#the little particle effects that follow his hand........

[solbaby7]

Hi! Could you write one where the reader somehow ingests a magic aphrodisiac while out on a mission. And she is in a ton of discomfort but her mate (any male maybe rhys) isn’t able to get there quickly so he gives cassian or azriel permission to give her some relief until he can arrive ?? :) a little angsty but also sexy

Blurred Lines

pairing: rhysand x reader x az

warnings: swearing, boyfriend lets his best friend fuck his girlfriend, mentions of aphrodisiacs, probs typos

[ part 2 ] [ part 3 ]

—

You’d felt uneasy, stomach churning like curdled milk after inhaling so much of the suspicious purple powder that had been blown in your face. “It burns,” Your body stumbles into Azriel’s, fingers pinching at your nose as you tried to ease the tingle that was beginning to prickle behind your eyes and nostrils.

He doesn’t answer for a moment, piercing eyes scanning the crowd for the figure cloaked in a red so deep it was nearly black but not even his shadows find a trace of them. “We need to get out of here. Do you have it?”

The thrum of the pages hum in the satchel strapped tightly beneath your arm. It had taken weeks to even locate a trace of them, just barely realizing anything was missing from the Book of Breathings until Nesta discovered the tattered remnants of torn pages tucked in the book spine. “I have it.” It comes out slightly slurred, your vision distorting as the powder began to take effect. The uncomfortable heat begins in your sinuses, spreading like venom in your bloodstream until every inch of your body felt like it was pressed up against the crackling flames of a fire. “Whatever that was—it’s really potent.”

Azriel grips you close, shadows cloaking your whole body until he’s winnowed you a safe enough distance away to properly evaluate you. “Gods, your eyes.” You squirm under the warmth of his hands. A simple touch sending every nerve into a frenzy and you’re abnormally aware of the steady throb between your thighs.

Your heartrate spikes, fingers slightly unsteady when snatching for the dagger strapped to your thigh and once you see your reflection it falls from your grasp. Embedded in the natural color of your iris was a smattering of shiny purple dots. “What the hell was that stuff?”

“I don’t know.” Azriel’s worry only grows, eyes glazing over as he no doubt was relaying everything that had happened to Rhys—to your mate. The very thought of him has arousal pooling between your thighs but the pleasant tingle of pleasure that usually followed is nowhere to be found. Every muscle seized with stress, fingers digging into your hair to alleviate the pulsing pressure all over. “Just hang on,” He pleads, holding you close despite your discomfort but there’s no other choice but to winnow as close as the wards around the safe house would allow. “Rhys is on his way.”

The words barely register, sweat beading at your hairline and even with the temperatures slightly lower than usual, the heat refused to subside. It radiates through your clothes, micro particles of sparkling purple transferring from your leathers to Az’s the longer he had to support your weight.

You scramble away from him the moment the door opens, fingers frantically pulling at the buttons keeping the tactical gear in place until it’s left in a heap on the floor. Gods, the floor. So cool against bare skin and the momentary relief is too good to even notice the fact that you were so exposed, the thin straps of the flimsy undershirt slipping down your shoulder; the hem hiking up the length of your stomach.

Vaguely aware of the sounds around you, the floor barely rumbles as Azriel shifted through the space. It was a little cramped but big enough for a kitchen and a bedroom with a small bathroom tucked within.

Too soon does the cool fade away, pained whines follow and every brush of your fingers against bare skin is worse than most other tortures you’d endured. It’s accidental, the scrape of your nail against your nipple through thin material and the moan that rips free is more like a choked cry. Every move after that feels like another is in control of your body, forcing your limbs to move, willing your fingers to trail beneath the waistband of your pants and past the soft cotton of your underwear.

“I ran you a bath—“ The rest is abruptly cut off, every single muscle in Azriel’s body going stiff at the sight of you sprawled out on the kitchen floor with so much skin on display. Golden eyes catch on the heaving fullness of your breasts spilling from the confines of your top, the frenzied hand tucked in your leathers and Azriel physically stumbles back when the intensity of your scent fully hits him. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” Words slur together, frustrated tears falling down the curve of your cheeks and you’re too caught up in the temporary solace to be embarrassed about the crude behavior; the obscene squelching between your thighs. “I’m so sorry, I just can’t help it—hurts so bad.”

Azriel doesn’t reply, stunned in place and distantly he recognizes a familiar pressure in his brain. A feline voice laced with worry snapping him from his stupor. “Please tell me you’re close.”

“I need more time, Az.”

“She doesn’t have it,” The sight is pushed at Rhysand at warp speed, the sounds of his mate filling the conclaves of his mind.

There’s a pause, one that lasts a beat too long and Azriel begins to catch on to the plan his High Lord was brewing. “Then, help her.”

“Rhysand.”

“I trust you,” Rhys says a little softer, even if the words are laced with that territorial gruff. “Help her. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He can’t move, even if his shadows slink forward at the permission given. They’re cautious before touching you, just barely ghosting over the curve of your shoulder and the whimper that it pulls makes Azriel’s stomach clench. You lean into the cool touch that comes with the wisps of darkness, back arching at the feeling. “Where’s Rhys?”

“He’ll be here, he just needs a little more time.”

More tears fall, even if you do nod in understanding but your thoughts muddy together, unable to differentiate one sentence from the next as you forgo pants altogether. “I can’t wait anymore, Az. Please.” You’re not sure what you’re asking for exactly but you’re positively certain that your fingers aren’t enough. “Please touch me.”

He says your name so softly, crooning soothing words and tucking your hair away from your forehead. “Are you sure?”

You don’t answer with words, just eyes half-lidded and grip surprisingly gentle when grabbing for his wrist, guiding his hand to the sodden mess between your thighs. Azriel can’t fight his reaction to the slick arousal coating his fingers through your lacy underthings, head dipping back and eyes daring to close—savoring the feel of you. “I need you to make me feel better,” You don’t even sound like yourself, tone whiny and desperate as you hike your shirt over your head. “Please, can you do that for me? Please, please, please.”

Your hips buck up into the pressure of his fingers against you, squirming uncontrollably as he slowly pulls the fabric to the side and the first swipe of skin on skin is almost enough to bring you over the edge. “Alright,” Your name on his lips sends your nerves into a frenzy, hips wiggling just enough for one finger to sink into your cunt and the relief is instant. “I’ll make it better, just breathe for me, okay?”

It’s a simple request and yet still you have difficulty obeying as you chase the icy chill that quenches the burning inferno. Another finger follows the first and Azriel can’t tear his eyes away from the way your spine curves with each delicious drag of them against your walls. “Yes,” It comes out in a near hiss, teeth biting at the fat of your bottom lip as you grope at your chest. “Feels so fucking good.”

Maybe Azriel indulged just a little, taking extra time exploring the spots at had your eyes going lazy and when moans shift into breathy whines—Azriel submits completely. The taste of you on his tongue was unlike anything than he could’ve imagined, warm and sweet against his tongue like cookies dipped in warm milk. A string of swears tumble from your lips so fast he briefly wonders if it’s another language. He hums all the same, low vibrations sending goosebumps along your flesh and shadows take the place of your hands. Kneading at supple breasts and tugging on pert nipples until the onslaught of pleasure has you tensing beneath him. “That’s it,” He mutters against your sex, acutely aware of the throbbing erection straining against the binds of his leathers. “Feel better?”

Your body answers for you, tugging him close enough to feel the hardness of his length against your pussy. “Need more, Az.” One long drag against the stiff material and he’s groaning into your neck, holding up his weight on two strong arms and you can’t help but think about them holding you up against a wall, fucking up into you until your lungs gave out.

Azriel stares down at you, eyes dark and lips parted as if he could see exactly what filthy things were flashing behind your eyelids. “Relax, pretty girl.” Shadows tug at the binds holding his pants in place, dragging them down, down, down. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, arousal pooling between your legs with a slutty squelch. “I’m gonna take real good care of you.”

[phone4pills]

THAT’LL  TEACH  HIM ex’s best friend Matt

𝒎𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒇𝒐 — on behalf of your now ex-husband, Matt brings a few of your stuff back to your house in boxes. but the two of you get carried away and things get heated.

specific type — a little angst and then smut

side effects — crying, mentions of cheating, p in v, missionary, condom was indeed used (stay safe), use of y/n

The doorbell pulled you momentarily out of the thoughts that spun like a carousel around your brain. Who could it possibly be? Had you ordered something recently? Perhaps you could’ve forgotten with the weight of the recent situation on your shoulders. A divorce.

Four wasted years full of lies and cheating. And when you’d caught the man he was audacious enough to throw a fit. Like a grown baby, arguing like there was no tomorrow. How could you be wrong in a at way in that scenario? You’d been loyal to him like your life depended on it and he’d been hooking up with a woman he met at a strip club, drunk out of his mind, for half of the marriage.

You oh so wanted to be strong about all of it. To wear the damned ring just to prove something to the jerk. To prove you were worth that band of gold. To prove that you’d upheld the vows you stated at the wedding, and that you had every right to the ring. Though he had no right to wear it. After all he’d put you through. But it was proving to be a challenge. You couldn’t take the mind off the jewel glimmering on your ring finger, almost as if the gold particles were causing your skin to burn, like it was cutting off the blood circulation to the rest of your finger.

You made your way to the front door, eyes red as you gazed at the piles of his papers on the kitchen counter. The wreck of things that crowded your living room. A few of them from the argument you’d had, a few of them from what used to be his side of your closet. Now a scattered mess like the remnants of his evil that had bonded your heart.

Upon opening the door, you were met with a guy in a white long sleeve and a grey beanie. He was carrying a pretty big box and you could see that his car was parked just a few metres down the pavement. You quickly wiped a tear off your face with the back of your hand, sniffling. “Can I help you?” He nodded, glancing down at the box. Your eyes followed to see the big word written with black marker: ‘Clothes’.

“You’re y/n, right?” You nodded quickly, understanding that he might be a friend of your ex. “Yeah. Did he send you?” Matt told you that he did. Throwing a quick ‘sorry’ into the sentence. He could tell this wasn’t exactly a great situation for you. And the ‘breakup box’ wasn’t exactly helpful. Especially when it wasn’t even a breakup. It was a divorce. When Matt told you there were a few more in his car, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be shocked. Only a little hurt. But then again, you’d spent all morning packing your ex’s stuff together. It was only fair.

“Let me get some shoes, I’ll help you with those.” The next couple minutes, you and Matt went back and forth between your home, carrying box after box. A conversation sparked between the two of you, completely overruling the previous awkwardness of the situation. You had to admit, he was a good listener too, never interrupting you. How he used to do. Never invalidating what you said. Like he used to do. You wondered why you had to end up with the bitch boy that your ex was instead of a nice guy like Matt. “Just my luck.” You’d told Matt, making him chuckle a little. He didn’t take any offense to the slander of your former husband, probably aware that he was kind of an idiot for what he’d done.

After you’d managed to get all but one of the boxes in, Matt insisted he get the last one. But you shook your head, heading back out to grab it and carry it inside. When you read the writing on it, your heart instantly stuttered. ‘Explicit’. All of the pictures and Polaroids he had of you. Utterly vulnerable. There was no way he’d sent back the whole lot. Was there? Could he have been a decent guy just once? You hoped?

Matt had been waiting for you in the living room for a while. He’d had a message from your ex to give you but when he noticed you’d been outside for a while, he made his way out there. Only to find you frozen with a teary face at the boot of his car. He slipped his phone, that was previously in his hands, into his pocket and closed the distance between the two of you. “Hey… are you okay?” He questioned, tone soft. You nodded but he knew it wasn’t genuine. You were shaking a little and choked sobs racked through your throat.

Matt opened his arms, sort of bending down to your level. “C’mere.” You couldn’t resist a hug. Maybe it was wrong, this was your ex’s best friend. But you were upset. And you’d been alone for a while. Matt was the only company you’d had, the only person you’d seen that wasn’t a lawyer. And he was warm. And he smelled nice. Really nice. If only you’d found a guy like him. Kind, helpful and well… good looking.

His hand stroked up and down your back for a second, causing you to hum into his embrace. “This may sound crazy, but you feel really nice.” Your hands traced the muscles on his biceps, trailing to his shoulder blades. He groaned into the crook of your neck, stubble tickling your skin. “Is it weird that I want to say the same?”

You shook your head, pulling away and caressing his face. Until now, you hadn’t realised just how pretty his eyes were, staring back at yours with utmost awe. In that moment, it didn’t matter what was right and wrong. You needed to feel something. So you pulled him in, and Matt didn’t resist, gladly letting your lips capture his in a passionate dance.

…

Hungry. Ravenous. Matt pushed opened the back door, learnt you climb inside and shutting it behind himself. the sofa. His body loomed over yours, teeth biting at your bottom lip. “Fuck, shouldn’t be doin’ this.” He rasped, kneeling between your legs and gently drawing circles on your lower stomach. The tips of his fingers tugged at the hem of your shorts. You nodded when he made eye contact, giving him permission to pull them down, along with your panties.

“Matt…” You whispered, covering your face when he marvelled over your wetness. He grinned, pressing a thumb to your bud. Instantly, you gasped, throwing your head back as he toyed with you. Matt ran a finger down your wet folds, humming with approval. “So wet f’me already?”

You had no patience. All this while you’d been just numb. The feel of Matt’s hands and the sensual caress of his short beard made you crave a certain feeling. One that could only be described as dirty. You liked dirty, and you sure as day needed it. “Y’got condoms?”

“Glovebox.” He nodded. You quickly popped it open, pulling out a condom packaged in bright red. Meanwhile, Matt unbuckled his jeans, pulling them down with his boxers. “Mind puttin’ it on for me?”

With that, your teeth peeled open the packaging and your hands moved to roll the thin cover of his cock. You didn’t have it in you to say it, but it was big. Like really big. Almost scary, your ex’s didn’t even compare. You hoped you could take it, knowing you’d been missing out on Matt’s kind of size for years and years.

He was almost instantly inside of you, slowly slipping in with a groan and throwing his head back. You were so warm, so ready. Gradually he began to thrust into you, hitting all the right spots. You had no control over what came out of your mouth. Thank goodness his windows were darkened slightly. And they were all rolled up. Which meant you could be as loud as you wanted.

Matt’s pace picked up sinking not only deeper, but harder. Your jaw hung slack at the sensation, building up a tightness in your stomach. “Gonna… cum!” You moaned, gripping onto his forearms as he grinned, getting closer to his own release. And then the two of you came undone. Matt closing his eyes tight, you laying a panting mess beneath him across the back seats. All of a sudden it was really hot in the car.

“You should send back a box with all the lingerie he’d ever seen you in. That’ll teach him.” Matt suggested. You were just calm enough to comprehend his words. And you nodded, already knowing exactly which pairs you’d send to the jerk. Probably in a box labelled ‘What A Waste’.

Goodness gracious ! This took a while to write but here it is everybody. Let me know if this should be an AU. Also, we got nerd!Chris pulling up to the function soon.

- ©phone4pills

[knoepfl]

A Mad Genius

Characters:

- Viktor – A brilliant but physically frail scientist whose passion for progress often drives him to take risks.

- Reader (You) – A chaotic but genius inventor from Zaun. Once rational and sharp, your mind has spiraled into madness due to overuse of experimental powders you created. Obsessed with Viktor, you break into his lab to meet him for the first time.

Trigger Warnings:

- Mental instability and obsession

- Self-harm (implied through powder effects)

- Unsettling and erratic behavior

Masterlist

Summary: Late one night, Viktor’s research is interrupted by a genius from Zaun with a mind as brilliant as it is broken. Fascinated by Viktor and obsessed with meeting him, you sneak into his lab for the first time. How will he react to the intrusion—and your dangerous experiments?

Words: ~5187~

Part 2: Mad Genius

Part 3: Mad Genius

Part 4: Mad Genius

The lab was quiet, save for the rhythmic clink of gears and the hum of machinery. Viktor leaned over his desk, quill scratching against parchment as he recorded yet another failed attempt. His body was weary, the ache in his joints an ever-present reminder of his limits, but his mind remained sharp, calculating possibilities.

A sigh escaped him. Tonight felt like a lost cause. Another promising theory reduced to mere scribbles.

Then, a faint creak echoed through the room. Viktor's hand stilled, fingers tightening instinctively around his quill. His amber eyes flicked toward the window—ajar, though he didn’t remember leaving it that way.

He straightened slowly, gripping his cane as a shadow slipped from the darkness beyond.

And then he saw you.

You stood in the middle of his lab, your presence chaotic yet strangely deliberate. In your hands, a vial of shimmering Magenta Powder glittered in the low light. You turned it between your fingers, a manic grin spreading across your face.

“You,” you whispered, your voice giddy with reverence. “You’re even more perfect up close.”

Viktor's gaze sharpened. “Who are you?”

You tilted your head, ignoring his question entirely. “You’ve done so much... with so little,” you murmured, stepping closer. "I’ve followed your work for ages—every blueprint, every invention. And now...” You held the vial up as if offering a gift. “I’m here to show you mine.”

Viktor's frown deepened. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, but I had to be.” You laughed, the sound crackling with unhinged delight. “You’re Viktor. The Viktor. Do you have any idea what it’s like to admire someone so much it burns?”

Viktor shifted uncomfortably, his grip tightening on his cane. “What is that?” he asked, nodding toward the vial.

“This?” You grinned wider. “Just one of my little creations.” You pulled out another vial—Crimson Powder, swirling like liquid anger—and gave it a shake. “Each powder with its own special curse.” Your eyes glittered with manic pride. “I’ve tested them all... on myself.”

“You’ve poisoned yourself,” Viktor muttered, alarm flickering beneath his stoic exterior.

“No, no, no!” You waved the vial enthusiastically. “It’s not poison—it’s progress! The mind must be pushed, stretched, broken... or it never grows.”

Viktor exhaled slowly, as if trying to ground himself. “What does it do?”

You uncorked the Magenta Powder and blew a small puff toward Viktor before he could react. The fine particles glittered in the air, catching the dim light like dust motes.

Viktor coughed, waving it away, but it was too late. The powder clung to his clothes and skin. His heart raced as an unfamiliar warmth spread through him—a sharp, dangerous affection unfurling in his chest.

He blinked, confused, as his thoughts began to twist.

You stepped closer, your grin softening into something almost tender. “Feel it yet? That little twinge in your heart? That’s obsession.” You tilted your head. “For the next two hours, you’ll feel like you can’t live without me.”

Viktor’s breath hitched. “You’re insane,” he whispered, though his voice lacked conviction.

You giggled, brushing your fingers along his arm. “Oh, Viktor... You say that now, but wait. Soon, you’ll see the beauty in it.”

For a moment, Viktor was silent, his mind caught between logic and the strange, overwhelming emotion coursing through him. He knew the powder was clouding his thoughts, warping his feelings—but that knowledge didn’t make it any easier to resist.

He stepped back, gripping his cane tightly. “You need help,” he said quietly.

“Help?” you echoed, feigning offense. “I don’t need help, Viktor. I need you.”

His heart pounded painfully against his ribs, and for the first time in a long while, Viktor felt genuinely unnerved. You were dangerous—not just to him, but to yourself.

“I can’t allow this,” he murmured.

Your smile faltered, just for a moment. But then it returned, sharper than before. “Oh, Viktor... you can’t stop it. You and I—we’re meant to do great things. Together.”

Viktor swallowed hard, forcing himself to think clearly through the fog of obsession. “You need to leave.”

You stepped even closer, until your face was inches from his. “And if I don’t?”

He stared at you, torn between the irrational affection clawing at his mind and the cold logic that defined him.

“I’ll find you again,” you whispered. “You can’t hide from me, Viktor.”

Viktor closed his eyes briefly, trying to banish the unnatural feelings welling inside him. When he opened them, you were already backing toward the window, a satisfied grin on your face.

“Until next time,” you whispered, slipping into the night.

Viktor stood there for a long moment, the hum of his machines filling the silence. The powder’s effects would fade—but the memory of your manic grin, your dangerous brilliance, and the unsettling warmth in his chest would linger much longer.

He knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning.

---

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for reading! This story was a blend of madness and fascination, capturing the strange dynamic between two brilliant minds. I hope you enjoyed the unsettling tension between Viktor and the reader. If you have any thoughts or ideas about how their relationship might evolve, feel free to share! Until next time—stay curious, and be kind to yourself!

[fayesia]

Hii, can you write some Coriolanus Snow smut? Maybe where the reader get trapped woth coryo in dr. Gaul’s lab and they accidentally both breath sex pollen in?

Sex Pollen — Coriolanus x reader

a/n: hello everyone!! thank u so much for the insane amount of request i’ve been getting as a response to my recent post. i will be getting to them do not worry i apologise if i’m slower than some of you were expecting. like i’ve said i’m not used to this and got followers A LOT quicker than i expected but again thank you all, lots of love Faye xx 💋

warnings: nsfw 18+, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, coriolanus is a munch, fingering, cum play? (legit like a sentence at the end), lmk if i missed anything!

“woah what do you think this does?” you asked Coriolanus scanning the rack of vials containing numerous colours of liquid.

“i don’t know but let’s just get the medicine and leave”

“hmph fine” his response was much less daring but you simply assumed the pains he was getting medication for were getting to him.

You watched Coryo search through cupboards and shelves, meanwhile you found interest in a vial holding golden powder. Picking it up you observed the contents, the million specks of gold dust shined in the vial, it released a sweet smell, similar to maple syrup and honey.

“come look at this Coryo”

“give me a second. just gotta grab these…GOT IT!!”

his sudden outburst shocked you, the vial slipped from you hands smashing onto the ground, particles floated in the air, the room filling up with it as it wafted onto you and Coriolanus.

“what is this, what was in the vial?!”

“i don’t know okay you just scared me i’m sorry i don’t know why i dropped it”

Noticing your frenzied state he rushed over next to you.

“hey hey it’s ok, it was an accident, i shouldn’t have yelled at you, i apologise”

“we have to get out quickly” grabbing the medicine you’re both about to leave until Coriolanus stumbles, you rush to him grabbing him by the arm. An action supposedly to support him but rather resulting in you falling on top of him. Scrambling up the two of you rush out of Dr Gauls lab with barely any time to spare before her return. playfully winking at him you turn around mouthing the words “mission accomplished”. The triumph causing a rush of adrenaline you believed to be the reason behind the heating up of your body, little did you know the truth was far from that.

Back in your room the full effects of what seemed to be contained in that vial were effecting you, sharp pains assaulted your body while the heat only rose in your lower stomach.

Lying spread eagle face down on the bed you could barely move your head to hear the door to your room open. Coriolanus came rushing through standing by the side of your bed.

“what was in that vial. tell me you feel it too. tell me i’m not going crazy” you’re at a loss for words at this point simply nodding your head as a no in response to him questioning his sanity.

Your eyes finally focus enough to take notice of Coriolanus’ clothing — or rather lack of — his muscular physique is sculpted in a clean white wife beater and a pair of boxers. Your lower region only seems to get hotter and this sight, the first gush of liquid releasing from you, a sudden sensation shocking you as a small gasp left your mouth.

“what happened… oh” Coriolanus looks down as your thighs rub together, the embarrassment you should’ve felt seemed to have been taken over by the overwhelming need to be filled by something, a feral hunger only he could fill. A few seconds of silence pass by until you hear a loud sigh “fuck this” reaching forward Coriolanus lips capture your soft ones.

Both of your tongues fight for dominance, in the end Coriolanus wins unsurprisingly thanks to his ferocity, his hands resting on your hip slowly sliding up your shirt. Calloused hands squeeze your breast over your bra while your fingertips brush across his hard chest, no crevice of his abs left unexplored.

Clothes start piling up on the floor until Coriolanus is fully undressed staring down at you with you legs spread, a simple white lace underwear covering the one place he wants more than ever, a small oval stain of your need increasing his sense of urgency.

Pulling your hips closer to the edge, he kneels on the floor dragging your panties off and throwing them somewhere to join the rest of your clothes

“you’re so fucking beautiful”

you nervously smile down at him

“do you want this too?”

“please i need you, fucking hurts please do something, anything”

he breathily laughs at your response getting to work quicker than you expected, the feeling of his mouth sucking at your pussy while his tongue flicked back and forth over your clit leaves you a writhing, your loud moans echoing around the room. While his mouth is busy working on you, one of his hands is jerking off his cock, the tip bright pink and glistening from pre cum.

Coriolanus’ hands flip you over, pushing your back into a deep arch you’re more than compliant to, his hand forcing your cheek against the sheets while his other one positions his cock against your dripping hole. Sliding the length of his dick against your pussy he coats it with your arousal, which he uses as lube, slowly entering your pussy.

“Tell me when to keep going, god you’re just so wet for me”

Your pussy perfectly wraps around his cock and as you start getting used to his girth you began pushing back against him, more inches entering you, stretching you out more than your fingers ever could.

“Please keep going coryo hmm” you beckon him to began thrusting.

The noises of Coriolanus’ hips smacking against your ass from his hard thrust are the only things heard around the room, wet noises of your leaking pussy join soon, the volume of your moans increasing even more once two of his fingers rub at your clit.

You whine when Coriolanus pulls out, the empty feeling causing the pain from earlier to return.

“wanna look at your face when you come” you hear him whisper before he flips you over.

He roughly pushes your thighs against your shoulders, the action squishing your breast together, as he quickly slides himself back into you. His actions almost a whole one eighty compared to how sweet and gentle he was at first. However you’re not going to complain right now, staring into his blue eyes, the pair covered in a glossy shine with how dazed he is from pleasure, he moves his cock in and out at a pace that has you ready to come.

“Not yet baby”

“Hngh I’m gonna come please let me come”

“Wait for me, you’re not coming until I do, together”

You’re basically clinging onto the edge of your climax, the warm and wet walls of your pussy tighten around him cock, releasing more animalistic noises from his throat. He almost growls out the word ‘come’ and of course you’re more than happy to do exactly that. His hips stutter and with one more thrust Coriolanus’ cum shoots deep into your pussy, the feeling of your walls tightening, milk more and more cum out of him.

As he slowly pulls out, a mixture of his thick load and your cum pours out from your hole, the two of you watching it leak it. Unexpectedly Coriolanus drags his middle and ring finger through the mess, collecting a decent amount he pushes it back into your pussy, twitching a little after having such a stimulating orgasm.

Coriolanus kisses your forehead, his arms wrapping around your curdled body pulling you close, pressing yourself against him. The two of you falling into a peaceful rest.

~unedited~

[stagark]

Warmth Amidst Dust

Gender-neutral Reader & Jiyan Comfort

Minors DNI - this blog writes dark and sexual content.

Content warnings: Panic/anxiety/ptsd attacks, left vague but reader experiences extreme dissociation and derealization and struggles to breathe due to anxious thoughts. Mentions of minor character death, paranoia on reader’s part. Basically, reader has a panic attack and Jiyan holds you while you breathe. Please be aware of the tags and do not read if these topics may trigger you.

Can be interpreted as romantic or platonic! You are a soldier under General Jiyan who has pushed yourself too hard recently, causing panic attacks. General Jiyan noticed and offered a shoulder to hold while you relearn how to breathe.

Word count: 1.5k - Also read on Ao3

You never once thought you would ever thank the dust of Norfall Barrens. As a rookie soldier you had grimaced through it, determined to protect the city you loved despite the discomforts and hardship of enlisting in the Midnight Rangers.

But now, three years later, it was a welcome respite from the sharp, biting winds. The particles stuck to your sweat-slick skin, a grimy but effective layer that allowed you to fight the abominations with a shield from the bone-chilling wind streams. The icy breeze got to you over time, seeming to attack your skin at every opportunity, leaving your limbs tender and your bones brittle.

Unexpectedly, what relieved the wind chill the most was another gale, one scripted by your trusted general, Jiyan. He moved like a deadly dancer guided by a loong dragon’s spirit. It was clear your sentinel itself chose Jinzhou’s general, his unwavering sense of justice an arrowhead directing the war against the Lament’s effects.

A composed man who overflowed with warmth and care at his core, he warmed every space he ever entered both with his aero resonance and his very spirit. The medic turned leader was almost universally beloved, a man who faught alongside his soldiers, a voice of strength and reason so desperately needed in and out of the battle field. His mere presence strengthened resolve against the Lament’s corruption, igniting and directing soldiers’ will to fight for their home like the strong tendrils of wind that uplift gentle embers into roaring and ferocious wildfires. His guidance inspired you and so many others, and you worked hard to earn your place in a unit directly below him.

The call of your name by one of your companions shook you out of your thoughts. In the relative safety of your camp you were able to let your mind float following your shifts on watch. You tended to do that more often these days. Only in battle was your mind sharp; otherwise you were simply a shell of a human, no different from a golden echo on the field. Warmth graced your hands in the form of a bowl of hot soup, the scent of spices wafted into your nose, a very welcome surprise. Such commodities were rare these days, perking up even your dulled senses.

“Come on, I know you’re tired from your shift but we have a feast prepared today!” a new fellow you fought alongside with today called at you with a smile. You managed to offer one back. A feast in these parts meant warm food and extra proteins, and spices it seemed, this time. A welcome blessing in this hell. While you’re sure you would be glad, truly, your soul never stirred in celebrating any longer. Years of war had stolen your life force, only your determination and spite sustaining you. But it was easy to wear a mask of normalcy, falling into habits to alleviate your mind of a little bit of stress, letting your consciousness float and watch your body acting from above you, a spectator instead of a player.

The warmth of the bowl certainly sang to your body, blood pumping heartily from the sustenance. But your mind was as barren as the lands you camped on, a floating ghost devoid of nearly everything, that only came to life with skill and sharpness gifted to you in battle by adrenaline.

That very familiar chemical rushed through your veins, releasing your body from its cold prison and igniting your muscles to tense, ready for action. A foreign sound had resonated around you, causing the adrenaline to release. The call was loud at first, a deep bellow sounded, followed by quick, breathless exhales of mirth and an echo of the very sound by vaguely familiar voices. It occurred to you then: laughter. The noise was laughter. You shifted your gaze around the camp, finding the young soldier who handed you a bowl howling heartily with some senior officers. How long had it been since you had heard laughter for it to sound so foreign to you?

You truly didn’t know.

It wasn’t unwelcome, but it was a disruption to your routine that allowed the voices in your head to rise louder, your mind waking to make sense of the new occasion.

What was the joke, why was your comrade so happy? asked your mind. Mild annoyance traipsed through your thoughts, uncharacteristic, but an understandable ally. This was not a place for disruptions. Anything could happen here.

What if there were TDs creeping up on the camp right now? What if they had heard the ring of joy and legions of them were gathering to snuff it out, racing here in ground-shaking gallops like horsemen of the apocalypse. You had seen so many of your allies, your friends, fall to those beasts. Resounding memories of their cheers of camaraderie in the early days echo throughout your mind, cruelly juxtaposed with visuals of their brutal deaths. The monsters taunted you, holding your loved ones’ image captive and jeering at you while they poisoned your world, your beloved city, your home.

The world around you seemed to distort at the thought, the sky dropping. You were caged in by some invisible force, and noisy panic bubbled in your chest. Air began to feel denser, a newly elusive substance your lungs had to chase. The very thing you began craving seemed to mock you, seeming to grip your ribs and crush them inwards while refusing to let you draw in a breath. Your chest stuttered and attempted to heave before being yanked back by your achingly empty lungs as you began hiccuping for breath. Only when your airways started to sting and your face began to numb did you realize your situation and manage to gasp for breath.

You didn’t know how long had passed after you wheezed the sound of panic. You felt nothing until the bowl you were clutching was removed from your lap. A large hand came to rest on your shoulder, replacing its warmth. A scent so familiar that it unconsciously calmed you followed its motion: a fresh forest breeze tinged with the sharp sting of metal. The air began to flow in smoothly, enriching your body. A cooperative ally once more.

“Breathe, soldier,” the strong voice rumbled.

General Jiyan. Your general, Jiyan. The air once again blessed your bloodstream, feeding every inch of your body and once again giving you the gift of life. You had begun to breathe slowly and deeply, just as you had learned in training. In for four, hold for four, out for four. The familiar timings of the count served to calm both your body and mind.

The presence of safety, of your general’s strength near you, was a very welcomed gift. You sighed from your chest once the world had returned to clarity and life size in your vision and you once again heard the murmur of celebration around you. Unfortunately, your reaction was not unfamiliar to you. The toll of seemingly endless battle drew on your very soul, leaving your body weak and weary. And yet, after dozens of times, not even a decorated soldier under the great General Jiyan could manage to snap yourself out of the hell on Earth that was your own mind, not on your own, not in a way that left you sane.

“I’m sorry, general. I let my head get the best of me. Thank you for-“

The hand on your shoulder squeezed gently but firmly, a message to stop talking. As you looked up to gaze in the golden eyes of your general, you were met with pure gentle care. His understanding smile reached his eyes.

You caved to your pure exhaustion. Wordlessly, he let you relax into him, your head coming to rest against the front of his shoulder. You sighed once more, lungs filling to capacity and deflating equally in rhythmic undulation as your spirit came back to inhabit your body, bit by bit. Your general was so warm, so caring, so safe. Eyes closing against his form, your breathing slowed even without your measured counting. One steady hand gripped your side while the other came to rest along your shoulder blade, forearm resting comfortingly against your tired back. He rubbed gentle circles firm into your spine, grounding and soothing the ache in your muscles.

“Don’t speak. Ive seen you pick up extra shifts, push yourself hard. It is the most worthy of causes, no one here faults you, least of all me. But your work is done today, soldier. Rest.”

There was no hint of a waver in his voice, no false sympathy or concern. This was General Jiyan. This was safe. You nodded into his chest, accepting the help you so desperately needed. Jiyan hummed his approval as he continued to soothe your back. You could feel him brush away the dusr, replacing its tentative shield with his own unrelenting one. Your very bones seemed to breathe again, and your thoughts wandered not to the chaos and havoc of the war, but to the warmth and comfort of your general’s presence as you were surrounded by a joyful camp, grounding you instead of letting you dissociate. This was safe, and so, you breathed.

[gentlemean]

I know the fandom loves throwing ideas around for a hypothetical adaptation, so why not chime in.

I think most of us agree that an animated series would be better than the dreaded life-action adaptation. Regardless of format, any adaptation would have to somehow preserve the peculiarities, the absolute whiplash, and way the narration shapes the narrative. In my opinion, an animated series could do this quite well.

We start off with Gideon the Ninth. It's shown in heavily stylized 3d animation (think, at least Arcane-style), with strong contrasts in the colors. The Ninth house is dark and desaturated, the lights in the eyes of animated skeletons and Gideon's hair positively burn among the dreary surroundings. Then, getting to the First, the world is vibrant and bright, lots of elaborate light refractions in the broken windows of Canaan house.

Characters are accompanied not only by small, individual musical themes, but also by visual clues. Each house might have distinct little particles and effects that appear in scenes in which the respective characters act. They might synergize in scenes where characters cooperate or contrast in scenes in which they fight. (example: the Niners are always accompanied by shadows, ink-blots staining the scenery around them. The Third are too graceful to be real, all of their animations use exaggerated smear-frames in overly grandiose flourishes. When Naberius fights Gideon, his strikes stir the shadows around Gideon, cleaving bright rifts into the inkstained dark.)

The story is told as we know it, without reordering or large ommissions. One thing we see not nearly often enough in modern television is actual narration in the background. We don't need it for all of the visuals and happenings, but so much of gtn profits from Gideon's thoughts and feelings.

A few scenes look differently though. When Gideon allows Harrow to take over her vision, the animation style changes. It gets a bit more abstract, the surroundings are textured like oil paintings, and Gideon herself has trails of smoke and ink following her movements. This is how they see the world together, and it is reflected again at the very end of the first book, when Harrow ascends. Except this time there's no borrowing, it's something deeper. The world is painted, more abstractly this time, and the characters appear almost like paper cuts.

And then the fun begins. We leave gtn and start htn. There is no more Gideon in our narrative, and yet there is her narration. As in the first series we retain parts of the narration, and it is her voice - mostly. Now, this is a source of great confusion in the book, right? The series would have to make it explicit that it is her voice, but it can have fun with it nevertheless. Some words are garbled, overlapping, distorted. Sometimes, Harrow's voice seamlessly takes over the narration, drifting in and continuing, while still using Gideon's pronunciation and vocal flow.

The visuals, on the other hand - now, that's an entirely different thing. At this point we know what the world looks like when Gideon sees it and what it looks like when they see it together. htn gives us two exciting new variations: 'Harrow with very little Gideon' for the Mithraeum story, and 'Harrow entirely without Gideon' for the river bubble. In the main, physical-world story we retain broad strokes of thick oil paint for the world around Harrow. The characters are too clean on a messy background, with some of the paint steadily bleeding into their shapes. The paint seems almost like it is an active participant in the narrative, crawling across inconvenient truths to blot them out, staining everyone but keeping it's distant from John, who therefore remains clearer than clear, shiny and bright, squeaky clean and lemon scented. But then there's the river bubble, and we get full Harrow, with a teeny bit of Wake. The scenery around the characters is vague and misty, swathes of color arrange into a distorted background like ink being poured into water. The entire scenery bleeds color and light into the surroundings of dark, barely saturated characters. It breaks at the seams when the uncomfortably realistic fleshy pipes wind through the walls, something too concrete for a tearstained world.

Towards the final act, we see a few changes: Abigail summons Nonius, and the shape language changes. Everything's still illustrated the way it was before, but the stark, desaturated characters in his proximity stop being mere dark blots in this scenery, and instead become almost comic-like. Their strikes and attacks are supported by respective action lines, their poses and moves adapt to the newly imposed genre conventions. Meanwhile, on the Mithraeum, Gideon is keeping the fires burning. We're almost back to the way we used to see the world in the beginning, Gideon's stark contrast and smooth environments. But there's the ink bleeding into the scenery from dark corners and bright red puddles, there's enough of Harrow here to stain the world.

And, well. We get to Nona. And Nona's world fundamentally isn't like the one the other's see. Nona's world is mismatched and chaotic and charmingly odd. Most of it is claymation, interspersed with some other materials. Cam's swords are real metal, the dust of New Rho fills the air, and most of the food is probably actual food that looks as dreadfully out of place in this world as it feels in Nona's mouth. There remains a touch of Harrow, expressive movements are exaggerated with her flowing ink, action lines like calligraphy. Of course, there are also the John chapters. Here, we get to have proper fun with the visuals. Let's recap: it's Harrow getting to experience a memory of Alecto, narrated by John. We already know Harrow's flowing colors that stain the backgrounds, and we get mixed medium animation with it: articulated plastic dolls, of course, with some natural materials (moss, wood, some metal scraps) as set dressing.

I'm still not entirely settled on the Nona Epilogue. As long as Alecto isn't out I'm not sure whether I want to keep in line with something from the next book, or whether it's its own thing. Until we know more: illuminated manuscript.

---

Well, that was more than I originally intended to write, but I've had those thoughts in my head basically since I've started the books, and they needed an outlet. There's plenty more ideas where those came from, please please talk to me. 'The Unwanted Guest' as an actual play, anyone? (When Cam makes contact with Babs, and the fight initiates, the camera zooms out from the now frozen claymation, revealing it's situated on a table in the front row of a theatre hall BTW)

[sriracharocks]

Rewrite the Stars (Tom Riddle x Reader Songfic)

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Summary: In a world where darkness looms and fate draws its tangled threads, two souls find solace in a forbidden connection. Word count: 3.5k+ TW: None

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Tom strays into the great music hall after classes end. The corridors lie deserted, devoid of life. While some students bury their noses in books in the library, consumed by their impending exams, others seek solace in their common rooms, surrounded by familiar faces, completely lost in their worlds, and separated from reality by their little bubbles of self-perspective.

It's a fine winter day. The entire Hogwarts grounds are covered with snow, littered with footsteps all over from all the students having sauntered back and forth from class, Hogsmeade, or whatever it is that bored, tired teenagers can engage in.

They entertain themselves, or at least attempt to, by humouring themselves with the usual obnoxious, mindless, and frankly speaking, fruitless chatter of mundanities of ordinary, quotidian endeavours of life no one is interested in knowing or hearing about; or gossip about people resembling slander more than they do constructive criticism. This is the perfect time for rumour mills to churn – spouting out, most often, outrageous lies, or rarely spreading considerably exaggerated versions of the truth; always on the lookout for their next victim to talk about for the rest of the night, or seldom, the rest of the week.

The music hall is enveloped in haunting darkness, dimly illuminated by the rays of moonlight shining through the towering stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colours upon the polished floors and the ancient stone walls. The soft glow dances with the dust particles in the air, resulting in an enchanting interplay of light and shadow. The acoustics of the hall make it so that the tiniest drop of a pin can be heard echoing throughout the space, its sound bouncing off the walls and resonating in every corner of the room, effectively creating an ethereal atmosphere that engages all five senses.

Footsteps approach the door of the music hall. "Y/N, you've come," a smooth, honeyed baritone voice reverberates in the large hall, as the looming figure in robes of black, green and silver turns to take a better look at the intruder.

"I have, Tom. What brings you here?" I reply, curious as to why he's here, especially at such an hour when everybody is off minding their own business in their respective common rooms.

"The same reason why you're here, Y/N," Tom murmurs, his voice smooth and velvety, echoing in the vast music hall. "To find solace in silence amidst this tumultuous world. The incessant cacophony outside is making me lose my mind. It’s too overwhelming to my senses."

"Maybe you are. But I have my own reasons to come here," I reply, without missing a beat. Speaking to Tom was akin to breathing, an instinctive rhythm that flowed effortlessly between us. Our shared history and unspoken understanding had woven a bond that transcended words, making every conversation a comforting embrace in which our souls found solace.

"I'm here not to enjoy the silence..." I begin, my voice holding an eerily quiet timbre and an unusually soft quality, almost ominous. "...but to make a confession."

Tom's ears immediately perk up in attention, picking up every following syllable that leaves my lips, like a child learning to speak like their parents, hyper-aware of every hand gesture, every lip movement, and every body language cue exhibited during a conversation.

I continue, "You know I'm quite straightforward in general so I decided to get something off my chest, it seems... as if..."

"As if what, Y/N?" Tom grows impatient, unable to wait any longer, and extremely irritated by the amount of suspense that is building up at the moment as a result of my leaving him with an unnecessary cliffhanger.

"As if I've developed feelings... For you. And I'm not the only one, Tom. I know."

"You know nothing, you naive, foolish girl."

By now, Tom’s mind is overcome with unresolved and mixed feelings about the matter. Connecting to someone on an emotional level was exhausting and fruitless to someone like him, who thrived on surface-level attachments, inspiring loyalty from his followers and fear from his enemies. 

But love? Love was a foreign emotion to him, an unnecessary obstacle on his path to power, to fulfilling his true purpose and to usher in a new reign in Wizarding Britain, one that would purge every nook and cranny of the magical community of non-magical, useless Muggles that dared to defile the magical community’s purity and sanctity with their ignorance, inferior blood, and foolish idiosyncrasies. 

What good did loving his disgusting Muggle of a father do to his mother, Merope? She had loved him, yet he never reciprocated those feelings. How long could she have given him Amortentia in an effort to make him love her? She had to stop sooner or later - and once she did, the result was tragic.

His father left her immediately as the effects of Amortentia wore off, without even stopping to care that she was pregnant with his son. Hence his lonely, weak, and pathetic witch of a mother died at the footsteps of an orphanage while giving birth to him.

Even at the orphanage, Tom was treated like an outlier, an abomination. He was called a freak. No one befriended him or showed him a modicum of love or affection. Of course, he wouldn’t mention how he hung the limp corpse of Billy Stubb’s rabbit from the rafters in an effort to get his revenge for bullying him, or how he took Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop to a cave near the beach, and they were never the same since. To any sane person, it was clear - Tom had psychopathic tendencies, and hence it was quite difficult to garner affection or love for him in one’s heart. 

In the world he lived in, Muggleborns, Squibs, and quite hypocritically, even half-bloods, though he was himself one, were nothing less than the scum under a pureblood’s shoes. Tom had no plans to change the status quo; he was smart enough to know that if he could puppeteer the purebloods into doing his bidding, the reins of the wizarding world would be in his hands. And hence, he had wasted no time in raising a loyal group of his own, comprising the heirs of Britain’s pureblood elite, christened ‘the Knights of Walpurgis,’ who would later in life, become the infamous Death Eaters.

Tom couldn’t possibly let his emotions get the best of him now, could he? He has worked too hard and invested quite a lot of his time and energy into his cause to back out now for the sake of emotions, feelings, and something as revolting to him as the ridiculous notion of ‘loving’ someone. No, he is above such mundanities as emotions - far too powerful, important, and busy to willingly experience what was to him a blissful mirage in life’s figurative desert.

But I wasn't one to let anyone have the last word, not even if it was Tom Riddle. So with confidence, I proceed to walk towards him, one step at a time, making him back up against the wall at the same pace. Tom is neither scared nor intimidated in the slightest – though he was being backed up against the wall, his sharp, piercing, calculative gaze remained unwavering and steady.

My steps are slow and deliberate, my heartbeat accelerating to almost a mile a minute with each ticking second. Every footfall has its echo reverberating in the music hall, its own audible manifestation of its underlying physical and emotional weight. My heart is filled with nervous anticipation of what’s to come after I take the last step toward him. Our senses of time and distance become overwhelmingly distorted as the gears in our brains whir as fast as possible to process the intensity of the moment we are currently experiencing.

Should I tell him, or should I not? The whirlwind of emotions bottled up inside of me craved for a release, for fearless expression, unable to stay confined within the walls of my mind which I built up over months of denial and suppression. Spending a substantial amount of time with him in and outside of classes for so many months had led to the emergence of feelings that I had never known would develop for such a cold and detached personality like him. 

Memories of reading in the library, studying in the Slytherin common room, playing chess, singing duets in the music hall, and many more flash in my mind as I contemplate whether to express what I feel or stay mum. But I finally gathered the courage to tell him the truth.

"You can't deny this feeling we share, Tom. No matter how much you try," I speak, undeterred by his nonchalant attitude and curt responses. A sense of relief washes over me as I finally feel the weight of my forbidden passion for him being lifted off of my shoulders. 

My gaze locks onto his, searching his chocolate brown orbs for any flicker of understanding or emotion, scanning every twitch and movement of his facial muscles and lips, looking for the faintest sign of a reaction. 

After a few seconds of contemplative silence, he speaks.

"Love is a weakness. Emotions are for the ones who do not rationalise. They cloud judgement, reduce our inhibitions and make us act on impulse," Tom replies, his voice as cold as ice. "Even if I do have any emotional connection with you, it doesn't matter in the end. We, us... It cannot happen, Y/N."

"But why not? Because for once, you manage to fall in love, to care for someone deeply? Is that what you're afraid of?" I shout, extremely frustrated by his unwillingness to open up, even to his best friend. Or am I the only one who thinks of him as my best friend? What if he never considered us more than acquaintances? No, that can’t be; he always treats me differently from his followers. We have a special, unreplicable - and possibly, inexplicable - bond. 

Tom, equally frustrated by the confrontation, feels his pride wounded by the audacity of someone daring to question him, especially a mere girl he had spent only some time with. The thought of falling for someone sends a shiver down his spine, challenging his carefully constructed persona. With a roar, he responds, "Yes, because if I fall for you, what does that make me? Human. A pathetic, repulsive, weak mortal with disgusting emotions," stressing 'mortal', 'human', and 'disgusting' as if he's using the crassest of curse words. Love was an incurable malady to him, one that he did not wish to concern himself with.

"Besides, if we take this too far and give in to our feelings, you'll only get hurt in the end! You know what I am, and you know what my goals are. I will not let something as trivial and pointless as emotions and love dictate my life. A monster, you called me, that day we argued? Your gut was right, Y/N; people like me, we're meant to be hated, and feared. Not loved!" He shouts back, his normally composed and calculating demeanour cracking with each second that passes between us.

"You know what, I'm not going to have this conversation with you right now. I'm leaving Hogwarts tomorrow morning,” I reply frustratedly with a tone of finality. The in-built tension within me threatens to consume me whole, make me lose all sense of rationality, and say or do something that I might regret in the future.

"You're what?"

"...Yes."

"Don't leave."

"I can't do anything about it, Tom. It's done. I'll be going off to my homeland soon, and you know how my parents are; they never take no for an answer. I suppose that's where I get my stubbornness from; the apple doesn't fall far from the tree after all."

Tom knew what I was saying was right - he had experienced it firsthand when he visited our home once. He had witnessed himself how convincing them was a Herculean task, even for me, their own daughter. Of course, he had tried his hand at persuading them for doing us little favours like letting us go to Hogsmeade and succeeded, but not without difficulty. If a shrewd manipulator like Tom had to work hard to cajole them, he was sure that I would most likely fail at convincing them to let me stay at Hogwarts instead of transferring me to Ilvermorny or maybe even Beauxbatons.

"Fine," Tom says as he walks away with a stoic expression.

"Wait! Last duet? Please?" I offer.

"You mean, like old times?" Tom asks, contemplating if he should say yes or reject my advances and go study. But a feeling inside, a strange feeling indeed, to the likes of someone as ruthless, unemotional, and cold as him, beckons him to accept, say yes, and cherish what seems to be a potential final memory to make together.

"Okay," he reluctantly agrees. "Better make it count."

The warmth of our breaths intermingles, a tangible presence that deepens our connection, even as the world around us seems to fade into a distant echo. The grand piano comes to life as I bewitch its keys to play. Each note is like a gentle caress against the walls, carried by the acoustics that enhance its timbre and tone. The music wraps around us, creating an intimate cocoon of sound, while the scent of aged wood and polished brass mingle with the anticipation in the air. I start:

"You know I want you,” I sing, my voice filled with longing. “It's not a secret I try to hide. I know you want me, so don't keep sayin' our hands are tied.”

Tom’s gaze meets mine and I continue, “You claim it's not in the cards, and fate is pullin' you miles away, and out of reach from me; but you're here in my heart, so who can stop me if I decide that you're my destiny?"

As our fingers entwine, I softly sing the following lines:

"What if we rewrite the stars? 

Say you were made to be mine? 

Nothing could keep us apart

You'd be the one I was meant to find

It's up to you, and it's up to me

No one can say what we get to be

So why don't we rewrite the stars?

Maybe the world could be ours

Tonight.”

I attempt to unlace our fingers, but Tom holds on tight, taking over the song:

"You think it's easy? You think I don't wanna run to you?” He sings, his voice filled with uncharacteristic yearning and melancholy.  “But there are mountains, and there are doors that we can't walk through. I know you're wondering why, because we're able to be just you and me, within these walls, but when we go outside, you're gonna wake up and see that it was hopeless after all!"

Tom takes my hand and gracefully twirls me across the floor as he continues, as if expressing the challenges we face:

"No one can rewrite the stars

How can you say you'll be mine?

Everything keeps us apart

And I'm not the one you were meant to find

It's not up to you

It's not up to me

When everyone tells us what we can be

How can we rewrite the stars?

Say that the world can be ours

Tonight."

As the music swells, we soar and spin across the room in circles, our voices blending seamlessly:

"All I want is to fly with you

All I want is to fall with you

So just give me all of you

It feels impossible

It's not impossible

Is it impossible?

Say that it's possible!" 

In perfect synchrony, we continue our dance as we sing with a sense of endless hope and determination:

"How do we rewrite the stars?

Say you were made to be mine?

Nothing can keep us apart

'Cause you are the one I was meant to find

It's up to you

And it's up to me

No one can say what we get to be

And why don't we rewrite the stars?

Changing the world to be ours.” 

As the song reaches its crescendo, Tom gently holds my chin, causing my cheeks to flush a deep crimson. I shyly meet his gaze before he finishes the final verse:

"You know I want you

It's not a secret I try to hide

But I can't have you

We're bound to break and my hands are tied." 

A playful smirk dances across Tom's face, unaware that I can see his blush rising. We stand there, caught in a moment that feels both destined and fleeting, our hearts racing to the ghost of the rhythm of the music that filled the air mere moments ago.

“Children born under the influence of Amortentia have no capacity to love,” he had discovered while reading a Potions textbook in the Hogwarts library a few months ago. “As such, they can never feel or express love in their lives.”

But then, what is this peculiar feeling that blossoms inside of him, twisting and turning his stomach into knots, pulsating through his veins, and forcing his breathing to become shallow and laboured? What is this sense of attraction that he is currently experiencing, one that overwhelms him with joy, hope, and happiness? Is this the ‘love’ that famed poets wrote artistic sonnets about, the ‘love’ that caused the famous Trojan War, the ‘love’ that compels people to sacrifice themselves for another in the face of danger?

All he knows is that at this moment, just for a millisecond, he wants to let go and see what it’s like to love and be loved. Tom treats this not as a revelation of a potential softer side to him, but as a new experience. In reality, he’s deluding himself to be vulnerable so that the part of him that yearns for human touch, for love and affection - which, according to the Potions textbook he had read, is an exceedingly rare anomaly - can know what romance is like, if only for a transient moment.

We end up too close to one another, the increasing proximity igniting sparks of passion we never knew we harboured deep within our hearts. Tom looks down at my soft lips and silently asks for permission. I nod, and he makes the move.

Our lips meet in a desperate union, a collision of longing and desire that ignites a fervent electricity between us. As our bodies meld together, our fingers delicately weave through strands of hair, pulling each other closer in a passionate embrace, cherishing every touch and caress as if time itself were slipping away. At that moment, the world fades into insignificance, leaving only the intensity of our connection pulsating between us. 

Tom experiences a raging inferno of emotions during the kiss: primal passion, love, hope, lust, longing, and a desire to never let go. His entire being is lit ablaze by the flames of his fervour. As Oscar Wilde had once said, a burnt child loves the fire - and Tom strangely wishes for nothing more except to be burnt over and over again by the fire of emotions that had been ignited in his heart by something as simple as a kiss. It was abundantly clear that to him, this was an epiphany - that no matter how much he denies the existence of his emotions and chokes them to death, they will always be there within him: latent, hidden, and buried deep inside the crevices of his dark, broken soul. That despite being born under the influence of Amortentia, he could love.

I reluctantly pull back, fireworks erupting in my heart as I do so, my mind and body buzzing with the aftermath of the newfound high I experienced during the kiss. Tom's gaze softens as he locks his eyes onto my own, his intent clear: to imprint every minor detail of my body and personality into his memory, a treasured keepsake to be cherished in the years that lie ahead until our paths cross once more. 

"Bye Y/N," Tom murmurs with a heavy heart. Deep inside, he is unable to accept that the magical moment we shared was over. To mask the pain, he regains his distant and cold disposition momentarily.

"We'll meet again, Tom. This isn't goodbye; this is a 'see you later'," I say, a bittersweet smile gracing my lips.

He opens his mouth again on instinct, as if to say something, but falls short of words. His feelings of vulnerability and sadness peek through the cracks of his calculative persona. Finally, he musters a response:

"Fine, see you again, Y/N," he replies with a genuine smile for the first time in his entire life, even though he felt as if someone had ripped out his heart from his chest and torn it into shreds. 

I walk away with tears in my eyes, ready to face whatever adversity that lies on my path ahead. The future is uncertain, and the fate of our connection hangs in the balance. As I turn to steal one last glance, Tom stands there, his posture strong but his eyes betraying a sense of longing and conflicted emotions. 

We share a momentary connection, an unspoken understanding that our paths may intertwine again, or perhaps diverge forever. I thought my love for him would be enough for him to stop – enough for him to listen to reason, even in my absence – but we all know what happened during the course of history.

Or do we?

[fountainpenguin]

📂

Send “📂“ for a random yet completely useless headcanon I have

Warning for minor body horror (Mentions of players removing skins, which are like onesies in this 'fic universe + injury / dragon bites)

In my Pixels Imperfect universe, frustration that you're still holding onto manifests as a glowing scar. Specifically, a scar all the way down to your soul level, meaning it glows through any new skin you put on. This is called a soul wound.

Martyn's the poster child for soul wounds being visible, since this is his in-universe parallel of IRL Martyn's Eyes and Ears lore.

In this image I drew for Dog's Life Chapter 26, "Ignite," you can see Martyn's cheek and collarbone scars (paralleling 3rd Life and Double Life respectively).

In a lore video, Martyn and his audience agreed that Martyn has his Last Life mark on the back of his right shoulder to represent being backstabbed (iirc), and we know from his Limited Life finale that he was cured of his right hand mark. His Secret Life mark hasn't happened at this point in the timeline, and also I don't think I know where it is.

In Eyes and Ears canon, I believe his scars glow purple to reflect the Watchers. In Pixels Imperfect, they glow white.

Cleo also has a wound, which is a massive dragon bite in her side. My pencil drawings don't make it obvious, but it's why her shirt hooks up like this and/or why she often takes off her shirt- the bite wound chafes sometimes and it just feels better to take it off.

Cleo's wound isn't as exciting as it sounds: They were helping to build New Star Station in its starter base days, but strayed too close to the Slime Dragon's guppies and got bit. They're fine, but lost a chunk of vessel data. You can put your hand in it and there will be resistance, but if you push through it, it's empty.

Their body is kind of like a milk gallon in the sense that it's shaped different than a glass of milk. It still holds everything it needs to (i.e. their vessel holds their soul without leaking), but their soul now follows the shape of the "gallon," which has a gap in it (like a milk gallon does for a handle).

What this also means is that Cleo can pull their shirt down over the wound and the shirt will still respond to their body's shape, because the shirt still registers it as body even though it's white energy.

Scar's chronic glitch works the same way- He can still use his arm, leg, or any other body part that glows blue, but it strains him and causes soreness or pain until the glitch moves to a different part of his body. The limb is there and can function... but it hurts, is weaker than usual, and sometimes it's so hard to get it to function that the limb is effectively non-functional.

Cleo's wound doesn't shift like his glitch, but it's the same principle: it's a phantom zone that her body treats as if it's sort of there, but she's also not going to lie on that side long-term because it would get sore. It's like an open wound, so lying on the dirt risks dirt particles pushing through their wound and ending up inside their body. Most people would prefer that doesn't happen, but Cleo's okay because they're a zombie and have a thing for being buried alive.

BigB also got bitten by a dragon. However, he took damage in a sensitive area that makes it difficult to breathe. This is the reason why he modded from an illusioner into a moth hybrid, which breathes through spiracles down his sides instead of down the throat.

Impulse's scar was a brief point of tension in my one-shot "Like Newlyweds Do," when being soulmates gave Bdubs Impulse's soul wound:

And even in the twilight, with lanterns dim, he can see the little mark he's searching for in the proper place on his husband's arm, too. Bdubs stands before the mirror, craning his neck to see his reflected back. His fingers trace along his skin. Impulse watches from the bed, face half-buried in his folded arms. If his tail were out, it would be ticking back and forth, counting out the seconds before Bdubs asks him why he never fixed that scar behind his right shoulder. "I like it," Bdubs says, prodding the old gash with one finger. It's white, glowing faintly. "I've got a clock from you and you've got this from me." In that moment, Impulse wishes he could kill on green.

Pixels Bdubs is a very interesting character to me. He's loud, proud, and not easily shut down. He also denies his own issues all the time.

During Dog's Life, Bdubs gains a lip scar after he and Impulse have a huge fight about the Day 1 Crew alliance betrayal. Impulse cuts his lip with his sword; it's later revealed that Bdubs is confused as to why this scar is sticking, when he "doesn't think that fight was a big deal."

Here's Chapter 12 Bdubs (no lip scar) + Chapter 30 Bdubs:

It's subtle, but it's there.

Etho's eye scar is part of his skin design- It's not a soul wound. Etho has no backstory for his scar because it's just always been there on the skins he wears. It's blue and doesn't glow (Injuries lead to energy leakage, and the energy is white or blue in this universe depending on depth).

Here's the image that goes with "Canadian Idiot"-

And Joel's mark there was just "recent damage" because this was a Double Life 'fic about Etho's fox instincts and aggro kicking in through the soulbond when Joel takes damage, so Etho was lashing out at Joel and/or himself every time he got hurt.

I can't believe I wrote a huge 'fic centered around Etho repeatedly biting Joel's neck 2 months before we got the "neck kisses" gag. I'm so sorry, Joel... I was just writing about fox aggro and a fox's instinct involving teeth instead of a weapon, I swear... it wasn't supposed to have a double meaning...

In a one-shot titled "The Man He Sets His Spawn With," most of the cast stripped off their skins in the server hub's locker room / shower house and had Grian blast them with a power washer to rinse the Secret Life mod off. Bdubs was our POV character and we learned some interesting things:

He pushes forward. Souls blur together, blue and overlapping, and the glowing doesn't help with the identity stuff like at all. He can pick out Tango (facing away from him) by the enormous white gash scarred down his right shoulder. Not pointing fingers, but that one's a Bdubs original. You're welcome for helping you look so cool, you're turning heads. Martyn's got smaller scars - little diamonds - that glow in fragments here and there across his soul. There's an arrow wound in his belly, though that one's hard to see when he's wearing skins… or, y'know. Clothes. Can't take credit for that one, though, because that's all Scar from a particularly brutal perma-death back in 3rd Life that still leaves Martyn jumpy today (so Bdubs has self-observed). And Impulse has an arrow mark just like that behind his shoulder… but then, Impulse has scars and patched-up bits of code everywhere. That's nothing new. What's one more?

- Tango's got a soul wound from Bdubs betraying him in Last Life. He's totally buddy-buddy with Bdubs and they're friends, it's fine, but Tango hasn't quite let it go.

- Martyn has an arrow wound in his belly. This is a nod to Double Life. Shortly before Cleo drowned, taking their yellow life, Martyn saw Scar coming towards him, screamed, and took off as fast as he could, yelling "No, no, no!" and that he's "Not dying to you [Scar] again."

Interestingly enough, the only time Scar ever killed Martyn up to that point was when he perma-killed him in 3rd Life; Martyn's reaction seems to imply Character Martyn has trauma around that.

Bdubs doesn't seem to care that he's responsible for giving several of his friends soul wounds, which makes it funnier that he gets super annoyed in Dog's Life when he gets the lip scar.

Bdubs is the kind of person who'd see the scar and then spin around or walk backwards while slapping at his lip over and over, trying to wipe it off. He refuses to admit he has issues with it.

Bdubs actually has another scar, but it's somewhere on his back (and under his clothes) where he can't easily see it. The Phantom Dragon's whole thing is that she spreads her babies to all the server hubs by dropping them off and leaving, but little Bdubs refused to go, so he just clung to her the whole time until she finally did ditch him in Underdark Crossing, where he met Cleo.

If you ask him about it, he'll spin a story about how it was all his idea to go solo and that's what makes him a good captain. He has huge issues with it, though, because his mom totally dumped him and he's not over it.

Martyn's also a phantom, but he never went through that because he was adopted by hybrids as an egg. Bdubs gets very jealous when his friends talk about having a good relationship with their moms. Secretly, he likes how Etho's mom also picked him up by the scruff and dumped him in New Star. It's something they have in common, though Bdubs will never admit it.

Bdubs probably has a lot of deep-seeded resentment towards Martyn being adopted, because supposedly he's "told Martyn horror stories about the phantom nesting hub" and may or may not have played a role in poisoning Martyn's relationship with the Phantom Dragon.

Also, at the end of Dog's Life Chapter 32 ("Starve"), we learned that SnifferMyFeet has a huge X-shaped scar on his back from each shoulder to hip, crossing both his Grian and Joel halves. Still working through the good ol' body possession trauma.

Tango specializes in aesthetic mods and one of the things he does is help people make their scars more subtle. You can't scrap them forever - you have to let go of your frustration to do that - but you can lower their intensity.

As an allay hybrid / fey, Scott can gather your memories of what happened to cause a soul wound, but you'll never be able to work through the issues, so you'll be left with a scar and won't remember why it's there or how to get rid of it.

Hmm... Who do I know who has a backstory they want to forget and got confused when Scott referenced something from their past that they didn't have an answer for...?

Send “📂“ for a random yet completely useless headcanon I have

[elvenbeard]

2077, April

"You really think I can make it, survive this?"

"'Course you can. I mean, you did already die and come back once, didn't ya?"

The chance of a lifetime the Konpeki Plaza Heist should have been turned Vince's existence into a living nightmare. Going from "just living, day by day" to "sheer survival, at all costs" in the manner of moments and following a row of bad decisions made by everyone involved, this was now definitely his last chance to get his life back on the right track. A second chance, after so many other second chances he'd already botched... while the one who would've really deserved another shot was now gone from Vince's life forever.

Jackie, the one person he had never regretted to trust in, who had never let him down, helped him out of the greatest messes, wouldn't be at his side through his biggest challenge so far. Vince would often lie awake at night wondering "What if he'd just kept the damn biochip? Would he be here now, instead of me? Why am I still here when he'd deserved it so much more?"

But then again... Jackie wouldn't have deserved Johnny Silverhand, Vince's newly acquired brain parasite from days long gone, unwanted voice of unreason, and perpetual threat to his mere existence.

Vince was dying, losing himself, little by little, day by day, after it had taken him ten long years to get to a point of self-acceptance and recognizing his strengths, desires, what he truly wanted from life. It was the cruelest irony of fate imaginable.

Misty's words accompanied him through his darkest moments: as long as your heart's still beating, there is hope.

Vince never wanted to be a legend... but for Jackie's sake, he'd make sure everyone would remember their names. He'd survive this, get rid of the Relic, of the terrorist in his brain, and make it out alive. No matter the cost.

Vince through the years (7/9)

A handful of before and after screenshots this time:

Some slight colour adjustments, and a little Relic-like glitch effect like it happens to Johnny whenever he's visible!

Also these two didn't make it to the final set, but I still really love the flying sparks effect :O These are completely vanilla, done in vanilla Photomode without path tracing. There's a lot of particle effects going on at Afterlife that render very interestingly sometimes (I think only since the graphics update though, since pics in Photomode take a moment to render, creating this motion blur/ long exposure effect). Sometimes this a bit annoying when you want to go for a relatively clean shot, but these looked really kinda cool for once xD

I've also been playing around a lot with a free filter plugin (search for GMIC) for Photoshop that has some really nice glitch effects, chromatic abberation, amongst many many many others :o If you don't know it and use Photoshop (although I think there are versions for other programs available as well!), I can definitely recommend it!

Now, to what I wrote above the cut, briefly. This is a relatively short post compared to all others in the series cause it's obviously the one aligning with what canonically happens in game and there's no need to retell all that in great detail xD What I wanted to focus on though was Vince's shift of mind between pre-Heist and post-Heist.

Before the heist, when Dex asks him what he wants, a quiet life or a blaze of glory, Vince is internally leaning more to a quiet life. Assuming though that that's not what Dex would wanna hear, probably, he deflects, gives him no clear answer. But yes, after having to run away from home, struggling on the street, busting his ass for Arasaka and barely making it out of all of that alive, had it not been for Jackie, he has no intentions of just throwing all his growth and progress away by blowing himself up in some daredevil endeavour. He's reached a point where he genuinely likes himself, his body, his life, and while he's not perfect, still in recovery from his time at Arasaka, and has done messed up things to get here, he would've been content with just small-time, low-risk merc work for the years to come.

With Jackie gone though, who has been a constant guidance over the last 10 years, with everything that rains down on Vince during the post-Konpeki shitstorm, I think this would change. He's being told "you're gonna lose yourself, forget who you are", "the body you literally shaped after your own wishes will soon be Johnny's", whom he cannot stand, no one wants to work with him initially after such a legendary failure, he has "a few weeks, at most" left to live... fuck all that, so hard. He's gonna fight tooth and nail to make it out of it alive, forget the quiet life.

He's gonna make sure as hell that, if all ends up being in vain, people will remember him and that he didn't settle for the easy way out. If he has to die, he'll do so standing - maybe scared, but head held high. Cause everything else would be a disservice to how far both he and Jackie have come together, to who he is at his core: a rebellious kid who once rather would've taken on a whole Valentino gang on his own instead of calling his corpo mother for help, someone who quit his secure job because he refused to keep taking the abuse from his boss, who risked his life for his best friend despite sending himself down a spiral of despair in the aftermath. He's not scared of getting his hands dirty, of forging his own path (alone, if need be), and of taking risks if he thinks they're worth it for himself or the people he's loyal to.

[cloudycleric]

Will shoved open the board restricting the entrance into the attic, coughing as dust flew everywhere—including his eyes. In contrast, a wide eyed Mike Wheeler stood at the bottom of the ladder, holding it up, curious and worried.

“Shit, are you okay?” He asked, his grip around the ladder tightening as Will swatted the dust falling around them.

Will coughed, squinting his eyes and fanning his face, “yeah, it’s just dust.” He finished shoving the board to the side, poking his head through the attic’s entrance. “When was the last time you came up here? A thousand years ago?”

Mike started at the bottom of the ladder, effectively shoving Will up into the attic. “I don’t know, it’s been ten years, at least.”

The attic looked like it could be in a film, it reminded Will of how Stephen King described the Losers’ hideout in It. There were stacked cardboard boxes without labels throughout the room, which was shaped like a cross. Dust particles slowly floated in the air and were made visible by sunlight gleaming through windows on the walls that stood straight up, as opposed to the walls slanted by the roof on the outside. The floor was a stereotypical wood paneling, it almost looked darker due to the lack of light in the attic. He carefully climbed all the way off the ladder and onto the floor. As he stood up, he dusted off his pants.

The floor creaked as Mike followed, standing a few inches directly behind Will, pushing him a little bit. Is he scared?

“Wow, this looks nothing like how I left it,” Mike eventually moved from behind Will to look at the assortment of cardboard boxes. “There used to be lights and figures and—”

“Why did you stop coming up here?” Will questioned, running a finger over one of the boxes, his finger turning gray. “I mean, if it was as cool as you’re describing.”

“God, you’re such a nerd,” Mike scoffed.

“You’re talking?”

“And I stopped coming up here because my dad saw all my stuff up here one time and then found my key to the entrance and took it from me. He said it was some sort of safety hazard or something like that.” Mike crouched, studying the different boxes. He wiped away a curl from his eyes, still deep in concentration.

“Then what happened to the figures and stuff?” Will wondered why Mike was looking so intently at the boxes, assuming that the toys and fixtures had been thrown away if his dad got to them.

“He made me come back in here to clean up with a trash bag,” Mike replied. “He told me to throw away the toys and to put the lights back into the Xmas box, since that’s where I stole them from.”

Will knew that couldn’t be the full story. “And?”

“I snuck the figures into one of the storage boxes up here so I wouldn’t have to throw them away,” Mike moved to looking at another pile of boxes, “but since I never had the key, I couldn’t come back up for them.”

“And your dad never asked to check the trash bag?”

“He told me that he wanted to, but I guess he got busy with something else. Some other rich dude or mysterious work problem.”

“Sounds like him.”

“Oh!” Mike carefully removed a box from a pile with the label ‘FROM GRANNY’. “I put them in here.”

Will looked confused. “Wouldn’t he like, check a box left by his mom?”

“No, granny was my mom’s mom,” Mike explained, opening the flaps of the box. “He doesn’t care about my mom’s side of the family.”

Will frowned at how naturally Mike was able to say that.

Bubble wrap crinkled around Mike’s hands as he fished for the figures in the box, “I remember I had like, Wolverine and Storm and I think a few knight guys, too.”

The wrap flew out of the box as Mike lifted up a handful of the figures. It was like he was a video game character that just found something integral to his quest. In his hands were three figures. Will squinted to try and make out who they were, but Mike was too excited. He kept digging through the box and finding more of his lost childhood treasures. Will walked up to Mike to get a closer look.

Mike stood, knowing Will was walking over, and held some of the figures in his hand, “god, these were so awesome.”

Will held Mike’s hand to try and keep it still since Mike was almost shaking with excitement. “I always wanted this one!” He playfully smacked Mike in the back of the head. “Lucky rich little shit.”

do you guys think i'll get a 100 on this one too (submitted this one for creative writing)

[e3khatena]

What're your top 4 favourite games of all time?

I actually pretty recently went through my Top 25 on Twitter but that's mostly a contextless image with no words to it, so I do wanna spend a little more time to highlight my four favorite games (1024 words):

4. Earthbound (SNES, 1995)

Earthbound is a truly superb JRPG, with a kitsch and a camp to it that feels simultaneously cheesily-dated and timeless to boot, with a charisma and world that's ripe for exploration, from a guy who is a master craftsman of compelling stories. This is by far my favorite game to actually play in the SNES' library.

3. Hypnospace Outlaw (PC/XBO/PS4/Switch, 2019)

Back-to-back 90s-flavored games with phenomenal storytelling, Hypnospace Outlaw is a game about playing the moderator of an alternate timeline's niche corner of the Internet. Users on Hypnospace create webpages with their mind so they can hang out and be productive while asleep, and the characters are deeply nuanced with tons of personal details and secrets in tow. It's fun to be an enforcer and track down cases, but it's just as fun to go down the rabbit hole and follow links, and your curious nature is handily rewarded with shortcuts, hacks to be a better enforcer, fun Angelfire/Geocities webpages with MIDIs or ripped MP3s for backing music, and an utterly stellar story of corporate mismanagement, cover-ups, and an attempt to pin this universe's Y2k bug on an innocent kid that makes up the game's final act, a retrospective as you work to archive Hypnospace for modern audiences and tie up any loose ends. Jay Tholen's world is eclectic, surreal, and so oppressively 90s that you *will* listen to their fake Linkin Park on its own long after you play this.

2. Hot Dogs, Horseshoes, & Hand Grenades (PCVR, 2016-)

Rust LTD's range simulator/physics sandbox stands out as one of the defining games in PCVR spaces. Being the brainchild of developer Anton Hand and having been in incredibly active development for eight years, H3VR's dedication to the craft of firearm simulation is matched with a quirky, lighthearted sense of humor that extends into the enemies; sosigs bleed mustard* and say cheesy one-liners or compliment the player before exploding into meat, and Anton's strict adherence to not including real-world human enemies or gore extends to the lore explanation of the seemingly endless number of enemies being a giant meat grinder and casing stuffer that brings units to life. This has pissed off *tons* of fans of other VR FPSes, but I've been long enamored with Anton's realization that what people want from gore (satisfying particles and deformation, cathartic violence) can be done super cheaply and in an approachable manner for all-ages while still maintaining a very strong network of AI pathing and handling systems.

Even if you aren't fighting the enemies, the game's core simulations are still fun to engage with, with lovingly rendered guns that let you see their specific oddities, effectively digitally preserving over 500 firearms, both real and fictional (including a handful of pop cultural pieces like the guns from Robocop, Blade Runner, and Team Fortress 2 in an official collab with Valve) and their inner workings while giving you an expansive sandbox for building scenarios, be they IPSC-style accuracy trials or a simple bed of targets to plink at. Anton still updates this game weekly, working on things like night vision goggles/scopes, thermal cameras, and a Hitman-inspired ImSim mode. Despite this, Anton still does not see the game as a 1.0 finished build, and has plans to continue updating the game for a long while to come.

Cruelty Squad (PC, 2021)

There is no other game like Cruelty Squad, man. Its roots lie in underground artist Ville Kallio, a Finnish creator of the strange, surreal, and visceral. So much of Kallio's art centered around video games and they way they depict and discuss violence, and he took his work to its logical conclusion with an Immersive Sim unlike any other. The visuals are garish, the music is shoddy, the maps are nonsensical with a bizarre fetishization of ad-soaked dystopia, and does a great job of putting you into the headspace of the depressed former Death Squad member Empty Fuck, who finds himself becoming a gig economy worker settling petty corporate disputes for his former boss with the aid of a slew of lethal, stupid weaponry.

For your trouble, you're paid out a pittance, so most of your income has to come from side hustles. Gibbing enemies lets you harvest their organs, which is fantastic for you as modern medicine has made death a thing of the past, stitching cadavers back to life and saddling them with medical debt. If you're not fishing or playing the incredibly volatile stock market that experiences a short squeeze that reaches MOASS levels, you're organ harvesting, which also nets you an opportunity to steal a fallen foe's weapons after you scoop up his liver and kidneys, as you can only get new guns by carrying them out with you on a successful hit. The game takes you to cultist lairs, cushy offices with armed guards, a bombed out nightclub in Helsinki created in the aftermath of a chemical weapons attack to blockbust the district, and straight up to Cruelty Squad HQ to confront the balance of life and death in the world.

Cruelty Squad is truly so beautiful in its unabashed ugliness. The NPCs complain about their life and financial woes while their bosses gamble the extracted value of their labor on buying new yachts, advertisements for the game's brands are everywhere, and though the wealthy bourgeois are free to flaunt their wealth and perversion, the common prole finds themselves in a constant loop of being caught in the crossfire of mass shootings and waking up an instant later with discharge paperwork and a hospital bill. Kallio has made a truly chaotic, bitter, visceral world mirroring our own frustrations with the modern technology and finance sectors, and displays an incredible understanding of game design through all of the design decisions clearly meant to draw the most ire and frustration. It's not an easy game to enjoy, Cruelty Squad. It's difficult with an unfair difficulty curve and some decently bad levels, but my GOD its marriage of Deus Ex and Hitman ImSim sensibilities and a passionate disdain for late-stage Capitalism make it an easy choice for my favorite game of all time.

[the-void-writes]

Happy New Year, everyone! Hope you’re all warm and happy and know that you’re loved. I decided to write something since I promised @bloodlessheirbyjacques a Will and Rio prompt, so I ended up making an AU where Rio kind of becomes Will’s dad after the world ends, and they’re trying to figure out how to live and get along. Definitely not canon though because it messes up future things lol.

Freaks of Preston AU - The Third Family

WC: 1,290

Few things pulled Rio away from his work anymore. It was the only thing that drowned out the screams and the aching for more than a minute. The faces of the dead, of his daughter and the man he loved, haunted his every waking moment, as well as his dreams. As tedious as training and building could be, it was better than the hollowness in his soul.

The only solace in Rio’s life were his new children. Young Sophie had been orphaned after Vesely’s Doomsday project destroyed her town, and she had clung to Rio ever since he found her. She was small and shy, but she was also curious and full of energy, just like Jin. She wasn’t a replacement— he refused to think of it that way— but the familiar company was more than welcome.

His second child was just as familiar to him. A child that he promised to protect, who was just as haunted by the dead as Rio himself. It was this kid who tore him away from his work late at night.

A young soldier had rushed into his office. Fear filled his eyes, and Rio already knew what he was going to say.

“He’s gone out again. We tried to stop him.”

Rio threw on his coat and mask before storming out the front doors of the company building. Thick, black storm clouds stretched across the sky for miles, coating the cliff sides in smoke-colored rain. The particles from the missiles weren’t toxic to pre-existing Freaks, but Rio refused to take any more chances with Vesely’s work.

He followed a trail in the mud path that ran past the old village, towards the rusted and abandoned carnival. There weren’t any clear footprints, more like the mark of shoes being dragged through the dirt. Soon enough, Rio found the source walking through the woods. The hood of his coat had fallen off halfway, soaking his light hair with filthy water.

“Will!”

The boy didn’t stop for him. Rio sprinted to catch him before he could go any further, struggling to hold him as he kept moving forward. The air around them filled with static, the sign of Will’s growing powers. What had started as the gentle flow of a river had become a violent tidal wave of energy, thanks to the grief that possessed his heart. Rio understood more than anyone that although his body lived, Will’s soul had died with his family.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Rio said. “You need to come back inside before you get more sick.”

The static energy pushed against his arms as Will tried to keep moving. Dirt-smudged tears stained his face, but his eyes were glossy and unfocused. Rio kept his grip, but the force was starting to burn him through his sleeves, another new side effect of Will’s grief.

“I know, bud, it’s alright. You can let it out— Hit me, if you have to.”

His arms burned a little more, and Will threw himself from Rio’s grip. Over the sound of the rain, there was a hoarse wheeze. Speech had become a struggle for Will, and the memory of why still made Rio’s blood run cold. He had gotten there too late to save Jason, but he saw everything after that. The scream that left Will’s mouth, that tore his throat to shreds as the energy in his body escaped him and decimated the room, was perhaps the most haunting sound from that day.

After a few more rounds of coughing and wincing, Will managed to get his words out.

“Need— to go—”

He coughed harshly and rubbed his neck, tracing the dark growth lines that ran across his skin like a labyrinth. Rio took his shoulder and guided him to an old building with a porch wide enough to stand under. Will hunched over with his hands in his knees as he tried to find his voice again.

“Don’t speak,” Rio said. “You need more time.”

Will hissed through his teeth, more to himself than anyone in particular. Rio remembered the frustration that Jason held during his recovery, and the uselessness he felt at not being able to walk. His son was just the same, all the way down to the way he scrunched up his nose in anger.

“We’ll get you back into therapy soon, then you can start practicing.”

Will shook his head, and Rio laughed humorlessly.

“Oh, you don’t need it, is that it? You’re just gonna walk back to Gabe with a broken body and kill him, no problem?”

Will glared back at him.

“Listen, kid, I know you don’t give a shit about your life anymore, but I do.”

“Because you feel guilty.”

“No, because I loved Jason, and so did you. So whether you like it or not, I’m gonna keep my promise to him—”

“Don’t fucking talk about promises—”

Will coughed so hard that he stumbled backward. Rio caught him and pulled him back into his hold. He felt so light for his age, as though the wind could pick him up and carry him away… Rio finally understood the heartbreak Jason had felt for his son’s condition. It hurt him just the same.

The boy struggled and hit his chest until his arms slowed and went limp. His wheezes turned into sobs, and Rio held him until the static in the air finally disappeared.

“Will?”

The boy finally turned to meet his eyes. He looked like a frightened child, the very one that Rio had first met all those years ago, the one he had hurt so terribly.

“We promised— we would stay together,” Will whispered. “I failed him.”

“Hey, stop doing that,” Rio said. “You didn’t kill Jason.”

“I didn’t save him.”

“Neither did I. If you want to blame someone, blame me.”

“No… It’s Vesely’s fault— He has to—”

He managed to restrain the cough this time. Rio patted his shoulder gently.

“I know, kid. I swear, you’ll get your chance, but if you really want to avenge your family, you’ll wait until you’re strong enough to do it. Otherwise, we’re just repeating our mistakes.”

With that, Will nodded in defeat.

“Can you walk?” Rio asked.

“I think so.”

“Alright, kid, let’s get you inside.”

With a bit of stumbling, he followed the old soldier back to the complex, where he was rushed to Avery’s office to make sure he hadn’t aggravated his illness. Even the newer nurses knew to stay back while Avery worked, since he was less likely to face a sudden outburst. Rio couldn’t stand it, showing the same kind of fearful caution that the town of Preston had shown for all of Will’s life, but it was an unfortunate necessity for the handful of survivors that lived in the building.

Once everything appeared fine, Rio walked with Will to their shared quarters, a temporary apartment for both them and Sophie. The two children had refused to stay with the others in the patient dorms, though Will’s reasons were more personal. He couldn’t bear the reminder of his dear friends.

As the elevator opened to the apartment hallway, another soft wheeze fell on Rio’s ears.

“Sorry.”

Rio shook his head. “It’s not your fault, kid. We’re all hurting in different ways.”

Will closed his eyes. “I hear him sometimes… inside the park. I don’t know if it’s the sickness or the grief.”

“We’ll worry about that later. Right now, you need to rest. I’ll make Sophie babysit you, if I need to.”

The air felt lighter when Will actually managed to snicker. At the very least, Sophie could keep the two men from their crushing sorrow.

“She’ll have a better life,” Will said.

Rio nodded. “Yes, we can both promise her that.”

[vocaliveparty]

Night Sky Patrol of Tomorrow - Design, Effects, and Extra Notes.

Design

Designed and Modeled by Maydayfireball, with some touch ups from jjinomu ! I distinctly remember sending him to her and going "yeah i dunno what to do for his shoes" and her sending him back with "no shoes." so free feet pics i guess.

ANYWAY.. Some people caught it, but he was loosely inspired by the vocaloids in the "Empty" sekai of project sekai. He's intentionally fairly monochrome, so that the wings towards the end seem even more vivid. He's meant to appear a bit hopeless and messy, like he's really down on his luck. I imagine a Piko like this would be gentle, but a little sad most of the time.

Effects

There's two Big effect points for this one, so I'll go into both.

The first is the night sky. It has an intentionally painted, flat look. It's suppose to feel like the backdrop of a stage, not like a real night sky. Like he's performing, but his heart isn't in it quite yet. I added a light dust particle effect in as well to make a contrast between it and the still background to really hammer in it's falseness.

And then of course, the climax.

Using a flat black plane behind him, i abused mmd's transparency bug to display the artwork behind him through the wings.

The wings are also directly shaped from the wings shown in the MV.

This moment wasn't just a climax for this song, but a climax for the concert as a whole. Like Piko gaining hope and a better outlook for the future thanks to those who reached out to him honestly.

Extra Notes

BOY. I apologize in advance, i have SO MANY THOUGHTS about these lyrics. If you're an english speaker, I highly recommend watching it with the closed captions on. They're a bit on the nose, even without me digging into them.

「I'm a boy who picks his battles depending on whatever suits his mood」 「No hopes for the future, I wanted to be drawn in a dream.」 「and yet I fear the future- hating tomorrow, wishing for the past.」

These are the opening lines for the song. Coming off the back of our angry streaming heart piko who longed for the past, this version of him has given up. Like there is nothing left for him to do.

「Leaving the old me behind,」 「but that night was different from all the others.」 「You took my hand...」

I like to believe, in a way, Piko would be referring to the first Piko Live Party here. Like a moment of light in a dark future, You reached out your hand and supported him.

「If this is to end as a dream, at least allow me to change yesterday...」 「I won't say anything like that, so let me keep smiling together with you, tomorrow as well.」

I've said it before, but we made the first Piko Live Party assuming it wouldn't get attention. We worked hard, but with the expectation that it wouldn't be seen by many. That's why, during this chorus, the backdrop is flat. Like a kid's play. Or, like not-quite-discovered potential.

「Even if I think that the world truly changed,」 「and even if I tried to hope or change, the future was cruel.」

The screen goes darker, and the colors become fully monochrome. It's a bit like a reality check - We're supporting Piko, but aside from us, there's not much he can do to change his fate as a discontinued vocaloid.

「Even so, the world I always watched with you was truly beautiful.」 「I still haven't forgotten that, I've placed it in my heart so I can remember.」

This is a Piko who's speaking to us from the present. I interoperate it as if he's referring to the rush of support he got, and how he'll always cherish it even if his future is bleak.

Of course, this is followed by what feelings and emotions you've given him. The colors burst forward, creating wings like the summer sky. They're a physical representation of your support and the future it's given him.

「I want to be together with you in the future, however short our time may be」 「so I'll shout "Remember this day someday in the future, whoever we are then..."」

Again, I highly recommend watching this song in particular with the closed captions turned on. It really adds to it.

I was extremely happy when Mio picked this song to cover, because I knew immediately what direction I should take this concert in at that point. I knew what I wanted to do with it from the very beginning, and I couldn't be happier with how it turned out.

[illarian-rambling]

For the WIP/OC Ask Game:

What's the deal with that evil desert?

How does magic work?

And feel free to ramble about your favorite characters and their most curious details!

Hi there!

I answered about the desert here, but I'll be happy to tell you about magic!

Magic on Illaros spills from a mysterious dimension known as the Veil. Different shapes will draw it out in different forms, much as different keys will unlock different doors. Some of these shapes are fire or ice. Others are more complicated, like memory reading and matter degradation/transportation/assembly (aka teleportation). People who learn to draw and harness these different shapes are known as rune scribes, or simply mages.

Sorcerers are where it gets a little funky. They are born with enzymes in their blood that are shaped in a way to allow the Veil to spill through into the sorcerer’s body. With their divine soul, they are able to manipulate this magic using simple, rune-adjacent shapes formed with their hands, called sigils. It's much faster than drawing on the Veil by drawing runes, but sorcerers suffer from exhaustion, migraines, nausea, and any number of physical ailments when they use up too many of their enzymes, though the enzymes do grow back eventually.

In addition to these two, there's also alchemy and divine magic. Alchemy uses magically mutated creatures to create potions, while divine magic involves people asking the gods to pretty please loan them a miracle. Divine magic is the most powerful form of magic, however, only a very select group of people can wield it.

There's also rotting magic. This isn't a type of magic someone can wield, but a natural effect. When magic stays too long untethered to a spell or rune, it will start to decay in a stream of microscopic particles. The people of Illaros call this sorcerer’s poison, but we'd call it radiation. They call it sorcerer’s poison specifically because sorcerers can draw on the rotting magic of their previously cast spells even when they're out of enzymes, though it has a chance of killing them via something akin to very fast radiation sickness.

There's a bunch of other weird stuff going on too, but I think I'll leave it at that ;)

The character that's been on my mind lately isn't one of the main cast, but instead a side character in MG3. Marius Montane is the younger brother (15 years younger) of Antonin Montane, the patriarch of the Montane family bank and father of Ivander Montane.

Marius was only 20 when Ivander’s mom disappeared, and since Antonin had more important things to do, he sort of took it upon himself to raise the boy after that. I'd say he did a decent job, all things considered. Marius was also deeply traumatized by the Montane family atmosphere, and 20 is not very old to be raising an 8 year old. Soon after, people made a run on Marius's bank, and he received a portion of Timaz's curse as punishment (the same, flesh-to-mist stuff Ivander has going on, but just on his leg). He trained Ivander strictly in hopes of keeping him safe from the curse, and the pain often made him irritable, so he wasn't always the softest of caretakers. His wife, Parva, helped too, but she died by the time Marius was 30. The pairing was an arranged one, so they were never in love, but they were quite friendly. Marius used his grief for her as an excuse to never remarry, as the Montanes are pretty keen on producing blood-related heirs, and that man is gay as the day is long.

He's just a really tragic character, all in all. After Ivander left, he thought about following, but could never work up the courage. He lives in terror of his brother. I think that's one of Antonin's cardinal sins; being the sort of man his little brother is afraid of. But don't you worry. Marius will get his moment :)

Thanks for the asks!

[ridley-was-a-cat]

What I Watched This Week – 5/12 – 5/25

King of Braves GaoGaiGar – I’ve been trying to watch more super robot mecha lately, and this has been sitting on my watchlist ever since Discotek licensed it and posted the memorable opening song on Twitter, so I decided it was time to watch it. Strange sentient machines invade the planet, turning people into mechanical kaiju aligned with whatever was stressing them, and it falls to a mysterious 8 year old boy to stop them, helped by a secret government agency of mecha and cyborg fighters. I’m not really sure why it took me so long to start seeking this stuff out, because it’s a ton of fun to watch. The lion mecha combines with the cyborg to become GaiGar, then that robot combines with a pair of drills, a jet, and a fucking shinkansen to become GaoGaiGar, and then that robot combines with either a giant screwdriver that splits dimensional space or a massive squeaky hammer that turns everything to light particles. If that’s not enough for you, the fights also include a green fairy who sets the transformed humans free. The entire thing is so absurd and over the top, yet played so completely straight that I have to marvel at the voice actors’ ability to deliver the dialog. I didn’t love the overuse of strobe effects, and the plot was getting a little repetitive by the end of the 49 episodes, but I had a smile on my face the whole time. 7/10

Kurayukaba – I’m not really sure how I felt about this short little movie, to be honest. I enjoyed watching a down-on-his-luck private detective exploring the shady underworld built in the old tunnels under a coal mining city as he attempted to investigate a rash of missing person cases. The characters were engaging, with intriguing backgrounds and distinct personalities, and the antagonists were somewhat more complex than making trouble for trouble’s sake. On the other hand, though, the animation was kinda puppet-show, and the ending felt super rushed through and inconclusive, making the whole story feel a little aimless. 6/10

Kuramerukagari – This movie takes place in the same setting as Kurayakuba, but it shares none of the characters or events in it, so it stands completely alone. The story follows a young woman who travels around the ever shifting gangways and underground tunnels of the city and draws maps of them that she sells to a local book lender and information broker. It shares the same iffy visuals as the other movie, but I ended up enjoying this one a little bit more. The uprising she accidentally uncovers unfolded in a way that was pretty fun to watch, with a good collection of colorful characters and steampunk-style contraptions joining the fight, and the ending felt conclusive. Both movies definitely could’ve used more space to use all the characters they introduced, and I would’ve liked to spend more time seeing their world, but they weren’t a bad watch. 7/10

[chelseyyouraverageluigi]

Sherlock investigates (and loses his love)

Part 1

Summary: Elisabeth seeks out Sherlock to solve the case of her dead lover.

Warnings: talk of dead body, Sherlock being a little menace, (Watson being lil bit sus), bad talking of the police(tbh they kinda deserve it in this one), kinda like fanfiction but not really idk

Word Count: ~2K (it took so much to write this wth)

Author’s Note: This is my very first writing, so if anyone will read this (which I highly doubt) pls be kind. It’s translated from Hungarian, cuz I had to write this for smt else, but thought why not put it up here in English, see if anyone is interested. It’s written for a play for the stage, so don’t expect too much. Anyways, I tried my best, comments and likes are very appreciated, and I will post the second part when my brain can actually function.  (also shoutout to @s0meth1ngs for frocing me to do it ykyk<3)

1. Scene: Elisabeth seeks out Sherlock to solve the case of her dead lover.

Location: Sherlock’s flat

Characters: Sherlock (S), Watson (W), Elisabeth (E), Mrs. Hudson (H)

*Sherlock and Watson run into each other at the street of their house, both of them going home, Watson looks a little out of breath, he may have been running*

S- Ah, Watson, what a surprise. Just not on your way home too, are you? Tell me, have you been running?

W- But yes, yes. I just wanted to talk to you about yesterday’s case and the press conference following that. […] *here they fade in the scene, but continue to talk. We look at the other side of the door to the house, where Mrs. Hudson is cleaning at the moment.*

H- *hums to herself while cleaning*

S- *comes into the apartment with Watson and take off their coats* …Well yes my dear friend, it’s a terrible case, but in the end it is solved finally: the culprit behind bars, Mycroft can be happy that he has ‘successfully closed another case’.

W- I still don’t understand why you didn’t say anything, you just let your brother make the statement, reap the rewards and take all the glory with it.

S- Because, dear Watson, I don’t care at all about that sort of thing. If he really wants to, my brother can get all the fame he wants, if he had missed out on getting the sharp wits.

* during the whole conversation they go and sit down in the common room and continue where they left off*

W- If you want it like that…so be it. Who am I to say otherwise? But  back to the case, how did you even know that this Fosco, or what’s-his-name, was the felon, not his twin, who we suspected all along?

S- Only you suspected it, Watson, I merely considered the possibility that he may have done it. To answer your question: the matter is very simple, the one who did it was left-handed, just like Fosco. And the proof for that is, that when we visited him to question him, he was addressing a letter, and of course, he had the pen in his left hand. An the corpse has stab wounds that only a left-handed person could have inflicted with such force. Therefore, Rosco couldn’t have done it. 

W- I understand everything now. Wait, how did you know that?

S- Watson, you’ve been getting more and more inattentive lately, I’m afraid. You’re not sick, are you?

W- No of course I’m not! I don’t know where you get this from. *he scratches his head awkwardly* - By the way, do you have any new cases already?

S- Ten or twelve, but none of them interesting for me in particle. All of them are important, you see, but still, they are completely uninteresting. I did realise, that with smaller, more unimportant matters, there is a real opportunity with observation, for a quick analysis of cause and effect relationships; after all, this is the main coefficient of the investigation. These cases are all the same: there is nothing special about them. Although it’s possible that we will get something better in a few minutes, since I think someone is coming to us right now at this moment. 

*meanwhile from the window, Sherlock stares at the other side of the road, where a woman is crossing the road and hurries to their door*

*Meanwhile there is a knocking on the door, Mrs. Hudson opens the door*

H- Good morrow, dear, how can I help you? *she says kindly, smiling*

E- excuse me! Does Mr. Sherlock Holmes live here? I need to talk to him urgently! *says out of breath because she has been running, and a little teary because she has been crying*

H- Of course darling, come on in. *she walks her in to where Sherlock is*

*Mrs. Hudson knocks, then opens the door*

H- Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, if I understand it correctly, you have a new client, can I let her in?

S- I think so too... Mrs. Hudson, ah, I was going to ask you to bring us some tea! *turns to her, away from the window*

H- I would like to remind you, dear Mr. Holmes, that I’m still just your landlady, not your housekeeper.

W- Alright, thank you Mrs. Hudson, I will make the tea myself, please let in this client in question. *he says in a kind of conciliatory tone*

H- Thank you doctor, I will send the lady right in.

W- Do so, Mrs. Hudson. *with that Mrs. Hudson exists, then Elisabeth enters*

W- Just come in, dear. Come, sit down. *he says to Elisabeth, pointing at an empty armchair*

E- Oh, thank you very much for being able to see me in such short notice. Something terrible happened to me, I just-… *she starts but Sherlock interrupts her sentence*

S- First your name, Miss, please. Without it I can do very little for you. *he said with a sarcastic smile, Elisabeth is a little surprised by this*

E- Oh, true, howrude I am. My name is Elisabeth.

S- Elisabeth…?

E- …Elizabeth McCarthy… *she says a little nervously*

W- Alright Miss Elisabeth, *with that he looks at Sherlock sideways, with a ‘why is it so important right now?’ look, then turns back* - please tell us what happened.

E- Thank you! As I wanted to say, this morning I just went over to James, but when he didn’t open the door, I got suspicious, so I tried to open it, but when I saw that it was ajar, I knew right away that something was wrong here. So I opened the door but found no one home. But then I heard his voice behind me. He said he went for flowers for our little rendezvous today and forgot to lock the door on his way out. I immediately remembered our phone conversation last week, when he invited me to have an early lunch together. Then we went to this little restaurant, not very well known, a little hidden place. Well, the point is that after we finished the lunch, during the dessert, my poor darling suddenly got a hold of his chest and fell off his chair. *she starts sniffling* And all I noticed after this is the head waiter calling for a doctor, then someone running for the police. *she starts sobbing, Watson gives her his handkerchief from his suit pocket, and the girl thanks him*

S- And? He died? *he says unamusedly*

W- Don’t be stupid Sherlock, of course he’s dead. *snapps at him Watson quickly*

E- Y-Ye-es! *she sobs*

S- Tell me, who was this James to you?

W- I would like to know that too… *at this Sherlock turns his towards him, because he found his friend’s sentence and tone interesting,then he turns back to Elisabeth*

E- James is my fiancé… Well, he was my fiancé.

W- Very unfortunate…

S- Tell me, why did you come to me exactly? Why not to the police?

E- Because I don’t trust them. I don’t think they can solve the case properly. I don’t trust their professionalism.

S-So you suspect murder?

E- Mr. Holmes! James was a good-looking young man. What do you think are the chances of a heart attack ?!

W- In fact, you wouldn’t even know how many… 

S- Indeed! But let’s get back to the subject. Why don’t you trust the - oh how did you say it? - Ah yes, ‘the police’s professionalism’?

*Elisabeth was a bit surprised by this, she didn’t really know what to say, she didn’t wants them to find out about her father’s identity*

E- Well because… My father always said that the police don’t really care, and that they do an awful job at solving cases correctly and catching  the real bad guy. And that they are incompetent idiots and employ brutes.

S- Interesting… So, why did you come to me?

E- Because I’ve heard a lot about you. You appeared here and there in the newspapers too, so I thought you were the ideal person who could help me. Please, tell me you will help me! *she puts together her hands like she was praying, and asked Sherlock like that*

W- Yes, Sherlock, will you help her? *with a questioning look in his eyes he turns to the one in question*

S- I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, please provide the address of the restaurant where the deceased died. And while we are at it, the address of his apartment too, if you know it, of course.

E- Of coure! I’ll also write my contact information here, in case it is needed. *she writes down the said things on a little piece of paper, that she hands over to him* - Thank you very much! I don’t know how I can thank you for your kindness!

S- Don’t bother with that now, you will get to it later. Now the important thing is that you finally calm down and go to the police so that they can send the coroner and a couple of crime scene investigators to the restaurant, because unfortunately, we will need them. 

E- I’m calmer, knowing you will help. As for the police, they are already at the scene. But again, thank you very much! *with that, she stands up, shakes the men’s hands and leave the room*

W- Interesting case. Tell me, will you accept the offer?

S- Tell me Watson, you really haven’t been paying attention to me from the beginning of our conversation? As I said before, the most insignificant cases can be the most interesting ones.

W- Oh, yes, true. However, what you say is not entirely true, since I did listen. Please tell me why the girl’s last name is so important? Even the blind could see that she was grieving. Why did you ask her about such nonsense? 

S- That, dear Watson, is because the name McCarthy belongs to no other than Irish mob boss Connor McCarthy. That’s why, my friend. /le shock/

W- Oh I see.

S- Come on Watson, we have a case to solve! *with that he picked up his coat and run out of the room, with Watson running after him*

*they bump into Mrs. Hudson in the hallway, almost knocking over the old lady*

S- Tea is not needed anymore, Mrs. Hudson! *says while briskly walking down the stairs towards the doors*

H- But, what happened again?

W- Nothing Mrs. Hudson, don’t bother yourself please, we have a new case, don’t wait for us, we are coming late! *and they are out on the street, and away they go*

S- Taxi!!! *he shouts, but this only could be heard lightly because of the closed door*

-End of the 1. scene-