#this was the initial draft for Knife Edge!

[prickcest]

Rick looked around, somewhat apprehensive as he leaned against the shiny operating table located in the center of the room. Despite working closely with Prime for a couple months now, he had no idea this room existed or when it had even been built. Rick remembered having asked to see the blueprints of the lab within the first few weeks of hanging out with his cosmic twin, just out of sheer interest and curiosity when Prime had mentioned he’d designed a whole custom laboratory for himself. Rick couldn’t completely hide his envy since he’d been making do with the old garage that came with the house and battered equipment sourced through several local yard sales. It was undeniably perfect, Rick grudgingly thought to himself, poring over every inch of the blueprints with rapt fascination and a smidgen jealousy. The lab seemed to have everything and anything he could possibly need or want in the pursuit of knowledge. Whatever the lab lacked, Prime always turned up with it the next day. Rick never asked how; Prime never answered why.

But somehow, Rick couldn’t say he was completely surprised that Prime had either concealed or conveniently left this room off the layouts. There’d been many times Prime had “forgot” to mention a crucial detail that would have swayed Rick’s desire to accompany his twin on an outing. A trip to the store could mean just that— or, more often than not, spending an afternoon being chased by bullets, aliens or both. Rick was always short of a few pieces of the puzzle and always seemed to, quite crossly, find them hidden in his twin’s hands. Though, sometimes having plausible deniability wasn’t such a terrible thing. 

Rick wondered if now was one of those moments as he spotted a large drain in the corner of the room and a clearly bloodstained mop and bucket. He honestly didn’t want to know how much or how often it was being used. 

The room was spotless and minimal. Contrary to how he behaved during off hours, Prime tended to keep a surprisingly neat workspace. Sleek sterile surfaces gleamed under fluorescent operating lights and the L shaped countertop lining the walls was bare apart from a silver tray containing an array of surgical equipment and a large sink. A large mirror was fitted to one wall, spanning across from one side to the other, making the room appear to be much bigger than it actually was. 

Prime stood in front of this mirrored wall, busy pouring fluid from beakers into test tubes, swirling the contents with a careful eye. Rick watched as he pulled up a syringe full of bright orange liquid. He shivered, rubbing his arms lightly, as if already feeling the prick of the needle.

He trusted Prime enough to know that whatever was in there wouldn’t kill him exactly, but there was still some wariness around putting unknown substances into his body. He had no idea what might happen to him. Though, he supposed, that was precisely why they were doing this. To find out, right? It was just one little shot. How bad could it be?

“Nervous?” Prime smirked, catching his eye through the mirror as he locked and set the syringe to one side. “You’re not backing out of testing my new healing serum, are you?”

“No!” Rick lied, “It’s just cold in here.” A half truth— the room certainly did feel a lot colder compared to the lab upstairs where they had spent most of their time. He crossed his arms over his chest instead in an effort to look less fidgety. 

“Better get used to it. It’s about to get a lot colder.” Prime turned around grinning, leaning against the counter behind him. “Take off your clothes and lie down. Feet towards this side.” He patted the end of the operating table closest to him. 

“T-take off my clothes? Not just my shirt?” Rick balked a little, already starting to regret agreeing to this. “Aren’t we just— I thought you said— you said I only needed to take a shot!”

“I said we were testing the shot.” 

“I still don’t see why—“

“Standard operating procedure.” Prime said, waving an impatient hand, “chop chop, Sanchez, let’s go. I haven’t got all day to stand around and debate semantics with you.” 

Rick scowled but Prime refused to elaborate or explain, fixing him with a look that said get on with it. 

Grumbling, he began unbuttoning his shirt slowly. He could feel Prime’s piercing gaze as he focused on removing each button, revealing his torso bit by bit. Shrugging the shirt off, he carefully set it on the counter next to him and sighed before he began unbuckling his pants. He’d just gotten them over his feet when Prime spoke up again, amusement in his voice. 

“Boxers too.” 

“What!” Rick protested, flushing red, “W-why!” 

“Listen, Rick,” the corner of Prime’s lip twitched, “I know you’re insecure about me seeing your tiny dick given how much of a schlong I’m packing— trust me, it’s not as easy as you might think, walking around with a donger this—“

“I do not have a tiny dick—“ Rick’s ears went red as he retorted. “It’s literally the same size—“

“If you needed help taking your underwear off, you should’ve just said—“ the grin on Prime’s face was insufferable as he began to walk toward Rick. “Or did you want me to undress you? ‘Cause I can do that too.”

“I can do it myself!” Rick made a face as he took a hasty step back from his advancing twin. “Don’t look.”

“Why? It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” Prime rolled his eyes, tutting as Rick turned away from him. “Unless you’re the Rick with two dicks?” 

Rick ignored the laughter, still feeling hot. Being completely naked in front of anyone was still an incredibly vulnerable feeling and he could feel Prime’s gaze rake over his back as he tugged his boxers down reluctantly. The warm fabric slipped over his hips and then dropped down to his ankles, pooling on the floor. He wasn’t that small, Rick thought to himself as he looked down to step out of them. Taking a deep breath, he turned back around, hands automatically covering his crotch lightly as he turned to face his reflection. 

Rick flinched when he caught sight of himself in the mirror behind Prime. The cold fluorescence made his pale skin take on a sickly tinge of bloodless blue. Gaunt shadows cut into his body sharply making him look more like a mannequin or a living doll. A tiny seed of dread and foreboding planted into his stomach. 

“Up you get.” Prime patted the table cheerfully. 

There was no way to get onto the operating table without using his hands. Rick sighed inwardly as he pulled his hands away from himself, face reddening as his twin’s grin widened, obviously taking a full unashamed look at what was dangling between his legs. 

“Take a picture, pal,” Rick complained as he climbed onto the slightly higher than comfortable table, “it’ll still be better than anything you’ve got saved in your spank bank.”

“Great idea— I should make it my screensaver.” Prime winked as he pretended to reach for his phone in his pocket. 

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Rick flipped him off as he lay down. As soon as his back hit the cold steel, he jumped a little— a smattering of goosebumps rising as he fought off the chill that sapped away his warmth instantly upon contact but before he could fully rise, four metal bands seamlessly emerged to wrap around his wrists and ankles. “Hey! What the hell!”

Prime pulled on a pair of latex gloves with a snap before taking the syringe in hand. Carefully checking each restraint, he circled the operating table holding his squirming twin down. 

“Squirm all you want,” Prime’s free hand clamped around his forearm, “but don’t blame me if I have to stick this in twice because you made me miss a vein.”

“Restraints for a shot of healing serum are a little excessive, don’t you think?” Rick’s hand clenched into a fist as the needle approached the crook of his arm. “You scared I’m gonna hulk out or something?”

“Haha, nah,” Prime shook his head, “this is for your protection, not mine. I could put you down like an animal even without them.” 

“What do you mean my protection—“ Rick stifled a grunt as the needle punctured the soft, thin skin of his arm. The serum travelled through his veins like a warm burn of whiskey taken neat, leaving his skin feeling oddly tingly and sensitive. 

Rick’s body went slack for a moment as he gazed up at the blinding lights above him. The room still felt oppressively cold but Rick could barely feel it through the warm protective net wrapping around his organs and muscles.

“Feel okay?” Prime asked as he rubbed his hand over his arm lightly, “you don’t mind a bit of bruising, do you?” He turned around without waiting for an answer, pulling the silver tray closer to him. “Isn’t this exciting, Rick? How often do you get to experiment on live test subjects? Much less ones that will give you such personalised results.” Prime whistled a casual tune as he surveyed his collection of bright blades lined up like sharp teeth. 

Rick wouldn’t call what he was feeling excitement as he lay strapped to the table— every hair on his body raised at the suspiciously breezy tone that only came out of his twin when he was up to no good. 

Prime grinned as he selected a medium sized scalpel that glinted in his hand. 

“Isn’t she pretty?” He turned the silver blade, catching the glare of fluorescent light, “I sharpened her myself. You won’t feel a thing, I promise.”

“You—“ Rick swallowed, mouth feeling dry as dust, “y-you’re…. You’re cutting me open?” 

Suddenly, being naked in front of his twin seemed like a trivial concern as he eyed the scalpel warily. No anesthesia? Was he expected to— to—

“Duh,” Prime was amused as he twirled the knife between his fingers nonchalantly, “How else am I going to test the healing serum if there’s nothing to heal? But if you’re feeling brave, I suppose I could toss you in the trash compactor— see how long it takes to heal from that. That was actually my first choice, but you know what? I thought that carving you out would be a way more intimate affair—” 

The scalpel gleamed, catching light as Prime gestured with it casually, listing off other gristly ways to push the human body to its limits. 

A cold muted chill settled over Rick as he watched Prime talk at him, mouth opening and closing— barely registering what was being said to him over the loud thoughts of what was about to happen to him. 

Sliced open like a carcass or crushed to death by machine violence. Both sent bolts of icy fear shooting down his spine. 

The seeds of dread and foreboding turned into thick vines of horror, wrapping around his body tightly— rooting him to the surface where he lay trapped like a butterfly mounted on a cork board. 

“P-Prime—“ Rick’s eyes widened, a cold sweat soaking his naked body. “W-wait— hold on— l-let’s talk about this for a sec—“

Prime raised his arm high like he was about to plunge the blade in up to his wrist. The curve of the blade matched his twin’s gleaming grin. Rick could already feel the sharp tip piercing his skin— a hot gush of blood spraying from his chest like one of those cheesy slashers they watched on Friday nights sometimes. 

His vision started to flicker as he struggled against the steel bands, trying to shrink away from the knife. But it was only putting off the inevitable. As soon as cold metal touched his skin— Rick jolted, gasping out. His eyes were screwed shut— certain that the quick action had caused the blade to sink in further than it was supposed to. 

Prime started laughing as he tapped Rick’s cheek with the butt of the scalpel.

[daydreamgoddess14]

The Reading Rooms

Another week down... they just keep coming, don't they?! Sometimes I think it might slow down but then I realise that this is probably just my life now 😅

Previous weeks Masterlist

Always remember to heed the warnings posted by the individual authors. What I'm happy to read may not be what you're happy to read, so I take no responsibility if you find something you're not into.

And finally, Tumblr is a community. Reblog, gush like you've never gushed before - I promise you, the authors below will love it, and love you for it! We write because we love to, but we share our work because we love the community of it. If you read something you like, let the world know! 💕

The List

Such an exciting week! I hit 800 followers - considering I haven't planned anything for 500/600/700 yet I really need to get on with some kind of event 🤭 Lets see in a couple of weeks. I have an assignment due at the end of next week so if you see me here, no you didn't - ok? Writing wise, I posted the first chapter of Strategic Interests! It landed initially with a bit of a whimper more than a bang - but I have FOUR chapters in the bag and I hate sitting on them so I'm going to post chapter 2 tomorrow 🙌 For my Hollywood AU lovers out there, For Your Consideration is coming, I promise - she's just being an angsty diva is all 😅

Onto the reading!

Bucky Barnes

Tension is a Loaded Gun by @keithyp00 - YESSSS this was so good, absolutely delicious!

@mercurial-chuckles - Yield to Me - that bloody cat! So cute and angry but not at you Bucky is just perfection!

where the quiet lives by @cursedheartsclub is literally the most beautiful. An absolute must read this week - it's divine.

@sunday-bug knows the way to my heart. Light as a Feather was the cutest, fluffiest, perfectest little nugget of joy I needed!

I recommended Jenga a few weeks ago... there's a Part 2! Now go and thank @skaye44 nicely!

A Home with You @donaweasley so romantic, so sweet, so lovely! 💕

Wounded Pride by @orellazalonia was so fun!

I will never apologise for putting Declassified on this list every bloody week. @dreamwritesimagines posted chapter 9 and I remain utterly obsessed with the HURDLES she puts in their way! Meanwhile I'm itching for these dolls to kiss already!!

That Was Mine by @societyfolklore YUMMMMY Bucky is the only snack I need.

holy SHIT @buckyseternaldoll - knifes edge AND eighteen hours AND every inch, every corner were ALL so hot. SO HOT!!! Also, Elle has gone from about 70 to 700 followers in about two days. RIP her notifications but so, so deserved! Congratulations sweetheart! 😘

The Escort by @azriona was EXCELLENT and everyone slept on it! and I also read Even on a Thursday (Peggy x Steve) In fact, you all need to haul ass to Azriona's blog and catch up with the many deaths of Clint Barton AND her new Stucky x Reader fic Reflections which I need to catch up on!

John Walker

From the Bottom of my Heart; fuck you. by @rissararity - I mean, the title alone is incredible, right?! This was so great!

Harder by @geeky-politics-46

Bob Reynolds

Pouring My Love onto You by @feelingdozy was adorable 🥹

I am confessing my eternal shame here. I read a gorgeous Bob fic where he grows a little bit of a beard and reader has a glorious oh shit moment when she realises how hot he is.... and NOW I CAN'T FIND IT!!! When I find it - and I will, I promise I will reblog the shit out of it. In the meantime, if you know the one I mean - link it!!

Joaquin Torres

Misunderstanding by @lives-in-midgard was so super cute!! I love Joaquin so much 🥹🥹

Jake Seresin

Feels Like Home by @crossskylinesandcontrails - gorgeous!!!

And that's the week. I'm calling it there even though there are about 956,934 fic in my drafts to read. I need to stop writing for a hot minute so I can read instead... but the muse is here and I don't want to kick the bitch out so I'm afraid I must write!

[lonleydweller]

I hope you feel better!

You had BTAS Riddler + prompt 14 in your drafts before your break, could you please write that?

🥀Yandere BTAS Riddler + Prompt 14🥀

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

Warnings: yandere trope, stalking, breaking and entering, possibly ooc riddler as it's been a hot minute since I've seen the animated series, kinda ambiguous ending.

Yanderes are OK to enjoy in fiction. They should stay fiction. They are not examples of healthy relationships. These behaviors are NOT okay in real life. They are horrid. This is for entertainment purposes

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

Your clock's ticking fades into the background, drowned out by you turning up the volume on your radio, blaring a favorite song of yours. Background noise as you worked diligently on making your dinner, checking temperatures, checking on whatever was cooking, grabbing some utensils and ingredients you forgot to snag initially.

For once you didn't feel on edge. You didn't need look over your shoulder. You didn't need to sleep with a weapon near your bed. You didn't need the police on speed dial. If felt safe. He had been locked up for almost three months at this point. The longest break you've had from the deranged man.

Course the usual antics in gotham went on, appearing on the news in the morning to report on what criminal had striked this time. One's that you weren't roped up in. You were just an outsider observing for a change. No obsessed man spouting confusing riddles at you and proclaiming love.

Now he was locked away in Arkham far away from you. A court issued restraining order was slapped on top of that too. Pushing his distance even farther.

You could slow down, time to yourself, no need to worry for you safety, for whether you'd wake up in your bed or not. Now here you were, peacefully making yourself dinner. You couldn't even recall the last time you'd done so.

The music is loud enough to where it almost drowns everything out. Almost.

Everything except for the distinct sound of glass breaking.

You whip around on your heels, quickly grabbing the nearest knife to arm yourself, back against the counter as your eyes land of dreadfully familiar figure. Towering over the remaining shards of your windows, brushing his blaring green suit off.

"Apologies for the window. You changed the locks on everything so I couldn't get in the usual way."

You point the knife in his direction, making a clear gesture for him to stay away. He only gives unamused glance at it. This wasn't the first time you two had stood juxtaposed like this.

"Quite the harsh greeting dear. Not even a hello after all these months?"

He takes a single step forward. A shakey shout leaves your mouth with little hesitation.

"No! Get out! You know you aren't supposed to be here! You know damn well you aren't supposed to be near me! You know what those papers say!"

He leans on his cane. Head tilted to the side, a chortle leaving him

"Darling, a silly piece of paper can't keep me from you!"

Of course it wouldn't. A piece of paper wouldn't stop a parasite. A leech. You're not face to face with the epitome of a law abiding citizen are you? He's broken the law long before he decided to swoon over you. The crimes he's done for you before surpassed violating a restraining order. It was just a meaningless sheet to him.

Neither of you moved. Both just stood still. Silence hung in the air. Just as the knife in your hand did. You eye the phone on the wall. Would the city police help? They barely responded in time before. Always end up having to wait for the bat to save you. That wouldn't do anymore would it?

He's killed. He's kidnapped. He's tormented. The aslyum didn't deter him, nor jail, nor any semblance of law or punishment. He'd just keep doing it.

The kicthen light bounces off the blade.

Offering a permanent solution.

The only riddle now was wether or not you would succeed.

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

@adalwolfgang, @helpfandom

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

[bee-the-loser]

──────────────────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───────────────────

₊ ⊹☼ Pairing: The8/Xu Minghao x reader ₊ ⊹☼ Synopsis: Multiple chance encounters across lives, with a soul somehow fated to yours throughout ₊ ⊹☼ Genre: Reincarnation au, slight fantasy/historic au ₊ ⊹☼ Word count: 1.67k ₊ ⊹☼ Warnings: Mentions of death, loss and grief. Minor character death mentions ₊ ⊹☼ A/N: This has been sitting in my drafts for a while as I didn't feel that the story was done yet. However, it's at a good point right now to post. Maybe I'll return to add to it further at one point though.

──────────────────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───────────────────

Loss is an emptiness that eats away at the soul, a metaphorical knife carving it’s design on the surface but leaving behind wounds deep enough to bleed. And the strange thing about loss is you let it. In a sense it’s a sickly beautiful thing to experience as the blood pours out staining over the pure memories and taints them to be forever red. A crimson red that’s the same as the heart that somehow still beats inside your chest, because while it feels like everything should be still, time moves on. Time still encourages hearts to beat and wounds to bleed.

And bleed they do…

Your first loss shouldn’t be considered that actually. There are so many factors that completely contradict it as “the first loss you experienced”. For a start, you had lost people before. A woman who never had the chance to be a mother, your mother, passing away before she got even a second with her child. A young boy, who once you considered a brother, starved under the night sky with his eyes locked onto the moon. After all, Grief was no stranger to your soul. He visited often and settled in your bones like a heavy sick reminder of life.

No, none of these was your first loss. A kind of deep grief, yes, but they felt inevitable somehow.

Your first loss came in a form you never expected. A loss of opportunity and the questions of what could have been. Leaving the first scar of many dotted over your skin.

You didn’t know his name the first time, you barely got to know him at all actually. It was a fleeting moment that stopped the world if just for a second. Even if it was just for you.

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

The makeshift grave you created when Chan died was positioned out in a forest glade on the edge of town, giving him the privacy and peace he deserved. An ideal place for him to continue watching the night sky like he did when he was tangible, and now as a star, a place for him to look down on from above. It seems childish now thinking that was how the world worked, that he would stick around for you.

You know better now.

You had been spending the afternoon visiting him, after collecting flowers for your little stall, coming to rest up in the willow tree sheltering the glade from the outside view. The branches allowing you a raised position to look down below, which is how you spotted him initially. This dark haired beauty dressed in clothes that didn’t seem typical for that of normal adventurers. You assumed that’s what he must be, no one else tends to come out that far. Somehow, he had stumbled onto Chan’s clearing though, only the fates may know how, and came to a pause in front of the poorly carved headstone you placed on the first death anniversary. It didn’t matter that there was no body to bury, his memory would live on.

Something about that resonated in this figure’s mind. It wasn’t obvious at first but moments later when you got the first glimpse at his soul-bearing eyes and the way they scanned the words told you all you needed. He was memorising the words, breathing out his very essence into the world and immortalising this time. The phrase you had heard many times before bringing tears to your eyes as it was spoken out loud after a year again.

“The moon sure is lonely tonight”. He was just reading out loud that time, but maybe that’s why it left such an impact. There were no deeper connotations or commitments that suffocated the moment. It was raw and real.

If given the chance of every lifetime, you would chose to return to this moment eternally.

He left not long after that with a new print on his soul in the name of Lee Chan and the fleeting thoughts of a phrase once whispered. It wasn’t until afterwards that you saw the carefully placed bundle of forget-me-nots. Flowers that symbolise memorises and the concept of thinking of loved one ones while one is away. You don’t remember ever have crying as hard as you did that night as you allowed yourself to break down after having repressed everything for a long time. The hope that someone else would continue to think of the young boy and maybe one day return providing a sort of comfort you never realised you needed.

You continued with your routines and visits but never once saw the stranger again. Your first loss came unexpectedly and you couldn’t help but think of what could have happened if things were different. Had Chan been alive to greet him? Had you spoken out to him? Had you got to know him? But you didn’t and so the opportunity passed by and life continued until death came to claim you too.

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

What you didn’t expect was the life that came after and the memories that flickered back to you slowly. You could remember it all clearly at first but the more time progressed and lives were lived, the hazier things became. So you wrote to remember. Diary entries inked across pages depicting and detailing each moment and connection you continued to share.

It took you a total of three lives to realise you and your stranger were somehow connected. You seemed destined to spot him under the moonlight over and over again, each time bringing something new for you to note.

However, it was your fourth life that something truly changed, with an opportunity for the two of you to introduce yourselves. A night-time balcony overlooking the palace gardens providing a shared relief from the noise of the party inside. You had yet to see your stranger that lifetime and you certainly weren’t expecting to find him approaching you from behind on his own escape from the ballroom.

Your eyes had found comfort in the solitude of the starlit sky, with a faint recollection of a young voice discussing constellations in great enthusiasm. Your body curled up onto the stone edge with the coldness contrasting to the heat radiating from the party inside. There had been no mention of the balcony being off limits but it seemed abandoned in that moment similar to how you felt. Maybe that is why when you heard the small thuds of footsteps approaching you assumed it was a guard coming to bring you inside. However, as you turned around to face them, your breath stalled inside your throat.

There he was…

Face to face, the moments that followed allowed you both to subtly scan each other’s figures, sharing a second of joint solitude. His clothes reflecting his obviously high social status, yet you naturally found yourself focusing on his deep, knowledgeable eyes. The ones that both equally haunted and comforted your thoughts. Then he spoke and his light voice rung out in a whisper like he was afraid to break the silence.

“I’m sorry for interrupting you, but I needed some time away from the chaos and couldn’t help but notice you out here alone with only the moon for company. You both seemed rather lonely tonight. Would you mind me joining you?”

The paraphrasing of the familiar line rang in your ears as you couldn’t help but tear up and turn back to the full moon in an attempt for comfort.

“Not at all, feel free to join us.”

His figure stepping closer as he approached the balcony edge himself and admired the view before the two of you. It was a comfortable silence that followed, neither of you feeling the need to fill it with meaningless chatter at first. However, as you turned to gain another glance at him, wanting to capture every detail for your writing later on, your gaze fell onto the baby blue flowers that lay in his pocket.

“Forget-me-nots?”

As he turned to meet your eyes, he saw the way they lingered onto his flowers and then noticed the similar ones decorated into your own outfit.

“Hmm, there is something special about the resilience of these little blossoms which bloom in clusters throughout marshy harsh terrain. In a sense I admire the way they manage to preserve and grow with those tough conditions. It’s something I often see reflected in humanity, although, unlike the flowers, not often do people manage to make it full bloom I find.”

The philosophical answer was not one you had expected from him, but certainly wasn’t unwelcome. You had your own greater meanings to the flowers that you shared back with careful consideration, still unsure of if your stranger retained his memories like you. It was something you noted in a previous life where you tried to speak to a different Chan and was left alone once more, that not everyone had the privilege, or was it a curse, to remember like you do.

“For me, they symbolise remembering those who once were but no longer are. A promise to keep the memories of them alive for as long as you live. The stories you experienced and the thoughts you shared allowing a part of them to stay.”

Silence settled back down between the two of you, which is why you could hear the song that started to play out by the band. A slow dance of sorts. In some twist of destiny, he reached his hand out and asked for your hand before the two of you spent time twirling across the balcony. This moment shared only by you two and the sky.

As you came to a close and the clocks chimed to signal an hour passing, with you settled in your stranger’s arms, two names were breathed out into the universe before you parted ways and he disappeared back into the ball.

“Xu Minghao.”

A name meaning brightness and vastness, one that seemed to fit the person you came to spend time with perfectly.

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

[heart-full-of-lust]

A–Z of Perversion for the Undecided Slut:

Age Play: “Daddy’s Little Grad Student” — You "accidentally" call your 45-year-old professor Daddy during office hours… until he grades your rough draft bent over his desk.

Bondage: “Strapped to the Stairmaster” — Your gym crush “helps” you “stretch” after spin class… with nylon straps, a vibrating clit ring, and endless reps.

CNC: “Midnight Intruder” — A masked figure climbs through your dorm window, whispering “You’ll thank me later” as duct tape silences your screams… and your thighs.

Degradation: “Cum Dumpster Diaries” — Frat brothers bet on how many loads you’ll swallow at the pledge party… while you wear their jerseys as a gag.

Exhibitionism: “Live Cam Girl Fail” — Your first streaming accident goes viral when your roommate’s boyfriend “drops by” mid-broadcast… and unloads on your face.

Foot Fetish: “Soleful Submission” — Your pedicure turns dominant when the tech ties you to the massage chair, worshiping your toes before making you beg for release.

Gangbang: “Study Group Initiation” — The debate team “votes” on your oral skills… with your GPA riding on how many cocks you juggle under the library desk.

Humiliation: “Piss Princess” — Your Tinder date’s “surprise” is a golden shower… in front of his poker buddies… who all brought "gifts."

Incest Roleplay: “Stepsis Got Stuck” — You “trip” wearing nothing but his hoodie… and he “helps” while filming for your “family album.”

Jealousy Play: “Cuckquean Carnival” — You’re forced to watch your boyfriend rail your roommate… while he makes you lick her juices off his cock.

Knife Play: “Edge of Consent” — A blind Tinder date carves his initials into your inner thigh… as you drip onto the butcher block kitchen island.

Lactation: “Milking the Nanny” — Your billionaire boss demands you nurse his stress… with a breast pump, a spreadsheet, and no bra.

Masochism: “Pain Slut Poetry” — The campus poet laureate spanks sonnets into your ass… then reads them aloud while you squirm on his lap.

Nun Fantasies: “Confession Box Corruption” — You detail your sins to the priest… who absolves you with his cock down your throat.

Orgasm Denial: “Edging Intern” — Your CEO keeps you chained to the office printer… vibrating plug synced to his phone… for 8 long hours.

Pet Play: “Bitch in Heat” — Your frat’s Halloween party ends with you collared, crawling for treats… and taking a pack in the backyard.

Quickie Quest: “5-Minute Glory Hole” — Rush hour bathroom. Ten strangers. One timer. How many can you throat before the stall door busts open?

Rough Sex: “Bruised Bridesmaid” — The groom fucks you raw in the chapel closet… while his bride’s lace thong chokes your screams.

Somnophilia: “Sleepover Surprise” — Your best friend “sleepwalks” into your bed… and your wet dreams turn real.

Tentacles: “Hentai Study Break” — Your anime marathon gets interactive when the screen pulls you in… and your body becomes the protagonist.

Urinal Duty: “Restroom Attendant Training” — The dive bar hires you to clean poles… with your tongue… and refill beer mugs… with your pussy.

Voyeurism: “Neighbor’s Livestream” — You realize your apartment’s Alexa has been broadcasting your masturbation nights… and subscribers are voting on your toys.

Watersports: “Pool Party Toilet” — The lifeguard designates you the “relief station”… and the line wraps around the deep end.

Xenophilia: “Alien Abduction Exam” — Bright lights. Cold probes. Translucent tentacles testing your “human endurance”… in 4K resolution.

Yandere YOLO: “Stalker with Benefits” — Your obsessed ex hacks your Fitbit… to track your heartbeat as he fucks you unconscious.

Zipper Torture: “BDSM Gala Mishap” — Your ballgown’s corset laces are hooked to a zipper wall… and every donor tugs harder for their tax write-off.

Pick a letter, little slut. Let’s focus that filthy brain.

[tobiasdrake]

I was with Bruce right up until he said that Jen has a moral obligation to become a superhero. Like. Learn to control the Hulk. Don't let the Hulk rage carry you away. Good things to do. Valuable things.

But then he starts in with, "You WILL be a superhero because you HAVE powers and that OBLIGATES you to spend your days fighting crime and defending the Earth!"

This is what the argument that fractures Bruce and Jen's training retreat is about. Can Jen continue being a lawyer, or does she need to just buck up and deal with the fact that she's an Avenger now whether she wants to be or not?

This is something I really hate about superhero media. There's a fine line between superheroics being something you want to do out of a sense of responsibility or empathy, versus it being something you are required to do. Should superpowers be treated like a military draft?

I think Marvel has a rough time with this because of Spider-Man's Great Power/Great Responsibility shtick. The character walks a knife's edge in that regard, treating his superheroism not like something he wants to do but as a personal obligation that he is required to fulfill.

But that's just, like, his opinion, man. Or it would be if he wasn't the inspirational flagship character around which the Marvel Universe revolves. Internally... It feels like Marvel creatives genuinely don't know whether superheroism should be something you want to do or something you have to do.

Like. The comics give us things like the Fifty State Initiative; A sinister government operation, one of whose directors is literally a Nazi, that press-gangs powered children into military training and forces them onto superhero teams.

And they also give us things like the X-Men or Avengers Academy, where attending a school to learn how to control your superpowers goes hand-in-hand with joining someone's private super-paramilitary and this is presented in the most romanticized light possible. If you want to learn how to control your laser eyes, then you're going to do it by bursting in on bank robberies and shooting laser eyes at bad guys. That is the only reason you would ever have laser eyes.

Bruce just assumes that because Jen is a Hulk, that means she's going to be a superhero. He lays it out there as fact.

Jen, meanwhile, treats being a Hulk like an inconvenient intrusion in her life. She just wants to go back to being a lawyer. Why shouldn't that be an option for her?

And honestly? If Bruce were just saying that people are going to be targeting Jen because of her Hulkness and she needs to learn to defend herself, I'd be onboard with it. But the moment he starts in with, "No, you WILL be a superhero, you are GOING TO do superheroism," he loses me completely.

Jen shouldn't have to be a superhero if she doesn't want to be. That's not what "great responsibility" means.

[mikiquette]

PREFERENCES — SEXY EDITION. nsfw below the cut, feel free to steal & repost for your own muse(s).

☁️; stolen from the dash !! it might be monday and the dash might be quiet but that won't stop me from posting this from my drafts today <3

bold = yes | bold + italics = favorite | italics = maybe or partner dependent | nothing = no strong opinion | striked = never

&&. INCLINATIONS / HABITS.

submissive / dominant / prefers to top / prefers to bottom / likes to switch / heterosexual / gay / lesbian / bisexual / pansexual / asexual / demisexual / enjoys sex with men / enjoys sex with women / enjoys sex with genderfluid, agender, demigender, non binary individuals / enjoys sex with all genders regardless of identity / enjoys sex with multiple people at a time (polyam only) / enjoys intimacy with women / enjoys intimacy with men / enjoys intimacy with genderfluid, agender, demigender, or non binary individuals / enjoys intimacy with all genders regardless of gender / initiates / waits for partner to initiate / spits / swallows / morning sex / night sex / sex any time / no sex drive / low sex drive / average sex drive / high sex drive / hypersexual / fluctuating sex drive

&&. BODY & APPEARANCE.

slender build / medium build / athletic build / muscular build / curvy build / voluptuous / chubby build / wears boxers / wears boxer briefs / wears lingerie / goes commando / shaves / trims / waxes / goes natural / naturally smooth / cup size a-c / cup size d-f / 1-5” in length / 6-9” in length / 10” or over in length / strap

&&. SOUNDS.

silent / quiet / loud / grows in volume over time / bites hand / bites partner / bites pillow to muffle self / calls out partner's name / curses / fakes / exaggerates / prefers a quiet partner / prefers a loud partner / prefers a partner who grows in volume over time / turned on by dirty talk / turned off by dirty talk

&&. TURN-ONS / KINKS.

having their hands pinned / pinning partner’s hands / having own hair pulled / pulling partner’s hair / being watched by their partner / being watched by a third party / watching their partner / receiving oral / giving oral / giving praise / receiving praise / biting or marking / being bitten or marked / spanking / being spanked / teasing / being teased / having toys used on them / using toys on their partner / giving anal / receiving anal / choking / being choked / giving vaginal / receiving vaginal / being tied up / tying partner up / being worshipped / worshipping partner / humiliating / being humiliated / degrading / being degraded / knife play / blood play / being pegged / pegging partner / partner wearing lingerie / wearing lingerie / whipping / being whipped / roleplay / titfucking / cockwarming / edging / being edged

&&. PLACES.

bedroom / shower / bath / pool / ocean / kitchen / home bathroom / public restroom / car / tent / alleyway / field / forest / university / empty or abandoned building / library / rooftop / terrace / dressing room / elevator / parking lot / museum / cemetery / beach / closet / hospital

[painting-portrait]

Direct painting of human body in oil painting

This painting method is conceptually different from the one-shot method and the traditional direct painting method: before starting the painting, the draft of the entire human body, as well as a lot of work in the intermediate stage and processing stage, must be completed in the mind. Think of the object as a finished painting, as a plan made up of many connected edges and blocks of color. Therefore, it is no longer necessary to gradually develop in a certain sequence of steps, such as starting from the main area, then completing the secondary area and so on. The surface technique used is also arbitrary, and can be painted in all different directions, from realism to almost abstract.

This method has two points that are the same as the completion method: first, the initial strokes remain unchanged; The second is that neither requires a lot of preparation (although a little bit of preparation in this approach is important). If you use this method to draw once, it can also be said that it is a completion method. However, in this way, you can finish the painting at one time, or you can stop at any stage, rely on the image in your mind as a reference, and then continue to draw a day or even a week later. However, a painting completed in several times is generally not as natural as a completion, but it is suitable for painting larger pictures.

Custom oil portrait, Original Personalized portrait painting, History portrait, Hand Painted Oil Painting portrait From Photos

https://www.oilpaintingproducer.com

This demonstration begins with a clear monochrome outline to determine the size of the human body on the screen. The sitting human body has a head height, that is, the head height from the base of the backbone is about an inch, the head is painted two-thirds of the object, that is, about six inches high, and the height of the entire sitting figure is inches. In this way, the foreground and background around the human body can be arranged generously on the picture.

First step: The details of this outline clearly show the very transparent brushwork used to draw the head. Use a small cone to make simple and careful head lines directly on the canvas. On the back and right shoulder, carefully draw the hair with a larger pen. These are the only preparatory tasks done in a few minutes and serve as a starting point for later comparison. The next step is to complete the head. The size, shape, color and structure of each stroke and stroke will depend on how the head is painted.

The second step: Comparing this step with the processing of the second step, the elements of direct painting can be seen. Apart from a slight change in the hair and the exposure of the covered eyes, each stroke in this step is almost unchanged in the finished picture after comparison. The lines drawn along the bottom of the forearm, the legs and the feet in this step become dark in the later stage of comparison, only changed in terms of the edges. The painting was not done in clear stages. Most of the painting is not repainted, and all that remains is to blur some of the edges and highlight some of the light and dark parts.

Body: Oil on canvas, shoulders, face, arms and the knife, brush and edge along the left side of the body are the same as the second step. Using a long cone and clear paint, draw the hair onto the upper back and onto the same transparent background color. Use wrinkle method to paint the whole background with transparent paint, use wrinkle method in the foreground and then use a knife. Draw the rest of the body with a medium cone using traditional strokes. According to the characteristics of this painting, the painting can also start from the right foot, develop upward, and achieve the same result after comparison.

Custom oil portrait, Original Personalized portrait painting, History portrait, Hand Painted Oil Painting portrait From Photos

https://www.oilpaintingproducer.com

[dailycarryco]

The Magblade: Design and Aesthetics

The Magblade by Daily Carry Co is not just a tool; it's a statement of style, efficiency, and innovation. This section introduces the design philosophy behind the Magblade, setting the stage for a detailed exploration of its aesthetics and design.

The Genesis of the Design

Explore the initial concept and inspiration behind the Magblade. Discuss how Daily Carry Co identified the need for a modernized gravity knife and the creative process that led to the birth of the Magblade. This includes brainstorming sessions, design drafts, and the selection of key features that would define the knife's aesthetics.

Design Philosophy

Delve into the design philosophy of DailyCarry Co, highlighting their commitment to blending form with function. Discuss how this philosophy influenced the aesthetics of the Magblade, emphasizing the balance between a visually appealing design and practical functionality.

Innovative Aesthetics

Focus on the innovative aesthetic elements of the Magblade. Discuss the modern, sleek design and how it differentiates the Magblade from traditional gravity knives. Include details about the color scheme, material textures, and overall visual impact.

Ergonomic Design

Detail the ergonomic considerations in the Magblade's design. Explain how the shape, size, and contouring of the handle are crafted for comfort and efficiency, and how this ergonomic design enhances the knife's aesthetics.

Material Selection and Texture

Discuss the materials selected for the Magblade, including the type of steel used for the blade and the materials used for the handle. Explain the rationale behind these choices, focusing on how they contribute to the knife's look and feel. Include a discussion of the textures and how they add to the tactile experience.

Intricacies of the Blade Design

Elaborate on the design intricacies of the blade itself. Cover aspects like the blade's shape, edge design, finish, and how these elements contribute to the Magblade's overall aesthetic appeal.

Handle Design and Aesthetics

Examine the handle design in detail. Discuss the shape, inlays, coloration, and any unique features that contribute to its aesthetic appeal. Explain how the handle's design is not only about looks but also about enhancing the user's grip and experience.

Brand Identity in Design

Discuss how the design of the Magblade reflects the brand identity of Daily Carry Co. Focus on elements that make the Magblade instantly recognizable as a product of Daily Carry Co, including logos, brand colors, and distinctive design features.

Evolutionary Design Impact

Briefly touch on how the design of the Magblade represents an evolutionary step in the world of gravity knives,setting new standards in both aesthetics and functionality.

Conclusion

Conclude by summarizing the importance of design and aesthetics in the Magblade. Reiterate how every element of the knife's design contributes to its overall appeal, making it a standout product in the market. visit us for information :-  https://dailycarryco.blogspot.com/2023/12/the-magblade-modern-twist-on-classic.htmlhttps://qr.ae/pKa0Vphttps://www.tumblr.com/dailycarryco/737382770646581248/the-magblade-a-modern-twist-on-the-classic?source=sharehttps://dailycarryco.medium.com/the-magblade-a-modern-twist-on-the-classic-gravity-knife-3dd851273289https://pin.it/5i3h6aWhttps://sites.google.com/view/classic-gravity-knife/homehttps://dailycarryco.blogspot.com/2023/12/a-modern-twist-on-classic-gravity-knife.htmlhttps://qr.ae/pKaf7hhttps://www.tumblr.com/dailycarryco/737383551421628416/a-modern-twist-on-the-classic-gravity-knife?source=sharehttps://dailycarryco.medium.com/a-modern-twist-on-the-classic-gravity-knife-03e834a68d0ehttps://in.pinterest.com/pin/1146095805158122764https://sites.google.com/view/classicgravityknife/home

[dissonantdreamer]

You know how in Ellie’s journal she wonders if Joel was comforted by her being there.

What do you think? It’s entirely possible that he’s in so much pain that he can only register it’s Ellie and not much more. Yet there’s a side of me that wants to believe that seeing Ellie one last time was sort of his dying wish. Just being able to see her might have brought him closure.

Gosh I’m sad now

Okay okay so this scene has so much more depth and I’ll split this response into two sections I’m going to give my initial thoughts and then I’m gonna refer to the behind the scenes from a few interviews on the scenes because the process and the insight to the internal dialogue we don’t see that makes it all a real fuckin’ stab in the gut, twist the knife of emotion.

Gonna make myself real fuckin’ sad under the cut:

That scene, for me. That was all about Ellie, her trauma, her pain. What breaks her and pushes her over the edge into the darkness. Joel’s brain is mush. He’s firing on one cylinder. The body is pumping blood, the lungs are taking air in and out. The light is all gone. He hears her say his name, seemingly responds, moving his hand and breathing in. If he processes anything with Ellie, it doesn’t last, he stills. I personally don’t think he had the capacity to understand exactly what was in front of him. Not with the way his head was bashed in. At least in a way that would be gratifying and wholesome. In a way where he sees her and is at peace. I don’t think there was much of Joel left in that body. Because that is realistic. That from personal experience, when someone is on their way out, they don’t always know who or what is in front of them, they, they see whatever their brain is producing to ease this pain, to ease the mind as it shuts down. And you want, more than fucking anything to believe that you just being there helped in some way. That they’ll fade with you on their mind. It’s not like the movies. The only person that could be comforted by that thought is you and it’s a lie you can keep telling yourself if you want. No one will question that.

Joel did however, in my opinion, have a moment of clarity long before that moment, surrounded by this group of people he thought he was helping, when he realizes that his past has come back to kill him. A moment where he reflects and concludes that it was worth it, he got five years with Ellie. Four of them in a place of safety where he got himself back, got the man, the father, Sarah saw, back in some capacity. I believe he didn’t think he was ever going to see Ellie again, and found some final comfort in the love he had for her before the club even hit his head.

Now for some actual insight Troy (and Neil) shared taken from two podcasts worth givin’ a look see if you haven’t already.

TLOU2 Spoilercast

and Let’s Get Into It

Troy Baker has a podcast and he interviewed Neil on it and they talked about the scene and one thing that Troy fought Neil on changed literally everything in the scene. Joel’s gone he’s barely there, his neurons are barely firing and in an earlier draft they wanted him to hear Ellie and say, “Sarah” because she is part of his story (she’s kept alive in other ways in his home). They filmed two versions, one where Joel does say “Sarah” and the version we see. Neil agreed that it was more powerful without him referring to Sarah. That led them to shave off some other dialogue in Ellie’s house where Sarah would be mentioned, that Joel wouldn’t follow after the WLF, because he could have easily hunted down the officer that ordered his daughters death, but he didn’t he stayed with Tommy and did what he could to keep them both safe. Because that’s the real Joel, the Joel that would protect what family he has left.

Troy shares something about Joel’s mental  process during the scene in another interview, where he has been hurt he knows he’s going to die. The line of internal dialogue that Troy believes he didn’t articulate, didn’t convey wordlessly through his acting,  has stuck with me for months, “this is what happens when you drop your guard. I allowed myself to trust. I allowed myself to love. I allowed myself to feel. I allowed myself to be safe. And this is what you get.” Joel sees it as a moment of regret. Troy goes on to say that despite that regret, just like on the porch, Joel would fucking do it all over again. For Ellie. Because he got to have that life with her however brief. It was worth it.

I can’t say for sure she brought him closure when she broke down that door. Not when he was so close to death. I believe that every moment up until his lights dimmed, Joel took comfort in knowing Ellie. That while he may have Sarah to look forward to, in this moment, in this brief blip of his life, his kiddo brought him back to himself. Gave him a better final run than he could have ever asked for.

I think in a way, that is more comforting, to face down your own death with someone you love on your mind. To let go of fear knowing that he loved and was loved by Ellie in her own way. That she wanted to try and fix what was broken, that she came to him, that he could still be forgiven another time. It’s just that time ran out and he was content with that, because in his life, through all his struggles, he kept surviving. He kept fighting. Kept looking for his next reason to fight.

In the end, he found that reason to keep fighting, and for him?

After everything he had done?

It had been for something. 

[meikuree]

the centre cannot hold

Fandom: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Hitch Dreyse & Annie Leonhart Characters: Annie Leonhart, Hitch Dreyse, Armin Arlert (mentioned) Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Mild Psychological Horror

ao3 link

The days blend into a seamless fugue, dreamlike and out of reach.

(Or: a look at Annie's time in the crystal.)

The days blend into a seamless fugue, dreamlike and out of reach.

She can't place what time it is, inside. Time is meaningless. The interrogators who enter complain about the cold drafts puffing through the bricks; she can't feel any of it. Only the blunt sensation of the crystal’s cover, cool as iron is cool, running over her arms and torso and head, her entire body.

Hitch visits, many times. She comes to know her by the telltale skip of her boots on the floor. The way she always leaves the door ajar, as though she hadn’t intended to stay long. Her own eyes are closed now, all the time. It means her other senses become sharper. She hears mutters even through the thick slab of wood that passes for a door, and learns the smell of autumn filtering through the bars of her cell’s sole window, carried into the space in dead leaves stuck to the soles of soldiers' boots.

Those signs are what she begins to rely on to mark the passage of time. In the initial months, it’s an inexact science. Mere guesswork, in which she misestimates, on a few occasions, the correspondence between the oil-stench of polished boots and badges and the exact military festival being celebrated outside.

She listens to the chatter of the scouts who return daily to work out the mysteries surrounding her. How she breathes, what is keeping her alive. She knows the answers herself, of course. In this state she is tapped into the Paths realm; feeding on the otherworldly largesse of Ymir Fritz somehow, her lungs sustained by oxygen piped into her chest by means metaphysical and invisible. How long do you think she’ll last in there, they ask, and she wants to bark a laugh, say: I can stay here for the rest of my life. She starts a betting pool with herself about when they will meander towards or away from the answers, and also memorises some of their names—Anya, Nicolas, Louis—as a matter of personal amusement. Hange is the one who gets closest to piecing together anything about the truth, including the concept of an afterlife and/or higher realm.

Eventually they give up on her. With the Shiganshina basement breached, Hange’s purview as commander shifts to other horizons. The room hollows out as they clear the furniture, the echo that bounces off its walls widening into a sound vast enough to fill graveyards. A looming silence. Still as death. Only Hitch continues to come by, and Annie begins to yearn mentally for the stimulation of her conversations, like a plant straining towards the sun. Towards necessary sustenance.

She reminisces about her history lessons back in the Survey Corps, sometimes. It had been fascinating to see what counted for fact and narrative in a different land. She now wonders if she's become an artefact of history herself. Dead for all intents and purposes, preserved only in textbooks. Pragmatism brings her back to earth, when she remembers that nobody has ever been memorialised for lying in a coma.

Her sensory awareness only extends so far, after all that. It is deep, but not very broad. In the first year she keeps track of worldly happenings by the generosity and latitude of Hitch’s reports. Her passionate spiels, often preceded by a long indrawn breath and groans of despair that could have rivalled Eren’s, span an impressive set of topics ranging from Eren’s whereabouts, the Survey Corps’ movements, and military gossip, to more quotidian ills that ail her: a nail chipped while filing paperwork, her anguish over a sold-out bakery on the way home. The twenty letter-long saga she has going on with a romantic rival-turned-interest-turned-rival-again. Annie becomes the unwitting beneficiary of her ability to transform all ordinary occurrences into effusive theatre.

There are a few signs. The stunning perseverance with which Hitch comes. The verve and enthusiasm Hitch puts on full display before her, as though she is performing—and hoping that somewhere, she might be watching. The fond wonder and melancholy with which she speaks of their short-lived time in the Military Police. Hitch, Annie suspects, comes because she is nursing the remnants of a badly timed crush on her.

In this place, it’s a happy accident. It relieves the slight irritation she feels when Hitch confesses a touch too much detail about the minutiae of her morning routines and new interests. She’s grateful, in some deep unacknowledged part of herself, for the contact with another person from her old life, even if it’s one-sided and not very conversational on her end.

Every now and then she gets glimpses of the activities her erstwhile associates—Eren, Armin, Mikasa—are getting up to, in updates from Hitch spaced months apart. It is amusing, at first, to hear Hitch discuss them with distant respect and reverence as if at a remove, when she has firsthand knowledge of their individual quirks and neuroses, and can fill in the blanks within her iron silence much better than Hitch can. She saw long ago how they were some of the greatest breathing idiots to walk the earth; she briefly wishes she could tell it to Hitch too, puncture the aura of myth that has surrounded them like a bubble.

Eventually enough time passes that she has to recontextualise what she knows of them against the secondhand knowledge Hitch relays to her each time, adjusting her mental picture of who they are, the distance between memory and fact asserting itself. It grows apparent in those moments that they are becoming foreign to her too, changing while she remains fixed here, with outdated fragments of people, an insect trapped in scintillating amber.

Armin drops in to see her about four times in the first year. When he speaks he reaches a hand out to touch her crystal, and probably gazes at her the whole time; she can tell by the soft thud of his fingers upon her looking-glass cage. He tells her about Paradis’s defenselessness, their discoveries over the ocean. Pleads with her for a sign, any sign, that she is listening, and then sits with his knees drawn up, the stone floor vibrating imperceptibly with his motion. After his second call he begins to express his sympathy for her. The belief that he now understands why she had to betray them.

She wonders, idly, if he’s kept his nervous habit of biting at his cuticles. He has a grim edge to his voice now, a flute and gravel ruthlessness she hadn't recalled belonging to him before. Unlike Hitch, he doesn't say much. With him, she gets treated to dense silences interspersed with outbursts of conviction, or emotion. As though he speaks only when he has no choice, no other outlet.

She supposes his approach is one of delicacy, in opposition to Hitch’s: there is no evidence she is conscious, although she is alive, so talking is more or less a fanciful gamble; there’s no guarantee his words will reach a living being. She can’t fault him, on a technicality. She only laments that his idealism has given way to unimaginative realism too. Officially, he is devising a plan to establish contact with underground allies in Marley; unofficially, she wants to ask him if reaching the sea had truly made him happy, or only brought a new wave of troubles.

But her opportunities to have anything to think all these against are privileged and few. The visits are sparse, on the whole, so that she learns to conserve her responses and, most importantly, ration her thoughts—like a precious, corked wine, fit to be let through into her conscious refrain only in drips, a resource not to be exhausted too quickly. She has to remain here until there is certain guarantee she can complete her mission. In layman terms: she has to last through years of boredom.

She repeats it to herself, like an idle song or a blinkered reminder: she can endure it. She has to endure it.

After that she slows down her pace of thinking by necessity. Draws every internal argument that would have taken minutes out over the span of weeks. This dissolution makes her feel not so much like a primordial titan, moving according to vast, immense timespans, but a piece of rubber stretched to its limits, shrivelled and ready to burst.

Dreaming is the most direct analogue for her existence in this crystal shell. But it’s an incomplete description. It’s not like being asleep. She hasn’t relinquished consciousness, simply adopted a fickle and yet compulsory relationship with it. Some days, her mind is sharp and lucid like clear water. Others, she wakes up sluggish and nauseated, with the slow pressure of an anvil headache at her temples, a feverish chill bathing her bones. Like she’s slept far, far too much. Like she hasn’t woken up at all, but passed into a worse, second slumber. The effect is that of being drugged, of being sunk into an unnatural fatigue.

In these moments her choices are confined to the binary of staying awake and suffering, or returning to sleep and worsening it. Her muscles ache and scream for movement or stimulation; but she cannot move, and so has no recourse to relief. Only the sickening ache, the awareness of the uncomfortable fog, her arms trapped by her sides, always, like dumb logs.

Consciousness becomes the centrepoint her life revolves around. Sometimes, its presence is like a bullet aimed at her that she can’t catch: fleeting, painful, inescapable.

Back in the trainee bunkers she’d moved slowly. Pulled off the act of a sullen, indolent girl, better inclined towards a long nap than proper sparring. It’d shocked people that she was in fact a first-class prodigy in hand-to-hand combat. More than once she’d heard herself described by her peers as a concealed knife: inconspicuous at first, lethal once unleashed and in motion.

Those days are behind her now. A trite touch of fate, perhaps, that her languorousness now looks like it had been a rehearsal for this longer, extended sojourn in stillness. She can no longer summon movement; she has no defense against any assumptions people might concoct about her. She can only hope that people will remember the shadow her outsized figure cast as the Female Titan, even in the absence of continued proof.

As it turns out, what is most difficult is not the boredom, or time, or the trappings of her mind. Solitude suits her. She is not afraid of her thoughts. The symptoms of wakefulness frustrate her, but her mind has long been a well-controlled thing, smooth and cunning. She’d perfected the skill of disciplining it through the gruelling, unending hours of training with her father in her youth. Learning great focus, concentrating on the exercises that determined if she got to sleep, or eat, or drink. Disregarding all other excess, like the russet burn of sunset or sundown behind her in the courtyards. Your mind could not be suggestible, in this situation. Not even as an eight-year old.

No; what truly grates is the loss of sensation. Her capacity to interact with the world. Heading inside has severed her from her repertoire of fighting stances, uppercuts, movements. No longer can she understand her environment by the rhythms of her body attuned to it: the sunspots in her vision, the wind whipping her shins, the recoil of her fists against an enemy. She once knew the world by the blows and kicks it directed back at her; they were signals, an entire language of their own. She's been reduced to a lonely speck, disconnected from her single means of communication, her vernacular for parsing the world around her. The lonely, obsessive cycle of thoughts she can stand—but this? The dark, empty corridor of her body where she once had access to momentum, eruption, injury and the lightning burst of revelation in knowing her enemies by their punches, the scrapes and bruises left on them? It’s unbearable.

She resigns herself, but never quite crosses the hurdle. Many times she registers the itch of her limbs desiring to move, a furious bristle skittering upon her skin or on the edge of her brain. There is no outlet for them. Even the smallest movements are off-limits to her. She can’t flex her fingers, or tense her toes. The boundaries of her prison are absolute. These impulses, blossoming and then dead-ended, coil up and accumulate inside her like poison. Like a stricken scream with no release.

After a period of time she tentatively defines as three years, she hears Hitch entering and turning the key in the lock in her usual smooth motion. The tiny clink a struck bell in the gloom of mental oblivion. She perks up. Prepares to listen for any news.

“I know it’s been a while,” Hitch starts, “but we’ve been busy preparing for the Queen’s inauguration— like, god, how many ceremonies do these nobles need?— and I was detained by gift duty, can you believe, which meant I had to shop for the second-tier nincompoops over at the chambers—“

Annie’s blood, a gentle throbbing before, suddenly runs cold. Inauguration? But surely— Historia’s coronation, according to the silver measure of her careful timeline, had passed a long time ago. They should have moved far beyond by now.

“Anyway,” she hears Hitch saying now, a little morosely, “hard to believe it’ll be one-and-a-half years soon with you here. That you’re still in there.“

Annie chokes, a gutted sound in her head. She must have lost touch with her sense of time in the previous few weeks. It’s the one possible explanation.

If it’s only been one and a half years, she can only imagine what the next two, or three, or five, or seven years until her death will be like.

She feels the rug being pulled out beneath her feet. There’s panic now, a stab in her throat, the realisation she has to move back to the drawing board. Reassess everything she knows. She’d kept track well enough in the later half of the first year—what had changed?

Hitch leaves. She doesn’t register it.

Her sanity has so far hinged upon the single, fantastic, incredulous constant of Hitch’s visits to her. It’s a fragile coincidence—Hitch might one day get tired of her, reality outpacing her idealisation of her, and stop coming, too. She is beginning to feel the hours and days like an acrid trap, her thoughts a rapid torrent that her body—inverted in frozen stasis—will never keep up with. Suddenly every second is too slow, too long.

She wants to yell. Wants to rattle the bars of her mind-cage. But the only thing that answers her is drifting somnolence, like a hand passing sluggishly over her head, and then disappearing. The same smiling silence of her unresponsive body, indifferent to her will.

What life will this be, she thinks, what life will I be left with, and tries to plan, to consider the contingencies—but just as suddenly, nothing comes to mind, except the hollow echo of her voice referring across her insensate headscape, the strain of her thoughts thinned into pieces from disuse.

[ollie-ollie-oxenfreee]

then came the morning (aka: the post - canon cuddle fic)

The work in progress is finally done! I’ve been chipping away at it for the past couple weeks now, and it’s gone through many drafts / iterations, but I think I’m finally happy with it. :)

Title from an album by the Lone Bellow. 

The first time the two of them “shared a bed” was about as awkward as one might imagine. The initiating circumstances were hardly any better.

 The heating apparatus in their quarters had given out a week or so back in a spectacular fit of dust - laden wheezing. The engineering crew called in to inspect it informed them that it couldn’t be fixed until they could pick up the right parts at the nearest trading post (which was naturally thousands of klicks away on the ragged edge of nowhere). With the ambient heat from the nearby engine room seeping through the wall, the conditions were deemed “unpleasant but survivable.” They were issued two extra threadbare blankets and told in tersely formal military - speak to deal with it. 

 And they’d dealt with it really well for a while! They grit their teeth and carried on like a couple of champs: Harrow, having been thoroughly warned against using her magic too frequently, layering on spare cloaks and sweaters until she almost disappeared under a mountain of black fabric; Gideon curling up close to the engine room wall and wincing when the cold sent spiteful twinges shooting through her still-very-busted knee. 

 But then one night their grand flagship of the revolution chugged through a particularly empty sprawl of space and began to slow down. The heat from the engine room guttered like a candle flame. Frost spiderwebbed across the thin plex of their window. Harrow’s breath showed in thin wisps of vapor as she huffed, glaring down at the pages of her book like she wanted to reprimand the cold for daring to interrupt her studies. 

 Gideon had half a mind to encourage her to try (that glare could stop a full - fledged Lyctor in their tracks, who knew what other horrifying powers it possessed?), but thought better of it when she saw the genuine exhaustion in the other girl’s eyes.

 “You doing alright over there, my vulturine vicar?” she asked. “I know it takes some time to absorb all that good bone knowledge, but you haven’t turned a page in like half an hour.”

 The thunderous look on Harrow’s face darkened further as she set her book aside with an exasperated thump. “This is ridiculous. I studied in the depths of Drearburh for years without any issue, and yet here I am struggling to focus like a novice. It isn’t even that cold.” She bit her lip as a shiver ran through her at the words. 

 “Evidence seems to suggest otherwise, o mistress of melancholy. Do you want me to go ask that guy in the supply room for another blanket? He still owes me for his son’s fencing lesson.”

 Supply room guy didn’t really owe her anything, but she knew that mentioning it would make Harrow feel better. If she could believe that the nice things Gideon did for her were actually for Totally Self - Serving, Debt - Settling reasons, she could accept them without feeling guilty.

 (Guilt had haunted Harrow more than ever upon returning to her own body, making it hard to breathe on good days and leaving her shaking with sobs on bad ones. 

It was one of those fun little things they had in common.)

 From the way Harrow’s shoulders stiffened, though, it seemed that Gideon Nav’s patented Guilt Workaround wasn’t going to be as effective as usual. She shook her head - a stiff little gesture that made her earrings rattle - then sighed. 

 “No. Thank you, though, it’s kind of you to offer.” 

 The thank you was sincere, and that was admittedly pretty nice, but all the sincerity in the world wouldn’t change the fact that Harrow was still  very obviously shivering. She looked miserable beneath her usual mask of face paint and stoicism. The dark red bead of blood-sweat trailing down her temple indicated that she'd probably tried using some kind of homeostasis theorem, but it wasn't working well enough. 

 There had to be a solution to this problem somewhere. Harrow's stubborn pride meant that she wouldn't accept help outright - she would sooner set her books on fire than admit what she thought of as a weakness - but if Gideon could play it just right, maybe she wouldn't have to. It would need to be done carefully - too sappy and she'd be uncomfortable, too straightforward and she'd balk.  Casual, Gideon decided. Nice and casual was the way to go. It would just be a matter of execution.

 "Soooo," she said at length, leaning back against the wall all cool and easy. (She folded her arms up behind her head as an afterthought, appreciating the way it made her still-atrophied-but-getting-there muscles stand out through the thin fabric of her shirt. Confidence boosts were going to be scarce and sorely needed in the conversation to come - she’d take them where she could get them.)

 Naturally, Harrow did not appreciate the change in tack or the cool-and-easy-ness. She did, however, manage to muster up a look so steeped in wary disapproval that it cut through her earlier frustration like a hot knife through bone marrow. “So.”

 “You sure about that blanket? Because really, it would only take me a second -”

 “I’m sure. Thank you.”

 “Then, um, did you want to borrow mine?”

 Harrow blinked. “You need yours.”

 “Yeah, I know! I meant that we could maybe - share. Pool our resources.” She patted the edge of her bunk gamely, then instantly regretted it when Harrow’s eyes narrowed even further. 

 “You want us to sleep together?”

 "No? I mean, technically, but no. In the literal way. Not the other way.” Well maybe the other way sometime if you wanted to but that’s a whole other weird conversation that we probably shouldn't touch with a ten foot pole or we might explode. 

 "How exactly would that work?" The caution was still heavy in Harrow's voice, but some of the disapproval had ebbed away. 

 "I mean. We'd probably need to use my bed, since my sheets aren't covered in gross bone gobbets, but you could bring your blankets over and layer 'em over mine and then we'd have twice the blankets! And, you know, body heat. Which has its perks." Even Gideon's cool-and- easy-ness faltered at that, but she bravely soldiered on. "The point is, we'd both be warm."

 "And it won't - make things weird?" 

 "Nope! Not weird. All perfectly chill, my shivering scion."

 Harrow paused for a moment, worrying her lip between her teeth. "I'll get ready for bed," she said at last, clipped and decisive. "And I'll think about it."

 "Take your time. I'll be here."

 Moments later, after the shivering scion had swept grandly out of the room, Gideon's Thinking Brain crashed unceremoniously into her Talking Brain. Things were not, in fact, going to be perfectly chill. There were going to be some logistical problems with this arrangement. Big logistical problems.

 Big logistical problems namely revolving around the mutually exclusive facts that the midnight monarch was not especially comfortable with touch, and Gideon Nav, space - bee slayer and resurrected badass, was a sleep cuddler.

 Or, well, she was in theory. She didn’t have much (any) “real world” experience to go on, but she’d woken up many, many times back on the Ninth with a bundle of blankets wrapped up in her arms or nestled close to her chest. The habit had never really embarrassed her back then - she actually kind of liked it. She felt warmer and less lonely when she had something to hold, even in the frigid emptiness of her cell. 

 But that was back then. Things were different in the here - and - now. Harrow was in the here - and - now, and Gideon would never forgive herself if she ruined things with Harrow right when their relationship was on the upswing. They were actually talking, slowly figuring out how to work together again. The furious, tearful intensity between them in the wake of their reunion had calmed and warmed into something almost like real friendship. 

 After all that had happened - everything that had gone wrong over the past year and a half - they’d found a fragile sort of peace. There was no way in Hell she was going to ruin that peace now.

 So while Harrow swished about getting ready for bed, Gideon leveled with herself and laid down some ground rules. Don’t make this weird, Nav. Make sure she’s comfortable, give her her space, and don’t think about cuddling with her. 

 ...even though it would probably be warmer, and she has shitty necro circulation and essentially no body mass so she needs all the warmth she can get, and she gets that kinda soft peaceful look on her face when - no, fuck, see? You’re doing it already. Even if she did like you like that, which she absolutely doesn’t because she’s got a good old-fashioned frostbite girl back home, that’s not what you’re here for. You’re her cav. Her sworn sword. You’re here to do your job and make sure she doesn’t get her thumbs bitten off again. That’s it.

 “You’re staring.”

 Harrow’s voice cut sharp as a bone shard through Gideon’s nervous thought - spiral. Having apparently completed her grim evening rituals, she’d settled lightly on the far edge of the to - be - shared bed, countless dark layers poofing out around her like the feathers of a posturing crow. Her face was flecked with dots of gray from scrubbing off her paint, and her short hair stuck up in messy licks of black fluff despite her increasingly irritated attempts to smooth it flat. 

 It shouldn’t have been endearing. It really, really shouldn’t have. 

 It was.

 Gideon was so screwed.

 “Shit,” she muttered, scrubbing a hand over her face to ground herself. She glanced over to meet Harrow’s eyes (and wow, was that a mistake, they were as mesmerizing a swirl of black and gold as ever), then forced a smile like she wasn’t screaming internally. “Sorry. Zoned out a little. You good to go?”

 The wryly exasperated glint in Harrow’s eyes made them glow even brighter in the dim light. “Yes, I’m ‘good to go,’ thank you. Are you, though? You look … troubled.” 

 Shit. Shit. Shit. Think nice, normal thoughts. Don’t let her know. She cannot know. 

 “I’m always good, my chthonic countess,” she lied, smooth as could be, throwing in a roguish wink for good measure. That was distractingly stupid enough, it was bound to work.  

 Harrow frowned. “Why are you blinking like that?”

 The roguish wink apparently had not worked. 

 “No reason! Just dust. In my eye. Lots of very rude dust landing right in my eye. Anyway. How are we doing this?”

 A flicker of genuine, anxious concern ghosted over Harrow’s face as her frown deepened. 

 “Gideon,” she began, in that slow, reluctant way of hers that heralded Incoming Indignity. “I know that you were the one to suggest this, but I want to impress upon you that if you aren’t - certain about it, there is another possible solution.”

 She cast around the room for a moment and reached for a massive, dusty tome at the top of a nearby stack, flipping determinedly through the pages. “I've had the idea for some time, but I only just managed to convince our commanding officer that I could use theorems 'responsibly' without their constant supervision, so I haven't been able to test it until now. Small - scale thanergetic fission reactions produce sparks of flame that, if handled extremely carefully, could give off enough heat - "

 “Wait.” Gideon held up a hand, her own anxious brain jolting back online at the word flame. “Wait, wait, wait. Harrow. Seriously? The concern is sweet, don’t get me wrong, but your other solution is death - fire?”

 “I said that it was a possibility,” she snapped back, that old brittle defensiveness calcifying over the vulnerability in her voice. Her posture straightened with a great rustling of robes: shoulders back, chin high, eyes gleaming with disdainful pride as the bones scattered about their room twitched to life. Looking for all the world like she had when they were ten - twelve - fourteen - sixteen, bitter and vicious and spoiling for a fight. 

 She seemed to realize it right when Gideon did. Her eyes widened, then closed. The bowstring tension in her shoulders slowly ebbed away as her half - formed constructs clattered to the floor. “Sorry,” she said at last, her voice a threadbare murmur. “I’m sorry. That was - uncalled for.”

 “It’s a reflex. I get it.” And she did - she’d done the same thing countless times, had a hand on her sword and a barbed insult on her tongue without even thinking about it. 

 Another one of those fucked up things they had in common. 

 An uneasy silence settled between them, broken only by the rumbling hum of the engines, the thud of footsteps in the hall. 

 “I meant it, you know,” Harrow said, after a long moment. “About other options. It was a half - baked and immature attempt, but I wanted to give you an out if you were uncomfortable.”

 “Yeah, I know, my sepulchral sage. I appreciate it. Half - baked immaturity and all.” She bumped her shoulder gently against Harrow’s, then flopped back on the bunk to stare up at the low ceiling. “Are we, like, committing to honesty hour tonight? How deep into feelings do you want to get?”

 “As deep as is comfortable.”

 “That’s what she said.”

 “It’s a reasonable thing for her to say.”

 Another hush fell over them, marginally more comfortable than the last, as Gideon worried her lip between her teeth and counted the cracks in the ceiling above her. There were nine of them in total. Go fucking figure.

 A bony finger poked her in the side after a few cycles of counting. “Were you going to elaborate, or was that all just a set - up for one of your charming jokes?”

 “I can’t believe it took you eighteen years to finally admit that they’re charming, but no, that’s not why I said it. I’ll lay bare my tender squishy heart for you, penumbral lady. Because you asked so nicely.” 

  Because I think you might already have it. 

 No avoiding it now. Might as well bite the bullet and dive in. 

 “I was on board with the cuddle thing from the beginning, but I felt like you wouldn’t be, and I panicked. You probably already knew that because you’re way more creepily observant than you have any right to be, but there it is. Out in the open.” 

 She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could just run away and hide from the other girl’s piercing gaze. “I just don’t want to fuck things up with you, Harrow. I feel like we’ve got a kind of good thing going now. You haven’t called me a useless halfwit in forever, and I haven’t called you a heinous bitch in forever, and I haven’t wanted to. That’s unheard of for us. I don’t want it to go away.”

 Her voice cracked, and the most damning words burst forth like flowers through concrete: “I don’t want to give you a reason to shut me out again.”

 The memories of those nine months flashed in fragmented mosaic through her mind - the slick stone walls of the well, the freezing churn of the water, the burn in her muscles as she desperately thrashed up toward the surface and reached for someone who didn’t even know she was there. The gut - wrenching loneliness that defined her entire fucking life coalescing in that pit of brackish darkness. The chant rattling on loop in her mind as the water pulled her under: Harrow, what happened, what did you do, why the fuck did you leave me here, I had a purpose, I threw myself on that goddamned rail for a reason, was that not enough for you? 

 Was I not enough for you?

 A cool, fine - boned hand laced with hers and squeezed, just once. The memories blurred. 

 “Gideon,” the voice that had haunted her all that time said. “You know - you have to know that isn’t why I did it.”

 “Why did you, then?”

 A tiny hitch of breath. A soft, almost incredulous laugh. Then:

 “Because I loved you.”

 The words hung heavy in the frozen air. 

 “You - what?”

 “I loved you.” She said it so simply. Like it was something she’d come to terms with long ago. “I loved you beyond reason, and for once in my life I wanted to do right by you and keep you safe as you did me. The motivation doesn’t justify a moment of it, I won’t pretend it does, and I can’t even begin to erase the hurt it caused you. But I need you to understand that it was never because of something you did wrong. You are good, darling. Good to the core. You always have been.”

 Bright spots bloomed before Gideon’s eyes as her reeling mind fought to catch up. Three thoughts sprang unbidden to the forefront:

 Mmf.

 And: Darling?

 And:

“Loved. You said ‘loved.’ Why the past tense?”

 She sat there, staring blankly up at the ceiling, half - expecting a don’t be presumptuous, Griddle or something even remotely normal, at least. What she got instead was another laugh, halting and shaky and suddenly deeply bitter. The hand in hers went rigid and drew away. 

 “I came to my senses. I remembered the countless awful things I’ve done. Saw myself for the leech that I am. I’ve taken and taken and taken from you, over and over again, torn away at your life like a scavenger, I can’t steal anything more  - “

 “Who said anything about stealing?”

 For the first time since the grand awkward commencement of honesty hour Gideon felt a genuine smile bloom across her face. “Come on, Nonagesimus, give me some credit. You honestly think I would have stuck around this long if I didn’t know what I was giving you? If I wasn’t getting something out of it too?”

 “What could you possibly be getting out of it?”

 “You. I like you. Like, a lot. More than I ever thought I would. And I know the brain weasels are going to start yammering about how that’s impossible, and you don't deserve it, and we've still got a mountain of baggage left to work through, but I’ve thought about it a lot and I really mean it. Having you with me has made this whole shitty thing infinitely less shitty."

 With a surge of sudden bravery and dizzy emotion, she reached out to take Harrow's hand again and, giving her ample time to pull away, pressed a feather - light kiss to the back. “If you want me here too, sunshine - as your cav or your friend or something else - then I'm not going anywhere."

 Harrow closed her eyes, took a deep shuddering breath, and - smiled. A real one, slow and hesitantly sweet, lighting up her careworn face. "I need to think about it - we both should think about it. But I do want you here, in whatever way you want to be."

 "Yeah? Cool."

 "Cool."

 Silence settled upon them for the third time that night, but this time it was different. It was soft and tentative, fragile and new, like budding grave - flowers reaching for the sun. First flowers, the both of them, clawing up out of the grit and finding a way to bloom.

 "Should we go to sleep now?" Harrow asked at last, her rasping voice low and quiet. "It's getting late."

 "We probably should. Cam and Pal are gonna kill us if we're not up by 6:00 tomorrow. Are you still up for this, though? Like, the whole 'two girls, chilling in a military bunk, zero feet apart 'cause they're freezing and also maybe like each other' thing?"

 "Yes. On one condition."

 "Anything."

 "This might be difficult for you."

 "Seriously, Harrow, just tell me. Name it and it's done."

 "No sex jokes."

 She heaved a sigh, mock - exasperated and so stupidly fond. "As you wish, my dearest darling death omen. As you wish."

 It took a while to get comfortable - with Harrow's knobby elbows jabbing Gideon in the stomach, Gideon's clunky knee brace getting tangled in the sheets, the blankets collectively giving up and puddling on the floor at least ten times - but eventually, like everything else, they made it work. They fumbled through the sleep - cuddling confession with an admirable lack of panic on both sides, culminating in a firm agreement that they would let each other know the moment they were at all uncomfortable and an "I trust you" from Harrow so pure in its sincerity that it would be ringing through Gideon's mind for at least a myriad.

 Harrow was the first to fall asleep, curled up tight in a cocoon of black fabric, the dark crown of her head just barely brushing the sunburst scar on Gideon's chest. Her shallow breaths fell into an even, steady rhythm, interspersed with whistling snores that Gideon was definitely going to tease her about when her heart was less of a melted puddle of goo. 

 The minutes slipped by warm and slow as drops of honey as her own eyes grew heavier, fluttering closed. She gave her necromancer - her Lyctor - her beautiful baneful bone empress one last sleepy smile, and drifted off.

 (When Camilla went to shake her sparring partner awake the next morning, she found the two of them still sound asleep, wrapped up in each other's arms and looking more peaceful than she'd ever seen them. She huffed a laugh, muttered "finally," and let them be.)

[prokopetz]

Hey, folks. Here’s the first draft of the fifth and probably final core Opposing Force playsheet for Gone to Hell. In some senses, this one exists as an alternative interpretation of THE HORDE; in others, it plays a very different role, and some games may even feature both! The thumbnail version is that it represents the apocalypse as a hostile reality that wants to subsume or overwrite or own; relevant media inspirations include Dark Aether (Metroid Prime), Castle Dracula (Castlevania), and the Hiss (Control). Shout-out to @beleester​ for initiating the discussion that led to it.

As always, comments and criticisms are more than welcome. Here we go:

***

OPPOSING FORCE PLAYSHEET: THE WORLD

The apocalypse is only the beginning. One world must die for another to be born: you are that world, and you will not be denied.

Your Nature (choose one or more): A broken dimension; a hellish fortress; a parasitic timeline; the dream of an elder god; the new law

Your Aesthetic (choose one or more): Locks and chains; impossible angles; gratuitous lens flares; knife-edged silence; quivering meat

Your Mood (choose one or more): Inchoate; oppressive; glorious; disorienting; hateful

Your Demands

The dross of the old world will be burnt away to forge the iron of the new. What do you require of those who dwell in you?

      Your Agendas

As you play, let these principles guide you:

Impose your demands

Make that which is not yourself into yourself

Self-sabotage through unreason

Whisper the promises of the new age

Be

Taking Reactions

Each time the Slayer takes an action, each Opposing Forces player may react. Some reactions maybe taken once in total per Slayer action, not once per Opposing Forces player; if this is the case, the Opposing Forces players should work out amongst themselves who gets to take it. After each reaction, the last Opposing Forces player to react asks the Slayer "what do you do?"

Also, you may always ask questions or offer suggestions to help another player out when they're stuck. This does not count as your reaction.

Heavy Reactions

When the Slayer takes a Light Action, you may:

Introduce a new greater threat -- an embodied avatar; a force of your nature; an unwilling vessel

Plunge the surroundings into your depths

Reveal the consequences of defying your laws

Grant visions of the world to come

If the Slayer has taken at least three Light Actions this scene, describe how things get catastrophically worse, and end the scene

The Opposing Forces may collectively take at most one Heavy Reaction per Slayer action.

Routine Reactions

In response to any Slayer action, you may:

Introduce new lesser threats -- your stolen glories; your willing acolytes; your native beasts

Obstruct the Slayer's path with intrusive manifestations of yourself

Describe how the apocalypse heralds your coming

Interject details into another player's narration according to your mood and aesthetic

Ask the Slayer a leading question. They can either answer in character, or expand on their most recent action to illustrate their answer. Either way, responding doesn't count as an action.  - "What are you?"  - "Why do you defy me?"  - "What are you willing to sacrifice?"  - Something else, based on whatever the Slayer just did

You may also take a Routine Reaction without waiting for the Slayer to act if the game's pace flags or the Slayer seems to be stalling for time.

Light Reactions

When the Slayer takes a Heavy Action, you may:

Display signs and symbols acknowledging the Slayer's power

Give the Slayer an unasked-for gift

Permit the Slayer to choose their fate

Abruptly recede, leaving no evidence of what just transpired

If the Slayer has taken at least three Heavy Actions this scene, describe how the Opposing Forces are pushed back or thrown into disarray, and end the scene

The Opposing Forces may collectively take at most one Light Reaction per Slayer action.

[myowndesertplaces]

How to make a paper angel/lantern

So a few people have asked me how I made my paper angel. As a disclaimer, I'm not a paper artist. This was my first attempt at something like this. Someone else with more experience might have a better way to do it.

Materials:

Exacto knife, scissors, ruler, cutting board, craft glue, pen/pencil, transfer paper*, and paper.

I used watercolor paper because it's more firm, but if you want to use computer paper just know it might be a little frail and the glue may show. However, you'll have less of an issue getting it to roll. Cardstock will be too heavy for this.

*I also recommend transfer paper to copy your pattern. It's not necessary, but makes life easier. If you have a steady hand, using computer paper, or you have a printer that can print on thick paper, you dont need it.

Make a front and back pattern:

The body of the lantern is made of two pieces: the Yasha front, and the "stained glass" back. I used standard 8.5 x 11 in paper.

If you've ever carved a pumpkin before, the same rules apply: anything you want to remain solid (white) needs to connect to something else solid. In other words, you can't put a circle in another circle unless you just want to cry for hours.

Unlit, anything cut out will look dark. Lit, the opposite will occur. I recommend keeping the front simple. The back, which is really the lantern part, can be more complex.

You'll need to create a base for both the front and back pattern. Mine was about 2 inches tall and 8.5 inches wide. (Sorry, I'm American). Feel free to make it as tall or short as you want, but this will be what keeps it upright.

After creating the base, create your angel and background. From the top of the base to the top of Yasha, it was about 5.5 Inches. I recommend making the back piece taller than the front so it shows (6 inches or higher).

You can make this as large or small as you want.

Initially, I hand drew a pattern on computer paper to see if it would work. Later I used photoshop to create perfectly symmetrical lines. You don't need this (I'm embarrassed by my awful pen tool use now that I'm posting this). A ruler will work just as well. If you want to use a computer program or illustrator to help, please do.

So how did I make the arms/face/sword?

Anything that you want to create "depth" you will cut out 3/4th of the way. So the oval face is still attached at the top, but cut along the bottom and sides. The sword hilt and blade were also cut, accept where it met the hands. You can then choose to push those pieces "in" to gather light when lit, or stay out and gather shadow while lit (vice versa when unlit). Have fun with it.

Keep in mind: if you trace your pattern and do not want your pen or pencil marks visible, your pattern will need to be reversed at the end. This is what I did. If you're printing your pattern directly on the paper you want to use, and you have amazing knife skills, you dont have to flip it. I recommend making a symmetrical pattern (especially the back piece!), or to flip it, but you do you.

I've made my pattern, now WTF?

Cut it out using scissors and an exacto knife. Leave the pieces that you want to create depth with only cut part of the way. If you're not sure how it will look, cut less and then do a test. I created a rough draft with basic paper and tape just to see if my idea would work before hand.

To be fair: you will screw up. Mistakes will happen. Keep going or start over. You’ll be okay kiddo, Trust me.

After cutting it out, if you used a heavy paper, I recommend wrapping it around something cylindrical one side at a time to prevent the paper creating hard edges. I learned this the hard way. A bottle, hair spray can, whatever, will work. Start at one end, then wrap it around. Use rubber bands or hair ties, etc., to hold it in place. Allow it to sit for 30 minutes or so to hold it's shape. The back piece will be reversed wrapped around the bottle.

*You can skip this step if you use a light weight paper.

Now it's time to glue. Roll the base of the front pattern into a circle. Overlap one edge, and glue together with craft glue. If you dont have quick dry glue, you can use paper clips or clothes pins to hold it together.

After the front piece dries, roll the back piece to fit inside the front. Glue the two pieces together.

(Image above shows a rough draft version I did with light weight paper and tape, not the final version). 

Side note: if you add cut out pieces to the base of the front pattern like I did (the flowers), you'll want to cut the back pattern base shorter before gluing.

Wait! What about the wings??

You have options here: you can include the base wings into your orginal front pattern or create them separately like I did. To create levels, make multiple patterns of your wings starting from the largest (the back) to the front. My wings used 4 levels. For ideas, Google image is a good tool for this. Again. Have fun.

Once you have created your Wings, glue each layer, largest to smallest/back to front, as you go. If you created the wing separately like I did, create the full wing first before gluing it to the front pattern. Otherwise, glue each layer at a time.

Congrats! You have made a cheap, easy paper thing.

How do you light it?

I used an cheap LED tea light for the stand alone lantern. The closer you move it to the wall, the more the back pattern will show. Oooooohhhh

For the tree, I bought some very cheap small battery powered mini-lights from Ashland at Micheal's.

Please dont use candles. I would hate myself if you burned down your home with a paper lantern you found on tumblr. (Seriously my sister and her family had a house fire literally 1 year ago, dont fucking do it).

I know some people asked for the pattern, but the angel pattern is super easy. The Kord/Storm Lord is more complex, but even that isnt too complicated. I just want you all to come up with something better and cooler than me. ENJOY.

[eliotglazer]

How to Print and Cut on Cricut Maker

The Cricut Maker is a new addition to the Cricut family. What makes it unique from other cutting machines is that it can both print and cut shapes and letters. You can design your own lettering or use some of the preinstalled fonts like Caliber, Changa One, Freestyle Script, Carlyle Caps, Merienda One, sansation condensed light, modern no 2 etc.

Cricut  Designing

However just because you have been able to design your own words doesn't necessarily mean you will be successful applying them onto an object such as cardstock. If you aren't meticulous about how you align your words then chances are they will not stick well or even overlap each other.

I'm going to share how I was able to align my own lettering and how I checked how well it would stick before printing the final design on cardstock paper. Other items you will need includes, Cricut Maker machine, computer with a USB port, usb cable micro sd memory card for your computer (the same kind of memory card that you use in cameras), cricut maker printer (preferably wireless) , blank piece of cardboard or mat board, scissors/paper cutter/ X-Acto Knife...a pen that is broad enough so that it can draw over the edges of letters like a sharpie marker.

If you aren't already familiar how the Cricut Maker works then there are two options when using this device, you can either use the keyboard to type in your words or you can upload a font from your computer. I will assume that you not only know how to connect your Cricut Maker device to your computer but how how to use programs such as Word and how to install fonts onto your computer's hard drive so that they become available for printing.

I also want to give a quick tip on how to make sure that when using any font, it is well aligned with how you originally entered them while typing into word or other editing software.  

Instructions to start the process 

Using your Cricut Maker, choose a font that is similar to how you are planning on having your lettering. For example if you are printing out 'Happy Birthday' then find a font that has letters in all capital letters with straight or diagonal lines like Caliber One shown below:

Once you have chosen the font for your project then load it onto your computer via USB. By loading it onto your computer using this method, you will be able to know how far apart each letter needs to be from another based off how wide each letter is. The width of each face of a letter is how much space it takes up when you have a character that has both upper and lower case letters. You will need to divide how wide each letter is by how many letters are included in your project so that way you can figure out how wide the largest amount of space should be between each piece of text.

To know how far apart each face's width needs to be, place your paper on top of an Instagram photo or another image that has faces displayed on it (no filters) then start measuring how far apart two different faces spaces themselves from each other using a ruler or appropriate sized pen. If any letters like 'm' are more inclined towards one side that just means that based off how they are slanted, there will need to be a little more space between how far the 'm' is slanted and how far the next letter to the right or left of it is.

Example: how wide each face of Caliber One was on my computer is approximately 14mm so how much space there should be between two faces spaced at 14mm apart from one another are about 4 mm (14 divided by 2). The letters m and i need an extra 5 mm within their width because they are slightly inclined.

Notice how how much room that is given for spacing based off how wide each face takes up. Because I don't have a ruler long enough to measure how tall my letters would take up vertically, I made sure that the initial letter span was large enough like how how the 'H' is larger than how tall most of the other face widths are. The entire text word doesn't need to be spaced as well evenly but how you space everything will determine how easy it will be for your printer to print out how you have it placed on a piece of cardboard or mat board.

Using whatever method you wanted to type out what you needed, I typed up how I would like my project to look in Microsoft Word:

Tip: Make sure that when typing your letters into Word for printing, turn off all invisible characters (such as tabs and paragraph breaks). This way there won't be any spaces or indentations between where one letter is and where the next one begins. 

Printing Process

Using Caliber One font as an example, I have how many characters are included on my print out which will be how many pieces of card stock or mat board to cut out how many letters there are. Once you have how much space each letter uses and how many letters you need for your project ready to go. It is time to get started cricut printing, for best quality printing you have to print by using best quality printer for cricut maker project.

Print out how you would want your words spaced out onto a piece of card stock or matte board using the settings that match how wide each face width of the text would span. If using how I printed out my "Happy Birthday" example then choose to only select the top two lines (labeled as 0.7mm) since this font doesn't use any lower case letters like 'a' or 'g'.If printing how I did in the example above, I would need to print out how wide how much each face spans out.

 If for example how wide each face width is a pencil lead sized space then how many pencil leads it takes up would be how many pages that will print on. As you can see from my text below, how many faces there are per page will vary. For example how wide the faces span takes up 3/4 of how much ink is used so for that reason alone if using matte paper (recommended) and setting your printer settings to draft mode , you only need two pieces of card stock /mat board to cut out all the letters needed for your project (but make sure how wide how ever how often it takes to get the two pieces of card stock/mat board to match how wide how much space each face width will take up. 

Cutting Process

I would recommend using whatever paper you have as long as how much ink for each color uses a consistent amount of space. After setting up your project how ever how however , it is now time to cut out all the letters! If like me, your printer doesn't cut or doesn't print as large and therefore cannot cut what you need then choose either an X-Acto knife (what I used) or a cricut cutting machine .

Tip: never use how large and heavy duty an X-Acto knife unless you plan on using it constantly. Keep in mind when choosing which type of knives/blade to use how how how how how how how how much space each letter uses so that way you don't wind up how ever much room there is on the blade. I would recommend an X-Acto knife for projects how ever small they are.

[painting-portrait]

Direct painting of human body in oil painting.

This method of painting is conceptually different from the one-time completion method and the traditional direct painting method: before starting to paint, it is necessary to complete the draft of the whole human body in mind, as well as a lot of work in the intermediate stage and processing stage. Think of the object as a finished painting, as a plan made up of many connected edges and blocks of color. Therefore, it is no longer necessary to gradually develop in a certain order of steps, such as starting from the main areas, and then completing the secondary areas, and so on. The surface techniques used are also arbitrary and can be painted in different directions, from realism to almost abstraction.

Custom oil portrait, Original Personalized portrait painting, History portrait, Hand Painted Oil Painting portrait From Photos

https://www.oilpaintingproducer.com There are two points in this method that are the same as the one-time completion method: one is that the initial strokes remain the same; the other is that they do not require a lot of preparatory work (although a small amount of preparatory work done in this method is important). If you use this method to finish painting at once, it can also be said to be an one-time completion method. However, in this way, you can finish painting at once, or you can stop at any stage, rely on the image in your mind as a reference, and continue to paint a day or even a week later. However, the painting completed in several times is generally not as natural as that completed at one time, but it is suitable for painting larger frames. This demonstration first uses a transparent monochrome outline to determine the size of the human body on the screen. The person sitting has a head height, that is, from the base of the spine to the head height is about inches, draw the head into two-thirds of the object, that is, about 6 inches high, the whole height of the sitting statue is inches. In this way, the foreground and background around the human body can be arranged on the picture frame. First step: the details of this outline clearly show the very transparent strokes used to draw the head. Use a small cone pen to make a simple and careful head line drawing directly on the canvas. Draw the hair carefully with a larger pen on the back and right shoulder. These are the only preparations completed in a few minutes, and their role is to serve as a starting point for future reference and comparison. The next step is to complete the head. The size, shape, color and structure of each knife and stroke when drawing the whole human body will depend on the way the head is drawn. Step 2: compare this step with the second step of processing, you can see the elements of direct painting. Except for some changes in the hair and revealing the covered eyes, there is almost no change in each of the strokes in this step in the finished painting after comparison. The lines drawn along the base of the forearm, legs, and feet in this step become dark at the later stage of the comparison, only with changes in the edges. The painting is not clearly carried out in stages. Most parts of the painting are not redrawn, and all that remains is to blur some of the edges and highlight some bright and dark parts after comparison. Human body: oil painting on canvas. The shoulders, face, arms and the knife, stroke and sideline along the left side of the human body are all the same as in the second step. Use a long cone pen to draw the hair on the upper back with transparent paint and draw it on the same transparent background color. It is used for the texturing method to draw the whole background with transparent paint, and in the foreground part for the texturing method and then processing with a knife. Use a medium cone pen to draw the rest of the body with traditional strokes. According to the characteristics of this method of painting, this painting can also start from the right foot, develop upward, and achieve the same result after comparison.

Custom oil portrait, Original Personalized portrait painting, History portrait, Hand Painted Oil Painting portrait From Photos