#or at least kill any memory of his life and the ‘’kind of animal’’ he is

[even-disco-baby]

I love the way you write Volition. You get all the skills in the exact way that I can hear their voices from the game in my head saying what you write, but Volition feels like a shot of dopamine every time it shows up.

Idk how to really put it into words. It's the one skill I've seen so far that seems to not be eerily similar to the actual game, but in the sense that it feels like it's because Volition is at a place where he and Harry are trying to cope with life instead of just getting the job of the game done, if that makes any sense. Volition if the game wasn't focused on the murder plot and all that

Ohhhh… 🥺 thank you, that makes me pretty happy to hear tbh. And also made me realize why I feel like my Volition tends to veer a little from how it talks in the game LOL it’s true, these vignettes aren’t rlly case related, they’re just moments I wanted to see between Harry and the other characters in Martinaise. So Harry and Volition’s talks are more just introspection.

And well Volition in the game is sort of hard to pin down for me, like… sometimes it’s an almost paternalistic voice, other times it’s more like a plea? Like the Volition lines from the game that have stuck with me the most are when Harry gets shot and Volition says in such a scared voice, “Don’t go into shock! Hold on!” And also after the dream sequence in the flak tower if you wake up alone and half light is like “fuck this life and fuck this body, just fucking go” and Volition says, “Harry… I know there’s not much to say, but if nothing else, just remember that you’ve made it this far. And it’s just a bit further now. Let’s finish this.” Or how when Harry feels ashamed of pawning off his gun, thinking it was probably for money to buy liquor, Volition is the one that points out he actually did it so that he couldn’t kill himself, like reassuring him that even if it wasn’t a great call, it kept him alive. Like… I dunno. Those more vulnerable Volition lines are my most memorable ones, so ig that tends to come through when I write the talks with Volition. The case is like the main thing that gives Harry a reason to keep his mind off his woes and focus on moving through each day (and I forget which skill pointed out that the rush of solving a case is what he lives for), so it’s what Volition keeps drawing his attention to in the game, but more broadly it’s the voice that asks him to stay alive… that’s how I think of it, anyway. Volition my beloved… I’m glad to hear it’s a dopamine hit to read SJSHDJDJ it’s sorta embarrassing to admit but the talks between Harry and Volition seem to end up being conversations with myself, whether or not I intended it.

[mouwrites]

Thinking thoughts about these guys again

Creepypasta/MH - Things That Make Them Think of You

Characters: Jeff the Killer, Jane the Killer, Clockwork, Nina the Killer, Tim/Masky, "Ticci" Toby

Jeff the Killer

Violence. Specifically, committing it

I know that sounds bad, but he gets so high off of that stuff

The adrenaline rushing through his veins, the wild smile that comes to his face, the noise, the sights... it's euphoria for him

And when he reaches his peak, endorphins at maximum saturation, that's when he thinks of you

It's almost like he subconsciously asks himself if there's anything in the world that could make him happy like this, and his subconscious responds by conjuring an image of you

As if he couldn't get any happier, thinking of you just pushes him higher

This happens a lot...

He'll be killing someone, already over the moon, then he'll blast to Mars when he thinks of you

And he starts associating you with violence; even if you're the gentlest person in the world

It's the happiness it brings him that links it to you

Though if you're a psycho (affectionate) like him, there might be another reason he associates it with you lol

It just gets worse over time; eventually he can't even see other people committing violent acts without thinking of you

He'll be watching a horror movie, and blood will splatter the screen and he'll be like: Nice. Y/n's nice too. Y/n... <3

Jane the Killer

Quite the opposite of Jeff; it's the quiet moments that get her thinking of you

(my reasoning is confusing but I'll try my best to explain T-T)

And there are two reasons for this

One, because whenever she gets a moment to think to herself, her brain always wants to think of you first

Maybe it's just hunting that hit of dopamine it gets when she imagines your smile, or the way your hands feel in hers...

Or maybe it's just that it's become a habit for her to think of you so often, so it's second-nature that she does so when she gets the chance

But the second reason is that she loves peace, and you are her peace :)

She's a vengeful person with a lot of turmoil inside, so when her environment is peaceful, she tries to follow suit

She's just taking what she can get before she has to go back to hate and obsession

So she imagines the peaceful things in her life

Namely, you

Even if you're not a very peaceful person, she feels at ease when she's with you

So, when it's quiet, she thinks of you to quiet herself

Memories of forehead touches and holding hands are more than enough to fill the silence :)

Clockwork

Literally everything.

I’ve mentioned this in a previous post, but Clockwork will find the most random things that remind her of you

She’s got a very creative mind; she can find the subtlest of things that make her think of you

Oftentimes they’ll be disturbing things…. Like a dead animal or smth

But she gets a little smile when she thinks of you anyway :)

She’ll probably send you a picture of whatever it was that reminded her of you

So you’ll just get a text out of nowhere like:

[picture of a dead wasp] “thought of you <3”

After a while you’ll learn to just not ask

Because you’ll definitely get one of these texts AT LEAST every other day, if not every day

Sometimes they’re actually nice things though! Like a song or a pretty sunset :)

Or something she saw while shopping that made her think of you; she always makes sure to steal …obtain those things

And ofc she gifts them to you 😌

Nina the Killer

I think it depends on your aesthetic

To me, Nina is someone who’s very in tune with aesthetics

Even if yours is super niche, or it doesn’t fit under a specific category like “emo” or “butch” or even “clowncore,” she’s got it DOWN

And so it’s always things that fit your aesthetic that make her think of you

Maybe it’s a view: a dark forest, a bright sunset in your favorite color, a sunny park, an eerily empty sidewalk…

Maybe it’s clothing: pants, shirts, dresses, jackets… always the exact kind of thing you’d wear :)

Maybe it’s music: she listens to music like. All the time. So she’s definitely at least dipped her toes into a genre that’s so totally you

Or maybe it’s something miscellaneous: a pop tart flavor, a blanket, a picture, the color on a soda dispenser…

No matter what it is, you’re guaranteed to love it

She always manages to surprise you with yet another random thing perfectly suited to your aesthetic

And she’s always on the hunt for more >;)

If it’s something she can physically bring to you, you best believe she will though

And if you decide you hate it (you won’t, but maybe later when your aesthetic changes), you guys light a bonfire and burn it together :)

Tim/Masky

It’s a Polaroid picture of you

He’s not in the picture; it’s just you

The flash is on, illuminating you and leaving the background in dark obscurity

He took it himself one night when he was just enamored with the way you looked

He did it casually, just telling you to look at the camera

The rest was all you; maybe you smiled, maybe you threw up a peace sign…

Whatever you did, he felt it captured your essence perfectly

He stared at the photo for a long time after it came out, and he still stares at it frequently

He carries it deep in his wallet where no one can find it

He’ll pull it out when he needs to think of you, usually when he’s especially down

Which is pretty often, my boy is troubled :(

He’ll trace his fingers around the edges, remembering that night

Your voice fills his ears, your scent fills his nose, and suddenly he’s aching to see you in person again

And he will; he’ll probably call or text you soon :)

“Ticci” Toby

Honestly? Probably something super obscure related to some kind of inside joke between you two

I’ll paint an example

Maybe you two were in the kitchen together, and you wanted him to get out the milk for you

But you ended up calling it a “mug of jilk” instead of a “jug of milk”

Toby, of course, bursts into laughter

He teases you for ages afterwards, calling milk “jilk” and always pointing out jugs of milk with a knowing grin

You’re in on it too though

You always snicker whenever he does those things

Maybe that’s why it becomes so special to him; it amuses the both of you

He gets to laugh and hear you laugh :D

So (in this case) he’ll think of you whenever he sees a mug of j (oh gosh oh no you guys got me too) jug of milk

And he probably takes pictures to send you too

You’ll just get a text that says “jilk mugs spotted ‼️” and a picture of the milk aisle at the grocery store

He likes to imagine your laugh when he sends texts like those :)

Thank you so much for reading!! Take care my lovey doves <33

(divider by saradika)

[bitten-fruit]

Houndtooth | ⇦ Chapter 8 ⇨

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut

18+ mdni - cw: physical violence - 4.8k words

𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐭

Your hunter isn’t as subtle as he thinks he is.  

He’s not subtle, when his blackened lids droop heavy over his burrowing glare, shifting from disdain to a dark hunger; potent enough to taste, hot and salty. When he adjusts his position in his seat, mammoth thighs spread in egotism, as he bucks his pelvis and leans back to find greater comfort while he indulges in the sight of you. When he sucks his teeth in feigned contempt at your proposition, masquerading as a stoic hunter only interested in the kill – and not the kind that plays with his food.  

The atmosphere between his body and yours has suddenly become heavy. Warm and dense. Weighed down by some mutual cognisance, the sudden awareness that you can read the animal instinct that runs through his mind, and he yours. You feel it in your chest. 

It was a quick and sore distraction, at least, from the revelation of your husband’s true nature. You knew of his tendencies, you caught wind of his exploits. Had some vague understanding that it was illegal, that it operated in the shadows – but you had convinced yourself his money was plucked from deserving pockets. That his industry only stained white collars.  

You’ve been blind. Too focused on the only little world he granted you, your glittering snowglobe, uncaring and uninterested in what he had to do to afford you. But, to give yourself grace, what could you have done?  

Your husband was a smart man. Shrewd. Cunning. There were no feminine wiles you could have employed, no means to mould nor manipulate him, beyond a request for a newer sports-car or a softer mink coat. There was a prescribed window within which you could operate, only a few strings you could pull. To venture outside would have been to seek dire punishment.  

And now he’s dead. Not smart enough to avoid that, was he?  

Whatever love you once felt for him, whatever twisted desperation you had mistaken as affection, has soured into bile. Any fond memory now mutated into some depraved reproduction, ugly and horrid.  

Now, you’re forced to face whatever pitiful life might await you. You’re forced to wonder whether or not he wrote you into his will, left anything in your name for you to survive on – and after his tirade of bitter abuses leading up to his unceremonious death, you sincerely doubt it.  

What is there left for you? 

You truly, truly, have nothing. Not even the faint optimism that you have at least experienced love and luxury in your short and bitter life. All has been tainted. Nothing sacred remains.  

So what now is there left to do but to entertain your abductors? To oblige whatever use they have for you? The only alternative is to give up and await your execution. If it gets to that, you hope it’s quick.  

Not ready to die yet, though, you decide to entertain him.  

“What use, then,” you utter, barely louder than a whisper.  

He leers at you through the shadowed pits of his mask. Dark eyes sharper than piercing bullets, they fire at you, warm the areas of your body that they linger on. Clouded and distant, plainly distracted. 

You know what he’s distracted by. You could see, feel him undressing you through his glare alone. 

He bounces his knee, crosses his arms. Impatient, is he?  

Maybe he just needs you to offer one more time. Give him one more excuse.  

Why are you considering it so heavily? 

“Do you want to go home, Mia?” There’s a thickness in his tone. Not a sincere offer. You foretell a catch.  

The image slithers back to you of that convulsing sentry, choking on his own foaming blood, pleading wordlessly for you to put him down. Just as vivid and squelching as when you had been confronted by it in the bowels of your mansion.  

“There’s too much blood to clean up,” you breathe, staring absently into the floor. 

“To England,” he clarifies through his jaw, “back to Nottingham.” 

Your heart skips. Rush of air escapes your lungs. He notices, quickly, he tilts his head as though to analyse your reaction.  

“You’d like that, eh?”  

Tongue is too heavy. Thoughts indecipherable. Fly through your mind in a blinding, strobing picture show. You hadn’t been home since you were a teenager. Can’t even remember the name of the street you lived on, wouldn’t want to if you could.  

“I…” you hesitate, “I don’t have a passport.” 

“We can get you a passport.” 

Through teeth. “How.” 

“Doesn’t matter how,” he grumbles, a slight roll of his eyes. “We can.” 

You bite the gummy inside of your lip, hoping you split the flesh; suckling at it for some comfort, maybe to pacify yourself for a moment of jittery contemplation. 

“For what,” you ask eventually, voice shaky. 

Fingers interwoven apathetically; he seems to ponder for a moment before he speaks.  

“You’re an asset,” he grunts, tone cold. “A valuable one.”   

You clench your jaw. “What, is it Victor’s money you want?” 

He almost chuckles at that, a huff of disdain. “No. I want the man who helped him get it.”  

“Who?” 

He pauses, tense and fuming, leans forward.  

“Vladimir Makarov.”  

Him again.  

The blood in your swollen head drains out through your neck at his mention. Fills your lungs, thick and dark, plugs your trachea and prevents you from sucking down another breath.  

Ever-observant, he sees that, too. “Familiar, is he?” 

A slow nod is the only answer you muster.  

“How familiar?”  

“Enough,” you croak.  

He squints, dissatisfied. Leans back in his seat. “Gonna need more than that.”  

“You already know who he is. You already know what he does.” You spit, but the quiver in your voice betrays you.  

“There's only so much intel we can get by drone or spy,” he disputes, a severity woven through his words. You can see his fuse burning short. “You know him personally, don’t you?”  

A second to breathe. Two. His questioning, his presence, is suffocating. You stare knives into the floor, wrestling with an amorphous terror that you fail to conceal behind your cracking veneer of bravery.  

He shifts forward slowly, a prowl. Hunting. “Don’t you?”  

“I don’t... I don’t know him well,” you breathe. “He worked with Victor. That’s all I know.”  

“Careful, Mia,” he murmurs, bitter and aggravated. “Don’t lie to me.” 

 You swallow quietly. “He, um. He visited the house a lot.”  

“For what.”  

“Victor would have him over for, for meetings. Not just Vladimir, other men too. But he, uh, he made himself at home. I think he worked more closely with Victor than the others, though. Victor didn’t like him.”  

“They didn’t get on?”  

Cautiously shaking your head, you keep your eyes glued to him. “They were professional. I don’t... I don’t know the details. Victor never said so, um, but I could tell. He would always be in a shittier mood when they had to work together.”  

Riley licks his teeth, crosses his arms as he chews on his next question. “What about you,” he grumbles. “What did you think of him.”  

“He...” you hesitate, glower darting away from him, you stare into the fluorescent bar above him. “I didn’t like him either.”  

“You spoken to him?”  

He must be able to see your shakiness, your jittery disposition, as you bite words out like they’re too thick to fit in your mouth, burn your tongue. “I avoided it.”  

“But you did.”  

An anxious sigh escapes you. “Yes.”  

“Civil?”  

“I was polite,” you murmured. “I was always polite. I had to be.”  

“What’d he think of you?”  

You chew your tongue. Pick at your fingernails almost viciously enough to draw blood. “I don’t think he thought of me at all.”  

Again, he bounces his knee. Fuse burns shorter. “Am I going to have to show you what happens when you lie, Mia?”  

“No–” you squeak, hands landing flat on your knees as if you had been called to attention. “I – I’m sorry. I... he, uh. As far as I could tell he didn’t dislike me. He – he would’ve... he would’ve made it known if he disliked me.”  

“How so?”  

“He has a... a short temper.”  

“He would’ve hurt you?” 

Your jaw tightens, stare at him not breaking. “What do you want me to do,” you utter through your teeth. “Why are you asking me about him.”  

He tilts his head, as though in thought. “I want a quid pro quo.”  

“What’s the quo,” you shiver. 

“You’re going to host your husband’s wake,” he insists, stern as if reminding you that you have no say in your fate. “And you’re going to invite him. All of them.”  

You fall silent. Fall still. Heart thunders in your chest, it aches hot with exertion. You shake your head cautiously, a reflex. “No.”  

Refusal hurtles from your throat with an intensity that startles you; by turn a plea and an avowal.  

“No?” He snarls, a quirk of his head – you’re yet unsure if you had surprised him or infuriated him.  

“No – I – I can’t,” you stammer, vigorously shaking your head in dispute. “I can’t.”  

He scoffs. “You don’t have a choice.”  

Hands grip the edge of the mattress you sit on, bunching the foam in claws, white knuckles, you hyperventilate so vigorously that you feel yourself spinning. “I can’t. They – you don’t understand. They’re–” 

“You know what’ll happen to you,” He growls, suddenly seethingly aggravated. “If you don’t cooperate.” 

Through sore tears you scowl, lips curling, betraying the thunderstorm of turmoil behind them – terror, anguish, fury.  

“There is nothing, nothing you can do to me that could be worse than what they will do. Nothing,” you seethe, enervated voice shaky and pitiful. “They... without Victor, they’ll...” 

“Think you’ll be spared anything here?”  

Through a laboured breath, flared nostrils, a tear trickles into the corner of your mouth, salty on your tongue. “You’re not the one I’m scared of.”  

“That’s a mistake,” he fumes, as he stands up from his seat – stalks towards you slow. Threatening. “I don’t keep prisoners, Mia. If you’re not useful, you’re deadweight.”  

Looking down on you menacingly, he hangs his burly arms by his side. They twitch, he stretches out his fingers before clenching them into fists; a warning. A reminder of how they can hurt you. “I’ll kill you myself.”  

Steadfast, you don’t shift as you glare up at him; boring into those dark eyes, pools of black tar in the darkness cast by his shadow.  

“Then kill me,” you croak. “I’d be better off dead.”  

Ghost lights himself a cigarette the second he barges out of your cell, catching glimpse of you through the miniscule steel-mesh window in the door. You lie down on the deteriorated mattress, curl up, face the wall like you can hide there.  

Better off dead.  

Maybe you’re right.  

He’s well aware of what fate will befall you if he doesn’t put a bullet in your head. Even honourable soldiers will inevitably seek the warmth and comfort they can take from you. Will use you to sate their hunger after weeks, months, of fighting in the barren snow and washing off the indelible blood.  

You think you’re safer here, cooped up in a locked cell, out of reach; than back in the anarchy of your Russian circle of warlords. Here you’re surrounded by the gun-wielding puppets of powerful governments. But their laws won’t protect you. Not here. Nothing will.  

He’ll give you time to think it over. Let you come to your senses.  

Because he’d prefer not to kill you. Not out of any particular compassion, he tells himself, not because he would find it difficult to do so. No, instead, because he had been the one to suggest your abduction at all. The others would have left you amongst the strewed corpses of your guards. Would’ve shot you dead if you screamed too loud. That likely would’ve been the more altruistic approach, but Ghost knew you were not an innocent bystander. Knew you’d serve a valuable purpose.  

Now your value is running thin.  

Yet as he saunters down the empty hallway, to the beating echoes of his boots on vinyl-coated concrete, the image of you persists in tormenting him. The glint of your lips, the sheen of your cheeks, damp with fear and sweat. The strain of the fine tendons in your neck as you draw in your careful breaths. The lilt of your depleted voice, hoarse, pleading.  

Still he stares ahead as if he can see you there, standing winsomely in the tunnel; still he glowers at you with a ravening appetite, far beyond his control. 

Could you read his mind?  

He had seen you shift edgily. Lips part in apprehension. Knees press together. Fingernails dig into your thighs and inflict little red moons in their wake.  

Could you feel his hunger?  

He hopes you couldn’t. Hopes you can’t. Hates you for having any sway on him, for coaxing out whatever fucking animal sits behind his teeth and leers at you so shamelessly. Hates himself for losing his grip.  

Swirling the bitter smoke in his empty mouth, letting it pour from his nostrils, he marches to the gear room to grab his Goretex snow jacket. Needs to get some air. Needs the winter dawn to cool the burning heat that swells in the back of his neck.  

He’s out there for an hour. Silently thankful nobody bothers him, as he tucks himself against a wall near the back of the maze-like concrete compound. He sucks down three Russian cigarettes in his solitude, exerting every effort to focus on the war, the objectives, the strategies, the orders – and not you.  

After a long while, once the encroaching sun licks the sky a deep shade of lilac from behind the black horizon, he eventually cools off. Whatever flare had overwhelmed him finally settling into a simmer he can for now keep a handle on.  

So he heads to the Captain.  

Not sure yet what he’ll report to him. Admit that he has failed to convince you? That the very thought of you has infected him like some encephalitic disease, eating away at his mind from the inside out? 

He pushes down the rattling door handle and storms into Price’s makeshift office without knocking. Ghost doesn’t knock. He enters with impatience.  

“Fuck – Simon,” Price barks, startled by the Lieutenant’s arrival. He stands at his desk, leaning over a fraying map. “Y’really are a fuckin’ ghost, eh?”  

“She refused,” Ghost declares in a growl, curt and frustrated.  

“’Course she did,” the Captain dismisses uninterestedly, turning to lean on the edge of the desk.  

Crossing arms over his chest, Ghost licks his teeth. “She’ll change her mind,” he shrugs. “Give ‘er a couple days o’ this place, she’ll change it.”  

“We don’t have days, Simon.”  

“Then what’s your suggestion.”  

Price lets out a crude chuckle. “Graves had a couple.”  

Ghost grits his teeth. “What?”  

“Y’know the yanks,” the Captain snorts, “definitely their area of expertise.”  

“The fuck are you talking about.”  

“He said he could convince her,” he shrugs.  

Jaw clenches to the point of ache. “You know what that fuckin’ means, don’t you.”  

Price curls his lips into a thin line under the shadow of his beard. The same sort of expression that always betrays his own reluctance to do what he calls the dirty work. To the Captain it’s rational. Any cruelty is allowed when the ends justify the means. Pretends he’s too moral for filth even when he finds such humour in it. No, he can orchestrate the savagery, shift the pawns around on the board, so long as he needn’t witness it.   

“Frankly, Simon, I don’t give a shit what it means,” he grumbles, “if we get a spy out of her, doesn’t matter to me what it takes.” 

“Not like you to abide rape and torture, captain,” Ghost seethes, venom slick and pointed in his throat. 

“Mh, well, you made sure we had no other option when you shot her fucking husband.”  

“Piss off. He wasn’t gonna give us anything and you know it.” 

“You got cocky, Simon, that’s what happened,” the Captain chides, irritation flushing warm in his once jovial cheeks. “Happy to pull the trigger on our VIP but haven’t got the balls to beat some sense into his goddamn hooker.”  

“She knows shit all about the Konnis,” Ghost protested, rage only burning hotter. “Torturing her is a waste of time.”  

“Fuck’s gotten into you?” Price spits, “This sort of business is your M.O.”  

“My M.O. is getting the fuckin’ job done without collateral. Graves is a dog. He’ll only make a fuckin’ mess.”  

Price rolls his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Then go clean it up.”  

Ghost straightens his back, knuckles straining, fists trembling. “He’s got her now?”  

“Yes, Jesus. We’re on a fucking deadline, remember?”  

“Fuck’s sake,” Ghost snarls, immediately swivelling on his boot and ramming open the door with his forearm.  

“You’d better have a backup plan, Simon.” Price barks after him, but his hoarse command is cut short but the deafening bang of the slamming door.   

~

Cement melts beneath his boots as he thunders through the intestines of the compound. Wool of his balaclava traps the steam that he exhales with each ragged breath.  

Stalks like a wolf. Dark red of shuddering blood pulses thick and hot into his vision; encroaches his periphery until the remaining pinpricks of acute sight turn to crosshairs. Knows his target, can smell him from here.  

Can hear him, too. Hears that blustering, cocksure laughter reverberating through the clinical halls, muffled by the thick door that keeps you trapped at his leisure.  

Ghost’s fury is rational. It always is. There’s always some detached, intellectual justification for his explosive reaction to whatever it is, slight or significant, that inflames him. This time, it’s imprudence. Stupidity. Arrogance. The stupid fucking privateer will lay ruin the meticulously considered strategy Ghost has been weaving since he caught you.  

There won’t be even a dream of coerced espionage if you’re covered in bruises and bleeding from flesh wounds and violated orifices. If you’re too shaken to even utter a sensical word to the very men you’ll be wringing information from.  

But Graves has no sense of subtlety. Blindly follows his depraved impulse like a spoiled little boy. The kind of disturbed kid that picked the legs off insects, would throw kittens into firepits just to hear them howl. He’d happily drop nuclear bombs on an entire city if it meant a confirmed kill of a single target. Ghost finds himself sordidly repulsed that Price is growing desperate enough to give the fucking dog a bone. To embolden him by allowing him to experiment with your suffering.  

Can hear your noises now, too.  

Not quite screaming, broken cries as though holes had been torn in your throat. Sore and wet. He sees the door to your cell, painted muted teal and chipping around the handle, scratches where keys had cut through the varnish.  

His handgun now nestled in his palm, didn’t consciously notice that he had pulled it from where he had left it tucked in the back of his trousers. Par for the course that the dumb fuck had left the door unlocked. Done Ghost the favour of letting him hurl his boot into the door and kicking it open in a single blow.  

You let out an anguished squeal following the thunderous whack of the door, as it flies open and slams into the cinderblock wall. Not the crashing door that made you scream, though – instead, the closed fist that had just been thrown into your cheek, narrowly missing your eye. Loud and vicious enough to be heard amongst the commotion, the tender crack of bone hitting bone.  

His flaming eyes land on you. 

In the centre of the cell, the arches of your bare feet graze the floor as you’re hung by a fist around your hair; held in a ponytail tight against your scalp, you dangle from it. Too close to the ground to stand on your own feet, too high to kneel. The red welts of your scratches scour the forearm of the man that suspends you, where you’ve tried to hold yourself up to spare your scalp from being torn from your skull like Velcro.  

It’s not Graves that dangles you. Too tall. No, instead, it’s one of his shadows. A myrmidon, muscle to no doubt prevent you from kicking the Commander in the fucking head again. Too much of a pussy to be by himself in the same room as you. Even as he tortures you. Pathetic fuck.  

The bootlicker that carries you is expendable. Disposable. Not Ghost’s comrade. It’s instinct as Ghost raises his gun. It’s reflex as he pulls the trigger, iron sights unconsciously aligned with the skull of the mercenary in black. He seizes before he drops, hot blood spitting in a geyser from the hole that the single bullet tore through his forehead.  

You tumble down with him, erupt out a bonechilling scream of terror as you hold your arms over your head to protect yourself. You scurry, slipping in the blood as you attempt to crawl to the corner of the cell. Only then does he notice your cruel nudity, the rags of your soft negligée left in pink confetti where it had evidently been cut from you.  

Ghost’s fury is quickly redirected to the Commander, then, who merely gawks in the moments it takes him to register the sudden series of events that had erupted before him. The consequences of his actions.  

“What the fuck!” He roars, gesturing with open palms in confused horror at the twitching corpse of his henchman.  

Ghost points the end of his gun at him, jutting it; not to aim, but to emphasise his anger. “You’re a reckless fucking idiot, you know that?”   

“Jesus – what the fuck is wrong with you?” Graves rages, shaking out the fist he had used to pummel you, before wiping his forehead as though he had overexerted himself. “I was following your captain’s orders.”  

“Yeah? Did the captain order you to fuckin’ strip her?”  

“Oh fuck off, you know the playbook, Riley,” he barks, a furious vein bulging in his forehead as he spits out his curses. “You’re not some champion of morality because you leave her fucking clothes on.”  

Therein lies the opportunity that Ghost savours so fondly. One that has him foaming at the mouth. An excuse. An excuse to lunge at the American mercenary, to hurl the butt of his handgun into the side of his head with a crack. Graves narrowly dodges the worst of the blow, instead the metal leaves a brutal scrape in his forehead.  

So Ghost follows it with a launch of his calloused fist into his cheekbone, an uppercut under his ribs, a roundhouse into his ear. God, he missed it. Sure, he’s thrown a punch or two in his uniform, wearing those padded gloves, impeded by a bulky helmet and a painfully cumbersome tactical vest. But why bother, how can one justify old-fashioned combat when they’re holding a heaving automatic rifle? 

It’s this he missed. Back to square one. He likes it raw. Meat hitting meat. Bone hitting bone. Bare, bruised knuckles pulverising rippling skin pulled tight over flesh, over and over, over and over. Thud. Thud. Thud.  

Gun cast aside, he doesn’t care where it had vanished to. Nothing but a red blur as the two men entangled into a bloody, fuming knot on the floor of the cell. A flurry of fists and elbows and boots; Graves landed his fare share, no dismissing that MARSOC training. But he didn’t have the decades of resilience that Ghost had built, layer by layer, fractured bone by fractured bone. No, Ghost can eat strikes to the head like fucking pudding.  

One final blow to Graves’s pig head ricochets the back of his skull off the solid floor with a whack, and he is swiftly decommissioned. Splutters blood from between his teeth and blinks vaguely at the ceiling. Ghost could keep going, fantasises about it – he’d find an abundance of pleasure in beating him to death. But, unfortunately, they need the Commander and his army of over-armed shadows. And, despite how much he yearned to, killing him over the abuse of a single prisoner would be, frankly – humiliating. An overreaction. A reflection of his lack of control.  

But Ghost has control. Tightens his leash, fastens his muzzle, as he pushes himself to stand with an aching hand on his knee. Maintains a violent glower down his nose at the American on the floor, who takes his time to recover. The beaten man grimaces, holding the back of his fist to his nose, smearing the dark blood that had poured from it.  

“Fuckin’ asshole,” he grunts; Ghost fights the urge to throw a kick into his ribcage.  

But instead he rolls his head to relieve the tension, hears the vertebrae in his neck crack with the stretch. With a clench of his jaw, a wipe of his brow, he returns his menacing glare to the American. Through a growl, he orders; “Get out.”  

Watches in huffing silence as he takes his time to stand, using the wall to get himself up and leaving a bloody print on the white paint. Once up, though, he does his best to conceal his injury. Elbows past Ghost as he marches towards the cell door, hurling it open and storming into the hall.  

“Oi–” Ghost barks, as he lurches towards the corpse of the shadow bundled in the centre of the cell. Hoists it up, heavy and dense, he heaves it over his shoulder. Feels the hot blood poor from its bullet hole down his back. “Don’t forget this.”  

With a crude throw he tosses the cadaver into the hallway – it skids across the linoleum, leaving slippery smears of blood along the speckled blue vinyl before it bumps into the furthest wall.  

He grunts as he slams the heavy door, it crashes closed with an obnoxiously loud bang; before he’s left in the throbbing, hot silence. He takes a second to collect himself, to soften his ravaging breathing, to let the blood and sweat dry on his burning skin.  

As he turns, though, he notices the black pile of wool on the floor, amongst the splatters of blood and black skids of rubber bootsoles.  

His mask. Must’ve lost it in the fight.  

And then he hears a click, and a quiet, squeaking breath – from you. In the frenzy he had almost forgotten you were there, a spectator to all of it, the catalyst of his savagery. There you are. Back pressed up against the walls, knees tucked tightly to your bare chest.  

In your velvet hands sits his gun.  

You barely wrap your fingers around the handle, instead holding it like it’s a small animal, like you might coo at it to pacify it. It’s as if you hadn’t noticed him, your dripping eyes fixated keenly on the cold metal, balanced in your shaky grip.   

He can’t explain, nor justify, nor understand his confidence that you won’t aim the weapon at him. Instead, he concernedly anticipates that you might turn it on yourself. He steps towards you, languid but assertive, until he is standing over you.  

Holds out a careful hand, gestures with his fingers. “Give me the gun.”  

Your head raises only slightly, level with his knees, you stare blankly with a pained grimace as if you had forgotten who he was. Not as though you knew him at all, did you?  

But your red eyes trail up his figure, meticulously inspecting, until they eventually land on his face.  

And your features soften.  

That worried strain, the tense muscles of your face ease, brows curling into some sort of pitying daze. He can’t read anything beyond that, can’t tell what you might be thinking as your eyes flit between his features like you’re scanning him, hunting for some realisation or deeper understanding.  

But you won’t find anything, little thing. There’s nothing there.  

His face is just as hardened and scarred, just as obscuring, just as frightening as the skull-painted mask that has long annexed his jaded identity.  

You blink at him, one of your pretty eyes nearly swallowed by the mauve swell resulting from a fist to the socket. You reach upward, gun in hand, you present it to him. Clever girl.  

He takes it, tucks it into the back of his trousers. Chews on words he feels compelled to say to you, they’re dense and swollen in his mouth. Thank you. I’m sorry. Let me get you some clothes.  

But he swallows them. Goes to pluck his mask off the floor, flicking off the dust, before he tugs it over his head. Adjusts the thick wool over his nose, tucks it under his jaw.  

Your stare returns to the floor. You wrap your arms around your shins.  

“I’ll get you some water,” he grunts, short and murmuring, as he turns towards the door and leaves in bitter silence. 

He locks it behind him.  

Next chapter ⇨

[phantoms-world-and-more]

Danny big brother to damian

Danal is a prodigy, he can adapt to any situation, follow muscle movements with ease. He has a laid back, sassy and cheerful personality, and is the nicest person in the league, but you piss him off may god have mercy.

When damian was born Danal fell in love with him and became more of a caretaker than talia when it came to damian.

Whenever damian had trouble with a movement Danal patiently helped him, when he hit his 'why' phase as a child Danal was the only one who could be around him. He was the only one who could get damian to smile, damian adored Danal and wanted to be like him. Strong and deadly but that didnt stop him from being kind and helpful.

Ra saw that while yes Danal and him butt heads more often than not, he was far more perfect as an hair than damian and decided to use that.

He planned to execute damian in front of danny to break him. What he didnt expect was for Danal to interfear and take the killing blow for him.

Damian had to watch his big brother, the person who tought him what love is, cared for him, gave him the best training, and now Danal gave his life for his. Danal told him in his last words how much he was proud of him. How damian is stronger than he thinks and how loving him was worth it even if it got him killed.

Damian believes a peice of him died with Danal that day.

No one checked if danal was alive after the final blow, but if they did they wound see there was a little bit of life left on him, so when talia took Danals body to the Lazarus pit it did something else.

DAMIAN:

After Danals death damin became the most aggressive person in the league, attacking anyone who came to close or bad mouthed Danal

He has a box in his room with things Danal owned/ made together / gift from him

When Bruce took damian and introduced him as brothers to the rest of the batfam he lost it, started yelling saying that their not his brothers

Damian resents talia for not helping Danal or at least not stopping him

Damian hates Ra more than anything

After damian warmed up to the batfam he refused to call them brother, he called them family but not brother

Damian refuses to tell bruce that he had another son, as a form of punishment for not being there for him

Damian has a map of the stars because Danal loved space

Damian tries to incorporate Danals fighting style into his, but since he didnt learn much he failed alot of the time, whenever anyone asked about it they were met with a knife

Damian agreed with bruce on how to love and is more familiar with love, and it confuses everyone where he learned to love

Damian is fearsomely protective of anything to to with Danal

There are 2 days of the year that people leave damian alone no matter what Danals birthday and his death anniversary

Danal showed damiam pictures of different animals as a kid and thats why he loves them

After a few years damian learns to some-what accepts danals death

Damian refused to blam himself for danals death even if he believes it to be true, danal wouldnt want that

Danals last words ring in his ear " loving you is worth eveything little brother, even my life, I'll never stop loving you

DANAL /DANNY

Danal woke in the ghost Zone after talia put him in the Lazarus pit with no memory of before, but subsequent knowledge of everything before; knew how to fight/cook/write/read/ be assasin/ what the Lazarus pit is but dosent know how he knowes this or have any memories

Danny wanders around encouraging ghosts till he finds the perfect place for his lair and builds it

He finds the fenton portal and decides to go through it

He discovered his obssession was protecting people he cared about

He traveled between the ghost zome and human relm with a lot more subtlety than the other ghosts

During his years as amity park protector he discovered new powers, he can change into a human form, ice powers, duplicates, something similar to clockworks ability to see everything, ghostly wail and how to control it, how to make portals throught the infinite realms and alot more

He always felt like something was missing and after protecting amity for a while he made a truse with the other ghosts and decided to traved the infinite realms

For reasons he cant explain he continues to train his physical body in the martial art style he knowes

He loves animals for reasons he cant say and loves to play with them

He has more allies due to them knowing what his obssession is

[failyaoi]

do u have any silly takeda headcanons 2 share? ^_^

YES. YES I DO I’ve been waiting for this moment

My #1 (not mk1 exclusive): he got his hair genes from Suchin. (this is why I colour his hair a more blue-black colour, bc that’s how I colour Suchin’s hair while I like to give Kenshi’s hair a more brown tone.)

Has like 3 missing teeth either from sugar or fights you decide

Kenshi helped him pierce his ears and accidentally stabbed him with the needle like 5 times

He got his tattoos pretty much as soon as he could, while Kenshi had waited until he couldn’t anymore- Takeda wanted his entire life to be surrounded by the Yakuza, even though he wasn’t very sure what he was trying to prove 

When Takeda was younger, Kenshi saved up to get him braces. A few days later Kenshi woke up to see Takeda plucking them off with pliers 

I like to believe he kinda always saw Kenshi as a somewhat “father figure” . or at least someone he could look up to until he got older . though Kenshi was more strict with him the older he got . he followed Kenshi around in his first few months of officially joining the Yakuza

Always been kind of a nerd. he’s a fan of badly written movies,  arcade games, and anime but only really started allowing himself to indulge in those interests after a while at the Shirai Ryu Secretly a JC fan of course Has TERRIBLE memory . it's BAD Chronic nail biter, Kenshi has had to shove his hand away to stop him and eventually Kuai Liang had to do the same After spending time in the Shirai Ryu, he started to actually process the trauma he'd been through in the Yakuza and because of this developed terrible attachment/abandonment issues . like it was present before but repressed it for years until he didn't need to anymore and it was like the floodgates had been opened Frequently feels nauseous due to anxiety, which he inherited from Kenshi :'( he toughs through it tho Actually really loves drawing and I like to think he has a cute anime style . Hanzo asks him to draw stuff for him Actually RESENTED Kenshi for leaving the Yakuza. he felt like he was being betrayed, left behind and abandoned. he thought the Yakuza was their everything, their family. when he found out Kenshi didn't feel that way he felt like he was being lied to. That's why he accepted to kill Kenshi, but when he failed (and almost died) realising he would get killed for failing, he felt that hurt Kenshi made him feel when he first left all over again. and for a Jinkeda one, they collect Pokemon cards together

[stellar-constellations]

"You haven’t tried to kill or degrade me, and you're cute too!”

        Very curious! Low ranked demon! GN! (Y/N) x Aizetsu.

        (Y/N) has absolutely no memory of their human life.

        Chōrō is an original OC for plot purposes!

        (Y/N) eats human food to gain energy!

        (Y/N) has her own original breathing but it doesn't go into detail!

        (Y/N)'s demon life is similar to one for one of my Demon Slayer OC's (that I may or may not add onto Tumblr one day; still deciding).

        This is old and cringe, but I'm keeping this on my profile because it shows my progress as a writer.

        It must’ve been a few months since I’ve been a demon. I don’t know much about my human life, but I was once a demon slayer who killed demons. I was a tsuchinoe with much to learn, but I created my own breathing; Celestial Breathing.

        I was a stubborn and honest person. I followed what I believed was right and I did my best to help others, even if it didn’t always work out—at least, that’s what my human friends say.

        I visit this old lady, Chōrō, often. She gives me human food since it replenishes my energy instead of blood. My human friends are demon slayers, but they won’t kill me. I’m a exception to the slayer corps, just like my little demon friend Nezuko is. 

        I hide in big trees and warehouses in the day, but I usually go to Chōrō; she is very kind and lets me hide in her house. 

        I am a demon with no rank, a demon that could easily be killed if wanted since I have no name or significant importance. I help give the best information I can about That Man and the Uppermoons to the demon slayers, but once I no longer have connections with them, I am of no use.

        Death doesn’t bother me—I would enjoy it. I don’t want to be a demon. I don’t like having to hide from the sun, fight other demons, run from the humans, find a way to get money, or avoid the pretty glowing purple trees. But I don’t want to submit easily—it’d be insulting. 

        I don’t have any important relation with the Demon King. The last time I saw him, I was in the infinity castle, but I don’t know why. He explained what I was and what I had to do, then set me free in the world. I'm certain he was the one that turned me, but I'm unsure why.

        So far, I have run into three Upper Moons; one, two, and three. I don’t like Upper Moon One—he gave me a surprise test and was very mean to me, saying that I was a imposter and had no use, so I dislike him very much. 

        The second Upper Moon is very… special. He’s weirdly animated, loud, and a bit annoying, but I am on better terms with him then with Upper Moon One. He helps me train, honing my swordsmanship skills and Blood Demon Art (which appears to be my Celestial Breathing). 

        I only saw Upper Moon Three once, but he seems like a very irritable person, and I have a problem with people who like to berate me.

        I really like the animals in the world. I think my favorite is the wolf. They’re a little mean to me, but they don’t attack me, they just growl at me. However, sometimes when I stay very still and avoid eye contact, they will come over and sniff me. I will carefully hold a finger out and they’ll allow me to pet their muzzle. Sometimes they bite my fingers, but I understand they're just scared of me like how I am of humans.

        I also really like pandas. Pandas are fluffy and big. I can lay down on them. I really like to hold bamboo up and feed them. I ate the bamboo once—it wasn’t good. I don’t understand why the pandas like them but it’s okay because they’re cute and it leaves more for them to eat.

        Yes, I like pandas. I like to lay on them too. I’m laying on one now! His name is Boo. I probably won’t ever see him again, but I enjoy his company, and he doesn’t seem to mind mine, so we’re friends. 

        I was laying on his stomach as he ate a stick of bamboo, grabbing another stick nearby and waiting for him to finish his food, then holding it out in front of him.

        “Do you want more?” I questioned.

        He made a funny noise. I don’t speak panda. I assume it was a yes because he took the stick and starting chewing on it. 

        “You’re feeding the panda?” a voice questioned in front of me. 

        I tilted my head back to it’s original position, seeing a demon in front of me. It wore a blue stash, having coco skin and very pretty blue eyes. It had horns sticking out of its hair that was messy and black. It was also worth noting he had this purple vein-like pattern on his forehead. They looked and sounded like a guy; he was cute, but he looked sad.

        “I am! His name is Boo. Would you like to feed him with me?” I questioned, grabbing a stick of bamboo, offering the bamboo to the demon.

        “No thanks…” the demon spoke, his face remained a frown as he looked at me.

        “Boo is very nice, right, Boo?” I questioned, tilting my head backwards to look up and rest my head on his stomach. 

        He made a noise as it took the stick, resuming his meal.

        The demon remained silent, deciding not to talk any further, however he stayed staring at me.

        “Are you okay? You look sad.” I questioned.

        Usually I’m not so kind with demons or people in general, but whenever I see something I like or enjoy—like this panda—a flip is switched in me and I turn almost childish. I’ll regret my actions for this interaction later, but I won’t see this demon again. Besides, at least he’s not trying to fight me.

        “I am sad.” The demon admitted.

        I hummed, thinking. 

        “Would you like to talk about it? I promise I won’t tell anyone. I won’t judge either.” I offered. 

        “No thanks—I don’t think you’d understand.” The demon spoke.

        “I don’t think I’d understand either.” I smiled. “I don’t understand a lot of things around me, but it’s fun to learn. I might not understand you, but I can listen to you. I like it when someone listens to me.” I explained.

        The demon hummed, thinking to himself.

        “Are you a new demon?” he questioned.

        “I am.” I spoke. “I don’t eat humans; I eat human food. I learned that bamboo is not human food.” I informed him. “I suggest not eating the bamboo, it tastes gross, but Boo likes it. I don’t exactly understand Boo...” I spoke, tilting my head up as Boo finished his stalk, making a noise for more.

        “I suppose I could tell you...” The demon sighed, watching as I picked up a nearby bamboo stalk and gave it to Boo. “I am an embodiment of an emotion, so I can only really feel that one emotion. I share a body with six other clones, so they can really upset me sometimes.” The demon explained.

        I nodded, listening intently as I grabbed a bamboo stalk, offering it to him to make him feel better. He shook his head, rejecting the stalk. I shrugged and gave it to Boo.

        “I feel that I understand. Not in this life, but in my human one.” I explained.

        “You can remember your human life?” the demon questioned, seemingly intrigued despite having that frown on his face.

        “Bits and pieces. I get information from others about me sometimes.” I spoke. “I hope you at least feel a little better with me though.” I smiled, offering him another stalk of bamboo (to which he rejected yet again).

        “I still feel sad.” He sighed.

        “Hm…” I hummed, thinking. “What do you like to do?” I questioned. “I like seeing animals, and seeing my friends, and eating human food—human food tastes really good for me, unlike this bamboo.” I explained, then motioned for him to take the bamboo stick (he ignored it). 

        I don’t understand why he won’t accept the bamboo? The bamboo is currently making me happy since I can feed Boo, and I want to share my happiness with this demon. Oh well…

        “I don’t really like much things… I don’t have the free time to do indulge in hobbies.” He spoke.

        “Why not?” I questioned. 

        “I work for the Demon King.” He explained. 

        I nodded, making a mental note as I scooted closer to him, looking into his eyes. He looked at me, seeming to be uncomfortable as he slightly leaned back as I leaned closer.

        His blue eyes said Upper Moon Four, so he's not lying. 

        “I see.” I acknowledged. “That must suck for you—or not!” I quickly spoke, nervous to offend him. “I mean, I wouldn’t quite enjoy having little free time, but I respect it if that’s what you enjoy.” I smiled, offering him a stalk of bamboo as an apology.

        “I suppose it could be worse.” He hummed, then rejected the bamboo stick.

        I nodded, not seeing the conversation going anywhere else as I crawled back to my spot, leaning back and giving Boo the bamboo instead.

        “We don’t know each other’s names.” I pointed out. 

        “What’s the point of exchanging names? We’ll probably never see each other again. How sad…” he sighed.

        “Then let’s make sure to meet up again, so it's not sad!” I smiled. “I mean, you’re fun to talk to, you haven’t tried to kill or degrade me, and you're cute too!” I admitted.

        “Huh… cute…” He muttered, testing it out, as if not believing it.

        “Yeah.” I confirmed, then looked up at the stars. “So, would you uh… like to meet here tomorrow night?” I questioned nervously.

        Why is my heart beating so fast? It’s just a question. I thought to myself.

        The demon hummed, thinking to himself. “I supposed it wouldn’t hurt…”

        “Great, it’s settled!” I exclaimed, happy to know I’ve made a friend with a powerful being as I stood up. “My name is (Y/N), it’s been lovely talking to you.”

        “I’m Aizetsu.” The demon, Aizetsu, spoke.

        “Here, have this bamboo stalk. It’s a promise that you’ll see me again.” I spoke, then realized how stupid that’d be. “Y-you don’t have to keep if it you don’t want…”

        Aizetsu looked down at the stick and me, then finally taking it from my hands.

        “(Y/N)…” he tested the name out, having my full attention. “Thank you for making me feel less sad and…” he paused, then spoke. “I think you’re cute too…” he spoke, the frown remaining on his face, but I didn’t need to see a smile to understand that he also enjoyed our time spent together.

        He walked back into the forest from where he came from, leaving me and Boo alone.

        I immediately whirled around at Boo, excited as I let out a little giggle. “Did you see how cute he was? His eyes were so pretty! And he had such a handsome voice. His personality was so relaxing and adorable!” I gushed, running up to the panda and laying on him. “You agree, don’t you?” I questioned, giving him a stick of bamboo.

        He let out a noise that showed he agreed, as he does with most things I say.

        I like a lot of things in this world. I like the human food, the animals, the clothes, the stars, the old lady Chōrō, and the blue demon named Aizetsu.

Have any requests? Check my masterlist to see the characters I write for: Masterlist

[thelargefrye]

THE LONELY DEVIL ... one - shot (18+)

PREV | M.LIST

pairing : devil!seonghwa x human!f!reader

genre : smut, devil may cry inspired, angst, kind of lovers to strangers to lovers, unhappy ending

word count : 3.2k

warnings : language, murder, blood / body gore, choking, ritual sacrifices, stabbing, cutting hand open

smut warnings : unprotected sex, mommy kink, masturbation, blood as an aphrodisiac of some sorts

note : part of the mommy!may event by @whatudowhennooneseesyou

suffer with me tag : @sanjoongie ALSO thank you for reading it!

you were like a star, shining brightly and seonghwa feared that one day you would go out. so he made sure that would never happen.

everything about you pisses seonghwa off. from your cheery attitude, to your bright smile, your little cottage in the woods, and especially your meals that you prepare for the two of you. seonghwa hates himself for letting in fall in a rhythm with you. for potentially starting a life here with you in your cottage. he hates you.

or at least he wants to hate you. because no matter how hard he tries, he just can't. he wants to hate your cheery attitude, your bright smile, the little cottage, and your meals. he wants to hate how your body fits perfectly with his. how it presses comfortably against his own as you join together to become one.

he wants to hate how his cock fits perfectly inside of you and how pretty your breast look as the bounce while you ride him. he wants to hate it all, you're a human. weak and replaceable and he could easily kill you with a snap of his fingers. he's tried doing it before. managed to tackle you to ground, his hands wrapped tightly around your throat. your eyes watering as you tried to rip his hands away, but something stopped him.

the thought of seeing your lifeless body made him want to throw up. he felt a lump form in his throat as your face slowly change colors before he was finally releasing his hands as he slowly watch the ugly purple color fade from your face. you were trying to grasp for any breath you could as you moved away from seonghwa, using your nails to drag your body away from the half-devil. seonghwa noticed the fear in your tear-stricken eyes.

the fear he wanted to see on your face since he met. the fear that doesn't feel as good as it usually does.

"y/n..." his voice is emotionless as he calls out to you, but you curl into yourself and flinch when he tries to reach for you.

seonghwa knew he crossed a line that he will never be able to fix. he watched you as if you were a wounded animal, eyes watching him and his movements. that was when seonghwa decided it was time for him to go. "i'll be taking my leave and i will not be returning," he tells you as he goes to the yamato that rested peacefully against the wall by the door.

he gave you one last look before he turned on his heel and disappeared into the night, leaving you a sobbing mess on the floor. your heart laying broken as you watched the man you had feel in love with leave.

its not until a few years later that seonghwa still thinks about you everyday and how he yearns to go back to your small cottage, but he can't. so he sticks to the memory of you, but even the memory of you and your everything is beginning to fade.

but then one day he feels as odd sensation twist in his stomach. its unsettling and he hates that feeling that has sudden appeared. he knows that something is wrong with you, like some weird sixth sense that you are in danger. but are you really in danger or does his body just miss you.

the half-devil lets out an irritated sigh as he determines that he needs to go check on you. its been years since he last felt that ungodly twist in his stomach, similar to the one he felt all those years ago when he saved from those demons and falling off the cliff.

however, what he hopes for the feeling to subdue or disappear only increases when he approaches your cottage to find it ransacked and empty. no evidence of you, and that's when seonghwa knows the feeling of danger was true. whoever took you weren't demons, they weren't smart enough for that. no, it had to be humans, humans that would be dead as soon as seonghwa got his hands on them.

seonghwa would rather not admit how easy it was to track you down. your scent basically imprinted into his mind; however, against it he may be, he is grateful that's he's able to track you down nonetheless. your scent leads him to a large church with a statue of sparda, his father, standing proudly outside of it.

of course it would be cultist who worship his father. did they kidnap you because they somehow figured you had been in contact with one of sparda's children? or was it just pure coincidence? either way, they were going to die for touching you.

bursting into the church, seonghwa feels his anger bubble inside of him when he's greeted with the sight of you laid out before him and everyone else in the church on a stone table.

"ah! one of sparda's offsprings have come to us! the sacrifice will be complete and will be able to resurrect the great sparda!" the head of cult says and seonghwa grips the yamato tightly within his gloved hand before unsheathing it and pointing it at the head.

"you have about ten seconds to step away from the girl before i fucking cut your head off!" seonghwa threatens making the cultist laugh, seeing seonghwa's threat as empty.

seonghwa then feels the world around him slow down as he watches in horror at how the head cultist takes a decorative knife – something that would be used in ritual, and plunges it into your chest. seonghwa lets out a scream in anger before he's letting his rage take over him.

this of course only angers the half-devil even more before he moving and easily killing the head cultist, the head of the man slowly sliding off his body and to the floor before it rolls a few feet away from his body. blood squirts out, spraying seonghwa, your body, and anyone nearby before its toppling to the floor. the rest of the cult is in shambles as some are screaming and running while some are running in an attempt to hurt seonghwa. however, he easily cuts them until there is no left in the church.

seonghwa lets out one last sigh before he's turning back to look at you. his heart drops to his stomach as he drags his body back over to you, he looks down at you with terrified eyes as he notices that you are just barely breathing. taking the knife out of you, seonghwa is gently when he pulls you into his arms before he's collapsing onto the floor.

"y/n?" he calls out, doing his best to wipe the blood away from your face as he takes in how oddly peaceful you look. a cold chill runs down his spine as he cradles your face close to his. "i'm sorry," he says, kissing your cheek.

"h-hwa," your voice is broken and weak and it makes seonghwa want to cry, but he holds it back. "h-hwa is... that you?" you ask trying your best to turn to look at your lost lover.

"shh, it is me, i'm here," he tells you as he notices you let out a couch, blood running down your chin and seonghwa is quick to wipe it away.

"t-thank you... thank you, hwa," you tell him, your own eyes filling with tears when he finally gains the courage to look at you. it then that he realizes you're dying. dying because of him and his bloodline.

as he's holding your body close to him, its then that he realizes there is a way to save you. his is one of sparda's sons, if there's anything that could save you, it would be the exact thing that caused this mess.

his blood.

in quick movements, seonghwa is basically ripping his glove off as he's summoning the yamato to him. he then gently rest you against the stone table, propping your body against it, he notes how you have a dazed and dull look into your eyes. he's running out of time.

he doesn't even know if he plan will work, but something is better than watching you die before him.

"don't worry, y/n, i'm gonna take care of you," he says as he slices his head open in one quick motion before he's watching the blood slowly begin to surface. "here, y/n, open your mouth for me," he says and you weakly listen to you. thankfully your tongue is just poking out enough for where he can easily run your tongue across the open cut. his blood staining your tongue and seonghwa is urging your mouth close.

seonghwa can feel his heart thumping in his ears as he watches you, your eyes are half lidded and he tell that you're struggling to breathe. and he thinks that maybe his blood – sparda's blood – isn't working. then the dread of you possibly dying washes over him as he moves back over closer to you.

"y/n? hey, are you... okay?" he asks as he takes your face into his hands and turns you to face him.

"s-seong... seonghwa... it hurts," you say and seonghwa can tell you're struggling with just talking.

"it's okay, it'll be okay," he tells as he gently caresses your face. "listen... i'm–

"n-no... shh," you tell him as you weakly try to hit at his leg. seonghwa lets his hands drop from your face in order to pull you into his chest. "l-love you," you whisper almost like it was a breath.

"i love you too," seonghwa tells you. "i'm sorry for leaving that night," he adds on before lightly intertwining his fingers with yours.

"h-hwa," you breathe out and the half-devil feels your grip lighten in his hold. "i-i feel different. feel hot," you tell him as your hand slips out of his to fall into your lap.

"hot?" he repeats a little surprised by your words and watches as you weakly nod you head.

then as if suddenly, you're ripping yourself away from seonghwa. throwing your body away and across the floor away from him as you let out a wretched scream that shakes your lover to his core. he notices how your hair begins to a stark white like his own and he wonders if his blood is finally starting to work.

"s-seonghwa," you look at the half-devil in front of you with half lidded eyes before you're reaching out to him. "s-seonghwa... my, my body– it-it burns," you say and that's when seonghwa notices how suddenly sweaty you are and he reaches over to feel your skin to notice how hot it is.

he feels a sense of panic raise in him as he takes your form in. no longer lifeless; however, there's a flush color decorating your skin as he watches you begin to tug at the dress you're wearing.

"i-it's hot, seonghwa, fuck– fuck, so hot," you groan out with a huff as continue to pull at your dress. seonghwa also notices how your hair color is changing more and more, and how your eyes have a red glow to them.

"p-please help me, m-mommy, please touch me," you say and seonghwa feels his dick twitch at the name you just called him. he remembers you jokingly calling him that years ago during one of your many nights together. however, while it started as a joke turned into a nickname he rather enjoyed hearing from you.

"y/n, we shouldn't you're injured," he says as he watches you let out a frustrated cry before you're ripping your underwear off yourself. your spread your legs, welcoming seonghwa to sight of your glistening pussy. he realizes that he hasn't seen or felt your pussy in years and he has to stop himself from ripping his own clothes off and fucking on the dirty, blood-covered church floor.

"p-please, mommy!" you cry out and his eyes lock onto how your fingers slowly sink into your pulsing pussy. he can't help but groan at the lewd sounds that leave your wet pussy as you let out several cries.

"fuck, what has happened to you?" seonghwa mumbles to himself before he's stripping his clothes off and ripping your hand out of your dripping cunt. you let out a frustrated cry before seonghwa is pulling you to straddle his hips as he lays down against the wooden floor.

"come on, baby, ride mommy like how you use to," he coaxes you as he strokes himself a few times before he's watching you take his cock in your hands. he watches with heavy eyes as you line your entrance up with his cock before you're slowly sinking down. you both let out a string of moans and curses once you bottom out.

seonghwa lets his hands rest on your hips as your own come to rest on his chest. seonghwa notes that your nails have grown slightly longer. he lets out a throaty groan when you drag your nails down his chest, leaving faint red lines down his chest. you lay your palms flat against his abdomen before you slowly begin to move your hips.

"f-fuck, y/n!" seonghwa feels his grip on your hips tighten as you begin to speed up the motion of your hips. "feels so– feels so good, for... fuck, forgot how good you feel," he adds as he feels you purposely clench around him every time you bottom out.

"fuck mommy! love your cock so much!" you whine as you continue to speed up your movements, seonghwa can only focus on how your breasts bounce in a fluid up and down motion. he can't help but let one of his hands trail up and harshly grope your breast. you let out a surprise cry when he pinches your nipple and tweaks it.

his eyes trail down your body and he notices the stab wound that he basically killed you was now healed, but instead left a scar. seonghwa felt the anger he felt earlier return.

"mommy!" your voice suddenly snaps him out of his rage as he looks at your fucked out face and can't help but feel prideful knowing you're wrecking yourself on his cock. that even after years of not seeing each other, your pussy still welcomed him like it was home. like it was made for him.

"shit, this pussy was made for me wasn't it, y/n? made to keep my cock warm and wet, no one else right? you didn't let anyone else fuck this cock, right?" seonghwa groans out as he lets the hand on your breast travel down your clit and he begins rubbing it in short but fast motions.

you moan his name out as you clench around, "mmh, mommy, gonna– fuck, gonna come! please come with me, mommy!" you say and the half-devil groans as he pulls you down flush against his chest as wraps his arms around your waist to hold you in place as he fucks up into you at an animalistic pace. your moans come out choppy as you rest your head against his shoulder, inhaling his scent.

you can't help but clench one last time as seonghwa is stilling deep inside of you. you let out a long, drawn-out moan as you feel seonghwa filling you up with his seed before its slowly begins leaking out around his cock. his seed travels down past your thighs, running over his balls before dripping onto the wooden floor beneath the half-devil.

you're out of breath and breathing heavily, resting your face in the crook of seonghwa's neck as he holds you against his body. seonghwa notices how the white color of your hair is disappearing and when he finally looks at your eyes, he notes that don't have that red glow to them anymore. he knows his blood, his sparda blood, is still running through you; however, the evidence of it seems to be fading. he wonders what is causing it or maybe you are somehow controlling it. either way he's not sure or does he care.

"hwa..." your voice is soft and gentle, something he hadn't heard in years and he yearns to keep hearing it. to keep seeing you. "you came and saved me... how did you know i was in trouble?"

"i felt that something was wrong is all, so i came," he tells you as he runs a hand over your hair, brushing away any stray hairs that fell in your face.

"my body still... it still feels weird," you confess as you rest your head against his chest. seonghwa is careful when he sits up, his arms around you protectively.

"its the sparda blood in you, your body isn't fully use to it yet," he tells you before he's tilting your head up to look at him.

"sparda blood?"

"its what i used to save you," he says before leaning down to kiss you, his lips are surprisingly soft against yours but you welcome the feeling of finally kissing him again after all these years. "i love you," he says when he breaks away.

"i love you, too," you tell him before you're bringing your arms around his neck in order to hug him. seonghwa hesitates before running it back.

"just know that i'll always protect you, no matter what," he tells you, his guilty eyes meeting your confused ones before he's quickly knocking you out, your body slumps against his and seonghwa has to fight back the tears that threaten to run down his face.

seonghwa knows its not safe to have you around. he can't put you in anymore danger he's already put you in. that's why he wraps a blanket around you and carries you bridal style into the city. he knows that there's someone who will take care of you. someone that he absolutely loathes, but will look after you and take care of you.

he looks up at the building in front of him. the neon sign just barely struggling to stay lit. devil may cry it reads and seonghwa has to stop himself from scoffing. he holds you close to him as he knocks on the door of the store and the door swings open.

seonghwa comes face to face with a man who looks exactly likes him. the only difference is the man is sporting midnight black hair which contrast his blonde, almost white hair.

"seonghwa? what ar–

seonghwa cuts the male off by briskly shoving your unconscious body into his arms. the blonde makes sure his face is devoid of any emotions as he looks at his twin. he's hates himself for having to rely on him, but its for your own good.

"whoa, who's the chick?"

seonghwa wants to remain silent, he doesn't think this man deserves any answers.

"look after her for me. she has sparda blood in her, gonna need someone to watch over her and make sure she doesn't go berserk," seonghwa answers coldly.

"what? who is she– hey! seonghwa, where are you going!"

seonghwa doesn't answer his twin as he suddenly turns away and starts making his way back down the dimly light street. his twin watches with confused eyes as the other half-devil slowly begins to disappear.

"she's no one."

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[ghostmistdraws]

Get Him To Swap Our Places

Synopsis: Hunter and Crosshair were able to kill the clone assassin... but they're not prepared for who they find underneath that helmet.

Word Count: 1136

A/N; WARNING ANGST AHEAD!!! I've never post any of my fics on Tumblr, but I figured this might do well here. Anyway, still sobbing from the finale so forgive any spelling errors

Crosshair was barely awake and his head was throbbing for the second time. Every single terrible memory of this place was replaying all over again. He’d gotten his brothers captured, tortured. It should have been him, they should have ran and called for backup. Now they were all going to die, because of his failure.

But, fate had other plans for them. And fate’s name was Omega. She’d come back for him, she’d come back for him again. 

Crosshair's body ached and his head spun. He was seeing double, which definitely didn’t help with his already terrible aim. But he still fought like hell. For his brothers, for his sister.

The Darktroopers were highly skilled, highly trained. Crosshair knew that, he remembered the conditioning process all too well. His hands still trembled whenever he thought about it. But, he clenched his fists tighter around his blaster and pressed on. His shots were a little sloppy and uncoordinated, things that would have got him highly reprimanded when he was a cadet on Kamino. Yet, right now, all he could think about was keeping his family alive.

Crosshair screamed out as he saw Hemlock cuffing Omega and dragging her away. He thought he did, at least, but not a single sound came out of his mouth. A sinking feeling rushed through his body at the thought of losing her all over again. Crosshair knew how skilled she truly was, but he couldn’t stop that jolt of anxiety that ran through his body at the very idea.

But the only thing that filled his veins the moment Omega left his sight was rage. He knew these Darktroopers were not acting of their own accord, but he still was pissed. He was pissed at Hemlock.

Crosshair saw red. He didn’t care what happened to him now, he was going to fight like hell to save his family. If he died, so be it. He blasted, punched, and kicked troopers over and over again. 

But when he was distracted, that clone assassin jumped him. They were both knocked to the floor. Crosshair fought for his life, but the assassin was strong and had him pinned down. 

“Crosshair!” He heard Hunter’s voice and managed to catch his brother’s eye. Hunter picked up the electric javelin that one of the troopers had been wielding and nodded to Crosshair. They immediately understood each other.

Crosshair managed to curl his legs in and kicked the assassin as hard as he could directly in the chest. The assassin skidded backwards, slamming into one of the pillars, and Hunter hurled the spear. It flew through the air and right through the assassin’s heart, spearing him to the pillar.

Hunter offered Crosshair a hand and pulled him back to his feet. Crosshair was breathing heavily and leaned on his brother for support as his legs were still weak. The rage finally simmered out of his system and left him feeling empty and exhausted. His eyes lingered on the dead assassin for a moment.

Despite it all, Crosshair felt this strange kinship with the mysterious clone assassin. They were both forced into roles that they didn’t want, that they didn’t choose. That choice was stripped from them. And now, this clone, this brother, was killed fighting for another corrupt organization, without a single say in the matter.

Crosshair took a quick step towards the assassin, skewered to the pole with a javelin like some kind of animal. Clones deserved better than this, better than being experiments like he was. Crosshair reached up to the assassin’s helmet.

“Be free.” He murmured in a quiet voice, so only they’d hear him.

Then, he removed the helmet.

Nothing could have prepared him for the shock and horror that filled his veins. It was so strong it almost knocked him off his feet. Crosshair’s eyes widened so much it felt like they might pop right out of their sockets. His mouth fell agape. He took a step back that almost made his knees give out on him. His mind reeled.

This had to be some kind of sick joke.

Tech.

Why did this bastard have his brother’s face? He couldn’t be. Tech had died on Eriadu, right? That’s what Omega had told him, that’s what she said had happened. Plan 99. But, it was Hemlock who’d given them his goggles. If Hemlock found Tech…

Oh god, no…

Crosshair wanted to throw up. His hands trembled without ceasing. He took a few unsteady steps backwards, running right into Hunter. He also was stood frozen in complete shock and horror. His eyes trailed to his own hand, then back to Tech.

Hunter couldn’t believe what he’d done. He knew that time was short, he had to get to Omega, but he couldn’t bring his feet to move. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the body of his dead brother. His heart felt like it had been ripped straight out of his chest.

Hunter killed his little brother.

He’d done it for a second time. He couldn’t save Tech, again. The sight of his little brother with such a lifeless and cold expression on his once soft face made his chest tighten. His warm brown eyes, once full of such intelligence and curiosity for the universe, were without color or life. Hemlock had done this. He’d turned Hunter’s brother into some mindless killing machine who’d follow orders without question or remorse.

Hunter felt bile rising in his throat at the realization. The realization of what his brother had become. Tech wasn’t allowed to rest in peace. His final action should have been his sacrifice, his selfless choice to save the rest of them. But that choice had been stripped of him.

By Hemlock.

Hunter knew he didn’t have time for a proper goodbye. They’d come back for Tech, give him the proper burial on Pabu that he deserved. They’d finally let him rest, finally let him stop fighting.

But, right now, they had to save Omega. Hemlock couldn’t be allowed to do this again. Not to one of Hunter’s family. He’d die before he’d let it happen. Hunter approached Tech’s body and gently pressed his forehead to his brother’s. Hunter’s eyes gently closed, a single tear escaping his eyes and rolling down his cheek.

Tech’s skin was cold and clammy, but Hunter didn’t care. He remembered the time when his brother was full of light and life. When he’d eagerly explain a new concept that they’d discovered, or gush to Hunter about a new project. When they’d used to do this after a long fight.

Because that was the Tech that deserved to be remembered. And he would. As long as Hunter lived, as long as any of them lived, Tech would never truly die. He’d live on in their memories and in their hearts.

[welcome-to-dragonshead]

L'appel du vide

characters: Alexei Molyboha & X-13/[redacted] (both my ocs)

cw for manipulation and implied past trauma and abuse.

I have been told many things about this…”specimen” I’m visiting, if they so call it. I recall the memory of me asking the higher-ups about it, and receiving their case study and being told the words “do not heed to its will, do not show sympathy or empathy, for it feeds on it and will use you as a toy.”

Even after reading it and hearing what they said, it is hard for me to believe there's any possibility of me following those instructions. Thanks to “it”, I got out of the worst situation of my life. Thanks to “it”, I am able to live (semi) safely (within the limits of my profession), and show myself to a world that I had deemed as hopeless so long ago. I can only feel grateful for a creature deemed this vile, so unbothered and distant from humanity.

Those are the thoughts that run through my mind as I walk through the sterile hallways of the M.O.R.G.U.E anomaly containment facility until I reach the interrogation room. I greeted the guards with a subtle wave; I showed them my clearance card, and I was allowed in.

The creature, specimen X-13, was sitting, with handcuffed gloved hands, on one of the chairs opposite to me, its impossibly dark eyes piercing through me, smirking lightly, as if it was all part of its plan. Its fox ears twitched slightly at the sound of my entrance. It presented as a tall young man with lengthy, straight white hair and tanned skin with two cross-shaped scars beneath its left eye, fueling my curiosity about it even further. Despite them, it was beautiful, but in a distinctly inhuman manner that incited a subtle sense of unease whenever you laid eyes upon it. It smiled and asked, tilting its head:

“You must be Agent Molyboha, right? You wanted an interview with me.”

I turned on my recorder. If anything went askew, as it often did in these interviews, at least I could have proof of whatever happened.

“Yes, it's me,” I answered, fiddling with my tie. Its energy was uncomfortable, unsettling, and I felt like it was ready to lunge at me and cut me open like a wild animal. I didn't like this one bit, yet, I was absorbed by its presence, somehow.

“Come on, don't be so uptight, get comfortable. I don't bite,” its voice was low, seductive, hypnotizing; and he flashed me a grin with razor-sharp teeth, and my anxiety worsened. Now it really looked like some sort of predator out to kill me. I obeyed it sheepishly, only uttering a small “sure.”

“I wanted to know you better,” I retorted, a bit defensively. I attempted to avoid eye contact, but the specimen's eyes followed mine with keen interest.

“Really? That's surprising. You have a whole document detailing everything you may want to know about me,” it quipped sarcastically, voice hushed and squinting like it was confessing a secret.

“I also wanted to thank you.” My response caused the initial disinterest of the specimen to disappear, surprise overtaking its features. I didn't feel as anxious as it let his guard down, but it regained his composure soon after, and the wicked energy in the room regained its strength again.

“I was just doing my job, there's no need to thank me.” X-13’s mask of indifference slipped as I sensed its pride in its task. Just doing my job, my ass. I bet it was stoked when it was able to leave containment for a few days.

“No, I did. My case…it was easy to solve and considering your fame as an honorary agent to get involved in such things, I thought I wanted to thank you for your kindness. You helped me, and so many others stuck in that sect.”

A beat went by.

And another.

I feared that stroking its ego didn't work as well as I hoped.

The specimen laughed, a cruel, fox-like sound that only a creature such as itself can make. I felt a pang of shame as I couldn't help but wonder what was so odd that I did to provoke such a reaction.

“What's so funny?” I ask, embarrassment washing over me. The creature finally stopped laughing as it stared right at me again, with that annoying Cheshire-cat-like smile that had been plastered on its face for so long.

“I didn't think you'd have it in you to think I could be so selfless. I could give less of a crap about your dad, the cult he led or the people in it, Molyboha.” It inched closer to me, his grin growing as it continued, “Do you really know what I want, doll face?” Its voice lowered again, sending a shiver down my spine. Oh, how I hated being there.

“What do you want?” The feeling that it was going to eat me raw came back, hitting me like a truck. I trembled slightly under the specimen's gaze, the anxiety again clawing back at me and screaming to run towards the door and leave this unfinished. But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.

“Just so you know, I don't have any reasons to lie to you, Alexei.” Our faces were inches apart, and this melodramatic bastard was already dragging the surprise factor too much.

“It's me, isn't it?” I answered my own question, looking at the specimen with contempt.

“It's good to see you came to that conclusion too,” it chuckled, slowly backing away. “When I saw your profile, it was like love at first sight, really.”

I felt my face go a little red at the implication. I remembered their words; “it will use you as a toy”, and a pit of guilt formed in my stomach because I completely ignored their warning. Like an idiot that is absolutely going to get mauled at the moment. I regained my strength and continued the conversation.

“I'm assuming you want me to work for you?”

“Yes, exactly,” it beamed.

“Is that even allowed?”

It doubted for a moment and brought its hand to his forehead.

“Yeah, it's allowed. I'm exceptional, of course— and I need someone as exceptional as you to keep me in check. Look.” It gestured at me to help take off the gloves, and let me take in the uncomfortable sight of its palms. Two burn marks decorated its hands, and an archaic symbol seemed, but were not, recently burnt into its skin— yet, when I touched them, X-13 felt no pain.

“I don't let others see this, consider yourself lucky,” it joked, a bit embarrassed. “Do you understand now?”

“You're…an Emanator?” I let go of its hands, shaken up by the strange intimacy of it.

“Seems like you know what you're talking about,” it mocked, raising its chin.

“My father was one of you,” I realized as I felt my stomach churn at the memory of him.

“No shit, Sherlock. I was there. What he used to keep his followers docile was you— that's what I'm getting at.”

Silence followed after. What the fuck was that thing talking about?, I thought. I stared at the fluorescent lights above me, but their brightness immediately hurt my eyes and I sat up straight.

“So, what, you want me to follow you around and hope your supervisors are so terrified of you to let you do whatever you want?” I scoffed.

“Exactly. But not the last part. Do you know what a Dissipator is?”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

I did not want to talk about this at all.

“I think you got something wrong,” I blurted out. “I am not special in any manner, I'm just working here.” I tried to get up from my chair.

“Cut the bullshit,” it scolded sternly, its hypnotizing gaze forcing me to sit back down. “You're literally a reality bender, Alexei. You lived with that son of a bitch for nineteen years and the mana balance of the area was still stable. When you came here,” it paused, getting hold of a small, rectangular device similar to a geiger counter, “The energy of the room was at 20 counts,” it motioned at the third lowest setting on the object. “Before that, it was barely reaching 60 counts, even with the mana anchors. Your presence is able to reduce the presence of my mana by 33.3%. That's unheard of, so stop trying to get out of this one so easily,” it let go of the counter, pleased as it watched me sit back down obediently.

“Shouldn't you want me to make you more powerful? That makes no sense.” I asked, attempting to keep my cool, but it felt like it could hear the ominous thudding of my heart.

“Quite the opposite, actually. Us working together gives me a higher chance of doing as a wish— I would be less threatening to them. Plus, it keeps the nasty little voice in my head telling me to rip your heads off under control.” I grimaced at the mental image. What power could this creature have?, I pondered. Clearly a lot, since it was in containment and just being around it was terrifying.

“And what do I get out of it?” I said, as I inched closer to it, curiously.

“You help me! Isn't that why you joined? To help people?” it sneered at me, like it had done all this interview.

“That's not going to be enough.”

“Well, aside from seeing my pretty face daily, you'd become a division leader. A nice upgrade from your info-gathering with the Rats, right? And the pay gets better.”

It sounded too good to be true. Since I joined, becoming a field agent had been what I always wanted to do. And now, it was going to give me what I wanted. Like it always did. I'd just have to pay the small price of becoming its plaything to get it. For its good, for others’ good, to save people, and to be able to live with myself for once.

I didn't want to hate myself for what happened there anymore.

Being able to pay rent also sounded nice, for a change.

Ignoring their warnings was wrong, this was a dangerous being. But it had always been benevolent to me. If it was always going to be like this, I didn't mind becoming its toy as long as it treated me with kindness again.

The rest of the conversation went by idly, and the longer I was there, I was surprised to find myself progressively growing used to X-13’s intimidating aura. It was very knowledgeable on a wide range of topics; specifically on anatomy, chemistry and medicine, and its excitement was noticeable whenever they were mentioned, prompting a lengthy, uninterruptible rant about the subject at hand. Despite this flaw, it was an expert conversationalist and jumped between different topics at ease; it was surprisingly, one of the first few people I met since i left that place that was able to keep me thoroughly engaged when talking to them.

And then, our time was up.

“I'll think about your proposal, X-13,” I muttered, as I rose from my seat. “Your offer is so good it sounds like a trick.”

It frowned, scrunching its nose. “I don't joke about these things, doll face. Just give me the ounce of freedom I ask of you and I'll treat you like a king. I promise.”

“Promises can be broken,” I replied, a smirk on my face for the first time in our exchange.

“You're an idiot,” it shot back.

“I sure am. I'll be going now, goodbye.” I took the recorder and stopped the tape. If I actually started working around this thing (Gods forbid), keeping it in arm’s reach was going to be a smart move.

I looked back at the room, the creature waving goodbye to me as the guards took it back to its containment chamber.

“I hope I can see you again soon, Agent,” it purred flirtatiously as the guards forced it out of the room.

I didn't think I'd ever be insane enough to actually work with this bastard. I was wrong.

Relieved, I made my way back to Human Resources, praying to whatever is up there that they weren't useless enough to pair me up with this demon or whatever it was.

Author's notes:

this may give you a bit of whiplash considering the relationship x-13 (also known as "[redacted]") and alexei exhibit in this compared to what I normally post about them. x-13's manipulative behavior is intentional, and so is alexei being absolutely terrified of him at first; this is one of their first proper meetings, and their relationship will become healthier and more honest as time goes on. just a lil heads up!

There's also some lore things I should explain. The magic system in this world is governed by several higher powers encarnating fear. Negative emotions feed them and create mana energy that magic users allowed to draw from to perform their techniques. Sometimes they can draw that power from themselves if they have enough emotion pent up in them.

Emanators are beings chosen by these powers to do their bidding. They are able to manipulate mana energy by inciting fear into the people in the area. They are also given powers and abilities the entity's values and have distinctive markings on their skin.

Dissipators are lesser known (and not as frequent, either) but their presence is capable of removing mana energy. They have markings shaped in a four-pointed star. Their origin is found in mana-heavy and environments where many repressed emotions may come up; they exist to balance things out.

Avatars (who don't pop up here but may in other writings) are beings or objects synthesized to worship or incarnate an entity's power or values. If their creation is unsuccessful, these objects may gain sentience or some other anomalous properties.

MORGUE (Magical Object Research Gathering Unions for Enforcement) is the organization dedicated to capturing and researching emanators and avatars and creating and enforcing universal law. They exist world-wide and are divided in smaller units or unions for maximum efficiency when capturing an anomalous object. Sometimes they allow usage or participation of anomalous beings and objects in cases if needed.

[machinesonix]

Okay with Dune 2 being mostly about messianic philosophy and the next one probably even moreso, I wanna talk about what I see as the BIG MESSIANIC PICTURE behind the setting, or at least what I believe it to be. There's going to be spoilers in here, but they're not going to be anything you're going to see on screen in this trilogy.

I'm gonna start off by highlighting something that might not be totally obvious at first glance. There are two completely different prophecies Paul finds his terrible purpose in. The Kwizatz Haderach is the ‘ultimate human’ envisioned by the Bene Gesserit who will have an enhanced power of prescience because he can project the Other Memory through both the X and Y chromosome and free humanity from its animal nature. The Lisan al-Gaib is a myth planted in the Fremen culture by the Bene Gesserit in case the Sisterhood ever needed to control them. The big tldr is that Bene Gesserit training involves a lot of learning through observation, so their kids tend to learn things so fast it looks like they already knew them and they pass that off as a miracle. 

I think it’s pretty obvious we’re supposed to find this Kwizatz Haderach thing pretty sus. The disciples of this prophecy are themselves purveyors of false prophecy. Paul certainly doesn’t believe he’s the Kwizatz Haderach, and that’s because he knows he’s not the Lisan al-Gaib. But he does wind up ticking the boxes. He does in fact survive the Water of Life ritual despite his sex. He is indeed uniquely prescient because he can see both sides of the Other Memory. Thing is as we move forward into the books that are not getting movies, we’re asked to reinspect this because of all the other Kwizatz Haderachs.

Brian Herbert gets kind of a raw deal because he didn’t have his father’s writing chops, but we’re comparing him directly to a person many consider to be the greatest science fiction author of all time. What he did have is a deeper insight into his dad’s setting and philosophies than anyone else, so miss me with any mess about which books you don’t consider canon unless you’re ready to go all Council of Nicea with me. Anyway, a really prominently weird thing that loses a lot of people is that Paul’s kid is a worm. He’s not born that way, he basically does the Water of Life ritual in the middle of a bunch of pupating sand worm larvae and comes out of it as a big worm with a human head that can produce spice in his own body. Leto II claims that he’s the Kwizatz Haderach, and to be fair, he is way more of an ‘ultimate being’ than his dad. People worship him not as a prophet, but as a god. Paul brought revolution to the universe, Leto II brought peace. It’s the peace of a godlike tyrant who can read minds and punish dissidence before it happens, but as long as we’re comparing people to their dads it's not like he started a race war that killed 26 billion people in the name of ‘justice.’ 

You may have heard Duncan Idaho winds up being the real Kwizatz Haderach. If you remember that gimp suit beetle thing in the first movie, the Harkonnens and their Tlelaxu buddies take dead people and turn them into sort of clone-zombie servitors called gholas. I’m not making any promises, but there is a real possibility the third movie will have Jason Momoa in a gimp suit, because Duncan is the best ghola. The second Duncan Idaho, bearing the edgy mid-century sci-fi moniker Hayt, is a gift from the Tlelaxu to Paul after his rise to power as an ostensible ‘we’re sorry we helped the Harkonnens kill your entire family.’ If you’ve seen the 1984 Dune movie you’ll know that the Duke of House Atreides keeps a pug. What you might not know is that it’s been the same pug for 10,000 years by virtue of genetic xeroxing. Once Leto II takes over, Duncan becomes the new house pug. Duncans serve as mentats, swordmasters, philosophers, and more over millenia of incarnations. Eventually one of the Duncans gets slammed with all the memories of the previous Duncans and he’s got this totally bizarre version of the Other Memory where he can remember all of his ancestors' memories, but his ancestors are also himself. Thereafter he can run like the Flash and fistfight robots and people call him the Kwizatz Haderach. Like I said, Brian’s books are petty controversial among fans.

Also the reverse-Bene Gesserit wind up making a Bizarro Kwizatz Haderach at one point but he’s just prescient enough to see that there isn’t a future where he isn’t just a washed up fraud. 

Now let’s put it all together. I think the core philosophical study at the center of Dune is the question ‘What is a messiah?’ And like any great work of art it really is more about the question than the answer. Our three Kwizatz Haderachs (I’m not gonna count Thallo, he’s more like an allegory for Joel Olstein) propose some possibilities. Paul is the guy who ticks all the boxes. His messianic status is descriptive, not prescriptive. He isn’t actually the guy the Bene Gesserit thought it was going to be, so that notion of predestination is gone, but if the Kwizatz Haderach is ‘the man who can use the Other Memory,’ then he’s it. He and the people around him knew the prophecy and chose to lean in that direction, he got 

Leto II is the closest thing to a divine manifestation that fits in this universe. He is literally in the body of one of the unstoppable forces of nature the Fremen venerate as their protector. He calls himself ‘God-Emperor’ in a setting where every man, woman, child, face dancer, and thing in between is raised on the principle that there is a monotheistic creator deity and that deity wants humanity to flourish. Everyone who didn’t believe in God got killed by robots ten thousand years ago. By insisting on literal religious worship of his political station, Leto II is seriously making some waves. Imo this is sort of like an extreme example where the question is more like ‘Is this what it takes before you’ll call someone the messiah?’ Even then, the fact that this dude is definitely NOT God in the way this setting understands it casts aspersions on the idea of a visibly supernatural force being inherently divine.

Finally, Duncan is a total freak accident. He is the ‘perfect human’ because he has been iterated on and improved over and over again, but he has nothing at all to do with the Bene Gesserit breeding program. Thousands of years after the Fremen uprising, when everyone thinks the Kwizatz Haderach is ancient history, there’s this guy with super powers. Unlike Paul, there’s no prophecy to suggest he might be the Chosen One and no decision to lean into the mythos surrounding it. The idea of iteration is really important with Duncan. Pardon the unflattering comparison, but there’s something kind of Heglian in how perfection is an inevitability as long as someone keeps stirring the pot. 

I would argue that aspects of all of this are present in the first book. Leto II and Duncan are just deeper explorations of some of the questions posed by Paul. And if I’m to wrap this all up with a neat little bow, I think the point of it is that they’re all totally valid Kwizatz Haderachs. ‘Kwizatz Haderach’ are just words. For ten thousand years, there was a description of a thing and nothing existed that fit that description. There was a plan to create something that fit the bill, but we got a guy who could do the miracle even when we went off script. At that point it just seems like a semantic argument. Likewise, Leto II is pretty much God. He’s immortal, he sees all things past and future, his body produces and feeds him the chemical that puts him in that trippy oneness-with-everything. He sure as fuck isn’t what anyone was expecting God to look like, but it’s pretty much theologicially bankrupt to be like ‘Excuse me, something isn’t the universal superbeing unless it’s exactly what I already had in mind’ even if people do exactly that all the time. If the 400 meter single worm-boot fits, as they say. I’m not exactly how to make this sound as serious as I mean it, but Duncan as Kwizatz Haderach is basically like Brian Herbert shoving the pile of Korans off his desk and going ‘Fuck it, look.’ This guy’s got nothing to do with the Bene Gesserit. He has the genetic memory of his masculine ancestors, but you probably couldn’t get away with calling it the same thing Paul does in court. Half the reason he gets called the ‘perfect human’ is the sentiment expressed by ‘Oh dawg, Duncan, bro, he’s the realest, most human out of any of us.’ He is just called the Kwizatz Haderach because that is the language that exists in the culture that is closest to what he is. But you know what? Same with Paul, or Leto II, or even the Joel Olstein guy I mentioned. 

Prophecies don’t predict saviors, they make them. Chani has a line in the new movie that’s something like ‘Promise them a messiah and they will wait forever,’ and I think that’s Dune boiled down to its most essential notion.  

[lesbianrobin]

hey guys want to help me write?

i started writing this awhile back and now i'm revisiting and i cannot recall Where i was going with this. SO!! it could be fun if you guys let me know what you would like to happen/where you see this going!!

Steve Harrington’s been different ever since he came back.

No shit, idiot, Eddie berates himself, pretending not to stare at Harrington from across the library. Not that Harrington would notice. It’s other people he’s worried about. Staring at Steve Harrington is a popular pastime at Hawkins High now, popular enough that Eddie can’t allow himself to be caught partaking.

The story goes like this:

Julia Davis was sitting in the emergency room at Hawkins Memorial waiting for her brother to get a cast on his arm after he fell off his bike. It was taking a long time, and she hates hospitals, so she decided to take a walk outside around the parking lot just for something to do. Here’s where Eddie knows the story’s at least a little bit bullshit; Julia Davis buys from him every week, and he’d bet anything that she was smoking in the parking lot for a bit of stress relief.

The rest is as follows: She heard sirens right as she was about to go back inside. It wasn’t an ambulance, it was a cop car, so she decided to watch what was going on. Eddie personally suspects that she was keeping an eye out because she smelled like pot. Either way, she watched as a cop pulled Will Byers’ limp form out of the backseat. Will’s mom climbed out from the passenger seat, and instead of immediately following after her son, she opened the other back door to the car, and the whole world shifted.

What she saw has changed a little bit over time. It’s different depending on who you ask, whether anybody on the basketball team is within earshot, or if Tommy Hagan is anywhere near you. If Tommy Hagan’s around, she didn’t see shit.

If Hagan’s fucked off, though, if you aren’t around the basketball team? Harrington’s hands were caked in dried blood. Maybe it was mud, Julia always hedged, but it just… looked like something else. Whatever it was, it ran down his chin, too, stains dripping from his lips all the way to his bare chest. She could see some awful scrapes and bruises down each arm, angry red slashes criss-crossing his back and his pecs, and his sweatpants seemed to be drenched in mud or blood or something awful that stained his bare feet as well.

Joyce Byers guided him out of the car at arm’s length, like he was a wild animal that could lash out at any moment. His eyes were wide and unfocused. Julia swears he never shivered, despite his state of undress and the freezing wind that had swept through Hawkins that night. He shuffled to the ER like a zombie taking its first brainless steps.

The next day, it was on the morning news. Missing boys found wandering through the woods, escaped from their captor and fleeing for their lives. The news didn’t say much about the kidnapper. A few days later, it was reported that the creep had died from injuries sustained during the boys’ escape.

Translation: Steve Harrington killed a man. With his bare hands and teeth, if Julia Davis isn’t bullshitting them.

Eddie’s been watching the scars fade. All of the scrapes on Steve’s arms are either gone now or covered by the sleeve of his striped polo. He buttons them all the way up now, but the guys in his gym class say that his chest is back to normal. His nails aren’t ragged and torn anymore. Technically, he looks fine. Perfect. All-American.

But then there are the eyes.

There’s something about his gaze that draws Eddie in. His eyes are beautiful, of course, the kind of brown that brings to mind mossy logs and golden sunsets in equal measure, just depending on how they catch the light. Eddie didn’t make a habit of gazing into Steve Harrington’s eyes before the change, but he still remembers seeing life behind them. How could he not? Steve used to draw attention everywhere he went. No wonder he got snatched. It’s always those types, isn’t it?

Eddie might be a bad person. Just a little bit.

The point is that those eyes don’t have life behind them now. They’re just empty. Dull and sad, like Steve’s soul has floated off, or else been so weighed down that it can no longer move. Drained, like Frodo after delivering the ring to Mount Doom.

It’s obvious that Steve doesn’t belong in the Shire anymore.

Whenever Eddie isn’t occupying himself with D&D or homework or the band or his business, his mind drifts back to Steve Harrington. What did he see? What did he do? How did that blood look dripping down his chin, was it like a movie vampire or like a Carrie situation, and did Steve lick it from his lips in the back of the cop car? Maybe Eddie really is as sick in the head as people say. He needs to know. Did Steve kill that man with his teeth?

It isn’t any of his business, except that people don’t seem to be as afraid of Eddie as they used to be. More girls are coming straight to him instead of sending their boyfriends to buy their shit for them. Maybe they aren’t any less afraid of Eddie. Maybe they’re just more afraid of their boyfriends. When you skulk around high school parties for a living, you hear stories. According to several sources, Steve Harrington keeps a knife in his pocket and an extra in his backpack. According to Eddie’s own eyes in addition to his sources, Steve Harrington’s girlfriend showed up to school with a bandage on her hand the day after he came back.

Eddie doesn’t personally think that those two things are related. Harrington was definitely in the hospital for at least a few days, and they only give you the shitty plastic knives in there. She was probably just cooking or curling her hair or something when she found out that her disappeared boyfriend had come back.

Steve doesn’t seem to be reading his book. Eddie can’t tell what it is from this distance, but it looks more like a textbook than a novel. The cover is red. Which of Eddie’s textbooks are red? That one for Lit was red, right?

The book snaps shut. Eddie looks up.

Empty eyes stare back.

[assorted-things]

My thoughts on the ending

This is probably going to be a bit rambling and disconnected, so bear with me...

(This got far longer than I meant it to be...)

Does anyone else feel that the Deserter is a reflection of the person Harry could have been, if he hadn't lost his memory? The bitterness and anger and inability to let go of the past remind me of a lot of things that the Ancient Reptilian Brain and the Limbic System say in the dream sequences... I think that Harry's amnesia is a gift, in a way - it allows Harry to eventually let go of the past and decide what kind of person he wants to be now. One of the first dream sequences shows Harry a vision of himself as the hanged man, and I think in a way the old Harry did die when he lost his memories. One of the reasons the game was so affecting emotionally to me is that you as the player are the one getting Harry to turn his life around, if that's how you choose to play it, because it really makes you feel involved and part of Harry's story. It's one of the reasons why I don't think the game would work well as a TV adaptation - I think it would really lose a lot of its emotional impact without your input. It really moved me that I could get Harry to go from screaming that he "doesn't want to be that kind of animal any more", to telling the Phasmid: "I'm glad to be me - an incredibly sensitive instrument".

I really love how the tone of the game manages to be somehow hopeless and hopeful at the same time. Maybe the world is doomed by the Pale, and the Revolution failed, and maybe Revachol is a shithole, but... you can find that there are things worth loving and saving in this broken world. You're subconscious tries so hard to convince you that it's all terrible and evil and that you should just give up and let the darkness take you, but all of your actions through the game can prove that voice wrong. It tells you you're not helping anyone, but depending on how you play the game, you are: you found Billie's husband, and even though he's dead, at least now she knows and won't have to wait forever for him to come home when he won't; Cuno has someone who actually listens to him and takes what he has to say seriously; you got Plaisance to bring Annette in from the cold; you stopped the mercenaries from killing as many people as they might otherwise have done (it went pretty badly in my playthrough, but I tried), and you gave Kim a friend. I love the message it seems to be trying to put across that even if the world is ultimately doomed, you can and should still try to find the good in it, and make a small part of it a better place. And maybe in the end it won't change anything, but the fact that you had hope enough to try matters. And maybe if enough people thought that way, they could change reality for the better - maybe there was a grain of truth in that infra-materialist stuff all along. Maybe it sounds corny, but I found it very touching.

This is... sort of where the Phasmid comes in for me, because everyone thought the existence of the Insulindan Phasmid was impossible, but because you believed in it enough, you were able to prove it was real. And if the Phasmid is real, then maybe other things that people thought were impossible can happen, too... It makes me feel very satisfied that I chose "SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL IS GOING TO HAPPEN" when I painted that wall. It seems fitting.

I also love the fact that the Deserter being stuck in the past is literally killing him. And... he talks a big game about being the last real Communist or whatever, but in the end, how is he actually helping the working class by clinging to his bitterness and refusing to let go of what could have been, instead of trying to do something to help the people around him? Even though Harry is flawed, and on his own can't change the world, he's made a difference to the people around him, which is better than being consumed by bitterness and doing nothing at all.

In the end, I think for me one of the core themes of the game is faith/belief (not necessarily in a religious sense)... I think that something that really helps is Kim's belief in Harry. He's so kind to Harry, when he could just as easily write him off as a shambling alcoholic. I think Kim's faith in you makes you want to live up to what he thinks of you, so... I'm not sure how coherent I'm being here, but it's a bit like how Harry believing in the Phasmid lets him make it a definite reality - Kim's belief in Harry as a great detective, or someone who could be a great detective, makes Harry a better person, I think. (At least, that's my take on it - I got so attached to Kim as a character that I really wanted to make him proud of my version of Harry!) And in the end, his faith wasn't misplaced. Again, he can't change the world, and he's human and not a saint (much as Harry may think he is), but Kim choosing to be kind did make a difference, even if it was only to one man.

tl;dr This is going to sound unbearably pretentious, but if someone asked me if video games can be art, this is the game I'd point to and say "yes".

[b1oodthrsty]

ok i have a TON of different writings in my notes app about various things in jthm but tje first one ill post will be about nailbunny !!!

(tldr: me ranting about how nailbunny is the last remaining part of johnnys former self prior to becoming a homicidal maniac & speculating why)

 johnny says that nailbunny had existed even before the bunny was nailed, and recognizes it as being one of his own internal voices, probably the first one hes ever had.

though theres no given explanation as to why johnny began associating this voice with the nailed bunny, it could imply that like the bubs burgers boy, the event behind it is what causes him to associate a voice with it. we're told how and when nailbunny died: 

though, it doesnt give much answers about the importance of this memory for johnny, as killing animals is something johnny does often, unlike reverend meats association with the memory of the girl. it could be that this was the first thing hes ever killed, though we aren't given any kind of clear timeline of when johnny started to kill. if this was true, it'd mean he's only been doing this for three years (which at least to me, seems somewhat plausible considering that hes 25, and cant recall much prior to when he started killing). in my own interpretation of this particular incident, i would connect the bunny to johnnys irrational fear of losing what he grows attached to- the mention of buying, and feeding the bunny prior to killing it could suggest that he didnt intend to kill it immediately, as the act of feeding it is a bit unusual for johnny, since he tends to either kill things right away, or torture them slowly. the actual nailing of the bunny, in a place he could easily see it from, would make more sense following this interpretation considering that johnny expresses numerous times his desire to remember special moments through violence, one of them obviously being his attempt at killing devi. theres PLENTY of things pointing to this irrational fear of his that drives him to selfishly preserve what makes him happy, but i feel this tweet is the most straightforward coming from him about it and i dont want to spam like 398343934284 screenshots:

so, it could very well be that when buying and feeding the bunny, johnny felt happy and connected to it- and upon realizing this, he felt he had to preserve the feeling through nailing it to the wall. i dont think that happiness is what ended up being preserved in his subconscious, though- remember, johnny states that nailbunny existed prior to the nail actually entering the bunny- so, if anything, the nailing of the bunny reads off to me as the separation of his former life to his current one, solidified by those past memories being engrained into nailbunny rather than having to be held by johnny anymore.

nailbunny seems more like the last piece left of who johnny formerly was, as its shown to reminisce on such memories, seemingly bitter with johnny over the way he's slowly lost himself. johnny often seeks to vent and pursue advice from nailbunny- its one of the few characters able to berate johnny without receiving some kind of backlash or disagreement on his behalf, obviously because he's aware that nailbunny IS himself, giving it the special privilege of being considered always right by him.

johnnys former self-awareness & whatever traumatic memories pushed him to entering the position hes in, have been absorbed by nailbunny, making it quite literally a voice of reason for him. something i find especially interesting is that when johnny attempts to garner sympathy from nailbunny over his loss of devi, nailbunny shuts him down, claiming what he did was "impolite":

sure, nailbunny isnt expressing an open guilt for johnnys actions, but its clear that it finds his moping to be pointless considering the severity of what he's done. theres a fight in johnnys subconscious between feeling naturally, humanely guilty for losing someone he cared for, versus egotistically feeling as if there was no other choice to be done given how fucked up he already is. i really like this particular aspect of johnnys character, how he teeters back and forth from mocking his own pathetic nature, to being convinced that everything he says and does is right. he likes to think that hes a cold, unfeeling individual who knows better than most, yet when actually about to die (which is something hes idealized since the beginning of the series as being a perfect paradise away from humanitys filth) hes hit with a moment of full clarity that he's just as stupid as everyone he hates, as if almost regretting his death.

i actually have WAY more written that delves into how i think him seeing the afterlife was a form of closure for him & reverend meats purpose in suddenly showing up upon his revival, but this is already full of lots of shit so ill end it here :] feel free to scream at me if i got anything wrong/inaccurate or offer your own thoughts ive never posted my rambles before but i love jthm so much so this has just been brewing in my notes app for the past few days ......... if u made it this far thank you im sorry for melting your mind with these evil words of mine ^____^

[kelyon]

Tell us something about the old fandom days?

Have you ever heard the legend of the Chipped Dagger fandom?

Back in the day, when season 2 was airing, both Rumpelstiltskin's dagger and the chipped cup were having a rough time. They were being stolen, broken, threatened--it's a hard life for inanimate objects.

Apparently, during a livestream (probably the ancient and storied Rumbelle Movie Club) the topic was brought up of how Rumple could go about protecting his most important possessions. The answer the hivemind eventually came up with was to turn them human. The dagger and the cup would have agency to protect themselves (and each other). They could run and hide from attackers. At the very least, Chip could fall moderate distances without shattering.

Somehow, the names we decided on were Chip and Dax. They were kind of a mirror of Rumbelle. Chip was an ultra-femme ray of sunshine and Dax was a living weapon. I think somebody had the idea that Dax had all the dagger etchings tattooed on his back. Chip was blonde and had a chipped tooth.

I want to put into context that the original airing of season 2 had a lot of "mini-hiatuses." Because of award shows and sports, there would be two or three week breaks between episodes. They fixed that in later seasons by having the half-season arcs and a several-month break between fall and spring. I bring this up because we were all suffering from hiatus brain. Belle would get shot at the end of one episode and we'd have a collective panic attack for two weeks before the next episode where it's revealed that her memories are gone and the chipped cup means NOTHING to her and SHE BROKE IT!!

We were looking for any way to make things better.

I don't recall any plots involving Chip and Dax. They didn't go off to fight crime or anything. But there was fanart, and some fics, which I may or may not have contributed to. It was always kind of hazy how romantic the pairing was. Chip was always portrayed as childlike, even though she's a teacup that's at least 28+ years old, and Dax is an ancient symbol of all the dark magic in the world. Usually he was her protector.

Like I said, they were kind of a mirror of their owners. I read somewhere that the animal sidekicks in fairy tales represent the hero's subconscious. (The animals in Snow White are suspicious of the old crone as soon as they see her. The castle objects in Beauty and the Beast are looking for love even when the Beast himself has fallen into despair.) Chipped Dagger came at a very uncertain time for Rumbelle. We were going through amnesia and Lacey and "well, I'll just have to kill him." It was nice to have something that was happier, more wholesome, less complicated. Just a ray of sunshine and her protective stormcloud.

That was what we really wanted at the time.

[haru-chi]

I just realized now that if S7 air and Yorishima make his anime debut the number of people believing him being Natsume's grandpa will increase too .... hmmmm ...

I don't know why alot of people believe this tbh .. this idea is funny to me and wrong on many front ...

I'm not denying those people or their ideas and theories .. none know the truth yet so it fun to have many ideas and such ,, it just this is my personal take is all .. actually, I'm opened to hear those people's line of reasoning since this idea never crossed my mind nor am I ever gonna consider it ..

personally, I do believe he play an important different role be it to Reiko or Natsume's real grandfather .. but him being the one is just funny xDD

to say it simply why it felt wrong to me ...

Dose Yorishima appear the type to have ever considered loving someone in his life or be happy ?? we're talking about the same person who always draw a line between him and other people .. he's the Natsume of the past ... even when he got injured, he fully cut all ties with humans so as not worry them or cause trouble to anyone .. hide the truth from his only friend.

I bet making a family of his own never crossed his mind out of not wanting to cause his future wife/kids any grief or pain because he's that kind. plus, he feels he doesn't deserve any kind of happiness.

I think he did talk about this subject with his friend in the past about loving someone and making a family ? I'm not in a state to check said chapter but I don't think my memory fails me ?

Yorishima is a shut-in .. the idea of him going in and out to meet Reiko who's that far away is an amusing idea lol

Yorishima is the type that Reiko would bully for her to fall in love with him or him winning over Reiko, the least type of person he would wanna interact with ever .. the idea of them falling in love and being married is funny sorry xDD >>> now you had me wanting to see these two interact together that badly ugh

if we do assume they were in love and had a daughter .. does Yorishima sound like the type of person to dumb his wife behind when she's pregnant ?? on top of that .. does he look like the type of person to let his wife get killed and leave his daughter left alone???

I'LL DEFEND YORISHIMA AGAINST ANYONE SAYING HE IS !!!

that only to list a few :)

[oodlyenough]

aa6-1 foreign turnabout

finished off DD last week and we're straight into soj.

i know the least about soj of any of the games probably, which is kind of nice because these later games really need the element of surprise they don't have a lot else lmao.

some thoughts on the tutorial case:

the good

this is a big visual upgrade from dual destinies (although i'm still unconvinced the games needed to move to 3d assets). phoenix's model looks better in ways i found hard to articulate until someone on twt pointed out SOJ gets rid of the bulky black outlines. it's so much smoother!

aside from the models, the sprite animations for the new characters are very detailed (almost too detailed... i mean do we need ninety animations per NPC? can we get some extra ones for phoenix lmao), i like how the UI has been refreshed to match khurain, overall it just looks more polished/complete than DD.

insight is new, and subject to suck more later lmao, but so far it's the best minigame since the magatama. both perceive and mood matrix suffer from being kind of nonsensical; it never stopped being goofy to me in DD that you just had interactions like "well i found the body and i was shocked" "UM ACTUALLY my robot says you were RED EMOJI FACE, so you're lying!" insight, on the other hand, is more based on logic/reason -- spot the contradiction, think through a couple different layers of info (rayfa's words vs what's on screen and what makes sense), etc. i also like the idea that the ghost witness isn't lying, you just have to interpret the memory -- it's a bit of a refreshing change from everyone just committing perjury 30000000 times.

the defense culpability act is very funny. i can't be mad at it because it is too funny. i think i should get to kill the prosecutor if i win.

also, maya having lived here for unspecified time period, surely being aware of the lawyer stuff and still inviting her best friend, ace attorney phoenix wright, is very hilarious. i hope edgeworth, academic of foreign legal systems, had a heart attack as soon as he heard where nick's vacation was

it is also funny to see supervillain payne. winston payne was just kind of an asshole and largely incompetent. gaspen is a supervillain who longs for murder. well, okay. why not i guess

the questionable

khura'in is but the latest in a long line of exciting AA countries that will have you asking "what are the geopolitics of this world?" and "...is this racist?"

it's really funny to me that the first culprit was a white guy on an eat pray love journey but that his eat pray love journey is totally incidental to the crime, apparently. khurain is apparently very welcoming to immigrants if one can become head monk guarding their sacred treasures after a mere six months, and payne is chief prosecutor after three.

it's also very funny that with his life potentially on the line, the only person phoenix is worried about is maya. i think there is an understandable in-game explanation, which is that you have to assume every game might have a new audience and that new audience has only been told of maya so far. but returning players who know he has a teenage daughter might uh. wonder.

the bad

i can sense that the more lore i learn about khurain the more racially uncomfortable i am going to become

the names are BRUTAL i wish they'd stop. i get that ace attorney always has silly goofy pun names. but i feel they're veering further and further from the... slightly more believable names into stuff that just sounds stupid, and man, trying to apply ace attorney pun name goofiness to names that are also supposed to be in a fake fictional language .... i mean it sounds like i'm reading racist jokes from the 90s. it's uncomfortable.

i also think khura'in lore is bound to upend or retcon the superior kurain village lore, which ruled in the trilogy and did not need expanding into a kingdom. isolated little village matriarchy of witch family that are constantly committing sorocide >>> whatever's about to happen here. it's great for rayfa that she does her lil dance for enrichment 2x a day to have temporary hallucinations in a pool of water, but maya crosses her fingers and shapeshifts. checkmate.

lastly, one thing i found myself thinking as i moderately enjoyed the tutorial case was that it was honestly kind of nice having a case scaled back. i can't shake the sense that three playables is just too much for these games; apollo was dead weight narratively in DD and i think athena is about to suffer that fate in SOJ. the character writing in these new games is just not strong enough to manage this many major characters and their whole entourages. the mistake of the original trilogy was accidentally setting a precedent for "new prosecutor every game, who is also our friend by the end :)". the main cast is so huge that most of them just end up stagnating or disappearing into the void or whatever; apollo and athena cannibalized each other's screentime in DD, athena usurped trucy, SOJ is introducing a whole whack of new characters to replace THOSE newbies... it's a lot. we don't need to reinvent the wheel every new game.

anyway... i know a little about 6-2 and i expect it to exacerbate a lot of these issues lmao.