#code vein liz

[isoobie]

enha never miss 🫰🏼🫰🏼

[chrissssssmut]

yandere liz x male reader where reader gets punished by liz for breaking her rules but gets taken care of afterwards

(btw thank u for ur hard work. the consistency in quantity and quality is crazy)

OBEDIENCE IS DEVOTION (Yandere w/ Smut)

Yandere Liz x Male Reader

AN: Im slowly losing my juice but i am determined to keep writing RAHHHH🫡

Liz never raised her voice. She never needed to. Her rules weren’t barked or shouted—they were whispered into your skin, in the quiet moments when her arms were around you and her lips grazed the shell of your ear. “No phones. No guests. And never open the basement door.” She said it with a kiss to your temple, like a bedtime promise. You didn’t question it. You didn’t want to. Liz made life too easy. She cooked for you. She folded your laundry. She laughed at your jokes like they were the only things that had ever made her smile. The apartment was warm, bright, filled with the scent of eucalyptus and her shampoo. You told yourself that was love. You told yourself the rules were just her way of keeping things simple. But the door—the one at the end of the hallway, behind the laundry room—it blinked. Just a little red light above the keypad, faint but always there, always watching. You’d catch yourself looking at it without even realizing. And she’d always catch you.

“You’re thinking too much again,” she’d say sweetly, brushing your hair back, her nails barely grazing your scalp. “That little brain of yours is so noisy sometimes. I like it better when you’re calm.”

You always nodded. You always agreed. Because Liz’s voice made it so hard to say no. Because she smiled like everything she said made perfect sense, like she wasn’t asking for anything unreasonable. And maybe it wasn’t, not really. Until she left one afternoon, her purse forgotten on the counter, and that red light blinked at you again. You didn’t even realize you were moving until you were in front of the keypad. Her birthday. That was the code. Of course it was. The door clicked open like it had been waiting for you all along.

The air inside was still, unnaturally cold. You stepped down slowly, each wooden stair creaking under your weight. And then—photos. Hundreds. Pinned to corkboards, stuck to walls, framed on shelves. All of you. Sleeping. Eating. Showering. Crying. Pictures you couldn’t remember anyone taking. Notes in her handwriting. A piece of your hair, taped beside a list of your habits. Your old phone. Your letters. Your discarded things. It was a shrine. A museum of you.

“You really couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

Her voice didn’t make you jump. It was too soft, too calm for that. You turned and saw her standing at the top of the stairs, lit from behind like an angel. One hand resting on the rail. Her face unreadable. She began descending slowly, not a single step rushed.

“You always do this,” she murmured. “You push. You test me. And I forgive you every time, don’t I?”

You opened your mouth but no words came out.

“Because I love you.”

She reached the bottom and stopped in front of you, eyes tracing your face with quiet intensity. Then her hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye.

“You make it so hard to keep you safe.”

The kiss she gave you was feather-light. So gentle it didn’t feel like punishment at all. “Upstairs,” she whispered against your lips.

You followed her, silent and dazed. She took your hand like nothing had happened, like you were walking home from a date and not returning from the discovery of your own surveillance. In the bedroom, she turned and looked at you.

“Take your shirt off.”

You hesitated.

Her voice didn’t change. “Now.”

You peeled it off. She smiled and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling a ribbon from her hair and sliding it slowly between her fingers.

“Kneel.”

You did. And she leaned forward, wrapping the ribbon tightly around your wrists. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t even tight. But it held. Her hands lingered on you, fingertips brushing your veins.

“There,” she whispered. “That’s better.”

She kissed your chest, your ribs, the hollow of your throat—worshipful, almost reverent. “I’m not angry,” she murmured. “You just scared me. You made me think I wasn’t enough.”

You tried to speak, but she climbed into your lap, hoodie still on, her bare thighs warm around your waist. Her lips hovered just above yours. “Don’t talk. Just listen.”

Her fingers brushed your cock, barely touching. Teasing. Cruel.

“You don’t get to cum,” she whispered, voice syrup-sweet. “Not yet. Not until you understand.”

Her hand wrapped around your aching cock slowly, deliberately, stroking with just enough pressure to keep you trembling. Her lips pressed to your jaw.

“Tell me what you did wrong.”

“I… opened the door.”

“Why?”

“Because I was curious. Because—”

“No. Say it right.”

“Because you told me not to.”

Her mouth curved into a smile. “Because I love you,” she corrected again. “Say it.”

“Because you love me.”

Her strokes grew just a little firmer, just enough to make your legs shake.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours, Liz. I’m yours.”

“Good boy.”

She kissed you again, deeper this time, tongue brushing yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. She pulled her shorts aside, and in one smooth motion, she sank down onto you, wet and warm and slow. You gasped, but she covered your mouth with her hand, eyes wide and gentle.

“Shh. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

She rode you like she had all the time in the world, slow and steady, keeping you right on the edge while her nails left faint trails on your chest. She leaned forward and kissed your temple, your lips, your nose. “You feel that?” she breathed. “That’s love. That’s how deep I want to be. Always.”

You couldn’t last. Not like that. When you came, it was raw and shaky and overwhelming, and she moaned as if your surrender meant more than anything. She clung to you, her forehead pressed to yours.

“See?” she whispered. “You don’t need anything else.”

She untied you gently, like she was worried she might hurt your skin. Then she cleaned you off with a warm towel, humming quietly under her breath. You didn’t know what to say. She tucked you under the blanket and curled around you like you might vanish if she didn’t hold you close enough.

In the morning, you woke to sunlight spilling across the bed and the smell of strawberries and toast. A tray waited beside you. Liz was in the kitchen, wearing your shirt, hair still messy, humming a tune you vaguely recognized.

“You were out cold,” she said with a smile. “I made breakfast.”

You stared at her. “Liz… last night…”

She tilted her head. “Hmm?”

“You tied me up.”

“No, baby,” she said sweetly. “You must’ve dreamed that.”

You sat up. Your wrists still bore the faintest marks. She saw you looking and leaned in to kiss them.

“You poor thing. You’ve been so stressed.”

She fed you a strawberry. It tasted like it was laced with guilt and comfort.

“You know I’d never hurt you, right?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

She kissed your cheek and whispered, “Everything I do… is because I love you.”

That night, the keypad on the basement door had changed. She stood next to it, her hand resting casually on the panel.

“No more sneaking around,” she said softly. “You don’t want me to get upset again, do you?”

You shook your head.

She smiled like you’d said something beautiful, something perfect.

And in that moment, you realized—she never gets upset. She doesn’t need to. Because she knows, in the end, you always come back to her.

That night, the house was too quiet.

You lay on the couch, barely blinking, your thoughts looping in tight, suffocating circles. You could still hear her voice echoing in your head—You must’ve dreamed that. You stared at your wrists, where the faint marks remained, pink and fading, like they weren’t supposed to mean anything.

Liz appeared behind you without a sound.

"Bedroom," she said softly.

You looked up at her. She wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t angry, either. Her face was unreadable—like she already knew what would happen, and your part was just to follow along.

You obeyed. The hallway was long and dark, but you didn’t need to be guided. You sat on the edge of the bed, your body heavy with dread and something darker that you didn’t want to name.

Liz came in a moment later. She closed the door gently and crossed the room with slow, measured steps. She didn’t say anything at first—just stood in front of you and tilted your chin up with two fingers. Her nails were painted a pale, sheer pink.

“Take off your clothes.”

You hesitated.

“Now.”

You peeled your shirt over your head and kicked off your pants, trembling slightly as her eyes trailed over your exposed skin. Her expression didn’t change, but her breathing slowed as she looked at you—like you were something rare and fragile, something hers.

She sat down beside you, her thigh brushing yours, the bed dipping just slightly under her weight. Her lips hovered near your ear, and you could feel the warmth of her breath before you even heard her voice.

“Say the rules.”

Your throat tightened. You knew what she wanted.

“No phones,” you whispered.

Her hand slid onto your thigh, warm and soft.

“No guests.”

Her fingers moved slowly inward.

“And…”

You swallowed. “Never open the basement door.”

“Good,” she murmured. “Now tell me what you did.”

You closed your eyes. “I opened the door.”

She made a soft sound—almost a coo—and her hand reached your cock, fingers curling around it, lazy and light, like she had all the time in the world. She stroked you once, slow and deliberate.

“You broke my trust,” she whispered, her lips brushing the edge of your ear. “You disobeyed me.”

You nodded helplessly.

“Keep going.”

“I… I looked through your things.”

Her hand moved again, just enough to keep you on edge. She kissed your temple, her mouth open slightly, her breath warm and steady.

“And what did you see?”

“Pictures. Of me.”

“And did you like it?” Her voice was impossibly gentle.

You didn’t answer.

Her hand stilled. Her other hand touched your jaw, guiding your face to hers until you had no choice but to meet her eyes. There was no anger. Just calm, endless patience.

“Tell the truth,” she whispered. “Did it turn you on?”

You felt your face heat up. You wanted to lie. You didn’t.

“A little.”

Her smile returned—small, indulgent. Her grip tightened just slightly.

“That’s okay,” she said sweetly. “It’s normal to be excited when someone loves you this much. When someone would do anything to keep you.”

She leaned in, her nose brushing your cheek, her hand moving again—slower this time, more deliberate.

“You’re mine,” she whispered. “Even your shame. Even your fear. It all belongs to me.”

You moaned softly, your body tensing under her slow, rhythmic strokes. Her other hand slid across your chest, fingers splayed over your heart.

“You can cum,” she breathed into your ear, “but only when I say.”

Her hand didn’t stop. It was maddening. You were so close, held there by her voice and her scent and her soft, dangerous touch.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

“I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours, Liz.”

Her mouth found your neck, teeth grazing your skin—not biting, not yet—just enough to make you freeze.

“Good boy,” she purred.

And you came undone in her hand.

She held you through it, kissed your ear, cleaned you off with quiet precision. Not a word of cruelty. No scolding. Just the same eerie affection she always had, like you were her most precious thing in the world.

As she tucked you into bed, brushing the hair from your eyes, she kissed your lips gently and whispered, “You did so well tonight. I’m proud of you.”

You stared at the ceiling long after she curled into you, her arms wrapped tightly around your waist, her breath soft against your back.

Somewhere in your chest, your heart ached—and not because she hurt you. But because some part of you had started to believe she really was the only one who would love you this completely.

[sugarskullserenade]

Spending Valentine's day with the boys ^^

Finally got some pictures of Liz with them, I tried to find poses that would reflect how she'd act toward them.

[sugarskullserenade]

Let's see what my Liz gets

Touch my muse! Touching is a quiet way of conveying your feelings, so tell me how you feel with your touch!

Top of head: Sibling affection/parental affection

Hair: Yearning

Ear: “I want you to hear me out.”

Nose: “You’re so cute.”

Cheek: “I want to tell you I love you.”/Deep affection/Devotion

Neck: Dislike/Hate/Disdain

Shoulder: Worry/Concern for other/Fear

Waist: Possessiveness/“You are mine.”

Over the heart: “I love you.”

Butt: Sexual attractiveness/lust

Hip: Interest

Back: Wanting to kill/will betray you one day

Stomach: Fun!/Silliness/“Wanna go cause some trouble?”

Forearm: Indifference/Don’t particularly care for

Biceps: Aggravation/Irritation/“You are an idiot.”

Fingers: Friendship/amicable

Wrist: Fear of losing you

Knee: “Don’t worry, I’m here for you.”

Chin: Beauty/attractiveness

Thigh: Sympathy/empathy

Calves: “I will cause you pain.”

Feet: “I will serve you forever.”/Deep devotion and and feelings of servitude/extreme fealty

[spicedcinnamoncake]

BPRD ch.1  this is my first ever fanfic, i hope you enjoy reading :)) POV: you are seventeen, but you have supernatural abilities.  Abilities: hypersensitivity, electric powers, wall climbing. (you can have a LOT of fun with these, I couldn’t pick just one. XD)  Enjoy :P

You woke up. Pulse pounding in your head, and your eyes were heavy. What had happened? Where were you?  You tried sitting up but the heavy cast on your arm held you down. You winced as you tried moving your fingers. Finally, you managed to sit up and look around. The room wasn’t a large one, but it wasn’t exactly tiny either. It had the walls painted white, with no windows. Underground?  Something changed in the air. You looked at the door. Someone was outside. You heard a series of beeps as if they were entering a code on some sort of keypad.  The door opened and in stepped a woman, her hair was dark and her eyes darker. She closed the door and made a few steps towards your bed. She gave you a slight smile before looking at the file in her hand.  ‘Y/N Y/L/N? Hi, i’m Liz Sherman. Your at the BPRD.’  BPRD? what’s that?  ‘The Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense. You were brought in here last night.’ she continued, sitting down next to you.  You looked at her for a second before clearing your throat. ‘why am i here?’  Liz help your gaze before continuing. ‘somebody reported a person climbing up the side of a building. But on the bare bricks, not using any windows or balconies for grip. just straight up scaling it. We were called in and by the time you realized what was happening you began climbing faster, and then someone shot you with a tranquilizer.’  jeez. The last thing you remembered was the piercing pain in your upper back before loosing your grip and falling. Well, that explained your arm.  What a silly mistake you made. Why did you down that entire bottle?  You mentally scolded yourself. Fidgeting with the plaster on your cast, you asked Liz; ‘what is going to happen to me?’  Liz looked at you and a tiny smile edged at the corner of her lips. ‘is there anything else you can do?’  You were taken aback by this, but nevertheless, may as well show her. using your good hand, you opened it with your palm facing up, curling your fingers slightly. You focused yourself, until a small purple spark was visible. you let the current run in between your fingers before extending your hand, making  it disappear.  Liz smiled before holding out her own hand. Your eyes widened as a bright orange flame appeared in the center of her palm. it flickered and danced until she closed her fist, extinguishing it.  ‘cool’ you breathed.  Liz turned to you. ‘why don’t you follow me?’    You two stepped out into the hallway. Important looking people were rushing back and forth, dressed in suits and dress shirts, all either carrying files, talking on phones, or just bickering back and forth as they walked.  Liz led you down a few hallways before you reached a large wooden door.  inside was a brilliant library. every wall was covered in books, with comfortable looking armchairs and sofas in the center of the room, with a large coffee table in the center. on one wall however, there was a large tank. you walked over to peer inside but nothing was in there.  Liz looked at the large clock on one of the walls and sighed. ‘they should be here any minute,’ she sighed.  you looked up. “who?’  Just as the words left your lips, the library door swung open. two people walked in, but they weren’t exactly people. One was a big muscular guy, with deep red skin. His horns seemed to be stubs on his forehead and he was wearing a large trench coat.  The other was skinnier, shorter, but nontheless interesting. he was royal blue skin, with black lines swirling past his shoulder blades, down his arms and dipped into his black trousers.  his hands were webbed and he had these large dark eyes that stared into you. You shifted and picked at your cast.  ‘don’t do that kid, it’ll fall off.’ the red guy quipped.  Liz walked over to them.  ‘Y/N, this is Hellboy and Abe. they too work here, and you will be with them on missions from time to time.’  every single sci-fi movie made a re-run in your brain. Underground facility? Teenager with supernatural abilities? Other-worldly creatures?  a mix of excitement and fear ran through your veins. electricity sparked in your eyes, blue currents running over your Y/E/C eyes.  ‘H-hi’ you stuttered.  you shook both of there hands, before you all took a seat on the chairs. Liz curled up next to Hellboy and Abe sat in the armchair next to you.  ‘How long have you all been here?’ The question practically came out by itself.  ‘Nearly six years, Red’s been here his whole life’ Liz said.  ‘forty three years.’ Abe replied.  Forty? how long were you going to be here? was this a bad place?  You shifted awkwardly in your seat, twisting a lock of hair between your fingers.  ‘It’s not a bad place, this facility is home.’ Abe said, almost as if he was reading your thoughts.  You looked around the library. All the books just sitting there waiting to be opened. It was distracting. Your eyes wandered over to the tank. Maybe Abe lived in there? The thought made you smile.  ‘Is there any fiction books here?’ you wandered aloud. Abe jerked a webbed finger in the direction of a bookshelf near the door. ‘that whole shelf is fiction.’  ‘awesome.’ You, Liz, Hellboy and Abe stayed talking for a while. you learned about Liz’s past, Red’s too. Turned out Abe really could read thoughts. You made a mental note to not ask him to play cards with him.  ‘How old did you say you were kid?’ Hellboy asked. ‘seventeen’ you mumbled.  ‘only seventeen? how did you wind up here?’  ‘long story Red. i got drunk and ended up climbing a building. someone must’ve spotted me and called the authorities.’  ‘kid, your seventeen. Where did you even get the drinks?’  ‘sketchy part of town. Didn’t even ask for an I.D. Just handed me a bottle and had at it.’  An uncomfortable silence filled the room. you picked up a book that was lying on the coffee table.  ‘huh, Hamlet. where does this belong?’  ‘up there’ Abe pointed at one of the topmost shelves in the library. ‘the ladder is broken. Somebody tried climbing it.’ Abe said, eyeing Red.  You grinned before getting up and walking over to the wall, the book tucked under your arm. You kicked your shoes off and pressed your palm to the wall until you felt the tendrils come out of your skin and attach, same for the soles of your feet. The rest of the group looked at you quizzically as you drew a sharp breath and began to climb the wall. It was rather difficult, considering you were only using one hand.  Once you finally reached the top of the shelf, you motioned to a small gap between the books.  ‘this it?’ Abe nodded, his large dark eyes blinking.  you slid the book into place before climbing down and putting your shoes back on. The group was staring at you.  ‘Ta-da?’   A smile smile edged at Hellboy’s mouth and Liz and Abe grinned.  You walked back over to them, feeling accomplished. Cool.  Maybe this place isn’t so bad? Who knows. You’ve only been here about half a day but the feeling of happiness rushed through your veins.   hope you enjoyed! part two??-

[alexandermanes]

ghost whisperer - rnm fic

hey so here’s the ghost malex au/human au fic  wrote but didn’t post on halloween week bc i was unmotivated

hope you like it :)

ao3

Chapter One - Ghosts

“First, you need a location”, declared the man, Tom, also known as MythCatcher on Youtube

Michael nodded then furiously scribbled down in his scrawny handwriting “Location”

“Then, you need to do research- Research is a very important part of paranormal investigation. You need to fact-check myths, learn about history of the place you’re looking for poltergeists”, he informs Michael via the small screen of his phone, “Learn about the deceased’s, their name, their story”

He stops the video to write “Research” on the notebook, underneath “Location”, obviously.

“After that: planning. What kind of gear are you planning on taking? Camera? Infrared night vision goggles? An Ouija board to facilitate communication? What kind of questions will you ask, with or without the board? What time are you going? What time are you going to visiting the haunting site? What are the alleged time of the apparition’s sighting?”

Those are too many points, Michael observes and writes “Planning” as a third bullet point in his “How to ghost hunt” list. Tom (MythCatcher) doesn’t appreciate the term “ghost hunter”, he thinks it’s demeaning since people don’t take ghosts seriously. The paranormal, though, that they fear and believe in. Idiot, he muttered as he pressed play on the video again. He does not care about Tom’s sensitivities.

Michael isn’t delusional, he knows most paranormal investigators are as genuine as his will to admit when Max’s right, which is non-existent. But, amongst the sea of “myth catchers”, Tom is the one that makes the most sensible points, despite the fact that he earns money by making Youtube videos in his 40s and advertises for “high-end ghost hunting gear”. Needless to say, he takes Tom’s points with a grain of salt.

         “Once you have a list of equipment to take with you and a scripted way to approach the site, the hows and when, then you’re ready for the next step: Communication”, Tom states, “Now, this is a crucial step. To communicate with the paranormal, you must be respectful”

Michael isn’t sure what constitutes as being respectful amongst investigators of the paranormal but invading their space, often the site where they died in, and demanding their participation in whatever nonsensical conversation they have planned doesn’t seem like very cordial behavior.

“No mocking, no inviting dangerous entities to that space, address them by name and be polite. Also you must be protected, always be straightforward about the kind of entity you allow to be in your vicinity. If there’s any funny business going on, send it away immediately. Bring your salt with you. ParanormalActivityStore has a ten percent discount if you use my code for a personalized-“, he is interrupted by Michael closing the app

“That’s enough dead brain cells for a single afternoon”, he reminds himself., after that he scribbles “Communication” as a final bullet point in his list.

Michael Sanders isn’t sure when his obsession with ghosts started, although he doesn’t appreciate his interest and curiosity being labeled and an obsession, thank you very much, despite what everyone else has voiced in the past; that’s why he keeps it to himself these days. No, in fact, he actually knows when this journey began, he can pinpoint it.

See, Michael is a man of rational thinking and little faith, a man of science and not religion which is why he believes in ghosts. Every night for a year he sees his mom, not in dreams, and with no previous history of mental illness, not in delusions. Every night religiously for a year his mom has visited him. When it started he believed himself to be dreaming but that wasn’t the case. She never says much, kneels by his bedside, cradles his face with one hand, caresses his cheek and smiles at him, teary-eyed and whispers. “Manes Residence”, those words haunt him but with a foreign intent. Though it’s a balm to his soul seeing his mother smile at him even when her eyes are so woeful, even proffering such ominous words.

It is a mystery to him as to why, ten years after her death, a brain aneurysm that took her unexpectedly from his arms, she began to visit him during the night and why she whispers those words. He has exhausted every method he’s ever heard of: Ouija boards, calling out to her, lucid dreaming, leaving candles and objects for her to communicate through, he even considered hiring a psychic but that somehow seemed too extreme. He tried praying and still prays at any given time during the day but that doesn’t seem to have been successful. At first he assumed he wasn’t doing it correctly, but then again, at the ripe age of eleven years old, in one of the foster homes he inhabited lived a family of religious fanatics, so he doubts he’s doing prayers incorrectly. Especially when hesitating or stuttering during prayers resulted in punishment. This situation is a big enigma to him and it pesters him on a daily basis. He needs answers. If this was any ordinary mystery he wouldn’t have bothered this much but he has bone-deep certainty that this, whatever it is, is very important.  So keeps trying to contact his mom. He tries unrelentingly.

-

Until one day. He makes his way to the Crashdown, Isobel and Max by his side. After a long day of school (he was thankful it was his senior year), they all decided they needed a well-deserved milkshake with a side portion of french-fries. As they entered the diner and the small bell rang overhead, they noticed an unusual amount of patrons for a Thursday afternoon. Oh, well, he thought. They sauntered towards the counter and waited in line, a single person in front of them, a truly serendipitous event. In the indistinct chatter he picks up two words: Manes Residence.

“Sorry?”, he says loudly, turning towards the person who emitted them

Rosa Ortecho asses him with an unimpressed, and frankly disgusted, expression and continues talking to Liz, disregarding him as if he were a vexing fly.

“So anyways. Lydia told me that now the house is haunted. Sargent Psycho took off with hs ten kids or whatever to nowhere land during the nightly hours. Not a soul saw them ever again”, she points out, “dude murdered his wife after she tried to leave him, buried her than grabbed his five sons and fucked off”

“It’s just a rumor, Rosa!”, Liz replied, laughing purely out of amusement and disbelief

“So this Manes House”, Michael chimed in, “where is it?”

“Michael, stop barging in in people’s conversation”, Max reprehended him, an honest to God blush creeping in

“I’m sorry”, Michael looked from Liz to Rosa, “He isn’t usually this rude”

Michael gave him an eye-roll that screamed Fuck off, Max. Rosa just mimicked him while Liz smiled, a bright and toothy smile.

“It used to be Master-Sargent’s Jesse Manes residence, he lived there with his wife and four sons. Then one day they disappeared off of the map and the house was put up for sale. No one ever saw them since, I think, the fourth of July fair last year”, she informed him, “The house was never sold, probably because of rumors that it is haunted. I can give you the address, me and Rosa used to be best friends with one of his kids, Alex”

“Yeah, right up until the moment the left and just like poof, never called or texted”, Rosa supplied

“He probably just didn’t find the time or-“, Liz tried to explain

“For a year, Liz?”, she replied with a very irritated tone, “Either he is ignoring us, completely forgot us or is dead”

Liz gave her a good-natured eye-roll and simply told her she was being dramatic.

“Can you give me an address?”, Michael asked suddenly feeling anxious

Liz acquiesced then ripped a sheet of paper from her notepad and wrote the address.

“You’re one weird little dude”, Rosa told him, though Michael completely disregarded her

He thanked Liz and almost forgot about the shake and fries, the original reason for his appearance at the Crashdown. As they waited, Max and Isobel engaged in conversation but Michael was far too distracted to hear any of their words, instead, his mind raced, making plans about when to visit the residence. Something akin to energy traveled through his veins, similar to electricity, his heart sped-up, he felt restless and suddenly very aware of his surroundings. The movement of brown paper bags being set on the counter snapped him out of his gaze. He immediately took one, knowing they order essentially the same dish, and strode to the door.

“Michael!”, Isobel called out, drawing heads to her, “where are you going?”

“Sorry. Forgot I had something to do at- um, the junkyard. Talk later”, he immediately turned his back on his friends and exited the diner.

He scrambled for his keys inside his pocket, growing more frustrated by the second, until the skin-warm metal found his finger tips and at last, picked up his keys. He unlocked his baby blue beat-up truck and tossed his food on the passenger seat, subsequently starting the engine. He felt possessed, moving by this ominous force, an urgent feeling, but regardless of his feelings amongst other things, he was hell-bent on finding the Manes residence at that very instant.    

[annoyinglyjovialbird]

Voltron: Next Generation

Wavering Objectives: I

Word Count: 3283

A/N: Longer cause I can!

It had been a few days since Kova's great escapade, but the effects still lingered. 

Yorak and Vhix were studying the holoscreen recording of the event. She was smart, quick on her feet. Vhix stared at the recordings in a begrudging impress. Yorak was supporting himself on the table, bowing his head and glaring at a still of Kova's face. 

"Well, Kyla sure has grown up, hasn't she?" Vhix muttered. Yorak's hand tightened into a ball. With a thunderous blow, Yorak pounded his fist into the table, shaking the screen and disabling it. 

"Kyla is still the same spineless girl she was before." Yorak stood at full height, cradling his fist. "We can break her. Rebuild her. Make her fight for us." Yorak had turned to look out the small porthole-sized window behind him. The stars flickered past the slow-moving ship. The rainbow clouds of dust glowed in the distance, much too far to reach. 

"And how do you intend to do that?" Vhix asked, crossing his arms across his chest and leaned on the edge of the table. "Her moral compass was determined by the ones who raised her, and that wasn't you."

"Ezrid," Yorak growled. "Don't tell me things I already know." Yorak turned to glare at the man behind him. Vhix looked unimpressed, only uncrossing his arms at Yorak's turn. 

"Well, Junior," Vhix said. Yorak sneered at the name. "Entertain me. How are you going to break someone who isn't here to break?"

"In due time, Vhix." Yorak flexed his hand, wincing at the pain that shot up his arm. "When we return to the outpost, I'll tell you."

"Until then?" 

"Track her down. Double the ransom. We need her back."

———————

The crew of the Coeus was gathered on the bridge, hoping to hear all about the amazing escape. Kova, for her credit, stood in the middle of the floor in full view of everyone's eyes as they looked her over. She was wearing only a black t-shirt, black pants, and combat boots. Her hair was held back in a loose ponytail, her eyes downcast. 

Rolling her head around, she met everyone's eyes and sighed. 

"Let's just get this over with." She muttered. Stiffening her shoulders and holding herself steady, Kova's eyes brightened. "Who's first?" A barrage of questions came her way, and if there was a way to physically be blown away by the questions or the volume at which they were being asked, Kova would. "Time out, time out!" 

"What happened? What did you do?"

"I called for a timeout, Griffin!"

"Don't care!" Liz held her face in her hands in a glamor pose. "How did you escape?" Kova rolled her eyes and rested her hand on her hip. 

"I made an elephant toothpaste trap, escaped through a hole in the sewer, and was blown out through the back door." A few awkward blinks came Kova's way, and she stared back. "Seriously, that's what happened! Ugh, anyway. Who's next?"

"Are you physically okay?" Cake asked next. Kova nodded. 

"Besides a wrist sprain from holding on to the door, I'm fine."

"Then why are your arm and leg wrapped?" Kova really hoped Cake wouldn't ask. Her body language said as much. Kova's leg had been scratched from her jump into the emergency toilet that she hadn't noticed, the small scratch on her hands climbing out of the emergency toilet later on, and the wrist sprain didn't and shouldn't warrant an arm sling and Kova's left arm and right leg to be completely wrapped in gauze and tape. 

"I wish I could tell you, Cake." Kova looked to the quiet side of the room. "Next?" 

"Did you recover any pertinent information?" Allie asked. 

"Not much. I'm sorry. They took me to a closet across from the Emperor's room. The second-in-command told me I should be grateful for not being in a crowded prison cell." 

"They were treating you well?" 

"I know! I was shocked too. It seemed like I was their main priority. They tried feeding several times. I even dunked a soldier's head in a toilet, but they let me go. I wasn't punished." Allie sat back in her chair, pondering. "Who's next?"

"How were we able to track you?" Shiro was supporting himself on the banister around Kova's station. 

Kova's eyebrows lifted at her father, who stood firm. She shrugged and turned to face the windows to the dark space outside. She stooped down to lift a small panel on the floor and inserted a small chip. The screen came to life, showing a unique code, color-coded to show the differences. Kenny and Cake marveled at the sight, geeking out at the individual codes. Everyone else was trying to understand what it was. 

"These are the individual tracking codes on the suits. When I was going through the suits and updating, upgrading, or even unlocking several different components, I also inserted a tracking code." 

"Into the armor or the bodysuits?" Cake asked, tuning into the conversation. 

"Both," Kova said, turning to face him. "I managed to have the codes be separate from each other unless combined together."

"Meaning?" Keith asked. He had been quiet throughout the whole conversation. At least he was interested in something. 

"Meaning that the bodysuits will emit a tracking code unless attached to the armor. Then, the bodysuits disable their code when their pairing code is in position."

"So, wait. The code Cap knew is—" Liz started again, being cut off by Kova. 

"The code to the Black Paladin bodysuit." Kova's right hand found itself a home on her hip as she stared at everyone's awed stares. If reversed, you'd be impressed, too, she chided herself. "I kept all the code on a small password-protected chip in case of plagiarism. I hoped to integrate it with the modern suits after test runs."

"So, wait." Caleb held a finger in the air. "Our suits are tracking code experiments." Kova raised her eyebrows again, giving Caleb a flat stare. Allie, although not visible to Caleb, also gave a flat stare. 

"Caleb," Kova pinched the bridge of her nose. "You. Were. There." Caleb crossed his arms and pouted. "Are you going to ask a question, now, or are you going to keep pouting?"

"What is your relationship with the Fire?" Keith demanded, turning all eyes to him. 

"What are you talking about?" Kova asked. Her heart was racing. Did he know? Did Keith recognize her? 

"You're half-Galra, aren't you?" Darn. 

"Yeah, but what does that have to do with anything?" 

"Whose side are you on?" Keith had descended the staircase to stand in front of Kova. He was taller than she was, but she didn't move. She met his stare. "The Fire's or the galaxy's?" 

"Stand down, soldier." Kova's eyes flared at the accusation. "I'm on the side that takes down the Fire, not the other way around." 

"Then why haven't you done anything against them?"

"What are we supposed to do? We're kids!" 

"So was I, and I defeated the Fire! Give me a real excuse!" 

"Alright, alright, enough!" Shiro intervened. "We can discuss more later. Kova, go put ice on your wounds. Keith, go rest in your bunk. Everyone else, continue normal duties." To a chorus of 'yes sirs' and huffs from fighting parties, the crew did exactly what they were told to do. 

Later that night, and in the middle of the night, the crew had a rude awakening. One minute, the Coeus is stable. Drifting through space without much interference from the space around it. The next, it went nyoom to the right. With thunderous crashes, every teen had fallen out of bed. Kenny, who positioned his bed in a small alcove, hadn't been affected. Until the ship took a hard left to reposition itself. Then he raced to the bridge. 

The paladins raced in, in varying degrees of sleepwear. Together, they scanned the windows, searching for warnings or blasts. Instead, they found Keith. He was wearing the clothes Shiro had gotten him from the space mall: A plain black t-shirt, a gray vest Shiro had stolen back from Kova, matching gray cargo pants, and boots. Red ribbons were tied around his calves to keep the pants from billowing. 

Keith only stared at the teens, holding the console. It seemed to the teens he didn't expect the teens' response time to be so fast. Clearly, he didn't know how often they've been attacked. 

From left to right, the teens wore their Lions' colors well. Allie wore a light blue long-sleeved smocked waist dress with matching blue pants and white slippers. Caleb wore a bold red shirt with a plaid breast pocket and black and white plaid pants with black socks. Kova wore solid purple sweatpants and long-sleeved tunic with fitted wrists and ankles and barefoot. Liz wore a white tank-top with bright green shorts underneath. covered by a green robe and white socks. Cake wore a long green and yellow tunic similar to the ones his mother wore on the Balmera. They all had varying degrees of bed head, from Allie's bent pigtails to Kova's tri-pronged hair and everything in between. 

"It's the middle of the night!" Liz exclaimed. Cake and Allie were quick to follow her anger but did nothing to stop Keith. "Kova! Kova?" Liz tried to rally the stunned teen and noticed a vein protruding from the girl's forehead. 

"DAAAAD!" Kova's voice started small, growing in volume as she stood to full height. "DAD!" She leaned her head out the doorway. "DAD! Control your, uh, whatever!" 

"Get into positions," Caleb ordered, sighing tiredly. The teens complied, watching. "He's probably still strapped into the bed." 

"What a shame. I don't care." Kova turned to glare at the man in her place. "Get away from my console." Keith didn't budge. She repeated it. His eyes hardened as she got closer. 

"I have to get back to Earth!" Keith shouted, pulling a hand away from the console. The Coeus once again went nyoom but the teens were semi-prepared this time. "I have to get back to my family!"

"We have a larger mission at hand!" Kova argued, lunging at his hand. Keith moved away from her grasp, turning the ship right-side up. "Sorry to say, but I think your family can wait!"

"You don't understand!" The Coeus tilted to the left. 

"Try me!" Rightside up. 

"You're a kid! What do you know?" Coeus went almost flat to its right. 

"More than you, apparently!" Rightside up again. 

"Enough!" Shiro yelled, interrupting the two. Kova took Keith's distraction to pull him forward and flip him onto his back. "Kova!" She stood at attention, directly in front of the console. "What's going on?" Keith was quick to stand up. He opened his mouth to explain, but Kova beat him to it. 

"We awoke to the Coeus changing direction. While aware of your sleeping circumstances, we attempted to resolve this on our own."

"Kova." 

"Fine." She sighed. "I tried to solve this on my own. But he started it!" She pointed a menacing finger at Keith. He pointed one back. 

"She doesn't understand what happened!"

"He almost killed us!"

"No, I didn't!" 

"Stop it! Enough, you two!" Shiro stood in between them. "Kova, be more understanding of others around you." She glowered as Keith beamed. "And Keith, you're new to this dynamic, but Kova's in charge until I take command." Now it was Kova's turn to beam while Keith scowled. "Kova."

"On it." She turned to her team, ready for orders. "Liz, pull up cameras. Cake, redirect our course. I uploaded some data into the Coeus's hard drive. Allie, can you decode for Kenny? It's Altean. Caleb, get me a hot chocolate."

"No." He spun in his chair, typing away at his console to check on weapons systems. Kova shrugged at her dad, who gave his head shake of disapproval. She didn't mind much. 

"Keith, there's a chair in the corner." Kova pointed at the chair in its long-forgotten corner. Of course, he didn't listen. Luckily for the teens, there was an all-clear. The teens climbed up the stairs, all hoping to reacquaint themselves with their sheets and pillows. 

The Coeus, once again, went nyoom, taking a hard hit from the left. The teens slammed into the nearest walls. 

"Oh, I'm never going to sleep tonight," Kova muttered with her head bowed. She stood, taking command. "All right, everyone, get to stations!" Keith had a first-class seat to the efficiency the team dealt with the threat. Unfortunately, now they were all too wired to go to bed. Keith wasn't pulling his stunt again tonight. 

They're kids! What do they know!

Kova was typing away at her console. The low light on the bridge had darkened her features, making her look more tired than she was. For once, the look matched the feeling. All the attacking and the running and the plotting were starting to take their toll. The universe didn't have to know about Voltron just yet, but having to break the news to the Coalition might be the end of her. Or her career. Or both. 

"You ask her!" 

"No, you!" 

"Why do I have to do it?" 

"She's your pilot!"

"This was your idea!" The hushed, hurried argument between Cake and Liz was entertaining at best, annoying at worst. There was no reason for them to be up here. They knew Kova was more than capable to handle the bridge duties by herself. 

"Hey, uh, Cap?" Cake inched himself closer to Kova at her console. He glanced at Liz, who motioned him to continue, and he smiled awkwardly at Kova's head. 

"What's up, Cake?" She replied, still not looking up. 

"We, uh, um," Cake cleared his throat. "We want to play a game up here if that's alright." 

"I won't interfere. Go for it." Cake rolled his eyes and Liz smacked her forehead.

"We want you to play with us." Kova's fingers stilled over the keyboard and she looked up. Slowly she turned her head to Cake, who began to sweat bullets. They stood there for a few seconds as the message was being processed in Kova's brain. She half-smiled and agreed. Cake, blown away that it worked, was dragged to the floor by the hand by Liz, who held an empty bottle. 

"Guys, she said yes!" Liz cried excitedly, and Caleb and Allie soon appeared. All the teens sat down in a circle on the floor of the bridge and placed the bottle in the middle of the group. 

"I think we're too young to play spin the bottle," Kova said. 

"We're not," Liz said, spinning the bottle. "It's kind of like truth-or-dare, twenty questions, and spin the bottle rolled into one." The bottle slowly came to a stop in front of Cake, who had finally come out his daze. 

"Whoever the bottle lands on has to answer every question the other members of the group ask them truthfully." Cake explained further. 

"And it's your turn." Kova pointed out. Cake smiled sheepishly and turned to the person on his right. This was Liz. 

"Lady Eliza, what do you wish to ask me?" Cake said in a fake posh accent. Caleb stifled a laugh and Allie covered her mouth. Kova smiled at the ridiculousness. 

"Why thank you, sir," Liz replied with a matching accent. "Lord of Cakes, I wish to know your real age." 

"My word, Lady Eliza, know you nothing of proper manners." Caleb couldn't hold his laughter in anymore. At Caleb's laughter, Allie laughed too. Kova giggled, which was enough to boost both Liz and Cake's egos. 

"For real, though," Liz said, dropping the accent. "What is your real age? I know Balmerans probably age slower than humans do." 

"I'm still your age." Cake answered. "It's human genetics. I live longer than a human but tragically short for a Balmeran. I don't think about it too much." 

"Does that—" Liz started. A finger twice the size of her own pressed against her lips, and Cake looked away dramatically. 

"Lady Eliza, please! Only one question!" The three other teens erupted in laughter again and one by one asked Cake their questions. 

"What's the story behind your nickname?" Allie was the last to ask, and Cake scoffed at her question.

"Easy." Cake rested his hands in his lap. "I was trying to help my dad in the kitchen. He was working on a huge cake order at the time, and I thought I could sift or mix or pipe frosting or something. I wanted to feel useful. I tripped and caught myself on the counter and dropped a sheet cake Dad had been saving for his overworked pastry chefs. I wound up returning to the Balmera with some proper embarrassment from Talia, who sent pictures of me around the Garrison. I was famous as the 'Cake Kid' before I even got there." 

"I thought you were told the story before," Liz mentioned, and Allie shrugged. 

"I wanted to hear it again." Allie rested her hands on her knees. "Who's next?" Liz leaned forward to spin the bottle again. Round and round it went. It slowly came to a stop in front of Kova. 

"Can I start?" Cake asked excitedly. Allie nodded.

"Who's Kyla?" Liz butted in instead. Cake pouted, but accepted it and turned to Kova. Kova had wide eyes, a look of fear etched into her face. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. May Allura forgive her.

"Kyla is my real name," Kova answered, her hand reaching out to rub the back of her neck. "Kyla Hannah Kogane." 

"Ha!" Cake exclaimed, earning everyone's stare. Well, everyone except Liz. "You owe me 20 GAC!" Cake turned his head to read the room and muttered an apology. 

  "Who's next?" Kova asked. Cake's eyes lit up, but Kova ignored him and looked to the other side to stare at Caleb. "How about you?"

"Nope. Look at Cake." Caleb answered. Kova said something about Caleb being no fun and turned to Cake. 

"If Keith and Pidge are your parents, and you knew they were your parents, why do you never call them mom and dad?" Cake asked his perfect question. Kova lifted her knees to rest her chin in the crook of her knees. 

"Keith and Pidge weren't the perfect parents everyone imagined they were." Kova started, looking off into the distance. "Oh, sure. They had their shining moments, but those were always with my brothers. It was never with me. I can't remember ever calling them mom and dad. TJ always called them by their first names, and Kenny always called them mom and dad when I wasn't in the room. When I left the Kogane home, I took a family picture with me. I stared at it every once in a while. I never had an issue because they weren't parents."

"Th-that's s-s-so sad!" Cake sniffled, tears and boogers coming out of his eyes and nose. The other teens distanced themselves from Cake, equally disgusted. 

"Ugh, Cake! You asked the question!" 

"I didn't think it would be such a sad answer!" Cake sniffled again. 

"Ew." Kova shook her head. "Allie, you're next.

"Alright. Um," She began. She wouldn't finish. 

The Coeus took another blast from the left, earning a quick response from the team. The bottle, disturbed from its resting place, rolled itself to the outermost wall and falling into a vent. The Coeus survived by making a wormhole jump about a week's worth of travel, but barely. In the morning, Kova, Kenny, and Cake would have to suit up and make repairs. Calling it a night, the teens left the bridge and slept in their bunks, leaving the bottle forgotten and left behind.

[justlightlysedated]

for @fraudulentzodiacs just because 💜💜💜

* * *

The target was moving too fast for the scanners to track, and Michael had to admit that he was a little impressed. Especially considering that the target was on foot and human.

Even Isobel flying at her fastest yet wasn’t enough to keep up.

Isobel curses low and harsh, her breathing heavy as she pushes past the limits of her stamina to keep up. 

“Remind me again how much credits are on the line,” Isobel asks, panting hard.

“3.5 million,” Michael says sounding a little breathless at the thought of having a third of that for himself.

“Dead or alive,” Max says, pushing the ship to go harder so that they could cut off their target. “So you don’t have to be gentle.”

“Not planning on it,” Isobel says, and then gives out a yell before Michael can see her speeding up on the scanner.

“I hope you’re getting ready,” Max tells Michael. “We’re almost in position.”

Michael rolls his eyes, “I was born ready.”

He can feel Max resisting the urge to take his gaze away from the front shield to glare at him.

“Dropping from this height at this speed-”

“Relax, my king,” Michael says mockingly. “Impenetrable skin, remember?”

“Not sure that will help when you get flattened like a pancake,” Max says, sarcastically.

“Trust me,” Michael responds. “I’ll be fine.”

“Now,” both Max and Isobel say.

Michael tugs the goggles holding his hair back from his face down to protect his eyes and pushes the blue button right next to the bay doors making the floor open up beneath his feet.

Michael lets out a whoop as he falls through the air, the wind rushing past him as he drops steals the sound away.

“Okay,” he hears Max’s voice through the implant in his left ear, connected to the ship’s broadcasting system. “You’re right on course. Isobel-”

“The fucker has those fucking cosmic boots,” Isobel says sounding pissed off. “I’m gonna kick Valenti’s fucking ass. Just picking up the son of an earth ambassador, he says. Easiest 3.5mill in the galaxy, he promises. Easy my ass, this fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“And so do we,” Max assures her. “Michael, twenty seconds to impact.”

Michael changes his position in midair, and presses down on his amulet hanging from his neck. It glows bright blue as the force field surrounds him, and then he crashes to the floor, throwing dirt and rocks in his wake.

The force field powers down and Michael falls to his back laughing helplessly with the adrenaline pouring through his veins.

“Michael,” Max snaps.

Michael pushes himself to his feet and braces his foot on the floor, pulling the laser rifle strapped to his back and looking through the scope.

He spots the target immediately, jumping between the rock formations like he has no fear of falling. Everytime he pushes off, the boots give him a sonic boost sending him farther than humanly possible.

It’s easy to see how he’s been keeping ahead of Isobel, and it’s also easy to see that unlike them, he knows the terrain.

It’s also easy to see the moment he slows down. 

Michael gets a bad feeling immediately, but before he can warn Isobel, she swoops down from the sky like an avenging angel, all golden and bright. 

The target, pushes off from the next formation, but instead of forward he jumps up, and collides with Isobel in midair, dragging them both down to the ground.

“Isobel!” Michael yells, and straps the rifle back on his back before he pulls the cylinder disk from it’s holster on his hip and throws it in front of him.

It folds out into a hoverboard and he jumps on it and speeds forward to where they dropped.

He gets there just in time to see the target, knock Isobel out, and lean forward to grab the amulet from around her neck. “Thanks, princess,” he says.

And Michael takes one second to curse Valenti’s name because the target knows who they really are, before he drops back down to the ground and pulls his rifle from his back as the target stuffs the amulet into the front pocket of his pants.

Michael points the rifle at him, “Hands in the air and maybe I’ll think about not blowing your brains out for hitting my sister.”

The target doesn’t move like he’s surprised, and Michael takes another second to curse Valenti’s name before the target moves fast, using the boots for an extra boost as he roundhouse kicks the rifle out of Michael’s hands and into the air, before he catches it and points it at Michael.

Half of the target’s face is covered by a black cloth, and his eyes widen a little as the take Michael in, but it’s only marginally, before the rifle is giving a whining sound as it powers up.

“You were hardly going to be able to blow my brains out with a cold rifle,” he says and takes a step closer. “And you are hardly the brother of the Lost Princess of Antar, General.”

Michael spits at the ground and bares his teeth at him, raising one hand to his amulet when he feels the tip of a dagger right against the small of his back.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” an unfamiliar female voice says, pressing the knife harder.

Michael is seriously going to kill Valenti if they manage to get out of this alive.

The knife presses harder, and Michael lets his hands drop to his sides.

“Two against one isn’t exactly a fair fight,” he tells the target, who rolls his eyes at Michael.

“Yeah, and what’s three against one?”

“A hell of a party,” Michael says, grinning at him, and hoping that Max is almost at their position.

“If that was a code word or something,” the target says moving closer. “I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

“Max,” Michael says suddenly realizing that Max hasn’t spoken since he called Michael’s name.

“Nope, sorry, he’s a little tied up at the moment,” another unfamiliar and amused female voice says into his earpiece.

“Don’t worry,” the target says snapping Michael’s attention back to him. “He’ll be with you soon enough.”

Before Michael can ask what he means, the target swings the rifle knocking Michael out.

* * *

Michael comes to with a gasp, sitting up too fast, making his shoulders twinge in protest as the move tugs against the restraints around his wrists.

Michael looks around his surroundings to see that they’re in the same spot the target had dropped Isobel. A sort of ravine that had enough shade to hide from the scorching hot suns to protect them all.

Michael spots Max passed out with his head on Isobel’s lap, and Isobel also has her hands tied behind her back and her eyes are narrowed in anger.

Michael looks over to see what she’s looking at and spots the target, sitting down on the floor, hands moving fast as he types into his wristband which is connected to the holographic monitor in front of him that is crunching through data extremely fast, and from the way his eyes are moving, Michael can tell that he’s got at least one neural implant.

Michael feels something hit his thigh and he turns to Isobel to see her gaze on him. She tilts her head towards the target pointedly, and points her chin down.

Michael looks back over to the target, and down to the boots, and finally sees what Isobel was talking about.

“You know,” he says, and the target startles, blinking rapidly before his dark gaze narrows on Michael. “I designed the prototype for those boots.”

The target seems to smile smugly at Michael with only his eyes and his eyebrows, and there is something so familiar about it, but Michael can’t quite put his finger on it.

“These are your prototype actually,” he says and something jolts in Michael’s stomach at that. “I stole them and destroyed the plans before anyone else could get a hold of them. There have been copies flying around the quadrants but none like these.”

“Impossible,” Michael says immediately, blinking rapidly. “No one would be able to get into my lab-”

“Unless they have the code,” the target finishes, and then pulls the dark cloth from around his mouth, and Michael feels like every single atom in his body freezes.

“Alex,” he breathes, and feels Isobel kick something else at him, but he can’t look away.

It’s been ten years since they left Antar in the middle of the night. He didn’t even have time to say goodbye to his mom let alone Alex.

“General,” Alex replies, voice frosty.

Before Michael can say anything else, two figures float down on Michael’s hoverboard, dropping down on either side of Alex.

Michael recognizes them both from the pictures Alex kept in his room. Maria and Liz, his best friends.

Michael hears Max groan and looks over to see him waking up.

“Now that you’re all awake,” Liz says stepping closer to them. “We can begin the interrogation.”

Maria is standing right behind Liz cleaning her finger nails with the tip of her knife, and Alex is plugged back into whatever it is he was doing before.

“Where is Antar?” she says, and Michael’s gaze snaps to her incredulously.

“What are you talking about?” he asks.

“Antar is where it’s always been,” Max says, diplomatically. “Quadrant 43, Galactic Coordinates AAP98592094 and MNR31101.”

“It’s not like we shrunk the planet and put it into our suitcase when we ran away,” Isobel says, sardonically.

Liz and Maria share a look before they both look back at Alex, who lowers his hand and makes the monitor disappear before he looks at Michael.

Michael looks back at him, raising an eyebrow.

“I told you they wouldn’t know,” Alex says after a long moment turning to Maria and Liz.

Maria rolls her eyes, sliding the dagger back into her pocket.

Liz gives Alex a look. “Yeah, and what? We were just supposed to let them take you back to your father?”

Alex licks his bottom lip. “That wouldn’t have happened.”

“I would never let that happen,” Michael snaps at the same time.

Maria’s gaze flickers to him, and then to Alex and then back again, before she expels an exasperated breath and walks away from them muttering under her breath in a language that Michael has never heard.

“What?” Liz asks, calling after her, but doesn’t move away from Alex’s side.

“You know I was stationed on Antar, before the Disappearance,” Alex starts, and is cut off by Max and Isobel.

“The Disappearance?” they ask at the same time.

Alex looks over to them, and then to Michael and then back to Liz, who inclines her head slightly.

“Exactly five years two months and three weeks ago, the New King of Antar used ancient technology to move the planet somewhere else and no one has been able to locate it.”

There is silence for exactly five seconds before Isobel starts cursing and Max starts asking questions, and Michael starts talking about how that would cause an intergalactic catastrophe.

“It did,” Alex says. “It created a singularity that very nearly decimated every planet within range. Many people were killed. Some were lucky enough to survive.”

Michael swallows hard and eyes Alex up and down as though he’ll be able to see through his clothes and make sure that he’s whole and that the neural implant is the only thing different about him.

Alex doesn’t reply to his unspoken question, avoiding his gaze.

Liz lets out a breath. “How are we going to find Rosa now?”

“Rosa?” Isobel asks and something about her voice makes Michael stare at her.

“My sister,” Liz says turning back to them. “The New King kidnapped her and is holding her as his captive. You were our last hope in finding her.”

Isobel looks away from her to Michael, and Michael can see that she knows something, but before he can ask her, Max is speaking.

“We can take you to Antar,” he says, and Liz turns her gaze to him, eyes narrowing.

“How?”

“I’m the true King,” he says simply.

Alex and Liz share a look.

“It’s an evolutionary tic,” Michael answers when Liz and Alex turn unimpressed looks on them. “A King’s heart is with his people. Home is where the heart is, and home calls to us all.”

He looks at Alex as he says it, and Alex looks away immediately, but not fast enough that Michael doesn’t catch the flush that spreads across his cheeks.

“And if we let you go,” Maria says from behind them, startling Michael and making Isobel curse. “How can we be sure that you won’t just kill us all and drag Alex’s dead body to his father and collect your bounty?”

Isobel says, “You can’t. You’ll just have to take that chance.”

At the same time that Max says. “We won’t. I promise.” Not looking away from Liz.

And Michael swallows hard, and looks at Alex who widens his eyes and shakes his head slightly, but Michael is already talking. “Antarians don’t kill their mates.”

[nerdy-novelist017]

Awakening (Joker/Arthur Fleck fanfic)

This is my first Joker fanfic. I absolutely loved the 2019 movie. Joaquin Phoenix deserves an Oscar for his performance. The film was cinematically beautiful The writing was haunting and stuck with me for a long time after. The soundtrack deserves its own Oscar, it was a perfect representation of Arthur Fleck. I just HAD to write something after seeing this movie.

Enjoy!

Ps. Feedback is appreciated greatly!

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

She had never wanted this for her life. When she was a young girl, her dream was to be a princes and fall in love with her brave prince charming, just like all those Disney movies had sold to her. The idea that she could live in a perfect world, waking up to birds chirping and animals talking, singing all day and, eventually, falling in love with this perfect, pure person. But it was all a story, a lie told to eager young girls. There was no talking animals. And singing in public caused people to to look at you strangely. And there definitely was no prince charming of any kind. Just a broken world full of broken people just like her. Elizabeth was no princess. She was a prostitute.

Elizabeth walks down the sidewalk of the empty sidewalk. Her shift had started ten minutes ago, for that she is sure that The King would have her head. Her black, strappy heels leaves soft clicking noises as she quickens her pace. Thoughts of how she could slip past her boss races through her head as she rounds the corner to go to the back entrance. She yanks open the door and slips mutely inside. Almost immediately her nose is filled with the obnoxious smell of cigerettes and beer, smells that she has gotten use to in her career. The noises of the club surrounds her with yelling, laughing and, of course, cursing. She feels like it might have warmed up at least five degrees inside from the the crowd of people. Liz is use to this atmosphere. She is use to rude drunks, the sore losing gamblers, and her customers.

She ducks into the back hallway where it leads her to the back room filled with her other coworkers who are lounging on the uncomfortable, velvet couches. The room is dark, and falling apart at the walls. Ugly, cracking gold paint covered the walls with a faux rich atmosphere. The front of the casino was rich and fancy, the back was not.

"Look what the cat drug in," a voice speaks loudly in a thick New Jersey accent. Elizabeth knows who it is without even looking. She can recognize that wretched, annoying voice in her sleep. The voice belongs to a woman named Imani. She is a prostitute in her late twenties, just slightly older than Liz. She's a beautiful, tall, African American girl who had been in prostitution since she was eithteen. Ever since Liz had found Saltwater Casino all those years ago, Imani has made it her personal goal to make her life a living hell. As if it isn't already.

"Dragged," Liz corrects her grammar as she digs around in her purse. Her fingers find the tube of lipstick at the very bottom, under piles of napkins, loose change and packets of gum. She quickly rushes to one of their many full-length mirrors to apply a fresh layer of her favorite red lipstick.

"Oh, screw you, Lizzie," Imani spits as she rose from her lounge. In three long strides, she is across the room, glaring daggers at Liz. Years ago, when Elizabeth had first started working at Saltwater Casino, she would have flinched away from Imani's towering form and beautiful glaring looks. She would have immediately apologized and slunk away like the weak person she was. But that was the past when Liz was just a young girl. Now, she turns directly towards Imani.

With faces just inches away , Liz speaks calmly, "Get out of my face, Imani,"

The room full of girls has turned their attention to the fight brewing. The atmosphere grows tense.

"Girls, knock it off," a strict voice averts all of their attention to the doorway where a larger man stands, arms folded over his large chest. He barely fits in the doorway with his towering height, but where he is tall, he certainly lacks any attractive physic. He's skinny, with arms and legs that look like they have not seen a day's worth of hard work in their entire life. Liz figures he is built this way from the cocaine she knows he uses often. His veins are in a perpetual state of protruding down his arms. However weak he may appear, he is certainly no weak man. She knows this from experience. All of the girls do.

Without missing a beat, Imani takes a step back, throwing her arms open wide, "Mistah King, look who was ten minutes late, yet again. She came in here with an attitude lookin' to start a fight with me as usual."

Elizabeth rolls her eyes, knowing there was no use arguing her side. A few of the others girls laugh, they all knew she was lying, but none bother to back Liz up. It is survival instincts that keep them quiet. Each of them know that if they say anything to her, Imani will make their lives unnecessarily complicated. So, they say nothing.

"Lizzie, walk with me," Mr. King demands as he turns, leaving Elizabeth to slide around Imani and follow her boss out of the room.

"She's lying, I wasn't --" Liz starts once they were out of earshot and down the hallway. The hallway that was decorated with dreadful red and gold wallpaper that warped and peeled in more than one area. It was dim, the wall scorns not bright enough to lighten the hallway. Nothing could brighten the back of the building.

"So you were on time?" Mr. King cuts her off. Liz looks away. Great, he was already in a bad mood tonight.

"Yes," Elizabeth lies, focusing her gaze on a particular bubble of wallpaper that shapes a mangled dolphin. Anything would be better than looking into her boss' cold, dark eyes. She swallows the frog in her throat. She hates the effect he still has on her. The knots in her stomach, the shivers on her skin. She hates the way he makes her feel vulnerable, small.

"What have I told you about being late, baby girl?" Mr. King leans in closer to her as he speaks in a low whisper. Elizabeth almost flinches at his pet name he had given her throughout the years.

"Don't let it happen," She answers, emotionless. Her nose burns from the stench of alcohol on his breath.

He reaches his skinny hand out to stroke her cheek and down to her neck. Elizabeth refuses to cower under his touch. She doesn't want to satisfy him in any way. Instead, she looks him straight in his beady black eyes, "You got a shift for me?"

He is quiet for a long time, only staring at her. Finally, he backs away and says, "Yeah, you're on from nine to five,"

She bites her lip in anger. He has purposefully given her a crappy shift because she had talked back to him. She shakes her head and makes her way to the front of the casino. It is a busy night as usual. It is a Tuesday night, so there is classical music playing in the background as customers gambled, drank or talked. She sits on a high stool where the girls sometimes wait for men who were looking for an hour's escape from reality. She immediately spies her coworker and closest thing to a friend she has.

"Hey, Nat," greets Liz as she moves to sit closer to the young girl at the opposite end of the bar.

The woman looks up from her ciggerette, causing her kinky, blonde curls to bounce slightly at the sudden movement. Her face breaks out into a wide smile, "Hey, sugar!"

"Is that a new shade of lip gloss?" Lizzie asks when she takes a seat.

"Oh this old thing?" Nat's messy manicured nails gestures to her lips, "Nah, I've had this for quite a while. Got it from my second cousin. Anyway, I didn't know you would be working tonight." her southern drawl slurs her words together. She constantly speaks of her childhood home back in New Orleans, where she has inherited her accent. Whenever she would ask Elizabeth about her childhood home, Liz would dismiss it as unimportant or not worth the time.

"Got nine to five," Lizzie confirms as she signals one of the many bartenders to bring her a drink. He's a kind man, often servers her for free.

"Oh, honey," Nat shakes her head in shame, "that is such a shitty shift. He's such an ass."

"It was because I was late, slept through my alarm," she leaves out the part where Mr. King got too close for comfort. It isn't like she is the only girl he has done it to. She's seen multiple new girls go into his office for longer than they should have. She pities them, but doesn't dare speak up against him. She needs this job. It is the only thing she is good at in life.

"Well," Natasha props her elbows on the glossy oak top, "at least you got a good night, there's been a dozen of cutie butterflies that came in earlier. They are all over there, by the slots."

Elizabeth's dark eyes follows Nat's gaze directed over to the east wing, where a group of clean-cut men pool around, cheering on their friend who was about to roll his dice. The two girls have code words for different type of customers. Butterfly is the code for an attractive young man. Because they are few and far between, they have been given the word butterflies. Moths are the name given to just about every other customer. They are usually old, fat and unattractive married men. Moths are ugly and always a pest to deal with, thus the nickname was born.

"I don't know, they seem pretty invested in their game," Elizabeth shakes her head and leans her chin on her palm, resting her elbow on the table top.

"A girl can dream, right?" she flashes one of her brilliant smiles.

As the night progressed on, Elizabeth chats with Natasha as much as she could before one of them would most likely be whisked away by a needy customer. They both have a drink of vodka before their Mr. King could see. Throughout her years of prostitution, she has learned to yearn for a drink to calm her nerves. A couple moths sway through, looking for a date for the night, both girls quickly show them to the other prostitutes on shift.

"Lizzie, you're on room nine, guy's already in there waiting for you," Mr. King appears behind her, eyeing them as if they are threatening him at gun point, "You planning on paying for that, or am I gonna have to take it out of your paycheck?"

"Course, Mister King," Natasha winks at him over the brim of her glass as she downs the rest of the amber colored liquid.

"I didn't even see anyone go in the den," Elizabeth raises her eyebrow in confusion. The den is what the girls called their workspace. Usually it consists of a queen bed and a couple of rickety night stands. It's a sad room where the girls spend most of their nights with various men.

"Let's hope he's a butterfly," Nat smiles in encouragement as she raises her empty glass of vodka, "look good, babe,"

Elizabeth nods, forcing a tight smile. She follows Mr. King out of the main room and moves down the cramped hallway, all the way until he pauses in front of a door. The wood has been painted black with a giant red heart and in the center is the number 9. Before her hand can grab the door handle, a large first curls around her bicep.

"This man is paying very well, baby girl, so don't screw anything up with your woman emotions, got it?" Mr. King spits through clenched teeth.

Elizabeth nods her head, "Got it,"

He releases her arm and takes a few steps back, "Good, he paid for an hour, so that's what your going to give him," and with that, he turns and disappears down the dim-lighted hallway.

Elizabeth knows if this man complained in any way, Mr. King would punish her severely. She runs a hand through her dark chestnut hair to make herself look more seductive. A shaky hand reaches out to grab the door handle again. She curls her hands into a fist to stop the shaking. She is strong. She can do this. Her usual prepping rings out in her head. Opening the door, she is greeted with a dark room, the only light illuminating was the light spilling in from the hallway behind her. For a moment, she actually thinks she has the wrong room. She reaches to flick on the light switch. The lights pop on and she can see his towering form over by the window, broad back facing her.

She gently closes the door and moves towards the bed in the center of the room, "So, you like standing in dark rooms?"

"No," his voice was low and calm. He speaks clearly, without any stutter or shyness. He is sure of himself, "I like the look of the city. When the lights are on, it leaves a glare on the window."

He still hasn't turned to face her yet, giving Elizabeth a chance to see his body. He is very tall, long legs and broad shoulders. Soft layers of black hair spills out around his neck and just touching his shoulder. He is lean but muscular enough to be intimidating. He wears a beige jacket that stretches across his long back. Simple boot cut jeans covers his lengthy legs and finishes at his boots.

Elizabeth thinks he is strange, but she shrugs it off and lays on her side of the bed, leaning one leg over the other, "Are you gonna come over here, or are you gonna stare out the window the entire time?"

His towering form turns slowly, stepping away from the window. Elizabeth can see that he has a sharp jawline, littered with a light dusting of stubble. His lips are splashed with just enough pink hue to make them look full and playfully tasteful. His hooded brows and lack of light in the room conceal his eye color from her.

His feet stop when he approaches the end of the bed. He rings his hands out as if he is nervous. She studies his face for a moment and frowns. She has seen him before. But where?

Elizabeth clears her throat before she speaks, "You don't have to worry about wearing anything. That's already taken care of by me."

She looks down at her cheap clothing, expecting him to want her to start stripping her sheer, black tank-top to reveal her lacy, red bra. She unconsciously plays with a loose thread on the purple bedspread. The nerves always eats through her stomach right before she meets a customer. None of the men that came in for the night are good people. All of them are either drunks avoiding their nagging wives, young men getting a taste of freedom, or even aged men without anyone in their lives. She can't quite tell what this man's tell was.

When he does not acknowledge her, she sits up a little, propping her upper half of her body on her hands, "What's your name?"

He tilts his head to the side, "I'm Arthur," he seems to pause a moment before continuing, "what's yours?"

This causes Elizabeth to pause and stare at him with a small, agape mouth. Hardly any of the men that come through on their nightly livelihood ever ask her name. They don't care. She is just a tool to them, just disposable. "Call me Lizzie,"

"Lizzie," he looks down at his feet as he tests the name on his tongue. An uncomfortable silence fills the room, creating a tense atmosphere for Elizabeth. Usually she is not this uncomfortable and stiff, but this man, Arthur, is forming a very afflictive attitude within her. His presence is unsettling, making her want to get away.

"Um, do you want to sit on the bed?" Elizabeth suggests, motioning to the fluffed pillows.

Arthur cautiously lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed, furthest away from her as he could possibly be without falling off the side. Elizabeth scoots over to the middle of the bed, laying down on her back and closing her eyes. When he still does not move or speak, She peers an eye open.

"You alright? You only paid for an hour, so..." Elizabeth trails off.

"I paid for an hour in this room, right?" he asks.

"Yes, an hour with me in this room." she confirms.

He looks away from her face, suddenly finding the wood paneling more interesting than ever, "Is it alright if we just...talked instead?"

Elizabeth tilts her head to the side in utter confusion. She is expecting him to request a lot of different things, but she definitely does not expect that to be one of them. When his eyes float back to hers, she immediately looks down in embarrassment. She can feel heat rise in her cheeks. Who was this guy? "We can start with that, to calm your nerves,"

"I don't want to use your body for prostitution, Lizzie," he speaks softly and quickly, "I don't want that from you."

Her head is pounding with confusion as she stares at the mysterious stranger. Most men don't even care for her name, and now here this man is telling her that he doesn't want to have sex with her? Her immediate thoughts were that he is shy to be naked in front of her, hence the lights. "We don't have to leave the lights on, if that's what you mean,"

His face remains straight, "It's not. I did not hire you for sex."

She hears bells of alarm and panic in the back of her mind. This man was so odd, so unpredictable. "Are you a cop?"

He laughs loudly and shakes his head. he looks to be in pain as he covers his mouth with his hand and turns away from her.

Then she suddenly remembers that laugh. That eerie laugh. The same laugh he gave when he was on the Murray Franklin Show. The same laugh he gave before he killed the popular tv host.

She stands so quickly she stumbles in her heels. The door is the only thing on her mind. She needs to get out of this room and away from this murderer. However, she needs to accomplish this sneakily. Who knows what he would do to her?

He notices her change and stands beside her, his laughter has died down. She panics at his towering form and rushes for the door, barely pulling it open before he's by her side, slamming it shut.

"Don't," he growls and she yelps, hand still on the door handle.

"You're him," she whispers, "you're the Joker,"

"You aren't going to run out there and scream for security. I don't get out of jail just so that I can go right back in," he says lowly, his warm breath fans across her face. He smells strongly of cigarettes and a musky cologne. He is so close to her, she turns her head to the door, she doesn't want to look into the eyes of a murderer. Of her murderer.

"Are you going to kill me? My boss is just right down the hall. He and others would here if I screamed." she surprises herself with her newfound courage.

"They don't appreciate you as you should be," he says, "they wouldn't care if they found you dead in this room. You are just a tool to them. Just something to be used to gain them even more money. The rich come in here and abuse you then pay you way below what you're worth."

Tears prick her eyes as she gripes the door handle tighter. Though she knows all this to be true, it still hurts to hear.

She startles when she feels his cold hand slowly turn her cheek to face him. His fingers move to her mouth, his thumb gently tracing over her bottom lip before pulling her mouth into a large smile. He mimics her forced smile with one of his own, "Smile, I'm not going to kill you."

She feels herself being drawn to him, her hands falls of the door knob as he pulls her closer. His eyes, a brilliant green, hold so much emotion. So much pain. So much honestly.

His hands drop from her mouth, and he backs away. It feels as if she can breathe again. She watches him retreat to the bed, sitting alone. She swallows, her throat feels dry as she glances back at the door.

"You can leave," he speaks without looking at her as he pulls a cigarette from its pack, "but we both know you don't want to."

She wants to leave, more than anything. Her mind tells her to run and call the cops. But when she turns back to him, he's sitting on the bed, pulling out a cigarette from its pack. He lights it and takes a long puff from it before putting his head in his hands. He looks so broken, so defeated. So lonely.

       "There's nobody to talk to anymore," his voice drops off to a lower octave, "Even before they cut all the funding to those therapists, they never really listened. They never really talk. They didn't care."

       She is quiet for a few minutes before speaking with a scratchy voice, "I'm not a trained therapist. I don't know what to say like they do."

       "They never knew what to say either. That's why I like you, Lizzie. You aren't like them. You are like me." he smiles at her, and she wraps her arms around her torso uncomfortably.

       "I'm nothing like you."

       "You can't see it now. You haven't found your awakening yet," he takes another puff of his cigarette and looks away again.

      She hesitates a moment before slowing moving into a sitting position on the bed as far away from him as possible,"You paid an awful lot of money just to sit in this dingy room and talk with me,"

      He nods, "I know you must be confused, but I paid for an hour."

      She is quiet for a few painfully awkward seconds. She self-consciously tugs down on her skirt, no longer confident in her own skin. He sat completely still, as if he were waiting for her to leave through the door. But she doesn't. She needs this job. She needs the money. When she got home last night, her landlord had stopped her as she stumbled into the apartment building at two in the morning. Dan Flemmings was a short, balding Latino . Liz likes to blame the fact that his wife ran away to Belize with his best friend on why he was so mean, but the truth was, he was born to be bitter in this world. He never shows any mercy on her, or any other building attendant, in fact. If your rent was a day short, you needed to find a new building to live. He caught her as she was unlocking her door, ready to shower and sleep for a few hours before needing to wake up and repeat the process all over again. He had been waiting for her.

“You got your rent, Griffin?" his grating voice startled her, "It was due yesterday,"

She kept her emotions at bay, no matter how irritating Dan was when he used her surname, "That was yesterday? Must have slipped my mind."

“You know damn well that its always the first of the month," he stepped closer to her, the fluorescent light hanging above them highlighted his scared top lip, a final parting gift from his ex wife, "I won't make exceptions for you or your sister."

“Got it," she mumbled. She didn't have the money, in fact. She was almost two hundred short. With her food bills and her sister’s medical bills, she did not have enough money to pay for both her meals and her rent.

She needs the money. That's why she stays with the Joker.

“What do you want to talk about?"

[braindamageforbeginners]

The Chemo Playlist

There’s no real news, or nothing of any great interest, other than I don’t seem to have deteriorated much, although I’m still feeling exhausted. And filled with hatred and confusion, thanks to the masses of paperwork I’ve still got to fill out. I’m applying for Medicaid (while it’s still Medicaid and not just a guy who comes to harvest your organs)(don’t pretend that’s not Paul Ryan’s ideal healthcare system). Apparently, things have changed since last time I applied (sadly, my net worth has not, which how i know I’m a candidate)(I suppose even a life as hectic and tumultuous as mine needs a little certainty, and that certainty is in that I’m dirt broke). I still have a dozen pages and a lot of research to do on that - precision counts, here. And I may have refills ready over the weekend, or perhaps by the time we have a new presidential administration (more on that momentarily). And I still have to get on the phone with CVS and negotiate an extraordinarily expensive poison be sent to my home address. Which always pisses me off; there’s cheaper poisons out there - and I don’t even mean that in my cynical way; if I drove up to Canada, I’d be able to get these drugs for a small fraction of the price (that’s not even news; it’s so well-known that old people have taken advantage of Toronto’s pharmacies since the 1990s). Of course, that is illegal, so I might be forced to pay in cash and lie on my way out. Meanwhile, even though I can, for an unfair amount of money, order poison over the phone from a stranger; there are actual waiting periods on my ambien. Let’s just pause for a moment and consider that. The next time someone brings up the second amendment, I’ll ask them if they think handguns should be as well-regulated as sleeping pills. I realize that the phrase “sleeping pills” puts it all in perspective and adds the proper fear of overdose or addiction. Meanwhile, I have cardboard boxes papered in biohazard symbols sitting on my doormat. But, sure, drug safety is an issue (not really; it’s a political hot-potato)(aspirin probably wouldn’t pass modern safety testing). But that’s just a little part of the ongoing bureaucratic madness that’s slowly swallowing my life. God forbid we had a system of universal insurance where pharmaceutical/physician coordination was as simple as a phone call. I’m going to do the periodic self-assessment here, before moving on to the main part of today’s essay: WEIGHT: 216 lb. CONCENTRATION: Not great, although it was much worse this morning. APPETITE: Okay. I’m still eating unpleasant amounts of plants and protein shakes, which tend to suppress appetite. ACTIVITY LEVEL: Good; I went to the gym and library, but I felt disturbingly tired all day. SLEEP QUALITY: Pretty good. COORDINATION/DEXTERITY: Pretty good at the moment. MEMORY: Excellent, though, I haven’t been inundated with memory-dependent tasks today. PHYSICAL: I woke up exhausted, but that’s the standard on all non-post Captain America Serum days. SIDE EFFECTS: Nothing new or particularly note-worthy.

And now, I thought I’d share the playlist I made for my chemo sessions (I realize I did that previously, but I don’t know if I’ve made that playlist public on Spotify). I had a little more time on this one than the radiation playlist (to be honest, I still have 10-11 more months to perfect this mix-tape). And, unlike the radiotherapy playlist, which was relatively limited (nuclear/radiation/nuclear war), I got to cover poison (that’s what chemo is), toxins and toxic waste (chemo drugs do not qualify, but you feel like a walking Superfund site), death (I know that sounds emo, again, it’s not like the odds on my long-term survival suddenly changed, and it meant i could sneak in “Don’t Fear the Reaper;” I’m not made of stone), pain, and/or generalized hangover sensations (which also opened up the genre of country music), and insomnia or weird dreams (those are two other big side-effects of the experimental chemo drug. I’d recommend them if you’re about to go into chemo, but, as with everything related to cancer, these songs are not for the faint-of-heart. Because I know everyone occasionally needs a morale booster, I’ve included a few of those types of songs (but nothing like Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song,” you can get that shit from Barney the Dinosaur). Like it or not, there’s a lot of hard rock and heavy metal on this list - that’s kind of an unfortunate limitation of the themes at hand. Unless Raffi ever collaborated Slayer and I didn’t find out about it.

Poison - Alice Cooper Shot of Poison - Lita Ford Lord of the Wasteland - Toxic Holocaust Down Poison - 3 Doors Down Poison Whiskey - Lynyrd Skynyrd Bad Medicine - Bon Jovi The Waiting - Tom Petty The Acid Queen (Demo) - Pete Townshend Tarantula - Wavves 4 Degrees - Anohni Subtle Poison - Screaming Trees My Head Hurts, My Feet Stink, and I Don't Love Jesus - Jimmy Buffett Don’t Fear the Reaper - Blue Oyster Cult Hangover - Taio Cruz, Flo Rida Thirteen - Glen Danzig Hungover Together - Supsuckers Hungover - Kesha Love Hangover - Jason Derulo Hungover on Heartache - Cam Ride the Sky - Revolution Mother Hungover - Brandy Clark Hungover Heart - Gary Allan Hungover - 3OH!3 Many Happy Hangovers to You - Jean Sheppard Hungover Tonight - Gary Allan Chris Stapleton Hangover - Max Webster Trashed - Black Sabbath Ride On - AC/DC Cheap Sunglasses - ZZ Top Take Your Whiskey Home - Van Halen From the Inside - Alice Cooper Sunshine - Atomsphere The Night Before - Lee Hazlewood Tougher Than the Rest - Bruce Springsteen Fuck and Run - Liz Phair (Okay, this is less hangover and more the morning after, however, there are very few women on this list, and I’m sure headaches and muscle pain are involved at some point) Sunday Morning Coming Down - Johnny Cash Toxic Trace - Kreator The Poison - Alkaline Trio Room at the Top - Tom Petty Poison in Your Veins - Yngwie Malmsteen Poison in my Veins - Bayside Poison Sugar - Reba McEntire Poison Pen - Molly Hatchett What's Ya Poison - Mobb Deep Poison - George Strait Baba O'Riley - The Who Familiar Taste of Poison - Halestorm Poison Years - Bob Mould Poison Door - Sisters of Mercy Poison Oak - Bright Eyes Poison Girl - HIM The Poison - Bullet for my Valentine Poison - Nicole Scherzinger Poison was the Cure - Megadeth Before the Poison - Marianne Faithfull The Warrior's Code - Dropkick Murphys The End - The Doors Misery - Soul Asylum Streets of Philadelphia - Bruce Springsteen (Yes, I know this one's about HIV, but does describe the cancer experience quite well, also, I'm a sucker for a Springsteen song) Touch Me I'm Sick - Mudhoney Hurt - Johnny Cash Hurts so Good - John Mellencamp Life Ain't Always Beautiful - Gary Allan Let's Hurt Tonight - OneRepublic Her Diamonds - Rob Thomas Do You Really Want to hurt me - Culture Club Whiskey Lullaby - Brad Paisley Fall - Clay Walker Feel No Pain - Sade Valley of Pain - Bonnie Raitt Bad Day - Daniel Powter King of Pain - The Police Joanne - Lady Gaga Precious Pain - Melissa Etheridge The Cure for Pain - Jon Foreman Used to the Pain - Keith Urban Get Off on the Pain - Gary Allan Wonder - Emeli Sande Looking Out My Window Through the Pain - George Strait Pain Told Love - Tribe Society, Kiesza Worn - Tenth Avenue North Just Keep Breathing - We the Kings Shine - Ricky Fanta The Fighter - Gym Class Heroes Doctor Wu - Steely Dan Needles and Pins - The Searchers Detox Mansion - Warren Zevon Splendid Isolation - Warren Zevon (being the chemo ward is still very isolating) Keep Me in Your Heart - Warren Zevon Poor Poor Pitiful Me - Warren Zevon Life During Wartime - Talking Heads Scar - Def Leppard My Ride's Here - Warren Zevon (I love this song, it's especially applicable to me because the fascists at the DMV yanked my license after my seizure in November) The Flame - Cheap Trick The Rising - Bruce Springsteen Enter Sandman - Metallica Captain America March - Alan Silvestri Straight to Hell - The Clash I Go To Sleep - Pretenders Daysleeper - REM Sleep Walk - Santo and Johnny Insomnia - Faithless Anxiety Attack - Jffery Lewis, Jack Lewis Heaps of Sheeps - Robert Wyatt Black Coffee - All Saints Congratulations - Traveling Wilburys

[cinemapsychosshow]

Liz Drummer - Director of Tribute Night - Episode 146

This week, we are sitting down with actor, author, and filmmaker, Liz Drummer who details her work with her directorial debut film, Tribute Night.  A  film about a group of horror movie fans who go on a killing spree in the vein of their favorite horror movie icons.  Liz breaks down her filmmaking process, trials, and tribulations as a first time filmmaker. 

Check out Vincent Didiano on the POVincent Podcast

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Check out this episode!

[sugarskullserenade]

Messing around on Code Vein with my boyfriend will always be fun

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This might just be one of my favorite frames

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Okay but like I'm LOVING these new poses

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Thought I should finally post all my Code Vein Ocs

Bios for the rest will be coming soon

[sugarskullserenade]

Made some picrews of my Code Vein girls