Writers Are Creatures That Feed On Comments By The Way. If You Want More Of Your Blorbo From Them, Give

I would love to see a fantasy novel where the lore that the reader / protagonist learns at first is not true

I made a song for giving you song recs for your OCs! For those who are into that, feel free to give it a follow.

Songs For Your OCs

Hi hi! This is a blog run by @moremysteries to help you find songs for your original blorbos and original works. Please review the information below, and happy requesting.

Ask Rules

I am not comfortable with minors interacting, so begone minors!

Always assume I am not familiar with your OCs and give the relevant information for whatever you are requesting. If you plan to send me a character bio, awesome! But please point me in the right direction so I know which parts are most relevant for whatever you are requesting. (EX: Can you read the section on their teen years and give me song recs that fit?)

Yes, you can request songs for NSFW scenes. Just please do not request songs for assault scenes, as I find that too triggering. Outside of that, please let me know the vibes of the scene or the character dynamics so I know what kind of songs you're looking for.

I will rec songs for abusive relationships, but please don't send in requests asking me to do so through a romanticized lens. I am also not comfortable giving song requests for CSA or incest, sorry.

I am fine with people sending multiple requests, but please limit yourself to six requests max. I will take my time on requests, so don't pressure me.

I reserve the right to not complete any request that makes me feel uncomfortable for any reason.

What you can request

Recs for songs that fit your OCs or a certain aspect of your OC.

Recs for songs that fit a certain scene.

Recs for songs your OC might listen to based on their tastes.

Recs for songs that fit a relationship between your OCs.

Recs for songs that fit the vibes or a certain aspect of your WIP.

Recs for songs based on a playlist you already have, a song you strongly associate with the OC, wip, scene, and so on, a moodboard, etc.

Just always remember the more relevant details you give me, the more accurate the recommendations will be. For instance, "my OC is named Bill and loves dogs". That's sweet, but will their love of dogs help me find songs that suit them? I personally doubt it. A sentence like, "my OC is named Bill, and he's a sweetheart that works at the local dog shelter because he loves animals," is much more informative. This is just an example of a helpful sentence, but please give me more than just that sentence. 😅

Why "No One Talks Like That" Is Unhelpful

I've been thinking about some unhelpful critiques I have been given in the past and what made them so unhelpful, which lead me to sort of wanting to deconstruct why "no one talks like that" is such a bad critique.

So, things to consider before you give the critique "no one talks like that", which will likely reveal what you're actually trying to say:

Conversational conventions are often different in fictional worlds.

Just because something is normally "uncouth" or "strange" to say in reality, that does not mean the same can be said about fictional worlds. I personally got the "no one talks like that" critique because one of my characters was, supposedly, too blunt about their marriage proposal. This was in a fantasy world where marriage was treated in an extremely practical fashion, the same way someone would treat buying a new house. I got treated as the "person who constantly interrupts people giving critiques because they can't handle it" for simply trying to give my teacher some much needed context. This type of critique is not helpful to anyone, because it completely fails to understand or even attempt to understand author intent. "No one in real life talks like this", yes, and that is the point. To actually give helpful critiques to fantasy dialogue, you need to first understand how that fantasy culture differs from the ones you are accustomed to, and judge the dialogue based on it.

2. When you say "no one talks like that", who are you really referring to? The general population, or the people specifically within your social circle, area, or culture? Because you will likely find it is the latter.

I don't think it's necessarily bad for people to draw from their experiences when giving critiques, but I do think it's important to analyze one's biases in doing so. Before you say, "no one talks like that", always sit down to analyze why exactly you think that, and consider having a proper discussion with the writer about what experiences they are drawing from. As one examples, a straight person who is unfamiliar with queer culture may feel inclined to say "no one talks like that" about queer characters using terms or addressing topics like gender, sexuality, etc. in ways they are not accustomed to. It's not because no one truly talks like that, it's because they are completely unfamiliar with it.

3. Always, always, always consider context.

This ties into the fictional world idea, but goes beyond that. "No one talks like that" can feel extremely tone deaf as a critique if the person isn't properly engaging with the context of a scene or a character. "No one talks like that," okay, but this particular character is stressed and running on adrenaline, they're not exactly meant to be talking normally. "No one talks like that," this is a literal demon from Hell, why should they talk like we do? "No one talks like that," this character is neurodivergent, and it makes complete sense for them to talk like that. Also, keep in mind the genre and the style of the story. Not all stories are trying to have realistic dialogue. You wouldn't criticize a story set in wonderland for having unrealistic dialogue, as this is very much the point. Now, unrealistic does not mean meaningless, which is why considering the context of a story helps you give more specific and helpful critiques when it comes to dialogue.

4. Does nobody talk like that, or is it just socially unacceptable to talk like that? There is a difference.

I mentioned neurodivergent characters, so let me expand on that issue here. There's this attitude I think really needs to be squashed that characters must talk in a neurotypical fashion or else they are badly written, because neurotypical individuals find this easier to understand and see it as more "proper". And it expands to this general attitude I've seen that, if characters are not following certain social rules or etiquette, then the dialogue is badly written. This puts so many constraints on character dialogue that doesn't actually help with character writing.

Sure, not everyone is going to go out to a parking lot and scream profanities to see the shock and horror of those passing by, but this shit stain character I created absolutely would. "But characters need a good reason to break this etiquette", not everyone cares about social etiquette, and characters are absolutely the same way. So long as their character has been established as such, this is fine. Also, reactionary responses like, "no one would talk to their parents that way!", in response to a character severly breaking a social rule or greatly going against a certain social value, are not actually helpful critiques. It is an emotional reaction that reflects what you view as proper, not if the action is accurate to the character or not.

5. Is it true that nobody talks like that, or do you just not understand the dialogue?

If dialogue is confusing, you need to delve deeper into why that is, and consider whether this is intentional or not. Just because the dialogue does not personally resignate with you, that does not mean it is poorly written. Same goes for dialogue that is meant to be confusing at first, and is given further context later. Have a conversation with the writer to see if this dialogue is meant to be confusing, or if there's been a miscommunication. It's also important you reflect on whether a project is for you when critiquing. If you hate dialogue full of rhymes, then you probably shouldn't critique a story where everyone talks in rhymes.

6. Is the issue the way they are talking, or the way they are talking about something in the specific context of the story?

When analyzing why dialogue doesn't sit well with you, is it because the characters' reactions feel off or out of character? For instance, is the character that is well established to hate sweets now ranting and raving about how good milk chocolate is? The issue then isn't that "no one talks like that", the issue is, "it feels out of character for them to address (topic) like that". Yes, it could be argued no one hates sweets one second and then praises milk chocolate the next, but phrasing it as "no one talks like that" doesn't actually get to the meat of the issue. As a more serious example, is the character who hates all magic being oddly casual when actually confronted with a mage? Of course, some inconsistencies are done on purpose, and, as I said above, context matters.

Conclusion

Going through this, I think a lot of people will find "no on talks like that" is not actually what they want to say. Rather, they likely want more context, think a conversation needs better build up, believe the dialogue feels inconsistent with the characters/world, or may outright just be a bad fit for that particular project. So before you say, "no one talks like that," consider why you feel that way and find a way to word this critique that is more productive.

IRIS - Scenario # (OC PMV)

This is the winner option of the community poll! Sorry but due to mental health issues, I could only do a lazy PMV instead of an Animatic. I promise the second part will have animated bits! TW: The song contains themes of Violence and SA. CW: Epilepsy Notice and Non-explicit Imagery.

Work on IRIS the remaster has officially began! Content is shown on the B/T community a couple days prior blog posts.

IRIS' L. is the placeholder title for an upcoming (Teen bordering on Young Adult) book: a portal fantasy, whimsical story with teen drama, mystery, venturing and body horror. It is part of the Creation And Destruction (Standalone) Tetralogy, the very first installment of the first BAD TOKENS story.

Reblog if you’re grateful for your commenters <3

Hunger's Bite is out!

A specter is haunting the Atlantic!

After growing up together on the luxurious SS Lark, Neeta Pandey and Emery Botwright are ready to start their lives. Emery wants to follow in his father’s footsteps and sail the Lark forever, while Neeta yearns to travel the world. But neither will have any future at all if the Lark’s new owner, Mr. Honeycutt, has his way.

Mr. Honeycutt... The first-class passengers adore him, while he makes the ship a nightmare for the crew. Twisted by unnatural appetites, the rich are actually transforming into something less than human, and their insatiable demands soon push the staff toward a—quite literal— burnout.

Something otherworldly is undeniably aboard the SS Lark, something horribly hungry. But it’s not Wick Farley: vampire, secret agent, and paranormal investigator. Alone and at sea, with only Neeta and Emery to help him, he must uncover the truth about Mr. Honeycutt. And fast—before a ravenous craving for power consumes them all. 

Available in hardcover or paperback, and ebook from your favorite online retailers! Or ask your local librarian!

I loved the descriptions in this chapter. The way you described the red light and the connection between Lira and Jesse was so beautiful.

Chapter 2 - Lira cried.

Over the coming days, Jesse was lost for words, unable to speak without sobs threatening to erupt from her throat. Lira stayed by her side every step of the way though, and she knew it was everything she could do for her new friend.

The world wouldn’t pause. Not for Jesse. Not for the blood that was barely scrubbed from the tiles. The corpos barely registered a blip in their record—”Resistance to lawful eviction protocol,” the called it. Case closed. Body incinerated. Debts absorbed into the void.

Jesse didn’t leave her room for three days. Nobody asked why.

She didn’t sleep, either. Just sat on the floor of the tiny apartment she now shared with Lira, eyes fixed on the door, waiting—half-hoping the lock would click open and it would all be some mistake. An error. A bad dream with cheap lighting and synthetic blood.

But the dream never ended.

Lira came by the first night and never left.

She didn’t force conversation. Instead, she took over the smaller things—cooking tasteless noodles with rusted burners, boiling the apartment water twice, digging through Jesse’s things to find her old blanket with worn-out corners. When Jesse didn’t eat, Lira ate beside her, allowing the sound of chewing to fill the dead air. When Jesse couldn’t speak, Lira read manuals and junk news aloud like they were bedtime stories.

“If the world doesn’t pause for us,” she said one night, voice quiet in the dark, “Then we make our own time. Right here. Just us.”

Lira also handled the authorities—wrote the report that Jesse couldn’t, signed the form that let the apartment stay under Jesse’s name, hacked the local tenancy records to make Jesse’s age and status blur just enough to keep inspectors from prying too close.

She never asked for thanks. Never made a show of it.

But Jesse noticed.

She noticed the way Lira angled herself between Jesse and the door, like she could ward off the world just by being there. She noticed the way Lira didn’t flinch when Jesse finally broke down, days later, crying soundlessly into her shoulder with clenched fists and shuddering lungs.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Lira said simply. And Jesse believed her.

By the fourth day, Jesse got the notification.

It blinked cold and bright on the wall terminal, cutting through the half-dark of their apartment with bureaucratic precision.

A single click deep into the metadata, and she saw it—the name of the collector, buried in strings of serials. A security firm subsidized by one of the major corpos, protected under the Corporate Seld-Defense Act. It mean nothing would come of it. No investigation. No charges. No one would answer for the blood that stained her doorstep.

The system didn’t even acknowledge her as next of kin.

It treated her mother like a variable. A hiccup in a policy enforcement protocol.

And Jesse was supposed to forget.

A week later, someone from the Housing Department came by to “confirm unit compliance.” The man had silver implants where his eyes should have been and didn’t seem to notice the stack of half-eaten food or the two girls crammed over to one side of the room like survivors clinging to a lifeboat. He offered Jesse a new tenant registration card and a reeducation pamphlet on ”positive social integration after loss.”

Lira was the one who took it from him and shut the door in his face.

“They think you’re just some glitch,” she muttered, tearing the pamphlet in half. “That you’ll disappear. That we’ll forget.”

Jesse couldn’t speak. Her hands were clenched around her mother’s old mug, knuckles turning white with a flurry of emotions. That night, she stared at the terminal screen until the soft blue glow etched itself into her vision. She memorized every name listed on that damned security contract. Every ID. Every falsified timestamp.

She didn’t have a plan yet. But she would. Omnigen made sure of that.

Days turned into weeks, into months, of the same thoughts crossing her mind. The same names and IDs flashed behind her eyelids every time she attempted to close them.

Eventually, Lira had gotten sick of seeing someone who had grown to be her best friend and closest confidante hiding in the darkness of her room—only cming out for the occasional meal or because she wanted to accompany Lira on a trip to the store—and burst past the creaky door. “Jesse, I have something we’re doing.”

Jesse, eyes filled with sadness and fear, didn’t respond at first, only standing once Lira pulled her to her feet.

Lira brought Jesse to a dark alleyway in the middle of some corpo complex, much like her own, when her voice seeped from her throat, cold and even.

“Jesse, we’re going to start something. Together. We’re going to be the spark to the fires of a revolution,” Lira spoke softly, just loud enough for Jesse to hear.

Jesse didn’t have the strength to respond with her voice—that was still lost in her depression—her brows raise and she tensed slightly.

“I know it’s scary, but I found a debt collector for the same corpo assholes who—well, you know…” Lira’s voice trailed off, knowing Jesse knew what she meant.

They round another corner in what felt like a maze of twists and turns with Lira pulling Jesse close behind her by the wrist to reveal a man in a suit, tied to a chair.

The moment Jesse saw his face, something clicked into place—something that had become dislodged by the trauma of seeing her mother’s blood pooling beneath her warm body. She knew him. She had never forgotten his name.

“Vance Halroyd,” she muttered, her voice cold and calculated. “The man responsible for my mother’s death.”

That old rhythm tapped out on her thigh, subtle and steady, as she stared him down—searching for words that refused to come.

Only one memory surfaced: Vance’s sleek figure snaking around a corner as she collapsed to her knees beside her mother’s body.

The same sadness welled up in her chest, twisted now into something darker.

A disheartening laugh slipped from her lips, sickly sweet and unhinged, echoing through the alley in a way that made Lira shiver and take a step back, releasing her friend’s wrist.

Jesse stepped forward, deliberate, each footfall heavier than the last, until she stood mere centimeters from his face.

“Vance,” she sneered. “I’ve been waiting to see you properly for months. And now that I have you here, all I can think about is how sick people like you make me—how badly I want to make your kind disappear into the void of depression and anxiety.”

She paused, her voice softening just enough to send a chill through Lira and Vance’s spines.

“But I wont. I’ll leave you marked, not dead. I won’t pass my pain onto your family—if you have one that loves you—by killing you. I’ll let karma take care of that.”

With that, she turned to Lira and motioned for her gloves. “Give me those. He’s had this and more coming for as long as he’s been a debt collector corpo scum.”

Her words were dark, laced with venom—something Lira had never heard from her before. She took off the studded fingerless gloves and tossed them to Jesse, who caught them, pulled them onto her hands, and let that same sick chuckle seep from her throat again.

The sound died in her throat as quickly as it had begun. Her eyes narrowed, fixing on the man with an unsettling stillness. She inhaled deeply, a small, sharp smile curling on her lips—just a flicker before she snapped into action. In one fluid motion, her fist collided with his jaw, the sickening crack of bone slicing through the air like a promise.

For a moment, everything was still—then, without hesitation, she planted her foot on his chest and kicked with all her might. The chair he was tied to splintered beneath the force, its remnants scattering across the cold damp ground like discarded refuse.

Jesse leaned down, her voice a low whisper that cut through the dead air like a knife, “This is the part where you run, Vance.”

The moment the words left Jesse’s mouth—the sickening sound of blood dripping from her gloves echoed in the silence—a cruel smirk flickered across her lips as she watched the man scramble to his feet—pathetic, desperate—and turn to flee. She didn’t move. She didn’t need to, she had sent the message.

Satisfied, Jesse turned to face Lira, her smile soft and warm, uncharacteristic given the coldness of the moment. It was genuine, a flicker of appreciation in the wake of the violence that had just transpired. Without a word, the two stepped out onto the bustling street, the world around them completely unaware of the brutality that had just unfolded a few yards away.

A few moments of walking passed before the blare of a police drone’s siren sliced through the air, causing Jesse to flinch, the sudden noise rattling her. Instinctively, she moved to run but stumbled, her legs unsteady. Lira was quick to catch her, pulling her up with a steady grip before leading her back through the maze of alleys they used to get there in order to lose the drone.

After what felt like hours, Lira pulled Jesse into the apartment, the air filled with tension up until the moment Jesse locked the door behind her.

Before Jesse could get a word out, Lira put her hand on Jesse’s shoulder and chuckled.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Lira exclaimed, her voice hushed but laced with pride.

“That was…certainly an experience,” Jesse managed with a chuckle, her voice still trembling from the adrenaline.

Jesse leaned against the door, running her fingers through her hair. She had inadvertently smeared some blood into the dark strands by doing so, but she didn’t care. She stopped when she hit the ground, her hand still tangled in the wavy mess, a long sigh escaping her lips.

Just then, Lira giggled, pulling a safety pin from her jacket and handing it to Jesse.

“Take this,” Lira murmured, her voice laced with genuine concern. “It’ll help you stand out even more in the visual noise of the crowded streets, if we ever get separated.”

Jesse nods, fidgeting with the pin before flashing a soft, genuine smile. “Thank you, Lira…for everything you’ve done for me.” She didn’t know it yet, but Lira had quickly become her emotional anchor over the past few months.

With a fluid motion, Jesse unclasped the safety pin and jabbed it through her earlobe, carefully fastening it again once the point re-emerged on the other side of her lobe, turning it into a makeshift necklace. It became a symbol of safety—so long as Jesse believed Lira would always have her back.

Lira wined as Jesse turned the pin into an earring, but said nothing. She knew better than to question this choice. Not now.

Jesse smiled through her tears and pulled Lira into a tight embrace, letting herself cry freely for the first time in what felt like ages—even though it had only been a few hours.

Without hesitation, Lira wrapped her arms around her best friend, holding her close and gently rubbing Jesse’s back, anchoring her in the moment.

“Hey, let it all out,” she murmured, her words slipping out like a promise. “I’m not going anywhere. Not that easily.”

Months passed in a blur of small rebellions—quiet adventures, muffled laughter, and fleeting moments of peace. Jesse and Lira had made a habit of tagging corporate buildings, their own way of biting back at the companies that tried to erase them. But tonight, the air was heavier. Tense. Like the entire city was holding its breath.

Jesse glanced up at the monolithic structure they were tagging, the hum of the electric lights buzzing louder than usual. Her grin spread slowly, sharp and deliberate, as her eyes caught the neon sign glowing above them.

Omnigen Solutions.

Jesse grabbed a red can and shook it, the mixing ball rattling like a warning shot in her palm.

She doesn’t even need to think. She knows what' she’s going to paint. With steady hands and fire in her chest, she starts scrawling her mother’s case number in bold, furious strokes—EV-0481972—each character a declaration.

Lira chuckled under her breath as she watched Jesse work, sensing that deep, unshakable focus. She snatched a few cans of her own, the air around her practically buzzing as she sizes up the sterile, corporate wall. Her art is more chaotic, instinctive—expression over message.

Jesse’s lines sliced like blades. Hers isn’t art; it’s a testimony. She finishes the number, switches to black, and begins spraying a jagged, blooming rose beneath the writing—a crude, beautiful wound.

Then—a sound. A footstep, soft but wrong. Too deliberate. Jesse freezes. Her hand taps against her thigh in that familiar, comforting rhyth,—tap..tap…tap-tap…tap…

“We’ve got company,” she mutters, her voice low and razor-sharp despite the tight knot that had formed in her chest.

Lira glances at her unfinished tag and sighs, reluctant but ready to run. She nods, already stuffing her cans away.

But before they can move, shadows stretch acorss the alley.

One.

Then two. Three. Four. Five.

An entire armed patrol steps into view, scanning the darkness. Too many. Too fast. They weren’t just patrolling—they were hunting.

Jesse moves quietly without hesitation, disappearing into the night like she was born in it. Her body moves with practiced fluidity, every muscle coiled for escape.

Lira hesitated. Just for a second. Long enough.

Her boot slipped on a slick patch of red over-spray, her balance faltering just enough to send her scrambling to recover. Her breath hitches. Her pulse spikes. Then she ran—toward the chain-link fence ringing the back of the compound, boots pounding the pavement behind her like war drums.

Just as she reached the fence, Lira heard a sharp whistle to her right—Jesse’s signal. There’s a path. But she was moving too fast, too unsure, and the hesitation costed her. She slammed into the chain-link fence with a metallic thud, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs as she crumpled to the ground.

Move. She screamed inside her head, panic crackling through her chest like live wire. MOVE. She scrambled to her feet, gravel biting into her palms, and catches a flicker of light—Jesse’s safety pin glinting in the darkness, a beacon in the chaos.

There. A gap in the fence. Just big enough.

Without thinking, she dove through the opening, the edges of the wire catching her jacket as a gunshot cracks through the air.

Shit. Her legs burn as she runs, lungs aching, but it’s the sound behind her that freezes her blood.

A scream. Jesse’s scream.

Jesse had guided Lira through the fence but lingered a second too long and wound up taking a bullet meant for Lira. A sharp searing pain exploded in her shoulder blade before she even hears the shot. She stumbled, gritting her teeth and willing herself to keep moving.

Minutes stretched into eternity as they tore through alleyways and backstreets, the city around them warped into a blur of motion and panic. By the time they reached the apartment, time itself felt broken—twisted by fear, by pain. They stumbled inside and slammed the door behind them, collapsing to the ground in a tangled heap the moment the lock clicked into place.

Jesse’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. As the adrenaline drained from her system, the pain hit her in full. She lifted a trembling hand to her shoulder, fingers brushing over the torn fabric and seared skin. The wound was shallow and at most six inches long, but it felt like fire tearing through her body.

Before she could spiral, her eyes found Lira.

“Did…Did you get hit?” Jesse asked, voice strained, jaw clenched against the rising wave of pain.

Lira looked down at herself, hands trailing quickly over her limbs, checking. Nothing.

“No,” she whispered, almost like she didn’t believe it herself. Then her voice cracked. “But you did. God, Jesse, I’m so sorry…I shouldn’t have taken you there.”

Her gaze dropped to Jesse’s shoulder, where blood mixed with the black of burned flesh and gunpowder. The smell hit her like a punch. Tears spilled freely now, and Lira turned away with a dry gag, the bile of guilt thick in her throat.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sounds filling the room being Jesse’s ragged breathing and the occasional groan when the pain surged in waves.

Lira takes a shaky breath and gently lifts Jesse into a seated position against the door—a posture that’s become far too familiar over the months.

For a moment, she froze, her mind racing. Where’s the kit? What does she need first? Her hands trembled as she wiped the tears from her face, trying to push through the rising panic.

“I—I’ll get the med kit,” Lira says finally, her voice barely holding together. “You just…stay right there.”

Lira’s steps are unsteady, but her determination keeps her moving. She stumbled into the apartment’s cramped kitchen, flinging open cabinet doors, one after another.

“Where the fuck is it…”she muttered under her breath, each drawer and shelf only serving to deepen her frustration.

The room is suddenly bathed in a soft, pulsing red as a neon sign outside flickered to life through the window. Jesse lets out a breathy, half-laugh behind her—tired, pained, but still somehow amused.

Lira doesn’t laugh back.

At last, her hand closed around a dented tin box tucked behind some expired rations. Inside: half-used bandages, a rusted pair of scissors, and a tube of unopened burn cream. Not much—but hopefully enough. They’ve patched up scrapes and knife wounds before, but never a bullet.

This was new. This was real.

Lira walked back toward Jesse with renewed determination, her steps were heavier, more grounded. The flickering red light from the neon outside painted the room in a surreal glow as she knelt beside her best friend.

Jesse offered her a faint, weary smile before shifting, teeth clenched, to let the jacket fall from her shoulders with Lira’s help. The pain was sharp—etched across her face in grimaces—but she didn’t protest. Not once.

The scent hit Lira again—burnt leather, scorched flesh, and faint traces of gunpowder. She has to steel herself before meeting Jesse’s gaze.

Jesse nodded, their hands already entwined. The pressure of Jesse’s fingers around her said everything Lira needed to hear: I trust you.

That silent permission, that connection, sends a jolt of something like courage through Lira. She tightens her grip back before opening the burn gel, squeezing a trembling line of the thick, cool substance onto her fingers.

“This is gonna sting,” she whispers—not as a warning, but as an apology.

As the gel touches the wound, Jesse jerks involuntarily, a strangled gasp escaping her throat—but she didn’t pull away.

She never pulled away.

Lira’s hands trembled as she struggled to steady the bandages, her breathing shallow and uneven. Stop shaking. Stop trembling. She could feel the fabric slipping in her fingers and winced, praying it didn’t hurt Jesse too much. She’d patched her up before—bruises, cuts, scrapes—never something like this. Never a bullet wound. Never something meant for her.

Breathe. Just breathe, Jesse told herself, teeth clenched as another wave of pain rolled through her shoulder. The sting of the burn cream still lingered, sharp and hot, but nothing compared to the look on Lira’s face. She didn’t even need to look, she could feel it. She’s blaming herself. That thought alone hurt worse than the wound ever could.

Lira’s fingers were careful, trying not to shake as she looped the bandage around Jesse’s shoulder again. Her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a tight line of focus. Jesse watched her silently. Lira always tried to be the strong one. The one who held everything together when things fell apart. She doesn’t know I see how much this is hurting her. But Jesse saw. Every time. Gods, I don’t deserve her in my life.

Lira pressed her palm gently to Jesse’s skin, feeling the heat rising from it. Too warm. Please don’t be infected… She pushed the thought away, forcing her focus back on the next wrap. Just one more, that’s all. I can’t lose her. The words struck hard and fast. Not to this city. Not to a bullet meant for me.

Jesse’s chest tightened. She wanted to speak—Thank you. I love you. I’m sorry.—but the words caught in her throat. They felt too fragile, like if she let them out they might shatter into a million pieces. So instead, she reached out and gently squeezed Lira’s hand.

Lira froze for a heartbeat, than glanced down. Jesse’s hand, still warm and shaking, held her with a quiet kind of strength. It said more than words could. She squeezed my hand. Just like before, Lira thought, and for a moment, that was enough.

With a soft exhale, Lira pressed the final edge of the bandage down, smoothing it carefully. “There,” she whispered. “All patched up.”

It wasn’t true. Not really.

But in that moment, it was beautiful.

He's a pretty pretty man

Your poetry is always so gorgeous. The imagery in this one sent shivers down my spine.

I miss when you were in the margins

of my class notes

Your name and mine

held together by a heart and a plus sign

I'd flip through the pages

and know that you were waiting for me

at the end of the hour

with your hands full of wilting wildflowers

you decided to pick up on your morning run

because you didn't know the difference

between alive and dying

Petals fell to the floor

during the trip from your hands to mine

and walking proves to hurt them further

as they shake and quiver in my hands with each step

losing a little part of themselves

the further we get

By the time we get home

there are no more petals left to save

and the stems don't stop their drooping

as we put them into the vase

Water doesn't help them

doesn't give them time

they just brown and fall further

but you take no notice

as you put them on a shrine

with other wilted wildflowers

MY HEARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT! That was so precious. You could just feel their history together, and now they're gonna be together. 🥺 Glad they had a time to relax and talk, even if they'll need to have a deeper discussion about it later down the line.

The compound sounds so cool! The descriptions you gave were great. It really feels alive like Jesse said, and you can just feel the activity buzzing with in. It'll be interesting to see how Jesse and Lira integrate into the compound. With their skills, I imagine they could be a great help around the place.

I also already love Maive, and Veyra always makes me smile. She's definitely one of my favorite characters now, though of course I adore Jesse and Lira.

Chapter 7 - Comfort.

The room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of a candle burning low on the far table. The air was warm, still, and heavy with the scent of wax—faint, but unfamiliar enough to remind them they weren’t home.

Jesse stirred first, her eyes blinking open against the dim orange light filtering in through a covered vent. For a brief moment, she forgot where she was. Her muscles tensed on instinct until the sound of soft breathing from the next bed grounded her again.

Lira.

Jesse turned her head, watching as Lira lay curled under the blanket, her hair slightly tousled, lips parted as she breathed slowly. She looked younger like this—less guarded, less ready to fight the world with her fists clenched.

Jesse sighed and let her body relax fully for the first time in what felt like days.

Eventually, Lira stirred too, eyes opening just enough to catch Jesse watching her. “Morning,” she mumbled, her voice rough from sleep.

“Or… whatever time it is.” Jesse gave a sleepy smile.

They sat in the quiet for a few beats longer, neither rushing to move. It was the first moment they’d had where survival wasn’t the immediate priority, and both of them were reluctant to break it.

Then Jesse sat up slowly, stretching her arms over her head. “So this is peace, huh?”

Lira nodded, rubbing her face. “Feels weird. Not fighting for once.”

Jesse gave a soft laugh. “Maybe we should get used to it. At least for now.”

Lira rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she shook her head. “No, it’s probably best we don’t get too comfortable yet.”

“I guess you’re right, but we could at least take this morning slower than normal and just relax… right?” Jesse asked, her voice almost pleading with Lira to slow down and relax.

Lira’s expression softened as she laid back into the bed again. “We have been going pretty hard… I guess one morning of peace and comfort isn’t the worst.”

Lira stood up and grabbed Jesse’s shirt, admiring the softness of the fabric before tossing it to her. “Put this on though, we should at least get comfortable with the new area.” Lira turned to give her friend a hint of privacy as she felt a blush rising up on her cheeks again.

Without hesitation, Jesse nodded and pulled on the shirt, the shoulder’s dull ache a calm reminder of what they had been through. As soon as her chest was covered, she stood and walked behind Lira, pulling her into a tight hug.

The sudden pressure of Jesse’s chest against her back made Lira jump and blush even more.

“I-I…” Lira stammered, her voice wavering.

“Don’t worry, Lira, just relax with me. Whether it’s in this room or out there, we’ve got each other’s backs.” Jesse squeezed Lira tighter and smiled, resting her head on Lira’s shoulder.

The two sat in a comfortable silence with Jesse holding her close, Lira’s head leaning to the side and resting on Jesse’s.

Then, a soft knock on the door, the sound of knuckles rapping on the metal before it slowly creaks open, Veyra poking her head around the corner. “I trust you two are…” Veyra’s eyes widened softly as she looked at the gentle scene, “oh good, you’re getting along just fine.” She giggled and stepped into the room fully.

Lira blushed even further, but Jesse couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

“Come now, you think I’m not used to seeing this kind of thing between two obvious lovebirds?” Veyra asked, smiling softly.

Lira was speechless, her jaw dropped as she looked down at Jesse.

Jesse’s eyes shone beautifully in the candle light and Lira couldn’t help but relent and nod. “My question is how long Jesse has felt this way…”

Jesse giggled and shrugged, finally managing to peel off of Lira’s back. “It’s been a little while…I could feel it brewing since the moment you walked into my life.” Her voice was dripping with sincerity, soft and calm. “I’ve liked you for a long time now… longer than I wanted to admit.”

Lira chuckled softly, trying to mask how flustered she had grown.

“Seems like you two are ready to explore the compound now,” Veyra smiled softly, pushing the door open the rest of the way.

Through the cold metal door frame, they could see a much warmer view of the rebel compound. There were still groups of people speaking even as the evening became night time.

Before the two walked out together, Lira whispered in Jesse’s ear. “Looks like we’ve got some talking to do later.” With that, they stepped across the threshold together, taking confident strides as their hands brushed against one another, sending a jolt of white hot connection through the two.

The cool night air hit their skin like a wave of ice water.

The sound of conversation had picked up slightly, growing more focused on the two of them.

One woman stepped forward from her group, offering a hand to both of them. “You two must be Lira and Jesse,” she said, her tone calm yet curious. “I’ve heard you’re planning on staying just the two of you. If you change your mind, you’ve got my support.”

The woman who’d greeted them had short, choppy hair dyed deep violet, and a jacket covered in stitched-on patches—most of them worn so thin you couldn’t make out the words. Her hand was calloused but steady as she shook both of theirs.

“I’m Maive,” she said, her voice carrying that quiet steadiness of someone used to surviving rough places. “Been here a while. Helped Veyra set up some of the security protocols. If you need help finding your footing, I’m around.”

“Thank you,” Jesse replied, her voice softer than usual as she tried not to shrink under all the attention. Lira stood slightly ahead of her, clearly taking the lead again.

Maive gave a reassuring nod. “You’ll be fine. People around here talk a lot of shit, but most of them mean well.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Come on, I’ll walk you around before they start asking you questions.”

The compound wasn’t a bunker so much as a repurposed skeleton of an unfinished underground transit hub. Graffiti and torn banners hung from exposed steel beams, and faint techno beats leaked from some unseen speaker system deeper in the compound. A few people nodded to them as they passed, eyes lingering just long enough to feel noticed.

There was a corner with crates stacked high—supply cache, maybe weapons. Another hall smelled strongly of spice and broth—mess area. Someone had built a makeshift garden under industrial grow lights, rows of leafy greens taking root in salvaged plastic tubs.

“Don’t expect comfort in the corpo sense,” Maive said, leading them through a dim corridor lined with mismatched doors. “But you’ll eat. You’ll sleep. You’ll have people who watch your back.”

Lira slowed near the garden, curiosity flickering in her expression. “You grow your own food here?”

Maive nodded. “Some. The rest gets traded or stolen. Depends on the month.”

Jesse trailed a few steps behind, eyes wide. This place wasn’t just a hideout—it was alive. Worn-down and stubborn, but real.

When they looped back toward the main chamber, Maive paused and gave them a final once-over. “There’s a war coming whether you join it or not. But if you do—” she pointed back toward the candlelit hall, “you won’t be fighting alone.”

Jesse giggled and nodded. “I appreciate it, Maive. We appreciate it.”

Lira nodded slowly, still taking in all the wonderful things around them and unable to hold back a smille.