#liminal spaces give me a lot of feelings

[catdemontraphouse]

Whenever I read stuff abt Twin Peaks people bring up scenes like Bob crawling on the furniture being scary but for me, the only scene that made me feel genuine fear was when the monkey said Judy.

[coffee-and-tea-time]

HEAR ME OUT: A LIMINAL SPACE BUT YANDERE

…we seem to have drifted from our original plans with this account-

I call dibs on the dilf then

No, back off, he's mine🤺

Word count: 1.6k (the very first long post) (subtle brag)

TW: hinted yandere behavior but soft since it's the introduction, monster/non-human, written in you/yours, don't expect it to make much sense it's a liminal space that we created with things that came along the way and a bit of the backrooms wiki, human! reader is confused but interested (willing? Mostly confused)

“ugh… What time is it?”

You go grab your phone, annoyed that your stomach managed to wake you up. Maybe you really do need to eat something before trying to go back to sleep, though it's too comfy being in the warmth of the blankets…  still, a loud grumble from your belly ruined your plans, with no other option left, you sight and reluctantly got out of bed with your phone in hand, however, as you were making your way to go to the kitchen, you heard the distinctive ping of your phone's notifications which made you turn around to see… you have your phone in hand, why is there a replica of your phone on your bed?

You get closer, thinking it's surely something else and your eyes deceived you because of the dim lighting, when you grab that second ‘phone’ you got even more confused, is a perfect replica of your own, you even compared them both side to side wondering if you finally went insane but you didn’t get enough time to question your sanity as you start to feel extremely dizzy, like everything around you is spinning around so damn fast you can't even tell if you were the one moving or see properly at all, you close your eyes in hopes that it will prevent you from getting nauseous.

"Why is feeling so fucking chilly?"

You said in a shiver as you feel yourself fall, this time you know you are really moving, why? Because your face hits the snowy ground… Snowy ground? 

You move yourself a little too fast for a person that just kissed the ground with so much force, all you can see around you is softly falling snow through what looks like a residential street. 

The night sky a little too black, there were no lights that you could clearly see from just a swift look around, no stars, and… no clouds, the sky was pitch black, yet the houses were illuminated with a slight glow from moonlight even as the moon was nowhere in sight. 

The place was eerie to say the least, the overwhelming quietness of it all almost a warning of danger. There were no sounds of people, no distant murmurs of far away conversation, no barks from pets, no chirping of shivering birds.

This place is nothing like any place you've ever been in but it still gives you a nostalgic feeling. 

What can you do to return to your home? 

You start walking, maybe you should knock on a house with the lights on? It can be dangerous but there aren't a lot of options, one thing is sure, when you return home, you're gonna go to the hospital for a check-up, mental or physical? You aren't sure yet.

You thoughts were stopped when you catch a silhouette not so far away, seems the darkness makes it hard to see properly, but it's seems like the shadow of a little girl making a snowman, the sight relieves you somewhat and you decide to approach, asking the little girl is far more secure that knocking on randoms doors.

"Excuse me, little miss! It seems like I got lost, is there an adult with you that can tell me which street this is?"

You said out loud, it seems like the little one hears you when she tilts her head a little and moves her arms around cutely, the girl seems eager for you to come closer although you can't really tell if she is looking at you or not, it's odd, even as you get closer, you still see a shadow more than a child.

And then, you feel a soft and cold touch on top of your head, the faint snowing plus the silence makes you feel like you could hear as the soft snowflakes fell around you, like your sense of hearing heightened from the sheer lack of any other sounds. 

That being said, you couldn't help but jump when the loud sound of the door opening abruptly met your ears and even more when you hear like somebody is running behind you, you quickly look back but all you can see is snow and darkness. 

You return your gaze to the child, and got even more taken aback to find a shadow shaped like a abnormally tall man with horns sticking out of the dark smoke that seems to shape his 'hair' in front of you, and in the blink of an eye, you were picked up by 'him', he ran faster that you ever thought was possible, before you can even breathe, you already were inside of a house still in the man's arms, his hands under your armpits cupping you up like a soggy cat.

You try not to panic, as you let your eyes inspect the place, only one thing is sure: if it is dangerous, it is better not to test his patience, horror movies taught you better than that.

You feel something really cold hugging your leg, you gaze slowly going downwards only to find what you think is the little girl you saw earlier… seems like your eyes didn’t trick you before, it is in fact, a silhouette, a pitch black outline of a child.

What in the world is going on?

Well, at least they seem to understand you, the little one let go of your leg and gestured, trying to explaining you everything with charades, you would find it very lovable and adorable in any other occasion; your focus on the kid quickly interrupted by the man's hold of you shifting, his hands coiling around you and pressing you to his chest in what felt like a hug, your feet don't even touch the ground, you can feel thought your pajamas the cold emanating from his.. body? Well, unlike his gastly looking hair, the rest of his body did feel more solid, seems like even shadows can have a sleeper build… 

Wait, what?

Before you can think of anything else, your stomach growls, right, you were about to fetch yourself some food before you ended up here, though, their reaction to the grumble of your stomach amused you, how the tiny blank eyes of the little girl widened, them both freezing in a second of shock before the man ran again with you in his arms.

You can sense the toddler running after you two as the man runs into what seems like a rather luxurious kitchen, your bare feet finally meet the rather warm floor again although you still don't have time to relax as the shadow man tries to hurriedly feed you a spoonful of baking powder.

“I’m sorry but I can’t eat that…”

You anxiously try to explain why you can’t just eat baking powder, hoping he didn’t take it the wrong way and lucky for you, he seems more concerned than anything, his.. mouth? twitches making more of a weary expression, at least you think so as he hurried to open all of the cabinets and even the fridge, letting you look through everything to search for something you could actually eat.

You sense a gentle tug on your pajama's shirt, when you look down, you were met with the little girl shyly offering you a fruit that you can actually eat, so you gladly accept it, you can’t help but find the shadow duo cute as they start cheering between themselves, seemingly celebrating that they found something that you can eat, you kind of want to take a photo but well, you don’t have your phone and probably if you had it, you would be calling for help rather than recording cute moments.

You start to relax on the chair as you eat, the adrenaline slowly wearing off of your body and with that comes the pain, right, you slammed on the ground a few minutes ago, you feel your body between a state of numbness and pain, you can't help but to winche because of that, which make the duo approach you again quickly.

“Sorry, i-is nothing, I just… need some sleep”

You come up with a quick excuse, even though they are weirdly kind and seems harmless, just in case, it's better to avoid mentioning any injury or damage since you still don't 100% trust how they'd react, you trust the outside even less though. Your mind plays back to that running you heard behind you before the shadowy man took you away, the memory still sending shivers down your spine. To escape from them without proper knowledge of how things work here sounds dumb.

As you were lost in thought, the tall man scooped you up once again, this time his cold touch felt gentler than before, you start to wonder if he sees you as a cat of some sort but there is no use in asking since these creatures don't seem like they know how to speak.

He walked you upstairs into what seemed like the master bedroom and gently tucked you into the bed with a soft pat on your head, you start to sense that these shadows love being affectionate, a little touchy feely; Maybe is the contrast of his cold body with your warmer human body, you can’t really blame him, the smoke that he has for hair seems really soft to the touch too…

For better or for worse, he stood up straight again and start checking the lock on the windows, making sure they were well covered, only opening the door to invite the child in, who quickly layed besides you handing you a little book, a bedtime story, with a smile, You find endearing the fact they so eagerly want to hear a story, but a chill runs to your spine when you hear the tall man locking the door and then laying down on the other side of the bed beside you.

The night ends up peacefully although the exhaustion wins over your sense of self preservation, you slowly drifting off to sleep after reading the story to the little girl.

sorry for any misspellings or weird sentence structure ❣

images from pinterest

[sailorrhansol]

ok ok requesting a treat for all of us, honestly

sleep demon seungcheol. extra sprinkling of nasty if possible. i want you to out-zaddy you know who.

>:) ok smooch smooch have fun!!!! I LOVE HALIWEEEEEN

❀ Pairing: Incubus!Choi Seungcheol x afab reader

❀ Summary: You can’t seem to sleep, but the strange man in the bar that you can’t visiting promises he can help. 

❀ Word Count: 6,239

❀ Genre: Supernatural

❀ Type: Smut, PWP

❀ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

❀ Warnings: Mentions of insomnia including side effects like exhaustion, dysfunction, derealization, feeling out of it/in weird headspaces, time is not supposed to feel linear in this and it’s supposed to feel kind of liminal-space in places, reader is often confused/thoughts are a little scattered and feels out of it because of proximity to an entity, there are creepy vibes in this, Seungcheol doesn’t always appear the same/mentions of feeling like in danger or on edge around him instinctually, explicit language, sexually explicit content including unprotected vaginal sex, fingering, a lot of spit and cum, nipple play, reference to subspace or an adjacent, choking, oral (f. and m. receiving) multiple orgasms, biting and scratching, I wouldn’t categorize this as explicit dom/sub dynamics but there are power dynamics in some places, mean Seungcheol in spots, like very light humiliation if you squint in one section, overall just…. Weird ass vibes and reccouring scenes/reader not remembering things. 

❀ A/N: Hi Jolene Wolene Folene - thank you for requesting this thing that we totally didn’t talk about before I started Haliween and definitely maybe sort of giving me the outlet to write this weird little liminal space demon that I love doing so dearly. Pls enjoy spooky ooky kooky Cheol and his weird little obsession with reader :) 

❀ A/N 2: This fic is a part of my Haliween writing event that I’m hosting September - October. 

❀ Disclaimer: Disclaimer: All members of Seventeen are faces and name claims for stories. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios. Moreover, none of my works accurately reflect, represent or take a stance on the nuances of Korean culture, cities, people etc. Seventeen members are not Seventeen culturally, intellectually, physically, or representationally in my stories, and should be considered name and face stand-ins for made up characters.

Main Masterlist ❀ Tag List Request Form ❀ Ask ❀ Haliween

Nothing feels real. Your eyes burn as you stare at the computer screen, the letters and the buttons on your email becoming blurry as they swim out of focus. The dull sounds of your office feel as though they’re several rooms over, faint hums heard through walls of plaster. 

Pushing away from the desk, you head to the break room, in desperate need of coffee. You know drinking caffeine this late in the afternoon will only further exacerbate your insomnia, and yet you need it if you’re going to get through the next three hours at work.

You’ve hit the point in your endless nights of no sleep where everything feels off, like you’re experiencing things in the third person. You’re there but you don’t feel like it, navigating your day knowing that it’s you doing and saying things at work without really registering that you’re doing or saying those things. 

Coffee hisses from the machine into your cup. You stare at it, vision going unfocused again as the smell wafts up to you. Time passes. You stand and stare. 

Someone walks into the room, bringing you back to reality as you look over your shoulder and see your coworker come in to fill up their water bottle. They raise their brows at you as though to ask if you’re okay, and you grin, gesturing to the coffee like that’s some sort of answer.

Really, you’re not okay. You have ventured past the threshold of tired into something else entirely. Something that is lesser than, something base and nearly inhuman. 

Derealization. It’s a word your doctor had used when you described what it was like for you after so many nights without sleep, the disconnected feeling to the world around you. Even as you walk to your desk, it doesn’t feel real. You logically know that it is, that you exist in a specific time and space.

And yet… you remain buoyed in that space, totally untethered from everything around you. Floating. Lost. 

Back at your desk, the words on the computer screen blur again. Come into focus. You type and email. The keyboard makes sounds, but you don’t really register them. 

At some point, the day ends. 

-

A bright neon sign burns against the darkness of the alleyway. You blink rapidly, holding your hand in front of your eyes to block out some of the light. Looking around, you don’t see anyone else. The sound of the city is muted and far away, but you smell the burning of fuel and the smell of stagnant water under a dripping window air conditioning unit. 

You don’t remember walking here. You lower your hand as your eyes adjust to the burning pink above the door. Looking down at your clothes, you’re at least relieved to discover you put on jeans and a t-shirt before going out on an adventure out on the town.

Police sirens wail in the distance. You pull your phone out of your back pocket, thankful you brought it. 

“Fuck,” you swear, flashing the time. It’s 3:33 in the morning and you know immediately you’ve sleepwalked your way to this strange, unfamiliar alleyway. 

It’s a vicious circle: go days without sleep feeling like you’re a step away from death, or take just enough sleep medication to knock you out but make you sleepwalk. 

Shoving your phone in your pocket, you look back up at the neon sign, reading it for the first time. Hush. A shiver goes down your spine at the name, eyes flicking to the blue crescent moon attached to the pink cursive. 

There’s a magnetism about the sign. Your eyes dropdown to the door under it, a nondescript metal entrance to what you think is a bar. There’s nothing to indicate that it is a bar, just a gut feeling. Your gut feeling is also whispering at you to go inside, to open the door and step into the cool space of Hush. 

Licking your lips, you take one hesitant step forward. The tingling in your spine increases and you feel static in the air. Heart racing, you take another step. Then another. Before you realize it, you’re at the door with your hand on the knob, cool to the touch.

With a deep breath, you pull the door open and step inside. 

It’s even darker inside than the alleyway. Gentle piano music plays somewhere in the room and you swivel left and right, trying to gain your bearings as your eyes adjust. When they do, you see a very small room with a single piano in the corner, two booths, a bar at the back, and three stools pulled up to its counter.

A single person sits at the bar. You hesitate in the entrance, drinking in the stranger. It appears to be a man in a dark purple suit, his broad shoulders hunched over where he leans against the wooden bar top. You can’t make out much else beyond the wide shape of his shoulders and narrow taper of his waist, but you can see the crimson hair that glows like flame underneath the dull, flickering light above his head.

“You gonna stand there all night?” His voice is soft, a gentle pur. He turns his head to the side, his profile shadowed. “I don’t bite.” You hear the smirk in his voice when he tacks on, “Not often, anyway.” 

Carefully, you approach the bar. There doesn’t appear to be a bartender of any sort or anyone else in the bar, for that matter. You realize that there’s piano music but no pianist, but decide not to focus on it as you enter the man’s line of focus. 

When he looks at you, the world stops. It’s like stepping into a bubble, everything else ceasing to exist. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end and you feel your pulse hammer in your throat as you stare at him, unable to take your eyes off him.

He’s beautiful but it’s not that. His eyes are dark, but there is something more there. Something swimming in the depth of the darkness that you cannot place, something ancient and curious and awake. You feel pinned under his gaze, eyes darting to drink in the rest of his features: soft, pouty lips the color of berries, sharp jawline, thick, angular brows. 

Stunning. Dangerous. Alluring. 

“Hi,” he says, mouth stretching into a grin. His teeth aren’t sharp, but you have the distinct feeling that they should be. “You’re a pretty thing.” 

“Um, hi.”

“Can’t sleep?” 

“How can you tell?”

His grin spreads, wicked and cutting. “I have a feeling about those things.” His dark eyes drop to the seat next to him. “Have a seat. Maybe I can help.”

Tentatively, you sit down next to him. “You can help me sleep?” 

“What if I said I can?” 

Sitting next to him is oppressive. His presence weighs down on you, a physical entity that you can’t see. Static buzzes in your mind and your thoughts feel a little sticky, like just being close to him disrupts your frequency. 

He smells like jasmine, immediately soothing. You feel your eyes grow heavy as you blink a few times, settling on the stool as you angle yourself toward him. 

You’d misjudged his size when you walked in. He’d seemed broad when you first walked in, but you don’t think you fully understood the width of him. The weight of him. Or maybe it just feels that way when you look at him, your perception of him flickering like a bad TV signal. 

“Tell me about your sleep problems.”

You shrug. “They’re like any other sleep problems.”

“Not all sleep problems are the same, Pretty.” 

“I suppose that’s true. I don’t really know what causes them. I just… can’t fall asleep and then I start getting worried I won’t sleep, so it makes it worse. I want to sleep so bad but it’s like… wanting to sleep only makes it avoid me more.”

“Mmm. Sleep is a fickle thing, isn’t it?” 

“My doctors give me meds but the normal dose doesn’t work and the stronger dose… makes me walk around.” 

He pouts. “You poor, sweet thing.” 

Something about his sympathy makes you flush. You sulk, looking down at the countertop as you pick absently at the peeling varnish on the wood. “I know,” you murmur. “I just want to be normal.” 

“I can help. If you want it.” 

You glance at him. His eyes are dancing dangerously. Half of you screams yes while the other screams run. You’re only vaguely aware that you’re in a bar alone with a strange man who knows you’re sleep deprived. No one would help you if you screamed. You don’t know where you would run.

His dark eyes seem to read your thoughts and he laughs, shaking his head as he turns to pick up his drink from the bar. “I’m not that sort of creature.”

“How would you help me sleep?”

“Are you accepting my help?”

His question hangs in the air between the two of you. The piano music has stopped, but you don’t remember when it did. Overhead, the light still flickers. On. Off. On. Off. Onoffonoffonoff-

“You’re under no obligation to accept.” His voice is kind. Warm. Soft like your blankets, cozy like your bed. “You’re always free to make your own decision.” 

“I want help,” you agree slowly. “I really do.”

His red mouth curves into a smile and again, you’re struck by the thought that his teeth should be sharp. “Good. I’ll help you, Pretty.” 

“What’s your name?” 

“You can call me Seungcheol.” You give him your name and he tilts his head, drinking you in. “I know.” 

“How are you going to help me sleep?”

Seungcheol finishes his drink. You watch him swallow thickly, suddenly fascinated with the way his throat bobs as he does. The smell of jasmine is overwhelming as he leans in, stopping an inch away from you.

The static increases. You feel your blood buzz pleasantly. 

“Close your eyes for me,” Seungcheol murmurs, looking at you through silky lashes. “I promise everything will be okay.” 

For a moment, you stare at him, the air charged. He doesn’t hurry you along, content to study your face with that same uncanny darkness swimming in his eyes. 

Taking a deep breath, you do what Seungcheol says, and you close your eyes. 

-

Sunlight wakes you up. You roll over in your bed, squinting up at the window. Your blackout curtains are open, letting the morning beam in on where you’re tangled in your comforter and sheets. 

Sighing heavily, you close your eyes again, content to lay in the warm sun. Just as you start to drift to sleep again, you recall a pair of dark eyes and fiery hair. You jolt upright, heart hammering as you remember the exchange. 

Snatching your phone from your nightstand, you open your walking app to look at where the hell you went last night, but there’s nothing there. Frowning, you pull the sheets off your body. You’re in pajamas and fuzzy socks that you don’t remember putting on. 

Hauling yourself out of bed, you lean halfway into the laundry basket to claw through your clothing. None of the things you wore last night are there, so you go to your closet to wrench the doors open and search. 

The shirt from last night and the exact pair of jeans are hanging, completely unworn. Your frown deepens as your confusion rises. Turning away from the closet, you open your phone again and try to get any sort of sense of where you went last night, but there’s no text threads. No signs you used public transportation. Nothing in any of your tracking apps that indicate you left at all. 

“Was it a fucking dream?” you mutter to yourself, perplexed. 

Sitting down on your bed, you try to look up Hush on the internet. You can find nothing in your city that indicates a bar or establishment like the one you discovered Seungcheol in. You even try social media to look him up - Reddit, neighborhood pages, anything to try and find the stranger from last night.

It seems Hush and Seungcheol don’t exist.

And yet… you don’t remember going to sleep last night after he agreed to help you. And you feel rested today. 

Puzzled and a little freaked out, you give up your search. A dream is a dream, and you’re content that you finally feel a little less exhausted and a little more awake. You’ll take the win, getting up to start your day with a little bit of pep in your step. 

By midday, you’ve mostly forgotten about the bar and the man in it, only remembering those dark eyes and that red hair. 

-

Heat creeps up your spine. You nuzzle against the warmth behind you, the smell of jasmine coaxing you deeper into the embrace. You feel the vibration of laughter against your back, your nerves tingling as you feel feather-light fingers brush up your thighs. 

“Tired?” 

Immediately you know it’s Seungcheol’s deep voice, that same velvet purr whispered right in your ear. You shake your head no, suddenly not wanting to sleep at all. You press into him further, feeling the way his arms tighten around you as he chuckles, mouth pressing chastely against the spot under your ear. 

“Liar,” he teases. 

You pout. It might be true, but he could have the decency to pretend it’s not. You open your eyes and look up at him. His hair is like spilled blood in the dark of your room. The curtains are closed, blocking out all light from the moon and street, but your salt lamp still burns in the corner. 

Seungcheol looks like the devil in the low, orange light. He’s in a black t-shirt, which is somehow more deadly than the fine cut suit. Your stomach flutters and you squeeze your thighs shut when you realize his hands are brushing up and down your thighs, touch slow. 

“Thought you were a dream,” you mumble, words a little thick. “Thought you weren’t real.”

“Dreams can’t be real?” That makes you frown and he laughs, jostling you against his chest. His hands squeeze your thighs and you let out a breathy sound as he nudges you with his nose. “You don’t know anything about dreams, Pretty. Can I show you?” 

More than anything you want him to show you. Suddenly your desire for him outweighs any sort of sleepiness, your nerves sparking and coming to life as you nod helplessly against his chest, trying to lean as close as possible. 

“Needy,” he chides. He presses a wet kiss to your jawline and you preen, your head falling back against his shoulder. “I’ll go easy so you remember this time, alright?” 

“Cheol.” 

The nickname sounds familiar. Intimate. Like you’ve said it before - something tells you that you have said it before. You don’t remember where or when, but it’s with familiarity that you moan the nickname again as he nips at your neck, one hand drifting between your legs to pry them open. 

He murmurs praise against your ear when your legs drift apart, spreading to accommodate his seeking touch. You’re wearing shorts but it feels entirely too hot under the blankets pooled around your waist. You kick at them and whine, managing to get them down to your knees before he huffs and presses forward, temporarily bending you in half to toss them. 

When he settles back against your headboard, you follow him, turning your head to press your mouth to the corner of his. His lips twitch in a smirk, shifting to catch your mouth fully with his. 

Seungcheol kisses you like he knows how you like to be kissed - devouring, consuming, hungry. His tongue brushes against yours as he drinks you in as his hand presses between your leagues, applying pressure to your clothed cunt.

You whine into the kiss and he grins against your mouth. A line of spit connects your lips when you pull away panting, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. His fingers circle your clit gently and your hips buck in his hold against the stimulation. 

“Not enough,” you whisper. You grip his wrist with one hand, the other gripping the sheets to bunch them in your fist. “Cheol, please.”

“Hush,” he scolds, biting your jaw. His free hand comes up to your neck, gripping you under your jaw to angle your mouth back to his. “Kiss me.” 

You melt in Seungcheol’s grip. His tongue tastes sweet, his grip on you making you dizzy. Your thighs squeeze around his wrist as he works you up, his touch teasing and not enough through layers of fabric. 

He knows it’s not enough, content to string you along until you’re writhing against him, back shifting against his chest as you squirm. His kisses drift from your mouth to your jaw, open-mouthed and spit-slicked as his tongue darts out to taste your skin while he goes. 

Seungheol’s grip on your chin slides down toward the base of your neck, his fingers pressed tight against your pulse. You can feel your heartbeat slamming in his grasp as he bends your head away from him, lips attaching to the softness of your throat. 

His name escapes your lips in a whisper. He hums a pleased sound, tongue dragging up your neck to your ear where he nibbles. “So good for me,” he whispers. “I’ll reward you.” 

You follow with an urgent nod, pleased when his hand slides down the waistband of your shorts and underwear. When his fingers brush against the flushed, sticky folds of your cunt, you keen loudly, unable to keep it together.

“So needy.” You can’t tell if it’s an insult or not the way he growls the word against your ear, grip on your throat tightening. “Need my help that bad, huh?” 

“Yes, god.”

“I am not god,” he grinds out, voice dark. For a second, the illusion shatters and you glance up at him. His eyes are endless, an ancient thing looking back at you. You freeze in his hold, a prey caught in a trap. Then he softens, pressing a kiss to your brow. “Tell me what you need, Pretty.” 

“Hands. Need your hands.” 

A bolt of pleasure goes through you when Seungcheol’s middle finger circles your clit. Your nails dig into his wrist, leaving little crescent moons behind. His ministrations are leisurely, giving you what you want but not as fast as you want it. 

That’s Seungcheol’s game. He’ll give you what you want, only when he feels like it. You feel a sense of deja vu, realizing that you’ve been here before. Snatches of memories flash through your mind. They pass through your grip like sand, none of them firm enough to grab onto. 

“Missed you,” you mumble. “Can’t sleep without you.”

“Ah, there it is.” 

Seungcheol is pleased with your recollection. You can tell when he relents his teasing touches, fingers drifting down to press a single digit into your heat. Your stomach flips when he does, relief sweeping through you as he shallowly fucks you with a single finger.

It’s not enough but it’s better. You shiver in his hold, going a little slack in his arms, hips twitching. He’s content to have you like this, working your cunt slowly, watching your reactions as your breathing catches and restarts. 

“Feel good?” 

“So good.” You can barely get the reply out, words faint. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, Pretty.” 

His kiss is soft against your cheekbone, at odds with the grip he still has on your throat. You feel his hand like a comforting weight, loving the feel of it resting against your pulse. He doesn’t squeeze or choke you, content just to hold you against him. 

Seungcheol pulls his fingers out, the wet squelch obscene. “Take this shit off for me,” he tells you, pulling at your shorts. 

His heavy hand rests on your collarbone as your hands shoot to your shorts. Hooking your thumbs in them, you shimmy down, lifting your hips with his help to kick them down your thighs and legs to the floor. 

Cool air hits your heat as you settle against his chest again. He nestles against your neck, fingers resuming the task of peeling you apart as he sinks his pointer and ring finger into you. You clench around him, loving the stretch and the feeling of his fingers pressing against your g-spot as he slowly strokes you, breath hot against your ear. 

Being unable to remember your previous encounter with him feels cruel. Seungcheol knows exactly how to work you toward your high. The slick sound of his fingers between your legs accompanied with his lips pressed against your neck drives you insane. 

Unable to keep still, your hips come up off the bed to meet his hand. The hand not fucking you to insanity slides under your shirt. Heat trails his touch. He traces the curve of your breast and your breath stutters, catching in your throat. His nails scrape against sensitive skin, moving higher until he drags his touch over your nipple. 

The heel of Seungcheol’s hand presses firmly into your clit. You mewl, thrashing against him, closer and closer to your peak. His strokes turn harsh, finger-fucking you at a brutal pace while his other hand tweaks your nipple, the pleasure-sting making you quake. 

“Come on,” he urges, voice deep. Sharp teeth scrape against your throat. “Come for me, Pretty.” 

Everything turns to static as you clench around his fingers. You squeeze so tight he can barely continue stroking you through your peak. There’s a high-pitched ring in your ears as you pant through it, vaguely aware that Seungcheol is muttering something against your ear that you don’t understand. 

As your orgasm fades, so do you. The world becomes soft at the edges. You feel Seungcheol’s heartbeat against your back and smell jasmine, but you slowly drift away from him, barely able to catch his growl of remember me next time before you’re gone. 

-

Cold granite countertop digs into your knees. You barely register the pain, one hand pressed flat to the counter, the other reaching behind you to tangle in Seungcheol’s hair. Your hot breath skates across the surface, the cool stone not enough to combat the heat of your skin. 

Seungcheol’s face is pressed as far as he can go into your cunt, the flat of his tongue dragging from top to bottom. You’re nearly catatonic, eyes rolling behind your eyelids as he fucks you with his tongue. 

He grunts when your fingers tighten in his hair, holding him close as he sucks harshly at you. He’s loud as he eats you out, his hunger something more demonic and fiendish than you’re used to. You don’t care, pressing back into him as he mouths at you. 

His hands firmly pry you open, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. You can feel the bruising way he holds you, uncaring as he works you toward another high, so desperate for it that you’re begging. 

Begging for what, you don’t know. None of the words that fall from your mouth really make sense. You’re a rambling disaster under the mastery of his mouth, and as you tiptoe the line of your high, it feels like you’ll never unscramble your thoughts again.

You come again, feeling the way you flood his mouth. He doesn’t care, growling low in his throat as his mouth becomes more insistent, fingers pressing into you even harder. Something takes over him in that moment, his grip on you so fierce that you think you might break.

But you don’t. You never do. 

-

“Pretty,” Seungcheol murmurs, cocking his head to the side. Your mouth aches where it’s stretched harshly around his cock, spit leaking from the side of your lips. His thumb brushes across the spilled fluid, grinning as he leisurely pops it into his mouth and sucks. “Such a pretty thing, mouth full of cock.”

You hum around him eagerly, shifting back and forth on your knees. He’s got you on the floor of your bedroom in front of your bed, hands linked obediently behind your back while he stands in front of you. His stomach ripples as he flexes his hips forward, driving himself deeper into your mouth.

Your throat seizes around him again and you feel yourself gag. He pouts and pulls back, letting you gasp for breath. Your mouth is a mess of saliva and cum, wet and sore and battered. You don’t care, looking up at him with watery eyes and sticky lips.

“So important to me,” he whispers, nodding as though to assure you. Your stomach flips and you shuffle toward him eagerly, mouth open. “So perfect for me.” 

Instead of using words, you stick your tongue out, eager. Seungcheol grins and the room darkens. There is a buzz in the back of your mind that you can’t place, ignoring the feeling in favor of watching him slowly slide back in, letting your tongue scrape the bottom of his shaft.

Seungcheol sighs, tilting his head back as he sets a slow pace, using your mouth as he pleases. He’s beautiful like this, all tan skin, heaving chest, sweat sliding down his neck, red hair damp. His eyes are closed but his mouth is open, cherry lips parted sweetly to show his sharp little fangs as he pants. 

So pretty, you think. Even with teeth sharper than they should be.  

-

You’re standing in front of a bar named Hush. The pink neon burns bright against the gritty night, hurting your eyes. Turning around in a circle, you notice there’s no one else in the alleyway. There’s a certain charge to the air, a hum that you can’t place, but grows stronger when you turn to face the bar again. 

A single door sits under the sign, closed and waiting to be opened. Chewing your bottom lip, you stride toward the door, unsure what’s waiting for you on the other side. 

With a hard yank, you pull the door open and step into the darkness of the room beyond. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust to the single, flickering light over the bar, but once they do, you see it’s a tiny room. A single piano sits in the corner near two booths, and there’s only one bar top in the back, a few stools in front of it. 

A single man sits at the bar but he’s facing you, leaning back on his elbows as he drinks you in. He’s in a purple suit that would look ridiculous on anyone else, and his red hair is bright enough to light the night like a flame. 

He cocks his head to the side, a wicked smirk on his lips. “Hi,” he greets. “Can’t sleep?”

“How can you tell?” 

“I’m familiar with these things.” 

He looks like a devil. You can’t place your finger on what exactly about his face makes you think so. His eyes are dark as the depths of the ocean and when he smiles, you swear his teeth are sharp. “Need some help?” 

You do need help sleeping. The doctors can’t help you. Therapy doesn’t help you. Something tells you maybe this stranger can help you. 

“Please.”

“It would be my pleasure, Pretty.” 

-

“Seungcheol,” you gasp, hand flying to his wrist to grip him. “Fuck, holy shit.” 

Fuck is absolutely right. His hand tightens around your throat, placed just right to make it harder for you to breathe. Your thoughts swim as he fucks into you, his sweaty chest sliding against your back as his strokes grow harsher. 

Your knees slide on the bed under the strength of his thrusts. He growls at you to keep up and you whimper, flexing your thighs to remain upright as he drives his cock into you at a pace that sends you hurtling toward your peak. 

“So fucking difficult,” he grunts in your ear. His teeth nip your ear lobe and you whine, intoxicated by the smell of jasmine and the tightening knot in your stomach. “You’re always so difficult.” 

You don’t know what he means by that, but you don’t think it’s the first time you’ve heard something like that from him. Your thoughts turn to liquid you come around him though, feeling the way you grip his cock like a vice, seizing in his hold.

Everything turns to nothing. You can’t hear, see or feel anything but static. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but squeeze and squeeze and squeeze.

And then you're gasping for air, lungs burning as you gulp it down. Falling forward, you crash into the sheets and into complete darkness. 

-

“Why do you come and go so often?” 

Seungcheol lifts his head from the bed to turn and look at you. He’s still naked and covered in a sheen of sweat, crimson hair clinging to his forehead. He’s on his stomach laying opposite of you, his head by your feet. 

Something sparks in his eyes at your question, his heavy brows pulling together, cherry lips downturning. “I only come as often as you let me.” 

“What do you mean?”

His face twitches in what you think might be annoyance. “You have a complicated relationship with me.” 

“We have a relationship?” 

He snorts and turns away from you, resting his chin on his arms as he settles back down, closing his eyes. He reminds you of a cat - a particularly dangerous cat, you think. “I suppose. Most people couldn’t say they have a relationship with me, and yet I keep letting you invite me back.”

“Invite you?” 

“Hush. Stop asking questions.” 

“But I don’t… understand.” 

“Good,” he quips. “Because every time you do, you send me away only to invite me back in.” 

-

“Come on,” Seungcheol teases. “You wanted it, so do the work.” 

Your thighs ache. A pitiful sound leaves you as you nod, putting your hands on Seungcheol’s shoulders as you lift your hips, legs shaking. You’re exhausted and burned out, but the ache you need filled as you slowly slide up his cock drives you to keep going. 

Dropping back down in his lap, you feel sparks. Your movements are slow. Seungcheol’s hands are tucked behind his head where he leans back on your pillows, fathomless eyes watching you as you ride him, a little uncoordinated and weak from the exertion he’s put you through all evening.

“Cheol, my thighs,” you protest, instead trying to grind into him. He raises a brow and you pout. “Please.”

“No. Come on, Pretty, you can do it. You can fuck yourself on my cock and make yourself come. Come on.” 

“Cheol.”

“No. Do it yourself.” 

Gritting your teeth, you let your annoyance fuel you. Anger burns right alongside pleasure as you find the strength to do exactly as he tells you. Leveraging your hold on his shoulders, you continue to spear yourself on him at a steady pace and slowly, your anger is replaced with bliss.

Seungcheol feels incredible. He’s hard to take, stretching you to the max and at this position, he’s so deep that you swear you can feel him in your stomach. You keep going, nails biting into his skin and drawing blood but you don’t care. 

Fire burns in his eyes as he watches you. You stare right back, seething at the way he’s making you do it yourself, a little bit of humiliation stinging the edges of your pride. You can tell he thrives on this, satisfied that what you want outweighs any sort of desire to be stubborn.

Somehow, he always wins like this. Always manages to get you to do what he wants. He’s sneaky like that, knowing just what button to press to get you where he wants you. 

Sometimes you feel like you’re a puppet whose strings are connected to his fingertips. 

Either way, you manage to drive yourself to an orgasm, shuddering around him as you seat yourself fully in his lap, throbbing around him. He lets out a long groan, eyes fluttering shut as he struggles to keep his composure.

Leaning back against his knees, you catch your breath. He’s still painfully hard inside of you, and when his eyes open, you see his hunger isn’t sated. Your heart lips when he surges forward, fast as an adder. His mouth crashes into yours hungrily and you let him have you, eager at the flutter in your stomach as he shifts, altering the angle. 

“I’m not done,” he mutters, kisses turning into sharp bites. “So hush while I take what’s mine.” 

-

Something wakes you up from sleep. It’s too dark in your room to see, but your heart is hammering and your hands are quivering. Leaning toward your nightstand, you search for your phone. All you feel is cool wood, no device anywhere.

The dark is oppressive. You don’t remember your room being this dark, the blackout curtains serving as a good device to keep out the city and streetlights, but never so much that you feel swallowed whole. Lost. Devoured.

A tingle buzzes at the back of your neck. You freeze in bed, looking into the never ending darkness. Silence roars in your ears, the outside world completely removed. You can’t even hear your own pulse or breath, the quiet so heavy that panic starts to rise in your throat.

You can’t see but you know you’re not alone - can feel the solid press of something else in the room. 

Too afraid to make noise, you resume the search for your phone, fingers moving slowly across the top of your night stand. You can’t find it. 

Something presses into the mattress at the end of your bed. You feel the dip under its weight but can’t hear the creek of springs. You give up the search for your phone, snatching your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.

It’s a dream, you tell yourself. It’s a dream it’s a dream it’s a dream it’s- 

The thing in your room moves closer. A scream works its way up your throat where it gets stuck, lodged and unmoving. You squeeze your eyes shut harder, fireworks of color exploding behind your eyelids as you do. 

“I know you’re awake, Pretty.” The voice is so low you can barely make out the words. They scrape against you like claws. “You can’t keep doing this,” it says, almost a sigh in its voice. “You know what this is. What I am.” 

“Go away,” you whisper, voice weak. “Leave me alone.”

“Don’t do this again.” 

“Go away, Seungcheol.” 

There’s a low growl that you can feel as it vibrates the air. “As you wish.”

-

The neon sign above the door says Hush. It burns bright and pink against the night sky. You look around, unsure how you got here. Sighing, you pull out your phone to check the time. It’s 3:33 in the morning, which means you’re probably a victim of your sleep walking again. 

Sliding your phone back into your pocket, you look up at the sign again. There’s a little blue moon to accompany the pink cursive neon, and though you don’t think you’ve ever seen this bar before, there's a magnetism about it that draws you in. 

Curious, you walk up to the door and go in. The lights are dim and you have trouble seeing at first, but you can make out that there’s a piano in the corner, two booths and a small bar with some stools. A man sits at the bar, his back turned to you. 

“We’re closed,” he grumbles without turning to look at you. You frown, cocking your head as you drink him in. 

The purple suit he wears is an odd choice. His hair is the color of blood, slicked back and a surprisingly nice contrast to the bright color of his suit. A single light flickers above him, painting him in a gold hue.

“What is this place?” you ask, ignoring the fact that it’s closed. 

He doesn’t answer for a second. You think he’s going to ignore you, but finally he says, “Do you have trouble sleeping?” 

You’re surprised by the question. “Yes, actually.” 

“I can help.” 

“Really?” You step further into the bar, watching as he turns to look at you over his shoulder. He is painfully pretty, the kind of beauty that reminds you of old paintings of Lucifer. “How?” 

“Are you accepting my help?” 

Without hesitation you answer, “Yes.” 

His cherry red lips twitch and he shakes his head. Picking up his drink, he polishes it off before standing to turn you fully. The weight of his presence presses down on you like an invisible blanket, weighing you down.

“Of course you do.” He strides toward you and though your instincts tell you to run, something else tells you to stay. He looks down at you with a pair of eyes that threaten to swallow you whole if you let them. His lashes are silky and long, a delicate balance to his heavy gaze. “You always need me, right, Pretty?” 

You nod, a word - a name - buzzing on your tongue as he looms over you. “Please,” you whisper, thoughts a little cottony, a little dizzy. “Seungcheol.”

He grins, revealing sharp teeth. “Hush,” he murmurs. “You’re mine.” 

-

TAG LIST

@ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn @cherrylovescheol

@cookiearmy @thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst

@thepoopdokyeomtouched @avochele @eoieopda @onlywon4u

@hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy

[atamascolily]

I'm not the first person to observe that magical girls are literally a brighter and more vibrant version of their ordinary selves, but I like this particular Memoria from Magia Record, "Girl's Boundary" ("That Which Divides" in the North American server) not only because it shows this juxtaposition directly, but because it also makes the subtext explicitly text:

There is a vast gap between ordinary girls and Magical Girls. An invisible but tremendous gap. However, armed with their "feelings" and "wishes" they can cross that gap in a single step.

There's a tendency to focus on the downsides of contracting--and for good reason--but I think that it's also important to focus on the very real appeal (especially for adolescents) of stepping out of your boring everyday life and becoming an idealized and powerful version of yourself, complete with ruffles and sparkles. (The sparkles in this drawing indicate that this is 2-star Memoria, and probably were not meant to be Magical Girl Madoka is sparkling, but wow, does it sure look like it at first glance.) It's such a powerful fantasy, and this card does such a great job of depicting that, and showing what it's like for it to come true.

The use of "boundary," 境界 (kyoukai) here is interesting to me in contrast to the kekkai, 結界, or magical barrier created by witches (translated as "labyrinth" in the official English version). Becoming a witch is literally being bounded, circumscribed, limited in possibilities; instead of being able to transform back and forth, they are fundamentally stuck in a monstrous and inhuman form for eternity. A witch is neither a magical nor an ordinary girl but a secret third thing, reviled and trapped in their own personal hell, existing in a liminal space that is anathema to the world around it (represented by the change in animation). Magical girls, however, have the freedom to cross over at will because their feeling and wishes give them strength and power to do so.

This card's text also reinforces the idea that magical girls literally exist in a different world that ordinary people cannot experience. In the original series, this gap serves to isolate and alienate them from their previous existence and ensure there is no turning back (and Madoka and Sayaka do not even have to contract to experience this for themselves; just being introduced to that world is enough).

However, the act of becoming a magical girl--both the original contract and the transformation--is, like electrons, fundamentally quantum in nature: it allows them to instantly* jump from world to world without passing through any points in between. Which makes sense in a weird sort of way, since "feelings" and "wishes" are literally energy, and the transformation of soul gem to grief seed comes with a powerful explosion reminiscent of nuclear fission.

(*Many arguments have been made about how long magical girl transformations actually take in-universe and whether the slow montages are experienced by the girls and/or observers or are only a representation for the audience; YMMV, but on several occasions we see magical girls in PMMM transform instantly without an extended sequence, which makes the latter seem more likely.)

Speaking of transformation sequences, this card evokes Madoka's in the opening of the PMMM, where she dances with her double. More poignantly, it also speaks to Madoka's profound self-worth issues, where she feels she is useless in her ordinary life and can only find fulfillment as a magical girl.

Finally, I have a lot of questions about that magic circle design in the upper right corner, and I wish more of it was visible in the background.

[ossifer]

Liminal Physics 101 - What's wrong with the River?

I want to preface this theory/analysis by giving credit to the excellent, thought-provoking response left on my theory on the mechanism behind lyctoral thanergy generation by @greyhairedgeekgirl, because it inspired me to finally finish typing up this post.

There is a lot of conjecture contained within this theory but I've attempted to firmly root it in the terminology used by the characters in relation to the River, as well as how the River itself is described. My avenue of thought is closely related to that of @greyhairedgeekgirl, but I think my conclusion likely differs due to how I have chosen to interpret the definition of the River as a liminal space.

Anyway, onto the question I'm seeking to answer here: I feel that the answer to it lies in Harrow the Ninth, during the explanation we get in response to a question asked by John Gaius himself, and the veritably horrific implications of it.

“Harrowhark, what happens when somebody dies?”

“Thalergetic decay causes cellular death,” you said carefully, pressing the nail in harder, “which emits thanergy. The massive cell death that follows apopneumatism causes a thanergetic cascade, though the first bloom fades and the thanergy stabilises within thirty to sixty seconds.” “What happens to the soul?” “In the case of gradual death—senescence, illness … certain other forms—transition is automatic and straightforward. The soul is pulled into the River by liminal osmosis. In cases of apopneumatic shock, where death is sudden and violent, the energy burst can be sufficient to countermand osmotic pressure and leave the soul temporarily isolated. Whence we gain the ghost, and the revenant.”

Note how this explanation is structured in a sequential way that is likely deliberate:

We establish that thanergy is emitted by thalergetic decay: thalergy is characterised as life energy, produced by cell growth and reproduction. Thanergy is also said to be produced by cell death in the glossary of GtN, which to me indicates that the thalergy produced by a cell is in some way tied to it, beginning to decay into thanergy when the cell dies.

Massive cell death follows apopneumatism: the soul leaving the body results in mass cell death, resulting in the body's thalergy 'flipping' and rapidly decaying into thanergy.

Gradual death results in the soul being pulled into the River by liminal osmosis. Sudden and violent death results in a thanergetic energy burst sufficient to countermand (lit. revoke or cancel an order) osmotic pressure, leaving the soul temporarily isolated outside the River.

The soul leaves the body, the cellular thalergy begins to decay into thanergy in the absence of the soul, and the amount of thanergy produced results in the soul either being pulled into the River or being temporarily stranded.

River Terminology

liminal - occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold; relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process. This word is used in reference to the River a lot.

apopneumatism - apo meaning 'from, away from' and pneumatism referring to the pneuma, or soul; this is the process of the soul coming away from the body. put simply, this is death.

liminal osmosis - osmosis is 'the spontaneous net movement or diffusion of solvent molecules through a selectively-permeable membrane from a region of high water potential (region of lower solute concentration) to a region of low water potential (region of higher solute concentration)'; a solution is a solute dissolved in a solvent, meaning that osmosis is the process whereby a solution resolves the discrepancy in solute : solvent ratio between itself and another solution that are divided by a selectively-permeable membrane. imagine you have two bodies of water, of unequal volume, one with more solute in it than the other: osmosis will result in the body with more solute gaining water from the body with less solute until the ratio of water : solute is equivalent in each body. it equalises their concentration of solute.

osmotic pressure - 'the minimum pressure which needs to be applied to a solution to prevent the inward flow of its pure solvent across a semipermeable membrane', but it is also defined as 'the measure of the tendency of a solution to take in its pure solvent by osmosis'. this is to say that osmotic pressure can serve as the current that pulls a soul into the river, if you assume that the river is a solution and the soul is a solvent. Alternatively, one could also consider the River as the selectively-permeable membrane dividing two solutions.

What does this mean?

Assume the following:

The world is a solution, solute dissolved in a solvent, and the soul is the solvent in that solution.

The River is a selectively-permeable membrane.

The River beyond that Abigail Pent speaks of is another solution.

The soul (solvent) is pulled through the River (selectively-permeable membrane) by osmotic pressure into the solution with less solvent in (the River beyond), except it can't, because that semi-permeable membrane has been rendered impermeable: why?

Solute concentration.

What is the solute?

You collected bits of dried wood—dried wood?—and empty-coloured stones—stones?—from the banks of the River beyond death, and you collected armfuls of the sharply unkind osiers and tall, feathery plants, the ones with long fibrous stems as tall as you were and thin, tangled leaves. Filthy salt wind whipped your faces as you formed wards from the flotsam that grew, apparently, on the bank.

She stood before the coffin of the Sleeper, and gathered those white, soft, solid rips in her hands, and she popped the bubble, and the River came rushing in. It came down around her in shreds, as light and insubstantial as drifts of spiderweb. The water sprayed through white holes, rushing in with a pounding roar: that brackish, bloodied water that only existed within the River. She was buoyed up by a spray of ice water and filth.

The River is described as brackish, it is associated with salt wind. Brackish means water with higher than average salinity, saltwater concentration, so let's assume our solute is salt.

What did John do when he became God? He introduced a copious amount of thanergy into the system, because murders generate more thanergy, enough to make souls unable to pass into the river, and used it to fuel himself.

He murdered Alecto. The salt-water creature: the first thalergetic planet he flipped. The water is the solvent, the solvent is the soul, salt is our solute, salt-water is our solution.

I was so close to cracking this third thing, the soul. I’d realised there was the energy you produced from being alive and the energy you produced when you died, but the fact that energy was produced when you died meant there was another phase. I could get a corpse’s heart beating and get all the neurons firing in the brain, but it wasn’t producing the alive stuff anymore. It wasn’t an on-off switch.

“The body needs thalergy and a soul to keep the lights on. Anastasia’s tripod principle. Body plus thalergy, but no soul, is basically a very weird vegetable … after a while it gives up and shuts down.”

Nona the Ninth shows exactly what the soul is: the third thing, the on-off switch, the leg of the tripod. A body full of thalergy without a soul shuts down after a while because the thalergy isn't stable in the absence of a soul, and decays in its absence. Thalergy decay emits thanergy.

Thalergy is salt, water is the solvent, water is the soul, salt-water is the solution of a living creature: thalergy stabilised by a soul.

How does salt affect water?

A river is freshwater: it doesn't have high salinity. It is not salt-water.

What does salt do to water? It adds to its mass, makes it more buoyant. Buoyancy, or upthrust, is an upward force exerted by a fluid that opposes the weight of a partially or fully immersed object.

The Riverbed is studded with mouths that open at proximity of Resurrection Beasts, and no ghosts venture deeper than the bathyrhoic layer. Anyone who has entered a stoma has never returned. It is a portal to the place I cannot touch—somewhere I don’t fully comprehend, where my power and my authority are utterly meaningless. You’ll find very few ghosts sink as far as the barathron.

Ghosts don't venture near the Riverbed. The Riverbed is studded with stoma. The stoma are mouths that open when Resurrection Beasts near them, and the Resurrection Beasts are the souls of murdered planets, the only souls that can sink that low; the stoma lead to a place John can't touch.

[...]“And that was a titanic effort on the part of Cassiopeia the First, who was brilliant and sensible and careful—she thought she could bait physical portions of the Resurrection Beast into the current. She was right. It followed her.”

They were writhing together, wild and excited—the current swirled in an agitated pandemonium—there was a massive sickening jolt, and the Mithraeum started to slide again, forward … tilting … sliding. “We’re in the current now,” said Pyrrha calmly. “We’ll be pulled in, if the mouth doesn’t close.”

The current of the River leads to the stoma. The River is a semi-permeable membrane that leads to the River beyond, and the stoma are mouths in the Riverbed that lead to a place beyond the power of John. Osmosis pulls solvent, souls, through the membrane into the neighbouring solution.

Conclusion

You went en masse into the River, leaving your bodies behind to slump into C-curves—or at least, yours did, the rest of them stood—and crunched the silvery sand of the bank beneath your feet as the three saints led you both to assemble wards. No blood or flesh or bone here: the first two might be scavenged, the last swept away by the capricious tide. You collected bits of dried wood—dried wood?—and empty-coloured stones—stones?—from the banks of the River beyond death, and you collected armfuls of the sharply unkind osiers and tall, feathery plants, the ones with long fibrous stems as tall as you were and thin, tangled leaves.

The River holds no blood, flesh, or bone. But its waters are made brackish by a kind of salt: the thanergy of murdered billions. How can one make a ward from something unthanergetic, from dried wood and stones? It's impossible, unless they are suffused with thanergy, made pliable to a lyctoral touch.

When John murdered the planets and humanity in one fell stroke, he flooded with the River with enough thanergy that its buoyancy countermanded the osmotic process that draws souls into the River beyond. The River is full of ghosts gone mad: souls that should have moved beyond, but can't, because the current cannot carry them through the stoma, the thanergy working against its pull.

“A powerful necromancer at the peak of their game could last ten seconds in the River,” said God, pushing himself up to stand. “Soul magic is the great leveller. In the first few seconds their thanergy would all be stripped away … then their thalergy, and then their soul.”

The River strips away thanergy and thalergy, but it can only do so much: when its waters are already so permeated with thanergy, souls float, fail to sink to the depths and pass through it, carried by its current. They cannot reach the stoma because their souls are too light compared to that of the Resurrection Beasts, the thanergetic buoyancy pushing them back up.

What lies beyond the stoma isn't Hell, or rather, it is Hell: it is a place where John Gaius can't touch. It is where souls are meant to go. It is the River Beyond.

[joelalorian]

Fall Into Me - Chapter Five: My Whole World Came Alive

dbf!Joel x f!reader

Summary: Joel is hanging on by a thread as a single father to a tenacious 10-year-old Sarah. Feeling like he's drowning, like the world is about to spit him out, he needs some help before he breaks in half. At your dad's insistence, you show up in his life and change everything.

Story is inspired by the song Fall Into Me by Forest Blakk. Chapter titles will be lyrics from the song.

Word Count: 2.9k

Chapter Warnings: Mature, under 18 take a hike. No outbreak AU. Lots of feelings, confusion, and self doubt. Two idiots falling and pining for each other, and finally some progress. Tommy keeps it real. Age gap of about 9 years (Reader 24/25, Joel 33/34). No use of y/n. Reader has a nickname used only by her dad. Emily is modeled after my sister and JB is based on my dad, who used to try setting me up with his younger work buddies when I was in my 20s :)

Dividers by the wonderful @saradika-graphics

Thank you all for reading! Comments and reblogs make me weep with gratefulness.

Some of the tags aren't working in the taglist - if you're not getting the notifications, please check your settings to make sure you are taggable. Thx!

Chapter Four | Main Masterlist

Sitting in Phil’s Icehouse with juicy burgers and drinks – you insisted Joel try a mimosa – conversation flowed between the two of you. Joel found his lips twitching into a smile at nearly every word that came out of your mouth. He was fascinated with the stories you shared of your college years, and he listened, completely enraptured, to your plans for the future. Every bit of your lunch together felt like a date. He wondered if you felt the same, yet he couldn’t find the courage to ask outright.

“Yeah, so, I have a meeting at Sarah’s school this week for a possible position. Remember that interview I mentioned a few weeks back? It went really well and now they want me to meet with the teacher who’s retiring and the principal,” you explained, sipping at your mimosa. “I’m pretty excited.”

Joel’s eyes lit up. He’d forgotten that you were looking at a position at Sarah’s school. “Wow, that’s great, darlin’. This would be for a science teacher position, right?”

“Yep. Middle grade science.” The beaming smile you flashed him nearly blinded Joel. “Wanna know the best part? If I get this job, I’ll have the same hours as Sarah, give or take a bit, so I can continue with the school drop-off and pickup for you. She might have to stay later with me somedays, but it’ll still work.”

Nodding, Joel’s mind was flashing lightyears forward, picturing you calling his house home and taking Sarah to school with you, coming home to have dinner together, watching TV in the evenings. Heart thudding in his chest at just the thought of you living together, Joel shook himself. He had to slow his mind down, put the brakes on those kinds of thoughts until after you were actually dating him, at least.

“You could be Sarah’s science teacher in a few years, huh?” Joel asked, focusing once again on listening to you instead of drifting off into daydreams.

“Could be, yeah,” you laughed. “I imagine she’d be my favorite student.”

He beamed at that. Conversation shifted to other things and soon your meals were finished.

“We should do this again,” you said, glassy eyes meeting his across the table, lips curved in a gentle smile. “I really enjoyed spending time with you, Joel.”

Fighting the urge to grab your hand and entangle your fingers, Joel smiled back. “Yeah, me too.” He wanted to kick himself for not saying more, for not asking you out for a real date. He just couldn’t find his words.

How was it that you made him so nervous?

Joel spent the next week in some kind of weird liminal space between a dream and reality, between agonizing confusion and utter happiness. Lunch with you on Sunday felt like a date – he asked you with the intention of it being a date, even if you didn’t know that yet. He spent the week thinking about that lunch, how you teased each other, laughed, shared stories of your past. How your gazes locked for longer than necessary, touches lingered, the smiles never fell from your faces.

It was wonderful, yet nothing was said of what it all meant – which was his fault, probably. Hence the roller coaster of feelings throughout the week.

He could tell you felt it, too. Doing as Tommy suggested, he started paying close attention to how you acted around him, how you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t looking. It was all starting to come together. He could finally see what Tommy was talking about.

You liked him. You really liked him, Joel Miller, overworked single father.

It was a wonderful feeling, knowing that someone liked him. It’d been way too long since he felt that way, that spark of hope for something more.

For the first time in a long time, he slept well the night before and woke early, eager to face the day and see you before heading off to work. He was already out front, filling a birdfeeder Sarah asked for, when you arrived.

“Good mornin’, darlin’,” he greeted, pulling the car door open for you once you parked in the driveway. His heart skipped a beat at the way you smiled up at him, taking his hand to help you out of the car. Your touch electric on his roughened palm.

“Hiya, Joel.” Your voice washed over him, warm as honey and twice as sweet. “Whatcha doing out here?’

Gesturing to the red barn-style feeder Sarah picked, he finished filling it with the wild bird seed the clerk insisted birds loved. “Just fillin’ our new birdfeeder.”

“Oh, what a cute feeder!” You admired the intricate features as it hung from the post Joel installed. “Sarah has been talking nonstop about birds this week. Hopefully we’ll see some good ones.”

“Hope so,” Joel hummed in return. “Don’t know much about birds personally, but I’m sure Sarah’ll teach me.” Your smile brightened at his sheepish grin.

“I have a bird guide I could give her to help identify all the different types that visit the feeder.” Your face lit up with excitement. “I even have binoculars from when I took an ornithology class in undergrad. I’ll bring them when I pick up Sarah this afternoon.”

“Orna what now?” Joel questioned. He had no idea what kind of class you were talking about, but he loved how smart you were.

“Ornithology,” you repeated, drawing out each syllable with a soft giggle. “It’s the study of birds. It was a really cool class. We had field trips around campus once a week to go bird watching. I got pretty good at naming the different species that we saw, but it’s been a while.”

In awe of you, Joel’s eyes crinkled with the strength of his grin. “Would you, uh, maybe want to go on an adventure with us tomorrow?” he asked, stumbling a bit over his words, a nervous energy welling up in his gut as he once again sort of asked you out. “We could go for a hike in the county park, and you could teach us about birds.”

You gazed at him, lips pursed in thought, for long enough that Joel began to fidget, brimming with recurring doubt. Did he misinterpret the signs after all? He wouldn’t be surprised. He wasn’t any good at this stuff anymore. You responded before he could spiral back into the land of self-doubt. “That sounds great, Joel. I’d love to.”

A visceral relief washed through him. “It’s a date then,” he said, his voice deep and rough while his dark chocolate eyes locked with yours. A satisfied smirk graced his lips as your eyebrows rose in surprise. Too quickly, doubt clouded your pretty eyes, and you laughed it off like he was teasing you. Joel sighed. He would be more direct next time. He’d get the hang of asking a woman on a date again someday. Hopefully.

“We’ll have to go early, is that okay? Birds are more active in the early morning hours,” you explained, heading for the door to find Sarah.

“That’s fine. We’ll make a day of it, grab lunch somewhere when we’re done.” Joel followed you into the house, already plotting out conversations in his head on how to properly ask you on a date.

The rest of the day went by in a blur for Joel and before he knew it, the job was finished, and it was only mid-afternoon when he arrived home. You pulled into the driveway with Sarah shortly after him and he came down from taking a shower to find the pair of you on the living room floor playing a racing video game.

“Hi Daddy!” Sarah exclaimed as he kissed the top of her head and took a seat on the couch. It didn’t take long before Sarah asked him to play as well and the three of you were taking turns racing against each other, laughing when one of you crashed.

There were moments, when your gaze would connect with Joel’s and he’d swear you shared the same thought – this was how it could be if you were together, a family.

“Do you want to stay for pizza? Tommy and your dad are coming over,” Joel asked when Sarah’s attention focused elsewhere.

“We have an early morning ahead of us, Miller. Don’t be up late partying with the guys,” you replied with a smile that reached your twinkling eyes. “I’ll stay for a bit, but then I need to go dig out the old binoculars and get my beauty sleep.”

“You’re already beautiful,” he murmured, watching your eyes widen as you smile demurely.

“You say the sweetest things, Joel.” Your voice held a teasing tone that drove Joel nuts. How was he ever going to convince you that he was serious?

Shortly thereafter, Tommy arrived, pizza and beer in hand. “Come on, Millers! I come bearing gifts. JB here yet?”

“I’m right here, ya troglodyte,” your dad called from the front yard, stepping up the porch steps as Tommy whirled around.

“What the hell did you just call me?”

“A troglodyte. Learned it from Spud and thought it fitting since you don’t close doors behind you.” He winked at you as he teased the younger Miller brother. Placing a kiss on your cheek, he added, “Hey Spud, haven’t seen you in a bit. Must be working too hard. Miller! You workin’ my daughter too hard?”

Joel spluttered. He was too busy gazing at you to pay much attention to JB and feared he got busted. “I hardly think so,” he grumbled, fighting the blush he knew rose to his cheeks.

“Ah, in the same ol’ grumpy mood, I see. Maybe this’ll help.” Your dad placed a 12-pack of Joel’s favorite beer on the coffee table before taking a seat in the recliner he always chose at Joel’s place.

The five of you sat around the living room, eating pizza with beer for the men and sodas for you and Sarah. The conversation revolved mainly around construction work, and you ended up taking your leave before the sun dipped below the horizon. Your dad followed not long after, eager to relax in his own well-worn recliner.

“Alright, nugget. It’s time for bed. We have an early morning tomorrow,” Joel said, swinging the young girl over his shoulder much to her delight. “Say goodnight to Uncle Tommy.”

“G’night Uncle Tommy,” Sarah squealed as Joel tickled her sides.

“G’night nugget.”

Always a good kid, Sarah went right to bed after brushing her teeth, but not before pestering Joel about why they had to get up early on a Saturday. Pressing a loving kiss to her forehead, Joel tucked her in. “We’re going on a surprise adventure. Now, to sleep with you.”

Returning to the living room, Tommy handed him another beer as the brothers watched Sportscenter. “Have you made any progress yet?” Tommy asked.

Matching dark eyes met as Joel shrugged. He knew his brother was talking about you. “Some, I guess. Told ya I took her to lunch on Sunday and that felt a lot like a date. I asked her to go on a hike with me and Sarah tomorrow. I told her it was a date after she agreed, but she thought I was jokin’.” He paused, taking a long pull from the bottle of beer. “Then, this afternoon, I told her she was beautiful and again she thought I was teasing.”

Swirling the bottle of beer in his hand, Tommy shook his head and chuckled. “She’s givin’ you a run for your money, brother. Good on her.”

“Good on her,” Joel mocked, but his tone quickly turned to pleading. “I need more advice. Surely you got something up your sleeve for women like her.”

“Nah, brother. The only way to get someone like her is to be yourself and keep chipping away. It’s clear she has as much self-doubt as you do, so it’ll take her time to believe you’re for real.” Tommy eyed his brother a moment as he mulled over the situation. “Though, I will say this. You need to start bein’ direct – come right out and ask her on a date, for fuck’s sake. Enough hinting at shit. It’s clearly gettin’ you nowhere.”

You arrived on the Millers’ doorstep bright and early the next morning, two travel mugs of coffee and a container of chocolate milk in hand. A pair of binoculars and Sibley’s Guide to Birds were tucked away in the bag you wore over your shoulder.

“Wakey, wakey, Millers! The early bird gets the worm!”

Joel and Sarah were perched at the breakfast bar when you let yourself in, both looking half awake and less than enthusiastic about being up so early on a Saturday.

“Too damn cheerful for this early,” Joel grumbled half-heartedly. His pitiful smile looked more like a grimace, yet you found it adorable. It made you ache to run your fingers through his hair until you drew a real smile from his lips.

“Don’t gimme that. This was your idea, Joel Miller!” you sassed in return, patting his broad shoulders. “Let’s go!”

Herding cats, that was the perfect analogy to describe the next fifteen minutes as you tried to get the Millers moving and into Joel’s truck. Just when you’d get one heading for the door, the other would disappear. Finally, you managed to wrangle them both into the truck and you were well on your way to the preserve. The ride didn’t take long, Sarah peppering you with questions about birds she found in your guidebook as Joel drove. By the time Joel pulled into a parking spot at the entrance to the trails, everyone was wide awake and ready to hike.

The morning was crisp and refreshing as you zipped up your jacket and looked around. You’d never been to this preserve before and wanted to find a trail map, but the mini-Miller was too anxious to wait for that.

“I can hear the birds chirping already, Daddy! Come on!” Sarah exclaimed, charging toward the first trail excitedly.

Joel beamed as Sarah took off, turning to you before following her. “Ready?” He reached out a hand, palm up and fingers splayed, inviting you to grasp it.

Your eyes trailed from his outstretched hand to his heavy gaze, uncertain of what to make of the signals Joel gave off. The feelings you harbored for the man grew stronger each day, yet you couldn’t quite get a read on whether he shared even a fraction of those feelings. Somedays, you thought he did. Yet others, you figured he thought you had a crush on him and found amusing. Your heart sunk on those days, causing the doubt to linger every time he did something to make you think otherwise.

The moment carried on too long, you realized, as Joel’s warm eyes began to shutter, the tender smile starting to slip. Bolstering your nerves, you plunged ahead and grasped his large hand in yours, tangling your fingers with his thicker ones. His hand was warm, skin roughened from years of working with his hands, and it felt wonderful against your smoother skin.

Heat flashed up your chest and neck as Joel led you down the trail to catch up with Sarah. A broad smile never left your lips as you walked.

“I meant it, you know,” Joel’s deep, gruff voice rumbled from deep in his chest and you glanced up to meet his gaze. “What I said yesterday, about this being a date. If that’s something you’re interested in.”

Heart thumping wildly, your mouth opened and closed a few times before you found your words. “Are you sure? I mean, yes. Yes, I’m interested.” You winced at how flustered you sounded, tripping over your words. And, worse yet, why was your voice so squeaky?

“Never been surer in my life,” Joel confirmed, his gaze searing your skin as he watched you, taking in every minute change in expression. His hand squeezed yours gently, steadying the butterflies in your stomach.

“I would really like that,” you replied breathlessly, relieved to finally have confirmation that the moments between you and Joel weren’t all in your head. You were on Cloud 9 until reality smacked you in the face. “But what about my dad?”

Sarah popped around a copse of live oaks, startling you both from. “Come on, you slow pokes! The birdies aren’t gonna wait all day for us to find them!” Not trusting you both to follow her on your own, the little girl latched on to your hand and pulled you along the trail. “You need to help me find the birds,” Sarah reminded you.

Joel’s hand still clasped in yours, you dragged him behind you, grinning over your shoulder at him. “I’m liking this date already, Joel.”

He beamed back at you. The three of you walked in silence for a bit, listening to the sounds of nature around you. When you spotted a bird blind, you handed Sarah the binoculars and the guidebook, challenging her to identify as many birds as she could from that spot. Joel stood next to you, watching Sarah enjoy the activity.

“Let’s see where this goes first before we worry about your dad,” he murmured. “I’d like to take you on a few dates first, okay?”

It made sense and you nodded, pleased at the way things were working out. Your hand remained in Joel’s throughout the birding adventure and though Sarah never mentioned it, her smile grew wide at the sight.

tbc

p.s. we should start building up to the good stuff in the next chapter.

Taglist: @mellymbee @untamedheart81 @anoverwhelmingdin @runningmom94 @leilanixx @pedropascalfan221 @lovelyjess69 @sarahhxx03 @sofiparallel @tammythr @lulawantmula @islacharlotte @allyourfavesinoneblog @lover-of-books-and-tea @pedropascalsbbg @ashleyfilm @brittmb115 @lilmizmoz @loveisacowboyyy @shotgun-shelby @deninoe @casssiopeia @caitlynsixxx

[thefreakandthehair]

no better version I could pretend to be tonight

written for ‘charm’ wc: 548 | rated: m | cw: eddie munson's near-death experience and description of panic attack/nightmares @steddiemicrofic

Eddie wakes up screaming. 

It’s how he experiences the crushing weight of living when he was so certain he would die beneath that fiery, starless sky. No one sees the hollowed out face of Death and comes back through the veil unscathed, but if the only sacrifice Eddie makes for his life is his right nipple, some flesh, and peaceful sleep, he figures it’s a bargain. 

Every night for the last several months, a hole cracks open in his chest where his lungs once were that bottoms out and refuses to hold the oxygen he desperately tries to pull in to fill the void. His skin feels too tight, his throat hoarse, his palms sore from the clenching of his fingers into fists that swipe at nothing. The taste of blood and rust coats his mouth, a phantom sense that nothing but time dissolves. 

Casual shrugs and black coffee disguise his discomfort when asked if he’s okay. 

Never better. I’m alive, aren’t I? He jokes.

That should be enough of an answer for his new friends. And it is, mostly. They don’t believe him, but they leave well enough alone. 

That is, everyone but Steve Harrington. 

Steve’s proven himself to be an enigma, wispy in Eddie’s grasp. He can’t quite get a handle on him, but he’s been nothing but good to Eddie besides his relentless insistence that Eddie try sleeping at his house. 

“Just give it a shot, Munson. I’m tellin’ you, I’ve got this sleep charm.” 

“If you wanna get me in your bed that bad, you’re gonna have to try a little harder than that.”

“If that’s all I was doing, this would be a lot easier.”

The kicker is that he does. He trusts Steve, and maybe he just wants an excuse to pretend that Steve’s his to wake up to but the next time he wakes up screaming, he gathers his shit, scribbles a note for Wayne in the kitchen with shaking hands, and drives across town. He parks, walks up to the door with a pillow under one arm, and knocks loudly, unencumbered by the liminal space that is Loch Nora at two o’clock in the morning. 

Steve opens the door before detaching the deadbolt, sleep rumpled and adorable– save for the nail bat just barely visible through the crack of the door. He’s shirtless in just a pair of pajama pants, blue and green stripes that hang a little loose from his hips. 

“Eddie?” Steve mumbles, his voice croaky and low as he rubs at his right eye. “Fuck.” He closes the door just long enough to undo the deadbolt and holds his arm out, ushering Eddie into the quiet of the house. 

“Here for your sleep charm, or whatever.” Eddie looks around the room, dimly lit by the motion sensor porch light through the window and doubts himself. “This is stupid as shit. I can just—” 

Steve shakes his head and places a hand on Eddie’s lower back, gently guiding him upstairs to his bedroom.  “Don’t even think about it. You’re here, and we’re gonna get you some sleep. C’mon.” 

It won’t be the last time Eddie wakes to the tickle of Steve’s chest hair against his nose and the gentle press of lips to the top of his head.

there's a version of this that's 3k that lives in my google docs and maybe one day, that'll end up on my ao3 [update: the 3k version did, indeed, end up on my ao3]

[erins-quinn]

Please please please sydcarmy fic revs, I need some fluffy goodness. I’ve read a lot of the bigger/well known fics I think - fundamentals series, intimacy series, the roses AU (hannokoi? Loved it, but I can’t spell it) , Sydney has a child AU, HS Labs AU.

Know anything big or small for fluffy soft goodness

Think I need a stroke my hair and everything’s gonna be alright kinda moment

yes. yes. *prayer hands* thank u for giving me an excuse to make another list. here’s what I got. (organizing by rating again; if anyone on this list has more than one work read all of it, it’s all baller)

General Audiences

it’s like I’ve been awakened by Amiera_Sapphire (@amieraisposting)

Menu découverte by itaaa

Teen and Up

all my ghosts (i know you feel them too) by cruciomione (@cruciomione)

Family Heirlooms by bioloyg (@bioloyg)

blind faith by papercranium

and we’ll be laughing about how we used to smoke by emilybrontay (@sennenrose)

reset by MissAmyShay (@missamyshay)

maybe this is just the next step by puzzlepuppy (that’s me!)

Renovations and Observations in Liminal Space by kdbleu (@kdbleu)

traces of ink by pureseasalt

Shine, Baby, Shine! by currymanganese (@currymanganese)

at last by because_the_night

moon river by disheveledcurls (@disheveledcurls)

Eating for Two by Blissymbolics

Just Try to Stay Out of Your Own Way, Maybe? by anxietycroissant (@anxietycroissant)

Frozen Pipe by turbulenthandholding (@turbulenthandholding)

Mature

to try and understand, to never look away. by hcneymooners (romqntics)

it’s a lot to ask of me (to believe in you) by adogwithabirdatyour_door

Chicago, Illinois by shewalksoverme (@shewalksoverm3)

Chill by onelargecoffeepls (@onelargecoffeepls)

Heatwave by daydreamgoddess (@daydreamgoddess)

Sydney, Baby, Use Your Head by Ceselle1024 (@ambeauty)

do you like me for me? by ogigia

not a lot, just forever by hotelfoxtrot

we keep trying to talk about us by willowcia

Explicit

Three Goals. Go. by OysterKnife (@purposechef)

If You Ask Me by peachybunnybabie (@ethxocore)

a moving interlude by sashafiercer (@sashafiercest)

Shed Your Skin by DoubleApple (@doubleappled)

before the dawn by mswyrr (@mswyrr)

you make christmas sound like a four letter word by bobaheadshark

Tender Blooms by tiltedtemple

save me sydcarmy fic you’re my only hope sydcarmy fic. (whether or not your on this list I am yelling at you to keep writing and keep being inspired I am in your corner!!!)

[robsheridan]

One year ago, my "Meat Gala" AI body horror fashion series, imagining demons from Hell attending the MET Gala, went wildly viral on social media (here's a Buzzfeed article/interview with me about it)

My subversion of the event's elite glamour with nightmarish gore that commented on the grotesque opulence of the 1% really resonated with people, and as the first AI horror art to go viral in this way it was the first exposure many people had to the dark side of what was possible with AI imaging. It also led a lot of very angry Christians who inexplicably thought it was real (enjoy the comments here and here), and it also led to terms like "body horror," "flesh," and even "Cronenberg" getting banned from MidJourney (I didn't even use the term "Cronenberg" in my prompts), sealing the work in a liminal space in AI art history, unable to be recreated or continued. Of course it didn't slow down my AI horror journey, and the spirit of this work - both visually and in out-of-control viral impact - continued this year with my Valentine of the Flesh body horror fashion series.

This series is also special for me because of the subsequent conversations I had with MidJourney's DavidH in which I argued against their censorship of horror art, and he revealed a depressingly vanilla view of "art" and "beauty" that he sought to curate with his platform. What I had discovered, first with VIIR and then with The Meat Gala, was that the algorithmic opinion towards artistic beauty which made MidJourney at the time leagues ahead of previous AI art tech, could be subverted to make stunning and wholly unique horror art. The elegant way those early versions of the software blended elements together like surrealist paintings was meant to ensure that any prompt result gave you something that looked like beautiful art, but what I found is that if you pointed it in the right direction, it would do the same thing with blood and flesh and bones and tentacles, to spectacular uncanny horror effect. In the case of The Meat Gala, the effect was even more potent, as elements of demonic body horror gore were twisted through lenses of beauty, glamour, and opulence. To me, I was making beautiful surreal nightmares, and I was floored with the potential I saw and the ideas it gave me. But David and the other MidJourney creators saw nothing but a perversion of their software. They were, in fact, shocked by my Meat Galaseries and worried that its viral spread was giving the wrong public impression of MidJourney before it had even officially launched. They didn't know their software could make something like that, because they didn't have the type of minds that had ever even thought to try.

In that moment, when I genuinely surprised and upset the creators of the software, I was able to let go of the nagging feeling I had that "I didn't really make this, the software did" and feel true ownership over my AI work. After all, if the creators of the software didn't even know such art was possible, it went against everything they created the software for, and they rushed to try to prevent it from happening again, then I had truly made something unique to me as an artist, that would have never existed from anyone else. It was a new type of creation, but a very real and personal creation nonetheless.  As much of a bummer as it was to find out the creators of the coolest horror art tool I'd ever encountered actively hated horror art, I was empowered and inspired to see what else I could pull out of each new liminal phase of a rapidly-progressing technology.

The Meat Gala series also led to a very cool art collaboration, resulting in something new I'm very excited about that I'll be announcing Monday May 1st, the day of the 2023 MET Gala. Stay tuned!

[wylanzahn]

New-ish post, kinda posting this on different platforms and getting a general vibe check for some ideas I have. But basically this Halloween I want to actually do something for the TTRPG and Actualplay world (oh yeah I’m into those kinds of things). I want to try and get both players, GMs, and casual viewers alike something fun to look forward to this especially spooky season. I’ll probably talk a little more when we get closer to the actual season of scare-giving but just know that if you’re interested I’m still looking for people to join in!!

As my team and I’d first debut we’re going to try and do a two to four session actual play, which will probably be released in the weeks leading up to Halloween. We’ve had a couple good friend way in on the matter of “setting” but now I come to you fine folk. Mind you this is a horror campaign/arc so if…

Isn’t your thing, keep on a moving.

But without further ado here are a couple of the possible settings for our players, and myself, this coming espookee season…

1.) Somewhere off the coast of Florida, 1926 end of the first major housing boom in the state, a small island which calls back to the Spanish Empire, is Isla Boñyela, a small port made tourist location during the boom of disposable wealth in 1920s America. A small group of friends from the northeast tag along down for the perfect paradise vacation. Only to discover the island is much much older than anyone could have ever assumed. Whilst dealing with upstart gangsters, unnerving US soldiers, and the terrified locals they find something older than even undead conquistadors.

While I don’t have a working title, this is an old project in the running which I’ve had a few attempts at revamping over time. Its previous title was “perfect paradise vacation,” and runs on the Call of Cthulhu 7th Edition game. Anywho it’s a blast of fun with Caribbean lore, tone of anti-imperialism, and something dark lurking beneath the waves.

2.) 1950’s America, the nonexistent state of Mid-Atlantia (DMV coded) in a small suburban neighborhood where nothing goes wrong… it’s almost “All-Hallows-Eve” and little Johnny and Susie want nothing more than to trick or treat this year with all the big kids, Dad’s finally getting the big promotion at work, and Mom just got a new waffle iron! Sure everything is neat here in America. Heck you just got new neighbors! Newlyweds in fact from somewhere big and fancy, they sure aren’t like any of us in our simple town. But… and you can’t say exactly why but things are different. Or perhaps they’re all too the same? Everyday a repeat of ever other bland day that followed you over and over and over and over… and you could swear, while no one may listen to you there’s someone out there. Stalking you from outside your own home- or- perhaps, he’s just your friendly new neighbor welcoming you… to the end.

Ahhhhhh! I’ve also been working on this one for a sec and god writing it out does excite me. This is also a Call of Cthulhu game but modified/homebrewed to have a uniquely 1950s horror feel. This is definitely one of the more unique games I’ve written and am truly interested in seeing where it goes (even if we don’t choose it). This is for those who feel like isolation, fear of the unknown, fear from within, and liminal space horror comes best into play! So whadya say neighbor?

3.) The Enemy of My Enemy is My Friend, or How I Learned to Love Strahd, okay so this one is a lot less horror-y and falls much more under the comedic spooky category, just so yall know. Deep in the middle of Barovia, the ancient kingdom of Vampires, meets a council of Count Strahd von Zarovich's greatest commanders and lieutenants to hunt down Strahd's greatest enemy Rudolph van Richten and his party of heroes known as "The Grape-Smashers." Strahd's lieutenants have been gifted powers greater than any mere mortals, but are these gifts enough to stop Van Richten, or even enough to stop the personal ambitions of each other? Come find out in "How I Learned to Love Strahd."

Okay, as much as this may seem like a joke suggestion it cracks me up and I feel like it would be ill-advised of me to not at least mention it. In an era where "The Curse of Strahd," is well-overdone at this point, it's worth a take from an all evil "revenge story." Obviously this will be in Dungeons and Dragons 5th Edition, which, in my opinion, is really hard to use for horror, but this is a nice go-around. Come for the evil PCs, maybe a PvP battle or two, and a game of intrigue in the shadows of Barovia! All that and a buff Van Richten.

4.) Before Annapolis was ever called such it was known as Providence, a settlement of exiled Puritans in the Province of Maryland, but these early days were no easy set-up for the far-flung protestants... in the mid 1600s the English Civil War spilled out into their holdings across the waves as brother turned on brother, clan erasing clan, and something from the shores of the Old World would arrive in the New. When around every corner could be someone you've known your whole life, what's stopping them from hunting you in the depths of winter. All matters made worse when rumors of a witch begins circulating your small home.

Think "The VVitch" (2015) meets "A Field in England" (2013) meets Atun Shei's recent film "The Sudsbury Devil" (2023). It is the unexplored wilderness of early colonial Maryland, but the hateful warmongering that slowly builds that makes the horror and tension so clear. Unsure of what system we'll be using, but maybe the new Regency Cthulhu system.

5.) The Great Baltimore Fire of 1904 destroyed some 140 Acres of Baltimore proper... and in it's rubble awakened something far worse. But you and your fellow survivors are just trying to get by in the aftermath of the fire... only for something to call out, whether some strange magicks or perhaps just a sickness... but sickness doesn't even linger like this... it doesn't call to you...

Some more local history, aspiring from the actual Fire of 1904 things quickly devolve from there as rumors of a cult begin to spread along the streets of Rosland Park... a mysterious illness leaving even more dead... and the death of an eclectic professor. Definitely using the Call of Cthulhu 7th Edition for this one.

Aaaaaaaand that's it! Let me know what y'all think!

[alexibeeart]

MyHouse.wad

On March 2 2023, a user called Veddge posted this thread in the WADs and Mods Doomworld forum:

MyHouse

Excited to finally release this tribute map. Last August I lost a good childhood friend of mine and took it pretty hard. When I was visiting my hometown for his funeral, I connected with his parents who shared with me some of his old belongings. Among them was a copy of an old map of his backed up on a 3.5” floppy from high school. Thomas and I were into amateur Doom mapping in the early 00s but I had never seen this map of his prior to uncovering it on one of the old floppy discs. As a way of paying tribute to him and all the great memories we had together, I took the plunge and installed Doom Builder in order to polish up his map and add a few modern amenities just for convenience sake.

I haven’t touched an editor in over 15 years so it was quite a surprise to find out how easy mapping has become. I may have gotten a little carried away with these new UDMF features and, as such, the map is designed for GZDoom. From the text file:

Doom 2 - GZDoom, hardware renderer

1 map: Not much of a challenge and roughly 10 minutes of play time. All difficulty settings implemented.

Jumping & crouching disabled, freelook is fine

Lots of Doomcute!

Making maps of your house was all the rage back-in-the-day, but I feel like this is a pretty adorable and detailed tribute to my friend and a great way to share something of him with a community we loved. Miss you, Tom.

Download myhouse.wad

Contained within is a link to a Google Drive folder containing myhouse.wad—a DOOM map of a normal 20th century suburban house where you mow down baddies and collect a blue, yellow, and red keycard to reach the exit—photos, text files, screenshots, and some images of a sketchbook.

There is also another version of the mod in a different format: myhouse.pk3. Opening this file to start a new game shows the map exactly the same as myhouse.wad ... until it isn’t.

Read Vegge’s original post, poke around in the GDrive, don’t look up anything else if you can help it, and give this a go. If you’re stumped, you might need to get some fresh air outside. General content warnings in the tags; spoiler cws under the cut. Obviously there is much more to this map than it seems ...

general content warnings for myhouse.pk3: blood, gore, violence, guns, weapons, pov, monsters, zombies, demons, flashing lights, eye strain

spoilery content warnings for myhouse.pk3: liminal spaces, the backrooms, unreality, substance abuse, alternate reality, enclosed spaces, open spaces, animal death, mirrors, mirror world, spiders, fire ... please ask me to tag anything i missed! this is still a very new puzzlebox of a game and it’s possible there’s still more to discover ...

[avonne-writes]

"#he can’t be a simple mortal#gale cleven" reminds me of the angel au, which is my fav of all of your ideas (though there's tough competition in there!), and those tags got me wondering if you'd like to talk more on that au? for example, what would buck and bucky's interactions look like? if gale can't be seen or talk to john, how would john become aware of him? (i have high hopes for your creativity in that matter, given the beautiful liminal spaces you created in reverie) also, can gale look for emotional support from angel friends when things start going sideways? and who are the higher-ups who assign him to john? and as for john, when/if he becomes aware of gale, what does that do to his belief system and his many superstitions? (so many questions, feel free to ignore any or all of them, i'll keep waiting patiently for the story, no worries)

Thank you so much, I’m so happy that you like the angel AU! It’s on my list, but I needed a break from heavy multichapters after Reverie.

Great questions! 😊 (here's a drabble previously posted in this verse)

From the ethereal plane, Gale is able to interact with the human plane in various ways, mainly through nature (wind, warmth etc.), sensations (a caress), chance (creating "coincidences" for example) and suggestions that the human interprets as their own thoughts. He can also attune himself to particular humans and sort of listen in on their thoughts. Some angels are better at these, others are not so talented.

The problem with Bucky is that his previous guardian fucked up and Bucky is now resistant to angelic influence. He ignores it or straight-up acts against it. After a while, Gale figures out that Bucky only responds to humans. So, he has to appear as a human too.

Gale also hugs and touches Bucky a lot from the ethereal plane. Whenever Bucky is particularly lonely or upset. It’s a calming sensation that helps Bucky breathe/sleep/cry, whichever he needs. He doesn’t feel it as a touch and it's different for Gale too. Gale is not used to touch on the human plane and he would shy away from it at first.

Gale has angel friends. The most important one is Benny. They meet up sometimes, talk about their humans and race each other flying. Gale is also higher ranking than a lot of other angels and he can give orders to lower ranking ones.

I haven't decided about Gale's higher ups yet. Probably OC versions of actual angels. This is a challenge I need to figure out for the ending of the story.

Excellent question about Bucky's belief system - my current hc is that he developed his superstitions in the first place because of the botched job his previous guardian did. Basically, Bucky tuned in on the angelic influence and started to try to make sense of it and take control of it. A part of him feels triumphant when he learns the truth, there's a sense of knew it! in his mind. But he also feels like a huge gap opened between him and Gale and it devastates him. He plummets into despair because he doesn’t Gale the angel, only Gale the human.

The storyline and the details of this world are still a work in progress, but these are my current ideas. Thanks for the ask! 🩷

[ww2yaoi]

Listen I want to be into Webgott because I see all your hype and I’m like obviously it’s great and every time I try I’m like , “eh” about it, like what am I missiiiiing why can’t I get into thiiiiis?

So like. What’s the thing. I think maybe I have a hard time because they’re not bffs but they also aren’t exactly like mortal enemies and I’m having trouble figuring out what the vibe should be.

So anyways if you’ve got something to pitch me the sale I’m all ears.

I won't pitch to you because if something doesn't click, it doesn't click and with ships I feel like you either get it or you don’t, so I'm not gonna try and convince you because I honestly feel like that’s a waste of everyone’s time and would be a lot of effort on my end and like why do I give a fuck if you don’t like it (to be brutally honest). However, I can explain what I do like about it. This is going to be kind of rambly and fractured but whatever.

I guess first and foremost I see them both as very interesting characters in their own right. Joe and Web both hate the Germans, but they joined the war for different reasons. Web wanted to write about it, considering himself a kind of warrior poet. He wanted to be on the ground and experience the war as it happened, in all its honest brutality. He comes from a fairly wealthy family, and goes to an Ivy League school, yet he forwent becoming an officer to be a lowly private and sleep in holes. That’s weird. He’s a bit bizarre for doing that.

Joe, in the show at least, is Jewish. So this is personal to him. He’s fighting because he has to fight, because someone has to kill these Nazis and he’s very much willing to do that. He’s a good soldier for the most part, he doesn’t answer to authority all that well and he’s bloodthirsty to a detriment at times, but he’s extremely loyal to his friends and protective of the group.

Arguably, Web is not that good of a soldier. He doesn’t volunteer for anything. He didn’t break out of the hospital to rejoin his friends. He’s kind of a loner, scribbling in his notebook. He’s intellectual and pretentious and he gets bullied for it. All this culminates in his and Joe’s fraught relationship in The Last Patrol which is kind of the crux of the whole ship. Joe sees the worst in Web, but Web eventually proves himself and is accepted back into the group by Joe. I don’t want to explain the whole episode, you get the point.

All this to say, they’re very different people, of different social strata, and they never would’ve looked twice at each other had the war not happened, which is kind of the hidden beauty of these worldwide conflicts if there is any. The mass mobilization of millions of people under the umbrella of one cause has a sort of equalizing effect where different social groups come together. Joe and Web literally come from opposite coasts. The symbolism is pretty obvious and poignant to me.

Anyways, I guess what appeals to me about Webgott is their similarities and differences and how these dichotomies produce a dynamic with a lot of potential for understanding and misunderstanding. You’re right that they’re not exactly friends and they’re not exactly enemies, but while this seems to put you off this is the whole appeal to me. They exist in this liminal space where they’re constantly feeling each other out and fighting to understand each other and correcting their assumptions of each other. It’s not easy, but there’s a draw there because they’re so inexplicable to one another. They’re mirrors to each other in a lot of ways. They’re both their own people. They both have this complex capacity for love and violence. I see them both as very passionate individuals with a lot of inner turmoil, and I think they could find love and comfort in each other if only they could break down each other’s walls or be brave enough to lower them themselves.

Ships should have conflict to be interesting. There should be some sort of barrier to having the perfect relationship or else the whole objective of storytelling and narrative is a pointless exercise. That gives people something to write about and chew on. And I think with Webgott there’s a lot to chew on.

[something-tofightfor]

Liminality: Part 9

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Female Reader

Word Count: 7,976

Rating: This one's actually very tame, but I'm gonna go with M for overall content + language.

Summary: You and Frankie have decided some things about the next full moon, but there are plenty more to consider. Conversations with some of the people that he's closest to prove to you that Frankie's friends do, in fact have his - and your - best interests in mind.

A surprise revelation puts a few more things into perspective ... and widens your new circle of friends a little more.

Author’s note:

The action picks up the next chapter - I promise. This one is a lot more focused on relationship building and setting groundwork. There are also a couple clues in here (as well as some nods to the movie) ... let's see if you can catch them, Thank you for reading! Please come say hello in my inbox or through DMs if you want!

This one goes out specifically to @anniet852 for making the request that I post it tonight. I hope you enjoy, and thank you for reaching out.

Masterlist (for the journal entries and all of the other 'extras' + previous chapters)

There was something warm and soft pressed against the space just in front of your ear, and after you blinked a few times, you realized what it was. It’s Frankie, and he’s kissing me. 

Humming quietly, you rolled back and toward him, but he stopped you with one hand on your side, sighing out your name. “No time. I’m gonna be late.” What? “Didn’t wanna get up so I stayed with you as long as I could.” Oh. “Stay in bed.”

“But -” You voice was hoarse and thick with sleep, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“No, it’s early.” He kissed you again, that time a little closer to your mouth. “Stay as long as you want. Make yourself at home. Spare key’s in the kitchen. Take it with you and give it back next time I see you.” His tone was low and soothing - a quiet rumble in your ear. Even though you wanted to get up, you felt yourself drifting again, sinking deeper into the nest of blankets that smelled like him as he pulled the top one up and over your shoulders. “I’ll call you tonight.” 

You hummed in agreement, nodding, and Frankie squeezed your shoulder but didn’t say anything else. A few minutes later, you thought you heard the front door close, but you were already almost back asleep. 

The next time you woke up, the room was filled with light, and the clock on the bedside table said 10:27. I just slept for almost ten hours. Pushing yourself upright, you rubbed at your eyes with one hand, yawning. 

It was strange to be in Frankie’s house alone, but you felt comfortable, and there was a large part of you that was excited to have the opportunity to look around before you left. You weren’t going to snoop, but you did want to get a better idea of Frankie as a man without him only a few feet or a room away. 

He’d told you to make yourself at home, and so you did, setting the coffee pot to brew while you looked around the kitchen and into the living room. 

There were pictures hanging on the fridge - Frankie and Carmen in his back yard, one of him and a woman you assumed was Becca with a swaddled baby held between them, a group shot of Frankie and the guys. He looked happy in all of them, but you noticed a hollowness in his expression in the one with the baby, dark circles under his eyes and his face much thinner than it currently was. 

Trailing a finger over it, you chewed on your lower lip, feeling your stomach twist. He’d told you about using, but seeing proof of how much he’d struggled just after his daughter was born was a shock. But he’s doing better now, and he’s still in Carmen’s life, and … things are good. 

His past would be something that the two of you needed to discuss in more depth, just so you were on the same page - especially if you stayed in Florida. There was no way around it - the drugs and mission to South America coupled with his adjustment to post-military life and becoming a werewolf were a lot for anyone to deal with. 

But since you knew he’d had talked to so few people, for Frankie, it was likely much more difficult to open up than normal. And I want to help him, if he’ll let me.

After making your coffee, you wandered through the rest of the house, glancing at the books on his shelves. You lingered on a few more photos of him and his family throughout the years and the decor that he’d chosen to fill the space. 

It all made you smile, because the inside of his house was a reflection of Frankie as you knew him. Aside from the hidden millions and the wolf status, he hadn’t lied when he’d said that what you saw was what you got, and that impressed you. Because that isn’t always the case with people.

Curling up on the couch with your mug, you looked around the bright, sunny room and grinned, taking a deep breath. It was a house that you could get used to being in, and the fact that Frankie trusted you to be there alone spoke volumes. 

But the longer you sat, the more your thoughts drifted. And after a little while, they drifted back to the previous night … and what you’d almost said. Is it possible? Could I really… You sipped your coffee and eyed the darkened screen of the TV, thinking. He’d heard you, obviously, and had likely pieced things together, even though you’d managed to keep from finishing your sentence. “But it was right there.” Taking another drink, you closed your eyes. “And I was definitely thinking it.” 

Speaking out loud to the empty house comforted you, as did admitting that what you’d almost said was the truth. 

Nothing about meeting and being with Frankie made any sense. The timeline was expedited. The circumstances were unconventional, to say the least. He was not the type of person you’d ever gravitated toward before, even without the wolf component. But none of that mattered, because from the moment you’d met him, you were drawn to Frankie on every level, and the pull had only intensified as the days passed. 

You wondered exactly how he felt, and what he’d tell you if you asked. 

You were curious to know if he returned your affection to a similar level, or if you were moving too quickly and leaving him behind. It was more than sex for both of you, and he’d been the one to suggest the idea of giving a relationship a shot. But that doesn’t mean he loves me. That doesn’t mean it’s serious for him yet… does it? 

Pushing yourself upright, you went back into the kitchen and cleaned up after yourself, loading the dishes into the dishwasher and then wiping the countertop down. Pausing in front of one of the windows, you stared out and into the back yard, thinking. Your questions needed answers, even if only to give you a better idea where you and Frankie stood … and of what to expect moving forward. 

But more than that, the part of you that craved connection wanted reassurance that even though you’d fallen hard and fast, you weren’t alone in your feelings. You didn’t think you were, especially with the way he’d looked at you and spoken to you, sticking up for you in front of his friends and with Ashley. “I need to fucking go.” Smacking your hand on the counter, you groaned. “I need to be doing something and not just thinking about this.” 

Turning around, your eyes landed on the wall just behind the sink, and you laughed at the sight of it. It was a chalkboard - some of the surface covered in Frankie’s handwriting, other parts featuring notes and drawings from the guys that you snorted as you read through. You had no idea how you’d missed it previously, but with another grin, you reached for a piece of colored chalk and added a message to one of the open spaces. 

LOADED THE DISHWASHER. LEFT @ NOON. CALL ME IF YOU WANT TO. 

Pausing, you chewed on the inside of your cheek and then added the final touch - a heart and your name before spinning away and hurrying back into the bedroom to collect your stuff. 

He’d see it right away, and you knew it. 

And even though it was easily erased, the few words added to the wall were just another example of your insertion into his life … and seeing them next to the ones from his friends made you question things further. And I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s not that big a deal… fuck. 

You got ready to leave in only a few minutes, and when you stepped back into the kitchen to grab the keys, you lingered there, turning in a slow circle. 

Frankie leaving you alone in his home was a big step - no matter how you looked at it. But you still couldn’t get ahead of yourself or expect too much from him. And I won’t. Especially before we find this other wolf. 

The door closed and locked behind you, you headed for your car … but you spent the entire drive home in deep, silent thought. 

— 

Your phone rang almost three hours later, and the number on the screen was one that you didn’t recognize. You contemplated not answering but decided that you needed to, cautiously lifting the device to your ear as you said hello. I don’t know anyone here, and that’s a Florida area code, and … 

“Hey, it’s Pope.” Shoulders slumping in relief, you greeted him. “What are your plans this afternoon?” 

“I don’t have any.” Looking around your apartment, you wrinkled your nose. “I’m working right now, but -”

“Do you want to come over?” His invitation caught you off guard, and before you could reply, he continued. “‘Fish told me where you’re staying, and you’re not too far from Yova and me. You should meet her, and we need to talk.” 

“We do?” He laughed, and you realized how unsure you must have sounded, but Pope replied right away, still laughing. 

“We do. But I swear to god, it’s not the way it sounds.” You agreed, Pope letting you know that he’d be home whenever you wanted to head over. While you got ready, your mind ran wild with thoughts about what Pope wanted to talk to you about - and excitement about meeting Yovanna, who you’d heard a lot about in the weeks since you’d met Frankie and his friends. 

The drive was short, and it turned out that Pope’s house was slightly larger than Frankie’s. But as you pulled into the driveway, you remembered that Tom had told you it wasn’t his, and belonged to his parents. It’s nice, though. 

You parked and headed for the front door, raising your hand to knock. 

Before your knuckles made contact, the door opened and you were met with the smiling face of one of the most beautiful women you’d ever seen. “You must be Yovanna.” She nodded, her eyes widening. “I’m here to see Pope. I’m -”

“You’re Francisco’s.” Her smile grew. “I have heard a lot about you.” She opened the door all the way, inviting you in. “Santiago is outside. I’ll show you where.” She led you through the house, and as you moved, you thought about her words - and how she’d flat out called you Frankie’s, like it was common knowledge. Is it? “Before you go outside, I…��� She stopped in the kitchen and turned to face you, blinking rapidly. “What he is, it is … not his fault. Francisco is a good man.” 

“Wait, you…” She knows? Sucking in a breath, you shook your head. “Yovanna, I -”

“They don’t know that I know, but I do.” She reached for your hand. “I’ve seen it before. He’s seguro. Safe, not dangerous. The other one…” She shivered. “Be careful.” Yovanna pointed toward the door with one hand. “Listen to him. To both of them. I -” Your heart was pounding, but instead of interrupting her, you reached over and laid a hand on her shoulder, waiting until she trailed off to speak. 

“I know Frankie’s not dangerous.” She looked relieved, giving you a single nod. “I know it’s not his fault.” Her smile grew again, both of her eyes closing. “I’m here to help him get answers.” That shocked her, but before you could say anything else, she was hugging you, her hold tight. 

“He needs them. Deserves them.” Gesturing when she released you, she chuckled. “I’m going to start making dinner. I’ll let you two talk.” Yovanna turned away from you and then paused, looking back over her shoulder. “If you know about … Francisco, do you know about …”

“The money?” You nodded. “He told me everything.” Yovanna covered her face with both hands, exhaling loudly. And when she lowered them she looked relieved, her eyes shining with tears. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“He needs someone like you.” She wet her lips. “He needed someone like you a long time ago.” Without another word, she left the room, leaving you stunned and standing just inside the door that led to the back yard. 

You were overwhelmed, but didn’t want to keep Pope waiting, and so you headed outside and took a seat next to him on an empty deck chair. “You made it.” He looked over, smiling at you. “Good.” 

“I did.” Getting comfortable, you leaned back and looked out over the yard. “This is your parents’ place, right?”

“Yep. They’re on vacation right now. I paid for ‘em to go back home for a couple months, and my ma says she doesn’t ever want to come back here.” You laughed, watching as Pope rubbed at the back of his neck. “Both my parents were born here, in Florida, but I’ve got a ton of relatives that don’t live in the US, and since I can afford to send my parents to see them… why not?” He shrugged. “They’re happy, and Yova and I get to be here together.” 

“Frankie told me about Australia.” He nodded. “And Tom told me you guys are going back and forth between here and there.” Pope nodded, his eyes on you. “And I get it, Pope. She’s beautiful. And she seems …” Trailing off, you thought for a few seconds. “She seems like she can handle your shit.” 

He snorted, reaching up with one hand to rub at his beard - but he didn’t disagree. “She was the best thing that came outta being down there.The money’s great, but Yova? Fuck. I waited my whole goddamn life for her, and almost lost her for good because I didn’t do anything about it when I should have.” 

“Well you didn’t lose her.” Turning your head to look at him, you shrugged. “She’s here. You’re here. You’re together now, and that’s what matters.” He took a long breath and held it, and when Pope exhaled, he swore. What? What did I say? 

 “D’you know what I see when he looks at you?” He met your gaze, his expression unwavering. “Me, looking at her.” It hit you hard - because you knew that Pope wasn’t the type of man to lie about something so important. But he … he just … “I’ve known Frankie for a long fuckin’ time. And he hasn’t ever been like this with someone. Not even Becca, and there was a couple years when I thought they’d end up together forever.” 

“Pope, it’s only been weeks. We’re still -”

“He told you everything.” Santiago shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head. “He didn’t need to, but he did. He just about attacked Tom last night for giving you shit, and he’s started losing control around you to the fucking point that he can’t keep the wolf entirely at bay. Doesn’t matter if it’s been weeks or months, that shit is the truth, and -”

“I pulled a gun on him.” You looked down at your hands, frowning. “The morning he told me? I don’t know how I got past him and to my room fast enough to grab it, but -”

“And that’s another thing.” He straightened up and then leaned toward you. “The Francisco Morales I know? Never would have let you get to that gun. He never would have given you a chance to aim it. ‘Fish did. He stood there and let you point it at him.” Pope said your name, his smile small but still present. “Keeping you safe is his focus, even if it meant that he might have gotten hurt.” 

That information stunned you. It was something that you should have considered, but you hadn’t. He was in the military for a decade. Of course I shouldn’t have been able to get by him. Of course he could have overpowered me. He’s… “You know why I’m here, Pope.” He nodded, waiting. “For a second, I thought -”

“Did you? Did you really?” He closed his eyes, his fingers curling into a loose fist. “Because I might not know you that well, but if you’ve really been hunting wolves for as long as you say you have, if you thought Frankie was the one you were looking for, you wouldn’t have hesitated to pull that trigger. Instead, you let him explain.” 

“No, I gave him a chance to explain because I lo-” Your mouth snapped shut for the second time in less than twenty four hours, but unlike Frankie simply staying quiet and letting you recover, Pope’s eyes widened and he scoffed, slapping his palm against the arm of the chair. Shit. Shit. 

“I knew it.” His smile widened, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the same way Frankie’s did. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell him how fucking right I was.” 

“You can’t.” Your heart thumped against the back of your ribs, one hand shooting out so that you could grasp Pope’s wrist. “Santiago, it’s not … I can’t. Not until I find the Chaos wolf and deal with it.” You took a deep breath, fingers tightening. “I have to focus. I can’t even think about how much it …  how much he means to me.” 

Saying it out loud felt good, because even though Frankie knew that you cared, admitting how much you cared to someone that wasn’t directly involved was different. And it’s important, because now I can’t just pretend it isn’t the case. “Hey.” He said your name quietly, pulling his arm free from your grip. But instead of withdrawing it entirely, he took your hand in his and squeezed, urging you to meet his eyes.”I won’t say a goddamn word. Not yet. Not until it comes from you, or it comes from him, because it’s not my place.” 

“Really?” He nodded. “Thank you.” It was a relief, but Pope’s words made you wonder just how obvious you were being with your feelings. If he noticed, then Frankie might have, too. And what about the other guys? “No. I didn’t actually think that it was Frankie that was attacking people. And the last thing I was expecting was him to tell me what he is.” 

“But when he did …” Pope squeezed your hand one last time and then let go, pulling his arm up and then crossing both of them over his chest. “What did you do?” It wasn’t the question that you’d expected from him - but based on what you knew about Frankie and his friends, it was probably time that you stopped trying to anticipate how they were going to react. 

“I gave him a chance to explain. And I … told him the truth about myself.” Looking down, you linked your own fingers together, one thumb rubbing over the other’s knuckle. “And then I asked him to stay because I wanted to make sure he got sleep.” 

“You might be,” Pope started speaking, turning his chair toward where you sat before he went on. “You might be the best possible person to know his secret. Because not only do you believe him, you know what he’s going through. You understand wolves and their behavior, and thanks to your cousin, you know that it’s possible to be with one without problems.” 

“That’s why I’m worried.” Giving him a tight smile, you blinked back tears. “Pope, what if all of this is because everything is falling into place just right? What if none of this would be happening if he wasn’t a wolf and I wasn’t hunting them? What if he’s just lonely, and I’m a convenient -”

“‘Fish might not have had anything consistent in his life since he was bitten, but I wouldn’t say he’s been lonely.” He arched a brow. “He’s had no problem keeping all this shit separate from what he does in the bedroom before.” That gave you pause, and even though it stung to think about Frankie with other women, Pope’s words rang true. “But that’s one of the reasons I asked you to come over.” 

You’d wondered when that topic would come up. Pope’s invitation had been friendly, but there was business to discuss, and it seemed you’d finally worked around to that topic. “What reason?” 

“He wants you to see him on the night of a full moon.” You nodded, unsurprised that Pope knew. “And you know that one of us is always with him on those nights, just to keep an eye on things … and on him,” 

“Yes. He told me. And he showed me the tracker.” Pope dragged his fingers through this hair, narrowing his eyes, though he didn’t look away from you. “And yeah. I do want to go with him next time. What’s the problem with that?”

“We made a promise to him. All of us. And as much as we care about him, we’d honor it.” Your blood ran cold at he implication of his words. They’d promised that if Frankie ever hurt anyone - or presented the threat of real danger - they’d take care of it. And I don’t know that I could. I don’t know that I’d be able to. “Could you shoot him? Could you look him in the eye - man or wolf - and pull that trigger if you needed to? If he asked you to?” 

“I …” Your heartbeat quickened again, mouth hanging slightly open. “Pope, I don’t…” Even as you floundered, you knew the answer. “No. No, I don’t think I could. Not … now. Maybe if I saw him hurting someone, but not after the fact.” He didn’t look surprised, but Pope’s expression gave nothing else away, either. “Could you?” 

“I’d have to.” He shook his head, licking his lips. “I wouldn’t want to, but ‘Fish couldn’t live with himself knowing that he hurt someone. And we’d never let him do something to himself that might get back to Carmen later. We promised.” That was understandable; protecting his daughter would always be the most important thing for them. And I get it. I get it, but what is the point of this? “The reason I’m asking you any of this is because if you want to go with him, and he wants you to go with him alone, you’re going to have to be able to make this promise, too.” 

“And what if I can’t?” Your stomach was churning, but you didn’t want Pope to know. “Does that mean I can never -”

“It means that you might have to have one of us there with you, and he’s not going to like that.” Pope shrugged, letting out a deep sigh. “I wanted to talk to you about this first, because I figured you’d be a little more reasonable. ‘Fish is … stubborn. And it’s not like we’d be right there next to you, but this while thing has only worked because we have a system, and that can’t change.” 

He was right, and you knew it. 

Having a second person with you and Frankie on the night of a full moon, at least for the first few times, was the right decision. It meant someone being there if things went sideways. It meant that you’d have backup. It meant that another one of them would see that you could be trusted with their friend’s secret, and that you could handle yourself around Frankie’s wolf. But I don’t like it, because the first time he shows someone, it should be private. 

“Who? You went with him last month. Would it be you next month, too?”

“It’s Will’s turn.” Pope’s reply was immediate, his voice even. “And that might be the best thing for everyonr, because he’s not emotional. Me an’ Benny … we are. Tom too. But Ironhead isn’t … reckless. He’d be a good one for you to be out there with.” 

Neither of you said anything else, and for a few long moments, you and Pope stared out over the well-kept yard. He wasn’t telling you that you couldn’t go, or that he thought it was a bad idea for you to see Frankie’s change. He wasn’t advising against your presence, or trying to downplay your barely-established place in Frankie’s life. He’s just trying to keep people safe. 

“I have to do what’s best for Frankie.” You nodded, blowing out a breath and closing your eyes. “And for everyone else. The last thing I want to do is put anyone at risk, but I’d be lying if I told you that it wasn’t disappointing that we wouldn’t have privacy.”

“You would.” He adjusted his position, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “There’s a blind up in the trees about fifty yards from the RV. You can see everything from up there, but you can’t hear unless someone’s yelling. We used it the first couple times we were there with him, just to have a backup - someone on the ground, someone in the trees.” 

“So we’d have guns on us.” Pope flinched - barely, but you caught it nonetheless. Well, fuck. “I can’t speak for him, but if that’s what you think needs to happen, then yeah.” Reaching out, you took Pope’s hand in yours. “I trust you. I trust your friends, and if that’s what it takes… it’s what we’ll do.”

He looked relieved, almost like he’d expected you to fight him on someone else being there. But why would I? I’ve already admitted that I don’t think I could hurt him. “We’ll talk to ‘Fish. This shouldn’t be on you.” You agreed, giving him a quick smile before you let go of his hand and leaned back in your chair, averting your eyes. “How’s your cousin?”

You hadn’t expected Pope to ask, but you were grateful that he had. “He’s better. The wound got infected, so they’ve been trying to knock that back, but according to his fiancee, he’s going to be fine otherwise. No bite. Nothing lasting physically, except some scars. If she hadn’t been there, or been what she is, it would be a different story.” 

“You’re not worried about something like that happening to you?” Glancing over, he frowned at you. “Being on your own? What would you have done if you’d found a wolf? 

“I would have dealt with it.” You rubbed the side of your neck, thinking. “I’m always armed while hunting. I know where to aim on a wolf to incapacitate it until morning. That I can do. But shooting someone I know? That I care about?” That’s different.

“But you’re not afraid?” He bit down on his lower lip, sighing. “Seeing Frankie for the first time fucking terrified me. I don’t think you understand how big he is. If I’d been alone, I would have lost my shit.” 

“I’m always afraid, Pope. But I can’t let that stop me. It’s what’s expected because of -”

“Your family. I know.” You caught the roll of his eyes, along with his exasperated chuckle. “He told me all about it. I don’t mean to be an asshole, but it’s kinda bullshit that they’ve put this all on you.” 

“I don’t disagree, but I don’t want to be the one to stop. Why do I get to make that decision?”

“Because you found a reason to stop?” Pope stood, turning so that he could look at where you sat. “Because you decided you wanted to have a life that you chose instead of just doing what was expected of you?” And there’s a fourth. Covering your face with both hands, you rubbed at your eyes. 

Ashley and Alec telling you to choose yourself was one thing; they were actively involved in your life, and knew the burden you’d been entrusted with - and what living with it meant. Frankie, after spending years in the military and then getting saddled with an uncontrollable and unfair outcome advising you to put yourself first also made sense, especially since he was doing it because he cared about you. 

But Pope, someone that didn’t know you well and only knew the basics of your situation doing the same - simply because he wanted you and his friend to have a legitimate shot at whatever happiness looked like for the two of you? That was a shock. Because he understands responsibility. He understands honor.  

“Pope, I …” Raising your head, you eyed him where he stood, one hand on his hip. “I appreciate what you’re saying, but -”

“No one can choose this for you, and I get that.” He wet his lips, lowering himself so that he was squatting down in front of you, at eye level. “But maybe you shouldn’t be afraid to choose it for yourself, y’know?” 

Before either of you could say anything else, the back door opened and Yovanna called out. Pope’s eyes moved from your face to look over your shoulder. Nice save, Yova. “Are you staying to eat? It’s going to be ready soon.” 

“Stay.” Pope murmured the word, nodding once. “No more of this. Just let her grill you about ‘Fish.” That got a smile out of you and you agreed, turning your head toward where the woman stood. That sounds like a good time. 

“Yes. I’d like that a lot. Can I help?” She waved you off and went back inside, and then Pope stood too, the tension between you lessening almost entirely. “You’re not the first person to suggest that to me this week. And you probably won’t be the last, either.” He grinned, the expression taking years off of his face. “He’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

“I know. I don’t ever let him forget it, either.” Pope winked and then stood back up, holding his hand out. “Come on. I’ll show you where everything is. She won’t let us help in the kitchen but we can get shit set up out here on the table.” 

The two of you worked quickly, only needing a few minutes to get everything into place. Pope excused himself to go inside and check on the other woman, which you knew was only an excuse to disappear and kiss her senseless next to the sink, but you didn’t mind. You needed the break to collect your thoughts, and wanted a chance to check your phone. 

There was a missed call from Frankie from only a few minutes earlier, along with a picture message from Alec - of him and Ashley, both of them sitting outside in the hospital’s courtyard. Sending back a quick message to him first - looking good, glad you’re getting some fresh air! - you dialed Frankie’s number, raising the device to your ear. 

He answered on the second ring, and at the sound of his voice, you realized he was in the truck, playing your call through the speakers. “Sorry I missed you, what’s -”

“I just wanted to let you know I’m not going to be able to talk until later.” He sighed, only pausing for a second before he continued. “Carmen’s sick, and she’s asking for me, so I’m on my way to Lakeland. I’m gonna spend the night and go straight to work tomorrow.”

“Is she ok?” You held the phone tighter, trying to figure out just how much panic was in his voice. “What happened?”

“She’s going to be fine. Just has a fever. Probably picked it up at daycare. Becca said I didn’t need to come, that I could just call, but …”

“Of course you’d go.” Turning in a slow circle, you peeked in through the kitchen window, watching as Pope and Yovanna laughed together, the man standing behind her with his arms around her waist as she finished the meal. They’re so happy. “I hope seeing you makes things better for her.” 

“What time did you leave?” His tone softened, and you could picture Frankie’s smile, the corners of his mouth lifted as he watched the road ahead. “You sleep in?”

“Noon. And I did. All that room? I stretched out.” He laughed then, the sound coming through the speaker clearly. 

“It was hard to leave this morning. Wanted to stay in bed with you.” Biting the inside of your cheek, you tried to decide how to answer, and then opted for the truth - something that a week prior, you never would have admitted out loud.

“I missed you after you left. But…” Looking away from Pope and Yovanna, you inhaled. “I liked waking up in your bed, Frankie.” 

“You could do it more.” He cleared his throat. “Whenever you wanted to, and -”

“Dinner’s ready!” Pope’s voice was loud, and interrupted Frankie. “Come and get your plate.” 

“Where are you?” He was confused, and you held back your laugh. “Is that Pope?”

“It is. He invited me over to meet Yovanna and so that we could talk, and now I’m having dinner with them.” You wondered what was going through Frankie’s mind, or if he was angry that you were spending time with his friends without him - if he felt like you were going behind his back. ‘I didn’t think to -”

“What are you having? I’m fucking jealous. I haven’t had her cooking in a couple months.” Pope watched you expectantly, gesturing at the doorway. You made your way toward it, grinning. 

“No idea. But it smells amazing.” 

“She’ll bring you back a plate, ‘Fish.” Pope spoke loudly, leaning in when you got close. “We know how to share.” Frankie laughed at his words and so did you. Pope gave you a nod before leaning back inside and closing the door, giving you a few seconds to say goodbye. 

“I’m getting a hotel tonight. Can I call you later?” 

“Of course. I’ll be home after dinner.” Resting your hand on the door frame, you nodded. “I hope Carmen’s ok, and that a hug from her dad’s all she needs to feel better.” 

“I do too.” He sighed, your name quiet through the phone. “Go eat. And don’t believe a word Pope says about me. They’re all lies and he’s just trying to impress his girl.” 

You were both laughing when you hung up. But when you entered the kitchen and took the plate Yovanna held out to you, all you could focus on was the fact that for the second time in as many days, you didn’t feel like an outsider. 

Not only had you been accepted by Frankie, but his friends had taken an interest in you, too … even when he wasn’t around. 

— 

Over the course of the next few weeks, you continued your research during the day while Frankie worked. 

The weather held, even as September stretched on. And though it wasn’t your favorite place that you’d ever been, you started to see the appeal of Florida. 

Once the beaches cleared out, they became a good place to go and read through your notes. The threat of hurricanes forming in the Gulf didn’t seem to deter many residents from planning and participating in outdoor activities, but there was a definite drop in crowd density on the sand as the days passed and people returned to work and school. 

Frankie’s flight load dropped, too, though he warned you that the closer it got to the winter holidays, the busier he’d get again. You didn’t know if you’d still be in Florida for those holidays, but a large part of you hoped that you would - and you knew that Frankie felt the same. 

The two of you spent most nights together, going over your notes and coming up with theories. Frankie was helpful, the man’s eyes on your previous work helping you to pinpoint a few things that you hadn’t missed, but also hadn’t assumed might be important. 

It gave you hope that between you, you’d be able to pinpoint where the Chaos wolf would strike - and after seeing where he went the night you were with Frankie, you figured you’d have an even better idea. And see if our theory is correct. 

Frankie believed that once the wolf ran out of larger park locations, it would begin the cycle all over again. You thought that he was probably right, but if that was the case, then the next location had a 50% chance of being the park that the RV was in… and that worried you. Because it’s where we’ll be … and Frankie will want to fight.

Alec and Ashley left Florida just under two weeks out from the attack, and though you’d gotten to say goodbye, it was bittersweet. He’d left all of his notes with you, along with a few weapons and tools, which was confirmation that he was done - and you were in fact alone in the hunt. 

But more than that, Alec’s parting words had struck a nerve, the man looking you in the eye and making you promise that you wouldn’t spend the rest of your life on an impossible revenge mission, especially when you had something good right in front of you. You agreed, the words tasting like poison as you spoke them, and even though a large part of you meant it, there was still another part that couldn’t fathom abandoning your mission, even for someone - and something - like Frankie. 

Frankie and Ashley spoke for a few minutes, too, and you heard her reiterate her invitation to Texas, Frankie’s enthusiasm in accepting making you grin. There was no repeat of the first meeting; they greeted each other and then spoke like longtime friends. You were thankful for it, the woman hugging him tightly and then pulling you off to the side to give him a minute with Alec. 

That conversation was slightly less friendly - if their facial expressions were anything to go by. But like with his confrontation with Tom, you didn’t pry Frankie for the contents of it. If he wanted to tell me, he would. He didn’t, though, instead telling you not to worry about anything, and to focus on what the two of you needed to: the coming full moon.  

Days continued to pass, and as they did, you and Frankie grew closer. 

There were no more almost slips, despite your growing emotional connection. You slowly stopped worrying about it being too much, too fast, and just let things happen - because he did the same, and it felt good. 

You saw his friends occasionally, stopping into the bar or going to dinner with Pope or Will and their significant others. You texted back and forth with Benny, and even met Tom’s daughter and wife one night, Frankie introducing you in the lobby of a movie theater. Tessa and Molly were nice, and you were stunned at the difference in Tom when he was with them. 

In the span of two months, you’d inserted yourself into Frankie’s life almost seamlessly. It was comforting, but at the same time, it scared you. 

It scared you because of how well you fit. It worried you because you had the feeling that it couldn’t - and wouldn’t - last. You’d had a few disagreements, but nothing serious, and part of you wondered if it was because he was afraid of angering you and forcing your hand in exposing him. You wouldn’t do that - and Frankie knew it, but it still ate away at you that there was no certain way for you to know exactly why he was the way he was with you. 

One of the disagreements you did have was about Will coming with the two of you during the next full moon. Thankfully, you didn’t have much to do when it came to justifying that decision. Will did it for you while the three of you had a beer together on Frankie’s covered porch, the sounds of early autumn echoing around you in the darkness. 

“So about next week, ‘Fish.” Will took a pull from the bottle, looking over at where the two of you were sitting together on the couch. You had your feet on Frankie’s lap, the man’s thumb rubbing lazily over the inside of your ankle. Here we go. “I’m the one going with you, and -”

“Won’t need you this month, Ironhead.” His fingers tightened and then loosened, Frankie’s voice even. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.” Looking over at Will, you took a deep breath. “I want her t-”

“Frankie.” You sat all the way up, swinging your feet down so that you could move closer to him. “Give him a chance to finish.” 

“So you’ve already talked about this?” He dragged his fingers through his hair, letting out a harsh laugh. “Made plans behind my back?” 

“No.” Will leaned in, head shaking back and forth. “Not behind your back. And of course you’d have the final decision, but it’s something … that needs to be discussed.” 

You reached over and settled your hand on Frankie’s leg, though you stayed quiet. “What?” He snapped the single word out, looking at his friend with narrowed eyes. “What needs to be discussed?” 

“You made us make you a promise. And the only way we can keep that promise is if one of us is there, ‘Fish.” Will clasped his hands together, raising and lowering his shoulders in a shrug. “Any one of us is going to be able to do what we need to do if we need to do it, but she … we don’t know if she will.” 

“”It’s been almost three years. I’ve never ever given anyone the idea that I might -”

“Frankie, I wasn’t even able to follow through when I was on high alert in my apartment, and you were human. What happens if something happens, and you’re a wolf?” Slipping your fingers between his, you let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know what would be worse, not being able to pull that trigger when I need to, or forcing one of your friends to do it after you did something you regret.” 

“So both of you think I’m not going to be able to control myself.” He shifted next to you, but didn’t try to pull his hand free. That’s something. “Both of you are afraid that I’m going to all of a sudden lose my shit, and -”

“No.” Will leaned in, pressing the heel of one hand to his forehead. “But another thing to worry about is that this other wolf might show up. And we’re all used to how you act on all fours, ‘Fish, but she isn’t. If she hesitates and it’s not you?” Will’s gaze flicked over to you and lingered. “That’s not something you’d come back from.” 

You hadn’t even thought of that - if you were in the middle of the forest and the other wolf made an appearance, you thought you’d be able to do what was necessary. But if it’s dark and all I see is a wolf, of course I’m going to hesitate until I know it’s not him. “Shit.” You tightened your grip on Frankie’s hand and then let go, covering your face with both of them. “Frankie, he’s right about that. Pope brought up one of them coming with us because it made sense, but I didn’t even think about the other wolf being there and my hesitation waiting to see if it’s you.” 

He didn’t speak right away, but when you peeked over at Frankie, you saw that some of the anger had bled from his body. Instead he looked worried, lips pressed together and a deep furrow between his brows. “So what’s… what’s the long term plan, Ironhead? It’s always going to be one of you and her there? It can’t ever just be me and my -” 

That time, it was Frankie that stopped himself, mouth snapping shut and his shoulders going rigid. Your what? 

“No. Not always. She’d just need to get used to you and the routine before it could be her only.” Will licked his lips, giving you a quick smile. “I think that’s fair. We started out two of us at a time, right?” 

“Yeah.” Frankie lowered his head. “So what, you’d just be in the RV? I kinda wanted it to just be us when I show her -”

“The blind.” Will leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ll be able to see everything and can act if I need to, but you’ll be by yourselves on the ground.” 

“It’s up to you, Frankie.” You shifted closer, reaching for his hand again. “But I don’t think it’s a bad idea, especially if I’d be going out there again after this time. Will can show me the ropes, and give me an idea of what to look for and what to expect from you when you’re a wolf.” 

“We’re trying to keep everyone safe, ‘Fish. Just like always.” You waited - eyeing Frankie as he collected his thoughts. A quick glance at Will resulted in an almost imperceptible nod from the blonde, his head tipped to one side as he watched you. Lighten the mood. Say something to him. 

“I have been thinking about sponsoring one of those sharks with the trackers.” You nudged Frankie with one elbow, letting yourself smile. “But maybe Will can show me how to use your GPS, and then I won’t need to. I’ll have my own -”

“Fuck off.” Frankie yanked his hand free and then wrapped both arms around you, pulling you closer to his chest. You laughed but wound your arms around him, closing your eyes in relief. It’s going to be alright. “You’re right though, Ironhead. Last thing I want to do is leave her alone in the middle of the woods at night on a full moon. I know what’s out there.” And so do I. “Would you stay up in the trees all night?”

“Nah. I’d wait til you were gone and then come down. No reason to stay up there all night, unless you think I need to.” Will was speaking out loud, but you could tell from his facial expressions that he and Frankie were also having a silent conversation. In a split second, you realized that it was likely about the other wolf. But I’m not supposed to know that they’re hunting it too. I’m not supposed to know anything about that side of it, and … 

It would have made everything much simpler if you’d just admitted who you were and what you were doing in Florida. You would have been able to plan with Frankie and his friends, instead of there being two separate scenarios at all times. 

The inability to do so was frustrating, and there was a a part of you that wanted to speak up - to clue Will in, even though it made things more dangerous. Maybe we can talk about it next week. 

“Alright.” Frankie sighed, loosening his hold on you. “I guess I don’t really have a choice in this, but I get it.” You opened your mouth to speak - to tell him that he did have a choice - but he beat you to it, leaning in and kissing you before you could. “If you’re gonna be around you need to know.” Mumbling the words, he nodded before pulling away. “And there’s nobody better to be there with you than Will Miller.” .

A quick glance at Will told you that he was relieved there’d only been a little pushback. It could have gone much worse. You were thankful it hadn’t, because the last thing you wanted was Frankie to be angry with you - or annoyed with any of his friends. Because he needs them. Settling back, you leaned your head against his shoulder, only halfway paying attention as the two of them started talking again. 

And I need him. 

— 

[fortunatelygloriousruins]

Whispers in a Liminal Font

In the quiet pause between moments, where the familiar fades and the unknown looms, lies the essence of liminal spaces—a definition filled with promise, yet laden with unease. A hallway, an airport terminal, a bridge—these spaces whisper of movement, of change, of a destination waiting just beyond sight. They embody the hope that one day, the discomfort will give way to a new rhythm. Yet for me, life has been a relentless carousel of transitions. Each time I step into what feels like a new beginning, it quickly morphs into yet another waiting room, another corridor extending into the dark. A move to a new city brought excitement, but ultimately, it became just another threshold, another place where I felt both lost and oddly familiar. I realized that while liminal spaces are often viewed as temporary, my existence has been marked by a ceaseless series of them—a relentless cycle that doesn’t allow me the comfort of belonging. The unease festers like a shadow, whispering doubts that echo louder than the sounds of possibility. In the quest for an anchor, I grasp at fleeting connections and evolving passions, only to watch them slip through my fingers like sand. I crave a return to firm ground, but the landscape of my life remains fluid, constantly shifting beneath my feet.

As celebrated in countless artistic representations, these spaces evoke a haunting tranquility, but often lack the warmth of genuine human connection, leaving an ache in their absence. In popular culture, liminal spaces evoke not just the idea of a transition, but an unsettling beauty—a strange stillness that speaks volumes without uttering a word. Films imbued with surrealism, such as those crafted by David Lynch, plunge viewers into these uncanny realms, where the absence of human presence heightens a disturbing sense of paranoia, leaving one captivated yet yearning for connection or even just safety of a warm presence, of familiarity. In the realm of the internet, ‘liminal space’ aesthetics flood social media feeds, portraying desolate hallways and empty playgrounds—spaces that exist in a vacuum, devoid of life yet brimming with emotion. While these imagined spaces entice with their aesthetic charm, they also amplify a solitude that reverberates somewhere deep in the bones. I find myself wandering through my own empty hallways, much like the desolate landscapes captured in art, where the allure of solitude clashes painfully with the yearning for human connection. In contrast to the glossy allure of these spaces in film and photography, my reality often feels like a silent scream—an echo without a voice to answer.

There is a strange magnetism to liminal spaces—those unsettling places that exist on the threshold, like deserted parking lots in the dead of night. They’re meant to be temporary, to be passed through quickly without thought or hesitation, yet they pull us in, inviting contemplation of the indefinable discomfort they evoke. The allure of liminal spaces has seeped into pop culture, into the eerie photographs and grainy videos shared on Reddit and TikTok, the empty rooms bathed in fluorescent light, abandoned swimming pools, and back alleys captured by dim, flickering street lamps. They draw us in with the haunting promise that, however unnerving, these spaces are transitory. A temporary pause in the steady march of existence. They specially piqued the interest of the generation-z around late 2019 when the pandemic led to everything shutting down around them. This happened for the first time in a while when everyone was forced to stay inside. The usually busy places were suddenly devoid of human activity. And calling those places "liminal" provided them a much needed comfort—that it's just a transient phase, that would eventually make way for a new normal, no matter how deeply disorienting it may feel in the moment.

For me, however, they are not a pause but a pattern. My time here has been a series of liminal spaces, one after another, an endless succession of thresholds that I can never quite cross. The feeling is visceral—like I’m standing on the edge of something unknown, waiting for a change that never arrives. I am caught in the perpetual dusk between who I was and who I could be, but never who I am. The unease, the disquiet that comes with transitions, has become a permanent resident in my bones. While others move through life as if through rooms—each with a door that closes behind and another that opens before them—I remain stranded in the hallway, never quite belonging anywhere.

The pop culture obsession with these places hints at a shared understanding: the strange comfort of knowing that the eeriness will end. People pause to admire the beauty in the emptiness, to find poetry in the in-between, but then they move on, not before shaking off the chill that runs down their spines. I can’t move on. My tragedy is that I have never been afforded the luxury of belonging. Each moment of my life feels like another entrywa a building with no exits.

It is no wonder that liminal spaces are almost always portrayed devoid of people. The absence is stark, a universal truth in every image—an abandoned gas station under a buzzing neon sign, a swimming pool drained and dry. In these spaces, human presence is always missing, and I’ve come to understand why: true belonging happens only when you have become a part of a story, not when you are standing at its threshold, unsure whether to step in or retreat. In life, you find comfort and purpose when you are woven into the fabric of something meaningful, something that feels whole. But I remain forever on the periphery, trapped in the space between stories.

I think about those images often, how the emptiness of these spaces mimics the solitude of my own experience. Those photos and videos, scrolling endlessly on social media feeds, depict places where people were once present but have since moved on. They have left their mark, their fleeting footprints, and then disappeared, perhaps to find themselves fully within the next moment, the next chapter. They were participants in a story, however brief, and then they exited. But I am the one left behind, the one who does not belong either inside or outside. For them, it is a journey; for me, it is a destination I never intended to arrive at, a destination where nobody ever arrives nor stays.

Maybe that’s why I feel most at home in those photographs of empty spaces—because they are the only places that mirror my own reality. A reality where I have never fully crossed the threshold into a narrative that feels like my own. To be present in a story, to be part of something greater than oneself, is to know where you stand, to know that you are not simply a shadow lingering at the doorway. But I do not stand; I hover. I am not an actor on the stage, but a ghost in the wings, forever waiting for my cue, which never comes.

To truly belong is to be written into the story, to feel the weight and the warmth of other people’s lives pressing up against your own, merging, creating something that feels substantial, that feels real. Instead, I exist in the gaps between those moments, the spaces where no one else lingers long enough to even see me. I find myself most drawn to these places because they reflect my own existence back to me, in all its stark, aching solitude.

And so, I remain here, wandering these empty spaces that stretch endlessly before me. I am the emptiness that haunts them. If these spaces are metaphors for transitions, then perhaps I am the exception that disproves the rule: the one who stays when all others move. A ghost in a world that doesn’t know how to see me.

There is no comfort in knowing that one day, this will end because even endings are a luxury not afforded to everyone. I remain as transient in the spaces between, where the walls breathe, and the lights flicker, endlessly.

The liminal- they exist in the uncanny hours, the moments of transition between what was and what will be. We are drawn to them, to the way they disorient, to the way they feel like the pause before something unspeakable. We linger in their eeriness, the empty hotel corridors that seem to breathe on their own, the swimming pools drained of water, standing like gaping mouths. But there’s comfort, we tell ourselves, because these spaces are not meant to last.

For others, perhaps, that comfort is true. But I know what it is to be trapped in these places. I feel the walls close in, the floors stretch beneath me like old, creaking wood. I am forever waiting, caught in the grip of some invisible force, a heavy hand pressed against my chest, keeping me from moving forward. Each step I take echoes against the hollow emptiness around me, but never reaches a destination. I am the figure in the photograph you can barely see, half-hidden, blurred at the edges like a ghost who can’t decide if it wants to be seen or remain in the dark.

I am haunted by the absence of people in these spaces, not because they never were, but because they left. They crossed the threshold, into rooms with warmth and noise, into stories that welcomed them and wrapped around their existence like familiar sheets. They found themselves inside; they became something more than just the sum of their loneliness. But I am the one who stays behind, the one who cannot cross. The perpetual guest, never the inhabitant. I drift from one room to the next, never lingering long enough to leave a mark, never staying long enough to be remembered. I am the visitor who never finds a seat, the traveller whose bags remain packed by the door. I see the way others sink into the spaces they claim, their bodies folding into the comfort of familiarity, their voices rising like music that fills the air. I watch from the sidelines, my presence like a breeze that stirs the curtains but never enters fully.

Every room I enter feels borrowed, as if I have stepped into someone else’s life and can only tiptoe through it, careful not to touch anything, not to disturb the fragile peace that belongs to others. I leave no footprints on the carpet, no fingerprints on the glass. I have learned to navigate quietly, to slip in and out without being noticed, like a shadow cast by something unseen. I feel the walls around me pulse with the life they contain, a heartbeat that is not my own, a rhythm I can never match.

It’s as if I am always knocking on the door but never crossing the threshold. I stand there, on the cold step outside, feeling the warmth of the inside brush against my face, but I never feel it fully on my skin. I am always outside looking in, peering through windows into rooms aglow with light that never reaches me. I am the outsider, forever on the fringe, watching life unfold from the other side of the glass, never invited in.

To be an inhabitant is to know the smell of the walls, the creak of the floorboards, the way light falls through the windows at different times of day. It is to feel the texture of the air change with the seasons, to hear the hum of the refrigerator at 3 a.m., to know which step on the staircase will always groan underfoot. It is to be known by a place and to know it in return, intimately, deeply, as if it has become a part of you and you, a part of it.

But I am not known by any place. I do not belong to any corner or crevice. I am the one who slips in under the cover of darkness, whose name is written in dust rather than ink. I am the one who drifts between spaces, feeling the way they reject me, spit me back out into the cold air of not belonging. I am forever the guest, moving through rooms that are not mine, beds I will not sleep in, and doors I will never close behind me.

I pass through, my presence barely a whisper, a breath against the skin of a life I can never truly touch. I am left hovering in the doorway, where the air is always colder, where the shadows grow long and the light is always just out of reach. I stand there, hands in my pockets, feeling the weight of the spaces I can never claim pressing down on me, a weight that grows heavier with each passing moment, each step I never take.

I am the perpetual guest, and the world is a house that will never be mine. I remain outside, my fingers grazing the doorframe, my feet never crossing the line between here and there. There is no place I can call my own, no room that knows my name, no door that opens for me willingly. I am forever in transit, forever searching for a space that will let me in, but always finding myself back at the beginning—a stranger to every threshold I meet.

And perhaps that is the cruellest truth of all: that I am destined to wander, never quite belonging, never quite seen, forever the guest in a world that moves on without me. A phantom at the edge of every story, a nameless figure passing through the pages, never finding a place to rest.

The images on social media show this over and over—the empty malls, the deserted offices with chairs left spinning, the playgrounds in twilight where no children ever played. These places resonate with me because they are my own; they speak of an existence where the story never begins. Where I hover like a breath just before it is exhaled, hanging in the air, suspended. They are empty because they do not know how to hold me, because I am not made to be held.

I’ve tried to step inside, to enter the frame fully, to feel the world with its weight, to feel alive in a way that doesn’t echo with hollowness. But every time, I find myself slipping back, back into the doorway, back into the corridor that stretches endlessly into the dark. I’ve never been part of the story, only its interruption. A whisper between chapters, an ink smudge on the page.

In these places, I see myself reflected back, a figure without form, a shadow that never becomes flesh. I am drawn to them because they are the only places that tell the truth. Here, in the endless twilight of empty hallways and cold rooms, is where I belong. Where I am what I have always been—a liminal being, caught forever in the act of becoming but never being—it is a curse I carry like a stone in my chest. I feel the weight of all the almosts and could-have-beens, their presence a reminder of every step I failed to take, every door I left unopened, every room I never dared to enter. There is a deep shame in this, a gnawing regret that chews at my insides, whispering of all the ways I’ve failed to step fully into my own skin. I have been caught in the web of my own making, tangled in threads of hesitation, paralyzed by the fear of what might be on the other side.

I think of all the times I have stood at the threshold, my hand hovering over the doorknob, feeling the heat of life radiating from the other side, yet unable to push through- I have waited for a sign, for some force to pull me forward, but it never came. I was too afraid to make the first move, to take that step and claim my place in the world. And so, I lingered, trapped in the twilight between where I was and where I could have been, suspended in a state of perpetual almost.

I am haunted by the sense that I have lived my life in fragments, a collection of half-formed attempts, of sentences left unfinished, of dreams abandoned before they could take root. I am ashamed of my own indecision, of the way I have let myself drift, never committing to one path, always looking for a way out. I am ashamed of the way I have tried to hide this truth from myself, burying it beneath layers of distraction and denial, pretending that someday, somehow, I would find my way. But deep down, I have always known that I am not on my way anywhere. I am simply here, stuck in the thick, suffocating fog of my own inertia.

I feel the shame of all the versions of myself I have left behind—the selves I could have been if only I had dared to step into the light. I am ashamed of the way I have clung to the comfort of the unknown, the safety of the shadows, the false promise that someday things would change. I regret every moment I have spent waiting for something to happen, for someone to come and save me from myself. I regret the wasted time, the wasted potential, the way I have let myself become a stranger in my own life.

There is a sorrow in knowing that I have been caught in this act of becoming, stretching myself thin in every direction, always reaching but never grasping, always seeking but never finding. I have tried on so many skins, so many versions of myself, but none have ever fit quite right. I am like a ghost, haunting my own life, moving through rooms I do not recognize, wearing faces that do not belong to me. I have tried to be so many things, to fill so many roles, but in the end, I have been nothing.

There is a deep, bitter shame in realizing that I am only a collection of attempts, of maybes and might-haves. I have been too afraid to commit to being one thing, to risk failure by trying to be something at all. I am ashamed of my own cowardice, of the way I have let my fear define me, shape me, turn me into this—this half-formed thing, this shadow caught between worlds. I regret every time I have chosen the safety of the doorway over the uncertainty of stepping inside. I regret every time I have let myself believe that there would be another chance, another moment, another time.

But time does not wait. I have waited so long to become something, to find myself, to finally be, but all I have found is this—this empty space where a person should be, this hollow ache where a life should have grown. I am left with nothing but the shame of my own failures, the regret of a thousand missed chances, the weight of a life spent on the brink of something that never arrived.

Caught forever in the act of becoming, I am ashamed of what I have not become. I regret the way I have wasted my own existence, how I have let the years slip through my fingers, watching as the world moved on without me. I regret the moments I didn’t seize, the chances I didn’t take, the love I didn’t let myself feel. I am caught forever in this in-between place, forever reaching but never touching, forever moving but never arriving.

And perhaps this is my deepest regret of all: that I have become the thing I feared most. Not someone who failed to become, but someone who never truly tried. A being suspended in a moment that never passes, a life caught in a pause that never ends, a shadow that never finds its light.

But even as I drown in my own shame, there is a part of me that knows the fear wasn’t entirely mine, that my hesitation was not born of choice but of circumstance. I was moulded by forces I could not see, could not name, yet felt heavy against my chest like an invisible hand. Fate had woven its threads into my skin long before I even knew what it meant to be alive. It wrapped me in its cold fingers, cradling me in the shadows, and whispered in my ear that I was meant for the spaces in between, for the pauses, the breaths held in the dark.

I was shaped by a world that taught me fear before it taught me courage, that carved doubt into the marrow of my bones, leaving me hollow before I ever had the chance to be whole. I felt the weight of expectations I never agreed to, the heavy pull of destinies that were never mine, and in their shadows, I cowered, believing that I was always one misstep away from falling into an abyss that had been waiting for me all along.

I wish I could say I was strong enough to break free, to pull myself from the web spun tight around me, but I am not sure I ever had that choice. I have moved through life like a leaf caught in a windstorm, tossed and turned by forces far greater than myself, unable to find a moment of stillness, a place where I could plant my feet and stand firm. I have felt myself pulled in a hundred directions at once, and in the chaos, I could not help but freeze, paralyzed by the impossibility of it all.

How could I have acted differently when the script was written long before I even set foot on the stage? When the path was laid out like a trap, a snare hidden beneath the fallen leaves? I was cast as the wanderer in the spaces between, and in that role, I felt myself shrinking, shrinking until I became almost nothing at all.

And yet, even as I drift, I feel the shame like a brand on my skin, knowing I could not have been any other way, that the world had left me with so few choices, and none of them my own. I wonder if fate is cruel, or if it is simply indifferent—if it laughs as it watches me stumble, or if it doesn’t care enough to even notice. I am left standing here, on the edge of what could have been, holding the fragments of a life that never fully came into being, the broken pieces of a self that never had a chance to be whole.

And so I am left with this aching contradiction: the shame of my own inaction, and the knowledge that I was helpless to act. Caught in a web not of my making, a prisoner to a fate I never chose. A leaf in the wind, a ghost in the doorway, waiting for a storm to pass that may never end.

And so, I remain here, wandering these hollowed-out spaces that stretch on and on. I am the emptiness that fills them. I am the ghost that can never leave. They say these places are only temporary, that they will end, but I know better. I know that some of us never leave.

The door is always open, the light always flickering. I hear footsteps in the distance that never come closer. I feel the walls closing in like a shroud. And still, I wait, knowing that even an ending is too much to ask for.

Because even in endings, there is some kind of peace, and I have been denied even that. I am the silence that fills the gaps, the breath caught in a throat, forever suspended, forever waiting.

[ghsotsl]

People who are seeing this, enjoy my lovely ramble about video games/video game graphics!

Now, I just wanted to start off with saying that I think it's kind of crazy how advanced some games are. Starting with the character designs all the way down to the game itself, it's kind of crazy. I recently thought about this because of a screenshot I took from Devil May Cry 5. I just can't even explain how beautiful this looks to me.

I currently have this screenshot as my wallpaper on like everything. I've always loved how the Devil May Cry game's look. Of course, most of them are pretty old so they don't look insanely modern, but they're still so fun to look at. I love the scenery in Devil May Cry 4 when you get into the forest.

This section just makes me so happy. It almost gives this feeling of comfort even though they made an attempt to help it seem abandoned. This forest reminds me of those liminal spaces for some reason. It's just the small things that bring me that comfort. Of course, Nero sticks out like a sore thumb in this area, but I still really enjoyed seeing it while playing the game.

Another game that I LOVE the scenery to is Resident Evil: Village (8). The game itself isn't great (I know I'm sorry 😭), but I still enjoyed looking around while playing. The small details that they really paid attention to helps it a lot. There are some things that were added that most probably don't notice, yet the section would be different without it. I know this is a basic answer, but my personal favorite area is Castle Dimitrescu.

Like-- LOOK AT THIS?? It looks absolutely beautiful! The fog, the lighting, the models. I just love it so much. The things Capcom does for their games, especially the Resident Evil ones, is insane. Their RE Engine is such a cool software (that I suck at using!) I just really love Capcom. Their games are great gameplay wise + design wise. They're an awesome game making company, and if you don't know much about them (you probably do because we're here but whatever), I really recommend checking out some of their games! New and old games both seem to still really get that good feeling you get from playing a video game.

Thank you for listening to my ramble. 😁