#dusty warren

[bbsxsaa]

honey wake up, there’s more bird psycho lore 🥺

[warningsine]

[mari-animates]

Man fuck EVERY single one of those kids from under the bridge

[bonkobarnes]

it would be interesting to see if warren and gabe end up being sort of parallels to one another, or maybe rebecca feels for warren because he’s the same age as gabe was; in the book (no spoilers!!) warren seems to be portrayed pretty empathetically and i think the show is definitely leaning towards that as well- rebecca’s first encounter with him being her panic attack at the party and him checking on her, trying to help, and then seeing him at the diner asking if theres a shift he could pick up

I think probably both? I guess we don’t know much about Gabe or Warren at this point but it’s obvious Rebecca sees something in Warren. I imagine Rebecca feels for him and is probably where her interests differ from Cam’s. Cam wants to catch the person that did this and get justice for Reena. Rebecca does too but I think she will see Warren more as a kid than as a murderer

[slvttybvys]

@lonelyheartedheathens [X]

"Maybe. Maybe not. But does it really matter if it's both our temptations" Warren asked with a small grin as he moved closer to the other. "I mean a mutual cure doesn't sound like a bad thing to me."

[lonelyheartedheathens]

“you know, the only way to cure temptation… is to give in to it.” (Warren for whoever would like him)

[ Baldur's Gate 3 Sentence Starters - Astarion Edition ] @slvttybvys

A wide smirk pulled at Dusty's lips hearing that as he gave a soft snort. "Oh is that so?" he teased, giving Warren a once-over. "Sounds a lot to me like you're trying to get me to cure your temptation. Not my own." Was Dusty going to give in to it as Warren said? Probably. But he couldn't not tease the older man, if only a little. Maybe see how far he could push Warren until he was less trying to convince Dusty and more maybe begging him to.

[broodcore]

i wrote birth scene fic about the dwarven omega in this pic. this time i actually wrapped it up instead of awkwardly ending at the end of the birth. (ft. difficult birth; working during labor; the horrors of capitalism)

It had been a mistake on both accounts, but the social faux pas of it was really only going to be felt by one party. For the other, the consequences were much more of a burden. Very literally, in this case.

Some thirty-odd weeks after making one poor choice during a company party, Urwig still had to work through their advanced pregnancy. This wasn’t out of some ‘enduring Omega work ethic’, as their upper-caste foremen might put it; their job simply demanded nothing less. As an Omega, you worked until you dropped. Or, the baby dropped. Urwig had heard of their Omega kint having to keep working the mines well into labor, but they had never seen it in person before. Now, they were likely to experience it first hand.

For the past nine-ish months, Urwig cursed the careless lead-head that got them into this situation. They certainly weren’t going to see them again - the Alpha was a junior supervisor, a role that kept them in the upper echelons of the Hollow, far away from the deep warrens that Urwig’s company strip mined. Doric was young for a supervisor role, and their recklessness was apparent when they tried to hook up with a dusty old miner like Urwig. Most Alphas tried to stay as far away from the lowest caste as possible. But, maybe that taboo made it worth pursuing. Urwig themself was curious; were the statuesque, perfectly hewn Alphas really that impressive once you unbraided their beards?

Turns out, no. Urwig had better flings behind smelter coal piles, amongst their own kint who certainly knew what they were doing. Those never led to them falling pregnant, though; that was the other way around. Even when they took turns, Urwig was the one getting slapped with a child support tax afterwards. This happens sometimes. Some dwarves only carried, some only seeded. If you were lucky, you were only the latter. If you were very unlucky, you could be subject to both.

As an Omega, Urwig was used to being considered unlucky. This was just one more misfortune an Omega was often subjected to: carrying the enormous bastard of an upper-caste.

As a hauler, Urwig already carried half their weight in raw coal up the sloping mineshaft every day, a dozen times in a shift. Lately, they were carrying a whole other half of their body weight alongside the box they shouldered. The Alpha baby was large enough that their stomach jutted out in an exaggerated oblong shape in front of them. As it neared full term, its movements were incessant, squirming about and knocking against their forebear’s ribs and pelvis, crushing their internal organs and sapping the energy from them. Urwig’s efficiency reports had dropped well below what their foremen accounted for their gravidity, penalizing their meager pay. Nevermind that they were an Omega carrying an obvious Alpha, making their pregnancy turbulent at best and high risk at worst. Their company simply didn’t account for such exceptions.

Urwig couldn’t afford to take time off to give birth with these penalties, so they were expected to do what an Omega was meant to do: keep working until they drop. One way or another.

The bastard inside them stretched against the confines of their womb, a tight and uncomfortable sensation that Urwig endured for months now. They already ached out of every moment of the day, so if they were having contractions by now, they wouldn’t notice. It made every new twinge or unexpected cramp come with a jolt of alarm, and Urwig would get yelled at for pausing and obstructing workflow. Eventually, they had to grit their teeth through it. No more occupying their hands by holding their burdensome womb, no more stopping to catch their breath. Work until you drop.

Sweat was absolutely drenching their coarse fur, between their early labors and heat of the mid-level smelters they dropped their load off at. Their first payload of the day, and already it felt like they were pulling double shifts. The kid kicked against their ribs and rammed its enormous head downwards, more so than Urwig was accustomed to. The sudden, throbbing pressure made them stumble back as soon as they unshouldered their box.

As if on cue, they heard one of the foremen watching the procession for slackers like them toot their whistle with warning. The sharp noise made Urwig flinch, their gravid stomach clenching in response. The muscles remained locked in well afterwards, squeezing tighter and knocking the wind out of them. The foreman continued chastising them.

“‘Ay, squeeze out that new worker on your own time, grit-biter! Stop holding up the line!”

Urwig’s kint, their coworkers, did little more than glare at them as they waddled back down the shaft. They too would be penalized for any slip-ups such as having empathy or showing concern for a laboring co-worker, so quietly minding their own business was all they could do. The walk back down wasn’t as bad, at least. Urwig’s hands were free to feel about their taut belly, and assess the shape of it underneath their sweat-streaked fur. It hung low over the loosened belt of their trousers, swaying uncomfortably with each stumbling step. This kid wasn’t going to make it a second lap, was it?

Urwig felt dread creep up on them as they prepared to shoulder a new box of coal. What was once barely anything for the stout omega to lift now looked like solid iron, while they already struggled with the weight inside them. Still, there was no allowance for hesitation. Urwig steeled themself, squatted before the crate, and lifted with their legs.

As the Omega spread their bent thighs, they already felt the dull pain in their cervix worsen. The strain of lifting the coal made it sharpen considerably. Urwig had only held the box halfway when they felt something give, and their waters gushed out of the threadbare crotch of their trousers.

Urwig dropping the crate and moaning from their water breaking made the line pause. The foreman overseeing the pickup end of the lap sounded their whistle. This time, this Beta didn’t chastise them, but rather pointed to the sidelines.

“Take your break, grunt, then get back to work!”

Well, there went Urwig’s chance of having lunch today. Though having a baby was arguably just as important. The line behind them shifted to replace the gap they made as they staggered bowleggedly away.

They didn’t make it very far, as the alarming feeling of their hole bowing outwards against the seat of their pants made the Omega hastily brace themself against a stack of unmoved crates. They dropped to a low squat, their wavering moaning rising in pitch and volume until they cried out in agony. The head alone was too much to bear; their pelvis was being pried open beyond its limits.

One of the foremen had come down from their post to assist. Urwig felt a pang of shame and tried to wave them off, but the huskier Beta still knelt between the Omega's legs.

"This your first'n, grunt?" They asked, genuine concern bleeding over the hardened edge of their authoritative tone. Urwig inhaled a sharp gasp from another contraction wringing the life out of them.

“Y-yeah it’s - it’s the first I’m squeezin’ out.”

The Beta felt the sheer size of the baby within their subordinate, careful not to nick the stretched-thin flesh with their digging claws. “Phew! I do not envy you, gritborn. This’n’s going to be a shift and a half, for sure.”

“Great.” Urwig grumbled flatly. They held onto the crates behind them for leverage against another hard, urgent squeeze of their entire body around their womb.

“Hold on, hold on,” the foreman produced a pocket knife, and carefully cut access to the Omega’s laboring hole out of their pants, to Urwig’s quiet dismay. They were going to have to pay for that, on top of the penalty cuts, and rent, and taxes, and-

“Rrrrrghh!” The head forcing its way through their hips made a temporary, painful reprieve from financial worries. Their hole bulged obscenely under the heavy, swollen cock that didn’t know whether it was experiencing pleasure or pain. Through the searing sensation of their cunt opening up, the Beta’s fingers around the lips struggled to provide relief.

“That’s it, kint. Easy now.” The foreman was the only one who could see the limits to which Urwig was being stretched. Intermittently, their hand applied counterpressure against the Omega’s bulging perineum while slowly, agonizingly, they felt the crown of head slipping out of them.

When a contraction stopped in the middle of pushing out the widest point of the head, Urwig was left to wheeze and sob through the pain. Distantly, they wondered if the sire of their bastard would have had to go through an ordeal like this, had Urwig been the one to knock them up. Realistically, they probably would have already gotten it terminated, regardless of caste. It was the Omegas that were stuck in these situations time and time again, having to endure the consequences of actions in part by higher castes.

The foreman carefully eased the Omega’s stretched-taut lips over the skull, until the pressure released and the head gave way to a splash of fluids. Urwig moaned in tortured relief, bonelessly draped over crates of coal.

“Is it over yet?” They whimpered. Their heart dropped when the more experienced superior just chuckled.

This was definitely an Alpha child, not just by sheer size alone, but by the strength and vigor with which the bastard kicked and squirmed the rest of its way out. It had been so, so eager to get out of its cramped home up until now. The uncooperativeness of the infant brought only more pain, as the Beta had to tug the broad shoulders out of their employee by force. Urwig briefly felt like their pelvis was going to snap in two, before the pressure finally released. The lower half of the infant spilled out of their cunt with a sloppy gush of fluids and a length of the cord.

The newest Alpha of the Hollows squalled, and a few of the workers that had been trying to ignore the scene paused however briefly to admire Urwig’s job well done. A few of the other Omegas - at least one that Urwig had seeded themself - cheered them for their efforts. At least, until another foreman blew their whistle.

The foreman that took precious time out of their shift to aid Urwig didn’t just dump the babe ceremoniously in their lap and go back to work, as was expected. They must have done this before. Maybe they even had to squeeze out kids of their own on the clock. Though fear of being further penalized still lingered in the back of their mind, Urwig was too exhausted and overcome with relief to care. Despite cussing out the kid ever since it started to round out their gut, they felt an incredible sense of pride in taking the child to their chest.

Or, well, they attempted to. Trying to handle a child nearly as big and strong as they were was more of a wrestling match. While they held the kid still for the Beta to cut the cord, the two dwarves noted the clear status of the infant.

“I knew it. I’ll be damned if you were gonna come out full-furred at this size.” It was hard for Urwig to sound as gruff as they were, now that the kid was out of them. True to their forebear’s word, the infant was sparse of fur and small-eared, with a full head of hair and a currently bare chin. A far cry from their furry, unkempt, exhausted looking forebear.

The Beta seemed agog at the markers of a sire far above even their own station. “Sweet guts of the… who in the damn-hell have you been fuckin’ on your downtime, grunt?”

“I’d rather not talk about it, boss.”

“Well, all the same,” the Beta lurched to their feet, wiping their hands, “You should take ‘em up-top and hand ‘em over to an Alpha nursery. Bet they won’t ask questions, if they pass the physical.”

Urwig sighed tiredly at the idea of taking a day’s travel - and a week’s pay of shuttle fare - just to go into the upper city. A certain tug at their heartstrings also made them pause, as silly as it was. Omegas never had time to raise their own progeny, of course, so it was inevitable they would have to give them up to a communal nursery. The ones that allowed visitation cost money, too.

“Ah… I guess I’ll have to. No sense denyin’ the kid their due.”

“‘S hard, I know; my last one was a Delta, I had to pass ‘em over to the guilds for the stipend.” The sympathetic shake of the foreman’s head was cut short by a realization that made their eyes light up. “Hell, you know what? An Alpha nursery’s stipend would probably be a season’s pay, for you.”

All sentimental feelings for the child in their arms left Urwig like ash billowing out of a factory smokestack. “A whole season’s pay, you say…?”

The Beta shrugged with a laugh. “If the sire’s really from up-top, I bet you could even sue for a tax refund on top of that. Have ‘em pay you back for all those lost wages.”

The idea of getting back at the idiot Alpha that did this to them made Urwig’s fur stand on end. The idea of getting paid for it on top of that nearly made them lightheaded with glee. They looked down at their kid in their arms, and practically saw a pile of gold take their place.

“Well hot damn, when’s the next shuttle?”

[syoddeye]

the warren, part six - natural

price x f!reader | 5.9k words | series page | ao3 tags: background ghoap, italicized flashbacks, skinny dipping, bathing, oral f!receiving, vaginal fingering, breeding kink, darkfic. a/n: fireworks followed by fireworks. shout out to early and the arrangement. mdni banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

This must be what it feels like to open a tomb.

Fetid air sweeps over your cheeks. Warm and stagnant, smelling of earth and metal.

The room is maybe eight by ten feet and sinks another six down to an unfinished floor of exposed dirt and rock. Thin pipes run from under the floorboards and into the wall, disappearing further underground. An empty, dusty stack of wooden shelves stands bolted to the cement walls. You’d think it’s an old root cellar—if it weren’t for the door.

Four paneled. Old and weathered yet sturdy looking. You don’t dare hop into the pit to test the heavy lock affixed to it; no way you could climb out.

You take a photo, shut the hidden hatch, and smooth the rug over it.

It’s nothing. Has to be. Kate would’ve told you about it if it mattered. You haul the couch over it anyway and tuck into bed with a knife. In the small hours, you decide to call the landlady at breakfast, perhaps Phil too, for good measure.

~~

“Oh, that? Old storm cellar.” Kate sounds amused, as if your trepidation is a cute joke. “The Warrens were originally from Tornado Alley. Hated storms. Brought that hate with them.”

“Where does the door lead?”

“A storage room. I emptied it.”

You lean against the counter, staring at the rug with your thumb caught between your teeth in thought. Since your arrival, you’ve seen two storms of note. Thunder and lightning, but nothing like the furies that roll over the Great Lakes, the ones that rattled the shutters and windows or leaked from cracks in the ceiling. Certainly no tornadoes. You, of all people, know what it is to carry a fear. A hatred.

“Everything alright?”

You fish for reassurance. “Yes. I feel silly, that’s all.”

The hook goes ignored. “Mhm.” 

“Guess I’ll move the couch back.” You laugh, apologize for troubling her, and leave the couch where it sits.

You don’t call Phil. You’d sound ridiculous.

Later, you sneak some extra work in, at least you try to. A mechanical whir putters then skips. You swear a wisp of smoke leaks from the disk drive. The old laptop that could, no more. Rendered a fossil, unresponsive to your troubleshooting. Frustration burns your belly, whittling your patience to naught. It fractures at the ring of your phone.

“Yes?” You snap, instantly searing yourself with the white-hot brand of guilt. “I’m so sorry, hello?”

John chuckles. “Bad time?”

“John. Oh, no. I–I’m not scheduled today, am I?”

“No, you’re alright. Shop’s slow, so I thought I’d check in.” He pauses. “If you’re busy, I can chat later.”

“I’m not. Unexpectedly so,” you shove your laptop off your lap, rising from bed. You stretch and pace to the kitchen. “Mind if I keep you company? See the kittens?” Best clear your head.

“I’d be delighted.”

~~

The kittens are feral. You know this, yet their instinctive rejection smarts. From a sun-bleached lawn chair, you watch them tussle and spar in the shade of John’s building. Their mother, the first time you’ve seen her, lounges on the welcome mat. She’s a proud creature. Big and gray like a storm cloud.

You haven’t come around to John’s understanding concerning the cats. The queen tolerates one of her kittens, nearly too old to nurse, as it tries to latch. You wonder if the baby’s a female. If she, like her mother, will fall pregnant in a few months. If she’ll end up with an unseasonably late litter, born to frost and snow rather than wildflowers and sunlight.

“Beautiful thing,” John observes, emerging from the garage with an ice-cold soda. He slots it in your hand and plants himself in the chair beside you. “Mama and her babies.”

“It’s something.”

“They’ll be off on their own soon. They’ll do fine.”

“And if not?” If one of the area’s predators doesn’t get to them, the road awaits.

“Then that’s that. Nature takes its course.”

You hate that he’s not wrong. Falling prey to a beast or an accident is simply what happens to creatures like the kittens. You chew your lip, thinking of how immutable that truth might’ve been once, but now? With the means to prevent all the unnecessary heartache? Knowing John’s attitude on man’s interference, you don’t voice it. Knowing your own.

You catch him staring. There’s something in the way his eyes linger. A quiet intensity that betrays the hunger he’s set aside for your benefit. Unspoken but raw. Crude. It claws at you as much as it does him.

Later, in the shower, you reacquaint yourself with your softer parts. You rouse a lovely pressure but fumble. It slips through your fingers and down the drain with the water.

~~

Your first inventory trip to Ponderosa arrives. The ride is more pleasant than the last, and John shoos you away to the library when you try to help at the town depot. He warns you it’s a lot of dull conversation and lifting, so you slink off.

The whole town’s decorated for the Fourth. Its two hotels are bursting at the seams, sidewalk patios filled with folk. A shuttle to a resort ten minutes away stops in front of the coffee shop, making the decision to delay your visit for you.

The Ponderosa Public Library is cozy and welcoming. The gleaming white stone floor of the entrance lends a hallowedness. Phil Graves’s drawl drifts through your head at the sight of a local history display positioned near the front, but the honeyed voice of the librarian hooks your attention. Draped in a floor-length cardigan, the kindly older woman eagerly waves you in. She’s thrilled to register you with a temporary card when you inquire.

“I can count on one hand how many visitors have signed up this summer. Two!” She laughs. “Your name?”

~~~

In the pre-dawn stillness of the desert, the landscape is a vast, empty stretch painted in muted hues of gray and indigo. Hints of morning light graze the earth and highway, devoid of traffic aside from the occasional tumbleweed. The openness feels expansive yet intimate. Alien, yet familiar. Desolation and your lonely home of some years. Where life makes the best of it. The most stability you’ve ever known.

You arrive in town five minutes past seven.

Passing the gas station, you keep your head down and ring hand displayed to let the synthetic gemstone reflect the sun. It doesn’t stop one trucker from leaning out of his cab with an appreciative whistle.

The library’s office light is on, so you knock on the staff entrance. Robin lets you in thirty seconds later, chattering on about a game show. You clean the bathrooms while she prepares the rest of the branch to open. You finish with minutes to spare and settle at the boxy computer that keeps your back to a wall.

The usual patrons file and out in as you send a dozen inquiry emails to writing gigs and delete rejections. You write a father of the bride speech for $50, your biggest job yet. Every sentence is a penny, and pennies add up. You’ll have enough for the car, gas, and computer in a few months. Everything is planned out and locked safely away in your head, except for one detail.

You traipse slowly along the geography shelf, hand poised like a dowsing rod, waiting for a feeling. Your fingers brush a spine and shiver. Idaho Cities and Townships. Paging to the index, you trace your finger down the list like you’re looking for the right scripture in church. The psalm to sing. Something pulls your finger to a place called Grouse Bay. It burrows under your skin and nails. Hope. 

~~~

You revere librarians. They’re the only people you’ve met who never pry, lest it be to help you. Jeanne, the librarian of this particular branch, leaves you to peruse without hovering. The bangles on her arms clink together like a bell on a cat. She minds herself until you approach the checkout with a short stack.

“Excellent choices, sweetie. These’ll keep you plenty company.” She scans them, apprising you of the upcoming fireworks, but abruptly pauses. Her eyes stare past you. “Are you expecting a handsome fella? A Brawny Man lookalike?”

From outside, John waves with a smile. You return both. “I am.”

She whistles low and slides the books to you with a knowing look. “I take it back. He’ll be plenty of company.”

Outside, John hooks a finger in your tote the moment you’re within reach and peers inside. Nosy. 

“A couple of romances, nothing you’d like.”

“That so? You don’t think I’d like…The Arrangement?” 

You bat at his hand, clutching your haul and tilting away as you walk. “I highly doubt it.”

A waggish grin lights up his face. If the man on the front cover of that particular text bears a resemblance to him, it’s pure coincidence.

On the ride home, his hand inches over your thigh. You let it rest and take another long shower.

You still can’t scratch the itch.

~~

Despite John’s preparations, the Fourth of July cleans the grocer out of booze, cigarettes, and just about everything else. The store shuts after lunch, and he talks you into a boat ride. 

“I didn’t know you owned a boat.”

“I don’t,” He hefts a cooler onto the tailgate, the last stash of crusher beer inside. “Kate does. Nik just patched her up.”

“Wish he’d fix my car.” Nikolai mentioned the part was delayed two weeks and blamed a train derailment further West. 

Kate’s home is an aging two-story half a mile down the lakeside road. Two juniper trees bracket the entrance, with twin rows of bluebells and dogbane lining the path. Her Ranger sits under a carport, flanked by a muddy ATV and an old Bronco.

You shoulder your bag and walk to the rear of John’s truck, studying the unfamiliar vehicles. “Who else is joining us?”

“Hello, rabbit.” A gruff voice purrs. Outdoors, Simon looks larger than life with no fixture or frame to duck. His muscles bulge under a black t-shirt, the skin on his arms more bronzed than his face. However, as he steps directly behind you, leaning over you to grab the cooler, you see faint tan lines around his eyes.

You whip around to face the cab, trying to not look so obvious with your failed escape attempt, and see John’s mouth flatten. Simon’s chest brushes and bumps your back, pelvis ghosting your hip as he effortlessly hauls the packed cooler over your head. The smell of burnt rubber, oil, and sweat is fleeting but intense.

“How’s the boat?” John slams his door. You flinch and hastily close the rear gate. 

“Glorified sardine tin.” Simon clears his throat and spits, then jerks his head. “C’mon.”

You follow in silence, crossing the road and descending a creaky staircase built into the slope of the hillside leading to the lake. Kate’s boat is bigger than you imagined, a double-decker pontoon. She and Nik stand at the mooring fixed to an aluminum dock, and as you step onto the last shallow flight, a man emerges from the cabin.

His grin is a crescent set on a chiseled jaw and hard to look away from. He isn’t as tall as Simon, but cuts just as imposing of a figure with wide shoulders and thick arms. He bounds closer, greeting the three of you like an excitable dog. Simon passes by, mumbling something that makes the man straighten and lock on to you with eyes an unnerving shade of blue, cynoid. Nothing like John’s.

John gently nudges you ahead and supplies your name. “And this is Soap. He’s Simon’s partner.”

Partner. That’s not as comforting as you want it to be. “Soap?”

An accent wraps around his words, catching you off guard. “Aye. Soap. Heard a lot about ye.”

“Good things I hope?”

He leans, voice dropping into a conspiratorial but genial whisper. “Plenty. Though if ye got a naughty streak, I won’t tell.”

The breeze off the lake doesn’t abate the heat his compliment evokes. A whiff of acetone blends with mint wafts off him, but it’s his nostrils that flare. He’s sniffing you. “I don’t–”

“Soap!” Simon barks.

“Chat later.” He whispers, then answers Simon’s call, disappearing with his counterpart.

A bit dazed, you greet Kate, and she steers you aboard. John unmoors the boat with Nik muttering in his ear, and you’re shown the prime seat at the bow. Kate takes the helm, and within minutes, the pontoon putters away from shore to join the dozens of vessels dotting the lake. Simon and Soap return with armfuls of bottles and cans, someone turns the satellite radio on, and John fits himself to your side. You don’t know the last time you celebrated the Fourth, and here you are, toasting two Brits, a Scot, and a Russian. If there’s a punchline, you hope to find it.

A flask eventually appears. You refuse, watching Soap’s mouth pucker in disgust and Nikolai drinking deep like it’s water. John squeezes your shoulder, his arm draping over you with his thigh pressed to yours.

He murmurs, “Why don’t you go see Kate? Get some girl talk in?” 

Kate doesn’t seem the type for girl talk, but how the others seem to hold their breath at John’s suggestion propels you to your feet.

You find Kate atop the upper deck, sprawled with a book and a cigarette dangling out of her mouth. The boat rides the wake of passing speedboats, forcing you to crawl and sit cross-legged. You barely hear the men below save for another toast.

“Too much for you, huh?” Kate asks, taking a drag.

It’s a conscious decision to not mention girl talk. “Yep. They’re…a lot.”

She snorts and lets the conversation wither early on the vine, probably for the best. She is your landlord.

Basking in the sun, you drink your warming beer and watch the water. Listen to the whoops and hollers across the lake.

When your father moved you across state lines to a ramshackle home perched atop a steep hill, you often crept onto the roof to do just this. They called that lake an unsalted sea, vast and untamed. Choppy with whitecaps and an unfathomable shade of blue, always darker than the sky above. You lived in fear of it, listening dutifully when your father carped on your morbid fascination. He banned you from trekking to its shores.

As a child, he suffered visions of you getting swept up by a rogue wave. You believed him, wanting him to care. As a teenager, you wondered if it was his way of protecting you from the men who prowled the docks, the boogeymen in the dark. His tacit acknowledgment of your growing older. Now, a thousand miles and a lifetime away, you know it’s because he simply didn’t want another prisoner to escape.

The first man whose love you wanted tried to trap you with water. The second dragged you to a desert. Looking down at John, your stomach twists. The third time’s a charm. He’s not like them.

“Rabbit.” Soap’s shaggy head pokes over the deck’s edge. “Mind if I join?”

Kate turns a page, you scoot, and Soap hoists himself up.

“So. You and John. What’s that like?” He laughs at your wince. “C’mon. Dinnae be shy. Been a minute since someone’s turned his head.”

“It’s…new.”

“New. Aye. Steamy? At eachother like–”

“Christ,” Kate grumbles, suddenly rocking up to a seated position, simultaneously stubbing out her cigarette as she slides to the edge. “I don’t need to hear this.”

Soap snickers. “Dinnae mind her.”

Sensing a sliver of an opening, you redirect. “John said you and Simon were partners. How long have you been together?”

“Years, I reckon. Hard to picture life before him. I was a mess. Workin’ at his shop’s done me good.”

“Oh, I thought you were partner partners.”

He grins. “No, yer not mistaken. We’re partners in business an’ bed.” 

With a gentle dig, his elbow finds your ribs, and you feign an affable chuckle into your drink. The cheap beer’s too tepid to stomach, but you swallow, hide a grimace and push on. “What brought you here?”

Soap rolls his shoulders and finally casts his gaze elsewhere. “Wanted to see the world. I was an artist. I fucked off from home at sixteen an’ never returned. Wandered for years. Traveled all over.”

Sixteen. Incomprehensible. Not that eighteen was much better, but you weren’t alone. 

“And you stopped here?” You came to Grouse Bay to hide. Picked it at random. To think someone else did the same seems kismet.

“I ken. Ye probably think I’m daft. Of all the places I’ve seen, how come fuckin’ Idaho? Of all places? I dinnae. Set its hooks in me.” He glances at Simon. “Love’s got a way of changing people, aye? Transformin’ them. It could be ye, putting down roots next.”

The comment nips your soft underbelly. You pivot again. “Did you paint? Do you still create art?”

Soap turns. “Nae so much anymore. I mostly draw. Dipped my toes into painting, but too much to carry. The art I make nowadays…It’s gruesome.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Taxidermy. ‘S what Simon and I do,” His eyebrows shoot up, teeth flashing in a puckish smile. “Ye didnae ken?”

Revulsion tightens your throat. “I didn’t.”

He bites his lower lip, clearly eager to fan your disgust like a fire. A hairbreadth of control keeps his mouth shut long enough to rethink it. Instead, his focus drifts once more to his partner. 

Despite the acidity lapping at your throat, curiosity opens your mouth. “Do you know how Simon came to Grouse Bay?”

Soap’s lips press tightly together, enough to sap their color, then bend into a brief scowl. Without warning, he stands and rips his shirt off in one smooth movement. He tosses it, crows a complaint about the heat, and doesn’t look over the upper deck before launching off the pontoon.

Howls of laughter erupt, but surprise tethers you in place until John calls your name. Apparently, a sunset dip is tradition.

Ducking into the cabin under the premise of changing, you whisper to Kate, “I don’t have a swimsuit. John didn’t tell me about swimming.”

“He must’ve,” Kate quarters a lemon on the tiny counter and tucks a wedge into the bottle’s narrow mouth. She shoves it through with a thumb and licks the pad. “Nobody will bat an eye if you go in your underwear.”

“I’m not–that’s too–”

“You’re shy. That’ll pass. I’ll tell John you need his shirt.” She’s gone before you can argue.

A short eternity squeezes into less than a minute. John appears in the doorway, and beyond him, you hear Nikolai’s deep laugh.

“Kate says you’re shy.”

“I’m not shy.”

“Well, I’ve come to give you this just in case.” 

You thought you’d see John shirtless for the first time under different circumstances. Not in a cramped boat cabin, surrounded by his drunk friends. Your chest tightens. All the muscle you’ve only glimpsed and imagined is there in front of you. A torso sculpted by labor and practicality, rugged with scars and fat cushioning his stomach. And, to your delight, decently hirsute. His hand drops to his belt.

“Shirt’s yours. Need me to turn around?”

It feels more intimate than any kiss he’s given you, and it seems a test. You muster your nerve, set aside caution, and peel off your dress.

“Blue and white. Festive.”

“And you’re in green.”

He kicks off his jeans with a shrug. “Not my birthplace, and not for long.”

Standing at the stern, you entertain second and third thoughts, toying with the shirt’s hem. John waits in the water, expectant. You catch a flash of white—he’s nude. Toward the bow, you hear the others. They’re all nude.

“What about Kate?” You ask, voice warbling with uncertainty. 

“Kate never joins. She watches.”

“Watches?”

“For other boats. Voyeurs. Threats.”

You feel stupid for asking.

The shock of the cold water hits like a full-body slap, stealing your breath and sending a sharp jolt through your limbs. Arms wrap around you as you surface, and the scruff of John’s beard scrapes the juncture of your neck, chin pushing the wet shirt aside to briefly suck your neck. It’s sudden, it’s a lot, knowing what’s behind your back—

“John!” You sputter indignantly, giggling nervously as his broad hands slide to squeeze your hips. 

“Gimme a second.” He noses your wet skin and plants a few kisses before relinquishing his hold. “Sorry, sweetheart. Hard to keep my hands off you when you look so good.”

Sufficiently flustered, you promptly forgive him. “It’s fine. Just not in front of the others, please.”

“Right,” he chuckles and pinches your bottom as he paddles past. “She’s shy.”

Affronted, you swim after him.

As much as you hate to admit, Kate was right—your shyness melts with the sun’s slow descent. You spend the rest of the daylight in and out of the water, racing the men and learning to automatically avert your eyes from their frankly proud nakedness. By the time evening falls, you’re worn out, dressed, and idle as you munch on a sandwich Kate packed. It feels surreal. The entire day. Breathtakingly normal despite the skinny dipping.

Not weird, just different.

Eventually, everyone finds their place for the fireworks. You nestle into John’s side, swapping your towel for a blanket. He’s still bare-chested, shirt drying over an empty seat. It’s natural, resting your head on his shoulder. Fits perfectly. Simon, Soap, and Nikolai climb to the roof. Kate reclines in the captain’s chair. Beneath the cotton weave, John’s hand strokes your knee, and the other rests across your shoulders. The conversations lull as the whole lake seems to hold its breath.

Flashes of red and white burst overhead, their reflections shimmering over the rippling, dark water. Blue sparks spill in glittering arcs, lighting the night sky in meteoric explosions. Cheers from across the lake erupt alongside them. John’s hold doesn’t lax. For nearly an hour, he keeps you close, palm searing your skin. Your attention strays from the show, instead admiring his crow’s feet, the mole on his nose, and the silver woven into his beard. The fireworks cast a glow, making him look almost ethereal. Not angelic, otherworldly. The lines and marks on his skin map to places you’ve never been. Never thought you’d go.

The sky returns to an unbroken, inky black, the scent of sulfur settling in a fog. Kate ferries you to land, and you disembark ahead of John with his keys. In the drive, you pop the tailgate and then load your things into the passenger seat. 

“Bunny.”

You turn to see Soap hauling the cooler, huffing and puffing a bit. The thing’s empty, so he must’ve hurried up the stairs. He crosses the road, tossing his burden into the truck. 

“Bunny?”

He shakes his head. “Must’ve misheard. Said ‘bonnie’. Endearment of sorts. Listen, I was hopin’ to get another chance to speak with ye. You’re a good time when you let loose.”

“Thank you. I haven’t in a while. Felt nice.”

“I can tell. Simon said ye were wound tight. He frighten ye?”

To the core of your being. A congenital fear. You swallow it. “No.”

“Really? Big fella scares me.” Soap pitches his voice low. He casually stretches and grips the window crank, effectively caging you into the wedge of the door. His nostrils widen like earlier, pupils dilating in the light. “Now. Need ye to tell me somethin’. Been eatin’ me all day, and I cannae be a dog and put my nose wherever I’d like. Gotta be good.”

Instantly, ropes harness your thoughts, prepared to draw and quarter them into the bleakest parts of imagination. The desert, the inland sea. 

The plastic handle creaks under his grip as he forces the words out between his teeth. “Did ye find—”

“Johnny.” Simon. Soap immediately reels backward, tugged by an invisible thread. 

“Here, sir!”

Sir? Johnny? 

“ATV. Now.” 

Soap doesn’t so much as spare a parting glance, obediently scurrying to the four-wheeler. You stare, dumbfounded, and jump when the driver-side door creaks. John smiles wryly, his shirt adorning his neck like a damp scarf. The trail of hair disappearing into his waistband is a momentary distraction from the brute stalking beyond the windshield. Simon’s scarred flesh is a beacon in the moonlight. His heavy brow focused solely on the man perched atop his vehicle. You hear him seething, growling under his breath at Soap—Johnny—and John’s door shuts.

“C’mon, sweetheart. They’re alright.” He coaxes you into the cab, patting your knee with a sigh. “Lover’s quarrel. Simon’s a jealous man.”

“Jealous,” you echo, gawking at the two men outside. “Of me?” 

“Don’t sound so surprised.” John starts the truck and lowers his window. He leans out some as Nik and Kate share a smoke at the end of her walk. “Night, Kate. Nikolai.”

Nikolai leers behind his cigarette, gesturing with it in your direction. A few words of Russian escape with the smoke, a throaty laugh on their heels. Kate looks impassive. Bored. Her house disappears in the rearview. A restiveness itches under your skin, exacerbated by the quiet crackling of the radio. Your head’s a crowded place. The silence’s a good place to unburden it.

“So. Soap’s real name is Johnny?”

John chuckles. “Nobody but Simon calls him that, but you didn’t think it was Soap, did you?”

“I’m assuming it’s to keep things less confusing.”

“Correct. I actually employed him for a spell, when he arrived. Earned the name ‘Soap’ on account of his mouth. Needless to say, his career in retail was brief. Kept flirtin’ with the customers.”

“And he got with Simon?” 

“Simon swept him off his feet.”

You scoff. “That’s difficult to believe.”

“Simon has his ways.”

Nothing in your short, tense encounters suggests Simon to be a man capable of love or romance. You doubt it is uncharitable to think so, either. Ferine and rude, calculated and off-putting. Everything he does aims to disarm by making the very air around him feel heavy and wrong, whereas Soap seems keen to impress upon you his friendliness, conveying himself as human conciliation. ‘Opposites attract’ has limits. 

Yet.

“Soap said love has a way of changing people.”

John hums in agreement. “Most powerful force there is.”

Can’t argue with that. Force for good or otherwise, though—that you may dispute.

You don’t tell him to, but he shuts the truck off in the drive. Cats scatter as he escorts you, voicing their displeasure at your late arrival. Under the exterior light, you fumble with your keys, his gaze heavy on your cheek. In the time it takes to turn the lock, you berate yourself. Plead with a jury close to hanging.

It’s swimming all over again. Are you shy? Timid? Are you allowing the long, creeping reach of your abandoned husband to touch you before you let John try? The verdict passes your lips.

“Won’t you come in?”

“It’s late.”

“Please come in.”

It takes two invitations to coax John Price into the cabin and a third to the shower. 

A shuddering sigh of relief comes with removing your underwear and dress. The freedom from wet cotton eclipses the nervousness that makes your skin prickle with goosebumps. The urge to cover yourself in front of the man who is not your husband sings loud, nearly shrieking when he brushes his knuckles down your arm and gently turns you around. He starts the water, returning to press his front to your back, the slight tackiness of lakewater and sweat melding you together. His fingertips run a track from your flanks to the sides of your breasts, a hum buzzing into the skin of your shoulder when you grasp the counter.

When Dusty—No. No. He’s not here. John is. 

You banish the venomous guilt that tries to unseat your want and let John tug you into the shower to wash the day off.

He’s hard for most of it, his swollen cock skimming your hips and ass, glancing over your belly, and nearly driving the strength from your legs. He seems unfazed, reverent, and single-minded in his self-imposed task. It’s embarrassing, the way you squirm and fidget at every touch. Difficult to tell if it’s arousal or the unfamiliarity of intimacy.

John takes your place under the spray and chuckles softly when you finally look down. His fingers scrub through his body hair to the thatch at his cock’s root. You suck in a breath. He’s proportional—thick, heavy, and flushed. Hangs between the two of you, untouched, but you know it would burn your hand. Your tongue. The dizzying rush from that last thought alone reassures you because you don’t remember the last time you knelt because you wanted to.

Neither of you dress. Both of you barely dry. He insists on a light, hovering at the bedside lamp until you nod. When he climbs onto the bed, murmuring little nothings, your blood’s roaring in your ears, drowning out his encouragement. He opens your legs for a good look, but he might as well wrench open your ribcage. 

“Quite the sight.” John whispers. His palms slide from your knees to your upper thighs, the rough pads of his thumbs stroking where your thighs meet your pelvis. 

You imagine fastening an anchor to your brain, then a lure. Stay here, stay focused. 

“Yeah?”

His eyes flick to yours, narrowing as he reads into the single word. “Yeah. Beautiful.” He slowly slides and sinks to kiss your thighs, positioning himself between your legs. His shoulders stretch them further, and an arm snakes around and pulls you closer all too easily, hand groping a greedy handful. His breath hits where it’s wet, coarse hair tickling skin.

The first contact rips a sharp breath from you, which he immediately meets with a hum that buzzes to the base of your spine. The fingers on your thighs brush soothingly as he continues, jaw pressing further. His mouth latches, tongue dipping lower and in, laving along your entrance before circling to your clit. Each stroke and circuit deliberate, adjusting to the sounds spilling uninhibited from your mouth. Your hands reach and thread into his hair with a moan.

He groans softly into your flesh, nosing the fat above your sex, chuckling when your hips pitch. His hand travels up your quivering inner thigh to ease a finger in, pulling away to sink it into the first knuckle with a wet sound. 

“Look at you.” John sounds wrecked, beard and chin drenched in spit and slick, tongue licking the excess from his lip. Eyes boring into you with that look again. Unmasked hunger, barely tethered. The one you touched yourself to in the shower.

“Smelled you all day, smelled this,” He emphasizes with a pump of his finger, kissing your clit at the strangled, small noise you make. “Leaking into your pants, even after a swim. Nearly laid you out right there, during the fireworks.” 

A filthy whine erupts at the thought. You picture it vividly. John tearing your dress off of you, hauling you to the floor of the boat. Nik and Kate and Simon and Soap—all of them watching John mount you, ignoring the spectacle for a different show. Would any of them intervene? Would you want them to?

You clench at the thought, and he smirks.

He introduces a second finger alongside the first, hushing your reedy whimpers at the stretch. “The needy thing knew I was near. Knew that I could scent her crying out for me. Poor thing, neglected and mistreated. Needed a man to fuss over her.”

Your face grows somehow hotter. Not enough that you’re naked and under him, he needs to strip you bare and sweetly flay you alive. “John—”

He cuts you off, tutting. “Don’t be embarrassed—it’s natural for a man to want his mate.”

His fingers plunge to the webbing, ratcheting up to earnestly fuck you now that he’s teased you into incoherency. “Never gonna leave you lonely,” he rasps, tucking his mouth back over your pearled clit. 

Every year, the lake ice cracks and fractures with the arrival of spring. This is no different.

Muscles flexing and fluttering, dimly aware of the praises he murmurs against your cunt, you shatter. 

He doesn’t withdraw his fingers until you score his scalp and beg, and even then they slide over your slit, cupping the slippery folds of your pussy. He kisses and wipes his cum-soaked whiskers over your spasming thighs and stomach, his free hand planting beside you. John looms, pleased but not quite sated. 

He pets your cunt and waits for the worst of your trembling to cease. “Perfect,” he affirms, giving it a wet pat. He grunts, then abruptly knocks your legs open a second time with a knee, removing his hand to slick his cock.

Your eyes bulge, vision clearing in an instant at the view. Sat ignored for too long, his cock flushes a deeper shade of red, precome clinging to it like wax and seeping into his hair. He wraps his hand around the thick of himself, shuddering, eyes screwing shut as he strokes.

You think your orgasm might’ve knocked something loose. You reach a shaking hand and touch his knee. 

“J-John? I-I can’t…I can’t, not yet.” You are selfishness incarnate, asking him to quash his hunger once more. 

His eyes snap open. His pupils drill into you, flitting between your twitching cunt, his cockhead, and your face. Stygian and starving. 

“I’m sorry. Please.” 

He swallows, chest heaving with his unwhetted appetite, its festering close to spoiling. For a moment, fear poleaxes you into the mattress when he shuffles on his knees closer anyway, knees pushing under your thighs. 

“Not yet? That’s…okay,” John breathes raggedly. He nods, fisting his cock faster. His free hand glides from the valley of your breasts to your stomach, tracing a circle. “We’ll get there, sweetheart…Can I…?” 

Biting your lip, you nod.

He sighs, hips bucking slightly. “You’ll be taking my cock in no time. No tears, now. Wipe ‘em off.”

You obey immediately, not having realized you’d started crying, and see his cock jump in his hand at that.

John chuckles a little brokenly, struggling to speak through gritted teeth. “Soon, I can feel it. Gonna empty that head of yours, weed out what’s holding you back, and fill you, fuck, here.” His fingers press over your womb, and he jerks forward. Hot ropes of come shoot out, coating his fingers and your skin. He rocks into his fist a few more times, the motions stuttering, until leisurely sinking back to his haunches. 

After he withdraws and returns to clean you up, wiping the sweat off your brow before the cum on your belly, he tucks the both of you into bed. He turns off the lamp and claims the side closest to the door. He spoons you with his heartbeat to your spine.

Staring into the night beyond the window, you apologize again.

“I want to. I really want to.”

“I know, darl. I know.” He kisses your shoulder. “What did I say? We’ll get there.”

He falls asleep wrapped around you. You, however, lie awake trying to remember what it is to share a bed with someone willingly. With someone who wants you. 

Eventually, you wriggle out a hand and grab your phone, dimming its brightness all the way down. You haven’t checked it since work and swipe to your messages. A text from an unknown number sits at the top of your notifications.

>> F741 >> hold

[frogchiro]

did you see that warren cole posted his motorcycle on his instagram?! it's given me some maaaaaaajor thoughts about biker graves, maybe even in a modern cowboy/rancher au? like imagine him taking you on rides through the desert and he's so distracted by your chest pressed against his back and your legs spread behind him that he runs out of gas because he just drives so far and him and reader just end up in the middle of nowhere... they end up doing a walk of shame to some dusty ass motel and have tired lazy sex PAHAHAHAHAHAHA (i love you, and your writing. i always will! sending infinite love! <3)

YES I SAW IT AND HHRRNNNN the way that I need that man is astronomical, like, interstellar level

I think I'm gonna go with a...dad's best friend/neighbour Graves scenario for this one since I need a dilf to just take me away ;;

Imagine Graves coming to your dad one day to show him his new motorcycle and oh he just so happened to mention that he takes his new baby for a ride into the vast Texas desert for a day or two, do a lil sightseeing and stuff like that and your dad would be so thrilled!

Being none the wiser, your poor old dad asked his old military buddy if he maybe could take you with him if it wouldn't be too much of a hassle. He said that while he appreciated you being a good student and generally a very calm and mild mannered girl, he thought that you'd need something...more adventurous to do during your summer holiday from collage and Philip being his trusted friend is the perfect person to do that! He trusted him with his life on the battlefield many years ago and now he will trust the blonde man with his daughter :)

Little did your dad know is that it's exactly what both you and Philip were hoping for, literally the perfect opportunity. You and your handsome older neighbour were in a,, let's say secret relationship, at least for the time being and every little sliver of time together was precious ;;

And so you quickly packed the few things you could, climbed onto the bike and off you two went, on a nice, relaxing trip, just the two of you until it didn't end up as relaxing as you though it'd be ;;

As much as Philip prides himself to be a man of iron self control with you it just slips away way too easy, but its one of those things he adores about you, how easy and young he feels when he's with you. Unfortunately this time it didn't come as handy as usual. You weren't supposed to travel too far, just around 100km, stay at a motel for a night or two, have some passionate intimate moments just between two lovers and then right back to put you back into your pa's arms with a pat on the head and call you a 'good kid' but as usual, everything went wrong.

As shameful as it is Philip got a little...distracted. The distraction being the feeling of your warm, soft body and the feeling of your pillowy boobs pressed tightly against his leather jacket clad back and he might have happened to drive a bit too fast for a bit too long and drove straight by the motel you were going to stay, with you not paying attention either being distracted too by all the pretty sights and Phil's cologne and musk :((

All was good and cool until the bike started to rumble and slow down into a dead stop. You drove too far for too long, you're out of gas and it's getting dark. Perfect.

You'd lie if you said you weren't at least a bit scared, after all you were literally in dead nowhere with the nearest town being at least 120km away, it was getting cold due to night approaching and Philip was cussing like a sailor trying to reach a towing company but to no avail, it was late already and no one would help you until tomorrow morning. As much as Graves was pissed off he vaguely knew the area having gone on bike drives here a while ago and he could remember there being a motel not too far away, maybe a 15 minute walk. Sure it was a dingy backwater hole with a shady looking old man behind the counter but better that than staying out here for the night right? Plus he could see that you were getting scared and so began the trek to the motel with you helping him pull his bike along the road.

After finally getting there, your fingers stiff from cold and from pulling the heavy machine you thanked all of the gods above and almost cried with relief and happiness when you saw the old blinking light of the sign of the motel. You didn't even care that it looked like the shadiest place on earth, all you wanted to do was to take a shower with Phil and jump straight into bed but,, it looked like the blonde male had other ideas ;;

What ensued was instead of you going right to bed and sleeping this eventful day off, way some sleepy, lazy and absolutely tired love making and it was the best you and Phil ever had <3

The way the older man was barely moving above you, your tired and sore bodies pressed together as close as can be with Philip thrusting his strong hips against you gently, his hot throbbing cock a warm and comforting weight inside you, right up against your cervix but not with the usual rough, fast pace but just resting there, taking in each others warmth in the otherwise cold motel room<3

Your breaths mingled hotly with each other as you lazily kissed before Philip returned his head back into the crook of your neck and started lazily making out with the sensitive skin, his hips barely moving at this point but it was the warmest and most comforting feeling you could ask for.

Tomorrow Philip would fill the gas tank in his beloved bike up to the brim so you could safely and uneventfully return to the motel you were initially going to spend your time but honestly? If someone were to ask you you'd say that this was the more or less perfect romantic getaway <3

[names-for-alters]

Hello one and all, alters and headmates! I am Charlie! I like to make lists! I also hoard names! Are you looking for a name? GREAT! You can send an ask and request a specific aesthetic or origin of name, or you can look at my list!

With that said…

…Cracks knuckles…

Findo Tach Tails Flicker Tracer Kat Iris Blu Brick Arlo Sammy Artie Finn Stein Aleksandr Vora Olive Luna Nyx Cyrus Qrow Orian Cello Onyx Skye Grim Opal Dawn Azure Fish Bones Poppy Bronze Eggs Sparky Specs Snickers Trout Navi Bingo Chili Bandit Stripe Busker Socks Brandy Frisky Winston Lucky Chucky Bently Judo Rusty Max Honey Indie Calypso Striker Merle Moxxie Vex Ant Bugger Bee Spider Tails Hook Indigo Amber Coco Coral Scarlet Ivory Jade Ruby Emerald Chuck Loden Copper Hamelin Neo Shepard Cinnamon Visor Macalister Soul Hack Hiccup Flynn Rider Astrid Jay Raven Robyn Bolt Dagger Viper Tracer Cornwall Flock Sapphire Crystal Ghost Mochi Trick Catra Rose Raven Flip Chani Racket Red Crimson Dragon Runt Scotch Tellie Gator Croc Crow Goat Duck Creeper Kuma Jet Jeep Draco Poppy Sombra Raine Squish Spike Blaze Ender Drake Sandy MK PJ DJ CJ MJ King Creak Shadow Clay Dusty Miles Dart Willow Antonius Husk Moth Cypher Jin Yin Yang Daisy Gray / Grey Alistair Halo Angel Cake Fennec Fox Null Lull Bastion Lucky Sun Star Cosmo Tweety Vox Nerys Sonic Bark Birch Oak Cherry Blossom Peaches Velvet Shell Coffee Valley Fang Moot Redpath Pudding X V Jr Ether Fig Trunk Joy Frogger Snowflake Snowball Snow Jumper Racket Flare Vendetta Loonie Coin Six Eleven Tropica Stelina Mojave Ink Sud Fender Zero Pollen Wysteria Page Ozias Rex Tortch Buck Nickel Stripe Lynch Tramp Wolf Pup Tank Jhariah Kharma Zenith Sparrow Prism Lemon Mune Lamb Pyke Diamond Parker Graves Fizz Nugget Melody Tink Blight Fangless Ambress Vulture Eclipse Luka Bangle Constance Constantine Sommar Babble Clank Bobble Chipper Aidan Slate Tin Twire Zephyr Silver Misty Faunus Atlas Birdie Brook Cedar Chip Coal Daisy Ember Faye Fate Fern Flint Harmony Helios Ivy Junx Kit Lyria Phoebe Piper Lady Beacon Elos Rumble Ida Cross Zed Scootie Smidge Clauger Happy Sonny Hath Soldier River Song Clawtor Videl Legen Onen Chunk Reid Pop Cobra Cash Clover Saris Volante Donna Belladonna Gale Chopper Morphias Vidia Loft Kape Levi Licker Howl Dustin Newt Creek Breezy Polaris Blight Archer Sirius Warren Dream Goon Cookie Ranger Amity Jericho Viggo Besko Asra Alice Olaf Mossfeld Issic Missy Rascal Creasy Nonya Hex Pita Miguel Manuel Rayburn Daisy Dash Lucky Becky Steele Cylo Featherstone Kingston Netherfield Reacher Saltburn Quick Rubble Dust Brimstone Humble Ado Grover Norvanos Leshy Blade Cooper Calcium

Leo

Leonardo

Lebony

Silver

Linzier

Pearl

blackberry

Tatin

Bud

Raphael

Pebble

Mina

Linda

Oolong

Daeo/Dayo/Dao

Inco

Ketlyn

Risa

Ines

Lora

Flock

Lux

Rix

Reah

Destinty

Bet

Ange

Krixa

Lalien

Gloom

Bug

Rozy

Mars

Screech

Jenny

Robert

Patrick

Pierre Rosemary

Henderson

Mayfield

Sinclair

Sullivan

Hart

Solace

Daughtler

Stoll

Gatlin

Yearwood

Amos

Graves

Rothschild

Halley

Spektor

Presley

Redd

Blackwood

Notvletti

Valerie

Milo

Marian

Lychee

Aiden

Nova

Vel

Bel

Yuri

Puro

Pluto

Ramona

Angel

Nada

Shen

Mog

Hania

Udge

Kinetic

Kikos Wathel

Dupa

Sierre

Jimor

Teddy

coc

Scara

River

Shade

Foenem

Duck

Emily

Toast

Reunna

Ichigo

Rae

Sonic

MoonL

Lennus

cabaran

Marto

Leveer

Granite

Tongle

Gavril

Luella

Malachite

Leonard

[henghost]

it is my firmly held belief that somewhere, on some dusty forgotten hard drive, wildbow has a document that explains exactly how 9/11 was prevented on earth bet. this is his lost literary masterpiece. as delillo writes in libra, "the warren commission is the book james joyce would have written if he moved to iowa"--this is the quality mr. mccrae's occult modernist masterpiece will have. all political mysteries of the parahuman universe--and indeed of the events of september 11th, 2001--are revealed, up to and including bin laden's trigger event (in which i feel certain the cia was involved). it also contains a steamy romance between members of cauldron. i will find this document. it will save me. my holy grail.

[gamesofmuggles]

warren and june.

a little image.

summary : june, billy's and graham's little sister is a part of the band in her own way. she told us in exclusivity how she found the inspiration for all the most successful songs!

Billy's little sister, Graham's little sister, The Dunne Sister. In the background, discreet, calm, sweet as honey. The secret ingredient that not many people know of regarding Daisy Jones and the Six.

Interviewer : You’ve been secretly writing most of the band songs over time without people knowing about it. Why?

June : (chuckles) well not everybody wants the spotlight.

Interviewer : The most beautiful lyrics, the more remembered, the critics' favorites are songs with a common factor: love. Where does everything start for you?

I agreed to come to the house in LA, of course. Graham was so pushy about it, I think he was afraid that I would get bored without them and that ill wouldn’t write for them anymore. Billy, oh Billy was just happy to be my big brother and protect me. I was the first fan you know, and I will be the last. I remember there wasn’t enough room in the house, but Graham and Camila urge me to accept the nicest room. « To keep her mind fresh,» said Graham before dropping my suitcase on the bed. « I’m coquette too you know » I heard Warren say to Graham after he closed the door.

Warren: I slept in the bathtub for a while.

June: Karen arrived a few days after, finding Graham, Warren, and Eddie fighting in the living room. I was on the couch supervising the points, it was my first encounter with her. She asked « is it always like this » with a raised eyebrow. « Most of the time » I answered. Then I show her her room.

Warren: I wore her hoops back then, I looked fabulous in them.

June: I said to Warren I needed the hoop back. But he did look fabulous in it. To return to the question, my inspiration, well all the nights at the Filthy Mc Nasty, in the back writing while smoking and listening to the band play, alone except for the barman sometimes with more crowd. All the hangover brunch near the beach. The movie nights on a dusty screen. The fighting was because nobody -especially not women- wanted to clean those boys' mess. The adventurous meal cooked with cheap cans. Yeah, that was the inspiration. « June, how is your mind so powerful? » Graham asked me one day reading some of my last work. « can’t recall some of the highest heights / but I’ve memorized you, yeah we need to use this in the future» he added. Lyrics that were used for Midnight, I’m very proud of this song. I remembered I tried to hide blushing, cause every writing was always easy when I was thinking of Warren.

I had found the perfect spot in the Filthy McNasty so I could have an eye on him behind all those men on stage. I knew how he liked his eggs and his beer. His taste in movies. The curve on every one of his hair. I watched him a lot, a writer needed a muse you know? But also what a muse if he didn’t know he was one. Cause I never wanted to meddle with the band whatsoever and wished to keep my feelings very private, except when I wrote the songs of course. Every flirting interaction Warren may had have with me was pure imagination, it must be. Also, Warren was always a flirty guy.

Warren: It was no imagination. We were all clueless, awkward, and well, a little bit high back then. Every time I thought about it, I had to go out and smoke some. The small idea that everything could go to shit because of a tiny crush was frightening. But how could something could go wrong with June, sweet June who makes my eggs, perfect eggs every morning she can. Who went to search for the best curls cream for my hair. Imagine how someone could be this important that no matter the numbers of tits fans show you, you only want one?

June: He said that? How romantic. Where was I?

I remembered one night. We were on the beach, Graham and Billy playing guitars. Eddie Karen, Warren, and I are in the waves. Eddie wanted to fight, he’s such a fighter sometimes. He picked up Karen on his shoulder, Warren did the same with me. I was on top of his shoulder alarmed to move after the sudden physical touch. I was no prude and it was the 70s there was no secret but yeah. Karen took my hesitation for a win and pushed the both of us in the waves, Warren's hands still holding onto me. He asked if I was alright. Yeah. He had brushed my hair away from my face, a big smile on his. I remembered, ok. I need to have this smile in my life forever.

Billy: Are you asking me If I knew my little sister had a crush on Warren? Well, Ringo Starr was always her favorite so take a guess. Graham: I knew of course. Karen: Graham is gonna say he knew but he was clueless. They were pretty damn secret at first. But Warren was taking too many drugs to keep his mouth shut you know? Daisy: June still sends me Christmas cards. She was what glued this band I can tell you that. Eddie: I still can’t believe Warren scored this well.

June: I was scared of Billy’s reaction. Nothing happened at this point but I kept thinking about it. We were at a diner, the band suffered from the lack of notoriety while working their ass off. I wanted to comfort him. At least the band had a shiny new name.

Eddie: About damn time!

Warren: That night, I was ready to join that couch as always. Breaking my back. When June ask me to meet her in her room after everybody was asleep. So I did. At 2 am, I knocked and enter. She was wearing Billy’s old Black Sabbath tee shirt, writing on her stomach. Man oh, man.

June: I was very nervous, but It was time I also lived a little bit. Also whatever occurred it would have been good materials for the band you know (chuckles). He entered and he was wearing his flannel pant. I nearly jumped out of bed and I ran to his side, practically smashing him against the door and I kissed him. I (blushing) I never was nearly as adventurous as Karen, or Camila. It was a bold move for me you have to know that.

Karen: I heard a bang, yeah. Thought it was the ghost of my room. Or a bird.

Warren: Man oh man, I can’t tell you more about that night.

June: You have your answer, but you knew about it don't you?

Warren: You just wanted the sweet story to cover the bad ones don't you?

Interview : (smiles) sunshine after the rain, and by the way congrats on your 10th anniversary.

June: thank you.

[carte-blanco]

IF YOUR LONELY, COME BE LONELY WITH ME...

Summary: Nightmares couldn't be more real then fighting for your life, especially when you haven't had them for years. Warren awakes from a nightmare and has trouble falling back asleep but fortunately someone, who's the first in a long time to treat him like a person... Understands his pain

Crimson red seeped through Warren's fingers coating his scarred hand and dripping on the patchy gravel. His shoulder, gashed and piercing through his entire nervous system like salt. Shit. He grumbled under his breath wiping the blood from his lip, snatching for the rouged handle, barely even registering the mirror like cracks in the dusty material.

Chants and roars echoed through the pits, eager for a show that they paid for to the death. Foaming at the mouth like animals and a gleam of satisfaction at my pain. Warren glared at the crowd with, feeling his eyebrows dig into his forehead.

A guard chuckled kicking pebbles, swinging his sword and nodding to the audience with a grin that told a thousand truths behind his gloating, cocky exterior. It made his throat tighten behind the strangling strap around his neck, telling him his place.

He couldn't lose...?

He gulped, glaring before reaching and raising the cracked sword, pressing his entire palm into the hilt of handle and his shoulder ached even more causing the sword to falter a little.

And then his smile widened, his fucking smile widened with masochism dripping from his eyes and then- he lunged, fast, relentlessly with a monstrous attack that made Warren barely be able to block which made him stumble slightly and slam against the metal bars behind him, hands and fingers gripped at his skin from behind him attempting to hold him in place, digging into the flesh with a thrilled excitation. The guard raised his sword high and roared with crazy smile, causing spit to fly from his mouth.

He couldn't lose....

With a quick reflex, Warren bared his teeth around one of the audience members arm and bit down, ravishing the skin until he drew blood which made them jerk back, tossing the other sword into his injured arm and blocked with a wobbling effort. Warren then rolled from under the violet hold and stood on one knee, breathes strangling his throat as he tried to catch air before the next rushed assault came.

Blocking, Parrying. Blocking, Parrying. Again and again. Without a second breath, other cuts plastered his bare skin. Shit. The guard raised his chin and scowled, Worm. Falling out his mouth as he spit blood at the dirt, ready for another violet assault. Dizziness played in my eyes, creating spirals of light to dance.

He couldn't lose...

He couldn't lose...

He couldn't....

A figure appeared at the corner of his eye as he lunged forward, foot forward. A women, a noble. A face he couldn't forget. It made his throat dry and swell slightly, or rather the singular gash stopped him dead in his tracks. One across the chest, near his heart, made his throat swell.

Warren swayed before dropping his sword and tumbling to the patchy dirt, that bit into his face and neck. The crowd erupted into hoots and chanting, throwing jabs at the "The Most Famous Gladiator in Steelgate". He shook almost violently as a cold washed over him as he attempted to crawl near the gate, near her. Near the woman who abandoned him. To save him. How could she do this to me? How could she stand there and watch?. As he reached out the scrap of a sword made him freeze as the guard stopped near him, glaring and smiling with so many words in his mouth.

Warren glared and continue to crawl near the gate as another figure appeared from the shadows. Another he couldn't forget either. One he looked for after he was taken away. His last blood. His last family. His brother. Warren wrapped his bloody hand around the bar, before the shadow of a heavyweight hit his neck and darkened the amber lights.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜

A chill of coldness suddenly washed over him as he jolted awake blurring vision staring up at the darkened living room ceiling, hand to his heart and struggling for air. Mouth wide and trembling, almost like a yearning scream was lodged in the back of his dry throat. He was alive?, he questioned, the thought almost unreliable to believe as his hand enclosed around his neck, searching for the pressure that choked him almost to death.

Coughing and sputtering, sweating and sniffling, Warren wiped his brow and buried his head into his knees, clenching the weighted blanket for assurance. A dream? A nightmare?. When did he start having those?. And why did it seem so real?. Every thought was never a solution to the answers he wanted, to why she was their. Why he was their and the distant look in his eyes. Almost like he didn't know who Warren was. But the memories didn't lie. And that sensation of discomfort and loss was very real. He cleared his throat feeling a sharpness of a bitter and dull sensation that ran dry on his tongue.

He needed water. Warren lifted himself off the couch as best he could, trembling legs and blurry vision made him feel immobile as he stumbled into Cupcakes table of potions and bookshelves full of thousands of history. He soon made himself to the kitchen, dishes clattered and cupboards rattled as he slammed them shut, rummaging through the shelves like a mad man for a cup and soon getting the water he needed and Downing it.

Water dripped from his chin and down his neck, wiping away the remaining droplets relieved him from the dryness of threatening memories. His hand flexed around the cup as his thoughts still ran vigorously. Nightmares. He scoffed. They were unbecoming of him. He hadn't had them around his last master and the one before that.

So why now?. Was it the pressure of having the freedom of looking for his brother or just his mind reminding him of what he was. Warren scoffed again, rubbing his neck, subconsciously checking for the scar that he had felt, almost real. As he walked out of the kitchen, a faint light caught his attention, it illuminated the cloudy darkness that indicated that a late night storm was coming. Cupcake was still awake?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Coffee stained pages brushed against her finger, squinting ever so slightly at the cursive words illuminated by the amber light. Cupcake yawned. She was diving in her fourth book of the night, it was currently late morning as sleep was being her enemy.

Sleep didn't come easy when it came to her, nothing ever came easy to her. Whether it was staying up late nights to get the formula right to her experiments, monitoring her plants so that they would flourish with no problem, erasing staggering pencil marks on her sketch book pages. Being a scientist wasn't easy, but being overworked and perfectionist didn't come easier. She wondered on late nights like this if everyone had thoughts like that, to stay awake and read till the sun shined, "Why couldn't I sleep". "What left me so restless?". But no matter what she asked there was never a answer willing to make up for the loss of sleep she was getting. But behind that silence there were other answers to questions she'd been asking all night.

"How can I appeal to the counsel?"

"What else can I do to make them understand why i do what I do?"

"Why did I leave home?"

"What am I doing this all for?"

It was bombarding her. It was all bombarding her. Cupcake sighed, a sudden frustration washed over. She closed the book ever so slightly, clenching it beneath her fingers ready to fling the book at the wall before a creek caught her attention near the open stairs. Warren peeked his head around the corner, eyeing the illuminated room before looking at Cupcake and the amount of books at her side.

"Hey". She said clearing her throat and placing the book down by her bed. "I didn't know you were still awake, did I wake you?". Something was off. He grunted shaking his head, stumbling slightly against the door frame, as if he wanted to be closer into the room. "I didn't know you were still awake either" he rubbed at his throat, soreness still present and aching. "I just got up to get some water". He picked at the wood at the wall. Silence fell over the room as Cupcake observed Warren. The stumbling, the roughness in his throat, the semblance of leftover sweat that clung to his forehead. Cupcake was familiar with those symptoms far too well.

"Warren are you okay?, you look a little... Shaken up". Cupcake asked sincerely. Warren jaw clenched as his stare turned defiant, well tried to if not for the exhaustion that pulled at his eyelids. "Yeah" He scoffed, "I'm good". Warren was usually the one that always fell asleep first. As much as he would've hated to admit it, even when we first got here. He had fought sleep like the plague before he ever decided to sleep around her. He was a deep sleeper and not much could wake him, not even when Cupcake got up and started working on her daily chores for the day. And waking up in the night for water was a bit unlike him. Cool, calm and collected is what Warren said when he was around her. But Cupcake saw through it. Why wouldn't she?

"I just-" he stammered, scoffing again about to turn his heels. "I just wanted to see why you were awake, good night". Cupcake crawled to end of her bed, quick to tell him not to leave but stopped herself before asking, "Did you have a nightmare Warren?". He stilled, stiffening, glaring at her over his shoulder. "It wasnt-".

It wasn't the heat of the moment to embarrass him or make it feel bad for it, but rather to know. To know why he still carried himself like this. Nightmares were normal, they happened to everyone, weak, strong, alone or together. And the nightmares he faced were never gonna be under bed, in the shadows lurking around the corner or in the closet. They were inside him and they were tormenting him and he was letting them.

She extended a hand out to him with a fond expression and a knowing smile that made him falter. He wanted to walk away. He wanted to ask her why she would care if he had a nightmare or not. She was his master, his owner.. She wasn't supposed-. A gentle hand enclosed around his calluses palm, pulling him away from the cold stairway.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The sheets were soft under his hands, a scent of flowers and books surrounded the comforter as she wrapped it over him. That's not to say that her couch wasn't comfortable despite the living room being the best place he's ever slept, but something about the smell of the room itself made him feel dizzy. The room was now dark and only illuminated by the moon that still peeked out from the dark clouds. Distant thunders rattled the walls. Cupcake reached a unsure hand near him, under his ear and head before moving him closer to her chest, over her heart. He could feel his face warm up slightly as his body stiffened under her touch. What.... What was this?. What was she doing?. Warren questioned as her heartbeat echoed through his ears. Calm... Steady... Fluttering.

Was... This allowed?. He lifted his head slightly, ready to ask her why she doing this, what was the point in allowing this behavior that all of the counsel would disapprove of. Cupcake placed a hand over his head, gently pushing him back to her chest. Soft fingers scratched at his scalp and rubbed his neck, while her other hand rubbed over his back. Releasing the tension like it was never there. That was his cue that he needn't move but just to stay.

"Its gonna be okay". Cupcake whispered as she nuzzled her chin into his hair. Its- its gonna be okay? When had anyone told him that?. Why did she tell him that?. Weights began overshadow his eyelids as he could feel himself sinking deeper into her chest. Over her heart.

Rhythmic, Slower, Reassuring. It was everything that she was. And more. Warren had known a rough life since the day he was put in chains and branded with a collar. Soft beds, eternal words and long lasting nights that didn't end up with him bundled in a corner on a bloody floor was something he'd cling to forever if he could. Breathing in the scent of the flowers still clinging to her clothes, He wrapped his arm around her waist and under her Back and nestled in closer.

This was unlike him in so many ways. A slave laying in bed with his master? The city would have a fit, maybe even collapse. But for once He wondered how many dreams he'd actually get tonight for once. Warm darkness enclosed around him and nothing was felt other the softness of her hand in his hair and words.

"If your lonely, come be lonely with me"

[everysongieverwrote]

I gotta admit, I love the last scene we get of Jo in the latest episode. When she silently watches as Kelly happily walks away from her (after she just asked her about Reena) and she just stands there alone, then looks from one side to the other and Dusty is avoiding her eyes, no one is paying her any attention, and the other girls and Warren are nowhere to be seen. Because this is it, this is the moment. She's alone now, she's no longer a leader, she no longer has a gang. The only family she had, the family she fought for, is gone. That's a "queen" who just realized she has been abandoned, betrayed, and dethroned. The whole episode does a great job of showing how the power dynamics shifted in the group. How Jo went from being the leader to being a follower. From being the one who uses people to becoming the one who gets used. The fact that she's the only one following the case and the one who asked Kelly about the dreams (after both Warren and Dusty confessed to having them) also speaks volumes and develops her character even more. Chloe Guidry and the UTB writers and directors have done an amazing job with this character and her particular story. Like, yes, of course she's not innocent but she's human and I think this is what made her realize that.

[memento-morri-writes]

Proud of Tag

I was tagged by the very talented @talesofsorrowandofruin Thanks!

Rules: Post a snippet you've written that you're pleased with/proud of, and tag some friends!

Take a snippet from some experimental description for future events from Rook's D&D campaign: (tw for injury and illness)

As you readjust, picking him up carefully, so as not to jostle him, he murmurs quietly, “I’m sorry, Warren.” He rests his head against the hollow of your neck, and you can feel the warmth of his feverish skin even through your clothes. Blood is still oozing from the cuts on his back, staining your shirt.

(I feel that it is important to mention that the person carrying him is not Warren, because Warren had been dead for over a week at this point. Rook is just very, very sick, and more than a little delirious at the moment.)

And I'll give you another, less sad/gross one, because I feel a little bad posting nothing but whumpy shit lately, for those of you who aren't really fans of such things. (Still from the D&D game, sadly.) This is the description and introduction for my temporary character, Val.

You see a purple-skinned person standing before you. While their horns are obscured by a black hat adorned with a vibrant purple feather, they are undoubtedly a tiefling. They appear young (no older than mid 30s), but dusty grey hair emerges from under the hat’s wide brim. Their eyes are solid black, lacking iris or sclera. Or rather their eye, singular: the right is hidden behind a black eye patch with a simple symbol of an eye stamped into the worn leather. They’re dressed in a vibrant teal coat with slightly puffed sleeves, its collar and cuffs adorned with gold filigree. Their lips are parted in a warm, friendly smile and you can see the hint of pointed teeth behind them. “I hear you’re looking to hire a ship?” […] “Captain Kyron Valris of the Devil’s Scorn, at your service.” They give a slight bow.

(I'm not 100% happy with this, but it's better than any other character description I've ever given in a game before, so that's good enough for me.)

I'm going to tag @space-writes @oh-no-another-idea @cherrybombfangirlwrites @tc-doherty and @writingamongther0ses (so sorry I never got around to answering your STS ask!! I greatly appreciate you sending one, though!! <3)

[ygsunflower]

Under the Bridge 1x07 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼 Absolutely no one has asked for this, but here’s my review: A very quality episode all around- Storytelling, cinematography, acting, all superb work in my opinion. Exactly how I imagined this episode would go after finishing the Under the Bridge book in terms of the case. Definitely stirred up the same emotions as when I was reading the book.

How I interpreted Rebecca’s “obsession” with telling Warren’s story, make sure everybody “knows his heart” seems to align with what the show’s trying to get at- Yes, Warren is a boy who’s had a quiet yet unfortunate life, but he is not Gabe. He is Rebecca. A kid who didn’t know better and did/said horrible things in the heat of the moment that had a much bigger consequene than they could possibly comprehend even afterwards.

It seems to me that Rebecca (the show character) also didn’t fully understand or maybe didn’t want to admit why she so desperately wanted and needed to tell everyone Warren’s heart- She wanted to convince or prove to “the world”- to herself really (and maybe Cam)- that she did monsterous things (bullied her brother, shouted horrible things at him) but she’s not a monster.

Again, I am not passing judgment or taking sides on the true case and real people involved in the case. I am only focusing on the characters and the show’s artistic choices to tell the story from the book. I think the show did a good job capturing the book, aka the real Rebecca’s perspective of the stories around the case, and added more-

1) When Rebecca’s dad read the draft, he brought up that in the story about Reena Virk’s case, she’s everywhere, but yet she is no where to be found in Rebecca’s book. Why is that? What is she afraid of?

2) Suman stared right into Rebecca’s eyes and said Warren saw someone who’s weaker so he did what he did. Then, questioned her if Reena looked like her, do you think he’d still do what he did?! The book in my opinion did not really touched on the racial aspect of the discussion, maybe it only implied or vaguely hinted at, but I like how the show directly point it out. I can’t quite put this into words, but I also felt that what Suman said about Warren in that moment did not see Reena as a person has a slightly different meaning from when the same statement was made during court when they tried to pin Warren for the murder.

3) Similar to the point above, I am not sure if this is intentional on the director/show-creator’s part, but I found it interesting that while the connection between Rebecca and Warren was forming, the show also established a mirror connection between Cam and Dusty 👀 I personally see it as mirroring in terms of race ethnicity but also a mirror comparison in their childhood experience aka the role they both played in the case of Gabe and Reena. Besides wanting to see them continuously showcasing the true case progress, I can’t wait to see if the show will tell us what did happen with Gabe in the last episode? We seem to know the role Dusty/Cam played in the case. We know Warren/Rebecca think they contributed 3/10 parts to Gabe/Reena’s death. We know that Kelly owed 7/10 parts to Reena’s death, then what’s the 7/10 parts to Gabe’s death?! Was it truly an accident or was there something more?

Lastly, the scene between Rebecca x Cam in the bedroom… such wonderful acting by Riley and Lily 🥲

Also, I truly see the real Rebecca shining through Riley’s Rebecca in this episode for some reason…