#rending scissors

[venalea-art]

RENDING SCISSORS

[coolerdakota]

okay but this is unmatched

Best Magical Girl Weapon - Round 3 - Quarterfinals

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Overtime 6

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss, Mr. Hansen, runs you ragged but you find solace in an unexpected friend.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, Jake Jensen.

Author’s Note: This one is dedicated to my dearest @thezombieprostitute

Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

You enter Mr. Hansen’s office and he’s not far behind. The slam of the door makes you jump. You whip around to face him as he storms in, brushing past you so roughly that you teeter on your feet. You’re happy you didn’t go all in and buy those heels. 

“You wanna waste me time, Critter? Huh?” He snarls as he turns and slams a fist on his desk. He winces and pulls back, shaking out his fingers. 

“No, sir, I wasn’t--” 

“You were. Look, you wanna flirt, do it on your own time. I don’t pay you to make eyes at the dweeb,” he growls. “But it’s sure as shit my damn money that got you the new gear, isn’t it?” 

“Sir, he was--” 

“Not very fucking subtle, is it? A red dress. Might as well sew a scarlet fucking letter on,” he searches around furiously and grabs something you can’t see. “How about I help you out?” 

He charges at you with a pair of scissors and you squeal. For a minute, you foresee your own murder. The gleam in his eyes assures you of your fate but he doesn’t plunge the blades into your chest. 

He grabs your skirt as he bends and snips into the fabric. You yelp and he tosses the scissors to his feet. He clutches and tears across, rending the skirt at your mid-thigh. You try to pull away but only help his destruction. He snaps the last thread and stands, whipping it at your face. 

“Show a little leg, Critter, no use in being fucking shy,” he kicks the scissors and stomps away. “Hello, now you got a little shawl to keep you warm, don’t you?” 

“Sir, I’m sorry, I... it’s just a dress.” 

“Every time I walk out of this office, I see you with the fuckhead. Just a fucking dress. You’ve been dressing like a paper bag for two years and suddenly you’re sweeping in here dressed like a goddamn cherry. You think I’m fucking stupid?" He sneers and drops into his chair. 

You stare at him as you clasp onto the strip of fabric. You look down slowly and push your legs together. You’re horrified at how much skin is on show. 

“I have to go home and change,” you utter. 

“No, you’re going to stay here and do your fucking work,” he snaps as he lifts his feet onto his desk, his chair creaking loudly. “And if that dipshit comes around you tell him to go fuck himself.” 

You blink and look at him again. You don’t understand why he’s so upset. You thought, stupidly, that he would be impressed. He always insulted your clothes and you finally took his advice. You sniff and nod. 

“Yes, sir.” 

You turn and walk to the door. The dress is ruined but you can return the rest. He clears his throat. 

“Pick up the fucking scissors,” he snarls. “You know better than to leave a mess.” 

You recoil from the door and cross to the scissors, open in the corner of the room. You bend and pick them up, not realising until you feel the air between your thighs, how short the dress really is now. You stand up sharply and scurry over to put the scissors back in their place. 

Hansen watches you, a stitch between his brows as he steeples his hands. You retreat and try to shake away his gaze. You shut the door quietly and brace yourself. You sigh as you find yourself alone. You’re not sure you could tell Jensen to go away after all of that. 

You go to your desk and sit. You tuck away the remnants of your skirt in your bag. You push your shoulders back and wake up your computer. The smell of cinnamon tickles your nose. You look down at the muffin. It doesn’t feel right now, not after Mr. Hansen ruined all the rest. 

You shove it aside and forget about it. You keep your eyes glued to the screen between getting up to print or mark the board or run off on another errand. You don’t let yourself stray from anything beyond Mr. Hansen’s demands. 

‘Coffee.’ The singular order pops up in the corner of your screen. 

You stand at once and snatch up your purse. The chance to get free of the stolid tension is enough to have you moving at double speed. You skip the elevator and take the stairs instead. You don’t take a single moment to look ahead before you dive out into the city street. 

A sheet of rain crashes down on you. Of course. Too late. You're already soaked. 

You find your beaten-up car and swing yourself into the driver seat. Frig. You’re completely drenched. Oh, and your umbrella is at your desk from the last time it rained. You sigh and try to ignore the damp clinging of fabric. 

You patiently pull out into the crawl of noontime jam. You can’t get close enough to Esther’s to avoid another slake of rain. You run inside and wait patiently for Hansen’s coffee. You ask for a double cup to keep it warm. You shield the lid as you hurry back through the downpour. 

Your spot at the office is filled as you pulled up. You park further away and bemoan another venture out into the elements. Today can’t get any worse. 

You have the coffee. That’s all that matters. You get out and sprint across the street. This time you take the elevator as your soles are too slippery to stay on the tile. 

Several looks ping off of your disheveled appearance. You ignore them like you always do. You get off on your floor and surpass your desk without missing a beat. You knock on Hansen’s door. He grunts for you to come in. He’s expecting you. He’s waiting and no matter how quick you are, it’s not fast enough. 

You stop short with a squeak of your flats as you enter. You’re unprepared for the full flash of Hansen’s bare chest. Your eyes round and you hold up the cup. You can’t breathe as you try not to stare at the thick hair across taut muscles. 

“Coffee,” you cough out and rush over to set it on the coaster.  

He casually pulls out a black polo and holds it up, “what do ya think, Critter? This make the bitch wish she’d never left me?” 

You blink and look at the wall, “um, yes, sir. I guess--” 

He isn't as mad as before. That alone puts you on edge.

“Woah, what the fuck happened to you?” He lowers the shirt, once more showing his buff torso. 

“It’s raining, sir,” you shrug, “I’ll just go dry off...” you look down at the moisture around your shoes, “and get a mop.” 

You turn with another wet squeak and he chuckles. You ignore him as you head for the door. 

“White panties and a red dress?” He clucks, “tacky.” 

You trip and stop as you feel the back of your skirt. The water has the fabric stuck to your skin and you didn’t notice in the chaos how it rode up. You pull it down and apologise under your breath as you flee. 

You should just stop hoping things won’t get worse and just expect it. 

[save-the-spiral]

Desecration

(Part One) (Part Two)

Content Warning for violence, blood, gore, beating, dehumanization, torture, captivity, vomit.

(Ao3 Link)

1.3K, Vampire Whumpee, Human Whumper

A kick to the ribs woke Beau. He instinctively curled forward to protect himself, the chain connecting his collar to the wall clanking and rasping against the concrete floor.

"Good morning sunshine." His master drawled. There was a warm amusement to it, his anger abated at the sight of Beau in pain.

Another kick, this time to the gut. Beau retched despite having long since vomited any bile left in his body. His throat burned from stomach acid and thirst. He had thought vampires didn't need to drink- after all, none of the servants had given his predecessor water- but he had a headache from dehydration, mouth dry and throat parched, and a weird ache in his teeth.

Beau heaved, trying and failing to control his body. It was dead, why did it still go through the motions of living when it only made everything worse? Yet his only method of control was attempting deep breaths while his numb fingers grasped at his stained and torn dress shirt.

The clicking of dress shoes on the concrete floor of the basement filled him with dread. Beau spared a thought for Maude, the maid in charge of the master's wardrobe who would be spending her evening cleaning bloodstains out of the patent leather's seams.

Beau reached out, bracing himself and sitting up, leaning on hands wet and sticky with blood. He was nearly against the wall, dread filling him as his master grabbed a weapon from the shelves and racks on the opposite wall.

The dimmed lighting cast strange shadows when combined with the nearly black bloodstains on the floor. His master turned. The long, thin weapon he wielded reflected light off of its metallic surface.

Beau's mind could only compare the sight to depictions of avenging angels.

His master approached Beau, the light filtering through his blonde hair and gleaming like spun gold. Pale blue eyes were alight with rage, a usually pleasant and placid face twisted, nostrils flared and teeth bared in a snarl. Weapon in hand as if completing some righteous, God-given task of punishment.

Beau tried to brace himself but he was still reeling from the previous attacks and could barely stay upright.

Then his master changed his posture, and it was something Beau recognized, finally able to see the weapon in full as it was brought back and up. The face of the golf club flashed in the light, gold plating on iron.

Then the club was swinging down in a devastating arc.

The head of the club struck Beau's sternum with a heavy thump and a series of crackling pops that Beau felt more than heard as he was flung into the wall. His head knocked into concrete so hard the world went black for a moment.

Pain exploded and encompassed his entire being. His existence narrowed to the agony, piercing and rending flesh and organs alike, his own ribs jagged claws reaching inwards to rip him apart.

Beau barely processed the rain of blows on his body. He kept his eyes closed tight enough to see bursts and flashes of colors in the darkness, arms up to protect his head, not that it mattered.

Beau had already learned in the past few days that begging didn't appease his master. It did nothing but piss his master off more. While his master seemed to enjoy Beau's subservience, excess pleading just annoyed him. Considering the fact that his master only came down into the basement when he was already mad, annoying him only made the beatings worse.

All he could do was endure. His body would regenerate from bruises and broken bones, betraying him by becoming a clean slate for his master's torture yet again.

So far he had only suffered beatings at his master's hand, but Beau knew it wouldn't last forever. The wall across from him was a constant reminder, taunting him with what he would be subjected to in the future. Knives, scissors, whips, pliers, saws… and more that he hadn't even noticed in the poor lighting, like the golf club he was being beaten with.

And of course, the stake.

A large carved piece of ash wood, splattered with the black lifeblood of Beau's predecessor. His master had lectured about it at length- how he had been forced to dirty his hands due to the vampire that turned Beau, as a dog that bites once will do so again. And the only ways to kill a vampire that stuck were decapitation and a wooden stake to the heart.

Beau had spent hours just staring at the vague silhouette of the stake where it lay on a table. He hadn't noticed it as a servant, so innocuous among the blades and tools. Now it was a threat, the sight of it scaring him as much as the basement's door opening and the clicking of dress shoes did.

The cloying, rotten taste of his own blood brought Beau back to reality as he choked. The spray of blood from his mouth splattered against the sleeves of his shirt, as he had still been trying to protect his head in vain. The metal of the muzzle dripped with blood as more and more bubbled up Beau's throat, pooling in his mouth.

Despite knowing logically that he can't die- not unless his master permits it- Beau was still terrified that this would be the time he succumbed to his wounds. He should have died a dozen times over now, from the torn throat, the beatings, the bleeding, the cold. His existence had become unending suffering for the sake of his master's temper.

Regardless of the monster he was now, Beau still felt human. He didn't want to die. Even if his heart didn't beat and he didn't need to breathe, even if he was already dead, he didn't want to die.

It was nonsensical. It was ridiculous. Enough to make Beau's body attempt to laugh even if it only meant more blood to choke on as his body convulsed.

A clatter rang out as the golf club fell onto concrete, far enough away that Beau couldn't reach it even if he wanted to. The thought of doing so didn't even cross his mind.

"This is getting boring, you know." Beau's master was already leaving the room. "Maybe next time I'll finally get around to defanging you like I promised."

The door to the room slammed shut, his master's anger left unsated.

All Beau could do was lie there in a pool of his own blood and breathe, even though his body didn't need to. His mind did, convinced that he just needed to keep breathing. As if it were proof that he was alive, that things were going to be okay.

When he would pass out in a few minutes his body would stop breathing. A servant would come down to clean and avert their eyes from his corpse. They didn't like the reminder that any of the estate's staff could become the victim in the basement.

The pretense that as long as their master continued to torture strangers down in the basement the staff of the estate would be spared from his wrath was gone. Constance Mallory's sweet boy, quiet Beau, had died down there. The gardeners had buried another corpse, though plants refused to grow where it had been entombed in the soil.

The servants were gossiping about this new development in the estate, though they kept it out of earshot of the kitchen's staff. They were saying that the corpse carried out of the basement hadn't been Beau's, but the ghoulish monster that had resided down there. Beau was still down in the basement, suffering at their master's hands.

And none of them wanted to be the one to tell Constance, so they didn't.

(Part One) (Part Two)

[prismaticpichu]

FF7 Crisis Core Characters & Their Pokémon Partners!~ 💛 🗡️

Why howdy!! Welcome back to another glorious edition of “Pichu combines her hyperfixations like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich!” <3 Yeeeehaw!

I tried to be as creative as I could with the move references 😂 Kudos if you can spot ‘em all!

Warning for Angst <3 :,3c

~~~

Angeal

Samurott ~ A bladed warrior Pokémon known for its strict and formidable discipline, as well as drawing obvious inspirations from Samurai/their honorable Bushido code! The fella was an Oshawott for most of Angeal’s life—belonging to the entire family as a whole, considering that they unfortunately didn’t have enough money to buy many Pokeballs/food to take care of more than one. It was only when Angeal decided he wanted to join SOLDIER that his father officially gave him Oshawott’s Pokéball, leading Angeal to spend officially numerous hours training with his buddy. By the time he joined SOLDIER, he had a worthy Samurott by his side—the strongest Pokémon out of all the three elite Firsts. When he eventually took Zack under his proverbial wing some handful of years later, the boy quickly bonded with Samurott: training, playing, and often feeding his aquatic friend when Angeal was unable to. When Angeal deserted ShinRa’s forces, however, Samurott still clung to those memories and tried to convince his trainer to do the right thing, ultimately becoming wishy-washy with its own morales as result. And, in the end, nothing hurt its rended soul more than being forced to battle Zack under Angeal’s command. It was also the last battle it ever fought.

Moves:

Aqua Cutter

X-Scissor

Double Team

Take Down

Genesis

Flapple ~ An apple—obviously!—and a red, winged apple that housed a little (book)worm-dragonsnake thing on top of it! With Crisis Core taking some inspiration from the Garden of Eden story, it seemed like the most appropriate choice. Let’s also not forget that apples rot. Anywho—able to afford Pokeballs at a young age, Genesis caught the little guy when it was just an Applin, which subsequently catalyzed his affinity for the fruit + prompted him to start a small Banora White juice stand as a kid. Growing up, Genesis loved to battle—always pushing to be the best he could be, to emulate the heroes in his stories and the silver-haired superstar he saw in the papers. But he was also a kind boy, with a kind heart—good ambitions—and spent many days helping training with Angeal’s Dewott. He was able to get his hands on a Tart Apple rather young, and ultimately went on to serve as viable asset to ShinRa’s military with the aid of his aerial Pokémon. But it was the times after the war that were sweetest to Genesis—where he and his best friends hung out together, where they used Flapple’s attacks as props and projectiles, with one of their favorite games including knocking apples of off each other’s heads. They were childish games, yes—but harmless games. Harmless competition. Harmless rivalry. Simple rivalry. Fiery rivalry. Intense rivalry. Jealous rivalry. Burning rivalry. Dangerous rivalry. And, one day, it was just too much—it was taken too far. One training incident, one battle between friends. A pepper of metal; a spur of blood; a cry of pain; and a trip to the infirmary. And it was after this day that Genesis was never really the same. When the man felt himself growing ill, Flapple was the only one he confided it—was the only one he told his plans of desertion to. And when the day came for him to abandon his past, Flapple was hesitant. Hesitant—but loyal. He remained by Genesis’s side and watched his trainer degrade, watched him rot like the fruit of his own etymology. And he wanted to cure. And he would help his trainer find that cure—that “gift”—no matter the cost. He would do anything. He would do anything, even if it meant helping destroy the reality of his old friends.

Moves:

Wing Attack

Grav Apple

Trailblaze

Outrage

Zack

Arcanine ~ Yes—pupper for life! <3 But just like the game Zack hails from, NEVER underestimate the power of a fiery pup!! One of the most loyal Pokémon to exist, Zack took in an injured Growlithe from the wild when he was just a little kid, immediately sparking a friendship that would last him for years upon years to come. Zack loves his partner more than anything in the world—training to become the best SOLDIER he can possibly be since the day their dreams were together. Together, from vigorous and unwavering training, they climb through the ranks of ShinRa. It’s only at Fort Tamblin where, alongside receiving a Fire Armlet from Lazard, he receives a Fire Stone—and it’s all Arcanine adventures from there! Unfortunately, however, this is also when Angeal deserts, and Zack relies more than ever on the comfort of his best friend. Arcanine helps him stay positive, but even the dog itself begins to grow jaded, losing some of the blazing spirit that used to surge through its veins. Modeoheim is one of the worst tolls on the two of them—one of the most spiritually-shattering incidents of their ShinRa career. One that is only trumped by Nibelheim, where its life comes to end upon being crushed by fiery debris. It was trying to save Claudia.

Moves:

Close Combat

Play Rough

Protect

Flame Charge

Cloud

Riolu: A little baby-waby Pokémon that grows into something truly incredible and iconic. Riolu was a gift from Cloud’s mother when he was turning 14 years old—a little something to keep him safe as he went away to ShinRa. Cloud was always a little hesitant about raising Pokémon, but bonded rather well with Riolu once he opened up—albeit after an admittedly awkward start. Riolu was always there to comfort Cloud after SOLDIER-exams, always there to cheer him up and keep him going until the next one. When it’s time to go on a mission with the Great Sephiroth, Riolu is there to keep him chill—sitting in his lap in the truck, affectionally nuzzling his chin to keep him level-headed. Cloud wanted to keep Riolu in his Pokeball as to keep his identity hidden—a decision that would go on to save the small Pokémon’s life when the town was horrifically set ablaze, sheltered from Sephiroth’s wrath and madness while other Pokémon made the fatal mistake of trying to stop him. Following the incident, he doesn’t remember much—unaware of when Zack broke him out of the lab and carried him and his poisoned Riolu to the edge of Midgar. There’s flashes of something in his memory—serrated shards of a bloody face and bloody body that slash into his psyche beyond his own understanding. He doesn’t remember the moment his Riolu evolved—evolving into a Lucario under the pouring rain and the pearls of crimson that had stained its paws. In fact, he doesn’t even remember ever having a Riolu. All he could seem to remember is having an Arcanine—an Arcanine who perished before his eyes—and taking custody of a Lucario who originally belonged to his friend.

Moves:

Endure

Bullet Punch

Reversal

Copycat

Sephiroth

Pichu ~ Yep! That’s it, you heard it right: no legendary Pokémon, no mythical—just a small little lab rat that Sephiroth cherished more than anything on the planet. He first met Pichu when he was just a little boy, finding it trapped in a too-tight cage among Hojo’s numerous experiments. Bruises and scratches marred its yellow fur, coiled into itself as it quivered and shook amid the pulsing darkness. And Sephiroth, at his tender age, could hardly stand the sight. He couldn’t stand it—not when he could feel every scratch laddering its body, every injection that must have pierced its fragile form. He knew it was a risk, he knew he could be punished—but at that moment, meeting those pained and teary eyes, none of that seemed to matter. When Hojo found Sephiroth with Pichu the next day, he of course tried to take it away—only to be met by a tempest of threats and snarls, kicks and hisses. In the end, Hojo conceded, but forcefully fed it an Everstone when Sephiroth was asleep. In the following years, the duo were inseparable—every surgery, every training session, every trial… they were together. And when Sephiroth went on to Wutai, you bet Pichu was there with him. It wasn’t much of a battler—often hurting itself with its own electricity—but what the Pokémon lacked in strength it more than made up for in loyalty and spirit. As Sephiroth’s fame and influence burgeoned, he did everything in his power to keep his treasured friend out of the limelight—often keeping him sheltered in his Pokeball until the man was able to return to his quarters in peace. This lead to several people fantasizing about what Pokémon the Great Silver Warrior could possibly have—what kind of mythical beast he kept stashed away. Only very few people have ever seen Pichu at all: Glenn, Matt, Lucia, Genesis, Angeal, and Zack—all of whom were shocked at first, but developed a newfound respect for Sephiroth after learning of its origins. Angeal and Genesis, in particular, even had the honor of babysitting for the little guy during press meetings. When the latter two deserted, Sephiroth was crushed, but Pichu did wonders to keep his spirit afloat: curling into his lap at night, falling asleep on his shoulder… Anything it can possibly do to assure Sephiroth that he wasn’t alone, it did. When it came time to leave for Nibelheim, however, when the inevitable tragedies spiraled, that’s where things started to splinter. Zack awoke one night to Pichu pawing at his face—a small and desperate gesture to get someone to help it. Agreeing to help his friend’s partner out, Zack followed Pichu to the basement of ShinRa manor, where he found Sephiroth in the heart of an eerie, candlelit library. He told them to leave—both of them. Zack tried to gently talk things out; Sephiroth told him to leave even louder. Disheartened, but thinking his friend needs space, Zack took Pichu and leaves. In the following days, he tried to comfort the anxious Pichu, telling it that Seph just needs some time to breathe and digest everything he learned. He told it that Seph will snap out of it soon—that he will return for his best friend. He promises it. Assures it. And yet, when that seventh day arrives, the town went up in flames. Villagers were killed, slaughtered, as well as every Pokémon in his wake. All the man could think about was her. Mother. His birthright. His planet. Revenge. Humans. The urge to destroy—the need to kill… The bleary shapes that he cuts down are nothing—meaningless little insects in the greater design of his world. His blade slashed through them all, cut them open and left them to burn in the hellish flames engulfing the village. They were all irrelevant—every single one of them. Meaningless. Worthless. Just kill time. Just kill them, She whispers. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.

“SEPHIROTH, DON’T—“

It’s too late.

Masamune had already struck, deaf to the young SOLDIER’s horrified plea.

And blind to the sight of Pichu staked through it.

Moves:

Nuzzle

Nasty Plot

Facade

Wish

[pearatwar]

HOLD UP! This Disco Elysium post is a dialog I made up in my head with me and the skills on self-destructive behavior with mentions to cutting. If you don't want to see that, scroll ahead!

Manicure Scissors: You use the tips of the scissors to embed surface scratches into your arm, two at a time.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: [HARD - SUCCESS] The technical term is catscratches, from the scratches pet felines would leave with their claws -- these cuts often are just lines with slight bleeding on the epidermis, the outer layer of the skin, without piercing through any fat or muscles.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: A line with no width or depth... Cut deeper! Wider! Rend your flesh apart, let the dopamine flow in your veins, and your blood, out! Think about how realized you will feel! How complete!

HALF LIGHT: Sheer terror kicks in. You know how the human body works. You know what lies beneath, what you would destroy just with one cut.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: ...the many veins running up your arm and to the hand, which would hemorrage and possibly leave your hand incapacitated temporarily.

LOGIC: You'd bleed everywhere. You'd struggle with basic tasks. Your mother would find out and bring you to the psych ward, pronto.

PAIN THRESHOLD: You were never good with pain: you have always been a wimp. It would not take more than a paper cut to have you wailing and contorting on the floor.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Exactly. Show your body who reigns supreme. Teach it to withstand the pain.

AUTHORITY: You've seen what others have done to themselves. You can't even say you hurt yourself. In comparison, what you do is self-care.

You: Cut deeper.

COMPOSURE: [FORMIDABLE - FAILURE] You are afraid. Scared, terrified, petrified. You drop the scissors to the floor, and your knees with them. Kneeling down, reflecting your face on the ceramic sink, you see what a sopping wet dog of a man you are. [-1 MORALE]

HALF LIGHT: In an act of grandeur, rage and defiance, you grab the scissors and swipe at your arm blindly.

SAVOIR FAIRE: [HARD - FAILED] The scissors barely even graze your arm. Again and again, the cuts you get are nothing more than those you already had. [-1 MORALE]

SAVOIR FAIRE: This has been a waste of time. Pick yourself, and the scissors, up. Recollect your cool. Breathe in, breathe out, take a shower and lay on the bed for a couple of hours -- no matter if it's not the healthiest coping mechanism.

[blackjackkent]

On closer inspection, our final murder target - Figaro the Facemaker - is now marked with a second quest indicator:

So I guess this is where our final showdown with Dolor is going to take place.

Figaro was super rude to Hector for literally no reason, so maybe this is just desserts, but probably not, so hopefully Rakha can end her foray into CSI on a high note.

(Side note - I've been trying to figure out a reason for Rakha to head into the west side of the city so she could run into Elerrathin's home, and guess what - it's directly across the street from the Facemaker's! Fantastic.)

Rakha doesn't really get the best first impression of the place, as a boutique customer immediately shouts at her as soon as she gets in the door.

"Oi! You! Get in the bloody queue!"

This young man is deeply lucky that Rakha is WAY too preoccupied to get stabby right now. Even the beast urge in her head is entirely focused on the possibility of blood being spilled in Bhaal's name in the next room.

She definitely, however, does not get in the queue but instead goes charging through the main doors into the boutique's back room - and comes to a sharp halt, crouching into the shadow of the door as she sees movement within.

(A/N: Once again, this is way more interesting if you actually do the murder questline. Hector only got here after killing Orin, and I literally didn't know this NPC had another purpose besides insulting your clothes unprompted.)

In a chair at the far end of the room sits a dwarf in a fancy outfit of blue and gold. His body is rigid - rigor mortis, Rakha thinks at first, but then she sees the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest. No - paralysis.

Another paralyzed body lies on the floor nearer the door. Rakha recognizes this one. Devella - Valeria's assistant from the Elfsong.

And Dolor, the Bhaalist killer, the dwarf dressed in red, stalks the edge of the room, a maniacal grin on his face.

"It's unusual for prey to supply the tools of its own butchery," he purrs mockingly, coming to a halt next to a large table lain with a variety of tools. "Razors, scissors, nail files - so many cuts one could make. And yet... such a fleeting window..."

With a delicate touch, he lifts a large knife, positions it at the Facemaker's throat. "But then... who am I to deny the auspices of destiny? For we are celebrating, Master Figaro! You have the delicious honor of being my crowning achievement. Your body is my ultimate gift to my lord Bhaal! Together, we shall transcend!"

(A/N: Props to Dolor's VA; this is a legitimately creepy little speech.)

Rakha has gone stock-still, her eyes fixed on the blade. The beast, having reached the critical moment, has woken and is roaring in her head. Yessss... slit his throat, spill his blood, present your gift to my Father with it painted across your hands...

She finds herself possessed of a sudden terrifying urge not to help but to leap forward, to steal the kill away from this upstart dwarf and rend apart Figaro's chest with her own hands. The blood pulse pounds in her temple like a drum.

"Rakha!" Wyll hisses. "Rakha, come on! We have to do something!"

His voice cuts through the haze and she draws a ragged, groaning breath. She releases the knife she had begun to draw unwittingly from its sheathe, clenching both hands instead into fists.

"Stop... right... there..." she rasps out.

The dwarf freezes, the edge of the blade just touching Figaro's neck. Then his hand drops to his side and he turns to face Rakha, and the manic light in his eyes sends an involuntarily shiver of ice down her spine.

Do you recognize me, boy? she wonders, unsure if it is her own voice or the beast's in her thoughts. Do you know who I am?

"A challenger..." Dolor hisses. He lifts the knife again, this time turning its point towards Rakha. "My lord tests me. This piteous hovel will be your grave, challenger!"

Rakha's head spasms. Kill him first, then, hisses the beast. Fool. Blasphemer. He threatens us. Kill him.

And there's no time to think about this further as Dolor hurls himself at her with a scream of fury.

----

There are, it turns out, five doppelgangers in the shop here to watch the show (including the two "customers" in the front hallway). Not a terribly hard fight, although Dolor is a pain who likes to go invisible which is always annoying.

When the battle is done and the dwarf lies dead, Rakha leans heavily against the wall, her eyes squeezed shut, focusing on keeping hold of herself and ignoring the beast urge, which very much wants her to finish the job by crossing the room and slitting Figaro's throat.

When she opens her eyes again, she finds that Devella - unparalyzed again and looking deeply frazzled - has come to stand in front of her.

"I can't believe I'm glad to see a Bhaalspawn," she says, sober and earnest and just the slightest bit shaky. "But gods... I knew you'd be the one to stop this." She rubs the back of her neck wearily. "If it had been the dwarf alone, we might have stood a chance, but those doppelgangers... they swarmed us." She shudders. "We were paralyzed before we even had the chance to fight back."

Rakha doesn't say anything for a moment or two. People being glad to see her is a new and rare enough concept that it is not something she really knows how to handle well just yet.

Devella has been a strange one - seemingly unbothered by Rakha's heritage and far more focused on her actions, her willingness to fight the Bhaalists and the plot against innocents. And now she's pleased that Rakha is here, without question or hesitation.

Minsc is not here to judge, she remembers Minsc telling her, only a few nights ago. That is a thing for hamsters and hathrans alone. It seems Devella might agree.

The feeling of gratification this brings is unfortunately muffled and deadened by the darker urges; Rakha's instinctive response, with the beast still roaring in her head, is something along the lines of the more fool you, followed by a knife in the neck.

But she waits out the urge, her fingers rapidly flexing into and out of fists, until it passes, and then her shoulders slump as she exhales slowly between her teeth. "I'm glad," she says, carefully and deliberately, "I could keep you safe."

"And I'm glad you're fighting the fight to keep the Dread Lord out of the city," Devella answers gravely.

She takes a few steps over to Dolor's body and peers down at him thoughtfully. "I was on my way to the Upper City when I heard a commotion," she goes on. "I stepped in to see if I could help." She looks up at Rakha with a flicker of a rueful smile. "It's not every day you have the chance to catch a killer in action, not even in this profession. You, on the other hand - you've probably seen your fair share of murders since you discovered your heritage."

If it's meant to be a joke, it doesn't really land. Rakha just stares at her unblinkingly until she clears her throat awkwardly and goes on. "We can question the assailant later, once he comes round, but I think I have it now."

(A/N: Pretty sure the assailant is big dead, Devella, but you're welcome to have a go.)

She begins to tick items off one by one on her fingers. "These killings aren't random. In fact, they seem to be part of some sort of test. That document you showed me before - the one with the victims' names on it? That was the briefing. The killers paralyze their victims, take their hands as an offering for Bhaal, and make it look like the cult of the Absolute was behind it all. It offers access to the 'tribunal' - an initiation rite, held by your Father's acolytes, that brings a new cultist into the fold. And it's taking place beneath 'Candulhallow's Tombstones,'" she finishes triumphantly.

In other circumstances, this would no doubt be an impressive display of deduction. Unfortunately for Devella, literally every one of these things is something Rakha already knows. So Rakha just continues to stare at her expectantly, seeming not to notice as the silence draws out awkwardly.

Devella squints at her cautiously after the pause has stretched a while. "Perhaps they've even asked you to undertake this gruesome sacrament."

(A/N: This is unfortunately one of those moments where none of the available dialog options really quite fit Rakha. The closest thing to an explanation of her intentions is I must find a hand, so I can infiltrate the tribunal and tear it down from within. But to be honest, Rakha isn't really thinking that broadly. Her concern, first and foremost, is finding Lae'zel, and then taking Orin out of the equation. It's not really a concerted effort to bring down the Bhaalist cult. Everything else is, at the moment, an afterthought.

So we're going to take a little artistic license here and adjust the line a little for clarity.)

Rakha shrugs slightly. "I need a hand to enter the tribunal. From there, I have to find the temple," she says curtly. "They have my--" A pause. "My friend."

Devella's eyebrows lift in sudden understanding, and she looks down at the body of the dead dwarf. "Technically," she says pensively, "I haven't yet done an inventory of this crime scene. So... if something were to go missing from a corpse..."

(A/N: OK, so now you admit Dolor is not going to be 'coming round'? Or are you trying to suggest we cut a hand off someone you think is still alive? Make up your mind, Devella! Bit sloppy writing there. XD )

She lets out a heavy breath, and her eyes meet Rakha's with a troubled expression. "You're brave, spawn, to put yourself into the heart of the Hells like that," she says with quiet sincerity. "Braver than us all. But you're just one sword against a god. Are you sure you're up to it?"

Rakha closes her eyes against a sudden stab of pain through her head. Devella is right, of course - in going after Lae'zel, she is at bottom talking about deliberately standing against the god whose blood runs in her own veins. But... there's also no other choice.

"I don't know,"(*) she admits gruffly, opening her eyes and staring down at the blood puddles slowly soaking into the carpet.

Devella studies her for a moment, then nods. "A word of advice, then, if I may. Infiltrate the cult. Deceive your father's lackeys. If Bhaal believes he has you, they will let down their guard. There's bound to be one moment where he trips up, and you see a way to stand against him.'

Rakha considers this. In truth, she hadn't really formulated a particular plan for what to do once they've found the Bhaalist temple, but knowing her, the most likely strategy would be to run in, blasting fire in all directions, and hope for the best. Deception and subterfuge are, to put it mildly, not her strong suit.

But perhaps Devella has a point. Pretend to be under the beast's thrall long enough to get close before striking. Perhaps it's a better chance. Perhaps it will help keep Lae'zel alive...

The only worry is that she very well might start to believe herself. And then all would be lost...

She nods wordlessly.

Devella relaxes and manages another slight smile. "I don't know what will happen to the Gate if you don't," she says gravely. "But I do know that you're damn well the best hope we have. In the meantime I'm going to Basilisk Gate. I'll try to drum up some support - and warn as many important people as possible. Hope I can yell loud enough."

She turns to start walking out of the boutique - but Rakha's hand flashes out, catches her by the shoulder, halts her in her tracks. For a moment wariness flashes through Devella's eyes - but she doesn't pull away, just waits, watching Rakha carefully.

"Thank you," Rakha mutters. "For believing in me."

Devella smiles crookedly, draws back, and offers her a Fist salute. "See you around, Bhaalspawn," she says lightly. "Stay alive for me, won't you?"

-----

(*) Another slight dialogue tweak. In-game line is "I really don't know if I'm up to it..."

[ghostace]

tidbits from fénire's sith au: the aftermath ft zahied

also like 3 years old whatever. recovery, self-doubt, implied violence

He'd catch a glimpse, sometimes, out of the corner of his eye— a glint of something bright and wrong. Sometimes it was the curtains of white hair catching a holo-sign, reflecting red in every surface; sometimes he was certain— it was something worse, something vicious. When he checked in the mirror, his eyes were bloodshot and red— a normal red, this time, but every time he blinked he had to check again and again and again for hints of a corrupted glow.

He'd gotten used to those eyes, smiling cruelly back at him, just as he'd gotten used to the sharp tattoos that framed them. These eyes were unfamiliar, long-forgotten, though the dark shadows below remained unchanged.

Something told him he'd always be searching for signs of a relapse.

It couldn't stay like this; the stress of constant vigilance was already taking its toll, on him and on Zahied. Always watching their backs for a pursuer. Always watching him, for something more nebulous.

His lightsaber called to him a near-constant string of temptations, promises of blood and power reclaimed; letting Zahied remove it from his hands was only a temporary respite, though he'd neglected to mention its ongoing siren's song. Bloodthirsty, like him. Angry, like him. Unrepentant, like him.

Not... entirely unrepentant, maybe. He was still figuring that one out, after nights and days of running after— with— the only thing that mattered. The only one who mattered. The one who put a hand on his wrist when his breathing quickened and held it there until his pulse slowed. The one who cautioned not to indulge the violence that still paraded through his mind, but wrapped him in safe arms until the temptations faded.

The warmest, deepest, kindest eyes.

He didn't deserve it.

The door slid open in the tiny bathroom and he glanced over instinctively, a thrill of fear gripping his hands tight on the sink for just a moment before— Zahied. Safe. Watching with his now-permanent furrowed brow and the deep concern etched within.

"You okay?" Worry. He was right to do so, after— after everything. The blood had barely dried from the last mistake; how long until the next?

Fénire nodded, silent. A lie, one he couldn't give voice to. That wasn't what Zahied wanted to know anyway, the silent question asking: are you going to leave while I sleep, the silent answer, I'll stay this time.

Maybe they should pick up some restraints. That would solve the problem.

"What—" Zahied cut himself off, crowding into the space. "Is that my trimmer?"

His shoulders tensed. Stolen goods, again, but it wasn't a lightsaber out of his bag this time. Worse, maybe, more personal. But Zahied's eyes were contemplative, not accusing. This time.

"I was..." How could he say it, without sounding pathetic? "It's the only..." Better to let him keep his assumptions than admit the miserable truth.

"It was a stupid idea. Nothing." But Zahied had him pinned in, and with the stumbling answers, stood resolute.

"Talk to me." A request, not an order. His hand slid down the long sleeve of Fénire's braced arm to his wrist, toying with the cuff until he released his grip and let the warm, steady fingers entwine with his. Fénire breathed in sharply, then uneven exhales, his jumping pulse rending his thoughts incoherent.

"I couldn't find scissors." The words came eventually, haltingly. He sounded like a child, slow and stupid. It was stupid. Stupid to be worried at all, stupid to sneak around this, stupid to want it at all. It didn't matter. "I wanted to— cut it— off." He curled his fingers into the strands of white hair that fell across his face and tugged until the gentle pressure turned to pain.

Zahied squeezed his hand. "Do you want some help?"

Yes. No. Fénire closed his eyes and let the thoughts twist around his mind, the decision escaping his grasp. The silvery hair was at once a safety blanket, a comfort that he could hide his face in the waist-length strands, and a curse, a hated reminder of decisions that were not his own.

"I've never..." he trailed off again, finding voice to foolish fears. "I've never had short hair. Before."

"It's stupid," he continued, words growing bitter in his throat. "It's just hair. It doesn't matter."

Fingers slid along his jaw, up his cheek to gently guide his head down into a soft embrace. He breathed into an unshaven neck, rubbing his face against the texture there to feel something. Feel closer. It was never close enough.

"It matters." The words were no more than a whisper, but they vibrated through their connection, soothing and even. Then, a little closer to his ear: "Do you want me to do it for you?"

Fénire opened his eyes, buried in their tangle of white and black hair. "I could trim it like you had before," Zahied continued, quiet, gentle suggestions easing it all. "Pick up some dye. Wouldn't see a difference."

No. That one was wrong. Leave it, hide it, remove it all, but he couldn't go back. No, he had to—

"Can you... can you cut it? All of it?" Remove it like the memories he couldn't. Less permanent than the ink inscribed on his skin. Maybe then he could recognise the face looking back at him in the mirror.

Zahied brushed his thumb along his cheekbone, gently back and forth. "Of course, if that's what you want." Fénire nodded, still buried in his neck, his hair, trying to overwhelm his senses with just— him.

"Come on, you're too tall for me." Slowly, reluctantly, they untangled their limbs and Fénire was left colder than he'd begun— until Zahied returned, dragging a stool in front of the sink. "Sit. I've got you."

So he did, digging trembling fingers into the loose fabric of his pants while Zahied delved into the soft bag, removing scissors and blades and clippers all and laying them on the edge of the sink, a point for his skittish energy to focus on.

"All of it?" The words didn't process, at first, as Zahied tucked his long hair back first behind his shoulders, then behind his ears. Over the lip of the sink he met his own eyes again in the mirror: exhausted, tormented, but—

He shifted his eyes up, to meet Zahied's brown in the reflection, and nodded.

The only sound, for a while, was the sound of metal sliding against metal, Zahied's steady warmth only ever a breath away. Spirals of white hair fluttered to the ground and to his lap, shorter pieces catching in his shirt and collar— neither of them bothered with the mess. Between his hands he wove a long lock of hair, something to fixate on while he avoided catching a glimpse of the transformation before it was complete— just in case.

Zahied brushed at his head, rough and quick, catching on uneven strands before the buzz of clippers filled the small space. It was— a lot of hair. Pools of white around his feet and the stool legs, more falling still. Strong hands held his head still as he worked across it methodically, keeping his head bowed to reach the nape.

"I didn't realise—" Zahied cut himself off, but a noise of inquiry left Fénire's chest before he could stop it. "... your hair is brown."

For the first time in a long time, a bubble of mirth was forming and rising and— the faintest of laughs. It was funny, wasn't it? Of all the stupid things—

"I've... I've always dyed it." The clippers came to a silent end, and both of Zahied's hands rested on his shoulders— squeezing, holding, reassuring. "Thought it was... boring."

"I'll try not to take that personally." His hands shifted down, arms encircling Fénire's neck and chest until his chin rested on his shoulder. Close. Warm. "All done."

He raised a hand to his forehead, ran fingertips up until he felt the wiry, short hair that remained. Barely there. Nothing to grasp. Cold. This was— a bad idea. A stupid idea. But there was no going back now.

"Is it—" He pressed his temple against Zahied's, beside him.

"See for yourself."

The unfamiliar man that looked back at him this time seemed small. Tired. Scarred. But he caught a glimpse, from the corner of his eye as he turned towards Zahied— not of a red glow. Something new. Something— tender.

There was nothing between them, but his heart still fluttered at the touch of Zahied's lips, the friction of his beard, the edge of teeth that caught his retreating tongue. The strands of hair fell, forgotten, from his hands as he turned fully, pulling Zahied tighter against him, eager and impatient and intent.

Not close enough. Never close enough.

He'd have to change that.

[kirbyofthestars]

snappier name for the three main characters of save the future would be the scissors trio considering they’re each associated with a pair (sonic embroiderer, timeweaver scissors, time rend scissors)

[ultimate-sword-showdown]

Round 1, Match 26: Red Scissor Blade vs. Serenade

Red Scissor Blade

From: Kill la Kill

Wielder: Ryuko Matoi

The Red Scissor Blade is the only clue left at the scene of main character Ryuko Matoi's father's murder, and her only lead in tracking his killer down (she's looking for whoever has the other half). It's half of an invention her father made called the Rending Scissors, which are able to cut life fibers, a kind of semi-sentient alien hivemind creature bent on eating humanity, whose infusion into clothing makes its wearers stronger. Slso it can shrink somehow (unexplained) because the animators didn't want Ryuko to keep lugging it around in a guitar case. It also gets used as a makeshift tennis racket at one point.

Serenade

From: Dead Cells

Wielder: The Beheaded

Serenade is a sentient flying sword that also acts as a pet summon that floats beside The Beheaded. Due to being trapped in a vault for an undetermined but lengthy amount of time, they are not only very bloodthirsty but also extremely clingy. They talk constantly whenever they are summoned, and if you bring out other pet summons between stages they will kill said summons, earning you the achievement “me, jealous?”

[autumn-oceanopromises]

(995) we think in polaroids

i'm a poet, we think in polaroids snapshots of this here this now artificially and chemically aged composed of candid framing i haven't lived a snapshot in awhile or maybe it's why i don't remember dreams anymore i used to dream of snapshots these pearls on a string where i'm present in myself an unmistakeable situation instead of day in day out just people rubbing themselves on my last raw nerve once, the rickety staircase and the sea of trees twelve years before in sleep to presence a black dog labrador slinking under the chainlink fence that's all in the past now so does that mean i'm where i'm supposed to be

are there more polaroids to come aging yellow and black a chiaroscuro in 50mm the feel of a you gripping my shirt in your trembling fist too stoic to cry the lines of our apres vu fading away even before you open your mouth is this a dream i want to dream or is this a dream where i'm supposed to be you doubletake when you see my university license picture with all the lines faded i gave that t-shirt away or it's piled holey in the landfill i was half my weight now but it's all the invisible burdens like punches and my stomach paunch

i used to live more in daydreams than in the screams embedded in the drywall but i closed my eyes and gave myself up to overstimulation instead to sleep at night did my snapshots die or did i kill them myself trying to cut apart polaroids with dull scissors they rend jagged and don't split clean

i used to garden ideas like resettling dead land they flowered in places until i choked on them i knew going in that as i got older i got more rigid more the camera, less the polaroid more the hardware, less the art less creative less imaginative less less less was that written in the stars or did i do it to myself

[sunshine-1nc]

Doomed by the narrative™

No one could tell how much time had passed.

Or well, someone in the past could.

It felt like an eternity since they had left, not even a goodbye or a note in sight before they vanished. No one could tell where they disappeared to, and no one dared to keep on looking as the timeline started withering away. Well, all except Linzer, who despite being warned constantly, followed the Director. Perhaps she was the worst person to go, her body not being made for the extensive forces of time travel, but after just months of not waking up to that same lovely face, perhaps being destroyed by time was better than that fate.

So much time had passed since then, the amount of her own body she had to fix and replace was uncountable. But the flowers kept on coming back, the same damn red flowers. It was frustrating and almost miserable to say the least, every jump through time to just see them one more time was becoming more and more painful. But this would never stop Linzer, it wouldn't, she would go on with what little hope she still had left that she would be able to hold them in her hands again. Even if it meant facing the same fate of her broken timeline.

She had visited every spot Timekeeper had taken her too, or at least everyone she could think of, but they were nowhere to be found. At this point, Linzer was just hopping through timelines hoping to just come across them, they couldn't have gone so far, right?

Little did Linzer know that they hid in the only spot she could never get to, a time pocket. It was lonely, sure, but Timekeeper, now self affirmed Ruler, felt it was the right punishment for all that they have caused. The amount of timelines meeting their end by their own hand was many, too many, even their own original timeline met the same fate for making a god like them. And now, now they could see everything, all of time is opened up to them, how regretfully boring, monotonous. Ruler chose and wanted to stay in the time pocket, hopefully every Croissant and Timekeeper would disappear from all timelines due to it. Though nothing happened, Ruler could still see them, still see their old self playing with timelines like toys without seeing the consequences.

They tried to keep their eyes off the timeline they once inhabited, fearing the guilt for its soon destruction, but they couldn't keep themselves away from it for long. One day, Ruler finally looked at it, seeing Croissant as the new director as the timeline fell into chaos. But, they noticed one person was no longer there, Linzer. At first, Ruler believed that she had died, only to see that one image of her jumping through a time rift.

All of it set in too quickly, the realization of their leaving making Linzer search for them brought them to near tears. Ruler hoped she would move on, find someone else and forget about them but she did the opposite. Of course they knew what would, what is, happening to her, after all, yeh same happened to that gear that fell into a time rift all that time ago. Ruler looked over at Continuum cog, it not responding in the least when they reached out for it. They held it close, finally breaking down.

Linzer kept on walking as she pulled out a map of sorts, crossing out the current timeline she was in. There were still so many to search and most likely even more that weren't marked down. She sighed, putting the map away before taking out the Time Rend scissors she stole from the TBD as she mentally prepared to go through this again. If there was one thing Linzer had grown to hate, it was time rifts. Every pass felt as if she was being crushed. But she has to make it through it, there's no other way. Linzer took a deep breath before opening the scissors, gasping before feeling like she was dragged down suddenly. Looking at the brass vines that had grown on her body, she groaned before trying to get up, only to be dragged down again.

A loud clunk was heard through the time pocket. Ruler nearly screamed, throwing what is left of the Sonic Embroider at the walls of the time pocket, over and over. They needed to get out, just for a few minutes they needed to leave, they needed to help her, to explain themselves to just see her again. Despite being an omnipotent god, they still couldn't escape out of the hole they had dug for themself. Ruler tried everything, but finally, one time rift opened for them, one that brought them right to Linzer. Their eyes widened, not expecting to ever be able to leave the time pocket as they rushed inside it.

Linzer winced, her body finally having gave in as everything felt heavy. It hurt to move, but the second Linzer heard a time rift open she looked up immediately, almost startled before seeing the one she had been searching for walk forward. Shocked was not a strong enough word to describe how she felt. Soon she was brought into possibly the most comforting hug she's ever been in, her eyes starting to water as she tried and tried to hug them back but her arms didn't move. Ruler backed away, looking at her with their own eye glazed over.

"I'm sorry, for everything." Their voice shook, taking Linzer's hands into their own. "You shouldn't have come."

"You really expected me to just let you go?" Linzer smiled at them, a couple tears running down her face. "I love you."

"I- but- look at the state you're in!" Ruler gripped her hands harder, shaking slightly.

"It was worth it." Linzer looked at them, her words coming out more akin to a whisper. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"No- no- no I didn't want to get rid of you-" They breathed in heavily, almost forgetting to at some points. "I was trying to fix everything, I thought I could."

Linzer smiled at them again, Ruler starting to choke on their words as more tears streamed down one side of their face. She just wanted to hold them close so badly, to just comfort them in any way she could, but she still couldn't even move. She looked down at her arm, widening her eyes as she saw it slowly crumbling before her eyes. Ruler looked at it as well, panicking as they grabbed it in hopes to stop it.

"No, please no, you can't- we just-" After seeing her arm crumble more they wrapped their arms around her. "I'm so sorry, this is all my fault, please just stay." They whispered the last part, laying their head on her shoulder.

"This isn't your fault." Linzer sighed, trying to figure out what to say with what time she had left. She knew this was going to happen, but she was glad they were here more than anything. "Remember when Morse attacked you the first time I introduced you to her?"

Ruler snickered at the memory, that cat had it out for them, but they got along eventually.

"Or how about that one time we threw a karaoke party for all the TBD employees, and you almost died laughing at Croissant singing Fireworks?"

They snickered again, backing up slightly as they looked at Linzer, wiping their face with their hand. "This isn't a time for jokes, love."

"I know, but it's cheering you up." She smiled at them again. "I like seeing you happy." Linzer looked down again at her arm, seeing how the crumbling was spreading as she sighed.

"You've always been far too nice to me." Ruler smiled back at her, trying to not look at her arm

"I wonder why?" She chuckled weakly. "Maybe I should have just let Morse eat you."

Ruler laughed, grabbing Linzer again and pulling her into another hug. "I love you, I love you so much."

"I love you too." She laid her head on theirs. Looking at her side again, seeing her arm completely gone as the crumbling started to spread and speed up. "I'm so glad I was able to see you one last time, I don't regret a single thing, I wouldn't want to spend this time with anybody else. "

Ruler looked down at her side again, feeling panicked once again as they held her tighter. Their head was spinning, the pain of seeing their own wife crumble before their eyes bringing them to heavy tears.

"It'll be okay, we're okay." Linzer felt herself start crying again as well, the crumbling getting closer and closer. "You're the love of my life, I love you so much, Timekeeper."

And in a second, she was gone, reduced to metal crumbles on the ground.

Rulers hands shook, everything settled in as they began to sob. They looked around as if they could still find her, looking down at the ground to find her wedding ring. Ruler picked it up, holding it close as the grief overwhelmed them.

They stayed there for a very long time, even they couldn't tell how long they stayed there. Eventually, Ruler stood up, their eye puffy as they put on Linzer's wedding ring right above their own, their eye starting to tear up again.

They could only hope they would meet again, somehow, someway. They'll find her again like she found them

[soupandsorcery]

out here being feral thinking about io and her hair.

she wakes up on the nautiloid with a long, heavy braid of hair. it falls down past her ass, and there's more piled on top of her head in a bun. it's neat, well maintained, tied off with a ribbon. soaked through with blood, like the rest of her, but clearly well loved. whoever she was before this, she was clearly vain about her hair.

she wears it proudly, washes it thoroughly in streams and ponds. combs it out every night and lets it dry by the fire while she learns about her companions and tries to piece together the scraps she knows about herself.

but then--the urges. the murder. the frantic, hot pulse under her skin that calls for blood, that curls her hands and bids her to rend flesh until it splits and spills. it's a heavy thing she carries, and a part of her knows she once took to this with the same single minded diligence that she applies to the care of her hair. each battle that has her rinsing blood and worse from her curtain of hair makes her stomach churn, and sometimes it feels like she'll never be clean enough. the scent of death and burning clings to the braid she does up every morning, and the ribbon becomes frayed.

when she sees orin for the first time, she knows. she doesn't know, but there's a sickening lurch of realization--recognition. the same braid, adorned with more than a simple ribbon. who had it first, io wonders? maybe she'll never know. but she's done clinging to it like it's the last bit of her identity she has left. because, honestly? she's coming to realize she doesn't want to know anymore. or at least, she doesn't want to be that person anymore.

so she parts with it. does her braid up one last time and then asks astarion to hack it off with his dagger. there's understanding in his eyes, about leaving a blood soaked past behind, and he produces scissors from his pack to neaten the blunted bob she's left with.

"you're lucky everything suits you," he says, lips twisted while he fights a smile.

io's head feels lighter than it has since she can remember. which is not very long, but it's a glorious feeling all the same. she feels the short strands brushing the back of her neck and catches the smile astarion's trying not to show.

if everything suits her, then surely she can find a new path.

[annieandropinkpawsfan]

Omega Ruby's Attacks: Fire Blast, Ember, Will-O-Wisp, Fire Spin, Sunny Day, Flamethrower, Blue Flare and Fire Punch

Alpha Sapphire's Attacks: Surf, Bubble Beam, Waterfall, Hydro Pump, Water Gun, Dive, Water Pulse, Crabhammer and Whirlpool

Tedgar Emerald's Attacks: Vine Whip, Razor Leaf, Absorb, Petal Dance, Magical Leaf, Stun Spore, Wood Hammer, Spore and Needle Arm

Mr.Skips's Attacks: Thunder Shock, Electroweb, Spark, Thunderbolt, Electro Ball, Thunder Punch, Nuzzle, Thunder Fang and Wild Charge

Charlotte's Attacks: Attract, Double Team, Strength, Cut, Protect, Sing, Tickle, Headbutt and Tackle

Princess Lullaby's Attacks: Moonblast, Flower Shield, Baby-Doll Eyes, Moonlight, Charm, Draining Kiss, Play Rough, Geomancy and Sweet Kiss

Princess Mistletoe's Attacks: Ice Beam, Mist, Icy Wind, Avalanche, Icicle Crash, Blizzard, Aurora Beam and Hail

Scaredy Circuit's Attacks: Bite, Thief, Crunch, Beat Up, Payback, Snatch, Taunt, Feint Attack and Punishment

Creative Crafty's Attacks: Rest, Teleport, Gravity, Lunar Dance, Heart Swap, Psywave, Zen Headbutt, Psybeam and Hypnosis

Prince Sleeper's Attacks: Dragon Claw, Dragon Rage, Twister, Dragon Breath, Dragon Tail, Spacial Rend, Roar of Time, Outrage and Dual Chop

Queen Sissy's Attacks: Nightmare, Shadow Sneak, Trick-or-Treat, Shadow Ball, Lick, Phantom Force, Confuse Ray, Hex and Curse

King Bobber's Attacks: Head Smash, Rock Slide, Stone Edge, Smack Down, Rollout, Rock Tomb, Power Gem, Sandstorm and Rock Blast

Vanilla Berry's Attacks: Infestation, X-Scissor, Pin Missile, Spider Web, Leech Life, Fury Cutter, Bug Bite, Steamroller and Twineedle

Dr.Meteor's Attacks: Rock Smash, Karate Chop, Sky Uppercut, Revenge, Brick Break, Circle Throw, Dynamic Punch, Triple Kick and Wake-Up Slap

Detective Cluey's Attacks: Iron Tail, Metal Claw, King's Shield, Bullet Punch, Mirror Shot, Gyro Ball, Iron Defense, Gear Grind and Steel Wing

Alphabetty's Attacks: Bonemerang, Dig, Mud Sport, Drill Run, Bulldoze, Sand Attack, Earthquake, Bone Club and Spikes

County Cruncher's Attacks: Poison Jab, Belch, Poison Tail, Venoshock, Poison Powder, Clear Smog, Poison Sting, Toxic and Acid

Captain Puka's Attacks: Fly, Peck, Sky Attack, Wing Attack, Hurricane, Roost, Brave Bird, Drill Peck and Tailwind

Honeycomb's Attacks: Munmunmoon, Magical Moon, Blue Stream, Mind Travel and Icicle Wind

Jolty's Attacks: Wild Act, Twilight Barrage, Wild Bazooka, Twilight Dance, Cork Impact and Bounce Grenade

🌈🌈🌈🌈

[last-hawk]

Scissor Blades 2nd part free 3d model

2nd part of Scissor Blades or Rending Scissors inspired by Kill la Kill anime.

Cults3d CGtrader Thingiverse

[ultimate-sword-showdown]

Round 2, Match 13: Nightblood vs. Red Scissor Blade

Nightblood

From: Cosmere/Warbreaker

Wielder: Vasher

Nightblood is a pure black sword that bleeds black smoke when drawn. If a wielder unsheathes it for too long, they will die. When it was forged, it was given the command to “destroy evil,” but it doesn’t actually understand what evil is (to quote one of my submittors, it “approaches this with all the enthusiasm and moral nuance of a golden retriever”). It is very chipper and thrives on approval, wanting to be praised for all the evil people it has killed. The sword can possess evil people, causing them to kill the evil people around them and then usually commit suicide. It can communicate telepathically with others. Finally, it is canonically “fascinated by gender, and trying to figure it out.”

Red Scissor Blade

From: Kill la Kill

Wielder: Ryuko Matoi

The Red Scissor Blade is the only clue left at the scene of main character Ryuko Matoi's father's murder, and her only lead in tracking his killer down (she's looking for whoever has the other half). It's half of an invention her father made called the Rending Scissors, which are able to cut life fibers, a kind of semi-sentient alien hivemind creature bent on eating humanity, whose infusion into clothing makes its wearers stronger. Slso it can shrink somehow (unexplained) because the animators didn't want Ryuko to keep lugging it around in a guitar case. It also gets used as a makeshift tennis racket at one point.