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woodaba · 1 month ago

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The Copied Cathedral: Drakengard

In September 2022, something odd happened.

A group of talented NieR: Automata modders released footage of a church they added to the game on reddit and twitter. It was a pretty big accomplishment - Automata’s engine is difficult to work with, and many players with a cursory familiarity with it felt that this kind of addition to the game was unfeasible, so for something of this scale to be created represented a shift in the landscape of NieR modding. However, this achievement was practically rendered irrelevant by the way in which they chose to reveal their work: an arg/”hoax” wherein they pretended to “discover” the mysterious church in an unmodded copy of the game, presenting it as a long-hidden easter egg.

This gained unusual traction. This kind of thing happens a lot, but I’ve rarely seen it gather the kind of steam the copied cathedral did. The collective practiced cynicism of the internet, as well as the increasingly white-box nature of our favourite games, reliably helps quash the kinds of rumors that would easily gain traction on the playground, when it was much harder for someone to definitively prove you a liar when you claimed to have climbed aboard a rocket and shot off into space to find Deoxys in Pokemon Emerald. And I think there’s a pretty clear reason for this: anytime anyone expressed scepticism over the church and its impracticalities, they were met with the same refrain.

“It’s Yoko Taro. Of course he would do something like this.”

This refrain remained intact even when how people engaged with the modders’ work changed. In the beginning, it was “It’s Yoko Taro. Of course he would include an easter egg that people would only find 5 years later!” When it became clear that the cathedral did not, in fact, exist in the game, it became “It’s Yoko Taro. Of course he would craft an ARG to tease future NieR content.”

As someone who has had a relationship with Taro’s oeuvre since playing NieR at 14 years old, this was all very confusing to me. Because the Yoko Taro that I thought I knew didn’t do stuff like this. None of his games were ever advertised with any kind of obscure ARG disseminated through social media. His games didn’t really have obscure secret content that remained secret for years after the fact. I thought Yoko Taro was a guy who directed games with sweary, murderous protagonists connected to each other through intricate lorebooks that never left Japan…and showed up to promote Drakengard 3 as a sock puppet. Without my realizing it, what “Yoko Taro” was had changed, and he had become, in the eyes of many, a kind of mystical trickster, whose mad genius was simultaneously incomparable and unpredictable, whilst also falling into neat patterns that were easily and instantly recognisable.

Did I miss where these collectively agreed readings of Taro and his work came from? And if not, where did this perception of Yoko Taro come from?

When did Yoko Taro become Yoko Taro?

In The Copied Cathedral Branch A: Anarchy in the UK

It seems appropriate, somehow, when talking about Drakengard, to start at the very end. That’s where the conversation often begins and ends, isn’t it? In the public consciousness, this game is practically a footnote, an inciting incident to the more significant, more complete work; this is the game that led, in one of its endings, to NieR, and in turn, to NieR: Automata.

This history weighs heavily on Drakengard. It’s practically impossible to imagine anyone experiencing it now without some knowledge of how it connects to the various strands of Yoko Taro’s Cinematic Universe. I’m very much included in that - “Ending E leads to NieR” was the first thing I learned about Drakengard, and it was the curiosity over what that meant that led me to the game. It’s unfortunate, then, that this approach completely inverts what Ending E of Drakengard actually is - a joke.

Going through the experience of unlocking Ending E and playing it for yourself makes this so clear in a way that hearing about it second-hand will never quite manage. You have to go through the painstaking task of finding every single weapon - some of which have requirements so arbitrary and obscure as to practically necessitate a guide - only to unlock an ending where absolutely none of them are required. You play a rhythm game to the tune of the game’s deliberately abrasive and discordant soundtrack, and then are unceremoniously shot down. And in case there was any doubt left, the game laughs at you after thanking you for playing.

In context, this is a prank played on completionists, a surprise sucker-punch that revels in what a stunning anticlimax it is. Good job, buddy! Thanks for spending hours of your life pressing square-square-square-triangle, or maybe circle if you’re nasty. Here’s your reward: a confirmation that you wasted your fucking time.

And to be clear: I think that’s great. It’s a joke that just gets funnier the more it builds throughout the rhythm game section - starting off easy, and remaining manageable throughout, until you finally reach a section that is so unbelievably difficult practically out of nowhere, pulling the rug out from under you just as you’ve managed to stumble to your feet. It’s audaciously mean, and utterly wonderful.

But Ending E isn’t a surprise anymore - it’s the most famous part of the game. Ending E of Drakengard is, now, the opening notes of one of the most beloved - and lucrative - series’ in Square Enix’s roster. For most people who play the game now, it’ll be the reason they’re here, either literally, or metaphorically, as their NieR curiosity brings them to this title. For NieR fans, this is not an anticlimax punchline to hours of tedious weapons collecting. This is the final battle between The Dragon and The Queen Beast, a battle fought in terms incomprehensible to the fragile human psyche, ground zero for White Chlorination Syndrome and the Legion, and the beginning of the end of the human race. The fact that I can come out with that jargon without having to take a trip to the NieR wiki demonstrates that I too, am infected with the future history of Taro et al’s work, work that has collectively robbed this sucker punch of its impact, and turned it into the most laboured Marvel Cinematic Universe teaser in the history of the medium. What a terrible thing to do to something you helped create.

I don’t mean this to say that the mere existence of NieR has destroyed the intentions of Drakengard, but history’s shadow has undoubtedly fallen heavy on this game, obscuring a lot of what it actually is, even down to what the minute-to-minute play of the game is actually accomplishing.

The common reading of the game these days is that it is intentionally unpleasant to play in order to comment on or satirize violence in video games. I can see it! Drakengard’s combat is often described as monotonous, but I don’t think that’s quite right. True monotony would turn it into routine, and could potentially allow the player to sink into a flow state that makes the game drift past you. Instead, the game is interested in creating little sticking points that force you to keep yourself present in the fight. Whether it’s long-range attackers, the game’s propensity for enemies to strike at you from outside of the camera’s vision, or scattering enemies in among the packs that require you to approach them slightly differently, the game manages to keep its killing a conscious, methodical act, never letting them forget about the things they’re doing to others.

But how different is this from its contemporaries? Many of the features I’ve described here - a camera that doesn’t always effectively every threat, parceling out enemy encounters into smaller waves - aren’t unique to Drakengard, but are common to many of its contemporaries on the PS2. In particular, Drakengard does not feel noticeably more abrasive than the PS2 Dynasty Warriors games that the ground battles are in direct conversation with. It’s not identical - Drakengard choosing to strip out the light strategy framing of Dynasty Warriors to focus entirely on killing enemies is notable - but playing a Warriors game alongside Drakengard made the latter feel less like satire of the former and more like imitation - the sincerest form of flattery. If Drakengard is boring, it might simply be because the form it is most closely emulating has often struggled being a critical darling. In fact, for a certain generation of people, the musou form is practically gaming’s biggest and most laughable punching bag.

This accusation of the combat being, in some sense, deliberately unfun, in particular, largely fails to explain the dragon-riding sections. In the hybrid levels - where you can hop aboard your dragon to rain death from the skies - it arguably acquits itself in this context well enough, particularly with the choice to use an awkwardly close-up camera angle that frames you above the ground but close enough to it to see bodies flying from every fireball and explosion you cause. Anti-air attacks are common and send you flying off your dragon, a consciously annoying friction which again forces you to remain in the current moment and avoid zoning out. But equally, this friction often comes with it a straightforward payoff - the satisfaction of, having eliminated any anti-air threats, of hopping back on your dragon and incinerating an entire platoon of soldiers. Less interesting is the dedicated dogfight missions. Here, there is no sense of weight to the violence at all, and the enemies themselves are so abstract - often being literal evil cubes that shoot lasers at you - that it’s hard to derive any sense of humanity from them. It can definitely be read as an extension of the slight abstraction of the violence that happens when you hop on your dragon during the ground missions - we’re so far above the violence now that we can’t even see the viscera that is so present on the ground - but that just ends up ringing hollow for me.

No, I ultimately think that Drakengard’s air combat is engaging in very straightforward, very traditional ways. I enjoy it. In particular, the weight of the Dragon itself makes those moments where you swoop down to let loose a volley of lasers genuinely thrilling, in a kind of way that even contemporaries like Panzer Dragoon don’t quite emulate. And yet, despite these sections comprising a significant portion of the game’s runtime - around a third unless you’re going for 100% completion - they seem to elide the conversation surrounding this game as a satirical work. The fairly straightforward video-gamey thrills of flying a big dragon around and shooting lasers at monsters and evil imperial airships would seem to simply be somewhat inconvenient when attempting to explain Drakengard as a deliberately boring game.

I’m being cheeky here, I know. But I do think there is a huge sword of damocles, with the words “PS2 GAMES KINDA PLAYED LIKE THIS A LOT” etched into it, that hangs over anyone reading Drakengard as tedious on purpose. For all that the PS2 and its library is often lauded as one of the high points in the entire history of the medium, growing up owning one didn’t mean you were playing a Resident Evil 4 every time you put a disc into your console. Sometimes you came home from the game shop with something that played quite a bit like Drakengard.

This commonality it shares with its contemporaries is core to what I think Drakengard is actually doing with its violence. I am not suggesting that Drakengard is not abrasive at all, because to suggest they is to ignore what’s happening on the aesthetic layer, particularly the utterly phenomenal score composed by Nobuyoshi Sano and Takayuki Aihara, which is not only probably the best thing about Drakengard, it’s probably one of the best in the medium. Making use of discordant, cut-up, and repeated samples of classical music, the soundtrack drapes the entire game in an uncomfortably dissonant air without falling into completely atonal noise.

Similarly, the dialogue that plays over the gameplay, while presented in a manner not dissimilar from Dynasty Warriors, is of a very different tone, even if it is equally unsubtle. Priests crying out that the world is ending, rival dragon riders going mad, dragons remarking about the worthlessness of humanity and your cause…It isn’t quite Cao Cao talking about how big his brain and dick is, even if it operates on a similar register.

This is an aesthetic dissonance that highlights the ludonarrative resonance that drives the game. It is also a reasonably common maneuver. If you’ve ever played a game with a sad piano track playing out over a boss battle, you’ve seen this before, though admittedly rarely on this kind of scale. Drakengard is less interested in being truly aberrant as it is in this kind of aesthetic dissonance bringing the genre’s assumptions into relief.

This helps explain why some might find the story of Drakengard far simpler than its reputation - or the reputation of its director - might suggest. An evil empire is conquering the world and destroying a series of Seals in order to awaken some dark gods, and the protagonists would prefer if that didn’t happen. It is, quite consciously, an extremely stock video game plot. The difference, of course, is that said protagonists are led by Caim, whose personality, goals, passions, hobbies and sexual fetishes can all be described the same way: “killing imperial soldiers”. Drakengard sees the two points common to the collective idea of the archetypal JRPG hero - dead parents and a high bodycount - and draws a direct line between them, constantly underscoring that Caim is wholly uninterested in protecting the world, and acts in the game entirely to express the trauma of his parents dying in front of him.

(Actually, side note - one part of that isn’t quite true; the game is surprisingly resistant to the claim that Caim’s enjoyment of killing is in any way sexually motivated. It’s just not something the game wants to touch. The game exclusively uses sex and sexuality as a point of straightforward horror and taboo-crossing in a way that is quite revealing. More on this in a moment.)

Angelus is Caim’s dragon partner, and an absolute riot. She’s almost everyone’s favourite character in Drakengard, and it’s very easy to see why: she drifts above much of the emotional conflict of the narrative, commenting and mocking it in equal turns, like a one-dragon greek chorus, or, if you prefer, a fire-breathing Statler & Waldorf. Crucially though, she remains invested enough in the narrative to never become an annoying figure of detachment. She’s not riffing on things, like a Marvel character might, as if she’s not part of the same world as the rest of the cast, she just has very little patience for the affairs of humans despite her forced entrapment within them. It’s a very delicate balancing act to walk, writing this kind of character without making them irritating, and it's a testament to the script, and particularly the performance, that Angelus comes across so well. Mona Marshall’s dub Angelus is pitch-perfect, infusing her dialogue with a careful balance of righteous, haughty indignation and weary resignation that makes her an absolute delight to listen to as she mocks the worthless humans you and her are roasting with dragonfire, especially once notes of affection towards Caim begin to creep into her character. In a dub of mixed virtues, she’s consistently fantastic, and it speaks volumes that despite this kind of side-glance to the audience becoming a recurring theme in Taro’s work, it's never as successful as it is with Angelus.

Alongside Caim we have Furiae and Inuart, the central love triangle that drives the narrative. Furiae is Caim’s sister, and the Goddess; a pure shrine maiden whose enforced chastity seals away the Empire’s dark gods. She’s also completely infatuated with Caim, who pointedly avoids confronting her incestuous feelings towards him throughout the game, even as her longing and desperation for him builds and builds, to the point that even Angelus comments on it. Inuart is Furiae’s betrothed, a soft-spoken bard whose sexual frustration at and jealousy of Caim leads him to become brainwashed and turn evil. And then there’s Manah, the game’s villain - an evil little girl who, after being rejected by her mother in favor of her twin brother Seere, turns to the Empire’s evil gods for the love that she has been denied, becoming their possession and instrument in the world.

This is the actual core theme of Drakengard - that of rejection and resentment, unprocessed, unexpressed, unrequited feelings left to fester and rot, turning outwards onto the world itself, of this kind of unfulfilled need being the origin of violence in the world. For all the hyperbolic claims of Drakengard’s essential horror, it all settles into such a disappointingly neat and straightforward freudian framework. Every character - aside from Angelus - is fundamentally reducible to their singular freudian frustration. This makes the game’s perspective somewhat limited, but also makes it incredibly clear and transparent - there’s no avoiding these taboos.

It’s not that this is entirely bad - I actually think Caim and Furiae’s relationship in particular is extremely effective, the obviousness of the taboo being brought into sharp relief by how Caim simply refuses to engage with it, letting the emotions fester and fester until, at the point when they are directly stated to him and he can no longer pretend that he cannot see them, his final rejection really hits hard. I particularly like that the game is uncharacteristically ambiguous on the point of whether or not Caim reciprocates Furiae’s feelings, which brings a messiness to how their relationship ends that really works. But by and large, the game is so laser focused on the binary contradiction of each character’s familial trauma, they always break in the exact same way, and it reveals just how little the game actually has to say on its own central topic.

This becomes particularly apparent once you look at the other playable characters, who aren’t so much one-note as they have about half a note to share between them. Leonard is a kindly and empathetic priest who also happens to be a pedophile. There’s Arioch, a jokerfied elf cannibal who eats babies because she was driven insane by losing her womb in her pact. And then there’s Seere, a young boy who will remain a young boy forever thanks to his own pact. He becomes friendly with Leonard. Each of these characters will send you on side-stories that all feature you slaughtering children.

It’s not just that the transgression here is largely shallow, it's that it's the same transgression, over and over. The conflict between the central trio at the very least is driven by exploration of a theme of unrequited love and the enforcement of taboo reaching a breaking point - for the rest of the cast, there is nothing there except for the taboo, and the taboo encompasses their entire characters. Arioch is a particular low point: the outrageous misogyny inherent in the depiction of a woman being driven completely insane by losing the ability to reproduce is self-evident, as is the game’s complete lack of sympathy for her in comparison with even Caim, but it’s everywhere when it comes to these characters. You can just imagine the sneer on the game’s face as they describe Leonard, the “aha! Isn’t that fucked up!” of quality of the reveal that the nicest member of the party is actually a pedophile. For all that I am willing to be sincere in my engagement with the game’s exploration of familial violence, there really isn’t anything to the missions where you engage in mass slaughter of child soldiers other than “isn’t this fucked up”. And I don’t object to it being fucked-up: my problem is that it’s so one-note that it isn’t fucked up at all. The shock is so surface level that it becomes boring extremely quickly. It’s all so fucking teenage.

Put a pin in that.

What the game does gain by how incredibly loud and unsubtle it all is, is that it becomes impossible to ignore. The viscera of the relationship drama is as in-your-face as the viscera of Caim’s violence, and achieves the same effect as the game’s soundtrack (though, less effectively than that). How surface-level it all is may make Drakengard largely unsatisfying to consider on these terms, but it is effectively oppressive, and I think that is key to why the game lingers in the memory.

As the game goes on, its narrative begins to fray at the seams, sometimes in disappointing ways, and sometimes in delightful ways. The game’s standard ending is fine enough, and sings when it caps off the burgeoning romance between a murderboy and his dragon in an oddly sweet and earnest manner. Caim and Angelus’ odd and sad relationship is easily my favorite part of the game’s narrative, and is, interestingly, something director Yoko Taro fought against depicting in this way, by his own admission. Taro wanted Caim to be as a parasite to Angelus (interestingly, a reversal of the relationship between the Dragon and its rider in Panzer Dragoon, where the will of the rider was subsumed unconsciously by the will of the Dragon), but at the suggestion of producer Takuya Iwasaki, scenario writer Sawako Natori imbues their relationship with an earnest romance without dodging some of the more toxic suggestions of it, and it ends up being the highlight of the game’s writing. It is worth noting, when considering the direction of future games in this series, that almost all of the game’s most effective moments come from treating the relationships with sincerity instead of shock.

But of course, this isn’t really the end. As would become tradition for the games in the Drakengard/NieR lineage, the game offers a series of branching routes that lead to different endings. As the series would go on, this tradition would become increasingly superfluous, wielded more as an aesthetic and expectation than anything else, but in Drakengard, there remains something exciting about it, as each branch splits further and further from this relatively sedate ending until you finally arrive at the punchline that we all now know is coming.

Route B feels like the “truest” ending to the game, engaging most with the themes of toxic affection that end up driving the plot. Inuart tries to resurrect Furiae, and does so…but as a monster that kills him, grows giant, and has to be put down by the player. Caim finally confronts his sister and their relationship in the only way he can: murdering her enormous, twisted, eikon. It’s a classic gothic move, but it's the twist of the knife of the route’s final shot, the sky being filled with countless more Furiae monsters, that is distinctly Drakengard. It’s fitting that the game’s theme song plays at the end of this route, rather than the others. This feels like the end of the road for these characters, so it's no surprise that the following routes feel more like we’re veering off that road into far stranger and far sillier territory.

Route C, on the other hand, is a total misfire. If the last route was the one that felt like it most naturally emerges from the themes of the narrative, then this is the opposite - the one where the entirely offscreen Dragon species decide apropos of nothing that, actually, they’d like to conquer the world, and so Caim and Angelus must do battle. The two lovers battling to the death should be something really impactful, but ends up as a baffling wasted opportunity. Without the care and investment the scenario brings to these characters elsewhere, Route C is a glimpse into a version of Drakengard that didn’t have the touches of earnest investment that elevates these ludicrous mean-spirited caricatures - a hugely boring video game. I’d say that it would be better if it had been cut from the game entirely…if not for how the feeling of the narrative being derailed in this way lays the groundwork for the game’s incredible - and I mean that in both senses of the word - climax.

Branch D is probably the most iconic part of Drakengard, and it is definitely the part of the game that left the greatest impression on me when I first saw it as an 18-year old. Here, the involvement of Manah’s twin Seere makes things with his sister even worse, as he regards Manah’s desire for affection with horror and tells his Golem to kill her, which the God possessing Manah does not take kindly to. Thematically, the route ends here: another rejection, another breakdown in familial bonds - and interestingly, a parallel drawn between Seere and Caim’s respective emotional stuntedness towards the feelings of their sister being drawn but never developed - leading to disaster. You could see a version of Drakengard that has the same approach as Branch B, simply cutting off at the point at which the doom of humanity becomes obvious, but delightfully, the game simply keeps going, setting its final few chapters in the invasion of the Watchers - who, of course, are giant stone babies.

Of course, here we return to the problem of the future. It's not just that this turn has been spoiled - plenty of works, even the majority, retain their power even after they have been spoiled. Contrary to the opinion of the most annoying guy in your film class, knowing what “Rosebud” is does not actually make Citizen Kane less electrifying. But the power of Branch D is, to me, entirely within the shock value of it. Its excitement is in the sense of how completely the narrative has been derailed. When you know about the giant babies ahead of time, the shock of their appearance is less effective.

However, unlike Ending E, whose intention I do think is somewhat obliterated by the context by which most players will find it, I actually think the conscious anticipation of this moment by a player of Drakengard coming from the present day won’t rob them of the effect, because the audacity of it all is still enjoyable. It’s an absurd literalization of the game’s shallowest engagement with familial love and desire as violent: evil babies that are going to eat you all…and that you must slaughter in their dozens to survive. I remember showing this scene to friends when I got to it, purely and straightforwardly to say “look how weird and fucked up this is!”, and see their reaction to it, devoid of all the context of the game leading up to this point, which I think is telling. It wasn’t important to me that they knew that this was a game filled with the need for love turning violent. It was important that they see just how weird these evil babies were.

There was a point in my life where, for those around me, the funniest type of joke in the world was the erstwhile Dead Baby Joke, a type of joke where the punchline is always, in some form, a dead baby. The punchline here is pure, naked transgression - you can’t joke about a dead baby! It’s the same kind of impulse that makes swearing when you are a kid fun, of sneaking into a movie the age certificate declares you too old for, and approximately 95% of the reason anyone plays Grand Theft Auto - the fun of breaking boundaries for the sheer thrill of breaking boundaries. And in a game that has made the transgression of taboo the core of its entire being, this feels not like an elaboration of its themes so much as the literalization of them in the most audacious way possible - the invasion of the dead babies.

It’s worth comparing this to the series that Drakengard is perhaps most in aesthetic conversation with aside from Dynasty Warriors: Panzer Dragoon. While Ace Combat was the direct inspiration for the flight mechanics, Panzer Dragoon is the source of much of how they look and feel. And, interestingly, it too is a series that wrestled with the astronomically high bodycount of its game in Panzer Dragoon Saga, the third game in the series which reinvented itself as a to-this-day utterly unique RPG. Set decades after both of the previous games, but not so far that their events have fallen out of living memory, Saga reframed the events of those games as world-shaking historical events that have turned the Dragon into an icon of power not unlike a Weapon of Mass Destruction. Much of the plot of the middle stretch of the game is defined by the factions of the story attempting to control the era-defining power of the dragon, as much because of the fear and symbolic weight of the Dragon as its ability to shoot lasers.

This reaches its head in one of the game’s best sequences, where the mayor of the hub town asks the player character to assault a nearby Imperial base with their dragon. The mayor knows that this won’t deal a major blow to the empire, but is attempting to demonstrate the use of the dragon as a deterrent against the empire’s moves to annex the town so that he can get elected as the new leader of the town. This, of course, backfires massively when the Empire responds to the threat of the Dragon by bringing their own Weapon of Mass Destruction to the frontline and wiping the town off the face of the map, an irreversible scar left on the game map, removing (almost) every single NPC and sidequest related to the town from the game, all in response to the threat the player and their dragon represents.

The difference here is that while Drakengard makes the violence of its central conflicts more visceral and obvious, Panzer Dragoon makes it more complicated and, ultimately, nuanced. But to frame this as a criticism rather than an explanation accuses Drakengard of seeking nuance as a goal, and failing, and I just don’t think that’s true. Despite Panzer Dragoon Saga’s Empire being about as hazily defined as Drakengard’s, it manages to make them feel like a real entity, one staffed by human beings that believe in their cause and react to the phenomena of the world around them . It’s telling, I think, that when you shoot down imperial vessels in Panzer Dragoon Saga, their crew cry out, often saluting the empire with their last breaths, but Drakengard’s mind-controlled masses of soldiers and their abstract vessels often give no reaction at all. There’s rarely a sense that these soldiers are meaningfully people, or that the Empire is anything other than a mass of bodies for Caim to slaughter. Panzer Dragoon Saga articulates violence as something that affects the world in ways beyond how much blood is spilt when someone swings a sword, while Drakengard is only ever interested in the blood itself, as an expression of the freudian frustrations of the characters. The viscera is the point, and the viscera is what Drakengard ultimately is.

For all my sincere engagement with the game’s clear themes of taboo and familial conflict, there is a futility to it, because it’s so clear to me that first and foremost, the game is interested in the fun of transgressing these taboos within a largely accessible framework. The thrills of Drakengard are the thrills of watching a Saw movie, the audacity of them actually doing that…the enjoyment of a dead baby joke. This might all sound like an insult, but I promise it isn’t. A couple of years ago, I made a youtube video about edgy PS2 games, where I argued that these kinds of games with self-consciously edgy aesthetics are valuable for the straightforwardness of their rebellious attitudes. Drakengard’s closest bedfellows, to me, are not Panzer Dragoon or Ace Combat or even Dynasty Warriors, but Jak II: Renegade, Prince of Persia: Warrior Within…and Shadow the Hedgehog. Transgression for the sake of enjoying transgression might indeed be shallow, but it is also profoundly worthwhile, especially for young people chafing at the condescending and limited avenues they are offered to engage with the world. Hell, it’s why I was drawn to NieR, when I played that as a 14 year old - I wanted something weird and different, for the weirdness and the difference. And for all my criticisms, I cannot deny just how good Drakengard is at this simple appeal.

I feel a little like I’m engaging in some Sacred Cow butchery here, and to a certain extent that is a conscious thing. There’s so much received wisdom about Drakengard out there online that I do feel compelled to try to articulate what I think it is actually doing.in the final verdict, I ultimately like Drakengard a fair bit, and I do think it is worthwhile. But I don’t think it’s worthwhile because it is a wildly aberrant, abrasive work that challenges norms. I don’t think it has much to say about video games, and I don’t think it’s meant to be so bad it’s good. In fact, I think it is something that inshrines the norms it tackles in how fundamentally irreconcilable it views them. It is a straightforwardly effective bit of rebellion that we all need as teenagers, one that has a keen understanding of its target audience and their emotional needs. Games market themselves on offering illusions, of freedom and power, and Drakengard offers the illusion of rebellion against and excoriation of the status quo better than most any game I can imagine, and I think that is why it, ultimately, has become quite a popular game. It isn’t a surprise, the right kind of anger for a mass audience has always been popular. Never Mind the Bollocks, Its the Sex Pistols, for all that it declared itself oppositional to society’s norms, was ultimately extremely popular within them. It's loud, in your face, and guaranteed to get at least some kind of reaction out of an unsuspecting player. It is a dead baby joke, a loud, abrasive, screaming metal album played so loud that it pisses off your parents, an act of petulant, adolescent rebellion whose purpose never extends far beyond the rebellion itself. Show me someone who doesn’t see any appeal whatsoever in that, and I’ll show you someone who really needs to cut loose a little. But equally, show me someone who still thinks dead baby jokes are the height of comedy, and I’ll show you someone who needs to hear more jokes.

in the copied cathedral ending a dead b[a]by jokes

#video games #rpg #drakengard #nier

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marlynnofmany · 2 months ago

Text

Two Great Tastes

I wasn’t expecting any questions out of nowhere as I walked through the open-air spaceport. I didn’t expect any conversation at all, except maybe from Paint who was walking with me, though she was busy eating dried food from a stall we’d passed earlier. It was a long strip of some unidentifiable-to-me meat, and it was getting smears of black seasoning all over her orange scales. She was having a great time. She was welcome to it.

Then someone asked, “Hey, do you eat salt?” and I had new things to think about.

I paused. “Uh. In other food, not by itself. Why?” The speaker was one of those people made of green-white crystals, and he was leaning earnestly over a low wall.

His companion stepped up beside him: a plant-person whose face looked like a rose full of eyeballs and teeth. “What about dirt?” he asked me.

“Nnnno, not on purpose,” I said. “I’d rather grow food in it. Why?”

They both made disappointed gestures and turned away, scanning the other passersby instead of answering my question.

Paint stood on tiptoes to look over the wall. “Oh!” she said. “That’s unfortunate.”

I stepped up beside her and saw a mess on the ground: two boxes had burst open and spilled their contents into a mingled pile of white and brown. It was easy to guess what those were.

The crystalline guy’s voice echoed a little through his breathing mask. “It IS unfortunate! Also his fault.” He pointed a sharp finger at the plant-person.

“You lie like a rug,” the plant guy declared. “You’re the one who can only see in one direction at once.”

“Yeah, so you should have seen me coming! Totally your fault.”

“It is YOUR fault, and I am not going to buy you lunch now.”

The crystalline guy waved an arm, joints creaking quietly. “Somebody in this spaceport is bound to have a use for dirty salt.”

“Salted dirt,” corrected the plant guy. He looked at me with all of his eyes. “Sure you don’t want any?”

“It’s not something I can use, sorry,” I told him, mentally running over the options. “The only time I’ve heard of humans eating dirt is in cases of starvation or rare nutrient deficiencies. And we do like salt — there was a whole aisle of salty snacks at the grocery store back home! — but clean salt. And putting a bunch of salt in soil will just ruin the soil for any plants.”

“Really?” Paint asked, her snack forgotten. “All plants? I thought your planet had weeds that grow anywhere.”

“Anywhere except salted dirt. That’s a method of extreme weed-prevention and sabotage.”

The plant guy nudged his friend with a rootlike elbow. “See? You sabotaged my dirt.”

“As if I haven’t just lost some perfectly good salt,” he retorted. “I can’t even wash it off. I’d just get salty water full of mud, and that sounds even less useful.”

Paint looked up at me again. “I could have sworn there were Earth plants that grew in salty water.”

Right then I got a whiff of seafood from a nearby stall, and had a brainstorm. “Oh! Sea water!” All three of them looked at me while I explained. “Ocean plants grow in salt water, and probably the plants on the shore are used to a high level of salt too. I didn’t think of that. Does anyone in this market grow Strongarm food?”

“Ooh, good idea!” said the plant guy, immediately turning to scan the stalls for tentacles.

“I saw a place back that way!” the crystalline guy exclaimed, pointing. “In the local section too, so they’re not just shipping it in from elsewhere. Come on!” He dashed over to the boxes and began scooping salt into one.

“Thanks for the idea!” said the plant guy with a wave of a leafy hand. He joined his friend, and immediately made it a competition to see who finished first.

I stepped back from the wall, which I now realized had subtle plant patterns carved into it. Fitting. “I’m glad we could help.”

“Yes,” Paint agreed. She held up her jerky to take a bite, then asked me, “Is there really an entire aisle full of salted food in a human store?”

“Sure is,” I said, resuming the walk toward the rest of the food stalls. “Delicious stuff, too. I wonder if we can find some here. Without dirt on it.”

Paint took another bite, getting seasoning all over her face. “Yes, let’s leave that on the ground where it belongs.”

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

#this one's inspired by two alien species I haven't done much with lately #and an old commercial #exciting times in this multicultural spaceport #my writing #The Token Human #humans are weird #and so are the aliens #haso #hfy #eiad #humans are space orcs

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borkunlimited · 4 months ago

Text

Take Your Time, Miss Deer (Sylus x Reader) - Ch. 4

In a tailor shop tucked in the calmer side of the N109 zone is a little room where all clothes of many different designs come together under the delicate hands of an unassuming deer living in the den of all sorts of beasts and sitting on them is the dragon who wears your clothes.

Your many interactions with Skye, Mr. Sylus’ messenger or-

-Sylus is waiting for you to finally figure out he is playing his own messenger.

A Deer Hybrid! Reader x Dragon Hybrid! Sylus Fic

Tags: Sylus x Reader, Hybrid AU, Suggestive Themes, Fluff, Predator/Prey, Self-Harm

Chapter Summary: Horns. Antlers. A long tail with smooth scales. A short tail. If those are gone, then both of you are almost the same, right?

Author's Note: Some lines have references to existing media. I have been playing Disco Elysium every now and then with a dash of Reverse 1999. Still going with the main themes tackled by Beastars and BNA though but you know, I really do love certain lines from these games that I just want to put it in here as well.

Enjoy!

AO3

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10 / Side A / Side B

4: My Dearest, Generous

A little downpour has visited the N109 zone today.

It was close to the afternoon when you heard the soft pitter patter against the windows of your studio that is steadily increasing intensity within each passing minute and you immediately rushed to close them one by one, not wanting water to get inside and ruin the patterns and the fabrics you have prepared to sew for tomorrow.

You were about to close the last window when a small, dark figure zoomed past you, spreading droplets on the wooden floor.

It looks like your odd little crow friend has decided to take shelter here at your studio.

Daisy settled on one of the armchairs, shaking the excess rainwater that clung on its feathers, letting out an indignant caw before preening itself.

“I know. It is quite sudden,” you chuckled softly, locking the last window with your ears flicking away little beads of rainwater that clung on your fur.

Daisy seemed to also agree and it let you remove the damp good luck ribbon you have made for it. It is a little worse for wear now so maybe it is time to make a new one.

Perhaps something more stylish? The image of your crow friend wearing a scarf made you smile. Very fitting because it is becoming colder but for now, another good luck ribbon with the color it prefers should do.

“It’s alright. I won’t throw it away,” you assured it when it hopped along with you, worried where you would put its cherished item.

Will you repair it? Mephisto thinks you can.

If its master can repair its circuits easily then it thinks you can do the same. You seemed very capable of fixing everything after seeing you stitch together large tears on the twins’ jacket before so it also means piecing back its worn ribbon should be easy to you.

For Mephisto, it doesn’t matter if its good luck charm is slightly damaged (What do you mean it's hanging by a thread?) All the affections you have poured into that ribbon will always be there no matter how it looks and it feels rather naked now that you have removed it.

Your finger grazed against the old wood of the cabinet while you hum absentmindedly, counting the number of the rows of shelves that store everything you need to sew any of your clients’ requests.

‘Oh, dear stranger journeying to a far off land, how many days must pass till I see you again?’

Third column from the left of the cabinet. Above where you keep the little boxes of buttons of various colors, all neatly organized, and then you finally pull out the drawer to retrieve a box inside of it.

Your crow flapped up to your sewing table, watching you set the item and it hopped in excitement.

Mephisto knows this particular box. This is a box where you store all of its trinkets it gave to you (Fine, and its master’s too.)

It was one of the few belongings you brought along before you left the place you once called home with your father.

A little gift to you when you were young by an old hybrid couple after you knitted them scarves. You never quite remember their faces anymore but even then, the memory of their gratitude lingered, the playful pinch on your cheeks when you handed them their scarves wrapped in brown paper and twine.

“Do you want me to play it?”, you asked Daisy, opening the box to reveal the various precious ores and gemstones resting together with the dried flowers your crow has brought for you.

All of it, hidden in one place, little memories preserved and forever cherished.

Mephisto let out a beep, a yes, its optics adjusting to take a recording once again of this little moment that it may or may not hold over its master’s head (Again) upon its return to the base when the rain subsides.

You nodded in approval, tying around Daisy’s old ribbon around one of the horns of the little black dragon figurine sitting inside the box then turned the key.

A soft melody began playing and both you and Daisy watched the black dragon spin among the field of red blossoms painted in the background as if it was chasing the white ribbon on its horn, a lonesome game but still fun while the two of you looked back at your reflections on the small mirror.

Mephisto pushed the top of its head under your chin, nuzzling you and you laughed softly, petting its back while you listened to the gentle lullaby.

“Quite a downpour, don’t you think?”

Your heart skipped a bit, the lullaby cut short as you immediately closed the box, pushing it near the pile of fabrics beside you.

These impromptu guests of yours always catch you off guard. Perhaps it comes with their innate trait of being able to make their presence hidden until they choose to reveal themselves.

Or so you thought.

The door shut with a soft click, your surprise visitor making his way towards you and your eyes widened. His footsteps were quiet, almost like Skye’s and twins’ but how is it possible? How is it possible when you and the person standing across your table are certainly alike, are of-

-the same species.

You nodded slowly, and Daisy hopped between you and your visitor, silently assessing this newcomer, one of the many who had made themselves comfortable in your studio.

“Louis,” the deer hybrid said, raising his hand for you to shake which you returned, telling him your name in return but not like you need to tell him, he already knows about you anyways. Everyone who has transactions with Sylus is fully aware of who you are.

The seamstress who dresses all the wolves of this den in sheep’s clothing.

The deer fiercely guarded by the dragon kept in this hidden corner of the N109 zone.

The object of Sylus’ affections.

Or, from people who harbors deep hatred to Sylus-

Sylus’ well-seasoned meal.

“What brings you here, Mister Louis?”, you asked politely, your hands on your lap. You haven’t seen this deer before.

Is he a new resident here in the N109 zone?

He is well-dressed, clearly wealthy, and the cut of his clothes fit him well.

His eyes lingered on Mephisto and he knew that this was the little heathen made by Sylus to carry out his commands. One of his three errand runners as people said who goes about doing his dirty work on his behalf.

That dragon really does keep a close eye over you, doesn’t he?

It was almost concerning. A predator hybrid and prey hybrid spending too much time with each other spells trouble. Is Sylus fattening you up? A meal reserved for a special occasion?

“I heard you are Sylus’ personal tailor,” he said, walking around your studio, studying the clothes on display.

“Yes, but more like his lead tailor,” you corrected him, your eyes watching him closely. It has been so long since you have met your own kind. Is it comforting? Maybe, “He still has other tailors as well.”

“Did he come here often?”

“Oh, never.”

“Never?”

“Yes, he has yet to pay us a visit.”

His eyes narrow slightly at you. The word in the streets is that you and Sylus are seen together more often and people have claimed that he is very forward on his affections to you, how his tail wrapped around your waist, and even how he gazed at you as if when you tell him to jump, he will ask how high you want.

“He only sends his people here,” you continued but you caught the subtle hint of confusion in his gaze and then you added, “Good people.”

Good people?

A brief look of surprise crossed your visitor’s face. Did he hear that right?

You think those wolf cubs, that crow between you, and Sylus of all people are good ?

Maybe it is true that every hybrids like you and him indeed lost their instincts when they stepped here in the N109 zone which is why your lot has to look after each other just in case, just in case that the beasts who reside here decide to remove their masks and hurt you just like how the humans did outside.

Because you prey hybrids are just so damn pitiful.

“It didn’t cross your mind that they would hurt you?”

“Everyone who entered this room didn’t.”

“There will always be the first.”

“I trust them more over the humans,” you replied. His concern is valid, of course, and Mister Louis here isn’t the first prey hybrid who expressed his worry over you being friendly with any of your visitors.

Your father is a different case, though, who is specifically worried about Skye.

Skye, of all people.

Skye who never crossed the line when he was here. Skye who doesn’t have to stay but chose to. Skye who helps you if he doesn’t have to.

But you know their concern stems from reality.

Humans.

Predator hybrids.

Prey hybrids.

That’s how the hierarchy goes. That’s how it has always been. Your kind stood in a delicate balance, docile enough in the eyes of the humans that you are taken advantage of often and weaker than the weakest predator hybrid as long as they have fangs to nip and claws to scratch.

“We’re deers by the end of the day.”

“I know but even then, it doesn’t make much difference.”

If anything, predator or prey, you are all just animals in the eyes of humans.

Tainted blood.

“I appreciate your concern, Mister Louis,” you added politely, giving him a small smile. “But it wouldn’t be fair for us to judge them easily when they haven’t harmed any of us here so far.”

Louis studied you closely. You genuinely do believe that all of you hybrids are equal.

How naive. How idealistic.

It will take centuries or more for prey and predator hybrids to get along and another more for hybrids and humans.

But then again, your father did mention to him you would rather run towards the nearest predator hybrid when in danger than seek help from a human.

“You’re an odd deer, Miss,” he chuckled softly.

He pushed a small package towards you wrapped in old newspaper.

“But just so you know, I heard dragons play with their prey before they eat them alive.”

────────────────────

Sylus adores the subtle signs of affection every time he is visiting you.

The faint blush on your cheeks when he stepped in to observe what you were doing. How you automatically shift closer when his tail is wrapped around your waist or when you listen to his words, your ears flicking while you pay attention.

His species in particular are naturally warm yet he only grew to understand the value of another person’s warmth every time he is with you and if he only can pull you closer, it is an irrevocable fact that you will be the warmest treasure he ever had held in his hands.

Not because of the blood pumping on your veins.

But because of the peaceful grace you have with you.

The deer doesn’t need to step out of her meadow if anything. He had already stepped foot on your paradise under the sunlight that passed the trees and if he can, he doesn’t want to leave the only place that treated him with sincere kindness.

Today, Sylus has been eagerly looking forward to his visit despite the sudden downpour.

As if a little rain would stop him from seeing his favorite deer and as usual, he is not one to be in your shop without gifts for you.

He gave your father an easy smile and the older deer simply nodded in return, a polite greeting, when the dragon hybrid passed by him.

Thirty steps from the entrance of your shop to the hallway and another set of ten from the hallway to your studio. Oh, Sylus can’t wait to see his hardworking darling and he was halfway to your studio when he stopped, his ears picking up your sweet voice from behind the closed door and well, well, what’s this?

His eyes narrowed, picking up the scent of another guest. Another deer hybrid just like you and-

-A male one.

Your voices were muffled by the walls of your studio but he would always recognize the always gentle and polite tone you used when talking to anyone.

Then, the door opened and Sylus immediately piece together the identity of the newcomer you were just talking to earlier.

He isn’t one to forget the name to the face, afterall.

A young upstart in the N109 zone trying to make a name and recently, the little birds had told him that this one is creating a small association for all prey hybrids living here, not that Sylus minds.

He caught the familiar scent of fear from the male deer hybrid but this one was able to put all of his apprehension under a nonchalant expression laced with subtle defiance.

This gaze is all too familiar to him at this point.

This visitor of yours does not like him.

“I was told you had never set foot in this shop,” the deer hybrid started, not looking away from Sylus.

Brave, perhaps there is a reason why this one managed to reel the leashes of all the predators following his orders but he has a thought that this particular hybrid will be a little nuisance.

“And what exactly have you been told?”, Sylus asked casually, studying the newcomer. A good looking one but he is aware your father wouldn’t set you up with anyone, not when the older deer had gotten the message loud and clear that he is pursuing you.

“The miss said you only send good people in this shop,” the deer hybrid answered, as if piecing together your words and Sylus’ presence, “That Sylus himself never set foot here. Not even once.”

“Is this miss lying, Sylus?” the deer hybrid continued, letting go of the door handle, “Or are you deceiving the poor girl?”

“You’re quite a detective, aren’t you?”

“I took it as my responsibility to look after people here who get too cozy with predators like you.”

“Are you implying I am going to snap and attack her one day?”

“There are too many cases of your kind that did,” the deer hybrid countered.

These answers, these excuses.

The same lines recited by predators who thought they could reel in their natural instincts and not harm the prey hybrids they claimed they love and adore.

“Oh really? I suppose you have a solution for that? Locking my sweetheart away just to make sure she is safe from the big bad dragon,” Sylus replied, taking a few steps forward but the deer hybrid did not seem to falter.

Sweetheart.

So the words are true. Sylus is indeed courting you in his own twisted way.

“No, my solution is not drastic,” the male retorted, walking towards him until they were shoulder to shoulder. “You still seemed a reasonable man so just a word of advice-”

“-Pursue your own kind and leave her alone.”

The newcomer walked away but Sylus can’t shake the audacity of this upstart.

Why?

Why do people think that he can’t love you or be loved by you just because of your differences?

If you removed your antlers and he cut his horns, both of you would have been humans and no one would bat an eye.

Sylus took a deep breath, the faint scent of rain still clung to his hair and clothes, calming him down slightly and even when the smell of your previous visitor hung about, he could still shift through all the mixed scents and pick up the aroma of cotton and wildflowers.

The scent of you.

It was more than enough to soothe him and then, he opened the door to your studio, ready to see you.

The tension that lingered on his interaction with your previous visitor breaks, in this room, in the garden of fabrics and threads where there is only the two of you, the world is a distant away.

The ocean of chaos in his heart slowly subsides.

In this little piece of paradise, a small voice emerges. Yours .

The dearest thing he wants to hear for his remaining days.

“Skye, quite a rain we are having, don’t you think?”

If all the precious metals and minerals he had ever owned merged together, its value will not be able to measure up on the fondest smile you wear when you see him.

Warm like the first rays of the sun after a long winter.

“Well, it certainly did not stop me, didn’t it?” he remarked, all the words the deer hybrid said to him fading in the background and your voice is the only sound he can hear.

He watched you move around your desk, coming close to him to examine him and he chuckled softly when you had to stand by your tiptoes to do so.

“Are you wet? Do you want me to get a towel for you?”, you fretted about.

“You’re so considerate,” he replied, his hands reaching out and settling on your waist to steady you, “But I’m fine, little doe.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have really come over. You might get sick,” you pointed out, looking up to him.

You’d be surprised how far his constitution goes as a dragon but then again, he does love being doted by you.

“I’ll be fine, sweetie.”

“You could always turn down Mr. Sylus. His gifts can always wait.”

“But bringing his gifts to you is the only task I do enjoy.”

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else, Skye?”, you asked while he brushes the threads hanging on your antlers.

There are so many things he wants to ask from you. Those kisses you give freely to the twins and Mephisto, to hold you close and take in your comforting scent, and for you to finally call him by his real name but his requests, his pleas overflow, the words lost in his tongue and only then what matters is you, you, you.

Just you.

“Just keep doing your own thing, hm?”, Sylus replied, tapping your nose playfully.

“How about you help me and Daisy then?”, you asked, and you were so quick on pulling a chair for him, setting it beside where you usually sit on your sewing table, “If you don’t mind being my second assistant for today?”

His eyes fleeted on Mephisto which is busy shifting through the pile of fabrics you have laid out on the table. His mechanical crow really does enjoy spending time with you from the looks of it and he caught the absence of that familiar white ribbon you tried around its neck.

Had his companion managed to lose its valuable treasure already? That seemed unlikely. He had seen Mephisto snap at another crow once who tried to pull it off its neck.

“Just tell me what to do, darling deer.”

“Daisy and I are making another good luck ribbon,” you said, sitting on your chair and you patted on the chair beside you, an indication for him to do the same which he gladly did.

Oh, is that how that little item is called? No wonder Mephisto is very attached to it.

“A good luck ribbon?”

“Yes, to keep Daisy safe.”

“Well, isn’t Daisy a lucky bird to have you, miss seamstress.”

“I’ll make one for you as well, Skye”, you smiled, and the idea of having Mr. Sylus’ bodyguard wearing a ribbon in one of his horns sounds quite appealing to you. He would very much resemble the dragon figurine inside the music box you have beside you and he will be more approachable, you are sure.

“Are you saying I need good luck, sweetheart?”, he replied but he was already shifting through the fabrics laid out in front of him together with Mephisto and he already had a color in mind.

Afterall, he had always loved the color of your eyes. Warm, welcoming, and eager. He certainly wouldn’t mind a ribbon of that hue tied around one of his horns.

Your ears drooped slightly on his response, “You don’t want one?”

Oh, he doesn’t need luck.

Not when he already has you near him but how could he resist that cute pout on your face? This little tactic of yours, even if you are not aware of it, always works so well that he always finds himself abiding to whatever you would say.

“Don’t give me that look, Miss Deer,” he gently chided you and tapped your nose, “Of course I want one.”

Your tail wagged just slightly upon hearing his reply. It always gives you a sense of purpose when people say they like to receive gifts from you and since you are now making him one, maybe you should sew one for Mr. Sylus as well, a little token of gratitude for all the gifts.

“Do you think Mr. Sylus would want one as well?”

“I am sure he will appreciate it.”

“What color do you think he would want?”

“Red,” Sylus replied, an idea already forming in his head after you are done with this project while he fiddled at the edge of the fabric that shares the color of your eyes, “Definitely red, sweetie.”

Daisy hopped near you, dragging its chosen fabric by its beak and Sylus shifted closer to you, your shoulders touching and ready to take any instructions you would give him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the sewing part.”

“Just say the word, miss seamstress.”

Certainly not a bad way to spend a rainy afternoon with you.

────────────────────

Sylus had always detested the horns sitting on top of his head.

Monster.

Among the thousand curses and more he has been called, the word had always carried a certain weight every time humans and hybrids alike had laid eyes upon him.

His kind is a rarity these days, a dying breed after being hunted and culled like livestocks when the humans had deemed they are a threat.

How many times had he sawed them off? He only lost that habit when he realized that they always grow back, more pointed than ever and-

-If he can’t convince his hunters he meant no harm, then it is time to prove their fears right.

The blood drips from the blade, into his face, and then into the white tiles of the bathroom. In this world overflowing with laughter mocking him from being the last of his kind, he had decided to level the playing field and carve a utopia for himself that slowly grew, a twisted safe haven initially meant for fiends such as him.

Then, on this land of despair, a small patch of paradise had taken root. Clearly impossible but certainly, without a doubt, a miracle.

Sylus then realized having horns isn’t too bad. A grotesque reflection of your elegant antlers, a bad imitation, but one of the similarities you both share.

“I am glad you love it, Daisy,” you clapped your hands, watching your odd little bird hopped about and turn for you and Skye, showing off the little ribbon you have sewn together.

His mechanical crow is more than pleased and Sylus is already sure it is about to show it off to the twins for receiving a new gift from you.

It has become a little competition between those three and they don’t need to know that their boss is more than aware their contest involves who gets the most kisses and pats from you.

And here he is, sitting at the bottom of the list with the lowest score even if he isn’t technically part of that game.

“Do you want me to put on yours as well, Skye?”, you asked him.

“Just try not to tie it too tight, darling deer,” he said and he bent his head slightly, enough for you to reach his horn.

There was a shiver that ran on his spine when your fingers grazed his horn while you carefully fastened the ribbon around it and he let out a small whimper.

It was a gesture of trust but you wouldn’t know that, not when it was common for you deer hybrids to touch each other’s antlers.

But it was more than a gesture of trust.

Afterall, Sylus is more than aware that his kind only allows closed family to touch their horns and-

-Their mate.

He almost sounded pathetic in his own ears and for once, he is afraid to see the look of pity on your eyes. Here is your liar, Miss Deer, he wants to tell you but he wouldn’t deny there is a hint of fear that eventually you will realize ‘Skye’ and ‘Mr. Sylus’ are one and the same.

Would your fond gaze turn to fear by then?

“Oh, did I put it on too tight?”, you asked when your ears picked up the sound he made.

It was not pity that he saw but a flicker of concern if you have hurt him and oh, his sweetheart, always so caring. What did he do to deserve your kindness?

Too tight? Hardly. Your touch was so gentle, so unfamiliar yet he yearned for more.

“No sweetheart, you haven’t,” he replied and then you let out a small laugh when he pinched your cheek.

“I am glad,” you nodded and you studied the bow closely placed at the base of his horn. You should put more ribbons on him because it certainly made him look less threatening.

Maybe then, your clients wouldn’t have a heart attack if you and him had to go again to do a delivery run soon.

“It really looks good on you, Skye. People would believe you are a nice and friendly dragon now.”

“Perhaps I should wear ribbons more often then,” he joked but your ears seemed to perk up at his comment, and he caught the anticipation in your eyes at the prospect of making him more bows.

You nodded, and he froze slightly when you rub your antlers against his horn where the ribbon is tied in approval, “That sounds great. I can’t wait to see you in them.”

How many years has it that Sylus had long for such affection? To be treated gently and not as a lesser animal? Now, all of those wishes, his yearning for love that he thought he will never have, were slowly fulfilled unknowingly by you and he closed his eyes, rubbing his horns back to you.

“And I can’t wait to try out more ribbons for you, sweetie.”

“I hope Mr. Sylus will like what I made as much as you do, Skye.”

He may have stayed longer than usual today, especially when you ask him to only leave when the rain stopped. The sound of the downpour, the soft conversation between the two of you, and the sewing machine humming filled the room and even when evening fell, he watched you still push through, making your patterns, until you accidentally dozed off mid-conversation.

Little deer always forgets she is in the company of a beast.

He gently tucked your hair behind your ear, his hand lightly grazing the fur from the base until the tip, fleeting, not enough for you to even stir and the red gemstone that adorn your hairpin twinkled for a moment, like a wink.

Sylus left Mephisto with you, who almost looked like a plushie with you curled up against his companion and he set the gift he had brought for you near your hand holding the pencil.

Perhaps this is the start of another small game. A back and forth. A gift from him in exchange for a little trinket from you this time but Sylus will have to see.

He tied the red ribbon you said to give to ‘Mr. Sylus’ upon his return around the leather strap of his watch before he left your studio.

A small smile formed in Sylus’ lips when he took one glimpse of you before leaving.

If you opened your eyes, you will see that your Mr. Sylus is already more than pleased.

────────────────────

It was such a relief to see the boss returned to the base all too pleased with himself.

Luke and Kieran never found out what actually ticked him off last time he had visited you and their little investigation never arrived on a conclusion because you just looked at them confused when they tried to ask you if you and the boss had a little misunderstanding.

“Do you think he got upset because I asked for a piece of his lemon tart?”

They decided not to press on further, not wanting to upset you (Also because you offered to share the box of macarons they stole given to them begrudgingly by that cute, feisty sheep hybrid.)

They welcomed him in the base as routine but mostly because they are excited to see their father boss once again and he is usually more forgiving with their little antics every time he sees you, their tails wagging in excitement.

(Not that they blew up something again. They have been good while he is away for once. This whole sewing hobby is really taking up their free time.)

Yet, when Sylus went past the double doors of the base, they caught a scent quite strong that clung on him.

The scent of cotton and wildflowers.

Luke and Kieran looked at each other, a flicker of understanding. Is that why the boss is happier today?

“Boss, why do you smell like Miss Deer-”, Luke was about to ask but let out a yelp when Kieran stepped on his toes yet even then, the question had already made its way into his ears.

“What are you two on about?”, he asked, a small smirk tugging on his lips. He knows these two wolf cubs had a superior sense of smell, an already inherent trait for wolf hybrids amplified by whatever the humans did to them before arriving here in the N109 zone.

That little gesture of yours where you rubbed your antlers against his horns is supposed to be an affectionate one, fairly common among deer hybrids who are known for being very friendly to those they like.

He is still wearing the little ribbons you made for him which he had not removed until now but he is more than aware you have unknowingly left your scent on him.

Not that he minds, anyways, especially when he had also left his on yours as well.

He had to give these two points for asking him bluntly unlike your father who had given him an odd look when he exited your shop but he is sure you will be able to clear everything up.

You are not one for lying after all.

But these wolf cubs have no sense of subtlety. So nosy.

“Did you and Miss Deer had-”, Luke let out another yelp when Kieran stepped on his toes again, “Can you stop that, Kieran?”

“I am not giving you allowance for you both to sniff on my clothes,” Sylus said dryly.

The two looked at each other, their tails wagging harder. They wouldn’t dare do that knowing full enough the boss retaliates during their sparring sessions and it wasn’t their fault when their noses can smell up to miles.

“Come on, boss,” Kieran said, the two walking with him deeper into the base, “We aren’t animals.”

“Actually, it is pretty much stronger around your horns,” Luke piped and his eyes widened slightly, noticing the ribbon fastened on the base of his horn and another one in his watch.

The twins looked at each other, their eyes studying the neck scarves you have gifted them.

The boss had finally received a gift from you just like they did.

“You both are acting like animals.”

But the little scratch he gave them on the back of their pointed ears betrayed his words.

Little gremlins.

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Author's Note: Yes, I borrowed Louis from Beastars. He is absolutely necessary in the world building of this story even if he will appear here just ONCE. What did Louis left at Miss Deer's table? What is Sylus' gift? These will all be revealed in due time.

Will there be a side story with the twins? Maybe, maybe. We will see how the stars will align in the coming months.

Anyways, this is so fun to write. I try to write in between my free time and sometimes I just woke up at 2am because the ideas JUST HAD TO COME AT THAT TIME.

AO3

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10 / Side A / Side B

#love and deepspace #lads #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads sylus #hybrid au #love and deepspace sylus #lads hybrid au

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the-warmest-machine · 4 months ago

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Neve Gallus - Character Design Analysis

Neve knows how an outfit builds character, whether it's to project a genuine or false perception of the wearer. All her clothes are designed to convey "wealthy and powerful mage" as a safeguard. In this analysis, we'll take a look at Neve's Dragon Coat and point out details, symbolism, and intention with design—all under the cut.

Asymmetry

The first aspect to cover is the asymmetry in Neve's overall design. Not pictured, her bun is uncentered. Pictured, her coat is raised higher above the left thigh, and her hat sits at an angle while the veil creates a dividing line across her face. Her bangs act like a veil of their own as well.

Asymmetry in a character suggests they're dynamic, unconventional, nonconformist in some capacity, willing to behave outside of the box, etc. You can see that reflected through Neve's willingness to work with the Threads, to skip ritual protocol (re: her conversation with Emmerich), her work-life imbalance, and how she's open and teasing with the companions despite her archetype. You'd expect a jaded and cynical detective to be more gritty and detached, but Neve is soft and engaging once she's beyond her initial assessment of each companion.

Returning to the coat's left side: I would guess the raised adjustment's purpose is visual compensation, to bring attention away from her prosthetic. It's easy to notice the length difference with a still, but when she's walking and in motion, it's not something you pay attention to. The devs mentioned they wanted her prosthetic to be treated like an average part of her, and they succeeded.

Thematic Imagery

The major imagery shown above is a butterfly. Butterflies represent metamorphosis. Change. And that's exactly what Neve endeavors to enact for Dock Town. Her scarf's knots create the head, around her neck are the antennae, and the braided tails form the body. Her collar and lapels shape the wings, while the curving leather and embroidered gold are reminiscent of a monarch's pattern.

The secondary major image are the wings, created from her shoulder pads with unfurled feathers beneath them. Wings typically represent freedom. In Neve’s case, this freedom relates to her city.

Combined, the butterfly and wing visuals symbolize transformation taking flight and paving a course for a better Dock Town.

Tevinter Symbols

Recurring motifs include snakes (belt, cobra prosthetic, scaled earring) and diamonds, both symbols heavily used by the Tevinter Imperium. They serve as provocative and centering design elements at face value.

The diamond adorning her back reminds me of a coiled snake; the end curl would be a tapering tail. Scales are embossed in the leather for a tasteful touch. Or maybe the shape represents a dragon, because the crowns adjacent from the diamond look like feet? It is called the Dragon Coat, so maybe it's a dragon's butt.

I've debated about whether the tiny, gold diamonds with tails are of significance, but they could very well be simple elements to break up monotony. Theories on what they could represent include the Wall of Light, architecture, fangs, or scales. Perhaps they're pins for case notes? Girl is on point and also kind of a disaster. I can imagine her pinning random notes and categorizing them by what layer they're pinned to.

Utility

Neve has options to choose from when it comes to keeping detective gear on her person, which shows her practicality. It pays to look good, and it pays even more to have fashion be useful.

The Dragon Coat's description itself mentions many pockets to stash case notes. The pockets are likely on the inside of her sleeves. Attached to her waist is a compact pouch with two objects slotted into the adjacent holders (could be writing utensils).

Again, if those diamond tears are pins... you can see the potential for stashing even more notes.

Neve's cobra prosthetic is part of every outfit, but I wanted to showcase its degree of function under utility. The ankle was designed as a hinge. This gives her improved mobility, which of course includes stretching. It most likely becomes uncomfortable after long durations of use; you can often see her weight shifted to her left leg and checking on her right leg. The entire prosthetic design is on point, and the extra attention to detail is exquisite.

Color

Turqoise.* In every companion outfit available, there is turqoise. I would say she "just likes turqoise," but that doesn't align with how she searches for deeper meaning in the subtle things. So for analysis' sake.... The color itself compliments Neve's playfulness and creates contrast to Dock Town's more or less neutral palette. It's a fun, vibrant color that makes a statement. It's also shared by the Shadow Dragons.

While Neve can be intimidating and is a badass, she's light and idealistic at heart—if you dig deep enough. All cynics at one point held hope in high esteem, before they were proven wrong one too many times, or maybe in one heinous letdown.

(*As a disclaimer, the color may not actually be turqoise. The symbolism as a vibrant and saturated color stays the same though, whatever the case.)

And… that brings us to the end of examining Neve’s Dragon Coat and what it shows us about her character. Any other thoughts, please share!

#Neve gallus #character analysis #datv #da: the veilguard #Veilguard #dragon age #neve

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jinxneo · 30 days ago

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Diorama of Cube Escape: Arles

I worked 2 weeks on this project for my art class and I’m really pleased with the results!! Arles was the first game I ever played from Rusty Lake and I was immediately hooked— I can’t get enough of it!

Here’s the scale of the entire room versus my tiny hand ❤️

Closeup of the paintings.

The glassware minus the blue jug is actually made entirely of hot glue. I made a blob and then used the hot tip to sculpt it into shape.

All the furniture was made from either thick paper, balsa wood, or tiny Popsicle sticks.

The coats were cut out like a regular doll coat pattern but then halved in a very non efficient

The mirror was made of aluminum foil and all the paintings were made by hand.

The window panes were made using tissue paper sandwiched between thick paper.

The box the whole model is housed in is painted black like a black cube ▪️

#rusty lake #cube escape #diorama #artists on tumblr #yes i did burn myself a couple times #art project #minatures #hot glue my beloved #bedroom in arles #van gogh #vincent van gogh

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bucketsofmonsters · 1 year ago

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Deep Water - Part 3

cw: the ocean, almost drowning, kidnapping, more tags to be added as the story continues

merman x fem reader

Word count: 5k

read on ao3

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

On your first day of work, you were already regretting not pushing harder to get your siren to promise you he would stay away, glimpses of a snaking tail under the water every few hours stopping your heart for a beat every time.

You ignored your first sighting, reporting into the office, getting a list of duties and of expected intake for the day.

You asked when you’d be paid, part of you worried he’d say at the end of the month and you’d be stuck without a place to stay for weeks. You let out a sigh of relief when he said at the end of the week. Only two more days then. You could manage two more days. You were sent off on your way without much else said.

No one was assigned to help you, to figure out what you were supposed to do or how to start, so you did the only thing you could think of. You went and found Finn.

His face lit up the second he saw you, dropping the box he was holding to run over to your side.

“Hello little lady, how’s your first day going?”

You glanced back at the discarded cargo. “Do you not need to get that?”

“Is this going to take long? Okay, you probably want help, I’ll be right back.”

He rushed over to the dropped box that at the very least didn’t look like it had been damaged and hauled it over to a safer location, amidst some other unpacked boxes.

He was back at your side before the incredulous huff of laughter managed to escape you, giving you a sheepish look. “Sorry if I’m overeager, we don’t get many pretty girls out here, I’ve gotta try and help you before someone else snatches you up.”

You gave him a humoring laugh, more polite than anything.

You had a feeling your intentions with one another did not align, but he seemed pleasant and helpful and whatever his intentions happened to be, you could use that right about now.

And he held true to his word. For the rest of the day, he helped you figure out your various duties, largely abandoning his own, only occasionally popping out to make excuses or run and do something that others laughed and insisted really couldn’t wait.

The day passed quickly. The work wasn’t particularly hard, just repetitive. Finn did his best to help but once you realized he couldn’t read, it became a little more difficult.

He still hovered over your shoulder, something that you appreciated but had the unintended consequence of you having to struggle to pull his attention every time you caught another flash of scales out of the corner of your eye.

They seemed particularly likely to appear whenever Finn set off from his latest task he was ignoring to help you again.

You bristled at the thought, trying to tell yourself you were making up patterns, that it wasn’t anything at all.

At least you hoped you were. If it was a pattern, you were going to kill him.

Even once you got the hang of things, Finn refused to actually leave you, insisting that it was improper to abandon you on your first day. You just smiled and continued on, set on getting everything done. First impressions were important after all, and you needed to look just as valuable as your sister had been.

Before you knew it, the day was over and people had begun filing out. It wasn’t empty, the dock was never really empty, but it had quieted down and you finished the last of your work, marking everything down as neatly and perfectly as you could.

“I can take that back for you!” Finn exclaimed as you carefully looked over your work for any glaring mistakes. He seemed excited to find something he could actually help you with.

Part of you wanted to refuse, to take it back yourself, but he seemed too excited, refusing felt like kicking a puppy. Besides, you imagined he’d have a few kind words to say about you and that couldn't hurt.

He came darting back over in minutes, that persistent, goofy smile plastered across his face as he skidded to a halt. “Mission accomplished, ma’am,” he said with a little salute.

“Thank you, I really appreciate it,” you said, trying to push as much gratitude as you could into your voice.

“Now that that’s done, I was wondering if you wanted to go out or something. I could get you some drinks or food or whatever, celebrate your first day being over.”

There it was, exactly what you’d worried this had all been leading to. “Finn…”

Water came splashing up through the gaps in the wood on the dock, drenching the pair of you.

You jumped, reflexively and far too late to save yourself from any of the water.

As you looked through the slats, you could have sworn you saw the glint of scales.

“Yes,” you blurted out, bringing Finn’s attention back to you. “That sounds great.”

You gave him what felt like a poor approximation of an excited smile.

“Really? That’s amazing. The ocean seems to have something to say about it. She’s nervous, poor girl. Promise I won’t leave you behind.” He spoke down to the waves, attempting to lighten the mood as he saw your face go white in your newly wetted skirts.

You smiled, your heart hammering in your ears, and after another quiet little bit of reassurance, he scurried off, telling you to stay put while he found a coat he’d discarded earlier in the hot sun and promptly forgotten about, and then you could be off.

Simon, you guessed that was what you were calling him now, decided that was an opportune time to breach the surface of the water and look up at you with those big, golden eyes.

An anger that had been simmering quietly inside of you at every flash of scales you’d seen throughout the day came to a head as he had the audacity to simply appear like this. “Go away,” you hissed, the words coming out louder than you meant them to.

This wasn’t like the day before. You knew Finn would be back any moment, you didn’t have time to argue on the shore.

He remained resolutely above the water, looking up at you with a determination that almost frightened you set across his impish features.

When he opened his mouth, you held your hands out, trying to tell him to stop, that it wasn’t safe.

And then he started speaking and your hands fell limp to your sides, warning him not seeming quite so important anymore.

The words sounded different. Maybe he was singing? It was hard to tell. You couldn’t even make out the words, couldn’t understand any of it. All you knew was that he was there. Why were you all the way up here? You should be down there with him. Maybe then you could understand.

Whatever noises he was making, ones you were too far away to really hear, wormed their way right through your ears into your head, snaking their way around inside you, taking up the space where your thoughts were moments ago.

There was nothing but him.

Everything else faded away until all you could see was amber eyes.

And then, walking carefully and intentionally, you tumbled into the water, seemingly of your own accord.

The second you hit the icy water, the warm calm you’d been pulled into dissipated. You weren’t sure if it was the shock of the water or your head going under, no longer able to hear the hypnotic noises from the siren you’d thought was harmless. At least to you.

And what a foolish notion that was. He was a siren. It didn't matter if he'd saved you or not, of course he was dangerous. You weren’t special to him. Why would you be?

As you tried to come up for air his arms met your shoulders and pushed you deeper and you realized, horrifically, just how wrong you’d been.

You didn’t understand why he did what he’d done, why he’d helped you before. Maybe he’d just been playing with his food, toying with you until he got bored.

Your mind newly cleared, you fought to swim up. As you did, his tail wound around your legs and you saw a pout break out across his face.

Panic rose in your chest and he watched, head tilted, examining you carelessly, with your legs still bound together under the water.

He looked at you, eyes big and bright and expectant, flicking across your face as he tried to fight back a smile.

You struggled and his hand grasped yours, keeping it in place, effortlessly keeping you under the waves. The bright look in his eyes shifted to confusion, seeming baffled as to why you’d rather breach the surface than steal a kiss from him and let the cold water invade your lungs.

As he stared expectantly and confused at you, you wiggled just enough to free one leg, something he seemed unconcerned with as he continued to hold you under. He knew he was stronger than you, that you had no real shot of escape. You both did.

That didn’t matter to you. You brought your knee up as swiftly and firmly as you could in the cold water that forced a horrible, sluggish feeling into your limbs, and kneed him right in his gills.

That seemed to activate some instinct in him and he wrapped entirely around you, effortlessly countering you at every point of struggle. They were the movements of a practiced hunter.

You kicked and fought and made every attempt to break away and breach the surface but he was too strong, too practiced at this. At holding people down.

You wondered how you matched up to them, how hard you fought compared to his other prey, if he’d remember this at all once you were gone?

At some point in the struggle you must have kissed, in the loosest sense of the word. You missed it in the flurry of movement, just another brush of skin against skin in the struggle. It must have happened though because as your lungs burned just a bit too much and your brain forced you to inhale, you didn’t choke on water but instead felt the burning soothe and your instincts calm, despite the salt water flooding inside you.

Regardless of your newfound ability to breathe, the fight and lack of oxygen had weakened you and your struggle slowed.

As it did, he rose to the surface

When you breached the waves, the dock was nowhere in sight. You had no idea when in your fight he’d dragged you out to sea or how far you’d gone.

“You can breathe,” he said, looking at you with that same quiet confusion as when you’d fought against him. “I made sure you could breathe. Why do you still worry?”

You inhaled in an attempt to answer him with a screamed admonishment and then, before a word could escape you, you were coughing up water

He sat patiently as you did, his arms wrapped carefully around you.

The last time you’d coughed up water like this, you’d been too relieved to be alive to really notice it. You did not have that luxury this time. The saltwater burned coming up, your lungs feeling heavy in your chest as the water poured out of you.

It felt like you were dying. You didn’t understand how you weren’t.

He didn’t seem concerned, just holding you as you fought to empty your lungs so you could finally inhale, every attempted inhalation just stirred the churning water in your lungs, agitating them further.

As you finally emptied your lungs, you sucked in air. Your chest filled and it hurt more than it brought you relief.

“You have to take me back,” you forced out, the burning in your lungs exhausting you past the point of screaming at him.

His lips pursed into a pout and his eyes darted away from yours. “You don’t even like it there,” he said, sounding openly disappointed, not even attempting to hide it. But then, why would he? You were at his mercy, he could do whatever he wanted to.

“I like it better than I like it here,” you said, gesturing around you at the open ocean.

He looked around at the ocean surrounding you and then returned his gaze intently to your face. “I can take you somewhere else.”

“You know that’s not what I mean, you’d better not…”

And then he was off, swimming quickly through the waves.

He kept your head above water carefully, although you still had to keep your mouth firmly shut to avoid inhaling anything, but even that didn’t slow him down.

And then, with no warning, you were going down, back through thick water. You didn’t have a chance to gather your bearing before it was too dark to see anything, Simon’s grip on your arm was the only thing cutting through the cold black abyss around you.

Your arm brushed against hard rock, scraping painfully before it was gone and you found yourself disoriented in the space around you once more. You could be surrounded by rock for all you knew, inches away from it. There was no way to tell, no way to really know anything about where you were being dragged.

Your fight renewed as your air began to run out and the darkness still imposed itself around you. You knew better, knew you couldn’t get away. Even if you did, you didn’t even know which direction was up anymore. Your instincts, however, were not so easily suppressed by silly things like facts.

You couldn’t help but wonder if he was going to kill you. Even more than that, as your time under the water dragged on, why he was going to kill you? Maybe you’d upset him, made an unforgivable mistake when you kicked him or complained just a little too much. The way it looked now, you guessed you’d never know. You didn’t have the oxygen left to figure it out, your brain starting to get foggy.

And still, it continued. He dragged you down and down and then your head breached the surface and as you gasped in air, the word flipped right side up once more.

You dragged air into your pleading lungs, this time no wretched water biting your throat as you did.

Your lungs still hurt though. A quieter ache.

Your eyes adjusted slowly to the dark and you could barely make him out in what appeared to be a cave, the moon shining in through a few holes riddled in the rock above you.

“You could’ve killed me,” you said, desperation creeping into your voice.

His head tilted. “No. I know how long it takes a human to drown. You were fine.”

His words did nothing to settle your unease

“Is this better?” he asked, gesturing around to the cave you’d approached from beneath.

The water was just a small pool in a larger cave, leading off a few feet before revealing a glimpse of the outside world through the holes that let the light in.

You hauled yourself out of the water to look and saw that there was no other way out, only the horrible, dark path through the water he’d taken you through.

You couldn’t get out of here on your own.

Even if you could, you had nowhere to go. There was probably just more open water outside these walls. Even if there was land, you had no idea where you were.

You wondered if Finn was worried about you yet. Maybe he was. Or maybe he thought you’d abandoned him, left him alone on the dock in lieu of having to go out to dinner with him.

You weren’t sure which you were hoping for, which was better for him to believe. Which would be easier to explain when you returned? If you returned.

“You need to take me back,” you said, trying to force some authority into your tone.

“Can I ask you some questions about humans?” he asked, completely ignoring you.

“No,” you snapped. “You can’t. You can take me back.”

He drifted towards you and you pulled back further onto the patch of dry land.

That seemed to hurt him, like he couldn’t understand why you would possibly be wary of him.

He rested his head on the rocky shore, looking defeated, slowly drying blonde hair curling up around his eyes as it was freed of some of the weight of the water, and you fought to not think that if he hadn’t just done what he did to you, maybe he’d look sweet.

“Who was that?” he blurted out, his head lifting with his words as his jaw moved against the stone below him.

“What?”

“On the dock. He was talking to you, you were leaving with him. Who was that?”

“Who, Finn? Why do you-” A thought began to dawn on you. “His name is Finn. You hang around the dock, do you not know him?”

He shrugged in the water. “I’ve seen him.”

“And you care now? That’s kind of sudden.”

“I guess.”

“Alright. Did you kidn- Did you take me so I wouldn’t go with him.” You did your best to keep your voice measured in an attempt to get an honest response from him.

“You’re supposed to go to the beach. You weren’t going to the beach.”

“No, you rejected my deal, remember? I thought I wasn’t going to the beach because you were just hanging around.”

He rolled his eyes just barely, enough to make a quiet irritation stir in your stomach. “Can’t talk to you when I’m around,” he said, matter of factly. “You said you’d go to the beach.”

“I know, but something came up. I’d have come back. I can’t miss one day?” you said, trying to reason with him.

“One day? It was the first day!” he said with a huff.

“I hadn’t even left yet, how did you know I wasn’t going to go meet you.”

“Were you?” he asked, and you didn’t have a good answer for him.

“We’ll never know, will we? Because you decided to kidnap and almost drown me.”

“I didn’t almost drown you. I would never drown you.”

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. “Alright, well at the very least you decided to hurt me.” Sharp words bounced off the stone walls of the cave.

His eyes widened. “I hurt you?”

“Yeah, of course you did. I couldn’t breathe. And that’s beside how bad coughing up sea water hurts.”

He shook his head. “You’re fine, why would it hurt?”

“Simon,” you said, “It hurts humans when we can’t breathe. And we aren’t meant to have to breathe water, it burns when I have to get it out.”

For someone who presumably had drowned dozens of humans, he seemed to have little idea how drowning actually felt. To be fair, he probably didn’t have many chances to learn about the human side of the experience, you didn’t imagine many survived long enough to tell him about it.

“Oh,” he said, deflating a little. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Right, just to kidnap me.”

He nodded with no air of shame regarding his actions. “Yeah.”

You settled back against the wall of rock behind you, trying to think of what else you could say to get yourself out of there.

He looked up at you and suddenly he seemed unbearably nervous. “You want to leave.”

“I thought we discussed this, I have to leave. I can’t just disappear, there are people waiting for me.”

“Finn,” he asked, saying the name like it tasted rotten in his mouth.

“Yes, Finn. I told you, I can’t just disappear.”

You had to lean closer to him to hear his next words at all, his voice unbearably quiet. “It’ll hurt you.”

You slid back into the water beside him, hope sparking through you. “I’ll be fine, I just want to get out of here.”

His hands snaked around your sides, pulling you close to him. “Do you want to hold your breath or breathe the water?” You could feel his breath on your skin as he spoke. You didn’t understand how breathing worked for him, where his lungs ended and his gills began.

You shivered as you thought back to retching up the water, how it had burned coming up, how the attempted gasps felt inside already heavy lungs. “I’ll hold my breath.”

He nodded solemnly. “I will be fast.”

You sucked in a breath before he pulled you down, a luxury you had not been granted last time.

He was true to his words. You could feel the water rushing past you as you held your breath, clinging to him the whole way.

When you breached the surface, your lungs didn’t hurt quite as much as they had the first time around. His grip on you was tighter than when you’d arrived, a fear present in him that wasn’t before.

Your hands were wrapped around his neck, the desire to get yourself away from him gone now that you were fairly certain he’d bring you back, even if he wasn’t happy about it.

He brought you to the shore, a familiar spot.

Something occurred to you as you found yourself in shallow water. “How’d you even know where to take me? When you first found me, you took me right here.”

“I know where the ships are going. Always to the same spot.” He sounded almost annoyed at the ships’ predictability.

“Well, they have to go to a dock.”

He grumbled in response, his discontent evident. You weren’t sure how much of it was from this grudge against ships and how much was because he’d had to bring you back to shore.

You pulled yourself out of the water and wanted just sit there for a while, regain some of your energy.

The second you hit dry land, Simon was gone, disappearing before you could say so much as another word to him.

You didn’t really have time to talk or rest anyway, running back onto the dock as quickly as you could, hoping Finn hadn’t left yet.

You found him standing alone on the dock, looking dejected right until his eyes drifted towards you. His eyes widened as they met yours and his expression shifted from surprise to concern, rushing towards you.

“What happened?” he asked, pulling the jacket he’d run off to retrieve over your shoulders. “I thought you’d gotten bored and abandoned me but a swim at this time of day hardly seems like a good idea.”

“I fell in. Guess I’m more tired than I thought,” you said with a sheepish smile, hoping it was anything close to convincing.

His hand drifted up to push wet hair away from your face. “I’m sure you’re not feeling up to going out anymore…”

“No,” you said, not thinking of Finn at all but instead set on rebelling against the attempts to stop you from going. It wasn’t fair to Finn, but by the time that occurred to you, you’d already spoken. “I mean, you waited all this time for me, it would be rude not to go.”

He seemed too excited to notice how suspicious you were being. “Alright, but make sure you’re not overextending yourself.”

You nodded with an unenthusiastic smile and let him lead you off to a tavern somewhere.

It was a largely uneventful evening, all things considered. He bought you some soup, something nice and hot that you could feel in your bones, creating a comfortable warmth in your core.

Your reticence to talk was barely noticed. Finn seemed more than happy to fill the silence, letting you bundle up under the thick wool of his coat and focus on your food.

Before you knew it, it was gone and there was nothing left to distract yourself with.

You waited for Finn to finish whatever story he’d been telling that you hadn’t been listening to and said, “This has been lovely, but I should be getting back.”

He laughed. “What, back to work? I’m not that boring, am I?”

You started as he pulled you fully out of your head back into the tavern. “What? No, of course not.”

“So where are you staying then?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Nowhere. I’ll find an inn after I get paid but until then-”

“You could stay with me!” he blurted out before you even had the chance to finish your sentence.

You weren’t quite as enthused. “Look, Finn, I don’t…”

“This isn’t me trying to come onto you, honest. You shouldn’t have to stay out in the cold, it’s not right. I mean, no wonder you're tired. If you don’t get some proper sleep you’ll drown, and then who am I supposed to try and impress every day?”

It was most certainly untoward, but the offer was tempting nonetheless.

You reevaluated Finn, trying to determine how much you really trusted him. Enough for dinner, sure, but enough for this?

You thought about spending another night alone on the cold shore and decided that yes, you did trust him enough for this.

As soon as you nodded your assent, he grabbed your hand, pulling you towards the stairs in the tavern.

You couldn’t help but think that taking you to the tavern he was staying at felt presumptuous but the allure of a warm room and blankets were too strong for you to say anything to that effect.

His room was decently sized, with a large bed pressed against the back wall. Reassuringly, he started to set up a space on the floor for you, moving some blankets from a chair in the corner to the floor.

To your chagrin, he began to settle into the nest of blankets on the ground and you immediately moved to set it right.

“Absolutely not, you will not sleep on the floor in your own room.”

He looked up at you with big, sad eyes. “But-”

“No buts, I will leave.”

He sighed. “Fine. But know that I’m not happy about it.”

You settled onto the floor and he slid another blanket off the bed onto you. You accepted it without argument, allowing him this at least. Besides, you were in no state to be turning down blankets.

It was late and the blankets helped against your still damp form. The calm itself was refreshing and you fought the urge to thank Finn, who seemed like he’d already drifted off to sleep since you’d begun to settle down.

You had no choice but to try and follow him.

You slept restlessly but at least you slept.

#terato #merman x reader #merman x human #monster x reader #monster x human #monster bf #monster boyfriend #merman #Simon is crazy this chapter #Don’t invite a wolf into your home and then be surprised when it bites

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midnightshindig · 4 months ago

Note

I js got my blood drawn for donations some few hours ago was not great but worth it but can you do a mark x reader where they get there blood drawn for donations but feels bad after and he takes care of them?

Mark x Reader

Omg haiii that's so fr! I hate getting my blood drawn, I got you!

hcs under the cut!

Mark is a superhero on a GLOBAL scale

which means sometimes he forgets about all the things the average person can do to have a positive impact

So when you come home moderately drained and with a thirst for electrolytes, he's a little confused

oh my god blood donation he forgot that was even a thing.

Mark isn't even sure he has human blood, or if he could donate it

Either way, you get home and you're sore and bruised and tired

"Jesus, Y/n, are you okay?" He asks candidly from the couch, quickly moving to his feet

"Huh? Oh, yeah I'm good. Just donated some blood and I think they drew too much." You wave it off like its no big deal

but like you just gave people your blood

like a LOT of blood.

He's so prouddd

"That's terrifying, but also amazing?" he tilts his head, with a goofy grin

"You've seriously never donated blood before?" You asked, taking a seat with him on the couch and rubbing where they'd taped a square of gauze into the inner part of your arm

He shook his head with a shrug "nope, I've known I'm a Viltrumite since I was like.... a kid? I've never had my blood drawn at all."

He asked what it was like and of course you explained it to the best of your ability, ending with you leaning your head against him for support

"I think it's very brave of you to do something like that." he responded with a coy look, prompting you to elbow him gently

"Mark, don't be a dick-"

"Hey- Hey! I'm serious!" he put his hands up with a laugh, before wrapping an arm around you and pulling you in, kissing the top of your head "You did a good thing, I'm proud of you, Y/n."

He paused for a minute "So how long do you have to leave that on?"

"Uh.. I don't?" you wondered what he was getting at

Mark only smiled wider "Well my mom got a lot of those cute patterned stickers for Oliver."

So you end up going through maybe half a dozen different themed boxes of bandages, before landing on an intricately patterned one that you liked best

Mark knelt on the ground and gingerly cleaned the inside of your arm, before applying a new bandaid

"Mark you know this is just as superfluous as the gauze, right?"

"Psshhht- I know." He looked up at you to your spot in a kitchen chair "But it's a bravery badge."

"A what?"

His face turned a light shade of red as he looked away "Gah, it's dumb. It's... something my Dad used to do. When I would get hurt. My mom would patch me up and my dad would call them bravery badges instead of bandaids."

You listened intently, leaning your other arm against the kitchen table

"He said it made me sound less weak. Which, in retrospect...." he trailed off, his expression souring

"But! Now it's just a badge for being brave, for doing a good job at a shitty, difficult thing, and for being a good person."

He pulled himself up off the flood, opening a hand to you and pulling you from the chair to your feet

"Thanks for doing this, Mark. You're sweet." you leaned up and pressed a kiss to his lips

"Of course, how could I not?" He responded, before kissing you again

You supposed getting your blood drawn wasn't so bad after all

#invincible #invincible show #invincible season 3 #invincible fanfic #invincible spoilers #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #mark x reader #invincible mark grayson #mark grayson invincible #mark grayson

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deadhands69 · 2 months ago

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Going to Ikea to play hide and seek with the League of Villains (Toga’s idea.) Most of them grumble but go along with it because she's so excited. Then they proceed to get really competitive and into it.

Spinner scales the wall, hiding behind a giant curtain.

Tomura picks a fairly simple spot, inside a large cabinet. He also cheats, decaying his way out the other side when he sees the door opening.

Toga hides somewhere cozy, like in a giant box of pillows or towels.

Dabi starts off sitting on a couch somewhere, refusing to participate. That is, until everyone else is having fun but him and he decides to give it a try. He likes searching for people more than hiding, but he also finds that he likes hiding places he can scare people.

Magne will not stoop to cramming herself in a closet or hiding under a table. Instead, she finds some wallpaper in a similar pattern to her shirt and makes herself at home.

Compress hides in the most ridiculous places like laying under couch cushions or behind a frame pretending to be a picture. He also left with three new couches, a duvet cover, some silverware, and a plush monkey for Toga.

#league of villains #lov crack #mha crack #bnha crack #my hero academia #little words #sfw

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safination · 1 year ago

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Partners in Death...and Life.

Part I: Radio's not dead

| Part 2: Radio Will Be Dead if He Doesn’t Explain Himself. | Masterlist| ao3 Pairings: Alastor x wife!reader Tags: fem! reader, established relationship, human!alastor, hopefully not but just in case ooc!alastor (I'm trying my best to keep him as canon as possible) acroace!alastor

"Alastor! Pleasure to be meeting you. Quite a pleasure!” One hand reset on his chest, and the other shoots into the air. It’s the bow you did in high school, back when you wanted theater to pay your bills. A performer’s bow. You chuckle. “I don’t think it will be quite the pleasure you think.” “Is that so?” Alastor’s smile remains constant. “And why would that be?” You show him the tray you’re holding. “I’m here to do your sutures.” [Or after a seven-year absence, you find the man you were married to in life, not only back in town, but also helping . . . *checks notes* . . . the Princess of Hell run a hotel aimed at rehabilitating sinners who were sent to the bad place for a reason.]

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You pass the tissue box—the third one already.

Your patient blows his nose, rubbing snot off his snout. He has to stretch his arms to reach his nose. Alligators are known for their long snouts. His nostrils flare when he sniffles.

Used tissue is discarded on the pastel-pink floor despite a pastel-pink trashcan stationed by his webbed feet. It’s been the same pattern for the last fifteen-minutes. Tissue, Sneeze. Floor.

“—and I have this . . . uh . . . like this real bad itch on my eye. I keep rubbing and rubbing but it doesn’t do shit! My eyesight’s gotten worse—It’s already fucked up but this is just different. My roommate hissed at me about getting blood all-over the carpet floors if I kept scratching my scales. Oh. Oh! I’ve been snee—achew!” Alligator snot lands on the pastel-pink floors of the clinic.

Your eyes twitch.

He takes another tissue and waves it around his head. “The top of my head is killing me. Ya’know where that is right?” He blows his nose. “It’s right here,” he says, inching his head closer to you. “The last nurse I went to was blind as a bat! Literally, she had the wings and everything. It was kinda hot.”

“I’m well aware of the location of your head,” you say. “You can lean back now.”

Tissue. Sneeze. Floor

Tissue. Sneeze. Floor.

Pastel pink floor.

Underneath the mix of feathers and hair strands, the bustling of the waiting room catches your ears. Someone curses, booming and violent at another waiting patient. A cough, a sigh, a barf. Painful curses erupt after that. You bring a hand to your ears, wincing as your eardrum ring. Pentagon City’s best and biggest hospital needs better doors, but those lazy sloth fuckers at the top invested at the first material they found.

The alligator sneezes into another tissue. He flicks it with his wrist, and it hits the pastel-pink wallpaper adorned with closed eyes. Maybe Belphegor should be the sin of Pride instead, considering all items are covered in her symbol.

“I really feel like t’was those exterminators ya’know?”

You do not, in fact, know. Half of what this young man says is incomprehensible.

His snout sways left to right when he shakes his head. “It’s only my second one, and this was a close call, and uh . . . well, ever since then I’ve been like this. One even got to my roommate. “

You hum, leaning back on your chair. You should petition to for thicker doors. And while you’re at it, better interior design, and better paint—something that isn’t pastel pink.

“Ugh, and it’s so not cool that this new roommate of mine’s been shedding since the day they moved in,” he says. “Speaking of shedding, do you think it’s because of those exterminators? Do you think they like spread some sort of weird pollen to make us sick? They’re totally the type to do that.”

You take your pen—your pastel-fucking-pink pen—and poke his alligator sinuses.

Hell does have its own brand of humor. You gave your 20s to studying human anatomy, only to die and find yourself with the need to re-learn the boring part of biology. (Two books on reptiles, four on mammals, and fifteen on sea creatures.)

“YEOWCH!” His teeth stick out again. You do not know what this means. “What kind of nurse ar—“

“Doctor.”

“—you? That’s not the top of my head!”

You push back on of the feathers on your head. “Your roommate ‘hissed’ at you? And they’ve been shedding fur for two weeks now.?

“Yeah . . . ?”

You stare at him. “Have you ever considered that you’re allergic to your roommate?”

“Ooooooooooh,” he says. ‘Yeah, I was allergic to cats back when I was alive.”

You grab your (pastel-fucking-pink) prescription pad from the desk drawer. “Control it with some antihistamine. Four pills every 12 hours.”

His teeth start showing. You’re not sure if he’s frowning. It’s hard to tell. “Pills, really?”

You toss what you were writing into the massive pile of germs, mucus, and tissue. “I can give you a nasal spray. I’ll flush the mucus then insert a spray that prevents build-up,” you say. “They last for two weeks and then you’ll need to come back.”

He grabs the last tissue from the box. It still lands on your floor. “Ma’am nurse, do you have any more of this?”

You sigh and reach for a fourth box of tissue. “It’s doctor,” you say. “We keep nasal sprays here in the clinic. I’ll just grab one and you’ll be out in fifteen minutes.”

“No can do,” he says. “Before I died, my coach told me to stay away from that non-organic shit. It’ll mess us up real bad apparently. All those steroids.”

“You have phencyclidine sticking out of your coat pocket.”

“Pheny—what?”

“ . . . Angel Dust.”

“The porn star?”

“The drug. You have drugs sticking out of your coat pocket.”

“Come on, nurse—”

Threads erupt from your fingers. It snakes around his wrist, coiling and twisting.

He jerks his arm away and cries out when you tighten your hold. Your threads wrap around his legs. It pulls against his waist. Magic binds his arms, and tightens around every joint he owns.

You stop, only when the alligator struggles, trashing against the clinic chair. His teeth bare and he snaps at whatever he can reach. You tug on one of the thousands of strings digging into his skin. His jaw snaps shut, and it will stay shut. Another tug and his back stretches to straighten. You move your fingers as if a piano laid before you, and he sits up like a good puppet.

Another month of clinic dury will be your punishment if those sloth from down below are lucid enough to do their jobs.Sadly, killing this idiot would have you suspended for three months.

“I am a doctor,” you tell him. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

The tension on your strings marks even the few scales scattered on his body. He’s a real idiot if he continues to struggle.

Delicate movements of your fingers bring him forward, his back still strained, and tilt his snout at a forty-five-degree angle.

Your threads elongate as you move toward the clinic drawers. It loosens around you, careful at keeping you able to move freely. It’s one of the handier parts of your magic. You shake your hands and the threads detach. It sticks to the floor to keep the alligator as your puppet. You scrub your hands thoroughly before taking the nasal spray and filling with with distilled water.

You place on nitrite gloves. It’s always best when dealing with bodily substances such as mucus.

You place a pan underneath and jam the tube up his nostrils, hosing his sinuses with water. The tension of his binding keeps him still. (If you ignore his whining, then that’s your business. The brawl you heard from the waiting room drowned it all out anyway.) He starts breathing better when all the snot flushes to the pan.

“Finished,” you say with satisfaction. You grab your prescription pad and write one for a nasal spray. “I cleared the mucus buildup so you shouldn’t feel any more headaches. The spray will keep your nose clear for as long as you use it. Come back if you start to feel any discomfort. For the rashes just get cream.” You point at the pastel pink door. “The exit’s right there.”

The threads dissolve in the air. He rubs his wrist, trying to soothe the red marks that your strings bring. You hand him the signed prescription.

He doesn’t close the door on his way out.

The broom and dustpan are hidden in one of the taller cabinets—pastel-pink like everything else in the room.

(Well, not everything. The radio sitting on the corner of the counter gives a splash of red into the room.)

You sweep the tissues into the dustpan. Your control over your strings is much more proficient when living beings are involved. Inanimate objects whip around when you use your magic on them, and radios have been difficult to purchase recently. It’s more convenient to clean using your own hands.

“Tagatha,” you call out when the floor is clean. “You can bring in the next one in.”

Silence is your reply.

“Tagatha?”

Your ears quirk. The noises are faint—an occasional cough, silent weeping, and muted voices coming from the television. You peek out the door, eyeing the crowd formed around the corner of the hall where a pAstel-pInK television mounts on the wall.

The door closes with a faint click. You sink into the cushions of the office chair. Vox’s yapping bore you. It was probably some man-child debate about the new extermination date.

Although . . . those serialized dramas he produces, sadly, are interesting enough to be consumed. If asked for your honest opinion, you’d tell them that they were a hot pile of smelly garbage, but you like to leave it playing mindlessly in the background.

Your husband will throw the television out the window the first chance he’ll get.

Too bad he’s occupied.

You grab a piece of paper from the drawer. Management is forcing you to write a thousand-word formal apology. There are about three-hundred words left to write.

Getting caught dissecting the dead bodies from the morgue is a mistake that won’t be repeated. One dead body and suddenly those lazy fuckers have diligence weaved into their DNA.

The body was already dead, and it’s not every day a chance to poke around a chimera’s entrails appears.

The sinner would contribute to something meaningful at least. You’re stuck on clinic duty until you dot your last sentence, and not a moment before

The coffee’s cold now, but consumable.

You reach across the desk, feeling for the knob of the radio. You twist until you feel the clink. Music fills the air—the same twenty-five songs on a loop. You stare at the radio for a moment. Just . . . a small . . . single moment.

. . . On your kitchen counter, that second cup of coffee should be cold by now. It’s always cold when you trudge through the door. It’s been cold and untouched for years.

Yet, without fail, that second cup you brew will always be waiting for its owner.

“Salutations!” You snap your head to the radio. “Good to be back on the air.”

Huh? The feather on your hair preens. You swipe the radio, your hold on it feather-light. You turn the knob responsible for volume. The static noise stings your eardrums.

“—ile since someone with style treated hell to a broadcast. Sinners rejoice!”

Murmurs erupt outside your door. You blink and find yourself slamming it open. One foot after another, one step after the other, brings you closer to the television. Your shoulder throbs when you bump into someone, but you keep pushing until you see Vox and his tacky suit enlarged on the screen.

“What a dated voice!”

A reply comes from the radio. “Instead of a clout-chasin’ mediocre video podcast.”

Your feather rises higher. Laughter escapes your lips, it leaves a dry taste. That . . . that ṁ̵̭͔̲̙̦͎̝̜̲̠͙͇̂̏̃̐̂̓̊̂̕̕o̴̢̭̝̙̤̬͚͐̅͗̌̇̂̌̕ţ̷̛̝̂̿h̶̯̟̙̲̘̟̟͙͔̔̋͊̋̿̐͘͜͜ę̶̗̰͔̫͔̗̝̘̻̰̓̓̈̊͜r̵̨̂̏f̶͖̻̱̺͕̹̫̭̠̚u̸̬̺̯̟̦͖̅̂́́̌̚͝ć̴̖͙̰͈͕̉͌̈́́̈̔̀̉̍́͜͠ḳ̴̨̧̗̫̗͖̞̟̑͌̂̀̈́̀͆͒ę̷̛͓̼̟͍̆̆́͆̾͛͝r̵̹̮̤͓̗̹̈́̎̉͌̾͌̏͑̋̚͝.

“Doctor!” Tagatha screeches when she spots you. “I am so sorry. I’ll bring in the next one right away!”

Your eyes are trapped by the screen and your ears by the radio. “It’s alrig—”

Tagatha grabs the closest person to her and shoves you back into the clinic. The door slams shut just as everything goes dark and silent. (Well, it’s not completely dark, once your eyes adjust you can still see as if the lights were open. Another small perk to this body). Your radio, along with the power, stopped working.

“Oh my!” Your new patient bleats.

“We have generators,” you find yourself saying. “I’m sure the power will come on in a minute.”

The cushions of the chair do little to ease your nerves. You pat your hair, trying to get it in control. A pile of feathers starts forming on the PASTEL-FUCKING PINK FLOORS. T̴̹̜͇̅̅͗͜H̶̰̗̄Ơ̶̡̡̻̗͖̋̎̓̓S̴̨͉̝̻͋̽̆́͆Ẹ̸̡̢͐͐͠ ̷̨͚̞̙̀͒̆̆͊Ŭ̵͕̲̪͇͓͐̚G̷̹̝̦̬͊͒Ḷ̶̭͓̎̏̈͘Y̶͇̟̍̉̚ ̷̟͎͕̞͂͑̂̇À̶͉̍̄̈̚S̸͖̖͕͑̏͛̈́S̶͚̤̼̯̀ ̶̻͆P̷̬̝̉Ä̵͕́͊̌S̸̢͍̆̓͝Ṫ̸͖̲̠̾̉͜͝E̷̺͆L̷͖̏͐́͝ ̶̛̟̽͝P̷̪̔͜I̴̹̥̹͖̮͒́̏͘N̸̳̙̼̾̆̿Ķ̶̟̞̜̉͊̓̂̚ ̵͈̬̃̿̄̈́̋F̵̨̨̼̫̘͘L̸̙̠͎̓̆́O̷̧̘͚͉̤̓O̷̤̟̱̼̤͋̍͐R̷̰̝̓͌̌Ș̵̲̝̈́ “Excuse me?” You will paint this room red with the blood of management. You tap your foot again, and again, and again. “ . . .Doctor?”

Your neck snaps in her direction, eyes wide and staring.

“The . . . uh . . . the lights are back.”

You blink at your patient—huh, she’s a goat. “I apologize,” you say, smiling. “Please, tell me, what brings you here in this hellish afternoon.”

She holds up her bleeding arm. “It’s been like this since the extermination,” she explains. “Some angle got me. Luckily, I was able to run off before I was finished. I thought it would heal on its own like it usually does but it just hasn’t. It keeps bleeding.”

“Well, angel-induced injuries are my specialty,” you say. Tucked away to the side, a mirror hangs. You catch your reflection, and you blow your hair away from your vision, your red sclerae “This will cost you. Injuries caused by angels are . . . difficult to stitch, but not impossible—not for me at least.”

“Oh, yes.” She bleats one more “Dear God, where are my manners? I’m sorry can I ask for your name?”

Your smile widens. “Of course. I’m—"

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

“Alastor! Pleasure to be meeting you. Quite a pleasure!” One hand reset on his chest, and the other shoots into the air. It’s the bow you did in high school, back when you wanted theater to pay your bills. A performer’s bow.

You chuckle. “I don’t think it will be quite the pleasure you think.”

“Is that so?” Alastor’s smile remains constant. “And why would that be?”

You show him the tray you’re holding. “I’m here to do your sutures.” He steps closer to take a peek. You watch him as his eyes gloss over your matches then your needle driver, then the alcohol lamp. His smile wobbles when he lands on the syringe.

You move the tray, dropping it down on the little cart by the examination chair.

“There’s no need to worry.” You beam at him. “I have the steadiest hands in this city.”

“Hmmmm,” he says. “You must be the other doctor then.”

“Not at all.” You point to your uniform, where the initial ‘NP’ is embroidered next to your name. “Just the nurse practitioner.”

He takes a closer look and reads your name. “Then I have no reason to fret. None at all! In my experience, doctors usually have their noses buried in their books. It’s the nurses that actually get the hands-on experience.” Alastor’s hands move when he talks. “What’s such a talented practitioner doing in such a dinged-up clinic?”

“Management caught me in the morgue dissecting the dead—It’s how I practice my stitches.”

“Really, now?”

You bark a laugh. “Not at all—I’m far too smart to get caught.”

“A witty sense of humor and a steady hand! I am in good hands, indeed.”

You take a seat on the rolling stool. “Yes, yes,” you say, waving your wrist. “You make fine compliments, Sir. I’ll be sure to be extra gentle.” You point towards the examination chair. “But, please hurry to the chair. You’re dripping blood on my floor.”

Alastor glances down. His eyebrows furrow as he glares at where the blood seeps from his sleeve . . . almost . . . almost as if he’s angry. “My apologies,” he says, allowing his blood to drip to the floor.

Alastor shrugs off his coat. It’s rare to see such a dark red—only a few choose such a color. You hum. Alastor is a well-dressed gentleman. Lovely. Those are your favorite kind. He drapes his coat over the spare chair, ignoring the coat racks the clinic provides.

You turn away and wheel yourself closer to one of the drawers on the counter. It takes two attempts until you find the stash of sterile gloves. “Take your seat when you’re ready,” you say. “I’ll take a look once you are.” You place the gloves on the little green cart, right next to your tray.

Alastor takes his seat, landing with an audible ‘humph’. He smiles at you, sleeves rolled and arm ready. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You hold your palm out. “May I?”

His smile wobbles—it’s a small change in expression that you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking. “Of course.”

Along his forearm, a long and sharp cut wounds him. The sight of grime that covers the opened abrasions makes you inwardly cringe. You need to clean these as soon as possible. “Why was this not checked sooner?” You rest his hands on the armrest and use your foot to bring the cart closer. “This looks old, and not at all like a freshly deep cut. I prefer it when patients come to me with fresh wounds.”

You grab a bowl with distilled water and pour in a sterile solution. “I assumed it would heal on its own,” he tells you. “It was quite a surprise when it did not.”

“I need to clean this before you die of infection.” You dip his arm into the bowl. He remains silent, but you feel the tension of his muscles under your fingers. “Hopefully there will be no next time, but just in case, next time, please don’t wait a month.”

He laughs, and there, you faintly see it—a twitch in his eye. “It was only a week actually.”

You smile to yourself. “I’d prefer it if it was only a few hours.” You dry his arm with a soft towel, his arm still tensed underneath your touch. “There, much better.” You release your hold to go to a shelf filled with different labeled vials and select the one you need. With the clean syringe, you draw the contents of the vial. “You’ll feel a bit of a pinch,” you say. You tap its side. “It’s morphine— wouldn’t want you screaming and writhing”

You study his face for a second. There’s just that same dismissively polite smile.

“You can look away if you wish,” you tell him. “It’s why we pin such . . . er . . .interesting decorations around. . . . May I?”

You feel it again when Alastor inches his arm closer. His muscles tense under your touch. It’s almost as if he wishes to pull away. You keep your hold feather-light, but firm.

“Are you a hunter by any chance?” you ask. You don’t prick him—not yet. Not when tension coils in your hold.

“You could describe it that way,” he says, chuckling like he’s told a humorous joke. (You don’t understand why.)

“I figured you were.”

Alastor slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose. You inject the morphine into his skin, right inside the soft pink tissue. Good. Alastor relaxes when he speaks, it seems. “I do love a good hunt,” he says. “How ever did you know.”

You release your hold and discard the syringe. “Your hands are rough,” you tell him. “And hunters always have this silly notion that injuries magically heal given enough time—along with farmers, actually. Although, farmers are usually much more deluded.”

He flashes that same polite smile. “I'm guessing you’re not a hunter then?”

“How ever did you know?”

You watch his eyes flicker to your palms as you re-arrange the needles. “Delicate hands.”

You flash the same polite smile right back at him. You take a match, and light the alcohol lamp.

Soap spreads all over your palms and up your arm as you scrub your hands. You slip your hands into the sterilized gloves, careful not to contaminate the surface. “I’ll begin now.”

Alastor hums in reply.

You take a scapple and pass it over the flame. You poke him, lightly, but he doesn’t react. Satisfied, you cut back fibrous tissue underneath the skin. You replace the scapple with a needle driver. There was a quiet click when you pinch the tiny curved needle. You pass it over the flame as well. “Can you do me a favor? Can you tell me how many stars are on that wall over there?

Alastor turns to look at you, but you block his eyes with your palm, shielding him from your stiches.

“The wall isn’t over here.”

“I assure you, I’m not afraid of a silly needle.”

“I’m sure you are,” you say. “However, you’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. The last three people who said that took one look and started squirming. One even fainted. It makes your life miserable, and my job harder.

He counts.

“Out loud please.”

He does as he’s told, rather reluctantly.

Hands steady and determination set, you pierce the soft pink tissue with your needle The tissue nearest to the surface is always delicate. You’re certain not to catch any fat in your suture, for fat dies, and a loose stitch is useless. “Well, isn’t this fun!” he says. “I really feel nothing.”

Your concentration does not break. “I don’t remember there only being twenty-six stars. I’m positive there are more.”

“Why is someone as talented as you only a nurse practitioner?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a nurse,” you reply, tugging on the needle. “Well . . .we . . . we certainly could be paid more.”

“Why not become an actual doctor then?”

“My father couldn’t afford it. He wouldn’t send me . . . and . . . hmm.” You smoothly pull the suture thread and begin the next stitch. “And I enjoy this.”

He looks down at you. “Is this all you’ll be satisfied with?”

You focus back on your stitching, hiding your glare. You bring your needle underneath the flesh, making sure to catch the soft tissue. You’re doing an uncommon stitch, but it would be a shame to leave a scar. “You sound familiar.”

You pause to look at him, His smile brightens, and it actually looks like a genuine elated smile. “Why, I’m a radio broadcaster. You might have heard me there.”

“Oh yes,” you hum, turning back to your stitching. “Alastor . . . I remember now. The ladies and I listen to your broadcast as we do our crafts.”

“Knitting?”

“I personally prefer embroidery,” you say. “I get to practice my stitching and make beautiful art.” You pull the thread and begin a new one, stitching his skin like they were shoe laces. “You’re quite the humorous gentleman, I must say, and quite a lovely taste in music. We enjoy your broadcast very much”

“Do you have any of your artworks here?” he asks you. “I would be eager to see them.”

“Maybe next time.” You tug the suture, and his laceration snaps to a close. You tie a knot and snip the end. “Unfortunately, I’ve finished your stitches.”

“Next time then.”

You discard your gloves and go back to the shelf with the vials. You fill up another syringe. You jam the needle into his skin, not enough to hurt, just enough to scare him a bit. “To prevent infection.”

He jerks away from you. “What happened to that gentle touch of yours?”

“It’s still a sharp object, Sir. They tend to hurt.” You smirk and carefully clean the remaining blood on the skin around the sutured wound. You take a bandage from your cart and begin wrapping it around his forearm, covering your sutures. “Don’t forget to drink your pills every 8 hours, with a meal in your stomach, preferably. Replace the dressing every three days. You can come back here or if you’re able to do so, you can change them yourself. Any by the good God, please, visit the nearest hospital should this incident repeat.”

Alastor slides off the examination chair. He grabs his coat as if you didn’t just stitch him close. You start packing when you notice him fixing his bow tie, and smoothing his hair. Huh . . .There’s blood on his coat, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Like he’s used to having it there. Like it’s just something he’s learned to live with. “You were wrong by the way.”

“Pardon?”

“It was quite the pleasure to meet you.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Next Part |Part 2: Radio Will be Dead if He Doesn't Explain Himself| Hello, welcome to the hell that's been plaguing my head. In case you didn't know Belphegor is the ruler of the sloth ring, and she seems to be in charge of medical-related stuff in Hell. I have the story mostly plotted out, it's just a matter of writing it down. If you have any questions, ask away

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charcoaldustonmyfingers · 2 years ago

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Biblically accurate Michelangelo! Love this guy. What a round little fella. Box turtles are so circle shape.

Box turtles can do this cool thing where they can go all the way into their shell and close the door! Their plastron is hinged in two, so when they retract they can hide their extremities and completely block out predators from getting in at all. They’re also mostly terrestrial, although they do need water to keep themselves well hydrated and partake in the occasional swim. Male box turtles also have bright red eyes, which is pretty neat.

Mikey probably could retract more than the others, but I don’t know if his humanoid limbs would quite fit completely inside his shell post mutation. Even so, good luck landing a hit on this hard scaled and agile little guy!

I added a little color too for some painting practice! Ornate box shells have some really impressive patterns to help them blend into the grasses and leaf litter they call home.

[Raphael] [Leonardo] [Donatello] [Extended Family]

#rottmnt mikey #rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise mikey #biblically accurate turtles #ngl seeing a giant reptile with red eyes brandishing chain whips would be terrifying #even if he’s just a fun little guy

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reginaphalangelobster · 5 months ago

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You Slithered Back Into My Heart, And I Let You

10th Doctor x Reader feat. Rose

Summary: You loved being a snake, but could he get you to be yourself again?

Warnings: jealous Rose, grief, angst, fluff

Word Count: 2k

Request: Yes

Notes: It's implied that The Doctor left the reader a long time ago.

You preferred to disguise yourself in the form of an animal. It was just easier. You always found it difficult to talk to people and when you were an animal you could just go about life without much interaction with others. You loved being a snake the most. You were always cool, you could go by without much notice and you could sneak into anywhere. You particularly loved to slither around forests and bushy areas. The dark, dank trees, air ripe with the smell of rain, and thick foliage for you to rummage around in.

One good thing about not naturally being a snake was that you could appear however you wanted. You tried to blend into your surroundings but sometimes you were blue. There wasn't a particular reason, you just felt something about the colour. You loved being a bright blue with darker markings, the way your scales shimmered a deep blue when the sun hit your body. You were just blue most times but on occasion you had little black patterns across your body. You never knew why, sometimes your appearance changed without your permission, it was almost like a mood ring.

You were about 3 feet or a meter long and you loved to curl in on yourself. The feeling of burrowing your head into the spiral your body made always comforted you. You loved to slither up trees and nestle yourself in the leaves. Some days you just watched the other creatures of the forest interact. None of the other inhabitants bothered you, most of them were afraid of you. Your strange and mysterious nature scared them and you didn't mind.

You were quite content with your own company but sometimes, in those quiet moments, you felt lonely. You just wanted to be around someone, and be yourself.

You were just sitting in your tree one day when you heard a strange whirring sound, almost groaning. You lifted your head to see a blue box flying towards you. You scurried down the trunk and into the bushes, narrowly avoiding getting squished. You looked back to see a tall slim man with spiky hair step out. When you saw the confusion coating his face you looked into his eyes. Something seemed so familiar about those eyes. You saw him lick the air. You saw him lick the air?

"This isn't New Earth, why did you bring me here?"

The box made a low groan to which the man rolled his eyes.

"Rose is waiting for me! I don't have time to be in a rain forest"

The box groaned again, this time it seemed....stern. Can a box be stern?

"No" He said in a tone that showed his disbelief to what the box had said.

The box let out a noise that made you think it was about to slap the man.

"Where?"

The light on top flashed blue and the man looked up. He saw a faint light, an orangey yellow ball that was slowly getting bigger. You saw it too and you realised what was happening.

"Is this? No! Is this that planet with the shape shifters? Okay yes I know there are lots of shape shifters on planets, don't take that tone with me. I just meant is this the one with the animal shape shifters?"

The box groaned in agreement.

"You think they'll listen to me? Why not? I do not! Take that back!"

You watched him bicker with the box for a few minutes before he remembered what was happening.

"You really think we could fit them all?"

The light blinked and it hummed.

You slithered over to him and curled around his ankle. He looked down at you with a confused expression and spoke.

"Hello? Can you talk?"

You just hissed softly and squeezed around him.

"Alright then, um, can you talk to the other animals?"

You nodded your head which caused him to smile, he was having a conversation with a snake, but back to saving everyone.

"Can you tell them that this planet in about to explode and they they need to come with me?"

You moved over to the doorstep of the box and knocked on the door with your tail.

"That's my TARDIS" He said proudly.

That word was so familiar but you couldn't place it. You scurried off to warn the others and they started to flock to the TARDIS. A few of them came with you as you gathered everyone else. Within an hour you were back, it was a pretty small planet. You were met with the man running up to you.

"We have to go, now!"

You were about to go with him but you saw a little nest, full of eggs. You couldn't just leave them there. You sped towards them and latched your jaw onto the edge of the nest. The man was getting the last of everyone in and he was about to leave until he saw you. Little sparks were flying down and lighting the area on fire and you were trapped. He ran through the flames and grabbed you, and the nest. You just got through the door and shut it behind you before you heard a loud rumble that shook the TARDIS.

He lowered you down and you took the nest over to the parents. They were two sweet little hummingbirds and they tweeted and jumped around. You went to the control area where you saw the man flicking a bunch of switches. He looked over to you and smiled.

"Thank you" He said softly.

You curled around his wrist and gave it a small squeeze, making him smile more.

"I'm The Doctor"

You slithered up his arm and around his neck, you hissed softly in his ear "Thank you, Doctor"

You and The Doctor dropped everyone off on a planet with a similar atmosphere and you stayed around his neck.

"Don't you want to go with them?"

You shook your head and he looked at you nervously.

"Well, I mean, if you don't want to go with them, you, um, you could come with me, if you want?"

You nuzzled his cheek and he took that as a yes.

The TARDIS finally got to its location of New Earth and Rose was standing there waiting. The Doctor stepped out the door with you around his neck.

"Finally! You know I've been waiting h-agh! What the bloody hell is that?!"

"That, Rose is my friend, um, I didn't catch you name?"

"Your friend?! It's a snake!"

"She's a snake"

"Snake, Doctor!"

"Yes"

"Snakes are slithery and slimy and creepy!"

You hissed at her, making her jump back.

"See! It just hissed at me!"

"She. Rose, she's my friend and she's going to be travelling with us now so you should find some way to get over this irrational fear of yours"

"Ugh, fine. Just don't come near me" She said, pointing her finger at you to emphasise her point.

Rose didn't like you, mainly because of how close you were with The Doctor. God, she felt like an idiot, jealous of a snake. She hated the way you were always with him, and the way he let you be. It was especially annoying when he'd scratch under your chin or rub you head when you did something helpful, which somehow, despite her not every hearing you say a word, you always were.

When Rose left The Doctor felt awful. He felt so much pain, so much guilt, but you were there for him. He distanced himself from you but you wouldn't go away. You always slept on the controls so he had to see you. You just curled yourself around his shoulders or forearm and he let you. He liked the feeling of being close to you but he wanted more, he wanted you to be comfortable enough around him to be yourself, your real self.

After a while he started to feel a bit better and you went on another adventure. When you left the TARDIS you saw huge hearts and red and pink decorations everywhere. It turns out you went to the holiday planet, as The Doctor put it. It was February there and they celebrated Valentine's Day for the whole month. You navigated your way through the crowd. You wondered why he picked this planet at this time but he insisted it was the TARDIS. You walked around and saw hundreds of people trying to sell chocolates but one stuck out. Gallifreyan chocolates. The Doctor spun around so fast you nearly flew off is shoulders. He questioned the vendor loudly and quickly. The poor woman was scared half to death, a strange man with a snake was barking questions at her. She told him that she just called the chocolates Gallifreyan to sell more. The Doctor calmed down after a moment and apologised. He was shocked, through all his years of travelling he had rarely come across anything real from his home planet and he always wished he would.

When you got back to the TARDIS The Doctor went to his room and you went to the library. You flicked through books for hours until you found a cookbook from Gallifrey. You made sure The Doctor was occupied elsewhere when you shifted back into your natural form. You found a recipe for chocolates and the TARDIS gave you all of the ingredients. The Doctor finally stopped fiddling with bits of broken technology, as he always did when he didn't want to deal with his feelings, and he heard noises. He heard you clattering around in the kitchen and he came to see if you were alright. He saw a red box with a gold bow sitting on the counter in front of him, then he saw you. He really saw you. You were standing by the sink washing dishes. Your hair was down, over your face and you tried to keep it that way.

He walked over to you slowly, you turned around and looked down, extraordinarily nervous. This wasn't how you wanted it to go but it was happening and a part of you was relieved. You hoped, prayed, that he wouldn't just leave or worse, ask you to. He stood just in front of you and you looked up at him, still nervous but feeling more comfortable now that he was close.

"I um, I made chocolates" Your voice was so sweet, so familiar.

You passed him the box and he tried one and his face broke out into a huge grin.

"These are wonderful, I had some just like these when I was young"

"I-I found the recipe in an old cookbook that looked like it was from Gallifrey"

You showed him the book and he looked at, his expression a mix, partly confused and impressed.

"I didn't know you knew Gallifreyan"

"Well it's been a while, but I still remember"

"What do you mean?"

You tucked your hair behind your ears and he saw your face. The face he had known so long ago. His hand moved up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing some icing sugar from your face.

"Y-you're you"

"I didn't mean to be dishonest with you, I didn't know it was you at first but I-I could see it in your eyes"

"I can't belie-' He sighed, trying to get the words out "I've missed you"

"So have I"

"There's something I need to tell you, something that I couldn't tell you when I should've-"

"I love you too"

He leaned down and captured your lips, he poured everything he couldn't into the kiss. It was sweet and sad, you both shed a few tears before pulling away. He rested his fore head against yours.

"I'm so sorry, my love"

"Don't be, we're together now"

"I love you"

"I told you I'd slither my way back into your heart"

"And I'm glad I let you"

Tags:

@codex-arcene @skarkkie @annie-does-art @colorfulmusicgardener @huntersroses @meryuniverse @craftytacopiecash @pinkthick @aliljaybird @charliesart16

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