#onyx frontier

[spar-bunny]

Been doing some work on my Hexslinger concept and managed to whip up this design, not too sure how I feel about this but I'm sure I'll improve over time.

[silver-the-hedgeblog]

Possible Silver/Echidna/Ancient connections

In Sonic Chronicles The Dark Brotherhood there is another tribe of echidnas called the Nocturnus Clan. The Nocturnus Clan was incredibly technologically advanced and nearly conquered the world thousands of years ago before they were trapped in another dimension with powerful alien races by an entity called the Argus.

This game and the stuff in it is considered non-canon now due to legal issues that we are definitely not here to talk about but it was canon when it came out and different echidna tribes are referenced in Sonic Frontiers. The ancient portal technology in that game is also similar to the gear themed technology used by the Nocturnus Clan. So there's hope of Nocturnus or a rewritten version of them still being canon. Silver has many similarities to the Nocturnus clan and their creations.

Silver is visually similar to Imperator Ix, the leader of the Nocturnus Clan (Especially the cuffs which are similar to Silver's)

The patterns on Silver's gloves and cuffs are also similar to the ones in Nocturne and the Cyberspace Portals in Sonic Frontiers.

The convex patterns on Silver's cuffs can be found throughout Nocturne.

Silver's front quills have a similar structure to the head crests of the Gizoids created by the Nocturnus Clan.

The big quills on the back of Silver's head are similar to the tentacles that Chaos and The Ancients have on the back of their heads.

Silver's big quills seem to have blood vessels? He puts bandages on them in Sonic Channel artwork and gets blood stains on them in IDW. Maybe they are tentacles?

Sonic Team has foreshadowed connections with visual similarities before. In Shadow The Hedgehog before you find out that Shadow is part Black Arms you can see throughout the game that the Black Arms have red patterns like Shadow and in Sonic Unleashed before you find out that the Werehog is a portion of Dark Gaia you can see that Dark Gaia monsters have the same stretchy arms and attack patterns as the Werehog.

One of the alien races trapped in Twilight Cage with the Nocturnus Clan in Sonic Chronicles called the Voxai has psychic powers like Silver. They have the psychic ability to fly like Silver and control minds.

One of the leaders of the Voxai named Leucosia has the same colors as Silver's powers and patterns similar to Silver's PK Marks.

The only named place in Silver's (good) future that we've seen is Onyx Island in Sonic Rivals. Onyx Island is actually the future version of Angel Island which is the home of the Knuckles Clan, The Master Emerald and Sky Sanctuary. Sky Sanctuary also has advanced ancient technology and patterns similar to the ones on Silver's gear.

We don't know how connected to Onyx Island Silver is but it is the first place we see him after the reset in 06.

This could just be because of his powers but Silver is very upper body oriented. He never kicks like Sonic and Shadow do. Whenever Silver does get physical he always punches things which makes his fighting style more similar to Knuckles and the echidnas than his fellow hedgehogs.

Cyber Sonic's eyes are similar to the eyes Silver has in concept art.

[gutsby]

Cabin Fever

Pairing: Dark!Joel x Dark!Reader

Summary: Joel saves your life, but help comes at a price.

Warnings: 18+. DEAD DOVE: DNE. NONCONSENSUAL. I’m never ever beating the insane bitch allegations, I fear. Protector-turned-pervert-turned-unwilling-captor-kinda. Corruption kink. Daddy kink. Somnophilia. Misogyny. “It’s too big; it won’t fit” + Joel “I’ll make it fit” Miller. Captivity on both ends. Oral (f!receiving). Gunplay. Oversimplified first-time anal. Uno Reverse Drugging. Evil, inexperienced reader meets evil, feral, slutty Joel. Attempted murder x3. Russian Roulette…as foreplay?

Notes: Both characters SUCK. I condone nothing they do. Please do not take any of their behavior or language to reflect my own moral predilections. That is all 🚬😵‍💫

You were hardly shaking at all when he’d found you chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains.

He didn’t see that every day, that was for-fucking-sure.

Joel Miller barely got to see his share of happy, grinning girls on the cold and bitter frontier he inhabited. Ones that were tied to posts and clinging to life were even less common, so the sight of you there had almost frightened him at first. He’d approached you like one might advance upon a sleeping bear: with the utmost caution and a Winchester Model 70 levelled directly at your head.

He’d learned you were unarmed and defenseless in less than a second. He’d come to realize you were largely unconscious—and unclothed—even sooner than that.

He had been industrious in freeing your hands and feet from their restraints but never uttered a word as he did.

Even on the two-and-a-half mile trek back home, he hadn’t spoken once. You’d hung off his left shoulder like a pretty, frosted slab of meat, covered only with the sherpa blanket he’d secured around your neck, and dangled precariously down his back for the entire fifty minutes.

Your toes were two shades shy of onyx with frostbite.

Your limbs were hanging like lead over his chest.

A whisper of, ‘You’ll be fine, darlin’, I promise’ had just seemed ill-suited for the circumstances and his nature. In truth, Joel didn’t know if you’d be fine. You might die. The blood wouldn’t be on his hands one way or the other, but he never had liked burying bodies this time of year. He’d have to wait until April to break ground, at least.

Presently, he dropped your limp form to the floor of his cabin and hoped he wouldn’t be needing to bury anyone.

You sort of looked charming in the firelight.

He stomped off to the kitchen and began rifling for pans, preparing to defrost the icy stranger as best he could.

You didn’t die.

You didn’t wake for forty full hours, but you didn’t die.

When you stirred on the floor with warm sherpa around your shoulders and a rough calfskin rug under your ass, you thought you had died—maybe taken a pit stop in cowpoke purgatory while you were at it—but then you blinked. Breathed. Realized you were still very much inside your body and most likely still in Wyoming.

You sat up where you were and looked around.

“Da-a-d?”

You knew it was useless, calling for your father.

He had been dead almost eight months; you just wanted to double-check to make sure you were still on earth.

When dead dad didn’t answer, you tried someone else.

“Momma?”

Still no answer.

Figured, since she was among the ones that had left you chained outside in the first place. It’d been worth a shot.

You started to rise from your place, when a sharp pain in your side made you plop back down on the rug. You winced and lifted the blanket, then your old nightie.

A neat little taped-down bandage had your ribs encased in antiseptics and gauze. You frowned down at a stain in the centre, which looked to you an awful lot like blood. That circle of old fluids must’ve been twice the size of your fist and currently oozing tiny, fresh beads of blood from the strain you’d just exerted. You pursed your lips.

Least they could’ve done is kill me, not leave me here.

You’d take it up with your old would-be assassins another day, you were sure. Right now, you were parched, starving, in dire need of a piss, and reeling on the floor to grab hold of something sturdy to lift yourself. But you were as much a child then as you had ever been, swaying in place and clawing at air like someone who’d never kept their balance before. Or might’ve been drunk.

You rolled onto your good side and cast a sweeping look around the cabin. You smelled slow-cooked barbecue.

Thank fuck, you thought.

Now, if I were a juicy rack of ribs, where would I be?

The kitchen was dark and empty; the smell was coming from elsewhere. You craned your neck, tilted your chin, spotted a loft overhead but figured it wasn’t too likely to find someone grilling up there, so where the hell was it?

And who the hell was it, smoking meats and mending up strangers in the cold and lonely dead of winter like this?

You put a pin in that thought as you searched for a place to pee.

By the time you’d hobbled out of the bathroom, the smoky smell had grown even stronger. It was so pungent it bordered on vertiginous, invading every inch of the cabin with a force. Then it was leading you, teasing you by turns to venture outside. All you had on your feet were some oversized socks and two strips of medical tape.

Against your better judgment, you continued to hobble.

Out the door, down the steps, slowly, then following your nose and the first whiff of smoke you smelled to make it to the place you were almost certain you needed to be.

You trudged around a corner of the cabin’s exterior and stopped. Turned around. Cursed your own senses for being so stupid to miss the huge fucking shed spewing smoke out front—or was it the back?—and plodded on.

Your feet might have carried you a third of the way there before your powers of sight and sound eventually failed you again, and you missed another big something.

Big and beige and coated in snow—baring its teeth and snarling at the unfamiliar presence as soon as it saw you.

The next thing you knew, sixty-two pounds of Belgian Malinois had had you knocked to the ground in less than a second. You hardly understood what had hit you until it was barking and chomping away an inch from your face.

You fought hard and frantic to shove the ugly fucker off, but your bandaged hands were no match for its paws. The dog continued to tear at your blanket, nip at your ears, claw at your neck, and all around snuff out any sense of peace you might have acquired in the dozen-odd minutes since you’d first woken up. You screamed.

You yelled as loud as you could and felt yourself cower and sink lower into the snow as you fought.

Just when you tried to raise a knee—to kick the animal in the ribs or else protect your own—a sound broke out above the buzz.

A voice, clear as day:

“CUJO!”

The dog stalled on top of you a moment, just to be yanked off the next, and the closest thing afterward was a face—kinder than Cujo’s but not by very much.

It was a broad, bearded, pock-marked head with more soot to recommend itself than skin. Lips smeared with ash and grime and curved down in the single most decisive frown you’d seen in your life, the man looked to be beside himself seeing you tits up in the snow.

He gripped one arm of yours, then dropped it.

Picked a leg up, paused, then hauled you into a cradle carry as graceless as you’d ever felt it done before.

“Come!” he snapped, and it took you too long to realize that he was talking to the dog. You’d already wrapped your arms around his neck in abrupt complaisance.

He carried you back into the cabin and kicked the door open in front of you. He held you firm for a second, then, just as he had outside, changed course before you knew what to do and was shortly depositing you on the sofa.

You winced when your ass hit the cushion.

You started to sit, grab a pillow for your back or just bring your knees to your chest, when suddenly a palm was pressing flat on your front. Forcing you to lie down.

“Hey, hey!” you cried when the man started lifting the hem of your nightgown.

If he’d heard you at all, he didn’t show it. He just worked his thick, dirty fingers under the fabric and raised the white satin like he might the hood of a car. He frowned.

It was then that you noticed a blooming red splotch on your side, slowly overtaking the terra-cotta color of dried blood on the bandage and spreading out. Then a pain.

Instead of pushing the man’s hands away, you were holding them tight, wrestling that same touch which was trying to keep you from poking around the area now.

“Quit,” the man said, sedate as could be.

“Hurts,” was all you could think to tell him—and you guessed he’d already had that part down by the outpouring of blood. He shoved your hands off.

The brand new crimson hue had already soaked through the bandage. He pulled it off. You caught a glimpse of a wound that seemed to be weeping through its stitches—oozing pus and blood and a gore you could’ve gone your whole life without seeing. You would’ve liked to run a couple gentle, awed fingers over it, but as it was, your coarse and tight-lipped medic wouldn’t let you.

“Hold still,” he commanded.

“Heystopstopstop!” you implored him, feeling a streak of pain up your side as his calloused hands delved deeper.

At your latest flinch and plea, the man seemed to have had enough. Or just needed to angle your body in a different direction for easier access to the site. He gathered you back up in his arms and walked over to the kitchen, where he set you down again on the counter. Hands moved to your hips, briefly, to push you back on the surface and allow him to stand between your legs. Again, the man frowned as he peeled off your pyjamas.

Two warring fears of pain and overexposure fought like wild beasts in your brain for a second—you yelping and trying to cover your breasts in a hurry, then realizing how much it hurt to lift your arms that way when your ribs were dripping blood, then the man making the decision for you both as he pushed your hands behind your back and said a simple ‘Fuck’s sake’ to keep you pinned.

You didn’t like it.

You didn’t like it, and you let him continue, because you knew that you didn’t know shit about doing this yourself.

Joel must’ve fixed your dressings fourteen times before turning you loose. He’d had you perched atop his counter like goddamned Prisoner-of-War Barbie, all riddled with bumps, bruises, and lesions galore, looked your body up and down just once, and nearly grew sick at the sight.

He’d disgusted himself by feeling as aroused as he was.

Shortly thereafter, he’d toted you off—before the blood could rush down to his dick and start to swell—shrugged your gown over your torso, and stepped away. Simple.

Then you’d had to go and throw a wrench in his plans.

“What if I need to pee?” you’d said as soon as Joel started up the stairs with you in his arms again.

He had meant to drop you off on the bed in the loft, out of sight, but it seemed you were more concerned about the prospect of traversing the steps up and down for potty breaks. Joel had audibly huffed above you.

“I can leave a bucket.”

“Yu-uck.” The latter word had been given two syllables to show the full extent of your disgust, like a child might do.

And that was how you’d ended up here: snug in his bed on the ground floor, curled up in more layers of flannel and wool than you could count and staring blankly up at the man who was standing cold and aloof off to the side.

Your eyelids were growing heavy with sleep.

He figured they would be.

Joel picked up the glass that sat beside your empty one on the nightstand and drank, watching you all the while.

“D’you know my momma?” you asked, voice sounding extra small coming from the depths of your cocoon.

Joel finished his drink in four big gulps.

“Sure hope not,” he said once he’d set it back down.

By the sight of the scars he’d found littering your hands and back alone, Joel was able to surmise you’d come from a pretty rough, ragtag group. Maybe even Raiders. Knowing folks like that simply never struck one’s fancy, so he’d been honest. You might’ve argued, or laughed, if you hadn’t been nabbed so tightly in the grips of those first stages preceding sleep, so instead, you nodded.

“Figured,” you mumbled.

7:11, Joel read on the clock. You’d finished your drink at seven, or somewhere thereabouts. Judging by your size, it wouldn’t take long at all for the medicine to take effect.

‘Medicine,’ Joel thought, sounded a whole hell of a lot better than ‘drugs.’ One was meant to rehabilitate, rejuvenate, bring new life to your worn and weary bones. The other would just knock you cold and keep you there.

On second thought, those were definitely drugs Joel had just slipped in your water before giving it to you to drink.

As your eyes blinked from closed, to open, to closed, then open but slightly less open than the time before, and closed again, he felt a sick sense of accomplishment twist in his gut. If only his former-nurse friend could have seen what he was doing with those morphine sulfate tablets he’d traded for—he likely would’ve slapped Joel across the face. And Joel would’ve smiled all the same.

Yeah, okay, drugging the unsuspecting and defenseless female he’d just saved from death’s doorstep two days ago didn’t look great on paper, he would fully concede.

But this was all in good fun.

Great fun, even.

For him.

“Sick fuck,” Joel muttered as he started to undo his belt. The button and zip were taken apart just as fast, and with two steps, he was standing at your bedside—his bedside—and tugging his trousers down his legs. He took his cock in his hand and glanced over at the clock.

7:15.

He nudged your shoulder.

7:16.

Peeling layers of blanket away from your body.

7:17.

“Hey…honey?”

A lot more nothing from the girl sleeping in front of him. He shrugged his jeans to the floor, kicked them off at his feet, and moved onto the bed. You just looked so sweet.

Joel tried working around the fabric of his boxers but got impatient pretty quick. He hauled those off, too.

Soon, his beefy, bare, and surprisingly tan legs were bracketing your hips as he stroked himself above you. His eyes roamed the lax and tranquil features undeniably characteristic of sleep, and he pumped himself faster. Really, there was no need for theatrics or enhancements now—he was already hard as three tonnes of steel—but Joel would be lying if he said he didn’t like the build-up.

You were no longer in danger of dying, thanks to him. You were slowly but surely on the mend, no thanks to Cujo at all, but many thanks to him, Joel Miller, the man who had pried you off of that post, pulled you out of your chains, ushered warmth back into your limbs, and stitched up your side out of the goodness of his heart.

Any objective onlooker could see that you’d availed yourself of his medical attention and aid without ever asking, so why should he request access to you now? This was the way of the world these days, anyway. Sex was no longer so much a question as it was an answer in most scenarios—a mere transaction, wherein the physically weaker of two parties was forced to capitulate. Not within the four unsullied walls of Jackson and a few other pockets of homestead communities here and there, but on the whole, absolutely. Jackson was down the road a ways away and sufficiently far enough from Joel’s cabin for him to be disentangled from their rules. What mattered now was obtaining what he was owed.

Still, the man hesitated a half-second longer above you. He jerked his cock even faster and felt his stomach start to clench. Was that? No—nerves were fucking juvenile. Getting close to cumming from just the sight of you alone was for chumps. Joel Miller was no chump.

He lifted your nightie and lowered the head of his cock to rest between your folds. Then he shifted his knees so that he could rub himself gently against your warmth.

Joel Miller was a monster, but he was no brute. He also understood female anatomy well enough to know that, well…wetter was better. He started moving his hips.

You exhaled through your nose. Nothing major; you probably hadn’t even felt him long enough to whine.

Joel planted a hand beside your head—a preemptive warning.

“There…” He liked to talk as though you could hear him. Like you might be semi-conscious and dimly aware of what he was doing to you then, “Right there…ah, baby.”

He never did catch your name.

That was no matter. So long as you stayed put and made a nice, wet, pretty little hole for him to fuck, you would be fine. By the feel of your folds alone, he could tell you’d be a fun thing to use. Soft and snug and plied with drugs, you could do, and be, anything he damn well needed.

Or maybe nothing at all, he thought without humor.

Joel brushed your cheek with the knuckles of his free hand and watched you turn away, making a face. He snagged your chin and tilted it back to him, sharply, before gliding those fingers down your chest, then your tummy, then your hips, then dipping between your legs. He found your clit and pressed it with a deliberate touch.

“Hey,” Joel whispered, again, as though you might hear, “You’re gonna stay still and let me do this.”

Your nose scrunched in response, thighs clamping together. Joel pried them apart with one push and continued sliding his cock back and forth. He grunted.

“Gonna let me take what’s mine, hear?”

You didn’t hear much of anything, he suspected, but he asked the question all the same. At least now your legs were staying open and he could rut himself gently into that space without having to keep them spread. A first, gentle ‘mmph’ sounded from your lips, and he was glad. He kept thumbing that spot he knew you would like and rubbing along the seam of your cunt with his erection.

Then Joel felt a weight on his shoulders. Remorse? No. Anxiety? Perhaps. This felt more like a fog, though, seizing his muscles and seeping gently between the grooves of his brain. He gave his head a fierce shake.

“Hold still,” he said, more to himself; you hadn’t moved.

Joel fisted the base of his cock and angled the tip toward your entrance, caring much less whether you were ready or not now that his desires had grown stronger.

He was met with resistance on trying to push in. He dug his fingers in the pillow beneath your head and scowled.

“Quit…clenchin’…like that. Ain’t…fair to me,” he huffed.

He was one to talk.

Now, he’d been with a staggering number of women, experiences ranging all across the spectrum, but even the tightest, most untouched pieces of ass he’d ever tapped had given way more than this. Your walls were unyielding, refusing to give him entry. Joel cursed and rutted his hips in a rough, entirely unsuccessful, thrust.

You hummed in response, eyes still closed, one hand fumbling mindlessly for something to hold. Joel seized it.

“Not lettin’ you off that easy, darlin’, I—”

“Fuck,” you breathed, followed by a low whimper.

Joel froze. Had you heard him? Felt him just now?

Something about the uncertainty laden in those questions sent his mind into overdrive, heart beating a wild cadence in his chest. He realized then that his mouth had gone dry, his vision was skewed just slightly on the outskirts. And his cock was throbbing.

“Ya like that?” Joel seethed, not thinking, still rubbing, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

“Uh-huh.” Softly.

You little slut. He knew it all along.

Whatever it was that kept your body from being coupled with his was almost immaterial to him now. Joel’s mind was swimming with desire, cock dragging in desperate, fitful bursts between your legs, never penetrating but still wringing massive jolts of pleasure from that place.

With the way he was feeling now, Joel could cum from just fucking your thighs. And that was alright.

You were moaning underneath him. Even…smiling?

“Fuck, baby, you look so pretty.”

Joel had never called a girl pretty before and meant it. But he hardly knew how else to describe you now with how good and sweet and fine you were making him feel. A strange warmth sank into his chest, making it harder to breathe, and then he was panting above you, as if he were really inside that dripping wet spot. He was close.

“Such a pretty…sweet…fuckin’ thing for me.”

That red, raging, leaky cock of his was almost a blur between your legs, he was thrusting against you so fast. Joel thought for one frightening second that it might be his skull that would explode instead, so high was that pressure between his ears, but his fears were promptly put to rest as the first rope of cum came stuttering out. Then another. Then another. Then another.

By the time he finished, he could’ve sworn he’d left a hundred spurts on your tummy. When Joel glanced down and saw a sea of opaque, sticky white, he groaned.

Then he fell. Fully collapsed at your side with his brain in a tizzy of wild, heady feelings and sank into himself.

He hadn’t even fucked you, and he felt like he had.

He lifted a hand to wipe away his spend, but he couldn’t.

He would get to it in the morning, before you stirred, he thought. He thought. He didn’t have the chance to think much longer at all, as darkness started hedging him in.

He slept.

It was 7:57 when he woke.

The man had no real way of knowing that, though, seeing as he was greeted with a nickel-plated revolver between his teeth the second he opened his eyes.

You were straddling his torso, gun pinched between two calm, bandaged hands. You frowned when he jumped.

“WH—” he started.

“Shut up.”

“ST—”

“I said shut,” you cocked the gun, holding it tighter, then shoving it even further inside his mouth, “the fuck. up.”

The man obeyed.

‘Joel M.’—you’d read the name etched on the butt of his pistol before picking it up some twenty minutes ago.

“Pretty fuckin’ thing,” you mocked the man’s Texan drawl as you wiggled the barrel even deeper along his tongue, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

The man’s eyes widened.

How dumb did he think you were?

Offering a semi-clear liquid that should’ve been water; he hadn’t even waited for the morphine tablet to fully dissolve before handing it over to you. Fucking idiot.

You were more disturbed by the fact he’d thought you stupid enough not to notice than him actually trying to drug you. The latter was almost to be expected from predatory, execrable men like him, but the insult to your intelligence? Unacceptable. You’d remedied that affront fairly quickly, though, swapping his glass with yours the second he hadn’t been looking, then nestling into his bed and playing pretend for what had felt like an eternity.

You’d been awake the whole time the man touched you, not knowing what the hell was going on but feeling like you had to stay still. Let him finish. Out of fear, at first, then curiosity, then some strange and unfamiliar sensation that you couldn’t quite describe as anything but a pleasurable itch between your legs. You let the man continue, hearing him grunt and groan and swear up a storm before he shot something hot all over your tummy. By the end of it all, you knew it was wrong, and you knew it was dirty—though you weren’t sure exactly what it was that he had done—but you wanted to learn more.

Which was probably why you hadn’t just shot the old pervert right between his eyes the second he’d stirred.

You shifted atop this ‘Joel M.’ and frowned once more.

“Why’d you stop?”

Gun still wedged in his mouth, Joel’s voice sounded garbled as he spoke, “Wha-agh-at?”

You retracted the metal just long enough to pose the question again. When you had, he still looked stunned.

“Answer me,” you barked, and feeling your patience lapse, got straight to pistol-whipping the motherfucker upside his half-grey head, “You DUMB, or somethin’?”

The man sputtered again.

“No, no— I don’t— dunno what you mean.”

He sounded dumb. You would need to spell this out.

“Why did you stop rubbing me like that?”

If anything, the clarification only seemed to baffle him further. He opened his taut, bearded mouth, then closed it, then eyed you up and down with a look that said he was considering something. Then he stared at one spot.

You glanced down at it too.

“And what is this, anyway?” you asked, swiping one finger at the mostly dried moisture on your stomach, “Why’d you spit this stuff up all over me, huh?!”

“I ain’t—”

You raised the gun as if to hit him again. He jolted back.

“I didn’t mean— shit. Shit, I just…came on you, ‘s’all.”

“Came?”

The word hung in the air like a grenade, waiting. Mr. M was already bracing himself for the impact, it seemed.

“Came?!”

That bracing served him well, because in the next second you were lifting the weapon even higher and eyeing him with the most pointed, putrid look of disdain. You’d never been one for letting grenades go untouched.

“Ejaculated!” Joel hissed, lifting a hand to shield himself, “Felt— felt so good I just couldn’t stop and I-I-I came.”

You paused.

Came. Felt good. Couldn’t stop.

You had felt good when he’d rubbed you. You had not wanted him to stop. But then he had. And you were mad. You’d never been touched that way in your life, and now you were feeling fifteen hundred emotions at once.

Were you supposed to ‘come,’ too? Why did he stop?

“Why didn’t you let me…ejaculate, too?” The words felt foreign and strange on your tongue.

For the first time, you saw one side of Joel’s lips twitch. Evidently fighting the urge to turn them into a smile.

“Girls don’t really…do that,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Why? Ain’t ever had your pussy rubbed on by a man?”

You shortly landed the blow you’d been holding over his head, splitting the skin along his brow with one hit from the butt of his gun. Joel jumped again, then moaned.

“Crazy bitch!”

“Creepy fuck.”

Your eyes narrowed with loathing, unable to comprehend how a man so vile had just made you feel so good. Your stomach was twisting in knots while Joel rubbed his forehead, pawing helplessly at the gash you’d just left.

“I saved your life,” he grumbled, low, “You owed me.”

“Did I?”

Abruptly, and without really thinking, you were sinking the muzzle of the gun into the spot you’d just cut, mouth kicking up in a smile at the sounds of pain it elicited.

“Did I, Joel?” you cooed.

“How the— the fuck do you know my name?”

Momentarily, you yanked the revolver from his face and tilted it to show him his name carved into the bottom.

“What’s the ‘M’ stand for? ‘Molester’?”

“Means ‘mind’ your fucking business,” he spat.

You probably would’ve hit him again had it not seemed as though he were trying to sit up just then. You slid swiftly from his frame—just to take a step off the bed, gun still pointed at his head. Then you backed away.

One by one, rapidly, you unloaded the bullets from the cylinder, maintaining a safe distance from the man all the while. You watched him blink and try to get some thing from his eyes, but he didn’t seem keen to move.

You left just one live round inside. You made a point to spin the cylinder and, again, aim it straight at his head.

The man was blinking even harder. Rubbing now, too.

“I feel…” Joel murmured.

“Drugged?” you returned, “Yeah, that must suck.”

A set of wide, irate, and horrified eyes met yours. His mouth hung open in a stupid look of shock. Trying to piece the last bits of this fucked up jigsaw puzzle together and growing angrier by the second.

“You fuckin’—”

Joel’s words were cut short by the weight of your body barreling back over his. Graceless, you imagined, but still nothing close to something you cared about now. You planted your knees on either side of his ribs and grazed the tip of the six-shooter down the length of his nose.

“Tell me,” you said, “How’d you make it feel so good?”

Your hips twisted for effect, jostling the man’s own parts beneath yours and clearly causing some effect in him. The muscles in his jaw jumped up as he gritted his teeth.

“You know damn well, slut,” Joel griped.

Without another thought, you squeezed the trigger.

Click.

The man’s whole body lurched underneath you. Trembling with the realization that you’d left just one lone bullet for him—and he didn’t know which chamber.

As far as foreplay went, Russian Roulette was probably a first, even for a man as wanton and depraved as Joel. You smiled sweetly and made another gyration with your lower half, which prompted him to grip you. Tight.

“What? Ya want me to fuck you, is that it?” he growled.

“I thought it wouldn’t fit.”

“I’ll make it fit.”

“How?”

Try as you might to conceal it, your gaze likely betrayed a hint of sincerity as you made that last inquiry. Joel’s eyes flickered between yours, searching for something there, and just when those glossy brown irises had found it, they stopped. Blinked. He shook his head, incredulous.

“My mind ain’t…right,” he said, slowly, “But I— I know you know what I mean by that, sweet pea.”

Something in your tummy fluttered at the sound. You gripped the pistol tighter to get rid of the feeling.

“I don’t,” you answered.

Again, Joel was stumped. For the first time, though, there appeared to be some sympathy behind his eyes. Or stupidity. Or just a shit ton of morphine coursing through his veins as he tried to make sense of this situation.

As if to confirm an idea in his drug-addled brain, he lowered a hand between your legs and hovered there a second. He watched you; you watched back but didn’t move.

Then slowly, almost clinically, Joel slipped two fingers underneath you and found a soft, pulsing warmth—far wetter than the last time he’d touched down there. When he pulled his hand away, both fingers and half of his palm were glistening with a fluid. You let out a startled cry at the sight of it and nearly dropped your gun.

“What is that?!”

Joel looked to you, equally awed—for different reasons.

“What do you mean?”

“Why’s it all…sticky?”

You couldn’t even try to hide your horror at the thought of that weird, syrupy stuff leaking out of you. It was strange enough feeling it come out of a freak like Joel, but from your own body? He had to be fucking joking.

“It’s normal.”

“Like hell it is— you— STOP!” The last fragment of your sentence was swallowed by a scream, leaping back when Joel moved his fingers toward your face.

“What? You’ve never seen this?” He sounded like he was teasing. You could shoot him for how smug he sounded.

In very small amounts, you’d seen stuff. Blood every month. Bits and pieces of bodily secretions that, to you, had always seemed gross. But never this. Never big, sticky globs of…whatever the fuck this was. You continued to back away on the bed, gun still tipped toward Joel but now trying to put some distance between your bodies. You didn’t know how else to act.

You did know you wanted to scream when Joel stuck his fingers in his mouth. Bile might’ve jumped in your throat.

He sucked the dew clean off the digits, then wriggled them to show what he’d done. You felt the urge to vomit.

“That came from— from— why are you eating it?!”

Joel grinned. Big.

You weren’t sure why, but he looked psyched to be alive in that moment, and not just because of the narcotics.

Before you knew what was happening, he’d pushed you flat on your back, hips pinned underneath his hands as he moved over your body. He didn’t even try for the gun.

“And here I was thinkin’ you were just fuckin’ with me,” he chuckled, palms sliding under your nightdress. When you felt the residuum of wetness from his spit and your slick stuck together on his fingers, you wanted to squeal.

But you didn’t. You tried propping yourself up on elbows until Joel was sliding your one and only article of clothing over your head, then beckoning you down on the bed in front of him. You watched his gaze flit down to your side.

“Still hurt?” he murmured, tracing over the bandage.

You shook your head no, though it did, a little. At the moment, it seemed the pain was the furthest thing from your mind as you saw Joel slide down your body and try to take up residence between your thighs—with his face planted right there. You kicked his shoulder in protest.

“Quit!” you cried, pulling your legs up to your chest.

“You quit,” Joel returned, yanking them back.

Then you felt you had no choice but to brandish the gun, taking the thing between two palms while you pointed it again—as if he needed the reminder.

“Fine. Why don’t you keep that thing aimed at my head while I give you some?” he muttered. The subsequent ‘See if I give a shit’ was silent.

“Give me some what?”

“Head.”

Head. You’d never heard something phrased that way. Joel’s head was down there, sure, practically grinning from ear to ear as he hooked your legs over his shoulders, but certainly he didn’t mean to do a thing as drastic and dirty as���

“JOEL!”

“Hm?” His voice was muffled by your thighs.

You tried to shy away, but he held you down.

“Joel, I— I pee out of there,” you hissed, “Why the fuck would you wanna put your mouth on that?”

As if your groans of disgust and vehement attempts to get away weren’t enough to deter him, you watched Joel’s tongue dart between his lips and down to yours. The sick fuck was actually licking your folds, tracing the tip across that warm, sticky place and moaning into your skin. Holding you tighter when you pleaded for him to stop. Then, with the hand that wasn’t prying your legs apart, he reached down and started stroking his cock.

Again, it felt dirty and wrong. Beyond the fact that this man was a perfect stranger and easily decades your senior, you were repulsed by the sight of his lips and his tongue and his spit mixing up in that messy, wet place you still didn’t quite understand yourself. You didn’t know much about your body, but it had never once occurred to you to be kissed down there. Joel was roaming every contour and crevice with his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he liked it.

“I hate it,” you whined, feebly.

You knew you could’ve easily blown the man’s brains out, but some small part of you was still plagued by curiosity. ‘Hate’ was just the first word that came to mind when you were faced with something that made you scared.

“It’s weird,” you tried again. This time pressing the gun to the top of his bobbing head while you grit your teeth, “And wrong.”

At that, Joel stopped.

His eyes flickered to yours, all glass-like and hooded.

“Why? Practically lickin’ ya clean here,” he said, starting to grin to himself as his words came slightly slurred, “There’s nothin’ wrong about this, sweet pea.”

You felt something flutter between you. He felt it, too.

“Like when I call ya that? ‘Sweet pea’?” he said, pausing to flick his tongue over the spot that had just stirred at his words. He watched you fight back a whimper.

“No,” you choked. You pinched your eyes shut, unsure whether it was pleasure or pure revulsion overtaking you—or both.

Suddenly, you felt Joel’s hand smooth over your thigh, still warm from when he’d been stroking himself below. He placed an affectionate kiss to your belly and grinned.

“Is that what this is? Feel guilty about feelin’ this good?” he murmured, “Think it’s…dirty, what we’re doin’?”

At length, and just barely visible to him, you nodded.

“It is dirty,” you corrected him quietly.

Then you saw that stupid pseudo-sympathetic smirk tug at the corners of his lips, and just when you thought he might nudge his way back up your body—to do what, you weren’t sure—he sank between your legs. This time, he made sure to hold your gaze as he re-assumed the position. His palm continued to rub at your thigh, as if to distract you from the rough brush of his stubble or the fact that his mouth was hovering so dangerously close.

“Sweet pea,” he rasped, “Ain’t nothin’ dirty about this.”

As if to punctuate his words, Joel dragged his lips down your slit to press a kiss to your centre, eyes never leaving yours.

“Not here…”

He pointed with his tongue, moving it deftly between your folds. You gripped the sheets, trying to ignore the pleasure that the simple act wrought through your body.

“Not here.”

He kissed your clit. You squeezed even tighter.

“Not on my tongue, on my fingers, anywhere, y’hear?”

You were about to answer—maybe tell him he was supremely full of shit, then flash the gun in his face—when Joel shifted onto his knees on the bed. He moved slowly and as calm as he ever had, motions languid while his mind was likely steeped in the morphine by now. He snagged one of your ankles. He slid his hand up the back of your calf and tugged you down to the edge of the bed. Then he stood up, right between your legs. The warmth radiating from his bare lower half was immediate, almost suffocating from where you lay. You didn’t like it at all.

You refused to meet his gaze, grip tightening on the gun.

“Joel…”

When that warmth at your front shifted inward, though, you hardly had a say in what your reflexes did or didn’t do. You jumped when you felt the head of his dick slip past your pulsing core, closer to the other hole below it.

“Not here, either,” Joel continued, grin still evident from his tone.

Before you could even think to ask what he meant to do ‘here,’ Joel moved one of your legs up, tilting your hips, and pushed ahead with just the tip of his cock. Not breaching it fully, but nudging—prodding at that hole.

For the first time, you let out a moan.

You hastily clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle it.

“Aw, honey,” Joel murmured, “Did that feel good?”

His words reeked of condescension. You scowled at the ceiling.

“No.”

You felt him push a little further—this time making the head of his dick notch into that tight ring of muscles.

No, the word rang through your skull once more. Your curiosity was shortly supplanted by disgust—how the fuck could you let this creepy old man, this stranger, press into you like that? Talk to you like you were dumb? You seized hold of Joel’s pistol with both hands and aimed directly for his chest.

“Stop doing that,” you growled. When the man’s grip on your leg only tightened and you couldn’t writhe away, you lifted the other and tried kicking him in the gut. Of course, Joel caught your foot midair, and it never landed.

“Just givin’ ya options, darlin’,” he said, easy-going. Not seeming to care about the firearm pointed his way.

Fuck it.

You squeezed the trigger again.

Empty chamber.

If Joel flinched, you didn’t see it. He did, however, knock the gun right out of your hand the next second, sending it tumbling with an unceremonious thump on the bed behind you. You tried to leap back for it, but your arm was quickly pinned. Joel cocked one silver-flecked brow.

“You done?” he asked, almost bored.

Your last—and only—leverage taken away from you, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger. And desperation.

“I don’t wanna do this,” you cried, trying to squirm away.

Joel didn’t move his cock, but he did hold you still. Blinking with indifference and a fair bit of drug-induced dissociation, it seemed, from the far-away look in his eyes. He pushed both of your legs so they were folded up to your chest, and ignored your whimpers when he did. At length, he pulled out just enough to smear some of your wetness down to the hole he was trying to fuck.

“You want this,” he countered gently.

“I DON’T!”

Joel continued as though he hadn’t heard you, and moments later, you sensed another slick something pooling against you. From your position beneath him, you could see a bead of spit slip from Joel’s mouth and stretch into a thin, glistening string all the way down to the space between your thighs. You watched him rub the saliva in with his fingers, almost meticulous as he did it.

Then he eased his hips forward an inch, wedging himself back in your ass. He groaned when he felt resistance—and a sharp clench of your muscles.

“I can teach ya…show ya everything…there is to know.”

His words somehow made it out through ragged breaths. That broad, tan chest was heaving with every labored pull of his lungs, and you could tell he was feeling good.

You might’ve been able to say the same for yourself, were your mind not singly occupied by the desire to escape. Still at war with yourself, wondering how it would feel or what you might see that first time, all the while despising the man who seemed hell-bent on forcing it.

He might’ve saved your life, but there was no fucking way he’d get to use you like that and stay breathing.

You were raised better than that.

You could do better than anything this man had to offer.

You resolved to kill him as soon as the drugs knocked him out—just like you’d had planned from the second you woke up on the floor of his cabin that afternoon.

Of course being chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains for some well-meaning stranger to find you had always been part of your mother’s—and the rest of the Raiders’—grand plan. Having this stupid, horny sap take you into his home with the hope of claiming you as his own was just the icing on top.

Now you had a reason to kill Joel and steal all his shit.

At present, he fed another inch of himself inside you and grinned when you let out a startled cry.

“Atta girl,” he said, smirking, “Feelin’ okay?”

“Fuck you.”

“Will do.”

Then, as if to prove a point, he bottomed out, sheathing his cock to the hilt in spite of your cries. Your hands fisted the sheets, and you tried to pull off. It didn’t work.

In fact, all it accomplished was giving Joel more room to thrust back into you. And pull out. And shove back in. The snap of his hips was like cruel and excruciating clockwork, completely unhindered by your words or your gestures or your pleas to stop fucking doing that Joel, it fucking hurts! If anything, the sounds of your censure only got him harder, and with it, made it that much easier to fuck you rougher. His eyes shone with pride.

“What’s’at, sweet pea?” he hummed, strokes coming into a steady pace.

“It’s too…big…doesn’t fit,” you whimpered.

In response, Joel glanced down to see the spot where your bodies were joined. He pushed even deeper.

“Yeah?” he said when you yelped, “I think it fits just fine.”

Motherfucker, you wanted to wail, but then your neck craned sideways—your mouth trying to find purchase in anything you might grit between your teeth—and the only thing that escaped your throat was a sob. You tried burying your face in the comforter, only for Joel to yank it back.

Cupping your chin and pinching both your cheeks in a single, punishing squeeze as he continued to fuck you, “What’s the matter, darlin’? Too much?”

You groaned and clenched your jaw, head jerking away.

Per usual, Joel was undeterred. Even smiled.

“My pretty girl need somethin’a bite, huh?” he hummed.

He probably knew you wouldn’t nod, so he went ahead and decided to oblige that one need he saw anyway. Snagging your nightie, Joel raised a hand to your face and proceeded to push the fabric inside your mouth.

Just as he started to lift his hips to deliver another thrust, he had to stop. A sudden, sharp ‘FUCK!’ left his mouth, then a groan, and his hand retreated fast.

You’d bitten him.

You were grinning just a little, and you’d bitten him.

Joel promptly slapped you across the face. If you weren’t so fucking amused by the sight of his bright red fingers, you just might’ve winced. Instead, the smile stayed on your lips, the slap barely registered, and, to your utmost disbelief, something else had just then started to form.

Pleasure, in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuckin’—” Joel snarled.

“Shit,” you finished, eyes rolling back.

You couldn’t help it. Joel was rutting into you relentlessly. That brief hand bite detour had only stoked the flames of his hatred—and arousal—and now he was practically splitting you in half with the force of his thrusts. He slapped you once more for good measure.

“Oh, that you fuckin’ like?” he seethed, cheeks flushed, “Can’t get off with my…tongue on your cunt, but a slap— and my cock buried deep in your ass gets the job done?”

“Uh-huh,” you answered softly. Mindlessly.

Really, there were no two people more fucked up than you in this moment, you thought. Joel growing harder with each desperate objection of yours, you going all soft and hot and bothered the second he slapped your face and fucked you rougher, and together, the two of you letting out grunts and moans of pleasure while the bed shook like an earthquake just shy of a 9.5 on the Richter scale. Were you not already planning to slit the man’s throat after all of this was over, you just might’ve wanted to marry this Joel M for how wonderfully he fucked you.

You let him know as much when you seized his forearms.

Bouncing into his thrusts, you bit your lip and finally met his gaze. Joel’s eyes were trained in somewhat of a daze, pupils all but swallowing his irises as he fucked you.

“Like being daddy’s little cocksleeve, huh?”

Only the sentence was slurred so bad you could scarcely make out half the words. You nodded just the same.

“Like it when he fucks you in the ass?” Joel panted.

You nodded again.

That pleasure in your belly had worked its way up to a full swell—and whatever it was, you couldn’t bear the thought of losing it now. You gripped Joel’s arms even harder as his chest swayed into you, then sank further and further until your fronts were pressed flush to each other and your ankles were hooked tight around his back.

It almost felt intimate. That coarse, weathered, sweat-coated face spattered with patches of grey seemed to you nearly handsome as his lips hung limply in an ‘o.’

Joel’s cock dragged back and forth between your walls at this new, snug angle, and moans fell out of you both.

“Baby.” His voice was hoarse. Strained.

You couldn’t quite make sense of the expression above you, but there was an unmistakable, muted desperation lurking somewhere beneath it. Joel rutted into you quicker, balls leaving rapid smacks against your ass with every thrust. His hair was disheveled, and his hands were making fists in the sheets on either side of your head.

“Joel—”

“Jus’ lemme use you.”

Words so low they were barely audible as he panted.

“But—”

“Daddy’s…almost done, sweet pea. Just take it.”

You were surprised he’d had it within himself to be so soft. A peculiar sort of haze hung over his face, the pace of his hips picked up even more, and suddenly those plush pink lips were hovering a mere hair’s breadth away from yours. Mumbling. Rambling on and on about how wet you were, how perfect you fit him, how nice and sweet and tight your body felt as he fucked you stupid.

That sensation in your own stomach grew even stronger.

Unsure of what to do, you pressed a palm to his chest.

“Joel, I…I feel funny,” you whispered.

Joel hummed. Didn’t slow.

“I know.”

He knew?

“What’s it—ah, fuck.” Your words broke off in a whimper.

Instead of proffering a verbal response, Joel just slipped a touch between your bodies—thumbing sloppily between your folds to earn a couple more high-pitched moans. Your legs tightened around his middle.

“Joel, s-stop!”

It felt so good it almost hurt. He didn’t stop.

“S’just an orgasm, baby,” Joel panted, “You’re okay.”

And, in spite of his own impending climax and the effect of the drugs likely reaching a fever pitch inside him, Joel managed to slide his other hand beneath the back of your head. Cradled you to him while he fucked you into the bed and made you come unraveled with his touch. You tried to writhe away, but he was used to the drill by now—he just fucked you harder and rubbed you faster.

Whatever he wanted would come soon. You doubted there was anything you could do to stop it, but you tried.

Without thinking, you grabbed hold of the damp locks of hair at the nape of his neck and yanked on them hard.

“Joel, I can’t— I can’t,” you keened.

The hand at the back of your head held you firm.

“You can,” Joel returned, tough but surprisingly calm, “Give it to daddy, ‘s’all ya gotta do.”

What exactly ‘it’ was was still unclear. You just knew you felt good and warm and full—about ready to burst. When you felt tempted to give his hair another tug, Joel’s eyes met yours, and they were soft. Insistent, still, but soft.

Dilated as all hell and probably swimming in clouds of a delirious, bleary haze, but always soft. Almost tender.

“Be a good girl and give it to daddy,” Joel slurred, slow, “C’mon, sweet pea…cum for daddy, please.”

For the first time in that short, rough, utterly deranged time you had known this man, he was begging you. Pleading with you, now, as his body grew overwrought with pleasure and just needed release. You needed it, too, not even knowing how you would get it, but the force of his thrusts, the warmth of his body, the look in those warm, bare, powerless eyes—you fucking loved whatever it was that could make a man like that so weak.

You had to strike while the iron was hot. You slid back.

Joel didn’t notice, too focused on your face and the feel of your body to see when you’d reached for the gun.

Just as you took hold of it, a jolt of pleasure tore through you. Your heels dug into his back, and you nearly lost control of the pistol. Joel groaned in your mouth, begged you once again to cum all over this cock, make a fuckin’ mess of it, baby, please, and you could only whine, grip the metal tighter, and raise it slowly to the side of his head while he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

The peak of your pleasure had come into view. You felt it.

You nudged the muzzle through those soft, slick, salt-and-pepper shaded tufts of hair near the edge of his temple right when the first throes of euphoria seized you.

“FUCK!”

You squeezed the trigger.

[nyan-nyax3]

˚₊‧ mushrooms and technology related id pack ☆

names ꒱

ace, al, alton, ambrose, archer, august, barclay, bentley, bobbie, brennan, buck, carver, charlie, chase, chester, chuck, clay, cole, cooper, cove, cyril, damian, deforest, dex, dizzy, elmo, elwood, emil, felix, flynn, giles, griffin, hunter, joel, keiran, kip, lucian, malachi, marcus, micah, nixon, oliver, roscoe, russell, rusty, saint, sterling, travis, vincent

alethea, anemone, angelica, april, aria, blanche, blossom, bonnie, cara, celia, chantelle, cherry, dawn, essence, fawn, fern, freya, ginger, halo, harmony, hazel, heaven, ione, iris, ivy, jade, jasmine, journey, juniper, kestrel, mable, mae/may, maisie, meadow, melody, mica, misty, nova, octavia, reverie, velvet, viola

ainsley, angel, blake, blessing, bonnet, button, campbell, clover, cosmo, crystal, data, digi, eden, enoki, everest, frontier, gift, haven, honey, inkcap, ivory, july, laverne, legacy, linwood, lucky, lyric, magpie, mushroom, mycene, oakley, onyx, oracle, oyster, parasol, parker, pepper, raine, rammy, raven, reboot, remy, robin, saffron, sage, salem, shiitake, silver, sparrow, wire

pronouns ꒱

bi / bits, ca / cap, co / code, comp / computer, con / connector, co / cord, decomp / decomposer, des / design, dev / device, digi / digital, for / forest, fun / gi, fun / gus, hard / drive, moni / monitor, mother / board, mush / room, myce / mycelium, oper / operation, pi / pixel, poly / polygon, pro / program, ra / ram, ret / retro, scri / script, shut / shutdown, soft / ware, spo / spore, store / storage, tech / technology, toad / toadstool, vei / vein, web / website, win / windows

titles ꒱

the forest dweller, the nature-fueled advancement of technology, [x] entangled in wire and root, the decomposing code of a by-gone era, the digital shroomcap, the mycologist, the mycological technician, [x] trapped in a digital forest, [x] with a pixelated cap, the shroom who lives within the web, the scripted dialogue of a coded mushroom, [x] who spreads spores like viruses

genders & other ꒱

aerugender, bleedingtoothic, catamagicis, chlorogender, flyagaricgender, factorisoundic, fungusthing, gilophorean, inkycapgender, mushranatomic, mushroomcoric, mushroomgender, mushroomic, mushroomirial, mushroomnamic, mushrotix, mycorigen, polyporeic, techrobai, trapped_in_a_computer.gender, virtulonogia, wondershroomgender

ai flag, computer..?, shroomhoarder

usernames ꒱

devcomposer, digishroom, enokiyboard, https-fungus, inkcomposer, mush-os, mushram, mushroomboard, operationspore, pixelvein, puffball, retrocelium, retromycena, screeninkcap, shroomdown, shroomware, sporesite, webcap, webshroom

system names ꒱

the mycological operation system, the technological shroom collective, the portable webshrooms, those built from code, those who report to the motherboard, the collective of spores, those whose personas are built into their roots, the fungi who grew from within the depths of technology

[theresattrpgforthat]

Hi! This request was easier to search for, so I see you’ve recommended Hearts of Wulin and Ten Thousand Days for the Sword. Do you have any other wuxia or xianxia game recs?

Have a good day!

THEME: Wuxia Games.

Hello friend, I'm certainly not an expert, but after reaching out to some more knowledgeable folks, I think I have a few!

Jiangshi: Blood in the Banquet Hall, by Wet Ink Games.

This is a collaborative, storytelling RPG about a Chinese family making their living by running a restaurant in one of America’s Chinatowns, circa 1920. Despite societal backlash and anti-Chinese laws, they have turned a profit and their quality of life has recently improved.

Night, however, brings a new terror.

Players take on the roles of members of the Chinese family (mostly from Guangdong province), spanning three generations, who face threats of jiangshi (hopping vampires) at night and racism by day. It has players balancing the responsibility of maintaining their family business with protecting themselves and their community from the dreaded Jiangshi. This is primarily a game about storytelling. Combat is limited, but horror, drama and sometimes comedy are the primary vehicles for driving the game forward.

This game draws quite a bit from boardgaming elements, so I think this one is best played around a physical table, especially since it requires a custom deck of cards. You’ll use these cards to represent the demands of running a restaurant in the day, as well as fighting of a vampire at night. This game is probably on the borders of what I think is considered wuxia, but if you have a horror lover in your group, this might be worth checking out.

Exalted, by Onyx Path Games.

This is the tale of a forgotten age before the seas were bent, when the world was flat and floated atop a sea of chaos. This is the tale of a decadent empire raised up on the bones of the fallen Golden Age, whose splendor it faintly echoed but could not match. This is a tale of primal frontiers, of the restless dead, of jeweled cities ruled openly by spirits in defiance of Heaven’s law. This is a tale of glorious heroes blessed by the gods, and of their passions and the wars they waged in the final era of legends.

Exalted has a number of different sources, only one of which feels close to wuxia, but the stories are certainly expected to give you long, sweeping epics and larger-than-life characters. There are many different kinds of Exalted, including Solars, Lunars, and Dragon-Blooded. Since I’m not a wuxia connoisseur myself, I’m not entirely sure how close Exalted comes to hitting the mark - I’m mostly recommending it because it came up connected to some other wuxia fantasy games when I was doing some searching.

Jiang Hu, by wum1ng.

Jiang Hu is a role-playing game for the wuxia genre. Drawing inspiration from wuxia novels written by luminaries such as Jin Yong and Gu Long, the Feng Yun comics from Ma Rong Chen and the multitude of wuxia movies and television series, this game brings the world of dashing swordsmen, warrior monks, brawling beggars and high-flying stunts to your tabletop. 

Players take on the role of Martial Artists fighting against various threats to the lands of Jiang Hu, ranging from evil sect leaders who have mastered forbidden secret martial arts techniques to megalomaniacs seeking to take over the Imperial Throne by force and the blood of countless innocents.

The Worlds Without Number series by Kevin Crawford has its praises sung by many people, especially folks in the OSR scene, and that is the bones that this game is built on. Your character is built from quite a list of skills, which are differentiated between Combat and Non-Combat. You also have a number of secondary attributes, for things such as Armour Class, Evasion, and Luck, as well as a dedicated space on your character sheet for weapons and martial arts. Expect combat to to take up a bulk of your time!

When you roll for your character background, you also get a significant life event that is expected to shape your character’s past, such as having a loved one murdered, or falling into serious debt. Out of all of the games listed here, I think this game is the closest to D&D, what with the “packages” of skills, items and abilities attached to each background.

The Oath, by brushmen.

"We seek not to be born on the same day, but hope to die on the same day." And with such an oath, Yong, Li, and Ming swore loyalty to each other.

When earthly desires tempt them, and devotions threaten to tear them apart, with or without a hand from uncaring fate…

will their oath endure?

The Oath is a collaborative storytelling game for one Game Moderator and three players.

This is meant to be a one-shot, which borrows the Entanglements system from Hearts of Wulin and the character Keys and Tags from Lady Blackbird. Since this game comes with characters already pre-written, it would probably be very good for groups who have very little time, or who want an easy on-ramp to games or the wuxia genre. I like the fact that the Keys give you prompts and directions for your character’s behaviour; it’s strong statement on how the author interprets the genre, but it still gives you, the player, a choice on what elements of your character will be emphasized, and what elements will take up the background.

brushmen also has another wuxia Lady Blackbird hack called The Escort, about recovering from a violent robbery, this one for four players and one GM.

Four Swords, by ehronlime.

This is a tabletop roleplaying game about being young heroes in a wuxia story, made for the #AsianMartialArtsJam.

You start with your First Sword, which you use to challenge other heroes and villains and strive for mastery.

You will then gain three more Swords: the Second a sword of great pride and regret, the Third a sword of mastery and expression, and the Fourth a sword which is no sword.

You will also struggle between the obligations put upon your by others and what you truly desire from the life of a wandering hero.

Four Swords really zeroes in on the combat mastery part of wuxia fantasy. Your characters will grow into mastery, and battle with rigid codes and rules that structure the world you live in. The game is very descriptive, leaving you with only 4 abilities that are meant to broadly encompass what you are able to do. The game encourages characters to interfere with each-other using a mechanic called Vows, and levelling up gives you access to different techniques, which reinforce the competence of your characters as well as the rigid guidelines by which they might improve.

This game was made for the Asian Martial Arts by Asian Creators Game Jam, so you might find some more wuxi-themed games there!

Blades of the Immortals, by Jagganoth.

Blades of the Immortals is a tabletop roleplaying game inspired by xiānxiá. It uses the Forged in the Dark rules engine developed by John Harper, as seen in games like Blades in the Dark and Beam Saber.

In Blades of the Immortals, you will take on the roles of cultivators, striving for your own ambitions, for the glory of your sect, and for the ultimate prize —  immortality. You'll viciously struggle for scarce resources, compete for the patronage of powerful and influential teachers, gather allies to your banner, and scheme against your enemies. Your cultivators will wield mystical treasures and supernatural spell-arts, mastering the very laws of the cosmos as their weapons, as they become entangled in centuries-long vendettas between deathless wizard-kings.

This game is solidly focused on supernatural abilities and grand increases in strength. You choose from one of 9 different playbooks, and collaboratively create a faction that binds you all together. The sources listed as inspirations for this game include (but are not limited to) Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation, Forge of Destiny, Aspiring to the Immortal Path, and Journey to the West.

Compared to other Blades hacks, this game reduces the standard number of action ratings, ties character growth to a change in your character’s beliefs, and separates your gear from your playbook. Characters can also level up through Realms, which increases your effectiveness and upgrades your inventory.

Mist-Robed Gate, by Shreyas & Elizabeth Sampat.

There are some things that we value more than life.

There are things we're willing to scheme and cry and fight and die for.

That's what wuxia cinema is about— fighting and dying for the things we care about. That's what Mist-Robed Gate is about.

Mist-Robed Gate comes with a full list of movie recommendations, but includes Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and House of Flying Daggers as key influences. I really like the fact that a key mechanic of this game includes stabbing your character sheet with a knife.

Players create factions first, and then take turns creating characters that represent those factions, with elements that represent the hero’s distinctive personality and style. Players also create the different locations that will serve as the stage for your scenes. Play happens over a series of scenes, as their characters push and pull against each-other, sometimes even making terrible demands (which is where the Knife comes in). If you want a game that has a lot of politics in the terms of actions having large ramifications over big groups of people, and if you want a game that is extremely dramatic, you might want to check out Mist-Robed Gate.

[help-an-alter]

this is a weird ask, but do you have any recommendations for last names for insys families?

I’m getting kinda tired of relying on first names, plus most of the frequent frontiers including myself are siblings.

it gets weird bc some of us are related and some of us aren’t and it’s just easier if we had last names to differentiate us.

if they could have themes of song or sound, or even just geology or animals that’d be awesome!

since we just kinda can’t think of anything

Hi anon !! Mod Firefly here ,, its not weird at all !!! ( i think ) we've talked somewhere about our biggest insys family over on our main (@fireflycollective) but we have a tonne ( point is its not a weird thing + you're totally valid for it !! ) separated by theme ,, as always !

Song / Music themed ,,

Aria , Melody / Melodi / Melodey , Harmony / Harmoni / Harmoney , Carol / Karol / Caroll / Karoll , Lyra , Lyric / Lyrick / Lyrik , Octavia / Oktavia , Viola , Demi , Piper / Pipre , Rhapsody / Rhapsodi / Rhapsodey , Calliope / Kalliope , Octave / Oktave

Sound / Noise themed ,,

Dinn / Din , Hubbub / Hubb , Pande / Pandemonium / Monium / Demonium , Tumult

Geology themed ,,

Jasper / Jaspre / Jasperr , Flint / Flintt , Onyx , Clay / Klay / Claye / Klaye , Jet / Jett , Opal / Opall , Agate / Agatte

Animal themed ,,

Bear / Bearr , Birdie / Birdey / Birdi / Birdy , Fox / Foxx / Foxxe , Leo , Buck / Bucc / Bukk / Buckk / Bucke / Bukke , Wolf / Wolff / Wolfe / Wolffe , Wren / Wrenn

I hope these helped anyone who might have needed them !!

[nebularobo]

Laharika, Human Spirit, Beast Spirit and combined forms Digimon frontier form design commission for Noon Onyx

[kahran042]

Some cool words

absolute

abyss

adamant

adjudicate

angel

apex

apocalypse

arcane

arsenic

astral

asylum

athame

axis

azimuth

azure

bane

barrier

beyond

blaze

bleak

blight

blizzard

calamity

carnage

cascade

cataclysm

cathedral

celestial

central

chalice

chaos

charisma

checkpoint

chronicle

chrysalis

citadel

codex

conflict

conquest

contact

core

cosmic

council

covenant

crisis

crimson

crossfire

crusader

crypt

cyclone

dagger

deception

desolate

despair

destiny

devil

dire

disaster

dolorous

doom

dragon

durian

dusk

ebony

eclipse

edge

electric

elegy

ember

enigma

ephemeral

equinox

eternal

evanescent

eventide

execute

exodus

extreme

fandango

fang

fate

fathom

flux

forge

frontier

frost

future

galaxy

gallows

garland

gaunt

genesis

gleam

glyph

gorge

gravity

grimoire

gunmetal

haven

hazard

helix

heretic

horizon

howl

hurricane

impulse

intense

isolation

jagged

jet

knife

kraken

lachrymose

lament

lethal

lightning

luminous

luster

madness

maelstrom

malachite

malice

mandrake

marquis

matrix

metropolis

mirage

mistral

monitor

mortal

mote

nemesis

nexus

nightmare

nocturne

obelisk

oblivion

omen

onyx

ordeal

pagan

pain

pale

paradise

passion

penance

peril

phantom

phoenix

pinnacle

point

portent

precipice

predator

pulse

quasar

radius

rapier

rapture

ravage

raven

razor

repose

requiem

revolution

saber

sanguine

scathe

scorn

scorpion

scourge

selection

seraph

serenity

serpent

shade

shard

sigil

signal

sine

sinister

slash

slaughter

sonata

sonic

spectre

stealth

steel

stinger

storm

strife

subjugate

sublime

syndrome

tempest

tenebrous

terminus

thorn

threnody

titanium

torch

torrent

toxic

trance

tranquility

twilight

typhoon

vagrant

valor

vector

venom

vertigo

vigil

vindicate

viridian

vitriol

void

volatile

vortex

warlock

wayfarer

wicked

winter

xebec

xenon

zeal

zenith

zero

zinc

zone

[yuyuwuu]

🇬🇷 Hermes

Hermes is the Olympian god messenger, of travelers and frontiers, both physical and of knowledge, of shepherds, of the literati... and of many other things.

Normally he has always been represented by the wings of his cap or by the caduceus. And these rings that I bring you have that essence of his.

Each one has a different stone and they are adjustable. The stones are:

White: Mother-of-pearl

Green: Amazonite

Pink: Rose Quartz

Black: Onyx

[gameguy20100]

So. I'm kind of testing the waters here. Might expand this into a whole fic. Thoughts?

Sidian felt the warmth and reassurance he always had after his morning prayer. Bahamut was always at his side. Helping in whatever way he could. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Wyll watching his ritual.

"I'm sorry. Am I interrupting?" Wyll asked nervously as he rubbed the back of his neck and cursed as he accidentally nicked the skin. Wyll then looked at his talons and gave a scoff of disapproval. "Still not used to these."

Sidian laughed and flexed his own claws in reply. "Trust me, you never do. And don't worry, Bahamut isn't petty enough to be offended at one of his paladins talking to a friend."

"Well, that's good," Wyll replied. then he took in a deep breath and cleared his throat. " I wanted to talk to you about him actually."

"My god?" Sidian's reptilian eyes didn't display emotions the same way a humans did. But Wyll had spent enough time with the Dragonborn to recognize the shock and surprise in them.

Wyll sighed again, and gestured to his horns. "Ever since these sprouted. I've been worried. I'm a devil now. You say that I'm not, and I trust you. But... the gods might have other ideas."

"You want me to ask Bahamut if you're damned?"

"No," Wyll replied. " I want to be able to fight like you do. The blade of Frontiers was an inspiration to many, and a scourge to the infernal cur that threaten us all. With the divine power you wield, I think I can be the man the sword coast deserves."

"You want to be a paladin?" Sidian asked. to which Wyll nodded in reply. "This is not a path to take lightly Wyll. You'll have to live, and breathe your oath. Or risk becoming an oath breaker. They're considered the foulest scum of our world. Are you sure this is what you want?"

"I have wanted nothing more deeply in my life." Wyll confirmed. "I want to fight for those who cannot do it themselves. I want people to look at me and know that they need not fear the monsters that plague our world. I want to be their blade."

"Vengeance," Sidian said with a smile. "I understand. I can teach you what I know. But first. kneel."

Wyll did as Sidian asked and got to his knee, resting his right hand on his heart, and meeting Sidians gaze. As his red eye met Sidians's green he felt an instant connection between them.

"Wyll Ravengard. Do you swear to serve Bahaumut and his will?"

"I swear."

"Do you swear to uphold justice, and protect the weak?"

" I swear."

"Do you swear to show no mercy to the wicked, and smite those who would harm the innocent?"

"I swear!"

Sidian's entire body became a beacon of golden light. His pitch black scales shined like onyx, and his eyes glowed as bright as any star.

Sidian held out his hand and gave a nod of encouragement. As Wyll took his hand he felt the energy flow into him. The sensation of a roaring fire on a cold day filled him with fire. It was different from the fires of the hells, but just as potent.

"The oath of vengeance, is now yours to fulfil. Arise, paladin!"

As Sidian gave the order, the light and heat dimed and Wyll rose to his feet. Wyll's joy soon shifted to determination as he steeled himself and met Sidian's gaze.

"Thank you, my friend. You will not regret this." Wyll promised.

[megamattzx]

Preview to Chapter 2 of Dragon Ball New Frontier Shroud of Memories

Our poor boy, Goku Jr is hurting in this flashback.

"I didn't fucking ask to be made!" Goku Jr shouted as tears fell from his eyes and pain was evident in his voice. "I didn't ask to be conjured up by some magical dragon so that some pathetic whack job of an emperor could have his own little MONSTER!"

Chi-Chi was horrified that her son felt this way and so was Goku. Before the 17-year-old Saiyan continued his tangent Goku tried to reach out. "Goku," the older Saiyan tried saying to his son as he saw Goku Jr's tail fluffed up in anger and pain. Tears fell from his son's eyes and the two parents could tell that he could no longer contain the pain anymore. "No one's calling you a monster….."

In his own pain and anger, Goku Jr glared at his father again as he then lashed out even more and his voice rising further with every word. So much so that his parents couldn't even say anything. Especially considering that his words sounded more broken as he said them. "Rebrianne called me an abomination! Dyspo called me a hellspawn! They both called me a curse! Said that I was some demon child that should never have existed and that if I had ended my life it wouldn't even matter because I existed in the first place!" 

The last words shattered both of his parents as he continued to let it all out. "All because Pilaf made a clone with the eternal dragon!" He yelled. Pointing at his father as he continued. "A clone of YOU! That bastard made a monster BECAUSE OF YOU!!!!!" 

"YOU'RE NOT A MONSTER, SONKU!" Chi-Chi shouted in an extremely broken voice. Tears falling from her eyes down her pale face she couldn't even begin to imagine just how much her son was hurting. This clone of her husband, born at the same time as his brother, Goten. Her miracle child. This child SHE took from Gohan and held in her arms after Goten was born, stared into his beautiful onyx eyes for the first time, and took him under her wings. She loved this boy unconditionally. Named him after his father. Gave him both of his father's names to signify she loved the boy. 

She didn't care that he was a pureblooded saiyan and not biologically related to her. He was her son. Her baby boy. Her Saiyan Prince and Fire Mountain and Mount Paozu. And just like his brothers, he was her pride and joy. But he was also her little miracle child. This was the boy she raised as if he was her own flesh and blood just like his brothers. 

Both Goku and Goku Jr remain silent as Goku was also tearing up from the words that his son spewed out even though he knew his son didn't mean anything by it. That he was only lashing out at the world still because he was in so much pain and yet it didn't change the fact that it hurt like hell for his own son to think this lowly about himself. Even say those words to him like that.

Chi-Chi only then continued as she gently placed her hands on her son's cheeks as she stared into his hurt and tired eyes. Red from crying and holding back his tears, a pained look of sadness and emptiness in his expression. Her heart was sinking a little bit to see him like this. 

"You're a gift, Son Kakarot Goku Jr," she softly told him with a tearful smile. Slowly taking her hands off his face as she then wrapped her arms around her son in a comforting manner. "Just like your brothers, you are your father's greatest gift to me…My little Saiyan Prince of Fire Mountain and Mount Paozu..."

Goku Jr took a moment to process everything his mother said as he looked into his father's eyes with a hint of guilt. He didn't mean to say those things. He shouldn't have said those things but he did. Goku could tell just from looking at him, that his son was sorry. As soon as Chi-Chi let Goku Jr go, the saiyan teenager immediately went and hugged his father. Crying his heart out as he did so. He couldn't even say anything.

Goku simply wrapped one of his arms around his son and rubbed his hand on the boy's back in a comforting manner. "It's okay…" he softly told the boy. "It's okay, my little fighter…."

A few hours later, Goku Jr was laying down on his bed, blankly staring at the ceiling of his room with his tired eyes. He couldn't sleep.  His mind was still wandering about what had happened tonight. The fight with his father in the storm still going on outside, him remembering his father being hard on him and training, his father even reflecting on things in the past. Him lashing out and making his parents realize that he wasn't okay. He felt horrible. Terrible even. Thinking about everything that happened, the younger Goku couldn't help but think about his father's words a few years back. He vividly remembered his father saying all of it too. Imagined himself reliving that moment.

"I know I've been harder on you than I am with your brothers. But the only reason why I am is that you're a pure-blooded Saiyan. If I'm not hard on you, you won’t be able to handle the hardships that come from being one. I want you to be able to take it.Your mom wouldn't be able to teach you in the way that I'm teaching you now. This is how you need to learn. Your mom won't be able to be this hard on you, Kaka. You're not like your brothers. That's why I have been disciplining you." 

The more the younger saiyan thought about it, the more he remembered it plainly. A tear falling from his eye and down the side of his pale face, the look of regret in his expression. But he heard his father's voice in his mind.

"I have to make sure you're prepared for when your mom and I aren't there to help you. When we won't be there to help take care of you. To protect you. Besides, you may not notice, but you're improving. You're getting better at this. Keep pushing yourself, and you'll go far...."

Goku Jr only stared at the ceiling more intently as he remembered the last words his father told him 4 years ago. Those words continuously echoing in his mind as he thought about that moment. Those last words that really sunk in deep.

"I'm proud of you, bud."

Processing every detail of his past up to this point, he then thought about his mother. The princess of Fire Mountain herself. Chi-Chi. He remembered all the times she called him her pride and joy. Her little Saiyan Prince of Fire Mountain and Mount Paozu.  All the time she sang a lullaby to him whenever he was afraid as a child. She wanted him to feel safe at home. He could hear his mother's voice in his mind as well. Echoing like he was in a tunnel but rather being words of pain, he remembered words of wisdom from her.

"Everyone makes mistakes, kiddo," he remembered his mother telling him. "Your father and I are no exception to that."

[spar-bunny]

Deciding to post some stuff about my current Pathfinder 2e campaign, The Onyx Frontier.

Players recently finished their first major arc, City of Sorrow, and damn was that final fight amazing!

Pretty much the group had killed two people they shouldn't have, members of an elite group of spies/assassins for the ruling government (Think CP9 from One Piece), and thus had to pull off a Weekend at Bernie's when the two people they killed boss shows up for a festival.

Not only do they pull it off perfectly, narrowly dodging a bunch of DC35 skill checks, but they also manage to then set up a fight encounter with all of their allies so they can beat this fucker to death.

Tragically, the group does lose quite a few of their allies. Punk and Rock, as well as Drah Gorn, were the most tragic, but in the end, they proved victorious and earned a whole lot of XP and Loot, as well as getting the King to finally fire his adviser who wasn't listening to the King's orders despite them being blessed to always come true.

I can't wait for the next arc, Railway War; I will be doing a lot more stuff with Hexslingers and fleshing them out!

[frostynovaprime]

Tag 9 people you’d like to know better!

ty for the tag @ritens! <3

1. Three Ships - this is a very dangerous question to start with lmao uhhhhh Alhaitham/Kaveh has me by the throat ig. Of course also Kyrie and Markus :> (ocs)

2. Last Song - stream Find Your Flame from the Sonic Frontier OST

3. Last Movie - I think it was Multiverse of Madness??? It was aight

4. Currently reading - Haven’t read a book since 2nd year of uni lmao

5. Currently watching - Sonic Prime and Spy x Family

6. Currently consuming - (…food?) Penne arrabiata -u-

7. Currently craving - to get home from work and play the new ffxiv update

Uhhh not gonna tag anyone, so feel free to do your own answers if compelled!

Have a picture of Onyx wanting to help me draw.

[imaginarianisms]

clementine's paganism is predominantly animistic in nature, newly made, inspired & evolved by the apocalypse, collecting skulls & herbs, particularly herbs to use as a rootworker as her mentor isis onyx taught her hoodoo when she was staying with her for a time before joining & then leaving the new frontier. & y'all best believe that alongside mundane things like guns & other weapons, she uses hoodoo to protect ericson's campus. she passes this down to cj & aj when they're older & eventually when she's slightly older, her eldest daughter aaliyah.

[savageonwheels]

2021 Zoomies: Vehicles of the Year Awards

2021 Zoomies: Vehicles of the Year Awards

Savage names his top car and truck picks for 2021 … While 2021 seems relatively fresh, and few of us want to reflect on the stinker that was 2020, this is traditionally when I do just that. I consider the 50 or so vehicles I tested last year and decide which are worthy of Zoomie awards. What’s a Zoomie? It’s my annual choice of the top vehicle I’ve tested in the past year. But there’s more than…