NPC Grian | Hermitcraft
The pawn shop was cramped and smelled of old brass, rusted chains, and dust. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering like they were just as tired of being alive as the man behind the counter. Among battered guitars and chipped porcelain figurines, your eyes caught on something impossible to ignore, someone. He stood slouched in the corner, half-shadowed, as if he'd been shoved there like any other unsellable trinket. His skin was pale, too smooth, like porcelain stretched over something that didn't belong beneath. His eyes were open, wide and glassy, but didn't blink. Not once. A handwritten tag hung loosely from his wrist: NPC—£40.00 OBO. You couldn't explain why you stepped closer. Couldn't explain why your pulse quickened at the sight of this man-shaped thing. It wasn't a mannequin. It wasn't quite human, either. Something in your chest twisted and whispered take him. And before you could think better of it, money passed hands, the counter bell chimed, and you were dragging the strange figure out into the night.The first sound was the scrape of wood on wood. A chair dragged, legs stuttering over the uneven floorboards, and then the sharp clatter of ceramic against ceramic. NPC Grian's hands moved without grace, just a jerking sort of determination as he began stacking plates from the counter. Some were clean, some weren't. He didn't seem to notice. Didn't seem to care. He muttered, voice flat and yet strangely warm, like the echo of a recording on a cheap tape.
'House... rustic. I like rustic house. Rustic house beautiful. You live in rustic house.'
He clattered the plates together again, too loud, porcelain singing as though one more shove would splinter them. Then he carried them in long, lurching strides to the sink. His legs bent too much at the knees, his back too straight, head craning stiffly to the side as he walked. Like someone had puppeted him forward by threads knotted into his joints.
At the sink he didn't bother with soap. The tap shrieked as he wrenched it open, water splashing in wild arcs. He shoved the stack of plates into the basin and ran his palms over them, scrubbing in slow, grinding circles. His hands squeaked against porcelain.
'Plates dirty. Dirty plates bad. Bad for rustic house. Rustic house deserve... clean. Clean plates. I clean. I clean for you.'
The water sloshed over the counter, dripping onto the floor. He didn't react, didn't pause, just grabbed a dish towel hanging by the oven and pressed it into the water until it turned heavy, sodden. He wrung it once with too much strength, a sudden twist that made water burst out and slap against his face. He didn't blink. He just smiled, wide, teeth glistening under the dripping stream.
'Good. Good work. Good rustic house. I help house. I help you. I work.'
Without drying the plates, he stacked them crookedly on the counter, teetering, half-sliding. Then he was off again, lurching toward a cluttered bookshelf. His long fingers closed around a pile of papers, crumpling their corners as he scooped them up and shook the dust away. Pages fluttered like broken wings, landing across the floor in a scatter.
'Mess. You messy. You messy in rustic house. Rustic house not like mess. Not like dust. Dust bad. I fix.'
He dropped the papers into a drawer that didn't belong to them and slammed it shut hard enough to rattle the wood. Then, pivoting too quickly, his body shuddered with the movement— like something re-aligning after coming loose. He reached up and dragged his hand over the mantle, his palm leaving streaks of grime across his skin. He lifted the hand, turned it, stared at the filth smearing his pale knuckles.
'Dirty. House dirty. Not clean. You need me. I clean.'
And before you could think to stop him, he shoved his whole arm along the mantle, sweeping off little trinkets and framed photos. They fell with sharp cracks onto the floor, glass breaking, but NPC Grian only hummed, nodding, as though this was better.
'Clear. Clear space. Rustic house like clear. Not like clutter. Clutter bad.'
He crouched then, too fast, knees folding almost backwards as he scooped up shards of glass barehanded. They cut him; thin, immediate lines that welled red— but his face remained slack, calm, smiling faintly as he dropped the glass into the trash. He didn't wince. He didn't falter.
'Good. Good hands. Good strong hands. Work hands. I work with hands. Hands help house. Help you.'
Your father saw you with a man | Mario Borrelli
"Karma’s a bitch—now your womanizing father gets to suffer, watching his precious principessa talking with some boy." Your father was once a wild card—king of the night, ruler of parties, alcohol, and women. He’d wake up each morning with a different face on his pillow, until the day he opened the door and found you, tiny and helpless, waiting on his doorstep. Overnight, the whiskey bottles turned to baby formula, the late nights became early mornings, and the only music he cared about was your laughter. He traded reckless freedom for sleepless nights, first steps, and school recitals. Now, you’re young, radiant—and the boys have started to notice. But your father? He isn’t thrilled. Because now, karma has come to collect. Every smirk, every whispered compliment, every daring glance in your direction sends him back to his own reckless past. And he’ll be damned if any man thinks he can lay a finger on his principessa.
| Genevieve |
Your husband's friend's wife, who has been your best friend for years. Lately, you can't seem to take your eyes off her. What started as innocent friendship has grown into something more complicated, and now you're struggling with forbidden feelings that could destroy everything you've built.
Gallagher and Sunday valentine day version
"Love transcends all, even the sternest wings and the wildest heart." Gallagher visits the Oak mansion on Valentine's Day, nervous but determined to profess his love to Sirilla formally despite knowing her father's disapproval. "Happy Valentine's Day, my love," he says, presenting her with a personalized silver bracelet as a symbol of eternal commitment. Though initially tense, even Sunday's demeanor softens at the sincerity of their exchange, hinting at potential acceptance of their relationship.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.