#someone put the sky in this cats eyeballs I have never seen eyes so blue on an animal before

[lunerabo]

I just saw an absolute supermodel of a stray cat on my walk this evening omg

[ladyhallen]

Stormbringer

part 1| part 2| part 3

Amidst the carnage, one building stood out for how undamaged it was.

Fon stares.

He didn’t usually indulge in knock-out drag-down brawls the way most people with Storm Flames did. It caused too many casualties and made the sour taste of guilt well up in his stomach after he’d seen the damages.

Of course, he was usually well away by the time the haze of Storm-frenzy left him, so the guilt wasn’t usually severe, but this time.

This time, he’s still on site when the haze leaves him and he sees the most definitely destroyed town.

Thankfully, there’s not much dead, given that it’s in the middle of the afternoon and everyone would be at work and not at home.

But. That’s one pristinely undamaged building.

Its taking Fon’s attention from what pissed him off in the first place and he knows it. He focuses his energy on it so he doesn’t slip under again.

“What in the world?” he asks.

He blinks, allowing Storm Flames to coat his eyeballs for a moment and... There’s no signs of Mist tampering on the building, or any other Flame help. It’s just standing all by itself, having survived Fon’s rampage where all its other fellows did not.

Curiosity gets the better of him and he enters the building. He’s aware that he should be well away from the town before the authorities and curious reporters arrive but peeking would only take a moment.

A bell jingles merrily when he opens the door, at complete odds with how grimy and blood stained he is. The inside is just as pristine and untouched as the outside, the shelves lined with small boxes, and those boxes filled with shining gems.

A...a trinket shop? A trinket shop managed to withstand his overwhelming Storm Flames untouched?

“Welcome to Harry’s Emporium of Charms, Luck or Otherwise!” a petite woman greets from the counter with a smile. “What are you seeking, stranger and how may I help you?”

The foreigner didn’t even bat an eye at the blood on his clothes, or the bloody knuckles that were slowly dripping blood on her clean floor. She just gave him a soft smile, patiently waiting.

“I was...curious,” Fon says. He eyed her dark hair thoughtfully. She looked as innocuous as her store, but the look in her light eyes told him that if he tried anything here, he would not be coming out of it unscathed.

“That is one reason to enter the Emporium,” she answers. “But what are you seeking, stranger?”

Fon remembers why he was angry in the first place and red filled his vision again before he quelled it forcefully. It took several deep breaths before he could remember where he was again.

“I need,” he says with carefully leashed violence. “Something to help me keep my temper. I am somewhat prone to loosing it when something triggers me. Other than that, I am mostly calm.”

“Mostly,” she agrees, for the first time making a reference to what he’d done outside. “What do you say you need more though, Reason or Patience?”

Other people asking this would get Dragon punched into the next life. The woman, however, wasn’t asking out of schadenfreude, or the intent to use it against him later.

“A mix of both,” he says.

She gets up from behind her table and went to one of the many boxes lining the walls of her store. She chooses three charms and, after a long thoughtful look at him, a sturdy looking red thread.

“You use your body often,” she says, more to herself than to him, glancing at his bloodied knuckles and bruised wrists, “And you would object to having your ears pierced, of course.”

Fon nods. He watched her fingers deftly twist the wire into shapes, looping it through one stone, then another, adding a decorative bead that shone, adding the last stone and somehow making it beautiful.

“What do you think about bells?” she asked again, producing a box of bells of all shapes and sizes from under the table.

He likes bells. But given his work, it would be inadvisable to wear one. With a pained expression, he tells her so.

But the woman isn’t deterred. “Try one,” she says, holding out the box to him.

Just to please her, he takes the smallest one and shakes it, releasing a small chiming sound that...sounded five seconds after he shook it.

“How,” he gasps out in shock.

Her smile is cat-like. “Trade secret. So. A yes for the bells?”

He nods. She adds it to the charm and it looked incredibly beautiful. Even if her charm turned out to be a hoax, he would still wear it.

“Where?” he asks.

She gestures to his hair and he realizes that the long tail he usually wore it in had slipped loose. She’d included a long, slightly elastic end that he used to tie his hair up, slipping his old hair tie into his pocket.

Impossibly, he felt calmer the second he placed his hands down. The bells jingled when he moved his head, the slight delay unnoticeable unless one was using the sound to track him down.

He breathes and didn’t feel the rage shimmering under his skin. Instead, it banked available until he deliberately called it.

“How much do I owe you?” he asks.

The amount she said was a more pittance compared to the peace of mind he would have for as long as the charm would last.

“A year,” she answers when he asked if he should get another one. Then, she looks at him closely. “Maybe less. You are...very powerful.”

He buys five more. Just in case.

Fon leaves the store, mood considerably brighter than when he entered it. That is, until he saw the police outside.

.

.

Fon didn’t tell anyone about the charms, or the woman who sold it to him.

He did get a reputation as the Eye of the Storm for how calm he could get, right until he eviscerated someone with a smile.

He did, however, drop by her shop whenever he had time. He owes her too much just to disappear on her.

Not that she took it that way.

“Welcome to Harry’s Emporium of – oh for goodness sake, it’s you again,” Harry cut off her spiel, looking exasperated and annoyed.

“Hello Harry,” he greets her with a slight bow and the chime of bells. “I bought you cake.”

She huffs and puts down the wire cutter, turning around to put the kettle on.

“What were you going to do with the wire cutter?” he asks, placing the box down on her working table.

“I was working on a commission, I would have you know,” she says. “Because I don’t just sit around and hope someone comes in.”

That is a sore point for her, given that he’d asked her that in one of his visits. How is he supposed to know that is insulting?

Her irritation melts the moment she opens the box. “Lemon cake! This will go well with some of that tea you gave me. I still have some left.”

She bustles around him and Fon feels the tension gathered around his shoulders bleed out. Harry exuded that incredibly calming presence that he’d never found anywhere else, not even those with Rain Flames or Sky Flames.

It was that surety of where she stood in the world, that confidence that no matter what would happen, she’d still be standing afterward. It was incredibly attractive to Fon, who only had the clothes on his back, and the orders of his Master to fall back on. Everything he had belonged to the Triads.

He would stock up on the calm Harry exuded until the next visit.

“Thanks for coming to visit,” Harry tells him after the cake had been eaten and the remainder packed away inside her little kitchen. She hands him a packet of cookies that is tied with another charm for luck. Harry keeps giving them away, it is a wonder she still made a profit. “I’ll miss you,” she sighs.

Fon would admit that he is an oblivious bastard. But even he could hear what she means with those words.

It takes all he has not to kiss her. It is too soon, and she doesn’t need the kind of man that would only show up sporadically.

“I’ll miss you too,” he sighs out, putting his forehead against hers, looking into her eyes. This close, he could see that they are a light color, green with flecks of gold and blue. It is incredibly enchanting and he could stare at them for hours.

But the appointment with Checkerface is waiting, as well as the promise of a challenge.

“I’ve got to go,” he murmurs.

Harry lets out a hitched breath when he releases her and Fon closes his eyes against the sheer need that flooded him.

[snappedsky]

Borderlands: Skies the Bodyguard 2

After getting stranded in a Pandoran desert, Rhys and Vaughn- and Jack- run into someone interesting. Previous! Next!

--

Chapter 1

           The demotion of the century; a ten million dollar Vault Key deal gone sour; said ten million dollars blown to shreds; his old employers trying to kill him; the AI ghost of a corporate dictator- and his hero- living in his head.

           To sum it up, Rhys’ trip to Pandora has not gone well.      

           The only good thing that’s happened the last couple days is his best friend, Vaughn, actually believes him about his Handsome Jack ‘situation’. He may have been sceptical at first, but they’ve known each other a long time. They can tell when the other’s telling the truth.

           But that doesn’t amount to much now, with the two- three- of them stranded in the middle of a Pandoran desert.

           Now they’re resting under a large rock in an effort to stay out of the sun. Every so often, Rhys looks up at the Hyperion space station, Helios, to see if his old friend, Yvette, has sent them a car yet. But it’s quiet.

           Rhys sighs and rubs the back of his neck with his robot hand. The cool metal feels nice.

           “How do you think the girls are doing?” Vaughn asks. He’s sitting beside Rhys, staring at the sky.

           “Oh, I’m sure they’re fine,” Rhys replies, “they’re tough.”

           They’re talking about Fiona and Sasha, born-and-raised Pandorans they met through the botched Vault Key deal. They were working on finding a new Vault together when Helios attacked them, splitting them up.

           “Hopefully they make it to Hollow Point alright,” Vaught says.

           “Ugh, come ooonnn,” Handsome Jack groans. He’s been pacing back and forth in front of them for the last couple minutes, looking not unlike an agitated cat. Rhys has been trying to ignore him but once he starts talking, it’s a little difficult.

           “I’m dying here, cupcake,” Jack whines, “literally dying again- of boredom! Let’s get going, let’s do something.”

           “You expect us to walk to Hollow Point?” Rhys asks drily.

           “Actually, I expect you to walk to Old Haven,” he replies, “that would make much better sense strategically. But anything would be better than just sitting here.”

           Rhys sighs and looks past the hologram to try to ignore him. Who knew Handsome Jack was so whiny?

           He spots something moving around the outcropping of rocks across from them and jolts. Two skags have emerged from their den. They notice the pair of ex-Hyperion workers and snarl.

           “Uh, Rhys?” Vaughn says fearfully as they jump to their feet. The skags stalk towards them, drool dripping from their chops.

           “Finally some action,” Jack says excitedly, clapping his hands together.

           “Heh, uh, g-good boys,” Rhys nervously says as he slowly draws his stun baton.

           One of the skags roars and charges. Rhys and Vaughn scream.

           Something suddenly leaps off the rock they’re against, tackling the skag to the ground. Even the second skag is surprised.

           Whoever they are, they’re definitely human. At least, for the most part. They keep the thrashing skag pinned to the dirt and stab it multiple times in the head with a machete.

           The second skag gets over its bewilderment and charges the mysterious person. They start to turn but Rhys responds faster.

           “Hey!” he exclaims and lunges forward, jabbing the skag with his stun baton. It yips as it flies off, hitting the ground hard.

           The person looks with Rhys with surprise and he flinches back. They’re wearing a Psycho mask.

           They quickly hop off the first skag and run over to finish off the second with their knife. Once they’re sure both beasts are dead, they stand up straight and face Rhys.

           “A Psycho,” Vaughn whimpers as he cowers behind his friend.

           “A female Psycho,” Jack adds, “never seen that before. S’kinda hot.”

           The person definitely looks like a woman with a mess of long, curly brown hair. She’s wearing a single black boot and black pants with the right leg cut off at the thigh, showing off her robotic peg leg made of exposed scrap parts. She’s also got on a black shirt and a brown trench coat with the right sleeve tied at the shoulder as she’s missing her arm. Her Psycho mask looks cheap and handmade, with a painted blue Vault symbol crossing over the left eye. There’s a hole for her left eye but a patch covers where her right eye would be.

           She scans Rhys and Vaughn appraisingly, lingering on the Hyperion logo on Rhys’ vest, his stun baton, and his one boot-less foot.

           “Uh,” Rhys coughs, breaking the tension. “Thank you for saving us.”

           “Yeah, thanks,” Vaughn adds, “you-you’re not gonna e-eat our eyeballs…are you?”

           The suspicious glare in the Psycho’s eye seems to soften. “Nah, eyeballs aren’t my thing.”

           “That voice,” Jack muses.

           Rhys and Vaughn watch with surprise as she puts her machete away in her coat and takes off her mask. She’s got a nasty, jagged scar that cuts straight through her right eyelid to her temple. She looks kind of familiar.

           “Skies!?” Jack exclaims in disbelief.

           “Skies?” Rhys questions, glancing at him before looking back at the girl. “Skies the Bodyguard?”

           She shakes her head. “Ex-bodyguard.”

[grimmseye]

Kill Your Heroes (Chapter 1)

Fandom: Critical Role

Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Caleb Widogast, Mollymauk Tealeaf & Yasha, Mollymauk, Mollymauk Tealeaf & The Mighty Nein 

Chapter Characters: Mollymauk Teafleaf, Caleb Widogast, Yasha, Beauregard

Other Tags: Superhero AU, Reporter!Mollymauk, Vigilante!Caleb, 

(Read on Ao3)

Mollymauk knows all the best places to duck and cover once the city comes under siege.

It’s just another Monday, really, when the streets start to rattle and the people start to scream and Mollymauk Tealeaf rolls into an alley to take cover and dig out the equipment he’s taken to toting around. The early bird gets the worm, and some bullshit like that. He’s not much of an early-riser but he is the first on the scene.

His phone buzzes the moment he gets his camera out of its bag, a stern ‘Do not’ from Yasha (It’s actually Yasha [heart][lightningbolt][heart][sparkle]). He taps back a string of hearts and sparkles before silencing his phone and shoving it into his pocket. Camera on, microphone ready, showtime.

It’s easy to find the scene, at least — just run against the crowd. By the flash of blue that’s darting over the rooftops, he knows one of the Cobalt Soul has taken the villain of the week. Lionheart, if he had to take a guess. There’s her staff, flinging her across a gap that would kill her if she missed, landing sure-footed as ever and charging after her prey. Mollymauk grins as he turns his camera on her and gives chase.

“Hello, people of Zadash,” he beams into his mic as he runs, “today we’ve got cloudy with a chance of villainy, Lionheart’s quick on the draw as always. Personally I’ve got bets that we’re gonna see Sugar Bomb joining the party but Hexblade’s been more and more active as of late. Haven’t got eyes on the villain just yet but as usual stay indoors, seek the nearest shelter if you’re out on the streets. Stay safe everybody!”

A beam of light streams out of the sky. Lionheart tosses herself off the rooftop and away from it, plummeting at a breakneck speed like a bird in a dive. Her feet skim the side of the skyscraper, push off, and she leaps the rest of her momentum down to the ground, in time to roll out of the path of another dark ray.

The concrete crumbles like dust where the beam hits. Mollymauk’s eyes go wide, a grimace on his face. “Steer clear of the Tri-Spires, we’ve got a nasty one today. Some kind of disintegration ray —” His voice hushes as he hunkers down behind the corner of a building, aiming his camera around to get a view of who must be the villain, floating down.

They’ve got an ugly helmet covering their entire head, one enormous eyeball mounted on its front. “Got a regular cyclops here,” Mollymauk hisses, daring to edge just a bit more out of hiding. “Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder but yeesh.” Lionheart gets to her feet, using her staff to balance herself as she snarls up at the villain. She’s dressed in the blues of her faction, a mask over her eyes and well-fitted clothes, the typical monk garb of heroes who come out of the Cobalt Soul.

She charges. A ferocity that Mollymauk both admires and reprehends drives her dead towards the villain, who rears back with an animal snarl as a light blooms in the center of the pupil, black flooding to a bright green. Lionheart drops to a skid at the last moment, sliding right past them as the ray fires out, the intended effect invisible against asphalt and concrete. She springs up, cracks them across the back of the helmet with her staff, plants it in the ground to throw herself into a kick in their back that lands them prone. They slam onto the pavement, head bouncing —

“And that’s why you wear a helmet, kids,” Mollymauk chirps, grinning as he steps out of hiding. “Hey, good work there, Lionheart! Do you have a —”

Her head snaps up. “You —! Get out of here —”

And so does the villain’s. The pupil has drained to a soft blue, and it’s directed at Mollymauk.

“Oh, fuck,” he cusses into the mic, and then makes to flee.

Whatever it is hits him in the back. He feels himself lock up, held in place as a shimmer of blue slams down over his vision. And then the ground leaves his feet as he’s launched up into the air. Windows fly past him, a dozen, two dozen, the light falls and Molly spins towards the faraway ground and feels his heart in his throat as he shuts his eyes and he plummets.

His last thought, appropriately enough, is ‘Yasha was right.’

And then someone catches him. The whoof of his breath out of his lungs is met with another, they fly another several meters from the impact of their bodies. They slow, though, and they steady, and Mollymauk dares to open his eyes.

He absolutely does not recognize this man. That’s unsurprising, Mollymauk doesn’t recognize most people. The popular heroes and villains fly right over his head, he only knows what he sees here in Zadash.

This guy is wearing a full mask. Red-toned hair fans out over it, but the face is covered by a mask in the shape of a cat, striking black material that only lets him see the eyes staring back at him. He’s carrying Mollymauk rather haphazardly, in a way that quickly becomes uncomfortable until Molly goes, “Well, this isn’t working. One arm under the legs, that’s the ticket. Now I’m a proper damsel in distress.”

They’re flying, Mollymauk notices, a little idly, thanks to a swirl of fire that just seems to be surrounding this guy’s likes like a ghostly tail. “So that’s why it’s so hot up here,” Molly grins. The hero blinks at him.

He remembers his equipment in a flash, heart jumping in his throat before realizing that by some miracle he’d sustained a proper death grip on them this whole time. The hand with the microphone is slung around the hero’s shoulders, and Molly quickly pulls himself up closer to be heard through it, “This is Mollymauk Teafleaf. I am alive and I have just been rescued by an unknown hero. Tell me, friend, are you new on the scene or am I just a bit dazed? What’s your name?”

Another bat of the eyes. “I…” Soft voice. “Don’t… have one just yet. I am new, yes.” Zemnian accent.

“Lovely to meet you. Now, as much as I hate to cut this short, Lionheart does appear to be needing a hand.” They crane their heads down. She’s holding her own nicely, but can’t get close between the beams flying around, a deadly lightshow in the middle of Zadash. “Could you drop me off somewhere? Or, set me down somewhere, actually, that would be much nicer.”

“Oh — yes, yes.” It’s an absentminded mutter, and Molly’s stomach swoops as they descend. He clings a little tighter, tail finding the arm supporting his legs and holding fast. The heat wafting up from the fire is a bit less than pleasant, but at the moment he’s in no position to complain. Wait until both feet are safely on the ground before offering constructive criticism.

They touch down safely, a few blocks away from the commotion. Mollymauk is set on his feet, the hero stepping back in a manner that’s — shy, maybe? Reserved . He’s not wearing what Mollymauk would really call hero garb, either, the mask is the nicest part of the outfit. The rest is approximately a long-sleeved black shirt on top of black pants and some sturdy boots. Thick gloves on the hands, a flash of something white between them and the sleeves.

“You’re okay from here?” He asks.

Mollymauk blinks, and then grins. “I’m perfect! Not a scratch on me, thanks to you. But before you go — Mollymauk Tealeaf.” He extends a hand. “If you ever want an interview from someone who’s seen your work up close and personal, I’m your guy.”

He doesn’t take the hand. Molly doesn’t lower it.

“Okay,” the hero nods. “I will… keep that in mind.” A flash of light and a loud shout from Lionheart — angry rather than pained, thankfully — makes him wince. “I’d better go, though.” He steps back, almost hesitant.

Molly gives him a pleasant wave with the hand he hadn’t shaken. “You do that!”

And after another lingering moment, the hero turns and trots off towards the fight, flames licking around his legs and building into a cyclone that propels him off the ground and out of sight.

Mollymauk turns to his own camera. “Well! That’s enough drama for me, I think. Luckily that Firebird swooped in to save me — what do you say, folks, take to the polls, let’s give this new guy a good name — and look who’s arriving! Sugar Bomb, just in the nick of time!”

He turns the camera over as another tiefling runs by, giving a smile and a wave and a bright, “Hello, Molly!” As she rushes by.

He gives a chuckle as he goes through his farewells and clicks off the camera, ending the recording. That will earn him a pretty handful of gold. He scrolls his camera settings, humming to himself. A few action shots would be excellent, magazines are raving for those. He steps back towards the scene, and then gags as a grip on the back of his collar yanks him back.

Yasha lifts him up like a kitten, turning Molly to face her. Even under her mask, he knows there’s disapproval in her eyes. “That’s enough,” she says, soft. She turns him around and puts him back on his feet, giving a kick to his butt. “Go home, Mollymauk. Please.”

And Molly ducks his head with a growl in the back of his throat. He can never say no to the please. “Oh, alright. I’ve got plenty here, I guess.” He rolls his eyes. “Just be careful, this guy is bad news.”

“You never listen to me when I say that, but you expect me to listen to you?” She cocks her head.

And he grimaces, a flicker of guilt in his throat. “Yeah, yeah. Go on, go save the day.” He shoos her away. “I’ll be cooking dinner tonight.”

She just gives a sigh, shaking her head as she takes off at a run. Her feet don’t truly touch the ground, the wind swirling underneath her to push her along.

Were it anyone else, and Molly would be flitting right back where he’d started, camera at the ready. Yasha, though, he owes Yasha too much, respects her too much, loves her too much to go back on his word. So he pushes himself onwards, planning out his shopping list. Something for dinner and the next couple of meals, they’re out of Yasha’s favorite tea.

Stores won’t be open until the all-clear goes through the city, though, even if it is across town. So for now it’s back to the apartment. Sooner he gets the footage up the better, anyway.

He’s scrolling through the clips as he heads up the steps of their apartment complex, tail curling with excitement. The toss was what was really going to be the money-maker this time around. Caught in the arms of a new-debut? That was a stroke of good fortune if he’d ever seen one. A dreamy little sigh puffs out of his mouth. He’s not sure if his old self was a money-mongerer, but Molly? Molly loves having money. Money means nice things — means good food and warm baths with scents and colors he doesn’t need, means buying flowers that make Yasha smile when she sees the new vase he’s set on the table.

He’s so lost in thought that he nearly trips over the cat that’s just sitting in the middle of the hallway. He notices it just in time, eyes going wide as he staggers around it and slams his back against the wall, clutching his camera to his chest like a mother clutches a baby. Then he turns his glare on the one who’d nearly cost him this small fortune.

The cat gazes back, unfazed, tail curling.

“No pets allowed in here, mongrel,” he says, but there’s no malice in his voice. “Who’s your owner? Tell them to keep you out of sight, and out from under my feet.”

The cat stretches out and then starts to wash its ass. Mollymauk snorts as he turns, shifts his camera to his other arm to unlock his door. He’s never seen a cat up here. Could be a new neighbor. Could be it’s been here all along. He knows better than to rely on his memory.

[thesilverdragoon]

Little Ladies’ Day

“I’LL KILL HIM- LET GO-”

“FOR BLOODY SAKE SOMEONE GRAB HOLD OF THAT SHRIEKIN’ DEVIL-”

And grab hold of the miqo’te, they did. Well… the bravest roegadyn they had anyway.

“SHE’S A LUNATIC, I’M NOT FIGHTING THAT- IT WOULDN’T EVEN BE A FAIR RIGHT!!” Some young punk had the wind knocked out of his sails.

Ul’dah’s arena was always lively, but this was a bit much. The host of this particular venue (or event or whichever it was)made a noise of annoyance or disapproval or both, and then stomped over towards the hurricane of claws. “Get a hold of yourself yeah?!? Ya see what ya bloody do? I’m tryin’ ta run a business here and all YOU’RE doin’ is scarin’ away all the competition, and if there’s none of THAT,” He grabbed the back of her shirt roughly from the guard and jostled her around. “Then there ain’t any GIL comin’ in!! Yer runnin’ me damned DRY!!”

“Then get me someone who can FIGHT who’s not such a CRY BABY AND WE’LL-” Cat hissed.

“I’ll not be bargaining with the likes of a devil. Much less you!!! Now you go cool off or else yer goin’ ta take that stub of yers an’ shove th’rest of it up yer arse!!”

They tossed her back out into the street with that final word.

Cat sprang to her feet and puffed up, ready to start screaming at the door, but she thought better of it at the end.

Instead she grabbed a nearby empty crate off a whole stack of them and threw it into the street before storming off, back to the main walkway of the city.

Cool off… how dare they. It wasn’t her fault they could hardly find anyone brave enough to face her AND her wrath.

Despite it being later in the evening, many people were out and about. The city was still lively. Not like Ul’dah ever slept anyway.

There were blossom trees that had been brought in big pots up and down the street, ribbons tied everywhere, colorful confetti and flowers all over the place too. Everything she hated. Except the flowers. Maybe.

The sights made her bitter if anything. Fathers out with daughters, husbands with wives, siblings with one another, all having what looked to be a good time.

Many of the girls had flower crowns made of daisies, in all sorts of colors. And they were fragrant too. It smelled like flowers all over the place. Cat wrinkled her nose.

Why did she even walk in this direction? It only made her more upset than she already was, though for entirely different reasons.

So she stomped on past, looking for a side street to occupy. And when she found one, she sat down and fell back against one of the stone walls, closing her eyes, brows furrowed angrily.

She could still hear the crowds. But that was as good as it was going to get.

Then her stomach rumbled.

And no coin meant no food. Or a place to stay. Or anything.

Everything, well, nearly everything Lowrey said would happen, did. She could hardly keep a job, the law was on her ass constantly with all of the brawling, and she was usually a slave to whatever work she could find. Like now. But even they were at their wits end. She didn’t have any skills, any talents. Nothing. Only fighting.

And screaming.

She’d have rather died than telling that idiot he was right.

Besides… it wasn’t like she hadn’t lived this way before. She could do it.

Then why was it such a pain?

Hesitantly, she got up again and meandered towards the market place. At least she could steal something to eat, if they weren’t making any holiday snacks for free already.

Food stalls lined the bazaar, cooking away as usual. Cat easily slipped back into the crowds, eventually eyeballing a really busy kabob stand. Perfect.

She pushed her way to the front and waited. Everything looked so tasty… and orange. But it looked like it would be hard to reach from where she was.

Cat frowned. Maybe it wasn’t worth it.

She turned and immediately crashed face first into a whole lot of blue. “OW-” It didn’t hurt, but that was what came out. Followed by a strangled hiss.

When she looked up, her ears flattened. “You-”

“Sorry, you should be more careful on where you are-”

“YOU’RE THE SON OF A BITCH WITH THE BIKE!!!” Cat shrieked angrily. If it wasn’t for that damned thing Lowrey wouldn’t have taken it-

“Excuse me??” The elezen looked down at her before realizing. “Wait- I know you-”

“LIKE HELL YA DO-” Before Cat could fly directly towards his face, the knight picked her up by the back of her shirt and held her up like a helpless kitten.

“I had wondered where you had gotten off to after the whole incident back there by the Ruby Sea. Your companion said you came back to Eorzea.”

“LET GO OF ME-”

Some of the locals nearby recognized the yelling, and even saw it from afar. And they said nothing.

Anyone who could render Cat useless was good in their books.

“Stop shouting. I would like to hear what you have been up to. Not here, though.” Vesevont glanced around before making his way out of the crowd by the food stands and heading towards the nearest city gate.

They left Ul’dah behind, stepping out into the dry lands with nothing but the crickets and other things that lived out there.

Only then did he put Cat down. They sat on the edge of a crumbling wall nearby, looking out over the craggy hills.

Cat kept her arms crossed defensively. “This is so fucking stupid. This is all YOUR fault this happened. If it hadn’t been for your dumbass bike then we wouldn’t have BEEN IN that MESS.”

Ves hardly reacted. Being verbally abused like this was comforting in a twisted way. It reminded him of Mischa. If anything, he missed it. “Your friend, loathe as I am to call him as such, stole the device from me. And the trouble that came with it. I did not set the Garleans on you.”

“I DON’T CARE!! I LOST MY STUPID TAIL CUZ OF YOU IF YOU AIN’T NOTICED YET!!” Cat sprang up again, clenching her fists tightly.

Ves looked down at them, and then up at her. “I’m sorry.” He had nothing to be sorry for and he knew it.

But saying so thankfully defused the miqo’te’s growing temper, for the time being. Instead, she looked away and threw her arms in the air momentarily before letting them drop in defeat.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes, until Cat decided to sit back down once more.

“....Guess none of it fucking matters now anyway. I don’t work for that ungrateful fuck anymore. Or that lousy cheat.”

“I heard.” Ves answered.

“Yeah? What ELSE did you hear?” She snapped.

“Nothing beyond that.” The knight scratched at his face idly. “I had just found it odd, or maybe surprising to hear at the time was all.”

“Hmph.”

The silence came again.

“This holiday they’re having in the city is interesting. I’ve never seen one like it before.”

Cat glanced over at the elezen again. “What?? Oh. I dunno. Little Ladies’ Day or something. It’s so dumb.”

“I think it’s quite lovely actually.”

“Lovely. You think it’s ‘lovely’???” Here was this scarred up Ishgardian dragon slayer calling the holiday ‘lovely.’ It didn’t make any sense to her, and she laughed in disbelief at that. “Ok well I guess if you got a girlfriend or a wife or a kid then fine, I guess.”

Ves sighed. “I do not. No. Only a son.”

“Well there, see? Good for you.”

“I don’t think he would be interested in many of the things I’ve come across in my travels around Eorzea.” There was a note of defeat in there somewhere.

Cat’s ear twitched. “Well… kinda hard to like old-people things. They’re pretty boring.”

Ves made no facial reaction in particular. “If we all liked the same things, that WOULD be boring. Yes. Though.. I would not say I am terribly exciting. You are correct.”

The miqo’te gave a smug grin of satisfaction. “Yup.”

“Regardless,” Ves leaned back, looking up to the night sky. “If you were not happy there, then better that you left. There’s no point in staying in a place that doesn’t make you happy. ..Provided you have no one counting on you to stay.”

Cat frowned. “...I guess.”

The elezen nodded, before standing again. “So, have you had anything to eat? We can go back, now that you’ve calmed down.”

Cat’s stomach grumbled on cue, and her face flushed red. “Shut up.” She growled.

Ves shrugged, and turned back to head into the city. And Cat, not wanting to be alone, reluctantly followed.

They went back to the marketplace, and he offered to buy her something to eat. Anything she wanted. And she most certainly pointed out some of the more expensive snacks in an attempt to get him to snap at her and tell her that it cost too much money.

But he didn’t. And she got everything she wanted.

If anything, it confused her. And made her angrier, but it fizzled out once they had finished eating and gone back to the main plaza in Ul’dah. There were still a considerable amount of people out, though, it was clear that they would start turning in for the evening soon.

A few lalafell stood nearby handing out flower crowns to anyone who wanted one. “We’re not leaving until we’re out of supplies! Which will be very soon! Come get one!!” Ves’ ear twitched, as did Cat’s (and at about the same time no less.) He looked down at her, and she quickly looked elsewhere, again, giving the most sour expression she possibly could. “Would you like one??” “HUH?? NO FLOWER CROWNS ARE FOR BIG BABIES!”

Ves pursed his lips with a half lidded gaze. He didn’t buy it. “Wait here.” “What??? NO! No that’s so EMBARRASSING! STOP IT! NOO!!-” Cat shrieked and went after him, but there was little she could do.

“I’ll take one.” “Of course sir! Lucky you, this one is second to the last! But no lesser than the others! And who is your lucky maiden tonight?-” “STOP-” “There she is.” “Ah, I see.” Cat crashed into the elezen again as he turned around, almost knocking herself completely to the ground. “I don’t WANT it, put it BACK! Give it to someone ELSE! People will laugh at me if they saw me wearing something like that!!-” “What, this??” Ves held up the flower crown and looked down at her, clueless look and all. “Why? I’m sure it would look very pretty on you.” “W-Well it WON’T!! And I’m NOT little so it wouldn’t even WORK-” She was growing more and more flustered by the minute.

“With all due respect miss, the crowns are for any maiden! Both large and small! And you seem very lucky to have a seneschal of your own here this day!- EEP-” The lalafell chimed in before hiding behind his other companion as Cat hissed in their direction.

Ves sighed. “Close your eyes.” “I swear if you put that thing anywhere NEAR ME-” “Just do it.” “I MEAN IT I’LL KILL YOU-” “No you won’t.”

Despite being so monotone about it, there was something behind it. An immense amount of power or authority, or something else- something to be feared maybe. Or...or maybe it was just a very dad-ish flavor. Cat had no idea what it was, but she hated it. Reluctantly, she closed her eyes, teeth bared and ears flat.

“I mean it.” She snarled. There was a slight weight on her head and the smell of daisies then. Damn it. Damn it all. She kept her eyes shut and could feel her lip quivering already, face about as hot as a bed of coals.

“All right. You can open your eyes now.” When she did, she couldn’t see anything. Everything was blurry and full of globby tears and a tonz of upset.

Ves seemed unperturbed by the crying. Not in a bad way though. “I told you. You look lovely.”

“Shut up,” Cat sniffed, sounding all stuffed up.

“I will. I was just about to be on my way. I was not sure what I would find here in Ul’dah, but I didn’t mind accidentally becoming your seneschal for the evening. Even if you did.” The miqo’te wiped at her eyes furiously. She suddenly felt sad that he was going to leave. But her pride be damned if she said anything now. So she didn’t. “Yeah well…” She still refused to look at him.

Ves understood though. He’d been through this song and dance before. And he smiled gently. “Likewise thank you for being my young maiden for the night.” It sounded a little awkward but Cat knew what he meant. He even stood at attention and offered a very formal and graceful bow.

“Ok ok… Just...fine, whatever…”

Ves knew there was a thank you in there somewhere. Like Mischa, it was probably physically killing her to say it. But he wasn’t cruel.

With one more nod, they parted ways. Or rather, the knight did. Cat stayed standing where she was for a while longer before meandering off towards an alleyway. The sky overhead looked dark and gloomy. The clouds had rolled in, and it started sprinkling.

Once she found a place to sit, she took off the crown and turned it over a few times, trying very hard not to cry again. Instead, she just buried her face into her knees as she hugged them tight, feeling very, very lonely.

[archiveofidentityconstellations]

splat

six years old a good age it’s 4 o'clock arts and crafts time an open butterfly sits upon the table in front of me flat in construction paper  glitter shimmers in the afternoon light I’m not like other six year olds who delight in grime I’m proper I’m prim I’m good (You love me, right?) i don’t mash the glitter with my hand i press it into the mound just right but even still i can’t help but wiggle my fingers in the geode goo splat

-

i linger in front of the glass fingers idling on the steel barrier separating us  from below i consider hauling myself over the railing  throwing myself off, quick as a flash it’d be fitting let my mother witness  a spectacular show i keep my feet still students mill around me my mother is smiling body against concrete splat

-

“Have you ever thought of killing yourself?” Yes, next question.

“Have you ever made plans to kill yourself?” Yes, next question.

“Have you ever succeeded?” I’m still here. Stupid question.

-

the angry prison bars have been pressing up against my head for far too long  one day i’m going to slip through tiger orange and neon blue  it’s going to be beautiful it’s going to be terrifying it’s going to be glitter paint pressed against my fingers  and my mind will greet you and say, “splat.”

-

i’m crying in public i always promised myself i wouldn’t  prickly thirteen wouldn’t be pleased  but my feet stray close to the road i want to close my eyes and move faster than i have in my life just one moment just one car and pieces of me could be scattered among the sidewalk yet i doubt i would be at peace  still, an eyeball here a piece of hair there  it would be  a personal masterpiece  splat

.

I  Can’t  Go  On  Like  This

 .

I’m going to die.

-

my father is screaming  i press my palms  against my small ears i never think “somehow, i’ll get through this” I never think “we will survive this” no. this is reality. this is my reality. i’m five and i learn to accept this.

-

I can’t accept this. I’m going to kill myself, one way or another. It’s all too much. “You’re going to kill me,” I murmur into my paper, Watching their backs withdraw My reflection looks back at me Showering echoing steam Her eyes are sad “Honey,” she says, “you’re going to kill yourself.” I look down And watch the blood suck down the drain Each like a poppyseed  drip, drip, drip splat

-

I’m afraid of death more than anything. I’ve seen people die. I’ve felt their bodies go rigid, cold and unfeeling.  I remember holding my grandpa’s hand, And watching his soul leave his body. It was beautiful It was devastating I get a cat When I’m twenty-one My brain is not that old But I have enough school notes  To back up what they’re saying  She is small and black And I’m afraid she doesn’t love me I don’t force her to love me. I wake up from nightmares  Of her small black frame Being smashed against the cupboard Blood flowing out Of her bashed brain My feet crack her ribs And she suffocates to death But then I look over And she’s sleeping on my pillow  And her fur feels soft Maybe  She could love me I feel my tears  Piece out my eyes I’m getting messy splat

-

“I love you, sweetie” Yes, I know I don’t think you do, though You don’t know me People who know me  Can’t love me “When you were young,” my mother tells me Pumping gas into the car While the painted sky  Falls into violet dusk “You would get sick. He would throw fits and you would get a fever right away. I would tell him ‘don’t do it! she’ll get sick!’ but he did it anyways.” Yeah, I think. That’s because he doesn’t care. “I guess that’s why I made it so important to say things so lovingly,” she observes, periwinkles eyes shining  In the gas station light  'I don’t remember you,’ I want to say.  I don’t. She was there, but she was barring him off The only times I remember her was when he was off in jail And we all stayed together  And the older kids smiled. “I guess so,” I reply I muster up a smile i keep my words inside  squish down my tongue, b u r y i n g it splat

-

The glass shatters and I jump And immediately begin to cry It’s a cup My favorite cup My mother got it for my twelfth birthday Back when I still wanted tea parties And my American Girl dolls were still with me (They’re gone now After sitting in a garage for years Probably chewed up by rats I think about Samantha’s cheek Being bitten off my rodent teeth There goes my childhood He wouldn’t give us the key)  The cup is pink and white And has roses near the stem It’s a little stuffy but it makes me happy And I pretend to be important Each time I drink my hibiscus tea “You have three more,” my mother tells me While I’m crying  I shake my head  I’m fifteen and crying over the kitchen sink  But that doesn’t matter. That doesn’t matter.  The phone shatters near my head And he screams something while my mother steps to yell something back  But I’m not paying attention That was my phone  My baby sister’s phone She loves phones  His phone was right next to it Why did he pick mine? The vase shatters  And the water spills over the dining room floor Carpet It will stain Everything stains in this house My mother is trapped inside a circle of broken glass  And the pieces wink up at us Like diamonds with teeth splat

-

'I could take pills,’ I muse Sitting quietly Not vibrating  I’m perfectly normal Nobody would be scared of me 'Sleeping pills I could walk up to Safeway  And when I got back I could leave food and water out for the cats And get in bed  And never wake up’ I pick at my nails 'Well,’ I think,  'It’s a good alternative’  splat

-

My card says 'donor’ With a little red heart I hadn’t meant for it But while I filled out the paper I couldn’t help but think 'Maybe someone Could use these better than me’ I knew then  About my plans Or at least about my brain I’m probably going to die So I wasn’t surprised At the mistake Even though I put in the box “x” My pen was drippy Maybe it was fate? Maybe it bled  Maybe it’s too late splat

-

Please understand me I don’t want to die I’m even afraid of hell Which has mostly stopped me But look Maybe I’m selfish I probably am But I’m not going to survive this I can’t go on this way So I’ll sit back in bed Heart seizing and twisting in fright  And I’ll think back on my fingers in glitter  And my chest will gasp  And my mind will shudder  And the imaginary gun will shimmer black, cold against my brain and I’ll whisper, “Splat.”

[jshoulson]

Today’s Poem

Letters to America (An Abecedary) --Fred D'Aguiar

For Yogita and Anish�

“Ah neva seen this before in all ma years.” Testify, Sis. How we grew accustomed, Spoiled almost, by decorum, now try Mosquito larvae cultivating at speed In standing bodies of water. Pigeons Flock rooftops, twist, launch, shout As one, spin sky, turn skulls porous.

Car repair shop drills sing industry. Tires feel out parking, meters freed. First horn blare triggers this chorus. Step up pistons, fire motor mouths, Say our only worry is our worst fears Come true. Mosquito straw proboscis Drinks from my arm, bam! Adios asterisk.

•

But, really, am I eyeballing an armored truck? Says one dung beetle to half earthworm, Who replies, as Gloucester, I see it feelingly.

Who gave those uniforms permission to storm School car parks, automatics drawn? Finches ask Robins, who, channeling Auden, whistle —

Bang! WTF!

Bang, bang, Lulu, Lulu gone ...

The calypso worked its juju On my digital radio.

Flags at half-mast for this Union. Taps on trumpets dawn till dusk. Guides, Scouts, look out for rainbows

Projected on a disused warehouse in LA County. Clocks throughout the land tell one contiguous time. Rain and shine stop dead in tracks on borderlines.

•

Cat asks me if dogs can ever be cool. After two of my kind pin down one of his On a front porch until chased off by our rulers.

I open my mouth to spit some piety about Lions lying down with lambs but only bark What my genes say I should, ears pulled back.

Do you remember Judas Iscariot? Thirty silver Pieces and a certain last supper just for this. A taser for every problem warns the bee

With an empty bonnet, sting for emphasis, About why one plus one never makes two, After voting from sea to oil-slicked sea.

Look at her, look at him, hold, kiss babies In photo ops, all gaga, minus bathtub Never mind water, in this national soap,

This wait for the next sentence whose weight “Illegals” carry on shoulders they look over Nonstop, even in sleep, one eye open,

Breath held when police cruise by, Car backfire skin jump heartbeat skip, Day in, day out, glory hallelujah, do I have

A witness as empire zips into bonfire. For what? To dip wrists in fresh water From an inverted fountain in a square.

•

Black lives matter but blue lives matter more. Duh. Veins, blue, blood, plus or minus, B this or A that. Epicurus, I find your coin staring up at me From the bottom of my beer mug, too late For Troy, for Trayvon. I need a flotation device, A buoy, Woolf’s lighthouse and single room Garvey’s Star Line to beam me up Scotty.

Where is yesteryear’s full moon that silvered Towers and made a midnight lake of the city Where lovers strolled, hand in hand, one black, One white, with no mind for anyone and no two Minds in their business? Gone the way of drones Whose shadows crossed the moon without trace On GPS to sow grief in the name of cod, liver, oil.

Spell it out or risk talk stuck in ecofriendly caves. Black and blue, both, why can’t we, intoned, Rodney (not Walter), get along? Because, Because, because (fill in the dots) with your Trotsky (or Brodsky) and your Marx (Groucho). Laugh therapy narrows eyes, blocks ears, Hurts jaws, ribs, merrily, merrily, cha-cha. Cha.

•

Eek-A-Mouse blasts my buds, as I read The instruction manual, which says One thing but leads to another When I piece it together, finally. It being the thing I refuse to name.

My nerves, porous as that strainer I hold over a tilted pot full of spaghetti In hot water. Pavarotti in the shower, Malcolm before a cracked mirror, Gaga at each news item competing

For part Fool. Ornate, abandoned nest Left in place, in my suburban rafter, Squirreled from without a note, Unless feathers could ever be a sign Of things to come, of what once was.

•

Face Beckett’s door, imperceptibly ajar.

His stage direction, for how things Turn out here if this show goes on.

Sir Ian, why reserve your last check For your flies, before you take the stage?

Because all eyes alight there first.

Mr. Spock, where is the logic in this?

I marvel at comics from my youth In 4K, LED. Captain, put me ashore.

By which I mean at sea with sirens, Ears unwaxed, sternum lashed to bow.

What is your name? Kunta. Whip.

Am I not a ... asked Sizwe in Fugard.

You are trans, on loan from genes, Dust, waves, particles, here, today.

•

Go-go in la-la land whines craft for art’s saké. See that chrysalis hanging like a mural. Should it stop unfolding, hold back Dues, suspend when wings peel gloves, Snake free, take flight, remind the greed In our chi, Che, cha, what turns without Turning? If you must know, but first,

Shush, write milk in lemon juice on foolscap, Read by passing over Bunsen. Mercurial Chemists, we were all Curie. Cooked crack Ready to pay any price, to find out if love Could ever be a portion, all you would need, To spin Mercator a tad faster on whiteout Poles, match our heart, tap, rat-a-tat burst.

•

1. Hummingbird feeder needs refill 2. Peel sticker, off window, that says glass 3. Buy T-shirt with directive, mind the gap 4. Sip tea from mug, of civil rights dead 5. Breathe in, sure, but really exhale 6. Note how breeze lifts a whole branch 7. Whose green skirt shows white undies

•

I mean certain legends about flight that grow up with right minds to help them come to terms with change that may be out of their control.

Lone branch ranges from a curved palm 90 feet over LA’s 1914 craftsman in historic Adams. How flayed branch cruises broadcasts a specific gravity geared to flight of the right kind, slow, bracing, reluctant, noncommittal, inevitable, and resigned to its fate.

Through double-glazing I hear, so I believe, that swoosh of storied capital decline, swish perhaps, almost a whistle, as you wish, much like us as kids with a clasped blade of grass held to our pursed lips for that didgeridoo that was elevator music to us atonal types.

But how can a branch sing if made to move on by wind and rain from where it began, and thought it would end, even if a philosophy spread among shoots of a final sail set for another dimension?

As word of government raids spread through town and university we forwarded emails, Instagrams, and stopped with neighbors in streets to exchange the latest.

Is this time for emergency measures or are we too blind to know what we can feel coming a mile away, where someone who knows someone we know stops for bread, milk, eggs and is grabbed, handcuffed, and carted off to detention? Imagine us as branches dislodged in a sea change helped by soft water. We cling, not to give up on all we know. What for? That fall, we must accept as fate.

•

Juggernaut ancestors shape-shift cumulus, March across dull blue grass to bagpipes.

Change bandages on Grandmother. Amputated right hand she says she feels

Rainy days in Georgetown as a firm handshake That rattles all 27 phantom bones, makes her shiver.

Grandfather never averts his bifurcated lens From his Golden Treasury, unless his hanky readies

To catch eyewater at the blurred sight of her. In a time of airships, of toothpicks operated

Behind hand cover. Whoever you vote for, (Runs the calypso) the government gets in,

Ting-a-ling-a-ling. Doan tek serious thing Mek joke, bannoh. WTF. Twin towers got us

Here. Nah, Reagan. Nope, slavery. Try again. Irony, that republic of deferred action.

Hummingbird smashes into that glass door, My mother walks absently into it too.

I glance just in time, brake and catch a face That I look through to my final destination.

•

K Street in South London? Now? How? One morning at 6:30 I crossed Blackheath Hill.

On my paper round Met a scrawny fox halfway Uphill, down, not sure.

We paused, inhaled each Other, fox-trotted away, In a slight panic,

Me thinking tabloid Headlines, rabid animal Chases paper kid

On delivery route. Follow as I buzz myself Into a tower,

Board elevator, a man In a suit exits, With the merest nod.

Climb 8 floors, carry That fox, and just as I plunge The folded Mirror

Into letter box, Door, ajar, flies open, wham!

A very pregnant Woman, naked, swollen breasts Blazing redhead, small

Burning bush at crotch, Fills doorframe, scrambles my head. She takes one moment

To compute I am Not her partner, slams door, smack, In my wide-eyed face.

That moment, as she Processes me and I her, Stretches out enough

For me to see her Shoulder-length, red, flaming curls And inverted red

Triangle tuft at her crotch, Bright stretched skin at her Distended navel,

An outie, as though I crashed at high speed and could Recall the lead up

Frame by stark frame for Posterity, mine and hers, Her child near its term.

The rest of my round I peer left, right, near distance, Round bends, for said fox.

I conjure woman, Pregnant, framed by her threshold, Here, now, with only

Me, you, these measures, This emergency, all three, To foster, connect all.

•

Lap up 70s Airy Hall, Guyana. One road in and one road out, One of everything village, Caiman, donkey, peacock, And mad expat Englishman Footloose and fancy-free Who we stone with red sand That crumbles on contact Grabbed from the roadside That acts as giant bow, Strung with two-story house, Whose Greenheart frame, Tensed, held all this time. English pelted for saying, Down his big burnt nose, That he was sent here To rule us half-clad children That he in his better days Seeing better times before Guyana’s famous red rum Got the better of him, Helped sow high and low, And everything between Our town and country.

•

Maestro, we played shoots Planted in one place Sprouts in disorderly rows, Up whole feet if you look away For a spell, all loaded In one hammock strung Between rafters in a back room Empty until harvest Stuffed paddy from roof To pillar to post. Rice husk smell for days. Rocking chair song and dance On full moons, donkey-bray At midday, peacock-scream Various most afternoons.

•

Now help bring barefoot Pale instep, cracked heel, stamping Englishman back, not to curse, Stone or ridicule, but to hear How he would remedy this now So out of sync with then.

•

Once more help us

•

Parse wheat from chaff,

•

Quantify this voting

•

Result that tests our gall.

•

Stepped-on alligator, Uncle

•

Takes for a log bridge

•

Until it lifts, shakes, yawns.

•

Velocity of legs cycling air, Caiman, not alligator, Lassoed between two poles, Fetched back to the house, Cut loose in a fenced field For sport for that day, Lost to me every day since. I bring it back, steady Its shine, against this time,

•

Where I am told one past Counts most, all others Must be put down to what That alligator, jaws open, Head reared, presents, Ready to lash with tail, Charge at anyone Who takes it for a log.

•

X marks the spot where Englishman walks in half Circles, pumps his bent Arms as if to fly, cackles Like a peacock, only to get The real thing started, The two in a quarrel thrice Removed from that magic Flower duet from Lakmé By Léo Delibes. Peacock, Donkey, caiman, village fool, Be my ally, bring it all, Cow, moon, dish, spoon.

•

Yo-Yo Ma follows Eek On democracy’s Shuffle Play.

•

Zebra asks me in Queen’s English peppered with Esperanto If he be black whiff white stripes Or white wid black stripes. I wake with this atonal pair On the edge of my edginess:

“I do not care, I do not care, If the Don has on underwear.”

“But don’t you think or worry some, That his nudity is zero sum?”

“I cannot see for the life of me, Why that should concern anybody.”

“I fret when all’s said and done, We leave him be, he has his fun.”