#Whether or not they'll be used is still up in the air

[astro-b-o-y-d]

As I am a very Normal person who thinks about Normal things, I am once again thinking about a Bill-themed execution for the Murder High School chapters of Triangulum

[waldau]

hand in mine — lee seokmin | 1,550 words | fluff

slightly inspired by my friend and their partner, i didn't know it was possible for two people to be so in love :') here's just...dk being sappy. sappy dk.

gender neutral reader. warnings: bonus pov?

dokyeom swears you're like a portable human charger.

when he's away, whether it's because he's still in practice or because he's on tour or even when he's at his parents' place, a single phone call from you is enough to lift his spirits to get him through the rest of the day. weekends spent at each other's places together are almost enough to convince him to just become an apartment hermit.

it's been true for ages — and it's true again, tonight.

or it will be, if you'll stop talking to one kim mingyu.

dokyeom's getting antsier the longer you stand there talking to mingyu, nodding along to something he's telling you. can't it wait till tomorrow? doesn't mingyu see he's in dire need of recharging?

now he knows mingyu's not telepathic, but somehow the younger man realizes dokyeom's staring at the two of you, so he finishes whatever he's saying with a nod towards where dokyeom's sitting. you follow his gaze and smile when you see dokyeom, who swears his heart melts a little, right there.

but then you stop to greet joshua, chatting with him for a minute (a whole minute, in this economy?) before you're standing right next to dokyeom.

he stretches his arms out to you. you bend down, letting him wrap himself around you the best he can. it's good, but it's not enough. he lets go only to tug at your hand. "sit down."

you look around. "there's no place, kyeomie. i don't mind standing."

he frowns at you. "i mind. you can sit in my lap."

you give him a look. "in front of your friends? i'd rather not."

dokyeom pouts. "they're your friends, too."

"of course i know that, baby. but they don't ever stop teasing us, do they?"

"ugh. they'll make fun of me, not you. please?"

you run a hand through his hair. "i don't want them to make fun of you, either."

he huffs. "fine. c'mere," he mumbles, scooting to give you some more space. you go willingly this time, settling yourself into the minimal space next to him. it's not easy when there's already thirteen of them in a room, but he manages to nudge chan away to give you some more space.

"hi," you whisper, letting him throw his hand around your shoulder to pull you closer. "missed you today."

dokyeom pulls back to look at you. he feels almost shy to have all your attention on him, silly as it sounds. "just today?" he asks, grinning when you roll your eyes. "you got here safely?"

you nod, leaning up to press a kiss to his nose. "perfectly. there was way lesser traffic than i expected."

"good."

you snuggle into dokyeom's side, stretching your legs out next to his. this is always his favourite place to be — because he can have your words be all for his ears only.

but then he frowns when he sees your outfit — a shirt and a pair of shorts. he takes off his jacket and drapes it across your legs despite your protests.

"you should've worn something warmer," he frowns. you're never good with the cold, and you're not going to be comfortable with the way more than half the members need the air conditioning to be switched on at all times.

"i was almost ready to go to bed, kyeomie," you explain, adjusting the jacket on yourself nonetheless. "i wouldn't be here if shua didn't call me. thank you, though. how was your day?"

dokyeom sighs. he doesn't want to talk about his day when he's been living through it for the entirety of...well, the day, but he has to say something for you. "not...the best," he concedes, resting his head on your shoulder.

"do you want to go home soon?" you ask, your hand finding his, tracing random patterns on his skin. the tingles help ground him.

he shrugs. "i don't know."

it's true, as much as he hates it. he doesn't want to leave because it'll end up breaking up the party — it always so happens that the first person to leave is the catalyst for most others to start wrapping things up, unwittingly. he doesn't want to be a party pooper, but at the same time, he's had a long day. it's like he's been aware of every single second he's been awake, and it's exhausting.

"okay," you say simply. "let's stay for a while more. it's not like we're in a rush. and i know how hard you worked today."

dokyeom closes his eyes at that. he knows he's done well, today being one of those days where he's genuinely looking for the end, but hearing it from you makes it much better. "yeah?"

"yeah," you affirm, hand rising to comb gently through his hair again, left open now that he's discarded his beanie. "i love you, kyeom. so much. it's still hard to put it into words sometimes."

he snuggles a bit more into you at that, slightly satisfied when seungkwan chucks a piece of popcorn at him from the bed, telling you both to stop being so cheesy. he feels even better when you throw it back at seungkwan, letting out a triumphant ha! when it hits him on the knee.

he loves you.

there's no bottom to that endless truth. he's somewhat loved you ever since he first saw you, drawn to the way your sense of humour was so close to his, and the somewhat turned into a definitely the more he got to know you.

dokyeom isn't half of anything — he's all of himself, lee seokmin, content with the way he is except for a few gripes here and there, but you complete him in a way he didn't know any person could.

he's not worried about you leaving him — there's no way either of you are letting that happen. it's more about not knowing who he is without you, now that your lives are so intertwined.

"stop," you mumble, your grip on his hair tightening slightly.

"stop what?"

"thinking. about whatever you are. i told you i love you and i'm not going anywhere."

the haze he's in almost clears a bit at that. "how did you— i didn't—"

"you always get so pensive when you're tired, did you know? i should record you some time. it's like there's a philosopher hidden inside you."

pensive? when he's tired?

"i love you normally," he blurts out, scared at the insinuation that he thinks about how much you mean to him only when he's vulnerable like this.

you're not saying anything back, though. you're just smiling at him.

"what," he asks, breaths a bit shallow.

"i know," you press, hand lifting his to show the ring that sits on his fourth finger. "i love you normally, too."

dokyeom lets out a chuckle. he still can't believe it's possible to love someone this much.

"now let me get you home and help you get some sleep, okay?" you ask, punctuating your question with a tug to his chin. "the others will understand."

as if you have to ask him. he'll go wherever you take him, no questions asked.

joshua can see the change in dokyeom's eyes the moment you walk into the room.

the conversation doesn't stop; mingyu and jun are still arguing about how mingyu should stop taking inspiration from jeonghan when it comes to board games and cheating. jeonghan has a proud smile on his face. wonwoo and minghao have zoned out entirely, too busy with their phones to acknowledge the little fight going on. the others are busy eating or ordering more food or arguing about which movie to watch next.

there's just one person missing from the chaos.

dokyeom's sitting on the floor under the window, entirely in his own world, constantly checking his phone and looking at the door, shutting his eyes for a minute before repeating his actions.

joshua would've poked fun at him if he didn't know how tired dokyeom already was today. a particularly tiring day, especially with a comeback practice they'd just gotten back from, and a going seventeen shoot in which dokyeom had been on the losing team. even though he doesn't like to show it, joshua knows dokyeom is somewhat upset over not winning.

but the moment you walk into the room, it's like a switch has been flipped. dokyeom sits up straighter, the neutral expression on his face morphing into a tired but real smile. he holds his hands out to you and pouts when you stop to greet all the other members first, shaking hands with them or giving them a quick side hug.

joshua pulls you close with ease. "thanks for making it here on such short notice."

"are you seriously thanking me for that?"

"i mean...he really needs to see you. today hasn't been his day."

you look over at your husband for a moment. "i could tell. his texts were pretty dry."

"right? now go get your lover boy. he's been moping all evening long."

you wrinkle your nose at the term, just like he expected you to, but you nod and make your way to dokyeom.

joshua turns away when dokyeom gives you a dopey, lovesick grin. he'll let the teasing go for tonight.

taglist: @bookyeom @wootify @strnsvt @cloudycaramel @thepoopdokyeomtouched @minnieminshi @nonononranghaee @hrts4hanniehae

[sweetpastillas]

i swore i wouldnt speculate but i only made that promise on twitterx

peep the last emoji used in each caption - those are probably the s4 arcs

viktor - 🍺(beer) - camaraderie, full 'bro'-ness, or a turn to reliance on alcohol? he doesn't have powers anymore; would he find it good that he won't blow up the world, or bad because he's ordinary?

luther - 🕺(dancing) - celebration? relaxation? maybe he finds sloane, or its a cover for not outright describing his arc. luther's also known for the crab move he does too.

diego - 📦(box/package) - new job? but it doesn't track, if he's back in vigilante gear. dad package? dad zone? a want to move out of hargreeves city? that last one is a maybe, but also unclear

lila - 🍼(baby bottle) - mothering, that baby for sure lived. i'd hate it if that's what she's reduced to, but i could get behind it if her arc was moving on from her own mommy issues with the handler. maybe it shifts her character, with someone else to care for – i hope she gets a scene with allison

allison - 👩‍👦(mom and child) - mothering 2, for an older kid, claire for sure. her actions and decisions will be family-oriented, something to finally keep her kid. she could be at odds with anyone from last season, but claire is what she'll stand for. (again, praying for a herxlila scene)

klaus - 🧽(sponge) - he's clean !!! and for sure levelling up further, or spiralling in. comics fans have gone on for years about bare feet and levitation, and maybe we'll finally get it.

ben - 🔒(lock) - maybe his true persona is locked? or he's locking himself away? we're still unclear as to whether this is Umbrella or Sparrow Ben, but the season could probably make that very point clear when it airs

five - 🕵‍♂️(detective) - detective mode !! they'll relegate five to being the brains of the operation once more. maybe he'll investigate the new universe, or reginald's motive and power himself.

reginald - 🧠(brain) - the key mind of this world. he programmed it, therefore he reaps his own rewards. we don't know yet how he's designed this world.

august 8 when i get you !!!1!

[detachedminxsfics]

Spit

Read Part II

Characters: Negan x Alexandrian F!Reader, Maggie, Gabriel, Elijah

Summary: Negan and you were split from the rest of the group, and when he decides the mission is a lost cause, a fight ensues. Set in the events of S11 E5.

Word Count: 3.5K+

Warnings: NSFW - Rough vaginal sex, spitting, mild choking, very mild blood play, hate fuck, dom Negan, mortal enemies, humiliation, xtra DILFy S11 Negan, filthiest shit I've ever written tbh

A/N: I really enjoyed writing this, I needed to write some Negan angst. And I'm tempted to write a part two? 😫

Negan trailed behind you as you pushed open the door to the place you knew the group would attempt to regroup at, your gun raised vigilantly in order to scan your surroundings. When you saw nothing of concern you slipped your pistol back into your holster, settling down a little knowing you'd have to spend a considerable amount of time here. Until the sound of a familiar voice put tension in the air.

"So, what? We hang around here with our fingers up our asses just hoping that the others are alive, letting those assholes catch up to us?" Negan broke the silence, and you already hoped he had never said anything in the first place.

You, Negan, Maggie, Alden, Gabriel, Daryl and whoever else may be left had been split, and unfortunately, you ended up with Negan. You'd ended up taking the same cover in a fire fight, and he pulled you with him when the two of you made a run for it.

"I'm not abandoning my friends, but I wouldn't expect you to understand that." You bit back, glaring at him with cold narrowed eyes.

Alike Maggie, you'd never really forgiven Negan for what he did that one dark night, taking two of your family like that. Abraham and Glenn were good men, more than that, and they didn't deserve to be put down in that way. It made you sick to have to visually reflect upon it, so much of that night was a blur, yet vivid in the worst of parts.

"You know what, yeah, I don't. We've got some supplies, and we don't even know if the others are alive, why not take the win now? Get ahead of those shitdicks, and not wait around here to die like sitting ducks for people that are probably already dead."

What was left of your patience thinned out and crumbled, for it was never really all that durable when it came to Negan anyway.

"Just shut up! Fuck you, Negan. They're alive, and they'll be coming here, and we're gonna wait for them whether you like it or not. So sit, down." The venom in your words couldn't be anymore potent, clear as day as you snapped and raised your voice at him.

You caught him clenching his jaw, suppressing the urge to turn this into a screaming match, and it fell silent again. Having figured the matter had been resolved or somewhat stifled you headed over to your bag and sifted through your things, making sure you still had all of your belongings, until you heard shuffling. When you looked up to investigate the source of the sound Negan was packing, gathering his bags and some of the supplies that we'd scavenged. Things people had risked and lost their lives for.

"What do you think you're doing?" You began to interrogate him, approaching him to stand with your arms crossed against your chest completely stand-offish.

"I'm leaving." He answered bluntly, a short response meant to minimise your frustration, but it only worsened.

"Not with those supplies." You reaffirmed just as bluntly, leading Negan to sigh in response.

"I'm taking 'em back to Alexandria." Negan replied plainly, every offhanded response from him fuelling the fire of your rage more and more.

"You don't just get to cop out like this, there are responsibilities. This mission isn't over."

There was no guarantee that those supplies would make it back to Alexandria in his hands, and you wouldn't let his self-pitiful attitude go unnoticed.

"It is for me."

For him, for him? It was always about what Negan needed, what Negan wanted. What about what your people wanted, what Alexandria needs? His selfish tendencies were the final step in urging you over breaking point, and so you succumbed to your irritation, albeit in a very high school way. You snatched the handle of the bag he was holding from his hand and tossed it aside, giving him a hard shove that sent him stumbling back a few steps. He responded rather hastily by seizing your forearms, attempting to dissuade you from attacking him any further. You only thrashed against his grip, grunting your frustration inbetween your attempts to pull your arms from his hold. With all the momentum the two of you began to turn, heading in an entirely different direction as Negan furrowed his brows and attempted to snap you of it.

"Stop it!" Negan belted out, his gravelly voice booming from having raised his voice at you.

It didn't deter you though, and you continued to struggle until you eventually freed yourself, slamming your hands hard against his chest and leaving him attempting to find balanced footing again. With the force of that final push a space had formed between the two of you, both of you cautious as to whether one or the other would be the first to close it, to continue fighting one another. But you did neither, just stared at one another. That dark look in his eye was swirling again, a murderous stare that you knew all too well, and you were sure you were doing the same. You were panting from loss of breath due to how much energy you had just expended, but Negan stood untempered. Negan was the first to move, beginning a slow approach that had you stepping back from him further and further. Though he moved in small steps distance was closing fast, and you felt the internal panic when you felt a hard solid wall press up against your back, having backed yourself into the hypothetical corner.

"Shit." You muttered quietly, Negan taking his final few steps until he was directly opposite you, your chest practically pressed against his. He said nothing, and his stare remained unintelligible, simply looming over you without one word.

"Fuck you." Unashamed you made one last dig at him, and alarmingly enough, Negan smiled at you.

"If it'd shut you up for good, happily." He spoke lowly, his husky words right by your ear.

The response from him so sincere and unabashed you could feel your blood boiling, and you settled with the first thing that came to mind. Gathering some of the saliva in your mouth you parted your lips slightly and then quickly closed them, spitting right in his face. He groaned as he felt the wetness hit his cheek, reaching up and wiping his face dry with the back of his fingerless gloves, never once breaking eye contact with you. To your misfortune the saliva you'd kindly deposited onto his face was not enough to humiliate him entirely, but had some of the desired effect you had wanted. Negan looked riled, though he had tried to remain complacent the faint squint of his eyes gave him away, and the subtle clench to his jaw as he stared you down. Wordlessly, he flattened his palms against the wall either side of your head, entrapping you in the position you'd incidentally put yourself in.

"Open your mouth." Negan demanded bitterly, and you felt your cheeks fill with heat, utterly stupefied by what he had just asked you to do.

"Hell no." You bit back, earning a dangerous warning stare from Negan.

"Open your damn mouth."

You stared at him firm in your decision not to, and he waited a few moments before realising you wouldn't budge, and decided to handle you accordingly. With unanticipated rapid movements one of the palms Negan had flattened against the wall he'd snatched back and used to grip your jaw, applying pressure at the sides so hard and in such a way it began to force your mouth open. Forcibly Negan parted your lips, and you whined against his pressurised touch, restrained into anticipating his next move. Gathering the fluids best he could Negan brought all of his spit to the front of his tongue and leaned in enough to the point where he knew it would land on your tongue, spitting hard into your open mouth. You coughed a little from the shock of Negan's spit flying into your mouth, some of it escaping down your throat, only earning an approving chuckle from him.

"You liked that, didn't you, me spitting in your pretty little mouth? Be honest with me, I'll know if you're not."

The fact that Negan had recognised the shift in your expression before you even knew yourself startled you, like he could see through any deception or emotions you may have. Disturbingly enough, you'd enjoyed it to some extent. Maybe it was just the adrenaline from having taken out some of your frustrations on him, and spitting in his face after telling him to go fuck himself, but other feelings had began to surface. Urges that you couldn't quite distinguish.

"In your dreams." You remonstrated, not quite as firmly as you had hoped when you sounded it out in your head.

Negan grinned in response to your obvious dismay of the way that being manhandled by him made you feel, coming to terms with his own enjoyment of treating you like this.

"Oh don't worry, you're a goddamn nightmare."

Negan slammed his lips against yours, and it was like a floodgate had been opened, emotions and chemical reactions amongst other things consuming you entirely. You moved your lips back against his, attempting to keep up with the roughness. His stubble skimmed across your skin as you decided to nip his lip a little, drawing blood and causing him to groan into your mouth.

"Shit, should've known you'd be a freaky one." Negan commented as he swiped his thumb across his lip, gathering some of the blood there and smearing it across your own.

You kissed again, a hard and rough movement of one another's mouths, smearing his blood across both of your lips. In hungry movements Negan began to gather the fabric of your shirt in his hands, putting adequate tension on the material before yanking it hard. You gasped as you felt cool air hit your skin, he'd ripped your damn shirt open, the buttons flying onto the ground beneath you and pinging against the wood floor to reveal your tight fitting tank top underneath.

"Negan!" You exasperated, swatting him on the arm from the shock of what he had done.

He only snickered from having exposed you in such a way, closing his hand around the wrist of the hand you'd used to swat him with a firm grip and slamming it back against the wall, your knuckles faintly stinging from the impact of the collision.

"Oh c'mon, you can have mine." Negan suggested, not giving you time to respond as you felt his lips again.

Negan's fingers hooked in the hem of your tank top and began to hike the fabric up, pulling back momentarily only to help yank the top over your head. He threw it carelessly onto the floor, and you decided to return the favour. Unlike him, you unbuttoned his wrinkled blue shirt from bottom to top. Meticulously sliding your fingers beneath the material at the top of his shoulders and pushing it down his arms. The moment his shirt had gathered at his wrists you reached around and pulled from the back, tossing it into an area somewhere around yours. The moments to come were spent removing your clothes as fast as you could, a desire brewing deep within your body, a vile way to feel for him. It made you sick. With your panties dangling loosely around one of your ankles, your tank top hiked up your chest just enough to expose your breasts, Negan hoisted you up. He'd discarded the light grey tshirt he wore beneath his blue one, chest now bare to expose his generously hairy chest and the beaded necklace hanging just below his collarbone. With hands gripping the skin beneath your thighs he wedged himself in the space between them, using the way he'd mushed you between the wall and himself to support you whilst he worked at the zipper of his jeans, pushing it down until it came slack at his calves. He was left in nothing but boxers.

"I've always wondered what you looked like beneath those clothes, and your body is smokin'." Negan knew that subtle tease would piss you off, and you responded by glaring at him, wrapping your arms around his neck for support.

"Don't speak, at least not right now, just fuck me. Hopefully you can prove useful for once." You rebuked, and Negan raised his brows to feign offense.

"Ohh is that so? We'll see about that."

During your back and forth snapping he'd pushed his boxers down and lined himself up with you, slamming upward without warning. His hands returned to the underside of your thighs whilst you cried out in pain, him not even bothering to ease you into it. He didn't wait for you to adjust either, moving his hips as he groaned from the feeling of being inside you. The pain eased off rather fluidly, and you were left with the most reprehensible satisfaction. Negan ground into you, totally unbridled thrusts that had you whining so pathetically you were sure you'd attract a horde, or be heard for miles.

"That's what I fucking thought, do you like this baby? You like being used huh?"

Overwhelmed with your conflicting feelings for him you unwrapped one of your arms from his neck and slapped him, a harsh hit that had Negan grumbling from the sharp pain in his cheek. He groaned and took one of his hands from your thigh, placing it on your throat with the faintest pressure, it was more an injunction.

"Keep your hands to yourself or I'll tie 'em, do you want me to stop?"

You were quick to admonish him from stopping, a hint of desperation in your tone that had you realise you were damn near begging him not to.

"No no, Negan don't stop. Please..."

He grinned at your plead, his half lidded eyes haughty with arrogance. He'd leaned forward now, his forehead tipped against yours whilst his hand remained around your throat, noses brushing as you exchanged air panting hot breath into one another's mouths. This was filthy, sinful even. The dirty feeling of being so full, full of him, the pleasure he filled you with subduing you into this breathy mess. You couldn't think about anything other than his hard and fast thrusts, your hips connecting with every unconstrained movement. The group could return at any moment, walk in on Negan bottoming you out against the wall of an abandoned house, but you weren't entirely sure either of you cared. To finally give each other something worth giving, to put all the burning hatred and distaste you had for one another to use was addicting. Intoxicating.

"Holy shit." You fell into a string of curses, your one way of vocalising the feeling of knotting in your abdomen, trembles working their way through your legs.

Fuelled by your approaching release you moved your hands down from the nape of his neck to the back of his shoulders, digging your nails into his skin and clawing your way down his back making Negan grit his teeth. Negan was agonisingly close too, his face buried in the crook of your neck and occasionally sucking marks into the skin there. When he knew he was about to tip you over the edge he moved his head back, his face coming back to lie in front of yours again. Strands of hair had fallen from his impromptu slick, cascading over his sweat beaded skin and leaving him totally disheveled. Knowing that you caused this, made him look like that was a confidence boost to say the least, and it only helped to fuel your impending orgasm. Frantically the hand he'd left resting against your throat moved up to hold your jaw, less harshly than he had before, but firm. He was holding your head to leave you with no choice but to face him directly, meeting his eye with the utmost devout attention.

"That's it baby, I wanna see you, I want to remember how you looked when I gave you the best fucking of your life." He murmured, mesmerised by the look of pleasure etched across your features.

Unsurprisingly you came undone, wholly ruined as one of the most intense orgasms you had ever felt ripped through you. Your mewls filled the room, and you squeezed your eyes shut, head aching to tip back but unable to due to his touch. He watched with unashamed inclination, basking in it as he reached his own release. With appropriate haste he removed himself from you and emptied his release onto the floor, coarse groans joining your own faded whimpers. Subsequently riding out both of your vehement highs you remained holding one another. Your legs wrapped loosely around his waist and your hair messy, the rise and fall of your chest as your breathing stabilised becoming gradually softer. Your head was resting against his chest, and he started running his fingers through your hair, wordlessly sharing this earnest moment with one another. Every part of you still hated him, wanted to hurt him for all the pain he'd caused you and the people you cared for, but you could see through your own blinding hatred for the first time in years. The feeling was only temporary, but you savored it for what you could. To be at peace.

"We need to get dressed, can you help me?" You were faintly embarrassed to ask, but your legs were still too shaky to stand on unsupported, and the adrenaline hadn't subsided much either.

"Alright." He whispered, planting a meek kiss at the top of your head.

Neither of you thought too much of it, and Negan helped you dress presentable again. He rolled your tank top down your body and helped slip his blue shirt on you, buttoning a few of the buttons and practically resembling the way he usually wore it. Then he guided your panties back up your legs and hauled your jeans up past your thighs, your palms resting against his shoulders as he bent down to assist you in order to allow you the support you needed to maintain balance. By time he'd helped you dress you were feeling a little better, doing your best to ignore the sure soreness you'd feel in your crotch soon enough. Negan pulled his pants and boxers up from his ankles, pulling his grey tee over his head and dusting off any dust and residue it'd gathered from the floor. His arms were exposed now, but it'd have to do until you found something else for you to cover up with. He was the one who caused this issue in the first place, so rightly he paid the consequences. Now fully dressed you stood opposite one another, gazing in an untold way that only the two of you would ever know the reason behind, and the door opened. Startled you turned to watch the door and had your hand readied over your pistol, Negan too readily raising his crowbar. Relieved both of you lowered your weapons and wary demeanours when Maggie and Elijah supporting a worse for wear Gabriel walked through the door, and you sighed, a smile spreading across your face. You hurried over and threw your arms around Maggie, which she more than happily returned.

"You made it." Maggie leaned back to get a good look at you, sharing a moment with you whilst Gabriel closed the door behind them.

When she noticed the change of shirt, most noticeably the fact that you were wearing Negan's, she glanced over at him, looking back and forth between the two of you.

"What the hell happened to you two?" Maggie exclaimed, both intrigued and concerned.

You opened your mouth to speak and stumbled over your words a little, causing Negan to chime in.

"One of those reaper assholes got the jump on her, and her shirt got messed up. I gave her mine." Negan explained from the other side of the room, the two of you exchanging glances as you silently thanked him for his excuse.

It wasn't a total lie, but he had bent the truth, that was for sure. There had been a tussle with a reaper in question, but you won it indefinitely, and you took cover as a gunshot flew past your head just afterwards. That's when your paths had crossed. Maggie nodded and held your face in her hands, your eyebrow and cheek had gotten busted, and Negan was worse for wear too. You supposed a rough fuck after the chaos you and Negan had gotten out of wasn't the brightest idea, your bones achy and brittle now.

"Let's rest up a little, gather our strength." She suggested and you nodded in agreement.

Maggie went on to explain to you the both fates and unknown whereabouts of the others scattered in the surrounding area, and how those presumably alive were still out there. And so you spoke simply, a sincere suggestion that you were sure everybody but Negan shared a desire to uphold.

"So we wait."

You briefly turned to look at Negan, and you could see how his eyes were faintly narrowed with his disapproval of the idea, but you could care less. And he knew you did too. You were back at each other's throats again, and you couldn't have loved it more.

[jingsyuans]

Since your taking requests, may I request a Jing Yuan x cloud knight!reader where he is just like constantly worried his lover might get killed, and whenever they head home he immediately checks for like cuts, deep wounds, broken bones, etc? Thanks!

A/N: written on a whim and unedited. I want to get my groove back! Sorry for making this request darker than you probably wanted lol

Warnings: yandere, lightly referenced nsfw, gender neutral.

Jing Yuan ; Bones

It's become a routine, slowly but surely.

You'll go out in the early hours of morning, getting ready for your shift. Dressed in your armor and ready for battle.

Most days are peaceful, but it's still a regular occurrence to have orders to go out and fight the Denizens of Abundance. There's more than one might think littering around the universe and you're dedicated to the cause.

You enjoy your job. Despite how you're constantly under orders, it's the most freedom that you have. When you get to leave the Xianzhou to fight, despite how your life is on the line, it's like a breath of fresh air. The tight grasp wrapped around your body loosens, because it can't reach you way out here.

But then you come back, because you have to come back. Your shift ends. Whether you were patrolling around the peaceful Luofu or you were out in battle, he is waiting at home. Always.

Even when he isn't there when you come home, his presence lingers. He's in your every movement as your head slowly turns off and you take off your uniform mindlessly. Taking everything off besides undergarments and then sitting beside the bed with your legs folded under you.

(You aren't allowed on the bed until it's been determined that you aren't filthy. Sometimes he won't come home for hours, but even still, you wait patiently beside the bed with your legs stiff and aching)

He'll praise your good behavior for doing what's expected of you without a fight. He thrills in your obedience, something that's been trained and whipped into you over time. So much time. Too much time. It's all you have and it's a curse but Jing Yuan knows exactly how to use it to his advantage.

Then Jing Yuan will begin his check. He looks at every inch for a scratch. You aren't weak, he knows you aren't. But you've had a dirty history of keeping things from him and keeping your pain to yourself, so this routine is to make sure you can't hide anything from him. Even if you were much too afraid to lie to him anymore.

It brings Jing Yuan a semblance of peace to check over you like this every night. It lets him know that you're alright, and he can be at ease for a little while.

Once he's successfully determined you're 'clean', free of new scars and marks, he'll lead you to the washroom. The two of you always bathe together. You'll wait for him to get undressed, helping fold his clothes as he strips down and place them on the counter until he's nude and nudging you into the shower.

He cleans you just as diligently as he checks for any injuries. His hands wander, sometimes they'll wander too far. But you've learned to gracefully accept those times he gets a little needy in the shower, because it eases him from any physical activities later on. If you get over with it in the shower, it's better- it means you get to fall asleep faster, wake up faster, leave faster.

Jing Yuan will talk to you so lovingly, like you're a pet to him more so than a lover. He coos as he washes your hair, hums happily when he dries you off, watches carefully as he feeds you dinner. Eyes always on you. To make up for the time spent every day when you're out of his sights, he controls every movement and aspect of you when you're home. You don't open your mouth without his say so, you don't take your eyes off him.

Jing Yuan is smart enough to see the way this routine has scarred you internally. You aren't his same darling from before with the gleam in your eyes and snark in your tone- no, he's ground all of those aspects to dust and made you hollow. It's a sacrifice, he reasons.

Too many people have died, too many people have left. Even if you aren't the same, at least you're with him. By his side where he needs you to be.

[dduane]

High Wizardry feels so much like a 'finale' I've often wondered if, when you finished writing HW, at the time that you thought it was the conclusion. Did time pass and you suddenly realize 'oh, I've got more stories to tell here, turns-out,' or did you simply put YW aside at the end of HW knowing you'd come back to it later when time and scheduling or other matters allowed? I mean the gap between HW and AWA isn't very long, but the jump from AWA to TWD is quite long indeed.

When I finished High Wizardry, the last thing on my mind was ending the series. (Though there's been a rumor for many years that originally "there were only going to be three books." I have no idea where that came from.) I knew then, as I'd known from when I finished So You Want To Be A Wizard, that there was a lot more story to tell.... even if I wasn't sure about where to go next.

What was on my mind, though, when I was working on that book in 1988 or thereabouts, was that the series might not have a chance to continue any further at that publisher.

Delacorte Books / Dell Publishing had been acquired by Doubleday in 1986. This was nothing like the gobbling-up of publishing houses by media giants with which we're now way too familiar. But rumors started stirring immediately that (to use the equally familiar, euphemistic phrase) "economies would have to be made" as part of the acquisition. And sure enough, they were. Dell (or its new corporate overlords) quickly started "letting go" many of its newer or less-profitable writers, to allow the company to concentrate on older, better-selling, more profitable names.

As one of the newer kids on the block, I was one of the first of the numerous writers let go. So was Jane Yolen (and ffs, who throws Jane Yolen overboard??! It's sheer fucking idiocy). But at least I'd known for a while which way the wind was likely to blow, and I was ready for it. In High Wizardry I'd concentrated on tying off all the currently hanging issues, so that readers wouldn't find themselves dealing with a corporately-manufactured cliffhanger. It's possible some of that air of finality manifests itself in HW's "tone of voice."

The Young Wizards books were then homeless in the US (in terms of any new ones coming out). But the first three books then went into print in the UK, in their Transworld / Corgi editions, starting in 1991; and they were still there when A Wizard Abroad was ready to go to press a couple of years later. That's why AWAb's first tradpub edition was from the UK, as a Young Corgi paperback; and its first US and hardcover appearance was from, of all places, the US SF Book Club—always historically a good friend to the series—with a fab cover by David Cherry. Abroad would not see a US edition again until Harcourt's Magic Carpet imprint brought it home to join its older, newly reprinted "siblings" in 1997.*

...And as for that long pause between AWAb and The Wizard's Dilemma: with the best will in the world, even an enthusiastic new publishing house will put on the brakes for a bit until a newly acquired series proves itself. Fortunately, at Harcourt it did. Dilemma came out there in 2001: and there the books remain. But their history's been repeatedly punctuated by the uncertainty that's the constant companion of midlist writers always looking ahead to the next corporate acquisition... and wondering whether they'll survive the next round of "economies."

As John Watson's been heard to say: "I'm never bored." :)

HTH!

*The timing of this sequence of reissues is possibly what started the hilarious rumor that the Young Wizards novels were ripoffs of, uh, some other writer's wizard concept. (shrug) Not my fault if some people can't read copyright dates. :)

[corazondebeskar-reads]

live to rise - chapter one

live to rise series

one: they'll find you, burn you

series masterlist | next chapter

gladiator!Din Djarin x f!reader

word count: 3.7k

summary: The Last of the Mandalorians have fallen; their Mand'alor captured. Stripped of his armor, his weapons, his people. Din rises to fight another day, grasping onto the hope that his son still lives.

No fighter has won their freedom from the Empire's arena before. With the help of a servant girl, can he hope to break free?

warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, captivity, forced proximity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, prisoner of war, indentured servitude, fight to the death, au where the empire wins, discussions of genocide, discussions of war, graphic descriptions of violence, graphic descriptions of injuries, gore, brutality, religious themes, fictional religion, mand'alor!Din Djarin, major character deaths, many minor character deaths, Din has hearing loss, angst by the bucket, Din Djarin takes the helmet off (kind of)

Please heed the warnings. There will be major & minor character deaths in almost every chapter. This is not a happy story, but I hope you find it worthwhile anyway.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

It’s morning when the news breaks.

By lunch, datapads are discarded in favor of gossip. It’s as useless as the Imperial rags parading as official broadcasts—all speculation and slander.

While the details of the Mandalorians’ final stand for their homeworld circulate above, the stiff air of the lower complex is thick with the question: to whose barracks will the fallen king be assigned?

You know the answer. Your datapad had pinged early, much before your day should have begun. Much before the news went live across the galaxy.

Cell C-5 had been scrubbed clean on your perennially bruised knees the day before when Dup, a young Gungan whose face was bruised as if he’d already gone a round, had failed to return from the arena.

He had been brought in late the previous night, shaking and weeping and not speaking a lick of Basic. Those were the hardest. There was no comfort, no preparation, no honor you could give them.

He didn’t return after his first battle.

It was the way of things. Many never saw a second sunrise.

As caretaker for Barrack Cresh, whether your fighters eat, drink, bathe, get medical attention and fresh clothing, or, well, anything, falls on you.

So you stocked C-5 with the basics, but the Mandalorian King’s file is barren when your clearance arrives. You bristle at the lack of biodata. How are you supposed to provide proper clothing or order his dinner?

It becomes obvious when he arrives that evening.

You’re not.

It’s past curfew when they bring him in, and normally, you’d be in bed. But one of yours had come back a few minutes earlier from the medbay and you know the state they usually return in, so you’re in C-2 with the door shut.

The ex-Rebel pilot, Gino, doesn’t argue as you dab the shallow cuts on his face with an alcohol swab, but he does flinch when you tug the split skin on his calf together like a stubborn bedsheet to apply suture tape. They had used just enough bacta for his serious injuries and left the rest to bleed.

“Sorry,” you hiss, but it’s lost in the pneumatics of the door.

Gino is on his feet immediately, shushing you with a finger to his lips. You can’t risk being seen through the little window, so he minds your space as you flatten to the ground and peek through the delivery slot.

At first, all you can see are boots. So many boots. And among the shiny black rubber is the oddest pair of worn brown leather. It’s been so long since you saw anyone in shoes but the guards; your stomach churns with fear.

Gino taps at your head, and you let him help you up to peek once they’re past the cell.

It’s the Mandalorian. There are five of the Moff’s personal guards in their black kits restraining him, and they still have to jab him with an electrostave in order to shut the cell door fast enough.

He’s snarling, the modulator of his helmet warping and crackling the terrible cacophony. He’s also huge, and the strip of lights shines off his dark armor like someone took a handful of the night sky and smudged it across the wall of the cell.

You brush away the errant question of how much of his bulk is the armor and how much he comes by naturally. You’ll find out tomorrow, like everyone else.

The hype alone ensures a sold-out arena. The officers and their simpering spouses and sycophants are salivating for the battle—or at least for the profits.

The headlines fill seats to a swarming mass, everyone vying to see the latest and shiniest trophy.

He won’t be shiny for long.

Not after they strip away the beskar that protects one of—if not the last of—the “galaxy’s greatest warriors” and see if he’s worth anything underneath.

They don’t expect him to survive. They don’t want him to, really. They want to crush the will of any who would still defy the Empire. A very public, humiliating execution is the Moff’s wet dream.

The Mandalorian is gone before your morning rounds, dragged up to the arena’s cage to watch his fate play out on the faces of others. Either end is the same, really.

And if he survives, it won’t matter. Sure, prisoners can earn their freedom through a percentage of the money they bring in from wagers, or they can die trying.

But no fighter has made it out alive. Not even close.

You’re close, though. Not that you’re in an arena contract. But you’re nearing the end of the third year in a five-year indentured servitude sentence, and it carries a lower fatality rate.

Which isn’t saying much, really. It would be hard to have a higher fatality rate than the fighters.

There are twelve of you and ten barracks, not counting the fluctuating number of sponsored champions who have private accommodations.

Sixty standard fighters, never more or less as the sun rises.

Sometimes, you return to six empty cells.

Only once have you found your flock all home. You fell to your knees and cried right then, bringing acrid dread to a boil as you knew it would never, ever happen again.

Just three days ago, Din Djarin had stood in the grand hall at Keldabe, knowing it would be the last time.

It was still. Silent. Not yet in the chaos of war, but just on the edge, as when rainfall is a distant specter and the uneasiness cloisters in your lungs.

He takes in the art behind the throne with quiet reverence, eyes following the sharp lines and bold colors, the stories of their ancestors dutifully and beautifully eternalized.

The shame creeps up his neck again, but he shrugs it off. It will work. He’s known for his tight and effective strategy, and his advisors had agreed to the plan.

He only hoped the Ka’ra would accept his soul into the Manda all the same. That the blood of his brethren wouldn’t deny him the peace that he ached for.

He thinks once more of Grogu, breathes through the pain, and then clears his mind.

Turning from the throne, he strides to the grand windows—to Paz. With hands clasped behind his back, he follows his general’s focus to the TIE fighters breaking through the atmosphere.

Troopers are within the walls. The Destroyers won’t be long, now.

“Vod,” Din begins, angling toward Paz.

“Do not deal me the insult of an out,” Paz snaps.

“I would never,” Din says, throat cinching around the words. “It’s an honor to have you at my side.”

Paz dips his head. “It’s been an honor to serve with you, ner Mand’alor.”

Din knows he speaks true. Though they may not have always gotten along, they were still vod. Still loyal, until death.

Death they now stood on the brink of.

Outside, the fleet falls fast. Din grimaces as their ships careen to the surface and crush the city into crumbs. Fire spreads, and he has to pretend the homes are empty. That everyone got out in time.

The Empire assumes each Kom’rk-class fighter is full of Mandalorians waiting to drop into battle. They target them with glee, thinking they’ve devastated the sky and ground teams in one fell swoop.

But each ship has only a pilot. A pilot who climbed into the cockpit knowing they would certainly die. Willing to take the place of their vod.

Mando’ad draar digu. They will live on in him until he draws his last. More importantly, they will live on in their families, who—if he’s done anything right—will live far beyond him.

“Par Manda’yaim,” Din says.

“Par Manda’yaim,” Paz echoes.

They are to be the last words spoken to one another.

Inside the palace, the fight leaves no breath for such things. Not that they need it; their movements are fluid and equal.

It takes half the platoon to take Paz down and the other to take Din.

Unlike his vod, they do not grant him a warrior’s death.

In the arena, they’ve left him in the armor as he paces the cage. Every moment with it spurns the barb deeper in his gut, the terror turning terrifying as his rage becomes a tsunami.

The fights are nothing. The Imps who thought he’d be intimidated by them have clearly never seen an average Mandalorian brawl. These ended with a little more finality and a little less bickering over the winner, but the actual fighting? Mostly pathetic.

He doesn’t look upon them with scorn, though. These are beings stripped of all dignity, underfed, and devoid of hope. The Empire has ground them into the dirt beneath their glossy boots, and he expects that for many, death is a kindness.

In the end, he lets them take the beskar’gam from his bound body. They hold him, scanners at the ready, the whole of the galaxy waiting to witness his final defeat in real time. The giddy grins tell him what he already knows—they are certain this will break him.

He holds eye contact with Gideon just to see the shock that strikes him at Din’s defiance. He aches to smirk or snarl or sink his teeth into the man, but he won’t give him the satisfaction.

They don’t give them weapons for this fight. At least they’re being honest about their intentions.

Hand-to-hand combat with a Wookie should be a death sentence. Should be, for a lesser being. But the Mand’alor is far sharper than their blades could ever hope to be, and he wields his mind and body as expertly as he would a blaster.

Din doesn’t speak Shyriiwook. He wishes he did, for when he asks his opponent for their name, he fails to capture the response. It slips from his grasp, slick as his hands are from the Wookie’s blood.

Bare hands that have rarely dealt such tangible death. Dust stirred up from the struggle sticks to the thick, hot carnage. He’ll feel the give of the Wookie’s eyeballs under his thumbnails for days. The crack of his skull under Din’s knee, driven like a wedge into the soft cartilage, is at least slightly more familiar.

It’s not a long fight. After all, Din has something of which his opponent has long been deprived: something to live for.

The Mandalorian isn’t back by dinner drop-off, but your captain sent the cart loaded with a tray for him, so you dutifully set it on his cot atop the folded blanket.

There’s been no clean-up call, and the roster is empty. But you don’t have to wonder over his whereabouts for long.

In the servants' barracks—which are actually barracks and not a soft word for cellblocks—the reports are already underway.

Some of the attendants get to watch the fights. Or, rather, they have to, bound as they are to a single combatant. The mandated proximity is unforgiving, and no one likes to watch.

After all, there’s very little difference between you and the fighters. Instead, the attendants take on the solemn duty of letting the rest of you know how your residents fared or fell.

“He was a berserker,” Hali says in hushed whispers. “They took all that armor off, and he just looked like a man. A pretty man, but… just a man. But when it started, he moved so fast. It was over in, like, two minutes.”

“Shut up,” says Eli, your bunkmate. “He did not take down a Wookie in two minutes.”

“No, he really kriffing did,” hissed one of the new attendants whose name you hadn’t caught. “It was brutal. The whole arena went quiet. And he just stood there, covered in blood, looking at the crowd.”

“Okay, whose block is he in?” Eli demands. “Someone needs to spill now.”

“Mine,” you say quietly.

“You haven’t said a kriffing word this whole time? What’s he like?”

“I don’t know,” you confess. “I only saw when they brought him in last night. He was still armored. And terrifying.”

“I saw him,” Hali says. “He was in the lounge.”

“They took him to the lounge after his first fight?” you say, jaw hanging open. The after-party was a grotesque performance, with sponsored fighters forced to smile pretty and play nice with their benefactors after a victory.

“No,” Hali’s face is grave. “They displayed him. They’ve chained him up next to his armor.”

You cover your mouth to stem the nausea. “No,” you hiss through your fingers. The disrespect hurts, raking through like a nexu claw to the chest, and you don’t even know the man.

Eli sets a hand on your knee from where he sits cross-legged beside you on the bottom bunk. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“I know,” you say. But he knows you, sees it written between your brows, and hears it in the crack of your voice.

It’s a weakness; you know it. It had been a strength back home. Every single being that passes through your barrack doesn’t have long. The small hall of cells is a port, and you are the ferryman. Knowing each of them for the last scant moments has only made you love harder and faster.

To try and ease a soul’s journey is a burden you have always chosen to bear.

Come morning, sure as the stars, your cells are full. The Mandalorian is not the only new face—there’s a humanoid woman in C-1, too. The Klatoonian had been gone before the noon bell prior, and his cell cleaned by your hands within the hour after. Ovesu had survived four battles over ten days, but no trace of him remains now.

You start with her, Reen Sala of Drall. She’s on the roster for early afternoon, and you want to make sure she’s got food in her.

You tell her as much.

“Today? Already?” She wraps her fingers around the window bars, peering at you.

“Yes,” you say solemnly, sliding the tray through the slit at the bottom of the door. “Eat quickly. They’ll be coming to get you any minute. They’re going to take you up and prepare you and make you watch the day’s first battles.”

She has a steadiness to her eyes and stock to her build, just enough to have a chance. When she begins to eat, her hands only shake slightly.

“Are you a farmer?” you ask, watching her broken, stubby fingernails wrap around the metal cup of water.

She nods, gulping down quickly to add, “Mostly grains. Eggs. Basics.”

You give her a wan smile, the image of her in a sun-soaked field behind your eyes. It would have to be enough. If she held on, maybe she could fill in the picture.

“Thought so. Me too. My parents have a grove on Hetzal,” you say.

You chat for a few minutes, exchanging tales of her chasing tipyip and you sneaking honeyfruit and shuula during harvest.

“Good luck,” you murmur when you finally step away.

You don’t linger with Disdraa, the Twi’lek in C-3. She took a nasty blow to the head yesterday, so you slide her tray in as quietly as possible, hoping she’ll steal some extra rest.

Which brings you to the Mandalorian. He has no other name in your database. A mistake, you wonder, or an erasure?

When you knock on his door, you keep your eyes downcast. The decision you made in the lift was impulsive, but clear. He will have this respect here, if nowhere else.

“Good morning,” you say.

It’s silent.

You slide the tray under the door. “Do you need anything?”

Nothing.

“Okay, I’ll be back this evening if you think of something.”

Din rolls his eyes in the dark room. Does the quiet, simpering little act really work on the other prisoners? He vaguely considers rejecting the tray just to irritate you.

But he’s a Mandalorian. He doesn’t give in to petty spite when survival is on the line. He has battles to win and to do so, he must eat.

The food is bland but nutritionally complex, so if he keeps up a routine, he should be able to maintain his strength. He’s already run through and decided the optimal calisthenics and body weight routines he can do in the confines of his quarters.

He’s not stupid enough to think all the fights will be so quick or easy. The only benefit, and he’s unwilling to call it that, of not having his armor is that he’s so much faster.

He’ll get out.

He has a promise to keep.

When the Death Star fell three years ago, it took nearly the entire Rebel Alliance with it. The rest were scattered in the ash. And when the Empire barely flinched, the Mandalorians knew their time was running out.

With one loss notched on their belt already, they would have to strike swift and sure.

And so Din’s life as the rebel liaison began.

When he went to Gideon’s cruiser, he had no backup. Technically, no one even knew where he was. But espionage and false diplomacy took too long, purged time they did not have. And he wasn’t going to get another chance to try.

He lost the intel in the skirmish but gained a sword he knew not how to wield, a title he knew not how to bear, and a son he knew not how to raise.

The guards come for Reen, forcing you to finish your deliveries in a tense, silent two minutes.

She doesn’t come back. You paint her picture that night while her soft face and sun-streaked sangria widow’s peak are still fresh in your mind. It, as with most of your books, is stained with errant tears.

Eli had convinced you to keep the ones you ruined with grief, when you first began, desperate not to forget.

“It’s just more proof they were alive if they were also mourned,” he said, flipping reverently through the pages.

It goes against the practice, but it’s not even the most egregious way you’ve had to compromise, so you let it go. This is not the Hall. You have no easels, no canvas, no priestess.

You wonder who’s taken over your space, who they plucked from the apprentices to take over the memorials.

The pictures are small, stacked across the page like a quilt. Most of them have a name, maybe an age, maybe a planet, inked into the corners.

It's certainly not the scale you’re accustomed to, and your colors are limited to the pigments you can press from your dinner, unblessed and unpurified, but you make do.

You never paint them while they still live, not wanting to tether their souls to the pages while they have a chance. But they are yours, and so you will take the burden of remembering from their souls.

“Tray, please,” you say after knocking on the Mandalorian’s door that evening. He’s slow to respond, but you don’t mind. It’ll be a bit before he gets accustomed to the routine, if he makes it that long.

Most don’t.

It grates against the floor when he kicks it out, and you exchange it for the full tray of dinner.

“Do you need anything?”

Silence.

“Okay, have a good night.”

You don’t have hurt feelings. It’s the way of things. Some of the beings who come through never speak a word to you. It doesn’t change your loyalty or your duties.

Din is determined to puzzle you out. Why the farce? Everyone else he’s encountered is open in their disgust and amusement. He’s a novelty, a prize, a disgrace. What purpose does your feigned care serve?

“—dining with us tonight?” calls the inmate to his right in C-3.

You make a show of rolling your eyes, taking the last two trays from the cart. You slide one to the Twi’lek who had spoken.

“Depends. Are you going to behave?” you say.

“I always behave,” the fighter lies.

You seem to laugh, just a silent huff of amusement, and sit down with your back against the wall between the two cells.

He can’t see you from here, but he can hear snippets of you making light conversation between bites.

Something you say gets a lighthearted rise from the Devaronian in C-4 across the hall.

“Old? You want to talk about being old?” he booms.

C-3 groans. “Don’t get him started, come on.”

You laugh. “—else to bitch about. I’m saving— trouble.”

“…that I should suffer your disrespect,” C-4 is trying to say over you.

“Yeah, yeah, Vrar, you’re a terrifying grumpy—,” you tease.

A pause. A murky mumble from C-2.

“—you, Mandalorian? How old—?” You ask, tearing a chunk off your bread roll and popping it in your mouth.

He doesn’t answer.

After you leave, it grows quiet. A few moments pass, as if he was just waiting for you to get out of hearing range, before Vrar speaks up.

“Mando. You holding up? Any injuries?”

Din sits silently on his cot, leaning against the wall.

“Alright, I get it. You don’t have to talk to me. But can you be more respectful to the girl?”

If it’s bait, it works. “I don’t make a habit of being respectful to my captors.”

To his surprise, Vrar barks a hearty laugh. “Is that what you think? She’s a slave, Mando, same as the rest of us.”

Din feels hot guilt rise in his throat. “My mistake. I’ll do better.”

Vrar grunts his approval, and that’s that.

The next morning, when you ask if he needs anything, he tells you, “No, thank you,” in a soft but sure tone.

You straighten a little abruptly and try not to look shocked. “Okay. Good luck today,” you say, and move on. You’re pretty sure if you draw attention to it, he’ll never speak again.

You aren’t privy to the way things operate up top. All you know is that they take your fighters randomly, with at least one day between as a rest. Sometimes, it’s longer between fights.

But not for Mando. For the next two weeks, it’s every other day like clockwork. They’re capitalizing on his novelty, you think, but also hoping to wear him down.

Rumors tell you he’s become a quick crowd favorite. It should mean he has a shot at earning his freedom, but rumors also tell you he has the highest price on record.

They don’t want him free, and they don’t want someone to buy him.

No, they want him to die in the arena.

next chapter

thank you so much for reading! i live for your feedback, and i'm not above begging so if you have any thoughts pls let me know

*title from "Get Out Alive" by Three Days Grace

[writingquestionsanswered]

are there correct and incorrect ways to write open endings? do you think you could share some tips on when a open ending should be used, and when it shouldn’t?

thank you!

Open Endings and When To/Not To Use Them

The two main ways to end a story are with a closed ending or with an open ending. In a closed ending, the main storyline is concluded, the story's questions are answered and the threads are tied up. The fate of all the characters is clear. In an open ending, things are tied up more or less, but sometimes not as completely as in a closed ending. There might be some unanswered questions, some loose threads, and the fate of the characters and world are left to the conclusion of the reader.

Let's say you were writing science-fiction with a romantic subplot, where two people meet on a transport ship, get roped into a mission where they have to safely deliver an object to a certain destination, and they fall in love in the process. If by the end of the story the mission is completed, the characters have completed their arcs, and one character proposes to the other and they fly off to start their new lives together on their favorite planet, that's a pretty closed ending. For the most part, the story is concluded and we know the main characters' future trajectory. However, if by the end of the story they still haven't completed their mission, and they're on opposite sides of the galaxy, hoping they'll find their way back to each other, but both with their own side gigs in the meantime, that's a pretty open ending. We know they're still going to try to complete their mission, but will they? We know they're still in love and hope to find their way back to each other, but when and how? What if they don't? Where will their side gigs lead them? We don't know, but if done right, the writer will leave enough clues for the reader to draw their own conclusions.

What kinds of clues would help the reader draw their own conclusions about the potential fates of these characters? Clues about who these characters are--their personalities, their skills, what types of decisions they're likely to make. Clues about whether or not they will be successful in their side gigs, and how those side gigs might lead them back to each other. Clues about the world of the story and the likelihood and/or importance of them having to reunite to finish their mission--these are all things the reader can consider when coming to their own conclusion about where things are headed.

Open endings work best in stories where a satisfying ending isn't necessarily expected or guaranteed. Straight up romance would be a bad place for an open ending, for example, since a "Happily Ever After" ending is expected. A mystery would usually be a bad place for an open ending since the reader will expect the mystery to be solved. (However, you could do an open ending in a mystery where the mystery is solved, but other things are left up in the air.) Open endings also work best in stories that were more about "the journey" than about the end goal, and in stories that are meant to deliver a very realistic story.

Some writers find that they get to the end of their story and aren't sure where to end it, so they may be tempted to use an open ending as a solution. However, this is not a good excuse to use an open ending. Stories with open endings need to be crafted that way from the beginning. They're not a device meant to get you out of having to find an appropriate ending for your story.

Happy writing!

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[merakiui]

Omg apocalypse au 🤯

Having to choose which group(dorm) to take shelter, but that comes with a price...

Just wait till the repopulation part arrives

>:D I will share some basic thoughts about how each dorm would function!

Heartslabyul is very rule-oriented. Everyone has a job that they're expected to do so that the compound won't find itself swept up in chaos. Riddle is very good at keeping order within the group he leads, though sometimes his patience and restraint are tested when a certain few (Ace and Deuce) get on his nerves. Riddle is welcoming to all, but he's extremely cautious. After all, he can't risk letting anyone who may be infected with blot into this sanctuary. Trey and Cater are usually the ones who are permitted to lead a select few to scope out the nearby areas and go on supply runs. They probably encounter you on one of these runs and bring you back to Riddle when you beg for help.

Riddle has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to disobedience. Everyone gets three strikes, and if you breach the third infraction you're thrown out and banned from the compound. He's ruthless when it comes to this rule, so Ace is always toeing the line of a third strike. You've come to his rescue more than once, which infuriates Riddle because he assumes you're taking Ace's side, when in reality you're just trying to save your friend from impending doom (not that you approve of his mischief in such an uncertain time). The outside world is nowhere near as safe as it is within the walls of the Heartslabyul compound. Ace would do well to remember that.

Deuce is more well-behaved, and so sometimes he'll join Trey or Cater on supply runs. He's well-versed in fighting, so he can hold his own in a physical fight. When it comes to magic, he's still improving, but he wants to help out in any way that he can. He looks up to Riddle greatly and wants to prove himself as someone worthy and strong. Ace likes to tease him a lot, but it's usually Deuce who reminds him that he ought to be more serious. Apocalypses are nothing to treat lightheartedly. One wrong move and you could lose everything.

- - -

Savanaclaw is not very rule-oriented. In fact, the only rule that's made abundantly clear is that you have to fight to survive. You're either weak or you're strong; there is no in between. Leona was made king of the compound after dethroning its previous leader. He'll let anyone into the compound so long as they can hold their own in a fight and are useful. This usually means a test of strength, whether physical or mental, and if you pass Leona will recognize your worth. Ruggie is usually in charge of supply runs and any other operations. Sometimes they'll gather; other times they'll steal from nearby groups and compounds. Jack doesn't approve of these methods; he thinks everyone should be given the chance to survive, but Ruggie and Leona remind him that if everyone got to survive then the world's population wouldn't be sitting at what it is now.

It's Ruggie who takes you as a prisoner when he finds you snooping around just on the border of Savanaclaw's territory. Jack's there to remind Ruggie of respect and whatnot as he forces you along towards the compound. Jack doesn't talk much, but he does watch you keenly as you're led to Leona. He's studying you to determine whether you pose a threat, sniffing the air to see if he can pick out any foreign, perilous smells. Once you're deemed harmless and you manage to pass Leona's test, you're welcomed into the fray. Jack sticks with you, helping you adjust to the way of life in the group. Leona may seem lazy and hard on you at times, but he does secretly care. He just expects everyone to be able to hold their own. The world's filled with liars and cheats; Jack's realized that there's no helping it, especially when the world has become so unruly.

- - -

Octavinelle is a safe haven. It's as if Azul has thought of nearly everything in order make the compound as safe and welcoming as possible. Unlike the other compounds, which are all on land, Azul's makes use of both the land and the sea. Half of it is underwater, with nearly indestructible glass tunnels that connect into a labyrinthine structure built of the strongest, sturdiest materials, while the other half is built upon the land to make use of both environments. You may think the sea isn't as bad as it is on the land, but it's so much more frightening. Those dark, dangerous depths hold all kinds of infected things: monsters, mers, mer-monsters...

Azul is willing to accept anyone into the compound, even those who may be infected so long as they stay in a specific layer of the compound (the one far below the land in the sea) and will take the medicine necessary to curb the blot infection (it's not a cure, but it is something he's managed to conjure after much trial and error. Only Octavinelle can brag that they have something akin to a cure, and Azul is only willing to share for a very steep price). Azul himself is infected, as are Riddle, Leona, Jamil, Vil, and Idia, and perhaps even Malleus, and he's constantly finding ways to suppress the monstrosities of Overblot. Azul has built the compound upon lies and secrets, all of which rest at the foundation. He'll pile sweetness onto poison so that you won't ever find the truth amidst so many falsehoods. Anyone who proves to be an issue or has seen and learned too much will be cast into the sea, but not before being thoroughly interrogated by Jade and Floyd. There's always new information to be found!

Jade and Floyd are swift and strong enough to brave the horrors of the ocean in order to search in sunken shipwrecks and husks of plane to find anything that might be useful. They're a formidable duo and aren't afraid of anything. Either you learned of the rumors of a very welcoming compound and came to Azul willingly or the twins dragged you to him by force. In any case, you'll find yourself at Azul's feet, hoping he may take pity on you. Make no mistake; Azul will accept the poor, unfortunate souls left hopeless by the apocalypse, but that doesn't mean they're permitted to stay rent-free. You'll likely be given many tasks in order to earn your keep. Octavinelle runs on information; it's become somewhat of an intelligence hub, where Azul keeps note of what goes on within the other compounds and the world beyond his safe haven, trading and taking info as he sees fit.

- - -

Scarabia has also thought of everything to combat the apocalypse. Kalim is a little too carefree when he throws celebrations in order to keep morale high and to distract those from the gloomy situation beyond the compound. It's Jamil who really runs everything. He knows everything about everyone who steps foot in the compound and he's very picky with who gets to stay. He isn't one to act rashly, rather he'll think through every action that can be taken in order to solve a problem when one arises (which happens quite often considering how restless some get within the compound). He plans behind the scenes, allowing Kalim to think he's everyone's great and glorious leader who can bring happiness to all. In secret, he's getting information, keeping an eye on anyone who may pose a threat to the compound (such as any traitors), and he's ready to curb attempted usurpation at once.

Jamil does not trust easily; Kalim does. In fact, Jamil probably doesn't trust you when Kalim makes the decision to let you stay (he always lets everyone in; it's up to Jamil to turn those who he thinks are infected away. You can never be too careful in the apocalypse, so some may think he's heartless when it comes to deciding who can stay and who must go. But this is for the sake of the compound; you have to make sacrifices because this isn't an ideal world). Like the other compounds, you'll be given work to keep yourself busy and exercised. Whether that's by preparing ingredients for food, helping in the gardens, doing inventory of weapons and other supplies, etc. it's expected that you help out.

Kalim is quick to forgive those who may have broken too many rules or intentionally stir the pot, but Jamil won't tolerate it. Safety comes first, so he'll do whatever he must in order to ensure everyone else can continue to live at the cost of a life or two. He's had to harden his heart; the apocalypse isn't kind to those with pure hearts, yet somehow Kalim's still surviving. At least he can be a ray of sunshine amidst stormy situations.

- - -

Pomefiore is also quite orderly. Vil has everyone and everything under control, so much so that you'd think he's taken a page from Riddle's book. But being one of immense beauty (even during a crisis like an apocalypse) while having quite the famous reputation and status works well for keeping the masses at ease. Vil's word is law in the Pomefiore compound. He will not tolerate any mischief, rebellion, or foolishness, and if anyone thinks it's wise to act stupidly without regard to the rest of the compound Vil has no issue casting them out. This is to be a safe, responsible compound and he's the leader. It would be poor etiquette for a leader if he always let things like that slide, so for that reason Vil can seem quite strict and immovable. He only has everyone's best interests in mind, the biggest being survival. You must understand that he's doing what's right for his compound, even if the right thing is achieved at a few lost lives.

The towers in the Pomefiore compound are perfect for analyzing faraway areas with scopes, binoculars, and anything with ranged sight. It's also good for sniping. Rook usually mans one of the towers, taking down anything he deems a threat to the surrounding territory that Pomefiore has claimed as its own. He usually leads a group to hunt and gather, often returning with wondrous success. Epel wants to accompany him on these runs (he always arms himself with his trusty brass knuckles; he's actually quite good at hand-to-hand combat, and he's always improving each time he spars with Vil or Rook), but Vil forbids him from going on these runs. Until Epel can beat him or Rook in a fight, he will stay within the compound and complete other tasks. Epel usually works within the fields and gardens, tending to livestock and crops because he has expertise in doing such things. You will probably join him for these duties if you can't fight, use magic, or hunt as well as the others can.

- - -

Ignihyde is the perfect place to go to during the apocalypse. With the best, high-functioning technology, an abundance of resources, and a power supply that can last for many years to come, it is guaranteed to keep you safe. With STYX's technology and resources, the Ignihyde compound is thriving. It has been built meticulously and methodically; every part of it serves the whole. Walls rise high into the sky, it's enclosed with an indestructible dome to keep avian dangers or bad quality air out (usually putting such oxygen through a filter so that when it enters the compound it is fresh and breathable), the tech systems can create and simulate artificial sunlight, rain from sprinklers, and can even replicate the weather of the four seasons. This is probably the most sci-fi of the compounds. With the help of STYX robots and other technologies, any threats or enemies wanting to prey on the compound won't stand a chance. Any internal threats will be locked away in solitary confinement for further analysis.

Beneath the compound, there is a branch of STYX that conducts research on infected test subjects. Idia and Ortho will oversee the research, but it's Idia who is in charge and has the final say. All of the most intelligent doctors, researchers, and nurses can be found working at this branch. It functions as both a research lab and a hospital. STYX is hard at work to find a cure for the blot infections. Idia's overheard the recent success at the Octavinelle compound (he keeps tabs on every compound and knows more than you'd think), and he knows Azul wouldn't share his findings out of the goodness of his heart. Idia doesn't need his help, though. He has faith in STYX's research. They'll create a cure eventually; it's a process, not a miracle. Logical science always comes through in the end. After all, it's science that has allowed him to build up the compound so that it truly is the most OP compound in all of Twisted Wonderland. Besides, Idia's read, played, and watched his fair share of the apocalypse genre. He's very prepared for this.

- - -

Diasomnia may not be very technologically advanced like the other compounds, but what they lack in tech they make up for in magic. Some of the most powerful mages reside within the Diasomnia compound, with Malleus leading the fray. The concept of an apocalypse is not frightening nor foreign to he and Lilia. They've both lived long enough to have experienced, seen, or heard of things like famine, war, and natural disasters—each feeling like an apocalypse in its own devastating way—so an apocalypse such as this one is not very dreadful to them. They don't fear it in the way a human might, but they will provide protection to those who exist within the compound walls. The brambles that surround the Diasomnia compound's exterior are perfect for getting in the way of any enemies, and those with malicious intent will be promptly stopped by Silver and Sebek, both dedicated guards who have loyally sworn to fight for and protect Malleus. Though Malleus could also just incinerate dangerous people with a flick of his wrist if he was so inclined, commanding scalding, verdant flames to devour flesh and bone until all that remains is ash.

Lilia is very experienced in combat and in the art of war, so he usually trains those who show promise in fighting. He also scopes out the areas beyond the compound to search for supplies, sometimes going by himself and sometimes bringing Silver or Sebek along so that they may learn and train in the moment. Silver is a very rational mage; though he's prone to sleepy spells, he is a dedicated bodyguard who will always do the right, honest thing. If Silver encounters you, he will want to take you back to the compound to help you. Lilia will agree if he's there and happens to see you, a poor, little lamb in need of protection. He thinks you're simply darling. Though he may also have his own covert reasons for allowing Silver to help you. You'll never know what these are because he hides true intentions behind kind smiles and silly humor. If Sebek finds you, you may have to pray that Silver's with him to convince him into bringing you back, or you'll just have to hope he's in a pleasant mood. Sebek will not trust you, even if you appear to be genuine. Even if Malleus has made a good judge of your character, he'll still have lingering doubts. These will be snuffed the more he's reminded that the Malleus has said you aren't a danger and that you are allowed to stay and seek sanctuary with him.

Malleus grows quite attached to you the more he becomes acquainted with you. The apocalypse presents many dangers, but it also instills immense loneliness in him. He has witnessed human suffering; he knows how fragile mortals can be. And yet he knows that, as terrible as an apocalypse is, it has blessed him with one miracle: you. He won't let you out of his sights. In fact, none of the main four will. You'll always be monitored, whether upfront or in secret. If any harm were to befall you, Malleus would simply char the offender to ash on the spot. You are his most prized treasure in this grim world. He can't let you succumb to any dangers.

- - -

Rollo leads his compound fairly and responsibly. The apocalypse just reaffirms the idea that magic is harmful and dangerous and that all mages are bad, so he grows to hate magic even more than he already does. Despite this, he'll still use magic in some instances if need be. For the most part, the compound (which is essentially Noble Bell's campus and the many buildings that comprise it) is very self-sufficient. It has an advantage with the bell tower, as it's tall enough to overlook the ruined City of Flowers and what lies beyond. He'll utilize this structure as a lookout tower.

Despite the fact that he may come off as cold or unapproachable, Rollo won't turn those away from the compound unless he knows they're infected or are dangerous. He expects everyone to view him as a leader worthy of this position, and anyone who tries to go against his word will either be severely gaslit into believing otherwise or are simply never heard from again. Rollo doesn't have time to deal with insignificant pests who want to challenge his authority, so if you wish to be difficult you can take yourself and your difficulties down to the dungeons that reside underground. Punishments and interrogations are usually carried out there, far from any prying eyes so that the peace of the compound won't be disturbed. Rollo oversees everything that happens within cold, concrete walls, and he does not show any mercy to those who are traitors or spies.

Rollo will offer you protection and sanctuary when you find yourself at the compound's gates. So long as you aren't here for nefarious purposes and you aren't infected, he'll welcome you warmly. Rollo actually keeps a watchful eye on newcomers just to ensure they aren't a threat to the society within the compound. He'll give you a tour of the grounds, informing you of where everything is and it's purpose. He wants everyone to feel comfortable here despite the horrors that exist outside, so he'll do what he can to make everyone's stay tolerable. He quickly grows to like you, especially when you offer to help in any way that you can so that you can pay him back for saving you, which means you usually trail after him or deliberately seek him out looking for ways to be useful. Rollo likes that word—saving. He likes the idea of being your savior, of being the only one in this disastrous world who can offer you salvation, and since you claim you want to be useful he can think of plenty of ways you can put yourself to use.

Rollo won't ask for much. In fact, he's very sweet. You might not think so if you see villainous sides of him, but romance is hard to come by in an apocalypse. He'll give you two options: stay with him in the safety of this perfect sanctuary, or throw yourself under a deity's microscope in the outside world and hope that whatever may exist in the clouds above takes pity on your tainted soul. If you know what's best for you, you'll choose him. It's not like he's really giving you much of a choice in this matter anyway.

[ataleofcrowns]

Chapter 11 Progress [14/MAY]

Hey everyone, it's been a minute since my last update on the blog!! Happy mother's day to all the moms out there 💖

By the time of writing this, I have 40k words written for CH11, and I am both happy and mildly horrified to report that CH11 is looking up to be the biggest chapter yet by a mile. It's very likely the total word count will break through 90k words, primarily due to the LI routes.

First, I've finished the first draft for X's route for CH11 and am mildly exasperated by my inability to properly estimate how long these sections will be.

I thought it would amount to 10k at most, but X's route ended up with 18k words. This is mostly due to all the Imperial Court variations in their opening scene, because I'm a masochist. A single playthrough of X's route is more like 14k words, though, depending on the variations you get.

I'm also close to finishing R's route and have 8k words written for it so far. Their and A's routes will be a little less in word count, since they got more content in CH10, but they'll both likely still be 10-12k words. D's will likely be closer to X's route in word count, around 14-15k.

Altogether, this chapter's LI routes alone will likely be close to 60k for all four. So that leaves the rest of the 30k for the main plot, which I haven't started yet. I literally only have words written for R and X, as well as bits and snippets for A and D so far lol.

Please pray for me so that I can release this chapter in July and give you all a summer miracle 🙏🏼

Anyway, enough about the word count!! I've got some preview posting to catch up to, so beneath the cut you'll find various snippets for X and R's routes in CH11 that were posted on the Patreon.

Hopefully I'll be able to post some for A and D soon as well, once I dig into their routes in the coming weeks.

Here's a small preview of a bit you might see occur across all LI routes, though it still depends on who is appointed to your Imperial Court (and the Lord Samal referenced here is specific to X's route as well):

“Chief Minister, is this allowed? There must be procedure for the appointment of officials—” “It is all at the Crown’s discretion,” Chief Minister Karwan states simply, turning away from the representative again to face forward instead. “But this is highly unusual!” The Minister breathes an exasperated sigh. “Oh, quiet down! Were you not using the same technicalities to get your way a moment ago, you insolent dog?” “Do not speak to me that way!” Lord Samal erupts. “I serve Mîr Behram!” “And I was already serving the Crowns of this Empire when your master was still suckling at the teat!” the Chief Minister snaps. “Now be a good boy and come to heel, we have many more matters to discuss.”

Here's a preview for X's route:

“Why do you have that dagger?” You turn to look at $aname, taken aback by how stunned $athey appears. “$xname gave it to me.” “$cxthey gave it to you?” $aname repeats incredulously, glancing back down at the dagger in your hands. “Did $xthey tell you who it originally belonged to?” “It belonged to someone else?” You assumed $xname was the only one who owned it, but looking at it again, you can notice subtle wear and tear despite its well-cared-for state. Little scratches along its sheath, the edges of pearl looking a little worn along the handle. “Whose was it?” “$cxtheir mother’s.” Your fingers tighten around its sheath in shock, then twitch with the urge to put it away. “$cxtheir mother’s? Why would…” You look down at the dagger in complete disbelief. “Why would $xthey give it to me?”

And finally, here's a preview for R's route:

Your hands reach for $rthem, but then halt and hover in mid-air, uncertain of whether you should even touch $rthem while $rthey’s in this state. “It’s alright,” Perjin speaks quietly from beside you. “You can hold $rtheir hand, if you wish. Your magic won’t cause any problems.”  You take a slow, deep breath, calming yourself as you sit down on the edge of the bed and gently take $rname’s hand in yours. “$crtheir fingers are cold.” Alarmed, you rub $rtheir hand, feeling how clammy and cool $rtheir skin is. You turn to Perjin. “Why does $rthey feel cold? What’s happening to $rthem?” 

That was it for this update ✨

I’m posting further updates and CH11 previews on the Patreon for all tiers, as well as all sorts of fun extra LI/Crown snippets, so if you’d like more AToC content while you wait for CH11, consider pledging!!

As always, thanks so much for your patience and support 💖

[seraphsfire]

Life situation & kitty update! Help me stay in Seattle instead of being forced to go to wyoming

Hello! I was able to make rent this month, but so far I cannot make rent for next month.

Ko-fi has been holding donations since paypal has been flagging them as "income" so that no longer works.

If you would like to help me out using paypal, the link is HERE. I will look into other venmo and cashapp. you can also reach out for a commission! If you donated via paypal and would like me to draw you a little something in thanks, please let me know!

I also put together an AMAZON WISH LIST , most is things for the kitties or food and some non-essentials / self care things for the hell of it that are things i haven't been able to buy myself for a while. Other than rent, kitty supplies and food are what I spend most $ on.

More on what I'm facing and what my kitties need:

about the kitties:

My sweet kitty Jade, needs a steroidal shot for her dermatitis. She should have gotten another one on the 25th, but I had no money to take her to the vet and she started ripping her fur out and made big, golf-ball sized spots completely bald on her armpit and chest :'( We put her on benadryl, moisturized her, and gave her a little jacket thing to help but I can tell she's really uncomfortable and really needs a vet visit to get that. it's $80 just to visit my vet and i'm sure the shot could be anywhere from 10-40 dollars, I really don't know. She's not in danger of pulling huge chunks of fur out thanks to the little jacket but she's really not happy and it makes me so sad.

About my situation (kind of long, sorry):

My Parents (mostly my mom; it's very hard to get responses from my dad) gave me rent money for September, but then made it clear that she will no longer help me financially under any circumstance if I want to "choose" to live in Seattle, then I'm essentially on my own. She doesn't want to give me money because she doesn't want ours to be a "transactional-based relationship" (after spending my entire childhood having them pressure me to move out on my own)

My dad is convinced that since Seattle is a city, it is very unsafe (and too full of Democrats) and that we would be safer living in their small town of Pavilion, Wyoming--which is literally just like, a few very spaced out neighborhoods. The nearest actual town is a 30 minute drive, and it's not very big either, and I don't drive. I would be snowed in *with them* for 4+ MONTHS every year, and every summer unable to leave the house for weeks because of the heat.

My dad has told my sister and I that if we choose to live right next to them, where they could have complete control over our lives, they would even buy us a house--but because we're not doing that, they refuse to support us in the life we've chosen for ourselves. They do not see the cruelty in this and think we are being nonsensical staying somewhere like Seattle which is "dangerous" and they do not like that it is full of non-republicans. I came out as queer in 2016, something which they have never spoken about since. I would likely be the only (out) queer person for MILES, and I don't feel like being the guinea pig for whether the anti-gay people there are the kind who ignore you or the kind who will hatecrime/kill you (:

Since I'd be at zero in my bank account in wyoming, they would have complete control over what I eat (not fun since I have a messed up digestion), clothes I buy, where I go, and how I behave just like they did when I was a child, or they'll start taking things away hoping that "tough love" will work. (it just made me mentally ill lol)

If I start a job in a week and a half I might be okay, but if I can't start until after that I won't have enough for October rent. I have one interview coming up but the future is still very up in the air.

[mahoushojo-chan]

Astarion x Tav || dissociation

something i wanted to feel

warnings: dissociation, ptsd, trauma synopsis: disguised as a drow, tav finds astarion after he's reverted back to old, unhealthy ways of using his body. she brings him back. When Astarion hears her normal voice, he feels soothed. “You weren’t here, fully. I wanted to bring you back.” She explains, like it’s the simplest thing. “If I let you continue, it felt like I would lose you.” she continues. an excerpt of 'cause my love (is mine, all mine) word count: 1,001 pairing: astarion/tav other tags: f!reader, half-elf?tav, bard!tav, hurt/comfort, angst, non-sexual intimacy, friends to lovers, song inspo: sanctuary by joji ao3: here concept: dissociation and grounding techniques

The elf—half elf, maybe, based off the point of their ear? They grab Astarion’s wrist to stop him, and pull him away. “P-Put on your clothes, first.”

There's something off, like the pieces of the puzzle don't quite fit together. The man before him appears unnaturally flawless, almost like plastic rather than real flesh. Confused, Astarion takes a step back.

“Well, if that’s… what you wish.” Astarion replies and proceeds to redress himself. He's so bewildered by the situation that he foregoes any reverse strip-tease or other playful undressing antics; it completely escapes his thoughts. He simply puts his clothes back on, sliding his pants over his legs and fastening his belt. His shirt follows, and after it's on, he walks back over to the other person. Astarion supposes that this is okay. He hadn't exactly planned anything out, after all. Whether he’s naked or clothed while he does… whatever he’s going to do doesn’t matter to him at all.

"Now, where were we?" Astarion inquires, his hands gently cradling their artificial features, as he attempts to regain his focus.

However, they gently remove his hands from their face and clasp his hands in theirs, asking, "How does it feel?"

Astarion’s response is automatic. “Oh, it feels lovely. I’d love to see what other—”

“Ah-ah,” they tut, “tell me about my hands. How do they feel?”

Astarion takes a second. A hint of confusion prods at his mind for a second before he understands that he’s supposed to actually be using his body to relay these sensations. He looks down, and the discrepancy between how they look and feel strikes him again. “Well, they’re soft, of course. They’re… thin, and graceful…” he says, all compliments that he expects they would want to hear. But then his hand runs over their ring finger, and he blinks, because he feels a callous that he doesn’t see. Then, he begins to realize who he’s with. “There’s always a callous that never quite heals, here… and then the scar, and… well, you have a hangnail here. Your nails have grown out, Tav.”

He grins, finally thinking he’s realized their ruse. When he looks up, he sees Tav give a tired smile, though she’s still in her disguise.

Instead of ending it there, she continues with a pleased hum, “Are my hands warm?”

“Yes, always. A little warmer today, but—what are you doing?” Astarion interjects, confused.

She never answers him properly at times like these. Instead, she asks him, “Do I smell bad?”

Astarion takes some time to mull it over before he shakes his head. “No… no, you rarely do. Well, my tastes deviate from others, and I take quite a delight when you’re covered in blood, of course, but—”

“What do I smell like?”

He takes in a breath of air, and then deeply exhales. Her scent is familiar, now. “Like… well, something floral, usually. A little like parchment, maybe the slightest of resin…”

She dispels the disguise. Even though it's just the two of them, it seems a bit reckless, considering he’s not sure how they'll escape. However, Tav usually thinks ahead more than he does, and Astarion doesn't have the time to dwell on it as she continues her line of questioning, “And do I look okay?”

Now that he sees her for her, his gaze drops into something more affectionate. “Your hair never sits quite right, here.” He says, teasing the rebellious tuft of hair on her head before flattening it. “There. Now you look perfect.”

He lingers a little when she finally lets go of his hands. He feels a little disappointed, but she self-consciously helps to flatten her hair. Astarion takes the opportunity to finally ask, “Care to tell me what all that was about?”

When he hears her normal voice, he feels soothed. “You weren’t here, fully. I wanted to bring you back.” She explains, like it’s the simplest thing. “If I let you continue, it felt like I would lose you. My only regret is not coming sooner…” she continues.

Astarion blinks in surprise. He realizes he hadn’t particularly been in pain, and part of him still feels like he wants to get lost in his own head, but Tav’s soft explanation—though he’s not quite listening to it so much as he is just relaxing into the comforting cadence of her voice—keeps pulling him back out of it.

The almost liberating numbness is inexplicably nudged to the side by his desire to feel her again.

Then it dawns on him, the gravity of his recent actions—how he had behaved when he was still feeling like a puppet on strings. He remembers pinning her against the wall, pressing his lips to hers, and he stammers, "Oh—I'm sorry for... I mean, I didn't mean to—"

"It was never going to happen," she states, and Astarion experiences a brief pang, a sting in a vulnerable spot, just for a moment. It's as though she's saying, I'm never going to sleep with you, but that’s what he wants, isn’t it? He wants not to sleep with her. He wants something beyond mere physical intimacy, and he has that with Tav.

Seeing his confusion, she snaps him out of his reverie and tells him, “It didn’t mean anything.”

This, in a way, makes the feeling worse because Astarion interprets it as ‘forget it ever happened’. But given that he’s still rather embarrassed about the whole ordeal—the inability to recognize her, his behaviour—he’s actually okay with complying.

So he takes her hands this time and rests his forehead against hers. She feels as warm as he remembers.

Finally, he responds. “Thank you.”

She seems to let him rest for a moment, and he sees her whisper a word of healing. He feels some of the earlier bruises and gashes heal themselves, and it’s not perfect, but he feels significantly better. At that time, he finally separates from her. But then, now that he’s fully present, he sees her as she is—she seems tired, her features gaunt, but she seems relieved.

[imogenkol]

— OCS AS CHARACTER TROPES

tagged by the lovely @corvosattano to do this uquiz! Thank you 💕

tag list (ask to be added or removed!): @adelaidedrubman @florbelles @marivenah @simonxriley @shegetsburned @voidika @kyber-infinitygems @inafieldofdaisies @socially-awkward-skeleton @aceghosts @carlosoliveiraa @risingsh0t @unholymilf @thedeadthree @cassietrn @jackiesarch @gwynbleidd @shellibisshe @loriane-elmuerto @katsigian @captastra @simplegenius042 @theelderhazelnut @g0dspeeed

THE DISQUALIFIED

the disqualified [noun, origin unknown] refers to a character who's became too numb to the concept of the world, to the point of deeming oneself not able to express any sort of emotion, whether positive or a negative one. this state is usually the one to follow after feeling too much, as if to balance out the overwhelming sensation of human emotion. living up to their title, they often consider themselves 'disqualified' from being a human, forsaken and unloved, abandoned by the world they've never had interest in. they don't know where they belong or where should they go - every second of breathing air is a waste of oxygen someone worthier could use. the disqualified symbolize the constant state of feeling nothing but tiredness, state where all is merciless but the end. this is the one and only test outcome where i as the writer shall personally interfere - please, my most beloved disqualified, keep longing to feel again. there's so much you've never felt and so much you'll desire to feel again. in the words of Osamu Dazai (who's the creator of the title 'the disqualified' I so happily stole) - "Everything passes." a statement as short as it is true - everything passes, even the numbness. after it, you'll experience so much more beauty of the world - beauty that might pass just as the numbness did, but in it's temporary and unique nature lies the reason why it's to be cherished. so, please, try to hold on a bit. sometimes, holding on is the best we can do and most of the times, it's just enough. - a (former) fellow disqualified

THE ICARUS

[noun, greek origin] refers to a character, first curious and childish, who got so bored of the world's rotten nature they lost all hope in living. as the last resort to find the spark in the world of dying stars, the icarus may have attempted numerous times to touch the blazing surface of the sun, hoping to see any kind of redemption in the reflection of their face in the sun's flames. as a result, their wings were melted down and their bones broken by the harsh landing, yet that still didn't stop them from trying all over again. the people of icarus' nature often believe their place is with the stars and their desire to burn amongst them causes them to forget the beauty of the land they've abandoned, merely flying over it - the world has stored so much beauty for them they often struggle to see through the rays of sun and yet, it is still there. the most beautiful of flowers grow upon the lands their feet haven't even touched and maybe, just maybe, if they spared a bit of their time to give the (them forsaken) world another chance, they'd see that sky might not be the home they truly desire, but one they ve seeked just because they have seen only the worst of the world. - a fellow icarus

THE FALSE MUSE

the false muse [noun, latin origin] refers to a character that attempts to be perfect in order to receive certain amount of praise, or to inspire others to go in their footsteps. they tend to seek the spotlight, the podium, the gaze of the people looking up to them, with praise and validation being what keeps them pursuing the way of living they did before. the false muses surely have their goals, but the biggest one is to simply be better than yesterday and worse than tomorrow, to be in a constant state of self improvement they'll never deem enough. this is what leads them to the ocassional state of burnout, state one may describe as trying so hard to please the artist you become the opposite of a muse - hence why they're called false ones. the false muses might be tempted to think that they’ve never achieved perfection, but the truth is, there's no such thing as perfection, nor is there a way to achieve it. all muses could long for is merely the perfect version of themselves and they’ve achieved that already, over a thousand times.

THE SAINT

the saint [noun, latin origin] refers to a character that has taken upon themselves the role of saint via listening to prayers, concerns and troubles of others. characters falling under this cathegory are obviously merely metaphorical saints, which is a quality many people struggle to realize. the saints are said to be helpful and caring under any circumstance, believing that making themselves useful increases their self worth in the eyes of people they care about. they often forget that they are indeed humans in roles of saints, that they still have human limitations and problems that can potentially pile up until they fall from the metaphorical heavens they occupy...yet mostly, this doesn't stop them from taking burdens from people and putting it on their own back in hopes of being more responsible in taking care of them. there's strange naivety in the good they do, slight hope that they can take everything and anything they try to fix and help out with. this naivety is often replaced with denial and regret as soon as one realizes that sometimes, it's impossible to pose as a saint. but that's just the tragic cycle of them - trying to help out, getting dragged from heavens by the burden they voluntarily stole, falling, laying on the ground wide-eyed and tired before climbing back into the clouds again. as of now, there's no cure to being one of the saints - it is up to them to realize that they are not responsible for anyone's happiness apart from their own and that it's not selfish to put them before others. it's natural and - as much as they want to stray away from it - human. - a fellow saint

[buttermynoods]

I can't stop thinking about a durge that just wants to reinvent themselves. They've forgotten pretty much everything about them except their name, and that's scary. It's still up in the air whether or not they'll gain their memory back, so why not make new memories? To do so, they have avoid dying beforehand.

Feat. my new durge playthrough, he's a cutie patootie

They've forgotten how to fight (if they even knew at all before becoming bhaalspawn) so they hesitantly ask Lae'zel to teach them. She says yes, but not without shaming them for not knowing. It's countless nights spend with bruises and minor cuts from sparring, but it is working. Lae'zel can see it in battle, and she's proud. After a particularly intense match where durge won, she'd deny it.

"Chk, you cheated."

Along with fighting, their stealth skills are close to zero. Astarion, of course, was the most obvious choice to help with that matter. He'd teach them how to properly use daggers, how to stay absolutely silent when sneaking around, how to lie your way through intense encounters. He'd probably test them on it too, if only to make them mildly uncomfortable.

"Okay, let's pretend darling. I'm a big scary man who wants your money. I have a knife."

"Okay, take it." They hand over a pretend sac of gold.

"No, darling! You're supposed to say you don't have any money." He sighs

"You threatened me! Is my life worth less than gold?" They throw their hands up defensively. Astarion would just sigh deeply and run a hand on his forehead in frustration.

When it came to magic, Gale was the one to go to. If the durge is a magic user, they've forgotten most of the important points in properly executing said magic. They're able to cast spells, but they almost always miss because they find it hard to concentrate. Gales teaching them how to focus again, how to drown out the gruesome sounds of battle and focus on keeping themselves and their companions alive through the weave. If they aren't a magic user, Gale's teaching them how to detect magic, and all its types. Regardless of if they're capable of casting magic, he wants them to be able to understand what they're up against. This doesn't happen without long, seemingly Neverending history lessons on the beginnings of magic. He's been rambling for several minutes about the origin of Mystra herself when he pauses

"You're not listening." He says matter of factly, offended.

"I'm sorry." They'd blush and resumes their attention to him. His eyes soften in understanding, and he flicks his fingers to conjure a small purple flame that flickers just above the tips of his fingers. He was like this as a young student, so he understands how it is to lose focus easily.

"Here, some enrichment while you listen." His words weren't condescending, maybe poking fun a bit, though. Regardless, it worked, and they find themselves listening better than they had minutes prior.

Karlach would teach them how to live again. How to turn a sour situation into a memorable one. How to dance like nobody's watching, and to do so without embarrassment. This would most likely lead to them both dancing behind one of their companions (probably Astarion) as he tries to have a serious conversation with a passerby. It's quite distracting.

"Considering your murderous tendencies, I think I like you, soldier."

[alzirr0]

"Would you still love me if I were a worm?" Part 2

Feat: Pollux, and Sirius

Genre: Fluff, Humor, Crack

Warnings: Mildly suggestive on Sirius' part of the story (we all know how he gets)

Navigation: Part 1: Spica, Alpheratz | Part 2

Pollux

"...Huh? Where's the punchline?" Pollux asks, voice slightly muffled with his cheeks adorably puffed out in mid-chew of a spoonful of pancake he shoved in his mouth moments prior. He's clad in his casual attire, sitting across you in a café you frequent together.

"There's no punchline. I am asking you." You fix him an expectant look as you repeat your question, "Would you still love me if I were a worm?"

Pollux tries his best not to gawk at you as if you've grown two heads. His bicolored eyes dart across your face, trying to gauge whether you're really expecting an answer from him or not. Seeing the unyielding gaze you're giving him, he deduces that you, in fact, are waiting for an answer to your rather odd question. He remains unresponsive for several seconds more. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think your inquiry had broken Pollux.exe.

“For how long are you going to resemble a mute?”

Pollux finally snaps out of his trance, swallowing his mouthful of pancakes before granting you a response, “Geez, give me a break, I just can’t believe you want me to answer that,” he grumbles, pushing the food around his plate with his cutlery, suddenly not finding his meal very appetizing. "I don't know... is this a trick question? Can I just answer with a no?"

"You can, but that'll only imply you wouldn't have taken an interest in me if—"

"What?! That definitely isn't it!” Pollux protests, not even allowing you to finish your statement. He runs a dainty hand through his soft locks in mild frustration. He really is the type who's easily worked up, you note. “But... you'd be a worm."

"And?" There’s a defiant tilt to your chin, as if you’re challenging him.

“I mean, how is that going to work for us? Should I start learning how to communicate with a worm? Would you still choose to love me if you were a worm and I am still me? ” You bite the insides of your cheeks to refrain from breaking into an amused grin as Pollux fires at you his barrage of questions, "If I ask you the same thing, how are you gonna answer then?"

"You're evading my question, I asked you first."

"Fine! Fine..." he trails off, mumbling barely audible words, which you somehow manage to discern are actually complaints. "Yeah, yeah, I'd still love or whatever the worm version of you."

"Now you're just saying that because you know I'd be disappointed otherwise."

He shoots you a disbelieving look, whining as he throws his arms in the air exasperatedly. "Y/n, Y/n, what should I do then? Why are you even asking me this? It's so weird..." His brows begin to furrow in concern. "With my luck, what if something bad happens to you because of me? I won't be able to forgive myself."

You give him a reassuring smile, dismissing his worries as you reach out to give a comforting poke on his cheek, which he playfully swats, a coy smile forming on his lips.

"Forget it then, Pol. But can I ask you another question?" You inquire saccharinely, trying to lighten up the mood.

He perks up and nods in agreement before taking a large gulp of his drink, happy to change the subject.

"Would you still love me if I were a louse?"

It's almost comical how fast he visibly deflates, shoulders sagging exasperatedly as he slumps back on his seat. "Y/n, Y/n, that question doesn't make sense at all either!" He exclaims.

You snicker as Pollux frowns, looking so done with your shenanigans. Scoffing, he gestures his hand in your direction. "What would you want me to do then? I'll just go with whatever you want."

You look at him dead in the eye as you reply, "Put me on your scalp and let me thrive there."

Pollux recoils in horror, heterochromatic eyes blown so wide you fear they'll fall out of their sockets. "The hell?! Y/n that's gross!"

Feigning being crestfallen by his reaction, you jut your lower lip out in a pout and painstakingly avert your gaze. Upon seeing your expression, Pollux immediately backpedals.

"Wait! Fine! What you said," he begrudgingly concedes. "On my scalp, you'd stay. Make it itchy I don’t care anymore. Go wild."

You can't help but cackle at his defeated tone, offering him a pleasant smile once you regain your composure.

"But, how are we even going to hang out if things are gonna be like that?" he sulks. His face crumples in a mix of deep thought and perhaps, the still lingering confusion your question had left in its wake. He's pensive for a moment as he mulls over his previous query, as if not being able to hang out with you would be his biggest problem in a scenario where you’re no longer a human.

"Well I don't know about you. In my case I'd literally be hanging on your hair strands," you wheeze when Pollux just raises a hand in surrender. "Don't fret about it too much, let's just say I’m still capable of human speech even as a louse. More chitchat time for us since we'd be practically glued together."

"That would be a different twist to having a conversation in my head," he notes thoughtfully.

"More like having a conversation with the parasite on your head."

"People who would happen to see me talking to you like that would think I'm a loony," Pollux murmurs, but after picturing himself getting caught in mid-conversation with you as a louse, he can't help but let out an amused snort. Shoving another spoonful of his food to his mouth, Pollux goes back to enjoying his meal as your conversation comes into a lull.

Suddenly remembering that you’ve been meaning to ask him to lend you his notes for a lecture you’ve missed when you’ve fallen asleep zoned out during the discussion in one of your classes, you call for his attention once again.

“By the way Pol, I’ve been meaning to ask you about—”

Pollux snaps his head in your direction with a dreadful look in his heterochromatic eyes.

"Please don't ask me 'would you still love me if I were a mosquito?' next and demand that I let you bite my arm and suck my blood dry," he pleads.

You blink at him before you roar with laughter as you double over. Pollux looks at you with an affronted expression, before eventually seeing the humor in it too as his shoulders shake when he laughs with abandon. In between your fits of laughter, you manage to assure him that you won't ask him questions like that again… for now.

Cue Pollux whining in protest.

Sirius

"Absolutely,” he confidently replies without even batting an eye. His eyes that fondly remind you of a kaleidoscope twinkle mischievously when he smiles at you. "For you I'd be a worm too, Summoner. I'd be keeping you company."

You snort a laugh as you nod approvingly. “Not the worst answer. You pass, I guess.”

His eyebrows quirk up at your remark. “Was that supposed to be a test? Such a strange way of phrasing it, I must say,” he comments before turning his head to focus on the path ahead.

Sirius gravitates closer to you as the both of you trek down the streets leading to the theatre to watch another play, which Sirius had insisted on buying tickets for, so you can watch it together. A comfortable silence envelopes you as you fall in stride with him. The sun is just beginning to set, but in spite of the fact that the day is coming to an end, there’s still a busy flow of people in the area that is yet to dwindle out.

"Do you know that some worms are hermaphrodites? An individual’s body has a set of both male and female reproductive organs,” Sirius muses out loud, breaking the serenity.

You turn your head to face the man beside you, paying attention to what he has to say as you expect him to further elaborate his little trivia.

Sirius meets your gaze, his lips pressed into a sly smirk. “If we are to live as one of them, we should pick a type that had long gone extinct, and repopulate it together."

You nearly trip, and almost choke on your own spit. "You did not just say that."

"Oh but I just did,” he pipes up, rather pleased of himself for a reason unbeknownst to you.

You give him the side eye as you brace yourself for whatever kind of nonsense he's going to blabber about.

“I'd finally have you all to myself. I don't mind whatever shape or form I'll have to take," he continues, not breaking eye contact, you note that they're sparkling in a way that you can't read what really lies on his mind. “The idea isn't extremely repulsive. Think about it, Y/n. No duty, no responsibility, and most of all, no… distractions.” Sirius lists each advantage he can think of, lifting a finger for each one.

"Yep, not happening," you proclaim.

"Is that rejection I hear? Lacking tact too, I see," he laments, clutching his chest in faux hurt. "You really do know how to wound a man, Summoner."

"Quit with the dramatics, that won't sway me," you chide.

“Let’s give it a chance. If things go awry we can always just return to our true forms,” Sirius stresses almost every word as if doing so will make you see his point, which you firmly believe is non-existent anyway. "So, what do you say if I tell you I’m more than ready to go and give it a try right here and then?”

"If you transform yourself into a worm right now I'd crush you under my shoe."

"Lovingly? A bit on the sadistic side, but I don't mind if you're into that. I'm always willing to try new things with you—"

"Sirius!"

"You're breaking my heart here." Sirius sullenly shakes his head, sighing dejectedly in an attempt to pull at your heartstrings.

You wrinkle your nose at his theatrics. "Why don't you tell me something about this play we're about to watch instead? You were so adamant in convincing me to watch it with you."

"Eager to drop the subject that you, yourself, were the one who brought it up in the first place?" he taunts, quirking an eyebrow teasingly.

You shoot him an unamused look. Eyes narrowing dangerously, to which Sirius only gives you a winning smile of his in return.

"Alright, I digress. As always, I picked only the best seats for us. Wouldn't want my wiggly worm to miss out on anything since what we're about to watch—"

"Your what? " you squawk as you turn to him in horror. Sirius opens his mouth to reply but just before he can say even more absurd things, you interject, "You are not calling me that."

"You may call me yours, too. It's the perfect pet name for us, is it not?" Sirius responds, deliberately ignoring your earlier demand.

"You better not be serious right now."

"How can I not when I actually go by that name?"

"Bye."

Intent on leaving him behind, you quicken your pace. Not wanting to garner the attention of the other people passing by, you resist the urge to become a runner and a track star just to increase the distance between the two of you. Your attempt turns out to be futile anyway, for within a few long strides, Sirius manages to keep up with you with no trouble at all, smiling down at you brightly. You silently curse his long legs.

You can only hope that he won't actually keep on calling you that horrendous and absolutely not flattering pet name he came up with. The nerve of this man, you initiated this conversation expecting that you'll get a few good laughs out of it because of his reactions. But this man pulled an uno reverse card by turning you into his source of entertainment instead.

Sirius slips his hand into yours and gives it a tentative squeeze. "I meant every word I've said Y/n. Well, atleast most of it." He playfully winks as the both of you enter the doors of the building hand in hand.

a/n: I hope you'll find it in yourself to enjoy reading this as much as I've enjoyed the writing process.

I didn't expect I'll have that much fun, haha. Once I've laid down the general idea, the characters pretty much wrote their own dialogues and I just went with the flow. Busying myself in making this helped me cope from the lack of new in-game content 🤧 let's all hang in there. xx

[mimzy-writing-online]

hello!! I don't know if this blog is still active or not but you're the first resource I found when looking up things about writing blind characters so here i am. I have a character who's a fantasy race that naturally has a better sense of smell & hearing. This character also happens to be blind. Their blindness is not inherently why they have these advantages, but I still want to avoid coming off as cliche. Is there any way I should make this clear/anything i should alter? thx for reading !

Hi, the blog is active. If it's been a while since the last post, it's just because life hasn't given me much time to work on the blog but it has not been abandoned.

As for your question:

-Establish which race your character is early on during their introduction. You can work some world building in piece by piece and explain that they have stronger senses of hearing and smell than humans.

-In your planning/world-building you should consider how heavily that race relies on those senses for environmental awareness. Once you work out what's possible/impossible for your character to smell and hear, then you go through what you need your character to notice for the story.

Those two above should be enough to avoid cliche territory but if you have a moment where the character's ability to focus on a sense seems too special or plot-convenient, just work through whether or not it's possible for the character to identify this sound/smell and break down what the thought process was.

I have a lot of people in my life who treat my senses of sound/touch/taste/smell/etc as super human because I notice details they've never had to pay attention to before. A lot of times I respond to their awe by explaining my thought process and how I came to certain conclusions. It's mostly pattern recognition and detective work.

For example, I can smell a burger joint from two blocks away, but I have friends who won't smell it until we're walking past the door.

My friends don't need to think about the smells and what they mean because their environmental awareness begins with visual input and everything that comes after is just extra context. They'll see a sign from two blocks away, identify the logo/name/branding. If they're hungry they might focus on that sign long enough to remember the food sold there and maybe even the smells they remember. If they're not hungry, they'll move onto the next visual cue they notice.

I am getting a lot less visual info with a much shorter "warning" time, so I'll probably catch the smell of food on the wind long before I ever see a sign. For my brain, the thought process becomes: I smell food. Someone is cooking meat. Beef? There's notes of fried oil in the air. It's probably a burger place. Then I work with what I know about the area and if I remember any major restaurants.

Another example is that I used laundry room as markers for corners and apartment buildings in my neighborhood. I can connect that random rumbling sound with the smell of fresh laundry.

For most people it's just an unknown rumbling sound. For my bestie, it's a mechanical sound of a home appliance but not a refrigerator or a heating unit or something he specifically worked with in the past. For me, the process is- It's a mechanical sound but not one belonging to a car. It's also stationary and the sound is steady and repetitive, looping ever 3 seconds or less. I connect the sound with the smell of fresh laundry and I know that it's coming from a dryer. Which was actually very helpful in my old apartment building because I could tell if the washer and dryer were in use from outside the building, so I knew if it was pointless to get my laundry ready right away.

So if you have a moment that seems too super powered, just work through the thought process and adjust details until it feels right.