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 hairy shoulder 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.
---
Transparency and Creative Integrity concerning AI
In my creative process, I maintain a strict and meticulous approach to ensure that my vision and creativity are always at the forefront. Every concept, idea, and detail originates from me, and I oversee the entire creative journey. The AI is purely a tool, functioning ONLY as a meticulous stenographer and stylist, refining language and organizing content without introducing its own creative influence.
Just as I would carefully draft and edit each line by hand, (As I've done so for many years-) I apply the same level of scrutiny when using AI. I do the final line-by-line edits before any work is shared, ensuring that every word aligns perfectly with my intent. This meticulous process means that the AI’s role is limited to supporting and enhancing (Never Generating) my original ideas, rather than dictating them.
In essence, the difference is not in the quality or the creative input, but in the medium of execution. My standards and creative integrity remain uncompromised, and I approach every piece of content with the same dedication and care as I always have.
In other words, I have a very busy life and I use AI as a scribe. (Also not all my works use the tool, some pieces I simply raw dog myself.)
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.
you can mention and do as you like in ypur replies but don't expect me to engage.. I'll -fade-to-black faster than a 40 yo virgin.
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 amount 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 — and 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.
-----
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.
---
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
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 hairy shoulder 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.
---
Transparency and Creative Integrity concerning AI
In my creative process, I maintain a strict and meticulous approach to ensure that my vision and creativity are always at the forefront. Every concept, idea, and detail originates from me, and I oversee the entire creative journey. The AI is purely a tool, functioning ONLY as a meticulous stenographer and stylist, refining language and organizing content without introducing its own creative influence.
Just as I would carefully draft and edit each line by hand, (As I've done so for many years-) I apply the same level of scrutiny when using AI. I do the final line-by-line edits before any work is shared, ensuring that every word aligns perfectly with my intent. This meticulous process means that the AI’s role is limited to supporting and enhancing (Never Generating) my original ideas, rather than dictating them.
In essence, the difference is not in the quality or the creative input, but in the medium of execution. My standards and creative integrity remain uncompromised, and I approach every piece of content with the same dedication and care as I always have.
In other words, I have a very busy life and I use AI as a scribe. (Also not all my works use the tool, some pieces I simply raw dog myself.)
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.
you can mention and do as you like in ypur replies but don't expect me to engage.. I'll -fade-to-black faster than a 40 yo virgin.
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 amount 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 — and 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.
-----
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.
---
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
Last edited: