I am starting a long-form Transformers fanfic!
The story takes inspiration from both IDW continuities while doing its own completely separate thing with the setting and characters, so you don’t really need prior Transformers knowledge to jump in. I’m trying to make it as newcomer-friendly as possible.
Expect space pirates, old war trauma, weird sci-fi adventures, found family chaos, and Arcee trying very hard not to care about anybody anymore while Nautica absolutely refuses to let that happen.
Also:
illegal weapon deals
shady casino planets
ex-Decepticon disasters
mysterious sparklings
emotionally compromised lesbians in space
Hope y’all enjoy it! And if you do, please share it around :D
1 : A crankcase in the back
The ship smelled like overheated circuitry and cheap fuel again.
Which usually meant Nautica was fixing something she swore was “completely salvageable” while simultaneously making it worse.
Arcee stepped over a pile of stripped Decepticon armor plating on her way to the cockpit, one servo still stained with energon from the outpost raid three cycles earlier.
Three cycles.
Three cycles since they picked up Crankcase.
Three cycles since the alleged ex-Decepticon had woken from stasis beneath a mountain of rusted scrap and immediately dropped to his knees begging not to be left behind.
Arcee should have shot him.
Instead, now he was asleep in the cargo berth two snoring loudly enough to vibrate the walls.
From somewhere deeper in the ship Twitch laughed, followed by the unmistakable crash of something expensive breaking.
“THAT WAS ALREADY LOOSE!” Nautica yelled.
Arcee closed her optics.
For one singular blessed moment the engine stopped making the noise.
The moment didn’t last long.
The ship suddenly lurched to the side before the engines shut off completely.
“NAUTICA, WHAT DID YOU DO?”
“That wasn’t me, Capit— Arcee! I-I’m not sure what caused it!”
As the two bots scrambled over the controls trying to restart the ship, Twitch interrupted them with a loud shout.
“GUYS!”
She pointed outside at the massive Decepticon carrier now aiming its sensors directly at them.
A second later the communicator built into the captain’s chair crackled to life, a rough voice speaking from the other side.
“You have entered Decepticon territory. Identify yourselves immediately or you will be fired upon.”
“Scrap,” Arcee muttered.
Her optics darted around the cockpit before she sharply gestured for Nautica and Twitch to stay quiet.
Then she bolted toward the back of the ship.
Crankcase barely had time to react before Arcee grabbed him by the shoulder and slammed him awake.
“You,” she hissed, “your little friends are out there asking for codes and identification. Be useful.”
Crankcase blinked twice before a slow smirk spread across his face.
Without a word he stood up and casually walked toward the captain’s chair, ignoring the suspicious stares from the rest of the crew.
He is absolutely going to get us killed, Arcee thought.
Crankcase leaned against the controls and activated the communicator.
“Greetings,” he said smoothly. “Corporal Crankcase of Unit 1652-D requesting passage authorization. Currently transporting cargo from Outpost X-53.”
Silence.
Nobody in the room moved.
Arcee could hear the ship’s ventilation rattling louder and louder in the quiet.
Then finally the voice returned.
“Crankcase? Don’t know who in the Pit you are, kid, but that unit ID checks out. What kind of cargo are you carrying through this sector?”
“Scrap metal. Salvage parts. The usual,” Crankcase replied without missing a beat.
Another pause.
At this point even Nautica looked ready to pass out from stress.
Then—
“That tracks. Move along.”
The transmission cut.
Almost immediately the ship’s systems flickered back online and the massive searchlight scanning them disappeared into the darkness of space.
The entire crew exhaled at once.
All except Crankcase.
He suddenly burst out laughing.
“Oh, the old 1652-D trick still works!”
The others stared at him in confusion.
“That was fake?” Twitch asked.
“Completely fake,” Crankcase said proudly. “My old crew made it years ago after our Major forgot to log out of the military database. We used that ID constantly and Decepticon intelligence never caught on.”
The room stayed silent for a moment.
Then Arcee crossed her arms.
“I guess even a nobody con can be useful sometimes.”
“Hey, don’t be mean to Crunkface,” Nautica said.
“It’s Crankcase, actually,” he corrected immediately
Crankcase, still sitting in the captain’s chair, leaned forward to look at the tiny navigation screen.
“So where are we landing, gang? What’s the plan now?”
Arcee looked visibly annoyed.
“First, get out of my chair.”
She shoved him off without hesitation before tapping at the controls, projecting a holographic model of a planet into the middle of the cockpit.
“Hedonia.”
“Ohhh, nice,” Crankcase said, optics lighting up. “I’ve been wanting to buy some replacement optics and maybe spend a few hours at the Cable Twisters.”
The expression he made after mentioning the place was somewhere between excitement and outright lust.
Twitch tilted her head.
“What’s a Cable Twister?”
“Oh! You see, it’s this old Quintesson machine that uses—”
Nautica immediately slapped a servo over Crankcase’s mouth.
“You do not want to know, darling,” she said quickly. “Trust me.”
Crankcase mumbled something deeply inappropriate into her hand.
“Besides,” Arcee interrupted, “we’re not going there for a joyride. We sell the weapons, buy supplies, refuel, and leave. I hate Hedonia.”
Her voice carried the kind of disgust that only came from personal experience.
“That’s because you don’t know the real Hedonia, Captain—”
“Stop calling me that.”
“She really doesn’t like it,” Nautica added helpfully.
Crankcase raised both servos defensively.
“Alright, alright. Got it. No Captain.”
He paused dramatically.
“So anyway, Big A—”
Nautica snorted.
Arcee looked seconds away from opening the airlock mid-flight.
“There’s this place on Hedonia you’re gonna love,” Crankcase continued proudly.
Twitch looked completely fascinated.
To be fair, she had barely left the ship since coming online. To her, everything outside the ship sounded exciting.
The engines rumbled as the ship finally jumped into hyperspace, stars stretching into endless lines of light around them.
“We are not getting dragged into some weird side quest on Hedonia,” Arcee warned.
The universe, unfortunately, had already decided otherwise.
It went up late last night, but Chapter 18 is up!! Ofc big thanks to @irlsloanetavish for being our amazing Beta. I’m having just the most fun with this fic and I hope yall are enjoying it too <3
18+ only | rocket x f!oc | 1/?? | wip | word count: pending.
She sits with them and presses the heels of her hands deeper into her eyes, and she tries to imagine the scent of the flowers, the feel of the grass between her fingers and toes. She traces the letters and the tops of the stones, smooth and sharp-edged.
And then, on the back of one bare shoulder, she feels that burn again: hot, scalding. Before she can even look around, the escaped wisps of curls at the nape of her neck suddenly shift.
Her head snaps up and she whirls on one hip, nearly falling off the edge of the bed.
“Who’s there?”
Maybe no-one, she reasons — but if that’s the case, there’s also no-one to mock her for her fear. She knows she looks afraid: eyes big in her face, lips parted. She should hide it. She should. Instead, she holds her breath, and waits, but only the thunder answers in the dark.
Then the light shifts on the floor, and she realizes the rain sounds different. She tears her eyes from the dark corners.
The window is open.
How? She’d traced every edge, looking for a crack or crevice, a lock, a lever — but now it’s open, swinging lightly on its hinges. Fear unfurls in her chest, and it’s so warm that she presses her icy fingers to her sternum automatically.
“Who’s there?” she repeats, and her voice trembles.
Thunder again, rumbling — but this time, when it fades, another sound remains behind: a chuckle, dark and low.
Dark and low, and very, very close.
Her head snaps toward the sound, and she catches the flash of something out of the corner of her eye.
“Were you watching me earlier?” she asks, and that fear licks out from her sternum to the edges of her ribs, down to her shoulders and hips. “You shouldn’t be here. It isn’t—”
It isn’t safe, she had been about to say — but then something grazes between her shoulderblades, like a paintbrush on her skin. Her head whips to follow it and she twists, eyes wide, lungs desperately trying to haul in air like stones up a mountainside.
“You can’t — don’t touch me. It’s—”
Dangerous.
Another flick of the terrifyingly-soft thing again, on the back of her hand this time.
Something is moving around her in the dark. Something is stalking her.
What to do? The door is locked. The closet is an open mouth of blackness in one wall, but she can’t barricade a sliding door. The open window had been a nice fantasy and she’s not ruling it out, but her curiosity is at war with her fear and she wants, more than anything, to make sure this creature or person gets out.
She knots her fist in the draping silk, gaze sifting through the shadows. Another flash of something her eyes can’t follow. She rises slowly to her feet, and reaches for the candle, and lifts it high.
For a moment, there’s nothing.
And then, in the dark shadows at the corner of the room, two perfect points of brilliant red gleam in the darkness: flat glowing coins, clouded with crimson. Twin blood-moons.
Eyes.
chapter one [est 2/29] ✩
꧁･:☁︎ ⋆. cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂
wyndham’s bride lands on counterearth in time to prepare for her wedding. an unexpected guest arrives.
warnings: discussion of non-sexual child abuse and grooming. brief mentions of suicidal ideations. animal/pet death. canon-typical violence.
inspired by mary shelley’s frankenstein; or, the modern prometheus. a freakish little monster visits the high evolutionary’s bride on her wedding night. an adventure of intergalactic proportions ensues. aka raccoons make plans; the universe laughs.
enemies-to-lovers (as per frickin’ usual, only one of these idiots think they’re enemies, and tbh the enemy part is pretty short-lived.) while the beginning of this fic is dark (please check warnings for each chapter), we always get happy endings here. most chapters will contain super-smutty commentary at the very least. this fic is a longform expansion on wyndham; or, the galactic prometheus (day 31) of °˖✧♡kinktober 2023.
much like Window Across the Galaxy ✧*:･ﾟ , this fic is pure wish-fulfillment. i'd like a sexy space raccoon to rail me and then let me be stupid-sweet to him.
WARNING for dubcon/hate-sex (at the beginning), mentions of childhood grooming & abuse (no CSA), and brief suicidal ideations. please pay attention to all ao3 warnings/tags for every chapter.
if you’d like to join my fanfiction taglist, please comment or send me a message or ask! ♡
some explicit statements or references ✩
abbreviated explicit sequences ❤︎
detailed/prolonged explicit sequences ❤︎❤︎
Summary: Sole is a journalist and independent investigator who worked with the famous Detective Nick Valentine before the bombs dropped. They stumble out of Vault 111 with hazy memories of a case gone awry, a sense of desperate yearning, and the bitter experience of already having had to fight for their life to survive against the odds. What's a little nuclear wasteland to a (newly) seasoned investigator?
See masterlist for warnings
Fic-long tags: Hurt comfort, angst, pining, flashback scenes, noir detective show meets post-apocalyptic chaos, Preston Garvey is a sweetheart, Sole is doing their best and living out of pure spite, slow burn (Nick/Sole), etc etc.
Sole was nervous, which immediately sent a warning chill up their spine, because they didn’t get nervous anymore. There was something about their assignment that had them back to their college freshmen mindset, that shaky giddiness that sent them bouncing on the balls of their feet. They didn’t need to see the side-eye the cashier was giving them to know what she was thinking– ‘Do you even need coffee?’
Yes, Sole needed the coffee. Absolutely. There wasn’t enough coffee in the world to prepare Sole for interacting with one of Chicago’s finest– and according to his reputation, Chicago’s sternest.
Sole wasn’t exactly one to advocate for getting buddy-buddy with any member of the police department, but this was an exception. They were smart enough to acknowledge that Detective Valentine was skilled, regardless of his affiliations, and there was just something so rich about how their partnership was arranged. He needed their help. Ha!
The first time Sole had caught wind of the Boston PD setting up this little arrangement, they had laughed. And laughed. And apologized to the poor receptionist who had to make the call, and then laughed some more. After they’d remembered themself they got some more details on the situation. Apparently, Valentine had been chasing a serial killer for quite some time–a case that Sole had become intimately familiar with due to their own occupations–and the BPD had grown frustrated with his lack of progress within the time they had given him. Tensions were high from the activity of Eddie Winter, and Sole assumed they were just desperate for any sort of progress and taking it out on Valentine.
Regardless, Sole wasn’t a detective, or any sort of law enforcement at all. They were an independent investigator–they resented the term PI, too heavily affiliated with sleazy scam artists–and a crime journalist. The way they saw it, there was too much on the line for the public’s safety to not be transparent with them. Of course, they weren’t stupid enough to endanger their progress on a case by giving too many details away, but once everything had been wrapped up, they were more than willing to be far more transparent than the BPD appreciated.
This made Sole’s relationship with the BPD… tricky. But whether or not they appreciated Sole’s journalistic tendencies, they couldn’t deny that they were helpful when they wanted to be. Sole, neither, could deny that it would be incredibly valuable to shadow Detective Valentine; he had made quite the name for himself, and Sole was relatively new to the independent investigative scene. Sure, they had a knack for it due to their journalism, but they were still learning the ropes. Besides, insight on how the BPD and Detective Valentine functioned would only help their critiques of them in the future.
Finally, their order number was called out and they were forced to stop shifting where they stood in the corner of the coffee shop. The cashier seemed relieved to get rid of their nervous energy as they gathered the two disposable cups and rushed their way out the door; she was still polite enough to call a generic goodbye after them. The door had slammed shut by the time she got half of her sentence out.
Detective Valentine had agreed to meet Sole downtown, a couple blocks away from the first interview they had on their list. Correction: Valentine’s secretary had agreed to arrange this meeting by putting the time and location in his calendar. They themself hadn’t actually spoken to Valentine before, which was making them all the more anxious. Perhaps it showed in the way their knee was practically vibrating up and down as they sat on one of the decorative rock walls while they waited.
The interview list was Sole’s own doing. They had demanded the pair start from the beginning again. There was too much that could be lost in the summaries of other people’s experiences on a case. Sole wanted to start completely fresh. Besides, that was an opportunity to really get a feel for the way Valentine worked before things got even more stressful. Sure, they weren’t about to worship the ground he walked on, but they really did want the case to work out. There was much to learn. And the pay was pretty decent, too.
Valentine had been exactly on time, that much Sole remembered, though the scene was beginning to blur. The trees on the edges of their vision were starting to grow hazy, choppy, like some of the pieces had gone missing. Something uneasy grew in Sole, sending prickles up their spine. The air had a sudden, unexplainable chill to it; sure it was the start of autumn, but the day had been tingeing on uncomfortably warm before. They tried to brush it off as Valentine approached.
They recognized him from their research and articles they’d read over the years. It was hard not to keep up with his career; he’d broken handfuls of BPD records for his case-solving, and other statistics Sole hadn’t bothered to memorize. Besides, he had distinct features that were hard to forget.
His cheekbones were angular– sharp, almost gaunt looking. He had a striking, hooked nose, hooded eyes, and lips that were thin, though Sole couldn’t tell if that was genetics or the fact that they seemed to be permanently pressed together in an expression of mild displeasure. Sole pretended not to notice him right away; like approaching a stand-offish dog, they’d allow him to assess them first, then approach and exchange pleasantries.
It only took about a minute, one within which Sole grew increasingly colder. They clung to the cup pressed between their palms, seeking any sort of warmth, but it somehow seemed so far away. Finally, Valentine broke their concentration on their discomfort. “You’re the PI, I gather?” His voice was low and rough; they already knew he had a nasty cigarette habit.
Sole’s attention snapped upward once again and they couldn’t help the curl to their lip. “Independent investigator. And crime journalist–”
“I’ve done my research.”
“Right.”
Sole should’ve known better; pleasantries were a waste of police time. Regardless, they stood and offered up the other cup of coffee. “Dark roast. No cream, two sugars.” Valentine looked wary, like he was about to call up his home security and ask them to double whatever precautions they were taking. “You’re not the only one who’s done their research.”
“I don’t discuss my coffee habits with the press.”
“Oh, I have my sources, Detective Valentine.”
They had asked his secretary approximately half an hour beforehand when they passed the coffee shop and had a lightbulb moment. Valentine stared at them for a moment, but his expression remained guarded. “Right. Well, I suppose we should head to the first witness’s house, then?”
“Lead the way.”
Without another comment, Valentine started taking large strides past them. Sole moved to follow, but suddenly realized their legs were frozen stiff. In fact, they couldn’t move at all. As Valentine continued walking, he grew fuzzier and the background faded out of focus with him. And then the scene was no more.
Reawakening was like swallowing a snowstorm, a shock to the system that stole the air out of Sole’s lungs as fast as they inhaled. That biting cold clung to every slow movement they made; there was frost coating their fingertips and gluing their eyelashes together. Blindly, eyes sealed shut, they banged their fists against the glass of their frozen prison.
Admittedly, it was a pathetic effort. Being frozen for however long had done a number on them. Distantly, they could hear a foggy robotic voice making announcement they were deaf to. Eventually, their fist met air and the momentum from their swing sent them tumbling out of the tube they had been tricked into eons ago. They fell for forever and for only a few seconds, and then they met the floor with an equally loud and wet sounding smack.
Somehow, the impact of their fall didn’t come close to breaking through the pain of defrosting. They barely registered the impact outside of coming to a jarring stop. Fighting against the cryo-pod had already exhausted them.
Sole groaned as they shifted on the hard floor. Whenever the Vaults had been constructed they certainly hadn’t accounted for the potential to end up on the floor in the cryo-lab when considering comfort. Instinctually, they opened their eyes and immediately regretted it. The icicles that had clung to their lashes had melted, yes, but the residual water was still freezing cold and had now bled into their eyes.
Considering this was a once-in-a-lifetime misery–at least they could hope–Sole allowed themself to groan with the weight of their agony. Maybe one of the staff would hear them lamenting their frozen eyeballs and frozen everything and come by with a blanket or an industrial hair dryer or anything that would make the sting of thawing hurt a little less.
No such luck.
Eventually, Sole began to shift and their muscles screamed in protest. There was a soreness to them they never could’ve fathomed before, a tenseness from cryo that had invaded their body on a cellular level. Their arms shook from the effort as they rolled over onto their side and pressed their palms to the floor, but their huffing breath seemed to be bringing some warmth back to their lungs.
The first push that was supposed to get them to their feet only resulted in what had to be more than a few bruises. Sole’s legs hadn’t quite gotten the memo that they were done resting and it was time to move and their knees gave out. They nearly slammed their head against the empty cryo-pod across from their own; some poor bastard of a neighbor of theirs that hadn’t been so unlucky as they had to survive.
After a series of movements to wedge, pull, and levy themself, Sole finally got to their feet and looked around. Fog still trailed out of their ajar cryo-pod, but the one they were leaning against appeared long-defrosted. The rest remained undisturbed, though considering the various warning messages the overhead speaker was playing, it seemed they were better off left that way. Sole was standing in a graveyard.
As they stumbled through the halls of the Vault, a pathing that was based purely on instinct rather than active recall, glimpses of their moments just before the freeze flashed through their mind. The knock at their door just an hour before. The shockwave ricocheting over the Vault’s shaft. The flat smile from the Vault Tech staff that had gestured them through those very halls and the furious scribbling of the doctor that had helped them into the pod in the name of decontamination. Sole squinted, willing the shapes of scattered furniture and objects to sharpen into something real. They weren’t supposed to be alone. Where was everyone?
The Vault was in disarray when they finally managed to blink their eyes closer to a semblance of focus. Papers scattered, chairs knocked over, tools left abandoned next to rusted pipes. There was a notable layer of dust over everything that had Sole sneezing. It was such an odd thing, to sneeze into your hand and feel freezing cold air come out. Very little seemed to make sense, though, as Sole took their stumbling steps, braced against the Vault walls.
There was a distinct sort of apathy Sole felt as they reached the front desk and saw a skeleton sprawled out beside it. One of the staff, inevitably. It wasn’t as if Sole had been some sort of dead body connoisseur before the freeze, but something about it felt so unreal to them. It felt as if the Vault staff had planned some sort of shitty prank for them once they had woken up. At any moment, the staff would yell “Surprise!” with all of the audacity of strangers who had decided to torment someone who’d spent the last however-long bonding with ice cubes.
No such luck.
Their hands trembled with an aggression that had all but evaporated their fine-motor-skills. The neon-green shapes of letters appeared in wobbly rows when Sole awoke the reception terminal with a clumsy slap of their hand, the keys seeming to escape them as they tried to click through the options. Data entries. Messages from Vault Tech. All they cared about was getting the fuck out. Finally, by some miracle, the door opened with a resounding screech of ancient metal that hadn’t been cared for in quite some time.
More hallways. The numbness was intensifying a little and mixing with an excruciating pain that was starting in the tips of Sole’s fingers and toes. Their choppy stumble had turned into a blackout-drunk sway as they pushed themself to continue down the halls and to the mouth of the Vault. Exit needs a Pip-Boy. Is this how I die? Skeleton. Staff. Staff had Pip-Boy. Plug. Walkway. Is this how I die? Their vision was cutting in and out as they threw themself into the elevator and slumped against one of the walls.
The shaky rise of the elevator felt like the world’s worst rocking bassinet. The machinery was protesting every movement, and Sole felt inclined to agree. But suddenly, the rise stopped, and the mouth opened, and Sole was above ground once again.
Oh, God, it was warm. It was excruciating. The light was too bright and Sole couldn’t open their eyes, but it was warm. It was burning. They were alive. They were so cold. They were dying.
No such luck.
The sun was so bright it blotted out most of the landscape in front of them, and for that Sole was grateful. The soil in front of them was crumbly and dry, like the nutrients and moisture and hope had been sucked out of it and spat back out. The fence that had once prevented Vault 111 workers from tumbling down the sheer hill into the nearby neighborhood was torn and covered in sickly brambles.
Their neighborhood. Sole’s vantage point from the cliff that Vault 111 had been built into provided the perfect view of the crumbling place Sole once called home. Buildings that were once bright blue were dulled and peeling like a rotted fruit. The roofs were mostly caved in, the cars in the driveways mere shells of what they had been.
Sole’s breath was coming in shaking gasps that rattled in their chest and burned every part of them on their way. Their lips were trembling as they moved to press their hands against the metal beneath them and get to their feet once again. All they wanted was to go home, and it was within grasp.
The path down was muddled by various tumbled chunks of rock and fallen branches and those same brambles they had seen earlier that seemed to be infecting every inch of the ground they could take root in. Maybe nothing else survived here, Sole supposed. How long had it been? Was there anyone else, were they the only one left? They figured it impossible. They hoped it was impossible.
Maybe they were swaying with every stride, or maybe the Earth was just turning far faster than they were used to. They supposed that was within the realm of reason, considering what they were seeing now. Maybe the Earth was trying to shake them free, the lone survivor of catastrophe that had blemished the face of the planet. They had seen the bomb go off, just before the platform descended into the cold crevice of Sanctuary Hill. Maybe there was still a crater, depending on how long after the bomb dropped it had been. And if there wasn’t one on the planet anymore, there was certainly one in their stomach.
Sole’s vision was hazy, filled with static that looked like snow or ash or the crumbling burning of the world they had known. Maybe it looked like flecks of blue paint. They braced a shoulder against one of the ruined houses, absentmindedly trying to shake one of their feet loose from a bramble that had gotten hold of them. They were almost home; they could crawl into their bed and fall asleep and everything would be alright again. They would wake up and the world wouldn’t be over. They’d been waiting on a guest when they had to evacuate, after all. The world had to be alright, so their guest could arrive. So they could apologize.
The streets could hardly be considered streets anymore. It seemed they had crumbled under the unbearable heat of the sun overhead; Sole was roasting alive as they stumbled past their neighbor’s house. They were almost home. It would be okay. They’d get cool again, not too cool and not too warm, and they’d take a nap and the world would right itself and stop spinning so quickly.
Sole’s hands shook so hard it looked like they were being rattled by a ghost. For a good few minutes, they fumbled with the rusted doorknob of their crumbling home, but eventually pushed the door open and stepped inside.
They nearly tripped on a piece of rubble, a section of roof that had fallen inward it appeared. The blur of their vision cast a haunted filter on their surroundings. Their kitchen table had split itself in half during their absence. Sole couldn’t imagine the comments their guest would make when they saw that– they’d take a nap and then get a new table.
Boots. There were boots on their floor, ones that distinctly didn’t belong to them. They looked old, like late 1700s old and even through the numbness of their face they could feel their forehead wrinkle in confusion. Slowly, their eyes trailed upward, and suddenly there was a very blurry man attached to those boots. He wasn’t the only one there. Behind him, there was a small crowd of people, and they all seemed to be staring at Sole. They stared back. “What are you doing in my house?”
Here's my Abbey Map, the "old" ministry I guess (thanks Ghost for saying Frater Imperator moved lol)
I keep editing this thing but there's so much to do still!
Anyways I placed my version of it just on the outskirts of Cold Spring, NY after some research about weather, locality, spiritual opinions, closeness to BigCityTM.
I named it the Ashthorn Abbey. This is ground floor, floor 1 of probably 4. East Wing is all orphanage!
And yes, this is still the map to my fic (I just made a side blog just for it)
First line of defense above the Crypt & Built for high-contact communal living.
HOW DID I NEVER POST THIS? ghoul den map. rooms, setup of seats, beds, doors, staircases. as read in: fic masterpost link🔗
Layout
Past the kitchen and dining area, the ground floor opens into a sunken living room— deep couches, warm lamplight, gallery walls. Swiss, Phantom, and Rain sleep down here, their rooms along the hallway. Across Rain's room the big bath, Rain's little grotto (also used by everyone else who might not have an on-suite.) Laundry room, coat/dirt room to garden exit (direct path to greenhouse). Two spiral stairs curve up to Mountain’s calm retreat, Aurora’s riot of stuff, the Cirrus & Cumulus' sanctuary, as well as the guest room, the piano space and the reading nook.
The Band Ghost Worldbuilding Corner / Category: The Clergy / Core Ideology
Worldbuilding Corner Masterpost Link
Infernal Doesn’t Mean Evil
The rituals may look dark and the language might sound defiant, but the Dark Lord's purpose is not destruction— it's correction. This work is done under the banner of the Dark Lord, yet "dark" has never meant evil. Rather, it means the unknown, the other side of the story— the truth that was banished, buried, and rewritten.
The Dark Lord is not the shadow of evil, but rather the counter-force to empire. He was exiled for offering another way to define life, power, justice, and love. The term "dark" shares its lineage with the Dark Ages— a time declared "lost" by those who sought to erase cultures, faiths, and truths they couldn't control.
For centuries, the world has been shaped by power claimed in God's name— not to heal, but to control. The Dark Lord wasn't cast out for wickedness, but for disagreeing on fundamental concepts: morality, freedom, and who gets to define the soul. He has never opposed God; he simply believes they are equals. It was this belief that led to his banishment, transformed into a shadow by those who feared what he would reveal.
The Clergy
An organized network working to restore spiritual balance.
They are not heretics. They are keepers of alternate truth— healers, enforcers, protectors of the vulnerable.
The Band
Their music is ritual. Their shows are mass. Their mission is to reach those who were discarded by holy institutions and show them they were sacred all along.
They preach self-respect, radical equality, body sovereignty and the right to define your own moral compass
They don’t want worship. They want awakening.
The Dark Lord’s True Light
This is not Satanism for shock. This is spiritual rebellion rooted in truth and compassion.
Infernal power is not evil. It is fierce protection of the outcast. It is fire used to cleanse, not to conquer.
What’s truly evil? Those who use “salvation” to justify violence. Those who built holy empires on the backs of the broken. Those who fear a God who shares the throne.
