#open street map

[enddaysengine]

Mapping Assassin's Creed

Shared this on Reddit already, but been meaning to share it here for a while.

Link doesn't look like much, but if you are geography nerd, click it, I promise it will be fun. I've taken to mapping out what I can of the Assassin's Creed games in Open Street Maps. Mostly this is for fun, but it does give me some insights into the game designer's thought process, as well as help strength my geography. Its been pretty fun so far and hopefully you'll find it interesting too. Or even useful if you are planning a trip to one of these places.

Each game gets a different colour/layer. You can toggle so you can only see a specific game if you want. Not all of the games are in there yet at time of posting, but I likely will get to them all eventually.

[osm-treegang]

🌲PINED POST🌲

treegang makes unnecessarily in-depth edits to trees on the open source world map, open street map. we're also using this to host the images of the trees that we link to on osm, because we can. if you also make unnecessarily in-depth edits to trees, send the picture and osm link to treegang, and we'll post them here. treegang.

[themeperch]

Control Locations - WordPress Map Finder Plugin

Control Locations is a versatile WordPress map finder plugin that caters to a wide range of use cases, making it the perfect choice for various industries, from pet care and medical stores to service centers and beyond. Features: No API Key Required: Utilizes OpenStreetMap without the need for an API key, making it ideal for businesses such as medical stores and service centers. Multiple…

[frimleyblogger]

Angry Tweeters

Researchers from @Kit_Kyoto have discovered that people are more likely to send angry #tweets when in transportation hubs

In my experience, the twittersphere in particular and social media platforms in general are not areas noted for calm, rational, and reasoned expressions of views. However, are there locations where social media users are more prone to express feelings of frustration and disgust? This was the question that a team of researchers from Kyoto Institute of Technology in Japan were keen to…

[filmap]

Black Christmas Bob Clark. 1974

Sorority House 6 Clarendon Crescent, Toronto, ON M4V 2P4, Canada See in map

See in imdb

[acti-veg]

is there an ethical alternative to Google maps?

There are a few options available now, OpenStreetMap is probably the standout one. It is open source, collaborative and community maintained. No trackers, no ads, and often provided heads up about things they Google won’t; such as speed cameras/traps. I use it all the time and find it far more accurate and intuitive than Google maps ever was.

[theemeraldforesthideout]

Procrastinating planning the second trip, and I shouldn't because solstice is getting closer and closer. It's just... brand new places and places I haven't been for so long. It's going to take a lot more work this time.

[mainblag]

realized minecraft was becoming something of an addiction/compulsion and am going cold turkey on it for the sake of my mental health. day one of self-imposed "No Minecraft" and I'm trying to fill the void.

people sketches.

[coulsonlives]

These are the best Google Streetview photos ever

[osm-treegang]

#1

first tree 👍

[21st-century-minutiae]

In early twenty-first century internet mapping databases such as Google Maps, most information is at least partially user-generated. Open Street Maps is an open source, crowd sourced, publicly available dataset of any and all geographic information in the style of Wikipedia, where anyone can submit information for any reason, and volunteer users moderate and validate information, to identify egregious flaws, errors, or outright lies. The entire repository of this geographic knowledge is available freely.

Private Companies (and other Open Source projects) will make use of this data. Some will use it to augment other sources of information. Others will look at the change logs and have internal teams audit the information before applying it to their local map databases. Still others will use it wholesale and unquestioningly. Separate from Open Street Maps, most mapping software has the ability for users to submit new information and corrections directly to the company so that it can be reviewed and potentially included.

In the case of the above, the "Lake McDonald's" landmark tag would almost certainly not have been the work of Google or Google Maps directly, but rather a solitary individual updating the database for their own amusement in a manner which was not rejected by any moderation process at the time of the screenshot. Certainly puddles would not exist in any official governmental dataset.

Most people in the early twenty-first century are completely unaware of Open Street Maps or these sorts of public, crowd sourced data. Of those that are aware, a majority likely do not contribute, in the same way that Wikipedia has far more users than editors.

The parking lot near my house has been flooded so long that Google Maps now considers it a natural landmark.

[filmap]

Moolaadé Ousmane Sembene. 2003

Village Dierisso, Burkina Faso See in map

See in imdb

[mortalityplays]

talking about impenetrable accents/dialect just reminded me. when I was in Milan a couple of years back I was staying in this little rathole hotel and I had the biggest fucking migraine, so I was like non c'è problema I'll just go buy painkillers. of course every pharmacy on the map in a three block radius was closed, so my stupid ass just starts wandering around trying to figure out on the fly if you can get OTC from supermarkets in italy.

I walk into this little everything store (to my foreign eyes the kind of place that back home could sell you a bunch of carrots, a 6-pack of beer, pantyhose, bleach and a screwdriver set) and I see some household basics in the back but not what I need. with the confidence of a person who is only in the city for 3 days because he got bored and packed a bag and booked the cheapest flight available the week before (<= MENTAL ILLNESS), I was like no worries I know some italian, I can just ask.

I grab a bottle of water, walk up to the counter, and I'm like Ciao, hai il paracetamolo? And the guy is like che, and I'm like paracetamolo. Per la mia testa. And he's like che?

This is where I would have said 'aspirina' except I can't take aspirin for medical reasons, or 'antidolorifico' except I don't know that word and I've got no phone data for google translate and also I'm stupid. So in my fucked up leith-glasgow-italian accent I'm like paaa-ra-cetta-mollll-ooo. He's like ohhh bene, bene, and he calls another guy out of the back and asks him to go get something. Other guy then walks out of the store into the street, and before I can be like hey, che la fuck, he comes back and hands me a huge bundle of herbs.

At this point I'm like okay this entire interaction has been a bust, but these guys have been very nice and patient and they're both smiling happily at me because they've been of service, so I'm like ahh perfetto, grazie, pay them a couple of euros and leave.

EVENTUALLY I find a pharmacy that's open, and my head is fucking killing me, and my phone still isn't connecting, and now I have this small shrubbery poking out of my coat pocket, so I don't even bother looking around the shelves. I just walk straight to the counter and I'm like uhh ciao, scusi. And hearing my nightmare of an accent the guy answers in english and I'm like thank christ, do you please have paracetamol. Not aspirin, I can't take aspirin. And he's like yeah yeah hold on, goes into the back, comes out with what I need.

Only when he comes out he gives me this look, and then he starts laughing. And then he pretends he's not laughing and rings me up and I pay, and as I'm leaving I can see him losing it. But I don't care, my head is going to explode, I'm going back to the rathole to close the blinds and fall comatose for four hours.

When I get back to my hotel room I take off my coat and remember the huge bouquet of herbs in my pocket. They smell amazing, and I'm like I'm pretty sure this is parsley in which case I can just get some tomatoes and mozzarella later and make it work. but since I have no idea what that interaction was, I want to make sure. I bring out my phone to get a visual reference of what parsley leaves look like, and because I was using it for google translate earlier I put 'parsley' in the wrong box like a dope and translate it to italian.

prezzemolo

I wish I could have been the pharmacist in the moment he looked at my tired pissed off anglophone ass, heard me say 'paracetamol' in my fucked up accent, and turned around saw what was in my pocket. I'd have lost my shit too.

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: daddy kink

His phone rings twice before he manages to pick it up.

It’s buried beneath a stack of file folders, their manilla sleeves full of papers that say practically nothing, just big black strikethroughs all across the pages.

A waste of time.

You’re still at work too, at least you were the last time he checked, the little blue icon on the map showing your location at the bakery.

It’s well past seventeen hundred, and you should already be at home but when these last minute things come in, you have a hard time saying no.

For now.

He has a plan to rectify that.

The phone vibrates once, twice before he pulls it free, glancing at your name across the top of the screen and putting it to his ear. “Hi sweetheart-”

“D-daddy,” it’s jagged, covered by a reedy rasp, shortened breaths puffing into the microphone. The razored edge of his Captain mindset falls away to something else, and he softens his voice, coos at you over the echoing sandpapered gasps.

“Hey baby, what is it?” Cut to the chase. Identify the problem. Keep her calm. The answer to his question is a muffled sob, and someone’s high pitched, panicked voice in the background. His mind runs in a million different directions, paths splitting and multiplying, but they all lead to the same place. Eliminate.

“We were r-robbed, we were… they broke the door and m-made me open the safe.” Every vein, every blood cell, every single piece of his body turns to ice, and the door to his office nearly comes off its hinges as he rips it open. The hallway is a million miles as he charges through it, corner of the phone pressed so tight to his skin he thinks it might bruise, and when he spots Kyle at the end of the hall, he jerks his head, muting his end of the conversation for a second.

“Need you with me.”

“What’s goin’ on?”

“Someone held up the bakery. Don’t know more than that yet.” Kyle doesn’t press, he just falls in at his side, stride by stride, overtaking the distance to his truck until they’re screaming out of the lot towards the gate. The police scanner mounted on the dash is squawking.

String of burgs. Multiple businesses hit. Caller reporting burg just occurred two nine pine Pratt street.

“D-daddy,” you whimper, so small and so fucking terrified, his vision goes red with rage.

He’ll tear them limb from limb.

“Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know- they… they grabbed me but I don’t th-think so.” He’ll kill them.

“Are they still there?”

“No, they… they left,” you hiccup and gasp, “Mara called… she called the police.”

“You’re sure they’re gone?” You choke on a sob. “It’s okay, deep breath. Just listen to me. Take a big breath, you can do it.” An inhale strangles its way through your lips, and then whistles back the way it came. “Good girl, that’s it. Are you sure they’re gone?”

“Yeah, they… they left when I called you, I called you- I didn’t know what to do I didn’t… I- I-”

“Shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay. ‘m almost there.” A squad car goes flying by them full lights and sirens, Kyle’s fist tightens on the wheel.

“You’re coming?” Your voice bleeds with hope.

“I’m coming baby.”

The police beat them there. Not by much, but with enough time that they’ve already made entry and contacted you and Mara, bringing you outside to where an ambulance waits.

You’re terrified. The medic is trying to urge you over but you’re immobile, shaking like a leaf with your fingers clutching one another, eyes wide and wet.

When you catch a glimpse of him striding towards you, your body loses its battle, limp muscles failing to hold you up and sending you careening to the ground. He makes it just in time to catch you by the waist.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he cups the back of your head, curling his shoulders to shield you, “I’m here, I’m right here. Daddy’s here.” You don’t respond. He knows your words are failing you, and he has no desire to force them forward. Instead, he looks over at the medic. “Did you get to look at her yet?” She shakes her head.

“She wouldn’t let me get close enough.” He cups your cheek and chin to pull your face away.

“The medic is going to look you over.” He’s very firm. There’s no room for negotiation, and your uncertainty from earlier rings between his ears. You shuffle as he leads you to a spot where you can sit, still clinging to him, too afraid to let go. When he stands, a terrified nose echoes in your throat. “I’m not goin’ anywhere sweet girl, I’ll be right here with you, alright?”

You nod.

He holds you the entire time, keeping you calm as they check your pupils, asking about pain, dizziness, anything abnormal. It doesn’t take long, and once you’ve passed the exam, he carefully loads you into the passenger seat of the truck before finding Gaz.

He’s sitting on the curb next to Mara, her face blank except for the wrinkle between her brow.

“I’m gonna take her home in a minute, drive her car.” He motions to the sedan in the back of the parking lot, and Mara shivers.

“Alright,” There’s a small gleam in Kyle’s eye, barely there but lurking in the depths of his pupils, and if he wasn’t so grim, he’d smirk. “Take care of her.” His nod is solemn.

“I will.”

You don’t speak.

He gets you in and out of the shower, into clean clothes and settled at the kitchen table with some light dinner in front of you, all without a single word. You’re responsive at least, following commands, listening, open your mouth when he holds a spoon of soup up to it. When you swallow, he praises.

“Good job baby.” You don��t ask for more, you just sit there, a hand on his thigh, fingers gripped tight like you’re trying to hang on. “Are you getting full?” The entire bowl is nearly gone, but you still don’t answer.

He won’t push. Everyone deals with traumatic experiences differently, violent experiences, and he doesn’t care how long it will take you to process it all. He’ll be right here through it.

You sniffle and sag against the chair. Your energy is completely depleted as he expected, and the soup will have to be enough for now.

“Alright sweetheart, c’mon. Let’s get you into bed.”

Instinct tells him to leave the hall light on and crack the door, carefully extracting himself long enough to get changed and refill your water bottle, talking to your silent form the whole time, telling you where he’s going, what he’s doing. Your eyes don’t leave his for a second, though the light seems to soothe some of the anxiety marring your face.

When he finally gets back in bed and pulls you close, you break apart, burying your face in his chest to sob.

All he can do is hold you.

[lay-z]

sugar plum promises | 2

SYNOPSIS: SIMON RILEY, WHO DISCOVERS (AND ACCEPTS) THAT HE HAS A RAGING MOMMY KINK, MUCH THANKS TO YOU.

PAIRING: SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY x CURVY!FEM!READER

WARNINGS/INFO: 18+ | Mommy kink; VIRGIN!SIMON; some physical descriptions of Reader; smut; dom/sub dynamics; cussing; strangers to lovers

➥ BASED ON THIS BLURB × | [ SPP MASTERLIST ]

Simon feels like he’s going to piss himself.

He has been standing in front of his bathroom mirror, eyeing his rugged appearance with great annoyance for the past twenty-five minutes, taking in the sight of his damp and obviously outgrown undercut, the loose and messy dark blonde strands atop the crown of his head, along with his stubbled, scarred chin—and he wonders why the bloody hell he’s even bothering so much.

Taking a deep, shaky breath while his tawny eyes flicker over his reflection once more, he runs a hand through his hair and gives up, reaching for his skull balaclava. Then, Simon looks down at himself once more, checking the dark jeans and grey T-shirt he’s randomly plucked from his meagre wardrobe for any stains, and it’s then he decides that if you didn’t mind chatting him up in cargos and combat boots earlier, you won’t mind this plain arse outfit, either.

It’s 6:46 PM. You texted him dinner will be ready at seven.

He’s nervous, though he really shouldn’t be. It’s something he hasn’t experienced since—he can’t really remember. Since getting his Jump Wings at 19, maybe.

His mind is all over the place, and he can’t quite explain this feeling of excitement and anxiety bubbling in his stomach like toxic waste. His muscles are tight, his fingers fidgeting more than usual without his trademark gloves on.

“Get your damn self together,” he mutters, running a hand over his clothed face. He locks his front door behind himself and tucks his keys into his pocket securely. “She’s just a woman, not the bloody devil incarnate.” Though perhaps you are a siren, at the very least.

He can’t believe he’s actually doing this—first, texting your number and now, walking over to your place, though only after checking and scoping out the address you’d given him on Google maps. Just to be sure.

It’s not too far from his own apartment complex, which explains why you ended up bumping into him at the supermarket that he frequents when he must.

Eventually, Simon finds himself standing in front of a small, but neat town house; his sharp eyes staring owlishly from behind his balaclava as he observes the illuminated windows. He’s been standing in the shadows across your street for a good ten minutes, but so far, he hasn’t quite gathered the courage to just bloody walk over there and knock on your door.

Finally, he decides that he’s being a complete tosser by standing here and letting his thoughts get ahead of himself, and he finally pushes off the brick wall with one last drag of his cigarette before he flicks the bud onto the pavement as he crosses the street to your front door.

It’s 7:18 PM when he gives the door two solid knocks, heart thudding against his ribcage.

The dull sound of keys unlocking the door can be heard on the other side before warm light floods from your hallway onto the porch as the solid oakwood door opens like the gates to Valhalla, granting him view of yourself—cosy yet elegant, wearing a plain beige apron with colorful wildflowers stitched onto the fabric and a genuine smile plastered on your pretty face.

The sight alone is enough to cause his breath to catch in his dry throat as he finds himself face-to-face with you again, and a wave of adrenaline rushes through his veins, mixed with a sharp jolt of arousal at the sight of you in that cinched apron and bare feet, rocking a snug pair of light grey sweatpants and a Henley shirt with its sleeves rolled up.

He hates to admit to himself that he is swooning already. Even casual like this, you look every bit a goddess to him since he first laid eyes on you at the supermarket, like every bloody wet dream he’s ever had since his youth and everything he’s ever secretly yearned for.

Simon clears his throat, hoping like hell you didn’t notice how his pupils have dilated when your gaze first locked with his or how his hands are balled into tight fists at his sides like he’s ready to stand at attention.

“Evenin’,” he finally grunts, his gaze flickering over the hallway inside your house before slowly returning to your face, trying to decipher your reaction to him.

He can feel his fingers shaking as he shoves his hands into his pockets, a feeble attempt to remain cool and collected on the outside while he’s falling apart on the inside—suddenly self-conscious and all too desperate to not mess this up.

“Good evening, love.” Your honeyed greeting rolls off your tongue like velvet, and you’re grinning as if you’re well aware of your damn effect on him.

Leaning against the door frame, you give him an easy once-over, deciding that albeit being late, he did clean up nicely.

“Why are you still hiding, handsome?” you ask bluntly, arching one eyebrow and cocking your hip out while making a loose gesture at the balaclava covering his face. “Been wondering why you’re wearing it, actually.”

The fact that you’re calling him handsome so casually makes his knees weak, the balaclava suddenly too hot, too tight, and too itchy on his face as his cheeks start to burn.

He’s been called many things in his life: Tough, scary, deadly, stoic—handsome, though, is a bloody first, and Simon swallows audibly, his gaze locked onto your beautiful face.

For a second, he’s tempted to just rip his trusted mask off, but he hesitates. Revealing himself to you, after only having known you for barely a day, feels like a violation in its own way.

“To hide my face,” he answers eventually, mentally smacking himself. It usually sounds less cringy whenever he’d given this exact answer in the past. “Uh, personal reasons. Work.” He clears his throat, shifting on his feet. Bloody fucking hell.

“You’re... ah–” he begins, trying to find the goddamn words in this thick mess of a brain, “not weirded out?” A slight furrow forms between your eyebrows at his question, and he quickly adds: “by it. The mask, I mean.” He points at his covered face, feeling like an utter numpty.

However, if nothing else, your expression shows curiosity and open acceptance, rather than the aversion or immediate discomfort he always experiences, and when you simply give him a slight shake of your head, he exhales a slow breath of relief.

“Should I be weirded out?” You blink up at him with bright doe-eyes, fluttering your lashes at him and Simon feels his cock twitch in his pants.

He can’t help the huff of a laugh escaping him, his wide shoulders slumping a bit as he shakes his head in defeat. Of course, you’re not weirded out. That was clear the moment you’d decided to acknowledge him today. Nothing seems to keep you from being so brutally straight forward. It’s both as admirable as it is unnerving to him.

“Most people are,” he admits, shifting on his feet as his blood begins pooling dangerously low. “Been told I look like I’m plannin’ a bloody robbery most days.” He tries with the barest hint of a joke, and he nearly winces as soon as the words leave his daft mouth.

Your eyes twinkle with mirth and glee as you regard him. All awkward and obviously out of his depth, yet brave enough to battle his deep-rooted distrust by picking up his phone to text you and then showing up on your doorstep tonight.

Already so obedient, this one.

A sugary smile tugs on your lips. “Well, if you do end up robbing me, it’s been my own fault,” you quip dryly, straightening up to invite him inside. “Why don’t you come inside–” You pause, gazing up at him expectantly.

Your playfulness nearly manages to distract him from the fact that you want his name.

His heart flutters in his chest like a bird ready to take flight, beating way too quick, too hard, and Simon feels like a complete tosser once more for not giving you his name sooner. You’re just being nice to him, he tries to remind himself. This is your bloody nature, nothing more.

“Simon,” he tells you after a moment of hesitance, his voice barely above a low rumble. “My name’s Simon.” He takes a heavy step over the threshold into your hallway, glancing briefly over his shoulder. “You’re not afraid, then? Invitin’ a bloody stranger like me into yer house?”

Closing the front door behind him, you purposely leave it unlocked despite your habit to lock it immediately, sensing that you’re the one with the upper hand here—and the responsibility to make him feel comfortable, at ease. It’s an exhilarating feeling.

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Simon?” You’re chuckling as you squeeze past him to take front; leading him towards the kitchen like an unleashed dog while your hand is already itching to put a proper collar on him.

“Adventure?” Simon repeats, dark eyes fixed on the curves of your back and hips as you walk while he follows you like he’s under some sort of odd spell.

He’s hyper aware of every sense, every little detail while he follows you through your home, your safe space, and Simon is so damn tense, he fears he might pull a muscle with how hard he’s clenching; a part of his mind that he cannot ever shut off going into battle mode the moment he steps into the entry hall, mapping out everything in his brain—from the locks on the front door to the size and structure of your hallway and possible escape routes.

“I do have sense of adventure,” his gruff voice rumbles, slightly muffled by his mask. “Just a healthy amount of caution to go with tha’... unlike you.” He quips dryly—and regrets it immediately.

His gaze briefly flickers over the walls, taking in the few pieces of art and the neat interior, personal bits and bobs, and family portraits. Everything in this house screams cozy and proper, and it’s a crass contrast to his own sparse flat.

“Right,” you giggle, amused by his attitude. “Well, Simon, I do hope you’re hungry and not a picky eater.”

As you approach the oven, you peek inside at the rosemary chicken and veggies that have been roasting for a good hour while the pots with mashed potatoes and gravy are kept warm on the stove.

“I figured you don’t want anything fancy, so I didn’t set the dining table in the living room. We’re going to eat here at the kitchen table.” And while your voice is saccharine as you speak to him, your tone doesn’t leave any room for objection.

Glancing over your shoulder, you can’t help but smile when you spot him standing in the open kitchen entrance; too wide and tall for your narrow hallways and low ceilings. “Would you like a beer?”

Experiencing this kind of domesticity almost knocks the air out of his lungs in a strangely pleasant way, causing him to clench his teeth for a fraction of a second to suppress the shiver running down his spine from the sudden rush of excitement. This whole thing is so oddly normal, he barely knows how to handle it.

Simon slowly walks closer to your kitchen table; his gaze focused on the food you’ve cooked as his eyes darken. The fact that you’ve gone through all this trouble to prepare a proper homemade meal for him, leaves him reeling.

“Aye, beer’d be nice. Thanks.”

You can hear the scraping of a chair over the kitchen tiles as you grab a cold beer bottle from the fridge, and when you turn around again, Simon has seated himself at the head of the table as if he already belongs there naturally. Your heart flutters at the sight, but you manage to suppress the Cheshire cat grin tugging at your lips.

“Hope you like pale ale,” you remark as you pop the lid of the bottle before placing it on a coaster in front of him, and when you brush your hand over his broad shoulder, you can feel his muscles flex under your featherlight touch. “There you go. Cheers.”

And Simon’s brain short-circuits for a moment as soon as you touch him. The heat of your soft fingers burning through the fabric of his shirt and straight into his skin, causing a violent shudder to rake through him and his heart to jolt in unison with his cock like he’s been hit with the barest wave of your power.

“Tch... Thanks.” He lets out a soft huff, trying and failing to play it off, pretending that he didn’t want to lean into your touch, didn’t want to bare his neck and show you just how starved he is for physical touch—the touch you’re willing to give a wretched man like him so easily, seemingly without thinking twice.

He can still feel the phantom touch long after you’ve moved past him to retrieve your own drink, a glass of red wine, before fetching two dinner plates from a cabinet.

Simon is staring after you, unmoving, his hands gripping the edge of the kitchen table like a bench vise, when you put on some oven mitts like a good little housewife to retrieve the chicken and veggies as if nothing happened, like you didn’t just awaken something inside him that he believed cold and dead.

Simon is still too dumbfounded to fully grasp the situation, watching as you move around in your kitchen like a dancer. He feels like an intruder, an outsider on this domestic scene, and it feels so unfamiliar and yet so bloody right, his head is spinning.

His gaze drifts over to the food, mouthwatering and stomach rumbling, and when you place a loaded plate in front of him with a little ‘voilà’, all he can do is stare at it—at you—as if you’ve just handed him the bloody Holy Grail.

“Christ,” he manages to utter; his throat dry as a desert. All he wants, all he should need to do right now, is to dig into this delicious meal, but he can’t help himself as he stares at your face and those ample tits filling out your shirt istead.

Meanwhile, you’re very much aware of the effect your brief touch has had on him, and you’re secretly relishing in the way his mass flexed under your fingertips, all power and brawn; how his pale lashes flutter almost coyly whenever you catch his gaze, his eyes deep like molten honey.

Simon is a man right up your alley—a mean-looking, snarling beast who’s most likely never experienced a gentle touch, a sweet praise, or a full undisturbed night of sleep in his life since weaning from his mother’s breast.

You can’t wait to unravel him, to peel away those gnarly layers he’s obviously built around himself after dealing with decades of hardships, to make him submit and melt in your embrace as you fulfill all the sugary promises you'll be cooing into his ear soon.

The look in his eyes, as he stares down at the meal you’re setting in front of him, is worth quite literally gold, and you can’t help but let your gaze linger on his face with a satisfied hum when he finally yet tentatively pushes his mask up over his nose to take a drink from his beer. He looks half a second away from drooling, and you lick your own lips like a wolf licks its chaps as you watch how his pale throat bobs with each gulp.

“Tuck in, love, before it gets cold,” you chirp as you take off the apron to drape it over the back of your own chair before you take a seat across from him.

Your words make him finally snap to attention, forcing himself to look away from you and down at the steaming food on his plate, and Simon swallows thickly, throat clicking with restraint.

“Thank you.” He mutters, lifting the fork while a lump of something he can’t quite identify gets stuck in his throat.

After dinner and a pleasantly trivial chat, Simon is in heaven, sat back in his chair like a smug, spoiled tomcat, his chest slightly inflated with content and his eyes half-lidded in an absolute state of bliss and nirvana. Everything feels soft and warm in this moment—his belly now full enough to stretch out the fabric of his shirt around his gut.

It almost leaves him feeling full on sentimental.

His gaze is glued to you, following your every little move; every lick of your fork, every subtle shift in your eyes as you catch his stare.

He’s already on his third beer, feeling the slightest buzz rushing through his system.

“You’re good, big guy? Need anything else?” you ask with a soft chuckle, observing the man who looks about ready to fall asleep as you start clearing the table.

“Yeah, ‘m good,” he promises, a hint of a lazy drawl in his gruff voice. It just sounds right, like his accent bubbles up to the surface now that he starts feeling relaxed around you. And while he’s sits there, at your kitchen table, he watches that lovely sway of your hips as you flit about your kitchen—clearing the table and loading up the dishwasher with practiced ease, humming a gentle tune to yourself.

Simon can’t hide the slight smirk pulling on his lips as he keeps his mask rucked up, his gaze drifting over your ass, taking in every curve of your body. He feels strangely content and at ease in your presence—unabashedly feeding right from your hand both literally and metaphorically.

“Well, actually,” he begins almost playfully, licking his chapped lips, “whot’s for dessert?”

It’s supposed to be a joke, you’ve already done way too much for him as it, but judging by your reaction, you don’t take it a such—which makes his stomach drop so hard, he’s about ready to vomit from the sudden rush of anxiety.

Your eyebrows raise at his response as you shut the loaded dishwasher, and you glance at him over your shoulder, trying to get a read on him, which proofs difficult. The nonchalance and dryness of his tone don’t quite match the mischievous glimmer in his eyes, even through the shadow of his mask, so you decide to take a gamble.

Chuckling as you turn to face him fully, you lean against the counter, your hip jutting out in a confident stance. “Depends. What do you fancy?” You tilt your head to the side as you regard him with a sly smile, counting off while tapping your manicured index finger against your chin:

“Let’s see. I got ice cream, chocolate, some leftover apple pie, and… me.”

Simon is lost in a daze of sensations now, his usual conscience and alertness vanished while his body has taken over. He’s somehow ended up on your couch, that was a quick and fuzzy mental note he’s made some unknown time ago—your body now perched on his strong thighs, fully in charge and in control of him after unzipping his jeans and pulling his cock out with implicitness, as if it belongs to you.

“M-mmphh–“ He groans again, fingers digging into the material of your couch cushions to try and anchor himself to reality, his eyes unfocused behind the balaclava that just barely covers the bottom half of his face.

His shirt is rolled up to his collarbones, his bulky torso exposed to your eager eyes with no way to hide anymore—not when his flushed prick is currently twitching in your grasp as you pump his thick length leisurely with both hands, squeezing his ruddy tip while your thumb swipes over his weeping slit with each stroke, using his watery precum as lube.

“You have such a pretty cock, Simon,” you coo, nosing along his exposed, stubbly jawline, lips brushing over pale skin. “Did anyone ever tell you that... sweet boy?”

“Fuuuuck,” he whines all gravelly, squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment and mental overload while his head tips back against the headrest, baring his throat to you fully. His eyes are rolling up into his skull while his broad chest rises and falls with every ragged breath, and you can practically watch his thick veins pulsate in his neck and arms.

Simon can’t take it. None of it. He’s bitten off much more than he can chew this time and now he’s struggling to deal with the consequences. It’s dangerous—you’re fucking dangerous, the way you have him wrapped around your pinky, handling him like a rescue worker would a fighting dog.

“N-No,” he stutters his admission, and he’s not sure how much longer he can resist your touch. “No one did. Ever.”

“Tsk.” You click your tongue in disdain, though your frown melts away as soon as you pull back to look at him—only to see how wrecked he already is. “Can’t have that, love. You do have a pretty cock... and a nice pair of balls, too.” And you pick up your pace some, stroking his shaft firmer and faster while the slick, obscene sounds cut through the silence of your house.

He groans low in his throat, his cock throbs in your hands and your eyes crinkle as you watch him blush a deeper shade of pink under your praise, unable to meet your eyes at this point. “Are you going cum for me already, hm?” you purr, eyes glinting with mischief and glee.

You bite your bottom lip as your own heart flutters with excitement. “Gonna cum for mommy?”

Simon’s eyes fly open at your words, head snapping forward while his heavily dilated pupils fixate on your own glossy gaze as he exhales a shuddering breath, his mouth going dry, toes curling inside his boots, his vision blurring at the edges as if you’ve just reset his whole being to factory settings. He’s a goner.

“M-Mommy,” he whines, and it feels so bloody good to say it, to be able to let his guard down wholly. “Fuck, ‘m gonna–“

“Gonna what?” you prompt, a wicked smile tilting your lips despite the rush of affection stirring in your chest. Simon’s reactions are so delectably unfiltered, raw, and sweet, it makes you want to give him the entire world. “Gonna make a mess all mommy’s fingers like a good boy?”

Simon lets out a choked moan, hips jerking almost involuntarily into your hand. He’s lost all coherent thought, his face flushed behind the balaclava, and he might as well let you do whatever the hell you please with him.

As if his skull has been cracked open like a quail egg, all his dark thoughts have seeped out of his brain for once, allowing him to finally indulge in something so divine.

“Feels good, mommy,” he slurs, barely recognizing his own voice anymore. His hand reaches out, pawing at your plump hips like a drowning man, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s scared you’re going to vanish into thin air if he lets go of you a smidge. “Feels so fuckin’ good.”

You hum in delight, smiling so wide your cheeks start twitching as you watch this tank of a man crumble under a few saccharine words and a pair of soft hands on his neglected cock.

“Come on now, love. Show me exactly how good you can be for me.”

The need to watch and make him come undone under your touch, to feel his balls tighten and his shaft throb in your grasp as he erupts with his orgasm, is more intense and urgent than it ever has been before.

Meanwhile, Simon is teetering on the edge of sanity or his climax, he can’t tell anymore. His entire body is taut like a bowstring, his tawny eyes now glassy with arousal, unseeing, unthinking, merely focused on your weight on his lap, your thick thighs bracketing his and your supple hands on his cock, and then you tell him—be a good boy—and something snaps inside his brain.

Simon’s breath stutters in his chest, and he goes rigid like a steel rod, unable to do anything but obey. “M’comin’,” he whimpers a warning, his voice thick and guttural. There’s a note of despair in there, too, like he’s begging for permission, and his muscular thighs tremble so hard underneath you, it feels like he’s playing Bumpety Bump Rider with you.

You lean in, trapping his cock between your bodies as you stroke his prick faster, crooning into his ear: “Let go for me, sweet boy.”

And it’s all Simon needs.

His balls draw up against his crotch, his mouth opens with a sharp gasp, and he makes a sound. Something primal, guttural, a raw and feral noise that comes from deep down his chest, somewhere he didn’t even know was still alive because he can’t remember the last time he made that kind of sound, if ever.

You’re holding the strings, and he’s your bloody puppet. “Come for me, love,” you command again, so soft and sugary, it leaves his clenched teeth aching.

Those words are like a trigger, and a long, guttural moan rips from his chest as his body convulses; thighs straining, muscles flexing, back arching off the backrest while his last braincell makes him hold onto your hips to keep you from dropping off his lap.

He’s coming and suddenly, every other time he’s touched himself before you appeared in his life, seems like time wasted completely. Nothing could have come close to what you’re doing to him, and Simon fears, nothing will, ever again.

His orgasm is explosive and messy, and he feels like he’s shaking apart at the seams; his vision whitens and his eyes roll back as he spills over your fingers and knuckles, rope after rope of his sticky cum coating his buff chest and clenching stomach like a dam that has been broken.

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Look’it this!” Your delighted voice is the only thing keeping him from fainting on the spot. “That’s a good, good boy.” You’ve taken him to oblivion and back, given him his first hand job in his miserable life, all while you’re so blissfully unaware of it.

Your words and praises—so goddamn soft and sweet—are the only thing keeping him grounded while his brain turns to mush, his breathing turning ragged like a wounded animal on its last breaths. His eyes flutter close behind the balaclava, utterly speechless, as he lets himself drown in your presence, your warmth, your kindness.

He is yours. Every single rotten inch of him.

And he’s never belonged to anyone like this before.

[ssshiversss]

MAPPING REVACHOL (2.0)

Back in July of 2024, I was incredibly inspired by the project Mapping Revachol by Map Max and wanted to continue on with an attempt of my own. The canon map we're given felt out of date and more than a little incongruous with what we're told in-game, and being both an avid fanfic writer and compulsive visualizer, I really wanted to be able to see Revachol in my mind's eyes.

So, taking inspiration from both Map Max's attempt, as well as meticulously combing through in-game dialogue (with the help of my intrepid friend and far more meticulous researcher than I, @spine-y) we scoured Fayde for any and all directional references to the different districts of Jamrock, East and West Revachol, and everything that lay beyond. (Shoutout to the MoralIntern questline, that one came in clutch).

I took a few liberties with district placement, especially because the wiki also seems to contradict a few things we're told in the game. You may not agree with my choices, and I'm open to suggestions! I may not make any changes anytime soon because this took forever, but I also welcome any other attempts to map Revachol!

(The red line that cuts through Central Jamrock and Faubourg is Boogie Street!)

Included below is my initial sketch before I realized that doing this in markers and microns would actually be the death of me, and then some of the early screenshots of trying to figure out what the hell the 8-81 would actually look like and how to make it make sense.

Does it make perfect sense? No! I'm not a cartographer; I'm a fanartist. I'd much rather draw men dicking each other down nasty style. But this was an incredibly fun project that only took me... only six months to complete.

I hope you enjoy!

--

I NEED YOU.  YOU CAN KEEP ME ON THIS EARTH. BE VIGILANT. I LOVE YOU.