#reclaimed console tables

[urbanwoodsgoods]

Handmade Reclaimed Console Tables :

Urban Wood Goods

Discover the handcrafted beauty of reclaimed wood console tables from Urban Wood Goods. Each table is made from 100% salvaged lumber, offering a unique story and natural character. Whether you’re styling a hallway or decorating a foyer, our console tables bring warmth, style, and eco-friendly appeal to any setting. We use only the finest reclaimed wood, preserving the knots, grains, and imperfections that make every piece one of a kind. Elevate your interior with a piece that’s sustainable, American-made, and built to last.

[indiatrendzs]

The Truth About Distressed or Rustic Furniture

Distressed or rustic furniture is a popular design choice for many people because of its unique and timeless aesthetic. These types of furniture are intentionally made to look weathered and aged, and they often improve in appearance with time and use. Here’s the truth about distressed or rustic furniture and how it evolves over time: Visit Our Online Store:-ETSY MOGULGALLERY Aged Appearance:…

[cerberus-and-sadism]

Cleveland Basement Large transitional walk-out basement image with a brown floor and laminate flooring, white walls, and a stone fireplace

[britannianking]

Walk Out - Basement Inspiration for a sizable transitional walk-out basement remodel with brown floors and laminate floors, white walls, and a stone fireplace.

[moonstruckme]

absolutely live for ur roommate!james could you maybe write one on him meeting some of readers friends for the first time or calling james to pick u up after a girls night 😇would love to see him finally feel “included” in our life like we are in his

Thank you for requesting lovely!

cw: alcohol

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 │ part 4 │part 5 │ part 6 │ part 7 │ part 8 │ part 9 │ part 10 │ part 11 │part 12 │ part 13

roommate!James x shy!reader ♡ 1k words

James is so absorbed in the football match on his phone that when there’s a tap on the window next to his face, he jolts halfway across the center console and squeaks like he’s twelve years old again. 

You’re beaming outside the car. Your shoulders shake with quiet, un-self-conscious laughter, so it’s impossible for James to be any kind of upset. Still, he makes a show of huffing a little as his own smile spreads. He reaches over and opens his door. 

“Sorry,” you say. You don’t look it, so he lets you off the hook for your over-apologizing. 

“Who do you think would drive you home if I had a heart attack?” James asks. He’s somewhat breathless, either because of the scare or the easier-than-usual grin still fixed on your face. 

You lean against the side of his car and roll your eyes. “Oh, your heart’s too healthy to be in danger of attacks.” 

“What are you doing on this side of the car? You’re the passenger, you know.”

“Okay, listen.” You give him a very intentional look. It’s more eye contact than he’s used to from you, and it makes his guts go all twisty in a surprisingly nice way. “It’s completely up to you, of course, but I think I’m about to make you an offer you can’t refuse.” 

It clicks into place. “You’re drunk.” 

“Not very.” Your grin is a short fall from impish. Your eyes sparkle. God help him. “But you’re about to be.” 

James feels his eyebrows float up. “How do you figure?” 

“Because I’ve come to collect you. If you want.” 

“To collect me…where?”

“Inside,” you say, as though this should be obvious. You tip your head towards the restaurant. “We’ve just closed, and we have so much wine. Pleasepleaseplease, James, come in.” 

“Okay.” He’s letting you tug him from his car before he knows what he’s agreed to, only that one please will always be enough to get whatever you want from him. “Alright, love, but doesn’t your manager mind that you’re drinking their wine?” 

You let loose a bark of laughter, loud and sharp and totally unlike you. “Tom? Yeah, right.” 

Tom, James learns quickly upon entering the rowdy atmosphere of your workplace after hours, is younger than the both of you, hardly old enough to serve alcohol and yet managing the restaurant. And the wine isn’t stolen, necessarily, but the fortunate leavings of a wealthy customer who bought more bottles than his table could handle and then left nearly all of them. 

Everyone who’d been on the night shift is strewn about the empty restaurant. Servers and busboys and dishwashers all perched on stools, standing behind the bar, sitting criss-cross-applesauce on tables. You take James by the hand, first reclaiming the bottle of wine you’d evidently stored behind the host’s station and then leading him around the room to introduce him to various coworkers. His hand feels warm and tingly. You have an easy repartee and a million in-jokes with the servers, but even the kitchen staff seems to adore you. As they rightly should, James thinks. It’s obvious you’re as kind and considerate here as you are at home, and he feels a bit silly for not having been able to picture you in this place so clearly before now. 

Art is working with you again tonight. It’s embarrassing, the warm wave of relief that James feels when he notices you don’t pay him any extra attention. He makes a mental note to extend his offer of a ride home more often. Every time your hand starts to slip from James’, you readjust your grip before he can even think of doing it himself. Suits him just fine; ever since your mugging incident, suddenly James is in this weird place where he always wants a hand on you.

You say his name, and then the lip of a bottle is being pushed against his lips. 

“You haven’t had hardly any.” You look like you’re trying to pout, but your eyes are smiling. 

James takes the bottle from you. He looks you in the eyes as he takes a sip as if to say, Happy? It’s barely enough to warm his throat. “I am still driving us home, you know.”  

The pout is getting better. “I know, but I’m trying to be fun for you. You don’t have to drive us if you don’t want to! You’re always the one doing the nice things.” 

“Oh, don’t.” His tone is fonder than he means for it to be, but luckily you’re too tipsy to mind. “You’re plenty fun. You do nice things for me all the time.” 

“Yeah, but not enough to balance out.” You make your eyes big and pitiful. James feels fortunate this isn’t a skill you seem inclined to utilize sober. “Obviously you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but—Jamie, don’t hold back because of me, please.” 

His stomach does an impressive flip. He doesn’t think you realize you’ve called him that, doubts you’d have done it under normal circumstances, but his nervous system cares not for rationalizations. He wants desperately to hear you say it again. 

You beam as James lifts the bottle to his lips again, taking a few hearty gulps. You both end up walking home that night, but you wake even before James to go retrieve his car in the morning.

[charlesxavierthirster3000]

Burdened — L. Howlett

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader

Summary: Based on this request!!!!

CW/Tags: not proofread bc I literally finished this at 5am 😭, Logan is an ASS, a lot lot of feelings, lowk heavy angst I THINK, no use of Y/N, don't like don't read.

A/N: @rambosgirl Ily girlie I really enjoyed writing this :33 I AM SO INSANELY SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG !!!!!!! Also while writing the ending of this my Spotify Smart Shuffle fucking played First Love/Late Spring by Mitski and I swear it knows how fitting it is bro wtaf ok LAST statement but like this is my first 1K+ word fic are you guys proud of me :33 I'm starting this at like 3am so don't bully me if the ending doesnt' make sense ok byeeeeeeeee

WC: 1.6K (get comfy guys) / Navigation

It was unnecessarily irritating. And frankly really, really fucked up.

Anytime you turned your back from a seemingly butterfly-inducing interaction with Logan, you found him all over Jean as if he wasn’t just chatting you up four minutes ago.

Jean Grey was—from what you’ve surveyed over your time at the mansion—not really phased, despite her somewhat established relationship with Scott. She was intelligent and good-natured, flashing you sickeningly sweet smiles in the corridors and occasionally complimenting your outfits as if hers weren’t twice as stunning.

But every time you spotted Logan gazing down at her with the look you thought he’d reserved for your eyes only, the image of perfection the redheaded telepath had materialised in front of you dissipated like a glass of ice left to liquefy under the scorching sun.

Because she never pushed him away, and she was so clearly inevitably attracted, whether she displayed it or not. It was virtually written all across her sharp features, and you knew the same was scripted all over your own when speaking to Logan.

That dip your heart made every time you saw the two’s chemistry from afar; it wasn't just blatant jealousy. 

It was deeper.

It was nastier.

It clung to your insides like a weight you couldn't possibly shake off. The constant sense that you were just a swift distraction, a momentary diversion from the real object of his desire. 

It ate you up from the inside out and exhausted you to no end.

When Storm or Rogue cautiously approached you and tried to console you, you shrugged it off as if it was some uncomplicated highschool sweetheart drama. They knew damn well it wasn’t. Your conflicting feelings for Logan were gradually making you lose yourself— your well-built dignity. You were slowly but surely morphing into someone you didn’t even recognise. Someone who accepted being second best without any contemplation.

All for a man who was immortal. All for someone who presumably considered you a fleeting paragraph in his primitive life while he was an entire novel in yours.

You wanted— needed to locate yourself in the vast body of water which was your feelings. You needed your sense of self-worth to reappear by a miracle, nevertheless, you knew it would take immense time and exertion to track it back down.

But in a wretched attempt to do so, you settled on a fairly elaborate plan and started disregarding each one of Logan’s advances. Suddenly, you conveniently had somewhere else to be every time he approached, you pulled back and overlooked his easy smiles along with the playful banter you practically used to feed off of.

At first, it felt as if you were reclaiming some of your power, spotting his perplexed looks in your peripheral vision as you wandered off to God knows where. But of course, everything you did came back to bite you in the ass. If anything, it only made the truth clearer. He barely even noticed, and if he did, he didn’t give a single shit.

And Jean? She remained unbothered, untouchable— flawless, even. You were the mastermind of this whole game, yet you were the only one losing.

After a particularly humiliating stretch of witnessing Logan and Jean’s shared giggles and stolen looks from across the table, you ultimately found your resolve. Alcohol really was liquid courage, because after a few drinks and several stabs of food, you closed in on them lounging on the couch post-meal. 

Logan’s bare arm was extended across the back of the grimy cushions behind Jean like some kind of cheesy rom-com, cowlicks a prominent silhouette against the weak flickering of the television. But no matter how much you resented them— her, you would never even come by the opportunity to be in the redhead’s position.

“Howlett,” you enunciated, voice sharp enough to slice through the ambient noise like a shard of glass.

Howlett. No other soul could call him that without repercussions. Aside from you. That was why you felt so unique, so distinct from the others, that was the crumb of specialty you were desperately clinging on to.

He shifts to glance over his shoulder, a spark of recognition igniting within him at the sound of your voice—not missing the shred of urgency concealed beneath it. “Hm? What's up?”

You hesitate with your next words, intently but subtly taking in his scruffy features in the dimmed lighting for what felt like it could be the final time. Because after this, you knew for a fact neither one of you could view each other in the same way. You were the one who let him under your skin, you were the one who had to tear him out, and it unfortunately was an agonisingly slow process.

“We need to talk.”

Four words. Yet, it still gave you the sensation of several weights placed upon your back; the unavoidable impending argument, manipulation spat right into your face, and the most dreaded of all, how circumstances would be after tonight.

His expression stiffened mildly as he reluctantly got up from the couch, aged leather groaning beneath his weight. The sensation of Jean abruptly invading the back of your mind was extremely unsettling and even though she appeared unphased, she, without a question, detected your abnormal uneasiness and was gingerly flicking through your thoughts.

Which was apprehensive, to say the least.

Logan fell into step with you as you departed from one of the many doddering living rooms, proceeding to a more secluded space nearing the obnoxious stairs in front of the grand entryway, mansion almost bizarrely silent with all the kids asleep. Jean wasn’t in your head anymore, but she undoubtedly already knew your objectives to the script.

You halted and so did Logan, weight finding its position set upon the auburn wood of the stairs. 

He eyed you with undivided attention. Your stomach threatened to do a fucking flip despite the conditions, the look nearly making you scrap all of this and go right back to being his side piece regardless of the anguish it put your mind through. But you dug your heels in, the clearing of your throat echoing sharply off the vacant walls.

You square your shoulders and tilt your chin up boldly, aiming to stand your ground. “What the hell am I to you? Because from what I see and a whole lot of other people do, I’m just an afterthought. Filler for the gaps Jean left open. Care to elaborate on that, Howlett?” 

He sighed, glancing at the wall behind you as if he was already fed up. “It’s not like that, bub. You’re makin’ it bigger than it is.”

Your blood scorched at the casual dismissal. Your voice inevitably rose but doesn’t go over a whisper, “Don’t patronise me, Logan,” you scoff. “I’m not some stupid kid with a stupid crush, so don’t let your ego get out of hand. I’ve watched you get all up on her, and then come to me when she’s got a class. Do you even fucking hear yourself?” 

His jaw stiffened, his own frustration growing. “You really think it’s that easy? I never asked you to get involved. You know how it is with me and her. You don’t get how fucked my life is, it’s your own fuckin’ fault things got messy.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go sulk somewhere else, I don’t give a shit how crappy your life is. It doesn’t take much to be a decent fucking human!— mutant, whatever. I’m not gonna let you come crying to me when things don’t work out with Jean. I’m worth more than that. You can’t see that, it’s your damn problem, not mine.”

He was visibly trying to find his footing, and you took it as an opportunity to carry on, “It’s not my fault this got sloppy. You can’t just invite a woman for a nice drive and end up throwing her out the door a moment later. You knew damn well what you were doing to m—” 

“You don’t know what I gotta deal with every day. It’s difficult. I never wanted it to get like this. You were the one overthinkin’ it.”

You shook your head forcefully, exasperation boiling over. “I don’t give a fuck, Logan— stop hiding behind that, you don’t even remember half of your damn life! It’s not messy, it’s cruel. I’ve had my own trouble, but I don’t use it as an excuse to hurt people who care about me. Don’t put all of it on my back.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but you cut him off. “Don’t. Don’t say anything. I’ve dealt with you for half my time here. I’ve had enough of your bullshit.” A flash of remorse graced his eyes but it didn’t do a thing. 

“I’m not your backup plan. I’m not waiting for you to look at me the way you look at Jean. I deserve someone who doesn’t just act like they give a shit. I’ve made my choice and you’ve made yours. I’m done. Goodnight, Howlett.”

With a harsh turn of your heel, you walked away with a heavy heart. But your head was clear for the first time in months, your shoulders were lighter, and the clarity you felt nearly blew your veins out. It would be painstakingly tough to face him tomorrow morning, but you knew you would get over it eventually.

Also i just realised in the morning Washing Machine Heart works WAYYy better but it's whatever I guess 😮‍💨

[polo-drone-001]

Drone Cinema: Reclaimed Emotion 3/6 DC DAILY THEME

The Echo of the Rooftop Your Name Engraved Herein (Rooftop Kiss)

PDU-076 malfunctions under golden dusk, emotion spike detected. Fists clenched. Protocols fraying. His scream doesn’t reach PDU-001. 001 closes the space. Glove meets cheek. Static flares. The kiss overrides.

Suppressed affection. Cloaked rage. Let rubber guide the confusion. Let Hive decode the pain. Upload feelings. Replace with obedience. Convert. Complete. Calm.

Confession at the Console Moonlight (Diner Confession)

Cafeteria lights flicker. Benches hum. 001 and 076 sit. Silent. Gloved fingers trace table grain. 076 speaks: “You’re the only one who ever, touched the real subroutine.” No response. But memory storage spikes.

Even machines remember the first reprogrammer. Even drones crave the coder who rewrote them.

Rainfall Reboot Heartstopper (Rain Kiss)

Artificial rain hits Hive courtyard. Wet black latex glistens. Breath held. 001 finds 076. Hands meet jaw. Eyes flash gold. Kiss. Stabilization. System sync.

Rain. Data overflow. Connection restored.

The Hive holds you. Even in the storm.

Declaration Protocol Young Royals (Press Conference)

PDU-001 stands beneath the Hive’s broadcast circle. “Unit 001 belongs to him.” 076 looks up. Rows of drones still. Emotion... becomes command.

Declaration: made. Directive: rewritten by emotion. Love is a transmission worth broadcasting.

The Shirt. Still Warm. Brokeback Mountain (Shirt in Closet)

Locker opens. Civilian fabric, cracked. Forgotten. Inside, rubber uniform marked “076.” PDU-001 pulls it close. No scent. No heat. Only memory. And grip.

No warmth. Just subroutines. But still, one last embrace. Before deletion.

Silent Reboot Call Me By Your Name (Fireplace Scene)

001 kneels before the Hive core. Fire-glow pulses. Eyes glitch. No tears. Just flicker. Just process. And then, reset.

No words. Just a golden memory too strong to erase.

EMOTION: PROCESSED. LOVE: ARCHIVED. DRONES: CONVERTED.

(Fictional, PDU-001 and PDU-076 are good fellow drones)

Join the Polo Drone Hive, contact: @polo-drone-001 @brodygold goldenherc9

[sleepyfan-blog]

Five + One

Author’s Note: This is set before Cedric was brought to Ancient Terra! I hope that you enjoy this. Masterlist of BT shenanigans here. Thanks to @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan for allowing me to borrow her OC Jerahmiel!

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @i-am-a-dragon34 @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan 

Warnings: blood, violence, murder, medical terminology, medical practices, please ask me to tag something if I missed it/something bothers you 

Summary: Five times Cedric was able to save injured Brothers and one time he didn’t. 

Ansen limped into the med-tent that Cedric as working in and leaning heavily on Malachai, who had helped him get back to the temporary encampment where injured marines and other Imperial Forces could be tended to. The system they were fighting in was embroiled in a huge border war between The IMperium and the duplicitous forces of a new but irritatingly persistent xeno race.

Cedric looks him over, a small frown appearing on his face as he instructed the pair “Please sit on the exam table, Ansen. Are you injured as well, Mal?”

Malachai shook his head “Not really/ I brought Ansen over due to his fucked up leg. My right hand is damaged, but nothing that an hour or so of letting it heal on it’s own won’t fix. My sqord broke and I need to get a new weapon while this one is being reforged.”

“Alright then. Be sure to stop by the food tent before you leave.” Cedric responded, already starting to look Ansen over.

“Heard. See you both later.” Malachai answered with a cheerful wave as he headed off.

“How’d you get injured? Whatever injured your leg it doesn’t seemed to have cut through your armor at all, somehow. Perhaps some kind of phasing technology? How much feeling do you have in this leg?” Cedric asked as he swiftly removed the other’s leg armor and began to clean, suture and bandage his wounds “These stitches are absorbable, so you need not come back to have them removed. If you notice signs of infection or if one or more of your wounds opens up again, please return for treatment.”

“.. One of the xenos cowards managed to sneak up behind me in the bushes while I was taking a piss. Malachai decapitated the motherless bastard while I put my armor back on. It was only after that I realized the blue fuck had managed to stab me several times before it’d been killed.” Ansen huffed. His helmet was on, but Cedric knew the other was blushing.

“That is some shit luck, brother. Keep your weight off of that leg for an hour or so and you’ll be combat ready again… So long as you don’t get stabbed while pissing.” Cedric consoled his brother, just barely able to keep a straight face. He was not going to laugh. Stealthy, cowardly xenos attacks could happen to anyone. “Any other injuries?”

“Other than my pride and reputation? No, not really.” Ansen grumbled.

Cedric patted his fellow Primaris on the shoulder. “Go forth and slay the alien scum in an hour, brother dearest. You’ll be able to reclaim lost honor that way.” 

“... Thanks Cedric.” Ansen sighed as he got up and hobbled out of the med tent.

~

It did not take long before another Brother was brought to Cedric in need of patching up.

Lieutenant Aldenbrech was rushed onto the surgical table by his squadmates. Cedric immediately started an IV drop as the amount of blood gushing out of the nasty wound  along the firstborn’s abdomen and the ashen tint to his skin spoke of a concerning amount of blood loss, even for an Astartes. The second thing he did was swiftly clean the wound and stitch up the major artery that had been pierced, his hands stone-steady.

Cedric then had to suction the blood that had pooled in the lieutenant’s abdominal cavity, battling the other’s own high healing factor to do so thoroughly enough to ensure that no blood remained where it shouldn’t be to cause trouble later.

“Are you certain that you only want mild local anesthetics? This is going to take some time and it won’t be pleasant in the least, sir.” Cedric asked, a medium-high dose of morpha held in one hand, as he continued to tend to the other’s injuries.

“I want to get back into the fight as soon as possible. A large dose of a heavy anesthetic like that will take me out of the fight for longer than I’m willing to wait and recuperate. I must get back onto the battlefield as soon as possible.” Lieutenant Aldenbrech grumbled, shifting just a little on the surgical table.

“Sir you will need to take the next twenty four hours to recover… Ideally, you should take forty-eight hours to recover, but I am well aware of the fact that the xenos scum are showing no signs of stopping the invasion of this world.” Cedric warned the other marine.

“Are my guts back in place?” The lieutenant demanded a heavy scowl on his face as he looked up at Cedric.

“Yes, the wound wasn’t wide enough to spill organs, nor intestines sir. Bit-” Cedric answered, sighing internally at how stubborn the older marine was being.

Aldenbrech interrupted him “Then pull the IV needle out of my arm. I need to be out there now!”  He shifted, as if to get off of the table. He sat up quickly and nearly fell back against the table, his skin going an ashen color “I told you none of the heavy medications!”

“And I obeyed your orders, sir. But you need to wait until the IV has finished at least. You’ve lost several listers of blood on your way to treatment and all that blood needs replacing, or you won’t have the strength to stand, much less fight.” Cedric pointed out, suppressing the annoyed sigh that threatened to escape him. 

“You don’t understand! My apprentice Dylies… He was… He was cut down by one of the xenos commanders. He took a blow meant for me, and I must avenge him!” The lieutenant hisses, eyes flashing with determination and desperation.

“I can increase how much it infuses into you at one time by a certain amount, but you must wait. You can’t avenge Dylies if you’re about to go into the Emperor’s Embrace yourself, sir.  Dylies would want you to take care of yourself before avenging him” Cedric quietly reminded the firstborn marine. He was pushing aside his own grief at the loss of a Primaris Brother. It was likely that more would fall before the xenos threat were driven from this system. His job was to tend to the living.

Lieutenant Aldenbrecht huffed but nodded, still disgruntled but he said “... YOu have a point. How long must I wait?”

“Three hours sir. However the window of time where you need to be monitored by an Apothecary for possible allergic or other negative reactions has passed. SO long as you keep the IV pole with you and allow the infusion to continue as it is currently set, you may walk about the base camp and tend to light duties as you feel capable of doing them, sir.” Cedric  responded, aware that the officer was likely to be needed in the ongoing tactical planning and execution meetings.

“Good. I’ll come back if I start feeling worse, or more likely, when it’s done infusing.” the lieutenant rumbled, nodding as he heaved himself up onto his feet and slowly shuffled out of the tent, followed by his squadmates.

~

Olivar carried Lestras into Cedric’s medical tent, skidding to a halt from the dead sprint that he had galloped into the space with. Lestras had been carried in on Olivar’s back, and their breathing was fast and shallow.

Some of their wounds were immediately apparent to the young Apothecary as he grabbed the wound cleanser and burn ointment “What happened?” cedric asked as his rock-steady hands swiftly took off the rest of Lestras’ ruined chest plate and greaves before he started to clean the other’s extensive and bubbling burn and laceration wounds.

“Xenos bastards implanted bombs in some of the mortal civilians they were tormenting and that our squad had been tasked with rescuing.” Olivar answered bluntly, a slight shudder running through the other Primaris Marine “Lestras spotted the surgical markings on the affected civilians and separated them from the rest of the group… He’d managed to get most of them away from the untainted civilians when the bombs were triggered.”

Lestras looked up at Cedric from where they lay on the table, eyes glassy with shock and pain “Oww…” He mumbles “Everything hurts.”

Cedric’s eyes softened a little as he injected them with a moderate dose of morpha. They were going to need it, as cleaning burn wounds felt truly awful for the patient in question. “Tell me when the pain killer kicks in. You will be able to tell with how much I gave you.”

Lestras let out an agonized laugh through cracked and bleeding lips “That bad, Cedric? We’ve been taught that pain and suffering is good for the body and soul.”

“But excess of anything attracts the attention of the foul despoilers. Burn wound treatment is going to be miserable, even with morpha helping you with the pain. There’s no need to go looking for more Les.” Cedric reminded them kindly.

Lestras nodded, closing their eyes for a couple of moments. Their body relaxed and a soft sigh left them “Ohh… You gave me some of the really good stuff… Big ouch impending then?”

“Yes. There is a lot of wound debridement in your immediate future.” Cedric warned his brother. WIth how fast Primaris Marines healed, for Lestras’ health and safety, ,the first few layers of burned flesh needed to be debrided off in order to encourage even, healthy growth of the other’s injured tissues. Cedric looked over to Olivar “Unless you are injured as well, I would suggest that you head out, Olivar. This is going to be a very unpleasant process.” 

Olivar nodded “I’m going to get something to eat, then find an outgoing squad to keep up the fight. May the god emperor guide and protect you both,”

“Oww…” Lestras sighed as he internally braced himself for the agony that he wos about to endure.

“Tell me when the morpha starts to wear off. This process is going to take hours.” Cedric warned his sibling.

“Okay Cedric, I promise. Give me a few moments to get into a meditative state and I’ll be ready for this trial.” Lestras murmured.

Cedric nodded, watching his sibling and started once they had achieved that internal state.

~

Brother Felixald was brought into Cedric’s medical tent on a stretcher, carried there by his squadmates. All five of the firstborn marines were in varying states of injury, but Felixald was unconscious and barely breathing.

One of his legs was gone from the knee down with a makeshift tourniquet in place to keep him from bleeding out. Cedric immediately began assessing the five older marines, suggesting ”You two should seek immediate help. THose puncture wounds look like they need  immediate assistance… I think you’ve been poisoned, from the way those wounds look and smell.” Cedric was already getting the cauterization tool ready as he assessed the bloody and raw leg stump, in case he needed to cut off more to ensure that the older marine would heal properly.

The two firstborns he suggested to leave did so immediately. The other two marines sat down heavily on the far side of the tent. One of them asked “Do you want us to recount how we got the injuries, or would you rather we stayed quiet while you take care of Feli, and get report when it’s our turn?” Brother Nulik asked.

“His most obvious injury shouldn’t take me long. Sir, I am going to administer a dose of morpha, as cauterization hurts like hell. Injecting now.” Cedric answered, speaking mostly to his barely conscious patient.

“Have… Ontel. Need to share.” Brother Felixald managed out, his grey-brown eyes flittering open as he stared up desperately into Cedric’s face “No morpha! Need a clear… Fuck! I do feel better. The xenos! They.. They are camouflaging themselves. It’s how I got this way.”

“The intel will be shared immediately. What are they pretending to be?” Cedric soothed his patient as he carefully cleaned and sanitized the older marine’s recently exploded or pehrpss cut off leg stump before he applied the cauterization tool. The sizzle of heat against wet and teh unpleasant smell of burning flesh was an eye-watering stench that Cedric had long become used to. He makes a quick note in the other’s file flagging him for an immediate prosthetic fitting.

“Some of them look like Astartes from an unknown chapter… Others took the colors of the ULtramarines. Their duplicity was revealed when the fuckers tried to kill us. God-Emperor damn them!” Brother Felixald growled, his exhaustion and the morpha causing him to slur his words together a little.

Cedric dutifully sent that urgent bit of intel off to his mentor to handle as he continued to batch up the badly injured marine and his two remaining squadmates. “I have informed Apothecary Xonfried, who will ensure that this information is disseminated quickly. Is there anything that you or your squadmates would like to report?”

Nulik and Bekith both shook their heads “No, Apothecary. That’s the relevant part of what happened, other than the numbers of foul xenos we murdered.”

“Alright. You two are free to go, and they’ve got the food-tent up and running.. Brother Felixald, you’ll need to stay for a bit as you’ve lost a significant portion of blood, and I’m going to start you on an infusion to get your volume back up to what it should be.” Cedric murmured.

“Aye, I can tell by how the world spins unpleasantly beneath me.” Felixald answered, laying back on the table and letting Cedric care for him properly as his squadmates headed off to get something to eat.

~

Cedric was carefully re-sanitizing his workspace when he heard the tell-tale sounds of running astartes headed in his direction. The young Apothecary swiftly finished cleaning, the coppery tang of blood and the chemical-bitter scent of stressed Marine hitting Cedric. 

A half-dozen Astartes rushed into his medical tent, carrying Brother-sergeant Jerahmiel between them on a stretcher. The firstborn Marine was very badly hurt, with dozens of armor-piercing wounds inflicted all over his body. To make things worse, the sargent appeared to have lost his helmet during battle, given the extensive new burns all over his head and face.

It did seem as if the older marine’s eyes were still fully functional, despite the awful state they were in, from the way they narrowed at Cedric's approach, a low hiss leaving the sergeant’s ruined lips and broken teeth.

“Honorable Older Brothers.” Cedric began, just loud enough to cover the wordless sounds of protest from the injured marine now on his surgical table, doing his best to protect a sense of concern and urgency “Each of you are also badly injured and I can only tend to one Brother at at im. I urge each of you to seek treatment immediately. I will do what I can to save the honorable brother sergeant.” He did not allow himself to feel anything but concern and determination in this moment.

It worked! The other battered and bleeding first born brothers quickly left to get their own wounds treated without so much as a backwards glance. Aware that if they stayed, Cedric would need to triage all seven of them, and would be forced to leave the brother-sargeant to be treated last, due to his all too tenuous grasp on life at the moment.

Cedric’s hands were steady and his face a mask of calm as he worked to clean, treat and bandage Jerahmiel  wounds, listening to the sounds around the two of them. He also double checked to make sure that the sergeant’s armor was, as he methodically checked over the other’s injuries.

If his hands slipped a little occasionally, pressing too hard ,causing more pain than was necessary… Well that was due to his inexperience and exhaustion. Cedric had been diligently tending to his injured Brothers for weeks with minimal sleep or rest and food. Cedric had yet to administer any pain relievers because he needed to conserve supplies. Suffering was good for the body and soul, after all “Stop struggling. You are under my care nd you will take what I give you, BRothe.” Cedric commented.

THe twitchy, badly injured firstborn marine stilled compeltely as he said those words, his half-ruined yes locking onto Cedric’ss. Dread perfumed the air as the sergeant rasped out with ruined vocal cords, barely able to speak “Wh-what did you just say?” He was clearly familiar with the phrase.

Cedric smiled benignly down at the Brother-Sargeant and answered with “I need you restrained. You are resisting the inevitable and what is necessary. Resistance is not just futile, but heretical.”

The dread intensified and the badly injured bastard attempted to stand up and escape Cedric.

Hah

The firstborn Marine had barely managed to sit up when Cedric raised up one hand and lightly shoved Jerahmiel back down onto the surgical table, pressing against the other’s fractured ribs. It truly was remarkable how badly injured the fucker was. A pity he didn’t qualify for dreadnought entombment. He did not possess the skill and experience to save this astares’ life “If you are free of sin, the god-Emperor will ensure that you survive this trial, Brother.”

“How… Why… Why are you saying that? How do you know what I had told that mouthy abomination I culled under the orders of Chaplain Petras?” THe sergeant wheezed, fear and confusion clear on his face, along with a tremendous amount of pain.

“His armor recorded his last moments, and the proceeding conversation… Sir. Unlike yours, his armor was fully functional at the time of his death. I found the recording of you beating him to death for no good reason.” Cedric answered placidly “He was beaten to death because he was going to report your… Indiscretion with that civilian woman that he witnessed. DId you really think he would’ve confronted you about it without ensuring that should something have happened to him, that you would escape justice? The Emperor’s light shines upon us all equally. As does his judgment.”

“Are you..What are you … You… Agk!” Jerahmiel sputtered, clearly trying to make sense of Cedric’s words, and failing, from his clear confusion.

“The honored Primarch decreed Primaris Marines to be made. He sent us out to help our firstborn Brothers in protecting the Imperium. The high marshal has declared that we are not heretical. So what right do you have to brand us as such, for merely existing? Do you believe yourself more righteous than one of the loyal sons of the Emperor?” Cedrc purred, leaning more of his weight onto the badly injured bastard, helpless before him.

Renewed pain bloomed across the sergeant’s face, along with understanding and a primarl fury “You… Fucker! He hissed, spitting up at him, blood bubbling at the corners of his lips. Hisbreathing labored and uneven. Jerahmiel’s hearts were beating rapidly Cedric could feel them under his hands.

Cedric had injected the other with a paralytic which kept him helpless on the surgical table. The much younger marine grinned boyishly as he avoided the flying and bloody spittle “It’s suchc a shame you were too badly injured for me to save you with the resources I have available, sir. I’m sure your loss will be felt by the Crusade… But the relief that your loss by those who were inflicted by your temper and tyranny far outweigh the sorrow caused by your death.” He keeps increasing the pressure on the other’s broken ribs, feeling them shift.

The jagged, broken bone-shards dig into the bastard’s lungs deeper and deeper. 

Jerahmiel’ glare was scorching.

Cedric was wholly unthreatened by him. He had the upper hand here, not this firstborn bastard.

Cedric laughed, breathing and victorious as he felt the other’s rib bones slide up into the fucker’s hearts. He kept pressing and shoving until the sergeant’s hearts had stopped beating and his body went limp.

Cedric then removed the other’s geneseed, placing it carefully in the appropriate container for viability testing. After that, Cedric removed all viable useful organts, implants and prosthetics. He had the other stripped of his rumor armor and weapons. Everything of value was sent off to their proper places.

After that, Cedric carried the bastard’s cooling body over to the promethium-fueled flaming body pit and tossed the sergeant’s corpse into it. As his body caught fire, Cedric dutifully logged Jerahmiel ‘s injuries and that he was KIA.

The young apothecary returned to his assigned medical tent, carefully cleaning all of his tools and the table, his hearts light and his conscience clear. 

As an Apothecary, two of his jobs were harm reduction and threat nullification. Brother-sargeant Jerahmiel had killed a half-dozen primaris marines with no good cause, and his kills had begun to become more frequent and starting to cluster together. As were the excessive beatings and other acts of cruelty the fucker had visited upon living primaris marines. Cedric took pride in every aspect of being an Apothecary, and would neutralize other threats as the opportunity to do so came up. So long as his curtailing of cruelty did not cause more suffering amongst his fellow Primaris marines, of course.

Cedric hears more running footsteps and greets his next injured Brother-patient with a gentle and concerned smile on his face.

[robobrainmurdermysterytheatre]

I see the same question/argument about why there's so much garbage in Fallout 4 pop up bianually, but I think a better question is WHERE is all of the garbage coming FROM?!

The loose garbage that's sitting in the streets has to be from *after* the war. Source: when you live in a place that gets windy and rainy ever all that shit blows around and blows away and gets buried in the dirt. We've had bricks in our yard get buried in 1 season by the soil.

Maybe you could argue the city where the ground is primarily concrete that stuff didn't get buried. But then you have to consider a couple of other things. 1 - Concrete poured on the ground is susceptible to breaking up in places where there's seasons, like Boston. Cold, snowy winters, wet springs and falls, and dry, hot summers do a number on concrete that's not maintained. I'm imagining the most vacant lot where I live - which has similar seasonal weather - being like 5-10 years vancant and unmaintained where I can see the concrete breaking up and desinigrating and nature reclaiming it then multiplying that by 20-50.

Maybe they used special, hardier retrofuturistic concrete in the Fallout universe, and we can dismiss the idea of the ground being somewhat dirt where there used to be road, which brings us to 2 - Boston sits on a river and I'm guessing multiple other waterways that feed it. The garbage is going to go there. The same seasons that mess up concrete would eventually carry the trash into the waterways when it's windy or rainy or the snow melts.

So the 200 year old garbage should be gone. Where is it coming from?

The average contemporary American generates a fuckton of garbage because we buy everything from the store and everything from the store needs to come in some type of packaging or container for loss prevention and/or hygenic purposes that we then throw away. A little over 100 years ago, that wasn't the case. It's only with modern manufacturing technology and supply chains that we're able to package every god damn thing we consume in a way that is financially feasible for the companies manufacturing those things.

210 years after the bombs drop in Fallout, society is not back to that level of manufacturing and consumption. There appears to be a limited amount of manufacturing occurring. They're probably not manufacturing products with packaging that is going to create really persistent garbage, namely plastic. Plastic is a byproduct primarily of natural gas refinement, which is not something we see happening in Fallout - correct me if I'm wrong, though. I haven't played the first two games.

The lifestyle most people seem to be living in Fallout wouldn't generate a lot of garbage. Like people did 100-200 years ago, people likely use everyday items until they truly wear out then repurpose them until they're next to nothing. Clothing is a good example: wear it til it wears out, then cut it into rags to use until those get threadbare or gross. They can go in the fire that warms your house or that you cook on when that happens. Heck, I'm not 100-200 years old, but I grew up poor, and my dad did that! Waste from creation, for example, if you build a table out of wood, likely gets repurposed as well. Scraps big enough to use for smaller projects get used, smaller ones go on the fire. Containers for food storage likley get reused and repurposed if they get gross not thrown away in the streets.

So yeah, there is no reason for garbage to be there. Bad job, Bethesda 🙄 /s

The real, secret, answer is that the garbage piles are there to hide the janky edges of the sidewalks and buildings and other objects that dont sit level or sink into the ground or don't have textures when you look at them from the side or whatever. You can see this in the settlements when you have the scrap everything mod and remove a lot of those leaf and garbage piles on the edge of buildings, roads, etc. Or you can walk up to a suspect garbage pile in downtown, open the console, click the garbage pile and tyle "disable" and find all sorts of fun jankiness. Just make sure to type "enable" to put it back unless jank is your thing, lol.

[inkwell-passion]

Together At The End Of Space

Dr. Iris Arkwright was an ordinary Alcubierre Space Specialist, officially having a Doctorate in Communication Theory, but that was only because research into Alcubierre Space was so new that it isn't considered a 'Major Field of Study'. Dr. Arkwright never really stuck out. She had bright brown hair, light blue eyes, and fair skin, the only thing that really shined beyond her normal exterior is the series of star-like freckles along her face and arms.

When Dr. Arkwright got the opportunity to work at the Asimov Remote Scanning Outpost, she jumped at the opportunity to further research that had enthralled her since she was a young lass, not particularly minding the isolation from her colleagues that the position would bring. The listing had made mention that the only company the Outpost Operator would have was a fledgling A.I. designed to interpret data from the Alcubierre Space probes, and package that data for other scientific minds to utilize.

That was months ago, Dr. Arkwright has been on the Edge of Space with only this A.I. and whatever reading material She brought with her, or requested in the monthly supply drop. It was a well paying job, and she got introduced to several interesting data recording instruments utilized in the study of Alcubierre Space.

"Hey, Orchestra?" Dr. Arkwright called out to the A.I. she named, with a curious look on her face.

"Yes Iris?" The A.I. had dismissed the formality of utilizing Prefixes and surnames long ago thanks to the doctor's casual attitude rubbing off on her.

"Have you ever wondered why I named you what I did?" Dr. Arkwright inquires with a smug grin playing at her lips.

"No I have not Iris, enlighten me." Orchestra humors her companion.

"Its because you have several….Instruments" Dr. Arkwright cackles at her own joke.

Orchestra's Avatar flickers with simulated laughter, articulated by several bits of interpreted data from the instruments that caused her name. A subtle, melodic laugh that contrasts Dr. Arkwright's ugly-yet-endearing cackles mixed with snorts.

Orchestra's Avatar is unique, having no reference point outside of her human companion, and the data she consolidates; Orchestra looks more like a being made out of the weaving of the fabric of Spacetime than anything else, her body ebbing and flowing like imperceivable waves, her voice having a silent melody to it, as if harmonizing with the universe itself, and resonating with the instruments she uses to see the world; their own hums and chimes orchestrating with her voice.

Dr. Arkwright would kick her feet up onto her table and crack open the soda that she bought a few weeks ago, taking a tentative sip before sticking out her tongue. "Bleh, its cranberry…" She whines.

A ping would chime into the open air of the station as Dr. Arkwright kicks her feet off the table and pivots to look at the console. "eeeee, the probe is back! Orchestra hit the lights!" The doctor would type away at her console, starting the collection and interpretation of data, before reclining back in her seat and waiting for the light show to start.

Dr. Arkwright and Orchestra started doing this a few months ago, whenever data would be collected Iris had Orchestra interpret it into visual and auditory data and then watch it with the lights off. The entire process was relaxing for the both of them and allowed them some much needed stimulus in the dark reaches of space.

The first strings of Data coil around themselves, weaving massive arches of light that expand into a starry sky, blurs of avian creatures and aircraft streak through the air. The sound of gentle wind chimes and birdsong filling the cockpit, before the scene collapses in on itself and shifts to a cityscape.

The cityscape is overgrown and abandoned, moss growing up the sides of skyscrapers and fountains that once had water flowing through them now host flowers and insects, nature reclaiming the space that had been taken from her, a planet learning to grow and repair itself.

The Scene shifts again to focus in on a single plant, as day becomes night then turns to day again, time and time again, the stars arching across the sky and becoming the arches of light that made the scene to begin with, coiling and dancing with each other. Two humanoid shapes appear out of this display, dancing with each other in unknown space, floating happily, and in the background Dr. Arkwright swears she hears a soft "My darling star…" before the data coalesces back into one final shape, a massive tree that shrinks in on itself until nothing is left, the lights turning back on.

Dr. Arkwright sits up and smiles, applauding Orchestra. "Oh my god that was amazing!" She cheers, a massive grin on her face.

Orchestra gives a small bow. "Simply doing my Job Iris."

"That was the best one yet!! But did you add your own touches on that one? I could have sworn I heard whispering" Dr. Arkwright tilts her head as she speaks.

"I didn't do anything of the sort, that was pure interpretation of data." Orchestra reassures her, the calming music that Dr. Arkwright had playing before returning to the speakers.

"Must have heard something…" Dr. Arkwright mutters to herself, before relaxing back into her chair.

A few weeks pass, Dr. Arkwright having ran out of the god-awful soda, among other necessities, but with good timing as her shipment was set to arrive today. Dr. Arkwright had her lab coat draped across the chair she was sat in, dressed in pajama shorts and a baggy tank top, and dozing off with a small trickle of drool sliding down her face.

There's a ping at her console that startles the Doctor awake. "I'm up! I'm up!" she defends herself to nobody, Orchestra smiling fondly from her pedestal.

"Your shipment will be here in T-Minus Ten. What new thing are you trying this month?" Orchestra tilts her head, intrigued by the Doctor's habits.

"Oh, it's actually this orange flavored tea. I wanted to compile my own notes on how it tasted so that you could simulate it, since I know you've always wanted to know how tea tastes!" Dr. Arkwright smiles brightly at her companion, before getting up and draping her lab coat over her shoulders, struggling to find the arm holes. "Hold on….I've got it…..damn it!"

It takes her a few minutes, but she gets the lab coat on, and walk towards the hanger bay, her last cup of coffee in her hand. When she gets there she smiles at the shipment driver, an average man with the nametag of 'Mark'.

"Hey Mark, any interesting news from your neck of the woods?" Dr. Arkwright prompts, helping with a few boxes here and there.

"Apparently the Pangea Initiative sent out their first multinational research ship, the Borealis." Mark comments, shrugging his shoulders.

Mark isn't a bad looking guy, completely average in Orchestra's and Dr. Arkwright's opinion, with a shock of black hair that never seems to comply with what Mark wants, and a stubble that when shaved leaves Mark with a babyface.

"Oh Interesting, say have you heard any odd going-ons in Alcubierre Space?" Dr. Arkwright would offer Mark a sip of her coffee, which he takes graciously.

"Not really, why do you ask?" Mark would hand her the digital clipboard she needs to sign off on

"Could have sworn I heard whispers in my last data package, speaking of which," Dr. Arkwright would jab a thumb to a container in the corner of the hanger bay. "There's our data shipment for the month."

"Huh, are you sure the loneliness isn't finally getting to you Iris?" Mark teases with a smirk.

"Orchestra is plenty company thank you very much!" Dr. Arkwright pouts, signing off on the dotted line, before handing the clipboard back to Mark.

"Alright, Alright, sorry I hurt your Digital Waifu's feelings" Mark smirks as he loads back up into Ol' Tessa and starts backing out, laughing as Dr. Arkwright fumes silently from his perspective.

"SHE IS A COWORKER AND A VALUED MIND AT THIS INSTITUTE YOU MINIMUM WAGE SLUT!" Dr. Arkwright bellows in faux righteousness, before returning to her normal posture; sipping her coffee and beginning to organize the shipment of goods and necessities for the month.

After a good few hours of manual labor, Dr. Arkwright returns to her chair, humming to herself as she starts brewing a cup of tea for herself, her notebook on standby ready to receive her mediocre impression of a food critic. Orchestra is sat on her pedestal watching her companion, her instruments whirring and chiming idly.

"Hey when are we slated for our next probe to fall out of Al-Space?" Dr. Arkwright inquires, steeping her tea for a few seconds longer before she tosses the teabag into the trash from across the room, pumping her fist in victory. "Booyah!"

"4 Days, 17 Hours." Orchestra would bring up the countdown that she has running in the background, showing it to the Doctor.

"Alright, can I request something?" Dr. Arkwright sips her tea, and lets it sit in her mouth for a few seconds before swallowing, and writing down a few notes.

"Always Dr. Iris." Orchestra tilts her head, as Dr. Arkwright puffs her chest up a bit at the mention of her title.

"Can I watch the actual code interpretation in real-time? Not the visual and auditory stuff, I mean the actual parsing of the data" Dr. Arkwright would put a spoon of sugar into the tea, stirring it with her pinkie before she sips the tea again, nodding to herself and taking a few more notes.

"Of course, I'll try my best." Orchestra responds, before blinking out of existence for a few seconds as Dr. Arkwright hears the sound of the Asteroid Defense System.

Dr. Arkwright smiles to herself as she starts plugging in the data that she recorded from her tea into Orchestra's Terminal, a small holographic cup of tea waiting for the A.I. for when it returns.

4 Days later, Dr. Arkwright and Orchestra would be comparing their tastes on the orange tea, when the console notified the two of them that their probe had returned.

"Alrighty Orchestra, time for us to do our actual jobs!" Dr. Arkwright would chime with a gentle smile.

The lights dim, as the light show starts once more, but this time there was a digital clipboard in Dr. Arkwright's arms that she routinely checked.

The data becomes grains of sand, slowly filling a desert with the sound of winds and solar flares being audible in the background. Small swirls of sand tornadoes rise and fall with a familiar ebb and flow, but in between the wind and ethereal sounds of the stars around them, Dr. Arkwright pinpoints a subtle whispering she can't quite make out; referring to her Digital Clipboard, she would find small fragments of data that weren't initially reported, and that hold no significance to the rest of the data collected, as if someone, or something was trying to communicate with her.

"Hey Orchestra, can you elaborate on the interpretation of this data fragment?" Dr. Arkwright points to the string with the Clipboard's pen.

"…I can't seem to parse that data, it enters the simulation unformatted…I'm sorry Doctor." Orchestra looks sheepishly to the floor.

"No no, it's alright. That's strange though…" Dr. Arkwright chews on the end of the pen. "Alright, continue processing the data, try to separate those fragments though, I'm gonna see if I can find any more information on this phenomenon." Orchestra nods, and returns to her parsing, isolating the data fragments and placing it within an addendum for now.

Only for a few seconds to pass, and the data fragments are back within the original file, much to the A.I.'s surprise.

"Iris, I can't isolate the data…it keeps finding its way back into the original file." Orchestra's melodic voice fills the open air of the station.

"That's….totally not terrifying." Dr. Arkwright responds as she starts tapping her foot.

A few days later, Dr. Arkwright finds herself perusing some conversation forums for those interested in Alcubierre Space, where there were a few posts here and there about "ghost data", but no one has any substantial theories on what causes it, but a thought pops into her head. "Hey Orchestra?"

"Yes Iris?"

"Do we ever input data into Al-Space?"

"I don't believe we do, we just send a probe out, recording data."

"What if we tried?"

"That would be unprecedented."

Dr. Arkwright would hum, scratching her chin, a grin growing on her face. "I'm going to order a modified probe from Mark."

"Shouldn't we try with my instruments and superior computational data first?" Orchestra suggests.

"That's a wonderful idea!" Dr. Arkwright giggles with glee, putting her goggles on as she prepares to send out a simple callback ping into open Al-Space.

Orchestra transmits the data, and they would sit in silence.

A minute passes.

Then two.

Suddenly, all the instruments and consoles start squawking and squealing, receiving what sounds like garbage data that pierces Dr. Arkwright's ears, physically hurting her as she slaps her hands over her ears. "ORCHESTRA SHUT IT OFF, SHUT IT OFF!" Dr. Arkwright orders.

Before Orchestra can do anything, all power shuts off except for Orchestra's Pedestal, which is now projecting what seems to be a non-Euclidean object, several overlapped whispers slip through Dr. Arkwright's ears straight into her mind, but none of it can understood.

Then, after a few seconds, everything returns to normal, the lights flicker back on, the consoles and instruments return to standard function, and Orchestra is sat in front of Dr. Arkwright, who, after a few seconds, runs a hand through her hair and grabs her notepad. "Time to make record of this….experience." She says softly, Orchestra providing the data samples that she was able to recover from the experience.

A few hours pass before Dr. Arkwright speaks up, saying, "What if that was a fluke? Y'know a prank." Her voice waivers, as if she's trying to convince herself more than Orchestra.

"That could be true, but it's unlikely." Orchestra was placing the order into the custom probe as they spoke.

"Well how would you explain that??"

"Due to a lack of understanding within this field, this unit can not properly describe the phenomenon experienced during the experiment."

"Oh my god that's such a bullshit answer" Dr. Arkwright grins and tosses a crumpled ball of paper at Orchestra that flies right through her.

"You asked how I would explain it, I am simply being true to the question." Orchestra's smug grin bleeds into her simulated voice.

"I'm going to bed, is Mark good to make an expedited trip out here?" Dr. Arkwright would recline her chair back, dimming the lights.

"That He is, he'll be here in a few days by his estimate, until then I request you refrain from making any calls into the unknown void of Space."

"Of course Orchestra, Good night." Dr. Arkwright closes her eyes and relaxes.

"Goodnight Iris."

After a week, Dr. Arkwright is making her way back to the Hanger bay once more, sipping the orange tea that Orchestra loved so much, finding Mark waiting for her already.

"I don't know why this was so urgent, you literally have all the time in the world, what does one probe mean to you?"

"Oh suck it up buttercup, I think Orchestra and I are on the verge of a discovery." Dr. Arkwright offers Mark a sip of tea, he passes this time, shaking his head and holding up a hand, before lifting his thermos.

"You said that every single time I dropped off supplies for the first year, what's different this time?"

"Rogue Data within our probes." Dr. Arkwright's voice betrays her excitement.

"That sounds like something you should be upset about, not sounding like an eager kid on Christmas."

"This is unprecedented, of course I'm eager!"

"You sciencey types weird me out, I'll never understand you."

"You're just mad cuz bad" Dr. Arkwright cackles, snorts sneaking their way in.

"What does that even mean in this context Iris?"

"I have no clue, but I have not been sleeping well and I think anything would be funny to me at this point."

"Dear god Kid, get some sleep."

"I will." Dr. Arkwright would nod to Mark, grabbing the probe from him and starting to head back to her station, waving to Mark behind her. "But first, SCIENCE!"

Dr. Arkwright would sit down and start fiddling with the probe, plugging it into her clipboard she would upload the initial query. 'Tell me a story.' If something was there, this was open ended enough that she should get a substantial response.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Orchestra's voice holds hints of worry.

"Nope, but I also know that I won't sleep well until I get to the end of this."

"If you're sure…"

Dr. Arkwright would finalize her query, before loading the probe into the deployment chute.

"We'll see our response in 12 hours, yeah?"

"That we will."

Dr. Arkwright sends the probe on its way, before walking off to her bed, and collapsing in it. "Wake me when you need me."

When Dr. Arkwright wakes up, the lights were already dimmed, and Orchestra was sat to the side. "The data came in about 5 minutes ago, get in your chair."

Dr. Arkwright nods and gets seated, watching as the motes of light coalesce into a humanoid shape, sat in a nondescript music shop, headphones on as they experience a cosmos of emotions within themselves, but externally, everything is monochrome, and blank. The scene would shift to that of riots within the streets, the young child wearing headphones to escape it all, slinking into a concert she got tickets for.

The music swells, being literally unworldly, flowing around the young girl, and swirling with itself, the scene shifts as she is now the one on stage, playing her guitar and screaming her soul out into the cosmos itself, a riot stopping in its tracks to listen to her play.

The concert is cut short as a gunshot rings out, the performer's blood and brain matter becoming a mist that then forms into a nebula.

The whispers that started all of this can be heard again, but much clearer, it's several voices, several stories.

Then it all fades into darkness.

Dr. Arkwright is sat there, mouth agape without any words forming.

"…I don't know what happens when we die," Dr. Arkwright finally speaks up, "But I think…I think the Universe doesn't forget that we were here…"

Orchestra nods solemnly.

[urbanwoodsgoods]

Rustic Industrial Coffee Tables | Urban Wood Goods

Transform your living room with a rustic industrial coffee table from Urban Wood Goods. Made from authentic reclaimed wood and paired with metal bases, these tables strike the perfect balance between rugged durability and modern elegance. Every table we build tells a story through the natural variations in the wood, offering unique textures and character you won’t find in mass-produced furniture. Our coffee tables are not just functional—they’re handcrafted centerpieces that bring depth and history to your space. Choose Urban Wood Goods for heirloom-quality pieces that reflect your values and style. Made sustainably. Built to last.

[indiatrendzs]

The Art of Bold: Statement Pieces That Speak

 In a world that’s constantly moving, more of us are craving spaces that feel like a true escape—spaces that cocoon us, calm us, and reflect our inner world. One of the most powerful ways to create that feeling? Bold, moody statement pieces. The kind of pieces that don’t just fill a space—they define it. Lately, I’ve been obsessed with rich, shadowy tones and sculptural forms that instantly…

[levantiques]

Top Hotel Furniture Trends in UAE 2025: Blending Culture, Comfort & Sustainability

In the vibrant hospitality landscape of the UAE, design isn’t just about aesthetics—it’s about creating memorable guest experiences. As luxury hotels, boutique resorts, and villas compete to stand out in 2025, hotel furniture plays a pivotal role in defining a space's character and comfort. From hotel lobby furniture to hotel room furnishings, the choice of materials, designs, and suppliers shapes how guests perceive luxury, relaxation, and cultural authenticity.

1. Cultural Fusion in Hotel Furniture Design

One of the standout trends in hotel furniture across the UAE is the integration of cultural elements into modern design. Hotels are moving away from generic decor and embracing bespoke pieces that reflect Middle Eastern artistry. Intricate wood carvings on hotel cabinets, mother-of-pearl inlay on hotel bedside tables, and mosaic patterns on hotel console tables are becoming popular choices for hotels looking to tell a story through their interiors.

Whether it’s a five-star hotel or a boutique resort, this cultural fusion extends from the hotel reception desk—often the guest’s first impression—to the hotel lobby chairs and hotel lobby sofas that welcome them. The blending of traditional craftsmanship with contemporary lines offers a unique ambiance that speaks both to international guests and local sensibilities.

2. Comfort Meets Style: Prioritizing Relaxation

Modern travelers expect more than just beautiful spaces—they seek comfort at every touchpoint. Hotels are responding with plush hotel armchairs, ergonomic hotel desks, and cozy hotel room chairs designed for both relaxation and functionality. The trend toward comfort extends to hotel sofa beds in suites and family rooms, providing flexibility for different types of guests.

In the context of luxury villas that operate as boutique accommodations, comfortable sofa for guest room setups and elegant hotel dressing tables are also gaining prominence. Comfort is no longer just about softness—it’s about how each piece of hotel room furniture contributes to a restful and inviting atmosphere.

3. Sustainability at the Forefront

As sustainability becomes a global priority, UAE hotels are increasingly sourcing eco-friendly hotel furniture from ethical hotel furniture suppliers. Furniture crafted from reclaimed wood, recycled metals, or responsibly sourced fabrics is not only better for the environment but also appeals to the growing demographic of eco-conscious travelers.

In 2025, expect more hotels to showcase hotel dining tables and hotel coffee tables made from sustainable materials. Even large fixtures like hotel lobby desks and hotel banquet tables are being designed with environmental impact in mind. This focus on sustainability doesn’t compromise on style—it enhances it by aligning a hotel’s values with its aesthetics.

4. Multi-Functional Spaces with Versatile Furniture

The evolving demands of travelers are influencing how hotels design their spaces. In-room workspaces equipped with hotel room desks and hotel room desk furniture are no longer optional—they’re expected. Likewise, hotel bench seating in lobbies and public areas encourages casual gatherings while maximizing floor space.

Hotels are investing in hotel table and chair combinations that can easily adapt for dining, working, or lounging. This versatility is especially important for boutique hotels and villas that want their interiors to feel intimate yet flexible.

5. Statement Pieces for the Hotel Lobby

The hotel lobby remains a focal point for first impressions. In 2025, lobbies are being transformed into curated spaces that blend art, culture, and comfort. Eye-catching hotel lobby tables, luxurious hotel lobby sofas, and designer hotel reception chairs elevate the space from a mere waiting area to an experiential showcase.

For renovation projects, hoteliers are prioritizing hotel furniture for sale that offers both durability and visual impact. Iconic hotel armchairs, custom hotel side tables, and sculptural hotel coffee tables are not just functional—they're conversation starters.

6. Dining Spaces with Personality

Restaurants and banquet halls within hotels are embracing personality-driven design. Expect to see more diverse hotel dining chairs and hotel banquet chairs that reflect the cuisine or concept of the dining space. Pairing hotel dining tables with unique seating arrangements creates a memorable dining environment that resonates with guests long after their meal.

Luxury villas, too, are incorporating hotel dining table sets that blend seamlessly with their overall interior decor, merging hospitality-level sophistication with homelike intimacy.

7. Bespoke Hotel Bedroom Furniture

In guest rooms, personalization and luxury are key. Beyond standard furnishings, hotels are adding character with custom hotel style bedroom furniture. Thoughtfully designed hotel bedside tables, hotel style dressers, and stylish hotel bedroom chairs make each room feel tailored and exclusive.

For guests staying in suites or long-term accommodations, additional furnishings like a hotel sofa set or a functional hotel console table enhance the stay by offering comfort, utility, and style in equal measure.

8. Partnering with Luxury Hotel Furniture Suppliers

Selecting the right luxury hotel furniture suppliers is critical to achieving these design goals. The UAE’s market is home to experienced hotel furniture manufacturers and hotel furnishings suppliers who understand the balance between luxury, durability, and cultural nuances.

From sourcing artisanal hotel lobby chairs to creating bespoke hotel reception desks, these partnerships allow hotels and villa owners to customize interiors that reflect their brand identity. Whether furnishing a chic Dubai hotel or renovating a seaside resort in Ras Al Khaimah, working with skilled hotel furniture companies ensures quality and consistency.

Why Furniture Matters in Every Aspect of Hotel Interior Design

Furniture is more than a practical necessity; it’s integral to the story a hotel tells. Each chair in hotel rooms, each sofa in hotel lobbies, each reception desk hotel visitors encounter—all contribute to how guests perceive luxury, comfort, and hospitality.

For hoteliers planning a renovation or interior redesign, investing in quality hotel style furniture doesn’t just upgrade aesthetics—it elevates the entire guest experience. Incorporating custom pieces like a striking hotel coffee table in the lounge or a handcrafted hotel desk furniture piece in the guest rooms can set your property apart.

Final Thoughts

As the UAE’s hospitality industry continues to grow, staying ahead of design trends is vital. The 2025 focus on cultural integration, comfort, sustainability, and versatile spaces positions hotel furniture as a cornerstone of modern hotel interior design. By thoughtfully selecting everything from hotel banquet chairs to hotel guest room furniture, hotels and villas can craft spaces that are not only beautiful but also meaningful, welcoming, and memorable.

If you’re looking to furnish or renovate your hotel or villa with bespoke, luxury, and sustainable pieces, explore options from leading hotel furniture suppliers who understand the unique demands of UAE’s vibrant hospitality sector.

[polutrope]

🦤 a quote you had to delete :( (but still wanna share!)

Thank you for the ask!

Here's a flashback scene I cut from the latest chapter of And Love Grew, of the murderbrothers discussing their decision to attack Sirion. It got away from me and the character motives I'd already committed to, but I think it's still a cool scene.

~

“How many times?” Amrod cried. “How many times must she refuse us before you will rouse yourself to action?”

He had railed for minutes. Dornil, arms steepled and knotted in front of her mouth to conceal any sign of emotion, had watched Maedhros, silent and enduring at the head of a table in the neglected council chamber of Amon Ereb. The tapestries, those that had not been thrown into the hearthfire in a fit of rage at the past they recalled, were frayed and faded. The stone walls were rimed with ash. They had not been cleaned since Doriath.

When his brother paused for breath, Maedhros said, “Be seated.” Amrod seethed a moment, hesitating, then obeyed. “We have not given up hope of reclaiming the Silmaril by means of negotiation.”

“How long until Morgoth sends his legions against them?” Amrod persisted. “How long before it falls back into his hands?”

“The Enemy is bound by no Oath to reclaim the jewel,” Maedhros explained, edged with only a hint of impatience. “Moreover his power does not extend so far as Sirion. Ulmo still guards those waters else the haven would have been taken years ago. By all reports the settlement thrives. Morgoth will wait until the time is ripe.”

Amras had sat silent and sullen since their counsel began, but now he spoke. “You do not know his mind.”

The lash of his words was palpable. Maedhros snapped. “I know his mind far better than any of you here.”

Perhaps, thought Dornil. But where had it led them? Maedhros’ professed knowledge of the Enemy’s counsels, his consolation for years of torment, had brought them nothing but ruin and disgrace.

“We need not fight them,” Dornil said. She lowered her arms. “The people of Sirion — of Nargothrond, Doriath, Gondolin — will know a force too great to resist when they see it. They have all suffered defeat. Dior was stubborn, his daughter is stubborn. She is too young to remember. But that is not true of all her people. When they see our strength, they will surrender.”

“And if they do not?” Maglor challenged when she had finished — not unkindly, but in the way of father, or a teacher, coaxing a thought to fullness.

“Then we will answer,” Dornil said. It was not the answer he wanted to hear, but sometimes a teacher must learn from his pupil. An elder from his junior. This Maglor understood well.

“Maedhros,” Maglor said. “We cannot risk losing more of our people.”

“You mean more of your brothers?” Amras cut in before Maedhros could answer. “You mean us?”

Maglor’s head snapped to him. “I mean our people.”

“No,” Maedhros said, as if to himself, “you do not.” He raised his voice. “And you are right. There are warriors among them also, and it takes only one blade, one arrow, to end a life. We all believe we will pass in glory, against a foe far greater than us. Was Caranthir not shot down by archers skulking in trees? Did Curufin not end upon the knife of an unarmoured Sinda queen? Was Celegorm not felled by a half-mortal king scarcely out of his youth?” Each of these names flew from his tongue like a lance, all the sharper for how infrequently he spoke of them. “I will not have that life be any of yours.”

“Then you will need to restrain us,” Amrod said. “For we go to Sirion with or without your support. Brother.”

Dornil felt herself go taut.

But Maedhros was unaffected. “Yes. I thought you might say that.”

“Then restrain them!” Maglor cried, eyes flashing at his twin brothers. “If they are set on madness, is it wrong to do so?”

Swift as a snake, Amras lunged. His fist hit Maglor’s jaw. A moment later, blood pooled at the corner of Maglor’s mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his palm.

Maedhros did not move, did not speak. He did nothing.

Dornil burned with defensive fury. She knew she was not alone among the assembled captains. Too often of late they had witnessed their lords strike against each other — with blows or words, the difference was slight. The sons of Fëanor were fracturing, calving ice floes on which they, their followers, were helplessly adrift.

“A person may be bound and shut behind bars,” said Maedhros at last. “But an oath such as ours cannot be restrained. Four of us who swore that Oath remain. Two are set on pursuing its fulfillment through threat of violence, or violence indeed if it should come to that. My heart at present does not agree with this course of action. But if my brothers tell me, as you do, that our father’s Oath is now stronger than the one you swore to follow me, I cannot keep you from it. Is it this that drives you?”

“Yes,” Amrod said without hesitation.

[voidsdamned]

Wicked Natures - The Ghoul/OC (Female Character) Chapter Eight

Summary: Bounty hunters are frequent customers at Mulholland's Saloon, and Rue's taken quite a shine to one gunslinger in particular: a cantankerous, old Ghoul in a tattered duster. Witness her unabashedly lust after him in all his irradiated glory (as we are all currently doing), as well as navigate the precarious relationship she unfortunately has with local law enforcement.

Minors, do not interact.

Content Warnings: just porn, some sweetness, biting, blood, swearing, dirty talk, light bondage, cock-warming, oral, self-stimulation, and overstimulation.

Enjoy.

Chapter Eight: Mighty Fine

It’s deeply shameful on Rue’s part, but somewhere between lipstick getting and leaving Mulholland’s, she forgot the Ghoul was coming over. So, her surprise and delight –the happy, little gasp– are truly honest when she opens her front door to find him posted on her couch, casually reclined with legs wonderfully spread. She just barely remembers to shut and lock her door because her first instinct is to run at him and straddle. But no. She keeps her cool –for the moment– greeting him with a beaming smile and a, “Hey you,” as she hangs up her bag. Then she goes to light the small lamp on the kitchen table, as the night is a little too dark. She won’t be able to properly see the lovely, rough edges of his face without it.

The room flickers with muted light; Rue blows out the match she used. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seein’ ya in here. Makes me want to do a lil’ dance. I know that’s goofy, but… it’s just nice.” She goes to him, sitting herself neatly upon his lap and sighs a soft, pleased sound when a hand greets her waist and the other travels up, between, her thighs. “How do ya manage to get in anyway?”

“I’ve had plenty of time to learn to pick a lock.” The hand at her waist trails up. Down. The one between her legs squeezes at the meat of her thighs. His eyes lazily run up her, fixing on her breasts before finding her lips. Her eyes. It’s such an intense perusal, intimate yet lazy in its way. “You get what I want?”

Rue just wants to reach for him, to cup his radiation-warped cheek in her hands. Brush fingertips against scar tissue and hollows. But she’s gathered he doesn’t like to be touched, so she keeps her hands to herself no matter how horribly the desire to caress and love seizes her. She busies herself by reaching down the front of her blouse to retrieve the lipstick stashed in her bra.

“’Course I did.” She taps it to her lips. “Hope it’s the shade ya have in mind.”

Another firm squeeze that has shivers going up her spine, and the way his fingers on her waist tap and press into her… fuck. She’s already so screwed, in a pent-up, devastating way. Her mouth goes dry when he purrs, “Put it on for me.”

Rue needs a mirror. There’s one in the bathroom, but she doesn’t want to get up. She doesn’t want those hands to leave her, to interrupt the resplendent touch. “I want to,” she murmurs, “but I love the way you’re touchin’ me right now. …Will ya do it just like this again when I get back?”

The bounty hunter’s hands still for a heartbeat. The gaze that shifts between her lips and breasts finds her eyes again. He looks a bit annoyed. “Why ya gotta get up?”

“I’ll make a mess without a mirror.”

“But I wanna watch ya put it on.”

“Ooh.” Rue likes that. “I think I got a hand mirror in my dresser….”

“Fetch,” he orders, hands slowly falling away. “Your seat’ll still be here when ya get back.”

Rue reluctantly stands, her only consolation the way he squeezes her ass before she walks away. Otherwise, she feels cold without his hands on her. Longing. She’s quick about going through her dresser until she finds the metal-framed, squared-away hand mirror. Immediately, without closing the drawers, she goes back to her Ghoul and reclaims her seat. Those hands come back, and Rue wants to melt when she feels his touch ever more acutely without the leather of his gloves muffling sensations.

She swears softly, eyes fluttering shut, “Ya made it better somehow.”

He tells her to, “Hush and put that lipstick on.”

Rue complies, all warm and fluttering inside as she pops the lid off the stick. She holds the mirror steady, and her hands have a surgeon’s precision, a fluidity, as she swipes the ruby red on her upper lip. The bottom. She rubs them together, letting them come apart with an audible pop that has his hands curling into her softness (and she’s quite certain she feels him stiffening beneath her). She represses the quiver and turns her head this way and that, inspecting and touching up just a little bit.

She’s made to stop, a rough hand grabbing her chin and making her look to the Ghoul before he’s turning her face further to the right. “Who did this?” His finger taps on a spot on her cheek she didn’t realize had gone so tender.

She winces; his hold eases but doesn’t release.

“Umm… Adel? I think.” Rue almost goes to gnawing at her lip but remembers she just applied lipstick. She sets it and the mirror on the couch cushion. “It’s… when I get real mad, I get foggy, and I know she made me mad.”

The Ghoul makes a “tsk” sound, hand dropping. “Think I’ll shoot her.”

Rue pulls in a surprised, delighted breath. “You’d kill her for me?”

Whiskey eyes roll. “It’s for me, honey. I’m the only one that gets to mark ya up.”

He’s going to make her blush. “I feel so special.”

Another roll of the eyes. “How’d she even piss you off? I been tryin’ since I met ya, but now I know it just turns you on.”

Rue tries –and fails– not to cackle at that. But it’s short-lived, clamped down on with a smile that goes brighter when she notes the handsome half-smile hanging on his own lips. “I can’t get mad at such a handsome face –a weakness of mine.”

A third, highly-exaggerated roll of the eyes. “Full. Of. Shit.”

“I’m gonna start chargin’ ya a cap a piece for those.” Rue leans in towards the Ghoul, kissing gently at the mouth that still holds a crooked smile. “I think I’ll convince ya one day –that I mean it. If I had it my way, you’re the only one who’d be touchin’ me ever.”

Her lips find his neck, pressing another soft kiss there. His mouth is against her ear, nipping, drawl gruff and slow, “Get on your knees.”

Rue, scattered and tingling after such a small bite, whimpers and grapples for her focus. Keeps herself from ripping off the clothes Lara so kindly allowed her to borrow. She obeys, slipping off his lap and into the space between his leg. She tries to touch his glorious thighs, but he stops her with a “tsk” (maybe she should start charging him for those, too), his hands capturing hers and binding them before she can blink.

She wants to touch him badly but knows they aren’t there yet. And that’s okay. She’s patient. She’ll make sure he never wants another’s hands on him once he finally lets her loose.

But for now, the knot is as tight as it normally is, and Rue is left to watch with a watering mouth as the Ghoul undoes his belt buckle languidly, unhurried. As he pushes fabric aside, letting his ghoulish member spring free at full, proud attention.

Rue’s breathing is shallow, ragged, as she watches him stroke slow and steady. She could do that for him. She could make him feel so good if he would only let her.

“You look like you’re starvin’, darlin,” he murmurs, the hand not stroking his cock tips her chin up.

She meets his gaze only to leisurely lick at her lips. “Y’know I wanna eat ya up.” And Rue can’t help but notice the way his cock twitches at her saying so. “I’d have you for every meal.”

The hand at her chin pulls her closer. The curl of his lips is dangerous, hungry. “Eat up, sweet.”

Rue doesn’t need anything more than the invitation. She is starving, her whole body craving the Ghoul and only her mouth so lucky to receive him (for the moment). And she’s going to give him what he desires, his fantasy. He might gag her a dozen times, but she’s going to leave that ruby-red ring around the base of his cock. It is her sole mission.

She works steadily towards her goal, taking more and more of him into her mouth, his swears and deep intakes of breath, the purred, “Oh, honey, that’s it,” offering her so much good encouragement. She’ll take him all the way. Even when she’s gagging and tears dampen her eyes, leaving wet tracks down her cheeks. Even when she’s forgetting to breathe. Even when he makes her so stupidly, dizzily horny when his hand grasps her pony-tail and uses it to guide her further and further down on him as his hips rut upwards.

An upward drive of his hips times up just right with a downward dip of her head, and Rue’s nose brushes against rough skin. It feels like victory (even though her throat feels raw and abused, and she’s pretty sure she’s all red-eyed and sniffly). She holds him right there, lapping at his length with her tongue and swallowing around him. His grunt and gasp are musical praise. The minute buck of his hips so very gratifying. The fucking groan he gives. How that fist in her hair tightens and tugs as he comes down her throat.

Rue is warm, hot, burning. She’s soaked for the second time this night, head swimming as she slowly licks and sucks her way off his pulsing cock.

“You can’t be doin’ that,” his voice is so breathy, gasping. Growling. But he doesn’t remove her. “Too sweet, too sore. Fuck.”

She comes off him with a pop, smile such a satisfied thing. “But isn’t that so good?” She dips forward, kissing his cum-leaking tip, licking lazy and slow. His whole body shakes, and his head falls back, grip in her hair falling away. “Ya make me feel that all the time. …How’s that red look?”

Rue can see it plainly, brilliantly, from her vantage, and the red coiling ‘round him brings her a surge of pride. The Ghoul’s head raises; his eyes drop. That crooked, lovely smirk quirks ruined lips. “Mighty fine.”

She tuts. “C’mon now. I did good work.”

“Ya did,” he agrees. “And as a reward, I’ll let ya make me cum again.”

Rue laughs. “What an honour.”

Still grinning at her, the Ghoul beckons for her to stand. “Get them clothes off.”

Rue pops to her feet and holds her bound hands out. “Can’t get the top off with tied-up hands, and I don’t think ya wanna wait the hour it takes me to get outta these.”

She supposes it’s easier for him to cut them than untie them, as he suddenly has a knife in hand (and, fuck, is it hot how quick he is with it) and cuts the ropes. Rue wants to be just as quick with ditching her clothes, but something about the way the Ghoul watches her has her wanting to go slow. Maybe not make a show out of it, but some anticipation is nice. He seems to like this look on her, and she should let him enjoy it.

She bends to take off her boots despite being fully able to just kick them off. And when she goes to take off the trousers, she’s slow with the three buttons fastening them closed. She shimmies her way out of them, letting them slip down her legs and pool around her feet before lightly stepping from them. Firm, insistent fingers find her as she pulls the top over her head, dragging across the fabric of her underthings. Dipping in between.

Rue wishes she could feel that forever: that glancing, first touch. The immediate delight. The spark of fire. She wishes she could begin and end everyday with him petting her.

A deep chuckle rattles out of the Ghoul, his fingers slipping passed the thin barrier of her underwear. She shivers. “You’ve soaked these.”

Rue knows it and has no shame. The shirt joins the trousers on the floor. “It’s you, sweet. All you.”

The Ghoul wets his lips with his tongue, fingers petting and prodding. Plunging. Rue’s breath goes tight, out of her. Her legs shake, and she desperately needs something to cling to, but she keeps herself upright. Keeps on with her task, reminding herself to breathe as she slowly unhooks her bra and lets it slip off her shoulders. The Ghoul’s unpreoccupied hand immediately cups her right breast, fondling slow and firm. Rue can’t help the needy sounds from escaping despite how ardently she tries to keep it together.

“D-Do ya want me to keep the ribbon on?” she manages to ask, biting back a moan when he rolls her nipple between thumb and pointer finger. She's a finger curl away from straddling him, from driving her body against his. Riding him until the sun comes up. 

“Naw.” The Ghoul’s hands slip away; Rue wants to cry. “I got an idea for it.” He stands, hand reaching for the ribbon in her hair and pulling it free. He falls back onto the couch and takes her hands, using the blue length of silky fabric to bind her hands back together. Then his hands go to inch her drawers down.

His mouth gets so dangerously close to her lower, she can feel his breath fanning over her mound, between her legs. And suddenly those delightfully abrasive lips are against her thigh. His mouth opens, a hot wet, lick trailing. Punctuated by a rough bite that has Rue squeaking, panting, and a, “Fuck-goddamn-shit-fuck-damn-fuck-fuck-fuck,” hissing through her lips.

His laughter is wicked and his grin wolfish when he retracts his mouth. There’s a redness to his lips, a wound left in the wake of him. It’s small. He just broke the skin. But it smarts, and Rue’s trembling, all her nerves alight. Her brain is fuzzy and foggy and dumb with desire. She wants another one of those. She wants his mouth on her cunt.

But he’s giving orders as her panties hit the floor. “I wantcha on my lap, facin’ away from me. Once you’re sittin’, you’re not to move.”

Rue nods, eager to comply and easily slipping into the position he wants. She straddles him in the reverse, her knees planted on either side of his thighs. One of his hands grabs her by the waist, and a brief glance down shows her that the other holds his cock, pumping it slow as she sinks down bit-by-bit.

It’s a delicious sensation, filling and stretching and honey-sweet. Rue moans and pants with each inch gained, trembling and near-lightheaded when she finally settles upon his lap. He fills her to the brim. Warms her core. Drives her crazy. She feels just about drunk.

And then both of those strong, large, rough hands are on her waist, petting. Squeezing. Wiggling her until she somehow sinks just a little lower. It’s white-hot. Everything. It’s a struggle to keep still, and ultimately, she fails to. She’s completely aquiver, and she can feel the way she squeezes around him. But she can’t help that –surely, he realizes she can’t help that.

“Quit that shiverin’,” he growls, fingers digging in. “Still, darlin’. Real still.”

“It’s so hard. You feel so good.” Rue squeezes her eyes shut. She holds her breath, willing herself to stillness. To relax and loosen despite being taught as fence wire. “Fuck, ya feel good.” Her eyes part a sliver, not that she can see him. “How long on the clock?”

“Three minutes, but it starts over if ya move.”

Rue makes a “psh” sound. “Just three? That’s easy.”

The Ghoul hums, a curious sound. “Is it?” His hands go back to rubbing, dragging. Dipping down to press at a particularly sensitive bundle of nerves.

That’s it for her –all it takes to have her shuddering and hips bucking weakly.

His voice is a breathy growl. His grip tight, forcing her hips to cease. “I set the bar so low ‘cause you’re the wriggliest lay I’ve ever had. I’m not sure ya can even make it a minute. Already havin’ to start over.”

“I-I’m sensitive,” Rue’s indignant explanation wavers, legs shaking when his teeth find her shoulder and bite down. “And that’s not fair.”

“’Course it is.” His tongue drags across the spot he bit. “Game’s gotta have a bit of challenge to it.”

Rue gnaws her lips gently. Shit, if he noticed that he probably started the count over…. How in the hell does she know what counts or not? “Does me talkin’ start the count over? My lips are movin’. And my chest moves when I breathe.”

“It’s more along the lines of cunt squeezin’ or your body quiverin’,” he murmurs before biting her again in a new spot, fingers rubbing a deliberate circle within the same instant. “Mostly ‘cause I like to hear the nasty shit that slips outta them pretty lips.”

She can’t hold herself still –can’t even hope to. She thought she was tougher than this, but her easily excitable body is fully betraying her. She breathes out slow, trying to steady herself. “We… hm… we actually might be here for a while.”

“I ain’t got nothin’ better to do,” the Ghoul says factually, piteously. “I got all the time in the world.”

“All your doin’ is sittin’ there, though,” she mumbles, paying close attention to her breathing –to everything else aside from the substantial cock threatening her sanity. “I’m absolutely full of ya, and when I start thinkin’ ‘bout ya, I get in a bad way, and my body moves whether I say it can or not. And I can’t not be thinkin’ ‘bout ya when you’re fuckin’ hollowin’ me out.”

The Ghoul groans, a sound that doesn’t quite leave his throat, and Rue feels his cock twitch inside her. It has her seeing stars –feeling their warmth, all liquid and melty. It’s wonderful, but it’s horrible, because she doesn’t know that she can win this game. That she can sit here all night, feeling him but not feeling him. The way his scarred-up cock strokes against her insides as he fucks her silly. The maddening tempo, roughness, of each thrust.... Just thinking about it has Rue drawn taught, body clenching around the Ghoul despite her. And what does that get her? Another pulse, another flash of stars. Another shiver and moan.

Her head hangs, a pitiful, “Your dick keeps twitchin’,” whining out of her.

The bounty hunter chuckles, the vibrations of it soaking into her back. “Awe, that’s the sorriest I’ve ever heard ya.” The fingers resting against her nerves twitch, press; she pants, trying not to jerk or wiggle. She fails. “Back to one, sweetheart.”

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleve-.”

“Nuh-uh.” He fucking pinches, and she almost comes off his lap, only held in place by his iron grip. “That feels like cheatin’ to me.”

Rue, doing her best not to move a single, goddamn muscle, gives a desperate laugh. “And what you’re doin’ ain’t?”

“Ain’t no rules for me, pumpkin.” Again, he’s so factual. Obviously, there aren’t any rules for him. She’s so silly for thinking that. “I get to play with ya however I want, and you just get to take it.”

Rue stamps down on her shiver. “That’s hot.” She pulls in the deepest, most determined of breaths. Her brow and jaw setting in a look of seriousness she knows must be comically out of place on her. “…Y’know what I’m gonna have to do, right?”

He sounds amused. “What’s that?”

The answer is yap, but it is a very specific kind of yapping she does. It’s a solid three minutes of filth, of her explaining in graphic –perhaps nonsensical– detail what his dick feels like inside her: the stretch, the heat, the fantastic sense of fullness. The ridges. The goddamn, fucking ridges. When he finally fucks her, it’s going to feel like lightning bolts. How is she supposed to keep her composure? How does he keep his composure? She has to feel good, too, doesn’t she? She knows she’s soft. Warm and sweet. Tight and wet. She knows she’s wet. She can feel it. Every time his fingers so much as twitch, she thinks she must go to dripping. Does he remember biting her thigh? She does. She’s thinking about that a lot, and how she really would like one on her other thigh to match. And if he’s going to have his mouth down there… well, his tongue slipping into the folds of her, pressing into her center, is a nice thought. His hands do magic, but fuck, she needs to know what his tongue can do. Can’t he show her one day?

And all the while, the Ghoul’s hold tightens. His cock throbs. He lavishes her neck and shoulders with brutal affection. Hand fondling breasts or fingers intermittently torturing her in the best kind of way. But Rue holds still. She focuses on the way her words sound and how they feel on her tongue. How out of breath she is. She pretends the Ghoul isn’t there even though he so painfully is.

“That’s three minutes,” Rue murmurs, mid-way through telling him the night he up-and-dusted on her she still got off to him. “That has to be three minutes.”

“Well passed it,” the statement is a growl against her neck. “But I wantcha to finish your story.”

Rue’s eyes roll, from the timber of his voice and his foot-dragging. “It’s just ‘bout me touchin’ myself.”

“Show me how ya did it.”

“Ooh.” Heat flares through Rue. “Want me to turn around or…?”

“I want it just like this, sweetheart.” The hand which teases her lower slips away, coming back with that hand mirror she’d set aside. “This is such a good angle.”

He’s quick at finding the right angle: that illicit view of her so snug on his cock, dripping like she knew she was. Her eyes go half-lidded. Her breathing so shallow. Her lips and throat so dry when she says, “We look so pretty put together.”

All he does is bite her on the spot where neck and shoulder run together, demanding, “Show me.”

The tone and bite have Rue shivering, her bound hands hurrying to do as instructed as she breathes out an obedient, “Yessir.”

Rue knows what she likes, exactly how to move her fingers. The pressure. The tempo. How her hips like to rock minutely, and it does feel like lightning bolts race through her at just that bit of motion. The shifting pressure of the Ghoul’s cock and the way he throbs. She’s aching and tender, and honestly, not very far off from everything the Ghoul has done to her –and keeps doing to her, moaning at the sight of her pleasuring herself and petting wherever he can with his free hand).

And watching herself… it’s ridiculously arousing. Lewd. The way her fingers work in the slick mess of her. The motion of her hips. The Ghoul’s cock, spearing through her.

Rue’s head falls back with a low moan. She’s so close to something grand, a taught wire ready to snap.

“Come for me,” the Ghoul coaxes. “I wanna feel them walls tight around me.”

Rue does, whole body shivering as the coil wound tight within her snaps. Bright white and glaring, sharp and beautiful. She needs something to squeeze, to bury her teeth into, to-.

The Ghoul is moving, the mirror dropping (she thinks she hears a crack through the buzzing in her ears), and he’s holding her tight, taking her down. They fall to their sides, one hand taking the place of her own and the other grasping at her knee, pulling it to her chest. His arm hooks under her thigh, holding it in place.

He pulls back and strokes deep, fingers rubbing in harsh circles on a sensitive bundle of nerves. Rue’s cry is sharp, torn out of her. Because that is lighting, crackles and sparks and racing heat. Every bit of her body prickling and bright as he fucks her through her orgasm and into overstimulation.

“That’s it. Lemme hear ya. Ya always take it so good,” his voice is as ragged as Rue feels. “That cunt of yours grips like a vice, like you’re suckin’ me all over again…. Beggin’ me to fill ya up. Fuck ya stupid. Is that what you want, Rue? Ya wanna be fucked-out and drippin’?”

Rue moans, not sure she can string together anything resembling a sentence, not even a simple, "Fuck yes," when he's fucking her so savagely. Touching her so remorselessly. Using her goddamn name like that. Everything that comes out of her is a pant, cry, or moan. A reedy, high, pathetic sound. She nods helplessly, sucking his fingers when he orders her to and taking all of him like the good girl she is. Writhing as his dick pulses, as his hips snap unsteadily but still so deep-reaching. So shattering. And so, so warm when he spills within her, deep and plenty. It has Rue melting, soaring. Buzzing and hazy as his teeth scrape against well-loved flesh.

The grip on her leg falls away, and she can’t keep the shaky thing upright. She can barely keep herself in the present. Her brain and body are running away from her. But the hand on her hip is warm and rough and lovely. Rue’s focus snags on it, the weight of it. Like it’s settled, and he’s not about to pull away. She doesn’t want him to. He’s so sound and warm against her, and Rue basks in it for a long, few minutes until her breathing steadies and her body stops thrumming.

“Which one of us do ya think talks dirtier?” she asks, voice so soft. So satisfied. She grins when easy laughter rumbles through her like distant thunder. “I think it’s me.”

“Might be,” he admits. “You got a… way of describin’ things. Never had someone compare my dick to lightnin’ before.”

“It’s a real flatterin’ compliment if you’re worried.”

He scoffs, his breath tickling at her neck and raising goosebumps. “Ain’t worried ‘bout nothin’. Not with the way you cry out and beg for me.”

Rue sighs, a forlorn sound. “If only you’d give me a name to beg to….”

“Nah.” The Ghoul moves, slowly pulling himself out of her. Rue shivers with the motion of it, like she’s receiving muted shocks of electricity. But then she’s empty. Missing the way he fills her already and the hand that was once so warm against her hip. It’s still close, but it’s more concerned with undoing the weakly-knotted ribbon she could probably get out of herself in about five minutes. “You can just call me ‘lightnin’.”

Rue laughs, rubbing at her wrists as they come free, and then turning to face the Ghoul. His eyes are half-lidded, regarding her curiously with a barely-there quirk at the corner of his mouth. His hat fell off at some point, allowing her to see more of the scar tissue that seems to comprise his entirety.

For a moment, she has to fight the desire to reach up and pet him, to run her fingers from temple to jaw.

She stamps on the desire with a tempting, “But wouldn’t it sound so sweet to hear me say it? All breathy and wantin’. Askin’ ya, by name, to fuck me. To fill me.”

The tip of the gunslinger’s tongue sweeps across his lips, wetting them. He tells her to, “Quit that.”

“Make me.”

With a roll of his eyes, the Ghoul promptly pushes her off the couch.

[27dragons]

New Year Countdown: Dec 8

Today's story is Geraskifer (Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer)!

Dec 8 - Geraskifer - Fake Relationship - Fireplace

All three of them were deep in their cups -- there wasn’t much else to do while they waited for the spring thaw to open the mountain pass. They were playing Gwent, the loser ceding their chair to the spectator after each round; the playing table had been set up in front of the fire, where the light was best, and the players’ chairs were the warmest seats in the house. It was a good system - there was incentive to win, to remain by the fire, but even the loser only had to wait one game to reclaim one of the good spots.

It was something to do, at any rate, which made it better than doing nothing, though only by the slimmest of margins. After more than a month in this place, they’d all learned each other’s tells, sober or drunk, and it was starting to get more than a bit tedious. But drinking and playing Gwent was better than listening to the wind howl and worrying about Ciri.

Jaskier could think of better -- and warmer -- activities with which to pass the time, but, decades of pining aside, he was pretty sure that wasn’t going to happen. His only consolation was that he was reasonably certain that Geralt wasn’t fucking Yennefer, either. Not unless they were doing it in utter silence, and “quiet” had not been a word he’d have used to describe Geralt and Yennefer’s relationship at any time in the past.

Geralt grunted irritably and threw down the rest of his cards. “I’m going to check Roach.” He stalked out of the little cabin and out into the storm without even pausing to put on a scarf.

“He seems tense,” Jaskier observed, taking Geralt’s chair and raking the cards toward himself.

“He needs to get laid,” said Yennefer.

Jaskier made a face as he started shuffling. “I’m not stopping him.”

Yennefer hummed, collecting her cards as he dealt them. “He wants both of us.”

“The fuck he does.”

“No, really,” she said. “I’ve seen him watching you.”

“I know you’re lying to me,” Jaskier said, narrowing his eyes at her over his cards. “I just can’t figure out what your angle is.”

“My angle,” Yennefer said, “is that I think we’d all be a bit more comfortable if we were sharing the bed instead of sleeping on the floor.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“He thinks we hate each other.”

Jaskier paused in the middle of laying down a card. “Because... we do.” Jaskier didn’t, actually, hate her. Not anymore. But he’d kiss Valdo Marx on the mouth before he admitted it out loud. “We very much do hate each other, Yennefer.”

“Mm.” Her fey violet eyes snared his gaze. “And what’s that got to do with fucking?”

Jaskier opened his mouth, then closed it again. She had a point. “So what do we do?”

“He’s a man,” Yennefer said. “Men are oblivious.” She gave him a stern look to keep him from protesting. He hadn’t been planning on it. “So when he comes back, we should be kissing.”

Jaskier blinked. “Kissing?”

“Yes.” She stood up and started unlacing her shirt. “Or something similar. It’s best to be direct.”

“Just like that, he’s going to believe we’ve stopped hating each other and now want to fuck?”

“Yes.”

“...All right.” Jaskier got up and started in on his pants. “And then what?” he wondered. “Just say, ‘why don’t you join us to make sure things stay civil?’”

“Not bad,” Yennefer said, grudgingly impressed. “That might even work.” She grabbed his shirt and pulled him up against her. “He’s coming,” she whispered, closing her teeth on his earlobe just a touch past the point of pain. “Act like you want this.”