#Blade runner coat

[americasuits]

Blade Runner 2049 Changes the Fashion Industry ForeverUnveiling the Fashion Legacy: How 'Blade Runner 2049' Revolutionized the Industry with Ryan Gosling's Iconic Shearling CoatSaveBlade Runner 2049 Changes the fashion Industry Forever

Unveiling the Fashion Legacy: How ‘Blade Runner 2049’ Revolutionized the Industry with Ryan Gosling’s Iconic Shearling Coat Stepping into the future with ‘Blade Runner 2049’ wasn’t just about embarking on a cinematic journey; it was also an exploration of futuristic fashion. Central to this sartorial revelation was Ryan Gosling’s iconic shearling coat, a garment that became more than just part of…

[xeoniq]

ROSEN-X TRITON COAT

[yxngmxxchi]

YθSHIM1TSU

https://www.yxngmxxchi.tumblr.com

[gridoc]

I think Ariana Griande should be a vocaloid

Reblogs > likes

[IMAGE DESC: Two Panel Comic, redrawing a scene from the movie "Blade Runner 2049" , the scene is the iconic "You Look Lonely, I can Fix that" but with Ariana Griande and Scar. In the first panel Grian is very large seen only at shoulder length pointing at a smaller Scar standing on a platform, Grian is coated in pink light reflecting off Scar. The text is "You Look Lonely" is at the bottom in yellow. The next panel is Scar with an melancholy expression looking up, coated in pink lightning. The text "I can Fix that." Is at rhe bottom in yellow. END IMAGE DESC]

[theironscythe]

Prince Gerard reads up on war. I came up with a million titles for this book that didn’t make the cut.

EDIT:

Since folks have asked, here’s the list of alt titles. The runner up was ‘Frog of War’ .

Bladed combat for the meek

Olive Pencing’s all of fencing, for the frail and uninitiated.

Beauregard’s guide to fencing arts: painting with blood

A Fancy boys guide to real steel

The line in the sand, a beginners guide to Dueling

Slapping, with gloves! How to initiate combat.

Royal duels: where your coat goes.

Dr. Duel Little: the art of escape

Curses, foiled again! How to duel your way out of a bad deal.

The Harry Parry guide to reposte.

Boyle’s foil, vol 3: the feint for the faint.

Swordplay: from hilt to tip

Sharp swords for dull boys.

Feelin’ froggy? Don’t leap! LUNGE.

Let’s fight like gentlemen. Vol1: what is a sword even?

Flèche wounds: Bougereau’s guide to fence, faint and foil.

Small arms combat for fools.

Get to the pointe. Sword forms for quick kills.

Between the sheath: how to spoil your foil.

Bramblebean’s basic sword forms.

Beating around the bush: solo sword practice on the road.

Stances for Prances.

Sword Dance like no one’s watching.

Small arms for big boys

A penchant for fencin’

Stick and poke taboos: skin deep guide to fencing etiquette

Sabre wurk from the Princely schoole

Cold Steel and a warm heart: Fencing with empathy

The princess and the epee: dueling for royals

Duelingo: speaking the language of steel

Taking the piste: owning the fencing field

Pointes of blood: dueling for real

ALLEZ! Beginners guide to French Swordplay.

Lunge! A guide to sturdy haunched sword technique.

The frog of war

[megabuild]

hermay #1 and #2

i dont know if im gonna do these little fullbodies for everyone Probably not i just wanted to figure out what xs deal was because ivenever drawn him before ever. i gave him a cool hat and a big swooshy coat to add to his Mysterious nature. He is not of course but i think he'd like to pretend he is. I wanted to dress him how I think a dude who got the Bedwars Neuralink chip would dress if he thought he was the protagonist of like blade runner or fucking whatever. Beef I have no comments about that will not have me investigated on a federal level, except the burn scar is meant to be a nod to the hc7 episode where his muscular system escapes his body and starts writhing in agony.

[urcursebreaker]

burning body waiting. (ellie williams x fem!reader)

warnings for this chapter: 18+ content, graphic violence/gore/blood and animal death.

chapter 1: blood-soaked beauty

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ

The floorboard creaks under your featherlight footing. You drag yourself to a fluid halt, cautiously analyzing the drab sunroom.

The crooked, off-kilter shelf; a ratty, blood-crusted sheet draped over it. A murky puddle of rain water reflecting the forlorn, dim winter sun, plumes of old motor oil dancing in an iridescent swirl. A lopsided, rusty tricycle. A pile of chipped cement bricks.

Nothing of use; and no one to hear your misstep.

You exhale shakily, resuming your calculated strides. You shuck the grimy, makeshift curtain away from the shelf, deftly pocketing a stray razor blade and half-used roll of duct tape.

After surveying the room and gathering what you need, you shove through the dry-rotted back door, the frigid breeze cascading through your unbound hair.

"Shit," your teeth clatter over the curse; the cold, penetrative rain aiming spears of ice straight through your bones.

You tighten the soiled fur-lined coat you had stolen from your brother around your frame, adjusting the shotgun slung over your shoulder. The rain soaks through the corduroy and saps your hair to your face.

You shield your eyes from the ferocious patter of rain and give the collapsing back porch a brisk once over, before making a run for the darkening tree line.

Mel had informed you of a vacant trailer park they'd encountered on their last sweep, just through the thick of the dense forestry. They'd killed the lingering infected on their way through, a few runners feeding on the steaming carcass of a horse.

She assured you there were no live cordyceps in the area, so they'd deemed it safe enough for you to loot it alone, as long as you returned to base before night descended and followed the precautions they established after Nora's death.

This was the final step of your initiation into the WLF; endure a loot run, alone, and with minimal supplies. Then you were officially one of them.

You and your brother had arrived in Seattle a month and a half ago, where you were grudgingly taken in by the Wolves after incidentally stumbling into one of their self-made traps.

After confirming you weren't a Seraphite, they'd permitted you shelter in exchange for your faithful camaraderie and proof of your usefulness. Which, even after all this time, you were still laboriously proving. You had to double your efforts to solidify your value in order to compensate for your brother.

He had his own beneficial qualities, but his blindness limited him to organizing and rationing stock, refurbishing broken supplies, and cleaning everyone's weaponry. Nobody wanted to risk sending him on a mission when there was a highly probable chance he wouldn't make it back.

So you had to act as two people when exploring the outside world.

The canopy of leaves give you decent coverage from the relentless rain as you move swiftly through the heavy greenery. The sun would set in precisely two hours, granting you sparsely half an hour to get to and search the sight.

The thought itself sends you into greater motion. You break into a sprint, hopping over fallen, mold-shrouded logs and winding around the towering, western pines, until the rain mutes to a dull sprinkle.

The trees eventually open up to unveil an expansive clearing. About a dozen overgrown, warped mobile homes dot the field, shadowed by swaying tall grass and curling canary.

You stop idly to catch your breath and do a cautionary visual sweep of your surroundings. It's all nearly peaceful; the distant span of rolling mountains. Silence, but the water dripping gently off the leaves, the bristle of the dew speckled grass. Wet vines billowing with the wind.

You rummage through the first few without difficulty; they were filthy and crumbling, but free of any infected or evidence of death. The trailer park was likely abandoned in the wake of the outbreak.

You collect an impressive variety of canned foods; beans, corn and even a dented can of mandarin oranges, alongside a few rolls of toilet paper and a box of unopened bandaids. You even found a collapsed bookshelf and salvaged a few books, snagging one for yourself to indulge in during your watch shift. You only allow yourself the selfish luxury as a celebration for you upcoming place among the WLF, once you return with the goods.

You begin to search the fourth to last trailer, this one partially seeping into the sunken, mossy earth and caving at the roof. Half of it was obstructed by the collapsed ceiling, but in the reachable area you find a toolbox under the sink, dump the miscellaneous screws and bolts into your backpack, and hook the baby hammer you find to the belt loop of your worn, bootcut Levi's.

You slip out of the trailer once you gather the necessities. A mockingbird chirps, it's tweet eerily reminiscent of a human whistle, it's wings beating overhead as it soars across the field and into the encompassing trees. You wipe your dusty, damp palms on your pants uncomfortably, glancing around before regaining your footing and making your way toward the neighboring trailer.

You're vigilant as you scan the interior, the birds song unsettling you deeply. It rung as if it were warning you; as if it were fleeing. You make sure to take the apple-cutting knife you spot on the counter.

You were sidling out of the derailed door when you heard it, plainly and resolutely; a sharp whistle from your left.

You freeze. Your hand subconsciously jerking to your holster.

Silence.

The pines creak. The grass wisps faintly.

Another whistle, this one long, melodic, and from your right; closer.

You duck into the brush, your heart hammering wildly against your chest. You withdraw your gun, fishing the stray bullets out of your pocket, loading it with trembling fingers.

The grass rustles forcefully from both sides, followed by a series of coded whistles, all nearing by the second. Your breaths heave from your lips in panicked spurts, as you crawl under the latticed underbelly of the trailer, mud plastering to your elbows, your brothers coat.

Seraphites. Fucking Seraphites.

You'd rather it be a herd of infected.

Especially when you hear a dog's frantic, frothing string of furious barks.

"She was just over here. She can't be far," a male voice boom's authoritatively, too close for comfort. "She's close."

The mud must be deflecting the dogs of your scent, as you can make out their nearby blood-thirsty sniffing. You quietly lather it on your face, smearing it all over your exposed skin, suppressing your labored breathing.

Two Seraphites enter the trailer you're tucked beneath. The floor screeches precariously under their footing, inching closer to where you lay. You shimmy toward the small gap on the opposing side of the crawlspace, accidentally slicing your cheek on a stranded, dangling pipe in your attempt to avoid them.

You grimace, stifling the whimper rising in your throat, the split searing your cheek, hot blood leaking down your face.

It's only a few seconds later when the previously sedated, off-course dogs begin to bark ravenously, harmonizing as they bound for you in a frenzy.

They must've smelled the blood.

You curse openly now, clambering for the small opening, shredding it open with your adrenaline-piqued strength, stumbling to your feet and dashing down the hill.

"There she is!" Someone hollers, followed by a stampede of Seraphites hurdling behind you, gunshots renting the evening air.

Bullets whistle by in whirs as you stagger zig-zaggedly away from them, the dogs barking intensifying as they speed through the slick grass.

"Fuck," you seethe, tearing through the terrain, toppling down the hill, nearly losing your balance. You manage to shoot over your shoulder without falling, clipping a Seraphite on her waist, sending her plummeting to the ground.

More resounding gunshots. Exchanged shouts. One of the dog emits a loud, wounded whimper.

You run far and fast enough that you lose the dogs for a couple of minutes. You press yourself against a wide berthed tree and breathe raggedly, painfully, rubbing a heap of mud onto your gash, blanketing the blood in it.

You barely have time to catch your breath when a twig snaps to your left.

And you barely have time to react before a body is pummeling into you, knocking you to the rain-sullen floor, eliciting a grunt out of you.

You blindly wrestle the man off of you, stabbing him directly in the gut with the knife you'd thieved. He gets a powerful punch in despite the wound you'd inflicted, your head reeling back, slamming into rock.

The world spins around you, blood coats your tongue, but you stab him again, twisting it up and penetrating an organ, a guttural scream tearing through his throat. It weakens him enough that you manage to shove his body weight off of you, and he rolls onto the wet moss with a thud.

He reaches weakly for your ankle, and you flip the knife, bringing it down on his skull with a deafening, sickening crunch, as it spears through scalp and drills through bone.

You don't bother beholding the gruesome scene or dislodging your new weapon from his head; you turn away from the act you'd committed and hobble away, vision distorted and mind fogged from the impact of his attack.

You slip the fully loaded shotgun off your shoulder and cock it, creeping back toward where you had fled. If you didn't kill them all now, they'd track you back to the base.

There were five that chased and fired at you; two of which were accompanied by a hellhound. One of the dogs was seemingly injured in the crossfire, leaving one dog, and four Seraphites, if you exclude the woman you'd momentarily impaired. The man you killed must've been stationed in the woods, meaning there had to be more located somewhere.

You do all the calculations mentally, your shoulders strung high in alert, eyes feverishly darting around, assessing the vicinity. The sun was setting, darkness eclipsing the trees.

Another cycle of distant gunshots ricochet through the forest, from where you had run. No dogs barked. Everything around you remained unmoving. Your fear had taken you far.

Eventually, you arrive back to the yawning field. The trailers were pierced with steaming bullet holes, blood spattering the rusted metallic sidings. Three Seraphites stand back to back in the opening, including the pixie-cutted woman you'd shot, muttering apprehensively amongst themselves.

You crouch behind a bush, aiming at the cluster of people. One of the dogs lay unmoving and rigid, face-up in the grass, a puddle of blood accumulating around its body. Your brow pinches in bewilderment as you notice a Seraphite girl sprawled lifelessly beside it.

And another one, by the feet of one of the living soldiers, his gun clutched tautly to his chest. He flickers his gaze around dubiously, frightfully, mimicking yours and the others confusion.

You take advantage of their preoccupation with their uncounted for enemy and lock in on the befuddled man, zeroing in on his head. You steady your hold, let it linger on him, before pulling the trigger.

It blasts through him, brains and blood exploding through the air, birds flocking from the trees with high-pitched guffaws. You'd already vacated your spot when the other two began listlessly shooting in that direction.

You seek new lodging behind an abandoned CRV, studying them from a new angle. You zone in on one of the women, finger hovering over the trigger, when two gunshots erupt. Seamlessly killing each of them.

You hesitate for a brief second, before deigning to head back the way you had come, not wanting to cross paths with the dangerous, exceptional force that had swept in and took each of them down one by one.

The past gunshots ring perilously, hazily in your ears. You lethargically flick the drying mud off of your face, trudging through the forest, still wary of any potential threat, as the person who'd been capable of single-handedly decimating that entire group of Seraphites was still wandering through these woods somewhere with the knowledge you were alive.

You're nearing the old farmhouse you were scavenging earlier when a soft, hesitant, questioning whistle sends you halting in place. You tuck yourself behind a tree, scouting for the source of the noise. They repeat the whistle, more insistently.

You shift to step out from behind the tree when a calloused hand clasps over your mouth, steering you into a lithe, toned body. You struggle against the firm, strapping grasp, hot breath fanning your ear.

"Quiet." A soft, raspy female voice murmurs lowly. Arm secured around your waist, anchoring you to her blood-soaked front. Her words tickle your cheek as she whispers, "We're not alone."

You reluctantly concede, only lightly squirming in her oppressive hold. Fearing that if you refuse to comply, she'll aim her wrath at you next. Loathing that she can feel the trepidation emanating through you, the rapid thundering of your heart against her arm.

Boots rifle through the damp leaves, the hushed footing sloshing through mud. Your wheezy breathing escalates as your unknown captor leisurely maneuvers around the tree, grasp on you unyielding as she expertly avoids the prying Seraphite.

"Shh. Easy now." The woman mutters with lethal, calm calculation. The soft, fatal edge filtering her tone sending an unexpected, quavering shudder through your icy body.

You nod stiffly under her sweaty palm, and she marginally appeases her bone-crushing grip on you. She slowly, deliberately removes her hand from your mouth, absentmindedly dragging it down your chin, her rough fingers ghosting your jaw.

You anxiously glance down to find your heels on top of her scuffed boots and stumble off of her in alarm. Her hand catches your waist, grave-cold digits inching up your jacket, clawing at bare skin, as she yanks you back behind the tree.

You make to glance at her in a conjunction of gratitude and terror, but she had dissipated seamlessly, whirring by like a vengeful phantom in the night as she stations herself behind an adjacent tree, back plastered to the moss-cushioned, sappy trunk. Elaborately designed switchblade in hand.

She eyes her target, deadpan, excluding the twitch of her bruised under eye. She presses a trembling finger to her chapped lips, slicing a cautionary glare at you.

You sardonically hold your breath, emphatically puffing your cheeks, and you swear you discern an amused lilt to her lips. Or perhaps it was just the waning, dimming sun light, glazing over her slim figure, quelling dancing shadows across her battered face.

Whatever it was vacuumed out of her face, overcome by a grim, stoic solidity, when the Seraphite inched hesitantly in her direction. She creeps around the base of the tree as he rounds it, leisurely prowling up to him.

It happens briskly, lightening-quick— you blink and she was fisting his unruly hair and hauling him back, baring his throat to her— which she drills through efficiently and relentlessly, blood spraying in jagged spurts, sprinkling her wrath-warped face.

Another whistle cuts distantly through the humid air.

She's already slipping through the night-shrouded greenery before he even falls, his gurgled, floundering whimpers following him down as he thuds to the ground, blood still sputtering out of him, large frame twitching.

She disappears through the vast darkness of impending nightfall, her bloodied knife glinting faintly, distantly in the minute moonlight, as she takes determined strides toward the source of the second whistle.

Horror clutches your heart and squeezes unabashedly as you linger, the man's lifeless body still pulsating with the remnants of life it harbored.

You cast a suspecting glance around, the brush tranquilly silent, death idling in the dampened air.

And then you throttle back the way you were originally headed, wanting to put as much space between you and the ominous woman as tangibly possible, in case she returned, regretting keeping you alive.

You don't make it very far.

An arrow soars through the air and strikes the back of your thigh, puncturing flesh, narrowly missing the bone. Searing, white-hot pain bursts through your body as you slam to the ground with a sharp cry— your scream ricocheting through the trees.

You clamber for purchase, using your arms to crawl through the dense mud, dragging your injured leg dejectedly. The pain scathing, shooting up your body in fissures of agony, as you seethe through your teeth, the full arrow protruding from your skin.

You hear the whistle of a second arrow and duck. It spears through the earth inches from your head. You speed up, using your unwounded knee to push you forward, colorful dots edging your vision.

Twigs snap all around; muffled shouts resounding through the forest, an electric current of danger thrumming through your numbing body, as you drag yourself weakly, futilely.

You halt under a curling, dripping fern, fumbling for the arrow gauging your thigh. You take a few deep, alleviating breaths, before ripping it from your leg, stifling a scream at the scathing pain. Crimson saturates your pants, blooming in a dark pool.

Seraphites are storming by urgently, mud flicking off their boots. You remain unnoticed by a quad of them that hurdle by.

For a couple minutes it's silent. You don't move, afraid that if you shift even slightly, you won't be able to suppress the noise that would leave you at the blistering, twinging agony.

You think you're remotely safe, shielded from searching eyes, superficial wound already sealing.

That is before your head is unexpectedly cracked against something colossal, and your wisked away into a world of unfathomable darkness.

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ

Drip.

Your finger twitches, pulse thumping in the pads.

Drip.

Your heartbeat thunders through your skull, the drumming nearly muffling the faint noise. Your face spasms; the mobility slowly begins creeping in, though your mind has been reduced to a vacant chamber of incoherence.

Drip.

The hairs on the back of your neck stiffen. A keen awareness begins to slither back into your numbed body; you're not alone. Your mind may be buzzing, it's cognition still restoring by the second, but your body tingles under watchful eyes. You remain frozen.

Until a boisterous crackle sends you lunging up, triggering a sharp intake of breath. You gasp for air, shaking violently, your vision still murky from earlier's collision.

Through your fragmented sight and a stream of dense smoke, you decipher a red figure. They hover just across from you, the small, roaring fire the only barrier dividing you from the eerily, predatorily still stranger.

You blink rapidly, disorient. "Who are you?" you bleat, voice hoarse with misuse. You attempt to lift your hands as a last resort of protection, to find them bound in front of you. You wriggle them senselessly, panic bubbling in your chest, the thick, tethered rope rubbing your skin raw.

The figure's head tilts inquisitively. "Who are you." A husky, feminine voice drawls.

That voice...

You gulp, saliva syrupy like molasses. It's the girl; you knew from the way her voice alone sent a bolt of hot, electrifying shivers up your spine. "You," you breathe softly, licking your teeth, the taste of your own blood relinquishing on your tongue. "You're the girl. You helped me."

The figure straightens, rigid, arm dangling off her thigh as she crouches before the fire. Though you can't directly see her eyes through the haze, you can feel her gaze penetrating through you, prying you apart piece by piece.

She's silent for a moment, before picking up a stick and delicately prodding the flames, the smoke lightly defusing, the embers flickering. "I was going to kill them all anyway." She informs blithely, shrugging with one bandaged shoulder.

You could see her clearer than before, now; she was doused head to toe in crimson. Blood billowed down her sharp face, dripping to the floor in slow but ferocious spatters. The blood accentuated the verdant-blue of her crystalline eyes, dull and piercing yours. "I could tell you weren't one of them. And I don't kill just for the fuck's of it."

You sit in uneasy silence, studying her outline apprehensively. She withdraws her switchblade from her pocket and continues, "Which raises the question; if you aren't one of them, who are you?" She asks conspicuously, as if to herself, as she begins sharpening the blade.

You hesitate, your mouth dry as you reluctantly offer her your name. You know better than to share anything beyond that; the WLF had everyone under lockdown. Abby believes Nora's murder was a targeted, vengeful attack, and had warned all of you not to disclose your ties, in case you stumble upon someone who knows the killer.

"Do you move alone?" The woman interrogated unabashedly, peering down at the knife as she ran a dirty rag across its shiny surface.

"No," you admit, swallowing harshly, shaking your head. "It's me and my brother. He's blind, so I go out and get supplies, he protects our stuff."

Half truths are the most believable lies.

"Where did you two come from?"

"Ohio," you respond baldly. "We left with our family, but. It's just us now."

She pauses to assess you for a moment. "I lost someone too." She mutters, haunt dwindling in her eyes.

It's your turn to analyze her. Even caked in grime and unapologetically coated in her victims blood, she was beautiful. Her mussed auburn hair was partially tied back out of her angular face, her features neatly carved like a statues, emphatic and naturally alluring. Her eyes were a brewery, swirling with color and indistinguishable emotion, framed by expressive eyebrows, one of them slitted.

Maybe it's wrong to look at her— the woman who'd shamelessly, brutally wiped out dozens of people before your eyes— and notice these things.

But you've always been an optimist.

You can tell by the wariness glinting in her eyes that she doesn't share that sentiment.

"I'm sorry to hear that," you whisper sincerely, sorrowfully, gulping down the lump of emotion cementing in your throat.

She glances away, her jaw clenching. A muscle spasms in her blood-spattered neck. "Yeah," she whispers tightly, the word emitting from her lips in an unintentional seethe. "Yeah, I'm sorry too."

There's an awkward duration of silence.

"So..." you snort, and she startles at the noise, glancing up at you in bewilderment. Her swampy blue gaze roving over your slick face. "Can you maybe untie me now?" You lift your bound wrists in emphasis, arching a brow, trying to appear undeterred by her astute stare.

Her eyes brighten vaguely. "Why? You don't like it?" She teases monotonously, a frail smirk tugging at her cracked lips. Your cheeks tingle with warmth at the insinuation, and you shift, coyly angling your face away from the blood-soaked beauty.

"Not when it's against my will, no," you respond, half-quipping.

"But when it's not?" She raises a challenging brow, that sort-of smirk still pulling at her lips.

Against your better judgement, a conclave of butterflies erupt in your stomach, fluttering around. It's evident that she's just joking, which, in contrast to her rumpled, grizzly appearance, is funny in itself. The fear you felt around her from before seems to have dissipated and been replaced by a morbid curiosity.

"Untie me and try again. We'll find out."

"Huh," she coughs out a sheepish laugh, sliding her thumb across her lip, ridding the blood that had dripped there. She's silent for a moment, before pointedly clearing her throat. "That wound was pretty gnarly." Her voice comes out in a ragged breath.

You smile to yourself at her sudden timidity, glancing down at your thigh. Crimson blossomed through the bandage enveloping your wound— she must've dressed it herself, when you were unconscious. Which means she must've also...

"Did you carry me here?" You question in disbelief. She must be insurmountably strong if she was able to move your dead weight...

"Yeah," she clears her throat again, eyes uncertainly darting between you and her blemished green backpack. She grazes a finger over a tiny spaceship pin clipped to the front contemplatively. "It wasn't very far from where you dropped."

"Ah," you chirp airily, nodding slowly, watching her unzip the front pouch and unveil a sack of cashews. "Well... thanks."

She hums noncommittally, tossing the sack of nuts to you. You eye her warily, awaiting her curt nod of confirmation, before ripping it open and gratefully popping a couple in your mouth. She watches you eat mutely, blankly.

A gentle stream of dewy morning sunlight begins to beam through the torn netting of the rusted window, softly illuminating your previously shadowed surroundings. It's the garage of the farmhouse you were looting before.

The loot.

Your chewing slows, and you cast your gaze around frantically in search of your bag. And your guns. They're no where to be found.

"I left all your stuff there," the girl states knowingly, shrugging at the look of pure panic on your face. "It was too heavy for me to carry both you and you're stuff. We'll go back for it once the sun rises."

The implication she'd be accompanying you made a part of you uneasy; but on the other hand, you were thankful you wouldn't have to relocate your things all alone.

"Okay..." you reply dubiously, flexing your bound wrists, the muscles beginning to ache. "When am I getting these off? It's not like I can hurt you. I'm unarmed."

She shoves off the concrete and to her feet with a soft grunt, absentmindedly rubbing her side, wincing at her own touch. She shoulders her bag, smiling down at you wolfishly. The orange glare of the dimming fire reflects off her blood-stained face. "Not yet."

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ

You examine your reflection in the rippling water. A cracking layer of mud mutates your face, greases your hair. You cup a handful of oil-contaminated water and splash it into your face, rubbing vigorously, the now wet rope heavy against your wrists.

Sunlight gleams through the overhead awning of leaves, ricocheting off the water. The morning birds chime in benign song; the rest of the encompassing world silent, save for the gurgling of the stream. Fog creeps in from the distant forestry; dew speckles the frost-tipped grass.

You pat the dampness from your eyes with your sleeve and glance at the woman. She's half-submerged in the pond, plumes of blood roiling off of her, tainting the water a murky crimson. She scrubs her blood-crusted arms vehemently, grimacing, pointedly disregarding you.

You waltz over to the large, upturned rock where she'd draped her coat, moving slowly and methodically as to not disengage her from her trance. You toss your coat down beside it and unlace your boots, setting them aside, eyes trained on her carefully, still afraid that one wrong move could send her lurching.

On the trek here, she'd been passive and silent, her face ghoulish and tense. It was as if with the rise of dawn came the fall of her peace; there was tension in her jaw, and determination in her strides. Though she'd been the one to suggest accompanying you, she seemed suddenly inconvenienced by it, like she was in a haste to finally be rid of you.

Which, gladly. You didn't want to be tied up and leashed around any more than she wanted you trailing her and nosing her plans.

She may have helped you, nursed you back to health, but you didn't forget what she was capable of; the mass destruction at her singular hands.

You wanted to remain on her good side, or whatever side emboldened her to save you, for as long as you could; at least until you were released from her clutches.

You peel off your socks and keep the rest of your clothes on— a soiled green camisole and blood-stained Levi's— and hesitantly breach the shore of the cold water, creeping toward her unsurely. You gasp quietly when the icy water rises to your midriff, raising your goose-pimpled arms over the surface, teeth clattering.

"How are you not freezing!?" You yelp as you dive into a breaststroke, swimming past her, shivers wracking your body. You spin around and float on your back, exhaling obnoxiously. It's hard to move without using your arms, but you manage to keep yourself afloat with just your legs.

She glances at you furtively, her eyes flickering between your face and your chest, before chagrinly dropping back to her arm. "It's not bad," she mumbles mundanely, her skin raw and blistering from her violent scrubbing.

You notice a bold tattoo curling over the length of her forearm. Curiously, you inch nearer to her, taking in the ink. It's a detailed moth atop

a long, winding fern.

"Cool tat," you chirp, absentmindedly extending a finger and lightly caressing the thick line of ink. She stiffens but doesn't recoil, her lowered eyes meeting yours uncertainly.

"Thanks," she says gruffly, simply, retracting her hand, eyeing you for a prolonged second before returning to her scrubbing. This time she soaks a cloth she must've cut from her shirt. She half-heartedly sweeps her hair off her neck and runs it down her back, blood beading off in loud droplets.

You take a step back and fully duck yourself into the water; despite its nearly debilitating chill, it was refreshing— the mud and blood flaking off and floating in particles around you. You aggressively massage the water into your hair, digging out the caked-up grime to the best of your ability with your bound wrists partially disabling you.

You break the surface with a gentle gasp for air and find the woman staring at you. Except this time, instead of sheepishly breaking your gaze, her stare remains resolute. Her eyes leisurely rove over your face, where water drips languidly from your lashes and scars brand your skin, and down your chest, where your nipples are peaked from the cold.

You feel them harden further at her gaze, as it seems to indulgently trace the shape of them. You swear you detect a hitch in her otherwise steady breathing before her eyes wander, slowly, back up to your face, darkening when they meet yours.

She doesn't say anything, her now mainly bloodless face masterfully blank. You tentatively take a couple steps closer, the ground rough and littered beneath your feet, until she's practically peering down at you. Freckles form a vast constellation on her cheeks and nose, a light smattering dusting her face. A nearly microscopic scar mars her lip.

"You never told me your name," you say pointedly, raising a brow, projecting an illusion of confidence. Her eyes dart to the roguish smile splaying on your lips, and you lick them subconsciously, the rancid tang of dirty water dissolving on your tongue. "You know mine. Doesn't seem fair."

She contemplates you for a second, craning her chin up, donning a faint smirk of her own. "Ellie."

You sink deeper into the water, shielding the entire upper half of your body, peaking up at her. "Well, Ellie," you taste her name on your tongue, drawling it out deliberately, precisely, as you attempt to swim backwards. "It's not very easy to swim with no hands."

"Then stop swimming." She states matter-of-factly, and you roll your eyes, gliding towards the shore nonetheless.

But on the way up, your knee grazes something sharp, and you hiss a curse, wincing internally. You dip your fingers into the water and fumble for the object, forcefully yanking it out of the mud where it's lodged.

It's a thick shard of glass.

You glance over your shoulder at Ellie, blissfully unaware and dragging the cloth down her reddened face, before pocketing it covertly and marching up the shore.

You linger for a moment, water dripping out of your hair and off your seeping body, before wringing out as much as you could and calling, "Gonna go piss, be right back!"

Ellie doesn't respond. You take that as your cue to go, hurrying through the dense tree line and crouching behind a hefty bush. You strain your neck to peak at her through the branches, assuring yourself she's still preoccupied, before pulling out the shard and sawing into the rope.

You saw and saw and saw, slowly but surely cutting through the rope, its grip loosening by the second.

A twig snaps behind you.

You swivel around swiftly, freezing in horror as Ellie stares down at you, her switchblade unsheathed. You hadn't heard her wading through the water; she'd moved silently and stealthily.

Her face is blank, that expertly devoid expression she'd tailored when hunting down those Seraphites plastered on.

She reers the knife back, the only sign of life the twitch of her upper lip. You close your eyes and brace for the impact; this was it. You should've played the long game, gained her trust, earned your freedom. Now she was going to slaughter you like the rest.

You flinch at the grunt that tears through her lips as she brings the blade down.

Only instead of agony, blade breaking flesh, your hands snap to the ground, free of unbearable tension.

You fearfully squint down at your wrists; the rope now split in half, cuffing your wrists but no longer knotted before you. You stretch them apart, rolling your shoulders, looking up at her with pure, undiluted trepidation, gulping.

She meets your gaze unapologetically and throws your coat down at you. "Let's go," she says dispassionately, cooly, already turning away and marching up the hill. "Your stuff isn't far."

. . .

[l-crimson-l]

Ok so incoming gunpla post about tools:

So you’ve started building! It’s fun! It’s cathartic! And they look so cool!

But…

You kinda want them to look Even Cooler.

You also don’t have a ton of cash and you’re feeling intimidated by how deep this hobby can take you (you’ve seen those cool customs online). No worries! Here’s a couple cheapish (<$40) tools to help you get rolling on taking your kits to the next level.

1) Sanding Sponge/Glass File

These are great bc 1) they’re cheap and 2) do the job wonderfully. Specifically they’re for helping to remove Nub marks off the price you’ve cut from the runner. If you don’t know, Nubs are the leftover plastic still attached to the piece after you’ve clipped it from the runner, they’re important to remove bc of how the kit is engineered. Moving gimmicks or the sturdiness of the kit could be compromised if your pieces can’t fit flush.

The sponge is the cheapest option but it also runs out at some point and you’ll need to replace them. However, the glass file will simply just keep rolling. I bought mine from Newtype about a year and a half ago and it’s still doing great. I believe Walmart might have even cheaper options.

2) Gundam Marker

So you know those grooves on a part that’s sunken in? Those are called Panel Lines! Using this pen (it’s basically a Micron pen) you can color in these lines to help give your kit extra depth. This is especially great on kits that are primarily a single color with few variations (think Calibarn).

All you do is draw in your line and then wipe away with your finger or paper towel or what have you. These are super cheap and you’ll run through half a dozen or so HG’s or even MG’s before you need to think about getting a new one. With this you also don’t need to worry about top coating or being mindful about what you’re applying it over (unlike other panel liners where you need to keep some chemistry in mind).

3) Single Blade Nippers

So these are the most expensive item and while double blade nippers work absolutely, you’ll end up creating less work for yourself with single blade nippers as they can make cleaner cuts off the runner meaning you have less nub to clean up.

These ones I snagged from USA Gundam Store (they give a discount for snagging these) and they work great. Not the greatest durability over multiple kits as they really lose that initial sharpness over the first kit or two, but they stay sharp enough to do the job well. There’s several different options out there (some as expensive as $60 or so) but starting out a cheaper pair is great to have.

I used double sided nippers for the longest time but after switching I firmly believe they’re worth the extra $$ to invest in.

To elaborate on 2 bladed vs single bladed a bit: double blades cut from both sides (obviously) but what this means is that there is stress being applied to the piece from each side. This causes stress marks (if you’ve seen a white spot left behind after a clip that’s a stress mark) which either need cleaned up and painted over or it causes a crater in the part (especially easy to do when the nub is especially large) which either never gets fixed or you need to use tamiya cement to melt plastic and then puddy it innnnn and thennnnn sand everything againnnnn and it’s a pain.

Save yourself the headache. Singe blade nippers are the way. I especially hate those beginner nippers that look like this

I hope this helps you dig a little further down into the plastic crack rabbit hole! With just a little extra effort you can really make your kits pop. You can do it!

As always I really love seeing all the new people building gunpla and making it their own (special shout out to that person who bedazzled their guncannon). Love ya friendos

[demolition-lesbians]

Rolling Stone #1119 December 9, 2010 - The Playlist Issue

(click for better quality) Here's the playlist if you want to take a listen! Transcript:

Gerard Way: Glam Rock

My Chemical Romance's frontman grew up a metalhead, but when he heard Iron Maiden's lead singer, Bruce Dickinson, cover Mott the Hoople's "All the Young Dudes," he discovered a whole other world, "I knew I had to find out more," Way says, "To some people, glam is just about makeup. To me, it's a very magical thing almost like witchcraft."

1: "Ziggy Stardust" David Bowie, 1972

This song defines glam. It was also the first thing in rock that really challenged people's notions of sexual orientation. Bowie actually sings about a man's ass! 2: "Children of the Revolution" T. Rex, 1972

You always knew Bowie would make it out alive and turn into another character; with Marc Bolan you didn't know that. He came across as very vulnerable. 3: "All the Young Dudes" Mott the Hoople, 1972

This is kind of a cheat because David Bowie wrote it for them, but I always preferred the Mott the Hoople version. By this point, Bowie was talking about the actual glam movement, which is why it's about kids stealing makeup and breaking into unlocked cars. Glam became about the kid in the room, the poster on the wall, putting on a women's short fur coat and eyeliner, with no shirt on, just listening to this music. 4: "Ballroom Blitz" Sweet, 1973

They completely break the fourth wall when the song opens up and they're calling each other by name. We emulated that on our song "Vampire Money." It literally starts out just like "Ballroom Blitz" does. 5: "Cum On Feel the Noize" Slade, 1973

Obviously, everybody knows this for the Quiet Riot version, but when you hear the original you realize just how bold it is. The soundscape they created is probably one of the best out of all the glam-rock bands. 6: "Love Is the Drug" Roxy Music, 1975

Roxy Music took the glam thing and then modified it. Bryan Ferry looks nothing like a glam artist, and that's what I love about him. He's wearing this great suit and he's got short hair and he's so romantic. Maybe some people wouldn't consider Roxy Music a glam band, but I do, for a lot of reasons. A major one is that they used to have Brian Eno behind the keyboard wearing feathers on his shoulders and eye shadow.

7: "Needles in the Camel's Eye" Brian Eno, 1974

Speaking of Eno, this is the first track on his first solo album. It's the glammiest track on the record. As soon as he finishes that song, he's almost over it, and he's moved on to something else. Besides Bowie, Eno is still the most important artist to me of the glam scene. When you heard his first album, you knew it was gonna be his last glam record. He just needed to do it once and he was done. 8: "Clones (We're All)" Alice Cooper, 1980

With "Clones," Alice Cooper was moving into the glam of the future, like this kind of Blade Runner replicant version of glam. Alice Cooper doesn't get enough credit for being a glam artist. A lot of people just say, "Oh, he's shock rock," but I think he's way more Rocky Horror than he is shock rock. 9: "48 Crash" Suzi Quatro, 1973

She's the most unsung glam rocker. She's also the prototype for the Runaways. "48 Crash" is one of her more aggressive songs. She looks amazing on the cover, wearing this black cat suit. Everything about the song is magic. 10: "Personality Crisis" New York Dolls, 1973

They were a lot more punk, but I will always consider the New York Dolls glam by the nature of how they looked and their attitude. They took glam to America and really challenged the sexuality of it. They also had Johnny Thunders, who's basically like the American Mick Ronson.

[gffa]

My current progress on The High Republic books, comics, etc. I DESERVE CONGRATULATIONS AND WELL-WISHES TO CATCH UP BEFORE THE ACOLYTE AIRS. MAIN STORYLINE NOVELS - PHASE I:

The High Republic: Light of the Jedi

The High Republic: A Test of Courage

The High Republic: Into the Dark

The High Republic: The Rising Storm

The High Republic: Race To Crashpoint Tower

The High Republic: Out Of The Shadows

The High Republic: Mission to Disaster

The High Republic: The Fallen Star

The High Republic: Midnight Horizon

MAIN STORYLINE NOVELS - PHASE II:

The High Republic: Path of Deceit

The High Republic: Convergence

The High Republic: Quest for the Hidden City

The High Republic: Cataclysm

The High Republic: Quest for Planet X

The High Republic: Path of Vengeance

MAIN STORYLINE NOVELS - PHASE III:

The High Republic: The Eye of Darkness

The High Republic: Escape from Valo

The High Republic: Defy The Storm

MAIN STORYLINE COMICS - PHASE I:

The High Republic (2021) - 15 issues

The High Republic Adventures (2021) - 13 issues

The High Republic: The Monster of Temple Peak - 4 issues

The High Republic: The Edge Of Balance - 2 manga volumes

The High Republic: Trail of Shadows - 5 issues

The High Republic: Eye of the Storm - 2 issues

MAIN STORYLINE COMICS - PHASE II:

The High Republic: The Blade - 4 issues

The High Republic (2022) - 10 issues

The High Republic Adventures (2021) - 8 issues

The High Republic: Edge of Balance: Precedent - 1 manga volume

The High Republic Adventures: The Nameless Terror - 4 issues

MAIN STORYLINE COMICS - PHASE III:

The High Republic: Shadows of Starlight - 4 issues

The High Republic (2023) - 5 issues [ONGOING]

The High Republic Adventures (2023) - 4 issues [ONGOING]

MAIN STORYLINE AUDIODRAMAS - PHASE I:

The High Republic: Tempest Runner

MAIN STORYLINE AUDIODRAMAS - PHASE II:

The High Republic: The Battle of Jedha

ONESHOT COMIC ISSUES - PHASE I:

Star Wars Adventures (2020) #6 - “The Gaze Electric”

The High Republic Adventures: Free Comic Book Day 2021

The High Republic Adventures Annual 2021

The High Republic Adventures: Galactic Bake-Off Spectacular

Star Wars Adventures (2020) #14 - “A Very Nihil Interlude”

The High Republic Adventures: Free Comic Book Day 2023

ONESHOT COMIC ISSUES - PHASE II:

The High Republic Adventures: Quest of the Jedi

ONESHOT COMIC ISSUES - PHASE III:

The High Republic Adventures: Crash Landing

ANTHOLOGY NOVELS - PHASE I:

Star Wars: The High Republic: Starlight

ANTHOLOGY NOVELS - PHASE II:

Star Wars Insider: The High Republic: Tales of Enlightenment

ANTHOLOGY NOVELS - ALL PHASES:

The High Republic: Tales of Light and Life

EVERYTHING ELSE:

Star Wars: Young Jedi Adventures - 25 episodes

This is a bit misleading in that several of these I'm halfway through, I've been watching Young Jedi Adventures in the background while I do other things and it's super cute! It's very much a preschooler-aimed series, but the animation is gorgeous, the voice acting is adorable, and it's fun to have on in the background. (It does make me pine for this style of animation to be used for more familiar characters, what I wouldn't give for baby Mace Windu in this style or baby Obi-Wan or baby Plo or baby Shaak, THEY WOULD BE SO CUTE.) I'm also halfway through The Fallen Star, which isn't as far as I'd like considering I started it several days ago, but I don't have as much on-line time these days and I listen to it in the background while doing other things. It's fine so far, I'd say! I'm eager to get to Phase III, though. One thing that's really hitting me all over again, especially as I'm wrapping up reading Shadows of Starlight is that the Nihil are now trying to set up their own area of the galaxy, to set up a government in their claimed area, they've been strong-arming planets into being forced to join them, they've been actively killing Jedi--including one general who opens his coat to reveal a collection of lightsabers to show that he'd be a good fit to join the Nihil--and it's so many echoes of the prequels that it's fascinating. Because the way the Jedi react, the need to align with the Republic for strength, the need to fight back against an enemy that is specifically targeting them, the need to help free the worlds that are being occupied by this government that claims to have nobler intentions, but really just wants to crush worlds under its boot? It's really showing, consistently, the Jedi being put in the same positions as the prequels Jedi and showing why their choices weren't great, but they had to choose something, because the alternative was worse. Reading all of this has given me a more sympathetic reading of the prequels' set-up, served up to me on a silver platter. OKAY, WISH ME LUCK in getting through at least one more comic run today and tell me how your High Republic reading journey is going, too!

[haknamindustries]

Cyberpunk - A History of Coats and High Collars

Visual reference. Please add further examples in the comments if you have any.

Blade Runner (1982)

The Matrix (1999)

Ghost In The Shell: Stand Alone Complex 2nd Gig (2004)

Deus Ex: Human Revolution (2011)

Cyberpunk: Edgerunners (2022)

[millersdjarin]

Some Invisible String

Chapter I: High Tide

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Rating: E (eventually)

Summary: Ten years after Reader left Joel for reasons he still doesn't know, they find themselves together again in a town called Jackson. Joel has questions he's too afraid to ask; and Reader dreads having to give the answers.

Tags/Warnings: eventual smut, post tlou part I, jackson era joel <3, emotion!!!

Chapter length: 3.3k

notes: my first multi-chapter joel fic! overall title is from taylor swift's "invisible string", chapter I title also from taylor, "this love" ♥︎ eventual smut will be here too! so far it's going to be 5 chapters :) enjoy! ps. i recently switched to writing in second person but when i wrote this fic i was still writing in first person, hope u don't mind! will be posting updates regularly

I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea. Really, I don’t. 

But, then again, nothing has been a good idea in twenty years, and I’m still here. So, there’s that. 

One minute I was out hunting in the snow, tracking a deer that made itself vulnerable in the woods beside a half-frozen creek. If I could get him, I thought, it’d keep me going with food for a week at least. Best thing about winter: food stays fresh in the cold. 

Worst thing: everything else. Literally everything else. 

Because now, what started as a quick hunt with an almost-guaranteed prize at the end, has ended in me literally fighting for my fucking life, rolling around in foot-deep snow as runners try to rip the shit out of me. 

It doesn’t help that the commotion has led a bunch of local hunters—who clearly had the same idea as me—to my location. They’ve got the deer, they’ve shot me in the leg, and I’m either going to bleed out, get bitten, or get eaten by infected. 

So, this is great. 

Blood rushing in my ears, I seize the moment a hunter shoots one of the nearby runners and use it to take shelter behind a rock for a minute, surrounded by the groans and screams of infected who are still searching for me or attacking the hunters. Gunshots ring loud throughout the air, along with the smashing of a few molotovs as the bottles hit the snow, the roaring of flames as they engulf bodies. 

My leg is bleeding into the snow. Actually, it’s damn near gushing, pulsing out with each beat of my heart. 

Footsteps are getting closer to me. I try to put pressure on the wound, but the bullet is still there, and it fucking hurts, and my vision is going blurry. The screams of infected are getting less and less as, presumably, the men take them out. 

I’m not bitten. Not yet. But that’s the least of my worries, if the pool of red snow I’m creating below me is anything to go by. 

It’s starting to leech into the snow surrounding the rock, easily giving away my location. As the last infected screams with a squelch of a blade into one of its body parts, one of the men shouts, “Hey! She’s over there! Flank her!” 

Ha. As if they even need to flank me. 

My head is spinning. Blood, shiny and thick, coats my hands. It’s all over me. It’s fucking everywhere. It won’t stop bleeding. 

I’m going to fucking die. 

These men are going to kill me, or do worse while they wait for me to die. Surviving the apocalypse as a woman is a fucking joke. 

I reach for my gun, but there are spots in my vision now. Dark red and black. It’s a mixture of real blood in my eyes and blood loss making me dizzy. I can feel it fading. All of it. The cold, the feeling in my body, the sound around me, everything…

It’s fading. 

There are heavy, men’s footsteps getting closer. 

I’m just debating whether I have the strength to fight back, or even to just end it all myself before they get chance, when I hear it. 

A new gun. A new set of voices. The hunters’ attention is turned away from me once more as their footsteps crunching in the snow turn away and head for whoever else has decided to grace us with their presence. 

It doesn’t matter. I’m out anyway. After all this time, all this fighting, after everything I’ve lost—I’m going to die here in the snow, in the middle of nowhere in Jackson County, after being shot by a fucking hunter. 

Then, I hear a voice. 

It could be a southern accent. I could swear that it is - that it’s real.

But I always knew that in my last moments I’d hear him, real or not. It’s been ten years, but I still hear him in the night sometimes, as I’m falling asleep or jolting awake. Sometimes when I get injured, I hear him tutting, I feel his fingers on my skin, patching me up. 

Now, sitting here dying in the snow, I could swear that it’s him.

It’s not. It can’t be. 

But as the last of my consciousness fades, as I feel the final thread of me begin to fray, I let myself believe that it is. 

I hold onto the sound. So clear, like he’s right there next to me. 

I never wanted to die alone. I’m going to pretend that I won’t. 

“Joel…” I feel his name slip through my lips for the first time in years. 

His name, and his voice saying my name in return, are the last things I hear before I go. 

-

Well, goddamn. 

If this is hell, there is no fire, so it could be worse; but if it’s heaven, Jesus, I don’t want it.

I can’t even wake up. My eyes feel heavy. It’s like I’m clawing back to consciousness after a bad fever. After a surgery that went wrong. Before I can even think or begin to open my eyes or listen for sounds, I can feel that every inch of me hurts. Like I’ve been cut open, rearranged, and sewn back together again. 

So, it’s not heaven. Cool. Fine. I’m going to suffer for eternity, then? 

Except, when I hear it, I freeze. (Metaphorically speaking. I’m already frozen in whatever spot I’ve been cursed to.) 

“She’s waking up.” That isn’t Joel. But it’s similar, and familiar. It sounds like...

Why the hell is Tommy here?

Then, it’s his voice again. My name, in Joel’s voice. 

If nothing else, the confusion gets me to force my eyes open. 

And the first thing I see is him. 

“Hey,” Joel says, “can you hear me? Wake up…you’re safe…” 

I blink a few times. Then, beneath the pain in my body, I realise that I’m warm. I’m under something soft and cosy; a wool blanket, it feels like, if the scratching against my bare arms is anything to go by. 

Any other sensation doesn’t really matter right now, though, because I can’t take my eyes off of Joel. He’s just there, hovering above me with even more creases on his forehead than I remember, an especially big one sitting between his eyebrows right now that looks like someone’s drawn it there. 

“You’re alright, you’re alright,” he sounds distant but close all at once, and soft and gruff just like he used to. 

“I…” I manage to stammer while I vaguely register that there is daylight around us, though it’s fading into shades of amber and pink. Approaching sunset. Last I remember, it had only just risen.

Not without struggle, I get my body to move, but the second I shift in my place, a blinding pain shoots from my leg to all angles, hitting my head and my toes. 

Well. I’m starting to think I’m not actually dead. 

“Hey, don’t try to move, you’re hurt,” Joel says again. 

Joel. 

...Joel? 

Joel!? 

“J—Joel?” As I start to realise that it seems I am very much alive, somehow that fact just makes for more confusion. I look around, and Tommy is there, too, standing by the room’s window, leaning on the butt of his rifle where it sits at his chest, the barrel facing the floor. He looks older, too. Much older. He’s got almost as many wrinkles and greys as Joel does now. 

Someone else enters the picture after a minute. A woman with a frown of concern pushes Joel away—in my delirium I almost forget that he’s probably real, and that it wouldn’t be appropriate to reach out and pull him back—and then her face is above mine, shining a torch in my eyes. 

I squint against it but she holds my eyes open and inspects them. “How are you feeling?” She asks. Her voice is husky but kind, the faintest trace of a Brooklyn accent making itself known. 

“I—confused,” is all I can say, dumbly. Joel is standing behind her, looking over her shoulder with a frown that reaches new depths. (He frowned a lot back in the day, but geez, he’s got even better at it.) “Where am I? Who—who are you?” 

“I’m Angela,” she answers, removing the blinding torch from my eyes, instead pressing two firm fingers into the pulse point on my wrist. “You’re in a town called Jackson. It seems you already know these two fellas.” 

“I—yeah,” I manage to laugh a little in disbelief. Tommy is still there on the opposite side of the room, smiling just a little, fond and nostalgic. It’s then that Angela’s words hit me. A town? “I…is this…am I…the hunters…you…?” My words aren’t coherent or related enough to count as a sentence, or even a completed question. 

“It’s our town,” Tommy says with a small smile. “You got nothin’ to worry about. No one here’s a hunter, and you’re in good hands.” He nods to Angela. 

I look back to her and frown at the way she’s wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my arm. “Are you…a doctor?” 

“I am,” she answers. “You got shot. Lost a lot of blood. These two found you just outside town with barely enough time—or blood—to spare.” 

I can’t stop glancing between Angela, Joel, and Tommy. It’s like I’m watching a tennis match between three people. 

I’m still not entirely sure this is real. In a fever dream, or even in my last moments, my brain would definitely conjure up something like this. A safe town, where I’m under a warm blanket, on a soft bed, and being looked after by two people who used to be the most important people in my life. 

“I…” I’m interrupted by the door swinging open. It lets in a brief shock of cold wind, but Joel quickly reaches out to close it behind whoever has just come in. 

“Ellie, I told you to wait outside,” Joel says lowly, so quiet I can barely hear him. 

“It’s freezing out there! And I’m worried. Is she awake—?” The girl—Ellie, apparently—pushes past Joel to look over Angela’s shoulder at me. Her concerned frown relaxes when she sees me. She’s just a kid; probably barely fifteen. I’ve never seen her before, but she’s looking at me like she was terrified I was going to die. “Oh, you’re awake!” 

“I…am.…”

Joel puts his hand on Ellie’s shoulder and gently pulls her back a little. “Give her some space. Angela’s still working.” 

“You know, she’s the best. Last month Joel dislocated his shoulder and she reset it before he could even scream—”

“Alright,” Joel interrupts her, “Ellie. Why don’t you get our guest some food, alright?” 

“Something hot,” Angela requests. 

A hot meal and a comfortable bed. This has to be some kind of pre-death dream.

“It’s almost dinner time at the kitchen,” Tommy offers with a knowing smile, “see what you can rustle up.” 

Ellie sighs, but nods. Before turning to leave, she looks at me again and says, “I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll get you the good stuff.” 

The door lets in another whoosh of cold air, but Joel closes it as soon as possible. It’s then that I realise there’s a fireplace on the wall behind the bed; the flames crackle in the light breeze before settling down again. 

“I need to check your wound,” Angela says. “Don’t suppose one of you boys can help me out? I need someone to distract her.” 

“Distract me? From what?” 

“I’m gonna take off your bandage and check the stitches. Then I’m gonna clean it. It’s going to hurt.” 

“I don’t need distracting,” I say, meaning it. I’ve dealt with worse. Hell, somehow I survived this. But Joel is still gazing at me, his eyes roaming over me from head to toe, like he’s scanning for even the slightest inkling that something else is wrong they haven’t noticed yet. (Seems unlikely—I’m wearing different clothes than I was before.)

Mentally squirming under his gaze for the first time in a long time, when I never thought I would again, I realise that I might not need distracting, but I do need answers. 

Or something close to it. 

“I’ll stay,” Joel offers, as if reading my mind. He was always so good at that. It’s weird. Someone so emotionally unavailable shouldn’t be good at that. 

Tommy pushes off from the wall, stopping at the foot of my bed. “Don’t be afraid to break his hand,” he offers, grinning lopsidedly, “man needs an excuse to stop for one goddamn minute.” He grins at Joel when he grumbles in response. “I’ll be outside. Need anythin’, give me a holler.” And with that, he’s out the door. 

Angela carefully pulls the blanket up and away from my leg, revealing the side of my thigh where the bullet went in. It hurts for something to even be moving in close proximity to it, like my skin is on red alert. 

I wish I could say I’ve gotten good at hiding my pain, after all these years of surviving it; but I haven’t. It still shows on my face like it did the day the outbreak happened; like it did when I was barely an adult.

Joel knows. He pulls up a wooden chair beside my bed, offers up his scarred, calloused hand. There’s an expression on his face I can’t quite read. The faintest hints of a sheepish smile, maybe, crows feet deepening around his eyes. It looks like he’s saying, Funny seein’ you here, and I can hear that in his voice, gruff and sarcastic, so I just imagine that that’s what he’s trying to say. 

I glance down at his hand, then back up. For a moment I consider not taking it. 

It’s been ten years. 

I left for a reason. 

But then Angela starts pulling at the bandage wrapped tight around my leg, and the pain is fucking horrific. It’s a stabbing, a pulling, and an aching all at once. It starts at the bullet wound and pulses out like cracks of lightning, through my bones, my nerves, up my hips and to my neck. 

A sharp inhale through my teeth, a blinding flash of pain that whites out my vision for a second, and I’m reaching for Joel’s hand before I can even think any more about it.

“Why don’t you tell me what the hell you’re doin’ here?” Joel’s voice comes through the blood rushing through my ears. “Last I saw you, we were in Texas.”

“What—what am I doing here?” I laugh, incredulous, and gasp as another wave of pain comes. “I don’t even—know—where I am.” Angela is working away and it hurts, it fucking hurts. But I think, at least, this is the final piece of proof I needed to confirm that I am not actually dead.

That, and the way Joel’s thumb is smoothing over the top of my hand, even though I’m squeezing his so hard that it must hurt like fuck. He’s doing it like he’s not even thinking about it. Like it’s second nature. 

I left for a reason. 

“You’re in Jackson,” he says. 

“I know that. I just—don’t—” I grunt in between words as Angela takes alcohol to the wound. “I don’t know how far—how far you took me—”

“You were barely outside the town. The hunters that got you were bandits on their way to us."

"Right," I say, still not really understanding.

"So it’s just coincidence we found ourselves together again?” 

Yes! I left for a fucking reason! 

I’m realising I’m not saying it out loud. 

I’m not saying it out loud because I never even told Joel there was a reason, let alone what that reason actually was. 

“I—guess so,” I grit out. “Sometimes the Universe likes to laugh at us. I—oh, Jesus!” A particularly intense stab of pain comes as Angela starts dabbing at the wound. It’s a bruise, a gash, a cut, all at once. 

“It’s alright, hey, just look at me,” Joel’s voice comes, so familiar that it hurts, so soft that it hurts—“Look right at me. That’s it. Do you remember where you were when this happened?” 

“I—in the snow,” I answer, staring into his eyes like they’re a lifeline. Angela has started wrapping a new bandage around it now, tight and secure. It hurts. It just fucking hurts. Everything fucking hurts. “The forest. I was—hunting for food. Then…infected. Infected came and—then—hunters…” 

Joel nods, encouraging me to continue. 

I can’t, though. The pain is too much. Looking at him is too much. 

I screw my eyes shut, and a traitorous, humiliating tear spills from one of them. In frustration, a groan splits past my lips, and I reach up my other hand to wipe away the tear. 

“Nearly done,” Angela promises.

My teeth are biting down on my lip so hard that I can taste blood; but the pain of that is paling in comparison to everything else, so it doesn’t bother me. 

“God fucking dammit,” I grunt as another tear falls. 

Down to my very core, it is humiliating. 

To be here, writhing in pain, and crying in front of Joel, of all people. Crying during the apocalypse. Crying because he’s there. Because his eyes are still the same.

I’ve always been too soft. I was never as hard as Joel. Or as anyone else around me. 

As a kid, books always said that being soft was a strength in its own way. That it was a quality to be proud of. But in this world, all it’s ever brought me is close to death.

“All done,” Angela says. 

Though the pain is still very much alive and well, I breathe out a sigh of relief, waiting eagerly for it to ebb. Realising I’m still holding onto Joel’s hand so tight that my knuckles have gone white, I release him, and take a deep breath. 

“Good job,” he says. Whether he’s saying it to me or Angela, I’m not sure. He observes his hand, lifting it up to look at as he stretches his fingers out. “Jesus, woman. Gonna need a new hand after that.” 

I laugh, breathy. “I had permission.” 

“From Tommy,” Joel counters with a grumble. 

“I knew you wouldn’t mind.” I say it before I can give it permission. And the softness in my voice—well. That’s just downright not fair. 

Joel’s eyes meet mine again. He holds them there for a moment too long. Looks like he might want to say something, but then doesn’t, and stands up. His green flannel shirt stretches so nicely over his shoulders, even broader now than they were back then. His hair is flecked with grey, as is his beard, which is longer now. 

I used to lie awake at night and imagine running my fingers over it. I used to cherish the way my hands fit over his shoulders when he boosted me up onto a ledge. The way the muscles in his arms flexed and showed veins when I hoisted him up behind me. 

We used to be a team, me, him, and Tommy. 

Now, staring at him as he leans against the doorframe, folding his arms over his chest, I think about those times. I can’t help it. There are dark and grey hairs on his chest, peeking up above the top button. I remember how his heart feels under there from the time I had to stitch up a gash there. I remember his pulse, from keeping my finger on it all night when he was feverish from an infected knife wound. 

Tommy and I nursed him back, but I thought we’d lost him. 

I thought a lot of things.

And, well. There was no other choice. 

I left.

♥︎chapter 1/5♥︎

notes: if u wanna be on the taglist, let me know however you'd like: in a reblog, reply, message, or an ask :) all interactions are appreciated, but comments and reblogs especially make my heart go brrr♡ happy tlou show day btw :D

[gcslingss]

hello👀👀 kinda nervous sending this bec idrk how you send prompt asks but.... for the gentleness prompts that you reblogged, would you like to do recovery with luke glanton, or breathe for officer k?

thank you for this request omg ive been wanting to write for k for so long

i havent watched place beyod the pines yet, so i went with option 2 :)

hope you enjoy!!! <3

real | officer k.

prompt: breathe (find the prompt list here)

summary: he wishes he could tell you all the things you made him feel, but there just weren't enough words for it.

pairing: officer k x gn!reader (slightly inclined to fem but maybe it's just me)

warnings/content: swearing, weapons (gun), gunshots, death of an animal, death of a character, slight violence, kissing, lots of touching, albert camus mention, so many thoughts :)))

word count: 895

notes: ngl this stuff hits hard, even if I do say so myself - k just needs some love poor guy :( also thank you @laff-nelson for requesting, i really enjoyed writing this! hope you like ittt <3

“Don’t - you don’t have to do this, I know you can-“

“I’m sorry.”

There was a void look on Officer K’s face when he shot the old replicant down, and watched his body thud on the floor. 

The chained dog on the side started to howl, scratching at the floor to get closer to its dead owner. It was thin, barely skin and bones, but it seemed loyal.

He has a pet, I’ve gathered, he remembered Lt. Joshi saying. If you see it, kill it.

The dog seemed to know it’s end was near. It ceased to bark and looked up at him. It looked as if it was begging.

He raised his arm with practised aim.

If you see it, kill it.

K didn’t mean for his eyes to close when he shot the animal.

_______________

“Your baseline is admirable, but not your best, K.”

K lowered his head. “I apologize, ma’am. I-“

“Was it because of the dog?”

There was silence. K looked up, only just meeting Joshi’s eyes. He opened his mouth to reply, but she spoke before he could.

“You’re a fucking Blade Runner, K,” she said, staring rather uninmpressedly at him. “This is pathetic.”

K’s skin prickled. A heavy feeling of guilt weighed down in his stomach. He didn’t divert his gaze, but only because he was far too ashamed to do anything.

He didn’t like being disappointing her in any way. It hurt. That was the only way he could describe it.

For a moment, he felt like the dog he killed.

Obedient. Loyal. Docile.

At the mercy of his owner.

“I apologize, ma’am,” he said again, but quietly.

Joshi waved a dismissive hand. K nodded, and exited the office.

________________

K was tired.

Tired of what, he wasn’t sure. But he could feel the exhaustion heavy on his shoulders, in his mind, his synthetic joints sore.

K unlocked the door to his house and stepped in, noticing only the dining area’s lights were switched on. He peeked, and saw you sitting at the table, reading something.

You looked up from the book and when your eyes met his, your face lit up in a way that caused his heart to flutter, his shoulders to relax, lips automatically pulling into a smile that spoke to yours.

“Hey,” you said, keeping the book aside and walking over to him. 

“Hi.”

You observed him for a moment, and he knew nothing escaped your scrutiny, but he hoped you wouldn’t say anything.

And you didn’t, only reaching to remove his coat, placing it on one of the chairs, before giving him another one of your lovely smiles.

“I’m not hungry today,” he said, glancing at the utensils on the table. “Is that alright?”

You looked taken aback, but nodded. “Yeah, of course.”

“I’m gonna get a shower.”

“Okay.”

He kissed your temple, before walking to his room.

_________________

When K stepped out of the shower, he felt bad.

He’d gone over the conversation he’d had with you earlier, and he was sure he’d been unnecessarily rude, and crisp.

You were always there for him. It wasn’t fair for him to do that.

He could see you sitting in bed, still reading the plainly covered book, and his breathing eased.

K removed the towel round his waist and threw it on the bed, before changing into his clothes that you had got him a few days ago, telling him it would be comfortable to wear while sleeping.

He crawled into the covers beside you, hand instinctively taking yours.

You squeezed it and leaned into him, placing your head on his shoulder.

“You seem to really like the book,” he said. “What is it?”

“The Stranger, by Albert Camus,” you replied, as you closed it and kept it under your pillow. “It’s an old book.”

“Hmm.”

You got closer to him, sitting up straighter, letting his arm rest on the covers over your thigh. 

You seemed to be drinking him in, your gaze drifting over his face. 

“You alright?” you asked casually. 

K nodded, managing a smile.

You smiled back, but your eyes were still concerned.

I don’t think you are, they seemed to say.

K couldn’t help but wonder at times like these how you ever ended up here, with him, in his house. He wondered why you loved him so much, a replicant with bloody hands, a synthetic being made to obey. 

How you, a human, ever found him, a skinner to be enough for you.

But then your hands glided across his cheek to stroke his hair so lovingly, so gently, and every such doubt disintegrated, his mind only aware of your touch, your affection.

“K,” you whispered, a soft plea. 

Things like this made him feel real.

When his fingers found purchase in your hair, pulling you close enough that your bodies were pressed against each other, he felt real.

When his mouth pressed against yours in a soft yet feverish kiss, his lips tingling with heat, he felt real.

When he heard you mumble "oh," and clutch onto the neckline of his shirt, head tilting into the kiss, nails faintly scratching against his skin, he felt real.

When he felt your arms wrap around his back and embrace him like he meant the world to you, he felt real.

Every fibre of him felt real.

And he could never thank you enough for that.

tagging: @laff-nelson @hollandstrophyhusband @hollandsbabygirl @zsuo @bimbocoreblonde @barbiehandlrr @fleursial @officer-kd6 @webbo0

[reginasbread]

Chrisjen Avasarala, heroine in a duster.

In the previous post about Chrisjen's clothes, I promised to talk more about this duster. It feels like it was a well-thought-out choice. The whole outfit was.

Why a duster? It was a coat primarily worn by horsemen to protect their clothing from dust. That slit in the back is what's left from it - it was useful while horse riding. Later, it was worn by people driving cars or riding motorbikes. Then it entered the world of fashion like everything else.

When it comes to fiction, a duster coat initially was just a standard cowboy costume. Makes sense with all horse riding they do. Later, it became a statement. Heroes and antiheroes started wearing them, the characters who had something important to do, who were on a mission, who drove the story forward.

We see protagonists wearing dusters in Doctor Who, Firefly, Blade Runner, etc.

Back to Chrisjen. There was no practical reason for her to wear a coat like that to the office in season 5. It's not like she was planning to travel anywhere (I'm not opposed to the idea of her riding something. Bring it on). Chrisjen's scenes in this blue duster were a turning point for her - she lost everything, saved Earth, and started becoming the fearless and compassionate leader we see in later episodes. Let's not forget that the whole outfit is blue - an Earther on a mission. Her leather duster is finished with embossed details. Fancy!

Underneath, she's wearing leather pants and a gold on blue swirl leaf patterned waistcoat. This is also the beginning of her g̶a̶y̶ dandy phase I mentioned in the previous post. She's even wearing a chain. Accessories like this started as pocket watch chains. They are sometimes called Albert chains because Prince Albert loved them and made them popular.

Her jewellery tells another story. She's wearing a set from Extasia - cameo and intaglio pressed glass necklace with bronze chain, Goddess Aurora earrings and acorn and oak leaf ring.

We could talk about symbolism here, but I'll spare you this essay. Just think about Roman Empire, strength, power, justice, and endurance.

This outfit has its counterpart in season 6. I'm planning to compare them because I have no chill.

[wa-weirwood]

Blade runner fashion so so cool… often times cyberpunk misses the PUNK part, but you can see the influence in the costume design here especially on the street extras with their sometimes startlingly garish colors and oft mismatched accessories. Love the mix of sleek shiny metallics and leathers and huge silhouettes with massive coats, just a beautiful vision of everyday street fashion and high end luxury looks for a new future.

[delta-queerdrant]

where are your troubles now? forgotten? (Resistance, s2 e12)

(POV you’re watching the Barbie intro but it’s Star Trek screenwriters. Please indulge me.)

Once, in another century, there was a show called Star Trek Voyager. (Cue 2001: A Space Odyssey music.) A lady and two dudes created it. Occasionally other ladies cowrote episodes. But by the time Season Two rolled around, there were not so many ladies. Actually there was just Jeri Taylor, and by god she tried. But one lady cannot be all things to all people.

Then in November 1995, a great miracle happened. A new lady was hired to write a teleplay. It was fresh, inventive! Something was happening!

Her name was (music crescendos)

L I S A K L I N K

I don’t know much about Lisa Klink, except that “Resistance” marks the beginning of her multi-season involvement in Voyager, and that she was a five-time Jeopardy winner. (I do not watch Jeopardy, I would not be good at Jeopardy, but Jeopardy people are nevertheless my people.) Mostly I know that I turned on “Resistance” and, despite my general disinterest in the show’s production history, immediately asked: who the FUCK wrote this?

“Resistance” is not a perfect episode, but after half a season of flailing, it is a revelation. Klink, writing the script for a story by Michael Jan Friedman and Kevin J. Ryan, has a clear vision of what Voyager can be - a show that’s grounded, emotionally resonant, and trusts its actors. 

I am partial to the gritty, Blade Runner-inflected, Firefly/BSG brand of science fiction television, so when we started in media res, our heroes in civvies doing deals in an outdoor market, I died and went to cyberpunk heaven. (Neelix’s coat alone is worth the price of entry.) Instead of swanning across the galaxy like tourists in a slightly under-resourced cruise ship, the Voyager gang are finally the scrappy underdogs they ought to be.

This is our second Janeway episode of the season, and the first episode, perhaps of the series, that really gives her a character mandate beyond “strong but feminine captain who loves her dog.” Mulgrew has her work cut out for her, acting against JOEL FUCKING GREY, but they’re both marvelous. Waking in the home of the enigmatically batty Caylem (in a claustrophobic sequence whose stagey absurdism recalls a Beckett play), Janeway slowly grows to understand that Caylem, who’s decided she’s his daughter, might be her best ally for escape. The growing emotional connection between the two is so tender and understated; as a writer, Klink has mastered the light touch.

Janeway and Caylem end up collaborating with the local resistance movement to rescue Torres and Tuvok, who have been imprisoned by the lawful evil overlords of this world. Our characters genuinely feel like they are in big trouble! Torres and Tuvok’s prison stint is rough. (I did enjoy B’Elanna’s beatnik dissident prison garb. She looks like it is approximately 1956 and she is a French student who has been arrested for throwing a baguette at a cop.)

The only weak sequence is the prison break itself, which feels too easy and relies on a tired “sex worker disguise” subterfuge. But the ending is so satisfying and will break your heart.

Once Janeway’s back in uniform, it feels like we’ve truly been on a journey, one that brings to mind iconic episodes like “The Inner Light.” Voyager is a long way from home, and I want these characters to go through transformative experiences. The boldness of this episode gets us a little bit of the way there.

A radical reimagining of Voyager, and the best episode of season two in my estimation. I award this one 4.5/5 melon hats.