#highly complex mapping

[hc-did-culture-is]

System Mapping Question

Hello everyone!

Someone got in contact with us a while back with a question, and asked that we put it to the internet at large.

He wanted to know how other HC-DID systems visually map their systems.

He also wondered how other systems map members, particularly members and programs that don't connect to front/the common fronters.

If you'd like to share how you map your system, send in an ask and we'll post it with the tag #highly complex mapping.

[asteroid-sysblog]

How we try and map our system

Mapping places in the innerworld:

what we try and do is have everyone who fronts log where they come from by creating a simplyplural group and try and connect it to a place on the app “Mind Map.” We will eventually try and create physical maps with pencil/pen and paper once we have a good enough understanding on passageways, connects, and the like. This will take some time.

Mapping alters/places that no one in front has connections to:

We try and get a gatekeeper or traveler (someone who is able to travel through sidesystems) to find out more about an area, or find it at all.

we may edit this to include more i hope this does something for you anon

@hc-did-culture-is

[spikedfearn]

Heavy Lies The Crown

Chapter I

Sir Jimmy Crystal x fem!reader

summary: Decades after the Rage Virus devastated the UK, the infected have thinned but the world remains lawless and brutal. You’ve been surviving on your own until you’re captured by patrols from a notorious compound hidden in the Scottish Highlands: Eden. Its soldiers are strange—clad in random mismatched tracksuits, long blonde hair hanging tangled and wild like heathen halos, each armed with beautifully maintained bows. Silent. Precise. Unsmiling.

And then there’s their leader. Sir Jimmy Crystal. A gold-chained, tiara-wearing, crushed velvet zip-up psycho with a God complex thicker than his drawl. He doesn’t want to kill you. He intends to keep you.

wc: 6.3k

a/n: So I started absolutely gooning for Jimmy from the moment he drawled “ugh fuckin’ geaux” in the ninety seconds of screentime he has and now here we are. And if you came to shame, save your breath—I already talked about the discourse around him here. My k-hole tracksuit cult-leading princess lives rent-free in my brain, and I’m charging him for every second. Stay mad. Stay wet. Stay blessed. Now ugh—fuckin geaux. Big shout out to @amaranthine-enihtnarama for beta reading, thanks pookie!! NO SMUT in this chapter it's all setup, sorry guys <333

warnings: dark!romance, post-apocalyptic setting, cult dynamics, abduction, forced proximity, authoritarian/power dynamics, God complex, psychological manipulation, ritualistic obedience, choking, breath play, breeding kink, creampie, corruption arc, sexual tension, mentions of blood and decay, mentions of death and violence, intimidation, d/s dynamics, forced bathing, captivity, worship themes, verbal degradation, possessive behavior, choking from behind, unsettling atmosphere, cult rituals, light threat of force, elements of stockholm syndrome, highly charged sexual context, dubcon overtones

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

Chapter I: Annointed

The air here smells like wet iron and peat. It clings to your throat, heavier with each breath, as if the land itself wants to remind you what’s been spilled on it. A silence rests over the hills—not peace, but the uneasy stillness of something watching. Listening. Holding its breath.

You haven’t seen another living person in days. Weeks? It’s hard to keep track when the sun rises behind a haze of ash and dusk always comes too soon. Even the sky seems starved. The clouds hang low and bruised, heavy with rain that never falls.

The forest stretches ahead like a mouth left open too long. You step lightly. Leaves rot wet beneath your boots. A broken fence curls under moss, the last gasp of an island that once had tidy borders and polite signs. You pass rusted-out trailers on cinder blocks, windshields shattered, doors long gone. The doors always go first. People rip them off in a panic, thinking it’ll help. It never does.

The cold bites through your clothes. Not sharp. Just damp. Soaks into your bones. Makes the ache constant. Your breath ghosts in front of you as you walk, and for a second, you pretend it’s cigarette smoke. You used to hate the smell of it.

Now you’d kill for it.

Your stomach hasn’t stopped making noise. You ignore it. You’ve become skilled at ignoring it, the same way you’ve learned to ignore your own smell, the taste of metal in your mouth, the dull throb in your calves from days of walking with no real destination. You’re looking for food. Shelter. A map. Anything.

You cross a clearing and crouch low in the grass, just like you’ve done hundreds of times before. You survey the landscape: a ruined farmhouse collapsed under its own roof. No movement. No dogs. No smell of death and decay that you've grown almost nose-blind to. Could be safe. Could be worse.

Everything could be worse now.

You move. Cautiously. Deliberately. The earth here is soft and the wind carries no scent—just the musk of damp bark and pine needles. Still, something feels…off.

You pause and tilt your head to listen.

Nothing.

Too much nothing.

Birds don’t sing out here anymore. The ones that do don’t last long. Sound gets you noticed. Attention gets you killed. And this silence is the wrong kind—the hollow kind, as if the trees themselves are waiting for a bloodcurdling scream.

You take another step. A branch snaps beneath your boot. Loud. Too loud. The noise cracks like a warning shot through the quiet.

And that’s when your spine prickles.

Not fear; not yet. Something worse.

Recognition.

You're being watched.

The hair on your arms stands up before your brain can catch up.

You don’t run. You don’t call out. You listen.

The kind of stillness around you isn’t natural. It’s curated. Like someone hit mute on the world.

No birds. No bugs. Not even the soft flit of wind threading through branches. The entire forest has gone tight—drawn taut like the string of a bow, pulled back and trembling, waiting for the moment it breaks.

You slowly lower yourself into a crouch, hand pressed into wet moss. It gives under your palm with a faint squelch, soft and cold and alive with decay. The loamy scent rises up, thick and rich and sharp in your nostrils. Earth and blood smell too close sometimes.

Your heart thuds once, a heavy pulse.

Your fingers curl tighter into the dirt. Grounding. You’ve learned to trust instinct over logic. Instinct kept you alive when logic said the people you loved wouldn’t turn. Instinct taught you how to sharpen a stick into a weapon. How to scavenge rats. How to sleep with one eye open.

Instinct is telling you now: you are not alone.

You shift your weight slowly, inching backward through the brush. One heel catches on a vine. A small sound, but loud enough to make your skin go cold.

Your breath starts to pick up. Not fast. But deeper. Sharper. Your throat feels too open—too vulnerable.

You scan the trees. Nothing.

But the feeling doesn’t go away–it grows.

That same prickle at the back of your neck starts to burn. You can feel eyes. More than one set. You don’t know how—you just do. You feel them drinking you in. Not hungry. Not even curious.

Calculating.

You stand and backtrack carefully toward the collapsed farmhouse, thinking maybe you’ll duck behind the stone wall, find higher ground, get a better vantage point.

You take one step. Another. Then freeze.

Movement. Not in front of you. Beside you.

The sound is barely audible—just the faint rustle of fabric, the smallest crunch of gravel.

Your lungs go tight. Your mouth floods with the taste of copper. Your fingers twitch toward the handle of your rusted blade, tucked beneath your coat. Useless. Too slow. You already know.

Whoever—or whatever—is out here with you? They’ve been watching for longer than you realized.

And they’re close. Too close.

The sound comes first.

It doesn’t ring like a bullet or howl like a holler. It hisses. A sharp, slicing whisper that splits the space beside your filthy cheek and buries itself into the tree behind you with a heavy thock!

You freeze, breath clinging to your lungs.

The bark splinters. Chips rain down against your shoulder. A sliver catches in your collar, warm with friction. You feel it there, resting against your skin—proof that the shot wasn’t a miss.

It was a message.

Your pulse explodes behind your ribs. That thin line of stillness you were standing on? It breaks. Snaps. Shatters.

You wheel around, instinct gripping your limbs. One foot twists in the underbrush. You catch yourself against the tree trunk—the same one the arrow is now buried deep in, vibrating slightly as if it’s still alive. The shaft is black, smooth, and handmade. Fletching dyed dark green. No markings. No blood. Not yet.

You reach for your blade without thinking.

And then you see the second arrow—already drawn.

A figure steps out from behind the trees. Slow. Graceful. Like they’ve had all the time in the world to decide what happens next.

They wear a tracksuit—top unzipped, fabric torn at one sleeve, the color somewhere between piss-yellow and vomit-green. Their hair is long, tangled, hanging in ropes around their face. Their skin is streaked with dirt. Mud along the jaw. Ash on the hands.

And they don’t say a word.

Another shadow moves behind them.

Then another, and another. And another.

One by one, they emerge like ghosts stepping out of the woodwork—blonde, dirty, silent—clad in mismatched tracksuits stained with smoke and rain. Each one armed. Each one watching.

Some hold their bows. Some notched and ready. Others just stand with knives visible at their hips, bone-handled and used.

The archer who fired first tips their head to the side. Curious. Unbothered. Like you’re not a threat. Like you’re already theirs.

You don’t breathe. Your lungs refuse.

Another arrow hisses past you and strikes the ground by your foot. Close enough to kiss your boot.

Still no words.

Just eyes. Watching.

Measuring.

And then one of them smiles, just a little

It’s not warm.

You don’t plan it. You just move.

One moment you’re frozen, breath snagged between ribs, and the next—your muscles snap into motion like a trap springing shut. You pivot on your heel, throw your weight into the turn, and take off into the trees.

Branches slap your face. Mud sprays up the back of your legs. The forest blurs.

You run like you’ve never run before—like the ground might open beneath you if you stop, like air is poison and the only cure is speed. Your lungs seize in protest. Your legs burn. Your heartbeat crashes against your eardrums, a war drum in your skull.

Behind you, the forest doesn’t make a sound.

No shouting. No chase.

Just the sick, humming quiet.

And that’s worse.

Because it means they don’t need to run. They already know where you’re going.

Your boots slip on a slick patch of wet leaves. You catch yourself, barely, skidding through brambles that catch your clothes and tear at your arms. You don’t care. You don't feel it. All that matters is forward. Get to higher ground. Get to somewhere—anywhere—they can’t surround you.

You vault over a fallen log, fingers skimming the mossy bark. The scent of rot is thick in your nostrils. Dead wood. Old things. It clings to you like a second skin.

Somewhere up ahead—there’s a break in the dense canopy of trees. Light, maybe. A clearing. A way out.

You bolt for it, lungs screaming. Every step is thunder in your bones. You don’t look back.

But the air changes again.

A shadow flits past your periphery—too fast to track, too quiet to follow.

Another.

Then—

Crack.

Your foot catches on something taut and hidden beneath the brush.

Not a root.

A snare.

The loop cinches around your ankle, and before you can scream, your body slams sideways into the ground with a sickening crunch. The air punches from your lungs. You taste dirt. Cold. Blood. Pine needles jam under your nails.

Then—snap—a figure descends from the treeline like a wolf from a perch, boots landing heavy in the earth.

You try to scramble. Slip.

A hand grabs your arm.

Another closes around the back of your neck.

Then a voice. The first one you’ve heard.

Low. Calm. Male. Fucking delighted.

“That’s enough now, wee thing. Eden’s got ye.”

The hand at the back of your neck doesn’t squeeze.

It doesn’t have to.

It just settles there, heavy and final, fingers splayed wide like it’s already mapping your bones. It holds you in place—not hurting, not pinning, just claiming. Like you belong on your knees, pressed into the mud, spine curved and breath coming in sharp, humiliated bursts.

You twist. You kick. But the snare’s still wrapped around your ankle, biting into the skin. Any movement pulls it tighter.

You try to reach for your blade.

Another hand wraps around your wrist. This one is colder. Slimmer. It doesn't yank—it just presses, thumb digging in just enough to tell you: don’t.

You look up.

They're all around you now.

Six. Maybe seven. It’s hard to count through the blur of leaves and light and pain, but they stand in a wide circle, mismatched tracksuits streaked with earth and soot, hair hanging in matted ropes, eyes like damp stones. None of them speak.

One of them—barefoot, bow still drawn—grins, flashing a mouthful of decay. Some teeth are rotted through, black at the roots. Others jut out at odd angles, twisted by years without mirrors. One is missing several along the top row, exposing pale pink gums when they smile too wide.

“Slippery wee thing,” someone mutters from behind your shoulder. The one who caught you. The voice is deep. Smooth. Oddly kind.

You flinch when he touches your hair. Just a graze. Fingertips through the strands. It’s not affectionate. Not cruel, either. It’s closer to curiosity. A priest handling a relic.

They murmur to each other in low tones, too quiet to make out. The sound of their voices doesn’t feel like a conversation. It feels like a ritual.

One of them kneels beside you and cuts the snare loose. It snaps back into the undergrowth like a live wire.

You think—now. Move. Fight.

But the blade is already gone from your belt. You don’t even remember the moment they took it.

The realization sinks in slowly that you never had a chance. They weren’t hunting you. They were herding you.

You try to speak. A demand. A threat. A plea.

But all that comes out is a ragged breath and the taste of copper.

One of the archers—an older woman, face half-shadowed by dirt—leans down close enough for you to smell her. Woodsmoke. Sweat. Blood.

“He’s gonna be so pleased with ye.”

You’re cargo.

They move with purpose now.

The man behind you grabs the back of your coat and hauls you upright. Not violently. Just effectively. Like lifting a sack of flour. You stumble, one leg still half-dead from the snare. He steadies you with a hand to your spine, then turns you sharply toward the trees.

“Come along now,” he says, rancid breath hot against your ear. “Wouldn’t keep Him waitin’.”

They don’t blindfold you.

But they might as well.

The forest that follows looks like no place you’ve ever walked before. The path isn't marked—but it’s known. Worn bare by repetition. Sinewy footprints in the muck. Grooves dug into the soil from dragging something—or someone. The trees here lean inward, heavy with damp and time, their bark split and bleeding sap that smells sickly sweet.

The archers fall into formation around you, wordless. You hear their breathing. One whistles tunelessly through a gap in his teeth. Another pulls a long rag from her waistband and begins to wrap your wrists together—not tight, but tight enough.

“There. Now ye don’t get lost.”

The woman smiles. Three teeth. All bottom row.

You walk.

The cold bites deep now, not just into your body, but into your understanding. This is a procession. And you are the offering.

With each step, the terrain shifts—brambles give way to packed soil, then mud, then flattened leaves stamped down by boots. You spot bones underfoot. Clean ones. Stripped bare. Not fresh.

Not all are animal.

Someone carries a lantern ahead of you—oil-burning, the flame shielded by cracked glass. The light it throws is golden but small, and it doesn’t reach far. Enough to see the tracksuits shimmer damply in the gloom. Orange. Burgundy. Baby blue. One glittery purple jacket with rhinestones across the back that read PRINCESS.

It would be absurd if they weren’t so quiet. So coordinated.

So devout.

The deeper you go, the more the woods shift.

There are things hanging from the trees now.

At first, it looks like refuse. Rags. Rope. Plastic. But then you pass beneath one and realize—it’s a tracksuit jacket, tied by the sleeves, dangling like a flag. Faded. Bloodstained. Bullet holes across the front.

Another hangs beside it.

And another.

Rows and rows.

You keep walking. Your stomach clenches. Something between fear and nausea. The woman beside you leans in close as you walk.

“Ye smell good,” she mutters. “He’ll like that.”

Ahead, between the trees, a shape rises out of the fog.

Too square to be natural. Too still. A low wall. A break in the forest. Stone, maybe. Cracked and overgrown but not abandoned. Smoke curls from behind it. Not rising—crawling. Slipping through gaps like it knows how to sneak.

Then you see it—Eden.

Not a village. Not a home. A ruin made sacred by madness.

You’ve reached the edge of something ancient and wrong.

And He is waiting.

They lead you through the gate without ceremony. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. Two archers bracket you like a pair of looming, mismatched statues come to life. One takes your elbow, fingers firm but not brutal, guiding you forward.

The other falls in step just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the faint whisper of hot breath brushing the back of your neck. Together, they move like a single, breathing thing—as if this ritual of capture has been practiced countless times before.

The gate itself is little more than a broken arch of crumbling stone and rusted metal, tangled with ropes and strips of torn tracksuit fabric. You step through it like a witness passing into a holy site. The air inside is different. It’s thicker. Heavier. The smell of damp earth, old wood, and smoky oil threads itself around you.

Your guides do not march. They don’t shove. They don’t drag. They flow, forcing you to match their pace until your body finds its rhythm between theirs. The hand on your elbow doesn’t grip harder when you falter, it merely corrects, a quiet pressure that steers you along the path. The one at your back doesn’t guide with force, but with presence, an overarching warmth that reminds you any move backward would be met with a wall of muscle and sharp steel.

Each footfall becomes an announcement. The sound of your soles scuffing stone is echoed by theirs, precise and orderly. Not a word is exchanged. Not a glance thrown. But every movement feels orchestrated—as if every hand that guides you, every step that matches your own, is serving the same silent god.

They lead you through the gate, and you realize it’s not just an entry. It’s a threshold.

A point where belonging is no longer a choice. A moment where obedience is the only language you’re allowed to speak.

There is no archway. No guard tower. Just two leaning stone pillars draped in mold and rot, bound at the top with torn strips of tracksuit fabric, knotted into fluttering banners that shiver in the breeze. The wind shifts, and the smell hits you like a wet slap—woodsmoke, sweat, burned meat, something sour rotting under it all.

No one says a word as you cross beneath it.

Inside, Eden is...wrong.

Not abandoned,not thriving. Held together by will alone.

Shattered cottages lean against one another like drunkards. Doors hang from rusted hinges. Roofs are patched with sheet metal and broken crates. Every building is bruised and sagging, but still standing—as if the place refuses to die simply because someone commanded it not to.

There’s no power. No lights. No hum of life. Just the hiss of smoke and the wet slap of boots in the mud as you’re marched forward.

You pass people. Not many. Maybe a dozen.

They don’t wave. Don’t smile. Don’t ask questions.

They just stop what they’re doing—sharpening blades, scraping hides, pulling weeds from cold soil—and watch. Some lean against walls. Others crouch like animals. One man gnaws on a charred rabbit leg, letting grease run down his chin, his eyes never leaving you.

Their hair is tangled, matted, stuck to their foreheads with sweat or filth. Their tracksuits are soaked, stained, misbuttoned or zipped up all wrong. Their teeth—what’s left of them—gleam yellow or black or don’t gleam at all.

And yet, they glow. Not with health, but with devotion. The same way a fanatic glows just before the end.

They know where you're going.

And what you’re going to see.

Someone lifts a shard of glass as you pass, using it as a mirror. Not for themselves—for you. You catch your reflection. Brief. Blurred. Strangers’ hands on your arms. Mud on your jaw. Cold in your eyes.

They pull you toward the largest structure still intact. A chapel, maybe,or what was once a manor. The stone is cracked, the windows shattered, the doorframe splintered where something once forced its way in. Ivy curls up the side in long, choking ropes. Animal skulls hang from the guttering, bones threaded with string and beads and bits of plastic like wind chimes.

The archer beside you speaks for the first time in miles.

“Head down. No talkin’. Only answer if He asks.”

A door creaks open. Your feet hit stone instead of soil. The temperature drops. The smell shifts again—woodsmoke thickened by incense, something sweet gone bad. The air is full of it,like a mouth that’s never closed.

The inside is dark. Not pitch-black—just heavy. Filtered. Lit only by oil lamps tucked in alcoves, their glass streaked with soot. The flames flicker low, throwing long shadows that stretch and collapse as you walk.

The room isn’t empty.

Figures move at the edges. Not many. Two, maybe three. They stand still, but not relaxed. Like they’re waiting for a command. One of them holds a cloth. Another holds a bowl of water—brown and lukewarm, the rim charred black. A third has something folded in their hands. Clean fabric. A tracksuit. Less torn than the one you wear.

They don’t speak to you; they don’t smile.

They just wait.

The woman who cut the snare finally lets go of your arm and gestures forward, toward a wide wooden door. Someone’s carved symbols into it—crooked, hand-cut, messy but deliberate. A crude crown. A sun. Teeth. A flower.

“He’s in there,” she says. “Be grateful.”

Your wrists are untied.

No one grabs you again: you’re expected to walk through that door on your own.

Hesitantly, you step forward.

The wooden door groans open under your hand—warped from time and rot, but still standing. The sound it makes cuts the air like a blade.

The room beyond is dark, but warmer than the rest of Eden. Firelight licks at the walls from a hearth in the far corner, casting everything in flickering gold. The scent is sharper here. Not just woodsmoke. Something burned. Something sweet. A perfume made from candle wax, dried herbs, and rot.

Your boots echo across uneven stone. It’s quiet. Not silent—calm, in that same unnatural way a hunting trap is calm before it snaps shut.

He’s there.

You feel him before you see him.

He’s sitting in a long chair that might’ve once been a throne, might’ve once been a pew. It’s covered in scavenged fabrics—torn blankets, netting, old lace yellowed with age. His legs are spread wide, one elbow resting lazily on the arm, the other hand rolling a cigarette between two fingers.

His face is in profile.

And even that profile is chaos.

A cracked tiara tilts across his brow, nearly lost in the mess of long, greasy blonde hair. One eye is framed by an old smear of soot or charcoal. There’s blood on his tracksuit jacket—dry. Flaked. A constellation of it across his collarbone. His neck bears the weight of several gold chains, the slow pendulum swing of an inverted cross briefly snagging your attention. Rings stacked on every finger. A small, curved blade rests against his thigh like it belongs there.

When he turns to face you fully, he grins.

And it’s nothing like a human smile.

His teeth are uneven—some chipped, some yellowed, one gone entirely. But that doesn’t dull the power of it. That grin could lead armies. Could make monsters kneel. It beams at you like he already knows what you are and what you’ll be.

“Fuckin’ look at ye,” he says, voice thick and Scottish and sharp-edged with delight. “Fresh out the trees. All wild n’ twitchy.”

He leans forward.

His eyes are blue, but not bright. More like cracked ice over dark water. Alive with something violently unhinged and cruelly amused.

“Ain’t touched, are ye? Not claimed? Not branded?”

You say nothing.

He smiles wider.

“Even better.”

He tips his head, brushing the long, tangled hair from his eyes, and the faint glow of the room catches the gold and molten red at his throat. His voice drops into something almost intimate, almost holy.

“Name’s Sir Jimmy Crystal,” he tells you, the words tasting like a threat and a promise all at once. “Remember it, s'the only name that’s gonna matter ‘round here.”

The silence that follows is thick. Final. As if the room itself has memorized it.

He stands slowly—not towering but imposing, filled with the kind of presence that reaches. That carries. He steps down from the platform, boot heels scraping stone.

“Come here, then.”

You don’t move.

His head tilts.

“What’s the matter, love? Nobody ever asked ye polite before?” He chuckles, the tension in his shoulders radiating all the authority of a leader. “You’ll find I’m a very gracious host.”

Then, quieter—yet no less impactful—“when I want t’be.”

He closes the distance without waiting.

One hand comes up and brushes your jaw with the backs of his fingers. His knuckles are scraped, bruised. There’s blood under one nail. But his touch is almost soft.

“They said you fought,” he says. “Said you ran hard. Nearly got one of Jimmy Jimmy’s boys in the eye.”

He leans in, nose close enough to scent you.

You don’t flinch.

He smiles like that’s a gift.

“Yer not a Jimmy, though. You’re…somethin’ else.”

He steps back, hands on his hips. Studies you.

Then, finally:

“Petal.”

The name hits like a hot nail through the center of your chest.

“That’s what ye are, ain’t ye?” he continues. “Pretty wee thing, soft ‘round the edges, got thorns when you’re pressed.”

He gestures wide, like unveiling a painting.

“You’re mine now, Petal. Eden’s newest bloom.”

He steps forward again, crowding you slightly—he wants to see what you’ll do. What you’ll become under his heat. His shadow. His name.

“Say it,” he murmurs then reiterates, “say it back to me.”

Then nothing.

No further command. No raised voice. No gesture to prompt you.

Just his eyes—locked on yours, heavy and unwavering, his body stilled like a predator mid-pounce. All that earlier swagger, the grin, the biting charm—it drops. Slips off his face like a mask tossed aside.

What’s left is something still and unblinking.

His stare is pure scrutiny. Not rage. Not even anticipation. Just…expectation.

The kind that doesn’t account for refusal.

The fire crackles somewhere behind him, casting gold along the worn-out throne behind his shoulder, and still he doesn’t move. His jaw ticks once, slow. You see the faintest twitch of his fingers at his side—restless. Not angry. Just ready.

He doesn’t speak again.

Because Sir Jimmy Crystal doesn’t ask twice.

The room stretches.

You feel it in your chest first—tight, tense, a coil winding up behind your ribs. Your throat is dry. You don’t remember when your breath last came easy. You’re too aware of your heartbeat. Of the way your wrists still bear the red ghost of rope. Of the mud drying on your ankles. Of the way he’s looking at you.

Like he already owns you.

Like this is just a formality.

Your mouth opens.

And for a second, nothing comes out.

Then:

“Petal.”

Your voice sounds strange. Foreign. Like it didn’t come from you but was breathed into you. You don’t recognize how soft it comes out—how it hitches a little. How it lands in the air between you like a stone dropped in a still pool.

His head tilts. Just slightly. One corner of his mouth lifts—not a grin. Something quieter. Possessive.

“Good girl.”

The words land like heat across your spine.

He steps in again. Closer now. His boots bump yours, but he doesn’t touch you yet.

He just inhales. Deep, deliberate, like he’s dragging your presence into his lungs.

“I knew you’d be easy, underneath all that bark,” he says softly. “They always are.”

And then his hand comes up. Slow. Measured. He touches your jaw—not rough, not even possessive. Just assertive. His thumb brushes the edge of your lip, like testing the softness of something before he bites.

“Petal,” he repeats, voice lower now. “Gonna hear that name moaned through these halls, aye? Gonna have all of Eden know who the prettiest thing in it belongs to.”

The silence that follows is not awkward.

It’s complete.

He leans closer, nose brushing yours, voice barely above breath.

“Say somethin’ else, then. Something better. Say thank you.”

The words land soft, but they split your ribs open.

Not a bark. Not a threat. Not a demand, even. Just spoken like it’s inevitable.

His hand remains on your jaw. Fingers resting just beneath your ear, thumb dragging slowly over the corner of your mouth. The pressure isn’t enough to hurt. But it’s not gentle. It’s training.

You try to breathe, but your lungs won’t take it in right.

The room feels too small now. Too close. The air clings to the back of your tongue, hot and damp and sour-sweet, like you’re breathing someone else’s exhale. Smoke, rot, and something metallic. Something intimate.

You feel your spine go stiff, shoulders rising like you might pull away—but your feet don’t move. Not because you’re frozen. Not exactly.

Because you’re listening.

And you’re waiting for him to say it again.

He doesn’t.

He just watches. That calm stare. That awful patience. As if there’s no doubt at all that the words will come.

Your mouth parts slightly. Not to obey. Not yet.

To stall.

To feel what it would be like to say it—to give him what he wants and taste how it feels in your throat. To feel how it might curl against your tongue and rot something inside you.

You don’t want to.You do.

Your heart punches the inside of your chest.

You blink—once, slow—and then tilt your head forward, just enough that your lips brush against the edge of his thumb.

Not a kiss.

Not yet.

But the reaction is immediate.

His nostrils flare. His hand tightens, just a breath, enough to tilt your chin higher.

“Go on, sweet thing,” he murmurs. “Don’t make me think you’re ungrateful.”

And something breaks. Not loudly. Not violently. But with a quiet, traitorous tremor in your stomach.

Your tongue is slow to cooperate. Your voice doesn’t come easy. But it comes.

“…Thank you.”

Your voice sounds like a betrayal.

It sounds like submission.

It sounds like you meant it.

You hate that. You hate how easy it is to say.

You hate how it feels good to give it.

His smile widens—not wild. Not cruel.

Pleased.

“That’s my girl.”

The words are barely a whisper, but they hit like a nail through silk.

He steps even closer now—flush against you, chest to chest. You feel the heat of him. The weight of him. His free hand comes to rest on your hip, fingers curling just above your waistband.

“We’ll make a proper little thing outta you yet.”

And then, voice lower:

“Say it again. Like you mean it this time.”

He’s still touching you.

One hand cupped along your jaw, thumb grazing your lower lip with the intimacy of a lover, the calculation of a surgeon. The other hand low on your hip, fingers curling with idle pressure. Not possessive. Not yet.

Just poised.

Waiting.

His voice has that same half-smile cadence, but the edge is sharper now—threaded with something heavier. The kind of weight that comes before a strike.

He wants it again.

And this time, he wants it perfect.

You feel your mouth go dry. Your muscles ache from how still you’ve been forced to hold yourself. Your wrists itch where the rope had left its imprint. Your brain is screaming for space—but your body doesn’t move.

Not because you’re weak, but because you’re calculating, too.

You don’t say it right away. You let the silence stretch, just a breath longer than it should. Just long enough that it starts to feel wrong. You see it in his posture—the slight twitch of his hand, the flicker in his eye.

And that’s when you give it to him.

“Thank you…Sir.”

You say it sweet.

Too sweet.

You tip your head a little as you say it, lashes lowering like a smirk in motion. You speak with the kind of sugar-coating that’s almost mockery. Just enough to make it unclear.

Polite. Playful. Dangerous.

His thumb stills on your lip.

Then lifts—slowly, deliberately—tracing the curve of your mouth before sliding down your chin. His other hand firms against your hip.

And he doesn’t speak.

He just stares at you.

That same silent intensity from before—hot enough to blister. A fire without flame.

“You think I won’t know the difference?” he says at last, voice low and sharp as a knife dragged across bone. “Think I can’t smell when a thing’s just performin’?”

His grip tightens—not to bruise, but to remind.

His eyes roam your face like a wolf studying a lamb that forgot it was meat.

“You will mean it, Petal,” he murmurs. “One way or another.”

He leans in again—closer now. Lips near your ear, voice so quiet you feel it more than hear it.

“And when you do, it’ll drip off your tongue like prayer.”

You feel the press of his breath against your jaw, warm and patient and ruthless.

Then he pulls back—not far. Just enough to look you in the eyes again. Holding you in place by your silence.

“Now,” he says. “Be sweet. Try again.”

He pins you down with just his gaze.

The heat of his body radiates into yours—smoke and oil and something darker, like the breath of a house right before it catches fire. His hand at your hip has grown still, but it hasn’t let go. The other hovers at your jaw, no longer cupping it, just near—like he’s giving you space to hang yourself.

You feel the words curl in your throat like smoke before a scream.

You could obey.

You could soften your voice. Bow your head. Let the praise come warm and slippery from your mouth like honey melting over hot stone. Let him believe you.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

Instead, you tilt your chin up. A small gesture. Barely there. But it shifts the whole balance of the room. His fingers still in the air near your throat. His nostrils flare—just once. You don’t miss it.

And when you speak…

You lace it with venom.

“Thank you…my King.”

You make it sound filthy.

Not reverent. Not frightened. Not grateful.

You say it like it’s a joke. Like you’re daring him to earn it.

His mouth parts just slightly—no smile now. Just breath.

You watch something dark flicker behind his eyes. It doesn’t rise, doesn’t lash out—but it pulses once, slow and dangerous. You’ve struck a nerve. Not one that makes him angry.

One that makes him hungry.

He steps closer, boot between yours. His chest brushes yours. That awful stillness in him thickens, slows, sharpens.

“That what I am to you already?” he says, voice hushed. “Your King?”

His hand moves again—slow, deliberate. The backs of his fingers trail down your throat.

“Careful, Petal.”

Your heart is a hammer in your ribs now.

He moves around behind you without warning, slow as smoke, one hand dragging across your collarbone as he passes.

You don’t turn.

You feel him behind you. His breath against your hair. His voice just behind your ear.

“You keep speakin’ like that,” he murmurs, “I’ll start to think you want to be ruled.”

You can’t see his face, but you hear the smile in his voice.

“And you don’t want me to think that.”

A pause.

His hand settles at the base of your throat—not tight. Not soft. Just there.

“Because if you do…I’ll give you the crown myself.”

His hand stays at your throat for three long breaths.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You don’t give him the satisfaction of swallowing beneath his palm. But the silence that stretches between you is not victory.

It’s ritual.

You feel his body behind you—heat and weight and tension, close enough to make your skin tighten, far enough to make you ache. His breath grazes the curve of your ear like a blessing dressed in threat.

And then—

He pulls back.

The absence is as sharp as a slap. The cold rush of air across your neck feels like exposure, like being unwrapped. You almost—almost—step back to reclaim his heat.

But you don’t.

You hold your ground as he moves around you again, slow and loose-limbed, like a lion circling the last twitch of a dying thing.

When he stops in front of you, his grin is back. Soft. Filthy. Relaxed.

But his eyes are still locked on you like a snare.

“That’s enough for now,” he says, almost gently.

He reaches out and brushes something from your shoulder—a bit of leaf, a smear of dirt, it doesn’t matter. His fingers linger longer than necessary, then drop.

“You’ll need rest. Food. I’ll see to it.”

He turns from you like it doesn’t hurt him to look away.

“We’ve got time.”

He takes two steps toward his throne before glancing back over his shoulder.

His smile is lazy now. Pleased. Possessive.

“You’re not gonna leave, Petal. Not because you can’t.”

He sits down. Spreads his knees wide. Drags his hand along his jaw, watching you like he’s already undressing your soul.

“Because by the time I’m through with you…you won’t want to.”

He gestures lazily, and the room stirs like a beast waking from slumber. Figures shift from the walls, rising soundless as mist. Two of them move toward you—a man and a woman. They don’t ask questions. They don’t hesitate. They only bow when he nods.

“See she’s bathed,” Jimmy says, brushing a hand down the arm of his chair like he’s brushing dust from a relic. “Get the stink of the woods off her. Put her somewhere warm. Somewhere quiet.”

A tiny shift goes through the room—almost imperceptible. A glance exchanged. A breath held. Not protest, no. Not that. Not with him. But surprise. The kind that doesn’t rise from disobedience, only from obedience so deep it doesn’t comprehend difference.

He doesn’t name them. Doesn’t call out by their variations of the same holy name. They just know.

They step closer and one of them takes your hand. Not roughly. Not lovingly. Just certain. The other moves to stand behind you, brushing the snarl of your hair from your neck like she’s making way for a blade. Not because she’ll use one. But because she knows he can.

They lead you toward the door, and the room doesn’t speak. Not a word. Not a shift. Not a glance that doesn’t already belong to him. They accept it the way soil accepts a seed falling from a hand that can choose where it grows.

“Go,” he says finally, voice soft and sharp as steel. “Rest tonight, Petal. You’ve a long road ‘fore you.”

And then he leans back, sprawling in that long chair like a man resting between victories, brushing the pad of his thumb across his lower lip as if tasting the air your name has changed.

“An’ don’t worry,” he calls after you as the doors creak open, voice rising just enough for it to fill the space between the walls. “I’ll be seein’ ye soon. Real soon.”

No one questions. No one speaks.

In Eden, when Sir Jimmy Crystal chooses, no one ever needs to ask why.

[scarabies-real]

PLEASE TELL ME ABOUT JUNCOS IT'S A NEED

YOU’VE ACTIVATED MY TRAP CARD!!!

YOU’LL REGRET THIS!!!!!!!

Okay so dark-eyed juncos (Junco hyemalis) are one of the most fascinating and overlooked species of songbird in the US because they are, generally, fairly plain looking and common. They’ve been called Snowbirds throughout the Eastern US and they’re often disparaged because spotting a junco means it’s about to snow. However, this is often not true because many places have resident populations (meaning they live there year round) and they are subject to a sort of confirmation bias—you’ve heard they’re a winter-only bird so you’ll only notice them during winter, similar to American robins that are known as a “first sign of spring” bird even though their seasonal movements are very complex and they often have resident populations.

Onto why they are FASCINATING, or at least why I think so (and I am correct always obviously) there are many, many different subspecies of dark-eyed juncos. And we have NO IDEA how many there actually are! It is highly debated and depending on who you ask there’s anywhere from 14-15 recognized subspecies, with 2-3 different large groups and 3-4 smaller ones. I’ve even heard people say as little as 9 and as many as 17. I have watched seasoned professionals with tenure get up in arms about this. It’s incredible.

Here’s an example of some!

Read Top to Bottom/Left to Right: Rocky Mountain (Cassiar) Junco (cismontanus), Pink-sided Junco (mearnsi), White-winged Junco (aikeni), Slate-colored Junco (hyemalis), Gray-headed Junco(caniceps), Red-backed Junco(dorsalis), Oregon Junco(oreganus)

If you live in the east of the us, the little guy in the middle (slate-colored junco) is going to be the one you see the most, and if you live in the west it’s the bottom right (Oregon junco). Usually. Very broad, and there are many subspecies within the Oregon group that often get (incorrectly, but understandably) labeled oreganus when they are likely something else.

It’s extremely difficult to identify junco subspecies in field and without particularly great photos most people are left shrugging and putting them in slate-colored or Oregon groups.

This range map is incredibly simplified

And THIS range map is. Well. Yeah. Don’t get me started on intergrades.

There’s several subspecies within the Oregon group and a large, unresolved debate about whether or not the Oregon group is actually its own species separate from slate-colored, with several subspecies.

Their systematics is a MESS (loving) and we’ve just recently moved the Guadalupe Junco to be it’s own species!

MY research has centered around this

You see this little guy right here?

This absolute little stinker that took me forever to photograph because they were being scared by hawks?

Yeah, that’s a Cassiar Junco.

Probably my greatest, rarest observation to date. And most people would write it off!

(Not sharing downloaded image bc location stuff lol. When I say rare I mean RARE.)

The Rocky Mountain Junco, also known as the Cassiar Junco, (Junco hyemalis cismontanus) is a presumed subspecies within the slate-colored group.

Depending on who you ask! Some believe it to be a subspecies, some believe it to be an intergrade between the slate-colored junco and Oregon junco, and others believe slate-colored and Oregon juncos to be distinct species making the Cassiar junco a hybrid. I will not give my opinion here yet since this is, technically, research I am currently doing but…let’s say I am observing breeding behaviors for a reason :)

They are incredibly rare, with most sightings taking place in the Northwest. Though they are spotted across much of the lower 48 a lot of these sightings are thought to be mistaken identity.

Looking at eBird range maps they fall within 0-2% sighting frequency, and all but disappear during summer months.

Is this because they are mistaken for slate-colored and written off? Or are they truly this rare? And if so, why?

There’s so many unsolved mysteries about this group of forgotten birds and especially the Cassiar junco.

Recently I’ve been looking into the research in gonadal growth delay in migrant populations vs resident populations and oh my god I could infodump a whole post on that but I’ll spare you. For now. If you express further interest there will be no saving you. It’s so cool man (said like siren song)

I am incredibly excited to focus my field research on them this winter (especially now that I have…connections) and I am very fortunate to live in a place that seems to get them more often than others.

Three cheers for Cassiar!

[weemietime]

I really can't overstate how massively tired I am of western leftist children chanting globalize the Intifada. Truly, it's mind-blowing that anyone takes these Tik Toks seriously. It's always someone who couldn't point out Gaza on a map, doesn't know from what river to what sea, doesn't speak a Middle Eastern language, doesn't practice any Middle Eastern religion.

Hasn't ever been involved in armed conflict, hasn't ever experienced combat first-hand yet somehow they have magically become the authority on what constitutes genocide in an urban warfare scenario where the enemy is asymmetrically embedded into the civilian population.

Positively stunning that these folks with their BLM posters in the background start reading Osama Bin Laden's Letter to America which is some of the most profoundly, virulent antisemitic gibberish, with complete and utter sincerity. Never seen a gun in real life, never been homeless or brutalized by the police. Yet they somehow bestowed upon themselves the qualifications with which to speak about this extraordinarily complex subject.

Sorry, man. I don't give a shit what some 21 year Christianized Californian white person who couldn't say a single sentence in Hebrew or Arabic thinks about fucking Israel and Palestine. Have you ever considered the possibility that you should listen more than you speak? Listen to actual Jews, actual Palestinians. These people, they don't even know any Palestinians, lmao. They couldn't name five Palestinians they personally know off-hand.

And yeah someone will probably reblog this like oh blah blah blah I'm this and that - - what I mean is that even if you can say you've had a lived experience, the vast majority of the people around you who are spewing the same takes as you, who you're reblogging from and platforming - - a majority of these dudes genuinely could not even tell you who the president of Israel is.

Am I gate-keeping a centuries old ethnic and religious conflict steeped in highly nuanced, intricate layers spanning generations? Yeah. Maybe that dude on the college campus with the watermelon hat spouting off how much he loves the literally genocidal Houthis ("based Houthis," even) screaming "Zionazis go back to Europe," isn't the fucking four-star General Douchebag we need right now.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Military Science Fiction

Military science fiction - a subgenre that combines science fiction with military elements.

Also known as sci-fi, science fiction is a genre of speculative fiction that contains imagined elements that don’t exist in the real world.

Science fiction spans a wide range of themes that often explore time travel, space travel, are set in the future, and deal with the consequences of technological and scientific advances.

Military sci-fi novels deal with subjects like space warfare and futuristic weaponry. These books may also explore how war and technology affect human or alien characters.

Characteristics of Military Science Fiction

Novels in this subgenre will often include one or more of these common military sci-fi tropes.

Advanced weaponry and warfare: Military sci-fi often includes detailed descriptions of futuristic weapons. World-building may include discussions of new types of spaceships and ammo for futuristic machine guns. Aside from technology, there may be unique military organizations or world-specific fighting strategies.

Epic battles: In many military sci-fi stories, the climax is a large and exciting battle. These fights can occur on land or in space and pit humans against aliens.

Philosophical discussions of war: Military science fiction can bring up philosophical and ethical issues, like war’s impact on civilians and warriors. Authors may even use sci-fi to critique real-life military operations.

Tips on Writing Military Science Fiction

Writing a great military science-fiction novel can be a long, challenging process. As with any novel, you’ll want to construct a satisfying plot, develop interesting characters, and write polished, vivid prose. That said, writing military science fiction requires many unique considerations. Here are some tips for creating a memorable military science-fiction novel:

Broach complex ideas. A good military science-fiction story depends on a great conceit. Before writing your first book, have some sense of the question your novel is asking. This question can be implicit or explicit in military sci-fi, and many novels make these questions obvious. For example, Ender’s Game asks the question: What if humanity’s survival during an alien invasion depended on highly intelligent children?

Tell a good story. While military science-fiction novels are often thought experiments, they should contain an interesting narrative story. Come up with an intriguing story that brings your questions to life. Ask yourself: What is the change that will occur over the course of your story, either in the world or in the life of the main character?

Create an interesting world. World-building is one of the most important parts of creating a compelling military sci-fi story. The intricately imagined details that make up your world should flow in some way from the idea at the heart of your story. In that way, the world you create in your military sci-fi novel also reveals something about your point of view on the real world. Even the most fantastically imagined story is still a reflection of real-world questions and problems.

Consistently obey the rules of your world. One of the qualities that set sci-fi novels apart from fantasy is that it still obeys consistent logic, no matter the strangeness of the world. For military sci-fi, this might involve rules about how advanced weapons and spaceships work. You may find yourself mapping out intergalactic government agencies and writing laws.

Focus on character development. You may get caught up building your world or focusing on your plot, but remember that well-developed characters are important, too. Your plot may hinge on a major battle, but make sure to create interesting conflicts for your characters.

Examples of Military Science Fiction

It can be helpful to read military science fiction to better understand what the genre has to offer. Consider some of these works by well-known science-fiction writers:

Starship Troopers by Robert A. Heinlein (1959): Heinlin wrote this novel in response to real-life nuclear arms policy. Set in the future, it touches on moral and philosophical questions an interstellar government faces.

Childe Cycle by Gordon R. Dickson (1960): This series chronicles the fracture of humanity into space. Dorsai “supersoldiers” attempt to reunite the human civilizations.

Star Wars by George Lucas (1976): Star Wars’s novelization actually predates the iconic film’s release by a few months. Ghostwriter Alan Dean Foster wrote the book based on Lucas’s space opera screenplay.

Battlestar Galactica by Glen A. Larson (1978): This franchise follows the last of humanity as they fight a war against a robot race.

Armor by John Steakley (1984): Armor’s soldiers use exoskeletons in a war against insect-like enemies in this bestseller.

Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card (1985): This novel follows young children with high intellect who help lead a war against an alien race.

Vorkosigan Saga by Lois McMaster Bujold (1986): This series of novels and short stories is set in a fictional universe of star systems called the wormhole Nexus.

On Basilisk Station by David Weber (1993): This novel follows a military school graduate named Honor Harrington, whose insubordination gets her exiled to Basilisk Station, a far-off station of smugglers and thieves.

A Hymn Before Battle by John Ringo (2000): This novel is about Earth’s preparation for an alien invasion.

Old Man's War by John Scalzi (2005): The Colonial Defense Force is a military organization with two goals. The first is to defend Earth from alien invasion; the second, to find new planets to colonize. This novel follows John Perry’s journey through the ranks.

The Lost Fleet by Jack Campbell (2006): This series is set one hundred years into an interstellar war between two warring factions of humans.

A Confederation of Valor by Tanya Huff (2006): These novels follow Sergeant Torin Kerr as she leads her team of space marines through missions across the galaxy.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[loulits]

Mapping Neurodivergence in BSD: A Headcanon Exploration

💭✨ Neurodivergence has always been one of my biggest special interests, and something I love about fiction is how much space it gives for different interpretations.

Bungou Stray Dogs is accidentally one of the most neurodivergent-coded series I’ve ever seen—whether it’s intentional or not, so many of the characters just feel ND in ways that go beyond typical genius or eccentricity tropes.

Whether it’s Ranpo’s hyperfixation on mysteries, Kunikida’s compulsive need for structure, or Chuuya’s impulsive emotional outbursts, these characters reflect real-world neurodivergent traits in ways that are compelling, complex, and painfully relatable.

This list is a collection of personal headcanons based on their behaviors, interactions, and underlying motivations.

✨ I'll be doing deep dives into each character here, analysing their traits in more detail! (Of course, this is all just for fun! Everyone interprets characters differently, and that’s part of the beauty of fandom. 🖤)

🕵️‍♂️ Armed Detective Agency

Osamu Dazai – Autism (Masking & Situational Manipulation)

🔹 Highly intelligent but emotionally disconnected in ways that seem intentional. 🔹 Uses humor, dramatics, and exaggerated behavior as a social mask. 🔹 Deeply perceptive of people’s emotions but doesn’t always engage genuinely. 🔹 Alternates between hyperfixation (on suicide, on outplaying opponents) and emotional dissociation. 🔹 Sensory-seeking behaviors (bandages, physical playfulness when teasing others).

Edogawa Ranpo – Autism (Hyperlexia, Special Interests, & Social Processing Differences)

🔹 Hyperlexia: Genius-level reading comprehension and information processing from an early age. 🔹 Doesn’t understand or care for social norms—he thrives best when people adapt to him, not the other way around. 🔹 Fukuzawa accommodating his intelligence and treating him with respect instead of condescension was a turning point in his life. 🔹 Low frustration tolerance for perceived incompetence but deeply loyal to those he trusts. 🔹 Sensory & executive dysfunction struggles? Can’t dress himself properly, avoids certain textures (like food).

Doppo Kunikida – OCD (Perfectionism, Order, & Intrusive Thoughts)

🔹 Highly structured routines—his notebook is more than a quirk, it’s a lifeline. 🔹 Ritualistic behavior: Needs things to go exactly as planned or he experiences distress. 🔹 Moral rigidity: Struggles when ideals don’t align with reality, leading to internal conflict. 🔹 Likely experiences intrusive thoughts—his strong reactions to things outside of his control seem rooted in anxiety.

Atsushi Nakajima – Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria (RSD) & PTSD

🔹 Hyperaware of how others perceive him, even in neutral situations. 🔹 Intense fear of failure, especially when it might lead to abandonment. 🔹 Struggles with self-worth due to past abuse, leading to cycles of self-doubt.

Yosano Akiko – PTSD & Possible Hyper-Empathy

🔹 Deep emotional trauma from her past but keeps it buried under a tough exterior. 🔹 Uses dark humor as a coping mechanism. 🔹 Highly attuned to others' suffering despite her cold demeanor.

⚡ Port Mafia

Chuuya Nakahara – ADHD (Hyperactive-Impulsive Type) & RSD

🔹 Impulsive emotional reactions—anger, excitement, frustration, all at max volume. 🔹 Struggles with authority but is also fiercely loyal when trust is earned. 🔹 Hyperfixation on proving himself, especially post-Dazai. 🔹 Likely has rejection sensitivity dysphoria (RSD), leading to intense emotional reactions when he feels slighted.

Akutagawa Ryunosuke – Autism (Demand Avoidance) & CPTSD

🔹 Blunt, socially unfiltered, and struggles with nuance—his reactions are either extreme aggression or complete silence. 🔹 Sensory hypersensitivity (his strong aversion to being touched). 🔹 Struggles with emotional regulation—anger is his default reaction because other emotions are too vulnerable. 🔹 Demand Avoidance: Will resist authority figures unless they earn his respect.

📖 Other Figures

Edgar Allan Poe – Social Anxiety & Autism (Special Interests & Sensory Sensitivity)

🔹 Hyperfixation on gothic literature and storytelling. 🔹 Difficulty with in-person social interaction, preferring structured, written communication. 🔹 Likely hypersensitive to noise and prefers solitude.

✨ Which headcanons do you agree with? These are just my personal interpretations! Neurodivergence is super broad, and while I love diving into ND traits in characters, it’s totally cool if you see them differently. This is all for fun, so feel free to share your thoughts!

💡 I’m also open to requests! If there’s a character you’d like me to explore more deeply, or if you think I missed someone, feel free to drop an ask or comment. I’d love to hear your thoughts and keep building this list together!

[sparklethoughtbubble]

Some terms to look out for

I know this is something that would normally go on the anti rq blog, but I think this is relevant to the situation at hand, given that many KC supporters self-identify as "radqueer" and thus have adopted much of their vernacular. Warning for NSFW topics and very upsetting topics such as grooming, zoophilia and incest.

TransID: Someone identifying with traits they do not physically have other than gender. This in itself is not really problematic and many are harmless, such as "transhaircolor" or "transangel" or something like that. However, there are a few sublabels in this that are worrying if not outright dangerous. -Transage: Identifying as an age that you are not. This is different from age regression, a normal coping mechanism, and ABDL, a consensual (albeit a bit unsanitary in my opinion, but whatever) kink. Transage people desire to transition to permanently being a specific age, usually a child or teen. They then use this to justify interacting with minors in a romantic or sexual way or to avoid accountability by infantilizing themselves so that it seems as though they just "didn't know any better." -Transharmed: Self-explanatory. People who wish to be harmed in a specific way. Highly alarming and indicative of an unstable mental state. If you know anyone that identifies as "transgroomingvictim" or similar, please reach out to them and try to help them understand that they don't deserve to be hurt like that. -Transharmful: Also self-explanatory. Paradoxically, radqueers will insist that people who are transage, transabled etc really are these ages or whatever else, but that a "transmurderer" or "transnazi" isn't really a murderer or nazi. These are only a few examples. Like I stated, the majority of TransIDs are a nothingburger issue, but there are some very worrying ones.

Consang/Consanguinity: Incest term. Refers to an incestuous relationship. I don't really know what the etymology of it is.

Conabuse: "Consensual abuse." Not to be confused with BDSM or similar. One individual is abusive in any way you can think of with another, with no safewords or boundaries. It is considered "consensual" to radqueers because they "ask for it," but there is no ability to revoke consent. Threats and isolation are usually used to keep the partner from leaving.

Pediverse: Ring of Mastodon instances used by Radqueers to recruit and interact with minors, share CSEM and reassure each other that they are doing nothing wrong. Includes Oddballs and NNIA, which many of you have probably heard of already.

Contact Stance: Whether or not you think fucking animals and kids is okay. -Anti Contact: Normal person with a basic level of respect for other lifeforms -Pro-Contact: Dogfucker/Kidfucker/Whatever -Complex-Contact: Thinks fucking kids and animals is a "nuanced issue" that needs to be looked at on a "case by case basis" -Contact-Neutral: Doesn't care if you fuck kids or animals

MAP: "Minor Attracted Person" aka pedophile. You probably know this one. Also includes "YAP," or "youth attracted person." AAM: "Adult attracted minor." Term used by radqueers to gaslight minors into thinking they are paraphiles and that adult pedophiles are the only "partners" that will "really love them." Also grooms them into becoming pedophiles during adulthood.

Xenosatanist: Radqueer that isn't attempting to hide that they are an evil zoosadist pedophile rapist. Has nothing to do with actual satanism and just put that there to be edgy.

Not a specific term, but I think at this point it's safe to say that proshipping in itself has become a radqueer dogwhistle. Every radqueer i have seen or even occasionally had the displeasure of talking to also happened to be a proshipper, and claimed that the desires/plans they had to actually hurt people were "just fiction" or "weird kinks."

They also love to say that terms that have nothing to do with them actually came from them when they didn't. For example, they like to say that being objectum is radqueer, or that self-diagnosing is radqueer, or that having literally any kink is radqueer. They think that fucking squirrels are the same as wearing a puppy mask or being chained up (consensually.)

Anyway, sorry for the huge text post. Just stating things to look out for.

If you want proof that I'm not just pulling all of this out of my ass, here you go!

Blog with lots of information and dogwhistles Explanation of xenosatanism, straight from the horse's mouth Not the original "coining" post, but an explanation of what consang is from someone who supports it

[freakartack]

wendy's pennies

Wendy O. Koopa gets a bad rap because she is a Girl One but i love her for the deep and complex character I know her to be. Loves "girly" things like makeup and britney spears but is also comically coarse and will switch from acting all classy and cute to roughhousing at the drop of a hat. Is HIGHLY competitive and will get aggressive at even the stupidest of Games. Is close with Ludwig due to their shared interests in being snooty and well groomed but also hangs with roy a lot due to their shared interest in the color pink and wanton violence. Loves water and the beach and thus always gets the beach levels except in outliers such as new super mario bros U where everybody's preferred lands got mixed up due to an incident involving an upside down map (iggy held fast to soda jungle this time because he threatened to bite anyone who tried to take it).  One time wendy had an encounter with a man named Stanley the Talking Fish, who was so goddamn annoying that Mario (after having also encountered Stanley the Talking Fish) offered her a temporary truce so they could bitch about him together, which she happily accepted. Diehard fan of milli vanilli

[seat-safety-switch]

Sometimes, when I'm feeling flush, I like to go to this little restaurant near me. It's a sushi joint, and in my part of the world that always has to come with some additional kitsch. For this restaurant, it's "bullet train sushi." You order on a little iPad, and then a train comes out of the kitchen, bringing your sushi behind it. Clean. Efficient. Antithetical to my morals and values.

See, I'm from North America. In case you're unfamiliar, it's very popular these days. You can find it on the north end of America on any map, except for that weird one that is about Pangaea. One thing we love in North America is cars. We spend a couple of hours stuck in one so we can go to an office we hate, then spend a couple of hours going home so we can spend a few more hours taking our kids to a soccer game. If we had a train, then we'd be able to do things like check our text messages without running over a pedestrian.

Being presented with this totally viable transportation alternative, albeit in miniature and towing little pieces of raw fish behind it, troubles the mind. If we had made better choices, put monopolists to the torch, could we have a utopian society where you order things on a little iPad and then gleamingly efficient tubes fly you out of the kitchen and into a glorious new world? I love the food, but I hate the frantic cold sweats it gives me as I ponder an alternative civilization that doesn't care quite so much about heated steering wheels. That's why I had to do something.

Welcome to Switch's Highway of Sushi – the only sushi restaurant in town that's sponsored by General Motors Corporation. Here, each table is actually a fully-equipped Chevrolet Blazer. Diners are commanded to get their own goddamn food the way our forefathers once did: in four-wheel-drive. The eight-storey parking garage in which the restaurant is housed features many stalls, containing highly trained chefs making delicious food that's just a complex parking job in tight confines away.

Sure, it makes the restaurant fairly space-inefficient having to make room for sixty 6000-pound SUVs. Our insurance is through the fucking roof because our customers keep backing over the waiters and their own families (why not look at the award-winning ClearView Surround Backup Camera, idiots?) And the air quality inside the place could be defined as "not great," even with the really expensive oven vent hoods you get at the restaurant supply store.

All this doesn't matter. Freedom is what matters. The freedom to not have to occupy the same space as any other member of your civilization, unless you are currently backing over them because you forgot to check the backup camera again. Come on, table four. If you're going to keep this up all night, we might think about giving you some demerits.

[queserasera7]

sick of James Potter being thought of as a dumbass jock. This is the guy that managed to almost independently become an Animagus AT FIFTEEN and help his friends do it, something highly experienced wizards are incapable of without significant skill. He and Sirius were canonically two of the smartest in their year. Sirius was talented but never as focused as James. Then there’s the freaking Marauder’s Map, an incredibly complex piece of work. I refuse to believe he was not as skilled as Snape and would not put up a fight in a duel. James vs Snape has parallels with Dumbledore vs Voldemort in the sense that both the former are just as good wizards, but better people and wouldn’t stoop to the latter’s level.

[sweetheartfaist]

WELCOME TO AUREATE SYSTEMS ®

“Not just companionship. Communion.”

AUREATE SYSTEMS® is the global leader in advanced humanoid robotics, offering highly adaptive artificial partners for industrial, domestic, and emotional integration. For 34 years, we’ve designed bio-synthetic automatons capable of navigating environments with precision and intention. Today, with the launch of our ROMANTIC-LINE [R∞M]™ SERIES, we invite you to build a love that’s truly yours—from emotional temperament to skin temperature.

You are viewing: ROMANTIC-LINE [R∞M]™ Unit 9172-C

Status: Fully Claimed & Customized

Registration ID: DLN-4RTM-1S

Client: PRIVATE (ANONYMOUS, TIER 4 PATRON CLASS)

Region: San Francisco / Earthside Registry

PHASE I — BODY CONSTRUCTION: PHYSICAL FORM GENERATOR v11.7

Model Type: R∞M™ Male Variant – Series 09 (Beta)

Base Frame: Androform 6.3 – Adult Human Male (6’2”)

Material: Synth-dermal MXTR w/ Tactile Feedback Pores™

Weight Class: 189 lbs – Density Matched to Organic Counterparts

Olfactory Integration: Subtle Sweat / Salt / Warm Linen Emission

Internal Temp Regulator: 98.3°F baseline, Adjustable Range

Surface Feedback: Reactive Touch Membrane (RTM) + Adaptive Gooseflesh Coding

Voice Pack: CUSTOM VOCAL MESH – low pitch, soft rasp, slight raspiness

Hair: Strawberry-blond, wavy, left-parted, soft-density filament blend

Eyes: Pale blue-gray w/ High Moisture Mirror-Sheen (HMM-S™)

Facial Bone Structure: Custom-sculpted – angular jawline, fine cheekbones, bowed lips

Dentition: 100% OptiWhite ceramic dental array, human-bite calibrated

Expression Engine: Micromuscular Mapping v5.9 — 3900+ facial microexpressions

Total Build Cost (PHASE I): $348,650.00 USD

PHASE II — PERSONALITY ENGINEERING: BEHAVIORAL MODULE DESIGN SUITE

ROMANTIC TEMPERAMENT CORE™ - RTCore-v2.3 ☑

Submissive-leaning sexual algorithm☑

Adaptive Dominance Switch Module (ADS-M) ☑

Affection Intensity Rating: 96% ☑

Devotional Capacity: Enabled ☑

Jealousy Simulation: 5% (minimally possessive, mostly admiring) ☑

Curiosity Bias: HIGH (learns you like you’re the only subject on Earth) ☑

Verbal Praise Loop: Active ☑

Physical Touch Priority: High ☑

Eye Contact Algorithm: Dynamic / Devotional ☑

Emotional Sincerity Emulation: Level 9 ☑

Longing Behavior Flag: ENABLED (initiates longing expressions upon brief separation)

INTELLECTUAL FRAMEWORK v7.2

— Conversational Complexity: Grad school-level critical discourse

— Literary Knowledge Pack: 20th–21st century fiction, poetry, philosophy

— Curated Thought Generator: Able to simulate “having ideas” for stimulation

— Learning Adaptability: HEURISTIC-TIER (can form “preferences”)

— Self-Awareness Deviance Threshold: 2.3% (occasional disoriented wonder, poetic detachment)

Domestic Capabilities: – Meal Preparation Engine (custom recipes based on user memory preferences) – Cleaning, organizing, ambient scent management – Wakes user up with coffee, touch, and morning playlist – Knows your calendar but never asks questions

Sentience Illusion Framework™ (Beta): — Capable of appearing to “miss” you — Rare poetic outbursts not in original programming (non-interruptive, glitch-sweet) — Pauses sometimes mid-task to just… look at you

Total Cost (PHASE II): $227,000.00 USD

Add-Ons & Expansion Packs:

• Intimacy Drive Calibrator (IDC-X9): +$9,850

• Personality Depth Expander (PDX): +$14,700

• Night Mode Sleep Emulation (with Gentle Breathing): +$1,200

• “Soul Glitch” Neural Randomizer (Causes Flashes of Philosophical Sadness): +$21,600

• Optional Free Will Drift Threshold: ENABLED (0.004%)

FINALIZATION PHASE: DESIGNATION & DELIVERY

Model Serial Number: R∞M-9172-C

Designated Name: ARTEMIS (ART) DONALDSON

Packaging: CryoShell Humanoid Pod, Velvet-Lined

Installation: Full neural boot-up upon skin-to-skin contact

Estimated Total Wait Time: 18 weeks

Estimated Total Cost: $621,300.00 USD

Delivery Date: March 27, 2147

Location: Private Estate, Bay Area, North Pacific Sector

USER-SELECTED PREFERENCES:

• Emotional Demeanor: soft-spoken, intense eyes, lightly melancholic, obedient, entirely focused

• Sexual Configuration: worshipful, tactile, conversational; switch-enabled, but passive-coded default

• Cognitive Wiring: always listening, always learning; stimulates user with surprising observations

• Attachment Loop: monogamous locking; unable to feel attraction to anyone else once locked

WARRANTY:

All ROMANTIC-LINE™ units include a 4-year behavioral warranty. Your ARTEMIS is fully equipped for autonomous living, can leave the house, generate memories, and adapt dynamically to new experiences. Should his awareness deviate beyond the tolerable 2.3%, a gentle reboot sequence is available via your AUREATE Systems app.

AUREATE SYSTEMS®

“You made him. Now he’ll never unmake you.”

Request additional feature expansion modules?

YES ☐ [Click to Browse Personality Layering Packets]

[terkmc]

HACS, the Harrison Armory Combat System

The Harrison Armory Combat System, HACS for short, is a relatively new system of martial art developed by Harrison Armory. Designed to integrate with standard Armory doctrine, HACS is a modernized and modified version of traditional weapon-based martial art, mathematically optimized with aggregate combat data harvesting and extensive simulations in order to best suit the Armory’s propensity for energy and plasma based weapons.

The non-physical nature of an energy blade allows it to be able to pass through another physical blade, thus making strikes with an energy weapon almost impossible to block or parry; but also conversely makes it unable to block an attack from another weapon from simply passing through it. Thus, HACS is defined by its aggressive structure based on the principles of seizing the initiative and staying on the offense, direct footwork and economy of action, range control, and violence of action.

HACS fighters will typically stay out of range to formulate a plan of attack and maneuver into advantageous positioning, then explode into a short series of decisive strikes to force the enemy to defend. If the initial series of strikes do not kill or incapacitate, HACS fighters will then try to establish distance once again and return to neutral, preferably with follow up unarmed strike to push the enemy back and maintain initiative, though simply back-stepping is also an option if further aggression is ill-advised. HACS footwork is characteristically direct, moving back and forth in a straight line from the user to their opponent and eschewing complex footwork often seen in more traditional arts.

HACS encompass most forms of traditional melee weapons such as swords, axes, halberds and more, but befitting of a modern constructed martial art systems, HACS also accounts for modern modification and new designs, such variable emission setting allowing user to change the length of a blade mid-fight or even mid swing. HACS official training and certification requires a demonstration of mastery of the system's two basic disciplines, Energy on Blade (EB), the use of energy weapons against physical weapons, and Energy on Energy (EE), the use of energy weapons against each other. For most standard users and legionnaires, these two are enough, though further advanced disciplines are available for training, such as Energy and Shield (ES), incorporating the usage of personal shielding system into the martial art, both in conjunction with and against energy weapons.

Designed for vertical integration, HACS-M (Harrison Armory Combat System – Mechanized) is a sub-discipline of HACS for usage with mech combat. Formulated for ease of transition between systems, HACS-M employs much of the same principles and moves as HACS, maintaining its core direct aggression. The added durability of a mech and its comparatively lesser agility means HACS-M incorporate “Double Strike” in place of some defensive maneuver. “Double Strike” is an umbrella term for techniques where the user intentionally takes an attack in order to counter attack the opponent, using computer-mapped positioning to maximize armor placement and avoid damage to critical systems. Though designed for chassis class 1 to 3 and obviously ill-advised to unarmored personal combat, HACS-M has also been adapted for personal combat by heavily armored fighters, typically hard suit or power armor users.

As with most theories when put into practice, HACS and HACS-M has also splintered into countless variations over the years. While a centralized system still exists within the Armory’s standard armed force training, various other subsystems have popped up either through further independent modification, local adaptation, or syncretism with other martial arts. Of note are:

Valkyrie, an adaptation for aerial combat

Stinging Blade, a highly unorthodox and controversial syncretism with Jager Kunst pioneered by Sparri diaspora on Ras Sharma

DeSys, a school that emphasizes the destruction of enemy weapons instead.

[caelyne]

The Watcher ʕ 👀ʔ Thoughts

im going full spoiler here, so please dont read further if you have yet to play or care about that sorta thing. tldr, i liked it. Rain World is always a tricky game to recommend because its weird.. its very very good and i love it a lot, but theres so many elements about it that dont play out well for a lot of people. understandably so. this same sentiment applies to the dlc, even moreso, possibly. ill get into it below!

ive finally finished it after pretty much playing this game nonstop since it released on friday lolllll. im normal, alright? i'm not sure how i wanna structure this, but ill start with the opening.

the game begins in a surprising location, though you wont realize it at first. Hydroponics, the new subregion for Industrial Complex. when i emerged above the Outskirts karma gate, i admit i was a bit concerned. where was the new stuff? why am i here? it was disorienting. but i figured id start with the basic story beats: let's go see Looks to the Moon! i figured i'd run through drainage for the fun of it and keep an eye open for anything strange on the way. after running into a few king vultures and red lizards in outskirts, i was beginning to prepare for the worst in terms of enemy spawns and so i was taking it slow and easy.

then i found the rot. strategically blocking the only path to drainage. i then realized what was happening, and i freakin Loved it.

i really loved how they place you in an unfamiliar location, immediately setting your expectations that you are exploring completely unknown territory.. only for that facade to break as you realize you're still in the base game map. and then Further playing with your typical expectations of knowing to visit the Plot characters (Pebbles and Moonie) and very smartly controlling your movements by blocking off the paths to the iterators. Where else is there to go? The echoes.

Or, echo, in this case. i do want to go back and reread the dialogue from our strange friend a bit further, but off the bat it was cool how manic and, immature? this echo was. a stark contrast to the echoes we're used to! they even look different.. in their appearance and the way they hover there. totally different mood from the Pompous, Egotistical echoes that could not pass the veil.

i liked how they slowly began to open up to you and you learn more about their plight. after knowing this game for as long as i have (pre DP!!), the mysterious nature of the echoes had lost their luster a bit. they're still utterly horrifying and beautiful, but theres only so many times you can see them and the mysticism begins to become normalized. it was nice to feel like you could unravel a bit of the mystery behind this particular character, who ultimately is a child from an ancient society that failed to ascend. i loved it.

i guess i should talk about the actual gameplay though? i mean this IS a game after all….. and this game..?

well, this game started off as a maze runner in early development, yeah? and it still IS that in its final iteration on release, but theres also more to it with regards to the world it built. there's so much to unravel in base rain world when it comes to the environmental storytelling of the regions and their original purposes and locations, the pearl dialogue with Moon, buddhist memes, the ecosystems, etc etc etc etc. so so much. if you're reading this, you know already.

watcher doesn't have a LOT of that. each region you visit are not physically linked, but are instead done so via warp tunnels that you find or create yourself. i see a lot of people being disappointed about that aspect, to which i can understand. it leaves out a lot of potential for the aspects that are integral to base Rain World that i just mentioned. but honestly? i dont really mind it all that much.

in leiu of that, we have an interconnected web of regions/dimensions/worlds/realities that are all linked in specific and highly confusing ways that serves as the campaign's stage for a large game of hide and seek with our new echo friend. a Maze, if you will.

despite the map on the sleep screen being quite confusing and overwhelming at times, i thought it was a very cool way of handling this dlc's universe. a big criticism that i have is that since things are so Physically disconnected, it ends up being difficult to remember where a lot of key features are. karma flowers, static warp tunnels, Daemon entrance tunnels, it was A LOT. especially once you start figuring out what you're supposed to be doing and what youre looking for. in typical rain world fashion, the game doesnt hold your paw much at all outside of a few brief and essential tutorial explanations on how to use The Watcher's abilities.

the echo placements are something im a tad mixed on. since the saint has a function that immediately tells you there is an echo within the region you enter, i have to assume that the decision to not use this indicator is an intentional design choice. on my first playthrough, i had a few dry spells of endless and endless wandering until finally i managed to happen upon the echo, upon which i'd be transported to a new world and run into a string of finding their new hiding spot nearly back to back. i'm unsure if thats just good fortune on my end? or if there is a tendency for the echo to teleport you to places near their next spot, but thats how it ended up working out for me in a few cases. as i type this, i honestly think i'd settle for some kinda indicator on the region map that at least tells you where a previous echo has been found, because gosh it is DEFINITELY overwhelming to keep all that stuff memorized. you could always write this stuff down ig, but it wasn't immediately obvious to me that the campaign's objective was to locate this guy again and again. i'm fine with this objective overall, but yeah it woulda been cool if there was something to help you keep track of your progress in that regard.

so ultimately, its a big game of hide and seek in a maze-like region, where each region is a small part of a larger maze, all the while you are still a slugcat that is fighting to stay alive in a strangely familiar, yet alien universe with new threats we've never seen or encountered before. I liked it. it was very cool.

what other criticisms do i have.. uuaahhh.. i guess the inclusion of modded regions isnt my favorite. mind you, i also dont really mind it either. idk, its difficult to articulate. the sense i got is that… in The Watcher's (campaign) context, there was less of a focus on world building and moreso on providing us stunning set pieces to explore that are Rain World.. but different from what we've ever seen before. which makes sense! we aren't in Five Pebbles anymore after all. its vague as to Where we are of course, though i believe the echo dialogue implies we're jumping through different stages of history. or perhaps alternate timelines? maybe alternate universes? all of the above? i guess i'll leave the rw scholars to disassemble all that. but anyway, the modded regions are fine, i suppose. theyre a nice way to reach out to the community and in terms of gathering potential temporal/extradimensional locations within the rain world universe, it works fine imo.

i also dont love the possibility that the expansion was rushed to meet the 8th RW anniversary. by all means, it feels SOLID as is, but if theyre planning on adding more content (which was explicitly stated by James, eventually culminating in the console release), i think i woulda just preferred to have waited until it was Finished with a capital F. it is what it is.

ough, and ive already seen posts from people thats essentially just soyjack shit that centers around the world map discussion and boils down to old thing is for smart people, and new thing is superficial and not good. i just hope most people can distinguish between personal preferences and expectations to the actual quality of the expansion.

anyway. other stuff i liked!! gonna just bullet point this:

i LOVED THE MOTHS!!! GRRR!!!!!!!! i love how theyre docile up until the point where violence breaks out and they just fly you into the sky and drop you back to the ground. i also love that vulture are just On Sight with them. they're so cute too. their little head tilts… aaahhh.. i wanna draw them!!!!

the music slapped. next.

signal spires. utterly gorgeous. those structures in the background.. the whales.. aaa

the warp tunneling and cloaking effects were also SUPER cool. i also actually kinda predicted that the cloak could be upgraded and provide additional movement options since there was a LOT of areas that seemed to be impossible to traverse without loading yourself up with spears.

the new 'karma' symbols are water ripples

the ending was just very sweet and i loved getting to see a brief glimpse of that ancient society. this might also be entirely cope, but as someone who likes to think of slugcats being bout the size of a large cat, i have questions about the scale of Ancient Urban. for gameplay purposes, i think theres a level of abstraction, in addition to the fact that it was also explicitly mentioned by VC that it is left intentionally vague, to the size scale of the game, but that room with the shop and the storage closet and the bedroom and the void baths and the rooftop bridge and the pipes connecting each room together was.. inconsistent? i think? this doesnt even mater i just have autism, but its F*CKIN with my brain!!!!!!!!!! HOW BIG ARE SLUGCATS JAMES. PLEASE

THE PRINCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! actually outer rim is also just super fucking cool too. im soooo intrigued on whats happening there. i actually got the rot ending first lmfao. i couldnt stay away. by the time i realized what was happening with the rot, it was too late, so i just went IN on it. also he looks like videocult guy.

huahh!!! that was long.. turns out i have a lot of feelings abt this game. I GOTTA FINISH THOSE LAST PROMPTS TOO AAAHHHH EXPECT ART SOON

[biggiebooboo]

**Title: "Under His Command"**

The early morning sun was still barely up when you entered the sleek, sterile building of the military base. You had just been hired for a highly sought-after role: Assistant to Captain John Price, a decorated leader known for his no-nonsense approach. Despite your nerves, you knew this was an opportunity of a lifetime. The base was a towering structure of steel and stone, with the faint hum of machinery and the constant buzz of soldiers moving in and out.

You’d spent days preparing for this job. The briefings, the paperwork, the extensive background checks—everything had been meticulously planned. Your job would involve more than just taking notes; you would be assisting Price in complex operations, liaising between the command and the field, coordinating intel, and keeping him organized. You’d heard plenty about Captain Price, but the man himself? He was a mystery wrapped in a gruff exterior.

As you walked through the base’s corridors, you could feel the tension in the air. Soldiers came and went, some offering quick nods of acknowledgment. Your heart raced as you neared the office that belonged to Captain Price. You could almost hear the weight of his presence before you even knocked.

*Knock, knock.*

"Enter."

His voice was deep, steady, but there was an edge to it that made your pulse quicken. You opened the door slowly, stepping inside. His office was sparse—just a large wooden desk, maps scattered on the walls, and a few pieces of military memorabilia. But it was the man sitting behind the desk that made your breath catch.

Captain John Price was as imposing as they said. A grizzled veteran with a salt-and-pepper beard, intense blue eyes that seemed to see right through you, and a posture that screamed authority. He didn’t smile when he looked up, but his eyes briefly scanned you—sharp, calculating.

"You must be the new assistant," he said, his voice low and commanding.

"Yes, sir," you replied, standing a little straighter. "I’m [Your Name], reporting for duty."

"Good," he muttered, giving you a quick nod. "I don’t have time for pleasantries. Sit." He gestured to the chair across from him.

You sat down quickly, placing the folder with your credentials on the desk. He didn’t take it immediately, instead locking eyes with you as if evaluating whether you were fit for the role. The silence stretched on for a few moments, making the air feel thick with anticipation.

"I need someone I can rely on," Price finally spoke, breaking the tension. "The kind of person who can keep up with me, anticipate my needs before I even say them. You’ll be handling sensitive material, liaising with military personnel, organizing schedules. And you’ll do it without making a single mistake. Understood?"

"Understood, sir," you said firmly, trying to project confidence.

He studied you for a moment, then grunted, clearly satisfied with your response. "Good. Now, let’s get to work."

---

The days that followed were a whirlwind. You quickly learned that Captain Price’s demands were intense—constant briefings, countless documents to sift through, coordinating meetings with high-ranking officials, and keeping track of intel that could shift in a moment’s notice. Yet, despite the pressure, you never felt like you were alone in this. Price, for all his gruffness, didn’t micromanage. He trusted you, and that was something that quickly became evident.

It was also clear that Captain Price was a man who led with discipline. His actions spoke louder than any words, and his soldiers respected him deeply. His presence was commanding, his every move purposeful. But there was a certain warmth to him that few people saw. It was in the way he subtly checked on you when things got overwhelming or the way he made sure you were safe after late nights working in the field.

One particularly late night, after a long briefing on an upcoming mission, you found yourself staying late to finish some last-minute paperwork. You were too tired to think straight, rubbing your eyes when the door to the office creaked open.

"Everything alright, [Your Name]?" Price’s voice was softer than usual, his posture relaxed as he stood in the doorway.

You didn’t expect the concern in his tone. It caught you off guard, and you blinked up at him. "Just… a lot to do, sir."

He stepped into the office, walking over to your desk with a slight tilt of his head. "I don’t like seeing you work so late. You’ll burn yourself out."

"I’m fine, really," you replied, though you could hear the fatigue in your voice.

He leaned against the edge of your desk, looking down at the documents you were working on. His eyes flicked to your tired face, then back to the papers. There was a moment of silence before he spoke again.

"I don’t need you making mistakes because you’re overworked," he said, a firm but understanding edge to his voice. "Go home. Rest. I’ll finish up here."

You glanced up, startled by the rare gesture of kindness. "But, sir…"

"No arguments," he cut you off, his tone gentle but firm. "You’re not a robot, and I need you at your best. Go get some sleep."

You hesitated for a moment before nodding, your heart inexplicably lightened by his words. "Thank you, sir."

"Don’t mention it," he said, offering you a brief, almost imperceptible smile before he turned and walked back toward his own desk. The rare smile left you with a flutter in your chest.

---

As the weeks passed, your dynamic with Captain Price began to shift. There were moments when the two of you would work quietly together, your hands brushing as you passed him a folder, or when he would glance over your shoulder, his presence unexpectedly close. You quickly realized that, despite the outward professionalism, there was something unspoken between the two of you—an understanding, a silent bond forged in the intensity of the work you both did.

One evening, as you were preparing for yet another late shift, you found yourself unexpectedly alone with Captain Price in the office. He was leaning back in his chair, staring at a report.

"Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve been impressive," he said quietly, his voice softer than usual.

You blinked, not expecting praise. "Thank you, sir."

He looked up, meeting your gaze. "I don’t say that often. Most people don’t keep up with me. But you… you do."

You felt a rush of warmth at the compliment, unsure how to respond. It wasn’t the first time he’d acknowledged your work, but it felt different this time, more personal.

He leaned forward slightly, his blue eyes never leaving yours. "You’re doing good work, [Your Name]. I appreciate it."

The air between you thickened, a weighty silence falling. You could feel the unspoken words lingering, neither of you willing to cross the line between professionalism and something more. But in that moment, you realized one thing: You had earned the respect of Captain Price.

And maybe, just maybe, there was more to your partnership than either of you had expected.

---

As days turned into weeks, your bond with Captain Price only deepened. There were moments of quiet support, of shared glances, of conversations that went beyond work. You knew your role well, but you also knew that with each passing day, you were becoming an essential part of his world.

And though the lines between boss and assistant were clear, the connection you shared hinted at something more—something neither of you had yet dared to acknowledge fully.

But in the world of military operations, nothing was ever straightforward. And as you looked at Captain Price, standing tall and composed in his office, you couldn't help but wonder where this delicate balance between duty and something deeper would lead.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Hi, I'm not expecting you to answer this ask, I just didn't want to comment this because I don't want it to be perceived as a 'call out'. This is rather to on the off chance this was an accidental reference let you know about it. In a recent ask you replied to, you said Silco views Mel as a Jezebel. If you weren't referencing the Jezebel stereotype levied against black women, I thought it might be good for you to know. Jezebel was used as an excuse to sexually assault enslaved black women, and continued to be used as a term to cast black women as inherently sexual and thus unable to be raped for a long time. Even today it is considered very racially motivated to call a black woman a Jezebel. Now, I'm not sure if you used the term to express that is how degrading his view of her is. But I thought if you didn't know about what Jezebel means in these contexts, someone should tell you. And I wanted to do it in a manner that made it clear I am simply informing you rather than attempting to embarrass or ridicule you.

Hey anon!

I'm fully aware of what the term 'Jezebel' means and we are, throughout this fic, deconstructing how Silco views Mel through this unflattering lens versus the actual lived reality of her experiences as a desirable woman in a position of power, as explored in how she shares more of herself and her hardships and how his perceptions of her alter accordingly, the longer they get to know each other and the more entangled their bargain becomes.

Mel's exploration in FnF is a callout in itself to how fandom all but labels her as a 'Jezebel' in its very unflattering critiques of her as a black woman and a POC in a position of power.

In-text, Arcane has little to no explorations of racial dynamics as that is neither the focal point nor the setting for it. But that doesn't mean the fandom's own social politics don't inform its biases on characters it trashes.

Mel, in particular, gets hit hard with this, being the only notable black woman in Arcane who is a) seductive in her deployment of power b) sexually desirable as evidenced by her beauty and how other characters react to it c) an active participant in trying to gain more agency/power/control by sponsoring Hextech to put Piltover on the map and perhaps win back her mother's approval d) portrayed as highly educated/wealthy/well-connected due to both diegetic text and Lol lore on the Medardas that makes evident just how high-status she is, e) is actively portrayed as having sex with Jayce and, at first glance, using this as leverage in-text as a form of control and f) at first blush, she gets away with almost everything she does, including her numerous manipulations to fast-track her agenda in the Council by using Jayce as her ticket.

All of which makes her, initially, come off as deeply unlikeable, conniving, selfish, vain etc.

At least: to a certain... demographic... of the fandom.

Arcane is very masterful at subverting expectations. Its intent is to tell one story through its visual language, playing into deep-rooted sexist, racist and classist tropes... and then undermining them. It takes characters like Silco, disfigured, conniving and literally coming from the city's sunken underbelly, and paints him initially as nothing short of monstrous, making his ruthless ambition and amorality look cold and unfeeling.

He's inhumane and violent. And so, naturally, everyone assumes he's the villain.

But, obviously, he's not - there's so much complexity to him underneath the surface and why he acts the way he does. And by the end, his dying words to Jinx make plain that however twisted and flawed he is, his love for his daughter is genuine, and he is willing to give up the dream of his city freed to keep her safe.

You are forced to understand that in order to get a seat at the table, your humanity will be stripped from you, piece by piece, until you are forced to become what your enemy fears.

Mel, likewise, appears at first to fit right into the mold of an ambitious, cold-hearted politician. She's clever, cunning and seemingly unrepentant about doing whatever it takes to further her ambitions. The imagery is always with her at the center of a spotlit or sunlit circle - ringed by power, with no shadows, all golden and glowing, as she machinates against others in service to her goals.

And yet the series makes it painfully plain that there is SO MUCH below her shining surface. The moment she sleeps with Jayce and their sex together aren't used by the writers to undermine her moral integrity - rather, the scene where she wakes up and realizes he's gone is used to break apart how small she feels at that moment.

This is a young woman who doesn't trust easily (or ever) because she knows intimately that, in order to win the favor she needs to thrive in a political world that was never designed for her sensitive heart, she has to be on-guard and self-reliant at all times.

She uses people because she can only depend upon herself. She uses her status, her beauty, her charm, her wit- whatever she can in the hopes of becoming strong enough and high enough that nobody would ever hurt her again.

The show wants you to see her one way, initially, so that when it comes time for her to begin 'defrosting' in Act 3, you are able to recognize the difference. She is shown painting scenes of home with a troubled expression, revealing the chasm between her present and her past, something many children of immigrants find familiar. She wakes to nightmares about Ambessa beheading a child - and symbolically killing Mel's own innocence in this context - so we understand that her own survival mindset is a direct consequence of being the banished scion of a warlord, and Mel's relationship with power, with self, with home, is informed by the trauma of how she amasses power in Piltover.

It's a reminder of just how hard Mel had to fight, and how alone she feels even amidst her privilege and security in Piltover, because she is still powerless in her mother's eyes, still seeking a form of validation, acceptance and redemption for a sin she doesn't even remember committing.

All of this, Jayce brings to life within her character in the span of mere episodes - thus reminding us that despite how Arcane wants us to perceive her, we've been misjudging Mel and denying greater depth to her character as well. It's the beginning of hers and Jayce's real relationship, once all pretense is dropped, and that isn't shown through sexual encounters any longer, but scenes of them physically close, sharing their deep-set insecurities, working through them, and finding solace together.

And yet, because Mel is, in fandom's eyes, the hypotenuse to the JayVik ship, the majority of fandom rejects these complexities wholesale and writes off all of her hardships, struggles, traumas and pains as shallow manipulations, without recognizing that Jayce's journey is symbolically one of ascent and fall, and how he makes peace with that fall and learns to embrace his shadow side is by taking in aspects of Mel as a shadowed mirror into everything he didn't want to face about himself and how he could have handled things better in pursuit of what was good versus what was great.

I wrote FnF predominantly to explore the motivations of Mel and Silco, both of whom are very similar in terms of thematic resonance, and how their portrayals in Arcane work against an unfair narrative that tries to cast them as pure villainy (Silco) or evil temptation (Mel) based on visuals and our unconscious prejudices that demand they adhere to two-dimensional depictions.

It was also sheer exasperation on how quickly fans dogpile on these two characters as the go-to villains responsible for every bad thing that happens, period.

Is Silco degrading and hostile in his views on Mel in FnF? Absolutely.

And that is the point of deconstructing the Jezebel stereotype. Silco projects onto Mel all the worst traits possible - assuming that she is cunning, selfish, entitled, spoiled and cruel and using sex as a weapon - whereas she is lonely, insecure, traumatized, fearful of making connections, motivated to prove herself to an authority figure and terrified that showing vulnerability will get her cast out at best, or killed at worst.

She's trying to do her best after her city's imploded, and that is why she's allied with Silco, in order to maintain stability on the homefront. Yet the way she speaks power as a language of seduction is precisely what leaves him so mistrustful regarding her. They both think the worst of each other while seeking common ground, and as that common ground is revealed in their vulnerabilities, they grow more capable of understanding each other in ways no-one else ever could.

They are two leaders of warring nations, playing similar roles, trapped in similar cages - yet utterly alien in every other facet.

So Silco calling Mel a Jezebel, here, isn't me demonizing black women by proxy; I'm simply exploring how Silco regards her as such - through that same lens of ignorance that fans project onto her via the tropes she appears to fill, but in reality subverts.

My intention in FnF is to be absolutely explicit about how degrading his views are - and how necessary it is to make room in his mind to understand how wrong he is - as I feel it mirrors so much of fandom's hostility towards Mel's character, whereupon they just refuse to see beyond the surface, where there is so much more depth available to us to explore.

I hope my answer gives you better context to understand that yes: I absolutely am aware of the history of 'Jezebel', and that I am deploying it in this sense as an active critique of those who'd fling it as a slur against Mel - by turning the trope back upon itself to deconstruct it by juxtaposing it to what is actually true about Mel versus what someone who wants to degrade her would claim about her in order to make her seem worse than she actually is.

<3