#out of context nameless | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aleksatia · 3 months ago

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Imagine the six days scenario with the boys, but it turns out the mission was supposed to be done in one day, and the reader went through he'll to get out and is met with this reaction? Imagine when she finally tells the reason she was away, would they regret their actions? How would they react? Don't know if if you take requests, if you do, consider this one.

If not, I am glad I got to read this masterpiece, thank you ❤️

Thank you so much for the request — I absolutely do take them, and I really appreciate this one! ❤️

I tried so hard to keep it short, since the “Six Days” theme has already been thoroughly explored... but, well, I failed spectacularly 😅 So here’s another deep-dive into a what-if/imagine scenario — one that can be read as either an alternate branch of the original storyline or... something else entirely. I’ll let you decide 😉

I’d love to hear your thoughts if you read it — truly means the world to me!

I’ve received so many requests for continuations — especially for Xavier — and yes, his already has a full-length, dramatic follow-up (because how could I not?). This one here is more of a request-based scenario, but it can absolutely be read as its own kind of continuation. Think of it as an alternate path the story could have taken. (One day I’ll write full versions for all the boys… but for now, consider this a little taste.) Hope you enjoy — and as always, I’d love to hear what you think! 💬💔 Here are the links to the previous parts in the series, in case you want to revisit or catch up:

Original Post | Xavier's Story

CW/TW: Psychological trauma, PTSD themes, Forced isolation, Violence / combat injuries, Mentions of starvation, Emotional manipulation, Past emotional abuse, Mental breakdowns, Intense guilt / self-blame, Brief implications of suicidal ideation (in self-sacrificing context), Adult intimacy (emotionally driven, not graphic)

The Truth — What Really Happened

It was supposed to be one day.

A clean, strategic infiltration. In and out. No complications. No room for error.

But no one accounted for the Wanderer.

No one predicted that the target—some nameless, faceless shade masquerading as a rogue—would be more than just dangerous. That he'd found a way to twist Protocore into something ancient and volatile. That he would trigger a fracture in time itself.

In a single blink, the world split. You fell into it. And the loop began.

Six days for them. Six weeks for you.

You lived, died, and bled your way through the same endless day.

Again. And again. And again.

Locked in a cycle of violence, decay, and despair—while everyone else moved on without you.

You clawed your way back—half-starved, half-mad, barely remembering your name. And when you finally escaped the loop, stepped back into their world, broken and still breathing—

They were waiting.

Angry. Unforgiving. And utterly, terrifyingly unaware.

Until now. Until you tell them.

💛 Xavier

It only felt right to write Xavier’s piece after the continuation I posted earlier. The original scene stood strong on its own, but this one—this is what came next. The moment after the storm. The truth laid bare. A quiet, alternate branch of the story, or perhaps a natural consequence of the one that already unfolded. Either way—I’m glad it found its voice.

You don’t ease into it. You sit across from him in the quiet of the morning, sunlight creeping up the walls like it’s unsure of its welcome, and you tell him.

Not six days.

Six weeks.

A loop. A fracture in time. An engineered nightmare that left you bleeding against the same hours, over and over, clawing through shadow just to return to him. Alone. Lost. Dying.

Xavier doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.

But something in him breaks.

Not loudly. Not violently. It’s quieter than breath. Slower than thought. His fingers slip from the edge of the cup in his hand, and it falls. Shatters against the floor with a sound so sharp it startles the silence—ceramic shards skittering like teeth across stone.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

He stands, but not with purpose. With instinct. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He turns, walks toward the far wall like he’s searching for air, like the room is suddenly too small to hold what’s happening inside his chest.

You rise—hesitant, aching—but he lifts a hand to stop you. Not cruelly. Gently. Like he’s afraid that if you touch him, he’ll fall apart in a way he can’t recover from.

He presses his palm to the wall. Just one. The other curls into a fist at his side.

“I thought you abandoned me,” he says at last, voice raw in a way you’ve never heard from him. “And I punished you for it.”

He turns back.

And there’s nothing left of the man who told you to ask again in six days. Nothing of the controlled strategist, the ever-collected ghost of war. His jaw is clenched too tight. His eyes are glassed over with fury—but not at you.

At himself.

“I accused you. I mocked you. I dismissed what little strength you had left and threw my pain in your face like it was the only thing that mattered.”

He crosses the room again, slower now. Purposeful. His hands don’t tremble, but his voice does.

“I let you stand there, in front of me, broken... and I thought I was the one who’d suffered.”

He kneels.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

He lowers himself before you like a man who no longer believes he has the right to stand. His gaze stays down. One hand reaches inside his coat, and when it returns, you see it:

A blade.

Polished. Ritual-cut. Ceremonial. One of the old ones—etched with language you don’t recognize. But you understand that these words mean oath, atonement, belonging.

He offers it to you in silence. Flat in his palm.

“Where I’m from,” he says, quietly, “a wound like this is paid in blood. A betrayal like mine is not survived—it is surrendered to.”

Your hands don’t move. Your breath barely does.

“If you want justice,” he whispers, “take it.”

You stare at him. The weight of the blade between you. The weight of everything.

And then—slowly, gently—you take it from his hand.

Only to let it fall.

The sound is soft this time. Barely a whisper of steel on floorboards.

Then you fall with it.

You drop to your knees in front of him, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and let your tears fall freely.

“I don’t want justice,” you breathe into the curve of his neck. “I want you.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. Just holds you, arms banding around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder like he’s trying to memorize what survival feels like.

When he finally speaks, it’s not confession. It’s surrender.

“After what you endured… after what I made you endure alone… I don’t know what anything means anymore. Not the mission. Not the cause. Not the point.”

You pull back, just enough to see him.

His eyes are hollow with grief. But deeper still—something flickers.

“I thought I understood devotion,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “But I was wrong. What I gave you wasn’t loyalty. It wasn’t love. It was pride. Control. Fear, dressed in logic. And I used it to wound you when you were already bleeding.”

His jaw tightens. His gaze falls.

“I was cruel.”

It’s not said for effect. There’s no tremble in his voice, no self-indulgent break.

It’s simply true.

“And I’m sorry.”

The silence that follows is soft. Dense. Not empty.

You brush your fingers across his cheek, tilt his face toward yours.

“I forgive you,” you say. Steady. Clear. “Because not everything in this world is black and white. And I understand why you did what you did. I know the shape of your fear.”

Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. His breath catches.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt you. Or to punish you. I told you because…” You pause. Your voice thickens with truth. “Because you’re the only one I trust with all of it. The only one who would understand. Who wouldn’t fall apart under the weight of what I’ve lived through.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him. Gently. Not desperate. Not demanding.

Just there. Warm. Real. Home.

Your hands slide up to his temples, fingers massaging slow circles at his hairline, coaxing the tightness from his brow. You feel it—inch by inch—how he softens beneath your touch.

“Let it go,” you whisper. “Don’t carry this weight. Not for me.”

He exhales, shaky. Silent.

You hold him tighter.

“You are my light, Xavier. You illuminate the path. You anchor me when everything else turns to ash. And in that place—those six weeks—do you know what kept me alive?”

Your voice breaks, but you keep going.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you mourning me. That’s what kept me breathing.”

He says nothing for a moment.

Just rests his forehead against yours. One hand moves to your chest, flattening over your heart like he’s grounding himself with your pulse.

Then—softly, firmly, as if carving the words into stone:

“You will never carry pain alone again. Not while I draw breath.”

No grand vow. No poetry.

Just fact.

And somehow—that’s what makes it a promise.

💗 Rafayel

The morning sun slips in like melted gold, tracing the edge of the sheets, catching the soft arch of your cheekbone. You lie half-curled beneath the covers, his T-shirt clinging to your body like second skin.

And in that sacred hush before the world stirs—you speak.

Not because he demands it. Not because you owe it.

But because somewhere between the echo of his heartbeat and the way his arms wrapped around you like the only anchor you had left—you remembered how to breathe.

You tell him.

About the mission. The Wanderer. The fracture in time.

About the loop.

How six days for him were six weeks for you.

How you woke up every day inside the same nightmare. How you died. How you clawed your way back. Alone. Over and over.

And when you fall silent, your voice scraped raw from remembering—he still doesn’t speak.

He just looks at you.

Like the sun never rose until he saw your face again.

His hand brushes your cheek, feather-light. His voice—when it comes—is almost a whisper.

“Are you ready to share the rest?”

You blink. “The rest?”

“The weight of it,” he says. “Not the facts. Not the fight. The dark. The ache. The part that still won’t let you sleep.”

His voice is gentle. Too gentle for a man like him. It trembles with caution, as if even asking is a violation.

You hesitate. The memories flicker like shadows across your mind—distorted, aching, sharp.

“No,” you answer truthfully. “Maybe not ever.”

His gaze doesn’t falter.

He nods once. No protest. No press.

Then his voice, lighter this time—almost a whisper:

“Then I’ll just have to help you forget.”

And he does.

He lifts you carefully, as if your body might shatter beneath his hands. You expect the weight of a blanket, but instead—he wraps you in something else entirely.

A covering like seafoam. It feels like nothing you’ve ever touched—gossamer, weightless, but cool and smooth against your skin. A whisper of silk and tide.

“It's from home,” he murmurs, adjusting it carefully over your shoulders. “Woven from the ocean’s first breath. They say it keeps sorrow out.”

Then—he scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Carries you to the kitchen with quiet reverence, as if this moment is sacred.

He sets you down on the marble countertop and kisses your knee.

Then he starts making coffee.

He hums as he moves—something aimless and tuneless and purely him. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the scent of roasted beans and vanilla settle around you.

And then—

“So,” he says casually, not looking up, “a cat broke into the studio last night.”

You blink. “A cat?”

He nods solemnly. “Orange. Loud. Looked like he owned the place. Knocked over three canvases and nearly drank my turpentine.”

You raise a brow. “And naturally, you assumed this was my doing.”

“Who else would weaponize cuteness to such chaotic effect?”

You laugh—quiet but real. “I’m not that cruel.”

“No,” he agrees, turning to face you with a soft smile. “But I do suspect you’re still hoping I’ll change my mind about cats.”

You sip your coffee. “I might be.”

Later, the bath is warm, the water laced with something lavender and soft. He sits behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his arms a steady weight around your ribs.

His fingers move slowly—massaging your shoulders, your forearms, your palms, like he’s trying to erase every echo of pain from your body with touch alone.

You both talk, but nothing heavy. Just stories. Old memories. Little things. The shape of the moon that night. The smell of burnt sugar in his favorite gallery. How he once mistook a mannequin for a person and apologized to it for five minutes.

You laugh again, softer this time. And it makes something in him melt.

He wraps you in the softest robe he can find. Carries you again—this time to the bedroom. The ocean glows outside, waves catching the last of the sun like pearls tossed across the horizon.

But he doesn’t stop there.

“Come,” he says, offering a hand. “Tea. Sunset. Company far superior to mine.”

You smile. Follow.

And when you step onto the veranda—there it is.

A small white basket. A red ribbon.

And inside—

A snow-colored kitten, curled like a pearl in a nest, blinking up at you with impossibly blue eyes.

You freeze.

Turn to him, wide-eyed.

He shrugs, just slightly. Nervous. Like he’s bracing himself for mockery. For rejection.

You blink again. “You—Raf, you hate cats.”

He exhales through his nose. “I fear them. Different thing.”

Your eyes shimmer.

He moves toward you slowly, hands lifted in surrender.

“I wanted to make you smile,” he says simply. “That’s all. Just—smile. Like you used to. Before I—” He swallows.

He crouches down before you. One hand comes up to gently stroke the kitten. The other finds your knee.

His eyes lift to yours—and there’s no performance left in him now. Just Rafayel. Just the man beneath the glitter.

“I was so awful to you.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t say it wasn’t that bad. I know what I am when I’m scared. I threw wine over grief and laughter over longing because I didn’t know what else to do. I ruined canvases with your name on my tongue and strangers in my house, and the whole time—I just wanted you to walk through that door.”

His fingers tighten on your leg.

“And when you did—when you came back—I was so full of rage at the idea you’d left me, that I didn’t even ask if you were okay.”

He breathes. One hand comes up, presses lightly to your ankle.

“I don’t know if I deserve this. Any of it. You. The right to hold your hand. To be the one who touches you when you’re tired. Who makes you laugh. Who paints your name into the ocean.”

You slide your fingers into his curls, threading gently through the soft waves.

And he stills. Like he’s afraid to move.

You whisper, “I never wanted perfect. I wanted you.”

He exhales.

“I swear,” he says, softly now, firmly, “on every color I’ve ever touched—never again. I’ll never put my pride above your heart. I’ll never leave you alone in the dark I made.”

Then—he leans forward. Presses his forehead to your knee.

The kitten meows softly, curling into the basket.

And finally—you smile.

Because this?

This is home.

💙 Zayne

You expected something.

A tremor. A breath. A word. Anything.

Instead, Zayne listened. Like a doctor reviewing a chart. Like a man auditing loss.

He didn’t speak when you finished. He simply nodded—once—and turned away, reaching for the drawer by the bedside as though the moment hadn’t cracked the very floor beneath his feet.

His hands, always precise, always godlike in their stillness, carried a faint tremble now. Just at the edges. So minor you might’ve doubted your own eyes, if you didn’t know how obsessively exact they always were.

“I asked,” he said, adjusting a monitor. His voice was quiet. Neutral. Not for you—for himself. “I asked if you’d caught a cold.”

He finished adjusting the drip, typed something into the tablet. Still no eye contact. Still no softness in his voice. But the line of his shoulders was off. A degree too low. A breath too far from centered.

Then—he turned back to you.

His gaze met yours at last. And though his voice didn’t change, the words did.

“I would like to conduct a full diagnostic. Neurological, cellular, metabolic.” A pause. Then softer, with exquisite restraint: “Please allow me.”

You hesitated—not because you doubted him, but because you recognized the plea underneath the logic. He wasn’t doing this for the data. Not really.

You nodded.

And he breathed again.

He worked in silence. Gentle. Thorough. Every sensor placed with hands that barely touched your skin. Each test executed with a reverence that spoke more than words ever could. He treated you like something sacred—something already broken that could not, must not, fracture further.

When sleep finally came, it swallowed you whole.

And when you opened your eyes again—the world was still. Dim. The sterile light of early morning filtered through the blinds.

Zayne sat in the chair beside your bed. Unmoved.

He hadn’t changed clothes.

The same shirt. The same faint stain near the cuff from yesterday’s blood draw. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his fingers curved over his mouth, gaze lost in some calculation too heavy for paper.

When he noticed you stir, his posture didn’t shift. But his eyes warmed—just barely. Just enough.

“I cancelled my procedures for the week,” he said simply. “Transferred patients to colleagues. For now, my only case is you.”

You blinked, silent. Then your gaze drifted down, to the low table by the bedside.

There, lined with the kind of hesitant care that comes from someone unused to gifts, sat a modest row of familiar things. A bouquet of white jasmine, fresh and fragrant. Two of your favorite candies in delicate wrappers. And—absurdly, heartbreakingly—three new plush toys, small and soft and so clearly chosen by someone who’d spent an agonizing amount of time in the gift shop second-guessing every decision.

Your heart folded inward.

“Am I dying?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

He didn’t smile.

But his voice, when it came, was soft and absolute.

“I won’t allow that.”

A long silence passed.

Then you shifted—carefully, your muscles aching—and reached for him.

“Come here,” you murmured.

For a moment, he hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because some part of him still didn’t believe he deserved the invitation. But he came. And when he lay beside you on the narrow couch, his body held a tension that didn’t ease until your head rested on his shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you move first. Let you curl against him the way you needed. His hand hovered over your back, uncertain, until you nudged it gently into place.

Only then did he hold you.

Not tightly.

Not desperately.

But with the kind of quiet conviction that said he would stay as long as it took.

You felt his breath in your hair before you heard his voice.

“I don’t pray,” he said, low, clinical as ever. “I believe in medicine. In numbers. In protocols.”

A pause. His fingers brushed your spine, feather-light.

“But if you hadn’t come back... I would’ve made an exception.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because some things, even with Zayne, are understood in silence.

And in that silence, held against the rhythm of his heartbeat, you felt it clearly: you were no longer his patient.

You were his entire world.

❤️ Sylus

For a moment after you speak, the room holds its breath. So does he.

Sylus doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t demand proof or press for detail. He simply stands there, stone-still, with your words unraveling him from the inside out. The way you say it—quiet, unshaking, without accusation—is somehow worse than if you’d screamed.

His gaze drifts over you then, and you feel the moment the veil lifts.

It’s in his eyes first—how they widen, flicker, and fixate. He takes in the shadows beneath yours, the pallor of your skin, the hollowness in your cheeks. His breath catches when he sees how your clothes hang looser than before. How your hands tremble faintly, barely perceptible unless one knows you too well.

And Sylus knows you.

His chest rises once, sharp and shallow. Then he moves.

Not fast. Not sudden.

But with purpose.

The next second, he’s in front of you, reaching—his fingers brush your jaw, feather-light, as if afraid that even the weight of his touch might bruise. He doesn’t speak as he leads you gently—gently, from a man whose hands have broken bones—into the nearest chair. One knee hits the ground beside you. He opens your jacket with slow precision, not to expose, but to check. To see. To know.

“You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, like gravel sliding beneath steel. His fingers glide down your arm, finding the sharp edges of bone where softness used to be. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

You try to speak, but he shakes his head, already rising.

He moves through the room like a storm with no wind—silent, but charged. Opens drawers. Pulls out clean clothes, a blanket, a glass of water. Then he’s back at your side, crouching again, one arm draped over your lap like a bridge between his fury and your exhaustion.

His hand wraps gently around your ankle, thumb pressing lightly against the bone there as he stares at it like it personally accuses him.

“I told them to take you.” His voice is lower now. Hoarse. “Told them to scare you. Make a point.”

He looks up at you. And for once, his face is completely unguarded.

“I hit you.”

It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t brutal. Not for someone like him.

But it was enough.

His voice falters, only slightly.

“And then I said I wouldn’t look for you.”

He exhales, and it’s not a breath—it’s a confession.

“That was the worst one, wasn’t it?” he asks. “Out of all of it. That’s the one that stayed.”

Your silence says enough.

And something in him breaks again—quietly, like a structure folding inward with no one left to hold it up. His forehead presses lightly to your knee, his arm tightening around your thigh. You feel him breathe you in, like scent alone might bring you back from the half-place you escaped.

“I should’ve known the second I touched you that something was wrong. I should’ve seen it on your face.” His voice cracks, just once. “But I was so angry. So fucking angry I couldn’t feel anything but the space where you weren’t.”

He pulls back. Looks at you again—slowly, steadily. And something inside him hardens, not with rage, but resolution.

“You’re not lifting a hand again. Not for food. Not for water. Not for anything. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what it costs. You’re going to rest, and I’m going to fix this—you—with my own hands, piece by piece.”

And when he stands, it’s not the usual slow menace or calculated power.

It’s reverent.

He lifts you—not like someone injured. Like something sacred. And when he carries you out of the room, wrapped in warmth and silence, there is no doubt in your mind:

Sylus will not let go again.

Not even if time itself tries to take you.

💜 Caleb

You aren’t even halfway through when it hits him.

Not like a punch. Not like a wound.

Like an organ failing.

He blinks once. Twice. And then nothing. No movement. No breath. Just silence.

Then, quietly—almost absently—he mutters, “I’ll resign.”

You look up, startled, and the absurdity punches out of you in a short, cracked laugh.

It’s the wrong moment. Too sharp, too bitter. But it slices through the tension like a scalpel.

And still—he doesn't move.

His hands press against the table, white-knuckled. Not to steady himself—he isn’t swaying. He’s rigid. Locked. Like something in him has calcified to hold him upright.

“I’m not fit to lead,” he says, voice flat, low, scorched. “Not when I see betrayal in the only person I’ve ever trusted.”

Whatever breath of amusement you had left dissolves instantly.

“I didn’t just fail as someone who was supposed to protect you,” he adds. “I failed as your—” He stops. Chokes it down. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear the sound of his teeth grinding. “As your Caleb.”

And then—he moves.

Quick, purposeful. Gone in a flash. You hear the kettle filling, the sharp click of a drawer, the dull thud of something fragile hitting the counter too hard. The way he clutches at control would be laughable if it weren’t so violent.

Then the bathwater starts.

Hot. Too hot. He’s not measuring anything. Just pouring. He throws open the cabinet, snatches towels, drops one, curses.

When he returns—his phone is in hand. “I’ll call Dr. Navik. I want a full neurocardiac scan, and we need to rule out—”

He stops. Mid-sentence. Thumb poised over the screen.

You don’t say a word. You just watch as something slows in him. As if time, for once, is merciful.

He lowers the phone. Turns toward you.

His voice—when it comes—isn't clipped or cold or distant. It's frighteningly gentle.

“Pip-squeak.”

He kneels before you, as if he’s afraid standing over you might shatter what little is left between you.

When he reaches out, it’s so slow. So reverent. The back of his fingers graze your cheekbone, barely there. Not because he doubts you—but because he doubts himself.

“How do you actually feel?” he whispers. “Not what I can fix. Not what the scans will say. Just you.”

You breathe. Only once. It shakes.

“Like roadkill,” you murmur. Then softer, almost smiling: “A hot bath wouldn’t hurt. And sleep. Maybe a week of it.”

Your faint attempt at a smile breaks him.

Not loudly. Not outwardly. He doesn’t cry. But something in his face folds in on itself, like it’s suddenly too heavy to wear. He draws a slow, trembling breath.

“I accused you,” he says, and now his voice is wrong. Hoarse. Quiet. Dismantled. “I accused you of being with someone else. After you went through six weeks of hell.”

You try to speak. He doesn’t let you.

“I thought you left me,” he says, and this time his voice cracks—just barely, but it’s there. A faultline in steel. His eyes are on the floor now, unfocused, as if he’s speaking to ghosts.

“I believed you would.”

His breath falters, like the truth is costing him oxygen.

“That it made sense. That I wasn’t enough.”

A pause. His throat works hard around the next words.

“Or worse—too much.”

His hand curls into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white. Not from anger. From restraint. From the effort not to collapse under the weight of everything he’s never said.

“That you’d finally find someone who doesn’t smother you with love that borders on obsession.”

He shifts, like his own skin is too tight. His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second before he forces them open again, forces himself to keep looking at you—even if it kills him.

“Someone who wouldn’t try to chain you close,” he whispers, “just because he’s too selfish to breathe without you.”

He looks at you now—really looks—and the devastation in his gaze is endless.

His voice breaks on the last word.

“Someone who wasn’t… me.”

And for a moment, he’s not a soldier. Not a leader. Not even a man.

He’s just Caleb. That boy who loved you before he had language for it. And who never stopped. Even when it ruined him.

His hands curl into fists against his knees.

“I interrogated you. Like a stranger. Like a traitor. And all the while you were trapped—alone, dying, fighting—and I was worried about your silence in my bed.”

A breath. And another. Like he’s drowning in air.

“I loved you before I even knew what that word meant,” he whispers. “I carried it for years, swallowed it, starved it. I told myself it was wrong. Forbidden. And the moment I finally had you—really had you—I destroyed it with my own hands.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not until your fingers find his.

Then he shudders. And looks up.

“You always forgave me,” he says, voice breaking now. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. But this time… if you don’t. If you can’t…”

His hand trembles in yours.

“…I’ll understand.”

You shake your head. Just once.

And in that second—he folds into you, arms curling around your waist, forehead pressed to your stomach like a prayer he doesn’t believe he deserves to say out loud.

When he finally carries you to the bath, it’s not in silence. He keeps murmuring things—small things, promises, broken confessions, names only he calls you. He doesn’t try to be strong. He only tries to be there.

And when you’re finally in bed again, drowsy and warm, you find him already beside you. Fully clothed, facing the ceiling, his hand resting on the sheets between you like a lifeline.

You whisper his name.

He turns his head, eyes dim in the dark.

You reach for him, and he comes to you instantly, without hesitation. He lies down beside you, and when you press your head to his chest, he exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in years.

His hand strokes your hair once.

And then, quiet—so quiet it almost isn’t real—

“I’ll never be the same.”

You don’t respond.

Because you both know it’s true.

And because you both know he doesn’t want to be.

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outofcontextcheritz · 2 years ago

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Nameless was one game already made.

#out of context #cheritz #funny #otoge #otome game #cheritz out of context #out of context otome #out of context nameless #nameless the one thing you must recall #nameless

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merkerlerspeaks · 2 years ago

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Zodi casually dissing her biological father

#FOR CONTEXT: Zodi cycles through names throughout the story!#Zodi is a nickname and her real name she decided not to go bc her parents gave it too her #this is actually a portion of the story where I would have her be totally nameless when I write it out #but the Ai needs a better way to refer to her so “Sunshine” is a nickname it came up with #for until she is able to finally settle on her chosen name #merkerler speaks #oc: zodi

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artbyblastweave · 8 days ago

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Here's one change made by Watchmen (2009) that's basically a microcosm of everything I dislike about the film. After the reveal that Comedian was Laurie's father, Manhattan espouses the idea that in spite of his search for thermodynamic miracles in contexts devoid of life, his detachment from humanity blinded him to the chain of remarkable circumstances necessary for Laurie to exist; he returns to save earth because Earth produced Laurie, specifically, his ex-girlfriend and superheroine extraordinare.

In the comic, Laurie points out that the unlikelyhood of her own specificity isn't actually less unlikely than the circumstances by which billions of other people came to exist- and that, exactly, is Manhattan's point. He expressly extrapolates this logic to the rest of humanity- Earth is a miracle factory by virtue of being the one place that can support humans, all of whom have the exact same kind of contradictory history and interiority as Laurie, all of which he was paradoxically blinded to due to his power-induced self-absorption.

This, in turn, ties into one of the biggest ideas that the comic has regarding the superhero genre, which is that it's necessarily myopic, because it's very difficult to tell a superhero story that doesn't on some level implicitly buy into the idea that the superhero specifically is uniquely worthy of attention- the world contorts itself around the person who's name is on the cover. Structurally, non-superhero characters in superhero stories find themselves in an orbit; supporting cast members, love interests kept in the dark, civilians to be saved. Cape stories that deliberately defy this dynamic exist- Watchmen itself is one of them!- but are visibly positioning themselves opposite the standard assumptions of the genre by doing so. Many of the other characters embody this myopia. Rorschach's whole opening spiel is about how intellectually and morally elevated he is over the teeming masses, and his mask killer theory is fundamentally motivated by an ego-flattering desire for the neutered institution of costumed heroism to be relevant enough to sit at the center of a widespread conspiracy. Comedian's gleeful amorality is a means of justifying his horrible actions as the work of a man who's fundamentally above and smarter than every convention and concern of the little people. Dan is the most "normal" and in ways the most cynical about the change-making potential of heroism, but when he finds out about Hollis's murder it takes less than a second for him to start throwing his weight around and threatening Comedian-tier atrocities against the entire neighborhood- because Hollis was one of the characters who mattered. And, of course, Ozymandias, who positions himself as above the sophomoric dynamics of traditional superheroism, is nonetheless still pursuing a plan by which he, the Big Man Of History, unilaterally sacrifices countless nameless NPCS in order to trick the rest of the unthinking hordes into behaving themselves, eschewing anything remotely involving collective action. Almost everything untoward that happens in the book can be directly tied to a failure to internalize what Manhattan did- that other people are important. That everyone who gets blown up at the end of issue 11 could have been the subject of a whole comic book themselves.

But in the movie- which, for space, axed most of the supporting cast even in the ultimate cut- Jon's epiphany stops and starts with Laurie. She's not a microcosm of the miraculous phenomena of humanity at large, no, she specifically- a badass superheroine played by a Hollywood starlet- is just so very special and worth saving the planet over. The scene is adapted almost word for word, right up until the part about "you and everyone else." I guess you can infer that bit, given that from there Manhattan is still out to preserve human life in general, but nonetheless the scene now feels like it's reinforcing the exact logic that it was supposed to be arguing against- that only superheroes matter, and that only the interiority of superheroes can move the needle.

#watchmen #dr manhattan #jon osterman #laurie juspeczyk #watchmen 2009

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runforthehillsbestie · 1 month ago

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Sympathy For The Devil

Part 3 - the hand that feeds you

Pairing - Thomas Hewitt x Female reader

Read the story context and warnings here

You spend most of the next day cuffed to the porch railing, watching Luda Mae work in the garden in the back and later when the sun is high, bring out sheets and clothing to wash. The man Luda Mae and the Sheriff call "Uncle Monty" sits in his wheelchair in the corner alternating between reading old newspapers, smoking, and taking naps with his small mop of a dog on his lap. You watch him through the corner of your eye, wondering what happened to his legs, both of which are amputated just above the knee.

Sheriff Hoyt--or "Charlie" as Luda Mae insists on calling him--hovers around making a nuisance of himself until she snaps and tells him to go patrol the roads, or do whatever it is that a Sheriff does.

The sun is setting now, and there are no more screams coming from the basement. You almost feel sorry for the nameless man, but better him than you and if that makes you a horrid, selfish person, you can live with it. Sheriff Hoyt makes a reappearance while Luda Mae is cooking dinner, tasting the contents of the pots and pans and giving his opinion on what spices to use.

The air is filled with the savory scent of butter, rosemary, and frying meat, and you're acutely aware of the fact that you haven't had anything to eat in over a day. You've been seated at the kitchen table with your handcuff attached to the arm of the chair you're sitting on. It not that tight, but the skin of your wrist is irritated from the friction anyway. Luda Mae has given you a shirt to patch up. You're horrible at it and you've pricked yourself more times than you care to count, but at least it gives you something to do, a way to belong. Luda Mae begins to set the table. She leans over you to have a look at your progress, her hair tickling against your forehead.

"That could use some work," she says. "I'll teach you sometime."

Sheriff Hoyt unclips the handcuff and pats your cheek. "Consider it a privilege, girl. You've been good enough. Keep it up and you just might stay!"

Everyone gets seated except Uncle Monty, who just rolls his wheelchair up to the table. You can't help but notice there's one extra spot at the foot of the table, clearly set for Thomas. Sheriff Hoyt reaches for the pot of steaming stew and Luda Mae clicks her tongue.

"You say Thanks now, Charlie. The Lord always comes first."

Sheriff Hoyt sighs and stands, hooking his thumbs into the belt loop of his pants. "Thank you Lord, for this beautiful bounty right here. Thank you for blessin' us with plenty and always looking out for us humble folk. Amen."

He sits down, then looks past you. "Come sit, boy," he says. "There's a place for you right here."

Tommy steps out of the shadowy doorway, floorboards creaking under his weight. His apron is crusted with coppery stains and you get the sense that the shirt he's wearing under it used to be white once. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that are marred with scars and a couple of burn marks. He hesitates, gripping the back of the chair.

"Let's eat," Sheriff Hoyt says.

You're the first to dig your spoon in, uncaring that the food is almost too hot. Instead of sitting, Tommy just leans over the chair and puts his face in his bowl like an animal. The beans melt in your mouth. You take a bite of the meat; it's got a slightly unusual texture to it but tastes good enough. At least it's fresh. You saw Luda Mae dropping the chunks of still-bleeding meat in the pot.

Sheriff Hoyt is smirking at you. "Is that good?" He asks.

You nod silently and realize they're all looking at you in a strange, approving way. Even Tommy, who is watching you as he licks stew off his fingers. In the silence that's been brought on, the dog gnawing on something is like the crack of a gunshot. You glance at the mat in the corner where the dog is chewing on not a bone, but a human finger. Your stomach flips upside down, and you hastily push your bowl away despite the hungry protests of your stomach. The stew tastes fine. Delicious, even. But that finger... The butcher-like setup of Tommy's basement and all those pieces of dripping meat dropping into the pan and sizzling... The puzzle pieces falls into place in your mind.

"It's human meat, isn't it?" You gasp. "We're eating that man. You killed him and then you chopped him up and..." You clamp your hand over your mouth.

Sheriff Hoyt slaps his hand on the table. "We eat what God provides. It's just nature."

You shake your head and stumble out of your chair. What if they're fattening you up? What if you're next? Your eyes dart warily from one face to another. They're all cannibals.

"Come now, dear," Luda Mae says softly. "Won't you finish your food? Just a few more bites?"

"I can't. I won't!" You hiss.

The dog begins to bark. Uncle Monty sneaks a piece of meat out of the pot and tosses it to the dog. Tommy picks up your bowl and extends it to you. You slap it to the floor and stew splatters all over the floorboards. The dog scrabbles to snarf it up.

Sheriff Hoyt's eyebrows gather into a thunderous knot on his forehead. "I've had enough of your attitude," he says. "Think you're so goddamn better than the rest of us, eh?"

"You're eating people," you retort. "Human beings, your own kind! That's messed up."

"You know what's messed up? Wasting food. Insulting Tommy's hard work. This boy did his part in putting food on the table, and here you are spittin' in the face of it," Sheriff Hoyt growls. "You oughtta be ashamed! Nah, you oughtta be punished."

"Charlie--" Luda Mae protests.

"Not a word out of you, woman!" He barks. "I'll set her right. Teach her to say thank you instead of throwing a bitch fit."

The Sheriff stomps up to you and grabs you by the hair. You scream in pain and fear but he pays it no mind, forcing you to stagger after him as he drags you along.

"Tommy, come on down when you're done with your dinner," he says over his shoulder. "This filly needs some breakin' in."

You thrash and fight and try your hardest to get free. You don't want to go back to that dingy, wet basement. Sheriff Hoyt sticks a knife in your face and you freeze.

"You'd better get real good right now, or this blade might just slip right into this soft flesh of yours," he says, tracing the sharp tip over dress, tapping the cool edge against the points of your nipples as they react to the stimulation.

You're sure he can see the hatred in your eyes.

He only laughs and shoves you. "Well? Get that pretty ass of yours down there."

You turn and trudge down the stairs, urged on by the sharp blade prodding into your back. The knives on the walls have a new meaning. You're seeing the purpose of this room with fresh eyes and it's making you sick. The man Tommy butchered is mostly gone. All that remains is a leg hanging from a beam, dripping syrupy blood into a bucket. Sheriff Hoyt drags a rickety chair into the center of the room where the floor is dry.

"Sit," he says. "Don't make me say it twice." You obey and try to school your breathing, clutching your hands in your lap. You've fucked up and now you're going to pay the price.

Sheriff Hoyt scratches his stubbly neck and stands there, feasting his eyes on you. What is he waiting for? There's a thump of footsteps on the stairs and your heart leaps into your throat as Tommy steps into the room, his gaze darting between your seated form and the Sheriff.

"Let's begin with the punishment," Sheriff Hoyt announces, grinning. "Tommy, put your pants down."

Oh fuck no, he isn't going to go there, you think to yourself, but it's soon clear that yes, he is.

Tommy fidgets, rubbing his fingers on his apron and ducking his head.

"Big guy like you, and you're pansy-ing around over a girl? Get over there!" Sheriff Hoyt scoffs.

Tommy steps in front of you. His hands hesitate for a moment before he unties the apron from around his stout belly, pulling it over his head and setting it on a table off to the side. He unlaces his pants, his eyes flashing above the mask as he stares down at you. You look away with a blush as the material rustles and drops, leaving him in nothing but the shirt.

"Ah-ah, look at him, girl," Sheriff Hoyt drawls.

You turn your head. Tommy's cock is thick and big even though it's only half hard, rooted in a bed of curls and lolling lazily against his hairy, muscular thigh.

"You've been rude to my boy here, refusing the meat he labored to carve up all nice just for you. Now you're gonna apologize," Sheriff Hoyt says.

He waves the knife he's still holding and spits on the floor. "If you even dream of using your teeth, I'll pull every single one of 'em out, you hear me? You'd be eating porridge and mash for the rest of your life."

You nod quickly.

"Then get to work. Let's see how sorry you really are."

You look up at Tommy. He lifts his hand and strokes your hair. You hesitantly take the edge of his shirt to tug him closer to your chair.

The Sheriff barks, "Remember, no teeth. You get him hard now."

You take Tommy's shaft in your trembling hand and stroke it. It quickly grows harder and gets shiny and red at the tip. The scent of him, overpowering and male, clouds your senses. Tommy is still playing with your hair, his fingers running over your scalp almost soothingly. You open your mouth before the Sheriff can yell at you and in a flash, Tommy presses his fingers into your mouth. You splutter at the mysterious gamey taste on them. Who knows where his hands hands have been? Well, you have a pretty good guess.

You pull away in favor of pressing your lips to the leaking head of his cock instead. Tommy lets out a small, croaked sound at the feeling of your soft lips wrapping around his cockhead, sliding it into your mouth. He's uncomfortably big, of course he is. His precum is thick and salty on your tongue.

The Sheriff nods. "Good. You take him nice and slow, just like that."

Tommy makes little gruff "uh" sounds of pleasure, tugging on your hair.

"Don't be afraid to be rough with it, Tommy. This girl here needs to feel sorry. You can move just like the dogs and cows do when they mate. It'll feel better."

Shut up, you think to yourself.

Maybe you accidentally mumbled that aloud because the Sheriff reaches out and twists your nipple through your dress. You jump in pain, curses on your tongue, but Tommy grabs the back of your head and pushes his hips forward, sliding deep into your mouth. You can tell the moment it clicks because his eyes light up. His next thrust is brutal, mindless of how much you can manage as he crams his cock down your throat with a deep groan of satisfaction.

You gag and try to pull back but he's got your head in a vice grip with both hands, pushing and pulling like your head is seperate from your body, fucking into your mouth. His stocky belly brushes against your forehead each time he yanks you in, his pubic hair tickling against your nose as he forces you forward. Your eyes fill with tears and you can only drool helplessly, clutching his hips to try and stay upright, to have something solid to ground yourself with. You dig your nails into his skin but he doesn't seem to notice, groaning as his cock throbs and swells in your mouth.

Through the corner of your eye you can see Sheriff Hoyt is busy himself. He has his cock out, and it's laughably small in comparison to Tommy's. He spits into his hand and continues to jack off to the sight of you getting used you like a toy.

"Let up a little, Tommy," Sheriff Hoyt says. "Let her breathe some. You don't want her dying on you, do ya?"

Tommy pulls out of your mouth and you cough and gasp for air, falling out of the chair and trying to crawl away.

"I don't know about you, Tommy, but that don't seem like very sincere apology behavior to me," Sheriff Hoyt tuts. "See she's trying to get away."

Tommy's shadow falls over you and you yelp as he grabs your ankle. He flips you over like you weigh nothing and you shriek as he straddles you. His weight on your chest makes it nearly impossible to breathe, snatching thin breaths as you stop struggling and stare up at him. His hair hangs in his face and rests in greasy strands against his heaving shoulders. His bare thighs are covered in hair, almost furry as they press on either side of you. His balls are like a brand on your chest, heavy and hot even through your dress.

He grabs his shaft and crudely jabs the head of his cock against your lips. You growl at him with your teeth firmly locked together. He stretches up, blindly reaching for something on the table. You shriek when he brings a sharp glistening blade down, drawing a tiny, stinging cut on your cheek. You recognize the brightly colored plastic handle. It's your fucking razor blade.

"Atta boy," the Sheriff praises, fisting his cock with a final groan as he dribbles cum all over over his hand. "You learn fast, you clever little shit."

Tommy taps his cock against your lips again and with the blade so close, you have no option but to open your mouth, tucking your teeth behind your lips in bitter resignation. You place your palms on his thick thighs, trying to make some room, but he smothers you with his body and cock, his musk seeping into your nostrils. His cock slides into your mouth with a lewd, slick sound. He doesn't even bother holding his shaft. He puts both hands on the floor beside your head and humps his hips, eyes locked on where his cock disappears into your mouth over and over. His balls smack against your chin as he rocks, pausing now and then to let you suck in some air before he fills your mouth again.

How nice of him.

You're starting to gag once again. Thankfully there's too little in your stomach for you to throw anything up, but the nausea you feel when he triggers your gag reflex causes your eyes to sting and weep freely. Your whole body goes tense when you feel a grubby hand probing under your dress. That has to be Sheriff Hoyt. You whine around the cock in your mouth but you're pinned and helpless as Sheriff Hoyt fishes around.

"You're all wet down here! Just how much of this is blood, huh?"

You growl low in your throat in response. Tommy presses the cool blade just under your eye in warning and you force yourself to relax your jaw again. Sheriff Hoyt pets you between the legs, his fingers gathering all the slickness there and taking it up to rub your clit until your hip start twitching involuntarily. There's no way you're about to cum like this, assaulted from both ends. It's humiliating, especially with that bastard touching you.

But the intermittent oxygen deprivation is getting to you, making you go lightheaded. The pressure deep inside you builds and despite yourself you're squirming, craving just a little more. It would be fair if you also got an orgasm out of this, wouldn't it? However, just as you feel yourself reaching a peak, Sheriff Hoyt stops.

"That's part of your punishment, now," he says, wiping his hand on your dress.

You would have killed him if you had the chance, but Tommy isn't letting up the pace. He hooks a thumb at the corner of your already-filled mouth, jamming it between your molars to keep you from closing your mouth. He sits his cock deep in your mouth and shudders. You moan at the first jet of warm cum into your mouth and your traitorous clit throbs desperately on the second.

You choke on the next couple of spurts, struggling to swallow. Cum leaks out of the side of your mouth and dribbles into your hair. Tommy pulls back, letting the last spurt decorate your lips and chin. He heaves himself off of you and grabs his pants and apron, putting them on. Sheriff Hoyt whistles as he looks at you wrecked and panting on the floor.

"Ain't that a beautiful sight," he says. "You keep her down here, tonight. Punish her again if you think she needs it."

Your blood boils over as you sit, trembling. You fucking pig, you want to shout at the retreating Sheriff, but your throat is so sore that you don't even bother. Tommy brings you a chipped mug filled with water. He holds it out cautiously, like he's anticipating that you'll just smack it away.

You don't. You accept the mug and take a grateful sip of the cool water.

Part 4 - hunting season

@dastardly-imbecile and @dabisnympho asked to be tagged! <3

@runforthehillsbestie

#my writing #thomas hewitt #thomas hewitt x reader #thomas hewitt fanfic #texas chainsaw massacre #texas chainsaw massacre the beginning #slasher x reader #x reader #reader insert #slasher #slashers #slasher boyfriend #fem reader #fanfic #fanfiction #fanfiction writing #the texas chainsaw massacre #leatherface

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murdamour · 4 months ago

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kid!stsg 🤧

You see this primarily because I love this song and it turned out to be suitable for them😭😭

Vague context:

It's kind of alternate universe where stsg meet each other as children. Gojo is having bad dreams about faceless special someone becoming a puppet with that nameless sorcerer's technique. And he doesn't exactly know why considering he hadn't experienced this kind of feeling to someone but he's still very sad, as the echo of his nightmares is following him during the day. And then he meets Suguru who finds him crying :') (and who is to become his special someone but they don't know it yet)

I made myself cry with this 💀

#kid stsg #satosugu #jjk #jjk fanart #stsg #stsg fanart #geto suguru #satosugu fanart #gojo satoru #kid satosugu

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kiwianacat · 3 months ago

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My ADHD riddled brain is rreeally driving me to do anything other than catch up on important deadlines right now, so here's not one but two family trees for my increasingly convoluted, vauglely medieval set Warriors au.

The first tree shows all of Crookedstar and Oakheart's descendants (excluding Storm and Reed's eventual families), while the second would be a more "in-universe" tree, that shows the four most recent stewards of River's Kingdom and their closest adult relatives. There'll be a couple errors here to ignore; I've already spotted that I forgot to fix Reedwhisker's name.

I chopped and pasted together a few different families for the sake of fun succession dramas. I've also written a ramble about succession and family history because whyy nott.

Succession:

In the four kingdoms things like “bloodlines”or “birthrights”are considered to be of great importance and you cannot be adopted into a given bloodline. ((*this isn’t a concept I agree with, but is standard in medieval settings and would be actively challenged within the au)) These laws are also mostly only applicable to the higher classes of noble families. Families of common-born folk (such as Firestar’s birth family) are “nameless”having no surname, house or lands to pass on.

I’m trying to make the rules of inheritance/succession in this au dependent mainly on birth order regardless of gender which would've been typical in most medieval settings. This makes things slightly convoluted, but bear with me lmao.

Across all four kingdoms it’s standard for the first born to inherit/pass on the titles of their house while the second born adopts the titles of whomever they marry and cannot inherit a lordship. The third and further born can only pass on titles if they marry someone of a “lesser”family, or with a weaker connection to their bloodline (such as being second born or later in the birth order). However if the first or second born dies they instead adopt their responsibilities meaning they can potentially become heirs/lords, unlike second borns. It’s typically preferred to have at least three children for this reason; with two there’s a greater risk of the house’s name dying.

Having a child out of wedlock is incredibly taboo and in certain contexts (largely depending on the current ruler) can result in exile, forfeiting all names and titles. It’s not technically illegal to have a relationship across kingdom borders; but these relationships will very rarely be ordained by a legitimate priest/cleric, especially in times of conflict. Children can be born through surrogacy in the case of same-sex marriage, but the surrogate must be from the same house as the second parent for them to have inheritance rights (although there are ways to hide illegitimate children under this rule)

House Chell

Stewards and Heirs of the King River Chell

River’s Kingdom considers the River Chell to be their rightful king, possessing the spirit of King Riverstar and his “truest” descendants act only as his stewards to carry out his will. Stewards (or Highlords as they are titled) essentially have the same rights and rulings as the kings of the other three kingdoms however. They also still wear crowns, because I like to draw them (although they would not inherit the original founder's crown as the other rulers typically do, instead having unique crowns per ruler)

Typically Highlord’s will choose their own heirs, ideally their firstborns as they can pass on their titles (the “strongest”line of succession always follows the first born), however they can also choose from any descendant that inherits the Chell name. If they die without naming a successor it’s the duty of the lords to decide the next Highlord communally from this pool of descendants.

In this au Misty, Stone and Moss are bio kits of CrookedBlue, raised by GreyOak. Crookedstar named them Stonepath and Mistywood in reference to his past meetings with Bluefur, hidden in the woods near the Sunningrock Ruins.

(this also changes Stormfur's name to Stormpath, as I always hcced is Warrior name as being in honour of his mentor)

((also GreyOak are probably in more of a QPR type relationship, the romantic label is an over-simplification))

Crookedstar had named Silverstream as his heir and failed to name a new successor after her death. At the time Mistywood and Stonepath were considered ineligible as the children of the late second born Oakheart Chell. Leopardfur had inherited the Chell name through her mother Brightsky, a third born daughter of Hailstar and was chosen by the lords over Silverstreams’s kits, although she had to accept Storm as an heir until she had alternate choices.

Leopardstar technically had a weaker claim to the throne than Storm and Feather and a much weaker claim than Mistywood and Stonepath, once they were exposed as Crookedstar’s bio kits. This was a motivating factor for her joining forces with Tigerstar and she campaigned against all four, declaring them invalid as heirs due to their mixed heritages, stripping their knighthoods and titles and forcing Stone to fight to regain his in a bloody execution.

She married Tigerstar in a political move (she didn’t love him; they were using each other), and Hawk and Moth were born to this marriage, Hawk named as heir.

Public opinion of this was mixed at the time and tides turned against her after Tigerstar’s death, eventually leading to her being usurped and disposed of, with Mistywood inheriting her title. Hawk, Moth, Storm, Feather and Reed grew up alongside each other as potential heirs. Hawkfrost grew to become a political pawn of a faction of nobles who still held support for Leopardstar, resenting that Mistystar eventually chose her son Reedwhisker to succeed her despite initially preparing Hawk for the role.

Much much later on a succession crisis occurs after Mistystar and Reedwhisker both die, leaving a large pool of descendants that carry the Chell name (Curlfeather and her kits, Splashtail and others who were potentially born to Feather, Storm or Hawk, I’m not sure yet)

I'd love to have a look at the other Kingdom's and their royal families at some point, I already have a good idea of how the Kingdom of Thunder's works. It's worth stating that in all Kingdoms it's required for the ruler to directly inherit the blood of a founder to have the "right"to rule, which is eventually challenged when Bluestar makes Fireheart her heir, leading to conflict and political change.

I'm having too much fun, I really want to make some maps and location sketches and mounts and weapons and timelines and more family trees aughhhhh

#my art #warrior cats #warriors #i wont tag everyone but i will tag the larger headshots #crookedstar #oakheart #silverstream #stonefur #mistystar #feathertail #stormfur #reedwhisker #hailstar #leopardstar #riverclan #warriors au #medieval warriors #medieval warriors au

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puppycheesecake · 4 months ago

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Let's make a Sim!

Heyyo~ I want to make something but I don't know what, so I'm just gonna start and see where I end up, and I'll document the process so you can follow along with me if you want.

Warning: long post under the cut!

Follow meee~! ☆ﾐ(o*･ω･)ﾉ

Let's start with a blank Sim. A clean slate. I keep some blank Sims saved in my library for just such an occasion.

Hi buddy. 👋

Since I'm not starting off with any particular idea in mind, let's just randomize and see what pops up:

Yeah, okay. That's a decent enough base to start with.

I don't know what I want to do with him yet, but I think he should be cute. Just a cute lil' guy, you know?

But first he needs a chin.

Jesus Christ.

Now that he has a lower jaw, let's set the eye color back to default black. We'll figure out what to do with them later; for now I want to work on his facial structure.

Okay, getting somewhere.

Now he needs big, beautiful eyes. I'm deciding that now. Our nameless Sim is going to be a cute lil' guy and he's going to have big beautiful doe eyes.

We'll use this eye preset and scale it down a little.

Baby boy. Baby.

While we're here, let's give him a new lip preset and new eyebrows. We'll keep his nose for now, but let's make it a little bigger.

Okay, now we're getting somewhere.

Now onto skin details. ✧w✧

Let's start with a skinblend. We'll use @adelarsims's Romeo Face Overlay, and maybe we'll layer @sims3melancholic's Frederick Skin over it at about ~15% opacity, just for that liiittle touch of texture and color. (Thank you Color Slider mod.)

Oh he's CUTE cute.

You know what? Make him purple. We'll use one of @noodlescc's Sorbet Remix skin tones.

So he's cute, and purple. But who are you, nameless Sim?

Oh hey. Let's add @gloomiegalaxie's Chitin Antenna. I've been wanting to use those.

We'll call him Chitin Boy.

Greetings Chitin Boy.

So he's cute, purple, and bug-y. Party. Let's finish adding skin details, and give him some shiny new bug eyes. Big, beautiful bug eyes.

We'll also give him some pointy ears. Bitches love pointy ears.

It's me; I'm bitches.

Additional skin details:

Undereye Shadow

Eyelids N13

Eyebags Plus

Mouth Corners

Definition Overlay

Chin Overlay

Misc. Face Details

Now let's hit the gym, Chitin Boy. ( ◡̀_◡́)ᕤ

Chitin makes up insect exoskeletons and is pretty tough stuff--maybe Chitin Boy's species is also tough, and that's why they need chitin armor. So our boy is cute, but tough...let's make him slim but muscular. We'll use this body preset, because I like the muscle definition.

We're also going to give him an itty bitty slut waist, just because.

Now onto tattoos and body skin details... ( ◡‿◡ *)

Let's mix in a couple different blushes to give him a bit more color/depth, maybe a little highlight here and there to give him some shine, plus some bug-ish looking overlays.

Tattoos:

Torrada Body Blush

Lovefreak Body Blush

Blush N74 (Love You Like Crazy)

Eye Highlight N01 (Spark)

Demon Days Pallor (to make his skin just a little more purple)

Intergalactic Overlays (yes we're going to use that one overused nose ridge overlay, hush; it makes sense in the context of a chitinous bug-man.)

Skin Details:

Basic Body Blush

Asteroid Overlay

Tiefling Skin Detail

There we go. Lookin' extra insect-y.

Bitches don't know 'bout my bug armor.

Y'know what? Let's embrace the bug angle. Give that boy some mandibles. We'll give him new eyebrows too while we're at it. Let's use @plantainboat's Spikey Leaf Eyebrows.

Oof I love that bit of blue. Let's incorporate it into the rest of him.

Now it's makeup time. 👁👄👁

How about... Eyelashes / Eyeliner / Eyeshadow / Lipstick / Highlight / Glitter. We want him colorful and shiny, like a beetle.

Oh work.

Since we're embracing the bug/alien angle, let's give him a more fitting nose. We'll use this orc nose preset.

Lookin' cute, Chitin Boy. (Note: he has no idea that he's considered adorable by Earth standards. On his planet he's considered quite menacing. :'c )

Now let's give him some hair. ("Chitin and keratin?" you say. To which I say, "Yes. He has both. He is rich in both polysaccharides and proteins, and this makes him unstoppable.")

Now, what kind of hair... I think he should have long hair. It just feels right. Chitin Boy's species is tough but beautiful, and they grow their hair long. It flows behind them in battle.

Ooh, let's use @yin-shimo's Qing Jiu hair.

Perfect, but it's not quite the color I want, so we'll use @tricoufamily's Willoughby Hair Overlays to tweak the color, plus these ombre & root overlays. Bugs are colorful, so Chitin Boy's species should be, too.

Also we'll give him new eyeshadow. Oh, and cooler ears.

Chitin Boy you are positively radiant.

Okay, we've got a good color palette going here. Let's go back into tattoos & skin details and change that pop of color from purple to blue, so we can pull some of that color down onto the rest of his body.

We're also giving him a braid. It feels important. Chitin Boy has a braid and he's very proud of it. Maybe it has some kind of significance in Chitin Boy culture.

Okay, love that.

Now let's dress him up. ( ͡o ω ͡o )

I'm thinking we want some bright, bold colors, but I also want to utilize a lot of black. He's pretty but he's also fierce and serious, I've decided. We want colors that will complement his color palette but won't distract from it--Chitin Boy is bold and beautiful, but he isn't gaudy.

His clothes should be functional and comfortable, and shouldn't restrict movement--he needs to be able to move quickly if he's from a tough warrior-bug-alien species, and if he already has chitinous skin he won't need much actual armor. But they should have a unique silhouette, too; not just "shirt and pants," you know?

I also want to show off his body details/coloring, because look at him--it'd be criminal to cover all that up.

Let's go with: Bottoms / Top / Shoes.

These recolored Journey to Batuu bottoms give him a great silhouette, and pairing the asymmetrical skirt with an asymmetrical top balances it out. And of course a fierce bug-boy warrior needs a sturdy pair of boots--that's just a given.

Maybe Chitin Boy is a warrior on his planet, but on Earth he's just a guy. I bet he'd be into the punk/metal scene. His culture doesn't have music but they do have screaming, so naturally he's drawn to Earth's Loud Scream-Singing.

Let's add on some punk-y accessories to complete the look: Gloves / Belts / Bracelets / Nails

We'll tweak the body a little bit, aaand...

Chitin Boy, you beautiful bastard, you've done it again.

There he is. Our Chitin Boy. From inception to finish. :') Now we'll give him some traits--how about Self-Assured, Chased by Death, Music Lover, and Loner. Confident and self-sufficient, keenly aware of his own mortality, and just a big fan of a good song.

He likes arguments & singing and dislikes silly behavior & video games. He likes argumentative Sims, but does not like ambitionless Sims. His favorite color is blue.

And we'll give him the Soulmate Aspiration. Because Chitin Boy needs love. 💖

How it started vs. How it ended:

Glow-up. 💅

And that's a wrap! Thanks for accompanying me on this journey. I don't know if this is actually going to help anyone, but it's been a hell of a ride. :^) May you go forth and make some weird random Sims of your own.

#ts4 #sims 4 #sims #tutorial #of sorts #all that and I still never gave him a name 🤡#whoops

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