#the scope of this game is very large

[quantumgoop]

hello dess nation

[rainrot4me]

Don’t Close Your Eyes Yet

Summary: From the first moment he laid his eyes on you at the fairgrounds, Jack knew he needed you. So going about it the only way he knew how, he began to give you dreams of him, preparing you for the night he would eventually take you himself.

Characters: Laughing Jack x Female Reader

SMUT WARNING MINORS DNI

TW: Obsession, stalking, somnophilia, non-con, clawing, biting, size difference, vaginal, creampie, cunnilingus, desperation, Jack doesn’t take no for an answer, dream manipulation, kidnapping, begging, Jack is very talkative

Words: 5.2k

A/N: Did I make LJ a yandere accidentally? Yes. Just roll with it lol

To him, he had never seen something more beautiful.

Flashing lights danced across your face, hair whipping as you skipped to the nearest ticket booth with your friends. Loud giggles echoed to his ears, making his painted lips curl into a blushing smile as he watched you become antsy with excitement.

Jack had been rummaging around these fairgrounds for a couple of days, scoping out potential victims coming in to enjoy the seasonal summer event, lurking behind food stalls and blending into the crowd. He was good at that: staying hidden until he wanted to be seen, practically going invisible until the time was right. Humans had such a hard time with noticing things, noticing him, so even standing amongst them, their eyes never glanced at his towering self. It just made it easier to slip kids away from their occupied families, dragging them away with the promise of a game or a prize to be won, only to become giddy with the panic that ensued afterwards, mothers and fathers losing their grip as they scoured for their already deceased child. The clown was here for the fifth night this week, the summer breeze ruffling his feathered costume as he scanned a large group of elementary schoolers rushing towards a ferris wheel, picking his target out of the litter and moving in.

Until he spotted you, elbows wrapped tight around another girl’s right behind the kids, eyes wide as you picked out which rides you wanted to try first. A couple more friends filed in behind you, obnoxiously loud as they tried to impress you, daring each other to try the more frightening ones. Jack grit his teeth, jagged pearls clenching as he rolls his eyes, scoffing at the irritable sound of desperation. Your group pushed passed him, not a single eye batting in his direction as he tried to press through you all, distance gaining between him and the small group of children making their way to another set of rides. He looked down, making sure to avoid bumping any of you as even the tallest of your friends barely reached his chest, his size overbearing as he brushed past you, barely catching your eyes as you stopped.

Jack hesitated, feet planted into the ground as he turned over his shoulder, stunned as your eyes locked with his. At first, he wasn’t sure if you were just looking through him, neck craned in some odd position at something behind his head. But as you smiled awkwardly, nodding your head as a silent hello, Jack froze, eyes wide. You could see him. Before it became awkward, Jack nodded back, watching as you turned back and continued with your friends, all of them completely unaware of the exchange that just took place. There was no fear in your gaze as you glanced back again, smiling sweetly before friends pushed you towards the ticket booth and out of the clown’s sight.

He stood stunned, not knowing what to do but knowing he couldn’t let you slip, couldn’t let you out of his sight. It had felt like ages since someone had noticed him, actually noticed him. He had always chosen when he wanted attention, letting his appearance become visible to onlookers who otherwise wouldn’t have felt his presence at all, giving them a jump of fear at his arrival. But you saw him anyway, despite his invisibility, despite his ability to blend. For some reason, you weren’t afraid of his chilling appearance, brushing him off as another circus carnie and being more polite to him than anyone ever cared. Over the last several years, it had been nothing but screams and pleas, all music to his ears, of course, but some desperate tug on his nonexistent heart jumped at the civility you showed him. He needed more.

Pressing into the shadows of a taller fair ride, Jack watched you closely, the corners of his mouth jumping to a smile every time yours did. The group of kids he was after was long forgotten, intentions focused on following you towards the merry-go-round that sat in the center of the fairgrounds. He quickly followed, slipping through the unattended gates easily and hopping on the ride with you, seated on a plastic horse several rows back. As the ride started up, happy music played loudly as you giggled and slowly teetered up and down, joking with your friends. Your hair danced beautifully in the wind, bright lights and colorful tones dancing in your eyes and across your cheeks, a way that only really Jack could appreciate. 

There was no clear reason as to why you were able to see him when others couldn’t, pushing past his invisibility and meeting his gaze, but he didn’t care. For the rest of the ride and the rest of your time on the grounds, Jack made sure not to catch your attention again, watching you carefully how you interacted, your sweetheart personality pulling him ever-near. He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t focus anywhere else as he watched your group grow tired and begin to head towards the exit, a boy’s arm falling lazily over your shoulders and tugging you into his truck. 

Jack didn’t care as he left groups of potential victims behind, silently following you into the parking lot and hiding in the dark spots that even you couldn’t see him. He didn’t care as he followed you home, abandoning all instincts and mind becoming fogged as he watched you crawl into bed from your window, heart skipping as you curled in. You would be his. You had to be. You didn’t have a choice.

-

You had been unnerved for weeks.

It wasn’t anything serious. No traumatic experience or humiliating incident that kept you up into the late hours of the night, like most girls your age would’ve been. Maybe having to worry about what clothes you were going to wear the next day or who liked you at work would’ve been a much better thing to stay up and think about. No, it was something much more unenjoyable.

These dreams, wild and constant, happen every night at the same time. They would all start the same, you climbing into bed comfortably and snuggling in after a long day, desperate for a relaxing slumber. But then you would doze, senses leaving you in the darkness of your room, almost on the verge of slipping… and then you would hear it. The quiet, subtle echo of carnival music, almost like a music box was winding near your bed. You knew you were asleep, consciousness floating in that weird in-between, but you were somehow still fully aware, still active in your brain even though your body wasn’t. The first time it had happened, you were afraid, and confused if you were experiencing some weird lucid dream or having a seizure, but then it happened again the next night and the next.

After the music wound for what felt like forever, the same merry tune looping in your head, you would eventually see it, the tall figure. He would stay back in the haziness of your mind, in the shadows your brain couldn’t see, but you already knew who it was. 

The clown from the fair, smiling sweetly at you, stark-white face contrasted against the darkness of your dream. He was tall, like had to bend halfway down to reach your eye level tall, his limbs lengthy in comparison. He wore the same costume he did the first night you saw him, black and white striped and decorated with a feathered collar, like a sad recreation of a children’s entertainment piece. You didn’t know why you were seeing him, or why your brain was so focused on him, but it wasn’t like you could do anything to stop it.

The first couple of times, he just stayed at a distance, watching silently as you questioned him, trying to press towards him until you were abruptly awoken and left confused. Eventually, he started getting closer, refusing to speak but at least coming into clear focus, letting you see his painted face and chilling demeanor up close. But the more you talked, the more you questioned why he was here and why you were seeing him, the more eager he got.

The dreams started getting longer, more intense on your physical as you slept, constantly waking covered in sweat. The clown's hands began to roam, your body immovable against his curious claws as he rubbed and poked you all over, smiling at the reactions that came. They were sweet at first, tucking your hair behind your ear or caressing your small hands, but they soon became feisty. The touches grew to rubs, pressing his arms around your smaller body and pushing against your skin, gripping at your clothes and tugging them away, claws so realistically scratching against your warmth. With each dream, the intensity grew, your body waking up in a horny panic to settle itself out, panting against your pillow and trying to recollect yourself. It was boggling, so confused and pent up that you couldn’t do anything but fall right back to sleep, starting the cycle all over again.

Jack watched through every night. He perched in the corner of your room, lips curling to a smile with every flinch and tug of your body as he manipulated your dreams, making you see and feel what he wanted you to. He never let you see him, disappearing into the night whenever you would wake, but always arriving the next night to watch you again. It was his favorite, the little noises that squirmed from your lips when he would press his claws between your legs in your dream, making your thighs press together on your bed. He loved it, he loved you. But, he was becoming impatient, not satisfied with just having you in your mind anymore. He had coaxed you enough, driving you to expect him now, mind already conditioned to his looks and his touch; you would be familiar now. Your body would accept him now, even if your mind didn’t.

-

Pressed in the same corner as always, he was twisting your latest dream, giving you the wonderful experience of him licking against your neck, rubbing you through your panties as you wined and thrashed on your bed. Jack snickered, long arms crossed and claws digging into his clothes as he watched, licking his spikey teeth as you arched your back. 

He had decided tonight would be it, the first time you would see him outside of your slumber. Regardless if you were ready or not, he was, and he didn’t know if he could wait much longer to get his claws around you. The clown spent the better part of the day watching you, thinking about you, obsessing over your sickly sweet self. You were perfect, a complete contrast to him, but fitting his needs perfectly. 

When you suddenly rolled to your side, curling into yourself as you panted, cheeks flushed and dark as you whined, Jack’s attention came back. The darkness of your room was lit nicely by a small nightlight, the little sun and moon design shooting pastel colors across your warm skin and making you look so lovely, enough to make the clown press off the wall. 

Your bed was small, definitely going to be barely enough for the two of you as he kneeled onto your mattress, dipping the weight and making you shift, whining from your dream. “Hi, pretty.” Jack cooed softly, brushing your hair out of your flushed face and leaning down towards you, breathing in your lovely smell. He loved everything about you, every small detail that no human would ever notice, only his unnatural abilities could pick up on. You needed him, he could smell it, feel it. Pressing his body down onto the mattress, he curled around you, spooning you against him as he wrapped his arms around your small waist, tugging you closer. You immediately relaxed against him, back arching to accommodate his large stature and legs tangling with his long ones, breathing deep as he snuggled behind. The clown’s claws danced on your skin, tugging at your clothes and brushing against your hair, smiling as he placed small kisses against your tired face. You melted into him, mind completely unaware as he still mixed in your dreams, contorting your senses to automatically crave him. 

“So small… smells good…” He mumbled against the shell of your ear, a subconscious gasp slipping as goosebumps rose. Jack kissed against your neck, minding his long nose and nibbling against your skin, slowly fading your dream out and substituting it for real life. You whined, hands gripping onto his wandering arms and tugging at them, snoring lightly. Small mumbles fell from your mouth, little confused jabbers and sleepy questions that he couldn’t quite hear, but pressed his lips to the shell of your ear anyway. “Jack.” He whispered, kissing against your neck as your browns knitted, sleep heavy on your brain. “Jack…” You mumbled back halfway through a sigh, pressing your neck against his mouth, mindlessly feeding into the clown’s growing arousal. “Jack…” You whispered again, beginning to numbly repeat the name and let it settle in your mind, Jack’s excitement bouncing at the delicious way you said it. As you continued, he began to push your shirt up, palming at your tits and tugging the fabric over your head, letting the goosebumps rise as he ran his claws down. “Pretty girl.” He smiled, nibbling against your bare shoulder.

The clown’s cock was throbbing now, nestled comfortably against your ass as he began to slowly rut against you, long tongue lapping at your warm skin. He drew a claw up, wrapping it around your tiny throat and squeezing slightly, grinning at the sigh that he pushed out as he pressed his hips against your flesh. His cock slotted perfectly between your clothed asscheeks, hips jerking and stuttering as he chased his arousal, holding your hips still as he moved. Draped slightly over you, he pinned you in place, the sheer weight of the clown securing your hips as he moaned into your ear, panting his approval as he humped against you. Your body subconsciously pressed back against him, back arching to get a better angle of his clothed cock against you, letting his claw mindlessly rouse you from your deep sleep and slowly into consciousness. He felt you stir, wrapping a claw around your jaw and turning your head, watching as your eyes slowly fluttered open. He pressed his lips to yours, tugging your cheek and shoving your lips against his, forcing a desperate makeout that your tired brain couldn’t comprehend yet. Jack panted and groaned into your open mouth, lips occasionally catching but he was too focused on rutting his hips, grinding his clothed cock against your ass as you shifted, straining against his rough grasp.

“Jack…” You sighed again, the name repeating like a quiet mantra as your tired brain tried to figure out what was happening, hips instinctively leaning into it because you felt so good despite being so dazed out. “Jack..?” You began to question, hands pressing against his claw snagged onto your hip, cheeks squished together as the clown kissed against the corner of your lips, panting against the skin. Jack dug his heels into your sheets, long limbs contorting to fit around you as you began to squirm, trying to press out of his grasp now, trying to understand what was happening. “Lay still, pretty girl…” He hissed, tip catching on the band of your panties, tugging them up as he rutted, nails digging into your soft skin. You whined, pushing on the sheets and trying to turn around, trying to see who was behind you, but the clown held you still, beginning to guide your hips with his.

It helped that you were already aroused from your dream, body already hot and bothered and easily coaxed into his movement, taking little persuasion for you to open your legs and let his cockhead nudge against your clothed entrance. You mewled, hissing against his teeth nibbling into your skin, little welts appearing across your shoulder. “Feel how hard you make me… Can’t wait to be inside… Can’t wait…” Jack was huffing, burying himself into the crook of your neck as he pushed his hard cock against you, practically forcing your panties into your entrance as he nudged at your hole, trying to make himself inside despite his slacks covering him. He throbbed, claws desperate and tongue curling against your neck, lapping at your sweat and scent of excitement. You didn’t have to look anymore, didn’t have to guess as the ruffles of his collar pressed against the back of your head, long limbs swallowing you, dreams had revealed enough for you to know, enough for you to grind down against him. How he was here, how he had gotten into your bed, how he even knew where you lived, you were too tired to guess, too tired to do anything but let his claws guide you under him, his body sliding down yours. This dream was more intense than the others, it felt real, you tried to convince yourself you were still asleep, still dozing alone in your bed during this wet dream.

But as claws slipped into your panties and desperately tugged off of your soaked cunt, pulling them off of your ankles, you began to question. Jack’s large claw snagged around both of your ankles, holding them in the air as he kneeled, sliding his suspender straps off of his shoulders. You watched through sleepy eyes, eyelashes fluttering as he let the straps fall at his hips, unbuttoning his slacks and tugging them down, letting his angry cock slip out, balls tugged out and laid heavy between his legs. You gasped, whining as he kneeled closer, prying your legs apart and grinning at your sopping pussy. “Gonna eat you out, pretty girl. Gonna make that pussy cum, m’kay?” He chuckled, bright eyes roaming your tiny body compared to his, laying down on his chest as he wrapped his long arms around your thighs, dragging you closer.

You squirmed and whined, letting your hands run down your body and to his wild dark hair, snagging in the mess and tugging his face closer, letting your thighs press open. You had no fear, blissfully unaware of how real this situation was as Jack licked your folds open, long tongue twirling and flicking against your lips. He groaned, kissing against your soaked arousal before pressing his tongue in, nudging the muscle into your entrance and letting your back tug off the bed, curling your hips down onto his tongue as you moaned. Jack was so into it, so focused on pushing his tongue as deep as he could that he could hear you begin to panic, tugging his hair back as you realized that tongue was far longer than you anticipated. It jolted you out of your tired haze, the sensation of your walls stretching around the clown’s large tongue made you keenly aware of just how little this felt like a dream anymore, how real this all seemed. Jack just continued, curling and twisting his tongue along your plush walls, wanting only to soak in your lovely taste and get you ready for him, what he knew you needed. 

You began to jabber your sobs, mumbling against your moans and whining for Jack to stop, hips twitching against the overwhelming feeling. You could hardly breathe, every press of his tongue against your g-spot making you suck in a ragged breath and cry out, gasping for relief. Jack began to thrust his cock into the bed below, rutting against the soft sheets as he became so turned on by your noises, bright eyes clenched shut as he worked. He whined into your cunt, sloppy and messy movements pushing slobber and arousal against his chin, smearing it along your thighs and cheeks, Jack losing himself in your taste. “So tasty…” He babbled against your folds, sucking your lips as he gushed into your cunt, cock whining to be buried inside and stretching you open. You were clawing at the sheets, pushing against his head as you pleaded for him to stop, overstimulation rushing over you as you stuttered, clit pulsing as your thighs shook, begging to close. Jack wouldn’t listen, he could barely even hear you over the roar in his ears, his primal urge to stuff you ruling out any remorse he felt for your aching pussy. 

Despite your pleas, you were cumming quickly against his tongue. Walls clenching and hips spasming around the girth of his tongue, clenching down tight as your arousal soaked in. Jack whined, moaning loud into your folds as he sucked and lapped at your juices, claws dug tight into your thighs as he moved his head with your flinching hips, refusing to let up until he tasted every drop. You cried, sobbing into your hands as he held you still, breath heavy and chest panting as you rode your high, overstimulation pinching at your senses. Jack had rutted a wet spot into your sheets, cock leaking profusely as he lifted off, sliding his soaked tongue out of your dripping cunt and grinning, panting against your thighs. 

You could barely look through hooded eyes at the mess he had made, white face paint smeared across your thighs and folds, sweat and arousal smearing the paint against your skin. It was enough to make Jack cum, his cock twitching hard in the air as he sat back, admiring his paint all over you. You whined, pushing against his claws wrapped around your thighs as he tugged them open again, positioning his hips against yours.

He nestled his cock against your cunt, gripping the length and slapping it down against your clit and making you jump, sensitivity pulsing through you. “No… please…” You whined, trying to clench your thighs together but he held your ankles easily, holding them arm's length apart. “Why are you this turned on if you don’t want it, pretty girl?” He mused, dropping one of your ankles to line his tip with your entrance, the girth much bigger than any cock you had taken before and making your skin chill as he began to push. You frantically clawed at the sheets, trying to push away from the clown. “It won’t fit.” You whined, pushing your hands to cover your aching cunt as Jack laughed, abandoning your legs to wrap a claw around your wrists, pining them above your head as he repositioned, nudging himself in. “You’ll learn to take it…” He chuckled, using his free hand to hold your soft hips down as he pushed in, the tip popping in against the wetness and warmth of your cunt. It probably wouldn’t fit as comfortably as you wanted it to, but when your tightness began to squeeze around Jack’s already-about-to-cum cock, he didn’t mind hearing your desperation if it meant he got to feel you. 

“You were made for me, lovely.” Jack hissed against your ear as he lay on top of you, slowly guiding your hips down as he pushed in, stretching your cunt impossibly wide as you cried, sobbing into the lips that began to press against yours. This wasn’t a dream, not anymore, you realized. A claw held down your wrists above your head, the other sliding under your knee to push your leg back, opening your entrance wider to give the clown a better angle. He moaned loudly, laughing through whines as he began to shallowly thrust, the first couple inches pushing in and out of your cunt as you sobbed, straining against him. “That’s it. Let me in, let me fuck you like you need to be…” He smiled, lazy laughs and heavy groans filling your open mouth as he sucked on your lips, nibbling his teeth into your jaw. With every thrust he aimed to go deeper, to push his cock in further than the last one.

It was devastating for your cunt, the poor sensitive thing struggling to balance out the pleasure and pain that was wrecking you as you arched, trying to open up more. “Can you feel me inside? Do you even know how good you feel?” Jack laughed, moving to bite down against your neck, hissing as he licked against the wound, kissing down your shoulder. He was getting deeper down, cunt relaxing the longer he thrust, walls fluttering around the desperate length that begged to bottom out, getting ever closer. It was so deep you felt like you couldn’t breathe right, gut flinching and contorting with every press against your sensitive gut. 

Loud skin slapping echoed as Jack’s cock began to press against the deepest part of your cunt, nudging against your womb and fucking you open quickly. His balls slapped your ass, the heavy mounds smacking down as he leaned back, letting go of your wrists to cup his hands under your knees, pushing them back as you began to paw at his chest. “Mngonna fuck you so full… Milking me like you need it.” He panted between thrusts, tugging his hips out as far as he could before pushing back into your gushing cunt, loud squelches and soaked folds coating his length. He was close, bright eyes rolling softly as you gripped his ruffled collar, tugging against it as he snapped his hips, moaning against your skin. “You were made for me, pretty girl. Need to cum… Mngonna cum and show how good it feels in you…” He smiled, blubbering against his swollen lips as he pressed his lips with yours, whining into your mouth as he spilt.

His cum was hot and thick, pumping into your ruined cunt desperately like he truly needed you full, big with his seed. He groaned loud, eyes clenched shut as he thrust through his orgasm, milking his cock of all it was worth inside of you, twitching deep into your warmth. “That’s it… So good… Knew it would be…” He hissed, clawing into the underside of your thighs as he raised off of you, licking a stripe across your cheek and nibbling the flesh before leaning back.

You waited for him to pull out, to let his thick cum spill against your sheets, but he didn’t. He only turned you onto your side, leaving his still-hard cock nestled in your cunt as he tugged your right leg onto his shoulder, relaxing back against you. You watched through heavy, panicked eyes, clawing at your pillow as he began to thrust again, sensitive cunt screaming at you as his nudged his cum back in. You immediately began to kick your legs, pushing him away as he just pressed deeper, claw wrapping around your thigh as he wrapped around the other, tugging your body to his with every thrust. Tears spilt, the air from your lungs gasping out as Jack cried out, clenching his sharp teeth as he watched you come undone again, relishing in the way you stared back at him, eyes pleading. “Don’t close your eyes yet, pretty girl… Just one more, I need it, just one… You can take it, I know you can, yeah?” Through every thrust, he chanted some desperate coax, your answering whines and sobs combatted against your cunt that fluttered against his words, fucking his cum deeper into you. Even though your mind refused, Jack had conditioned you, preparing you for him. Even if you didn’t know it, your body wanted him, beckoned for him, needed him. He couldn’t let you down.

Pushing his chest down, he bent your leg on his shoulder, pushing it down and opening your cunt wider, shoving his hips so deep even he gasped against the tightness. “Jack-” You cried, palming against his claws and scratching at his shirt, trying to ground yourself as your body racked under his tugs, bones going limp under him. You were so tired, so delusionally overstimulated you couldn’t physically resist, only your unheard begs falsely wishing for relief, but you knew better, knew that every time your cunt strained around the girth it was a heavenly feeling. “What, pretty? C’mon, talk.” Jack whined, kissing against your calf and nibbling at the skin, turning you onto your back to tug your other leg up onto his opposite shoulder, pushing them both back. With every thrust of his hips, his cum leaked out of your entrance, pooling between your cheeks and mixing with your arousal.

You cried at the deepness, every slap of his hips pushing his cock against your g-spot, nails clawing against his shoulders as his claws rested on your tits, massaging the mounds as he thrust. “So big… Deep…” You gasped out, arching into the feeling as your stomach coiled, your orgasm teetering at the edge. Jack grinned, jagged teeth shining against your nightlight as he continued, spreading his knees to get a better push, skin slapping loud enough to echo against the small room. “Can you cum again, lovely? Cum for me?” You nodded, running your hands into his messy hair and holding stable, tugging as he grinned, speeding his thrusts to a nauseating pace.

You were cumming around his cock hard, hips jerking and slamming against his as you writhed, eyes rolling back as your cunt swallowed him deeper. “Just like that…” Jack mewled, letting his own thrusts become lazy as he grit, whining against the tightness of your cumming walls. The clown was quick to follow, spilling yet again deep inside, fucking his orgasm into you as he refused to stop, pushing your senses into overload as you sobbed, tears running down your cheeks. Jack let your ankles slip off of his shoulders, pressing his chest down against yours as he licked into your mouth, pressing his lips down as you milked his cock dry, tugging the last of his orgasm through with your own. 

You both panted heavily, desperate touches continuing against each other’s skin as you both made out, lying the afterglow of your mutual ecstasy. “So pretty… my pretty girl… mine.” Jack slipped between kisses, letting his cum leak as he slowly pulled out, popping the tip of his cock out of your tight rim. You whined, letting his claws feel your soft skin as he tugged you against him, letting your eyes flutter closed as you felt his cum spill onto the sheets below.

Sleep overtook you, the early hours of the morning tugging at your sore bones as you relished in the feeling of no more perverted dreams keeping you stirred. But when your bed lay empty the next morning, sheets askew and cum stained into the fabric, your friends would have no clue where you went. They would have no clue whose arms you were draped in, carried closely through the woods and out of sight and reach of anyone who wanted you. You were special, different from the mindless humans he preyed upon, you were his. He had claimed you fair and square.

No one wanted you as Jack did. And no one would ever get the chance to again.

This was an anonymous request!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated! 𐚁₊⊹

[catboybiologist]

Many billionaires in tech bros warn about the dangerous of AI. It's pretty obviously not because of any legitimate concern that AI will take over. But why do they keep saying stuff like this then? Why do we keep on having this still fear of some kind of singularity style event that leads to machine takeover?

The possibility of a self-sufficient AI taking over in our lifetimes is... Basically nothing, if I'm being honest. I'm not an expert by any means, I've used ai powered tools in my biology research, and I'm somewhat familiar with both the limits and possibility of what current models have to offer.

I'm starting to think that the reason why billionaires in particular try to prop this fear up is because it distracts from the actual danger of ai: the fact that billionaires and tech mega corporations have access to data, processing power, and proprietary algorithms to manipulate information on mass and control the flow of human behavior. To an extent, AI models are a black box. But the companies making them still have control over what inputs they receive for training and analysis, what kind of outputs they generate, and what they have access to. They're still code. Just some of the logic is built on statistics from large datasets instead of being manually coded.

The more billionaires make AI fear seem like a science fiction concept related to conciousness, the more they can absolve themselves in the eyes of public from this. The sheer scale of the large model statistics they're using, as well as the scope of surveillance that led to this point, are plain to see, and I think that the companies responsible are trying to play a big distraction game.

Hell, we can see this in the very use of the term artificial intelligence. Obviously, what we call artificial intelligence is nothing like science fiction style AI. Terms like large statistics, large models, and hell, even just machine learning are far less hyperbolic about what these models are actually doing.

I don't know if your average Middle class tech bro is actively perpetuating this same thing consciously, but I think the reason why it's such an attractive idea for them is because it subtly inflates their ego. By treating AI as a mystical act of the creation, as trending towards sapience or consciousness, if modern AI is just the infant form of something grand, they get to feel more important about their role in the course of society. Admitting the actual use and the actual power of current artificial intelligence means admitting to themselves that they have been a tool of mega corporations and billionaires, and that they are not actually a major player in human evolution. None of us are, but it's tech bro arrogance that insists they must be.

Do most tech bros think this way? Not really. Most are just complict neolibs that don't think too hard about the consequences of their actions. But for the subset that do actually think this way, this arrogance is pretty core to their thinking.

Obviously this isn't really something I can prove, this is just my suspicion from interacting with a fair number of techbros and people outside of CS alike.

[interact-if]

Writing Spotlight: The Golden Rose

We interviewed @anathemafiction, author of the IF, The Golden Rose, Book 1. It’s a game that delivers everything it sets out to do, with its sweeping, ambitious scope and beautiful, intricate detail. It was an honor to pick her brain about bringing such a rich, complex, and truly immersive world (and its wonderful characters) to life.

In one of my favorite quotes in the interview, she writes:

[…] We Portuguese sometimes still call ourselves Lusitanos, and it always saddened me to some extent. That loss of history, of identity, is one of the major driving forces behind the Rose. What if there's a world where it's Rome that's forgotten? Where Latin is forbidden so that the languages born from it, the kingdoms, and the civilizations never came to be?

Without further ado, here’s the full interview!

What drew you to interactive fiction as a storytelling medium?

The very nature of it. I'm a big fan of RPGs, where you can shape your character and make key decisions in your adventure, and, of course, I'm also a big fan of books and literature in general. So, when I encountered my first IF game (Choice of Dragon), I was instantly hooked.

It's the perfect blend of two of my passions — storytelling and player agency. The fact that it's entirely text-based gives a kind of freedom and depth that's hard to match in other gaming media simply because the only budget it needs is the author's time and effort. It's quite literally, corny as it sounds, fuelled by your imagination.

2. Is there a part of your background—personal, cultural, professional—that finds its way into your work?

In a land that is today a region of Portugal, there used to be an agglomeration of tribes collectively known as Lusitanos. They were eventually conquered by the Roman Empire, but not before putting up such a fight that even Roman generals acknowledged their spirit. Their culture was largely eradicated, and the pieces that weren't were assimilated into the empire. We Portuguese sometimes still call ourselves Lusitanos, and it always saddened me to some extent.

That loss of history, of identity, is one of the major driving forces behind the Rose. What if there's a world where it's Rome that's forgotten? Where Latin is forbidden so that the languages born from it, the kingdoms, and the civilizations never came to be?

I'm also fascinated by the Catholic Church and its monopoly over some of the wealthiest, most powerful kingdoms of Europe. The Pope was the king of kings, so to speak, and all that power, that opulence, was born from something as simple and as human as faith.

That control, that God-like power, not only over the body but the very mind of its subjects, is another big part of the story I'm writing.

So, in summary, my cultural background was and is a major influence on this IF.

3. What does your writing process look like?

I'm what's generally called a pant-ser; I like going where inspiration takes me. Still, in a project as big as The Rose, I did write a general outline, and I have a very clear idea of where I want the plot to go and the major story beats that will get me there.

But the in-betweens are often left blank. I think, even if I tried to plan every single detail beforehand, I wouldn't be able to. Even the scenes and chapters that I have planned, I'm always open to changes or deviations from the outline. If a character, a situation, or, especially, the MC decides to surprise me, I kind of roll with it.

To be honest, most of my favorite scenes, dialogues, and even characters that I've written were born as a sudden inspiration and not from the pages of an outline.

But as for my actual writing process, it goes like this: I go chapter by chapter, and I always begin by handwriting the first draft. I don't know why, but handwriting, when it comes to just getting the ideas out of your head, with no finesse, no grammar checks, just the pure chaos of materializing your thoughts into tangible words, is the best medium for me.

After that, I write the second draft on the computer. There, I fill in all the choices and paths I didn't write in the first draft, and, of course, beautify the text, make the dialogue fit the characters, discard or expand on rudimentary ideas, etc. Basically, it's where I write the text that'll appear in the game.

This juxtaposition between the first draft and the second allows me to rethink story beats, adjust the progression of the characters' relationships, postpone scenes, etc. Basically, it allows me to think about where the chapter is going.

The third step is to put it all in code and make it playable. As I go through the Word document, I make minor edits here and there, but nothing major.

The actual editing is made later, in what I call a 'deep edit.' I usually do this when I finish writing the following chapter because looking at a text with fresh eyes allows you to spot mistakes much better than if you do it right away.

4. What’s one piece of advice you’d give to someone just starting out in interactive fiction?

To follow up on the last question, I will say that you need to know yourself. Just as I operate better without a clear, bullet-proof plan, other people thrive with a structured outline, a character glossary 20k words long, chapter charts, and multicolored graphics. My advice is that before you embark on such a complex and often big project as an IF game, you should know your own writing process, and the only way for you to know that is if you write.

I'd say start with short stories or small fables, but honestly, just write anything. Dive right in, and with time, you'll begin to know yourself as a writer.

When you know yourself and your own style, then begin the IF. You'll never be truly 100% prepared — we're always learning and adjusting. I'm not the same writer I was when I first started The Rose, and I won't be what I am now when I finish this second book. We're constantly evolving, so allow yourself space to fail and fall short of expectations. This is, after all, a marathon, not a sprint.

5. What’s a common mistake you see in interactive storytelling, and do you have any tips on how to avoid it?

Not so much a mistake but a misconception. I think people, especially those with little to no experience writing (or any creative hobby), believe that it's an inspiration-based activity. That you write whenever you feel like it.

This is completely wrong. If I only wrote whenever I felt inspired to, I wouldn't have made it past the third chapter of book one.

Some days — most days — you won't feel like writing. You sit at your desk, and you do it. You have to face it like a job, almost. You clock in, do your work, and leave. Does this mean I have no joy in writing? Of course not. I get really into it once I begin, but it's not every day that I wake up and want to leap for my pen.

Sometimes, I'd rather go out hiking with my dog, meet a friend for coffee, or watch another episode of whatever show I'm watching. But, when writing IF, you often will have to make these sacrifices, and, many times, you won't even be blessed with inspiration, so that sacrifice is made easier.

This is made even worse in IF. Due to the nature of the medium, you will get days where you're stuck writing repeating passages or paths you're not entirely interested in. You will want to pull the hair out of your head. You'll have to clench your teeth and do it — otherwise, you won't make it to the fun, rewarding bits where everything comes together.

It's not an exaggeration when people say, 'writing is hard.' Anyone can do it. Very few actually do. I think it's less about talent and more about commitment.

End of interview

—

A big thanks once again to Anathema for her insightful answers, and @veswrites-if for taking the time to coordinate the interview. Hope that this was a fun and interesting read.

Stay tuned for more of these interviews, both for the Writing Spotlight AND for Pride Month!!

[maxwell-grant]

Since he’s probably Oswald’s closest Marvel equivalent, being a relatively-unpowered crime-boss who semi-frequently becomes Mayor… any thoughts on Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin of Crime?

It's a comparison that's frequently made by Big Two fans and it's easy to see where it comes from, certainly they're the most iconic gangster/mafioso villains in their respective companies, but I don't think Kingpin is the closest Marvel has to Oswald because A: If anyone has a prior claim on Comic Book Gangster, it's definitely him, and B: They simply don't work in comparable or equivalent fashion. You can even boil down a key difference to the fact that The Penguin is inherently a small man trying to be bigger, and The Kingpin is the biggest man who ever lived. That's not a joke about their sizes, that's how they operate as characters and villains: Oswald is underestimated, ridiculed, diminished, and driven in large part because of it. He is the underdog, he slips under the radar, he slips through the cracks, he is a cockroach who lives to thumb his nose and pull the rug under the bigger bastards who think they can step on him. Wilson Fisk IS the bigger bastard who steps on people, he is the biggest bastard in the world.

He is an unsurmountable force of crime at the top of every possible advantage that a criminal can possibly weaponize, he is a titan of wealth and privilege as willing and capable of crushing your skull with his bare hands as he is of murdering your entire social circle with a phone call. He is "the ill intent", the biggest and strongest gangster of all time, and even if there are bigger and stronger bastards than him, they certainly aren't gangsters like him, they certainly aren't meeting him in his playing field of choice. There isn't really a DC equivalent to Wilson Fisk - there were certainly attempts to make Luthor and Cobblepot more like him, there's no shortage of imitators or knock-offs like Blockbuster and Tobias Whale, but the Kingpin is a league of it's own among comic book gangsters. Like Luthor and Joker and Doom, like the top dogs of the genre, he's become an Archetype in his own right.

I talked about his Spiderverse version a little while back in regards to how much I liked him in that movie and what his design represented about him, Fisk as this black hole obelisk who drains the color of every room he's in and suffocates the world visually as well as metaphorically, far from the most interesting character in the movie but one that you can pin all these other more interesting things on, and I think that's also applicable to a lot of what he does as a Spider-Man villain. Now, he's a GREAT Spider-Man villain, easily one of the best, his arcs in Ultimate Spider-Man alone should be more than enough proof of concept for that, but even if he's not necessarily the most colorful or intimate or dangerous villain to hang a Spider-Man story on, he is maybe the most villain to hang a story on - the entirety of Marvel's street level vigilantes and organized crime exists under his shadow, and you can blow up his scope to the moon and back as a way to build up all the other characters you can squeeze more dramatic stuff out of. Whether it's in TAS, where he is so undisputably atop the pecking order that everyone else is bouncing off his fixed presence, or in the Insomniac games, where he stood tall as Peter's main villain for 7 years until the game begins with his downfall as a way to kick off all the strange new threats he'll be up against, Wilson Fisk is The Crime Man to rule all Crime Men, as entrenched and emblematic and secure in his kingdom of Manhattan as Dracula is to Transylvania and Dr.Doom is to Latveria.

Unlike the vast majority of Spider-Man villains who regularly enjoy redesigns and rewrites and do-overs, official and fan-made alike, Wilson Fisk is practically the same character in every iteration, there's very little need to seriously rethink or readjust who he is and how he does things because he is perfectly simple and perfectly timeless - we have now two Ultimate Spider-Man comic runs that have brought significant overhauls and revisions and new spins to established Spider-Man characters, and in both of them, Wilson Fisk is a major character, and he is completely and utterly unchanged from how he already works in the mainline universe. Even if you don't want to use Wilson Fisk, you can't neglect Wilson Fisk, you have to show how he fits into things, you have to show what he's up to or how he allows or makes way for what's happening without him, you have to give him his cut. This imutability of his is another thing I'd say is a major difference between him and Penguin - Oswald demands change, he demands growth and adaptability, he demands different surroundings more suited to him, he wants to grow and grow and make a nest that's suitable for him, he can't fit into existing systems so he breaks them to remake them as his own. That is simply not the case with Wilson Fisk.

Unlike The Penguin, unlike some of the other great comic book supervillains, Fisk has no intention whatsoever to change anything about how the world works - as far as he's concerned, it worked just fine up until these costumed irritants arrived, and even they just became another part of his conglomerate in time. Fisk really doesn't have or need any kind of big philosophy to justify himself, rather, he takes it as fact that he's operating under the way the world works and under a merit he's achieved by being the man he is. He is content within society's morality, because he is at the top of society and therefore that morality will always bow to him. The legions of costumed enemies orbiting his life are merely dissidents going against the order of things that places him at the top, tools to be used and bugs to be squashed and little more.

And this is true even of those whose power and scope stands above his own - they are not players in his game, and if they are, they are distractions, diversions, things that he can deal with. When he loses to billionaires like the Stromms in Zdarsky's run, when he has to playy ball with bigger villains, when he is ousted in a power play, it is humiliating, and he doesn't deal well with humiliations - but he can take humiliations, he knows he can give back, he can ultimately rebuild his pride as he rebuilds his empire time and time again. Spider-Man is annoying and powerful and infantile and annoying and an enemy and really really annoying, but he is no existential threat. He is not terribly concerned about Spider-Man, which is part of what makes him such a fun Spider-Man villain, that he never sees it coming when Spidey gets serious and just brings him down (peak example of this being Back in Black), that he is this larger-than-life bully/shitty grown-up who actually can and must be defeated. And if a lot of what makes him a fun and great Spider-Man villain is contingent in the ways that he doesn't lose sleep over Spider-Man, part of what makes him a stronger Daredevil villain is the precise opposite: he desperately wishes he could be this dismissive towards Daredevil, who is for all intents and purposes weaker than Spider-Man. It's his relationship with Daredevil that brings out the best of him as a villain and the worst of him as a person alike.

Against Spider-Man, the Kingpin is a very strong enemy, the figurehead of the kind of crime that is Spidey's daily routine, a powerful and oppressive force ruling over NYC who is nevertheless a step down from the Green Goblin or Dr Octopus or the Symbiotes and all those other genetic nightmares and obsessed masterminds that plague his life. No matter how clever or vile his schemes are, Spider-Man can still beat them, and Spider-Man can ultimately always triumph over him in a fight, and Fisk can always rebuild because Fisk builds empires as easily as most people breathe, and things rarely if ever get personal between him and Peter. Against Daredevil? There IS no bigger threat than Kingpin (well, The Hand I guess, but they're boring as shit), Kingpin is the mountain that Matt always crashes against in due time, and it is always personal. The Kingpin is his biggest and strongest enemy, able to run mental laps around Matt and someone that Matt cannot in fact beat in a fight, their battles are drawn out miserable slugfests where Fisk usually thrashes him around like a ragdoll with few conclusive victories and whatever victory Matt has is hard-won and usually via cheap shot.

Matt has an infinitely harder time dealing with Fisk than Spider-Man does, which is part of why it is Kingpin's appearences in Daredevil comics that made him comic book villain royalty: Matt has no real advantage against him other than his senses. He has no intellectual advantage, no physical advantage, and he can't even claim to be more determined or driven, Fisk is fueled by an equally horrendously powerful will and protectiveness towards what belongs to him, This City. There is nobody and nothing in the world that Matt hates more than Fisk, and there is nobody and nothing in the world that Fisk hates more than Matt. They've taken turns shattering each other to the point that those slugfests are the least of each other's offenses against each other.

Even besides the sheer accumulated history they have against each other, it's in the way they unforgivably violate each other's vision of the world. If the Kingpin was the invincible man of vision who loves the city and must steer it even if smaller people disagree with him, if he was truly so secure and untouchable at the top of the world, he wouldn't be having such a colossal hard time dealing with this one guy and he wouldn't be reduced to a base animal thug every time he shows up, let alone lose and be humiliated. If Wilson Fisk was as correct as he needs to be, if the strength of his love for Vanessa/the city/what belongs to him was as powerful as he wants it to be, Daredevil would never get the upperhand on him.

And if Daredevil is a man who dedicates himself 100% all the time to protecting the city and it's people, if Daredevil commits unlawful deeds to preserve human life and fight for justice, if Daredevil struggles with the innate contradictions and hypocrisies and nature of what he is and does but can nevertheless push past them all to do the right thing for others, every second the Kingpin lives, every second Fisk lives because he lets him, chips away at the assurance that he's doing the right thing, that he isn't just wasting time. If Daredevil's vision of the city was correct, if Daredevil was right about his beliefs and worldview, there wouldn't be a Wilson Fisk out there getting away with the things he does. They hate each other for that same fundamental reason: If the world was ruled by the principles I need it to be, in order for me to be who I am and do what I do, you wouldn't exist, and you wouldn't be in my way again and again.

As a Spider-Man villain, he is one of the greats, a core component of his world, a highly versatile and even necessary figure to have and an excellent villain to dictate proceedings. As a Marvel Universe villain, he is an indispensable facet of any criminal element, the Mt.Fuji that the streets of Marvel rest upon, someone who can be added to any storyline and be grafted into many characters to oppose or assist them, or even create and kill them. As a Daredevil villain, he is undeniable as one of the top supervillains, bordering on main character a lot of the time. An implacable unstoppable force of nature as well as a villain of history and brutality and drama and a character who brings intrigue and tragedy and even complexity, even as it all ultimately comes down to that raw hatred between them, the splinter in each other's eye, an infection in their world that just keeps taking and taking and taking without stopping.

It is an unforgivable offense to Wilson Fisk that there is a man out there so beneath him that he cannot break, cannot bend, cannot stop, and who makes such a mockery of everything he's built himself to be by existing, just as it is unforgivably offensive to Matt Murdock that there is a man out there named Wilson Fisk who thinks he has the right to be who he is, and do what he does. To be a man who not only cannot care about human life in any capacity other than what he thinks belongs to him, but whose continued existence attests to a world that validates him, that doesn't care about those lives either, where there is no accountability and no justice and no salvation that cannot be bought and sold. Fisk isn't just an embodiment of cruel, bottomless indifference, he stands for a world that agrees with him.

It would take too much work to defeat him, he just walks unscathed if you do, and even if you defeat him there will just be someone else to step in temporarily. And so it is with a heavy heart that the people of New York accept that the blood of countless runs through the streets, so long as the big man gets to give them their cookie at the end of the day for their hard work and agreeability. He is too big, too clever, too strong, and too invincible - and that's why Peter needs to stop him, that'd why Matt can never stop trying, that's why they can never let him be, otherwise Marvel New York would just be regular New York.

They'd have to accept a world where Wilson Fisk gets away with everything, and who could live with that?

[eclipse-msoul]

SILENT CHAINS ⛓️

Dark! Yandere Batboys X Reader Au

Warnings : Implied sexual assult, murder, predatory gazes and intentions, psedo-incest ( borderline) , Cruel characters

PART 2 : (Of one short)

You were merely six when reality dawned upon you. It wasn't a bittersweet truth like Santa Claus wasn't real. No, he was very real. But you couldn't say the same thing for your family. Especially not your big brothers.

It was a bright afternoon, one of the rare days when the sun was allowed to shine on Gotham’s residents - when things started to go wrong. You, Y/n Wayne, were playing with your toys in the Mansion's Garden. Your smile was bright as you scoped up your transformer robot and attacked with it on the incoming toy train.

Your giggles could be heard even from far away. You were so deeply engrossed that you didn't notice the figure approaching. The devil walked in silent steps and before you could blink grabbed you by the waist and picked you up.

You gasped before breaking down in deep musing laughter. “Dickie~!” you grinned.

Dick grinned back, his blue eyes soft and hands tender while placing you on his back. Of course not before giving you his monster tickles.

It was so much fun.

He carried you deep into the garden, saying he would take you to the pond to see the fbeing six years old agreed readily. You being on his back didn't notice his little smirk.

The walk was calm - the trees moved as the breeze came, the weather was light and blessful. You, on his back, were gently lulled to sleep by the winds and your big brother’s humming.

How

Nice…

“Y/n….Y/n..”

Hm?

W…h…O?

Who was it? Who was so tenderly calling your name? Your eyes slowly opened to see a figure sitting next to you. To your sleepy eyes, his face wasn't as clear but you could still tell that Dick was staring at you.You rubbed your eyes to get a clearer view.

Now that you could see better, you noticed it had gotten rather dark. It didn't help that your brother was seemingly too close. “.. Dick..where are we?” You spoke too silent for your everyday joyful voice. He smiled and pulled your hand to help you stand.

You jerked with the pressure applied. Why was he so rough? He was never like this with you.Never

Your brows furrowed at his actions. There was something very wrong but you couldn't get your… what did Alfred call it? Hand? No, fin… fing… finger! You couldn't get your finger on it.

Noticing your face he brought his large and usually tender hand to ruffle your hair. You could only stare confused. You wanted to go home.

“I wanna go back to Alfred.”

“ Y/n, I got this really fun game. Let's play it together.” Dick pointed in front of him.

“ Why can't we play it back at the Mansion?” Your naive self asked.

Dick sighed before giving you those loving exhausted smiles he did when you were being difficult or throwing a tantrum.

“ It's something that we can only do here. Don't you want to play with me?”

You thought – your six year old brain trusted that monster far too much. This was perhaps because he had only every shown you his loving and kind side. You nodded.

He smiled , “ Follow me.” You trailed after him. He suddenly stopped after walking for what felt too short,causing you to crash into him. You muffled an ouch to which your brother did not reply in his usual chuckle.

You peaked from behind your brother’s leg and every single annoyed and tired thought you had died in your head. You shrieked.

Your hands covered your mouth while your eyes bulges open in shock and fear.Dick's head turned and bent slightly downwards. You were still frozen in place, unable to find air to breathe.

“ W-”

Who was this stranger? You looked at your vrither and fell down on the ground trembling.Who was this monster-With your brother's face smiling at you? His fake blue eyes were so cold and freezing.

You felt a creeping sensation in your chest amplify, your voice which was only a mummer couldn't even come out before you heard sounds of sob.

Your eyes which were looking at your brother ( Read : Monster) turned back to the figure laying on the ground. He choked on bloody sobs, trying to still fight and remain alive. Just then you meet his dread filled eyes – eyes who still wanted to live.

What

What was going on?

Why was that man on the floor?

Despite being six even you had the brains to notice that if not given help this man would die. Why did Dick bring you here? You couldn't possibly save the man.

That poor man looked so helpless. He was bleeding too severely. This wasn't a game of playing doctor. This man needed help!

You had seen Alfred tend to your brothers wounds several times. You remember looking confused as to why they get injured so often. ‘We were playing little sis!” Duke had said smilingly.

You had to try and save him. But there was one thought raging in your mind.

Dick

Did

He

Even bring you to save him?

“-Tsk” You heard him, making you snap out of your thoughts.Your eyes recoiled at Dick's face. He had a scowl on his face. You heard another voice, one that was younger than your oldest brother but familiar and awfully cold.

“ You still haven't gotten rid of him. I expected better from you Dickiebird.” you heard a twist and a crack and felt something fall to the ground. Looking in that dreadful direction again, you couldn't help but wish for what had gone wrong.

Your body moved back and your neck was caught by your brother before it hit the ground. You had fallen unconscious.

Jason stepped over the dead body kicking it hard enough to separate the head and body. He glared at the dead man – his eyes cold and uncaring – like he was looking at something insignificant, something like a mere insect that got crushed for daring to cross the path of man.

That man wasn't even a sinner, only a petty man who had gotten caught at the wrong moment and met his end. He wouldn't even get a funeral merely getting fed to the many dogs of this household.

Poor pitiful Gothamite..

Jason looked over you as you laid in Dick hands, clearly unconscious and shook. His hand lined with scar hidden under the long sleeve shirt moved closer and trailed through your cheek.

You looked so soft and cute..

Nothing like them

Yet

Perfect.

“ She's looking pale.” He gently nudged the tear forming under your eye.

Dick pinched your cheek while his eyes met his brother's. “ It's understandable. It was her first time.”

“ True.” Jason mumbled.

He almost felt bad for what he and Dick had done but it was undoubtedly necessary. If you couldn't even deal with this level of insanity - you wouldn't survive long and they needed you to remain in their lives – your wishes didn't matter.

‘ Nightwing and Red Hood come in….’ They both straightened up their backs and their gazes turned murderous as a smile that would even make the devil shiver - spread on their lips.

‘Bruce has a mission for you both….’ Tim, explained in brief yet concise words. He, who had watched all what happened in front of you and before that couldn't help but sigh fondly at your response. How cute he thought.

‘ Take her to bed and come immediately.’

“ Roger.”

✧༺♥༻✧

After that day, you could never trust your three big brothers again. At first your mind tried to fool you - tried to make you think what you saw was a bad dream, an illusion. But when Tim dragged you with him to the basement to see another criminal get tortured.

You couldn't deny it anymore.

Your brothers were insane.

They were terrifying.

No matter how hard you tried to hide from them after that. They would always find you and drag you with them. When you tried to mention anything to your father or Alfred. Things would only get worse.

They would only be more gruesome.

So you started to stop resisting. They hid it so well that Bruce and Alfred did not even question it. You could only let the pillow soak your tears and whimpers.

When your father introduced his biological son Damian to you things got better. You felt relief and life started to show some colour and when Duke entered your life as the fourth eldest brother.

It got more bearable.

They both were your saviors. Even if they themselves didn't know what Dick, Jason and Tim were doing to you.

But life had a real amazing way to hit you when things felt calm and it happened just like that.

You were nineteen. It was when things truly went dark and you realized what happened before was merely the tip of the iceberg.

It was during a gala organized by Bruce's close colleges, at least that's what people called them. By then you had learned her father had to act differently with the many spoiled and cruel people to help Gothamites.

You were standing with Damian, taking a bite of the delicious server bites. You found them smooth and super cheesy. They just so beautifully melted in your mouth that you couldn't help yourself.

Damian was covering you, allowing you to eat as you pleased. “ Y/n !” You heard your newest fourth older brother call. You saw him from the corner of your eye and giggled. “ Duke !”

He ruffled your hair affectionately. You grinned.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

Even if everyone else betrayed you, Damian and Duke wouldn't. Right ?

“ what's going on in your head y/n?” Damian's voice brought you out of your thoughts. You shook your head and smiled. “ It's nothing.”

Damian brought a passtery to your mouth and fed you. Honestly he treated you like a baby sometimes. Hmph.

You didn't know why you felt a sense of unease since this morning. It was like your head was trying to tell you something.

“ My my, The Wayne brothers sure have grown to be stunning lookers!” One woman whispered loudly.

“ Bruce Wayne definitely got an eye for kids. Look how each is more stunning than the last.” Another giggled.

“ Such polite and honourable men with Mr. Wayne's . Ahhh~.”

Your jaw tightened and your eyes closed. No one noticed your fingers trembling slightly and ended the plate. (They did)

Duke and Damian shared a glance before Duke hand's caught yours and took you away. “ Where are we going?” You asked Duke, even if you didn't have a choice since he already had a firm hold on you. You were too careless to notice.

He didn't glance back and kept on walking. “ You need some fresh air. So let's go!” You nodded. You definitely needed some air after listening to that nonsense.

Your brothers and honourable?

Ha

They had a better chance of convincing you that the joker was a saint.

With each growing minute you felt a sense of deja vu. Why was that crewing sensation returning to you? The last time you had it, your reality crumbled – you didn't want something worse to happen.

You called out Duke, “ Where are we going? That's not the way to the Garden..”

You felt that the hand around your wrist tightened unseemingly hard. It was with enough force to break a hand and made you worried.

No

Please

Not

Him

You took a deep breath and swallowed. This had to be a misunderstanding. Maybe Duke was trying to mess with you? He did that very often. And when you saw your other three brothers standing near a hidden entrance.

It was going to be bad.

Duke pushed you to Jason’'s arms which greedily wrapped around your waist and pulled you in this chest. “ Here catch.”

Dick grinned while Tim lazily smiled. “ Good work.”

You tried to resist with all your might, No No No-

What is happening now!

There had to be some way to get out of their hold.

Damian

Where was Damian!

He didn't come with Duke!

Maybe he could see how twisted these bastards were. ( Even Duke, you wished to cry). And save you.

Jason tried to calm you.

“ Calm down Angel.” Jasin scolded, hoping to calm you. Oh, now he was trying to be civil? You weren't going to be. You kicked in the air, but his arm with your full force. “ Let me go! Let me go you sick bastards!”

Your words went in one ear and out the other. Tim bent to your level and met your struggling teary eyes head on. “ Calm yourself Y/n. Struggling won't help you.”

You spit on his face and pressed your teeth into Jason's arms. “ Shut-up!” You hissed. Tim did not mind the spit really he could care less about something like your body fluids. He took out a handkerchief and wiped it off his face.

Today was something far too important.

He looked up at Dick and Duke. “ Bruce should be busy tonight and Gotham is relatively calm. So let's proceed as planned-” He turned back, “ Fine with you Brat?”

“ Affirmation Drake.” You froze and paled.

No

No

Nononono- don't do this to me. You prayed. Don't let it be him, please don't do this. One betrayal was enough.

Damian came into view and every ounce of fight in you died. No one would come to save you. So why struggle?

You accepted your fate and stopped struggling. “ W…What are you all planning?” your voice came lower than the drop of water falling. There was complete silence

All of them looked between each other before Dick started laughing uncontrollably. He laughed and laughed before stopping to remove a tear from his amused eye. “ Smart aren't you little wing? Because of course you are. You're my little angel afterall.”

Your lips pressed together while you remained in Jason's arms. “ What…”

“Something that'll let you completely belong to us.”

And what followed that day was something you'll never be able to remove from your flesh as long as you remain alive. Those bastards branded you.

You are a living human.

Like a pet

If that wasn't enough, they did worse.

Shackling you to the torture chamber while they removed a piece of clothing - piece by piece and slowly ripped you off your dignity. Then they took a bite of your flesh – tearing,marking, licking it like you were some kind of delicacy.

You list your consciousness in the middle in pain but we're woken up with electric shocks, meeting their hungry and lustful eyes.

It continued for seven days before you were finally let out.

Walking into the Mansion Alone to see your father drinking coffee and looking at you shocked. You broke down and told him everything.

“ Daddy please-” You sobbed like a child again. “ Help me run away!” Your father gently pressed on your back and consoled you.

“ Don't worry I'll help you.”

It would be three nights later when you killed yourself in front of them by drinking poison. Before they could dare bring you to the pit to Ressurect you, your father buried your “fake body” And sent * the real* you far away.

In New York, six years later you would return back to your cage more reinforced and having crueler wardens than before. But what you wouldn't know was that you never escaped.

“ Thanks for lending a hand old man. ” A Blue eyed man spoke.

“ Of course, son.” a broken Man and a twisted soldier replied.

THE END..

Taglist :-

@hearts4mica , @animegoddess15

NOTE : btw does anyone want a Mafia dark! BATBOYS + BATGIRLS X READER Fic??? Let me know in the comments! 🩷 and for anyone that wants to be part of the taglist (message or DM me)

LOVE YOU ALL BYEEE ❤❤❤

[txttletale]

Do you have any opinions on the current Bluesky discourse about acting as a receiver for Palestinian fundraisers? You have a good head on your shoulders so your input would be nice

i don't keep up with bluesky discourse. i do maintain however that the broad reaction to palestinian fundraisers on here at least has been -- if i'm being brutally honest -- founded almost entirely in first-world guilt, leading to a strategy that fails to understand two extremely crucial facts:

palestinian cost-of-living fundraisers are a zero-sum game

there is a real, artificial scarcity in gaza. if an anonymous billionaire donated $10,000 to every gazan gofundme, it would not create more food or hospital beds in gaza, only increase the prices of those things to match. every gazan who can afford food for their family because their gofundme hit a certain goal is buying food at hyper-inflated prices that other families are not going to be able to get, and this will continue to be the case so long as israel continues their genocidal strategy of deliberate starvation.

2. your blog's attention economy is a zero-sum game

say you have 1,000 followers. let's assume a click-through rate of 5%, about commensuarate with the upper edge of what charities can expect -- that means that out of your followers, 5% of them will both see the gofundme link and click through to the actual page. then, again assuming you're operating at a similar batting average to very succesful charities, let's give you a 40% conversion rate from there, which means that 40% of your 5% will actually donate once they're on the page. that lands you at 20 people ultimately donating. there's no good data on 'average donation to a gaza gofundme specifically' and i can't think of a good analogue, so just scoping a few out it seems like $10 is a pretty 'average' donation. so that's $200 potentially directed to a fundraiser. which is not nothing!

but it's also not infinite. if you boost two fundraisers, you are now splitting those potential donators. you don't have infinite followers with infinite money: every gaza fundraiser post you make is competing with every other fundraiser that person has seen this day, or this week, or this month, or whatever period within which they allocate the budget they have for stuff like this. every separate fundraiser you reblog is competing with every other fundraiser on your blog for the attention (and therefore money) of your followers specifically.

and so when you combine these points, i think the very common strategy of "reblog every fundraiser you see or get sent" is an extremely bad one. this is not an 'every dollar helps' situation! this is a 'very large amounts of money are needed to cover basic living expenses on an ongoing basis' situation -- if a bag of flour costs $300, then splitting $200 worth of potential donations multiple ways can make the difference between the single family whose fundraiser you're promoting being able to buy it or none of the multiple fundraisers you're putting in front of your followers being able to.

and so i think that reblogging or posting a scattershot selection of fundraisers/asks is significantly less helpful to anybody than simply choosing one or two to consistently, regularly boost, and is a practice (if i am being ruthlessly honest) mostly fueled by people feeling guilty for 'ignoring' fundraisers and aid requests instead of thinking practically about how to provide the most help to people.

people will reply to this: 'but then it feels like i'm choosing who to help', and, yeah. that's what charity is. if you are not willing to do the calculus of triage between strangers in life or death situations then you should not be directly donating--and if you give to an NGO or a mutual aid fund, the same calculus has to be done regardless, you're just pushing it off onto someone else who may or may not be better equipped. and it is brutal and awful and the product of a deeply fucking evil global economic and political system but if you close your eyes and say 'la la la' and pretend that isn't the case that's not going to help any gazans eat.

because of this, i personally recommend that if you don't have family or friends in gaza, or some other personal connection that makes you determined to help a specific family, you focus on on-the-ground mutual aid efforts, who can at least take advantage of economies of scale and help those who can't access the internet or speak english. note that by this i do not mean international charities, who are mostly being prevented from providing aid by israel as of the date of this post (01/06/2025). i personally have focused my blog's attention economy on highlighting dahnoun mutual aid and the sameer project for this reason. i can't tell you what to do because ultimately that is a moral decision you have to make about who you want to help and how. & if you have less followers than i do (& therefore less reach, less potential impact) the stakes are ultimately lower. but i hate that the 'palestinian scammers' accusations have poisoned the well so thoroughly on having earnest discussions about whether the current popular engagement with fundraisers is actually as helpful as it could be.

[asha-mage]

I think the philosophical difference between Wheel of Time and Game of Thrones's class politics is best shown in how they depict their servant characters.

Take Lini and Lars as really good examples: they are a nurse and cook respectively, and lack any sort of structural power or protection at all, something they both are very aware of. But despite their relatively low place in society they are still principled, intelligent, women who the narrative treats with a lot of respect. Lars's acts of mercy and courage come up repeatedly- from refusing to be part of what she sees as unjust punishments of novices in The Dragon Reborn, to smuggling Siuan, Leane and Min to safety in The Shadow Rising, to being ready to break Egwene free of her imprisonment herself in Knife of Dreams. Keyly, Lars does all this not out of any loyalty to other more powerful characters, but entirely because of her own sense of right and wrong. She has no concern for the shifts in Tower politics because that is completely out of her control and she knows it. Rather she makes choices based entirely on what she thinks is right, refusing to be complicit in something she thinks is wrong and taking huge risks to do what she can for others whenever the opportunity presents itself.

In the same vein Lini, while personally loyal to Morgase and her family, is one of the few people in Morgase's life who is willing to treat her as a human being first and a Queen second: speaking her mind even when she knows it will upset Morgase, giving honest advice and wisdom, and generally refusing to acknowledge the huge power gap in their relationship- and Morgase not only allows this but clearly values it, even when it makes her angry, because with Lini she doesn't have to have any pretense, and she can trust the sincerity of Lini's words in a way she can't with courtiers and other rulers. When Lini helps Morgase escape the palace in The Fires of Heaven, she isn't doing it out of fealty to her Queen the way the rest of the team is. She is doing it because she cares for Morgase as a individual, and as a girl she helped raise to adulthood. As they continue on the run, the nuance and complexities of their relationship are explored more heavily- particularly after Morgase abdicates, and Lini's loyalty endures, because it was never about Morgase's throne or her power, but her as a person.

Contrast that with the way Games of Thrones depicts it's servants. The only ones who receive any real depth of character exploration are a few of the House Stark servants, and even then they exist largely as extensions of their masters. Old Nan and Hodor lack agency of their own, and they are not treated as having value by the narrative as independent characters, or having interior lives, motivations, or relationships to complexly explore. Even if we stretch the definition of servant to include a clerical tutor like Septa Mordane and the (presumably) commoner born Knight Rodrik Cassel this picture doesn't improve- because the primary role of both is to suffer and be harmed as a way to hurt other, more important characters.

And this is something you can walk out to pretty much the entire way the two worlds are built. Every time Jordan shows off a new place from Fal Dara to the Waste he remembers to answer the question 'who is cleaning the chamber pots and cooking the meals the sweeping the streets'- and some of his most interesting world building details from the Aiel gai'shain, to the structure of Borderlander's households via the shambayan and shatayan are born of his answers. More over he remembers that those people have humanity: their own wants, needs, and beliefs that are important to them even if they aren't important players in the scope of the narrative. Even if our heroes are stopping at a random inn for a single night, Jodan doesn't forget to show that inn is staffed with people who are going about their own lives entirely independently of the main characters who just wandered in.

By contrast the commoners in Westeros are largely invisible except when they are being impacted by the actions of the noble characters. The idea of the 'small folk' is presented as this nebulous concept, a vaguely homogeneous monolith that in theory is supposed to matter to the nobles but in practice doesn't really- which would an interesting class commentary if the narrative didn't also treat them that way- as if their only real value is being the foundation on which these power struggles are being fought. We're not encouraged to empathize with the cook, or the street sweeper, or the maid gathering laundry because we're not directed to notice them unless they are being a problem, which is exactly how all the nobles in Game of Thrones behave. There's also no nuance or complexity to the relationships between servants and their masters- it is only an expectation of simple obedience, and no energy is ever expended on the relationships between servants at all.

Wheel of Time from the beginning takes the position that everyone maters- maybe not to the fates of nations and the path of destiny, but to themselves and to the story that is being told. Game of Thrones takes the position that only nobles matter and everyone else matters only in relation to them- which for a story ultimately about an aristocratic civil war is fine, but it limits the depth of the world and the ability to say anything meaningful about class or society.

[sheepispink]

Is this a Date? ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི lt ghost x baker!reader, part of the Sweet as Sugar Series

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Summary: after your past hesitance, Simon asks you out on more of a silly date than a romantic one. Nonetheless, he begins to realise just how much you two really feel for eachother

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི a/n: fair warning that all the arcade games in this are based of the ones i go to, which are british obvs, so accurate? yes. particularly fun? probably not. Also i said chips but i know some of yall will call it fries. chips is the british word thanks for coming to my ted talk <3

PREV NEXT

———

Finally, Simon would be taking you out properly, just like he’d been trying to hype himself up to do for nearly three weeks. He gave you some time since you confessed your anxious thoughts to him, but you’re already feeling a lot better, practically radiating like the sun.

”Are you busy this week?” He considered texting you the question, but he was sitting in the cafe with you again and he just couldn’t wait any longer, half tempted to drag you out with him today.

You’re sitting opposite him in the empty shop, the closed sign bumping against the door. “Hmm.. don’t think so. My parents are taking over to give me a break.” He watches you eye the biscuit tin you leave out for him no matter how many times he insists that he doesn't always eat them, and passes you a bourbon. Your lips quirk up, a soft grin as you take a large bite into the chocolate biscuit, crumbs on your lips.

”A break huh? Well, if you haven't planned anything yet then why don't we go out?” You perk up instantly at that, a light clang of the teaspoon you just dropped on the table echoing out as the possibilities run through your head. Sure, you went to the farm and the winter festival with him, but actually going out? ..Is this a date?

“Where would we go?”

Before you know it, it’s Thursday and he’s wrapped you up in his jacket, the one he knows you love. Since you seemed to have such a great time at the festival, he figures he’d play it safe this time and take you to everyone’s favourite destination— the arcade. His decision is right, of course, confirmed by your eyes brightening as you step out of his car and he has to convince you to let him lock the car first before you start dragging him inside.

“Oooh! Let’s do the shooting!” You exclaim, pulling him along to the little booth and he picks up the fake gun, eyeing it with slight distaste. It’s not close to a real gun in the slightest, but he pushes that thought away as you grab the gun and pull a playful pose, pretending to look through the scope. “Alright, alright.” He places the coins into the slots, watching as the zombies start to approach.

Turning his brain off becomes increasingly easier with you, especially as you aren't afraid to express yourself or act the slightest bit silly, yelling at him to get the ones approaching you on the right. “Simon! I’m gonna die!” You squeal, still pretending your very best to act like a proper fighter as you dramatically move the gun around to aim at all the approaching enemies. “Got your back, love.” He mutters, already forgetting that these games are practically light work compared to anything he’s ever done before, his eyes locked onto the screen as he destroys anything coming your way. By the end of it, you’ve got your hands in the air as you cheer and even he’s grinning wide as possible.

What he didnt expect for you to call out to a random stranger, the woman’s head turning to your voice. “Excuse me, can you take a picture of us?” He has no time to argue, you’re already pulling the fake gun up to your face like some kind of secret agent all while he can hold it across his chest like he does on missions. The woman smiles and returns your phone, only for you to drag him away before he can say anything else.

The pair of you continue through the arcade, him even laughing when you fail to keep up with the dance game you insisted you were brilliant at. It’s not your fault he sneakily picked the hard mode to watch you scramble to get all the notes, but he won't admit that. Next, you drag him over to the air hockey table, a mischievous look on your face as you begin to rack up points like they’re nothing (only because you screamed “Ow!” and he immediately dropped his pusher). “That’s cheating.” You watch his eyes narrow and his stern voice comes through, and you immediately panic like a deer in headlights, eyes so wide you don't notice him pushing the puck straight into your goal. “Hey!”

This time he pulls you along, leading you to a new side of the arcade since it recently got refurbished and towards a booth that has a target behind the barrier. Curious, you raise an eyebrow before looking at the sign above. “Try beating me now.” Damnit, you know he’s smirking behind that mask and you’d be damned because watching him hurl every axe to the centre of that target had to be the definition of attractive. Unlike you, where the axe bounced off the target altogether whilst he tried his best not to stifle his laugh. It really was quite comical, the way you huffed under your breath as it continued to miss, only grazing the edge before bouncing off again. “I-it’s not funny!” He’s had to turn away from how hard he’s laughing right now, and you’re half tempted to give him a fake punch for that though you know he’d only just laugh harder. “Sorry, i’m sorry, i’ll teach you.”

He steps behind you, his hands curving over yours to help fix your lousy form into one that will definitely produce some better results. Well, at least it sticks this time.. on the edge of the target that is. “Simon!” You exclaim as he bursts out laughing again, thankful for his mask as his face is practically burning hot now. “Okay, okay—“ He adjusts you again, helping you tilt your arm back enough and aim it at the centre. Slowly stepping back, he signalls you to throw it. Your brows furrow as you concentrate, arm going a little further back before you throw it forward and it finally hits directly on the bullseye. “I did it! Look—“ You cheer, instantly spinning around to throw your arms tight around his middle as if it was something you’ve done a million times before, like it was something you’d have done for years. The touch immediately fries his harshly trained nerves, the muscles in his stomach tensing as he looks down at the sight of you squeezing him as hard as you possibly can— he can't say his stomach did not flip at least a little. You seem to notice, eyes quickly glancing up at him. Though, before you can stammer out an apology, he scoffs and pinches your cheeks. “Took you long enough.”

———

Exhausted from your escapades, he takes you to a diner. Well it’s barely anything like actual American diners but they make good burgers, so who can complain? You order your usual, and when Simon sees you eye the milkshake options for too long you end up with a tall glass of it in front of you. Meanwhile, he decides to go for something new for once, figuring the description was exaggerating, before he ends up with a giant hunk of a burger before him. “Oh.” The sight has you giggling far too much.

“Those two idiots knocked out right on me. You’d think they’re kids coming back from playcare the way they fall asleep anywhere.” He huffs, describing to you the less gruesome details of his recent deployment.

“Hmm.. Soap is the one with the mohawk right? And Gaz… the one who wears a cap all the time?” You ask, snickering from his story and he nods along, confirming your questions.

“Soap looks lively— well by what I've seen anyway. You said Gaz got his name for being quiet huh? I bet he’s one of those types who randomly have the best quips?”

Simon smiles behind the mask, intrigued by your new captivation about his teammates. Sure, he’s used to talking with you about whatever, just as he is with others. But he never really talked about himself much, at least not more than a few opinions on what he liked— he was far more interested in whatever you’d say. He just never considered you’d be so interested in what he’d say too. You’ve asked before, and he never paid much attention, but now you’re even remembering things from past conversations and expressing intrigue in his life. He might need to step outside to breathe properly again.

”Yeah, he’s definitely that type. Johnny barely wins an argument with him around; I think Cap’ even has a hard time defending himself.” You giggle again, stealing some of the ketchup from his plate with a swipe of your chip. “Do you see them all the time?”

“Yeah. Practically have our rooms right beside each other. We watch the football games in the common room.” He rolls his eyes when you coo at him, saying “aww” and smiling wide at him like he’s a kid who made his first friend or something. You really are an exception huh? He can’t even get all that mad at you when you look at him with curiosity swirling in your eyes.

“Why don't you come down with them sometime? You can bring them to the bakery.” You hum, licking the ketchup off your lip as you chomp down on your last bite of the burger. For some reason, he thought you were joking— would you really entertain a bunch of random men just for the sake of them being his friends? It didn't make sense; you didn't even know them, nor had you met more than one either. ”Pretty sure Johnny would eat all your pastries, love. It’s not worth it.”

“Well, I guess I'll just have to make extra that day then. I’m serious, y’know? Bring them around at your usual time, I'll have tea and the pastries ready.” Now that was unexpected; you were actually willing to give up some of your time to welcome his teammates, ones that he’s never even introduced you to before. Wait— did you think he was rude for not introducing you before?

”I did plan to introduce you at some point— they’re just… busy.” Wow, he actually fumbled his words for once, at this rate his chest will falter as well with the rate you keep surprising him with your genuineness. “Huh? I know, I just thought it’d be nice for them to relax a bit, have something sweet.” You hum, sipping your milkshake he bought for you, before passing the glass over to him and for some reason he doesn't hesitate, slipping your straw beneath his mask as he takes a sip himself.

He ignores the taste of your lipgloss that lingers.

—————

He drives you home soon after, walking you all the way up to your apartment door. You start slipping off your shoes, the time already growing late since you had only gotten to the arcade at five o'clock. He stands awkwardly in the doorway, knowing he should probably say his goodbyes and leave now— because he’s not yours, and you're not his.

Yet.

Your head turns, a brow raised at him curiously. “Won't you come in?” His words clog in his throat, wondering if he should accept the offer. Surely you’d be heading to sleep soon enough anyways, wouldn’t it only be an inconvenience to keep you up any longer? He’s conflicted, wanting to leave you be but ever since the last time he was here, he’s thought about your home more than he’s yearned for a second of rest, which is very often.

“It’ll be late if you drive all the way back to base now. You can just crash on my couch again.” Your hand finds his sleeve, pulling him inside before he can utter a sound against you, and closing the door behind him. “Thanks for today by the way. ..Do you wanna get brunch tomorrow too?”

He thought dating was meant to be taken slow, something that’d develop over weeks and dates were planned apart. Well, that’s how everyone said it worked. Now here you were, not even parted from him yet, and asking for more of his time. Trying to hide the swelling of his pupils is impossible and he has to bend down to undo the laces on his shoes just to try. “Is that even a question? Of course.”

He stands once more, but you’re looking at him with lovestruck eyes, affection pouring out of every crevice as you grin and hug him again for the second time that day. “I knew you wouldn't say no. I’ll make us some tea after I get changed.” Your eyes crinkle again sparkling with something you don't even attempt to hide before you step on your tiptoes, pressing a kiss to his cheek where the mask doesn't quite cover.

Oh, so that’s what that look was—cheekiness, huh? Especially when you run away after that, scurrying into the bathroom as you snicker to yourself. He looks up into the mirror in the hallway, realising his eyes have been struck wide.

————

You wander into the kitchen to start brewing the kettle, dressed in your favourite pajamas already whilst he heads to the bathroom to freshen up. He stares into your mirror, lingers of black paint still clinging onto his lashes. Should he take off his mask? It’s not like you haven't seen him sipping from his drink before, or even that time he fell asleep on the couch without pulling it down again. His fingers linger on the fabric, hesitating as his heart churns with the need to drop everything right now for you. His brain screams at him to act rationally but his gut tells him to take it slow, else he scares you off altogether. He sighs, conflicted, before a flash of light appears in the corner of his eye. Your phone had been left behind on the windowsill, a notification lighting it up. He picks it up so he can hand it back to you, only for it to flash again, the lock screen the picture of the two of you posing with your fake guns, your hand doing bunny ears behind his head. His own sits in his other hand, the picture of you with his stupidly oversized burger held up to your mischievous face flashing to life.

Maybe not today. But he’d definitely get you back for the surprise kiss, stepping out of the bathroom to sneak up behind you as you grab the milk from the fridge.

————-

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Taglist:

@hidden-treasures21 @bieberismysoulmate @gallantys @tessakate @galactict3a @krispymagazinepizza-blog @silas-aeiou @kupids-arrow @enfppuff @oydan @keytofu @vogueprincess

[omorithedreamermod]

APRIL DEVLOG

Hello! Here is the APRIL DEVLOG for OMORI THE DREAMER mod! Like before, consistent DEVLOGs will be posted over the course of the year to let everyone know how development is going!

IMPORTANT INFORMATION:

The way THE DREAMER is structured is a BOOK format, in contrast to OMORI's PROLOGUE and then THREE DAYS LEFT bit. So far, the INTRO and PRELUDE are released and playable in one go. From then on, the full game will contain BOOK ONE, BOOK TWO, BOOK THREE, BOOK FOUR, BOOK FIVE, with four and five being endgame. Development will go book by book for organization and ease of testing, so through DEVLOGs, progress will be shown that way so it's not as overwhelming or hard to understand.

Release date is aimed for DECEMBER 25th, and there will be no more releases until then. There will also be no more updates to the PRELUDE release due to further development already starting, so certain bug fixes, visual upgrades, and other updates to the PRELUDE will not be available until the full release.

As for how long the full mod will be, considering how poorly I guessed how long the PRELUDE would be, I''m not even going to try and make an estimate now...but it will be long, certainly! Of course, the time is also dependent on your route/how much optional content you seek out.

PROGRESS (BOOK ONE):

A large organizational process was undergone especially with new recruits thanks to the PRELUDE. Large task sheets were made, narrative documents, concept art, and guides were distributed, and as the director, a very thorough effort has been made to make sure nothing will ever be scrapped and nothing will be changed abruptly so the people on board will not be put through unnecessary effort. No development hell here-the story has been solid since I was making the DEMO on my own!

Although the writing, art, and cutscene programming will still all be done by me, I am very happy to say there is massive help in the now even bigger OST team, the new map tile-set creators absolutely carrying (though, DEFINITELY still looking for sign ups!), sprite artists, battle programmers, general map creators, and more! The scope is quite large with a tight deadline, but pushing back release is practically impossible for personal reasons, so scope will be adjusted according to what is possible.

Still very much looking for more signups, particularly for tile-set creation, programming, sprite art, and the such ^^ it'll be a busy year, but worth it! Many efforts are being put forward to maintain balance and consistency.

No specific progress will be listed this time as things are still in beginning development, though quite a lot is already being done. BOOK ONE has an internal completion goal of "before deltarune releases" so hopefully that'll successfully come to pass!

CONCLUSION:

Trying to stay calm despite the big tasks up ahead! Focusing book by book will hopefully keep everything manageable and not as overwhelming.

The team still isn't massive, and we definitely need more people for some roles. Still, everyone seems really passionate and it makes me very happy to see. I'm also very thankful about the support the PRELUDE has gotten. Brings a giant smile to my face! I hope the full version will be even more satisfying. There's a long way to go, and a year is very short, so wish us all luck as we go forward!

[clazaries]

The Thin Line Between Victory and Survival NSFW!

(Santiago "Pope" Garcia x f!soldier!reader)

Summary: Having been newly promoted, your first mission with Delta Force goes wrong and you have to deal with the consequences of going against Santiago's orders

w/c: 6.6k

Warnings: NSFW! war environment, slight knife play, masturbation (f!reader), oral (m!receiving), self-edging, orgasm denial, choking, dom!Santi, p in v, slight fluff at the end, think that's everything?

a/n: reader's callsign is 'Midge'. this takes place after the events of triple frontier but where the gang are still active members of Delta Force. I kinda imagined Santiago as Ghost from COD (cos daddy)

ENJOY!

***

“Frankie. Sit rep?”

“ETA 30 seconds. Sit tight.” 

“Rog’.” Santi’s gravelly voice worms its way into your ear in harsh rumbles as you begin to take position at the edge of a sandy cliff, overwatching the vast desert valley ahead of you. His voice shakes the nerves inside you that are already on high alert. You remind yourself to turn down your comms when you can afford the chance. “Midge, how copy?” 

You perk to attention at the sound of your nickname and respond accordingly. “Loud and clear, sir. In position. Eyes on Frankie.” 

Towards the heart of the valley, Frankie’s distant figure calmly approaches the enemy-riddled farm under the cover of darkness and you watch with bated breath through a window of green. Directly ahead of you, even further away on the mirroring side of the valley is your superior Santiago “Pope” Garcia, providing overwatch just as you are. You can’t see him but you know he’s there, like a ghost lurking in the shadows. Even though you are just as concealed as he is, you have this disconcerting feeling that he’s very much capable of plucking you out, watching you.

You readjust yourself nervously.

It’s incredibly dark with nothing but the twinkling stars and Jupiter’s bright sparkle to keep anyone sane. Without the night vision goggles, you are a lost hope. They sit squarely on your nose, grinding the bone and encasing your eyes, and the sweat trickling down your neck is no home comfort either, but now is not the time to be complaining. You have a job to do. 

Having been recently promoted for your sharp shooting and bright mind, you’re no longer an extra in someone else’s play, you’re the real deal now. You’re still taking orders no less, except now word doesn’t have to pass through at least three ranks above you like a game of Chinese Whispers before you receive the order. 

Every mission is different but your response has always been the same: subdued nerves to begin, then before long, you’re in your element and the job gets done. However, this task in particular has your heart beating a little harder and you don’t sense it settling any time soon. The whole mission is unnerving. It’s just you, Frankie and Santiago, sent out into the middle of nowhere to retrieve controls for a weapon that’s been missing from the US government for three years. The very same that is currently being protected and fortified by an armada of Russian extremists. Every minute in between the initial briefing and your current breath has been spent quietly fretting about it.

This mission alone has introduced a lot of firsts for you; first time working with Delta Force rather than for, first time working off the grid, first time working in a squad with fewer than 5 comrades beside you, first time being completely and hopelessly outnumbered…

First time feeling extremely, extremely doubtful. 

“Remember, this is a covert operation and completely off the grid so keep it quiet. Frankie, I want you in and out before they even get a whiff that you were ever there, and Midge--” you gulp, “keep Frankie alive.”

“Yes, sir.” You and Frankie’s voices ring through simultaneously. By now, Frankie has approached the back door of the barren barn, a large building that no doubt houses a number of enemies inside. Through your scope, you witness Frankie infiltrating the barn, his voice verbally confirming it seconds later. “I’m in. Going dark.”

“Copy that.” 

The second you lose sight of him you take a hefty breath, letting it flood your lungs while the waiting game begins. From out here, there’s nothing you can do for him except warn him of any outside movements. As of right now, he’s on his own, doing what he does best. 

“Stay sharp.” 

You keep quiet on your side of comms, too paranoid to risk speaking unnecessarily. Instead, you keep your wits on what’s in front of you. There’s no movement, not even a breath of wind to shake the lonely tree that stands at the far end of the farm and it feels as though time has stood still. If it wasn’t for the mouse scuttling underneath your sniper stand, you would’ve thought so.

The little creature skips and hops over the rocks to your right, stopping every couple of seconds to clean the dust from its ears. Cute. You quirk a smile at the thought of something as simple as a mouse breaking the tension that’s riddling your bones. God knows you need it. Every fibre of your being is buzzing with uncertainty and the heavy nauseating feeling in your stomach is enough of a sign that something about this mission just isn’t right. Some would call it instinct, others would call it a load of rubbish, regardless, the feeling is there and you’re not willing to ignore it. 

In all honesty, you would’ve carried out this mission entirely differently if you had the authority. But that’s the thing. You don’t. Outranked and out-experienced by the two men alongside you, you had no option but to play by their rules. Where you would’ve gone all-in, they chose to keep their cards close to their chests. 

You never agreed with the idea that less is more. Not in the military. 

Ten agonising minutes pass by. Nothing has been said and nothing warrants being said. Everything about you is screaming to point out the obvious; that something clearly isn’t going right. Frankie should’ve been out by now.

“I don’t like this. It’s too quiet. Nothing’s happening.” 

Santiago instantly replies, a slight ring of chagrin evident in his tone. “Good. Means we haven’t been compromised.” 

“Then why isn’t he out?” 

“Patience, Midge. Keep focussed.” 

You’re seconds away from overstepping boundaries and saying something you shouldn’t, but the moment you open your mouth, you spot a black vehicle off in the distance, quickly morphing into view as it speeds across the expanse of the valley with a plume of dust trailing behind it. It’s heading directly towards the farm. 

“Be advised. Vehicle inbound coming in from the north. Pope, you see it?” 

“Affirmative. Six Russians inside and likely armed. Do. Not. Engage. Frankie, get the hell on with it and get those controls.” 

The vehicle approaches and screeches to a stop, the occupants immediately disperse from the vehicle with rifles in hand. Fear shoots through you, wide eyes pinned on the door Frankie entered through, desperate for it to open again and see Frankie escape but alas, no sign of him. “Come on, come on, come on…” 

“Enemies heading towards the front entrance.” 

“I’ve got a shot on two of them.” 

“No. Stand down. Do not engage. They don’t know we’re here, we can’t draw attention to ourselves.” Pope’s voice rages through your earpiece again and you wince, both from his tone and volume. 

“Why the fuck are we here then?” 

“To prevent a ruckus from happening. If we engage, we’ll be the reason for it. Now shut up and keep your eyes peeled. Frankie, for Christ’s sake, you better have those controls.” 

You listen intently for his voice, hoping that he’s succeeded and he’s on his way back, but when you hear a slight crackle, a groan and high-pitched frequency piercing through the comms, you assume the worst. Your heart stops dead in your chest when you hear a shot being fired, its echo carrying the weight of dread right to your position. “Fuck! Santi--” 

“Frankie! Do you copy?” 

Short, resounding booms resonate from the farm and you’re left with no doubt that Frankie’s position has been compromised, leaving his life and the controls to this weapon at stake. You can’t afford to lose both and you’re certain that Pope knows that too, so why isn’t he giving the order for backup? 

“He needs help!” 

“Stay put! I can’t risk losing two of you. This is Pope to Ironhead, how copy?” 

You drown out William’s voice with worries of your own, constantly watching for signs of Frankie’s survival but to no avail, you find none. You knew this mission was never going to succeed. Your instinct was right. And based on that fact alone, what’s to stop you assuming that when your gut instinct is now telling you to go and extract Frankie and the controls yourself, it’s the right decision no matter what your orders are?

“Fuck this.” With haste, you pack up your equipment, whipping it over your shoulder with a new-found surge of adrenaline pumping through you. The hill you’re perched on isn’t tall, but it is steep, so as you run down the slope, your body falls faster than your legs can keep up. The howl of air blows past your ears and the clinking and clanking of your equipment rattles with each step. Even still with the cacophony of sounds, nothing can be louder than your boss’s rage. 

“Midge! What the fuck are you doing? Get back to your position!” 

You don’t bother responding because you’re too out of breath…and mostly because you’re shit scared. When you hear his voice again, you’re at the door Frankie entered through with a shaky hand holding your pistol and the other tightly gripping the handle. 

“Midge, so help me God, if you take another step--” 

“We can’t leave Frankie!”

“We don’t know if he’s still alive.”

“But we know the controls are in there, if we can’t get one, we’ll get the other.”

“NO! You get back here right fucking now!” The scratch of his growl descends down your body, making you curl your toes. Suddenly, a farm full of Russian extremists doesn’t seem to be your biggest threat…

“I’m going in.” 

A grunted sigh crackles through the comms as Pope watches you push through the door into chaos. 

“Just so you know, if you somehow survive this, I will kill you myself.” 

~~~~

Miraculously, you did exactly that. You survived. Not only did you extract Frankie’s beaten body and save his life, you also retrieved the controls before they got away. You can’t deny that the odds were slim and it did nearly cost both of your lives, but at the expense of breaking a few rules and a few bones, you made it. And you won’t apologise for a single bit of it sitting here in an unused briefing room with Santiago. 

The tale of twists and turns didn’t end when you and Frankie both made it out alive only hours ago, in fact, it continues with Santi; a man with chains around his heart, a shield around his mind and a look of steel donning his face. It is fair to say his reputation precedes him, especially since his comrade Redfly died years ago. Before you met him officially, you had only ever heard of his emotionless gaze, his inhuman self-restraint and deeply enigmatic personality, and you found it strange that no one told you what it was like to be around him. Until Frankie told you that how you felt being in a room with him could not be explained through words, it was something you had to experience for yourself. 

Frankie was right. You had to be there to see that he was stronger, colder, smarter, more intimidating than anyone had let on. His presence wasn’t one to be easily swallowed. It was obvious that strangers couldn’t settle the unease they felt when he walked into the room; cautious eyes, bitten lips, fidgeting muscles. They succumbed to his eerie, silent domination very quickly. Quicker if those dark eyes were locked on you. They were seared into the back of your mind the moment they landed on you for the first time, remembering how you just couldn’t decipher the encrypted messages they hid. Whoever stated that the eyes were windows to the soul had clearly never met Santiago.

But tonight, that restraint is gone. He is positively seething. Outwardly, publicly, irrationally seething. In the dimly lit room, he stands menacingly in the corner where the light doesn’t quite reach, yet still you can see his knuckles tensing and untensing with each breath he takes. You don’t say a word, quietly picking at the forming scab on your knuckle, and in your head, you speak the words you don’t have the conviction to say out loud. 

“Do you have any idea how fucking reckless you are?” 

You slowly peer up to him, his words still processing as you narrow in on him. “Reckless? With all due respect, my actions saved a man’s life and finished the mission. What part of that is reckless?” 

“The part where you didn’t follow my orders! You went rogue. Off plan. Completely out of line. If you don’t follow orders, you don’t know how it will end. I could’ve lost you both unnecessarily.” 

“Could’ve,” you mutter.

He begins to loom closer, taking every word of yours like they’re a sour taste in his mouth. In muted tones, he whispers out to you. “What?” 

“You said you could’ve lost us both. But you didn’t.” The words feel like liberation. It’s the first time you’ve ever behaved like this. It’s so uncharacteristic but you just feel so insulted by his lack of gratitude or appreciation that anger bubbles inside you, spitting out words that you know you shouldn't, turning you into someone you definitely aren’t. You are usually a rule follower, you are usually obedient, and you usually respect authority, but in the blinding light of anger, you just can’t surrender to Santiago���s discipline so easily. 

“And you should’ve listened to me. But you didn’t. Nobody ever fucking listens to me and they end up dead because of it.” 

“Just because Redfly did, doesn’t mean everyone else will too.”

Low blow, Midge. 

Sensing immediate regret, you keep your eyes firmly pinned on your hands on the table in front of you. Like a dark rain cloud, you catch sight of his shadow engulfing your own. His stature and all-encompassing presence emerges behind you but you don’t dare move a single muscle. His hands curl around the back of the chair you’re sitting in, the pathetic plastic creaking under his fists. The brave front you’re putting on begins to yield to his growing temperament and the facade crumbles piece by piece. 

Everyone in the unit had heard of what happened when a certain team of the Delta Force went rogue. The US Army had never let them live it down since.

He leans his head over your stiff shoulder and you can even feel the heat of his anger just glazing over the shell of your ear. 

“Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare.” Santiago spits every word with heavy articulation as if he’s etching the words into your brain. His laboured breathing is a concern, knowing that it’s a warning of the wrath that’s about to ensue. “Redfly didn’t follow my orders to stand down and it inevitably got him killed. And right now, the same might happen to you.”

With a sharp, unexpectant tug of your hair, your head whips back, swinging the chair with you until the overhead light burns into your eyes. Reflexes have your hands gripping the edge of the table until they turn white with tension, stopping yourself from tipping backwards. The sudden blade on your neck stops you moving forward.

“Do you remember what I said to you before you disobeyed me?” 

You remember all too well. If you somehow survive this, I will kill you myself.

“You wouldn’t.” 

Santiago presses the blade harder against your skin, unapologetic. “Wouldn’t I?” 

You really don’t know whether to call his bluff but to stay on the safe side you remain silent. Until anything happens, you are both stuck staring into each other’s eyes, holding a resentment none of you are willing to let go of. Looking up at him, it’s obvious that he is teetering on the edge of breaking a few rules himself, allowing the sharp edge of the knife to roll across the expanse of your neck, bobbing as you swallow, until the sharp point rests precariously atop your pulse. But even he knows himself that he wouldn’t follow through with it, because as much as it pains him to admit it, your courageous actions, although downright stupid, did save Frankie’s life and secured the controls. And he fucking hates it. If there was anything he could do to scare the absolute shit out of you to stop you being so smug and defiant about it, he would do it in a heartbeat.

“Santiago,” you warn, just as the point of the knife starts to break through the thin layer of skin on your neck. You try to move your head but he still has his fist entangled through your roots. 

The instant the little whine of his name broke from your lips, something snapped inside him. The desperation of it, it was too provocative for him to ignore and an electrical feeling pulsed from his chest and shot straight towards his dick. Having you in his tight clutches, essentially at his mercy, exacerbated the feeling and suddenly he could feel himself growing hard. Fuck, what was he doing?

It’s perverse of him to want to hear it again, to see those plump but bitten lips of yours say his name again in a plea for his forgiveness. He becomes so fixated on the idea that he gets carried away, pricking your skin with the knife, watching as your eyes widen and your body writhing beneath him. 

“AHH! Pope--fuck--okay, okay, I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry, just…please let go of the knife.” There it was again, the slight twitch in his dick, one that makes him grow uncomfortable beneath his boxers. 

It’s one thing for Pope to be angry, but when lust is thrown into the equation, there’s much less he can do to suppress it and with you still whimpering beneath him, it’s something he’s quickly realised. 

He relieves the pressure of the knife just enough to alleviate the pain but not enough that you haven’t completely escaped its threat. He moves out of your sight, his head dropping lower until his lips are gracing across your ear. You hear nothing but his slow breathing, funnelling down your ear and you instantly shiver. You want to pull away from him but for some reason, you’re chemically drawn into him; his close proximity, the smell of him, the hold he has on you, it’s all so…dangerously alluring. Something changes and the air starts to grow hot. 

“Y’know,” he purrs, “I can’t allow you stay on my team if you can’t listen to my orders--” 

“No! No, I-I want to stay.” 

“How do I know you won’t pull something stupid like this again, hm? You’re still a rookie, you’re not an addition to this team, no, what you are is a liability. Your actions today proved to me that you are just not capable.” 

“I am. I was promoted for a reason.” 

“Yeah? Prove it. Prove you’re capable and I might consider keeping you on my team.” 

“How?” 

“It’s simple,” he says, his lips trailing from your ear to skim across your cheek, just teasing with feather light touches. “Follow…my…orders. Do you understand?” 

Your cheeks are burning, your lungs are heaving, everything about this screams ‘this is a risk you shouldn’t take’. But it’s hard to heed those words when Santiago’s grip of your hair loossens to soothing scalp scratches, when the tips of his lips and his nose brush over your burning cheek, inhaling the scent of you, when your gut is telling you to listen to how tempted your body is, how wanting it is for him. 

Your thighs press together beneath the table. 

“Yes.” 

“Yes…what?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Better. Stand up.” You swing forward so fast that a violent rush of blood to your head almost makes you lose your balance, but Santiago keeps you up with a firm hold to your arm while he casually throws the knife onto the table. He perches himself in front of you to lean against the edge of the table, touching toe-to-toe and holds your gaze; bold, dark brown eyes that give nothing away about the inner workings of his mind. And it’s those same eyes that can read everything about you.

“Nervous, soldier?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Don’t lie.” 

“A…A little, sir.” 

“Good, you should be. Take off your top.” 

With those words, you know, that whatever happens from this moment on, Santiago will not be following any official protocol but his own. You do as he says, now feeling the heat of the room touching your bare skin. Santiago admires the way your belt hugs around your waist, waiting for the moment his hands can do the same when he’s fucking you from behind. Your bra is standard, nothing sexy. It’s what he expects on a day you had been on a mission, but what his eyes catch is your nipples pebbling through the material, and the slight blood stain discolouring the straps from the shrapnel wound to your shoulder that he didn’t realise you had. 

“At ease,” he commands. You act on instinct, bracing your hands behind your back with your legs standing shoulders-width apart. The instruction has been ingrained in you since the day you started your training. “You got hurt?”

“Minor wounds.” 

“Wounds you wouldn’t have had if you had listened to me.”

Fluttering warmth spreads from your core the moment Santiago cups your breast, your nipple weaving through his fingers and caught in a tight pinch. When you don’t react, he peers up at you to engage in a wordless conversation that both are in tune with. Keep going? Yes. He brings his other hand up to mirror the other and this time he finally elicits a small, but audible sigh from you. 

It’s been so long since you’ve had anyone like this, even longer for Santiago. His failures to locate his old contact Yovanna in Australia broke him and since then, he had sworn off getting close with anyone for fears of time repeating itself. As for you? You had yet to claim anyone as your own. Sure, you’ve had a few romances over the years but no one had ever satisfied you in the sick, slightly twisted way you were searching for. Up until now, you didn’t think there was a man out there who was interested in the same things you were. You didn’t think they existed.

Until you met Santiago. He is a thrill personified. 

It was impossibly cruel that the world had dealt you this hand; to fantasise over the ways his gravelly voice could murmur the dirtiest, filthiest things to you, the ways his experienced hands could ruin with the slightest of touches. However, you always knew that professionalism and the dangers of your line of work would always take priority over your fantasies, and you forced yourself out of your fictional world to come face to face with the harsh reality of war. It was a miracle how you were able to survive this long without going absolutely feral, but now, with Santiago losing his patience too, you’re starting to think that you won’t last much longer. 

“So fucking reckless,” he whispers, a reminder for both you and himself. His brow dips when his frustration rolls back in its tide, keeping that stone-cold expression hard on his face. It’s slightly different though. His parted lips, his vigorous movements, the slight pant to his breath. In your eyes, it all points towards desire more than frustration. “As your superior…” His voice is somehow quieter, but it’s heard all the same, “it’s my responsibility to punish you, to teach you a lesson about discipline. You need to learn that when I tell you to do something, you fucking do it. You understand?” 

A bead of sweat rolls down the back of your neck fluidly, your hands itching to wipe it away but obedience locks them behind your back. Suddenly, he snaps forward, his hand coming to snatch your jaw and force you to look him in the eyes. The precision of his quick movements makes you flinch, trapping a breath in your lungs and he notices, lips curling momentarily. 

“Yes, sir!”

Shivers follow wherever his other hand roams. He moulds out the shape of your waist and hips, squeezing tighter than your belt ever could. He begins to unbuckle your belt with little regard, popping the button of your trousers and bursting the zip to admire the way your trousers hang loosely from your hips. Everything inside you tenses at the sudden exposure.

Santiago begins toying with you, running his knuckles lightly over the edge of your underwear, dipping just the tip of his finger beneath the elastic rim, but retreats just as quickly. He follows the line of your navel, travelling up and up to trace small ghostly circles around your ribcage and it takes everything in you not to shudder. Your body can’t quite figure out how to tune into him, the stark contrast between the harsh grip he has on your jaw and the fluttering touches to your body has your mind going crazy and it’s mildly disorientating. 

His thumb circles around your chin before resting upon your bottom lip, pulling it out into a pout for his eyes to fixate on. He has that expression on his face that you’ve seen before; determined and fully resolute. The features of a man with authority. 

“That mouth…” he pants, “‘s gotten you into trouble today.” He draws you in until the tips of your noses clash and he’s a hair’s breadth away from kissing you. Instead…“I want to fuck it. Get on your knees, soldier.”

Your knees collide the cold surface of the ground almost instantly much to his pleasure. He wastes no time undoing his belt as efficiently as he did yours, and before too long the tip of his lengthy cock replaces where his thumb was just seconds before, wet with little beads of cum. Your hands reach out to guide him into your mouth but he snatches your wrist before you can commit. 

“Nuh-uh, this one’s for you. If you have some semblance of discipline, you’ll cum only when I say.”

You nod, falsely, and promptly take him into your mouth with one hand at the base of his cock while the other slips beneath your underwear and swirls around your clit the way you know best. A strangled groan leaves his throat and you feel the vibrations of it with the way his cock twitches in your mouth. The same pleasure buzzes in you, spreading warmth from your stomach down to your cunt. 

Despite having eventually found a rhythm that you can settle into, bobbing your head and taking as much of him as you can, you can’t find balance. Your multitasking skills have taken a hit because as soon as you feel the tight pinch of pleasure erupting from your clit, you know you can’t succumb to it and just like that, all your focus and effort turns to pleasuring him and the feeling dissipates. It’s torturous having to edge yourself, it’s not something you are particularly well-versed in. 

“So good, so fucking good,” he praises. Santiago’s hands come to scrape through your hair and take control, causing you to move faster and suck him down even harder, so much that you have to plant your other hand against his thigh to regain balance, going against his orders. He notices and chastises you. “Get that fucking hand back where it should be.” 

A moan gargles from your throat, a lack of patience wearing you thin. It doesn’t help that you’re incredibly turned on by the whole situation and you’re hesitant to touch yourself because of it, unsure how much more you can take before yet another one of Santi’s orders is disobeyed. So you take it slow, lazily circling around your bud just enough to keep you satiated while you occupy yourself with Santiago. Your mouth detaches from him with a pop, using those tear-stained eyes of yours to silently beg for his own release in exchange for your own but his head is thrown back and takes no notice, indulging in the way your tongue swirls around his tip. Just the sight of the vein popping from his neck is enough to send a rush of lust to mount up onto the orgasm that’s impatiently waiting. Fuck, you really need to cum. 

What gets his attention is your needy little whine. A whine that warns you both that you’re on the precipice of cumming, that if you pressed any harder on your sensitive clit you would combust. Your thighs are almost rattling beneath you.

“Don’t you dare,” he warns in a low growl, thrusting into your wet mouth and straight to the back of your throat. “Don’t you disobey me.” 

“I can’t hold on,” you splutter. 

“You can and you will. Fuuuck…” 

Decidedly, your hand comes to a halt because after all, this is about discipline, right? It’s all about being able to control yourself, to place your trust in him and listen to what he says hoping that it will all pay off. 

You need to do something that would push him over the edge, do something that would completely shatter his world, never to be forgotten. You offer every trick in the book; swirling around your tongue around the head of his cock, sweeping it across the small slit to collect the small bead of cum, teasing him before taking him down your throat and gagging on him. He’s already so close, and you're already dripping onto your hand, and with one last final trick up your sleeve, you catch his eyes, sink yourself onto him until your nose bashes against skin, and fight through the gag. Teeth baring, you slowly, lightly, graze your teeth up his cock, ghosting over every vein that pulses, leaving behind the soothing aftercare of your soft lips. By your side, his thighs twitch and by the time you reach the head of his cock, an explosion happens. 

Santiago leans forward, grappling onto your head as you drink down everything he gives you. His entire body tenses, trapping you into a headlock and just only for a couple of seconds do you feel yourself losing breath, but it doesn’t matter, because above you he’s panting heavily, enclosing his thighs around your head and holding onto you for dear life. It’s all the signs you need to know that you’ve done what you promised, you proved yourself. 

“Fucking hell,” Santiago pants. His grip loosens around you and you suck down a large breath as he releases you. The instant your lips are free, he forces you to a stand and claims them, humming into them with hunger. He slips his tongue past your lips searching for a taste of himself on you with a delectable moan. It only takes him a couple of seconds of clawing at your waist before his hand slips beneath your underwear to feel the result of your constant edging; a wet cunt that’s pleading for relief. The slightest touch of his fingers has your hips buckling, you’re so close it hurts. 

“So wet. So needy.”

“F-fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you whimper. You want it, you need it, you can’t live without it, for god sake, please!

“Yeah?” You could hear the smirk in his voice. “On whose authority?”

“Santiago, please.” 

“I told you this is about discipline and listening to orders--” his fingers drill into your clit with absolute precision and immediately takes control of your pleasure, luring it to the surface. “Did I say you could cum?” 

“No, but--” 

“Then you can’t. Have the discipline to stop it.” 

“Fuck!” Just seconds away from orgasm, you drop to a crouch, his hand slipping from you in one fluid movement. So close, so fucking close. 

Santiago maniacally chuckles above you. He has little sympathy for you hunched on the ground reeling into yourself, but what he does have though, is just a little pride. Pride that you listened, that you obeyed no matter how desperate you were to go against his word. Because, of course, in Santiago’s eyes, his word overrules everyone else’s. His word is gospel. What he says goes. 

You don’t get to relish the pride he has for you because you are spiralling. Your shaking body can’t allow you to stand knowing that even the slightest friction of anything against your clit would set you off and you’ve done so well to abide by his rules, you wouldn’t want to ruin it.

Santiago’s hand comes to stroke the back of your head in a supportive manner to find that you’re burning up. It’s obvious that you need release and that resides with him. 

“Stand up.”

“I…I don’t think I can.” 

“Come on,” he demands, his tone a little harsher. “Stand up and put your hands on the table.”

Shaky legs raise you to your feet and you brace yourself against the hard wooden table, the cold surface just a slight relief to the fire raging through your body. Santiago teases down your trousers leaving your panties to feel the brush of his hips against your ass, giving you a large hint of what’s to come. Your stomach plummets at the thought of having to hang onto the precipice for any longer. You could cry at the thought, tears ready and waiting behind your eyes. 

“Good girl,” he whispers seductively. “You’re so close, aren’t you? So desperate for release that just one--” he lightly brushes your clit through your underwear, “little--” he does it again and you judder, “touch will set you off.” 

Jesus, you could cry. You could cry and cry and cry, and beg for forgiveness, yield and submit yourself completely to him for the one second of pure bliss you’re starving for. He’s reduced you to nothing but a licentious and needy beggar you don’t recognise. 

“How much longer can you last?” He knows, but it pleases him to ask anyway. 

“I’ll break if you touch me.”

“Perfect.” 

Wicked hands and fast reflexes rip your drenched underwear from you and Santiago mercilessly drills his cock straight into you. The second you feel him fill you up, one hand comes to encircle your neck, closing off your oxygen while his fingers find your clit once again and with just a few devious laps around your clit, you explode. A blinding light flashes behind your eyes and your body becomes engulfed by a white-hot pain that ironically, freezes you to the spot. Santiago growls loudly behind you, feeling how your pussy clenches so tightly around him that he’s barely spared an inch to move, but his fingers don’t face the same challenge and are still effortlessly ruining you to the core. There’s a pathetic attempt from you to remove his hand but his persistence remains far superior. 

Santiago relieves the pressure on your throat to hear you sing for him. You’re thankful the walls are thick enough to contain your cries. 

The thing is, Santiago knew you were close, but what he didn’t anticipate was how close he was too, especially so soon after you sucked him dry. With how intensely your pussy milks him of everything he has, it takes less than a few forceful thrusts before he succumbs to his orgasm and collapses on top of you. It washes over him hard, electrocuting every nerve and filling every pore with sweat. Fuck, he thinks, haven’t felt this good in years. 

Warmth envelopes you both, eyes fluttering to a close with the liberating feeling of release. Santiago, having just a little more sanity than you do, still has enough energy to lazily work his hips back and forth, fucking you so slowly and deeply, you think it might just trigger another explosion. Alas, he spares you the burden and finally comes to rest against you. 

It feels like an eternity has passed by the time the heat dwindles and air returns to your lungs. During the quiet minutes that pass, euphoria eases into your muscles, massaging out the cramp and any discomfort of your desperate attempts to contain your orgasm. The soft, grounding kisses that Santiago leaves at the nape of your neck seem to have a similar effect and you hum contentedly. 

“I mean it, by the way,” Santiago mutters behind you, still brushing his lips against your skin. “You really could’ve gotten yourself killed today.” His fingers trace down your shoulder, gently running across the bandage that covers your shrapnel wounds to reinforce his point. 

You sigh. “I know.” 

You feel him leave you, alleviating his weight and dressing himself. “Look at me.” 

You’re just about able to turn yourself around, and with Santiago’s help, he dresses you too. Once decent, the very hands that ruined you come to clamp against your cheeks, far too delicate for what you had known them to be. “What you did today was out of line—” 

This again. “But Frankie--” 

“Frankie is a different story. His mission to infiltrate the barn and receive the controls meant that the chances of him dying was a lot higher than ours. And even though it’s a fucking bastard of a pill to swallow, it’s just one of those things that we all have to come to terms with. I went into this mission already prepared to accept the possibility of his death should anything go wrong. Yours I wasn’t willing to accept.” 

“But I didn’t die.” 

“You’re not getting it.” His words are spat through gritted teeth and something in you sinks at the disappointment. The only thing that seems to calm him down is the sensation of your forehead against his, proof that you are alive. “Frankie’s death would’ve hurt, yes, but like I said, I would’ve seen it coming. If you expect disappointment, you won’t get disappointed. But when you threw yourself into the firing line like that, you started playing a game of Russian Roulette. Neither of us knew whether you were going to live or die and I panicked. I was so scared, terrified even at the thought of losing you because I knew I would never be able to recover from it. Your death, your untimely, unprecedented death under my watch would’ve haunted me for the rest of my life. That’s the difference between you and Frankie. That’s the lesson you need to learn from this.” 

Your eyebrows crunch together, feeling stupid for not coming to the realisation sooner. You feel embarrassed to admit that you had never thought of it like that. 

A long silence fills the room because you’re not too sure how to put the feeling of heavy regret into words, none of them justifiable enough to convey even a hint of the remorse that you feel inside. The fact that you refuse to look Santiago in the eyes is proof enough to him that you’re aware of the mistake you made, and instead of looking for a response, he settles for your silence and simply brushes his thumb across the highs of your cheek.

“Just promise me you won’t do it again, no matter how immoral it seems, no matter whose life is at stake, please, if at all possible, keep yourself safe.” 

“I promise.” 

He brings his lips to yours, melting them together in a kiss as though it is his last. “Good,” he smiles lightly, sealing the lesson with a kiss to your forehead. “I…I might’ve gotten carried away trying to get that message to sink in.” 

For the first time in a while, you smile. “It’s okay. I’ve definitely learned my lesson not to piss you off.” 

“Hmm, keep your promise and stay alive long enough and you’ll find out what the reward is.” 

[suedoodle]

Hi there, SueDoodle!

I apologise. This is not so much a question as just a simple comment - please ignore it if it is exhaustive/impudent of me! After viewing your work and awaiting new pieces with bated breath for a while now, I just wanted to express my enjoyment of your works (regardless of the fandom, it seems), and as I write too much to comment on a single one of your posts in the scope that they deserve, I have had to resort to pestering you directly. The attention to detail that you apply to each and every one of your sketches, no matter how simple, always has a hidden depth of intricacy that is astounding and such a pleasure to see. Little things like how your artworks are always so personal and mindful of each character's individuality. For your Trolls Band Together pictures, the detailing in Spruce's hair, for instance, when released from the towel when cleaning his facial products off baby Branch's face. How it flares and juts out in different directions as natural hair should. How you maintain his 'heartthrob/half lidded eyes'. It is not only the maintaining of character features, but also your clever and lovely adaptations. Your Bitty B, as an example, so so much more compact (specifically in the noggin department!) which just underpins the cuteness of scenes with him, and I feel it also expands the amount of activities that you are able to draw baby Branch engaging in and not have half your sketch hidden by his canonically large/trollish head.

I have always loved Mario and Luigi's designs, despite only playing ONE GAME with them (shameshame) but as I enjoyed your artwork so much, I have taken to asking my better half more about the characters and games and fanart that you have created for them so that I can understand their origins more, but also share your excellent pieces with said half as they are VERY artistically picky indeed and I was so confident in your style and ideas that I just knew they would love your work, too. I was correct. The scenes that you have made with the characters thus far are absolutely gorgeous and a real pleasure to see. Your recent roller skating coloured art, AND the subsequent 'younger Brozone sleepover' artwork was a real treat, thank you. I wonder what their bedtime situation would be when Floyd and Branch's go-to method of bathing seems to be a 10 storey waterslide? Not really something that is going to wind you down into a mood for sleep. Maybe it's a Troll thing. Thank you so much, and please continue to post your inspiring and wholesome and stellar artwork forever and ever~!

Thank you for the compliments. I try my best; studying to improve never ends ✍️

[souperluminal]

i feel like you would absolutely LOVE Noita. your wizard sun art is 1000% recreatable there.

Haha, can't deny that I have Noitaed

I do like it quite a bit, big fan of the chaos, though I haven't gotten very far in terms of the whole scope of the game. The few times that I've beaten the final boss were largely because I got lucky about the wands that I found (wand building is a skill that I am not yet well versed in) or perks I got (electricity + breathless and a lot of sea of water spells really makes it a breeze). Mostly I get bodied in the Vault. 

I haven't visited any parallel worlds yet. The last time I tried exploring outside the standard path I wound up in some place called the Meat Realm and let me tell you I did Not care for it. Can't wait to visit again.

[merbear25]

Can you do Zoro, Sanji, and Luffy x single mother S/O? Would they treat their S/O’s son/ daughter as their own?

Hey, hey! This was so heartwarming for me to think about, so thank you for sending in your request! Personally, I can’t see them being anything other than accepting towards the child. Generally speaking, they’d see them as an extension of you, so there’d be no reason for them not to care for them like their own. I hope you like what I’ve written for you 💜💜

CW: fluff, fem!reader (single mom), headcanons/scenario, written with them dating the reader and not married to her.

One of their own (Monster trio)

Zoro

Upon first meeting your child, he was unintentionally intimidating to them. Being the large scarred man that he was, it took awhile for the kid to warm up to him. With small yet thoughtful interactions, trust was built on a solid foundation. He became someone your child could turn to when they felt unsure about something, knowing that Zoro would come at the issue with a level head.

Playtime would always leave the child worn out. It’d be perfect if they were younger, so you could lay them down to sleep much more easily. Sometimes they passed out on the couch, so Zoro would be the one putting them to sleep, seeing as their dead weight would be easy for him to haul off to bed.

He’d be stern yet caring, not giving the kid room to run a muck because he’d always be respectful of the rules you’d set in place. The child learned quickly that they couldn’t try to get their own way if you told them no. “Can I have some candy?” types of questions were always followed by, “What did your mother say?”

Sanji

When you first introduced him to your child, he was very warm and open towards them. Your child took to Sanji almost instantly. With a smile that was inviting and comforting like an embrace, he easily became one of your child’s favorite people. They felt at ease around him; he was caring and gentle but wasn’t a pushover (unless your daughter gave him puppy dog eyes).

One of their favorite activities would be cooking and/or baking together. He’d adore being able to share his passion with them. They’d be put in charge of certain aspects of the meal, so that they felt like they were contributing to whatever delicious food was being prepared. When it was time to lay them down to sleep, Sanji would read them a bedtime story, wanting to show them the affection that his father never gave him.

He’d never cross the line when it came to how you ran your household, treating the boundaries you’d set in place with the utmost respect. Even if your child tried to pull on his heartstrings with an adorable look, he’d honor your rules—despite it being extremely difficult sometimes. Sanji would want to spoil them, so just be sure to keep an eye on him.

Luffy 

The first time you introduced Luffy to your child, he was warm and friendly. However, there was just something about him that made your child feel like they needed to scope him out before they could feel comfortable around him; he was, after all, a very unusual person. The more time they spent around him, the easier it got to come around. They then would ask you all the time when Luffy was coming over.

Being the imaginative man that he was, Luffy would create games seemingly out of thin air. Since he was more of the ‘do now think later’ type, your house became subjected to much of their wacky fun. With a few broken items here and there, he apologized profusely for the recklessness and promised to take their fun outside from then on.

Even though he was playful and light-hearted, he still had moments when he was serious. When you or your child needed him to be that, he’d step up and do what had to be done. With that in mind, you and your child’s bond with him would strengthen and whenever you had down time to relax and watch something, more often than not you’d fall asleep on the couch together.

[b33zlebubz]

Ingydar | fester

joel miller x reader | mdni 18+ | ao3

previous | next

tags: reader uses she/her pronouns, blood gore and death, mentioned cannibalism, sexual tension, frostbite/hypothermia, amputation, everyone is touch-starved

You're a loner in the woods. A ghost story to the kids, a tale of caution to the hunters. A rumor of smoke on the mountain and a glow between the trees. Joel Miller finds himself tangled up in your story and slowly discovers that you're not nearly as dangerous as you've made yourself out to be.

More patrols start popping up around the mountains.  Bigger numbers.  More guns.  More horses and larger backpacks.  Younger people, usually, paired with people who look like they may have once been locals.  Experienced hunters and veterans, maybe, or just whoever was better at shooting a gun.

They’re away for longer, you note.  Often not returning through the valley for days.  Sometimes they come back with meat, other times with an empty horse and a couple less people.  You don’t know how they’re managing, and although a part of you is curious, the other knows large groups mean danger.  Means spreading the disease that bubbles up through the corpses in the snow.  That levels cities, poisons the air, and grows on the rubble.

Survivors hear stories of the city of Jackson, flocking through the mountains in groups to the safehold.  You hear rumors through the trees when travelers pass and sometimes intercepted through the radio you keep near your bed.  The city grows and you watch from atop your mountain, yellow lights steady.  Stronger by the day.

The gold ring on your finger feels heavier as the weeks go by.

Winter progresses, worsens.   The deer, elk, and moose become scarce, leaving the once buzzing forests baren and still.  Freezing to the point that your skin stings from just a few moments against the open air.  It leaves you poking a few new holes in your belt just to make it to the next week.  Still, you manage.  You’ve seen worse with less, a little hunger wouldn’t level you.

Jackson was also having shit luck, if the growing number of patrols are any clue.  It’s too cold for much game and with the amount of people coming that need fed, they’re picking off whatever they find.  Before you know it, rabbits are rare, too.  Reluctantly, you decide your usual stomping grounds just aren’t cutting it anymore.  You gear up and head down the mountain, rifle slung over your back.

Hours pass with nothing.  You’re growing frustrated as your energy dwindles, trekking further into the woods while the sun rises heavy above your head.  Your breath fogs in front of your face with each step, rifle held close between freezing fingers.  It's like time is frozen.  No breeze to stir the snow, no animals in sight.  Just the birds that fly between trees and the crunch of snow beneath your boots.  Pine trees coat the mountains in thick, dark fur; dropping snow in dense piles at the quietest moments.  At the very least, the sky is blue, although the sun on the white landscape irritates your eyes through your sunglasses.

Eventually, you catch wind of a single moose.  A massive one.  The only living thing within miles, it’ll feed you for weeks without rationing.  Maybe the whole way through winter, if you’re smart about it.  The creature wanders alone and even it has trouble walking in the amount of snow that coats the ground.

You lower yourself under the cover of the trees, squatting atop a hill at the base of the mountain.  You raise your gun, squinting through the scope until your sights land on the massive animal.

Something else, too.  A man.  Downwind of you, about a click away from the moose.  He’s dressed in black hovering near a stream in a similar position, a dark cowboy hat adorning his head.  Stalking.  His horse isn’t far off, tied up and drinking from the frozen stream among a few others with similar weapons. 

You’re closer, quieter, your rifle more equipped for such a beast.  You flick your safety off and approach, snowshoes nearly silent over the snow.  You don't think he sees you, keeping his distance and wandering to the west, trying to anticipate the animal’s movements, you think.  Then, when you get close enough, you notice him glancing in your direction.  He’s caught your movement and your eyes meet, for a moment.

There’s something there.  An unspoken plea.  A certain I need this that makes you think there’s more to this than bringing food back to a hungry city.  A family, maybe, waiting for him back home.  A purpose.

Your eyes flicker back to your prey and you keep moving, getting closer.

It’s a game now.  You inch through the wood and so does he.  You raise your gun, lining up your shot, and he watches closely.  Mimics you as if he’s committing each of your movements to memory.  You take one measured step towards the moose.  He does, too.

The man steps on a stick wrong and the creature startles, starting off towards the woods.  Your gazes meet once more for a split second before you’re off, following at a distance.  Starting over.  Resetting.  Letting the animal calm before you stalk it again, not risking anything.

You settle yourself in the brush again and look around.  The man is gone, leaving only the sound of your tired breathing to fill the silence as you lay your gun on your shoulder and line up your shot.

Pop.  The moose startles before it topples.  With one more quick shot to the chest, it's dead, and the forest is silent again aside from your heartbeat.  You could collapse with relief, really, at the thought of eating something other than a few stale crackers.  Something you might pair with some of your whiskey tonight in celebration.   A breath leaves you before you stumble over, the energy sapped from your muscles after the hunt is over.  The adrenaline drained. 

Gutting and skinning is laborious work, and you only have a few hours of daylight left whenever you’ve fit enough onto a sled to last a couple of weeks.  Your hands are coated in still-warm blood you do your best to wipe off on a cloth.

You pretend not to notice when the man returns.  Like a skittish but curious animal, he watches from a distance.  His eyes burn holes in your head as you work and ignore him. 

“Hey.”

You look up and he’s there at the treeline, gun raised and ready.  Dark hair, a mustash under his nose coated with snow.  He’s cold—nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot, but his expression is calm.  Focussed.  No bullshit.  His gloved finger isn’t on the trigger and its clear he’s been out here a while, maybe longer than you.  Desperate.  You feel a little bad.

“Who are you?”  He huffs and it clouds out in front of his face, the loudest thing in several miles. 

You pause, surprised that he stuck around this long.  Still, you don’t answer, just look up at him before returning to your task, tying your sled up tight so the pelt doesn’t drag in the snow.

“Hey,”  he urges, louder from the treeline.  He shifts his weight again, holds the gun closer to himself.  His finger is on the trigger now, but it's a light grip—bluffing.  Southern drawl thick under his voice.   “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you!”

You stand with a grunt, sore and tired and completely not in the mood for social interaction.  Especially not with someone pointing a gun in your face, half-frozen while the sun is beginning to set.  Still, you look up to meet his gaze.

You nod towards the carcass you’ve barely put a dent in.

“The rest is yours,”  it’s the first time you’ve talked in months. 

He doesn’t stop you.  Just watches in silence, something softening in his gaze as he lowers the gun. His eyes follow as you drag your feet back home.  Sled a few feet in tow, tied to the belt around your waist and only just barely full.  Halfway up the mountain, when the sun is sinking over the treeline, you finally stop to look behind you.  

A team of men trek through the snow, armed with lanterns that bob and weave through the trees.  Three horses each with their own bag of meat strapped to their backs.  Something about it brings you comfort.

***

You’re running.  Sprinting through the mud, feet bare and pants ripped.  Your throat burns with the effort of breathing, in and out and in and out, burnt feet aching against the ground with each painful smack against the mud.  The fire feels hot on your back still, even as it gets smaller on the hill, and you turn to see the town burning.  Houses swirling with orange and yellow that licks at the sky—gone.  Everything, gone.

Your heart in your throat, you turn and keep stumbling, even as screams fill your ears.  People darting everywhere gathering neighbors, even with the infected in tow—ravenous.  Unforgiving.  The world is a dark mess of fire and red and blue.

A rock catches your boot and you fall with a yelp, tumbling down the side of the hill.  Each slam against the mud is muted after the first, igniting a bright and paralyzing pain down each one of your vertebrae.  You hit the bottom of the ditch first, meeting the hard path below with a loud thud.  Your ring follows, somehow ripped off your finger in the mess.  It dings twice before you catch it in a bloody palm, golden and scratched.

Everything is silent.  Dead.  Gone.  The screaming put to a complete halt by the blinding ringing in your skull.  Even the crackling of the fire is gone, along with the light that came with it.  

It’s dark.  The chaos suddenly snuffed out the second you hit the ground.  The only thing that breaches it is the rapid thudding of your heart and the struggle to catch your breath as you lay there, writhing.  You’d probably throw up if there was anything left to, but there isn’t.  You cough and sputter instead.

You squeeze the ring into your shaky fist.  Cold.  Grounding.  You need to get up.

You open your eyes and you’re immediately met with a snarling face.  Wavy, dark hair with the grey streaks behind his ears.  Eyes that once held the capacity to be kind now lifeless and wild.   He snaps at you, the man whose daughter you saved, and you yelp.  Scramble backwards.  Moving is a struggle, limbs about as nimble as bricks as you drag yourself away.

It’s no use.  He goes for your neck and you scream.

***

It takes a moment for you to wake fully; as it always does whenever you come back from a nightmare.  The ceiling of your home greets you first, wooden beams dancing with light that reflects through the gap in the curtains next to you.  Then, it’s the chill against the cold sweat on your brow, and the way your sleeping bag sticks to your legs as you shift sore limbs to sit up.  It’s quiet, as it normally is, and it takes you a moment to shake sleep from your mind long enough to gauge what roused you.

Then, as you grunt and sit up, the sound of voices outside.  Laughing, shushing.

“I dunno, guys, someone’s definitely been up-keeping this.”

“What?”  A female voice and a thud sound muffled through the wood,  “you scared?”

You launch upright immediately, grabbing your rifle from the side of your bed and peeling back the curtains in one fluid motion.  You pull back just enough to peek down into the dark; spotting three teenagers.  Two with lanterns a little ways off, the third looking up from just below your window.  It’s too dark for them to see inside, but you flinch away anyway.  Heart in your throat.  Shit.  Fuck.

“Did you hear that?”  The first guy speaks up as you back away from the window and onto a squeezy board.  The door off to the corner is locked; they won’t get inside.  Not unless they’re really determined.

“Someone is definitely in there,”  the second female mutters, nervous.  “Tommy was right, guys.  We should head back.  Best not to start shit.”

“Oh, please.  Nobody is surviving up here on their own.  ‘Place is haunted or something.”

There’s a knock against the trapdoor and your rifle is trained on it in an instant.  Heart in your throat, you wait.  Stare at the door, listen to the sound of shuffling on the stairs below it.  You don’t blink.  You don’t breathe.  You don’t move an inch.

“It’s empty,”  The girl scoffs and shoulders the door.  “Told you.”

You hear your barricade start to give as she continues hitting it and you’re immediately climbing up on top of your desk.  A shaky hand reaches up to push open the door to your roof before you slide your gun up silently.  The cold almost immediately bites at your exposed knuckles as you scramble up.

“Okay, alright, this has gone too far,”  the male voice rings out.  “Maybe the hunter was just some straggler, maybe she lives here and is just out.  But we definitely should head back and report this to Maria now instead of breaking into some random building.”

“And miss out on some crazy loot?”  The girl fires back as you stifle a grunt, scrambling up and into the snow that sits on your roof.  “We won’t get in trouble as long as we don’t fuck up.”

You lower the door carefully back down, hoping your plan B will buy you some time.  She hits the door with a grunt and you shut your eyes with a quiet curse as you hear wood splinter and give.  Then, she lets out a breath and adds,  “so don’t fuck up, alright?”

You glance over the roof of your home to the footprints in the snow leading to the ladder below.

“Jesus…”  The male mutters as he climbs the rest of the steps below.  You see the light of the lantern swish and disappear into your lookout.  “This is fucked.”

“Fucked and awesome,”  you hear the teenagers move things, open cupboards, step on creaky floorboards.  

“Joel’s gonna lose his shit.”

“I don’t know, Jesse, there is a shit ton of medicine in here.”

Freezing hands fiddle with your gun.  It’s empty, but you slowly slide a couple stray bullets into the chamber.  Pull the suppressor off the muzzle while your heart races in your ears and your face stings from the freezing cold.

They continue exploring, pocketing your belongings.  Some of your food by the sounds of it, too.  You pull yourself over the edge of your roof with a grunt, head peeking down over the snow.  Your burglars speak in harsh whispers, now, silhouetted against your pelts of elk and moose that keep the cold from leaking in through the windows.  

You pull yourself down until the gutter digs into the skin just below your ribs.  Lean down just far enough to see into the windows, socked feet rooted painfully into the snow and ice to keep you from sliding free.  

“Didn’t think anyone was actually living up here.”

“People say she’s watching us,”  one of the girls whispers softly, shining a flashlight over your belongings.  “Has been from the start.  Tommy even says he saw her.”

You flick the safety off your rifle.

“I think there's more than one, here,”  the other girl says.  “Planning an attack, or something.  Scouting us out.  They would’ve just come to Jackson, otherwise.”

The man, Jesse, scoffs.  

“Maybe they’re waiting for the perfect moment,”  the first girl says, dropping her voice.  “Waiting until we get hungry and weak, when our defenses are down.”

You line your shot up against the base of the window.  There’s a gunshot there already anyway, the window was on its last legs.

“Stop,”  the other girl swats at her friend.  “You’re scaring him.”

“Jesus, speak for yourself.”

“I’m not kidding, though,”  a girl insists.  “I’m telling you—it's bad news.  Creepy ghost shit, a group of fuckers in dark snowsuits following our guys.  Waiting, stalking, following…just waiting for the right time to—”

You fire.

It shatters the window, pierces the pelts.  Creates a sound loud enough to reverberate through the lookout, over the mountains, and ignite a panic.  It doesn’t hit anyone, you make sure of that, but the force of the blast causes the snow to crack at your feet.  You slide off, snag your leg on the wooden stairs, and land so hard against the snow it slams all the breath from your lungs before you can yell out in surprise.  Your rifle follows soon after, disappearing into the snow somewhere in front of you.

Your vision blurs, fuzzy in the dark.  You take in one heaving breath after the other and writhe onto your side in silent agony.  The ground tilts and spins, disoriented.  Your leg feels warm.  Hot.  Blood runs from your pant leg into the snow from a deep, lengthy cut through your calf.  

Still, you blink your eyes open just in time to see three teens run from the scene.  The shorter girl with a full backpack, then who you assume is Jesse.  The last girl scrambles from the steps before stopping, hesitating.  Breath fogging out from under the hood of her parka, stirring locks of brown hair, before she spots you.

You see regret shoot immediately through her expression, raw and genuine, as she realizes her friends were wrong.  That it’s just you alone in this lookout, not a ghost or a cannibal or a firefly or whatever else Jackson has been speculating.  She almost reaches out as if to help your battered body from the snow, to say something, or maybe just to grab your rifle and run—but her friend comes back.  Grabs her shoulders, urges her along, and she follows quickly.

You watch their lanterns disappear over the hill.  Their yells grow quiet and distant as they return to their horses and disappear back down the mountain.  Gone.  Quiet.  Cold.

Your head falls back into the snow as the pain catches up to you, and you spread out onto your back to catch your breath.  Lungs aching, but slowly beginning to work again.  

Above you, thick and heavy snowflakes start to fall around your camp.  You can hear each one as it hits the ground.

***

You have rules that you follow.  

Most of which are not particularly for survival, but for your own peace of mind.  Keep yourself somewhat sane through all of this; the killing and the fungus and the cold.  Keep things comfortable and suffering to a minimum.  Like how the alcohol is only reserved for really productive days.  Boil water every morning, wash yourself up when you can.  If you’re sick, sleep until you’re better.  Never go to bed cold and hungry, just one or the other.

Some are more important to you than others, like how you tried not to light fires during the day; knowing the smoke draws attention to your structure up on the mountain. You’ve treated the pelts of any animal you could to keep you warm and pressed them to the windows instead.  It keeps the temperature bearable and confines your lantern light to inside the house—keeping you hidden at night, too, whenever you have to light a fire.

It's the first rule you break in a long time, that next day, flicking flint onto some twigs.  The wind whistles against the broken glass and through your pelts, exploding shivers through your muscles all night as you do a botched sewing job up your calf.  The wound is nasty; open and deep in the muscle.  So deep even the slightest movement of your toes makes you nauseous.  You’re positive that no metal punctured your skin, though.  A small blessing.

They took most of your first aid, so you settled on a hot needle that's thicker than you would have liked and a plastic container of dental floss.  You reluctantly used the last of your whiskey as disinfectant, bunching your shirt into your mouth to muffle your suffering.  By the time it's over, your hair was damp with sweat, the floor spotted with blood, and you had your head resting against the cold of the table with one arm over a bucket.  

You wake up late into the morning exhausted.  Heavy and dizzy.  Your back aches something fierce from your fall and your leg damn near has its own heartbeat.  It’s storming, snow casting the outside in a thick, suffocating white.  The fire helps, and once you muster the strength to stand, you nail a wooden plank to your unsalvageable window and clean up the glass.  You take stock of everything that was taken, too.  A couple cans of tomato soup, your best hatchet, some socks and underwear.  All things you could live without.

Aside from your first-aid kit and your fucking antibiotics.

It pulls a quiet curse from your throat, opening your medicine cabinet to find an entire shelf of it empty.  They left the morphine and ibuprofen, which you’re thankful for, shooting just enough into your veins to take the edge off the hurt.  Still.  It casts a dark veil over your thoughts as you clean everything up, hopping on one foot.

Once you’re done, you crawl back into bed.  The pain dulled and the heaviness of the drugs still thick in your system, sleep comes to you in a massive but gentle wave.  It’s deep.  The kind of sleep that only comes whenever you’re drugged or sick, the kind without nightmares that feels almost like slipping through time.  Infection settling deep in your wound, you’ve grown to notice the signs before the worst of it even starts.

The next time you open your eyes, the sun is setting against your pelts.  You don’t feel nearly as rested as you should, but eventually you force yourself to sit up, anyway.  Stoke the fire back to life, adding logs and poking at embers until orange streaks flicker in the stove.  It’s hot on your fevered skin, cold sweat caked in your hair and across the collar of your sweater.  A sigh leaves you.  You don’t want to look at your leg again, but you can’t put it off forever.

You pull the leg of your jeans up with shaky hands and prop your foot against a chair.  Unwrapping the wound hurts worse than a burn, you think, and looking at it is even worse.  White stitches stained dark against puffy, irritated skin.  It starts about halfway down your calf and thins out into a red streak by your ankle.  If anything, you're thankful the wood you snagged yourself on didn’t tear anything terribly important.  Still, puss leaks from the wound when you press on it and you scrunch your nose up at the sight.

Draining it is painful, but you press on anyway.  You have to.  You go back to bed after.

The next time you wake is when you break the biggest rule you’ve set for yourself.

You’ve used the last of your firewood.  You have more in the shed by your outhouse, but retrieving it means suiting up and moving.  Deciding you’ve procrastinated enough, you pull on your winter coat and struggle with your boots before grabbing your rifle and heading out.  You hobble down the steps before hesitating at the bottom, already tired.

There’s footsteps in the snow.

Big ones.  Fresh, adult ones.  A guy, if you had to guess—not smaller like the teens from the other day and not infected ones either; judging by the even spacing.  You linger on them for a moment before taking a breath and pressing on, tucking the butt end of your rifle under your arm and your other hand around the trigger.

That’s when it happens.  Movement.  Behind your outhouse.  Your heart leaps in your chest and you’re quick to act, keeping each footstep more measured as you shift around to the other side.  Careful, quiet.

You see one dark horse.  Then another.  Two men.  One still saddled and the other just getting off.  You purse your lips and grip your gun tight—you’ve seen both of them before.  

“This it?”  The younger one asks as he squints up at your tower, the man in the cowboy hat from a few weeks ago.  He’s got the same rifle slung over his shoulder and his breath fogs out in front of his face as he raises a hand to his forehead to block out the light.  The other follows his line of sight up to your shelter and grunts in affirmation.  They look similar.  Brothers, maybe.

“Yeah,” he says, tying his horse off at a tree.  He’s got a backpack slung over his shoulder and his own gun at his back.  “This is it.”

You blink before pressing your back to the wood, shielding you from sight.  It’s the man you saved weeks ago.

“‘Figured it’d be bigger.”

“Just one person living here.  Doesn’t need to be big.”

The man in the cowboy hat steps in your direction and you brace yourself for a fight, heartbeat in your ears.

“Jesus, they got a chicken farm and every—”

He steps around to face you.  You don’t give him time to react, his eyes merely widening before you jump into action.

You grab him and shove hard, forcing him into the snow at your feet.  He yelps.  Before he struggles to stand you plant a boot between his shoulder blades and shove your gun to the back of his head.  The other man raises his weapon immediately, flicking the safety off.  The horses startle.

“Joel!”  The man at your feet strains to the man a little ways off,  “don’t.”

Your eyes shift to meet the man in question—Joel.  He stands statue-still, gun trained between your eyes and finger clutching the trigger just hard enough not to shoot.  He looks older than you thought, up close, and you level him with a stare that shares an equal amount of intent.  You will fire if he even so much as flinches wrong, and you don’t doubt he’d do the same.

You watch his eyes shift from the man at your feet, to your gun, to your face, and back to his brother.  His face twitches with a reluctance that seems annoyed before he forces himself to lower his gun to the ground.  You watch him drop it, slowly put his hands up, and kick the weapon aside into the snow.  You remove your finger from the trigger of your rifle, but press your boot harder against the man’s back.  It hurts like a bitch, sends shockwaves of pain up your leg, but you don’t show it.

“If it’s more antibiotics you want, I’m fresh out.”  You snarl to Joel, voice hoarse.  Ugly and underused.  

His brow furrows deeper.  He dips his head a little and you can’t read his expression; somewhere between thinly veiled anger and trepidation.  Other than the subtle shifts in his countenance, though, he doesn’t move an inch.  A discipline that screams experience.

“It’s not,”  he grunts simply.

Frustration growing, you twist your boot, pulling a curse from the man below you.  Joel’s hands twitch.  

“Then what the fuck do you want?”

“To talk.”  The man under your feet grunts through clenched teeth.  “We just…wanna talk.”

A moment passes as you consider his words.  Your eyes glance from him to Joel, who holds your gaze.  Calm, but tense. 

You watch him move, slowly.  You let him lower his hands to slowly remove the backpack from his shoulder.  Not once does he break eye contact as he tosses it over and the contents spill from the bag.  Pill bottles and syringes.  First-aid.  Antibiotics.

You could sigh with relief, throw yourself to the ground and collect everything.  Zip it up and run off like some thieving fox, but you hold back.

“They didn’t mean trouble,”  Joel says, sincere.  His hands are back in the air.  “Just trying to look after their own.”

Your eyes glance back up to him again.  The paranoid part of you feels like this might be a trap, but his eyes tell you otherwise.  Measured in a way that suggests he got talked into diplomacy instead of just tossing the pack up to your lookout and leaving.

“And their punishment?”  You ask, curious.

“Latrine duty,” Joel answers evenly.  “For a month.”

That satisfies you.

You remove your boot from the man’s back and he sputters, taking a deep breath and coughing into the snow.  You reach down and scoop up the pack, taking stock of what’s inside.  It's more than they stole from you; proper suture supplies and rubbing alcohol.  A new hatchet; smaller than your old one, but newly made.  Two bottles of painkillers only a few weeks expired.

“This is more than they took,”  you say, voice softer.  You just wanted your things back, not anything that someone less fortunate could use.

“You were injured,”  the stranger stands up from the snow and dusts the worst of it off. Stretches his sore back and winces.  “‘Least we can do to make up for the trouble.  Figured you'd need it.”

That teenage girl flashes through your mind again.  You don’t know how you feel about her reporting your injury to the hold, and even less so about their kindness.  The man grabs his hat from the snow, clears his throat and offers his hand, pulling you from your thoughts.

“I’m Tommy,”  he says, voice hoarse from your boot.  He juts his head back in the direction of his brother, who is holding his gun again and still just as anxious as you are about all this.  “Joel.  We’re from the hold down the hill.”

Your hand clenches and unclenches at your side, eyeing his outstretched hand.  You figure that if they really did come to pillage, they would’ve done away with you by now.  Both strong, healthy, albeit pale and cold from the hike up here.  Perhaps a little lean, but that was a given considering how harsh this winter was going.

You really weren’t in any state to defend yourself, and you were well aware it showed.  Food was hard to come by, your window was shattered, you didn't have the energy to bathe, your leg had its own heartbeat and even the frigid air felt warm on your sweaty skin.  You weren’t doing well—and they could see it.  You didn’t have a choice other than to remain polite, diplomatic.

So, you slowly take his hand.  Shake it once.  He’s got a ring of his own, silver and well-polished.  You offer your own first name and it feels distant, foreign on your tongue.  Belonging to someone else who barely existed anymore.  You wonder when you last said it, and wonder again how long it's been since you’ve shaken someone’s hand.

“You’re from Jackson,”  you confirm.  

Tommy nods once, sharing a glance with his partner.  He hadn’t expected you to be able to see as far as the city from your lookout, and it shows.

“Yes,”  he says, and looks back at you.  “Jackson.”

“You’ve been watching us,”  Joel adds, tone still wary.

You think back to the name that teenager dubbed onto you, The Hunter.  Like you were some ghost or legend to be chased, something intangible.  Dangerous.  You’d find it amusing, if it didn’t end in your shit getting stolen.  

Your hackles rise at his tone, accusatory.  Wary.  Like any of this was your fault, like you weren’t here first.  Like you weren’t just minding your business before your house got raided.  “You’ve been watching me.”

“Looking for you,”  Tommy corrects, stepping to the right once as if to direct your attention back to him.  Away from the man quietly steaming in anxiety near his horse.  “Since you gave us that moose, anyway.”

There’s sincerity, there.  Enough so that it confirms your suspicions; that food has been just as hard to find for you as it has for them.  Still, you only huff. You pull out the painkillers and toss them back to Tommy.

“For your back,”  you note before zipping up and shouldering the rest.  “I’ve got my own.”

You turn to leave, to grab your bag of firewood and limp your way back up to your bed, treat your wounds, and sleep for another day.  You find yourself looking forward to it, you’re already low energy drained from this interaction.

“Wait.”  

It’s Joel’s voice that makes you stop.  When you turn, he steps forward up next to where Tommy stands.  He meets your gaze with something softer hidden behind a thick wall of trepidation.  Something a little kinder, a little tired, a little thankful.

“Thank you,”  he says, and its like the words take effort to pry from his chest.  “For saving her.”

You feel uncomfortable under his gaze, reminded of your nightmare.  Where his face replaced who you were so used to seeing every night. It’s a change that makes you nervous, wondering what it could mean, a change that makes your throat feel tight whenever you look at him.  There’s something you see in him, maybe, that you empathize with.  A loss.  A tight-coiled anxiety that only came from being in the worst place at the worst time, when the outbreak started.

He broke a routine, showing up in your dream, and you felt yourself breaking the biggest rule you had for yourself because of it.  A swirling dread in the pit of your stomach, a string tugging on your insides pulling you to the man you saw yourself in, for some reason.  Your fists clench and your ring feels cold against your palm.

Don’t get curious.

“Just keep your kids on a shorter leash, next time,”  you say to them, and leave.

You feel Joel’s stare on your back the whole way up until the door closes behind you.

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[o-sachi]

Cowboy, Pirate, or Samurai? pt. 2 ₊⊹ Blue Lock Chars.

ଳ how the blue lock boys respond to, “would you rather be a cowboy, pirate, or samurai?”

ଳ characters; rin itoshi, sae itoshi, shidou ryusei, michael kaiser, alexis ness, hiyori yo, kiyora jin

ᯓ Rin Itoshi - Samurai

He'd find the question a bit stupid because is his answer not obvious? "Too noisy," he'd say about the pirate and the cowboy. Rin's more of a lone wolf—moving in silence and always planning his next move. I don't see him choosing anything else aside from the samurai. Also, I have a feeling he's not too fond of water, especially the wide and deep waters of the seas that pirates have to traverse. He looks like the type to have motion sickness, but he's too prideful to admit it.

ᯓ Sae Itoshi - Pirate

Have you seen that one official art? I mean... I think Sae has the qualities to be the leader of a ship. Our idea of that has probably been influenced by Jack Sparrow or Luffy—both having loud and vibrant personalities. But even though Sae is more of the silent and brooding type, he has the potential to be a good leader if he wanted to. Canonically, he is also a strategist which is something very useful to commandeer a ship. And as we can see in the main story, it's easy for him to get people to follow him purely through his reputation and skill.

ᯓ Shidou Ryusei - Pirate

Unlike Sae, Shidou will probably choose pirate entirely due to Jack Sparrow. He has seen the Pirates of the Caribbean once and vaguely remembers thinking, "He just like me for real," about Captain Jack Sparrow. So upon asking this question to him, the eccentric pirate was the first thing to come to mind. Oh and if he hears Sae's answer then he's just likely to copy him regardless of what he might initially thought.

ᯓ Michael Kaiser - Cowboy

Out of the three choices, cowboys seem to be the ones that are cherished by their people. They're viewed as the hard working heroes—fighting off thieves or whatnot in exchange for little to nothing at all. Kaiser probably imagines what it would be like to be needed by the people—to be loved by them. He might not be too interested in the whole saving-the-public part of being a cowboy, but he can't pass up the opportunity to be revered as the hero of the people. I love you, Kaiser :((

ᯓ Alexis Ness - Pirate

He'd grumble when asked about the question. "Why are you only giving me lame choices?" he'd retort. Obviously, he'd rather be a wizard. What's the point if you can't do the unthinkable? But he digresses. Pirates aren't magical in any sense, but they're the closest to doing the impossible. They travel far and wide over dangerous seas, collect treasures, and plunder other pirates' bounty. Plus, their bodies are built different to adapt to the tumultuous waters. When you put it like that, pirates seem to be in a different realm compared to the cowboy or the samurai. Even after that tangent, however—he'll still make it clear that he's choosing wizard.

ᯓ Hiyori Yo - Cowboy

"Cowboys have pistols, right?" Well, he's sold. It hardly matters that samurais have katanas or that pirates have literal canons—Hiyori thinks those aren't practical at all. Besides, we can't really blame him for being largely influenced by the shooting games that he plays back at home. He's quite confident that he'd win in every standoff he'd find himself in. Sure, he has never tried it in real life, but if he's hitting no-scopes in game then it should be the same thing, right?

ᯓ Kiyora Jin - Samurai

He probably doesn't really care for being a pirate or a samurai—like he doesn't see anything appealing about it. With that being said, does his replica katana collection and extensive knowledge of the Shinsengumi entice you? Well, it should. I dunno... but Kiyora seems like the guy that's super into swords for no other reason besides he thinks that they are "rad." He has definitely played sword fighting with his siblings when they were younger. He may or may not have pretended to be Okita Souji when he was a young lad.

[🐟]: Should I do the other characters?

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