#variable tile floor

[alicegalefeeny]

Exterior Burlington Large mountain style brown two-story mixed siding gable roof photo

[topzsun]

TRUST THE CHANGE

── ♡ KENMA KOZUME

❝ life is variable. you are convinced kenma is your constant. ❞

You realise quickly that being Kenma’s friend means sitting at a weird dichotomy of knowing you are his friend, or not having a clue at all. This confusion isn’t helped by the fact that the teenage boy functions under disinterest and reservation, words sparing and any forms of expression even less so.

The first time you laid eyes on Kenma Kozume, it was the first day of the first year. A cliche beginning, for someone who is considered so unconventional. You had arrived late, late enough that unofficial seats had already been reserved and taken, and your only choice remains next to a hunched figure with long inky hair and a PlayStation Portable in hand. It wasn’t a wild assumption to make that she must be the introverted and distant type. You can work with this.

You sit your stationary down on the open seat, and your new seatmate only tilts her head long enough to catch a glimpse. Within that split second, you quickly register your mistake that your new seatmate was not a girl and that he had the most gorgeous eyes you’ve ever seen. The moment ends much too fast for you to catch your bearings, as he’s already absorbed back into his video game. You aren’t sure if he’s making a deliberate effort to not look your way. Before you can open your mouth to at least introduce yourself for courtesy’s sake, the homeroom teacher has already walked in, the clicking of her heels against the tiled floor being the first warning that you should be in your seat. You plop down next to him, absentmindedly busying yourself with arranging your pencils and pens on your desk. You miss how he spares a secret, second glance at you through his dark tresses.

(i)

The first year goes by almost uneventfully. It didn’t take long for you to learn your seatmate’s name, not when he’s been reprimanded so many times for having a console on his person during class hours. He’s not the type to greet you good morning, and you’ve learnt not to bother either because Kenma seems to have little care for the traditional Japanese code of etiquette and you felt silly being formal around him as well. Despite his mentioned apathy, he still manages to acknowledge your presence with a stiff nod, which you return with a smile.

You think the first time things had begun to shift is when you arrive at class, much earlier than usual on a humid Tuesday. You almost drop to your seat, sickened from the weather, and your eyes distractingly follow the screen of Kenma’s console, the boy so absorbed into the game he doesn’t bother even glancing up to see who is beside him. When you recognise the familiar graphics, you don’t think twice when Monster Hunter escapes your lips. That seems to be the trigger to catching his attention, as he quickly pauses to look at you. He still seems to avoid eye contact, but at least his head is turned in your direction.

“Do you play games?” He asks, and when you give your affirmative answer, he only lets out a muted him. With the lull of silence, his attention is drawn back to his portable console. However, he shifts an inch closer, as if inviting you to watch him play. There is a flutter in your stomach the rest of the morning you watch over his shoulder because you think you’ve successfully become acquainted with your aloof seatmate.

(ii)

You’ve never seen Kenma outside of classroom hours, and you blame it on your vastly different schedules. You ignore your friends’ teasing when your eyes scan the hallways during lunch, as they are convinced you harbour a crush on the raven-haired student. That’s not it, you’ve tried to explain, he’s the only person you know who likes the same games as you. This did little to dissuade your overzealous friends, so you leave them with their wild imaginations. They were right, however, when they say that your mood visibly deflates when you can’t catch hide nor hair of Kenma. You blame your disappointment on your curiosity, you are just nosy to know what he does in his spare time that doesn’t involve a screen.

It’s during the evening when your first wish comes true. You had opted to stay back to study for an upcoming test, and the hours blended together till you were leaving the library at the same time club activities were being dismissed. Your walk back home is unusually exhausting and strenuous today, and you fault it in the hours you’ve sat cramming for knowledge. As you pass by the local river, your daydreams of relaxation are cut short when you spy a figure sitting crouched on the cobbled staircase leading to the bourn. This alone isn’t what gave you pause, but the sight of familiar locks of dark hair and Nekoma’s red tracksuit. His name appears instantaneously in your mind. Before you can second-guess yourself, you have already strolled over to your classmate, eager to see what game he will be conquering today. It comes as a surprise when you find him empty-handed, his arms instead wrapped around his legs pressed against his chest. He is instead watching the peaceful flow of the water, uninterrupted by the slow breeze or the dawning clouds. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so contemplative.

Common sense would alert you that maybe this isn’t the moment where he wants to be bothered, but your body moves to the command of your heart rather than your brain, and you’re already standing two steps behind him. The sound of your footsteps draws his attention, and he glances over his shoulder curiously. For a brief moment, you think shock crosses his expression, but before you can be sure he has already returned to a neutral expression. He doesn’t say anything, and you realise he is waiting for you to speak first.

“Are you okay?” sounds reasonable. A show of appropriate concern.

“Do you want to talk?” an invitation for him to air out what is on his mind. Considerate and inviting.

“Can I sit here?” You ask with a baited breath and he blinks at you, sharp eyes scanning your figure almost curiously.

“Okay,” He answers and shifts aside enough for you to take a seat. You drop your bag and stretch your feat over the steps, silent, and Kenma doesn’t attempt to fill in the space with conversation either. The river looks nice painted in gold.

(iii)

The second year begins in spring, and some things remain constant, like how you are still seatmates with Kenma and that you still have the same pencil case as you did in your first year. However, as destined, the new year also brings about changes, like how Kenma has decidedly gone blonde and that you’ve learnt of a senior named Tetsuro Kuroo. Meeting Kuroo felt inevitable now, not with how much more time you spend with his childhood friend, but you can’t find yourself interacting with him like you did Kenma. Kuroo isn’t a bad person at all, and it wasn’t his fault you didn’t know how to talk to him, but that doesn’t stop the third year from trying to relate to you in other ways, mainly revolving around Kenma Kozume.

“You still haven’t seen him play, have you?” The spiky-haired student asks you during a slow Friday afternoon, the both of you loitering in the hallways as you wait for Kenma to return with his neglected gym bag. You answer the senior with a shake of your head, to which he only raises a brow in question. Maybe your hesitance to watch Kenma play volleyball could be chalked down to a silly reason, but in your mind, you have rationalised it as a boundary. Kenma has talked about games with you and has even slipped trivial complaints when you ask him about his day. In comparison, volleyball was kept behind a locked key, and you aren’t sure of the significance of the sport in his life. If it’s his secret haven, reserved for his close friends, could you really go over and brute force yourself into the scene?

You were too scared to know whether Kenma considered you a friend or not.

At your silence, Kuroo goes to poke at you further but the languid arrival of Kenma dissuades further conversation. You are about to bid your standard farewell to the pair and head home for the day until you are frozen in place by a sly glimmer in Kuroo’s hazel irises. Before you can shoot him a warning, he has already dismissed you by casually turning to Kenma.

“Hey, why don’t they watch our practice match today?” He suggests innocently. You falter. Kenma blinks at the taller boy, clearly conveying ‘Why are you even asking me?’ with a quirked brow and an unamused frown. For a second, his eyes flicker to your struck expression, and it seems some sort of understanding dawns over him as he simply shrugs.

“Sure,” Is all he says, and he reluctantly heaves his duffel bag over his shoulder, making the familiar trek to the gym without looking back at you and Kuroo, as if he’s already gotten bored of the two of you. Kuroo only smiles smugly when you stare at him accusingly.

“You’ll see how cool he is when you watch him play,” He states confidently, making sure Kenma is out of earshot. There is affectionate pride lacing his tone and your mild irritation deflates upon his obvious care for his close friend.

“I think he’s cool already,” You respond absentmindedly, and it doesn’t dawn on you the implication of your bold words until you see Kuroo’s smile only widened. Things are changing.

(iv)

You’re surprised it took you this long to meet Shohei Fukunaga and Taketora Yamamoto, thankfully the two weren’t hard to befriend. Fukunaga kept a similar quiet disposition to Kenma, but where Kenma was evasive, Fukunaga merely bided his time before he made his presence known in the form of a timely joke. On the opposite side of the spectrum sat Yamamoto, who always speaks as if he’s making a purposeful effort to strain his throat. Loud, proud and hot-blooded. The four of you formed an odd sort of group when school time is over and all that remains is volleyball or leisure. You have also begun spending your evenings in the school gymnasium rather than running straight for home, seated on a bench as you watch volleyball practices till the sun threatens to set. Kenma had only asked you once why you stopped by all the time to watch them play, but when you aren’t able to answer him he drops the subject and never questions it again. You wonder if he picked up on your hurt expression.

On a lifted note, you think you’ve officially cemented yourself a permanent place in Kenma’s routine, so it really shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise when he invites you over to his house to pick up a game title you had been wanting to play, and that he conveniently owned. Yet, once you are standing in front of the Kozume family residence, you are still smoothing down the invisible wrinkles in your clothes and double-checking the state of your hair in the reflection of your phone screen. If your friends were here, they’d laugh at you acting like you are going on your first date rather than just picking up a game disk. At the second ring of the doorbell, the door creaks open to reveal Kenma. His usual uniform is traded in for a baggy white hoodie and comfortable track pants, coupled with fluffy house slippers and expensive-looking headphones sitting snugly around his neck. It should feel embarrassing how you think he looks nice, even in an attire so casual.

“Uh, come in,” He moves aside allowing you entry into the quiet abode. You trail after him as he navigates to his room, and in your teenage mind, it feels scandalous to be here without his parents being home. However, your concerns begin to take a backseat when your attention is drawn in by Kenma’s shelves on shelves of video game covers, and you realise you severely underestimated how much of an enthusiast he really is. You busy yourself scanning through all the different titles he owns, forgetting about your real objective for today until there is a stifled cough from next to you. You whip your head around to find Kenma awkwardly standing, the CD he intends to loan held out with an outstretched hand. Before you could apologise, Kenma opened his mouth first.

“Do you wanna play some games?”

You don’t think you’ve ever said yes so fast.

(v)

The months pass by far too quickly, and you’ve found yourself at the bleachers, cheering next to Alisa Haiba and Akane Yamamoto till your throat threatens to go sore. From the Spring High tournament up until nationals, your eyes have never left Kenma’s figure. Even up till the moment when the ball first fell, and Kenma resigns himself to the floor in exhaustion while tears cloud your vision amidst the noise of the court. Even with your short time watching this team, their loss after a string of wins had admittedly hit you hard.

(A part of you can’t help but think you are bidding farewell to something special.)

When you see the team later, hustling their tired bodies to their accommodations, you join Alisa and Akane in praising the group and their efforts thus far. The rest of the teams respond with their gratitude, some of it mixed with tears, and it's only Kenma who shuffles away from the sudden attention. When your eyes meet his, you aren’t sure what force urges you to throw your arms around him, the past two years of memories with him swarming your mind all at once.

(What is wrong with you?)

You take expressed care in not letting your desires come to fruition, instead merely smiling widely at him hoping it’s enough to convey how you feel. You are surprised that despite his visible fatigue, he still manages to give you a small smile in return. It takes you aback because you swore it felt gentle.

(What is he to you?)

Despite the third years officially retiring from the volleyball team in pursuit of their plans for the near future, you still visit the club often. Kenma is still a fixture in your life. It feels like nothing has changed after the final match, but it has, and you can’t put your finger on it. This haunts you more than you care to admit.

Whether Kenma notices your newly odd behaviour and has chosen to ignore it is beyond your knowledge, but right now you are in his room, resting against the footboard with nothing but a stray pillow to support you. Kenma lounges directly opposite you, back against the headboard as his fingers tap away at his handheld game. You have a matching one in hand, but you’ve long since abandoned concentration, opting to instead stare absentmindedly at the colourful screen. Perhaps he’s noticed the lack of movement on your part, because he looks up to stare at you, inquisitive and cautious.

“You aren’t playing,” He states bluntly, and long enough time has been spent for you to pick up on his silent follow-up question, “What’s wrong?”.

“It feels off,” You mumble, and there is a sudden silence on Kenma’s end as he pauses his game, the background music dying to show you that you have his attention. “Like… I don’t know if I can conceptualise my own future. Isn’t that weird? Most people usually have an idea where they wanna be when they're older.”

Kenma doesn’t respond immediately, and before embarrassment and regret can fester, he speaks up.

“It’s not weird,” His game unpauses, and he’s back to clicking away at his controls. However, he continues talking. “You don’t have to have every inch of your future planned out. That’s way more unrealistic and weird.”

There is a beat of silence.

“I don’t have anything planned either,” He says plainly, but to you, it feels like he’s letting you in on a secret. “It’s fine to figure it out later. It isn’t a race.”

“But if there is a race to worry about now, it’s this one. I’ve already won the last few rounds,” A smirk suddenly dons his lips, subtle and sly and you blink in surprise as you hurriedly tap back into your screen only to confirm that indeed, Kenma has won yet another round of virtual street racing. As attention is once again drawn back into the game, you can’t help but feel your heart beat rapidly against the cage of your chest. You wonder if he can hear it.

Your second year ends with Kenma’s leg brushing against yours.

(vi)

You blinked, and it was already graduation day. Students carry their diplomas proudly, taking pictures with their friends or their families who stayed back after the ceremony. Yours is clutched tightly in your fist, and your family and friends have long since bided you congratulations and tearful farewells. Your attention now is preoccupied by thoughts of Kenma, and how you hope he hasn’t already headed home after the ceremony, no matter how characteristic it is for him to do so. You pass by the glossy-eyed Yamamoto and the smiling Fukunaga, to who you share your congratulations before they point you in the general direction of where they had last seen Kenma. You move on autopilot, briskly walking past countless bodies to spy a familiar head of blonde hair. Surprisingly, you find Kuroo first, with the alumni towering over most of the other students with his spiky hair. You see Kenma next to him, seemingly conversing with each other. Your heart rate picks up.

It seems Kuroo’s eyes land on you as well, as he interrupts his conversation to grin and wave you over. He is a welcomed sight, despite the fact you both never got to be close even before his graduation last year. Kenma, confused by what caught Kuroo’s attention, turns over his shoulder. You rush over to the pair.

“Hey, you! Congratulations on graduating,” Kuroo is the first to greet you once you walk over, and he pats you gently on the shoulder in a gesture that feels akin to a grandfather’s. You decide not to point this out on such a day.

“Congrats,” Kenma doesn’t meet your eye, fingers tugging at the ends of the paper in his hand. You’re slightly taken aback by the sudden reservation but still manage to return the greeting. Amidst this sudden development, Kuroo seemed to have taken it as an excuse to dismiss himself, perhaps to find his other underclassmen or to spare himself from the sudden tension in the air.

“I dreamed of this day for years, but now that it’s here, I’m not sure how to feel,” You laugh awkwardly, and when Kenma doesn’t respond you grow quiet. “Kenma?”

“What are you going to do after this?” He suddenly asks, surprising you with the sudden question. It doesn’t feel like something he’d ask.

“You mean… what I’m going to do after now, at this moment?”

“No, I mean,” He seems to be growing frustrated, and you aren’t sure if it’s with you or himself as he runs a hand through his hair. “Later in the future.”

You hesitate.

“I think I��ll study more,” You say with some confidence. “I don’t have all the details but… I’ll figure it out, right?”

Finally, Kenma seems to relax a little, and you wonder if he picked up on you parroting his words back at him.

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” He mumbles out and there is a pregnant silence, where the both of you wait for the other to break it.

“But what I do know is that I still want you to be my friend. Is that fine?” You bite the bullet, and this is probably the most resolute you’ve been around the blonde. He looks at you, a little startled by your uncharacteristic declaration, and his usually sharp eyes soften.

“Sure, that sounds fine,” You don’t notice how his fingers loosen their grip around his diploma. There is a faint smile on his lips, but his demeanour radiates something cunning. “We’re heading to a sushi place later, Kuroo’s treat. You wanna join?”

Even when Kuroo reappears to yell at Kenma for his poorly disguised plan to empty his wallet, your heart refuses to calm down. The breeze in his hair and the glimmer in his gold eyes confirm what you’ve always been afraid of.

You are in love with Kenma Kozume.

(vii)

You kick away your heels, exhaustion and frustration being the only driving forces that got you through the front door. At the sudden noise, a familiar head pokes through the doorway, and Kenma greets you with a raised brow.

“Another one?” He asks, and despite the curt words his tone is not accusatory, unimpressed at best. However, that doesn’t stop the groan that leaves your lips as you walk past him to practically dump yourself onto his couch.

“Tell me about it,” You speak in a single fatigued breath, grabbing onto a cushion that you can squeeze against your chest as a makeshift stress toy. “He told me forgot his wallet, so I had to pay for dinner, then he had the nerve to ask me for gas money when he only drove me two minutes down the road so I could catch a taxi home! Who is birthing these degenerates?”

Kenma, perhaps afraid you might launch the pillow at him in misplaced anger, decides to sit next to you instead of in your direct line of vision.

“Sounds like it sucked,” He says the obvious, and you don’t blame him for his aloof response despite wanting a bit more comradery. Kenma never cared for the dating scene, and it's this fact that has driven you into a world of blind dates and dating apps. Anything to escape the fact that you love Kenma in a way that he cannot reciprocate. Anything to convince yourself you can move on, despite how unsuccessful you have been for the past eight years. You’re aware you’ve already leaned onto his side, and it's years of knowing each other that lets you be this close to him despite his usual aversion to physical touch. Sixteen years old you couldn’t have even dreamt this up, you think humourlessly.

“I’m probably gonna end up alone with six cats,” You say miserably, and yelp when you are flicked on the forehead, lifting a hand to frantically rub at the reddening spot. “Hey!”

“Ending up with six cats is better than marrying a trashy guy,” He states, probably the closest show of annoyance you’ve gotten from him. “I’m ordering takeout. Do you want anything?”

You nod, and he doesn’t need to ask for your order, your usual is already memorised. You unlatch your hands from the fabric of his hoodie so he can get up and phone the restaurant, with you quickly growing to miss him by your side, left to find warmth in your discarded cushion. Despite you not technically living here, it goes without question that Kenma’s place is practically yours. It’s as concrete as the spare house key that rests in the depths of your purse.

It’s one of the benefits of being Kenma’s friend. Just his friend.

Hell, if you could go back in time, you’d tell your teenage self that their biggest concern wouldn’t be their career. It would be their innocent crush on Kenma spiralling to whatever confusing mess this is.

When Kenma returns, you’re already scrolling through his selection of games on his PlayStation, to which he joins you, returning to his previous seat beside you. Throughout the years together, the both of you have changed. Some aspects for the better. Some aspects for the worst. Ultimately, there was nothing more unifying than loading up a game and playing together. It reminded you of those nostalgic evenings when you’d lounge in Kenma’s room with him when the both of you were too beat from school and club activities to bother with conversation. Gaming had always been your guy’s silent language.

The doorbell rings timingly, signalling the arrival of your food. Amidst dinner you regaled him in the latest happenings at your controversial workplace, while he listens silently, only interjecting once or twice with a hum. Before you know it, dinner is finished and Kenma is stretching his tired limbs.

“I’m heading to bed,” He informs, and you bid him goodnight as you take custody of the guest bedroom, as you usually do when staying over. Perhaps someone with more common sense will tell of the implications of leaving a toothbrush, a charger and spare clothes at his place, and how his guest bedroom’s only occupant seems to be you. However, these are thoughts you busy yourself to not entertain. Getting your hopes crushed is far more ruthless than stewing in the middle ground of not knowing what you are to Kenma.

You’ve donned your spare night-time clothing, and you are caught in surprise by the sudden strong draught in the room. You shiver instantly, turning your attention to the curtain drifting alongside the open breeze. You rush over, thinking Kenma must have forgotten to close the window, but when you draw aside the curtains, you're baffled to find the window in its entirety completely missing. Did someone steal Kenma’s window?

You are already at the gamer’s bedroom door, with some hesitation since you feel guilty for interrupting his sleep considering his busy day tomorrow. Within your second knock at the door, it opens and you find a dishevelled Kenma leaning against the door, sleep-ambled and his long hair free from its usual bun. You take extra care in not letting your eyes travel to his low-waist pyjama pants. You hurriedly explain the situation for the window, which he manages to comprehend while slapping a hand to his forehead.

“Ugh right, I forgot I was getting that window fixed,” He grumbles. “Uh, you can take my bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“Woah, wait, no!” You hurriedly stop him with an exaggerated show of hands. “This is your house, you should be sleeping in your bed. Plus, you’ve got work tomorrow!”

“The couch isn’t wide enough for you to sleep comfortably,” He states plainly.

“The same goes for you then!”

There is a terse silence, where the both of you stare each other down, not confrontationally but to think of a solution. Hazed with sleep, Kenma reaches a conclusion first.

“Fine, we’ll both take the bed. We’ll just stay at our sides,” His suggestion almost made you choke on air, and you are barely able to stifle your surprised reaction, however, Kenma isn’t known for being unobservant, as he merely sighs.

“Look, I can seriously stay on the couch it’s fi—”

“Okay! We’re sharing,” You have already briskly walked, not letting Kenma see your frazzled expression as you feel your face heat up. You weren’t about to let him sleep on his couch in his own home. You wish you could describe the nerves that feel you when Kenma slowly closes the door behind you.

Even getting into bed had been an awkward ordeal, in which Kenma refuses to look your way while you decide to put your absolute best efforts into getting into bed without seeming like you want to bolt out of the room at a moment’s notice. When your head finally hits the pillow, some of your internal complaints have disappeared, relishing in the comfort of finally relaxing your tired body on a comfortable mattress and pillow. You are quickly snapped back into reality when you feel the bed dip in weight from where Kenma gets in. To his credit, he’s laying as close as possible to the edge as he could, giving you the most distance possible in a queen-sized bed. It doesn’t ease the pounding in your chest, and the flutters in your stomach. You feel like you’re seventeen again, back when your heart used to dance if Kenma did something as simple as brush his hand against yours when you reach for the same thing. Except, this is a whole other level of closeness you have never covered with him. It makes you excited. It makes you want to throw up.

“Your leg is shaking,” He mutters, and you whip around to find Kenma facing you, eyes tired but you can spy a glint of concern even under the room's darkness. “I can still take the couch if you’re nervous, it’s fine.”

Damnit, you wished he’d get flustered instead of you for once. You wish he’d show a lick of interest, so you can finally stop these horrible first dates and yearning glances when he isn’t looking. You wish he’d just reject you, so you can finally put to rest the sheer love you hold for him, the man who has reserved a special type of fondness for you that you can’t tell if it should belong to a friend or not.

“Do you like me?” You don’t even register your lips these words escaped from, not until you see Kenma’s eyes widen under the dim LED light of his monitor. It’s too late to take them back, and you can’t stop how your breathing threatens to stop as you wait for his answer.

“... Yeah,” He answers, “You’re here all the time.”

He didn’t get it. He didn’t get it at all.

“Sorry, yeah, never mind it was a stupid question to ask,” You manage to splutter out, and you quickly turn around to hide yourself from Kenma’s confused gaze. “I kept you up enough already, let’s just sleep.”

The room goes quiet again, and you will yourself to hold back the tears that threaten to blur your vision. There is no way you’re going to cry of all things. You screw your eyes shut. You can deal with this in the morning when he’s not around. You just have to make it through the night.

The mattress shifts in weight again, and you assume Kenma is trying to get more comfortable, but your heart drops when you feel an arm, hesitant and shy, reach around you. Slender fingers rest on your hand, and a clothed chest presses against your back.

“Saying I like you like everyone else isn’t enough,” You hear Kenma’s voice behind you, mumbled but you can pick up the slight tremor of his hesitance. “I like you in a different way than others do. More than they ever could, probably.”

You turn your body around, and Kenma’s fingers retract from its hold. You latch onto the sleeves of his nightshirt, and you try to breathe normally so you can get your words out.

“I really like you, Kenma,” Your hand clutches his. “Since we were in high school. Since I used to watch you play games. Since I used to come to your volleyball matches. Are you saying you like me the same way?”

“Yeah,” It’s a simple and definitive answer, and he squeezes your trembling hand. His lips are quirked upwards at the corners, eyes narrowed in affection. “That’s exactly how I like you too.”

Some would enthrall that moments like these are when fireworks erupt in the air, and a romantic and desperate kiss is shared between lovers. However, that is not your Kenma, who is not romantic, but instead observant and tactful and has put you through the wringer for almost an entire decade. He moves closer to you and lets his head rest into the crook of your neck, his lips tracing your skin as he speaks.

“Goodnight.”

The sun will rise again.

[jokeringcutio]

Jealousy - Stepdad William Afton x Male Reader (SMUT)

Summary: When Stepdad William Afton comes home and sees you with a friend, he grows jealous. Warning: This story contains explicit sexual content (SMUT), Stepdad William Afton x Stepson Reader, not beta-read AN: I literally just wrote this now, hope you enjoy anon:

You tapped your pen against the notebook, eyes flitting between the scribbled equations and the clock. Your friend leaned over the table, his voice a hushed whisper laden with urgency.

"Come on, man, think. What's the next step in solving this?" he urged, tapping the paper where a complex algebra problem taunted you both.

"Isolate the variable," you murmured, but your concentration broke when the front door slammed shut with a resonance that seemed to ripple through the house.

"Damn it," you muttered under your breath, feeling the familiar knot of apprehension twist in your gut.

William Afton, your stepdad, loomed in the doorway like a dark omen. His shadow stretched long and ominous across the kitchen tiles, a harbinger of the mood that followed him home from whatever hellish workday he'd endured.

"Evening," he grunted, his voice gravelly, unused. He shrugged off his coat, movements stiff and deliberate, the fabric whispering threats as it slid down his arms.

Your friend's eyes darted toward the man, then back to you, an unspoken question hanging between you. But you knew better than to acknowledge the tension. You kept your focus on your homework, pretending the atmosphere hadn't shifted, pretending the air wasn't now thick with the sour tang of his displeasure.

"Long day at work?" you ventured, a feeble attempt at normalcy. Your stepdad was usually gruff when he got home – had never been soft since your mother’s passing a few years ago. But today his mood was exceptionally sour.

"Every damn day's a long day," William snarled, the sound of his work boots heavy against the floorboards as he trudged closer, his presence filling the room with a pressure that seemed to squeeze your chest.

You watched, heart pounding erratically, as William's eyes narrowed on you, the ghost of a scowl etched deep into his weathered face. He was a relic of a life before, a reminder of things best forgotten, things that lurked in the corner of your mind, clawing for attention.

"Focus on the problem," your friend said, but his voice wavered, betraying his calm facade.

"Already am," you replied, though your gaze never left William. You were caught in his gravitational pull, a moth too close to the flame, anticipation curling hotly in your belly.

His eyes, steel traps snapping shut, fixed on you. William's gaze burned, a silent blaze scorching through the room.

"Studying hard?" His voice dripped with sarcasm, each word a laden weight in the charged air.

"Trying to," you replied, the words sounding hollow even to your own ears.

Your friend shuffled papers, a nervous rustle amidst the growing storm. He must have sensed it – the electric crackle of William's mood, the kind that precedes lightning, dangerous and unpredictable.

"Think I'll head out," he muttered, scooping books into his arms with trembling hands. He was a pretty boy, one of the prettiest in your class. With a youthful blush on his cheeks, long black lashes and plump lips to die for. His chair scraped back, a desperate plea for escape etched into the sound.

"See you," you murmured, your voice steady despite the quickening beat of your heart. Your friend nodded and offered a tight-lipped smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. And then he was gone. His footsteps retreated, a fading echo against the tense silence left in his wake.

The front door closed softly, a definitive click sealing your fate. Alone now, with him, the air seemed to shift, became thicker, laced with something unspoken but palpably present.

William moved, a shadow stretched across the floor, reaching for you with dark tendrils. You sat, still as stone, yet every muscle screamed to flee.

"Good riddance," You heard your stepdad say. There was a smile in his voice – but it was the kind that has teeth, sharp and unforgiving. The smile of a predator who has cornered his prey, and you, frozen in place, could only wait to see what form the pounce will take.

You tilted your chin up, eyes narrowing as you met his glare. Your spine straightened, an act of silent defiance. You knew what was coming; the unspoken challenge hung heavy between you. "Anything wrong, William?"

The title of 'stepdad' was stuck in your throat, a deliberate omission that does not go unnoticed. You did it on purpose, of course. Relieved to see your stepdad hadn’t been ogling your classmate. Relieved that envy radiated from his pores, a thick jealousy drenched with desire.

A desire for you.

Just as you wanted.

Just as you had allowed yourself to indulge in ever since you’d become of age. To tease him, to challenge him, to draw out that desire.

His jaw clenched, the muscles ticking in his cheek. "Don't push me, boy," he warned, the words low, the threat clear and pointed.

"Didn't think I was," you replied, the edge to your voice was like a razor. Sharp, dangerous. You locked your gaze with his, unflinching, daring him to make the next move.

He moved swiftly, his large hand clamping around your arm with bruising intent. Roughly, he dragged you from the chair, your body a mere object to his force. "I've had enough of that clever mouth of yours."

"I could put it to good use, sir…” But your clever protest was crushed under his grip as he bent you over the table, punching the breath from your lungs. His other hand stroked past your shoulders, finding the back of your neck, pressing down hard, a vice of control.

"Time you learned some respect," he growled, his breath hot against your ear. Fear spiked through you, chased by a forbidden thrill. You were trapped, caught in the snare of his power, your body enjoying the struggle until your cock twitched tightly against the inside of your jeans.

"William..." It was a gasp, your voice strained. You were at the mercy of whatever was to come next. As expected, you didn’t have to wait long for your stepfather’s hands to leave your neck and pull your jeans down.

Leather bit into your ass, the sound of the belt cutting through the air amplified in the silent room. You cried out, the pain white-hot and searing, leaving you trembling. Your cock was heavy and leaking pre-cum against the table’s surface. You were grateful you had the table in front of you to rest upon since your legs threatened to give out.

"Teaching... you... a lesson," William grunted between each strike.

You gasped. The pain coiled in your stomach, roiling, insistent, and, to your disbelief, there was an answering heat. It was wrong, you knew it is, but the adrenaline, the edge of danger, sparked something deep within you.

“Think you can just date other boys?” You knew it wasn’t really a question. It was just William showing you what was on his mind, how he’d gotten worked up. His jealousy.

The belt stilled – your ass given a short reprieve. You moaned, suppressing a shiver when a cold liquid was dribbled generously into your hole, your muscles quivering. Goosebumps formed on your skin, you could see them on your bare forearms.

Suddenly, the belt dropped, clattering to the floor. A zipper could be heard as it lowered, and before you could process it, your stepfather’s hard length pressed against your entrance, seeking entry.

"No, William, we can't – "

"Oh, we can," he whispered, and then he was inside you, filling you to the hilt, stretching you in ways you never thought possible. You bit your lip, tasting blood as the sensation overwhelms your senses.

His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he thrust, brutal in his intensity. Each time he bottomed out left you gasping, your vision blurring.

"Feel that, boy? This is what happens when you disobey me." Panting, harsh.

You couldn’t form words, reduced to moans and whimpers as your body betrayed you, your cock rubbing painfully tight against the wooden surface of the table. It felt so, so good.

To feel your stepdad deep inside, the head of his cock battering that sweet spot deep inside. He knew just how to stimulate your prostate, drove into you like a pro – as if he hadn’t always had wives before you. As if he was used to making love to young men.

It must have been why you stayed, why you remained in his home after your mom died and you grew old enough to go to campus.

Faster and faster he pushes into you, his breathing labored in your ear, the smell of sweat and leather mixing, intoxicating. "You like it, don't you? You like being under my control."

"No," you breathed, but your voice was unsteady, a fractured denial. You sure as hell did.

Faster Daddy, deeper. But all that escaped you was another sinful moan. Sopping-wet sounds of the lubricant around your stepfather’s cock filled the room, betraying how easily he could slide into your tight hole. Your muscles spasmed, your fingers clawed at the wooden surface of the table – grasping nothing.

With a grunt, he picked up the pace. "Liar," he hissed, his grip on your hips bruising. "Gonna make you come, boy, and you're going to beg for it."

And that was the last straw; the humiliation, the pain, the pleasure, all of it crashed over you like a tidal wave. Just as you were about to come undone, he pulled out, and with a devilish smirk, jerked you off, milking your release onto your stomach and all over the kitchen table.

Gasping, spent, you collapsed onto the table, your heart pounding in your chest, your body aching. You didn’t care having slumped down upon your own cum. All your mind repeated was the feel of your stepdad’s strong fingers around your own shaft as he pushed and pulled, the way his veined hands had worked the veined flesh, the way his thumb had brushed past the slit of your cock the moment you’d started to orgasm, how cum now coated his hand.

"Next time, think twice before you defy me," you heard his low voice like a growl behind you. You heard the wet sopping sounds of his hand on his cock, jerking himself off at a rapid pace before you heard the low grunt and felt the warm release hit your back.

You gasped for air, your body pulsing with every heartbeat, consumed by a heady mix of shame and satisfaction. The lingering ache between your legs was a reminder of how you crave more. So much more of him.

“No other man,” William started, his husky voice cracked, “or boy, may ever be inside of you. Got it? Just me. Only me.”

You lay sprawled across the cold surface of the kitchen table, every heaving breath a testament to the turmoil within. The aftermath clung to your skin – a mixture of sweat and something far more primal. His satisfaction filled the air, thick and suffocating like the summer humidity that sticks to everything it touches.

"Only you," you whispered, the vow etched deep into the marrow of your bones. It was a promise to yourself, a line drawn in the sand of your own will. You would not let anyone else breach your walls, seek solace inside your body. Your clenched fists were symbols of your newfound understanding, knuckles white as the fierce determination took root within you.

You turned to look at your stepdad, who was immaculately dressed once more. The trace of his spent dripped from your inner legs. His pants showed no stain. Everything was on you. You looked debauched, while he looked fatherly. Put together. In full control.

William straightened his tie with slow, deliberate motions, an air of ownership radiating from him. His eyes, dark and fathomless pits, reflected a twisted sense of achievement. They bore into you, heavy with unspoken words. Words that screamed of dominance and possession. He had exerted his control, marked you like you had silently begged for.

"Look at me," his voice commanded, low and gravelly. You resisted, but only momentarily. When your eyes finally met his, you saw the smug curl of his lips, the shadow of a man who reveled in the power he wielded.

"Good boy," he sneered, the condescension in those two words cutting deeper than any physical touch could. Each syllable was a brand upon your spirit, marking you as his in a way society would never condone.

He turned away then, leaving you alone with the echoes of what had transpired. But his departure did nothing to alleviate the weight of his influence. It lingered, a specter haunting the corners of the room, a reminder that he could – and would – return to claim what he considered rightfully his.

And boy… you couldn’t wait.

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #48: Rust

Masterlist

content: bludgeoning, gore, murder

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

It was so cold. All over, Jackie felt numb. His head was ringing. It was a high-pitched whine, like the keening of a machine. He was aware, vaguely, of a voice, of rushing water, but it was all so far away. All the world was one step removed. It was a strange dream, but any dream was welcome. Any escape from reality, from concrete walls and floors.

Water splashed over his face. He spluttered and gasped. His eyes snapped open.

White ceramic and the scent of citrus, the light bright enough to make him squint—he recognized this place. It was the inside of Heather’s bathroom. That meant…

I’m out. Out of the basement. He could have wept at that thought. Oh God. Oh my God… 

“Finally. You’re awake. Stop gaping like a fish and look at me.”

And he would recognize that curt, cold tone anywhere. Heather! Although terror ran incessant claws up his insides, he was happy to see her. Unreasonably happy, to the point his chest ached. He could have died at that sight. Perhaps he would. She didn’t seem too pleased.

He looked up at Heather, to where she was standing.

“Sit up,” she said.

With another shiver, he sat up. Water dripped down his sleeves—water? He was in the bathtub. What a strange sort of baptism. He was waist-deep in freezing water. The shower curtain hung down at his left, creased up on the metal rod, the sheets plastic and pale gray. 

 “What—” He shifted, which made the water splash. “Why are we here?”

“You'll see.” She then patted his damp, dripping hair. “Sit tight. Don’t move. Understood?”

He nodded. 

"Good." She walked away, out the bathroom door. It shut behind her. Silence followed.

Jackie took this moment to study his surroundings. The tap was still running. He shut it off, though it took a great deal of effort. By now, the tub was just over half-full. 

Cold water. To wake me up, I guess. Jackie had fainted, hadn’t he? That was the last thing he remembered: his vision going white, and the pale certainty that he would pay for his exhaustion. 

Above him, he saw the shower head. In front of him, to the right, he saw the sink and cabinet-mirror. And so much light. Once, he believed nothing could replace sunshine in his heart, but now he was grateful for any method of sight. It was so dark in the basement. The lights had quickly burnt out. For the first time in weeks, even months, he could see his hands. His palms, his arms. The curls falling over his eyes. The damp gray-white of his shirt. Colors and shapes. 

The door opened with a whine. He lifted his head. 

Before he saw the rusty length of pipe, he heard the sound of grating metal. It dragged against the smooth floor. Scraping against it. He shivered again. 

Heather stood above him, poised with the pipe. “Get ready.”

He could not take his eyes off the rusting metal. His voice was painfully small. “Ready? For what?”

She just reared the pipe back. Up above her head. Aimed at him.

Even in his current state, Jackie knew that it was a lost cause. She had lost it. It, that undefinable variable that kept everyone glued together. His brief defiance had been the last straw—or this was simply an inevitable thing running its course, a spinning spool of thread well on its way to unraveling.

But none of those pretty words would save Jackie now. He stared, past the pipe, at the tiles behind it. There was a design, fleur-de-lis and ferns in a blue accent. He tried to focus on that instead. It would all be over soon. 

She took a step forward.

He held his breath.

“Jackie?”

He didn’t reply. Just focused on his breathing, on the blue design, anything but Heather.

“Look up,” she said. 

And there—just above his head, just barely above him—there was a sharp crack, as the pipe slammed down on the wall. A sound louder than any gun, that split the air in half. 

Jackie flinched. Now his stare was on the pipe. He couldn’t help it. Right above him, copper-red splotches on silver. There was a crack in the wall, a starburst across the ceramic. That could have been his skull. He was shaking badly.

“I should kill you,” Heather said, in between heavy breaths. “I should. I should give you a proper punishment. Something you'll remember."

The pipe lifted, then slammed down, fracturing another tile. The sound of crashing metal was closer than before. A shard of ceramic fell into the water. Jackie shut his eyes and let his nerves wind down, trying to get his heart to stop stuttering, keeping as still as he could. He felt such a wild, sharp fear that it was nearly enough to make him faint again.

"I should do it. Maybe I will. Maybe." There was a long pause. Her breathing slowed, slightly. "I suppose it doesn't matter. Right, Jackie? I know you still don't understand what I'm telling you. You never learn."

The pipe didn't land again. Carefully, he opened his eyes, and saw it motionless by Heather's side.

"I'm giving you another chance," she said. "We can move on and pretend none of this ever happened.”

He nodded quickly.

“Fine. That's enough. Now—”

They both looked towards the door. A cane tapped against the tiles.

Even Heather seemed to be caught off-guard.  “Callaghan?”

Yes, it was professor Callaghan—or doctor Callaghan, if you wanted to be perfectly accurate—in the doorway, still professionally dressed. There was an air of remarkable calmness about him. His expression was simply bewildered, nothing more. 

“Miss Rodriguez,” said the professor with pleasant serenity, as if she wasn’t holding a heavy metal pipe. “Are you alright? You haven’t answered my calls—or anyone’s calls, in fact—for several months. It was good that you left that window open. I was starting to think that something unfortunate had happened.”

“N—no, I'm fine, professor." Her expression was blank, however.

Callaghan frowned, this time. “Miss Rodriguez, I must insist you put that…” He glanced at the pipe and finally noticed it was there. “That piece of metal down. There are more dignified methods, I’m sure.”

“Methods? For what?”

He scrutinized Jackie, who stared back. “I assume you wish to dispose of him?”

“Who? Jackie?” Her voice was more than just startled. Urgency was seeping into it. “No, it’s not like that at all.”

“Miss Rodri—”

“Please. Just leave.”

“Heather, it’s alright. I’m here to help you. You’re in ill health. Sit down. And if this is really such a pressing matter, I would recommend using a firearm, if not the anesthetic we discussed. I don’t understand how this is safe or hygienic.”

She raised the pipe once more. “A gun? That’s it?” 

Callaghan nodded.

Jackie tensed. He pulled himself further away, sinking deeper into the water. 

Heather reared her weapon.

Then the pipe swung in the other direction, away from Jackie. The sound of metal against flesh split the air.

Professor Callaghan dropped to the ground. His body thudded against the tiles. It was a low, soft sound, heavy and damp on top of the solidly smooth floor. It was an unnatural sound. It didn’t feel right. Something snapped—he heard it, quietly, like a twig, like cartilage.

They waited. The seconds dragged on. The professor did not move. 

“You killed him,” Jackie whispered.

“Quiet.” She stepped back. “He’s not dead.”

No, he was definitely dead. The professor’s skull was cleaved in two. There was a great crater of split-cherry red in between. The one eye that wasn’t crushed to jelly looked sightlessly to the floor. His jaw hung limp and open. There was blood everywhere. On the ground, on the pipe, splattered on her face, smeared against the tub’s edge. Dripping down from Heather’s hands in thick clumps. 

Jackie whimpered, his stare fixed on the professor, and sank even deeper into the bathtub. 

It happened so quickly. Callaghan’s shoulder was flush to the tub, his mangled head just inches away. There was a wet mass that might have been his brain. Some of it had splattered against the tiles, pink and soft. 

Heather dropped the pipe. It banged on the floor, then rolled under a cabinet, leaving a spotted trail. Although the sound gave Jackie a start, the professor did not react to it. Perhaps Heather was hoping he would.

Still, she waited a few more minutes before turning away from his body, her eyes vacant all the while.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl @lthrboy @whumpy-wyrms

@yassifiedinformation @creppersfunpalooza

@vidawhump @dont-look-me-in-the-eye @inkwell-and-dagger

[space-writes]

find the word

tagged by @chauceryfairytales, thank you! my words are thought, drink, wish and uncertain. these are all from Awakened Witch

[ID - a green and black decorative divider]

thought

Unlike certain dragons full of fire and empty of thought, the witch knew who she was from the moment she opened her eyes.

drink

South of Zhirasea, in a town on the banks of the Kalah River, there sat a low, red-roofed building with a sign above the door that called it a bar, and a pattern in the mosaic tiles around the frame that said otherwise. As houses of lust went, it wasn’t much different from its kin in the capital, or in anywhere else across the country where folks wanted to spend a little time with someone pretty. Inside, business was steady. The lower floor served as the bar the place pretended to be, the owner slinging drinks with a practised hand, and directing her various girls and boys to a string of mostly regular clients. A handful of strangers trickled through, most of them on their way either to or from Zhirasea.

wish

Vren’s hand twitched towards his knife. Sunlight glinted on gold, and Sorrow’s hand was before him, beaded bracelets knocking together, three golden scales on his upturned palm. “Keep it stowed, little ghost,” he said, low, amused. Annoying. “I haven’t seen all I wish to see of your beloved city yet.”

uncertain → capricious

“You’re allowed to have an off day, Leshanna.” “But not for every day to be an off day!” She shook her head, casting a hand out as if to throw her annoyance to the wind. “Everything we’ve done, every job, every errand—something has gone wrong, and it’s always my magic. It doesn’t matter how well I prepare or how much I study, there’s always some damned thing!” Fate, capriciously determined to prove her point, chose that moment to let her spellbook slip from the crook of her elbow. A sharp burst of Elvish burst from her as she dove after it, grabbing at the scraps of loose paper before they could blow away.

[ID - a green and black decorative divider]

no-pressure tagging @mjjune @viscerawrites @talesofsorrowandofruin and @charlesjosephwrites with the words delicate, precise, thread, and bone.

Valloroth taglist: @cherrybombfangirlwrites @reininginthefirewriting @memento-morri-writes @foxboyclit @lawful-evil-novelist

@at-thezenith @morganwriteblr @fayeiswriting @serenanymph

@sam-glade @viscerawrites @thegreatobsesso @flower-reads @the-inkwell-variable (ask to be +/-)

[zmediaoutlet]

The rot under his skin doesn't feel like rot. Pressing down doesn't make his skin sag and crumple, like a bruised pear, as it's been—other times, when the world felt like it was going to end. Or had ended. Hard to separate the two, sometimes.

Sam presses his head back against the cool tile wall, trying to center. He's not anywhere but here: a hospital bathroom, bleach and lemon-scent sanitizer, emergency lights glowing cool fluorescent white. The rabid's screaming behind two locked doors but that's been going on for an hour now and he can put it aside. Focus on the problem to find a solution. Over a life of messing things up this is actually something he's practiced at. Regardless of what follows.

The rot. Maybe not rot. Maybe something growing instead, a multiplying virus, a fungus spreading. There's heat in the thickening black veins under the skin and what feels like a fever crawling dizzy from the back of his skull and maybe that's where the rage comes from, too, whatever chaotic demand—for someone else to feel like this, for it not to feel as lonely as it does, in an echoing white room with screams for company. Sam feels carefully along the raised darkness in his chest, testing for that slippery nebulous line between thought and feeling and instinct. Trying to decide: does he want what he wants because of what's in him by nature, or from what has been trained into him, or because of some insidious growing blackness that's wrapped under and around his heart, infecting everything he touches with the wrongness of it. Familiar thought-pattern; familiar even with the dizzy unreality of fever. This is another thing he's practiced at.

Buzzing. His phone. D, glowing under his thumb, and he thinks: does he want him here because—? Or because—?

Man, you doing okay? "Dude, don't worry about me," Sam says. A snort. Have you met me? Pissy but Sam feels something settle in his chest, stretching his boots out on the tile floor, closing his eyes. Even with how screwed up it's been—his brother, free, being exactly as overbearing and rough-edged and careful as Sam had prayed for him to be, on his knees, begging help from whatever far-flung corner of the universe it might come. When it was as bad as it got and he thought maybe he'd never get that tone again.

Dude, tell me you aren't getting chewed on by darkness-zombies, Dean says. Sam smiles, tipping his head against the wall. Cool on his temple. "You get the girl safe?" A sigh. You're bad at changing the subject, but then—We're nearly there. Some kind of diaper blow-out emergency. Haven't seen sign of black fog, or—

He talks. Sam listens, his fingertips pressing against the thickest part of the growing under his skin. His throat feels thick and his head hurts and his chest feels—some way that's hard to pin down, although he'll try later, writing notes, making sure he's quantified the variables. In the meantime there's Dean's voice, nattering about the drive and worrying about the circumstances and wondering what the hell's taking the girl so long in the bathroom, it's always like this, and he should know, huh, considering the big ol' girl he got saddled with for a little brother, and Sam can see him leaned up against the side of the car in the sunlight with that furrow between his eyebrows that means he's worrying about twenty different things but knowing that he, Sam, is about five of them at various points on the list, and he wants—wants Dean here, on the tile floor under the emergency light with the smell of bleach around and wants Dean's skin bared under his and wants Dean's eyes wide open on his and wants to take that bare stretch of his forearm where that awful seared mark is finally gone and wants to—sink his teeth in, wants to have him, wants to pin him in one place and get his breath hot and shaking against Sam's own mouth and wants to make him—what?

Oh, here she is, Dean says. Okay. So—it's like a half hour more to her grandma's, and then flipping a U-ey and coming right back for you, huh? Couple hours, tops, you'll be seeing this handsome mug.

"Can't wait," Sam says, dry, and hears a brief hah before the line goes dead.

He holds the phone against his collarbone, breathing in the quiet after. Imagines darkness, spreading from the tender inside of Dean's elbow, filling him up inside. His eyes fever-bright, his hands clawing. What's in him a vile, awful thing. All because of Sam.

Thirty seconds, imagining. Feeling—it doesn't matter how he's feeling. Then he draws his heels in and stands up, forcing himself not to sway by gripping the sink so hard a knuckle pops. When he opens the bathroom door the rabid's screaming doubles in volume. There's still a chance to fix what can be fixed. Whatever else has to take a number, but if Sam's honest—some things he doesn't want to be fixed. He wouldn't recognize them, if they were.

[definitely-mothman]

Assurance of Quality

Another one shot for JeiazuJune! Prompt: Obsession.

Summary: As Vice Housewarden, Jade’s routine each morning is simple and to-the-dot. On a particular morning, an unforeseen variable interrupts this routine.

Full Fic Beneath Read More~

As Vice Housewarden, Jade’s wake-up period was scheduled at 4:30, an hour before anyone else would be awake, Housewarden included. The routine was well established, and served to benefit all parties involved. This hour empty period allowed time to get dressed (mostly in the hall bathroom, lest Floyd be roused) and begin putting together Azul’s morning tea.

As assistant manager, this hour empty period allowed for the opening procedures of the Mostro Lounge; taking chairs off of the tables and arranging them properly, ensuring the drink counter was stocked adequately, flipping on the lights and air conditioner. Any remaining time prior to 5:30 following these procedures would be spent rearranging the desk in the VIP Lounge. This was nothing extreme- moving things around too much would ruin whatever bizarre organization system Azul had set up beforehand. But generally, he’d just attempt to make the paper stacks more neat and presentable prior to the Lounge’s opening in the afternoon, and he only really had the quiet to attempt this in the early morning.

He was going about this typical routine, finishing earlier than usual- it was only about 5am, so he had much more time to do this than normal. But, as he unlocked the VIP Lounge, his foot caught on a texture wholly different from the tile. Looking down, it seemed to be a piece of paper. He took it up off of on the floor, carrying it into the lounge with him. Upon bending down to pick it up, it was clear it was an envelope, with which an attempt had been made to slip it under the door into the VIP Lounge.

On the blank side, Azul’s name was written in full with what seemed to be a felt pen (calligraphy pen? It was pretty amateur if so). Flipping it over, the envelope’s flap was help shut with a little heart sticker. The glitter on it wore off a little bit on Jade’s gloves.

Ugh…disgusting.

He took up the envelope in both hands, prepared to rip it, when the idea struck him. It surely couldn’t hurt to open it- although the contents might hurt to read. But that would be dealt with in time. Slipping a letter opened from Azul’s desk, he slit open the envelope, gently setting the blade back and pushing it straight with his fingertips.

Surely enough, the envelope contained a letter, written with that same ugly felt pen. The contents were…expected, but still nauseating to glance over. These flowery declarations of affection, the rambling language used, messing handwriting, not to mention the choice of paper and pen…

It was not addressed to him, but he felt offended all the same. Such clumsy wording, the lack of confidence to deliver this upfront- the lack of prior research done was downright insulting. The thought of sending such a formal letter to Azul, with such sensitive content, and to both not write in black for legibility, nor use a wax seal as a symbol of formality…it was clear this person was worse than a fool. They were fully ignorant of who it was they supposedly loved.

In the second left drawer of the desk, schedules were typically kept for the lounge, sorted by day. Of course, Azul didn’t typically lock this drawer, given it didn’t hold anything particularly sensitive. He flipped through the schedules, eventually finding that name which matched the one written at the letter’s bottom.

Hah- Another Octanivelle student. And how fortunate. They would be under his management in the following days. It always made him smile to see how luck frowned upon the stupid.

He quickly made a note of the student’s name, saving it for reference later. Azul had plenty of personal records for those who worked in the lounge, and especially for Octanivelle’s own students…and Jade himself had done much legwork in the acquisition of this information. But what to do with all of it..? Of course, he would pull everything there was to find and begin setting up…something. But what something would that be? What kind of punishment was warranted by this pathetic attempt at a confession?

Of course, he’d have to debate that with himself. As lovely as it would be to discuss the specifics with Azul and have a second pair of hands in everything, it would be better for him to never know the letter existed in the first place. Considering the difference in status as well…such a confession was completely worthless to him. Worthless people who approach the powerful like this can only serve to steal from them and abandon them to die.

Yes, Jade reasoned this with himself. To have the letter never exist would be an assurance of safety. Just as his parents had assured his safety in a similar way. If he wasn’t able to do it back then with Savannaclaw, he could at least do it now within his own dorm.

Taking his magic pen from his jacket, he knelt over the small bin beside the desk. A small flame lit at the edge of the letter, slowly growing to envelop it. The letters which curled into blackened ash held the same meaning to him. Dirt.

Even when the whole letter had curled into a blacked ball of soot, he hadn’t let go of the top corner, blowing out the flame. Such a thing as this should not remain in the VIP lounge where Azul could see it. This letter, after all, never existed in the first place.

An idea struck him, and a smile began to creep on his face as he returned to stand. He began moving back towards his own dorm- the blackened paper in his clenched hand. He had a small cardboard compost box about the size of a ring container. The ugly wad should fit in it, along with something else.

Perhaps a letter of his own? Or would that lessen the impact of the gift? He would have to draft that out and consider it. Wrapped nicely with paper, and tied with a delicate red ribbon. A far more beautiful presentation than the burnt disappointment he held in his fist. The sort of perfect exterior that one should consider when approaching the Housewarden.

But he would have plenty of time to consider this plan of action. As for now, it was approximately 5:15 in the morning. Besides hiding the disgrace, there was a lavender blend he needed to start heating. After pouring, it would need to cool for about 4-5 minutes for a warm but not scalding temperature. He’d have to retrieve the cups from the back of the cupboard, and the small tray kept in the lower side of the pantry- along with arranging everything.

By the time he would be done with it, it’d be just about 5:27. Azul’s alarm was typically set slightly before 5:30 as to allow a few minutes to rouse from sleep (and recover from the startling effect of his alarm).

And then, on the dot, he would be there to wake his Housewarden, as he always had.

What of the letter? The student? They were not so devoted as this- absolutely worthless. But that hardly mattered now.

The student would be just as the letter was; if not burnt past recognizability, it would be crushed to dust beneath his hand, it’s remnants swallowed whole.

• • •

Hope you guys enjoyed-! Reblogs and comments always appreciated!

[deusvervemakesgames]

Project RBH Devlog 0060

We’re dangerously close to being done laying the game’s groundwork and moving on to simply making content for the game. I’m hoping that I might be able to start doing youtube video DevLogs once that happens.

Here’s the rundown on what I got done last week. It’s a lot.

First up was the health drop that enemies rarely do. The placeholder heart was fine, but, well, it was placeholder. Here’s the new one.

Next, there was a single frame in the new door animation that wasn’t quite right, and I could see it mid-animation. So I fixed that, too.

And then I moved on to something I hadn’t realized that I hadn’t done. There was still an enemy left to redesign. The enemy that fires bullets in a circle. Previously it was a static image of a skull-like design. I changed it up to better distinguish itself as something that moves, and in the process discovered that I have so much more I can do within the geometric enemy design motif I’ve established. Look at this guy! I think it might be my favorite.

I was also getting sick of the upgrade selection screen. White rectangles over a black background. Boring. So I reused the Nexus background as that felt fitting for something that benefits the player and swapped out those rectangles for an actual sprite. Hovering over them still tints them in a certain way that I’m not 100% sold on but it works for now.

Next up was a problem I had in putting the player in the level. I don’t think I ever mentioned this but the quick and dirty solution I had to possibly spawning inside of an object was to keep shifting the spawn-in location to the right. Which could shunt the player outside the level. Fixing that wasn’t hard; I’d already done it for the door object and simply reused that code. It checks the spawn location to see if it overlaps with an obstacle and if so, randomly picks a direction and a distance and checks there instead. Repeat until success.

With that done, I spruced up the rooms in the generator so that they’d stop being totally empty open boxes. I still need some set dressing for these things to make them look and play better, but the actual generation code works and I’m fine with that for now.

Then came something that was harder than I thought. Enemy spawning.

Currently what happens is that in every room, except the first and last, a proximity sensor detects the player and then spawns enemies in the room randomly, one by one. The issue was actually getting them in the room. If I manually placed them it would screw up my generation code placing floor tiles, meaning I had to code them in. That’s where things got tricky. While I have variables in my room generation that marks how many rooms there are—horizontally and vertically—and how big a room is, these variables don’t include the walls around each room that join them to other rooms. I forgot that detail at first which had them spawning in inside of an evenly spaced grid as desired, but that grid was smaller than the actual level leaving them all scattered. Maybe I can make the final math formula a bit more streamlined but hey, it works now. I also used it to fix the code for the player and the door being off-center.

And since I’m now using Math to figure out where everything goes, I can easily adjust the size of the dungeon without issues. Right now it randomizes the width and height between three values, designed to ensure that it’s always a landscape rectangle.

For some extra polish, I added in an animation for enemies being spawned in. I already had one, but it was pretty placeholder. I think it was my bullet impact particle but in reverse and bigger.

Anyway, now a sort of dark hole thing opens below them and vanishes.

Ideally there would be a delay between the black hole and the enemy spawning in, but that’s something I can afford to worry about later.

I also wanted enemies to have a particle effect when they died. I ended up reusing the explosion sprite for this, because I wasn’t happy with it as an explosion. It’s a shockwave more than anything.

And because I wasn’t happy with the explosion, I redid it. Again. Third time’s the charm, probably. I am much happier with this effect.

You may also notice that I recolored the bullets. The previous pure-white bullets were fine, but I wanted them to have an outline that popped against the background. And since I had the chance, I took the opportunity to color them based on whether they were the player’s or enemies’.

I think, next, I’m going to whip up about 20 proper upgrades to replace the current ones with. Maybe 10. We’ll see. Because from here on I think all that’s left to do is, like I said before, add stuff.

Until next Devlog!

-DeusVerve

DevLogs like these are brought to you by Patron(s) like Haelerin!

Support me on Patreon to get Early Access to builds!

[marilostfieldblog]

[Transcript begin.]

[The transcript begins with the sound of someone crawling on tile, sobbing as they do. Someone can be heard running over before the crawling stops and incoherent screaming follows.]

?: Let me go!

[Voice identified: Sparrow.]

?: Not happening kid.

[Voice identified: Mari.]

Sp: LET ME GO MARI!

M: Nope.

Sp: THEN HELP ME HELP CASSIDY PLEA-

[Sparrow coughs, the sound of footsteps on tile continue as well as small thuds as if someone was being punched.]

M: I'm afraid I can't do that one either.

Sp: WE CAN'T LEAVE HER HERE!

M: Sorry kid. Life ain't far sometimes

Sp: SHUT UP AND HELP ME!

[The footsteps stop Mari can be heard setting Sparrow on the floor before taking a deep breath.]

M: Kid. Stop.

Sp: Then help me!

M: I'M NOT HELPING YOU GET YOURSELF KILLED! CUZ GUESS WHAT KID THAT’S WHAT WOULD HAPPEN!

[Sparrow stops abruptly, Mari can be heard walking once again as if pacing back and forth.]

M: I Understand you don't want to leave Cassidy behind but neither of us are gonna be able to help her!

Sp: Mari… Please…

M: Sparrow look at me… There’s nothing the two of us can do…

Sp: So what? You just want to leave her behind?

M: I never said that.

Sp: Well you're making reasons why we can't help her!

M: YOU CAN BARELY MOVE THANKS TO MAI! I ALMOST DIED TRYING TO SAVE YOU WHEN I NEVER WANTED TO DEAL WITH YOU IN THE FIRST PLACE-

[Mari stops everything instantly, realizing what they said. The footsteps start back up as sparrow begins crying again.]

M: I didn't mean that I'm sorry

Sp: [Mumbling.] G- go away…

M: Sparrow.

Sp: GO AWAY! IF YOU NEVER WANTED TO DEAL WITH ME THEN GO AWAY!

M: I… Can't do that… Sorry.

[The footsteps stop, Mari takes a deep breath as they can be heard sitting on the tile.]

M: A week.

Sp: W- what?

M: If you know where Cassidy is currently, give me a week to come up with a plan.

Sp: Really!

M: Yes, I just can't promise anything about Cassidy's safety cuz that's a variable I can't control. Happy now?

Sp: YES! THANK YOU MAR-

[Sparrow coughs some more, the crying now over as with the crawling.]

M: Maybe stop screaming? Probably bad for someone in your condition.

Sp: Yea-

[Sparrow is cut off by Mari shouting.]

M: SHIT MY PHONE!

[Mari can be heard struggling with the phone before the audio cuts off.]

[Transcript end.]

[no-semicolons]

Game Development Journey 2

I've made plenty of progress in my like 3 days of working on this game

I'm going with wave function collapse (there's plenty of articles on it) to generate our map

Weather or not I've actually managed to make wave function collapse is up to debate, but I certainly tried!

So here's some of the code and explanations:

Here are my variables, I hope you like them

This it my _ready() function, which runs when the game is run

randomize() generates a random seed

in my variables you saw start_x and start_y, that defines the starting point for my generation

Here, if the start_y is 3 it runs a function called floor_top_generation() which I'll go over later

If start_y isn't 3 then it checks if it's less than height which is 40 at the moment

If it is, then it runs a function called floor_edge_generation() which I'll also go over later

Then it runs a function called wall_fill() which I'll also go over later

Then neighbors(x, y) same thing

This while loop uses the neighbors(x, y) function to create an array of all the points that need to be tiled

The for loop was what i was working on before I had to write this

Its supposed to go through the array and tile everything that the while loop put in there

Now for all those functions I was talking about

floor_top_generation() :

If x is 0 it places a top left corner tile

If x is equal to width which is 72 currently it places the other top corner

If x is neither of the two above it places a top floor tile

floor_edge_generation() :

If x is 0 it places a left edge floor tile

if x is width (72) it places a right edge floor tile

otherwise it places a center floor tile

wall_generation() :

It takes the x coordinate and makes a wall at that point

not sure what else to say about it

wall_fill() :

it defines x as width

then defines a while loop that breaks when x is less than -1

the while loop calls wall_generation() with the current x

then decrements x

neighbors() :

this function uses Godot's built in operator(?) to find all the neighbors of the inputted tile

writing this made me realize an error

using this the way I was going to would cause me to have duplicates of coordinates and while that won't break it

it certainly isn't good

That's all the new code

so what else is happening

I'm asking that y'all feel free to interact with me!

I want to hear what you think or what your ideas are

and if I've royally messed up but don't see it

Tell me!

My partner isn't doing his job so go bug him for me would you?

If he lets me I'll show you a picture of him wearing cat ears and paws

till next time

o7 cmdr

[waterdamagerestorationlosangel24]

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The cost of water damage restoration in Los Angeles depends on several variables, but the investment is well worth it to restore your property and avoid further complications. By understanding the factors that influence the cost and working with trusted water damage restoration Los Angeles professionals, property owners can ensure they are prepared for the restoration process and confident in the results.

[stonefootings]

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[cempump]

What Is Screeding Sheffield and Why Is It Crucial?

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Why Screeding in Sheffield Is Crucial

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