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in retrospect i have realised white is kind of daikis alternate main color if not cyan. to contrast tsukasas black. what if we were inexplicably bound by cmyk subtractive model

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bianca event spoilers? mostly just design notes but some nods towards event beats

wrapped candy apple... serpent of eden.... i like how bianca kind of plays that role... like even she's still an echo of the duplicitious nature of eastside bc she is a product of its culture she looks so shiny shes so peppy she wears all white except for at her "core"---- even she's capable of the malice she abhors... she knows this. and beyond the malice stuff she's like zealous on justice w/ a black/white world view and shes like Ok Yay<3 as long as whoever is "bad" in her eyes gets defeated even if their heads get chopped off (jp dub specifically says 首を切られて脳みそパーン！ rough tl -> their head gets cut, then brains go flying!)

im still kind of wondering about the specific use of the immaculate heart (even though theres only three swords not seven though it can be depicted w/ just one) so maybe immaculate heart + three of swords? either way its a representation of sorrows suffered by its bearer. maybe three times she was crossed with major injustices that pushed her "pure" heart into the zealous? overdrive of becoming grey mirror's admin and luring out the evil of eastside with that particular apple... also just hearts i Guess kind of looking like apples -> apples are symbols of temptation and sin -> once they took a bite, they "fell" from "heaven". like once you're complicit in voting in grey mirror (esp. if voting people inferior) there's no turning back. funny dual meaning

also silly side note bianca likes apple flavored things but not apples themselves. funny irony... i feel like you could say something about this except i dont have the words to parse through it. but im thinking artificial/truth parallel. lol

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Helter Skelter, 2012, Mika Ninagawa

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love characters who are like "this is how the world works. this is how it has to be (because if i'm wrong i have to face what i've done // if i'm wrong i have to face whats been done to me) "

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you seriously think i could’ve done something like that ? (SHALOM)

         “        ...   unless you’ve grown tired of surprising me. but that’s just your nature, isn’t it?        ”       ��she pulls back into a coy grin,  a gloved hand cradled under her chin in grace-flush amusement. a tilt of her head, a dangerous cleave toward innocence:         “        you’re quite the dogged, little trump card up the MBCC’s sleeve. if anything ...    i  suppose  i can say i expected it.        ”         though frankly,  even that lacks the nuance that shalom seeks.  chief is more like a root;  a shadow;  slinked in the undercurrent of the concrete and bursting in between the bullet-ridden cracks.   bright against deep night,  in the city where stars cannot shine ...   then,  a bloom that demands all attention,  headlighted— frozen ...   the sole star that blazes across the sky.   how could she look away?   would she?  would she even want to ...?          she thumbs at her hand,   bending back a corner of her worn ace,  the cracks revealing the whites of the paper insides.  soundlessness to the spectacle;   the soft hiss after its wake,  and the answer to this line of self - questioning.         “        ha ...  but then i’d be giving myself too much credit.  i concede defeat.        ”         shalom spreads her cards out with her palm,  revealing a rather poor array that amounts to nothing.  only lately,  she finds some thrill to stoking the flames of luck,  and returning with nothing but dead ash.  the reckoning eye behind her reflects on the steel,  and she does not forget her place. silence amidst the daybreak.         “        i’ll give you your reward,  chief. just like i promised.  but you might just have to wait a little ...   you should have a taste of your own medicine sometimes.        ”

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[ cont. / @vishe ]

         a tool,  or a weapon,  or the hammer,  and its nail are all names for ‘body’.           a husk in the shape of the key, perfectly slotted in the hand of those who forged her.  shalom knows the molds they cast intimately,  for the second,  the third,  the hundredth ... bone pressed between steel and the burning iron,  fashioned to object,  corpse,  other.  this skin hasn’t been her own for a long time, and neither has ninety - nine’s, as she observes their fist clench,  as gaze traces up the threads of molten - red veins up to their neck.  like body,  shalom thinks ...   ‘faith’ becomes the poison that coats the dagger in the pit of her stomach.  and like faith,  truth twists into justice as it pushes through.          despite the gnash and the snarl,  her eyes settle on theirs,  all their ire snuffed in the dull light of her own.  a light that obscures and smothers into dissolution,  thrown down on the whetstone to placid else.         “      ​​​​​​​i know.  but it’s easier,  isn’t it?  holding onto the idea that it’s a lie.   you only have to look ahead.      ”         shalom speaks as if she’s smiling,  the tender echo only in the corner of her lips,  measuring out only just enough.  the smoke against her flame— billowing above, but careful not to sink down below.         “      i’m not interested in convincing you otherwise.  no one can deny the truth you’ve suffered.      ”

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Ada Limón, “Sanctuary”, The Hurting Kind

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“They wanted me to be an object. I am an object. An object dirty with blood. Mechanisms make endless demands on my life. But I don’t totally obey: if I have to be an object, let me be an object that screams.”

— Clarice Lispector, Água Viva

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i miss thr....... genuinely one of my fav ot2 stories bc its so out of pocket but thats also its biggest flaw bc it leaves so many loose threads hanging. spoilers under the cut for final chapter of the game. If you care

bc its like bro what do you MEAN claudes whole tourney between his children was to be his successor to be vide's vessel bc he simply didnt want to do it. what do you MEAN thr has the blood of both vide and d'arqest (4 generations back. ONLY FOUR GENERATIONS) like she has all this untapped potential and it was never properly revealed to her at all!

which is probably better off for thr bc she already is burdened w/ the fact that she was raised to be a weapon and though father loved her, he still loved her as a tool more than as a daughter (complicated explanation in my head..). so if you add "possibly the catalyst for the destruction of the end of the whole world" i dont know. how she could handle that ... (thr anguis is top 10 girls who deserved to be girls and got it stripped from them the moment they were born! top 10 girls who's childhood was foredoomed bc of things beyond their control and much older than them!)

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         the tension stings   ...           a pierced needle threaded red and gold,  straight through the hole he calls an eye.   it digs itself into his veins as owen leans in,  like a hunter cornering its wounded prey,  all slick in rot and waiting.  this game is all but familiar for daiki,  saturated thick on adrenaline—   playing both the cat and the mouse;   the gun and the boar.  his breath against the muzzle,  a close scrape with the bullet grazing his skin.  daiki tilts his head upwards,  baring that open neck,  the white bones of his throat—   a beckoning that looks like begging:  come chase me.  he shapes himself into that prey,  a soft - bodied vulnerability,  a dying snarl hot with pride,         “      even still,  i’d rather take my chances.  after all ...   this is my lucky opportunity ~       ”         the fox grin still curves,  quietly eying his hunter,  snaring their gazes into a knot—   then snaps it wide by shoving owen away with his shoulder,  tucking the crystal ball into his palm as he rolls into the floorboard. a whole cascade of miscellaneous objects crash down with daiki,  but none of that matters.   his fingers snare against the ball,  a pressure pressed to its glossy surface,  a gravity he cannot pull himself apart from ...   but all of it pales to achieving a new possession. this is his now ...    that’s all that’s ever mattered.          a teasing bite,  waving the orb stuck to his palm in apparent victory,         “      if you look too close ...   you leave yourself quite open.  now your precious things have been stolen  ...!    ☆      ”         ... and suddenly,  all that built up tension,  all that simmering pride— drops into the ocean as a silent ripple without applause.  he pauses.  a slow open of his mouth,  careful and tender,  as if learning to speak for the first time,         “      that’s ...   not  what i wanted to say.  no way ...   no way   ...!      ”         he almost bites his tongue,  if to catch the cord in his throat and muffle himself.   his glare comes off more as a desperate plea than burning ire,  the words smoked in the shadows of the room:  UNDO THIS CURSE ...   NOW !!!!!

❛ Be grateful~? I have no reason to be grateful to a thief. You are as cute as a mice trying to act scary. Though, I suppose that even mice are good at sneaking away like a little thief. ❜ Truly you don't care that much. Given the fact you could get it back easily with magic. Unlike a human who needs impressive sleight of hand, you could just teleport it to your hands if you felt like it. A cursed object like that belongs safely on a shelf. To be viewed, yet not touched... but if he wants to touch it you would let him. Perhaps he wants to experience the curse.

❛ The curse is a funny one~ ❜ You lean closer to him. So close your noses brush against one another. ❛ It's a laughing curse. I think it's quite funny. The object draws any and all in... your eyes can't be taken away from it. Like a greedy little piggy. ❜ You reach your gloved hand out to grab the crystal ball. It's a very unassuming object under normal circumstances. ❛ Yet, if you were to touch it, you'd be unable to let it go and you'd just start uncontrollably laughing... unless someone was able to pry it from your hands or until you die. So, little thief~ Would you still like to touch it? ❜

You pause for a moment before canting your head to the side with a chuckle.

❛ Who knows~ maybe I'm lying... and it's a totally harmless crystal ball. How would you know? ❜

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sjean

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          the eye he casts is one of appraisal:           the lower half creases into a half-moon,  as her image sinks into the pools,  those waters murky and still.   the sudden closure of their distance does not break his now rapt gaze …   yet,  daiki only skims along her surface.   vision is a dull whine;  acknowledgement is the diving bell,  the love of drowning.   he sees only the ripple. uncanny amusement sharpens the corners of his teeth,         “      oh   …? did you think you were a worthy enough model?   you’re  lucky  that’s not our specialty.      ”        with a free hand,  he redirects her gaze to the portraits behind them—   blurry,  superimposed,  never in focus.   the glare catches more than the lack of a smile …   the marring of its subject into nameless liquid.   it's laughable to even call it a photo.  he slides the onions into the pot, and lids it ... for safety.        “      the quality’s much more on par for hobbyists, rather than professionals.   but …   well, it’s not like i’m the one behind the camera.   you’d be hard to look at all the same ~      ”

         daiki moves himself towards the dining table,  already lined with a few dishes at the threat of running cold. for what it’s worth ...   he grants shi qingxuan a drop of respect—   a measured-out grace topped with gaunt flourish,  pulling one of the chairs out as ‘proof of his sincerity’.  all the syllables are stippled with small rocks,  caught as a two-faced truth and lie.  like a fickle tide rushing the sand,        “      if you’re not satisfied after all of this ...   then, is it really  my  problem?   you’re only my guest for as long as i feel like it. beyond that ... i'm sure you can figure it out.      ”

      ⌜◈⌟    ▌ ──  𝐓𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐢-𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥, enduring the pressure of passing centuries like a blade withstanding the sweltering forge, had all led to this moment of recognition... she might as well just go die again! Her mouth hangs open for a second or two. Then, realizing if he can see her then it would stand to reason he can hear her, Shi Qingxuan exclaims, "Is this how you respond to all beauties who grace you with their presence!? How rude. You're lucky I'm not the vengeful sort."

      𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐳𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞. Trace scents of sweet wine and agarwood mingle with that of the simmering food as she peers over his shoulder. When was the last time she had attempted to eat? A few decades ago, surely. Consternation erodes into curiosity, though lingers in the hum of her voice. "If your offer is genuine, then I'll humbly accept." Her lips curl into a smirk that mirrors his own. "Offering to feed ghosts might not be wise, shuai ge. What will you do if I devour everything you have and still ask for more?"

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⭒˚｡🖁‧₊˚ 〖 down these mean streets . . . 〗 a collection of scene prompts inspired by n͟e͟o͟-n͟o͟i͟r͟, v͟i͟o͟l͟e͟n͟c͟e͟, c͟o͟n͟t͟r͟o͟l͟, e͟t͟c͟. some prompts usfw. add +reversed for the receiving muse to be "the sender" instead. adjust details as necessary.

dead end. there's nowhere left to run; the sender has cornered you at last. anonymous. disguising your voice, you call the sender to threaten/warn them. loose ends. you thought you killed them! but there's the sender, walking your way. ashtray. your cigarette smokes as you extinguish it on the sender's skin. deck. you lick the sender's blood from your knuckles, still stinging from the punch. backstab. end of the road, pal—you reveal you're double-crossing the sender. blunt. hidden in the shadows, you press your gun to the sender's back.

heel. you stare at the sender from across the room and beckon them to you. fix. not looking like that—disapproving, you fix the sender's appearance. tilt. you take the sender's chin in your hand and make them meet your gaze. staccato. irritated, the sender drums their fingers against you beneath the table. listen. the sender disobeys and you swat their curious hand away. fasten. just something i picked up—you clasp a necklace/tie/etc. on the sender. quiet. you press a finger to the sender's lips and tell them to be patient.

vomit. you can't handle this; you vomit as the sender groans about leaving evidence. wink. don't worry—you wink as you assure the sender you have no morals to offend. up front. the sender's job is a doozy; you demand half the payment now or you walk. hush. talk is cheap but you sure aren't. you accept the hush money from the sender. crossfire. you realize the sender asking you to put out a hit is your next target. gulp. hard to argue with a bullet; you agree to the sender's demands. jugular. you hold your breath as the sender uses you to demonstrate how the murder weapon was used to strangle the victim.

patron. you know the sender is hired to keep you spending but you linger anyway. last call. the sender has one final cigarette in their pack; you take it without asking. loose lips. the sender pours you another glass as you finally confess. bills. it's on me—you pay for the sender's meal. cozy. there aren't enough seats open; you pull the sender onto your lap with a grin. coffee. you look like hell—you press a cup of coffee to the sender's hands. waiting. you duck into the bus stop to escape the rain, intruding on the sender.

gutter. the trail of blood ends and you find the sender broken on the ground. speak up. you press the knife in deeper as the sender swears they didn't betray you. plaster. it's not pretty but it'll do; you wince as the sender patches your wounds. empty. you laugh at the sender as you throw your gun aside, finally out of bullets. rat. the sender falls to their knees and agrees to tell you everything they know. smother. you clasp a hand over the sender's mouth to keep from being heard. cut our losses. the sender won't make it; you leave them to die.

voyeur. you know the sender's watching; you open the blinds so they can watch. slip of the tongue. the sender whispers another's name against your skin. sign here. the sender traces a finger over [your choice], asking you to leave a mark. desk. your most enticing assignment yet: the sender bent over your desk. handcuffs. the sender dangles the key, teasing, but you hope they take their time. window. you press the sender against the glass, watching the city watching them. harsh light. what's worse? the hangover or that you can't recall the sender's name.

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Victoria Chang, from "The Islands, 1961" (for Agnes Martin)

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Who putthat There!!!!!

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Resin Bonsai tree created by Li Jinguo