#who needs a calendar if you have this feral little fly?

[muffinsin]

morning, muffin! (or afternoon/evening, depending on your place on the globe!) I just wanted to share something that had me cracking up. It was while reading the period relief headcanons...particularly one of the bullet points at the beginning of Cassandra's section: about her having the strongest sense of smell, so she knows when reader is about to start their cycle. Thought about an exchange like this:

Reader: *tries to insult Cassandra*

Cassandra: *can't think of a good comeback* "Yeah? Well...you started your period."

Please XDD this has me cracking up on the way home XD🙌🙌

Cassandra “bloodhound” Dimitrescu

[beefrobeefcal]

fic author self rec

rules: when you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 🤍

thank you @iamasaddie & @sydneyinacoma for the tag! 💜🥩💜

it's hard as hell for me to choose but i will do my darndiddily arndest! None of these will be surprising... 👌🥩💜

so here it is in no particular order:

The Catfish & The Mouse - Chubby!Frankie Morales & F!Reader

The thing that started it all! I have a soft spot for this bc it's what thrust me from being a spectator to an active participant in the fic writing world. Even though I have my wish list for changes I would make to this, I don't think I will touch it (at least for the foreseeable future) bc it's so dear to me.

Baby's Got a Temper - Chubby!Frankie Morales & F!Reader One Shot

This def takes the top spot for my fav C!FxM one shots. This one was the first one I had a lot of fun writing. I loved the prompt, I loved the way it fell out of me, I loved the reception. I feel like I hit a good groove with this piece.

The Way to a Man's Heart - Chubby!Joel Miller & F!Reader

I have said this before, but I was so nervous about this one. Joel already has a heavy duty, ironclad canon with a fairly solid reputation in the fic world for being a dom!daddy big meanie pants (sometimes with a heart of gold) that can leave little to find new grounds in. While I don't think that I broke new ground with a softer Jackson-era Joel, I was pleased with how Chubby!Joel rolled out. Credit to Hozier’s newest album that I played on repeat while writing this for the softy Joel vibes.

An HR Nightmare - Chubby!Javier Peña x F!Reader

What else is there to say about the Bistro's gumpy done-with-this-shit narco buster? i loved writing this. And being a Peña girlie, when the prompts rolled in, I couldn't deny the call. Even though I wasn't 100% sure the fic would fly, the response warmed my cold beef heart and made me feel more confident in my choices. Also, the request fom @toxicanonymity for an In Between the Scenes made it even more fun for me.

On the Waterfront - Dark!Frankie Morales x F!Reader (ongoing)

Truthfully, if you put me in a room with all my children fics and said to choose one, I'd choose OTWF. Couple of reasons: 1. I'm super proud of it. I felt like all the confidence and skill I had building up came to fruition in this one. While I would happily read all my fics if someone else wrote them, this is the one that I would be keeping calendar on for the updates (apologies to those keeping calendar for the updates). 2. (and arguably the more important one) @neverwheremoonchild -I have such admiration for them & feel so delighted for the brainstorming sessions we have had conjuring the plot. From the we-need-jesus all caps chats to the feral livedocs with endless notes & cry-laugh inducing comments... let's just say that OTWF is not about the journey, it's about the friends we make along the way.

NO PRESSURE TAGLIST: @theywhowriteandknowthings @neverwheremoonchild @rebel-held @xdaddysprincessxx @albertasunrise @avastrasposts @ghosmooth-operator ... and anyone else who wants to get in on it!

[katreal-fic]

Day 2 — for #fictober 10/02/19

Prompt: “Just follow me, I know the area.”

Fandom: Homestuck

Warnings: Cursing I suppose. 2nd Person POV

Characters: Dirk Strider & Davepetasprite

First | Previous | Next

x-x-x

It was pretty fun, until you got hopelessly lost.

“Just follow me, he said,” Davepeta quotes the you of an hour ago, hiding their fanged smile unapologetically behind their blue ice cream cone, “I know the area, he said. The best pizza ever, he said.”

Dirk > Nurse Your Pride

Your pride is not wounded, and thus does not need to be nursed. Entirely unruffled by the teasing. It does not bother you. You make sure indifference is the air you project as you respond with a mild, unimpressed glare—one they can’t see behind your shades—but you’re familiar enough with their expressive body language by now to realize they find even your glares funny. 

You don’t know how to feel about that. It’s actually quite the novel experience after the probably healthy levels of fear and distant awe your mere presence affords to anyone not connected to your particular pantheon of childhood friends. Who you probably don’t see enough as it is, living secluded out here in your workshop off the coast of the consort kingdom. Which is likely your fault, if you’re entirely honest. You should visit more. You can fuckin’ fly. What’s a couple latitude and several longitude lines to a god?

There’s always an excuse. When the lime-green poison and flashes of white begins to seep through the cracks in your heart you just shut yourself in and work. You’ll figure this shit out. And deal with it. You’ll have to.

You decide not to dwell on it any more than you already have, “Do you even need to eat? You already sweet-talked that salamander outta that ice-cream. You’ve probably already ruined your lunch with that shit.”

“Nah, dad, I’m cool.” They do it to see you twitch, you know they do, even as they take another lick of the sweet treat, “Just cuz I don’t need to eat doesn’t mean I can’t. No stomach, can’t get full. Being of pyurrre energy up in here bro.”

They pat their abdomen lightly to prove their point, the long, almost dress-like robe largely stays some cream color despite the constant gradient shifting, almost giving off an ethereal glow from within. A being of pure energy, huh? You wonder if that’s what they are doing with the food–residual game play processes immediately transmuting the energy into something compatible. You don’t know much about the sprites, for obvious reasons. You never were particularly close to any of the others.

Man, sprite physics has the potential to be fascinating as hell, if you cared to dissect it. It makes for a good thought exercise, mapping out what would happen to all thr excess energy.

“Let me guess, push it too far and you’ll just get hyper as fuck, huh?”

“Yup!” Another lick, a grin. They always seem to be grinning, but that might be just because the overlong canines always seem to peek out mischievously, “Roxy didn’t realize that until we were paws deep in a pumpkin eating contest. In all fairness, neither did I! I could probably devour an entire musclebeast all on my lonesome if I deemed it apurrrrropriate. I’d purrobably be clawing at the walls like Jasprose on catnip if I did tho. Not sure if the consequences are worth poking at it, ya’know?”

That…is something of a mental image. “Have you seen this particular occurrence?”

“Nah, but you remewmber how hopped up she was befur the big battle?”

Like you could ever forget.

“I’m sure you can imagine it then. It’s purrrrrretty hissterical.”

The elongated rs turn into a purring rumble, as expected. They really do go all in on the cat-thing, huh? Can’t be worse than ARquius’ obsession with muscles. And horses. Tho you do have to give him props for that one, Horses are fucking awesome.

Trolls just seem to have a Thing, you guess. Just like the Batterwitch had a Thing for subjugation. Cats and Horses and Muscles seem much more reasonable, framed in that light.

Once the purr runs its course, and you go back to scouring Booble Maps–which are kind of useless outside the Human and Troll kingdoms. The Consorts just Don’t Care and fuck if you know what’s up with the Carapacians–they decide to continue, “It’s just funny, with the way you talked this place up on the way over it sounds like you should have that shit on speed-dial or something. All Prince of Heart’s Seal of Approval, endorsed and all that. Tourism would be booming.”

“I like it quiet. Tourism is the opposite of quiet. Especially when people are here god-watching,” At least Jake’s TV show is filmed an hour’s flight away so you don���t have to deal with his groupies, even if some make the pilgrimage to try and catch a glimpse of you.

You grumble, trying to remember the name of the place. You do have it on speed dial, but it was listed as tmnt instead of using the proper name. Past you had been so proud of the reference. When was the last time you actually went instead of just got delivery sent to your beach-side drone deliverybot? When Dave dragged you out last?

…when the fuck was that?

You shouldn’t get lost. You live here.

Or, well, maybe you don’t. You’re standing here in the shadow of an unidentified Jungle Tree, in some unnamed suburb of the city of Hearthstone. A city that popped up near your abandoned workshop during the big ol’ Time Skip. A dot on the map and a place to deliver your shit. Nothing more.

You surreptitiously check the calendar using your thought controlled computer-shades, realize it’s still set to your personal pre-sburb calendar, marked with all the historical dates from a Time Before Yours and indexed with clips of your Bro and you really aren’t in the mood for childhood nostalgia whiplash, thanks—so you abandon that shit and go back to booble to see if you can find the current date on there.

Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick, it’s been two years since Dave visited, although you’ve talked to him since then. You’re nearly twenty.

“Hey bro,” Davepeta, predictably, interrupts your existential crisis in regards to your detachment from the society and narrative in which you live, an unintentional action you mentally thank them for since you are so not in the mood to deal with that either, “That pizza place, was it called Half Shell Piez?”

That rings a bell. You nod, probably a little too forcefully as you mentally close the booble search window and start paying attention to the world around you, “I think so. It’s run by an older couple of turtles, if I remember. How did you know?”

“While you were brooding I asked around. Turns out people remember when two of their gods descend from on high to patronage their pizza joint. C’mon! World’s best hunter is on the case! We’ll stalk them wild piez and feast until we can feast no longer!”

You’re learning not to resist as they drag you away. Maybe they’re right. You really should be getting out more. You don’t even know your own fucking town.

The pizza is just as good as you remember it though. Better even, since you get it hot and steamy and fresh plopped right in the middle of the table in front of you, instead of luke-warm in an insulated delivery bag, sitting out on the table for you to grab as you work. Alone. Here, you find yourself surprisingly good company. You don’t even notice when the ridiculous chatter ends and conversations…shift. They did want to get to know you, after all.

You don’t think your shit is all that interesting personally, especially if you avoid the game shit because no one really liked talking about game shit since you all won, but they listen with rapt attention as you describe growing up in a world alone and feral, learning from and looking up to a Bro long since dead. They turn around afterwards and describe a wriggler, feral and alone, who grew up in the middle of a jungle and learned to hunt from a great purr beast, on an Alternia you’d never cared to learn about before.

You don’t comment when the last slice is gone and the pizza is taken away. You just…keep talking. Exchanging stories in that semi-private booth in a hole in the wall restaurant run by business-savvy turtles, long past an appropriate lunchtime, and well into dinner.

Time becomes a thing to dread, because you know they’ll be leaving tomorrow.

First | Previous | Next

[qwertythepopstarian08]

JSAB AU Fanfic: Imposter

Description: Taking place in the Wonderful Nightmare AU, Blixer has been captured by a revived Suenami, locked away and forced to do his bidding as a veritable war machine. Just as his hopes are dwindling, an unlikely savior comes to his aid… or perhaps, it’s who he expected after all.

Warnings: Major character death, violence, and paranoia. Angst!

Wow, two fanfics in one day!

The Wonderful Nightmare AU is based off of @small--crcle !!! The WN AU was created by me, but the characters belong to @plaquebeat

The purpose of this fic was to show how dire this AU is. There’s no real happy ending, no matter what route is taken. Also, I really love Kubix’s impersonation powers and can’t wait for them to be canonically used again, so I included those in this story, heheheh.

Also, forewarning for... ahem... certain readers (cough cough Rayne). This fic deviates from how I’d normally portray these characters, as well as how they are portrayed in the canon blog. I love your characters, New!! But angst!!

((Reblogs are appreciated!!))

The door to the cellar creaked open, a faint glow spilling in from the outside world. The musty smell of dust and mildew was filtered out, a fresh, crisp breeze rushing in as someone stepped inside, their boots lightly tapping against the harsh, concrete floors.

Blixer’s horns flicked in the direction of the sound, and he slowly raised his head.

The magical chains binding him to the room clanked and shook as he tried to stand, his eye glimmering in slight curiosity. He hissed softly as the light assaulted his retinas, having not seen any source of light in days.

For a moment, the light filled him with hope; he hadn’t been outside for a long time. The last time he’d seen Kubix… or any of his family, for that matter, seemed so long ago, although the calendar that he’d taken to writing on said otherwise.

Just three short months ago, he’d been kidnapped by his worst enemy. Just about ninety days prior to today, he’d been forced to say goodbye to his friends, torn away from his life in favor of serving Suenami as the manic shape’s living weapon. His powers were valuable. Although he wasn’t infected with the mutagenic pink virus, he was still a strong shape, and arguably, his sentience made him a more effective fighter. He couldn’t count how many shapes he’d been forced to shatter. As much as it hurt to admit, the more he fought, the less he felt….

As he blinked tears away to clear his vision, the small hiss grew into an aggressive snarl, his gaze focusing on the horrid shape before him. Suenami entered the room, looking a bit less… smug than usual. Blixer narrowed his eye, watching carefully as the other pink shape stepped towards him.

The chains around him did little to restrict his movements, as long as he didn’t try to leave the room, but they were quite cumbersome and heavy, making the effort to move more of a bother than anything. They didn’t even bind him directly to the wall; Blixer supposed that they were meant to break his spirit more than anything… until there was nothing left but the urge to fight.

However, each time Suenami entered, Blixer feared the worst, counting down the days until the manic shape grew bored of the novelty of having captured Paradise’s hero… the days until he was finally infected and turned into a complete monster. With each passing day, Blixer’s will to escape waned, and he found less and less energy to fight.

Exhausted, the small shape settled on just arching up a bit, his horns flicking back as his eye flashed threateningly.

Suenami twitched, but he didn’t seem afraid, staring down at Blix with an unreadable gaze. His eye shone dully in the low light, and Blixer caught what he thought to be a frown curving at his captor’s mouth.

Blixer fidgeted, a bit off put. Few things could make Suenami lose his trademark grin. It was almost as eternal as New Game’s, although the sight of it made the former hero’s stomach turn.

Quietly, Suenami addressed him, “Blixer…” He seemed to flinch a bit when the small shape’s growl increased in volume. It was almost as if he was… afraid. When he continued, his voice was tinged with a desperate, faltering tone. “Please… calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Like I’d…” Blixer huffed, managing to stand… or at least crouch; he hadn’t stood in so long… His eye twitched angrily. “Like I believe that…”

This was the very monster who turned his friends and family into abominations… the very same monster that nearly cost him his life and sanity. And now, this demon expected him to believe a single word that he said? Disgraceful.

Before Suenami could respond, Blixer rushed at him, screeching. He narrowly sidestepped, causing the feral shape to hit the wall with a loud crash. Blixer hissed, standing shakily. He only managed to stand for a few moments before his legs gave out, forcing him to kneel.

Not missing a beat, Suenami raised a hand, creating a barrier around Blixer and trapping the young shape in the corner of the room. Blixer screamed, clawing futilely at the glasslike wall. HIs eye flashed threateningly.

He glared up at Suenami, snarling, “Whatever you’ve come to tell me… I don’t want to hear it!” He shook his head, his hands glowing. “I’m not a monster… I’m not going to keep shattering people for you…”

Suenami stepped closer, his eye starting to glow not pink, but a soft shade of… cyan. Blixer froze, a small whimper escaping him as he stared up at his captor…

The other shape kneeled so that he was at eye level with Blixer, exhaling softly. He couldn’t enter the barrier, but he was just close enough so that the small shape felt threatened.

“I’m not asking you to shatter anyone; I need to tell you something.”

Blixer snapped, digging his claws into the barrier. “Like I have time to talk to you of all people!” He bristled, his horns flicking back as he bared his fangs. “The only shape I feel like shattering right now… is… you!”

Suenami narrowed his eye, sighing. With a snap of his fingers, the barrier around Blixer faded from a toxic pink… into a soft, familiar blue. Blix tilted his head, hissing lowly in agitation.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The small shape snarled, “You’re more powerful? You can use cyan corruption? You-” He was cut off by a sudden, curt yell.

“Blixer, just stop!” Suenami’s gaze filled with a distant fear, a small frown stretching across his face in place of the once mad grin. “Blix… It’s me… Kubix.” The cyan glow intensified, surrounding the once pink ‘villain’ like a peaceful, luminous aura. “This is just a disguise… I came to get you out of here.”

Blixer felt his heart stutter, his eye’s glow faltering as his growl cut off abruptly. He squeaked, scrambling backwards as he stared at ‘Suenami’, his gaze fearful and bright.

“No no no no, you’re not him!” Blixer screamed, panicked. “You’re not Kubix! You can’t be, you-”

The so-called villain sighed, standing. For a moment, Blixer feared an attack, but ‘Suenami’ merely stepped back, holding his arms out to his sides, showing that his hands were free.

“I’m unarmed, Blix. I promise.”

Blixer narrowed his eyes, stuttering, “P-prove it!” He shook his head wildly, tearing futilely at the chains. He could hardly stand, the magical locks draining his powers… preventing him from so much as summoning a cannon without getting shocked. “You’re not Kubix! You’re more insane than I thought you were if you thought this would work!”

‘Suenami’ flinched, taking a step back. He was… genuinely shocked by Blixer’s anger… he hadn’t seen the shape react so violently to anything in a long time…

He sighed, shaking his head. “Alright… If you insist…” The cyan glow spread, becoming so bright that Blixer had to shield his eyes. Blixer felt his heart stop as he heard the oddly familiar voice, “I’m sorry if I scared you… it was the only way to sneak in here…”

Blixer hesitantly opened his eye, squinting to see through the lingering glow. As his eye refocused, his breath caught, and he found himself trying to stand, shaking.

“Dad.” Blixer’s voice broke, the growl completely dropping from his tone as he stared at the square before him. “Dad…” His eye watered, and he began tearing at the chains holding him back, wishing he could exit the barrier blocking him from reaching Kubix.

Kubix smiled sadly. “Don’t worry… I’m gonna get you out of here…” He raised a softly glowing hand.

Blixer’s smile grew, and he shuddered, pausing in his attempts to escape.

“H-how… Suenami has the key…?” He tugged at the chains again. “He locked me here… forced me to shatter shapes for him, Kubix…” He hugged himself, shaking. “I don’t want to be a monster anymore… please don’t let me hurt anyone again…”

“I promise, you’ll never hurt anyone again.”

Blixer’s eye lit up, and for a moment, he looked just like the innocent, happy child that Kubix once knew. However, as his smile stretched to unnatural lengths, the square was suddenly reminded of what happened to him… of what Blixer had become.

“I missed you so much, Dad…” The smaller shape chirped, “Can we go out for ice cream? Or… or fly a kite?” He pressed his face against the barrier. “I know it sounds boring, but… I just want… to be a normal kid again… please…”

Kubix’s gaze softened, his cyan glow dimming slightly, save for the energy collecting in his palms. He smiled at Blixer.

The manic shape continued to ramble, “I’ve been waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting for you… for a while, I thought you weren’t coming, but here you are! I missed you, Dad. I was so tired of being a monster…”

“Hey… Blix… don’t worry.” Something changed in the square’s tone, and Blixer squeaked in slight fear, afraid of the sudden spike in Kubix’s power… specifically, his attack power… Kubix lowered his voice to a whisper, trying to sound comforting but only succeeding in scaring Blixer even more. “You don’t have to be a monster anymore, kid…”

Blixer tilted his head, squeaking, “Dad?” His horns flicked back in worry, and in the reflected light, Kubix could almost see a glint of childish naivete shining… or perhaps, a glimmer of insanity, ready to lash out at any given moment. Blixer frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Kubix hissed, “I knew it was too late…” He shook  his head. “I wanted to believe you were still there, but…”

Blixer scrambled back, his eye wide. “Kubix… what are you-”

Kubix cut him off. “You’ve been stuck here for so long… I’m sorry we couldn’t get here sooner, bud… we could have saved you…”

Blixer’s eye twitched, and he seemed to falter, his head starting to ache as he tried once again to stand. “Kubix.” His tone became harsh. “You’re right here… you can save me, just get me out of here!” He lashed out, raising a claw and attempting to summon forth his offensive magic. He winced as the magic chains sparked, blocking most of his natural power. “Get me out of here!”

“I can’t!” Kubix snapped. His eyes flashed with a rage-filled light, and he snarled, “You’re too far gone… but you don’t have to be this way anymore… I promise.”

Blixer shook his head, disheartened. “N-no… you wouldn’t hurt me…” His voice grew frantic, his tone becoming shrill and anxious as his horns flicked back, tears welling up in his eyes. “You came all this way just to hurt me?”

Kubix cringed, turning away. He raised a hand, sighing as a familiar, harmful, corrupted energy swirled in his palm. “I’m sorry…”

Blixer’s eye widened, and he let out a ragged scream as the cyan blast hit him head on. He had no time to dodge it, the corrupted energy searing through his body painfully. It tore cleanly through his chest, leaving a gaping hole that, unlike the time he fought Suenami, wasn’t going to heal. He stared up at Kubix in disbelief, shaking, unable to speak for his throat was filling with blood and bile. He let out a gurgling cough, pink liquid rolling down his face.

Kubix kneeled at the edge of the barrier, staring hollowly through him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. His impersonation powers kicked in, pink energy shimmering around him and changing his form to that of Suenami again. The disguised king forced a wide grin, yet his eye glowed with a sad light.

He didn’t want Blixer to spend his last moments feeling so betrayed, so he changed his face, looking as much like that wretched Suenami as he could handle. Blix didn’t deserve to be shattered by his own father, no matter what he’d done...

Blixer’s confusion instantly melted into rage, and he shrieked, slamming his entire body against the barrier.

Kubix winced. He ground out in his best impression of Suenami, “It’s a shame…. A shame indeed.” A bitter chuckle left him as he stood, backing away from the barrier. “You lost your usefulness so quickly…”

Blixer hissed, arching up and clawing at the barrier. He cleared his throat just enough to screech, “Suenami!” He slammed his head against the wall, his horns digging into the glasslike forcefield. “I’ll shatter you... I’ll shatter you!”

Kubix left the room, squeezing his now singular eye shut. His horns flicked back, and his steps became quick and anxious. He mentally begged Blixer to stop screaming, barely able to focus on his own thoughts as the child… no… monster’s cries rang out.

It was for the best, he assured himself. In those horrid months trapped by Suenami, something about him had changed. Blixer was no longer the heroic, childish shape he’d once been. Kubix had watched him shatter innocents in cold blood, having been mentally broken down by Suenami’s torment. He was a threat, and no matter how much it hurt him, Kubix was the best shape to take him down.

He sighed as the screams finally ceased, trailing off into pitiful whimpers. Blixer’s sobs echoed through the building. Kubix felt his heart clench as his son began crying for not his father, but the very monster he’d just been threatening to kill.

“Suenami… please…don’t let me die here…”

Kubix hesitantly peered inside the room, flinching as he saw Blixer. His breath caught, and he ducked back behind the wall, shaking. His transformation dropped, his appearance flickering back to normal as his distress took him over.

The forced, manic smile that had stretched across his face before faltered, curving into a deep, despaired frown.

He repeated a mental mantra, “That’s not Blixer… that’s not Blixer… that’s not my son anymore…” It was the only thing keeping him from running in there and healing, or at least comforting his son… or what was left of him. He shuddered, sliding down the wall until he sat there, face buried in his hands, shaking and crying.

Blixer’s pathetic croons continued to assault his senses, filling him with a dangerous mix of protective anger and regretful, despondent sadness.

“Please… I’ll shatter them all… I’ll break them to shards… don’t let me… don’t let me die… please… not again…”

Kubix shuddered. “That’s not Blixer… that’s not Blixer… that’s… not… Blixer.”

The square kept repeating his mantra, unable to ignore his former son’s pained cries. He forced himself to stay there, practically planted to the spot, until he heard the sounds cease entirely. Hesitantly, he stood, his movements slow and cautious. His eyes dimmed to a hopeless, dull blue, and he looked around, sighing. He glanced in the room, wincing a bit when he spotted the pile of dimly glowing dust and shards. He backed away, his breath catching.

He did this… he shattered his own child once again…. Although, in this case, he was the hero of the situation. He shook his head, closing his eyes tightly. All traces of Suenami’s maniacal infection were gone… every shape that had been infected was cured. Every creature that allied with him was dead… including Blixer.

Kubix took a step back, collecting himself. He sighed.

“Sorry, Blix…” A bitter smile quirked at his features. “See ya soon…”

[easkyrah]

Elorcan Possessive Billionaire AU part 1

Summary: Elide wants out of Morath CO. Lorcan wants in.

rob·ber bar·on [noun]

a person who has become rich through ruthless and unscrupulous business practices (originally with reference to prominent US businessmen in the late 19th century)

Three Years Ago

Las Vegas, Nevada, United States

Elide hummed as she flipped through the stacks of paperwork, filing them into the respective cabinets. With brutal efficiency, she re-organized all of her uncle’s loose papers and re-wrote all of his scribbles of writing other business mergers deigned to look over.

“Elide! My coffee!” Her Uncle Vernon roared into the intercom, thick syllables rasping out. The machine’s blaring grated against her ear drums at it whirred off. Slamming the last cabinet shut, she locked up, and headed towards the kitchen. Not only was she the secretary, but the kitchen staff as well—and the event coordinator, personal relations specialist, and treasurer.  

Because she was Vernon’s only employee; everyone knew his ruthless practices:  With low wages, long business hours, and little respite, Morath Company frequented as the one of the business that still practiced brutal techniques, not only through the use of vertical and horizontal integration, but also through the filled corruption of scandals and feuds. No one dared to work for him save herself—ruined and crippled and chained to her Uncle.

Until she turned eighteen years old, she could not legally walk away from her guardian. When that long-awaited time came, she knew Vernon would have finally found a way to hold her permanently within his grasp. The wait drew anticipation within her, a source of murky hope. Unclear her future may be, but it had to be better than to slave away.

She hummed softly to herself, swaying on her feet as best as she could. By the time she had delicately carried the cup of steaming coffee into Vernon’s office, he had moved on into requesting an apple fritter, declaring he’d slash half of her pay for being too slow. Again.

Elide had merely bit her lip, and wobbled out of the office.

Maybe if he had hired more employees, Vernon Company would ruin more smoothly. Maybe if he had increased her pay, she would have more motivation to work harder. Maybe if he hadn’t chained her into his office when she first worked there, she wouldn’t move so slow.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Never affirmatives, always questioning.

Always dreaming for the future, always living in the nightmare.

Vernon had slapped a new assignment on her desk by the time she returned her little work room. Elide inhaled sharply through her nose as Vernon instructed her to organize his latest dealing with the EPA in convincing them to grant them permission to build an oil well near the Mississippi. She wanted to say no and protest the outright disgust that the risk of the oil spill and build up of a harmful infrastructure for the environment was not a potential investment—especially as a distributary channel.

But she had learned the hard way to keep her mouth shut. It was the only way to prolong the pain. To bite her tongue was to save skin, but drive her mind into pieces. What she could eat, wear, love—all aspects restricted to her Uncle, her last living family tie. Of all strung love, the sneers had snipped away the strings of bent loyalty. Only time remained as her closure.

Her fingers traced the outline of her calendar, nails tapping the date of her eighteenth birthday.

Soon.

Smoothing down her business skirt, she scheduled a phone conference with the EPA and placed that vapid smile onto her face. A blank face for the future clean slate.

She was Elide Lochan, and she would find a way out of this prison, coming in all shapes and sizes conjured by the metal at her ankle and bars in her mind.

Until then, she would play with Vernon.

Los Angeles, California

“Dammit!” Rowan cursed. “How did we lose this rutting business deal with the EPA? Our policies ally with their every move.” The desk splintered from impact with his fist.

Fenrhys threw his hands up in the air. “Why—how—are we losing our connections all to the horrid Morath Company?”

“Stop bloody shouting!” Gavriel shouted, pulling the roots of his hair. “We need this to work. So stick your nose back in the desk and breathe.”

Vaughan pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled his full cup of herb tea in one swallow. The others either paced around the room in hopes of releasing their anger while the others stormed out. The anger radiated within the room, a broken instrument victim of the feats of reckless runned reactions.

“Does it look like I give a flying fuck?” Lorcan snarled. “Maeve is blackmailing us again. If we don’t get this deal, she’ll rip apart our company for sure.” The duty to hang onto the shred of their independence hung volatile among them.

Fenrhys slammed his head against the desk rather violently, again and again, until the noise created a short cacophony. Gavriel grabbed his shirt’s collar and tossed him against the wall. “Stop acting like a child.”

“Obviously they have a mastermind in there,” Rowan said, ignoring his companions, and the rumblings of complaints. “Someone with the brains and words. The persuasion and the manipulation.”

“Someone with more hold than Maeve,” Lorcan mused.

“Impossible,” Gavriel snapped, ignoring Fenrhys’s sulking. “Maeve has been controlling us for the past damned ten years. You can’t get more powerful than that.”

Vaughan rolled his eyes. “You’re acting like we’re at the top of the hierarchy.”

Fenrhys narrowed his eyes at him, rubbing his jaw. “Who’s side are you on?”

“It doesn’t matter. We need to start searching through Morath’s database and narrow down the selection of employees and see who we’re going to kidnap. Use him to our advances. Bribe him to stay quiet. Then release him if his heart still beats.” Lorcan stalked towards the computers and flipped on all the switches, feeling the familiar humming of electricity under his fingertips. His dark eyes flickered to the lines of codes, full of simplicity past the facade of complexity.  

“Kidnap?” Gavriel demanded, rising from his worn seat.

Lorcan slowly turned towards his cadre, sparing them a feral glance. “Did I stutter?”

Rowan swore, and strode next to the whirring computer. “If Maeve finds out the prisoner we capture, she’ll wire him. Transform him. Manipulate him.”

“You’re going along with this?” Gavriel scowled. “Break a plethora of laws, so cross another?”

Lorcan tensed, his fingers flying across the keyboard, clacking away lines of code. Stiffness coated every inch of him, but he merely growled lowly in warning.

Vaughan shook his head, ignoring the amber-eyed male seething. “Maeve won’t find out. Not if she sees it as a conquest and nothing more. If one of us...show interest in him, then this scandal would not arouse suspicion.”

Fenrhys coughed. “You aren’t suggesting—”

“One of you will seduce CEO Vernon’s head informants,” Lorcan clipped out. “Whether male or female, I do not care. But you will make it happen.”

Fenrhys bristled as all heads turned towards him.

The Las Vegas Strip, Nevada

Work had drained her, ten hours of relentless scribbling and talking, full of sweet, empty words. If only the interviewed her insides and intentions, then would they see the black water running through her, flooding her lungs. Every breath tasted of the lies of liberty and poison of power.

The lust filled looks washing over her body was nothing new. Neither was hurrying through the less dense streets where lamp light rays flickered away into ceased existence.

The moment Elide walked down the alley, she knew something was wrong. The night was a calm tranquility harboring deeper secrets than the sun’s horizon, but never did it fade into utter silence.

Something was off.

She wormed through her bag until she palmed her pepper spray, and slowly inched up her skirt where her laid strapped against her thigh. No one, not even Vernon, knew that she carried weapons with her.

Except Manon. The cunning mafia leader had taught her how to survive on the streets when she’d save Elide from near assault after she was caught in the after-effects of a crossfire. Howls had filled the air, snarling and savagery whipping around her.

But this was a silent, sinister after thought. A rattling her bones left hollowness seeping through her.

Stone from the slanted roof clattered to the floor on her left, and Elide froze.

“Shit,” a male’s voice said.

“Shut up, Fen—”

The entire roof collapsed, and Elide let out a shriek as the stones hit the floor along with bodies.

Beautiful, male bodies. The most beautiful creatures she’d ever seen. Flesh did not scare as they rose from the ground, dark abominations with crooked halos. The closest—she assumed was Fen—held up his hands in protest.

“We come in peace,” he said, his voice a low melody.

But dark and dangerous.

Another dark-haired figure next to him snickered out, “Hey, props that she’s a girl.”

The shape of another male appeared from behind him, this one formed with broader shoulders and arms corded with sheer muscle. His fall had ripped apart his black-pressed shirt, a thin line of blood trickling across his chest. He snorted at his companion’s statement, rubbing his jaw with his large hands. A rough-hewn face met her own trembling posture, her bottom lip threatening to spill.

Yet—never had injuries looked so magnificent. Never had the darkness so called to her. Never had she tasted freedom.

Elide mentally slapped herself. Bit down on her tongue. Gripped the pepper spray tighter.

“What do you want?” She managed.

The male raised an eyebrow, his midnight black hair rippling with the night. “What I want to know, Elide Lochan, is why you’re the only person working for CEO Vernon.”

Elide Lochan trembled. No one knew that—no one. Vernon had even coded millions of nonexistent names with false identities into his computer to seem as if he had millions under his command as his last action of actual work. No one could re-route that direction and clear the coding and decipher the assortment of jargon.

Unless—

A mocking bow. “Expert hacker, Lorcan Salvaterre. And CEO of the Cadre Companies.”

Now

Jakarta, Indonesia

Elide wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, sighing as the beads of sweat continued to run down her forehead. California knew storming deserts and tepid springs, but Indonesia oozed humidity that had each of her pores leaking in response. 

Pressing her bag closer to hip and grasping the clasp tightly, she weaved through the bustling streets. Vendors leaned forward at her sides, nimble hands flashing forward, the town the perfect hole to pickpocket. Vibrant cloths and teeming displays glamoured the wiped-down fronts. Every smile and wave of a hand served as a distraction as the unsuspecting pockets or zippers opened, only for seconds later, curses to fill the air as victims realized their foolishness. 

Elide reasoned she would be the same victim to the games if she weren’t a werewolf. 

Her hands instinctively enclosed around a wrist, and squeezed. A little boy fell out of a stall, his face beet red. A warm wind had his long locks of dark curls slapping across his face, coated with black streaks of grime and dust. 

As Elide gripped him, her eyes absorbed the thin scars painting his scrawny arms.“Who did this to you?” Elide murmured softly, her other hand firmly tightening its hold on her bag, ignoring the rest of the curious eyes peeking from behind the tapestry stall.

The boy shook his head, hitting some of the hanging threats of rainbow hues. “Can’t say.” His other hand flailed out and pantomimed zipping his lips. 

She slowly sniffed the air, narrowing down the scents. Of all the vendors in this street, this particular stall held the only one inhabited by werewolves—young ones, to be precise, which was odd considering the fact not one smelled rogue. Lest the laws forbid it, any pack forbid young wolves, prone to be subject as pawns or used as threats, wander alone.

“Where’s your alpha?” Elide asked, and slipped her fingers around a pendant in her bag. Yanking it out, and angling her body closer to the stall, she palmed the ruby.The boy’s eyes widened, his other hand reaching out.

Elide retracted the gem. “Alpha?” 

The boy loosed a small, defeated sigh. “Dunno. Probably killing or fucking.”

Her eyes widened. A sound escaped her throat. “Are you sure?”

The boy’s eyes turned dark. “Alpha killed mother. Alpha fucked sister. Alpha does same to others.”

Elide knew by the sweeping undercurrents of bitterness and acerbic taste in the tongue that the boy’s sister simply hadn’t been taken without strand of dignity or consent. It seemed she had come across one of the boundless alphas, spending wiles and wills on the wild mind rather than the collective security of duty. Her insides shuddered, her skin prickling in sorrow for the fate of the pack, for only the true chaotic cursed ruled in this new era. “What’s your name? I’m Elide.” She knew it was a risk to expose herself openly like that, but by the boy’s fragile state, he wouldn’t be able to fully mind-link his alpha that another werewolf not from his pack set on his claimed territory. By tomorrow, she’d completed her mission and be sailing back towards California.

It’d been too long before she had been in the eastern hemisphere, where two years ago, no alpha pack had deigned to rule over the torrid terrain and scorching soils of Jakarta. Only the ruined would dare claim the chance to tame the lands.

“I’m Nox.” The boy blushed. “Nox Owens.”

Elide released her grip and slid the ruby into the boy’s hand. Before he could disappear behind the fluttering, threaded colors of clarity and brightness, Elide leaned in, whispering, “Don’t grow bitter, Nox, but better.”

She set off for the streets, attempting to cover her scent with newfound vigor—her only supposed gift for her runted wolf side. Hiding in rabbit burrows did have advantages, but brought out whispers of disgust and pity to those who saw her other form. If she completed her unspoken task easily, then she’d be out of the ground quicker. Intruding on another's territories had never been one to her liking, unlike Aelin’s boldness. Being the one of the several Alpha females must have had its perks, a craving Elide would never have fulfilled.

Hurrying up the steps into a small building with a slanted roof, she pushed past the wooden door, the blast of the cranked of air conditioner eliciting a satisfied sigh. Footsteps rounded from the corridor, and Elide grinned as she stared at the familiar white-haired acquaintance, dressed in the ever trademark dark clothes. 

“It’s good to see that Aelin hasn’t quite roughened you up yet,” said Manon, twirling her favorite blade in her fingers. “I’ve not got much on my end except for an Alpha Lycan settling here in the wastes.”

Elide unpacked her bag, pouring out the sparkling jewels for later bartering and bribing. “A Lycan?”

The more feral and wild kind of werewolves in the supernatural world, Lycans dominated over packs and reigned as royalty. Feared by most younger vampires and worshipped by regular werewolves, Lycans challenged the social order of the supernatural system. She’d met not just five three years ago, but one certain dark-eyed Lycan well enough to wish herself dead and nothing but dust in the earth; an encounter enough to drive her into a frenzied state of one she’d never envisioned herself, the simplicity rested in certainty.

“I saw a little pup today,” she murmured. “Alone in the streets.” The urge to protect the small one had rammed repeatedly in her head, ringing with resonance within every crevice. The lost, wide eyes reminded her of a younger version of herself, afraid and in awe of the wide world who offered terrors and tranquility. A desperation had flashed through him beyond that draped curtain of fear.

“This Lycan’s known to treat omegas poorly.” Manon rolled her shoulders. “He may not give a lick about what happens to those who toil in soil, but his warriors form a force of sheer strength.”

“Which is why your Thirteen still haven’t drive him away?” She had an inkling of feeling running through her veins, a snap of hopefulness thrumming through her. Manon’s silence was enough, and Elide rolled an amber stone across the table. The white-haired female easily caught it in her hands, rubbing the smooth surface. As a witch, her stance held hold over other supernatural creatures, only challenged by the ancient throng of individuals, including the older vampires who had seen the early revolutions of barred freedom and processed colonialism. 

“Which Lycan are we dealing with?” asked Elide, for the true forest bred creatures of the night called Lycans numbered to a few to be counted on hand’s fingers. Each reigned deadly in their own particular ways, each a foe to be reckoned with, each immortal and an aura of powerful. 

The leader of the primeval witch clan snapped her teeth—not at the fellow wolf who held youthful ebullience hidden within the shaded depths of dark orbs, a drawn and drab curtain across that flaring spark of cunning, restrained lore, but at the thought of the Lycan in her wasted lands. Manon crossed her arms. “This Lycan has dared to claim my territory as is, infiltrating my streets and my rings. I’m losing my contacts in a flushed drain.”

“What does this have to do with Aelin sending me here?” If gathering intel was all that was required, then she’d be heading back home to the sunny, albeit windy, shores of California within no time.

Manon gripped the stone tightly, the sharp noise of cracking piercing the air. “No,” the witch said slowly, opening her palm. Elide watched the cracks of the reddish brown hues fall listlessly to the floor, a distant reminder of the salted liquid running through her and scorching her mind. “You need to seduce Lycan Lorcan Salvaterre.”

A heartbeat of silence, then Elide coughed, clutching her chest. Pain sweltered through her, rivulets of rage racing across her vision, clear as the freshwater without a facade of fiction. Lorcan Salvaterre, the newest, most dangerous and wild Lycan that had appeared out of nowhere three years ago, the one who had shaken the very soils of her roots. The phantom bite at her neck flared at the name, her entire body shaking and trembling, the memories of the madness running amuck her mind.  

Time healed the blemished bruises and scrapes of scratches, but only bred the psychological damages burning and branding her insides. 

“Elide!” Manon called sharply, shaking her shoulders firmly, halting the flood of feelings. “Do you accept the deal?”

The figure of a rough-hewn face emerged through the fog of recollection, onyx eyes boring into her soul, warm hands skimming her skin, sending sparks through her. A dance of danger and dignity, her body a violin to his tune, unleashed and forbidden. The crescendo of emotions that had ruled her into the haunted female—werewolf—that she was today.

“Yes,” Elide managed to gut out, a sick smile spreading across her sunken eyes. Riled revenge spun, a chance of millions emerging through the unsolicited closure of three year’s time. She didn’t have to ask why the new type of mission when another vice wormed through her. “I accept your deal, Manon.”

It was time to return the forged game of unforgotten secrets and tempted betrayal—one in which no longer pawn reigned as herself, but the CEO of the Cadre Company, Lorcan Salvaterre, the robber baron of her heart. 

A retribution for what Lorcan Salvaterre had done to her three years ago.

[buildercar]

New Post has been published on http://www.buildercar.com/hondajet-vision-quest-in-flight/

HondaJet: Vision Quest in Flight

Michimasa Fujino sat up in bed one night in 1997, looked for the nearest piece of blank paper (the back of a page from his wall calendar), and drew the HondaJet before he forgot it. In his case, Honda’s “Power of Dreams” wasn’t just a marketing campaign. Indeed, Soichiro Honda was obsessed by those involuntary visions, going so far as calling the company’s first self-made motorcycle the Dream. Although Fujino admits he was awake when he had the idea for Honda’s first aircraft, at least he was in bed. As a typical Honda light bulb moment of engineering creativity, it’ll do fine.

Like other Honda observers, you might wonder how a company that got it so right with the Super Cub, the S600 sports car, and the engine in Ayrton Senna’s McLaren Formula 1 cars can also struggle so publicly at times. Its 2015 return to F1 as an engine supplier has yielded consistently scathing headlines, thanks to the dismal performance of the McLarens it powers. We can’t expect a big corporation to be consistently brilliant, but the HondaJet’s unfettered, clean-sheet design and the story of its genesis provide reason to believe the old Honda is alive and well.

Like Asimo the robot, the HondaJet came from the firm’s mid-1980s willingness to invest heavily in out-there projects with little chance of payback. Honda thought there was an opportunity to make a very light jet, or VLJ, mainly for the American market. Owning or chartering a VLJ makes sense if you’re moving four people for whom time represents a lot of money, as a VLJ can fly into and out of thousands of small U.S. airports.

So there was demand, but aircraft design is a surprisingly slow-moving business. Most new aircraft are actually revisions of older models. Honda thought its brains and budget could come up with a radically new design. It couldn’t — at first. Fujino qualified as an aeronautical engineer but joined Honda to work on road-car research and development. At 26, he was sent to Starkville, Mississippi, and toiled in secrecy for a decade on the jet project, making hand-built prototypes but not finding the killer advantage. In 1996 Honda canned the project, and he moved back to Japan. The following year, he had his big idea.

That pencil sketch on the back of January now stands before me rendered in $4.9 million worth of carbon fiber and aluminum, and I’m about to put considerable trust in his late-night epiphany. To the inexpert eye, the HondaJet doesn’t look that different from its rivals. The engines are in roughly the same place, but the big difference is they aren’t mounted on the fuselage but on pylons that rise up from the wings. Others have tried this positioning before, usually unsuccessfully. The benefits are headlined by increased cabin space because the engine mounts no longer intrude, and there’s less cabin noise now that the engines are not attached to the fuselage. Fujino’s breakthrough was to figure out a way of mounting them using pylons that sweep backward so each engine trails the wing and of machining the wings from solid aluminum billets for strength and perfect laminar flow (in which air clings to the surface of an object, passing with minimal turbulence) uninterrupted by rivets or an imperfect shot-peened surface. He refined the pylons’ shape and position using computational fluid dynamics modeling. The result is improved aerodynamics for the wings and a cleaner, slipperier fuselage.

This was the breakthrough Honda spent more than a decade looking for. There’s 20 percent more cabin space. Maximum speed of about 485 mph is up 25 percent compared to some other VLJs, and fuel consumption is down 17 percent. The engines help. Co-developed with General Electric, the new units are surprisingly small and produce lower emissions than rival aircraft.

Honda used most of that extra space for a proper toilet with a sliding door. (The door alone is $36,900, an optional extra that seems like a must-have.) Fujino calls the toilet a significant competitive advantage, maybe the killer advantage if you’ve ever had to use the alternative. Some other VLJs have a bucket with some kitty litter and, if you’re lucky, a curtain you can hang around you — although the nonvisual impacts of your predicament will be impossible to disguise from fellow passengers. “I’ve flown a Citation Mustang most days for two years,” one pilot told me. “The emergency potty has only been used once, although that guy needed it twice.”

The jet project was restarted after Fujino presented his concept to the board in 1997 and was finally approved for production in 2006 when he cheekily flew a prototype at an airshow and took deposits to prove there was a market. Production began last year.

Passengers climb the three steps on the fold-down “air-stair” door. Inside are two pilot seats (though it can be flown solo), a jump seat facing the door, and four passenger seats facing each other with what Honda claims is more space between them than rivals. The toilet is at the back. The cabin smells like a Bentley and features pale carpets, wood veneer, and soft leather trim, which imply the occupants don’t often encounter dirt.

Fujino’s breakthrough was to figure out a way of mounting the jets using pylons that sweep backward so each engine trails the wing.

It’s difficult not to make comparisons with the new Acura NSX. Both are made in the U.S., the NSX in Ohio and the jet in North Carolina. Both use novel aluminum construction: ablation casting for the NSX and wings milled from solid aluminum for the HondaJet. Both use Garmin satellite navigation. HondaJet’s demonstration pilot, Mike Finbow, said flying it is a revelation — like using an iPhone for the first time — and that it has a higher level of automation than nearly any other aircraft. However, some members of the aviation media have found it overly automated — something automotive critics also carp about with many modern vehicles. Indeed, the new NSX also can feel somewhat techno-fied with the way it switches character from Xanaxed hybrid to feral Track mode at the twist of a dial.

The cabin looks like an Acura’s but smells like a Bentley’s. The way those jets are mounted on pylons over the wing looks strange to anyone who knows about planes. The Start button is familiar from the NSX, but the car only has one of them.

But oh, are they both fast. The launch procedure is similar, up to a point. You hold both car and jet on the brakes and build engine output against them. When you release them, the NSX is unquestionably quicker. It is savagely accelerative. The HondaJet is “only” standard Porsche 911 quick — at first. But it is as refined as the NSX in Quiet mode even as it takes off and heads for its considerably higher v-max. There’s a noticeable but unobtrusive high whine and almost no vibration, despite the fact there are still two turbo fans, each with 2,000 pounds of thrust, mounted not far from the rear passengers’ heads. In level flight, the experience is serene.

Honda’s greatest innovations have been for the masses. When it makes something great such as the original NSX, we can at least buy into its desire to make something radically different.

Only when you use one of these airplanes do you realize their value to people they’re marketed to — those with assets between $20 million and $40 million and with business interests spread over wide areas. Jets like this collapse time and distance. They’re more like teleportation than flight. Imagine how much you could fit into a day if you could travel, as we did, 200 miles in 40 minutes instead of the four or more hours you’d allow for such a trip in a car. Or if you could walk through a private aviation terminal to your plane, which leaves when you arrive. No lines, no TSA checks, no cancellations. At European jet fuel prices and with six aboard, the fuel bill was less than $200. Of course, servicing the jet, hiring pilots, and paying for hangar space and landing fees will add a little to your costs.

Historically, Honda’s greatest innovations have been for the masses. When it makes something great but for the elite, such as the original NSX, we can at least buy into its desire to make something radically different and perfectly engineered, and we can hope it takes the same approach to our Civics. The HondaJet feels like one of the great Hondas, too, for just those reasons.

Indeed, it’s not out of the question that at some point there could be a HondaJet we can all fly on. Fujino points out that the hangar doors at Honda’s Greensboro, North Carolina, factory are twice as high and wide as they need to be for this HondaJet, and there are rumors of a range of Honda aircraft, including for commercial airlines. Maybe one day his quiet, efficient midnight sketches will no longer serve only the wealthy.

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