#it has a solid base but it keeps crumbling

[bright-hope-spot-19]

Kankuro has surprisingly, very decent development for a "Naruto side character tm." If anyone were to ask me, I'd say he's even better-written than some fan faves like Temari or Neji. Very hot take, I know. I could make a post about why I think Neji was done dirty, and he could've been better (same with Hinata), but in short, it is cause he decides to change his view on life and destiny after losing to Naruto in the chunin exams, but on paper...... it's just empty words. We never actually see him applying his new beliefs that destiny isn't written. We only ever see him training Hinata, and when he's chosen by Hiashi to lead the Hyuga clan in the war arc, he looks surprised. Like he didn't expect himself to be chosen for the role, despite being the most qualified. This shows that deep down, he still viewed himself as the lowly secondary branch member and Hinata and her dad and sister as the superior branch. The fact he always kept calling her "Hinata-sama" also proves this: how much superior he believes her to be, when that shouldn't be the case. She's younger than him, weaker than him, and in the shinobi ranks, is ranked lower than him; she's a chunin he's a Jounin. It makes no sense that he kept referring to her as "sama" other than him still believing in his clan's rotten hierarchy. Even if he'd just stopped calling her that and started calling her simply Hinata or 'younger sister', it would've been way better because it'd show he no longer believes her to be superior to him.

I've ranted for long enough, on a post that's supposed to be bout Kank, but yeah: Neji is a very frustrating character. Don't hate him, I can see the wasted potential, and it just makes me mad, lol.

I love the idea of how Kankuro changes from being rather laid back about people talking about Gaara to snapping and getting right into their faces with a "what did you say about my little brother? Say it to my face."

It just shows that he is seeing that Gaara won't go against people talking about him badly. And he gets protective, Because he is so proud and glad that Gaara is better now. So he will protect Gaara from what the sand shield can not block.

[starry-bi-sky]

Stillborn? No, still born au - Danny’s ghost form

Nothing too fancy here. Just me detailing Danny’s ghost form in the stillborn au :]. My first rule of thumb for every dp au i make is that danny’s gotta have a different design for each ghost form. It doesn’t have to be super drastic depending on the au (like for my dp godling au his suit remains relatively unchanged).

This is mostly so I can mess with character design and also so each Danny can have his own unique ghost form for identification reasons. And because I just want to, which is the most important part :].

Stillborn Danyal, unlike Things in Threes and Yaelokre Danyal, is the first to not have an assassin-based ghost form due to obvious reasons. He was raised in foster care all his life, the League has had no impact on his life beyond being the place where his mother is. But it’s not like he knows that.

As a result he gave me some trouble, and it took me a few days and a ton of frustration to figure out how I want him to look as a ghost. I could just keep him in the hazmat suit and mess around with the detailing, but i’ll be frank, I hate doing that.

Stillborn Danyal, unlike all his other au counterparts, is a fire core ghost like Vlad is. As a result, in his ghost form he can reach extreme temperatures with just a flick of his hand or a switch in his mood. His emotional regulation is shit, and as a result it’s not uncommon for him to let off heatwaves in either form. They’re just more intense as a ghost.

His hair is made of molten lava, and unlike the other Dannys, is not white as a result. It’s an ever constant flow as well, meaning it doesn’t stop flowing where his human hair ends. It just keeps “growing”. Danny routinely keeps his hair braided back because it slows the lava flow and keeps it off his face and arms. When it reaches his past feet, that’s when Danny superheats his hands and “cuts” his hair by yanking it off. It’s completely painless if he gets the right heat to do it. Afterwards, Danny either uses it as a weapon — braided whip, anyone? — or disposes of the excess lava somewhere it can’t hurt someone.

Molten lava ranges around 1,300 to 2,200 degrees Fahrenheit and can either be very fluid or very viscous and stiff. The heat of his hair, naturally, means that the living cannot physically get near him without proper covering. So Danny tends to keep a distance as much as possible during fights so he doesn’t burn anyone.

His emotions also affect the heat and fluidity of his hair. Which isn’t that great considering he can be pretty emotionally volatile thanks to all of his ✨trauma✨. The angrier or more emotional he is, the hotter and more fluid his hair is, meaning it burns brighter and flows faster. It’s very much possible for the lava to cool down enough to solidify into volcanic glass or igneous rock, but considering Danny’s mental state? He just isn’t capable of doing that on his own. Vlad’s hair is also molten lava, but he’s perfected how to keep it in an igneous rock state. His hair also glows bright enough that it’s impossible to see his face from a distance, and seeing it up close is equally as impossible considering all the ambient heat he gives off.

That’s not the only part thats made of lava and magma either. Danny’s hands and feet don’t have skin covering them, it’s crumbled and melted away into molten lava too. They’re the second hottest parts of his body only to his hair. Around his elbows is where his skin begins to crack and crumble into magma, and as a result he wears welding gloves in order to interact with the living world (and some ghosts) without melting anything. He can also run so hot that he can melt a blob ghost.

All fire core ghosts lack iris and pupils, it’s all one solid color. It is possible to shift their eyes into looking more “human like”, but there’s really no point to it and takes more practice and effort to achieve than its worth. Danny’s eyes are all green just like Vlad’s are all red.

Now for his clothes! Danny used to wear the hazmat suit, paired with an old hoodie he owned but didn’t wear often. Uppp until he was brainwashed by Circus Gothica. Afterwards, the only thing that transferred over was the color scheme.

Danny’s new Phantom outfit is designed more for looseness and breathability, but also means that as a result he gives off even more heat. His hazmat suit trapped most of it. He’s now wearing a white, sleeveless turtleneck (yall know the type. I am not immune to tropes and I think it looks good) with black harlem pants with an open slit up both sides and green flames running from his ankles to his knees, and spandex shorts underneath. He’s also wearing white stirrup socks. He wears green welding gloves. Due to the lack of proper footwear he tends to float everywhere otherwise he burns the ground thanks to the exposed skin. It’s significantly less “hero-like” or “scientist” and more resembling something a performer might wear.

As a result however, Danny is consistently cold. He struggles with his own thermal regulation and keeps trying to balance it between his own comfort and the comfort of the living around him. If he retains his own heat and keeps himself warm, he’s too hot for anyone to come near and he melts everything he touches, but if he cools down in order to interact with the world without his gloves and come near the living and only be “uncomfortably hot”, he’s freezing. He’s frustrated by the lack of balance. It was easier to interact with the hazmat suit, but he doesn’t want to go back to it and it’s not like he can either. The exposure allows him easier access to his powers.

Warm, sunny days are his favorite. He’ll sit out on the pavement and soak in the heat like a lizard. Catch him sitting on top of cars during 90 degree weather and just utterly content. It’s not as nice as the ghost zone’s Molten Springs but it’s the second best he can get without going into the infinite realms. The first best thing is going somewhere secluded and safe and just heating himself up into something that’s comfortable and letting his hair free. Nothing like cocooning yourself in your own magma flow.

[polakina]

what they're like in bed

call of duty headcanons #2

hc masterlist // masterlist

replayed the mw2 and mw3 campaign...not feeling so happy so here's a happy hc to keep us going :)

rating: explicit

-

doting. loving. a fucking masterpiece

is there anything else i need to say? nah im kidding i have a LOT i could say on this man

loves to undress you, first of all. just taking your clothes off slowly gets him all tiled up before he's even began

is a gentleman at heart. loves to please you before thinking about himself

will spend hours between your thighs, taking his sweet ass time until you're crumbling under his touch

has a thing for teasing until you're too sensitive to be touched anymore. giving undying attention to your clit and then watching you whimper and squirm away from him only makes him smirk

but he does give in eventually, peppering kisses over your body, whispering how good you are for him

his favourite place to fuck you is the bedroom, of course. the man loves comfort more than anything, for the both of you

his second favourite place is his office desk on base. he flies you down to his base every couple of weekends since you don't work those days and neither does he

he's fucked you on that desk in every position you can think, but he loves bending you over it, your face pressed against the solid wooden surface

you've been caught once before, with Ghost knocking on the door to deliver some paperwork sent over by Laswell. Ghost could never make eye contact with you after that, nor Price for a few weeks

you grabbed the hat off his desk once when you were riding him, setting it on top of your head and grinning when his eyes widened

he never actually admitted it, but fuck he loved when you wore his hat. and only his hat

you wear it sometimes when you go out with him, just grabbing it before you leave the house. when he sees you in the bar dancing while wearing it, he can't ignore the throbbing in his pants

not into public sex, but doesn't see it as counting if it's not technically sex

so he'll tease you, edge you, play with you while you're out with friends or out with the 141. his hands will find their way under your dress while you're sat at the bar or at the restaurant table, inching higher up your thigh until he's pushed your panties aside, toying with your cunt while you try and keep composure

this man is filled to the brim with stress and you're more than willing for him to use you to let it all out

sometimes he doesn't even say anything before grabbing you roughly, but somehow tenderly at the same time. you see it in his eyes the second he walks through the door, his mask tossed on the entrance table as he strides to you

loves to manhandle you. picking you up with ease and laying you on the bed, holding your wrists above your head with only one hand keeping them firmly locked against the wall or mattress or wherever he decided to take you

the one thing that turns him on more than anything is hearing your moans. your lips against his ear as he rams into you at an ungodly pace, whimpering and mewling with each thrust, crying out his name in pleasure

favourite position to fuck you in is cowgirl. seeing your face, seeing your mouth fall open as he fucks up into you, your nails digging into his shoulders as your head falls back

into ass play. only found this out accidentally when things got seriously heated one night when you were making out on his couch. his hands drifted to your ass, grabbing at slapping the supple flesh until one of his fingers drifted over the taut sensitive spot between your cheeks

you'd gasped out of surprise, but you let him proceed, and he saw the flicker of excitement glaze over your eyes when he started teasing your hole

since then, he knew how quickly he could make you cum with both your holes filled

loves giving aftercare, but loves it just as much when he's given it

the man needs some care too, he's a fragile soul at heart

after sex, he's cuddly. he likes to lie in bed and wait for you to come over to him, breathing in the scent of your shampoo when you bury your head in his chest

rarely tells you he loves you, but has done it on a few occasions when he's fucked you. usually on the odd time he fucks you slow, passionately

he does this when he knows he's got time on his hands. or when he's not going to see you for a few months at a time

big into cockwarming when you guys take your time. will take a few seconds, or even minutes between thrusts just so he can stay inside you longer, feeling you clench around him

fucks like a rabbit

let me explain

is down for it whenever

text him while he's out grocery shopping saying you miss him, prepare to be doing the other half of the shop tomorrow because he's paying for whatever's in the cart and leaving immediately

he's busy working in his home office and you walk in asking how long he's going to take before he's done, he's immediately saving the half finished reports and running around the desk to you

whenever you stay on base with him, he's never ashamed to stay in bed a little later with you. has been late to morning meetings on more than one occasion

more submissive than you are

loves to be at your every command. listens to you with such direct focus, everything else drowns out in his ears

begs

a lot

begs for you to touch him, to fuck him, to do anything

turns into a mess when you suck him off

mumbling praises and pleads with your mouth around his cock, words escaping him and reducing the man to a whimpering puddle

loves pulling your hair while he grinds into you. whether you're bent over the kitchen counter or on laid flat on the bed or the back of his truck (happened one time and you both agreed it was not the best idea for either of you)

is such a softie when you're in bed together. likes to make it fun, even though it could be a serious moment. makes you laugh when his cock is buried deep inside you

hate sex is how the two of you started dating. you were giving gaz a little too much attention on base for his liking, and when he confronted you about it, your argument concluded with you both tangled in his sheets

so, piss him off, and expect the night to end in the exact same way. he takes control when his emotions take over

such a fucking softie

experienced as hell

was such a playboy when he was younger, and brought that experience to adulthood when he was with you

likes to watch you try and make him jealous, finds it amusing because he knows exactly who you're going home with that night. but make no mistake he's going to make you beg for it once you're in the bedroom. you don't get to cum that easily

obsessed with shower sex

one arm wrapped around your middle as he plows you from behind, your legs shaking as you struggle to hold your own weight up, your body pressed against the tiles

whenever you're on a work call with a shitty manager or even shittier client, he's spun your office chair around on more than one occasion and knelt between your spread legs

likes to take a risk, sees the reward being so much more satisfying when it's during a compromising or risky situation

will eat you out when you're on the phone or in a work meeting on your laptop, loves to see you try and keep composure while he fucks you with his tongue

eating you out is one of his favourite things to do, even in the beginning when you repeatedly told him he didn't have to do it so often because he never got any enjoyment out of it, he always assured you he loved to do it

he did. it turned him on so much to be buried between your thighs at any point during the day, he didn't care

slow and sensual when he fucks

tells you he loves you when he's deep inside you

loves when you mark his back with your nails. feels proud to have those scratches on his back for days to come

pleasures himself when he's away at base, on the phone to you while you're laid in bed, talking him through it

loves to be given direction during sex, wants to better himself any way to make you feel even better

but loves to give you orders

almost came on the spot once when you jokingly called him 'sir'

you brought that into the bedroom after a few months and it turns him almost animalistic

obsessed with marking you. your neck, your tits, your thighs. he leans away when he's done to admire his work, revelling in the bruises and blemishes marked into your skin

[lunarw0rks]

Hi! I was wondering if you’d be open to writing a Ghost x Reader fic where the reader is relatively new to the 141. The team has seen her work but still doesn’t trust her fully. Ghost and her seem to have a magnetic pull to one another with both trying to avoid their attraction. One day while sparring the reader ends up straddling him with a training knife pressed to his throat. Both stare at one another, realizing. (NSFW or SFW whichever!) Feel free to change whatever or not write it if it’s not your vibe!

A/N: Ghost has a knife kink, confirmed ;) Not explicitly NSFW, but it's hinted. Part two w smut??

Summary: During a sparring session with Ghost, you end up on top of him, and he struggles to hide his amusement.

Warning(s): knives, canon-typical violence, suggestive content, sexual tension | Word Count: 1k

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ PART TWO | ao3 ver. // have a request?

Sparring

From the minute you set foot on the base, you felt like you didn’t belong there. Based on your records, training, and skills? You were a perfect fit. Personally? Not so much.

Of course, some welcomed you, putting on their fake smiles and at least attempting to include you in things.

Captain Price, who was under obligation to be civil because he was your boss. Gaz, who was closer in age, usually followed behind the Captain’s decisions. The Scot or “Soap”, as they called him? Indifferent to you. His usual humorous demeanor would diminish the second you entered a space.

Then, there was Ghost, who perhaps had the most intimidation about him. Though he didn’t trust you, or anyone either, his distaste wasn’t as potent as the other soldiers. Sure, he could be harsh and cold when he wanted to be, but that was the way he approached conflicts.

You learned to expect it, to work around it. You didn’t have a choice. Go AWOL over some social rejection? Not in the cards for you.

—

You’re set to deploy with them, take down some figure named “Hassan”, or so the folder you read stated. To prepare, you need to get yourself physically prepared. These new operations were no joke, undoubtedly worse than months of boot camp.

You’re panting, and feel like your legs are going to crumble from their overuse. He won’t let up on you, not that quickly.

“Are you even trying, Sergeant?” Ghost heckles you, dripping in self-confidence, as he dodges your slices with ease. He always seems double the speed you are, even before you were winded and dissatisfied with your performance.

You grit your teeth in response, remaining determined that you’ll get one good jab at him. In your wild imagination, the foam knife you’re holding would somehow turn real when it slices him — cut the arrogance right out of him.

Realistically, however? Not a chance, unless you can find a way to slow him down.

“You’d be dead ten times, ‘you keep stabbing like that.” He puts his defensive arms down, allowing you to rest for a few seconds.

Or so you thought.

Suddenly, he grappled you to the foam mat beneath you, knocking the small amount of air you had left straight out. You struggled against his pin, but he was much too strong.

He squints down at you, as he maintains his solid grip. “You only have about ten seconds to win a knife fight, before you’re dead, or pinned just like this, with nowhere to go.” He motions to the predicament you’re in currently.

Your thighs were pinned against the floor with his knee, and wrists contained on each side of your head. You’re tempted to give him his victory, so he’ll leave it at your metaphorical death.

“Maybe what you need,” his eyes drill into you, as he begins his theory, “is a raise of the stakes.” He reaches into his holster and pulls out his very real knife. He holds it up, examining the way it glimmers against the fluorescents.

If he was anyone else, you probably would’ve tapped out or insisted on using the fake one. But based on the way he was caging you, he wasn’t asking. It was an order.

As if to prove the danger, he holds the blade to your cheek—not letting it cut you, but applying just enough pressure for you to understand the lesson of it.

Never let the enemy pin you, chances are you’re dead in seconds. He’d lectured you with that statement before when you sparred with him.

With his right arm occupied, there was a rapidly closing window for you to find a way out of this. You swung your arm, smacking the blade out of his fist.

You ended up straddling him and clambered for the knife. If this were his full potential, he would’ve already retrieved his knife and cut your throat. But he was allowing you to overtake him this time as if he was amused by it.

You pressed the blade to his throat, which was protected by the fabric of his balaclava. Thighs to thighs, stomach to stomach. His stare didn’t change once, remaining stoic even when held at knifepoint, with his own weapon nonetheless.

“That’ll suffice.” His voice weathered a bit, like it was hard for him to choke out something professional, given the fact that you could feel every bit of him at the moment.

You couldn’t lie, the position was questionable. But you’d proved your point.

Even though he knew there were dozens of countermoves he could use, and basically decimate you in the process, he doesn’t. He’d never admit how much he liked being under you, letting you threaten him with his own Army knife.

You felt a heat rise to your cheeks as you loosened up a bit, flipping the knife around so you could pass it back to him, handle first.

No matter how hard he tried to hide it, you had noticed the way his eyes softened when you flipped the power. 

Though your maneuvers needed work, he hadn’t expected the sudden burst of aggression—something you definitely needed when in the thick of battle. At least that’s what he’d tell himself to rationalize the feelings he was experiencing.

He returns his knife to the holster but doesn’t shove you off him like he thought he would. He instead places his hands on each hip, moving you to the side like your weight was nothing.

He moves to kneel beside you, meeting your eye level again. “Tomorrow, after hours. We’ll work at that aggression, yeah?”

You could hear the smirk on his face as he spoke, returning to his feet. He’s now standing above you briefly, looking down at you.

He straightens his balaclava, admiring the powerful stance he had over you as you knelt below him.

“Don’t be late.” He spits it out, then leaves the training room without another word. He smirks to himself as he strolls down the halls, thinking about the picture of you on your knees for the rest of his night.

Inside his head, he knew another sparring session was guaranteed to end up with you on top of him again. He was looking forward to it, no doubt.

[kamrenn-james]

Thinking

Vampire!Mumbo x Watcher!Pearl

(Warnings for smut, blood, probably disordered eating, and honestly Ive describe vampire venom and ichor as a drug one too many times for this to not have some sort of warning for MAYBE dub-con)

(I typed this on my phone and hit post. No proof reading happened. Ignore my stupid typos.)

Thinking about vampire!mumbo going feral durning season 8 of hermitcraft.

He’s so determined to see this vegetarian ‘peace, love, and plants’ thing through, but every day it’s harder and harder to keep control over himself. Grian scrapes his hand on the stone he’s building with, Scar is so prone to injury Mumbo is about to lose his mind, and Pearl has one too many times gotten splinters from those god forsake trapdoors that she calls a front door. Not to mention Impulse’s knack for flying into solid walls giving himself the flying equivalent to road rash. Mumbo’s surrounded by people who don’t know how to keep themselves from getting injured and it’s really not helping his diet.

‘Diet’ might not exactly be the right word, but it’s what Mumbo calls it and he’s sticking with it.

Grian becomes the worst perpetrator as the season goes on. It gets to a point he’s getting some sort of scrape or cut every time he’s around Mumbo. Had Mumbo’s mind not been muddled by malnutrition he maybe could have figured out that Grian was doing it on purpose.

But it’s not Grian that finally breaks him.

Pearl sits quietly in his base, watching him build. She’s worried, he can tell. A lot of the hermits seem to be these days. Mumbo’s not sure how to tell them that he’s fine in a way that they’d believe. Nothing seems to put any of them at ease, but he’s fine.

He’s consciously aware of every move Pearl makes even as he’s building. He’s all too aware of how she’s picking at her nails. He hears her wince from across his storage room when she rips her nail just a little too close to the nail bed.

The small bead of blood is there and gone in an instant as Pearl pops her thumb into her mouth and sucks away the blood. She doesn’t even seem to notice how he’s frozen. She hadn’t done it in purpose.

Mumbo swallows around the lump growing in his throat, he pushes down the hunger and the thoughts that scream at him to hunt. He’s fine and he doesn’t need blood. But the smell of it is on Pearl’s breath and he wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into something living, someone whose heartbeat he can feel against his tongue.

He knows if he asked, she’d let him. Each of the hermits would. But he can’t ask, he can’t bend to that bloodthirsty monster. He won’t do it.

“Mumbo.” Her voice is soft. Inviting. And the smell of iron is growing heavier in the air. She’s realised what she’s done now, she’s enticing him and it’s working.

Mumbo turns to look at her, jaw clenched and breathing slow and shallow. If he doesn’t smell it he can’t give in. He won’t lose.

But he wants too more than he’s wanted anything, and Pearl’s reaching a hand out to him. She’s offering. She’s offering and who is he to deny her?

Pearls still sitting on one of many chests scattered around his base, and when he takes her hand he’s towering over her. There’s no fear in her eyes, despite the line she’s carelessly toeing.

“‘s alright.” Pearl whispers, pulling him closer. Mumbo wonders briefly if this is how she tames her wolves. Somehow he understands them, being drawn in with her comforting words and kind eyes. He knows why they flock to her.

Before he’s even conscious of what he’s doing, Mumbo finds himself on his knees in front of her. In a way he wants to beg for her forgiveness, he’s failed. He’s failing and Pearl is going to suffer for it. She wouldn’t feel obligated to do this had he not been the monster he is.

But her hands on his cheek, her voice soothing. He can smell the blood on her nail. Every defence he has is crumbling around him as her thumb swipes over his lips. There’s not much blood, but the drop left behind feels like a drug. He needs more like he needs his next breath. He needs her blood. Not quite human but not quite hybrid. She’s something more and he can taste it. It’s the hints of divinity that runs through her veins. It’s the golden ichor mixed with mortal blood. It’s addicting and the moment it’s on his lips he knows he’s lost.

Defeated, he opens his mouth, licking the blood from his lips. Her thumb lingers, blood slowly beading at the surface again, and all he can do is look up at her and plead.

Pearl smiles, he wonders how she can be so calm, but her smile is the permission he needs.

He’s already failed. What else does he have to lose?

Mumbo takes Pearls thumb into his mouth, the rest of her fingers cupping his jaw. There’s care in her touch, and Mumbo can’t tell if it’s that care or the blood he can’t get enough of.

Theres barely anything left to give from the ripped nail, but it’s enough to know he can’t stop. A guilty part of him doesn’t want to stop. The blood is rich and the ichor sweet. He knows he’ll be racked with guilt when he’s drained her, but right now he just wants more.

It’s Pearl that pulls her fingers away, and a growl almost involuntarily raises in his throat. He’s able to hold his breath and stop himself from following her hand away. He wants. It’s the only thing he can think. He wants. He wants. He wants her. Pearl looks at Mumbo like she can read his mind, and a part of him is scared she can. He hopes she can.

And when her hand returns to him, fingers gripping harshly around his tie, he’s easily pulled closer. Her thighs bracket his shoulders, he can hear her pulse. Slowly, waiting for her to stop him, Mumbo rests his head against the warm skin of her leg.

There’s a moment her smile falters, he can’t read her expression, but her hand moves to his hair. Pearl doesn’t nod, but she does hook her leg over his shoulder. And he thinks that maybe she can read his thoughts. Maybe she is in his mind but he finds it comfortable, he can’t find a reason to complain.

“You’re sure?” Mumbo chokes on the words, his fangs seem to tangle with his tongue in a way that’s never happened. It’s not at all attractive but it doesn’t seem to bother her.

“Yes.” Pearls fingers brush through his hair, and down his cheek. She’s waiting, and mumbo catches the anticipation she’s trying to hide.

Mumbo’s tongue drags over the bare skin of her thigh, finding the first artery he can reach.

Mumbo feels her tense when his fangs pierce her skin, and he feels the moment his venom seeps through her. The muscles under his grip relax and he hears a soft breath escape her. He wants to hear it again.

Until the blood touches his tongue, and finally his mind goes quiet. It’s been too long that not even the guilt can touch him. Pearls fingers tangle in his hair, nails scratching at his skin, and for the first time in months he feels comfortable. He’s not sure if it’s the blood or just because it’s Pearl.

A soft gasp escapes Pearl when he pulls away, it’s not enough, far from it but he wants to look at her. She seems to look more pale after, he’s not sure if she is but the thought of it is in his head.

She blinks slowly, looking down at him with heavy lids. The venoms done its work, she couldn’t run if she tried and again that guilty part of him mind is reeling.

Pearls wrist is in his hand, his eyes not leaving hers as he sinks his teeth into her skin again. The blood tasting like he’s never tasted it before, like he’s never had a single meal before that moment. Watching as Pearls eyes grow heavier, and hearing the soft sounds that escape her lips, Mumbo doesn’t want the moment to end. He bites down again, deeper this time. He wants to hear her again.

“Mumbo-” Pearl says his name like it’s a prayer, the goddess above him saying his name like it meant something. He lets her wrist go, doesn’t bother to try to stop the bleeding, and pushes himself up towards her.

He kisses her like it’s natural. And she returns it without hesitation. When her hands tangle in his hair she seems just as desperate as he is. The blood slowly flowing from her wrist isn’t much of a concern now that Pearl is moaning into his mouth and doing everything in her power to get him closer. Who is Mumbo to deny her that?

She’s pulling at his tie again, this time to undo the knot and throw it to the side. Her fingers are clumsy on the buttons of his shirt, and as much as he’ll hate the blood stains when this is over he loves how shaky her hands have become. He can’t decide if it’s from the blood loss or desperation, maybe it’s both and that drives him insane.

Both his jacket and shirt end up on the floor in two seconds flat, before he even has the chance to consider taking hers off.

Pearl makes the decision for him, pulling away from the kiss to pull her own jacket off. He watches, enamoured. The venom hasn’t had time to wear off yet, but she’s fighting to keep control of herself. He sees it in the determined look in her eyes. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of seeing that look.

The white tank top stays for the moment, he’s thankful for that as he imagines it stained crimson. Pearls arm is already half soaked in blood, but Mumbo wants to see more. He wants to see how much she’ll give him before she either stops him, or can’t give any more.

Mumbo stands straight, hands cupping her face as he imagines it. He probably looks insane, mouth smeared with blood and eyes wild for more. Whatever else she’ll give him.

“I want you to fuck me.” Pearl says, hands gripping his wrists.

“Yeah,” Mumbo breathes out, nodding.

Pearl stands, her legs wobbly, but Mumbo easily supports her weight.

“Right now.”

Mumbo’s lips are back on hers in an instant as he guides them towards the nearest wall. Certainly not the most comfortable position, but it will do.

Her back hits the stone harsher than he would have liked, his strength returning to him throws him off. He hasn’t felt this alive since before the season started. It feels new, like the first day after he was turned. Pearl gave that to him. And gods he wants nothing more than to repay her for it.

Kissing down her neck feels as intoxicating as that first drop of blood. Pressing his tongue to her pulse has him moaning against her skin, and the blood flowing into his mouth is a drug he’s never going to stop craving.

More venom enters her bloodstream and he feels the second she feels it. Pearls knees buckle, her hands desperately clawing around him to keep herself upright.

Mumbo doesn’t take as much, she’s already given him so much and there’s different type of need is overtaking his senses. His lips find hers again, while his hands move to her shorts, quickly undoing the button and shoving down, out of his way. Her underwear lasts only a second longer as he trails his fingers across the waistband, before they join her shorts on the floor.

“Can I eat you out?” He asks against her lips.

“I think you’ve done a pretty good job of that already.” Pearl smiles, and chuckles at her own joke. “Next time? I want you in me. Like now.”

“Yeah okay.” Mumbo’s nods, one hand tangling in her hair as he presses his lips to hers again, the other trailing down between her legs, purposefully missing her clit. She’s moaning into his mouth again, and the sound is driving him mad. He’s growing painfully hard and it’s taking every ounce of effort he has to draw it out at all.

With the smell of blood thick in the air it feels like a heavy fog has settled on him. It’s not bad, quite the opposite. He never wants to leave the fog. It’s just the two of them, and he has Pearl pinned and squirming from his touch. Mumbo forces himself to pull away so he can watch her. Take in the sluggish trail of blood from her neck staining her shirt, watching as she throws her head back when his fingers finally find her clit.

“I swear to god Mumbo-” Pearl doesn’t finish her threat, instead another moan overtakes her.

He thinks she’s about to kill him when he pulls his hand away, that is until she notices him kicking off his shoes and working his belt off. His trousers and pants are on the floor equally as fast as hers were, freeing his aching dick from the stiff fabric.

Mumbo lets himself have half a second to look her over again. The blood covering half her body, the awareness slipping from her eyes, her breath picking up significantly. Her knees buckle again and this time Mumbo’s lifting her up to wrap her legs around his waist. It’s not the most comfortable position he’s ever been in, but as Mumbo shifts Pearl in his arms and reaches around to stroke his dick he can’t find it in himself to care.

The head of his cock glides across her pussy, the combination of her wetness and probably blood makes it easy. His tip catches and he slips inside. There’s barely any prep, but he pushes up into her like it’s where he belongs. Pearl clenches around him, a broken moan cut off when his mouth finds her neck again. The blood is still so sweet. He doesn’t bite, just licks up her neck to her jaw as he gives her time to adjust.

Pearls hips grind down, and it’s all the encouragement he needs before he’s thrusting up into her, pushing her back harshly against the wall. The sounds she’s making are broken and cut off. It’s music to his ears. Maybe, he thinks this was all worth it to hear her choke out his name between thrusts.

Mumbo tightens his hold around her, pressing his forehead against the side of her neck that isn’t covered in blood. She’s squeezing around him, and she’s so warm he feels like he’s burning, it’s so much in the best way.

Pearl lets one hand drop from his back, snaking between them as she rubs at her clit. Her moans turn into breathy whimpers with each slap of skin against skin.

There’s a small swell of satisfaction he gets from hearing her like this. Feeling her tighten around him and whimper out a sound close enough to his name that it can’t be anything else. Pearl is a watcher after all, a goddess that could have anyone she set her mind too. But she wants him. And he wants nothing more than to make sure she’s satisfied.

Pearls nails dig into the skin of his back, her hips rocking to urge him deeper, faster. He happily obliges. Picking up the pace as much as he’s able in the position they’re in. It’s not enough for her, he can tell, so it’s no surprise when she’s tapping his shoulder and wiggling out of his hold.

“Do you have a bed?” She asks, slipping off of him as he lowers her to the ground on unstable feet.

“Not yet.” The admittance is sheepish, but she doesn’t seem to be judging.

Her eyes shift around his storage room and she very quickly comes to her decision. Pearl grabs ahold of Mumbo’s hand as she lowers herself onto the floor, grabbing the discarded trousers and shorts to wad up under her head.

Pearls pulling him back into a kiss before he even has the chance to ask her if this is alright.

It takes him by surprise how wuickly she pulls away, and rolls herself onto her stomach. She gets her knees under her but her chest is pressed against the wad of discarded clothing.

The blood from her thigh is smeared across her legs, and Mumbo was right in his assumption that it was part of the wetness between her legs. He thinks agains that he wants to eat her out, but he’ll wait until she asks. ‘Next time’ she had said. And he realises then that she’s expecting there to be a next time.

Mumbo doesn’t waist any more time before he’s pushing into her again. The angle’s better, he feels deeper, and feeling Pearl hot and squeezing around him again feels like heaven. It takes only two thrusts before he’s picked up his previous pace.

His hands on her hips and gripping tight enough he hopes he’ll leave bruises, and he thinks about making sure it does. He thinks about littering her skin in bruises, leaving her not only with bite scars but a more temporary reminder. He thinks about her watching it all fade over time. He hopes she’ll come back when they do.

Mumbo leans over her, one arm supporting his wight next to her head, the other trailing up her body and under the blood stained tank top. She’s wearing a thin sports bra underneath, and it makes it easier for Mumbo’s hand to snake underneath fingers pinching at her hard nipple. Her reaction doesn’t go unnoticed. Her hand finds his next to her head, and she seems to be the one wanting to leave bruises now as her nails dig into his skin.

Mumbo thinks he could stay like this forever. But it’s getting harder and harder to keep his movement consistent as the pleasure grows. He’ll be toppling over the edge sooner than he’d like, but he also can’t bring himself to care.

He’s missing the beat more often than he hits it, and his fingers on her nipple becomes a full grip around her boob, nails digging into Pearls skin.

“Close,” Mumbo tells her, although it’s probably unnecessary with how shallow his movements have become.

The force of his orgasm has him pressing deep into her, and he can’t control how he bites into the unmarked side of her neck. That seems to be what does it for Pearl though, her body shaking under him as she squeezes hard around him. The whimpers become one last harsh moan, and the nails digging into his wrist would have drawn blood if he had any.

Pearl nearly collapses, only held up by Mumbo’s arm snaking around her hips.

He lowers them both down slowly, wanting to stay inside her as long as he can. He doesn’t want to give up that warmth just yet.

“Ok?” Mumbo asks once their breathing evens out.

Pearl nods, but takes a beat to say anything. “I’ll take that offer of eating me out now if you’re up for it.”

Or something like that

[schrijverr]

The Hearts of Gotham 1

Chapter 1 out of 7

Bruce makes the Justice League believe he has two hearts and is a manifestation of Gotham’s night to throw them off his secret identity, not trusting them. When the sound system breaks, he doesn’t come clean, but lies instead that he split into two to make Robin. From there it spirals as all the Robins make the lies grow and twist it in their own ways, until the truth comes out.

This fic is based on this post and inspired by Bouncing Baby Bat, or so the Justice League is led to believe... by EmpressGeek.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: none

~~~~

Chapter 1: How Bruce Made Himself out to Be a Cryptid

Let it be known that Bruce never intended for it to end up like this. Truly, had he known then how it would end, he might just have been honest with the Justice League when they formed, but instead paranoia had overtaken him and now it has spiraled into this.

Okay, let’s back up a little. It starts like this: Bruce doesn’t want to join the Justice League that these others are forming for bigger threats. In his mind, they are the possible bigger threat, seen in how effective they are against other big threats. The fact that they can’t see that makes him only more wary.

However, the others seem determined to see this done, so if Bruce wants to keep a close eye on them, it’s better to be involved. With his tech being used, he’ll know all the back doors. With him in the meetings, he’ll know the protocols will be good. With him in the training, he’ll be able to study their weaknesses and plan for contingencies.

So, he joins to soothe his own worries and doom scenarios. He joins so he can monitor them all and step in should it go awry.

But being able to observe them, means that in turn he’ll be observed too.

He is very careful about his identity thus far, because he knows what’s at stake. His own voice is that of Batman, so if he’s taken by surprise out in the field it won’t be different. He wears lifts in his Batman boots to make him taller, more intimidating, less human. He stays in the shadow, never lets anyone observe him better.

Because if he’s ever found out, a lot of things will come crumbling down. The police is only half convinced that there is an actual person under there and there is a big factor ready to arrest him, should they catch him. Though luckily also a faction moving to working together with him.

Should he be arrested, Alfred will likely go down as accomplice and spend his retirement in a prison with Wayne Enterprises falling into the hands of a semi-corrupt board that will weasel out the non-corrupt like he is trying to weasel out the corrupt now.

Hundreds of thousands will loose their jobs, programs that keep the less fortunate from going under will disappear, the public transport system will decay and the name his parents made for themselves will forever be tainted by him. And that’s not even mentioning the crime that will run rampant without Batman, all the people that could go through what he did.

No, he can’t be found out.

So, he has to be careful when working with this newly formed Justice League. Throw them off his scent so they’ll never connect the dots. But it has to be subtle, something he can keep up, something not everyone would note.

The person he’s most worried about getting on his trail is Clark Kent, or Superman, as he is known, an investigative journalist. The others are less like him or Clark, people who go out and look for things that irk their brains, but Clark has been assigned their leader. He’ll want to know and he’ll want to dig.

He is also a person who might be able to find Bruce. His secret identity is as solid as it can be, but he’s only human and there are cracks. As a reporter, Clark interacts with both Bruce and Batman and he has extra abilities to help him.

He must be stopped.

So, before his first meeting with the Justice League, Bruce sinks into a pit of what-ifs, until his paranoia forces him to action. And he sows a sound system into his suit, that plays an extra heartbeat, making it seem like there are two hearts beating in his chest.

Bruce’s logic is, that if the supers in the League would hear his two heartbeats as Batman, they would look for that if they wanted to find him and since he doesn’t have two heartbeats as Bruce, they never would unless he was being Batman, thus open to being found.

It’s a solid plan in his mind. The League consists of all sorts of people, both human and non-human, no one would ask too many invasive questions about his supposed biology. It’s perfect.

Thus, it comes to be that Batman enters the Justice League as a cryptid non-human entity. Not something he planned for exactly, but the Batman is already more than a man, said to be a demon or a vampire. It helps with intimidation and it helps with his cover. The others already think him to be more than human, why not play into it? It’s not like he trusts them. He’s here to monitor, not befriend.

It’s a solution that soothes his anxieties and enables him to actually work. It’s also easy and low profile, as well as something that can grow organically as the moment calls.

The first times it happens, is when they’re making a protocol about when it is alright to step in on another hero’s turf. Bruce is the one, who insisted on making protocols, wanting to have written guides he could force the others to follow, rules they are held accountable by.

“No metas in Gotham,” he first lays down the law for his own city. “We can make protocols for other cities to suit the heroes wishes and what is reasonable. But there will not be anyone but me in Gotham, I don’t care how severe you think it is. Unless you have an explicit invitation from me, you aren’t welcome.”

“What the hell, man!” Hal exclaims and others are also frowning.

Clark, as always, steps in to mediate: “Batman, we’re willing to follow your lead in your city and I agree that a heroes wishes should be considered, but there no reason not to be civil. You’re a meta, you know life can be hard enough as is.”

Bruce does feel a little guilty then, because despite his wariness, everyone here has been nothing but nice – overly nice in that peppy hero way, but still – and he doesn’t mean to be rude. He just knows that the type of crime fighting they do, doesn’t mesh with Gotham and he can’t have them ruin his city.

So, he crosses his arms and tries to project sternness instead of guilt as he says: “And I am stating my wishes clearly. No metas in Gotham is a neutral statement. You made it loaded.”

“You’re being hypocritical, Batman,” J’onn says not unkindly, probably picking up on some of the guilt, despite his mental barriers and misinterpreting.

“I am not, I am being clear,” Bruce says, as stubborn as ever, while mentally running through all the random knowledge he has acquired in the years of being Batman. Then he adds: “And I am being clear, because you coming will completely ruin the ecosystem.”

“Ruin the ecosystem?” Diana repeats, still learning the new lingo of the world of men.

“Yes,” Bruce says, glad that his acting classes under Alfred are paying off. “When I say that I am the night, I am very serious about that. I am Gotham’s night, come to life. The hearts of the city beat in me. My villains are created by what Gotham is as a city, they won’t respond well to you. You’re an invasive species. Who knows the kinds of irreparable damage you could cause?”

That sounds pretty logical to his own ears and he makes a mental note to get Poison Ivy some perks in Arkham when he gets back. He also makes a not to record what he said later, as to not contradict himself down the line.

“You’re literally the night?” Hal chuckles, a little disbelievingly.

“You’re a space cop,” Barry rightfully points out. “We work together with two aliens, a woman with wings and an Amazonian princess. Is a personification of the night really a stretch?”

“It just seems fantastical that’s all,” Hal shrugs, body language giving away that he feels a little bad about his outburst. But not bad enough to not defend it, because he adds: “Everyone else seems to have at least a bit of a basis in science.”

“Magic is quite real,” Diana says, stunning them all into silence for a second.

Clark clears his throat after a second, then says: “Thank you, we’ll keep that in mind for later meetings. So, uhm, no metas in Gotham,” he gets them on track. “Does that also apply for non-hero meddling? Like if someone has to be there due to secret identity obligations?”

Bruce knows why he’s asking. It might sound like a general question, but unlike the others, he actually knows who they are in their civilian lives. And he’s seen Superman out of uniform at his galas.

However, he doesn’t let it show. Having Clark hear only one heartbeat in his chest at the galas will only strengthen his secret identity. So, he curtly says: “If you don’t interfere with its business, Gotham will let you in.”

“Alright,” Clark says, looking a little disturbed. “I’ll note that down. No metas in Gotham. Now, what about anyone else’s city? Something else we should know about when not trespassing?”

The others gratefully take the reason to move on and Bruce has to hold in a snort, because it’s quite amusing to see these superpowered beings buy into his make belief. To have them be scared of him, who is just a man.

But it is also comforting, because if they are scared, they’ll listen. He needs them to listen to him, to value his opinion as one of their own, because maybe then he can ensure that they will become that line of good they have the potential to be, instead of the force of destruction they can also become. For that, he is glad.

Furthermore, he registers that his ruse is working in his favor. It gets him what he wants while minimizing conflict, thus it is good to maintain.

So, as they build the Justice League together – something that takes a lot more meetings and paper work than some of them were expecting, he observes – he maintains and builds his lie further. He establishes himself as the night of Gotham and expands on his backstory as he goes.

A little while later they’re in a meeting about their fighting abilities. They have already worked in the field together, but during the big emergency, but that doesn’t make for good observation circumstances. Therefore they have this meeting, so that all are on the same page about what they can do.

Bruce has contemplated making himself out to be scarier than he actually is. However, when it is his turn, he doesn’t invent invulnerabilities or abilities for himself, it can be detrimental in the field to have given others unrealistic expectations.

Thus, when it’s his turn to answer, he honestly says: “When it comes to any unnatural abilities, I function as a normal human would. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“No way,” Barry says, leaning on his hand and observing Bruce closer. “No powers? None?”

“Yeah, I don’t buy it, Spooky. With all the vanishing you do,” Hal agrees.

“Then maybe we should have another stealth day,” Bruce says seriously, because what he does is not that difficult and can be taught. As heroes, they should have a certain amount of skills in every field, though maybe it’s good for them to not be fully competent. Makes it easier to take them out should the day come.

Hal quickly makes a zipping his mouth shut motion, before Bruce can continue on with his threat that he is still contemplating.

Before it can get out of hand, everyone gets distracted by Shiera asking: “Really? You want us to believe that the physical manifestation of Gotham’s night has no power?”

“Yes, that does seem quite miraculous,” Diana agrees open eyed and well intended.

“Yeah, you have no clue what sort of stories come out of there,” Barry adds. “Well, I’m kind of assuming you don’t, since I suppose you don’t leave your city often and maybe you don’t really read our news if you do. But like it’s crazy. There was a while where I wasn’t even sure you existed or if there truly was a vampire out there.”

As they all talk, Bruce is silent, quickly thinking. Is he going to have to lie? Make up some powers that are minor enough that they won’t accidentally risk his life when he doesn’t want it to be risked? No, Alfred will kill him.

Fuck, he never thought they wouldn’t believe him if he told them he operated with no powers. He should have planned for this. Stupid. Note to self: plan more contingencies.

In the end, something comes to him right before it becomes weird that he isn’t answering. So, he answers: “I am the manifestation of Gotham’s night. Gotham is wholly human and remains so, that which powers me is human.”

“Wouldn’t it be beneficial then to have more metas in Gotham? So that you can get powers?” Barry asks, the curiosity of the scientist shining through.

It’s a good question too, and Bruce quickly bullshits: “No, because my villains are created in reaction to me. If I am stronger, so will their challenge be and Gotham will face more destruction.”

“Would that mean your villains disappear when you do?” Hal asks.

“No,” Bruce says again, cursing himself for not planning better. “The city creates them, but not like it creates me. It’s the shadow that hangs over Gotham that brings out the worst in people. They are not like me. They are humans. But if my shadow grows bigger, so will that of the city.”

“Man, that’s confusing,” Hal complains and Bruce is glad his own twists threw them off.

He is even more glad when Clark steps in: “And it’s not our place to question Batman or poke holes. Let’s all be civil. Batman, I’ll note down no powers.”

“Thank you,” Bruce replies, because Alfred raised him better than to not thank someone.

And so he goes on establishing himself as Gotham’s night. He has a writing frenzy wherein he fleshes out his lie to the League as to never be caught unawares again like that, before carefully and calculatedly dropping things into conversation as time goes on.

“Batman, you’re seriously injured, I saw that bot hit your head! You really should let us take a look at that,” Clark says after one of their earlier battles.

“No, I need to go to Gotham, my city strengthens me,” he lies, as to slip out so that Alfred can take a look at it. Hopefully the man won’t scold him too bad for traveling via Zeta-Beam while having a concussion.

Or during a boring meeting, when he suddenly gets up. Diana asks: “Batman, what is wrong? I did not hear an emergency call.”

“Gotham needs me,” he lies again, deciding that he sits through enough boring meetings as Brucie not to want to do it as Batman too. At least, not right now. He has a case he’d rather be working on, more important too. “It calls to me.”

As he leaves, he hears Barry whisper to Hal: “That sounds useful, I always just cross my fingers that I’ll catch it when it happens.”

However, over time it peters out. He has let all the relevant pieces drop and he feels that it doesn’t fit to share more. They know what he wants them to know and no one has caught on to the fact that he even has a civilian identity – something he’s loathe to admit, he stole from Clark. So, he stops and settles in with what he has.

And time continues to pass like that. Bruce gets to know his fellow League members better, learns how they think and where their morals lie. He starts to respect them, then tentatively trust them.

Most of them reveal their identities – never pressuring Bruce, since they don’t think he has one, despite Clark revealing his own – and become friends rather than colleagues. Bruce even thinks of them as friends.

However, he doesn’t say a word to them, never feels the need to reveal himself. To them he is the night, like he is Brucie to the board, and that suits him just fine. He is their friend, but he never forgets the power they hold and he never forgets his own responsibility in monitoring them.

The Justice League is set up to counter threats and one of the threats is the Justice League itself. He has just positioned himself to counter that threat, should it ever come to pass. And being non-human is a part of that. It’s as simple as that.

Besides, he befriended all of them based on a lie. To reveal now how much he distrusted them, how much he kept from them and how much he lied can only end in disaster. They’ll hate him for lying and they’ll never trust him again. He can’t risk that.

So, when the sound system in his suit breaks without him noticing and Clark exclaims: “Batman, are you okay? I can only hear one of your hearts beating,” Batman doesn’t hesitate to commit further to his lie.

He has made many contingencies for it breaking while on missions or during a meeting, but with how careful he is with his equipment, it never occurred to him that he would show up for an average meeting without it working.

“It’s okay,” he says, trying to think as fast as he can about what will make sense as explanation.

“That sounds more like you are ill, my friend,” J’onn speaks up, picking up on the anxiety wave that had crashed through him.

“No, no, I am fine, I assure you,” Bruce insists, landing on a solution. “My second heart has formed enough and I have split into two. It needs time to reform, but then I will be fine.”

For a moment, it is silent.

Then the whole room explodes with noise as the others demand what the hell that means and who he has split up into and how that even happens. It’s not something Bruce planned to do, but he’s in too deep now. This was his last chance to come clean and turn back and he didn’t take it. This is going to be his life forever now.

Guess, Dick is getting his wish and meeting the Justice League, instead of being stashed as far away from them as possible to keep him safe. This can be an exercise in obfuscation and keeping cover, he thinks.

~~

A/N:

As of much with Bruce’s earlier Batman career, 90% of what he does is just straight up bullshit that he is pulling out of his ass lmao and I love that for him <3

Also, you can’t convince me that ‘Gotham needs me’ isn’t his excuse when he doesn’t want to be somewhere anymore.

(also I have finished this fic already and I can be manipulated into posting quicker if there is interest)

[youknowwho-mustnotbenamed]

A Tragic Ending to a Tragic Story

A battle has waged itself in Regulus’ mind, weighing him down and tossing him to and fro in the throng of it. His heartbeat the war drums, his apprehensions the bullets, his resolve the trenches. It has been days since the first shot of hesitancy was fired, and the conflict only appears to be swelling. It plagues him more with each passing day, so much so that yesterday he was almost certain James could hear the cacophony in his head. He did not.

The only thing that disturbs him more than this cowardly inner turmoil, is how easily he managed to convince James this sudden bout of silence and reservation wasn’t a big of a deal as it truly is. That the stress of hiding himself is weighing down on him rather than his impending death. How is it, that after years of pushing to know every thought that passed through Regulus’ mind, James hasn’t batted an eye when he goes silent?

Part of him wants James to push. But that is a dangerous line to walk, and he will not risk James becoming aware of his plans. The more reasonable part of him is glad James is staying on the sidelines, waiting for Regulus to take the lead, to coach him, to tell him what to think, to do, to be. Because this war in his mind is reaching its crescendo now, the pivotal moment when things either go according to his well-laid plan, or come crashing down around him. It’s best that James is far away so he crumbling façade doesn’t crush him too.

Or he could just do the cowardly thing, and shy away from responsibility. He can keep James, and his life.

At the moment, that option is appearing far more appealing. James’ arm carelessly yet protectively thrown over his waist seems like an insurmountable obstacle. One he doesn’t even want to overcome. He can just stay here in the warm cocoon of James’ arms rather than surrendering his beating heart for a chill in his bones. Yet somehow, he surmounts his base desires. Slipping out from the warmth and reassurance. Slipping away from the promises he made. Slipping away into the darkness. Slipping away from an arm that instinctively curls around the warm spot Regulus once occupied. Slipping away like he was never there. By the time James wakes, that spot will have gone long cold. Cold with no beating heart to warm it again. Just a lonely ghost, reaching out to its lover with intangible hands.

But Regulus will easily bear that burden if it means James can free himself from this tangled web of darkness. It isn’t too late. Despite all of James’ veneration towards him, he can still get out. He has not yet fallen over the cliff, he can mend the fraying rope of his relationships, and they can pull him back to solid ground. He was foolish to try and keep James—the sun has no place in the night where cruel and dark things lurk. Whether he knew it or not, it was always going to end up here.

And he doesn’t even get to say goodbye.

But it’s okay. Because nobody knows what life would be like without the sun. He won’t be the reason everybody finds out, it’s just not a viable solution. The world won’t even notice his missing spot in the world, just like a star blipping out of existence. Before he does however, he will allow himself this one good thing. Burning bright before he is consumed whole, darkness and all.

When the voices ringing in the battle of his mind grappled for dominance, he had procured three letters. One to seek forgiveness, one to mend old scars, and one to instill unease. He spent hours pouring over each of them, anguishing over the words. It’s hard to say goodbye to your life before it’s really even begun. Regretfully, Sirius was right—he never did get to feel the sunrise, not truly.

The first letter, is more a collection. Snippets of verse and quotes and memories. Things to ease the hurt. To show he meant what he said—that he did want to start a life together, that he did finally find somebody to live for, that if things were different, they could have had it. Regulus hates to break promises, it’s rather an unfortunate stroke of circumstance that he made a promise to himself well before that to James. The promise to protect those in his heart, and seek vengeance against those who wish to cause them harm. That promise, proceeds all others, and that alone is what he seeks forgiveness for.

He leaves the letter on the kitchen counter, just next to the kettle. James always follows the same routine every morning. Wake up, set some tea to boil for Regulus, then head out for his morning run along the coast. When he emerges from his induce slumber, that routine will be derailed. Hopefully, James doesn’t derail along with it. Hopefully, James keeps his footing and moves forward.

The next letter, contains a part of him from the deepest crevices of his soul. A part of himself that he buried beneath a cage of ribs and cobwebs and dark magic and hurt. Behind all the things that made it easier to hate his brother rather than reconcile their wrongs. The letter is accompanied by a slender box. The box is deceptively small, but holds hundreds of letters. A thousand maybe. Letters that Regulus wrote, only to be intercepted before they reached the eyes of the addressee. Maybe, just maybe, they will be enough to behind to mend the resentment he is certain was sowed back in ’71. Maybe he can undo the damage their Mother caused. Maybe... maybe he can be Sirius’ brother again.

Knowing Sirius, however, his brother won’t take the news genuinely, not until the account of his death has reached the Order. He will ignore the letter, or use it as evidence of Regulus’ ‘contempt against him’. Either way, Regulus tried, in the best way he knows how to.

The last letter, was something he struggled for an embarrassing amount of time for a mere three sentences. But he isn’t a Black for nothing, he could hardly go to his death without at least a little histrionics. He folds the letter and tucks it inside the decoy locket, which he tucks securely in his breast pocket.  

Once the apology, reconciliation, and antics are dealt with, he heads to the beach. He just wants one last moment to feel alive before becoming a hollow shell. He knows what waits for him in that cave, and dying is the least worrying of the outcomes. Realistically, the inferi will sink their magic-ridden claws into him, and he will once again be a mindless servant of the Dark Lord, dragging down anybody who tries following in his traitorous footsteps. Merlin, he hopes James gets the message and stays away, he can’t imagine killing his lover, especially not even being himself.

Morbidly, he hopes the water does him in. At least then, he won’t be trapped in a corpse for eternity. He would be free, a servant no longer. Besides, he’s always found water soothing, and after moving to the coast, that feeling has only amplified. He finds a kinship with the water—always underestimated, yet perfectly capable of being deadly.

Each crashing wave is a thundering heartbeat, driving him closer to the rocky shore littered with masks of his previous lives. Lives that were not his, lives that he had to live in to protect the fragile inner self. He is but a China doll, covered in chips and cracks, each revealing more of his weakly beating soul.

Soul is a bit lackluster. It’s his conscience, his life, his animus, his vivacity, his individuality, his reason for being. Trust humans to put such an uninspired word to such singularity. Trust them to dumb it down, to make it less than it is so they don’t scare anybody with the true scope of it all.

Before he loses his nerve, he apparates.

The ground he lands on is slick. Only seconds after landing—and barely catching his balance—he hears the cracking sound of water against rock, and a deluge washes over him, knocking him fully to the ground. His shoulder is driven into the jagged rock below him, the rest of his body slammed down atop it. He only just catches himself from being hauled into the turbulent sea by a fingernail. Just the edge of it snags on the rock. It tears bloodily from his finger, but it slows him just enough to get a proper grip on the wet rock, and heave himself back onto semi-safe ground.

Breath heaving in his chest, Regulus turns his eyes upward, blinking away water. There, in the distance, rises the sheer cliff the cave is carved from. The heavy mists shrouding the full thing from sight do it no justice. But even then, it is nowhere as daunting as Kreacher had made it out to be. The place just looks… sad. Sad and forgotten, waves pounding against a forlorn cliff as his heart claws at his chest. Him and the ocean, one and the same. Him and the ocean, hiding secrets in icy depths.

He fights the wind and the sea for balance, searching for something to transfigure a boat out of. Kreacher mentioned a rock nearby Riddle created a raft out of, so hopefully after returning to this spot, he canceled the spell, leaving the rock behind. The water is hardly tame enough for a boat, but it is his only viable option. There is no magic inside the cave—Kreacher mentioned feeling completely cut off from everything, “like some muggle creature no doubt”—but if Riddle’s boat held, so will Regulus’.

With a deep well of magic at his fingertips, the boat is easily transfigured from a boulder nearby. The thought has barely formed in his mind before the boat is materialized on the surface, rocking and dipping with the waves as any boat should. He climbs aboard, and another wandless spell has the boat silently propelling forward, urged on by oars handled by his magic.

If possible, darkness falls further upon passing through the cave’s threshold. Even worse, Regulus physically feels the stripping of his magic. An almost painful tear. His is more than disconnected, he is weak, his is vulnerable. Everything that gave him power, everything that kept him safe, it’s gone. It’s hardly significant in the moment, but he also notices the glamor—that always stuck close by in case of emergency—is no longer at his whims.

The oars fall limp at the sides of the boat, momentum allowing him to drift a few more feet before coming to a slow halt. Even the churning waves outside appear to be quieted, the sound muffled by the magical barrier. All he can hear is the gentle slosh of water against the hull of the boat and sides of the cave; his heavy breathing; and a faint crackle of dark magic in the air.

In what must be the middle of the cave, there is a small rock island with a pedestal. Hovering above it, is a glowing green orb, casting a haunting glow over the island and the surrounding water. It seems to both be calling him forward, and urging him away at the same time. Come, have a drink. Come, see what secrets I hold. Turn away, darkness awaits you. Turn away, there is nothing of interest here. Come, untold power at your fingertips. Turn away, turn away, come closer, turn away, come closer, come closer…

Regulus seizes the oars, and makes the slow journey toward the island.

As he climbs out of the boat, pale hands rise to the surface of the water, sending gentle ripples across the smooth surface. They tease him, drawing tantalizingly close before withdrawing back into the safety of the water once more. Inferi. Regulus knows. Voldemort himself boasted of his ability to curse a hundred dead muggles. Muggles, who were worthless to do anything other than protect a part of his soul. Inferior unless given one set goal to achieve, and limitless ability to do so. Regulus had pointed out any sane witch or wizard would use magic to defeat them, or could wait it out on the island and send out a patronus for somebody to come to their aid. Voldemort then countered with the use of the potion, and a magic-dampener and anti-apparition wards around the cave. In the end, Regulus had driven the nails into his own coffin.

The pedestal sits in the middle of the island, with a crudely carved stone basin resting atop. Resting at the base of what appears to be the water-filled vessel, is a locket. Surprisingly unremarkable and plain compared to the jewelry he grew up with, Salazar’s locket has been besmirched in the name of the Dark Lord. Once a sign of the great founder’s magic, it is now used to store a fragment of a dark wizard’s soul. Such a mockery. Such a waste.

Sitting beside the basin, is a small pewter goblet. Inscribed in the base of the cup are the words, “bibere si audes”. Riddle is practically telling those exactly how to go after the horcrux, giving them a step-by-step guide and leaving it practically in the open. For what gain?

His hands betray his confidence as he shakily raises the first goblet full of potion to his lips. But there, just before the first drop hits his tongue, he hesitates. Knowing exactly how this goes doesn’t help. Knowing what unforgiving and unyielding pain will soon tear through his body makes him that much more apprehensive to take that first sip.

At least until his mind does cruel things, and summons images of James. James in this dark cave, raising a goblet to his lips. James collapsing to the rocky shore and grasping toward the water holding those cursed muggles. James, dying. James, in pain. James, corrupted and killed by him. James… James… James…

That’s enough to force the first sip. From there, he is certain of only one thing. The raging inferno rising inside him to combat the crushing waves of his heartbeat. Fire and water, clashing until a smoke rises in his throat and clogs his lungs. He needs to breathe; he needs to clear this soot from his mouth, he needs… water!

He scrambles for the waterside, only to trip back at the sight of pale fingers with dagger-like nails. No, he must bear it. He is not a Black for nothing. He took the Dark Mark at seventeen. He bore the pain then, he didn’t give into the creeping black edge of pain, he will no do so now. So, he summons all his wavering courage, and stumbles back to the pedestal for another damning drought. And another. And another.

“REGULUS!” James’ voice echoes through the cave, tearing him away from his singular focus of clearing the last drops of the potion. He is almost there; he can almost get the locket. He can almost give James and his brother a shot at living. He can almost… but James is here, and screaming his name. “REGULUS! HELP ME! REGULUS!”

No, it’s too early. The potion shouldn’t have worn off yet, James should still be sound asleep in bed, none the wiser to Regulus’ absence. He was supposed to have time. He was supposed to do this properly, and not have to stick around and face the consequences. He wanted to do one good, selfless thing without being pulled away from it. This was supposed to be just his, and it was supposed to keep James far away. How did he even find the cave? Regulus purposefully kept that information to himself, so this exact thing wouldn’t happen—James’ too-good-bravery stepping in to sacrifice himself.

James is crawling up the rocky shore, deep bloody gouges crisscrossing his body. Bloody claws gripping at his skin, both looking like they are tearing him apart, and dragging him down to a watery grave. His trademark lopsided grin is replaced, twisted into a grotesque scream, eyes bright with terror.

“JAMES!” He tries flinging his magic out, magic he knows and relies. But nothing happens, and the inferi drag James further away from him. “I told you not to leave me.” James pouts before he is dragged fully underwater.

He gets to the waterline too late. James is gone, and all that is waiting for him are clawing hands and death. At least now, he won’t be leaving anybody behind. But James, why did you do this? Why did you come here? Why didn’t you give up on me? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

“I thought you were better than this, Regine.” Regulus half turns to see Sirius standing over him, dressed like everything he ever fought against, disapproving look cast upon him.

He is shrinking. Shrinking until he is just another rock littering the shore. Shrinking until there is nothing left of him. Because what is he really? A fraud of a girl. A fraud of a boy. A fraud of a brother. A fraud of a lover. He’s spent so long wearing masks, he doesn’t know who he is. And he’s going to die like that. Die without knowing who he is in the center of his being.

“Look at you.” Sirius spits. “Making an embarrassment of this family.”

“Siri?”

Sirius scoffs. “Acting like a child. No wonder I left you behind.” He cocks his head, hair falling from the intricate bun to fall around his face. He’s now wearing his typical garb—ratty muggle band tee, leather jacket, and ripped jeans. Even his voice changes, now dripping with desperation. “I thought you wanted to leave, Reggie? I thought…” He sighs, resignation in his tone. “I guess Mother was right about you all along. You really are her child.”

“You said you trusted us.” Dorcas laments.

“You promised you would heed my warning.” Pandora chastises.

“I thought we were in this together, Reg.” Barty mourns.

“So much for promises.” Evan spits.

“And here I thought you were as brave as your brother.” Remus accuses.

“You couldn’t save me.”

“I’m glad I left.”

“Why do you never listen?”

“So much for friendship.”

His friends circle around him. Voices heckle him, drawing closer and closer, pressing in on all sides. They overlap, they rise and fall in waves, each washing over him with a painful blow. He is too big for his body now, a body that is battered with hurt and sliced with malevolent words. He just wants this to be over. He wants the voices to stop pestering him, he just wants silence. He wants to lay in bed with James. He wants to laugh with his brother. He wants his friends to make-light hearted fun of him. He wants to be a normal teenager. He wants. He wants. He wants. He wants so much, and he will never get it because of the inferno in his chest, and the promise he will die keeping.

But he will not die before keeping it.

So, he pushes passed his friends, a solid barrier that keeps morphing and twisting to keep him away from the pedestal, to push him toward the water. But he won’t allow them, because he is doing this for them. He is giving them their future, where they can be teenagers, then adults, then grow old together. He is doing this so they can be normal. It has to be this way, because he is the only one the world won’t miss. It has to be him burning up and drowning and suffocating. It has to be him, the heart of the lion, finally slain by Hercules fulfilling his final labor. A brave act, that requires his life as forfeit.

The last sip, is surprisingly mellow.

He ignores the slight disappointment, and scoops up the locket. Even without magic in this cave, the locket itself hums with power. Maybe he can leave. Maybe he can escape this cave in one piece, he can return to his life, and start living it right. But first… he places the decoy locket, and watches in awe as the potion fills back up to the top, goblet up righting itself everything as it was when he first arrived.

Well, almost.

Regulus spins back, only to find the boat being upended by gnarled pale bodies. While a swarm of them capsizes the boat, even more are coming for him. Their grotesque bodies tangling together as they clamber toward him. On all sides, they cover every surface of the rock, a flowing wave of bodies, hungry for him. His blood, his lifeforce, his magic. They will consume it, use every part of his being, and only get stronger for the next fool to enter the cave.

“Kreacher!” The house elf does not appear. This isn’t good. His whole plan banked on the loyal elf and him being able to hear him through the magical buffer. He knew from the beginning he wasn’t getting off the island alive, let alone out of the cave. He also knew he would have to get the horcrux out somehow, and Kreacher was his means of doing so. “KREACHER! I COMMAND YOU!”

The bodies are closer now, about halfway up the small island. Just two more body lengths and they will be upon him.

“KRE—”

“Kreacher is here, Mistress Régine.”

Regulus clenches his teeth at the misnomer, but doesn't correct the elf. There is hardly the time for such concerns, not when death and failure are so close to fumbling out of his grasp. “Take this. Bring it to James, he knows how to destroy it.”

“Kreacher doesn’t like Mr. Potter.”

“I don’t care. Bring it to him. Do you understand, this is important. I command you to bring it to James Potter. Then, you will do whatever he requires of you.”

“…Yes Mistress Régine.”

“Good. Go.”

A loud crack, and Regulus is alone once again. Alone, a cadaver, just moments away from its final breaths. So cold, and so hot. Even in his final moments, his body cannot settle to give him a moment of peace. Always in turmoil, like the undulating sea. He is more the sea than he originally thought. Many names, many appearances, many temperaments. Always underestimated, always deadly. Never forgiven.

Claws close around his ankles, dragging him down. His knee collides with the rock. The claws dig in, straight to the bone. They dig in hard and start tearing. The agony is worse than before. Curse magic delivered directly into his bloodstream, killing him, removing him, turning him into something else.

His body hits the glacial water. His screams muted by the water, heard by none but his fellow cursed. Water rushes into his body, and the inferno finally quiets. The claws drag him further into the depths. Slimy limbs pressing against him on all sides, until they finally shove him against the rocky lake-bed, and rise around him, leaving him alone at the bottom.

Alone to let the water invade.

Alone to die.

Alone, he never wanted to be alone. But in pushing everybody away, what else should he have expected?

Alone.

Alone and dying.

Alone.

Alone.

A hollow husk of a lonely boy, drowning.

I’m sorry, Sirius. I’m sorry I didn’t follow you sooner.

[firstil]

Fio Nearig Eilach! 🌲

[ ID: An edit of a vintage photograph that shows a landscape in autumn. There are orange and yellow trees in the foreground, a large blue body of water in the midground, and a mountain range in the background. End ID ]

What is Firstil?

FIRSTIL is a xenofiction/animal fantasy worldbuild that has been in development since February of 2024. In a setting inspired by Acadia National Park and the surrounding northern Maine wilderness, the species featured in the saga are primarily accurate to real life environments and there are many options as to what a character can be.

Those in Firstil do not live in a single organized society, but they share a common language and a nature-based religion. Even then, both of these factors have countless branches that change based on the animal in question— the Common Tongue (also known as Rabble) was constructed many lifetimes after each species had their own language, and each species will have different beliefs and worship their own specific deities. There are also a set of ancient “laws” in place known to everyone in the land, but again, they may not mean the same to a mouse as they do to a hawk.

Because it is the wilderness and survival is of utmost importance to many, there is no guarantee for constant peace. Predator must hunt prey, territories are fiercely protected, wars and betrayals have been had. And yet, despite it all, the animals of Firstil try to work together, trading materials and talents and sharing age-old truces. It’s not a perfect place by any means, but this way of life is yet to crumble into dust.

Who are the characters?

Firstil contains more than one story arc and with it many different characters that might not belong to the same time periods or contexts. Because of this, and the fact that the story is still very much in production, it would be difficult to introduce them in this one post. Posts about the characters will be made under the tag “ firstil ; characters ” with further divided tags under their respective names.

So far there is: a raven, a pheasant, a puffin, a raccoon, a moose, a mourning dove, a saw-whet owl, seagulls, cats (from the nearby town), and plans for turkeys, a great blue heron, a porcupine, bats, a marten, a black bear, beavers, a mouse, and a turtle. Plus some possible farm animals like chickens and cows!

Can we make our own characters for Firstil?

Absolutely! Character guidelines will be made and posted on this blog eventually.

Will there be a Firstil RP?

It is very possible. If so, it will be multi-formatted and hosted on Discord and Toyhouse. Most likely a sandbox environment with encouragement for personal plots and suggestions for a collective storyline to follow. I’d love to make it a TTRPG setting someday and do some sort of campaign with a few people as well!

What are your future plans for Firstil?

I would love to make it a book series, officially published or not. I have already written little scenes here and there and I have decently solid ideas for a first book. I can’t guarantee a release date or anything like that because there’s still a lot to develop and it isn’t the only story project I am working on. However, I am very passionate about what I have. I’d like to keep this blog updated as much as possible and I do plan to make a website ASAP.

Who is the author?

Hi! My name is Autumn Langtree (they/them). I am a non-binary, autistic artist & writer in my early 20s. I’ve loved xenofiction and have been making stories related to the genre for as long as I can remember. Firstil is inspired by many titles and my own experience living in New England.

My visual art can be found on @taxiedermist. I also have an instagram under the same username and a toyhouse account under the name limulidae.

[necros-writing-stuff]

YOU WANT TI HEAR ABOUT THE RECIPE I WANNA BAKE FOR EDEN??? 👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️

ALRIGHT FOLKS, I hope y'all are ready for my fav seasonal treat.

I hope Eden would like it too

TODAY'S TREAT ISSS *drum roll*

NUSSECKEN BABY!!

It's a german, cookie-like treat whose name roughly translates to "corner nuts." I'll be using grams and mls because I don't know any other measurments.

INGREDIENTS!

For the topping

200 grams of butter

150 grams of sugar (I usually put less sugar, do as you like tbh)

15 grams of vanilla powder

4 tablespoons of water

400 grams of whatever nuts you like! Almond, hazel, walnuts, you name it. I personally really like almonds, sometimes mixed with hazel.

For the cookie base

300 grams of white flour

1 teaspoon of baking poweder

130 grams of sugar (again I usually use less)

2 eggs

15 grams of vanilla powder

130 grams of butter

extra ingredients

Dark chocolate (you'll need this one to garnish the topping)

Jam (traditionally you use apricot or orange marmelade, but you can use the jam you like most.)

PROCEDURE!

Start with the mixed nuts topping, because it'll have to cool down before you can actually put it together.

For the topping:

- take yor nuts of choice and blend them. Cut them up enough to have a rough crumble. You want them to be crunchy, not creamy. But definetly not big chunks. A crumble consistency.

-in a pot, put in the butter, sugar and water, and melt them.

- add your crushed nuts and cook them for 5-10 minutes MAX. Just enough to combine it all and be a little sticky.

-let it cool down a little.

For the cookie base:

-in a bowl, put all the ingredients together, and start working them with your hands.

-You have to work it like a pie crust. If you don't have experience, here's sone tips:

-don't use electronic tools. Your hand's warmth will melt the butter and combine it better.

- at first, it'll feel dry and crumbly and you'll be tempted to put liquid in it. DON'T DO IT. trust the process. Believe in the slowly melting butter.

-keep working it until a solid dough forms. It has to be firm and the ingredients must be well combined.

-don't overmix it.

COMBINING THE INGREDIENTS

-Take a solid tray, put some baking paper on it. Slap the cookie base on it and start flattening it. Ideally you'd put it in a rectangular shape to cut the cookies better.

-The cookie height should be around 0.5 to 1 cm tall. Depends if you want a tall cookie or not, or if you simply prefer quantity over quality.

-Slap the jam of your choice on the cookie dough. Distribute it on the whole surface. Use more jam than you think you need: it'll help to stick the cookie and the nuts together.

-slap the nut topping directly on the jam. Don't care to keep the layers clean, smear the jam with the nuts if you have to. That shit has to stick together. Distribute the nuts evenly.

-shove the bad boy in an oven at 200 degrees Celcius for 20-25 minutes. Check the sweets, if you want the nuts to be a bit toasty you can put on a grill mode at the last minute. NO MORE THEN A COUPLE MINUTES. Otherwise the nuts might burn.

- let the bitch cool down to room temperature.

- once it's cold, cut it up into triangles. (That's the traditional shape, squares work too)

chocolate topping:

- take a large pot, fill it with water and put it on the heat to boil.

- take a smaller pot, put in enough chocolate to coat the cookies in, and submerge the small pot into tue warming water.

- this is a pretty safe way to melt chocolate without burning it. Just be careful to not splash yourself with the boiling water.

- once the chocolate is melted, take your cookie triangles and dip the corners into the chocolate. Then put them on a tray with baking paper and let the chocolate cool down.

-alternitavely, take a sac-a-poche, fill it with the chocolate and just pipe it on the crumbled nuts. A spoon works too.

Let the chocolate cool down and VOILÀ! NUSSECKEN!

They're not too difficult to make, the only bore is the waiting time for stuff to cool down. Hope y'all like this recipe! ;)

I want to feed it to Eden snsbnansn

OK BEFORE I FORGET:

What kinda sweets do you think Eden likes? I thought about the Nussecken because the nuts remind me the forest(?) somehow and it feels very homely to me. If you have headcanons, oh Maestro of Eden, please share >_<

-💜

1) thank you so much for the recipe, I'm gonna try it at some point and I'll let you know how badly I do at it lmfao.

2) I think you're right that Eden would like this a lot because we see them enjoying roasted chestnuts in game. Which makes me think they'd enjoy those chocolate bars with nuts in them.

Also, scones with fruit jam! Both made by PC! Black Berry jam piled on Eden's shelf in the seasons they grow, ingredients for scones on every shopping list.

Keep Eden away from anything resembling warheads or sherbert. If it's sour they'll die. Just nice and sweet things, but not artificial flavours.

[2af-afterdark]

I might reveal myself and send in some drawings when I feel a little braver...I'm a little shy, but I'll try my best to gather some courage to maybe render the outfit digitally before sending it in. But I can give some of my ideas here right now.(and also because I'm not 100% satisfied with the current outfit design...)

I tried to keep it vague but also have enough detail that it makes some sense(I'm also very bad at explanation...), but it might not so I'll answer any possible questions.(also I'm not a writer so it may suck...👉👈)

P.S. its a lot longer than I expected

In my version, instead of MC just suddenly get revealed that they've became God, they have to go through a process, where after they break the last contract, they starts to feel more fatigued than usual, and no amount of devil or human energy can give them their energy back. The Seraphim haven't been in the way for the last few weeks and something happened (I don't exactly have a solid reason yet) leading to all of the angels fill the sky, maybe they want to end everything all at once, hence the reason why they've been away to restore their number, train and such. This is also when MC is back by Satan's side in Gehenna, but they haven't chosen a king yet.

Then when the Seraphim descend from heaven, the closer they are to hell the more they can sense a Godly aura around, causing them to panic and look around frantically, when the Seraphim laid eyes on MC, all three froze since they can see that MC is the one radiating said aura. Giving them an entirely different goal, "Save God" basically. And the dynamic of the angels I used are based on your way of including them, so Gabriel is the main pursuer of MC. Then things happened, Gabriel disappeared, leaving Michael and Raphael to fight against, Satan, Belial, Astaroth and Sitri, while Ppyong, Paimon(he's carrying MC, bridal style), Leraye and Zagan protect and try to bring MC into a neighboring country to get more protection while they wait for further reinforcements. But the amount of angels overwhelmed them so Paimon has to put MC down but not before making sure that they're somewhat at a dead end so no one could ambush them from behind. After Paimon put MC down and started firing away, Gabriel appeared and flew straight at MC, none of the devil could shoot at him since his angel underlings are taking hits for him, so in one fell swoop he snatches MC and just started to fly up, making eye contact with Michael and Raphael signaling it's time to retreat, while MC make eye contact with Satan. Satan's anger fell as fear struck his heart. (My MC is a bit of a softer MC, so she just smiles and mouthed 'I will be fine' at Satan to reassure him that she'll survive, but he doesn't seem to be taking in none of that.) The other two Seraphim maneuver around Satan and his subordinates to return to the sky to retreat.

MC faint as they ascend to the sky and when they wake up the Seraphim are just staring at them. Then Gabriel mention about Devil and Human Energy, and how MC would need Angel Energy in heaven, so we had to fuck him. Then a few more days goes by and we fucked Michael and Raphael as well(hate fucking if you will). After a week up there MC just get encased by a cocoon of some kind, starting their "reborn into a God" stage. While they sleep in the cocoon, the devils came up with ideas to invade heaven and sensing the threat, Gabriel brought cocooned MC to the original God's "throne room"(Idk why I imagine he have one, but he have one) since its a little far from the main angel land, he think it should be safe. So when the day come where hell invade heaven, while the 72 devils rage war upon the lower rank angels, the 7 kings go searching for MC.

Something happens that lead the three Seraphim to guard cocooned MC and something lead the kings toward the throne room, making a 7v3 situation but before anything can happen, the cocoon cracks and crumble to reveal MC in a new outfit but with no extra addition or changes(I was planning on adding half and half wings, as well as a decorated halo and horns but I felt like that's too much, so I stuck with the simple designs of God we can see), who's kinda waking up, after the cocoon is completely off of MC and they're completely awake, they just wanted to end the war as quick as possible so they just hurriedly demand both the Seraph and kings to go out and stop the battles. Even though Michael and Raphael still have doubts, they follow MC's command anyways since they're outnumbered if they try to argue.

After the war ended, MC learns to move and create materials to rebuild any broken down houses n such. And while they're at that, they also tried building a whole court room for the judgement of the angels so that all of the devils that have suffered from the angel's actions could give their ideas, but in order to save their pretty asses, the devils can't kill the Seraphs, since they are needed to keep the human world in balance, because MC was tasked(during their time in the cocoon, a mysterious force gave them some tasks that they must do as the new God) with reviving or creating 2 more Seraphs to restore the amount to original. (My MC forgive the angels for trying to kill her several times, but did not forgive them for hurting and killing the people around her) so the final decision was sealed and the Seraphim have to serve their punishment for quite some time.

And that's all I have for now, I hope it wasn't hard to read (*´∇｀*)

You're good. I followed it.

I love that you made your own story inside the god!mc au! Honestly, I have one too, but I am still developing it based on what we learn about the angels (like, Raphael is way nicer to MC than Michael or Gabriel which is not what I expected at all).

But, ummm, 🦩anon send me their art off anon and I just post it without putting their name on it. You could do the same? Or I could just reply to you privately if you want? Honestly, we can do whatever you want (if you want to do anything at all).

I'm just a greedy little thing that wants to see what people make >w>

[rose-of-oz]

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆… 𝐌𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐀𝐃𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑

❝ Adachi Star held no love for pirates, but she did not hate them either - rather, she feared them, which was certainly unexpected in someone who had essentially been raised on the open water. Her father, a pirate captain in his youth who had given up the life upon meeting her mother and having a child, had been only too eager to take to East Blue once again after his wife had died from illness, taking his young daughter with him, and as such some of Star’s earliest memories had taken place on her father’s ship, learning how to sail and being snuck the best bits of meals by the crew’s chef.

To many, it would have seemed like an idyllic childhood, going on adventures and spending every day surrounded by the beautiful ocean… but it was not nearly as lovely as it seemed. Like many other pirates, Star’s father was obsessed with finding the legendary One Piece, Gold Roger’s infamous treasure that would grant the mantle of King of the Pirates to whomever found it - but Adachi Storm, leader of the Thundercloud Pirates, took his mission one step further. Every action he took was another step towards what he saw as finding the One Piece and becoming who he was truly supposed to be - including tricking his daughter into eating a Devil Fruit when she was only ten years old, forcing unto her a great and terrible power for the purpose of creating his own little weapon against other pirates.

Granted the powers of the hokori hokori no mi - the ability to make any non-living thing crumble to dust, with nothing more than a solid touch and a moment of focus - Star had at first been thrilled with her new skill, wanting desperately to please her father and going through all the training to strengthen her power that he wanted her to. But when an action Storm forced her to take during a battle with another pirate crew resulted in almost that entire crew dead, Star had realized just how much the search for the One Piece had overtaken her father, how truly obsessed he had become and the creature, the monster he had made his daughter into as a result… and rather than trying to help him, to get through to him and make him realize just how much he was hurting those around him, she had run, just a scared thirteen-year-old unable to face the reality of what she had done or the fear that had crept into the eyes of her father’s crew when they looked at her.

For years now, Star has been running; going from village to village, never staying in one place for long, seeking out the best fighters around and getting lessons from them so that she can learn different ways to be destructive without using her terrible ability, and only using her power when absolutely necessary, too afraid of what could happen if she gave in to using it again. But after getting involved in a pub fight in Shells Town and the escape from the local Marine base that follows, she finds herself stepping onto a pirate ship once again (if one could even call it that), along with a dry-witted thief, a surly swordsman who might be the most annoying person Star has ever met, and an overly energetic boy with stretchy Devil Fruit powers who is determined to become King of the Pirates in a way that reminds Star uncomfortably, terribly, of her father.

As the motley crew of four first set out on their journey, each with their own secrets and intentions that they don’t plan on telling the others, Star’s only goal is to keep Luffy from going down the same obsessive path as her father, and hopefully knock Zoro down a few pegs while she’s at it. But as their little so-called “crew” delves into further adventures and truly unexpected relationships begin to form, she starts to find that maybe, perhaps, taking to the seas again will not be as awful as she feared… and that maybe, if this crazy newfound family cares about her as much as she cares about them, perhaps she’s not as much of a monster as she’s been thinking since she was only a child. ❞

One Piece Taglist: @auxiliarydetective, @starcrossedjedis, @xoteajays, @oneirataxia-girl, @supermarine-silvally.

General Taglist: @hiddenqveendom, @foxesandmagic, @artemisocs, @reyofluke-ocs, @endless-oc-creations, @stanshollaand, @ginevrastilinski-ocs, @luucypevensie, @ginger-grimm, @arrthurpendragon, @fakedatings, @impales, @claryxjackson, @dancingsunflowers-ocs, @eddysocs, @lucys-chen, @ocappreciationtag.

[therizino-ao3]

Hermit Horror Week 2023

Day five: Echoes

Summary: It’s weird. When Impulse hits this bit of wall, he hears the knock echo. Which, shouldn’t be possible, given there isn’t any space behind it.

Read on ao3

Contains: being watched, someone living inside your house, losing a stuffed animal, theft, gone-off food, panic attacks

Now, things go missing all the time. Impulse likes to try and keep organised, but he isn’t perfect! Sometimes he misplaces things. Sometimes things are “misplaced” by Zedaph or Tango or someone else needing certain materials from his storage system. And, that’s fine! Impulse has plenty, he’s willing to share, but when he can’t find one of his stuffed animals, it’s kind of weird.

It was a gift from Zedaph, by the way, in case you were wondering why a grown man had a stuffed toy. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, he knows Scar loves that kind of thing, but this one held sentimental value. It was a sheep, a bit of merch based off Zedaph’s “Is that sheep looking at me?” gameshow. Impulse never moved it from the shelf in his bedroom, but now it’s gone.

His fingers stroke over where it used to be. The place it was is obvious: a patch of dark, clean wood in the midst of an otherwise dusty shelf. It wasn’t that important but, now that it’s gone, he feels a gaping pain in his heart. It’s not fair. Why was it taken? Where is it? Who has it? He sends some frantic messages into their group chat and collapses onto the bed and into a rough sleep. When he wakes up, none of the hermits know where the sheep could be. Impulse feels like crying.

That was the most major theft. After that, it was little things. Tiny, tiny details like trying to find pens which should have been on his desk or some of the more obscure spices in his cupboard not being there when he dares try a bit of home cooking. He was just forgetting where he moved things to, he told himself, he is getting a little old. That doesn’t really help. The idea that he’s losing his memory is just as horrible as thinking someone is taking things.

If this is some kind of prank, he thinks, it’s pretty messed up. He’d rather have his base filled with sand and have to spend hours unearthing it, than whatever weird psychological thing is happening here. Maybe this is Cub’s doing – it has the hallmarks of being mildly annoying and oddly specific. But, this is too basic. Cub would go all out: move his furniture slightly, take items of greater and greater difficulty to take, and leave a bunch of cryptic signs around. No, this is far, far odder. Impulse still doesn’t really get it.

The tiny things disappearing continues for another month. It’s not that it’s unnoticeable or Impulse doesn’t care, it’s just that he’s been so busy that it hasn’t been a priority. He’s certain it’s another player now, or something like that. He would’ve thought the hermit would have upped the stakes or revealed themselves by now, but no. It continues the same way it always has been.

He’s rewiring some redstone in his base when he hears it. The sound of a pickaxe breaking into something hard, like stone, the crashing and crumbling. He stops. None of his machines make a noise anywhere close to that, it’s got to be another player. He inhales. He crawls out of the circuitry he was tangled in and yells, “Who’s there?”

He scrambles out and continues shouting, trying to get the person to reveal themselves. They never do. After about an hour of flying around his base and searching for people, he gives up. He never even heard anything beyond the first noise. He slumps and cries. He doesn’t know why he’s so emotional over this, but he can’t help it.

The next day, he’s feeling even worse, thoroughly frazzled. He won’t be able to get any work done like this. He needs to find solid evidence there’s someone in his base.

They’ve got to be hiding somewhere, he knows, they must have some secret passage or tunnel or something when they sneak into his base, for him to not have found them by now. So, he searches. He begins at the edges of his base, feeling his way around, searching for trapdoors or anything suspicious, knocking on walls. The first few hours are fruitless.

He pauses. When he hits this bit of wall, he hears the knock echo. Which, shouldn’t be possible, given there isn’t any space behind it. He gulps, some cathartic but negative feeling washing over him, and he grabs his pickaxe.

He smashes through the prismarine, mercilessly, watching as the thick wall turns to chunks to shards to fragments. It’s left as a mess on the floor. Spruce wood planks, scarred by Impulse’s attack, are revealed. He never placed those there. He switches his pickaxe to an axe and forces his way in.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting - some quick, messy tunnel, maybe – but this isn’t it. The smell hits him first: mould and gone-off food and sweat. He’s in someone’s home. Well, home is a bit generous, he’s in someone’s living space. There’s couches and paintings and rugs but also candy wrappers and dirty laundry and unknown stains. He takes a few steps, feeling nauseous. He can’t quite comprehend it – someone was living here – and he had no idea. He continues onward, feeling like he has no choice. He sees some pipes, taken from his storage system, siphoning off resources to whoever lives here. They aren’t even using the stuff, is the thing, with piles and piles of rotting pumpkins collecting in a crate. He’s going to throw up.

The rooms and hallways keep going, how is it this elaborate? How did Impulse never notice? He wants to claw his hair out. There’s one room with a parrot and jukebox, which he supposes is nice, but the innocence and wholesomeness of it makes it worse, somehow. His least favourite find is the peak holes. Tiny little trapdoors and gaps looking out into Impulse’s base, presumably for the sole purpose of watching him. By the thefts alone, he knows this has been going on for ages, but he suspects this person has been here for even longer. Weeks and weeks of someone watching him, without him knowing. He’s shaking now.

On the topic of thefts, at least his suspicions were confirmed. Throughout the rooms, he finds little things he had stolen, most of which he didn’t even realise were gone. He’s not sure if he wants them back, anymore. He finds most of the things in the bedroom. Some of his books crammed into a bookcase, trophies and cards displayed on a shelf as if they were earnt by this mystery person instead of Impulse, and his sheep plushie in the middle of the messy bed. He picks it up. He wants this back, at least. It has some hairs on it, human hairs. Hurriedly, he scrapes them off. Its fur is a little messed up from being in the bed, the person probably cuddled with it in their sleep. He doesn’t want to think about that. He sits in the centre of the room and hugs the toy to his chest.

He needs to talk to someone, right now, he thinks distantly. He needs support. He pulls out his communicator. His fingers are trembling. Zed isn’t too good with serious things and Tango’s too solution-oriented, he texts another friend.

<ImpulseSV>: i;.m not feelinhg great rn somethings happehned come over pleasd <Grian>: ill be right there! :)

[slutcore-starships]

unpopular opinion ig but . doing something to make the world a better place and move closer to your vision is better than not doing something. yall will talk about the need for unity and the power of the workers etc etc until . someone has an opinion different than yours and now its time to enforce ideological singularity

its good to have an ironclad ideological core, but only so far as it serves its purpose: building the bloc you want to have your back!! teaming up with people who are willing to fight for your major tenets!! keeping actively harmful people out of your coalition!!

as an example: having anti-fascism and multiculturalism as key tenets of your ideology will exclude the majority of bigots and give you a material reason to throw the rest out of your camp. it will attract people opposed to authoritarianism, apartheid and segregation, and supremacist ideology. its a win-win!! youve got the right conditions for a political base and solid bedrock for your vision of the way the world should work.

however, the more conditions you bake into your hard lines, the fewer people are willing to cross them to join you. when you go from foundational cultural and political ideals to just . enforcing aesthetics and languages and strategies and all the weeds you can imagine, the cost of joining your coalition grows beyond what most people can afford, much less are actively interested in.

another example: if you insist that local organizing and ballot initiatives and protesting are useless and the only acceptable forms of organizing are militant demonstrations under a single ideological banner (while you use that banner to pick fights with people online), youre not gonna encourage people to pick up a rifle . youre gonna encourage them to go seek out other coalitions you will have no voice in and that will actively bristle against collaboration with yours - a problem only compounded if you then use your ideological banner to pick fights with them and insist that, because they dont work with your movement, that they must be ideological opponents who are actively working to sabotage yours

like, there are as many ways to approach leftism as there are leftists. some of these approaches, such as red-brown authoritarianism, should be actively opposed and rallied against!! and theres plenty that have the potential to be counter-revolutionary, self-serving, polarizing, or that youll just think are bad ways to run a society, and you are under no obligation to advance their visions of how the world should work. but leftism as a whole is a silent majority *at best* - most of the time, its just . one of a spectrum of minority political umbrellas competing for a cultural and political edge. theres no one leftist or ideology that speaks for the majority on the left . and most of those wont get anywhere close.

if you have any aspiration of being a serious political factor, of making any impact, of getting an *inch* closer to the world you wanna build . you literally just have to learn that youre gonna disagree with people. and its not the end of the world. keep a core set of beliefs to ward off those who mean you harm, but like. if you cant learn how to manage a coalition, agree to disagree on methods of organizing and stockpiling goods, or when to concede that your personal views need to bow to the desire of those most directly affected, youre gonna *hate* responsibility . youre gonna loathe the day you ever took a crumb of power and youre gonna watch your movement crumble around you.

(not to mention the fact that all of yall have a *lot* to learn and some . pretty reactionary beliefs . especially around racialized/disabled/queer people, children, seniors, artists, and violence. like, flat-up, if yall dont learn how to say “thank you for correcting me” and “huh i didnt consider that before,” youll end up building movements just as destructive and repulsive as the ones you seek to replace. theres never an ideological finish line for when youve got a perfect worldview and have nothing left to learn)

[doctorofmagic]

@prettywitchiusaka​ said:

Part of me fears it’s Clea, ngl. But having re-read parts of this issue, I don’t know. Aggamon wasn’t looking directly at the culprit before he got blown to smitgerines. Plus, after all she went through to get Stephen back, I doubt she’d risk her marriage to get even with Aggamon.

Hmmm...My guess is this is either Dormammu disguising himself as Clea...or this is a manifestation of Clea’s fears from Strange #2, how having too much power could drive her mad if she weren’t careful.

But yeah, based on these preview pics, something tells me Nightmare’s gonna be telling Stephen that his patient is in another dimension. 😁

Regardless, I can’t wait for the next issue!

*Sees comments about Stephen and Tony being totally married* Well, Stephen HAS been implied to be poly in the comics, so why not let him have a Husbando while Clea’s away? It keeps him from being lonely. 😊

I’m pretty sure it wasn’t her. I’ve been trusting Jed ever since DODS and he never disappointed me. Also why going through the trouble of spending more than a year writing about their reunion only to separate them again? It’s too obvious to be her.

For issue #2, since they’re fighting Nightmare, I think that evil!Clea is her own fear of becoming evil like Dormammu and Umar, consumed by conquest and anger. She did lose control once when she was manipulated and Jed took inspo from that to exploit her faltine form. This is super cool imo because it will certainly add more layers to her character. Truly amazing!

And as I always like to put, Stephen can literally hold as many hands as he wishes 🤭

@digicom-online said:

It was strongly spelled out in THE ORDER #3 that Paradox fell during the rebellion against Dormammu.

Yes, but we know comics and how characters hardly stay dead forever, right?

@whitefoxgone said:

I don't know much about the comic version(s) of Stephen, but he's such a dear in Midnight Suns lmao 💕 or maybe I'm just biased 😂 Also you can buy the game and play it in cloud gaming with GeForce Now or similar things. You do need a stable and good internet connection though, and you might have to wait a lot with the free plan (the paid version has a good price imo). I have played MS through it and enjoyed it very much ✨✨

Oh, I too am totally biased but I really believe he’s accurate because 616!Stephen is also a dear when properly written  💜 I wholeheartedly recommend checking out Jed’s holy trinity if you ever feel interested someday :3 and thanks for the tips but even with a solid connection (which I don’t have), I’d still have to get a decent computer to play it. And mine is literally crumbling weiwoeiwo *nervous laughter* Keeping hope alive that I’ll manage to play it this year if money comes my way, amen Vishanti

@junoofthestars said:

That summary reminds me of the 2007 Doctor Strange movie...

It does, right? Except that Dormammu was the villain behind it, and not Nightmare (which was indeed odd). In any case, I’m taking it cause I love Nightmare and I crave to see Jed’s take on him!!

[i-love-you-all]

Henlo,, do you do the hc prompts for the agents still? Could you do by chance one for Breach if it's alright 👉👈

Breach <333

I'll put this out there that technically my requests are closed, but if someone asked me for Breach stuff I would probably still write it bc I love the man and there's so little about him in this fandom

5 things they usually see:

Bamse! This is my fave HC for him that's basically cannon (but old, deleted cannon). His Bernese mountain dog that Nina kindly named so long ago! But he sees Bamse every day when he's not on missions, and his pup is probably allowed a bit of exploration around certain areas of the base. Though perhaps a little too high energy and slobbery for some agents. The ones that like dogs will swing by the dorms or workshop sometimes to see if they can catch Bamse out and about.

Other people's shock/discomfort. It doesn't matter if he's loud or quiet, Breach has met too many people to ignore the way other people's eyes drift from his eyes down to his arms. Some people have visibly flinched, others kind of ready themselves as though they expect him to start a fight right then and there. But so much of how people see him is how they see his arms.

His workshop/garage + car parts. He has an interest in motor vehicles and loves tinkering, personalizing, and upgrading all his gear, and spends the more time on his car than most. On occasion, he gets help from Raze to paint on his car, but otherwise this is a moment he can spend alone.

Ghosts of people he used to know (not actual ghosts... the people are still alive, just not with him.) Sometimes, he'll catch the sight of someone who looks just a little too similar to his nephew, or his father, and he has to do a double take, just to realize that the stranger was nothing like them. Each time, it brings up an ache in his chest. A reminder that what's lost is gone forever.

Rubble or crumbling structures. He doesn't do quiet very often, if at all. So, when he's lead on a mission, his team and Brimstone are expecting lots of collateral. Some, aka Raze, look forward to that, and others are reproachful (Astra, Sova, and Brimstone mainly).

4 things they usually feel:

Frustration. Due to his congenital amputation, he has faced discrimination more than once in his life. Even when he got his arms, no one could see past them, which was impressive considering how big of a guy he was. "Always have to overprove myself," and "Doubt me again!" That's his mentality. He can't just do what's expected, he has to perform the best each time, and one slip up can be held against him unfairly. That sort of attitude will sink in deep after enough time, and so, despite his solid self esteem and confidence, he still feels the need to prove himself hundreds of times over.

Sore muscles. I once posted something about him one day being unable to keep going with arms and downgrading or retiring. I think the thought of not keeping up plagues him at his lowest lows. And when he wakes up in the morning and feels a little stiffness, the thought of this being too much flickers across his mind.

The whizzing of bullets by his face. He's probably one of the more experienced field agents from his past. Also, he enjoys the risk and the thrill of a fight. "Guns in my face? Just another Tuesday." Instead of flinching at danger, he smiles and looks forward to the action.

Nothing (literally in this case). I think, especially when he was younger, he would see everyone around him touch the things around them. People who brush their coats off, who run their fingers over certain tactile textures, who flinch when the coffee cup is too hot. Seeing so many people feel or do the same thing, and then he himself feeling nothing but the absence... it was pretty hard to understand for him.

3 things they usually hear:

Brimstone's raised voice. They don't always agree and they don't like each other enough to be bothered to keep it civil. More than once, it has almost escalated to a fist fight, but others have always separated them. This isn't so common anymore, and he's probably suspicious that Raze had a part to do with it, but it works out for the better. More recently, with Brimstone having a hand in reducing his nephew's prison sentence, and then their jam sessions, they don't really have screaming matches anymore. At least, not on a regular basis.

His drumming! I already made my points about his drum kid, but playing along with the metal he normally listens to is relaxing. His way to get rid of excess energy. In addition to listening to his own groove, he likes the feeling of the drumming thumping against his heart.

Raze and her stories. I like to think that when they were in the workshop together, early on right when he joined, he would listen with a smile on his face while Raze enthused about all the things she and KJ spoke about that day. He would tease, and he would fake annoyance, but he loves her company. She fulfills just a tiny bit of his longing for family.

2 things they usually smell:

Lingonberry jam, meatballs, mashed potatoes, and sausages! Traditional Swedish foods, just like his pathetic holiday takeover that one year. To this day, I still feel a rush of anger when I think of what he got to celebrate his life when everyone else had something much more extravagant planned (except maybe not Cypher... that was just... budget Queen's Gambit lmao). But in all seriousness, I think when he gets homesick, he cooks up this meal and lets himself reminisce and wallow in his regrets.

The various inorganic materials he needs to maintain his arms. They may be carbon-fibre and titanium plated, but they still need regular maintenance.

1 thing they usually taste:

Bitterness. Despite his whole lone wolf thing, I think it's been underlined enough that he still misses his home/family. Every t time he thinks of his family, he also remembers that it's his own fault that he's stuck here. And Raze does her best to be family, and he has tentative friends, or at the very least, allies, and yet he can't let go of what he misses most.

[linuxgamenews]

IDLE BOSS RUSH: Dominate with Strategy and Progress

IDLE BOSS RUSH is an epic new base-building strategy game that already has sights on Linux and Windows PC. All credit goes to the talented team at Irid Games for their creativity. Which is building its way onto Steam. Giant bosses. Endless loot. A kingdom that keeps growing even when you're AFK. Welcome to IDLE BOSS RUSH, where every fight, upgrade, and strategy takes you one step closer to absolute domination. Whether you're actively fine-tuning your build or just checking in to reap the rewards, this game is packed with non-stop action, clever combos, and that sweet, sweet feeling of progress.

At minimum we'll make sure it works through Proton, although with more Linux gamers interested we'll make sure to support it directly.

Irid Games says every platform needs extra testing, so they can’t guarantee full Linux support just yet. But they’ll make a test build and check for any issues in Unity.

Slay Giant Bosses – Because Nothing Small is Worth Fighting

There are no weaklings here—only towering giants that make the ground shake. Every enemy is a real challenge, demanding either a solid strategy or sheer brute force. You’ll see these monsters from miles away, looming over your growing town, just waiting to be taken down. And when they do? It’s a spectacle—watch them crumble right before your eyes in IDLE BOSS RUSH.

Build a Kingdom – From Dust to Dynasty

Your land starts as a simple town, but it won’t stay that way for long. As you progress, you’ll expand, upgrade, and shape your kingdom into a powerhouse built to crush anything in its path. Train an army, manage resources, and choose the right buildings and synergies to keep your empire thriving. Every choice matters—so build smart!

IDLE BOSS RUSH - Trailer

Keep Progressing – Even When You’re Away

Step away to grab a coffee? No worries—your troops keep fighting while you're gone. When you return, expect piles of loot, stacks of upgrades, and a town that’s even stronger than before. Want to fine-tune things? Step in, tweak your setup, and watch as your optimized build melts bosses even faster.

Unleash Epic Combos

The deeper you go into IDLE BOSS RUSH, the more intense the synergies get. Upgrade items to unlock hidden effects, equip powerful advisors in military, economy, or magic, and combine town upgrades to unleash wild, gameplay-breaking combos. Want to obliterate bosses before they can even react? That’s the goal.

Features That Keep You Hooked in IDLE BOSS RUSH

Endless boss fights – No filler enemies, just non-stop action.

Expanding mechanics – New systems unlock as you progress.

Resource & population management – Balance growth and power.

Active or passive play – Stay engaged or let the gameplay do its thing.

BOSS RUSH mode – Take on epic challenges for permanent bonuses.

Prestige, but only if you want it – No forced resets, only extra power.

Deep upgrade system – Stack effects and optimize your build.

Whether you're grinding hard or just checking in for that next wave of loot, IDLE BOSS RUSH delivers an endlessly rewarding experience. Ready to build, battle, and conquer? Your kingdom awaits, on Steam. Due to evolve onto Linux with Windows PC.