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morallyinept · 2 months

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Reverence - A Ezra x Limb Prosthesis F!Reader One Shot

Written as part of my B O D I E S Series 🤎

BODIES MASTERLIST

Summary: A mysterious, vagabond man comes to your aid, and in return you show him some kindness. And over the course of a stormy night, you discover you both have more in common than just outward appearances.

Pairing: Ezra x Limb Prosthesis F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader in terms of ethnicity, Reader does have hair, however. Reader has a prosthetic limb. She was born with an underdeveloped limb below the left knee. Reader's age is not mentioned, so you can determine/imagine it's you, if you'd like to, bub. Ezra is in his early-to-mid 40's.)

Word Count: 12.1k - because Ezra won't shut up. 🙃

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Triggers & warnings: Mentions and descriptions of limb loss/use of a prosthetic limb/Ezra is missing his arm/Reader is missing her leg below the knee/unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!) fingering/oral M & F receiving/there is no fetishising of limb loss here, it's real love/sex with very real bodies/an imagined world created within the Prospect universe/Ezra comes with a thesaurus

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: It's important to me that all types of readers are represented in my work, therefore this collection of stories is written for readers with REAL bodies. However, anyone can enjoy them. Whilst this story may not specifically represent your own personal journey, it is my hope that it resonates and offers comfort and enjoyment. The condition/disability mentioned in this story is not 'one size fits all' - everyone's journey is personal and unique, and I have undertaken as much research as I can to write accurately and respectfully. 🤎

MAIN MASTERLIST | EZRA MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

The Pug is a skiv of a planet that seems to have been forgotten by time itself.

Its once-gleaming skyscrapers now stand as towering monuments to a bygone era; their facades stained with the grime of countless rotations. The feculent streets below are a tangled web of concrete and steel, where the lurid neon glow of Vayok advertising signs cast flickering shadows on the faces of the downtrodden masses.

The air of Puggert Bench is thick with the acrid stench of industry, a noxious cocktail of pollutants and toxic fumes that hang heavy over Noki District like a thick shroud.

The sound of machinery echoes through the streets, a constant reminder of the ceaseless churn of production that drives the small planet's rototiller economy, despite being nothing more than a mechanical layover for most passing through on freighters.

Despite the harshness of its environment, Puggert Bench is a livable place of vibrant contrasts. Here, lander pods zip past rusting hulks of abandoned ship corpses, their sleek orbs cutting through the smog with effortless grace.

The cloud stream, blocking out the sun in a haze of burnt umber that chokes you when it sticks to the back of your throat, carries on the breeze through the air into your nasal cavity as you breathe in. When you blow your nose later, black shit will present itself to you in your tissue, unless you wrap up with a mask or scarf whilst outside.

For every gleaming skyscraper and bustling marketplace, there are a dozen dark alleys and forgotten corners where the lawless thrive. In the shadows of the city's turgid underbelly, criminal syndicates and black-market traders ply their illicit loot prospected from alien moons; their activities hidden from the prying eyes of the less-than-honourable authorities.

Everyone is fair game in this place.

A place, where walking by yourself late at night probably isn’t a wise idea, but when left with little choice as your shift runs over - again - you brave it head on, picking up your often wonky steps with a hurried pace.

You’ve walked this grimy thoroughfare countless times, memorising the way with muscle memory. You wrap your fraying scarf round your face, cutting out the tar that burns on your tongue.

A slight drag on your gait, an itch surfaces where the buckles rub at your skin around your left knee joint. You stop, pinching and digging your fingers in over your pants to tug out the relief from the burn of the itch.

With each step, you’re reminded of the weight that bears down upon you - the prosthetic limb pressing back against your prickly marred skin with a relentless intensity. The artificial joint, no matter how seamlessly it's been integrated with your body, still causes a continual dull ache that reverberates through your bones with every movement.

You can switch it off sometimes, but the hard pavement beneath you seems to magnify every twinge of discomfort, every jolt that sends shockwaves of thudding pain coursing through your remaining upper limb with every step you take.

You’re still toying with the idea of trading it in for a bionic model, but the foreboding cost and invasive surgeries to wire it into your nerves - that come with their own horrific testimonials of those who’ve had it done, and done badly - far outweighs any desired practicality. Instead you navigate life with the callouses and blisters, used to them being part of your daily routine.

Slipping your fingers between the buckles offers minimal, sweet respite for a few blissful moments as you scratch, when suddenly, a hand shoots out from the darkness, grabbing you roughly by the arm and yanking you into a secluded alcove; the brick walls slick with the sweat of the city.

Before you can react, a gruff voice growls in your ear, sending a chill down your spine.

"Your credits. Now!" The assailant demands, his putrid breath hot against your neck as he presses a sharp object against your side.

Panic surges through your veins as you fumble for your wallet, your hands trembling with fear as you forget momentarily which pocket it’s in.

He shoves his hand in the pocket closest to him, rooting around in there uncouthly as you protest and struggle.

You’re both disturbed when a shadowy figure emerges from the darkness, with a quiet determination.

The newcomer is a man of imposing stature, his features obscured by the billowy hood of his tattered coat, and a facial scarf of his own that covers his nose down to his chin.

But what catches your attention most is the sight of his empty right sleeve, the fabric of his coat pinned haphazardly against his shoulder where his arm should be.

“I’d rethink that course of action, unless violence with a matched counterpart is what you're getting at.” The man warns in a steady, yet rich Southern drawl.

Your mugger mouths some regurgitated insult in Vayok. You don‘t fully speak it, but you know enough to know he’s mocking the obvious disability of the man, who simply chortles in response to a jibe he’s probably heard before.

But you're left wondering in bewilderment at how your apparent saviour will pull this off.

“You assume this handicap is to my detriment? Are you sure you wish to find out how inaccurate that misinformed assumption is?”

Undeterred by his physical limitation, the man squares his shoulders, his gaze locks on the attacker with unwavering resolve; a pair of dark eyes shining defiantly in the dim light of the alley.

In a matter of moments, fisticuffs ensue. It happens so fast, you're unsure who threw the first hook. Seizing the opportunity, you break free from the thief's grasp and stumble away; your heart pounding in your chest as you watch the scene unfold before you.

You watch helplessly as the man’s coat is torn where it’s previously pinned as they kerfuffle and tussle - the tear in the dirty fabric is deep. The one-armed man subdues your attacker, his movements fluid and precise despite his apparent infirmity.

But a surprise blow to the sternum knocks him down with a winded oof.

The bolt pistol is revealed; gleaming chromatic and pearly in the night air as it falls from the coat pocket of the man and skitters towards your feet.

A single squeeze on the trigger renders your attacker incapacitated, growling as he clutches his shoulder and stares up at you taking careful aim again.

The thief stumbles backward, his grip loosening on the man completely as he struggles to regain his balance. He’s all teeth and spittle as you watch the one-armed man take his hand - that’s still holding onto your wallet - and bends it back at a sickening angle.

The assailant yelps with the slow, deliberate cracking.

“Drop it, or I can assure you I’ll make it a more painful process than necessary.” The man warns.

The wallet clatters to the ground.

“Excellent. I suggest you hasten with speed to get your wound tended to, lest I change my mind about absolving myself from further violence.”

As the thief slinks away into the darkness, nursing his wounds and cursing under his breath, you turn to your saviour, your eyes wide with gratitude and dumbfounded admiration.

But he slumps down the wall clutching under his ribs, chest heaving.

“In Kevva’s name, woman!” He snarls when he sees you still taking aim.

Taking little risk, you keep a grip of the pistol, primed and ready.

“Yes,” he nods, breathing in raggedly. “Best to keep your wits about you, Birdie. There are all manner of beasties out here who would relish a chance to get you.” He sniffs deeply. “But tell me, do you treat all your saviours with the same warm welcome or am I the exception?”

“Can never be too certain.” You remark with a shaky hand. "It's like you say, all manner of beasties."

He looks at you like a dog sniffing out the other; sniffing out whether you’re a threat to him or not. Dark eyes preened on you and unrelenting.

“Keep it steady, pet.” He motions to the blaster with a subtle nod. “A weak grip makes an opportunity easy to exploit.”

You look at him suspiciously, two dark tar eyes regarding you back as he pulls down his scarf to breathe, and to show you his face for reassurance you assume, although the swampy air makes him cough and hack.

“Just some friendly advice.” He explains with a dull shrug. He sucks in air with a deep snort and spits out a globule of phlegm on the pavement.

“The mistake you make is assuming we’re friends.” You confirm confidently, although there's a tremor to your tone. Your body feels like jelly as you try to steady yourself.

“An underestimation I won’t make again, duly noted.” The man confirms as he struggles to stand upright himself.

“Do you need a hand?” You put to him as he struggles with balance.

He glares up at you with a rather repugnant look through cinched in brows. The two deep pits of his nostrils flare at you like black holes opening across the vacant universe that’ll swallow you whole.

“Sorry. Poor choice of words.” You quip, as you step towards his sneer. You remain steadfast with the bolt pistol, holding out your other hand.

He mutters fast under his breath, growling, and you don't catch it.

"What was that?" You query, suspiciously, arming the pistol again.

“Timid threats from a quashed maverick. I’m no harm to you, pet.” He holds his only palm out to you.

You take it and pull him upright to his feet. He passes your wallet to you with thick, grubby fingers and you surrender his bolt pistol in return, albeit reluctantly.

You shudder and gasp out, feeling the unrelenting burn around your prosthetic make itself known again; the adrenaline subsiding in your body.

“Quell your snivels. You remain unsullied. I'd garner that a win.” He says simply, noting your watery eyes. “He was nothing but a hungry brute.”

“Quite the hero, aren't you?” You remark with a scoff at his barbarous contempt towards you.

“Don’t mistake me for a gallant knight, I’m far from that. More of a superfluous hooligan, but I’m still a man with a mere iota of sympathy and respect for the superior species when they find themselves in trouble.” He eyes you carefully as you wibble about on your feet. “You're just a slip of a thing, why are you out so late wandering? Are you lost, little bird?”

“No. My shift… it ran over. This is my usual route home when there's no shuttle.”

“Do you often find yourself in trouble’s embrace?”

”Won’t be the first time, I'm sure.” You mutter.

“Unfortunate. I hear a surge-five is well on the way. Best be homeward.” He remarks with a click of his lips as he looks up at the glowering sky. The heavy swell of a incoming storm predicted is approaching in from the horizon in a cluster of almost onyx clouds.

His scowl softens as he looks back at you still trying to process the whole incident and remaining a little unsteady on your legs.

“I expect you to denounce the offer, but walking you back to your quarters would seem prudent, given the errant situation. I know I appear as a stranger to you, so I’ll respect your wishes if you decline.”

You don’t hear his words as you focus on remaining upright, trying to process the events.

“Oi. Woman. What say you?” He questions again, bringing you back to him.

“I can mend your coat.” You offer, fuzzing back in and your eyes fall on the large gaping flap on his right shoulder.

He looks down at the sleeve you nod to and a growl erupts from his lips at the tear. “That will be unnecessary.”

“Do you have another coat?”

“No.” He gruffs.

“Then it’s necessary.” You assert. “The surge-five is predicted to be harsh.”

He simply nods and drops his hood, shaking his head fully out from under it. An aquiline nose cuts a sharp line across his face, accentuating the aura of strength and intensity that surrounds him. But oddly, a small, messy blonde coiffure sticks out against his hairline, stark amongst a sea of dark oil-slicked tufts.

“I'm not holding out much optimism at your skill. The hole is quite impossible to simply mend.” He observes.

“You let me worry about my skill. I accept your offer of chivalry. It’s kind of you, thank you.” You say, with a pertinent nod.

“I’m not kind, pet, but the assumption is appreciated nonetheless.”

“Kind enough to walk me home and save me from losing my wage.” You tuck your wallet back into your jacket.

“I have enough on my conscience to reconcile with, let alone the thought of a woman of your calibre making it home in one piece.” He tucks the bolt pistol away inside his coat.

“My calibre?” You baulk.

“I meant it as a compliment, of course. Pretty thing like you out here is bound to attract some attention.” He says, eyeing your stance.

"Why are you out here anyway?"

“Minding my own. What’s your name, friend?”

You tell him and he nods. “Ezra.” He introduces. “I’m perplexed by your intentions.” Ezra replies flatly.

“All I offer is some tea and some respite from the incoming storm.” You say.

“Do you open your home to every vagabond you meet?”

“Only the charming ones.” You remark with a snort.

You’re convinced you see a grin turn up his lips. “No quid pro quo? Nothing is free, Birdie. Smart women like you, you know this.”

“I am smart. I offer you some food and drink and to patch up your coat, that’s all. I know very well you’re a stranger and could harbour ill intent despite this heroic facade you've presented.”

“It’s no facade.” He says with a frown.

“Good, because I have no qualms in putting a bolt in you should you try to turn on me, we clear?” You warn with a satisfied smirk.

"Been there, done that." Ezra eyes his stump with a wry grin before he rolls his eyes dramatically at your stern look. "Clear."

“I have my own bolt pistol back at home.” You warn.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt. The fire in your belly serves warning well enough, Birdie. I wouldn’t dream of any chicanery.”

“Then follow me, Ezra.” You say, with a brewing smile.

Your tiny, poorly provisioned apartment is nestled in a nondescript building on the outskirts of the city.

A walk there that has you both absorbed in a mutual silence that offers a strange comfort, akin to the satisfaction of picking at a scab. Ezra mostly keeps his hand in his pocket and side glances you occasionally with parted lips as though he’ll say something, but doesn’t.

“Let me get you something for that.” You offer, as you note his knuckles when he takes them out of his pocket and pushes the rusted gate open for you.

“It’ll dry over soon enough.” He says, looking down at his bruised and bloodied fist.

“It’s cold and the winds are picking up.” You say, noting the ferocious sky churning overhead. “I’ll get the tea brewing. Come on up.”

“You’re not as frail as I first assumed. I must stop doing that.” Ezra mumbles as he looks you over.

“He took me by surprise. Had I been prepared, I might have thrown a hook or two.” You shrug. You note he hesitates behind you.

“Pertaining to the circumstances of our meeting, perhaps you might want to be alone?” You can sense the trepidation hanging around him; he’s wary of you and it pulls at something inside your chest.

“Come up, Ezra.” You repeat, ignoring him.

He lets go of the creaky gate behind him. “Far be it from me to deny a lady. Even if her taste is somewhat marred in misjudgement.”

“Something tells me I can trust you.”

“That would be your first mistake.” He assures.

“Well, this evening might surprise us both.” You say, as he follows up the steps behind you.

You take your time, hand sliding up the railing as he walks beside you. With each step, you focus intently on the movements of your prosthetic limb, adjusting your gait to compensate for its artificial nature.

You weight bear on your right side, loading your foot and keep your momentum forward up the stairs. You wince as you feel it rub uncomfortably again.

“Are you hurt?” Ezra asks as he examines your unhurried pace.

“No.” You shake your head with a rueful smile as you carry on.

The stairs, with their unforgiving surfaces and steep incline, pose a formidable obstacle, testing your resolve with each upward stride. The prosthetic, while marvellously engineered, lacks the finesse and flexibility of a natural limb, making each step a delicate balancing act between stability and control. The last thing you want to do is slip in front of him.

After you reach the eighth floor, slightly panting, he follows you round to the faded door of your apartment.

“Cosy,” Ezra retorts as he's introduced to your small, cramped world. “It's not often I’m rendered without speech.” Stacks of clutter balance precariously in columns on every available surface.

“I like to collect things.” You say nonchalantly.

“I can see that.” He counters, blinking as he steps through cautiously.

You hold your hand out expectantly for his coat and he hesitates.

“I can’t patch it if you’re wearing it.” You sway.

He slips it off his shoulders and you try not to look at the long sleeve that flaps without a hand at the bottom of it on his right side. His sweatshirt is terribly frayed and holey, and his pants seem loose and ill-fitting.

Boots that are at least a size too big for him clomp around his feet. His appearance, although broad and foreboding, also hints at the gaunt and destitute. There’s a peculiar smell emanating from him now he’s taken off his coat. Something sweetly rotten.

You beckon him through, tossing his heavy coat over your arm, and he follows you through to the living quarters; a stalwart room that overlooks the grimy city.

The air is thick with the scent of stale coffee and lingering incense spices, mingling with the faint hum of electronic devices scattered throughout the cluttered space.

You switch on an air purifier and remove your scarf revealing your face to him fully as you instruct him to make himself comfortable in the ragged recliner.

You busy yourself in the small kitchenette, chinking cups and getting out a tin of med supplies for his hand. You throw a couple of packets of freeze dry in the warmer and set a timer.

On the splintered coffee table in the centre of the room, stacks of dog-eared books and half-empty mugs vie for space with an assortment of trinkets and knick-knacks thrown clumsily over it.

He leaves through the pages of a hefty book on mining. “Light reading material?” Ezra queries as he tosses the book down.

“Call it a tempered curiosity.” You say, coming through with the cups and the tin shoved under your arm.

“Curiosity killed the feline.”

“Yeah, but it has nine lives.” You state boldly to him and he smirks.

“I could tell you all you need to know. Was my profession, a man’s work.” Ezra explains as he takes the mug from you. The heat immediately absorbs into his fingers.

“You're a Prospector?” You ask, with raised eyebrows.

“I was. Not much of anything now.” His lips downturn into the rim of the mug.

“Where are you from, Earth? You look the type.” You ask him, settling slowly and rigidly into a rickety chair opposite a sewing machine in the corner.

You lay out his coat on your lap and reach for a pin cushion. It smells musty and wild, like the outdoors.

“From that suppurate shit-hole? No. Sorry to disappoint.” He smirks.

“Where then? Lau? Your accent hints at relations from a primitive Earth.” You probe.

“You seem well acquainted with it.” He says, reaching for the med tin and flipping it open. He tears at the packet of an antiseptic pad with his teeth, spitting the paper out that sticks to his lip.

“I read.” You smile as you regard him.

A rugged moustache adorns his upper lip, its edges slightly frayed, combined with a shadow of facial hair, adding to an air of menace that might initially catch one's attention. His presence in the small, dimly lit room feels both enigmatic and imposing.

If you had to guess, you propose him to be within his early fortieth, to forty-third rotation, or thereabouts. His skin carries a layer of grime, a testament to the rigours of his endeavours.

“The memory of my origin is hazy at best.” Ezra shrugs, as he presses his knuckles against the moist swab he lays out on the coffee table. He hisses with the sting. “Home hasn't been a concept that I’m all too familiar with. Although I’m informed it was blue like Earth was before it was ravaged. It's been a long time since I was stationed in permanence. My bones have always been restless.” He leans back in the recliner and sips at the fragrant tea. “This tea… it harbours memories.”

“Regale me.” You entice, as you thread the bobbin on your machine.

He licks round his lips savouring the citrus taste. “Have you ever ventured to Kerulon?”

“No.” You shake your head.

“A pisser of a planet, why would you? I got waylaid there once, on my fuknugt ship. Stranded for a time, which seems to be the continual narrative for my story, but I digress. It’s a planet on the edge of The Fringe, known for its vast expanses of sand and scorching twin suns that never set. Not much there at all except for a slow, agonising death. But as luck would have it, amidst the dunes that stretched endlessly towards the horizon, I sought refuge in a humble desert oasis. A rare oasis of life amidst the harsh landscape, it was tended to by a group of nomadic travellers known as the Sand Dwellers. They offered me a generous cup of their signature orange tea - a brew infused with spices native to Kerulon's desert flora, I’ve come to suspect. Your tea reminds me of that cup of salvation.”

Ezra sips another mouthful loudly and hums with his eyes closed.

“I got it from the marketplace.” You chirp.

“Really? How uncanny… And where exactly did you procure that?” His pointer finger, stubby and long points to the glassy jewel on your shelf by the grimy window.

“I found it.” You shrug.

He scoffs as he approaches and reaches for it as though drawn under a spell. “Birdie, do you know what this is?”

“A pretty rock.” You say with a lazy mirth.

He stands and fondles the faceted cabochon inside his big palm, eyeing the blood amber middle. “Aurelac. You’re sitting on an abundance of riches.”

“I’m well aware of Aurelac and it’s worth on the black market.” You press on the pedal under the table, and the coat slides through your machine fluidly.

Ezra blinks, bewildered. “You know it’s worth, and yet you’ve abdicated it as a paperweight?"

"Mhm."

"Such a curious creature, unable to be bribed by gems in abundance. You must be the only one not to be swayed by the allure. And that’s a rarity.”

“I don’t need riches. If it matters so much to you, you take it.” You simply say with earnest eyes.

Ezra baulks and struggles to form words.

“You Prospectors are all the same. Vultures just picking at the sinew on the bone. I’ve yet to meet a Prospector who didn’t live up to the reputation of harbouring an unsatisfied greed. You’ve killed for that.” You look at the gem wrapped inside his whopping palm with disdain.

“I have, and indulged in deeds far worse.” Ezra nods with a sigh through his enrapturing verbosity. But also a drained voice that indicates he’s just plain sick of this shit now, sick of it all.

Ezra smirks, bearing teeth and a corrupt murmur slips out. “Your assumption is emphatically sound, little bird. It's like a disease, the siren song of Aurelac knows no bound or reason. A sane man would always be swayed to harvest and reap. I couldn't count on all of our combined digits the number of times I’ve made lewd choices in spite of my perseverance to merely covet the riches that the Kevva forsaken moon bequeaths under her ample bosom. I've spent a long time there suckling at the teat. It only pains me now to ponder my very justifications for it to begin with, purging the bowels of that fecund wood…” He trails off grinding his teeth and sighing as he examines the unspoiled gem shining in his hand.

As you work, Ezra's voice pierces the silence once more, each syllable laden with a poignant blend of resignation and acceptance.

“There was a time when spitting off the edge of the world was an arrogant riot; to pillage and plunder with luck and careless abandon, but now with spirited discourse, I’ve settled into a freefall back into the harsh shunt of The Fringe. Some of us have the proclivity for greatness, while most do not. I fear I’ve become the latter.”

You look up at him and his face bears the worn lines and creases of hard experience, etched deep by the sun and wind, giving him a weathered and world-weary appearance.

His prominent nose adds to the pastiche of mystery and arcane belligerence that hovers about his person. A scruffy beard adorns his jawline, adding to his rugged and no-nonsense demeanour.

Oily hair streaked with grey at the temples, falls in disarray around his forehead, but what catches the eye most is the striking patch of blonde amidst the darker strands at the roots.

It seems like the evidence of a possible birthmark born in the hair line, or could just be a fashion choice exalted in bad taste. You make a mental note to ask him later. But it adds a unique touch to his plotline in a twist of his devious character as you ponder him and his story.

“Such a beauty,” Ezra remarks, observing you as he twists the jewel around his thick, calloused fingers. “It’ll fetch you a good sum.” He simply returns the gem to the shelf, his eyes lingering on it long after it leaves his grip.

Your eyes graze down to the missing appendage, trying to fill in the gaps on his pages, as you place pins in your teeth.

“Ah.” He notices your lingering gaze. “Go on, ask away.” Articulating around his Southern inflection with deep flutters of his tongue, it scatters out of it like jagged diamonds from the mines of Ajaxia.

You smile. “Nothing to ask.”

“I’m not foul to you like this?” You sense that he loathes it. Wired bitter with the loss.

Despite the initial challenges and the occasional stares from strangers when your limp overtakes you when your prosthetic becomes unbearable to bear full weight on, you refuse to be confined by societal expectations or limitations.

You throw yourself into mundane life with unparalleled gusto, pursuing your work with a fervour that could inspire those around you if they weren’t so ignorant and assuming. A trait that might only embolden Ezra too, the more time he spends with you, if he cares to.

The thought of revealing your commonality with him rests idle on your tongue however.

Yet, beneath your fearless exterior, you can harbour moments of doubt and insecurity. There are days when the weight of your prosthetic feels heavier than usual, and the whispers of self-doubt threaten to overshadow your resolve. You recognise it too, in his dark eyes right now, fierce, but also harbouring that self-loathing and defeated eroding.

It’s different for you, you don’t miss what you’ve never had, you only know a life like this, but for him? To have had it and then lost it, you can feel the decayed emotion that it evokes pouring from him, even if he never says the words out loud.

You stand, approaching him with his coat patched and he raises his eyebrows. “Far from it. We might have a common depth.” You mutter.

“I fail to see anything we share in common. However, you have magic in you, no doubt.” He says, as he admires his mended coat. “Witchcraft.” He smirks, running his fingers over the neat stitches.

“You have a way with words.” You smile, reaching for your cup.

“A flair, so I’m told. Thank you.” He says earnestly to you, eyes big and round.

“I work in the textile factory, my job.” You explain as you disappear into the kitchen when the beeper from the warmer goes off.

“I was good with both my hands too, once,” he surmises bleakly. “What meat is this?” Ezra enquires, chewing slowly to savour the peculiar tang from the heated freeze dry meal that you’ve thrust at him with a spoon.

“Trog. At least that's what I tell myself. Makes it go down easier.” You remark.

“Never look a gift trog in the mouth, I suppose that’s good counsel.” Ezra shrugs and shovels in more, steadying the packet in his crotch for support; the warmth of it seeping into his thigh muscles and warming him pleasantly.

“I’ve some Bitz Bars if you'd prefer?”

He shakes his head. “If I never see a Bitz Bar again it’ll be too soon.”

The brief silence between you is disturbed only by the battering swell outside that has increased in its voracity in the last hour, and the soft chews and gulps as you both devour your meal in ensconced silence.

It’s a harmonious, off-key beat that serves as the background chime to your dining encounter. Discreet in your mutual voyeurism as you eat and steal curious, yet wary glances at one another.

You’re sitting at the small table with your sewing machine, whilst Ezra masticates on the recliner, albeit much slower, and negotiates a spoon in a hand that’s not ambidextrous in the slightest.

“Tell me where you learned your skill.” Ezra prompts around a spin cycle of meat.

“I have many. You’ll need to be particular.” You finger a newly discovered hole on your kneecap idly and frown at it. You can see a peep of leather from the buckle tarnished underneath.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, pet.” Ezra smirks, as he chews through his mouthful and runs his tongue around his teeth dislodging pieces of meat; his dark eyes flashing to you briefly. “Specifically your skills with a needle,” he waggles his stump at you and his sleeve flaps about and knocks his pouch over. “Fucking tarnation!” He mutters, pissed.

You get up pliantly to assist him as he gathers the packet with quick snaps of his fingers. He spoon-scoops the contents off of his thigh, plopping the mounded heaps back into it, feeling the juice and gravy soak into his pants in a small, irritating patch.

“My grandmother taught me.” You say, dabbing at his thigh with a cloth.

He nods at you whilst continuing to alternate between cleaning himself of the spilled grains and meat, and eating it with good measure.

“Commit to a deal with me.” Ezra prompts after he swallows down the gristle.

“What kind of a deal?” You question, narrowly.

“I’ll tell you my story in its entirety and you regale me with yours in equal measure. Omit no detail too small.” Ezra declares.

“There’s really not much to tell. My life has not been spent roaming the Interplanetary digging up sparkly gems.” You remark.

“You sound bitter.”

“My hindrances keep me here.” You sigh.

“What hindrances?” He cocks his head at you.

“Tell me your story, Ezra.” You deflect as you settle back in the chair to eat.

Ezra smiles exaltedly. He relaxes back into the recliner after discarding the packet, whilst you listen keenly as he recounts how he came to be on the wretched moon with a group of like-minded individuals - rapscallions, as he refers to them - who were an entourage of the roguish sort.

Ragtag acquaintances he’d collected during his time prospecting many planets and satellites across the Interplanetary, but seemingly coming up short until The Green was set in his sights during the heights of the Aurelac rush.

Of course, man’s greed always complicates even the basics of well interpreted relations, and soon he found himself without his ship or his crew; most of them deciding to pick one another off over petty quarrels, whilst the successful of the rogues took to leaving the moon. And Ezra was stranded with nothing but a serious, yet mysterious being known only as Number Two, who filled the role of henchman to Ezra’s own smart, callous wit at genial leadership.

He reiterates to you, several times, that Number Two was not much of a conversationalist, much to his imminent dismay, so when he happened upon Damon, he informs you of the relief he felt to copulate wildly in words exchanged with a stranger, even if they weren't pleasantries.

It’s apparent to you, before he’s started to share his whimsical story, that Ezra has a rapt knack in kinking the tendrils of censorious intelligence and a dry sagacity that often blurs the lines of sarcasm and menace. Flowery, Southern treble clefs dance off of his tongue in a verbal, bewitching thrall, playing their music around your head in kaleidoscopic wonder.

The things he'd done, the things Ezra he'd lost, are all painted from his cracked lips for you to see and experience, unscathed in the most exquisite details and colour. Feeling as though you’re there with him by his side and witnessing the altered course into complete annihilation. He was sure he’d be abandoned by Cee in a warped juxtaposition that, even his attempts at atoning for his previous sins couldn’t seem to cleanse him of. He iterates wistfully that he should've seen it coming.

Ezra finalises the story with her gallant return and bringing him home rather than being left there to perish.

He’s notably candid when he speaks of his love for women - plural. He shares vulgar trysts about his many lovers on Luxillion, mostly whores whom he paid good credits for before he settled off on his wanderings, but who won't even entertain him now that he;s no longer whole. He mentions he occasionally dabbled freely in the delights of flesh with a fellow Y chromosome too; a flouted omission that makes your pores saturate at the outlandish, yet scandalous thought of it. His laying partners are of no prejudice.

Ezra is regimented in never speaking of an unrequited love nor a love that holds permanence inside of his beating organ of clogged ventricles. The closest Ezra has come to feeling an emotion akin to the desire to protect another is with the bolshie whippersnapper named Cee, who had saved him from his fate on The Green.

And then you, this very evening.

“What happened to her?” You enquire.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I woke up in a med bay and haven’t heard a whisper since. Skipped out with a sack full of gems. Good for her.” He remarks.

You watch as he winces and scowls down at his stump.

“Are you alright?” You query.

“Just an irritation" You watch as his lips curl back over his teeth. "Sometimes it… it feels as if it’s still there. Sears. Feels like I can still wiggle my fingers, the most peculiar thing.”

Nursing the aggravation is made small, as Ezra stares out at the window with a watery look making his scleras shine and the cords in his neck tense. Trying to push it to the back of his mind to be recycled into some distorted relief.

“That’s quite the story you shared.” You say.

“It’s but mine to keep. And now yours too, I guess.” Ezra sighs and winces again. “Do you happen to have anything for the burn?” He asks, feeling the pain grow and mutate from his wrangled nerves into his veins.

“I might have a tranq.”

“Bliss.” He says as you get up. He notices you take a moment to regain your balance, a slight limp to your gait as you make your way forward.

A large explosion-like sound is heard outside and you turn towards the window as the lights go out in your dingy apartment.

“Kevva’s wrath!” You gasp, a silhouette lit up by the purple lightning that rips terribly across the sky.

“Did something calamitous occur?” Ezra asks, standing too.

Aggressive thunder is heard rolling in once more as the rain pelts harder until it’s a tiresome skirmish battering the panes.

“Looks like a strike hit the fuse box. Whole District is out.” You say, hovering by the window.

“Perhaps it was a good call, your invitation.” Ezra says, a small smile unfolding on his lips.

“Mm. The rain is often acidic.” You retreat to the kitchen and find some medicine and some candles. Lighting a couple on the coffee table, you take a hold of Ezra’s sleeve after passing him the pill.

“Not a tranq unfortunately, but it might take the edge off.” You begin to roll his sleeve upwards.

“What are you doing?” He queries.

“Making it easier.” You say, softly. You pin it in place, and then fetch a spool and needle from your sewing table.

He watches, eyelashes fanned across his cheekbones as he stares down at your fingers working around the new hem of his sleeve you've created.

“I think I’ve seen you before... Around the District, down by the river.” You begin, carefully as you start to sew the sleeve in place. "You live there, don't you?"

He immediately bristles. “I don’t require charity. I’ll take my leave.”

“Ezra. You have nowhere to go. We both know that. It’s a dangerous night with the surge-five. Drink your xanadu tea and stay. You can take my bed.”

He sighs as his eyes shy away. “My predicament since my return from the Green has rendered me… unlucky, it’s true. There isn’t a place or a sympathetic ear here for people like me, and so my place is with shelter under the bridge. But I won’t spoil your evening with my dreary plight.”

“We can share in the dreariness.” You smirk, looking around at the dim confines of your apartment gloaming with waxy candlelight.

He sighs again as he watches you thread neat stitches to keep the sleeve in place.

“I can’t force you to stay. But I’ll sleep better knowing you’re safe rather than outside in that. I’ll make do on the recliner. I insist.” You say as you glance at the lightning streaking across the sky.

“Kindness offered to a scoundrel. You are something, Birdie.”

“It’s only gratitude for what you did in the alley. We’re even.”

"If I were to take you up on your offer, I will sleep here. You won't be denied your bed."

"There's no argument, Ezra. You'll take the bed and we'll say no more about it." You confirm.

“You trust me fictitiously.”

“No, I trust you.” You correct him.

“You know nothing of me. I could take your treasure and run whilst you sleep.”

“So do it. I already told you I care not for it.” You say, as you thread the stitches carefully.

“Why don't you cash it in? You could improve your living quarters.” He suggests.

“My living quarters are fine as they are.” You reply with a frown.

He looks at you curiously, deep eyes burning into you as you find them with your own.

“I don’t care about the material things.”

“Pet, your dwelling is stacked with material things.” He grins. “Look at all this treasured garbage.”

“It’s gotten a bit out of hand admittedly. But it's mostly worthless.”

“What is worth it's weight to you?” He enquires, boldly.

“Life. Connection…" You catch his eyes. "Love.”

He scoffs as he brings his cup back to his lips and swallows the pill.

“Immaterial things.” You say, as you notice his gaze heading towards the Aurelac gem again.

“Before I left for the Green, the only material possession I owned was my ship. A Testing Screamer.”

“Fancy.” You remark, unimpressed.

“No, she was a patched up shit bucket of rust, with a channel rat infestation, but I worked her hard. She got the job done. As I recounted, words and metal flew amongst my crew and they left me there to seek my death without her. I came back with far less.” He says, glancing down at his missing arm. “So, I relish the importance of the immaterial, even if you assume otherwise of me.”

“I assume nothing, Ezra.” You confirm. “There. You’re all patched up. You’re free to go into the wily night if you're so adamant.” You wince at the chafing burn around your knee joint.

You’re keen to rid yourself of the prosthetic, but hesitate whilst he’s here. You don’t mean to be prickly, but it’s a burn that’s starting to irritate.

“I’ve offended you.”

“No.” You shake your head with a faint smile offered. “I’ve been really grateful for your company, actually. It's been nice to converse with someone.”

“Do you feel lonely, pet?” Ezra questions out of the blue.

You turn to face him, your knee knocking against his and you wince. “All the time.” You answer honestly.

“I find it hard to accept that you cloister yourself here alone each cycle.”

“Why?”

“Because you're indeed bewitching.”

His hand is felt on your waist, gently squeezing, and you stop him as he reaches your thigh.

“Too fast?” Ezra queries, reading your eyes carefully.

“No.” You smile. “But…” You sigh with a steady gulp and then take his hand, hesitating before you place it on your artificial calf just past your knee.

He immediately raises his eyebrows with a crooked smirk as he feels not soft flesh under your pants when he squeezes, but a hard shell. He knocks against it, bewildered.

“You come with secrets,” he hisses jovially.

“Missing pieces.” You correct.

“As do I.” He says as your eyes fall to his stump barely poking out of the rolled up sleeve now. “Tell me your story,” he murmurs hauntingly.

He begins inking soft kisses into your collarbone and you don’t stop his forwardness. Instead you close your eyes and relish the feel of the warm, tender contact offered.

“No story. I was simply born this way.” You sigh, feeling his lips burn on your skin. Your fingers run themselves through his oily nape and scritch into his scalp.

“Then there’s no less of you to love, pet.” Ezra groans, looking up at you. “A simple man would be worthy of your affections, even if just for a night?”

“Perhaps.” You smirk.

“Perhaps? Here you sit like Kevva pushed you out her womb for me, perfectly moulded from clay, and you say perhaps?”

You simply smirk as he looks at you, trying to figure you out.

“I’m not perfect.” You say, your eyes averting away.

“I’ll be the judge of that. I’d like to see you bare.” He says, and you know immediately what he means.

You sigh out deeply and nod. “You too.”

“Birdie-”

“You. Too.” You sway. “Let me see you, Ezra.”

He watches as you stand and unzip your pants. You notice his eyes lingering on your centre for a moment, hidden beneath your bland underwear, but then his eyes trail down your left thigh to your knee where the buckles meet your skin.

You unbuckle your prosthetic without any meekness at all, leaning on his shoulder for support as he wraps his only arm around you, offering balance.

“I've got you, pet.”

You let it clatter to the floor and sit down in his lap, straddling him as his fingers tentatively brush over your revealed skin.

He, however, gulps as his fingers linger on the hem of his sweatshirt.

“Can I help you?” You ask him, and he shakes his head, pulling the offending item off clumsily and revealing his stump to you as his sweatshirt plops beside him.

“Beautiful,” he says, observing the smooth skin of your ungrown limb. You shudder as his fingers sweep delicately around and across it.

“Likewise,” you say, stroking down his arm to where it stops into a knot of twisty scars.

“Two peas in a dreary pod,” Ezra says, hooked nose brushing over yours.

“I don’t like peas.” You chuckle.

“Another commonality,” he smirks.

He watches as you reach forward behind him and take a small jar from the shelf. You push it into his hand as you open the lid and begin to scoop out some of the waxy salve inside.

The balm, infused with cooling agents and healing properties, provides instant relief to your inflamed skin with a comforting warmth; soothing the rawness that bears the brunt of the day's chafing from your prosthetic.

He inhales the scent, lifting the jar to his nose and hums at the fresh, earthy aroma.

“Homemade.” You clarify.

“More potions from my talented sorceress.” Ezra smirks. “May I?”

You nod, holding the jar for him as he scoops out a small dollop, and rubs it between his thick fingers until the consistency turns thin.

“Tingly,” he says in wonder.

He runs it gently around your skin, rounding the circumference and across the calloused welts and blisters, soothing and massaging gently.

“That feel good?” He queries with a bewitching smile all of his own.

"So good, Ezra." You nod with a breathy hum and he watches as you lean forward and kiss his stump gently, mouthing over the fibrous knots and welts.

“Your mouth is Kevva sent,” he groans as he watches you.

You run your tongue over it, kissing up his shoulder and tasting the salt of his neck. Tasting him there as he fondles and rubs your knee gently, fingers slick with the balm.

“Your ministrations, although kind, are wasted.” He gasps. “I’m not a man that can be tamed. I fear it's been too long that I won’t be gentle.” Ezra warns.

“Neither will I.” You growl as you pull him to you, teeth tugging on his lips.

He engulfs you wholly; his hand swamping your back for support as you crush him towards you. His tongue slithers into your mouth and you suck on it, gasping as you feel his blunt nails rake up your back over your shirt.

“Here?” He pants around your succulent mouth. “Or the comfort of your chambers?”

“Here. There. I don’t care. I just want you, Ezra.” You groan, your body tingling and sweating.

You squeal in delight as he stands with you abruptly, his sole arm keeping you wound tight around his body as he steps into your bedroom.

“I may only have one arm, but you're safe in it.” He reassures you by gripping you tight.

“Never doubted it.” You say, nuzzling into the salted musk of his neck as you cling on around it.

He twinkles as he smirks at you; those dark eyes regarding you with a controlled enthral, left to marinate spicily in your thoughts and on the fine hairs of your arms.

Outside, the sky growls, bearing its teeth as Ezra lays you on the bed. He watches you unbutton your shirt and pull off your panties, revealing yourself fully bare in all your flesh and graces to him.

His eyes roam over the contours of your body, taking in the shape of your tummy, your hips, the swell of your breasts. The way your right leg curls up and the way your left, stopping at the knee, moves with a seductive fluidness to it just like the other.

Your entire body is his to freely claim, to roam unbidden. Slick pussy to drown in, to worship at the altar.

He's never been a good man, undeserving of the fruit you bear freely to him now as he licks his salivating lips. But you make him feel good; a small, insidious voice convincing him he’s unworthy is quashed inside his mind, silenced blissfully as you beckon him forward and allow him to touch, to explore.

He’s marvelled by his own restraint, wanting nothing more than to tear into you - pull you apart and put you back together again. Yet he’s rendered docile, eager to draw long, haunting moans out of you as he tastes and feels each of them, taking his sweet, glorious time instead.

“You’re so…” He fails to find the right word in his mental thesaurus to do it justice. "I want nothing more than to whelve myself inside of your tight, hot cunt right now." Ezra sighs, staring at your slick centre, an obvious tent growing in his pants. “But first, we must discuss logistics."

You giggle looking up at him. “Fuck logistics, just get over here and fuck me.”

He shakes his head in disbelief at you, spread out before him and he swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

“Can you ride me?” He kneels on the bed, pink lacing his cheeks. “It’s easier if you can, my balance is often maligned. A chin to the nose might be an unpleasant douse to the fire.”

“I can. I might need you to support me if we go hard.” You nod.

“I can do whatever you need.” Ezra smirks crookedly. "Slow, fast... hard."

“What do you need?” You ask him, reaching for his face and planting kisses over it.

He smells wildly acrid, a build up of sweat and grime from the city has sunk into his flesh, but you’re undeterred as your mouth runs over his skin. Your cunt is so fucking wet just inhaling the stagnant, earthy hidrosis of him; beads of your slick running out of you in a delectable tickle.

“I need you to sit on my face, pet.” Ezra instructs you through a strained grunt, his lips curling up over his teeth as he helps position you above him.

You lower yourself down onto his waiting tongue, holding onto the bed railings. His arm is firmly around you, as assured.

He licks burning acid on your pussy, dissolving you down to the chalk of your bones as he tastes you; groaning into your folds hungrily. You grind on his mouth, chasing that blooming high that tingles and leaves you clawing in his hair desperately as he tongue fucks you gloriously.

You're basking in the pure pleasure of his mouth and tongue lapping at your pussy, all consuming and euphoric. Losing yourself to that dreamy build up of tension that arches your back and curls your toes.

And just when you think you can't take it anymore, suddenly all that tension is released and pulses throughout your body. You fall into a zen state of absolutely nothing - just white, hot pleasure coursing through your body.

You forget everything. Your name. The aches from your prosthetic. You even forget to breathe. He’s taken your body and mind to this exquisite place simply with his mouth and lets you fly and float around up in there until you come down, and then he’ll build you up again and again.

“I could lick you for turns, pet.” He snuffles through a satiated smile.

It makes you melt into him, crumpled like paper. Burnt up and falling ashy onto his skin. His stump rests against your thigh, prodding gently against it as his hand sweeps down your back and grips onto your ass, pushing your cunt further onto his mouth.

You move your hips, writhing against his tongue as he licks up onto your clit and you cry out in relief at how good it feels.

“You taste divine,” he muffles around your sticky lips.

He pushes his head up, lips squelching around to get right in as your thighs ripple and shake as he brings you to the edge once more. You're standing on the precipice of the universe and looking down into it's swamping, glittery depth.

You rest back on your hands, your fingers squeezing around the meat of his thighs as his one hand blazes a journey over your belly and towards your breasts where he squeezes and massages the left in his grip. His eyes stare up at you and you stare down, lips parting as your moans increase.

His tongue is precisely erratic, licking, sucking and flicking in all the places he can get to to draw your orgasm out and make it last. A kaleidoscope of colours stream in the room, their waltz blinding you as they swirl and merge. You can feel it all over your body, the heat, the burning as you tense and coil.

When you come again, it feels like you're floating once more; your body slack and wibbly as you gush into his waiting mouth. And as much as you could let him do this, for indeed many a turn, you want him in your mouth too.

You move with ease, comfortable to slide across the sheets gracefully and with speed that makes him grin. Pulling his pants down, you see him in all of his thick, weeping glory.

"Fuck, Ezra..." You murmur at the sight of him.

“This is how you make me feel.” Ezra pants as you stare at the hard swell of him almost lunging out his groin at you.

His cock feels imposing; heavy and smooth. A flushed pink head swollen and leaking profusely. You feel how hard he is, how he’s acutely dripping for you; strings of pre-cum coming away in your palm as he brings it up to his mouth and licks it away whilst eyeing you.

And you can’t explain what it does to your body, let alone your brain, at how wet he is for you. And hard, so fucking hard that it bulges angrily; a taut, thick vein popping off on the side.

“Take me to paradise, Birdie.” Ezra hums, as he watches you slither between his legs and take him in your mouth.

Ezra's eyes roll into the back of his head and he bites his lip until it bleeds copper rust on his tongue. He makes some intangible sound as he looks down at his fat cock sucked slowly and deeply into your mouth.

He brushes your hair away with shaky fingers, unsure and unfamiliar with such a gentle movement that he orchestrates, thumb stroking over your cheek.

“You can take it deeper than that. I know you can. Let me slide all the way down in there. Feel me in your belly.” Ezra grunts.

He bucks his hips as you swallow, your fingers scratching into the soft, wiry hairs in his groin and over his belly. He fills your throat and you feel him twitch when you suck harder.

He pulls your head back and tells you to spit on it. Smirking, you do as he instructs, and he watches as the globule decorates him in crystal strings.

“More,” Ezra keens, as you spit and drool over his cock further.

You’re panting for it; desperate to have him inside of your mouth again as he keeps it close enough, but just out of reach from your lips - teasing with that crooked grin lacing down at you.

But then, he finally lets you have it again, and is enthralled as you take him in greedily like you’ve been starved.

Humming in satisfaction, you suck him down and swallow deep, feeling him prod at the back of your throat as he guides and controls you with his hand knotted in your hair.

His grunts are felt on the end of your clit, his satisfaction tingling all through your body and you get off on getting him off; grinding your hips against the comforter on the bed as you suck, chasing your own release. Groaning out around his cock when the sheet catches your clit deliciously.

You pull him out of your mouth in a wet slurp and begin kissing around his groin; each little kiss peppering him and absorbing into his skin, leaving further fiery brands as you go.

You haven’t lost interest in his dick, still grasping him in your hand and running it over him, but you’re interested in all of him now, want all of him.

He’s drawn into your eyes as they look up at him, as you work your way across his abdomen and leave his hand to weaken inside of your scalp. It drops to your jaw as he helps you slither up his body and kisses you.

He’s surprisingly gentle, explorative and leaves no part of you untouched by his lips as he’s only too willing to return the favour. He lays back, his body weakening as you sit on his cock; your hands running through his hair, massaging his scalp as his head lolls back and he loses himself to the feel of your nails scratching through it.

You’re squirming and pushing yourself down on his length.

“Oh, you want it all, huh? Take it. Fuck my cock, pet. It’s yours.” He husks.

“You feel so good.” You whine, pulling on his hips as you work.

“I'm going to make a mess of you when I come.” He grunts.

“I want you to fill me up, Ezra.”

“Flood you,” he groans. “Fuck, I want to ruin you, but I want you like this too. It’s confounding.” He pants.

"Plenty of time to ruin me," you groan.

The infinite kaleidoscope only intensifies, becoming more vivid. Bursts of colour explode from behind your eyelids and are felt warming you all over as his cock nudges against the deepest part inside of you.

“Ezra!”

You feel his mouth roaming your chest. Sucking your nipples between his teeth as he alternates, pulling on them, teasing them hard; the tiny spots around your areolas standing and tightening too. Little pleasurable bumps that each have their own nerve centre that make your pussy twinge and drip like a leaky faucet over his cock as you ride.

Soon you flop forward onto him, your breasts hitting the hardness of his chest. That delicious pull deep inside your belly makes itself known. That tight, knotting before you’ll snap back and release.

His pants increase and those growls start to haunt. He’s close. It’s in the way he grabs and paws at you more sloppy now, like he can barely hold on anymore.

All it takes is an enticing whisper from you, telling him to come, to let go, to fill you up, and his teeth sink into your shoulder.

He groans and grunts deeply, hips stuttering and candid whimpers leaving his breath. All the atoms of his being spilling into you, thick and warm as he drips out of your cunt over his thighs.

And Ezra doesn’t let you go. He keeps you there, kissing you, glued to his chest, fitted around him like a perfect puzzle piece.

The surge-five still roars outside, but seemingly less consequential.

The acidic rains have moved on and the window of the bedroom is speckled with only a few streaks of wayward drops that the wind blows in squiggly lines around it; the tail ends of shooting stars before they die out completely.

A little snuffle beside your ear focuses your attention on Ezra, still asleep beside you in the middle of the night; his stumped arm poking out of the bobbled blanket, and his other still curled under your back and ending around your waist.

His fingers twitch occasionally, as he jostles and flinches in his sleep, still branding on the skin on your navel. You wonder what he dreams about to make him shudder so.

Your head tilts to examine his face in the darkness. The slow roaming from the blonde tuft so stark in his chocolate hairline, to the way in which his eyelids flutter restlessly as his eyeballs move under them as though something is alive.

He pelts your face with light breaths that are warm and hardened, and yet it’s a scent that doesn’t putrefy as you allow yourself to be bathed in the warmth of them.

You refute anything that’ll disturb your peace right now, such as the dull urge to urinate, instead cocooning yourself further into this moment right here in Ezra’s sleep laden grip.

He’s unlike any other man you’ve ever met and it leaves you breathless as you examine his face whilst he sleeps beside you.

Thick eyelashes adorn his swollen, sealed lids and a wiry scar is a slapdash carving below his left eye socket, leaving your imagination to ponder how he obtained it.

A thick velvet slug, matted with sweat and the residue of your slick, clings to his top lip, whilst the rest of his chin and neck is garnished with unruly stubble that's in the throes of growing in length and sparsity in hodgepodge greying patches.

His lips, pale pink and fuller on the bottom set, are chapped and sore, much like your own as you continue to gnaw on them whilst you mull the events over of how this enigma came to be in your sheets this night.

“See something you like, Birdie?” Those lips move with a small gruff tone.

“Merely spectating.” You reply back, softly.

“Spectating? I think the term is voyeurism.” Ezra smiles with his eyes still closed, and the creases around them grow in number and folds.

You smile and Ezra can hear the moisture in your mouth click around your teeth at such a close proximity.

“Your lament protests about sleeping on the recliner were just a bunch of who shot John, weren't they?” He croons into the skin of your neck, dipping his head as he stretches. You feel him inhale deeply against your skin.

Ezra wonders briefly if he’s suffered another loss, for his left arm is numb with the weight of you resting on it. He wiggles his fingers bringing them back to life and feels your skin warm against it under the blanket.

“Your practicality has been lampshaded,” he whispers. “Tell me, did you plot this tryst into fruition?” He chuckles.

“One would think this situation is amusing to you,” you say.

“It’s ah… something.” That brazen itch turns from ghastly mania into a settling excitement, an accepted wave of rapture that shakes his bones at your warmth and proximity; the blood in his body rushing towards the end of his cock at breakneck speeds.

“I fear I won’t be able to resist sordid temptation much longer.” Ezra repeats, a dirty grunt escaping through his strained voice.

“Then don’t. Defile me at your whim.”

The sound of his haughty chuckle is both harmonious and husky at the same time as it reverberates from somewhere deep in his chest cavity. Ezra is most attractive when he smiles and laughs, you think. It completely changes his stern, scowled face.

Perfect, puffy lips crooking up into his cheeks revealing a dimple that draws the eye in; a smile that could convince the sun into imploding. But his smile has dissipated and those dark eyes are prying into places they ought not to pry again.

"I'm going to annihilate you, pet." He whispers, grazing his lips against your own. "You think you can take it?"

You know you’re stupid to think you can do this; nudge him to the precipice and encourage as he jumps off it willingly. Coax him to show you the most depraved, abominable parts of himself and not have some repercussions come and bite you on the ass for it.

See him unleashed fully; the worlds across the Interplanetary cracking open and their suns splitting into two as he savages and ravages.

But you want him despite all the swill and misfortune; you want him to make you fall apart - to totally obliterate you. Use you as mere clay for his own twisted satisfactions as he leaves imprints and eternal marks on you that’ll blister and bleed.

The way he touches you, the way he doesn't shy away from your body leaves you wanting for the affection he drowns you in. He’s your missing piece making you whole. He dilutes your pain with his own making it bearable.

You shudder at the feel of his fingers softly stroking over your half leg; a ghostly touch that you acutely zone into. His eyes are still brooding into yours.

"Break me." You urge.

“I can smell your sweet stink all over me." Ezra grunts as his fingers slip down the between your ass cheeks, leaving a devastation of goose pimples in their wake.

You rest your clipped knee onto his hip, opening you up for him. You bite your lip, gnawing frantically on the bottom as the path takes a delectable turn towards your cunt.

Your head swims; the hairs on your body and nipples coming alive. Feeling high and giddy, balanced on that precarious cusp of passing out, but not quite managing to do so.

You breathe out slowly as his fingers pause; the burn of them felt deep inside your core already as you clench around nothing, and the throb of your clit aches and prickles with a pang of eager want.

Ezra’s gaging; reading your reactions and fine tuning into that solid will that you’ve been dismantling slowly over the course of the last turn spent with him.

He knows, for it’s ambushed his own impenetrable walls too.

He feels your hand clamp around his cock as the tension in your body pulverises at any remaining restraint you have. He strokes over your mound towards your clit, and as soon as he touches it - that hard, pulsing nub - you both groan out in unison. His fingers push into your pussy, slow and thick as you gasp.

Your other hand fists inside his hair as your face draws nearer to his own, your eyes zoning in on his lips that are wet as he licks them.

“I will destroy you.” Ezra breathes, admitting defeat. “I have nothing to give you, pet.”

“I don’t want what credits can buy from you.” You moan as his fingers swipe over your clit. “You see me.”

“I do. I see all of you. I like what I see.” He tongues at the skin at your neck. “You see me, too.”

“It’s kinda hard not to, you’re like a neutron star.” You smile.

“You trying to woo me, pet?” He smirks, as he slides down your body, kissing over it as he goes, elbow pressed into the mattress for support.

“Is it working?” You gasp as he abruptly buries his head between your centre, and lets his tongue go to work.

Your head is thrown back in the pillows, your eyes greeted with that dark void of space; the stars turning in their spirals as time slows down and he pulls you out from the inside.

Marvelling at the true alchemy of his tongue as it laps at your wet folds and he slurps you up like water, dehydrated like he once was on Kerulon. Transcending above the highest point in infinity and still climbing as your eyes roll into the back of your skull.

Your hand fists through his hair, drawing him closer; his nose dusting your clit as his tongue fucks deep and swallows all the sweet honey you have to give him.

“All I can do is take you to the stars.” He grunts. “Is that enough for you?”

“More than enough.” You whine as you come around his lips.

Ezra then spends the rest of the night breaking you apart, piece by piece, and putting you back together again, just as he said he would.

His voice wakes you, but not from beside you where you expect him to be.

“Consarn it, you fumbling bawheid!”

You quickly reach for a tattered robe and grab at your crutches, wooden and rickety beside the bed, and follow the infernal muttering to the kitchen where he’s standing around broken cups on the floor.

Ezra glances up at you with razor wire for lips pressed into a thin line.

“Were you making tea?” You enquire through heavy lids, and he turns bashfully from you, the broadest back presented and littered with constellations of freckles and moles.

“Yes trying, but my cumber-world impairment-” he grits his teeth “-makes me sloppy. Fuck.”

Your gaze lingers curiously over him, determining him not to be an apparition but real; half expecting him to have fled already. You glance behind you and the Aurelac gem is still there on the shelf by the window as he left it.

“I can make the tea.” You smile softly, a hand reaching out to touch the expanse of his back, and his hackles immediately soften.

He steps to you, his singular hand finding the familiar shape of your waist as he pulls you close.

You take in the detailing on his worn face again. The way the pores on the smooth bump of his nose are marred with oil, the thickness of his brow; the entice of his full bottom lip.

Ezra wanders freely over your features too, from the shine in your eyes to the feel of your hair soft in his hand as he brushes his fingers through it like a comb.

He scratches up to your scalp massaging your skull as he steps closer into your personal space and your eyes close at the sensation of it, birthing millions of prickles across your skin; your nipples standing tall and hard beneath the slip of the gown you’d thrown on, like diamonds cutting through the thin fabric.

“How good does that feel?” His breath is drenched in a stale warmth on your face and you breathe the notes in deep.

"Really good." You breathe, nuzzling into his ministrations.

"Is your body defeated, pet, or can you take more?" He whispers into your crown.

You smirk. "More."

"Greedy." He snickers. "You'd make a fine Prospector."

Something’s hanging around in the air between you; something that’s unspoken. You’ve noticed it growing between you as the eventful turn has worn on into the night and seeks the new light of the dawn glowering through the smog.

It’s inside the delirious crookshank smile on his lips as he reveals it to you in between the comfortable silences when you talk. In his swampy brown eyes that take you in and feel as though he’s pulling you apart with them to see what’s really going on inside of your fibres and nerves.

And it's here again now as you linger, watching Ezra watching you, sensing that when the time comes to part from the questionable consternation of his company, it'll leave ruptures somewhere inside of you.

The black lacquer thoughts slither up from your spine and germinate insipid sparks into your core; a groundless lust that dizzies you from the smooth tickle of his fingers brushing down your hip and across your thigh.

You gasp as his fingers stray too close to your swollen centre, still drenched warm with his copious spend and aching from the stretch of him.

You’re weak for him; weak for those skilled fingers on his singular hand to be crawling inside of you and fucking you up, quite literally, as he weaves them in and out of your soaked pussy, curling them and wrapping you around them further.

“Ezra,” you gasp as he pumps them in and out, your balance swaying.

“Hold onto me,” he says, as you rest your crutches against the counter and wrap your arms around his neck.

He pulls your only leg around his waist once more, hard cock bobbing at your perineum, lifting you with ease; his only hand resting on your ass, and carries you back to bed.

Ezra has you all over again, devouring, leaving his marks on your body. Revelling in the melodies of your panting chants of his name as he fucks deep and hard.

His lips part slowly as do yours, reacting to him. Drawn to him, drawn into him completely and controlled somehow like a puppet and he’s playing with your strings; plucking slowly and gently at you and you’ve no idea how.

No idea how you've gotten so willingly naked in front of a stranger, despite his strange appeal, and are allowing him to guide you like this. Thighs splayed open before him and showing him your most intimate self.

It doesn’t matter how, for it’s pure fucking bliss.

You slide down on his cock and ride him slowly, gently as his arm wraps you up and holds you close to him, almost crushing the life out of you as both you exertions wane.

You gasp out, letting his lips go as he fills you up again, makes you detach and lose yourself in this moment inside of his arms - inside of him.

And that’s the crux of it, you want to give him this, make him see that he’s worthy of love and affection and tenderness. You know what it’s like not to have that.

Ezra smiles faintly at you, giving into the feel of you lavishing your love on him.

He reaches down to grope your knee gently, and you shudder at the feel of his fingers brushing against it. You run your hand equally down his stump, and you watch as his eyes glisten before he scrunches them shut and crushes you against his chest as he spills inside you once more.

“The storm has quelled. I should take my leave.” He says distantly after, stroking over your smooth nub as it rests languidly across his torso. His gentle touch soothes better than the balm.

“You should stay.” You murmur, hoping he hasn't heard the longing in it. But of course, the plucky sleeveen has.

“We find ourselves in a quandary.” Ezra retorts as he draws circles over your skin with his fingers.

“Dare I ask what stories these tell?” You put to him as your fingers trace the marred lines over his sternum.

“Probably wise if you remain in the dark, Birdie. I was not a gentle man once upon a time.” His warning is stark, but his eyes are soft and velvety as you look at them.

“You know how to be gentle.” You sway.

He nods. “To those who I feel so inclined.” He nudges his nose against yours.

The skin of your knee is so soft despite the roughness of the chafe. It’s a sensation that imbues you with warmth rather than discomfort; his thick fingers caressing gently, exchanging heat between your skin.

You’ve never let anyone feel it before, but he doesn't shy away. Neither do you as you kiss and flick your tongue tenderly over the stump of his arm. You let your tongue dip into the jagged welts and fleshy riverbeds of his scars.

He hums out with his eyes closed as you explore languidly and find your way eventually back to his bruised lips.

He makes you feel seen, he makes you feel whole for the first time. And it’s a feeling you don’t want to let willingly extinguish. You kiss him deeply, fearing it might be the last time.

“Your hospitality has been most charitable, pet. The swell has dissipated satisfactorily.”

You sigh out. “This whole idea was just idiotic from the get go.” You’re already mourning the loss of him, another part failing to grow on your body, but he doesn’t move.

“Something I specialise in.” Ezra muses. But his smirk downturns when he sees your face. “Is that sincere affection you possibly harbour?”

“You think this whole time I spent with you was a ruse?” You frown.

He shakes his head. “I hope not. Did I fall victim to a spell?”

“I want you to stay, Ezra.” You say, reaching for his hand. “But only if you want to. There’s a place for you here, with me, if you want it.”

He closes his eyes, your knuckles resting on his lips, his thumb stroking over the hilt.

“You definitely have me under a spell. There’s no other possible explanation.” He hums as his eyes find yours staring back, unwavering. “You and your magic tea.”

“No magic. Maybe you just want to stay with me.” You smile, knowingly.

“Perhaps some things can’t be explained by the universe after all.”

“Perhaps it’s the Aurelac.” You snort. “That Siren song you Prospectors can't resist.”

Ezra shakes his head vehemently. “Maybe it’s just you, Birdie.” He smiles as he leans in to kiss you. “Maybe I finally found my missing piece.”

I really hope you enjoyed reading this story with Ezra, and welcome your comments/thoughts. I'd appreciate a re-blog if you liked it so others can find it on their dash to read and enjoy too - thank you very much! 🖤

BODIES MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

EZRA MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #ezra prospect #ezra prospect x reader #pedro pascal characters #ezra prospect x you #ezra prospect x f!reader #prospect 2018 #ezra prospect smut #ezra prospect fluff #tw limb loss #tw prosthesis #every body is beautiful #diversity #inclusivity #bodies series #jett's writing

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incorrect-primarchs-quotes · 3 months

Note

EREBUS is now the most unredeemable peice of feculant matter that has ever existed and I cannot WAIT for kharn to hunt him down and tear both of the black stumps of his heart out through his throat...

Counter point: he killed people I didn't like, so I'm happy :)

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askshoutyasshole · 21 days

Note

hey karkat! what’re you going to get me for my birthday?

- @ectosbiologlst

JOHN? YOUR BIRTHDAY ISN'T FOR ANOTHER...

WAIT, *WHAT*!?

Seems that Karkat's woken up, then.

OKAY- I- FUCK. SORRY. NOW I FEEL LIKE A BIGGER FECULENT ASSHOLE THAN USUAL, GREAT. I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT HAPPENED THERE. NO ONE WOKE ME UP! IS THIS THE NATURAL CONSEQUENCE OF GOING WEEKS WITHOUT SLEEP?? I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU'RE EXPECTING, IT'S NOT LIKE WE CAN SENDIFICATE STUFF FROM THE METEOR. WHAT ELSE IS THERE I CAN DO ASIDE FROM MAKE A HORRIBLE DRAWING OR WRITE EAR-BLEEDINGLY MAUDLIN POETRY. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT EGBERT, FOR ME TO GRACE YOUR AURICULAR NODES WITH THE DULCET TONES OF MY PITIFULLY AMATEUR ATTEMPTS AT HEARTFELT POETRY? I'LL FUCKING DO IT.

#homestuck #karkat vantas #ask blog #homestuck ask blog #kanaya maryam #rose lalonde #john egbert #ASKSHOUTYASSHOLE

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wildfire317 · 5 months

Text

@liveleaker @jaquesmes

Alright listen here you little inbred, KKK wannabe chucklefucks news flash neither of you are main characters and your barely even background characters so quit acting like you dumbfucks are worth more than the dirt under your toenails. Nobody in their right mind actually thinks your dumb racist, homophobic and sexist comments are funny or cute, you two just look like absolutely moronic dipshits with micro-dongs and chihuahua complexes. And another thing you living condom usage advertisements, Nobody wants your defective sewing needle sized, piss poor excuses for cocks that not even a rat could choke on or your rotting in the middle of a dry summer sewer smelling, flatter than a piece of paper asses any where near them and if you think they do your even less intelligent than a single cell organism. You both claim to be adults so goddamn act like it because as things are right now you're both acting like a pair of rocket propelled spaz maggots spring-loaded face first up the asses of psychedelic freakout weasels on idiot drugs. Also you want to call someone swagless and bitchless you might want to take a good long look in the mirror because I don't see a singular molecule of swag on either of you or a single bitch and I'm not surprised considering you both look like the kind of guys that order boneless, dry rub chicken wings and then lose a fight to a chihuahua. And by the way just because you pieces of dick-cheese started putting out at twelve and peaked at 15 doesn't mean you get to drag everyone else down the perverted dunkass tree with you. Also your 8 decade curse is the biggest joke in the history of curses from any religion it isn't even an actual curse, it barely even qualifies as a jinx and thats ignoring the fact that it's basically useless the way you attempted to use it anyways and was over all a monumentally stupid waste of everyones time so stuff that in your prison cell and sit on it. You two blithering, feculent, shit holes are such lame wastes of genetic material i would not be surprised if both of your probably absentee fathers wish they had worn a condom at the time of your conceptions which explains your blatantly fatherless behavior and I bet your mothers change the subject when anyone asks about you and envy people who have never met or heard of you. Your "your momma" jokes are the most pathetic I have ever seen, were either of you actually even trying or was that the extent of your creativity? Because they were the weakest, most uninspired and embarrassing "your momma" jokes I have ever had the displeasure of reading to the point that they barely even qualify, And don't even get me started on your insults because I have met 3rd graders who have better insults. Your "oh look at me I'm a terrorist" shtick is so stupid and pathetic i couldn't help but cackle at your waste of energy like what do you want a cookie? Because you don't even deserve the crumbs of crap after someone else ate a cookie so who even gives a barfing fuck about it? You jackasses are about as threatening as some mild flatulence. I hope you piss ant's have fun dying alone and unwanted and that every time you think you have to fart you end up shitting your pants, i hope that every time you go to put socks on they are soaking wet and ice cold, i hope that the next time you are anywhere near a lego set or box of thumbtacks you step on one, i hope that every time you go to bed both sides of your pillow are annoyingly hot and give you lice, and lastly i hope that every single time you go to walk past a piece of furniture that you bang your toes on it hard enough to break your toe bones. Isn't it funny how quickly your bullshit unravels when someone actually intelligent calls you out? Do the world a favor and delete all of your social media, go apologize to whichever trees are working their proverbial asses off to replace the oxygen you're both wasting and then sew your mouths shut you cowardly wastes of skin. Id say you could learn from this but then I'd sound just as stupid as you two. Sayonara you worthless, crotch-stained barf-puppets.

( @warringwarrioridiot @p1n34ppl3-c4t24 for your reading entertainment)

#call out post #replies #go shit yourselves you entitled douchewagons #for those who don't know #the two users tagged at the top are total pricks

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bestfictionalplant · 3 months

Text

Bracket reveal

Text version under cut!

The tourney is split into 4 32 brackets, and the winners of each will go to the semi finals! I'll make a different post about HOW the tourney will run, and this will serve as a pinned post for round 1 :)

Bracket 1, Side 1

Peppino (Vampire Survivors) vs Winged Strawberry (Celeste)

Herb (Monster Hunter) vs Triffids (Day of the Triffids)

Gigi (Xiaolin Showdown) vs Silent Princess (The Legend of Zelda)

Breath of Evil (Wings of Fire) vs Thorn Thallid (Magic the Gathering)

Audrey II (Little Shop of Horrors) vs Farewell Flower (Mistborn)

Togemon (Digimon) vs Silverwood Tree (Witch Hat Atelier)

Golden Apple Tree (Greek Mythology) vs Potbelly (My Singing Monsters)

Sculk (Minecraft) vs MocDonald (One Piece)

Bracket 1, Side 2

Vida (The Promised Neverland) vs Glaze Lily (Genshin Impact)

Dr Brewer's Clone (Goosebumps) vs The Spring (Friends at the Table)

Kite Eating Tree (Peanuts) vs Zotoh Zhaan (Farscape)

Wheel Tree (His Dark Materials) vs Mushtree (I Was a Teenage Exocolonist)

Medusoid Mycelium (A Series of Unfortunate Events) vs Radial (Ooblets)

Chikorita (Pokemon) vs Blast Cone (League of Legends)

Gooloog (AAAHH!!! Real Monsters) vs Venus (Bug Fables)

The Thorian (Mass Effect) vs Yggdrasil (Norse Mythology)

Bracket 2, Side 1

Deku Tree (The Legend of Zelda) vs Blood Blossoms (Danny Phantom)

Hotblonde37159 (Angel: The Series) vs Vash the Stampede (Trigun)

Kinoko (Don't Hurt Me, My Healer) vs Wolfsbane (The Vampire Diaries)

Plant (Monster Rancher) vs Flower of Life (Mesopotamian Mythology)

Truffula Tree (The Lorax) vs Slurperon Enchantress (Internet Scam)

The Brain Tree (Neopets) vs Ginseng Baby (Scarlet Hollow)

Chompy (Bug Fables) vs Whispy Woods (Kirby)

Clavu (Overlord) vs Ivern (League of Legends)

Bracket 2, Side 2

Bulbasaur (Pokemon) vs The Trees of Valinor (Lord of the Rings)

Leslie (The Amazing World of Gumball) vs Hayzee Dayzee (Paper Mario)

Piranha Plant (Mario) vs Specimen 34/The Blessed Eternal (Wolf 359)

Potted Plant (Wander Over Yonder) vs Morbuzakh (Bionicle)

Jabe & the Trees of Cheem (Doctor Who) vs Black Mercy (DC)

Mr Plant (The World of Mr Plant) vs Feculant Gnarlmaw (Warhammer 40k)

Tree Rex (Skylanders) vs Flowey (Undertale)

Sundrop Flower (Tangled) vs Venus McFlytrap (Monster High)

Bracket 3, Side 1

Pinchley (Long Gone Gulch) vs Frank the Plant (Harley Quinn: the Animated Series)

The Venus (Hello From the Hallowoods) vs Nirnroot (The Elder Scrolls)

Food Fight (Skylanders) vs Paopu Fruit (Kingdom Hearts)

Phillogenous esk Piemondum (Rod Albright Alien Adventures) vs Plant (Wall E)

Tannot Root (Farscape) vs The Broccoloids (The Powerpuff Girls)

Rockbud (The Stormlight Archive) vs Sylvan Hound (Guild Wars 2)

Eldridge Johnson-Mayer (The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy) vs Hyacinth/Hyacinthus (Greek Mythology)

Selas Flower (Kingkiller Chronicle) vs Treant (Disgaea)

Bracket 3, Side 2

Dragonflame Cacti (Wings of Fire) vs Sunflower (Plants vs Zombies)

The Bioplant (The Rising of the Shield Hero) vs Turnip Boy (Turnip Boy Commits Tax Evasion)

Shambling Mound (Dungeons and Dragons) vs Mandrake (Shin Megami Tensei/Persona)

Cowplant (The Sims) vs Ebony Queen's Apple (Limbus Company)

Devil Fruits (One Piece) vs Donkey-Cabbage (Enchanted Forest Chronicles)

Oaktopus (My Singing Monsters) vs Field Dungeon (Rune Factory 4)

Mushroom Tree (Stardew Valley) vs Jumpkin (Cassette Beasts)

Undergrowth (Danny Phantom) vs Karzahni (Bionicle)

Bracket 4, Side 1

Dreamstalk (Kirby) vs Myconid (Balders Gate 3)

Stingbulb (Fablehaven) vs Treebeard (Lord of the Rings)

Stray Cat (Jojo's Bizarre Adventure) vs Peashooter (Plants vs Zombies)

Giant Turnip (Codename: Kids Next Door) vs Treasure Mushroom (Guild Wars 2)

Tree of Wisdom (Sonic the Hedgehog) vs Fire Flower (Mario)

Stump (The Angry Beavers) vs Groot (Marvel)

Maise (Oneshot) vs Konohana Tree (Okami)

Red Weed (War of the Worlds) vs Pod Plant (Fortnite)

Bracket 4, Side 2

Plantera (Terraria) vs The Grass Snake (Friends at the Table)

Breathweed (Warhammer 40k) vs Campestri (Dungeons and Dragons)

Neo Alraune (Sleepy Princess in the Demon Castle) vs Kringlefucker (Homestuck)

Slimefoot the Stowaway (Magic: The Gathering) vs Gatfruit Tree (Space Station 13/14)

Sex Pollen Plant (Fanfiction) vs The Rumor Weed (VeggieTales: Larry-Boy and the Rumor Weed)

Dr Madley Radish (Papa Louie) vs Vervain (The Vampire Diaries)

Yatevon (OCTAHEDRON: Transfixed Edition) vs Echo Flower (Undertale)

Wither Rose (Minecraft) vs Hydramon (Digimon)

#poll bracket

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ohlookanothercartoontofallinto · 2 years

Text

Made the realization that Wind matches a lot of Jack Sparrow quotes so enjoy.

(Wind talking to the chain)

Wind: Crazy people don’t know they’re crazy. I know I’m crazy, therefore I’m not crazy, isn’t that crazy. - Wind: It’s not so much the destination as it is the journey.

Legend: No it’s not its 100% the destination.

- (Wind doing something very epic)

Wind: Did everyone see that? Because I will not be doing it again. -

(Time being upset about fierce deity)

Wind: The problem is not the problem; the problem is your attitude about the problem. -

Linebeck: How the blaze did you get off that island?

Wind: When you marooned me on that godforsaken island, you forgot one very important thing, mate. I’m Link hero of the Wind’s. -

Wind: I have no sympathy for any of you feculent maggots and no more patience to pretend otherwise. Gentlemen, I wash my hands of this weirdness. -

Tetra: The world needs you back something fierce!

Linebeck: A dark shadow has appeared and let blackblooded monsters into the sea and, they control the Ghost Ship.

Niko: Their taking over the sea!

Gonzo: The song has already been sung! The brethren court is called!

Wind: I leave you people alone for just a minute and look what happens, everything's gone to pot! -

Legend: Who is this traitor?

Four: Not likely one among us.

Hyrule: Where's Wild?

Wind: Not among us. -

(Lifting up a hourglass and dancing around)

Wind: Look what I got! I have a hourglass full of sand, I have a hourglass full of Sand and guess what’s inside.

(Everyone looks as him dumbfounded because their in a hostage situation) -

Spirit: You’re mad.

Wind: Thank goodness for that because if I wasn’t this’d probably never work. -

(During the events of lu)

Warrior: Yes, the rum is gone.

Wind: Why is the rum gone?

Warrior: One, because it is a vile drink that turns even the most respectable men into complete scoundrels. Two, that signal is over a thousand feet high. The entire Royal Army is out looking for me. Do you really think that there is even the slightest chance that they won't see it?

Wind: But why is the rum gone?

(Later during the war of ages)

Wind: Captain!

(Turns to Tetra)

Wind: Hide the rum. -

(One Tetra’s Ship)

Sky: Zelda, will you marry me?

Sun: I don’t think now is the best time!

Sky: Now may be the only time! I love you. I’ve made my choice. What’s yours?

Sun: Tetra! Marry us!

Tetra: I’M A LITTLE BUSY AT THE MOMENT!

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu #linkeduniverse wind #linked universe wind #lu wind #linkeduniverse warrior #linked universe warriors #lu warrior #linkeduniverse legend #linkeduniverse four #linkeduniverse hyrule #linkeduniverse time #linkeduniverse sky #linkeduniverse sun #linkeduniverse tetra #linkeduniverse spirit

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aita-alternia · 7 months

Note

AITA for holding a SHITTY BASTARD FUCKWAD DIPSHIT captive in my hive until he FUCKING grows a bulge and explains himself?

I (9, M, blood color none of your business) once knew this useless fucking wet purrbeast of a troll (also 9, M, violet) since we were just out of wigglerhood. He remained a pathetic wiggler even in adolescence, but I guess I kinda liked him anyway. In some ways. He was fun to hang out with sometimes, and he always seemed happier around me, I guess. And he was always miserable and annoying but I thought that was just, y’know, fine?? I thought that was normal for him. He always said he was fine, and like, I guess maybe I kinda knew he wasn’t, but what the FUCK could I do about it if he didn’t want help? Then one day I got news from this FLARP friend of his that he’d gone and FUCKING DIED on me! Like a WEAK LITTLE DIRT NOODLE! Like a FUCKING SPONGEDEAD IDIOT! He was like, my best friend, I guess. Maybe more?? I’m not gonna elaborate on that for you fucking drama-hungry fuckmaggots. Feast on some other troll’s dysfunctions relationship-wise, that’s all you’ll get on that subject from me.

Anyway, I dealt with it, because that’s what you do when life deals you yet another crummy hand in this rigged game we’re all playing. It’s not like I haven’t had people I care about die before. So I pushed forward.

AND THEN 2 SWEEPS LATER, WHO DO I SPOT STARING AT ME FROM BEHIND A FUCKING TUBEFLORA WITH THOSE FUCKING ANNOYINGLY PATHETIC MOOBEAST EYES? THAT’S RIGHT! THIS FUCKING COWARDLY GRUBSHITTING CROTCHSTAIN ON THE FACE OF TROLLKIND FAKED HIS FUCKING DEATH! WHO FUCKING DOES THAT??

So I yelled at him for a few hours (I could’ve gone longer honestly, because really, again, WHO FUCKING DOES THAT??) and at one point he interrupted me to whine at me like the feculent shitbag scum he is about how I had been yelling for “so long that [his] auricular sponge clots [were] malfunctioning” which is UTTER HOOFBEAST SHIT! So yeah, I bit him on the face. And then I smacked him in his fucking insufferable worthless nookshitting face until I felt a bit better. Then I towed him into my hive, sat him down on the couch and told him he wasn’t leaving until I’d heard what I needed to hear.

It’s been like 2 hours now and still whenever he opens his flap all that comes out is a pile of steaming shit about how he “needed to fake [his] death so [he] could be happy,” which like, yeah, okay, I guess I see it! He does look… better. Healthier, I suppose. Maybe happier. Less like he’s about to send himself careening off the nearest cliffside, maybe. So I’ve decided to forgive him for that, even if I’m not telling him that. What I’m looking for from him is a FUCKING APOLOGY for making me think he was DEAD and not telling me he FUCKING WASN’T for 2 WHOLE FUCKSHITTING SWEEPS! He’s a worthless whining idiotic bitch and the words “I’m sorry” still haven’t left his douchebag lips.

Also before I get any comments about how I’ve “wigglernapped” him or some stupid shit like that, I’m being fucking hyperbolic when I say I’m holding him captive; the door is fucking unlocked and he knows it. I don’t even have my lusus guarding the door or anything. Yeah he probably couldn’t beat me in a fight, but I’m not gonna fucking sit on him or anything; if he doesn’t want to talk to me, then I’m not gonna fucking chase him! But instead of saying anything worth saying, now he’s just fucking around on his palmhusk like braindead shitspewing dunderfuck. I’m starting to think I should’ve just told him to fuck off, it’s like he doesn’t even care about me at all. Which is fine! I’ll live. It’s just… disappointing, I guess. I thought we were closer than all of this. But AITA?

#OH SHIT ^ GOOD FUCKING UPD^TE #THE DR^M^TICS! THE PLOT TWIST TH^T THE ^NON W^S NEVER HELD C^PTIVE TO BEGIN WITH!#THE WILD PITCH/P^LE V^CILL^TION THROUGHOUT!#I ^M C^PTIV^TED #am i the asshole #unreality

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chucklingpecan · 5 months

Text

if life is

a Journey

let's edit

the map

to excise

those feculent

byways

#poetry #poem #spilled ink

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mochegato · 1 year

Text

Even the Losers

Chapter 35

Chapter 1 Chapter 34

Dr. Greg swiped through the notes on his laptop as he pushed open the doors of the recovery wing with his hip, making his way into the waiting room through sheer muscle memory rather than bothering to look up. It was a trip he’d made easily a couple hundred times before. The waiting room was directly between the recovery wing and his office and at this time of night, it was always empty. Gothamites didn’t tend to expose themselves by waiting out in the open like a waiting room at night, not the ones that didn’t want to get caught up in a rogue attack anyway.

He'd only made it a few steps before a quiet snore sounded through the room almost startling the laptop out of his hands. He snapped his head up up and froze, eyes widening in shock for just a moment before lunging for the door behind him to stop it from slamming shut and waking everyone in the room.

Hand firmly in place keeping the door, and thereby his safe escape open, he scanned the room again, letting out a breath and shaking his head when he recognized half the occupants. Three Waynes. There were three Waynes in the waiting room sleeping… or at least appearing to sleep. He wasn’t entirely convinced they ever really slept. No, that would interfere with getting injured, though he wouldn’t put it past one of them, probably Mr. Drake, to find a way to get injured while sleeping.

He scanned the recovery room again, paying particular attention to every single detail. He’d never seen any of the Waynes in the waiting room overnight. The most he’d ever seen was one or two keeping one of the others company for a few hours in a recovery room. Overnight and in the waiting room was unheard of. It could not mean anything good and he was too damn close to being off shift for their drama.

“I’m not paid enough to deal with this many Waynes in one place,” he muttered to himself as he slid back through the door. He would just take the door on the other side of the hallway. It was the long way and forced him to walk past the break room, which he couldn’t get past without at least one conversation, adding at least another forty-five minutes to when he could leave, but it would be well worth it if it meant he could make a disaster free exit. He was only about halfway down the hall when he heard the door unlatch and rapid but hushed footsteps behind him.

He looked up to the ceiling, toward whatever deity still acknowledged Gotham and watched over her, with a petulant whimper because surely, he didn't deserve this, surely said deity would show him favor for all he’d done for Gotham’s inhabitants.

“Tell me about my sister,” a low voice demanded curtly.

He groaned loudly and immediately grimaced and checked the surrounding doors, despite knowing it was extremely unlikely anyone had heard let alone been disturbed by the noise. Assured of everyone’s continued peace, he glowered at the ceiling. He was never that lucky. Nobody in Gotham was. Whatever deity it was that still acknowledged Gotham, was a feculent, flagitious bitch.

He shook his head as he turned to face the youngest Wayne and opened his mouth to respond before snapping it shut. His sister? He would have remembered seeing Cassandra Cain on his ward. Why would they think she was? It wasn’t a mistake he would have expected from the normally exceptionally well-informed family.

It took a beat before he could formulate an answer. “I can neither confirm nor deny information about who is or is not a patient or any information about the patient in question unless expressly allowed to in their chart. What I can say is ‘hey, I haven’t seen Cass in a while. How’s she doing?’”

“Not Cass, you moron,” Damian growled and waved him off flippantly. “My new sister; Marinette Dupain Cheng.”

“New…” Dr. Greg’s eyes widened with something akin to horror. “There’s another one of you!” he whisper shouted.

“You must have seen the news reports,” Damian groused and crossed his arms over his chest. “There were a lot and went on for days.”

Dr. Greg rolled his eyes as he scoffed. “There’s always breaking news of a ‘new’ Wayne. I just tune it out now. Not to mention, I didn’t hear anything about whoever being a violent ass, so I figured it couldn’t be real.”

Damian opened his mouth then shut it again. “Not an ass, though she does seem disconcertingly cordial with Todd. But you seem to have missed the news of her taking on the Riddler and Black Mask. The encounter with the latter is what brought her here today.”

Dr. Greg blinked at him a few times. The sigh he let out emanated from deep within his bones and resonated through his head until he had to rub his forehead to alleviate some of the pressure. There was another one. He’d have to deal with another one. The hospital didn’t have the staff to deal with another Wayne, particularly one that appeared to be just as much of an adrenaline junkie as Mr. Thomas or morbidly disaffected as Mr. Drake, considering they were willingly going up against two of their worst rogues.

“Yeah, okay, that tracks. You know, you guys really should give us a heads up for things like this so we can make sure we have enough staff and supplies. Or, you know, request increased funding to acquire said staff and supplies,” he admonished tiredly.

Damian clenched his fists almost as tightly as his jaw. “You expect us to give you a heads up on when one of us is going to be kidnapped? How did you expect us to do that exactly? Consult an oracle?” Damian hissed at him.

Dr. Greg sighed again, this time much quieter, contrite. He raised a placating hand. “No, of course not. I meant when you add someone to the family, as getting kidnapped seems a rather frequent occurrence, as do ‘mysterious’ injuries you can’t seem to recall the origin of.” He looked at Damian pointedly. He’d lost track of the number of times one of Damian’s brothers had “accidentally” fallen into one of his knives.

Damian observed him calculatingly for a moment before nodding to himself. “Why do we not come to a mutually beneficial agreement? I will give you a heads up on any new additions to the family. A full history, personal and medical for your records. In turn, you keep me informed of their medical status whenever they are in a doctor’s care. We can start with Marinette. Now.”

Dr. Greg opened his mouth to respond but before he could form the words, he was interrupted. “He still can’t comment on patients,” Chloe cut in. She stepped forward until she was almost standing between the two, a quiet snap of the door latching sounded through the hallway. Damian barely contained the growl that had built up in his chest. “I believe his words were something like ‘can’t confirm or deny private, confidential information about patients or potential patients’,” she continued with a pointed stare at the doctor, hands on her hips as she glared.

Dr. Greg raised an eyebrow at her but nodded. “Something like that.” He turned to Damian. “And with that, my shift is done. I’m going finish my charts and go home. I highly recommend you do as well.”

Damian took a step forward, using an incredible amount of focus to keep from jumping at the man. How dare he suggest he abandon his sister! How dare he suggest Damian would be so cavalier toward her safety and health. “I will not leave while my sister is here, status unknown!”

Greg opened his mouth but closed it again at Chloe’s glare. “Right… I understand your position. As I said before, I highly recommend you go home, Mr. Wayne. There truly is no reason for you to be here. Good night.” He looked at him pointedly for a moment, hoping he would pick up on the underlying message, before offering a tight wave and quickly making his way away from whatever scene was about to happen, fully planning on stopping by security to warn them to make a sweep through the hallway soon in case whatever was about to happen turned into a screaming match.

Damian waited until Dr. Greg passed through the doors at the other end of the hallway before whirling on Chloe. His eyes narrowed into a deathly glare his father would be proud of. Given a few more minutes, he could have convinced Dr. Greg to give him an update on Marinette. But now, because of this harpy, he was no closer to knowing that his sister was safe and pain-free. He hated not knowing things, but more than that, he hated the idea that she was suffering and alone. And he could be in there at that very moment, if not for this termagant. “Eves dropping? Seems a bit beneath you.”

Chloe scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest, leaning back slightly to look down at him with a haughty glance. “You don’t know me. You have no idea the depths to which I would sink to ensure my friends are safe.”

Damian glared back at her, unable to counter that logic as it offered a concerning amount of similarity to his own philosophy, but not willing to stand down before her. “I would like to ensure my family is safe. She is my sister and we have not been told anything. We don’t know how she is other than she is in the hospital. We haven’t even seen her. We have no gauge. Is she badly injured? Is it just a few bruises?” He paused a moment and stood taller, setting his legs determinedly. “I am going to see her.”

“I told you she was fine… as much as she ever is,” Chloe amended. “That is all you need to know. As for seeing her,” she leaned forward to tower over him. Even standing his tallest, he wasn’t taller than her, especially in her heels. “…even your father agreed sleep is more important. So no, you won’t see her. Not tonight.”

Damian narrowed his eyes even further at her. “As you just mentioned, I don't know you. I don't trust your judgement or words. And given the information she gave us last week, ‘as much as she ever is’ is not a comforting qualifier. I want to know my sister is well. I want to see her well. Or, failing that, I want to see how bad she is to know how mad I should be. I will be seeing her before the sun is up.”

“Yeah, I'll admit being skeptical is probably a good call.” Chloe snorted as she leaned back against the wall. “If you wanted to know so badly then you should have been here. Like I was. I was a state away and made it here before you, so I got to see her. I made sure I did. And I’d say you should be very mad. He’s a villain. You should always be mad at him.”

Damian’s face, which had been getting steadily redder as she spoke, reminding him he hadn’t been there, was now darker than Jon’s cape. “I am always mad at him,” he hissed. “I want to know how mad I should be at her.” He motioned vaguely toward the room Chloe had indicated earlier.

“Her!” Chloe squawked, pushing herself away from the wall and straightening up in offense. “You’re going to be mad at Marinette? What the fuck for?” She stuck her finger in his face. “She’s the victim, you little shit.”

“Yes her,” he snapped and slapped her hand away, advancing on her with a glower. “Her for getting herself into this situation. Her for not staying where she was safe. Her for not letting us help her. Her for being so stupid as to go after him on her own. Her for risking her life when others could have done it. Her for trying to take away my sister before I even had her. Her for…” he stopped suddenly, sucking in a breath, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly as if suddenly realizing what he was saying and to whom. He turned toward the door again.

Chloe stared at him for a long time. Her eyes narrowed as she studied every muscle in his face, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers fidgeted ever so slightly, like he was holding back but couldn't quite control it. Finally, after a few tense moments, she clicked her tongue and cocked her head to the side. “Well then,” she started tone heavy but not quite matching the venom she had used for his father, “perhaps you should have been here to see her when she was awake. Then you could have seen Dupain Cheng with your own eyes without disrupting her and calmed yourself the fuck down.”

“We were… working with the police,” he hissed their cover story.

“Yes, and it took all thirty-five of you to do so,” she scoffed, letting a bit of the venom leak back into her tone.

“My father may have a pathologic tendency to adopt every miscreant who stumbles upon him in the dead of night,” he cut in, ignoring Chloe's eyes narrowing at the mention of M. Wayne adopting masses of children, “but we have not yet reached thirty-five.”

“…To tell the police you know nothing about Adrien or Marinette,” she finished determinedly.

“I know…” he started in apparent affront.

“You don’t,” she interrupted before he could begin to spout his defense. “You thought locking her up while Adrien was tortured was a good idea. You thought if you let her, she’d go in without a plan. You thought Marinette fifty-fucking-plans-for-Sunday-brunch Dupain Cheng wouldn’t have a mother fucking plan. You. Don’t. Know. Her.” She punctuated each word with a jab to his chest.

Instead of shrinking away from her sharp nail digging into his chest, Damian puffed it out further and stepped closer. “She is my sister!”

Her eyes rolled so heavily, her entire head had to roll to accommodate it. “Amazing that she’s only your sister when it’s convenient for you.”

“That is not…” He huffed and looked away as he fought to bring his temper under control. “I assure you, nothing about this family has ever been convenient,” he gritted out. He turned to watch Marinette’s door as though if he stared hard enough, he’d be able to see through it. After a few moments, he broke the silence again. “We were trying to protect her. There were too many unknowns. Black Mask is too dangerous. Locking her up was the best course of action to protect her.”

She stared at him again with the same look as before; a look like pieces were falling into place, realization setting in. The look was beginning to unnerve him. It felt like she understood something he didn’t. “Is that what you thought or what your daddy told you,” she asked, contempt tainting the words.

“That is the truth,” he responded immediately with a confidence even she could tell was false and a hostility that felt undirected.

“Is it? Are you sure?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. Damian pursed his lips and continued staring at the door.

“Such a fucking idiot,” she grumbled with a shake of her head but joined him in watching the door. She leaned back against the wall, letting a heavy silence permeate the hallway. After a few minutes, she groaned loudly. “You’re so fucking annoying,” she huffed out, keeping her eyes on the door.

“Excuse me?” Damian demanded. He finally peeled his eyes from the door to glare at her. “I’m annoying? What the fuck do you think you are? Hovering here like you have some right to be here. Like you have some business in my family’s matters. You are a bothersome, irrelevant, disruptive, intrusive harridan.”

“Awww,” Chloe cooed, grasping dramatically at her heart as she gazed at Damian in mock affection. “That might be the sweetest way anyone has ever described me.”

“I would not be surprised if that were the case,” he grumbled before turning his attention back to the door.

She snickered for just a moment before her smile faded into a grimace. “I used to be like you, you know. Believing my parent was the epitome of right. Doing whatever I had to to make my parent proud of me, pay attention to me… love me.” She shook her head, her eyes unfocusing for a moment.

“That’s why you’re so fucking annoying. I’ve worked really hard to not be that person anymore and you… God, you’re still right in the middle of it. I hate that fucking part of my history. And you,” she motioned toward him with a scoff, “you’re still proud. God, I was such a fucking idiot.”

“You still are,” he grumbled. “I know who my father is… and who I am. I know my father loves me,” he insisted, but looked away before saying the last part.

She scoffed louder. “Right.” She shook her head sadly. “Such a fucking idiot,” she repeated, her voice so quiet that time, it wouldn’t have been heard if the hospital wasn’t silent as a grave. “I was literally created to be the epitome of everything they wanted, and it was never enough.” Damian snorted almost imperceptibly, highly doubting she understood the meaning of being created the way he did. “For some people, it never will be. Nothing can be.”

“That sounds tragic for you. Try not to sob too hard about nobody loving you. The puffy eyes won’t help find someone who does,” Damian snarked.

She slowly blew out a breath and shook her head, mildly impressed with the insult. “At some point you need to figure out if it's worth it.”

“What’s worth it?” he growled at her. She was incredibly close to an intimate introduction to one of his swords. If he’d had it with him, she already would have before Dr. Greg bowed out. He just wanted her to disappear from the situation, preferably his life, but he was willing to settle for just the hospital with her pseudo psychology and half assed observations. She didn’t know him or his father… or Marinette as well as she proclaimed.

“Who you have to become to get them to like you,” she finished quietly. “I lost my sister for a moment.” She looked down at the floor for a few seconds. “No, not a moment. For a few years.”

“And all it took was completely changing who you are to get her back,” he scoffed. More evidence of her utter stupidity. He wasn’t about to change who he was. There was nothing wrong with who he was.

Chloe scoffed right back, but louder. “Oh no. I didn’t change who I am. I’m still the same person I always was… I just express it differently now.” She pursed her lips, her feet shuffling slightly as she worked through admitting the worst parts of herself to a stranger. “I used to use it to make other people feel small so I could feel bigger.

“But that’s the thing about making other people feel smaller. It doesn’t make you bigger or better, so no matter how much you do it, it’s never enough.” She rubbed her arms slowly like she was building up a barrier. “Ridiculous that,” she scoffed. “It's like physics doesn't even apply to interpersonal relationships. So why bother teaching me it at all? Stupid waste of time.”

“Maybe so you could learn concepts that a tiny, vapid brain like yours needs to know. Such as, weight remaining equal, the smaller the surface area the greater the force exerted,” he jeered with a condescending smirk, knowing full well she wouldn't understand what she had just said and be put back in her place.

“Well duh,” she scoffed with a roll of her eyes. “That's why you wear wedges to a lawn party not stilettos.” She smirked at Damian’s widened eyes. “Just because I'm hot doesn't mean I'm stupid.” She brushed her hair back over her shoulder, cringing slightly at the foreign feel of the lank locks. She’d missed her shower because that bastard decided to take Adrien and she’d been running her hand through her hair anxiously all night. If Marinette hadn’t already put that asshole in intensive care, she would have done it herself to avenge her hair.

“The point is,” she continued as if annoyed by the topic herself, “you’re never really happy.” She paused to give him that analytic look again. “Are you happy, Damian?”

“How childish,” he scoffed. Life wasn’t that easy or clear. Life wasn’t about being happy. Only a child thought so. A child who clearly had the luxury of not growing up like he had.

“Says the child,” she snapped back pointedly. “I’m happier now and I didn’t have to change who I was, not who I really was. I've always been a bitch. I'm still a bitch. I just use it for a different purpose now.”

“Which is?” he prompted, voice rich in arrogance. “What idealistic, naïve, banal purpose have you decided is worth it?”

“To protect the people I care about. I learned that from Adrien… and Marinette.” She took a step closer. “And if someone I care about suggests doing something that could hurt someone else I care about? I. Say. Something. Because even good people make mistakes. Even people trying to help, hurt. And usually, it’s the people trying the hardest to help us, hurt us the most.”

Damian narrowed his eyes at her and squared up against her, righteous indignation flowing through his veins. “Tell that to Adrien when he wakes up, if he wakes up: ‘Don’t worry, at least it wasn’t someone who cared about you that put you here.’”

Chloe whirled on him like an avenging angel. She had been patient with the child because he was Marinette’s baby brother and she would care about him being smote even if it was in a hospital where they could probably save him. “Adrien may take months to heal from this,” Chloe gritted out, her eyes narrowed to the point of almost slits, the blue entirely invisible. “But he will heal. He still hasn’t healed from what his father did to him and that mother fucker has been dead for five years. He may never heal. He may always have trust issues. That shit sticks with you. The asshole tonight hurt him, but his father broke him.”

Her smile suddenly turned predatory and patronizing. “Just like the shit your dear, sainted father pulled is going to stick with Marinette. Adrien’s father confused protection with control and love with obedience…” She stepped closer until she was looming over Damian. “And I’m not convinced your father is any different.”

Damian turned red as his entire body clenched. How dare she! How dare she compare his father to Adrien’s father. Adrien’s father was a villain. He used and disposed of people like they were tissues. His father was nothing like that. His father may not be overly touchy-feely, but he would never attempt to control Marinette. He would never harm her. He went out every night to the point of almost dying many times, to save people. People like Chloe, who was judging him for it now. It was exceptionally easy to judge from her penthouse suite.

“Everything my father has done was to try to keep this exact scenario from coming to fruition. If things would have played out the way he intended, none of this would have happened. Marinette would not have been hurt. Nor would Adrien.”

Chloe raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, not shrinking at the supposed mic drop. “And you still wouldn’t know about her, and she wouldn’t know about you. Are you really sure you want your defense to be that you’d prefer she was still getting lied to? That she wasn’t considered part of ‘your family’? That’s what you would want Marinette to know?” She smirked at way his jaw clenched and the skin around his eyes tightened.

Damian lunged forward but stopped at the door at the end of the hall slamming open. “Hey! This is a hospital. Keep it down,” the voice yelled, apparently less concerned with his own yelling than theirs. Damian turned to glare at the intruder, his ire not reducing in the slightest at seeing the security guard’s uniform. “You can either stop your bickering and move to the waiting room, or you can continue your argument and leave.”

Chloe huffed but nodded and started walking toward the waiting room. She was not about to let the arrogant little daddy’s boy get her kicked out of the hospital. But Damian bristled at the intrusion. “Do you know who I am,” he seethed.

“Yep,” the guard nodded, motioning toward the doors to the waiting room. “But I don’t think you know how shit this job is and how little I care about getting fired. Now, if you would please,” he motioned toward the doors again. “I say please,” he grumbled at Damian’s lack of movement, “but I don’t mean it. Move your ass now before I shoot it, which, granted, would be a punishment for me as well because then you’d be a patient here and I’d have to deal with you more.”

Damian growled at him but returned to the waiting room, vowing revenge on the security guard. He’d make him pay… after he made Bourgeois pay… after he made every one of Black Mask’s goons pay… he was going to need to make a list to keep track of all of his revenge plans.

Chapter 36

Tags:

@maribat-bdbwm @jayjayspixiepop @redscarlet95 @alice-hazelwood @deathssilentapproach-blog @unoriginalmess @alyssadeliv @emotionalsupportginger @frieddonutsweets @when-no-wings-do-broomsticks @toodaloo-kangaroo @colorfulmongerpsychicranch @iloontjeboontje @wolf-for-life @maribatserver @aespades @prettylittlebutterflie @imarivers8 @certainmuffinbagelcalzone @ritacrow-blog @unoriginalmess @demonicbusiness @kking13 @lady-bee-fechin @blur-of-colours @kittenmywaythrulife @kashlyn @loysydark @nerd-nowandforever @queenz-z @crazycryptidgirl @lilfuturescars @corporeal-terrestrial @ultimatetornshipper @maribat-central @maribat-calendar-events

#maribat #roynette #Even the Losers #bio!dad bruce #bio dad bruce wayne

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tgcg · 6 months

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TG: over hill and yonder dale the brave sir karkat rides TG: slayin dudes and coppin feels of salacious buxom brides TG: posterior pert at any sign where malignance derides TG: brave sir karkat

CG: WOW.

CG: SOMETIMES I REALLY THINK TO MYSELF THINGS CAN'T GET ANY WORSE. ALL AROUND PARADOX SPACE I HAVE SLOGGED THROUGH SOME OF THE MOST RIFE AND RANCID SHIT YOU COULD EVER BELIEVE. YOU WOULDN'T. IMAGINE!!!! SOME OF THE MOST FECULENT OF SHIT I'VE DEALT WITH. AND YOU KNOW WHAT? THIS TAKES THE PROVERBIAL DEFECATIVE CAKE!

CG: THIS IS BY FAR, WITHOUT ANY SEMBLANCE OF FUCKING DOUBT, THE MOST EGREGIOUS, DELIRIOUS, ETHICALLY FUCKED UP "BIZNASTY" MY PISS-POOR JOKE OF "FORTUNE" HAS EVER HAD THE AUDACITY TO SITUATE ME IN.

CG: AND I HOPE YOU'RE PROUD OF YOURSELF, BECAUSE THAT'S REALLY FUCKING SAYING SOMETHING! GRADE A WORK, STRIDER! THE CROWD GOES ABSOLUTELY MILD!

TG: his dudely bard a witness to the power of his claps TG: what claps you ask the rugged cheeks of his hellacious ass

CG: OH MY GOD, CAN YOU TALK ABOUT SOMETHING OTHER THAN MY ASSCHEEKS FOR A SINGLE SECOND?! YOUR MATERIAL IS AWFUL!

#davekat #dave strider #karkat vantas #homestuck #this is only half of what i wrote #comix #twin fantasy #finally fixed the misuse of troll slang in this 1

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morallyinept · 4 months

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Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 3

Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.

Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter word count: 4.9k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: Frankie and Jude both step onto the plane not knowing what awaits them. Descriptions of injury, blood, death and a plane crash.

Enjoy! 🖤

Chapter 2

Present Day...

Overhead storage on a plane is a pointless endeavour.

They say your bag has to be a certain height and width, and you go through that whole rule abiding rigmarole of sticking to a tiny bag - despite not being able to fucking pack anything of use actually in it - and the sucker still doesn’t fit in there just to spite you.

Jude shoves it with her fist, practically punching the bag in whilst having a mild breakdown in the process until she’s composed herself and slumps into the window seat and buckles in, tasting wisps of her hair in her mouth.

She’s seated at the very back of the plane; the last row that backs onto the emergency exit in coach, and will give off the subtle feculent stench of the toilets right behind her throughout the flight.

The faint cries of a grumpy toddler down the front somewhere can already be heard droning, even over the hum of the engine as the plane is loaded up with bleating passengers ready for the eighteen hour long flight.

It was an easy decision to make; an unconscious autopilot. Jude had some savings and decided to quit life for a time out and take a break from the aftermath of Nate's continuous infidelity. The destination was purely left to the spin of her old, antique globe on her desk, having racked up nearly forty-nine countries already in her career, and wherever her finger landed, that’s where she’d go.

It landed on Madagascar and that was it, decision made. Ideal opportunity for some relaxation, to forget that shit-stain Nate, and maybe take some photographs whilst she was at it. Or maybe she would just mellow out on a hammock on the beach for two weeks, forgetting the world and plying herself with strong drinks until she forgot her own name. She'd carefully packed minimal camera gear into her carry on regardless - old habits die hard and her camera was like a limb, essential.

She checks her phone one last time before switching it into flight mode. The constant barrage of calls from Nate has died off somewhat since her stark warning in the café, but he’s still haranguing her by text message, or Whatsapp, or via any other social media platform he can try and reach her on to just ‘talk to me’ or ‘give me another chance, please babe.’

But holding strong only works if she is strong. And that's questionable right about now.

The temptation to listen to him to explain his deceitfulness all over again has been there swilling around the sides of her bandaged heart and rational thinking, and rather than risk the fallout of letting the scumbag wheedle his way back in with his Machiavellian falsehoods - like he usually does knowing Jude's backbone is already at breaking point - it’s best to scarper and seek some clarity in a foreign sunny land and have some much needed alone time to regroup and plan the next course of her life, without Nate.

Plan B always sucks, but you definitely have to have one, right?

She scrolls through her Instagram feed; her thumb hovering over Nate’s profile, hesitating and then clicking on the unfollow button, followed by the block button. If there had been a button to Taser in the balls, she’d have clicked on that one too.

Jude's seat is moderately comfortable, with just enough legroom for her to sit cramped up without developing DVT. She glances around and observes fellow passengers stowing their carry-on luggage in the overhead compartments, some enduring the same frustrating battles as she did, and settling into their seats.

The air inside the cabin carries a distinct blend of aeroplane air - a mix of recycled ventilation and a hint of the disinfectant used to clean the aircraft. The subtle scent of lemons fills her nose.

She hears the gentle murmur of the flight attendants as they go through their pre-flight routine, checking the cabin, demonstrating safety procedures, and preparing for take-off. The occasional announcements over the intercom remind passengers to fasten their seatbelts, stow their tray tables, and turn off electronic devices.

The empty seat beside Jude is soon filled with a middle-aged woman embracing a plethora of gossip magazines to keep her entertained during the flight, to which she's thankful for; polite, strained conversation with a stranger that has absolutely nothing in common with you, and an unhealthy penchant for dried cheese crackers, is never an entertaining feat at thirty-odd thousand feet.

Jude simply puts in her ear buds and sets her phone’s Spotify playlist to uber loud, waiting for the classic rock tunes to fill her ears and block out anything else, and sits back in the seat shutting her eyes and grinding on her teeth.

Further down the plane in business class, Frankie drops his worn backpack at his feet whilst he fishes out the contents of his jeans pockets, glancing down at the oversized seat he’s to be glued into for the next eighteen hours or so.

Plenty of legroom is waiting for him and it’s a surprise, and a relief, that he won’t be cramped up in economy. Dustin had done him a real solid.

He zips up his pack after depositing his iPhone - which flashes up a number of unchecked voice messages from Eddie - his wallet and all manner of random things guys feel the need to carry in their denim pockets, such as crumpled bar receipts from months ago; a night out with Benny and Will and a few games of darts, and ultimately the last time he had seen Will.

Frankie’s mind casts back to them talking about how things were different now that Tom was no longer around to hold them all together. How there were less of them now to have bar nights with now that Santi was shacked up comfortably in Australia with his lady and her millions, and how Frankie had also inadvertently exchanged more of those nights out with the Miller brothers for nights alone in his Pickup with bags of powder as his only company.

As Will scratched away at the layers, trying to push his way in, conversations had turned sour about how different Frankie had seemed as his addiction metastasized; Will regarded him with a concerned look in his frosty blue eyes.

I’m worried about you, Fish. This ain’t like you.

It’s just a rough patch. I’ll get through it. I’m fine.

You’re not fine.

I’m handling it. It’s none of your business-

It is my business. I care about you. We all do. Does Carla know what's going on?

I'm dealing with stuff. It's my problem.

It stops being just your problem when it starts affecting everyone around you. We care about you, Fish. I care about you. But I can't stand by and watch you self-destruct like this.

Then fuckin' don’t! Frankie had simply snapped at him.

It followed a heated argument, a threat of spilling over into the physical when Benny warned Frankie to leave, and held his brother back as Frankie cussed him out for interfering. He usually wouldn't talk to a friend like that, the way he so belittles himself at times, and he knows that Will meant well, somewhere in the recesses of his befuddled mind.

But that’s the cost of addiction, in the end you end up with nothing and no-one.

In the aftermath of Will's expression of concern, an uncomfortable gap settled between them. It was a silence charged with the weight of unspoken truths, an acknowledgment of the growing distance that addiction was creating between Frankie and his friends. And Frankie left the bar that night to retreat into the safe confines of his own slow destruction.

In the depths of Frankie's life, an insidious force had taken root, spreading its tendrils like an unseen cancer. Addiction, the silent invader, had established its presence in the once quiet corners of his existence. It had started subtly, unnoticed - a small, hidden malignancy that grew and thrived beneath the surface.

The root of origin unknown, but the talking therapy he was forced to endure had convinced him that things had all finally gone to shit when Tom had died on that damned mission. The cherry on top of a mountainous cake of years and years of unresolved trauma carried over from his time in Delta Force.

Leaving behind the regimented world of Special Operations felt like stepping into an uncharted wilderness, once a bastion of discipline, had unfolded as a chapter of his life marked by growing solitude and abhorrent self-discovery. The decision to leave the elite forces wasn't an easy one, but it was one they all had embarked on together. Shit just got too dark.

The camaraderie that had defined his military experience became a distant echo, replaced by the isolating silence of civilian life. The transition was akin to leaving the tight confines of his cockpit and soaring into the open sky, uncertain of the turbulence that awaited.

As Frankie navigated the challenging terrain of civilian life after leaving Special Ops, his reliance on the Veterans Affairs system for support became a crucial aspect of his journey. However, what he encountered was a bureaucratic landscape that often left him feeling more stranded than supported.

The VA proved to be nothing but a labyrinth of paperwork, long wait times, and un-clippable red tape. Despite his sincere efforts to seek help, Frankie found himself grappling with a system that seemed ill-equipped to address the complexities of his post-military challenges.

He couldn't help but lean into the bitterness at how easy Will and Benny seemed to have found the transition. On the outside, their lives seemed far more rosy compared to his. They had each other to lean on, after all.

The system that was supposed to provide a safety net for veterans transitioning back to civvy life became a stumbling block, adding an extra layer of complexity to Frankie's journey. In facing the inadequacies of the VA, Frankie discovered an unexpected coping mechanism of his own which seemed to work far better - cocaine.

But it was one that spiralled out of control when he came back from Santi’s stupid mission that left him even more lost. In something he once dabbled in for a fun high now and again, albeit causing him to lose his license when he was caught smuggling it in for some extra bucks, soon became a daily habit that chipped away more pieces of him.

The bond that Frankie had sorely missed since leaving Special Ops seemed to rekindle in his connection with his sponsor Eddie for a while. Their alliance wasn't forged in the crucible of combat but in the shared struggles of recovery. The Special Ops ethos of "leave no-one behind" found new meaning in the context of addiction, and Eddie became the embodiment of that commitment.

But as Frankie delved deeper into the challenging journey of recovery, a subtle shift occurred in his relationship with Eddie. The once unwavering connection began to fray as Frankie found himself instinctively starting to avoid the very person who had been a crucial anchor in his battle.

The avoidance didn't happen overnight. It began with subtle excuses - a missed call here, an unattended meeting there. An extra shift in the workshop that soon piled on top of his already weakened shoulders. Frankie soon learned that if he kept busy, kept tinkering, kept his mind on something else other than the constant yammering thoughts about coke, then he wouldn't be tempted to give in.

Thus finding his own solution to his addiction, which was akin to slapping on a flimsy plaster over a deep gunshot wound - it would only be a matter of time before it fell off.

I care about you. But I can't stand by and watch you self-destruct like this...

Will's words linger in Frankie's memory like an indelible mark besmirching all the memories that he'd filed away as once good. He shakes his head despondently as he recalls the concern that seems to have faded into ignorance now.

It feels like a long time since Frankie's heard Will’s voice or seen his face. He bites down on the inside of his cheek.

He finds loose change, a shit ton of lint, and his sobriety coin in his pocket too. A small but potent talisman, speaking volumes about the milestones he's conquered on his journey toward recovery, even if it feels like a lead weight in his pocket most of the time.

It nestles comfortably in the palm of his hand, a tangible reminder of the strength he’s summoned to break free from the chains of addiction, even if he doesn't know where that strength has come from. Frankie knows without a shadow of a doubt that he isn't strong. Never has been.

The coin, worn smooth by the constant touch of Frankie's fingers, bears the tactile evidence of countless reflections and countless moments of considering just throwing the towel in. It doesn't seem worth it in the quiet masochistic tendrils of his thoughts.

He squeezes it in his palm tightly, feeling the indents of it bore into his skin. Six months and what does he have to show for it?

He runs his hand over the sparse layer of fluffy stubble covering his tired face, a physical manifestation of the days when self-care took a backseat to the relentless pursuit of an unyielding high, and he's just let it grow out now.

His jaw sets firm before shoving the coin back down into the trenches of his pockets and placing his bag in the spacious compartment above his head.

Frankie sits back in his seat buckling up, and a peppy stewardess, doused in way too much perfume that makes the insides of his nostrils sting and itch as he inhales, approaches him and enquires about what he would like to drink immediately after take-off.

He orders a beer and a bottle of water and sits back staring down the aisle from his single, plush seat, people watching as the other passenger’s faff around with their laptops and briefcases as they fill up the cabin, which makes Frankie feel even more like he doesn’t belong, in his scuffed jeans and faded salmon shirt and worn in cap.

As the plane begins to taxi, he looks out the window, watching the terminal and other aircraft pass by. The distant sound of luggage being loaded onto the conveyor belts and the low hum of the engines create a sense of morbid anticipation; a feeling that causes his fingers to shake as he balls them into a fist and takes a calming breath.

The cabin lights dim slightly as the plane approaches the runway, and Frankie settles in, ready for the long, arduous journey ahead.

Hours later into the flight, Jude stirs in her seat with the heavy feeling swelling in her bladder again, and excuses herself to her fellow passenger, who is crunching loudly on the unbuttered crackers, so she can get up to pee.

Well aware that this is the fourth such instance and that she’s probably annoying the fuck out of the woman, but when you gotta go, you gotta go.

The plane judders slightly as she makes her way towards the tiny cubicle that smells of stagnant piss. The mirrored panel above the sink reflects a condensed version of Jude’s image. She catches a glimpse of herself - perhaps a bit dishevelled from the hustle of the day's travels thus far - but something else lingers in her worn features.

Her reflection is sleepy in the small mirror and the heat of her cheeks paramount as she’s been overheating in her sweater whilst snoozing. She removes it, leaving her in a flimsy t-shirt, and sits down on the toilet staring at her battered Chuck Taylors and thinking idly that it’s probably time for a new pair soon.

Washing up, she glances at her reflection again, revealing the innate vulnerability she’s been trying to hide that hits her. It’s been a minute, since the break-up, that she really stopped to take herself in.

Pronounced tears well up in her eyes. She leans against the cold, metal interior of the cubicle, her breath shaky and uneven. The subtle vibrations from the plane match the tremors of her own emotional upheaval as it pours out of her, seemingly from nowhere.

Vile images of her and Nate in happier times plague her thoughts like sharpshooters as it all crumbles away. It was all bullshit wrapped up in pretty crepe paper bows.

The metallic surfaces seem to close in around her, mirroring the claustrophobic ache shoved in her chest where a heart once beat. Tears stream down her face, leaving streaks of mascara like war paint on her cheeks. The mirror, once a reflection of ordinary moments, now bears witness to the shattered remnants of her composure.

Jude’s hands tremble as she clutches at the sink, knuckles turning white with the force of her grip to stop her from collapsing onto the floor and screaming unrestrained like the toddler down the front of the cabin.

Her body convulses with the force of her sobs as she throws her arm over her mouth to muffle them, fingers clenching into fists, nails biting into the palms of her hand. It's a gut-wrenching, primal expression of heartache, the kind that leaves no room for pretence or restraint.

The slow, tumultuous purging of that asswipe out of her blood. Or at least the start of it anyway. It pulses through her veins like poison. Disbelief, heartbreak, and the indignant rage that comes with the sting of betrayal flood through her limbs; a future paradise shattered into a million fragments as she envisions punching the mirror in - she can’t bear looking at her face anymore.

The restroom seems to close in around her, mirroring the suffocation she felt when confronted with the undeniable truth fucking into another woman in their bed. A truth she had always known, but perhaps ignorance really was bliss for a while.

And where has that got you?

With shaky determination, she wipes away the evidence of her breakdown, acutely aware that the scars of betrayal will linger long after the tears have dried, a harsh velocity of time she’ll have to endure and navigate through.

Once back in her seat, her sweater stuffed in the overhead with her crushed bag, Jude glances out the window at the billowy dark gray clouds that are passing underneath the plane mirroring her own self-contempt.

She sees lightning flashes pulse like a camera now and again and rolls her eyes with a deep lacerating sigh. The plane rumbles once more.

It better be fucking hot when we land...

She asks for a bottle of still water from the passing flight attendant to refresh her cottonmouth, but they return with sparkling instead. Before she can ask for another, the attendant disappears off, hurrying down the aisle out of sight, and she’s left to make do with a tight frown.

Sparkling water tastes like licking TV static; such a pointless endeavour, but Jude drinks it anyway, the woman sitting next to her eyeing her oddly as she makes disgusted noises whilst swallowing it down.

Frankie sips at his third beer quietly as he watches a lame comedy film, that doesn’t even make him snicker once, on the screen to the right of his seat; his headphones plugged into it so only he can hear the sound.

He watches without any real enthusiasm, trying to pass the inevitable boredom that accompanies most of the commercial flights he’s endured in his life.

He’s still feeling jangled and all manner of anxiousness swills around him about being somewhere hot and isolated sooner rather than later, so he can throw himself into some work with helicopters - which admittedly has been something he’s looked forward to since Dustin mentioned it - and to forget his troubles and woes for a short time. A rest and recharge of those Morales batteries that have been running on empty for a long time.

His mind does that ominous thing of wandering into territories it shouldn't just to mess with him, and he realises he hasn’t heard from Carla at all since she’d left. He wonders if she had indeed been back to his apartment and cleared it of all her belongings; erasing herself from his life as though she was never there to begin with.

He’d arranged with Benny to be there, albeit through short, clipped texts, to ensure she didn’t cut up his clothes or destroy his shit like some warped revenge fantasy that women harbour when they feel they’re slighted.

It seems weird to think of her now as merely an ex too. At one point Carla was his better half, he’s sure of it. The half of him that propped him up. Frankie engages in unspoken conversations with the ghosts of his past love. Imaginary dialogues played out in the confines of his mind, expressions of sentiments left unsaid.

And it still seems odd to put it together and work out where things had gone so drastically wrong between them to the point they had ended up so far off course.

But he knows why. Knows it’s him. It's all his fault. All she did was have the audacity to love and care for him, and that makes it all the worse somehow.

He finishes his beer a little later, feeling slightly gassy as the bubbles rumble under his sternum, and it's soon cleared away by the pretty steward who offers him another, but he declines reaching for the bottle of water instead and holding in a fizzy belch inside his cheeks until she leaves.

The plane jolts again; this time a little heavier and the steward grips the back of the seat in front of him to stay upright. The smile on her face reassures him it’s just normal turbulence and she then continues on her way with his empty beer bottle back down the aisle; his eyes drop to her ass absentmindedly, tightly bound in her skirt.

Frankie's just swallowed another mouthful of water when the plane judders harshly again and this time his stomach goes with it completely. The seat belt sign flashes on and he looks up at it and its faint yellowing light seems like it’s burning slowly into his retinas.

While Frankie maintains an outward appearance of relaxation, a mild concern lingers in the background. The rhythmic bumps of turbulence become a reminder of the unpredictable nature of the skies; a reality he’s intimately acquainted with from his days in the cockpit himself.

But his eyes, scanning the cabin for the reactions of fellow passengers, reflect a nuanced awareness of the situation. The subtle tightening of his grip on the armrest betrays the reflex of a seasoned aviator attuned to the gradations of flight, even when occupying a passenger's seat.

The plane shakes harshly again and the heavy, grating sound cuts through all rational thinking.

It takes him a moment to register the sounds of screaming, and the sensation that the plane is now descending - and descending real fast.

Frankie looks down the aisle and sees the pretty steward with the ass on the floor in a heap before he’s blinded by the oxygen mask falling into his face.

The seat belt sign flashes on and although Jude’s already buckled in tight, the passenger beside her stands up and heads off towards the toilet, she can only assume. There’s always one, isn’t there?

Sighing, she rests her head back against the headrest and shuts her eyes, letting the loud guitar riffs fill her ears.

The unexpected jolting and commotion as though the plane is dipping forwards a mere few seconds later causes Jude to yank her ear buds out of her ears, one of them rolling out of her grip onto the floor, to be met with the sounds of screaming and hysteria.

The heavy resonances of the turbines and engines whirring seem to shriek behind her at a deafening pitch, and the smell of aviation fuel and burning wafts into her nose sharply.

Jude pushes against the seat in front of her with both hands for support as the plane takes a nose-dive forward on a dangerous slant; a wayward drinks trolley shifts past her sight down the aisle, clattering and making a hell of a racket as it goes.

The oxygen mask flaps in front of Jude’s face and she’s not sure how long it’s been there. She scrambles for it, panicking and fastening the elastic around the back of her head. Her fellow cracker addict is still nowhere to be seen.

Jude glances quickly out the tiny window again and the sight of the ocean coming up fast is the last thing she sees before it all goes black.

When a plane hits a body of water, it invariably breaks apart.

The fuselage splits, the wings crack, practically disintegrating for all intents and purposes, and the tail often breaks off completely. Essentially, it shatters fully on impact and often the fuel tanks will explode.

When a plane hits water, an incompressible fluid, the water hits back at it and causes the aircraft to decelerate. That's all fine and dandy for the plane, but your body is still "flying" at the same speed as the plane was before it hit water, and well... objects inside the fuselage becoming embroiled in a kinetic tornado, are about to make you decelerate too, in a very violent way.

Let’s do the maths, shall we? The equation F=maF=ma simply means that for constant mass, FF is proportional to aa, and so a bigger aa also means a bigger FF. A bigger FF doesn't sound too good, does it?

Did you get that? No, me neither. Basically, you’re up shit creek without a paddle.

Most passengers on the plane will die from blunt head trauma. If they’re lucky it will be quick. A quick bop and you’re gone bye-bye so to speak. Some will be fortunate enough to pass out before their inevitable death through sheer terror alone - lucky bastards.

If you haven’t died before or after impact, your chances of survival then become bleaker as time wears on. Head trauma is the most common fatal blunt injury in a plane crash, followed by injuries to the chest and the abdomen.

Thirty-six per cent of head injuries, and twenty-seven per cent of chest injuries will have associated cervical and thoracic spine fractures, respectively. A slow, painful death would await you as you suffer from internal bleeding. And that’s before you drown.

Remember, you’ve just crashed into the ocean, bub.

It’s all very doom and gloom isn’t it? But Frankie’s flight is currently in pieces, some aflame, and he’s swimming against the current, equally difficult because the impact has created a swirling whirlpool that keeps trying to pull him under within the vicinity of the main body of the plane.

His long arms are striding away and he splutters and coughs as he’s pulled under constantly despite being an adept swimmer.

His skin is burning around his neck; he can see a slick, shimmering gloop mixing in the water’s surface all around him and the stench of aviation fuel and barbecued skin fills his nostrils.

He turns back to see the water literally on fire, and is convinced he can hear some distant screams for help, before he dives under and swims away from the fires before he burns up with them.

His ears are ringing, his sight is blinded continually by water splashing over his face whenever he surfaces for air, and as he swims away to a safe distance, that’s when the shock bites into his body and begins the slow onslaught of trying to drown him.

The freezing stab of the water is what rouses Jude awake and she’s still fastened in her seat; the water pooling at her ankles, soaking into her battered Converse and rising.

She’s unaware at first that blood is blinding her right eye, as she rips off the oxygen mask and claws at her seat belt to unbuckle it frantically.

Oh God! Oh God! Oh Shit!

Jude glances across the aisle and half of the cabin is missing; she gasps out as she can see a couple of the passengers slumped over in their seats, but the rest of them are gone.

She can no longer hear the screaming toddler piercing her ears.

The water is rising fast and is covering her thighs now. She stands up on jellified legs and rushes to the passenger opposite and tries shaking him awake, but he’s unresponsive.

She tries another, but it’s fruitless. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows they’re already gone, but it takes her body a moment to catch up. She wipes at her face and the slick, ruby red that coats her palm panics her further as she observes her trembling hand that now looks like she’s wearing a scarlet coloured latex glove.

But there’s no time to dwell on the root of that blood loss now; the water is already up to her hips.

She wades towards the side of the fuselage in big, quick strides, climbing over seats with limp bodies strapped into them, and takes a deep breath before she jumps into the water on the other side of the gaping tear in the cabin.

Jude cries out as she feels something sharp rip at the back of her calf as she plops ungracefully into the water and begins to swim away, grunting and gasping with sheer terror.

Swim! Swim, come on!

She can smell burning and turns back momentarily to see flames on the water in the distance making the horizon wobbly and opaque through the smoke. She tries to call out for help, but she’s certain no-one is alive to hear her; her mouth keeps filling with rancid sea water as she splashes about frantically.

Jude bobs around on the ocean’s surface, her arms and legs kicking and keeping her afloat and calling out again for help. She shouts as loudly as she can, but is met with no response.

Whimpering, she latches onto a nearby piece of scorched debris and clings onto it for dear life. She wipes her face again and more blood rinses off in her hand. She feels all around her head and the searing pain makes itself known at the top side of her right temple in her hair line, just above her ear.

Shit!

Bewildered and panicking further in the process, Jude tries to scan the horizon behind her to see if there is anything, anyone; a hint of land perhaps that she can swim towards.

The thought of barely floating here on the ocean’s surface holding onto a small piece of rubble to keep her suspended births all sorts of nightmarish outcomes that her brain processes in a quick blur; the most notable being a shiver of sharks circling her below because they can smell her blood from miles away.

Her body is buffeted by the currents, causing her to grip onto the makeshift float desperately until she can't feel her fingers anymore, but the numbness doesn’t register.

Her heart races, pounding against her chest. In the midst of the chaos, a primal instinct for survival kicks in. She scans the vast ocean, searching for signs of rescue, grappling with the overwhelming uncertainty of her situation.

The taste of salt on her lips, the sting of the wind against her face, and the weight of her own mortality converge in a disorienting mix of sensations that render her still, frozen in her own paralysis of fear.

There’s nothing as far as the eye can see; absolutely nothing at all except for the burning plane wreckage that makes Jude’s wide eyes glow in terror.

To be continued...

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