#i’m building a brand here folks

[tunastime]

Inbound, Outbound

The first submas fic I ever wrote! LOL I decided I needed one final thing for april fools so you get this fic from. about a month and a half ago! I think a lot has changed since I wrote this and I'd love to come back to the reuniting :3 maybe making it longer or what have you. but for now. here you go!

Sometimes when you wait for things, they come back to you. Sometimes they don't. Emmet continues life as normal as he can until the point in which the thing he's been waiting for the most finally does come back. Today just happens to be that day. (6745 words)

Ingo comes back on a winter day that Emmet would’ve otherwise forgotten.

It’s a pervasive winter in Nimbasa this year, the sky a white-blue, grey where it touches the edges of the buildings high above his morning train into the city center. Today is just as slow as usual, fifteen stretching into thirty, stretching in to forty-five minutes as people crush their way into the train car number eleven, Emmet’s favorite car on the six-in-the-morning inbound to Nimbasa commercial district. This train doesn’t go direct to Gear Station—it’s about four blocks from the city center. Which means that the train car is filled with grey and black suits, small children, and people in coats too thin or too bright for the weather. It’s his favorite car because if he looks over the few heads currently standing in front of him, he can see a poster with Elesa on it, advertising the Nimbasa Gym in bright, yellow and black letters. He doesn’t mind the length of the ride, really, even with the extra twenty minutes of walking.  It gives him enough time to think, whether that be better or worse. 

Emmet sniffles, pushing the scarf further up his nose, trying to keep in the heat. He can feel his face starting to red with the cold, and the subpar heat of the train car isn’t doing much help. He likes this car—he likes the whole system, because it runs so efficiently even with the stops, but he would like it a bit more if it were properly heated. He once bore Elesa to sleep talking about the rail system near their apartment complex in the city suburbs and art district, and after that he kind of kept it to himself and the engineers on shift.

The train car is still cold, and his scarf slips down his nose again as he adjusts his grip on the handle above him. Scrunching his face, he burrows into the collar of his coat and shrinks his shoulders to make space, shutting his eyes. He moves with the train car, as he does every morning, and sighs into the fabric of his coat. He files the cold away in the back of his mind. The train ride becomes routine, which means it fades into the background of his life, where everything rests mutely.

He might be somewhat of a celebrity, but the 6am is too crowded and too tired to notice him, or Ingo, or Elesa, for that matter. Elesa could live in the city center—running a gym is a lucrative business, and her clothing line, her brand deal, the posters with her face on them, even here in this train, raked in enough money to more than sustain on. Instead, Elesa lives two streets down from him (them) in a large apartment and she holds the crook of his arm on the train to keep steady. She didn’t this morning, though, which means Emmet has a little more stability where he stands, and a little less company. Not being recognized this morning means that he slips effortlessly from the train as the doors slide open, spilling out with other shoppers and business folk. He ducks through the exit as someone holds it open, and the smile on their face lingers a bit too long when they catch his eye. He thinks the words I’m sorry for your loss might come and hit him across the face, but they only nod. Emmet moves through the crowd alone again.

He makes his way carefully up the steps and onto the sidewalks of inner-Nimbasa, stepping with purpose as he stares down at his shoes. There’s a fine layer of ice and slush on the ground, but no snow. Anything that did fall just added to the grey slush on the side of the sidewalk, crunching under his boots as he walked. The cold still bites at his face as he makes his way down the block and across the street. He can still feel his fingers, though, which is a good sign. A few more streets of cold and slushy snow and trying to block the wind with his coat and he would be in the relative warmth of Gear Station, all tan marble and smooth floors. 

Winter. Of course the winter lingered. It was still winter when Emmet got off the train alone and it was still winter and cold and breezy and dark, now, as Emmet stood in his (their) office, watching the clock. 

5:45pm. He realizes he hasn’t eaten all day as a hard pang stabs through his stomach. Emmet takes a breath. It’s easy to fall into routine when nothing else seems to fit. It’s what he tells himself. He finds a way to make the day go faster, maybe looking for something at the end that wasn’t just the next day. He never had this issue before, waiting for the day to pass only for it to bleed into the next, and the next, and the next, and for the weekend to stutter and pause that blissful continuing trend. Work, go home, sleep, repeat. It gave no time to think about anything else—especially not Ingo.

It took longer the first year. Everything constantly pressed hard on the wound still open. He still remembers when everything shut down around him. It wasn’t winter then. It was spring, where the air still twinged cool, but he wasn’t kicking snow off his shoes before he entered the engineer’s office and ducked down the hall and to his and Ingo’s space. It was an almost instant halt, like throwing the emergency break. Emmet’s whole life screeched and threw up smoke. 

He remembers the first time someone questioned him that wasn’t the city police, staring up at him, mouth moving with words he didn’t understand. He stuttered, unable to form an answer to what do you think happened? How was he supposed to know? How was he supposed to put pieces together when he felt like he had been smashed into star fragments?

The subway shut down for three months straight. He could barely pick himself out of bed, and when he did, he couldn’t make it out of the door. He remembers lying in the dark for far too long, turning off his phone so no calls came through. The day bled into night and into the next day, with no routine, no operating procedure. Everything in his life revolved around Ingo—and now there was a distinctly Ingo shaped hole in his chest that he couldn’t fill. He remembers crawling his way out of the comforters and making it to the threshold of his bedroom door, sinking to the ground and staying there. It was only when Elesa made her way in that he moved, coaxed onto the couch to drink a glass of water. There were days where neither of them spoke. Elesa would set a duffel in the corner of Emmet’s room and a toothbrush in his bathroom and wordlessly, the space became hers too. Half asleep one night, she mumbled, very quietly, that it had been days since she’d had the energy to battle. The Nimbasa gym waitlist had grown to fifteen people. He said he was sorry. She laughed like she meant it. Tired. They were tired. Life moved on without them for a while. He held Elesa’s hand.

Every dark coat had been him, every set of stripes, every loud and hearty laugh. The space in their fridge, in their bathroom, on their couch, the spaces Elesa subconsciously left when she visited, all stayed like he might appear and fill them. At some point the spaces became memories, and the memories became a dull ache. The dull ache let him work, and the work became an ache instead. And then he started looking for answers. When he found none, he just kept looking.

He hangs up his white coat, noise from Gear Station trickling into the background. He puts his hat on the hook next to it. 

He is Emmet. He feels okay today.

He combs his hair back with his fingers, stepping back to navigate around to his desk, shutting off the computer screen and moving through the familiar motions of packing away his day. Eelektross snuffs, sleeping curled around his chair, still nursing a singe from their last battle. The rest of his team are tucked away in pokeballs, neatly set into the bag still resting on the desk. He runs a hand over the scales on Eelektross’ head, listening to the snort turn into a purr, long and rumbly. At least someone’s enjoying themselves. He leans against his desk. 

“Excellent job today, Eelektross,” he says. “Too good.”

Eelektross rumbles out an affirmative sound Emmet’s learned to recognize over the years. Tired and comfortable and thoroughly pleased. He’ll be sleeping under a huge eel weight tonight, most likely, which would be good for them both.

From the corner, Chandelure chirps. He glances up, watching her tilt lazily back and forth, flame flickering under the office’s lamplight. He raises his eyebrows, tilting his head at her.

“Ah—” he says. “I forgot, Chandelure. Is it time for the rounds, then?”

She chirps again, twirling in place. She nearly bumps the wall, moving out of the way as she remembers how much space she actually takes up. Emmet snorts, shaking his head. He rises from his leaning on the desk, shaking the feeling back into his right leg.

Gathering his coat and hat again, he pulls it over his shoulders, and opens the office door for Chandelure.

The two wander out into the filling-full train station. It’s busy now that so many are leaving work, Gear Station echoing with his footsteps and the tired laughter and voices of patrons filing in and out of the turnstiles. As he steps out, the noise is almost instant. Ah—he caught departing crowds at the wrong time, as the battle subway came to a close at the days end and people were busy reassigning themselves and marking their places for tomorrow. The energy in the station is bright and cheery. He lifts his hat, waving one hand, smiling with just his mouth. Chandelure spins, singing to herself. He offers a little bow as he departs, listening to cheers of his name until he manages to slip into the service stairs and away from the light and the noise.

He follows the familiar service corridor where it diverges from the central station, staring up into the rafters and eyes tracking across the windows high above him. Night trickles in, noise obscured by layers of stone and brick and marble. The stretch of granite towers above him, echoing the flicker of pride he feels swirling in his chest. Chandelure twirls ahead of him, leading him down to the closed lines as his eyes drag away from pidove in the rafters, cooing to themselves.

It’s important to walk the lines at night—mostly for the host of patrat and joltik and the occasional drilbur that liked to make the tunnels their home, but also to check that each car remained stationary, that light still flooded the dim tunnels, that someone wasn’t trapped. It wasn’t always his job—not with so many that staffed Gear Station, both above and below him. Maintenance often fell to him when it was needed, where he lingered in the office long after his scheduled shift end, when the last outbound train returned. 

The stairs down are quieter and darker than the rush of energy and light and cold air above him in Gear Station. 

Emmet starts his way toward the platform. Whatever he couldn’t find in the tunnels today, Eelektross would find later tomorrow morning, well before the first battle train. It was good he didn’t have to worry about the main tracks as often—not for checks and not for maintenance. He would mourn his sleep schedule much more than he already did if that were the case. Walking those initial tunnels would take him hours, knowing how far the service platform stretched.

Emmet doesn’t like this part of his job. It was always Ingo’s job. Everything seemed like it was Ingo’s job, now that it rested on his shoulders. When they’d first pitched the idea of the subway to the head of Gear Station at the time, it had been a risk Ingo automatically assumed. When he ran the night shift, safety checks were his duty, as much as they were Emmet’s in the morning. They’d assist with repair and management of the rest of the station as needed, falling into step alongside fellow engineers. There’s a small group in this tunnel now—voices echoing down the small corridor as he travels its length, a drilbur perched on their feet, warily inspecting a section of track. He supposed he considered himself lucky—any scheduled repairs to the Battle Subway could be completed shortly after the subway retired for the day, meaning he could be present if anything went wrong. This bit of maintenance was purely preventative—making sure nothing would be jostled loose by a rogue Earthquake.

Emmet ducks passed the group, nodding along as they toss bits of information his way, wishing him a good night.

Fetching the flashlight from his pocket, Emmet smacks it against his hand. The beam flickers to life, illuminating the tunnel in front of him far more than the stretch of yellow floodlights above his head. He sweeps the beam around the tunnel, listening for anything or anyone.

Emmet makes his way off the main platform and into the tunnel proper, along the service grate, eyes following the tracks. He stands at the edge of the platform for a moment, gazing into an empty car, light shining through. It reflects off the posters and signage inside, dull yellow where the lights inside don’t shine. He shivers. The air feels cold and charged, like a stray joltik had crawled up his neck and now rested in the collar of his coat. He turns the collar out, sweeping with one hand. No joltik. Rolling his shoulders back, Emmet steps back from the car and continues onward. A few feet ahead of him, Chandelure twirls idly, like she’s waiting for him to catch up. He waves the beam of the flashlight at her and she startles, chirring out, annoyed. 

“You can check on your own if you don’t want to wait,” he tells her. 

She warbles, waving her arms back and forth. He makes an affirmative noise.

“That’s what I thought.”

The large loop stretches further on to his left, where he can’t see, blocked by the stretch of railcar. He follows Chandelure through the space between the cars, ducking his head as they step onto the opposing platform, and continue their way back up. He pauses for a moment as they do, feeling his body go light as his head spins. He reaches out to the side wall, hand against the cold stone as he takes a long breath. Emmet blinks back spots for a moment, shaking his head gently. His stomach feels like its in knots, rolling over itself as he seems to settle from his moment of vertigo. No lunch will do that to you, he supposes.

Chandelure flickers. They’re almost done, which is good. It means he’ll be able to sit down for a second before he has to run to the train. They won’t need to check the two-team tunnel tonight—not only has Emmet not been able to run it, he checked it two weeks ago. He lingered a very long time in there, didn’t he? It had put a terrible ache in his chest enough to call Elesa to walk him home. Emmet frowns—Chandelure flickers again, dimming, brightening, dimming, brightening again. There’s that rush of dizziness again. He breathes out. He’s too far in his head, today, isn't he?

“Chandelure,” he says, in a way that almost reminds him of Ingo—a little out of breath from walking, but mostly just curious. “Is something wrong?”

She chimes, wobbling in place, eyes narrowing. It feels hesitant. Emmet shudders. After a beat, he reaches up, placing a hand on the near-glass surface of Chandelure’s body. She moves back toward him, chiming again.

“Right,” he says. “It’s different, right? Something’s changed.”

Another chirp.

Something tugs at his mind. Wasn’t there something he read about clairvoyance in pokemon? Future-telling, future-seeing, or whatever. But Chandelure’s behavior isn’t indicative of anything. That would just be odd. He can feel for just a moment the way his heart thumps a little faster against the line of his jaw. It couldn’t be that. It’s just what Elesa always said—he was looking for something that wasn’t there.

“Yyyyep-yep,” he says, mostly under his breath, voice thick. “But it should be fine, Chandelure. Let’s keep going, our track moves forward.”

She tilts back and forth, like a wave of a hand. Emmet snorts as they start forward. 

“You know I’m always one for a battle,” he says plainly. She chirrs, moving around to his right side, putting herself between the train car and Emmet. He follows her movement only for a second as they walk up the tracks, eyes still fixed on the steps up to the station. 

The city subway still rumbles through the ground and the walls around him, the noise soft and consistent as train cars move past. He pauses, listening in, shutting his eyes for a moment. It was late, now. He could feel a tired ache seeping into the creases of his elbows and right under his knees from standing all day. His head was starting to hurt, spinning as he stood completely still. He sighs roughly, squeezing his eyes tightly for just a moment. He’s lucky the pain didn’t extend to his feet—he would have to do quite the jog to catch the outbound train toward home, unless Elesa happened to be staying late again and could walk him back.

They start together toward the entrance as Emmet does his final scan of the furthest-out platform, satisfied nothing is out of place. The same cold air of the train tunnels permeates even here, despite the warm wash of yellow light across the walls and marble pillars. Emmet breathes in, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders as he stretches over his head, screwing up his face as his back pulls. He nearly complains—he feels much too old for this—but he can feel the sharp poke of Ingo’s voice in his mind—well, I’m two minutes older, so you can imagine how I feel—and it stops him pretty quickly. He’s not even thirty-five. What can he do but complain, right? Emmet fishes his keys from his pocket prematurely, ducking between the cars as he steps onto the loading platform.

Chandelure stops ahead of him. Her trill is quiet as Emmet reaches her side.

 There is a man standing on the platform. 

Emmet is very good at telling cosplayers from the real thing. You would think that would be some sort of a joke, but they really like to be authentic. Ingo and him never sold any merchandise of their coats or hats for fear of, well, that. This. Whatever this person was doing, standing on the closed platform in a ruined coat that looked like Ingo’s. 

Emmet swallows. Looks like and not is, right? Looks like and not. Not. Certainly not. Not when he turns and catches his eye. The breath lodges itself in Emmet’s throat, burning hot. Certainly not. Because he is very good at telling illusions from real life, and there are no dark types in the tunnels that can use copycat, and copycat can’t extend the likeness of himself onto another person who looks. Like. Who looks like his brother. And isn’t. Emmet tries to breathe. The breath is sharp on his teeth. His hands are shaking when his vision blurs, and he smears tears across his face.

Ingo looks frightened for a moment. When he looks into Emmet’s eyes, the grey looks washed out. Emmet breathes out, feeling it catch as he sighs, biting the inside of his cheek to keep grounded. There’s. It’s like nothing moves behind his eyes. Not a faint light of understanding. Not a spark of clarity. Ingo places a foot behind him. The line of Emmet’s spine goes cold all at once.

He stands still as he watches a slow realization pass over his brother’s face like a red flush, some flicker in his expression, before he sees his chest seize and breath stutter. Ingo blinks hard and fast, like it might be helping something, eyes flicking over Ingo’s face. He reaches forward, as if he’s expecting to push through Emmet and into air instead, and not the solid body he stands there with. It’s like his body moves before he realizes what’s actually happening. Emmet watches his movements, still calculated in the same way as they’ve always been. Emmet drags in a breath, sniffling hard. 

The lines of Ingo’s face pull. Emmet reaches out to him, copying. It’s what he’s always done—what they’ve always done. He steps forward, lurching to meet him.

The mirror image of himself, his brother, his Ingo, collides with him hard. Emmet feels him crumple into his arms as he drags him forward, arms locking around his ribcage. He squeezes Ingo tight to him. They buckle, Ingo leaning into him for support as his body is wracked with sobs. Emmet struggles to breathe as he sinks to his knees, smearing dirt and dark grime over his white pant-knees and boots.

Ingo’s hands fist in his coat as they fall. He squeezes Emmet in his arms, fighting for breath as he presses his face into his shoulder. Emmet laughs and it morphs into sobs. He turns his face into the tattered collar of Ingo’s coat and squeezes his eyes shut. Ingo. Ingo. Always Ingo. The bony joints of his elbows digging into his ribs as a kid, crushing him with his weight when he lost a pokemon battle, standing in his bedroom door at night when he had a nightmare. Cooking beside him, picking up his coffee, watching him tie Emmet’s tie around his own neck before passing it back to him. His brother Ingo, breathing too shallowly under his hands as he holds him, shaking with the effort of holding himself upright. He can feel the bones of his spine and shoulderblades, sharp and protruding even through several layers of fabric. His face looked so pale and thin. But Ingo holds him tightly, much tighter than he ever remembers, and it’s not just fear or relief or grief holding him to that strength, either. Emmet wheezes out, word unforming in his throat.

It’s not a nightmare. It feels real and warm and solid, like Ingo, like the platform under his knees, like the cold breeze on the back of his neck. Ingo may look different, far too gaunt for Emmet’s liking (and he supposes, now, that it may be like looking in a mirror, and he wonders how many bones Ingo can feel under his coat) but it’s him. No illusion or actor would crumble like this. It couldn’t be some sick joke—right?

He manages out words, and the first thing he chokes out through tears, voice warbling hard, is:

“Ingo—”

“Emmet,” Ingo grits out. 

“I am Emmet—” Emmet says weakly. “You are Ingo. You are real.”

“I—” Ingo chokes. “I am. I’m real.”

Ingo certainly feels that way. The breath echoes in his lungs, damp and wobbly. Emmet can feel his heart slam against his ribcage. He feels so small in his arms but he shakes with the effort of keeping himself stable and with the effort of holding on. He can feel his shoulders move and the way his tears have started to soak through Emmet’s coat and shirt. He’s real. 

Emmet laughs weakly, equally as wet.

“You are very strong,” he says softly, sniffling in, almost amused. “What happened to my brother?”

Ingo laughs. Emmet feels a new wave of tears bubble up in his chest and in his eyes. He presses his face into his shoulder a little more, like it were possible.

“Too much,” Ingo says, voice pitching. “Much too much.”

Emmet sighs into his shoulder, a sound he doesn’t think Ingo’s ever heard before. Ingo’s seen him cry a few times, especially when they were kids, but Ingo was always the more emotional of the two. This sound is such an odd mix of relief and grief and exhaustion pulled from his chest, like all the energy had trickled out of him.

Emmet holds tight to his brother in front of him, words not surfacing like they should. He only manages the weak sobs pressed into the collar of his coat. He screws his eyes shut again, clinging onto Ingo’s coat. The tile is cold and unyielding under his knees. Burning starts to prickle through his shins. Real feelings. Real sensations. Something to tether himself to. Ingo sniffles, coughing damply. He lets his body deflate a touch. Emmet’s chest twists and squeezes tight enough around his heart he feels it shove its way into his voice-box and beat there, pattering away.

“It’s you,” Emmet finally shudders out, voice breaking, sounding much more fragile than he wants to allow. Ingo burrows closer like it may do something. Emmet squeezes him. “Go-Go, please tell me this is real.”

“I promise,” Ingo manages. “I swear it.”

“You do?”

“You are Emmet,” he says slowly, sniffling. “I am your brother. I am real.”

“Good—” Emmet shudders. “Good.”

Ingo makes a pained noise, sighing out to his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. Emmet shakes his head, stilted from where he rests it.

“Don’t be sorry. Just—” he trails off. Just. Don’t leave again. Yeah.

Ingo nods slowly. After a moment he says:

“You are real,” in a half questioning tone. Emmet nods.

“I am. I am not a dream,” he says, huffing out a wet laugh. “You can pinch me.”

Ingo snorts.

“That’s not how that works,” He argues, own voice damp and amused. Emmet thumps his back between his shoulderblades.

“Go-Go,” he complains. Ingo wheezes. This feels so familiar it hurts.

“Sorry,” Ingo says, but the tone that leaks into his voice sounds like he’s very much not sorry. “I’m sorry.”

Emmet huffs again, soft and brittle.

“Ingo, I missed you,” he manages. “I missed you so much. So very much.”

“I know,” Ingo says softly, relaxing his hands, splaying them out over Emmet’s coat. “And yet you kept the subway running in my absence—” he huffs, amused. “Bravo.”

Emmet laughs once, just a small little sound, before it turns back into sobs, muffled against Ingo’s tattered coat. He leans his weight back as much as he can, trying to pull Ingo further into his arms, as if it were possible. Light cascades around them as Chandelure floats over, chiming softly to herself. Ingo pats Emmet’s back, running a little line over his shoulderblades as they sit together. He feels Ingo shift, as if he’s turned his head toward his Chandelure. Warmth blossoms in his chest. 

Ingo mumbles out something Emmet almost hears. 

“She took your absence very hard,” Emmet says, trying to add to a conversation he hadn’t heard.

Ingo sighs, short and soft. They’re less holding on and more leaning, now. 

“Oh,” he says softly. It’s all he says before he turns his head back into his shoulder. Emmet pats his back. He feels like someone’s taken toothpicks to his nerves. Why does it hurt? Why does Ingo sound so lost?

He leans back from Ingo, but he doesn’t let go. His hands find his shoulders, pulling away enough to see him properly. Emmet’s eyes scan his face. They’re the same grey as he’s always known them, but so much more tired, now, deep lines and dark circles around the bottom. He’s frowning, just a little, eyes still red-rimmed from crying, tears still falling haphazardly. Ingo sniffles. His hair lies the same, despite being unkept, and he’s got a terrible facial hair situation going on, like he’d forgotten how to use a razor. When Emmet studies him, Ingo’s face goes soft. He opens his mouth like he wants to speak, but shuts it when Emmet frowns. 

“Ingo,” Emmet says, frown deepening, eyebrows furrowing. He sniffles. He prods at the hollow of his cheek, looking perplexed. “You look horrible, like someone’s shaken twenty pounds off you.”

“Ah,” Ingo says, looking away.

“You may be much stronger than you were, but you look like you may fall over if I let you go.”

Ingo swallows. His expression morphs a few times, until he shuts his eyes, furrowing his eyebrows.

“I might.”

“Ah!” Emmet says, holding to his shoulders a bit tighter. Ingo smiles, just the sides of his mouth lifting. It feels right. “Don’t.”

Ingo snorts.

“I’ll try.”

Emmet nods, mouth a fine line. Ingo’s eyes flick over his face, this time. Emmet feels like pokemon under a magnifying glass being scrutinized. Ingo watches as Emmet blinks tears away, watches them track over his face, and watches as he reaches up to wipe them. Emmet shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice softening at the end unexpectedly. He swallows down a wave of cold guilt. Ingo’s hands clasp around his biceps.

“Emmet—” he starts.

“It’s okay,” Emmet manages out, expression cracking. He sniffles in, pulling in a fast breath as he does. He hears it catch, feels the shudder than comes with it. “You—it’s you.”

“That’s right,” Ingo says meekly, loosening his grip. Emmet’s wobbly smile falters, just for a moment.

“That’s good,” Emmet sighs. He blinks a few times, sniffs again, wipes at his face. Ingo’s hands fall away from his arms and into his own lap.

The frown lingers on Ingo’s face long after he’s dropped his hands. Emmet rises to a slow, shaky stand. Stuffing his gloves in his pocket, he wipes at his face with the back of his hand, giving Ingo a watery smile. When Ingo looks up at him, Emmet feels something click into his chest, warm, full, and settling. He smiles wider, enough to feel his eyes start to squint shut, enough to watch Ingo copy him, and the smile looks so natural on his face. It’s good. This is good. This. Feels. Good. It feels good.

“I don’t think you should sit on the floor anymore, Ingo,” Emmet says. He extends his hand.

“I think I’m a bit too old for it,” Ingo tells him. Ingo takes it. He holds his warm hand, half palm and half wrist. Emotion tumbles in his chest, painfully tight, as he leads Ingo toward the tunnel entrance. 

There’s something Ingo isn’t saying. Emmet knows it’s important. It’s not important enough to say now, that is, but he can feel it in the air of Ingo next to him as they duck into the empty station, back to the office, away from eyes that might say something before Emmet is ready to let the world know who showed up at his doorstep. It’s fine if Ingo doesn’t remember his pokemon, or the layout of Gear Station, or how he should feel, or where he’s been. He can’t ask him to. Not when there was a moment where Ingo couldn’t remember him, no matter how brief. He pushes fear deep into his chest and refuses to let it rise up.

He won’t let them diverge. He won’t let Ingo derail.

Whatever happens next, he’s not letting go of him.

The night comes easier than most.

It starts with Emmet sending a text—it’s last minute, which he despises, but he informs the head of the station that he isn’t feeling well and won’t be in at work for the next few days. He receives a spaced, but enthusiastic reply, and a reminder to use his sick time before he loses it. Probably better that he’s taking more days rather than less. Emmet feeds their pokemon, moving around the kitchen as he hears the shower running in the room across from his own. Busying himself with routine means he worries a little less about the question tugging at his mind, or the rush of anxiety and energy as he remembers everything, replaying it over and over again in his head. What if it isn’t Ingo that steps from the room? What if he looks completely different? What if—

Galvantula bumps his hand, nibbling at his sleeve. He’s still holding the bowl of food. He sets it on the floor as instructed, briefly pulled away from his thought.

Now, situated in the living room, a takeout bag rests on the coffee table, where Emmet is sitting next to the table, pulling out foil wrapped sandwiches and bags of chips and a too-shaken can of soda. He’s been watching Ingo’s face for a good part of the evening, seeing as lines come and go, how the sharp shape worsens when he frowns. Now, in a thick, high collared sweater and pajamas, grime scrubbed away with a hot shower, Ingo looks very small, and very alive, and very cold. Emmet pokes him with a socked foot as Ingo takes another ravenous bite of his egg and cheese sandwich. He has egg yolk all over his hands and down his chin.  

“I am Emmet,” he says, an awed smile lingering on his face. “And I am certain you are going to choke if you eat that fast.”

Ingo blinks, still chewing. Maybe two sandwiches was the right move after all. Emmet hasn’t touched the one he bought for himself yet. He’s been too busy making sure Ingo drinks a glass of water. Ingo flushes, though, as he realizes he’s made an runny-egg mess of the plate balanced on his knee. He looks sheepishly away, searching for something to wipe his hands with. When he can’t find anything, he sets the sandwich down, and wanders back to the kitchen.

“It’s like you haven’t eaten in weeks,” Emmet remarks. His stomach flips a bit at the implication, wondering when the last time Ingo actually had a warm meal in his body. He realizes he doesn’t even know where he’s been. What could be wrong with him. What he’d seen. He seems dazed, a bit lost, a bit spacey. It had taken him a good thirty seconds to recognize Emmet on that platform—though, if Emmet’s honest with himself, and he often tries to be, he isn’t much better. He’d swallowed down confusion just as fast as he could, and that was only a moment before he’d thrown himself at his brother. Ingo’s shoulders are a tense line.

“I’ve eaten,” Ingo says.

“Good.”

When Ingo wanders back over, sitting in his same spot, Emmet pushes the glass of water toward him. Ingo nods, smiling a little as he picks it up and takes a long drink. After he’s finished and set the glass down, Emmet starts on his sandwich. Between his first bite of hashbrown and egg and the next, he says:

“Ingo,” followed by. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

The two go quiet, even with the sound of foil and sandwiches. Ingo swallows, staring into his patterned plate. Emmet watches his face as much as he did prior. He can tell when a pause is calculated for drama, for intrigue, for embellishment, but this one is full of Ingo’s mind scrambling. Emmet can’t see it in action, but he can certainly imagine a million Ingo’s running around in his brain space, trying to compose an answer for Emmet that would satisfy him. Ingo takes another bite in the meantime.

Emmet stares into bits of potato in the foil on his lap. They’re not very interesting.

“What happened?” he asks softly, not looking up at him. He hears Ingo sigh, and sees him put the plate down in his peripheral.

“I—” Ingo starts, and the stutter of his voice is indicative of something very clear to Emmet.

“Ingo,” he says, looking up suddenly. “Don’t.”

Ingo swallows. His throat bobs. Emmet doesn’t even have to finish his sentence.

“I’ve forgotten everything,” Ingo says, in a way that is so un-Ingo-like. “Almost everything. It’s just—there. Right out of reach. Right out of my reach.”

The television casts color across Ingo’s face, obscuring his expression. Emmet fights to keep his expression cool and neutral, despite the way his heart begs to jump into his throat and throw a party. He has a sandwich to eat, not a heart. Silly heart. Silly Emmet. He supposes now that’s why Ingo’s reaction to Chandelure was so stunted. Or the way he skirted away from the station like it may reach out and pinch him like a dwebble. He takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly.

“I don’t know why,” Ingo continues, picking at the seeds on top of his bagel. “I don’t know how, either. And I don’t think I can stomach the where and what, yet. I feel sick when I think too hard. Dizzy and sick.”

Emmet swallows roughly.

“It’s okay,” he says. Ingo shakes his head, shutting his eyes. Emmet watches his face warp, faltering as he holds back whatever emotion’s just bubbled up in his chest. He screws his eyes shut, new tears dripping down his cheeks and off his chin. “Go, listen—”

Emmet reaches. He brushes Ingo’s hand, and Ingo jerks back on instinct, recoiling. He looks at Emmet, expression blank, nervous, then cracking all at once. Emmet’s own face falters as they meet eyes. Emmet holds his hand over Ingo’s, waiting, still crouching in front of him. He tries for a smile, even as Ingo goes blurry.

“I’m glad you remembered me,” he warbles out. “We can keep going from there. Our tracks move forward.”

“I don’t believe my car in this two car train is very safe, Em,” Ingo sniffles. He takes Emmet’s hand, though, and Emmet curls his fingers over his, both hands around his one hand. He squeezes ever so.

“We’re known for our safety checks, brother,” Emmet says gently. “It’s just our standard operating procedure.”

Ingo laughs softly. The sound is damp, but real. Trying to be something positive. It’s all he can ask of him.

“Understood,” Ingo says. He nods, setting his face, despite the way tears still cloud his eyes, and his mouth still wobbles as he sniffles in. “We shall depart then.”

“We will!” Emmet says, squeezing his hands again. He drops them, then, patting Ingo’s knees like he were beating on the table. Ingo huffs out a laugh, shooing him away.

It doesn’t hurt any less, knowing how much might be absent. But it soothes it a bit to watch Ingo smile.

Later, sitting on the couch together, Ingo rests against Emmet, sandwiches eaten, chips picked through, water drank. His face has regained a touch of color, hands no longer shaking with exertion. He breathes slowly and softly as Emmet flips through television mindlessly, looking for anything. To his left, Eelektross snores, head resting on his knee. He runs a hand absently along the scales at the top of his head, listening to the drone of purr and the chatter of late night television.

“Brother,” Emmet says softly. “Ingo.”

Ingo makes no sound. His breath stays even and slow. Emmet snorts. Right. He supposes it’s payback—he can’t remember the amount of times he’d fallen asleep during movie night with Elesa. 

Elesa. 

Emmet startles.

Reaching for his phone, he hastily manages a message to Elesa. Something like: Come over ASAP. Good news. Very good. About Ingo.

 But his message reads in all lowercase like a run-on sentence, so he hopes in the morning Elesa will decipher it.

Emmet leans back, Ingo’s sleeping weight falling to Emmet’s side as he lies down on the couch cushions. His brother only partially adjusts in his sleep, better tucking into one side, head on his shoulder. Warm with sleep and food, Emmet lets his eyes unfocus. There’s too much static resting right under his skin to let him sleep. 

This is good, though. A moment of reprieve for him, and desperately needed for Ingo. Maybe in the morning they’ll talk about getting rid of that ridiculous beard of his.

Emmet hums softly to himself. He listens to the drone of the television for a moment, blissfully tired. There’s a moment of quiet just long enough to feel sleep tug at him.

Someone pounds on his door.

Ah. Well.

Miscalculation on his part, then.

#submas #subway master emmet #subway master ingo #pokemon black and white #pokemon fic #pokemon black and white fic #submas fic #it's very. this is very special to me #i think it could be longer! and a little more detailed! and i think i wanna come back to it at some point and post it on ao3 #it's kind of like this. oh well i've seen other executions i like just as much as what i decided #and it makes me wanna weave more in #i think i could eventually but not today LMAO #maybe once i post my other fic i'll rewrite this as the second chapter. big eyes. #yesyes.. that's what i'll do < shut up tuna

[songofsoma]

all roads lead to you

After ten unwilling years of being in Zauriel’s gang, Karlach escapes. Seeking a new, normal life, she finds work on a ranch outside the town of Baldur’s Gate. After a decade, she’s finally surrounded by friends and work that does good. Besides, the farmer’s daughter Daefina isn’t so bad to be around either.

Karlach adjusts to her new life of freedom. But will this peace last forever?

pairing: karlach x f!tav words: 2,025 rating: general

read on ao3

chapter one | new beginnings

Karlach breathed in deeply. She wanted to savor the crisp, country air of the north.

It was so different from the heat of the south, which was bitter, dry, and unforgiving. If she hadn’t been made for the heat, her skin would surely have been dry and cracked from days under the unforgiving Avernus sun.

The air of Faerûn was unlike any she had experienced before. Here, it smelt like freedom.

Her horse’s hooves padded quietly as they traversed up the dirt path. If she turned around in her saddle, she might still be able to make out the sign that hung from the arched gate at the edge of the property: Baldur’s Gate Farm.

This farm had been here longer than the town itself. Hells, it’s where the town got its name according to the bar owner who rented her a room. A drow with a seemingly permanent scowl set into the deep grey of her face and hair as white as the snow Karlach had never seen pulled into a loose bun at the back of her head. Minthara, Karlach remembered her because her first thought was that the woman must have needed a stool to stand on to reach across the bar.

“I’m in need of a job,” she said when Minthara plopped down a plate of roasted meat, bread, and a tankard of beer in front of her.

Sanguine eyes regarded her, gaze flitting over her as if sizing her up. “You’ll do me no good here,” the gravel of her voice made it sound like an insult. “The ranch just outside of town could probably use all that muscle.”

Karlach had left first thing that morning, following the directions Minthara had given her out of the bustling town and into the plains where the farm spanned over. As far as the eye could see green pastures dotted by an occasional smear of trees or bisected by a fence as the mountains rolled on farther in the distance. The early morning sun painted everything in a comforting warmth, a dichotomy to the chill of the morning breeze.

It was peaceful here. That, she could already feel in her bones. What an ideal place for a brand new start.

As she rode up to the house, there were more signs of life than the lush scenery. A few horses roamed the nearest pasture, their heads lifting to watch as she passed before going back to grazing.

The path led up to a large house. It was clearly old. its walls made of wood that had been weathered in places, other planks having been replaced judging by the color that had yet to fade from the sun. A porch spanned over the front before wrapping around the side and disappearing from view.

Karlach dismounted and tied her reins to the hitching post near one of the pasture gates. She stood in front of the building, taking off her hat and holding it in both hands as she peered up into the dark windows. There weren’t even candles burning to chase away the dark of dawn.

Was the house still asleep? She had thought work on the ranch started as soon as the sun began to peek over the horizon. Then again, what did she know about farm life? She was a recently “retired” outlaw, a career if one could call it that, that she hadn’t wanted in the first place. It had been only weeks since she escaped Zauriel’s gang by just the skin of her teeth. The best ranch experience she had was stealing horses from some farm owned by a bunch of rich folks or when she slept in a barn whether the farmer knew or not.

But Karlach had her height and muscle on her side and she was damned good at riding a horse. She had wrangled up rival gangs before, how much harder could cattle be?

“Aye, tiefling!” A voice called from her left side.

Karlach, being the only tiefling, not to mention the only other person around, turned in their direction.

A man approached her. The deep purple of his shirt was stained with dirt as if he had already worked a full day. His face was hard to see, most of it hidden in the long shadows cast by the brim of his hat in the dim morning light. He held a lead in his hand, a horse whose brown fur was speckled with white looming behind him.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked, stopping a few paces away from her.

“Who owns the ranch?” Karlach shifted her weight from foot to foot, anxiety suddenly gripping her innards.

“The Greensong family, ma’am.”

“Is that who I need to speak to for a job? I’m looking for work?” She pressed her hat closer to her chest as if it would shield her from a possible rejection.

The worker looked at her bemused. “That would be Mr. Greensong. Let me turn out Moe and I’ll take you to him.”

Karlach nodded, stepping aside as the man led the horse to the gates behind where her own horse was. She watched him unclip the halter, sliding it off the horse's head, and beckoning the horse to “Go and play now,” before he closed the gates behind him.

When he stepped in front of Karlach again, he held his hand out in greeting. “Apologies, Moe gets quite grouchy if I delay her schedule. Gale Dekarios, a pleasure to meet a new face. Don’t get much of that around here, unless you’re in town, then I suppose people come and go from all over.”

He continued on, still shaking Karlach’s hand.

“Karlach,” she said with a grin when he finally took a breath.

“Mr. Greensong is around back in the stables. He’s been fretting over the next cattle drive so I’m sure he’ll be looking for an extra set of hands.” Gale looked her up and down. “Especially with your bulk.”

She decided to take that last remark as a compliment since it was paired with a particularly friendly pat on her shoulder.

He led her around the back of the farmhouse and down a path to a stable that had been hidden from view. Though they were still a ways back, Karlach could hear the sound of voices.

“Astarion and Mr. Greensong have had quite the little tut all morning,” Gale mused, referencing people she didn’t know as if she were in on the joke. “I’m half-surprised Astarion is still able to talk and that Lae’zel hasn’t torn out his tongue.”

Karlach’s brows furrowed. “The ranch hands get away with arguing with the boss?”

He chuckled. “Not without consequence. He’s got Astarion on stable duty until the cattle drive.”

When they got up to the barn, they almost crashed into a man pushing a wheelbarrow. Having stopped abruptly, the wheelbarrow tipped over, its contents spilling all over the ground. It was immediately clear what it was when the smell hit her nose.

“For gods’ sake!” He cried out in a way that made Karlach wonder if he would stamp his foot like a child next. “Do you know how long that took me to fill? And now I have to shovel this literal shit all over again!”

“Consider it a lesser fate than the one I would give you,” a githyanki woman sneered, coming up behind him. “A blade on flesh would be more tolerable than your whining.”

Gale cleared his throat and introduced the two. “Astarion, Lae’zel.” He pointed to the appropriate party as their name was called. “This is Karlach. Found her loitering at the front pastures, asking about a job.”

Astarion had to have been the palest man she had ever seen. Really, he would have given a skeleton a run for their money. Red eyes narrowed as he tried to pass the shovel in her direction. “Great. Your first job can be to clean up the mess you made.”

Lae’zel glared at him and Karlach could sense there was certainly no kindness there. She had never met a githyanki before. She had only seen pictures of their upturned noses and sharp teeth in books when she was a kid.

“That task is assigned to you, Astarion,” an older man who Karlach assumed had to be Mr. Greensong appeared in the open doorway. “It’s not their fault you were in such a rush to get the work done that you weren’t paying attention.”

Lae’zel smirked and Gale struggled to hide his laugh in a cough.

He turned his attention from the disgruntled worker to Karlach, holding out his hand with a smile. “Camus Greensong.”

Karlach shook his hand firmly, noticing the roughness of his palms. These were working hands. This man wasn’t one to shack up in luxury and let the help do all the work. He was an elf, coming just to her chin. His years of working in the sun were evident by the dark tan of his skin, but it wasn’t enough to mask the green undertone that pigmented it. Dark hair had been left to grow long and was braided down his back so it could be out of the way.

“Karlach.”

“Heard your lookin’ for work. I could use a strong set of hands. You have any experience working on a ranch?” He let his hand fall and settle on a hip.

She shook her head. “No, sir. But I can ride well, lift the heavy stuff, and am willing to learn.”

Mr. Greensong was clearly pleased with her attitude. “Perfect. Lae’zel or Gale can show you the bunkhouse where you’ll live. You have a horse?”

She nodded.

“Bring her ‘round and we’ll get an empty stall set up for her with fresh water and feed. Plenty of room for her to graze. After you do that, there’s a few fences that need fixing in preparation for bringing the cattle back off the mountains. Don’t want them escaping after it took five damned days to get them here. I’ll show you where those are.”

What a boring task. Karlach had never been more excited.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Karlach’s body had never ached so good before. It was euphoric.

For the first time in ages, her muscles were exhausted from doing something that helped rather than hurt. She had grown so accustomed to the pain that came from cutting someone down or crouching for hours at an ambush point, but this was different.

Mr. Greensong had taken her along the fences and pointed out the spots where a board had rotted away. She lugged the materials, pried apart the ruined fence, and hammered new wood into place. He had even praised her work ethic.

“Most others would’ve dropped by now,” he mused as she dropped the pile of wooden planks to the ground. “Or at least brought a wagon.”

Karlach didn’t need a wagon. The rotten areas hadn’t been that far.

She laid on her back in the small bed Lae’zel had pointed her to. It was pushed up against the wall right by a window. Karlach could lay her head on the pillow and look out at the night sky full of stars if she tilted her face just right. It didn’t matter that three other people were all sleeping in the same room. This was finally something she could call her own, Lae’zel had made that clear.

“Your bunk is yours,” she stressed. “You find anyone sniffing around, you have the right to do as you see fit.”

Karlach could use context clues to imagine what she meant by that.

It wasn’t like there was much of hers to dig through, however. All she had was a small saddlebag containing a few spare clothes, a significantly light bag of gold, and a pistol. Tucked nicely beneath her bed was her battleaxe. Sure, guns were nice, but nothing could beat the security of steel in her hands.

She pulled the woven blanket further up her body, unable to stop the smile that spread over her lips. This would be her life now.

And what a damned good life it would be.

#all roads lead to you #western au #bg3 ranch au #bg3 cowboy au #my writing #bg3 #karlach #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate #baldur's gate 3 #cowgirl!karlach #bg3 karlach #astarion #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #lae’zel #bg3 lae'zel #karlach demonsbane

[punk-in-docs]

‼️YOU (don’t) KNOW I’M NO GOOD‼️

Detective (Killer) Quinn x Reader

3.6k words - Sequel to Tainted Love -

Inspired by *that* photo shoot - this is for @ceriseheaven 💋

Summary: Danger is apparently closer than you realise. ‼️ TW dark themes within: graphic descriptions of death/murder, and some mild stalking ‼️ porn coming up hot in the next one folks (I forever wish I could be one of those writers who just hops right on into writing smut - you’ll have to hear me waffle a little bit first Kay?)

A Hooker is found dead off Sunset Boulevard. Throat slit.

Her lanky limbs, stuffed into a horrible stinking dumpster behind the Whisky a Go-Go.

A blue dime store high heel lays in the alley. There’s blood spattered on it

You were there like a flash. Still tripping into your heels and zipping up your skirt, pulling on panty hose. Doing up your pussy bow blouse as you waited at the bus stop. No food or coffee in your belly. You’d no time.

Just sheer gut adrenaline and deep throbbing hunger for this continuing nightmare. Your story is here and you’ll hunt it out.

The bucking up bootstrap talk you give to yourself every morning. Shaking off shallow sleep. Finding that well of your elbow grease and getting the bit tight between your teeth. Grabbing your lipstick and your voice recorder as you run out the door.

Forever hauling ass to and from the corner of Clinton and Larchmont at the Chronicle office. Whenever you’re needed; have pen and gumption, will travel.

Sleeping at your desk with a deadly knotted crick in your neck. Back and fucking forth, from your baby pink and slowly rotting Las Palmas apartment building.

You exist from ends to end of cigarettes and chucking back shots of bourbon at night after a steamy shower. You scrounged your way by on half snatched lunches on the go, mustard hotdogs or everything bagels, black coffee, two sugars, no creamer. Gin with ice and lemon on Friday nights, and little to no sleep at all.

News never sleeps. Why should you-

You’d scrape to the bottom of this hellscape crime if it killed you.

Oh Birdie, Birdie, Birdie.

Another girl mangled dead. Another bloodstain soaking into the very same stretch of tarmac that’s laid with the gold star walk of fame.

A house way up in the Hollywood hills with two male roommates. And now a Hooker dead a stones throw off the boulevard. It’s random. There’s no pattern there. No food-chain event to yet glimpse a rhythm in.

You’d managed to elbow your way past the male reporters. Balding fat Murray’s and Brad’s, who came flocking from the Times and the Glendale Press.

With their cheap brown suits and oily moustaches. Ketchup blobbed on their polyester shirts and sweat pit stains, and usual brand of misogynistic bullshit. The way they talk about the dead hooker is like she was vermin.

You struck gold. You found the girls. You shamelessly shove your nose, and your cheap Jet Rag heels, all up into the business of the deceased’s friends.

Gathered around the cordon with you, tear streaked. Wiping weepy mascara trails. Last nights make up still caked on and very high heels. Hickies around their necks and up fingertip marks cobwebbed up their thighs.

You don’t take shit from them. No male reporter thinks their input is valuable? You do. You carve out time for them in this callous fast paced city that sees them as unwanted features.

You learn her name. Skinny Tina. So called because of her love of smack. Junkie to it. Liked leopard print dresses and her blue denim jacket. Smoked lucky’s. Came from Nashville. Old fixture on this block. Older than the stars she trod over.

You learn how she kept her corner. Worked her patch solid, from Bob Hope, all the way up to Ella Fitzgerald. That was her turf.

They tell you about the John she got off with last night when they last saw her. You cling to that morsel like it’s your lifeline. Root out as much as you can.

Scribble furiously. White male. Mid forties. Red Thatcherite braces, whiff of Wall Street about him. Prick from a lawyers office or some shit like that.

You nod. You ask. You write. Pulling meat off the bones of this case

You’ve no idea you’re being watched.

From behind the shiny windscreen of a Porsche no less. He sips his shitty weak coffee. Slips his eyes all over you as you stand there with the hookers. Unswerving determination behind those glasses lenses of yours.

You give each of them your card. You tell them to get in touch if another girl goes missing. Or if anything happens. Catch anyone skulking around. Ring you. Day or night.

Like you care toots. You just want your name in the paper right? They stand there with one hip cocked. Eyeing you with spiky pessimism.

You’re punchy. You meet eyes and you don’t shrivel away. “I care.”

You scribble your personal number on the back in red biro and hand it over. Shove it at them with hard core stoicism. You take the time to stand here and give a shit about these women.

You stand behind the yellow tape and write endlessly on your pad, the girls drift away from you. Heels clicking sharp on tarmac. Back into the filthy streets. Back to brutality and drugs and trying to make a living.

The cops buzz around the scene like the very same flies that drift off the trash. Shooing people off from the alleyway. Overflowing garbage trampled all over the sticky greasy puddles in the concrete.

Poor girl. No place to die.

You feel your heart sink low, dragging deeper down like sediment as you consider how it must have been to have it all end like that, in a place like this.

This shining golden city of angels and hope and promise, and this is the worst part of its seedy underbelly. Rock clubs of legendary name and girls selling themselves outside of it. Dying out in the back alley, being left to rot like trash.

Worst of all, is that no one gives a shit. Another hooker dead.

That’s LA’s normal beat baby.

Out the corner of your eye you catch that car again. Flash of it. Hot rod red. Waxed shiny. You know he’d be here somewhere.

He strides into the crime scene past you. Time of no concern. Dunkin’ coffee cup in hand. Licking sugar glaze off his lips. Box of six glazed his other hand. Like this is some sort of brunch date, and not the scene of a homicide.

The big boots are still a fixture. Bell bottom black trousers like he’s on the set of Starsky & Hutch. Sitting on that trim slutty waist. Sways with his hips as he walks. A satin black button up with a too big collar, undone to his sternum. Wearing a gold medallion chain with a saint, but he sure as hell ain’t one.

His neck swims in sainted things but his hands have committed all manner of sins.

Peers at you across those ray bans. Brown eyes swimming up your legs. Licks his lips. Sweet sugar.

That prim little blouse he swears he can see your bra poking through. Dainty lace cups holding your tits. Skirt grazing good big sexy handfuls of your hips.

Fuck you look heavenly.

“Well well. If it ain’t my little Birdie.” He calls across to you as the tape is lifted for him by a stony faced cop. Macabre grin.

You look up from your pad. Meet those swallowing chocolate eyes. He’s leering over his shades at you.

“Quinn.” You swallow.

Try to ignore the way the blaze of morning sun slips like liquid amber down his skin. Slipping between his pecs and collarbones like he’s bathed in mandarin orange oil. Glimmering off that necklace. Ocean cold blue neon from buzzing sign shot through those dark curls from behind. Bleeding out the alley.

You don’t know what it is about him that you like. He looks so wildly slutty that it’s making your mouth water. He’s definitely anything but boring, and your mind absolutely runs to a filthy place with that insinuation

He’s got you trying to recall the last instance you carved out time for some sex in your life. It had been months. The clench in your gut made you aware.

“Are we making a habit of this?” He checks. Narrows eyes at you all playfully.

You, me, the yellow crime scene tape. Mangled bodies. Sirens shrieking. Yeah. Romantic as hell-

“Let’s hope not. Detective. Hardly the stuff of foreplay.” You counter. “Can I get a quote for tomorrows edition.”

“Wouldn’t that be neat of me.” He teases.

You bite back annoyance. He sees it in the scrunched set of your jaw.

He brings up another doughnut to his lips and takes a huge untamed bite. Smirking at you.

He swaggers away and up to the dumpster. Prances around the evidence. Not that the killer left much- blood spattered shoe. The cut throat. Same old same old. Blah blah blah.

You sigh as you make ready to leave. Blood out of a stone. You won’t get anything else here.

Only a small scrap of what you’d hoped for clutched in your pocket. That will get you shunted back to your usual place on page six.

You turn away and begin to head up the Boulevard. Maybe you’d find a place for some breakfast. Your feet are aching. Head sour for lack of caffeine.

“Miss.” Comes a bark from a gruff cop. Who steps under the tape and towards you.

“Chronicle. I was just leaving.” You flash him your staff badge and back away thinking you’re gonna get chewed out for being nosy. You’re a girl reporter, the axe blows tend to fall heavier on you from grumpy cops. Sexist fuckers.

“Quinn asked me to give you this.”

He hands you an empty cigarette packet. Lucky Strikes. The paper is worn thin. Perfumed like it’s been in a purse. Not a pocket.

Skinny Tina smoked Lucky’s.

You look at the cop. He just rolls one shoulder up in a shrug. Not his job to care. Plods away.

You open the well thumbed crimson cigarette packet and inside is a line of scrawled text. Slanted spidery scrawl. Pin nib stabbing into the paper.

This is the work of a serial killer.

Your world grows cold. Sudden and terrible like someone’s sucked out all the dry choke of that LA heat. You thumb the packet in your hands. When you peer up and spin back to the cordon-

Quinn locks his eyes on you. And smiles. Those eyes glow at you.

There’s your story, Birdie.

~

Rain is LA is vanishingly rare. But when it comes, it comes fucking furiously.

It’s spitting down your windows so hard it’s like it will do anything in its power to shatter the glass.

Palm fronds from the stumpy trees outside your windows skate and scrape the glass and cast long fingers of spindly shadows. A faded essence of tropical paradise about this shabby place. The pink walls, palm trees. The empty pit of a mouldy swimming pool out back, filled with graffiti, crumbling tiles and trash.

The air walking home was so thick and smooth you could sip it. Full up of rain clouds and chasing away the humidity.

You turn home and show your back to this water-logged night. Your shoulders and hair damp from running from the station.

You draw your thin drapes but the red light soaking into the room through the shitty pink things. The light stains them up like they’ve been left bloodied.

Your bedside lamp glows in the corner. Peachy pink from the rosy shade. Your room is entirely bathed in lapping tongue red and rose pink.

You cranked your pathetic shower up high and stood under the warm spray until it drained to cold. Your scrubbed your hair from dripping to damp, and slipped on an old white t shirt that slipped off one shoulder. Black lace panties.

Hair still wet as you padded through to your bedroom. Empty glass of bourbon on the nightstand. Half full bottle. You’ll be dipping well into it tonight.

Today was long. Endlessly so. Dragging you down like you’ve got concrete blocks tied on your heels. Cutting into skin as it drags you down.

There’d been another one. Found tonight way out past skid row, under the 6th street bridge.

Stabbed in the back and left to bleed. A kid. A stupid punk teenager, with his apple green spiky hair, belt chains and ripped spray painted anarchist shirt. Bruises on his knuckles showed he put up a fight.

A bag of weed and ketamine in his pocket. Track marks up his arms. All tangled and fired up in fiery self-rebellion. And it led him to dying under a bridge like some junkie.

There was such a clamour at the crime scene cordon that you got physically shoved aside, and ended up skinning your knees in the process. Tearing your pantie hose. Walking home with blood peeling down your calves. Stuck with muck and grit.

You felt miserable. You were miserable. Another day designed to sink you. All teeth and stomping jaws clamping on your pride and happiness.

You hounded as much as you could squeeze out the cops on scene with bleeding knees burning. Hands scraped from your fall. Not much at all.

Your mood was as far in the gutter as it could get. The shower helped. You swiped stinging betadine across your broken skin and chucked back Bourbon to ignore the grating pain.

You drunkenly shuffle to your small strip of a kitchen. Aqua blue and white tiled lino. Cheap but clean. Your whole place was really. Pink drapes and thick blue carpets bleached and matted with age.

Bathed briefly in the blue light and puff of cold from the fridge. You reach and chuck more ice in your used glass and fill it up with even more brown liquor. Mind swirling away and you let it. Close your clunking fridge door with a sloppy hand.

The booze helped. You were ignoring the irony that after a hard day you were crawling into the bottom of an Old Taylor bottle.

You were supposed to be a man about all this. Man up. Well. You’re a woman and you have to do this job twice as hard and relentless and with double the scrutiny from men. And in heels. So you decided long ago;

Fuck that.

You laid on your bed and thought about having dinner. A sad tin of soup or some box of ramen you’d forgotten about in your cupboard.

But instead you just lay there on your sheets and let the bourbon take you away.

And then your phone rings. Shrills to attention on your bedside.

You twist your head back to look at it. Past your cheap peach satin sheets. Your crappy cracked pink telephone won’t shut the hell up.

You launch over the bed and sit up to answer it. If it’s another call out to a murder site, you swear you’ll quit. “Yes?”

There’s a second or two of huffing crackling static the other end. And then,

“Nasty night isn’t it?”

That voice makes your whirling head sit up and pay attention. Oh that voice. He hears the way skin grazes on your covers. The pull of your lungs seeking breath. That makes him outwardly think of your tits too and he can’t help his mind wandering off into filthy plains.

“Quinn?” You check. Your mind is curling and blurry. But by now you’d know his tone when you hear it.

He bites his lip cause it gets him hard. Rubs his fingertips into the square box of the telephone he’s curled against. Sweat on his fingers chafes against the black plastic.

“Hey Birdie.”

“How did you get this number?” Your drunk mouth blurts out. Your tongue feels all fat and clumsy with drink. Loose- even.

He chuckles. It’s breathy and it’s beautiful. Slips like melted chocolate into your ear through the receiver. It may be a smooth sound but it does something sharp and twisting to your gut. A tug.

“I have my ways.” You can hear his stupid big grin.

“Cop ways I’m guessing?” You counter. He detects a tone levelled at him. Flash a badge and he can own this town. Walk in anywhere.

You reach over and bring the phone onto the bed. The cord of it trailing behind as you wrap the coiled wire around your finger. You sit up and cradle the phone between your ear and shoulder.

Eyes flicking over for a second to that well thumbed Lucky Strike’s packet. The one he wrote in and gave to you.

“I don’t need to go flashing my badge as much as you’d think. I can be very persuasive.” He charms. Like he could pluck down all the hanging stars and set them at your feet.

You don’t doubt that. Silver tongues and doe brown eyes seldom mix.

“You weren’t at the scene today. Worried me a little.” He adds.

“I worried you? You hardly know me.” You state.

“I personally-“ There’s a clink as he presses his hand flat to his collarbone. Clink of a chain. “Think we should change that.”

You sigh in confusion because you just can’t think of what else to do. Is he asking you out? Is he hitting on you? Is that what’s happening here?

“I was at the 6th street bridge today. Up until I got knocked down by the clamouring TV and camera crews and skinned my knees. And then it started to rain, I was getting nowhere so I called it a day.” You offered up.

The blazes up something in him. Sparks churning friction against the liquid gunpowder of his temper. All it takes is a spark. He has to take a deep breath at the thought of you bleeding.

“You alright?”

No not really.

I saw a kid brutally mangled and stabbed today. Skin ripped where someone tore him open with a knife.

I’m fucking lonely in this city and I have no friends for miles.

My job is the fucking pits of Tartarus some days.

“Ask me after my hangover tomorrow. When I don’t feel like a failure. And I didn’t see a dead kid torn to strips. And I’m- sober.” You curse under your breath.

Bulldog tone of yours all snappy and treading the borders of your patience. Bone weary.

“That sounds like a lot on your plate.” He offers. He sounds tender. The tenderest thing you’ve heard in a while.

“It sure as shit is. But I’m not sure I should be venting to a cop about it.” You admit gruffly. Standing up and holding the phone to your ear. Idly gazing at the rain outside. Coming down in sheets, hammering cold at your window ledges.

You pour yourself out more bourbon. Cause fuck it.

Oh, you play spiky and icy and he likes it. He’ll play you into his hands. You’ll be worth the wait.

“What if I’m one of the good ones.” He grins. Licks his lips. Outright lies.

“Don’t play games with me, Quinn.” You warn.

Funny; that was his line. Usually with a knife in his hand edged against a fragile throat.

“What if I can help you out with some private information on these cases.” He leans right in and purrs into the phone. It makes you feel squirmy. Like you’re under his gaze again. That flirty one that gets peered over his ray bans.

“And why on earth would you be doing that for me?” You keep your head screwed on straight. What little sense there is left that Bourbon didn’t steal.

“Mutually beneficial arrangement.” He drawls.

“Listen Detective, if you think you’re gonna get your dick wet just cause you toss me some scraps, you’ve got another thing coming, and it’ll be my heel stabbed in your eye.” You promise with punch.

He chuckles. He can’t deny the threat of that and the thought of fucking you had him harder than he’d care to admit. The glimpse of you he had in his head on your back and taking it. Indecent. Glorious.

“I’m no idiot, Birdie.”

His dark eyes graze through the glazed rain walls of the phone booth. Glass striped with wriggling rain and haloed car lights burst through in reds and searing white. The Porsche sits waiting behind him. Dotted in silver.

He can see you through your window.

He’s across the parking lot in the phone booth. One arm braced against the metal wall. Eyes pinned on the slice of that tongue pink room and the vague shape of you he can see through the thin drapes.

White shirt. No bra. Lace panties. Sat on your bed in that entirely pink-red washed room. Light kissing and wrapping your skin. And you’ve no clue he can see you.

You’ve no idea how bad he truly is for you. It’s delicious that.

“Why did you give me that cigarette packet, Quinn?”

He’s quick to answer. He’s thought about this answer. “Leverage.”

“Leverage?” You repeat like you can’t comprehend the word.

“Over those assholes at your paper who think that you don’t deserve your spot alongside them. Scraping together your sanity for every shot at the front page.” He says.

He cut to the quick. Like he’s torn your skin away to see in. Your dimly lit life with your bottles of booze and your struggles. Somehow he pieced you together so well it was like he had your blueprints.

“You don’t know me.” You gasp out. It’s incredulous. He’s making your head spin.

“I know a lot more than you’d think. It’s my job, after all. I like to think I’m good at it.”

“That sounds like a lot of ego talking.”

“In that case you should let me take you out for lunch tomorrow and see for yourself. Buy you something to soothe that little Bourbon hangover.”

Your spine flashes clammy.

“How the hell do you know what I’m drinking?”

Your head is thumping. Dread curling horrid up in your stomach like dead burnt leaves come fall. Crunching and crushing.

“Like I told you. Birdie. I’m just that good.” He chuckles.

Oh but he isn’t.

There’s a click and he promptly hangs up.

You’re left there watching the rain skate furiously down your windows. Listening to the dead tone on the other end blare. Thunder grazes the valley.

It feels more sinister than it should.

~

My Taglist for my JQ babes: (if I’ve missed anyone out I’m so sorry !) if anyone would like to be added drop me a comment on here babes !

@indouloureux @stiegasaw @munsonquinns @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @ceriseheaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @starbxcks @morganamoonstone @ramona-thorns @gvtosbith @poppy-metal @munsonswhore86 @munsonlov3r @lunatictardis @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-tittie @anaisweird @cerinthussulpicia @cinnamoncunt

#joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn stranger things #i would die for this man #Eddie munson #joseph quinn gif #joseph quinn character #joseph quinn characters #punkwrites #serial killer #killer #murderer #stalking #crime scene #1980’s LA #pretty woman vibes #pretty woman

[charmsandtealeaves]

Supreme Pizza With Extra Mushrooms

An old little Jily AU oneshot. Lily's uni boyfriend has broken up with her. Her girlfriends propose a girls night- Tinder swiping and pizza inclusive. Words: 1,445 Read it on AO3

Marlene’s suggestion was that the best thing to do after a break up was always a girls night. Which basically translated to swiping through Tinder looking for prospective replacement or rebound while drinking wine and stuffing their faces with pizza. 

The only part of that scenario that Lily had truly agreed with was the pizza. The furthest thing from her mind was finding herself a new beau, prospective matches be damned. So whilst Mary, Dorcas and Marlene crammed themselves around her phone swiping away, Lily began the online order. 1x Hawaiian, 1x meatlovers, 1x vegetarian, and 1x supreme with extra mushrooms. She punched the order through on her laptop. 

Hi! Thanks for your order, your delivery driver will be James.

While your order is cooking, here's a few things about James…

Lily was always amused by the random facts the pizza place would give about their delivery drivers. She practically knew most of them off by heart by now due to all the pizza they collectively ordered. I mean how could you be expected to survive university late nights without a decent takeaway? But this one was new, she’d never had James before. The new pizza maker intrigued her. 

“What ya looking at Lily?” Dorcas asked, leaning over her shoulder. 

“Nothing much Dor, just watching the facts about the delivery driver,” Lily replied.

James has left the building you can expect delivery in: 10 minutes

“Oh please Lils, don’t tell me you actually read those things. They’re always the same,” Marlene scoffed, far too absorbed by the phone screen to even look up.

“This one’s new. I’m interested. His name’s James” Lily retorted.

James would say his favourite pizza is the supreme.

If James had to pick a sport he’d pick rugby league.

The last song James listened to is “Feel It Still by Portugal. The man ” would you like to listen?

“Hey Lily! He has the same favourite pizza as you!” Mary commented cheerfully, joining the new gathering around the computer screen. “Gods I could never work at this pizza joint. It’d feel so weird knowing that the customer knows something about me without knowing anything about them.”

“I don’t know why you’re all so interested in a faceless pizza boy when we have literal abs for days right here,” Marlene interrupted, coming over to read too.

If James got lost on a deserted island he wishes he’d be stuck with the book “How to build a raft”

“Alright so the bloke has a sense of humour at least” Marlene quipped. “They could at least give you a photo so you can do a proper snoop.”

The sound of a car pulling onto the drive interrupted the conversation. Lily stood to go and answer the door for James the delivery driver. She rummaged through her purse for change as she swung open the door. 

James was stood poised to knock, slightly startled. Whatever she had expected it wasn’t this. He couldn’t have been much older than herself, the tall young man in front of her was eighteen or nineteen maybe at most. James was quite handsome. His dark hair was scruffy looking, dark and windswept. The uniform he wore was splattered with flour and pizza sauce, but there were still creases in the sleeves that indicated it was brand new. Lily watched as the young man pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. 

“Pizza delivery for Evans?” He coughed.

“That’d be me” Lily smiled, exchanging the collection of notes and loose change from her purse for the boxes in his outstretched hand. 

“Say I’ve never had you as a driver before. You new?” she asked politely, making conversation.

“Oh yeah, first day on the job. My folks just opened the chemist on May street. I just need the extra cash for the new uni semester.” He grinned, counting out the correct change. 

“You’ll probably be in my year then. Considering your choice in pizza I’m sure we will get along swimmingly,” Lily flirted. 

God what had gotten into her, Lily Evans did not flirt with random pizza guys. Especially not so soon after a break up. 

“Hey Lily! Get in here already would you? We’re hungry!” Mary called out from back inside the house.

“You know what James… keep the change, a tip for your first day on the job.” Lily winked. “Thanks for the pizza” 

“Thanks. My pleasure to deliver you pizza anytime.” James offered her a comedic bow before returning to his car. 

Lily carried the tower of pizza boxes back into her room to find the girls once again hoarded around her phone. She placed the boxes on the floor and began to set them up in a line, free for the picking.

“Heya Lils, what did that pizza guy look like?” Marlene asked, pinching a slice of meatlovers.

“Tall, glasses, dark hair, hazel eyes. Why?” Lily questioned stuffing her face with supreme. 

Marlene suddenly confronted her with the phone screen. Lily couldn’t believe her eyes. There he was on screen. However, this James wasn’t in a pizza uniform. He was shirtless on a beach with three other guys. She swiped through to the next photo, a close up shot of him with a shaggy black dog. Yep it was definitely the same guy. What were the odds? She scrolled down to read the bio section.

James, 18, 1 km away

New to the area. Interests include sport, laughs and supreme pizza. Comes with a bottomless stomach and great banter. Take a second to think about swiping… or not. 

*The dog belongs to me, his name is Snuffles

Before she knew what possessed her Lily swiped. Bloody hell she had just swiped the pizza guy. The ‘it’s a match’ logo popped up on screen much to the delight of her friends, meanwhile Lily’s heart was in her stomach. She watched as a message popped up on screen.

Supreme with extra mushrooms. Can’t agree with mutilating an already perfect pizza but hey I think i’ll forgive you this once ;)

Lily typed back a reply rapidly.

Well if someone made them with a decent number of mushrooms in the first place, it wouldn’t be necessary. 

She paused, watching her screen and waiting for the reply. She was aware that her cheeks were already flushed and she felt the eyes of all her friends on her. She gave them a knowing look, don’t start with me. She flicked back to the main page to see how Marlene had laid out her profile. Marlene chosen a snap taken last year at the school formal of the group of them, her cat Merlin on her bed and a cheeky picture of Lily sipping coffee at their local spot.

Lily, 18, Hogwarts University

Library addict, recently single because my ex boyfriend is a bit of a prick like that. Anyway, not looking for anything serious. Down for banter and see where it goes. 

Lily looked up at Marlene and rolled her eyes at her. “Nice one Mar”.

“You’ll thank me later. Pizza guy is kinda cute, you should ask about his friend with the long hair.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. Lily typed a second message to James

My pal Marlene wants to know who your friend is with the long hair in your picture and asks if he’s taken.

The reply came back shortly after.

I really should not be using this while I’m at work but you tempt me Evans. As for my friend his name is Sirius, he’s practically my brother. Tell your friend if she’s interested to type Sirius Black into facebook. And if you happen to want mine at the same time it’s James ‘Prongs’ Potter. I really gotta get back to work… but I promise you have my undivided attention once I finish.

Lily found herself smiling at her screen. Tossing the phone to Marlene so she could read the message. Marlene began her Facebook stalking search. They trolled through the photo pages of both James and Sirius. They discovered the identity of the other two boys in the photos, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew… which led to more vigorous social media stalking. Lily was interrupted by the ding of her phone a while later.

Tell me Evans… are you a fan of frozen cokes?

Of course Potter, who isn’t?

The doorbell rang, making all of the girls jump out of their skin. Lily leaped up quickly and wrenched open the front door. Where stood a plain clothed James Potter with a collection of frozen cokes.

“So Evans, I hear you’re down for some decent banter. Well I live to serve, it’s in my job description after all.”

#supreme pizza with extra mushrooms #jily fic #oneshot #muggle au #jily #james potter #lily evans #Charms Library

[djhamaradio]

I do not have a brand because I am not a corporation.

I lost my job recently and had to log back into my LinkedIn account. The whole thing felt forced and weird because I never use the app and I never post anything and suddenly I posted an alert showing I was open for work. The whole process felt weird because everyone in my network seemed to be confused because everyone on there is an ace at networking and using their personal brands to show people what they have going on in their work lives and I felt like a faker. Same way I feel when I am told I am not effectively branding my radio show and my escapades in the record digging world to become a vinyl influencer (not sure if that exists). The whole thing has me depressed because I get the feeling my inactivity is not helping with my job prospects. And no matter what advice I read on Forbes or whatever blog about personal marketing I’m never going to be good at it. I lack the brand consistency or whatever it’s called because ultimately I am not that committed to this world of personal branding. The article above from the wonderful folks at Vox reminds me that this is one of the legacies of late market capitalism everyone is merely a sellout but we don’t have interests or passions anymore everything we do or say has to be leveraged for likes and followers. The thing I find most intriguing about this world is the pervasisveness of hucksterism, and just pure fakery. I find people employing awful vague corporte phrases like maximizing productivity to describe their day to day lives.I find people posting shit about how one can leverage their brand to build a following that will lead them to make a living off social media. it is all disgusting but more than anything speaks to just how much consumerism, and capitlism in general has infected every sacred facet of human life. We have all become brands, and as brands your ultimate goal is to sell, sell and sell. Sell agressively, sell even if it means lying and sell with your consumer in mind. I look at myself I truly joined social media to connect with friends, at some point I left Facebook because my conservative family had joined and thewas now on they had an issue with my Halloween costume (Me dressed as a member of De La Soul and my girlfriend at the time in. slutty Nun costume), so I deleted the account and stuck with IG. On IG aI liked sharing music banter, odd ball humour and rap references with my small cast of friends who get it, and I use it to let people know when my radio show is on. My show is decently popular and I dont make a living doing it, I do DJ gigs on the side and I make decent guap doing it but would absolutely never do that for a living. The DJ gig funds the record collecting, and the radio show is a creative outlet that is all it is. I dont give a shit about branding, even though in a sense I am acting like a brand but I am not selling you anything. I put myself out there simply to say hey check out what I am doing and let me know if you fuck with it other than that no biggie. I aint out here saying if you listen to my radioshow your dick will grow bigger, all the chicks will like you and I am offering somekind of solution to one of lifes ills. My purpose is simply to say hey dont know what you doing but tune into my non-commercial uninterrupted absolutley amteurish radio show where you get to hear me play funk, soul, jazz and african music, for its on sake and not to sell but plugs or lawn mowers. The branding shit is particularly insidious because it makes us forget that there was a time when people congregated because they shared deep interests outside of the capitalist objective, think about stamp collectors, book clubs, bowling leagues and in my case a group of guys who drive around the midwest frequenting record stores spending huge amounts of hours scouring dollar record bins for prized records (This is also a dying art but I digress). I think at the heart of it social media has democratized aspects of the creative world. I just want to live in a world where I am not a brand.

#duppy echoes #djhamaradio #college radio #late market capitalism #the internet #influencer culture

[centeris2]

An article about Taina Malen, from Marketing at Star Stable Entertainment!

https://animationxpress.com/latest-news/star-stables-taina-malen-journey-building-a-gaming-community-for-girls/

(I sure hope this shows up in the tags)

Since it’s an article, not a video this time around, I’ll paste it here for folks to read easier, under the read more because it’s a rather long article, but highlights include:

Taina Malen, chief business developer officer and chief marketing officer, has been at SSE for 9(+) years

Not specifically stated, but I’m guessing she’s the reason JA and every single other real life musician was brought in to SSO, since JA showed up in 2014, 9 years ago. 

“they plan to expand on” their book publishing. hah. hahah. hahahahahah. Guess this was when they were trying to keep things quiet. 

They “explored” licensing with toy companies, but now the focus is on Android to expand their market soooo that toy deal we heard about is gone?

It is very much Girl centric, Girl Power, Girl Gamer, for Female Audiences, the Female Market, stuff.

Seems the average SSO player sticks around for 4 years, which is a lot longer than average games keep players around. Many players are still sticking around after 10 years. Yay longevity

They talk about Ride With Us. It’s... a lot of fancy nonsense.

SSE is currently working with Ferly and Cake Entertainment on an animation, so I guess Mistfall hasn’t died? But looking for financing and distribution (dear god Star Stable Streaming I can see it now)

SSE is working on a Live Action pitch. God I hope it’s just more of those silly live action commercials they did a super long time ago but I fear it’s not.

Give the actual article a read below, or with the link above!

The gaming industry has seen tremendous growth in recent years. While men have traditionally dominated the gaming industry, female pioneers have broken boundaries and paved the way for future generations of female gamers and leaders. One such leader is Taina Malen, the chief business development officer and chief marketing officer of Star Stable Entertainment. Malen’s contributions to the gaming industry serve as an inspiration to aspiring female gamers and leaders, highlighting the importance of diversity and inclusivity in the industry.

Talking to AnimationXpress, Malen, who has over 25 years of experience in the entertainment industry having previously held positions in CANAL+, Universal Pictures and Warner Bros, opens up about her journey and the industry.

“Throughout my career, I have had the opportunity to work with some amazing companies,” said Malen, who comes from a background in music, film, TV and pay TV. “I, along with some former colleagues, started an esports initiative called Esportal before joining Star Stable.” Esportal is still operational today. Interestingly, one of its owners was also a shareholder in Star Stable.

When Malen joined Star Stable, it was still a small team of 14 people. Her role was to set up marketing disciplines, customer service and brand extensions such as music, publishing and animation. “Over the past nine years, the company has expanded to over 200 employees,” she said. “Throughout this journey, the mission was to build a platform for girls in tech and gaming, and this has remained a constant. The vision that ‘every girl is a hero’ has guided everything the company does, including the development of the game Star Stable Online.”

The company’s core product is its game, but it is into book publishing as well. It has 15 titles in 14 languages at present, which it plans to expand on. The team sees this as a great way to expand its brand by promoting its characters outside of the game. They also create their own music, with some of their characters being artists in the game. They have collaborated with female singer-songwriters and artists to bring their game characters to life. Malen’s interest in music began early on when as a youth, she went on tour with Europe, the legendary Swedish rock-band, which taught her about the industry and broadened her network. She has studied journalism and is passionate about communication and writing. She believes that entertainment is all about “emotion and connecting with people,” and loves working with creative individuals.

Along with that, the company has explored licensing opportunities with Just Play as their master toy, and collaborated with H&M in the Nordics to connect with brands that focus on female audiences. This year, they plan to expand onto new platforms such as Android as they continue to seek out ways to get their product into the market.

“The primary target of our game is girls, and we pride ourselves on being the world’s leading horse game,” she shared. “While horses are a crucial aspect of the game, it’s not just about collecting and riding them. Our game is full of magic, mystery and even evil forces that players can work to overcome and make Jorvik Island a better place.”

There is a lot of text in the game, so it’s essential for players to be able to read. Their core players are typically between the age group of 8-18 with 14 being the average age . “As young girls aspire to be like older girls, our player base spans a wide range of ages, making it challenging to target a specific age group. Our players tend to stay with us for around four years and more, with some of our oldest players staying for 10, which is quite a long time in the gaming industry. Overall, our game offers an exciting experience with weekly updates that keep our players engaged for an extended period.”

When the company began 11 years ago, the concept of a “girl gamer” was non-existent. They aimed to create a brand that focused on producing quality entertainment for girls who did not associate themselves with traditional video games that involved first-person shooting. Despite the industry’s slow start, it has become more receptive to female gamers in recent years. Although there is more entertainment available now that appeals to any gender, there is still room for improvement when it comes to creating content specifically for girls.  

“There are a lot of men making the games and products. Women developers are quite scarce,” Malen said. “However, at the company where I work, we have more than 50 per cent women across the board, including younger generations. In general, I feel that the gaming industry has been male-oriented since the beginning and it still is. Based on my experience in the entertainment industry, I would argue that this is changing in the country where I am, but I’m not certain if this trend applies to the rest of the world.”

Malen shared that their new marketing initiative called ‘Ride With Us’ acts as a brand platform for the business. The platform’s purpose is to give customers a way to connect with the business regardless of their interests, age, or stage of life. The first campaign under this encourages everyone to take part in the community of the brand, highlighting the fact that despite differences in appearance and behaviour, there is still something that unites individuals.

[youtube link to Ride With Us video]

To inspire more women to join the gaming community, she added, “The most important thing is to stay true to yourself and believe in what you want to do. If you have faith in yourself and trust your instincts, I think you can accomplish anything. I believe that as long as I stay true to my values, whether they are personal or professional, and trust my intuition, I can overcome any obstacle. If more women stand their ground and get the chance to be heard, the world will be a better place.”

Star Stable is currently working with Cake Entertainment and Ferly on their long form animation, the script for which is ready. They are looking for the final piece of financing and distribution before launching the production. Additionally, they have finalised a live action concept that they will soon start to pitch to companies around the world. Aimed at a young adult audience, they plan to produce this project with someone, yet to be seen.

#SSO #Star Stable Online #Star Stable #StarStable #StarStableOnline

[stationintern]

WIP Snip Saturday!

Thank you @tackytigerfic for tagging me!

This is from my Ilvermorny AU that i’m perpetually working on and daydreaming about, where I basically take the entire wizarding world and transfer it into America. Hermione is from Brooklyn, Draco is from Charleston, Harry Potter is from Atascadero, and Ron is from Kentucky etc. It’s been very fun to write so far!

On the intersection of Highways 41 and 101, nestled on the Central Coast of California, there is a town called Atascadero. You take the El Camino Real– past the car wash and the food bank– and take a left on Rosario. Take the second left after that. If you see the Episcopal church, you’ve taken the first. Go back. Go three houses down, and you’ll be at 5428 Olmeda Ave.

Don’t bother with the stairs– Petunia refused to live in an upstairs apartment, if she had to live in one at all– and find the apartment with the brass number Four. The other houses have simple black metal, but Vernon promised Petunia he’d class the place up and made sure to secure a brand new number from the hardware store one week after they’d moved. The number is rusty now, as much as Petunia tries to polish it. The black metal of their neighbors’ still gleams.

If you’d arrived a year earlier, you would have found a wall of California Privet lining the sides of the modest, faded-cream apartment building– white blooms exuding their sweet odor, leaf spots turning the once beautiful shrubbery infected and yellow.

Harry Potter always liked watching the birds that the black berries within attracted. But, he was young then– too young to understand invasive species. In the years to follow, he would come to understand the term invasive in a way that had nothing to do with birds or berries. In ways that had to do more with the soul and the mind.

The landlord ripped them out of the ground three weeks before Harry’s eleventh birthday, lamenting the excess of bird droppings.

So excited! A lot of folks i’m familiar with have already been tagged, but here’s a few I haven’t seen! @drarrycoded @teledild0nix @toxik-angel

#drarry #drarry shortfic #draco x harry

[thesims4blogger]

DEV Diary: Infants Now Available in The Sims 4

EA has released the official blog for the infant life stage, now available for The Sims 4.

Sul sul, Simmers! I’m SimGuruGraham, and I’ve been fortunate to work alongside a passionate team of folks within Maxis that have rallied around a single goal… to surpass your expectations for freeing the babies in The Sims 4! With today’s addition of Infants – a brand new life stage – we hope you’ll agree that we’ve lived up to our objective, and that you’ll find Infants to be the best little Sims you’ve ever experienced in a Sims’ game.

After you finish downloading today’s update and you rush to launch the game, you may be wondering what the fastest way is to start discovering the joy that Infants bring to your Sims’ household. Of course there’s tried and true options like adoption, or finding your favorite WooHoo spot and letting nature take its course. You could even try a new interaction available on your Sim’s phone to have a Science Baby, which lets you attempt a little platonic genetic mixing and see what the outcome may be. Personally though, I’d suggest setting all that aside and simply heading into Create-a-Sim to start customizing every aspect of a brand new Infant. It’s a first in the mainline Sims’ franchise to have this level of customization over a Sim this young, and you’ll discover lots to tweak and try on. There’s everything from stork bites that fade away over time to a baby head shaping helmet, and of course – plenty of adorable outfits and hairstyles. Before you leave CAS, don’t forget to select one of the six new traits that will significantly affect the personality of your Infant.

Back in Live Mode, you’ll find the world has much to offer an Infant. All ages of the family are able to socialize with infants, making for many cute camera-worthy moments! With the ability to crawl, you’ll need to keep an eye on your Infants as well. While they’ll happily push around nesting blocks or attempt to play with a dollhouse, they can also get up to mischief by exploring common household objects. Thankfully you’ll find new baby lock functionality at your fingertips on all gates and doors, and a cute new baby fence that’s perfect for keeping your little ones secured in an area.

Nurturing will play an important role in your Infant’s development. While caring for an Infant’s Attention motive is a clear way to ensure they’re getting the socialization they need, Infants also form attachments to their household members through regular interaction and bonding. This is key to an Infant’s development, and can result in special reward traits that influence their proficiency at forming healthy relationships over the span of their life. One great example of quality time spent between a caregiver and Infant is exploring various foods in the High Chair, where Infants will start learning things that they like, love, or dislike. And worry not, quality of life improvements are here for the High Chair for both Infants and Toddlers. We’ve made updates so that your little Sims won’t be so demanding about constantly wanting to be released from the High Chair.

Today’s update also includes a variety of furniture and decor options to build your dream nursery with. In particular, you’ll want to place one of the brand new Cribs to help ensure your Infant gets a quality night’s sleep. You’ll find Cribs that perfectly match a number of thematic styles, while others serve more practical purposes. If you’re the type of Sim family that’s constantly on the go and vacationing to new places, the portable Travel Crib is just what you need. More practical families may opt for an upgradeable crib, which can be transformed into a Toddler Bed when their Infant is ready for the next stage of their life. No matter which Crib you choose, they all have the ability to install a mobile which gently spins and plays relaxing lullabies, ensuring even an Infant with the Wiggly trait will drift off to sleep.

I also want to share some improvements we’ve made to your existing Sims. The babies that you’ve had in your game since The Sims 4 launched are now known as Newborns, and they still play an important role in the early progression of your Sims’ life. The time spent in this age has been shortened significantly; Newborns now represent the first couple of days after birth before they age up to become Infants. Although you’ll spend less time with Newborns, we added some great changes to improve this age. First and foremost, Newborns now have the same range of skin tones as all of our other Sim ages! Other visual changes include having their correct eye colors, and adjustments to their appearance and movements that help skew them even younger. They’ll now fit right into the family from the moment they’re brought home from the hospital! Children and Toddlers are finally able to interact with newborns, such as taking the opportunity to approach the bassinet and entertain them with youthful antics. We’ve also made significant quality of life improvements – no longer will caregivers awkwardly set Newborns back inside the bassinet in-between every social interaction. With all of these changes, you’ll find that the Newborn age now represents a short-but-sweet moment in each Sims’ life.

All in all, we’re thrilled to deliver this update to all Simmers! Infants were a special project for our team to work on, and we hope they’ll bring fun and joy (or for some of you, an entirely new level of challenge) to your time playing The Sims 4!

Dag, dag!

#news #the sims 4 #ts4 #sims 4 #sims 4 growing together #expansion pack

[akihabara-division03]

Shian’s Thoughts on Shinagawa Division

Ritsuko Okada

“Ah… so that’s what she’s up to… running in the DRB…” Shian took off her biker hat and ran her fingers through her bright red hair in exasperation. “Ha! Just where was someone like you when people needed it…” she mumbled. “She’s got a number of accomplishments under her name— especially with her use of microbots to repair the human body— and yet she’s in charge of so many wrongdoings. Can never trust someone like her.”

Miho Kobayashi

“Oh… we’ll if it isn’t the CEO of E. L. Medical. She’s incredibly harsh and strict… so I’ve heard. I’ve done some digging some time ago, her record isn’t exactly… it’s not tainted but it’s certainly not perfect.” She slapped the photograph on the table with a sigh. “She… ugh, building up a big brand with so many people seeing you as a role model also brings about people who openly want to tear you down. In her case and certain folks, maybe it’s deserved.”

“On the other hand, I’m COO of my own bail bond company, so I do have to give her the credit where it’s due. It’s no easy feat to lead a full company. I at least have my business partner, but Miho Kobayashi’s basically on her own.”

Sumire Shinomiya

“She’s a genius in the tech world. I never came across her personally, but I’ve heard many stories about her. You know, one of the bounty hunters from my old company didn’t catch this girl in time for her court showing after she got arrested for some… I don’t remember what it was for, she wasn’t my fugitive. I heard he lost upwards a million yen because of this girl.”

Shian flipped the photograph over, revealing her cluster of notes. However, several lines ended with several question marks. For someone who’s got such a terrible record… there’s hardly anything about her before being adopted by her aunt… I hate it… when there’s hardly anything about you for me to find… you remind me of that one man… and I can’t stand it.

CodeX

“Definitely one of the more daunting teams we’ve seen. Everyone here has really built up a reputation and they do a good job of intimidating the crowd.” Shian’s lips curled into a smirk. “Sorry, ladies. But your little fun in this tournament is gonna have to wait, Pixel Syndicate’s got a goal to reach and we gotta do what it takes. Even if it means trampling over you.”

#hypnosis mic #hypnosis mic oc #hypmic #hypmic oc #hypnosis mic arb #hypmic arb #shinagawa division #codex #ritsuko okada #miho kobayashi #sumire shinomiya #akihabara division #pixel syndicate #shian meizono

[howdy-folks-its-showtime]

"Howdy folks! Take your seats please and get ready, cause It's Showtime!"

Welcome to It's Showtime! The tumblr ask blog for the BATIM inspired story of the same name! Here we have the characters in the studio, before the events of the story take place, ready to answer your questions and get into all kinds of antics! Want to learn more about the characters/story of It's Showtime? Check out its wiki/site right here! Or check out it's Gamejolt page if you want to see the game being made for it!

This blog is run by two mods, mod Whirly who goes by They/Them/It/Its and mod Roddy who goes by any pronouns! Below there is more information such as an FAQ which should help you with any question you have and elaboration on the content within the story! But if we missed anything please feel free to send asks about the project and ask blog!

It’s Showtime Is A Bendy And The Ink Machine Inspired Story That Completely Rewrites The Events And Timeline Of The Games. With The Same Characters Put Into Brand New Contexts And Relations To One Another. It Has A Character Focused Narrative And Focuses On Themes Of Abandonment, Grief, Family And Trauma, With Heavy Influences From The New York 1930s Setting.

The story follows Henry a retired animator, who after ten years comes back to his old workplace to find the place abandoned and staff missing. The walls are soaked with ink and the entire place smells of death and misery. Despite that, Henry journeys deeper and deeper into the dark abyss below, discovering what remains of his coworkers and the way grief can tear people apart…

But not even the shadows of his past, clawing at him from the dark puddles is enough to deter Henry from his attempt to find out what happened to his family and making things right…

Assuming he’s not too late to do so…

This story is meant to be rated R, the warnings below elaborate on this.

Warning this project contains: Cursing, blood, gore, body horror and death. Themes of internalized bigotry, depression, discrimination, abusive family members, grief, trauma and self hatred. Mentions of nsfw topics, alcohol and recreational substances. Traumatic flashbacks and panic attacks are depicted but abuse, suicide and self harm are discussed/implied. It should be known the ask blog may not contain these things but the story and larger project does.

FAQ:

Who are the mods? The mod team is me, Mod Whirly and my romantic partner, Roddy, we’ve been together for years and are very in love with this project and story! We have our own art blogs for personal art, but keep in mind art shown off here, even if it contains characters from It’s Showtime, should not be considered official art. Anything not posted by this blog regardless of who drew it, is considered non-canon to Showtime. If you want to look into supporting us as artists and creators you should check those out though! Obviously for legal reasons, we can’t advertise any ways to support us in a monetary sense on this blog <3. Roddy’s art blog is here and Whirly’s art blog is here!

What is this project for? It’s Showtime is currently beginning development as an indie horror game, no promises on scale or when it will come out as we are both very busy, Roddy with school and me with figuring out post high school life stuff, but I have been learning 3D animation and modeling in preparation for it. All work I’m doing currently isn’t really game ready or worthy, but every small step in development makes me more excited to one day maybe make this project a reality <3 Currently the plan is to build it in Unreal Engine. [at first it was gonna be Unity but well… If you know you know.]

Are you okay with fanart? We love fanart! If you tag us in any of your fanart we are sure to share it on the blog and sing its praises! It’s so flattering how much fanart we have already received and it makes us so happy and excited to work on Showtime when we see how beloved our designs are! If you want to make fanart please do! We would love to see it!

Who did the character designs? Who made the site? Mod Roddy did all the refs you see on the site and on the blog! They are based on my old character designs and notes I made on changing them, but overall they are very much the creation of my wonderful darling! It was the work of Whirly however to make the actual website! It’s a bit rough but I do like it a lot <3 I hope to expand it and make it better with time but for now I am very happy with it as a wiki for It’s Showtime.

What is Encore? Encore is the catch all name for all stories based on the world of It's Showtime, currently there is a BATDR inspired story we are also writing called Curtain Call that doesn’t take place in the normal timeline of It’s Showtime. So Encore is just the general name for this universe! Think of it as the franchise name.

I still have a question after reading this? Send us an ask! We’re almost sure to answer it and the more activity in the inbox the more activity in the project as well! Don’t ever feel bad for sending us questions or inquires! We like to talk to you guys!

#pinned post #intro post #showtime drew #henry drew #it's showtime

[rotworld]

14: Nostalgia

a trip back to your small hometown leads to a long overdue reunion.

->explicit. contains discrimination, implied child abuse, murder, gore, blood drinking, terato.

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.

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It feels a bit like turning the pages of a singed photo album. A line of things frozen just as you left them, and then a scorch mark—a hole in the past. Someone has come and started little fires throughout your memory.

That’s the sweets shop where you’d press your grubby little fingers to the glass and watch Ms. Martz set out the day’s fresh cookies and fill up the candy jars, but the decor is different and there’s two teenage girls lounging at the register counter. The mattress place across from your old favorite coffee shop is gone, clipped out with hole punch precision. The empty building where it used to be has been stripped of all signage, nothing but dusty concrete and disembodied wooden beams for a storefront display. There’s the courthouse with its looming clocktower, the factory silos, the ice cream stand along the riverfront, closed for the season, and it’s all familiar, almost how you remember it, but not quite the same. 

People act odd at first, everywhere you go. You’re branded an outsider, held at arm’s length until it slips out at some point: “I grew up here.” It’s the strangest sort of homecoming, like showing up late to a funeral. Everything is warmth and wistful sadness. You keep running into people you used to know and everyone has news for you, updates and gossip that make you feel even stranger. Dr. Hanson passed a few years and nobody likes the new guy because he’s curt and quiet and doesn’t bother getting to know anybody. That deathtrap of an old sawmill you used to climb around as a kid is padlocked shut now. 

They found another body in Abbey Hill Park.

You hear about it from Mr. Simmons when you get behind him in line at the grocery store. He taught children’s soccer. He’s retired now, he says, in good shape except for a bad fall last winter while he was out shoveling snow. He mentions the body offhandedly, like something he forgot to pick up at the store. “This was five, six years ago,” he says. “It was just like the first one, if you remember it. You might not, you would’ve been real little at the time.” 

You remember. You were little but it was inescapable. It was hiding everywhere, an ugly thing everybody tiptoed around with whispers and curfews and nervous glances. Mrs. Werther’s class didn’t have to come to school for a week, and they had a substitute teacher for the rest of the year. You heard that the sheriff’s son got ahold of the crime scene pictures and started passing around copies, so everyone knew Mrs. Werther was half-eaten by birds. They’d plucked out her eyes and stolen the tongue out of her gaping mouth and a few of them had torn into her soft belly and started eating everything inside. Small bones and bits of viscera turned up in bird’s nests all around the park for a while. 

A freak accident. That’s what the official verdict was. There had been a construction project nearby, some unstable scaffolding and haphazardly piled debris. How a brick flung itself across the street, up the hill, and against Mrs. Werther’s skull remained a point of debate, as much as where it had gone afterwards. There wasn’t much to work with. No murder weapon, no fingerprints, no witnesses. Just a body in a flower field and a flock of opportunistic carrion eaters.

“That’s awful,” you say, the thoughtless, reflexive way a person does to any bad news. 

“Sure was,” Mr. Simmons says. “Nobody’s calling it an accident this time, though. They caught the guy. People are saying he dumped the body there thinking it’d get pinned on somebody else.” He says the words “somebody else” with sharp disdain. “That whole mess keeps me up at night. Everyone knew. You ask your folks, I’m sure they’ll tell you the same. We didn't used to pussyfoot around just to keep the peace and look progressive. Things like that don’t belong here, but they went ahead and let it get away with murder—”

“He was just a fucking kid!” 

Mr. Simmons’ jaw snaps shut. Everything gets quiet around you. People are staring. You fumble with your groceries and find a different line to stand in. Your face feels hot and your heart is pounding. It’s just another one of the things that hasn’t changed about this place. 

You take a walk to clear your head. All of the houses in your old neighborhood are the same. There’s still a big bump in the concrete where a tree root snuck underneath the sidewalk. Someone new lives on the corner and that big, beautiful garden you remember has shriveled up and become overgrown with weeds. The elementary school is across the street and classes must be out because there’s a long line of cars creeping through the parking lot and kids rushing across the lawn. Your eyes are drawn through the mass of people to an unusually tall man standing off to the side, a child huddled beside him.

They look startlingly similar. Both tall, both with thin, gangly limbs and dark hair, both with shockingly bright, yellow eyes. You haven’t seen the man in years but it’s him, you know it is. His face is like the rest of town, changed in uncanny ways and yet exactly the same. 

“Wes.” His name just slips out in a shocked whisper. You’re too far for him to hear you, a street and a parking lot away, but his head snaps up and those wide, piercing eyes find yours. 

He stares. He smiles. Your feet are tripping over themselves and you’re crossing the street without even looking. “Wes!” you call. Your excited pace quickens when you notice his hand is bleeding. 

He’s wearing a blue button-up and slacks, a leather bag slung over his shoulder. “Hey,” he says. “Been a while.” 

“Your hand—” you stammer. 

“It’s fine,” he says. It’s not. There are awful bites all over, deep cuts and lacerations around the joints. Blood trickles steadily between his fingers and into the grass. “Could you grab the bandages from my bag?” he asks, lifting his shoulder. “They’re in the biggest compartment, right there. I don’t want to get blood on everything.” 

Just like when you were kids, he carries several boxes. Small adhesive dots, large, patterned ones with little cartoon animals, even some gauze and disinfectant crammed in beside books and folders. You see an elementary math textbook, a planner, a thin stack of printed handouts. “You’re a teacher?” you ask him. You mean to ask him, “You stayed?”

Wes gets it, though. He always does. “I thought about it a lot,” he says. You feel his gaze on you, that steady, intimidating focus. There’s fondness and gratitude in his eyes when you smooth a band-aid across his knuckles. “It would’ve been easier, in some ways. Getting a job somewhere else. But it occurred to me that I might be needed here. If there was ever another one.” 

The kid half-hiding behind him hasn’t said a word since you walked up. Just like Wes, he sticks out like a sore thumb, a head above his classmates with bony hands and big, owlish eyes. He clutches the straps of a Spider Man backpack and chews his lip as he watches you. There’s still some blood smeared on his cheek. Wes rests his uninjured hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is a safe person,” he tells him, nodding towards you. “Kind. Friendly.” 

You smile. The boy looks at his shoes. “...I’m Neely,” he mutters. “It’s…nice to…meet you.” He has the same high-pitched, hoarse voice Wes did as a kid, the same unusual cadence and long pauses as he struggles to find the right word. “Do you know…what I am?” he asks, whispering. 

“Yes, I do,” you say. 

He narrows his eyes like he doesn’t believe you. “Mr. Lynwood said that…that lots of people make…they make, uh…” 

“Assumptions,” Wes says. 

“That,” Neely says. 

“I don’t,” you assure him. “I’ve known Wes—Mr. Lynnwood for a very long time. We both went to this school, in fact. We were in different classes, but we were best friends.” 

Neely gets quiet. He digs the toe of his shoe into the dirt restlessly, his eyes flicking back and forth from you to Wes. A car honks and you see a man and a dog in the front seats of a minivan. There’s no family resemblance at all, but the man waves and Neely trots over with a, “Byeeeee, Mr. Lynwood!” 

Wes waves with his good hand. He waits until Neely has climbed into the backseat and the car long gone before he tells you, “He’s had some trouble with teething.” 

“Ah,” you say. 

“It’s how he deals with his feelings. Mostly the bad ones. But the kids are good. They don’t pick on him. They understand he needs different things.” 

The last bandage wraps around his thumb. Wes thanks you. You shrug it off. You don’t leave. The pattering footsteps and shouts of small children filter out and fade, the rush in the parking lot thinning out. “I have a lot of work to do,” Wes says.

Your heart throbs painfully. “Right, no, of course—” 

“So come over.” 

You think you do an admirable job of looking casual and not shocked or flustered, jamming your hands in your pockets. “Like, to catch up?” you ask.

Wes’ gaze moves from your eyes to a little lower, your lips or maybe your throat. He watches the muscles in your neck flutter when you swallow, nervous and excited. He licks his lips. You feel like a teenager again, crouched behind the riverfront ice cream stand on a chilly autumn day, your hands in Wes’ hair and his lips crushing yours, grinding on each other like you’ll die without this. “Sure,” he says. “To catch up.”

Wes lives in a small, cute house near Abbey Hill. The driveway is half-cement, half dirt. There are flowering shrubs and wild berries growing under the windows, a birdfeeder and stone fountain in the front yard. A child’s drawing of big, smiling seagulls—signed “Neely age 7” in a crude hand—is proudly displayed above a brick fireplace. He gives you a brief tour—living room, kitchen, bed and bathrooms, a home office in a cozy, furnished attic. That’s where you are when you both start dropping the facade, you poking through his collection of house plants and teaching theory books, him standing beside a reclaimed wood desk and running his fingers across the surface. 

“Neely’s been the only one since me,” he tells you. “Seven years ago. His parents took it well. Better than mine.” 

“They’re good to him?” you ask. 

“They’re great. Had them at conferences. They ask lots of questions. They listen.” The floor creaks. You hear him shifting closer, coming up behind you. “They come over sometimes. It’s nice. Then it’s so quiet, after they leave.”

Your hand hovers over the spine of a psychology textbook. A wordy title, something about attachment theory and child neglect. “Are you lonely?” you ask him.

His hand slides up your arm to your shoulder, fingers caressing your jaw. “Are you?” he murmurs against your ear. “You came back.” 

He urges you to lay your head back and bare your throat. You do, your eyes fluttering shut. Wes’ lips trail along the side of your neck, kissing you, blowing softly on damp, shivering skin. His hands are gentle and fleeting, restless like he’s afraid to leave some part of you untouched. They caress your sides and your chest, one wandering teasingly down to your stomach while the other cups your jaw. You want to turn around. You want to see him. He never lets you look. Wes moves his body in a slow, sensual grind against you and you whimper, eager for more. 

“I thought about you,” you say softly. 

He hums in acknowledgement, sucking at the throb of your pulse. 

“I thought about—about her. That awful teacher you had. All those horrible things she did to you and nobody did anything.” It’s fucked up to bring her up, here and now, but you do. You can’t stop the words from spilling out. Wes slows his movements but he doesn’t stop, nipping at your skin as though chastising. “I think about it all the time. Did you know a psychologist came to our class? I think they talked to everyone, even if we’d never met her. I remember one time, Carrie—do you remember her? She started crying because there were a bunch of sparrows making a nest by the front doors. She thought they were going to eat her. Everyone was scared of birds.” 

Wes chuckles, every puffing exhale warming your skin. He’s not upset, but he doesn’t want to talk. He’s just letting you ramble. It’s only fair. He finds a spot he likes, where he can feel your heart beating and every pass of his tongue makes you flinch and shiver, head lolling back against his shoulder. “Everyone but you,” he murmurs. 

You laugh. Wes slips his hand into your pants and you buck your hips against his quick, talented fingers. He breaks away just briefly and you hear fabric shifting, his shirt hitting the floor. “I was lonely,” you admit. “I think about you a lot—” 

Your words break into a moan when Wes seizes you, trapping you against him, and bites you on the neck. It hurts and it feels mind-numbingly good. You push your hips back into him desperately and he humors you, grinding against your ass. “Been thinking about you, too,” he murmurs, the words slurred and muffled against your skin. 

“D-don’t talk while you’re—Wes!” The hand on your sex starts moving faster, his fingers working you into a shivering mess. He moans, tongue darting out to catch a bead of blood dribbling from the bite. He’s starting to get hard and rock his hips more insistently. You’re slammed up against the wall and you hear flesh tearing, his wings ripping through his back. 

“Think about you all the time,” he moans. “Think about high school—making out by the river. The first time you let me drink from you. Wanted you to stay so bad. Wanted to get married…”

The admission slips out with a breathy whine and he’s dry humping you so hard you can feel the outline of his cock through both of your clothes. You want him inside you but he’s too fixated on your neck, licking and kissing the shape of his teeth in your skin and sucking every drop of blood that oozes to the surface. This is orgasm for him, the peak of his pleasure. Fed and comforted and holding you in his arms, he sinks to his knees and brings you gently down with him. His wings, feathers wet and clinging together, fold around you. He keeps kissing and licking you even after he’s finished, nipping the bite affectionately. 

“Sorry, I…sorry,” he murmurs. 

You hold yourself back for a second. You’re wired, worked up and needy for him, drowning in every memory of the time you’ve spent together, but that doesn’t matter, you think. It doesn’t make this feeling any less real. “I wanted that, too,” you say. 

Wes’ cock twitches in his pants. “Can’t just say stuff like that—” 

“I mean it,” you insist. “I only miss one thing about this place, and it’s you.” 

His movements are shaky. His hands tremble as he shifts you around in his lap, allowing you to turn and face him. You look up at a face with a sickly, gray complexion and sharp features. A light speckling of feathers and slender quills poke out of his skin, clustered around his neck and shoulders. Wes’ enormous wings are folded, one draped against your back, the other curled behind him. His long legs are crooked, bent in the same strange ways as a bird with hooked talons instead of feet. It’s the first time you’ve seen him in full, not just a glimpse. He looks at you the same way he always has, his expression soft, his lips parted with just a flash of sharp teeth peeking through, fondness mingling with relief. 

You look at him the same way you always have—with awe and affection.

The sex is rushed and clumsy, not much different than when you were younger. You’re both worked up and impatient, clawing at each other, bumping noses. Wes bounces you in his lap and then seems to get restless, sitting up with his cock still deep inside you and his arms around you, lifting you easily to pin against the wall. You wrap your legs around his waist and his thrusts are slower for a while, a little less frantic. He leaves small, affectionate pecks on your cheek and collarbones, nipping at the bite he left earlier. 

“Not going to last,” he warns you. Sweet of him and totally unnecessary, because you’re so far gone after two orgasms and well on your way to a third. It doesn’t matter how hurried it is, how rough he gets with those sharp, taloned fingers sinking into your skin—it’s exactly what you wanted. There were lines he never let himself cross before. You never saw him, sweat-soaked gazing at you with those golden, lust-filled eyes, your name the only word on his tongue. It’s everything you wanted and more. He’s stronger than he should be with that fragile, willowy build, determined to keep you aloft as he fucks all the doubt and uncertainty out of you. 

It’s a kiss that finally sends him over the edge. Your lips on his, your tongue pressing into his mouth, fingers tangled in his soft, feathery hair. He keens, hips stuttering, and your shoulders dig into the wall from the force of his last, desperate thrusts. The ache is satisfying. You sink to the floor together again, sharing breaths, panting softly. Wes kisses you again, sharp teeth digging into your lower lip. It reminds you of being younger, but it’s not the same. It’s better. 

He makes dinner. You try to help but he pushes you out of the kitchen with his wings, blocking your view of the stove. You talk across rooms in short, disjointed thoughts, getting to know him all over again. There’s a stack of graded math assignments neatly arranged on a coffee table in front of a framed photo. It’s from high school. You’re in the woods, the old lumber mill in the background. Your smile is big and toothy. Wes is smiling, too, but he’s looking at you instead of the camera. 

“How long are you gonna stay?” Wes calls from the kitchen.

“Dunno,” you say. “A little while, at least.” You pass Neely’s drawing, chuckling. You pause, crouching by the fireplace. 

There’s one brick in there that’s a slightly different color from the others. You run your fingers over the bumpy, chipped texture and remember what it felt like against your palm.

#rotpeach writes #goretober #original

[thelaurenshippen]

I am incredibly excited to announce that I'll be premiering the pilot of a brand new fiction podcast at this year's Tribeca Festival!! this is a weekly show that I've been working on for, well, twenty years (keep reading for THAT story) and I can't wait for folks to visit MIRAGE DINER. 

I've been wanting to do a weekly fiction show for YEARS. something serialized, but slow-burn enough that it could sustain itself week after week. when we first started Atypical Artists, Briggon, Jordan, + I were talking about what that show could be. then I had an idea. 

when I was a kid, I had a few of these weird little lightbox playsets from american girl doll. they only existed for a few years, but I was OBSESSED. you could switch out the furniture, the walls, the floors, set up little props. animal crossing before animal crossing.

my favorite was the diner set. I loved this thing so much. I would half believe I made up this product line entirely if it wasn't for the fact that I STILL have it. I even dusted it off and set it back up when I was home over last summer. here it is in all its tiny glory:

and, as the lonely weird 10 year old I was, I of course made an elaborate game/mythos out of this diner set. there was a diner near my house growing up called Mirage Diner (sadly now closed), and I just loved that name so much. I loved the stories it evoked in my head. 

so I had these two dolls who "worked" in this Mirage Diner set, and who "traveled" around the fictional fantasy world that was my room (it was a whole thing, that's another story), meeting other toys and having adventures. well, that's essentially the premise of the show. 

Maisey + Shane are the realization of characters I had in my head as a ten year old. The sonic world of MIRAGE DINER is the new iteration of that diner toy I had. and instead of wandering my magical world, they're traversing 20th century America. 

so when I say I've been working on this show for 20 years, I mean it. the podcast version has been in development since the first days of Atypical Artists, nearly four years now. but setting up a weekly show is hard + with so much going on, it's been punted to the side over + over.

when Tribeca reached out to ask if I wanted to be part of the festival I of course immediately said YES, but also "ok, what do I have". I pitched  this show and he was so game. the first episode will premiere at the festival + then from there, I'm hoping to build the show. 

this means that there's no firm launch date for the show itself, but now I can talk about it, hopefully garner some interest from advertisers or partners, and get this beast off the ground.

SO if you want to be at the premiere, you can!!!! it's gonna be a blast, especially since the absolutely wonderful Dylan Marron (of Welcome to Night Vale fame) is stewarding the conversation with me and members of the cast. tickets go on sale May 2nd, so follow Atypical Artists on twitter for updates. 

#mirage diner #tribeca festival #fiction podcast #lauren shippen #the bright sessions #welcome to night vale

[megan-the-artoonist]

Hello again folks, and happy new year! I’m making a few changes for 2024 prompted by the fact that I’ll soon be graduating from art school. I’m going to make an effort to post all my art here, in addition to my Instagram and other socials. I want to reach more people with both my cartoons and my fine art as I build my brand. Don’t worry, you’ll still see my fandom art like I had been posting before, but there will be more stuff in addition to that!

#megansheatherthehippo #meganssagetheowl #megansherbthecat #megansmardymanatee #meganspokeytheplatypus #meganswinstondragon #cartoon art #cartoon #original characters #megansroscoetherat

[askaimz]

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If you’re asking yourself, “WHAT is DiGiTaL Affiliate Marketing? A business online?”

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I’M HERE.

🧩 Quick Answer: You can think of it as nothing more than good ole word-of-mouth recommendation that you can amplify through the reach of the Internet and Social Media.

🧩 Long Answer: Most companies have an online presence nowadays so they can reach more people to market and sell their products & services. Let’s say… Amazon, or Wal-Mart, or CostCo, and Nike and Sephora. (The LIST goes on and on and on because there are so many companies!!) Now, for them to gain EVEN MORE reach to people, these companies have what are called “Affiliate Programs.” (AH, 🤯 the secret!) The companies want every day people (like you & me) to make some noise about these wonderful products & services to friends & family & other folks around. If you had a wonderful experience at a hair salon or barbershop, wouldn’t you want to recommend and refer your mother or sibling or best friend over to receive a wonderful experience too? At NO extra cost to them, they get that sweet haircut and you get a small cash cut yourself from the salon for referring such a valuable customer. Go ahead, friend. Get yourself an affiliate link from the business, spread the word, and make the monie$.

🧩 An even way more longer Answer: If you’re still confused about digital affiliate marketing, I’m always here. Ask me anything—it’s in the name: Ask Aimz. DM me.

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#introvertentrepreneur #authenticaffiliate #uniqueness

[twiststreet]

A guy went “viral”-ish yesterday by posting a Tik Tok about being sad to be 28 (which, frankly, normal, ordinary, 28-29 are extra-rough; 30-34, *significantly* better, though).  But the video (which might have been a commercial for something stupid or another, I didn’t care enough to find out)-- it was like, “I’m lonely. There’s no one in my life.  My life is infinitely depressing.  Here’s a video of me playing for 3 consecutive hours with my dog on my lunch break.”  (It was a very, very confused video).  

Except now, this is his girlfriend...??? Which-- you know, I don’t know her, maybe she sucks and makes you feel lonely when you hang out with her.  Some people are like that (me, mostly). But like, why are-- why are people like this pretending to be Lonely and/or Alone (not the same thing, blah blah blah)?  Is that the hip thing now finally?  Are these folks trying to “horn in” on “the action”?  Did loneliness get a Sir Mix-a-lot that made the Societally-Abandoned Lifestyle look glamorous?  “Oh my god, Becky, look at her butt.  While she is by herself.  Also, Becky, you are a figment of my imagination, I am also alone.  Oh my god, imaginary-Becky, what if I start choking on my dinner one night and no one’s around to help me??”  

I’m no expert in what the people want, but it just seems like an awfully strange thing to build an online brand / influencer-persona around.   (And Sir Mix-a-lot isn’t really a good icon for the Solitude community-- he had an entire posse on Broadway, which just sounds exhausting).  I don’t like FOMO but I can’t say I understand the appeal of reverse-FOMO, not 100% anyways. Did we run out of every other way of possibly being cool????  What about skeet shooting?  Can’t these people take up skeet shooting?  *waves fist in the air* Those skeet have it coming.

#i am pointless!

[nodssalementriche]

aug05,23

Mel ( @minkdom ), Aleric ( @skyedoesthangs )and I went downtown; It was mel’s second time down there, her first being only for the riverwalk and the aztec, so we wanted to make it special :)

We went down to Blue Star for their Saturday Monster Mart (right up our alley). The vendors were all incredible and we got to meet a bunch of cool folks :)

Aleric and I grew up coming down to Blue Star, before it was renovated all fancy artsy fartsy, when our total hippie church (/pos) would use the main building on Sundays.

It was nice getting to reminisce with my brubba on where the stage local musicians would play on, the bleacher style seating that the kids would run behind (pretending it was more of a secretive hidden passage that ONLY we knew about) and the cafe where we would share bread and hot chocolate after finishing up, incense thick in our noses and our hearts very full.

It makes me so happy that the space was turned into something so thriving.

I’m sure there was more down here when I was little, I mean I only got to see for a couple hours each Sunday, but it feels very very brand new to me now.

I’m very happy to be healed and healing.

I love seeing the same world with entirely new (much cleaner) glasses

#blog #this is a girlblog #i love my life #happy lesbian #san antonio