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whitepolaris · 7 months ago

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The Mysteries Miami Circle

The worst place in Florida to discover an ancient mystery is on prime real estate in downtown Miami. The Sunshine State has lost more historical sites to development than to any other cause. That's why local historians say, "When money talks, history walks."

In 1998m workers were demolishing an old Miami building on the south side of the Miami River to make way for a new high-rise condominium. To their surprise, they uncovered a thirty-eight-foot-diameter circular pattern of holes cut into the limestone bedrock. It was one of the greatest discoveries in Florida archaeology, but there was also a great big problem: The discovery was sitting on a $10 million piece of property that would be worth twenty times that amount if the two-acre site was developed into a condominium complex.

Archaeologists from Miami-Dade County's Historic Preservation Division examined the weird circle and determined that the holes were used to support posts for a large round council house. The circle was estimated to have been built between a thousand and two thousand years ago by the Tequesta Indians, who had died out centuries before the Seminoles migrated to the Florida peninsula.

Not everyone agreed with the findings, arguing that the circle was nothing more than the remains of an old septic tank and the holes were overflow drain holes cut into the limestone. One man postulated that the pre-Columbian circle was part of a worldwide system of ancient circles that were somehow connected with Stonehenge. This theory caused some to dub the circle "Limestonehenge." Others claimed it was a sacred Mayan astronomical observatory for making the passage of time. Opinions about the circle ranged from its having a connection to Atlantis to its being a corner marker for the Bermuda Triangle. Media reports soon attracted New Age types, historians, Seminoles Indians, shamans, spiritualists, and schoolkids, all wanting a glimpse of the ancient discovery or to experience its "supernatural qualities."

The Miami Circle was designated the Brickell Point archaeological site. It sits on land once owned by William Brickell, a pioneer who ran an early trading post. (William Brickell's weird mausoleum is nearby-weird because it is empty. When Miami began getting too crowded, Brickell's descendants and reinterred in a Dade County Cemetery.)

Excavating the ancient circle was not an easy task. Previously, six two-story apartment buildings and a swimming pool had occupied the property, and the ground was filled with rusty plumbing pipes, reinforcement steel, concrete, and other debris. After a tremendous amount of labor, the site was eventually cleared, exposing at least two hundred other postholes cut into limestone in addition to the ones forming the strange circle. Other features that were uncovered included a carving of a large eye motif in the stone, twenty-four rectangular basins, a complete carapace of a sea turtle, a shark skeleton, and teeth from an extinct monk seal and a human. The most curious items were fragments of copper and galena, along with two small axe heads crafted from basalt. Since none of the artifacts are indigenous to Florida, this indicated that whichever early people inhabited the site, they had an extensive trade network two thousand years ago.

Several of the exotic artifacts led archaeologists to the conclusion that the site was used for ritualistic or elite ceremonial purposes. This was supported by the shark and turtle remains, which were found in what appeared to be an east-west orientation, perhaps deliberately placed for ceremonial reasons. A surveyor carefully calculated that solitary holes found forty-one feet on each side of the circle's center could predict the autumnal equinox and the summer and winter solstices. That piece of information added fuel to the theory that the circle was a Mayan-built giant astronomical calendar of some kind of almanac. And the eye motif carved in the limestone is the Mayan symbol for zero.

The idea that the circle was a Mayan project is not so far-fetched when you consider how close the Yucatán Peninsula is to the tip of Florida, and the Maya did, in fact, build seagoing canoes. It would have been easy for Mayan mariners to ride the Gulf Stream to Florida, although returning home might have been a problem.

The press played up the discoveries, which attracted so many people that the place had to be fenced off. For those who could not make it to Miami, a camera was affixed to the roof of a nearby high-rise to beam pictures to the internet. The two-thousand-year-old circle had evolved into a kind of shrine, drawing attention from around the world.

Maybe there really was something magic about this circle. Save-the-circle groups held candlelight vigils, while protecters organized daily marches with signs demanding that the site be protected from development. Thousands of letters poured into government offices requesting action from local and state representatives. In October 2003, Senator Bob Graham introduced legislation that would authorize a feasibility study for incorporating the prehistoric site into Biscayne National Park.

Ultimately, Miami-Dade County using the law of eminent domain, claimed the site. It was subsequently purchased for $26.7 million, funded by the state's Conversation and Recreational Lands Program, local contributions, and a load form the Trust for Public Land. To preserve the area until more studies can be made, it has been covered with gravel.

To the ancient people who once occupied this site could have never dreamed of the commotion their handiwork would stir up two thousand years later in downtown Miami or that image of their work would flash around the world on the Internet. Perhaps the weirdest part of the Miami Circle is how the ancient past has collided head-on with the present. Maybe the ancients have sent us a message in this circle. If so, we just have to figure out what it is.

It's a Sacred Place

The Miami Circle is a sacred place like Stonehedge. It is part of a celestial series of sacred places built by ancient people around the world. The circle itself is a spiritual symbol; we see it all over the world, even in crop circles. I know there is something to all of this circle stuff. It is history but someone needs to do some testing on the spiritual aspects of this religious place. -lotusgem

It's a Septic Place

I agree with James Randi, the great debunker of crap, who said that the circle is just a septic tank lid. Why do we waste so much money on this crap? -budlite33

Atlantis Connection?

The fact that is right on the western boundary of where Edgar Cayce said Atlantis was, is it not possible that the survivors of Atlantis made it to Florida and joined with the Indian tribes there and formed the culture that made the circle? -Anonymous

Exciting Example of an Ancient Culture

The Miami Circle at Brickell Point is the most exciting example of ancient culture that I've seen in Florida. I think people need to get off their supernatural beliefs and see it for what it is, a great day for anthropology in Florida. -Jim B.

#weird florida #type read #long ass read

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kapitihardscaping · 1 year ago

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What to Know Before Installing Fencing in Windy Areas

Have you ever watched a fence sway back and forth during a windstorm, like a ship rolling in a turbulent sea? It’s a sight that can leave you worrying about safety and stability! In windy regions, choosing and installing the right fencing kapiti residential coast isn't just about defining the boundaries of your property or adding aesthetic value—it's also about engineering resilience. Whether you’re situated on the plains, near the coast, or in any area prone to gusty conditions, this guide will help you navigate the complexities of installing fencing that can stand up to the wind.

1. Understanding Wind Load Before you even think about picking up a hammer or digging a hole, it's crucial to understand 'wind load'. This is the pressure exerted by the wind on your fencing, and it can vary dramatically depending on your geographical location, the height and design of the fence, and local weather patterns. Consulting with a structural engineer or using online calculators can give you a rough idea of the wind load your fence will need to withstand. This step is crucial in ensuring that your fence not only stays upright but also remains a safe, enduring structure.

2. Choosing the Right Materials Not all materials are created equal, especially when it comes to standing up against Mother Nature’s bluster. Materials like vinyl, which is flexible and relatively lightweight, and metal, known for its strength and durability, are typically favoured in windy conditions. Wood can be a good option too, but it requires careful consideration of the type (e.g., cedar or redwood) and treatment to withstand the pressure and potential moisture from the wind-driven rain.

3. Fence Design: Open vs. Solid An open-design Fencing Kapiti (think chain link or wrought iron with space between the elements) allows wind to pass through, which dramatically reduces pressure and the risk of your fence toppling over. On the other hand, solid fences (like privacy fences made from wood or vinyl panels) act as wind barriers. If you prefer solid fencing, consider using panels with slight gaps between them or designs that allow for some air passage to balance privacy with wind resistance.

4. Proper Installation Techniques The longevity of your fencing heavily depends on how well it's installed. For high-wind areas, the depth and strength of your fence posts are paramount. Posts should be set deep into the ground (often several feet into the soil) and secured with concrete to ensure stability. This might seem like a lot of effort, but it’s a necessary step to prevent your fence from becoming a flying hazard during the next windstorm.

5. Maintenance Matters Maintaining your fencing is just as important as installing it properly. Regular checks for any signs of wear and tear, like loose panels, rusting, or rotting, can save you from bigger headaches down the road. After particularly severe weather, make it a point to inspect your fence and address any damage immediately. This proactive approach not only extends the life of your fence but also keeps it looking great.

6. Legal and Safety Considerations Before you start digging, it’s imperative to check local building codes and regulations regarding fencing. Some areas have strict guidelines on how high a fence can be and the materials that are allowed, especially in zones that are prone to high winds. Additionally, consider the safety aspects—ensure that your fence design does not create hazards during strong winds, such as potential debris or collapse.

7. Hiring Professionals While DIY projects can be rewarding, installing fencing in a windy area might be a task best left to professionals. They can help you choose the right materials and design and ensure that the installation meets local codes and is suited for the wind conditions in your area. Investing in professional installation can result in higher upfront costs, but it pays off in the long-term durability and safety of your fence.

Conclusion

Installing Fencing Kapiti in windy areas requires careful planning and consideration. By understanding the forces at play, choosing the right materials, and ensuring a proper installation, you can erect a fence that not only enhances your property but also stands firm against the winds. Remember, a good fence should be both seen and seldom heard, no matter how hard the wind blows.

#fencing kapiti residential coast #kapiti coast fencing #decking kapiti coast #Landscaping Kapiti Coast

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selfawarejester · 4 years ago

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So, someone requested a fic where Blue Team rescues a Child!Reader from a war zone, but unfortunately Tumblr ate the ask. If you’re the one who requested it, please enjoy!

EDIT: found a screenshot! @simp-for-fictional-men-only, hope you like this!

Blue Team x Child!Reader (Halo)

It’s been a long “day”, even by Spartan standards.

Blue Team had been trying to repel Covenant forces on an Outer Colonies planet for over a week… but it hadn’t been enough. Command had called an evacuation, and after destroying a base to help the efforts, Blue Team had been ordered to help with final evacuation calls in the nearest town.

On the Pelican ride to town, there was a brief moment where they thought it was a waste of resources to send Spartans for an evacuation op, especially because the other Spartan teams were still doing the best they could to strike back at the Covenant; not necessarily to stop them anymore, just to hold them back long enough for the civilians to escape and maybe a little revenge. The events of the week, coupled with the guilt of their brothers and sisters still risking their lives, weighed on them heavily.

But at the end of the day, they’re glad they did: they found a group in the Rec center, a dozen people in the boroughs, twenty in an apartment complex — the Marines wouldn’t have been able to lift most of the wreckage that blocked them from escaping.

By the time they’d gotten to the outskirts of town, Blue Team had been left alone to sweep through the dead town. Chief considered just going to meet up with the Marines — surely, they could match the pace of the overloaded Troop Transports — and this area was just dilapidated factories and shady looking establishments that had long since been stampeded.

But a need to fulfil his task to completion stayed his hand… and thank god it did.

At first, it was just soft sniffles that sounded from the inside of the rundown factory. Chief and Kelly, who’d partnered up to search this side of the district, thought it was one of the many Jackals that had been posted in the previous sector wandering, or a Grunt that had been left behind after the Jackals had entertained themselves (in which case, they should probably put the thing out of its misery), so they go inside.

Chief goes first, moving carefully through the debris so as to not dislodge the wreckage, or disturb the corpses of the few soldiers and more civilians. He retrieves their dog tags, securing them in one of the compartments of the MJOLNIR, and Kelly follows, stepping where he does.

Slowly, the sound becomes louder and louder, wheezing and snotty sobbing. Definitely an injured Grunt, he thinks. It’s coming from under a slab of concrete propped up against a wall. Kelly flanks to the right, while Chief goes to the left. He signals that he’ll lift it on the count of three, and grips the edge of the slab. When the slab gets tossed aside, Kelly raises her shotgun, pointing directly at the small figure.

You shriek and bury your head in your knees, pulled up to your chest. You couldn’t believe that after all the gross, awful things you’d had to sit through, holed up in this corner, you were just going to die.

But when nothing happens for a solid five seconds, you chance a peek over your knees and gasp. S-117 and S-087 are emblazoned across the chests of the armored giants… Spartans.

Kelly and Chief exchange confused gazes, having no idea how to deal with children. The last ones they’d had any interaction with was the Castoffs on Netherop, but they were more feral gremlins than they had been children.

(Kelly and Fred still aren’t entirely sure that the whole incident wasn’t a heat-induced hallucination.)

John really doesn’t want to go through another episode like it, but on the other hand, it would be easier if you were pelting rocks at them.

Kelly, being the more personable of the two, kneels to your height (or as close as a Spartan could get) and softly calls. “You don’t have to be scared. We’re here to help.”

You knew that — they were Spartans! The greatest heroes Humanity ever possessed! You were just shocked that you were getting rescued by them.

“Y-you’re Spartans.” You whisper dumbly, but you couldn’t help it! How are you supposed to be cool when you grew up with Master Chief’s action figure on your nightstand. “Like Master Chief.”

You can’t see it, but John can sense Kelly’s smirk as she looks over at him and points. “Well, that’s the man himself.”

* Oh no. By the way your wet, moved eyes stare up at him, it seems you’re a fan.

OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD!!! You hope your pterodactyl screeching wasn’t external.

“Whoa.” This couldn’t be real. You’d passed out from exhaustion, and were dreaming all of this. That could be the only possibility!

John knows that this is the part where he says something witty or inspiring… but he really doesn’t know what to say, so he just awkwardly clears his throat. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head violently, a burning need to not disappoint your childhood hero, and clamber up to your feet… only to wince and lean against the wall, something sticky on your leg.

Now that you’re standing, he can see the dried blood around your ankle. “Hold still!” All the softness is gone from Kelly’s tone as she works on bandaging you up, but you don’t mind, appreciating how careful she’s being.

Co-ordinating with Linda, who informs him that there are patrols scouting the areas — probably only to get any survivors, and not to catch them, but they should still move — and Fred, who tells him that the convoy is flying off-planet via Pelicans in half an hour, John makes some quick calculations.

With the pace you’d set, hobbling alongside Kelly, whimpering every time you put your weight on your left foot, it would take them at least an hour. Too long.

“Whoa…” The sound comes unbidden from Fred when Kelly emerges, with you clutching at her hip, all bloody and dirty. A pang of sympathy strikes as he looks around and realizes all that you must have seen. He was well aware that normal children weren’t nearly as resilient as he and his siblings had been.

“….” He stays silent as you arrive in front of him, staring up at him with slight apprehension, heart racing as he tries to think of something to say — and for some reason, he lands on an awkward, weirdly Southern-sounding. “Hey champ!”

John and Kelly both shoot him weird looks, and he wants to dig a hole and die, when they hear it.

A small giggle falls from your lips, tiny hands covering your mouth as you try not to laugh. Fred sighs in relief, but his anxiety returns when Kelly’s joking voice comes over the comms saying “Well, I guess we know who’s taking care of them.”

Linda drops out of nowhere, and nearly scares you to death as you shriek and bump into John, holding his leg tightly. You don’t really notice how he freezes, confused again.

“…sorry.” She doesn’t sound sorry, you think with a pout and drop from Chief’s leg, careful of your own busted ankle.

“That’s Linda, that’s Fred and I’m Kelly. You can just call him Chief. What’s your name?”

“Y-Y/N.”

“Alright. We won’t be able to make it if you’re walking, so you need to get on one of our backs.” Chief tells you, straight to business. “Which one of us do you feel comfortable with?”

He’s really hoping you pick Kelly or Fred. It wouldn’t exactly be a burden, you’re much tinier than the full grown people he’s had to carry out of a war zone, and you’re handling it much better as well, even though you’re barely ten years old.

“Um…” You look shyly up at Fred. “If you don’t really mind…”

*Aw. That’s… actually kind of sweet. Fred beckons you over, and hoists you up between his shoulders, giving you the rundown on what to do if people start shooting, and to hold on tight when he tells you to.

*You’re much more considerate than the freaked out VIPs he’s had to extract. But he still feels you twitch every time the wind causes something to clatter, so he decides to strike up conversation.

“So how did you wind up there?” It’s not until afterwards that he realizes that, unlike soldiers, civilians aren’t comfortable discussing stuff like that. But you answer that it was your dad’s factory, explaining that it was Bring Your Kid To Work Day.

The Spartans, specifically Kelly, asked you questions about it, having never heard of it themselves. After all, military settings rarely allowed such breaches of protocol.

You only trailed off as you got to the part where he told you to hide, and Fred lets it be.

When you finally get to the convoy, a nurse hurriedly tries to pull you away from the Spartans to help out, apologizing for not doing it sooner when Fred tells her it’s fine and that you can stay. After all, Kelly had fixed you up well, and you seemed terrified at the prospect of being left alone.

All that was left to do was fly up to the ship in outer orbit, with the rest of the survivors. Since there were such few Pelicans, everyone had been crammed into them, military and civilians alike. You’d simply wandered onto the one they’d been on, sandwiched between Chief and Fred.

Chief watches you picking at your shorts, and suddenly remembers the chocolate bar Sgt. Johnson keeps giving him - “you’re not yourself when you’re hungry, Chief” He’d snicker and then leave, Chief just standing there, not understanding the reference - but hey, chocolate was chocolate.

“Here. You did well.” Your eyes go wide, and for a second he thinks you’re going to refuse, but then you snatch it out of his hand and snarf it down. This is how it must feel to watch him eat.

“You’re going to like it up there.” Fred chimes in when your gaze starts getting distant again. “Space is really cool.”

In a twist of fate, you find one of your best friends when you arrive on the ship. Their parents promise to take care of you, and thank the Spartans.

When they start directing the survivors to their quarters, you hug every Spartan, even Linda… or their legs, since you couldn’t reach anything else. (Thankfully, you telegraph it pretty well, so they don’t accidentally smack you or something.)

John just stiffens and then nods, Fred pats you on the head awkwardly and shuffles away (he was very shocked by the affection), Kelly laughs and claps you on the shoulder, and Linda just hums and pets you on the head like a dog, walking away afterwards.

You go on to be a Marine yourself, finding yourself on the Halo campaign, where Chief and Cortana save you once more. You’re surprised he still remembers you.

You leave a bar of the same brand he gave you at his shrine, giving a heartfelt eulogy and catching up momentarily with the other members of Blue Team before you all leave again.

You almost faint when he shows up at Requiem, though. Don’t feel bad, as Lasky fanboys behind Chief for the whole campaign.

Palmer corrals you and Lasky into a break room to make fun of your behavior after it’s all over.

#halo #fred 104 #john 117 #kelly 087 #linda 058 #halo x reader #fred 104 x reader #john 117 x reader #kelly 087 x reader #linda 058 x reader #hope I got all their characters right!#I’ll add a read more later

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theodorevg923 · 3 years ago

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❤ Valentine's Day Leftovers ❤

Monty 🐊 x Y/N (they/them)

Part 3.5 (Master List)

Here all y'all go! This isn't necessarily plot so it can be skipped, and it wont be brought up later. It's time for Monty have fun with his prey!

I will not post it all here, it's too dark.

Find it HERE on AO3!

⚠️ WARNING ⚠️ 18+ ONLY Lots of blood, bones, gore, tears, and screams. The hunter has become the hunted.

_______

Monty slipped back into the under basement as fast as he could. He didn't know how long he had before (Y/N) woke up. On his way, he grabbed rags, a cleaner, and tape from Parts and Service. Clean up was important to prevent someone from finding about the sin he was to commit.

Once in the under basement, Monty bolted the door that led out. His prey was cussing him out, rag discarded in it's lap. He grinned, his spines rattled slightly. This was going to be fun. Everyone except them saw him as a lumbering beast. Time to finally prove them right, there would be blood spilt tonight.

Monty's tail scrapped against the ground, steam rolled out of cracked jaw. His tongue lolled out, tasting the sweet smell of fear. The flashlight was still on, but only a couple hours of charge remained from his calculation. Oh well, he preferred the dark.

He slinked past his prey, hitting his tail on the ground. It couldn't see him, causing fear to flicker on it's face. He growled, circling the basement. Not having time to inspect it properly earlier, he wanted to now.

Monty circled the basement, noticing several holes in the floors going deeper underground. A few times, it seemed something flitted just out sight deep in the holes. As he walked, his tail brushed the ground. Growls and hisses echoed softly throughout. His spines rattled ominously. Occasionally scratched his nails on the walls.

The underground basement was massive. As he went all the way around, Monty calculated the size to be about quarter the size of the pizzaplex. Several concrete columns held the ceiling up, though a few in a far corner had crumbled down. They were underneath Roxy Raceway. No wonder the racetrack constantly cracked and caved. He would think on that later, the scent of fear was imbued in the air. Drool dripping down his jaw in globs. It was time to begin.

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Posted Feb 19 2022

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dubsxreader · 4 years ago

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worship the king //.o1 // shigaraki tomura x female!reader

summary: after the soul crushing realization that you're not meant to be the Hero you've spent your life training to be, you hunt down the most indiscriminate killer you know: Dabi. his man-child of a leader being there only makes the task easier, right? too bad Shigaraki has a knack for seeing things in others they don't see themselves. wc: 3,312 playlist: here!

rated: M for dark and mature themes; future lewd tw: suicidal ideation (seriously don't read if you're in a bad mindset this probs won't help), depression, toxic thoughts, manipulation, the start of a v dependent, idolizing relationship ie "worship" in all definitions of the word haha. Shigs taking advantage of a mentally vulnerable hero basically; dead dove do not eat for that reason.

a/n: this is something I wrote almost year ago now, when I first fell head over heels for Shigs and really felt like bnha was saving me from insanity haha. I have 15 pages of notes for this fic, but for now, for the King's birthday, this is my thank you to him and a year of loving Shigaraki Tomura <3 also to the xreader community for being my gateway into every fandom that takes over my life haha. will be posted to ao3 later

You stand on a cracked, littered rooftop, sullenly looking over the calamity you figured would be destroying the lives of every day, happily unaware citizens tonight. A slight sigh of relief leaves your chewed-to-hell lips, hidden to your own addled mind but glaringly apparent to any of your fellow heroes who’d commented on your state of mind the past few months.

You appreciated their care, you really did—for all the surface level care it could give, that is. It wasn’t their fault they couldn’t understand. They were simply more Heroic than you, official capital and all. More driven, stronger, faster… But you’ve been doing the absolute best you can, and you were sure of that. Days–weeks months?–of harshly honest self speculation assured you of your failures and of the fact that, simply put, you weren’t cut out for shouldering multitudes of lives every time you stepped out your door. Heroism didn’t just end when you took off your costume; no, it was an ideology that should be ingrained into the soul of the costume wearer, and you’d come to the jarring conclusion that, after all your special training, you just weren’t up to snuff.

You couldn’t even save yourself from your own demons. How the hell were you supposed to save those more deserving of life if you couldn’t cope with your own shit?

A small, condescending snort leaves your nostrils as you observe the blue flames engulfing the area below you. Fucking worthless. What was the point, then? Hours of support Hero's work on your items, costume—wasted. The countless words of love and support from friends and family. Ha. Your eyes track the small movements of the current chaos’ perpetrators with a keenness you've found twisted comfort in recently. A familiar, all encompassing fixation gears up that brings you out of the cloud of self-doubt, hate, and deprecation that was so, so wrong to feel as a Pro-Hero in today’s society. In this bubble there's a solution, so it's okay. You let out a numbing breath.

Maybe you could give the Villains +1 morality in the eyes of whatever twisted being rested on their laurels, idly watching as you drive yourself insane.

A swift gust of wind knocks the empty cans and bottles from their peaceful resting places as you leave your perch, descending into the empty alley below to begin your last stand against yourself. Resolute and heavy steps echo in the widened, deserted streets of the city you vowed to protect—a small, still aware part of you thankful it’s so late at night that most would be sleeping. Your targets (saviors?) usually moved when they would make the most social impact, but you’d been tracking a certain member that didn’t seem to adhere to their strict schedule.

Whoever they were behind the obvious moniker, they seemed to kill liberally. It should be easy. You take a numbing breath.

The stench of burning flesh and ash is suddenly all too pungent, assaulting your senses enough to kick your mind into another, more logical plane and question how stupid you’re being. How disappointed everyone who knew you would be. Izuku and Hitoshi, especially, had been trying their hardest to devote extra time to you recently, you knew that—fuck, how selfish were you to bring their attention away from a goal they’d fought so hard to achieve?

The flames are smoldering char on concrete when you arrive at the end of another alleyway, just as dirty as the one you’d come from… But the incineration just seemed to have cleansed the way of its trash. You nearly sigh again in morbid relief when you see two men still standing there in the aftermath. You can see from behind that the man you’ve been tracking, Dabi, still has his left arm extended, as if relishing the memory of his flames destroying the ones he deemed unworthy.

Hands in your hero costume’s pockets, you steel yourself in your usual Hero emotions: indignation, conviction, disgust at the idea of them feeling they had a right to do anything going against the grain of the society you were indoctrinated into. You clear your throat with the last of your practiced confidence, bringing the sights of the two Villains to your own frame shadowed by the bright street lamp at your back.

“You two aren’t planning on getting away with this, are you?”

Your simple, deadpan drawl has both men scoffing to themselves and sharing a look of exasperation and annoyance. They clearly want nothing more than to be done with whatever the hell they were doing; your gaze sharpens in acknowledgment while their own take note of your hero costume. This is it. This is really it. You’ve done it. Is it really what you want?

Your eyes ice over, hardening to protect your vulnerabilities when they meet those of the second man’s own carmine flecks, so unflinching and so, so bored from behind his trademark hand.

Yeah. This is it.

Resignation freezing the rest of your visage and nothing left to say, you dash forward with simple physical speed, locking onto the Villain you recognize as the leader of the League of Villains himself. Sure, Dabi was a proven relentless killer, but you figure if you go after the leader himself there would be even less hesitation or time to think on either side. They were both reportedly unflinching, ruthless, uncaring and absolutely evil, but Shigaraki’s devilishness was practically beaten into you at this point. He was the obvious candidate, the oddness of his presence meaningless yet welcome at this point.

Your eyes never leave his as you take those last three lunging leaps, your arm cocked back in a hopeful show of some impressive power you might possess, in a display grand enough to paint yourself as a threat if not at the very least an annoyance.

Blue flames lick at the back of your costume. You’d somehow been faster than Dabi’s flames, which made no sense at all—you weren’t fast in any capacity if you were to judge yourself. It must’ve been a misfire. Lucky you’ve targeted the faster acting Villain.

Something distinctly odd flashes in his previously disinterested eye as you rush him, your Quirk barely powered yet still reflecting in his observation as you aim for the mask. Your own, in contradictory spite, slows as your mind races, brushing the hand enough to feel the inexplicitly soft and leathery texture, knocking it clean off the face of the man you’d targeted. Maybe it's the adrenaline, maybe it's the anticipation of the end, but you don’t feel anything near what you thought you’d feel when his living hand grazes your outstretched arm. If anything, it feels like an angry wasp had come at your elbow in some sort of misguided revenge attempt. Bearable.

Fucking livable.

You skid to a shaky stop feet behind them, your glare going to the small hole in your costume’s arm where he’d made the briefest of contact. The skin had only begun to crack and decay from a central point; nothing near the scale and intensity you’d been warned about by your superiors and peers. What the fuck gives?

A desperate rage threatens to erupt at the lack of damage. You feel cheated. Your eyes shift from the minimal damage to the apprehensive yet notably curious eyes of your chosen euthanasist. Was he just not taking you seriously? You didn’t blame him, but…

“I thought the League was the best of the best?” The sting in your arm is mockingly there and you scoff, barely hiding your indignation at his unfulfillment of the role you’d forced upon him. You take it and use it to fuel the crumbling foundation of your resolve, ashing it to the ground yourself and focus on the slightly slumped figure topped with white-blue hair.

His eyes are now magnetized and piercing, never wavering from your own, adding to your rage and confusion. Just what is he getting at, looking straight at you in the fucked up state you’re in and just–just fucking seeing–?! You aren’t looking for pity, fuck all if it's from the person you’ve deemed would have the balls you didn’t to end this shitty nightmare you live in. With a primal, anguished and utterly guttural scream you dash forward once more towards Shigaraki Tomura, hand erupting in a more accurate show of your true power.

Once again, he simply guides your attack away from him into empty space, this time with a deft shove of his index finger. Silent and calculating. You stumble on your feet as you land, ignoring the insulting sting, and turn to face them at a pace you know isn’t up to Hero standards but unable to even fake it anymore. Your eyes, though.

They fucking call to him.

How could he dust you? A Pro-Hero, coming at him alone, a deadly ally at his side, with what he knew from his research to be nowhere near their quirk’s power and potential?

Nevermind the look in your eyes he’d recognized immediately—this Hero was asking to be killed. Cracked lips twitch to grin at the situation. His mind works at full throttle to balance the possibilities.

“Heh…” The small breath leaves him, a smirk winning out and pulling at already taught skin, “You’re looking to die, aren’t you, Hero?”

Your brows furrow in… Fuck, you can’t identify your feelings at this point–they shouldn’t matter–they’d become obsolete the moment you took a swing at the supposedly impulsive and irrational Villain in charge. All you can feel is the overwhelming sense of weight, of pressure, of absolute and total CHAOS destroying any semblance of unity you’d pulled together to end this.

“What the fuck does that matter to you, Villain?!” Your glare is full of a rawness you can’t recognize, let alone mask, “Fucking fight me or die!”

His smirk, now fully on display, stretches to the smuggest of smiles as he takes his experimental first steps forward, casually retrieving the hit hand and placing it safely in his trench coat pocket. You weren’t immediately attacking him—hell, you weren’t even defending yourself! You’d only be more obvious if you’d delivered yourself to his doorstep tied in a bright, blood-red ribbon labeled “do what you want, I don’t care anymore!” It made his blood simmer, his skin itch in excitement at all the optional routes opened up before him.

Quickly, too quickly to deploy your defense {even if you wanted to}, he’s in your face and encircling your neck in a four fingered grasp. Your eyes vaguely mark Dabi looking on with a detached interest, and you can’t help but mirror his lack of understanding—your emotions and thoughts unfortunately too far past controllable to be hidden behind the usual Heroics.

“You could still serve a purpose, you know.”

Narrowed (e/c) eyes meet piercing, analytical rubies set to freeze and crumble enemies. You have no answer to that, none at all—if you hadn’t come across another anything while you’d been searching in earnest, how could it be tossed into your lap from the hands of a Villain? Your clear disbelief doesn’t deter him in the slightest. It only gives him the subtle signals he needs to ensure a dedicated new member of his team. This situation could only go well for him and the League, if he plays it right, and he’s thankful Dabi knows when to shut the hell up and take the back seat when he truly should.

He’s never seen Shigaraki’s version of recruitment before. After Dabi's climate destroying display, he could use a lesson.

On the edge though this Hero is, the line is thin and the touch needed is delicate and calculated.

“You can make a real difference in this rotten world,” Shigaraki slowly lowers his defensive arm and loosens his grip on your neck, conveying his intentions to calm you. He notices this strikes an especially sore nerve that you’re too unhinged to recognize. You’re taken over by your emotions, unable to distinguish that you’ve offered your weaknesses to your enemy on a silver platter. Disgusted rage he’s now certain is self-focused meets him, only bringing him a step closer to your frozen and highly panicked figure. His free fingers fidgets on the clammy skin of your neck, tapping a pattern across your throbbing pulse, expectant and soft while the other stays loosely, carefully, against your clavicle.

It's constant.

It's… calming?

No, it's fucking overwhelming and uncomfortable and— As if your body’s acting on the last vestiges of your studies, you struggle in his grasp and pull your dominate arm back, channeling all your sadness and panic you’d been unable to expel into the attack you hoped would just fucking end this fucking end this it’s done—

Another four fingered grip captures your wrist, directing your power away from anything important and only ruffling Dabi’s clothes as he watches on. You choke on a cry, near your mask’s end with Shigaraki’s unexpected patience. You’d been told this was nothing more than a spoiled, raging, calloused young man entirely unable to connect with any feelings other than his own selfish need to destroy all Heroes he came in contact with. The only conclusion your racing mind can come to is that he doesn’t even view you as a Hero worth destroying. Thick and torrid tears rush from your eyes, betraying your need to be recognized and being denied that luxury in your final moments.

“I can’t even get what I need from you fuckfaces—!” Your cry rings out, eyes shutting tightly, shaking with the force of your emotions finally finding the breaking point they need to crash through into the real world, “What the fuck can I do to make a fucking difference?!”

Shigaraki pauses to assess your sobbing. You’ve all but folded into yourself; you would’ve disintegrated against his hold on your neck if he hadn’t been paying attention. No… he sees you. He sees you. His fingered grip on your neck slides up to force your head to follow, meeting his sure gaze. You’re lost. You’re anxiously grasping at anything you can to stop the burning, itching need to destroy your own mind… And he gets that. He knows what it took to hook him tightly into his own mindset. He knows of seeing a seemingly impossible goal set before him, of feeling unworthy and needing to prove himself to his peers and himself. If anyone could reshape you... it would be him. If anyone were to reshape you... it should be him.

“It isn’t fair, is it…?” He starts slowly, voice dripping with cooing understanding, gauging your expressions and body, “You work so hard to be what others want you to be… And never feel enough, even when you put your all into it.” Your whole being shudders at his words, breaking down and melting into the pressure of your expectations for yourself. You choke on another messy sob, tears blinding you, snot nearly reaching your lips, a trail of drool unknowingly slipping from the corner of your grimacing lips.

“We’d never expect more than you can give, you know,” He all but whispers into your ear, his words echoing with staying power. You miss the tiniest bit of excitement he lets slip into his tone at the thought of corrupting a fairly strong Hero to his cause with mere psychological one-upmanship. The power over your entire existence is an intoxicating prize and he’s not about to let go of it if he can help it.

A sad cross between a whimper and a cry escapes you as you crumble even more into a hold you’d only come to for annihilation. Why wasn’t he killing you? Why weren’t you dead? You’d wanted to die, needed to just stop everything and just—just STOP, finally, just stop. He was a hardened criminal with no need for heroes, what the hell kind of use did he see in you? You still the tiniest bit. You just need a use, a tangible use, is that what you’ve been missing? A clear direction set before you by an overwhelmingly liberating, intelligent, capable force… Could he see it through all the absolute shit you covered yourself in?

A tentative spark lights the furthest parts of you as you finally meet his confident and knowing gaze. Fuck if you don’t feel seen for the first time in your life, finally seen and accepted for the absolute mess you see yourself as. The conflicting, philosophical doubts you’ve had about Heroism, and your own heroics in the existential race you call a life, find a peaceful place in Shigaraki Tomura’s vision.

It's an alien calm, a powerful sedative on your mind, leading you to melt into his look—telling him all he needed to know and more. The grin he sports widens and his eyes shift to give a silent command to Dabi, still (surprisingly) observing quietly, before changing your life indefinitely, “Follow me, little hero. You'll never be lost again.”

A deep, swirling purple warp gate you’d only seen in footage appears at the entrance to the alleyway.

The loose grip on your neck finally leaves completely, giving you ample room to escape up and out across the rooftops. You’re frozen in your battling thoughts at the suddenly very real decision in front of you.

You knew you weren’t good enough to be a Hero. You’d been struggling with the core beliefs on what the word even meant, if the world you’d been taught was even so black and white. Did you even want to die or did you just need someone to come and give you a purpose, some great refocusing direction? Someone to swoop in, recognize and acknowledge your pain before wiping it away and giving you something definite to live for? You knew you couldn’t make it as a Hero. You were nothing in that world. But maybe you could make that nothing existence, doomed to the weaker, better…?

Eyes nearly blinded before blinking down more streams of tears, you sniffle and take a tentative step towards the man looming tall over you, an umbrella shielding you from a brightness you couldn’t stand to be seen in. You harshly wipe your falling tears to watch Dabi walk swiftly into the portal, an unlit cigarette of some sort dangling from his patterned lips. Shigaraki steps to it much slower. He stops before he reaches it, twisting subtly to look at you from over his shoulder. He shouldn’t have to say anything more for you to follow, if his assumptions are correct—

They are.

Your first steps are slow but pick up speed quickly, feet nearly throwing you into his right side, at the mouth of the portal to a place described by your thoughts as no return. His eyes widen in delight, a manic grin following as he places the fingers of his left hand onto your head in a semblance of comfort. More than he ever got. His right arm wraps confidently around your waist, absurdly consoling to your rapidly evolving morals and needs.

It allows you to let it all go, though. It tells you someone more capable, more prepared is there. That he sees you and is keeping you alive because you’re useful to him. You can’t seem to care why when the overwhelming realization that such a powerful man saw you as you were, truly were, and still found a profound use for you in a world you were dying in takes a strong hold. You’re practically weightless as he guides you into the inky blackness of his caretaker’s portal, mind clicking into place and recognizing the distinct choice you’re making with a calm acceptance of this development in your life.

You were a useless hero. Perhaps this is your chance to prove you could make a difference to someone as a villain.

---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----

a/n: thanks so much for reading!! :) hope you enjoyed~ happy birthday, Shigster! maann I wish he'd take me away ;w; drop of a hat, I'm gone lol. the ultimate escapism... yandere!Shigaraki! xD annyway, I hope you have a wonderful day~ <3

#shigaraki tomura x femaie!reader #shigaraki x reader #tw sucidal ideation #tw depression #tw manipulation

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srrrokka · 4 years ago

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WIP Tag

I got tagged by @exultedshores to post a snipped of one of my wips! Thank you, Shores, you know that this is the only way they shall see light of the day :’)

The following bit is from the first chapter of To All That Is Lost, a Corvo/Daud fic. (Couldn’t find a good moment to crop this so it’s a bit over 3k, just saying.)

I shall tag @screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse, @puppyblueao3, @modlisznik, and @ptera-novaeangliae :3c

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Maybe it was that he became too cocky, too confident after a month-long streak of easy, uninterrupted burglaries and theft—or rather scavenging, considering the flats he entered had been mostly emptied by the plague already—or perhaps it was the gnawing hunger, twisting his stomach into painful knots that spurred him onward into actions bordering on straight up idiotic. Regardless of the cause, Corvo found himself south of the river, uncomfortably close to a Watch outpost swarming with officers and equipped with not one but two arc pylons.

A string of colourful Serkonan curses fell from his lips between one heavy breath and another as he ran out onto a narrow makeshift bridge linking two opposing buildings, and prayed to the Outsider, and any other being listening, that he wouldn't get shot from the street below. He fisted his left hand, ignoring the throbbing headache it caused. Turquoise light flared from under the too long sleeve of his tattered sweater. The moment his fingers unclenched, he was on the other side, slamming the balcony door shut with his foot. He stumbled forward, looking for a way out, his worn leather coat flapped around his shins as he whirled around.

Stairs. Stairs leading to the ground floor. No breaking legs today.

Angry shouting from the footbridge pushed him forward as if he had wings and he nearly flew down the first flight of stairs, jumping three steps at a time. The few things in the canvas bag slung over his shoulder slammed their sharp edges into his thigh where it bounced with every step. But he barely registered the pain.

"Stop! Stay where you are!" Corvo froze at the words, his eyes wide behind the simple leather mask. He nearly ran into the Watchman climbing towards him.

Upstairs a loud bang and the sound of shattering glass announced other officers being right at his tail. He let out a strained breath. If there was no way up or down... there was always left and right.

He swallowed hard and, using the handrail like a springboard, jumped over it and into the drop between the steps. The fall wasn't massive, but it was enough to nearly make Corvo land on his knees, all of the muscles in his body strained with the impact. Probably only due to the adrenaline rushing in his veins and humming like a waterfall in his ears did he manage to not stumble and immediately broke into a run.

The way out was so close, so very close. He could make it. He could live another day.

A light blue shine on the right caught his eye. Whale oil tank powering one of the arc pylons. He forgot about the arc pylons!

"Don't move! There's no escape!" yelled one of the officers behind him and he shot a quick glance in his direction. There were five of them, already nearly at the ground floor.

With a metallic scrape, Corvo yanked the whale oil tank from its socket and blinked down at it as the contents swirled dangerously behind the glass. He had an idea. It was a bad idea. But it seemed to be just the day for those.

He tossed the tank towards the staircase and broke into a desperate sprint.

The heartbeat in his chest counted down to the explosion along with his frantic footfall. He caught one hand on the door frame to aid in taking a sharp turn. But instead it helped him not to tumble forward when he slammed into someone's solid form.

It felt as if time had slowed down for him. Against all logic there was enough time to look at the man in a red leather coat in front of him — his light grey piercing eyes wide in surprise, grab his lapels into a grip so tight Corvo's knuckles felt like they were about to dislocate, and yank him away from the entrance, spinning them around and slamming him against the wall right next to it. The man opened his mouth, a scowl growing on his features, but whatever he had to say was swallowed by an explosion that shook the marrow in Corvo's bones. They both instinctively curled in response, trying to shield themselves as much as possible, as a ball of fire shot out with an angry roar from the building.

Through the ringing in his ears, Corvo heard what seemed like quite a large number of people yelling. He couldn't quite make out the words but when he lifted his head and his eyes met the red-coat's, he knew it was time to go.

They both lunged away from the swarm of Watchmen at the same time as if signalled by a starter pistol. They sped down along the street, kicking up clouds of dust and Void knows what else, as a thunder of several gunshots cracked behind them sharply like a whip. A bullet hit the cobble near Corvo's feet and ricocheted away with a high-pitched whistle. He grit his teeth, willing his legs to go faster.

Regardless of how bad the Watch was at aiming, they would eventually get shot if they continued on in a straight line like that.

As if knowing his thoughts precisely, the man at his side yanked him by the arm to the left, nearly throwing him over in the process. Corvo scrambled gracelessly with him towards a narrow, shaded alleyway. It was closed off by a tall brick wall, too tall even for him to Blink on top of, if he had any energy left for that in the first place.

But his companion didn't seem too perturbed by the fact that he was leading them into a corner. Either he had a plan or he was simply insane. Either way, one thing was clear — there was no going back now.

Corvo was about to open his mouth to voice the concern, when a strong, gloved arm pulled him closer to its owner, wrapping itself tightly around his middle.

In the space between a heartbeat and another, an endless sea of whispers like the last breath escaping a hundred souls surrounded him along with a swirl of ash. The sensation of misplacement that followed was familiar in the most unfamiliar way — weightlessness guided by the purpose of another, not his. Then, as the ash parted, the world caught up to him in a wrong angle, wrong space, wrong altitude.

And with a breathless exhale he fell.

The only thing that saved him from landing three stories down in a pile of broken bones and blood on the hard concrete, was the mindless instinct to grab. The old cast iron balcony railing rattled dangerously under his weight, as the gravity almost wrenched his shoulders out of their sockets and his solar plexus hit the outer edge of the stone floor, making him fruitlessly gasp for air with a painful wheeze.

Above him, heavy boots on either side of Corvo's palms, the red-clad man struggled to keep his balance on the balustrade — arms spread wide, attempting to counteract the wobble Corvo was causing. Quickly enough, he regained his footing, jumped back onto the landing, and, having thrown a glance to the mouth of the alley, grabbed the back of Corvo's coat and helped him clamber up and into the building.

With a ruckus equal only to a herd of blood oxen, the stampede of Watchmen turned the corner and ran into the dead-end below, to their surprise, finding it completely empty.

The wave of relief that came over Corvo, as he watched them scramble aimlessly through a dust-covered window, was like a splash of pleasantly cool water. His lungs were burning, all the muscles in his body were screaming with exhaustion, and his head was pounding, but he was alive and he would continue to be, even if the following morning he'd probably regret his continued existence.

A dry barking cough brought his attention back to the person in the room with him — tall and well built, with a narrow face on the side of which was a long scar that disappeared all the way under the collar of his thick white shirt, and armed to the teeth. But most importantly–

"You're Marked," Corvo found himself rasping out with disbelief between the slowing breaths, and cleared his throat. It wasn't a question, the man was just like him. It never even crossed his mind he could meet another blessed by the Outsider. "Who are you?"

"Depends who's asking..." he replied, voice low and husky. His eyes narrowed as he looked over Corvo with a gaze calculating enough to make him irrationally self conscious about his scruffy appearance.

Having lifted his left hand, Corvo slipped his thumb out of the hole in the side of his sweater sleeve, showing off the back of his hand. The Outsider's mark stood stark black like spilled ink on his skin. "A fellow heretic," he supplied with a self-satisfied note in his voice and bent his fingers, willing a flash of turquoise light to highlight the sharp lines.

It reflected in the man's steely eyes but, apart from the most subtle shift in posture that did not escape Corvo, it invoked no reaction whatsoever. Maybe it was best to let him mull the news over for a moment or two. If the gifts of the Leviathan were as rare as he was made to believe, the man was surely as shocked as he was.

With that through, Corvo peered outside again and found only two officers still standing in the alley. The irrelevance of that number let him relax further and he rolled his aching shoulders as he looked around the abandoned flat. It must have been grand once — high ceilings of white stone and wooden flooring with intricate patterns now filled with grime and dust like everything else. Several pieces of furniture were still there; maybe some other treasures could be found too.

"I'm Daud," the Marked finally said dryly, the arms crossed over his chest nearly audible in his words.

Corvo didn't turn to look and continued rifling through the drawers of a water damaged desk. "Just Daud?"

"You're not from around here, are you?"

He froze, fingers just above the splotchy brown surface of a tarnished brass knob. For the second time that day his heart jumped straight to his throat. Was that one innocent question really enough to give away his complete lack of knowledge about Gristol? "You that famous?"

"As much as getting dubbed the 'Knife of Dunwall' warrants," Daud said darkly and leaned his shoulder on the nearby wall, making some loose flakes of plaster and paint fall to the floor.

"Oh, right, I heard about you. Head of the Whalers." Corvo finally reached into the drawer and shuffled the yellowed papers around.

"And you are?" Daud put a bit more stress on that question, clearly getting irked by him avoiding any solid answers.

Nimble fingers pocketed a silver coin from under the papers and, not having found anything more of interest, he turned around to sit on the edge of the dresser. "Attano. Corvo Attano." With his thumb he pushed the leather mask up to rest on the top of his head and rubbed the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. "Nice to make your acquaintance," he added with a cocky smile.

"Attano," Daud repeated slowly as if trying his name out. "A Serk, huh?"

"Problem?"

"Not at all. I'm from Serkonos myself."

"A little pale for that," Corvo grinned at him smugly from across the room.

Daud raised an eyebrow, the arc of it a sharp angle. "So are you."

"Touché."

In his most recent memory he wasn't — he used to be quite tan, skin sun-kissed with constant running around in the Serkonan heat — but it must have been decades ago, considering how he looked at the present and how the gap between then and now felt nearly endless. A black void of a sudden cliff's edge.

"So, Attano." Corvo's attention snapped back to the assassin as he spoke again. "How long have you been in Dunwall?"

The desk whined underneath him when he shifted, eyeing Daud with narrowed eyes. Something felt off about this. "No offence, but what's it to you?"

"Just curious," he shrugged.

"Aha, sure. Do you show this interest to every person you meet on the street?" Corvo gritted out and got properly back onto his feet, ready to move at any time. Did the man think he was stupid? "Listen, if you want something from me, say it and stop running circles. But, as far as I see it, I saved your skin and you saved mine so we are done here."

"Straight to the point, I can appreciate that." Daud pushed himself off of the wall and half-heartedly dusted off his shoulder. "I want to offer you employment. You've got some skill, and certain other advantages, which I would definitely use among my men."

That caught Corvo completely off guard. "What, you want me to be a Whaler?" he asked incredulously. "Sorry, Knife, but I am no assassin."

"No one said you have to be an assassin. Other positions are available."

It seemed too good to be true. As far as Corvo and many other people of his status were concerned, the looking a gift horse in the mouth saying was a steaming pile of oxen dung. Always question an overly generous gesture because it might turn out that under the surface it isn't one at all.

But despite that, Corvo couldn't stop a spark of hope igniting at the very back of his mind. Having a job, no matter how shady, would not only give him some means to live but also put a sense of structure into the confusing wreck of his life. The Outsider only knows how difficult and terrifying the last month was for him.

Daud graciously let him consider the offer for a good while but when he finally spoke again it was like putting a marble block on the scale. "I can also offer you a safe corner to sleep in and a reliable supply of food."

A ravenous twist of his empty stomach sent Corvo's thoughts to the two heavily bruised apples at the bottom of his bag — his only food. "You got me there..." He exhaled slowly. There shouldn't be any harm in chancing the truth, should there? "Listen, it's not that I'm not willing. I just doubt I would be useful to you."

Confusion clear in the tilt of his head and eyes scanning, Daud questioned on, "How so? You seem capable enough to me."

"What if I told you I can't remember the last fifteen, maybe twenty years of my life?" Corvo asked, throat tighter at the admission than he expected. It occurred to him then that he hadn't told anyone about this before. He hoped it didn't sound too much like a weird excuse. "I doubt I would be useful to you because I don't even know what I can do."

"That's... rough," Daud managed. His grey eyes darkened under a deep frown. He seemed horrified by that concept, in a faraway, concealed way. Or maybe Corvo just wanted him to be.

Corvo laughed mirthlessly, "Yeah, tell me about it... All I've got is the last month and then nothing until I was a kid." His eyes dropped, fingers fidgeting nervously with the edge of his tattered bag.

"We can always find out what you can do. Or put you through training," the assassin offered.

That wasn't a bad concept. He definitely had muscle memory of some skills, like the mark and various sword fighting techniques he doesn't recall knowing in his youth. But it was unexpected how easily the Knife came to accept his affliction. So with a frown of his own he looked the man dead in the eye, challenging. "Excuse my distrust, but you are very... intent on getting me on your side. Why?"

Daud considered his words for a short moment. "You're Marked," he finally said simply. "There are very few of us and those who are alive are very powerful. I would most definitely not want an enemy out of you."

"And that's why you want me under your heel. Makes sense," Corvo thought out loud and immediately winced inwardly. It sounded much more malicious than he intended. Fortunately, Daud didn't seem bothered by that remark.

"You would be under my command, yes, but it's not like I would be able to control you, Attano," he reasoned. "You can leave whenever you want to."

"So what are your conditions?" Corvo asked as if he hadn't decided already.

The corners of Daud's narrow lips curled up in a knowing smile. He was undeniably handsome, in a sharp and dangerous kind of way that either made one's blood freeze or run hot, no in between. With slight amusement Corvo found that he fell under the latter category. There was something exhilarating in being under the scrutiny of those icy, attentive eyes.

We learnt something new about ourselves there, huh?

"The Whalers are more of an organised force compared to other gangs — everyone has their own function and a strict hierarchy is in place. As such, I would expect you to follow my orders and those of the ones above you." When Daud began moving in his direction with leisurely steps, one arm behind his back and the other gesturing loosely as he talked, Corvo straightened his back instinctively. With eerie ease he felt himself slip into the alert stiffness he could expect from Watchmen during an official briefing. "To trust you with our secrets, I need your loyalty. But as I said, you can quit at your discretion. Preferably by telling me, otherwise it might so happen that you could be considered a traitor and hunted for sport." The last words were accompanied by a dark glint in the master assassin's eyes. That was not an empty threat.

None of what he was asking for was unreasonable, Corvo had to admit. And considering he wouldn't be forced into killing people, it seemed like a great deal all around. Then again, casting his mind back to the officers he blew up — probably gravely injured, if not dead due to his actions — didn't fill him with too much remorse, so maybe they could make an assassin out of him still.

Lightly, he tapped the heel of his boot on the wooden panelling several times, rolling all of it over in his head for the last time. Then on a long exhale he said, "Alright. I'm all yours."

#yo stuff #Fic: To All That Is Lost #dishonored #corvodaud

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chibimyumi · 6 years ago

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Sebastian’s Skills

I replied to this ask before here, but only addressed the first question while accidentally neglected the second part. So here, the make-up post.

What are Sebastian’s skills?

There’s really not a lot I can say except just summing up the things that happened through out the manga, but I shall try to group them per category. So far in the manga, we have seen Sebastian:

🐐 shapeshift into a whole zoo, not limited to organisms only.

🔮 conjure food out of thin air (even though it was not appreciated by his master).

💪 wield muscle strength enough to punch holes through brick walls, contort a metal tank, jump dozens of metres into the sky, drag Finny along with ease like a helium balloon 🎈 , etc.

🤸‍♂️ display enough agility to dodge any projectile fired at him, be it daggers or 19th century bullets. He can climb and hang from roofs, and do the PHOENIX while holding an injured child in one arm. Speaking of which, he can also dodge the attacks from reapers while holding a child and be injured himself, though he does so with less ease.

🛫 show astonishing speed in travelling perhaps hundreds of metres within seconds EVEN in human form. The only concrete indication we have of how many km/h he can travel is in the Circus arc in chapter 30, where Sebastian says the following:

Back in the late 19th centuries, most trains travelled no more than 32km/h, and a horse-drawn carriage around 10km/h at most.

Let us be generous and not assume that by ‘one day’, Sebas really meant 24 hours. So let us say that their journey would have taken them 20 hours. Let us assume approximately 1 hour lost for getting on and off the train, and getting to the carriage, so that is 19 hours left. In those 19 hours, I shall be somewhat generous and say that 18 goes to the train ride, and 1 to the carriage ride.

(18 x 32km = 576km) + (1 x 10km = 10km) = 586km

So the distance they need to cover from London to Baron Kelvin’s manor is 586km. Sebastian can apparently manage that distance in less than an hour, but for calculation’s sake, let us take an hour. So if he pushes himself a bit, Sebas’ travelling speed in human form can go as fast as 586km/h, which would be equivalent to the small fighter aircraft, the A-36 Mustang.

Still we can safely assume that 586km/h is not Sebastian’s top speed even in human form, because he had to carry O!Ciel, and there is only so much g-force a human body can handle. If Sebas does not have to carry a human body however, we can only begin to imagine how incredibly fast he must be.

Also, just imagine how many mosquitoes and other bugs O!Ciel’s face must have caught while riding Sebmustang.

Okay, let’s continue.

✏️ Sebas can make hyper detailed calculations, is master of more languages than most of us can even name of the top of our heads, has excellent command over art, music, dance, and other such cultural skills.

The most astonishing skill however, is in my opinion his eloquence, be it in normal speech or verbal manipulation in “seducing” vulnerable humans into their demise.

✂️ flex his dexterity in re-assembling broken ampules or ripped paper, repair the shattered Phantomhive ring, craft structures as fine as chocolate to anything as majestic as a mansion within no-time, sew an intricate dress from bedsheets within seconds (though his skills are apparently inferiour to Nina Hopkins’!), and craft items down to nanogram precision (the f*cking cricket ball).

I hope this helps!

#Kuroshitsuji #Black Butler #Sebastian Michaelis #Demon powers #Supernatural powers #Sebas is at least as fast as a fighter plane #Poor O!Ciel - the G-force must have been intense.#Sebmustang

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klossyswifts · 6 years ago

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You can hear it in the silence.

You Need To Calm Down reaffirmed something for me in screaming color today. Truly, at this point, if Taylor weren’t bi/gay/questioning/at least okay with LGBT fans speculating about it, she and her PR team would have immensely scaled back all of the rainbow imagery and literal pride messages in songs. It wouldn’t even have been too late after Me! If they had decided to pivot, they could have. The album has 18 potential tracks. They could have scrapped one or changed another. YNTCD did not need to come out 🌈the way that it did. If the team were worried about the rumors or wanted them gone, we wouldn’t be getting “shade never made anybody less gay”. We wouldn’t be getting “don’t step on his gown”. Frankly we wouldn’t even be getting “baby doll”, or a pride month album kickoff for that matter, if they were that worried. They also probably wouldn’t choose this timing for Taylor to make large political moves and donations that most vocally involve and influence LGBT causes.

There is always the argument that she is staunchly dedicated to queerbaiting, but at this point I don’t think it’s a smart one. The whole team watches social media like a hawk, and they know when we aren’t pleased and when things are creating turmoil. If the TS7 era so far were a milquetoast attempt to queerbait, she and Tree would have registered the recent backlash and queerbaiting accusations. They would have pulled back on the LGBT in-group messaging/branding because it wasn’t working the way that they wanted it to. Queerbaiting is supposed to be lucrative - if it’s creating drama and dissent or is called what it is, it isn’t working, and they’d pull the strategy. But that didn’t happen, at the very least because they don’t feel that passionately about quelling speculation, and at most because this is a timeline leading toward something bigger. The team seems to have stood their ground and continued the exact same imagery, marketing, messages. They know why Taylor is committed to it (even if even Taylor isn’t sure how much she is going to disclose when) and they are sticking to their guns.

The strongest thing for me that I keep coming back to is the lack of a statement of straightness or allyship. Like, do you know how easy it would be for her or her people to release some sort of post or video or statement, claiming that she is an ally or saying the words “I’m straight” or “I may not be a part of the LGBT community, but...” or something similar? How easy it would be, even, for her to say a word like boyfriend or my man (something she has noteably avoided doing for her entire career)? It would be incredibly easy. The word ally is low stakes to say, and she’d receive a lot of support. It would create put an end to a lot of fandom infighting as well as a lot of PR stress. She could have done this at any point over the last 6-7 years, frankly, any time since speculation about her sexuality began, and all of this would have been put to bed. She has never been this vague or silent about a misconception in the media she wanted to quell. People call her boy crazy and put down her song writing? She criticizes it in interviews and song lyrics. She frames entire artistic concepts around a response to the misogyny and pettiness present in that dynamic. She writes songs and makes comments in response to celebrity world feuds/drama/gossip and the media’s response to them all the time. Do you really think if there was nothing to the LGBT rumors or if she didn’t want them, she wouldn’t have gotten on camera vocally expressing her discomfort or at the very least her polite refutation? Is this the same woman? This is the most glaring, deafening, telling silence I have ever heard.

Bottom line, there is no reason, other than the probable fact that she is in some way a part of the community, that she wouldn’t make some sort of clarifying statement by now after everything that happened. If she knows about all of our holes in the fence posts, then she knows about all of our Gaylor Swift posts, and that they never stopped after Kissgate. And let’s talk about Kissgate. Yes, the team pulled off a bunch of panicked response moves on social media (the tweet about speculation about dating her friends, the homophobic posts that her account liked liked), which for the record I continue to find hurtful to LGBT fans and disappointing to this day, despite comprehending some of the potential reasons. But what was most revealing about those response moves was that they were clumsy and disorganized, almost completely lacking strategy. Panicked. Sloppy. Poorly executed and hurtful. The seemingly easy, obvious, and professional road to take would have been releasing a statement denying the footage & rumors as completely off base / fabricated / misconstrued, and affirming her sexuality. But clearly they were considering that road non optional. That means something. It would’ve been one of the most surefire paths to put out fires, it would’ve been a lot less chaotic and hurtful to fans, but she wouldn’t take it. She and her team made the mistakes choices that they made instead. Why? Why would they be so discombobulated and panicked, why would they respond in such a way that resembled disorganized lashing out instead of a calculated, clever PR response like I know they are capable of? The only answer that makes sense is because she panicked because there was some truth behind the speculation. She panicked because it was personal and emotional. She wasn’t ready to have that conversation with the world, but she also wasn’t ready to close the door on the speculation entirely. She wasn’t willing to confirm her straightness. This, to me, can only mean that she couldn’t bear to destroy a future chance to tell a different, fuller truth.

And I’ll be honest, unlike some other Gaylor Swift bloggers, I’m not infatuated / enamored with Taylor to the point where I can let her off of the hook for all of the decisions she and her team have made. Like the Kissgate responses, allowing/cosigning some homophobic things happening in the fandom, and other decisions around bearding in general - and because I want this post to reach wider audiences than just dedicated Gaylor fans*, I will say that even if you don’t believe Joe is a beard, it is hard to deny that she and her team have participated in bearding in the past. I love her music, and I find her fascinating, and I understand that coming out is hard and homophobia is real and that celebrity politics are intense, but looking around at the number of out LGBT celebrities who were closeted for a long time and handled that closeted period with more dignity and less whiplash for fans, it just doesn’t excuse it for me. Especially as the years go on and it gets more and more acceptable to be an out celebrity. I’m not saying the challenges have vanished, but it seems less and less reasonable to do some of the things that she’s done as time passes. It’s no longer the early 2000′s. There are ways that she could have (and could still) handle it better, if she didn’t come out. So yeah I’ve been unhappy on multiple occasions and I’ll admit that freely. But I’m still incredibly interested in how this all plays out, because she is such a big pop star who I have followed for so long, and her social influence has a lot of magnitude. I’m a fan and I’m invested as an LGBT fan, I’m just not uncritical. You don’t have to agree with my critiques to reblog this post, I’m just putting them out there for transparency of discourse.

In summary, given her demonstrable readiness, eloquence and ability to write letters, statements, calls to action, etcetera, it wouldn’t be hard for Taylor to shut down any and all discourse about her sexuality. It wouldn’t have been hard then and it wouldn’t be hard now. Yet persistently, she won’t. She continues to center LGBT topics in her lyrics, aesthetics, political actions, and online presence, and simultaneously neglects to ever put forth a clear message confirming her heterosexuality or ally status. At this point anyone who isn’t completely mired in homophobia should know why.

You can hear it in the silence.

*I also want to note that this is not an official or exclusive Kaylor(tm) post, because I want this discourse to be accessible to Swifties from many opinions and interests regarding this topic. I myself am not even sure if they are together (I personally feel it is likely they were together at one point, but am unsure if they still are - not that I wouldn’t want them to be!) and a lot of what I reblog in terms of concrete Kaylor theories is Swiftie style speculation/easter egg hunting/genuine fascination with the PR and celebrity world - and again, if the continuous presence of these made her uncomfortable, there would be very very easy ways of denying it in a more direct way than she has before, and admonishing the fandom. I am interested in LGBT issues and Taylor’s career and PR timeline, whether or not Karlie Kloss ever had anything to do with it, and I wrote this post as a bisexual fan in general, based on my thoughts and observations.

#Gaylor Swift #kaylor #taylor swift #okay to reblog

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corinthbayrpg · 5 years ago

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"...they writhed gasping as Scylla swung them up her cliff and there at her cavern's mouth she bolted them down raw— screaming out, flinging their arms toward me, lost in that mortal struggle."

The storm has finally stopped. The wind and rain battered town of Corinth Bay mostly held up against the onslaught, with debris from the mountain side littering the lower parts of the city. Since most of the houses were remade with stone and concrete after the earthquake, they stayed intact against the powerful gusts of winds that made their way through the narrow passageways of the city.

The ruined temple of Apollo, situated at the top of the hill overlooking the city, remained unusually dry. The few stone pillars that still stood among the ruins were stark and warm to the touch; not a hint of the dampness that would have settled into the stone from the endless rain was felt. It was a vision of this temple combined with a ghastly scream that awoke Atlas Rose the morning of March 13th. The coven of Delphi’s oracle had been plagued all night with a dream that he could not awaken from; a vision of a woman with dark hair and dark eyes walking into the shadows of the Temple of Apollo. She disappeared, and the young witch was left with more questions than answered. The only noticeable features she had were the green scales that trailed up her arms, but every time the witch attempted to remember her features, he found he could not recall them. His only options were to tell the coven – and the chief of police.

However, not a moment past five thirty in the morning, it was Connor Morgan who found her first. The hunter was a frequent visitor to the quiet temple, situated by itself not far from the town. The first sight of blood had the man pressing forward, until the sight he came across was one that made him call Asher Gaines before he could get much closer to investigating the scene.

A woman was sprawled out, laying against one of the broken pillars. Blood was spread over the crumbling stones and the dry stone beneath her feet. Her dark hair looked almost like a halo, spread evenly around her head. Her eyes were open and unseeing, the reptilian like irises now a dull green. It was the police chief who had an innate feeling within his chest; Asher knew who this was: Scylla, the mother of all reptilian and water shapeshifter lines. Her arms were covered in glittering green scales, the only other hint to her shifted form. A terrifying Hydra was one thing, but the broken corpse before them was simply a shadow of the creature she was supposed to be. The Morgan hunter was the one who removed the blade from her chest, a jagged thing made of bone that had torn her chest cavity apart. The damage was brutal, and calculated, but messy.

The news spread not an hour later – the temple was blocked off, all people were to remain as far away from the scene of the crime. Though a sketch of the woman was released to the public in hopes of generating more leads, flashing on every working television in the town. It was one of the first homicides to be broadcast throughout the city in the past few years; things like this didn’t happen in the small Greek city.

It was then that the features on the screen became familiar to a few who had noticed her the night before. She’d been in Styx Nightclub; moving through the crowd like she had been the one who owned the place. In passing, she’d locked eyes with Antonia Gregor and Ara Mayer – two werewolves, her brother’s descendants. With that look, she shared a piece of the future, contained in their pockets as a small green scale. She was a distant memory in the mind of Kasandra Rosales and Winter Dupont – a brief conversation about the variety of drinks, and a green scale in their pockets before she was gone.

The last to see her alive were Silas Kyun and Safiye Basak– a flash of dark hair, a smile and a promise of tomorrow as she walked by them down the street, then nothing more but another pair of green scales. It was Clayton Scotts who saw something else that night – someone fleeing down the mountain, not long after midnight, their eyes flashing a brilliant blue before disappearing into the night.

Beyond the veil, however, it was Circe and Artemis who had a reckoning for the town. Their sight had been blocked by the attacker; whoever had murdered their daughter – a creation of Circe’s own magic and tasked by Artemis herself – had been invisible. With no one to stop them, it was Circe who tore the veil open wider, unleashing the ghastly Eidolon’s back into the city of Corinth Bay. The Eidolon’s were tasked with one thing – to find the person responsible. The entire town was susceptible to their pain and suffering; Artemis cared little for who stood in their way. Someone had begun this war, and they were nowhere near finished.

OOC INFORMATION:

Scylla, one of the original shapeshifters, was found murdered in the temple of Apollo.

Artemis and Circe released Eidolon’s into Corinth Bay. An Eidolon is a spirit-image of a living or dead person; a shade or phantom look-alike of the human form – and they’re taking the forms of people that your character has lost, or even murdered. They are not friendly spirits, however, and will do anything to drive their victim mad.

If your character is a shapeshifter: they would’ve woken up in the middle of the night if they were sleeping by immense pain, or if they were awake, it would’ve felt like an invisible punch to the gut. They will just know exactly what happened, and are unable to explain it.

If your character has a green scale from Scylla: their memory from March 12th has been tampered with. They remember seeing a woman, but the rest of the day is gone. It feels like a gaping hole in their memory, and the scale is something they have become possessive over in a short amount of time.

If your character is a genasi: they are able to see everyone’s Eidolons. While this is very concerning, they are also being haunted by their own personal Eidolon.

The Argos Pack and the Coven of Delphi are on high alert. They are looking for a way to send the Eidolon’s back into the rift.

From now until Sunday, March 22nd, your character will be haunted by an Eidolon. Any other species beside a genasi will only see their own personal spirit. Please feel free to write threads about this, self-paras, we can’t wait to read them! We’ll post a follow up and end to the event on the 22nd.

Please tag all pre-event threads, you do not need to stop any threads that you currently have going on, just tag them appropriately! If you are making a starter for this, please make sure you reply to any event starters posted before yours.

#corinth.event #plot drop 1 #corinth.plot

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easyhomebuilds · 5 years ago

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Home construction step by step process

Given below step by step process of home construction: Pre -Construction steps During Construction steps Post-Construction steps Table Of Contents Pre-Construction Steps: 1. To buy a Land or Plot. Need to buy a land or plot for house construction.Proper care to be taken during buying new land. Square & rectangular plots are best for construction. 2. Preparing Architectural & Structural drawings a. Architectural drawings contains floor plans,site locations sections,elevations details. Professional architects provide architectural drawings. b.Structural drawings contains footings, beams,columns,beams ,slab,staircase plans & sections,shuttering & reinforcement details. Professional structural engineer provide structural drawings. 3. Quantity estimation & Costing . Building construction involves a huge amount of material and budget. Material quantities & total cost of house construction needs to be calculate. Building estimator will provide this details. If financial resources are less than estimated costs,need to go for loan. 4. Taking Permission from Authorities. Need to take permissions from municipal body before starting soil excavations. The following are the list of documents required before applying permissions. a. Land survey reports, b.soil test reports,purchased land documents, c.Architectural drawings with architect certification, d.structural drawings with structural engineer certification, e.certificate of the undertaking of civil engineer for house construction. 5. Approaching a builder or contractors. A builder or contractor will construct the house. Proper care tobe taken while selecting builder or contractor. During Construction Steps: Site Preparation or Levelling work. Footing marking as per footing drawings & Soil excavation PCC & Foundation. Pedestals up to NGC (Natural ground level), Anti-termite treatment for footings, pedestals. Soil excavation for laying CRS walls(support for plinth beams) Laying of CRS walls up to plinth beams bottom. Soil back filling up to CRS wall top. Plinth Beams Casting of Columns up to slab beams bottom. Soil back filling up to 4’’(100mm) below plinth beam. Soil compacting, anti-termite treatment & floor PCC. Staircase & Floor Slab or Roof Structure concreting work. Brick Masonry Work up to lintel level & curing. Casting of lintels over Doors & Windows. Brick masonry above lintel level to slab/beam bottom Parapet walls brick masonry Fixing of Doors & Window Frames Chiseling of block masonry for fixing Electrical conduits as per electrical drawing . Chiseling of block masonry for plumbing pipes in brick masonry as per drawings. External & internal Brick walls plastering works & curing. Compound wall, external gate fixing & plastering works. Construction of Underground storage tank. Construction of man holes and gully traps &drainage line connection External parking & passage area soil backfilling,compaction,PCC Terrace water proofing, pond test & protection screed works. Internal house wiring & main cable laying works. Kitchen platform casting works. Bath room water proofing, pond test & protection screed works. Internal flooring & bath room flooring work(Tiles/marbles/etc ) Door shutters & window shutters fixing. Laying parking tiles, ramp connectivity to external road. Post Construction Steps: False ceiling works Wood works (carpentry works) CP & Sanitary fixtures fitting. Current meter, Electrical lighting, Switch & sockets fixing works. Over head tank fixing & submersible pump fixing in underground storage tank. Staircase railing works. Internal & external painting works. External electrical power source & water source to house. Finally, House warming (Gruhapravasam)☺

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blackasteriia · 5 years ago

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16, 10, 7 for the ask meme :u

Super Duper Deep Character Questions

||First question is shown but the rest is under the cut because it’s a doozy||

16.

I discussed in a previous post how Xion’s physical appearance relates to her overall self-conception. Because of the influences of others and her own experiences with the world, Xion developed into a young girl with black hair. When she was in the Organization she had blue eyes. However, her eye color changed to a dark brown after she left. This was a statement of individuality that differentiates her from Kairi and Namine. It is also how she approaches her own style. Xion is unique, she doesn’t follow the trends or ideas of anyone else. She wasn’t want to wear other people’s clothes, or act like her peers. Her brand is 100% pure Xion. Pro-tip, if you want to buy Xion new clothes: let her pick them out. Do not choose them for her. She will not wear them. Set her free in a clothing store and see what she comes back with. Whatever it is, you can be certain she’ll be happy with it.

Xion’s sense of style was a gradual evolution. In the Organization she wore the characteristic black coat, pants, and boots of the uniform, day-in, day-out. Her hair began to grow to the point it needed cutting. She did it with a knife. Fingernails were chewed off. Someone must’ve taken pity and taught the kids about soap, toothpaste, and basic hygiene. I hope someone did, at least. There’s no implication of it in canon though. She does not wear make-up and even if she understood its function, she wouldn’t have time to. There is little to no self-expression in the Organization. Xion is also a child soldier fighting to survive, appearance is way low on her list of priorities anyway. She doesn’t know anything about ‘style’ or ‘fashion.’ Clothes are functional, they keep her warm and they cover her. They also provide basic protection against the elements and attacks.

The first time Xion shows an inkling of concern for ‘style’ is when she alters her Organization coat. Even without her memories, she recognized that the Organization coat is a symbol that said something about her. Something she did not want to be said about her. She needed the coat to travel the dark corridors, however. So, Xion found a tailor and had them change the design to suit her. She had it shortened and the hood replaced with a collar. Vents in the sleeves made it so they could be rolled-up. She also learned a spell that cleaned dirt, blood, and other stains from her clothes. This is also the point where she realized she could wear the clothes she wanted. Xion never had more than one extra change of clothes, but it was her clothes. Here Xion found some preferences: she preferred pants to skirts, she liked boots, loose shirts were comfy, and she kinda liked necklaces?

The necklace I draw her wearing in her art, for example:

Is one that she made herself out of a piece of gem she found. She whittled and smoothed it down, then hallowed out a hole to loop a string through. Little things like that enabled Xion to find places for self-expression. However, her ‘style’ was cramped by the reality of her situation. She was still fighting to survive and once again her priorities laid elsewhere.

Once most adults are no longer attempting to murder her, Xion flourishes. She is never a fashionista, she never particullary goes out of her way to look Good. Instead, Xion understands that the ability to express herself should not be wasted. This freedom is valuable and just one more way to carve a niche for herself. It’s a statement of independence and power, a privilege she did not hav before. Clothes are always practical to her. She never wears heels for this reason. Still does not like skirts. Yet, she’ll color coordinate her outfits to suit her: blacks, dark, purple, blues, or reds. She probably has a small rotation of necklaces she likes. She has someone professional cut her hair, although it never grows past her shoulders. She looks clean and put together, confident in her appearance. Also she’s never wearing the stupid tacky apprentice outfit, she has self-respect. Even Xion knows that ascots are lame.

If she ever wears make-up it is very minimal, at most. She also is never going to get a piercing, too much risk of it getting ripped off in a fight. She will, however get a tattoo. Saïx left Xion with a gnarly, ugly scar across her back from hip-to-shoulder. When she’s old enough she gets a tattoo to cover it up. What the tattoo is of, depends. Usually it’ll be flowers and vines, a simple but elegant design that works to cover the mark. So, a painful reminder of her past is covered by something that is her and nothing else. Furthermore, in her room, wherever it is in the verse, Xion tends to collect things. Little trinkets and objects from her various travels. She’s not unorganized but she’s not obsessive about a system. She likes things to be at hand when she needs them. Shelves are for books and knick-knacks. She likes to have a desk to study at. Xion isn’t one for artwork, typically. However, if given art to put on the walls she might comply.

10.

Xion isn’t traditionally creative, so you won’t see her make many works of art. She might doodle, she might hum, or write out a quick rhyme, however, she is not strongly artistically motivated. At least not in the way that is typically thought of as ‘artistic.’ Remember that Xion is a kinesthetic learner. Physical action is more important to her than an aesthetic ideal. In general, Xion will do things with her hands as an absent minded way to dispose of excess energy. Thus, the aforementioned carved stone necklace or her tendency to dismantle things. That or her little doodles, scrawled onto a page. If Xion is drawing or writing then it’s descriptive. Very grounded art that focuses on capturing details as she sees them. Xion isn’t an abstract person. She is concrete and focused on the space around her. It’s also apart of her general curiosity and drive to learn. Xion isn’t concerned with the lofty pursuit of high art. She’ll consume it, but even then I still wouldn’t consider her a ‘creative’ person. She doesn’t really listen to music and wouldn’t find a lot of joy in perusing an art gallery. Most paintings are boring man, I don’t know what to tell you.

Where Xion shows creativity is in her problem solving. Xion is well-wired for logic and math. She is capable of teaching herself calculus if given the resources to do so. She can take the information she is given to form a conclusion. Then, use that conclusion to ask more questions that lead to more observation. She uses deductive reasoning and is probably one of the few people not truly victim to the confirmation bias. Xion is trying to disprove herself. It lends to her paranoia and tends to make her a bit of a conspiracy theorist. She is absolutely the one with the red string and the cork board. It also will make her a brilliant scientist and healer. Xion will ask the questions, look from the angles, and think about the problem, in ways no one else will. She will look at almost any design and think ‘how can I make it more efficient?’ She will then think through the possibilities of that. All of these are signs of her creativity. They’re pragmatic, efficient, and adaptable, much like her.

Very little of this is evident until after Xehanort’s death. When Xion had the free time, the resources, and the ability to focus on it. Once again, Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, even if Xion had the drive for creativity she wouldn’t have the resources for it. Nonetheless, she had to learn to how to fight the Heartless and adapt to the flow of battle. She also had to survive and exist on her own after leaving the Organization. All of these problems would require creative solutions. It just wouldn’t flourish in a tangible way until the people who were trying to kill her were all dead. So, she learns how to read, learns math and science, and begins to explore the world in a new way, with new tools.

Xion is a three year old child soldier with extensive combat experience, a history of abuse, torture, enslavement, and neglect. She has no social supports, no parents, no friends, no family. She has spent two years living on her own, feeding and caring for herself. Her coping skills are near non-existant. She has not been taught how to regulate her emotions, which easily overwhelm her or she suppresses them altogether. Several key betrayals have left her paranoid and untrusting.

According to the DSM-5 the requirement for PTSD is exposure to a life-threatening event and Xion qualifies. She presents symptoms of involuntary memories, nightmares, flashbacks, and dissociation. She will avoid places or people who remind her of the trauma. Although, this is broad and often times Xion labels things as ‘threatening’ merely because they trigger her anxiety. Xion also has low self-worth, self-blame, emotional estrangement from others, and persistently struggles to regulate her emotions. She shows irritableness, hyper-vigilance, reckless and self-destructive behavior, startles very easily, and has deep sleep disturbances.

When Xion is avoiding Roxas and Axel at the end of KH3, that is part of her detachment from social connection. When she vanishes for two weeks that is her isolating herself to deal with anxiety and negative emotions. Xion is paranoid and is constantly calculating the chances that someone is trying to kill or harm her. This is a learned behavior from years of people betraying her and attempting to kill and harm her. Her nightmares are the most prolific. Xion cannot sleep without horrifying dreams of close calls in battle, her abuse, or torture. So, she avoids sleep like it’s the plague, going up to four days without rest. She doesn’t like to talk about her trauma, or think about it. Xion is very good at hiding her symptoms and her distress. She’ll usually isolate herself when emotions become too much to handle. Failing the ability to escape, she will express it as an explosion of pent-up rage.

She blames herself for what has happened to her. If she was injured in a fight then it was her fault. She should’ve been better. If she had been smarter, better prepared she could’ve prevented Xemnas from capturing her. Xion is self-destructive and reckless, she has very little regard for her own health or safety. She treats most injuries and wounds like they’re paper cuts, and is confused when others freak out over them. She hasn’t trusted someone since Axel first hit her. Everyone lies, everyone will betray you, they will all eventually attempt to kill you, at some point. From the position of an outsider this seems insane. To Xion it is perfectly rational and logical, a natural extension of her own experiences. Xion’s mental health is poor and her physical health follows it. Food deprivation means she is underweight. She looks like she doesn’t sleep. Her hair is a mess, her fingernails bitten to the quick.

Everything about Xion is a perfect storm of poor mental health and self-care. So, what can be done to help her? Like most problems Xion has faced, its solved by moving her up the Hierarchy of Needs. Providing her consistent meals, shelter, water, entertainment, and affection, gives her the space to focus on her own health. By giving Xion examples of relationships that are not abusive or neglectful, it can reframe her previous experiences. Xion can learn how to trust and to open up to others. It will just take time and energy to encourage her to do so. If it’s available, talk therapy would be invaluable to her. In the case it is not available, encouraging her to discuss her feelings and memories will help her process them in a more healthy way. Xion is very young and she has extensive, painful trauma that weighs her down. However, with proper help, love, and guidance, she can grow beyond her past. She’ll always be more jumpy, or nervous, or anxious than most, she’ll always have that suspicious paranoia. Her sleep habits will never be perfect and the nightmares will never truly go away. She is not resigned to an existence of suffering, however. Xion is adaptable and more than capable of healing.

#deadmenanddemons #ptsd tw #abuse tw #torture tw #✰*✦ This is the idiot speaking ⎧OOC⎫#✰*✦More than a mannequin on the strings⎧Headcanon⎫

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gunnerpalace · 6 years ago

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Are you going to continue Demons of the Sun and Moon? It's one of the best IchiRuki fan fictions out there

I would like to, and intend to continue and bring it to a proper conclusion, but it’s not quite so simple. It’s really easy to say, “Well, just get on with it then!” (and I do say that myself, quite a lot) but actually doing it is... harder than that.

You probably don’t want a story about it, especially one that involves feelings, because it’s not your job to do emotional labor for me, but I’m going to relate where I’m at in things regardless to try and more fully answer why it’s not that easy.

First, I suffer from something of a perfectionist streak and an attention deficit, and so it can be difficult for me to just do things in general.

With regard to writing, for a long time it was the lack of feedback that really kind of grated on and demoralized me. I should probably have just been happy with what I got, you know? I didn’t really set out to write these stories for other people! But I wasn’t satisfied. I could (and do) see other things get far, far more attention, especially in other fandoms. And it’s not really fair to compare in that way, but I’m only human. That probably really started things with regard to writing, psychologically.

So, in general, when it comes to writing, I feel sort of stuck. A lot of the emotional investment I had has also kind of dried up because, to be honest, I was writing at the pace I was to compensate for things I lacked in my life at the time, and I burnt myself out doing it.

For a while, I also resented Demons of the Sun and Moon, because it seemed to be the only thing I wrote about that anyone cared for.

I also committed myself to trying to revamp it to fix a few things and generally tighten up the storytelling based on feedback I have gotten at various points.

And then, as I plotted other longfic storylines, I also became concerned about what ideas “should be reserved” for what, because I became worried that people would get annoyed or lose interest if they saw major plot-points being repeated.

Lastly, I also began to worry more about not having concretely planned out Demons of the Sun and Moon itself. I’ve always known its general arc, and where it will end up, and how it will end, but there’s a fair amount of wiggle room in that calculation, especially including how long it would take to get there. And that began to bother me as well.

So, tl;dr, I’ve generally put myself in something of a hole psychologically when it comes to writing in general, and in particular with Demons of the Sun and Moon. It’s both difficult to get back to it, and the sense that I need to rework it before posting a new chapter only grows as more time elapses. It’s started to feel a bit overwhelming, in a sense.

I don’t say any of that to excuse myself, but just to explain where I’m at it with it in my mind. I would like to try getting back to it in September if possible, but I can’t make any promises.

Anyway, thank you for the kind words and for asking in a polite way. I’ve been trying to learn to appreciate even short compliments like these more, and it is indeed high praise. And thank you again for caring about the story. I hope this at least sort of addresses your concerns.

#Asks

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askthedarksidersfam · 6 years ago

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Because my feelings are HURT I decided to add my part in @imagine-darksiders recent Survivors post. The rain pelted harshly against the tree, an unforgiving wind blew, chilling everything in its grasp. No amount of warm fire or bubbling lava could shake away what chilled everyone to their very cores. They lost Ellie. All the survivors huddled close together and mourned, they prayed and gave kind words in her memory. Together they sobbed and told stories that all starred her. How she became the ‘ringleader’ of the group, or how she almost on more than one occasion tried to eat nightstand berries. Eventually the chatter died down and left everyone together in foreboding silence. One survivor rose to his feet and rummaged through the cart of supplies that hauled the heavier essentials. Not soon after he pulled out a single candle and a box of matches. Wordlessly he placed the candle on a small outcropping of wood on the wall and lit the match. “We won’t forget you Ellie” —— Grace clutched her stomach as she finished her last round of vomiting up a disgusting mixture of lunch and guilt. Her mind was spinning to make sense of what happened. Ellie was gone, she saw her right before her eyes. But she denied it. No it isn’t her. One side argued But we saw her. The other counters. Like lame winged birds her thoughts circled uselessly, going nowhere. Her mind battled itself and she felt the familiar ache return to her gut. —— The storm lingered, dark clouds threatened to attack the earth with its downpour. Luckily it was just a light drizzle. Grace wiped the exhaustion from her eyes, the past few days were stressful on her being but she persevered. She had taken to using Prometheus and Tarya as hauling demons for their equipment left back at their camp that they couldn’t bring for the few days they had settled. Ulthane had argued against it but Grace was stubborn in her attempts to retrieve every single essential they have left. But today she wasn’t going out to haul material back. Simone listed off the things that needed to be brought back: the medical supplies left in crates, Chef’s cast iron pots, the leftover canned goods, spices and the extra weaponry. Absentmindedly nodding, Grace hitched Prometheus to the wagon, the demon’s muscles twitch at the contact. “Grace, please be safe. If you see or hear anything-“ “Run back to the tree or hop on Tarya and let her take me back. I know.” Grace interrupts with a dismissive wave, Simone frowned. “I’m not joking. This is really dangerous.” “And I’m serious. I’ll be fine” Grace reassured, her hand resting on the older woman’s shoulder. “Be safe” Simone said with a tight hug. Clambering onto the wagon, Grace gripped the and cracked the reins. Prometheus pulled the rickety wagon down the roots with Tarya gliding beside them. Prometheus took the usual route through the destroyed streets and buildings. Tarya landed on the flooded street and stalked beside the wagon, her keen eyes darted about for any enemies. After a fifteen minute ride, the hospital came into view, the camp had stood firm throughout the entire storm. Grace urged Prometheus to walk faster and he obeyed, without falter he made his way inside through the ragged terrain. “Good boy Pro” Grace praises as the wagon pulled to a halt. Hopping off, Grace busied herself with unhitching Prometheus, the harness clicked against the wet concrete. Unveiling a saddle under a layer of sheet, Grace picked up the heavy leather and tossed it onto Prometheus’ back. After fastening the straps and testing it’s tightness, the brunette reached for the tattered coat in the wagon. Clutching the fabric Grace presented it to Prometheus, his nostrils twitch with each inhale. “Find her Pro” Grace ordered with a soft plea, the towering demon’s head connects to the floor as he sniffs the concrete with efficiency. He reminded the girl of a bloodhound at work. And almost like a bloodhound Prometheus released a growl as he found a scent trail. Haphazardly tossing the coat aside, Grace ran to Prometheus while fastening her now and quiver to her being. She mounted and clicked her heels. Prometheus took off with a spray of water. Prometheus expertly careened past flipped cars and half demolished alleyways with swift speed. Occasionally he would slow and sniff to find Ellie’s scent before resuming his search. The rain had washed away most of the trails so he made frequent stops and detours when the trail was a dead end. Thunder cracked as the drizzle transgresses into rain, the threat of losing Ellie’s trail frightened Grace. Wiping away strands of wet hair Grace sighed in defeat as she realized it was a lost effort. “Come on, let’s go home” she crooned Prometheus whines in response. “Let’s go home bud” With an understanding that was almost human the demon nodded in defeat and began walking with sluggish steps, his head hung low. Grace smiles sorrowfully and gives Prometheus reassurance with hard pats on his muscled neck. Prometheus stood dead in his tracks. A threatening growl rumbled from deep in his throat. Glancing up Grace’s throat hitched at what stood before her. A lone Wicked The Wicked was a deer in headlights. Its eyes wider than dinner plates. A ripped dress clung to its leathery skin revealing every imperfection, bone and sinewy muscle hidden under the fabric. A large hole in the chest revealed ribs and a pulsating light, almost like a heartbeat, providing a sliver of life within the undead. It was Ellie. Unsure of what to do, Grace with slow calculated movement dismounted Prometheus, the brunette whispered calming words to relax the HornCrown before she crouched low, bow in hand. Ellie’s cloudy eyes follows every move the brunette took, lips quiver to reveal gnarled teeth as a warning, but she didn’t move. Releasing a breath she didn’t knew she was holding, Grace crawled closer to Ellie and spoke in slow soft words. “Ellie.. it’s me.. Grace. You remember me right?” Ellie snatled as Grace got too close to comfort, Prometheus growled. “Easy boy, it’s okay.” She soothed Ellie took tentative steps back, Grace calmly jumped in “Ellie, I’m not gonna hurt ya. I just want to know what happened. How you…” Grace paused as she dared not to cry. The blonde tilted her head quizzically as the younger girl dropped her bow in favor of cupping her face. She collapsed to the ground not caring about the chilling water soaking her jeans. One moment she was collected, but now the dam she had built to hold her emotions burst. “I’m so sorry this happened! Why DID this have to happen?!” She clawed at her head, nails leaving bloody scratches in their wake. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry” she chanted, to whom was unclear but she nonetheless chanted her apology, even after Ellie slipped away.

#owwww my feelings #Apocalypse Survivors

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