Mixcoatl

Aftermath (Closed Roleplay)

It was mistake because my page froze

Aftermath (Closed Roleplay)

youtu.be/eAQMvUioV6c?si=YRIJLHgUemJxuhq6 (just a jam to listen to while reading)

“Lars, I’m home.”

She dared to touch him.
Did she even have that right anymore?
Did he?

To receive the caress of a loving wife after what he’d done. After what she had done.

Everything was blurred now. Not by consequence because surely they never thought that far. Actually , the reason was much more mundane. It was by neglecting the little things, the small gestures. Their love.

I’m home.

Too careless. The words fit her mouth like nothing had shifted.

Home?

You still think you have one to return to? Is that what this is? The soft couch beneath him felt familiar in the way an estranged neighbor's does. And the coffee? The smell from this morning had long gone sour. Everything was the same way. Especially that fucking light bulb he never fixed.

Yeah, this was home and he had one as much as she did.

He did not move at first and simply let her believe he was sleeping and let her hand linger. Even when her fingers felt like a rake across his scalp gently, he remained still, gaze locked on the spinning ceiling fan. The blades carved slow circles through the dark ticking faintly as if they were hands on a clock out of touch with time.

He had stared long enough to rehearse the words until they sounded believable.

It was half a year before yours, not just tonight.

He practiced the tone and the exact pause where shame should sit in the manufactured confession. He practiced the look of someone guilty not just calculating. If he made it older than hers, dirtier than hers, then the weight would distribute evenly.

This wasn't martyrdom for Lars, just love expressed in painful sacrifice. Her fingers pressed at his scalp tenderly. His shoulders tensed, then forced themselves to soften. He almost said it all then. Almost turned his head and let it all spill out, names without faces and rooms without meaning.

Bleach and fake lavender, and the way he counted minutes between girls like a man counting down to his execution. He imagined her flinch, maybe stumble because of the wine.

Imagined the way her shoulders would stiffen. Imagined the way she would ask questions, how she tried to rationalize the why of it all. He pictured another argument, more shouting, more disgust. He felt the tremor in her knuckles when she brushed his temple. It's not easy to take the blame without retaliating. Wounded animals trying to survive a bleeding monogamous life. He closed his eyes slowly as if surfacing from sleep.

“Hey,” he turned and smiled.

The confession stayed behind his teeth like shards of glass he decided to swallow. Tonight would have to remain quiet, the happy picture frames and souvenirs of their memories had already heard enough.
So why then?

Why do words that linger in the tongue stay silent when lips come apart?

They didn't talk about it. And even if they did, what would that accomplish anyway?

More scorn?
More ache?

No.

Lorna was tired of performing and Lars was sick of hurting.

He simply stood and walked past her to the bedroom and she followed him like muscle memory, not side by side kissing passionately like they used to, but in line as if they were walking through an airport terminal.

No apologies, no permissions, only routine. Their silence was a mutual treaty of understanding in knowing that if they thought for too long, they would both break.

The bedroom light stayed off. She kissed him first in the same way their schedule always allowed. His mouth angled where it knew her best and the glide of her hands found the spots familiar to his body.

Pressure.
Pressure.
pressure.

Soft pads found his jawline in the exact place right before his chin where she always made sure he knew she meant it. Looking at her like this he saw versions of himself in her eyes that he could no longer be, so he responded mechanically. His palms to her waist, fingers trailed up her spine to undo the clasp of her bra.

Actually, if someone had walked in, it would have looked normal and that was the worst part.

She pulled his shirt over his frame. Lars raised his arms without protest. Pants, belt and the rest came off like choreography. Her kisses marked his neck and the dip of his collarbone. She paused. Her lips hovered over faint bite marks, reddish, recent, wrong. She made space for them. Kissed around them. Continued to the spot under his earlobe where he used to shiver.

He didn't shiver. She noticed, but didn't stop. She pushed him back onto the bed and he settled on the familiar side where they always started. Lorna climbed on top of him and kissed him again, deeper this time. Her gaze scanned desperately trying to find anything under the surface, and tried to reach a part of him that used to meet her halfway.

He kissed her back but it felt like he was following instructions. She pulled back to look at him though his eyes focused on a smudge on the ceiling past her shoulder, lost in trance.

"Lars I–," the line of her mouth barely moved. He blinked, looked at her and remained silent. Their lips locked again in dead consent.

When she straddled him, nothing stirred. There were no expressions of surprise or twisted grief. His features didn't change, his breathing stayed even. Slowly, the rhythm of her milky hips settled into habit as she watched for any reaction, or some signal that she wasn't dead weight on the man she loved and that her body still gave him pleasure.

Nothing.

She leaned, hands on his chest and moved faster and faster searching for that line on his cheek when he would clench from ecstasy. Instead his hands slid to her thighs and pressed lightly, no grip, just there.

The lids of her eyes curtained to contain the mourning of their marriage. Yet his kept open while their motions stayed practiced and automatic. Years of muscle memory ingrained into every gesture, bodies that synced with each other's rhythm and timing without trying.

A sound escaped her. Half a breath, half a moan and all poison. He responded by burying deeper inside her, not for desire but for her validation. It should have felt good.

It felt like a star had collapsed in his chest. She opened her eyes and looked down. He still stared at the ceiling.

"Look at me," the words hardly tangible above the sound of their breathing.

He did.

And that's when she saw it. Tears. They leaked over his temples and disappeared into the pillow. No grief theater, no quiver, no contortions on his face... just release.

One of them landed on her wrist.

Warm.

She froze while moving.
Still connected, still inside.
Still throbbing.

This man, her lover, her soulmate, had never looked at another woman. Not performatively, but because he'd turn his face for devotion. Even the suggestion of infidelity felt like it could stain something sacred. She remembered holding his hand in public and feeling oddly safe because he policed himself before she ever had to.

There were times when she remembered the absence of jealousy when it had no space to grow. And now here he was, crying without crying. Fucking without wanting. Staining himself to escape and to carry the weight so she wouldn't have to bear it alone.

The realization hit her with physical strangulation in her lungs. She stopped moving.

"Lars–"

He kept his hands on her thighs. Didn't move them. Didn't pull away. Then he spoke with a steady low voice that was devastating in its calm.

"Oh my God," the words hooked in his throat.

She felt her chest crack.

"He touches you."

Her breath caught.

"You let him touch you."

She began shaking.

"You want him to touch you."

The dam broke.

She collapsed forward, chest to chest, and her face pressed into his neck, and the sound that came out of her wasn't controlled or dignified. It was an animal being shredded to pieces. She sobbed with abandon, full body shaking, fingers trembling, nails digging into her own flesh.

Lars didn't tell her it was all going to be okay. That they would sort it out and figure out a way together.

No,
Not this time.

Aftermath (Closed Roleplay)

# CONTEXT

Lars has Retinitis Pigmentosa. His peripheral vision is narrowing. The world is blurring at the edges. He notices the wrong things too acutely because what he can't see clearly, he has to feel.

And he felt it. The shift. The numbness. The absence where warmth used to be. He knew because love, like vision, doesn't disappear all at once. It fades and shifts then leaves an outline.

When he discovered his wife's affair with his best friend, he didn't rage. He didn't leave, he went out.

Not for pleasure.
Not for revenge.
For balance.

So that when the truth came out, they would both be guilty. Forgiveness would be possible so that she wouldn't have to stand by herself in the wreckage.

This is a story about a man who loves so deeply that he will contaminate himself to save the woman who destroyed him.

Sometimes, not seeing well means seeing too much, and loving too much means destroying yourself to keep the person you love from standing alone.

#THE AFTERMATH:

Why do lines blur? Could it be said that love is a disease that has no cure? Lars had known her too well to miss it. Maybe something had always been there, something that never chose between him and his best friend. Their best friend.

Retinitis Pigmentosa.

He woke at 5:47 AM. He noticed the wrong things too acutely. He tossed and turned until his gaze settled on the ceiling. Was she careless or just resigned to his condition? The pads of his fingers smoothed her side of the bed searching for warmth, for the residual shape of her absence.

There was a pianist's rhythm to the way his fingers traced her silhouette from memory. She was almost there. Sunlight streaked the skin on his hand where it parted the blinds. Warm just like her, tender like the whispers of her palm on his chest– the alarm went off. 6:00 AM. He silenced it before the second beep and sat up like he was late for something that did not exist anymore.

The same eyes that had always stared back looked different in the bathroom mirror. While he brushed his teeth, brown irises glossed over old imperfections. He still had the same stubble pattern that followed the line of his square jaw.

Nothing changed.
Everything changed.

He leaned closer. There was a faint red mark under his left mandible, a new one since yesterday. He touched it with two fingers. It wasn't from shaving, it held the wrong shape and color, a careless sign that he wiped away with a shaky thumb.

Evidence of sin or stain of devotion? Even he didn't argue with the meaning.

He opened the closet and pulled out the blue button-down she'd bought him last Christmas. You look good in this one, she'd said, smoothing the collar with both hands. He held it up. Put it back. Grabbed the gray one instead then paused. -And so handsome. He put the gray one back and took the other one after all.

The coffee maker beeped and snapped his attention to the kitchen. From the cabinet he pulled a couple of mugs gifted as a wedding present from John. Hers had a chipped handle and his was plain white.

The fresh brew felt routine, habitual and normal in a way that embodied a life postured, not lived. Coffee poured into both cups. His breath hitched when he grabbed hers. Lars stared at the inky liquid, counting every loud tick of the clock for exactly thirteen heartbeats.

When he spilled it down the sink in a slow, steady stream, his hand trembled, then let go. It swirled down the drain and the mug was left where it lay. He thought about placing it where she always left it, but, what was the point in that?

He drank his standing. The chair at the table was still pushed out from the previous morning. She always forgot to push it in. He walked over and slid it back into place with both hands and looked at the rest of the kitchen. A broken vase, a crooked painting and torn window curtains. He left everything where it was.

The cellphone on the counter pinged a new notification. There were three total. One from her, one from work and a final from a number he didn't recognize.

He opened the thread with the unknown contact. Four messages, all from last week, the week she was at her mother's. He deleted it without reading on instinct.

His thumb hovered.
Went to Recently Deleted.
Hated what it meant.
Restored the conversation.
Marked it unread.

He locked the screen and shoved it in his pocket. A minute later the front door shut. The apartment hallway echoed the sound harshly, he had yanked it harder than necessary. Despite hearing the deadbolt catch he still pulled the handle to check. Lately too many keys could get in and that's what stung the most.

The drive to work took twenty-two minutes. The radio came on automatically, some morning show host laughing at his own joke. Lars tried to listen, but reached over when the noise interrupted his thoughts. It was stupid how much the scenes replayed in his head, how much he tried to understand.

Just... focus.

At a red light, he noticed a couple in the car next to him. The woman was crying. The man had his hand on her knee. She wiped her face and said something. The man smiled and she smiled back. Then the light turned green and the couple drove off first.

At work, he answered emails before anyone else arrived and cleared his inbox by 8:34. When his coworker Rachel leaned into his cubicle and asked, "Hey, how's Lorna doing? Haven't seen her around lately," Lars didn't hesitate. "She's good. Visiting her mother upstate." Rachel smiled. "Oh nice. Tell her I said hi." He cleaned his glasses, the pair with the permanent smudge around the edges.

"Will do."

When she left he realized that he'd lied for his wife again. He flipped a small framed photo of her so that he could work in peace for a few hours.
Lunch was a tuna sandwich from a vending machine in the cafeteria. The same table next to the water-stained window with the smeared bird shit on the sill outside. Across the room a couple sat close together. Spoons-to-plates clinked around him as he chewed without tasting.

The brunette seemed upset with her arms crossed tight. Her husband leaned in, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and whispered with a smile. She uncrossed her arms when he said something else, she laughed, shook her head and laid her forehead on his shoulder.

Their joy was a sweet relief but to him it sounded like poison. Lars looked down at his sandwich and took another bite before tossing it into the bin.

At 1:29 PM. He found himself on the stairs to the third-floor supply room. No one used it this time of day. But alone was the one thing he couldn't afford to be because it led to loud arguments inside his mind. His hand jerked his hair suddenly and held his grip there, then pulled out his phone.

The restored thread from earlier had a blurred thumbnail. The timestamp was from three days ago. A nineteen-second clip of two people in bunny and hound masks.

He pressed play.

There was bad lighting, bad angles and someone's bedroom, not theirs, not their marital bed. The camera must've been propped on a dresser. He heard her voice first. Not words, just the sound of her mischievous giggling. The kind she used to give him when she felt reckless but safe. He heard John next. Muffled, calling her beautiful and sexy, his little whore.

Lars closed the video at eleven seconds and set his phone face-down on the step. Curled fingers dug into his thigh and wished he could draw blood through the slacks.

At 1:33 PM, he opened the video again and muted the sound as fast as he could then skipped ahead, scanned her face and not the body behind her. Paused at fourteen seconds. His intestines churned like a broken washing machine. He stopped breathing.

"God..."

Lorna's eyes were half-lidded, her mouth open, knuckles tight around the sheets.

Laurentius had seen that look many times painted on her features. New Year's Eve before the countdown on their third date. The night she quit her job without telling him first and moved in by surprise. And the night she'd suggested they drive to the coast at 2 AM just because.

She could never wait for the right timing. Her expression in the clip was the same one she always had before doing something reckless. Something she'd always apologize for later. He locked the screen and observed his reflection then put the phone away, his desk waited.

At 3:30 PM, he left work early. Told his manager he had a dentist appointment. He drove and parked outside a strip joint and walked up to the ATM close to the entrance.

The Velvet Narwhal

Neon letters glowed with a smug indifference, each curve edged in a halo of electric fuzz. Above the name a towering neon silhouette of a woman materialized curved and languid, with hair tumbling in glowing strands down her back. Her hips swayed in a slow, looping animation.

On her forehead, a slim, luminous horn pulsed in time with the bass, a strip of light that flared, dimmed, flared again, as though it were breathing.

Beside her, shimmering into existence like a summoned familiar, a glowing narwhal drifted through imaginary water. Its body was plump and cheerful, its long tusk extending forward in a slow, looping arc.

Every few seconds, the animations synced across Lars's face. He withdrew four hundred dollars, took the cash and folded it into his wallet behind the credit card Lorna had given him for emergencies.

She texted at 6:02 PM.

["Where are you? can we talk"]

["?"]

Typed: ["Grabbed a drink after work."]

Deleted it.

Typed again: ["For what?"]

Deleted that too.

In the end there was no reply, he just left the message on seen.

That's when he decided right there and then, standing outside by the ATM: when she would finally ask him how long? That he wouldn't tell her the truth. He'd make this sound older, long before hers ever started.

Inside there was a brick interior, dim lights and the corner speakers played something he didn't recognize. He sat at the bar and ordered whiskey, slammed it down and tapped the counter for another. His coworkers once said that the girls here often took jobs on the side and tonight felt like the right time to see if it was true.

A blonde dancer two seats across smiled at him. Mid-thirties, full figure with tired eyes. Lars didn't look back yet she moved one seat next to him.

"Rough day?" Her body angled close and she rested her cheek on her palm.

"Something like that." He chugged another glass.

"Me too."

She ordered a drink but they didn't talk much after that. Just sat there and let the alcohol speak for them and at some point, her hand touched his arm. A numb sweat crawled over his flesh when the warmth of her palm made contact.

Didn't move it away.
Didn't ask for her name.

The Honeymoon Haven was four blocks away, they walked there, and he paid in cash. Bleach and fake lavender hit his senses when they stepped inside room number thirteen. The mattress had stains around the edges where the sheets didn't hang over and the TV was on mute, showing some home renovation show.

She leaned to kiss him. He refused, and unbuttoned his shirt, his wife's favorite.

The awkwardness of a void left by romance consumed him. She fumbled his belt and he slid her underwear carelessly. The sex was rough and full of scorn. He put her into many obscene positions on top of the covers and halfway through practiced moans, he tried something he'd never asked Lorna for. The type of thing he'd thought was missing from their marriage, the kind of adventure she sought with John.

The woman didn't hesitate. Light was absent from her irises because money made her submissive at the cost of dignity. He thrust without mercy, their bodies twisted and moved like animals, but his mind only wanted a rehearsal of the acts he needed to make sense of.

Was this what you wanted?

Did you beg him?

Is this how you want to be fucked?

Is this what you break my heart for?

Guilt squeezed his ribs before he came. It dug like thorny barbs, sharp, deep.

And then -relief.

He exhaled like something had finally leveled.

Now I'm marked too.

Now we're the same.

Now I can forgive you.

Whispered bills scraped too loud as the prostitute counted the money at the end of the bed still naked. Lars closed the door behind him but she didn't look up. A receipt from the front desk was tossed to the street and the wind caught it. Once inside, he sat in the car with the engine turned off.

An incessant beeping of the seat belt warning cut the silence when he turned the key halfway. For nine minutes he listened to the sound non-stop, he climbed out, slammed the door and got another girl.

At 11:45 PM, he checked his phone. Four missed calls and twelve plus messages. He opened the thread, didn't read any of it and replied;

["OMW."]

At home, everything smelled the same. Coffee from this morning. Her lotion, a shattered perfume bottle and the faint smell of laundry detergent. He showered for twenty minutes and stood under the water until it ran cold.

Fuck it all.

He got dressed and made his way to the kitchen. The vase was cleaned up, the painting laid upright on the wall and the small window let the street lights pour inside without curtains.

Lars made his way into the living room only leaving the blinking bulb on. The one he promised to get around to months ago. On the shelf across from the couch, there was a framed photo. About four years old, taken before they were married. Before the engagement. Before the conversations about forever after.

It was a silly frame of just the two of them sitting too close on a beach in Acapulco, smiling like idiots. Best friends first, then lovers. Their first kiss felt like nomads finding home and their last felt like an imitation.

I won't let you face this alone.

When he sat the reclined sofa felt soft when his body sunk into it. I love you Lorna. The table lamp clicked off and the only sound came from a rattling screw inside the air-conditioned unit. Everything flooded in pitch darkness except a dim glow bleeding from the hallway.

His gaze fixed on the ceiling fan as he began to rehearse curated lies.

When the time came and she would ask how long? He wouldn't say one night, he'd say half a year, before yours.

He'd make it sound uglier, dirtier. Because if he was guilty too, if he was more guilty, she wouldn't be the only one standing in the wreckage. She wouldn't be the real monster. They could move on, forgive each other and finally bury the shame together.

Keys into the door split the silence, the lock turned and the door opened.

You know what's wild? Strippers don't take SNAP

@franzkefka I love that a few lines can imply so much worldbuilding. I'm down, so shoot me a PM

You know what's wild? Strippers don't take SNAP

@themaybreeze Sent you a PM

You know what's wild? Strippers don't take SNAP

@Redking0380well, these are samples of my writing style and the pitch as it were, is that if you find my quality compatible, then I'm down like charlie brown to either brainstorm a story or engage in anyone's starters.

You know what's wild? Strippers don't take SNAP

You know what’s wild? Strippers don’t take SNAP

---

GREETINGS AND SALUTATIONS -Executes a perfect masculine curtsey- "Hi, M'ilords."

Alright. Before anyone clutches their chesticles, writes a thinkpiece, or messages me asking if this is “satire” ..relax.
Yes, the title is a joke.
No, this thread is not. (Maybe)

If you’re allergic to blunt language, dark humor, or writers who don’t wrap everything in cellophane -you’ve already self-selected out. Congratulations. You saved us both time.
-DAP's you ina ghetto ass elaborate hand shake- Aight peace, be well

Duces

----

If you’re still here, pull up a chair.

WHO I AM & WHAT I’M ACTUALLY HERE FOR

I write heavy, immersive, high-stakes fiction.

Fantasy.
Sci-fi.
Apocalyptic.
Mythic.
Psychological.
Stuff where gods bleed, systems collapse, and characters pay for their choices.

I am not here for:

ERP

Peepee and Vajayjay
Peen or Vergeen type stuff (Smut)

slow burn cuddle sessions and shoulder hair-play

emotional stand-ins

or turning every plot into a relationship simulator

Romance can exist.
Sex can exist.
But if it becomes the point instead of the background radiation, I’m gone.

I don’t write to fill emotional holes.
I write because my brain won’t shut the hell up otherwise.

---

PREFERENCES (READ THIS LIKE TERMS & CONDITIONS, NOT A SUGGESTION)

What I do want: ✔ Dense worldbuilding
✔ Consequences that stick
✔ Systems that make sense
✔ Characters who are not morally house-trained
✔ Writing with teeth
✔ Momentum

What I don’t want: ✘ Porn with lore duct-taped to it
✘ “But what if they kiss for three pages?”
✘ Boundary creep
✘ Vibes over structure
✘ People trying to renegotiate rules mid-scene like it’s a hostage situation

If this feels “restrictive” to you — good.
That means it’s working.

---

NON-NEGOTIABLE RULES (NOT UP FOR DISCUSSION)

1. No smut. Ever.
Mention? Fine.
Imply? Cool.
Fade to black? Perfect.
Explicit mechanics? Hard no.

I get enough butter churning irl and I'm not seeking it here.

2. Story > Feelings.
If the narrative stalls because we’re “processing emotions,” I’m ejecting like a father in a low income household.

3. No escalation games.
Don’t test boundaries “accidentally on purpose.”

4. Effort matters.
If your replies look like you typed them during a microwave countdown, we’re done. I'll go to the corner store for milk and NEVER come back.

5. Respect time.
I’m not immortal. Neither are you. Let’s act like it. If you got a busy life cool, I have literally waited a year between replies... take your time no pressure. Just don’t wait long after I have 10 kids to feed.

---

EXPECTATIONS (AKA: HOW NOT TO GET GHOSTED)

If you respond:

Bring an idea, not just vibes

Show me you can build

Understand that this is collaboration, not therapy also I'm not seeking friendship. I'm already friends with the voices in my toilet and three's a crowd and all that jazz.

I want someone who can stand in the storm and keep writing. Sometimes life is shit trust me I get it I've spiraled into depression every time my Lunchables is has an uneven about of processed cheese squares. But honestly? Thats often the best time to write.

---

EXAMPLES (THIS IS WHERE THE GOOD SHIT GOES)

⬇⬇⬇
THIS IS WHERE I PASTE MY ACTUAL EXCERPTS
⬇⬇⬇

From story:Small Dick, Big Mind, Bigger Heart. Satire/Slice of life Adventure

George swallowed.

Hard.

The old writer inhaled slowly, as if bracing for a confession he hadn’t rehearsed.

“I am George R. R. Martin,” George said flatly.

Silence.

Then Al barked out a sharp, incredulous laugh.

“Man, get the fuck outta here.”

George didn’t smile.

Al’s laugh died mid-breath. His eyes narrowed, taking in the hat, the beard, the glasses, the shape of the man on the stool as if rearranging the pieces into a picture he’d known for years.

“No way,” he said, half-whisper. “No. Nah. You playin.”

George pulled the codex from his pocket and held it up.

“Curtis sent me your… academic disrespect,” he said. “I read it. I called him. He gave me an address. I held up your door, then your beam. Now I’m in your food truck. This is either commitment to a bit or a very specific psychotic break.”

Al stared.

Then he scrubbed a hand over his face, dragging fingers down to his chin, groaning.

“Bro,” he said, voice strangled with secondhand embarrassment. “I was talking all that shit… right to your face… and you just sat there like a big ’ol confession booth.”

George shrugged, a small, wry curl of his mouth. “You were honest. I haven’t had much of that lately.”

Al paced the tiny length of the truck twice, muttering under his breath. His footsteps made the whole rig shudder in protest.

“Mother of… man. Minh’s gonna die when I tell him. Ruth is gonna… oh my God, Ruth’s gonna murder me for cussing in front of you. Okay. Okay, okay.”

He stopped, planted his hands on the counter, leaned in.

“Aight, listen,” he said. “Everything I said? I stand by it. I’m not about to switch up just ’cos you’re breathing in 3D in front of me. But… I will apologize for calling your whole mythos a pig in armor.”

He winced. “That was… colorful.”

George chuckled. “Creative, at least.”

They looked at each other for a moment, some new circuit completed between them. It felt like the click of a latch sliding home.

From story: "The Chrysanthemum in the Nebula." Science Fiction War/Romance

Another energy wave rolled over the hull.
This time, the impact was sharp enough that both of them staggered. The Aeli’s feet slid on the living floor, balance thrown by the sudden tilt. Biomech ribs flexed around them, stabilizers overcorrected, and the envoy pitched forward—

—into him.

Armor met flight suit with a muffled thud.
Alex’s back hit a support strut. One of his boots crushed a projection flower that blinked out with a hiss. For a split second, every survival instinct they possessed lit up:

Enemy at intimate range.
Center mass exposed.
Hands close enough to kill.

His hand shot toward his holster.
Its fingers splayed reflexively against his chest.

The suit was warmer than he expected, humming softly against his sternum, like some internal wing-structure was vibrating at high frequency just under the surface. The top of the envoy’s helm tucked under his jaw; through the filtration he caught a faint, alien mixture of ozone, metal, and something floral with no Earth analogue, a scent that didn’t belong to combat at all.

They froze.

Muscles tightened. Breath locked in both bodies.
The keratin plates over the envoy’s fingertips brightened from cautious rose into a clear, startled peach.

A soft dim in the chamber followed, no sound, only the faint pause of spores mid-drift, the internal core's lenses narrowed to a needle-point on their collision.

Alex eased his hand off the holster and steadied the alien at the shoulder, fingers tightening just enough to keep them upright as the ship realigned, his grip saying what his sidearm could not: I will not be the first to ruin this fragile ceasefire.

“If either of us flinch wrong right now, we both get spaced. The nebula doesn’t care who fired first.”

The envoy lifted its head enough that he saw his own reflection in the curved plate, jaw clenched, eyes wide, haloed by fractured projection light, a stranger staring back from alien glass.

“Your assessment is… sound.”

Slowly—deliberately—they separated.

The chrysanthemum lay at their feet, quietly glowing as though the ship itself monitored the moment, storing it, judging it, weaving it into its new memory of host and intruder.

The core chimed its oblivious neutrality.
“Mutual repair protocol authorized. Joint survival recommended.”

The words landed, and the ship’s silence folded sharply afterward—like a door shutting without sound.

Alex exhaled through his teeth.
“Guess that makes us a team.”

A faint, pulsing quiet lingered between the chime and Jeani’s next movement—one heartbeat where even the projection grass stilled.

The envoy raised both hands, palms opened and briefly traced the sigil of its lineage embossed on the suit’s shoulder before moving to the throat seam.

Lights along the band brightened, then dimmed, catches releasing with a faint hiss.

The helmet came free.

For a heartbeat, it stayed turned away, features hidden in the curve of metal, as if the envoy were giving itself one last second to decide whether to commit the breach it was about to commit.

Then it turned.

Raven hair poured out in a glossy fall, black threaded with nebula violet. Two slender antennae unfolded from just beyond the hairline, swept backward like flexible, luminous horns. Bioluminescent spores clung to the strands like constellations caught mid-birth.

Violet eyes met his—deep, chromatic, amaranthine.

Her lips curved.

“⍙⟒ ⏃⍀⟒ ⏚⍜⎍⋏⎅ ⟟⋏ ⌇⎍⍀⎐⟟⎐⏃⌰,”
(We are bound in survival,)

“Alex Reyes of Earth.”

Human brows raised.
“You’re…”

Her smile deepened with quiet certainty.

“Female.”

From story: "Therapy for Inmate #407." Crime/Paranormal

The headlight swept over a woman crossing alone. She froze, eyes widening, pupils dilating in fear not directed at him, but just past him. A cold draft rolled from the alley’s depths -an unseen warning -and he lurched, swerving hard. “Outta the way!” His shout tore out on instinct as she stumbled backward, breath fogging in the heat like she’d inhaled winter, then bolted into the next street.

The presence stepped closer, no sound, no form, just pressure, and the world dimmed by a shade. Neon flickered twice, then held, watching. A hum crawled beneath the asphalt, syncing faintly to his pulse, and for a moment the city seemed to share a single inhale, engine rumble, club bass, distant shouting, everything suspended in one beat before his heartbeat resumed hard and irregular.

A warm exhale, not human, brushed his neck. "Ask it." His fingers twitched on the throttle; heat gathered at the base of his skull like a hand resting there. Do not fear the truth you already chose. He swallowed, the sound too loud in the stillness.

“I want…” His voice failed. Rose again.

“I want them."  The word hit the air like a spark. “…to suffer.” And the universe shifted—quiet, seismic, before the reply arrived soft as breath against bone:

“Then speak their names, dear one."

Froms story: “THE ANONYMOUS MAN” Crime Noir

Incognito moved. Slowly. Each step heavier than the last, muscles knotting under his shirt, tension rolling through his frame like heat through tectonic plates. Steve watched him — his gait, his shoulders, his breathing — and a cold thought slid down his spine: He hasn’t walked like that since the early days.

Incognito reached the liquor counter. He didn’t choose a bottle. He selected the most expensive one he owned, like a weapon. His hand closed around the thick crystal neck. Veins stood rigid, a single artery pulsed. His shoulders rolled once, predator-coiled.

For a heartbeat, the room held its breath. Stillness absolute. Then the volcano erupted.

He ripped the bottle off the shelf and hurled it with full-body torque — spine, shoulder, arm firing as one explosive motion.

The bottle collided with the main window beside Asuka; liquor burst across the room in an amber, stinging mist. The window held, cracks spidered jagged across the pane. Everything else didn’t.

Steve flinched. “Jesus—!”
Elena covered her mouth, a choked sob breaking loose.
Sombra ducked, instinctively bracing for glass that never fell.

From “The Price of Discretion” Crime Gta V Fanfic

The black convoy slid to a halt outside the Elysium Terrace Hotel, chrome catching fire from the city’s lights. When the door opened, silence moved first, then Incognito, under his alias Mr. Vale, stepped out as if the ground had been waiting for him. Asuka followed, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Cameras didn’t just flash; they saluted. To the watching elite, they looked inseparable, a living headline in motion.

Inside, the gala shimmered beneath chandeliers, a monument to old money and new secrets. He guided her through the crowd, hand at her waist, light enough to appear courteous, heavy enough to own. “Smile,” his voice barely shaped the word. “They smell blood in hesitation.” Her lips curved into a weaponized precision. The glass slipped from her fingers for a heartbeat before his hand caught hers, steadying both stem and pulse. The movement drew them too close, breath over breath, silence stitched between them.

To the room, it was intimacy. To her, it was control in its most seductive form. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, barely there, yet electric. Senators whispered. Cameras leaned in. When he finally stepped back, the illusion held perfectly. Her control did not. They moved on as one, flawless, composed, unknowable—while something fragile beneath the surface refused orders.

From story: "Canticles of the Baptized" Sacred/Devine Fantasy

The ruined church waited for him like a place that remembered his name.
Rain threaded through the shattered rafters in long, silver breaths. Mist from the nearby waterfall drifted through the hollow windows like the last exhale of something ancient and wounded. Every stone was wet. Every beam was bowed. Every shadow felt like a witness.

Anedramus stepped into the nave as if stepping back into a world he had broken. He walked like a titan who had survived his own unmaking— not trembling from fear, but from the terrible weight he had carried long before the storm ever touched him. Water hissed where it struck the symbols scorched beneath his armor. He breathed once, and the breath staggered.

His armor gave way piece by piece— scorched, warped, thunder-scarred— falling around him like parts of a life he no longer wanted to wear. Each plate struck the moss with a low, wet thud, echoing like sins he had finally decided to stop dragging behind him. His breath rasped like serrated steel. Not with anger. Not with power. But with recognition— a fire inside him that had finally found what it had been burning toward.

He felt her before he saw her.

Soft steps through rain.
A breath that carried fear and longing in equal measure.
A presence he knew as deeply as he knew the weight of a blade.

The moon drew her out of the mist like a vision whispered from another life.
Her eyes, dark, deep, night-water eyes, opened wide when they found him.
Artmeya walked barefoot across the damp stone as though the church itself parted to let her pass.

Two souls, sharpened on the same grief,
meeting again in the ruins they somehow survived.

She reached for him,slow, trembling, reverent.
Her fingers brushed his jaw as if she feared he might vanish beneath her touch.

But he leaned into her hand with the heaviness of a man collapsing into truth after being lost for too long.

He lifted a gauntlet, only one, mand placed his palm gently across her cheek, knuckle against her lower lip.

Still.
Soft.

A man who had burned the world and yet trembled at the feel of her breath under his thumb.

She inhaled sharply.

“Anedramus…” she whispered.
Her voice cracked like wet tinder struggling toward flame.

From story: "INK AND FOAM" Psychological/RealityWarp

The diary shut with a whisper of aged paper, the sound like being dismissed. Her palm stayed there a second too long, feeling the give of it, the memory of a thousand openings and closings, until the cold reminded her she was outside, standing in a world that didn’t care what she’d come to retrieve.

Breath rose. Split. Dissolved into the winter air that tasted of iron and ending. Wind pushed against her shoulders, lifting the edge of her sleeve as if testing whether she’d flinch, as though the night itself was curious how much of her still remembered softness.

Her breath turned to vapor and slipped away. “I wish you were really dead to me.” The words left her with no ceremony, no flourish, just a blunt confession dropped into the cold, where it couldn’t be taken back. And the silence that followed didn’t comfort her; it only proved the sentence had somewhere to echo.

From: “THE PRICE OF DAYDREAMS" Crime Thriller/Mystery

The penthouse suite was quiet — not the kind of quiet built by peace, but the kind left behind by command. Asuka slid the door shut and stood for a moment in the darkness. The click echoed through the marble and glass, final as a blade’s return to its sheath. She didn’t turn on the light. The city outside threw enough of its glow through the vast window, painting her in fractured silver.

The gown still clung to her like memory. Every breath tasted faintly of smoke and champagne, remnants of his proximity. Her heels crossed the room in slow rhythm. One by one, pins left her hair, clattering softly on the dresser like fallen seconds. The ritual never changed: unmake the image before it becomes the person.

In the mirror, her reflection stared back, eyes sharp, unsmiling. The curve of her neck still bore the ghost of his touch. She lifted her hand to it, fingertips tracing where warmth had been. The skin there remembered what her discipline wanted to forget.

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If you read these and think, “oh hell yeah” — we’ll get along.

If you read these and think, “can we make this softer?” — absolutely not.

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CLOSING / GRATITUDE / PLEASE DON’T MAKE THIS WEIRD

If you made it to the end and you’re still interested, thank you, genuinely.
It means you actually read instead of skimming for permission to ignore the rules.

I’m here to build worlds, not babysit boundaries.
I’m here to write hard, not play coy.

If you think you’re a fit, respond with:

a short pitch

an opening beat

or a world concept that matches this energy

If not — no beef. There are infinite threads. This one just isn’t yours.

-Jiggles booty- goodbye

1x1 Interest Check (Plots Within!)

Wizard and client sounds amazing and unique!