legs around him, bracing her hands on his wide shoulders as one of his own slips beneath the dress’s hemline.

His chrome is cold against her flushed skin, a trail of goosebumps left in its wake as his hand caresses upwards. She’s already familiar with his touch, with the scratches and wear that textures the pads of his fingers and palms like callouses, yet still her breath leaves her lungs with a shudder before his fingers brush against her uncovered sex. Red optics brighten at the discovery; a huff of amusement that turns her smile coy.

“Did you think I was lying?”

“Had my doubts,” he says, slipping a thick finger into her wet heat. Hers curl against his shoulders, nails digging into the Kevlar and a needy whimper rewarding him. “You have a habit of it.”

“Not with y—” Her words recede into a moan as he gets knuckle-deep, curling the finger to stroke against her. Slow and deep, enough to ruin her, enough that most cocks feel lacking in comparison. Not that she’d ever admit it; he’d be utterly insufferable, but her cunt clenches desperately around him and her hold on his shoulders is shaky already and that feels admission enough.

“Of being such a fucking tease.” He corrects, thumb ghosting over her clit. He’s not capable of expression, not really – but he manages to be taunting with that glint to his optics and the goading tone through a heavy-duty vocaliser handily enough. “But you know that.”

[another-corpo-rat]

❛ do you really think you’re in a position to give orders? ❜ - for vic and adam please <3

ty so much for the prompt Bunny 💕 prompt list is here for anyone who wants to do this themselves <3

and oml im so sorry for how long this one took me to get to - i was fumbling for ideas for a lot longer than i care to admit, until the want for Vic to bully Adam a lil came about

❛ do you really think you’re in a position to give orders? ❜ Adam Smasher/OC Set during the '20s

It’s quite the sight; Adam Smasher bound and snarling. Synthetic muscle straining against rope – industrial strength, more a sturdy cabling truthfully: the sort used to secure minotaurs and tow basilisks, because she’s not an idiot.

Gemini frame or not, Victoria doesn’t doubt he’d have pulled himself free from any other sort, no matter how expertly tied the knots or quality the thread. Nothing organic could restrain the man and even synthetics were questionable, no, it had to be metal for him and that feels more than fitting.

“You just gonna fucking stare at me all night?”

She could, and would be more than happy to, even in the Gemini he was worth admiring. Especially now with his arms bounds behind him, working with the straight back of the chair to push his chest forward and the thick cabling pressing just below his pectorals, drawing her eye and the urge to bite.

Her eyes follow the needless flex of his muscle downwards to where his thighs tremble minutely, almost subtle as he tries to work against her efforts. The rope holds, but the legs of the chair groan in protest. She’d think he be comfortable there at least, with his habit of spreading his knees as wide as he can.

Standing between those spread legs, her fingers thread through thick locks of blonde hair. Soft, natural feeling to have fooled her once before. “You do make a pretty picture.”

“Aw, you’re making me blush. But if you don’t ride my dick—” Her fingers tighten into a curl, yanking his head back. It quietens him, slackens his jaw as surprise catches his tongue between its teeth.

“Do you really think,” she says soft and low, a gentle croon as she nips against the exposed column of his throat, “you’re in a position to give orders?”

His chest heaves with a needless breath, tongue swiping across his lips to wet them while a muscle twitches at their corner. The smile splits his face, a teeth-baring grin that wouldn’t look amiss with a splattering of blood. “I think I’m gonna fuck you hollow then throw you to the gutter.”

She hums and barely spares a thought towards the apparent threat. It was mild in the grand scheme of things, hardly even worth noting beyond the pleasant bite in that southern drawl and the needy twitch of his neglected cock. Pinching a nipple between the sharp point of nails, she’s much more interested in that; the sharp hiss of a breath, how his body arches into the sting. He raises his chin a little higher, the bob of his Adam’s apple prominent and tempting. An invitation she readily accepts, sinking her teeth into his neck.

The texture was familiar, disappointingly perfect in the imitation of skin. No tell of the metal frame beneath, no bitter tang waiting to greet her and sit on her tongue for days after, making every meal taste like him.

No sweat, no musk. Nothing beyond the days old lingering of a vaguely spiced, certainly cheap cologne and the smoky air of cigars. Nothing distinctly him. She never thought she’d find Adam lacking in any capacity, and she’ll continue with that; placing the blame solely at the feet of the Gemini’s manufacturers instead.

“Buttercup,” he tries, voice a little raspier than usual. Needier.

She eases, tongue lathering over where she had bit, thumb ghosting over where she nipped, and waits. It’s a tenderness he’s never extended to her; always keener to press his handprint into bruising skin, and she doubts he sees it as anything more than mockery veiled in affection now.

“Fine.” A bite of a word, sharper than her teeth because she won’t allow it to be otherwise. A hand braces against his shoulder, fingers curling, nails digging in as she finally straddles him.

A shared sound of relief as his cock slides into her is caught between their lips, soundly silenced.

[another-corpo-rat]

This was…originally very different, and fit the ‘Delicate’ prompt much better than a mere line but aw well this version flows much better. did you know the two counter-intel agents in the show had first names? Because I didn’t

Prompt: Delicate Adam Smasher/OC Warnings for mentions of blood, Spoilers for the end of edgerunners Summary: Smasher is unwinding after a dose of violence, Victoria is wound up because of the work it dropped on her lap.

.

The AV Hangar is quieter than it usually is. Most of the mechanics and cleaning staff done for the night – all except one, an intern stuck well after hours, trying not to shit himself as he fills a bucket of soapy water next to where Adam Smasher sits.

Adam doesn’t snarl at the boy to move faster; last time he did that the fuck had dropped the bucket and what was supposed to be a quick wash became a whole thing. Helped that he felt calmer than he usually did, at ease only in the way a bit of fun could conjure.

And he didn’t even have to break a joytoy or two for it to settle over him this time. He was almost grateful for that counter-intel cunt dragging him into her mess, it’s been a while since some gonk was brave enough to stand up to him. The sight of the kid donning the cyber-skeleton alone was worth it. Like a toddler wearing his father’s boots and thinking it made him a big boy. Fucking adorable.

He made sure to save it from his black-box, was in the process of uploading it to the shared folders he had with Victoria, certain his little netrunner would adore the carnage as much as he did, when he heard the elevator ding.

The intern tenses at the sound. No one else was supposed to be up here, but by the familiar click of heels he’d guess the boy would have a hard time enforcing that.

“Leave.” Victoria says sharply, her voice cutting through the empty hangar and startling the intern enough that he drops the sponge into the bucket. A few suds splash up, white froth stark against his black chrome and the kid looks about ready to shit himself at that. As if his entire purpose here wasn’t to get cleaned.

His mouth is opening and closing, a fish on a hook. “Did I stutter?” And she’s as effective a club as any to beat him against the head.

She looks like she’s about to. Adam makes sure to keep the building rumble in his chest quiet, fans close to ticking up at the building heat. She was in a mood.

“N-no ma’am, but I- I’m supposed to—” He looks to Adam, desperate. As if he was going to help.

“Listen to your superiors, yes. Which you are not doing.” Her expression eases into that dangerously kind thing, the slight little smile that’s too pointed not to hide teeth. “Why is that?”

“I- I’m not supposed to leave until-”

“Do you need a fucking escort?” The intern’s neck almost breaks with how quickly he turns to face Adam, and he’s sure the boy rattles his brain with how violently he shakes his head.  Their reactions never fail to tickle him, the sudden paling and wide eyes. Heartbeat spiking to dangerous levels of fast. It was almost as entertaining as Victoria’s annoyed little huff when the boy finally leaves. Darting across the hangar like there was something nipping at his heels.

She closes the feet of space between them, shrugging off her suit-jacket and tossing it to the floor. Definitely in a mood then. He knew the drill; let her distract herself however she chooses and she’ll calm the fuck down eventually. This was one of her newer methods of distraction. One he wasn’t going to question, not when it meant she was the one scrubbing him down instead of some shaky intern. He leans back instead of hunching over himself, watching as she rolls up her sleeves before she kneels between his legs, grabbing the sponge.

She was more thorough than they tended to be anyways, not afraid of getting rough when she scoured his finer mechanisms. He groans softly, optics dimming and head tilting back as she dislodges something that got caught in his ankle. It was like a massage, they were just missing the scented candles and oils. Maybe the weird chiming music the one that Michiko dragged him to decades ago had.

Huh. He should take Victoria there sometime. If it was still around. She’d probably enjoy the shit they do with the hot stones.

“That netrunner,” He rumbles in the deliberate pause of her sentence, as good a response as any, “did she manage to cut through your ICE?” What kind of stupid ass-

It was like she didn’t know him.

“She wasn’t even close to cracking it.” He onlines his optics as a thought hits him, lifting his head again to look at the woman between his legs, scrubbing away at the blood on his chrome with that damn little furrow to her brow.

He nudges her with his knee, waiting until she looks up to ask: “Is that what’s got you so wound up? You worried about some gutter-scum frying my circuits?” It would be touching, if it wasn’t a fucking laughable idea. She of all people should know that much. She scoffs.

“Hardly.” A bite of a word. There’s more force than necessary when she twists the sponge, red-hued water spilling back into the bucket. She slaps it back against his thigh, meeting the warning of a growl with a look before her shoulders ease with a sigh and she gets back to it. “The girl was an Arasaka asset, under our noses this entire fucking time. And she got away. Again.”

Ah, not quite gutter-scum then. But still.

“Don’t see how that’s your problem.”

“It shouldn’t be, but Mayes has decided it is.” Her next exhale is a heavy thing, her head resting against the plate of his now-clean thigh. No doubt raking through her collection of blackmail, trying to find something hard enough to slap her wannabe superior with. He knows she’ll come up empty. She wouldn’t be moping around him otherwise.

It’d be a shame to leave her so sour when he was in such a good mood.

“Well then,” he hums, reaching to tangle his fingers in her hair. The blonde locks flow easily between his fingers, soft. He’s learned how to do it so it doesn’t get caught in his joints. “It’s a good thing I have something that can make your day so much better, isn’t it?”

“I swear to God, Adam. If you pull out your cock—”

“Tempting, but not quite.”

She raises an eyebrow, but any questions she might have quieten as he sends her a recording from his black-box. Of one Kate Mayes, and the hand she had in tonight’s mess.

“Oh,” she croons, the slight knit that remained on her brow easing as her expression sharpened, golden eyes alight and lips curling into a wolfish grin. “Now that is interesting.” She’s looking more like herself now, sounding more like it too. He chuckles fondly as she rocks up and forward, climbing onto his lap and pressing her lips against his mandible. His hand settles on her ass, for support. Of course.

“So, are you gonna give this cunt hell or are you handling this ‘delicately?’” He puts too much emphasis on the word, hissing it out. They’ve had arguments – more loud disagreements, really – about how to handle blackmail. He was no better than a roid-rage manic in a china shop, according to her.

And she took her sweet ass time to do anything with it. Always waiting, calling for patience that ran out a month ago. There were instances he was close to wringing her neck in the interim.

“Oh hell no.” She says now, teeth bared in that grin he’s come to adore, “I’m burying the bitch.”

“That’s my girl.” He pats her ass. “Make sure she knows who handed you the shovel.”