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artficlly · 3 months

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smog & spirits: pony club (mini-series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, angst no comfort, previous abuse, domestic violence, curses and hexes, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, possession, mediums, ghosts, hauntings, horror, smoking, brothels, pubs, gambling, alcohol, cults, death/violence/torture, bucky barnes has issues, bucky barnes is a dick, police brutality, vaguely british setting??, sexism, classism, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 10.1k!!! oh my god someone help

A/N: god this has been on the go for awhile. it got so long but i have a worm in my brain that told me this had to happen before i can get onto the juicy stuff. next part will be a lot more bucky heavy im so sorry this didn't have much of him, needed to build up that loreeee. anyway i actually hate my writing in this, if i have to reread this one more time im gonna go crazy so i'm just gonna post it and go to bed lol!! sorry for any typos - not proof read and edited while half asleep lol.

taglist: @nash-dara

main masterlist | series masterlist

To be lulled into the false security that you would never see Bucky Barnes again was a foolish thought.

Two months passed rather uneventfully. The handsome payment Bucky left you after your favour to him was far beyond your normal rates. A mixture of the gangster having deep pockets and, you suspected, an indication that all that had unfolded was to be kept quiet.

So you had done just that. Your mouth had been sown shut, an invisible thread keeping your lips bound. There were so few people left in your life anyway that you didn’t feel like spilling details of a sex-based ritual with the limited relatives you had left. You weren’t particularly fond of them regardless; most you had not seen in years.

You embraced the winter months as they settled across the city of Blackstone. The fog would roll in thick and dense, the clouds lingering over the port as Sootstone was cast into days of hoarfrosts. Icicles as long as your forearm hung from buildings and lamp-posts and was salt scattered across the wooden docks, where slippage was the worst. The homeless gathered in crowds around the Smokestack district, leeching off the warmth the factories produced. The ice and frosts were never white, unlike the country estates or wealthy garden districts. Smoke and ash continued to pour into the skies, tainting everything with a layer of black grit.

You would see the Smog Boys in the streets often. Teams of the lower-ranking, younger lads would roam in packs, dipping in and out of the alleys. Even dressed in black, you could not make them out through the fog when they intended to disappear. Maybe it had been your brush with Bucky, but you began to notice them everywhere. Lurking in the markets, smoking by the docks, or sauntering by the smokestack factories. A small, stiff, knowing nod would be bestowed upon you if your gaze locked with theirs or if you lingered too long. As if they knew who you were. As if they had been instructed to keep an eye out for you.

You could never leave the Smog Boys once you were inside. Whether you liked it or not, your fates were inextricably linked. You never knew when you might be needed. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to find one in your home. It is what you ought to have expected by now. It was only a matter of time before they came calling.

You could only find one word to describe the woman in your kitchen. Beautiful. Beautiful in a hauntingly, terrifying way. She was stylish, with a blouse tucked into tailored, high-waisted suit pants. A lavish fur coat was draped over her shoulders, and her red hair was in a fashionable, blunt bob. Her lips, painted a deep red, were curved into a disgusted sneer as she assessed your residence.

She had to be with Bucky because only a Smog Boy could illicit such an aura.

“You should invest in better locks.” The redhead comments with a sniff. You haven’t even had a chance to process her presence; instead, you are standing with your lips parted in shock. “It wouldn’t be hard to rob you… or worse.”

You’re unsure if that was a thinly veiled threat or genuine advice.

“Most don’t make habit of breakin’ into witches' homes.” You mutter, regaining your composure. You whip your headscarf off, abandoning it on your dining table. “They’re scared of being cursed.”

Your fingers unknot the woollen scarf around your neck now, tugging it free with a flutter of ash. The woman arches a well-manicured brow at you, looking you up and down. She doesn’t try to hide her judgement. She didn’t seem the type of woman to shy away from stating her opinion. Your clothing was noticeably different from hers, which was made of luxurious fabrics. The Smog Boys were well known for their finer suits—just because they lived and worked in the slums didn’t mean they dressed for it. Bucky seemed to like to keep certain appearances and had the funds to do so. You, however, were dressed for practicality. Heavy, cheap textiles that kept in the warmth.

“Cursed.” The woman states, tone sharp. “You don’t seem the type to throw curses. You’re too… sweet.”

You don’t miss the condescending nature of how her sharp lips curve into a smile. You shoulder the insult. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Natasha. Romanoff.” The name was vaguely familiar to you. She was definitely one of Bucky’s inner circle. Possibly she worked closer to the shadows—a brain rather than brawn like Steve and Sam. “Barne is in need of your particular set of skills again.”

You pause, your fingers frozen over the pin in your mantle. Again? You knew to expect this, but still, you felt your heart uptick a beat. So soon? The question of which skills hung heavy in the air. Your abnormal skill to summon and banish spirits? To break curses and sense the otherworldly? Or to get your brains fucked out by Sootstone’s most notorious gangster?

From the way Natasha was eyeing you, it seemed she knew all about your little sex ritual.

“What if I’m unavailable?” You test hesitantly.

The redhead isn’t amused. “It wasn’t a request.”

You nod slowly, hands falling to your sides. One should know when not to test Bucky Barnes or his men; it always ended rather unfavourably. Plus, you didn’t want to wake up tomorrow to find your kitchen filled with any more gangsters.

Maybe Natasha was right about the locks.

—

Bucky and a pack of his dogs congregated in the streets outside the pub known as The Anchor. The establishment sat across from the docks, with tinted, lattice windows facing the port. On a clear day, one who sat in the window booths might be able to see the ocean. Though, throughout your life, you could recall about as many clear days as the fingers on your right hand. The Anchor had been in the Barnes family for years, originally bought by Bucky’s father when the Smog Boys first rose to infamy.

The building was well cared for, a luxury not many of the surrounding establishments were familiar with. The building was decorated in a nautical style, with netting and flags adorning the walls and rafters. Fish and ships were painted onto the siding, with gold and blue accenting the furniture inside. Even the sign out front was a small, steel anchor engraved with the pub's name.

The Anchor was mainly stocked with whiskey, which the Smog Boys ran an underground distillery for. They offered other spirits, wines, and ales, but the main vice of The Warrens was whiskey. Bucky had several underground or even legal businesses dotted throughout Sootstone, including gambling dens and brothels. You knew he made his office in a gambling den not too far from The Anchor—the dock-side streets were prime spots for high traffic from the sailors and dockworkers coming and going like the tide.

As you and Natasha approached, the pack of adolescent gangsters surrounding Bucky scattered, disappearing into the thick fog and alleyways like wraiths.

“Your witch, as requested,” Natasha announces with a sigh, her brows arched. Bucky glances at you, acknowledging you with little more than a grunt. He takes the last drag from his cigarette before crunching it beneath his shoe.

“Thank you, Nat.” Bucky replies, smoke escaping his lips as he speaks. “Sam’s lookin’ for you inside.”

Natasha doesn’t offer you a farewell as she pulls her coat tighter around her lean body and ducks inside the pub with a tsk. You and Bucky are left in an odd silence, with only the faint call of seagulls and the lapping of waves joining you. You had never seen the dockside street so quiet, but you could confidently assume his presence was responsible.

“I trust Nat didn’t scare you too bad.” The gangster breaks the silence. His dark eyes wander across your frame, seemingly disappointed that you were thoroughly covered to prevent the cold from seeping in. “Would’ve come to get you myself, but I had some business to attend to.”

In retrospect, the thought of encountering Natasha in your kitchen again seemed more daunting than Bucky. You weren’t too sure how to interpret her malice and cool charm. She did give off the impression that she would kill you if you even breathed in her direction. As for Bucky, maybe he would kill you, but given his reputation, he was far more likely to fuck you up against the nearest available surface.

“She said you've a job for me?” You ask, watching as the gangster tucks his large, bruised hands into his pockets.

He cocks his head to the side. “Walk with me.”

You obey wordlessly.

Bucky navigates the streets with ease, ducking through alleys and blindly striding into the fog with unquestionable confidence. The few people you encounter in the winding streets dart out of the way, mumbling apologies and casting their gazes down as they stumble over their own feet. Your breath comes in clouds as you exhale, salt and ice crunching beneath your feet as you keep pace with him.

“There’s an establishment I own, it’s been losin’ business these past months. The girls reckon it’s cursed. Or haunted.” He elaborates, and you frown.

“You think a spirit’s attached?” You ask, and the gangster huffs out a short, bitter laugh.

“I don’t fuckin’ know. I don’t have a sense for that stuff.” His lips are set in a line as he casts his sight down at you. “That’s your job, spirit-raiser.”

You can’t help but gulp and hope that his issue was indeed a spirit. One did not want to disappoint the gangster out of fear of the consequences. Your mind drifted back to months ago, to when he sat in your kitchen with that cursed necklace. He hadn’t noticed that curse—not until his sister apparently spelt it out for him. You couldn’t imagine carrying that thing around when it had reeked so badly that you tasted rot.

“What about your sister?” You suddenly interrupt.

Bucky gives you an incredulous look. “Becca? What about her?”

“You said she has a sense—”

“You think I’m lettin’ my sister near a brothel?” He snaps over you. His body turns to face you as you are both left motionless in the empty, ashy street.

“Oh— I didn’t realise it was… You just said— I just assumed—” Your cheeks grow pink—this time not from the cold—as you stumble over your words. Flakes of ash slowly amble down from the sky, twirling in your mingled breath as the gangster looms over you. Several emotions flicker over his face—insult, disbelief—before finally settling on an eerie amusement.

“Shy ‘bout a brothel? You’re not far off bein’ a whore yourself, doll. You certainly let me fuck you like one.” He leans closer to you, the scent of tobacco fanning across your skin. You clamp your jaw shut, your cheeks growing hotter by the second. The gangster smirks at you with a wickedness that rivals the devil.

—

The Pony Club was not creatively named, like most things in Sootstone. You were sure there was an innuendo about riding or mounting buried in its origin. The brothel was buried deep in the busy streets of the Smokestack District. The crowd of workers parted with hushed whispers as you, Bucky, and Steve approached the establishment. You had bumped into the other gangster during your walk, and he had thankfully filled the tense silence hanging between you and Bucky.

The Pony Club was neatly tucked between two stores. Ice covered the tiled roof, and grey-stained icicles dripped melted water from the front balcony. The ash falling from the sky was thick in these parts. Street sweepers patrolled the roads like small armies, brooms in tow, ensuring the roads were clear for carriages, waggons, and those on foot.

The three of you paused before the building. Your eyes swept over the painted sign, an illustration of a pony alongside the cursive lettering. The building looks well up-kept like many of the Smog Boy establishments; it put its neighbours to shame. You couldn’t help but notice how, despite its busy location, the building was eerily empty. It was as if its walls stood outside of time, cursed to live an existence outside of perceivable reality.

There was a twinge in your gut, a knowing.

Steve grimaces beside you, the gangster scowling as he tucks his hands deep into his pockets. At first, you think he is simply cold from the frigid fog sitting over the city, but only as he speaks do you realise he senses something more. “I hate this place.” He utters.

Bucky hasn’t reacted. He truly didn’t seem to have a sense for anything otherworldly.

“How does it make you feel?” You pry. Steve blinks at you in surprise, as if he hadn’t realised he spoke aloud. It would be useful for you to know how a non-magical person might feel; it could also give you insight as to what haunted the halls of the brothel.

“Doesn’t encourage me to put my cock in some bird, that’s for sure. Bad for business, ‘cause that’s the whole point.” Steve grumbles, and you swear Bucky rolls his eyes. “How does it make you feel?”

The two men look at you with curiosity as you consider your words. Terrible? Awful? Yes, you felt unnerved, but you were accustomed to spirits and hauntings. Most places in this city had ghosts, whether they were malevolent or just lost. You had become unnervingly comfortable with the creeping sensation that you were not alone. It was an entirely different feeling to curses—no, curses, they twisted your gut in wicked ways—hauntings you were at ease with. There was an odd familiarity to them, it sparked a warmth in your soul.

“Best I not say.” You land on. It would be better not to mess with the egos of gangsters, especially if they were afraid of a little ghost.

The two men follow you as you step into the building. The inside is lavish, with a large, grand set of stairs that lead up to the mezzanine. Draperies hung from the balcony railings, and plush furniture, and decorations were artfully placed around the foyer. Despite its luxuriant appearance, there was an isolation that clung to the bones of the building. It was as if dust hung in the air, floating undisturbed. Not a breeze could get through the thick walls, nor could a breath of life. A place that was supposed to be rowdy, a den of sin and pleasure… silenced. As if it were a mausoleum.

The building and those inside were lost in time, caught between a past that did not exist and a future that had not yet come.

The peace is interrupted by a thundering noise, then shrieking. “Mr. Barnes! Oh, Mr. Barnes! So nice of you to come visit us!”

A few curious observers watch from over the bannisters. Beautiful women with tired eyes, hair swept up and curled into coiffures, and revealing dresses that clung to their curves. You suddenly felt rather overdressed in your winter clothes.

An older woman descended the stairs in a frenzy, grinning from ear to ear. Her eyes were lined heavily with kohl, a bright pink blush across her cheeks, and lipstick to match. Her blonde curls bounced around her smooth face, a few longer strands following the dip of her dress. The madame of the brothel.

Your lips purse together, and Bucky lets out a quiet sigh. “Madame Voss.”

“I trust you are here about the ghost?” The madame asks. She is rather excitable, like a puppy or a young child. Even Steve has grown uncharacteristically quiet, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and dread. “I told my girls you would be back to help! I said you were a busy man, but not to worry. We’ve lost a few since you were last here, Rose, Amorie, and Vivinne… but that is nothin’ to worry about. They were traitorous at heart—”

“Yes, I quite understand.” Bucky snaps over Madame Voss. Steve tries to hide a snort, and the madame is left momentarily speechless. “I’ve brought a witch.”

You feel the madame’s gaze rip from Bucky to you. She looks you up and down in one exaggerated sweep, then offers you a somewhat forced smile. She looks as if she is gritting her teeth as she drinks you in. You were left wondering if the madame had some type of unrequited infatuation with Bucky. Many of the women of Sootstone seemed to share such an attitude, especially if they did not have the wit to sense the danger attached to the handsome gangster.

“She’s a bit too pretty for this business, don’t you think? I suppose all those witch women are a bit pretty. It’s usually glamours though, isn’t it?” There is an underlying spite to her tone as she assesses you, arms coming to fold over her chest. Her bosom is exaggerated, and her waistline is pulled pencil-thin by her corset. You are surprised the woman can breathe. “Well, are you wearin’ a glamour, girl?”

You hadn’t realised the madame was questioning you; actually, you found yourself rather overwhelmed by the whole display. Your lips part as you struggle to find your tongue and eventually stagger out a confused reply. “What?”

Madame Voss murmurs in annoyance, her arms uncrossed and hands coming to move in spirited gestures as she speaks. Bucky is staring at the ceiling as if bored out of his mind. “A glamour? You can’t tell me you normally look like that, all wide-fuckme-eyed?”

Steve makes a choking noise somewhere beside you while you gape at the madame. “No?”

“Huh.”

“I work with spirits, not—” You cut yourself off, clearing your throat, and decide it was not worth the argument. “I’ll need some time to walk around ‘n get a feel for things. Maybe talk to some of the girls, if that is alright?”

“Fine by me.” Madame Voss waves you off, attention hastily pulled away as she turns to Bucky. “In the meantime, Mr Barnes, can I get you anythin’? Tea, biscuits… something else? You know my girls will always give you a discount—”

“Somethin’ to drink, perhaps. Somethin’ strong.” Bucky cuts off the Madame and claps Steve on the back. “What do you say, Steve?”

You got the impression that neither Bucky nor Steve liked this Voss woman.

—

It did not take you long to explore the brothel in its entirety.

The establishment was compact and efficient. Downstairs was made up of the main foyer room, which was extended into a room similar to a drawing room. Tables made up the majority of the space, with playing cards and strong Smog Boys branded liquor decorated around the room. Comfortable furniture and suggestive art lined the walls. Out of view was a kitchen, a washroom, and madame’s office space, which Bucky would occasionally take residence in if dealing with business for the Pony Club.

Upstairs was dedicated to private spaces, where the girls lived and worked. They were hesitant to speak with you, guarded and quiet. You did not get the sense that they were being abused or held against their will, but rather haunted by whatever spirit clung to the brothel.

As the Pony Club slowly spiralled due to the haunting, many girls left. Business had grown to a standstill. The girls were plagued with nightmares and anxieties. The few that spoke to you recalled dreams of a dark figure who prowled through the halls, standing at the edges of their vision. At night, they would see the figure in the corners of their room, sitting on the edge of their bed. One girl even claimed the spirit sat upon her chest, that the mass had no face but two sets of shining white teeth that grinned down at her as she struggled to breathe.

When the girls were not targeted by this mysterious figure, they were afflicted with memories of their past. Dark images would replay before them every time they closed their eyes until they awoke sweating and screaming.

You bid farewell to an exhausted working girl by the name of Hanna. She sat on the bed, a woven blanket pulled over her shoulders. There was a distant look in her eyes as you quietly pulled the door shut, forcing yourself to inhale a deep breath as you stood on the empty mezzanine. There was an oppressive energy to the building, one that weighed down your chest as if someone were purposely crushing your ribcage. You knew your feelings were exaggerated due to your knowing, but there was certainly something potent enough here that even those with little to no sense could feel it.

You slowly rotated around the mezzanine in thought, unsure where to begin. Most spirits had an anchor—an item, person, or space—that they bound themselves to. They used it to draw energy, recuperate, and recharge. In rare cases, a spirit might bind to an entire house, causing lesions and pus to drip from the walls. But in your experience, those houses had sat abandoned for years, decades, or even more. The house itself would become sentient, dripping with malice and blinded by rage for those who created it, only to leave it abandoned. That was a festering type of haunting, one of anguish and loneliness, but this… this brothel was active. There had once been clients, and multiple women still lived within its walls. So, where was the anchor? Nothing had screamed out to you; nothing had made bile churn in your stomach or your hair stand up on end—

You froze.

You were a few paces away from the staircase, your mind swimming in thought, and—

A dark mass stood on the top step.

It watched you.

You couldn't make out the eyes or the shape of any humanoid body part. It just stood there, a black cloud over the staircase. But still, you could feel it watching.

And then it smiled.

It smiled wide, yet it did not seem to have a jaw. There was no skull, nothing solid within its mass. Several pearly white teeth smiled at you, spiralling into a gaping hole. The pungent smell of decaying meat filled the air as the mist contorted and pulsated in a sickening rhythm while observing you.

Before you could even consider speaking or moving, the mass had swept down the staircase, disappearing from your view. You raced to the bannisters, leaning over as far as you could without launching yourself over the edge. Loose strands of hair danced around your face as you darted your head. You could still not make out the spirit.

By the time you gathered your skirts and descended the staircase, you found the foyer empty. You could hear the distant trill of Madame Voss's voice deeper within the building, near the kitchen.

There was still that lingering oppression, an uneasiness that squeezed your chest. Regardless of how many times you whirled around, blindly scanning the foyer, you were unable to find a trail where the sensation intensified.

Clenching your teeth together, you let out a sharp sigh and balled your hands into fists. You paused in one of the corners of the foyer, allowing the blood pumping in your ears to calm and your muscles to relax. You blocked out the distant voices, instead focusing on the hum of the environment. You were frustrated, yes, and maybe a little scared. Not of the spirit, but rather how Bucky might react if you told him that you couldn’t banish this ghost. Not because you were too weak or unaware of how to handle it—you were very much prepared in both areas—but because you couldn’t find it?

You were skilled at finding hidden anchors, but it was difficult to focus when you felt immense pressure on your shoulders alone. You closed your eyes and listened intently. You could feel each speck of dust swirling through the air and hear every small sound the walls and floors made as the wood settled. You could hear each fibre of the rug rustle as you gently tip-toed across the room, following an invisible line.

The string was knotted in a complex pattern, similar to a spiderweb. You could feel it brushing over your skin as you moved, growing taut as it tangled around your body. You pushed through the sensation as if wading into a pool of water, stepping deeper and deeper into its strands as they layered over your skin and clothes.

Then, a tug.

A slight tremor, a warbling as a single line was set alight in your mind. The spider—your ghost—was circling you like prey.

You grasped the string, following its current blindly through the foyer. You stumbled around furniture, tripping over the edge of a rug and—

The floorboard creaked beneath you.

It wasn’t a typical creak—not one of an old building or a settling house. No. The creak resonated through your mind, deafening you. Your hands rose to your ears, the shrieking growing louder and louder as you fell to your knees, wincing. The fibres of the rug bit into your skin, sending a rush of electricity coursing through your veins. Under the rug, the floorboard made a hollow thud, loud enough that your ears were ringing from the volume.

You gasped in a breath, violently ripping yourself from your secondary state until you crashed back to reality. Panting, you found yourself crouched over the rug, fingernails dug into the fabric as you wheezed and panted. A cold sweat covered your body, your head aching as you tried to roll the discomfort from your shoulders.

“I think there’s somethin’ wrong with your witch, Mr Barnes.” Madame Voss spoke in a sing-song fashion as she entered the foyer, a condescending look in her eyes as she stared down at you. You wiped the sweat from your brow, forcing your wobbling legs to rise.

“It’s underneath,” was all you were able to reply, your voice raspy as you stalked to the corner of the rug.

"Ominous," the madame retorted, her brows arched. Her gaze cast back to the two gangsters who watched from the entrance to the room. There was a curiosity in their stare, hands tucked in their pockets as you worked. You gripped the corner of the rug, peeling it away from the floor. Underneath, everything looked perfectly in order, with well-polished hardwood panels lined up in unison. Carefully, you walked the length, tapping your shoe on each floorboard.

“Well, you do know what they say… with magic comes madness!” Voss announced with a sly grin, her hands moving to flourish her words. Bucky cocked his head to the side, emitting a sharp exhale through his flared nostrils.

"Let her work," he spoke up, and the tension in the room mounted. The madame's disapproving scowl only added to the oppressive atmosphere. The room fell into an almost palpable silence, broken only by the sound of your tapping as you methodically sought out the hollow board once more. You could sense the growing impatience of the group as you painstakingly worked, with each floorboard sounding as solid as the next.

Just as Bucky appeared poised to call off your efforts, the floorboard beneath you emitted a hollow thud that reverberated through the space below. You tapped again, feeling the same hollow thudding from the adjacent boards. Looking up at Bucky, you gestured toward the floor, affirming, “It’s underneath.”

Madame Voss gaped in astonishment at you and then turned her incredulous gaze towards the two gangsters. “Underneath? Underneath! This must be some kind of magical trick—in all my years working in this establishment, I have never heard of a basement or cellar!”

As Bucky waved at the woman, he made a disdainful noise in dismissal. The madame fluffed up, muttering under her breath in flustered embarrassment, and then stalked away a few paces. Bucky and Steve soon joined you, watching intently as you blindly felt around the edges of the wooden panels. As you investigated, your fingertips discovered finely carved grooves hidden within the wood—imperceptible to the casual observer but discernible to those who sought them out. The edges of the indents provided a perfect grip for you to dig your nails into the wood, allowing you to pry the board from the floor with little effort.

The three of you peered into the space below through the thin gap. It was pitch black, but you could make out some rickety stairs descending into the inky dark. A thick layer of dust sat upon the steps, a musty smell hitting your nose.

You sat back on your haunches, peering closely at the board you had just managed to pry up. The wood was marred with deep gouges as if some kind of wild animal had relentlessly scratched and clawed at the panel. As you tentatively ran your finger across the rough and battered surface, a sense of unease settled in the pit of your stomach, sending a sickly shudder up your spine.

“Did you know this was here?” Steve mutters to Bucky from somewhere above you.

You continued peeling up each of the loose boards, using the indents to grip the wood with your nails. The disgusting, nauseating feeling intensified as it became apparent that every panel had identical deep gouges carved into the wood.

“No,” Bucky replies, his voice hushed.

When the hole is completely visible, you sink onto your knees. Now that light was flowing in, you could see more clearly. The dusty, ancient stairs descend to a stone floor. The stone appeared dry but extremely dusty. What appeared to be large, old wooden barrels and the beginnings of shelving against the walls were visible in the beam of light. You peer up at Bucky and Steve, who tower over you, and resist the urge to squirm as Bucky meets your gaze.

“This is the anchor.” You explain, and Steve’s face twists, perplexed.

“The pub—?”

“No. Spirits they… they bind themselves to something. An object, a person, a room. This is where the haunting originates.” You clarify and gradually rise to your feet, taking care not to collide with either of the men.

You take a hesitant step down, the stair beneath groaning under your weight. You swallow hard, then spin in place to look back up at the gangsters who watch you expectantly. “I might need a candle.”

Without glancing back, Bucky clicks his finger at Madame Voss, who is attempting to peer into the mysterious room from her perch. “Voss. Candle.”

The madam, clearly exasperated, lets out a loud huff before turning on her heel and disappearing into one of the adjacent rooms. There is still a distinct taste of tension in the air.

“Looks like your old man's been a naughty boy.” Steve teases, a boyish smile emerging. Bucky remains silent, choosing not to dignify the gangster's comment with a reply. Their dynamic left you contemplating the depth of their relationship, especially since you had heard that Barnes was not particularly kind to those who mentioned his father. While Bucky's gaze remained blank and unmoving, you couldn't help but notice a subtle twitch in his jaw, betraying a suppressed reaction.

The Smog Boys were infamous for their cruelty towards their enemies, anyone who crossed them, and those who betrayed their trust. Bucky, in particular, was known for his ruthless approach to dealing with anyone who stood in his way. He carried out his actions silently and brutally, and by the next morning, everyone in The Warrens knew that Barnes had spilt blood. Despite the fear he instilled in others, Bucky remained calm and collected. He was a strategic thinker and planner, and he took pleasure in the sadistic ways his plans unfolded. Despite his fearsome reputation, he was still not as notorious as his father.

His father exhibited a striking lack of cunning, care, or thoughtfulness in his approach. The Warrens endured a dreadful existence as George Barnes succumbed to alcohol-induced rampages. He embodied sheer strength, a fierce warrior whose white-hot rage could melt the most hardened of hoarfrosts. He instilled fear without cause, displaying psychopathic tendencies and craving notoriety through any means necessary. He bolstered the Smog Boys fostering terror through street attacks, gang wars, or burning entire buildings down as a message. Upon Bucky's ascension, the business adopted a quieter and more devious approach. Bucky was all about making money in a quick, quiet, and dirty way. His enemies didn't fear him because they knew what he was capable of, but rather because they never knew, and Bucky knew how to up the ante each time.

Around seven years ago, George had been arrested. He had been too loud and confident in his approach, and the coppers had snagged him. Bucky ran the business for his father, and the Smog Boys boomed with success. His father was set to go on trial, and it wasn’t an unknown fact that the judge had paid off. George Barnes was set to walk free and take over the business again.

Two days before the trial, he was discovered dead in his cell, his body bearing the marks of a brutal, mysterious beating. There was no trace of evidence to scrutinise, and the guards remained silent, neither admitting guilt nor pointing fingers. The law turned a blind eye to the demise of a notorious criminal under their watch, and the incident was quickly swept under the rug, forgotten within hours. Bucky vehemently denied any involvement. He put on a public display of mourning, cursing the authorities and vowing vengeance, though his threats never materialized. It's also worth noting that Bucky shared a particularly close bond with his mother, Winnifred, who herself was not spared from the brutality of her husband. It was common knowledge that, behind closed doors, Winnifred, Bucky, and his younger sister Becca endured all manner of cruelty at the fists of George Barnes.

Years had passed since those fateful events, and Bucky's ascension to power remained unquestioned. No one dared challenge his authority, fearing both the brutal consequences and because The Warrens had silently celebrated in the wake of Senior Barnes' untimely demise.

The sound of Madame Voss' heels clicking against the hardwood floor signalled her return. You took the candle gratefully, eager to escape the awkward tension, and descended into the gloom.

The old wood stairs protest with every step, emitting squeaks and groans under your weight. Your sweeping skirts brush a fine layer of dust into the air, shimmering in the weak candlelight that struggles to pierce the shadows of the small, dimly lit room. You could only describe the space as a cellar, with its stone walls and floors exuding an eerie, uncomfortable atmosphere. Thick metal bolts secure wooden shelves laden with countless large glass bottles, while large barrels, shrouded in heavy blankets of dust, crowd the square room. In the dim corners, dense cobwebs collect. A place long forgotten.

Bucky and Steve carefully made their way down the creaky stairs as you delicately balanced the flickering candle on the edge of one of the dusty barrels. As you wipe away the accumulated grime, you uncover a label imprinted on the lid: Property of SMOG BOYS—George Barnes. You squinted at the words in the low light, moving to the next as you tried to understand what was in these barrels.

Behind you, Steve had grabbed hold of one of the large glass bottles and uncorked it with a sharp pop! He raised it to his nose, took a sniff, and then emitted a loud holler. "Shit, Buck. This is moonshine."

Bucky let out a grumbling noise of recognition, inspecting one of the barrels. “It must’ve been a storage space from the distillery. These barrels look like whiskey.”

The two gangsters gathered near the barrels, muttering between themselves.

“You sure he never mentioned this to you?”

“I’m sure. Don’t know why he was so determined to hide a bit of liquor. We have plenty of warehouses for this—”

You rounded the barrels, venturing deeper into the room. A row of shelves faced the centre of the room, with a narrow space between them that you could slip through. The candlelight barely reached the other side, obscured by the layers of barrels and bottles. You blindly stumbled into the empty space, feeling a familiar, thrumming sensation.

Invisible strings tangled at your ankles as you pushed deeper into the darkness, the warm flicker of candlelight barely illuminating what lay within. There, in the centre of the room, stood a solitary chair—a simple wooden chair. The thrumming grew louder, your heart pulsating as you gaped down at it. Thick sailor ropes coiled tightly around each arm and leg, faded remnants of blood splattered across the cold stone floor beneath. The oppressive atmosphere seemed to close in around you, the air heavy with a sense of foreboding—

You jumped out of your skin as a hand rested on your shoulder. Bucky had followed you through the shelves. His eyes mirrored the unease that churned in your stomach, his face etched with a deep, troubled frown. You felt urged to speak up and console the man but you knew better than to fall into that trap. His presence was disturbingly comforting as if the dangerous gangster were not the apex predator in the room. All you could do was gape, tearing your vision away from the chair as you stumbled back a few paces.

As quickly as you had found solace in the man, it was torn away. He stalked toward you, finger pointed as he jabbed it into your sternum. His eyes had glazed over, a thunderous rage taking shape. You sensed it was a defence mechanism, a way to intimidate you because you had seen something you weren’t supposed to—something that shocked even him.

“Not a word. You understand?” he hissed, his large, sculpted frame towering over you. You shrank back, your spine meeting the shelving, causing the moonshine bottles to clink together.

You knew what this place was. A hidden place. A forgotten place. A place where torture and death had been carried out. An echo from the past. A whisper on the wind that spoke the name George Barnes.

This was the kind of business Bucky kept meticulously hidden—a necessary evil shrouded in secrecy. Bodies were found only if he wanted to send a message. You were certain there were countless other hidden, unmarked graves. Bucky was too clever to be undone by a rogue body or misplaced trust. Every action he took was calculated to ensure it could never be traced back to the Smog Boys. Of course, everyone knew it was them, but legally proving their involvement was another matter. Despite the gang's reputation for being untouchable, the coppers constantly searched for any loophole to bring them down. Bucky's entire operation could unravel if the wrong person discovered incriminating evidence.

For all your understanding, The Pony Club was one of the few legitimate businesses under the Barnes name. If an enemy of the Smog Boys discovered a way to link this grim scene to the underground crime network Bucky managed? It could spell disaster.

“Do you understand?” Bucky repeated, his voice dripping with venom. This was a side of him you had heard rumours of but had never witnessed yourself. This was the leader of the Smog Boys. This was the Bucky that made Sootstone cower.

You swallowed hard, nodding as you huddled against the shelves.

The gangster ran a hand through his hair in frustration. You could sense the conflict in his eyes as they darted between you and the chair. After rubbing his chin and jaw, he finally settled on resting a hand on your shoulder again, an oddly tender touch. His head dipped, and he muttered in your ear, “I need this ghost gone. Now, doll. I think it's best no one else sees my father’s handiwork.”

“I can—I can do that,” you stammered. The gangster gave you a slow nod, exhaled sharply, and then turned on his heels.

In the sudden emptiness, the thrumming in your ears became deafening, a relentless pulse that drowned out all other sounds. Your ears rang with a piercing intensity, and your breath quickened, coming in short, ragged gasps. The room seemed to close in around you, now suffocatingly tight. The walls pressed inward, and the air grew thick and heavy as if it were pushing against your chest. You felt an overwhelming sense of dread creeping into your bones, a cold, insidious fear that wrapped itself around your heart. Somewhere in the background of it all, Steve yelped.

At first, you could not hear his distress, not over the noise in your head. It was only as Bucky paused by the narrow opening between the shelves, his eyes snapping to yours, that you heard Steve again—frantic shouts piercing through the deafening roar of a fire, overwhelming even the clamour in your head.

You move quicker than Bucky, darting through the shelves back into the candlelight.

Except it wasn’t the candlelight that lit the room in a blinding glow, but instead a figure engulfed in flame. You could make out bludged eyes and an agape mouth through the tendrils, which licked up the figure in a violent blaze. Steve was pinned with his back against one of the barrels as the figure, screaming and writhing, hurtled towards him.

You hurry forward, positioning yourself between Steve and the burning figure. Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you closer as he shouted, "What the fuck?!"

The fiery figure hesitates, its swollen, bloodshot eyes flitting between Steve and you in confusion. Bucky had pulled what appeared to be a knife from his pocket and was circling the scene. Your brows furrow as you give him a puzzled look and free yourself from Steve's grip.

“Put it away!” You bark over the roar. Bucky cocks his head to one side, both of you mutually surprised that you had found your voice. As you approach the figure, it retreats, the flames quickly extinguishing. Your ears ring as silence falls. The spirit has transformed into a black mass again, its shape twisting and jittering as it swings its gaze between the three of you.

“It can read your memories. It feeds off fear and pain.” You explain to the two gangsters, hesitantly stepping forward once more. The spirit centres its eyes solely on you. “It shows you your darkest memories, the ones you've buried. It’s tryna scare you.”

You do not dwell on whatever memory Steve was plagued by.

The spirit shifted once more, the dark mass disappearing into the shadows. You shallow your breath, quickly scanning the room before turning to Barnes. “The chair is the anchor. The spirit needs to be unbound.”

“And how do you do that?” He asks in reply, nostrils flaring. You step into the centre of the room, peering through the shelves into the dark space. Dread curled in your stomach as your eyes roamed the chair.

“I could destroy it or cleanse it—”

“Where's your mother, girl?” A familiar, slurred voice reverberated through the dimly lit room, sending shivers down your spine. Your entire body tensed, and your heart seemed to clench in your chest as a surge of fear momentarily halted you in your tracks. The acrid scent of alcohol mixed with the pungent odour of sweat hung heavy in the air. The heavy, unsteady footsteps of a large man reverberated over the stone floors.

“She’s sick.” A child's voice replied. Your voice.

In front of you appeared a vivid scene. Your father, in a state of intoxication, stood before you. His body was angled in such a way that only the profile of his face was visible. His clothing was tattered, and the floors bore marks of mud and filth from his worn boots. His hair was dishevelled and sprinkled with ash, and his flushed face glistened with sweat. Facing him was a much younger version of yourself. You estimated her to be around eight years old, judging by the length of her hair and the ragged dress clinging to her emaciated frame. The child cowered against a door, her limbs trembling in fear.

“Sick? That damn woman is always sick. Get out of the way, girl, I need to speak with my wife.” Your father slurs, lurching forward. The child held steady, her back pressed defiantly against the door.

“You can’t, she’s sleeping—”

A resounding crack echoed through the room as your father’s palm connected forcefully with her cheek. The impact sent her sprawling to the floor, a soft whimper escaping her lips as she fell. Tears shimmered in her wide, frightened eyes, reflecting the harsh light as they welled up and spilt over her cheeks. The room seems to hold its breath in the aftermath, the sharp sound of the slap lingering.

“What’s this? Who’s that?” Steve spoke up from beside you. You had almost entirely forgotten that the two men were still in the cellar with you. Bucky watches on with morbid curiosity, but you do notice how the muscles in his jaw tighten.

“A memory.” You mutter back. You urge your feet to move, but you feel as though you are wading through waist-deep water.

“Some gall you have to be telling me what I can and can’t do in my own home, girl!” Your father charges through the door, his eyes wild and unseeing as he drunkenly stumbles over your younger self's frail body. Ignoring your cries, he leaves her sprawled on the floor, the door slamming shut with a jarring finality before she can react. Muffled shouting and screaming rise from beyond, chaos that drowns out her sobs. The child curls into a ball on the cold floor, trembling and sobbing as the shrieking grows louder. The walls thud and shake with the force of his rage, each violent sound echoing through the small room, amplifying the terror that grips her small frame.

“You’re not welcome here, spirit,” your voice cuts through the unfolding nightmare with unwavering authority. You can feel Bucky’s gaze burning into you, but you tilt your head defiantly. Momentarily sucked into the horror of it all, but now you stand unshaken. The scene pauses, and the child freezes in place as the shouting and banging abruptly stop. The spirit seems to contemplate your words, its image flickering before dissolving into a dark fog that settles in a dense layer across the stone floors.

“I think destroying it would be easiest.” You mumble to the gangsters. Bucky’s lips were set in a fine line, his jaw still clenched, while Steve eyed you warily. “Burning it would be the best way.”

As if in response to your comment, the room burst to life once more. The two men stand on either side of you as if their curiosity is too much to dismiss as they realise it is another of your memories.

This time, the version of you was older. A teenager. She perched on the edge of the docks, her legs dangling into the waters below. Next to her sits a boy roughly the same age. The two of them laugh and indulge in a shared bag of colourful, sugary treats.

“My dad keeps askin’ after you.” The boy says. Michael. Your gut twists. You knew what was to come.

“I’m not joinin’ your dad’s weird cult.” She giggles, popping a boiled sweet into her mouth with a lopsided grin. Her hair was loose, uncaring as the breeze tangled it and ash fell from the skies.

“He keeps goin’ on about how you’re some saviour—”

“Ew.” She replies, nose scrunching. The teen leans back on her palms with a sigh, looking across the docks. “You know me and my mum aren’t interested in that stuff. I’m not desperate like those other witches he tricks into joining. Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve held on this long, you’re what? Seventeen? Why don’t you just get a job in one of the factories and get the hell out of there?”

Michael appears displeased by her response. You had never previously noticed, despite replaying the memory in your mind numerous times. In the past, you believed you were being helpful, perhaps even clever. You could see the wrinkle of discomfort in the boy’s face now. You knew all too well that breaking free from his father's control was never as easy as moving out. You had been naive to believe that. Michael had not called you a fool, which was probably a small act of kindness on his part.

“How’s your mum?” He asks, gaze cast to the side to look at the teen’s profile. She shrugs, sucking on the sweet in thought.

“Still sick. We saw that healer in the Smokestacks, said he might be able to do somethin’ about it.”

“You know my family could help—”

The teen gives him an irritated look. “You know my mum doesn’t want your help. She doesn’t even want me hangin’ out with you.”

The tranquillity of the scene had captivated you to the point where you lost awareness of your surroundings. It was only the looming sense of dread for what was about to unfold, the feeling of Bucky's sleeve brushing against your arm, and the audible, sharp intake of breath from Steve that jolted you back to reality.

“Oi! Lookie here! It’s—” The shout of a copper was warbled as you strode forward, the memory rippling like a pool of water.

You had to prevent what was about to happen. You couldn't let Bucky see how everything truly unfolded. You knew you should have stopped it before it went this far. You shouldn't have allowed yourself to get pulled into this memory. Yet, there was a bittersweet comfort in seeing him again, remembering him as he was before everything went so wrong.

“Probably shouldn’t burn it down here. Those barrels catch and this place will explode.” You mutter under your breath, trying to ignore the sickness churning in your stomach as you approach the chair. As you draw closer, your eyes catch the gruesome details etched into the wood. Dark, crusted blood is splattered across the seat, each fleck and smear a silent testament. Streaks of crimson have seeped into the grain, staining the wood in a macabre pattern. The iron tang of old blood hangs in the air, mixing with the musty dampness of the room. Your hair stands on end and your nerves tingle as a shiver runs down your spine. The closer you stand, the more uneasy energy pulses through you. Summoning your courage, you grip one of the chair's arms and yank with all your strength—only to find it bolted firmly to the floor.

Your stomach drops.

You needed to get the two men out of this cellar and defeat this spirit yourself. You couldn’t stand their gazes upon you, waiting expectantly. You roll your shoulders, twisting your neck as a tight, itching sensation settles over your skin. You weren’t afraid of the memories, but rather the reaction to them. You didn’t want sympathy. Most of all, you didn’t want to be feared—to be viewed as a weapon.

You knew that was what the Smog Boys truly desired—a tool to complete their dirty work.

The memory came to life around you once more, stronger and more vivid. Michael was sprawled on the floor, beaten and bloodied, his face a mess of bruises and cuts. The coppers, young and full of arrogance, stood above him, their laughter echoing in the confined space. They were eager to prove themselves, and they relished every moment of his suffering, laying blow after blow into his broken body. Their cackles filled the room, mingling with the sickening thuds of their fists and boots against his flesh.

“Let me go!” Your head swivels as you look to the other side of the room. There, the teenage version of you is held back by two men with bruising grips, their hands digging painfully into her arms. Tears streamed down her face, carving glistening tracks through the grime and dust. Her eyes are wide with terror and helpless rage as she struggles and screams, her voice raw and desperate. The men restraining her exchange smirks, their expressions cold and indifferent to her anguish. The room seems to close in around you now, the walls reverberating with the echoes of her cries and the relentless thudding of blows landing on Michael. You were powerless, trapped in a living nightmare.

You needed to stop this—

There was a loud crunch, the agonising sound of bone snapping and shattering under a steel-toe boot. Michael has grown still, his body is no longer convulsing with pain. His face was unrecognisable—a grotesque mask of bruises and blood, the features obliterated by the relentless assault. His skull is misshapen, cracked open against the stone curb, a dark pool of blood is spreading beneath him.

Somewhere in the distance, the past version of you wails, a heart-wrenching sound that seems to come from the depths of her soul.

She was scrambling on her knees over the filthy streets, her body shaking with sobs as she gripped Michael’s lifeless form. Her fingers, trembling and desperate, searched for any sign of life, but you knew now that it was pointless. Michael was dead. He had died the moment they cracked his skull open. Blood smears her hands and clothes as she clings to him, her tears mixing with the grime on the ground.

She shakes his body, begging him to wake up. The coppers continue to snicker amongst themselves. They are unphased by the blood and flesh painted across their boots, their faces twisted in smug satisfaction.

“That’s enough now.” You spoke up in the present, tone low and warning. The spirit hesitates, and the teen pauses, her body relaxing as the sobbing stops. Her head twists around, her eyes a milky white as she looks directly through you.

“I know what you are.” The spirit spoke through the memory of you. Her gaze shifted to look at the coppers. Their figures are silent, but their shoulders shake with laughter, an amused indifference as they watch the suffering before them. “Spirit-raiser…diviner…light-bringer.”

Her eyes start to glow, a bright white that blinds the room. You know what is to come. You know what happens next. The shelves and barrels begin to rattle around you, and dust is stirred up into clouds. You could hear Steve swearing somewhere behind. Her sights move to the coppers, a knowing smirk fading into a cruel frown. Her hand raises into the air, fingers moving to snap—

Your hand has subconsciously raised. The ground trembles beneath you. It isn’t from the past; it is present. It was you at this exact moment, touching your fingers together. The ceiling above you groans, bottles of moonshine shattering across the floors as they fall. Behind you, Bucky and Steve yell over the commotion, calling to you. You can feel the crackle of electricity in the air and map every particle that flutters in the air. The chaos rises in your chest as you summon it forward. The crackle of energy grows higher and higher until the tingling sensation meets your fingertips.

You snap your fingers, and a deafening crack echoes through the cellar. For a moment, everything grows still. Your body begins to glow, emitting a bright white light that fills the room, even stronger than the spirit's light. The intensity of it is blinding, obliterating every detail with a searing brilliance.

The room explodes around you.

Bits of wood splinter, torn from their fixtures and launched through the air. Barrels explode with a thunderous roar, whiskey gushing out in torrents that splash and pool around your ankles, the potent scent of alcohol overwhelming your senses. The entire room shudders and rocks from the impact, the walls groaning under the strain. You were momentarily assaulted by the barrage of debris—sharp shards of shelving and glass raining down around you. Until Bucky grips you. Amid the chaos, he seizes your waist, pulling you into the shelter of his chest to shield you from the storm.

Steve has vanished up the stairs, the floorboards above rattling with each of his hurried steps as the earth finally settles. The room falls into an eerie silence, the only sound being the gentle sloshing of liquor around your feet.

There is a large crack in the stone floor where the chair used to be.

You pull yourself from Bucky’s grip rather unceremoniously, frowning as you pull shredded wood from your hair. The gangster eyes you cautiously, clearing his throat as he retreats backwards. “Are you gonna explain what that was?”

You were unsure what he was specifically referring to—whether it was the haunting memories or the raw power you had just unleashed. Regardless, you didn’t feel up to explaining either. A deep weariness had settled into your bones, your muscles aching from the exertion of channelling such immense energy. A thin trail of blood had begun to leak from your nose, the metallic taste of copper lingering as you absentmindedly licked your bottom lip in thought.

You should not have done that. But they would have found out either way.

Your fingers instinctively came up to rub your temple as you let out a sharp sigh of annoyance. With magic weariness came a tinge of irritation and snarkiness—it was a familiar companion after such displays of power. At that moment, you couldn't summon the will to care about how dangerous Bucky was or how he could ruin your life. All you craved was the simple comfort of lying down and perhaps indulging in a strong drink or two to ease the embarrassment of the situation.

Above, Madame Voss's shrill shrieks pierce through the ceiling, amplifying the headache pounding behind your skull. You knew the entire row of buildings would have felt the surge of energy you had just unleashed. One could only hope that the coppers wouldn’t investigate too closely into the disturbance.

Ignoring his previous question, you speak up. “You should invest in gettin’ your buildings properly cleansed.”

Maybe that would make him and his men shut up about your faulty locks.

You go to walk away, but Bucky's firm grip on your forearm halts your movement, holding you back. His head cocks as he looks you up and down, his eyes sharp and calculating. “I don’t know much about magic, but I know witches don’t just summon shit like that out of thin air.”

If you were one of his dogs, your hackles would have raised, teeth bared. You look him down defiantly with a scowl. “Respectfully, Barnes, you don’t know shit about magic. I keep your secrets; you keep mine. That’s the deal, isn’t it?”

His lips curl into an astonished smirk, pleased as equally as he was stunned by your tone. His head dips down, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, his voice a low murmur. “You know, doll, if you weren’t growing on me, I would have you killed for speaking to me like that.”

You could feel the warmth of his breath tickling against your skin, his proximity stirring a mix of emotions within you—wariness, curiosity, and a hint of something deeper that you couldn't quite define. You knew better than to let the boundaries between you blur. You give him a mocking pout, wrenching your arm from his grip. “I know you won’t kill me, if you wanted to kill me, I would be dead already. You’ve decided I’m valuable, haven’t you? Who would break your curses and scare away the skeletons in your closet? You must know that I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I don’t want to help you, we’re not friends.”

His jaw tenses slightly as he processes your words, and his voice is flat as he speaks. “The most valuable thing a woman like you can offer is what’s between your legs. And you gave that up pretty easily.”

His lips curl into a sneer. “I suppose the magic is a bonus. But I know you’re little more than a whore beneath it all.”

Several emotions flicker through your chest. Pain, frustration, disillusionment. You should have known better. You knew better. You don’t dignify the gangster with a response, instead turning on your heel to march out of the cellar.

“I’ll have someone come fetch you when you’re next needed, spirit-raiser,” he calls after you, his tone mocking.

You ascend the stairs without looking back.

PART THREE

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diornae · 1 year

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pathetic-gamer · 2 years

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Fashion in Fódlan: a very long, non-comprehensive, and entirely unsolicited analysis

The fe3h writers did a pretty solid job of creating three nations with clear social, economic, and political differences. The fashion stands out to me as doing exceptionally well at expressing those differences, and, just like in the real world, it works as a sort of socioeconomic barometer that helps tell Fódlan's story.

In this post, I'll break down the key clothing trends in the three regions and provide some light interpretations, largely related to $$

Please note that I'm NOT using this post to discuss historical inspirations. Also, not everyone from every region is included. In particular, anyone whose outfit is too much of just a riff on a class uniform (like the Ashen Wolves or the various minsters in the empire) is left out.

There's a part 2 now lol (church of seiros time); part 3 as well!

1. Holy Kingdom of Faerghus: function IS fashion, baby!!

Fearghus, beloved land of ice and snow and spooky folktales about watering your fields with blood and ghosts living under the ground - you did not come to fuck around. You're here to protect the commoners and go back home to a stew that may, if you're lucky, actually have some meat in it. In this kingdom, you're going to dress warm and you're going to like it. Oh, you have some extra money? Gonna spend it on something for yourself? Better be using it for something useful, like keeping your plate armor in good condition. (Please note: Catherine, though being Faeghan, is excluded because she wears the uniform of the Knights of Seiros, not her own clothes.)

Trends:

High collars, long skirts - generally as little exposed skin as possible. (There is exactly one pair of bare hands in the entire kingdom. Mercie is getting a little bold 👀)

Fur cloaks/capes/gloves, or just fur around the cuffs and collars if they don't have a full fur cloak.

Armor - every single man is dressed in armor, as is Ingrid. Most of the men have full suits of plate armor, but Felix, Rodrigue, and Ashe are wearing only gambesons (note the quilting in Felix's sleeve - that's what gives it away, imo). The folks in plate armor would have gambesons on as well (you can see Ingrid's underneath her breastplate), acting as padding for the plate armor. I think Gilbert is wearing plate armor with a tunic over it (a realistic historical practice).

Fastening is accomplished with clasps and lacing, and there are relatively few buttons or adornments to be seen on the main garments - Annette is an exception, which will be addressed later.

Brief analysis:

Notice the economical use of fabric - their clothing tends to lie flat, with fabric being layered for warmth rather than pleated, gathered, or puffed. The folks in plate armor may spice it up a little with a sash of some kind if they aren't already wearing a cloak or cape. I'm assuming Gilbert's ~stylish tunic~ is keeping him warm well enough to not need a cloak or larger scarf. (Mercedes has a ruffles and puffier sleeves, plus a fuller skirt, but it's worth noting that she is currently part of a merchant house, and merchants tend to be wealthier and actually occupy a unique social class between nobles and commoners.)

Note the colors, too. Greens, browns, and yellows are the cheapest and easiest dyes to make and use. That bright sort of tawny color that Gilbert, Annette, and Jeralt all have is easy and cheap. Gilbert's grey tunic could feasibly just be undyed wool. A true blue is difficult, but you'll note that the blue the people wear up here leans towards grey and green - could be that the dye is faded, or that it was never very blue to begin with. The only true blue is on Dimitri.

All of this reinforces the idea that Faerghus is not a rich nation, and the nobility don't live too far off from the common folk. The vast majority of the cost we see is actually their armor (worn by Dimitri, Dedue, Sylvain, Gilbert, Jeralt, Matthias, Ingrid, and also if we're getting all the way into it, Gwendal, Miklan, Lonato, and Baron Dominic as well), which is would have been pretty expensive. You'll notice they mostly wear grey armor with very little extra decoration, keeping the costs low. Ingrid, the poorest of the nobles in armor, also has the least actual plate. Felix and Rodrigue both have full cloaks, which most other people don't have (just Dimitri), but they also aren't wearing plate, so clearly that's a calculated choice.

That being said, even within these more economical fashions, we can still see clear differences between classes. Most noticeably, Felix (rich) and Ashe (not rich) have very similar outfits, but Felix's tunic/gambeson is lined with fur, while Ashe's is not.

BTW I'm of the opinion that the Fraldariuses are the richest people in the kingdom other than the royal family, and I believe that specifically of their fancy cloaks lol

so luxurious~

2. Adrestian Empire: look at my money bitch

Ah, the land of beauty and excess! I love to live in the capital and visit the cultural icon that is the opera and pretend that I'm not in Wealth Inequality Central. (Please note: Petra is not included, since she dresses according to Brigid's fashions. Also note: I fuck w these styles so hard, dude.)

Trends:

Short skirts (above the knee - Dorothea has a draped over-skirt thing, but her main skirt is shorter, and Manuela has leg slits instead of a short hem), low or square necklines, open backs. In general, we're looking at a lot of exposed skin. Forgot to include Cornelia in the pics, but she has this too.

Tailored jackets with just SO many buttons. Hanneman fits into the tailored jacket category, but isn't included in the highlights by virtue of Not Enough Buttons. (Some concept art is included here to drive the point home.)

Finally, there's this specific very specific double-breasted neckline thing (baby edelgard is separate bc i forgot to include her when i made the first image shhhh)

Brief analysis:

Adrestian fashion is all about displaying status and wealth, in this case through ornamentation, rich colors, uniforms denoting class/role, and also a fair amount of excess fabric.

Historically, fabric itself was one of the major indicators of wealth - in fact, certain historical styles very explicitly showed off just who was rich enough to afford, for example, a whole gown made from the same length of fabric, or even just an entire skirt panel with no piecing. In the Adrestian Empire, We've got excess fabric galore, tucked away into all those beautiful ruffles and bell sleeves, layered skirts, unnecessary capes, double collars, and puffy pants - and it's all in much more luxurious colors, too. In fact, I'm pretty sure the largest single piece of fabric on anyone in the game is Edelgard's cape, which is then also adorned with dozens of buttons and extra bits of fabric. It's almost definitely fully silk, both the outer layer and the lining. (And it's badass.)

Look at all that fluff! Dimitri's cloak probably rivals hers in the size of the actual fabric itself, but his is likely a heavy wool (unlined, maybe?), plus has a lot of fur.

"Oh, but pg, there are capes in Faerghus, too!" yes, but in Faerghus, they live in the arctic /hj. Note the vast expanses of exposed skin down here in the empire - clearly, cold is not an issue. You'll also note that the cloaks in Faerghus were heavy and lined with fur; that's not the case here. Given the prevalence of tailored jackets and the dual colors on Ferdinand's cape, I'm guessing they're either a comparatively lightweight wool with a silk lining (typical for tailored suit jackets, nothing particularly noteworthy about that), or just fully silk. (Bernie's shawl is just cotton though, prove me wrong...) Hanneman and Manuela are exceptions, since they both have fur, but they live at Garreg Mach, not in Enbarr.

The jackets themselves, by the way, could be silk OR wool. Ferdinand's in particular (especially thropes) reminds me of early 18th c. waistcoats, which would have been full silk.

We also have much richer colors down here in the land of art and song. Red, purple, and black were all very difficult colors to maintain, and very expensive. The most expensive colors, in fact. Not gonna lie, as far as price per yardage goes, I think Hubert's outfit might rival Edelgard’s in expense.

A notable exception to the excess fabric bit is Bernadetta. However, her dress is in what is arguably the most expensive color, and is heavily decorated, so that's a reasonable trade-off, and I don't blame her. I, too, would go for a smaller amount of pretty purple silk embroidered with bright, beautiful gold and yellow instead of a bigger, more impressive-looking option. It's about the little things.

I do want to take look at Caspar, in particular. He's unique in that he's dressed in a full suit of armor. But, given that he's the second son and not set to inherit anything, unlike all his waistcoat-wearing friends, he isn't being held to some particular uniform, and even if he were, it's the ministry of military affairs. Of course they wear real armor. What's interesting is that his armor is a sort of rosy grey/brass, rather than silver, and he has a lot more decoration and flair than the folks with full armor in Faerghus, in both his throuses and thropes outfits.

Worth noting, btw, that we have exactly zero examples of actual commoners in Adrestia, other than generic NPCs. Dorothea belongs to that peculiar niche that is opera and acting, so she is expected to dress and act like a noble, despite not having a title or property of any sort.

Adrestia - and Enbarr in particular - leads the slow march of fashion across Fódlan, given that it's a cultural hub and is so much wealthier, while Fearghus slowly picks things up over time. Thus, we have Annette, who lives closer to the empire and has disposable income, having some decorative buttons and tassels and a mock low neckline.

It's not nearly as much as the actual Adrestians, but she's picking it up!

3. Leicester Alliance: the beeeest of both worlds~

Oh, Alliance, you messy bitch. What we see here is a mix of everything, where some of them are influenced by Faerghus, and others by Adrestia (just like how some of them have kingdom-style names and some have empire-style names), and a few fit neither camp. There are clear reasons for similarities where they exist, though, so let's take a look! (Please note: Claude is not included, since his clothes are heavily influenced by Almyra.)

Hilda and Lysithea have the frills, puffy sleeves/skirt, short hems, low/square necklines, and expensive colors of the empire (plus, Lysithea gets a decorative veil in dark purple. How ~fancy~). This reinforces the idea that Adrestia sets the standards for fashion: Hilda cares about fashion and keeps up with the times. Lysithea lives on the border and was briefly under the control of the empire, and thus is influenced by it. Mostly, though, I think it's about how she tries to seem older and tends to see Hilda as a model of maturity (lol), so she's following that example.

Holst's armor is quite decorative, similar to Caspar's, but what stands out to me is the fringe in particular. We see the exact same fringe on Caspar, Hubert, and Edelgard, but not anywhere else.

Lorenz and Erwin are a bit of a border case, tbh! They both wear practical, full plate armor with little in the way of extra decor (other than Lorenz's rose and Erwin's little cape thing), but Jesus christ how much does it cost to keep it all so purple like that??? That's a blatant display of wealth that would impress any empire noble.

Marianne, on the other hand, would fit right in in Faerghus, with the old fashioned long skirt, high collar, capelet, and lack of extra decoration other than some pretty trim. Makes sense, since her territory is so close to the kingdom and she's clearly not interested in trying to stay fashionable.

Judith is dressed very practically, has some fun puffy sleeves and bright but inexpensive colors, has a short cape and gambeson (a short vest one, though). I want to say leans toward Faerghus, which makes sense since it's on the border and the house did at one point split off, with part going back to the kingdom.

Now we get to the only real, honest-to-god, never-owned-land-or-property, born-as-and-remain-now peasants/commoners: Leonie and Cyril. (Raphael was born into the merchant class and was able to support himself and Maya by selling his estate, so while we can consider him a real commoner at this point, it's not nearly to the same degree.)

Their economic status is obvious from their outfits: both have very practical clothes with no extra decoration, in cheap and easily accessible colors. Leonie's cloak wrapped around her waist is purely functional - she can use it when the weather calls for it, but it's out of the way of her arrows when she doesn't need it - and looks to be pretty soft, so likely is lightweight. She has a hint of some light protective wear (note the quilted sleeve) and the same front clasps as Felix and Ashe, so i think she's also meant to be wearing a gambeson, but it's shorter and less protective. Cyril doesn't seem to have any armor at all except for the shoulder protection - we can tell from the lack of center-front closures on his shirt and the shape of the cuffs of the sleeves that he's actually just wearing a tunic (or rather, two tunics on top of each other).

Raphael also has a very practical outfit, but notice that his is so much more protective, probably because he has a little more money than the other two. He has very limited, sparsely placed plate armor, but he is covered head-to-toe in quilted cloth armor. He's ready to get some punching done, baby!

Our real outlier, however, is Ignatz... But you bet your bottom dollar I've got an explanation for that one, too!!!!! Mans is an artist and he has rich(?) merchant parents, he can do whatever he wants.

Absurdly unnecessary lengths of (probably not very expensive) cloth? Sure. Fancy feathers that literally no one else gets? Why not! A billion buttons, half of which arent even keeping anything closed? Curly and intricate cloak fasteners probably made of some kind of cording? Sashes and tassels and a decorative sword??? Fuck it, we ball. I love this so much, it's easily my favorite outfit in the entire game and I would ABSOLUTELY wear it irl. I already have the right haircut and glasses and boots, I'm ready

4. In conclusion

These designs really are Fódlan in a nutshell. From the quiet wealth and functionality in Felix's fur-lined gambeson to the audacious luxury of Ferdinand's waistcoat to the unrepentant anarchism of Ignatz's entire vibe, we can see the history - and future - of the continent outlined right before our eyes:

Faerghus is cold, practical, focused on survival, and probably has the most even distribution of wealth. Leicester is a mix of remnants of the empire and kingdom, with clear wealth disparity but also a relatively high amount of social mobility and communal support systems. Adrestia has significantly wealth disparity, with nobles very disconnected from their people and instead busy politicking about.

Side note I know I said I wouldn't go into the historical inspirations, BUT I do think it's interesting that the men's clothing in Adrestia - particularly the tailoring - is similar to much later styles than the men's clothing in Faerghus, and the reverse is true of the women's sleeves and necklines.

Okay that's all, thanks for reading!

#fire emblem three houses #fe3h analysis #holy kingdom of faerghus #adrestian empire #leicester alliance #golden deer #black eagles #blue lions #fodlan's fashion icons #(not actually part of the series but it's topical ok)#this is why i cant do cosplay btw #i see an outfit i like and i immediately am like ok how do you make that irl? get me seven yards of cotton muslin we're doing a mockup #like why would i make Felix’s outfit if I'm not going all in on actual quilted armor yk?#i dont want Ignatz's pants if theyre going to just hang lazily and bunch at the ankle it needs BODY it needs STRUCTURE #yk?#anyway its super late im going to bed now bye #fashion in fodlan

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smeraldo-heart · 2 months

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My Jedi Survivor Deluxe Art Book arrived today!!!

I love it a lot

The man himself, with some gun designs (my favourite has always been the middle gun design- it’s so retro-futuristic!! So pretty and reminds me of Padmé’s blaster). Love the funny little helmets and mysterious wear they keep exploring into with Cal, wonder if they’ll use this kind of concept in the third game?? (I personally hope for longer hair options but that’s just me)

Some really cool Cere outfits that I absolutely love, may take inspiration from them for future Cal designs. Just love the whole yin and Yang thing going on. Also a Greez because he makes me laugh 😭 his concepts are so funny but it fits. Love the captain’s hat though!!! Might steal that for my own designs…

Merrin, my love. She is so stylish!!! Holy shit! What she didn’t tell Cal in the game was that in those years she spent travelling alone, she was actually in charge of styling for 4 separate Galaxy drag race shows.

I adore her cute little haircuts like I actually need her to have her hair even shorter

Doma!!!! And why did they make Ashe so cute?! Absolutely killing it with their style

Fun little floor design I found, which is so pretty, and the Anchorite’s designs. I do really love the whole spiritual, sort of bandaged together, aesthetic they have

Hoping my Fallen Order art book comes soon too!!!

Cal Kestis come back to me

#cal kestis #jedi survivor #nightsister merrin #cere junda #greez dritus #ashe javi #doma jedi survivor #anchorites jedi survivor #I Just think it’s neat!!!#sorry for the poor quality #I cannot scan these so only shoddy pictures #if I think about all the mantis crew being so far apart from eachother do a second I will explode. so

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phuongwn2711 · 1 month

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still Ash but more stylish

she is beautiful beyond my imagination

#ashlyn #ashlyn banner #school bus graveyard #fanart #sbg #my art

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danika-redgrave124 · 24 days

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Umbra Witch Yuu Weapons Side Characters Plus Grim

Gemstone Blaze

Appearance: The Gemstone Blaze pistols are sleek, with barrels that emit an intense blue flame. The gemstones embedded in the pistols are similar to the one around Grim’s neck, glowing with an otherworldly light. The grips are wrapped in elegant black and white ribbons, adding a touch of sophistication to the deadly weapons.

Combat Style

Long-Range Firepower and Flame Manipulation: Gemstone Blaze allows Yuu to dominate the battlefield with a combination of precise gunplay and powerful flame-based attacks.

Blazing Roar: This special ability unleashes bursts of blue flame projectiles that explode on impact, dealing significant area-of-effect damage. The explosive nature of the flames makes it effective against groups of enemies, allowing Yuu to control the battlefield and keep foes at a distance.

Wave of Blue Flames: The pistols can also generate a sweeping wave of blue flames that rolls across the ground, engulfing enemies in its path. This wave enhances Yuu's fire-based attacks, making them more potent and giving them an edge in combat against enemies weak to fire.

Pyrotechnic Precision: With Gemstone Blaze, Yuu's combat style would emphasize precision and flair. They can fire off rapid bursts of flame projectiles, chaining them together to create explosive combos. The blue flames add a dramatic visual element to their attacks, making their movements even more stylish and impactful.

Enhanced Fire-Based Attacks: The flames from Gemstone Blaze don’t just damage enemies; they also empower Yuu's other fire-based abilities. As the blue flames surround them, they can temporarily increase the power and range of their fiery attacks, allowing her to unleash devastating assaults that leave her enemies scorched and overwhelmed.

Finishing Moves

Inferno Climax: When performing a Climax attack with Gemstone Blaze, Yuu channels the full power of the pistols, creating a massive pillar of blue flame that engulfs all enemies in its radius. The flames burn with intense heat, reducing foes to ash as Yuu emerges unscathed from the inferno, their power amplified by the searing energy.

Smile Tails

Appearance: Smile Tails consists of two elegantly curved blades, each adorned with the iconic purple and pink stripes reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat. The blades shimmer with an eerie, otherworldly glow, and the handles are designed with playful, yet sinister, feline motifs. When wielded, the blades seem to shimmer in and out of existence, much like the Cheshire Cat’s infamous grin.

Combat Style

Whimsical and Unpredictable Strikes: Smile Tails allows Yuu to attack with a combination of speed, precision, and misdirection. The curved blades are perfect for sweeping strikes and rapid combos that keep enemies on their toes.

Grinning Apparition: This special ability unleashes a flurry of strikes that create illusionary copies of the blades. These spectral copies mimic Yuu's movements, attacking enemies from multiple directions simultaneously. The disorienting nature of these illusions confuses opponents, making it difficult for them to predict where the real attack will come from.

Mischievous Vanish: As the illusionary blades land their blows, they vanish with a mischievous smile, adding an unsettling psychological element to the fight. Enemies are left vulnerable and off-balance, as they struggle to keep up with the elusive and deceptive attacks.

Feline Agility and Grace: Smile Tails would enhance Yuu's agility, allowing them to dart around the battlefield with feline-like grace. The dual blades are light and responsive, perfect for acrobatic maneuvers and quick, fluid strikes that can seamlessly transition between offense and defense.

Tactical Deception: The illusionary copies created by Grinning Apparition aren’t just for show—they serve as a tactical advantage, enabling Yuu to strike from unexpected angles or set up devastating follow-up attacks. The confusion sown by these illusions allows her to manipulate the flow of battle, controlling the pace and overwhelming her foes with unpredictability.

Finishing Moves

Cheshire Cat's Gambit: When performing a Climax attack with Smile Tails, Yuu summons a massive, grinning Cheshire Cat apparition that engulfs the battlefield in darkness. The only visible elements are the floating, grinning blades that strike relentlessly at enemies. The attack concludes with the Cheshire Cat’s iconic grin lingering in the air as the enemies are torn apart by the spectral blades.

Judgement Cross

Appearance: Judgement Cross is a foreboding scythe with a long, dark handle adorned with intricate gothic designs and religious symbols. The blade is razor-sharp, etched with fiery motifs that seem to glow with a smoldering intensity. The scythe's hilt is encrusted with dark gemstones, and the overall design exudes a sense of judgment and punishment.

Combat Style

Heavy and Devastating Strikes: Judgement Cross would emphasize powerful, sweeping strikes that can cleave through multiple enemies at once. The scythe’s wide arc allows Yuu to control the battlefield, keeping enemies at bay while delivering devastating blows.

Hellfire Verdict: This special ability unleashes a wave of hellfire with each swing, engulfing enemies in flames. The fiery slashes not only cause immediate damage but also leave enemies burning, dealing continuous damage over time. The intense flames create an aura of condemnation, as if the enemies are being judged and punished by the scythe’s righteous fury.

Aura of Condemnation: When wielding Judgement Cross, Yuu radiates an intimidating presence, as if passing judgment on her foes. The scythe’s strikes are imbued with an aura of condemnation, making enemies more susceptible to stagger and increasing the psychological pressure they feel in battle.

Enhanced Attack Power: Hellfire Verdict doesn’t just damage enemies—it also temporarily increases Yuu's attack power, allowing her to deal even more punishing blows. As they swings the scythe, the flames intensify, imbuing each strike with the destructive force of hellfire.

Tactical Area Control: The wide, sweeping attacks of Judgement Cross are ideal for controlling large groups of enemies. Yuu can use the scythe to carve out space on the battlefield, creating zones of fiery condemnation where enemies are reluctant to tread. This allows them to dictate the flow of combat, forcing enemies into positions where they are vulnerable to their other abilities.

Finishing Moves

Infernal Judgement: When performing a Climax attack with Judgement Cross, Yuu swings the scythe in a grand, sweeping motion, summoning a massive pillar of hellfire that erupts from the ground, consuming all enemies in its path. The attack culminates in a final, decisive strike that sends out shockwaves of fire, leaving the battlefield scorched and her enemies reduced to ashes.

Deceptive Canes

Appearance: The Deceptive Canes are a pair of elegant, sleek canes adorned with fox motifs that symbolize cunning and slyness. The canes are intricately designed with swirling patterns and ornate handles, giving them a sophisticated yet deceptive appearance. Hidden within each cane are extendable blades that reveal their true lethality during combat.

Combat Style

Deceptive and Precise Strikes: Deceptive Canes would emphasize quick, precise strikes that catch enemies off guard. Yuu would use the canes to feint, mislead, and outmaneuver their foes, striking with the hidden blades at unexpected moments.

Cunning Charade: This special ability unleashes a flurry of deceptive strikes that create illusions, confusing and disorienting enemies. As Bayonetta strikes, the canes extend their hidden blades, making the attacks appear harmless until the last second when the true danger is revealed. This ability also temporarily increases Bayonetta’s critical hit rate, allowing her to land more devastating blows.

Enhanced Evasiveness: Wielding the Deceptive Canes allows Yuu to move with increased agility and finesse. The canes can be used to vault, flip, and weave through enemy attacks, making them harder to hit. The Cunning Charade ability further enhances their evasiveness, allowing them to dodge and counterattack with lethal precision.

Illusory Feints: Yuu can use the canes to create illusory feints, causing enemies to misjudge their movements. They might appear to strike with one cane, only to swiftly switch to the other, keeping her foes off-balance. This tactic makes it difficult for enemies to predict her next move, giving her the upper hand in battle.

Tactical Deception

Disorienting Combos: The Deceptive Canes allow Yuu to chain together combos that bewilder and overwhelm their opponents. The hidden blades can extend mid-combo, turning what seems like a harmless strike into a lethal blow. The rapid shifts between deceptive movements and deadly strikes keep enemies on edge, unable to anticipate her next move.

Confusion and Misdirection: The fox motifs on the canes serve as a reminder of their deceptive nature. Yuu can use the canes to create illusions or distortions in the battlefield, making it appear as if there are multiple copies of her or that she’s attacking from different angles. This tactic sows confusion among her enemies, leaving them vulnerable to their true attacks.

Finishing Moves

Fox's Gambit: When performing a Climax attack with the Deceptive Canes, Yuu engages in a rapid series of feints and strikes, creating afterimages that leave her enemies guessing which one is real. They finishes the move by extending the hidden blades fully, delivering a series of critical hits that devastate their foes, leaving them disoriented and defeated.

Clownish Mallets

Appearance: The Clownish Mallets are dual mallets with a playful, exaggerated design. Each mallet is adorned with bright, garish colors and whimsical patterns, reminiscent of a circus or carnival. They feature a spring-loaded mechanism hidden within the heads, adding an element of unpredictability to their strikes. The handles are large and decorated with clownish motifs, making them look both amusing and menacing.

Combat Style

Chaotic and Powerful Strikes: The Clownish Mallets would emphasize heavy, unpredictable attacks that combine strength with a touch of whimsy. Yuu would use the mallets to deliver powerful, erratic blows that can disrupt and stagger enemies.

Blundering Bash: This special ability involves performing a series of heavy, unpredictable strikes. The spring-loaded mechanism adds an extra punch to each blow, causing significant knockback and stunning enemies. The erratic nature of the attacks keeps opponents guessing and unable to effectively counter their moves. Additionally, Blundering Bash temporarily boosts Bayonetta’s strength and resilience, allowing her to endure more damage and deal devastating hits.

Unpredictable Impact: The Clownish Mallets’ spring-loaded mechanism creates a sense of unpredictability in combat. Each strike can vary in force and trajectory, making it difficult for enemies to anticipate Yuu's next move. The mallets might bounce or spin unpredictably, adding a chaotic element to her attacks.

Area Control: Yuu can use the mallets to create a wide area of impact. The powerful, unpredictable strikes can knock multiple enemies back and create space for them to maneuver. This makes the Clownish Mallets ideal for dealing with groups of enemies and disrupting their formations.

Tactical Disruption

Stunning Combos: The mallets can be used to chain together combos that stun and disorient enemies. Yuu might perform a series of erratic swings, with each blow causing enemies to stagger or fall back, setting them up for follow-up attacks or giving them the chance to reposition.

Whimsical Chaos: The whimsical design of the Clownish Mallets can create a chaotic battlefield environment. Yuu's strikes might cause environmental hazards or trigger unexpected effects, such as bouncing enemies into traps or causing explosions. The unpredictability of the mallets adds an element of surprise to her combat strategy.

Finishing Moves

Carnival Frenzy: When performing a Climax attack with the Clownish Mallets, Yuu unleashes a wild series of swings and bounces. The mallets spin and expand their range of impact, creating a frenzy of chaotic energy. Enemies caught in the attack are thrown around and stunned, ending with a powerful, unpredictable final blow that deals massive damage.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland yuu #twisted wonderland x reader #twst yuu #umbra witch yuu #twistedwonderland #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x bayonetta #bayonetta x twisted wonderland

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vendetta-if · 1 year

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Out of curiosity since it is summer and sort of a part 2 to an earlier beach ask. What sort of swimwear do the LIs prefer?

Part 1 of the beach ask is here!

Ooh, good question! Although, most of the male ROs kinda wear similar stuff considering how little variations there are to men’s swimwear 😭

Ash

For Male Ash, mostly going to be wearing a simple swimming trunks as his go-to swimwear (and probably a t-shirt or tank top if he’s not in the water).

While for Female Ash, either a more sporty-styled swimwear or even a sporty one piece, depending on the activities and her mood.

Rin

For Male Rin, he would wear long-sleeved swimwear, not only to prevent sunburns but also because he’s pretty modest. I mean, if there were any more stylish and elegant male swimwear, he’d probably wear them too, but I couldn’t really find any so far 😭

For Female Rin, they would wear elegant, probably one-piece, swimwear. Oh and of course, the fit wouldn’t be complete without a pair of designer sunglasses and those wide-brimmed hat.

Santana

Male Santana would be wearing normal swimming trunks like Ash, maybe with an open and loose shirt and a panama hat. He just wanna chill (maybe take a nap as well).

Female Santana would wear, well, any swimsuit, but probably not those little bikinis that leave little to imagination.

Skylar

Male Skylar would not be shy to wear one of those shorter swimming trunks and would probably be wearing that often and completed with a pair of designer sunglasses.

Female Skylar would also be confident enough to wear bikini and it is her preferred swimwear most of the time, completed with a pair of designer sunglasses as well.

And just like Ash, they would also wear a more sporty swimsuit if the activities call for it or if they’re in the mood for it. I can’t insert any more pics in this post, but they’re pretty similar to the ones in Ash’s section.

#asks #full cast ros #ro: ash #ro: rin #ro: santana #ro: skylar #char: info #reference pics #if: vendetta #if vendetta #vendetta if #if game #if wip #dashingdon #choicescript #hosted games #cyoa #cyoa game

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hozaloza · 6 months

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Little character comparison chart I did

Ignore the initials on the pictures, I was comparing the characters to the MLP main 6.

Anyways, I made this a while back because I realized something...

Doesn't the Savannah gang an the Crane Group seem familiar?

Character similarities: Maverick w/ Ashlyn- They are both the leaders, are 'mysterious' (Ash to friends. Maverick to us), both are standouts, independent, and have something 'strange' about them. (They are both also stylish but that isn't really important).

Thomas w/ Aiden- They both smile a good amount of the time, both are psychotic (You can't look me in the eyes and tell me Mr. Thomas isn't a lil silly after THAT smile in episode 64), keep a positive attitude (Ig), and not canon, but I feel like Thomas also enjoys thrills.

Jasmine w/ Taylor- I literally do not know how to describe this. They both are communicative ig, and loyal (?). Look, this one lays more on hc than what we see. What I'm trying to say is that Jasmine is practically the meaner version of Taylor.

Alex w/ Logan- C'mon, in EP 69 they were both playing chess. Alex is definitely a nerd in some ways. They're both smart, like playing logical games (chess for ex), definitely can observe a situation and figure out solutions to it. We don't know much about Alex yet, so that's all I can really pick at.

Ryan w/ Tyler- First appearances y'all. They're both hotheads, get angered easily, always pick at straws in the situation, get humbled real quick (haha ep 38 and when Ashlyn lashed out at Tyler), don't bother to think things through, will have respect for someone when necessary.

Blondie w/ Ben- I'm really digging at these straws for this one. This one really depends on the fact that they both have similar posture, facial structure (to a sense), and they walk similar. I've said this stuff in another post I've made before, so there is really nothing to defend my statement on this one.

I would have done a much longer version of this, but honestly, I have no brainpower currently, and I've already been keeping this draft for a bit now, so, yeah.

Hope my rambles make some sense.

#school bus graveyard #webtoon #origami cranes #mr. thomas #ashlyn banner #logan fields #aiden clark #boss sbg #ben clark #taylor hernandez #tyler hernandez #jasmine sbg #ryan #ryan sbg #alex laurier #character comparison

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cumsockwoundpack · 6 months

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LAST SEMESTER: CH.3

T4T BOYDYKE GIRLYAOI SO SELF-INDULGENT IT'LL BLIND YOU

ch1 ch2

Lo, "a beer and a dart" turns into two beers per hour, chainsmoking between acrid cigarette makeout sessions, deciding to take tomorrow off work, smoking a bowl or two, and a couple rounds taking turns giving lazy head, the last of which is capped off by both of you drifting to sleep together.

Upon waking with your face nuzzled to his chest (rising, falling, his heart thrumming, all steadfastly soothing as a gently swaying redwood, rising, falling) you take a deep breath. With the windows closed and your nose pressed halfway into the pocket of his shoulder, the humid, cloying blend of blood, sweat, stale sex, and cigarette-ash hedonism coats your sinuses like treacle. You remember that you both still have yet to shower.

You peel your cheek away from his collarbone and take a breath of the closest thing to "fresh air" you've had in the last 8 hours. The rest of the room is still saturated with the postbacchanal miasma, and unfortunately, the unbidden flow of air does nothing but increase the acuity of your sense of smell.

You're unsure how much of the head rush you're currently experiencing is due to oxygen deprivation as opposed to the condensed sensory summary of last night's deviancy getting you so fucking hot and bothered that you revert to an earlier stage of human evolution.

Shaky-legged, you get up to let the cold air in. Getting the window up proves to be an endeavor, with the Landlord Special offwhite paint welding the pane to the sill, and every actin-myosin filament in your right shoulder softly wincing with the memory of their teeth every time you exert yourself. Despite this, you succeed and make it once again possible to walk, rather than swim, the rest of the way to the shower. Even when intentionally and tactically lukewarm, the water running down your back lightly sears your nerves as it contacts fresh scratches, gouges, hand-carved canyons. For the first couple seconds, the water is tinged pink.

He, nude, visibly only half-awake, opens the bathroom door abruptly without knocking, and looks at you. You are covered in blood, scared, and look like a dog that got left in the rain. He seems to finally remember he possesses a right hand, which he brings up to his eyes, sees your blood caked under his fingernails. They stand stock-straight, the full memory of last night (you can read his mind through his eye, he's recalling your face when he found himself grinding on your leg and whining) slamming into his cerebellum like an atom bomb.

"Do you usually get that hard from looking at me?"

You look down.

Fuck.

Eyes back up.

Now he's in the shower with you.

"Turn around."

Tense as hell but without missing a beat, you shuffle a quick little 180. You stare intently at the tiling, black and white checkerboarded. Stylish. Your fists are clenched hard enough to make diamonds.

"Relax! Relax," he says, opening a bottle of conditioner and lathering it between his hands. Conditioner? His buzzcut's like a centimeter long, why do they even own - your train of thought derails (killing hundreds) as the gruff dyke tenderly brushes his hands through your hair.

You let out a sigh that emanates from somewhere deep in your core as rictus tension abates into a sort of pleasantly giddy anxiety.

"I take it you don't regret last night?," you say as he massages the conditioner into your hopelessly fried and split ends.

"God, no. I'm starting to realize I've wanted you this whole time," he says, nibbling your ear and sending something unholy up your spine.

"I've been thinking something similar. Although...,"

"Hm?,"

"I worry - oo, little bit gentler please—" "Mhm."

"—about this somehow being a bridge too far. I'm petrified that this passion, this tension, this novelty is gonna fade after a month or two and that a four year friendship that could have gone on for fifty years falls victim to the three month rule."

"It won't. If it does, I think we can still work things out. I trust you," he says.

"I trust you so much it scares me. Ooh, that's nice, can you actually scratch my scalp a little, right where your hand is, ohhhh yeaahhhh... hell yeah. Hell yeah," you say, pushing your head against his hands.

"You'd make a cute dog," he says. You're unsure if he knows the kinds of buttons that just pushed.

Who the fuck are you kidding, he knows. Of course he knows!

You shiver.

When he finishes working the conditioner into your hair, you reach for the soap. He playfully smacks your hand away from it and grabs it himself, lathers it, and wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling your back against his chest. He's ever so slightly taller than you and he knows it, pecking little kisses into your shoulders and neck as he caresses and cleanses you. His guitar-calloused fingertips strike sparks off your skin as they trace along your ribs. One hand settles on your chest and idly gropes your tits, using your nipples as buttons on a soundboard (pathetic little gasps and hitched breaths, you can feel your dick twitch every time. you're sure he can see as well, which only makes your head fuzzier) while the other hand wanders down to your waist, around your hips, right to the crease between hip and thigh, clutching you firmly to him.

He's so warm. Chiselled where it counts, but still tender in all the right places. He flows like water around you, his breathing getting huskier every time he feels your chest rise and fall. You whine, involuntary, arching your back and grinding into him as his hands get closer and closer to your crotch.

"Oh, you're gorgeous," he coos into your ear, "And so needy."

"Please touch me."

"No. Gotta clean you properly first."

He roughly licks the bruise on your shoulder, tongue buttressed by lower jaw to add deep-tissue pressure as he pinches your nipple with his nails and twists. It's unrelenting, soul shaking, all-consuming, like tattoo needle on bone, issuing a free flow of precum out of you.

"Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckpleasestop, please, please stop, PLEASE," you whine, frantic, your hands flailing behind you to try and find some purchase on his (smooth and soap-slick, urggh,) skin.

He pauses.

"Was that a 'Red' I heard?"

A moment of recognition. Your hands go limp.

"...Green."

"Good girl," he says, finally taking hold of you, peeling back the foreskin, lazily running the pad of their thumb along the flared head, and gently wrapping his free hand around your throat.

"hhHhaahhnnnn~," ...Oh, dear, that's embarrassing, mutters some far-off fragment of your psyche, clamping your hands over your mouth for you, though (through interlaced fingers) you still let out sounds like distressed livestock, writhing in his grasp as he starts stroking you properly.

"Aww, c'monnn, doll," the hand around your neck pries your fingers from your mouth (they go back to holding onto him for dear life) and a thumb works its way between your teeth, their voice in your ear a steady flow of spiced honey, "Sing for me, love."

"mmmmffffffffffuck, fuck, oh, fuck, Ted, fuck, fuck!"

The rope of your psyche ties in knots. You are utterly scrambled. Through the sea of sensation and – "God, oh damn, fuck! It's so much!" – dopamine flow, a sickly, keening, ravenous tension starts building inside you. Your knees grow weak, your babble gets rapidfire and less and less intelligible, "fuck" becomes "fuhhgghh" becomes high-pitched grunts until your eyes go wide and...

"Oh, fuck, I'm close, I'm close, I'm gonna-"

He stops. You writhe. You keen like a steel chair scraping linoleum. You teeter on the edge, feeling like your soul's throat's getting garotted with piano wire, like the grape-skin membrane around your psyche is about to yield and snap under teeth, his thumb keeping your jaw wrenched open.

"Don't do it. Don't fucking cum."

You just barely hold on, the precisely-built tension somewhere behind the base of your dick slowly uncoiling as you moan and roll your hips, shaking a little ass as you grind back into him.

He's in your ear again, any pretense of restraint on your part melting away every time his teeth use your cartilage to elicit a pathetic, animal grunt of pain from somewhere in your throat.

"Did you cum?," he purrs.

"No, sir."

He keeps his hand pressed where thigh meets hip, your earlobe pinched between his canines, and his thumb practically down your throat as his voice curtly and gruffly slips two words through your eardrum and directly into the hypothalamus like a well-placed morphine needle, causing you to squeeze your legs together and arch your back like you're getting electrocuted. You almost don't actually register the semiotic content of the phrase itself through the vision-blurring white-hot static hit of pleasure that washes over you with their utterance.

After the flashbang's gone off, you consciously register that he called you, quote, "Good Boy," and your eyes unfocus again as your brain almost leaks out of your dick.

You decide to put off processing exactly how significantly that might affect your gender presentation in favor of focusing on the hand on your right cumgutter tracing a path around your outer thigh and palming a nice fistful of ass - ("God, who gave you all this?") - before getting to your tailbone and drawing a line directly downward. Feeling his soap-slick fingers parting your ass and teasing your hole, your knees grow ever weaker and your wordless, mindless pleas grow ever louder. A thought crystallizes in your addled mind and fights its way out of your throat before you can think to stop it.

"Please, Sir, fuck me. For the love of God."

"Good boy. Get out."

"Huh?," you say, your head fuzzy.

"Get out of the shower and–"

"PLEASE!", you snap, louder than intended, your desperation having reached a head as you interpret this as a sign of further denial, then, more softly,

"Please. You've toyed with me so fucking much," looking into his soft brown irises with doe eyes that you know could topple nations.

"Adorable. I'm not railing you in this studio apartment bathroom's clawfoot tub though, dipshit. One of us doesn't have healthcare."

"Oh. Mmh. Right." you say.

He turns off the water, motions for you to step out of the shower, and you do so readily. If you weren't still slightly afflicted by the combination of obligatory butch chivalry, Catholic guilt, and the urge toward canine displays of submission causing you to avert your gaze and stare intently at the bathroom door, you would have taken the time to really drink up the view of his lithe form, the way the lingering dampness makes his leg hair cling to calf, the droplet-flow of water from shoulders to waist to cumgutters to bush to the reflection of the divine between his surprisingly plush thighs as he steps out onto the bathmat.

But, alas, this courtesy was your downfall, as you had no way to react to him swiftly grabbing both your arms, passing your right wrist into his left hand to pin both arms behind your back over the course of about half a second. He leverages this grip, his right hand in your hair, and his knee pressing uncomfortably (nigh-bruisingly) into the backs of your thighs to wrench you into a wretched, back-arched posture and march you to the bed. Once there, he kicks your feet out from under you and you both catch a moment of lurching airtime as you realize he is fucking bodyslamming you (!!!!!!!!!!!) into the bed, facedown, pushing your face into the pillow to followthrough. He's straddling you now, and he releases your hands, which you wouldn't fucking DARE move. He brings his left hand to your mouth.

"Spit."

You oblige. The saliva draws a momentary string between your lips and the butch's hand, only separating when they rub their fingers together to distribute the spit.

"Again."

You whine, then oblige once more before he can chastise you.

"Good boy," he grunts.

"rrrRruff," you bark.

You bark?

"Did you just bark?" he says.

Yes, you did.

You decide to shut up.

You can almost hear him cock an eyebrow behind you in the silence before he re-asserts his grip on your hair and his calloused-but-spit-slicked thumb starts rubbing lazy circles into the clenched ring, opening the valve on a long, low, breathy yowl that had been building pressure on your throat since you were embarrassed into silence.

"So cute. So fucking adorable," he mumbles. You feel his thumb press a little harder, you clench unthinkingly, your desperation audible and breathy. Seeing you unravelled before him like this has softened something in Ted's soul, his words taking on a soft, molten, sickly-sweet timbre that places you utterly at his mercy.

"So tight. So cute. Fuck. Breathe, baby. Relax. Good boy, good boy. You worry so much, just breathe. Goooood...." - he redoubles his efforts, the tip of his thumb finally breaching the surface, "...boy! Good boy."

It's awe-inspiring. He's inside you, prying you apart with his thumb, centimeter by centimeter, knuckle by knuckle, you swear you can almost feel each individual ridge on the pad of his thumb as he grinds it inexorably deeper, running the fingers of his free hand through your hair and caressing your jaw.

You can feel him fucking dripping between the firm padding of his asscheeks pinning you to the bed by the lumbar spine.

"Ssssso.... fucking.... tight..," he coos breathily, finally reaching the point where even he is audibly struggling to keep composure as his thumb bottoms out inside you. This is not a problem for him for long, however, because when you feel him zero in on your prostate, your dick starts leaking like a sieve and you burst into tears, whimpering and bucking into the sheets.

You feel him grinding on your back, his free hand now clamped around your lower jaw, his thumb wrenching your mouth open. You can't keep your voice down. You sound like you're trying not to drown as he uses two fingers (the middle two out of the four not yet inside you, precisely) to press down on your taint externally, crushing your prostate from both sides.

It feels like you're getting fucking tazed. You'd know. You start shuddering and gasping for air, twitching, muscles (that you didn't know you had!) tensing to what feels like the point of snapping. Your salivary glands are working overtime and choking you on your own drool occasionally. Everything goes a little bit grey and fuzzy. There's pressure building. Oh god.

You peel his hand from your face and out of your mouth.

"Can I please cum?"

"Good manners. Cum."

He wraps the hand back around your throat and squeezes. Three perfunctory, businesslike jabs at your bitch button and dopamine hits your brain like a sledgehammer as your whole body goes limp under him.

"So pathetic!," he says, voice tinged with joy, his choking hand loosening, and his thumb... still going full strength, oh god, oh god, oh, God, you hear your wails reverberating off the unfurnished walls, filling the room, overflowing and leaking out through the door, fuck, are you still cumming? Oh, oh god,

"Fuck, it's too much! I can't fucking take it!"

"Aw, don't you wanna be a good boy? For me?"

"Please, please stop, please, i think i'm still cumming, fuck, stop, nonononono-"

He leans right down next to your ear.

"I love you," he growls.

"Oh god! I, I- Oh, I fffhgg-"

"Good boy. Cum. Again. "

You remember him biting down on your ear and grinding his thumb into your hole one more time right before you black out.

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