#recovering piglet

[bpd-shuichi-togo]

shuichi and toji are so. they are SOOO. both responding to an environment that is alienating and hostile to them on a fundamental level, and toji internalizes this violence and says 'okay I'll kill myself and anyone like me in service of this system' while shuichi just goes 'Oh You Think You're Funny ? Well I'm About To Be Hilarious :)'

[diamonddaze01]

FIELD NOTES: FROM THE SHALLOW END

༄.° pairing: jeon wonwoo x f!reader | ༄.° wc: 7.7k ༄.° genre: nanny diary au | au pair!reader ༄.° warnings: definitely some angst + self-spiraling, bad/negligent rich people parenting, consumption of alcohol, mentions of vomit ༄.° a/n: for cam and em's carat bay collab! was so grateful to take part in another collab and experiment with my writing style a bit :)) please do check out all the other amazing authors in this collab, they are all so so so dear to me

Entry #1: On the Indigenous Habits of the Affluent Family on Summer Vacation June 13th, 3:04 PM

In the wilds of Carat Bay, the modern matriarch is most commonly spotted with an oat milk matcha and AirPods, muttering something about KPIs. The modern patriarch is nowhere to be seen, having mumbled something about a “board meeting” and “golf with the boys.” Their offspring, small but feral, roam through chlorinated terrain. Their natural prey? Au pairs in department store swimsuits.

Junseo had eaten four frozen lemonades and was now in the middle of what experts in the field might call “a sugar-induced sprint toward cardiac disaster.”

“Junseo, no running by the pool!” you shout, too late. He slips, recovers, and keeps going like a greased piglet on roller skates.

Across the concrete savannah of Carat Bay’s family pool zone, Junhee is in her usual position: crouched at the border between chlorinated civilization and murky wilderness, pool noodle in hand. She is attempting to commit amphibicide via repeated poking of a highly displeased frog.

“Junhee, love, leave the frog alone—he lives here!”

“His name is Boba!” she screams back.

The frog does not look like a Boba. He looks like he’s reconsidering all of his life choices, which, frankly, makes two of you.

Your sandals squeak—a mistake you didn’t realize you’d made until about an hour into your first shift. They’re cute, sure. But tractionless. Supportless. Flat as your social life ever since you moved back in with your parents and became, for lack of better options, an anthropologist in exile.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Just a few months ago you were crossing the graduation stage in soft linen, clutching your master’s degree in anthropology like it meant something. You had been so certain academia would need someone like you—sharp-eyed, good at syntax, fluent in both fieldwork and feminist theory.

Turns out, the only people hiring anthropologists in this economy are tech companies doing ethics theater and pharmaceutical firms in need of plausible deniability.

You had been dying slowly on your parents’ couch for exactly three weeks when your friend Lexi sent the flyer:

Want to make $$$ babysitting rich kids all summer? Full access to country club, pool, catered lunches. No drowning allowed. :)

You had laughed. And then, somewhere between the fourth rejection email and your mother asking if you wanted to help organize her sock drawer, you’d sent in a resume. You even lied and said you liked children. Two days later, you were hired. The check had commas in it.

Now you’re standing in a wet Target swimsuit, sunburn blooming across your chest, wondering if the rash on your neck is from stress, sweat, or the “reef-safe, organic, mommy-formulated” sunscreen that smells like expired chamomile and four-day-old chlorine.

“Junseo,” you call again, “do not eat that bandaid!”

The bandaid goes into his mouth. The bandaid is chewed. You scream internally.

Your employer, Mrs. Cho,  the mother of these twin terrors, has not moved from her perch in the family cabana for the last forty minutes. She’d tossed you a dismissive “just make sure they don’t drown” before retreating into her kaftan and a Zoom meeting. She’s been there ever since: AirPods in, matcha sweating on the teakwood side table, gesturing wildly as she mutters about influencers and packaging aesthetics.

You, meanwhile, are the last line of defense between civilization and frog-assisted chaos.

Later, after bribing the children into a nap with gummy worms and a story you mostly made up about a magical flamingo who goes to therapy, you collapse onto a sun-warmed lounger just outside the cabana. It's one of the only moments of quiet you’ve had since arriving. The kind of quiet that rings a little in your ears.

You close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Maybe consider what a plane ticket to literally anywhere else might cost.

That’s when you feel it—a shift in the light. A shadow cast across your body.

You blink up.

There’s a boy—no, not quite. A man. Mid-twenties, maybe. Dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, expression unreadable. His nametag says Wonwoo. He’s wearing the Carat Bay staff polo, a towel slung casually over his shoulder. His left hand holds a chilled bottle of water, condensation trailing lazy rivulets down his fingers.

He offers it wordlessly.

You take it, startled. “Thank you,” you say, your voice hoarse from yelling and sun.

He doesn’t speak. Just gives you a single, small nod, and walks away.

You watch his back retreat into the shimmer of pool heat, the bottle already cold against your lips.

You don’t know it yet, but this is the last peaceful moment you’ll have for a while.

Entry #2: On Power Hierarchies and Poolside Social Climbing June 20th, 11:35 AM

In most pack dynamics, the alpha asserts dominance through elaborate displays of confidence. At Carat Bay, this involves hosting themed pool parties and knowing the regional manager’s golf handicap. Among the matriarchs, alliances shift over whose offspring made swim team and who dared to bring store-bought cupcakes to the birthday cabana. It is important to master the subtle art of pretending one is not competing.

You lose your hearing somewhere around the fifth time Junhee screams, “I DON’T WANNA BE A ZEBRA.”

Junseo, face flushed with fury and injustice, echoes her like a demonic chorus: “WE’RE NOT ZEBRAS! I WANNA BE A T-REX!”

“Fine,” you hiss, crouched on the cabana floor with one knee in a puddle of apple juice, “be a godda–dang dinosaur in a zebra onesie, just get in the outfit.”

Today is not your day.

Today is Savannah Safari Birthday™, an event as horrifying as it is aggressively coordinated. The themed party, hosted by one of the more alpha Carat Bay mothers (you learn her name is Seoyeon, but she goes by Stacie, spelled with an ‘ie’ like a threat), has transformed her family cabana into an influencer’s fever dream. Giant cardboard giraffes. Balloon arches in beige and gold. Matching straw hats for all children. And a disturbingly lifelike stuffed zebra standing near the dessert table like it's waiting for a sacrifice.

You wrangle the twins into their assigned costumes—faux-animal-print rompers with little ears on the hoods—while they shriek like banshees at a frequency NASA might want to study.

By the time you emerge into the main cabana area, sweating and frayed, the pool moms are already circling each other like predators in designer plumage.

“Did you hear?” one says, adjusting her visor. “Eunkyung got waitlisted for pre-competitive swim. Waitlisted. And they just redid their pool.”

A blonde with glistening shoulders gasps theatrically. “Waitlisted? Oh no. Maybe she can take up something less... saturated. Pickleball, maybe.”

There’s laughter, brittle as pressed glass.

You hover near the fruit skewers, pretending to supervise the twins as they pelt each other with animal crackers. That’s when you hear it: the first volley fired in your direction.

“Aw, is your niece helping you today?” one of the moms trills, gesturing at you without looking. Her sunglasses are enormous and opaque.

“She’s adorable,” another adds, tone sweet and scalding. “That suit is so… real. You just don’t see people being brave about texture anymore.”

You blink, mouth parting slightly. You’re not sure whether to laugh or start quoting Margaret Mead in self-defense.

“Actually,” you say slowly, “I’m their au pair.”

They blink back, uncomprehending. One finally nods. “Oh! Like an assistant.”

Sure. Like that.

You eventually find yourself corralled in a shady corner with the other au pairs and nannies—two from Portugal, one from Toronto, and one with an indeterminate accent who looks like she’s seen war. Together, you trade horror stories like wartime nurses. One saw a child try to feed a wedding ring to a koi fish. Another was asked to prepare an all-raw vegan lunch for a toddler who eats crayons. You are both horrified and comforted. Trauma loves company.

It ends, as all things do, in carnage. A child screams because someone else got to sit on the fake zebra. Another sobs over the injustice of the animal-shaped cupcakes melting in the heat. You grab the twins, now sticky with fruit and full on far too much cake for their afternoon nap, and make a beeline for the cabana exit just as one of the moms begins berating a nanny for not predicting her daughter’s alleged strawberry allergy.

You’re almost free.

Almost.

And then you crash directly into someone solid.

You go down like a bowling pin.

“Oh my god!” Junseo howls. “YOU FELL!”

“Like, BOOM!” Junhee adds, collapsing into giggles.

You are on the hot concrete, stunned, clutching your elbow and your remaining dignity.

And there he is again.

Wonwoo.

He’s traded his polo for a linen button-up, slightly wrinkled and unfairly flattering. He looks down at you, impassive.

“Hey,” he says.

You blink up at him. “Hi.”

He offers a hand. You take it, and he pulls you up with barely any effort. His hand is warm. Callused. There’s a quiet strength to him, like a character in a Ghibli film who lives alone in the woods and speaks only in cryptic haikus.

Before you can say anything else, one of the moms descends like a hawk. Or a hyena that’s recently had fillers.

“Oh, Wonwoo,” she purrs, practically draping herself across his side. Her teeth gleam. “I didn’t know you were back from Singapore. Is your father joining us for the benefit this year?”

He gently disentangles himself.

“He’s expecting me for lunch,” he replies, tone polite and final.

Her lips purse. You watch her recalibrate in real time, already turning toward another potential social rung.

Wonwoo glances back at you. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s something faint in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or pity. Or just wind.

Then he’s gone.

Later, when the twins are face-first in naps (which took a significant amount of wrangling to achieve) and your phone finally has a signal, you search his name.

Jeon Wonwoo.

Son of the owner. Executive board. Dartmouth-educated. There’s a press photo of him at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a sustainability initiative.

Of course.

You drop the phone onto the lounge chair beside you and cover your face with a towel.

Maybe he’s not so different from the moms after all.

Or maybe worse—maybe he’s just better at pretending he isn’t.

Entry #3: On The Nanny Condition (Also Known As: “Doormat Syndrome”) June 30th, 12:47 PM

Subservience in child-rearing roles is often mistaken for passivity. However, this is more accurately understood as the practiced stillness of someone who has weathered too many juice spills and tantrums. It is not a weakness, but a form of strategic surrender – resignation honed into an art.

It starts the way all days start now: with screaming.

You don’t even flinch anymore. Junseo has weaponized volume as a strategy. Junhee has started using phrases like “I’m telling Mommy!” even though Mommy, at this point, might as well be a cryptid. You text Mrs. Cho about the lunch situation and get no response. You text again. Then once more, with slightly more passive-aggression. Still nothing.

Mr. Cho is presumably in a meeting, on a plane, or golfing through time. His only presence this week has been the sound of an engine disappearing down the driveway at six-fifteen each morning. You’re beginning to suspect he has never actually seen the twins awake.

By 11:30, it’s full meltdown hour. Junhee has decided to sob violently about the wrong flavor of juice. Junseo is lying on the pool deck and pretending to die of hunger. You make the tragic mistake of attempting to fix this by visiting the snack bar—only to find it’s out of chicken nuggets.

Of course it is.

The cabana attendant (your supposed lifeline in this glittering suburban dystopia) is nowhere to be found. Probably hiding behind a towel cart and Googling how to fake appendicitis.

A mom walks by, sipping iced espresso in a wine glass. She clocks the situation—the spilled juice, your panicked rustling through bags, the tantrum echoing off the water—and gives you the kind of look normally reserved for videos of shelter dogs.

Then, like a scene change in a commercial for laundry detergent, he appears.

Wonwoo. The cabana attendant from three down, and apparently some sort of summer camp MacGyver.

Without a word, he crouches beside your mess of a pool chair, reaches into his tote, and withdraws two juice boxes like they’ve been summoned by divine intervention.

“Trade secret,” he says, handing them over. “I keep a stash for emergencies.”

The twins freeze mid-wail. Their heads swivel toward the juice. Junhee actually snatches it like a raccoon who’s just spotted an unattended churro.

You mouth thank you as chaos briefly, miraculously, subsides. Wonwoo gives a small shrug, like it's no big deal that he's just singlehandedly de-escalated a Code Red tantrum. Then he starts rummaging through his bag again.

“Here,” he says, offering you a slightly squished protein bar. “You look like you might pass out before 2. Not a great look in front of the junior elite.”

You stare at the bar, then at him. “Are you always this prepared?”

He squints at the twins, now peacefully arguing over whether dinosaurs could swim. “Experience.”

He rises, but pauses. “Oh, and: sing to them,” he adds, like it’s obvious. “The nap goes easier if you sing. Something simple. Doesn’t matter what.”

You blink. “You know a lot about naps.”

He smirks. Whisper-soft, barely there. “Only the essential ones.”

And then he’s walking away. You’re about to call after him, maybe say something actually coherent, when you spot it. Just barely poking out of his overstuffed bag, next to sunscreen and a spare shirt:

A Secret History, cover creased, dog-eared, loved.

The twins fall asleep in your lap thirty minutes later, sticky fingers curled around juice boxes, heads tilted together like cherubs.

You hum a lullaby under your breath. It works.

Maybe this doormat thing isn’t about surrender, you think, watching the sun cut soft lines through their hair. Maybe it’s about endurance. Outlasting the storm. Knowing when to bend, and when to hum.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re not the only one pretending.

Entry #4: A Brief Field Guide to Cabana Boys (Genus: Mysteriousus Hotus) July 12th, 7:30 PM

Often underestimated, the Cabana Boy is a curious species: quiet, observant, and frequently found next to industrial-sized coolers. Contrary to popular belief, he is not just decorative. He may, in fact, be reading Donna Tartt during fireworks displays and composing short fiction between towel runs. 

You're not sure when you started paying attention. Not in the obvious way—wrangling two five-year-olds who are constantly on the verge of a sugar-induced existential crisis leaves little room for distractions. But somewhere between juice box negotiations and sunscreen reapplications, you noticed the pattern.

Wonwoo clocks in for his 1:00 PM shift at 12:53 on the dot, every day. Rain or shine.

He always brings a slightly crumbly granola bar at exactly 12:45 and hands it over without ceremony. He’s also taken to giving unsolicited (but disturbingly effective) child-wrangling tips.

“If you let them watch an episode of Clifford in the shade, they mellow out.” “Junhee will eat steamed broccoli if Junseo is watching.” “They nap better if you hum the Indiana Jones theme.”

When you ask how he knows this, he just shrugs.

“I’ve watched them grow up here.”

He folds towels into perfect thirds—perfect enough to undo the entire previous shift’s work, muttering about symmetry.

And he always—always—has a book in his bag. You’ve clocked A Secret History, Beloved, Middlesex, and now—somehow—Antigone. You, being a civilized person, use sticky notes. He dog-ears. He highlights. You try not to hold it against him.

Then one night, the miracle. A fireworks show lures both Mr. and Mrs. Cho into spending quality time with their children—together—and for the first time in thirty-one days, you are given a few hours off.

You wander the resort grounds in what you tell yourself is idle exploration. You're not looking for him, not exactly. You're just…curious.

You find him perched in the shade outside the Cabana Attendants' Shack, book open, fingers curled at the spine. The sunset drapes him in gold.

“Greek tragedy?” you ask, nodding at the cover.

He startles slightly. Then sees it’s you and offers that small, lopsided smile that always feels like a secret.

“Loyalty to family and all that.” He snaps the book shut. “Why, do you have a favorite?”

The conversation unfolds in sideways glances and thoughtful pauses. He’s more well-read than you expected—not that you ever assumed he was dumb, but you didn’t quite picture him as the kind of guy who casually references Antigone while sipping Gatorade.

You want to bring up the fact that he’s the rumored heir to the waterpark conglomerate whose name is literally embroidered on your staff polo, but you don’t. He doesn’t bring it up, either.

Instead, you trail him as he clocks back in and begins his closing duties. You talk as he refolds towels, delivers last-call lemonades, and waves kids off the splash pad.

He’s soft-spoken but sharp, a bit of a walking contradiction. He debates philosophy with the same tone he uses to explain popsicle storage procedures.

He quotes The Odyssey unprompted. You’re unsure if you’re gagging or swooning. Possibly both. He laughs. The good kind—the kind that makes you want to say something clever, just to earn it again.

And then:

A string of texts from Mrs. Cho.

Where are you? Can you be back in ten? Junseo is trying to drink the pool water again.

Three hours gone in a blink.

You sigh, brushing off your shorts. “Duty calls.”

He doesn’t protest. Just reaches into his bag and hands you a worn paperback with a faded spine.

“You’d like this,” he says. “Don’t worry. I only highlighted a little.”

As you jog back to the family villa, the book clutched under your arm, you catch yourself smiling. You don’t know what exactly just happened—but you know you’re already looking forward to tomorrow.

The Cabana Boy: mysterious, mythological, mildly infuriating.

You’re definitely going to need another field guide.

Entry #5: On Emotional Labor (And How to Pretend You’re Fine) July 18th, 3:56 PM

Among caretakers, the phrase “I’m fine” functions less as a truth and more as a survival mechanism – an autopilot response honed through repetition, like muscle memory or disassociation. It’s not an admission of wellness so much as a polite way of saying: I have exactly six fruit snacks and half a juice box keeping me together right now, please do not ask follow-up questions. 

Today is the worst day on record. Not just this summer—ever.

Junhee is feverish and glassy-eyed. Junseo hasn’t stopped crying since 9:07 AM. The phrase “I want mommy” has been used with increasing volume and ferocity for six straight hours.

And still, Mrs. Cho floats in after breakfast, clacking away in her designer heels like you’re just another inconvenience in a long string of logistics. She deposits them into your arms with the same care one might give a bag of dry cleaning. She clacks off in Valentino heels without a glance back. She says “they’ve been so moody lately,” as if their tear-streaked faces and refusal to be peeled off your torso aren’t a screaming counterargument.

Even Wonwoo, usually the child-whisperer, strikes out. He tries Clifford. He tries juice box diplomacy. He even pulls out the secret popsicle stash. Nothing works.

The grand finale: Junhee vomits bright blue Slushie all over your shirt just as Mrs. Cho reappears.

She gasps, horrified—not at her child, no. At you. “This is completely inappropriate. What did you even feed him?”

You’re too shocked to speak.

Wonwoo watches from across the cabana, eyes wide, towel frozen mid-fold. And then—just like that—you snap.

Your eyes are already stinging, breath hitching. You mutter something about needing a minute, and walk fast. Not away from the cabana—out.

You don’t know where you're going, just that it needs to be anywhere else. You barrel through pool chairs, past shrieking toddlers, past lifeguards gossiping about hot guests, and you barely notice the quiet footsteps trailing behind you.

A hand catches your upper arm. Not rough, just... certain.

Wonwoo pulls you into the cool, echoey silence of the staff locker room and sits you down like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You don’t resist.

You sit, shoulders trembling. He turns to his locker, rifling through it. A few seconds later, he tosses a shirt into your lap.

“Here. It’s clean. Smells weird, though. You might smell like sunscreen and... me.”

You pick it up with shaking hands. Chlorine, citrus deodorant, rain. Wonwoo. It hits like a trigger.

And then— You lose it.

Not the gentle, single-tear kind of cinematic breakdown. No. This is a crash out. Full-body. Unfiltered.

You're pacing now, the shirt clutched in your hand like a lifeline, voice cracking with every word.

“I hate this family.” “I swear to God, if that woman says one more thing about how hard parenting is—while dumping her kids on me like they’re furniture—I’m gonna lose my actual goddamn mind.” “I’m twenty-three! I should be backpacking in Spain or studying abroad or—I don’t know—eating a yogurt in peace without someone screaming about their sock being too tight.”

You kick a locker.

“And I’m trying so hard. I’m doing everything right. I’ve read so many blogs, Wonwoo.”

You turn toward him, eyes red-rimmed and wild.

“And you know what I get? Vomited on. In public.”

He hasn’t moved. Just sits on the bench, legs spread, arms on his knees, staring up at you like he’s watching a fire he’s not sure how to put out. Like he knows he’ll burn if he gets too close—but also that maybe it’s worth it.

“Are you… done?” he asks, finally. Gently.

You stop. Blink. And then let out a small, wet laugh that sounds more like a sob. You sit down hard next to him, the adrenaline draining from your limbs all at once.

“I think so.”

He leans back slightly. Not touching you, but close enough that you can feel the calm radiating off him.

“Better?”

You don’t answer immediately. You don’t know. But you nod anyway. And he accepts it, like that’s enough.

You sit there, the two of you, in chlorine-scented silence. His shirt still bunched in your lap. Your breathing slows. You count your heartbeats.

And for the first time all summer, someone lets you be tired. Not “still smiling” tired. Not “push through it” tired. Just... human.

You think, maybe, that matters more than anything.

Entry #6: On the Sociocultural Function of Shared Snacks (And Other Low-Stakes Intimacies) July 25th, 6:23 PM

Anthropological theory suggests that the exchange of Goldfish and Capri Suns constitutes a primitive yet potent form of courtship. Especially when accompanied by verbal rituals such as, “You look like you need a break,” and, “Do you want the last one?” While not as elaborate as other mating rituals, these offerings appear to hold significant emotional currency. Further study is required, but initial findings suggest: this may be how modern love begins. 

There’s a rhythm now. He always saves the last piña colada juice box for you. You always act like you don’t care and then accept it anyway, muttering something about “fake cocktails for fake lifeguards.” He always laughs. You always drink it.

You make fun of the way he organizes the towel bins—by saturation level, apparently. “This one’s damp-damp, and that one’s wet-wet? You okay, Marie Kondo?”

Wonwoo shrugs like he’s heard worse, like maybe he’s even proud of it. “It brings me peace.”

It’s easy with him. He always finds his way to your cabana when things are quiet. No one sends him. He just appears. He drops into the lounge chair beside you like he belongs there, legs stretched out, sunglasses slipping down his nose. Sometimes he brings snacks—peanut butter pretzels, Goldfish, gummy worms he claims are “for the kids.” You both know better.

You talk books. Somehow he’s never read Magic Treehouse, which you find personally offensive. “It’s basically required reading for emotionally unstable gifted kids.”

He grins. “Sounds like I dodged a bullet.”

“You’d love it,” you tell him, tossing a pretzel at his face. “You’re such a Virgo.”

“I’m not a Virgo.”

“Spiritually, though.”

He makes you laugh at least once a day. Not a polite laugh. An ugly, tired, full-body snort—the kind that feels like exhaling something heavy.

One afternoon, your fingers brush when he hands you a juice box. The contact is brief, but it lingers. Just enough to make you glance up, and he’s already looking back. Not with some dramatic, swoon-worthy gaze—just steady. Familiar. Like he knows you. Like he sees you.

And then, inevitably, the twins start screaming about a grasshopper. One of them insists it’s going to bite their nose off. The moment cracks clean in half. Wonwoo groans, gets up, and trudges off to play bug bouncer. You watch him go, vaguely amused. A little disappointed.

Later, when the cabana is blissfully quiet again, you ask him something you’ve been holding onto for a while.

“Why do you work here when you don’t need to?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stares at the pool, unreadable. For a second, you think he’s going to deflect with a joke—but instead, he says, quietly, “It’s easier to know people when they’re not pretending.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s been sitting in the air this whole time, waiting for you to notice.

You don’t quite know what to do with that. But you don’t push.

Instead, you hand him the last peanut butter pretzel without a word. He takes it. And for now, that feels like enough.

Entry #7: On Burnout, Bus Rides, and the Quiet in Between July 31st, 8:39 PM

The much-awaited night off is often viewed as an unproductive lull in the performance of domestic labor. But for the emotionally fried caretaker figure, it is the only sanctioned absence where no one cries, no one spills, and no one demands apple slices cut the “right” way. It is the lone moment in which the help is not expected to perform servitude with a smile. In anthropological terms: a brief return to personhood. 

You end up at a bus stop just outside the waterpark. The sun’s long gone, and so are your responsibilities, at least for the next few hours. You’re not even sure where you’re headed. You just wanted to leave. To move. To breathe. You might be a little tipsy—courtesy of the fully stocked cabana bar—but that’s between you and whatever god watches over tired girls with aching feet and full hearts.

Wonwoo finds you under the weak, flickering light of the stop like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What are you doing here?”

“I have the night off,” you say, nudging a pebble with the toe of your sandal. “Didn’t know where to go. I’m not from here.”

He looks at you for a moment, then smiles. “You’ve got the whole night off?”

You nod just as the bus pulls up. He doesn’t hesitate, just holds out his arm and asks, “Wanna do something fun?”

You giggle, loop your arm through his, and climb aboard.

The bus ride is a quiet kind of lovely. The kind that lets your bones settle after a day of noise and chlorine and children threatening to stage a coup over who gets the blue floatie. You’re too tired to flirt, and he doesn’t seem to mind. He offers his shoulder, opens a book, and lets you lean.

“I didn’t know you took the bus,” you mumble, sleep thick in your voice.

He chuckles. “Why? Thought I had a Porsche?”

You smile into the fabric of his shirt. “What kind of chaebol son doesn’t have a sports car?”

“I do,” he says, tapping his fingers as he leans in close enough for you to get a whiff of his cologne. It’s earthy. Warm. “It’s just hard to park.”

Eventually, the bus rolls into a small downtown area lit with fairy lights, where families drift between ice cream shops and late-night cafés. Wonwoo takes your hand and tugs you down a side street, stopping in front of what looks like an abandoned bookstore. The sign is faded. The windows are dark.

You squint. “On my one night off this summer, you brought me to a murder scene?”

He scoffs, already pulling keys from his pocket. “I clerked here in high school. The owner never asked for them back.”

Inside, the air smells like dust and old stories. He flips on a few lamps and the space flickers to life—messy and charming in a way that feels sacred.

What follows is, undeniably, a reading date. But you both pretend it’s not. It can’t be. Not when summer is almost over. Not when you’ve seen what happens to girls who let themselves want too much.

Still, you talk. You read. He shows you where he used to stash beanbags as a teenager and the corner of a shelf where he carved his name when he was seventeen. He pulls down a hollowed-out book that still contains an unopened bag of gummy bears. When he throws one toward you, you catch it in your mouth without breaking eye contact, and he laughs so hard he nearly drops the whole bag.

At some point, you sigh about how much you miss Cherry Garcia ice cream. He disappears, and a few minutes later, returns with a milkshake.

“It’s not ice cream,” he says, offering it to you, “but it is Cherry Garcia.”

You take one sip and groan. “You’re dangerous.”

“We can split it,” he offers, clearly pleased with himself.

You settle back into the beanbags with the milkshake between you. His shoulder brushes yours. Your pinkies touch. You’re pretty sure this is what love feels like—soft and slow and unbearably sweet.

You’re just about to lean in when your phone rings.

Mrs. Cho.

You answer, and before you can even say hello, her voice cuts through, sharp and desperate. “I need you back. They won’t sleep until you sing to them. Come back now.”

The twins are screaming in the background.

You shoot up, already apologizing, already stuffing your phone in your pocket and looking for your bag.

Wonwoo follows you to the door. Just as you reach for the handle, his hand wraps gently around your wrist.

“You’re the only person from the waterpark I’ve shown this store to,” he says, voice low, almost unsure, and it takes all the willpower in the world not to push him up against the stacks and kiss him stupid. “We should– we should do this again. If you want.” 

You should go. You have to go. But instead, you rise on your tiptoes and press a feather-light kiss to his cheek.

“I would love that,” you whisper.

Then you're gone, milkshake in hand, racing back to the chaos. But the softness of that night stays with you.

Entry #8: On the Perfect Family (And Other Bedtime Stories) August 12th, 1:56 PM

Anthropologists agree that the family unit, built on generations of blood and loyalty, is sacred. This theory begins to unravel around 1:07 PM, when the matriarch of the Cho family – Balenciaga-clad and Bluetooth’d – screams at her offspring for dripping popsicle juice on her Hermès towel. The offspring seek emotional refuge in the arms of the hired help. This only infuriates the matriarch further. Field notes suggest that the sacred family unit may, in fact, be a PR stunt. 

The cabana smells like sun-warmed linen and something floral—maybe Mrs. Cho’s perfume. You sit cross-legged on the floor, the twins clambering onto your lap, sticky popsicle juice glistening on their chins. Junseo hiccups, eyes wide, while Junhee presses her damp cheek against your arm, seeking shelter.

Then it happens.

A sharp, slicing voice cuts through the quiet: “Why is there juice dripping on my Hermès towel?” Mrs. Cho storms in, Balenciaga heels clicking like thunder on pavement. The Bluetooth earpiece flashes a faint blue as she glares at you, voice rising like a storm.

The twins flinch. Junhee blinks up at her mother like she’s seeing a stranger. Junseo presses closer to you, face buried in your shirt. You feel the warmth of their small bodies, the tremble in their chests. You are not their mother. You know that. But in moments like this, someone has to be.

Mrs. Cho snaps, “Do not coddle them. This is why they don’t respect me.”

You stand slowly, steadying the children behind you.

“I’m just trying to calm them down,” you say, carefully.

“Oh, please.” Her tone sharpens. “You don’t think I see what you’re doing? What everyone sees? The other mothers laugh behind your back — the little nanny girl and the owner’s son playing house.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m not—”

“I’m not finished.” She steps closer. “You are not their mother. Stop pretending to be. Stop making them believe you are.”

You blink once, twice. And then you break.

“No,” you snap. “You stop. You stop making them believe I’m their mother. You leave them with me for ten hours a day, five days a week. You miss their birthdays. You forget their allergies. You don't even know Junhee likes frogs or that Junseo has nightmares when it rains. You don’t see them. But I do.”

She stiffens. You press the twins behind you gently.

“For fuck’s sake, Mrs. Cho,” you whisper, too tired to yell anymore. “Do you really think this is how good mothers act?”

The silence that follows is jagged. Sharp.

You don't wait for her to respond. You turn. You walk — briskly, almost blindly — past the frozen faces in the walkway, past Wonwoo standing by the corner, unreadable.

You don’t stop until you’re outside.

Night comes like a soft blanket. You’re at the twins’ bedside again, tracing their damp hair, humming lullabies until their breathing evens out. Mrs. Cho sits stiffly across the room, staring at her phone. Her husband lounges on the couch, like nothing happened. As if nothing ever happens. 

You're walking beside the lazy river, hands stuffed into the pockets of your hoodie, when you hear the familiar tread of footsteps behind you.

Wonwoo.

You don’t look at him.

“I heard everything,” he says.

You don’t say anything. You keep walking.

“She was way out of line.”

You stop. “You don’t need to defend me.”

“I’m not,” he says quietly. “I’m angry.”

You turn to him. “Why? Why do you even care?”

He falters. “Because I—”

You laugh bitterly. “You what, Wonwoo? You care about me? You want to play the hero now? Where were you earlier? When she humiliated me in front of everyone? You just stood there.”

“I didn’t know what to do—”

“You never know what to do,” you snap, voice cracking. “You always wait until I’m falling apart and then you show up when it’s safe again. When I’ve already picked up my pieces.”

His jaw clenches.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but it sounds like sandpaper. “I should’ve said something. I wanted to.”

“And now what? You want me to pat you on the back because you chased me down after sunset?” Your voice breaks. “This isn’t a fucking romance movie, Wonwoo. You don’t get points for showing up late.”

He stares at you — really stares — and then he says, low and quiet, “I didn’t chase you down for points.”

You shake your head and look away.

“I came because I couldn't let you walk away thinking I didn’t care.” He takes a step closer. “You’re not just someone I flirt with by the pool. You’re not just the girl who helps with the twins. You’re...”

His voice falters.

“You’re the only person who makes this place feel real.”

You feel the ache of it — like something soft tearing.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whisper.

“Neither did I,” he says. “But I’m here.”

And then he kisses you.

It starts hesitant — a question, a breath — but when you don't pull away, he deepens it, slow and hungry. One hand slides to your jaw, the other finds your waist. You kiss him back like you’ve been holding your breath for two whole months. Because you have.

He pulls back just enough to whisper, “Come with me.”

You nod, breathless.

You stumble through the grass, past the empty lounge chairs, half-laughing, half-shaking. He kisses you again by the maintenance shed. Again near the outdoor shower. You lose track of where you’re going. You only know his hands, his mouth, the way he looks at you like you’re something he’s been dying to touch.

By the time you reach the locker room, he’s pushing you gently against the door, lips trailing fire down your neck.

“Fucking finally,” he groans, like it’s been killing him not to say it. His voice in your ear makes your knees buckle.

You grip his shirt, feel the muscles of his back flex under your fingers. He smells like chlorine and sunscreen and gummy bears and sweat and you want, want, want.

He kisses you again, deeper this time — all tongue and teeth and desperation. The kind of kiss that says I missed you, I wanted you, I want you still.

And then, suddenly — mid-kiss, mid-moment — the world crashes back in.

He’s the son of the owner. He drives a Porsche that probably never sees the road and reads Bukowski like it’s gospel.

You? You read bedtime stories and wipe juice off a Hermès towel. You’re an au pair with a paper degree and an expiring visa. Your chest tightens with a thousand what-ifs.

The summer is bleeding out. 

And you're kissing a boy who might not be yours when it ends.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Entry #9: On the Danger of Wanting More August 19th, 4:21 PM

In most societal structures, the help is expected to exist quietly on the periphery – present but visible, useful but never central. And falling for someone above one’s pay grade? Historically ill-advised, frequently humiliating, and almost always doomed. But anthropologists agree that humans are predictable irrational – no amount of emotional detachment can fully protect you from a boy that kisses you stupid and casually quotes Euripedes. 

You pulled away after the kiss, gasping. Dizzy. Brain short-circuiting.

The class divide. The logistics. The impossible futures.

He’s the son of the owner. He could never work another day and still live comfortably into infinity. You’re scraping together tips and spare change, trying to stretch your contract into a real life. He’s got gilded options. You’ve got a ticking clock.

So you avoid him.

When you see him walking toward the cabana for his daily granola bar pilgrimage, you redirect the twins toward the kiddie pool. When he shows up with your favorite pina colada — extra pineapple, no cherry — you pretend it’s nap time. You dodge, deflect, disappear. You rehearse polite excuses until they become muscle memory.

It takes a week for him to finally corner you.

You’re headed to the bathroom, sunglasses on, hoodie up despite the August heat. He intercepts you by the towel stand.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low, not angry but confused.

You blink. “Nothing. Peeing?”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“No…”

“You are,” he says, stepping closer. “Don’t lie. You won’t even look at me.”

You focus intently on a damp footprint on the pavement. “I’ve just been… busy.”

“What did I do wrong?”

He says your name like it matters. Like he means it. A question and a plea and a prayer all at once.

“I thought this was going somewhere,” he says. “Where did I go wrong?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow. Then:

“You didn’t.”

His shoulders drop in relief. He starts to move closer, arms lifting — but you stop him with a hand on his chest.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you repeat. “I did.”

Now he looks confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Wonwoo,” you sigh. “One day, you’re going to take over. You’re going to be CEO of a global resort empire. And me? I’m going to be here. Covered in five-year-olds’ snot and banana crumbs, probably chasing a preschooler into a fountain.”

“So?” he scoffs. “I don’t want this.” He gestures broadly at the lazy river, the snack bar, the sunburned luxury. “I’m not staying. I got into an MFA program. I’m leaving at the end of the month.”

That throws you. “Wait—what? Really?”

He nods. “I want to write. Always have.”

You blink. “Okay… and?”

He reaches out and takes your hand, threading your fingers together like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You don’t have it all figured out,” he says softly. “That’s okay. Neither do I. But what are you gaining from babysitting your own life?”

You want to laugh. Or cry. Or kiss him again. Maybe all three.

But you don’t answer. Not yet.

That night, you get a text.

[Attachment: IMG_0142.jpeg]

A photo of an email. Congratulations! You’ve been accepted to the Creative Writing MFA program at—

[Attachment: PDF Lease Agreement]

Two bedrooms. Hardwood floors. Half a mile from the university. Your hometown.

Then a message from him:

You could write too, you know. I’d read every word.

Entry #10: On Exit Strategies (And the Beginnings We Don’t See Coming) August 23rd, 7:54 AM

In the study of human nature, we often assume that endings are marked, observable events – clean breaks punctuated by ritual. But fieldwork reveals a more complex truth: endings, like goodbyes, are rarely so precise. Sometimes the dissolve quietly, like mist off the surface of a morning pool. Sometimes they masquerade as beginnings. And sometimes, they don’t happen at all – not really. 

It’s your last day at Carat Bay.

The twins start kindergarten on Monday. Their regular au pair — a disheveled girl who looks like she once studied French literature and now only speaks in juice box negotiations — has returned.

You say goodbye to the kids, crouched low to meet their eyes. Junhee hugs you, sticky-fingered and sad. Junseo asks, “Who’ll sing to us now?” in a voice so small it nearly breaks you.

You press teary kisses to their damp little heads. Promise they’ll be okay. They’re good kids. You tell yourself that means something.

You say goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Cho.

Mrs. Cho barely glances up from her phone. She waves vaguely. Her acrylics glint in the sun.

Mr. Cho squints at you from over his tablet. “We had a new nanny this summer?”

You roll your eyes as you walk away, his confusion trailing behind you like bad perfume.

You drag your suitcase down the cobbled path toward the villa’s front gate, sunscreen and chlorine still clinging to your skin. The early morning air smells like pool chemicals and hotel pastries.

And then you see it — the Porsche, parked crooked in the drive like it doesn’t know it’s expensive.

Wonwoo is leaned against the side, arms crossed, sunglasses perched low on his nose like he’s auditioning for a commercial titled Regret Nothing.

He straightens when he sees you, already moving to grab your suitcase.

“So,” he says, like it’s casual. Like it’s not everything. “You comin’ with me?”

You pretend to think. Just for show. Just for the story.

Then you’re moving — fast, reckless — throwing your arms around him like you never learned how to say goodbye. His mouth finds yours in a kiss that feels like a collision — breathless, greedy, impossible. He laughs against your lips as you stumble back against the car, the heat of the hood warming your spine.

“You ever driven a Porsche?” he asks, his grin crooked, summer-sick and daring.

You break the kiss just long enough to smile. “Not yet.”

He presses the keys into your hand like a promise. Like a dare. Like the start of something you didn’t plan for — and maybe that’s the point.

You take the keys. Open the door.

And you drive — not toward an ending.

But into something new.

Epilogue: On Retrospective Analysis and the Unscientific Nature of Love Not Dated (yet)

Anthropologists caution against emotional entanglement with their subjects, citing compromised objectivity, blurred boundaries, and the potential erosion of professional distance. This author would like to report that such boundaries are far more porous when your subject brings you coffee and quotes Aeschylus. In the interest of full disclosure: This author ignored the rule. Repeatedly. And with alarming enthusiasm. 

Three years later, you live together in a house with creaky floors and a crooked porch light. Wonwoo brings you coffee before you've asked for it, sets it beside your laptop with the reverence usually reserved for sacred texts. He reads your pages in silence, a red pen tucked behind one ear, and presses soft kisses to the back of your neck when you write too late into the night.

The work is fiction. Technically. But when he gets to the part about juice boxes and Clifford the Big Red Dog, his fingers find yours. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles that slow, knowing smile he saves for when he catches you pretending not to be sentimental.

He's finished his MFA now. Teaches English at the local high school, spends his afternoons grading essays about Of Mice and Men and trying not to laugh when his students call The Iliad “a chore to read.” He comes home smelling like school lunches and adolescent chaos, drops his bag by the door and finds you, always.

The Porsche sits untouched under your window—an inheritance he never asked for, gathering dust and sun-bleached leaves. He takes the train instead. Says he likes the time to read.

Sometimes, you still wake up waiting for someone to call your name and hand you someone else’s kids. Sometimes, you still flinch when your phone rings. But mostly, you write. And mostly, you’re okay.

There is no neat conclusion. Only this: You’re allowed to want things. You’re allowed to keep them, too.

[justcallme-ange]

Awww! Techno’s Dad!!!

Close! Techno does have an actual mother and father that is his by blood, the Blood God is more a godfather than an actual father? Techno was born a fighter, but he was also smallest of his litter - and very sickly. He's got mixed ancestry - both player and mob, and sometimes the genetics just don't work out. In an attempt to save him after conventional medicine didn't work they offered him to the Blood God as a favor, asking he be healed in exchange for him being the god's champion.

Surprisingly their bargain was accepted and Techno soon recovered and began catching up to his peers. It's because of this mixed ancestry that caught the Blood God's attention, this champion would be like no other. There are traces of this though - while Techno is huge by human standards he's a little small for Piglin standards.

I'm still working on how Piglin culture works, and how childrearing and familial bonds work, but it is communal. So it would be the entire sounder asking the Blood God to save this child. Life is already very hard in the Nether and every one counts towards survival, in numbers there is strength, so losing even one piglet is considered a failure of the community, even if there's nothing that could have been done. The Blood God is strict when it comes to how the natural order must be carried out, but nature does grant miracles every once in a while.

[whoslaurapalmer]

hello. I give you a list of some of my mom's top favorite christmas movies (also some of my own top favs!!) that you should definitely watch if you get the time!!

fitzwilly (1967) -- dick van dyke frequently commits capers so the woman he works for never realizes she's poor -- and also because, he just really loves doing it. he must pull off his final caper to set everything right on christmas eve, in the hallowed gimbels department store. a great cast of character actors in this, including john mcgiver and john fiedler (the voice of piglet!!)

the man who came to dinner (1942) -- the incredible monty woolley, playing an acerbic, egotistical radio host, slips on some icy steps, gets stuck in a house while recovering from the subsequent broken hip, and causes Massive Seasonal Havoc for literally every single person alive. literally the most incredible dialogue you will ever, ever hear, with the most perfect cast to ever come together

the shop around the corner (1940) -- the og you've got mail, with james stewart and margaret sullavan playing the feuding coworkers unknowingly in love with each other (i prefer in the good old summertime (1949), the musical version with judy garland and van johnson (and s.z. sakall!! and buster keaton!!) (and still christmasy, despite the title!!), but! I think we should all see shop around the corner at least once. ernst lubitsch, you know.)

larceny inc (1942) -- edward g robinson parodies his gangster roles in the classic con tale of "recently-released criminal buys store near bank in order to tunnel into the safe". if you've seen edward g play it completely serious in like, double indemnity, PLEASE watch larceny inc, he truly has some of the most incredible comedic delivery ever, as do edward brophy and broderick crawford, also some classic noir and gangster actors having the time of their lives being silly

we're no angels (1955) -- humphrey bogart, peter ustinov, and aldo ray (eric da re's father!!) play escaped criminals who intend to rob a store but end up helping the family who runs it keep it out of the hands of their conniving relative, played by basil rathbone. it can be a little slow but is honestly, very sweet, a little absurd, a little dark comedy, just such a time all around

christmas in connecticut (1945) -- the most Shenanigans to EVER shenanigan. barbara stanwyck plays a magazine writer who's been lying about her life in order to keep her job and write a homesteading column. she cannot cook, or farm, and is not even married. her editor (sydney greenstreet!!) has a recovering soldier come stay at her (unbeknownst to him, actually nonexistent) farm to experience good christmas feeling. Cue The Most Zany Series Of Shenanigans To Keep Up An Absolute Mountain Of Lies

[slashfic-daydreams]

How would the slashers react to: a witch OC? ♥

Slashers with a Witch MC

Fandom(s): Dorian Slashfic

Character(s): Ghost, Leather, Jay, Mike

Pairing(s): Slashers X MC

Writing Style: Headcanons

Genre(s): Fluff, Cracks

Warning(s): Probably OOC but overall, None

Note: This has been in my drafts for two months and I just released it today HAHAHAHA anyway, thanks for the request, anon! This was very fun to write and it gave motivation to write more! I need to get back here every now and then. Enjoy the read!

Ghost was partially unfazed when you revealed your true identity. He had his speculations in the beginning, but it still surprised him.

Despite the shock, he remained to stay close to you. In fact, he thinks it's insane (in a /pos way) that his partner is a witch! It's like those horror movies with romance as its subgenre. It's sorta cliche but the Slasher doesn't care.

Ghost would often help out with you whenever you're performing one of your spells. He probably knows a bit of information about witchcraft from Lysa, so he can quite handy at times.

And if you two are feeling playful, he would definitely suggest to do pranks on the other Slashers. Just don't tell them he thought about it, though. The others will kill him.

"Little devil, look who's got new ideas for the pranks~ If you want, we can take it up a notch, hm? C'mon, they're not little kids anymore! Just for now, yeah?"

Surprisingly, Leather was flabbergasted at the revelation. He had his own thoughts, but he never expected them to be true.

He has a slight change when interacting with you, but that doesn't mean he dislikes you now! The Slasher is just cautious, and it's hard for him to easily accept it. His family molded his view towards witches, after all.

He tries his best to put the past behind by trying to assist you whenever you perform witchcraft. Leather is noticeably hesitant, but you let him walk in his own pace. He appreciates your patience and he hopes you know that.

When he discovered that witchcraft can be used for the better, he is immediately supportive in whatever you do. He's still wary, but at least he is relieved. Oh and bonus points if you practice witchcraft to help animals.

"Piglet. I saw a goat in the forest just now, its leg was injured by a thorn. Do y'know what to do to help? ... Got it. Let me take the lil' guy back here. Be right back."

The moment you told Jay you were a witch, his mind was swirling with mixed emotions. He couldn't explain it, the information was just... confusing.

We all know he has a deep trauma towards cults and witches, so I have a feeling he will need some space for the meantime. The Slasher doesn't hate you, no! Just give him some time to think about it. It really caught him off-guard.

Once he's recovered, you need to reassure him that you were a good witch. Of course, Jay believes you because you treated him so nicely. You didn't even hurt him in the first place. Just like Leather, it was hard to just accept it, but he tries to best anyway.

When the man is comfortable, he will begin to ask you questions. What's your favorite spell? How can you do that? Did you give bad people punishment? Do you ride on a broom and fly into the skies?

"MC! MC! I remember this one time when someone said witches sometimes brew potions to make spells. Is it true? Have you tried brewing before? Show me!"

This guy? He knows. Before you told him about your true identity, Mike already knew.

His opinion about you doesn't really change. You're still MC, just another camp counselor that is worth killing (and fucking). He's intrigued about your magic but that's it. You can either take it as a relief or an insult.

Anyway, he is quite cooperative whenever you perform a ritual or one of your spells. Just like the others, he provides you the things you need. Even if it requires another life, Mike will not hesitate because he once returned to you with a corpse in his arms.

"MC. There's a person over there. Curse them."

Whether you practice the good or bad side of witchcraft, the Slasher would want you to do something for him — put a spell on other people. He doesn't even have a particular reason, he just wants to see what happens. Whether you're into or against it, that's on you.

(The banners used are created by me. Ask for permission first if you wish to use them in your works.)

[billyapuppet]

( •͈૦•͈ )

Hi!! I'm Billy, a puppet (not theeee puppet, just one of them!) & I'm recovering from my face being blown up (︶︹︺) ゞ

John Kramer is my best friend and my dad I think! but he blew my Face up too I'm pretty sure. ( ._. )"" Sorry Ms. Perez!!

I don't get used in traps or videos since my face got exploded (っ- ‸ - ς) so I hang out & watch John work & I draw & I learn & I try to have fun! I'm here to make friends and look at pig pics! Ty!! Response within hours or I'll mail you a shard of my face! Appreciate youurr life..!! (˶��� ᵕ ᵔ˶)

₍ᐢ･⚇･ᐢ₎ I love pigs & piglets!! if you see pics of them pls tag meeee ₍ᐢ･⚇･ᐢ₎

[quitealotofsodapop]

Even whilst in the middle of a battle against the Brotherhood, Zu Baijie was not above teasing Wukong for getting distracted by a dark, handsome, bad boy with a sensitive side and very smooth moves. Don't get him wrong, he has mad respect for the shadow monkey for standing up against Azure to protect his mate, but that's still their little big brother, and Zu Baije has plenty of teasing to catch up on. Now that he has discovered just how much of our romantic said little big brother is. It is very much a situation of two siblings calling each other out for being hypocrites due to Wukong's own teasing of Zu Baije for his love life.

Once he ensures his mate is not about to die, Wukong congratulate you accept the teasing by turning the teasing back against Zu Baije and multiplying it by ten. Unfortunately, by that time, Wujing and Ao Lie have come to join in the teasing. Both of them may find it very sweet, but it is still of it opportunity that they as siblings must capitalize on. Especially since the monkeys are very much. Especially since some monkeys are so affectionatly sweet towards one another that they could potentially give somebody cavities, just from their cuddling! The fact that it's Wukong who is the most affectionate of the two, only serves to further incite them.

Prev.

Zhu Bajie has extreme "Teasing Big/Little Brother"-energy to him, and that extends to how he treats Wukong. Especially since Wukong gets flustered so easily by topics of romance.

The second that the Pilgrims realise that Macaque is here to stay - the teasing starts.

Zhu Bajie: "No wonder why Guanyin's trap didn't work on you. None of the ladies were tall, dark, and gloomy!" Wukong, already annoyed: "Ugh! Shut up piglet!" Sha Wujing: "We were initially worried when you two kept wandering away from camp together. We thought you were fighting in secret." Ao Lie: "Until we learned that we should be more afraid of Brother trying to eat the Macaque's face." :3 Wukong, blushing: "Guys!" Tripitaka: "We must prepare for the wedding soon. Less your child be born in sin." Wukong: "Master! Not you too!" (*raucous laughter from the other Pilgrims*) Macaque, walking slowly at the back of the group: (*smug smile*)

These brothers are fake-gagging and whistling if they catch the monkeys cuddling and/or smooching. Which is frequently considering how affectionate Wukong and Mac are to each other. Tripitaka is rarer, but he (along with Bull) tease Macaque about taking responsibility for Wukong's Egg.

The teasing stops briefly when Mac nearly dies during the Camel Ridge incident, but quickly resumes when the shadow monkey recovers. Wukong doesn't even care, he's just so overjoyed that Macaque's ok. SO many kisses happen between the monkeys that its not even worth teasing.

[digitalcirce]

Captive for an Audience Originally posted on DeviantArt on May 31 2025 (woman to pig transformation)

She recovered from the roofie slowly. “Ohhhh…. Where am I?” she grunted, her head feeling like it weighed a hundred pounds. But she didn’t actually expect to be answered. “You’re on livestream,” came the sinister voice. Suddenly, she snapped wide awake, seeing the masked man recording her; feeling ropes around her body, binding her to a chair. The room she was in looked like it was a building that had been condemned. “AAAHHHH! HELP!” she shrieked in terror. “Go ahead and scream, or squeal, as loud as you want. No one will hear.” “Squeal?” she asked, her heart pounding. What did he mean by… And then she noticed the other sensations. The flopping of her larger ears. The twitching of her nascent tail. The flaring of her immensely more sensitive and decidedly forward-facing nostrils. “Yeah, slut,” he confirmed. “Smile. You’re turning into a pig, for a very… discerning livestream audience.” “No! Please, no!” she squealed, shaking her head, pulling fruitlessly at her bonds. She could hear it in her voice, now – the sounds of the pig she was becoming. “Yes!” the man said, enthusiastically. “Soon, you’ll be a fat, grunting, four-legged sow, waddling around and snuffling like every other pig. Don’t worry, I’ll cut you loose from those ropes before you strangle in them, and your arms twist into forelegs. But by then, you won’t be in any condition to run.” “I’m begging you, stop this…” she pleaded. But he acted like she hadn’t even squealed. “A big, bloated breeding sow. And you’ll breed, that’s for sure. You might even come to enjoy it. You can probably smell the boar we have in the other room. We’ll bring him out before you change completely, and get him mounted up. Your final performance… it will be one for the history books. I promise you that. And probably, he’ll give you your first piglets to love in your new life as a fat mother sow out in some pigsty somewhere.” He laughed, a sound that was both harsh and cruel. She squealed, long and loud, and looked into the camera, wondering how many people would see her humiliation; see her captive and raped and transformed into a lowly stinking pig. Surely there wasn’t too large an audience for something like this. But whether there was or wasn’t, she had a bad feeling that the only way out of this room would be on four legs, with a bellyful of swine.

Stock image used available from Adobe Stock at https://stock.adobe.com/images/riminal-filming-a-hostage-on-the-phone-and-threatening-with-a-gun-woman-screaming-while-sitting-tied-up-on-a-chair-kidnaping-concept/1380168742

[thestalkerbunny]

Connects the characters together in the Slasher Cinematic Universe by making them distantly related. Also finally named the Sorority Slasher twins, Their names are Sadie and Sawyer.

Ephriam is related to Sadie and Sawyer as a cousin. The Twins went out to the farm a lot between surgeries to recover in privacy and enjoy the clean country air-as well as hang out with their older cousin.

They still do visit him every spring break; and aren't deterred by the damage to his face from his accident. They just view him as the same ol' Ephriam who chases piglets, is scared of locusts and fishing bumblefoot chicks out to mend up from the barrel at the Tractor Supply Store.

(They quite don't know about the part where he murders freaks in the woods who keep breaking in on the property with intent to harm the 'elderly pig farming couple' or try to disrupt the ancient stone slab in their yard.)

[crescent-blades]

The wisteria pouch rattled within the girl's pockets as she walked over the sight of battle. Slayers had been sent here to kill demons, and now that they were recovering, she could roam around and collect the blood of the bodies. She filled up the syringes as the beheaded demons decayed, her face impassive as always, unaware of the lurking presence within the area, the pair of six eyes watching the scene.

"Shame that they decay after defeated. It would make my life easier." the girl said to herself "But keeping them alive and torturing them is just annoying. There's nothing that can't deactivate their Blood Demon Art, and collecting blood from those who haven't developed one is useless." she said, placing the filled syringe inside her bag before grabbing another, doing the same with the next demon.

[@tealbutterflyestatenurse]

The imposing figure stands tall in the heart of the village, the breeze playfully ruffling his long hair as he quietly observes the events. He has been stationed here for some time, dispatched by his lord, to whom he pledged his allegiance. For many years, he has been observing these slayers—fighting off those puny demons and killing them, revelling in their almost comical triumphs and finding comfort in their victories—only to encounter yet another one, sent out just for them.

Each day brought forth a new demon—either being just mere experiments for his lord or mindless creatures devoid of ambition—they had no blood demon art, no honed skills. They existed solely to quench their hunger for human flesh—mindless beasts and nothing more. Once, these weak demons had posed a significant challenge to the slayers, but now they were being swiftly overpowered by their human counterparts. 

A weilder of the black blade—that's what he was sent out here for. A powerhouse of the demon slayer corps who had played a crucial role in enhancing the strength of the slayers. To hunt them down once more just like he and his lord did many centuries ago—wiping out their entire power source, rendering them utterly useless. Hunting down innocent families, slaughtering anyone even remotely connected to that breath user—like famished wolves on the hunt for piglets—tearing through everything that crossed their paths. No one was spared—man, woman, or child.

 And he was here to hunt them once more.   

The demon roams about, staying hidden, concealing his presence to the extent that even the keenest senses could not perceive him. Utilising the'see-through world', as he navigates swiftly, absorbing information as he scans through various households in search of the slayers and their locations, he roams about in a relentless hunt for the one who has been bolstering the power of his lord's adversaries. He roams about as he finds something.. far more.. intriguing.  

"Hmmm..."   

What was this..? Collecting the blood of demons with syringes.. hmm.. He had come across many peculiar sightings in his life—humans transforming into demons at will, consuming demon flesh, and now this peculiar act of blood collection—not too peculiar but still intruiging. What was she even collecting the blood for..? These demons were not even strong.   

From the depths of the forest, the demon let out a quiet chuckle as he watched the girl from a short distance. He pondered her next move, stepping closer to gauge her sensory awareness and see if she might sense his presence.  

[bpd-shuichi-togo]

under the cut for mentions of sexual abuse. god i wish housamo were less terrible because it could be so good.

THE WORST PART. okay not the worst part by far. BUT THE PART I'M MOST PETTILY ANNOYED BY. IS THAT SEXUAL VIOLENCE IS SOMETHING THAT COULD BE A MEANINGFUL ELEMENT OF THIS STORY, WERE IT HANDLED FUCKING RESPECTFULLY, AND IT ALMOST IS. LIKE THERE IS ALOT OF VALUE IN EXPLORING ABUSE AS PART OF THE COMING OF AGE STORY HOUSAMO PROBABLY FORGOT IT WAS, ESPECIALLY WITH THE FOCUS ON CHILD-GUARDIAN RELATIONSHIPS AND ALIENATION AND SYSTEMIC OPPRESSION. THERE'S SO MUCH TO DIG INTO WITH REGARD TO (euphemisms voice) BABALON'S LIFE ON EDEN, TOJI HAVING BEEN GROOMED BY AN EXPLICITLY SEXUALLY ABUSIVE ADULT TO BE A CHILD SOLDIER, IF I START ON DAS TOGOS I WILL START THROWING UP BLOOD. LIKE, YOU CAN SAY SO MUCH THERE. THE WORLD OF HOURAI WAS LITERALLY FOUNDED ON SEXUAL ABUSE AND ONE OF THE MOST PROMINENT TRANSIENTS WE SEE FROM THERE ASIDE FROM THE REP HIMSELF IS A LITERAL SERIAL RAPIST, ARE WE GONNA TALK ABOUT WHAT THAT SAYS ABOUT THAT WORLD?? NO, IT'S ALL JUST FOR FUNSIES? OKAY COOL I'M GOING TO KILL YOU

society if housamo was respectful in how it handles the sexual violence it portrays

[eldritch-spouse]

Can Morrel teach me how to gut someone? I know I'm not a chef but I'm just really interested and it would be such a good bonding experience cough I have a gore fetish cough

[Hhhhn yes. Good.]

TW: Description of gore; Implied cannibalism; Erotic gore; You know the drill.

You haven't quite recovered since Morell slit his throat.

It was so quick. He's always so quick. Brutal. You keep getting surprised at how casually he'll massacre your kind like they're actual farm animals. It's so odd that the chef spares them a dehumanizing stare, genuinely perceiving these people in the likeness of mere creatures as soon as they're on his kitchen- And yet, you're somehow not in that category to him. Mercifully. Bizarrely. Suspiciously.

But hey, you had thought earlier, things already went to shit. You're never making it out of here. So you might as well lean into some less graceful urges.

" Are ya listenin', Piglet? Eyes up. "

Oh.

You had been fixated on the clean cut across the body's throat, having tuned out some of the chef's droning about how you have to cut around the anus and use zip ties to properly pinch it off, or what to do with the genitals -Testicles and such in this case- If you want to keep them. It's genuinely fascinating stuff to learn. Morell seems endlessly giddy to be teaching you this, and you're equally happy to obscenely watch him manhandle his meat stock.

A blink is all you offer when he finishes cutting off the upside-down dead man's shaft, placing it aside.

" Dingus. " He reprimands. " What do we do now? "

There's a pause as you flick through some shelves in your brain, pushing excitement aside. Well... Oh yes, you like this part.

" Uhm, cut from sternum to groin. "

The shroom lights up, grinning wide. " Smart piggy. " There's a breathless quality to his voice, his cheeks are vaguely blue with flustered enthusiasm, and there's blood stains on his smock where he's been palming at himself with a free hand whenever he wasn't using both to secure "the pig". You shudder, though Morell's next words are what makes a shine sparkle in your eyes.

" Ya wanna do this part, pumpkin? "

Your loins jump.

" Yes! Y- Yes please. "

He murmurs something into his scarf, as heated as you are, fetching a different knife from the table beside him, something you can handle. The chef moves to stand behind you, handing over the sharp utensil and pinching the skin where you need to start cutting. You can feel how hard he is and try to grind backwards, rewarded with a chaste bite to the shoulder.

" Focus. " He warns, playfully patting your hip. " Remember, slow an' easy, ya don' wanna puncture any organs. Gravity's gonna help ya some anyway. "

There's no way you'll make a mistake here, it's the part you like seeing him do the most, after all. Saliva sticks to your throat as you start zipping down carefully, hairs standing on end from the distinct sound of skin splitting apart. At some point, Morell's heavy breathing has you whining quietly in arousal.

" Fuck yeah, piglet. Ya got a talent. " He praises, as you appear to be doing exceptionally well for a first timer. Pride swells within you.

His hands go from stroking over your sides feverishly to sliding into your pants, rubbing at you through the thin fabric of your underwear with bloodied digits. Although your eyelids flutter and your legs tremble slightly, you're able to pull the main entrails out as they hang off their husk. Morell whispers praise for your prowess, occasionally commenting about how lucky he is to have found you.

Having been turned on beyond measure since the very start of this whole process, it doesn't take too long before you're getting close, bucking into the monster's rough motions while shakily cutting away at persistent connective tissue. He moans low at the sight and you honestly think you'll come if he does that again.

When you believe the step is completed, you fully give into the chef's lewd rubbing, head tossing onto his back as you desperately chase after that sweet coil, holding onto his arms, clipping out moans, so very close-

Until that hand slips out your pants.

And, to be perfectly frank, only the smallest bit of self-control prevented you from stabbing him in frustration.

" But-! "

Morell barks his laughter, teasingly slapping your now sensitive nethers, before placing a chaste peck on your cheek.

" Hold them horses, we ain't even got to tha ribs, darlin'. "

Absolute asshole. At least this part is good too.

" Can... Can you tear them? I like seeing you do it with your bare hands... "

Morell's eyelid twitches, he seems to steam like a kettle on a stove. " 'Course sweetie. "

Somehow, you don't think it'll take too long before he's ramming into you over the nearest counter.

[maineshewrote]

I-just-started-s4e2-thoughts:

Usually, when bad stuff happens to characters, I think of it as either character-building or extremely unfair. In this case it's the latter. Poor sweet Charles is being put through more than a lot of people could handle here—not only did he lose a half-life-long friend to murder, not only is the question of whether or not he should have died instead going to be raised and make him feel guilty, but he also found said friend's remains and got them all over his hands. I felt like I was watching him hold on to a hand of someone who had just been blown to pieces. He did not deserve this trauma. (All of this being said, I applaud the writers for this bold and masterfully executed move (no pun intended) and Steve Martin for portraying this delicate, complicated situation so brilliantly.)

The dedication with which Charles collects the Sazz-water is just heart-breaking. The team accomplished a very interesting feat here—this clumsy business of spilling stuff and trying to save the situation in a tense moment is usually what comedies use for low-effort humour but here it's a genuine portrayal of love.

Dead-Sazz appearing made me feel so much lighter. Her witty humour turned the overall gloom just a degree back towards the light and the feeling of everything's-gonna-be-ok-'cause-Sazz-is-here is back.

Sazz and Lucy loved sitting on the same counter. That's a nice counter.

Why does Oliver think the killer had specific access to Charles's apartment? Firstly, remember the Arcatacombs? And secondly, Sazz came in for the wine and probably didn't lock the door, thinking she'd only be a minute, so the killer could have easily waltzed in later without necessarily owning a key.

I know Tim and Ben left Mabel after their cases were solved and it's not healthy to hang on to dead people to the point of hallucinating, but I'd actually like Dead-Sazz to stick around—in a comforting fun imaginary friend way.

But if they think Charles was the target and the killer is still out there, how is it going to be safe to bring Levy over to do character study?

I am fascinated by that sweet vintage-style envelope/bag that they brought Sazz's notes in. It's definitely just something Sazz owned for no other reason than it being pretty but if that turns out to be a clue that the gang recognize much later on, I am buying cake.

I have missed Oliver's fits.

I'm interested to see where Mabel will actually end up living, but so far all I can see are good fanfiction options: bunking with Oliver (as she is) and recovering their bond that was sort of damaged last season, also throwback to season 1 where the roles were reversed; bunking with Charles and supporting him through this tough time as someone who has also lost close friends to murder and spoken to dead people; (Loretta's apartment is supposedly free now but too far for convenient sleuthing;) and Theo, I rest my case.

No idea what a "Jon Hamm and the pan situation" means but all I can think of is naked archangel Gabriel with his cardboard box.

Ho, Jan in closet!

Aha! The Arcatacombs!

I'll be honest, Jan did not disappoint—just as delightfully, self-righteously, naturally deranged and owning it as ever, loyal and moving and unintentionally hilarious. I never liked her character much up to now on account of her being sort of annoying, but I have newfound respect for her for her loyalty and her down-to-earth attitude. Also it's lovely to see familiar characters.

"Parkour." Might be my favourite line from this episode.

Hold on! There's a ham radio at the Dudenoff place! Sazz said she heard chatter on her ham radio about people wishing Charles had died instead of Ben.

Abnormal amount of pigs in this show. Obviously, now there's toilet ham and the piglet at the Dudenoff place, but we also had Fucking Pig and the "adorable little piglet" Loretta & Oliver moment in s3.

Sazz and Charles's story is so moving. Too moving to put into few enough words that you would actually have time to read.

What a genious way to get Sazz's final message across! She couldn't very well have written Charles's name to indicate who the intended victim was because that could have been interpreted as Charles being the killer, so she came up with a short, meaningful, and clear message instead. Just beautiful!

So does the number being letters mean that the Oh Hell group are all using the Dudenoff? As, what, a place to grow a pig and turn it into ham? I don't think so.

Why is the pig in the end titles floating? It unnerves me. Stop.

[notmykirk]

Concordia

Description: You scrunch up into a ball as the boar collides with you, its tusks bouncing off your beskar with a terrifying scrape, metalic on metal. You cry out and are thrown across the ground. Your head is spinning as the boar rounds on you again. Mandalorian!Reader, prequel to Nar Shaddaa. Fandom: Star Wars Pairing: Gen Word Count: 2.4k+ Warning(s): Violence.

At the edge of Mandalorian space, a war rages amongst the stars.

You are reminded of this occasionally, when Mandalore and its sun dip below the broken mountain peaks of the Bladeback Palisades. The stars of so many distant worlds, for those few precious minutes that they exist in yours, blink down at you, and suddenly you are reminded of the vastness of the galaxy and all its fears and strife and tragedy. 

In a single hour, however, Concordia’s brief night fades and with it, the stars blur, then disappear altogether once twilight returns. All that exists after that witching hour is the ground beneath your feet, the smell of raw beskar, and the distant threat of New Mandalore as it rises once more over the horizon. 

And life goes on--mundane on the grand scale of Kad Ha’rangir’s palm. 

***

Concordia is a harsh mix of barren cliffs, evidence of the brazen strip mining that had once taken place on the moon, and dense forests of dry, coniferous trees. The ground cover is bare, but growing back, and every creature that roams the surface steps lightly. The life on this moon is tough, and like a Mandalorian, it fights to survive. Every year you are one step closer to your ancestral homeland as the moon recovers its ecosystem bit by bit. 

This is all thanks to the conservation efforts pushed forward by Pre Vizsla and Duchess Satine. They are stewards--and this type of change, you welcome with open arms. This is one thing all Mandalorians can agree on: wars are synonymous with the destruction of planets. 

You barely notice the weight of the ballistic rifle in your hands as you steady it, elbows braced on the ground as you lay at the edge of the cliff beside your Alor. Your gloved thumb ghosts over the engraved metal without complex thought as you peer down the scope, searching the endless landscape for movement. 

The vegetation in the valleys below is a dark grey-green under the soft light reflecting off the face of Mandalore. Rarely does Concordia receive direct sunlight, and so the moon is blanketed with this quiet, everlasting twilight that visitors are so enchanted by, but you’ve grown used to. 

There is no shade, nowhere to hide. The light is flat, almost wraps around objects so their shadows are soft and thin, and it is silent except for the faint breeze carding through the shrubs and twisted trees. You lay flat on the ground, back bent at an angle due to the thickness of your breastplate. Beside you, your Alor shifts on her stomach, pulls her hands back to wipe a smudge off her binoculars, then returns to her original position and stills. 

Another five minutes pass in silence. Your nose itches inside your helmet, and you scrunch your face, then bite your tongue, struggling to ignore that annoyance. 

In that moment of distraction, your Alor exhales sharply, and your focus is immediately honed back to the edge of a knife. “There, five klicks out, two towards the ridgeline, by the tree with the broken top.” 

You blink, then pan your rifle to the right and catch the target in your sights--a family of Bladeback boars. You feel for the knob on the side of the scope, then zoom in close enough so you see the tan of their fur, the black tusks protruding from their snouts and the grey of their eyes. Some have the pale markings of adolescence, others are older and more refined. You follow a piglet with your scope as it struts after its mother, bumping into her legs. 

They are huddled around a dingy puddle, bowing their heads and sticking their long tongues out to drink the muddy water. You frown. That water is probably poisoned. Any runoff in this area is soiled by the mining operation on the mountains above. 

Your Alor pushes herself up with a grunt that betrays her age. “Do you have a clear shot?”

“For which one?”

“The largest.”

You pan your rifle over the group in search of a decent target, then pull the trigger easily in answer to her question. The pop of your rifle is deafening, and the sound rolls down the canyon walls and shakes the trees so a group of black birds take to the skies in fright. 

The weapon is ancient and traditional, and its ballistic nature sends it slamming back into your shoulder in recoil. You grunt when the scope of your rifle knocks against the face of your helmet, and flinch, embarrassment hot across your face at the blunder, then regard the target through your scope, bucking and running from you, with the tracking bullet lodged in its shoulder. A ribbon of blood spills from the wound.

She gives you a hard stare, then says plainly, “Well done.” Though you find it difficult to swallow down your anxiety, you grip the rifle and nod. The sudden tilt of her helmet suggests she wants to say more when she is interrupted by the distant roar of a sublight engine entering the atmosphere. 

You can’t help but wonder if it’s yet another government official from Mandalore Prime coming to step on Concordia’s toes. Governor Visla does a good job keeping the new government at bay, using politics to push Condordia’s agenda without inviting the tourism upper-class Mandalorians seem so convinced they are entitled to, but there are always a few beetles who fall through the cracks. 

You see the ship now as it jets overhead and frown. It is definitely from Mandalore. 

Those Mandalorians wealthy enough to make it off-world don’t appreciate land for what it is, something that you belong to more than it could ever be useful or beautiful. They come to poke around your nature reserves, to admire the flora without knowing their names and to prove themselves ignorant of the life that inhabits the valleys and mountains kept watch over by House Viszla’s halls. 

Mandalore is destroyed. It is barren and empty except for their massive city cubes. Those from Mandalore Prime did that to themselves, and once they finished destroying their planet, they tried to tear Concordia down from its sky alongside it--and they are still trying, whispering that Concordia’s massive and sprawling mines should not remain cold--as if they have any need for Beskar when they no longer wear armor. 

No, Mandalore is weak. It is cursed along with anyone who steps foot on it. It is a ghost above your head, a grim reminder of the past and present and its future as well. It is wreckage and ruin and trying its best to spread its wasting disease to your home. 

Your Alor sighs heavily, and you both turn back to regard the boars. They are gone from sight, though the tracking beacon on your Alor’s hip hints at their direction. The two of you stand and descend the cliff.

***

The digital interface of your helmet handles the dark easily, automatically adjusting its shading to your preferred light and contrast levels. Branches scrape across the dome of your helmet as you begin to pick your way across the forest floor. The ground here is treacherously soft, needles forming a springy carpet around jagged boulders and rocks–discarded from various mining operations, then washed down from the mountains during the month of rain. 

You follow your Alor across the rough terrain as she leads you through the dark, nervousness beginning to eat at your stomach and numb the tips of your fingers. You do not pay attention to where you are being led, and instead stare at the ground and count your footsteps in pairs of two. 

Slowly, your Alor draws to a standstill and kneels behind the trunk of a sickly tree. You freeze and crouch behind her. 

She reaches a hand up to brush a branch out of the way, and sure enough, there is the boar you shot with the tracker, its shoulder wet and stained black, though no longer bleeding as badly as it had been when you last saw it. 

On level ground you can truly realize the size of Bladeback Boars–they are larger than you or even your Alor by at least a foot, though this one does not have as much meat as it should. Its bones are like a tanning rack and its patchy hide hangs loosely off them. 

You watch silently, your stomach twisting in knots, as your Alor pulls the folded spear from behind her jetpack, then expands it with a flick of her wrist, the beskar ringing dully–the sharpened tip glowing in the twilight.

The boars head flicks towards the two of you, its small, red eyes instantly suspicious and scanning the treeline. 

When your Alor turns and holds the spear out for you to take, you trade it in silently for the rifle on your back, then force yourself with all the confidence you possess to stand and approach the boar in the open. 

You were, in theory, prepared for what comes next. 

The electric crackle of the tracking bullet shocking the boar–the hoarse squeals and subsequent furious red glare–these are all things you’ve seen before, just never with the spear in your own hands. 

The beast’s eyes are beady, furious, not those of an animal meant to be hunted. It huffs out heavy lungfuls of steam, scraping the ground with its front toes. Its three, long tusks sway dangerously, their points almost glint in the light, sharper than the spear’s. 

You tighten your grip on your weapon and stand your ground. This is what it is to be Mandalorian, because to fight is to be alive. Through struggle you can embrace life. 

Another cruel shock is delivered by your alor from her vambrance, and the Boar squeals with rage, then charges you. Concordia all but melts away. 

Something rushes over you, takes away your agency. You no longer have a name or identity, a body of your own. You are solely an instrument with a task, with The Way, and your heart beats in time with the hoof beats of the boar as it charges. 

The first parry makes your stomach drop. You underestimated the strength of the boar–its shaggy appearance by no means matching its strength. The tip of one of the boar’s tusks scrapes across your chestplate, chipping the paint down to sparking metal, shoving you backwards. It shakes your confidence, and that sudden cold shock of fear clears the calm fog in your head. 

***

New Mandalore is a pale yellow-white disc in the sky, shrouded in Concordia’s twilight and they have forsaken Kad Ha’rangir and they have forsaken their foreclans–everything that those ancestors learned and achieved in the hopes that those who follow might one day lead Mandalore towards the future. They have shed their armor and with it their past. They have no Way, no Truth, no Honor or Vision–

Even without the open secret of Concordia’s involvment with Death Watch and Pre Viszla’s hand in guiding those true Mandalorians still left back to The Way, you still despise that disc in the sky and–

***

You are hit on the floor. The spear rolls out of reach. The boar charges. 

“Buir!” you squeak. “Mom, help me!” 

“Stand your ground.” An order is barked.

You scrunch up into a ball as the boar collides with you, its tusks bouncing off your beskar with a terrifying scrape, metalic on metal. You cry out and are thrown across the ground. Your head is spinning as the boar rounds on you again.

Fear drains like color from your face; hot and cold and debilitating. 

There are no thoughts left in your head. 

You push yourself up to your feet. The spear is still too far away. The boar charges once more and its tusks nearly graze your chestpiece, then you quickly sidestep and squeeze your fist so the vibroblade hidden in your vambrace ignites into angry, solid plasma. 

You plant your foot, then carry your momentum through with a quick jab into the boar’s side. The followthrough of your strike is so vicious that your fist itself collides with the boar’s tough hide. 

With another piercing squeal, the boar’s momentum carries it another couple steps before it tips over and collapses onto the forest floor, needles and dust sent flying through the air at the impact. 

You stare at the dead animal, shivering so badly your knees give out and you collapse onto the ground, unable to unclench the fist igniting your hidden vibroblade. You bury your hands into the soft groundcover, and the acrid smell of burning vegetation makes its way through your helmet’s air filters as you continue to shake. Steam lifts from the forest floor as the blade burns a hole into the ground. 

“Ad’ika,” your mother rumbles, “you did well.”

She approaches the boar, pressing her palm to its fatal wound, then she moves to kneel in front of you. She glances down at your shaking hands, then cups the concave cheek of your helmet and lowers her forehead to yours in a kedalbe. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a shaky breath, thankful that she cannot see your tears. You bow your head, though danger still runs through your veins, and attempt to speak. 

“Thank you.” you croak, voice cracked and hoarse.

The moment is broken when a number of ships lift off from over the cliff where the Kantorek Mine sits just behind you, abandoned at face value, known to those on Concordia as the comfortable staging area of Death Watch. 

There is an explosion, blaster bolts are sent flying into the sky, and then the final ship takes off. The boar is still bleeding just feet from where you are knelt. 

You and your Alor share a look before she stands, her armor illuminated with the blue glow of a dozen ships’ sublight engines. They rapidly ascend from the atmosphere, Death Watch leaving Concordia without warning. 

Something has happened. 

“Come,” your Alor says, her voice cutting clear through your muddied head. 

You pry your fingers from their fist, your vibroblade retracting into your vambrace, then push yourself up onto your feet. 

New Mandalore is still a pale disc above your head, watching with a vacant, hollow glare. 

You can feel it, all around you, just at the edges of Mandalorian space the Clone Wars rage. Concordia is a weed that grows through a crack in a courtyard, but you can’t help but wonder if once more, New Mandalore has brought ruin to your doorstep.

Masterlist | Posting Schedule

[ghost-tripitaka-au]

Mathias: we just got to hit him and he will recover-

Pigsy: So we just bonk him on his dumb head right? Seems easy enough-

Wukong: What’d you say, PIGLET?!

Pigsy: Piglet?! OHO THAT’S IT!

Tripitaka: Great…this again…

Wukong: Master just say the word and this little piggy will be a steamed Ham…

Tripitaka: Again with the killing of Zhu Bajie! Can you please go through with life without murder? Please?

[akshatrasayanblog]

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