#Jet Boot Jack

[thefreaklovesmusic]

Stevie Wonder - Don't You Worry 'Bout A Thing (Jet Boot Jack Remix)

[priokskfm]

#FREEDOWNLOADS #FREEPROMO #RADIOCHART Bill Withers - Lovely Day (Jet Boot Jack Remix) DOWNLOAD! My remix of Bill Withers 'Lovely Day' - available as part of my Mastermix 'Classic Hits Remixed Vol 1' album alongside 14 MORE HUGE REMIXES exclusively HERE: mastermixdj.com/product/jet-boot-jack-classic-hits-1-extended/ Скачать: https://ift.tt/0HcLZFg https://ift.tt/Igy8sew

[imagine-darksiders]

Angel of Highway 49

Chapter 7 - Guardian Angels.

Summary: You're not the selfless type, but life-or-death is a rare state to be in, and might even draw out your true colours. Optimus won't soon forget it.

Tags: Optimus&Reader, Cave-in, Missile, Explosions, Threat to children, Hurt, Whump, Protective characters, Fear of death, size-difference.

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Perhaps if you had made the effort to run this fast as a child, you’d have been granted that scholarship your parents were always wittering on about.

Then again, until today, you had no idea that it was even possible to heave your body onwards so quickly, and if it weren’t for the cumbersome wellies weighing you down, and the drag of two children being wrenched along in your wake, you’re half convinced you could break some sort of speed record.

The threat of death, evidently, is one Hell of a motivator.

As it is, there isn’t a thought in your head except for ‘run.’ There isn’t a sound in your ears beyond your own ragged, desperate gasps for breath and the tinnitus screaming to a staggering crescendo between them. Everything else is muffled, deemed unimportant by the rest of your biological functions that are urging you to focus on nothing except for keeping one foot flying out ahead of the other.

A muddled cacophony of noise is buzzing against your eardrums like furious wasps. Voices, indiscernible in your confusion, all clamouring over each other. You think one of them must be Miko’s, high and startled, but with her skinny wrist still trapped in your vice-like grip, she has no choice but to hurtle along in your footsteps.

You haven’t even noticed that she’s trying to put up a feeble resistance, scuffing her boots in the dust in an attempt to slow you down. But her effort pales beneath the strength you’ve been lent by your own adrenaline.

In your other hand, you’re towing Rafael behind you like a very disheartened kite, his sneakers flying over the ground as his vastly shorter legs pump furiously just to stay upright.

And finally, from the corner of your eye, you can see Jack’s mop of jet-black hair bobbing along on your right flank, barely keeping pace. His gaze is fixed forwards, jaw set nervously as you charge hell-for-leather at the entrance to the tunnel you’d come in by.

What had once seemed so reminiscent of a hungry, gaping maw stretched open to swallow you whole is now a shining beacon of hope, a pathway to salvation, even if that salvation leads to a crotchety old farmer on the other end of a shotgun.

Deep in the back of your head, there’s a mantra echoing over and over again, repeating its broken notion as your boots stir up clouds of dust from the cavern floor.

If you can just make it to the tunnel… If you can just clear that corner, it’ll be okay. You only have to keep going.

Keep running. Keep running. Running. Run. 

You don’t comprehend, at first, why the air is so suddenly rent asunder by a startling ‘hsssss!’ as of some, immense snake breaking through your muffled hearing and alerting you to a danger you haven’t yet seen.

It’s all the warning you get before a streak of silver screams over your head.

Eyes bulging, you sweep your gaze up just in time to spot the slender object as it hurtles towards the tunnel ahead, a fire blazing hotly under its tail.

You’d know the look of that missile anywhere. It’s the same one that had, until mere seconds ago, been sitting on the arm of the sleek, silvery giant.

There’s no time to think. There's barely enough to act.

Like a pair of lead weights, your heels suddenly come down on the path hard, burying themselves into the dust to fight back against your forward momentum.

Somewhere far behind you, yet not far enough at all, thunders a voice with enough power at its back to bring a mountain to its knees.

“NO!”

Fuelled by a concoction of privily untapped terror and the most baseline instinct to turn your back on impending doom, you let go of the children’s wrists in favour of whirling towards them instead, while at the same time throwing out an arm to catch Jack around his scrawny waist.

He hits your outstretched limb just as Miko and Rafael crash into your torso with two sickening crunches.

But any indignation they might have voiced about the rough treatment is forgotten the moment you wrench Jack in front of you, throw your arms around the trio and duck your head so violently that your chin knocks against someone’s-

B O O M !

You don’t even get the chance to scream.

As soundly as a slug to your gut, all the air is torn from your lungs in the time it takes to blink an eye. The world around you, above you, below you, and beside you is rocked violently on its axis as the missile makes contact with the wall just inside the tunnel entrance.

Agony punches out your eardrums as you’re launched forwards off your feet.

The explosion sends you crashing to the ground over the children, and a blast of suffocating heat sweeps across your body from toe to skull, singeing the fine hairs on the base of your neck and licking at your bare shoulders. Along with the wave of hot air comes a hailstorm of tiny, hard projectiles, rock that’s been blasted apart by the impact and drums at your body like a thousand stinging insects.

For a split second, you couldn’t say with any confidence whether you’re dead or alive. Then the hot, burning pain on your shoulder registers, and your wonderings are put to rest.

If you’d been any closer, you might’ve…

You think you scream then, though most of the sound beyond your own head is muffled and suppressed, and your vision swims as if you’ve been plunged underwater, making it very hard to keep your eyes open. But somebody certainly shouts, in a low yet booming voice that’s almost loud enough to cut straight above the discordant rumbling of a mine’s structure falling to pieces around you,

“-BRIDGE!” it hollers, “RIGHT NOW, DOC!”

You didn’t catch the preceding words.

Things have started to move, like you’re sitting right above the epicentre of an earthquake, but it’s the bodies squirming below you that coax you from your daze.

“Guh! Sh-… unf!” Sluggish and senseless, you brace your forearms against the ground and use what little strength you still have to shove yourself awkwardly onto your side, rolling your weight off the kids and wrenching your eyes open.

It’s darker than it was. Much darker. Dust chokes the air around you, blotting out the light cast by those strange crystals. It’s sucked into your lungs when you take a shallow breath only to near-enough suffocate on the fine particles of grit that try to come down with it.

Sputtering, you feel your stomach clench. Each hacking cough jolts your diaphragm, but at least the noise of your own struggle grows clearer and clearer as the ringing in your ears begins to recede, leaving an uncomfortable ache between them.

As if in a drunken stupor, you blink one eye first, then the other, squinting through the mire to see that Jack, Miko and Rafael are already helping one another to their feet, their motions blurred surreally, but even as addled as you are, you know that if they’re moving, they’re still alive.

Good.

If there is relief to be found however, it doesn’t last nearly as long as it should, because from out of the gloom, a pair of dazzling lights sear into existence, and a monstrous shape moves through the murk towards the kids like a shark through silt, swelling larger as it nears.

And then, the lights turn, veering sharply to the left and out of your eyes as the hair-raising squeal of rubber tyres brings the silhouette to a halt just beside Miko, flinging up dust and stones in its wake.

You have to blink several times to dispel the negative blots seared in your retinas.  

It’s… a truck. A juggernaut on four, heavy-duty wheels. Painted a shade of familiar… military-green.

A pair of neurons connect in your brain with a ‘zap’ and -“No way,” you croak.

Helplessly, you watch the vehicle’s back door pop open, and as you peer inside to catch the hand that must have pushed it open, your blood freezes solid, like hoarfrost forming along your veins.

Empty.

The truck houses no visible person, no face that might debunk the impossible conclusion you’re beginning to draw. Nothing but leather seats and a dark interior that sits devoid of another human being.

‘Would it reassure you to know that this vehicle is operated remotely?’

You clench your teeth, shrinking away from Optimus’s voice as it rises uninvited in the back of your mind.

The residual heat from the explosion is forgotten entirely to make room for the chill that sweeps up your spine instead.

And yet, with a fearlessness you’ll come to envy, Miko is already leaping through the open door and into the truck proper before twisting about to grab Rafael’s shirt, yanking the boy inside after her. They fall in a tangle of limbs across the back seats just as a rock the size of your fist comes crashing to the ground where they’d stood.

“W-wai-“ Reedy, weak, you can’t be heard over a resounding ‘crack’ that splits the cavern’s atmosphere in two.

Jack though, you soon surmise, had either heard you, or spotted you because he’s suddenly crouched down in front of your face, his pupils shrunk tiny in palpable alarm.

“C’mon! We gotta move!” he urges as he grabs at your arm and heaves your torso off the ground in a way that strains the bruise on your shoulder and leaves you gasping deliriously, “Get up! This whole place is coming down!”

And as if to punctuate his point, another rock, this one larger than your head, slams into the dirt just inches to your left. The suddenness plucks at your red-raw nerves and propels you up onto your feet with a shriek, finding clarity in panic.

“You two! Get in! NOW!” a raucous voice urges, belonging neither to the children, nor to yourself, and originating entirely from the grill of the vast, green truck.

Your tongue sticks fast to your palette. Every muscle in your body solidifies when Jack’s grasp on your forearm goes taut and, to your absolute horror, he begins trying to drag you towards the still open door of the vehicle, his trainers skidding awkwardly over the ground.

He may as well be trying to move a brick wall.

So potent is the ice in your blood and the terror dulling your senses that something deep inside you has weighed up the risk of approaching these titans against the risk of staying in a collapsing mine, and whatever it is finds that you’d rather face the latter.

Better the Devil you know, and all that…

“Jack! Hurry!” Miko urges him from the open door, slapping her palm on the headrest in front of her.

Grunting with effort, he screws up his face and promptly throws his weight backwards, nearly yanking your arm out of its socket.

The sudden jolt is enough to give you a start.

It’s safe to say you aren’t exactly thinking clearly, perhaps that’s why you wrench your arm from Jack’s sweaty palms so viciously, his blunted nails leave long, angry stripes down the length of your skin.

But the scuffs are barely a blip on your radar.

You’re too busy staggering backwards with your eyes fixed blearily on the massive truck, as if it’s a predator poised to pounce on you should you find the nerve to blink. It’s wrong, that truck. You just can’t fathom why the children have jumped inside it so readily, despite the cavern collapsing to ruin all around you.

“Get…” you start, croaking on the first syllable and swallowing dryly to try again, “Get out of there!”

Shaking his head in bewilderment, Jack takes a hurried step towards you.

“Jack.”

A monstrous rumble fills the mine, almost as deep as the reverberations themselves as the walls begin to split and the ceiling bows ever inwards.

“Go with the others, through the Ground bridge. Now.”

Urgent without being loud. Authoritative.

Horribly, awfully familiar…

Without warning, a monumental leg comes sweeping over the truck and lands next to the boy, nearly staggering him when it comes crashing to the ground at his side.

For a split second, you’re convinced that a particularly strange stalactite has fallen from the roof.

Tossing a rapid glance between you and the green truck, Jack shouts to be heard over the cacophony of noise, “But, what about-!?”

“Go.”

The boy’s jaw snaps shut as though he’s been scolded, and he spares you one last look, his mouth little more than a tight, reluctant line. Then at last, he blurts out a sound of frustration and spins on his heel, diving straight into the truck and almost landing squarely on Miko.

The heavy, green door has barely slammed shut behind the soles of his trainers before its tyres start to spin, madly gaining traction and peeling away from you as another half-dozen rocks plummet down to bounce off the metal roof with a series of ‘dings’ and ‘clangs.’

Grit and dust and stone is churned up into an even thicker cloud when the truck hares off across the disintegrating cavern, leaving you to face what’s to come by yourself, without even the children here to display your backbone for.

Paralysed, you stare through your tears after the blood-red lights as they fade away into the vapour, distantly aware that one of your arms is reaching out, whether to call them back or beg to be taken with them, you couldn’t rightly say.

The tunnel behind you that had promised escape is now choked with rock, the first route to fail after the missile’s impact.

And ahead of you stands a titanic leg – two legs, now that you look again - obscuring half of your vision, and you don’t dare raise your head to meet the very gaze you can feel boring into your skull like a drill.

There’s nowhere to run.

There’s nowhere to hide.

You’re out of ideas, options, and hope.

Trapped.

It’s a sickening feeling.

Evidently, the giant isn’t content to wait for you to look up.

The infinite pillars of metal bend outwards like knees, two towers of grey and black metal, interspaced by panels of cobalt blue that gleam too brightly in the darkness.

All around you, the Earth heaves a thunderous groan which is followed closely by another ‘crack!’ that rattles the teeth in your gums.

But through it all, through the roar of a cave-in and the shifting of several thousand tonnes of rock, you can still hear a voice from on high as it speaks to you, enveloping your chest in the force of its timbre.

“Do not be afraid…”

A spectacular idea in theory. In practice however…

For one insane, petrifying moment, you wonder if you’re about to see the face of God.

Stumbling another few steps away, you let out a sudden yelp when the heel of your boot catches on a large rock and you’re sent toppling over onto your backside, catching yourself on your palms and inadvertently looking up.

But it couldn't be God. Because you know that voice, the gentle resonance that hums through you from the tips of your fingers to the soles of your feet, as powerful as it is contrastingly placid, not unlike a tranquil brook that hides the most turbulent, treacherous vortexes under its surface.

Bent in half like the joint of a human’s leg, the metal limb hits the ground just a few feet away from where you fell, yet the shudder that rolls through the earth goes unnoticed. You’re too transfixed by the cerulean lights hovering over you in the darkness, twin stars standing side by side in a silver sky.

Your tongue tears itself from the roof of your mouth like stripped Velcro, and a single breath sneaks in past your quivering lips, filling each lung with just enough air that you can utter one, pivotal word.

“…. Optimus?”

The name leaves you in a strained whisper, but it couldn’t ring more loudly in the space between you and the metallic titan, whose strange, blue lights seem to grow inexplicably brighter at your utterance.

No sooner has the word left your mouth however than your brain immediately and vehemently tries to reject the very idea, deeming it far too absurd to possibly be true. It can’t be true. Optimus is just a disembodied voice who drives a truck, which is far more plausible than… whatever this thing is.

The cavern above you suddenly lets out another furious roar as the crack in the ceiling lances several metres straight across its width.

And still you remain stuck fast, gaping uselessly up into the lights that have you pinned like a wolf pins a lamb by its neck.

Leaden arms tremble and threaten to buckle under your own weight, yet they stay locked in place, even when you give them an unenthusiastic twitch. Belatedly, you start to wonder what’ll kill you first; The cave-in, the robot, or a goddamn heart-attack.

Motion. Too close for comfort.

Your eyes wrench themselves from the silvery face and snap down to a massive object near your left flank...

You almost swallow your tongue when you let out a sharp gasp, realising what it is.

A hand. A hulking, obsidian hand – half obscured by the dust – had been inching towards you, still is in fact. Five segments of welded metal stretch from a solid palm, each almost as long as you are tall. ‘Fingers!’ you realise with an awful lurch in your stomach.

It means to grab you.

That thought alone is enough to unlock each of your limbs, and you lurch away from the reaching appendage, belting out a howl of terror -

Which lasts for all of a second before the giant opens its ‘mouth’ and speaks.

“Y/n.”

It hits you like a punch to the chest, far rougher than the knock you received after taking a tumble from Tom’s back. In an instant, you stop trying to get your legs underneath you, falling completely, deathly still, staring hard at the hand that hovers just in front of you, its fingers outstretched imploringly.

With the simple call of your name, your proclivity for rationalising away the coincidences flies straight out of the proverbial window.

There’s no pretending anymore. You’ve heard your name enough times now, spoken in that deep, dulcet voice that you doubt you’ll ever scrub it out of your head.

And then, as if it couldn’t get any worse….

“It’s me.”

The robot’s mouth moulds eerily around the words in its borrowed voice. Two ‘eyes’ like dazzling headlights remain adhered to you, azure burning so brightly through the gloom that they’re growing ever more difficult to look at, yet to turn away feels so much like presenting your spine to a loaded gun.

Your world tilts sideways as something in your brain is thrown off-kilter. A faint spell.

Thankfully, it only lasts for a second before your head snaps upright again and your surroundings find their anchor once more.

Perhaps, you think, it would have been better if you had fainted.

“Forgive me,” the robot continues, hushed but quick and orotund, “I am afraid that explanations will have to wait.”

He – ‘It, it, it,’ you chant – doesn’t give you another second to catch your breath.

In the next blink, the hands surge forwards. One cascades past you at breakneck speed, curving behind your back to keep you from retreating whereas the other moves to cover you like a suffocating roof.

You don’t see the stalactite crash into its knuckles just in the nick of time, glancing harmlessly off the metal instead of your own head.

“No, no! NO!” you bleat, maddened with terror, scrabbling at the ground to drag yourself backwards, but there’s a hand hitting your spine before you can make it a couple of feet, slipping easily under your backside and scooping you off the ground whilst its twin closes in on top of you.

A memory springs up, jarring and unbidden, of the cattle you put through the crush a few days ago, their bulging eyes and helpless lows, how frantically they fought against the metal keeping their heaving heads pinned so Terry could vaccinate them.

They looked scared to death.

You wish you never left that fateful day with your tail between your legs, cowed out by a family who were better off seeing the back of you than they were to live around all of your failures and inertia.

One last broken howl shakes out of your chest as the appendages come together, sealing you in a dark, cramped space between a pair of solid palms.

You just hope that when death comes, it'll be over so quickly, you don't even realise it's happening. 

-------------------------------

Safety.

Optimus’s EM field sings with that one, crucial note, pulsing outwards in steady beats as it tries in vain to seek out and soothe your own.

He can feel you struggling, limbs fluttering against the insides of his palms as of some small avian creature beating its wings to try and take flight, and his spark creaks mournfully at the understanding that his servos are the cage you’re trying so desperately to escape.  

And yet in spite of his contrition, a wave of unabashed relief still floods the Prime’s circuitry like a balm to overheated plating, and something gentle clicks into place the very moment he has you secured in his hold, something that’s been niggling at his protocols since the night he found you alone on the road into Jasper.

If he had even a nano-second to spare, he might be inclined to selfishly savour the solace of having you close after almost losing you to Starscream’s malice.

The seeker fled before his missile even impacted the tunnel walls, leaping into a seamless transformation and vanishing with the blast of a jet engine, all while the Autobots were distracted by the sudden and horrifying sight of death barrelling towards their charges.

… Optimus hopes the Con realises how lucky he is to have turned tail rather than stick around to see the destruction unfurl. Prime isn’t sure he could have convinced Bulkhead not to rip the spark from Starscream’s chest if the seeker hadn’t removed himself from the equation in such a timely manner.

Primus, Optimus isn’t entirely sure he could have convinced himself either.

But even with Starscream gone, even with all of his focus honing in on you and the children, Optimus still hadn’t been fast enough, nor strong enough to stop harm from befalling you. Despite what his fellow Autobots and the children might think, he isn't omnipotent. He's lost far too many good mechs to ever consider calling himself as such. 

Primes shouldn’t dwell… but this latest failing will haunt him, of that he has no doubt.

He will not soon forget, however, the sight of you turning and shielding the children with your own body at the last possible moment before impact. He makes a note to thank you for that just as soon as he gets you out of here. But for as grateful and proud as he is, he only wishes you didn't have to be in that position at all. He should have been the one bearing the brunt of that explosion. Not you. Never you. 

He can almost hear Ratchet now, scolding him for trying to be a martyr. 

However, Optimus doesn’t have the luxury of penitence, certainly not now, when he has yet to ensure your safety in full.

He’s only traded one danger for another, but even without a Decepticon looming over you, you’re not much safer now than you were when Starscream’s weapon was drawn on you.

So long as you remain in this collapsing mine, your life still hangs in the balance.

And he will not have that.

Sending a wordless, apologetic thrum through the airwaves, Optimus heaves himself to his feet and whirls about, hurtling right into a steady charge across the cavern, following Bulkhead’s quickly fading tyre tracks.

Ahead of him, almost invisible through the tumbling ceiling, shines a vast, verdant swirl of familiar light.

Thank Primus the Wrecker had thought to call in a Ground bridge so hastily. He and the children are long-gone, safe on the other side where they should have been all this time. 

Now, Optimus just has to do the same.

Apertures narrowed to pinpricks, mouth set firmly behind his battle-mask, he launches his actuators into ferocious overdrive and storms towards the Ground Bridge, tucking his servos low against his chassis to further shield his precious cargo.

All of a sudden, a voice crackles to life in his audial. Ratchet’s.

“Optimu-!” But whatever his old friend might have said is cut promptly off with a squeal of static when a sizeable boulder strikes the Prime on his finial, knocking his head sharply to one side.

He shakes off the impact seamlessly, pushing his frame to the limit and never once letting his stride falter. He can hear the cavern swallowing itself behind him, thousands of tonnes of rock plummeting to the ground just where his pedes had last trodden, chasing him across what remains of the space and closing in fast.

Lower and lower, he has to duck as his shoulders are buffeted by the weight of an entire mountain hellbent on making him yield.

The Ground bridge’s light envelopes him like an outstretched hand as he hurdles a collapsed stalactite and reaches the edge of that empyreal glow. He can’t take his optics off it, not even when something whallops him on the back of his neck struts with the force of a thunderclap, not even when his legs buckle and his knees start to dip, and the tiny being in his palms lets out a muffled scream.

Out of time, straddling the precarious ledge between salvation and destruction, Optimus calls upon every vestige of strength he has left in his motors and funnels all power to his legs for one final, critical push.

With a tremendous kick, he hurls himself forwards through the bridge, twisting in the air as he flies over the threshold of the portal. For just a moment, he’s floating on his back, optics wide open to watch the writhing colours dance and spark over his head.

Then, not a moment too soon, the ceiling of light is replaced by a ceiling of familiar, rust-red rock.

When Optimus hits the ground, he hits it hard, nearly jarring his tanks up into his spark-chamber from the colossal force of the collision. Metal screams shrilly over concrete as he slides across the base’s floor for several metres on his back, scraping up his paint and leaving dark scuffs along the ground in his wake.

Yet throughout it all, by the will of Primus or his own self-regulated strength, Optimus’s hands remain steady, neither flexing closed not springing open, rigid and unmoving around your body in a way he prays will cushion you from the worst of the impact.

And finally, everything - the noise, the peril, the spark-stopping alarm he’s been warding off since the start of this whole, horrible affair – it all comes skidding to an abrupt halt when he does.

The momentum of his leap wears off at last, and leaves the mighty Prime laying supine in the middle of the Autobot base, blinking in stunned silence at the fluorescent lights hanging far overhead and listening to the wheels on his pedes spin slower and slower until they come to a stop.

There’s blessed movement in his servos, minute and delicate, and even with the ache in his shoulder struts and the frantic roar of his spark, he can’t resist taking a moment to twitch his thumb inwards with an infinite gentleness, eager to reassure himself of the presence of the human held inside.

Even when he registers the very clear jolt of you pulling away from his encroaching appendage, his relief doesn't waver.

He’s got you.

Of course, as it is so often wont to do, Optimus’s brief second of respite doesn’t last for very long at all.

“What-!?” the clipped, apoplectically incensed voice of his medic begins from somewhere nearby, easing Optimus’s flared nerves as a barrage of ‘outrage,’ ‘frustration’ and ‘concern’ all smack into his field at once, “-In Primus’s good name took you so fragging long!?”

[lordprettyflackotara]

Follow You || Prologue || Eyeless Jack

syn: Eyeless Jack has found himself becoming more isolated over the years, distancing himself from everyone and everything. He considers himself an unforgivable monster, one that shouldn’t be a burden to anyone else. After leaving Slender’s mansion and wondering aimlessly through the woods, he stumbles upon a drunken girl in danger. After saving you, he finds himself completely infatuated with you. You’re strikingly similar to him, even attending his old college. He battles an internal debate as he falls for you, deciding whether or not to burden you by staying. While Jack fights his internal turmoil, old enemies from an all too familiar college come out to play. Will Jack be able to defeat his oldest enemy? Will he be able to overcome his self conscious fears to save you? You’d better hope so, since the cult for Chernabog is back and you seem like the perfect sacrifice.

tw: depression

a/n: welcome to the beginning my loves. im sinking my teeth into this slow burn novel and plan on spending lots of time crafting it. enjoy :)

There was a certain emptiness that resonated in Jack’s chest. The kind of emptiness one can’t ignore or wash away. The kind that consumed your mind, body, and soul. The kind that Jack couldn’t escape, no matter how hard he tried.

Jack considered himself a very run of the mill person. If you took away the demon that controlled a majority of his life, he wasn’t interesting. On the inside he was still the same nerdy bookworm who loved the art of medicine. He hated that his one true passion was overshadowed by the monster he had become. Leafs crunched beneath his heavy boots, the dim moonlight illuminating his path. Jack spent nights like this, wandering aimlessly in the shadows of the night. He traveled beyond Slender’s forest, into human trails. He didn’t fear being seen, for his mask and ominous jet black hoodie concealed the freak that he was.

It wasn’t as if Jack hadn’t tried. He had tried to get better. To feel better. He did everything he could to flesh out his time. He even went as far as to become the mansion's doctor, signing himself up for twenty four hours a day care for any proxy or creep in need. Most of the time he saw the proxies, who tended to get wounded the most. At first he was fascinated, consumed with the notion that his work would be meaningful in the long run. That maybe with hands-on experience he would be able to complete his college education, even if it wasn’t in the traditional way. Jack soon discovered his wishes were too far from reality, a majority of his efforts being spent restraining himself from devouring the proxies' organs. He had lost count of how many times Masky or Hoodie had stumbled into his lab, with the same stereotypical gunshot wound or stab wound. Their injuries became like clock work to him, the smell of their exposed wounds beginning to not even faze him anymore.

Jack supposed this was a good thing, if he were to ever be around normal humans. He didn’t count on it, his hideous appearance one that would forever restrain him from living any form of a normal life. Jack cringed at the memories of his transition, his face twisting in disgust as he recalled his first moments of being reborn. Slaughtering and terrorizing the cult that had sacrificed him didn’t bother him necessarily, what bothered him was what occurred afterwards. With black tar trailing down his face and mangled flesh in between his teeth, Jack went on to attack and kill any breathing specimen whose heartbeat he would hear. This included many innocent’s houses, ones with babies and children. Jack’s stomach churned at the memory of how hard he had to fight himself to not tear apart the children's chest. At the time Jack had no self control and had no will to form one. It wasn’t until Slenderman found him that he managed to calm down. 

Jack was the first creep Slenderman found, even if the demon was in figurative pieces. Truthfully Jack’s loyalty to him was founded once the supernatural creature taught him self control in his new form. Jack knew that the entity was far from a good being. Logically he knew he was most likely a science project for the blank faced creature who walked the Earth alone. As time went on and he founded the mansion, his proxies, etc, Jack knew Slendeman wasn’t a good being. He wasn’t some guardian angel. He was a monster who thrived off of power. He may have logically known this, but due to The Operator unintentionally saving Jack from slaughtering hundreds upon hundreds of innocent beings, he was a devoted follower who gave him his loyalty willingly. The Operator was not a fan of Jack’s existential crisis. Although he respected the eyeless man, he could never understand the humanity that stuck with him even in his new form. Jack and him were like opposite sides of a coin, never quite understanding the other but more similar than they truly could comprehend.

Jack shook his shoulders, attempting to stop his thoughts from spiraling again. This is how it always went. The demon would recall his horrific and boring life, then question how it started, then rinse and repeat. Sometimes his wandering thoughts varied to his relationships with others. Like how in an odd way he was fond of the ghost girl Sally or how much he despised hearing Jeff speak for more than ten seconds. Somehow he had landed himself in a position where they were his only friends, even if he couldn’t stand the pale faced killer. 

These late night walks were always just for pondering, Jack trying to get himself on some form of a schedule when it came to his meals. As time progressed he realized there was no way around it and no way over it: he had to consume human organs. He had tried everything. Animal organs, any and all kinds of blood, human food, human organs that were kept at the hospitals nearby. He even tried to starve himself to death. He found that nothing satisfied him more than harvesting fresh organs no matter how much he hated it. No matter how much Jack despised the craving that controlled his life, he was a slave to it. His attempts at starvation were pointless, the demons rampage far worse if he was starving. So Jack tried to be as humane as possible, even if it caused him more physical problems then it may be worth it to others. He killed at the beginning of the week, preserving his meals throughout the week. The rest of the week he spent his time like this, aimlessly pondering and allowing himself to be consumed with his thoughts and regret.

Usually these nights went just like this, uneventful and in the end nothing productive could be said about them. He knew he’d go home, only to have a proxy to patch up or Jeff to bug him to death. While trivial and unamusing, Jack had accepted his fate. He was doomed to an eternity of gore and mundane tasks, just to fill up the endless time. After all, isn’t this what he deserved? Didn’t he deserve to-

Sniff sniff.

Unable to control his nose twitching he froze, the forest seemingly falling silent. Jack inhaled deeply, attempting to place the source of the scent. It wasn’t one he was unfamiliar with, quite the contrary. The sweet metallic scent of human blood flooded his nostrils, the demon inside of him unable to contain its satisfaction just from the mere smell. He turned his head towards the direction of the smell, inhaling once more. Although he should’ve been hauling himself in the opposite direction, Jack couldn’t have been anymore intrigued. A wounded human in this neck of the woods? How far away from civilization could one have mindlessly stumbled? 

More sinister theories began to emerge from the darker parts of his mind the longer he pondered. Were you a victim of violence? Being dumped and left in the forest to rot? Jack shivered at the thought, this time focusing on his acute sense of hearing. To his surprise he only heard one heartbeat, although faint. Before he could stop himself he was hauling his body over to the source. His curiosity had gotten the best of him, all logical and rule following gone out of the window. Jack didn’t enjoy many things about his being, but he did enjoy his speed. With his height and animalistic abilities, his unnatural speed was much faster than any other being he had encountered this far. The metallic scent was a trail he could follow without any trouble, his feet carrying him to his mystery. 

Jack wasn’t sure what he had anticipated on seeing. The blood was fresh, but you weren’t oozing with the stuff either. He came to an abrupt halt at the sight of you, the human in question. In a small clearing with the moonlight’s grace, he was able to make out your small form. A backpack was strapped to your back, your hair tangled and messy. Your makeup was smudged, your knees bleeding from a presumed fall. In your hand was a large stick, one you were struggling to even hold correctly. Your soft doe eyes were narrowed with fierceness, focused on the wild animal before you. A stray coyote, one thin and battling with starvation Jack presumed, was circling you like worthless prey. Jack hadn’t accounted for his affect on the ecosystem of this forest, but perhaps he had gone a little too out of hand with his hunting.

He could make out the coyotes bones through its fur, its teeth snarled as it growled at you. Jack could hear the pounding of your heartbeat, the way it smacked against your ribcage. Although he knew he may be hanged for his crime of exposure, Jack found himself stepping out of the shadows. An animalistic growl brewed in the bottom of his throat, his teeth bared beneath his mask. The coyote’s attention was immediately diverted to the demon, who stood tall and dangerous as he intimidated the animal. The coyote visibly shuddered at the sight of Jack, turning on its heels and darting off into the forest. A small sigh of relief left Jacks lips. He wouldn’t need to traumatize you by tearing apart a live animal before you. His gaze returned to you, your eyes widened with fear. You stumbled backwards, your back hitting the tree.

With each step Jack took towards you he could smell the scent of alcohol getting stronger. Ahh, a drunk college student. “It’s not smart to be here this time of night,” Jack said, his voice deeper than he intended it to be. His noted the way your face relaxed at the sound of his voice. “Who made youuu the ruler of the forest?” You slurred, unsteadily propping yourself up against the tree. Jack cringed at the sight of dirt and filth coating your open wounds on your legs, swallowing as he approached you. “I don’t flatter myself that much. What’d you do to yourself?” He questioned, pointing at your knees. At the sight of his gray skin you stumbled towards him, your touch warm and soft as you grabbed his hand. “Ohhh you have argyria. That must suck,” You mumbled. You must’ve assumed Jack couldn’t hear your comment. Maybe he couldn’t have, if his hearing wasn’t so acute. He hesitated as you examined his skin, seemingly amazed to see it. Arygria did in fact make one’s skin a gray color, but no where near as dark as his. Had you only read about it?

“How do you know what argyria is?” Jack found himself asking. Of course he knew what it was, medicine was his bread and butter. He wasn’t trying to judge you based on appearances, but you were a drunken girl in a skimpy dress in the middle of a forest at a presumed two am. “I study medicine, sir. I’m gonna be a doctor one day!” You proclaimed, a goofy smile spreading across your lips. A college student. It was slowly making sense, even if Jack couldn’t reason why you were stranded in the middle of no where like this. He ignored the way his stomach jumped at being called sir, pulling his hand away. “Thats great. Do you know which direction you came from? You need to go home,” Jack said, diverting the conversation to go in the direction it should go. Maybe he wouldn’t technically be breaking any rules if you didn’t recall this conversation in the morning. That had to count for something, right? You giggled as you put your hand over your eyes, spinning in a circle. You out stretched your arm, extending your pointer finger. 

Jack watched curiously as you drunkenly landed on a random direction when you finally came to some form of a halt. “That way!” You declared, a wide grin on your face. Jack tilted the head to the side as you stumbled in the random direction, awkwardly tripping over your own feet and falling onto the ground. He watched your consciousness slip away, your captivating eyes fluttering shut. Your pulse and heartbeat were still even, your breath not shallow. He tilted his head to the side, studying you as if you were a puppy. He looked both directions, ensuring there were no observers before he picked you up. Carelessly he threw you over his shoulder, carrying you as if you were as light as a feather. Jack had intended on patching you up and being on his way. Truthfully, that was his plan. Little did he know he signed up for far more than he bargained for.

[figbarofknowledge]

Spoilers for the Minecraft Movie if you haven’t seen it and are planning to!

The following is a list of actual, real things that happen in this cornerstone of cinema.

-Jack Black (Steve), unprompted, sings a song about boiling chickens alive in lava

-Steve is implied to have spent the majority of his career selling doorknobs

-A malfunctioning jet pack destroys the beloved mascot of a potato chip factory

-Jason Momoa and Jack Black have to assume the 69 position, which they refer to as a man sandwich, to fit through a gap in a wall while hangliding

-The main villain unsuccessfully tries to stab Jack Black three consecutive times

-Jack Black owns swiftness boots that don’t exist in-game

-TNT appears at least twice and is never used

-Four YouTubers appear and have a collective 0 lines. They’re all in the background of a scene where Jason Momoa, a bankrupt, disgraced retro game store owner, bets $900 at a storage unit auction.

-Jennifer Coolidge plays a divorced high school principal who hits a villager with her car

-Jennifer Coolidge goes on a date with said villager, who she assumes is Swedish

-In a post-credits scene, Jennifer Coolidge has taught the villager to speak English, and he is voiced by Matt Berry.

-A self-insert piglin named General Chungus played by the director, Jared Hess (best known for Napoleon Dynamite), genuinely uses the word “unalive”

-The main gang celebrates upon defeating the piglins, despite the fact that piglins are shown to be an oppressed race of enslaved gold-miners with complex societal structure

-The main villain is motivated to destroy all creativity because her avant-garde dance technique was lost on the audience at Nether’s Got Talent, and her father disapproved of her aspirations.

-They don’t go to the end in this movie. 3 dimensions are visited in total, including the real world, but the end (so called because it is the End of the Video Game and the finale of its progression) is not at the end.

-This is possibly because they are setting up for a sequel film featuring Kate McKinnon as Alex.

[omniblades-and-stars]

satinalia???? Tell me all about Selae’s bad choices

Listen ... Listen ... Listen! If Selae's bad decisions had ended with what happened at the Satinalia ball, their life would be less complicated and this would just be a funny story to tell. Of course, this wouldn't be Selae's Stupid Soap Opera Life™️ if they only made the one bad choice. But what's the point of a masquerade ball if not to misbehave and make poor choices?

Anyways, I've been posting wayward little tidbits the last couple of days. Here's a more substantial chunk.

Nobody put on a Satinalia feast quite like Antivans. A week long celebration, it was a nonstop party, resplendent with beautiful gowns and suits, decorative masks, satirical puppet shows, mouthwatering food, and copious drinks. And the party in Antiva City? Wrists clinked with costly gold and and silver bangles, silk and satin decorated skirts and jackets, and glass beads shone from masks hiding wine-rouged cheeks. Attendees glittered underneath chandeliers as if they themselves were cut from the most elegant gems. There were some who would call it a shameful excess, with all of the good wine, good food and gaudy costumes and jewelry on display. The people complaining about the lavish waste were likely not Antivans. As a nation, Antiva was not well acquainted with shame. Even Selae de Riva, an assassin who might have been described as overly suspicious and sober by their more generous colleagues, was far from sober and allowed themself the pleasure of getting lost to the festivities on that night. Attending a ball in a city they rarely had cause to be in, and masked at that, allowed them a fraction of anonymity large enough for them to drop the pretense of seriousness that they donned like a brigandine jack. Trading one mask for another had its benefits. That they needn't worry about the sorts of power struggles and backstabbing games played by Crows was the largest by far. They looked forward to Satinalia every year, taking great pains to come up with their own unique mask design even. This year, their tailor had outdone herself in its execution. Their party mask was carmine velvet stretched over a rigid frame that sat over their eyes, and tied behind their head with a matching red ribbon. Their mask was decorated with flowers made of silk, Antivan poppies in their hues of red and orange, sewn along the upper edge of the mask. Small verdant crystal beads embroidered the body of the mask in twisting leaves and stems. It stood out against the shining silver-gray fabric of their dress coat, with its long tails and dark onyx buttons. Embroidered along their collar and sleeves were carmine poppies to match. Their trousers were jet black samite, their boots similarly dark, but with polished, engraved silver laid over the toe and heel. Another benefit was drinking the mulled wine with little worry that it was poisoned. Fragrant and warm, it was the perfect accomplice to frivolity. And judging by the heat emanating from their cheeks and the involuntary smile sitting half-cocked on their lips, they had already over-indulged in it. A fact that did not dissuade them from refilling their glass again. They walked along one of the many wide banquet tables, eyeing the many dessert dishes. Sugar-plums, candied dates, an assortment of cakes so colorful and varied they found themself arrested by indecision. They stood on their toes to get a better view of the table. There! Along the other side of the table were small plates of tiramisu, just out of reach. Or, out of reach of anyone who might be interested in maintaining a hint of decorum. With their tongue sticking out of the corner of their mouth, they set their glass down and raised up to their toes - being a somewhat vertically challenged elf, it still left them stretching across the wide table as if they were about to attempt an impressive feat of acrobatics, and not snatch a dessert to eat hastily in a corner like some sort of pest animal in an alley way. "Would you like some help, or will I be treated to the very amusing spectacle of you falling into several different pastries and cakes?" a voice, rich and sensual like curling tobacco smoke, teased with a chuckle from behind them.

[wsjyuyuyuau]

What is Samurai Jack like in your AU?

Name: Samurai Jack

Series: Samurai Jack

Gender: Male

Status: Alive

Family: None as of Now

Flower Motif: White Cherry Blossom (Cerasus serrulata)

Flower Meaning: Fleeting Beauty

Weapon of Choice: Katana

Associated With: Interdimensional Hero Club (Ally)

Hero Form Appearance: A truly unique combination of a samurai’s armor and YuYuYu’s Hero Form Outfits. The undersuit of the outfit is a jet black, which helps the white and the pale pink of the main outfit pop even more. The main outfit starts out silver at the top, white in the middle, and a pale cherry blossom pink at the end of the sleeves, pants, and the tailcoat. The accent colors are gold, black, red, and magenta (This one is in small amounts), with the boots, obi, and the gloves having cherry blossom themed patterns. The only other accessory Jack wears is a hair tie that looks exactly like a cherry blossom.

Full Bloom Gauge Location: Stomach

Guardian: Takauji (Based on Ashikaga Takauji)

Favorite Food: Temaki Rolls

Parallel To: None

Bio: Jack, also known as Samurai Jack, is the alias taken by a Japanese warrior who acts as the titular protagonist of the cartoon Samurai Jack. Sent to the far, far future by the villainous Aku, Jack battles his way to the past to try and stop his foe.

[alpineshift]

let's goooo with 21! 💕

your wish is my command 💕💕 (I made this kind of spooky, I hope that's okay! I was feeling the vibes 👻)

[21] a chilly cave hidden behind a waterfall

The energy is strange here.

Nico doesn't know how to explain it; it just is. Ever since they'd set up camp at the edge of fjord and put the pegs of their research tents in the earth, Nico has felt watched the whole time.

Not in a stalker kind of way. But observed, unnervingly like a specimen under a microscope, his every move scrutinized with scientific curiosity and his every breath measured against a scale he doesn't understand.

The others don't seem to notice. Jack, especially, is in chipper spirits in spite of his absolutely heinous jet lag. He's chugging coffee like it's water, and driving Luke crazy with the speeds at which they're depleting their instant mix.

"Ration restock isn't for another three weeks," he'd snapped, snatching the bag from a pouting Jack's hands. "Stop drinking everything."

Jack's restless, almost maniacal energy quickly becomes Nico's problem, day and night, because nobody can keep up with Jack's enthusiasm for exploration. (Not that anyone does know what goes on in their shared tent either. Luke especially doesn't need to know.)

Nico can see the relief in the team's eyes when he volunteers them to take on the cave behind the waterfall. It's a trek up the cliff, a ways away from camp, and not a particularly appealing site. But it needs to be mapped, Jack's excited, and Nico figures a couple hours spent hiking will be a good workout for them both.

"Can't wait to get some samples in these babies," Jack says happily, wiggling the little cooler at Nico as they heft themselves up behind the icy spray. It's fucking cold, the bone-biting kind of chill, and the cave is dark and wet and makes Nico feel like they've entered another dimension.

"Careful," he cautions, glancing at the deep, undisturbed pools scattered around them. Natural sunlight is scarce, leaving the cave in a sad gloom. Jack waves him off; he's already somehow missing the red waterproof cuff on his left sleeve, either lost somewhere on the mountain or lying in his cot back at base.

Nico sighs, fond, and opens his mouth to offer his own cuff for Jack, but his (boyfriend? fwb? coworker? best friend?) research partner has already spotted a particularly favoured spot and is happily digging through lichen for samples.

The white noise of the waterfall fades away as Nico wanders deeper into the cave. There's a strange muffling effect around him as he walks, dampening his steps around the pools. These ones are deeper, darker, older. Nico shivers. His skin is buzzing. He's agitated--something is just off about this cave.

His boot slips on a damp section of rock, and Nico curses as his whole foot sinks into a pool and dislodges a few stones in the water. The rocks tumble away, piece by piece in slow motion, towards the bottom of the pool.

That's when the spot of colour catches Nico's eye, and every part of him seizes up in fear--and the realization that something is very, very not right.

Tucked between the freshly surfaced rocks, even though there was no possible way it could be here, is a very familiar red waterproof cuff.

it’s almost hockey season again! send me a jacknico prompt?

[ladyantiheroine]

You Love It When I Burn

Summary: After saving Luis's life, Ada decides to punish him for his lackluster job delivering the Amber. Read on AO3.

Pairing: Ada Wong x Luis Serra

Warnings: Painplay, cigarettes, burning skin

Word Count: 3.2k words

Tags: Femdom, dom/sub undertones, bondage, cunnilingus, oral sex, face-sitting, orgasm-edging, orgasm denial, hair-pulling, leg-humping, come eating, boot worship, masturbation, post-canon.

“Ay, mi cabeza,” Luis mumbled.

Before he even opened his eyes, Luis felt an aching pain as he crawled back to consciousness. There was a sharp pain in his chest that sent his memories flooding back. 

He’d been struck from behind. One moment he was leaving the elevator with Leon, the next he was coughing up blood. The only thing left he could recall but the darkness overtook his eyes was Leon Kennedy’s grieving face above him.

He should have been dead. So why wasn’t he? Perhaps he was in Heaven. Or worse…

Luis opened his eyes, expecting to be greeted with pearly white clouds or licking hellfire. Instead, he was greeted by the night sky through a closed window. The only fire he saw was the candles burning on the end table by the velvety bed he was sprawled on.

He recognized this room. It was one of the bedrooms in the castle. The same room just hours ago when she saved Leon from getting choked to death by some towering priest figure.The same room where Wesker had brought her after the virus knocked her out. 

He felt a cold breeze that made him shiver and glanced down at himself. His clothes were gone, save for his underwear, and his bullet wound was wrapped in a bloody bandage.

He was alive.

Luis sighed loud in relief. But his relief was momentarily, as he realized that he couldn’t move his arms. He pulled and tugged and saw that his wrists had been bound to the bed posts by sturdy rope.

“ Joder ,” Luis hissed. Maybe he was going to die after all. Los Illuminados would carve him up like a pig. They’d pump him full of Plaga until every blood cell in his body was pitch black.

Then he heard a voice.

“About time you woke up,” it said. 

Luis could recognize that voice anyway. The deadpan, the mocking undertone, the sultry attitude that licked at your ears.

“Ada,” he said.

Ada stepped out from the doorway. Her leather heels clicked against the wood floor as she approached the bed. The heavy door echoed shut behind her.

“You seem to be healing,” she said. Her eyes examined the bloody bandage. “With a bit of effort from you, I won’t have to carry you down the stairs.”

“What exactly happened to me?” Luis asked. 

“You were stabbed in the back. By Jack Krauser.”

“Krauser?” Luis said. His name sounded like something you put on a sandwich. “That brutish bastard.”

“He was Leon’s mentor. Trained him back in the States. He was the one who captured Ashley Graham.”

“Jesucristo,” Luis said. “Is Ashley okay?”

“She is now,” Ada said. “And so is Leon.” Something passed over her face. “Last I checked, they were taking a jet ski far from here.”

Luis sighed a deep breath of relief.

“Thank God,” he said. “I’m so glad they’re okay.”

“Once Leon had Wesker distracted, I brought you back here. You passed out for a bit, but you were just barely alive. Managed to stitch up the wound and stop the bleeding just before I lost you.”

“Excellent,” he said. “I forgot just how many skills you have up your sleeves, Ada. Besides running in those boots.”

Luis tried to move, but the ropes on his wrists and ankles held him back.

“Ah,” he said. He gave Ada an impish smile. “Is this a little surprise for me? You know how I feel about being tied up.”

He pulled at them again, grunting against the effort. Another one of Ada’s secret skills was tying knots, and Lord did she make them tight.

“Well, my wounds feel better,” Luis said. “So what are the ropes for?”

Ada walked around the bed to Luis’s right side. She looked down at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read.

“I’m not impressed by your performance these past few days, Luis,” she said. “It took you way too long to deliver that Amber to me.”

Luis swallowed and slowly nodded his head.

“Yes,” he said. “I admit, it wasn’t my most expedient work. But you must understand, Ada, I needed to help Leon and Ashley.”

“I know. You told me.”

“They were both infected, and only I knew how to help them.” He gave Ada a sly smile. “You know Leon, don’t you? He was there in Raccoon City. You were there too, weren’t you?”

Ada just stared down at him with a dark, steely look. Then, she reached into her pocket and pulled out what Luis immediately recognized as a box of cigarettes.

“Is that for me?” he asked.

“No,” Ada said.

She held a cigarette between her fingers and lit the end with a silver lighter.

“I thought you didn’t smoke, Ada,” Luis said.

Ada flicked the lighter shut. “I don’t.”

Then, she took the cigarette between two fingers and twisted the glowing end to Luis’s chest. Luis yelped at the sharp pain.

“Gah!” He hissed against the pain. “What…the hell was that for?”

“I believe in setting a precedent, Luis,” Ada said. “I don’t think it’s likely we’ll work together again. But in case we do, I want to make it very clear what happens when you treat my missions frivolously.”

Luis grinded his teeth against the pain. It stung like a motherfucker, but it also sent a strange thrill through his bones. He looked down at the spot on his bare chest where she burned him.

“I don’t take your work lightly, Ada,” he said. “Listen, if I had known I was going to run into Leon, I would have managed my time and resources a little better. Okay? I’m sorry.”

Ada dropped the stuffed cigarette on the floor. Then, she pulled out another.

“I believe you,” she said. She lit the new one. “But ‘sorry’ is not gonna cut it.”

She hovered the cigarette over his flesh, this time lower to his stomach. It was so close that Luis thought his chest hair would catch on fire. He squirmed against his restraints.

“Please, Ada,” he said. “This isn’t necessary, I can make up for it, I can make as much Amber as you—”

Luis cried out as she stuffed the cigarette into his belly button. The pain was even worse and his eyes filled with tears as she twisted it in.

“I can see why these are your favorite,” Ada said. Her tone was nonchalant, almost bored. “They burn pretty quickly.”

She pulled the cigarette out of Luis’s naval, which was now black, burnt and filled with dark crumbs. Luis’s whole body was bright red with heat, pain, and…something else.

Luis looked at Ada as she lit a third one. The other two were on the wooden floor.

“You’re making a mess in here,” he said. “You’ll burn the castle down.”

“Would do it some good,” she said.

She pressed another to his chest. This one just above his left nipple. Luis threw his head back and cried. There were twenty of them in that pack. He would be scorched by the time she was done.

Luis opened his watery eyes and looked at Ada.

“Do you do this to every man who doesn’t follow your orders perfectly?”

Ada shrugged and lit a fourth.

“No,” she said. She hovered the end just over his heart. “I usually do worse.”

Luis grits his teeth to keep from crying out. His heart knocked at his ribs, like it could punch Ada’s hand away. But he was helpless to do anything.

“You know,” Luis said. “I don’t think this has anything to do with punishment.” He clenched his teeth together and gave her a smile. “I think you enjoy this. You like watching men squirm and suffer.” 

He flashed his eyes at her.

“I bet it’s that way with Leon, isn’t it?” He said. “You like watching him struggle under you.”

Ada finished lighting the fifth one. In the golden candlelight, Luis saw something cross her eyes. As much as the spy played herself as an ice queen, Luis could see the slip in her expression. She snapped the lighter shut.

“I guess you’re not as stupid as I thought,” she said.

The next one went on his lower stomach, just above his belt line. This one singed the worst, but Luis grit his teeth and kept that smile on his face.

“You sadist,” he hissed with glee. “You love watching me burn.”

Ada considered taking his tongue between her fingers and burning it next. But the surge of pleasure that image brought to her made it hard to argue.

Instead, she twisted the cigarette into his thigh and smirked when he screamed. Ada went through the whole pack slowly. On his chest, against his neck, along his legs and arms. By the time she finished off the box, Luis was spotted all over and burning red.

“Okay,” he grunted. “You’ve made your point.” He gave her another sparkling white grin. “I’ve been a naughty boy. So could you cut me loose now?” His eyes sparkled. “It’ll make it easier. If you plan to bend me over your knee and spank me while you’re at it.”

Ada gave Luis a long look. The ghost of a smirk twitched at the corner of her lips.

“Not quite,” she said.

Ada lifted her hand to her mouth and took the middle finger of her leather glove in her teeth. She pulled the whole thing off her hand and Luis’s blood surged. She was a beautiful woman, as beautiful as she was intelligent, as intelligent as she was ruthless. If only the two had meant under less chaotic circumstances. Luis would have loved to have locked eyes with her at some bar, and let her take him home to ravish him.

“Since you’ve wasted a lot of my time,” Ada said. She placed her hand on Luis’s upper chest. Her nails were long and sharp, and she grazed them down his chest and stomach. “...and got me chewed out by Wesker several times. I’d like something in return.”

The treat of a claw-like stretch made Luis’s heart race. Ada could feel the rhythm just under her delicate nails. Her fingertips lightly brushed over the erection that started burning in Luis’s boxers while she singed his skin.

“Of course,” Luis said. His tone was breathless excitement. “ Anything you want.”

Ada slithered hand down the front of Luis’s waistband, then wrapped her slender fingers around his length. All the hair on Luis’s body stood. He arched his back and shivered at the shock of pleasure sparkling up his body.

“ Mierda ,” he hissed.

Ada worked him slowly, painfully slow. So slow that Luis’s hips twitched and his eyes watered and tried to thrust his cock up into her hand. Ada watched him squire and moan with the clinical detachment of a car mechanic looking under a hood.

But under her stony face, Ada’s heart tittered at the sounds he made. Luis was right. There was something special about making a man whimper. It made her blood rush and her stomach feel warm.

“Please, Ada,” Luis whimpered. His cock was desperately leaking, dripping down her fingers. “Please, duele, duele, duele .”

Ada Wong had somehow made her hand on his cock more tortuous than burning tobacco against his skin. She moved so slow that Luis got a lick of pleasure before it went away. He was hungry and shaking and every second felt like eternity. Finally, he started to feel that rise in his bucking hips.

“Por favor,” he begged. “Lo quiero, lo necesito, por favor déjame venir—”

Just before he could finish, Ada swiped her hand away. Luis opened his watery eyes and looked at her. She wiped her precome-soaked hand on the bedspread.

“Why did you stop?” he whimpered. He lay there, helpless against his restraints, a humiliating leaky cock between his thighs.

“You kept me waiting,” Ada said. She stepped back and started unzipping her tall leather boots. “Now it’s your turn.”

She stepped out of her boots, then reached under her sweater dress. Luis watched with drool dripping from his lips as Ada peeled down her pantyhose and lacy black underwear. Luis’s already suffering cock served. His heart knocked his chest and sweat glazed his skin.

Ada left her underwear by her boots, then lifted herself onto the bed. Luis hoped she would sit on his cock and ride him into the mattress. Instead, she crawled up to his face, took a fistful of his hair in her hand, and hovered over him. Luis sighed in absolute bliss. Her pussy smelled divine. His mouth watered at the sight of it.

Ada took Luis’s face in her hand. She looked at him with something that almost resembled affection.

“You’re fickle, Luis,” she said. “You’d make a terrible agent. You’re easily distracted and dubiously reliable.” She moved her waist up closer, and tightened her fingers in her hair. “But you are handsome.”

She pressed herself down on his mouth. Luis immediately plunged his tongue up inside her and moaned at the taste. He growled between her thighs as he lapped her dripping pussy with vicious hunger. 

“Ada…” he mumbled into her folds.

Ada yanked his hair and he gave a high-pitched grunt.

“Shut up,” she mumbled.

Ada thought for the longest time that Luis’s lover boy front was all talk. But his mouth and tongue moved with the expertise of a man who had plenty of practice. His tongue licked and slathered inside her, around and over her clit in a way that made her shiver. Her thighs clasped tight around his head and he whimpered in pleasure.

Meanwhile, Luis’s cock was tear-inducingly hard. The taste of Ada’s fluids and her breathless moans did little help. That’s when he realized she wasn’t just fucking him. She was torturing him, taking from him while he suffered, using him.

Evil, evil woman, he thought. As if she didn’t entrance him enough.

She was getting close, he could feel it. The way she tightened, the way she gushed. Luis moved his mouth and sucked directly on her clit. All the air left Ada’s lungs and she gripped Luis’s ahir with both hands, shooting searing pain in his skull.

Come in my mouth, he wanted to say. I need all of it.

An orgasm rushed up Ada’s body like a lightning strike. Ada arched her back and closed her eyes and dipped her face up the ceiling. A long moan crawled up her throat and she quickened her thrusting over his mouth. All the while Luis drank and licked and sucked her dry.

Ada lifted herself off of Luis, leaving a cold brush on his wet face. She plucked her underwear and pantyhose off the floor and slipped back into them. Luis remained on the bed, dizzy with pleasure and licked his lips for more taste of her.

As Ada zipped up her boots, she looked at Luis, at his burned body and stained boxers. For a brilliant scientist, Luis wasn’t the brightest bulb. But he was loyal to a fault, and he wanted to be good so much. Aside from Leon, he was one of the few people who seemed to think of her as more than some deceitful succubus. 

She pulled at her long sweater sleeve and used it to wipe Luis’s mouth dry. Then, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to his mouth. Luis made a surprised sound, but he hummed and sunk into the kiss. He still tasted like her, and she could still smell the tobacco burning his flesh. When she pulled her kiss away, Luis gave her a shaky, uncharacteristically shy smile.

“Ah,” he said. “And so the princess awakens Prince Charming with a tender kiss.”

Ada smirked and reached into her boot. Luis flinched when she pulled out and flicked open a switchblade.

“Did you think I was going to hurt you with this?” she asked.

Luis grinned. 

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” he said.

One by one, Ada sliced open the ropes that bound Luis’s arms and legs. Luis groaned as the blood rushed back to his limbs. Well, most of it. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and looked down at his dripping boxers.

“Are you just going to leave me like this?” he asked.

Ada crossed her arms and leaned back on the wall. The look she was giving him, like he was something gross she scraped off the bottom of her boot, did not help his situation.

“I won’t,” she said. She shrugged. “But I won’t stop you from finishing it yourself.”

Luis looked at her. She stood there, watching him, expectantly. Then he quickly dropped his boxers to his ankles and took his red cock in his hand.

“No,” Ada said. “Not on the bed.”

Luis paused, confused. Ada stepped away from the wall, placed a hand on top of his head, and lowered him down until his knees hit the wooden floorboards.

“Thank you, Ada,” he said.

“Just get to it. We need to go soon.”

So he did. Luis worked vigorously at his cock. His shoulders trembled and he whimpered with each desperate pulse. Ada watched, leather boots crossed at the ankle. Luis lifted his eyes from the floor and glazed down the impeccable black leather and silver buckles.

“Do you want to finish?” Ada asked.

Luis swallowed.

“Yes.”

Ada stuck out her leg. Long, leather-clad, strong.

“Then finish,” she said. “Finish like a dog.”

Luis immediately pushed himself closer to her and took her leg in his hand. He grinded his cock against her boot, relishing the painful friction of the leather. He pushed his hips against her leg like a dog, tongue hanging from his mouth and all. He whimpered and moaned and sweated until finally it all came out of him, dripping down to her heel.

Then, it’s like everything left him at once. Luis went limp as a ragdoll and he slumped down her leg. He clasped under his calf and kissed up to her thighs.

“Thank you, Ada,” he mitered into her thigh.

“Don’t thank me,” Ada said. She lifted her leg, a drop of come dripping from her heel into the floor. “These are expensive. Clean them up.”

Luis paused, face flushing newly red.

“You wouldn’t—” he said.

“You know very well I would. Now clean.”

Helpless to refuse her, Luis dropped his mouth to Ada’s boot and started licking up his come. His tongue left a salvia-shine on the black until all the white was gone. Ada watched him the affection she was used to giving to kicked puppies.

When Luis finished, Ada sauntered over to a table where she left his clothes. She tossed them to Luis as she was pulling his boxers back on.Then, she approached the door and turned to look at him.

“There’s a helicopter waiting for us in the courtyard,” she said. “I’m going to get you out of here. Don’t be late.”

As he buttoned up his pants, a shaking smile spread across Luis’s face.

“Sí señora,” he said.

[vivianbernadetteaurora]

Power off these 2 and how they were always the most invisible Spice Girls out of the lot of them. Nothing came between jet, ginger, and scary. Even when it came to clothes, like they'll be and ginger did, the only one who came close when it came to the fashion side of things were a little bit with baby space. But it's Iraq now that Victoria Beckham ones like a clothes company, and that it's really popular because she wasn't the one that was very 90s. She was just all about the gift. Cheese in the verse cheese, which is why she has stepped into that fashion world. But this was all like thrifted, like the union jack dress, that gerry wears was actually a tea towel converted into a dress like how cool is that . Just iconic, and then they called it racist and you were wearing a Union Jack, so she had to put peace on the back of it. That's what I think happened, and because they said it's racist is to support your own country and where the flag viewed her, even though it isn't in any other country, it's the UK that loves her dish this out to its own. People and every person who's famous from the UK ends up emigrating to America because the UK tabloid press is known for being such garbit and rubbish compared to the American ones and there a lot of them are not unknown there. I mean, morby Williams is the Spice Girls, aren't they? They are known all over Like Mel b is known by all the people I am watching America. Mel B is the one who is most known in America due to the ship of Eddie Murphy on the fact that he had a child with her but refused to believe it was hazed into our DNA. And then they'd loser look like an idiot because it was his child and she didn't sleep. Around and even if she did, who cares like that is your child ready and now he does pay maintenance and the irony of it always, she Has the same birthday bay as eddie murphy. And that is the end of this Sorg of it. Remember, then, when you think of 90s, fashion icons, these are some of the first in the mid-90s who wore the platform. She's platform boots all of it, go back and make it the archives. Some Pinterest, because I will keep going back, and I will do another series of maybe the other fray. The free you don't matter is much unless it'her angelic voice. The voice of an angel The rest of them want a very good thing as apart from Geri and scary.

[puckpocketed]

2/1/2024 Winter Classic - Seattle Kraken vs Vegas Golden Knights

The Summer I Fell For Hockey - The Perfect Day: On Yanni Gourde and the Narrative

A bank of fog rolls over the new year, over Seattle’s skyline, over the morning of the Winter Classic. T-Mobile park, after weeks of preparation, is transformed; sprouting up from the baseball diamond is a construct of ochre-red wood and glass, freshly frozen paint and ice, and boards that flash with sponsorships. A sea of people all in red, cream, navy and pale blue flood in to fill up the stands, 47,000 strong. There’s the retractable roof for insurance, in case Seattle weather decides to get in character, but for once the air stays dry and sunlight cuts through the fog in time for the match, winking warm and yellow and sweet from behind sparse cloud cover. In the future, today will be remembered as a near-perfect day for outdoor ice hockey. Continents and continents (and a hemisphere) away, the chime of a phone alarm rings out into a damp summer morning. It’s 6:30 am. It’s Kraken game day. I jolt awake.

The Vegas Golden Knights enter the arena dressed collectively as Elvis, shirts split open to the belly button, reflective of their city’s desert-dwelling glitterati. My Kraken come as fishermen, in work boots and hot red overalls, outfits made complete with fluro orange caps and stuffed fish. When it comes time to get onto the rink in their gear, the Kraken are introduced by Sir-Mix-a-Lot in a truly terrible mashup of his hits and ad libbed lines. As they make their way down the faux boardwalk, jets of fire spew forth intermittently, and real fishmongers from Pike Place Market toss fish between the players in an ode to their post-game tradition (the stuffed fish yeet) and the city of Seattle. The anthem is shredded by a 14-year-old local on electric guitar, to the stoic, patriotic acceptance of everyone watching. (Gods but hockey is such an unserious sport, and for this it will have my heart in perpetuity)

The rink is mic'd today, and I’m grateful. I love the sound of hockey; I love the sound of skate blades carving sibilant lines, the way sticks will clack against each other, against the gritty ice; and when the puck hits someone’s tape just right, there’s a now-familiar little zing deep in my reptilian brain that heralds satisfaction. One day, when my city hosts the AIHL (Australian Ice Hockey League), I’ll be right next to the rink and able to hear it all for myself, but for now this will have to suffice.

The Kraken start dominant, winning the first faceoff and instantly initiating a dump-and-chase. Their cheeks are blacked in an effort to stave off ice blindness, but I like to think they’ve donned war paint. In line with this, Tanev starts the festivities by slamming the Golden Knights’ Whitecloud in a brutal check. Today, with the mics hot, every thump and bump gets caught as bodies hit the boards. Neither team is holding back, some mutually agreed upon level of violence dialled up three notches. Unlike the check-heavy games I’ve watched in the past, there is no pall of malicious intent, no thin veneer of civility to cover up simmering anger from the get go. No; today the hits start clean. No penalties are called for first period.

Had it been two weeks ago, I’d have jumped on the opportunity to extol the virtues and skillset of our starting goalie, Joey. Later, the entire arena will shake with cheers of his name. Because I can’t resist, I’ll say this: he’s still unerringly good at trapping the puck to stop play and cause a reset, shuttering any build up of momentum and opportunities for rebounds; still going on his heart-stopping adventures out of the net and catching compliments from the broadcast on his exceptional stick handling; and the puck at times seems magnetised to his glove. Spoilers for the rest of the game: it’s a shutout, and after all those incredible stops I’m sure Jack Eichel will be kicking himself about being read like a book for days. 35 saves (his exact jersey number) and the first shutout in Winter Classic history. The story writes itself.  But enough of that — Joey’s low-hanging fruit.  And besides, I’ve already put pen to paper on the Dacs propaganda; it all still stands.

The hard checks keep coming. I get the feeling that something’s different today, that there’s something in the air apart from the perfect weather. Despite Vegas’ stellar record against the Kraken to date (8-1-0), the Kraken have a vice grip on the game. I’m so used to watching them chase games to stumbling, clumsy victories that this dominance feels surreal. They kill off the Knights’ attempts at transitioning, relentless in their pursuit and determined to play along the boards, keeping the puck largely out of their offensive zone. When the Knights do manage to drag it in, the Kraken d-men spare no effort viciously batting incoming pucks away from the slot, and should that fail — Joey’s right there to remind them just how good he is. It’s still a simple game, a steady and unembellished grind the way the Kraken like to play — but something about today makes me think that perhaps the elusive, gossamer thing called ‘luck’ is on their side. Perfect days don’t exist, until they do.

My Kraken score their first goal off a stylish deflection. Dunner skips the puck at Tolvy from the blue line, over Amadio’s stick and into traffic. The puck sails past a scrambling Knights defence, where Tolvy finds it midair and smacks it down, right into the back of the Knights’ net. The second goal materialises two minutes into second period, and so does the inciting incident for this essay (blog post/diary entry/unhinged hockey breakdown). After winning the puck off a scuffle along the boards Yanni Gourde legs it, sending it into Vegas’ side of the rink. There’s some back and forth, but ultimately Borgy picks up a goal with a slapshot off the rebound.

Gourdo (or Pumpkin, if the pun appeals) is the quintessential Kraken player. From his career, to his playstyle, to how he’s never come close to stardom — he is, to quote Nick Faris, someone that, “[...]embodies who the Kraken want to be.” He catches my attention today because of his tenacity, and because the liveblog tag goes hard for him as future captain. I’ve come to learn that where esports fans call it the Script, hockey fans use a different phrase. It’s all the same underneath: when everything fits so well, when it all begins to rhyme like poetry, when it’s so compelling that surely someone must’ve made it up — that’s the Narrative. 

Gourdo is short for a hockey player, standing at a modest 5ft 9in (175cm). That’s the first thing you’ll hear about him; that he’s at or below league average. The second thing you’ll hear is that he was never drafted. In a league filled with stories of stars — whose fans and media orbit the monsters of the game, a dozen or so point-scoring darlings — here’s Yanni Gourde, the man who was once a season away from giving up the ghost and getting a civil engineering degree, a rookie for the Tampa Bay Lightning at 26. This, too, is Narrative — a different kind I’d say, because when you hear about underdogs you imagine a scrappy, uncut gem finally breaking through to reach the top. Gourdo isn’t some secret prodigy, and the stats he’s put up since he got his chance in the NHL are solid, a career high of 25 goals and 64 points in 82 games during his time with the Lightning, but nothing like your McDavids or MacKinnons. But that’s all just paper. Out on the ice, though? That’s where the real story is happening.

If Sidney Crosby’s story is the Narrative, Gourdo’s story is like if the Narrative was stolen by a side character — which, fittingly, is exactly what some of the best narratives are all about. A quick Youtube search turns up the usual fluff pieces done by team media. A deeper scan reveals an unusual amount of short highlights, largely scrums and fights that he’s been involved with. In one of them he can be seen sporting his big, crooked grin. This is how I find out that Yanni Gourde is a pest. An instigator, a rat. Whatever you call it, Gourde shares hockey lineage with the likes of Brad Marchand.

In ice hockey, games are won and lost off the back of power plays and penalty kills. But with hitting and fighting at an all-time low, how does one draw penalties? Gourdo has it all figured out. He plays his own game, sticking just short of too close and pushing the envelope on interference. He’s gone on record talking about his extracurriculars, how he verbally and physically taunts opposing players after the whistle: “I know most of the time it works them up and they want to punch me in the face a little bit more. If they take a penalty on me, then, I am winning.” Gourdo treads the line of illegality and sportsmanship, and tips people over the edge in his wake, and when they retaliate they’re caught out and sent to the box.

Rats have a bad reputation in the NHL. Honour codes dictate that you back up any insults, physical or otherwise, should another player challenge you to drop gloves — the assumption being that any on-ice beef is genuine — an agitator’s actions are premeditated, calculated to wreak as much havoc as possible. This insincerity leaves a bad taste in the mouths of many. And yet, Yanni Gourde is beloved.

When he was selected by the Kraken in the expansion draft, Lightning fans made tribute videos. When he first returned to Tampa Bay as a visiting player, the arena shook with his fans' welcome. He is universally regarded by teammates, both past and present, as a leader and an overwhelmingly positive force in the locker room; someone who knows how to get silly (krakenblr-core!), who contributes to constructing good attitudes on the ice, someone who has stepped up to fulfil leadership duties when his teammates have been injured.

Beyond his instigation (and his remarkably sparkling reputation in spite of this), most interesting to me is a distinct pattern to the rest of his shot highlights. There’s nothing too complicated about it, even I noticed as a fan who’s still learning: Yanni Gourde has that intangible, ineffable clutch factor. For every clip where he’s in a scuffle, there’s another instance where he’s scored a game winning goal.

My working theory for why? He’s the guy who didn’t give up on his hockey dream even after being snubbed by the NHL and relegated to the AHL, who debuted as a starter 6 years later than most rookies, made himself a nuisance to play against at every turn with his relentless puck chasing and instigating. He’s Gourdo. So of course he’s got the clutch factor; he snatched his entire career from the jaws of retirement in the eleventh hour.

On a day like today, where the weather is perfect and the sticky late game ice has puck bounces going the Kraken’s way, it feels like the right time for something magical. And in a match filled with physicality Gourdo defies expectations, plays his own game and manages a miracle. Early in the third period, the Knights go for an offensive reset on a loose puck in the Kraken slot that goes shooting past the blue line. It looks completely standard. I’ve seen it a hundred times by now.

And then, racing down the ice there’s Gourdo. I expect a check, because that’s the type of game they’ve primed us for. It doesn’t come. Instead, Gourdo slips right up into Cotter’s space, right under his stick. Their skates cross once but there’s no hit, and with the barest brush… the puck is lifted out from under Cotter’s feet.

This blog is named for a silly pun on ‘pickpocketed’, because it was one of the very first hockey concepts that really captured my imagination. I became quietly obsessed with the idea of pickpocketing in ice hockey, fascinated by hulking athletes who know they don’t even need to hit anyone to win. There’s something so delightful about it; the idea that in ice hockey, a game that is notorious for semi-legal fist fights and whose actual rules allow the players to throw their hundreds of pounds at each other in service of victory, you could simply lose the puck to a thief. Whatever you call it — pickpocketing, puck stripping — it’s the result of refs who’ve become increasingly trigger-happy on calls, and a league-wide shift toward protecting its superstars from concussions.

For Gourdo, it’s a matter of necessity. Being smaller than most players, he has few other options. He can’t just rely on checking; he’s part of the new wave of players who’ve bought in on the puck possession game, scrapping and digging to steal the puck away with stick lifts and finesse rather than outright force. (Funnily enough, fellow pest Marchand is named in an article as another player whose game is shifting to focus on puck possession).

In the wider arc of the Narrative, it’s a perfectly Yanni kind of play. He steals the puck away from the Knights right in their slot, and is left almost one on one with their goalie as everyone else on the ice rushes to catch up. It’s not beautiful hockey — there is no well-timed deke, no lethal toe drag release — it’s just Gourdo wrestling control of the puck from the carved up ice, awkward and off-balance. The first shot doesn’t even go in, bouncing off of Thompson’s pad. But Gourdo is right there to catch it off the rebound, never giving up, always holding on, and he scoops it right over and into the net.

I know the game is finished for the Vegas Golden Knights after this. Call me biassed about my Sharks but I’ve seen when a team is still hungry for a win, and the Knights aren’t coming to the table. More than just the number on the scoreboard, in hindsight this goal feels woven into the fabric of the Narrative. It’s gorgeously messy, unexpected. It comes as a surprise to everyone watching, the broadcast barely able to keep up before the puck makes its way to the net. It’s Seattle waking up from a decades-long slumber to remind the world that it’s always been a hockey town, and the Kraken victory a ringing statement. It's another game winning goal for Gourdo, exactly like he’s always done.

It’s not quite perfect hockey, of course, not what people think of as clean or even technically proficient. But if you’ve watched any Kraken broadcasts you know what I’m about to say.

That’s Kraken hockey, baby!

[priokskfm]

#MixOfDay #Podcast #Radioshow #LiveDjset Modjo - Lady (Jet Boot Jack Remix) DOWNLOAD! Click BUY to DOWNLOAD! www.priokskfm.online https://ift.tt/4ZXjtun

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

NASA Takes to the Air to Study Wildflowers

For many plant species, flowering is biologically synced with the seasons. Scientists are clocking blooms to understand our ever-changing planet.

NASA research is revealing there’s more to flowers than meets the human eye. A recent analysis of wildflowers in California shows how aircraft- and space-based instruments can use color to track seasonal flower cycles. The results suggest a potential new tool for farmers and natural-resource managers who rely on flowering plants.

In their study, the scientists surveyed thousands of acres of nature preserve using a technology built by NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Southern California. The instrument — an imaging spectrometer — mapped the landscape in hundreds of wavelengths of light, capturing flowers as they blossomed and aged over the course of months.

It was the first time the instrument had been deployed to track vegetation steadily through the growing season, making this a “first-of-a-kind study,” said David Schimel, a research scientist at JPL.

For many plant species from crops to cacti, flowering is timed to seasonal swings in temperature, daylight, and precipitation. Scientists are taking a closer look at the relationship between plant life and seasons — known as vegetation phenology — to understand how rising temperatures and changing rainfall patterns may be impacting ecosystems.

Typically, wildflower surveys rely on boots-on-the-ground observations and tools such as time-lapse photography. But these approaches cannot capture broader changes that may be happening in different ecosystems around the globe, said lead author Yoseline Angel, a scientist at the University of Maryland-College Park and NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center in Greenbelt, Maryland.

“One challenge is that compared to leaves or other parts of a plant, flowers can be pretty ephemeral,” she said. “They may last only a few weeks.”

To track blooms on a large scale, Angel and other NASA scientists are looking to one of the signature qualities of flowers: color.

Mapping Native Shrubs

Flower pigments fall into three major groups: carotenoids and betalains (associated with yellow, orange, and red colors), and anthocyanins (responsible for many deep reds, violets, and blues). The different chemical structures of the pigments reflect and absorb light in unique patterns.

Spectrometers allow scientists to analyze the patterns and catalog plant species by their chemical “fingerprint.” As all molecules reflect and absorb a unique pattern of light, spectrometers can identify a wide range of biological substances, minerals, and gases.

Handheld devices are used to analyze samples in the field or lab. To survey moons and planets, including Earth, NASA has developed increasingly powerful imaging spectrometers over the past 45 years.

One such instrument is called AVIRIS-NG (short for Airborne Visible/InfraRed Imaging Spectrometer-Next Generation), which was built by JPL to fly on aircraft. In 2022 it was used in a large ecology field campaign to survey vegetation in the Jack and Laura Dangermond Preserve and the Sedgwick Reserve, both in Santa Barbara County. Among the plants observed were two native shrub species — Coreopsis gigantea and Artemisia californica — from February to June.

The scientists developed a method to tease out the spectral fingerprint of the flowers from other landscape features that crowded their image pixels. In fact, they were able to capture 97% of the subtle spectral differences among flowers, leaves, and background cover (soil and shadows) and identify different flowering stages with 80% certainty.

Predicting Superblooms

The results open the door to more air- and space-based studies of flowering plants, which represent about 90% of all plant species on land. One of the ultimate goals, Angel said, would be to support farmers and natural resource managers who depend on these species along with insects and other pollinators in their midst. Fruit, nuts, many medicines, and cotton are a few of the commodities produced from flowering plants.

Angel is working with new data collected by AVIRIS’ sister spectrometer that orbits on the International Space Station. Called EMIT (Earth Surface Mineral Dust Source Investigation), it was designed to map minerals around Earth’s arid regions. Combining its data with other environmental observations could help scientists study superblooms, a phenomenon where vast patches of desert flowers bloom after heavy rains.

One of the delights of researching flowers, Angel said, is the enthusiasm from citizen scientists. “I have social media alerts on my phone,” she added, noting one way she stays on top of wildflower activity around the world.

The wildflower study was supported as part of the Surface Biology and Geology High-Frequency Time Series (SHIFT) campaign. An airborne and field research effort, SHIFT was jointly led by the Nature Conservancy, the University of California, Santa Barbara, and JPL. Caltech, in Pasadena, manages JPL for NASA.

The AVIRIS instrument was originally developed through funding from NASA’s Earth Science Technology Office.

TOP IMAGE: In this illustration, an imaging spectrometer aboard a research plane measures sunlight reflecting off California coastal scrub. In the data cube below, the top panel shows the true-color view of the area. Lower panels depict the spectral fingerprint for every point in the image, capturing the visible range of light (blue, green, and red wavelengths) to the near-infrared (NIR) and beyond. Spatial resolution is around 16 feet (5 meters). Credit: NASA

CENTRE IMAGE: NASA’s AVIRIS sensors have been used to study wildfires, World Trade Center wreckage, and critical minerals, among numerous airborne missions over the years. AVIRIS-3 is seen here on a field campaign in Panama, where it helped analyze vegetation in ma… Credit: NASA/Shawn Serbin

LOWER IMAGE:Researcher Ann Raiho measures sunlight interacting with yellow Coreopsis gigantea flowers during field work in the Jack and Laura Dangermond Preserve in California’s Santa Barbara County in 2022. Credit: NASA/Yoseline Angel

[red-eldritch-warlock]

✦ Basic Oc info:

Name: Eberwolf Saskia

Class: The Warlock, Support class mercenary

Nicknames: Sorcerer, Mage, Wolf

Age: 25(?) [To be determined, rumoured to be immortal]

Height: 6’4

Birthplace: Graz, Austria

Gender/pronouns: Trans male, He/Him

Personality: socially awkward, solitary, reserved, neurotic, work oriented, cynical, easily flustered

Hobbies: palmistry, reading, collecting records, bookkeeping

Loadout: spellbook, sacrificial dagger, flintlock pistol

The lore(W.I.P)

Other stuff(W.I.P)

✦ Tags:

#Eldritch Invocations - Warlock post

#A gift from my patron- Warlock reblogs

#Whispers from the void - Answering asks

#Warlock antics - Rp starters

#Eldritch blast - Rp tag

#Eberwolf lore - lore tag

#Stag posting - mod posts

#Stag found this - mod reblogs

#Stag answers - mod asks

#Stags silly scribbles - Mod art / writings

Any sensitive topics will be tagged accordingly

!!Ooc and character description below the cut!!

✦ Blog info:

Warlock is an oc for team fortress two :)

I took inspiration from both dungeons and dragons warlocks and magic users, and @the-jack-class (specifically serpie and a bit of jasper) for this oc, and they deserve the credit(serpentine my belerpentine teehee)

I would like to keep this blog to be strictly 16+ with little NSFW. I have pretty bad anxiety, and receiving incredibly suggestive asks will most likely make that spike, and I don’t want to stress over my blog, this is for fun! Feel free to flirt and whatnot with Warlock, but anything i deem too far will get deleted or blocked based on severity.

i would prefer if minors did not interact, this blog may have sensitive topics discussed. or at the very least they do not interact with posts discussing said topics.

Mod is a self shipper, and is open to multishipping!

Mod uses he/him pronouns, and you can refer to me as Stag!!

Mod follows from @transfrogwithcoolsocks

Mod has insane social anxiety so i apologise if i come off as awkward or rude (i’m just a little guy)

Mod has the worst memory known to mankind, so if i send multiple asks it is because i forgot that i already sent one(i am sorrgy)

Any photos i use in posts will be found on Pinterest.

My other RP blogs are: @canineriot-fenrir @meet-the-trapper-tf2 @redhead-string-shredder @crutches-n-stitches @ultimate-exorcist-chyrche @darling-idol-hoshiko @dutch-bunny-rabbit @stupid-fishbait-moray @aussie-menace-dingo @kerosene-n-gasoline @lt-morse @hurricane-tsunemasu

✦ Rp info:

Rp will look like this:

[Actions and such go here]

“Talking will be like this”

✦ Physical description of Warlock:

Warlock is 6’4 with a lithe and lean physique, with toned arms and shoulders, slim waist and thighs and a generally lanky frame.

His hair is jet black and very curly, and is cut to shoulder length, usually tied back when fighting.

Warlock has fairly androgynous features, a sharp jaw, tired eyes, roman nose, sickly and pasty skin and bright violet eyes. He has some slightly unkempt stubble on his chin, and deep set eye bags. He also wears half moon glasses, and on occasion red tinted round shades.

His usual attire is a dark red velvet button up shirt with bell sleeves, a black leather corset, black flared jeans with a book holster on one thigh, heeled ankle boots and white satin gloves. He also wears a pocket watch necklace that has an octopus engraved onto it.

Mod is not the best with remembering to respond so I apologise if I forget about a thread or do not respond to an ask very quickly.

✦ Interact list:

Please do interact:

Tf2 Rp blogs

Rp blogs in general

Anons

Tf2 ocs

Other ocs(from any fandom!)

Nice people

Do not interact:

Basic DNI

Pedophiles

Transphobes/homophobes

Racists

Creeps

Hai friends :3 (sorry for the tags, i love y’all!!!)

@eagle-head-charge @wastelandtherapist @conductor-on-grn @sly-daffodils @red-demo-tf2 @rengineer @thenumberonerascal @averagebioweaponslover @meet-the-civilians @meet-the-net @tf2-nurse-is-dreaming

[sequinsmile-x]

The View Between Villages - Part 2

A feeling he hasn't had in years, since this place was nothing but a dot in his rearview mirror, settles low in his gut, slowly getting heavier the closer they get. A weight he'd forgotten, all of the people and places he once knew rising from the dead and chasing him down a street he used to call home.

Sometimes, you have no choice but to go back.

-x-

Hi friends!

This is part 2 of 2 of a fic based on a request I got a while back about a fic where Aaron's father was still alive. Part 1 can be found here!

Thank you so so much for your love on part 1, it truly means the world.

There's a little note at the end that I'd like you to read that has spoilers for this fic <;3

-x-

Words: 3.6k

Warnings: Implied/Referenced child abuse, difficult childhood

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

It was strange to feel like a visitor to streets he’d once called home. A place he could wander freely without thinking about it, street names and storefronts as familiar to him as the back of his own hand. It was somehow the same but different at the same time. The general store he used to buy groceries for his mom in still seemingly run by the same family, but the high school was gone. Demolished and replaced with the motel they were staying in, the new school on the other side of town. 

Despite his denial of it on the jet, he’s grateful that Emily is here. That she’s just within reach if he needs her, achingly more aware of his own needs than he ever had been. She also directs the team effortlessly when he fumbles for a second the moment the lead detective recognises him, breaking the news that they are in his home town to the rest of the team as they step into the police station. His hopes that they would make it through this without that revelation shattered on the floor around his feet. 

They make good progress the first day, although he can feel the team looking at him, concern and curiosity flowing from each of them as the daylight fades around them and he suggests they all go and get some sleep. He sighs as he looks at himself in the bathroom mirror, he bags under his eyes more pronounced than usual, buckling under the weight of simply being somewhere he once told himself he’d never return to. He steps out into the bedroom and smiles softly at the sight of Emily sitting on the bed, on top of the covers, still fully dressed in her work clothes except for her boots, her phone in her hand and her thumb occasionally swiping at the screen. 

“On the dating apps again?” He asks, smirking when she rolls her eyes without looking up at him. She hums in response as he climbs onto the bed next to her. 

“Yeah, got to check out the local talent, you know,” she says, smiling at him, “The last guy I met from here was pretty great.” 

He chuckles as he settles next to her, his eyes landing on her phone screen as he does so. He feels his heart clench in his chest as he spots what she’s actually doing - scrolling through photos of the boys. Her attention was currently fixed on one from when Jack and Nathaniel had climbed onto her hospital bed to meet her little brother, a newborn Leo barely visible from behind the blanket he was wrapped in, safe in his mother’s arms. The guilt he’d felt earlier when she insisted she was fine leaving them behind to be here resurfaces. He leans down to press a kiss to her shoulder before he does the same with her throat. She reaches up and runs her fingers through his hair, resting her head against his for a second. 

“Before you say anything,” she says, taking the time to look at her screen once more before she locks it and places it on the nightstand, “I’m fine,” she tilts her head to look at him, her fingers still tangled in his hair, holding him in place as she scratches her blunt nails against his scalp, “I’m more worried about you.” 

“Em-” he sighs, but she cuts him off, shifting to sit up properly, to look at him as she shakes her head. 

“Don’t do that,” she says her eyes searching his as she slips her hand from his hair to his cheek, cupping it softly, “Don’t…feel like you have to be okay. You don’t have to do that with me.” 

He nods and leans forward, his forehead against hers as he takes a deep breath. It was moments like this, when he basked in her unrelenting, all-consuming love, when he wondered how he’d ever lived without it. His life felt like it was split into two distinct parts, before Emily and after her. Everything brighter and in sharper focus when he knew he had her on his side. 

“I’m…coping.” 

She smiles, rubbing her nose against his for a moment before she pulls back to look at him. She knew that was as big of an admittance as she was going to get, especially here. He’d talk to her more when they got home. When they were in the safe place they’d cultivated together - photos of their boys, of their life together, on every wall and surface. Tangible proof they both needed from time to time that they had made it, that they’d survived and had the life they’d fought for. 

“Well, if you feel yourself…not coping,” she says, watching as a smile flits across his face, “You know I’m here.” She adds, and he nods and stamps a kiss against her lips before he pulls her into a hug, pressing his face into her hair, breathing her in as she sinks into his embrace, letting him take what he needs. “Do you think we’ll see him?” She asks, not having to clarify who they were talking about as she runs her hand up and down his back, “Or do you think we’ll avoid him?”

Aaron sighs as he thinks about his father, his grip on his wife tightening at the thought of seeing him. “The universe has rarely been that kind to me,” he mutters, kissing her temple, “Present company excluded of course.” 

He’s proven right when they see his father for the first time the next morning. He’s walking past the motel as they walk out of it, Aaron’s resemblance to him undeniable as father and son set eyes on each other for the first time in decades. They don’t speak, and Aaron climbs into the SUV without comment. Emily gets in the passenger seat and waits for Derek and Spencer to climb in the back. 

“That’s strange, that guy looked exactly like you Hotch,” Spencer says as he does up his seatbelt, unaware of how his boss grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles go white, “The odds of having a doppelganger that shares so many similarities is one in one trillion, unless you’re related.”

Emily stares at her husband, at the tension in his jaw, and it takes everything in her to not reach over to touch him. She lets him take the lead, and he flashes her a look before he starts to drive, his words heavy and cloying in the air for the duration of the short journey to the police station.

“He’s my father.” 

___

“Did you know?”

Emily gives herself a moment to blow out a steady breath, to make sure her facial expression is neutral, that none of the anger that was slowly simmering in her belly would show. She turns to look at Derek, continuing to stir her coffee as she did so, the irritation he wasn’t trying to hide forcing her to grit her teeth. 

“Did I know what?” She asks, feigning ignorance, wanting him to ask the question fully if he wants the answer. He clears his throat and crosses his arms over his chest, looking over his shoulder to ensure that they are still alone in the small kitchen of the police station.  

“Did you know Hotch’s dad is alive?” 

She sighs and tosses the spoon she’d been using into the sink before she looks at him again, her cup cradled in her hands, “Yes, Derek. I’m his wife. I knew.” 

She remembers when he’d told to her, avoiding eye contact as he admitted in the dark of the bedroom of his old apartment that his father was alive. That it had been easier for him to let other people think he was dead, to believe it himself, in order to try and move past his childhood, the things a man who was supposed to have loved him had put him through. 

All she’d done was turn in his embrace and kiss him before she thanked him for trusting her with the truth. 

She understood more than most how it felt to wish you could desperately rewrite your past. 

“And you never said anything?” He asks, a mix of confusion and betrayal on his face, his constant desire for the truth, for honesty, distorting his view on a subject that, in her opinion, he had no right to have an opinion on. 

“It wasn’t my place to say anything,” she says, stepping away from the counter, “Just like it isn’t your place to ask him anything about it.” She starts to walk away, ready to seek out the team, to solve this case so she can get Aaron home, so she can remind him of the life they have now, when she hears Derek’s comment muttered under his breath. 

“Seems to be his thing to bury people who aren’t actually dead.” 

She freezes in place, the anger in her belly coming to full boil, threatening to spill over and scold everything nearby. It was only a few months into her relationship with Aaron when she’d overheard Derek make a comment about them being together, a moment that could have easily unravelled their whole relationship if she’d allowed it to. She’d yelled at him then, told him if he had something to say about her, or Aaron, and the decisions they’d made to keep themselves and everyone else safe, that he should say it to their faces. 

She couldn’t do the same here. Couldn’t unleash the fury she felt, every part of her aching to protect the man she loves, so instead she takes another moment to centre herself, well aware Aaron wouldn’t thank her for making a scene. She turns to look at him, her expression fierce, her jaw tight, and she watches as he shrinks back ever so slightly.

“It was a joke, Em,” he says, clearing his throat, “Just a joke.”

She steps closer and lowers her voice so only he can hear her, “Not a very funny one,” she swallows thickly, pushing down the bitter words threatening to climb up it, “I swear to God, Derek, if you say anything to him I won’t hesitate to make your working life a fucking misery,” she says, clenching her teeth, the grinding of them providing a small bit of relief, “Do you understand?” She watches as he thinks about arguing before he nods, “Good,” she turns to leave but changes her mind, “Just maybe take a moment to think about why it might have been easier for him to say he was dead.” 

She walks away without saying anything else, more determined than ever to put this case behind them and go home to her children.

___

It only takes another day to wrap up the case. She’s never been more grateful for a confession, to hear the twisted reasoning from a man who claimed he was fixing the world by taking people out of it. She haphazardly packs her and Aaron’s bags, well aware that he’ll complain about the creasing of their clothes when they get home, but desperate to leave this place that had both made and broken the love of her life.

She checks the room to make sure she has everything when she spots him out of the window of their room. She steps closer and takes a moment to observe him. He was sitting on a bench on the edge of the property behind the motel.  He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees as he seemingly looks at the ground. She debates with herself whether she should leave him alone, but she knows if it was her, if she was somewhere like Rome, haunted by the things that had happened to her there, she’d want him right by her side. 

She quickly leaves the room, double-checking she has the key and walks outside. She walks quickly around the building, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off some of the chill in the air, and she slows down when she gets close, not wanting to startle him when he is clearly lost in thought. 

“Honey?” 

He turns and looks at her, his smile tight before he looks back at the ground, “Almost ready to go?” 

She sits next to him, close enough that their thighs touch, and she places her hand on his leg, “Almost,” she confirms, offering him a half smile when he looks up at her, “Although, you’re definitely better at packing than I am.” 

He chuckles and shakes his head as he places his hand over hers, linking their fingers together, lifting their hands to his lips and kissing her knuckles, “Remind me to keep in mind how amazing a wife you are when I complain about all the extra ironing this weekend.”

She smiles and nods, squeezing his hand as they drop back down to his lap, “Of course,” she says, the slight reprieve they’d had, the lightness to their conversation gone as quickly as it had appeared, “I’d ask if you’re okay,” she adds softly, “But that feels stupid.” 

Aaron sighs and sits up straight, leaning back so their shoulders touch, hers slightly overlapping with his because of how close they were, “Did I tell you this used to be where the high school was?” He asks, watching as she shakes her head, “This is where Haley and I met. This spot right here is where the football field would have been,” his eyes turn sad, as if memories of those days flash across them, a show reel only he can see, “It’s where we had our first kiss.” 

He’d been trying to figure it out since they’d got here, since the moment he realised this was where the high school had been. It was only when he’d stepped outside he’d noticed the view. The motel was on a hill, and the valley below laid in between this town and the next. It was a view he’d stare at during football games and rallies, imagining a life beyond the hills he’d grown up feeling trapped in. 

Emily closes her eyes and squeezes his hand again, sandwiching it between both of his as she desperately tries to press some of her love into his skin. It had never felt strange to love a man who so clearly still loved his first wife. In fact, she’d always encouraged him to talk about it, encouraged the presence of Haley in their lives. She was Jack’s mom, the first woman Aaron had loved. The first person who had ever loved him as he deserved. And because of that, Emily loved her too. 

“I’m sorry, honey,” she says, rubbing her thumb back and forth over the heel of his hand. He shrugs in response, his sigh heavy and painful as it escapes his chest, pushing at every rib on its way out. 

“It’s almost fitting it’s all gone,” he adds, knowing she was the only one who wouldn’t judge him for a macabre thought. She herself had stared death in the face and knew what it was to come back for it. “In a strange way it makes it more special,” he says, looking up at her, “More ours,” he shakes his head at himself, as if he’s only just realised what he’s said, “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I-”

“Please don’t apologise,” she says, shaking her head at him, “I like learning things about your life together,” she says, looking around at the unkempt grounds of the motel. She tries to imagine it as a football field. The grass cared for with perfect lines painted on it. Bleachers on either side where a gangly limbed Aaron and a nervous Haley decided to meet after class, “And this is where it happened.” 

He smiles and nods, unwrapping his hand from hers so he can place his arm around her shoulders and pull her closer. 

“Do you want to go and see him?” She asks softly, making sure she’s careful, not wanting to upset him. Much like the night they arrived, she doesn’t have to explain who she means. It was something that had hung over them since they’d got here. His father’s presence in this town a spectre that hung in every corner, staring at them from the shadows, “If you do I’ll be right there with you. Might even take the opportunity to say a few things myself.”

He chuckles humourlessly and shakes his head, “No, I don’t want to go see him,” he says, his voice sure, bordering on stern, “I see him every time I look in the mirror,” he adds, and he watches as Emily’s face crumbles, her eyebrows knitting together as she prepares to protect him from himself, and he cuts her off, a firm squeeze of her hand as he carries on, “Sweetheart, I look like him. You can’t deny that. Even Reid noticed,” he sighs heavily, “I see him every time I look in the mirror. Sometimes I even see him in the boys. Certain expressions or looks in their eyes that I can see are passed on from me and therefore him,” he clears his throat, “I’ll never escape the fact I came from him, but I can leave him here. He can just be another ghost in this place.” 

She nods, her heart heavy as she thinks of her children, of the burden her husband bore. She wanted to make it better for him, to storm into the house he’d once called home and tell his father what she thought of him. She wanted to yell and scream and let him know exactly what a good person Aaron had turned out in spite of him, but she knew it wouldn’t fix anything. It won’t change the past, and it won’t change their future. This place was a purgatory for Aaron. A place that hung in between his past and his present, somewhere he felt frozen in time, doomed to feel like the child that had left it whilst having the knowledge of the man who had returned. 

She squeezes his hand and smiles softly at him, “Let’s go home.” 

___

The relief they feel as they step over the threshold into their house is palpable. The boys run at them, Jack and Nathaniel chatting animatedly as they hug them tightly, exchanging hellos and love like they had been away for weeks and not days. 

Emily smiles as Jessica turns the corner with Leo on her hip. The 11-month-old reaches out for his mother the moment he spots her, and she wraps him up in her arms, the final tension in her chest dissipating as she feels the familiar weight of her son in her arms.

“Hi sweet boy,” she says, pressing kiss after kiss to his cheek, his laughter the balm she’d needed, “Mommy missed you.” 

Aaron chuckles from next to her, drawing her attention towards him as he nods to how Leo is clutching her shirt, “I think he missed Mommy.” 

She sees the heaviness in his eyes, the effect of going home, of seeing his father, even though there had been no direct interaction, something that would sit with him for days. She smiles at Leo and tickles his belly, “You know who I think needs a hug?” She asks, whispering loudly on purpose, “Daddy. Can you hug Daddy?”

Leo turns to his father and smiles widely. It was Aaron’s smile. His fathers. The one that would be passed down for generations, long after his father’s violence had been wiped from the face of the earth. He can see the beauty in it here, the innocence that even just a few days in his home town had made him forget could exist. He smiles at his son and lifts him into his arms, well aware that Emily was right, that the more reminders he had of his life now, of what he had, would stitch him back together where the past had burst free. 

“Dada.” 

They all freeze, the chattering that Nathaniel and Jack had been doing in the background, the conversation Emily had just started with Jessica the moment Leo was no longer in her arms. Aaron holds Leo against him and a laugh catches in his chest. He looks at Emily who looks just as shellshocked, her hand over her heart as she steps closer again.

“Did he just-”

“Leo said his first word!” Jack says, his excitement cutting over Emily as she leant in closer, her hand on Leo’s back as she wraps her other arm around Aaron. 

“Can you say it again, sweet boy,” Emily says, running her fingers through his hair before she points at Aaron, “Who’s that?”

There’s a brief moment of silence before Leo speaks again, his sweet voice louder this time with no other noise. 

“Dada!”

Emily chokes on a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob, the sharp change between the emotional turmoil over the last few days to this the last thing she’d expected, “Yeah,” she says, turning to look at her husband, unshed tears shining in his eyes, “That’s your Dada.” 

Aaron holds him closer and he presses a fierce kiss to his forehead, letting the moment wash over him.

He may have been from his father, but his children were from him. For the first time in days, since Penelope had unknowingly shaken his world, unsettling him in a way he hadn’t expected, everything feels still. 

-x-

I appreciate that some people probably wanted to read a confrontation, but as I was writing this it became clear to me that isn't what Aaron would need. It wouldn't fix anything, it wouldn't change anything, and if anything would just make it worse. It would reopen more wounds than simply being there and seeing him already had done.

I mostly wanted to explore the specific pain that is going to the place where you grew up, and realising you don't belong there anymore. The feeling of yearning for how it used to be, even for a moment, mixed with the desperation to go back to wherever you are from now. I hope you enjoyed this, and again, I highly recommend listening to Noah Kahan's album 'Stick Season.'

-x-

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[burntoutangel]

MECHANICAL SEX DRIVES

LEFT HAND AMMO AT 20% SHIELDS AT 10% ASSISTED AUGMENT SYSTEM RECOMMENDING IMMEDIATE RETURN TO BASE MISSION AT ACCEPTABLE LEVELS PILOT I AM BEGGING YOU TO TURN BAC-

Shut down the warning signs, disconnect the jack in your cranial nerves that lets the onboard AI inject suggestions tactics and orders from base command directly into you brain 

You dont need them now   

10-15 enemy units are closing in on your radar, 100 feet, 90 feet, tanks with jet engines jammed into them to allow increased maneuvers and speed. 500 feet shows an enemy mech, the one you’re chasing. So close now, just a little more

40 feet

20 feet

Enemy within range 

You slam yourself through the concrete walls of the civilian residence you hid behind, the trinkets and purchases of someones life atomized in a second, a careful move to throw off the lesser visibility of the tanks

The first two are crushed under a mix of rubble and reinforced steel beams, wires from the buildings power systems sparking and igniting fuel leaks. You’re already gone and grabbing tank 4 as a club, its rotors squealing in open air as you crush it on top of tank 5, crushing them underfoot for good measure, neural links sending the details of a fleshy squish under your metal boots

3 units that had the misfortune of jetting behind you are torched in your boosters, jets of black smoke from the meat inside being cooked within seconds, they weren’t expecting a mech of this class, metal boxes with guns strapped on top are barely above the lowest rank of the food chain of combat

You arent sure if you’re the apex of that system, but you’re damn close 

The radar blip of the other pilot starts moving and you kick the violence into overdrive to make sure you’re ready and unbothered for her arrival, tanks 6-9 shatter and melt under you remaining left weapon ammo, not worth the waste of time for a proper violent death

She’s so close now

A few of the remaining tanks and what looks like two support flyers have joined her, jetting along in her wake like parasite fish, using her cone of violence to protect them from you. Gnats. Annoying insects that get in the way

You can see her through the optical systems now. Shining armor muddied and covered in scrap and imbedded shells and oil. The jagged mark of you shoulder mounted rail guns shot accents the beauty of her machine, a hole bitten through her abdominal armor, dripping oil and coolant and countless other substances that come together to make the death-angel before you.

Your fluids will mix soon. One way or another.

“YOU PSYCHO WHORE YOU DENTED MY SHELL” comes through her mechs speakers in a flurry of anger. Right shoulder lancer raised, charging, adjust two notches down, FIRE. That takes care of her speakers. We don’t need voices right now. 

She cuts boosters and doesn’t even bother counter boosting, simply stopping her furious momentum by crushing another apartment block, hands dragging deep gauges in the remaining landscape 

The remaining tanks are hit by your last 6 railgun shots, smoking craters burned into the ground as the flyers pepper small arms along your visors, blinding flashes as 7.62 shots ring against the sensors and antenna.

Out of nowhere her hand swats one out of the air, surprising even you Into stopping for a moment. Flyer 1 clips 2 as it sails through the sky, propelled by metal claws larger than its entire frame. Both create a cascade of sparks and light as missiles flares and fuel ignite midair. An incoming message from the last enemy in front of you flashes on your side monitor.

“FINE, WE’LL DO THIS THE HARD WAY”. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Her heat knife eats through the plating of your left shoulder, jutting close to the collarbone before the blade snaps in your armor and imbeds itself to you. The pain is unimaginable, burning through the pilots nervous system as it screams loud enough to crack its own jaw slightly. The retaliation is immediate, a final spare railgun round rammed through your enemies leg, blowing her mechanical kneecap out, the arching head of her mech mimicking the agony her flesh-body is probably going through, metal jaw ripping open and spiked forehead crashing into your own as the final bit of shielding for both your bodies gives way with an ear popping CRACK and a smell of ozone and desperation. A fist that costs as much or more as this entire city unit crashes into your stomach, flesh body vomiting up a mix of pre mission meds and nutrient slurry as your nervous system tries to understand feeling pain without apparent source 

Your left leg boosts itself up at uncanny speeds, remaining boosters jetting it into her center mass, where a solar plexus would be if we were flesh and blood, her visor is cracking and you can feel the anger radiating off her core. Either that or a power system on the verge of collapse. Same difference. At the same time warning signs flash across your eyes, power running low, generator damage at near critical levels, heat rising to unacceptable perimeters, pilot neural-link and information stress at 88% and rising

Both of your bodies collapse, her failing knee dragging her down as metal screams under stress, her hands clawing you down with her, falling flat on your back, adjustment boosters spluttering as they fail to adjust the sudden horizontal nature of your body. Command is screaming at you over whats left of the comm system, and from the shivers of her body she’s hearing the same message, something about “reactor meltdowns taking out an entire populated area” and “blatant waste of company resources”.  The wires remaining in your brain make a pop as you rip them from sore and bleeding ports, last message being broadcast on a private mech to mech channel

“See you back at base baby, thanks for the good time <3”