#olfactory learning

[tame-the-lion-writes]

How do you think the dog Shifter 141 au boys would react to a reader with a disability that makes them faint when they stand, or just a fainting risk in general? (Totally asking for a friend 👀 *Cough* *Cough*)

POTS- Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome is what I'm specifically referencing, but I imagine it isn't the only disability that could result in such!

Love your work, btw!

The first time it happens, they're panicky as hell, but you just try to reassure them that you're okay while sitting on the kitchen floor. Telling them to what to get you, or just asking that they sit by you so you can steady yourself. They're usually stubborn in one way or another, but none of that happens now. They know it's not the time or place. And it's a good thing it happens at home.

Once you're out of the house, though, Price takes it upon himself to read up more on your condition. Of course, self-training is a little difficult considering it's not just about knowledge, but instinct--that good ol' olfactory sense that could tell them when you're about to experience an episode, amongst other things. So for a while, it's a process of trial and error, going from just knowing what to give you and being there, to learning the signs so they can anticipate whenever it happens next. And they're smart. It doesn't take long for them to improve.

You debate getting them trained by professional instructors, but as it stands, your symbiotic relationship with them works just fine, and for the most part, they understand what you, as an individual, need.

[perpetual-stories]

Eight Strategies for Improving Dialogue in Your Writing

Well, hi! Oh my… wow! It’s been a long time since I’ve posted! I’ve been very busy and I am genuinely sorry to all my followers, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about this account, but here is one final post for the year!

Hopefully next year I become consistent with it again!

Let’s begin!

One of the best ways to help a reader connect with your writing is by crafting excellent dialogue. Use these tips to learn how to write dialogue that showcases character development, defines your characters’ voices, and hooks readers.

Why Use Dialogue?

Good dialogue performs all sorts of functions in fiction writing. It defines your characters’ voices, establishes their speech patterns, exposes the inner emotions, and showcases their character development. Beyond mere characterization, effective dialogue can also establish the setting and time period of your story and reveal information in a way that doesn’t feel overly expository.

Authors use lines of dialogue to reveal a character’s personality and express their point of view. For instance, an archetypal football coach might speak in short, terse sentences peppered with exclamation points and quotations from famous war generals. By contrast, a nebbish lover with a broken heart might drone on endlessly to his therapist or best friend, speaking in run-on sentences that circle around his true motivations. When an author can reveal character traits through dialogue, it cuts down on exposition and makes a story flow briskly.

Eight Writing Tips for Improving Dialogue

The first time you write dialogue, you may find it quite difficult to replicate the patterns of normal speech. This can be compounded by the concurrent challenges of finding your own voice and telling a great story overall. Even bestselling authors can get stuck on how a particular character says a particular line of dialogue. With practice and hard work, however, lackluster dialogue can be elevated to great dialogue.

Here are some strategies for improving the dialogue in your own work:

Mimic the voices of people in your own life. Perhaps you’ve created a physician character with the same vocal inflections as your mother. Perhaps your hero soldier talks just like your old volleyball coach. If you want to ensure that your dialogue sounds the way real people speak, there’s no better resource than the real life people in your everyday world.

Mix dialogue with narration. Long runs of dialogue can dislodge a reader from the action of a scene. As your characters talk, interpolate some descriptions of their physical postures or other activity taking place in the room. This mimics the real-world experience of listening to someone speaking while simultaneously taking in visual and olfactory stimuli.

Give your main character a secret. Sometimes a line of dialogue is most notable for what it withholds. Even if your audience doesn’t realize it, you can build dynamic three-dimensionality by having your character withhold a key bit of information from their speech. For instance, you may draft a scene in which a museum curator speaks to an artist about how she wants her work displayed—but what the curator isn’t saying out loud is that she’s in love with the artist. You can use that secret to embed layers of tension into the character’s spoken phrases.

Use a layperson character to clarify technical language. When you need dialogue to convey technical information in approachable terms, split the conversation between two people. Have one character be an expert and one character be uninformed. The expert character can speak at a technical level, and the uninformed one can stop them, asking questions for clarification. Your readers will appreciate it.

Use authentic shorthand. Does your character call a gun a “piece” or a “Glock”? Whatever it is, be authentic and consistent in how your characters speak. If they all sound the same, your dialogue needs another pass.

Look to great examples of dialogue for inspiration. If you're looking for a dialogue example in the realm of novels or short stories, consider reading the great books written by Mark Twain, Judy Blume, or Toni Morrison. Within the world of screenwriting, Aaron Sorkin is renowned for his use of dialogue.

Ensure that you’re punctuating your dialogue properly. Remember that question marks and exclamation points go inside quotation marks. Enclose dialogue in double quotation marks and use single quotation marks when a character quotes another character within their dialogue. Knowing how to punctuate dialogue properly can ensure that your reader stays immersed in the story.

Use dialogue tags that are evocative. Repeating the word “said” over and over can make for dull writing and miss out on opportunities for added expressiveness. Consider replacing the word “said” with a more descriptive verb.

[heian-era-housewife]

Synopsis | A trip to the emergency room turns to chaos as Sukuna does what he must to get you there, but there's trouble downwind.

Content | f!reader x trueform!sukuna, brief innuendo, pure crack

2:00 am. Sukuna woke to the sound of you moaning. Shamelessly.

"My love," he gripes, working the bridge of his nose with a tired hand as you writhe under the sheets beside him. "While I appreciate your...appetite...even a King needs his rest from time to time." He rolls toward you to give your waist a reassuring squeaze, stopping cold when he sees the pained and twisted expression on your face.

"'Kuna..." you moan, louder this time, "...hurts."

"What's wrong??" He asks sitting up quickly, all four hands fluttering aimlessly over you, hurriedly seeking the source of your affliction.

"Aaaghh" you groan, rolling to your side and clutching your stomach in distress.

"What is this??" He demands. "Even my reverse curse technique has no affect. What ails you?? Speak to me!"

Sukuna's level-headed demeanor crumbles under the weight of your misery. Coming to an abrupt decision, he scoops you effortlessly into his four arms and places you carefully into the passenger seat of the car.

Your car.

The one he never bothered learning to drive.

"'Kuna!" You protest with a tormented grunt. "You can't-"

"Quiet!" He snaps, voice cracking slightly as his four eyes frantically scan the dashboard, taking it all in. "I am nothing if not adaptable!"

The next twenty minutes were a chaotic rally reminiscent of the arcade classic Crazy Taxi, complete with wild acceleration, sudden stops, 2-wheeled turns, and the ocassional flattened traffic cone. It became entirely unclear if your cries of anguish were from the abdominal pain or the derby of death that was Sukuna's first time operating a vehicle.

But, God how you loved this maniac.

Pulling into the lot of the Emergency Hospital, parking haphazardly across two spots, Sukuna moved to lift you from the passenger seat, and that-

That is when you bust the most maniacle, most cursed, most special grade bit of ass the modern world has ever known.

That's right.

You let one slip.

Cut the cheese.

Broke wind.

Ripped a big one, in the hulking arms of the great Ryomen Sukuna.

"Woman!" He shouts, equal parts impressed and rightfully appalled. "What-" *cough* "what demon have you been harboring?!"

"...I uhm," you begin, face burried against Sukuna's broad chest, red hot embarassment creeping into your cheeks. "I feel a lot better now, actually..."

"And they say I am the disgraced one!" He grouses, eyes watering from the olfactory assault.

"Welp," you sulk as he sets you down gently. "Time to curl up and die."

"Nonsense!" He retorts. "Stand proud!" You eye him warily. "You are strong! Like...overpoweringly so-" he adds as you punch one of his arms and grab the keys.

"That's it...I'm driving us home."

"I was just getting the hang of it!" He argues.

"C'mon 'Disgraced One'," you say hopping back in the car. "I'll teach you how to fill it with gas on the way back."

With a maleveolent smirk he replies, "It would seem you already have plenty."

"Okay, now you're walking."

"No! Wait, my Flatulent Queen!"

"WALKING!"

[goodgirlofglory]

Ambrosial / One-shot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word count: 7,1k

Warnings: Explicit language, explicit content, mutual pining, scent kink, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, barely-there-handjob (like, not really at all), coming on clothes, a little bit of sweat kink? Sort of filth kink (not scat or anything like that but like, Bucky likes it messy), Bucky worshiping reader.

Summary: With his heightened senses, Bucky knows no peace when it comes to his olfactory system. Sweat, rotting food and sewage – the smells of the world surrounds him day in and day out. His only reprieve is the carefully curated space of his private quarters – and you, the sweet, new member of the team. With your unique, mouth-watering scent, it’s all he can do to not lose control around you. What happens when you unexpectedly cross that line between the two of you, and Bucky gets an opportunity to do more than just smell?

Note: My first Bucky fic eyooooo. He's a simp. It's weird, I feel like I'm so stuck in 2016 mcu. All I can picture is newly liberated-from-Hydra Bucky at the compound post civil war. But I reeeally liked this concept, and scent kinks really get me going. Anyone agree?

Your media consumption is your own responsibility, but I advise you not to interact if the contents of the warnings upset you.

Minors not welcome.

My work is not to be distributed outside my blog.

Replies, reblogs, likes and messages are amazing<3

Coffee, petrol, rusty iron, wet dog, shit, blood and old toothpaste. For as long as Bucky could remember, he could smell really well.

All his senses were heightened. The serum that made him a super soldier saw to that. But of all the senses, smell affected Bucky the most. Whether it made him think of a memory, alerted him to danger, gave him pleasure or was a bother. Most often it was the last one. Garbage, old sweat, farts and rotting food was a constant discomfort to him, assaulting his poor olfactory system wherever he went.

And no one, save for Steve, seemed to get why Bucky preferred to keep his rooms in the compound so clean. He feared Sam would never stop laughing that time he found the scented candle in Bucky's bathroom.

"You're killing me here, Buck! Lavender and rose petals," Sam had choked out between fits of laughter, wiping tears while clapping Bucky's shoulder.

"First of all, don't call me that, and second, fuck off," was all Bucky could say to his own defence. Steve had given him a look of understanding sympathy, while you had only chuckled at Sam's amusement. Bucky let Sam have his laugh and kept the candle.

You were the newest addition to the compound, and though you and Bucky hit it off in a polite and respectful tone, Bucky didn't really know you outside your skills and specialties in the field (which he had mostly learned from reading your file - not actually talking to you). The two of you didn't seem to have much in common besides a shared love for food. Your rooms were just near the kitchen, like Bucky's, so whenever something good was cooking, you both would come sniffing.

So, Bucky didn’t really know much about you, except that you had the sweetest scent he’d ever smelled. Rich, slightly spicy, a mix of dried herbs and honey mixed with warm skin. It made him think of lazy mornings in soft sheets, quiet, content walks in lush forests, and sex. It was so appealing to him, he’d started to guiltily look forward to every time he got to smell it. He couldn’t ever let you know that, though. Couldn’t let you know how deeply he subtly pulled your scent into his nostrils at times, and how much it sizzled within him. How it sometimes made his cock grow half hard and sensitive in his pants. You smelled so good. 

He was horrified by his own reaction, how he couldn’t control it. Bucky could control everything, held himself so tightly leashed he sometimes didn’t remember how it felt to react naturally to something. The semis you gave him were a direct threat to that control. 

Bucky could faintly remember being quite the ladies man back in the day. No more, though. He barely knew how to talk to people these days, let alone women. Let alone gorgeous, cute, good-smelling women like you.

He had most of the scents of the compound down by now. Natasha's caramel lattes in the morning, Steve's burnt toast and black roast. Wanda's paprika dishes and Clint's cheesy pizzas. At noon every day the hallway would smell with the fresh sweat of the joint training sessions. Sam would enjoy popcorn on Thursday’s movie night and a strong, musky cologne on Friday's club nights. There would always be the smell of liquor in the air when Tony was around, and more often than not, the smell of smoke as Steve went to cool off on his bike soon after.

Only Vision had no smell at all except a very faint hue of fresh, clinical rubber. Eerie, Bucky often thought to himself. Sometimes it was the only reminder that Vision wasn't human.

There were rarely any new smells for Bucky to note. Rarely something he didn't know what was, until one particular evening. The compound was quiet. A larger group were off on a mission, and the rest had scattered away, some leaving the grounds for a few days leave. Bucky had left his room to scavenge for snacks when he turned the corner into the kitchen and bumped straight into you. 

“Oh gosh! Hi Barnes! You scared me,” you said with a surprised smile after giving a little yelp, nearly dropping the bag of chips and steaming cup of tea in your hands. 

Bucky felt his body flush, partly embarrassed that he hadn’t sensed your presence before nearly tackling you off your feet, and partly because you were standing very close. Closer than he’d ever been.. Then your scent hit him, and a new wave of warmth spread in his body. It was…heavier than usual. Richer, with an overwhelming tangy note - the warm skin and lazy mornings in soft sheets he’d mentioned earlier - and it coursed through him like a comb through wet hair, leaving him momentarily stunned by sensation. He swallowed the sudden excess of saliva in his mouth and fought to not close his eyes. You were right there, for Christ's sake. 

Don’t be a creep! 

Bucky pointed to the items in your hands and said “snacks”. 

Stupid!

You looked down to where he pointed, momentarily puzzled before smiling and raising your cup in a small toast as you seemingly understood what he meant. 

“Way ahead of ya,” you said, then you sobered and when you met his eyes your cheeks had gained a strange hint of color. “You haven’t been out tonight? I thought I was all alone here,” you said, and Bucky was almost too distracted by your scent to realize you were nervous. 

“Ah, no. Not for me,” he said, and then added “going out on town and stuff,' cause his communication skills were truly atrocious. 

“Oh. Yeah, me neither,” you said, smiling softly at him, looking up through your lashes in a way that had him squirming in his skin. Bucky let his gaze track down to notice for the first time that you were only wearing a huge, oversized t-shirt and fuzzy blue socks. He could see your bare knees. So cute. 

Don’t get hard, don’t get hard, don’t get hard…

And then, as Bucky tried to will his cock not to swell in his sweatpants, he realized what he was smelling. It was arousal - your arousal. Or rather, that which came after your arousal. The smell of you post arousal. Bucky swallowed thickly again. You’d been masturbating. Or maybe you had a visitor. No, those weren’t allowed in the compound. 

You’d been self-pleasuring then, while you thought everyone was away. Which explained the rosy cheeks and nervous tone of voice - and the slip of control that had blood rushing to Bucky’s cock right before you. He resolutely fought the mental images away with a proverbial stick, shook himself quickly from his stupor and stepped past you, running for the fucking hills before you’d notice the tent forming in his pants and be forever creeped out by him. You didn’t deserve that, fucking hell. 

“Well, enjoy the rest of your evening,” he called over his shoulders and didn’t look back as he entered the kitchen. A long moment later you stammered out a “y-you too” before Bucky’s advanced hearing caught your feet slipping on the floor as you made your way back to your rooms. 

Later that night, hot with shame, Bucky laid in his bed, hard and aching as he remembered your smell, the way it had lingered in the hallway, and the way your cheeks looked with that adorable blush. But he didn’t touch himself - refused to be that way, knew he wouldn’t be able to look you in the eyes again if he did. 

§

That scent haunted him from that day forward. Each time he passed your room he would automatically look for it, each time he passed you he would scrutinize the nuances of your scent, trying to figure out if you’d been aroused recently or not. Not able to help himself, he would try and decipher if you were wet right then and there, if your scent changed during the brief time you were in a room with him. This was usually during mission briefings or the missions themselves, so it wasn’t often he ever caught your scent marinated and warm and potent like he had that day in the hallway. 

But then the day came where Steve, your usual sparring partner, was on a mission, and out of nowhere you asked Bucky if he could step in. 

“It’s just, with the serum and all, you might be the closest to Steve in terms of the level of challenge we’ve been working up to,” you said, looking down, hands behind your back as you stood before Bucky where he sat on the bench, having just finished a bench press set. 

He’d been resolutely not looking at you from the moment you unexpectedly stepped into the gym. Because he was concentrating on his routine, and because he was giving you space to concentrate on yours. But also because it was hard enough to keep his eyes reigned in when you weren’t sweaty and flushed, your compression shirt clinging to your toned torso, your tights hugging your thighs and oh god, plump, rounded ass perfectly. 

Bucky felt at home in the gym. It was a safe space for working out his surplus energy and jittering nerves, and fresh perspiration was a hundred times better than the stank of old socks and musty boxers he got elsewhere. He always felt a bit grimy, a bit uneasy in his own skin, with the way his bulky body and gait moved him through the delicate spaces of the compound. In the gym, he could just be loud and forceful in his grimy skin and everyone else was too. 

But now, with you so polite and sweet and shy before him, Bucky felt at a loss. He couldn’t damn well say no to you when you gave such a good reason for asking him. He didn’t want to be an asshole. You were supposed to be teammates. Colleagues.  

“What she means to say is that no one else is good enough for her,” Scott Lang chimed in from the bench next to Bucky when Bucky remained quiet a second too long. 

A familiar, rosy blush stole across your cheeks as you batted a hand towards Lang. 

“Maybe if you spent half as much time working your biceps as you do your mouth, I would’ve asked you,” you retorted, and Bucky didn’t bother to quell his snort of laughter. It wasn’t often he got to see your sassy side, though Steve had told him about it. 

You looked back and smiled a little at Bucky as Lang exaggerated a shocked gasp and got up from his bench. 

“You know, you shouldn’t be so nice all the time, Y/N. I would like to see you being a little mean,” he said as he grabbed his towel and headed for the gym exit, smiling all the while. 

“Try me, Bug-man.”

“I just might, ordinary human woman,” Scott threw back as he pushed through the doors. 

You looked back as Bucky, who was still recovering slightly from the smile you’d given him. 

“So, what’s it gonna be, Barnes?” you asked hopefully. 

“Yeah, sure,” he heard himself say, and almost immediately his heart kicked into gear. 

This is a stupid idea, he thought to himself as he joined you on the sparring mat. Your scent, alive with your fresh, warm sweat, wafted in a trail directly behind you where Bucky followed, trying not to take too noticeable pulls of air. You stretched for a bit and Bucky did the same so he wouldn’t end up staring. 

“So,” he started as he raised himself from a forward hamstring stretch, “what have you and Steve been working o- oof!”

His words were cut off as you launched yourself on him, landing a kick to his midriff that had the breath momentarily stealing from his lungs. Then his mind slipped into combat mode, and he lunged for you. 

It seemed like hours passed as you sparred. You’d come a long way in your training, and Bucky found himself receiving quick punches and efficient kicks unexpectedly several times. You’d already been sweaty when you started, and it didn’t take long for your mixed perspirations to clog Bucky’s nose, adding a layer of distraction to the mix. 

You wrapped your thighs around his head in a move eerily reminiscent of Natasha, and Bucky nearly blacked out as he came face to face to the source of that intoxicating scent. He might be gross, but he didn’t care. It smelled so fucking good. 

And then, as he grabbed you by the hips and flung you to the mat, catching your head from breaking against the floor and lowering himself to his knees between your legs to dampen the impact, you let out a surprised little squeal that had him flushing for entirely new reasons. 

You stopped short, panting furiously and looking up at Bucky with wide eyes, face red, hair clinging to the sweat on your forehead. You were utterly gorgeous, and Bucky was powerless. He couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. You were a dream like this, alive and blinding, so beautiful and so close. It gave him a sort of reverent pleasure just to be allowed to look at a woman like this. A lucky reward he was completely undeserving of. 

You stayed like that. You on your back, arms limp on the mat over your head, legs loosely draped over Bucky’s thighs as he sat on his knees between them, metal arm bracing on the mat by the side of your head, the other, softer one, cradled between the back of your head and the mat under it. 

And then the unmistakable, elusive scent of lazy mornings in bed, sex and spice hit his nose. Your arousal, mixing with your sweat to a lethal potion. Bucky couldn’t for the life of him stop the instinctual indraw of breath, feeling himself instantly getting a little dizzy of it. The appreciative sigh escaped him a moment later. 

Your mouth parted slightly like you understood what he was doing, your eyes momentarily going wide before your eyelids drooped, pupils expanding. 

Then, in a move Bucky would never anticipate, your head lifted off his hand, and you slotted your mouth to his, warm lips meeting his in a hard kiss. 

Wait, what?

Even as Bucky’s thoughts scrambled to keep up with what you’d done, his body responded in kind, lips returning your kiss after only a beat of stunned shock. 

Muscles rippling with lightning bolt of unleashed need, his body surged forward, pressing your head back into the mat, dragging his flesh hand up to cradle your jaw as he deepened the kiss. 

You’d kissed him. He’d kissed you back. You were kissing. No, making out now, he thought fervently as your mouth opened to not so shyly pry your tongue against his, swiping slick and hot in a way that had his breath catching in his lungs.

Lust rippled through him, making even his bulky frame shudder.

With the cutest, neediest whimper that made Bucky’s blood rush in his ears, you grabbed his wrist with both your hands and brought his hand, the one made of flesh, down to cup you between your legs.

The surprised grunt that escaped him was entirely unplanned, and the one that followed was downright unhinged, escaping his control. Before his mind had completely caught up to what had happened, his hand had started to move back and forth on it’s own, rubbing you over and over, and fuck – you were wet, so wet it had soaked through the fabric of your leggings, making his hand damp.

Bucky’s breath burst out of him, and you suddenly wrenched away from the kiss, your head falling back with a dull thud on the mat. Your hands let go of Bucky’s hand and you covered your face with them.

“Oh God, sorry! I’m sorry, that was so thoughtless of me, what if you don’t want to, and I…and, maybe we should stop, I mean you don’t have to if –“ you rambled, shrill voice muffled by your own hands, and Bucky had to refrain from screaming in protest to this stopping. He brought the hand he’d awkwardly stilled between your legs up and pried one of your hands off your face.

You had the most adorable, crimson flush high on your cheekbones, and your face was all scrunched up from embarrassment. The sight of you being so small and vulnerable beneath him had a surge of protectiveness welling so fast in Bucky’s chest it physically pained him for a moment. He suddenly felt entirely sure he wanted to do, would do, anything to stop you from fretting, from worrying about anything ever again.

You were still mumbling faintly about not wanting him to feel pressured and how inaprorpriate it was of you to come on to him like this. Bucky would have none of that. Emboldened by his newfound emotion and almost panicked by the notion of this ending before he could touch you and kiss you just a little bit more, he lowered his face to capture your lips again, if only to shut you up. You whimpered into his mouth, eagerly reciprocating in contrast to your attempt at rationality. 

Fuck rationality. Bucky was starving, had been starving for months.

When he broke away, he leaned his forehead to yours, trying to catch his breath, to get order to his thoughts, but they were a jumbled mess of possessive, filthy wants that had his self control ripping at the seams. And your scent, God, your fucking scent was tinged with fucking ambrosia, like an aphrodisiac designed specifically to make Bucky’s vision go all loopy and his damn civility to shrivel to dust. 

“I want…I…fuck, you have no idea how much I want,” he blurted inelegantly, and then words escaped him all together, for there were no words to describe the profound ache that settled deep in his loins, the sheer carnal need to feel your skin on his, to touch you, to be the provider of every moan and keen of pleasure he could - to keep you wet and shivering and wordless from pleasure. 

His mind short circuited as he landed on the mental image of hearing you come with his cock deep inside your weeping cunt, and he pounced on you without really meaning to.

His mouth sought out the soft skin of your elegant neck, and he licked it before giving it an open-mouthed kiss, covering it in saliva. He felt your body twitch and writhe as he latched his teeth and tongue onto it, moving messily down to the collar of your compression shirt. He wanted to pry it off you, to tear it to shreds with his teeth, to lather the skin of your breasts with the attention of his tongue and lips, to nip and bite and suck on your nipples till they grew hard and red and puffy for him. But that would have to be later, for he had one goal he was working towards, that spot between your legs where he had already felt how much you already needed him. He would not let you go another minute unsatiated. 

Unceremoniously and frenzied, he kissed over your clothed torso as he crawled down your body. Your hands were in his hair, tugging and gripping as he went, the most decadent, breathy moans spilling from you panting mouth as he (rougher than he intended) manhandled your legs over his shoulders and then your hips off the floor, wrenching your leggings and underwear down so hard your whole body jolted, and fuck, he was telling himself to be more gentle, to not scare you away when you had given him this fucking gift of letting him get this far.

But he needed it; was desperate for it. Desperate to bury his face between your legs, breath in your warm, sweet scent where it was most potent, to taste you and feel your pulsate on his tongue. He needed you to come in his mouth, all over his face, so he would smell you there for days, lingering like the most illicit secret. Fuck, all his blood was rushing south so fast he felt almost faint.

You let him do what he wanted, laid down again naked from the waist down, so small and fragile and beautiful and Bucky wanted to eat you alive.

And then he was on his stomach between your legs, pussy inches away and it was glistening with how wet you were, your patch of dark curls wet too. Your whole body was shivering slightly, and your hands flitted about the mat for something to do, something to hold on to, a nervous gesture, or an excited one. Fucking hell, Bucky hoped you were half as excited for this as he was, and promised he would do anything to have you as addicted to his mouth as he already was to your scent. 

It was baffling how magnanimous the moment was to him, to have the absolute honor of being allowed this close to your sweet pussy, to have you trembling and flushed on your back, allowing him, socially stunted, unelegant and most of the time awkward as hell, between your glorious thighs, allowing him to touch you, to try and bring you the most pleasurable experience you could have. 

It had been a long time since Bucky was a religious man, but -

“Christ,” he muttered as he saw your pussy clenching under his gaze, more of your slick seeping out under his watchful gaze. 

In a moment of unexpected (and impressing) clarity, Bucky looked up to find your gaze on his face. 

“Is this okay? C-can I?” he asked, or rather rasped, for his voice was all husky, more growl than anything else. His cock was so hard in his pants, throbbing, and he had to push his hips down into the mat to alleviate some of the ache as he watched your face avidly, fearing for his life that you would do anything but consent enthusiastically. Suddenly he wasn’t sure how he would survive if you said no and he would have to tear himself away from you. 

To Bucky’s relief, a needy whimper escaped you and you bit your lips nodding before gasping. 

“Yes, please, please Barnes, I -”

Bucky didn’t let you finish your sentence. The minute he heard you say yes and oh lord - plead for him to do it - he surged forward and sucked your pussy into his mouth. He heard the air catch in your throat as he licked his tongue flat against you from weeping hole to your clit, the nub swollen and hard already. He flicked it with the tip of his tongue and your body jolted, a small sound escaping you. 

He did it again, flicking your clit teasingly, the little nub growing harder and bigger under his attention. He was ravenous, wanted to work you until your whole body felt like one big overstimulated nerve, contracting and throbbing with every touch. He wanted you soaked in pleasure, so hazy with it you could do nothing but come back to him for more. 

You let your sounds spill freely as he went, pretty, needy whimpers and unashamed moans.

God, yes, Bucky thought, hoping you always were so reactive, vowing to drag more sweet sounds out of you, his blood sizzling with how downright nourishing they were to him. 

You were writhing so hard on the mat you nearly squirmed away from his mouth, and Bucky hooked his metal arm around your thigh as he draped it over his shoulder, securing you firmly in place as he lavished your whole dripping pussy with his spit, letting it mingle with your own slick and coat his chin and lips in it, probably dripping down onto the mat. Bucky didn’t care, he couldn’t get enough. You tasted even better than you smelled, and his vision went blurry with how ecstatic he felt buried in the hot, soft flesh between your legs. 

He sucked your clit into his mouth, bullying it with his tongue as he peeked up at your sweaty face. He drank in the almost reverent look on it, eyes closed, mouth slightly parted, drool at one corner. 

Your hands still flitted about looking for purchase, for something to grab. He grabbed you gently by the wrist and led your hands to his hair, still working your clit with his tongue in rhythmic swipes, up and down, up and down. You instantly grabbed fistfuls of his dark locks in tight clasps and your eyes, blown and glassy, met his as he lowered his head to lap at your hole again. You whined, lifting your hips slightly to grind against his mouth and Bucky hadn’t thought this could get any better but the feel of you smearing your juices on his face, riding your clit mindlessly on his tongue, using him to chase your own pleasure - Bucky nearly came in his gym shorts and he couldn’t even be bothered by it. 

He fit his hands on your hips, just resting them there as you grinded on him, your brows drawn together in concentration. Bucky groaned into your flesh as more of your sweet slick dripped out of you onto his tongue, and you jolted against him, whimpering so adorably as your hips sped up to frantic bucking. 

Bucky started flicking his tongue to help you out, to drive the movement higher, faster, and you gasped hoarsely. 

“Yes, fuck, just like that, oh my god Bucky!,” you exclaimed, practically screaming into the empty gym. And hearing his name like that, so intimately and fervently, desperately as you praised him. Bucky downright snarled into your pussy, and that seemed to drive you that last bit off the edge. 

You threw your head back on a choked whine, whole body seizing tight, trembling like a leaf in his arms. Bucky kept his flicking licks on your clit, feeling it jump and throb as the waves of your orgasm rode your body. 

He kept licking until your voice returned to you in jolting little squeaks, and tried to keep going even as you pulled his face away from you by the roots of his hair. 

Bucky wanted to protest. Wanted to shake your hands off him and push his face into your cunt again. He wasn’t ready for it to end. He hadn’t gotten nearly enough of your addicting, heavenly taste. He kissed and licked over your thighs, smearing your slick and his spit all over them, nibbling on the soft skin and making you all messy, a preening sort of satisfaction settling warm in his chest at the sight. He wanted to see you come again, hear you come again, feel the way your muscles seized as you reached that pinnacle of pleasure. He wanted to make you come again. So he did just that. 

With renewed, almost feral fervor, Bucky shot to his knees and hunched over your lower body. Easily prying your hands off his head, he pinned them to your sides on the mat as he pushed his tongue against your hole, lapping up the gush your orgasm had created. A rational, though very small voice in the back of his mind told him he probably sounded and acted like an animal, but he didn’t care. He pushed his tongue as far inside you he could and felt your walls throb and clench around the muscle, driving his fervor higher. 

He kept your hands pinned to your sides a while longer, though it didn’t take long for your squeaks of overstimulation to turn back to sweet, needy whimpers of “fuck, yes, more, please, yes, God”.

Bucky wanted to feel more of you from the inside, and when he felt more secure in the fact that you would allow him more time between your legs, he let go of your wrist and brought his flesh hand down to your hole. His fingers trembled slightly as he swiped through your messy folds, coating them thoroughly before resting them just on your opening. 

Your hand returned to his hair, carding through and then tightening. 

“Pleeease,” you whined above him, and Bucky’s breath went short and puffy at how completely and ardently you submitted to him, gave yourself over and begged him. He wanted to hear you beg more, but he was too impatient to get inside you, if only with his fingers. 

His cock jumped at the thought of getting inside you, too, but he ignored it. He wanted you to come, right now. 

He pushed two fingers into you and groaned at the tight, wet heat that enveloped him. It was like nothing he’d ever felt before, and if he used to do this sort of thing back in the day, he couldn’t remember it feeling like this. 

Your back arched off the mat on a garbled gasp. Bucky took the opportunity to wrap his other arm under your back and practically drag you into his lap as he sat back on his haunches, getting his mouth back on your clit. 

He flicked it fast, alternating with messy suckling, and curled his finger inside you to hook against the roof of your stretched cunt. He had no idea where all his moves came from. He hadn’t so much as seen a naked woman since coming to the compound and didn’t remember much other than fragments of his sexual escapades before the war. It must have been muscle memory, some hard attained skills locked deep in his mind. It seemed to be working well with you, and that was all that mattered to Bucky. 

You were keening and whining under him, half in Bucky’s lap with your shoulders still on the mat. Your hands grabbed and scratched on his knees and thighs below you, and Bucky fucking loved it.

He was aware he was acting like a brute. No finesse, no manners, just a primal and instinctual need to get you off, to feel and hear and taste you fall apart from his touch and tongue. And have that heavenly scent of your arousal fresh in his mind for the rest of the day. 

You came again quickly with Bucky’s fingers added to the mix, screaming his name as your legs went rod stiff, body spasming that same, incredible way it had done the first time. Bucky felt high on your juice, licking up the fresh gush with reverent licks.

He had the absurd urge to keep going when he felt your hand tap his thigh twice. Tapping out. 

Bucky looked up your body, or rather down it where your bum was held up by his arm in his lap. You were panting, your eyes half-lidded and shining. You smiled at him, and his heart clenched weirdly in his chest. He was coming back to himself slightly, and suddenly wondered if he should prepare himself for embarrassment and horrified rejection after the unhinged way he’d just acted. But your hands, so gentle and elegant, reached for his face. 

He bent forward to insinuate his jaw into the cradle of them, and slowly lowered your lower body back to the mat as you gently pulled his face to yours, kissing him on the mouth almost chastely after what he’d just done. He could feel himself tremble a little as he hovered over you, kissing you again and then again, deepening the kiss a little to slow swipes of your tongues. He wondered if you could taste yourself on his tongue, if you liked your own taste as much as he did. 

Your head plumped back down on the mat and a trill of laughter flitted effortlessly from your mouth. 

“Oh my fucking God, Barnes,” you said, eyes closed and a broad smile on your face. Bucky could feel himself blushing a little, though he liked it better when you’d called him Bucky. 

Taking a purely selfish chance, Bucky quickly backed down your body to lay on his chest between your legs again, resting his head on one of your spread thighs. Your hand absentmindedly came to lay on his head, stroking his hair lightly. He stared at your pussy, swollen and pink and messy  with the mix of his spit and your slick. He could stare at it for hours. He took another selfish chance and slowly leaned in to swipe his tongue over your slit.

You moaned, though a bit critically. 

“If you don’t let me catch my breath, you’re gonna kill me,” you said, but you were still smiling. 

“I don’t want that,” Bucky admitted honestly, and you laughed again. 

“I’m glad.”

Bucky went back to staring at your messy pussy, taking in that perfect scent that had all his other thoughts muffling to a peaceful hum. He leaned forward, watching you to see if you would stop him, and took another slow, almost soothing swipe over your pussy. You jolted slightly, then hummed contently, eyes closing. He did it again, for he was an animal with no self-control, and this time, your thighs came up to bracket his face, stopping him half-way. 

“Barnes,” you warned, and Bucky had to admit defeat. He crawled back up to hover over your body, hoping you would drag him back in for kisses, or just touches, or just some form of physical contact. His skin was prickling all over from the pleasantness of just feeling warm skin to his. 

Luckily, you did, pulling him back down to kiss him again, and he let his body lower to lay splayed on top of you, making sure not to put too much of his bulk on you, but plastering himself to you all the same. 

You gave a startled little noise and broke from the kiss, looking down with wide eyes. 

Oh shit, Bucky was still sporting a raging hard-on, which he had unceremoniously pushed into your stomach as he laid down on top of you. About to jump away, Bucky again readied himself to reign himself back in when your hand snaked down, grabbing him over his gym shorts, keeping him put exactly where he was. 

Your hand around him, even with the fabric between, drew a raspy gasp from him. 

“Can I”? You asked, looking up at him through your lashes. 

Bucky swallowed thickly, looking down at your dainty hand barely reaching around the bulge in his gym shorts, and his cock gave a noticeable jerk as his mind flooded with images of all the things he wanted you to do to his cock. He could feel his balls tingling, drawing up, his sack tightening in warning. He was already on the edge. 

“I won’t last long,” he admitted, barely daring to meet your gaze again. 

You smiled, biting your lip slightly. 

“That doesn’t matter, as long as you want to,” you said. Bringing your other hand to draw his face down, he shivered as your hot breath tickled his ear. He was so overworked on sensation, he was surprised his arms hadn’t given out yet for how weak and sensitive he felt all over. 

“I want to make you feel good,” you whispered huskily in his ear, and Bucky bit his lip to try and stifle the embarrassing sound crawling its way up his throat at those words. He wasn’t successful, and he sounded almost like a wounded puppy before giving up and pressing his flushed face into the crook of your neck, nodding rapidly. He hadn’t even given a thought to you reciprocating anything. He’d been more than happy to just use the memory of this as masturbation fodder for a long, long time to come. 

“Yeah?” you asked in a honey sweet voice, God, you were just so fucking sweet, and Bucky melted against you. “Roll over on your back,” you told him, and like a tamed beast eager to please, Bucky immediately obeyed, rolling off you to lay on his back on the mat. You followed, moving swiftly to get on your hands and knees between his spread legs, one hand moving teasingly up his thigh to wrap around his bulge again. 

Not able to help himself, Bucky rose to a sitting position to claim your mouth as you held him by the cock. He wanted you closer, everywhere. You kissed him while lazily touching him over the fabric of his shorts, sliding the tip of your finger up his length to the tip and Bucky jolted, grunting uncontrollably into your mouth. His breathing was picking up, his nerve endings spiking and sizzling. 

While thrusting your tongue into his mouth, Bucky’s hands cradling your face like the most precious jewel, you reached inside his shorts and took his cock out, wrapping your hand around it and letting it just sit, rock hard and leaking generously, between you. 

You broke the kiss, gave Bucky the most devilish smirk he’d ever seen, and licked your lips before lowering yourself to take him into your mouth. The anticipation burned like a lightning bolt straight down his body to his cock. 

Bucky exploded before you even got your lips to his tip. Cum spurted out of him, spraying his t-shirt, some going as high as his chin, and some getting on your shocked face. Bucky groaned as the orgasm wrecked through him, riding through him in wave after wave, the most intense one he could ever remember having - and you hadn’t so much as jerked him without his clothes on. 

Mortified and still trembling slightly with aftershocks, Bucky gathered the courage to look at you, and found you staring at his cum-covered chest. Your hand was still wrapped around his twitching cock, your knuckles shining with his spunk, and despite how Bucky had no clue where to go from here, the sight had hot satisfaction spreading in his chest. It was like he was marking you with his cum the way you had marked him with your slick (though that had mostly been Bucky marking himself by literally rubbing his face in it). 

He watched with rapid attention as you brought your wet hand up to your face and licked a stripe of cum off your knuckle, sucking your own thumb into your mouth. You met his gaze, and Bucky swore under his breath as his dick throbbed with renewed interest at the sight. 

Your mouth ticked up at the corner before you leaned in and kissed Bucky softly on the mouth. He shivered with excitement as you pried his lips open with yours to swipe his own taste into his mouth. Fuck, he’d never done that before. It was filthy and possessive and dominating and Bucky had never thought he’d be so fucking turned on by it. 

You broke the kiss with a content hum that had Bucky’s blood rushing in his ears. 

“That was really fucking hot,” you murmured, going back in for another kiss. Bucky felt his nervousness dissipating, replaced by a sort of ecstatic elation. A laugh bubbled up and out of him, and he kissed you back. Pulling you closer with his hands on your face, neither of you cared about the mess on his shirt as you laid down on top of him, kissing again and again, slowly, exploringly. 

There was a calm inside Bucky, a sort of sated comfort he could scarcely remember feeling, and he knew it was all because of you, the sweet, wonderful woman in his arms. He could lay like this forever, simply kissing you, holding you close, smelling your scent and feeling your warmth against him, your grounding weight on his chest. His cock had other thoughts though, already starting to fill, lodged between the two of you. 

You raised your head and cocked a brow down at Bucky, and he could do nothing more than shrug and blush. And then, as he started thinking about dragging you up to sit on his face, a booming voice came from the door to the gym. 

“Please, for the love of all things good and holy, vacate the gym room now! You’re keeping it hostage at this point!,” Sam shouted, and Bucky glanced over your shoulder to see him standing outside, facing the other way as he held the door open to shout through. 

Oh. Right, you were still in the very public gym of the compound. 

You squealed as you scrambled off Bucky to retrieve the leggings and underwear he’d ripped off you and thrown to the side. Bucky got on his feet and in between you and the view of the door, trying to shield you from view while you frantically redressed - he could at least try to be a gentleman after having devoured you like a hungry animal and then cum all over himself and you. 

You turned to face him once you were fully dressed, and your eyes bulged as you glanced down. With frantic, fumbling hands, you reached forward and tucked his cock, hard and proud and still jutting out over his shorts, back inside. Bucky grunted at the touch, seeing the lovely crimson blush on your face, stretching to the tips of your ears and down your neck. He grunted again, appreciatively, when he noticed the splotches of his cum still drying on your chin and cheek from when he’d busted in your face. 

Bringing his thumb up, he gently wiped his mess off your skin, wiping his hand on the back of his shorts. 

“Sorry about Sam and…” Bucky trailed, gesturing awkwardly to the mat and around the room. His communication skills hadn’t improved by the earth-shattering orgasm, then…

“It’s fine. It was I who jumped your bones, after all,” you said sheepishly, but you were smiling. God, so sweet. 

Bucky was about to lean in to kiss you once again when Sam’s voice cut in. 

“Don’t you dare start up again, I don’t have all day! And bring that mat with you. Matter of fact, burn it!” he shouted. 

Giggling like teenagers, you scrambled to get your belongings and exit the room. Bucky gave Sam an apologetic look as he passed him, and though Sam was clearly pissed off, Bucky saw the way his mouth was ticking up at the edges, approval shining in his eyes. 

You grabbed Bucky’s hand once you’d left the gym, and Bucky happily let himself be dragged along down the hall. He was already working on his plan to lure you into his room, and subsequently rub your scent on everything he owned. For though the intensity of smells were mostly a nuisance for Bucky, having a strong sense of smell wasn’t so bad when it came to you.

[mbari-blog]

Meet your new favorite #CuteFishOfTumblr—Spunky

The giant cusk-eel (Spectrunculus grandis) is one of the largest bony fishes in the deep abyss. Sometimes called “swimming noses,” these fish rely on their large olfactory organs to sniff out their next meal.

They are not picky eaters—a hungry Spectrunculus will dine on a variety of bottom-dwelling invertebrates like crustaceans, worms, and sea stars or just as happily nibble on decomposing carcasses.

In the deep sea, food can seem scarce unless you know where to look. Poop, snot, dead plankton, and larger animal carcasses sinking from the ocean’s surface provide a tasty treat for seafloor scavengers. To find a feast in the vast abyss, it helps to follow your nose. Spectrunculus is just one of the many magnificent animals that thrive on the abyssal seafloor.

As society looks to the deep sea for mining rare minerals such as cobalt and nickel, understanding the importance of this spectacular species and other abyssal animals has become especially urgent. Our research is revealing how human actions will affect deep-sea communities. We are providing the information policymakers need to guide their decision-making about the ocean, its inhabitants, and its resources.

Next time you think about the ocean, remember these charming and curious deep-sea neighbors roaming the seafloor. Learn more about this and other fascinating animals of the deep in our Animals of the Deep gallery.

[writers-potion]

Using Description and Setting Meaningfully

The setting, and a writer's description of it, is an essential part of any story. A good writer would use that setting for more than just a place for things to happen.

Use setting to emphasize other aspects of the story, such as:

Magnify the theme

Convey the general mood

Enlarge conflict

Magnifying Some Theme Through Description

Here's the thing about theme: modern readers aren't looking to be reformed. They wish to be entertained.

So, let description carry the burden of conveying the theme rather than you having to say it!

Side note: Theme is NOT a few haughty ideas you learn in lit class (like pride, beauty, everlasting love) but anything that you are trying to convey in a particular scene (like, trying to get a date). You can have several themes instead of one lofty philiosophical theme. That's fine.

The key here is to pick and choose the kind of details that contributes to the theme. A few examples:

Theme = oppression and manipulation of workers.

Aim = highlight deariness and tension

Setting: a break room in a factory

Details: slow ticking of a clock, raspy gurgling of a coffeemaker, completely utilitarian carpet and walls

Theme = teenager scheming a scam that his father already knows about

Aim = establish stealthy tension

Setting: the breakfast table

Details: toaster loudly launching two slices of bread at exactly the same moment that the teenager realizes his plan is ruined, catlike movements of the "stealthy"teen

Theme = a character's life is about to be transformed

Aim = show that change is imminent

Setting = train platform

Details: the darkness falling, colors of distant hills and the sky changining, the last train rolling in, workers happliy switching from "work mode" to "weekend mood" as the character waits for his train

Conveying Mood and Tone

The mood of a character determines how the story progresses.

If your main character is depressed, the plot will crawl on and take on a brooding, ominous tone. If he is determined, passionate and happy, the plot will speed up into loud, blowing action.

Often, the prevailing mood doesn't come from the character, but from the setting itself.

Again, let's explain by example:

Mood = Gloomy, baleful

Details: Sulphurous smoke, thick fog, horses' hoofs on cobbled streets, vendor's cries, unseen organ creaking out a sinister tune, sounds being muffled

Word choice is important. If you're conveying gloom, using strong verbs like creak, screech and adjectives like sinister and eerie.

Use sensory description: visual, auditory, tactile, olfactory and gustatory.

Another way is to describe simple actions:

Mood = irritation, aggression

Details: mashing the end of a cigarette in his plate, one draught of the coffee in his cup, wiping lips with his napkin - crumpling and dropping in on the table, standing up from the table, staring at the other person.

Mood = Giddiness

Details: flicking water from his glass on a lunch companion, twisting his napkin, playing with food without eating

Once you've established a prevailing mood, you've pretty much set the course of your story. No reader will expect the main character to party all night with loud rock music after a sinister description of his way back home.

Enlarging Conflict

Think of the things or actions that will eventually build up to the main conflict. Then, choose a setting that will naturally bring out such an action/ though from the characters in it.

Conflict = Woman hasn't spoken to her son for a decade and now, she has to confront him

Setting: House where she raised her son, among things that he hasn't seen in all that time, working bits of backstory into objects in the house (tie in a sofa, picture on the wall), mannerisms of the characters as they greet each other at the door.

Allow the setting to provide the little sparks that will blow up eventually. This way, you can effectively cut out that slow middle and jump into action without much effort.

Description is a matter of wordsmithing, of selecting preciosuly the right words to create certain meanings. Make every word and sentence count.

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

[myriadeyed]

The 5 step grounding process is different for non/alterhumans.

If you're unfamiliar, which you're probably not, the 5 senses technique, or 5-4-3-2-1 technique, is meant to be an exercise that helps one recover from a panic or anxiety attack; name 5 things you can see, 4 things you can feel, 3 things you can hear, 2 things you can smell and 1 thing you can taste.

Just speaking for myself here, as a nonhuman, I tend to prioritize different senses than a human does. Not even referring to sensory shifts; just constantly during daily life I notice auditory input over other types. I've tried the 5 senses technique before and it never worked, so I assumed it was some pop psychology therapy-speak bs.

I'm more likely to be paying attention to my auditory or olfactory environment than my visual one. Sounds and scents will take my mental focus more than sights.

I'm a polytherian across multiple phyla so it's not 1 to 1 what senses are more important to me. Taste seems least important to me because I'm a bird, but despite being a bird, vision is less important to me than it would be for others because I'm also an arthropod, because I'm an arthropod tactile feeling is really important to me but despite being a bug I'm also a mustelid so hearing is important, etc. If I had to redesign this process just for me personally, it would be more like this:

5 things I can hear

4 things I can feel

3 things I can smell

2 things I can see

1 thing I can taste

And I did, and it worked. If you're non/alterhuman and you've ever tried this process and it didn't work, take a moment and really give some thought to what senses your mind instinctively prioritizes over others; it may be different for you than it is for typical humans.

Maybe as a canine you would actually benefit from putting scent above sight in the list; maybe you're a bat and it would work better for you if you placed hearing at the top. Maybe you're an olm and placing sight at the bottom would work out better. Maybe you want to even add or remove steps entirely, like if you're a reptile and temperature is important to you but focusing on taste would just be distracting. I also find that this method not only calms you down but is sort of a meditative way to learn how your kintype actually affects the way your brain works! Give it a try.

[presidentofthelipglossclub]

rescue bots headcanons !!!

chase has very strong opinions on pretty much everything. anything from the best multiple of 12 to how ants work (his opinions on these two are 60 and "they are very civilized creatures when they are not stealing food")

heatwave needs the most fuel out of everyone because he's a quadruple changer, and because synthesizing water from the air is surprisingly exhausting

blades watches the most mature television out of all of the original four. he's the only one who's watched anything rated higher than pg-13

boulder does volunteer work at soup kitchens and homeless shelters on his off days

none of the og's speak neocybex because of the whole stasis thing

blades' medical knowledge is super outdated (again, stasis--most of the major medical breakthroughs came after they left)

the first time heatwave met wheeljack he tried to deck him. they did not get along (this surprised optimus bc he thought they were very similar and would therefore get along)

quickshadow is jazz and prowl's kid

hightide and optimus used to on and off date (both ratchet and megatronus hated hightide)

boulder reads such a wide variety of books that he sometimes forgets what a normal frame of mind is. like, he reads books for toddlers to classic literature to those books of facts about ancient history. there are a lot of books in the bunker.

salvage dropped out of engineering school and then got a job loading up transport ships. always sort of regretted it, but kept his loader job up until stasis

blurr and heatwave were both trained as professional pilots. blurr had the transport ship he and salvage worked on, and heatwave was/is the main pilot of the sigma

quickshadow was one of elita-one's team members until the squad was disbanded

hightide is a cityspeaker and his suit was a gift from a titan

boulder has minor claustrophobia. it normally isn't too bad, but part of the reason he loves nature and the outdoors is because he feels free/not restricted

all the original four rescue bots were dorm mates during their academy years

heatwave didn't even want to be team leader it just kinda happened because of his natural talent for leadership. the others elected him as their leader and he just went with it.

chase is a night owl and usually does most of his tasks at night. he likes the quiet and also that means during the day he can focus completely on rescues

blades gets "grounded" ridiculously often by dani. like, "no tv for a week" type grounding not "no flying." blades thought it was the second one and was thrilled, and then devastated when he learned what she actually meant.

boulder is a clean freak. not a germaphobe, but he needs everything to be tidy

blades bet heatwave that he wouldn't make a "deez nuts" joke to optimus. he lost that bet but it was so worth it for the pained look on optimus' face when heatwave did it

hightide REEKS of salt. it's constant and everyone hates it.

blurr and salvage were both neutrals before they became rescue bots, which is why they've never done combat

all the official rescue bots (everyone but blurr and salvage since they were trained later and never went to the academy) have an outlier because forged rescue bots are built that way

also all the official rescue bots can easily bench press optimus. like, one handed. they're all ridiculously strong (again, rescue bots are just built that way. super strength is very important)

heatwave is ultra magnus's and hot rod's/rodimus's kid (he was raised by them)

rescue bots (official ones, not blurr and salvage) are exclusively cold constructs. they have to be manufactured to achieve the abilities necessary for their line of work (super strength+speed, outliers, olfactory sensors, different optic types, ability to scan extra alt modes, etc.)

after rid2015 the bee team was trained by the rescue bots to become rescuers (this is canon)

at some point before rba heatwave sorta became everyone's boss. pretty much every cybertronian of significant influence listens to him or works for him. this happened in a similar way as how he became his team's leader (on accident and because he just naturally takes charge)

the original four rescue bots are ambassadors to earth and technically all have government jobs but they just also do other stuff (teachers at the academy, rescuers, god knows what else)

game night, movie night and karaoke night are sacred traditions to the team and are taken extremely seriously. hightide refused to look at salvage for a month over a game of scrabble. optimus and bumblebee have both been forced to join in multiple times.

way more but that's where imma stop this post for now

[ddarker-dreams]

Nexus IV.

Yandere Blade x F Reader.

Warnings: Explicit not SFW, alcohol consumption, Space Politics, possessive behavior, yandere themes and unhealthy relationships. Word count: 15.4k.

Nexus index.

Time plucked away at the few petals still clinging to Kafka’s roses. 

The insipid end brought an inexplicable sense of relief. An irrational foreboding cast suspicion upon the bouquet; you considered it an ill-omen. You observed it religiously as one would an upside-down hourglass. Waiting, anticipating, dreading. When the last petal fell, you breathed a sigh of relief. It was late by then, so you decided to throw the remains away in the morning. 

Presently, you examine the vase. 

The once wilted stems stand tall, pridefully lifting its crowning gem on a green pedestal. Ruby-colored petals burst forth, wickedly beautiful and fragrant. 

Is this a practical joke? Some little parlor trick intended to unnerve you? 

The latest developments in holograms include olfactory stimulation. Consider this, you decide to test its authenticity. You reach out, expecting your hands to glide through an incorporeal image. 

Your fingers meet resistance. 

You try again just to be certain — the results are the same.

You’re more determined to get rid of it now than ever.

You pick up the most vain rose by its stem. It delays its demise by pricking you, earning a temporary pardon along the white veneer of your vanity. 

Blood pools into a crimson dome on your finger. You watch it, mesmerized, taken aback by memories that emerge alongside it.

The voice of a haughty girl echoes throughout your being. 

“What’s wrong? It’s just a bit of blood. We all have it inside us, don’t we?”

The LOTUS-EATER has always been your home. 

So long as it wasn’t open for business, you were free to run amuck. Of course, you refused to run amuck — how unladylike is that — but you did enjoy roaming. There were a lot of interesting things to look at. Anything was better than spending hours in front of that dumb blue screen with its stupid made-up people with stupid made-up problems. You didn’t get it. Everyone always said you’d grow up to be a super amazing Arbiter. You’d get tons of clients, make them all happy, get mountains of credits, buy the IPC, and then fire their staff.

Miss Calliope, your teacher when mother was busy, said it took most twenty years to get to where you’ve gotten in one. This reinforced an argument you’d practiced for many cycles. You thought for sure you could convince mother.

It didn’t work out that way. 

Mother said you had to keep studying before you could make a link with an organic being. You really wanted to argue, but you chose to act like an adult and be angry in silence instead. She tried to win you over and offered a ride on the nectar guides. This bribe almost swayed you from your mission. To ensure she knew how serious you were, you said you’d pass, calmly enough for her to know you weren’t actually calm. 

She went off somewhere to discuss boring things with boring people. You seized this opportunity to further refine your strategy and paced The Lounge’s hallways. Maybe if you broke the blue screen, mother would have no choice but to let you learn through experience. This idea greatly enthused you, until you remembered they could just get another blue screen. For this mission to succeed, you needed to cause the ‘collapse of supply chains.’ This was adult for ‘we can’t get the stuff we want’ from what you could surmise. The problem was, you didn’t know where these important chains were located. There’s Thelx, the good place, Ade, the weird place, Mele, the boring place, and Arc, the scary place. 

You stood and contemplated. If you had to hide something important, you’d put it in the scariest spot. Arc it is then. 

A mission of this magnitude would be unlike anything you pulled before. You’d need a… what was that term again…? Accompanied lice…? 

Accomplice! 

That’d be the crux of the whole thing. It couldn’t be any of the adults either, they’re all snitches. You required someone who would do your bidding. You closed your eyes and concentrated. There were three people around. Two on the first floor, one on the second. You sought out the latter. 

A little boy with long blonde hair and dull blue eyes sat by himself in the break room. He hadn’t noticed you yet, he just stared off into space and halfheartedly kicked his legs. The workers sometimes brought their kids along and stuffed them in here, where there were snacks and games. He didn’t seem interested in either. 

What resolve, you thought. What fortitude! 

You walked in front of him, pointed, and loudly demanded, “What’s your name?” 

“M-Miss Phaeales?” He squeaked. 

“No, that’s my name,” you sighed. Maybe your intuition was off. “What’s your name?” 

He hung his head and frowned.

“Oh, um… I’m Vincent.” 

You squinted. “Huh? That can’t be right. Vincent’s the bartender. You can’t do that.” 

“He’s my dad. We have the same name.” 

You felt a strange feeling from tinier Vincent; the kind of strange feeling that made your stomach and head hurt. Mother said you’d be able to block it out as you grew up. You hoped you’d grow up soon.

“Well, that’s dumb. I don’t like that name,” you decided. He remained silent. “Pick a new one.” 

“I don’t think I can…?” 

“You can because I said you can. Pick a new one, or I’ll pick one for you.” 

He stared at you like you had three heads. You did the scary thing mother does when angry — you counted down from three to one in a mean voice. Not-tinier-Vincent just sat there and looked confused. You scrunched your face up when your mean counting finished. You didn’t get it, that always worked on you. He must be immune to pressure… a quality your mission required. 

Maybe he had his merits after all.

“Alright, I’ll pick one. From now on, you’re… hm… Lear.” 

You placed your hands on your hips and nodded. This is a great name, you thought. It rhymes with so many things. 

Lear tilted his head. “Uh… alright?”  

“Great. Onto the next business order — how old are you?” 

He put up five fingers. 

What luck you have!

You grinned. “I’m seven, so according to the law, you have to listen to me.” 

“The law?” He questioned. 

“Yeah, the law. It’s what you have to do or you get in trouble.” 

Lear processed this new information and nodded. “Okay. I don’t wanna get in trouble.” 

“From now on, you’ll be my ac—” 

You covered your mouth with your hands. Wait a moment, you can’t tell him he’s an accomplice!  He might not help you then. That was a close one. You considered alternative titles, but none of them sounded as cool as accomplice. What a shame, but it can’t be helped. Missions required sacrifice. 

“From now on, Lear, you’ll be my best friend.” 

…

A few cycles later, you convened on the balcony outside of mother’s office. 

You liked the balcony. No one made you use the blue screen there. Sometimes, when you weren’t monitored, you’d grab a chair, pull it to the railing, hop up, and stare. This is Eris, you’d think. A cold planet far away from the stars. Stars are big fireballs that make everything nice and warm. I don’t think I’ll ever get to see one. It’d be cool if I could. 

You displayed a vital object for the mission.

“Lear, do you know what this is?” 

Lear stood still with his hands in his pockets. “A circle?” 

“No. Well, okay, yeah, it’s a circle, but this is called a hair tie. You use it to tie your hair.” 

“That’s cool.” 

You held it out to him. “For this mission, full visibility is required. I’d cut your hair, but mother hid the scissors from me.” 

His tiny hand grabbed it. Lear regarded your gift blankly and glanced back at you, his eyebrows furrowed. Did he not know what to do with it? 

You sighed because that’s what mother did in these situations. You started to get why. You took the gift back, tied your hair up, then returned it. He managed to do it on the fourth try. Relieved that the trial was over, you clapped and smiled. Your effort has been rewarded.

“Good job, Lear.” 

Lear’s head rose at that. “What?” 

“I said good job. When someone gets something right, that’s what you say.” 

“... It is?” He murmured. You nodded. You didn’t think you needed to teach him the basics, but an accomplice must be capable. Miss Calliope said that extra effort was always worth it. She changed her mind after you grabbed a stool to mix the adult drinks. You’d like to think she still meant it. 

“Since that’s finished, we can get to the main event.” 

You pulled out a paperclip from a pocket inside your dress. The object was subjected to your immense strength, manipulated, and reforged. It went from a boring shape to a useful shape. You took a deep breath, brought the paperclip’s edge to your pointer finger, then stabbed down. Lear released a choked sound when blood surfaced. 

You cleaned the paperclip’s edge with your dress’ hem and handed it to him. This would go on to determine the rest of your life, you decided. It needed to be done well. 

“I read that doing this makes your promises stronger. Since we’re gonna make an important promise, it has to be extra strong,” you explained. The color drained from Lear’s face. “What’s wrong? It’s just a bit of blood. We all have it inside us, right?” 

Lear refused to take the paperclip. “A promise? Miss Phaeales, I don’t know if I can.” 

“You don’t have to press hard. It barely stings, anyway.” 

“B-But...” 

You pursed your lips. “Lear, we have to, or the promise will be weak.” 

Lear shook his head and took a step back. There were lots of weird feelings that came from him. They confused you, you couldn’t think of a word to describe them. It didn’t hurt, but it felt heavy on your chest. What did you do wrong? Were paper clips that scary? No, it had to be something else. Mother said you can’t focus on another person too hard because it’s unfair. If they don’t tell you it themselves, you shouldn’t know it. 

“Lear…?” 

He stood on his tiptoes and reached for the number pad. You revealed the top-secret passcode to him, since the balcony was to be your top-secret hideout. Every top-secret hideout had to have a top-secret password. The detective books you read said so. 

“I can’t, I’m sorry,” Lear apologized. His voice sounded tiny. “I’m really sorry.” 

You didn’t know what to say to stop him or if you should try. 

Was this what people meant when they called you pushy? You wanted to complete the mission, but you also didn’t want Lear to be sad. 

The door opened and quietly closed. 

With that, the first friend you ever made was gone. 

…

The next time you were allowed on the balcony, you were curled up in a ball. 

You hugged your knees to your chest and sniffled. Mom was mad at you. Miss Calliope was mad at you. Mister Caicias had scolded you. The other Arbiters were less nice too. You don’t think they ever liked you, but at least they pretended they did. It’s okay to hate you for now so they stopped pretending. 

You could hear their thoughts. You didn’t want to, but you could anyway. 

What a spoiled child.

If anyone else had done what she did, they’d never be allowed in this line of work.

I hope the Exalted Arbiter lives a long life, if this is to be her successor. 

Your throat was sore, your eyes burned, and your chest hurt. You didn’t know you were spoiled. You never thought you were better than anyone. You hadn’t realized your attitude was awful. You just wanted to be confident like mom. That way, no one would be worried about the future. Everyone on Eris relied on mom. Everyone on Eris will have to rely on you eventually.

You looked at the black sky, the only sky you’d ever known. It always felt sad. The gray clouds were like little discolored tears. 

You wondered if Noct ever felt bad that they made a planet where everyone was unhappy. 

Someone’s coming, you realized. Is it moma? 

It isn’t. 

It’s the little boy with blue eyes and long, blonde hair. This time, it’s pulled back into a ponytail. You hadn’t changed the top-secret password, he must’ve used it to gain entry. 

You hurriedly rubbed your tears away, and he looked elsewhere until you gave up on your task. Afterward, he sat down beside you. He hugged his knees to his chest as well. 

“Are you okay?” He murmured. 

You nodded and sunk your head into your knees. 

“... Those kids are mean, anyway,” he reassured. “I dunno what they said, but it’s not true.” 

“It is too. The adults think it but they don’t say it,” you whispered. 

You know it’s true. Your mission to Arc almost caused what Miss Calliope called ‘a scandal.’ 

You snuck out of the LOTUS-EATER by yourself.

It wasn’t as difficult as you expected. You just borrowed a staff member’s lanyard, pressed it against the door, and it opened. You stuck to the shadows and navigated your way south. You could tell when an adult was close if you heard their thoughts. The thoughts were rarely happy. You pushed on until you encountered an alley, where some older kids were gathered. 

You froze; you hadn’t accounted for kids. Their thoughts weren’t as loud and terrible. You didn’t hear them.

This bunch, though… they had a kid’s build and the expression of an adult. You counted four in total. One was tall, another was scrawny, the tiniest covered in dirt, and the last kid wore a tattered shirt that reached their knees. 

The tall kid spat on the ground. 

“This is our spot,” he said. “Get lost.”  

You fidgeted. 

“Hello, um… could I just pass over that fence? I’ll be quick,” you reasoned. 

“Are you deaf or something? I said, get lost.” 

The scrawniest kid squinted at you. “Hey, wait a sec, J. I feel like I’ve seen her before.” 

“Really? When?” The tiny one squeaked.

“Y’know, during those big events for when Arc folk move over.” 

“Huh, now that you mention it…” the tall boy trailed off, “You’re [First] Phaeales, right?” 

He said your name like it was a disease. It made your heart hurt. 

“Can you read my mind? What am I thinkin’ about, huh?” The scrawny kid called out. 

“Hey, be careful. I heard those things can make your head explode with a single look,” the kid in a long shirt whispered. 

The tall boy guffawed and stepped forward. “Really? Is that true?” 

You took a step back. 

“What? You gonna run away? Can’t stand to see people like us, huh?” He remarked. “Must be nice, getting everything you ever need handed to you. Yeah. Real fuckin’ nice.” 

“I don’t—” your voice gave out. You ignored how they snickered and pressed on to finish your important sentence. “I don’t think that about you! When I grow up, I wanna help—” 

The tall boy stormed over and lifted you by your dress’ collar. “Help? Help? You can’t do shit. You people never do anything! You promise and promise and never come through!” 

You didn’t understand, there was too much to process. Anger and sadness mixed to become a storm that you were caught in the middle of. You closed your eyes and hoped the pain would go away. Maybe you prayed to Noct, maybe you cried out for your mom, you don’t really remember. 

When you reopened your eyes you saw a music box. It was simple, small, and made of wood. There was nothing else around it. No ceiling or sky, floor or ground. You couldn’t speak, so you couldn’t scream. Nothing felt normal. This wasn’t Eris. Did you float into space? Can anyone save you? Would anyone find you?

The music box’s handle creaked; the lid lifted like a yawning mouth. No song was played. Voices came out instead, though they sounded far away. There was nothing else to do but listen. 

“At this rate, she’s only going to get worse…” 

“You don’t know that. I have a few more items I can pawn off, and then…” 

“... Temperature of 102 degrees…” 

“How much longer will this embargo last? Why can’t they just give in to the IPC’s fucking demands already? We all know they’re going to, but we have to sit and suffer while they play politics!” 

“Honey, keep your voice down, the children are trying to sleep…” 

“... Temperature of 104 degrees…” 

“My wedding ring! There’s still my wedding ring! We have— we have to go fast, the pharmacy closes at 3400!” 

“Jason, your mom and I need to run a very important errand. I need you to keep an eye on Iris, okay? Can you do that for me? I know it’s scary, but it’ll all be okay, I promise. We’ll be quick.” 

“Hey… big bro?” 

“You shouldn’t get up! Here, lay back down. There you go, take it easy. Mom and dad will be back soon. They’ll get what you need, and… and… it’ll be okay. They promised.”  

“I’m sorry… for making everyone sad.” 

“No, no, that isn’t true! When you get better, we’ll be the happiest family there is. We’ll— we’ll take a trip to the entertainment district, get tons of yummy food. I’ve been saving up my allowance so I can spoil you. You can have cookies, cakes,  whatever you want, it’s yours.” 

“... Pudding too?” 

“Of course, pudding too. You’ll have so much, you’ll need an entire lifetime to eat it. A long, long lifetime. So… just wait a bit longer. They should be back any minute now.” 

“You want to hear the music box mom gave you? That’s all the way in the— no no no, don’t look at me like that, I’ll go get it. See? Keep an eye on the door, lift your head just a little bit. I’ll be quick.” 

“Hey, look what I found. Works like a charm too. Hm? Did you fall asleep? That was fast. It normally… it takes… normally takes… l-longer…?” 

The music box slammed shut. 

The tall boy — Jason — released his grip on you and staggered back. His friends ran to his aid. You squeezed your head in your hands, fell to your knees, and tried to disappear. It hurt, it hurt, oh, it hurt, a pain you’d never experienced before. It felt like your chest was stabbed over and over again with something sharper than a paperclip. This pain, his pain, it was too much. 

A few guards that’d been dispatched to search for you overheard the commotion. They ran over, worried that you were injured. Nothing was wrong with you physically. The pain came from within. You thrashed and screamed when they picked you up. You wanted to be left alone, you wanted it to go away. 

You looked at the tall boy one more time before they pulled you away.

Tears fell from his eyes and they couldn’t stop. 

You don’t think those kids were mean. They were just really sad.

“I’m sorry I ran away,” the little boy said. His voice wavered. “I was scared.” 

You felt numb. “Of me?” 

His eyes widened and he waved his hands as if he’d caught on fire. “N-No, well, kinda, but not like that. You’re nice. You don’t tell me to smile or to stop looking sad.” 

Your lower lip trembled. “But I made you tie your hair up.” 

“I see better now.” 

“And— and I said your name was dumb.” 

“... I don’t like it,” he said. The strange feeling reappeared. “That name. It is dumb. You know that I guess, ‘cause of the mind stuff.” 

“Isn’t that scary?” 

“Maybe if you did mean things with it, but… that name made me sad. So you picked a new one. Lear is cool. It rhymes with stuff.” 

You lifted your head. The little boy wasn’t lying, you could tell. 

“Why’d you leave then?” 

His little hands balled into fists by his side.

“I was scared. I was asked to make a promise before, and I lied. It was a promise I didn’t like,” he explained. 

Then, he lifted his finger. A droplet of blood dripped from it. “I shoulda said something. I’ll try, I’ll really try, so please don’t be sad. It makes me sad. I want… I want to be best friends!” 

A lump formed in your throat. Tears stung your eyes, the strength of his words pierced through your sadness like an arrow. A friend. You never had a friend before. You didn’t think you’d ever get to have one. Mom said it’d be difficult, that if you wanted it, you’d need to try harder than you’d ever tried before. 

You launched at Lear, your arms outstretched, and wailed loudly. He caught you awkwardly with a gasp. You pressed your forehead to his shoulder and hugged him tight. 

“I don’t want you as an accomplice anymore! You’re my best friend! I really mean it this time!” You exclaimed in between sobs. 

“Eh? Accom-police?” Lear struggled to repeat the new word. Then, for the first time since you met him, he laughed. “I don’t really get you, Miss Phaeales, but… I wanna.” 

That kid, Jason… is he okay? Did he ever go back home to his parents? You wonder. I used to think I could prove him wrong, that I just needed to grow up faster so I could fix everything. And yet, these past two years have been some of the worst economically. 

You grab the rose by its petals and return it to the vase. 

The crystal lotus shines beside it, its multiple surfaces flickering between brilliant hues. This gift, while beautiful, never particularly stuck out to you before. It wasn’t until Blade expressed an interest that it stood out more.

You sit in front of your vanity.

Mom… was I a good daughter? 

You brush foundation along your face. 

I always thought you never understood me, but… 

Mascara darkens and thickens your eyelashes. 

… I never tried to understand you. 

You slam the makeup drawer shut. 

It has officially been three months since the IPC instituted its travel ban on Eris with seemingly no end in sight. 

Unemployment rates have crept up from 5.3% to a staggering 15%. We reached out to a financial advisor for Metis Mining from Mele, a company that has laid off one-third of its workforce. 

“It’s an awful situation,” he said. “Essentially, everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. I’ve been in this field for some 150 years — never have I seen anything like this. Thelx is our heart. If it stops pumping, we stop getting the blood we need to live. We need tourism. We need our heart to beat again.” 

An advisor for Chrysus, however, is singing a different, more upbeat tune. 

“We’re feeling optimistic. The negotiations have been going well. None of us want this to last longer than it has to. We’ve cooperated fully with the IPC’s requests, working endlessly to provide the necessary documentation for them to drop this unfounded charge. We ask that the people of Eris stand together. I will not be accepting questions at this time. Thank you.” 

“What is Chrysus doing,” you groan. “The optics on this are terrible. ‘We ask that the people of Eris stand together,’ sounds like a bumper sticker for a spaceship.” 

The comment section on the article expresses a similar sentiment. The most upvoted post is a picture of Eris on fire with bottom text that reads, ‘Don’t worry, just keep standing.’ The second is a screenshot of the advisor’s comment with the caption ‘me when i lie.’ To make matters worse, the user’s profile picture is the lead singer for Mushroom Mania but with a flower crown photoshopped onto his head. 

You squint at the tiny text beneath it. 

Your friend banona69 liked this post.

“Blade, can you cut my phone in half?” 

He throws you a disinterested glance. 

“Riveting conversation, as usual,” you lean heavily on sarcasm to reel him in.

“You’re working. I won’t interrupt,” he drawls. 

Or maybe it didn’t, who knows, he’s as easy to read as an esoteric tome in a lost language. It is true that you’re working. Keeping up with clients, overseeing reimbursements for canceled appointments, apologizing for circumstances you have no control over; the usual. Your latest torment involved your bank’s servers going down when your employees’ paychecks were due. They’re testing out a new customer service android, but yours had a bug that caused it to repeat everything you said. 

That predicament came to an end and five more popped up in its place. 

You stretch your arms above your head. “If I handed you over to the IPC, do you think they’d lift the travel ban?” 

“Find out for yourself.” 

“Huh?” You swipe your monitors away so you can gauge him better. “What do you mean by that?” 

Blade kicks himself off the wall and uncrosses his arms. “If you can subdue me, you can turn me in.” 

That’s one of the biggest ‘ifs’ to ever if. You narrow your eyes, like that’ll help your ability to discern his intentions. He’s standing there, intimidating as ever, his countenance betraying nothing. You decide he has to be joking. It’d be a major inconvenience for Kafka and her cronies to break him out of IPC holding. You know precious little about Blade, but you do know he takes his job seriously. 

Regardless, this cycle has raised your blood pressure to unprecedented levels, so you play along. A little fun never hurts. 

“Didn’t Nona tell you about my mind-liquifying technique?” 

“Screeched it, more like,” Blade dryly recalls. “It’s a bluff.” 

You swivel around on your chair and get up. He remains perfectly still as you languidly approach, his burning eyes never leaving yours. An electrifying sensation courses through your body the closer you get. It’s unfair how beautiful he is. His dark hair that shifts into a crimson shade, broad shoulders, narrow waist, his surprisingly soft lips that are almost always drawn in a straight line; the wanted posters don’t do him justice. 

You have to crane your head to look up at him, the man’s so ridiculously tall. You’ve never liked it when people look down on you — this must be the lone exception. 

“And if it isn’t?” You challenge. 

“You would never,” Blade insists. It isn’t your eyes he’s focusing on anymore, it’s your lips. “You’re too…” 

On the occasions you can get Blade talking, he’s never at a loss for words. His cadence has a quiet confidence. If he’s in the mood, he’ll have a rebuttal for every possible sentence you could concoct. It’s immediate too, as swift as his bladework. It’s unusual for him to trail off for this long. 

“Too…?” You encourage, tilting your head. 

“Forget it.” 

You don’t have the luxury of pressing the issue. He quite literally sweeps you off your feet, taking long strides to your office’s couch like he owns the place.

“You missed your chance,” Blade lays you down on the cushions and crawls over you. “Unless you’d still like to try.” 

You glare at him halfheartedly and prop yourself up on your elbows. This guy must have a thing for manhandling you, because every chance he gets, he goes for it. You splay your hand against his chest and lightly push. He gets the message and moves back, allowing you the space necessary to lift up your blouse. He’s all over you immediately after, kneading your chest and trailing hot kisses down your neck. He stops at the spots with bite marks or bruises, giving them extra attention so they don’t fade. 

“Maybe I could, who knows? Perhaps I’ve extended you mercy,” you breathe out. 

Blade pins your wrists above your head with one hand, his amusement evident. “You’d be the first.”

He leers at your cleavage like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. His lips are back on your skin, starting at your collarbones and then moving down. He lavishes your chest in lovebites, his teeth practically married to your skin. Your low-cut shirts will be collecting dust in your closet at this rate, he’s seen to that. He kisses down your navel and stops shy of your skirt’s waistband. 

“Is this for me?” He plays with your skirt’s short hem, raising it to reveal your thighs. 

You did choose this risque skirt to see how he’d react, but he doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing this. 

“You’re not the only person I ever see,” is your cheeky reply. 

He doesn’t look impressed. 

“I’m the only one who can fuck you, though,” he says, as plain as someone describing the weather. 

You frown and twist your head to the side. He picked up on that, huh? You don’t know if it’s definitive, but you haven’t conducted tests to find out. It is exhilarating to lose yourself in carnality without fearing the repercussions. Still, you don’t want him to believe that gives him an exclusive claim to you. You’ll both enjoy yourselves, he’ll get recalled from this job, and that’ll be the end of it. He’ll be nothing but a story you drunkenly recall to Nona. Nothing more, nothing less.

Possessive men are a turnoff. If they wanted to own the thing they stick their dick in, they could buy a sex android. You’re not a sex android. You don’t run out of battery power in six hours or incur hilarious yet painful-sounding reasons for lawsuits. 

“Pouting again?” Blade taunts.

Long, gloved fingers lightly glide against your inner thigh. 

“I don’t pout,” you sigh as his hand dips past your waistband. “I brood.” 

“Mhm.” 

His fingers are quick to find your clit. He rubs the sensitive nub in slow motions, applying minimum pressure. Your breath hitches and you look up at him through lidded eyes. His towering form cages you in. This couch is one of the few surfaces he hasn’t taken you on yet. Your bed, your office chair, your desk, hell, even the wall; he’s fucked you on almost every object with the geometry to permit it. 

Your head tilts back as he steadily drags his fingers down the length of your pussy. His ring and middle finger barely slip in before he pulls them out, returning to their previous task of gathering your slick. There’s enough for each swipe to create audible sounds, despite the relaxed rhythm he’s set. This detail doesn’t go unnoticed by him. No, he grins at you, his eyes practically shining. 

“Shut up,” you grumble, covering your face with your forearm. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“You didn’t have to, it’s written all over your— ah!” 

His fingers plunge into you without the slightest resistance, all the way up to his knuckles. You gasp at the abrupt intrusion. Normally, he takes surprising care when pushing anything inside you — whether it be his cock, tongue, or fingers — gauging how your face contorts to ensure you aren’t in pain. He couldn’t have been touching you for more than a minute and yet your body produced enough lubrication to easily suck him in. 

“My what?” He probes, lowering his face close enough for your noses to touch. His soft black locks tickle your cheeks. 

Blade curls his fingers as if beckoning you toward him, which is exactly what he gets; your back arches and you curl your arms around his neck for purchase. He’s noted this clinging tendency of yours and has taken great pleasure in pointing it out. You mewl as he carries on his ministrations, loving the contrast of the cold leather against your warm insides. He finger fucks you nice and slow. His lips find yours, kissing you in a way that can only be described as tender. You reciprocate, though the lustful haze permeating your mind desires something rougher. This is the sweet kiss of a lover, not a… whatever the two of you are. 

Blade pulls back an inch when you run your tongue over the seam of his lips. 

“Are you ever satisfied?” 

“I could ask you the same thing,” you huff. “Do you have any idea how much shipping Plan B to this planet costs?” 

He exhales sharply in amusement. “You like when I finish inside.” 

Your walls clamp down on him before you can protest this claim. 

“Would you look at that,” Blade hums, his voice dropping in volume as if he were sharing a secret. “I can’t even move my fingers, that made you squeeze them so tight.” 

You’d like to think he was exaggerating, but it does take a few seconds for him to comfortably slide his fingers in and out again. 

“You’re delusional. That’s… an involuntary muscle contraction.” 

He quirks an eyebrow. 

His fingers abandon their prior creed. He embraces a new tenet — one that seeks to make your lips part in pure pleasure. You writhe beneath him at the unrelenting onslaught. He angles his palm so that it rubs against your clit with every thrust of his fingers. You’re quick to sync up with his sharp movements. Every time his fingers glide back in, your hips rise to meet him halfway. Soft gasps and moans fill the air as your peak grows closer. 

Your walls start to tighten, promising that sweet ecstasy will soon be yours. 

The second time it squeezes down, his merciless pace relaxes. He doesn’t stop entirely, he just slows down enough that you aren’t getting the stimulation necessary to come undone. You bite down on your lower lip. He hasn’t deprived you of an orgasm since this feverish passion began; he’s been more interested in seeing how many times he can fuck you to completion. He didn’t even subject you to this cruelty when you made a jab at his age that set him out to prove he doesn’t ‘have the refractory period of an old man.’ 

You don’t bother trying to move your hips for more friction. One night, during the afterglow of sex, you inquired after his sword. Among other things, he nonchalantly revealed its weight of three thousand pounds. You called his bluff. He was in an agreeable enough mood to summon it, allowing you to test the claim’s validity yourself. 

Sure enough, you couldn’t even drag it an inch across the ground… 

His breath is hot on your ear as he whispers, “Admit it.” 

“Admit what?” 

“That you love it,” he commands, his fingers massaging your walls. “Don’t be shy.”

“I’m anything but shy.”

“Hm. Dishonesty doesn’t suit you.” 

You groan in exasperation when his fingers come to a complete halt. Is he really going to make you admit something so embarrassing…? Your face burns as hot as those faraway stars. You examine his expression, searching for some sign that he isn’t being serious. It’s a poor tactic. His countenance is stern, except for the blush on his cheeks from how aroused he is. 

“I…” you inhale shakily, your lower lip trembling, “I like… when…”

“Love,” he corrects. 

You turn your head to the side and squeeze your eyes shut. “I love when you… cum inside me.” 

His clothed cock twitches against your leg. 

“I know.”

Blade returns to the heavenly speed that has your mind all but floating away. His palm rubs down hard on your clit, his fingers searching out for that spot you love so much. Inhibitions gone, his name is the only word your tongue can form. Everything else that isn’t Blade has been erased from your lexicon. He makes you feel so good, it’s maddening. He’s addicted to your body and you couldn’t be more grateful. 

To be wanted, to be desired… what bliss this brings. 

Your muscles tighten and release as waves of pleasure devour you. 

Your insides spasm around him, demanding that he doesn’t let up until you’re satiated. He’s happy to oblige. Once your orgasm-induced daze lessons, you yank him down to your lips into an open-mouthed kiss that has you swapping saliva. He swallows a whimper from you while pulling his fingers out, leaving the area he’s become so intimately acquainted with. The arm that he was using to hold himself above you snakes behind your back. You’re made to sit on his lap as he shifts upright, your skirt flaring out. 

As always, it’s you who breaks from the heated kiss first. 

Blade raises his gloved hand for you to see. You gape at how the onyx-colored leather has lightened, thoroughly coated in you. He parts his middle and ring, allowing dewy threads of your essence to form. Those crimson eyes go from admiring his handiwork to reveling in your embarrassed expression. As if you weren’t flustered enough, he slips his fingers into his mouth. His length hardens and he groans quietly while sucking off your slick.

While savoring your taste, he starts the familiar process of pulling your drenched panties down. You set to work on undoing his belt. He then hits an area that’s difficult to pull them over. He gives it one more try before frustration surges from him, hinting at his solution.

“Stop ripping my undergarments,” you chastise, lifting your leg to make it easier for him. “I’ll have to go shopping at this rate.” 

Blade exercises a modicum of decorum and flings the scant fabric aside instead of eviscerating it. 

“Quit wearing them.”

“That dream of yours might come true if I have none left. If that happens, I’m stealing your credit card.”  

“It’s yours.” 

You roll your eyes, focusing on freeing his cock. His length is flushed red and painfully hard. You wrap your hands around the base. Pre-cum leaks from his head in steady streams that flow down, coating him enough that it’s easy to glide your hand up. He hisses out through gritted teeth. Once your hand reaches the top, you rub his smooth tip with the pad of your thumb. The way he leers at you is borderline animalistic. You keep at your task, pumping him up and down. 

“Does this count as me subduing you?” You muse, your voice taking a sickeningly sweet cadence, “Should I get handcuffs ready?” 

“Watch it, girl.” 

You would’ve if he hadn’t teased you so much earlier. But he did, and you must have some compensation. You sink onto the ground. Blade shoots you an inquisitive look, to which you flutter your eyelashes and smile. The realization of your intentions hits him when your lips place an amorous kiss on his leaking tip. The veins running along the length of his cock pulsate from the sight. Such a chaste way of going about a lustful act must do something for him. 

“You…” He growls out, clenching his hands into tight fists, “God.” 

You suck him gently, swirling your tongue along his slit. Meanwhile, your hand pumps him faster. He thrusts his pelvis forward to force more of his cock into your mouth. He isn’t immediately gratified — no, you take him in at your leisure. His gloved hand entangles itself in your hair and helps guide your head up and down. The wet sound of you sucking him off grows louder from the copious amount of saliva slathered along his cock. You reach for his balls, gently cupping and massaging them. Blade pants above you and throws his head back. 

The telltale twitching of his cock starts. 

You pull yourself off him. He glares down at you, silently fuming. 

You suppress a laugh and climb onto his lap. His hand goes to your shoulder, a sign he intends to push your body down so he can fuck you. Rather than moving aside and complying, you undo your bra’s clasp. His enchantment with your bare tits distracts him enough for your scheme to carry on undetected. You align your entrance with the head of his cock and start sinking down, taking the initiative yourself. 

Blade’s large hands fly to either side of your hips from instinct. Inch after inch slides in and stretches you. He maintains unflinching eye contact, the intensity behind his gaze is almost more embarrassing than the act of sex itself. Maybe he’s as pent-up as you are? Whatever the case, the tension in the air begs to be diffused. 

“Have I earned your forgiveness?” You ask. 

“You’re getting there.”

Your lips part in a silent moan when you fully envelop him. Blade grunts, pulling you down so he can go as deep inside you as possible. His thickness caresses your walls and sets your nerves ablaze. You gyrate your hips in one last little act of revenge. He squeezes your flesh, sending the unspoken warning that you’re truly testing his patience. Thinking it best not to test your luck any further, you rise off him and sink back down. 

The legs in your muscles are sore from overexertion but the burden barely falls to you. Blade lifts you off his cock then back down again — you could go completely limp and it wouldn’t make a difference. He must’ve wanted to know you were ready before ruthlessly maneuvering your body for his pleasure.

What a gentleman.

This position has him consistently rubbing against a spot inside you that’s mind-numbing. He fills and stretches you like your body was molded with him in mind. Your gratification isn’t his goal at the moment he’s lost in the pursuit of what you snatched away. He’s greedy because he can be; he’s greedy because you welcome it. You’ve had so much to give and no one to receive it. You aren’t sure how much he’ll take. You’ve decided it’s better to be empty than bursting at the seams with ardor no one can swallow, lest their throat get scorched. 

Maybe his premonition is right. Maybe no one will be able to fuck you but him. 

So you’ll enjoy it while you can. 

The rosy hue on his cheeks, his countenance reflecting the pleasure he derives from your body, the inhuman grip that mars your skin so beautifully; you take everything in. You want it all. You’ll gladly take from him too. You might not like possessive men, but passionate men are a different story. It’s boring if they aren’t a little frenzied. 

“Not… going to last long,” he pants out, his voice strained. 

Your nipples brush against the fabric of his shirt as you lean in to embrace him, your lips right by his ear. 

“Cum in me then,” you whisper, nibbling his earlobe. “Cause I think we both know you love it even more than I do.” 

Blade groans out a series of expletives. Some you recognize, some you don’t.

His cock throbs as he empties himself inside you. He thrusts upward in sharp movements, his pelvis hitting yours hard enough to sting. He’s drunk on the high you’ve brought him. Spurts of his cum slide out from your coated walls, an egregious act he remedies by fucking it back into you. By the time he finally stills, you’re both panting, sweat glistening along your bodies. You rest your head on his shoulder to regain yourself. His bandaged hand runs up and down your back, almost soothingly. 

In a matter of seconds, his flaccid cock steadily hardens, still snug inside you. 

“Who… who’s never satisfied again?” You breathlessly murmur. 

His hand finds your clit and lightly brushes over it. You whimper, your walls tightening enough to give you both a jolt of pleasure. The pitch you hit is high enough to stupefy you from mortification. You slap your hand over your mouth, hoping it’ll dissuade any further involuntary infractions. He gingerly grabs your hand and pulls it away. 

“Still you,” he says, grazing his lips along the pulse point of your inner wrist. 

You don’t get the chance to bite back.

A robotic voice slices through the lustful atmosphere like a scythe. 

“Miss Phaeales, incoming call, Miss Phaeales, incoming call,” it intones. 

You stifle a groan. “Alright alright, I get that, who is it from?” 

“Contact name: Lear.” 

Your eyes widen. Though your limbs feel like jelly, you lift yourself off Blade, who doesn’t give much assistance. You mouth the word ‘sorry’ to him, snatch your bra off the floor, and start wobbling over to your desk. After some quick rummaging, you find the device you need. 

“Put him through to my in-ears,” you order the virtual assistant. 

“[First]? Hello?” 

Relief surges through you upon hearing the sound of his voice. 

“Lear, it’s been so long since we talked, I started to think you were a figment of my imagination,” you say whilst securing your bra back into place. 

“I know, I’m— I’m sorry,” he sounds terribly flustered. You can picture his expression without trying. “It’s just, you’re busy, and then that happened and I—” 

“Slow down, I’m only teasing. It’s alright. I get it.” 

“Eh… you’re as bad as Nona,” he grumbles. “You just hide it better.” 

“Don’t worry, it’s out of my system.”

“I don’t believe you, but I’ll leave it at that,” he’s quiet for a moment, before adding, “You sound like you’re in high spirits, [First]. You don’t know what a relief that is.” 

You twirl a pen on your fingers. “I’ve dabbled with the alternative and found it lacking. It does help that some pesky issues have finally been resolved… which reminds me. Your paycheck came through without any issues, correct?” 

There’s indistinct murmuring from two voices. Lear’s tone sounds chastising, while the other comes off as petulant. 

“Hi Nona,” you greet, to which there’s a faint yet audible ‘Fuck!’ along with rapid footsteps retreating. “How fortunate is it that our paths have crossed like this? I noticed something very interesting. You can’t respond to my texts relating to your studies, but you can like a social media post from a few hours ago?” 

Now, rapid footsteps approach. 

“I’m taking a break from texting for my mental health,” Nona’s voice reasons. 

“... Don’t people normally take a break from social media for that reason?” 

“Check the DSM-106. It’s actually a thing.” 

“Be that as it may, you’re making good progress. Your scores are consistent enough that you can take a few clients again when we reopen. You need to keep practicing so it stays that way.” 

There’s a slight commotion. When it settles, Lear’s the one speaking again. “Sorry, she wanted me to say there’s still an issue with the paycheck coming through.” 

In the background, you hear her cry out, “Teacher’s pet!”

“Allow me to once again request that you place aside your bias. Nona, whose birth name is unknown, was born and raised in Arc’s most hostile faction. At the self-reported age of 74, she submitted a request for Thelx citizenship. Your mother, in her benevolence, granted the request due to seeing Nona’s potential as a future Arbiter. Do you deny any of this?” 

You quietly take a deep breath. 

“... How does Nona seem to you, Lear?” 

What should be such a natural question feels like speaking with glue coating your tongue.

“The same as usual. And, no matter what she says, she is studying the notes you sent. She just hates the training program. You were the same way, weren’t you?” 

“I was, yes,” A heavy smile finds its way onto your face. “Has anyone been giving her trouble?” 

The silence on the other line lasts longer than you’d prefer. 

“It hasn’t… been directly at her, per se. There’s just a general atmosphere of unease. Thelx has the highest percentage of citizens integrated from Arc, so things aren’t so bad here. Occasionally, there’ll be a confused kid pointing and asking why her eyes are different, but that’s nothing new.” 

The tension in your shoulders relaxes. “Alright, that’s reassuring. Please keep an eye out for her in my stead, okay?” 

You refuse to believe Chrysus. Everything with him is a move, some preplanned tactic to achieve a goal that advances his interests. You’ve lived life with Nona; he’s read a few paragraphs about her from a .txt file. There isn’t time to be at war with yourself. If he felt comfortable enough to make an accusation like that, there’s no chance it’ll end there. You’ll need countermeasures set in place. 

Countermeasures, countermeasures… there’s Caicias. He loathes ‘secret alliances’ and ‘bloated bureaucracy,’ preferring to keep everything as simple as possible. Depending on your approach, you might be able to sway the former principal. He’s always treated you as an uncle would their niece. While it feels infantilizing now, this soft spot could be an advantage if played correctly. 

An in-person meeting would be your best chance.

“Of course,” Lear says, breaking you from your thoughts. Then he’s quiet again. “[First]?” 

“Mhm?” 

“...” 

You hear him sigh. 

“It’s nothing. I should let you get back to your work.” 

“Hold on, you can’t ‘it’s nothing,’ me!” 

A shrill alarm chirps and pierces your unsuspecting ears. 

“Oh, shit, Nona set the fire alarm off while cooking again,” Lear sounds more exasperated than worried. “Let’s finish this another time, [First]. I… I promise that I will.” 

“Wha— again? How often does this happen?” You demand. “Hello? Hello? Ugh.” 

Irate, you tug your in-ears out and toss them on your desk. What could Lear possibly have wanted to discuss? The tone he used made your heart drop. It sounded so firm, so resolute. He’s always been on the more soft-spoken side unless provoked. He did promise that he’d pick it up ‘another time,’ an unintended callous sentencing. Your mind is going to play fill-in-the-blank with the most dreadful words possible until this burden is lifted. 

You’re about to return to your office chair when you remember your present condition. 

Tousled hair, a hastily put-on bra, a wrinkled skirt, and one of the most sought-after fugitives in the universe’s cum dripping out of you. 

Ah. And said fugitive is still behind you. 

You spin on your heels. “So, um—” 

Blade isn’t anything like when you last saw him. He’s redressed, and composed, his expression a mix between indifference and boredom. He’s returned to his favorite position too. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, with one knee slightly bent. Why he favors this stance so much, you’ll never know. You’ve offered him a seat more times than you can count. He comes across as less intimidating when he isn’t at his full height. 

He stares at you.

You stare at him. 

“I’ll… be getting back to work, I guess?” 

He doesn’t so much as nod and he says you’re the pouty one?! 

You gather your clothes off the floor for what feels like the umpteenth time, your cheeks burning. It isn’t that you feel ashamed, rather, you think he could at least help instead of standing there like his portrait is getting painted. He’s not trying to hide that he’s watching you. His eyes have always had a physical presence, they weigh on you heavily. 

You briefly consider making a snarky comment, but your maturity wins out. You’re above such petty drivel. You finish collecting your garments. Next, you pull up the bra strap that decided to go awol, straighten your skirt, and fuss over your hair. Are you doing this so he knows you’re not embarrassed and in a rush to scamper off like a wounded animal? Maybe. Who could blame you?

You make for your bedroom door, head held high.

Blade speaks your name in that low, dark voice of his, stopping you dead in your tracks. Your body erupts in uncontrollable shivers. 

You stiffly turn around like a rusted cog. 

“Missed a spot,” is all he says. 

You blink. “Huh?” 

Blade nods to the lower half of your body. 

Sure enough, there’s a dribble of his cum caked against your inner left thigh. 

…

You hurl your belongings at him, which he catches without so much as batting an eyelash. 

Your very short-lived satisfaction dissipates when you recall how much you adore that blouse. The same blouse you just chucked at the immortal sword-wielding Stellaron Hunter who can kill people faster than the afterlife can claim them. He’s still holding it. You get the feeling he will continue to hold it. 

“Could I… have… that… back?” 

This appeal doesn’t move him in the slightest. 

You shift your weight between your legs. “Please?” 

“You can,” Blade starts, momentarily filling you with hope, “Come reach for it.” 

There is no hope in this universe, you decide. Nihilism is the only plausible option. 

Blade dodges all your valiant attempts. When you’re about to give up, he lowers the garment, dangling it in a silent taunt. It then ascends to the heavens the second you dive for it. 

He leaves your office that night with a blouse he hadn’t owned hours earlier.

And your cute panties.

Lear

Hello

Lear

Are you awake? 

You’ll scold me if I say I am

Lear

Historically, that is true

Lear

You focus on caring for others so much you forget to care for yourself

You make me sound like a better person than I really am I’m just doing my job

Lear

There you go with self-deprecation again… 

It isn’t self-deprecation if it’s true >:)c

Lear

That isn’t how that works

Lear

You’ve always been hard on yourself 

Lear

I know what you’re going to say so I’ll stop you preemptively 

Lear

Anyone could’ve been born in your role and decided not to take it seriously. You didn’t choose the situation but you chose your response to it

Lear

… I swear I didn’t intend for this to become a lecture

I believe you What was your original intention then? 

Lear

Our phone call 

Lear

Nona decided to try a grilled cheese ‘hack’ she saw on the internet 

Lear

She’s lost stove privileges for a week

Is it truly a punishment if she gets to eat your cooking? 

Lear

Well

Lear

It’s either that or she starves

Fair point Bring me some leftovers or I’m docking your pay >:)c

Lear

I wish Nona never taught you that face. It brings something primitive out of you

>:)c

Lear

(ง •̀_•́)ง

Oh I forgot about those They’re way better

Lear

Yeah 

Lear

ε (*´･ω･) з

Lear

… I got distracted again…

( ͡° ͜ʖ├┬┴┬┴

Lear

Okay okay enough with the emoticons

Lear

I wanted to ask if we could please talk one-on-one 

Pick a date and time and I’ll do my best to fit you into my schedule.  I make no promises. The current estimated wait list is five Trailblazer Years.

Lear

Do you accept bribes

Naturally. I am a government official.

Lear

I’ll bring you a slice of my galatopita

You’re in

Lear

Actually, I wanted you to pick the time

Lear

I know that person has to be around and I won’t ask about it

Lear

But there is something about him that unsettles me

Lear

Does he ever leave?

He’s always on the LOTUS-EATER’s premises He doesn’t have to be in the room though I can ask him to leave

Lear

You feel comfortable doing that?

Yeah, it’ll be fine

Lear

Even after what happened last time?

You could hit me in the head with a brick and I’d still trust your judgment If you think it’ll be okay I’ll think the same

Lear

(^◇^；)

Lear

What an extreme example

Lear

It’s very you though

I know a backhanded compliment when I see one

Lear

(;° ロ°)

Lear

Hey don’t say that

Lear

[First]? ?????

Lear

… You’re messing with me again, I take it?

>:)c I’ll send you the details

Lear

Thank you

Lear

Want to play a round of Connect Four? 

Need you even ask

Lear has invited you to play Connect Four™©®.

You have accepted Lear’s invitation to play Connect Four™©®.

The break room has changed significantly since you were little. Gone are the sterile, eggshell white walls and beige furniture. The redone interior boasts bold greens and yellows, colors that aren’t commonly seen on Eris. This bright expanse was one of the few suggestions your mother took you up on. You even convinced her to get a terrarium imported that goes through a randomly selected flora’s lifespan in twenty-four hours. A few besmirched it as ‘watching grass grow but slightly sped up,’ until certain flowers got popular. The daisy with petals that burned was a LOTUS-EATER staff favorite. So is the dahlia that spins like a pinwheel. 

“Was there something you wanted to ask?” 

Lear places his cup of ice water down. “Does it taste alright?” 

“It’s delicious,” you hum. “That’s not what I was referring to, though.” 

You finish your dessert while Lear mulls over your words. The light, creamy taste of the egg custard, the dash of cinnamon strewn across the browned top; he’d do well if he ever started a dessert business. 

“I know I said I wouldn’t ask about it, but…” Lear’s sapphire eyes flitter toward the door, the paper-thin barrier dividing you from Blade. “Has everything been alright during this… er…” 

“House arrest?” 

“That’s a way of putting it,” he sighs. “I know it’s for your safety, but being stuck in this building for weeks on end can’t be good for you.”

“It’s always been this way to an extent. Now it’s just official.” 

He grimaces.

“That doesn’t bother you?” 

This area utilizes the same technology available in your office or the private rooms. Sound waves cannot travel beyond a set point, or in this case, beyond the breakroom. This safety net allows you to comfortably speak your mind. 

“Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t stopped long enough to ask myself that. From my perspective, I have two choices — accept the current situation and carry on, or, get upset and carry on, only with less efficiency.” 

Lear struggles to maintain a neutral countenance. It’s why you always beat him at card games. 

“... Okay, that sounds a bit bleak. What I’m trying to say is that I can’t dwell on what’s out of my control. I’ll focus on what I can do and work from there.” 

“Don’t tell me you haven’t brooded at least a little.” 

“Ha, I’ve done my fair share of that. I’ve just reduced it from boiling to a nice, tolerable simmer.” 

Lear’s grip on his glass tightens. “You’ve matured a lot.” 

“Eh? You think so?” You wonder. “If anything, I should’ve been this way to begin with. I had you as the premier example to follow.” 

Lear’s smile doesn’t reach his tired eyes. 

He inhales sharply. After a moment’s consideration, he comes over, pulls out a chair, and sits facing you. This is the closest you’ve been for a long time. He never wanted you to be afflicted with those visceral headaches, so he maintained his distance. For him to cross the bulwark he painstakingly built cannot be easy. 

Slowly, he raises his palm. He stops at the halfway mark between you. You knit your eyebrows. Does he want you to…? 

“It might not be a brick, but it’s similar,” Lear says, his voice soft. 

His hand is calloused from years of cleaning dishes and tinkering with various contraptions. His fingers tremble, belying the nerves he’s trying to push out of sight. This trepidation isn’t for his sake, it’s for yours. The dire consequences that could be reaped. It’s a gamble where you’re the one forced to go all in.

Your heart pounds and pounds. 

You’ll trust him. 

You’ve always trusted him. 

Lear’s skin is cold yet clammy. His hand overshadows yours, though not by much. They fit together as well as they used to. Unlike then, your touch is more hesitant than his. His fingers sink down and clasp your hand, an action you mirror. Nothing’s happening. Nothing hurts. 

You expect a relieved exclamation or expression from Lear, only to receive heavy silence instead. 

He squeezes your hand once then pulls away. 

“Do you remember the ‘important promise’ you wanted to make when we were kids?” 

You nod. 

“I did want to make it, actually. I don’t know if I ever mentioned that.” 

“It’s been so long, it’s possible I don’t remember, but… I don’t think you ever said that, no.” 

“The promise I mentioned was one I made with my mom,” Lear lowers his head. “She made me promise that I’d forgive my father. I never planned on it, not while he was living and breathing at least. I knew that and still… I agreed for her sake. It might seem silly, but that ate at me. She never asked me for anything, and the one time she did, it was something I refused to fulfill.” 

You lean forward, hesitate to put your hand on his shoulder, yet ultimately overcome the instinct. “You were just a child, Lear.” 

“I know. The reason I’m going into this is that… even when I wasn’t a child, I’d sit there and judge my father. I thought he’d acted cowardly. Instead of acknowledging mom’s declining condition, he’d buy more equipment and supposed miracle cures. He worked nonstop. Mom didn’t want that. She just wanted to be with her family while she could.” 

You can hear the lump forming in his throat. You pass him your water, which he gulps down. He gives himself a second and then continues.

“He wasn’t delusional. He knew, and still, he tried so hard to convince himself that he didn’t. There must’ve been some moment of clarity when it hit him,” Lear’s fair eyelashes flutter shut. “What you said to Nona… that was my moment of clarity. My punishment.”

Thoughts swarm through your mind like the Propagation’s reign of terror from eras past. 

“‘Punishment?’ Why would you deserve a punishment?” You probe. 

Lear doesn’t know how to respond. His lips open and close, words escaping him. What comes out next is interwoven with anguish’s thread.

“Mrs. Phaeales approached me about our relationship. I was so worried, I don’t remember her exact words… it was something along the lines of, ‘If you truly care about her, you need to end this before she gets hurt.’ She wouldn’t go into the specifics. It didn’t come across as a threat, just… a plea, maybe. Eventually, I agreed. It hurt, but I didn’t see any other option. How could I ever willingly do something that’d make you suffer? You, the person who matters to me the most?” 

This torrential downpour soaks into your very being. 

“It should’ve ended there. I thought it ended there. Then I saw you again, and god. You’re so… so confident, beautiful, and bright; I couldn’t do it. I was at a loss, and… then I had this thought. ‘I want to keep her even if it destroys her.’ I couldn’t shake it. That isn’t love, I-I don’t know what that is.”

“Everyone has thoughts they aren’t proud of.” 

“But you didn’t know, because I was too ashamed to tell you,” Lear insists, each word growing quieter. “So instead, you thought you did something to me, right?” 

He wouldn’t look you in the eye. His arms remained limp by his side as you unbuttoned his shirt, tense and strained. You pulled back. Something felt terribly wrong. A sharp pang shot through your skull. You ignored it and beseeched him to tell you what was wrong. He wouldn’t. The sharp pang ricocheted. Being close to him hurt. It was as if you were on the same side of a magnet. He repelled you and you couldn’t fight it. You tried to preserve, tried to claw through whatever barrier he’d put up. 

… A barrier?

Had he not wanted this? Was the gravity of your desire too intense for an individual who isn’t trained to resist? 

“I…” your mouth is dry. “Yes.” 

“You didn’t. I knew you didn’t, and like my father, I tried convincing myself otherwise,” he reopens his eyes, revealing a glassy sheen. He wipes it away with his long sleeve. “I ran out of excuses.” 

You don’t know how to begin parsing through this information. It undermines the rough understanding you’ve operated on for decades. The foundations haven’t just cracked, they’ve collapsed, and the materials are damaged beyond reuse. Anything you build will require a new blueprint. 

“If it isn’t manipulation, what exactly is it?” You murmur, placing a hand on your chin. “You rightfully guessed nothing would happen if we came into contact. What made you think that?”

The direction you’ve chosen to steer this conversation toward surprises him. This must not be the response he braced himself for. Regardless, he’s quick to offer anything he can. 

“Something just felt different, I guess? I’m sorry if that isn’t helpful, I can’t think of a better way to describe it.” 

Mother must’ve known more than she let on, you think. ‘Before she gets hurt,’ she said. Shouldn’t it have been ‘before Lear gets hurt?’ She cared about him plenty too. So why…? 

You pace around the breakroom, your heels clicking throughout the otherwise silent room. 

Alister listened when he thought you were taking him to ‘Roze’, a significant other he created in past Synalinks. He tried to kill you after you took him outside and it became evident that wasn’t your intention. No link could be established past that point. Then there’s Blade. You thought you could manipulate him to rescue potential survivors. You were rushed, yes, but you made absolutely no progress. 

“My mind has a will of its own,” Blade tells you. “It’s loud. Something about you quiets it down.” 

What can psyches roughly be broken down into? Primary, unfiltered instincts; an individual’s rationality, or ability to reason; then their mortality, what lines they will or won’t cross. When properly aligned, the mind operates as a cohesive mechanism. However, if there’s friction, disharmony abounds. The resulting fissure causes strife until it’s plastered back together.

It hits you. 

What it is that makes Exalted Arbiters so paramount, why your abilities far surpass others.

You’re a living, breathing conductor, amplifying raw, often questionable instincts. A lightning rod meant to attract the attention of what reason and morality try so valiantly to suppress. 

You forgo your pacing and sit back down. “Lear.” 

“Y-Yes?” 

“All of us are stupid.” 

“Eh?” 

“Well-meaning and stupid,” you reiterate. “I know what you want from me. You’re not going to get it. You condemned yourself, I condemned myself… what good did that do? Did it change anything? Make it better?” 

You shake your head. “We like to torture ourselves; we’re adept at it. Enough. It’s finished.”

“... You don’t need to make me feel better—” 

Lear receives a flick on the forehead. 

“Idiot, half of that spiel was for me. Maybe three-quarters.” 

You grab his hand and give it a hearty squeeze. 

He squeezes back.

You both sit there, in this room that’s changed throughout the decades. Where you played make-believe (or, to be more exact, coerced Lear into playing the princess role so you could be the knight), gorged on junk food until you both got sick, plotted how to blow up the IPC with a water gun; you never thought you’d be able to do those things. The dumb, silly things you’d watch in movies or read about in books. 

Lear runs the pad of his thumb up and down your hand. “[First].” 

“Mhm?” 

“Everything you just said — I can tell you believe it.” His breath hitches. “So why… why do you look so sad?” 

You force a smile.

“I think I had my moment of clarity,” you tell him. “Like mother, like daughter.”

Whoever coined the term ‘misery loves company’ deserves the 85th spot in the Genius Society. 

Blade sits beside you on a sinfully comfortable couch in The Club. His legs are crossed and his arm finds its respite behind you; not touching yet close enough. He’s your perpetual shadow. You steal a glance at his side profile. His jaw’s set and his eyebrows crease inward enough for his otherwise unblemished skin to wrinkle. 

“Would you like to talk about your innermost feelings, Mr. 8.13 billion?” 

Nothing, not even a halfhearted grunt, which comprises 50% of his vocabulary. 

“No? Okay. Let’s focus on mine then,” you motion to the empty bar. “My innermost feelings are telling me to drink until my brain becomes a gray matter slushie. Any recommendations?” 

It’s as if you’re trying to communicate with a rock. Which, according to the latest journals published in Geo Elements Organized, might be possible thanks to an artificial intelligence translator who learned how to speak rock. Apparently, pebbles are prone to bigotry. Marble sings operatic arias but each note is flat. These cutting-edge discoveries justify your 10,000 credit monthly subscription no matter what your financial advisor says. 

You exaggerate your sigh. “Fine, I’ll pick my own poison.” 

“Baijiu,” he eventually says.

“Hm? What’s that?” 

He looks at you like you’re an idiot.

“My, my, somebody’s touchy.” 

You hop the counter and peruse your establishment’s expansive selection. Hundreds of brands slapped over uniquely shaped bottles line the wall, each displaying information about their inside contents. You squint. What if he just said a random word to get you out of his hair? Your liquor knowledge consists of the basics, you’d be none the wiser if that’s the case. 

“Where might I find this— oh, fuck.” 

Blade is right beside you in the blink of an eye. Your hand flies to your chest, and while you’re trying to process how someone can move so fast, he finds what must be his intended target. It’s a tall, green bottle with a script you recognize as belonging to the Xianzhou Alliance. How did he ever expect you to find that on your own? 

He rummages around and finds little wine-shaped shot glasses. In the meantime, you scan over the various juices and additives available. It’s been rough, but not drinking-alcohol-without-a-fruity-infusion rough. Blade notices your scheming and shakes his head. 

“Men are so pretentious about liquor,” you lament. 

“You asked.” 

“My mistake.” 

He ignores you and returns to the couch. You do the same, up until the point where you’re about to sit down. His gaze grows heavier, more concentrated. It took millions of years of evolution to develop complex language and he still chooses to opt out. What a waste. An unofficial staring contest commences. What does he take you for? A mind reader? You technically are, but still, using your abilities for this is beneath you. Especially while you’re in the midst of a crisis that you’d give anything to stop thinking about. 

Blade must have a mind-altering epiphany that he has additional motor functions at his disposal. He pats his thigh. 

He stares at you.

You stare at him. 

You examine your black pencil skirt that stops above your knees. Hopping the counter in this was more of a way to pretend you’re in your early twenties again, not an invitation to test the fabric’s limits. You’ve lost multiple pairs of panties, a nice bra, and a blouse to this bodyguard who took the occupation’s prefix very seriously. This classy skirt isn’t going to be an addition to the clothes necropolis. 

“I like this skirt,” you simply state. 

You stare at him.

He stares at you. 

Your vision undergoes an odd change. One moment, you were standing tall and assertive, looking down your nose at him. In the instant that follows, you’re facing the bar, its black marble countertop and gravity adaptive stools coming into focus. What you’re sitting on isn’t a foam cushion that’s as soft as a cloud. It’s rigid and displeases your tailbone. You struggle to balance yourself, an issue that’s solved by Blade’s left arm curving snugly around your waist. 

“Did you just—” You cut yourself off, unable to dredge up the energy necessary to get annoyed. He could throw you through the roof for all you care. Sitting you on his lap is forgivable enough. “Whatever, you’re pouring my drink then.” 

He’s already in the process of doing so. He pops the lid and fills the specially shaped shot glass with clear liquid. An aromatic fragrance of fruits and spices wafts through the air. It’s a world captured in a bottle; another place you’ll never get to see. You have to settle for admiring pictures and reading firsthand accounts. 

Does Blade have an association with the Xianzhou Alliance? It isn’t your place to ask, but you’re curious nonetheless. He’s been a silent spectator of your life for the past few months yet you know nothing about him. It should stay that way — getting involved with him physically is already questionable enough. Especially now that you fully grasp the phenomena that’s been haunting you. 

The thought makes you wince. 

You lean your head back and down the shot. 

It burns as it travels down your throat. You cough, the unexpected strength hitting you with the force of a collapsing star. Maybe you should’ve worked your way up to taking shots. It’s too late to rectify the mistake, your hubris is irreversible. The bastard chuckles at your suffering. It’s the briefest chuckle you’ve ever heard, but it still counts. 

“What is the— what is the alcohol content of that?” You rasp out. 

“Eighty.”

You crane your neck to glare at him. “If you wanted to kill me, the sword would’ve been faster.” 

He rolls his eyes. He actually rolled his eyes at you. He picks you up, sticks a little ribbon on your head, and delivers you to death’s doorstep only to disregard your valid concerns? The 8.13 billion bounty isn’t enough. They need to double it. 

“I’d like to see you drink this. Considering your prehistoric age, it might short-circuit your cardiovascular system.” 

Blade pilfers your empty shot glass. He refills it, swallows without any fanfare, and then resumes his staring regimen. 

You don’t know if you should be impressed or offended that his tolerance is better than yours.

Ultimately, your competitive nature wins out. You manage two more shots before waving the white flag. The flavor itself isn’t that bad once you get past the initial shock, it’s slightly fruity. The alcohol taste packs a punch though. A version with a lower ABV would suit you better. 

You sigh, lean into his chest, and try in vain to smooth out your bunched-up skirt.

Your inebriated daze hits fast. There’s no pleasant buzz accompanying it, only exhaustion. The kind that makes the prospect of sleeping for a few years tempting. Those cryogenic pod ads know how to sell their product. It speaks volumes how simple their marketing remains since they’re so high in demand. 

You inspect your soulless business. There aren’t any clients traveling to and fro, well-dressed ladies having their fur coats removed by valets, or businessmen celebrating a deal by clinking their glasses together. It’s eerily quiet. There’s nothing but the sound of your slow breathing and the thrum of the oxygen generator. 

This planet’s heart remains frozen with you at the epicenter.

“What’s it like to travel across the universe?” You ask. 

“It’s just work.” 

Just work. You’ve received variations of this response when you’ve used this question on clients. They’ll take your silence as a signal to prattle, complaining about jet lag, getting through customs, finding a hotel that isn’t ridiculously overpriced during busy seasons; on and on they’d go. You’d sit across from them, smiling and nodding along, verbally empathizing with their plight. If they went on too long, you’d temporarily excuse yourself before your agitation spewed forth. 

“That’s it?” You murmur. 

He’s silent. 

You kick your heels off, lay your legs across his lap and the couch, then sling your right arm around his shoulders to hold yourself in place. He observes you with no discernible emotion as you make yourself comfortable. 

“Tell me about it,” you implore. “The universe. Please.” 

Blade considers your request. You take it as a good sign he hasn’t shut you down immediately. For once, you don’t needle him. You just sit there with high hopes and a pleading expression. A peculiar emotion surges around him. It whispers to you, requesting that you lean in and hear it better. You deny the impulse and swat it away. 

This mental exertion almost causes you to miss his frown and pinched-together eyebrows.

It’s fleeting, but there’s no misinterpreting what you saw. 

Have you ever seen Blade’s face reveal so much? 

It’s a vault he doesn’t leave open long. The doors seal shut before you can catalog the contents inside.

“Nothing I’ve seen is worth telling.” 

You part your lips yet no sound comes out. You retract your arms from him and lay on your back, resting your forearm against your head. The LOTUS-EATER’s dark ceiling becomes your latest intrigue. It’s a cool shade of gray, mimicking the joyless sky that hovers outside like a specter deadset on haunting the living. You hate it. Everything’s gray, bland, depressing, an insult to the vibrancy that accompanies sentient beings. 

You close your eyes and all goes silent. 

After a while, his deep voice rumbles, “Do you want to see it?” 

“Hm?” 

“The universe,” he clarifies. 

“Oh. Of course. But…” you pause, noticing how draining an endeavor it is to string together a coherent thought, “If I could, I wouldn’t. Too much… there’s too much I hafta do… here.” 

There’s Nona. You want to help her reach her full potential, she’s brimming with it, a never-ending source of energy and zeal. Then there’s Lear. Why he idolizes you to such a degree, you’ll never understand. He should turn that starry-eyed gaze inward. It’s ironic — he considers you confident, yet you’ve always shied away from ever revealing the fathomless depths of your care. 

You were born to be an object and he made you a person. 

How can you ever repay a debt like that? Why is it so awkward and awful to express anything you feel without theatrics accompanying them? You have to tell him. You know he loves you, and while the love you hold for him is different, does he know that? How could he, if you’ve been so hesitant to say those three harrowing words? 

Man, you think. My head’s killing me.

“Tired?” 

After you grumble in the affirmative, he lifts you up. You think you might be floating. Your head lulls to the side and comes into contact with something solid, which proves you aren’t. Gravity hasn’t quit its longstanding tenure. Your blurred journey begins when you’re laid down in a spot more cozy than the couch cushions. It feels familiar and safe. Tension melts from your body, slinking off to loan you a brief solace. The interest is set high, but you’re too blissfully content to care.

That night, you dream of an ocean dutifully guarded by the sun.

The waves rise and fall along the shoreline, the breeze carries the scent of saltwater, and aquatic birds caw from above. 

Bright white sand is plentiful beneath your bare feet. It tickles your toes and tricks you into thinking you’ll sink with every tentative step. 

As you walk along this esplanade, an object hidden amongst the sand jabs into your sole. 

Blood pools from the wound, trickles down a steep slope, and infects the ocean. 

The scarlet droplet corrupts and warps it, devouring any color it comes into contact with. It's insatiable, a bloody blight that proliferates until the sea is swallowed whole. 

The moon eclipses a dying sun. Driven by vanity, it paints its likeness across red, shimmering waves. 

Unknown 

I have good news 

Unknown 

I’ll be recalling Bladie soon

Unknown 

I located the party responsible for endangering your life

Unknown 

Isn’t that great? 

If you’re being honest, then yes

Unknown

Am I not renowned for my honesty? 

Unknown 

No harm will befall you, so rest easy

Unknown

I hope we can continue our mutually beneficial partnership ♡

-

If there’s anything your mother’s passing has taught you, it’s that time isn’t guaranteed. 

You thought you’d have a lifetime to see eye to eye with her. Over centuries, the layers you cultivated would peel back. You’d then ask her the questions that have lingered on the tip of your tongue. 

Did you want to have me, or was it out of obligation? 

Is this the way you want to live? 

Am I a daughter or a burden? 

You don’t know what scared you more. The idea of asking her, or what the answers might be. 

None of your blood relations are living, but you still have a family. You refuse to treat something as fickle as time lightly again. Nona’s past, Lear’s present, your future; you can only dance around it for so long. The tempo will inevitably speed up beyond what you can follow. Lear’s confession reaffirmed how dangerous this complacency is. By believing you’re sparing one another pain, you’re only sparing yourself. 

Your tea’s gone cold. The remnants swirl down the basin’s drain. 

The true nature of your abilities, the shackles it puts you in, you’ll tell them everything. 

You shoot them a text, asking them to meet you tonight at the LOTUS-EATER. You then set your phone to Do Not Disturb and place it aside. 

Blade won’t be on Eris much longer. Your chances to help him are limited and you still haven’t fulfilled your promise. 

You’d like to try and remedy that. 

“I may have been a bit prickly when we first met, but I want to express my heartfelt gratitude for all you’ve done. I’m sure you just consider this a job, which is just as well, still, I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. I don’t even want to imagine what would become of this planet in my absence. So please give me one last opportunity to deter your mara.” 

Blade gives you a long, hard look. 

“You’re talking like that again?” 

“I’m trying to be professional.” 

He walks over and leers down at you. You return his blank stare unabashedly. Eventually, he readjusts the collar of your ivory blouse. 

“What was that for?” You ask.

“I saw something that isn’t very professional.” 

Glancing down, you pull the fabric back, revealing a prominent hickey. Your face ignites and you frantically cover it. 

You clear your throat. “Is it a contractual obligation for you Stellaron Hunters to get on my nerves?” 

The glint in his eye makes you nervous. 

“Actually, do me a favor and don’t answer that. Just tell me if you’re interested or not, I’m a busy woman.” 

He thinks it over and nods. 

Throughout the preparation and rites, you consider what you’ve learned. Individuals exposed to you become more willing to act or dwell on their subconscious desires. The exact metrics aren’t clear, but you can safely assume this effect amplifies the longer they’re around you. These desires have a wide range. It can be as innocent as causing an older brother who ran away from his grief to finally cry over his deceased sister, or fuel for justifying selfish actions. 

Blade’s case feels different. 

Unprecedented as the other examples are, you can understand them somewhat. If a person acts on their most innate wishes, their behavior will change accordingly. However, what you’re causing here extends beyond psychological — it’s physiological too. Is that even possible? What could he possibly want enough to alter the fabric of his very being? 

If you can find out, maybe the revelation will help him. 

And so you close your eyes. 

“To dream is a sacred thing. Don’t fear it. Welcome it, rejoice in it, and shed no tears when it is finished. We’ve been granted your purest blessing. As you slumber, we find rest in you. Allow us the sweetest of dreams.” 

…

Blade’s psyche has changed.

The grayscale composition is gone. Vitality has been crowned the new ruler, overthrowing the morose atmosphere in a successful rebellion. This change brings no alleviation to the undercurrents of grief that hang heavy in the air. Instead, it feels more erratic, like a heart beating wildly after waking from a coma. 

The Shackling Prison stands beyond a straight path as if it's been waiting for you. 

The first time you entered his mind, it rejected you. Now, it’s pulling you in, its gravity far-reaching. 

You hesitate to proceed.

Is it his mara that’s responsible for this? You won’t be able to tell unless you keep going. 

The invisible force that expelled you nudges you from behind. 

You recall when Blade first appeared before you. Your physical eyes showed you a man while every other sense warned he was a beast. A carnivore that would devour anything, predator or prey alike. You believed it then and you believe it now. His condition has condemned him. Where he walks, destruction follows. It’d make sense for you to abandon him to fate’s whims. 

This excruciating hunger digests him too. It’s destined to eat him alive while postponing merciful death. 

Fate can be cruel, but you have an opportunity to be kind. 

You make your way to the Shackling Prison’s gates. 

The seal that’s served as a hindrance halts you. You examine the once bold obstruction. It has faded, its strength depleted, held together by nothing. At its peak, you think it would have pushed you out instantly. Now, as your incorporeal hand presses against it, there’s little it can do. The most it can muster is the resilience to delay you a few more seconds. 

After that, it shatters and fades like weeping stardust. 

A prismatic shard forms from its ashes, coalescing into a blurred, moving image. Distorted sounds crackle from it, which you soon recognize as garbled speech. The noise becomes clearer. You hear a low thrum in the background. Its timbre matches the oxygen generator standard in Eris’ buildings. 

This must be one of Blade’s memories. 

“I know you’re impatient, but play nice a while longer,” a saccharine voice hums. “She’ll be here any minute now.” 

That voice… 

The image sharpens and unveils a grand screen plastered against a wall. It sections off into numerous squares, each dedicated to displaying financial data. It’s bright, obnoxiously so, attesting to the owner’s tacky taste. 

Chrysus’ office? 

A door creaks. Hastened footsteps approach, ringing throughout the brightly lit room. The pair of eyes you’re viewing this memory from — Blade’s — shift to locate the source. The color they arrive at is familiar. It’s the same shade you see upon viewing your reflection, although the shape differs. 

Mom? You wonder, astonishment hitting like pelting hail. What was she doing, meeting with a Stellaron Hunter in Chrysus’ office of all places…? 

“Your message surprised me, Exalted Arbiter. Getting you to agree to a face-to-face meeting is normally like pulling a tooth. What’s the occasion?” The honeyed voice, which can only belong to Kafka, greets. 

“Don’t play coy with me,” your mother replies. While her words are sharp, they aren’t warped with emotion. This is the demeanor she assumed when conducting business. Her sagacity is a trait you’ve never been able to fully emulate. “That thing’s leaving baubles on my daughter’s balcony. How many times have I told you to tighten your dog’s leash?”

“Oh? I thought I had.” 

Your mother smiles thinly. “Should I add incompetent leadership to your list of defects? Deals are meant to be followed. Otherwise, why make them at all?”

“We draw lines to test them. So long as they aren’t crossed, there’s no harm.” 

“Spare me your casuistry. I don’t want that thing anywhere near her.” 

Your head feels like it’s being stretched in multiple directions at once. This sequence unfolding before you has a dizzying effect. Why is your mother so outwardly hostile to Kafka? The Stellaron Hunter isn’t your favorite person either, but this transcends simple dislike. It’s personal, raw. She’s maneuvered through diatribes that’d make anyone else go red in the face, her poise unruffled. Kafka’s little provocations pale in comparison.

Not to your mother, though. She’s a thinning thread close to snapping. 

“As per our original agreement, there’s no harm as long as she doesn’t notice him,” Kafka dismisses. She leisurely sits on Chrysus’ desk, not bothering to move his papers aside. She then crosses her legs and smiles. Her eyes emit an unnatural glow. “On the topic of testing lines… let’s not pretend you’re innocent either.” 

Your mother doesn’t so much as flinch. “If you’re going to make accusations, at least have the confidence to be forthright.”

“You’re fascinating to deal with, Exalted Arbiter,” Kafka croons. “This is why I look forward to our chats. You don’t cower or plead for mercy like our friend outside did. It’s a welcome change.” 

“I’d rather you don’t compare me to Ophídion.” 

Kafka drums her fingers against the table’s surface. For such a simple sound, it’s deeply grating. “Forgive me in advance, then, because I intend to one more time.” 

Your mother remains silent, her lips taut. 

“Still not afraid, hm? Let’s see if we can change that,” Kafka’s smile widens, which crinkles the skin beneath her eyes. “Chrysus’ shipments of ichor are exact, down to the milliliter. Always delivered on time as well. Comparatively, your end of the bargain is far simpler. You just have to grant Bladie ready access to Miss Phaeales’ vicinity. But, I heard something regrettable through the grapevine.” 

Your mother’s eye twitches. 

“You’ve been shopping around for a way to sneak [First] off Eris, correct? Tsk, tsk.” 

All falls silent save for the generator’s dedicated hum. 

Your mother stands unflinching, folding her hands in front of her. The two openly scrutinize each other. Calculating, strategizing. Her posture betrays nothing. There’s no guilt or apprehension, making it impossible for you to determine the credibility of Kafka’s words. 

“It’s fear you devils can’t experience, correct?” Your mother queries. “Here’s a suggestion — try having a daughter yourself. You praise me for not caving to intimidation; that’s because I’ve experienced far worse. From their conception to our death, fear is the only thing we mothers know. Fear that they won’t become like us, or, even worse, that they will. What a funny juncture we occupy.” 

Mom’s voice doesn’t sound right. It’s so… forlorn. 

You don’t want to keep watching. 

You can’t pull yourself away — the memory’s weight is heavy enough to pull you back in. 

“Is that maternal dedication enough to condemn an entire planet?” Kafka ponders. “I’m not a judge who is eager to sentence. I’ve been lenient with you and would love to keep it that way. Leave Miss Phaeales in my care, no harm will befall her.” 

For the first time since entering the room, your mother acknowledges Blade’s existence. Her eyes turn to slits as she scowls at him. Disgust, reprehension, and wrath; it converges in a maelstrom that could sink fleets of ships. You hone in on the emotions Blade experienced at that instant. There’s nothing. It’s hollow, save for blots of mild impatience. 

“It wouldn’t be your care, it’d be his.” 

Your soul convulses. 

“Is that so terrible?” Kafka hums. “Separated, they’re essentially cursed, the poor things. They complement each other well, the more you think about it. One who incites madness and another who has the means to resist it. You of all people should understand that, hm? Or is Mr. Phaeales available to voice his dissent?” 

Dad?

Darkness passes over her countenance. 

You don’t understand and you’re afraid to. Kafka freely tosses around the most taboo topics as if twirling a poisoned dagger on her fingers. 

One who incites madness. Is that what you are? A catastrophe patiently waiting for its chance? That can’t always be the case, but, more often than not, what a person covets most should never be fully realized. There’s a reason the sensible and moral components of one’s psyche stuff this risk down as deep as it’ll go. If everyone did what they wanted, whenever they wanted, civilization itself would cease to exist. 

As for Blade’s role in this… Kafka must know whatever he wants would have a value that outweighs the potential drawbacks. 

“I won’t let her be reduced to a retractable leash for your attack dog,” she seethes. “Let your Cancer of All Worlds do what it will. My decision is final.” 

Electricity crackles in the air. 

“It’s this script, then,” Kafka murmurs, more to herself than anything. “So many diverging paths, so many possibilities. To think that out of all futures you’d get to pick out specially for [First]...” 

Kafka motions toward Blade, who readies his weapon. 

“You chose one of the worst ones.” 

some misc author notes for this one:

regarding the reader's condition, i didn't want to include a sigmund freud jumpscare in the story itself, so it gets to be down here instead. for those unfamiliar with his theories, what reader is referring to here:

'What can psyches roughly be broken down into? Primary, unfiltered instincts; an individual’s rationality, or ability to reason; then their mortality, what lines they will or won’t cross. When properly aligned, the mind operates as a cohesive mechanism. However, if there’s friction, disharmony abounds. The resulting fissure causes strife until it’s plastered back together.'

is a more abstract version of freud's concept of the id, ego, and superego respectively. originally, i used this exact terminology, but something about it just felt very immersion breaking to me 😭 all i could do was think about mr freud floating about in the honkai universe. consequently, the unreliable narration of reader trying to understand her condition + not using the widely known terminology made me worry it'd be a bit confusing...

so, in freudian terms, being continually exposed to reader's presence causes an individual's id to dominate their thoughts/actions instead of their ego and superego.

[tarttwannabe]

hello! i’m not new to studyblr + langblr, i’ve had a blog previously but i deleted it a few months ago to start fresh. this is my dark academia studyblr & langblr!

about me — 

you can call me c! she/her. i'm 19, & i’m studying undergrad as a stem student (computer science), and an aspiring classics major in uni (second undergrad & masters). i’m an intj 5w4 & i love making new friends, so feel free to reach out <3

i’m tracking #tarttwannabe so please tag me in posts!

why i started this blog —

to hold myself accountable and be more productive

to interact with a likeminded community as i work towards my goals

to keep myself motivated & to share my love of academia with the world

to meet new, wonderful people

because i miss the golden age of studyblr + need a way to force myself to make my life more beautiful

what content to expect —

study notes, journal spreads etc

masterposts and resources, study tips

aesthetics. a lot of aesthetics.

since i study both computer science (officially) and classics (unofficially), expect to see both!

my study aesthetic — chaotic/dark academia

currently studying — computer science at the undergrad level. learning french, and russian. i play the violin and the piano as well. i am also self-studying A levels for my second undergrad, in the subjects ancient history, classical civilisation, and latin.* 

i'm also a writer. my classics/writeblr blog is @iliadesque (although i suspect i won't be using it all that much)

things i like — the classics, the goldfinch, autumn, dark academia, gone girl,  thunderstorms, tarot, tennis, waif aesthetics, museums, earl grey, pilates, ballet, black coffee, reading, learning, and apples. i am a romantic at heart. i am also an olfactory enthusiast & have a modest but growing perfume collection.

my inspirations — @frenchiepal @studywithavalon @learnelle @lottiestudying @berlinsct @romanticize-until-you-drop @starrystvdy @caffeinatedstudies @alexistudies @woodlandhalls @studywithvictory @oneardentstudybuddy @shlrleystudies (hope none of you mind i tagged you <3)

*i'm studying (untested, mostly for personal satisfaction) gcses as well, in the subjects ancient history, classical civilisation, and latin.

[whimsimille]

THICKER THAN BLOOD

Chapter 3: Cherry Blossoms

Jeong Jin-Man x Reader!

Ensuring the cold steel pin snapped back into the slide with a click? Check. Carefully inspecting the barrel, the recoil spring, and guide? Check. Examining the magazine, the safety mechanism, and the trigger, testing each one to guarantee they were functioning at their optimal level? Check.

“Yeah... I still got that," you murmur to yourself, the words barely audible over the soft crackling of the vintage radio playing a forgotten tune from the 60s in the background: Cherry Blossom Ending. Mom’s favorite. 

Taking another long drag of your cigarette, you savor the rich taste of a blend of Turkish tobacco that Pasin introduced you to.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, you watch it drift upwards lazily before dissipating into the stale air of the room. The sight brings back memories of foggy winter mornings back home, when the world seemed shrouded in a blanket of mist. But, unlike those mornings, there's no fragrance of dew-kissed roses or the sweet scent of mom's freshly baked apple pie to erase your nose scrunching—not when this place smells like a battlefield. The distinct aroma of gunpowder and the sharp tang of sweat mix in the air like a witch's potion, creating an unsettling olfactory cocktail.

Your eyes fall on the poster of an old concessionary you once visited, featuring a sexualized pit girl with improbably large breasts for her leather crop top. You sigh. No amount of decoration, no matter how weird or random, can erase the sensation that men in tactical gear might spring up through the gun stock’s door any minute. In your mind’s eye, they empty all the shelves as they run, their gazes wild with bloodlust, chins coated with saliva as the drugs they took to make them more alert take hold of their minds.

Yet, amidst the chaos, your eyes notice the old wooden table, scarred with years of use and abuse. Its familiar creaking sound, especially from the third leg, the one that always needed fixing. Despite its oddities, this place has a certain charm.

As a woman, you know that there are environments that society still judges as masculine. But whether you want it or not, whether you identify as a feminist or not, these judgments don't matter to you. 

Whilst memories flood back—your father patiently teaching you how to shoot, your mother cheering you on at the shooting competition—you can't help but listen to the echoes of your parents amidst the gunpowder. The rusty corner nearby the Glocks shelves reminds you too much of your old house, of mom and dad dancing across it the way they used to on Saturday nights, their laughter filling the room. Even the leftover smell of Gun's piss on the floor brings back how Honda brought home that forsaken cat that you've learned to love. 

These memories remind you that this has nothing to do with being feminine or masculine. This is about being you.

Suddenly, your phone vibrated, breaking your shitty reverie. It was a muffled sound by the work table, buried somewhere beneath the scattered assortment of guns—pistols, rifles, and shotguns—in your twin's meticulously disordered workplace.

Discarding your half-smoked baby into the overflowing ashtray, you slowly rise from the creaky stool, stretching your stiff muscles. A dull ache radiates from your lower back—the result of countless hours spent hunched over the workbench. 

Ignoring the discomfort, you navigate through the maze of scattered tools and disassembled machinery, your boots echoing against the concrete floor, until you reach for the incessantly vibrating device under a pile of blueprints.

You lean against the graffiti and poster-covered wall, its coldness seeping through your top. Your gaze drifts to the multiple monitors displaying the gradually emptying streets of Seoul, illuminated by the neon glow of streetlights.

Honda always had an obsession with surveillance, with keeping an eye on every single movement outside. 

To the uninitiated, it might come off as paranoia. But in your line of work, it was a necessity. The last thing you both needed was someone sniffing around your... less-than-legal activities.

You swipe the screen, bringing the encrypted chat to life.

Younger brother by 6 minutes:

Hey, sis! Just checking in.

I trust Sukku's client came to pick up his custom order—the modified Glock 19? Did he give any trouble? Notice anything out of the ordinary? Are there any signs of suspicion that we might need to worry about?

Considering the late hour and the fact that you've been alone in this place all evening, do you want me to swing by? Gunpowder is already fast asleep. I took her to the vet earlier. They think it might be chlamydia. Apparently, it's a thing in cats.

Big sister by 6 minutes:

Chlamydia? In a cat? That's news to me. Is she going to be okay? Will she need any special treatment?

As for the client, there are no issues whatsoever. He seemed satisfied with the custom Glock. Even complimented the grip modifications.

And don't worry about me. I'm used to the workshop without you by now. Besides, I’ve been productive. Uploaded a few of our modified guns and encryption codes on our site for our initial clients to browse.

I also completed a thorough maintenance check on the old Sig Sauer P226. Replaced the recoil spring, cleaned the firing pin and even polished the slide rails. It's as good as new now. You know, just in case we need some extra firepower.

But yeah, if you're free and not too worn out, do swing by. We can grab a late-night snack from the 24-hour joint down the street. Their kimchi jjigae has been on my mind.

But for now, don't rush. I'm fine on my own. I will keep the place locked down and secure until you get back. It's not like we have a shortage of security systems.

And tell Gunpowder her noona got her back. And ask her to keep her paws off my toolbox.

Watching the gray bubble with your message pop up on the screen, you hit send.

Just as you were about to pull up the Murthehelp site on your phone—the one you had coded from scratch after many long, caffeine-fueled nights—a sudden flicker on one of the large monitors caught your attention. You squinted, setting your phone down on the table.

There, in the grainy black-and-white footage, you could make out a figure. It was vague and blurry, moving in the shadows, but their height and gait unmistakably suggested a man.

He was coming towards the workshop, his path unwavering and purposeful. You quickly glanced at his attire—a dark jacket and a baseball hat pulled low over his face. Not exactly the outfit of someone who was just strolling by, especially not at this late hour when even the nocturnal creatures had retreated to their burrows.

Keeping your nerve, you reached for the console, fingers nimbly dancing over the buttons to turn off the monitors. You didn't want the soft blue glow of the screens to betray your presence in the otherwise dark room. 

Leaving the gun stock downstairs, you entered the quiet workshop, the smell of oil and metal heavy in the air.

After tiptoeing towards the reinforced steel door, you hid behind a towering metal shelf cluttered with an assortment of spare parts, rusted tools, and half-assembled machinery, their metallic sheen glinting dimly in the ambient light.

The silence hung heavy, broken only by the steady tick-tock of an old clock on the wall. Your heart pounded in your chest as you braced yourself for a loud bang, anticipating a forceful break-in. But instead, the soft rustle of someone kneeling near the entrance reached your ears. The muffled clicks of a lock being picked followed and then the door was gently pushed up, its usual creak betraying its motion conspicuously absent.

The moment the man stepped in, you sprang into action and the workshop transformed into a battleground.

You dove under a swing. A wrench grazed your arm—a missed punch. You retaliated with a swift kick, watching as he stumbled back, barely keeping his balance. But despite your best efforts, your back soon hit the cold metal of an old car under repair.

Cornered, with no way out.

A thin ray of light from a partially opened window cut through the darkness, casting long, distorted shadows. As your eyes adjusted, you saw him—Jinman. His face was as cold as the winter wind, revealing nothing of his intent. He held a knife in his hand, the cold steel pressing ominously against your stomach.

"Complacency could get you killed," he admonished as he tossed his baseball cap somewhere in this place. "In Babylon, I trained you to be sharper, faster, but you've let yourself grow soft. One inch to the side, and this blade could have nicked an artery. It would've been a messy end."

“Damn you, Jinman! What the hell were you thinking, barging in here like some low life thug?" Your hand instinctively went to your side, where your trusty Smith & Wesson lay as you watched through hooded eyes as he leaned against you, his nose scrunching in what might be the unique signal of pain from your attacks. “I mistook you for some gangster trying to get a hand on our stash! I could've shot you, you reckless idiot!" You pushed his hand away, stepping out of the claustrophobic corner.

“Do you remember our lesson on critical injuries?”

"The intestine, when damaged, can lead to sepsis," you replied, his voice flat, your eyes never leaving his as he begrudgingly sheathed his knife. You quirked up an eyebrow as you saw blood under his nails, but you didn’t dare say a thing, you knew he wouldn't talk about it anyway. Jeong was stubborn like that.

"And if left untreated, the mortality rate is high, even with immediate medical attention.”

Ignoring his continued lecturing, you moved past him, heading towards the narrow staircase that led back to the lower level where the gun stock was kept. He trailed behind, his usually light steps now heavy and labored.

"So, care to explain your sudden, unannounced break-in, Jinman?" You questioned, the cool air from the underground level hitting your face like a welcome reprieve. Without waiting for his response, you kept talking, "And why the sudden interest in giving me a lecture on gut wounds? Planning on stabbing my twin next?

"Because you..." he began, but his voice trailed off, replaced by a pained grunt.

Alarmed, you turned around just in time to see him stumble, clutching his side. He landed heavily on the last few steps, letting out a string of curses.

"Jinman?" you called out, rushing over to him. "What's wrong?"

His response was a mere groan, his face a sickly pale hue contrasted by the cold sweat forming on his forehead. The hole in his shirt as he shed his coat could be a smudge of dirt from his shoveling chore, and the blood that has soaked his shirt is almost invisible in the dim light. He's now making a strange whistling noise each time he inhales. He'd been shot. Near his intestines.

"Oh, God, Jinman! This... this is serious," you stammered, your hand shaking as you reached out to check his wound.

You have seen injuries before. Gunshot wounds, stabbings, broken bones are occupational hazards that come with your line of work. But seeing Jinman, your former partner and mentor from Babylon, bleeding and weakening struck a nerve. A sudden adrenaline rush surged through you, coupled with a rising protective instinct. You had to act quickly, keep your wits about you. Panic wouldn't help either of you now.

"Alright, Ahjussi," you said, forcing a steady tone into your voice. "We need to get you lying down. Now."

He lets go, or maybe just loses the strength to hold on, as you maneuver him onto a makeshift bed—a heap of old, worn-out blankets and tarps that you usually use when working on cars. You pull back a little—not far. His eyes regard you from their deep and blackening sockets. They are as brilliant as ever, but you see, they are also full of terror and (this is what frightens you most) some wretched, inexplicable amusement. 

Still speaking low—perhaps so only you can hear, maybe because it's the best he can manage—Jeong says, "Listen, little woman. I can handle myself.."

 "No—you have to stop."

He pays no attention. He draws in another of those screaming breaths, purses his wet red lips in a tight O, and makes a low, incredibly nasty chuffing noise. It drives a fine spray of blood up his clenched throat and into the sweltering air.

He turns his head to the side, spits a wad of half-congealed blood onto the hot tar, then turns back to you. "I guess it's karma.”

You understand that he means it, and for a moment (surely it is the power of his eyes), you believe it's true. He will make the sound again, only a little louder, and in some other world, Bale, that lord of sleepless nights, will turn its unspeakable, hungry head. A moment later, if you don’t just move and fucking think, in this world, Jeong Jin-Man will simply shiver in this old place and die. The death certificate will say something sane, but you’ll know: his dark past finally saw him, came for him and ate him alive.

“I guess I’m getting old, huh?”

Leaning even closer. Into the shivering sweat and blood of him. Leaning in until you can smell the last palest ghost of the Prell he shampooed with that morning and the Foamy he shaved with. Leaning in until your lips touch his ear. You whisper, "Be quiet, Jin-Man. For once in your life, just be quiet. Don’t you dare make this pussy sound again.”

Looking around, you knew no bandage in your medicine cabinet would be enough, so you ended up tearing long strips from a sheet. The sheet is old, but you mourn its passing just the same—on a waitress's salary (supplemented by niggardly tips and only slightly better ones from the faculty members who lunch at Pat's), you can ill afford to raid your linen closet. But when you think of  stuffing it into his mouth to muffle his screams and grunts, you don't hesitate.

You caught sight of an old bottle of Korean whisky, a forgotten souvenir from a past mission to Jeju Island. Honda had won it in a high-stakes game of poker but never got around to finishing it. Now, it seemed like a fitting antiseptic.

Raising the bottle to your lips, you took a swig, the liquid burning its way down your throat—a twisted semblance of courage. Then, with a grimace, you drenched the wound with the help of a cloth, the sharp smell of alcohol mingling with the raw scent of blood. Jinman’s body tensed, a deep groan escaping his clenched teeth.

“I’m hot.”

"Shit, Ahjusshi." Emboldened, you rubbed your freezing, leaking hand along his right cheek, his left cheek, and then across his forehead, where drops of whisky-colored water dripped into his eyebrows and then ran down the sides of his nose. He hums in satisfaction. "You should have been more careful."

The room was filled with a heavy silence, the only sounds being the occasional drip of water from a leaky pipe somewhere overhead and Jinman’s labored breathing.

You remembered a mission in Gwangju, back when you two were still new to the field. It was a stormy night, the air was so heavy with rain that it felt like you were walking through a cloud. The neon lights of the city were blurred, painting everything in an ethereal glow. There was a sense of surrealism to that night, a feeling of being detached from reality. That was the first time you had seen Jinman truly vulnerable, his usually stoic demeanor giving way to panic as a bullet grazed his shoulder.

“It’s just a scratch,” he had grumbled, his hand tightly gripping yours as you tried to clean the wound. He licked at his lips. You saw the blood on his tongue and it turned your stomach, but you didn’t pull away from him.

Now, years later, history is repeating itself. But this time, the stakes were much higher.

"Listen to me, old man," you began, your voice breaking the overwhelming silence. "We've been through worse, haven't we? Remember that time in Busan when that crazy bastard tried to stab you with a switchblade?"

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, his eyes half-closed, the sheets between his teeth stained with blood and saliva. "Yeah, and you broke his nose."

"You're damn right, I did," you chuckled, your fingers gently tracing the outline of the wound, assessing the damage, before rising up again in search of your purple lighter somewhere in this place. "And we made it through that night, didn't we? So, we're going to make it through this shit too. But you need to stay with me, alright? Don't you fucking dare drift off on me!"

Found it!

As you kneeled again and prepared the needles and threads, sterilizing them over a small flame, your throat felt as dry as the barren lands of the Mojave Desert. Words stuck in your mouth like cotton, but you forced them out. 

"Do you remember that pawnshop in Itaewon? The one with the old, rusted sign hanging crookedly and the fat, ginger cat named Tofu who would lazily sprawl across the counter? The owner—what was his name? Sungmin, right? He had this weird obsession with Elvis Presley. Used to play vintage vinyl records on that old gramophone he had all day long. You hated it; you said it was too 'old-fashioned' for your taste. But I caught you humming 'Love Me Tender' once."

His eyes met yours, a faint glimmer of amusement in them. You could see his chest rise and fall, each breath a little more labored than the last. But he was listening, a hint of a smile tugging at his bloodstained lips.

"And then there was that time in Hongdae," you continued, your fingers gently manipulating the sterilized pliers inside his abdomen. He hissed and jerked, the sudden movement causing the tools in your hand to clatter loudly. But a stern glance in his direction had him stilling, his jaw clenched tightly to suppress any further sounds. "We stumbled upon this cute little bakery at three in the morning. The owner was this old lady, who claimed her red bean buns were the best in all of Seoul. You were skeptical and said nothing could beat your grandma's recipe. But, after the first bite...”

You paused, recalling the look of sheer surprise on his face. "You devoured five of those buns in a matter of minutes. You even tried to flirt with the old lady, hoping to score the recipe."

A soft chuckle escaped his lips, his grip tightening around your free hand. "And she said... she said she had a... strict policy. No sharing recipes with… playboys."

"Exactly!" You exclaimed, a genuine smile spreading across your face as you noticed the mischievous light returning to his eyes. "She definitely put you in your place, didn't she?"

“Shut…up.”

“I like you too. Please don’t die on me. I don't want to hear Honda crying in my ears at your funeral.”

As you finally found the bullet, the harsh reality of the situation loomed over you, a grim reminder of the danger he was in. But for now, for just a few moments, it felt like old times. Just you and Jinman, bleeding wounds, guns on your feet and hips. You and him.

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

The short walk from the taxi to Jin-Man’s porch had been enough to thoroughly drench you, with your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin. Raindrops dripped from the brim of your hat, splashing onto the porch's wooden planks, causing the aged wood to glisten under the feeble light from an old lamp hanging precariously above the door.

A sudden gust of wind made you shiver, and you quickly pulled your coat tighter around yourself, silently cursing the weather. You couldn't help but take a moment to observe the changes Jin-Man had made to the entrance—the broken lilies and the shattered pot had been replaced by beautiful blue hyacinths. You admired them briefly before bending down to retrieve the spare keys hidden beneath the ugly cat statue.

"Hey, ugly one! Been taking care of them for me?"

As you straightened up, key in hand, the door suddenly swung open.

Jin-Man stood in the doorway, his eyes softening as they took in your soaked floral skirt, the one he had always nagged you about, and the top that clung damply to your torso. He looked spent, with dark circles under his eyes and the distinct smell of ink and gunpowder clinging to him. The stubble on his face stood out more prominently against his tired features.

"I didn't think you'd come home.” Unusually, he started to balance on one foot while his hair was too long in the back—he needed it cut badly. You know he looks in the mirror and sees a Kpop star but you look at him and see a vagrant out of a Woody Guthrie song—dust in the wind.

What Jeong didn't say was, "Why didn’t you come in earlier?" Or, "Why do you look so hurt?"

As Honda had pointed out on more than one occasion, Jin-Man had what was surely among the rarest of human talents: he was a business minder who did not mind too much if you didn't mind yours. As long as you weren't making explosives to throw at someone, that was, and in your case, explosives were always a possibility. 

You shrugged off his remark; the tension between you two is still palpable. "I'm not here for you, Jin-Man," you replied, your gaze hardening. "I'm here for Ji-An."

Stepping past him, you entered the house, your gaze scanning the familiar surroundings—a mix of vintage and modern decor. Everything was just as you remembered it; the mahogany coffee table with its assortment of vintage car magazines, the worn-out, leather Chesterfield couch that bore the imprints of countless lazy afternoons, and the rustic brick fireplace that still smelled faintly of burnt cedar—the same furniture, the same arrangement, the same scents.

As you moved further into the house, a familiar sound reached your ears: the quiet jingling of a collar. Turning around, you saw Gunpowder padding towards you, her amber eyes glowing.

"G-Pow," you called, crouching down to her level, your hand reaching out to her.

The moment stretched uneasily as she mulled over your extended hand and her new master, standing a distance away. “Betrayal alert: Hostile territory,” seemed to be the message running through her kitty brain.

Just when you were about to etch another loss, Gunpowder decided otherwise; tail held in festive high, she padded towards you, meowing a soft welcome.

A chuckle rippled through you as your fingers slid behind her ears, playing briefly, "Missed all this mess, didn't you darling?”

Gunpowder meowed in response, her tail flicking playfully.

“My good girl.” You kissed her fur before she ran away to the couch.

Standing back up, you turned to face Jin-Man, your gaze hard but determined. "Is Ji-An asleep?"

He nodded, running a hand through his hair—a nervous habit you remembered well. "She's had a long day. But she'll be excited to see you in the morning."

"That's good," Bidding your drenched jacket and your hat goodbye onto the nearby coat rack, your eyes danced around the familiar kitchen layout till it landed on the kitchen counter, noticing the half-eaten sandwich and the glass of milk. "Eating habits are still the same, I see."

Jin-Man shrugged, his gaze avoiding yours. "Habit is a hard thing to break."

"You should try sometimes. It wouldn't kill you to have a proper meal."

His gaze finally met yours, a spark of defiance in his eyes. "I can take care of myself, Y/N."

You sighed, shaking your head slightly. "I know you can, Jin-Man. But taking care of yourself doesn't mean you have to do everything alone."

He didn't reply, his gaze dropping to the floor. You could almost see the wheels turning in his head; his mind was probably grappling with the fact that you were back in the house after months of absence.

Deciding to break the silence, you moved towards the kitchen, opening the fridge and scanning the contents. "I'll make dinner. It's about time we had a decent meal. And while I do that, could you fetch me some dry clothes? I'd prefer the black shirt with the Nirvana logo if it's still around.”

He sighed, closing the fridge door abruptly. “Stop it,” he demanded, his voice carrying that note that you hated so much. The note of a boss talking with his partner. “Stop thinking about me and go take a shower. You’re freezing, and no shirt, Nirvana or not, is going to help with that.”

"Okay, okay, bossy much?" You rolled your eyes as you moved past him, heading towards the doorway. "By the way, I'm not freezing. I'm just a little wet."

With a sense of nostalgia, you began to tread softly down the hallway, the familiar creak of the wooden floorboards echoing in your ears.

Gliding past Ji-An's room, you lightly pressed the door ajar. Bathed in the subdued glow of her nightlight was a picture-perfect scene—a tiny human swaddled in warmth, clutching onto her fluffy bunny with all the ferocity her little fists could offer. 

With feather-light steps, you ventured further in, pressing a gentle kiss on her forehead as whispers of "Goodnight, Noona" danced around your heartstrings.

Clutching your top hem, your mind began to drift back to the past as you continued down the hallway. The memories of nights you spent in this house were like a movie playing in your mind: the arguments filled with passion, the shared meals around the worn-out dining table, and the shared silence that spoke more than words ever could.

After Honda’s death, you hadn't wanted the slice of cheesecake he would bring home from the restaurant for dessert, and you certainly hadn't wanted to go to any Hollywood movie... but you had wanted all those things with Jin-Man. Yes. Because over the last couple of months, and especially over the last months, you’ve come to depend on him in a funny way. Maybe it's corny— probably—but there's a feeling of safety when he puts his arms around you that wasn't there with any of her other guys; what you felt with and for most of them was either impatience or wariness. (Sometimes fleeting lust.) 

But there is kindness in Jeong (hidden between the rusty corners and dark basement of his heart, but, yes, there was), and from the first you felt interest coming from him— interest in you—that you could hardly believe, because he's so much smarter and so talented. And he speaks a language you grasped greedily from the beginning. Not the signing language, but one you know very well, just the same—it's as if you were speaking it in dreams.

But what good is talk and a special language if there's no one to talk to? Someone to cry to, even? That's what you needed tonight. You’d never told him about your crazy fucked-up family or your past before him—oh, pardon me, that's crazy smucked-up talk in Honda's speech—but you meant to tonight. Felt you had to or explode from pure misery. 

Walking into the bathroom, its altered landscape consumed your attention. Pristine countertop occupied by practical necessities: a single toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, and straight razor aesthetically laying on top screamed 'functional' compared to it once being decorated chaotically with personal effects nestled among skincare bottles alongside makeup and a carelessly thrown hairbrush—an exquisite mosaic of a life once lived.

Stepping into the shower, the hot water cascaded down your body, washing away the grit and grime of the day. Still, no water could stop you from remembering the last time you were in this shower—the last time you were in this bathroom.

"Can I join you?" Jin-Man's voice had echoed off the bathroom tiles, the door creaking open slightly.

Looking back, you found him leaning against the door frame, sleep-ruffled hair visible over the frosted shower barrier—a low-hung towel only embellishing his irresistible nonchalance.

“If you promise not to fuck me against the tiles again, sure, why not?”

“Alright, alright,” he had chuckled, opening the shower door and stepping in. The water immediately started soaking his hair, the droplets trickling down his face and chest. “I promise, no fooling around.”

You had laughed then, tilting your head back to rinse the shampoo from your hair. “Good. Because I need to get ready, and I don’t have time for your… shenanigans.”

Jin-Man simply smiled at that, his hands reaching out to help rinse your hair. His fingers were gentle as they massaged your scalp, working through the tangles. “I’ll behave. Scout's honor.”

“You were never a scout,” you pointed out, rolling your eyes at his antics but not being able to suppress the smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth.

"But I could have been. Imagine how good I would have looked in the uniform."

You laughed at that, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls. "Yeah, right. You would have been the rebel scout. I can just see you now, trying to start a fire with a pocket knife and a piece of flint, and ‘accidentally’ burning down the entire camp because some weird boy thought it was funny to pull on my pigtails."

"Probably," he agreed. His hands moved to your shoulders, kneading the tense muscles there. "But I bet I would have been the best at telling ghost stories around the campfire."

"That's true. You do have a knack for dramatic storytelling. You could have scared all the other scouts half to death."

His hands stilled on your shoulders, and he pulled you closer, his chest pressing against your back. "I only scare people because I care," he murmured in your ear, his breath warming against your skin.

"Is that so?" You turned to face him, a soft smile on your lips, and you reached up to trace the line of his jaw. "Well, in that case, I guess I should be grateful."

"You should be. Now, let's get you rinsed off. We wouldn't want you to be late, now, would we?"

"No, we wouldn't.”

As you stepped out of the shower, you reached for the towel hanging on the rack.

Dressed in the Nirvana shirt and a pair of his boxers, you padded back into the kitchen, finding Jin-Man leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in his hands. He looked up as you entered, his eyes automatically dropping to take in your attire. He said nothing, but you could see the flicker of something in his gaze—the ghost of a memory, perhaps.

His other friends saw his talent and were dazzled by it at first. You saw how he sometimes struggled to meet the eyes of strangers. You understood that, underneath all his smart (and sometimes brilliant) talk, in spite of his stern expressions, you could hurt him badly if you wanted to. He was, in your dad's words, cruising for a bruising. Had been his whole charmed smucking—no, check that—his whole charmed fucking life. Tonight, the charm could break. And who could break it? You could.

Any tension laying dormant was pushed aside as you reached into the refrigerator, selecting ingredients for tonight's culinary endeavor: crisp bok choy leaves, thick udon strands slightly sticky to touch, and leftover samgyeopsal marinated with sesame oil, which filled the air with a slightly charred meaty smell while cooking yesterday. The symphony of chopped vegetables thudding on a wooden cutting board, accompanied by a sizzling pan flanked by the soft purring of the refrigerator, announced another evening feast showtime.

Finally, you couldn't take it anymore.

“Stop staring and say something, Jin-Man.”

He blinked, his gaze lifting from the coffee mug in his hands to meet yours. “You look…”

“Don’t say it.”

“Okay.”

You let out a sigh of relief, turning back to the stove.

“I wasn’t going to say you look good.”

“No?”

"Nope," he said, maintaining eye contact while parking his well-loved first edition Penguin mug with a soft thud. "You've got this 'This is my kitchen' glow about you—no make-up, tousled midnight hair against your cheeks, and my shirt on your body... You look like you belong at home, in this kitchen, with me."

“Oh, shut up, Jinman. Are you sure that coffee isn't spiked? That cheap bag of Dong Suh you've been hoarding since you bought it from that old market in Gyeongju?"

He laughed then, a deep, rich sound that echoed warmly around the room, bouncing off the peeling sunflower-yellow wallpaper and the worn-out, wooden cabinets. "I promise, it's just regular coffee. But if you're not careful, I might start spouting poetry next.”

"I'd like to see you try," you challenged as you moved to add the noodles to the boiling pot.

At the same time, however, a soft melody began to fill the room. Turning, you saw Jinman’s back turned towards you. He was hunched over an old radio placed precariously on the window ledge over the sink—an old Philco with a cracked case. It had been his mother’s; he kept it out in the barn and listened to it while he was choring. It's the only thing of hers that he still has, and you keep it in the window because it's the only place where it will pick up local stations. It was secondhand even then, when Jin-Man gifted it to her after earning his first paycheck, but when it was unwrapped and she saw what it was, she grinned until it seemed her face would crack and how she thanked him! Over and over!

The tinny sound of the old device was playing a song that you recognized immediately—it was your mother's favorite song. A smile tugged at your lips as you watched him, his fingers delicately turning the knobs to get the best reception.

At the end, he cocked a thumb at the radio and said, stupidly proud of his useless knowledge, "That's Busker Busker. The original indie version."

"Jeong…I—”

You had no idea where to go from there, and it seemed there was no need. The man raised the forefinger of his left hand like a teacher who meant to make a particularly important point, and the smile actually resurfaced on his lips. Some sort of smile, anyway.

"Wait," he said.

"Wait?"

He looked pleased, as if you had grasped a difficult concept. "Wait."

And before you could say anything else, he simply walked off behind you, turning off the stove before his hands found your waist. His warm body pressed against your back, his head burying itself in the crook of your neck.

The aroma of your cooking, mixed with the familiar scent of Jin-Man and the sound of the old song playing on the radio, transported you back to simpler times. Times when life was not about surviving, not about fighting, but about living. About enjoying moments like these.

He began to sway, his movements leading you in a slow dance around the kitchen. His touch was gentle yet firm and you allowed him to lead, your body moving in rhythm with his as you danced barefoot on the cold ceramic tile floor.

Beyond the rustic kitchen windows, Mother Nature cooed her own ballad—soft chirps cushioned in cool country air under the moon's watchful eyes, dressing everything in stretched-out shadows—that played on repeat. Gunpowder was outside too busy bullying a moth under a moon-bathed silhouette, while Ji-An’s gentle snores added a comforting motif to your nighttime symphony.

It felt like you were in some sort of dream, the reality of your world forgotten for a moment. You were not a killer, not a fighter. You were just a woman, dancing in the kitchen with the man she secretly might like.

Turning you around, he looked down at you, his gaze soft and filled with emotions you could not decipher. Your heart pounded in your chest as you looked up at him through your eyelashes, your fingers idly playing with the hem of his worn-out puma shirt.

The world outside did not matter at this moment. The only thing that mattered was Jin-Man and the way he held you, the way he looked at you. You could see a mirror of your own emotions in his eyes—longing, fear, and a hint of sadness.

As the last note of the song played, you rose to your tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. It was filled with promise, with hope—a kiss that said more than words ever could.

As you pulled away, you rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close as the two of you stood in the middle of the kitchen, the smell of your cooking still lingering in the air.

"Welcome home, Y/N," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the soft hum of the radio.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you belonged.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved on our archive

by Eric W. Dolan

A new study published in Scientific Reports sheds light on long-term neurological consequences of COVID-19. Researchers found that individuals who had anosmia (the loss of smell) during COVID-19 showed alterations in brain functionality and even physical structure during recovery. This study is among the first to link COVID-19-related loss of smell to significant brain changes.

COVID-19, caused by the SARS-CoV-2 virus, has been primarily known for its impact on the respiratory system. However, over time, many patients, even those with mild cases, reported cognitive issues such as memory problems, confusion, and difficulties with concentration, which raised concerns about the virus’s effects on the brain. Neurological symptoms like headaches, brain fog, and loss of smell emerged as common issues for COVID-19 survivors.

Anosmia, the loss of smell, became one of the earliest and most recognizable symptoms of COVID-19, often occurring suddenly. While most patients recovered their sense of smell after a few weeks, some experienced longer-lasting olfactory dysfunctions. Previous research also suggested that loss of smell could signal broader neurological involvement in diseases like Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s. Given the commonality of anosmia in COVID-19 and its potential implications for brain health, the researchers sought to explore whether loss of smell during COVID-19 was associated with any measurable brain changes in recovering patients.

“Our laboratory studies the neurobiological mechanisms underlying complex social behavior and decision-making. During the pandemic, it was very challenging to halt our experimental activities due to health restrictions,” said study author Pablo Billeke of the Center for Research in Social Complexity at the University for Development in Chile.

“In this context and given the early reports of neurological symptoms in patients affected by COVID-19, we wanted to contribute from our unique perspective to understanding the potential damage caused by SARS-CoV-2 infection in the central nervous system. This led us to initiate this study, in which we evaluated recovered COVID-19 patients using structural and functional magnetic resonance imaging while they performed decision-making and cognitive control tasks, as well as tracking their evolution with electroencephalography.”

To investigate these possible brain changes, the research team recruited 100 adults in Santiago, Chile, who had recovered from respiratory infections between February 2020 and May 2023. The final sample included 73 participants who had confirmed cases of COVID-19 (the remaining participants had respiratory infections caused by other agents, as confirmed by multiple negative PCR tests). The team used a combination of tests and brain scans across two sessions to assess these participants’ brain function and structure.

The participants ranged in age from 19 to 65, and none had severe cases of COVID-19 that required ventilators or intensive care. The study specifically excluded anyone with neuropsychiatric disorders or severe brain injuries, ensuring that the observed effects could be linked to their infection rather than prior conditions.

In behavioral tests, participants with a history of anosmia displayed more impulsive decision-making compared to those who did not lose their sense of smell. These individuals tended to change their choices more rapidly after receiving negative feedback, particularly in tasks requiring them to learn and adapt to changing probabilities of rewards. While this impulsivity led to higher earnings in decision-making tasks that involved rapidly shifting conditions, it also highlighted an alteration in how their brains processed rewards and risks.

Functionally, patients with a history of anosmia showed decreased brain activity during decision-making tasks in regions associated with evaluating choices, including the lateral prefrontal cortex and temporoparietal regions.

On the structural side, brain scans showed thinning in specific regions of the brain in participants with a history of anosmia. Most notably, these changes were observed in the parietal areas of the brain, which are responsible for processing sensory information and managing spatial awareness. The thinning in these areas could indicate long-term structural changes in the brain caused by the virus in individuals who experienced loss of smell.

Additionally, these participants exhibited decreased white matter integrity, particularly in white matter tracts that connect important brain regions. White matter plays a crucial role in facilitating communication between different parts of the brain, and disruptions in these connections could lead to a range of cognitive impairments.

“In the current context, where we know that a significant percentage of the population has contracted COVID-19 at some point, it is crucial to identify the factors that may make certain individuals more susceptible to developing brain alterations after infection,” Billeke told PsyPost. “Our study found that individuals who lost their sense of smell during the acute infection exhibited detectable changes in brain structure and showed a particular pattern in decision-making tasks involving learning.”

“Specifically, they made more impulsive decisions when the environmental context changed. While this may not necessarily have long-term consequences, it could serve as an early marker to monitor individuals who experienced loss of smell, helping to determine whether they are more susceptible to developing neurodegenerative alterations. This is particularly relevant when other risk factors, such as cardiovascular diseases, diabetes, and genetic predisposition, are present, all of which are linked to the development of neurodegenerative diseases.”

Interestingly, these brain changes were less pronounced in patients with more severe respiratory symptoms, such as those requiring hospitalization, suggesting that anosmia might be a more reliable indicator of neurological involvement than respiratory symptom severity.

“What surprised us the most was how consistent the findings were in patients with anosmia compared to other patients, regardless of the severity of their respiratory symptoms,” Billeke said. “These individuals exhibited detectable alterations at the behavioral level and in brain function and structure, affecting white matter and gray matter.”

While the study provides valuable insights, it has limitations. First, it relied on self-reported symptoms of anosmia and used the KOR test, a validated screening tool for olfactory deficits associated with COVID-19, to confirm the presence of olfactory dysfunction. More objective and comprehensive clinical assessments would provide stronger evidence.

Additionally, the study lacked baseline brain scans from before the participants contracted COVID-19. This makes “it difficult to establish a direct causal relationship between the infection and our findings,” Billeke explained. “However, when considered alongside the current body of evidence from other studies that have used databases or tracked individuals for different reasons, we can determine that the virus does indeed cause alterations at the neural level.”

“Thus, the correlations we found can be viewed in existing literature as potential evidence of a causal link between the virus and the observed effects. However, the exact mechanism by which the virus produces this damage at the brain level is still under investigation.”

Looking ahead, the researchers plan to follow up with these participants over time to see if the observed brain changes persist or if they affect daily life. They also aim to explore potential therapies, such as brain stimulation techniques, to help those experiencing lingering cognitive and neurological effects after COVID-19.

“We aim to identify the oscillatory patterns related to these alterations, which is the focus of our ongoing electroencephalography (EEG) studies,” Billeke said. “The data are currently being analyzed. By identifying these altered oscillatory patterns, we hope to develop brain stimulation therapies that could help alleviate these symptoms, such as transcranial electrical or magnetic stimulation.”

“I would like to extend my gratitude to all the participants who voluntarily came to the study for all their sessions and to all the researchers who worked tirelessly, especially during the most challenging times of the pandemic lockdown,” Billeke added.

The study: “Patients recovering from COVID-19 who presented with anosmia during their acute episode have behavioral, functional, and structural brain alterations,” was authored by Leonie Kausel, Alejandra Figueroa-Vargas, Francisco Zamorano, Ximena Stecher, Mauricio Aspé-Sánchez, Patricio Carvajal-Paredes, Victor Márquez-Rodríguez, María Paz Martínez-Molina, Claudio Román, Patricio Soto-Fernández, Gabriela Valdebenito-Oyarzo, Carla Manterola, Reinaldo Uribe-San-Martín, Claudio Silva, Rodrigo Henríquez-Ch, Francisco Aboitiz, Rafael Polania, Pamela Guevara, Paula Muñoz-Venturelli, Patricia Soto-Icaza, and Pablo Billeke. www.nature.com/articles/s41598-024-69772-y

[y-rhywbeth2]

Elven 'Physiology' and Quirks

Link: Disclaimer regarding D&D "canon" & Index[tldr: D&D lore is a giant conflicting mess. Larian's lore is also a conflicting mess. There's a lot of lore; I don't know everything. You learn to take what you want and leave the rest]

Physiology and quirks | Names | Clans and Houses | Pan-Cultural things | Elven 'Subraces' | Philosophy and Religion | Half-elves | [WIP]

In my continued desire to procrastinate on reading two novels and cross-referencing about three sourcebooks for drow culture, I met myself in the middle and did this instead.

Also I really need to rehaul some of the lore compilations...

Unlike elves of other worlds, the Tel'Quessir – except drow – are as tall as humans, but finer boned and typically narrower in build – except for aquatic elves. An elf weighs less than a human of the same build and height, which appears to be something to do with their bone density, as elven bones (especially winged elves’) are light (though ‘surprisingly sturdy’). Their fingertips taper, and their hands and fingers are longer than a humans… although I still think saying they’re 50% longer (palm and fingers) is a bit much.

Elves are noted for their androgyny, which goes both ways; there's not much difference in the skeletal structure and elven women are noted by humans for their narrow hips, which human women comment must make childbirth agonising in comparison.

Elves are also noted for their distinctive 'dance-like' motions while walking due to walking on their toes and the balls of their feet: 'Most seemed to have a lilt and swing, like dancers. Ah, that was it—none strode flat-footed; even the tallest and most hurried of the citizenry danced forward on their toes.' - Elminster in Myth Drannor

They don't grow much in the way of body hair - they appear hairless, with the only visible hair on their eyebrows and scalp. Elves unused to mixed company find non-elves disturbingly hirsute.

The shape of their facial features, regardless of ‘subrace,’ are as varied as humans. The only rules of thumb are about their eyes and ears:

Elven ears are always pointy – but can vary greatly in shape and length otherwise. They’re somewhat prehensile; elven children can move their ears, but generally this ability is lost with maturation. Maintaining it seems to be a genetic quirk. Whether the shape or whatever, elves have sharp hearing.

Elven eyes are larger in proportion to their face and spaced a little further apart than human eyes, slightly slanted in a manner that gives them a wider field of vision and more acute vision in general.

If you're using recent editions then elves can see in very low light conditions (able to see perfectly clearly by starlight alone). Drow can see in perfect darkness.

If you want to go by older editions you're looking at infravision: elves, like other beings that can 'see' in the darkness, were able to change their sight to the infrared spectrum, perceiving heat signatures. Drow vision was further ranged and more acute than surface elves'.

Elves aren't diurnal, and have no particular circadian rhythm, they just get four hours in whenever and communities are have a consistent level of full activity all day and night.

Drow are noted to have human-level olfactory senses compared to their cousins, implying that the elven sense of smell and taste is stronger too. Which might explain why older elves complain about the youth experimenting with non-elven cuisine and all the ‘over-spiced animal flesh and other abominable foods.’

Elves are biologically wired for music somehow, able to recall melodies flawlessly and engage in music theory , 'the elven faculty for music is uncanny in comparison to most other races,' which they credit to the divine influence of the Seldarine.

While this doesn't always come up in the rules, elves are immune to the paralytic effects of ghouls, due to an incident involving either Corellon Larethian or Lolth, and the ghoul deity Doresain, who in the version of his backstory given for the Realms was a green elf back in -11,200 DR whose recent ancestors were of the nation of Eiellûr and betrayed their people to the dark elven empire of Ilythiir. A rather brutal bastard and slaver who eventually killed and ate the raw flesh of the ruling family of the last surviving green elven nation of Southern Faerûn as part of a pact with the demon lord of the undead, Orcus for eternal life. When Doresain later fell in combat during one of the many skirmishes of the Crown Wars, Orcus brought him back as a unique undead horror and King of the Ghouls and Orcus’ proxy on Toril (so that Orcus could focus on important matters in the Abyss). Doresain eventually became trapped in the Abyss, trapped in service to Yeenoghu when Orcus ignored his pleas to save him (despite his ‘domain’ Orcus despises the undead). Most Torilian sages claim that Lolth intervened and freed him, bringing Doresain back to Toril in exchange for imbuing the drow with immunity to his children and swearing that ghouls would never attack them, which indirectly affected all elves (except for the ‘not attacking’). Others claim he prayed to the gods of his living years, the Seldarine, and they took pity on him in exchange for the same service.

The Seldarine are always depicted as genderfluid or agender – if depicted in art in humanoid form they are shown with two bodies as afab and amab, or possessing both characteristics in a single form. Occasionally a mortal elf is also born who takes after the gods; marked by their androgyny (by elven standards) and the ability to alter their sex characteristics at will, these elves are considered blessed by Corellon and closer to the gods by many elven cultures. They haven’t been given an official word, but the elven word for ‘Blessings of Corellon’ on Toril is ‘Cormiira.’ According to the most popular take on the elven creation myth, the People are born of Corellon’s blood (and possibly Sehanine’s tears as she wept at seeing him gravely wounded), which many elves attribute this as evidence for. The Tel’Quessir do have several other creation myths however.

Elves have an innate connection to the Weave, which is why they're 'the wizard race' and something to do with their connection to the world. Elves are more likely to have the innate ability required to become arcane spellcasters, and some say the Weave is what gives them their lifespans.

Going into purely non-published realmslore from word of god:

The elven gestation period takes two years (this I’m pretty sure is in published DnD somewhere?) Elves tend to avoid being pregnant unless they actively want to and have generally mastered the art of not being pregnant, the threat of being side-lined by shorter lived peoples who have more children and faster be buggered.

The elven diet primarily consists of raw plant matter and fish. The elven digestive system can handle vegetation that others’ cant. They can eat meat, and many do – especially those who grow up around humans, who have developed a tolerance that makes it easier for them to digest – but it’s not a ‘natural’ part of their diet nor does it play a large role. Apparently drinking small quantities animal blood is a reasonably common enough way to consume land animals (I’m not clear on whether this is in the form of soups or beverages).

Elves are severely allergic to cannabis and can't use it, though they have found unspecified alternatives.

While getting it is unpleasant, they are only inconvenienced by bubonic plague and its not considered a dangerous disease.

Elves also draw energy from the sunlight, which bolsters their metabolism, allowing them to eat less and possibly playing a part in their ability to digest previously mentioned plant matter. Access to fresh water (not just drinking it) also plays a part in their overall health. Somehow. Dark elves in the Underdark have adapted over the centuries (or maybe from the High Magic ritual that binds them to it) to draw from the faerzress radiation.

Elven vocal chords can reach pitches higher than humans can reach, and there's a gene that can allow the elf to produce two notes at the same time, which with training allows them to sort-of say two things at once (a 'ghost' vocalisation beneath the spoken words). This is described as 'genetic but not racial' so I assume it can pass to half-elves and any non-elven descendants through them.

---

Reverie/'Eedqa':

Elves do not sleep, unless something has gone wrong (injury, illness, exhaustion). They also can’t be forced to sleep, and are immune to magic that would do so (but not to being whacked over the back of the head and knocked out with something heavy).

- Elves enter a state called the Reverie (or just reverie) in Common, and ‘eedqa’ in Elven. The elf finds a quiet place to relax, gradually tuning out the world and slipping into a trance-like state where they re-experience their lived memories, occasionally interspersed with memories from past lives and visions from the gods – which will be vague and puzzling and probably require a priest to decode, the Lady of Mysteries did not earn that nickname for nothing. - They are somewhat aware of their surroundings in reverie, but pulling themselves back out of their mind is disorienting and waking early is extremely disorienting, much like waking any sleeping individual. Physically, they are immobile, not necessarily lying in a normal sleeping position (sitting or reclining is the norm), their breathing slows into a torpor and their eyes remain open and unfocused, which has occasionally caused panic in acquaintances who’ve never witnessed reverie before and think the elf has died (elves in turn are known to find the 'heaviness' of sleep disturbing to behold).

The only elves who deliberately sleep are priests of Sehanine Moonbow, who occasionally enter the deeper state of unconsciousness to communicate with their goddess, and the majority of drow (whose struggles to achieve reverie have been credited to the Underdark 'fragmenting' their natural instincts, and their inability to relax enough to enter the state).

Elves experience their first reverie in the womb, as pregnancy forges a temporary Rapport between parent and developing foetus where the offspring experiences the parent’s life and learns of their family and culture through them (how much the child can learn varies by parent; quality of education not guaranteed). Young children, lacking experiences of their own, are more likely to experience memories of previous lives unless they share in the reveries of other elves. The occurrence of the first ‘current life’ reverie is a life milestone and typically marks the end of childhood.

It’s very taboo amongst elves to interrupt another elf’s reverie.

-

Communion and Aleirin:

'Elves who lived even in reasonably close contact were so connected to each other through the Reverie and the Weave that they shared at least some shadow of each other’s emotional experiences.'

Elves have something of telepathic abilities, such as the ability to sense their own kind, a ‘sense of welcome,’ ‘warmth’ and ‘safety,’ although this can be obscured. This extends to the ability to enter each others minds and share thoughts, emotions and memory. Although that’s not to say that elves are living in each others heads, nor that they can (or are willing to) do it simply or constantly.

The state of ‘mind melding’ is communion, which is accomplished by sharing reverie while in physical contact (holding hands or pressing palms together, usually). The elven term for communion is apparently quor, however I can’t say for certain that applies to this mystical variety. Communing is credited with the sense of community elves experience, is an important part of elven religion, and they’re noted to anticipate sharing themselves with loved ones and struggle to understand non-elves due to their lack of ability to do so. However, it’s not a state entered into casually, as it requires deep trust and a willingness to be vulnerable with your entire being – you are exposing your every emotion and memory to another. Preparation may take weeks of mundane communication as the elves do away with any prejudices and air concerns to be resolved beforehand. It’s also physically and emotionally draining, and while in communal reverie the elves are entirely unaware of anything but each other and are vulnerable to surrounding hazards. Up to four elves may participate at once.

This awareness of each other lends elves an understanding that allows them to predict each others moods and actions acutely, and aids them to work in sync or borrow one anothers skills for a time (for example an elf who doesn’t know how to speak a certain language may temporarily ‘know’ after borrowing the knowledge from another elf.) Extended use of communion may cause loss of individuality however, as the elves begin to blend into each other.

Elves who isolate themselves from their people - whether this is by their own bitterness, malice, scheming, etc, or if the source is due to external magical affects like the Shadow Weave digging out these emotions (which; Shar, that’s what she does) - lose the ability to reverie and the ability to commune with it. Other elves cannot sense them, describing them as feeling ‘asleep.’

Drow may or may not be capable. They are capable of reverie, which would indicate that they can, they just don't know they can, or plain don't (Lolth would firmly discourage it with torture and death regardless).

Some elves, when they trust each other implicitly, may chose to make the link more permanent – a communion that never ends, in a form called Rapport or aleirin, or aleiryid if the nature of their relationship is romantic. The bonding is permanent, and can usually only be made a single time. Those born of multiple births like twins have rapport with their siblings, but outside of this it’s still uncommon for an elf to make this level of commitment and most are happier with normal, less co-dependent relationships (especially because, if you want to bring in the Complete Book of Elves, the shock of one partner dying can kill the other). A rapport can be made with non-elves, a ranger could even choose to establish one with their animal companion, but such bonds are so rare as to be practically unheard of.

The ability to commune has been attributed to a gland in the elven brain, which produces a magic that veils their minds. At rest it forms a shield that isolates them (and some scholars believe this is where the elven resistance to enchantment magic comes from), but they can lift it or expand it to bring other elven minds in.

The elven resistance to enchantment spells has also been credited to elven culture itself, since magic saturates their world so heavily elves grow up exposed to a constant background radiation of enchantment magic, for lack of a better word, and build up a tolerance. Others have said it’s the elves fey ancestry.

--

Souls/'Ues':

Like most sapient beings who are not humans – or mostly/half-human (excluding half-orcs) dwarves, gnomes or halflings – elven souls, ‘ues’ in elven, are somewhat different to the norm. sometimes differentiated in lore by calling them ‘spirits,’ and do not stay permanently in the afterlife, instead residing in the outer planes for a time (varying from days to millennia) before reincarnating back on the Prime Material Plane. While 5e claims drow are locked out of the cycle, the original lore included drow, and suggested that elves who decide to be evil little bastards in life and bar themselves from Arvandor will find themselves reincarnated as drow (vice versa: a drow who rejects Lolth is unlikely to find themselves reborn in her clutches).

(Elves do not have access to DnD sourcebooks and do not have any concrete idea of this kind of thing, so elven religion and philosophy varies heavily and may or may not reflect these things. Some elves don’t even believe in reincarnation.)

Another traditional side effect was that raise dead didn’t work on elves, only resurrection. Space was made for DMs to hand-waive this if it was getting in the way (because it makes elves expensive to have in the party), and the rule seems to have been officially side-lined for convenience by this point.

--

Ageing:

How elves age has varied by edition and writer. Sometimes they're human aging, sometimes a bit slower, sometimes much, much slower.

In most sources, including 5e core, an elf matures at the same rate, physically and psychologically, as a human, later developing into elven psychological stages as the centuries pass and they outlive the human experience.

It's also been said that Torilian elves are physically mature at 25.

In older editions, including realms sources, elves could age slower, taking between 30-60 years to hit puberty (which lasts another 50-85 years). Psychologically, non-elves are known to find elven youths to be rather mature for their age (due to longer lives and communing with the adults in their lives), though they’re still inexperienced by elven standards and hormonal. Elven children are left to pursue their ever shifting curiosity, instincts and impulses which means they generally don’t master any skills and end up about level with any other race by early adulthood. Drow have the fastest rates of maturation, Gold elves the slowest. Wheras in humans afab are known to hit puberty first on average, elves mature at the same average speed regardless.

Elves also have a mystical land-connection thing and are noted to be shaped by their environments, and it has been said of the latter version of ageing that elves may mature faster outside of the slow pace of elven cultures, particularly in dangerous and stressful situations where they need to grow fast.

Bizarrely, and I’m assuming this is a typo, it seems that the process of elven puberty is a bit like getting steroids because they get strength and dexterity bonuses. Or maybe elven teens are just stronger and more agile than their human counterparts, which is probably more likely if it isn't a typo.

[soekmatthew]

Proposing a reform on Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics!

An essay on why we should reformulate the often misguided interpretations on each secondary gender.

In this essay I will debate the absence of personality often assigned to Beta's secondary gender, the inherent nature of violence that shouldn't exclusively be attributed to Alphas, and how deeply we can explore the aspects of Omega's biology in fiction, furthering its visions from the deep rotted misogyny implicated in these matters.

(remember this is a joke, you can create your ficverse and works however you'd like)

1.0 THE BETA ISSUE

The beta role in an a/b/o society is pushed towards the sense of "normality", betas normally aren't that phased by their nature. This is fitting, although the lack of complexity deposited onto its concepts led a creator to create variations of betas that aren't really necessary.

I propose that betas have pheromones that emit a scent genetically structured to be smelled by a specific type of group, regardless of their secondary gender, people who are able to scent betas pheromones have a variation in their olfactory-receptor genes and allow them to strongly perceive their scents. (this happens irl, with cilantro tasting like soap or some people being able to smell cockroaches)

It would solve the beta complex and wouldn't necessarily affect the whole structural alpha/omega naturally based relationship.

2.0 THE ALPHA MATTER

It is easy to antagonize alphas, and I do believe it is crucial for it to be antagonized, given how the discourse towards alpha aggression can create well built debates approximated to human reality. But it also can spice up some debates on a lot of more interesting matters other than hierarchy and dominance.

"Soft-alphas" was a term designed to fit in the alphas that are able to somehow "contain" their inner wolf, on contrary to "normal alphas" that are aggressive and excessively dominant.

Of course, as fun as it is to explore this concept, it's not necessary to give them this title, it thins the discussions that can be made upon this type of characteristics on alphas.

It is easy to explore the topics around an alpha considered "defective", and give them the capacity to have more and more deepness, an alpha who doesn't feel protective despite their love towards their omegas and needs to learn how to stimulate its natural instincts, an alpha who was forced to submit and therefore had their alpha contained to a point it needs healing and an exercise in dominance!! Fun aspects of an inverted container of the morality based alpha corrections often seen around the fic community.

I propose more and more diversity and complexity around alphas, seeing them fight their instincts is fun, but it would also be fun to see them fight for their need to have the same instincts that antagonizes them.

3.0 THE OMEGA DEBATE

There is a lot of discourse around omegas, especially when people simplify them as "the woman of a/b/o society".

Although understandably fitting for the time it was developed, it is still a conception most people have and has grown outdated.

It also created a movement to fight against this idea, that has empowered omegas, but the lack of consistency fails to impress. For example, in this case, it doesn't matter how much of a rebel omega the character is, they will still "fail" their morals and submit to an alpha.

I know you guys can do better!

What is better than an inner monologue on why your nature is failing your mundane conceptions? Better than that what's more revolutionary than being able to mend your instincts and ideas?

The nature of an omega is vast and instinctually more prone to aggression than most alphas! Omegas protect and go feral over their offsprings! Explore it more!

And make omegas also be proud of their nature, instead of simply making them disgusted by it without backgrounding their stories! (i mean, if they have traumas associated with their secondary genders it is obvious and expected for them to hate it).

Omegas can be hard creatures to deal with, omegas can reject their offsprings scent for example, give them hardships dudes! It will be fun!

A/B/O is fun, and I LOVE TRADITIONAL A/B/O SO MUCH! but we can do more justice at least to betas :3

(this is literally a joke in case someone hates me for it)

[thorougly-melted-brains]

Ghost, undead as he is, does not have the best nervous system. Some of its scarring. Where flesh was marred before his miraculous transformation. After, times when wounds were somehow too deep to mend.

Science knew little about his type, but the few medics he’s talked to suggested it was some kind of automatic preventative for cancer. Like his body knew when regeneration was too risky, and hit a kill switch.

Additionally to severed nerves, his olfactory system failed. Might’ve been his smoking habit (which he only quit because the maggots would start chewing his lung). Might’ve been whatever chemical nightmares he ingested in his time There.

He can barely taste or smell. He knows the zombie stereotype, but he doesn’t have a nose for blood. Some days he can barely smell the canteen coffee, which is frankly a blessing.

One perk, however, is his hearing. The sensory deprivation of the coffin turned out to be paradaise to the hell of the next few months. Clinking machinery, sputtering engines, gasping breaths. Everything ground at his frail sanity.

He learned to deal with it, like always. The adjustment wasn’t pleasant, even by his low standards.

After years of exposure therapy (and some good old fashioned hearing damage) he encountered a new challenge: One John Soap Mactavish, and his tell tale heart.

Soap’s heart isn’t all that different from any others. It isn’t louder. It isn’t calmer. faltered the normal amount that frail human organs did. It’s perfectly average.

It’s something about Soap, that makes the animal, craving part of Ghost perk its ears. He could recognize Soap’s pulse in an airport, in a storm.

Another change after his reanimation was temperature. Ghost had always run warm before, but after he turned frigid. He took to layering. He isn’t sure if cold could kill him, but it slows him down. Like a reptile, he might just hibernate if that happened.

Now Soap, he’s warm, and his blood runs the same. It’s what he is, a furnace made of flesh and bone. Ghost ignores how his collar glows softly in low light; how the thin skin of his eyelids burns orange against stark veins.

Ghost just has to pretend he can’t hear him, can’t feel the warmth leaching from him like a sun.

What could he say?

“‘scuse me mate, I’d carry your beating heart in my mouth if you let me.”

“Sorry, I’d like a bite of you in my stomach just to keep.”

“Swear I don’t want to eat your flesh, not for nutrition. I’m just fucked in the head.”

Even by cannibalistic standards, it would be poor form.

So he sits, and focuses on his stiff scars and burnt nose and cold fingers.

[mist-touchedxiv]

Thanks to @aislingsurrow for the tag! Makes me feel welcome! 🥰

I'll nominate @iona-xiv , @elypiphoros, @chadhunkler, @kaddiekait and @but-first--tea

Basics

Name: Loksen Tyr

Nicknames: Loki

Age: 75+

Nameday: 15th Sun Second Astral Moon (March 15th, I think that's right)

Race: Veena Viera

Gender: Male

Orientation: Heterosexual (includes transwomen as long as he likes their scent)

Profession: Drifter and adventurer. Will do odd jobs for gil.

Physical Aspects

Hair: Wild, long and thick black with unusual blue streaks. Wears a few braids with feathers entwined in them in the Wood-warder tradition. Almost has a mullet as he keeps the front shorter. Will sometimes pull it into a loose bun.

Eyes: Deep crystalline blue. Like shards of Hydaelyn Herself.

Skin: Pale olive complexion mostly free of imperfections

Tattoos/Scars: Fingertips heavily calloused and scarred from years of archery practice. Branding scar on the back of his neck to show that he was a Garlean prisoner. Has a rather long thin scar on his right side that goes from front to back. Very low-key blue tattoo over his left eye applied by a friend.

Family

Parents: As normal for Viera, Loksen barely knew his father; meeting him only a few times in passing. But, he was a good man who would bring gifts to his mother and him when he visited periodically. Loksen mainly remembers that his mother would smile and laugh more when he came to visit and the general mood was raised around him.

Mother: Freja Grimholt, a shaman. Well-respected member of his village who would often offer guidance to others. A spiritual leader, she instilled in him a sense of wonder and a quiet respect for the Mist. She also taught him to love Vieran poetry.

Siblings: A couple of younger sisters whom he only met a couple times when they were very young kits. He hasn't seen them since before the fall of Dalmasca. Sometimes wonder how they're doing, a melancholic thought as he doesn't know what happened to the Skatay Range after Garlemald invaded Othard.

Grandparents: Unknown, Loksen's mother came from a different clan and village.

In-laws and Other: Various aunts on his mother's side, some biological, some friends, a couple sometime lovers of his mother.

Pets: None, but loves companion animals.

Skills

Abilities: An extremely skilled archer, it was the weapon he chose when he became a Wood-warder. The grueling training of a Wood-warder demanded talent and ability in equal measure and over the decades has honed his skills even further. Loksen has been known to provide demonstrations of Vieran sharpshooting to Woodwailers and engage in friendly contests of skill with the Gods' Quiver when he's in Gridania.

Master survivalist. The life of a Wood-warder required the ability to live out in the wilderness alone and with little resources, those who failed to learn ultimately died. He can be put in nearly any hostile environment and find a way to not just live, but thrive.

Super Sniffer: Possesses a keen, near-animalistic sense of smell. It could even be argued that their olfactory sense holds a greater importance even than sight; where one is limited by obstructing trees, the other can sense information for up to several malms, if focused. This, combined with being naturally aetherially capable, allows a Viera to even smell and parse the aether around them. Along with this talent comes the ability to recognise other individuals based on their unique scent, as well as to glean details from their ambient pheromones; their sex, their vague emotional state, their receptivity to mating, and other such physical factors. Where one’s pheromones are more akin to an olfactory fact sheet (providing basic physical information), their individual scent is their fingerprint and facial features – a unique identifier and a source of attraction all in one. Of course, this can be a handicap around bad smells.

Keen Ears: Like all Viera, he possesses extraordinary hearing, which is also reputed to be aetherically attuned. Normally if he wants to protect his ears and wishes to be relatively inconspicuous, he'll pile his ears under a hat.

Master Swordsman: These days he prefers the blade as his weapon of choice. Introduced to the Doman warrior tradition by an old samurai he was imprisoned with, he proved to be a natural, especially in the art of iai and over the years have continue to further hone his skill.

Hobbies: Fishing. Mahjong. Vieran romance poetry. Whittling.

Traits

Most Positive Trait: Despite being reserved to the point of being mistaken for aloof, Loksen possesses a good heart and a desire to help when he can.

Most Negative Trait: Can come across as aloof and still struggles with some social skills due to the isolation of being a Wood-warder and the trauma of being imprisoned.

Likes

Colors: Blues, blacks and silver/gray.

Smells: The salt spray. Vanilla. Lavender and rose. Water. Wood. Pickled fish. Grilled meat. Apple.

Textures: Smooth wood. Cool scales. Soft grass to lay on. Warm skin.

Drinks: Tea. Viera aquavit and mead (hard to get). Sake. Pickling juice. 

Other Details

Smokes: Yes. Smokes tobacco from a kiseru to dull his sense of smell around bad scents.

Drinks: Partial to sake and other strong spirits. Carries a flask with him. Handles his alcohol well.

Drugs: Aside from some natural herbs, nope.

Mount Issuance: None

Been Arrested: Was imprisoned for several years for futilely resisting the Garlean invasion of Dalmasca. Performed hard labor in harsh conditions.