#patchwork residence

[roanofarcc]

PICNIC DAY

pairing: robert ‘bob’ reynolds x fem enhanced!reader

summary: when rain threatens a thunderbolts team bonding outing, per the request of Alexei, they turn to their resident weather-controlling team member to save their plans. 

warnings: shy!reader, pre-established relationship, the thunderbolts being one big happy family!

notes: just when the world needed it the most, found-family avengers fics return from the grave

word count. 1k | masterlist

You sat a picnic basket on the kitchen counter, the old-fashioned kind made of wicker with red and white fabric on the inside. Begrudgingly, Ava and Walker had made sandwiches earlier that morning, bickering the whole time but not allowing anyone else to take over, and you packed them along with other containers of food and drinks. 

“Do you need any help?” asked Bob, who had abandoned his reading to join you. He fiddled with his hands, a nervous habit. You smiled at him, and he returned it with ease in his shoulders. 

Months had passed since you all had moved into the Watchtower, growing closer with each day that passed. You and Bob in particular had grown the closest. No one was sure how it happened, how the two shy, slightly awkward members of the team ended up together. You weren’t sure either, but since the moment you met him in the warehouse set to be incinerated, you were drawn to him like a magnet. 

It was unlike you to approach someone, much too stuck in your own world and fear of rejection for that kind of thing. But despite the storm that raged inside Bob’s head, amplified by the Sentry Project, you saw something else in him. Kindness that masked hurt, and a lost soul whom you wanted to find. It was an odd override in your anxious brain, but you wanted to be there for him, a stranger with a clear weight trying to keep him down. 

Your likeness to each other formed a bond quickly, allowing an understanding to bloom and a friendship alongside it. When the Void overtook him, you and the not-yet-established team pulled Bob back, weaving through your own nightmares until you found the source of Bob’s. 

The group stumbled into their new title of heroes, forced to be a team, but there was no complaint from the collection of people all in search of a purpose. You all had found it within each other. 

It worked better than it should have; everyone got along better than they should have, forming a unit. You were close with all of them, but you and Bob had a connection unlike any other. While the rest of the group resembled a patchwork of family members, the adoration you grew for Bob wasn’t that. 

Love was a word too scary to think yet, but it toed the line. 

“I think I have everything packed. Yelena’s on the hunt for a blanket we can sit on,” you replied, closing the basket before you rounded the counter to where Bob stood. You gently pushed a few of his curls behind his ears to get a better look at him. He leaned into your touch as you rested your hand against the side of his face. 

“Did you sleep okay?” you asked, noticing the ghost of dark circles under his eyes. 

He shrugged. “For half of the night.” 

“You should have woken me up,” you said with a small frown. You didn’t like to think of him tossing and turning at night. You had suggested sharing a bed on those bad nights, but he was too scared he’d drag you into your fears unknowingly if he fell asleep beside you. 

“I didn’t want to be a bother.” 

You raised your other hand to his face, holding him like he was worth something; to you, he was worth everything. “You’re never a bother,” you said, a gentle reminder, and brought his face closer to yours. Pressing a sweet kiss to his lips, you felt him smile into it. His arms loosely wrapped around your waist and didn’t move even when you broke apart. 

“Look at you two lovebirds!” The booming voice of Alexei startled both of you. Bob’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as the team all wandered into the kitchen. 

Yelena grinned at the two of you. “Don’t embarrass them,” she said to Alexei. “I found a blanket and we are…” Past you and Bob, her eyes fell onto the windows that overlooked the city. “Oh, man. Are you kidding me?!” 

Everyone turned their attention to the window just as droplets began to fall from the heavy clouds. Alexei groaned loudly. “It was picnic day!” 

“Looks like we’ll have to take a rain check,” Ava said with a shrug, setting down her bag on the floor. 

Walker furrowed his brows and nodded his head toward you. “Are we forgetting we have weather girl here? Not that I care if we go or not, but I’m just saying.” He attempted to act nonchalant; he was rather bad at that. If his meticulous crafting of everyone’s ideal sandwich wasn’t enough of an indication of how he secretly wanted some more team bonding, his words just gave him away. 

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Bucky added, looking at you with a tired but kind glint in his eyes. 

You studied the incoming storm for a moment and flexed your hands in thought. “Sure,” you said, earning a tilt of Bucky’s head that said he needed a better answer than that. “I want to. ” 

You moved in front of the windows and closed your eyes, allowing your abilities to take hold. A buzzing rang in your ears as you focused on exactly what you wanted the weather in New York City to be like. You envisioned a clear sky, spotted with white clouds that allowed little breaks from the sunshine. 

When you reopened your eyes, the rain had ceased, and the dreary sky turned bright. 

A cheer sounded from Alexei as he clapped his hands together. “Let us go have picnic in park!” He grabbed the basket and everyone’s bags and started toward the elevator. The rest of the team follow, last in tow you and Bob. 

“That’s so cool,” Bob said, glancing behind at the ray of sunlight you had placed there. 

You giggled, looping your arm through his. “Cool enough to deserve a name better than weather girl?” 

He smiled, not even comparable to the sun in your opinion, and pressed his shoulder against yours. “For sure.” 

You joined the team in the elevator, off to enjoy a sunny picnic for the rest of the afternoon.

[lazyjellyfish300]

𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑺𝒏𝒐𝒘~𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 2 ✼

Synopsis: you share a passionate and intimate night with your husband, Kento Nanami, after he returns to you, his pregnant wife, in your farmhouse in the countryside after being away. Sequel to Part 1.

Words: 8k 💕

CW: X PREGNANT FEMALE READER, READER HAS LONG HAIR (no other physical descriptors used), POST SHIBUYA SCARRED!NANAMI KENTO, light angst with body insecurity, SMUTTY(PREGNANT SEX, P IN V, ORAL SEX, HANDJOB, BLOW JOB CUM EATING, SOMNOPHILIA), PREGNANCY SYMPTOMS/ATTRIBUTES-STRETCH MARKS, CHEESY FLUFF, SELF INDULGENT HELL, THIS IS FICTION. MAKE SURE YOU PEE AFTER HAVING SEX.

a/n: posting this late for a certain anniversary...but hope it's worth it! Ty for reading.💕❄️ dividers: @/saradika-graphics . Pics from pinterest

12 days of Smutmas Masterlist 🎄🎅🏽

Your cows, chickens, goats, and pig were fed and tucked in. The sear of the cold was no match for the warmth from the golden nests of hay inside the barn. The lowly bellow from the cows spun a countryside lullaby that thrummed distantly outside your frost painted window.

The Christmas tree glowed in multicolored stalwart jubilee downstairs, freshly adorned in the new Campbell's ornaments collection of your very own amongst the forest of other sentimental trinkets like a fond patchwork quilt that emitted the cleansing smell of pine.

The air of your bedroom tonight was silent, barely moving. The glow from the incandescent bulb of your lamp on the nightstand bathed the scene in a relaxing yellow while the singular candle on the windowsill shed its scent of gingerbread and cinnamon vanilla.

"Let me help." He utters to you in the subdued light.

And you could only watch as the faithful warmth of Kento's palms sought the underside of your wooly sweater, working over your baby bump.

While your mind was at ease, your cheeks burned with a fever that reminded you that you were simply weak to the magic way that he venerated you. It was like muscle memory that could revert you back at any point in time to your relationship where your love scorched with an intensity comparable to the present moment.

The coursings of affection fueled by the intimate element of familiarity were making their way in potent shivers up your spine as the sweater was lifted up and over your head in careful assistance, where it joined your dress, followed by your underwear, then your bra in a heady pile on the creaking wooden floor, the muffled sounds causing your thighs to press together.

"Beautiful..." He remarks reverently. "You're so breathtaking." He beckons you a little closer with a traced love note from his fingernail on the small of your back, so that your bodies meet slightly pressed in the middle, only prevented by the ample swell of your belly.

"So handsome..." You whisper in turn as he trustfully allows you to gently slip away the black cloth from where his left eye used to reside, unveiling the scarred texture underneath.

You wet your lips, the rise and fall of your ribcage began to feel heavier as his hands cupped the sensitive swells of your breasts in tender preoccupation while you began to quietly undo the buttons of his shirt.

This was your way of seizing time back with him that still loved to crawl between you like a thief. Showering Kento from head to toe in the heaven of your loving gaze as every gradual inch became slowly revealed to you.

The lack of reunion between buttons pushes both flaps of his shirt open, revealing the canvas of texture underneath which you do your best to take in despite him closing off the distance, leaning in as his fingers sweetly graze your pert nipples.

You admire the expanse of scars, the ridge you've traced over countless times where the marred skin of his left side bled into the right. You contemplate as you drink him in slowly how such a beautiful, strong being was made to exist and breathe in your orbit.

"Just as you are..." You remember whispering to him that first night you made love in this very room, when the creaking roof over your heads still had leaks in it and the windows still carried a draft that made you seek the warmth in each other while the rainstorm ravaged the flooded levy outside.

He wonders, as he watches you, bare in front of him, belly swollen with his child, how such a lovely thing as you were permitted to gift him your presence.

The tenderness in your eyes that crept out when you didn't will it to, the graceful dance of your fingers over his skin with complete indifference to the imperfections they explored, the wistful cadence of your voice that would bubble like the butterflies in his stomach when you released a laugh at his doing, would quiver like silk with the honeyed utterance of his name against his throat during precious moments like this, would warm him from head to toe from a place deep seated inside his bones like the rich mocha that settled at the bottom of both of your mugs in the mornings you always shared together.

His mind sometimes wandered in moments such as these into brief bouts of insecurity. Wondering if you ever wished to know what his skin looked like when it was whole, when there wasn't an imperfect half of him, when he still had a left eye, before his life changed that dreaded night that felt like a lifetime ago.

But, he never stayed there for long when your reassurance and love poured over him like the beginnings of the soothing warmth that trickled from a faucet and into his scalp, anchoring him back to the present.

Right now, he adores how you worship all of him, how your featherlight touch writes a love letter sealed with the ink pen of your kisses as you lean in and press them generously to his stomach, ribs, and chest, indiscriminate about where they land, so long as not an inch of him remains uncovered.

It's his turn to sigh your name, and he mutters silent approval with the subtle arch of his spine as his fingers lose themselves in the shadows of your hair.

"Darling, please. Don't tease..."

His grunts grow more heady as the path you're blazing with your lips only begins to travel more south.

You love seeing him like this, watching him slowly lose all inhibitions and eventually giving into his wanton desires that you knew only you could wring out of him. You love being the reason for his unraveling, relish being responsible for the furrow in his brow from pleasure that had previously been plagued with worry.

He gazes at you with parted lips and lust blown eyes. The clinking sound of his unraveling belt only keeps that switch in your brain steadily turned on, and his dress pants join your clothes on the floor, the only other place you both loved to see them besides each other.

As you lower yourself down, you begin to knead slowly at his cock through his underwear with your lips, kissing them to the pulsing life you can feel building in his already well endowed size underneath the thin fabric as your hand gently begins to rub the underside of his balls.

"Fuck, please, my love..."

He releases a sound somewhere between a whine, widening his stance a little bit more that only goads you into nuzzling your nose further into his lengthening cock, immersing yourself in his scent, his musk, his essence. So that every greedy push of your nose and press of your lips conveys how needlessly you desire him at all times. How the duration of an entire week apart and the few hours he had been at home with you when you were forced to receive and not worship him had you so pent up.

"Kento, honey, love..." Your breathy pleas smolder him and travel straight to his cock. He chases the intonation of his name and your sweet words sliding from your lips greedily with the movement of his own hips, his hand cradling the back of your head while the knuckles of the other clenched into a fist against the peeling wall.

"Need you..."

"Aaah....ah, darling, I..." He rolls his head back in blissful surrender with a smile, before snapping it to meet your sultry gaze, almost losing himself completely before he meant to. The tops of his fingers trace along the fragile edge of your jaw.

"Baby, haah...n-not yet." He rasps, swallowing his choppy breaths as he pulls back just a bit, cradling your face in his hands, pink blush dusting his cheeks.

"You're pregnant, my love. I don't want you to hurt yourself." He helps you stand, but keeps his hands in suggestive fashion, right in the middle of the swell of your ass, to let you know he had every intention of revisiting where you'd leave off.

"We should bathe first. Then we'll get comfortable?"

"Okay." You smile and pause with an exhale, allowing the dust to settle as he kisses your forehead before wrapping you in the comforting escort of his embrace as you make your way to the master bathroom.

---

He notices the goosebumps on your arms and throws a fluffy towel over you as the water begins to patter from the faucet and into the large ivory claw foot tub that overlooked the stained glass window in your bathroom, streaks of snowflakes running in silent trails outside the dewy exterior.

He guides you warmly into his naked chest, as he lays his chin in your hair, absentmindedly swaying you to an invisible melody while the water slowly begins to heat up.

You smile at him from your view in the mirror and he smiles back, before turning to him again and indulging him in more kisses to pass the time between the trickling water.

When the water is ready, he helps you slip the towel off. You fix and clip your hair in the mirror as he removes his watch and places it on the counter next to you, before slipping the towel into the dryer across the hall where it can toast while you bathe together.

He returns and strikes a match, carefully lighting some lavender almond candles on the windowsill to relax you. He reaches out with a careful hand to check the temperature of the water, then holds you steady so you don't slip as you step inside the tub, before he helps you comfortably sit against him with your back to his chest.

You sigh with relief as the bath douses and turns the texture of your skin silky with its warmth, completely stripping you of any lingering chill from earlier, seeping in your bones to provide much needed relief to your swollen appendages, the mild candlelight and wafting floral scent with notes of vanilla from the almond adding to the soothing atmosphere that caressed you on all sides.

Kento watches you fondly, loving how gorgeously relaxation was worn on your face, the subtle sheen that the heat kissed into your eyelashes, the glimmering shine on your lips from your lip oil, how supple and pliant your breasts felt underneath his fingertips.

He shifts to allow you to lay your head backwards in the space between his shoulder and his neck. He cradles you against him, pressing his cheek to your forehead as the water sloshes in faint ripples around you.

You talk quietly amidst the cacophonic echoes of the water trickles and still hum of the steam around you.

"Any news from the school?" You ask with your eyes still closed.

Kento allows a small offering of water from one of his palms to roll off your shoulder before leaning down to kiss it.

"Nothing noteworthy." He paused, thoughtfully chasing a pathway from a drop of water that trickled slowly down your neck with his finger.

"Masamichi mentioned he was seeing someone new."

"Really, who?" You perk up.

"I neglected to ask."

"Kento." You groan, pinching his thigh with no malice underneath the water. "We've been over this lesson before on collecting half cups of tea."

You point an accusatory finger from the floating cloud of bubbles over your chest, aimed at his face from where he's smirking out of your view.

"I collect only what's necessary." He teases as he attempts to move it away.

"Those ARE necessary details!" You turn around in his lap and he scoops you into it like you're weightless, welcoming this abrupt closeness with his flaccid cock resting on your belly underneath the water.

"We have very different ideas on what that is, my dear."

"Well, get it right next time!" You splash him playfully and he scoffs.

"How rude." He splashes back. Not too much to soak your hair, he was a gentleman after all, but he had no problem with matching your moods when you found them to be more playful.

"Me, rude?? You sputter incredulously. “You're the one edging me with all this important information with no details."

"Nonsense."

You cross your arms with dramatic flair. "You might as well make a sandwich with no bread."

Kento's expression darkens ever so slightly, however the mischievous intonation behind his words carries no threat. "Watch your tongue."

"Mmmm, lettuce wraps." You taunt, leaning in closer.

Behind his calm exterior, flames were being stoked, one by one as you tested his patience.

"You wouldn't do such a revolting thing."

"Wouldn't I?" You tilt your head.

"You're being coy." Kento replies cooly, gazing at the sheen of your lips.

"Because you know you love it." You purr, inches away from his face. "Think I know what I'm making for lunch tomorrow..."

"You're not to step foot within a mere vicinity of our kitchen, Mrs. Nanami."

"Oh yeah?" You raise your eyebrows.

"Yes.” Kento answers, lifting his chin. “Not unless you abandon these... atrocious ideas."

"Don't like my recipes, sweetheart?"

He huffs, leaning in dangerously with a sultry mutter, "If you can even call it that."

He captures your cheeks in his fingers, before reuniting his mouth on yours without wasting another moment.

Suddenly, the source of pettiness from your banter is long forgotten, as his lips delve you headfirst into focusing on returning the slow, teasing rolls and flicks of his tongue as you made out in the rising mist of the heated tub.

His hands find their home in your hair, driven to chase after that intoxicating velvet sensation of your lips, before his hands dance down to feel and measure the warm weight of your wet breasts and those delectable nipples that had become more enlarged since the day he got you pregnant, sensually forgoing what started your squabble in the first place.

"Still planning on making those ridiculous wraps of yours?" He breathes as he nips your tongue.

"No..." You pant. Your lovely, heavy eyelids and withering tone give him an irresistible edge of smugness.

"Good."

He kisses you much more deeply than before, and it's clear that the place that you stopped earlier is making a swift return, as he guides your wet body against his lap, your sweetly throbbing clit slowly rubbing along the veins of his hard length.

He moves his lips with intention to devour you like honey, the motion of his tongue gliding over yours triggers a series of soft grunts that contain less restraint than the previous, as though your kiss was an aphrodisiac that chipped away at his composure. The wet, soaking warmth you're grinding all over his cock is almost too much to handle combined with the steam and the sweat being conjured by passion on the slippery surface of both of your bodies.

You grip both sides of the tub as he concentrates on controlling your hips and following them back and forth in agonizing rhythm with the reciprocation of his own. His cock becomes impossibly hard underneath the surface, and he brings his finger back to your throbbing pearl again while the fingers of the other bruise into the squishy flesh of your ass.

“Fuck, Ken…”

“Ah…” He seethes with want and gritted teeth as you hump each other in the water, the ache in his balls returning that desperate desire to be emptied inside your warm pussy, perhaps dripping down the valley of your tits, maybe even in a gorgeous trail down your chin and neck, or on your tongue where he could have a taste if he was feeling more filthy.

You coo angelically, a smirk growing on your lips as you reach down to stroke him.

“Let me...” You beg him.

“God...” His resolve is all but hanging on a thread, but he doesn't want to take anything away from you in this passionate moment you were enjoying together.

“You don’t have to, darling. It felt good when you were riding me…”

He tries to move you closer where he had you in his lap, but you shake your head, pressing your forehead assuredly against his.

“Please. Let me, I need to...” You kiss him, smiling again as the lilt in your moans oozed with allure.

“You're so hard for me right now, sweetheart.”

He exhales and holds your face as the hinge in his jaw slackens as you slowly pump him in your hand.

“You…” He struggles, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows, more sweat dotting underneath his blonde locks that hang over his eyes as his hips seem to move on their own accord, utterly enraptured under the spell of your eyes, your voice, your beguiling touch.

“You kill me.” His lungs freeze with an abrupt intake of breath, before releasing a heady groan, his toes curling away from your vision as he resigns himself to the sheer ecstasy that was wracking his body.

“Fuck…” the white of his good eye peeks out as he rolls it back.

You love it when he slowly becomes greedy, when he becomes so far removed from how selfless he really was outside the mellow allure of your bedroom, when he allows his passion to indulge himself to be a little rough, but never to the point of hurt, no. You know he'd rather deprive himself before ever thinking about hurting you, rather using it as a vehicle to convey his profuse passion when all words in the dictionary paled in comparison.

The look on his face emulsifies as he thrusts wantonly into your hand, ripples of the bathwater splashing over the edges of the tub. You giggle, and he can't stop the pink from showing in the tops of his ears, knowing that this is far from the first time that this has occurred.

He takes the liberty of repaying you in the frantic caress of his hands all over your body, squeezing, groping, and kneading every inch of softness available to him: your breasts, the globes of your ass, the slope of your shoulders, before seizing the back of your neck and sucking intermittently on pieces of your throat in the hopes to leave love marks in his wake while his cock throbbed and pulsed in your palm as you worked him closer and closer to his inevitable fall.

“I love you so much.” You whisper, cheek pressed against his throat.

Those words hit him with the gravity of a typhoon, surges with an urgency that catches him by surprise, and his hold on you grows impossibly tighter as he nearly cums on the spot, only delaying it so he can respond with the expression of his mutual, undying love, catapulting his pleasure and the overwhelming feelings in his body to an almost sear-like ache.

“I love you. God, more than anything.”

His hips buck upwards and scorch with white-hot lust, the silky texture of his cock glides in your hand until he buries his face in your neck, loud groans falling and becoming trapped in the soft skin near your pulse as his slick cum leaks in thick, milky bursts underneath the expanse of bubbles in the bath.

He trembles as he embraces you close while he rides out the dizzying tide of aftershocks, emptying himself completely.

He turns your chin, and kisses you as he eases you both back down from the clouds and off his lap. Somehow, the embers of the fire you lit inside his ribs linger still for him to want to burn off the remainder in the bedroom properly, if you were up for the occasion.

But, from that nubile pout you wear on your face as he kisses your head while wrapping you in your toasty towel, he can tell you certainly are.

-----

Wrapped up in your fleece pajamas while he stands next to you in just the bottoms of his matching pair, you brush your teeth, hips occasionally bumping side by side.

He can't help the twinge from the pangs of adoration pulling at the heartstrings in his chest at the sight of you and your baby bump that now skimmed over the countertop, the buttons of your pajamas that fastened much more snugly.

You finish brushing before him, and you turn and bring your hands to his face, brushing the skin of his right side, intentionally skimming with more precisional care over the scarred of his left.

"Are you sore tonight, sweetheart?" You ask, eyes searching for signs of discomfort from his reflection in the mirror and back to him while he wiped his mouth.

You know him though, and how he'd most likely say no. Not with dishonesty, just always characteristic of that way of his that always put his well-being second.

"I'm alright." He answers just as you predicted.

You give a click of your teeth.

And he knew you wouldn't buy it, either.

"We should apply your cream." You state, turning towards the medicine cupboard.

He catches your fingers before you can reach for it.

"Not after you've been on your feet all evening, darling."

"It won't take long, sweetheart."

"No." He insists and you look at one another in playful stalemate. He sighs, the first to raise the white flag.

"Not while standing. Let's sit down, then we can."

---

As you straddle his thighs, with his back against the headboard of your master bed, he wonders what this scene will look like mere months from now, when sleep would evade you due to the daunting new schedule a tiny baby demanded both of you, when the flames of intimacy would need to be extinguished temporarily and you had to cultivate and navigate the new form your love would inevitably take on because of the changes. He thought about the tension and stress that no doubt would plague you both, testing you to the point of possibly breaking entirely under the weight of such an irrevocable change in your lives.

"Something's on your mind." You whisper as more of a statement of fact as you work the cream into the creases along his cheek.

With how well you could read him on any given day of the week, most of his worries are dispelled at once from that fact alone.

"Just thinking about when the baby arrives." He answers, letting his hands resume the soft kneading he had neglected moments before when your nurturing touch and the soothing cream on his skin made him forget what he was doing.

"Are you excited?" You ask gently, moving back to the planes of his chest, spreading the ointment into a thorough lather.

"I am." He answers truthfully, and he opens his eye, confirmation and hope glimmering tenderly in that strong brown iris. "But I am nervous, too."

You pause, dropping your hand to rest in your lap, holding his gaze as you sense the shift in his tone. It was not to the point where you were overly worried, but he emitted that feeling that carried a more serious undertone when you were dealing with important matters that seized your attention.

"How so, sweetheart?"

"I'm…nervous to be a father, to be responsible for our child's upbringing." He continues in his honesty, thoughtfully chewing on each word as he speaks. He holds your thighs steady, punctuating each line with a tender brush of his thumbs, as if to calm you for your sake.

"I'm nervous about the stress parenthood might put us under, but mostly for you." He pauses, and you pause with him to sit quietly in solidarity with his vulnerability.

"I'm worried about the toll this will have on you and your health. So l need to do everything I can to make sure that doesn't happen."

Realization slowly pulls at you the longer that you ponder together in your mutual reflection. But his caring admission stirs that tender spot in your heart that had his name burned into it.

Always thinking of you, even in the troubling midst of his own worries. The fog was never enough to cloud his focus from what he would eternally revere and honor above himself:

You, his wife.

"Thank you, sweetheart." You smile, and lower your head as you realize you must be his anchor in this moment too. He would stack burden after burden on his shoulders without ever thinking twice. It’s how he's always been, and how he always would be.

It was an unshakeable piece of Kento's foundation that you gracefully accepted with no conditions, just like the rest of him. However, you understood the role of your place by his side, holding his hand and letting him know that this journey was never meant to be embarked nor this trial shouldered alone.

"I'm scared too, Ken.” You look at the brown freckles dusting the point of his shoulder blade that sprinkled just above his collarbone, like a displaced constellation that found itself pulled from the sky and embedded in his skin.

“…for breastfeeding, getting enough sleep…."

“Don't pressure yourself, love." He whispers with a shake of his head. "What matters is that our child is fed. But I know you want to try, so I'll support you in every way that I can."

"Thanks, sweetheart." You whisper and your lips reunite, reveling in that unspoken strength you fed one another that always rose to the occasion, empowered at each other's side.

"Look at us, all afraid. When we're the best team the world's ever seen."

He smiles, fondness seeping in the crow’s feet by both eyes, even in the vacant left side that the scars could not obscure completely.

"You're very right about that. But you've seldom been wrong about anything."

"You mean to say, never?" You wink.

He beams, knowing better.

"Of course I did, my love. Thank you for correcting me."

-----

Soon, you were laying on your side as the night mellowed closer to sleep. You were naked on the velvet surface of your pale blue pregnancy pillow you cradled between your legs, fleece pajamas discarded when the latent warmth under Kento’s skin became a far more enticing prospect.

Kento peels off his pajama pants, letting out a slight huff of amusement and frustration behind you as he tried his best to fit in the pillow next to you, but to no avail, which causes you both to land in a fit of giggles like you were kids.

Now, the small cardboard book was open as you read aloud, your husband spooning you from behind. You had heard from your doctor that reading and speaking often to your little one inside your belly could be a fulfilling exercise for both parents-to-be.

Tonight's selection was Goodnight Moon.

Kento's hands skim over the delicate bumpy lines on your belly that run vertically and weave like the vines that grew over the cobbled exterior of your farmhouse.

"Goodnight stars. G-goodnight…" your cadence weakened as the appealing press of Kento's naked body against yours steadily made the words a bit more labored on their way out, his presence warming you from where he laid.

"Go on." His lips continue their prolonged kiss over the juncture of your jaw while his fingers start their gentle dance over your belly lines and the dimples embedded in your hips in reverent appreciation for the goddess they belonged to.

The sensual cascade of your hair over your shoulder was slowly driving him wild as your beautiful voice continued in that hushed tone that begged him closer, like a curtain concealing a treasure he yearned more and more to pull back and unveil. He holds back for now, although precariously positioned on a wire-thin thread as you begin to respond more sensitively to his experimental touch.

It started with the innocent drumming of his fingers over your belly and hips, and then it trailed suggestively along the length of your ribs, leading with the tip of his middle finger, teasing the base of the swell of your left breast.

“There's still a few pages left...” Kento murmurs in your ear with that unmistakable, husky inflection that both confounded and aroused you.

He knew very well what exact implications it carried, and the indecent effects it had on your beautiful body. He gloats to himself as you let out a groan of defeat, concluding that, in his mind, it was only fair retaliation for the shaky mess you reduced him to earlier.

“Are you going to let me finish reading?” You breathe softly as his nose tickles your hair, licks just behind your ear before sealing it with a kiss, his index finger and thumb so slyly tracing the perky bud of your nipple.

“I am.” He replies, dragging the surface of his seeking palm over your belly in a seductive descent, loitering closely near your sex.

“But it would appear that you're getting distracted. I wonder why?”

The book tumbles out of your grasp as he starts to slowly rub your clit, pressing his lips to the column of your frantically rising pulse.

“Ken-”

“Keep going, love.” The heat from his voice sinking an octave is almost visceral as the pet name rolls off his tongue in coy delivery, his face directly against your cheek as the rhythmic circles on your clit deepen.

You arch against him, trying to find some reprieve as you press your thighs together in feeble resistance, but you feel the inside of his foot ride up along your calf, until he parts them easily with his knee, holding you open.

“Shall I assist?” He whispers.

Now, he's being just plain smug, asking all of these questions he knows the answers to, pretending like he doesn't know the ending to a simple story you've read together several times.

A helpless whine becomes ragged and breathy as he tears it from your throat, throwing your head back so it rests on his shoulder.

“Goodnight stars…goodnight air…” He breathes, coaxing two fingers past your glistening folds. “My, my, you're unbelievably wet tonight. Was it because of what I did to you earlier?”

“What part..?” You moan and bite your lip.

“When I had you on your back on our couch?” He purrs, pushing his middle and ring finger knuckle deep into your dribbling pussy.

“Those beautiful sounds you made and the way I had you look at me as you came all over my hand…” His jaw tenses at the erotic memory fueling his ministrations in the present moment.

“Or was it from when you were getting so aroused from stroking my cock in our bath this evening?”

“Sweetheart, too much…” Your fingers curl into a vice-like grip on the hair at the base of his neck.

He moans unabashedly at the sensation. The action moves his head down, just a little, and he chuckles as he realizes what little control you're doing your best to take back.

“Ah, ah.”

He sits up, his lean muscles flexing in his stomach, veiny cock raging pink at the tip that slightly curves to the left, thicker girth on that side from the scar tissue. He hitches your left leg over his shoulder, kissing the arch of your foot, ankle, and a pathway from your calf to the bend of your knee. He drags one of the spare pillows down, tucking it under your hips in a fluid motion.

Before you can protest, his lips are on yours again, while he fondles your breasts with greedy abandon.

“I can't wait until you're lactating…” He utters, humming as he rocks his hips in tandem with the circular kneading of your breasts, the underside of his cock teasing along the soaked seam of your folds.

“Yeah…?” You slur before your train of thought dissolves into mush as he begins taking them in his mouth.

“You've always had such stunning tits…” He moans in between sucks as he feels the apex of your nipple harden and pebble against his tongue.

“But I'll appreciate them particularly when you're milking for our baby that I fucked into you. And these hips, these thighs…” He acknowledges them with passionate squeezes as his cock throbs with every haphazard thrust against the wet surface of slick dripping out of your pussy.

“And this gorgeous ass of yours.” He whispers through gritted teeth, before landing a sharp smack against your soft flesh.

Warmth trickles between your thighs in heated ripples at how crude he was being, a side of him he revealed only on a few select occasions. (chiefly that long, passionate afternoon in the bed and breakfast following your wedding nuptials by the seaside). Usually, Kento wasn't so talkative. You noticed he gradually became more ravenous, more insatiable to scratch that everlasting itch he had for you ever since those two lines appeared on the pregnancy test.

“You're so sexy…” You giggle, watching him with an endearing gaze as he intoxicates himself with his preoccupation with your pregnant body as he moves lower, slotting between your thighs. “What's gotten into you lately, baby?”

He chuckles, keeping his eyes on you as his tongue makes that first slow, languid lick between your folds, wringing a delicious sigh from your lips.

“I'm not sure…” He presses a dainty kiss to your clit, before nuzzling his nose against it as he takes a deep inhale of your arousal, the scent contributing to that heated pooling in his stomach that unlocks something primal in his mind.

“I just desire you with an intensity that I didn't know was possible.”

“Ah, so it wasn't there before?”

He scoffs. “Don't be silly, darling. You know what I mean. It's just, seeing you like this…” He groans as he kisses along your pussy, coating his lips before he sticks out his tongue, a low “aah” sound grumbles from his throat as he begins to flick it back and forth.

“Oh, Ken…” the knot hovering over the fire that builds along your spine tightens impossibly fast. He knows every sensitive spot you possess, and this time he goes for them directly without giving you a chance to breathe.

“Ken, please.”

“Shh…shhh, darling, please, just feel it. Let me do this to you…”

His tongue explores and delves in your warm silk, creating an overflowing pot of honey in his mouth. He sucks and spits, nuzzling his face impossibly deeper into your warmth. You watch him hump the mattress, his heavy, scarred, veiny cock leaking and pulsing pink at the tip surrounded by his uncut skin, slowly thrusting into the sheets.

The scrape of your painted nails against his scalp only fuels the gasoline being poured on his fire and doesn't pull him out of his pussy-drunk stupor. His warm, velvety tongue strokes and fucks your slick pussy in long, deep flicks. He takes intermittent pauses, pulling back with a slurp as his tongue darts across his lips, adding his fingers instead to gaze at your pretty face while you fall apart underneath him for the second time tonight as he pumps his fingers against your soaking walls.

“So beautiful.” He says that word like it's your name, and the possessive feeling almost overwhelms him to no return as he takes note of your shiny arousal sinfully bathing the silver of his wedding ring, the physical representation of every vow he swore to you that day.

“I can't…” you cry underneath him, breasts still marked with his spit, hair spread on your pillow like a halo behind you, tears brimming the curve of your lashes, your pregnant silhouette only emphasizing your femininity in this moment that only intensified his existing ruminations of you that never ceased, your skin kissed in alluring sheen of both your sweat, illuminated so sensually in the golden glow of your bedroom.

He knows you’re close, and even though you found your way into this position from what transpired in the bathtub in this passionate back and forth that started in your living room, he loves you too much to make you ride it out alone.

He brought you to the edge and he'll hold your hand as you fall over.

He moves your hand gently, before seizing it tightly, murmuring to you.

“You will, love. I'm right here.”

He dips his head down and goes back to feasting on the oasis between your thighs, drowning in his favorite sea, moving his tongue with more urgency.

You cry out louder and your hand that is holding his hand winds up in his hair, those silky locks of blond, seared permanently into your eyelids peeking out between the steadfast glint of your complementary rings.

You say his name and it's immortalized in the air around you as you cum in his mouth. He laps greedily with a low groan, not wasting a drop of nectar and devouring it like he was long deprived of sustenance. Despite having it earlier, it was an unquelled thirst that could be momentarily satiated, for now.

You gaze at him and he gazes back in the tame silence that washes over you both in contrast to the heightened throes of pleasure that overwhelmed it before, a love blown lustrous expression in his good eye.

You could stare for a lifetime of this, of seeing him like this. Your scarred husband bathed in the dim light of your bedroom, low thunder rumbling beyond the walls of this old house in the country, until the love bleeds in the streaks of grey that eventually claims your hair.

“You alright?” He asks, leaning over you, before giving you a lazy, deep kiss.

“I'm wonderful.” You chuckle and sigh at the taste of your nectar that clung to his tongue. “Couldn't let me go without tasting?”

“You know I never do, darling...” He purrs as he lays down behind you again, scooping you close as he pulls the quilt over you both. He turns, bringing the glass of water from the nightstand to your lips.

“Drink.” He lovingly instructs, and he strokes your hair as you take several generous sips.

You're sleepy now, cozy and safe with the dwindling night that's been nothing short of carnal and passionate, but tender all the same. A soft flutter settles in your belly and Kento smiles against your neck as he feels the shudder of your little one against his hand.

“I adore you.” He whispers.

“I adore you…” you whisper back. The word “more” hangs on the tip of your tongue, and he chuckles because he knows you so well to the point that he can sense that you want to say it, and you know him well enough to know that it will just lead to another disagreement with no clear-cut winner.

“Sleepy?” He asks, his tone hushed as he presses his nose into your hair on his way to kiss your neck. You feel the subtle prod from his hard cock against the globe of your ass, and you can't deny the warm stir that lingers.

“A little, but…” You tone drips with sultry mixed with the slow clutch of sleep. “Not enough to not take care of you, first.”

He sighs, and he can't deny the seething ache that rushes through him, either. He would normally swallow down his desire, hold you close if that's what you really need, but this assurance from you that you're not opposed to the idea…This entire evening he was dying to be inside of you, to wrap his soul up in yours as he'd feel your warm, glossy cunt grip him until he was dripping down your thighs, a proper reunion of sorts that a devoted husband like him should bestow on his darling wife after being away for a whole week.

“Should I fuck you to sleep?” His bottom lip brushes the shell of your ear before giving it a kiss, his finger tracing the vein in your neck.

“Mhmm…”

He presses his lips to your shoulder while he pumps his cock, sitting himself up on his forearm so he leans above you, eye simmering, and mind overcome with fuzzy reprieve.

His bridles loosen as he feels the sea of slick wet the tip of his cock, before sliding in slowly, and then all at once.

He uses your breast to pull you closer, stretching your silky warmth around his pulsing head. You moan softly into the pillow as he begins thrusting, slow and deep as his shaky breath gently fans your ear.

The sound is so wet, messy, and quiet. His cock sweetly squelching, sliding and dripping between the soft lips of your pussy. He groans huskily as his hips recede like pale blue waves ebbing from the shore, the girthy tip kissing your velvety entrance, before it ripples back to land and he pushes into you, deep and hard.

“Kento, fuck..." You breathe like a siren with the eyes of a doe.

He murmurs your name back to you in the shape of a heart with his kisses on your neck, measured and rhythmic as his thrusts begin to slow, taking your chin softly in his fingertips as he turns your head, kissing you deeply as he drinks the sweet melody of your moans.

The mild tempo and cozy feeling from being filled and fucked so softly while cradled against his chest has you melting like a cloud. His lips are on your temple as he tenderly rocks you with his hips, until his warm, milky cum gushes deep inside of you, and you're both eventually drifting out to sea with the beguiling tides of sleep.

----

A cozy feeling rustles you deep in the heart of the night some time later. You fell asleep connected, his left hand on your belly, white gold ring with the muted diamond in the middle, his cock still buried inside you.

The room is shrouded in indigo, and the precipitation from the clouds outside have ceased with the wintry quiet, all the warmth trapped inside your shared bedroom.

You bite your lip as you can't miss that electric sensual sensation blooming up your spine. Staying naked was a dangerous idea, much less falling asleep in such an intimate position. You sit up, gentle as he barely stirs as he slips out of you.

You look at him asleep in the midnight shadows, how breathtaking he looks when he's dreaming. Golden hair in a sleepy tousle that will bear that endearing cowlick he can never tame when the sun crests in the rain-laden clouds, cast over his weary yet peaceful expression on his relaxed brow free from his eye patch, a sight you never took for granted.

You trace the ridge of scars over his heart, tentatively exploring until they come to rest on his belly, just above his softening cock which barely twitches, still latently warm with your webs of slick that mutely glisten as they cling to the shaft.

You smirk as you tease a lick to his belly before taking his length in your palm, careful swipes with your thumb to the slit in the lopsided tip from scarring.

You notice his jaw tense from where you're kneeling, but his chest rises and falls again with that soft rhythm of carefree dreaming.

Kento feels warm, so warm as you envelope him in your mouth, comparable to laying in the sun that starts in his toes until it washes over him completely. So sinfully soft as he brushes the coaxing plush of your cheeks.

The cadence of his breathing halts, as you begin the slow rise and fall of your head, bobbing at a gentle pace as little twines of drool leak from the corners of your lips and they run down the veins of his cock. You can taste the mixture of you and him from earlier, some of the scent lingers in his dark pubes that becomes venereous in potency the longer you keep him inside your mouth.

You notice his lips part, until a heady groan slides between them. Your eyes water as you try to take him as deep as you can, but that unmistakable lump at the back of your throat makes you pause, the increased gag reflex a rather unwelcome side effect from your pregnancy.

His breath stills, but you're eager not to let up from the edge you were slowly pushing him towards. You focus on the tip and work him up with a tantalizing tease. You flatten your tongue and lick him starting from the girthy base, burying your nose in his pubes again until you reach the crest of his curved blooming pink tip that pokes out elusively from the sensitive foreskin around it.

You trace and softly kiss over the sections of marred flesh where some of the scarred tissue remained, your clit starting to throb when you remember how their texture felt when he was slowly pumping his cock inside you from the side with your thighs open.

Kento shudders, and his stomach muscles tighten as he becomes closer to being stirred awake. It was like being showered in rain after crawling for months in the desert, collapsing into a warm bed at the end of a long day while the weather raged outside. He finally moans, and the ragged sound travels straight to your pussy, the baritone pitch being committed to memory for you to retrieve at a later time.

“Sweetheart…” He sighs but his hips betray him as he slowly thrusts to meet every bob of your head.

“Oh…..fuck….” The corners of his brows scrunch together, his beige cock shiny and smeared with spit and slick that fuels another filthy record of wet sounds, his weak breathy sighs, and your angelic coos that disrupt the mellow air of the nighttime.

It was a common occurrence anyway that had merely doubled in frequency since you became pregnant. But sometimes, particularly in the summer, you two could stay naked and fuck like animals at will. The location of being here in the quiet countryside made it all too easy to let the soundness of solitude take you both to not-so-innocent places, amplified by the indulgent satisfaction of knowing that you two could be as loud as you wanted. There was scarce a surface that remained on this property that had not been christened from your love making.

“Don't stop…” he mumbles as his hands seek your hair once again. He's letting himself get carried away, but it's a realization that a more awake version of him will have to make. Right now, he's far too locked inside heaven as he deeply yet eagerly fucks your mouth.

You chuckle as you slobber and drool, sticking your tongue out to collect what you left at the base and drip along parts you neglected near the middle. He feels leathery from the veins, but he tastes even more heavenly from your slick.

You use your hand to pump him in tandem, while the other made work of his heavy, sweaty set of balls. You bob faster and he moans louder. Your sweet, tender kitten licks focused around the tip of his cock make him melt, and he almost cries when you dip into his slit.

"Cumming…” He moans to you and you taste the warm, dripping salt as he cums inside your mouth.

These moments between you were as certain as the crest and fall of the sun, of the clouds that would never run out of rain and as long lasting as your wrinkled fingers passing over the other as you'd one day sit in accompanying silence with grey in your hair and a legacy of love and posterity behind you both.

And, especially in moments like these, the flame would swell and burn, carnality pouring out of his skin and onto yours in such an irrevocable manner that you couldn't recognize its origin.

He slowly opens his eye, only to see the goddess responsible for his undoing kneeling innocently at his feet, pregnant with his baby, your breasts squished together with an alluring bounce, soft lips covered in your favorite lip gloss, hand wrapped in a ring that once belonged to his mother, soul pouring out of your body and ripping at his in your siren-like stare.

Now, you and him are even, but then again, that discussion would just need to wait until the freshly brewed coffee in the morning.

---

@ambiguouslady42 @actuallysaiyan

[caspertheloudassghost]

I was sleeping and right before my alarm went off I dreamt of a scene where some hotshot demonic cultivator sends a message to Cang Qiong asking to spar and speak with the sects “resident expert on demonic cultivation” with the implication that it’s a peak lord and the peak lord meeting has them asking who tf that could be and tossing around various ideas while YQY and SQQ avoid each others gazes

(Unnamed shidi 1-adopted but raised with demonic ancestry; SQH-trades in demonic realm and has a secret demon lover he sneaks into the sect [HOW DO YOU ALL KNOW THAT?!]; LQG-expert on fighting demonic anything; MQF-regularly treats demonic afflictions and as such is the most researched on how it works)

In the dream I was so sure SQQ would reveal himself/declare he’d be the one to deal with it but awake I’m convinced he’d keep silent, so everyone has to go and meet the DC cuz they aren’t letting anyone go alone who knows what he plans to do

Anywho post dream territory but the day comes and SQQ is half convinced he’s about to be thrown out of the sect

DC: I’m looking for WYZ’s successor, Xiao Jiu

Everyone slowly turns to look at SQQ cuz by now everyone’s heard the sect leader call him that (insert theory that the Shen in his name was picked up soon after WYZ was killed. Like, on the way to meet the previous peak lords kinda soon and possibly stolen from one of the dead disciples)

SQQ steps forward with everyone’s gazes on him, seething (how dare he use that name) and keyed up from the last month of spiraling, deciding to out with a bang: successor! What fucking successor? To be such would imply the bastard taught me anything and even worse to suggest that I continued using it

DC: then how’d you know all his newly developed techniques? Like, you’ve definitely been seen using them when he trained you

SQQ: he didn’t train me in shit I was his lab rat he used to see if something would kill him before trying himself

Anywho, I have a lot of points that I wanna fit into this but idk where they’d go

Righteous cultivation is the growing of internal energy usually by advancing yourself in some way (physically, spiritually, mentally) and at points letting environmental energy pass around you, whereas Demonic cultivation is from siphoning of energy external to yourself, much faster but much more draining to your environment and others. Usually incompatible with human cultivation bases due to a lack of central, inborn demonic core causing most demonic cultivators to end up going insane from the patchwork of energies with no central focus.

Because of this any who stay somewhat sane gain a lot of power and recognition

WYZ theorized that if you were to steal a demonic core and consume it, you could solve the issue of energy focus. He used SJ to test this theory and found that it created a pseudo demon. The more SJ cultivated demonically, the more demonic features he presented.

SQQ has mysteriously never once gone to Qian Cao Peak. Not during his discipleship and definitely not during his tenure as peak lord. MQF hasn’t realized this cuz SQQ keeps sneaking in and fudging the papers.

His Shizun believed SJ was part demon and brought him into the sect as part test and part curiosity. They may or may not have also mildly experimented on him, but at least they helped him avoid qian cao

Eventually his Shizun came to the conclusion that he’s the only one on the peak with common sense and any strategic ability, so he became head disciple

SQQ is aware that his qi deviations are mostly due to having a demonic foundation and spending years trying to feed it with traditional cultivation. Not sure if this means he has a really tiny golden core or a really poorly fed demonic one or both at once like a half demon. I’m leaning towards both cuz of QJ Shizun experimentation

SQQ has retractable claws (he keeps them retracted and hidden under thick gloves), sharp teeth he must file down (they fall out after a year and the next set grow back sharper, during this time he almost always has his face covered by a fan), a deep-set craving for meat (and QJ serves only vegetarian food), and his ears have a slight point and rest slightly higher on his head than with human faces (he’s pretty sure they keep moving slightly higher each year to become like fox ears, like the fox core he consumed. He hates how it still affects him even without active demonic cultivation. He hides the ears with elaborate hairstyles and mourns his old body)

The other peak lords see his fan as him hiding his intentions from them and not showing his face as hiding dishonesty. The gloves are a testament to his refusal to touch what’s below him. His insistence on eating meat based foods at PL meetings emphasize his delicate constitution. His increasingly elaborate hairstyles display his arrogance for all to see. Listen they already think he’s a spoiled young lord the increased distance caused by his weird cultivation doesn’t help

SQQ wins the spar with the demonic cultivator with ease even when using only demonic cultivation techniques 15 years out of practice.

PLs are surprised to see the other DC fights exactly like SJ did when he first entered the sect (ruthless no holds barred street fighting. Daggers and concealed weapons of any kind other than spiritual swords. Plucking leaves flying flowers is used and now clearly seen as a demonic technique. SQQs fan blades are sharpened. Dust is thrown in eyes and joints are snapped and male parts are targeted.) They can easily see where SQQ must have learned it if that’s how all demonic cultivators fought (like demons). Even if they despise the lack of honor in this fight, at least it’s mutual

At some point during the fight SQQs more demonic traits are revealed (his hair coming undone to reveal his ears, sharp teeth on display, claws having long since torn through his gloves

Most demonic cultivators are self taught through trial and error and rarely have the privilege of learning to fight from masters. Additionally, due to their tendency to go insane, it’s common for most interactions between DCs to turn deadly at any point, so experienced DCs have no room for error or leniency. Fights are determined when one is trapped and begging for their life, and the other decides whether to spare them.

DC was not expecting the QJ PL to be this good, WYZs disciple or no

SQQ states that he was not WYZs disciple and reminds DC that he was the one who killed WYZ

DC asks why and SQQ explains that the three reasons he stayed with WYZ were a)blackmail, b)fear for his life, and c)to find his brothers remains and put him to rest. Imagine his surprise when he finds his brother doing perfectly well in a cultivation sect and WYZ about to kill him. Suddenly points b and c are irrelevant and point a is only removed upon WYZs death so it wasn’t a hard choice

The two walk to a nearby pavilion to discuss techniques and trade stories, with equal parts sarcasm, insults, and laughter

DCs are usually quite willing to trade less personal techniques outside of battle due to the “self taught” aspect of their cultivation

Somehow they end up talking about how brothels are safe spaces for DCs as they are great sources of information and less likely to call the Xianxia cops than inns

PLs are in the background shocked the two could go from a death match to the friendliest conversation they’ve ever seen SQQ display. YQY is salty and guilty in equal parts. LQG somehow comes to the conclusion that all of his and SQQs early interactions were actually SQQ trying to be friendly. SHQ sees this revelation play out in real time and points out that the murder attempt was a misunderstanding. QQQ is begrudgingly impressed to see prissy SQQ so willing to get down and dirty. MQF has been quietly having a crisis at the quality of his work to never realize this and comes to the realization that he’s never personally examined SQQ

MQF comes over and insists on checking over SQQ, who basically goes “fuck it. Sure” and all of my initial bullet points come to light

Everyone loses their shit finding out that SQQ is apparently famous among the DC community due to being the mad lad ex slave who not only convinced WYZ to take on a disciple, but also the one to kill that bastard.

End conclusion SQQ gains a DC friend and the other PLs agree to that as enrichment and stress relief for SQQ.

[croxxbow13]

The Sweet One - Part One

Warnings: language, mentions of violence and mild adult thoughts.

Takes place during Alexandria era. Just some musings as you’re trying to adjust to this new, impossible way of life… and trying to make sense of Daryl’s intoxicating presence.

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Honestly, I’m not sure what this is. I just opened my notes app and just started putting words down. Will do a part 2 if theres any interest.

Please be gentle with me, its my first time.

(Part Two)

(Part Three)

-

It’d been three weeks since our group had stumbled into the walls of Alexandria, dirty, dehydrated and half starved.

Everyone had done the best they could to settle in, though it still felt like most of us were still holding our breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Places like this didn’t exist anymore.

At least, not for long.

We all slept in the same house, hell the same room for the first few nights, not wanting to let our guard down. The floor a patchwork of arms and legs and blankets, while the beds lay empty in their vaulted ceiling bedrooms.

After the things we’d experienced on the road, how could we not? Cannibals, rapist, psychopaths that tried to take us down, slaughtering their whole communities in the process without so much as a flicker of remorse.

I remember one night on the road, everyone sitting around the fire, Daryl said that the world really hadn’t changed all that much. People had always been shit. Now they were just more open about it. There was no reason they could see to keep those terrible things inside.

No reason to fear hell when we’re already there.

And now, to look into these strange smiling faces offering promises of food, walls, shelter… hot showers?

I stuck close to Carol for a while, trying to keep a low profile, putting on a nice face, but all the while keeping my ears tuned to the low whispers, the quiet conversations in adjoining rooms, listening, waiting for someone to slip up. To show the other side of the coin, but they never did.

It didn’t take long working in the small confines of the kitchen and pantry to feel like the walls were closing in on me. The daily droning of bored housewives going on about their ridiculous reasons to be at odds with their husbands, or gossiping about this person or that person… cackling together like a bunch of restless hens.

It reminded me too much of the old world. And I’d rather use an ice pick as a q-tip.

But thankfully, after some convincing - and maybe a little bit of begging - Aaron finally agreed to let me help with scavenging. He said that he, Daryl, Glenn and a few of the Alexandrians were going to be checking out a warehouse tomorrow a few towns over. Something about an old cargo depot.

I couldn’t give a shit less, as long as it gets me outside these walls for a little while.

I never thought it would be hard to transition back into some semblance of normalcy… but I feel like we’re all just kind of playing house. The people in this community have just as many dirty secrets as the people out there. The only difference is theirs is hidden behind neatly manicured hedges and eggshell tinted semi-gloss paint.

-

I’m sitting on the steps of Carol’s house when she returns home from another’s day work.

I say Carol’s house, but I guess it’s also mine and also Daryl’s. Though I’m pretty sure his residence here was just a given whereas I actually asked Carol if she minded that I stayed here.

Rick and Michonne have their whole family dynamic thing going on with Carl and Judith, so I would just feel like a fifth wheel.

Abraham and Rosita had room… but after being on the road with them and realizing how obnoxiously loud they are during sex… and don’t even get me started with fucking Eugene. I swear to God, when he starts rambling off at the mouth with his overinflated self importance. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve imagined cutting off that ratty ass mullet and gagging him with it. My luck though that would just add more material to his mental spank bank that he would recall as he’s beatin’ one out watching his compadres going at it.

I hate that I think about these things, and I hate that I have a vivid imagination because I immediately feel the bile rise in my throat, taste the acidic disgust on the back of my tongue.

I must’ve made a face because Carol stops and looks at me before she makes it to the steps.

“Well I’m glad to see you too.” She says, fighting back a sarcastic laugh.

I shake my head, trying to be reassuring while I’m still fighting the churn of my stomach.

“I’m sorry, just been a long day.” I say, giving her a lopsided smile. She puts a steadying hand on my knee as she swings around and takes the space on the step beside me.

She unbuttons her muted green sweater, or should I say her chosen costume of the day, and pushes up the sleeves. Usually she waits until she’s made it into the front door before she goes through her “becoming Carol” ritual that Daryl and I tease her about most nights.

We give her shit, but I gotta give it to her. She’s smart.

Seeing her now, It’s crazy to think of the transformation she’s undergone since I first met her back at the quarry. Back then she was so… small. And quiet. And just scared all the time. And I get it. Being beaten day in and day out by the person who should be your biggest sense of security will do that to you. Hell, the end of the world was probably the best thing that ever happened to her.

Daryl, too. Granted, he doesn’t talk much about his life before. But from witnessing his toxic ass relationship with his brother, I can only imagine that home for him was never really much of a home. And I’ve seen the scars. At least some of them. He didn’t get those from learning to ride a bike.

Dad was probably a drinker with no outlet for his anger. And Merle was probably old enough and big enough to at least get away from him eventually. I don’t know how much younger Daryl is, or was than Merle. But if I had to guess there was probably a solid 10 years that Daryl would’ve had to fend for himself. And Merle said it…

He was always the sweet one, my baby brother…

It’d made me so angry how he had said it so condescendingly. Like it was something to be shameful about. Like it was a weakness that should be hidden away. Because “real” men don’t show emotion.

Fuck him. I’ve literally watched Daryl rip out vocal cords with his bare fucking hands. And his arms… jesus christ, his arms.

Apparently I just sighed because now Carol has turned her attention towards me again. I clear my throat brushing non-existent dirt off the knees of my jeans.

“Want me to start on dinner?” I ask her, hoping the flush I feel creeping up my neck isn’t obvious.

She gives me a small smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“It’s ok, I ate a little something before I left work. Daryl might be hungry when he gets in though, if you’re wanting to make something. I think we’ve still got stuff for some spaghetti.”

And then as if conjured up from the depths, Daryl turns onto the street from the way of the front gate, the sounds of his boots thudding lightly against the pavement.

Daryl didn’t walk, it was more a saunter if anything. That one hand always gripping the strap of his crossbow that laid across his chest, the other swinging by his side, always a little wider than necessary.

I wonder sometimes if he’s aware of how much space he takes up at any given moment. Though I could never bring myself to ask him, because then he’d want to know what I meant. And I had no intention of letting him know how small he made rooms feel when I’m in one with him.

He’d probably take it the wrong way and go brood in the woods for a few days.

That sweet baby brother.

I’m self admittedly pretty terrible at recognizing when someone’s flirting with me.

But Daryl… Daryl. Fucking. Dixon. Takes the cake with that one.

At times I wonder if he’s actually had any kind of intimate interaction whatsoever. And, oh to have been a fly on the wall…

Doesn’t mean I can’t try though, right?

I mean, it can’t be completely one sided. I’ve caught him stealing glances when he thinks he’s out of my line of sight. I mean, christ, we live in the same house together.

And god so help me, for as long as I live I will never forget the look on his face when I came out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel because he’d come back from a run early. I had my face down, trying to towel dry the rest of my hair and he rounded the corner as I was stepping into the hallway and I basically face planted his chest. It took him about three syllables worth of his sentence, his hands gripping my arms to keep me from stumbling backwards, before he realized that that single layer of cotton that hit just a little too high on my thighs was the only thing saving us from an even more awkward situation.

His eyes went wide as he’d snatched his hands away like he’d been burned. And the color that immediately flushed his cheeks made me want to sink my teeth into the vein that pulsed too quickly in the side of his throat as he dropped his head and retreated out the front door.

Damn… Im starting to sound like one of them.

“Perfect timing! Your ears must’ve been burning!” Carol’s chipper tone pulls me once again from my thoughts, though this time it’s not as welcome. Daryl’s boots scuff against the sidewalk as he comes to a stop in front of us.

“What d’ya mean?” He says, his voice gruff as his gaze bounces between the two of us. I’m still fighting off visuals of lips and teeth and tongues, so I just raise my eyebrows and shake my head, doing my best to avoid meeting his eyes.

“We were talking about dinner, you hungry?” Thanks, Carol.

Daryl shakes his head and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Nah. Not really.”

“Alright, well I’m going to go shower, that way you can get yours whenever you get ready.” Carol stood and turned for the door, giving me a small pat on the shoulder as she crossed the porch and disappeared into the house.

I looked at him then, and thankfully his attention was somewhere down the street.

The sharp orange streaks of light from the setting sun highlighted the beads of sweat on his brow, and judging by the dirt that clung to his arms and clothes, they’d had an eventful day.

Good. He always seemed to be in a better mood those days.

He was chewing on his bottom lip, as he always did when he was working a thought over in his mind. And I figure its as good a time as any to snap him out of it. Before he turns and I’m just staring at him like a fucking weirdo.

“Aaron’s letting me come with you guys tomorrow. Said that it’d be a good time for me to come along and see how you guys work together.”

He nodded slowly before he turned his eyes to me. “Yeah, he told me.” He slid his crossbow over his head and leaned it against the step railings before sitting down on the landing next to me.

And true enough, it now felt half the size as when Carol was sitting there.

“It’ll be good for ya,” he said, pulling at a string that hung loose on his glove. “Get out there an outta here for a while.” As he said it, his eyes scanned the other houses in the neighborhood… still looking for the cracks. For the slip of the stage props.

Maybe we’re not so different.

My eyes follow his gaze. And when I speak, it’s lower… only meant for us.

“You’re still looking for it too.” I say. It’s not a question. He turns his head and looks at me now. The dirt smudge across his cheek brings out the blue in his eyes.

His response is more of a grunt than a word. He wants to know what I’m talking about. Even though he already knows what I’m talking about. He just wants to hear me say it.

“You’re looking for the strings. For the wizard behind the curtain. This place can’t be as perfect as it looks from the outside. There’s something… there’s gotta be.”

He slowly nods and I know that he’s starting to realize the same thing…

Maybe we’re not so different.

The sun has finally dipped below the horizon. I can only tell because that first faintly cool breeze that precedes the darkness is creeping between the houses now. And thanks to it, I’m now aware of the heat I feel radiating off of him. I didn’t realize that my arm was that close to his. Even through his jeans I can feel the warmth of his legs on the steps beside mine.

Why are my fucking ears hot?

And why do I have to fight the urge to lean over and lick the sweat off his neck.

Can you imagine the look on his face?

Stop. Stop.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I need to get up and go inside before I embarrass myself and just have to go knock on the door of the love nest and ask if I can big spoon Eugene.

Fuck that.

And then he bumps his shoulder against mine and suddenly I have no escape plan. I actually don’t plan on going anywhere. I actually would probably have to be pried off this step.

“Come on, we’ve got an early day tomorrow.” He says, and I can feel the words vibrate through my chest. He stands and grabs his crossbow, but he doesn’t sling it across his back like he usually does. He just holds it by his side, stretching out his other hand to offer me help up.

Sweet little baby brother

Naturally I go against my better judgment. Of course I do. I reach up and grab his hand and with little effort, he hauls me up and I’m now even more aware of how effortless he could just pick me up and snap me in half.

Or pin me against a wall.

Stop.

We’re toe to toe, though on different steps, which only adds to the way he’s towering over me. But I can feel his warmth. I can smell the sweet tanginess of his sweat that’s saturated his shirt. The earthy smell of the dirt.

He takes a step back, which part of me is thankful for. As I should be.

I know that if I ever genuinely made a pass at him. And it wasn’t reciprocated, things would probably never be the same between us. I wouldn’t be able to look at him. And he would probably never put himself in a position to be within arms reach of me again. Be it from fear or embarrassment or just the typical, awkward Daryl.

And I don’t want that.

But god damned, I want him.

Tomorrow is going to be a long day.

(Read part 2 here)

[trashmouth-richie]

I feel like I’m really bad at prompts so I’m just gonna go with my “do’s” from costar today…

Stomping. Instant coffee. Cold* shower.

*“Cold” autocorrected to “come” and I almost didn’t fix it, soooo…do with that what you will.

OH MY LOVE.

hoping my slutty choices for this prompt find you well.

18+, no minors, acts of sex, yay.

**peep my little hints at 90s tv and movies—there are 4 🖤

<1k

send me a prompt from this post ! (writers block is killing me !)

Cold beads of water trickle like ice down your body. Making your already pert nipples stand at attention and harden in an instant. 

Cursing the boy you’ve been best friends with since diapers, you turn the faucet off in a quickened haste— exiting the tub in an anything but graceful fashion, stubbing your toes on the way out. 

“Eddie!” your shrill voice is clouded by the throbbing in your foot and the chatter in your teeth. “Did you pay the water bill?”  

One job, the menace had one job— one duty for the small shared apartment, and it was to pay the water bill each month. 

Wrapping yourself in a threadbare towel that had once been a swim towel for an uppity family— you stomp down to his bedroom, kicking open the door with enough rage to channel Jackie Chan.

You should have knocked. Fuck, why didn’t you knock? 

Eddie was naked.

Pale-moon colored ass on display. 

Thigh muscles rippled beneath dark patchwork tattoos, arms that never looked muscly suddenly flexed tight. A veiny hand wrapped tight around a black haired pony tail. Hips, his hips were— fucking, thrusting, pounding. 

His mouth was slack, slick like an oil painting, head back and eyes rolled to squinted ivory surrounded with a colossal woodland of thick lashes.

Sweat coated his brow, dribbling down until it collected on his cupids bow, a salty pooled tease. His rougey lips were spit coated, sheer— glossy— begging for your tongue to taste them. 

Your heart thumped loudly, heat in your core on its own tempo, hot and deep. 

And then you hear it. 

A whimper. Softer than silk, low, whiny, almost sweetly pathetic in its delivery from a deep space in his throat. 

Your cheeks warm, cunt heated like a fire, sirens going off for extreme temperatures. 

Oh—fuck.

His eyes meet yours and you hold his gaze for a second. The clouded look of a man being sucked dry took over his normal instant coffee colored irises. Glaucoma esque beauty in the dark swirls, and you wet your lips at the sight of him— at Eddie Munson— resident freak of Hawkins and your best friend. 

Jesus.

Both your lips explicitly mutter words with eyes wild doe like. His going from lazy pleasure to shock. Yours were covered with your palm, the other reaching, fumbling for the door knob. 

Apologizing profusely you suddenly stammer around clearing your throat and trying to leave ASAP. 

The towel around your middle, the only thing keeping you decent, glides to the ground—falling gently like that fucking feather in opening scenes of Forest Gump. Practically in slow motion but still too quick for your blind shut eyes to catch it. 

Fuck.

Pulling with both hands on the knob your heart races to shut the door, not registering that the towel is wedged tight between the frame, making it impossible to shut. 

Shit shitshitshitshitSHIT

With a last feeble attempt of yanking your arms, the latch clicks into place and you beeline to your room with a slam of your door so hard it ricocheted off the walls, making a framed picture of you and Eddie at a Metallica concert fall to the ground, shattering the glass.

What the fuck? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!

Your heart boomed in your ears, back stuck to the door like you were holding it up. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen Eddie naked, pretty sure your entire graduating class saw him naked on more than one occasion. But this?! This was so mouthwatering better than any other time. 

Goosebumps spread across your skin at the burned image of Eddie getting head on your retinas. The two of you had never crossed those lines. Each dating, fucking around it never once crossed your mind what he would be like in the sack, or what his sack would be like in your mouth. 

You’re pleased when you don’t cringe at the dirty thoughts of him— it felt like second nature, like eve seeing adam —lol okay maybe not, but still! What your mind was conjuring up was biblical. 

A giggle surpasses your lips and you wipe a line of drool from the corner of your mouth. Nerves finally settling as your realization hits— who was it?

It wasn’t Sarah, you hadn’t seen her since last fall. Eddie had said she started dating Steve—his comic book “arch nemesis” but in reality another bestie, who spent most of his time wallowing on your couch about Nancy than he did actually going on dates. 

Mary ended up being a virgin—preacher’s daughter, one of seven. He stopped seeing Clarissa after she wouldn’t stop over explaining every single minute detail of her day. Could it be the girl with the green leather jacket? Darla? Daria? 

The horny ache in your belly soured like curdled milk. 

How dare her (whoever she was!) The thought of someone other than you pulling those noises from Eddie suddenly set you on edge. Rage burned through your veins like lightning. Spidering and leeching to your skin. 

The pajamas you had taken off before your shower lay in a heap on your floor and you quickly yanked them on. Muttering to yourself about every vile thing you could imagine about whoever the lucky girl was who currently had a mouthful of your roommate. 

You needed to leave. The clouds of embarrassment eased overhead, colliding with the lightning making a storm brew deep beneath your surface and you be damned if you were going to let the rain fall whilst still in this apartment. 

Keys in your palm you throw open your bedroom door, ready to bolt through your apartment and down to your car— destination unknown. 

You nearly knock him over in your attempt to run. But you’re stopped cold by sweaty bangs, a heaving chest, and the same stupid pair of boxers that had small tears along the elastic from years of wear. 

“Sweetheart…” he coaxed, voice so sugary and laced with tiny shreds of venom it could ice a wedding cake— then strike you dead. 

You had seen plenty of Eddie today, your body screamed for you to leave, but your feet were stuck in the icing, waiting for the bomb to drop. 

Warmth from your cheeks from your shame could keep a trailer with broken windows warm in a blizzard—your stomach flipped— dropped like lead as his next words hit like a bullet. 

“We need to talk.” 

part two

steve tied up

[perpetualcynicism]

For most days of the year, the Grove of Epiphany is graced with pleasant temperatures and clear moonlit skies, forming the ideal atmosphere for quiet study. However, on occasion, Aquila’s fickleness reaches even this sheltered abode, and the foliage receives a more than ample watering at the expense of its citizens. 

Today is one of the worse days. Early in the morning, a collection of grey clouds gathered stealthily in the sky above the Sacred Tree and, without warning, broke their contents over the unsuspecting residents of the Grove. The onslaught has continued through to what would now be considered afternoon. Sheets of cold rain lash against the greenery as if holding a personal grudge. Thunder growls in the distance. 

Outdoor lectures have been hastily relocated or cancelled due to the downpour. Students hurry past each other in search of shelter, holding books or clothing above their heads to protect themselves from the rain. 

Anaxa is no exception to those seeking to avoid the worst of the storm. He walks with brisk steps along the muddied paths in the direction of his office. His timetable has not been too greatly affected by the weather save for one suspended lecture, which gives him the time to sort through some sources on ancient alchemy which he has not yet had the opportunity to read. 

As he turns around another bend, something catches his eye. He hesitates. Sheltering beneath the branches of a tree by the roadside is a familiar silhouette. 

You are sitting on the grass with your limbs drawn up close to your chest. Your clothes are soaked through and your unruly hair plastered to your skin, yet you are staring into space, seemingly at peace with your surroundings. Anaxa stops by the tree and looks down at you, crossing his arms.

“What in Amphoreus do you think you are doing?”

Startled out of your thoughts by his voice, you glance up. Your expression eases when you recognise him. “Ah, it’s you, Anaxagoras. I thought my intentions would be rather obvious. I am seeking shelter from the rain, like everybody else.”

“You would call this shelter?” He gestures towards the patchwork of branches you’re sitting beneath. The canopy is not thick enough to completely ward off the rain, and drops slip down from the leaves and onto your head. 

“I said I was seeking shelter, not that I had found it,” you rectify. Anaxa clicks his tongue. “But, please, do not concern yourself: I have sat out many storms in a similar manner.”

The sight of you sitting there like a bedraggled wet cat is simply too exasperating. Anaxa fixes you with a look of utter unamusement. “Come,” he says. It’s an order, not an offer. “With me, to my office, before you get yourself a cold.”

You blink. “Are you certain?”

“Would you rather stay here and freeze to death?” he remarks sardonically.  

“I suppose not.”

Anaxa holds out his hand to you. You take it, and he pulls you to your feet. Raindrops hang like beads on the ends of your eyelashes and the tips of your hair. He turns away from you and marches briskly through the downpour back to his office, with you tagging some sorry, dripping paces behind him.

When you arrive, Anaxa steps in through the door first. You make to follow, but he moves to block the doorway, preventing you from entering, and fixes you with a sharp glare. “You are not entering my office like that.” A puddle is already forming at your feet. You look down at it and then shrug, as if to say, Fair enough. “Wait there.”

He disappears into his office. Shortly thereafter, he emerges again and tosses you a towel. You catch it and set to work drying first your hair, and then the rest of yourself. Once deeming your state satisfactory, Anaxa permits you to enter. 

“Don’t touch anything. And change out of your clothes,” he says. “A dry location won’t do you any good if your clothing is keeping you wet.”

“Have you anything else I could wear?” 

He sighs out sharply. What a bother this all is. “I will find something.”

Thankfully, owing to his own tendency of enclosing himself here for days while researching, the office serves decently enough as a living space, and for that reason contains a small wardrobe which houses a decent selection of garments. Anaxa searches for something appropriate (for you are certainly not borrowing his dromas onesie; that is a step too far). He settles on a dark tunic. It is not in your size, but if you want to complain, that is not his problem. 

You do not complain, and accept the clothes gratefully. Anaxa turns his back to you as you change. He does not have to guess why you were forced to shelter under a tree: evidently nobody in the Grove was willing to take you into their own accomodation. This is sensible enough, considering you are not officially part of the Grove and thus do not count as anybody’s direct responsibility. However, Anaxa knows that the true reason for your dismissal lies not in the factual recognition that you are not their responsibility, but rather a certain sentimental factor which prevents them from engaging with one whom they would otherwise have no qualms about helping. 

He hears you sneeze behind him. You walk back over, now clothed in his tunic, and place yourself down cross-legged in the middle of the floor. As expected, the size of the tunic is off, but it does not not suit you. 

“I am rather afraid,” you announce, slightly nasally, “that I indeed would seem to be catching a cold.”

Anaxa kneads his brow in exasperation. “What did you expect to happen, you daft fool?” 

“I admit to misjudging the strength of my body’s resistance,” you reply with dignity. “So I must thank you again for taking me in. It was kind and not necessary of you.”

“Hmph. Think little of it. I simply do not want my most engaging conversational partner perishing prematurely through their own folly.” His response comes out more barbed than even he expected; but if you take any offence, you give no indication of it.  

Over the next few days, your cold steadily worsens. You stay in Anaxa’s office, slowly accumulating a makeshift nest of blankets around yourself as you drift in and out of sleep, murmuring incomprehensibly to yourself about justice, knowledge and death. Anaxa checks in on you if he finds the spare minute between teaching and conducting research. When he takes your temperature, the result is so alarming that he has to call Hyacine to determine whether it is truly a cold you have contracted or something more serious. 

“From what I can tell, it really is just a cold,” she concludes at the end of her inspection. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t get more serious. Keep a close eye on them and let me know if anything gets worse. In the meanwhile, you can give them this medication to help with headaches, and make sure to keep them well-hydrated, as well as avoiding any foods which might agitate their sore throat.”

The voices must have roused you from your partial slumber, because once Hyacine is gone, you stir from within the depths of your cocoon. 

“Are you busy at the moment, Anaxagoras?” you croak out. 

Anaxa casts a glance in your direction, pausing in penning a detailed list of the various recommended treatments Hyacine has given him. “Not at the moment, no. Why?”

“I am afraid that I am terribly bored, lying here all day.”

“And this matter concerns me because…?”

“I was hoping that we could converse.”

He scoffs. “Considering the state of your throat? Absolutely not.”

Disappointment creases your brow. “Then… perhaps you could read something to me instead?”

“Read something to you?” Anaxa repeats, sceptical. “Such as what?”

“Whatever you think would take my best interest. You know the Library of Philia’s contents far better than I do.”

Anaxa is silent for a while. A long list of texts he is certain would intrigue you flit through his mind. On the Duality of Cerces, Foundations of Erythrokeramism’s Theory of Consciousness… 

“I’m unable to do that,” he eventually says.

“Oh. For what reason?”

“Whatever ‘takes your best interest’ is sure to do with philosophy, and whatever is to do with philosophy is sure to get you talking, which is precisely what this alternative was raised to avoid in the first place.”

“You do have a point, yes,” you admit with a frown. “Furthermore, considering that—”

“However,” Anaxa continues, cutting you off before you can foolishly exhaust your voice even further, “that does not mean I cannot read to you on principle.” His eyes pass over his desk, where any number of scrolls lie at any given point, courtesy of his students’ peculiar research topics. One in particular catches his attention. Anaxa crosses over to the desk and picks it up. “Is A Slate Guide to Grove Flora sufficiently unremarkable to keep you quiet?”

The expression which passes over your face is difficult to decipher. You seem at once both infinitely grateful and terribly disappointed. It’s good enough for Anaxa. Before you can make any further comment, he clears his throat and begins to read: “Ever dreaming of distant flora but trapped by the black tide? The Veil Greenhouse, jointly developed by…”

Even this text, however, proves enough to stimulate your curiosity. You croak questions and comment on the narration until Anaxa has to snap at you to be quiet for your own good. The only benefit is that you tire yourself out so much that you fall asleep again afterwards, attested to by your finally growing silent. Anaxa places aside the scroll with a sigh and falls to silent observation of you. There is a sickly flush in your skin brought about by the illness, and your eyebags are more pronounced than usual despite your increased hours of sleep. The sight of you so subdued and vulnerable irks him in a way he cannot describe. 

After a few moments, Anaxa stands up and approaches you with quiet footsteps. He takes your temperature with his hand before pulling back with a frown. Still hot. 

“Stubborn old fool,” he mutters under his breath, though there is no true bite to his words. He pushes a stray strand of hair from your clammy forehead. “Just come in next time it rains. If your condition doesn’t improve soon, I will have to start cancelling classes. I would rather not have to do that, so you had better come to your senses.”

You mumble something unintelligible in your slumber. Anaxa clicks his tongue, raps you lightly on the head, and returns to penning the list. 

A few more days pass in a similar manner: you stir now and then, trying to make conversation which Anaxa swiftly shuts down, and he reads the odd passage to you when time permits. By the end of a week or so, under Hyacine’s continued guidance, your temperature begins to fall, and eventually you are well enough to return to your usual habits of milling about the Grove’s campus and interrogating unwitting passersby. Anaxa allows himself to let go of a tension he was not even aware he had been holding onto once he sees you back to your normal self, in conversation with one of his students. 

The next time it rains, you do not seek his permission: Anaxa finds you already seated on the floor of his office when he enters. You spend the time absorbed in animated discussion which continues long after the rain has stopped. 

[leejenowrld]

heart to heart — spoiler

pairing — surgeon! na jaemin x intern! y/n

genre — smut, fluff, angst, age gap (10 years, jaemin is older)

word count — 2.9k

authors note — this is quite a generous and lengthy spoiler, fans of ‘love me back’ and ‘back to you’ will appreciate this one a lot. if you’re not familiar with the other two stories in the ‘love and games universe’ then my only advice would be… become familiar LOL, anyways enjoy my loves <3 don’t say i never gave you anything 🫶

Hayoung’s eyes glitter with mischievous delight as she leans closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She’s always been the resident sleuth, devouring every headline, every whisper in the intern’s lounge, cataloguing names and dates like precious specimens in a private menagerie. For her, uncovering the hidden ties that bind people is as satisfying as stitching new stories into a patchwork quilt. Tonight, she’s your guide through an exclusive gallery of Jaemin’s inner circle, each figure more beguiling than the last.

You draw in a shaky breath and edge nearer to the one‐way glass. Hayoung raises a slender finger toward the towering silhouette at the room’s center, a man whose presence feels as inevitable as gravity itself. His broad shoulders fill the crisp lines of his navy blazer, the fabric stretched ever so slightly across a sculpted chest, each inhale subtly flexing muscle beneath starched cotton. His trousers fall in a perfect, confidence-infused drape, hinting at powerful thighs honed by hours on hardwood courts. A tumble of dark curls grazes the nape of his neck, and when he turns, the faint arc of a smirk reveals a jaw so sharply carved it could slice through the hum of conversation. Even from here you catch the swirl of his cologne, something smoky, dark wood warmed by sunlight and feel the air shift around him. In that moment, Lee Jeno is less a man in a room and more a gravitational force: utterly magnetic, a living testament to strength and elegance entwined.

“That’s Lee Jeno, he doesn’t need an introduction. Everyone knows him, the most influential NBA player of his time.” She murmurs, voice hushed as if narrating a masterpiece. “See how he stands, shoulders squared like the corner of a backboard, every line of his tailored suit whispering discipline and power? He’s an NBA legend, record-breaker, triple-double maestro, the kind of athlete whose name is etched into every stat sheet and every fan’s heart. But more than that, he’s been Jaemin’s north star since they were toddlers dreaming of the same impossible things. He was the first to learn of Haeun’s little heartbeat, sneaking into the NICU at dawn to cradle the tiniest secret in his enormous hands. Off the court, he’s quietly philanthropic, rumor has it he quietly funds scholarships for underprivileged kids in his hometown, though he’d never brag. The media paints him as unflappable, the perfect poster boy for athletic excellence, but those who know him well call him fiercely loyal, the kind of man who shows up whether you’ve invited him or not.”

She lets that settle, then nods toward the woman at his side. “And that,” she continues, “is his fiancée, a vision of composure in couture. They met in college, drifted apart, then discovered that some bonds refuse to break. Their love story is whispered about in fashion circles and sports columns alike: soulful reunions, secret late-night text threads, wedding bells set to ring in just a few weeks. It’s the sort of romance you’d write a novel about—timeless, improbable, and entirely, irrepressibly theirs.”

Hayoung tells you that beyond the fairytale love story, she is every bit her own force of nature: the celebrated face of APEX, a powerhouse executive whose razor-sharp intellect and unflinching moral compass have steered global design initiatives and social impact campaigns for over a decade. In boardrooms she commands deference, in studio ateliers she inspires apprentices, and in every exhibition she curates she challenges viewers to see beauty as a catalyst for change. Each year, she and Jeno co-host the hospital’s signature gala, an evening of crystal chandeliers and whispered promises, where proceeds underwrite life-saving surgeries for families who simply can’t shoulder the cost. Hayoung recalls one gala night to you in particular. When little Haeun, clutching Bunny in one hand and a crayon-scrawled invitation in the other, was lifted onto the stage to present a check; the room hushed as the child’s earnest smile lit every heart, and tears of joy stained even the driest cheeks. It was a moment that crystallized their shared mission, to tether privilege to purpose, and to kindle hope in every young life they touch. Each December, they dispatch carefully curated gifts to every child in the ward—small treasures that, come Christmas morning, become lifelong keepsakes.

“Ryujin and Shotaro’s story is kind of a real-life fairy tale,” Hayoung begins, voice warm. “They met during college, he was mastering a contemporary routine, she was perfecting a lyrical piece and sparks flew over perfect pirouettes. Together they opened a tiny dance school in a repurposed loft, teaching six students and dreaming of bigger things. Now? Twelve studios later, they’ve trained hundreds of young dancers, from hopeful amateurs to budding professionals, and their outreach programs have given every child, no matter their background, a chance to feel the magic of movement. They’re always giggling when they talk about how their after-class water breaks turned into marathon brainstorming sessions. ‘What if we could heal with dance?’ and how every new studio opening felt like adding another heartbeat to the city’s rhythm.”

“And that dream brought them here,” she continues, tipping her voice conspiratorially. “Ryujin and Shotaro now co-design the hospital’s pediatric dance-therapy wing, turning sterile hallways into places where little feet learn strength and resilience. They’ve taught Haeun to pirouette past her fears, remember that time she insisted on ‘just one more spin’ even after her echo scan?—and they’ve choreographed holiday performances where she’s always the star. Their partnership isn’t just about fundraising or fancy recitals; it’s about showing every child that joy and healing can bloom side by side, and proving that sometimes the purest medicine comes in the form of music, movement, and a whole lot of love.”

“You see that hot guy by the window? That’s Lee Donghyuck, he’s a sports anchor whose name you can’t scroll past without wanting to know more. He’s the guy who turned a sideline gesture into a signature catchphrase, but off-camera he’s even more impressive: he spearheaded last year’s ‘Heart Run,’ a charity marathon that raised millions for the pediatric ward, and personally negotiated with sponsors so every dollar went straight to families in need. He’s brokered equipment donations, hosted fundraising luncheons in that very lounge, and somehow still remembers every child’s name who’s ever cross-checked him for an autograph. And don’t think he lets Haeun escape his radar. last month he rolled out a mini basketball hoop next to her play corner, just her size, and taught her how to drain a ‘baby three-pointer’ with a flourish. She squealed so loud you could hear it through the corridor, and he bent down afterward, ruffled her curls, and whispered, ‘You’re my MVP, princess.’ Even now she’s peeking at him, cheeks lighting up every time he offers a thumbs-up from across the room. With Donghyuck, it’s never just television bravado, it’s genuine joy in every high-five and every fundraiser he champions, a constant reminder that heroes come in many uniforms.”

She shifts her gaze to another figure: graceful, magnetic. “And finally, that’s Jang Karina. She doesn’t need any introduction, she’s a fashion powerhouse, her silhouette feels sculpted by intention. Karina began as a runway model whose charisma captivated editors and buyers alike; today she presides over a global design empire, her eponymous label celebrated for its architectural lines and daring palettes, while her beauty brand, praised for its clean formulas and bold pigments, has soared into the multimillion-dollar stratosphere. She pioneers mentorship programs for young designers, spearheads sustainable textile initiatives in collaboration with leading research labs, and curates charity auctions that funnel life-saving funds to children’s hospitals around the world. Every accolade she collects, Vogue cover shoots, Council of Fashion Designers awards, front-row appearances at the Met Gala, has been earned by a woman who learned to temper brilliance with empathy, who moved beyond the runway’s glare into the quiet confidence of a leader whose influence stretches from boardrooms to breaking bread with those she protects.”

“Karina and Dr. Na have a tenderness, a shared history written in soft confidences and midnight phone calls. They met during college before either dreamed of a spotlight, she, a striver fresh from design school; he, a busy surgical resident moonlighting to pay his rent. He didn’t like her in college, but they ran into each other in New York and started fucking intensely. Their first real date was over steaming bowls of bibimbap in a corner café, trading fears and ambitions until the staff nudged them out at closing time. Then life intervened—back-to-back seasons for her, grueling on-call marathons for him—and they drifted apart, each chasing dreams they’d once whispered to each other. They’re not really romantic but I’m sure they still fuck, I could bet on it, that’s how confident I am that I’m correct. They’re co-architects of Haeun’s world. She’s the first to arrive with balloons and homemade cookies on scan days, the one whose laugh draws Haeun from any shyness. Karina helps Dr. Na with Haeun a lot.”

Begrudgingly, you learn that they were lovers once, in that brief, incandescent season before parenthood reshaped his every horizon; the memory of their closeness still simmers behind Karina’s steady gaze. Now she arrives at the hospital not as a distant star but as a second mother to Haeun, smoothing stray curls with the gentlest touch and laughing through bedtime stories whispered in the playroom’s lamplight. When she bends to offer Haeun her lap, the little girl curls in as naturally as into her father’s arms, murmuring “Mama Rina” with the surety of a heart that instinctively knows where comfort lives. In every pivot of her poised stride and every warm look she casts at Dr. Na, you sense the unspoken vow: that this chosen family, wrought from loss and love, will hold its orbit against any darkness that dares encroach.

Her tone softens, eyes drifting back through the glass as if she can already see their silhouettes in the corridor. “They’re legends in their own right. Jeno, with championships and record-breaking buzzer-beaters that make arenas tremble; Karina, whose gowns have rewritten the language of fashion and whose makeup line is in every beauty editor’s kit; Ryujin and Shotaro, whose dance therapy programs have coaxed laughter and movement from children who’d forgotten how to feel joy; Donghyuck, whose voice carries stories of triumph on screens that millions tune in to each night. But none of that matters here. What binds them isn’t fame or fortune, it’s this hospital. This place saved Haeun when her own mother tried to end her life before she even drew a single breath, when she was left to die alone on the rooftop. Doctors patched her broken heart; nurses soothed her frightened sobs; researchers here keep rewriting the rules of what sick children can endure. Every gala Karina co-hosts, every scholarship Jeno underwrites, every dance-floor fund Shotaro and Ryujin open, all of it funnels back into this ward. They fund free surgeries for babies born blue-liped, they underwrite outreach clinics in forgotten towns, they sponsor scholarship nurses who stay to care for children no matter the cost. They do it all because of Haeun. Because she survived the darkness, they learned what true rescue means, and found a way to pay her back in light.”

Your heart twists in your chest as you watch Karina cradle Haeun at the edge of the room, tiny arms fluttering around Karina’s neck like fledgling wings seeking warmth. Karina’s hair tumbles over her shoulders in waves of midnight silk, each strand catching the light of the conference wing’s golden glow. Her posture is an unspoken manifesto of poise: spine straight as a ballet barre, shoulders soft but unyielding, gaze warm enough to melt the iciest boardroom. Haeun’s laughter resonates like a chime, and Karina responds with a low, musical hum, her fingers tracing idle patterns in Haeun’s curls. You step back, scrubs suddenly heavy on your skin, as though you’ve walked into a painting you were never meant to touch. The distance between you and this effortless grace stretches taut, and you wonder how you—ten years her junior, still mastering knotting sutures and bedside manner—could ever bridge the gap. You feel like a child intruding on a world you can’t touch: awkward in your youth, your intern’s scrubs swallowed by the hush of designer silks and tailored blazers. 

Your cheeks burn when you realize how small you feel here: stripped of your usual confidence, every inch of your skin prickles with self-consciousness. You recall the times you braided Haeun’s hair, the soft “thank you, my wuv” she pressed against your palm, and you ache to belong in that gentle space again. But here, in the orbit of Karina’s radiance, you are merely a shadow, an earnest trainee whose greatest accolade is a passing nod from Dr. Na. While Karina, in the privacy of their past, has lost herself on his cock a million times, a fiery intimacy you ache to claim as your own. You tighten your grip on the edge of your clipboard, fingernails biting into the paper, and force your gaze back to the room. Yet even as you try to anchor yourself, your eyes betray you, drifting back to Karina’s measured smile, the easy way she curls a lock of Haeun’s hair behind her ear, the quiet assurance that you can never duplicate.

It’s not merely Karina’s beauty that stings, it’s her history, her accomplishments writ large in the world Jaemin inhabits. You think of the single-family flats you shared with overwhelmed roommates, long shifts of charting before dawn, the perpetual undercurrent of imposter syndrome that thrums beneath your every success. Karina, by contrast, has carved an empire from thread and vision, her name sewn onto the seats of fashion capitals from Paris to Tokyo. She is the creative force behind runway shows that have shaped decades of style; the philanthropist whose gala soirées have raised millions for pediatric research; the mentor whose apprentices now stand on stage in their own right. And here she is, bending gentle and unguarded over Haeun—an innocent whose life Karina helped to celebrate, whose future she pledged to support long before you ever learned your first surgical knot.

You flush all the way to your fingertips as you recall Hayoung’s hushed confession about Karina and Dr. Na’s secret trysts—how Karina’s satin lips once pressed against his throat in the moonlight, how she gasped his name as his fingers tangled in her platinum-blonde waves. Your pulse hammers when you imagine those heated nights, Karina draped over him like silk, whispering his name between breathless moans. You bite your lip, thighs trembling, picturing yourself in her place—skin slick, lips parted, arching beneath his touch as he buries himself deep inside you. Every polished step in these hospital halls suddenly feels charged with forbidden promise: could those same strong hands guide your body, curl you into whispered ecstasy until you’re nothing but warm, quivering mush in his arms? The thought sends a delicious shiver down your spine, and you press a hand to your chest, breathing unevenly, desperate for even a flicker of that raw, unfiltered passion Karina once claimed as her birthright.

Karina’s presence is almost mythic: hair that falls in glossy waves around a face sculpted by years of confidence, eyes that have both softened at a child’s smile and hardened at the cruelties of fashion backstage. She embodies refinement and resolve—each step a whisper of silk, each laugh a note of genuine warmth. Haeun clings to her as though born knowing Karina’s arms are safe harbors: tiny fingers threading through Karina’s familiarity, curls brushing Karina’s velvet collar. You watch that bond and ache—you’re not certain you could learn the art of such effortless love, not sure you could anchor Haeun’s heart as deeply, as naturally, as one who has guided her through every high-profile gala and quiet bedtime story alike. In that moment, you feel the full weight of your inexperience, the impossibility of matching a grace so honed, so intrinsic. The envy blossoms bitterly in your chest, and you wonder if you will ever find your own place in Haeun’s world beyond the shadow of these legends.

You turn your gaze inward, the harsh white of hospital walls receding as memory and desire entwine into a single, bitter bloom. You recall the early mornings when you and Haeun would share cereal in the NICU hallway, your voice the only anchor to her frightened world. You remember the fear that distilled your every thought when her tiny chest stuttered for breath, and the primal desire to be the guardian of her heart. Yet here, in the glow of polished floors and the gentle murmur of celebrities-turned-family, you feel neither hero nor protector. only an outsider whose worth is measured in clinical competence, not in the kind of love that sees without pretense. The ache in your ribs intensifies, a reminder that motherhood, in its many forms, is not won by credentials or passion alone but by the quiet alchemy of trust, time, and intimacy. You realize that Karina has woven herself into Haeun’s life with every shared story, every whispered promise, every dance lesson sponsored and every stolen cuddle. And you, still learning the rhythms of both scalpels and lullabies, are left yearning for a place in the soft tapestry they have created. You close your eyes for a moment, drawing a shaky breath, and resolve to carve out your own kind of sanctuary, a space in Haeun’s world defined by your devotion, your sleepless nights, your relentless hope that even the most fragile hearts can find new wings.

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[bullet-prooflove]

Home: Terry Bruno x Reader

Tagging: @beardedbarba @justreblogginfics @Storiesofsvu @anime-weeb-4-life @witches-unruly-heart

It’s late when you knock on Terry’s door, later than you intended. You’d gone back to your apartment initially after work but you were restless, pacing your way through the carpet. It didn’t feel right, it didn’t feel like home. Your stuff is there, at least most of it but you still couldn’t settle. There’s an anxiety vibrating through you, an urgency, it spikes through your system leaving you reactive, defensive.

Hyper-vigilance.

You’ve felt it before. Your nerves are flayed raw in the aftermath of the adrenaline. It usually happens when things get dicey in the field but this right now, it’s emotional. It’s the product of the man who used to hurt you, stepping back into your life as if nothing ever happened.

You clasp the compass that resides around your throat, your fingertips rubbing over the tiny diamond in the centre.

So that you can always find your way, Terry had said you as he helped to put it on.

Home was where Terry was, it has been for a long time now.

It had been raining when you’d taken the subway. Your car was in the shop, and truthfully you could do with the walk, you thought it might diffuse some of the excess energy that was pulsing through your veins.

When Terry opens the door he isn’t expecting you, there’s a beer in his hand and he has the game playing in the background. You’re soaked through, water running off you in rivers, trailing from your hair and dripping down your face.

“I thought you were staying at yours tonight.” He says, setting his beer bottle down on the oak end table. “Christ, get in here, you’re gonna catch your death.”

The next few minutes are a whirlwind, Terry drawing you into the bedroom where he helps you strip out of your wet clothes and takes his time drying you off with a towel. There’s a tenderness in his touch, a domesticity and for a moment you find yourself falling even more in love with this man as he takes care of you. He pulls out his worn Yankees t-shirt from the dresser drawer and drapes it over your naked form before helping you into a pair of  his boxer shorts.

“Whatever’s happening right now. Whatever’s put you in this state I’m here ok?” He tells you, cupping your face between his hands. “When you’re ready to talk I’m here.”

***

It takes a while for you to thaw out. Terry tucks you into a blanket on the couch, makes you tea, it’s hot and sweet and just what you need as you listen to the rain patter on the windows outside. His leans back against the cushions, his arm on the back of the sofa, his thumb trailing over the curve of your shoulder soothing over it. It’s a light touch but it’s everything  you need and more because Terry gets you, he knows when you need space and when you need a little reassurance.

“I have to tell you something.”

He reaches for the remote and flicks the sound onto mute. The game still plays in the background but his eyes aren’t on it, they’re on you as he angles his body so that you have his full attention.

“I’m not really sure where to start.” You told him, fingers toying with the hem of the t-shirt.

“Why don’t you tell me how we got here tonight?” he said gently. “How you turned up here in the rain, soaked through?”

“It’s Paul, my ex.” You told him by way of explanation. “He’s consulting on a case of mine, it’s got me all in a spin.”

“Alright.” Terry said shifting from side to side. “If you still have feelings…”

You can see the hurt in his eyes, he’s starting to shut down but you reach out, your hand grasping his arm on the back of the couch as you reinforce your words.

“No.” You say it so venomously you can see the surprise on his features at your tone. Your fingers reach up to the back of your neck, trailing over the tiny patchwork of scars that reside there. You can feel them prickle like they did that night. “He was an addict.”

“Oh…” Terry said, his thumb trailing over the indentation of your wrist. “That must have been tough to live with.”

He’s starting to get it now, your reaction to this suggestion of moving in this morning. You’d lived with Russo for two years, he knew it had ended badly but he hadn’t expected addiction, it raised a lot of questions and he had theory, he just hoped he was wrong. You nod swallowing hard.

“Those scars, the ones on your back, your neck and shoulders. He did them didn’t he?”

Your eyes burn and you couldn’t stand to look him in the face. You focus on the game instead, the green of the pitch blurring your vision.

“He put me through a mirror when I wouldn’t pay a drug debt. They were threatening his career, to turn him into his Captain…”

“Did he...” Terry trails off because he couldn’t bring himself to say the words instead he supplements.  “Was there more?” He says finally.

 You shake your head.

“That was the first time, the only time. But you know my history. Once was enough.” Your father used to drink, you’d seen violence from an early age . You survived it, didn’t let it colour you but sometimes there were cases that hit too hard, the ones where a husband kills their wife. Those are the nights you don’t come home for hours, you go the gym. You beat the hell out of something until you couldn’t function, until you crawl into bed exhausted. Afterwards he cradles you close because even though you hadn’t said anything Terry knew, he always knew.

“Did he hurt you again?” Terry asks quietly and you shake your head.

“He wanted to get back together, he’s been sober over a year but… “ You meet Terry’s eyes. “He’s not even sorry about this…” You gesture at the scars that pucker the skin at the base of your neck.

You remembered the hours you’d spent in the hospital as a doctor removed glass from your back and neck, the stretch of the skin as they stitched you back together. It could have been worse you told yourself, it almost was, the doctor had told you. You were lucky you hadn’t suffered nerve damage; it was all just superficial.

“I started it when refusing to give him the money.” You recount.

“And he ended it by shoving you through a mirror.” Terry remarks you, his voice rough. “What do you want to do about this?”

“I am going to suck it up, and wait it out, he won’t be there for long and I think he got the message.” You tell him. “I’ve paired him with Sinclair for now, hopefully there will be as little interaction with me as possible.”

Terry presses his forehead against yours. He knows this is hard for you, that you’re walking a fine line. You both don’t trust to take it up the chain of command, shit like this, it never works out well for ones that do report, you just have to look at what happened to him to understand how fucked up the whole thing is.

“I am here for you.” He tells you, his thumb ghosting over the apple of your cheek. “As your partner or a cop, I’m here for whatever you need.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[shitty-fallout-art]

The man- the thing?- loomed over him like a ghostly specter, loose, rotting flesh sagging in deep folds across narrow cheeks, stitched together in a horrible patchwork of scars and miscolored skin. The lips had peeled back to show a wide grimace of grayish teeth, and his eyes sunk so deep into his skull that only a tiny pinprick of light reflected outwards like a tiny pupil. He was dressed in an odd uniform of sorts; long red sleeves beneath a loose, once-white shirt that matched perfectly with his equally blood caked pants and cap. He looked similar to a ghoul, yet he moved and articulated like a person, standing calm and quiet even as Shaun tried to crawl away from him.

The man-shaped monster that stalks the wasteland has no defined name or person-hood, but it does have a long and unfortunate history.

Long before the fall of the Commonwealth it's body would be host to a memory named Nick Valentine, an abomination of real human consciousness trapped within the cold steel of machinery. Though often shunned due to the circumstances surrounding his creation, and doubting his own purpose as a mere experiment, he held onto his humanity by helping those who could not help themselves, and in time became a well-known figure of hope amongst the residents of Diamond City for many years.

Things did not change immediately upon meeting Nora, and when they did, it had only seemed for better.

The two of them possessed a special connection that saw them through the worst of their struggles. Both of them possessed memories of a different world, one that had been kinder to them then this one, but amidst the loss and confusion, they at least had an understanding of one another, a true sense of what the world had lost through its mutually assured destruction. Conversation between them was like speaking in your mother tongue; familiar subconscious,relaxing, something that he cherished even when the opinions they shared tended to drift uncomfortably far from one another. ...Or uncomfortably close.

While Nick held a lot of uncertainty towards himself, Nora never made it a point to disagree with such self-conscious notions. In fact, she often feed into his dysphoria with heavy questioning towards the nature of his identity, and what parts of the real Valentine he could still claim as his own, though never maliciously. She had simply helped to give him a reality check.

Finding Eddie Winter was supposed to finally put the real Nick Valentine to rest, and he trusted that Nora would help him accomplish that goal. But one day she just... disappeared, and after some time Deacon eventually came clean and said the Institute had killed her.

The surprise was short-lived, the heartbreak just as profound as it was two hundred years after losing jenny, and left without any other purpose Nick helplessly threw himself into his work.

Which eventually led him to Far Harbor, and the revelation of his true past.

When Nick came back Ellie thought he was acting strange. With how much the Commonwealth was changing, it was impossible for anyone to keep their head on straight, and he had been rather withdrawn ever since Nora, but after coming back to Diamond City he wouldn't talk to nearly anyone, and when he did he seemed.... confused, unable to keep up with conversation, names, or common events. At Ellie's suggestion he frequently wrote notes himself, reminders of dates, clients, locations... and recent events that he otherwise couldn't remember, though it did little to help.

Every day he seemed to get worse, acting completely normal at one moment, and then... like someone else entirely. He would go off on his own without any recollection as to what he did during that time, hiding things from himself, setting up traps or tricks for himself. It was too much for Ellie to deal with on top of everything that was going on, but she hadn't expected to be fired after all of that... and he didn't even have the decency to tell her to her face, just left her a sackful of caps and a note that said she had better be out of town by the time he got back. Shortly afterwards he was formally thrown out of the town on suspicion of Institute intervention.

For two years almost nobody could find him, and what he did within that time is unknown, even to himself. But he returned to Diamond City one final time, locking its inhabitants inside, unable to escape.

~Fact Sheet~

-Since Far Harbor established that Nick has limited memory space, Kellogg's memories are replacing his.

-Kellogg and Nick struggle for control over their now shared body, Nick is only semi-aware of the extent of Kellogg presence and actions.

-Deacon is taking advantage of this a bit cause Kellogg is getting results.

-Moe Cronin developed radiation poisoning from contaminated food and was kicked out of Diamond City when he showed signs of ghoulification. He had fled to Goodneighbor, which the Railroad operated out of on occasion. When Moe began to go feral Kellogg skinned him and crafted a disguise. Nick had tried to discard the costume before but always wakes up in it later.

-Currently, he is one of the very few people who are free to enter and exit Goodneighbor. This is important for later.

-He is help Shaun without Deacon's order or notice. This is also important.

-Kellogg remembers who Shaun is. Nick doesn't.

-Nick is still looking for Eddie Winters but for other reasons now.

[mariacallous]

This is a gift article.

The truth is, it’s getting harder to describe the extent to which a meaningful percentage of Americans have dissociated from reality. As Hurricane Milton churned across the Gulf of Mexico last night, I saw an onslaught of outright conspiracy theorizing and utter nonsense racking up millions of views across the internet. The posts would be laughable if they weren’t taken by many people as gospel. Among them: Infowars’ Alex Jones, who claimed that Hurricanes Milton and Helene were “weather weapons” unleashed on the East Coast by the U.S. government, and “truth seeker” accounts on X that posted photos of condensation trails in the sky to baselessly allege that the government was “spraying Florida ahead of Hurricane Milton” in order to ensure maximum rainfall, “just like they did over Asheville!”

As Milton made landfall, causing a series of tornados, a verified account on X reposted a TikTok video of a massive funnel cloud with the caption “WHAT IS HAPPENING TO FLORIDA?!” The clip, which was eventually removed but had been viewed 662,000 times as of yesterday evening, turned out to be from a video of a CGI tornado that was originally published months ago. Scrolling through these platforms, watching them fill with false information, harebrained theories, and doctored images—all while panicked residents boarded up their houses, struggled to evacuate, and prayed that their worldly possessions wouldn’t be obliterated overnight—offered a portrait of American discourse almost too bleak to reckon with head-on.

Even in a decade marred by online grifters, shameless politicians, and an alternative right-wing-media complex pushing anti-science fringe theories, the events of the past few weeks stand out for their depravity and nihilism. As two catastrophic storms upended American cities, a patchwork network of influencers and fake-news peddlers have done their best to sow distrust, stoke resentment, and interfere with relief efforts. But this is more than just a misinformation crisis. To watch as real information is overwhelmed by crank theories and public servants battle death threats is to confront two alarming facts: first, that a durable ecosystem exists to ensconce citizens in an alternate reality, and second, that the people consuming and amplifying those lies are not helpless dupes but willing participants.

Some of the lies and obfuscation are politically motivated, such as the claim that FEMA is offering only $750 in total to hurricane victims who have lost their home. (In reality, FEMA offers $750 as immediate “Serious Needs Assistance” to help people get basic supplies such as food and water.) Donald Trump, J. D. Vance, and Fox News have all repeated that lie. Trump also posted (and later deleted) on Truth Social that FEMA money was given to undocumented migrants, which is untrue. Elon Musk, who owns X, claimed—without evidence—that FEMA was “actively blocking shipments and seizing goods and services locally and locking them away to state they are their own. It’s very real and scary how much they have taken control to stop people helping.” That post has been viewed more than 40 million times. Other influencers, such as the Trump sycophant Laura Loomer, have urged their followers to disrupt the disaster agency’s efforts to help hurricane victims. “Do not comply with FEMA,” she posted on X. “This is a matter of survival.”

The result of this fearmongering is what you might expect. Angry, embittered citizens have been harassing government officials in North Carolina, as well as FEMA employees. According to an analysis by the Institute for Strategic Dialogue, an extremism-research group, “Falsehoods around hurricane response have spawned credible threats and incitement to violence directed at the federal government,” including “calls to send militias to face down FEMA.” The study also found that 30 percent of the X posts analyzed by ISD “contained overt antisemitic hate, including abuse directed at public officials such as the Mayor of Asheville, North Carolina; the FEMA Director of Public Affairs; and the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security.” The posts received a collective 17.1 million views as of October 7.

Online, first responders are pleading with residents, asking for their help to combat the flood of lies and conspiracy theories. FEMA Administrator Deanne Criswell said that the volume of misinformation could hamper relief efforts. “If it creates so much fear that my staff doesn’t want to go out in the field, then we’re not going to be in a position where we can help people,” she said in a news conference on Tuesday. In Pensacola, North Carolina, Assistant Fire Chief Bradley Boone vented his frustrations on Facebook: “I’m trying to rescue my community,” he said in a livestream. “I ain’t got time. I ain’t got time to chase down every Facebook rumor … We’ve been through enough.”

It is difficult to capture the nihilism of the current moment. The pandemic saw Americans, distrustful of authority, trying to discredit effective vaccines, spreading conspiracy theories, and attacking public-health officials. But what feels novel in the aftermath of this month’s hurricanes is how the people doing the lying aren’t even trying to hide the provenance of their bullshit. Similarly, those sharing the lies are happy to admit that they do not care whether what they’re pushing is real or not. Such was the case last week, when Republican politicians shared an AI-generated viral image of a little girl holding a puppy while supposedly fleeing Helene. Though the image was clearly fake and quickly debunked, some politicians remained defiant. “Y’all, I don’t know where this photo came from and honestly, it doesn’t matter,” Amy Kremer, who represents Georgia on the Republican National Committee, wrote after sharing the fake image. “I’m leaving it because it is emblematic of the trauma and pain people are living through right now.”

Kremer wasn’t alone. The journalist Parker Molloy compiled screenshots of people “acknowledging that this image is AI but still insisting that it’s real on some deeper level”—proof, Molloy noted, that we’re “living in the post-reality.” The technology writer Jason Koebler argued that we’ve entered the “‘Fuck It’ Era” of AI slop and political messaging, with AI-generated images being used to convey whatever partisan message suits the moment, regardless of truth.

This has all been building for more than a decade. On The Colbert Report, back in 2005, Stephen Colbert coined the word truthiness, which he defined as “the belief in what you feel to be true rather than what the facts will support.” This reality-fracturing is the result of an information ecosystem that is dominated by platforms that offer financial and attentional incentives to lie and enrage, and to turn every tragedy and large event into a shameless content-creation opportunity. This collides with a swath of people who would rather live in an alternate reality built on distrust and grievance than change their fundamental beliefs about the world. But the misinformation crisis is not always what we think it is.

So much of the conversation around misinformation suggests that its primary job is to persuade. But as Michael Caulfield, an information researcher at the University of Washington, has argued, “The primary use of ‘misinformation’ is not to change the beliefs of other people at all. Instead, the vast majority of misinformation is offered as a service for people to maintain their beliefs in face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.” This distinction is important, in part because it assigns agency to those who consume and share obviously fake information. What is clear from comments such as Kremer’s is that she is not a dupe; although she may come off as deeply incurious and shameless, she is publicly admitting to being an active participant in the far right’s world-building project, where feel is always greater than real.

What we’re witnessing online during and in the aftermath of these hurricanes is a group of people desperate to protect the dark, fictitious world they’ve built. Rather than deal with the realities of a warming planet hurling once-in-a-generation storms at them every few weeks, they’d rather malign and threaten meteorologists, who, in their minds, are “nothing but a trained subversive liar programmed to spew stupid shit to support the global warming bullshit,” as one X user put it. It is a strategy designed to silence voices of reason, because those voices threaten to expose the cracks in their current worldview. But their efforts are doomed, futile. As one dispirited meteorologist wrote on X this week, “Murdering meteorologists won’t stop hurricanes.” She followed with: “I can’t believe I just had to type that.”

What is clear is that a new framework is needed to describe this fracturing. Misinformation is too technical, too freighted, and, after almost a decade of Trump, too political. Nor does it explain what is really happening, which is nothing less than a cultural assault on any person or institution that operates in reality. If you are a weatherperson, you’re a target. The same goes for journalists, election workers, scientists, doctors, and first responders. These jobs are different, but the thing they share is that they all must attend to and describe the world as it is. This makes them dangerous to people who cannot abide by the agonizing constraints of reality, as well as those who have financial and political interests in keeping up the charade.

In one sense, these attacks—and their increased desperation—make sense. The world feels dark; for many people, it’s tempting to meet that with a retreat into the delusion that they’ve got everything figured out, that the powers that be have conspired against them directly. But in turning away, they exacerbate a crisis that has characterized the Trump era, one that will reverberate to Election Day and beyond. Americans are divided not just by political beliefs but by whether they believe in a shared reality—or desire one at all.

[love-and-deepspace-wiki]

Onychinus' Base (Part 1)

Location: N109 Zone

Details:

Onychinus' Base is one of Sylus' places of residence (because, according to his Memory, he has many). During the protaganist's first time there, its appearance led her to conclude the owner hadn't lived there in a long time.

There are a lot of rooms to cover at the base, so bear with me lol. Since we have way more details to cover for the bedroom, I'm gonna have to do a part 2 just for that.

Areas & Rooms:

Okay, the areas I'll cover in this post are the following:

The Base Entrance

The Hallway

The Armory

The Boxing Gym

The Gem Vault

The Dining Rooms(?)

(A brief note concerning "Bedroom Adjacent Room")

The Base Entrance:

The main story includes a scene where the protagonist meets Sylus in a dining room(?), where he gives her ten minutes to eat her fill before meeting him at the base's entrance. When she goes to meet him there, we see Sylus reclining against his motorcycle. The protagonist descends a short set of steps to join him. And judging by the appearance of the skyline behind it, it seems to be in an elevated area?

This scene pans downward and then momentarily shifts slightly to the left. For that reason, please enjoy my screenshot patchwork masterpiece.

The Hallway:

The second time the protaganist wakes up at Onychinus' base, she's being held in the gem vault (covered later in this post). Upon leaving the vault, she enters a hallway.

From the hallway, she mentions that one of the corridors has several small, crystal vases on a shelf by the wall. In them are several drooping, withered flowers.

It is through this hallway that she accesses various places in the base. Namely, the "Dining Room #1", the boxing gym, and the armory.

According to Kieran, she'd see the base's exit by going "straight down the hall" (left).

And it potentially connects to a garage (based on when she enters the hallway from the armory; right).

The Armory:

At the start of Sylus' "Captivating Moment" Myth, the protagonist finds him the armory at the Onychinus base (top left).

This Myth story mentions them exiting the armory through a door. And, immediately after exiting, Sylus is depicted in the hallway mentioned previously (top right).

The Boxing Gym:

The boxing gym is said to be located in the "corner of the base". In the scene preceding its onscreen debut, the protagonist is standing in the hallway we previously discussed. She then turns to the left to leave the hallway before arriving at the gym. It is a large room that includes a boxing ring and a punching bag.

The Gem Vault:

The gem vault is the second room the protaganist wakes up in at the base when Luke and Kieran are monitoring her. This room is frequently shown in-game. But in Sylus' storyline for the "Yes, Cat Caretaker" event, this room is what is shown when they are in his gem vault.

While the gem vault interior "isn't brightly lit", the protaganist describes it as "still illuminated by dazzling and colorful gems". She goes on to state that Sylus was sitting through "mountain-like piles of gems" and crystals.

After Kieran opens the door so she can leave the room, the protaganist is shown in the hallway again. And by entering the door ahead, she enters "Dining Room #1" where the subsequent scene occurs.

The Dining Rooms?

There are two different rooms that seem like dining rooms. But their purposes are not specified in-game. There's "Dining Room #1" (the one where the protagonist overhears Sylus' conversation with an unknown person) and "Dining Room #2" (the one where Luke and Kieran help the protagonist in the "Midnight Stealth" memory)

"Dining Room #1":

The protaganist describes this room as calm and "beautiful, from the clean white tablecloth to the silverware sparkling under the light to even the ice bucket with bottles of red wine". At that time, the table was filled with countless dishes and Sylus gave her ten minutes to eat as much as she wanted.

"Dining Room #2":

This is the one featured in the "Midnight Stealth" memory. In this scene, Luke and Kieran help the protaganist strategize in her efforts to get Sylus' brooch. It's not the same room as "Dining Room #1" because this one features checkered flooring and couches. Additionally, the walls are quite different.

The "Bedroom Adjacent Room" Note:

Technically, there's one more room other than the bedroom. We get a glimpse of it when Sylus kicks the protagonist out of his room in "Midnight Stealth". But since it's literally right outside his room, I'll cover it in part 2.

(Welp... in retrospect, I should have said I'd cover it in part 3 😂)

[juncodraws]

Tada! For mermaid AND anime fans alike, I drew the Zombieland Saga girls as merms!

Starting off with our girl ✨️Sakura✨️, the tail I chose for her is a Princess parrotfish because I wanted something to contrast her red hair beautifully (the "princess" is accurate too; our sweet princess Sakura🩵). It didn't come out exactly how I hoped, but I'm learning! -Although the glitter was a nice save, tho hard to see here😅- Sakura is such a good girl, I love her sm. She's often very relatable too!

View the rest below!

Next up, my girl ✨️Junko✨️ (Who I unironically relate with the most👀).

I definitely wanted the two professional idols of the group to be dolphins, and I loved how the colors of the Striped dolphin match Junko's patchwork so well. The soft colors really bring out her hair and eyes! I hope we learn how she died in the upcoming movie🙏

Ay! It's ✨️Ai✨️

I thought the Atlantic spotted dolphin was a cute choice for her since it matches her hair so well. But I don't even want to think about Kotaro applying his Hollywood makeup on that tail😶

Ai is a good bean. I really enjoyed her character growth. I'm glad she has Junko to relate with.🩵

Next up, ✨️Lily✨️

I definitely wanted a brightly colored reef fish for this lil bundle of joy, and the orange of the Snowflake clownfish really makes her blue hair pop! It was also fun (and super convenient) turning her star hair pieces into starfish^^

Lily is a solid character. I love how optimistic and supportive she is, and how she isn't petty like some other child celebrity actors. For 12 years old, she's very mature!

Our badass ✨️Saki✨️, heck yeh😎

I knew I needed something fast and powerful for our favorite biker gang leader, and a Blue marlin immediately came to mind. She'll rough you up good!

Saki is definitely one of my favorites. She's strong and hardcore, but not in an obnoxious overbearing sort of way. I love her little fangirlisms, and determination to lead the group right. Love ya girl!🫡

✨️Yugiri✨️ my queen🩵

I just HAD to go with the classic Koi for our favorite courtesan. It was obvious from the start.

Yugiri is my second favorite of the group. She's so stoic and smart, and I call her the "resident slapper." XD She definitely has final boss energy and I'd follow her anywhere🩵 Slay Queen💅

Last but most definitely not least, ✨️Tae✨️

Tae gives me major seal vibes (merfolk-wise), so I made her a Harbor seal Selkie!

Tae, my precious baby girl whomst I love and adore. My favorite feral zombie queen, you are perfect. Please never change🩵

Definitely check out Zombieland Saga if you enjoy anime. It's easily become my favorite comedy anime. The writing, pacing, characters, everything is SO GOOD. I will follow these girls to the ends of the earth fr fr🙏

[bottledpeaches]

an eye for an eye

SYNOPSIS: what happens when you stick your nose where it doesn't belong?

CHARACTERS: dr ratio

TAGS: major character death, small town horror, murder mystery, 2.6k+ wc

TAGLIST: @tragedy-of-commons, @mitsvriii, @harque, @akutasoda, @hazyue, @gabile18, @khoncore

NOTES: I procrastinated real hard on this and managed to thug it out in the span of like.... four days

written for @/stellaronhvnters’ stellaween festival event! I chose the prompt skeletons

special thanks to my dearest pookie @tragedy-of-commons once again for proofreading this for me so last-minute!

It’s never a good sign when a small town ends up on the map, for one reason or another. Small towns are small for a reason. They keep to themselves, its residents living peaceful, crime-free lives and concern themselves with their own problems.

So when news of skeletons being discovered in people’s yards in a small town that isn’t even listed on the maps makes it onto national television, it takes the entire nation and even the world by storm. 

It’s all people can talk about as the case unfolds. Reporters are flooding into the town until they outnumber the residents living there. With the sudden spotlight, it was revealed that the town was so small it had a police force that consisted of a handful of members and a single car. And with a police force that small, a proper forensics department was out of the question. 

Hence, where you and your colleague, Veritas Ratio came in. The town council had called in for a detective and forensics team to assist with the investigation. When he saw the state the lab was in, he had sighed louder than you’d ever heard him.

“The absolute disarray of this place! Barely any equipment either! How in the world do they expect me to properly work with this lack of resources?”

You have to pointedly glare at him.

“Veritas, have you forgotten they’re painfully underfunded…? They probably had no need for police and forensics either.”

He merely clicked his tongue and glared back at you. 

There’s not much that points toward a bright future for this town. It’s so isolated up in the mountains that the nearest town is an hour drive away. There’s only one stoplight and one stop sign. (Not that there was much traffic to begin with…) The largest store around is the dollar store at the end of the only street running through town. Restaurant options are equally limited. There’s a 24/7 diner that’s staffed by one person, a twitchy-looking waitress, along with some fast-food options here and there. A second-run movie theater is the only option for entertainment around here. A single-track railway with a train that only stops once per day is the only way in or out of here besides car. Coniferous and evergreen trees surround the town like a cage and it’s always foggy. Sunlight rarely peeks through the thick cloud cover and there’s a persistent smell of smoke from something burning elsewhere on the mountain. The most important building is the church located on Main Street. Sometimes, its spire is the only thing visible amidst the heavy fog and smoke. 

There’s only one place for lodging- a run-down motel with a flickering neon sign and always vacant. A dingy room quickly becomes your home away from home. It always smells mildly of mold and mildew with a strong floral smell that seemed like an attempt to cover up the neglect, but failed miserably at doing so. The electricity frequently spikes or cuts out, meaning you’ve already fried the motel’s hot water kettle that you relied on for your morning coffee. The room itself looked like a relic from the past, with its yellowing pastel wallpaper, an uncomfortably lumpy mattress that the two of you are forced to share, floral sheets, and threadbare patchwork quilt. The cheap carpet looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since it was installed and the heater hacks and shudders to life like it’s on its last legs. There’s always the distant hum of fluorescent lights and it’s like a persistent itch at the back of your mind that you just can’t scratch and it’s driving you insane. 

This town is unwelcoming, and so are its residents. Silence follows you and Veritas wherever you go. Shopkeepers are as rude as they can be without getting a complaint filed. When passing through a neighborhood, mothers rush to get their children inside the house and openly glare at you from their rotting porches. Witnesses were downright uncooperative during questioning, even rude at times. 

This town is hiding something, and you don’t like it. 

But even with the increased police presence in town and nightly neighborhood watches that have been set up, the cases kept piling up. Every morning a call would come in from a panicked resident about a fresh mound of dirt in their yard that only meant one thing. Someone would head over to dig it up and sure enough, there’d be a skeleton there. Some were yellowed with age, but most of them were new from their glistening ivory hue,  Some of them were pristine while others still had bits of flesh and blood clinging to them. Forensic analysis revealed that the skeletons belonged to people of all ages too. No one was seemingly safe. 

Some of these victims had been alive the day prior too. Meaning that not only were you dealing with a potential case of illegal exhumation, but also first-degree murder. 

A small team of forensic scientists working with Veritas would accompany you, where they’d gather samples before heading back to the lab while you and your partner would spend the rest of the day questioning people. 

But while he was in the lab, you had discovered something very interesting during questionings.

“Madam, it would be in your best interests if you would cooperate.”

You fixate the trembling woman before you with a piercing, unblinking gaze. She pointedly avoids your eyes, but you’ve always had a way with extracting information from the most uncooperative of witnesses.

“...”

“...”

“F-Fine! I’ll speak! That man was a longtime business rival of ours! He died several years ago of a heart attack, but I have no idea how he ended up in my front yard, I swear!”

So the deceased all had some connection with where- or rather, who- they were found. A victim of a greedy loan shark drowning in interest, a bitter and jealous ex-husband, and so on. It keeps popping up so often that it’s not a coincidence anymore. 

Still, there’s one thing that sticks out to you.

“Were all these bodies exhumed? I noticed that cremation is almost unheard of in this town in the coroner’s reports that you sent me, despite the crematorium being conveniently located in the church and a cheaper alternative to a traditional burial,”  you say one night as you’re cross-examining testimonies with newspaper clippings. Veritas looks over at you from where he sits on the bed. “Do we have a potential gravedigger on our hands?”

He pauses. 

“Perhaps a visit to the town cemetery is in order.”

The next day, the both of you arrive at the cemetery soon after the gates open.

The first thing that stands out to you is how small it is. It’s smaller than the average cemetery, with very few tombstones. The only thing breaking it are the small farms here and there. 

“Well, this certainly doesn’t line up with the amount of skeletons that have been discovered as of late,” you grumble as you get out of the car. Ratio nods and shields his eyes from the early morning sun that’s already beating down onto your backs. 

The weathered faces of some of the tombstones as you walk by makes you pause. They’re ancient. 

You shudder. You try not to think about decomposing bodies inadvertently becoming fertilizer for the farms next door…

Clearly, this town has had a long history. Perhaps it was prospering long ago. But now, it’s on the verge of becoming a ghost town with only spiteful, suspicious people left. And in a place as small as this, history must be traceable for at least several generations back. 

As you walk amongst the tombstones, you notice that very few of the graves have had the earth in front of them disturbed.

“So maybe we don’t have a gravedigger after all,” you murmur as you pull out your phone. A quick phone call to the church later and you learn that yes, the church is aware of what’s been happening. No, they did not receive or approve any requests to exhume a body, much less several. 

You click your tongue irritatedly after hanging up. There goes that hypothesis. It’s clear that while some bodies have been exhumed, most of them were not. 

So now what?

Later that night at the 24/7 diner, you discuss your findings so far while sipping on reheated instant coffee and trying to stomach dry pancakes. The sun has already gone down and the street lights outside flicker weakly to life. 

“The biggest discovery my team and I have made is that this all seems to be the work of several different people, but that was at the start of the case. There has not been anything groundbreaking since then.”

You raise an eyebrow. He senses the question in your gaze. 

“Forensic testing has revealed that maceration has occurred through several different ways. Bleaching, boiling, and crude hacking are the three most common ones. There have been some attempts at more sophisticated methods, such as enzymatic and chemical maceration, but those have been crude at best. It got the job done, but the bones had severe surface damage and were shrunken. Meanwhile, some were in pristine condition and barely damaged.”

“So they know about the various techniques, but they don’t have the knowledge and experience to carry it out properly?”

He nods. “Precisely. And even within the three most common methods, there were varying degrees of success present.”

“That… certainly doesn’t seem like the work of one person.”

You sip your now-cold coffee and wince at the sour aftertaste before pulling out your findings. 

“Here’s what me and my partner have discovered. The biggest thing is that every skeleton seems to have a connection to where they were found.”

“Elaborate.”

“All of them have been found in people’s yards, and it turns out the deceased had some sort of connection with the homeowner while they were alive. A bitter ex-husband, a family feud that has stretched back generations, the sole surviving member of a family that was murdered several years ago…”

You sigh. “The connections are endless. I could go on forever.”

You cast your gaze around the diner. Your nails drum against the red formica tabletops and you tap your foot absentmindedly against the checkered floors that are slightly greasy and sticky. The only other people there are a family of four with shifty eyes and the waitress that’s been here since you arrived. She jolts and looks the other way.

“For a town this small, it sure is harboring a lotta desire for revenge,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. Your gaze lazily drifts around before landing on the lighting fixture above the bar and settles there. 

…

Your eyes narrow as your tired mind begins putting the seemingly unrelated pieces together. Veritas’ sharp eyes don’t miss it.

The actions of several different people with varying degrees of success… a collective desire for revenge… 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“This is just a thought but…you don’t think it’s the whole town that’s in on this, right…? I mean-”

He suddenly shushes you as he gets up. It’s only when you return to your room that he gestures for you to continue speaking.

“- I mean, the one thing unifying everything is the desire for revenge, which every resident seems to harbor a bit of,” you continue as you get ready for bed. “Cremation is an unusual option here. Most people are buried instead. But the cemetery is also surprisingly small. But why is that? The answer is that most people are not dying of natural causes. Most people are being murdered out of a desire for revenge with no hope for any sort of burial or funeral. So my earlier gravedigger hypothesis is incorrect now. Did your analysis reveal signs of skeletal trauma on some of them?”

“Many of them,” corrects Veritas. 

Despite the late hour, your mind is fully awake as all the pieces finally start falling into place together. 

“Relationships are messy and the residents of this town are no exception. The deceased often had multiple conflicts and grudges with other people. What I suspect happened is they were murdered and then dumped into someone’s yard that the deceased also had connections with to pin the blame on them. Which begs the question: where were the police in all of this?”

You pause to catch your breath.

“But the police mean nothing if everyone is in on it, even if unknowingly, correct? This also explains the absolute disrepair the police and forensics department are in as well.”

Veritas meets the knowing glint in your eyes.

“Let’s say that I’m the murderer. I killed you because of a grudge I bore, stripped you of your flesh until only skeletal remains are left, which I then buried in your neighbor’s yard that you also had some conflict with to pin the blame on them. The neighbor then calls the cops, but both they and the cop at the scene have done the same thing before, even though they don’t know of the other’s actions. Someone will be sentenced to jail, but they will inevitably end up getting killed by someone else for another grudge before they’re off to jail and out of reach for good. The body gets hacked away and planted into someone else’s yard and the cycle repeats. Everyone has gotten their hands dirty. There’s no way for this to be closed because everyone has played a part in it. It’s like trying to untangle a never-ending knot.”

The exhaustion of the day is beginning to catch up with you. You climb into bed next to him, shifting to avoid the lumps in the mattress that’ll give you a backache tomorrow morning. 

“Revenge is a scary thing. They’ll wipe themselves out at this point,” you sleepily murmur. 

Veritas doesn’t meet your gaze. You can see the gears rapidly spinning in his mind before arriving at the same conclusion. 

“... It’s best if we leave as soon as possible,” is all he says. 

The next morning, you authorize a search warrant on every household in town. There, they find incriminating evidence. A butcher knife and cutting board with dried human blood seeping into its cracks. A stock pot with bleach still in it. Scissors, knives, and scalpels with hardened chunks of human flesh still stuck to them. Guns, knives, and other weapons of murder. 

A mass arrest is carried out to the flashing cameras and interest of the nation. You and Veritas are congratulated on your work and rewarded with a shiny promotion. You’re finally able to head home, much to your joy. You’re eager to leave that unsettling place behind for good. The case is closed and it’s time to relax before moving onto your next assignment. 

At least, that’s what you had anticipated. 

The town’s residents wiped themselves off the map. It’s now a ghost town. Cars rust from the assault of the elements and ivy begins to overtake the brick buildings. Shops and houses are broken into and pilfered. In a matter of weeks, the town is forgotten by the few that still remember it. The only people its shattered windows see now are curious urban explorers. 

But nothing stays buried for long. Bodies, grudges, secrets. They stay buried for a reason though, until an unfortunate soul decides to wander along and unearth them to satiate their burning curiosity. 

And who said grudges were confined to one region only?

So is it really that surprising when your body ends up in his yard, neatly diced up and packaged into a box, miles away from that cursed town? 

An eye for an eye. That’s the town’s motto. Nothing stays buried for long. 

He stumbled upon something he shouldn’t have seen. Now, they took something equally valuable from him in return.

enjoyed my work? the taglist is open!

@ bottledpeaches, do not copy, repost, modify, translate, or feed to ai

[talenlee]

The World of Harrowed Night

Malvad is the setting for my custom Magic: the Gathering set, Harrowed Night. It’s a name chosen as a joke, but which I’m now fond of, because it’s a stupid name. Just as a heads up, though, this article is not going to feature any custom magic cards, and you don’t need to understand the rules of Magic: The Gathering to understand the setting. This article aims to explain commonalities through the factions and their interests, which will mean understanding some of the colour wheel of Magic: the Gathering, but I promise to summarise it.

This is a treatment of a city in a setting.

Content Warning: Made in September 2024, Harrowed Night wanted to capture the idea of criminal gangs in a magi-tech setting opposing a fascist dictatorship that wanted to control people’s ways of worship, living, self-identifying and loving, annd even the very ways history was remembered to hide the encroaching climate catastrophe swallowing the city.

Again, this was September 2024.

This might be a bummer!

Malvad

Monarchic megalopolis, The Exarch’s Prize, The City of Gangs

Geography

Malvad is a vast, sprawling city built atop a plateau that extends into a coastal mountain range. Once a patchwork of smaller towns, it fused into a single metropolis through relentless growth. It now fills this wedge of land at the edge of the sea, hemmed in by towering mountains that unleash snowstorms. Despite the frigid peaks, the coastline remains warm and tropical, thanks to ocean currents. The mountains, heavily mined over the years, are still cloaked in bush and trees—remnants of the forests once harvested to build the city.

Glossary

Exarch: The term used to refer to the plural ruling class of Malvad. ‘The Exarch’ are ostensibly a parliamentary body that act as one, but their identities are unknown to the public.

Formorian: A term used to refer to a gigantic thing, based on myths and stories of prehistoric giants.

Lifter: A type of magically-driven construct that needs a conscious, living pilot to operate. Lifters were made to save labor for the Glassworkers guilds. but their maintenance and construction became part of the infrastructure of that guild. A lifter is basically like a large robot or power armour, but with a visible pilot.

Memoricide: Magic that destroys the memory of a thing. To commit memoricide, you don’t attack the subjects you want to affect, you attack the thing that they are trying to remember. A person memoricided forgets themselves, but that is secondary considering they also usually forget how to breathe. Note that memoricide has a range: a person who is memoricided who left records outside the city will still leave those historical records, though records within the city will be magically unravelled.

“Necromancy:” In Malvad, any magic that directly alters a body—living or dead—is considered necromancy. However, magic contained within objects, such as potions that transform or heal, is exempt; in these cases, the magic is seen as residing in the item itself rather than acting upon the body. Under this ruling, most forms of magic—including personal protection and teleportation—have been reclassified as necromancy.

The Storm: Vaguely and euphemistically referenced, this refers to the years-long perpetual winter that has been hammering the higher-altitude parts of Malvad. It’s not a storm, it’s the changed climate resulting in a constant weather pattern of snow and extreme storms in the area.

The People Of Malvad

The cultures of Malvad vary but include all the typical heritages of a Magic: The Gathering city setting. There are some humans, some human-likes, some furries, ghosts, monsters, and some really fruity stuff. Out in the woods around Malvad there are true Cyclops (one-eyed humanoid giants) and Ursix (humanoid bears), and also some giants that have even made their way into the city life as well.

Within the city, there are also the Bugbears (larger Goblins), Webkin (humanoid frogs), and the Mogur. Mogur are werewolves whose ability to transform has been disrupted by something. Mogur hold that the magic of their bodies was corrupted by something the Exarch did, but as with many things in Malvad, the records are spotty.

Politics

In brief:

Malvad is a oligarchic absolute monarchy

Its rulership are unknown and have control over rumours and information

The nation is run under a form of full libertarianism with the state serving as a corporation that can charge access fees to roads and markets

There is no unifed police or justice system and such disputes are handled by the Exarch directly

The Exarch is the ruling class of the City of Malvad. The civic argument they present is that in order to optimally rule the city, their identities need to be secret, and their power needs to be absolute; otherwise, their best judgment could be clouded by fear of reprisal from the people of the city. This ideal, they explain in an ambassadorial presentation, was agreed upon by the people of Malvad at some point, though the specific time of when is not clear.

Malvad’s rulership is monarchistic and deeply hierarchical, built on the belief that those who remember the nation’s darkest moments must bear burdens the rest of the populace is spared. This position is one of political self-styled martyrdom—the Exarchs endure the nation’s sins and, in return, must be trusted to make its most vital decisions. This ideology fosters strong individualism and behavior suited to low-trust systems. For example, there is no central police force, as such an institution is viewed as unreliable when dependent on a singular authority’s ideology.

When the Emergency Powers took effect, the Exarch dismantled the existing police force and replaced it with their own chosen agents—individuals deemed loyal to the Exarch’s vision. According to the Exarch, this ensures that decisions are made by those with the best information, a system that, as far as anyone knows, has proven successful. After all, no records indicate the Exarch have ever failed to identify a guilty party in any criminal investigation.

Ideological Poles

The factions of the setting are modelled around five specific ideological outlooks, that then pull people into common cultural spaces. In this case, they’re representated by five, related colours that I’m going to use here as shorthand.

A sense of order, honour, and inherent value to structure, represented by the colour white.

A vision of fundamental perfection through optimal choices, represented by the colour blue.

A belief in the iconic importance of the self, even in the face of life or death, represented by the colour black.

A trust in one’s own emotions as a believable, trustworthy indicator of how a person should behave in their daily life, represented by the colour red.

A positioning of the self as part of a network of real natural relationships and ecologies, represented by the colour green.

These colours are then brought together to form synthesis of these ideologies. A red-black character is going to value, for example, their emotional reactions as a way of expressing something about themselves. A red-white character however, might see their emotions as integrating into a vision of fundamental cultural justice.

Also, these things tend to have areas of overlap and inter-relationship, and they have common bonds. If you think the world can be perfected through choices and information, you probably value pretty strongly an ordered, structured view of everything because that’s how you get all the information that lets you make correct decisions, and you probably view you, the agent who can make choices, as more important than other people’s emotional reactions or even the coherence of nature. That means in general, blue characters are going to commonly be able to agree with white and black characters, and less commonly agree with green or red characters.

Finally, there are plenty of shorthands for this model, but it’s not a model that in-universe most people really get. It’s not like all the people in the world know that these alignments exist, but they are aware of some common ground and some disagreement with almost everyone in their orbit. There’s disagreement within these factions, too, even within people who align very closely within these perspectives.

Factions

The most commonly understood way to interpret Malvad’s population is in term of its competing various political groups, labelled by the Exarch as gangs. The gangs don’t, usually, bother with this definition, but for this, the term gang refers to a group with the following traits:

They have a distinctive, notable identity, expressed with titles, names, language, a symbol, and distinctive gang colors

They exert control in an area. This means specifically, the faction is capable of displacing the existing power structures of the city in their territority.

They have a unified philosophical framework, an ideology they hold to that means that even isolated actors can be relied upon to behave predictably in accordance with the interests of the group as a whole.

The Exarch’s Chosen

The faction closest to being recognized as Malvad’s legitimate government—at least by the ruling class—the Exarch’s Chosen consists of informants, spies, and the noble families willing to exert force on the streets since the dissolution of the communal guard. These individuals often display unnatural strength, which Exarch propaganda claims is a byproduct of the city’s protection over its most worthy citizens.

The Chosen are unified by a magical treatment that leaves their eyes marked with glowing white sigils. Detached from the city’s everyday concerns, they embrace lofty idealism and wield the tools of memoricide. Their demeanor is aloof, often interpreted as cruelty—not because they consider themselves cruel, but because they believe their understanding of the city’s needs demands a certain coldness. That coldness, however, sometimes manifests as violent outbursts or indulgence in excessive hedonism.

Crownless

Symbol: A broken crown

Colours: White and Green.

The Crownless are a mutual support network spanning multiple residential districts, parts of the market district, and various parks. Their decentralized nature means they often underestimate their own numbers, prioritizing generosity over caution. While this openness aids recruitment and fosters an abundance of human effort, it doesn’t translate to wealth—Crownless members can find people to do tasks that need doing (like caring for people, building structures, tending to parks), but accumulating resources on a large scale remains a challenge.

The Crownless believe that they don’t need a top-down organisational body to run things, they just need a shared ideological and philosophical framework that’s willing to accept the burden of caring for one another, and tolerate anyone that can comply with that shared framework.

Despite lacking vast territory, the Crownless may be one of the largest factions in terms of sheer membership. Their presence is threaded through nearly every neighborhood, meaning even non-members likely know someone within their ranks. Though their ability to wield direct violence is limited compared to other gangs, they excel at social exclusion—shutting out those unwilling to abide by their everyone-shares mentality.

The biggest flaw within the Crownless is their inability to identify and remove their own worst members. They recruit those who follow the rules, but those rules don’t stop bad actors until after they’ve abused trust.

Groundsharks

Symbol: A wall with a shark fin jutting out of it.

Colours: Blue and Green.

The Groundsharks are a coalition of druids who venerate a pre-city text that first taught them magic. With traditional nature magic lost, they have adapted, animating sections of the city—chunks of road and infrastructure—to fight for the people’s benefit. Their craft requires meticulous study, mapping which streets they can control and lock down with their elementals.

As a result, the Groundsharks are among the most well-informed individuals regarding the city’s structure, yet surprisingly laissez-faire about shaping its future. While the city may claim authority over its form, the Groundsharks argue that its true shape emerges organically, growing into something more suited for the people. Of course, this also reqires cultivation and culling, and the Groundsharks are very confident that the Exarch needs to be removed to ensure the life of the city.

The harshest criticism leveled against them is their devotion to the city over its inhabitants. To them, people die every day—but the ancient being that is the city perishing would be a far greater tragedy. Cull the rot, shape the growth.

Hackgears

Symbol: A single shape that’s a gear and wrench stuck together.

Colours: Blue and Red.

The Hackgears began as a technical labor union, originally formed by glassblowers specializing in mass production—first of widely desired goods, then of niche creations. Over time, the union expanded, drawing in highly skilled professionals: perfectionists who understood the value of precise rules and measurements, as well as artists and designers eager to express themselves.

To support their work, the Hackgears developed technical machines—magically powered constructs and vehicles used to manage warehouses full of materials and products. These machines, known as Lifters, are now instrumental to their operations, serving as powerful agents capable of countering cavalry and monsters alike.

Strictly speaking, the Hackgears are no longer just a glassblowers’ union. Their ranks include chemists, lifter pilots, engineers, and warehouse laborers. Initially, they had little interest in political conflict, preferring to wait for the next ruler—so long as they were free to make and sell their creations. The Emergency Powers act locked them out of many markets, and stifled the kinds of art or tools they were permitted, radicalising them in the name of artistic freedom.

The harshest critique of the Hackgears is that they are at their core, a business. Were the Exarch willing to leave them alone, they might have remained neutral. But the Exarch’s restrictions have forced them into rebellion—not out of ideological conviction, but because their ability to create and share their work has been threatened.

New Dawn

Symbol: A pair of wings spreading under a rising sun.

Colours: White and black.

The new Dawn are a secret organisation hiding amongst the nobility and authoritive class of the city of Malvad. The nobles hold parties, make deals, negotiate positions and spend money that slushes into their funds from the workers underneath them. The New Dawn are people in these positions of powers – or rather, the memories of people.

The New Dawn were formed when the Exarch memoricided a wrong target; specifically, they tried to kill a trans woman by wiping out the memory of her deadname. The effect was to leave a whole individual who now had the definition of a mysterious past, trying to determine what had happened to her, and then, in unravelling the mystery, hatching a plan to invisible a whole cohort like her. People with lost identities, who could have their old identity destroyed by memoricide would then be invisible to the Exarch’s agents, and that presented a chance to take control of the city away from them.

The worst thing you can say about the New Dawn is that they’re terrible recruiters, and every single agent they have is a deliberately obfuscating asshole with an addiction to smug coyness. That’s just a social thing, though, since their #1 task is recruiting people who can be successfully hidden from the Exarch through identity destruction, meaning their number are made up of some of the stranger losers. You need to be able to respect the rules, the reasons for the secrecy, you need to get it that the structure of the organisation is a good thing, but you also need to be very good at being independent, and probably you also need to be willing to kill people.

New Dawn are one of the smallest factions in the city, but thanks to their invisibility to the authorities, they can express outsized power. After all, if they kill anyone, that person was killed by nobody. The witnesses would see nobody, too.

Razorwings

Symbol: A clawed wing.

Colours: White and Red.

The Razorwings were once prosperous armoursmiths and weaponsmiths, growing rich as the Exarch invested heavily in military expansion, outfitting knights and city leaders. But when the Exarch banned most weapon manufacturing, the Razorwings found themselves suddenly without a market, left with a surplus of master craftsmen—many of whom viewed their craft as a form of artistry—with nowhere to sell their work. Rather than compete within the narrow constraints imposed on them, the union banded together to start a new project.

If they couldn’t sell their weapons, they would give them away.

The Razorwings offer a blunt, pragmatic solution to the power wielded against them. They leave weapons in public spaces, branded with their sigil, strategically placed where they believe chaos will follow. A disgruntled worker fired from a business might walk out the front door to find armor and arms waiting—equipment perfectly suited to turning their frustration into open rebellion.

This approach grants the Razorwings an outsized influence; they arm dissenters against the city, yet remain untouched themselves, hidden among the populace as a tight-knit community of artisans. The weapons they distribute become the tools of their supporters—people who, whether driven by desperation or ideology, hold up their cause. And now, there are many wielding Razorwing-forged steel.

The harshest criticism of the Razorwings is simple: they are placing weapons where anyone can take them. They believe that most people in the city want to fight injustice, and that an armed populace are a polite populace. Time will tell if their faith in people is misplaced.

Stonehearts

Symbol: A heart wrapped in barbed wire.

Colours: Black and Red.

The Stonehearts are a cult of body transformation enthusiasts, shaped by necessity that then shaped an unbreakable ideology. When the Exarch banned most forms of medical magic under the guise of restricting “Necromancy,” many who relied on such magic to care for themselves were forced into more extreme methods—ones the Necromancy laws had yet to catch.

Their success stems from two interconnected techniques: Gorgon Diving and Gargoyle Blood. Gargoyles—monstrous constructs crafted by the Exarch for surveillance—are not truly alive, yet their bodies contain magic-infused blood. Stonehearts hunt gargoyles, drain them, and inject their blood into their own veins. Gorgon Divers follow a different path, willingly allowing trusted gorgons to slowly transform them into living stone. Used in tandem, these processes reshape a Stoneheart into a malleable, sculpted entity—a living statue capable of carving and modifying themselves at will.

Recognizing the value of these practices, the Stonehearts steadily militarized to hunt gargoyles across cathedrals and to defend their gorgon allies. But as the city cracked down on them, those with only modest interest or curiosity abandoned the gang. Those who remained were those for whom giving up meant death—those who had undergone irreversible transformations, those who controlled their identity through the process, and those whose hunts were their only survival skill. These were those for whom the alternative to the Stoneheart process was death. Some Stonehearts shape themselves into beautiful artworks, some into horrifying monsters, and some strike a middle ground of sexy monster people.

That’s when the Exarch learned that they had inadvertently created a group of extremely determined autonomous extremists who were being presented with a choice of kill or die and they knew what they’d rather. That’s when actual members of the Exarch started to die, in public places.

The worst thing you can say about the Stonehearts is that they do not negotiate. If you don’t understand their pursuit of radically absolute bodily autonomy, they will not waste time convincing you. That is your problem.

Tin-Stars

Symbol: A simple, clean five-pointed star.

Colours: White and Blue.

When the Exarch dismantled the city’s law enforcement, the impact rippled through its foundations. The guards and police had once operated under a prestigious magistrate system—an institution venerated by the city’s education system and embedded in the noble class’s sense of virtue. Training as a guard or officer was not merely a profession but a mark of status, resulting in nobles well-versed in combat against gangs. Oh, you wouldn’t wind up a street guard, please, you’ve got some standing, some breeding, you had to be available to do a noble’s duties—but many families had a child who did time as an officer and even getting into street fights or opposing crimes.

By privatizing law enforcement, the Exarch unraveled this system entirely. Knights and lawyers of this old order watched as the framework they had believed in crumbled, leaving the city vulnerable to monsters and horrors—supposedly from outsider forces. Stripped of the Gold Crest, the emblem of law’s cathedral, they chose to act directly. Their new symbol, the Tin Star, became a defiant statement. You can no doubt find all sorts of smart people working in libraries and desk jobs who want to tell you how smart the tin star is, as a symbol. Do you like reading lore essays? These people write lore essays about their own gang.

The worst thing you can say about the Tin Stars is that, despite becoming a gang fighting to protect the people, they remain wedded to an outdated vision. They see salvation not in revolution, but in restoring a system where nobles became judges, the working class became enforcers, and the working poor remained victims.

Unruled

Symbol: A hear in the middle of a jagged ring.

Colours: Red and Green.

Somewhere, away from here, people learned from their mistakes.

The Unruled are paradoxically one of the city’s largest factions, yet among the least present within its borders. When they recognized the Exarch’s abusive rule and the environmental devastation unfolding—the endless storm, the boiling sea—they chose to leave. While they still tag locations within the city, to them, it is merely a place to raid, rescuing those trapped in its grim reality.

A gang of anarchists wholly severed from the city’s power structures, the Unruled rely on nothing from Malvad—not its resources, not its people. Their communities stretch across the forests, carving out their own existence, adapting to the storm, and even forging alliances within it. They found the real Cyclops in the forest, they befriended the Ursix, and where they spread their stories, rebellions follow.

The harshest truth about the Unruled is simply: who? Their departure was so complete that many in the city fail to realize an entire movement succeeded in building a communalist society beyond its reach. If they know anything about The Unruled it’s as a terrorist group—thery show up, do incredible harm to something in the city that the citizens think of as essential infrastructure, like a prison, or a church, or a work-house, and then they flee the city with everyone who wants a better life.

Whisperers

Symbol: An eye, rolled up to look upwards, with four eyelashes looking like fingers reaching up, and a ‘thumb’ to the left side.

Colours: Blue and Black.

The Whisperers are the unseen force lurking behind cryptic graffiti—the “Who” that most people reference without truly understanding. They operate much like the New Dawn, but while the New Dawn recruits from existing identities embedded within the city’s structures, the Whisperers craft their members from something else entirely: ideas that exist but have not yet been named. Only a small number of people become Whisperers, dissolving their names in profane rituals to hide from the Exarch, but they bolster their numbers with ideas made manifest.

This brings with it some truly horrifying madnesses. Whisperers struggle with their own identities, as the reality of what they think they should be tries to assert itself over the reality they share with everyone else. A Whisperer is a person who can, at worst, make you experience their hallucinations.

Whisperer magic builds on this—they pull immaterial concepts into reality. This small, conspiracy-driven collective fixates on the secret of memoricide, obsessively seeking to understand its mechanisms and how lost knowledge might be recovered. Bound by their relentless pursuit of answers, they have unintentionally birthed horrors composed entirely of people’s imaginings.

The most horrifying thing about the Whisperers is that their ability to pull fictions into place mean that there are more than a few Whisperers that are people who weren’t Whisperers originally, but who lost their names thanks to Whisperers turning them into concepts.

The worst thing you can say about the Whisperers is that they are surrounded by horrifying, nameless fears.

Yard Hounds

Symbol: A jawbone and ten teeth.

Colours: Black and green.

Necromancy! The Exarch calls it necromancy—any magic that affects the body, any damage to the vessel of life’s purity. It’s a control measure, nothing less, a classification to criminalise a swathe of the populace and to centralise power over the people who need those mages. What’s more, it’s disrespectful to the expertise of the city’s existing faction of necromancers, the Yard Hounds.

Before the Exarch’s emergency measures, the Yard Hounds were little more than a scattered group—corpse freaks, death cultists, homeless wanderers, and mushroom enthusiasts. But when the Exarch’s decree swept across the city, suddenly everyone from medics to apothecaries, nurses to werewolves, fell under the same label and had to be moved to the same location. The Yard Hounds, the Exarch reasons, would turn that excess population into a much more manageable pile of corpses.

The Yard Hounds exploded in population instead.

What had once been an obscure, fragmented group became a vast, furious collective. Their uniting force was a shared resentment—against death itself and against the Exarch. Nurses and Necromancers are both fighting the end, after all, they just do it in different ways. Fears that the Yard Hounds would cannibalize their new followers proved unfounded; corpses weren’t what they needed. Instead, the boom in membership gave mushroom farmers buyers, werewolves people to protect, and necromancers new links to deeper histories. Even just ordinary people sentenced to the Yards was valuable because they brought new expertise to the Hounuds.

The worst thing you can say about the Yard Hounds is that they are necromancers who want to try and overcome death, using ghosts and zombies to attack their enemies.

The problem with this ‘worst thing’ is the Yard Hounds agree with it entirely.

Non-Factional People

The important thing to remember about all of the organisation in this city is that these guilds, these organisations are structuring the power they have access to in a way that makes sense to them, but every guilded person and every member of the Exarch’s chosen is a fraction of the overall population of the city. The people who live in areas controlled by the Tin Stars aren’t Tin Stars unless they pledge to the faction and offer material support.

Conclusion

This is the writeup of these factions that tries to show that an equal, structurally informed faction design doesn’t need to sacrifice for its symmetries. These are eleven factions at war with one another, but there’s an asymmetry in terms of power; everyone can agree on a worst faction, and everyone has a meaningful reason to do what they’re doing, but that doesn’t mean that they can get along

The Unruled and the Crownless both are huge communities of people who can grow their own food and don’t respect the crown, but one of them thinks they should be getting out of the city and the other thinks they need to dig in. The Whisperers and the Tin Stars both investigate crimes, but one wants to do it to protect the community and the other wants to do it to work out just how the crime works. The Groundsharks and the Razorwings both extol the importance of the city itself, and both are thoughtless about human harms. The Yard Hounds and the Hackgears both focus on how they can benefit their people in their struggle, but those struggles are about life and death or poverty, which are similar enough to matter but too different to align.

With all that, then… which of these groups do you think you’d want to join?

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

[p-taryn-dactyl]

after midnight

a/n: dw i still am working on all my wips but i just wanted to show my love for the movie that ruled my childhood! also if there's a certain fairy tale and character you would like me to do i would love to do more of something like this! this is the first part, but the others have been written already, lemme know if y'all would like me to continue posting for this word count: 2.5k warning(s): the evil stepmother is NOT cunty in this guys (rip cate blanchett); the step sisters are definitely not girls girls; everyone is gay; if you know the story you know; but im also going to add aspects from one of the non-disney versions; mentions of blood (small but at the beginning); not an exact retelling, more like cinderella is a blueprint? prompt: you never thought that you would go from cleaning fireplaces and singing to mice to dancing in the royal palace in a magical disguise, meeting the love of your life. or, a cinderella story <3

The needle pricked your finger, sending droplets of blood spilling onto the fine fabric. You watched as the red seeped into the green, mesmerized by how the blood ran quick. How you wished you could be as free, as quick as you ran. But your father built this house, his hopes and dreams were buried deep into the foundations, no matter how much your step-mother tried to erase his memory. She loved his money but cringed at his legacy.

"Y/N? Gods, where is that wretched girl?" Your stepmother's voice echoed up the stairs to the attic where you resided. Quickly, you folded the cloth over, hiding the spot of blood staining the rich emerald fabric. You were mending an evening gown of your stepmother, one she had snagged on a splinter of wood while evading your requests of new fabrics. Your clothes were quickly becoming patchwork quilts and even though you rarely left your attic space, you were desperate to sew a dress that you could feel proud of. Your door burst open, revealing Valentina, the woman who's presence seemed to make your room grow colder. Her eyes narrowed in on the dress in your lap and she scoffed, hand clutching the handle of the attic door tightly, as if speaking to you was a burden.

"Are you still working on that? Whatever, the fireplace needs tending to," She spun around to go back downstairs, obviously signaling you to follow, "Oh, and be mindful, the dressmaker is here, don't get soot on any of her fabrics."

Valentina's tone was haughty, as if even when she couldn't see you, she spoke looking down upon you. You merely nodded, gently folding the dress on your bed and following your step-mother down the stairs. Making sure to keep your head down, you passed Valentina, heading towards the main fire place, where burnt logs sat and ash blanketed the stone like snow. You internally sighed, knowing how this task would end. Grabbing a rag, you sat on your knees as you started gathering the loose ash and kindling, mindful of the sparks that still lingered. The voices of Valentina's daughters wafted into the room like a burnt goose pie, making your stomach uneasy as you braced yourself for the comments they would surely make. Thankfully, you heard the voice of Shuri, the acclaimed dressmaker, mingling with theirs, gently shutting down their absurd ideas. While your curiousity spun around in your mind, furiously wondering why your step-mother had called on Shuri, someone who only made dresses for the most extravagant of occasions. She also had extravagant prices, prices you weren't sure how your step-mother would repay.

"We can do measurments in here, ignore Y/N, she'll be doing her chores." Valentina absentmindedly waved in your direction, sitting on the stool farthest from you. Shuri nodded in hello, giving you a small smile which you returned. The basket she carried was full of fabric samples and measuring strands, grabbing your attention with the expensive items she so leisurley held. As your step-sisters argued, Shuri gave you her attention, her question making you pause as you cleaned the fireplace.

"Are you also going to the ball, Y/N? I'm sure I have the creativity to quickly sketch a fourth dress." Shuri joked, not noticing how your hands shook as you continued your task. There was a ball? And your stepmother was commisioning dresses for herself and her daughters in front of you, flaunting the knowledge you didn't have. While you could care less about a ball, you were bothered by how little you knew of the outside world, of the town you loved so much. Something clicked in your mind as you thought, lifting your head to turn and begin to ask your stepmother a question but her voice cut through the air.

"Unless Y/N somehow cleans the entire house top-to-bottom until it shines and sorts our mixed grain into like piles in time for the royal ball, I don't think she'll be needing your services, Miss Adanna. Besides, the queen is hosting this ball so her daughter may find a spouse, what use would she have of a serving girl?"

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"This isn't a request! You must marry!" Evanora's stern voice echoed through the throne room, practically rattling the armour of her guards. She glared at her daughter who stood before her, hair down and wild from horseback. Agatha stared back, arms crossed and head held defiantly.

"For what reason? The kingdom is prospering, the people are happy and for the most part well fed, and we've no news of our enemies to the south! Why must I marry, Mother?" At the purple wisps gathering at her fingertips, Agatha anticipated her mother's response. The queen bunched her hands into fists, her jaw clenched as she spoke.

"You know the reason, daughter. Your...studies have put you in a very precarious position and the curse will solidify on your next birthday. Plus, it won't hurt to erase the image people have of you, with your escapades and trysts that bring embarassment into my court."

Agatha merely scoffed, uncrossing her arms as she held them out incrediously.

"If you've forgotten, Mother, my birthday is at the end of this month. And the curse you speak of can only be broken by unconditional love, something you wouldn't know about." Agatha spit out her words like venom, hopeful they would affect her mother in any way. But the Queen merely watched her daughter with cold eyes, waving her messanger up to the throne. The man gave a crooked bow to Agatha as he passed her, scroll in hand. Evanora took the scroll with a nod, dismissing the man. He scurried out of the large room, footfalls echoing in the silence. The Queen waved the announcement in the air, almost tauntingly, before she opened and began reading out loud.

"The Crown formally invites you to partake in the debutante ball for Crown Princess and Heir Agatha of House Harkness. Our home will be open for three nights as our beloved Princess searches for a partner to strengthen the bonds of our kingdom."

The Queen put down the scroll, letting it fall to the ground as she smirked at her daughter.

"You'll have three nights to find this unconditional love or the consequences you'll face will doom the lives of everyone you hold dear."

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The thought of leaving the house, if only for a few nights, ate away at your mind, distracting you from your chores. Shuri had long left, your stepmother and stepsisters measurements and requests for last minute additions scribbled on a notepad you were sure she wanted to burn. But before she left, she grabbed a package from her carriage, giving it you once Valentina and her daughters had already gone inside. Inside, you found fabric, soft and beautiful. The shimmering pink shade reminded you of your mother and how she decorated the house before she died.

"I'm sorry it's not much but I've seen your work Y/N, if they won't have me make you a dress, I believe you can bring your own dream to life." Shuri clasped your hands in hers in a goodbye, her kindness overwhelming you, bringing tears to your eyes. However, at the screams of your stepsisters for tea, your bubble was burst and you made your way inside, careful to keep the package out of Valentina's sight, hiding it under a loose floorboard in the kitchen before you started the afternoon tea. Anya, the eldest of the two stepsisters, practiced her dancing, stumbling into the couches and lounge chairs as she held a candlestick in place of the Crown Princess. Damille, the stepsister close to you in age by a few months, scoffed at her sister and mockingly danced, starting a fight between the two sisters. You kept your laughter to yourself, remembering the sting of Valentina's hand when you reacted to her daughters antics the first week after your father's passing. While you waited for the water to boil, you prepared the tea leaves, grabbing a lemon to slice and squeezing the tart juice over the dry leaves. Your mind wandered once again to the idea of going to a ball. A royal ball. While you had never truly seen the royal family, you recalled the portrait of the heir you had once seen in the library of your town. You felt heat rise to your face as you recalled the childlike crush you had on the Crown Princess, shaking your head as you pouring the now boiling water into three teacups, careful to avoid splashing the water onto your skin. Once the liquid turned into a pale yellow-green shade, you strained out the leaves and prepared a tray with the cups, a bowl of sugar cubes, and some milk for Damille, who prefered her tea tart with no sugar. You walked into the sitting room, setting the tea down in front of your stepmother. While you prepared it the way she enjoyed, you attempted to ask her a question.

"Stepmother, may I accompany you to the Royal Ball? It would cost you no expense, I can make my own dress-"

Valentina's laugh cut you off.

"With the scraps you have? I will not be seen in public with someone is a patchwork excuse for a dress, at a royal ball no less. Besides you have chores." Even though she waved her hand through the air, indicating the conversation was over, you continued, feeling slightly desperate at a chance to taste freedom.

"I can get the chores done in time, the house is never truly dirty, and I could wear one of my mother's old-"

It was Valentina's cold stare that stopped you from continuing. Something clicked in her eyes and she brought up her tea to take a sip, reveling in your tense body language. Slowly she set her tea back onto the china plate, the soft clink the only noise as you and her daughters awaited her answer.

"If you can create a dress, a new dress, that isn't embarassing for my family and if you can complete the chore of mucking the stables before the first night of the ball, you may accompany us. But," she held a finger almost accusingly in your face, "You will not speak to anyone of any status while there."

There was something in her tone, something you couldn't quite place but her agreement overshadowed any caution you could've had. You practically danced out of the room, patterns for your dress spinning in your mind.

You didn't notice the look your step-mother shared with her daughters as you left, an evil glint shining in their eyes.

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Agatha walked around the library, absentmindly running her fingers across the spines of every book as she was lost in thought.

The curse was her fault, yes, but she would never admit her mother was right. She would admit, however, that her stunt of gaining power in hope of overthrowing her mother was done in haste. If she had read the fine print maybe she wouldn't be in this position. She silently scolded herself as she saw a slight purple haze cover her vision as magic pooled in her eyes.

She had three nights, three, to find someone who could potential help her break the curse she put upon herself. Blinking away the haze, Agatha looked down at her hands, her black fingertips fading into dark grey veins up to her elbow. The words her mother spoke to her the night the curse was solidified rang in her head as she followed her unearthly veins with her eyes.

How could anyone love someone like her?

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You leaned against the tree your parents had planted the night of their wedding, tears streaming down your face as you clutched onto the scraps of your dress. You had slaved over this garment, days were spent tending to your stepmothers every word but nights were spent hunched over with a needle as you sewed a dress you had dreamed of. A dream that was nothing now. You were raised to be kind to all but as you recalled the event of this night, you felt hatred bubble in your chest.

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Excitement was all you could feel as you slipped into your dress, proud of your work. You had finished mucking out the stables hours ago, giving you time to wash the stink away from your skin and hair. Pride welled in you as you smoothed the fabric with your hands, opening your attic door to join your step-mother and step-sisters as they waited for the coach that would take you to the palace.

"Mother, look!" Anya practically shouted as you walked down the stairs, covering her smirking expression with a fan. Valentina spread her arms out in what you would learn to be false affection. Wrapping an arm around your shoulders, your step-mother examined your dress, pursing her lips. Quickly, the excitment you felt died like a dwindling fire as your step sisters joined their mother in circling you.

"Oh Y/N, I just don't think this'll work. This design is just...it has too many faults. Here, let us help."

Your confusion was replaced by cold shock as Valentina's hand shot out to rip part of your sleeve off. Anya followed, grabbing part of the skirt to pull on the seams. Damille's was the worst, using both hands to create a distance between the bodice and the top of your skirt. You stood frozen, tears streaming down your face angrily as they continued to destroy your hard work. It was over the second the familiar sound of horses sounded outside.

You don't remember what Valentina said to you before she left, or the snide remarks her daughters added on. All you remember was running, running through the house, running across the backyard into the open land where your parents tree stood proud.

And that's where you found yourself.

"How could you be so stupid?" You muttered to yourself as you wiped away tears, angry for allowing yourself to believe your step-mother could ever show you kindness. In your wallowing, you didn't notice how the ground in front of the tree started to swirl, how the wind changed directions, how a slight humming noise filled the air.

"Now why are you crying when you should be at the ball?" A slightly cocky voice spoke in front of you, unfamiliar yet comforting. Your head shot up and your eyes widened at the sight in front of you. A woman, wearing a sparling cloak stood expectantly, hand on her hip while the other held a wand. Blinking, you stuttered out a response.

"I, I can't go. They ruined my dress and my stepmother would recognize me. I don't want to deal with the aftermath."

The sparkling woman held out her wand, pointing it at you.

"I'm not too fond of this 'can't' business. You have a very obvious fairy godmother standing in front of you, ready to snap her fingers and say a catch phrase I created when I was younger. So tell me, Y/N, do you want to go to the ball?"

Without hesitation, you nodded and your fairy godmother waved her wand.

a/n: whoa cliffhanger, wonder what happens next...but seriously, i love doing AUs like this and I'll focus on getting my other wips out but lemme know if you enjoyed this??

[the-spam-specialist]

A circus member (your choice of who) has a real bad nightmare and Caine finds himself in the position of attempting to comfort them?

Time for the comforted to do some comforting!

Comforting is Hard

Pomni is having a nightmare and Caine finds himself in the awkward position of needing to comfort her.

Characters: Caine, Pomni

Word Length: 400-ish

The digital circus lounge was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the system and the rhythmic scratching of Caine’s pen against paper. He sat on the plush, velvet couch, his usual energetic posture slightly subdued as he focused on his journal. Beside him, Pomni was fast asleep, her jester’s hat askew and her head resting comfortably on his shoulder. Caine didn't mind. In fact, he found a strange sort of comfort in her presence, a quiet camaraderie that had blossomed between them.

He was reviewing his journal as well as planning the next day's adventure. He wanted it to be engaging, something that would lift everyone’s spirits. He wanted them to be happy here, together. A slight frown etched on his face, he tilted his head at his writing. Maybe he needed to add a game that involved cooperation? He tapped his pen on the page, lost in thought.

Suddenly, he felt Pomni shift. Her brow furrowed, and she began to mutter incoherently in her sleep. Caine paused, his large, cartoonish eyes widening slightly as he noticed the change in her expression. Her features were twisted with worry and a hint of fear. Caine quickly flipped through his journal, a frantic search for the entry he knew was there. Ah, here it was-oh. Oh dear. 

Pomni was having a nightmare.

His internal programming whirred, an unfamiliar combination of concern and confusion. He’s had a nightmare himself, but he’d never encountered another resident having one. What did others do in these situations? Ragatha! She was the mother hen of the group, always so composed and comforting. So…what would Ragatha do? 

Oh! Comfort her! He could do that! 

With a surge of determination, Caine carefully took half of his large, patchwork blanket and draped it around Pomni, ensuring she was snuggled in the fabric. He then looked at his own hand, hesitating for a moment before awkwardly placing his arm around her shoulders. It felt…odd. He gave her a gentle squeeze, pulling her into a loose side hug. Ragatha would do this, right? Was this right?

He held his breath, watching her with his large, mismatched eyes. Slowly, ever so slowly, Pomni’s troubled murmurs faded, her brow smoothed out, and the anxiety seemed to drain away. She was back to peacefully resting her head on him. Caine let out a slow, silent sigh, relief washing over him. He cautiously released his grip on Pomni, leaving the blanket securely wrapped around her.

The AI glanced at the ceiling, his usual chipper tone replaced with a soft, thoughtful one. Comforting was…hard. His hand went to his journal, his pen hovering over the page. He looked down at Pomni, a warmth spreading through him, and resumed his writing, a new item added to his list: “How To Better Comfort Others: Find Techniques That Work For Everyone.” Perhaps he would ask Ragatha for tips. Because while comforting was difficult, it was oddly rewarding.