#soil testing machine

[heicodynamics]

Soil testing kits come in various forms, each designed for specific purposes. These kits can help you identify nutrient deficiencies, monitor soil pH, and evaluate the overall condition of your soil.

[thatboxylady]

if thrust has a posse of cycle drones then what does jetstorm have-

I thought about this like “oh what about a murder of crows,” but as we all know, the Maximals have been murdered by zero Vehicons. So in that case

anyone who has ever been attacked by a magpie will understand that they are as bad as (if not worse) than aero drones.

[emdotcom]

Man. The Herobrine really is summat else. We got:

A glitch of a ghost in the machine that causes every error in the game

The White Eyes character, stemming from a texture error, which becomes associated with the cave noise & eventually leads to the creation of the Herobrine myth

Transgender swag

The fucken. Brocraft stream that links to that ONE image & implies that either you or Herobrine are "asleep" & dreaming

The way that Herobrine myths kicked up due to the TF2 influx, after the devs made mention of the game

Every single unexplained structure in the game, all abandoned, all without a clear group that created them can & will be associated with Herobrine

The mineshafts. The ruined portals. The deep dark. It's kind of like a story, told in three arcs, if you squint right

Like something that used to live there, toiled in the soil along with the worms

Like something that got locked away, that wants to go back

Like something that needs to be kept out

Every single zombie looks like Steve. Does that say anything? Does it imply something about Herobrine, another reflection, but maybe a bit more sentient? With teeth that are a bit more sharp, with a malice that is a bit more cold?

Mojang putting the "Removed Herobrine" note in for YEARS, then one day dropping it, only to bring it back 3 years later

N*tch being scrubbed from the game's lore, so he's also (sometimes) scrubbed from Herobrine's lore, leading to alternate origins

He is the first player. He is the ghost of a fellow player. He is an architect, a miner, a builder. He is a friend to all the mobs, & an enemy to those that take all the trees & never replant the saplings. He is a curious onlooker, probably harmless. He is a deep loathing. He is a danger, a legend, just a myth, but is he?

The way that people's opinions of Herobrine have shifted through years, like a litmus test for Minecraft players as a whole

It starts with the eerie feeling of being in a room you KNOW should be empty, but feeling eyes on you, anyways & ends with a sad type of goodbye, a dreamer seeking a dreamer condemned

The way he's more quiet, more calm, less prone to the griefing & attacks he was once known for, like his fire has cooled with time

The Minecraft end poem. Maybe. Do you think Herobrine ever got to hear those words? "I love you," & "You have played the game well"?

The person with the Herobrine username, which has had the catboy Herobrine skin on for years o7

[kentopedia]

˚₊‧꒰ა cold embrace (provenance) — fyodor dostoevsky

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. you buy a two hundred year old house with a two hundred year old painting hanging above the mantel. it's not the only thing the previous owner left behind.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. ghost!fyodor, f!reader, violence, angst, death, alternate / modern universe, no smut but it is suggestive, fyodor is kind of a pervy ghost so, wc: 6.1k

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈. this one has two titles bc it was supposed to be for my kinktober... never finished it. embarrassing ! but here is a semi-revamped version for this series! i can finally check it off my wips page <3 idk how i feel about it but i hope you enjoy

part of my summerween series !

A chime from the grandfather clock brings Fyodor out of his stupor, the sound signaling another day, another meaningless hour that will only continue his eternal misery. He’s grown used to it now—evening after evening of emptiness, of reading nothing but the same books, playing the same pieces of dull sheet music, and the lifeless chess matches against himself. The house is cold with only his presence, dusty without a housekeeper and a life to make it a home.

There are a million things in Fyodor’s life that he must have done to deserve this misery, but he can’t pinpoint which one solidified his reward of a lamentable, endless cycle.

He’s certain hell is better than this. It’s something he wishes for every day, if only to have an eternal companion with the devil, a challenge to overcome.

Though, even with this boredom, Fyodor refuses to let anyone live in his home. They’ll only serve to be another pain, something that would, surely, push him past the brink of sanity.

The centuries old décor will get replaced with gaudy twenty-first century items, ones that will be nothing more than an eyesore. There are a few already scattered around his home from previous tenants, but only things that he believed useful enough for him to keep; a few books from authors he didn’t live to read, a television from the nineties, a computer that he watched one couple scroll on before he murdered them in cold blood.

Perhaps he is two hundred years dead and gone, but he refuses to be an ignorant ghost, one that is unaware of anything beyond these four walls, caught forever in the past.

Although now, it’s been a while since anyone’s tried to move in, and he’s certain the only reason the house hasn’t been torn down is because its preserved nicely, an eighteenth-century home that has withstood the test of time.

Fyodor, in his lowest moments, wishes they would tear it down. Maybe then, and only then, can he be set free. Or maybe, he’s forever trapped in this exhaustive lot, doomed to decay, even when there’s nothing left of the foundations but soil.

He pushes a pawn forward on the board, putting himself in checkmate for the millionth time in a row. It’s been so long that he’s used to his own tricks. Even the computer, which he’d come to understand quickly, is no match for him. It’s far too exhaustive to play against a machine that utilizes an algorithm he can so easily decipher.

Out of nowhere, the front door unlocks, and Fyodor glances over at the sound, dark hair falling over his eyes. Seconds later, he notices an older realtor with a clipboard leading you around, a woman he’s never seen, dressed up nicely with a darker shade of lipstick smeared across your mouth.

He’s been through this before. It’s a miracle the realtor hasn’t given up on this house yet, a mansion she is determined to sell despite the endless horrors that have been committed by his hand.

“Here it is,” she says, nervous, gesturing around the expansive hall, the crystal chandelier and staircase that immediately follows. “It was built in 1731, but one of the owners remolded it in the style of the mid-nineteenth century. The structure has been stabilized; it’s safe… enough.”

The two of you chat, but he doesn’t bother to listen in. It’s all questions of: when can I move in? can we negotiate? — things you will come to regret once he sets his sights on killing you.

Then, the realtor is sighing, wringing her hands together as she watches you spin around the house in awe. It’s clear that you’re impressed by the layout, the rich furniture and colors that have been used.

That, at least, satisfies Fyodor. Everyone else who has moved in was looking to upgrade it to a modern style, rid the place of its aged grace and charm.

“I’m truly sorry,” she says, brushing curly hair away from her cheekbones. “But I am legally obligated to tell you that every person who has lived here before has suffered a terrible, terrible fate. There have been gruesome murders that cannot be explained, done in ways that I don’t even want to tell you about.”

You laugh, eyeing her with skepticism. “Are you telling me it’s haunted?”

The realtor shrugs. “That’s what people say.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” you answer, and Fyodor rolls his eyes, scoffing as he floats to the second floor, unable to listen into the unreasonable conversation anymore. It’s been the same story for decades. No one believes in ghosts, but it is always a ghost that kills them.

He returns to the chess board, irritated, though unable to consider the game any further. Your face is stuck in his mind. For some reason, he can’t remember the last time he’s ever seen anyone with such beauty.

Fyodor stops; your ageless elegance doesn’t matter—it can’t, and it won’t. You’ll be dead by the end of the month, when you gather all your things and invade the bedroom that was once his own. Even if you are beautiful, you are a nuisance, a threat to Fyodor’s eternal torment and quiet existence.

Still, he can’t help but wonder if it would be nice to have something other than his own thoughts to distract him from the endless misery.

You move in on the thirteenth of June, nothing more than a few boxes and a decade old car to keep you company. He guesses you’ve traveled a long distance to get here, and you’ve gotten rid of half of your life in the process.

A good thing for him. That means things can be over relatively quickly, and all your belongings can be disposed of easily after he kills you.

You spend the entire first day unpacking, and Fyodor waits patiently, allows you time to get comfortable in his home. He watches as you bring a stack of thick novels into the waiting room, which once boasted large parties, and place them on a shelf below those that have his name within the covers.

You take a few calls as you hang up your autumn coats, ones that won’t be needed for a few months. The voice on the other line sounds frantic, worried. A local, most likely. You only seem annoyed by his continuous string of anxieties.

When the sun sets, and you grow tired, you rub your eyes and head to bed. The first night you will spend in this place that Fyodor likens to Hell.

It’s the time he’s been waiting for—a moment to catch you off guard. You are so unsuspecting, already so at home in the mansion, that you have no fear of anything hurting you in the middle of the night.

While you get ready for bed, Fyodor slips into your room, observing the pieces of your life that have conquered his bedroom. A soft classical piece plays from your phone, one that he recognizes from his mortal life. Clearly, you are fascinated by the period he once lived in. A shame, really, he won’t be able to tell you more about it.

You leave the bathroom, come back towards him to change into a pair of small shorts, a large shirt hanging over your frame.

He’s forgotten how long it’s been since he’s seen a woman, how long since he’s touched one.

Fyodor finds himself distracted by your body, the smoothness of your skin. His eyes travel over your legs, your hips, the fullness of your breasts and ignores how much he desires to let his thumb graze over your flesh. There is something so soft about you, so gentle and innocent.

Perhaps, that is where his fascination stems from: he has always been the opposite. Even in his human existence, Fyodor was not a kind man, and he doesn’t plan on becoming one now that he is dead.

He shakes away the vision, the thoughts that swirl within his mind. It has been far too long since he has experienced any sort of pleasure, and maybe even a man as cold as himself is not immune to the desires that course within his veins.

Though he tries to be. He ignores his arousal desperately in exchange for a renewed bloodlust.

You climb into bed, put your phone on the white cord, and shut your eyes. Thirty minutes later, you’re sleeping soundly, soft puffs of air leaving your lips as you sleep.

It’s the opportune moment. The silver knife gleams brightly in his hand, streaks of moonlight tracing over the slanted point. It’s the same blade he’s killed every other new tenant with, their screams still echo in the halls like a harmonious melody each time he bring the knife down on another unknowing victim.

He stands before you at the side of the bed, watches as your chest rises and falls, the evidence of your life undeniable. You are a lovely image like this, something to be painted and adored; more beautiful than many of the women he’d met in his time, even those who were of the finest elite in the country.

Fyodor presses the blade to your throat, contemplative. He considers how much lovelier you will look with the scarlet stain of blood seeping down your neck, spraying across the room and ruining the fresh sheets. Will you awaken, gasping as you claw at your throat, or will you drift away without even understanding what has become of you?

He pictures it, and digs the blade close to your throat, nothing more than a pinprick of blood flowering there.

You don’t awaken; but you a little sound leaves you, something between a gasp and a moan, and you shift away from the knife gripped between his pale fingers. It’s a sound that has him pausing, musing, as he regards your vulnerable state, a beautiful figure there with no clue that such a murderous man is also a resident in her home.

You make another one of those pretty noises in your throat, and Fyodor, against two centuries of murderous intent, pulls the knife away. He watches as you roll on your stomach, your shirt scrunching, moving up your body to reveal the undersides of your breasts. Your hand shifts towards him on the bed, reaching in his direction, before you still. Then, your breathing is back to normal, evened out completely.

Your lips part blissfully as you sigh in your sleep.

He can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop wondering what his name would sound like leaving the perfect swell of your mouth, if you’d sound just as pretty when you orgasm as you do when you’re asleep.

Surely, he can find a better use for you—it would be a shame for such a pretty thing to go out so early.

As he draws back, Fyodor notices the chess board on the side table, the pieces arranged nicely, each on the correct square. He can’t tell if you play. You could just have it for decoration, or perhaps it was a gift given to you from a lover that he hasn’t seen pictures of, the one that he’s certain someone as lovely as you must have.

The board is aged; not as old as the one in the drawing room, but a nice set, nonetheless. Fyodor glances back at your sleeping form once more, smiles coolly to himself, and shifts a pawn forward.

The chess piece is the first thing you notice in the morning.

It’s almost ridiculous how easily it catches your eye, a tiny little movement within the chaos that was your brand-new room. A pawn is on a different square, leering at you from the other wall, as if smiling, a flashing sign above its head, calling to you, hoping you’ll pay attention.

You almost think nothing of it; things can move, can’t they? Perhaps there was a shift in the earth overnight… Though, that makes little sense when you think about it rationally.

It’s strange, that much is certain. You remember the realtor telling you about the ghosts, and though you aren’t inclined to believe in haunted houses and scary stories, you find a part of yourself questioning the logic of the chess piece.

You are certain it was on the correct square before you slept.

It’s the only thing on your mind as you get ready, suffer through a tasteless breakfast, and throw on a rain jacket to combat the dreary weather. You’re meeting a friend for lunch—the only friend you have in this town. Sigma is the sole reason you decided to move here, instead of the other arbitrary cities that you’d been desperate to escape to.

Still, the board won’t leave your mind. You take one last glance at it before, on a whim, pushing the opposite color pawn forward as well.

Then you leave, hoping that a conversation with your friend will take your mind off the strangeness of that happenstance, the anxiety you feel about moving to a new place, a new job where no one knows you, a home that stays cold, despite the heat that reigns with long summers.

The walk to the cafe is short, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, you are miserable, your hands wrinkling from the dampness, even within your pockets.

Sigma is waiting for you, his lavender and white hair loose over his shoulders as he peruses the menu, eyes darting across it like he’s never read it before.

You sit, offer him a greeting, and though your conversation is cordial, the two of you catching up on your day, you eventually ask the question you’ve been dying to know.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Sigma stops, puts the utensil back down on his plate, and regards you with a thin frown. “Did something happen?”

You think of the chess piece, wonder if another will be moved when you get home. “No, but—”

“I told you not to move into that house,” he says, eyes narrowing. Sigma refuses to step into that mansion, grows anxious every time you mention it. “Over ten people have died there. Do you want to get murdered?”

“No particularly,” you say, staring at him flatly, your mouth pulling into a line. “But I’ve made it one night already. I’ll be fine.”

A hard laugh leaves him, as he shakes his head, unamused by your cheekiness. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it? Then they all die.”

“Very dramatic.” You take a long sip of your water. Sigma’s features don’t crack in the slightest as he stares at you, waiting for you to continue. “I’m not scared. I just want to know if you believe in ghosts or not… Because I don’t.”

Sigma’s eyes flit across your face, searching for any hint of a lie, for any signs of fear. When he finds none, his hands stretch across the table, lacing them together as he glares. “Whether you believe in ghosts or not doesn’t matter. There’s something evil about that house, and you’re putting yourself in danger by living there.”

The conversation with Sigma weighs on your mind for hours after, when you return home, still thinking about the chess board. It was just as you’d left it, two pawns moved forward, staring each other down menacingly. Nothing out of the ordinary.

You sigh and finally put it out of your mind. It was just a coincidence, that’s all. The piece was probably on the wrong square all along, and you’d been too tired last night to notice it.

Instead, you focus your sights on unpacking, and contemplate what to do with the portrait hanging above the mantel.

It’s a dusty old thing, one that the previous owners had, for some reason, never taken down. It had hung over the mantel for centuries, the corners faded from the sun, but the sinister grin of the subject never losing its effect.

You tilt your head, stare at it from a different angle. Looking at it that way, you could, perhaps, see why the painting appealed to them. It’s old, with a style from a different century, and the man composed of deep shadows and pale colors is undeniably handsome. He seems out of place in the portrait, trapped there, too otherworldly to be captured on such a canvas. His features are sharp, molded out of something tougher than diamonds, something more beautiful than this plane is able to comprehend. His deep eyes seem to know all as they stare at you, trace you across the room.

For minutes, you are hypnotized, before a wave of disgust washes over you, and you turn away, unable to look at it any longer. You’ll sell it, you decide. Maybe it will be worth a pretty penny.

That evening, you decide to look into it, but the search into a local art dealer doesn’t get far. When you sit down at your laptop, beginning to type your question into the browser, the lid shuts on your fingertips.

It takes a moment for you to register what had happened. A faint sting dances along the back of your hands, your knuckles tender as you lift the lid back up. Lines bounce along the screen, as if the imprint of your hand had made its way into the pixels, matching the pulse of your nerves.

You curse lowly, hoping that a reset will fix the issue.

The lid had just fallen, nothing serious. It was a newer model, but those things could happen. Issues with the manufacturing, with the way it was assembled. Technology fails you all the time.

You hold the power button, irritated, and upset, when a horrible, screeching noise echoes from the computer. Nothing but a shrill scream, the speakers begging you for help. You slam it shut once more, and the noise stops, but your heartbeat doesn’t slow down.

Shit.

Tomorrow, you’ll have to take it in, and see if anyone can discern the issues. It’s not ideal, but there’s so many things to still need to do, and a broken laptop makes those things very difficult.

You sigh, pushing the chair back into the table. The portrait looms above you as you retreat back to your room, hands shaking. It’s irrational, you know it is, but you swear his eyes follow you all the way up the stairs.

It doesn’t take long for you to start believing in the ghost that is haunting your manor, the one who has let you live for a week and who plays a new game of chess every time your back is turned. Whoever it is, they are much better than you; so far, you’ve lost twice—haven’t even gotten close to winning.

He hides things from you, items that you are needing for the next day, papers that you can’t submit to work on time because the important files have been stashed away.

You find your books opened to paragraphs the ghost seemingly finds interesting, your sheet music scattered in a mess when you return. The candles get blown out unexpectedly, and doors slam when you’re not suspecting it.

If he’s trying to scare you—it isn’t working. You remain in the house, sometimes talking to him like he’s a friend, whispering amongst the walls that know all of the secrets in your home.

You stop at the library on your free weekend, flipping through a dusty copy of the local legends, only stopping when you find your home. There’s a copy of the painting there—your painting, the one that still hangs above your mantel, despite your better judgment.

Beside it, there’s a painting of your home, done when the house was first built. The outside of it is a differently color entirely, the garden in front blooming with pink and yellow flowers. It looks cheerful; the home of a warm and loving family, inviting and kind to each of the neighborhood children. Nothing like the dark manor it is today, with a dead garden in the front and shutters that keep even an ounce of light out.

You read the pages proceeding the painting. The first owner had been a kind man, but the next were not such. After the original owner lost his wealth, he sold the house, passed it to a line of greedy men, ones that were focused only on their money. For a century, it went on this way—until a man named Fyodor Dostoevsky purchased the home for twice as much as it once was.

He was the one who changed it, renovated it, upgraded it to his own personal style, ensuring that it fit in with the times and his own opinions of luxury. Fyodor was charming, but ruthless, deadly with his own intelligence, owning half the town as they lost their money to his schemes.

Fyodor’s rein came to an end when he was poisoned by his closest friend, perhaps the one man he had trusted. It was the first murder in a string of ones to follow within the house.

You close the book, unsure if you regret the knowledge you’d gained or not.

The house feels colder now that you know the history of it. As if you can see the cruelty etched into every wall. Colors of the home bleed into each other, a pastel yellow of warmth and light, and the next room empty, almost uninhabitable, with its royal purples.

You stare at the portrait as you make dinner, feeling like you can never escape the gaze of those oil painted eyes. He has a name now—Fyodor. It feels even more disarming now that you know more about him than he’ll ever know about you.

And though Fyodor watches you, every night, from every angle, you convince yourself it’s just the way that the painting is situated. It would be foolish to think that he’s really watching every move you make, irises pinned on your form, unblinking.

The oven heats up behind you as you cut up your food, humming a soft tune to yourself. It’s getting hotter outside – you’d almost forgotten how miserable the summers could be. You forget every year, even though you’ve lived many.

Just as you’re getting lost in your thoughts, going through a list of things that need to get done in your fixer-upper home, you hear a scratch behind you.

It’s a quick sound, so quick that you almost think it was only your imagination. It’s enough to give you pause, your humming fading out into the night as your eyes dart around your house. Although you’ve tried not to let urban legends get the best of you, you’re paranoid in this aged mansion now.

A few seconds pass. You listen to the sound of your own heartrate, feel it pounding in your chest as you will it to calm down. It’s just enough time for you to convince yourself that it was nothing, that you’re far too nervous about silly ghosts to think rationally.

Though as you turn, a knife flies from the counter, just grazing your cheek, but enough to cause a scratch to open up against the skin. Your finger draws away scarlet as you press it to the wound, staring at the painted crevices of your fingertip.

You can’t move. Despite every cell in your body begging, screaming at you to move, you’re frozen, trapped in the four walls of that kitchen as you stare at your bloodied hand.

It’s all a dream, you repeat to yourself. A dream.

One that you don’t wake up from.

Time passes strangely, when every muscle in your body is on edge, your head pounding from the anxiety that spikes throughout your nervous system. A bead of sweat drips from your temple, and though you aren’t sure how long you stand there, nothing else happens. The knife remains lodged in the wall behind you, and the ghost makes no other attempt to lodge one into your stomach.

It’s quiet. There’s no noise, save for the music that plays softly from your phone.

After you regain control of your racing heartrate, you realize that the song playing isn’t what you’d put on originally. It had switched to a gentle, classical piece. Tchaikovsky, you think… or something similar. Something that a man from a different era would be familiar with.

“Who’s there?” You find yourself saying, perhaps stupidly. “What do you want?”

There’s no response – of course there isn’t. You’re talking to the air. To a ghost. No one had gotten inside the house. You’d checked more than enough times, just as you always did.

“I live here now,” you offer, thinking that, perhaps anger is not the best course of action. Neither is fear, though, if the scary movies you’d watched as a teenager had been any indication. “But I’ll leave, if you want me to.”

There’s no answer to that either.

You sigh, and deflate once more, trying to make yourself believe that there was a logical explanation to knives flying and playlists changing. Just as you’d made yourself believe that everything the “ghost” had done before was just a game, innocently played.

Perhaps, there was never a ghost at all. It could be that stress is driving you to insanity.

With a glass of wine in your hand, you finish up dinner, feeling like you are at your wit’s end. How is it that only a few weeks in this house has already singed your mind, turned you into a believer of things that you are not?

The portrait feels like an omen, staring at you with violet eyes, as you wonder where Fyodor is now. Does he watch you when your home, cooking, as you shower, a vicious gaze tracing over each curve of your body, with a sickening thought of all the things he wishes to do to you?

You shiver. It’ s been a while since anyone’s looked at you with a hint of desire. The feeling has become foreign, now, but you can still recall the gratification that comes with being wanted, how it makes you feel, if only for a moment, comfortable in your own skin.

That thought alone quickly snaps you out of your irrational behavior. Thinking of a ghost wanting you? A man that had been buried in the earth for so long that his body would be nothing more than bones?

This house was making you sick, you concluded, wrapping your leftovers up in plastic and tinfoil, placing them in the fridge. Your nervous friend was right – you never should’ve moved into this house, and you never should have stayed this long.

Your hands shook along the banister, heart racing around every corner. You expected that, maybe, you would see a dark-haired spirit there, his body translucent, but still corporeal. Though, there was no spirit hiding within the depths of the shadows, lurking in the places where he still belonged. No sounds startled you, caused you to jump as you brushed your teeth, completed the one last routine of your day.

The bed was colder than usual as you climbed into it, like a flush of a cold spot had settled within the sheets. You remembered what they said about temperatures and ghosts—how they changed, nothing able to survive in the places that they haunted, as they were not of this world, but something in between, something unnatural.

Your lamp flickers as you turn it on, and it’s just one more red flag you choose to ignore. In houses as old as this one, there are issues like that. The wiring is faulty, the electric needs to be monitored, a laundry list of items you will probably never resolve.

There are a thousand rational conclusions, though, and only one irrational one, which puts your mind at ease. Things like flickering lamps and cold spots can be explained simply, even if knives flying at your face cannot.

Still, you settle into bed, deciding that you will talk to the realtor again soon. You’ll move in with Sigma if he’ll have you. Anything to put your mind at ease for good.

That night, you dream of Fyodor, as if he is there right in the room with you, looming above you with those deep, violent eyes. His fingers, long and pale, trace across your cheekbones, as your eyes flutter open, consciousness coming back to you.

He says your name – it’s no surprise he knows it, after living with you for so long. It’s spoken softly, with a hint of possession behind it, like you belong to him. And yet, you’ve never said a word to him, even if all this time, he’s gotten to know you better than anyone else ever has.

You expect a scream to leave your throat, some hint of surprise, of fear, even, to see a stranger in your bedroom. To see him watching you with those familiar eyes, hair falling over his pale forehead as he gazes down at you from the edge of the bed.

No sound emerges.

Your mind feels a little fuzzy, hazy at the edges as you blink at him, closer to a state of intoxication, than you are alertness. Despite that awareness, you can’t seem to snap out of it; maybe you don’t want to. Instead, you sink deeper into the warmth, the honeyed feeling that comes with turning off your rationality. Everything feels as if it’s coming through in blurred, rosy glasses.

“Fyodor,” you mouth, instead of the scream that you’d anticipated, his name coming out in two wistful syllables.

You should hate him – there’s something in your instincts pushing back at you. A flash of a knife, the days of chaos and uncertainty, where you were sure you were losing your mind, come back at you.

But none of that seems to matter now, as you trace your finger across his cheek, feeling the sharp indent below the high bone. His eyelashes are a shade lighter than his hair, soft as they flutter over his forehead. The portrait of him didn’t do him justice… or perhaps, it is in death that he has found his purest form.

“I’m too tired.”

You’re not sure where those words even come from. Calm, like this is nothing but routine, and waking up with Fyodor beside you is the closest thing to normalcy.

He smiles at you, leaning over you again on the bed, lips pulled tightly together in a morbid grin. It does little to sour your mood, to scare you into action, even if you can’t quite understand why.

“I know,” he replies.

It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, a deep, accented sound smoothing against your ears as he traces his gaze against each of your features; musical, almost. His voice calms you, lulls you back into a meditative state.

You reach for him, in a trance, and twirl a strand of his hair between your finger, just to see if he’d let you. After the hell you’d been through the past week, well – was it really that miserable? He seems content to watch over you, observe the gentle movements of his dark hair coiled up around your pointer finger.

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice softer than a whisper, carried away by the wind until it never existed at all.

Fyodor never disappears from your line of sight, even when you try to blink, to close your eyes. He’s there, gazing at you with a lustful fondness, one that’s dangerous, perhaps even malicious. If it’s a dream, it sure feels like a vivid one.

“You wanted to leave,” he says, taking your finger away from his face, before bringing it to his lips. The kiss is barely there, and his mouth is cold, chapped, from the brutality of the afterlife. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Hm?” You try to sit up. It takes more effort than it should’ve – you’re so relaxed, so weak, that you fall back down, letting yourself sink into the plushness of the pillow. “Why?”

Fyodor releases your hand, before touching his own finger to your mouth. It’s slender, like a piece of ice, gently parting your lips before grazing your chin, hovering over your neck. Then, he drops his touch to your collarbone. He stakes a claim on every inch of your skin, pausing as he reaches your chest, still covered by the blankets.

Your clothing is thin – it wouldn’t take much effort to get his cool hands on your bare skin. But he refrains, still smiling before answering your question, tucking his hands together onto his lap. “It’s been so long.”

It doesn’t make sense, but you can’t muster up the effort to question him, not when he’s contemplating every word, like he’s hesitant to scare you away. You let him think, watch him ponder, as you stare, too exhausted to move a muscle.

“I thought you’d be like all the rest,” he says, taking a seat next to you on the bed, nearly touching your hip. “They were nothing but filth, stains in these halls. It’s a crime for them to ever think that they belonged here. In my home.”

You blink. “It’s my home, too,” you say, suddenly filled with an immense amount of dread. It crawls up your neck, chokes you, and nothing leaves you but garbled sounds, as you panic.

Fyodor doesn’t move – there is no twitch in his features, as he watches you with disguised adoration, a kind you didn’t think a ghost capable of revealing. “Of course it is, darling,” he says, so softly, it could’ve been mistaken for kindness. Fyodor leans down, presses his cold, dead lips to your cheek, a kiss of death. “That’s why I couldn’t let you leave. It’s your home. You belong here.”

“Right,” you breath, steadying yourself, before nodding. “My home.” Once more, you gaze around the room, your eyes flicking over every surface. Things are exactly as you’d left them, nothing out of place. “With you?”

The ghost smiles, and reaches out to you, finally helping you into a seated position. Your neck is so stiff, in pain, and you roll it around, feeling nothing there when you expect shifting bones. “With me,” Fyodor confirms, running his icy fingertips across your throat, tangling them with your hair.

He leans into you, pressing a lingering kiss to your mouth, one that catches you off balance, before you accept it with an eagerness that surprises you further. It doesn’t feel unfamiliar, instead, it’s as if you’re coming home, like the man you’ve never seen until now was always meant to find you.

A thought that should’ve scared you, even though it doesn’t.

Fyodor pulls away, right as you begin to shift forward, maneuver yourself onto his lap. “You should rest,” he replies, keeping you at a distance. “It might take some time to adjust.”

“Hm? What do you mean?” you blink, holding onto his wrist as your gaze shifts from his impossibly dark eyes to the mirror across the room.

There, in the darkness of the evening, shrouded in moonlight, you can see your reflection staring back at you, eyes vacant, lifeless. You expect to see yourself as nothing but exhausted, but when you draw your gaze across the image of yourself, there is blood seeping from your neck, a stream of scarlet. There is thick gash across your throat, slashed so deep that it would’ve killed you instantly.

The expression on your face shifts from one of calm to horror, as you scrape at your neck, trying to clear off the blood that isn’t really there, the permanent wound that will follow you even into your death.

“What did you do?” you scream, tears rolling down your cheeks, even though you can’t feel them, can only see them in the mirror. “What did you do to me?”

Fyodor smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Though you fight against him, he takes you into his arms, and you are too weak to fight him off. “I told you,” Fyodor says, shushing you, running his palm over your head as you scream. “I couldn’t let you leave.”

thank you for reading !

[steviewashere]

Take Up Space

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse (it is minor, but the themes are there), Implied/Referenced Child Neglect Pairings: Steve Harrington & Steve Harrington's Parents, Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Tags: Post-Canon, Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst With a Happy Ending, Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Steve Harrington's Father Being an Asshole, Steve Harrington Wants to Be Loved, Steve Harrington Feels Like a Burden, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Comforts Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Steve Moves in With Eddie & Wayne, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, And Gets One

🫂—————🫂 Couldn’t even say it.

Didn’t want to look him in the eyes and just say it.

Steve’s been holding on. He has. Hands to the ground, fingers in the soil, gravel under his nails. Been holding fast to his parents. Claw marks on his mom’s calves and a ring of teeth on his dad’s neck. Fighting for purchase against everything his parents want him to be; the words they have to say when he’s behind his bedroom door and feigning sleep. When he’s ear against the wood, teeth in his bottom lip, holding back cries—“How does our kid get a fucking D in math class? We’re business people!”

He’ll always be absurd to his parents.

To his mom, he is the long lost love of her life. He is the flower nearly wilted in her palms, plucked fresh from the grass, tufts of petals blowing behind her. The thing she always wanted; that she gave name to; that she thought she needed. She knew his name before anything else. Said it her self, holding the remnants of her childhood doll—“I named him Steven,” she had told him, “a mighty little lion with a great, big roar. I held him close every night, just as I will do with you, my little lion.” He was born small, premature, wrinkled and crying. He was placed upon her chest the same way a bouquet is laid on a casket—with love and loss, grieving just begun. It didn’t take long for her to change. For her voice to grow sharp and loud and angry. Disappointed, too.

Just a disappointment to them, that’s what he was. Didn’t win the championships? Disappointment. Got third in the second grade spelling bee? Disappointment. Barely graduated high school? Dis-a-fucking-ppointment.

It was shown in the way he never met his dad’s expectations. Ruler slaps on the wrists, wooden spoon to his bottom, the time out corner. Sometimes, he’d drop his homework on “accident”, to explain why he didn’t have it. Why they couldn’t see the big, fat, red F on his assignments, scrawled dark and heavy, circled with that perfect penmanship his teachers always had—always had for the failures in class. He’d have to get his report cards signed, but he’d forge them. He’d have conferences, but he’d always “forget” to invite his parents.

And it was better when they’d leave for business trips. Always too long, over staying their welcome in out-of-state hotels, in foreign countries they’d never be built for. It was better because he didn’t have to explain. It was better because he could get away with being human. He could show up tired to school, could get a bad grade and feel relief, could fuck up big time on a test and have no repercussions (especially if he went home and deleted voicemails from their answering machine), and he could graduate by the skin of his teeth. Take up the extracurriculars, do the bare minimum, not have to try so hard to be somebody he isn’t.

Of course he didn’t make it into college, not with his skill set. Of course he didn’t try again—not because he didn’t care, but because he simply couldn’t. Of course he worked dead-end retail full time; it’s all his parents could think to do with him—it gave him time away from home for eight hours or more, so it was a win for everybody.

But underneath all of that—beneath the scoldings and the physical punishments and the hot spit in his face—there were absent words, too. Absent gestures.

Steve doesn’t remember the last time he embraced his parents. Doesn’t remember the last time he heard ‘I love you.’ Doesn’t remember the sweetness of growing up. It was all tainted, taken from him, buried under the soil—the soil he grips to, nose deep in it, sniffing for where the bones have been buried.

He’s twenty now. None of it should matter. It shouldn’t matter at all that he can’t get those three words out of his parents’ mouth. Or that he can’t gauge the weight of arms on his shoulders, arms that aren’t his friends, arms that aren’t the ex-chief of police. Yet, of course it all does.

Nearly six months after Vecna, after the earthquake, after he helped save the world like some vigilante superhero, his parents finally come home. They come home with overflowing suitcases and permanent scowls, stomping and clicking through the front door, keys heavy in a bowl, jackets hung firmly, and his name on their tongue: “Steven!”

They come home with a medical bill in their hands. Thousands of dollars “down the drain.”

And Steve greets them with a neck scar visible above the collar of his current blue henley. His hair down to his shoulders, bangs itching to stab his eyeballs. With thin white lines on his knuckles. A gritted smile on his sullen, tired, pasty face.

“What is this?” His dad had hissed, flicking his right wrist, the paper wrinkled and noisy in his hand. “Thousands! You’ve cost us thousands of dollars!”

“I had surgery,” Steve tried to explain—voice meek, small, already timid—“got mauled by some…vicious and frightened dogs during the earthquake that happened. Guess that’s what happens when you try and help out.” He gave a nervous chuckle and stepped side to side. Buy that, he internally plead, just buy it and berate me and we can move on with our day.

His mom didn’t say anything in this. Face hard-set, painted lips flat, eyes sharp. She was unclasping the earrings hanging heavy from her earlobes, fisting them in her palms, bending down to pick up the stilettos she stepped out of, and then she evaded the conversation. Just went up the steps like a ghost, barely making a sound, simply gliding. He wanted her to come back, to stop this, to stand up for him—wanted what they had when he was really little, when she cared. When she held him close. When she promised.

His dad scoffed. “And you didn’t use your own insurance?”

“I don’t…I thought that I was still on the family plan?”

Steve was then leveled with a stare. A familiar stare. One that conveys exactly what his dad won’t say yet, “Disappointment.” His dad sighed. “Well, you aren’t. Which you would know if you listened”—

“Nobody told me! How am I supposed to”—

“Don’t talk back, Steven. You shouldn’t have to be told everything.” The paper had been thrusted forward, right into Steve’s chest. He gripped for it before it fell to the ground—where his heart has already been mushed into the hardwood. His dad stepped around him, around his heart, retreating towards the dining room and kitchen, fiddling with the band of his watch. “Have you found a job yet? Any college acceptance letters? An apartment?”

He huffed and followed. Bitter, “No. I’ve been recovering from surgery. Physical therapy, a couple skin grafts, my antibiotics…I told you about it over the phone the last time you cared to even call and check in on me.” Immediately, Steve had bit his tongue. Too much, too fast.

The Stare.

“That’s no way to talk to people, Steven.”

“But I”—

“When did you become so uncouth?” His dad scoffed a humorless laugh and drifted towards the kitchen sink.

The kitchen had always been too big for just the two of them. Spacious, many cabinets, the best of the best in terms of appliances. Not a single stain on the countertop. No cracks in the tiles. All of it clean, seemingly unused. Maintained to be picture perfect.

Just as Steve had been most of his life.

His dad continued on, “You’re supposed to be in college right now. Making something of yourself. Instead you’re—what—standing in the kitchen, holding a medical bill you cost me because you were trying to save dogs? Dogs, Steven? You could be doing something with your life! Could be going to school to become a doctor like that Hagan boy. Whatever happened to Thomas anyway?”

Steve stayed silent, still biting his tongue—his dad already knew about Tommy. Small in the doorway. Hunched in and looking at the ground, bile risen in his throat, the scars on his back and sides aching.

“But”—a sigh—“nope. Saving dogs. What are we going to do with you? Should’ve sent you to military school like Robert Kelly’s kid, I heard he’s doing great these days. You’ve always been defiant, though, so I’m sure that gig would’ve been drilled straight into the ground.”

The sink turned on, his dad had washed his hands. Wiped away the residual weight of the medical bill from his palms. A medical bill that he never bothered to ask about before. Just like the other ones. Like the other concussions. The fights that put the family name at risk. The bruises and blood that ruined poor Steve’s reputation.

If only he knew the truth.

His dad went to say something else, but instead—

“Why don’t you care?” Steve bit, “you never cared. This isn’t the first bill. Why does it even matter how much you have to spend? You’re my dad; you’re supposed to care about me.”

A different stare this time. Squinted eyes. Furrowed eyebrows.

Are you challenging me, is what this one said, are you doubting me?

“When you’re saving dogs? Why should I bother, Steven?”

“Because I’m your son! Because I—I need your help! It shouldn’t matter what I’ve been doing. It should matter that I almost died.”

He rolled his eyes. “Died,” his dad muttered—a soft, bewildered echo. “Stop being so”—

“Why don’t you just love me? Why won’t you love me just as I am? I need you to care. I need you to…to treat me like I’m your kid. Not some friend. Or some business partner. Your son. But you…you don’t love me?” He shifted again, side to side, boiling and ashamed and ready to puddle into the fine porcelain of the tiles. “You don’t love me enough to call and ask why you need to pay a medical bill. You didn’t bother to even know an ounce.

“It’s like that every time with you. All those stupid concussions. You didn’t want to take me to the hospital. Didn’t want to pay it off. Worried about your stupid last name. About the family image. I almost die and all you care about is the fact my life is costing you money.

“Money is more important than me, that’s all you’ve shown.”

Another scoff. “Don’t be so”—

“Ridiculous? Unreasonable? Dramatic? Stupid?

“Why are you so incapable of loving me? That’s all I want! For you and mom to…to hold me and tell me that you love me! But you…you only care when I cost you money! Why can’t you care?! I want you to—I want you to be my dad! What’s so wrong with that? With loving me? Why am I such a hard person to love? Why can’t I just…just be enough for you?!”

Finally fallen silent, Steve stood still in the kitchen’s entryway. A world between worlds. Tired, heaving, stomach turning. Palms sweating, wetting the dumb bill that ruined this all.

It remained silent. With his dad looking at him.

Those hazel eyes and his square jaw. The same face Steve sees staring back at him in the mirror. And yet his own isn’t enough to love.

There is nothing.

And so he kept standing, empty, words dead to the floor, heart by the front door. He took a deep breath through his nose, remembered the path to his get-away bag—a bag he packed in sophomore year of high school, after a terrible basketball game, when he was slapped on the back of the head for failing to make the winning shot. It has a new toothbrush and tube of toothpaste, emergency cash, hygiene products, a new wardrobe that coincides with his current size, and all his important documents—nothing of his family’s. He had what he needed packed in his closet.

So, he left. Chose to go. Before his dad had the chance.

Let the possibilities die in the air. What could’ve been if there wasn’t so much space and so many expectations between them.

Who knew saving the world would be the ending of your own?

Who knew love was such a price to pay?

——— Now, he finds himself parked outside of Eddie’s. The backpack in the passenger seat. Leaves it for now, unsure if he’ll be wanted. But he knocks on the door regardless.

There’s a moment where there’s nothing.

Him and the blackness of the trailer park. The rustle of grass in the gentle, autumn breeze. People chattering a few doors down, over cigarettes it smells like. Max’s own bedroom light is out, most likely asleep right now. Chain link fence glinting with the very little moonlight that’s there. Fresh weeds on the outskirts, born from the rain.

Serenity around his turmoil. A constant anger still stewing, bubbling, steaming within him.

What if Eddie can’t handle him right now?

What if he has to crawl through Robin’s window, leave her with words, run for the hills?

What if…what if…what if?

“Steve?” Eddie calls softly, sing-song like he’s tried already.

He whips back around from where he’d been looking out at the grass. Shuffling. “Oh, hey, Eds. Sorry—I—Just…Can I come in, please?”

Eddie steps aside for him. Lets him in without words. Until, “You’re shaking, sweetheart. Is everythin’ alright?”

“Hm? Yeah…yeah, yeah…I think that I—Think I just moved out of my parents’ house?”

A soft, surprised sound behind him. The click of the door closing. “Yeah, you think?” Gentle.

Everything is gentle here.

The amber light in the living room. Rows of hats. Shelves of mugs. Family pictures proud on the fridge, next to yellowed drawings in crayon, all hung up with goofy Garfield magnets. There’s an open box of Honeycomb on the table, a fresh bowl poured. A carton of milk turned so that the missing persons report could be read.

When he was younger, Steve imagined being on one of those panels. What it would be like. To have gone missing. Not a note or a clue or a peep. To have his parents care enough to find him. Now, though…now it feels like they wouldn’t even bat an eye. Maybe it would’ve been the same back then, too.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs, “he got mad about a medical bill for that surgery I had. And I just…god, it’s embarrassing.” He lets out a humorless chuckle, too similar to his dad’s—a sound he will always recognize as that, from his father’s chest. Horrid and wretched. Something rotten in him, too, it seems. “I asked him why he doesn’t…doesn’t care about me. Why he doesn’t love me. I mean…who does that?” Steve makes eye contact with Eddie, who must’ve gotten closer, stepped right in front of him. With very little courage, the last dredges of it in his veins, he speaks, “They let me live in their house, eat their food, use their shit. Was that wrong of me? Am I…am I stupid for asking?”

Eddie inhales hard and deep. “Oh, Steve,” he breathes.

“It had to be, right? Of course my parents love me. They’re my parents!”

“Steve, that’s”—

“I get it, y’know. I get that it’s hard to love me. I know that, you know. But I don’t…the way he looked at me, Eddie, I knew he knew that too. I don’t think they—Why am I such a hard person to love? Is it me? Is it something wrong with me?”

He’s unsure if that was rhetorical, if he really wanted that answer. But as it is, he’s aware of the ache in his head, the burn between his eyebrows, the need and want to pinch the bridge of his nose. The tears that rise—ones that won’t fall, not without his permission. Without permission at all.

Instead of an answer, at least not right away, Eddie envelops him with languid movements and a warm body. Heavy arms on his aching back, hands pressing firm to his taut muscles, rubbing up and down his rigid spine. There’s breaths and words and kisses murmured against his eardrum. A chest rising and falling against his own. Tickling hair.

And instead of protesting, Steve clings back hard. Harder than he’s ever held anything.

Digging fingers into a t-shirt—the soil. Not wanting to let go. Never wanting to let go. Not when he’s finally getting part of what he wanted, to just be held. Maybe not by his parents, the real dream, but at least it’s something.

Somewhere in it all, in their mess of limbs and their mingled pulses, Steve cries—giving that allowance. Sobbing big, aching, roaring hiccups into the soft spots of Eddie’s neck. Wet breaths and wetter tears. Letting go until he has nothing left to give—and then some. His head is aching already, eyebrows pinching, eyes heavy on his already too heavy face.

He’s tired.

More tired than he thinks he’s ever been.

This must be the adrenaline crash. Makes him realize all the ways he’s hurting. His back and his legs and his fingers. His head and his teeth. His heart. And here he is, screaming all of his pain into the gentle parts of Eddie, where he’s offered and where he’s swaddled.

“Shhh,” Eddie’s whispering, “shh, Stevie, you gotta calm down a little for me. Just a little, I’ve gotcha.” They’re moving somewhere. Shoes scraping and dragging against carpet. Set down on a soft cushion—the couch, then—with words still murmured in his ear. “I’ve gotcha,” Eddie says, “he doesn’t deserve you, sweetheart. I’ve gotcha…I’ve gotcha.”

“Why can’t—I don’t—Love”—he stops himself with a wet, spraying cough-gag onto Eddie’s warm skin.

Hands press into his shoulder blades, dragging firmly down his spine. And then fingers at the ends of his hair, a thumb pressing into the knobs of his neck. Eddie sways them back and forth gently. “You’re gonna choke,” Eddie murmurs, “take a deep breath, baby. Just one breath for me, that’s all.” He obliges, inhaling hard through his nose, trying to release it as slow as possible through his mouth—not incredibly, but just enough. “Good,” Eddie says, “good job. You can cry, sweetheart, but you gotta keep breathing good for me.”

Again, he does what Eddie tells him to do. Wetting his skin more with each deep breath he blows out. And when he’s just a shivering, hiccuping mess in Eddie’s arms, he finally allows himself to relax—to loosen.

Eddie presses a kiss to his left temple. Then he pulls away just enough so they can see each other’s faces. He swipes the hair out of Steve’s face, gentle with every touch he gives. “You’re gonna stay here with me, alright?”

“What about”—

“Wayne’ll understand, I promise. I’ll grab your stuff. I want you to just sit right here, okay? And when I come back in, we’ll just relax for the rest of the night.”

“I’m tired.”

“Then we’ll just go to bed, okay?” Eddie kisses his temple again. He pulls himself off of Steve and gets off of the couch with a, “I’ll be right back.”

Steve only nods at Eddie’s back, now slumped into the couch.

Disappointment rings loud in his head. At least he didn’t let his parents say it this time. But once it’s ingrained in him, he knows the way it should sound. Dripping with ire—red and loud and bass boosted from his dad’s mouth. And yet he doesn’t know what ‘I love you’ sounds like coming from either of them; or at least he doesn’t remember.

He’s gone and unloaded himself here. Not that he intended for that to happen.

There wasn’t really a plan when he drove over to Forest Hills. Maybe the naked branches of one. He’d come over, tell Eddie what happened, maybe get so overworked that he started to cry, and then he’d slip out without another word. Just get back in his car, leave a note or something for Robin, and evade Hawkins all together. Though, now that he’s out of that house, maybe his parents will finally take the initiative on getting out of this town. It’s something they always wanted, something they always threatened they’d do if Steve didn’t shape up. Now would be the time, he supposes, now that he’s left with the last crumbs of his dignity.

A few minutes later, still stuck to the back of the couch, Eddie comes in through the front door. That one backpack in his grip. Fingers tight on one strap, looking at it with confusion.

“Is this all of your stuff?”

He shrugs. “My go bag.”

“Go bag,” Eddie echoes.

“Yeah, I’ve had it packed since sophomore year. Just in case, y’know.”

Eddie inhales in that slow way he does. “Yeah,” he whispers, “yeah, I get that.” He hefts the bag up and down. “It’s just…just really light, sweetheart. Are you sure you have everything you need?”

He nods resolutely. “Stuff can be replaced. It’s fine.”

The couch dips beside him. His eyes drifting from his lap, up to where Eddie’s looking directly at him. That backpack between his feet—limp and folding in on itself from how empty it is. There’s a question on the tip of Eddie’s tongue. Hesitantly, “What was your plan, sweetheart?”

He shrugs again. “See if I could spend the night here and then…I don’t know? Figure it out as I go, I guess. Didn’t wanna be a burden or anything.”

“You’re not a burden,” Eddie states firmly, “you are never a burden to me or anybody else in our friend group.”

“But”—

Eddie lays his hand on his forearm, squeezing him tight. “I want you to stay right here with me. I want you to eat my food and sleep in my bed and take up space, you got that?”

Steve sniffles. Wetly, “Are you sure? I can get a hotel or some”—

“Stay here.” Eddie squeezes his forearm again. His eyes bounce between Steve’s own. Then, he murmurs, “I love you”—which is the first time he’s said it—“and I hate your parents with the most sincere hate I could send a person. But you…you, Steve, are worth loving and caring for. No matter what.”

“But what if you grow tired of me? I mean…my parents, they”—

“No matter what. Steve, I will always care and love and respect you as a human being even if our relationship fails—for some reason, which I can’t even think of a reason, so we’ll be okay.” Eddie hefts the backpack in his other hand, still light and still collapsing in on itself. “Now, how ‘bout we get ourselves to bed?”

Steve swallows, darts his eyes over Eddie’s face. Nods once, the last of his tears rescinding. “I’m so tired, Eds.” But it sounds like more than that. The weight of those words falling off his tongue, the hollowness of his mouth all that he has left afterwards.

Eddie frowns lightly. His hand goes up to Steve’s face, cupping his cheek gently, wiping his thumb under his left eye. “I know, baby,” he murmurs, “I know.” He sniffs himself, something small, but that’s when Steve notices that Eddie’s eyes are wet, too. “I wish I knew how to completely fix everything for you. I’m sorry your parents won’t be your parents.” Then, he stands up from the couch, hand out for Steve to grasp—which he does. “Let’s go to bed, sweetheart. We’ll talk more about this when we’re rested up.”

In the bedroom, Eddie sits Steve’s bag on his dresser. Rifles through it and tutting the entire time he does. Steve probably could’ve packed some pajamas in there, but it’s fine. It’s fine because it needs to be fine. Instead of making some retort, Eddie easily grabs Steve a set of pajamas—some fleece red pants and a white t-shirt—and hands them off.

They change in silence. He brushes his teeth alongside Eddie’s, placing his own toothbrush in the same cup. Even as awful as this day has been, the sight of their toothbrushes together makes him a little giddy—something in him warm.

Once under the covers, Eddie drags Steve into him. An arm wrapped around his shoulders, chin to the top of his head, stroking fingers up and down his spine, connecting the dots of the many moles on his back. Treating him with the same love and reverence as always, as if nothing in their lives has changed. The normal is…nice in the aftermath.

“Eds?”

“Hm?”

“I love you, too,” Steve whispers, “thank you for this.” He shuffles in closer, probably too close. Arms bent awkwardly, legs tangled in one another, his cheek pressed flush with Eddie’s chest. His heart is beating strong and hard, Steve turns his head to kiss it. “I’ll figure out a way to make it up”—

“Nope,” Eddie mows over, voice soft, yet firm, “not doing that. No making up that needs to be done.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Okay, fine,” he sighs, relenting. “You’ll regret saying that once you realize how messy I am.”

Eddie snorts. “Have you met me? Think we’ll be a-okay. Go to sleep.”

Steve drags his lips over Eddie’s chest one more time, blowing a raspberry against his skin. Laughing when Eddie squawks.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

“Fine…fine, I’ll go to sleep. I love you, Eds.”

“Love you, too.” He squeezes Steve’s shoulders. “We’ll talk more in the morning, okay? But you’re safe here—take up space.”

Tonight doesn’t fix everything. But…but he can learn to be loud. With Eddie guiding him, that shouldn’t be much of a problem at all. Not at all.

🫂—————🫂

[reasonsforhope]

"An international research team has found almost a million potential sources of antibiotics in the natural world.

Research published in the journal Cell by a team including Queensland University of Technology (QUT) computational biologist Associate Professor Luis Pedro Coelho has used machine learning to identify 863,498 promising antimicrobial peptides -- small molecules that can kill or inhibit the growth of infectious microbes.

The findings of the study come with a renewed global focus on combatting antimicrobial resistance (AMR) as humanity contends with the growing number of superbugs resistant to current drugs.

"There is an urgent need for new methods for antibiotic discovery," Professor Coelho, a researcher at the QUT Centre for Microbiome Research, said. The centre studies the structure and function of microbial communities from around the globe.

"It is one of the top public health threats, killing 1.27 million people each year." ...

"Using artificial intelligence to understand and harness the power of the global microbiome will hopefully drive innovative research for better public health outcomes," he said.

The team verified the machine predictions by testing 100 laboratory-made peptides against clinically significant pathogens. They found 79 disrupted bacterial membranes and 63 specifically targeted antibiotic-resistant bacteria such as Staphylococcus aureus and Escherichia coli.

"Moreover, some peptides helped to eliminate infections in mice; two in particular reduced bacteria by up to four orders of magnitude," Professor Coelho said.

In a preclinical model, tested on infected mice, treatment with these peptides produced results similar to the effects of polymyxin B -- a commercially available antibiotic which is used to treat meningitis, pneumonia, sepsis and urinary tract infections.

More than 60,000 metagenomes (a collection of genomes within a specific environment), which together contained the genetic makeup of over one million organisms, were analysed to get these results. They came from sources across the globe including marine and soil environments, and human and animal guts.

The resulting AMPSphere -- a comprehensive database comprising these novel peptides -- has been published as a publicly available, open-access resource for new antibiotic discovery.

[Note: !!! Love it. Open access research databases my beloved.]"

-via Science Daily, June 5, 2024

[moremaybank]

If you are still taking prompts, could I request #30 for Rafe.

I absolutely love your writing!!

"i bet i can make you cum without even touching you."

warnings 18+, use of a fuck machine (don't even ask where that came from), reader is restrained and gagged, nipple play, masturbation (rafe), language/dirty talk, mentions of anal, mentions of face-fucking

author's note thank you so much, love! sorry for the wait, i hope you enjoy 🤍

prompt masterlist (requests closed) ; rafe masterlist

One of the biggest mistakes you've ever made was tell Rafe Cameron that he couldn't make you cum. You were being petty. He was getting on your nerves and it just slipped out. It was an obvious lie, but that didn't stop the darkness from flashing through his eyes when he chuckled dryly.

"I bet I can make you cum without even touching you, sweetheart. You don't wanna test me."

Now, here you were, gagged with one of his ties and plopped up on a chair in Rafe's bedroom. Your wrists and ankles were secured to the armrests, keeping you restrained and open to him. A machine was set on the edge of the bed a few feet in front of you, and attached to it was a thick sex toy that closely resembled Rafe's cock. It plunged into you harshly, your boyfriend controlling it with the small black remote in his hand. The devilish grin on his face was enough to tell you that he was enjoying this different surge of control far too much.

"You know, I originally bought this as a present for you. For when I was on a business trip and you were missing my cock. Missing me making your legs shake. I was gonna get you to send me videos of you using it so I could take care of myself. But now...now I'm thinkin' that there's so many other ways that I can have fun with it."

He clicks a button and the speed kicks up a couple notches. Your breath shuddered around the silk, and it was almost completely soiled with your drool as the liquid dripped past your lips. You closed your eyes, feeling your insides turning to jelly when the toy hit your special spot. Your pleasure climbed and you struggled against your restraints. Your hips jerked as you helplessly tried to soothe yourself from the rough fucking Rafe was giving you, though you were completely devoid of his touch.

"Eyes open. I want you to watch me take every ounce of your control from you. You need to know who's in charge, baby."

Rafe slipped the remote into his back pocket before walking over to you. His hands worked to free his cock, and he dragged it over the pools of saliva rolling down your naked front. He hooked his index finger under your chin, making you look up at him as he gripped himself. He hit his tip against your wet lips a few times, and your mouth ached to feel the glorious weight of his dick against your tongue and down your throat.

"You wanna tell me I can't make you cum?" He asked. "Well, guess what, baby? You can't make me cum either."

He started to stroke himself, flicking his wrist and twisting. His lusty eyes never left yours as he pleasured himself right before your eyes. It was torturous, watching his chest as he panted heavily, hearing the throaty groans escaping his lips. One of his hands retrieved the remote once again, setting it onto the highest setting.

You started to yelp, barely being able to grab a hold of the oxygen you needed. Tears gathered in the brims of your eyes and were soon rolling down your cheeks. You squealed when he abandoned the remote and twisted one of your nipples, pinching your sensitive bud tightly as the machine fucked you.

"Gonna use this thing to fuck your throat next, get it nice and bruised. Then I'll put it back in your pussy and fuck your ass myself, all at the same time," he mused, rutting his hips against his hand. "Your poor little holes, princess. They're gonna be gaping and sore."

Your sobs were making your throat raw, but they were music to Rafe's ears, causing his cock to twitch in his hand and his balls to draw up nice and tight. His skin felt as if it was on fire when you tried to beg him for a break through the gag of his tie. Your words were muffled and racked with your gorgeous cries, and you were hyperventilating with a struggle for air.

Rafe's hand migrated to your throat, squeezing as he fucked his hand hard, feeling his orgasm building up in the pit of his stomach. His seed shot out in spurts, ribboning over your plump tits and the curves of your stomach. A string of curse words fell from his lips, accompanying his release.

"Such a good doll for me, yeah? Letting me paint you and use you like a goddamn toy. So fuckin' pretty, baby."

RAFE TAG LIST (JOIN HERE!): @pankowperfection @maybankslover @penny4yourthoughts @bmo-bri @hemogloban @princessbetsy123-blog @slytherhoes @whoisdrewstarkey @dreamingwithrafe @vigilanteshitposting @softherveauxs @adoreyouusugar @f4ll-for-you @rafesdirtyslut @tell-me-when-ur-ready @bbycowboi @venomwh0re @jjmaybankisbae @enhypens-hoe @loverofdrewstarkey @chibijustuff @countryclubkook @earth2starkey @angelofcigs @glen-powells @belcalis9503 @em0-b0ysworld @koalalafications @aerangi @cantstoptheimagines @thatsthewaythechrissycrumbles

[theperfectquestion]

Rusty probably didn't tell Hank and Dean that they were clones because I bet that Jonas would do that to him. I imagine that when he was reprimanding him, Jonas would literally refer to him as his R-number like it was his real, full, Christian name. Jonas would never let Rusty forget that he was living proof that Jonas Venture had beaten God.

There's probably a machine somewhere in the compound that squeezes out Scamps for the space programme. Jonas would take Rusty to see the clone slugs being made and would tell the boy, with genuine pride, that he is just like Scamp - mass produced. Then Rusty would see on the news that another Scamp had died in an experiment to test the limits of human endurance and have a panic attack when, shortly afterwards, his father strapped him into a prototype of Mr. Brisby's roller coaster. Jonas would scowl and tell him that he thought this latest Rusty genome was supposed to produce less of a crybaby.

Rusty never discussed this with Ben because, to him, Ben was as much a part of the problem as his dad was. We can assume that Ben jas mellowed with age just like Rodney and Horace but I wouldn't be surprised if he was a surfer version of Dr. Moreau in his youth. Who knows how many Rusty clones have fertilised the soil of the E-Den?

So sure, Rusty repeated a lot of the same mistakes with his kids as his dad did with him: dangerous lifestyle, poorly socialised, occasionally roped into a science project or organ donation... but Rusty almost always treated them like his sons, not an extension of his ego. Rusty's problem is that his idea of 'fathers' and 'sons' is one that is patched together from 60s television shows, half-remembered advice and shit he made up. He doesn't have any friends who are parents that he can emulate and he's too proud to actually learn what is considered best practice, but what he can do is to try and do the opposite to what Jonas would have done.

Thing is, everyone in the world of the Venture Bros sees Rusty as someone who could never live up to the greatness of Jonas Venture. But I think we as the audience are supposed to see him as someone who didn't repeat his worst sins. Whether he couldn't or wouldn't is up to us to figure out.

[cerastes]

Bro any time I think about Valkyria Chronicles I laugh my nipples off, the game is fundamentally flawed gameplaywise but, simultaneously, it's stupidly fun, which is the recipe for any club banger, it has a story that weaves flawlessly between "that's pretty poignant" and "this is some goofy goober shit", it's got the horrors of war but also this fucking pig piece of shit mascot, Hans,

It's an amalgam of white and black without any gray: It exists on extremes, and it never intersects, it's playing two parallel lines and coming to terms with the fact that you'll never see cohesion but that somehow enhances the end product in ways evidently no one intended. You have narrative comparisons with the persecution of jews and, at the same time, the game ends with the bad guy getting German Suplexed.

But I think the funniest aspect of Valkyria Chronicles The First is that the main character is the farthest thing from a war hero they could possibly muster with the expertise of a stoic Japanese swordsmith from the mountains crafting a god-cleaving blade: Welkin.

This Scout From TF2 Put Through An Anime Filter looking mother fucker was chilling in his hometown talking about how much he wanted to be a teacher and showing people his really good sketches of animals because he's also a gifted artist, when suddenly, the Dudes attack, and his reaction to the Dudes attacking is "hang on, I recall my dad hiding his actual service tank in the shed in the back" so he goes and, yeah, his dad's tank from a previous war is just there, chilling, so he takes it for a joy ride while the town baker, Alicia, armed with a rifle and infinite action economy due to the afore mentioned flawed gameplay, sweeps the entire god damn platoon of heavily armed machine gun troops.

The entire game is Welkin using his love for nature and his baker love interest to inflict insane personnel and materiel damage to an entire empire: Welkin and Alicia will come across a heavily fortified bridge, and the dialogue will go something like

"Welkin! They will pulverize us with the heaviest machine guns known to man if we step one foot in that bridge! They practically developed wooden low-orbit bombardment stations! What's the plan!"

"Well... Look at that duck over there. It's flying from the east to the west, right? Well, YOU SEE, that duck is known as a Balkunese Socioduck, and those, during this season, migrate from west to east, and they only exhibit this irregular flight path if a Matrisgel Weasel family is molting by the juniper berry bushes, their favorite food. Matrisgel Weasels only ever molt if they are put under the exact amount of stress caused to them by the sound of distant tank threads on the road, and they are known to hide in sturdy, stable soil."

"Welkin, SIR, what the fuck does this all mean?"

"If we follow the smoldering shrieking of the molting weasels, we'll find a SECRET PATH that will, as always, let us ambush, flank, and surprise our foes! Alicia, you know what to do."

"Ogggeyyyyy"

and then, invariably, no matter the level, thanks to Welkin's impressive knowledge of fauna and flora, and Alicia's literally infinite action economy in a game that wasn't properly beta tested in-house during development, they combine their powers like a piss poor Captain Planet and kill the absolute shit out of an entire Empire's worth of dudes, and it's legitimately one of the most fun and charming games you'll ever touch if you remember to not take it too seriously. I fucking hate Hans but I love this game.

[heicodynamics]

Organic Soil testing is a critical step in ensuring the health and productivity of organic farms. By evaluating the soil’s composition, nutrients, and overall health, farmers can make informed decisions on how to enhance crop growth and sustain the ecosystem.

[threepandas]

The Vod's List: Part 2

You know the worst part about the Republic standard hazard mask? No, not the "for dealing WITH hazardous materials" one. The "your species can be fully or partially CONSIDERED one, so to interact with the rest of polite society you gotta wear protection so we don't DIE" one. THAT hazard mask. From the set.

Yeah, you the worst part about THAT mask?

It's like someone really, REALLY high up in power DELIBERATELY made the who set as... well, for lack of a better term? Slave-like and uncomfortable as possible. As humiliating as possible. Like they WANTED the people who had to wear it, to suffer and be upset. And like? I KNOW it's probably just some really REALLY out of touch politician? Who's never had to WEAR one of these kriffing things in their karking LIFE?

But come ON! It looks and feels like a MUZZLE.

A BADLY FITTED ONE at that! Like? And don't ask me how I KNOW this? Because the holonet is deep and filled with weird wondrous horrors? Buuuuut... according to CERTAIN individuals. Who HAVE reviewed a VARIETY of muzzles for... personal reasons? And Bones bless! No judgment! According to certain Unnamed Experts of The Field, as it were?

.......these masks kriffing SUCK nifflestones.

Padding is shit. Airflow it terrible. Not customized for individual races AT ALL. Just? Mouth a "hazard"? Cover it. Who CARES if that means the individual kriffing suffocates. Or karking near DROWNS on their own threat or stress response. To say NOTHING of those who have to routinely either use their mouth's "hazard" or have it TRIGGERED by something pressing AGAINST their jaw!

It's a genuinely terrible design! Almost deliberately so. Keeps a lot of people from ever even bothering from leaving their planet's.

Why do I bring this up? Because working at the senate building is stressful. Dealing with sleemo plasbone's who like to shove me around cause I'm in a glorified MUZZLE is stressful. Knowing I recently infected an innocent man is KARKING STRESSFUL!

And you know what the Techganic response to STRESS is?!

Drool and STRESS BITING.

My ENTIRE fucking BLOODLINE was literally genetically ENGINEERED to fight in a FUCKING HOLY WAR! With BIOLOGICAL WARFARE. We BITE! We bite A LOT!! We are, in fact, SUPPOSED to bite! It's like the unsacred, technological abomination child of those ancient human tales of the "zombie" and the "ber-serker"!

Stress? Stress means we are in battle. Being attacked. Threatened. Stress means ATTACK. Bite and bite and BITE. Thanks the Bones and Blood, I've never been THAT stresssed. I even had to take a test for it! Anyone with a hair trigger is NOT allowed off planet. I'm considered absurdly calm. Chill.

Doesn't mean I WON'T.

Just that it would take A LOT.

But the drool? THAT is involuntary. Is the prelude you can't escape. The means of SPREAD. Of WARRING against the machines. Organic nanite against technological nanites. Host against host. Spread against spread. Ours was a story of PLAUGES. And it left no unchanged survivors.

I get that. I DO. The horrors of our history, the fear and terrors. The resistance forces who wanted no part in the war. Who tried to escape.

What happened to them.

I REALIZE that... that a single Techganic dropped on pretty much any planet can start a nanite plague that can't be stopped. That the more stressed we get, the more our instincts demand we Spread Ourselfs. The water, the soil, the air. Yeah, we can get DANGEROUS.

But we aren't ANIMALS.

We are not who we used to BE. WHAT we used to be. Show me the planet without blood in its past and I will show you a planet that has wiped its past away.

Which is all well and good...but...

I'M FUCKING DROWNING.

These karking hazard masks are so, SO stupid and I'm trying not to panic. My hands shaking. Because if I panic? I will be stressed. If I am kriff KARKING STRESSED, I will drool FASTER. And there is no room. My karking mask is FULL OF LIQUID AND NOT DRAINING FAST ENOUGH.

I struggle with the latches. They are wet. Because my hands are wet. My neck is wet. EVERYTHING IS WET. The mask doesn't even WORK to contain the "hazard"! My hands can't get a grip on the latches. My lungs are burning for air but I can't... if I try to breath now... I'll just get... just get!

I'm in a side hall.

Would anyone even find me? Oh Stars. I'm going to drown.

Except not. Quick heavy steps down the hallway. Two gaurds spot me after turning a corner, break into a sprint. Once again the Coruscant gaurds are a beacon of calm in my darkest moment. One gently pulling my frantic hands away from my mask so the other can quickly work out how to unlock it.

With a gush, air finally hits my face as the mask unlocks and begins to be pulled away. I sputter. Cough. I think I may be weeping. The hallways is spinning as air finally rushs back in. My front is DRENCHED and I hate it. It's so gross. There was nothing I could DO and I felt like an animal. Feel like a mess.

Every drop of it is deadly. The whole hallway will have to be deep cleaned.

Am I apologizing? I think I'm apologizing.

The gaurds are so nice. Talking in low, reassuring voices as the stay with me. They called a medic. Ask me about my hobbies to distract me. A playful argument on how to "properly" take your Caf. Which local diner is the best.

I am gently bundled off by the medic, once he arrives. Another of the Guard thank Stars. The Senatorial medical team are so... judge-y. The Guard's medical is patient and professional, though the only thing he can offer me to change into is the blacks that the gaurd wear under their armor.

Tell NO ONE... but I feel kinda cool. Look at me~ I'm all holo thriller and mysterious in these. I get to KEEP them too!

Not getting the mask back though.

It nearly killed me. That and my asshole coworker who deliberately stressed me out earlier. He... the Guard ARRESTED him. And... look, I KNOW I shouldn't smile. I shouldn't. His life is probably ruined. But... but the sleemo harrased EVERYBODY. Anybody he thought he could abuse? He DID.

Looks like he finally went too far.

I lay back. Not allowed to lean until the medic is SURE there is no secondary drowning symptoms. I grab the shirt that turned out to be just a touch too small and fold it up, drape it over my eyes. It blocks out the light pretty well. I get comfortable.

As I drift off... I'm unaware that the Vod around me stop bothering to pretend the AREN'T blatantly watching me. That the normally sparsely populated medicenter ISNT damn near full of every Vod not currently on duty. The cheif medical officer himself, carefully collecting what he can from my mask.

A dense crowd of eyes slowly run over black clad limbs.

Looking to THEM. Trusting THEM. Threatened, in need of back up. Look how TIRED she was. How vulnerable. Wearing part their uniform. Like a lover, having stolen their clothes.

She trusted them above the natborns. PREFERRED them.

Thoughts began to stir... they wonder...

[monstersdownthepath]

Homebrew Horror: Dominion Disassemblers

(Art from The Book of Unremitting Horror, pg. 66)

Though this is beyond the knowledge of any worldly being, the Dominion of the Black was not always the galactic union it is now. Until a united council with a common goal took the head of the Dominion, wars both petty and planet-scarring were common among its many factions, though in the centuries since their grand union, these squabbles have been reduced to near-nonexistence except when weapons must be tested.

Many relics from this tumultuous time remain in use even to this day, one of the most 'famous' being the Gan-Dergorin, known in the common tongue as Dominion Disassembler, monstrous, nigh-unkillable biomechanical titans with a unique behavioral quirk built into their very genetic code which made them useful in the old wars, and has them remaining useful even now, long after they're no longer needed for their original purpose: destroying Dominion technology. The war machines of the Dominion are unlike any of the minor scouting and scientific units seen on Golarion's soil, the twisted mixtures of flesh and steel nearly impossible to truly put down for good, able to continue their terrible march even as enormous portions of their bodies were torn away.

That is where the Gan-Dergorin come in. These bestial constructs have a simple tactic when facing down any enemy: tear it to pieces too small to remain active. Even the most resilient Dominion machines of terror cannot survive the thoroughness of the destruction that Disassemblers enact upon them, severing every single joint and connector from one another until their victims are rent to their smallest possible components. A Disassembler which has the time to do so will then go even further by separating all types of tissue and matter from one another, then carefully sorting the mangled gore into piles and rows based on how useful it believes its alien masters may find the components, behavior which assured a steady stream of resources for the flesh-forges of the Dominion.

Even today, their gruesome displays are useful when intimidating or punishing captive populations, though Dominion science has advanced to the point such brutal measures are no longer needed; they have much more thorough and effective means of reducing living creatures to their component parts. As such, Disassemblers are used as weapons of terror against the Dominion's enemies among the stars and within their own populations, though this isn't to say they're restricted to distant worlds.

The arrival of a Disassembler on soil beyond the Dominion's grip is an occurrence which is rare to the point of nonexistence, but it has happened both by accident (errant portals and teleportation errors) and purposeful action. On the exceedingly rare occasions when a cultist manages to establish and survive contact with entities concerned with the Dominion's war effort, they can be convinced to send one of these horrors to the cultist's world. Rarely does the cultist survive to give the war machines an actual order, allowing the machine to do what it does best: kill anything it encounters, and assure its own continued survival.

Gan-Dergorin CR 11 Chaotic Evil Large Construct Init +2; Senses: Darkvision 80ft, Low-light vision, blindsense 10 ft, Perception +17 Aura: Frightful Presence (60ft, DC 15) ----- Defense ----- AC 25; touch 11; flat-footed 23 (+2 Dex, +14 natural, -1 size) HP:110 (13d10+30) Fast Healing 5 Fort +4, Ref +6, Will +7 Defensive Abilities: Reassemble, Upgrade; DR 5/--; Immune Construct traits; Resist Fire 10, Cold 10, Electricity 10; Weakness Serial Number, Thorough Disassembly ----- Offense ----- Speed: 30 ft, climb 10ft Melee: Pneumatic Cleaver +19/+14/+9 (2d6+6/x3), Variable Arms +13 (2d6+3/19-20) Space/Reach: 10ft/10ft ----- Statistics ----- Str 22, Dex 15, Con --, Int 10, Wis 16, Cha 6 Base Atk +13; CMB +20; CMD 32 Feats: Cleave, Cleaving Finish, Critical Focus, Improved Cleaving Finish, Great Cleave, Power Attack, Technologist(B), Weapon Focus (Pneumatic Cleaver) Skills: Climb +19, Disable Device +9 (+13 vs machinery/technology), Perception +17, Stealth +3; Racial Modifiers: +4 to Disable Device checks against complex machinery and technology Languages: Aklo (rarely speaks) SQ: Freeze (pile of metal junk), Standing Orders, Thorough Disassembly ----- Ecology ----- Environment: Any Organization: Solitary Treasure: Standard (scrap material, integrated items)

----- Combat: Disassemblers are not complicated creatures. They charge into combat with reckless abandon, using their Great Cleave and Improved Cleaving Finish to slaughter as many weak enemies as they can with a single attack before focusing down remaining foes one at a time with their Full-Attacks, using Power Attack at every opportunity. If given an option, Disassemblers prefer to target any creature capable dealing damage it cannot resist or nullify. A Disassembler will chase down any creature it believes it can kill and will not stop until its enemy escapes or it is driven back by damage.

Morale: A Disassembler brought below 1/4th of its HP maximum will immediately retreat to recover, even if it means abandoning fallen foes, Once it has regained at least half of its total HP and perhaps integrated new weapons, it will track down its foes to dispatch them. If it is slain in combat but permitted to return to function, it will Upgrade itself and track down its killers if possible, and follow its Standing Orders if not.

-----

Reassemble (Ex): Dominion Disassemblers can reattach severed limbs and portions of their bodies by holding it to themselves for 1 full round. A Dominion Disassembler is not destroyed when it reaches 0 HP, but is rendered inert and helpless. 1d4 hours after being reduced to 0 HP, all the alien machinery within whirls back to life--it reactivates at 1 hitpoint and resumes Fast Healing. Only the thorough and comprehensive destruction of its remains using methods such as immersion in magma, acid, or a similar substance, or turning to ash via Disintegrate or similar, can prevent a Disassembler from returning to function; otherwise, it can pull itself together from even the smallest remains.

Serial Number (Ex): All Disassemblers possess a serial number etched on a plate of alien metal somewhere within their body which is kept hidden near their centers. The number cannot be observed unless the construct has been rendered helpless, and even then it requires a DC 23 Perception check to find. Any creature capable of reading and speaking Aklo can make a DC 23 Linguistics check to memorize the Serial Number or write it down perfectly.

A creature may give a verbal command to a Disassembler by speaking its entire serial number aloud and stating the action they wish it to take, in Aklo. Due to the length and complexity of each serial number, this is a full-round action which provokes an attack of opportunity, and being struck by the attack of opportunity ruins the attempt to speak the number. If left without orders, Disassemblers typically try to destroy any creature that knows their serial number. Most creatures which learn of a Disassembler's serial number can easily get rid of the creature by ordering it to take a self-destructive action, or to accept the effects of a spell which will teleport or plane shift it a great distance away.

Standing Orders (Ex): To await further orders from their commanders, Disassemblers go into a low-power mode if they have not encountered another creature in 24 hours. In this mode, they come to rest and resemble a pile of junk, though they remain somewhat aware of their surroundings and may make Perception checks at a -5 penalty to detect nearby creatures and passively make Stealth checks to hide in plain sight as a pile of scrap. They can remain in this low-power state indefinitely, and will do so as long as they are not alerted to any creature, and spring back to full functionality instantly when alerted.

Thorough Disassembly (Ex): A Disassembler gets Technologist as a bonus feat and has a +4 bonus to Disable Device checks to sabotage or take apart complex machinery and advanced technology, and Disable Device is a class skill for it. In addition, after reducing a creature to 0 HP, the Disassembler is compelled to butcher it to prevent its return. It can resist this compulsion by succeeding a DC 20 Will save; otherwise, it must spend its next round attempting to coup de grace that creature if it is still alive, or to begin ripping it to pieces if it is dead.

Upgrade (Ex): When a Disassembler is defeated but permitted to Reassemble, it learns from its failure and seeks out methods to upgrade itself. A Disassembler has a number of Upgrade Points equal to 3 + its Wisdom modifier (6 for a typical Disassembler) that it may divide as it sees fit, and each time it is defeated, its Upgrade Points reset and may be redistributed. A Disassembler requires 1d4+1 days to make upgrades to itself as it gathers raw material from any source it can find (the DM may rule it finds parts much faster in areas with high amounts of technology), and never wastes time and resources upgrading itself unless it is defeated. It can take most of the upgrades multiple times; their effects stack. It will typically choose upgrades which prevent it from being beaten via the same methods it fell to previously.

1 Point: Gain 10 points of resistance to 1 form of elemental damage, or increases its resistance to an element by 10.

1 Point: Increase its natural armor by +1 or its DR/-- by 1.

1 Point: The Disassembler integrates a set of armor and/or a shield it can get ahold of into its body, granting itself the benefits of wearing the armor/shield (AC, magical abilities) but without suffering armor check penalties or speed reductions. It can only integrate one set of armor and one shield at a time.

2 Points: Increase its walk and climb speed by 10ft each, or gain a 10ft swim speed.

2 Points: Gain a +2 profane bonus to a saving throw of its choice.

3 Points: Gain 25% Fortification.

3 Points: Gain 1 feat it qualifies for.

Variable Arms (Ex): The Disassembler's Variable Arms natural attack can switch between slashing, piercing, or bludgeoning damage as a swift action, or change into a tool capable of fine manipulation which also acts as thieves' tools. The construct can also replace its Pneumatic Cleaver with any melee weapon it finds with 1 minute of work, losing its Cleaver attack but allowing it to use that weapon without penalty. It is considered proficient with any weapon it integrates, and wields even two-handed weapons with a single limb.

[the-trinket-witch]

The City of Altus

(Lore post! YAY!)

In the Age of the Gods, there were tales of a city -a civilization- of people who had harnessed and controlled a mineral that emitted its own magic. They used these crystals to build machines and vehicles beyond the scope of their peers. It was said, as well, that their discovery and advancement was an affront to the gods. For it, they were banished to the bottom of the sea.

Altus is a coastal island sitting not far East of Pyroxene. Most that live on the mainland tout that the island just 'sprang up' out of the sea about 300 years ago. The island itself consisted of packed spires and temples, along with tiered swaths of land once the ocean fell away. Along with them, the inhabitants of the island had brought impressive technology saved from a bygone era. It was noted that the resource powering their machines was finite; their exile below the waves seemed to make the new neighbors keen to how their influence might affect the world at large.

The leaders of this island, a native royal and scholar supposedly from the Queendom of Roses, still wanted to share their knowledge with the world. So in a bid to open commerce, they began to build. They built boats to fish, homes to house, and opened their arms to the rest of the world. Altus, as it began to call itself, thanked the Queendom of Roses for their outreach and assistance as they gathered materials to make good on their promises.

News of mechanical testing intrigued minds across Twisted Wonderland. Many flocked both to observe the pristine time capsule of an island, with just as many finding themselves rising to the challenge of reverse-engineering this crystalline technology. What Twisted Wonderland's greatest minds found most effective was wind and steam power.

Surrounded by ocean, they had an endless supply of pressure. Salt accumulated from machine filters would go back into the economy or an early form of Reverse Electrodialysis, and steam would continue the water cycle. As for the heat to build said steam: algae biofuel and hiring fire fairies. The fire fairies are compensated appropriately, and the algae is almost never outpaced in its growth vs harvest. And with how blustery the island could get, wind energy was never difficult to come by for more stationary purposes. This is all to say, Steam power and magic made this once ancient technology accessible to the rest of the world.

Modern Day Aspects of Altus:

The outermost ring consists of the train system, delivering people and cargo from one side of the island to the other. The circuit halos the ports, which frame the innermost residential and urban areas.

The largest building is actually the central hilltop that most Airborne Afternoon's festivities take place. It sits protected by the soil, and serves as a community center, city hall, and disaster shelter.

Flying above the urban areas is the one remaining dirigible of Altus' early air fleet: the S.A.S Admiral. It currently serves as the city museum, accepting and letting loose tourists with each lap around the island. You'll hear locals call it 'Old Admiral Boom', namely for the decommissioned front cannons still mounted on it.

The further towards the east end of the island -facing out to open sea- houses a large population of merfolk. Altus hosts one of the few 'Land Camps' offered across the world for mero to integrate towards land living. Schools, in turn, offer language classes in the more common forms of the mero language. (This is how Albert learned Azul had asked the Twins to keep an eye on him)

Whatever forces of nature allow it, Altus finds itself with an almost consistent schedule of their most windy day. That couple of days has so far been predicted with accuracy, so scheduling Airborne Afternoon has not ever been very short notice. Many theorize that its the literal Winds of Change blowing summer away to usher in autumn.

TAGLIST:

@ceruleancattail @squidwen @thecosmicjackalope @vaporvipermedia@writing-heiress

@oya-oya-okay @k-looking-glass-house @thehollowwriter @rainesol @cyn-write

@heartscrypt @honey-milk-depresso @br3adtoasty @jackiecronefield @ruggiethethuggie

@hoboyherewego @achy-boo @oreoskys @oseathepebble @oathofoaks

@tunabesimpin @hamstergal @fumikomiyasaki@valse-a-mille-temps

@hallowed-delights @kimikitti @plutos-hell @thetwstwildcard @atwstedstory

@comingyourlugubriousness @ice-cweam-sod4 @twst-the-night-away @nammanarin @scint1llat3

[ddarker-dreams]

Those Who Live by the Sword.

Yan Claude von Riegan x F Reader. Commissioned piece.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships and imbalanced power dynamics. Word count: 3k.

There comes a time in everyone’s life when they must test the boundaries of what they can and cannot get away with. 

This has been your personal creed as of late. Though you now fight under the Leicester Alliance’s banner, the lack of a shared history with your fellow alma mater is tangible. It isn’t intentional on behalf of your comrades-in-arms, not that you can tell, but an inadvertent consequence of joining the ranks when you did. 

The time in between battles and skirmishes stretches on seemingly forever. You adhere to a mundane routine: training, ensuring the integrity of your equipment, and wandering aimlessly like some specter in the night. No one troubles you and you trouble no one. You may share the same ambition, meager war rations, and thin tents that can barely keep the night’s chill at bay, yet your common ground ends there. 

You thought this would be enough. Perhaps it will be, if you keep trying, so that’s what you’ve resolved yourself to do. 

Sparks fly off the whetstone as you manipulate a chipped blade against it. You repeat the motion without reprieve, your muscles crying out their protests and your body heavier than the rock this stone was chiseled from. Raising the sword by the hilt, you inspect the fruits of your labor, then frown. A weapon incapable of striking down the enemy is as useless as it is potentially deadly for the wielder. And so you carry on your thankless task, seeing to the repair once more.

There’s a change in the breeze. A slight course correction that some may chalk up to nature’s design; inconsequential, unworthy of granting a second thought. 

The hairs stand on the back of your neck. Firmly, you anchor yourself to the foreign soil, finding that it swallows your boot’s heels rather than spitting it back out. This wouldn’t be an ideal landscape to fight on. That’s why Claude chose to establish camp with this mire acting as a perimeter, deterring potential ambushes and conflicts without a drop of blood being spilled. It’s also why you ventured off here beneath the moon’s looming presence, not wanting to wake your fellow soldiers who often must go days without rest. If there’s anyone who deserves uninterrupted sleep, it’s them, and you eventually, when your goal has been achieved. 

Unblinkingly, you study the thickets where you sense a presence to be staring back. 

You hold your breath and consider your options. Vantage points, escape paths, where the terrain may prove a boon or a bane— 

“Nothing dampens your senses, hm?” A feminine voice that rings familiar asks. From the verdure emerges a lone figure, whose once sky-colored hair is now a frosty mint. Your posture relaxes. 

“Not if I want to live, no.” 

She advances forward. Her eyes go from you to the whetstone, indiscernible in their intent. 

“While being proactive is admirable, it isn’t a good idea to go off by yourself in hostile territory.” 

Byleth no longer officially holds the title of professor, though she still acts the part. It’s never felt unwelcome, this inclination of hers to guide those under her command, but you’re no longer a child worrying over her next grade. You’re a cog in the machine of war. Those who steer said machine needn’t worry themselves with the specifics, so long as you can keep playing your part. 

Yet for some reason, Byleth has often sought you out when you’re certain there are other, more pressing matters to attend to. 

She jerks her head in the direction of the camp. “Let’s head back.” 

You wipe the sweat accumulating on your brow. 

“I’ll be right behind you. This shouldn’t take much longer.” 

Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t appear convinced. 

“... You’re upset,” she reasons. The two words come out slow, cautious. Not caring for the pitying gaze that’s being directed toward you, you return to your previous task. “I get why. Still, Claude never issues orders without reason, you know that. He sees what we don’t even know to look for.” 

Byleth has undergone a metamorphosis since she first walked the cobblestone avenues of the monastery, distant from everyone and everything. Her perception extends far past the battlefield. In many ways, Claude served as a sharpening stone for her, allowing qualities that had rusted over to shine through. 

“I know.” 

“Do you?” She challenges. Her voice slices clean through the air, though it’s not without tenderness. “Lately, you’ve been looking to prove yourself, right? It isn’t worth overexerting yourself.” 

You gulp down the rest of what’s in your waterskin. “I’m not ‘overexerting myself’, I’m just trying to do my part.” 

You glance down at the offending sword that dragged you into this conversation. The condition has greatly improved since when you started. It’s your hope that the owner will live longer thanks to your handiwork. The thought makes your mouth go dry, as if you hadn’t just been chugging water. 

“Don’t you think it’s strange?” You murmur. In the distance, an owl warbles its song. “We need every fighting body we can get, we’re even outsourcing to mercenaries. What reason does he have for taking me off the battlefield ‘indefinitely’?” 

Byleth places her hand on your shoulder. It weighs on you heavily. “There’s no one who knows how to use what’s at their disposal better than Claude. You’ve placed your trust in him before, don’t take it back now.”

“I’m not,” you respond, a hint too fast, like you were retracting your hand after almost being burnt. “I trust him, really, I do, but— I don’t know. First, it was removing me from the vanguard, then putting me in the safest part of the formation, and now this? I’ve become just another mouth to feed. A burden.” 

Whether you intended to say this much, you don’t know, but it all comes tumbling out regardless. The fatigue, stress, and confusion have been building and building to a boiling point. It was only a matter of time before you’d get scalded. 

Dead silence occupies the air, thick and potent. Neither wind nor animal stirs. You have company, and still, you’ve never felt more alone.  

Eventually, Byleth gives your shoulders a squeeze. You think she intends to reassure you. “There is a reason. It’s an important one, too.” 

“And what would that be?” 

Momentarily, the composed countenance Byleth usually maintains cracks, showing an emotion you can’t quite identify. 

In the blink of an eye, it’s gone. 

“I think we both know that isn’t a question for me.” 

-

As per Byleth’s request, you’ve allowed Claude to be the sole holder of your trust. 

She didn’t need to convince you with lofty words and promises. The respect she’s accumulated from you sufficed. You convinced yourself that even if you felt like a deadweight, so long as the golden banner advanced, you’d swallow down your pride and accept Claude’s decision. 

This personal covenant found itself tested within a few weeks. 

The tides of war are a finicky thing. Momentum can be with your cause, almost to the point you’re convinced some divine power is on your side, then it all comes to a screeching halt. One stalemate and one loss — that will be what a historian one day will write in this bloody chapter of Fódlan’s history. 

The groans of the wounded and silence left in the place of those who perished form a haunting symphony.  

You find yourself in the tent Claude occupies. Understandably, he’s been busy as of late, unable to hold an audience with you. Bypassing common courtesy felt like the only way to get through to him, even if this is a breach of privacy. Any other ruler could have you sentenced for life if you tried pulling this stunt, but sticking to strict tradition has never been Claude’s philosophy. You’re confident the scaffold doesn’t await. 

While awaiting his return, your eyes take to wandering. To the left stands a cot, a bow, and various quivers beside it in case of a surprise attack. In the middle is a crudely outfitted table, a map of Fódlan the centerpiece, scribbled with notes that are updated every time a scout comes back. His personal belongings are few and far between. 

There is a single thing that catches your attention. A leaf that doesn’t match the flora of this area — one species found in Garreg Mach Monastery and nowhere else. You know this item well, for you’re the one who gave it to him, five years prior. On the eve of the White Heron Cup, you’d pressed leaves and gave them to your fellow students, regardless of class affiliation. You wanted to ‘preserve your bonds’, or whatever the naive dream was. 

Considering the current state of the country, it’d seem your wishes fell on deaf ears. 

He kept something silly like this for so long…? 

“Are you here to assassinate me, by any chance?” 

You almost jump out of your skin at the abrupt appearance of Claude. The man you’ve been seeking out all this time certainly knows how to make an entrance. The world itself takes a secondary role when he enters, fading away into an unidentifiable blur. His presence commands attention without him doing anything. There’s this magnetic aura surrounding Claude, a quiet brilliance, dazzling as a crystal. 

“Of course not,” you reply. It’s terribly tempting to fall into a trap of lighthearted banter when he’s around, so you must remain vigilant. “I was only hoping to take a few minutes of your time.” 

He frowns and visibly deflates. “There isn’t any requirement saying you have to speak so formally with me. You didn’t used to.” 

“Wouldn’t you say that times have changed?” 

“Times have changed, yes,” Claude relents. The twinkle in his eye tells you he’s far from finished. “That doesn’t mean you have to. I’ve always appreciated your candid nature, it’s refreshing. Even more so when you enter the convoluted world of politics like I have.” 

“I think breaking into your tent is rather candid.” 

“That it is. So,” he pulls out a rickety chair and sits, his posture open. “Let me guess. You’re here to challenge my order for you to remain off the frontlines?” 

It’s always amazed you how he goes from beating around the bush to addressing a point directly. In every discussion, whether it be subtly or overtly, he finds a way to take the reins. His boldness temporarily takes you aback. You prepared an opening statement that’d help ease into your dissent, but that slips your mind like sand through your fingers. 

“I don’t want to question your judgment. It’s just… I think I’d be better utilized out on the field. I came here to help, to fight.” 

“For me, correct?” 

You pause, gauging if he’s joking or not. It’s difficult to tell. 

“I suppose that’s a way of putting it?” 

Claude leans back in his chair and folds his legs. “You did your fair share of snooping around on me back then and even now. That assassin jibe really was a potential theory of mine at one point. I wasn’t sure what to make of you. Coming from me, that’s quite the compliment.” 

He steeples his fingers. 

“The solution was so simple that I hadn’t considered it. Maybe you weren’t aware of it yourself, maybe you were. You found me intriguing, to the point you’d be willing to leave your country of birth behind. This level of dedication, when we’d hardly exchanged words back in our academy days… let’s just say it endeared you to me.” 

Heat rises to your cheeks. 

“You shouldn’t joke around about stuff like that.” 

“I’m not joking,” he flashes a handsome smile. “Knowing how tenacious you are, I thought it’d be best to give proper context to my decision. I don’t want you in harm’s way. This is what I get for trying to delay this conversation until after the war. A tent is the furthest thing from a romantic backdrop, but… beggars can’t be choosers, hm?” 

Endeared you to me. Don’t want you in harm’s way. Romantic backdrop. 

Your legs almost go out beneath you. “W-Wait, this isn’t— it can’t be— a confession?” 

He puts his hands up as if in surrender. “Ah, you caught me. Is it all starting to make sense now?” 

You scrutinize him without trying to hide it in the least. He might be using the casual language that’s typical of him, but his physiognomy is serious. His lips ease into a closed-mouth smile, his eyes contain a certain gentleness, and the tone of his voice is unlike any you’ve heard him use before. A tempest of thoughts and emotions encircles you. It’s stupefying, this situation you’ve stumbled into, almost dreamlike. While you aren’t certain if you reciprocate in full, his charm is undeniable. 

You’re about to explain as much to him when a realization hits. 

So much emphasis has been put on this revelation that the true reason for your meeting here was almost covered, sitting elsewhere and collecting dust. 

The traps he sets are tempting indeed. 

“So that’s the reason,” you say, almost breathless, “I can’t just sit back and watch everyone else put their lives on the line, knowing I’m not doing the same, because of favoritism.” 

Claude sighs. The oil lamp sitting atop the wooden table flickers, casting shadows over his face. Green eyes take in your discontent through thick eyelashes. The undulating shadows become one with the bags forming beneath his eyes, a testimony to the relentless pursuit of his dream. The sheer exhaustion staring back at you pokes and prods at your heart. You don’t want to add to his stress, you want to help, but this isn’t something you can concede on. 

“It’s only going to get more dangerous as we advance on the capital.” 

“Which is why I—” 

“I won’t allow it, simple as that,” Claude cuts you off. There’s a dangerous edge to his voice he rarely ever uses with others. He wants this conversation over with, that much is evident. “Why do you think I kept that gift from you, hm? It always appealed to me, that optimism of yours, so willing to overlook what everyone else in this land and the ones beyond it fixates on. I’d look at it and remember I wasn’t the only one who aimed for something better.” 

You know the expression that etches itself onto his face. That’s the look of a man willing to do anything, give everything, to obtain what he wants.  

“So. You can huff, glare at me, do anything you please really, but I won’t be changing my mind. Not on this. I’d prefer not to gamble more than I care to lose, for once.” 

It’s as if a spirit possesses you. Your legs stride toward him, magma flowing hot through your veins, searing you from the inside out. He remains unwavering upon your approach, silently testing to see what it is you may do next. You grasp at his collar with hands that are calloused from a lifetime of training. Your height overtakes his while he remains sitting, and yet, you feel he’s the one looking down on you from an unreachable podium. 

“And what about what I want?” 

“You should want to live.” 

“I want to fight.” 

“There are more ways to help than shedding blood.” 

“Are we at a point where that’s true?” 

“We will be,” Claude places the palm of his hand over your clenched fist. “Is it so bad that I want to keep you safe?” 

The expression you regard him with speaks louder than words. 

“Alright, alright, I expected as much. You aren’t one to be convinced by words alone, which is truly a shame, because talking is my whole thing… that leaves taking action then. Are you going to let this play out without raising a fuss, or am I going to have to get creative here?” 

This enigmatic phrasing does not sit well with you. He could already foresee that you weren’t planning on hanging back now that you know the true reason for his command, further narrowing your options of retaliation. It isn’t like he’d be in a position to do anything if you were out on the field, his attention would be forced elsewhere. 

Claude’s serious about this. He’d truly have you twiddling your thumbs and wallowing in idleness while you watch faces leave that you might never see again. 

You try retracting your hand. He doesn’t let you. 

“What exactly does ‘get creative’ mean?” 

“Well, since you asked,” he closes his eyes and hums, as if in deep thought, “Posting guards to keep an eye on you, physically restricting your movements, or even sending you back to the monastery with an escort. There are plenty of options, really.” 

Eyes narrowing, you dare to call his bluff. “You can’t spare the manpower it’d take to escort me back.” 

“Ah, I think you’re mixing the phrases ‘can’t’ and ‘would prefer not to’. Trust me — I’d love to keep you close to keep a better eye on you — but we can’t always get what we want. If I think you’re preparing to pull a stunt that’d put your life in danger, I’ll act accordingly. That’s a promise.” 

It isn’t often you’re faced with such an immovable force. His relaxed posture belies his serious intent, the discordance is further unsettling you. 

Then you’re struck with an epiphany. 

“If you won’t listen to me, you’ll listen to the Professor, right?” If there’s a hint of haughtiness to your tone, no one can blame you. “There’s no way she won’t think you’re overstepping your boundaries by acting like this.” 

Your threat doesn’t phase him in the least. If anything, there’s a hint of amusement on his visage, as if you told him a joke in good fun. He has the decency not to laugh, but from the crinkling of the skin beneath his eyes, he might as well be. 

“You’re more than welcome to try. I should warn you, though…” 

Hues of piercing green bore through you. 

“Half of this was her idea.”