#all that's left is cleanup/details
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bleaksqueak · 1 year ago
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Soli will update like normal tomorrow! I'll also be Less Quiet soon since I've been toiling away at Things. Things for You.
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cno-inbminor · 7 days ago
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zayne x non-mc!fem reader -- married, but you worry it's only because mc (emcee) had left and was never sure on when she'd return. six years later, emcee moves back to linkon, and you feel your worst nightmares start to fester. self-indulgent angst (tw: miscommunication) wc: 3.2k
In a fantasy-like dreamscape, with petals painted in hues of ivory and rouge, you amble down the concrete trail that loops around the park.
You ignore the feeling of being out of place – after all, you’re still in your work blouse, skirt, and heels that are very impractical for a long walk. But in your numbing haze and cloudy mind, you’re welcome to any ache and sore that could keep you grounded to this forsaken planet. The music from your earbuds rings with melancholic songs from some movie soundtrack, though coincidental and fitting for the situation at hand. Eyes glassed over, steps slow and laborious, and shoulders slumped, you walk defeated.
A gust of wind releases the petals from their branches and blooms, a flurry scattering into the open air before flitting, twisting, turning, and gradually falling to the ground beneath your feet. They make you remember a happier time, one that seems to be a waste after all these years. When you look towards the sky, you recall a similar view when you were snug in a wedding dress while making your way down an aisle, your lips curved in a smile as onlookers threw white rose petals into the air. But when you tilt your head down to look in front of you, there is no man in a tailored, pressed suit waiting for you.
He settled by marrying you, a faint whisper reminds you in the back of your mind. You did this to yourself.
Perhaps you did.
There was always the chance that she would come back – you had always dreaded the day, but Zayne was adamant that there was nothing to worry about. He had moved on, and he loved you. There was nothing you needed to fix about yourself, he insisted. He loved you for who you were, and you were grateful – grateful that he still thought of you late at night when stuck in emergency surgeries, that he would buy you pastries anytime he visited the bakery, that he would welcome you into his office during lunch breaks when you had time to step away from your desk.
You were happy to be on his arm at awards and annual galas. You would bask in the moments when you would come out in a new dress and he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off you. “You look beautiful,” he would say with reverence and adoration, and it was those moments that led you astray from your worries and insecurities. He chose you, and you could tell he didn’t regret choosing you.
That didn’t change until after a few months she returned.
The reason she had been gone for so long was because she had been transferred indefinitely to a remote city that had a massive shortage of Hunters and way too many Wanderers to deal with. From the get go, she had been advised to officially move out of her apartment and was even given a stipend to help with relocation costs. It was for a good cause, and she had always wanted to travel and see the world. Zayne, in all his infinite charity and kindness, made sure to discuss every detail possible with her new physician that would be looking after her and her heart condition. He even went as far as having her sign a release of information to him specifically so that he could access her records remotely.
You understood. Really, you did. She had even made it out to the wedding and stayed afterward to help with cleanup efforts.
But after her return, the more you fell asleep in and woke up to an empty bed, the less sleep you were getting.
How do I bring this up without sounding like a clingy partner? You had wracked your brain for weeks. Zayne was stressed enough as it was, and you really didn’t want to add to it. You had vowed to be the solid ground beneath his feet – to support and keep him stabilized – and not the storm that could topple him over.
But it was so hard.
Fewer texts, fewer check-in’s, fewer notes left behind reminding you of the little things. Fewer reminders that he was ever a tenant in this house – much less, your husband.
Zayne ran on a routine and schedule, but so much spontaneity happens in his daily life that he probably wouldn’t mind a surprise visit for lunch from you. You had picked up his favorite lunch set from the cafe down the street, as well as one for you, and walked towards the hospital. Familiar nurses and doctors greeted you as you did them, quick hello’s and slight nods of the heads. Yvonne recognized you without missing a beat and flashed you a small, but tired smile.
“Long day already?” you softly asked when you stopped at her station.
“Unfortunately, but nothing uncommon,” she joked before taking a look at the brown paper bag in your hand. “Good timing actually, he’s in his office and is free for the next 30 minutes. Dr. Grayson is in there, but it shouldn’t be a big deal.”
“Thank you,” you said in a grateful tone and smiled before rounding the corner to your husband’s office.
You slowed and softened your steps to minimize the noise from your heels, wanting to maintain the element of surprise. From down the hall, you could see that his door was cracked open just the slightest, both his and Dr. Grayson’s voices muffled but much clearer once you were in front of it. Just as you were about to push it open, you heard her name and froze.
“--she comes by a lot.”
You heard Zayne reply, “It’s been good catching up with her and being able to check on her condition. Her doctor from her time away should’ve done a better job, but at least nothing major happened.”
“I haven’t seen your wife in a while. More often than not, I’d see her here on your lunch breaks, but it feels like forever.”
Keyboard clicks fill the brief silence. “She’s been busy.”
Have you now?
“You know,” Dr. Grayson starts before pausing. “Wasn’t Emcee your first love or something like that?”
The keyboard clicks stop. “Why do you ask?”
You could hear the shrug in Dr. Grayson’s voice. “I just wonder if anything has changed now that she’s back permanently.”
“...I don’t follow.”
“Do you think anything would’ve happened between you and her had she stayed six years ago?”
A beat passes. Two. Four.
“Perhaps, but there’s no point in dwelling on the what-if’s.”
Your heart sank.
In the very next second, the panic began to course through you, your heartbeat dangerously high. You had a moment of clarity – a miracle, honestly – to step out of your heels and let them hang from your fingers as you walked back to where Yvonne was at a brisk pace. Hospital floor, dust, and infections be damned. Otherwise, the clacking of your heels would’ve alerted them, and that was the last thing you needed. All you thought of in that moment was the need to get out, away from this hospital, away from your husband.
Yvonne had no time to question your sudden return – she hadn’t expected to see you again for at least another 30 minutes – before you set the bag in front of you.
“They seem to be having a really important conversation,” you started, clenching your fists to stop the tremble in your body and trying to maintain a calm voice. “C-can I just leave this here for you to give to him later?”
“Yes, of course,” Yvonne said, picking the bag up to put behind her. Her tone was agreeable, but you could practically feel her confusion between the syllables. “But are you sure you don’t want to wait? Dr. Grayson should be out in a few minutes, if that’s the case.”
“Oh, uhh, I actually just got a text from my boss,” you lied and held up your phone, though it was still a dark screen. “He needs a document at the last minute, so I have to head back anyways. Thank you though!”
With a quick wave goodbye, you left Yvonne no chance to respond and disappeared towards the elevator. Every second that passed was too long, and you almost tripped while trying to slip your heels back on. Your steps were shaky, your frame shuttering with each step, and you couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. You should be stronger than this. You should be strong enough to hold yourself together and make it home before you absolutely break and burst at the seams.
Your hands wrung together as the elevator descended towards the ground floor at a snail’s pace. Luckily you were the only one in the compartment, so as soon as the doors had opened, you bolted out of there like someone was chasing you. And in a way, something was chasing you – one of your worst nightmares: the realization that Zayne felt he had no choice but to settle for you.
You crossed the lobby as fast as you could, blinders on and narrowed to nothing but the main doors. They couldn’t slide open fast enough for you, but it granted you a second to call your boss.
“Yes, (Y/N)?”
“I know this is really sudden, and you know I never do this, but I really, really need to take the afternoon off,” you begged, words rolling off your tongue a mile a minute.
“Is everything okay?”
“Not really,” you said with all the bluntness in the universe before you could say anything better. “But it’ll be fine, I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
“Very well. Call me if you need help with anything.”
“Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night.”
“See you tomorrow, and you, too.”
Your thumb jabbed the ‘end call’ button as you stared at the street. Where should you go? What should you do? Do you go home?
And that’s how you ended up here, at the park, the skin on the back of your heels chafed horribly, and your brain at a complete loss of what to do now. You haven’t even cried yet because you were still in a state of shock, disassociation.
Aimless, unaware, and lost, you continue your endless journey and are unable to find it in yourself to even sit on one of the many park benches stationed around the path. Because if you sat, you would cry. And if you cry, you would think. And if you think, you would spiral. You would spiral down the black hole of questioning every single thing Zayne has ever done with you, if Zayne ever truly loved you.
Something in the universe says you’re not ready for that yet.
Your phone vibrates from your purse. You take it out with limp hands, slowly and unsure in every way possible, your heart pounding against your chest, as you read the notification on your lock screen.
Husband 💙:
Thank you for lunch. I’m sorry we couldn’t eat together.
Your feet scream in agony as you increase your pace in the direction of the main road. They were probably bleeding at this point, but that was an issue for another time. You flag down a taxi as soon as one appears, and you ask the driver to take you to that 24 hour bookstore-slash-library with the comfy chairs and a cafe attached to it. After all, if you couldn’t stand to be in this world, at least you could escape to another for a little bit of time.
Husband 💙:
Yvonne said you had some type of work emergency. Is everything okay?
-
Several hours passed, in which you were able to acquire a couple of bandaids and alcohol wiping pads, nibble on a biscotti, and dive into a book that you had been putting off for months. Unwillingly, you hear your phone vibrate in your purse. Based on the pattern alone, you know it’s Zayne calling. During your years of dating, you had assigned custom vibrations and ringtones for him and him only. That way, no matter what, you would know it was him calling without having to look at the screen. If this were a normal situation and a normal day, you would’ve picked up without missing a beat. Unfortunately, today has been anything but normal.
You press one of the volume buttons to stop it from vibrating, though his contact information is still splashed across the screen. Your infinite wisdom advises you to let the call run, make him think that you were simply too busy to pick up. Again, an ultra rare occurrence, but not impossible. Your phone screen switches back to your lock screen with a notification of a missed call, and you watch it with wary eyes to see if there would be any follow-up.
There is one in the form of a text.
Bzz-bzz. Make that two.
Husband 💙:
I called to see if you wanted to have dinner together. But as soon as it went to voicemail, we had an emergency surgery come up.
Are you evil to think that the universe has kindly granted you more time to not talk to your husband? It would be appalling to be thankful that someone was hurt enough to warrant an emergency surgery that required your husband’s skills, therefore buying you more time to get your shit together. Diabolical and heartless, someone would probably describe you.
Husband 💙:
Won’t be home til late. Don’t wait up.
But you could only be in a blouse and skirt for so long, and as much as you want to spend the night here, it’s time for you to go home.
At 11PM, there is still no other text or call from Zayne. The house is empty and quiet, much to your relief. His shoes are nowhere to be seen on the shoe rack, so you must be safe. You should have enough time to change, brush your teeth, go to bed, and either actually fall asleep or pretend to be asleep when he eventually makes it home. His messages have been left unread, his call not returned. Once you’re ready for bed and tucked under the covers, the exhaustion of everything pulls you into a deep sleep in record time.
-
You’re practically dead to the world when Zayne comes home, slinking in like a thief in the night. He knows you’re usually asleep at this time, and he doesn’t want to wake you. Perhaps it’s his imagination, but in the few minutes that he can see you, you seem more tired, more haggard. It seems like you’ve lost a little weight, too, but he just doesn’t have the time to ask more about it. All the things that were changing seemed like it’d be best to have a sitdown conversation on a day off, but he’s been so bogged down by work and the return of Emcee that a day off seemed impossible.
As he slips his shoes off, he glances at your heels positioned astray from the shoe rack. The work emergency must have been bad for you to leave them that way. It takes nothing to bring them together and put them away himself, but then his eyes catch onto something that makes him freeze.
Why in the world is there that much blood on the back of your heels?
Were you hurt?
What happened that made you walk around so much to the point that you would let yourself bleed without any attempt to cover them up, or at least put a bandaid over them?
Why would you neglect yourself like that?
Had you already been bleeding when you dropped off his lunch? And if you had, why hadn’t anyone noticed, much less done anything about it?
The bedroom door creaks the slightest bit when he pushes it open, the force behind his fingertips so soft, so afraid to wake you. His eyes cannot help but travel to the foot of the bed where one of your feet sticks out. A small sense of relief fills his chest when he spots the bandaid stuck to the back of your left heel. The closer he gets to you, the more he sees that the bandaid wasn’t applied carefully enough based on the gap between the cotton pad and your wound. Gently, he lifts the blanket up to get a look at your other foot. A matching bandaid is present on your right heel. But at second glance, any relief he had felt disappears into thin air.
He sees the faint indentations of where the leather of your high heels had dug into your skin, a subtle arch decorating the space at the base of your toes. The beginnings of blisters have formed on the side of a few of them as well. It’s no secret to anyone how worn out they seem, that they’ve seen a harder day than usual today. He doesn’t know the cause, and he doesn’t understand why you didn’t even tell him. Zayne fishes his phone out of his pocket and stares at the empty lock screen, showing that you had never responded to his earlier messages. That, in and of itself, was already highly unusual.
He shifts the blanket back over your feet, making sure to cover them both before retreating into their bathroom. Brushing his teeth, rinsing his hair under the sink faucet, and washing his face all feel so mechanical as his mind refuses to turn off, the growing worry spreading like spilled cabernet on a white tablecloth. As he slides into bed, he suddenly feels like a stranger in his own home – like he’s not supposed to be here, to consider this bed as his safe space.
He’ll ask you in the morning, Zayne decides as he falls into a fitful sleep. No surgeries had been scheduled for the morning, which meant he could finally wake up with you for the first time in months. You two would get ready together – you’d tie his tie, he’d help dry the ends of your wet hair fresh out of the shower, you’d pack his lunch, he’d make sure that you leave with a fresh coffee in hand – a routine he has learned to love. The thought of that helps him settle into the sheets, and they feel soft and familiar again. Yes, everything would be fine.
But Zayyne gets a call an hour before your alarm goes off, and is, once again, robbed of one of his most cherished routines. He can’t help but look at your heels again as he slips into his dress shoes. They must be a sign of something to come, something that he may need to be afraid of. He’s not ready for what that may be, but inside, he knows that there’s a countdown.
Zayne doesn’t want to think about the stakes, or the fact that his first prediction – fresh horror and torture – is you leaving him. He cannot let it happen.
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nixmori · 4 months ago
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“What a day of unexpected splendor”
Some process and inspiration stuff under the cut!
So, this one was quite different for me, technique-wise. Very experimental and I think it paid off. I essentially did everything in three layers first: a midtones layer, shadows, and highlights. For the background, I pretty much left those layers as I made them, with some minimal cleanup, alpha locked the layers, and then painted those locked layers with a focus only on lighting.
It was surprisingly fast to do (not that I didn’t still spent a couple months picking away at this.) And I think the result ended up better than if I had sat there and painstakingly detailed the whole thing.
I initially painted Emmrich and Rook in the way I normally do (layer for skin, layer for hair, layer for clothes, etc, and detailing each individually. But when I finished all that, I realized the foreground didn’t mesh well with the background. The lighting was wrong and it clashed stylistically. Even though it had taken ages, I decided to “kill my darlings” and painted over them with… yes, three layers: shadows, midtones, and highlights.
Once I was finished with that step, focusing only on simplified shapes, I then merged the three layers and painted details directly onto to layer. So they ended up just being one layer. Once I did that, I was able to step back and focus more on shape language than on small details, adding on only the necessary small details towards the end and I was *much* happier with it.
Is it perfect? No. But I learned more from this piece than probably any other thing I’ve worked on in the last few years and that was very gratifying.
The reference for the pose and having the statue in the background comes from this romantic postcard (moving the link to comments because the link is taking priority over all the text lol)
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astrolook · 3 months ago
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Your Mars & The Type of People You Attract Even When You Don’t Want To
Mars in Aries - You want excitement, not constant drama. But somehow, you end up with people who turn every little thing into a fight. They think passion means throwing a tantrum every time something goes wrong. You’re just here for fun, not a warzone.
Mars in Taurus - You’re just trying to find someone steady, but all you attract are people who act like they’re your owner, not your partner. Suddenly, you’re dealing with jealousy, control, and possessiveness when all you wanted was someone to share a peaceful life with.
Mars in Gemini - You want deep convos, but instead, you attract people who can’t even hold a text conversation. They ghost, then come back acting like nothing happened. It’s like dating someone who’s allergic to consistency, and you’re left wondering why you keep doing this to yourself.
Mars in Cancer - You want emotional depth, but all you get are people who either play games or dip out when things get too real. They leave you questioning if they were ever really there in the first place, while you’re over here drowning in feelings they don’t give a damn about.
Mars in Leo - You’re just looking for someone who can match your vibe, but instead, you attract people who only want to be the center of attention and your life. It’s always about them, their ego, their drama. You’re not their sidekick, but they sure treat you like one.
Mars in Virgo - You want someone reliable, but you end up with people who can’t even handle their own life. You’re stuck trying to fix their messes, while they take no responsibility. It’s like dating a walking disaster, and somehow, you're the cleanup crew.
Mars in Libra - You want harmony, but instead, you get stuck with people who can’t be honest about anything. They avoid confrontation, so you’re left guessing if they’re mad or just...too chill? Meanwhile, you’re the one trying to keep things from falling apart.
Mars in Scorpio- You want someone who’s real, but instead, you keep attracting people who think love means power plays and control. It’s exhausting. Every relationship feels like a game, and you’re left wondering if they even care about you or just winning.
Mars in Sagittarius - You want freedom and adventure, but somehow, you always end up with people who are terrified of commitment. They love the chase, but the second you start getting serious, they bail. You’re not a free ride, but they treat you like one.
Mars in Capricorn - You want someone driven, but you end up with lazy, entitled people who just want to tag along. They don’t want to build with you, they want you to build for them. Suddenly, you’re their personal ladder to success. Who knew relationships came with this much work?
Mars in Aquarius - You want someone who gets your weirdness, but instead, you attract emotionally distant people who treat your feelings like an inconvenience. They’re so busy “thinking” about life that they forget to actually feel it with you. You’re not their intellectual experiment, damn it.
Mars in Pisces - You want a soulmate, but instead, you attract people who drain the hell out of you. They love to play the victim, and you end up taking care of them like they’re your responsibility. You keep giving, and they keep taking. How is that supposed to be love?
Wanna go deeper into the layers of your placements? DM me for a complete astrology reading 🌙💬 and check out my pinned post for pricing + details 💫💸
Let’s decode your cosmic chaos together ⭐
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orellazalonia · 19 days ago
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Echoes of a Nobody
Summary: The Avengers discover you may now be working with a hostile organization, sparking confusion, guilt, and questions about whether you were taken or left by choice.
Word Count: 2.1k+
Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist
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The Tower still functioned. The lights still came on at sunrise, the coffee still brewed automatically, and the world, predictably, still needed saving.
But it wasn’t the same. Not really. They didn’t talk about you anymore. Not in meetings. Not in the break room. Not even in the way people usually mention someone who left like “I wonder how they’re doing,” or “Remember how they used to do this?”
Your name hadn’t been spoken in weeks and no one looked at the desk the same way. Even with the new intern, no one admitted they noticed the difference in the reports. The missing efficiency. The absence of quiet competence. You’d made things easy for them, too easy. Because you hadn’t needed praise. You hadn’t asked questions when the assignments piled too high. You never made a scene when someone else took credit.
You were just… reliable. Invisible.
And now, you were gone. Not fallen in battle. Not reassigned. You left on your own terms. And somehow, that made it worse. Because the truth was, they’d all gotten used to you being around without ever really seeing you.
Sam noticed first. He didn’t say anything out loud, but every time he found an old file tagged with your formatting or caught a smart line of code the intern didn’t recognize, his jaw would clench just a little.
Clint complained more. “Why is everything in the wrong place?” He muttered once, staring at a disorganized gear locker that used to run like clockwork under your watch.
Bruce rubbed his temples during mission debriefs now. Things were falling through. Small details, easily fixable mistakes, but they stacked up. Quietly. Subtly.
As for Bucky, he still didn’t say anything either. He still trained. Still showed up. Still leaned into quiet corners with that girl he was so drawn to, the one with the bright laugh and easy smile. They were exactly what they were meant to be: Happy. Whole. Seen.
Yet still, something in Bucky’s expression occasionally flickered. Like when he asked the intern for last quarter’s field logs, the kind you used to prepare without being asked. The intern blinked had. “Wait, were we supposed to keep those updated?”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t scold. Just nodded tightly and walked away.
He hadn’t really known you. Not the way he knew her. But maybe he knew enough now to feel the edges of your absence even if he didn’t understand it. Because no one really understood what you did until you weren’t there to do it anymore.
And now, the Tower moved on like it always does. Your desk still sat there, empty. No one had claimed it really. And when the lights dimmed and the late night silence crept in, the air around your space felt heavier. Like the room knew something had been lost.
Not loudly. Just quietly. Like everything you ever did.
Therefore, what came next was a surprise to them all. It was Bruce who discovered it first, he didn’t mean to find it.
It was late that day, late enough that the Tower was more shadows than light, more quiet hums of distant servers than footsteps in the halls. His coffee had gone cold an hour ago and he wasn’t even sure why he was still at his desk. The mission reports were dull, mostly cleanup work from intel they’d intercepted last week from an anti-shield faction operating out of the Balkans.
He was skimming out of obligation, not curiosity until he opened the fifth folder.
The file tree wasn’t remarkable at first. Standard formatting. But the subfolders were ordered a little too neatly. The names weren’t generic; they were contextual, smart. Predictive.
Then came the layouts. His eyes narrowed.
Line after line of data filtered across the screen, and his breath caught, not because of the content, but because of the structure.
The headers. The symbols. The little quirks in spacing that most people wouldn’t notice.
But Bruce did. Because he remembered seeing it for years. Quietly, reliably, every week formatted the exact same way. You used to send summaries with this layout. It wasn’t a style. It wasn’t even a system. It was… you. Distinct. Efficient. Invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking for it.
Bruce sat up straighter, heart tapping a little faster. He clicked deeper. Opened a timestamped diagnostic from a surveillance relay taken offline days before an attack. Whoever wrote the analysis had restructured the data logs to show energy signatures layered over civilian heat maps. It was clean. Elegant.
Too elegant.
“Wait,” He muttered, leaning closer.
There were redundancies in the formula. Little backups, hidden verification lines built into the metadata. He’d seen them before. He remembered once asking about them, years ago, why you'd included them when no one else did.
You had shrugged. “Because systems fail. People forget. I don’t.”
Bruce’s fingers paused over the keyboard. He sat back slowly, eyes still fixed on the screen. The quiet hum of the tower seemed suddenly louder, more isolating.
He didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Didn’t want to assume something that wasn’t possible. Except… it was. And no matter how much he told himself it couldn’t be you, that this was probably just someone who used your old files, or mimicked your workflow, he felt the truth in his gut.
This wasn’t mimicry. This was your work. Your habits. Your voice, written in lines of code like a ghost.
He didn’t say anything to the others at first. Not yet. Because if he was right… It meant you weren’t just gone. You were working for them now. And there was a high chance, you weren’t coming back.
-
Bruce spent most of the night reviewing the files again, hoping he’d find something, anything that would disprove his gut.
He didn’t.
So when the team gathered for the morning briefing, he stood silently near the edge of the table, clutching his tablet like a lifeline. Steve was mid-sentence about a possible weapons facility when Bruce finally spoke.
“I think she’s working with them.”
The room shifted. It was subtle, but sharp. Natasha looked up. Clint stopped halfway through unwrapping a protein bar. Sam’s brows dipped in confusion. Steve frowned.
“What?” Steve asked.
Bruce tapped his tablet and cast the projection into the center of the room and said your name. The file structure lit up in pale blue: neat, layered, and efficient.
“She designed this,” Bruce said. “The data formatting, the way it parses real-time risk indicators, and the multi-tier flagging structure. This isn’t like hers. This is hers.”
Bucky, who’d been leaning against the wall near the back, arms folded, finally looked over.
“You’re saying she’s helping them now?” He asked, voice low. More like a statement than a question.
“I’m saying I don’t know,” Bruce admitted. “But this level of detail? It’s not someone copying her style. It’s her work. I’d bet everything on it.”
Sam squinted at the file, then crossed his arms. “So, what? She was a mole this whole time? Just embedded with us, waiting?”
“No.” Bruce’s tone sharpened. “No way. She didn’t have access to anything sensitive until the last year, and even then she didn’t take advantage of it. This is recent.”
“So she was taken?” Natasha asked. “Maybe they’re forcing her to work for them.”
“Could be,” Steve said quietly. “We’ve seen that happen before.”
Bruce hesitated, his thumb brushing over the edge of his tablet. “If that’s true, then why does this read like she cares? There’s attention to detail in this. Clean backups. This isn't bare minimum compliance. It’s-“
“Deliberate,” Bucky finished.
Everyone turned to him. He didn’t look at anyone. Just kept his arms folded, eyes fixed on the holoscreen, jaw tight.
“She used to keep my files color-coded,” He said after a pause. “Even though I never asked her to. Wouldn’t even have thought to.”
“She did that for you?” Clint muttered. “She never even looked me in the eye.”
“She barely talked,” Sam added.
“Because none of us ever really gave her a reason to,” Natasha said, voice quiet.
Steve’s mouth tightened. “She was reliable. Smart. I just thought she preferred to be behind the scenes.”
Bruce looked down. “Well, if they’re treating her better… if she’s found a place where she feels like she belongs…”
“…Then maybe she didn’t need to be forced,” Natasha finished.
There was a long silence that sank into the walls like fog.
Sam glanced at Steve. “So what do we do?”
No one answered. Because deep down, they were all wondering the same thing: If you chose to leave, if you found people who valued you in ways they never did…
Do they even have the right to go after you? And worse, would you even want to come back?
The holoscreen was still glowing when she walked in, heels soft against the floor, a cup of something warm in her hand.
She smiled easily, the kind of smile that made people look up even when they didn’t mean to. Bucky did. His posture eased just slightly, eyes flicking toward her like muscle memory. The one he loved brushed his arm with the back of her hand as she passed him and made her way to the table.
“Hey,” She said with a curious tilt of her head. “What’s all this?”
Steve didn’t answer immediately. Neither did Bruce. The tension still hung from earlier like humidity in the air.
“We think one of our old administrators might be working with the group we’re tracking,” Steve finally said, tone careful.
She blinked. “Oh?” Her eyes flicked to the display, then back. “Who?”
Bruce hesitated. “She left a few months ago. Used to run most of our comm scrubs and data threads.”
A small pause before her mouth curved. “Ohhh. You mean the quiet one? I think I remember her.”
She said it gently, like trying to recall the name of someone she might’ve sat next to in a lecture hall years ago.
“She didn’t talk much, did she?” She continued, sipping her drink. “I always thought she seemed sweet, but kind of… you know. Overwhelmed?”
Bucky didn’t respond. Natasha’s expression sharpened subtly, but the woman either didn’t notice or didn’t mind.
“She left,” Bruce said, steady but not unkind, “Because we made her feel invisible.”
Her brow rose slightly, as if surprised by the weight of the statement. “Oh. I didn’t realize she felt that way.”
“She might’ve been taken,” Steve said. “Or maybe she joined them willingly. We’re still piecing it together.”
The woman tilted her head. “And you think she’s helping those guys now?”
“We have signs of her system work embedded in their infrastructure,” Bruce confirmed. “The designs match her exactly.”
A thoughtful hum. She leaned lightly against the table. “That’s kind of impressive, actually. I mean… good for her?”
There was a pause.
She blinked. “I just mean, it sounds like she found a place where she fits, you know? I always thought she looked like she didn’t want to be here most of the time.”
“She probably wanted to be useful,” Natasha added.
“Sure, but maybe she is now,” The woman replied, light and certain. “I mean, I don’t want to sound harsh or anything, but if she didn’t have much clearance, how dangerous can it really be?”
Bruce stiffened. “She knew more than anyone realized. She was just never loud about it.”
“Right.” A gentle nod, like she understood. “Still… maybe it’s not worth making this a whole mission. I mean, do we really want to drag her back into this if she’s finally found her place?”
No one answered, not right away.
“She might be compromised,” Steve said firmly. “Or being manipulated.”
“Of course. But if she’s doing it by choice?” She gave a soft, almost sympathetic smile. “It just doesn’t seem worth disrupting everything over someone who didn’t even seem to like being here.”
“Maybe she didn’t like how she was treated,” Bucky muttered.
She blinked again, this time with a little laugh. “Oh… well, we were all busy. I’m sure nobody meant anything by it.”
Sam and Natasha exchanged a look.
She gave Bucky’s arm a soft squeeze. “I just think you all have bigger things to worry about than chasing down someone who’s probably better off without us. But… I know you’ll do what you think is right.”
She offered them all one last sweet smile and drifted out the way she came, calm and weightless as a breeze. Only when she was gone did anyone breathe again.
Bucky’s gaze turned back to holoscreen.
He didn’t know what unsettled him more: her gentle way of brushing it all aside, or the fact that he’d once agreed with her without even thinking twice.
He wasn’t sure what was right anymore.
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Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal
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technofeudalism · 6 months ago
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Residents of Jersey have been recommended bloodletting to reduce high concentrations of “forever chemicals” in their blood after tests showed some islanders have levels that can lead to health problems. Private drinking water supplies in Jersey were polluted by the use of firefighting foams containing PFAS (per- and polyfluoroalkyl substances) at the island’s airport, which were manufactured by the US multinational 3M. PFAS, a family of more than 10,000 chemicals, can build up in the body and are linked to conditions such as kidney and bladder cancer, thyroid disease and immune deficiency.
you read that correctly. bloodletting. like leeches.
before you freak out, if you are an American, this is the island of Jersey in the United Kingdom. i wanted to get that out of the way first so i can address this fucking travesty.
since the 1950s, 3M and Dupont have concealed information about the harmful effects of PFAS. the movie Dark Waters with Mark Ruffalo is specifically about Dupont and it's rampant pollution. 3M has been dumping PFAS in rivers and waterways not just in the United States, but across the globe for decades despite knowing with full detail the risks involved to the public. they even managed to intimidate a 3M scientist into staying quiet and pulled her off research into the toxicity of their products when she made the discovery.
at the same time, Jersey authorities were aware of this problem as early as the 1990s but didn’t switch the water source for the affected areas until 2006. they continued using contaminated storage tanks for foam until 2022 despite knowing the risks. this is blatant criminal negligence all around.
this part of the article in particular is so disgusting:
Despite the growing evidence of health effects, compensation remains unlikely. Jersey’s government signed a confidential deal with 3M in 2005, agreeing not to pursue legal claims for £2.6m towards cleanup. Jersey must also assist 3M in defending any future claims. A source who asked not to be identified said Jersey needed 3M’s permission to proceed with blood tests to avoid corporate backlash. “The state got an agreement to do individual blood tests, but not screening, as that could be the first step towards a possible class action lawsuit.”
3M’s gross profits in 2023 totaled over $14 billion and they can’t spend $3 million to clean up a mess that is quite literally responsible for killing people because by doing so, it opens them up to litigation involving every other mess around the globe where they’ve directly poisoned people with PFAS (or continue to poison).
but by far the most prescient part of this is the fact that Jersey's government had to obtain permission from 3M, a US corporation and the suspected perpetrator of a crime that has left at least one of their citizens terminally ill, if they could even do blood tests to check if they were responsible. the oligarchy truly knows nothing of borders.
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speakergame · 1 year ago
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Progress Update - 3/4/24
Hello and happy March!
It’s been a while, hasn’t it? 😅 Well, I finally have some good news for you this time: I have some actual news!
I'm happy to be able to announce at last that an update is on its way! I’ve still got some assets to make and code cleanup and testing to finish, but I should finally have something to show you soon.
I’ll put a cut at the end of this and go into more detail about the what and why of what I’ve been working on during this long and unintended hiatus, but the tl;dr is that I hope to have an update out by the end of the month, and that said update will break any saves made in Chapter 4. Unfortunate, but unavoidable, since Chapter 4 had to be recoded from the beginning 😞
I just want to thank all of you once again for sticking with me through my extended silence! Especially to my patrons who’ve put up with me putting everything on pause month after month while I dealt with my real life shit, and to everyone who’s sent me kind and supportive messages to let me know Speaker hasn’t been forgotten. It really means a lot to me.
Okay, enough of that sappy shit! I’m gonna get back to work finishing this up 😁 I’ll put out another update later this month once I have a more definite release date.
Thank you all for reading! I hope you’re having a fantastic 2024 so far, and that the rest of the week treats you kindly. See y’all soon! 💙💙💙
(For those who want a more detailed breakdown on what’s been happening and what to expect, hit the readmore)
I won’t go into the personal life stuff I’ve been dealing with this past year that has slowed down my work, but as far as the actual game goes: 
To put it simply, I just wasn’t happy with it. Some of it could be because of how many times I had to reread the same section while I was coding the scenes that would’ve taken place after the last update, but no matter how much I edited or rearranged it, I didn’t like how that scene turned out. There was something… formulaic that had been happening with the way I always laid out scenes, and a bit of stagnation in the story, character, and relationship development that bothered me.
So I rewrote it. And when I still didn’t like it, I rewrote it again. And I still didn’t like it. I thought about scrapping the whole thing on more than one occasion as I struggled to get out of the corner I’d written myself into.
Inspiration finally struck at the beginning of this year, thanks in part to another interactive novel I follow, and I really like the direction I’ve taken it now. 
Instead of the RO split scenes happening where the last one left off, Speaker, Seer, and Gavin are gonna have a chat about Things™ to move the next story arc forward. Then Speaker will get some downtime, by themself at first and then in an extended scene split with the RO of their choosing. 
All the Big Plot Things that were going to happen in Chapter 4 will be moved to Chapter 5 instead, and 4 will be a bit more of a filler episode. A deep breath before the plunge, as it were.
This split won’t just be a quick conversation/reaction from the RO, but a full on different direction for the rest of the chapter based on who you choose. Most of them will involve leaving the house; all of them will involve actual one-on-one time (or one-on-two time, as the case may be) away from the others. And though romance isn’t required, all of them will have the potential to really move the romance forward if you so choose. One or two might even have a lock-in choice (maybe. I’m not 100 percent on that, so don’t hold me to it) 
These scenes won’t be in the next update, because they’re all very complex, but the update will definitely have the Seer chat and at least some of the by-yourself stuff. The update after will have the rest of the alone time stuff (including the clothes/body CC you’ve all been waiting for), and then the one after will start the RO scenes. I think.
I may actually split the RO scenes into separate updates, and let my darlings over at Patreon vote for the order they’re released. That way I can focus on one at a time instead of trying to split my attention six ways at once.
Okay, that’s enough rambling for me today. Time to get back to work! Still got a lot to get done before this is ready, but it’s so close now.
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strangererotica · 3 months ago
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LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION ✞​ ⛪︎
EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI
Monsignor John Pruitt / Father Paul Hill x Reader | Blasphemy! Heresy! Anal! | Reader has a kink for pain & blood (kinda) | oral sex (f receiving) | pussy worship | a sprinkle of dacryphilia | religious guilt ofc | a smidge of angst |
“Inviting you to the rectory had been a sin, yes…but inviting you into his bed had been a bigger one. Laying you back against the mattress, the bottom of your skirt naturally drifting aside, revealed the outline of your pussy through soaking wet panties and John, all man, no longer priest, had never been so hungry…”
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“Father,” the priest prays, hands clasped at his chin. “If it be Thy will…take this cup from me.”
His voice is a whisper in the dim light of the sanctuary, candles flickering around him like accusatory tongues. The weight of his sin is heavy, the scent of your body still on his breath. He struggles to wrench the image of you from his mind, to focus entirely on the things of God. But what sight could be more holy than that of your body spread before him, your soft cunt weeping gently against his tongue?
He casts his voice to Heaven like the prayer of a wounded soldier on the battlefield of sin, yearning for mercy, expecting none. “Forgive me, Father,” Monsignor John Pruitt prays. “For I fear I am losing control…Make my will like Yours, oh God…Lead me not into temptation, but guide my steps that they may lead to You…”
His stomach twists with guilt, his prayers stunted by an uncharacteristic lapse of faith. For what kind of loving God would demand abstinence of his servant, while simultaneously thrusting a woman like you, temptation incarnate, into his life?
“I fear-.” The priest pauses, searching his heart for the words God already knows. “-I fear I am lost, Lord. Lost not to the pleasures of my flesh….but of hers…”
Rain pelts the outside of the old church. A storm is blowing over Crockett Island, raging no less than the storm inside Monsignor Pruitt’s heart. He sits quietly in the Lord’s presence, patiently waiting for wisdom, for a sign. But the only divinity he can focus on is the one he tasted between your thighs…
Worst of all, Monsignor Pruitt worries that for another taste of your body, he’d be tempted to abandon his priesthood and the God whom he speaks for altogether. It’s fantasy, however. A world where St. Patrick’s pastor can fuck you free of public scorn is impossible, and he knows it. He’s been the voice of God for the island’s faithful so many years now, they’ve become family to him. He can’t abandon them now for the sake of his own carnal needs…but God, how he longs to…
It began innocently enough, as every sin does. You’d come to him seeking help, and rather than guide you through the healing of your own sexual sin, your priest had made himself a part of it. You were too soft for him to deny, too pure even as you recited to him the details of your impurity. The sorrow in your voice had spoken to his core, to his heart as a priest. He’d originally sought only to help you, but over the course of your meetings together, he’d only helped himself to fantasies of your body.
Bringing you back to the rectory was Monsignor Pruitt’s first mistake. Meeting you in the church had been perfectly suitable, perfectly safe. No one had bothered the two of you, not even the ever-present Bev Keane. When the impulse to invite you back to the rectory at the end of your last meeting had struck the priest, he should have repented right then. He should have quelled his urges with prayer, rather than guide you through the back of the church and down the path to the rectory.
All of that was past, now. There was only the cleanup of his sin left to manage, both figurative and literal. He was still wearing your cum on his face, his nose and chin bearing evidence of his sin. Monsignor Pruitt had steadfastly denied himself the pleasures of sex for so long-too long, considering how easily he’d indulged in the sin of you…
…And yet, nothing about your encounter with the priest had felt wrong, not truly. You’d come to Monsignor Pruitt for guidance on how to resist sexual temptation, and he had absolutely failed you in that respect. But the sex itself, the union of your souls in such an intimate act, had felt far from wrong. The priest had tried to convince himself (and perhaps God as well) that because he didn’t penetrate you, the weight of his sin might be less. He wanted to believe he could still minister to the people of Crockett Island while maintaining a double life, one where his duties as priest and his needs as a man could simultaneously be fulfilled.
He hadn’t meant to kiss you…not your pretty, cherry-stained lips, and certainly not the other places his mouth had wandered. As the storm rages on outside the church, Monsignor Pruitt sits silently in the confessional booth, willing impure thoughts of you from his mind. But before he was a priest, he was a man. And the man inside him finds it difficult to keep his hand from wrapping around the bulge throbbing below his belt, as memories of your time together flood his thoughts…
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The first meeting between you and Monsignor Pruitt had been innocent, as far as you could tell. There’s no way you could have known that while describing the sexual cravings that plagued you, your priest was becoming aroused. With his legs crossed and a Bible positioned on his lap just so, he was able to conceal the physical effect your words were having on him. The Bible never left his lap, and when he rose from his chair to see you out, he’d kept it held in front of his groin, making it seem so natural you hadn’t questioned it. By your third meeting, you’d confessed that some of your fantasies that caused you the most guilt involved one man in particular who lived on the island.
“I feel especially dirty for these fantasies,” you’d confessed. “Because of the man they involve.” Jealousy had taken up residence in the priest’s heart, knowing there was one man on the island in particular that you lusted for. And there was no way it could be him, certainly not. He was your priest, your mentor, a literal Father figure. Whoever this man was, the one you longed for, Monsignor Pruitt despised him.
“Who-,” he’d asked, then stopped himself. “I’m sorry. That was intrusive of me. I don’t mean to pry.” Monsignor Pruitt had cleared his throat as if clearing away words he was afraid to speak. “There’s a man on the island you want, very much. That’s all I need to know. Please. Continue.”
“I can’t tell you who he is,” you’d said. “Because I…well, I wouldn’t want to embarrass him, Father.”
Monsignor Pruitt smiled warmly, a gesture to hopefully ease your nerves and distract you from how flustered he was becoming. “This is our third meeting,” he’d said. “Please, call me John.”
It was wrong. Wrong for him to make that allowance, wrong to blur the line between priest and parishioner, between shepherd and lamb. But you accepted, a sweet smile on your face that the priest had taken to mean his ruse of ‘normalcy,’ was working.
“Alright John.” Calling Monsignor Pruitt by his name had felt exciting, forbidden in a way. It filled you with a sense of hope, whether false or otherwise, that something more could develop between you and your priest. But that was a conversation you weren’t ready for, though you hoped to reach the topic of your crush on Monsignor Pruitt eventually.
“So, this man on the island,” John had said. “Is he someone you know? Or is this more of a ‘watch and yearn,’ kind of situation?”
Your cheeks flushed, a nervous warmth building inside you. “It’s…there’s definitely yearning,” you’d told him. “He’s someone I can never have, Father.”
“I see,” your priest had nodded, taking a sip of his coffee before continuing. “So, this man is married, I take it?”
“In a way,” you’d replied. “He’s very dedicated to the people who depend on him.” You’d smiled faintly to yourself, wishing there could be true transparency between you and your priest. “It’s one of the reasons I admire him so much, Father. He is a good man, a genuinely good man. So, having these disgusting, dirty thoughts about him causes me a lot of guilt.”
John Pruitt didn’t know who the man was, but God he hated him. To be wanted, lusted after, longed for, by YOU, was a prize few men deserved. You were precious, a delicate flower begging to have its petals torn. And in spite of his calling, Monsignor Pruitt wanted to be the man who tore your petals to shreds…
“Remember,” he’d told you, wishing to remove the pain of your guilt. “Sinful thoughts remain only thoughts until we entertain them with action. Action is where sin lies, (Y/N).
“…And, by confessing my sin, I can be forgiven?” you’d asked. “That’s how this all works, right?”
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That’s how it’s supposed to work, the priest thinks, his hand working over his stiff, leaking cock. He aches, in his heart and spirit but nowhere more so than his groin. Tasting you on his breath, Monsignor Pruitt imagines all the other filthy things he wants to do to your body. Licking between your thighs would be enough for him forever; but if he had the chance, if his path in life allowed it, he imagines how it would feel to have that little cunt swallow more than just his tongue and fingers. He’d drag the head of his cock between your slippery folds so slowly, the pace would drive you both insane with waiting. He might even make you cry a little, just so he could lick away your tears after forcing himself inside you…
The old wooden seat of the confessional booth creaks softly under Monsignor Pruitt’s weight as he fucks himself harder, tightening his grip, imagining it’s you. He hasn’t even worn your throat, or your ass, or your pussy around his cock yet… YET. That’s a dangerous word, isn’t it? It’s a promise unfulfilled, a land where anything is possible. YET can get you into more trouble than it’s worth sometimes, but Monsignor Pruitt knows he’d risk any consequence, even a taste of Hell, for one more taste of YOU…
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Your fourth meeting together had picked up right where the third left off: discussing your shame over desiring the man you couldn’t have. John Pruitt had sat across from you in a simple folding chair, just like the one you’d occupied. In one hand he held his coffee, the other resting on the Bible balanced on his lap. You noticed a darker countenance about him, his eyes oddly cold. Also unusual was his voice, the way he seemed short with his responses and hardly asked any questions.
“Is something wrong, John?” you’d asked after awhile of observing him. “Are you alright?”
He blinked back at you a couple of times in silence, trying to arrange the mess of thoughts in his mind into a palatable response.
“I’m well,” he replied softly, his eyes crinkling in that familiar, warm grin that made your heart burst. “But I have some…concerns.” His jaw tensed slightly. “About transparency…honesty, (Y/N).” You felt your heart sink a little, fearing the worst: that you’d gone too far, revealed too much, said something that offended Monsignor Pruitt.
“…If I’ve said something, I apologize-.”
“-Well no,” he interrupted, his tone becoming sharper. “It’s what you haven’t said, (Y/N). Weeks now, we’ve been meeting here. And just when I think you might be reaching a point of growth, of-of honesty, you shrink back into the comfort of denial. You’re denying me, (Y/N)!”
Monsignor Pruitt’s words came to an abrupt pause, and you were grateful for it. He was leaning forward in his chair now, a few strands of hair hanging loose over his forehead. His energy was intense, almost frightening. His speech was impassioned in the way he sometimes sounded behind the pulpit, caught in religious fervor…dark eyes wide, lips parted in rapid breath that had you distracted for more reasons than fear.
“Father-,”
“John,” he corrected.
“…John,” you began tentatively, your voice breaking. “If you want to stop seeing me-if you want to stop our sessions, just tell me-.”
“-I want them to last forever,” Monsignor Pruitt confessed, the air leaving his lungs in a breath of defeat. It was a confession, as real as any other that occurred in God’s house. Now it was your turn to be silent, as once the priest found his words, he was unable to stop them: “I want you, (Y/N)…God forgive me but I…crave…you…” You watched him crumbling, this man of God baring his soul to yours. “All of the things you speak of in your fantasies, I want to make them real for you. Every orgasm you deny yourself in pursuit of righteousness, I want to give you a hundred more…And whoever this man is, that leads you to touch yourself, I hate him. I hate him because I want to be him. You want him, you crave him as I crave you-.” He chuckled humorlessly. “-And I don’t even know his name. I loathe him, and I couldn’t identify him if I saw him on the street.”
You felt fulfilled, as if something had been taken from you but replaced immediately with something better. Was this even real?
“…I suppose,” he continued after a moment of silence. “My concern is not so much with your lack of transparency, but with mine.”
Monsignor Pruitt sat back in his chair, the metal creaking under his weight. “I have sinned, (Y/N),” he said. “I’ve lied to you, lied by omission. By not revealing how your words-how you-affect me. Knowing full well that in doing so, I’m jeopardizing everything I’ve built my life around. I shouldn’t be confessing this to you at all but God help me, it’s the truth, and I want you...” The tears lining your lashes finally fell, a drop spilling down each cheek and landing where your hands were folded on your lap. “John,” you began. “The man I want…he’s you...”
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Wind and rain pummel the outer shell of St. Patrick’s. The priest’s eyes are closed tightly, his head leaned back against the confessional booth and he’s so. fucking. hard.
He squeezes his erection tightly in his fist, imagining instead that it’s your pussy, your throat-any and all of your holes he longs to defile, to feel you stretch open at his entry, to watch you gape when he pulls out just to stuff you full again. Precum blooms at his slit and he wants to spread it on your lips, to place it on your tongue like a sacrament. He wants to see your eyes go red and watery as he holds your nose to his stomach, his cock buried so far down your throat that air becomes a luxury.
He wants to drown between your thighs, to never stop licking the abundant, delicious nectar that spills from inside you and melts on his tongue…to suck your pretty little clit till you’re screaming, begging him to stop, feet pounding against his shoulders in protest and pleasure, your body contorted like something possessed. He wants to flip you onto your stomach and breach the tight barrier of your ass, to fuck you till you bleed just like you confessed wanting to bleed in your fantasies…to use you, as you’ve confessed wanting to be used…to make you come so hard you forget your name and his…
Heavy wind rattles the bones of St. Patrick’s around Monsignor Pruitt, God’s power raging in full display outside but inside, he is overcome with unholy need. His tongue dips out to taste you, tasting a memory and nothing more. He grinds himself up into his fist, as if you’re straddling his lap and taking every inch of him like the good, good girl you are. His forehead is sheened with sweat, the heat of the confessional booth no match for the heat of his sin. Lightening cracks outside, as if God Himself is issuing a warning. But the priest cannot stop his hand, or the lust that guides it up and down his shaft…
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Inviting you to the rectory had been a sin, yes…but inviting you into his bed had been a bigger one. Laying you back against the mattress, the bottom of your skirt naturally drifting aside, revealed the outline of your pussy through soaking wet panties and John, all man, no longer priest, had never been so hungry…“Oh my God,” he’d murmured dreamily, gazing at your pussy as if in a state of worship. “You’re absolutely perfect.” His warm breath ghosted over your lips and your hips keened instinctively towards his mouth. He watched your pussy tremble beneath him, your perfect little clit peeking out above two plump lips. With a delicate stroke of his fingers, John teased your labia apart. There was a devotion in his touch, a reverence in the way he awed at the sight of your lips parting around his fingers, as if he were parting the gates of Heaven instead. Keeping your labia spread, he sank his mouth over your mound, suckling your clit between his lips in deep, languid tugs. You wriggled against the bed, hips twisting under the priest’s ministrations. He’d denied himself the taste of a woman too long, and your taste…John Pruitt didn’t think he’d ever tasted a woman that could compare. You were like caramel and cream, the sweet musk of brandy lingering at the bottom of a glass. You were heaven in his mouth, warm and comforting…a taste of the divine, melting on John’s tongue like milk and honey…
His cock stood erect against his stomach, restrained by his clothing. Denying himself the relief of touching himself felt like an appropriate admonishment, considering the grave sin he was committing. Although deep in an act of blasphemy, the position of his body could be mistaken for a man in prayer. Knelt by the beside, your legs draped over his shoulders, John looked up from between your thighs framing his face. Your eyes were as hungry as his, an intensity burning behind them that stirred something primal and repressed in John. He wanted to claim you, to make you his…to feel you come so hard around him that no other man could ever replicate what he’d given you. He could have plunged his cock inside you right then. The look in your eyes, staring him down like willing prey, told him you wouldn’t object. But there were some things John couldn’t do…that he mustn’t do…and putting his sin inside you, making it yours, was a path he wouldn’t allow himself to cross.
The priest’s tongue and fingers explored what he forbade his cock explore, licking and stroking you to your peak time and time again. You gripped handfuls of his hair, his sheets, the fabric of this sweater, anything you could get your hands on to brace yourself as your body ascended on John’s tongue. He lapped and sucked at the glory within you, worshiping your cunt like the idol it was to him. Slippery fluid gushed out around John’s face and ran down your thighs, soaking the disheveled sheets under your ass. He knew he was sinning but sin had never felt this good before, this fulfilling. In consuming you, he fed himself…and he had no intention of ever going hungry again.
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He watches in a trance as semen jets from his tip and lands on the inside of the confessional booth, spattering the panel facing him. The storm outside roils as the storm inside John Pruitt calms. He feels a sense of ease, a peace that surpasses all understanding, settle over his shoulders. The weight of his sin feels oddly absent, nothing like he’d anticipated. Hope springs anew in him, as if perhaps this absence of remorse is the sign he was waiting for? If God doesn’t judge him, Monsignor Pruitt wonders, then who can?
He removes a handkerchief from his pocket and cleans his semen from the confessional booth. Upon exiting, Monsignor Pruitt enters into the soft light of the church. And in spite of the storm’s chaos outside, there is peace here, serenity…stillness…
…Until suddenly, you’re there, standing in the church’s doorway, your head framed like a halo in a burst of lightning from the storm. John Pruitt takes in the sight of you, your hair and sundress saturated with rain and clinging to your body, your pupils blown, cheeks and chest flushed with arousal…You’re breathless in the exertion of walking through the storm, pert nipples straining against the thin fabric concealing them. Your priest gazes at you from across the sanctuary, candlelight flickering against his dark hair, in the pools of his dark eyes, like starlight. You both rush to each other at the same time, his steps longer and quicker than yours, catching up to you first and caging you up in a fervent embrace. His lips crash over yours, lips and tongue and teeth all challenging yours for dominance. Your hands climb his back and cling to the sleeves of his shirt, your own wet clothing seeping rainwater into his, like a baptism you share together.
John presses his knee between your thighs, letting you grind against him. Desperate moans spill from your lips into his, soft sobs of need as you release all guilt and shame inside his kiss. Your priest is holding you so tightly, you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. He only breaks away long enough to tug you toward the altar, and lay you flat against it. The curves of your ass are visible in the wet transparency of your dress and he takes full advantage of their bounty, gripping the rounded mounds of your hips and tugging you against his erection. You grunt at the impact, of feeling the size of him pressed to your body for the first time, your back arching, ass extended into your priest for more. He gathers up the loose fabric of your dress around your waist, revealing the perfect mounds of your ass to him. Your panties are absent, he observes, still on the floor of the rectory where he helped you out of them. Rain from the storm beats at the window beside you, thunder rolling in the distance as John rolls his hips against your ass.
His cock is poised between your cheeks, pointed upward at your back as he slowly humps into you. His hands are wrapped around you from behind, your breasts clutched firmly in his strong yet delicate grip. His eyes are closed, forehead resting against your shoulder as he strokes, himself and you, edging his desire and yours till you both feel as if you’ll combust. He pulls back just enough to grab his cock at the base and guide it between your legs, massaging your lips with his tip. You whimper and tremble beneath him, his stomach pressed to your back, and all John Pruitt can think about right now is how badly he wants to sodomize you on this altar, in God’s house.
He drags himself between your lips, allowing your slick to cover him before guiding his tip up between your asscheeks, restraining himself at the tight barrier of your hole. He wants to ask if you’re alright with this, if you’re ready for this-but he doesn’t have to. You arch your back and your asshole puckers around his tip, inviting the priest in. He curses over your back because Christ how was he blessed enough to deserve this, to deserve you? This dirty fucking goddess beneath him, as filthy as she is pure, heart and body willing to let him have his way with her as he desires?
You lay your cheek against the pulpit, hair spilling over it like an altar cloth, or an angel, John thinks. He braces your hips, easing his own forward. Your body stiffens at the sting of being stretched as he enters you. His stomach is pressed to your back, the warm weight of his body cradling yours like a cocoon. The priest senses your struggle, can feel it in the way you’ve gone rigid against him. “Shh, shh,” he consoles you, his voice a low, seductive growl. “You’re doing so well for me, angel. Doing so well for me…”
Part of your confession to the Monsignor had involved your desire for pain, to be hurt during sex. He’d remembered and used this information later, stroking his cock to some of the most depraved thoughts he’d ever had about a woman, starring you. Now, he had the opportunity to hurt you, to make you cry just like he’d wanted. His hand glides down your back and across your cheek, his eyes gazing over your hair as it drapes the altar. You’re so divine, an angel against his body and he can’t find the will in himself to hurt you. Easing back his hips till he’s no longer inside you, John spats a wad of saliva onto your hole. He watches your rim gape at his exit, then pucker as his spit lands against it. He positions his tip against your asshole, rubbing in a small circle to help ease you open. The stiff, spongy head of his cock massaging your hole sends a jolt straight to your clit. “Keep doing that, Father,” you breathe, and something about hearing you refer to him that way when he’s inside you bent over the altar, awakens something feral inside of him.
He’s using every bit of restraint he has to keep from impaling you right now (although he knows a dirty little thing like you probably wouldn’t protest if he did). But John does restrain himself, massaging his tip just inside your asshole, gradually sinking deeper. Soft sucking noises emit from the space he rubs you, joined with your breathy grunts and the rain pelting down outside. With his free hand, John grips your hip in a vice, small crescents dug into the skin by his fingernails. When you push back on his cock, he takes this as his cue to go deeper. Still using as much restraint as he can manage, John sinks his cock carefully, slowly, stopping when he feels you flinch and buck.
“Good girl-good girl,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “That’s my good girl. Taking me so deep, aren’t you?” He drags his hips back slowly and you feel every inch, every vein and ridge of his cock as he eases back in, and out, and in again, building pace till his hips are crashing against yours, pummeling your ass across the altar. The burn is exquisite; you feel him in your stomach. Drool dangles from your wide-open mouth and puddles on the altar, your cheek rutted against it with every thrust of John’s hips. The wet sound of his skin smacking yours echoes off the sanctuary walls, his rapid pace matching the candle flames flickering around you. His head falls forward and rests against your shoulder, halted exhales washing your skin in heat, in the moisture of his breath. The front of John’s clothes are soaked with rain from being ground up against you, his body joined so completely with yours they’re inseparable. He feels a deep, familiar ache in his core, but it’s never been this strong, never as powerful as he feels it now. He knows he’s going to come soon, and it’s likely going to be the hardest he’s ever come in his life. He reaches around in front of you and presses his fingertips to your clit, rubbing you aggressively. Cum splashes to the ground around John’s hand as he brings you to orgasm, your juices spraying his feet and the altar equally.
Your cries of ecstasy are the holiest psalm he’s ever heard, the purest prayer he’s ever born witness to. With a shout he comes, a desperate cry of relief and absolution as he empties his guilt into the warm cove of your body. You shudder against him, and it may as well be the flutter of an angel’s wings on his skin. He cradles you across the altar, his stomach to your back, holding the answer to his prayers in his arms. When his cock has softened inside you, John draws back slowly and carefully slides out of you. He glances around for something to clean you both up with and his eyes land on the purificator beside the communion chalice. Disregarding the sacrilege of it all, he takes the cloth and kneels behind you, gently wiping between your legs and between the cheeks of your ass. He cleans himself lastly, removing the combination of fluids your sex created.
He notices a streak of red on the cloth, and brings your attention to it. A contended smile spreads over your face as you realize, and the words leave your lips in a breathy sigh: “You made me bleed.” He leans forward and gently takes your chin in his hand, drawing you closer. His dark eyes are filled with the words he doesn’t need to say, of promises for more moments like this to come. His voice is barely above a whisper as he presses his lips to yours, and says: “Forgive me.”
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giglio-nero-e-bianco · 6 months ago
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COTL Deathmaid AU
The Lamb's cult has grown to be it's own kingdom, the cult is known by everyone on land and the knowledge that the former Bishops are not only part of it but they're also the most loyal members has angered quite a few heretics.
There's many families that dedicated their whole existence and generations to serving the Bishops, so they have a deep hatred towards the Lamb, they think that they did something to their Bishops to make them so loyal and if they destroy the cult then everything will go back to the way it was before.
So there's many heretic attacks to the cult whenever the Lamb is out on crusades, what they don't count in is the fact that there's someone in charge on the cult when the leader's out: The high priest and the Lamb's husband... Dressed as a maid.
This throws heretics for a loop, they think less of him and attack confidently.
But you see, Narinder is the cult's maid, he's in charge of cleanup, housekeeping, he has to clean the grounds from the disasters the cultists make, from caught spies and from heretics that attack his home, I mean, who else but the maid is going to scrub the blood on the floor left by the heretics before the Lamb comes back?
Here's a few details of the AU:
While it was the Lamb's idea for Nari to wear the maid dress, Narinder is the one who modified it and made it shorter, he says it's to make it more practical, but deep down he knows he just felt bonita in the dress.
The Lamb also gifts a lot of gold to Narinder, but he only uses it on special occasions, wearing only his earrings on a daily basis.
Narinder fell in love when he was still a god, and while angry at the Lamb's betrayal, he still said yes to the marriage proposal given to him the second he appeared in the cult.
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The night their daughter Luci's egg was conceived, it was Nari who laid the egg... Even tho he wasn't the bottom that night. But you'll catch the Lamb dead before them going through labor, lol (something something god power so we'll do it like seahorses)
Also, they want to try for another baby in the future, maybe the next time they'll get a little kitten or a baby lamb, but don't get them wrong, they love their daughter with all their soul.
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The crown is just a tsundere tbh
They're the one who wanted Narinder and Lamb together in the first place, they actually finds them adorable and loves their little shitten (no one touch her, that's their niece, back off), but they find it funnier to make them angry.
The crown loves to mess with both, third wheels when they start to get all romantic in front of them and often interrupts them to ruin the moment, but when they feel like it, they'll just stand back and see the lovely couple in front of them, maybe they deserve it from time to time.
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The Goat basically lives with them, they destroyed their own universe seeking for revenge, only to find out after killing everything that that wasn't gonna bring their kin back, so they went to find what they were missing, traveling to another universe to find this answer.
Only to find their alter version making out with their own version of TOWW.
They lived in the cult for a while, living the results of what their life would've been like if they had taken other choices... And before they knew, they found comfort, familiarity, calmness, they even found love in this version of Shamura, can you believe that? Shamura! That spider was the Goat's TOWW, but here? They were a far kinder version of his own Shamura, just as stunning, a bit easier for their mind to get lost in memories, but they found out that they didn't mind holding their hand while helping them remember.
Shamura is just a silly little guy / gn.
They love to tease their siblings, they always win on board games, they love to read to the kids on the nursery, they show their love to the Goat by trapping them in spider web.
But if you see them acting weird, don't follow them, they may be trapped in a memory of their Bishop days, just let their siblings handle it.
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All it took for Leshy to fall in love was a flower, Theon was new to the cult, so Leshy being down bad offered to be the one show him around the place. He was the one who offered Theon to be part of the gardeners and taught him everything he knows about plants. Leshy fell first, Theon fell harder. You'll have a better chance to find Leshy not making a mess than to find the cat not following him around everywhere.
Also, Leshy's flower is indicative of his mood and health.
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They have their own abomination baby
Put that Transmasc Leshy drug in my veins
Heket's been dating Forneus since she was still a Bishop, but hid this from her siblings because she knew they were going to try and embarrass her in front of her wife at any given chance. However they had to take a break when Shamura took Aym and Baal away, Forneus didn't blame Heket for it, but it was hard to look at her.
After the Lamb resurrected the kittens, they dragged her to Forneus to make up and make out, and so they gave it another chance. Heket is a good step-mom to Aym and Baal, she's the parent that stepped up frfr.
Heket rules the kitchen, that's her domain, not even the Lamb has a say there, don't test her or you'll be tomorrow's dinner.
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Kallamar, dear Kallamar, a total diva, he loves his jewelry and putting some make-up on when the day looks like it'll be a chill one. Has 6 spouses and he makes sure to give love to every single one of them, he doesn't even have a favorite! I mean, just because Witness Astaroth gets more time and gifts than the rest of spouses doesn't mean they're the favorite, of course not!
Refuses to date cats because he's special, unique and out of the mold that his younger siblings are.
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Also, Ratau and Red Fox are ex-boyfriends because I can't live without some toxic yaoi, even less if it's old men yaoi.
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deepdreamnights · 8 months ago
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Vidu and the Quest to Make More Toons
So, a ways back I talked about Minmax, but I've been trying out basically all the video generators looking for the tools I need, and low and behold this week I find out I've been accepted into the Vidu Artists program now, wherein I get credits and access to access their cooler features in in exchange for... talking about the tech and how I use it.
Well twist my arm. I shall endeavor to be objective and informative despite free stuff (a challenge my spirit needs practice withstanding if anyone else wishes to test me)
So let's talk Vidu.
(outside of being converted to gif, no animations in this post have been cut or edited)
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Also, everyone say hi to Maureen the Lizard Queen, every hero needs an evil queen that really wants in his pteruges, and she's that for TyrannoMax.
Vidu's got a bit more oomph under the hood than MinMax (no shade to MinMax, they're brand new and very promising) and it's way too early to be picking winners when it comes to video.
Anyhow, basic features that are nice include the options to upload start and end frames, options for a 4 or 8 second duration (more about that later), and a cleanup/upscale. Credits line up more or less with seconds. 4 credits for a 4 second clip, 8 for an 8 second, and again at upscale. It's straightforward in a way a lot of services aren't.
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Apetomic Pyle, done on the fast settings. (not to shabby still, and it gave him monkey legs which a lot of systems balk at)
If you're on the $30/mo tier, you can choose to do a double-cost "quality" over "speed" option. Thankfully, the artist program gets me access. Since there's not yet a seed option it's hard to do a direct comparison, but the quality is going to be a must if you're doing anything that looks like cel. Much cleaner, much smoother.
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(4 and 8 second quality gens)
One of the nicest features is the character reference feature. Basically it's like Midjourney's --cref, but with a very strict adherence to character details.
The above images used reference shots of Maureen and Dr. Underfang, and it got the stripes on Underfang's tie right in basically every gen. That's a ridiculous level of character model adherence and, for my purposes, all but essential.
It did misinterpret Maureen's undertail coloration for a sort of fin or drape, but the shot I used was oddly cropped, and sometimes stuff like that happens with gen AI. Given my measuring stick for errors is the era of animation I'm emulating, whatever does slip through is only going to make it more authentic.
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There is a limitation in that character-reference and text-only prompts default to 16:9 presently with no options to adjust, but some room to pan is always handy and most people are going to be outputting for phone and not outdated CRT televisions, so, it's understandable it'd be a lower priority feature for the devs.
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Walk cycles! By Saint Eniac it's a miracle!
On the left we have one prompted with TyrannoMax's control art, and on the right we have one using that art as the starting frame (4 and 8 seconds, respectively).
Way More details under the fold.
Vidu likes a hefty prompt.
A lot of detail and evocative language helps, and older prompting tricks like mojo-jojoing important concepts are back. For the Max walk cycles above I used:
1986 vintage cel-shaded cartoon character walk cycle. The orange dinosaur-anthro wearing blue gladiator armor walks toward screen right, the camera tracks him, holding him in center-frame. He completes a full, brisk walk cycles from the side view. He walks boldly, back straight, head high, heroic. His tail sways behind him as he moves. The whole clip has the look and feel of vintage 1986 action adventure cel-animated cartoons. The animation quality is high, with flawless motion and anatomy. animated by Tokyo Movie Shinsha, studio Ghibli, don bluth. BluRay remaster. flat chroma-key green screen background
The potential for use with my Filmation-inspired technique is readily apparent. Both versions are on-model as much as any two shots in a 1980s action-figure shilling cartoon would be, some minor blurring to clean up in post but nothing serious. It should be pretty easy to extract the needed frames for looping and compositing.
Some Extra Points
There are the usual issues with hands, though more often than not it corrects my four-fingered anthros to having a human five-fingered hand. Buzby Spurlock animation was known for those kinds of inconsistencies, though. So an opening credits video is much less far off than it was at the last post.
It's also generally impressive how well it does with my dinosaur characters. Non-humanoid dinosaurs are difficult for most image generators, much less anthrosaurs in a vintage aesthetic. Vidu has yet to override the character art to give Underfang or Max the Jurassic Park style t-rex jaw, which is something both MJ and Dall-E 3 have trouble with.
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Human characters like Kitty Concolor here, much more stable.
As always, clips are curated. I didn't choose my absolute best ones (gotta have something for the videos), and I'm working on a fun series of jank reels across all the generators.
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the-raven-lady · 11 months ago
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(Not) The Savior You Long For [Part 1]
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[Masterlist] [My Ko-Fi]
Pairing: Night Lord (OC: Elias Rushorik) x serf!Reader [fem]
Song Inspiration: Fear Inoculum - TOOL [YouTube] [Spotify] “Enumerate all that I'm to do / Calculating steps away from you / My own mitosis / Growing through delusion from mania / Exhale, expel / Recast my tale / Weave my allegorical elegy.”
Warnings: Violence, explicit and detailed blood and gore, disgusting and disturbing imagery, terror and dread, fear of death, all of the warnings you should expect hearing the words ‘Night Lord’ bestie this is the “I love murder” legion.
Word Count: 2.8k
Author’s Note: The long awaited Night Lord claiming + womb tattoo series. This part is primarily exposition and setting the scene. Also new dividers? Raven Lady's getting fancy.
[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]
Tag List: @egrets-not-regrets @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @bispecsual
@lemon-russ @moodymisty @dedios-of-the-word @pickpocketing-your-gender
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The slosh of brown water on the floor splashes away from your washcloth, and you overextend your shoulder trying to catch it before it runs too far. Hissing at the sudden spasm, you sit back on your heels, rolling it out to soothe the ache. You’ve been on your hands and knees for what feels like far too long now, and your joints are starting to protest. It seems the other serf helping you isn’t faring much better. A glance in her direction reveals her sitting like a child, knees bent and feet flat on the floor, using the full weight of her body to scrub between the seams of the floor panels. You shake your head and return to pushing around the rusty water, struggling to remove the grime from the floor. 
The act was pointless. Everyone knew that it wouldn’t be another week before the armory would be so rancid with dried bodily fluids that a cleanup crew would have to scrub it down again, but you knew better than to make a comment on it.
The racket of raucous laughter nearby shoots ice through your veins. You and the other serf instinctually freeze at the sound, and it doesn’t even cross your mind to check on her before abandoning your post, scrambling off of the wet floor in a flash to hide behind a large crate. The cold metal at your back would shield you from view, you know, but the hammering in your chest and shuddering of your breath would be beacons for a bored astartes. Silently, you will yourself to calm down at any cost, holding your breath for so long your lungs begin to burn from the effort.
Their heavy footfalls eventually fade into the distance, off to another area of the ship. Still, you remain in place for another few minutes until you’re as certain as you’ll ever be that they’re gone. You dare not risk yourself getting caught by a group of Night Lords, if experience has taught you anything.
You’ve become jaded to the rags of tanned hide displayed proudly on their armor and the grotesque corpse art that lines the walls of Nightfall. The smell doesn’t even get to you anymore, having been surrounded by abundant death and decay for so long. Everything reeks of it. Even if you did take the time to think on the dreadful feelings that stir when you see them, your body wouldn’t be able to afford losing any more meals with how sparingly you’ve been fed.
What has never left you are the screams. The gush of blood pouring from a weeping laceration. The crack of breaking bones. Desperate cries from the poor targets of the Night Lord’s insatiable appetite for ‘entertainment’, sobs and begs for their lives— No, no, no, please! I’ll do anything, please, just let me go–!— eventually turning into pleas to be put out of their misery, shown mercy, as their captors only laugh and croon. No mercy flowed through them; they were never quick with their kills. It was all a sadistic game to feed off of the tears and terror for as long as they could. The Night Lords wouldn’t stop their fun until their playthings had been bled dry– literally or figuratively.
You peek out from around the crate, surveying the dim armory. Empty. 
The serf you had been working with was missing as well, likely sequestered off somewhere for safety. The utter silence of the room causes your gut to tremble with anxiety. It was a dangerous game to be alone: lone serfs were prime prey, and you by no means wanted to make yourself an easy target. 
With no small amount of horror, you realize it’s outside of your power to do anything about it. Your lungs deflate, and you give yourself a false reassurance before returning to your station on the floor, taking up the soiled wash rag and wringing it out into the water bucket. Pieces of slimy rehydrated skin pass over your fingers. You return to your efforts with the intent to finish as quickly as possible. The desire to flee to your cot is all-encompassing, driving you to redouble your efforts and get the job done just passably enough that you won’t be killed for it. 
A thought stops you, though. Where had your companion gone? It’s not that you particularly cared for her safety (you didn’t know her and caring is a luxury you could not afford), but to be gone without a trace was peculiar. You don’t remember hearing her footsteps, but you had also been preoccupied with yourself at the time.
You look around the empty room for anything out of place. Nothing appears to have moved since you last checked. Her brush and bucket are still on the floor, right where she had left them. You had seen her put them down there, right?
…Hadn’t you?
You dismiss the thought. She was probably still hiding somewhere, and for that, you couldn’t fault her. There was no loyalty amongst serfs of the Eighth, just an understanding that it was safer together than apart. Wanting to determine how much longer you would be here, you observe the areas the other serf had already worked.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The surfaces of the floors, storage units, and walls were visibly much cleaner than the rest, but she had done a horrible job wiping things down as she went. The steady dripping of a poorly dried surface unpleasantly fills your ears, slowly becoming the only thing you can focus on. You frown. It was amazing how you could begin to miss the ever-present dull thrum of the ship’s electrical systems when it was covered by something even slightly more annoying. 
Drip. Drip. Drip.
You shake your head and get back to working around the floor grate at the center of the room. Its placement makes it convenient to push the disgusting wash water into. As expected, the seams around the drain are compacted with hair and dried flesh, and you have to soak the mass to begin to scrape it free. The spongy texture is a nightmare to work with, but it wouldn’t be such a chore if you had some help.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Annoyed, you decide you’ve had enough of it. Water sloshes in the bucket when you wrench your washcloth to go wipe down whatever it is she had left unfinished, rising up to your feet. With some luck, you’d figure out where she had run off to. It wouldn’t come as a surprise if she had abandoned you altogether, leaving you to finish the task and fend for yourself.
A cursory glance over the bench, lockers, and racks reveals nothing out of the ordinary. They were passably clean and– perplexingly– completely dry. You ran a hand along them to be certain and, surely enough, it came away much the same. Odd. You were certain that you would find something. Continuing your search leaves more questions than answers.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Checking around a wall of storage cabinets, you carefully inspect each of the gaps for signs of water or some other liquid that could be leaking. You find nothing. 
At the end of the lockers, a shadow dances in the dim candlelight. Fear grips you for just a moment as you focus in on it, but it is much too small to be an astartes. At the realization, the chill in your blood is replaced with a simmer of frustration, and you stomp down the hall towards the figure.
Your eyes lock with the other serf’s. “Are you just hiding to–?”
You stop. It appears she had been too preoccupied with hanging from a bracket on the wall to come to your aid. The side of her neck is torn open with loose strips of muscle and connective tissue fanning over her shoulder. A glistening metal finial of Nostraman design pokes ornately through her spine and sternum, partially coagulated blood pooling at the tip.
Drip. 
Drip. 
Drip.
“About time,” a voice spits.
You’re suddenly dragged by the back of your robes, hoisted up into the air by an unseen force. The scream that leaves you tears at your vocal cords, but it’s choked off by the fabric of your neckline biting into your throat. Thrashing your head from side to side, you catch sight of a colorless face cackling, bloodied lips curled into a grin. You desperately kick your legs in an attempt to free yourself.
“Feisty little pet, aren’t we?” he asks. The Night Lord turns you around easily as you struggle, splitting red as he talks. “Good. Your friend was far more boring.”
You rake at the fabric around your neck, trying to alleviate the pressure preventing oxygen from getting to your head. The action only makes him laugh harder. “Oh, how precious. Poor little serf can’t breathe?” He tilts his head as he taunts you, and a cruel glint crosses his eye.
“How about I help with that?”
A half turn and your back slams against the wall, knocking the wind out of your lungs. Your gasp of pain ignites a malicious glee within your captor, a row of bloodied yellow teeth peeking from behind his lips. At least like this, pinned to the wall, you have the ability to catch your breath, ragged and shallow. Each rough huff eases the ache in your diaphragm.
A hand roughly snaps your head forward, forcing you to focus on the face at your front. He suffocates you with his presence, leaning in far too close. “You know,” he starts, “I had been just about ready to walk in there and drag you out myself.” Despite the melodic quality of his voice, you only feel discomfort at the astartes’s words as he uningenuously laments. “I could only stare at my masterpiece for so long.” 
Briefly, your eyes linger on the silhouetted corpse of the other chapter serf. You hadn’t even heard her scream. Hadn’t heard the attack. Hadn’t heard the bones crack when she was unceremoniously mounted on the wall. You had managed to miss every detail.
…Or your captor had been skilled enough to mask them. You shiver.
He follows your gaze, scoffing when it lands on the body. “Your buddy is as pretty as she is stupid, trying to run all the way back to the hole you serfs call home.” The image of the other serf running down the hallway and getting caught as you did passes through your mind, and you grimace at the thought of whatever game she may have suffered through to end up where she is. The sing-song cadence of his voice draws your attention back to the Night Lord in front of you, “You humans fall so easily to your emotions. Not the brightest of you lot I’ve had, but certainly the best bait.”
Bait. The word is sour in the air.  
“So unwilling to have fun–” 
She had just been bait. 
“–but you’re eager to play, aren’t you?”
You were the game.
Your blood runs cold, eyes widening as you process everything you had missed or ignored up until now. Black blurs the edges of your vision. “Oh, don’t be like that,” the Night Lord shakes his head, but you know better than to believe it. This is exactly what he wanted. “We can be great friends—” 
Self-preservation takes a hold of you. Your adrenalized brain screams to overcome, persist. In an act of desperation, your hands shoot out before you, and you manage to jab your fingers into his dark eyes and claw. The astartes snarls, ducking away and dragging you with him off of the wall as he stumbles back. With a shake of his head, he regains his senses. He growls.
“You stupid bitch!”
The Night Lord tosses you like a ragdoll, uncaring of how your head impacts the nearby bench before hitting the floor. The world spins around you. “I’ll gut you like a pig for that, you impudent rat!” he roars, ceramite boots stomping closer. His eyes are wild, red around his enlarged pupils from where you’ve managed to burst blood vessels. Uncoordinated, you scramble backwards on the floor, staring up at the approaching astartes in terror. 
This is it. This is where you die: surrounded by filth, hyperventilating on the floor as a pissed off Night Lord tortures you within an inch of your life until you perish from the stress. All for one measly act of courage. Your back hits a wall as he rounds the bench, and you find yourself unable to watch any longer as fate unfolds before you. You curl up in a ball, turning away and protecting your head with your arms, then wait for the inevitable killing strike.
And wait.
…And wait.
But the blow never comes– no white-hot stab of pain, no sting of a kick to the ribs, no blunt ache of broken bones– just a sickeningly sodden crunch of flesh and bone. A wet spray paints your back. Your tattered robes easily soak up the warm liquid, causing you to flinch from the sudden moisture. Even through the rush of confusion and fear, it doesn’t take you long to realize what it is. The scent is unmistakable.
Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you struggle to catch up with your surroundings. By all means, you should be dead: the newest addition to a Night Lord’s skin cloak, or at the very least in excruciating pain. But you aren’t. 
Tentatively, trembling, you withdraw your head from the cage of your arms, turning just enough to peer behind you. You gasp at the grisly sight. 
Crimson rivulets of blood drip down over massive navy blue gauntlets. A single enucleated eye dangles from the gore between its digits. The terminator, more mountain than man, holds the unmoving body of your persecutor up by what remains of his cranium and neck. It is little more than ribbons of meat now.
Bile rises in your throat. You struggle to force it back down. 
Bolted armor caked in blood– both dried and fresh, sunken deep into the recesses of the ceramite plating– gives off an aura of wrought iron and decay. The metallic tang permeates the air around him, hanging heavy in the poorly ventilated armory. His scarred skin looks sickly pale. Greasy. Dehydrated. Aside from deep black eyes that watch you as a predator observes prey, the most prominent feature on his face is a wicked scar: a tear in his upper lip that exposes maxilla and sharp teeth alike. The shock of black hair on his head still has the impression of his helmet on it.
Without so much as a sound, he had come up from behind and grabbed the smaller Night Lord by the face, yanking them back into the crux of his chestplate and pauldron with enough force to shatter the hardened skull of an astartes. 
The massive marine throws the limp corpse of his former brother aside. The impact of metal on metal causes your ears to ring as a thousand pounds of lifeless ceramite strikes the wall, immediately followed by a disgusting wet slop of pulverized brain matter spilling onto the floor. If you had been on the Nightfall for any less time, you would have screamed. The shock almost prevents you from registering that you’re being spoken to.
“Get up.”
The terminator’s voice is that of rolling thunder and coarse gravel, resonating deep within your chest and leaving your heart fluttering with trepidation. His words had been spoken no louder than conversational, and yet they had you shooting up to your feet as if they had been shouted. Your wobbly legs nearly give out beneath you from how quickly you rise from the floor, croaking a shaky, “Yes, my lord.”
He removes his helmet from where it is magnetized to his belt with a click, placing it down on the bench you had been cowering behind. The tusks on it are as long as your forearm and nearly as thick. A faint decal of a skull is painted around the red lenses, chipped and fading but almost cartoonishly cute in contrast to the rags of flesh and weathered bones decorating the rest of his armor. 
The new Night Lord doesn’t seem to find it nearly as amusing as you do. He pushes the helmet in your direction, and you clamber to catch it before it hits the ground, not wanting to incur his wrath by dropping it so soon after he had just saved your life. The metal is heavy in your arms, tusks dangerously close to puncturing your throat.
“Clean it,” he barks. 
You grab your wash rag from the floor and shake it out. You do not have to be told twice.
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[Part 2]
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signedkoko · 1 year ago
Note
Ello there Koko! Welcome back! 💙 I'd like to request Sir Pentious with a reader who's basically his little evil henchman/sidekick. I don't see much writing for the bastard but I honestly love him so I'd love to see more! It could be platonic or romantic, either way is good!
Anything At All [Platonic]
In which you are Pentious' assistant, and hes been requested to help the V's. Genderneutral Reader.
Song - The Party Line by Belle and Sebastian
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Everyone could use an assistant, especially the overlords of hell, because they had all kinds of important things to do. Menial tasks requiring trust should be left to someone who can act as the right-hand man. Or at least, that was what Pentious always told himself.
None of the other overlords really had a sidekick, assistant, or whatever you choose to call them; they were all servants.
Loyalty was the first thing you had to achieve when finding an assistant, but who could ever be loyal? Everyone down here had something they'd give it all up for. Thus, Pentious was constantly ridiculed for choosing to trust someone who could easily overthrow him given the right opportunity.
What they didn't consider was that you'd give up everything and anything for him, but they didn't need to know that.
Most of what you did was surveillance. While Pentious much preferred to bury himself in strange inventions with grandiose ideals, you handled all the real work that might actually get him the title he so desired. While he trampled on his own reputation, you fixed it and elevated your own.
Pentious was known, but mostly because it was next to yours. Even so, you hated the spotlight because it took it away from him. Pentious was like a mascot; he was perfect at being in the public eye and had the confidence of a lion, except without claws or teeth. It was all so unlike you, so you would rather support him.
Besides, it was at least a little amusing to watch your friend go all out, despite not having all that much to back him up. He was always especially hostile to Alastor, to the point where you knew not to be anywhere near him since it always ended so badly.
It was another cleanup day, and after being totaled by the radio demon, Pentious was as antsy as ever to restore his ship to its prior glory.
" Pentious? Do you ever think about moving on from him? " You'd always make sure to ask after their scuffles, hoping the answer would change.
" Of courssse not! That would be admitting defeat! " 
You sighed, a small laugh hidden in the veiled disappointment. It was still nice to see that he was so optimistic.
Pentious is extremely smart when it comes to weapons, engineering, and the sciences—he was anything and everything but street smart.
You'd prepared a meal for the two of you to share, asking questions that would help you navigate the next plan, and so you had an idea of what you'd need to round up. You loved hearing his next idea—what the new gun would be, how he figured he could defeat one of the strongest overlords of hell, and so on.
Unfortunately, your lunch was interrupted by your phone ringing, which you pulled up to see—the very face of technology himself. Before you could answer, the call started anyway.
" Tch. "
" Heyyy this is Sir whateveryoucallhim's assistant, right? Yeah, nice to meet you. Listen. I have to talk to Pentious. " You couldn't even get a word in before Pentious lept forward, stealing your phone from you and pushing you away.
" Its finally happening! Wait outside!! " Pentious urged you to the door, though the moment you were out, you pressed your ear to the door, trying to catch the conversation.
" Yess of course! It was a sssplendid idea speaking to the likes of I! I'll be on it straight away! " You figured the call ended because there was no more speaking.
When he opened the door, you almost fell forward, catching yourself so as not to make it seem like you'd been trying to listen in. Not like it mattered, because in a moment, Pentious was sharing every detail of the conversation with the excitement of a kid who got unlimited candy.
" Infiltrating the Hazbin Hotel? I don't know... It sounds like he just wants you to do his dirty work. Besides, doesn't Alastor work there? Won't he kick you out or catch on? " 
" Come now; we cannot wassste any time! " He hadn't listened to a word you said; he was already on his way to set course for the hotel.
As worried as you were, maybe the hotel would be kind to Pentious. If all went to hell, you could only hope the princess would have mercy on him.
At the very least, you urged him to wait a day so you could prepare to come along with him and suggested he leave his technology on the ship so as not to alert anyone in the hotel that he may be hostile.
While most may not recognize you, Alastor certainly would, so you were sure to leave any and all weapons back at home. Just in case, right?
While you dressed more cleanly in softer and more welcoming clothes, Pentious didn't change a thing despite your protests. He waltzed right up to the door with no care and was immediately greeted by the princess's significant other shoving a spear in his face.
Stepping forward, you caught the edge of her spear and moved it up, just barely missing Pentious's face. You smiled in warning.
" Sorry for him; he is just so excited to stay at your hotel. As am I. " You looked down at Pentious, signaling for him to get up.
Thankfully, Charlie was quick to grab him and drag him on in, which you followed behind, nervously shuffling past the girl who'd just tried to kill Pentious.
Unfortunately, another wall blocked you, as the one and only pornstar Angeldust was quick to shove the wannabe overlord out the door and into you. 
" Wait wait wait, are we really letting the guy who tried to kill us six hours ago in? And who the fuck are you? " The spider was extremely tall and still managed to tower over Pentious by a fraction.
You opted to stay silent, amused at how Pentious managed to pull himself through this one. Even so, the team did seem interested in your appearance; they'd never seen Pentious with anyone before.
For a moment, Charlie turned to look at Vaggie, and seconds later, the woman seemed to slouch in defeat.
" Whatever, not like hes harmless with or without the way machine. " Pentious pouted at her words, and you chuckled.
" Ooooh yes, yes, yes! Thank you so much! Right this way, you two, it is so exciting to have our first official guests!! " She seemed a lot more focused on Pentious as she pulled him through the corridors, showing off every aspect of the hotel. In a way, she reminded you a lot of Pentious.
You could already tell Pentious was going to be easily distracted from his mission, though before you could remind him, a stark static filled the air.
" Oh! Alastor! Our property manager: You've met our newest guests, Sir Pentious, and-- " 
" Ah yes! Hell's best underground assistant, it is such a pleasure. " Alastor took your hand into both of his, shaking it with a tilted glance." Oh! And the one who ruined my coat! I definitely remember you now. "
Still flabbergasted by the radio demons approach to you, you were frozen in place, Pentious anxiously shifting when Alastor's tone shifted between the two of you.
"Best assistant? You flatter me. " You tried to take the attention back, looking to the princess for some kind of relief.
" This seems like a, uhm- perfect opportunity for a lesson on apologizing! "
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Author's Note - This is a fic exchange with @sillypenguincats ! You can read their Alastor x Reader here. Thank you for requesting, working with me, and being so kind 🖤
Word Count - 1,243
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radioactivepeasant · 5 months ago
Text
Snippets: Jak and Daxter
Loosely based on the song "God Games" from Epic: the Musical
It would have been so easy to leave. The subrails were right there. They could just step in, find out how far onto the mainland it went. It should have been so easy.
So why couldn't Jak do it?
"Uh...Jak?"
Daxter waved a hand in front of his face.
"Earth to Jak! What's the holdup, buddy?"
Just step down. That's all you have to do. It's so simple, Jak, why can't you do this one simple thing?
Jak stared at the tunnels for the space of three breaths.
And then he took a step
Backwards.
"Jak?" Concerned, Daxter leaned around to examine his expression. "What's the matter? C'mon, don't you want to get out of here?"
Shame slithered up his throat, but it couldn't stop the confession from slipping out.
"...no."
Dumbfounded, Daxter scurried to Jak’s other shoulder.
"No?! After how long it took to get down here, you wanna go back? We ain't gettin' a warm welcome, you know that, right?"
"I...can't leave. Not like this." Jak took another step back, then another.
"They'll think we're just, just weaklings who ran back to Haven because they couldn't cut it."
"They don't gotta know we went to Haven!"
"Dax, we barely escaped getting kicked out as it is! I- I can't go AWOL right now, what would Damas think of us?"
That was the wrong thing to ask. The ottsel's fur puffed up, and he bared surprisingly sharp teeth.
"He didn't think we could cut it anyway!" Daxter snarled, "Who cares what he thinks?"
But he knew the answer before he'd even finished the question. It was that sickening guilt in Jak’s eyes that drove it home.
I do.
Even after the man turned on them, called Jak "newcomer" like he didn't belong, Jak still wanted his approval? Daxter didn't understand.
But then, he'd never understood why Jak couldn't see right through Samos, either.
"I...I want to talk to him. Before anything else."
Jak prayed for some kind of perfect sentence or phrase to explain to Daxter why he needed to go back, but none were forthcoming.
Jak swallowed and added, "Sig should know about these tunnels anyway."
Daxter grimaced, but relented. "Fine. Fine. But I am not talking to Sandspurs unless he has one heck of an apology waiting."
No one was waiting in the vehicle pit. In fact, no one seemed to notice them come in at all. Jak told himself that was better, that he didn't have to explain himself if there were no witnesses. It didn't keep the whisper out of the back of his mind.
They wouldn't miss you if you left. They'd barely notice.
They were almost all the way past the forges when someone called out to them. Jak almost ignored them. But-
"Hey kid, you okay?"
But that wasn't a question he was usually asked.
Jak turned with a questioning expression to the gunsmith. He looked oddly concerned.
"You didn't show up yesterday. We were startin' to wonder a little. You didn't breathe in any of that gas, did you?"
Jak looked away.
"No."
"Good." The smith shook his head. "Poison gas-! They've never done that before. Sorry kid. Damas wouldn't have sent you out there if he knew."
"What would he have done?"
Jak didn't mean for it to come off aggressive. But he was just...tired. Tired of everything always happening to him. Tired of everyone else always having excuses.
If he heard the anger under the words, the gunsmith didn't let on. He picked up his tongs and shrugged as he got back to work.
"First offense, and you're a cadet- no, wait, two amulets, you're a scout. So scouts on punishment detail get either the 'pede larva cleanup or manual fishing net repair. Cadets have to clean the stables for three days."
Punishments that actually made sense?
Jak needed to talk to Damas. And at the same time, he did not want to talk to Damas.
At the elevator, Jak paused awkwardly.
"Da- Daxter? Can I- um. Can I do this...myself? If- if it goes south, I don't want you in the crossfire."
"If it goes south, you'll need me watching your six," Daxter retorted. But he reluctantly agreed.
Damas wasn't there, and that was somehow worse than finding him on that throne, glaring down at the intrusion. The water wheels creaked and groaned in an otherwise unnaturally silent chamber. Jak almost lost his nerve. What if Damas really didn't believe he belonged in Spargus? What was he going to have to do to prove him wrong?
Jak paced the lowest stair for several minutes, trying to rehearse his question. Trying to plan for every worst case scenario. If Damas got angry and threw him out, did they have a place to go? If Damas just shut him down, did he want to defy him again?
He didn't hear the elevator lowering down the shaft again. He didn't even notice it coming back up until it locked into place loudly.
Jak paused mid-step. His eyes flicked over to the elevator, but he didn't turn.
Damas was staring at him.
He didn't look angry, he looked surprised.
"I...did not expect to see you this soon," said the king in lieu of a greeting.
Jak couldn't quite make himself turn to face him.
"Why?"
"Ah." Damas sounded chagrined. Almost pained. "Because I...did not handle the debacle two days ago very well. I wouldn't have blamed you for wanting to put some distance between us. I put you and Sig in harm's way because I failed to fully read the artifact runners' brief."
Sounded like what the smith had said. Like Damas hadn't known about the poison gas.
"So you...weren't trying to kill me."
Damas’s ears stood almost straight up, and his shoulders stiffened.
"What? No! No, I wasn't trying to kill you!"
Jak nodded, but kept his eyes on the stairs and resumed pacing.
"Had to make sure."
Damas took the long way to the throne, along the outer edges of the pools. He didn't speak, letting the oppressive thickness of the air settle over them again. When he'd almost disappeared behind date palms in ceramic planter pots, Damas stopped to look out the windows, down to the sea.
"Is that why you came?"
"No."
"I see."
Jak thought he imagined a hint of hope in Damas’s voice.
"I don't have any work for you."
Damas glanced back down at him.
"It's not because of the...incident, you understand. You've just come after work has already been assigned for the day."
Jak glanced up. "I know."
courage. You can do this. And even if you can't, you have to.
"Well," the king sighed, "if you're here to lambast me with Sig for taking things too far, you just missed him."
Taking things too far. That was certainly...simplifying things. Jak clenched his fists and forced down acid in his throat. Don't get angry. Don't let him get under your skin. Remember why you're here.
Jak folded his arms across his chest and watched Damas’s face carefully.
"I...needed to- to ask...you. For something."
It was like pulling teeth to get even that out.
Damas turned immediately, eyebrows raised.
"It's not like you to ask for favors. Or help. What happened?"
He couldn't outright say that he'd met with Ashelin Praxis. Damas would probably shoot him on the spot.
"Got a call out there from-" Jak paused. "From a friend still stuck in Haven. It's- there's barely any city left. People I still care about are in danger."
"And?" Damas asked coolly.
Clenched fists and gritted teeth. Jak had to fight to force out the words.
"And I'm a- asking. You. For- for permission to go back."
Any pretense of calm fled Damas in an instant. His eyes darkened, and there was a promise of danger in his stride as he came to the edge of the dais.
"You're what."
"Just until they're safe. Just until I can destroy the new metalhead nest."
Damas flung out an arm as if gesturing to the offending city.
"You're asking me to allow you to leave Spargus, to give aid to our enemies. You want me to deal with Haven again. You want to go back to the people who betrayed you, again."
"If Haven falls, Spargus is next!" Jak argued.
"Spargus is not weak like Haven!" Damas snapped. "I had thought you had been among us long enough to know that by now."
"Apparently not, since I'm just the newcomer who doesn't deserve mercy!" Jak shot back.
He felt a tiny twing of guilt for throwing the words back in Damas’s face when the king lurched back like he'd been struck. But Jak couldn't stop now.
"The metalheads will raze Haven to the ground. Everything Mar built, they'll have access to. Even the subrails to the temple."
"The what?" Damas asked softly, almost threateningly.
"There are catacombs under the temple." Jak gestured sharply. "Daxter and I found them last night. Oracle says they have a subrail that goes right to Haven. How long do you think that's going to stay hidden if the city goes down?"
"We will fortify the temple." Damas turned away to march to his throne.
"You will remain in the city."
As he sat, he leveled a harsh glare at the boy.
"I strongly recommend that you heed instructions this time. I prefer not to revoke your gate pass."
Keira's life was on the line. Tess's life was on the line. And Damas was going to confine him to the city out of spite. Fury rattled in Jak’s lungs and loosened his tongue.
"I almost left," he growled at the king, "I almost went anyway without telling you."
Be grateful I told you anything at all ran unspoken under the statement.
"Then why didn't you?" Damas challenged him.
"You already think I haven't earned a place here yet. Well I'm not going to prove you right."
Jak's anger didn't burn hot enough to evaporate the lump in his throat. He should have known it would be useless.
"Jak-"
"This was a mistake." Jak turned his back on the dais and throne and stormed down the pathway.
"Shouldn't have asked."
He heard Damas stand in a rush, but ignored him. Why did he think this would go in his favor? Stupid. Stupid to hope.
"Stop."
He didn't.
Damas’s voice rose, bouncing off stone and water.
"Put one foot in that elevator and I put this tower on lock down."
He probably thought Jak was going to go to Haven to spite him. Jak weighed his options before pivoting on his heel to glare at Damas.
"What."
Damas was pretty fast for a man in armor. He had one arm outstretched like he'd been about to grab Jak by the collar. He settled a hand on Jak’s channeling ring -- not pulling, not yet. Just keeping him from leaving.
"You. Belong. Here," Damas said sharply.
"Not in Haven. Do you not know a trap when you hear one?"
You belong here.
Don't crack.
Jak cursed the catch in his voice. "You dropped everything to send rescue missions after just four scouts. You can't ask me to leave my friends behind enemy lines after that. Either you're a hypocrite, or I'm just doing what you taught me to do."
If Damas wasn't angry before, he probably would be now. Jak knew he shouldn't have called him a hypocrite point blank. Damas’s face went still, expressionless. His fingers tightened around the channeling ring, but his face was blank.
Jak closed his eyes.
"Sorry," he grunted.
"Convince me."
"What?"
Damas leaned closer.
"If this is that important to you, you'll have to convince me. You find five Wastelanders willing to go with you or support your mission, and I will consider letting you go."
Five?! Jak wasn't sure he could fine one!
"And if I don't?" he asked warily.
"Then you don't leave home, simple as that." Damas released him and stepped back.
"You have one day."
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aris-has-a-paracosm · 8 months ago
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ArisArisArisAris Aris Aris please I'm begging you canwe see wips for Deepfrost drawing
please please please can we be permitted a tiny glance inside the brain of tumblr artist aris-has-a-paracosm?
Yes can do! <3 Here’s a little bit about my art process for the Deepfrost art :)
So here’s a screenshot from the sketch. (It wasn’t completely done at the time, but it’s the only screenshot I still have of that part.)
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I sketch in any color other than black so I can more easily see my lineart later, and red is often what I default to. I also had two-point perspective grid lines set up, but I didn’t really adhere to them. As you can see, DF’s face did undergo a little bit of editing before the lineart happened. I opted to go for a toothy grin rather than the open-mouthed smile he originally had here.
Speaking of lineart:
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Regardless of what brush I use, I always make sure that my lineart connects neatly to itself for each part of every drawing (separate lineart layers for each component.) There’s no gaps anywhere, so it makes it to where I can easily use an inverse selection to put a base color layer directly beneath. My base layers are always in gray going from lighter in the background to darker in the foreground.
Next up was rendering the background:
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This is- … this is definitely a “rest of the heckin’ owl” kinda thing XD. The buildings were in three layers with the windows drawn in vertical lines and then erased in horizontal lines.
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Here’s a gif to show that? Please excuse my atrocious Timelapse quality :’)
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Once the windows were all on there, I used alpha lock on the layer and then just randomly recolored windows based on reference photos of cities at night. Once the windows were done, I used some airbrushing for ambiance.
Next up was the base colors for the foreground:
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Here, I was mainly focused on the outfit and ice detail. All of this was important to get the way I wanted pre-render, and absolutely nothing about lighting was considered here.
Afterwards was DF’s rendering:
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I had two separate shadow layers and one light layer, keeping my light source and his three-dimensionality in mind the whole time. Here was where I also did lineart recoloring and cleanup.
And then all I had left was to render the ice, the rooftop, and add the snow! I don’t fully know how to explain this part either, but I primarily used a soft airbrush and a medium nozzle spray paint brush as well as an eraser in both of those settings as well.
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So yeah! That’s the basics of my art process! I like to joke that when I draw, my brain lives in my hands so I don’t think too much about the process while drawing. I had a lot of fun with this and hope you liked seeing the process :D
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homoquartz · 11 months ago
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okee dokee here's some video game recs!! indie/small studio only
these games are ALL top marks for me. there's none that i'm like, meh about. they do have some issues probably, but it's outshined by how fun and memorable they are. i'm happy to expand on any of them.
exploration games
what remains of edith finch
slime rancher
firewatch
subnautica
paradise killer
journey
strategy/puzzle games
overland
dorfromantik
unpacking
potionomics
the witness (recommended only if you're not a completionist - one of the puzzles is timed to take like 2 irl hours)
grim fandango
portal 1 and 2
farming sims
stardew valley of course
my time at sandrock (early access)
narrative games
disco elysium
i was a teenage exocolonist
little misfortune
tacoma
the stanley parable
other
hades
viscera cleanup detail
psychonauts 1 and 2
night in the woods
soma
undertale
left 4 dead
life is strange (first game only)
bonus (big publisher but old so people forgot it): bully / canis canem edit
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harpersdragons · 5 months ago
Text
New fic!
Terrified of the Weather ('Cause I See You When it Rains)
Words: 2824
Description: Dick has a flashback, and he’s forced to confide in Bruce about something from his past
TW: Mention of past rape, dissociation, panic attacks
The minute Dick jerks awake, shaky, sweating, and still feeling phantom hands crawling over his skin, he knows it’s going to be a bad day.
The thing is, it’s been years. He knows how to cope, knows better than to go out on patrol when this happens. Especially with the rain pounding on his window, he can’t take any chances.
He resigns himself to locking himself away for however long this…episode lasts. It’s not the first time, it won’t be the last.
He can’t exactly remember the details of the dream, but he can guess. There’s only one dream that leaves him feeling like this when he wakes up, whether he remembers it or not.
Right. First thing, he needs a shower. And he needs to not listen to the rain pounding outside.
He forces himself up, and sets music blasting as loud as he dares through his apartment. His neighbors can deal with it.
His breath comes in shaky gasps as he drifts through the apartment. He stops in the kitchen, grabbing two ice cubes and leaning against his counter. He keeps one in his hand and places the other under his tongue.
He loses track of how long he stands there, but the ice has long since melted, and his breathing has finally calmed down.
Attempting to take a shower sends him stumbling straight back to the kitchen to repeat the process.
The second he felt the water sliding over his skin and plastering his hair to head, he lost it. All forward process to calm his racing heart, to get his mind back in his body, gone.
He’s not overly panicky, mentally at least. Physically, he knows he has all the symptoms of a panic attack. Mentally, though, it’s quite the opposite. His thoughts are disjointed, sluggish, and he’s not fully present.
His knees give out before he makes it to the freezer. He braces his back against the cabinets, leans his head against the wall, and drifts.
He’s dragged back to awareness by a shrill ringing sounding through his apartment. The rain is still coming down, but it’s marginally lighter outside.
It takes him a minute, but he recognizes the ringing.
His Justice League communicator.
Guess his plan to isolate himself just crashed and burned.
He groans as he forces himself to stand, muscles stiff and joints aching.
The shrieking only cuts off when he flips the communicator on, displaying the message.
An all hands on deck summoning to Gotham.
Fuck.
If Bruce is calling the whole League to Gotham, he expects the problem to be bad
He can’t avoid his family there, and worse, he doesn’t think he can pretend everything's fine around his coworkers.
Everyone will be there.
His hands grip the device, knuckles white from the tension.
He responds to the message, then drops it on the bed.
He can do this.
He has to do this.
Everything washes away as he slips his suit on, adheres his mask to his face, and tries not to think about what happened on that rooftop, in the rain, in his suit.
It’s not the same suit, but it fits the same, it has roughly the same design. It’s just similar enough to trick his brain.
With a final shaking breath, he secures his belt around his hips, and ducks out his window.
Into the rain.
*********************
Bruce tries to focus on the battle, and not the fact that his son didn’t respond to the emergency summons, but it’s getting increasingly difficult as the battle winds down. They’ve mostly dealt with the problem—a small band of aliens thought they could take over Earth—by now, and it really wasn’t that difficult of a battle. There’s a few stragglers left, and then it’s just cleanup.
By the time Nightwing finally shows up, Bruce has worked himself into a minor panic. Not that anyone else could notice, considering he’s channeling it into punching the invaders.
He switches to a private comm channel with Dick, “Nice of you to finally show up.”
“Sorry, I was dealing with…something.” There’s something off in Dick’s voice, but Bruce can’t quite place it. It sounds shakier than normal.
“Hm. Get to work.”
There’s no response, other than a quiet click showing Dick either turned his comm off or switched to the JL frequency.
Bruce grits his teeth and switches back to the public comm channel. It’s silent for now, as they all wrap up subduing the last couple creatures.
Dick seems fine—at least from afar—flipping around and fighting like normal, but Bruce can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.
When the battle’s over, Bruce goes to find his son. Something’s wrong, and he needs to find out what.
*********************
Dick lands on a roof when the battle’s over, watching everyone take a breather before starting cleanup.
He probably wasn’t needed, he showed up late and it was practically already over. Bruce is going to have a lecture already planned about his tardiness, and Dick contemplates running back to his apartment before it happens.
Just as he aims his grapple off the roof, the snap of a cape and soft thud of boots stops him in his tracks.
“Going somewhere?” Bruce growls, stalking closer to him.
“Away from whatever trainwreck this conversation is going to be.” Dick aims for a quip, but comes up short. His voice is too shaky, he’s too on edge. The rain is still coming down, sticking his suit to his skin, making him want to run, but there’s nowhere he can run.
“Too bad. What were you ‘dealing’ with earlier that led you to be a whole hour late for a call?”
“It was personal, B. Don’t worry about it.”
Bruce doesn’t need to know he’s spent most of the day dissociated or panicking.
“You were late. That makes it my business. Do you know what could have happened if we needed you and you weren’t here?”
“But you didn’t! You were fine without me.”
“You had no way of knowing that. If you can’t remember the basics of responding to calls promptly, you will come back home where I can make sure you can.”
“I’m an adult! You can’t—”
“Quiet! I’m not—”
Quiet, mi amor callado
Dick jumps as a glimpse of yellow flits past the corner of his eye, breath coming in harsh pants.
He can’t move, he can’t move, he can’t—
Something grabs him, grip harsh on his arm.
Dick jumps, breaking the grip and lashing out.
Whoever it is tugs him closer and wraps their arms around his chest, pinning him in place.
No no no no no no—
“Nightwing…” the voice fades in and out, his body is buzzing, he can’t feel anything—
*********************
Bruce watches as Dick’s breathing gets harsher, and he takes a step back towards the edge of the roof.
Eyes widening, Bruce lunges forward and grabs his elbow, trying to tug him away from the edge. Dick lashes out, breaking Bruce’s grip and lunging at him.
Bruce dodges the hits—they’re sloppy, uncoordinated, and not like Dick’s fighting style at all—and pins his arms, wrapping his own around Dick’s chest. Dick keeps thrashing, muttering “no” under his breath.
“Nightwing, you need to breathe. You’re going to hurt yourself like this.” Bruce spins them both, aiming Dick at the open space of the roof, not the edge, and lets him go. Dick stumbles away until he hits an A/C unit, and collapses to the ground. Bruce follows, kneeling down in front of his son. He makes sure he’s not overcrowding him, then reaching forward and tapping the side of his mask. Dick jerks back as he does, banging his head on the A/C unit.
Bruce winces, but backs off a little more.
Dick’s eyes are crazed, wide and mostly unseeing, gaze focused over Bruce’s shoulder.
“Don’t…don’t touch me.” Dick’s voice is barely audible, and Bruce’s heart breaks a little.
“I’m not, son. No one’s touching you. Can you hear me?” Bruce fights to keep his voice even, to provide a grounding point for his panicking son.
Dick barely nods his head.
“Good, that’s good. Can you follow my pattern? Inhale for six seconds, hold for four, exhale for six. You can do it, I know you can.” Bruce watches as he tries, but doesn’t quite manage to get a full breath. “That’s ok, try again.”
Dick keeps trying until he gets a full breath, and Bruce leads him through the rest of the breathing exercise a few times.
When Dick’s breathing is more even. Bruce turns his talking to more mundane things, what Damian did at school, how he hasn’t seen Tim or Jason in a while, Alfred’s disapproval of Bruce working himself too hard this week.
“Is..is she actually here?” Dick interrupts him quietly, eyes flicking over the rooftop.
Bruce frowns, glancing around him. “No one’s here, chum. It’s just us. You’re safe.”
The tension in Dick’s shoulders releases, and he closes his eyes and rests his head against the A/c unit behind him.
“It’s just us, sweetheart. Just breathe.” Bruce sees a few tears leaking over the edge of the mask, chest constricting at the sight. He wants to hold his son, wants to comfort him, but he won’t move unless Dick says it’s ok.
He just feels useless sitting here and doing nothing.
After several long moments, Dick finally speaks again. “Can I…can I have a hug?”
“Of course.” Bruce opens his arms and moves a bit closer, just as Dick launches himself at him. Bruce’s breath leaves him all at once, but he wraps his arms around his son. Dick buries his face in Bruce’s shoulder, body shaking.
“I can’t get away from it.” Dick’s voice breaks.
“From what, chum?”
His voice is small as he responds. “The rain.”
Bruce is dragging his cape over Dick without a second thought, shielding him from rain as much as possible. Dick relaxes a little more, tucking himself as far under Bruce’s cape as he can.
“You want to go home?”
“Not my apartment.”
“The Batmobile is waiting, come with me.”
Dick nods against his shoulder. “Please.”
Bruce detaches his cape and tucks it more securely around Dick, then stands smoothly and heads to where the Batmobile is waiting.
He sets it to autopilot so he can keep holding Dick. The drive passes quickly, with Dick shivering against him as Bruce runs his hands through his hair. At some point he thinks his son fell asleep, and Bruce doesn’t hesitate to carry him again when they arrive in the cave.
Bruce sets him down on a couch Dick begged to have added to the cave, then rouses him gently.
“Go change, bud, then we can go watch a movie or something.” He gently prods Dick in the direction of the bathrooms, following so he can change himself.
A little later, they both head up to the home theater. Bruce tucks Dick into his side and wraps a weighted blanket around him, and Alfred brings up tea and cookies. His son has been nearly unresponsive since he woke up in the cave, so Bruce just waits. He presses a cup of tea into his hands and turns on the Lion King for background noise.
*********************
Dick comes back to himself slowly. He doesn’t remember the drive back to the manor, or changing out of his suit and drying off. He vaguely remembers being carried, then being guided upstairs and having a weighted blanket wrapped around him.
A movie plays in the background, and he tunes into that first, as the warmth from his cup slowly seeps into his hands. Bruce’s hand brushes through his hair, and he hums and pushes closer to his father. They sit in silence for a while longer, before Bruce finally breaks it.
“Do you want to talk about it now or later?”
“Preferably never.” His voice scratches at his throat, rough from disuse.
Bruce sighs, “I think you need to talk to someone. It doesn’t have to be me, but I can talk to Dinah and see if she could talk to you, or if she has recommendations for someone.”
“I already have a therapist, I don’t need another one. My…episodes…aren’t usually this bad.”
And they’re really not. He’s usually on edge for a day, maybe a little panicky, but he can usually ground himself before they get this bad. Today was worse because he pushed himself too far.
“You have a therapist?” Bruce is surprised, understandably since Dick doesn’t talk about going to therapy with anyone in his family.
“Mhm. Since…” He pauses, and clears his throat. “Since what happened, happened. Wally pushed me towards it. Said how I was coping wasn’t healthy.”
Bruce hums, hand still brushing through Dick’s hair. “I’m glad you have someone to talk to.” The words come out stilted.
“You guys don’t need to be burdened with my problems. I’m handling it.”
“Are you?”
Dick stiffens, pushing away and setting his cup down. “Yes.” Dick forces the word out. “I would have been fine tonight if you hadn’t fucking triggered me again.”
It’s not fair to Bruce, he doesn’t know Dick’s triggers. And honestly, ‘quiet’ isn’t a trigger most of the time. Dick’s been better! But tonight, tonight he couldn’t handle it. And it’s not Bruce’s fault, but the man is so insufferable.
“I can’t avoid triggers if I don’t know what they are!” Bruce huffs, “Besides, it was a genuine question. Are you handling it? Because your head wasn’t in it tonight.”
Dick deflates, leaning against the opposite side of the couch. “Normally, I’m fine. Today was just a bad day and I pushed myself too hard by forcing myself to respond to the call.”
He wraps his arms around his knees. “Remember when I was fighting Blockbuster?”
“Of course, you never told me how it ended.”
He didn’t, but he’s sure Bruce looked into it.
“Cat—” Dick chokes on her name. “She killed him. Told me to back up, and shot him in the head. I still remember the feeling of being covered in his blood and brain matter. It was raining…” He takes a deep breath. “I should have pushed her off, I could have, but I said no, B, I swear I did.” He’s crying by the end of it, words becoming frantic as he avoids Bruce’s gaze. “I—I can’t handle the rain now. I do my best to avoid patrolling when it rains, I couldn’t even put my suit on without panicking for months.”
“Dickie…” Bruce sounds broken. Dick flinches at his voice.
He should shut up, Bruce doesn’t need to deal with it, he doesn’t need Dick’s problems. He shouldn’t have said anything at all. He should—
“I can see you spiraling from here.” Bruce cuts his thoughts off. “Can I hold you?” His voice is watery, but Dick doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to see the evidence of what his confession is doing to his father.
He nods, and Bruce tugs him back into his arms. His grip is loose enough that Dick could break it if he wants, but strong enough it still feels grounding.
“I’m sorry that ever happened, sweetheart. You’re safe now.”
“I…I see her, sometimes. When it rains, or when I’m especially on edge. She haunts me, even now.”
Bruce presses a kiss to his hair, one hand rubbing up and down his back. “I’ve got you, chum.”
Dick grips the back of Bruce’s shirt, something in him finally breaking and tears stream down his face. “Dad.” He sobs. He babbles on incoherently for a while, rambling about everything that happened, how alone he felt. Bruce just holds him through it all. He doesn’t tell him to be quiet, or to stop crying, or even complain about how Dick is getting his shirt dirty with all the tears and snot.
He just holds him.
Eventually, his tears dry up, his breathing evens out, and he feels more grounded, a weight was lifted from his chest and he feels like he can breathe> again.
“Ready for bed? Or do you want to stay here for a while?” Bruce asks, voice quiet so as to not disturb the peace that settled over them.
“Here.” His voice is scratchy again, for a completely different reason.
“Ok. I’ll get Alfred to bring more tea for your throat.”
“Don’t bother, I’ll probably fall asleep before he gets up here.”
Bruce huffs a laugh. “You could have chosen bed.”
“Don’ wanna move.” His voice is muffled as he buries his face in Bruce’s chest.
“Ok, chum.” Bruce readjusts so they’re laying down, starting a new movie up. Dick doesn’t bother paying attention, he’s already dozing off.
“I love you, sweetheart.”
Dick barely hears Bruce before he falls asleep, attempting to mumble a response, but he’s sure it’s unintelligible.
Oh well. That can be a tomorrow problem.
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