#patchwork error

[sososunniest]

made this a while ago of our lovely patchwork. dunno why I never shared.

anyway! take it.

[juniemunie]

She's here!!! Say hello to Patchwork, she's my Errorink "kid".

She's a creepy lil puppet that does her own thing in the multiverse. She can't speak, but it's not like she has a need to communicate anyway since you rarely ever get to see her as she doesn't socialize... ever. You might see traces of her because she will always meticulously arrange any area she comes across to perfection.

As her name says, she patches up AUs and cleans up after her parent's messes. She doesn't appear to lean on either side and remains neutral.

Heres a short comic on how I think she came to be

Maybe ill make a part 2 who knows this was fun to make

If you wanna know more about her, feel free to read below:

How does she clean up exactly?

Welp, heres a lengthy explanation: I've always assumed that the multiverse is more or less data in a diskspace, and said disk contains all the data of the AUs.

For every new AU, it takes up space. For every destroyed AU, it frees up space.

Sometimes when a new AU uses the freed up space, there still isn't enough room, so the AU fragments itself to be placed somewhere else in the disk. This makes things harder for Ink (difficult to locate and assist, as well as causing "loading" issues and glitches) and for Error (harder to destroy completely because theyre all over the place).

Patchwork, lives up to her namesake by slowly and tediously stitching and arranging these fragmented AUs together, regardless if theyre going to be destroyed or not.

As for her interacting with other characters:

If she sees an incode outside of their respective AU, she will attempt to guide them back to their respective universe if it still exists. Pretty good right?

But if their AU doesn't exist anymore.... well. She doesn't like loose ends. [So yes, she is not allowed in the Omega Timeline.]

Other miscellanous info:

She can and will organize anything she can get into. Ink will find his once messy art studio cleaned to perfection and all of his sketchbooks arranged alphabetically and by date somehow. Error comes back to the antivoid to find his puppets lined up neatly and staring down at him which freaks him out. PJ's corner will have all the paintings straightened out. Even Gradient's laptop icons are all organized and cleaned up as well lmao

She moves like a slasher stalker. If you spot her, she will stare at you unmovingly. If you move your eyes away from her for even a moment, she will be gone.

[muddlecollective]

Its finally done!!! My first ever tote bag!

[ghoulphile]

no use cryin' over spilled milk | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 2.8 k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; dirty talk, frottage, lactation kink, pregnant!reader, fingerfucking, praise kink, breast play, the ghoul calls reader pretty mama, he's a pervert who wants to lend a 'helping' hand ➥ summary | based off this ask; oops being an experiment from vault 4 where you may be the first rad resistant human pregnant with a possibly rad resistant baby, and you come across the ghoul who helps you get to a safe place but then he gets attached with you and the baby 🥺 (this is just me trying to insert a lactation kink somewhere i'm sorry) ➥ notes | uhhhh pls let me know if i missed anything, my brain is dribbling out my ears (its 3:44 am and i have work at 8 am rip) but the parasites persist. i'll do the tag list when i wake up ❤️ masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated ❤️

Going topside wasn’t an easy decision.

In fact, bile bitter regret often lingers in the back of your throat - a lump that stifled the air in your lungs.

And while you might’ve been bioengineered to survive better under these harsh wasteland conditions, every time you find yourself in a less than ideal situation, you're catapulted headlong into paralyzing self doubt; alone and rudderless.

No one lives in the vaults - not truly.

Birdie (and the others) warned you of what awaited beyond those lead-lined walls. But you couldn’t abide spending the rest of your life trapped in a cage, albeit a gilded one.

Not anymore.

Oh no, you wanted to feel a real breeze instead of air pumped through the HVAC. Experience the sun baking warm into your skin like fresh bread instead of the artificial heat of the UV lamp used for mandatory light therapy sessions. Complain about the chafe of sand in your shoes and hear the crunch of dirt under foot instead of a hollow clunk of sterile metal.

To witness first hand all the sights, sounds, and smells this world offers. 

Only… you didn’t expect it to be this hard.

Nor did you expect to be pregnant when setting off into the great unknown on your own (a definite oversight on your part [you really shouldn’t have had one last hurrah before hitting the road]).

Through trial and error, motion sicknesses that swing into crippling nausea as manic energy - your first taste of true freedom! - dwindled into dragging fatigue, you found a happy medium. None of which would have been possible had it not been for the most unlikely of companions.

Ghouls; who knew, huh?

Sure, you’d heard of them from the rotating door of visitors that found themselves at Vault 4, but you’d never seen them. While you grew up surrounded by visible mutations, seeing the battlefield of his body was off putting; how a person could survive a patina of burns and patchwork slices without unraveling at the seams was beyond you.

And kind of frightening.

But he took it in stride, introducing himself as Ghoul. Refused to divulge anything else of substance no matter how much you poked and prodded.  His life pre-bomb was a complete mystery filled with plot holes and unanswered questions (which is exactly what he preferred).

You learned to be comfortable with his meandering conversations, and all the words he spoke that said much of nothing. And what you did glean, you did so through observation alone. 

He was alone - had been for a very long time.

He was very old - one of the last of his kind.

And he was, in his own way, very kind - at least by wasteland standards.

“The fuck you doin’?”

Pausing, you stop mid push and hover awkwardly on your hands and knees. The vault suit pulls taut across your hips, pinching behind your knees uncomfortably. Your toes squeak in your shoes, socks thoroughly soaked through with sweat.

It’s been unseasonably hot (or it’s the hormones). Whatever the case, this is the first semi-decent lodging you’ve camped in for weeks, and you’re not about to miss an opportunity to freshen up.

And maybe find a way to soothe the building ache in your tits - flesh swollen tender and nipples rubbed raw.

“I’m just, uh, gonna,” you motion towards the back of the house, the askew bathroom door clinging to its hinges by a corner, “y’know, f-freshen up. See if they don’t still have some water.”

The Ghoul scans you up and down, gimlet-eyed. “S’that so?”

You huff, your knees starting to ache.

Being five months pregnant throws your center of gravity for a loop, the atmosphere weighing extra heavy on your bones. It doesn’t help that the baby’s decided sitting directly on your bladder with a foot tucked under your ribs is the best position.

“Didn’t know I needed permission to take a piss now,” you snipe. Usually, you try to reign in the hormones but the day’s been too long and you’re in pain. Anyone would be a little snippy (right?). “Can I do that on my own or do you need to watch, Mr. Ghoul?”

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, his gaze glinting from beneath the rim of his hat as he tips his head. “Better watch it, sweetheart,” he says. “Otherwise, I might have’ta wash your mouth out with soap.”

Pushing yourself up with a grunt, you determinedly ignore the raspy chuckle that follows as you waddle towards the bathroom. Cussing him out all the while in your mind.

While he’s been ‘nicer’ today - stopping for extra breaks, even packing it in several hours earlier than usual because he noticed how weary you looked - he’s still an asshole.

The toilet’s gone, the tub’s tipped sideways, the linoleum’s cracked, and closing the door sounds like a pack of howling mole rats but its functional. When you catch your reflection in the spider web fractures of the mirror, you grimace.

The wastes have certainly left their mark on you. Gone is the prim-and-proper vault dweller, replaced by a gremlin of a woman Overseer Benjamin would surely scowl at.

A true ‘surfie’ now.

“Great,” you groan, scrubbing a palm over your face. “Just - ugh!”

You’re caked in grime, a steak of dirt smeared across the bridge of your nose. Mysterious stains darken the blue fabric, the golden stripes of your suit an off-putting grey.

Your hair clumps in greasy chunks. You’re glossy with sweat, and while your curves have plumped up over the last few months, you didn’t realize just how much until now.

The vault suit’s always been tight - now it clings and creases in unflattering places. And there’s nothing you can do about it, unless the Ghoul is willing to spare a sewing kit.

You could let the waist out some…

What the hell am I gonna do if he won’t? There’s no way I’ll fit if this baby gets any bigger. Shit, I look like a fucking sausage. Your hand cradles the side of your stomach, stroking over the bump with a frown. This is all your fault, you little parasite.

“You better be so fucking cute - the cutest goddamn baby in the wasteland. Or I will riot.”

Tugging down the zipper over your breasts is heaven, the swollen flesh spilling out of the parting fabric, no longer compressed. It’s almost enough to make you cry as you struggle to tug the lycra off your shoulders, the fabric putting up a fight.

After some awkward contortions that pull uncomfortably at the muscles of your shoulder blades, you manage to wrangle yourself free.

The temptation to burn the stupid goddamn suit is almost too much to resist, but then you’d really be traipsing around the wasteland in the nude and just… no.

Peeling off your undershirt is another story altogether, the soft cotton feeling like sandpaper as it scrapes over sensitive skin. Your nerves tingle with awareness, bolts of pain shooting through your nipples with every shift.

Quick like a bandaid, you think, taking a steadying inhale.

It’s a miracle you don’t scream.

Tears cling to your lashes, your nose running as you toss the shirt to the side with one hand and cradle your chest with the other. Sure, you’ve had tenderness with your period but this kind of pain? A whole new level.

You almost don’t know what to do with yourself.

How is this fair - aren’t you suffering enough?

Sniffling, you peer down at your tits and gingerly cup them with your palms. Swollen hard and warm to the touch; a heavy weight crushing your ribs.

Do I really have to milk myself like a fucking brahmin? Another bolt of lightning crackles through your nerve endings as if in response. Fine. God, this is embarrassing.

Only any attempt at touching your nipples produces pure agony, shards of glass biting into delicate skin.

No matter how slight your touch, no matter how gentle your fingers - it doesn’t work. Leaves you more distraught and in pain than when you began as inflamed nerve endings crackle and burn.

And when the tears truly start, the dam breaks. It’s not long before they drip down your cheeks in fat rivulets, your breath hitching from you in pathetic little exhales.

Your fist shoves against your mouth in an attempt to smother the sounds, teeth sinking into your knuckle until you leave sore indents.

But you should know better, not only does the Ghoul have heightened senses (he’s taunted you constantly with this fact like the asshole he is), but he’s uncannily perceptive in a very annoying way.

You don’t hear the squeal of the door, but you do sense his presence behind you; the rad warm burn of his body as he stops a scant few inches away. You feel his breath against the nape of your neck, the barest brush of his chest as he inhales.

“You ready ta stop bein’ stubborn?” he hums. “I thought I told you not ta wait s’long.”

Your voice warbles from you, “G’way.” You curl into yourself, shoulders hunching as you hang your head. “Don’t need your help.”

The Ghoul snorts. “Cuz you doin’ so well on your own, huh?”

“I resent that.” You shoot him a weak glare, the animosity ruined by the crumble of your lips. “I really, really do.”

You hate always having to rely on him, so desperate to prove that you can take care of yourself only to have every effort to do so thrown back in your face.

Shit, you hate how right Birdie was, “Honey, you won’t last five minutes on your own. Please stay here with us where it’s safe.”

“Well, maybe so. But pickers can’t be choosers, sweetheart,” he shrugs with a languid roll of the shoulders. “Ain’t no use cryin’ over spilled milk. C’mon, the longer you wait, the worse it’s gon be.”

“I just - you don’t understand…”

He reaches around you to set his hat on the sink, the dwindling light of twilight creeping in through the holes in the roof to bathe him in its bloody light.

He looks like a grotesque demon that clawed its way from the depths of hell. It gets your pulse thudding, electric awareness an unwelcome visitor as it roosts behind your navel.

“I understand plenty. Now, let me.”

Not an offer - not really.

More akin to a demand, one wrapped up pretty like a gift. You’ve been here many times before, and while the Ghoul proffers his help under the guise of not wanting to hear your bitching and moaning, the hungry gleam of his eyes as they rake over your face say otherwise.

If it’s one thing you’ve learned in your travels with him, it’s this: he is entirely self-serving. He offers because he wants to suck on a set of pretty tits. If you happen to cream your panties while he does, well, he counts it as a win-win.

Quid pro quo.

And what you hate more than how utterly correct everyone is about life on the surface, is how needy he makes you. How desperate and dumb and dripping he’s got you by the end, drunk off the flick of his tongue and the rasp of his touch.

Because it’s so hard to be strong in the face of pain when the solution is right there; open-palmed.

“...Fine, just don’t - don’t leave marks this time, okay?”

A slow waking smile creaks across his face, and he says, “I ain’t makin’ any promises, sweetheart.”

Your stomach swoops, and your thighs clench.

Shit.

Scarred lips work over tender flesh as a talented tongue flicks and swirls over the bumps of your areola, the tip digging into your nipple and drawing the swollen nub into a hot mouth. You whimper, arms tossed over the Ghoul’s broad shoulders.

Cold ceramic digs into the base of your spine, your body crowded back against the sink as he plasters himself to your front. Cuts off any escape routes and refuses to let you squirm away from the overwhelming sensations as he suckles.

Heavy palms grope at the plush curves of your hips, fingertips digging into the fat.

His lips pop off your nipple with a sticky smack. “Always taste s’fucking good,” he groans against your sternum. “Got the prettiest set a tits in the wasteland.”

“Hnn! N-Not so hard.”

While you say that, you don’t mean it - not really. Your pussy throbs in time with your heartbeat, clit swollen and aching for friction. Your inner thighs are a mess of slick, your vault suit caught around your knees.

He never touches you below the waist directly (some boundaries still exist between you two), but at this point in your pregnancy, you’re so sensitive a gentle breeze could set you off.

“Heh, ain’t you know lyin’s a sin?” he says.

A scarred cheek drags over the swell of your breast, the rasp of rad burn alighting your nerves. Bolts of desire ricochet down your spine, fizzle like Nuka Cola on your tongue. He presses an open mouth kiss to your nipple, his tongue flicking out to massage the tender bud.

At the taste of your skin, his cock twitches where its grinding against your thigh. You feel him through his ragged pinstripe slacks, his shaft a thick line of heat.

It’s probably the hormones (you refuse to admit its anything else) but just the thought of touching him, of sinking down onto his erection - feeling how fucking good he’d stretch you out and fill you up - makes you dizzy.

You pant, your voice distinctly whiny when you say, “Please, d-do something. It still hurts.”

His grin reminds you of the mongrels roaming the wastelands. “Sh,” he hushes you. “I got you, sweetheart.”

The tips of his fingers brush along the side of your swollen stomach. Your heart flips in your chest, your breath catching as he follows the contours of your body, reaching down to brush over the skin of your mound. This is new, he’s never done this before. It’s simultaneously as arousing as it is terrifying.

“Can smell how wet you are for me,” he says, tone low and gruff. “You gonna be a good girl for me, ain’t you?”

“I-”

Then his mouth is slurping at your tit, his teeth biting down on your nipple gently as those strong fingers dip between your thighs. Blunt nails scratch through your pubic hair, a calloused pad swirling circles around your slippery clit. Your hips jump, your head rolling back between your shoulders as a loud moan rips itself from your throat.

You arch back so far your belly presses against the Ghoul’s, your tits smothering his face.

You think, half deliriously, it’s a good thing he doesn’t have a nose otherwise you might’ve broken it.

“Shit, that’s so - oh, fuck, please, please, please!’

Your legs widen to make room for his hand as yours fly up to grab his biceps, nails biting into the rough leather of his duster.

His tongue flutters across your areola. “C’mon, pretty mama, give it ta me.”

“Oh.” Sparks dance behind your eyes, your knees shaking as the Ghoul strokes over your folds, tests your wetness and the give of your cunt as he plays with your entrance. “Right there,” you gasp. “I’m gonna…”

He grunts, tugging on your nipple with his teeth.

The sharp bite of pain shoots through you, deepens the kindling warmth behind your navel that steadily builds and builds and builds. You feel on the very edge, nerves plucked like the keys of a piano.

So close you can taste it.

Then a tingling starts in the tips of your fingers.

Burns its way up your arms to settle in the weight of your chest, pins and needles pricking across the skin of your tits, lancing through the swollen buds of your nipples.

You tremble, the relief bringing tears to your eyes as tears the heaviness releases in a warm flood, your milk letting down to flow into the Ghoul’s eagerly pulling mouth.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he moans, chasing after the taste by nuzzling into your chest. His cock ruts against you. “Took you’re sweet damn time, didn’t you, darlin’?”

Your head spins, hazy thoughts scattering like confetti.

Endorphins simmer through your veins as you float on a cloud of cotton softness. Reality seems worlds away, your vision blurry as you focus on the points of contact between your bodies. The stretch of his fingers plunging into your pussy to stroke over the front wall.

Mouth slack, your hands creep up the Ghoul’s arms to trace over the sides of his neck, watch the dance of your fingers over his skin. “It feels s’good,” you slur. “Please don’t stop - wanna cum just like this.”

“Heh, wouldn’t dream of it.”

[mandukkul]

LOVE BETWEEN TWO — n.rk

synopsis: you and riki have different ways of seeing love but, in the end, you'll always know who you'll end up with.

or

moments building up before the first i love you

tags: childhood friends to lovers, non!idollau, neighbour!riki x f! reader, FLUFF!!!, only fluff and comfort :)

warning: proofread but might have some spelling + grammar errors

wordcount: 4.5k

published: 3rd october, 2024

authors note: this oneshot acts as a thankyou for all the followers and love i get!! i’m so sorry for not being more active :( BUT i completed this! and i just want to say THANK YOU FOR 1000!!!!!!! I LOVE YOU WHOLE!!! as much as riki loves you! and as much as we love riki :)

reblogs + comments appreciated

Act 1: loving 

Riki had never understood love – that is, until he met you. He knew he loved many things, like dance, and his family and friends, but if you had asked him if he knew what love meant, he would have buffered like a 2000s-era computer. Of course, Riki knew what love was; he had watched it in K-dramas and had seen it rendered in manga. By their definition, love was hard. Love was hard and difficult and full of miscommunication, but also, love was soft and kind and offered the sweetest touches to one's heart that anyone could ask for.

Love was everything, and nothing, all at the same time.

He then concluded, after the piles of pirated manga and dramas he had accumulated over his 17 years of boyhood, that love was simply you. He didn’t need to be a genius to understand that; he knew if it wasn’t you, then no one was going to fit that definition of love for him. Riki didn’t fully understand love, but he understood you – how he felt about you. You, in all your beautiful glory. Love was your touch, your smile, your laugh. Love was what he looked forward to every day.

You were truly the only exception to his dilemma of love, because with you, love came so easily. Love was just like breathing – it was so effortless when it came to you. Love for you felt like rain kissing his cheeks in humid summers, like snow tickling his nose during winter, like an autumn leaf falling on his head in the fall, like cherry blossoms blooming when spring arrived.

Love for you felt like nature, like it was natural. He was sure he had been born to love you, inside and out. From the moment he had met you at the age of 4, when you were dressed in stained patchwork overalls, obviously from playing in the dirt; your hair tied in uneven pigtails because you had just had to tie them yourself. Your hands clasped some wilted old flowers he had passed while walking Bisco; you had offered them to him as a greeting gift with that cute little grin of yours.

“Hello! Want to be my best friend?”

Four-year-old Riki didn’t know it just yet, though he did have an inkling, but he would be head over heels for the girl in front of him for the rest of his life.

He had stared at the flowers in your hand, weak and slouchy in posture. He looked back up at you and didn’t have the heart to tell you that those flowers were the exact ones Bisco had decided to relieve herself on. So, he took those piss-stained flowers and nodded his head with as much agreement as his little body could give.

At the ripe age of 18, as he watched you from across his window, peering into your room, where you haphazardly flopped onto your bed with exhaustion despite only hanging out in his room all day. He could just tell you had screamed into your bed by the way you flailed around at the edge. He watched you suddenly stop, as if you had run out of battery, flip over to your back, and lay still for a while longer.

He loved you.

You could sense him staring at you, with your strangely acquired Riki-sense. You lifted your head to confirm your theory, and there he was, leaning against the window frame staring into your room. His eyes lay still on the object that was yourself, and he was filled with so much adoration, so much love, so much bliss at even the sight of you.

And yet, you scoffed at his blatant staring, feeling his chocolate-brown eyes peer into your soul like the Ghost Rider from the movies. Of course, he had that stupid love-stricken look, and of course, he was already waiting for you to stare back.

Love for you had meant many things – too many things to quite pinpoint the right meaning. As you grew up, you learnt more about love than loss, and hence, you learnt that love hurts.

Love was like the humidity in summer, where the air was too thick, and the wind stuck to your skin; love was like the dullness of autumn, where the wind was cold and brisk but not enough to complain about – just enough to be irritable; love was like winter, where it got so cold you couldn’t even feel your face anymore, the season of sickness and disease that forced you to remain indoors and watch the sky cry frozen tears; love was like spring, when hay fever was at its worst, staining your cheeks with unintentional tears and a stuffy nose.

Love was hard. Love was difficult. Love was confusing.

You remembered every single time something you had loved got lost. The very first time was when the friendship bracelet Riki had made you when you were 5, decorated with mismatched charms and trinkets, disappeared one day when you went to the park. The nights you had spent crying didn’t outweigh the nights 5-year-old Riki had spent consoling and reassuring you that he’d make another one – a better one. But 5-year-old you knew the sentiment that was put into that very first bracelet, the one made without obligation to be replaced.

You remembered wailing about how it wouldn’t be the same, that Riki would have the very first bracelet, and you’d have a stupid second version because you had been careless. Then, you remembered the sound of beads crashing onto the ground, scattering anywhere and everywhere. You were scared you’d slip and crash despite being a giant compared to a measly bead.

“Now I’ll make two new ones so we’ll both be the same again.”

You couldn’t recall a more romantic and pleasant memory, where Riki had been so genuine and cute, so willing to give up something that was his to meet your happiness.

Five-year-old Riki really had you wrapped around his finger from that day on.

Despite your own volition, your heart bloomed and blistered, so full of him. It beat to the spelling of his name (in Morse code), and you couldn’t help but pull the threatening smile down into the scowl you attempted to display.

Like clockwork, your eyes locked with the same amount of love and willingness that you gave yourself credit for. You crawled towards your window and lifted it open so you could talk to him again as if the past 12 hours hadn’t occurred.

He was waiting for you, gazing like the stars had blessed his presence – graced his very being with the holiness that was you.

You had to force yourself to calm the oh-so-obvious flush of your cheeks, putting it down to hike up to your room as the reason for your sudden flare-up.

“Aren’t you tired of looking at me all day?” you remarked, and he was so quick with his reply, “I could never get tired of looking at you.”

Him and his flirty personality. You didn’t remember where he had gotten it from, or how he had developed it. You’d grown up with him all your life, and that part of his personality was still an anomaly.

You let a scoff out, rolling your eyes and folding your arms, blatantly ignoring the ache in your cheeks that you refused to surrender to his love.

“It’s not like I’ll disappear if you blink, relax,” but Riki had never been more relaxed than when he was looking at you. Not just the plain stares he gave during his maths classes, or at the dinner table, or even when he stared at his home screen that was so obnoxiously filled with you, but the type that showed interest, that showed he was immersed, devoured, totally consumed by whatever had his attention.

He liked to think he had found the perfect balance of clinginess and distance but still unknowingly leaned towards pulling you in.

“Most girls would love it if I stared at them,” he had said.

He was right. Nearly every girl at school would have sold an arm and a leg just for the boy to even look in their direction. If you weren’t you, you would have cherished and felt blessed to even have the Nishimura Riki in your presence.

But you were you, and you had grown up with this annoying brat all your life. Even if he could be sweet and sensitive at times, or when he tried to show you he was more man than boy, he was still Riki: your first friend, your best friend, and your first love.

Besides, someone had to keep his beautiful ass humbled, or else he would have resorted to those once-targeted alpha male Andrew Tate ads.

“To be honest, I find it a bit creepy,” you had snickered to yourself as he pouted at your response.

Those cute lips of his.

You had always known how to bring his rising ego down, one way or another.

With your smart and witty remarks, you anchored him just enough so he didn’t fly away and drift into the realm of egoism.

He couldn’t get enough of you.

“Fine. I’ll stop looking at you,” he had declared, but his eyes betrayed his words, and his gaze never, not once, pulled away. He had one eye open now, tilting his head away but still, ever so slightly, gazing upon the beauty that you emitted.

And you were still looking. Of course, you were; of course, you would.

You never took your eyes off him because he was just so cute, and his attempt to one-up you in snark was quite endearing.

“Good luck with that,” you had laughed, leaning onto your palm as you watched him sigh in defeat, but not before he caught your own gaze on him.

“Oooh, why are you looking at me like that?” he had prompted, leaning over his window to be closer to you. “Do you think I’m cute?” he wriggled his eyebrows ever so playfully, that shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

“No,” you had deadpanned, dropping your palm down to the frame. He pouted again, more pouty than usual, pulling a frown.

He whined with one of those annoying squeals, something you had grown used to over the years of knowing him. “My girlfriends are so mean to me,” he had said, frowning with his eyebrows pinching and lips pouting. You couldn’t help the small pull of your lips, seeing how comical he was being.

For a split second, you had lingered on his words. “My girlfriend,” he had said with so much pride. “My girlfriend” was all you really heard because he was calling you his girlfriend like it was your name, like it was a prize, a gift, a blessing. “My girlfriend” sounded like honey-laced praises.

He had feigned a gasp at the sight of you trying to hide your smile, and then you had burst into giggles because, of course, you revelled in his misery. But it was okay because the sound of your laughter, that joyous giggle, had erupted because of him, and that was more than enough to subside the little bits of bullying you always seemed to aim at him.

His heart beat along with the rhythm of your laugh.

It was late, and the stars had been watching your tales unfold.

Of a girl whose love yearned and pined, reaching the moon and kissing the ocean. Whose love was kept sacred and scarce, and yet, a love that was sought after, searching for love like hers. One that treasured and was kept safe, a love made of steel but soft like wool. A love that comforted.

And of a boy who loved like no other, so full and so rich. Whose love poured like the rain kissing the ground – endless and fulfilling. A love so abundant, it counted for the world.

There was so much love, too much. It was overbearing, consuming, and it was eating you both alive.

It was overwhelming.

“Hey.”

Your name had left his mouth like honey.

The silence of the gap between your two homes became deafening. Your laugh had slowly died, and your attention had glued onto him alone.

It was now or never.

Riki had known that love was you. He had known that the moment his eyes met yours, his definition had been filled in an instant.

He knew, he had loved – no, he loved you.

His second pause after the call had been enough to erupt a yawn from your lips, ever so slightly slipping past your perfectly shaped lips.

“You should get to bed,” he had said, but the lovesick gaze that you were too tired to catch said everything.

You had fought the urge to ask him what he was really thinking. You were tired, but you knew Riki – your Riki. You knew how his eyebrows pinched a certain way when he contemplated, only further accentuated when he hesitated.

You had his entire face burned into your mind, and your heart.

But for tonight, you had let him and his burning thoughts wait as you slightly nodded.

“I’m not gonna wake you up this time,” you replied, smiling ever so slightly.

You had left your window open, as you always did. Your window to his – it was like you were always together, connected through a fated string that crossed from one pane to the other.

…

Act 2: between 

You had grown to find joy within nothingness—or so you told yourself.

All your life, you had searched for things to put meaning into. Simple commodities that resembled fractions of joy you attempted to keep. As a child, you had never pondered trivial things that would be impossible to find answers to.

You loved the definite, the certain, the things you knew you could hold close to your heart and never let go. Like the grudge you held for the boy who had bullied Riki when he was nine—too fiery of emotions for little you to experience. Your little face had burned red with anger, fists balled and shaking with rage. There had been no stopping nine-year-old you from unleashing divine fury upon the bully. Or like the childhood bracelet Riki made when you were kids, which you had sworn never to remove despite the horrendous combination of charms. A symbol of your eternal friendship.

As you stuffed your locker with yet another textbook you barely cared about, you heard cheers echo against the walls, ricocheting straight into your ears. The stampede of footsteps seemed to hurdle past you, racing toward an unknown presence from across the hall.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t know who that presence was. Of course you did. You couldn’t ignore it, not when his fiery gaze burned holes into the back of your head.

You subtly looked over your shoulder, and there he was, in his glorious seven-foot-something stature. You saw how all the girls crowding him seemed to be trying to attract his attention, calling for his name, asking him silly, mundane questions. Anything just for a simple glance, but all Riki could do was stare at you like you were a lost treasure he had just discovered.

His gaze alone spoke a thousand words.

"I wish I could hold you."

"Your hand is mine."

"I want you."

"I need you."

"I miss you."

Those were more your feelings than what you thought his gaze said, but you had an inkling he felt the same way.

In the space between you, from metres away across the hall, you couldn’t help but feel so full of him—him and his love. He was saying nothing, yet the whole world went deaf in his presence.

You could see, miraculously through the heart-eyed girls, how he fidgeted with the little torn hem at the bottom of his shirt, remembering how you had been the culprit for that "measly" (his words, not yours) tear.

You watched as he scratched his neck awkwardly, trying to be as polite as a boy could be when rejecting a starry-eyed girl. They gave him chocolate-covered strawberries—though you knew he’d only eat them if they were microwaved despite your protests—and little love letters he would never end up reading, also despite your pitied protests.

All you wanted to do was pull him out of the crowd of crazed girls, to scream that he was yours—despite often telling him that you weren’t an object and shouldn’t be defined as "mine." Maybe it was jealousy that rippled through your blood, burning with a touch of yearning because, of course, you yearned for him. Every second of the day.

You yearned for his touch, his words, his silence.

Despite your many reluctances to say so, you were so deeply infatuated with Riki, you might as well have sprawled it across your forehead. Every distant look, light feathery touch, gentle breath that brushed against the shell of your ear. Everything he did, you clung to like a hoarder. A stupid, love-stricken hoarder. Every thought of yours was consumed by him, captivated by his every essence. Feminists before you would have shaken their heads, disappointed by how much you thought of Riki.

Frankly, you were too smitten with your dear ol’ boyfriend, even if he claimed you didn’t show enough affection to him.

Maybe it was for the best, as your gazes left each other like strangers with a fleeting glance. Similarly to last night, there was an invisible wall separating the two of you, tension threatening to crack under the pressure.

Riki was still being bombarded by love-sick girls, his longing gaze shifting into more of a plea as he watched you with all the free space he was supposed to take up.

You ignored his plea, of course, turning back around and into your locker. You would speak to him later anyway—it’s what he gets for making you late this morning (you had waited for him, as you always did).

…

Act 3: two

The two of you sit in the silence of your room for a change. The curtains of your window that peer into his room are pulled shut, dimming the space enough that you can only tell his expressions if you’re inches away from each other.

Which you are.

Riki insisted on staying over this time, wanting to leave the musk of his room for once. But really, he misses the sight of your walls.

Plastered across from him are pictures of friends and family, some of him and your shared friend group, others of his sisters and you. He thinks to himself how you have a knack for interior design, pleased with the way you showcase your love through photographs.

You say it eternalises the memories, so even when you’re both old and rotten to match your insides, you’ll always have the days of your youth.

And there’s a little flutter in his stomach when he thinks back to this memory because you said “both.” He loves that you see him forever entangled in your life.

Riki watches you doom-scroll on that godforsaken bird app. He likes to believe he’s got all your micro-expressions down—like the slight twitch of irritation in your eyebrow, the lift at the corner of your lip when you see something funny, or the scrunch of your nose when you see a resurfaced video of Nikocado Avocado.

Riki doesn’t spend half as much time on his education as he does staring at you. You’re awfully beautiful in your (his) shirt and dirty sweatpants. You’ve never bothered putting effort into your appearance when you’re in the comfort of your (or his) room, having known him far too long to care if he thinks your shirt smells like perpetual instant ramen.

His eyes travel from your appearance back to your face, and he just loves you. Loves sitting next to you. Loves seeing your face.Loves your appearance. Loves your personality. Loves that you're the opposite of a breath of fresh air—you’re comforted in his old, musty room.

Because even if he and you were stuck back in his room, you’d never change. You’re constant.

He loves the way your voice drops when you sense your tone’s shifted higher when talking to him, saying you’ll never be caught speaking to him with a babied voice. He loves how you deny his obvious affection for you—behind closed doors, because he wouldn’t hear the end of it from his friends. He loves your loudness, your quietness, your happiness, your silence.

He loves you.

He’s going to say it.

As he stares at you, yearning for you, you pretend not to notice the burning gaze of your lover. Twitter lost your attention long ago—the nth tweet about yet another scandal circling the app. Instead, you focus on your breathing. With how wild your heart’s beating, the best you can do is control how you breathe—ensuring you don’t fold in front of the lovely boy cuddled up next to you.

If Riki really knew how much you adored him—his hair, his eyes, his laugh, his smile, him—you’d never hear the end of it.

In truth, you’re simply enamoured with him. You love him. Everything about him. Years of girlhood wasted on a beautiful and sweet boy. Girlhood never prepares you for how to love a boy so lovely, so perfect. You think about how there have only been a few moments in your life where you’ve felt nothing but bliss.

Childhood was easy; ever since that fateful day where you picked a bunch of piss-covered flowers, you had no worries other than befriending the awkward little boy next door.

You’ll be sure to thank your parents’ boss for the move.

Teenhood, not so much; it’s riddled with an array of angst and anxiety. It’s a surprise you’re not imploding from the assignment you’ve been procrastinating or having a philosophical crisis like “what is love?”. But no, teenhood, albeit filled with plenty of anger and sorrow, has its fair share of wonderful moments.

Like right now, sitting in the comfort of your room—for a change. You’ve spent time imagining how your life would unravel, always with him in it, and how it ended up. The pictures plastered across the room aren’t just for show—they’re evidence that you’re happy.

Blissful.

Without Riki, you wouldn’t know what bliss is. Feeling nothing but pure and utter love.

He’s everything perfect about love.

And of course, you’ve said “I love you” plenty of times—80% of those times were when you were just kids. But that was when you were just friends. A silly phrase, really, because if you ask anyone who’s known you two since you were kids, they’d say you guys got married at the ripe age of seven with grass-bladed rings and flower crowns, with any passing animal as witness to your youthful marriage.

But now you’re dating—the dreaded boyfriend-girlfriend status. Nothing’s really changed in your relationship. Riki remains full of love and charisma, his attitude never wavering because, as he puts it, he’s known you were “the one” since you handed him those dirty flowers. You’ve remained witty and lovely as always, retaining the same spunk you had as a kid. The only two differences (soon to be one) are that your status has changed from friends to dating, and you’ve yet to say those three words, eight letters.

The phone that sits in your loose grip almost slips out, clearly losing its purpose of mindless distraction. To your dismay, Riki catches sight of your fumble, noting that you haven’t scrolled in seven minutes.

“Did my shameless staring finally catch your attention?”

He’s shameless, alright.

You drop your phone, staring deep into his dreamy eyes. You remain silent, but your expression tells him everything.

Despite the pull of your eyebrows and the purse of your lips, you love him.

“Say… what’s one thing you love about me?” he prompts, ready to finally tell you those long-awaited words. He’s thought it all out—how he’d list everything he loves about you, like he’s about to write your biography. He’s been dreaming of this moment since you started dating.

You think thoughtfully, like you’re scrounging your brain for an answer, leaving the silence in the room to deafen him with anticipation.

“Hey! Stop thinking so much!” Riki exclaims, offended that you’ve taken more than three seconds to answer, while his response would take 0.003 milliseconds (at least in his mind).

You let out a playful giggle, something you gave up trying to hide long ago. “I’m kidding,” you say, smiling.

“I’m kidding,” he mocks you in his ridiculous, high-pitched voice.

You love many things about him, too many to count. You simply love everything about him, like a reflex you can’t control.

“I love it when you’re silent.”

Riki visibly deflates, a slight frown ghosting his plump lips. His eyebrows pinch into a “what the hell” kind of expression, and his nose scrunches cutely at your words.

But you smile knowingly, taking in his sudden silence. You tune into the stillness of the room.

A rapid heartbeat.

“If you hate talking to me, just sa—”

“Because even when you’re quiet,” you interrupt, stretching your hand out to gently caress his hair, “you’re the loudest in the room.”

Your hand travels from his hair to cup his cheek, and Riki—the ever entranced—instinctively leans into your touch.

“Because you can just look at me, and I hear everything I need to hear.”

Your words are soft, gentle, and Riki swallows the lump in his throat that he hadn’t realised had formed. He stares deeply into your eyes—a different kind of stare than before.

Normally tender and kind, full of unspoken words of love. Now, all you see is devotion.

Riki focuses on the silence you’ve created, tuning into the nothingness that you said you loved about him.

And he thinks he can hear it, the silence.

It’s so loud, it bounces off the walls, pounding in his heart—even you can hear it.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

“What do you hear?” He pulls you closer, your lips hovering above his, so close he can feel your breath.

“I hear ‘I love you.’ ”

Your lips mould against his before he can respond, but something tells him that you know. And besides, he has a lifetime's worth of “I love yous”— he’ll let you have this one.

author's note pt.2: its been more than a year since i made this wip and i finally finished it LOLLL it took me so longggg ANDDD i feel like its a bit lackluster in the second act... ENJOY THOUGH. i love the the ending

[rosecoloredsunshine]

come and find me now — kyle spencer

masterlist | request link

PAIRINGS: post-death!kyle spencer x female!reader

SUMMARY: you knew that there was something wrong that's going to happen the moment zoe brought kyle back to his mother, so you took the matters into your own hands.

REMINDERS: please be reminded that this is a work of fiction. meaning that all events and occurrences in this story are all fictional and all are part of my imagination. any resemblance to actual life events and people, living or dead, are all purely coincidence.

WARNINGS: no use of y/n, mentions of death (minor), reader is a witch, there are some inaccuracies, angst, hurt, comfort, and minor typographical errors.

WORD COUNT: 1.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i've been very busy this week, reason why i haven't posted any fics. but i have a free time now, so i'll try to post the other fics (mostly requests). to the one who requested this, i hope it's up to your standards. enjoy! :)

The garden at Miss Robichaux’s was quiet today, magnolia trees swaying gently as their petals floated to the earth like snow. You sat beneath one of them, fingers grazing the yellowing page of an old spellbook. You were always reading, always observing. The world moved fast around you, too loud and too careless, but you took your time. You listened and you learned.

You knew things. Things the others didn't and couldn't notice, like how Queenie tapped her foot when she was lying, or how Cordelia’s smile never quite reached her eyes anymore. You definitely knew that Zoe Benson had done something reckless, the energy around her had changed that night she and Madison came back from that frat party. There was a stillness to her now, like she was holding her breath, and it wasn't long before she confided in you.

“We brought someone back,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder as though the walls might be listening. “His name is Kyle. He died, and we used resurgence.”

Your heart dropped like a boulder in your chest. A resurrection spell—a dangerous and volatile magic. Forbidden unless under direct order of the Supreme, and even then, only if it was clean, but this wasn't. You already knew that without needing to ask, though you also knew Zoe wasn't strong enough to pull it off alone.

“He didn't deserve what happened to him,” she says, voice thin and trembling. “He was a good person.”

You believe her. That's the thing, Zoe never lies, not really. She just wants to fix things, and she thought bringing Kyle back would fix it. But you also know magic like that comes with a cost. You saw it in Kyle’s eyes the day she brought him back, there was nothing behind them.

Then Misty got involved, and you understood that too. She’s a wild soul—Misty, but she knows resurrection better than anyone. You could sense her magic clinging on Kyle like vines, but still, Misty couldn't restore what had been broken. Not entirely.

The broken pieces of a boy sewn back together like some patchwork doll. The only part of him that was truly him was his head, but the rest? It was a collage of other bodies. No wonder the soul had trouble finding peace, no wonder Kyle screamed more than he spoke. His body wasn't home anymore, it was a cage. He didn't speak, he grunted, sobbed, and lashed out. There were days he sat curled up in the greenhouse, rocking himself, murmuring things that didn't make any sense.

You would always watch him from afar. You wanted to help, but he flinched at everything that wasn't Zoe.

“I’m taking him back to his mother,” she whispered to you one day. “He needs someone, someone familiar.”

You stared at her like she had grown a second head. “You can’t do that, Zoe.”

You had seen the bruises on his spirit, and it’s not the kind magic could heal. The kind left by years of secrets, you saw the way his entire body locked up when Zoe mentioned his home.

“She loves him,” she insisted. “She’ll help.”

You didn't agree, but you didn't fight her. Instead, you just watched her go, and something in your chest wouldn't settle for that.

It was like an itch you couldn't scratch, a scream you couldn't let out. Days passed, and you decided to keep your mouth shut, hands busy. But the silence got louder, it clawed your insides, gnawed at your thoughts. Then one morning, you woke up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, and you knew—something was wrong. You didn't tell anyone, so you grabbed your keys and drove.

The Spencer house sat tucked in a sleepy New Orleans neighborhood, all peeling paint and dying hydrangeas, a hollow place. The front door was open, so you let yourself in. The house was quiet, not peaceful, but dead. There were dishes in the sink, a chair knocked over, and a picture frame shattered. The air also reeked of copped and rot and something else—something grief-stricken.

You heard it. A sob that is raw, broken, and animalistic. It led you down the hall, past family photos that made your skin crawl. Smiling faces, Kyle’s too, but younger and innocent, not yet touched by death or magic or cruelty. The sobbing got louder as you walked towards the sound, you then pushed the door, and there Kyle was—curled into himself on the bloodstained carpet, his finger torn and red. The wall behind him splattered with it, and his face wasn't just blood on him, it was grief.

You saw her mother slumped on the floor, lifeless. You didn't look at her long, you only saw Kyle. He didn't see you at first, he was trembling, rocking, chest heaving with ragged sobs. Every breath sounded like it hurt. When you moved towards him, his head snapped up, eyes wild and desperate.

Kyle didn't speak, he couldn't. But the look on his face broke your heart. You dropped to your knees beside him, not caring about the blood, not caring about anything except the boy that is in front of you.

“I’m here,” you said softly, reaching for him. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

He let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a sob and a scream, and then he collapsed against you. His arms wrapped around your waist, body shaking with silent horror. You held him tighter as the blood soaked into your shirt, you didn't flinch.

“It’s not your fault,” you whispered, over and over. “I know. I know.”

Because you did. You knew what she did to him, what his mother was. You could feel it in the walls of this place, the ghosts and shadows. You held him until he stopped shaking.

You quickly got to work. It was frantic, messy, and desperate. You didn't think, you just moved like a robot. Bleach, towels, garbage bags—you knew how to make things disappear. You have seen enough in this life to know what the world doesn't want to look at. By the time the sun began to set, you were done.

You stood in front of him, blood still under your nails, and offered your hand. “Come with me,” you said. “You don’t have to stay here, I’ll take care of you.”

Kyle’s eyes were wet, lost. But he took your hand.

Once you were both back, you brought him to your room, where it was quiet and safe. You set up a cot beside your bed, but when you turned around, Kyle was already curled on your comforter, clinging to your pillow like it was a lifeline.

You smiled softly. “Okay, you can stay there.”

You dimmed the lights and slipped in beside him, unsure of when the last time he’d had real sleep. In the quiet of the night, you felt his finger reach out for yours. He didn't speak, he didn't have to.

“I’ll protect you,” you whispered into the dark. “I know what it’s like to have a body that remembers pain, but we’ll unlearn it. Together.”

Kyle pressed his forehead to your shoulder, and for the first time, his breathing was steady. You didn't tell anyone that he’s back, at least not yet. Not until he was ready. You would teach him again—how to speak, write, and most importantly, how to live. Then, maybe in time, how to trust.

You were the quiet one, the one who knew everything, and now, you knew what love looked like in its rawest form—it is the broken boy that is in your bed right now.

You promise that you would never let him break again.

© rosecoloredsunshine, 2025

[pokeballvictim]

Acts of Service

AO3

Tags: Rape, drug use, forcefem, bestiality mention/implication...

Cyrus didn’t feel anything as he grabbed the merchant’s collar and lifted, yanking the smaller man out of his stall and into the air.  Once, he would have been filled with righteous fury, an unstoppable avatar of justice.  Now, after nearly five years as a champion of the god of service, he mostly felt tired.  Even as his mouth threatened the corrupt trader, he wondered if that made him a bad person.

“Do we have an understanding?”  He growled, shoving his thoughts back into the recesses of his mind.

“Yes!” The merchant squeaked, his legs flailing midair.  “I’ll lower my prices!  You’ll never have to hear about me again!”  

Cyrus lowered the man back to the ground, then dropped him the last few inches.  Just enough to sting.  “Good,” he grunted, then turned to leave.

Around the corner, the starving woman and her child waited, their hands clenched with tension.  He tried not to focus on their clothes, the patchwork of repairs and frayed edges, or the way the child’s thin fingers clung to her mother’s leg.  His ornate mail and robes, tailored and dyed in the colors of his god, rested heavy and ill-fitting on his shoulders.

“I’ve taught him the error of his ways,” Cyrus informed them, giving a practiced smile.  He knelt in front of the child, lowering his eyes to her height.  “This is for you,” he informed her, holding out a toy he had grabbed from the merchant’s wagon.

She hesitated, then darted forward and grabbed the stuffed bear, immediately retreating back behind her mother.  Her shy smile poked out from behind her mother’s dress, and Cyrus felt the thread connecting them snap.  

“I am honored to be of service.  Will that be all, ma’am?”  He asked, straightening up to tower over her again.  He already knew the answer, of course.  If there was more he could have done, then his god’s thread would still be tied around his neck, filling him with whatever he needed to help her.  Instead, he felt the strength drain from his arms, leaving just the barest hint behind. 

That was the contract of a life dedicated to Linnæus; a life spent empowered to act in the service of others, but not without gain.  By now, Cyrus was stronger, faster, even more persuasive than any of the people he had studied with.  They had entered the orders of gods dedicated to war, to love, to money, and found themselves excelling in their own areas.  But only Cyrus had been willing to put aside all of his own goals for the sake of others, and thus had gained the most out of any of them.  His biggest secret was that he had never had a goal to set aside in the first place.

He shook the woman’s hand mechanically, the thread already grasping out for the nearest person in need of help.  There was always someone, always another task on the horizon.  Sure enough, the thread of Linnæus pulled taut, pulling him north.  

With a barely perceptible sigh, he set off, rubbing his neck where he felt a thread tighten around it. 

--------------------

“I’ve been waiting for you,” a voice said, stopping Cyrus in his tracks.

They were, near as he could tell, in the middle of nowhere, the dirt road half overgrown with weeds.  The person in front of him could have been a man or a woman, could have been young or… well, they weren’t old, but they had a timeless sort of quality that you only saw in someone who had been kept young by the auspices of their god.  

Cautiously, Cyrus surveilled the stranger, noting the red mark tattooed on their face.

“A priest of Magrance,” he said warily, his hand creeping towards the dagger at his waist.  Linnæus never empowered his priests for self-defence, but Cyrus wasn’t exactly helpless.

“Emile, at your service,” the priest of corruption said, bowing deeply.  They glanced up at Cyrus, their eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Your manners are better suited for court than a roadside mugging,” Cyrus replied, gritting his teeth.  “Perhaps people might actually appreciate your presence if you were there.”

Emile tittered, their smile never reaching their red eyes.   They snapped their fingers.

“Men!”  Their eyes were burning coals set in a mask.  “Bring out the bait.”

From the tall grass surrounding the road, a group of roughly dressed men emerged, their faces scarred and angry.  Cyrus counted ten swords, each pair of men dragging a gagged prisoner behind them.  They formed a rough circle around the pair of priests, blades held to five different necks.  

Cyrus rotated slowly, his fists clenched. The divine thread he had been chasing led to an old man, his beard long turned white.  His legs tensed, filled with explosive strength, but he hesitated.  Saving that man might doom the others, and his divine mandate wasn’t omnipotent, especially when it came to the machinations of evil gods.

Emile hummed, their eyes focused on something in the air between Cyrus and the elderly man.  

“Kill that one,” they said, pointing.  One of the men holding him twitched his wrist.

“No!” Cyrus cried, leaping forward into the spray of blood.  The men stepped back, vanishing into the tall grass, but Cyrus had no time to pursue.  He ripped a piece of robe off and held it to the man’s neck, desperately trying to stem the flow.  He met the man’s eyes.  “Please, just hold on,” he pleaded, “I’ll…”  He couldn’t lie.  Couldn’t promise to save him as his life spilled out around his fingers, couldn’t respond to his last gasps for air with meaningless words.

The thread connecting them snapped as he died, and Cyrus let out a deep sigh.  He lowered the corpse to the ground with as much care as he could, his hands shaking with rage.  “You’ll pay for that,” he promised.

“Mmhmm,” Emile said, their gaze focused elsewhere.  Their finger pointed off into the distance, wavering as it followed something that no one save Cyrus and his god should be able to see.  “Next is… that one.”

Their finger landed on a boy that looked barely over eighteen, his face clean shaven and streaked with tears.

“Drug him,” Emile said.

In a quick motion, one of the men holding the boy unstoppered a vial of pink liquid while the other held the boy’s chin and pinched his nose.  The man pulled the gag away then upended the vial into his mouth,  the motions looking so practiced as to be habit.  They stepped back, cutting the boy’s bonds at the same time.

Cyrus hesitated, the divine connection between them still forming.  His powers had yet to take shape; would his god task him with escorting the boy away from his kidnappers?  Or would he be filled with knowledge on how to diagnose poisoning, induce vomiting, brew an antidote?  He still had lingering knowledge from a rash of food poisoning he had treated three years ago. It would have been simpler, Cyrus mused, if they had left the boy’s bondage intact.  

“Well?” Emile asked, their chin resting on a delicate hand, “Go on! I won’t stand in your way this time.”

Cyrus clenched his fists.  “What are you plotting?  Priests like you should be whispering into some noble son’s ear, not kidnapping innocents for ransom.”

The other priest waved their hand dismissively.  “Oh, I’ve done my rounds with rich fools.  You would not believe how repressed some of those people can be!  They cheat on their fiance with the maid and call themselves a debauched hedonist, like, really?”  They trailed off, running their hand down their shapely chest and hips salaciously.  “No, I’ve found more exciting ways to please my goddess.”  They inclined their head.  “Like so.”

“Wh-” Cyrus started, only to double over in pain.  Clutching his stomach, he glared up at Emile, his face contorted in anger.  “What did you do?”

“Very little,” they replied, pointing back towards the boy they had drugged.  “Ask him.  Well… when the aphrodisiac wears off.”

Before Cyrus could respond, Emile grabbed his head and pulled him the rest of the way down to his knees.  The two of them watched as the boy stood up, the effects of the drug immediately obvious from the tent in his pants.  

“Are you alright?” Cyrus asked, concerned at the hazy look in the boy’s eyes.  “If you can hear me, say something!  We’ll get you out of here, okay?”  He ignored the pain in his own body, choosing not to dwell on how tight his armor felt around his hips all of a sudden.

Emile sighed, an aggressive, sarcastic noise.  “Your concern for others is touching, really.”  They paused to let the boy stumble a few steps forward and let out a wordless moan.  “But I think you should be more concerned about yourself for once, mm?”

Cyrus tried to stand, but fell over, his body heavy in all the wrong places.  He gasped in pain, his chest aching from the impact, even from the armor. 

The priest gritted his teeth, clutching his chest to dull the pain. “What the hell did you do to him, you monster?”

“It’s a drug for horse breeding,” Emile replied, “with a few minor tweaks from my goddess.”  A sadistic smile spread across their face.  “You might want to thank me for not using it on its original target.”

Emile’s hand slammed down on the top of his head, driving his face into the dirt.

They snarled.  “Don’t try to spit at me, you ungrateful shit.  I could have had you raped by a horse and chose to be merciful.”

Just then, Cyrus felt a pair of frenzied hands grab at his legs, ripping the yellow robes to shreds.  He tried to look over his shoulder, to rise and resist, but a grip like iron wrapped in silk seized his chin.

“It will kill him,” Emile said, their voice casual.  “He’ll literally tear himself to pieces trying to fuck anything that smells enough like a woman.  He’ll rip the muscles in his legs first, probably, if he hasn’t already.  If he fixates on a woman in armor, then he’ll break his fingers to bits trying to rip through the metal.  If he goes long enough without getting to cum, his brain will melt out of his ears.”  Their eyes went wide.  “I’ve seen it happen.”

Emile’s eyes were red - not bloodshot, but truly red, as if their goddess had leeched out every trace of their identity to replace it with her own.  Cyrus met their eyes with defiance, even as his stomach roiled and his skin prickled with divine power.  “What…” he choked out, knowing what his god would want, “Do I need to do to save him?”

The priest of corruption shrugged.  “You say that like you have a choice in the matter.”  They leaned down to whisper in his ear.  “Let me be very clear.  Your god has decreed that you will be that poor boy’s savior, and the boy needs to rut a bitch in heat.”

Cyrus grit his teeth.  “I’m not a woman, you fucking cultist freak.”

Their face went flat.  “Yeah?  Well, I guess you’re close enough by now.”  

Something painfully hot pressed against the priest’s ass and he gasped.  

A grin broke out across Emile’s face.  “Yeah,” they cooed, “That’s what I wanted to see.  How does it feel to know your god turned you into rapebait?”

Cyrus met Emile’s eyes and recited the words of his god.  “I am honoured to be of service,” he said, the prayer coming easily to his lips.  Then, it started and only a measure of luck saved Cyrus from accidentally biting through his tongue.  

The boy moaned in pleasure as he thrust into the priest, his hips bucking wildly as the drug worked its way through his system.

Cyrus bit down on his scream, his fingers scrabbling into the dirt for a handhold, as he was thrust into again.  The boy was frenzied, his cock pulling all the way out and back in, denying Cyrus the chance to get used to the pain.

“I…” he said, meeting Emile’s eyes, “Am…”

They snarled.  “Going to carry the marks of this with you forever,” they said, hissing into his face.  “I know how your god works.  You’ll always be a bit more feminine now, won’t you?  Always be a bit softer, a bit more like a woman.”

“I am honoured,” Cyrus choked out, then gasped as a particularly hard thrust bucked his neck.  “To…”

“Once is nothing,” Emile whispered, “But what happens when I find you again?  And again?  How many people do I have to get you raped by before your god no longer feels the need to change you?”  

The boy moaned again, froth dripping from his mouth onto Cyrus’ exposed back, hunched over like a wild animal.

“Can you imagine it?”  Emile’s voice sounded almost giddy with excitement.  “In a year, I’ll still be hunting you.  Drugging people here and there, letting them chase you down.  Maybe I’ll perfect my drug that makes them need to drink milk, too, see how your god changes you to deal with that.”  They shivered in excitement. 

The boy’s thrusts sped up, reaching a feverish rhythm, and Emile grabbed both sides of Cyrus’ face.

“Don’t mind me,” they sang, giddy with sadistic glee, “I just want to see your face when it happens.”

“When wh-” A gasp cut off his words as he felt the boy cum.  It felt like boiling water pouring into him, and the pain blanked out his mind.

As darkness took him, he heard Emile’s voice whisper softly, almost affectionately, “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, my dear.”

-----------

Cynthia sighed as she walked into the tavern, men’s gazes immediately falling on her voluptuous body.  It wasn’t pleasant, but it was better than when she had been trying to hide her changes.  Her expression soured a bit as she thought about some of the towns she had been through.  People she had helped, people she had trusted…  had not reacted well to her insisting that she had used to be a man.

She shook her head and put a handful of coins on the counter, waving over the bartender.  

“I need a room, a meal, and information,” she told him.

A half second to count the coins, and they were gone, swiped somewhere below the counter.

“Unusual to see a servant of Linnæus around these parts,” he said, his tone carefully neutral.

Cynthia grimaced.  “Me and my god are a bit on the outs at the moment,” she said.  “I’m looking for a priest of Magrance to resolve that.”

The bartender leaned to speak with a hushed voice, glancing carefully around. “Looking to convert?”  

The priest hesitated.  “No,” she said finally, shaking her head.  “Settling a score.”

The bartender looked unconvinced, but nodded.  “Right,” he said, “Well, you’re in luck.  One of them is staying here, in a room upstairs.  Told me that anyone asking was a friend.  I can show you to them.”

Cynthia screwed up her eyes and took a deep breath.  After a few seconds, she let it out in a sigh.  “Alright,” she said, “take me to them.”

Her steps were heavy as she climbed the stairs, the bartender slowly pulling ahead of her and giving her an annoyed look when he had to wait at the top.  

The bartender knocked on a door and stepped aside, giving her a knowing look.  “I’ll leave you to it,” he whispered.  

She ignored his wink and opened the door without waiting for a response, stepping fearlessly into the dark room.

As her eyes adjusted, two glowing red spots became visible hovering midair.

“Hello, Emile,” she spat.

“Hello, Cyrus,” they said. “I’m sorry I haven’t been paying you much attention.”  They lit a candle, filling the room with soft orange light.  “You’re looking well, though.  Much… curvier than I expected.”

Cynthia stormed forward and grabbed at their collar.  “You knew this would happen, didn’t you?”

They shrugged.  “I had a sister, once,” they said, looking somewhere past Cynthia’s head.  “She loved helping people.  Linnæus was a natural choice.”  Their expression turned bitter.  “She wasn’t expecting the kinds of jobs he sent her to take care of.”  They brushed Cynthia’s hands off their collar and stepped away, fearlessly meeting her gaze.  “My dear sister didn’t enjoy being gangraped, but time and time again, he sent her to serve.”

She snorted, and crossed her arms.  “So, what?  You expect me to believe that you’re doing this out of charity?  Protecting people from the evil Linnæus, who turned your sister into a whore?”  

Emile grinned.  They leapt forward, grabbing Cynthia’s wrists.  Even with her divine strength, they easily overpowered her, slamming her against the wall.  Their lips met hers, the taste of sulfur and ash filling her mouth and making her cough.  

“I wanted to taint her myself,” they whispered, “You don’t even know how upset I was, seeing her all… depressed and broken.  I didn’t even get to watch it happen.”  They stifled a mock sob, then turned their gaze back to Cynthia.  "But now," they continued, "I have you."

She struggled against their grip, but couldn’t pull herself free.  She opened her mouth.

“Oh, don’t try to scream,” they said, casually, “It’ll just make this worse.”  

Cynthia shut her mouth.

A sadistic grin stretched across Emile’s face.  “There’s a good girl.”

[mariacallous]

It only took five months, multiple lawsuits, and an assist from his Republican pals on the North Carolina Court of Appeals, but it looks like Jefferson Griffin has successfully managed to steal a state supreme court seat from Justice Allison Riggs.

Griffin, a hard-right judge currently on the state court of appeals — yes, the very court that just handed him a victory — got 65,000 legally cast votes thrown out last week. One of the judges in the 2-1 majority ruling also ran a joint GOP election campaign with Griffin and other court of appeals candidates. Being buddies with Griffin didn’t seem to strike that judge, Fred Gore, as anything that would have warranted recusal because GOP judges no longer care about anything as trivial as conflicts of interest.

Those 65,000 voters now have only 15 days to confirm their voting eligibility. If they don’t, their votes no longer count. But this isn’t just a victory for Griffin. It’s also a victory for conservatives who, mimicking Donald Trump’s spurious challenges to Joe Biden’s 2020 win, no longer acknowledge or respect election outcomes if they lose.

The steal

Let’s get this out of the way: there is no dispute whatsoever that Riggs beat Griffin in the election for a seat on the North Carolina Supreme Court. Period. Riggs’s victory was narrow — only 734 votes — but that victory was confirmed by two recounts. So Griffin had to take another approach, best described as “if you can’t beat ‘em, sue ‘em.”

Griffin’s legal theory behind getting tens of thousands of votes invalidated is equal parts complicated and ridiculous. His argument is that those 65,000 people were never eligible to vote. North Carolina law requires voters to provide driver’s license numbers or the last four digits of their social security number when registering. Per Griffin, any voter registration form missing that information means that person was ineligible to vote. For many of those voters, they did supply that information when registering, but for whatever reason, it wasn’t properly entered into the state’s database.

More importantly, even if that information was missing because the voter never supplied it, the state had already determined those people were eligible to cast votes. The majority’s decision reaches back in time to overrule the state’s determination and then punish voters for the error. Of course, these voters did not know there was any issue with their registration because they were allowed to vote!

The majority opinion is steeped in the language of right-wing voter suppression, saying “the inclusion of even one unlawful ballot in a vote total dilutes the lawful votes and ‘effectively ‘disenfranchises’ lawful voters.” So one unlawful ballot disenfranchises voters, but throwing out tens of thousands of votes does not. Got it.

The court of appeals decision also ignored the biggest thing undermining Griffin’s theory: after years of trying, conservatives finally got a photo ID requirement passed. So, those 65,000 voters? Most of them showed an approved form of photographic identification when they cast their vote. There’s no way to argue that those people cast fraudulent ballots, given they had to prove their identity at the polls.

Instead of acknowledging that inconvenient truth, the majority fixates on voters who aren’t required to provide the same sort of photo ID — military and overseas voters.

The North Carolina General Assembly adopted different procedures for military and overseas voters and did not apply the photo ID requirement to them.

As Court of Appeals Judge Toby Hampson’s dissent explains, both the Uniformed and Overseas Citizens Absentee Voters Act and the Uniform Military and Overseas Voter Act have model procedures intended to be adopted in all states so that those voters aren’t subject to a patchwork, shifting set of requirements. The court of appeals decision essentially rewrites the law, imposing the photo ID requirement on those voters without any legislation to that effect. So, all those voters who followed existing North Carolina law are now punished for not following the law the court just invented.

It’s especially galling that Griffin’s post-election challenges are similar to pre-election ones where the GOP did not prevail. Republicans tried to disenfranchise the same overseas voters Griffin now challenges. They also tried to remove 225,000 registered voters from the voter rolls because their registration form lacked a driver’s license or the last four digits of a social security number. Those challenges were rejected in part because the GOP brought them too close to the election. But apparently it’s perfectly fine to bring them afterward.

If either Griffin or his friends on the court of appeals were genuinely concerned about the legality of those 65,000 votes, the ballots should be thrown out entirely. Instead, Griffin has challenged them regarding his race against Riggs.

That’s part of what makes Griffin’s efforts, and the court rewarding those efforts, so egregious and cynical. If the argument is that these voters were not eligible to vote and the majority’s ostensible concern for the sanctity of the ballot box is so great that they’re banging on about the perils of “even one unlawful ballot,” it’s unclear why that wouldn’t apply to all other races.

Even if the theory here is that those 65,000 votes weren’t enough to swing any other statewide election result or even a congressional district, what of state-level races? State House and Senate districts are small, and a few thousand allegedly ineligible votes could possibly flip them. But everyone knows that would be an absolute nightmare to address. It would require adjustments to dozens of races, a complicated cascade of changes that may or may not invalidate other election results.

Fighting uphill

What happens next is a bit complicated. The appellate court ruling gives voters 15 business days to fix their ballots by providing the missing registration information or a photo ID. Since voters were already required to provide photo ID to cast a vote, it’s an especially cynical move to throw out those ballots as ineligible, then turn around and say that if a voter now shows up with a photo ID, it’s suddenly fine.

Of course, there’s no chance that 65,000 people will be able to fix their ballot. Some may simply not be paying attention, some might be unable to make the in-person trip that fixing requires, and some may have died since the election. Also, the challenged ballots are mostly in Democratic-leaning counties, so the more of those voters who fail to cure their ballots, the more likely it is that Griffin will win.

Riggs is planning on appealing the decision to the state supreme court. That court is stuffed with right-wingers, though, including Chief Justice Paul Newby. Newby is friends with Griffin, helped promote Griffin’s 2020 run for the appellate court, and his wife has donated to Griffin’s campaigns. Since Riggs has said she would recuse herself from any decision, that leaves six justices, five of whom are Republicans, deciding her fate.

You might have just done a little back-of-the-envelope math here and figured out that this election didn’t, and could never have, flipped control of the state supreme court. If Riggs prevails, the court would still be tilted 5-2 in favor of the GOP. So this entire fight has not been to preserve control of the court but just to ensure that a Democrat isn’t reelected.

Besides appealing to the state supreme court, Riggs can also continue to pursue the fight in federal court, which has been her preferred approach all along. The federal court stepped aside to allow the case to run its course in the state courts, but as Riggs notes, these ballot challenges implicate the federal right to vote, federal laws regarding military voters, and federal equal protection guarantees.

If this ruling holds up on appeal, expect to see a lot more of these sorts of post-election challenges. It’s not that such challenges are particularly rare or inherently suspect — Trump’s 2020 efforts notwithstanding — but that this particular one hinges on invalidating ballots that were legally cast. Put another way, Griffin succeeded in changing the rules not midgame but literally when the game was already over. Nothing will stop the GOP from doing this again and again and again, making a mockery of elections and injecting confusion into results.

For conservatives, those things are features, not bugs. They’ve been trying to undermine confidence in elections for years, and what do you know? They’re succeeding.

[catnipster69]

Quilt Portrait Process

This may be of no interest to most of you, but with all the comments I got on my Impala portraits, I thought this would be of interest to some of you.

Original Photo

This is the original photo I used--it's of a fan car ("Night Moves") that was at Denver con 2022. What a great photo!

Posterize

In Photoshop, I posterize the photo to get chunkier blocks of color. I just play with the number of levels until I get a good representation.

Draw Lines

I place the posterized image in Illustrator (reversed) and then go to town drawing lines. The rule for pieced quilting is that every line you draw must go all the way until it hits another line. So for the first couple of lines, they go all the way from one end of the photo to the other.

I just keep drawing until I get something like this.

Paint the Pieces with Color

I bring the outlines into Photoshop so I can paint each individual piece with a solid color that will match the (future) fabric. Sometimes posterizing can result in dark colors, so you have some creative liberty to make changes. Note that these are still just screen colors; the actual fabric will differ again.

Outlines:

Colored:

Number the Sewing Order

Paper piecing means that you sew through the paper and fabric. That way, you can be sure to place your seam perfectly.

Generally, in quilting, you want to sew a seam from one end to the other without running into any already sewn seams. For a traditional patchwork, this means you would sew 10 blocks, then sew a row of 5 blocks, and then sew another row of 5 blocks onto the first row.

Paper piecing is the same, but because no "block" is repeated, it's an exercise to determine the sewing order of each block, and then the sewing order of the blocks to each other.

A quilt like the Impala has a few hundred blocks of 1-15 pieces of fabric each. Within each block, the sewn size is near perfect. But sewing the blocks to each other introduces a lot of variability: the seams can be wider or narrower, or the alignment can be off. That's why the actual quilt looks "wonky" compared to the pattern. It's just not possible--for me--to get it perfect. If I didn't work so small, it would be easier.

Back in Illustrator:

You can see that the black lines are pieces within a block. The red lines are blocks. And the green lines are sections of blocks. It all needs to be sewn in order. I will make small changes to the sewing lines at this stage to "make it sewable."

Printing

Because printers aren't the best at replicating onscreen colors exactly (good luck telling the difference between black and dark purple), I have to recolor it to "printable" colors and then do a swatch concordance.

The bright green on the left actually represents lavender.

I print the pattern out on vellum, which is more durable than paper. Since this is 17" x 17", I will print out overlapping 8 1/2" x 11" sheets. Illustrator has a good printing function, so you can print the exact area you want.

Pick Fabric

I have collected a ridiculous amount of fabric. These want solids for the most part. Sometimes it's a challenge getting 5 shades of blue, or 6 beiges for their faces, so sometimes, I make color errors that I don't discover until later. Painful mistake. The above pattern uses 25 colors, but some of the faces use around 40.

Sew

This is a really challenging project. It would be easier if it were bigger! The pieces are so small, and when you start sewing blocks together, the layers get to be ridiculously thick with all the seam allowances. It's a true challenge to feed through the machine. Use a small stitch length; use a good machine with dual feed (Bernina!!! or maybe Pfaff).

Check out the back side of the previous Impala quilt.

I pull out the paper as I go, otherwise it will get accidentally sewn in.

Finishing

I don't do complicated quilting here. The piecing is what's on show! I embroidered the Chevrolet and the license plate lettering. Some things are really too small to piece.

Original Photo Again:

Conclusion

I think anyone could do this, in theory. It takes a lot of patience. And your sewing machine needs to be quality. And it helps to know how to use Photoshop and Illustrator. And you need to "get it" when numbering the pattern, in a mathematical way. And it's helpful owning all the fabric.

If you do try it, make a larger quilt; this size with this level of detail is crazy making.

Check out all my supernatural quilts on Instagram! https://www.instagram.com/catnipster69/

[baby-you-you]

ENA regressor things pls?

ENA Regressor things!!!

🎭 Activities

Talking to plushies in dramatic or silly voices Gameshow with friends/plushies Drawing surreal creatures or glitched worlds Pretending to be in a strange dream world or RPG Listening to ambient, glitchcore, or lofi music Watching abstract cartoons (Bee and puppycat, etc) Dancing erratically or moving like a video game character Writing nonsense poems or dream journal entries Making puppet shows or odd little plays Using voice changers or filters to play with identity

🎭 clothes

Mismatched socks or shoes Split-color sweaters Oversized, cartoonish turtlenecks Clothing with pixel art, vaporwave, or surreal prints Light-up or fuzzy accessories Retro video game-themed pajamas Soft scarves, chunky gloves, or other comforting layers Patchwork or "repaired" outfits

🎭 toys

Talking plushies (especially ones with odd phrases) Puppet friends (felt or sock puppets) Glitchy-looking dolls or monsters Interactive pets with strange voices or features Magnetic drawing boards or Etch-a-Sketch Robot toys or voice-changing devices Custom toys made from mismatched parts Toy phones with silly buttons and sounds K'nex or lego Kaleidoscopes or optical illusion toys

🎭 games

RPG Maker games (like Yume Nikki or roblox) Point-and-click adventures with surreal themes (Fran Bow, Smile For Me) Dress-up games with odd outfits (like Picrew characters) Coloring strange creatures or glitched scenes Dream journal prompts turned into board games Pretend games involving code worlds, broken dreams, or corrupted data Obstacle course games with imaginary rules Art or music sandbox games (like Wobbledogs, Crayta, Cats & soup)

🎭 foods/drinks

Cotton candy, bubblegum ice cream Jello or jelly in strange molds (shapes like bunnies, moons, or blobs) Bright colored cereal with marshmallows Melty cheese snacks or noodle cups Juice in weird bottles (or from teacups for roleplay) Candy buttons, rock candy, or crystal-like sweets Fuzzy peach rings or rainbow sour strips Smoothies Tiny sandwich cut-outs shaped like stars or glitches

🎭 nicknames

Glitchbug Emocha Sparkle.exe Baby,exe Error bean binary baby Moodling Dreambyte Blipblop Cuddlebug

[genericpuff]

Do you have any tips for beginner artists? Also I love your art style

Reference lots! There's no 'learning how to draw', only learning how to study and reference things you want to draw. Even experienced artists are constantly pulling up references and tools to assist them in their process, it's not all drawing from imagination, there's research involved!

And keep in mind that no matter the style of the work you're studying and learning from, the core foundations of drawing - composition, structure, perspective, anatomy, lighting, and color - will usually always be present in some way. Learn to identify those foundations, even if you're not actively trying to learn them directly, because that identification process is part of referencing.

Keep your old art! Always! You don't have to save every absent-minded doodle or scribble, but any time you create a piece of art that feels significant to you, hold onto it! If you have sketchbooks full of old drawings that are taking up space in your home and you can't justify keeping, scan what's inside / take photos and store them digitally! Don't let hindsight after you've improved tarnish the joy you had making it! It just gives you something wonderful to look back on so you can see how much you've grown (even when you feel like you haven't; if you cringe looking at your older stuff, that means growth HAS happened! And that's good!)

As for specific learning tools, there's no single "one size fits all" approach to improving your craft. It's more like a patchwork quilt that you have to weave yourself from all the things you reference and get inspired by over years of trial and error. For myself, that quilt looks something like this:

That said, this is my quilt, for you, it'll look very different! Maybe online tutorials are a much bigger patch, or maybe some of the patches seen here are completely absent from others (and alternatively, maybe there are patches that I DON'T have that another person might!) The point of it though is to get across that getting better at art and "learning how to draw" isn't achievable through one single means.

I've said this in previous posts, but this is why I try to stay away from the blanket advice "just practice", because it doesn't truly convey how to practice properly - if you're exclusively practicing the same stuff every day, then there's a lot of other elements you don't even realize you could be missing out on that could benefit you. It would be like trying to become a world-class chef just by cooking omelettes all day - you'd be really good at cooking omelettes, but if you want to learn how to cook a perfectly-seasoned medium rare filet mignon, knowing how to cook omelettes isn't going to contribute to that at all.

I know all of that is both specific and vague, but I hope it can help you find your direction in your learning! Ask yourself what art you like, what you really want to learn, and how the art you like can help you learn it. Don't just look at an art piece and go "cool", really look at it and learn to identify the foundations within it, find the "why" in your praise. It can and will benefit you in your own art journey along the way because the better you get at analyzing the world around you, the better you get at analyzing your own work and where it can improve, and most importantly, how you can improve it ヽ(・∀・)ﾉ

[tgmsunmontue]

Saga of Solitude 18/21

Nepo!Baby Bradley and his life at USNA and afterwards. DADT fully in force. IceMav AU. (Begun prior to 'It's not who you know' - the non-angsty version). (Side Hangster, which is ALSO angsty).

PROLOGUE (He remembers)

HANGSTER FIRST MEETING (Lonely Nights - set 2009)

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

ONE (2000) TWO (2001) THREE (2002) FOUR (2003) FIVE (2004) SIX (2005) SEVEN (2006) EIGHT (2007) NINE (2008) TEN (2009) ELEVEN (2010) TWELVE (2011) THIRTEEN (2012) FOURTEEN (2013) FIFTEEN (2014) SIXTEEN (2015) SEVENTEEN (2016)

Made infinitely better by having @phisworld14 do a quick beta-check and caught the worst of my typos and spelling errors. 🌻🌻🌻

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – 2017

              “Bradley…”

              “Yeah.”

              “Tamsin says you’re smart…”

              “Uh…” Bradley isn’t sure what to say to that. Because it’s been a while since he was a teenager, but he’s pretty sure agreeing that he’s smart is likely an uncool thing to do. Then again he’s a fully functional adult and shouldn’t care what his teenage sister thinks of him. Still. “Well. If Tamsin thinks so…?”

              “Oh my god, you are so not…”

              “Did you want to talk about something?”

              “Uh. No.”

              Bradley nods, because he’s pretty sure she does, but he’s not going to push it, because that way lies madness and likely some form of bodily harm. She’s happily helping him to the fine sand on the body of the Bronco, and it’s almost ready for a final paint job. They’ve sanded and sanded more, masked up sweating, filled in so many holes with glass-fiber mat and resin. He found completely new second-hand parts for some of the panels, because they’d had less rust.

              For a while the Bronco has resembled more of a patchwork quilt than a vehicle, but he’s booked her in for a professional paint job for when he’s next deployed. Petra has her license now, and while she doesn’t like driving the Bronco because it’s too slow, she’s agreed to pick it up and take it back to Bradley’s house. On the proviso that she gets to choose the color. He’s really glad she likes him and will no doubt choose a color that he’ll love.

              “Do you like it?”

              “Uh… like what?” Bradley asks, wonders if he missed her saying something else, pretty sure he didn’t.

              “You know. Sex.”

              He moves so fast he hits his head on the hood, which at least is funny to her, her burst of laughter sounding a little nervous. He is not prepared for this conversation but suspects he’s going to be having it anyway. What did he ever do to deserve this? Twice?

              “Uh… Yeah. I do.” Fuck he really hopes that’s enough and that this is somehow the end of the conversation. He doubts very much he’s going to be that lucky and he’s reminded of other conversations he’s had over the years with either Tamsin or Petra. There’s nowhere to go but through.

              “Why?”

              “Why do I like sex?”

              “Yeah.”

              “Uh…”

              “Apart from the orgasm part. I get that. Well. Not really. But…”

              “Okay. It makes me feel good. I like making the other person, or people, fuck, uh. Just…” He scrubs at his forehead, wonders if the reason Mav still looks so young is because Bradley inherited his age-lines somehow. “It’s physical gratification. For all parties. I enjoy taking part in that,” he trails off, because it’s also about trust and having a connection and he’s been missing that he realizes suddenly. What a time to have a revelation.

              “Going fast feels better…”

              “Uh… going fast does feel pretty fucking good,” Bradley agrees, realizing she’s referring to the speed of vehicles rather than the speed of sex. And he doesn’t want to ask if she has anything to compare it to. That would be a dick move and he’s not as clueless now as he was as a teenager, not even aware of the gay and lesbian relationships the he was surrounded by.

              “I don’t like sex.”

              “Okay.”

              “I’ve had sex.”

              “Yeah, okay. Don’t tell Mav that. You’ll give him a heart attack.”

              “And I had it with both a guy and a girl. Just in case…”

              “Uh… what?”

              “To check.”

              Part of Bradley wants to commend the scientific approach, however.

              “You know you didn’t have to do that right?”

              “Yes I did. For me, I did. I talked to mom. I just… I don’t like it.”

              “Okay. That’s fine,” Bradley says, and he wonders if that’s the last of it. He’s going to enjoy filling in Nat about this. Over a bottle of wine. Maybe one each.

              “It’s just…I just feel like I’m the odd one out…”

              “How?”

              “Everyone else likes sex!”

              “Uh. Not everyone. There are –”

              “Everyone in our family I mean! That’s why I feel like I don’t fit in…”

              “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Okay. You fit in perfectly, just like everyone else does. Have you thought maybe Tamsin feels the same?”

              “What? She likes sex. I’ve heard it. It’s…” Petra pulls a face and he kind of has to agree, the idea of hearing Tamsin have sex is definitely entering the realm of TMI. It’s bad enough knowing she has a boyfriend and is sexually active. Maybe he should buy Ice and Mav a treat on the way home…

              “Okay, I don’t need to know that. I meant… uh… feeling like the odd one out. She’s straight. The only one in our family,” Bradley offers, scrambles to think of another example. “And, uh, I’m fine with it now, but for a while when I was younger I felt like I was the odd one out, like I wasn’t sure if I was a cousin or brother or just a family friend…”

              “You’re my brother! You’ve always been my brother!”

              “I know. I know I am. I just… it took me a few years to realize that. I’m just using it as an example of how I used to feel like I was the odd one out. Maybe Melissa feels like she’s the odd one out sometimes, because she’s not related to blood to you or Tamsin…”

              “She’s my mama…”

              “Yeah. Exactly. Our family might be a little… unique. But we’re all really important parts. Okay?”

              Petra lets out a sigh and shrugs, then shoves her shoulder into his side.

              “Yeah. Tamsin was right. You are pretty smart.”

…           …           …

              Tom wanders around the house and it feels far too quiet. Tamsin and Petra both now away at college, Pete doing some test pilot thing which is keeping him in the air and happy about it. Everyone he loves is safe and well and yet he feels like he’s at a loose end. Maybe he should get a dog. It would be nice to have someone in the house that actually listened and followed his instructions. Also right now it would make him feel a little less lonely. Maybe he’ll go to the shelter and just… have a look sometime.

…           …           …

              “Remind me again why I’m wearing a blindfold to see my own car?”

              “You said we could choose the color for the paint!”

              “Have to do a grand reveal…” Ice says and he sounds amused  which Bradley isn’t sure how to take.

              “You couldn’t have covered the car in a sheet?” Bradley mutters, wonders whether he’s going to see bright red, or lime green. Bright orange maybe? At least people will see him coming.

              “Your eyes are easier for us to cover up. Now quit your whining… Ta da!”

              The blind fold is removed with only a little discomfit and pulling of hair; he takes in the Bronco in front of him. It’s blue. A beautiful shade of blue that reminds him of a hot summer day and the clear sky stretching wide and free. The chrome is glistening, as are the tires. If he hadn’t worked on it himself for the last eight years he’d have assumed this was a collectors piece.

              “Wow… it looks so good.”

              “Better than you thought it would?” Petra asks, and she’s bouncing on the balls of her feet.

              “Yeah, so much better. Did you… did you get it detailed as well?”

              “Yep. Thought you’d appreciate it.”

              “Thanks Pet, I really do. It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

…           …           …

              Pete is glad for the flexibility that being a test pilot offers. Of course, sometimes he turns up on planned fly-days only to find out that the plane is, in fact, not going to be going up. He strikes up a friendship with Hondo, someone who can keep up with him when it comes to talking about the mechanics and maneuvers and how they might relate. He just gives Ice the finger when he makes a pithy comment about how nice it is to see him making friends.

              He follows the news, and Bradley’s deployments of course. Knows Ice keeps an even closer eye on the goings on. Ice might think his notebooks are secret, but Pete has seen them. He can’t decipher Ice’s little code, but he also hasn’t sat down and actually tried either. He’s fairly confident that if he asked Ice would simply tell him, and there’s no fun in that. He’d love to see if he could maybe crack it and then sneak in some notes of his own. Maybe a sneaky I love you. Yeah. He’ll try that.

…           …           …

              As August bleeds into September Tom watches the news helplessly as Hurricane Harvey wreaks havoc, think about his colleagues and friends in Corpus Christi and does everything he can think of to help. Tensions are mounting between China, Russia and North Korea and he’s been to so many briefings about North Korea’s on-going nuclear testing he’s surprised he isn’t dreaming about it. Then Hurricanes Irma and Maria strike in quick succession, separated by a 7.1 earthquake in Mexico and he sets about updating and improving all the emergency evacuation gear that his family might need.

…           …           …

              Bradley has been getting therapy and it’s been… unexpected. He doesn’t know what he’d expected the first time, but getting asked why he thought he needed therapy had thrown him. He’d sort of expected to be told all the ways he was fucking up his life, because he knows he’s been making mistakes and just didn’t know if he could stop making them. Still doesn’t know really, but he’s got a better understanding of himself, and of all the relationships he has with the people in his life.

              And that’s the key point, he can only work on the relationships he has with people who are in his life. He hasn’t seen Jake in over a year, knows that he’s likely made any chance of something more than sex impossible with his previous behavior. Not that he’d meant to hurt Jake, but he knows now he must have. Even the apologies he’d thought off wouldn’t have been enough. He remembers his last time with Jake. Thinks of wasted opportunities but also tries not to dwell on them. He can’t change his past, only work on his present and improve for his future.

…           …           …

              Pete stops putting his shopping in the tail bag and stands still and strains his ears.

              There.

              He steps towards the sound, and it gets louder before stopping. Then again. He hears a faint mewling and he looks around but he can’t see anything that might be making such a sound. There is a pile of trash, some bags and cardboard boxes piled up in the corner of the lot where he parked while he ran in to grab a bottle of wine and some chocolate to bring home to Ice after nearly two weeks away. His stomach sinks as he gets closer and the sound gets louder. He nudges the closest box with his foot carefully and sure enough it cries and there’s scrambling coming from inside and he feels a well of rage rise up as he pulls his pocketknife from his pocket.

              Slicing the tape along the edges carefully he prepares himself for the potential horror and smell and then he’s looking at two kittens who are both trying to scrabble out of the box. They’re filthy, covered in their own shit and no doubt fleas and god, he has no idea what else. He’s never had pets before, although he knows Ice had dogs growing up. He can’t leave them, he’s just going to have to take them home and figure out what the fuck he’s meant to do. But at home is Ice, and he’ll know.

              He unzips his jacket and willingly one of the kittens just immediately climbs inside. He has no idea if this is normal behavior. The other kitten follows suit, and apart from the very fucking sharp claws which are pricking at his skin through his t-shirt they seem quite content. He’s going to need a decontamination shower and have to send his jacket away to be cleaned properly. Ah well, it’s not like he has a choice.

              He drives carefully, mindful that his attention might be drawn away by sharp claws or wriggling bodies. However it’s an uneventful ride and he dismounts from his bike carefully, deciding to leave the wine and chocolate in the tail bag for now. He can come out and grab it after he’s had a shower.

              “Have you hurt yourself? You’re walking… stiffly.”

              “Uh yeah… I’m fine. Just…” Pete stops, blinks at the apparition sitting at Ice’s heel, a golden-brown patchy dog with floppy looking ears. “Uh, Ice? There’s a dog. Where did the dog come from?”

              “Uh. Yeah. His name is Harley…”

              “You got a dog?”

              “Yes. I… uh. Didn’t mean to. But he’s been at the shelter for over a year and… Mav, what do you have in your jacket?”

              “Kittens.”

              “What.”

              It’s the tone Ice uses when he’s not actually asking a question, is simply waiting for further clarification. After years together Pete knows he’s going to have to talk fast, but at least it’s a short story and he knows Ice will agree with hi justification.

              “Uh. Yeah. I found them in a box…”

              “You couldn’t just leave them there?”

              “It was taped shut Tom.”

              He knows he’s not going to have to say anything else. That Ice knows him too well to expect him to have done anything differently than exactly what he’s done.

              “Fuck.”

              “Yeah. I couldn’t…”

              “Yeah, no. Of course not. Fuck.”

              “I just… can you start looking stuff up? Find out where we could maybe take them? They really need a bath. And then I need a shower.”

              “Okay. Use the laundry sink. Do you think Melissa would know?”

              “She’s a doctor Ice, not a vet…”

              “Yeah, but she likes cats. Actually so does Sarah. Maybe they’ll take them?”

              “Ring them and ask. I’m going to…” he unzips his jacket and looks down to find two pairs of green eyes peering and blinking back at him.

              “Oh. They’re… very small.”

              “I think they’re normal sized?”

              “They definitely need a bath.”

              “Yeah. Sorry. Not quite the homecoming I had planned…” Ice’s lips twitch and an eyebrow goes up and Pete huffs in resignation. “I know, let me go get these guys cleaned up. You ring Sarah and Melissa.”

…           …           …

              Tom gets off the phone with Sarah in time to help Mav wrap a kitten each in a large towel and carefully dry them. They’re doing the best they can, and he at least has been able to create a litter box with some sand in the garage and an empty plastic tray Mav had bought for changing oil. It’ll do the job for now and he can still hear the echo of Sarah’s laugh. Fortunately Harley seems completely uninterested in the kittens, until they start crying and then he just sniffs at them curiously before lying down and letting out the resigned huffing sigh that had endeared Tom to him the first time he’d seen him.

              “Sarah and Melissa are away visiting Melissa’s sister. They wish us good luck.”

              “Damn.”

              “She gave me some ideas. First thing tomorrow though we’re taking them to the vet.”

              “Yeah, of course.”

              “Your turn to go shower…”

              He takes the other kitten and carries them both into the kitchen, knows they have tinned fish and hopefully they can drink water. He nudges Harley out of the way, briefly tempted to try feeding the kittens on the bench, but worried about them falling off. They’re both tabbies with patches of white, although right now they resemble drowned rats, fur in clumped tufts where some of it is still damp. Tinned fish is apparently a hit, although the bowl of water is maybe too big and a bit of a mystery. Harley is sitting to the side and just watching; he’s very well trained and quiet, nothing like the dogs Tom remembers from his childhood.

              He pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of the three animals and throws it into the family group chat for Sarah and Melissa before he realizes his fatal error.

              “Fuck.”

              “What’s wrong now?” Mav asks and he startles a little, takes in the tiny little red scratches across Mav’s chest and stomach as he ties off the drawstring of his sleep pants.

              “I just sent a picture of them all to the group chat…”

              “Oh fuck…” Mav says with a laugh and Tom groans.

              “I know!”

              “There’s no getting rid of them now. You’ve let them know…”

              “I know!”

              His phone is vibrating and pinging with notifications and he looks at Mav and releases a resigned sigh.

              “Well, I’m glad you let the, ha, cat out of the bag rather than me.”

              “Haha. What do you even do with a kitten?”

              “I don’t have a fucking clue.”

              “We helped raise three kids to adulthood, we can manage a couple of kittens…Right?”

              “I mean. Sure. Yeah. Of course. You going to answer any of their calls or messages?”

              “No. They can wait until tomorrow.”

              Clearly happier with food and water the kittens have stopped crying, and now seem intent on exploring. Tom quickly goes and shuts the doors to all the side rooms before he makes himself comfortable on the sofa, Mav immediately leaning into his side and passing him a glass of wine. Harley has curled up on the bed under the coffee table, eyes barely open as he watches Tom and Maverick both. He simply blinks slowly when the kittens start climbing over him, just lets out the same resigned huff of breath and Tom has never felt such solidarity with an animal before.

…           …           …

              Bradley hasn’t been summoned to a family meeting before, but it takes about thirty-six hours to find a time when they’re all free and he cannot wait to watch Tamsin and Petra whine and moan about how they finally got pets now that they’ve all moved out of home. He’s a couple of minutes late in joining the video call, popping in his earbuds and smiling at his phone as their faces all pop up in smaller screens.

              “It isn’t fair!”

              “You always said we weren’t allowed pets!”

              “And I stand by that. You changed your mind every other week.”

              “We move away and you got three!”

              “Yes. We decided to replace all of you with animals.”

              “I dibs being the dog!”

              “Well, his name is Harley…”

              “Like the motorbike?”

              Bradley watches as Ice opens his mouth, closes it again. There have been a lot of questions asked and answered, and the kittens don’t have names, which he suspects is going to be an honor Ice and Mav will let the girls have. Because he’s pretty sure they didn’t plan on any pets. He knows the dog is a five year old beagle-labrador cross, and he’s seen photos of it before, when Ice started visiting the shelter about six months ago. So maybe they were planning on a pet. Not three of them though.

              “Okay, well if we have a Harley then we need to name one of the kittens Ducati… Du-CAT-i. Get it?”

              There are groans but Bradley grins.

              “Well, if we’re going with that theme than you can name the other Ceccato…”

              “Because you are keeping them, right?”

              “Well, we might find our children visit us more often.”

              As one all three of them protest the call out, because they visit as often as they can, and from the shit-eating grin he can see on Mav’s face he’s clearly winding them up. That said though he might have an idea to make them very happy, remembering times in his teens, staying with Ice and Tamsin and Petra when they were younger. When he was really young. Yeah. He might have to call in some favors.

              “Dad, you have to send me videos, like every time they do something cute… Promise me.”

              “I promise.”

…           …           …

              Tom settles into the middle of the sofa, feels Mav settle further into his side and it’s good to have him home, even if the last week has been a little more chaotic that he anticipated it would be. However they’re settling into a new routine and it feels good. They always wake early, feed the kittens and then go for a run and take Harley with them. He surprised that he quite likes the cats, although their spats of extreme high energy for a few moments are still a little startling.

              He’s spoken to Tamsin earlier that day, wishing her happy birthday. The fact she’s now twenty-one makes him feel old, but also that he’s definitely been suffering from a little empty-nest. Having Mav back this week has helped, but having three animals is definitely going to keep the worst of his loneliness at bay when he’s next alone. Harley lets out a quiet whuff, which Tom now knows means someone is at the door. An alert bark which is surprisingly quiet.

              “I’ll go…”

              “What?”

              “Someone’s about to knock at the door…” Tom says, pressing Mav back onto the sofa, but then he can hear the door opening and he frowns. No one with a key is even in town this weekend.

              “Mav? Ice?”

              “Dad! Papa! We’re here…”

              He doesn’t bemoan his quiet night at all, the fact that all three of his kids have decided to turn up and a quick look at Mav tells his he’s equally surprised that they’re all here.

              “What are you all doing here?”

              “You’re meant to be in Lemoore…”

              “I called in a couple of favors. Just here for the night. Thought you might like to actually see Tamsin for her twenty-first.” He gives Bradley the tightest hug he can manage, because this has his handiwork all over it. “Plus we wanted to mee t the new family members.”

              After they’ve paid an inordinate amount of attention to the kittens and pet Harley he ends up back on the sofa, this time with Tamsin between him and Mav, Bradley on his other side and then Petra stretched out over all four of their laps, demanding the comforter. It’s a tight squeeze but he doesn’t care, it’s so rare these days to have moments like these. Then they’re arguing about what movie to watch before settling on one. While his life may not be perfect, right in this moment, it feels like it is.

[whysoblue2]

Aaaah, I asked a little while ago, but my app got all weird and I don't know if my ask made it thru, but I asked if you didn't mind telling us the 16 question for the version of your bishops? I wanna know if they're inspired by a specific species or they're just game-designs but stylized 🥺

OH! I can confirm this is the first time I've received this ask, Anon! And yeah, the Tumblr app isn't very reliable, but no worries, happy to reply 😁 16. Do you base your lamb bishops on any specific species of sheep? If so, which? Let's see, the first step for their design was the in-game sprite. I knew I wanted them followers from the start so I looked that up and it was plain as hell. But I did pick the colours straight from it, so the colouring is accurate to the sprite. My design changed soooooo much in a matter of months, it's not even accurate to their first design anymore... as it often happens. Let's start with the first: Leshy—I wanted him to be a mix of animal and plant. I didn't look up an animal for him but put together elements. For example, his head has antlers, which are deer-inspired and, despite being made of wood, are not branch-shaped. I tried to keep him a bit caterpillary with the tail and those wooden vertebrae sticking out of his back. Like this little super poisonous guy here:

Heket - She is a frog. She was the most straightforward of the designs. I spiced her up with the looooooon eyelashes that remind a little of the Egyptian design (since she is Egyptian in origin as the goddess Heket), and gave her freckles. I had tried different poisonous frog markings but they did not convince me. Also she is poisonous! Yay 🤩 You could say she is like this little one:

Narinder - He was meant to be a long cat at the beginning but I wanted his snout more like a big cat. So I kept his long boi sort of body, but went for a jaguar nose. Animals aside, I did my best to give him the heaviest eyeliner I could on the lower eyelid, inspired by indian aesthetics.

Kallamar -Oh my best design... When I got the follower sprite for Kall I was like "ok what the fuck am I supposed to do with this?". There was so much trial and error. I wanted him to have tentacles but not 100% tentacle legs and not on his head because I needed him to use them actively and control them. So I came up with this monstrosity of having 4 sprouting out his lower backbone like tails. Then ofc they had to be 8 so why simplify my life with 2 arms when he can definitely fit 4? He doesn't have 4 pectorals tho. The lower set of arms are tinier. I never had a character with 4 arms and it has been the best choice ever. So in the end I tried to keep the squid design accurate with 8 appendages (minus the legs, they can't be used as other than) and 2 long tendrils that pop out from the back of his head along with the fin! The ears were supposed to be fin-like as well, so the stubs are droopy and shredded. Ah yes, of course you want to know about the lips. They are fish lips. yeah I gave him fish lips 🤣 Sorry not sorry. Little fact: he doesn't have long sharp fangs, but little pointy teeth that are hardly seen!

Shamura - Pain in the ass spooder 💙 their design drives me mad because I loved having them with half sppider body but drawing it every time is hell. So yeah... but on the better note. I love their face and the braids so much. They started bald, then I regretted it and did a 180° and gave them the best set of braids this side of the cult. I didn't pick a spider in particular for their design but a bit of a patchwork. They are the biggest of the siblings and the most graceful. The face shape, the eye shape and all are meant (in my mind) to be elegant. Little Fact: I still have to draw it, but their mandible splits and reveals the venomous fangs. It's nasty 😏

I hope I satisfied your curiosity!

[directdogman]

Dialtown short story + art piece - Wheels Within Wheels

Finally went through with polishing the short 6 page story about Mingus + God discussing the possibility of restoring Crown’s memory! This scene was devised originally as a potential flashback for the final route, but the flashback scenes were cut because they made the final route feel too narratively disjointed imo. Now you guys get to hear a conversation that you wouldn’t have otherwise!

I’m not the best narrative/descriptive writer in the world (and even then, I’m not 100% happy with it), but hey, at least this way people get something to gawk at :)

STORY START:

Rhythmic mechanical whirs resonated from the complex system of exposed gears on display, their ceaseless revolutions punctuating the resounding silence of a still operating room with a dim, but reliable tick. Wheels within wheels, revolutions within revolutions. After a prolonged, sterile pause, the mayor's alert stare shifted from the head of the centenarian titan lying on the operating table in front of her to meet the rueful gaze of the sole conscious person in her vicinity.

"So?" the mayor asked her guest, her tone firm and imposing, "What do you think?" The man to her left stood with a meek, shiftless posture, discomfort plastered across the face displayed on the CRT screen in the place of an organic face. "Yeah..." the man trailed off, his eyes glancing slowly from the controlled chaos within the patchwork phone to meet the mayor's hungry gaze, "...I don't think there's anything I can do." Pearlescent white fangs materialized as the mayor's maw contorted into a sneer. "You barely LOOKED." the mayor snarled back at the man, prompting the man to lean back slightly, putting distance between himself and the rage bubbling within the mayor. "I took as long as I needed to know I don't have the remotest idea how to fix this." the man replied, his voice almost a murmur. The mayor's eyes fixated on the man's face as she took an imposing step forward.

"So..." the mayor snarled, lowering her head while keeping her gaze fixed, "...You're refusing to try?" Sensing imminent danger, the man held his hands out shakily and uttered his hesitant defense. "N-No, no, it's not-" the man stammered, wringing his hands, "It's not THAT, ma'am, I just... I wouldn't know where to BEGIN, y'know?" The mayor's gaze loosened as she slowly nodded her head in reluctant comprehension. "The way I see it..." the authoritative tabby declared, "...Given Paw-Paw's near-constant lack of lucidity, consistent inability to recognize others, and TOTAL lack of awareness of his surroundings, ANY meaningful change would logically have to be positive, correct?" The hound's eyes shifted towards the floor, unable to meet the mayor's engrossed stare. "I mean… I could blind him, deafen him..." the man muttered back, still staring at the floor, "Hell, I could KILL him. There's... substantial risk with me touching anything in there." The mayor scoffed resentfully at the feeble hesitation exuding from her guest's replies. "No achievement is bereft of risk. I didn't get where I am without taking risks." the mayor affirmed, her tone and posture seeping with grandiosity, "My Paw-Paw didn't get where HE did by shying away from peril." "...Certainly not, ma'am." the man muttered, as his wincing gaze shifted back to the geriatric governor lying on the operating table.

"Y'know, if anything happens to him from me meddling..." the man uttered, his voice almost a whisper now, "You'd hold ME responsible." The mayor rolled her eyes. "So, you're asking me for total impunity before you act, is that it?" the mayor asked, folding her arms impatiently, "You're asking me to promise that I'll spare you should you make an error." "It's not just that, ma'am." the tattered guest replied, as his expression shifted from fearful agitation to an empathetic peer, "Are you willing to throw the dice, knowing it'd likely mean that it'd likely mean losing your Paw-Paw? Have you considered what that could do to you?" For a fraction of a second, the mayor's stare loosened, as her mind visibly considered a possibility too agonizing to contemplate. Within a second, the mayor's face shifted back to its invulnerable and imposing leer.

"Think of how much better off we'd all be if you WERE to restore his memory." the mayor asserted, decisively gripping the man's right arm, "This isn't just about what I want. You'd be saving the whole human race." The man peered down to notice the mayor's claws embedded into his sleeve, causing him to stumble backwards, glancing uncomfortably from the unmoving relic on the table to the bargaining tyrant as he relinquished himself from her grip. "Look, I, uhhh- I wouldn't be the most qualified person to, uhhh-" the man stuttered, his body now trembling slightly, "Maybe you're better off getting a neurosurgeon to take a look at your Paw-Paw." A scoff sounded from the mayor as her expression twisted into an embittered sneer.

"I've HAD scores of neurosurgeons summoned in here from around the COUNTRY." the mayor spat back at her guest, "Not one of them had so much as an INKLING of how to fix my Paw-Paw." The mayor's sneer shifted into a defeated scowl. "Each relented that their skills mainly lie in correcting organic defects, NOT in prying data from fine-tuned machinery." the mayor stated, enthusiasm fading from her voice. "The neurosurgeons recommended I instead get a visitor who repairs swiss clocks for a living to diagnose what's wrong with Paw-Paw's brain." the mayor whispered, her gaze now fixed on the moving parts within her grandfather's head. The stifled ticking from within interrupted the momentary pause. "The clock-mender couldn't make heads nor tails of what he was looking at. Wouldn't touch a thing." the mayor murmured, her gaze still fixed on the relentless mechanisms whirring away, "Said he wasn't comfortable playing God." The man's bewildered gaze then met the mayor's. "So, you thought I'd be up for the task, then?" the vagabond asked.

"I've had dozens upon dozens of experts grace this room, and yet, not ONE of them were qualified enough to fix my Paw-Paw. Who else IS there to ask?" the mayor demanded, folding her arms warily. The man glanced away, clearly unable to answer. "You dare crown yourself a GOD among men, and yet, you shy away from MY challenge?" the mayor spat, "You call yourself a GOD? Prove yourself. Prove yourself to me, NOW." The man placed his right hand on the back of his neck. His face now betrayed him, with bewildered indignance showing at the corners of his mouth. "I have nothing to prove to you. There IS nothing that I can prove to you, ma'am." the man replied calmly, "I never claimed to have the answers. I never claimed to be anything other than a vagrant with life experience."

"So, who are YOU going to pawn this bothersome task onto, then?" the mayor growled, leaning into the dog-faced drifter's space, "Who are YOU going to pass the buck to, huh?" "I'm not passing the buck, ma'am." the man replied, his gaze drifting back over to the mechanical wreck lying in front of him, "I don't think anyone other than your Paw-Paw would know how to fix whatever's wrong." The mayor's expression softened as a new possibility evidently entered her hirsute head. "I see now that fear doesn't effectively motivate you." the mayor crooned, her tone now one of bargaining, "Well, then. Go on. State your demands. What will it take for you to make an earnest attempt to fix my Paw-Paw?" "I'm sorry, but... There's nothing that you can offer me, ma'am." the man replied honestly. Unable to accept this answer, the mayor relented. "Nonsense! There isn't a person on earth who isn't looking for SOMETHING." the mayor affirmed, "So, what is it that you most want? Go on, then. Spit it out." The man took another step back, sensing what was to follow wasn't going to benefit anyone present.

"What will it take for you to care? Hmmm? Countless riches? Societal power, perhaps? The respect of each and every person you see on the street?" the mayor bargained, pacing towards the man, "What do I need to offer you to get you to try something, ANYTHING-" "Ma'am..." the man interrupted meekly, his hushed tone intelligible against the mayor's relentless pleas. "I can give you EVERYTHING you've ever wanted, you know. Whatever life you'd most like to live!" the mayor implored, "I can give you ANYTHING that your heart desires." The man paced backwards, visibly distressed, but the mayor continued. "You may think I only have MY OWN paltry resources to offer you, but no!" the mayor desperately ranted, "Why, after you restore Paw-Paw's memory, I would ensure that he- that he'd know that he has YOU to thank for-" "MINGUS." God boomed, causing everything in the room, save for the conscious duo, to cascade away into darkness, leaving the pair standing together in a vast, unending void. The mayor stood paralyzed, unable to speak, with an expression of trauma plastered across her face.

A stifled silence emanated from the abyss. As the man sheepishly realized what he'd done, he exhaled deeply, and placed his hands over his face, causing the room (and Crown) to phase back into view. An unbearable hush presided over the two.

"I CAN'T fix your Paw-Paw." the man stated, his quivering lips holding back a snarl and flattened hand moving with every stressed word, "I'm SORRY." The mayor's gaze stayed glued to her Paw-Paw, tears now welling in her eyes. "Listen..." the man stated emphatically, compassion leaking through his voice, "Even IF I wanted to-" The man trailed off, realizing he'd almost sorely misspoken. The mayor's gaze slowly drifted back to the vagrant's face, her left brow now raised and her lips curled into a sneer. "I'm.. sorry." the man meekly stated as he glanced away from the mayor's oppressive stare while wringing his hands, "I wish I could take your pain away. But, there's nothing I could show you that wouldn't just hurt you even more." "Useless." the mayor spat at her guest, "You call yourself a God, but you're just a CHARLATAN. Pathetic." He shook his head slightly before a slight grin graced his face. He turned back to face the mayor's feline gaze.

"Y'know..." the man trailed off, unsure of exactly how to broach the thought that had entered his head, "...Might I offer you some advice?" The mayor scoffed with vocal aggrievance. "Why would I want to hear what YOU have to say?" the mayor sneered with bared teeth, "All the years you've spent on this planet and what have you built? That's right. NOTHING. You've achieved NOTHING." The man nodded slowly before replying. "I admit it. The bold rat usually gets the cheese." the man replied, desperately trying not to visibly glance at the incapacitated Crown, "But, the crafty rat watches the bold rat die in the rat trap and gets to return home with a piece of the cheese." The mayor's sneer retracted to a snowl, and her brow raised inquisitively. "Human history is basically just a chronicle of mistakes." the man added, his expression now back to its default vacant grin, "I think it'd be a disservice to your family's good name if whatever eventually snags ended up being something you could've seen coming." "Alright, then." the mayor responded, curious to hear the advice of this hapless immortal, "Out with it, then. Give me your sermon, while we're still young."

"Are you familiar with the Roman emperor, Caligula?" the man asked, with an unassuming smile. Mingus nodded. "Yes, yes, I know my history. Especially the stories of powerful rulers who've come before me." Mingus replied, "Caligula was the mad emperor who promoted a horse and declared war on Neptune and had his soldiers attack the sea." The man beamed with joy. "Wow! You already knew the story I was gonna tell!" he replied with genuine enthusiasm, "You're smart. Maybe I don't need to give you this advice at all." The cat scowled. "If the moral of your story was genuinely going to be 'don't stab water', or 'don't wage war on things that DON'T EXIST'..." the mayor growled, "...I'm going to kill you with my hands." "It... uhhh. It wasn't." the man sheepishly replied, "Although, those aren't bad lessons to learn EITHER, per se." The mayor glanced away, trailing off in thought. "Some sources theorize that Caligula declaring war on Neptune was actually just a pointless task he gave his skittish soldiers after they refused to invade Brittania by sea..." the mayor muttered, "They brought home sea shells as medals. Then, there's those who think the whole story was fabricated by his detractors. Envious peasants love to tell lies about the powerful."

"Trust me, it happened." the man replied, "I was there." The mayor's gaze drifted back towards the man, bewildered. "I think people just like to assume it didn't happen because of how goddamned RIDICULOUS the whole thing was." the man mused, "Don't ask me WHY. I've never been one to see into the head of an autocrat." The man averted his gaze away from the disembodied relic on the table, realizing what he'd just said aloud. He continued. "It genuinely was AS ridiculous as it sounded, y'know. Thousands of armor-clad Italian dudes just... stabbing at the waves." the man stated, his gaze drifting upwards as if vividly recalling the sight. "Heh. I remember turning to this Gallic dude to my left and telling him…" the man grinned nostalgically, "...that I'd be SHOCKED if the sea actually, like, LOST, seein' as the waves outnumbered the soldiers at LEAST five to one." The mayor tapped her heel on the floor impatiently. "Whatever the POINT of this story is..." she growled, "It had better be FAST approaching."

"Look, do I need to spell it out?" the man replied, "The soldiers fought the TIDE." The mayor raised her eyebrow and leaned forward slightly. The man continued. "Hey, I'll be the first to admit: Humanity's got MOXIE, y'know?" the man shrugged,  "We live in an age of space shuttles and, like, five THOUSAND flavours of ice cream, most of which are TERRIBLE. Seriously, who eats ice cream and thinks: "Wow, this flavour is already pretty good, but y'know what it could use? Huh? RAISINS." Now, amirite, or amirite?" The mayor stared back, mouth slightly agape. "Sorry... Went off topic there for a bit." the man sheepishly added, "My point was, when you fight the tides, you make an enemy of the WORLD." "And IF you fight 'til your last breath against the WORLD..." the man continued, "The story can only end two ways. With your destruction, or the whole world's." The mayor's gaze shifted nervously over to her grandfather. "When a large wave comes, would you rather be riding it, or FIGHTING it?" the man asked, causing the mayor to glance back to him.

"You know... There's something to be said for accepting that there's things out there that you CAN'T change." the man replied quietly, a quiet sadness appearing in his eyes, "...In accepting your own powerlessness in things." The mayor scowled. "That's just something that SHEEP tell themselves..." the mayor muttered, "The people whose destinies are controlled solely by people like me... It's just something they tell themselves so they can sleep at night." "There's nothing wrong with being able to sleep at night." the man replied in a sympathetic tone. The mayor didn't reply to this, instead choosing to stare down at the floor. Sensing emotional vulnerability from the mayor's posture, the man persisted. "Y'know... I think the concept of closure is massively underrated in this day and age..." he trailed off, "Maybe... Maybe the best end in this case would be if we accepted that there's nothing more that can be done for your Paw-Paw and w-" Predicting the course of action that her guest was about to suggest, the mayor cut him off.

"Choose your next words... VERY carefully." she snarled. The man stood silent, realizing he'd almost carelessly talked his way towards his own doom. Several oppressive seconds of silence presided over the room before the man regained the courage to speak.

"I'm sorry, ma'am." the man reaffirmed, "I can't fix your Paw-Paw."

"Well, that doesn't matter ONE IOTA to me. And do you know why that is?" the mayor growled, tears welling in her eyes, "Because I'll find someone who WILL. I'll ask every single person on EARTH if I have to." The mayor's claws unwittingly extended, though she didn't notice. "I'll even learn how to fix him MYSELF if I have to. I'll move mountains, I'll split atoms, I'll PART the TIDE and CLEAVE THE HEAVENS IN TWAIN, IF I MUST." she bellowed, "Even if the whole WORLD has abandoned Paw-Paw, I WON'T." "When Paw-Paw's himself again, HE'LL know." she spat, "He'll KNOW that I never gave up on him!"

The two stood in silence for what felt like an eternity. Mingus saw what she hated most reflected back at her through the eyes of her guest. Pity. Shortly after this, the mayor's guest silently excused himself from her company with a wordless nod and a wincing expression of understanding, leaving her alone in the dim, sterile operating room with her grandfather. Blinking back tears, she stared into his head, and looked upon what appeared to be a roll of film, being pulled along a belt, not unlike the surface of a treadmill. Constantly circling back and forth. Locked inside this incomprehensible mechanical safe, her Paw-Paw. No matter how futile it seemed, she would never be able to forgive herself for giving in. A single lock stood in the way of the salvation of the whole world, and by extension, herself.

The Mayor stood alone, transfixed with the impenetrable puzzle before her. Rhythmic mechanical whirs resonated from the complex system of exposed gears on display, their ceaseless revolutions punctuating the resounding silence of a still operating room with a dim, but reliable tick. Wheels within wheels, revolutions within revolutions.

STORY END.

(Art piece was by the talented Jen Jenneration! Check her stuff out, it’s top notch!)

There we go! Quite a few of you guys asked for it, so receive it you shalt...’ve(?) Thanks.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Know No Evil | Chapter 42 Chapter 42 | the devil's hand⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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The forest seemed darker now, the faint traces of moonlight barely cutting through the dense canopy above.

Every step you took was calculated, your senses heightened as you moved through the underbrush with quiet precision. The sound of your boots against the dirt was muted, swallowed by the soft hum of the woods around you.

Shadows loomed in every direction, stretching and twisting like they had a life of their own.

You kept to the trees, your movements sharp and deliberate. There wasn't room for error. The villains would likely fan out, spreading chaos wherever they could, and you weren't about to get caught up in their mess.

As you slipped past a cluster of thick bushes, the faint sound of laughter carried through the night air. Harsh, grating, and full of malicious glee, it made your skin crawl.

"Man, these hero brats are gonna be fun to break!" a voice sneered from somewhere to your right, the words accompanied by the crunch of leaves and snapping twigs.

Another voice chimed in, shrill and unhinged. "Think they'll cry for mommy? Bet some of 'em will. Hope I get one of those."

You paused, crouching low behind the cover of a fallen tree. Two figures strode through the forest ahead, their outlines barely visible in the dim light. They were clearly villains, their disjointed movements and erratic voices making it obvious they were enjoying the chaos. You stayed perfectly still, watching as they passed by, their laughter fading into the distance.

Once the coast was clear, you rose to your feet and continued forward, weaving between the trees with practiced ease. Every sound seemed amplified—the rustle of leaves, the distant crack of a branch—and your focus remained razor-sharp.

You didn't have time to waste on distractions. The forest stretched ahead like a maze, but you moved with purpose, your destination clear.

Then, a sensation washed over you—like a light touch at the back of your mind. Mandalay's voice echoed in your thoughts, calm but urgent. "All students, return to base camp immediately. Do not engage the villains. I repeat, return to base camp and avoid engaging at all costs."

Her telepathic quirk carried not only her words but the weight of her concern, but you knew the situation was bigger than just running back to camp, continuing on.

Eventually, you came upon a small clearing. The trees opened up just enough to let a faint sliver of moonlight filter through, casting an eerie glow over the space.

You slowed your pace, your eyes scanning the area for any sign of danger. The quiet was unnerving, the kind that felt like it could shatter at any moment.

But before you could take another step, a voice emerged from the shadows, smooth and dripping with amusement.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the infamous Akuma ____."

Your head snapped toward the direction of the voice, your body tensing instinctively. The shadows at the edge of the clearing seemed to ripple, and a figure stepped forward, their movements deliberate and confident.

Your eyes narrowed, taking in the sight of him. He was tall and lean, his frame swathed in a dark trench coat that billowed faintly with each step. The pale, patchwork-like skin of his face stretched across sharp cheekbones, held together by jagged staples that ran in uneven lines across his features.

The man's head tilted slightly, the faintest trace of a smirk curling his lips as his striking turquoise eyes, rimmed by dark circles, locked onto yours. His voice, low and rough like gravel, cut through the air with an almost mocking lilt. "Long way from home, aren't we?"

The familiarity tugged at the edges of your mind like an itch you couldn't scratch. Flickers of memory—a flash of blue fire, dying screams, the smell of charred flesh—stirred in your thoughts. You'd seen him before.

Before you could fully process it, another figure emerged from behind him, their steps lighter, almost bouncy.

The second one was younger, shorter than the first but no less unsettling. His burnt-orange hair was messy and unkempt, sticking up in uneven tufts like he'd just rolled out of a fight. His eyes, a soft lavender, carried a jittery kind of energy, darting around the clearing before landing on you.

Unlike the stitched man, his grin was wide and full of teeth, his expression brimming with a cocky arrogance that felt far too comfortable for the situation. A sleeveless hoodie clung to his wiry frame, and fingerless gloves covered his hands, the leather worn down from overuse.

The way he carried himself was loose, almost playful, but there was an edge to his movements—sharp and dangerous, like a blade just barely restrained.

"Dabi," the younger man whined, his voice grating and high-pitched. "We're missing all the good stuff. How long will this take?"

The man scoffed, the sound as dry as the air around you. "No one made you follow me, Cal. 'Coulda sworn 'ya did it all outta free will," he retorted lazily. His gaze didn't waver from you, the weight of his stare pressing down like a physical force.

The words, combined with the smirk still plastered across the first figure's face, were the final puzzle piece.

Then it clicked.

Dabi.

That villain who had incinerated the other one without a shred of hesitation, leaving nothing but ashes behind during that outing weeks ago.

You could see it now—the blinding, blue flames roaring to life as his face stayed calm, almost detached, save for that stitched-together smirk. The screams of the incinerated villain had been loud, desperate, but Dabi had made no effort to stop. No hesitation. No regret

You weren't entirely sure who this Cal was, but his easy familiarity with Dabi suggested he wasn't just someone to brush off. Another thread to keep tabs on.

Dabi's smirk widened at the dawning realization flickering across your face. "Ah, so you do remember me," he said, his tone taunting as he shifted his weight, his movements loose and unbothered. "Good. That'll save me the trouble of reintroductions."

Cal, meanwhile, tilted his head at you, his grin widening as he stepped forward slightly. "So, what's it like, being the new obsession back at the League? Boss can't shut up about you, and Toga? She's practically writing love letters."

His eyes scanned you, sharp and calculating, before his smirk deepened. "Gotta say, though, you don't look like much. Kinda cute in a devil way. Guess I'll have to see for myself what makes you so special."

You didn't flinch under his scrutiny, your expression remaining unreadable as your mind turned. Dabi was already a known factor, a villain with a penchant for fire and destruction, but Cal was a new thread—one tied closely enough to warrant caution.

Still, you kept those thoughts to yourself, your gaze steady as you watched the pair. This wasn't just an encounter; it was a performance, and they were both waiting for your next move.

Dabi's smirk widened, the faintest flicker of amusement playing in his glowing turquoise eyes as he began to circle you. His steps were slow, deliberate, each one crunching softly against the forest floor. His posture was loose, but his presence was anything but.

There was something unsettling in the way he moved, like a predator toying with its prey.

"You know," he drawled, his voice cutting through the thick air, "Cal might actually be onto something." He gestured lazily in the younger man's direction without breaking stride, his smirk deepening. "You've got the League all tied up in knots over you." His laugh was dry, almost disbelieving. "It's like you've cast some kind of spell over them."

You didn't react to his words, your eyes tracking him as he circled closer, his presence radiating heat even before his flames appeared.

"Shigaraki, though? He's obsessed," Dabi continued, his tone shifting, becoming quieter, sharper, as though the admission held weight even for him. "And I don't mean 'let's make a deal' interested. I mean, the guy can't shut up about you."

He stopped abruptly, just a few feet in front of you, his smirk softening into something more curious, almost genuine. "Honestly? It's kinda why I joined up in the first place."

The admission hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. Dabi tilted his head, his expression unreadable as he studied you. "I wanted to see what it is about you that's got everyone so hooked. What's got the 'big bad' Shigaraki wrapped around your little finger."

He straightened slightly, his smirk returning, more sharp-edged now. "And while we're at it, I figured I'd test something out for myself."

He raised a hand slowly, his fingers curling as if beckoning you closer. Then, with a flick of his wrist, a small burst of blue flames roared to life in his palm. The eerie light bathed his face, making the staples lining his skin glint as the fire danced in his hand.

"It's kinda funny," he said, his voice lowering, almost teasing, "They're all so wrapped up in their little fantasies about you, but me? I just want to know one thing."

He took a step closer, his turquoise eyes locking onto yours, challenging, taunting. "Are you ready to try the big bad wolf, little red?"

The flames in his hand flared slightly, the heat licking at the air between you, but your expression didn't waver. If anything, you smirked back, a slow, deliberate curve of your lips that seemed to tease the very air between you.

You felt your heart race—not from fear, no. That rush was for a completely different reason. Finally, something intriguing was happening.

For a while, you'd been playing the role of the hero, sticking to the predictable script of altruism, and keeping your true nature tucked safely away. Boring.

The undercover act had worn thin, the monotony almost making you forget your purpose. Almost.

But now, as you stood here, face-to-face with this walking pyre of chaos, you felt the thrill spark to life again. This—this was what you had been waiting for. The anticipation hummed in your veins, electric and intoxicating.

With a wicked grin of your own, your voice, low and honeyed, cut through the charged air between you.

"Let's play."

The words slipped from your lips like a challenge, their edges sharp enough to match his. The glint in your eyes promised not fear, but a game—and oh, how you loved games.

Finally, the dull facade of heroics was being peeled away, piece by piece, and you were free to show just a sliver of the predator that lurked beneath your carefully crafted mask.

Your muscles tensed as the thrill of anticipation surged through you, and Dabi's grin widened as though he could feel it too.

The world around you seemed to dim, the forest fading into a backdrop for the game about to unfold. It was just the two of you now, locked in a silent challenge that promised chaos and destruction.

But just as you both seemed poised to strike, a sudden shout ripped through the tension.

"Dabiiiii!"

The voice was shrill and sing-song, cutting through the heavy air like a knife. Both of you froze for a fraction of a second, the moment shattered by the unwelcome interruption. Dabi let out a loud, annoyed scoff, his flame extinguishing with a flick of his wrist.

"Of course," he muttered under his breath, turning his head toward the direction of the shout. He tsked, his sharp teeth flashing as he turned back to you, his smirk replaced by a frown. "Sorry, Red. Maybe next time. Duty calls."

And just like that, he turned on his heel, strolling away with the same infuriating calm he had entered with. His pace was lazy, unhurried, as if the confrontation had been nothing more than a passing curiosity to him.

For a moment, it was silent again, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. You stood there, your heart still thrumming with adrenaline, the fight you had prepared for slipping through your fingers before it even began.

Your face scrunched slightly, a frustrated scowl tugging at your lips. The irritation burned at the edges of your carefully maintained composure.

You had been ready, primed, and he had walked away like it was nothing. Teased for a fight you were eager to win, then denied the chance to prove yourself.

Your gaze snapped to Cal, who lingered a few feet away, watching Dabi's retreat with a smirk that hadn't faltered. His lavender eyes flickered toward you, his head tilting slightly as though trying to gauge your reaction.

For a moment, you simply stared at him, your mind turning over the possibilities. No one else was around. No witnesses. It would be so easy—quick, even. One well-placed move, one flick of power, and he'd be gone. Dabi might notice eventually, but he didn't seem like the type to care about casualties outside his immediate plans.

Your fingers twitched again, the temptation curling around you like a whispered invitation. This wasn't about morality or restraint—this was about practicality. Cal's cocky grin was begging to be wiped off his face, and you could feel the tension coiling tighter in your chest as you weighed your options.

But even as you entertained the thought, you didn't move—yet. The predator in you relished the idea of toying with him first, of letting him squirm before you made your decision. You weren't finished playing, not yet.

Cal's grin widened slightly, his teeth glinting as he finally broke the silence. "What's the matter? Not as fun without him here?"

The corner of your lips twitched, a dark amusement flickering across your face. He didn't know what kind of game he was playing—but you did. And that was all that mattered.

Your mind was made up. Without a second thought, you raised your hand to end this waste of time. But before you could act, Cal began speaking, his earlier cocky energy subdued, his grin still in place but less toothy now, his curiosity evident.

"So," he started, tilting his head slightly as he looked you up and down. "You got an attraction quirk or something? How does it work?"

You didn't answer, your gaze steady and unflinching as he continued.

"I mean, I've seen plenty of quirks that mess with people's heads, but this? This is something else." He let out a low chuckle, his tone teetering on fascination. "Even Dabi's not exempt, huh? Surprised me to learn he joined 'cause of you. Guy doesn't seem like the type to get... hooked."

His words lingered, but your silence remained unbroken. If he was hoping for an explanation, he was wasting his breath.

When you didn't respond, Cal shrugged, his grin stretching wider once again. "Guess I'll just find out for myself."

Before you could react, he lunged toward you, his movements quick and unrelenting, a blur of sharp lines and motion.

For a split second, it seemed like he would make contact, his hand reaching out toward you with dangerous precision. But at the last moment, you sidestepped, your movements fluid and precise, letting his momentum carry him past you.

Cal stumbled slightly, catching himself quickly before spinning around to face you, his expression lighting up with something between excitement and approval. He gave a low whistle. "Impressive," he said, his voice carrying an edge of admiration. "Most people get caught up by the first move."

You raised a brow, your expression unimpressed. "That's the first move?" Your tone dripped with mockery, the faintest scoff escaping your lips. "It wasn't much."

Cal laughed, the sound loud as he ran a hand through his messy hair. "Fair enough," he admitted with a grin. "But it's not the move that's the problem."

His expression shifted, his grin taking on a more sinister edge as he raised his hand, his fingers flexing slightly. "It's what happens when I touch you."

The casual threat in his words sent a jolt of tension through the air. Your body tensed instinctively, your eyes narrowing as you took in the way his posture shifted, his muscles coiling as though ready to spring again.

Whatever his quirk was, it clearly relied on contact, and you weren't about to let him get that close again. But even as you felt the faint hum of adrenaline sharpen your senses, a flicker of curiosity sparked in the back of your mind.

What could Cal possibly do if he managed to touch me?

The thought wasn't rooted in fear but in a cold, calculating intrigue. He was nothing more than another piece on the board—a wild card, yes, but one you could manipulate or crush depending on how the game unfolded. And if this was his attempt to assert dominance, you were more than willing to show him the difference between power and bravado.

His smirk widened as he lunged again, his speed sharp and erratic. You sidestepped effortlessly, the leaves crunching beneath your boots as you pivoted to avoid his reach. His movements were aggressive, each strike aimed to close the distance between you, his hands clawing at the space where you'd been moments before.

You danced just out of reach, your body coiled with precision, each dodge calculated to leave him grasping at air. He laughed under his breath, clearly enjoying the chase, but you didn't miss the frustration creeping into his movements. His attacks grew sloppier as his irritation built, his overconfidence giving you a clear advantage.

Yet, despite his erratic energy, you couldn't deny his unpredictability. Cal feinted to the right before twisting at the last second, his arm outstretched in a motion meant to catch you off guard. You shifted your weight, leaning back just enough to avoid his grasp, your eyes narrowing as you analyzed his strategy.

He was relying on brute force, on wearing you down with sheer persistence. But you didn't tire easily, and his chaotic approach only highlighted your own tactical brilliance. With every dodge, every calculated movement, you forced him to expend more energy, all while keeping yourself one step ahead.

But then he shifted gears.

It happened so fast you barely had time to register it.

Cal stumbled intentionally, a low growl of frustration escaping him as he appeared to trip over a root. You didn't bite immediately, but the momentary pause in his movements was enough to force you to adjust, your focus narrowing on his next move.

That's when he struck.

With a laugh that was equal parts triumph and malice, he surged forward, his momentum catching you off guard. His hand gripped the back of your neck tightly, his other hand tangling in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to force you to meet his gaze. The proximity was suffocating, his breath hot against your skin as his laughter rumbled low in his throat.

"Well, well," he drawled, his tone smug. "Looks like I got you after all." His fingers dug into your neck just enough to send a sharp twinge through your spine, his grin widening as he took in your expression.

The game had shifted, but even as the tension coiled around you, the flicker of curiosity in your chest burned brighter. This wasn't over—not even close.

You held his gaze, your breath steady despite the sharp pull of his hand at the back of your neck and the sting of his grip in your hair. Cal's grin widened, almost unnervingly so, as something in his demeanor changed. His cocky arrogance gave way to a smug confidence that hinted at something more.

Then, his eyes began to glow—a vivid, unnatural lavender that pulsed faintly like the hum of electricity. His smirk grew wider as he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "You're probably wondering what I'm doing, huh? What this is all about?"

You didn't flinch, didn't blink, but your mind raced, assessing every word, every flicker of movement in his body.

"I'll tell you," Cal continued, his tone almost teasing now. "My quirk? It's a little something special. It's called 'Paths' and lets me see the infinite possibilities of a person's future." He paused for dramatic effect, his glowing eyes narrowing as though he were peering into something beyond what you could see. "Every choice, every path, every decision you could ever make—it's all laid out in front of me like a roadmap."

Cal's grin widened as the glow of his eyes deepened, the neon lavender casting faint reflections on the forest floor. He tilted his head, studying the face before him like a masterpiece he couldn't yet decipher. "Let's see what your future has in store, huh?" he muttered, more to himself than to you. His voice was soft but laced with an almost gleeful curiosity.

With a deliberate breath, Cal activated his quirk, and his vision burst into a kaleidoscope of colors and images. Thousands of possibilities spilled before him like an endless river, each future stretching out in vivid clarity.

At first, the futures were ordinary—common threads he'd seen in others before. There you were as a teacher, standing before a classroom of attentive students, your hands gesturing as you explained something complex yet captivating.

Another flicker showed you as a doctor, your coat pristine, hands steady as you treated a patient. Then, a shift—he saw you on a stage, a violin tucked beneath your chin as your bow danced across the strings, the haunting melody weaving through a captivated audience.

Other futures followed in rapid succession. A hero in full costume, your stance strong and commanding as you saved countless lives. A mother, laughter on your lips as you cradled a child, the scene idyllic and warm. A happily married partner, your smile soft and genuine as you leaned into an unseen figure, a golden ring catching the light.

But then, the images froze.

Cal blinked in confusion as every path seemed to stutter, their vibrant clarity darkening and warping at the edges. The stillness was unsettling, the once-fluent river of possibilities grinding to a halt. Before he could question it, the frozen futures began to distort, their edges flickering like static on an old television.

Then... they all shattered.

The fragments reformed into one singular vision, overwhelming and absolute. It filled every corner of his mind, erasing the ordinary futures he had come to expect. In its place stood a singular, horrifying image: you, standing before a burning city.

Flames roared around you, consuming everything in their path, the inferno casting long, jagged shadows across a ruined world. Your figure stood tall and unmoving, a chilling smile tugging at your lips as if you found joy in the chaos.

But it wasn't just the smile. It was your eyes.

They burned with an unnatural light, reflecting the destruction like twin mirrors of hell itself. The gaze wasn't human—it was something far darker, far older, a presence that made his chest tighten as an icy dread crawled up his spine.

Then, as if sensing his intrusion, your eyes snapped to meet his within the vision.

The moment froze, a stillness so suffocating that Cal felt as though his breath had been stolen. Your hand moved, reaching toward him—not in an act of kindness or salvation, but with a deliberate and calculated motion. The intent behind it was unmistakable, and it chilled him to his very core.

"G̛͔͇̞̹̈̀͘͘͟ę̷̵̧̖̫̗̆̊t̴͕͖͓̀ O̵̷̪̰ͩ͆ͅû̶͙̽̿͆̈t̴͕͖͓̀," the vision seemed to hiss, though your lips in the image didn't move. 

Cal's soul felt like it had been plunged into a bottomless pit. His connection to the vision snapped violently, and he stumbled back into reality, gasping as if he'd been suffocating. The lavender glow in his eyes faded, and he blinked rapidly, disoriented and shaken.

When his gaze fell back on you, the contrast made his stomach churn. You stood there, head tilted slightly, your expression the picture of curiosity, your demeanor far removed from the version of you he had just seen.

Yet, even in the innocence of your current form, he could see it—the faintest trace of that demon lurking beneath the surface, waiting.

His face paled as horror etched itself into his features. His hands trembled as he released you, stumbling back as though your very presence burned him. His lips parted, but for a moment, no sound came out. Then, his voice broke through, hoarse and barely above a whisper.

"W-Wrong... Everything is wrong."

The weight of his own words seemed to crush him as he staggered farther away, his eyes wide with terror. For once, his arrogance was gone, replaced entirely by a raw, unfiltered fear.

You stood motionless, watching as Cal scrambled to put distance between the two of you, his every step unsteady, as if the ground beneath him might give way at any moment. His chest heaved with shallow breaths, and his trembling hands barely managed to stay at his sides. He looked like a cornered animal, desperate and exposed, every ounce of bravado drained from his face.

You tilted your head slightly, your curiosity piqued. "What happened?" you asked, your tone calm, almost clinical. "What did you see?"

His breath hitched at the question, and for a moment, he didn't respond, his gaze darting wildly like he was searching for an escape. Then his fear twisted into something sharper. Horrified rage flickered across his face as he shakily raised a finger, pointing directly at you.

"You," he spat, his voice uneven and trembling. "You're not supposed to be here."

The words hung in the air, heavy and charged, but you didn't flinch. Instead, you stayed perfectly still, your expression carefully composed.

Cal's breathing grew more erratic, his shoulders shaking as he took another step back. His lips trembled as he whispered the word again, quieter this time, like saying it hurt. "You're not supposed to be here..."

Then, finally, the last word fell from his lips, drenched in dread.

"Devil."

Your heart thrummed at the sound of it, a familiar title spoken after what felt like far too long. Internally, you preened, a faint hum of satisfaction settling into your chest. It's been a while since I've heard that one, you thought, the corners of your mouth twitching faintly, though you kept your outward expression cold and steady.

Before you could press further, a familiar voice cut through your mind.

"Attention students. You are authorized to defend yourselves against the attackers. Stay alert and prioritize your safety."

Mandalay's announcement was all the permission you needed. A dangerous smirk curled across your lips as your gaze flicked back to Cal. The fear still burned in his eyes, his body trembling with the weight of whatever he'd seen—but it didn't matter.

"Guess your time's up... Cal," you said, your tone laced with dark amusement.

Without waiting for a response, you lunged toward him, your movements swift and unrelenting, the thrill of the hunt sparking in your veins. The game had shifted once again, and this time, you weren't going to let him leave unscathed.

Cal barely had time to react as you lunged at him, the force of your movements pushing him on the defensive. His expression flickered with a mix of fear and fury as he swung his arm out, his hands reaching for you in a desperate attempt to regain control.

You met him head-on, blocking his grasp with sharp precision, your body moving instinctively as the fight escalated. Every step, every strike was calculated, but the edges of your control began to fray, a wild, hungry thrill rising in your chest.

"Stay down," he snarled, his voice frantic as his hand shot out again, fingers curling dangerously close to your throat. "You're not supposed to be here—none of this is supposed to happen!"

You dodged, twisting your body to avoid his strike, and retaliated with a kick aimed at his midsection. He staggered but didn't fall, his breathing ragged as he pushed forward, trying to close the gap between you.

Each attack grew more frantic, his strikes faster and stronger, driven by a desperation to "fix" something only he seemed to understand. But for every move he made, you were there to counter it, your ferocity growing with every passing second.

The fight grew faster, more brutal. Cal's movements were erratic but deadly, each swipe of his hand aimed with lethal intent, while your counters became sharper, more relentless.

Your blood thrummed with exhilaration, the primal need to see him broken beneath you taking hold.

The forest blurred around you as the fight became the only thing that mattered—the sound of leaves crunching underfoot, the sharp crack of a branch as you dodged a blow, the ragged sound of his breathing all blending into a symphony of chaos.

Then your hand brushed against something—a sturdy stick lying in the dirt. Without hesitation, you snatched it up, gripping it tightly as you shifted your stance. The makeshift weapon was crude, its splintered edge jagged and uneven, but it would do.

Cal's eyes darted to it, widening briefly before his expression hardened, his attacks coming faster as he tried to disarm you. But you were faster, sidestepping his lunge and swinging the stick in a wide arc. The sharp crack of wood meeting flesh echoed through the clearing as he stumbled back, clutching his arm.

The two of you circled each other, both breathing hard, sweat glistening in the dim light. Cal lunged again, his hand aiming for your face, but you dodged, twisting around him with practiced ease. Your movements were fluid, each dodge and strike pushing him closer to his breaking point.

The thrill of the fight consumed you, your bloodlust rising as you felt the gap between you closing, your victory imminent.

And then it happened.

In a blur of motion, you feinted to the left before surging forward, closing the distance between you in an instant. The stick in your hand plunged forward, its jagged tip finding its mark.

The world seemed to freeze as the splintered wood drove into his chest, the force of the blow staggering you both. You were close—nose-length close—and for a moment, neither of you moved.

Your lips curled into a slow, devilish smile, the satisfaction coursing through you like fire. Cal's mouth opened slightly, his eyes wide with shock and pain as a thin line of blood trickled from the corner of his lips. His breath hitched, a wet, choking sound that only added to the grim satisfaction building in your chest.

"Gotcha~"

Cal staggered back, his hand clutching at the stick still lodged in his chest. You'd broken it off, leaving the jagged wood embedded deep, the angle deliberately aimed for an artery. His gaze dropped to the wound, his face paling as he realized the extent of the damage. He swayed on his feet, his breaths shallow and uneven, as the realization sank in.

But you didn't move. You simply stood there, watching him with a cold, predatory satisfaction, your heart pounding in time with his fading strength. This was your game, and you had won.

Cal stumbled back, his feet dragging across the dirt until he collapsed onto a stump. His chest heaved with labored breaths, each wheeze rasping loudly in the quiet clearing. The jagged stick lodged in his chest trembled with every movement, fresh blood trickling down his front in thin, dark streams. He winced, his face twisted in agony, but you could still see a flicker of defiance in his eyes.

You took slow, deliberate steps toward him, each one sending a shiver of dread rippling through his battered form. As you reached him, you crouched down, your movements precise and predatory. Without a word, your hand shot out, tangling in his hair and yanking his head up. His face contorted in pain, a strangled sound escaping his throat as his bloodshot eyes met yours.

"What did you see?" you asked, your voice calm and measured, but with an undertone sharp enough to cut. "Tell me."

Cal coughed violently, his body shuddering as blood sprayed from his lips, some of it splattering onto your cheek. The wet warmth of it didn't faze you; you barely even blinked. Instead, you rolled your eyes, annoyed by his lack of cooperation.

With a sigh, you slammed his head back against the stump with a sickening thud. The impact made his breath hitch, his hands twitching weakly as if trying to push you away, but he was too far gone to fight back.

"Tell me," you said again, your tone darker now, colder. "Or your last moments alive won't end here. I'll keep you on the brink, dragging your half-dead body along like a puppet. Trust me, it won't be pretty."

For a moment, it looked like he wouldn't answer, his jaw tightening as he gritted his teeth against the pain. But then his eyes narrowed, a flicker of hatred breaking through the fear. Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse and barely audible.

"You don't... belong here."

You exhaled sharply through your nose, leaning closer as you stared him down. "Yes, you've said that several times already," you said sarcastically, your lips curling in a faint sneer. "Care to add something new?"

Cal's lips trembled as he coughed again, fresh blood spilling down his chin. This time, his trembling hand raised slightly, the motion weak but deliberate. His eyes, though dull with pain, glimmered faintly with defiance as they locked onto yours.

"You don't... understand," he rasped, his hand twitching as it began to glow. The faint lavender hue of his earlier energy returned, his eyes flashing neon purple as a small orb of light formed in his palm.

The movement was so subtle, so gradual, that you didn't immediately register it for the threat it was. By the time you did, it was too late.

With a strained, choked laugh, Cal released the orb, the energy exploding outward in a burst of raw power. The force struck you square in the chest, the impact like a battering ram slamming into you. Pain erupted through your torso as you were thrown backward, your body hurtling through the air before slamming into a nearby tree with a deafening crack.

The breath was knocked from your lungs as the bark splintered behind you, sharp fragments biting into your back. For a moment, the world tilted, your vision swimming as you struggled to process the sudden change in momentum. Then, the pain settled in, sharp and unrelenting, radiating through your ribs like fire.

Cal, still slumped against the stump, let out a weak, victorious chuckle, his bloodied lips curling into a faint grin. "Gotcha..." he muttered, his voice barely a whisper, but the triumph in his tone was unmistakable.

For a moment, you lay there, your body pressed against the rough bark of the shattered tree, the pain radiating from your chest with every shallow breath. The edges of your vision swimming as you forced yourself to focus. Each heartbeat pounded in your ears like a war drum, but you refused to stay down.

With a sharp exhale, you planted your palms against the forest floor and pushed yourself up, your movements slow and deliberate.

Dizziness hit you like a wave, making the trees around you blur into distorted shapes. You paused, closing your eyes briefly as you steadied yourself. When your vision cleared, it landed on Cal's lifeless form slumped against the stump. His bloodied was still, and the faint glow in his eyes had long since faded, leaving behind only dull terror frozen on his face.

You sneered at him, a mix of irritation and disgust bubbling under your skin. "Fucker," you muttered, your voice low and filled with disdain.

Using the nearest tree for support, you forced yourself to your feet, each step shaky as you leaned heavily on the trunk to steady yourself. Every muscle screamed in protest, but the thought of showing weakness, even to yourself, was unbearable.

The idea to head back to camp came to the forefront of your mind, your original plan of seeking out Shigaraki now entirely abandoned. Whatever fleeting curiosity you'd had was snuffed out, replaced by the dull ache of exhaustion and irritation. The adrenaline that had fueled your fight ebbed away, leaving only the cold practicality of survival to guide you.

As you walked, the strength in your limbs gradually returned, the dizziness fading with every step. The cries and shouts of your classmates echoed faintly through the trees, mingling with the cackling laughter of villains and the occasional crackle of distant explosions. The sound grated on you, but it was distant—someone else's problem.

Or at least, that's what you told yourself.

You didn't care. Of course, you didn't care. Their lives were irrelevant to your plans, their suffering insignificant in the grander scheme of things. And yet...  intrusive thoughts began to creep into the edges of your mind, unwelcome and weak, but persistent nonetheless.

What if they need me?

They're my classmates.

The ridiculous notion almost made you stop in your tracks. You shook your head sharply, as if to dislodge the thoughts before they could take root. Friends? The word tasted foreign, hollow even.

They were tools, pieces to be positioned on the board—nothing more.

And yet, the faintest echo of their voices lingered, threading through the cracks in your mind. You pushed forward, ignoring the knot forming in your chest, determined to smother the weakness before it could grow.

But for a fleeting moment, the thought refused to die, its voice quiet but stubborn: They're my friends.

The thought slipped away as quickly as it had come, crushed under the weight of your resolve. Your lips curled in disdain as you pressed onward, the distant cries fading into the background as you walked deeper into the forest, leaving Cal and the intrusive whispers behind.

After what felt like an eternity of trudging through the dense woods, a cacophony of voices reached your ears, carried on the faint night breeze. At first, you thought it might be the camp—a safe haven where you could finally regroup and collect yourself. But as the voices grew louder, more distinct, a sinking realization crept in. This wasn't the camp.

Pushing past a thick cluster of trees, the scene unfolded before you. Shoji was hunched low, his multiple arms stretched outward as he scrambled to grab a small blue marble just before it could roll out of reach. His expression was tense, sweat beading on his face as he carefully cradled the object.

Not far from him, Todoroki was dashing toward another marble, his dual-colored hair whipping in the wind as he extended his hand toward it—only to be cut off by Dabi. The villain intercepted him with a flick of his wrist, a wall of blue flames roaring to life between them.

Before you could fully process the situation, a flash of red caught your eye. Kirishima, his face lined with worry, turned and spotted you emerging from the woods. Relief washed over his features, but it was short-lived as his gaze flickered down to your battered form. Without hesitation, he began making his way toward you, his movements quick but cautious.

"Akuma-san!" he called, his voice filled with concern. As he reached you, his strong hand gripped your arm gently but firmly, steadying you as his worried eyes searched your face. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the clearing, sharp and dripping with amusement.

"Ah, little red..."

Dabi's voice carried effortlessly over the tense air, his words drawing the attention of everyone present. His turquoise eyes flicked toward you, a smirk curling across his scarred lips as he tilted his head in mock curiosity.

Kirishima's hold on your arm tightened instinctively, his body tensing as though bracing himself for an attack. Nearby, Midoriya shifted slightly, his green eyes darting between you and Dabi, his posture guarded as he inched closer.

Dabi's smirk deepened as he leaned casually to one side, his arms loose at his sides but radiating the threat of power barely restrained. "What happened to Cal? Did he give you any trouble?" he asked, his tone light and almost conversational, but the sharpness in his eyes betrayed his true interest.

You met his gaze without flinching, your face impassive as you said nothing. The silence stretched between you, heavy and unyielding. Dabi's smirk faltered for only a second before he chuckled, the sound low and dry. He tilted his head further, his expression unreadable as he muttered, "Oh well. He wasn't that important anyway."

With a casual wave of his hand, Dabi turned his attention to another figure standing just behind him—Mr. Compress. "Deactivate it," he ordered simply, his voice regaining its sharp edge.

Mr. Compress hesitated for only a moment before complying. With a dramatic flourish, he reached into his pocket, his movements exaggerated even in the tension of the moment. The effect was immediate. The two blue marbles in Shoji's and Dabi's hands began to glow faintly before suddenly breaking apart in a burst of energy.

The first to emerge was Tokoyami. Shoji immediately moved to help him up, steadying the dark-haired boy as he staggered slightly, shaking off the disorientation of his confinement. The second was Bakugo, who burst free with the force of a wild animal, his crimson eyes blazing with fury.

Before he could fully regain his footing, Dabi's hand shot out, gripping Bakugo by the neck with an almost casual ease. The blond thrashed violently, his explosions crackling weakly in his hands as he clawed at the villain's arm. "Let me go, you bastard!" he snarled, his voice raw with rage. "I'll kill you! I swear I'll fucking kill you!"

Dabi barely flinched, his smirk growing wider as though Bakugo's furious outburst was nothing more than a minor annoyance. With a slight shake of his head, he tightened his grip just enough to cut off the edge of Bakugo's snarl, forcing the boy to gasp for air. "Shut up," Dabi said lazily, his tone mocking. "An adults is talking."

His attention shifted away from the struggling blond, locking onto you with unnerving ease. His smirk softened into something more calculating, his words carrying a heavy weight of amusement and menace. "Ya know, little red," he began, tilting his head slightly, "he's not the only one we came here for." He paused, his voice dropping lower, his next words deliberate. "But you already knew that... didn't you?"

The words hung in the air, heavy and charged. From where you stood, you could see Bakugo's crimson eyes flicker toward you, his furious thrashing slowing as his attention shifted, his gaze locking onto yours.

For a brief second, everything else fell away—his anger, his struggle, even the flames crackling faintly around Dabi's fingers.

Dabi, unbothered by the quietness, gave a small nod toward Mr. Compress. The masked villain stepped forward slightly, his hand slipping into his coat to retrieve something. "You know how this works," Dabi continued, his voice smooth as he gestured toward the faint shimmer of Kurogiri's gate forming behind him. "We can make this easy. Just come with us, and we'll wrap this up nice and neat."

Compress began to hum softly as he prepared whatever move they had planned next, but Dabi wasn't finished. He leaned slightly toward you, his voice dropping into something almost conversational, his smirk as sharp as ever. "But if not..." he shrugged, a faint laugh escaping his lips, "the League will just come for you another day. We've got all the time in the world."

The swirling black of Kurogiri's portal expanded, the edge of it licking at the ground like shadows come to life. The tension in the clearing was palpable, each word from Dabi like a spark threatening to ignite the air between you.

Behind him, Mr. Compress straightened, his gloved hand now holding what looked like another marble. Dabi's flames danced dangerously close to Bakugo's neck as the villain took a slow step backward toward the portal, his smirk daring you—or anyone—to act.

You did nothing but stare, your eyes locking onto Bakugo's as the distance between you grew with every retreating step Dabi took.

His red eyes burned with a mix of anger and fear, the defiance that always radiated from him now splintered, shaky beneath the weight of his realization. He was losing this battle, and he knew it. 

His lips parted as though he wanted to scream, to curse, to do something to keep himself grounded, but the sound never came. His explosions crackled weakly at his sides, faint bursts of light that faded as quickly as they appeared.

His gaze didn't leave yours, as if you were the only solid thing in the chaos swallowing him whole.

Time seemed to stretch, each second dragging into an eternity. The muted roar of the portal, the distant cries of your classmates, the cackling villains—it all dulled into background noise. All that remained was the intensity of Bakugo's gaze, locking you in place, his fear cracking through the layers of control you'd so carefully built.

 Those thoughts rose again, intrusive and unwelcome, clawing at the edges of your resolve.

I can stop this.

No, I shouldn't care.

But he doesn't deserve this.

It's not my problem.

They all trust me.

Why should I care?

The thoughts clashed violently in your head, a war raging between the cold, calculated detachment that had always defined you and the unrelenting pull of something far more human. Part of you wanted to shove the thoughts away, to let him be taken, but you didn't want to admit it—not even to yourself—that something about this moment, about him, refused to let you turn away.

Your chest tightened as his expression shifted, the faintest flicker of hopelessness bleeding into his defiance. That flicker of vulnerability was all it took to crack the wall you'd built.

And  before you knew it, you were moving.

Your body reacted on instinct, faster than your mind could catch up. One moment, you were standing still, the next, you were racing forward, the air rushing past your ears as your heart pounded in your chest as though some unseen force had taken hold of you and pushed you into action.

Bakugo's eyes widened as you closed the gap, his gaze locking onto yours one final time. Something shifted in his expression—confusion, disbelief, and something deeper, something you couldn't name. For a fleeting moment, the fear melted away, replaced by a spark of recognition that rooted you in place even as your body hurtled forward.

Your hand shot out, your fingers interlocking with his in a desperate grip. His skin was warm against yours, grounding you even as the chaos of the moment threatened to consume everything.

The portal's pull surged, cold and suffocating, dragging the both of you toward its swirling maw. The last thing you heard was Midoriya shout—a raw, desperate scream that carried your name and a single, heart-wrenching word: "____, No!"

The last thing you saw was Bakugo's face, his wide, stunned eyes meeting yours as the portal swallowed you whole.

The last thing you felt was the heat of his hand in yours, the strength of his grip as his fingers curled around yours, clinging to you like a lifeline.

And then everything went black.

A/N: lol sry for the cliffhanger, but can we talk about the plot plotting tho??? can't believe the idea i scribbled in class a year ago is finally being seen 💀😭; got a bit more writing done so i decided to go ahead and do a double update; i know im stressing you guys out with my unpredictable schedule but life be lifing and a pimp gotta keep going 😔✊🏾

[creations-by-chaosfay]

I made a string quilt several years ago, and it ate up a bunch of my scraps. The foundation I used was paper. To keep things in place and prevent warping and twisting. Some of the strips were barely an inch wide! Here's the result:

I made it for my mom because she looooves scrap quilts. Plenty of errors were made, but it was fun, a good experience, and my mom (a fellow quilter) uses it everyday when watching TV or a movie.