#what’s his name? I just refer to him as fella

[mothxart]

Behold~ 𖦹 ☼ ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ

The new reference for Willow that took me way too long to do good lord I’m not doing a reference that detailed for my other ocs ever again

If you have any questions or you want to ask something about this fella, go ahead!! TELL MEEE :D

I will respond to them the best I can, I still need to develop some lore about Willow :3

More infos ────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──

Willow

Willow joined this team recently. Bryan, his mentor, took the responsibility of taking this newcomer under his wing. He still have a lot to learn about his job and this new environment. He’s quite timid but his presence is gladly appreciated by the others on his team.

— Since Willow is a novice on his team, he’s always accompanied by Bryan.

— Willow hates pretty much everything that has many legs such as spiders and snare fleas,

— That fear developed itself on his first day when a face hugger directly fell on his face. Luckily, Bryan was there to help.

— He once had a dog named Angello.

— He studies in meteorological phenomenon 𖤓

— He doesn’t fully know how he ended up working for the company,,,

Masked Willow

— Shefford is the most affected out of everyone (by the death of Willow). He saw what happened to Willow from a far distance and he was unable to do anything to help him get out of this bloody situation. He cannot stand to talk about Willow after what has happened. He fears to lost somebody else on their team.

— Willow is pretty much afraid of everything. This poor fella shakes in terrors if he happens to either see or hear a thumper or the masked who converted him. The masked who converted Willow in question looks after him so he doesn’t rot in a corner or die by something.

— Willow’s memory shortens everyday as the mask takes possession of its host. He will remember the most important things that he hold dear to his heart. Day after day, he will progressively loose them.

— Willow keeps his walkie since it briefly reminds him of his lost friends. It makes him feel calm and secured. He doesn’t fully know why he feels that way as his memory shortens everyday.

— Willow’s memories are still pretty fresh in his mind. However, he tempts to forget easily as the mask is slowly possessing him. He’d try to remember his friends, but sometimes he would just forget their face, their names…little details like that.

— He ran into a Thumper who bit him to his right ankle and got dragged far away into the mansion.

— Willow’s ankle would heal as time goes by…but any sudden or rough movements would tear the muscle tissues apart from his wounds, causing its ankle to bleed out again…

[dont-worry-honey]

I drew @aroneatsglue32 little mothman fella :3!!

He is looking at his mothman treats !!!

[the-kipsabian]

its a sad day when you see a person you know is good and creative to use ai tools to make art

[lactoseintolerentswag]

Rise Characterizations

Last month I did an in-depth re-watch of rottmnt s1 to take some notes on writing the characters of rise from their perspective and such. Figured I'd share what I found, but I'm also posting this bc my docs have a nasty habit of blipping out of existence.

We'll start with Raph bc he's the oldest of course, but I'll post the others sep. bc this is gonna get long!!

Raph Character Notes

Language Habits:

Catchphrases: "like a boss", "smash"

Verbalizes his attacks such as "smash", "knuckle sandwich", "power smash jitsu", "tonfa power jitsu", "mystic punch jitsu"

Uses older song titles for surprised exclamations or in place of cursing, most notably "jumping jack flash!"

Uses aave/bae, For example: 'em instead of them, 'ey instead of they, 'cause instead of because, forgoes the g in ing words (going becomes goin')

Uses less and less grammar the more he's stressed, and his voice will come to a higher pitch

Will speak in a softer tone to his little brothers if he's concerned about hurting their feelings. Aka babying them

Mixes up both metaphors and idioms. Would be one to say how the turn tables unironically

Does say "hero" a lot, lost count, especially in phrases like "hero town"

Refers to his brothers as "boys" or "fellas"

Refers to Splinter as "pop(s)" most often

Refers to strangers he's directly talking to as "bubs" or "hoss"

Personality:

Protective of his family

Plays up the hero act/has a strong sense of duty and justice

Impatient, rushes in without a plan (pre-movie), doesn't finish books until the end, falls asleep during "boring movies"

Oblivious, doesn't read into things beyond surface level. Struggles with empathy when something is beyond his understanding, but is still very emotional

Center of responsibility for his brothers, but also has a reckless sense of fun. As long as it's him doing the stupid unsafe thing it's fine

Carries the weight, in a literal sense he piggy backs his brothers, but will also use his body as a shield from danger. Unfortunately this also means he takes his brothers a little less seriously (Mikey the most common victim), and will try and either protect them from everything or as an oldest sibling everything has go "his way"

Doesn't do well in solitude. Needs to be looking after people to feel functional, and needs to be around people to feel safe

Clumsy, "takes horrible pictures", isn't very good at hiding, he's a big guy so it probably took a lot of time to find balance

A sweet guy who still won't shy from making fun of his family. Leo tends to be the brunt of his teasing since he is the most annoying, but he will also poke Donnie on his dramatics

Likes cute things!!! Has a teddy bear collection and loves animals. It's so cool how this isn't played off as a joke and he's still just as masculine for liking pink and cutesy stuff

Likes fighting!!! Gets a lot of energy out defeating bad guys (where he directs his anger towards), the one who is shown to train the most, and also weight lifts in his spare time

Doesn't do well under pressure, here the anger comes out the most. He gets stressed when it's all on him, especially since he tends to mess up the most in these moments

Miscellaneous:

Second to unlock mystic powers

Nicknames/codenames: "raph-a-doodle" by leo, "red rover" by april, "red king" by donnie

Teddy bear names: Doctor Huggenstein, Captain Snuggles, Cheech

Stinks: fear stink, amazement stink, sneaking up on people stink, victory stink

Seems to be less afraid of rabbits and more afraid of puppets

Went on his first solo mission at 13

Cannot lift a bus, at age 15

Thought about discussing fighting style, but I'm not as familiar with that concept and I've seen a couple posts dissecting such topic. So we'll end here for now. Hope this was helpful!!! I'll post the rest of the boys later and link here

Leo is up!!

Donnie is up!!

Mikey is up!!

Splinter is up!!

April is up!!

Cassandra is up!!

[killerpancakeburger]

Imagine: Ghost giving you the shovel talk after Soap and you made your relationship official

It's the evening, you two are smoking outside in companionable silence, taking in the star-spangled sky. Suddenly his voice pulls you out of your daydreaming.

"So... you n' Johnny, eh?”

You feel an ominous shiver run down your spine - you do not like the turn this conversation is taking. His tone is steady, like it usually is, but it means nothing when that specter is involved. He could be slicing a throat and his voice wouldn't waver a iota.

If there was anything you learned about The infamous Ghost, in the absence of his identity and the face beneath the mask, it was that the names he used for the people he considered his family were anything but random. Soap was the most common way he refered to his Sergeant, but a Johnny could slip here and there. "Johnny" was personal; intimate; vulnerable; and possessive all at once. Not in the way an insecure lover would act - although...? Maybe...? -, but in the way a pack member would bare his fangs at a newcomer to protect his mates.

There was something animalistic buried within him that would resurface from time to time, when the risk was too great, when the survival of the 141 or of any of its members was jeopardized. Something you would not risk to vex. Simon was extremely protective behind closed doors, it wasn’t a scoop, but you thought yourself safe from his fangs... or at least you did until now.

"Yeah?"

How you hate the interrogation in your voice. As if you were seeking his permission. Like a child knowing they're asking for too much but doing it anyway.

You busy yourself with your cigarette, trying to look unfazed.

"He may sound like a fuckin' playboy most of the times, but he's actually a sensible kinda fella. Doesn't go around givin' his heart to just anyone, y'know?"

You gulp. Take a deep breath. The only way out is through. Might as well be done with it.

"So, is this the part where you swear that no one will ever find my body if I hurt him?"

You're proud of how casual you managed to sound.

He actually chuckles at that. A relaxed, raspy, unbothered kind of sound. Maybe you will walk away with your life tonight after all.

"Got it all figured out, don't ya? But that's good. Saves us some time."

He tosses his cigarette and, for the first time since you’ve been outside, he turns to you and look you in the eye. His stare is as intense as ever.

"We're in agreement, then? Ya'll treat mah boy well?"

"Wouldn't dream of anything else."

"Good lass."

A pause, then:

"This works both way, y'know that, right?"

"Hmm?"

Too busy celebrating your escape from the valley of the shadow of death, you haven't been completely paying attention.

"If he gives ya trouble, I'll knock some sense into that thick head of his."

You look at him again, your face beaming and your chest tingling with a newfound joy.

"Thank you."

You smile, unable to stop the motion of your lips. Your gratefulness is not for the threat he proclaimed, but for the friendship he extends to you.

He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to.

Suddenly a burly arm wraps around your neck.

"What were ya guys talkin' about!? You’ve been there for ages." Pouts Soap.

Glancing over at Ghost, you can see that Johnny has tried to grab him by the neck too, with a lukewarm success, considering the height difference between the two of them.

"Nothin' ye need to concern yerself with", retorts Simon, lying as easily as he breathes.

As Johnny turns to you in hopes of finding an easier target that will confess everything, you nearly miss the conspiratorial wink Ghost sends your way. The action is so far removed from his usual character, you understand that the discrepancy is made to amuse you. So you giggle.

Tonight the sky is full of stars, and your heart full of bliss, the way you feel like your chest might burst with happiness at any moment, with those two men at your side.

A/N: Platonic!Reader x Ghost my beloved 😫 🖤 Tried to make Ghost the less OOC as possible, as usual >_< but man its not a walk in the fookin park.

Trouple potential tho? 👀 sorry not sorry, I can't help it, I love the ambiguity...

[hollytoshaw]

for the best | harry lewis

summary: in which y/n and harry are in a 'casual' relationship

word count : 2.2k

a/n: this is inspired by the song 'the giver' by sarah kinsley so give it a listen!! hope u enjoy lovelies. super angsty eeeek and i have barely proof read it as i wrote it quite rushed after listening to the song so hope it's ok lol

warnings: angst(no happy ending) , references to sex, alcohol

requests: open <333

rest of my work : masterlist

✩ ✩ ✩

✩ ✩ ✩

In the heart of the bustling city of London, amidst the chatter of late-night pub soirees and neon-lit streets, two individuals found each other in the most unexpected of ways. Y/N and Harry were acquaintances at most, their paths crossing occasionally at a mutual friend’s gathering or crowded house parties. Y/N, being a close friend of Chip and Cal’s, working occasionally behind the scenes with them on their podcast, and Harry, a friend of the fellas, who danced around in friendship circles and was known by nearly everyone - the two were bound to meet at some point. 

There was no denying that the pair shared a mutual attraction for one another. It was a chemistry so undeniable from the moment they met—they were drawn to each other like moths to a flame. And their encounters began innocently enough: casual flirtations and stolen glances exchanged at dimly lit bars and late-night gatherings—there was nothing more to it. Plus, Y/N had heard all the stories about him from their friends. That he’d just gotten out of a two-year relationship and was currently partaking in some debauched lifestyle, and she’d listen in on whispers about it too, that he was 'so good in bed’ but ‘not looking for anything serious’. She wasn’t completely sure if it was something she’d want to get involved in but she enjoyed the playfulness of their flirting nonetheless.

And Y/N was the same. Well, not in the sense that she was going out every night to try and 'score’ herself a good time with someone she’d wake up next to and not remember the name of, but in the sense that she just ended a lengthy relationship and was looking for something new. She knew the feeling of being lonely all too well, and she saw that in Harry. Beyond the way he capered around the bars and made the group laugh, she knew he was just lonely. While she knew deep down that in her heart she was a bit of a romantic and never used to just casually sleeping around, maybe something ‘not so serious’ with someone who was ‘good in bed’ would be something fun to try, something good for her. She was only young after all, and thought it would be a good break from her usual monogamy that she’d had going on for the past, however many years. So she let herself relax and dropped her guard down, allowing his flirtatious advances to be something more. And from there on their initial encounters began.

On one fateful evening, as the city hummed with the promise of excitement, Harry and Y/N found themselves alone as their friends danced and those that were in couples kissed the night away. The space between them crackled with anticipation, and they exchanged their usual playful banter over their glasses, their laughter mingling with the soft strains of jazz music that neither of them had heard before. Both of them knew what was on the other’s mind. With an interaction so heated with desire, burning like a wildfire out of control, and far too many shots of Sambuca mixed with obscene amounts of Long Island Iced Tea, it was bound to happen. It was the first night they ever dared share anything more than words, and as Harry leaned in and pressed his lips to Y/N, they both knew that that one kiss had ignited a spark between them. Finally, it set a flickering flame between them, their hearts ablaze with longing and passion. And without a word or nod to their friends, they had abandoned their drinks and made their way back to Harry’s flat, bodies drawn together like magnets, like crazed teenagers who had just had their first kiss and couldn’t keep their hands off each other. 

That very night, they shared a night of ecstasy, a whirlwind of tangled limbs, and whispered confessions. Revelling in one another’s touch, they explored every inch of skin with a hunger that bordered on desperation. It was raw and intense, a collision of bodies and souls that left them both breathless and yearning for more. 

And as dawn broke and the harsh light of morning filtered through the curtains, Harry and Y/N found themselves tangled in a web of confusion and uncertainty. They were just two strangers, bound together by lust and desire, with no expectations or promises between them. 

That’s how it all started. 

And, Y/N never did mean for it to be anything more than just two people trying to fill the void of a lonely night. But as the night turned to days, days to weeks, and weeks to months, the tryst between them continued, and they met whenever the urge struck. It was usually a text here or there from Harry asking if he could come over after a night out, to which Y/N would weigh options out in her head but inevitably always reply with a ‘Yes,’. It was a nice arrangement of freedom between them, and the thrill of forbidden passion drove them to new heights. 

Their friends were no strangers to what was going on between the pair. Uneasy glances were shared by the group as Harry and Y/N started leaving nights out early together, friends asking them, ‘Is this what you really want to be doing?’ or ‘You know these sorts of things never end well, right?’ but the pair didn’t care; it was their normal now.

It was different for them. They weren’t like their friends who were settling down and moving into houses with their significant others, some even having babies or getting engaged. They were lonely and just wanted to fill a void for a while—at least till the loneliness went away, they hoped. It was just how their nights went now; this was their routine, their shared intimacy—it was good for the pair. 

But Y/N knew nothing good ever lasts.

She had started to realise that maybe she wasn’t as good as Harry was at the whole casual idea of fun. While it was good for a while, the constant comments from friends about ‘This isn’t going to end well’ and ‘You’re so much better than this, Y/N’ caught up. The once-anxious looks turned to disapproving ones, and Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had started to form in her like a dark cloud over London in mid-February. She knew all too well that this was no longer a casual idea of fun.

There was nothing casual about their stolen kisses and his fingers playing with her hair. There was nothing casual about their whispered pillow talks about their lifelong dreams and childhood stories. There was nothing casual about his lips pecking her forehead and his hands holding her face like she was the world. And there was nothing casual about the pit in her stomach that she’d feel when she saw him chatting up a girl in a bar—a girl that couldn’t have looked more different to her. 

She realized it wasn’t right that she knew all his deepest, darkest secrets and that he knew hers. That she knew what foods upset his stomach or the way his nose crinkled when he felt nervous. The way he’d tap her thigh two times when they were out with friends to let her know that he wasn’t enjoying himself and wanted to leave. The way he held her as she lay on his lap and cried, his hands soothing her gently, There was nothing casual about it.

Y/N knew she had entered into their arrangement with the understanding that it was nothing more than a casual fling between ‘friends"—a temporary escape from the monotony of everyday life. But as she spent more and more time with Harry, she could see that she was getting more attached to and invested in their relationship than she had ever intended. And she wondered if it was the same for him—if the once lonely void in his heart felt filled by her presence. 

So one night, as they lay naked, tangled together in Harry’s bed, her head pressed on his chest and his hands messing around with her hair, Y/N found herself unable to hold back her emotions of uncertainty any longer. ‘’Harry,’’ she whispers, her voice quiet and shaky with inconstancy. ‘’Can I ask you something?’’

‘’What is it, Y/N?’’ his hand now moving to trace circles on her skin. 

‘’What is this?’’ 

‘’What do you mean?’’ he replies, sitting up slowly in the bed as Y/N’s head falls from his chest, and she’s forced to prop herself up so she’s now facing him.

Pulling the covers around her, Y/N doesn’t think she’s ever felt more vulnerable in her life. With his wide blue eyes staring at her, his flushed face, and his chest bare, she lets out a breath she didn’t even realise she was holding. 

‘’This,’’ she points her finger between the pair, ‘’between us.’’

Harry looks up, his eyes widened by his confusion. "Surely you know by now that we’ve said it thousands of times. It’s casual sex, Y/N,’’ he says with an awkward laugh. A laugh that sends the coldest shiver down Y/N’s spine.

‘’But is it casual anymore?’’ It feels like the temperature has dropped in the room by 10 degrees, and Y/N wishes there was more than a linen sheet covering her. ‘’It’s been six months, Harry.’’

‘’Yes, six months of casual sex,’’ he sighs. ‘’I thought we agreed on this.’’

‘’I know we did, but how is this casual anymore?’’ she pauses. ‘’What’s casual about us spending more days of the week together than apart? Or showing up to meet our friends while holding each other’s hands? The fact that we’ve spent half a year on this? Or the fact that I feel like I know every single thing about you?’’

‘’Y/N, I-’’

‘’No, Harry. There’s nothing casual about this, and you know it.’’

‘’No, I don’t know that, Y/N,’’ he fires back, ‘’we had an agreement,’’

‘’Well, the agreement has gone out the window, Harry.’’

‘’That’s not my fault.’’

‘’I’m not saying it’s your fault,’’ frustration growing as she combs her hands through her hair. ‘’I’m just saying this isn’t the same as when we first started this.’’

He lets out a long exhale, “I feel like you’re making this bigger than it actually is.’’, now shifting himself to the edge of the bed, almost as if he’s trying to get as far away from her as possible. To hide from her sudden confrontation.

‘’Well, I feel like you have no clue how I feel,’’ she exhales. ‘’Have you not heard what our friends think about this whole thing?’’

‘’When have we ever cared what our mates think?’’ he groans, standing up from the bed to pick up a pair of shorts and a t-shirt that they had discarded on the floor no so long ago.

And in that moment, it felt like between them stood an invisible wall. An intangible barrier crackling with tension. Each glance exchanged across the divide carried the weight of unspoken words, a silent plea from Y/N for understanding that was only left unanswered by Harry. Despite their proximity, it was clear the pair remained worlds apart, separated by the impenetrable fortress of their own insecurities and fears. And as Harry stood and Y/N remained on the bed in defeat, the tension hung heavy, bouncing off the four walls that formed Harry’s bedroom.

Y/N couldn’t even muster a reply, feeling too tired to even argue. She wasn’t going to get anywhere. He was set in stone by the fact that what the pair shared over the course of a half-year was nothing more than casual. And maybe it was all Y/N’s fault that she had started to feel like there was something more than what he said there was, but she knew deep down it couldn’t have been all her fault. She knew it was him, too. With his whispered sentiments, caring touches, and shared moments and kisses in places only a lover should dare to kiss, she knew it was him too. 

Harry realises she’s got nothing more to say as he looks down at her, sitting bare in his bed, her eyes wide and pleading.

Clearing his throat, he knows he’ll regret it in the morning but continues, ‘’Y/N, I think it’s best if you leave.’’ 

And Y/N feels like her heart falls from out of her chest. She’d not anticipated him asking her to leave. She hadn’t even anticipated the fact that he would be so adamant in the fact that there was nothing more than sex between the pair; she was unprepared and left defeated.

They share no words as Y/N scampers to find her abandoned clothing, and Harry stands awkwardly by the corner of the bed, turning around while she dresses, despite having seen it all before a hundred times. 

And with one parting look, Y/N reaches his door, giving him one last glance with parted lips. She’s desperate to say something, but no words come out. If her lips could open, she’d scream and tell him what she really wants to say, but they don't.

‘’It’s for the best.’’ he whispers, as she’s half way out the door, and as she goes to leave his apartment, she barely notices the tears that fill up her eyes and fall gently down her face.

And in that moment, she knew that Harry was nothing more than a lonely boy, his heart still empty and her presence wasted on him. The sound of his blinking eyes, his soothing hands, his beating heart, and the way he moved were all just a waste of time. 

It’s for the best.

-

part two -> here

a/n: super angsty harry & y/n piece for you all!!! hope u all enjoy. might do a part 2 cos i'm a sucker for a happy ending so let me know if thats something you'd be interested in. thanks for reading & i really appreciate all the likes and reblogs xxx

[ddarker-dreams]

Nexus II.

Yandere Blade x F Reader.

Warnings: Descriptions of Blade's body regeneration ability, Blade is just kinda weird idk, some spoilers for his backstory. Word count: 6k.

Nexus index.

The LOTUS-EATER’s maximum capacity tops out at 124. This number takes current fire codes and oxygen generator parameters into account. There are eight Arbiters — including yourself — and fifteen other employees who work The Club floor on rotation. Additionally, some automatons assist with carrying refreshments to clients. Lucky for you, those fellas aren’t on the payroll. 

The other twenty-two are, though. 

Nona swings her legs back and forth while sitting on the main bar’s countertop, humming a song from an underground band she likes. She’s sent you a link to their discography enough times that you recognize the URL immediately and know not to tap on it. 

“Hey, mom, dad, we’re on the news. ‘IPC Places Eris Under Temporary Travel Ban While Investigating Claims of Fraud’. Why didn’t anyone tell me we were doing fraud? Was I not invited to the group chat?” Nona hums. 

You glance up from your account book, sigh, then glance back down.

Meanwhile, Lear carries a hefty wooden crate from the back and places it on the floor. The sound of muffled glass clinking together can be heard, along with liquid sloshing.

“You shouldn’t make jokes like that,” he frowns. He shoos her off the counter with a wet rag, to which she takes refuge behind you. He rolls his eyes at her shenanigans, ties up his sandy hair, then gets to cleaning. “People could get the wrong idea. It’d tarnish [First]’s reputation.” 

Snickering, she replies, “And casually referring to Our-Lord-And-Savior-The-Exalted-One by her first name wouldn’t?” 

He bristles. “You…!” 

On instinct, he winds up his arm, wielding the now dirty rag as his ammunition. He pauses when Nona points at you. Seeing that there’s no way to hit his target without you joining the casualties, he huffs, and returns to shining glasses, using excessive force this time. 

Nona sticks her tongue out at him. After celebrating her victory, she situates herself on a nearby barstool, stretching her arms out beside your workspace like a content cat preparing to nap. 

“You’ve been staring at that silly book forever,” she notes, exasperation coloring her tone. “I know you aren’t reading it, either. Your eyes give you away. So, what’s up?” 

You shuffle in your seat. This line of questioning was inevitable as the four moons that hang everlasting in the sky, taking in everything as impartial observers. During instances like this, you envy the marvelous masses, how they can exist peacefully without living. No one asks the moon troubling questions. Or, if they do, they have more pressing issues at hand than their spoken query. 

“It’s nothing,” you dismiss. 

She blows a tuft of hair from her face. “Hey, Lear.”

“Mm?”

“Did you hear that?”

“Well, yes, I’m only standing a few feet away.” 

“Right, right. Let me ask a trickier question then, since that one was obviously way too easy for someone of your intellect. Do you believe her?”

“I…” he swallows thickly. “... Yes?”

Nona throws her arms up. “Gah! I’m surrounded by liars who can’t lie. That’s almost worse than liars who can lie— blegh, hey, did you actually throw a rag at me?” 

The rag in question slides down the side of her head and hits the ground with a sad squelch. 

“I’ll do it again too. You shouldn’t bother [First]—” Lear abruptly cuts himself off at the last syllable of your name, “The exalted one when she’s trying to concentrate.” 

You raise your head and frown. “Lear, I told you. Call me by my name when it’s just us. It feels wrong if you don’t.” 

“Seriously? That’s what gets your attention?” Nona laments. 

You both elect to ignore her. 

“I know, I know. It’s just… what if he comes back?” 

Silence descends and clings to the three of you like the suffocating scent of smoke. It’s there again, the uncomfortable, skin-prickling sensation of eyes sticking to you. Amber and sapphire coalesce into one, unspoken plea, forming a disconcerting shade. Nona’s visage betrays nothing, whereas Lear’s concern would be obvious from galaxies away. 

You square your shoulders and try to make yourself appear as decisive as you need to sound. “I’ll know when he’s back. He’ll text so I can let him in.” 

The two exchange knowing looks. It’s Nona who tries her luck. 

“That’s reassuring and all, but, I think the question Lear wanted to ask is why that man’s here in the first place.” 

Magenta eyes, rosy iris’, words that drip like venom-coated honey. 

When you asked how you should explain Blade’s presence to your staff, she told you she’d hate to abuse her authority, and that you’re free to decide those specifics yourself. You would’ve preferred some guidance or hint at her expectations in such a pivotal situation. It’s easier to avoid a landmine if you know how to best watch your step. The uncharacteristic lack of instructions goes on to birth unease. 

“My answer hasn’t changed. He’s here to act as my bodyguard until some concerns are settled.” 

Nona’s lips twist to the side. “You never wanted a bodyguard before.” 

“I never needed one before.” 

A glass shatters violently. 

You and Nona snap your head toward the noise’s origin, finding Lear’s face wound tight in pain. You both jump the counter. The remains of crystal shards are strewn across the floor, catching and refracting light. Watching your step, you make your way over to Lear, who is muttering expletives under his breath. 

No, that isn’t right, you realize. His lips aren’t moving. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he tries waving off Nona, who is inspecting the hand that held the glass, “Just an accident, s’all.” 

The private tumult boiling in his head threatens to overflow, stating loud and clear thoughts no one other than himself should be privy to. You grimace and focus on blocking the intrusive voice out. It’s so resounding, so sharp, that snippets penetrate through and spill their scathing secrets.  

‘My fault — should’ve killed — now she’s — because of me…!’ 

Block it out, block it out, block it out, you chant the mantra incessantly. 

Lear’s psyche wishes to illuminate itself to you in its entirety. The spotlights turn on one by one, focusing intently on the visible portion of the stage that any audience member can see. The overlapping beams penetrate the stage’s back curtain, revealing the silhouettes of the backstage crew. 

You don’t want to witness these delicate inner workings. It isn’t for your eyes, his thoughts aren’t for your ears. Sins committed in days past grant you a front-row seat and sew your eyes wide open. You haven’t attended this theater in some time, so it brought the show to you. 

It requires great effort to struggle against the needle and thread that wants to practice its stitches on you. This pain that feels like your skull is being crushed beneath an anchor could ease away if you were a good audience member who sat still and mute. You resist subservience at the cost of yourself. Eventually, the lights dim. The stage’s back curtain turns opaque. The actors shift their shouts into a normal speaking volume, a whisper, then finally, stop orating altogether. 

Your mind’s dictation is decided by you — the ink of Lear’s thoughts expunged. 

You’re aware of your physical surroundings again. 

Presently, you’re crouching down on the floor. You move your foot back to maintain balance, and there’s a crunch, warning you to tread carefully. You inhale and exhale shakily. At this sign of lucidity, Nona and Lear crowd over you, repeating your name on a loop. You check twice to ensure their mouths are indeed moving and you aren’t hearing what you shouldn’t. Once you dispel your fears, relief embraces you. 

This paroxysm has run its course.

Nona’s shoulders slump. “It’s okay, it’s over. She fixed it.” 

They both hold their breath until you nod in agreement. 

Lear extends his hand to help stand you up, to which Nona swats at it. 

“No touching,” she reminds. Sternness doesn’t sound right in her cadence. He considers arguing, only to decide against it. His fingers twitch, go still, then recede. 

You have to stand on your own strength. 

Neither of them knows what to say in the immediate aftermath — it’s been so long that they’re out of practice. While they think over the best-sounding platitudes, you spare your phone a glance. Several messages mar the screen from an unknown sender. The most recent is time-stamped at five minutes ago. 

You grumble a few choice words. 

“Mr. Personality is back?” Nona asks. 

“Yeah, I’ll handle it,” you close your account book and fold it under your arm. “You both should head home, it’s late. Just let Loopy take care of the glass shards.” 

Nona gives a mock salute. After a moment’s consideration, Lear nods. 

And so the three of you part ways. 

Your fingers blindly grope at the expanse beneath your desk. Finally, you come in contact with a protrusion, then press it. Electricity thrums then turns hushes. For peace of mind, you glide your hand through the air. A holographic keyboard flickers into existence and responds to your vigorous keystrokes. The monitor reads that your noise-canceling software is up to date. It prevents sound waves from escaping a perimeter you’ve set. It’s installed in every room on the second floor, which includes the private rooms in The Lounge, your office, and the bedroom attached to said office. 

Ever since Kafka started slinking around, the software’s uptime has increased exponentially. 

Unlike Kafka, Blade doesn’t sit across from you or relax on the couch against the silver-colored wall. He stands by the door that leads to the hallway like a statue. He hasn’t so much as uttered a word to you since you let him in, not that you put in much effort to rouse conversation. It isn’t as childish as him ignoring you, either, you swear his eyes haven’t left you for a millisecond. 

The keyboard and monitor dissipate at the flick of your wrist. 

“I know I said I didn’t have anything major scheduled this week, but the IPC’s new policy changes things,” you start. Still no reaction. Frowning, you continue, “I’ll have to break the house arrest you’ve imposed.” 

He doesn’t so much as blink. You thought a little provocation might earn you some material to work with, but you thought wrong. 

“Who will be there?” Blade asks. 

Instead of experiencing relief that he’s broken his vow of silence, tension coils its barbed limbs around you. It refuses to squeeze or apply any pressure. No, it intentionally denies you that, for it knows pain precedes understanding. A motive, an intention. Any degree of emotion is better than an unknowable void. Frustration, you can soothe, doubt, you can dispel, but total apathy? That’s a nightmare crossed into reality. 

“The other two leaders of the quadrants and myself.” 

At long last, there's a sign he is indeed a sentient lifeform and not the latest android model. A flash passes over his eyes. Suspicion or disbelief, perhaps. 

“Shouldn’t there be four leaders, if the city’s divided into quadrants?” 

“That’s a fair assumption. As far back as our records date, the southwestmost quadrant, Arc, has rejected the idea of having any fixed governance. They act however they see fit. It’s where that man who attacked me a few cycles back was sent to, since we look down on involuntary confinement.” 

“The prison planet without prisons,” Blade’s wry wording belies his flat tone. 

It’s always been a divisive topic, earning scorn and acclaim alike. You’ve had the misfortune of listening to clients regurgitate talking points that were made digestible by popular media, who started the cycle by devouring journal articles they read one paragraph of. They repeat what’s been said thousands of times with the bravado of the original theorist. Normally, you’d consider it more agreeable to bash your head against a wall than speak on the exhausted topic. 

So why is it a kindling of intrigue burns by a Stellaron Hunter’s offhand comment? 

“What’s this? The wanted criminal isn’t a proponent of prison abolition?” 

“Every decision comes at a price,” he says. “Sins should be punished.” 

You blink. Sins? Punishment? Is this a textbook case of cognitive dissonance, or another beast entirely? 

“What do you consider a sin?” 

“Anything that defies the natural order.” 

“Such as…?” 

The maelstrom that envelops him is potent enough for you to feel it breathing down your neck. Your body prickles all over. 

“Defying death.” 

“Not inflicting it?” 

“No,” Blade’s response is immediate, straight from the heart. “Taking life is permissible. It’s accelerating the inevitable.” 

This callous sentiment should chill you — maybe it would, if you heeded the alarm bells ringing in your mind — but fascination triumphs over any deterrent. This isn’t a creed one stumbles into by happenstance, it’s a burden made to order. His preoccupation with death is personal. A necessity. 

“Show me what it’s like to die.”

Is this request self-flagellation or redemption? 

If you’re ever to fulfill the Synalink you promised, you’ll need to dig deeper. 

“There are ‘sins’ committed with altruistic intentions, though.” 

“Hah,” he barks out a bitter laugh. “Those… those are the worst kind.” 

This is a personal slight he’s grappling with. The shards scattered around him like stardust condense, though the sight they create remains out of focus. It doesn’t have to be a sharp picture for you to discern its immense stature. 

Each person’s psyche is distinct in its manifestation. This image is a culmination of everything that defines them. Their core values, history, relationships, culture, ambitions both met and not fully realized; these colors leave an indelible imprint. In truth, this detailed representation is but a single dot amidst an ocean of stars. The mind of a sentient being must be vast if it is capable of ascending to an Aeon’s status. Still, you need something to work with, even if it doesn’t encompass the full scope. A pianist cannot play their instrument if there are no keys. 

This scale, this sheer magnitude that towers higher the more you crane your neck up, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever encountered. 

“... You’re going to give me a run for my money, Mr. 8.13 billion,” you murmur. “Your head looks like a warzone.” 

He leans against the wall with a hmph.

“With all your impending problems, that’s what you choose to focus on?” 

“I can multitask.” 

“Can you?” He challenges. Sensing your confusion, he elaborates. “You look awful.” 

Blade must be irresistible across all genders with that nuanced level of word crafting. 

“I appreciate your candidness,” you deadpan. 

He shakes his head at your sarcasm. “Don’t act obtuse. Your complexion’s off, your eyes are bloodshot… everything was fine when I left. Must have something to do with your earlier delay, I take it?” 

You underestimated his acumen. This would explain why he’s been sizing you up since you opened the door. His sword proficiency isn’t the only threat you should be wary of. You know to be mindful of your presentation when Kafka’s skulking about, you didn’t think he’d need to be treated with a similar caution.

“It’s nothing serious, just your typical mental overexertion. There’s a lot on my plate, you said so yourself.” 

“Hm.” 

Whether he believes you or not, the conversation is left at that. 

Transportation on Eris functions differently than what’s commonly found in other worlds. 

Traditional gas-based motors aren’t favored due to the frigid climate. Instead, a gemstone mined in the Nectary by vetted groups is the preferred resource. It contains special thermodynamic properties that can emit immense power under the correct conditions. The gemstones have been altered and assembled in such a way that they function as a railroad for insulated cabins to travel from one station to another. These paths were nicknamed 'nectar guides’ or ’guides’ by the first engineers to embed them in the ground. This is in reference to how the eight main paths lead to Perianth II’s center, built above the Nectary. 

The design serves a dual purpose — it optimizes travel and the heat radiating from the ground produces light. The accommodations have outworlders in mind. Your species, the Nymphalians, have long undergone enough natural selection to survive the hostile conditions fine enough. Your species’ eyesight excels in the dark and your physiology resists the cold. Aside from that, your body functions identical to any other humanoid species. The lone visible difference is a thin white ring around most Nymphalians’ iris’. You and Lear display this quality, Nona does not. 

The cabin you sit in has a quaint design. There are plush, brown loveseats lining the wall, glowing orange lights in the arched ceiling, and light refreshments atop wooden table stands. It’s split into a common area and a bedroom suite. More enchanting than any ornate embellishment are the expansive windows. You only get to see your quadrant in person during these trips to Perianth II’s center and back. 

“You warm enough?” You call over to Blade, who is bundled in extra layers of clothes and wearing an especially dour expression. 

He doesn’t dignify your quip with a verbal reply. 

This brief jaunt has earned his ire. For someone who’d likely prefer to be anywhere else, he’s taking this guard assignment quite seriously. He explained that taking this straightforward travel route begs for people with nefarious intent to come slithering out. You could see his point, but the matter isn’t up for dispute. Recent cyberattacks have called electronic communication into question. What you’ll be discussing with the others — Chrysus of Ade and Caicias of Mele — is highly sensitive information. The IPC catching any sliver of it could prove disastrous. 

“You shouldn’t be by the windows,” Blade eventually says.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a major buzzkill?” 

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t respond. 

With some reluctance, you pry yourself away from the glass granting access to the outside world. 

“... Just a bit longer?” You try plucking a sympathetic cord he distinctly lacks. 

“If you like it so much, why not experience it in the safety of your room where your head is a less visible target?”  

“It isn’t possible to perform a Synalink on yourself.” 

“Have an underling do it.” 

The presumptions air to this suggestion eliminates any grace you may have extended.

“The only other Arbiter capable of performing Synalinks on me was my mother,” you say. “Note the past tense.” 

You experience a phantasmal ripple with him as the epicenter. It’s the weakest emotion you’ve inadvertently picked up from him, so you assume it’s nothing of consequence. 

“Passing blurs aren’t worth risking your life over.” 

You rise to your feet. 

“How do you know that?” You challenge, heat rushing to your cheeks. “These homes, these buildings, these streets… they’re either data on my screen or conveyed to me through someone who acts like they’re listing parts in a machine. I have to see it. I have to commit each ‘passing blur’ to memory. Otherwise…” 

What have I sacrificed my freedom for? 

Blade’s eyebrows furrow. 

“Otherwise…” you shake your head. “Forget it.” 

During the ensuing silence, your phone buzzes. 

You had set it on do not disturb for the upcoming meeting. A few contacts were granted an exception, meaning that this message must be urgent if it went through. You swallow the lump growing in your throat. An exhausted part of yourself reasons that it can wait until the meeting’s conclusion. It wouldn’t do you any good to get worked up beforehand, would it? The message will still be there when it’s finished. Then you’ll be able to commit all your bandwidth to its contents. This reasoning is a tempting mistress cooing at you to come join her in bed. The momentary relief will be as sweet as the aftertaste is bitter. 

Responsibility triumphs in the end. After inputting the necessary passcodes, a message four words long scrawls across your screen.

The product is ready. 

A simple code had been devised between you and the alchemist entrusted with testing Kafka’s synthetic tonic. The product isn’t ready yet would mean the sly woman bluffed, or at the very least, exaggerated her 70% comparison claim. You’d gladly take either. She’s sewn deceit before, she’d have no trouble doing it again. In case the alternative was true, you prepared another code; the code you just received. 

You reread it once. Twice, then thrice. You check if the message came from the right number. It did. You check again. 

This frantic fixation consumes you to such a degree, you don’t register the cabin jerking aside. The delay from your reflexes throws your equilibrium off. Squeezing your eyes shut, you brace yourself for an unceremonious rendezvous with the floor. Your right side does come into contact with a hard surface, except it’s sooner than you anticipated. Warmer, too. 

This heat is different from what’s produced inside the Nectary’s gemstones. It’s personal, containing the distinct thrum of life. There’s also an aroma. Slightly floral, mostly spices you don’t recognize. Then there’s this steady sound — consistent enough to put a metronome to shame. A slow thump, thump, thump. 

“How have you survived this long, clumsy as you are?” 

Blade isn’t speaking any louder than he normally would, but you can hear him better. 

“Hey, I’m… not… clumsy…?” 

It’s only when you open your eyes that you’re able to piece together your current predicament. 

Blade’s steadying you by your shoulders and your cheek is pressing against his chest. You always knew he was tall, but having him tower over you this close gives you a new perspective. As does the fact he doesn’t immediately shove you off after breaking your fall. Your body goes stiff enough to rival rigor mortis.

“Accident prone, then.”  

This swipe has you desperate to reaffirm your authority. “You should’ve just… let me fall then! Maybe I wanted to, what do you know!” 

(It sounded better in your head). 

“Are you positive you’re over a century old?” 

An equally snarky rebuttal blooms on your tongue, only to immediately wither, turning to ash that coats the ground. 

There’s the sound of a dying star, a dirge announcing the end. 

What one hears before their name is reduced to an epitaph or an alphabetized list neatly organizing the recently deceased. It’s loud, then it isn’t. Hideous, then hypnotizing. Yellows and oranges and reds swirling in a serpentine motion that mocks you for thinking you ever conquered it. Civilizations can temporarily subdue it, bend it to their will, but it’s not ever truly theirs. The sovereignty of flame is a dynasty everlasting. It may rise, it may fall, but it can’t ever be truly extinguished. 

You’re sent flying back with enough power that the air is forced from your lungs. It’s as if an Aeon’s hand had pushed your body aside, dragging you to the edge of the universe. You’re released from the scorching maw and into an icy nothingness. 

The planet itself is frozen for a time. 

There’s no strength in your body. Your system has been injected with pure, raw adrenaline, causing your limbs to shake and ignore your commands. Your ears are ringing and your eyesight is blurry. Tears cleanse the pollutants from your eyes. A dark swath covers your body, its weight hindering your feeble attempts to move. Determination alone wills you to emerge from this shadowy cocoon. 

The ringing fades and all is quiet, save for the crackling of fire. 

Then the screaming begins. 

You try identifying the source. You think you may have found it, then it starts elsewhere, a different pitch, a different soul lot in lament. Bloodcurdling shrieks rise alongside the thick smoke. You’re being a stretch of buildings that loom imposingly, obsidian spires reaching up to the night sky. The masonry required to maintain their reign basks in the flames. The unusual surplus of light unveils its secrets, from the cracks in the stone to the faded graffiti bored kids left behind. 

The ground is uneven, unlike the glossy pavement found in the entertainment district. This dull, grayish-blue soil with the consistency of fine powder exhibits the true nature of Eris’ untreated exterior. It’s cool to the touch and takes pleasure at the chance to stain your fine clothes. 

Your wandering mind is brought back upon hearing a sputter nearby. You’re not sure where you are, what you’re doing, or why you’re doing it; but you remember you weren’t alone. 

“Blade…” The name comes out as a croak. “Where…?” 

You can’t call out to him, it’s like cotton has been stuffed down your esophagus. 

There’s movement in the corner of your eye. 

You make the mistake of trying to stand. Your arms might’ve begun to heed your commands, but your legs do not. The worst insurrectionists are your ankles. The instant you try putting any weight on them, they collapse as if you were a newborn doe. Recognizing this strategy’s incompetence, you drag yourself over to where you saw movement instead. The coarse ground rubs at and scratches your skin. 

Upon closer inspection, your heart stops. 

The dark swath — that’s Blade. 

He’s in a far worse state than you. His entire backside has been scorched, displaying angry red blisters and split skin just barely hanging on. His right arm is bent in an awkward position, most certainly broken. Then there’s his left arm, or lack of it. Clumps of limp sinew hang where his arm should be joined to his shoulder joint. The force of the impact must’ve blown it off or eviscerated it entirely. 

He’s lying on his side, facing away from you. A pool of blood forms beneath him, mixing with the soil. The coupling results in a sickly mauve that creeps and seeps inch by inch. 

The fire… it’s coming from the guides, you realize. The cabin has been torn to pieces!

This begs the question: how are you alive? 

You should be covered in burns at the very least. Some of your clothes got charred, you think a rib or two might be broken, but you’re living and breathing. There’s a gap in your memory where the previous events should be. You try recalling whatever you can, no matter how seemingly insignificant. You were moved aside as the roaring got louder, and then there was the sound of glass shattering, heat to cold… 

Blade must have intervened. Did he use the few seconds before the fire caught up to break the window and toss you out? That can’t be right; you’d have glass entrenched in your skin and burns on whichever side faced the explosion. Surely, with his inhuman reflexes, he could’ve come out relatively unscathed. 

Unless he chose to shield you. 

You don’t think, you just act. First, by tearing the hem of your long skirt, then second, pressing it against the gaping wound where his shoulder abruptly ends. Gushes of crimson spill through your first makeshift bandage. You throw it aside, rip at your garments again, repeating the process in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. A Stellaron Hunter must have a robust constitution, right? He was able to act faster than you could think. He can survive this — you just need to stop the bleeding until you can get help. Kafka has to have connections with advanced medical factions. 

Tears stream down your face and you sniffle relentlessly. Your hands are caked in soot and blood, the scent of burnt skin and metal clings to your nostrils. Is he going to die? Is he already dead? You can’t bring yourself to check his pulse. How could he be willing to die for you in the short period of time you’ve known one another? He could’ve concocted any excuse for why he failed Kafka’s assignment, you’re certain he’s more indispensable to their cause than you are. 

Blade stirs. 

You think that it’s your imagination playing tricks on you. A cruel joke to remind you that you make your living off shaping reality for others, temporarily giving them what they want at the price of never truly having it. 

Or so is your conviction until he moves again. 

You’ve heard of muscles twitching after death to give the false impression of life. However, you’ve never witnessed the phenomenon yourself. Is this how it works? It isn’t sporadic, his right arm is sweeping over the ground, fingers flexing. Much to your astonishment, he pushes himself up with the arm that was contorted into a horrible shape a minute ago. The pain he’s experiencing must be excruciating and yet he merely grunts as he shifts into a sitting position. 

“Stop moving,” you rasp out. With your most recent bandage in hand, you go to apply pressure to the left arm socket. 

He responds to your fervent desperation in a low, gravelly voice. 

“Don’t bother.” 

Don’t bother? Is he in a coherent state of mind? If you don’t attend to his gushing wound, he’s at risk of bleeding out. You prepare to ignore his utterance when a strange sight freezes you in place. 

A white structure emerges from his raw, mangled arm socket, descending like water pouring from a pitcher. It solidifies and takes the shape of a humerus. Once finished, it goes on to create the radius and ulna. Next are the carpals, metacarpals, then phalanges. Tendons join them together, fibrous muscles envelop the bones. Finally, in the blink of an eye, fresh layers of skin build atop one another in sheets. He clenches and unclenches his newly formed hand. 

If defying death is a sin, he is laden in iniquity.

“What hurts?” Blade asks. 

You’re too aghast to respond. His body just stitched itself back together without any medical treatment or esoteric healing techniques. Is it possible you’re hallucinating? Can a visual hallucination be this vivid? 

He reaches out. Seconds prior to his hand coming into contact with your bare skin, you furiously shake your head, flailing backward and narrowingly avoiding him. His eyes bore down on you like molten magma. He retracts his hand after a drawn-out pause. 

“If you can’t speak, point instead.” 

Dazedly, you follow his instructions, focusing primarily on your ankles. They’ve swollen since you last checked. The flesh is tender and puffy. 

“I’ll carry you,” he says. “Stay still.”

“Wait,” you manage to wheeze out. “This area… residential… have to help…!”

A coughing spell cuts your hoarse plea short. 

“That explosion was meant for you. Whoever set it off will want to ensure their job’s success.”

Blade reaches out for you again. You duck to avoid his grasp, despite the pain throbbing in your chest cavity from the hasty movement. The adrenaline must be fading if your brain is doing inventory on the damage you’ve sustained, rather than focusing on survival. Hot waves test your resolution. You grit your teeth. If you make a show of your pain, he’s not going to change his decision. 

He speaks your name in a low, warning tone. 

Adamant in your refusal, you point to where the cries for help are the loudest. 

“It’s not my priority,” he says. 

He easily grabs you on his third try and you yelp. The sluggishness of his previous attempts must've been out of consideration for you. His right arm interlocks behind your knees while the left supports your back. You thrash to no avail, his grip remains ironclad. Your struggles amount to nothing but perspiration clinging to your skin and more aches. 

The nearest medical unit to this street is at least thirty minutes away, now that the guides are out of order, you think. That isn’t fast enough…! Every second counts!

In your panic, a sacred vow made decades ago is desecrated. 

You cup Blade’s face in your shaky hands and stare him straight in the eye. 

The previously formed shards come into focus.

It’s monumental, this psyche you’ve barged into without permission. A violation of another’s autonomy. You know this, you condemn yourself for it, yet you press on nevertheless. The previously unknowable architecture that hulks over you is of Xianzhou design. It’s pieced together by bricks as infinite as the stars in the universe, though there is no magnificent shine, only matte stonework. 

This structure… is it a garrison? You wonder. Was Blade a member of the… what’s the name of their military again… Cloud Knights? 

You’ve had Cloud Knight clients before. Their psyches take the likeness of their favorite, scenic expanse on the Hexafleet, the area that they cared for enough to risk their life. The skies would be blue, clouds fluffy and prolific. A sense of duty and patriotism felt palpable. Occasionally, you’d be made privy to grief’s scent carried on a breeze, perhaps from a loved one’s passing or comrade’s untimely death in battle. 

This is a riddle you need to solve swiftly. With a little tampering, you can form a link. It’s immoral, a blight to your personal code, but you’ll leverage enough influence for Blade to stay and help any survivors until help arrives. Whatever consequences arise can be dealt with later. 

Even with the heightened mental sensitivity from making direct physical contact, this is proving a challenge. You can see his psyche but you can’t interact with it. It’s like running your hands through vapor. For you to successfully exert enough influence to change a decision he’s dead set on, you’ll need to go deeper. Inside this fortress sits the recesses of his mind, the bottom of an ocean you’re merely skimming the surface of. The intrusion’s necessity twists your gut as if your intenses were being kneaded. 

Your incorporeal form flutters to the gates, standing solitary against a leaden backdrop. 

The closer you get, you become increasingly aware of a malicious entity permeating behind the doors which strain to contain it. This is the same harrowing presence you felt when he protected you from Alister. Now that you’ve spent more time with Blade, you can discern its essence is different from his, although they’re forcibly intertwined like a rope. Blade emanates this unremittingly morose energy. It’s bleak, unconcentrated. 

This substance oozes a need to satiate bottomless bloodlust. It wants to sink its teeth into flesh, lacerate muscles, and slice through bone. Mayhem and viscera are its highest raison d'être. There’s no sensibility, no reasoning with it, it acts in one way then shifts on a whim; chaos inside a splintering bottle. 

How is Blade capable of functioning with this slumbering beast ready to wreak havoc at any second? 

Steeling your resolve, you prepare to enter.

A seal halts your progress. 

Impatience urges you to dispel it. Blade’s psyche is rejecting you, any further delays will give it ample opportunity to flush you out. 

The kaleidoscopic seal thrums and wards off your efforts. 

Someone put this here, you discern. It’s deliberate. 

What perplexes you is that the seal prohibits entry yet does nothing to contain the miasma writhing behind it. Wouldn’t whoever created it intend to keep that salivating beast at bay? It’s well-crafted too, denying your every attempt to eliminate it. Kafka dabbles in mind-altering. Could she have left this here? You know what her aura feels like — calm, confident, cunning — this seal radiates none of her trademarks. 

An invisible force hauls you back. 

You took too long — Blade’s psyche is expelling the foreign invader. 

You blink and you’re back in reality. 

Blade is grimacing, the lines on his face highlighted by flickering flame. There’s a pallor to his complexion brought on by the aggressive expulsion his mind pulled off. An act such as that leeches off of one’s vitality. He takes a moment to recompose himself, as do you. Any subsequent attempts to form a link are going to be wrung from a desiccated source. You don’t know how many attempts you have left in you, 

“A first offense, I could pardon,” Blade pants out, blood-red hues shining, “A recidivist like yourself, though… can’t go undisciplined.” 

Your eyes widen. How did he know your intentions so quickly? You hadn’t so much as moved yet! 

There’s a dull discomfort blooming from your nape. 

Your eyelids feel heavy and your breathing slows. Black spots float around in your vision. They start small, appearing as if they were polka dots, then grow to be the size of black holes. Your muscles won’t move. The unconscious realm beckons. Its gravitational pull is irresistible, a tide you can’t swim against. 

What is this? Your neck… did he strike a nerve…? 

“You’ll be fine,” a distant, sonorous voice promises. “Just sleep.” 

The sentence has been delivered. 

You’re made prisoner to a dreamless slumber. 

[cats-obsessions]

Fellas, is it gay if you look out upon your nearest and dearest, forgotten accomplice's home whose name is sickeningly familiar and this song plays in your head?

Do you think Gortash stood on his balcony, not knowing why but drawn to stare at the abandoned building Durge called camp?

Anyways, the song triggers even if you haven't romanced anyone in your camp, and while of course it is totally up for interpretation, I'm interpreting it as durgetash. I mean, beyond the obvious urge to spill and potentially drink blood:

"I feel your breath upon my neck. A soft caress as cold as death […] Your blood like wine, I wanted in Oh darling, get me drunk and make me feel

Their memory is unclear, but the feeling isn't:

"I feel your heartbeat in my soul. Our futures bound, our bodies know."

What can't be remembered is still held within their body, and another version of that line changes to "our endings bound", which is only true of a few people- Durge can complete the game alone, but their ending is always shaped by their decisions surrounding Enver, the brain, and Bhaal.

Their endings are intertwined, they are each other's only equal, but Gortash's can only end one way (fight me, Larian)

"My only one, There's more to do, if we can only live. The clock won't stop and this is what we get".

Durge being hopeful to live, at least to finish what needs to be done- but some of their old guilt reflected in the prayer of forgiveness could be seen reflected here as well.

"It's not my fault I'm not to blame These ain't my sins I broke my chains"

Whether sins here refer to their sin of admiring the chosen of Bhaal or the sins of murder forced by their father's hand, they very much did and might have continued to break chains since being tadpoled. Paired with 'get me drunk and make me feel', it almost reads more like it isn't their fault they fell for him, he tempted them and gave them all they needed to feel, to be a person for the first time.

Full lyrics below. There's so much more you could pull from it (And yes, I know this will also trigger if you play as Tav, but it has such a unique flavor for Durge)

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

I feel your breath upon my neck A soft caress as cold as death (cold as death) I didn't know you well back then I blame it all on luck and vain (luck and vain) Your blood like wine, I wanted in Oh darling, get me drunk and make me feel

It's not my fault I'm not to blame These ain't my sins I broke my chains There's more to do And I still want to live (live)

I feel your breath upon my neck A soft caress as cold as death (cold as death) I feel your heartbeat in my soul Our futures bound, our bodies know (bodies know) Your blood like wine, I wanted in Oh darling get me drunk, invite me in

It's not my fault I'm not to blame Thesе ain't my sins I broke my chains There's morе to do If I can only live (live)

I can't go yet Don't let me die I'll never stop Until I'm done But just tonight Maybe I'll rest in peace

I feel your breath upon my neck A soft caress as cold as death (cold as death) I hear your heartbeat in my soul Our endings bound, our bodies know

I can't go yet Don't let me die I want to live My only one There's more to do, if we can only live The clock won't stop and this is what we get

[under-the-dirt]

sleep talking.

hihihihi!! this is a continuation of my previous post with price and sleeptalking reader!

anyway, a part 2 was requested and i love delivering!!

pairing: price x fem!reader

tags: reader is referred to by feminine pet names, oral (fem!receiving), unprotected p in v (guys literally do not pretty please :3), creampie?, cockwarming, overstimulation, UNDER 13 DNI!!!!! SHOO SHOO SHOO!!

taglist: @cloudyeventss @airghostlyfox

The following day was difficult, to say the least. It was hard to meet John’s eyes or even look at him the same. Everyone noticed how awkward you seemed for what appears to be no reason. The first one to approach you was Soap, who found you in the kitchen gnawing on your lip.

“Somethin’ wrong, lass?” Soap asks, and you chuckle and shake your head.

“No uh.. long night,”

“Hmm.. What ‘appened between ye n’ Price? Poor fella looks like a kicked puppy,” Soap chuckles, looking down at you and seeming surprised at the blush on your face. “Oh shit, now I gotta know,” He laughs.

“Nothing, it was nothing..”

“Sure of that? The way yer lookin right now ‘s tellin’ me ye got up to somethin’ you shouldn’ ‘ave” He teases, and you look up at him.

“Fine- yeah, we had sex.”

“Shit, how was the old man?”

“I’d think he was jus’ fine,” Price purrs from the doorway, walking in and standing beside you. “Can we talk real quick?” He whispers, and you nod, walking outside of the kitchen.

“I’m sorry..” You whisper, and he shushes you.

“No, nothin’ t’ be sorry ‘bout lass, nothin’ at all.” He coos, rubbing your arm gently.

“I just.. I’m confused.. what are we?” You ask softly, looking up at him with doe-eyes.

“Well, fer now, I dunno. If ye wanna be fuckbuddies or somethin’, that’s perfectly fine w’ me.” He explains, and you nod. “Then there it is, tha’s what we are.”

“Are.. Are we still going to sleep together?” You ask, and he laughs and raises his eyebrows. “No! Not like that!! Just.. are we still going to sleep in your room?”

“Of course, unless you don’t want to.”

“No- No I want to..”

“Then tha’s all” He smiled that sweet, crinkled eye smile, the one that drew you in, in the first place. He leans down and presses a gentle peck to your lips before walking off to do god knows what.

—🌙—

That night was far more eventful than any other, with him bending you over almost the second you entered his room. He’d eaten you out like a man starved, like his favorite meal. You were a moaning, writhing mess beneath his large hands.

“Oh god- John.. Mmhm..” You mewl, squirming to try and escape the overstimulation of his scratchy beard between your soft thighs. “Ohh.. oh god John,” You whine and moan, and he chuckles, kissing your cunt and pulling his head away, beard soaked with your juices. You hear him drop his pants, heavy belt clinking to the floor.

“Ohh.. god look what ye do to me, bunny,” He groans, stroking his painfully hard shaft. he presses his chest to your back as he slowly slides the tip in, the stretch causing you to moan and squirm. “Cmon, stay still for me darlin’,”

“Mmh! So big,” You whine, and he just pushes further until he’s buried to the hilt in your sweet cunt.

“God, such a pretty pussy. Just milkin’ me fer all I have, aren’t ya?” He chuckles as he begins to slowly thrust in and out of your tight hole, huffing and groaning all the while. Heavy balls slap against your ass which each thrust, his rough chest hair rubbing your soft back raw.

“Mmh! Oh- Price!” You moan loudly, and he shushes you with a laugh.

“Don’t want the others hearing, do we lass?” He purrs, using his free hand to open your mouth and put two fingers in which you dutifully suck on. He laughs and rubs your clit gently with his other hand, slamming his thick cock into your g-spot and making you moan louder around his fingers. You cum hard around his cock, forming a small ring at the base as he continues pounding into you before following and cumming deep inside you with a groan.

He rests his chest on your back, kissing the back of your neck sweetly and leaving gentle hickies.

“I’ve got some paperwork to do.. mind staying like this?” He asks softly, and you nod tiredly. He picks you up, still deep inside you and sits down at his desk with you in his lap.

About 30 minutes later you wake up again, head tucked into the crook of John’s neck as you deeply inhale his woody scent. You begin to feel something inside you, and your muscles involuntarily clench around it.

“Oh- fuck, darling, relax,” Price coos, rubbing your lower back gently with his free hand. You hear the gentle scratching of pen on paper behind you as he works, the soft rumble of his chest as he breaths and chuckles. The silence was like a lullaby, lulling you to sleep.

After he finished working, he picked you up and ever so gently pulled out while placing you on the bed. He went to his bathroom to grab a rag, wet it with warm water, and walk back to clean you both off. He first cleaned his sticky cum off his own cock, then cleaned his mess up from your thighs and abused cunt. You really were a deep sleeper, even the sensations of the rag bumping your clit didn’t wake you. After cleaning, John laid down next to you and pulled you to his chest, pressing gentle kisses to your head as he fell asleep.

this was such a silly moment! sorry it took so long to write!! <333 i hope this was good!!!

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Dear John || Something Borrowed

Masters of the Air fanfiction

Summary: Upon the sudden stop of all their correspondence, Miss Lana Tierney finds herself bereft of her pen pal John Egan’s support -not however, without him first having made a heavy declaration and entrusted her with a precious bit of himself. Battling Tinsel Town’s awful labyrinth of censors, agents, and an ever disloyal mother, Lana seeks to find John, and having once found him, to remind him of his promise to try. Meanwhile in Stalag Luft III, Major Gale Cleven may loiter at his incriminating radio longer than strictly necessary in hopes of hearing a voice that would bring his best friend a shred of hope.

My many thanks to: Christi and Ashley for endless amounts of encouragement and advice and enrichment of the plot, y’all are invaluable darlings and precious friends. To Bri who has been the brains and requests behind the concept and the beating heart behind giving Bucky a love of a lifetime

Warnings: 18+ disturbing content. Not so much war focused but rather Hollywood in the 40’s which can be horribly gruesome itself. We are happily ripping off Lana Turner’s real story for much of this, and so in this chapter you will find mentions of certain harrowing abuses she endured. Such as: brief references to a forced, studio-required abortion, bugging of a woman’s room, arranged engagements, drugging, hinted sexual exploitation, willing current sexual favors in return for a role, Bucky going a little nuts as a POW, Lana’s mother being the worst, John Huston making a cameo that will probably make you wanna punch the guy. It’s ok, the real fella deserved it. Go ahead. Again, nothing explicit, didn’t wanna get all yucky but these themes are prevalent in here in passing.

Word count: a whopping 8k

Character name reminder: Julie Jean Turner goes by the Hollywood alias of “Lana Tierney”

Lana lay abed and stewed. She was past grief, or perhaps it was easier explained that Grief and her sisters, Denial and Betrayal, were more of Julie Jean Turner’s privilege. Miss Lana Tierney, academy hopeful and box office gold, had little left but rage and the moist silk of her pillow pressed to her burning cheek.

“What an awful few days it’s been.” she’d allowed herself to say a few weeks back.

The Julie Jean of that week didn’t know the meaning of the word.

Life was bad enough then, back when he called, but his voice cured everything from her terrible week. Vincent and the engagement and the studios, all of it. But then came a letter, one written awfully like a goodbye, and another one after it but all of them were little provisions for if he were to go down.

Scribbled hours before going up.

“I love you, I know it’s a lot to spring on a gal who’s just doing her bit and keeping me happy but I do. It’s an awful type of love, Julie, very tight fisted and I think I only love you because you love me so well in your way. I don’t think that’s the sort of love to do anybody any good, but I’d regret not saying it, beginners can’t be haughty. Here I wanted to stick my toe in and you gobbled the whole leg, and I love you. I love you for it. I love you.”

She’d rubbed over his signature, not a bit of cursive in that scrawled -John- a million times.

And then, just like that, just like what had happened to her friends and a million women across the world- his letters simply stopped. Julie Jean learned elsewhere he’d been shot down for weeks by the time she’d gotten the last one. It was hard to have finally heard his voice and known of his purpose, but now? -a dead silence that had a voice and face and love attached to it. It was agony of a sort she’d never known and was made worse by the loneliness in her secrecy of not being able to mourn it aloud.

She moaned into the mess of her pillowcase and ignored Bertha's fifth knock of the afternoon. Who’d recognize the glamorous Miss Tierney now? Pitiful and tear streaked and pale from blood loss. She still lay on a chucks pad the studio nurse had rolled her onto, a feeble trickle still seeping between her legs. Curled on her side with eyes glinting at the afternoon sun, she seethed at one more thing taken from her.

Lana could hardly stand it. But she had to try. She’d made John promise he would. They’d promised each other, and somehow she hadn’t any doubts that wherever he was, he was trying.

“Miss Tierney?” That was Herbert’s voice and Jean rolled her eyes at the predictability of this household. After not answering Delores they sent in Bertha and upon not answering Bertha here was Herbert and if she didn’t answer him, her mother might manage to rouse herself and drive over.

“Come in Herb, if you must.” she groaned, hand outstretched and patting blindly for a cigarette on her nightstand.

Her old driver came in with an unusually light step, it bespoke a sympathy for her plight that Jean would have preferred a thousand times never to read on his usually persnickety face. “How are you holding up after -“ he stood awkwardly at the foot of her bed as Jean rummaged and when she sat back with cigarette and holder in hand, she found him looking down at her with such concern she nearly threw the lamp at him. “Tonsillitis, huh?” he hummed sympathetically.

“Oh yes, nasty bout.” she lied merrily, the ache in her violated womb protested her move to sit up. “They had to take them clean out.” it was the only printable explanation for her ailment.

“Yeah.” Herb had been a renowned stuntman before he’d been demoted to driver, and before stuntman he’d been a soldier in the trenches and before that he’d been a clerk. If anyone knew about coat hangers and poor girls held down to be kept forever virginal and ever in use, Herb knew. Herb had warned her even, told her what a sick racket they ran here in Tinsel Town. Much good it did her, she was in too deep before she knew she had so much as stuck her toe in.

Rather like Bucky in love, apparently, and that thought made her madly blink away a stupid rush of tears.

“What’s that?” she pointed at the parcel she just now noticed was tucked under his arm.

“Oh, this? Chocolates. Here, my lighter miss?” Whatever was under Herbert’s arm wasn’t shaped like any chocolates she knew and Jean was about to give him a talking to for being insipid when her mood was so poor but then she saw him press a warning finger to his lips. He walked around the side of her bed and indeed pulled out a lighter, metal and rude and no doubt a relic of the first war, and flicked it for her to light up. Bending down he smelled of tobacco himself when he took the unprecedented liberty of whispering in her ear: “They bugged the room during your operation, Miss. Must be careful. Especially if you want to keep your gift.”

He pulled away and looked down at her sorrowfully before quietly laying the dirty brown package atop her pristine sheets. Mother had them changed after the bloodbath of the…operation. They were spotless before and now they were sooty. That pleased her.

Jean forgot to look away from him. She was startled and upset by the news but she didn’t doubt it. They’d probably bugged the phone ages ago, god knows they’d stop at next to nothing and she did so want to keep something for herself. If she couldn’t have a baby, her baby, then she’d keep a parcel, damn them all. Then a cold feeling of dread filled her and she thought to grab at her books and look for the hidden letters.

Gone. Mother. It must’ve been mother, it was her sort of thing to have rifled through Lana’s things while she was being operated on and found them and took them and-

The rage spurred her to look down at what Herb brought her, cigarette forgotten between her quivering lips. She expected it to be from him, a little pep up. Perhaps a doll or a stuffed animal to cheer her. But no, this parcel in its plain brown wrapping had come from afar, smudged and delayed a million times judging by its redirected stamps -and she’d know that writing from anywhere.

Her Johnny.

Julie Jean’s little gasp let slip the cigarette from her mouth but not before Herb caught it from singeing the sheets. He was quicker than anyone gave the old man credit for, banged up head or not. “Thought that might cheer you.” he grinned in that begrudging way of his, as if he were cross at the joy made manifest on his face.

“I’m scared.” she admitted in a whisper, hands hovering over the brown twine strings. Whatever was inside was squishy and giving. And whatever it was, John had sent it before he’d been shot down. But still, somehow it felt like a gift from him on this, the worst day of her life. Like he was sending some comfort even from hell on earth and without a clue of her own dispair. Herb seemed to read it the same way, and that’s how Jean knew she wasn’t being a delusional, hysterical wreck, if that crusty old sod knew its significance in coming today, then it was plain as the irregular nose on his face.

“Scared of chocolate?” His tease covered a strong reminder for her to watch her words.

“Mm, yes, what if there’s raspberry filled ones?” she whispered back. “You know how I can’t abide raspberries.”

“Guess you’ll just have to be brave and see.” he nudged her.

Nodding her head solemnly, Jean tugged apart the twine that had kept John Egan’s package together for an entire transcontinental delivery. It fell away with a crinkling sound and she found folded upon it, without a bit of fuss or wrapping, the oddest piece of cloth. Almost a patchwork of pale leather and a zipper and -Jean’s throat closed as her hand descended and felt along the soft fluff of a sheepskin collar.

He didn’t. He didn’t send her his jacket? Surely —

Herb made a noncommittal noise beside her which sounded awfully like some touched sorta gasp at the sight, but as it was Herb and he had a tobacco wad where he should have had a heart, so he must’ve been coming down with the same cold that landed Lana in tonsil surgery.

Hands shaky and heart hammering, Jean reached in and pulled the garment out, a tiny little note fluttered out. Someone else’s penmanship. “To the care of Jean Turner, until it can be retrieved by Major Egan.”

“Oh god.” she felt like sobbing before pressing her face into the sweat fumed plushness of it. “Johnny. Johnny. Johnny.” she kept his name buried in his jacket, secret like his gift and his love and his comfort and her desires. Eyes and mouth muffled into the darkness of something that was his. She felt Herb’s gentle hand pat on her head and the following click of the latch as he went out.

“Mister Vincent called to say there’s dinner and photographs scheduled for tonight, Miss Tierney.” he informed her levelly before he left and her ears were not so buried in Air Force Shearling she couldn’t hear of her doom. “There’s been some speculations -they want to smooth it over. Bertha was trying to pass it on.”

Bertha wanted to wipe off whatever remaining blood was on her and primp all signs of coercion off her devastated face, that’s what Bertha was here for. Jean vaguely wondered if her mother’s clenching hand print still lingered on her cheeks, she rubbed John’s jacket against the soreness of her mouth, muffling her sobs the way her mother’s hand had stifled her screams of pain only hours ago.

Back to work, asap, it would seem. -Bleed down your nylons dear, it’ll be alright, so long as they see a happy face and a lucky new couple.

Vincent. She wasn’t sure how she’d face him, the weekend getaway and his little “test drive” of her had been bad enough, the fact he hadn’t the brains to prevent it from having consequences or the spine to stand up for the life of the child he made- oh, she wondered how she’d manage to down her asparagus in the face of it all. Acting, she presumed, a true talent that had suddenly become a personality since -since? -she wasn’t sure when.

Beside her for months now, stacked beneath the pile of new Runyon books she’d taken out of the library, had been a pile of letters that didn’t have a bit of acting in them. Raw and true and terrible and wanton, each of John Egan’s thoughts tumbled off their confining pages and into her heart in mirrored response to her own. Now mother had them.

Jean wondered where all her own letters to him were, now that he was gone and someone else was in his bunk.

Funny to think of that, the most honest account of herself was most likely moldering in the bottom of some MIA airman’s footlocker.

It was all a bit self indulgent, she admitted even as she stripped out of her bloody gown and down to her bare skin, but she had lost plenty and she needed him: so she slipped him on, soft wool caressing her and stopping the shivers of shock that had wracked her all morning. It smelled so manly and sweaty and terribly real she about swooned at the sensation of having a bit of him next to her. Now she’d seen him -all those darling candid photos in repayment for hers- and she’d heard him -oh that awful, wonderful telephone call right before he disappeared- and now she was smelling him.

Jean would have to bathe and take a handful of aspirin and cinch in her girdle and kiss her fiancée tonight, but for a brief hour she layed in bed naked as a baby with her gift wrapped around her like swaddling clothes.

Vincent came later with the car, one of his father’s for certain, and eyed her choice of outerwear with a sour mouth. Fleece and chiffon was an odd mix but Lana always had been a trendsetter and it was early November, even if it was Los Angeles. Of course, for her the jacket was John, and so she wore him like armor -and if she was wearing it, they couldn’t take it without her knowing.

“I’m cold.” she answered Vin’s unspoken question sharply on the ride over, “I’ve just had tonsil surgery, you may recall?”

“It stinks.” he huffed back, his nose presumptuously nuzzling under her curls and very near the sweat soaked fleece, “Smells like a barnyard.”

What it smelled like was a red blooded American man’s honest days work killing Nazis. But Vincent and his pale hands and arranged medical exemptions weren’t likely to know what that smelled like, so Lana felt compelled to give him a pass. “It’s for the war effort,” she sighed, “we must all make sacrifices. Mr. Warner told me it would be grand press to wear it.”

She’d never spoken to Mr. Warner about much else but weather and her tits, but growing ever more desperate as these days went on, Lana thought perhaps she’d pay him a visit.

“Great press?” Vincent seethed, charmingly one track focused, “The press should be about our engagement! Not the war!”

“Be a realest, dahling,” she soothed, “nothing, not even the great scion of a prestigious family such as yours is half as fascinating right now as ball bearings and top turret production in Greenfield. If we want them to print about our engagement, it’s got to have something to do with the general war, see?“

“Ah, ah I see.” Vincent swallowed her lie well enough, still perturbed at the fracturing of his beloved media attention but consoled that Lana was not aspiring to make him a fool.

Oh how foolish that was of him, Lana hummed to herself as they pulled up to the restaurant, perhaps not tonight or in a week's time. No, for now she was down and out and no doubt about it, but eventually, she’d scramble on top, she had to or she’d be offed eventually by it all. She knew that now, it was plain with each aching step on wobbly legs and each smile of her crimped, anemic face, Vincent’s pliable hand more vice than support on her elbow as she stepped out under Chasens’ green awning.

There was conversation and photographs all through dinner, her agent and a Warner Brothers executive kindly gracing the table with heavy, stilted and very implied conversation. Lana might’ve breathed better in her booth had they held an actual gun to her head and told her to finish her parsnips that way. They were very happy she had recovered from the tonsillitis so well, they were very eager to see her on set bright and early tomorrow, they were very eager that any doubt about how in love she was with the respectable Vincent be ameliorated -a very big word to say with a mouthful of steak- and very hopeful that Lana wouldn’t get any ideas about a repeat of the War Bond tour. Yes the last one had been very effective and the government was pleased, but too much exposure to common crowds had a tendency to lessen the goddess effect, she must be let out to the pubic sparingly, and they in turn must not feel entitled to her in any way.

Such as…reaching out through the post, for example, much less expecting to be answered with anything less standardized than what Bertha might write twenty times over in her name in an afternoon.

“I just want to do my part.” Lana demurred.

“Oh honey, you’ve done your part, and now you’ve got a new part. Make a wish.” And there before her was brought out a cake slice with much fanfare, icing making a pretty little drizzle of words -“speedy recovery Lana, love from everyone at Warner Brothers Studio.”

She’d seen actresses carried out plastered to the four winds on sedative from slices just like this one, chivalrously poured into a waiting backseat of a producer or studio head, taken back to be put to bed. God knows what else happened in those beds. Her nausea returned fourfold and it wasn’t acting when she gasped a need to go to the powder room.

Instead she dashed to the phone, the one in the cubby near the toilets, trying resolutely to ignore the spying eyes of waiters and curious waves of famous guests passing by.

“Pick up, Herb, pick up.” she begged, listening to it ring and ring, then suddenly felt a horrid fear at the realization she’d left the jacket slung over her chair at the booth, with Vincent. “Herb please, please.” she moaned, stomping one well shod foot against the marble floor.

“Hallo?”

“Herb, oh Herb!” Lana gushed urgently on hearing him pick up, “You must come pick me up, they’re onto me with the letters and they’ve brought out cake and- bring a car, Vincent brought his father’s-“

“-Thank yeeew, Herbert, that will be all.” Mother’s affected transatlantic sent shivers down Lana’s spine right as she felt the cold clasp of her rings around her wrist, receiver wrenched effectively from her nerveless hand, “This is a family matter, your services are not required.”

“Mommy dearest.” Lana felt her lips trembling in a odd way that fought against the creeping numbness, “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Would that I could say the same, Lana.” Mother reproved, “To abandon your fiancé without thought? And to find you calling on Herbert, like this were some otiresome fundraiser from which you may carelessly abscond -really. Your behavior is nothing but deplorable lately, I hardly know you. The cost, Lana, think of the cost of it all, this recklessness.”

“Who told you?”

“That you weren’t appreciative of the cake?” Mother smiled shyly, “Alfonso.”

The owner, of course, when he couldn’t get a hand up Lana herself he had become quite partial to mother, loyal to an opulent degree. She suspected that cake more than ever, the phone, too. God there was no getting out of this town, this place, this life.

“Alfonso says you’re distracted,” mother went on, “pale and sniffing some jacket? What has gotten into you?”

“Vincent.” Lana joked miserably and if half of Hollywood wasn’t sat so near, she’s rather sure her mother might’ve struck her.

“You’re going to go back out there, and you’re going to smile for the pictures, and you’re going to like it.” Mother laid out the case, the plan and the rest of her life, “And when we go home you’ll be getting a piece of my mind.”

“Oh really mother,” Lana sighed heavily, “I couldn’t take the last piece.”

The pinch on her arm was familiar of when Lana was a child and refused to sing in yet another talent show - the fifth that weekend. “Your fault for falling ill, now we must make up for lost time.” they were gliding back to the table arm in arm with Lana’s pale skin pinched between mother’s manicure, “Smile, darling, smile and wave.” as they wove between one starry guest and another.

Mother’s gait stalled for one fraction of a moment upon coming up to the table and seeing the bizarre article of clothing hanging over Lana’s chair. “Works better than a mink.” Lana proclaimed quite loudly, giddy enough to attract most male attention around who craned their necks to watch her shimmy it on for a try-on, much to Mother’s feigned amusement. She shimmied in the fleece, chiffon doing little to hide the jiggle of her derrière beneath the jacket’s hem and the flash of a bulb cracked significantly amongst the dinner chatter.

“It’s much too large for you -the sleeves, the shoulders-“

“That’s because it’s a genuine article mother!” Lana preened, satisfied to have caught the eye of the one she wanted as he sat in his booth.

Powerful and dark and lecherous, The Jack Huston stared at her unabashedly over the haze of his cigarette, his own date forgotten, taking in the way the man’s coat dwarfed her little body in a pantomime of covering her physically, masculine leather and zipper in stark contrast to baby soft skin swelling out of her neckline. She knew that look well, one of a man sizing her up for how she’d look beneath him.

Lana smirked at him significantly, squeezing the material around her dreamily and created a significantly more substantial amount of decollage for him to view upon doing so. “Lana, sit down for god’s sake.” Mother was hissing and Lana saw Huston laugh at it, she rolled her eyes and dramatically shrugged, seating herself as asked but refusing to break eye contact with him until he raised his glass in a toast to her brazenness.

“Lana, photographers! Come now! Chin up, smile, smile darling.”

There were so many flashbulbs here it was obnoxious to not only Lana’s throbbing eyes but the other patrons, still a hard launch of a stilted, lab grown relationship was hardly an oddity in Hollywood or its most favored eating spots, and so it was endured.

“Doll, open up,” Vincent cajoled in Lana’s ear, hand kneading her waist and nose pressed to her hair, “practice for the wedding.”

It looked quite humorous if a little uncouth in the papers next day, Lana’s gasping and amused indulgence of her green boy fiancé as he playfully stuffed her mouth with cake in that pitiful tradition of marital provocation.

“Look at my dearest daughter, tonsil surgery yesterday and already, so eager, can’t be kept from dinner with her darling fiancé!”

The world grew fuzzy as Lana did her best to keep the wad of cake in her gums until she could spit the most of it out. “Tell your studio i want compensation for having to share press with the war effort.” Vin was complaining to the executive and Lana felt her world swim, only one single, dire hope remaining -Herb.

She gripped the edges of the jacket tighter and tried to focus. Mother was being called away, taking her leave with a photographed kiss to Lana’s clammy temple -some business with Aunt Lu and that promised check for her swimming pool. Lana had put in a lot of swimming pools for a lot of relatives, she was beginning to lose track between the pools and the houses and the cars and the wardrobes and always -“it’s family, Lana, they depend on you. Chin up, smile, smile darling, smile for the cameras, there’s my golden girl, box office magic.”

“Lana it’s very important you understand the role of an engaged woman-“ the executive was very insistent and Lana was very tired and very fuzzy feeling, which apparently Vincent could sense as his hands began to grow courageous in his petting, “-it’s a fine balance between respectability and attainability. The studio has worked so hard to give you this life, made enormous sacrifices so you could have a chance at this career, created an expertly crafted persona for you -if you were to jeopardize it all in any way, by inviting speculation about yourself or your lackluster roots-“

Lana was about ready to stand up and scream “I’m Julie Jean Turner from Broken Arrow Oklahoma!” and watch the deflated disinterest cover her audience like snow, it would ruin the effect -she wanted them to care that her life was a lie, but as soon as she told the truth, they’d lose all interest either way. Fame was funny like that.

“Mr Vincent,” Alfonso was most solicitous as well as perispring when he hurried over to her fiancé’s side, “there’s been an incident, your car, sir! The windows, they are smashed! And there appear to be eggs?”

Lana wasn’t sure she successfully suppressed the bubbling little laugh that flitted out of her leaden chest at Vincent’s deathly white pallor. There were two of him in her fractured, drug impaired vision and he acted like looney twins, scrambling up from the table in a flurry of hands and pomade, tux tails flapping like a frightened bird. “It’s my father’s car you idiot! Where was the doorman? Where?”

“Ooooh daddy’s gonna be mad.” Lana cooed to herself, amused at how this failure of a son couldn’t land a deal or a car or his own, only a troublesome actress who was in dire love with a man she’d never met.

Dear Herb, the eggs were such a nice touch.

The executive was waving off the cameras, this part of the night hardly suitable to be recorded. “Stewart, phone call for you.” A commanding, sonorous voice beside her sent goose flesh popping along Lana’s arms beneath the jacket, Jack Huston and his cologne suddenly pervading the place like an ominous deity casting its shadow over the now almost empty table.

“Mr. Huston.” Lana simpered sweetly when Stewart had left and it was just them alone with his hand on the back of her chair, thumbing at the lamb skin. There were two of Huston too, in her vision, and Lana gulped in trepidation of having to please both.

“Miss Tierney,” he replied, grinning a little too wide for her to focus, “you know what you look like you need?”

“What’s that, Mr. Huston?”

“Call me Jack.”

“What’s that Jack?” she tittered, happily courting ruin.

“A nightcap.” Jack declared and was extending a large palm for her before she could second guess. It was the choice of a lion over a wolf here in Hollywood, and Lana had such plans for Mr. Huston. But, like most things, Lana’s plans must wait until Mr. Huston’s plans for her had been satisfactorily met.

Of all the backseats to be poured into in Hollywood, Huston’s was rather plush and smelled nice and had a clinking little bar in the console, well stocked and vintage. Better yet, the car wasn’t his father’s, it was his. As was his mind and his time and his appetite. Lana could only dream of having that sort of brash freedom, for now she must attach herself to those who did if she so much as wanted a taste.

“So what’s with the jacket?” Mr. Huston had the liberty to be casual on a ride back to his house with a much desired starlet, after all, he had a slam dunk assurance she wasn’t going to say no on arrival.

“It belongs to a man who loves me.” she slurred earnestly.

“Pilot?”

“Yes. He writes the sweetest, filthiest things.”

“To you?”

“Only to me.” she whispered with drunken vehemence.

“I bet he does.” Huston laughed.

Mr. Huston enjoyed ribbons: tying them around her, to be specific but of all the novel and varied ways to be satisfactory it wasn’t so bad, and when he lay next to her afterwards as the drug began to take her fully under, Lana was pleased by the heavy arm around her waist. He didn't care about the tonsillitis. Bucky’s jacket hung carefully over the armchair in her line of sight, Jack had been nice about that, too.

Yes she could make some use of Huston and his ribbons and his new army uniform and his government contracts.

————————————————-

“I was insensible.” Lana maintained the following day at a meeting with Mother and Stewart and a slew of concerned agents and executives who were pleased enough by the engaged cake smashing photographs, less so by the discreet vandalizing of their blonde product by John Huston. “I don’t know what you put in that cake but it did the trick and I was as aghast as you upon waking up where I woke up.”

“And the jacket?” Mother had her priorities straight, troublesome memorabilia first, dear daughter’s virtue second.

“Shoot, I think Huston has it.” Lana whimpered, “I was in such a state, such a rush to leave-“

“Well that was a very unfortunate oversight, Lana.”

“I know.”

“He could use it against us.” Mother fretted.

“He’d make a fool of himself if he did,” Stewart shined best when full of his self-bloated importance and meetings such as these were essential fuel for that importance, “it would look like he took a pilot to bed.”

“Stewart, she’s all over the nation’s morning paper’s wearing the horrid thing!” Mother snapped and while she herself was admittedly awful most times, Lana never doubted she was shrewd, far more than Stewart and all the men in the room she jockeyed for lead with. “In fact Lana, this has really brought to a head a growing issue. Your restlessness, your ingratitude, it’s become insufferable and now it jeparadizes everything. I am speaking of the coat but also of the letters. Oh yes, I know all about those.”

A wise performance required Lana to play the frightened and shocked little miscreant and so she did, wide doe eyes looking beseechingly penitent and horrified in the face of having been caught doing a single independent thing. “Oh mother-“

“They are bad enough with their filth and their familiarity,” mother cut her off, “but to have written to him in your old name! Lana, the carelessness! It’s a mercy he’s dead, think of the presumptuous attitude he would have adopted had he returned. Unthinkable!”

“Dead?” Lana felt her throat close up, wishing desperately to be back in his jacket again, regretting most harshly her high-priced scheming of last night. All of it had been for him, and he was dead.

“Quite dead.” Mother was irritated by her crestfallen state but not so much as to prevent her crowing over little Lana’s misstep. “And now I am burdened with the necessity of tracking down his effects, getting your side of the correspondence back, think of the unpleasantness of contacting his family! Conversations with dead servicemen's families are always so tedious. You do recall what a bore it was for me to have to carry-on with them on your tour. And all of this to get back your filthy, perverse break of discretion.”

“Were they to get out they’d ruin your reputation.” Stewart put in the obvious, “They’d reveal your plain and common upbringing, your drab name and worse, you would be known to be a horny, hungry young woman.”

Lana stared at him across from his desk, that adrift feeling of aloneness taking over her, such as she’d only felt a few times in her life, like when her mother left her on her first studio couch for an audition, despite her pleas to stay. “Yes,” she agreed faintly, “it would be a terrible thing for an object of desire to appear willing. Or wanting, at all capable of their own needs. It would really ruin the shine of it all, I see.”

“Lana!”

“Oh mother, really, pimped out all my life -all for it to be ruined by the suggestion I might like it!”

“It’s worse than all that.” Stewart insisted gravely, immune to female objections and tantrums, “I’ve been contacted this morning by one of the branches of our government dealing with espionage and information,” -no wonder he was feeling so very important today- “and they’re concerned that the German Air Force is aware of your correspondence with Major Agen-“

“It’s Egan, actually.”

“-Agen and a tapped phone call as well, they have concerns, Lana, about the Germans using this connection as leverage on him, now they have him in their camps, under their thumb, at their mercy.”

Lana’s fractured world slid together again like a suctioned mosaic, one focal point of reason being clear. “He’s a prisoner of war.” she knew just the right inquisitive tone to encourage Stewart to keep blabbing.

“Yes.” Stewart was very grave and very important about being privy to this information, and Mother let out a fuming little cluck of her tongue at his fumble.

“So, he’s a prisoner.” she smirked triumphantly at Mother and was not corrected for once. “Not dead.”

“Good as dead.” Mother clarified.

Lana still smiled, she could work with “good as.”

———————————————-

“Jack?” Lana had timed her delicate attack most carefully, waiting until Huston was relaxed but not asleep, dressing but not in a hurry, happy but not restless, and most importantly, not remotely tired of her.

“What doll?” Jack had a broad back and nice hands, sometimes Lana imagined they were rather like Egan’s, or maybe that’s what she told herself to keep the tears at bay long enough for each amorous performance to conclude, “Your mother bitchin’ about me again?”

“Well,” she shied away into the bedding, “to be honest, yes.”

“Little rebel.” he praised her on his way to sling on his suspenders, apparently he was going out tonight, she felt a clench of panic in her gut at the need to throw her pitch before he left or hushed her.

“Jack I’ve been thinking.” She began again.

“Not what you’re payed for, doll.”

“No, true.” Lana was used to laughing at that same joke told by a couple dozen different men, “But is that skit competition still on? The one for the CBS slot?”

“Yeah, few more days left, why?”

“Anything promising yet?” Lana ventured carefully, Jack was so very busy with all these government contracts for documentaries and proganada shows, and ever since then he’d had a very short fuse, fussy over his stalled artistic dreams. Not that he didn’t care about the war, he did in fact, and that’s why Lana liked him if she liked him at all. But he liked it the way a movie maker does, he wanted to tell stories and he wanted to be somebody important, and if he wasn’t going to be shot at he damn sure would be known to hang about the guys who were.

He was off to the Pacific to film some Marines mucking about on some godforsaken Atoll in a month or more. She had to make her move.

In the meantime, he was to organize a broadcast. Lana bad learned that from the grapevine at Warner’s, Betty D. dropping as much over her three carrots at lunch.

“I was wondering why we haven’t got ourselves an anecdote to Axis Sally.” Lana chose to be blunt, Jack was different from other men, he liked her babified act as much as the next man, but he’d belted her too for ‘playing dumb’. Since then she’d said her mind, as much as she dared and he called her idiotic often, but she’d not been belted again. “Our boys keep listening to that trash, and the housewives too, just to hear reports on the missing and the prisoners.”

“They listen ‘cause she’s sexy and funny.” Jack informed her with a pointed look.

“That too.” Lana contemplated the sheets before her, “But can’t we be funny and sexy too? Instead of demoralizing we could be happy! And we’d not have reports on prisoners but we could give them clues and hope, in case anyone's listening in.”

“Listening in.” Jack had stopped his halfhearted listening to her, wheeling suddenly with cuff links partway hanging, “You mean in camps?”

“Camps. Resistance. Wherever.”

“They don’t let them have radios, ya know.” Huston pointed out, but it wasn’t said in argument, he was pondering too.

“You know they still manage.” Lana smiled softly and he smiled back.

“Ok, what’s the pitch?” He sighed and sat himself down again on the side of the bed, evening plans abandoned for the moment.

Lana’s heart swelled with hope and the delicious feeling of being taken seriously. Even if she was lying in his bed with hair a mess and dignity mighty rumpled. “Perhaps we could tack onto Fred Allen’s spot? Hasn’t he got a vacancy? A variety show? A skit? I don’t know, but we could have repeat actors and we could have guest stars. And it could- it could be a girl-“

“-Allied Sally.” Huston joked and Lana genuinely snickered at that.

“Something like that.” She agreed, chagrined at the need for a catchy, corney radio name, “And she could be waiting for her sweetheart, sending him messages and well wishes and jokes and -Oh! The score! The scores on everything! Baseball! Jack!”

“Calm down, calm down, it’s decent.” Jack hushed her, waving her giddy self back down as she warmed to her topic, “And you could be her.” he stated the obvious.

“Don’t you think I’d manage it well?” She cajoled, cocking her shoulder in her best pantomime of a coquette. “Aren’t I funny and sexy, Mr. Huston?”

“Hmph,” he scratched his cheek and stared at her as if summing up the likelihood of this working, “needs another angle. Beyond skits.”

“Alright. Like what?”

Huston secured his cuff links, smile broadening as his mind began to whirl, “Letters.” he stated and Lana’s heart froze, “Love letters, we gotta keep it sexy, you said so yourself. There’s nothing so funny as a redacted letter being read out over the censors. The constant beeps alone will get laughs, give it the right inflection in between and you’ll have a game on your hands with the listeners guessing and filling in.”

“Letters.” Lana mumbled in agreement, numb at the brilliance of it and filled with horror at the idea of monetizing what John Egan had given her -connection, love, devotion, grit, humor. But this broadcast, it might be the only way to keep in any sort of contact with him. At what cost? Would he care at all for her after it? Would he think she used him up for a little business inspiration? Oh she couldn’t bear it, yet worse, she couldn’t bear life as Vincent’s wife, locked in for another ten years at Warner’s under mother’s thumb. “It’s brilliant.”

“Almost uncanny how likely a story it is.” Huston grunted as he pulled on a shoe, sending her a sly look that broke her a heart a little more, “Nothing so powerful as a tale based on a real thing, Lana.” he reminded forcefully.

The letters, the blackmail her mother hung over her, all of it dealt with if this pitch became a reality. It would all fade into a myth. And with it all the realness John had brought her. “Yes, I said -it’s brilliant.”

“Yeah, well, easy does it for now.” He cautioned, “Gotta sort your mother and let that contract expire gently. I’ll pitch it myself. See what CBS can wrangle up. Don’t get your hopes up and keep that jacket safe, it’ll be invaluable when we get you a storyline for it.”

“Right.”

“Well go on, tell mommy dearest.” he goaded, nodding to the phone.

“Oh they wouldn’t be approving.” Lana disagreed, referring to the whole pack of them, her mother and her lawyers and her agents.

“Why not? Sounds like great business. Solves all the scandal too.”

“Something like this part-“ Lana demurred, “-wouldn’t suit my image, mother says.”

Jack barked out a rough laugh, plopped back down on the bed and tugging the sheets from her clutches. “Your mother does realize you’re walking wank material, right? That’s your image.”

“Yes,” Lana sighed, “but…unwilling, she says. That’s the crucial part.”

“Oh. Yeah, well,” Jack eyed her up, “you do make a great impression of a scared lamb in bed.”

“They’re concerned it’ll make me too independent. Like the War Bond tour,” she gave a wistful smile, “I kissed so many boys my lips swelled right up. It was grand.”

“Now Lana,” Huston cautioned, “I’m not on any crusade to liberate you, myself.”

“Oh I know!” She was quick to assure, ever the obliging little lady, “And I don’t want to be. Not from you or the studio-“

“-just from mother dearest?” he nodded knowingly, not knowing the half of it.

“Yes.” she pretended great relief at his perception.

“Huh, well, good. Because this idea would have a contract of its own, and it would be long if I’m any judge of the longevity of the project. You’ll be locked in for years.”

“But it’ll be my choice.” She reaffirmed, and this time she meant it.

“And you’ll look willing.” Jack grinned and she grinned back, compulsively like a child mimicking their threat. “Might take some practice though, to make you look willing. Get over here, doll.”

———————————————-

Major Gale Cleven was appreciative of the dangers of listening to the radio in camp, it was one of those necessary and crucial risks that required responsible stewardship and utmost care. It wasn’t a flippant pastime and it wasn’t a recreation, but then again, neither was it strictly business. Like much of their lives as prisoners of war, he and his fellow soldiers toed a strict line between honoring their captors’ jurisdictions while also thwarting their imposed restrictions at every possible juncture.

Sometimes one should listen to the radio because that is what free men did, and Gale Cleven tried by any means possible- letters, books, calculus or his frigid metal headset- to stay free in his mind, to comport himself with the same surety as his free counterpart.

Otherwise, you lived like a ghost in your own body. And that was no good for oneself or those around you. As everyone who shared a bunk and combine with John Egan was quickly learning. The immediate joy of reuniting with him, the fear of losing him to his wounds, the relief of his recovery, it had all leveled out at the end like a anticlimactic ride on a rollercoaster, skidding to a plateau where he was neither well enough to be exempt from Gale’s concern, nor ill enough to warrant the patience required to put up with his rabid moods. Always restless, being kept in the glamorized equivalent of a dog run was hardly fitting for his nature. It was hard on everyone, but Gale wasn’t such a relativist as to assume John Egan had it the same as everyone. Some folks required more miles and more sky to keep them sane, and Bucky was one of those.

It had tipped Gale into a habit that could no longer be qualified as strictly informative, nor could he defend it as necessary where he to get caught. It was undoubtedly poor stewardship to spend an extra half hour listening to the inane comedy of a BBC guest production. But he had started it to cheer Brady when Glenn Miller’s band was on, and it had done such good for him and Bucky as they crowded ‘round, that Gale had since stayed alert for any other such ‘triviality’ that might be of use.

If the Colonel walked in and demanded an explanation for this extra bit of carelessness, Cleven thought he might make a decent defense about waiting for Ed Murrow to come on, broadcasting for CBS from London, always with a decent take on what was happening in the war. The motivation of Murrow often having stars on his program was completely erroneous.

Or so Gale swore to himself for the tenth time as Demarco kept watch and he himself painstakingly tuned the dials and bent his ear to sort the static.

There was music and the typical overlap of voices for awhile until he honed it down, British and American accents floating in, obnoxiously layered all on top of each other still, yet this time intentional. He must’ve hit a variety show. He gave himself two minutes, that much he’d allow and if the thing he’d been waiting for in secret for months did not occur,

he’d move right on or pack up for the night.

“I’m not sure about no boy writing you letters!” a man’s voice crackled through, comedically irate.

The next voice was girlish, smooth despite the poor frequency and made the hair of Gale’s arms stand on end from universal male appreciation and a gut wrenching sense of recognition: “Well I don’t know any more about it, paw paw, except that he loves me and I love him!”

“Yeah?” -Gale thought perhaps that was Bob Hope’s voice, play acting as the fuming father figure, “Yeah, then tell me, dear daughter, what sorta fella calls the girl he loves: Acorn! Huh?”

Gale’s eyes bugged from his head, glassy and shocked and Crank rushed over in solidarity, terribly sure the whole continent of North America had just been reported as broken off into the sea. “What is it Buck?”

“Crank!” Gale croaked, “Go! Go get Egan, tell him his girl’s on the radio and to get his ass in here, goooo!”

“Egan’s got a girl?” Benny was bewildered.

“Acorn!” Brady and Gale yelled in unison.

“But that’s Lana Tierney.” Crank pointed over the spunk wall, or as it was called in more noble moments of higher aspiration, the Wall of Hopes and Dreams, where Lana and Rita smiled tantalizingly and warm from their crinkled posters, down on the men’s bunks.

“Yes, Acorn. Go!”

Gale held his breath and listened harder, trying to gauge how far into the sketch he had caught them, wishing them to linger, as if by sheer willpower alone he could make her stay on until Bucky got there.

Fuck -acorn? Why would she use that? She had to be out of her mind to dare a thing like that, had to be just to get his attention, right? Surely? Had to be out of her mind, Gale decided, which was just another diagnosis for love. And that gave him pause.

“What’s your feller anyway? He a squirrel?” Bob Hope was pressing the issue right as Bucky burst in with a flurry of flapping overcoat and steaming breath.

“Get in here, come on, get over here.” Gale stood up and pointed to his vacated seat, shoving Bucky down for good measure and crouching to press the headpiece to his ear, wanting to share it for some idiotic reason, as if like a parent he could cut the cord if something sad or risky came on.

“Maybe he is,” Lana was breathily defending, “and we’ll live happily ever after in our tree. And there’s nothing you or Jerry can do to stop us!”

“Shit.” Egan breathed out reverently like he’d been punched real and good and an epiphany on life was brewing beneath his shuttering smile. “Holy hell it -it is her. It’s acorn.”

“On a show called ‘Dear Acorn’, Bucky.” Brady chimed in, face as lit up for Egan’s current happiness as if it were his own.

“So what’re you twos gonna live on, huh?” Bob Hope crackled through “Love and nuts?”

“Oh well dunno, I do so love my nuts.” Lana rejoined.

“Jesus!” Gale pulled away from the headset like it had personally accosted him for a tumble in the sheets.

“Acorn.”

“Yeah paw paw?”

“You’re nuts.”

“About him I am.”

“Uhuh.”

“And there’s nothing you or Jerry can-“

“-can do about it, I know, acorn.”

“Pinky promise!” Lana chirped a couple thousand miles away, and John Egan obeyed her once more with a raised hand and a crooked finger.

That night at roll call they had something to whisper about, and for once it wasn’t half cooked schemes to climb the barbed wire or try smothering the commandant in his sleep. Instead Bucky was rocking back and forth joyfully on his heels in the bitter night air, trying hard to keep his grin in check as the spotlight swooped over, choosing the intermediate bits of darkness to nag Gale for any bits he’d missed.

“I sent for ya right away, Bucky.” Gale insisted in a gentle whisper out the side of his mouth, “They were just starting to joke about letters being written to an acorn.”

“Can you believe it?” Egan hissed, almost demented in his sudden good cheer, “She’s that proud of me, built a whole damn show on it. Fuck, it makes a man wanna fight a dozen wars.”

Gale eyed him up carefully, the inside of Bucky’s head a foreign place even to him, but if his friend was hopeful and generous enough not to mind his intellectual (or rather, lack of intellect) property being capitalized on for the war effort, then Gale wasn’t about to sow seeds of doubt. “She’s somethin’ else.” he agreed nebulously, and meant it, “Bombs Away Betty, huh?”

“Showing partiality to one branch of the armed services, Buck.” John was back to grinning, “She must’ve liked the jacket.”

Hope you enjoined, thank y’all for all the screams and thoughts you’ve sent through my asks, the comments and reblogs too, I treasure each.

If you’d like to be tagged in my MOTA writings, drop a note below. 💋

Taglist:

@stylespresleyhearted

@ab4eva

@earth-to-lottie

@suraemoon

@blurredcolour

@steph-speaks

@crazymadpassionatelove

@rubyfruitjungle

@taestrwbrry

@storysimp

@javden

@sexualparkour

@jointherebellion215

@sunny747

@ask-you-what-sir

@xxanaduwrites

@pretty4u

@yorkshirekiwi

@waitedforlove743

@elvismylove04

@blikebarbie92

@luminouslywriting

@euryno-j47

@justheretoreadthhx

@bookotter01

@mads-weasley

@ka-ski

@justheretoreadthhx

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

Happy Hour

Roy Kent x Teacher!Reader

Warnings: Language, mentions of drinking

0.8k words

Teach Me Tonight Masterlist

Friday. The first week of school was finished, and you’d survived. No more coffee from Roy Kent, but plenty of good mornings and even a couple more smiles.

Leanne Bowen poked her head into your classroom after school to remind you about the first happy hour of the year. It was coming up on four, and you knew you were probably the last two teachers on campus; a normal occurrence, something that bonded the two of you.

“Willing to bet it takes Teresa all of two seconds to start hitting on the waiter,” she joked, referring to the older fifth year teacher who never seemed to outgrow her habit of flirting with every man she saw: waiters, shop clerks, single dads, not single dads.

You grinned. “Well, that’s just tradition at this point.”

With your desk semi-organized and your lights off, you shouldered your bag- already bursting with papers, despite only being five days into the year- and started to head to the parking lot. In the distance, you could see one of the school football teams wrapping up a practice; a bit surprising, considering how early in the term it was.

It was even more surprising when you heard your name shouted from across the field in a multitude of little voices. You squinted, looking past the crowd of girls jumping and waving, realizing a figure in all black was holding up one hand in greeting. Even from this distance, you knew it was Roy Kent. With your face aflame, you waved back, grateful that he couldn’t see the nervous grimace that crossed your face.

At the pub, you found a group of teachers at a table in the back, drinks already in front of most people. You plopped down next to Leanne, who offered you a smile. You gave your order to a passing server, then turned to join the conversation.

Leanne studied your face, which you were sure had a permanent blush at this point. “How was the first week?”

“Good, good. Yours?”

Before she could speak, Teresa opened her mouth. “Saw Phoebe O’Sullivan coming to school with a coffee the other day,” she crowed, waggling her eyebrows at you.

Damn. You put on what you hoped was a casual smile as a server set your drink in front of you. “Yeah, I guess she wanted to bring me a treat. She’s a sweet little thing.”

Teresa’s smile was almost mocking. “Yes, because Phoebe O’Sullivan is the one driving to school each morning.”

Karen Selig piped up. “And didn’t I see you taking a picture of her and Roy Kent on the first day of school?” She winked at you. “You must admit, he’s a real dish.”

“Oh, can it, you two,” Leanne scoffed. “We’re half your age and not nearly as hard up as you lot.” She turned to you, angling her body to let the other teachers know that the conversation was officially over. “Ignore them. Especially Karen.” She sipped her drink. “Gave me a hard time about Coach Kent when I had Phoebe too.”

You laughed, pretending your chest wasn’t tightening with all these mentions of his name. “Yeah, God forbid a man is nice to a woman.”

Leanne paused, her finger skimming her glass. “Yeah. Nice.”

“Lee?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at the colleague you considered more friend than co-worker.

She glanced around the table, double checking that the others were suitably distracted. Satisfied that Teresa and Karen were much more interested in a passing busboy than the two of you, she murmured, “Just… Kent’s very nice.” Her voice was careful. “And it’s… easy to misinterpret him.” Her smile was tight. “And that can be quite humiliating.”

“Uh-huh.” God, you hoped your face wasn’t flushed. Leanne was right; already, you were letting his kindness go to your head.

“I hope I’m not being a total fuck-witch,” she added, garnering a smile from you at the mention of her favorite nickname. “Honestly, I’m not trying to scare you off or anything. This isn’t a ‘I want the fella’ thing. Just giving you a heads-up. Between those two nosy things and his… everything, I don’t want you feeling as stupid as I did.” She took a sip of her drink. “But if there is something starting to happen,” she added, eyes suddenly full of teasing, “just do yourself a favor and don’t call him a mess.”

Your body began to relax as you let out a playful scoff. “Lee, you didn’t.”

She nodded, wrinkling her nose. “I did.” She touched her glass to yours. “Anyways, enjoy your very long year of having Roy Kent in your classroom.”

Before you could make some joke, your server came over with another drink for you, one you knew you hadn’t ordered. “From the gentleman at the bar,” he murmured.

You turned around as discreetly as you could, trying not to garner the attention of the veteran teachers.

Oh fuck.

Clad in that leather jacket and sitting next to- was that Jamie Tartt?- Roy Kent held up his beer in greeting to you before turning his attention back to the young footballer. Your face was positively glowing with embarrassment as you turned around to look at Leanne, whose mouth was open in a wide, knowing smile.

“Oh, you’re proper fucked,” she cackled.

Taglist:@infinetlyforgotten @gothicwidowsworld

[h0bg0blin-meat]

What hindu gods/deities are lgbt (I'm sorry if this is rude or ignorant I just wish to learn as I've heard some are)

Dw it's neither rude nor ignorant. Now before I start I do wanna say that almost all the queerness we see in Hindu mythology is highly subtextual most of the time, which is like pretty obvious cuz these were the ancient times. So this might lead to a varied number of interpretations, and I can only offer the same. But most of them are pretty convincingly queer, so let's get into it cuz why tf not. (This is gonna be a loooooong post so buckle up)

Vishnu

This fella is probably the most pan-coded deity in the entire pantheon. Extremely comfortable with both his masculine and feminine side, Vishnu can sometimes be considered one of the peak genderfluid icons out there. His avatar, Krishna, despite being referred to as the Parampurush (in other words the manliest man in the entire universe), his physical appearance (which is what is considered to be a very feminine body for a man today, i.e., slender and soft) breaks the stereotype of what masculine man should look like. There are paintings of him and Radha where I've stared for like a hot minute trying to figure out which one is Radha (mostly in grayscale cuz otherwise their complexions are a dead giveaway) and yet, he slays it like a badass.

Then we also have Mohini, the goddess of beauty probably the best seductress out there, and the only female avatar of Vishnu. Through her having a union (yk what they mean by that) with Shiva (AHEM subtext amirit), Vishnu gave birth to Ayyappa, and wouldja look at dat he has two dads, which was actually prophesized. Mohini in one of the versions of Mahabharata (not the original one) ALSO slept with Iravan (Arjun's son) the night before he was gonna offer himself as a sacrifice for the Kurukshetra war. Reason was that Iravan had a wish to get married and spend the night with his wife before dying, and wishing his wife would mourn for him after his death. So Krishna felt bad for him, turned himself into Mohini and married him. The next day she held her husband's body and mourned for him like any wife would. We can also go back to the time where he sported (make of that word what you will) with Arjuni (female version of Arjun) as well as the female version of Narad (for a year in the latter's case).

In short, we can see how chill Krishna is with his fluidity with sexuality and gender, so much so that it's hard to put a label on him sometimes, which is fine. But yes interpreting him as queer wouldn't necessarily be a preposterous claim after all.

Shiva

Tbh Shiva is also pretty queer-coded, given his union with Mohini (and yes he specifically ASKED Vishnu to turn into her and hence he KNEW it was his best friend after all), and him turning into a woman to join Krishna's leela that one time, which also denotes that he's pretty confident in his gender fluidity as well, to some extent. He also has a sort of female avatar, who's actually very underrated. I think it's called Shivani. Also no one can deny the tension between Shiva and Vishnu let's be real here. They even have a ship name- Harihar, PLUS that "Vishnu is in the heart of Shiva and Shiva is in the heart of Vishnu" line. Btw this was a joke, but now you know why they're one of the popular ships of Hindu mythology. I personally have very neutral stance to the kind of bond they share, whether you call it platonic or something else.

(Note that I personally do not consider Ardhanarishwar and Vaikunthakamalaja as any genderfluid thingy because I just see them as literal fusions of the two couples, but yes many consider these two fused versions of Parvati-Shiva and Lakshmi-Narayan respectively to be gender-nonconforming, or non-binary of some sort.)

Lakshmi

Why did I add her here? Because I have a feeling she might be bi, given the fact that her husband is also technically her wife, considering we take Mohini into account, who I'm pretty sure she loves just as much as she loves Vishnu. But again, that's just my take on it.

Agni

Now he's one of the more popular queer-coded Hindu gods, specifically known for his implied poly-esque relationship with his wife Svaha and Soma (the wind god). Now many sites on Google have claimed Soma to be his husband, but I am yet to find a scriptural evidence for that claim, so I suggest you to take their words with a grain of salt. But what IS true is that these two guys do share a pretty profound bond. There was also this one instance where Soma went to a mountain and Agni followed him. Then both of them at the top of that mountain, 'became one' (what does that mean? not sure but it sure as hell sounded romantic. anyways).

Plus, Agni is also very well-known to be the (oral) receptor of Shiva's (and sometimes Soma's but not sure about the second one) semen, which he then flung into Ganga cuz it was too hot to bear for him, and that's how Kartikeya/Murugan/Skanda (Shiva and Parvati's son and a God of war) was born. So yeah.

Mitra-Varuna

These two.... are another pair of popular queer-coded Hindu deities. They're almost always summoned and worshipped together, and you can say they have canonically.... well had a union, and good news is none of them became a woman for the deed. Their union is recorded in the Shatapatha Brahmana 2.4.4.19, where Mitra is said to have "implanted his seed in Varuna" (hmmm nothing homosexual going on here) during the waning moon. Many people consider this a metaphor for the cyclic nature of celestial phenomena so it's upto you to interpret it however you want.

Now they also give off that sunshine x grumpy vibe, with Mitra being the god of friendship, sun, daylight, dawn and stuff while Varuna is the god of the waters, moon, nighttime, dusk etc. Plus, the latter has anger issues but he has a bubbly Mitra (pun intended) to calm him down for dat :D.

They are also known for siring two sages, Agastya and Vasistha after they accidentally released and mixed their semen into a pot as a result of getting enchanted by Urvashi (one of the apsaras or celestial nymphs).

Budh and Ila

Budh is technically an AMAB non-binary (or intersex) deity (and technically the planet Mercury) born to Chandra (who's also synonymous to Soma most of the time) and Tara, to put it simply, and got cursed to be neither male nor female because Chandra had an affair with someone else's wife -_- (Tara was the wife of Brihaspati, or Jupiter, who was also the guru of the gods).

Ila is another genderfluid deity. Some versions of the myth says they were born a woman, some say they were born a man called Sudyumna, while some say they were born a woman, but since their parents wanted a son, Mitra-Varuna (who they preyed to) changed their gender and Sudyumna was born (but then there was some issue with the rituals, which led to the duo to turn him back to a woman, which is when they took the name of Ila. Ik, too much gendershifting going on, bear with me). Anyhoo they got this genderfluidity from Shiva's spell and every month they'd change sex from Sudyumna to Ila and back to Sudyumna and so on. Budh got enchanted by Ila and married her, and bore the Pururavas with her.

Later on, some versions say Ila permanently turned into a man with Parvati's boon. But personally interpreting, Budh was technically still married to Sudyumna so..... idk what happened to them afterwards tho. I hope they were still spouses...

[flicklikesstuff]

FELLAS! I finally found the title name for my Wish Rewrite!!

✨ Wish: Reach for the Stars AU ✨

So from now on, my posts related to this will be tagged: ‘reach for the stars au’ or ‘rfts au.’ And just to do a little mini celebration, I thought of doing doodles of the Starverse just for fun.

……..

Close-Ups!:

So, Kingdom of Wishes! @annymation’s AU!

Hope you won’t mind this design. Just drew him based on what I think he looks and as close to your description as I could. Most of Aster is taken reference from medieval princes and Snow White’s prince. Went off of some concept art too. Tell me what you think!

………..

Wish: Rewrite the Stars! @gracebethartacc’s AU!

What more could I say? I love this little guy, their design and artstyle for them is adorable. Had a lot of fun drawing this Aster. One of my favs was the hair, elf ears and star eyes.

……..

And my own, of course. Wish: Reach for the Stars AU!

My old design was looking a lot more plain to me lately and I wanted him to stand out more from the other drawings of him. For now, I’m happy how he turned out. His shirt was inspired by this one below, but in the colour yellow instead of red.

……….

And just to finish this off, have some silly quick doodles of these 3 guys. <33

[angel-gone-south]

Oh dearest writer I am requesting (again) what do YOU think tweek, clyde, kyle, jimmy and pip would call the reader (if that makes any sense 😅) like ig "petnames" but I hate that word more then anything (even more then my mom 🤭)

🖌 anon (as always)

Nicknames for the Reader!

i did romantic AND platonic if that’s okay

Drug mention

【☆】★【☆】

Stan Marsh

Platonic: Dude, Bro, “Lil Homie” or “Big Guy” depending on your height

Romantic: Darling, Honey, Baby. Typical shit unless he’s in a goofy mood, then it’s something stupid like “booboo bear”

Kyle Broflovski

Platonic: Dude, Bro. Classic.

Romantic: Babe, Dear, Honeybun. He never calls you Honeybun in public though, that one is for him only.

Kenny McCormick

Platonic: Babes, among other things that are probably not normally platonic (doll, pretty, etc)

Romantic: Doll, Prince/Princess, Hot stuff (or hotcock/pusspuss when he’s stoned out of his gourd)

Eric Cartman

Platonic: This is Cartman we’re talking about. He calls you derogatory things based on your appearance and background no matter what.

Romantic: Same thing, mostly. But alone he’s much sweeter, or he just adds “my” to the beginning of whatever slur he calls you. He’s not used to love.

Butters/Marjorine Stotch

Platonic: Fella, Buddy, Bubba, etc.

Romantic: Baby, sweetheart, darling, etc. Constantly giving you the sweetest compliments too. “Handsome boy” or “pretty girl” or simply just “gorgeous”

Craig Tucker

Platonic: Dude. Bro sometimes but he’s a very Dude guy.

Romantic: We all know he calls his partners honey, but also I think he would call you cupcake or love. Maybe even just baby.

Tweek Tweak

Platonic: Bro, my guy. Uses your name a lot.

Romantic: Hun, Cutie, just the most sickeningly sweet shit. He’s smitten.

Clyde Donovan

Platonic: Dude, bro, guy. Regardless of gender.

Romantic: Something stupid. Little lady/baby boy/my darling when he wants to embarrass you. Bae in front of his friends.

Tolkien Black

Platonic: Simple and straight to the point, he uses your name. Occasionally dude.

Romantic: I’m sorry he’s the guy to say pookie unironically 💀 he also calls you “little bug” though which is honestly adorable

Jimmy Valmer

Platonic: My man/Little Dude/Miss lady. He’s a jokester, whaddya want?

Romantic: Sweetums, cutie patootie, lovebug.

Scott Malkinson

Platonic: Dude, your name. Very simple.

Romantic: He’s probably so nervous but I think he would call you sugar, hon, and babe. He’s also definitely fond of dear and darling.

Pip Pirrup

Platonic: Friend, Chap, other British things.

Romantic: Love, sweetie, baby, missus/mister/mx. He adores you to the bone.

Damien Thorn

Platonic: Puny, worm, other such insults.

Romantic: Mortal. Also refers to you as “the Tolerable One” and “Mine.” Sometimes, when he’s feeling extra sappy, he calls you his little angel or firestarter.

Gregory (of Yardale)

Platonic: He does NOT know what that means so prepare for a litany of Prince/Princess, My Liege, etc.

Romantic: Others include: My sweet, love, sunshine, baby, little flower, beautiful, gorgeous, etc.

Christophe “The Mole” DeLorne

Platonic: “Friend” is the best thing you could squeeze out of him.

Romantic: lots of French. “Papillon” (butterfly), “Mon cher/Ma chérie” (my dear/my darling), “Amour” (love). He prays you don’t understand. Never point them out he WILL stop.

[hunterscyarika]

The Medics assistant

Mayday x fem reader

Warnings: none other than a reference of reader having anxiety.

The afternoon skies were cloudy on Pabu, yet everyone was in good spirits.

You were tending to your favorite patient, an elderly Nautolan woman named Meena.

As you made small talk with her you noticed an item you needed on the top shelf.

How’d that get there?

Then you remembered your unofficial assistant, Mayday.

Mayday helped you take care of a few of your patients, he was a quick learner, and you were grateful for the help.

When you tried to reach for the item and couldn’t quite reach it, Mayday suddenly appeared beside you.

“I’ve got it” Mayday said. You smiled brightly “Thanks, Love” You said and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Mayday gave you an adoring smile and kissed your forehead.

Mayday spoke with Meena for a moment. You watched him with heart eyes.

He left to meet up with Crosshair at the beach.

Meena gave you a bright grin and said, “That’s a real handsome fella you’ve got.”

“I know, He’s the best thing that’s happened to me.” You agreed.

Only a few people knew of your battle with anxiety, but those who did were pleased to see the change after Mayday came along.

You left the clinic after helping Meena and you went looking for Mayday.

You found him by the shoreline sitting and talking with Crosshair.

Those two were close, Crosshair was a quiet man who didn’t open up to many people, but he always made time to talk to Mayday. Early on in your relationship Mayday had told you of what he and Crosshair had been through on Barton four, and how they’d barely survived. You were grateful everyday that they did.

You walked up behind Mayday and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Hi, boys” You greeted. “Hey, beautiful girl” Mayday grinned back at you. “Hi” Crosshair greeted you. “How are you today, Crosshair?” You asked him. “Fine” He replied, then added “I don’t need  to ask how you are, you two are disgustingly happy” You laughed at Crosshair’s teasing, all too happy to be accepted by him.

Before the sun began to set you left Mayday and Crosshair to look for seashells. Mayday watched you as you sorted through the sand, trying to find just the right seashells for the necklace you were making. He always admired your creative eye. He placed his hand on the necklace you’d given him. It was before you began dating that you gifted him the necklace, he’d been so touched by it that he wanted to cry, that was one of the first moments Mayday knew that his feelings for you went beyond that of friendship.

Collecting seashells was an enjoyable way for you to relax after work. There was something about the sound of the waves rolling in, and the gentle breeze softly blowing through your hair. Mayday joined you. Several tiny teal shells were part of your current collection but something was missing you just didn’t know what, at least until Mayday walked up beside you with an excited smile and he showed you some beautiful magenta colored seashells he found. “Oh, Mayday. These are perfect!” You cheered. “I can’t wait to see what you make with these” Mayday said. “Well, you’ll be the first to see, as always” You smiled and gave him a kiss on the lips.

[pocketpennytm]

INESCAPABLE

The story where everyone is doomed from the start. (Ft. FATEBREAKERS) Chara (they/it) - SOUL of Pain Plaster (he/they) - SOUL of Patience Omlet (she/they) - SOUL of Kindness Talon (he/him) - SOUL of Bravery Oxalis (they/them) - SOUL of Justice Sonata "Breve" Stardust (she/her)- SOUL of Integrity Litany (he/him)- SOUL of Perseverence Frisk (they/them) - SOUL of Pain Bear witness to my takes on the six fallen humans! I love these silly lil fellas. My main focuses have been envisioning "UNDERTALE: Open Wound", of which Plaster is the protagonist, and "UNDERTALE: Simmer Down", of which Omlet is the protagonist, but I've got ideas for everyone else too. Which I will detail down here lets gooo; Plaster is an anxious overthinker, thinking that they're always doomed. His patience manifests as analysing his enemy's patterns and behaviour, waiting for the right moment to strike... Either emotionally or physically. Omlet is a rude, abrasive person, who thinks the kindest, most selfless thing they can do to people is tell them exactly what she's feeling. Though she seems distant, she does have a warm and caring side- expressed through their cooking. Talon is a very plucky individual, whose bravery manifests as completely pushing down all fear and pretending that he's fine when he's really not fine. He projects outwardly a very cool, calm and collected persona, never breaking a sweat at anything. This trait of his just might be the death of him, as he moves on ahead with reckless abandon- never asking for help, when that just might've saved him. Oxalis seems unemotional at a distance, but they do have occasional moments of goofiness that break through the cold facade. They play as a cowboy embodying justice to cheer themselves up, but it's really only made them seem slightly scary from a distance. Sonata "Breve" Stardust doesn't take shit from anyone. She stays true to herself, no matter what- with her rough-and-tumble-yet-oddly-elegant style. Though perhaps being unaccepting to changing the path one is barreling down is as much of a strength as it is a weakness. Litany is a caring and nurturing person, playing out the fantasy of being a doctor with a clipboard. Always writing down notes on his "clipboard" (journal), clutching onto it for dear life. He only really wants to help others, and he keeps going to achieve this goal no matter what. MISC NOTES: Sonata's form of "game" would likely manifest as a rhythm game sort of thing, justifying it in-universe as this "bizzare trend going around the underground." Stay with the groove, or die! (metaphorically) It's been my headcanon for nearly two years now that the "Red SOUL trait" is PAIN. It is not all too logical. I am sticking by my guns.

NAME LOGIC: I was inspired by Clover from UNDERTALE: Yellow being named after the fact that once pacified, the gun fires clovers. So, I extended this philosophy to everyone else- while also seeking to capture that odd jank the names "Chara" and "Frisk" have.

Plaster is named that because the knives turn into bandaids, and plaster is an alternative term for a bandage, or something that patches up a wound. Omlet is named that because the fire turns into omelettes, and I decided to shorten it for some reason. I think it's charming like this, though. If anyone else mentions how they "aren't really omlettes", i will sob. Talon is named that because that's the most convoluted way I could reference the concept of hands. Which is what the bravery soul phase attacks with. Oxalis is named that because Oxalis Tetraphylla is the official name for a four leaf clover. Though she probably uses Alis as a nickname. Sonata "Breve" Stardust is named that bc the musical notes eventually heal you. a Sonata is a form of music, a Breve is a type of note, and she attacks with some stars. it's also sort of an Equestria Girls reference whoopsie. She's the only one with a lastname bc I feel like "Breve" captures the sort of janky charm I want, but Sonata is a name that I just found legitimately really pretty Litany is named that because that's the most convoluted way i could say "words", in reference to how the soul phase... attacks you with words. It means a funeral procession recited for the dead, but also something that's overly long and needs to be practiced several times- exactly like the cycle of the fallen humans. Or a long and lengthy ramble, like an indecipherable journal.

DESIGN NOTES: I really wanted each of the fallen humans to use their trademark items in an unusual fashion- or just generally "break the mold" a little, ie having Omlet be a rather rude seeming person, while most personify kindness to be a gentle little angel. So, I'll go into that just a smidgen more here. Instead of wearing the Faded Ribbon like an actual ribbon in his hair, Plaster wears it like a bowtie. Omlet wears the apron around her waist, since she's outgrown it but it still holds quite a lot of sentimental value. Most people just?? forget that the worn bandanna is supposed to go around your neck?? since it's got abs drawn on it, and it's like, the whole joke is that it's supposed to look like you have abs- It's a hat. Sonata was such a fun design to make for me. Everyone always chooses to make Integrity a dainty little ballerina girl, so I chose to give Breve a whole-ass varsity jacket. She looks like she'd beat you up and I love it. My logic for Litany's design was entirely "okay... who wears glasses... and takes notes- DOCTOR". So that's what I did. Chara and Frisk were difficult for me to redesign. My friend Cacote suggested Chara be wearing an oversized sweater alongside messy hair, which I quite like. Plus, their hairstyle is a partial reference to Chara from Fanontale, which is always cool. They look adorable. My friend Cacote suggested Frisk be wearing some bizzare fashion, somewhat akin to futuristic clothing. This manifested as me... giving them a weird suit/trenchcoat combo. And a sticky bandage on their nose. They look kind of like a huge asshole, and I love it.