#< tagging in case i do more which I.. might

[bitten-fruit]

Houndtooth | ⇦ Chapter 7 ⇨

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

18+ mdni - cw: references to SA - 3.9k words

𝐕𝐈𝐈. 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫

The air of your cell is thick and savoury like soup. You choke on it, every breath, drowning in it – filling your lungs with its foul warmth and barely slaking your battered body’s need for oxygen.  

The sore minutes following your husband’s execution had blurred into incomprehensible smoke. Fleeting. Suffocating. Obfuscating.  

You are lost. Uncertain whether or not you are grieving. And if you’re not, whether you should be. 

His words were each a bullet, each meticulously calculated to injure you where it would hurt you most. Almost perfectly crafted to ensure your captors lose any semblance of pity or reverence they held for you – so that they might lose whatever restraint they’ve been attempting to maintain. So that they may do to you whatever they have been itching to do. Their exploitation justified. Because you’re just a whore.  

But in your desperation to comfort your own distraught mind, you argue with yourself. Your own devil’s advocate. 

Perhaps it was a game. Could have been a bluff. 

He must have loved you, right? After years of serving him, of acting your part, of loving him the way he wanted you to.  

He had to have loved you. You had always dreamed someone would. 

No matter the case, the outcome is the same. There’s no way back. Whatever nightmare you’re stuck in will only, only, get worse. Regardless of which pack of wolves you are left to, your fate remains inescapable. You’ll be used. Consumed. Digested. Shit back out.  

The Captain had ferried you to a new cell – the one you now sat in, atop a makeshift bed with a squealing steel frame. He had carried you like a child, an arm under your knees and an arm under your neck, he let your head fall on his chest despite your fading effort to stay skittish and defensive. His charity disingenuous. White knight he is. 

But you’re weak. Exhausted. Delirious.  

You sit in dead silence, knees tucked up tightly to your chin, body only partially dry after your water torture.  

The Captain stands in front of you. Hands magisterially on his hips, he pouts under his beard. Wrestling with how best to interact with you, like you’re an animal in an exhibit. Careful not to scare you off, but frightened you’d bite if he gets too close.  

“There were no bullets in the gun, by the way,” he says gruffly, voice hoarse like he’s gargling gravel. “I wasn’t going to kill you. It was a… a bluff.”  

You say nothing. Give him nothing. You glower at him from under your brow, hoping he leaves so you can finally lie down and cry like a hurt little girl.  

“Can I get you something? Water?”  

You say nothing.  

“Look. We’re – we’re not going to hurt you. But I need you to answer some questions, alright?” He insists. “We need to know about who your husband worked with. I’m guessing he must have called them his colleagues, eh?” 

Give him nothing.  

“Do you know a Vladimir? Makarov?”  

That name, you know. You know it well. You know it like an apple knows teeth. Like a deer knows an arrow. Like a carcass knows a knife.  

Less so a colleague and more a rival. Two lions fighting for the same throne. Vladimir hated your husband so viciously it wouldn’t surprise you if he had orchestrated this entire series of events just to be rid of him.  

But the enmity between he and your husband isn’t what strikes icy shards of terror through your chest. Isn’t what churns your stomach and pushes dark bile up your throat. 

You swallow. 

“Mh. Looks like you do know him,” he grunts, crossing his arms over his broad chest, rocking on his boots. “Can you tell me about him?” 

He persists in his questioning, despite your sealed lips. You know that talking might help you. That spilling your vague knowledge like water from a faucet might ingratiate you. Might earn your freedom.  

But what freedom awaits you?  

If these soldiers cast you back to your blood-soaked estate, or your petit trianon – as a traitor of your husband, a scorned widow – you will simply be bait. Raw meat to lure bears. Honey to lure wasps. There is nowhere you could possibly hide to evade them, no scheme to outsmart them.  

You’d be better off dead.  

“When was the last time you saw him?”  

“Did he come to your estate a lot? Did he travel with your husband?”  

“Have you ever spoken to him?” 

“Does he know you?” 

“Could he help you?”  

“Where is he?”  

He leans forward, props himself up with his palms on his knees. His blue eyes are piercing, discerning. “Do you know where he is?” He insists, “Mia. I’m trying to help you.”  

You say nothing. 

He is quick to grow frustrated, grunting like a bear and standing upright, he rubs his temples in exasperation as if you’ve given him a headache.  

“You don’t want to talk to me. Okay.”  

Give him nothing.  

“Who will you talk to? Anyone?” He presses, tapping his boot in impatience. “Do you want to talk to the Lieutenant?”  

You say nothing – but some shift in your expression must have said something for you. You’re not sure if it was the widening of your eyes, the softening of your brows, the loosening of your shoulders – but he spotted it. And nodded slowly. Knowingly.  

“Alright, love. I’ll go get him. Then you’ll talk to him, eh?”  

“Simon,” came the gruff bark of Price’s familiar voice. Irate.  

Ghost sat on a bench in the empty mess hall, under a flickering fluorescent bar. Bouncing his knee, leaning his elbows on the table in front of him, he pinches a cheap Russian cigarette and holds it between his teeth.  

Tastes like shit. Does the job.  

“What,” he grunts, swivelling on the bench so that he faces out towards the approaching Captain. “Did she kick y’in the head, too?”  

Price only frowns, confused and plainly irritated, he comes to a stop before him and crosses his arms. “No,” he puzzles. “She kicked you, eh? That’ll learn you.”  

Leaning back indolently, Ghost tugs the base of his balaclava back over his mouth, tucking it under his jaw. Squishes the butt into the plastic surface of the table behind him.  “Not me.”  

“Mh,” the Captain acquiesces. “She does seem to like you.”  

Ghost only scoffs, not quite a laugh, but carries the same disbelieving amusement. “Right,” he chuffs, “for killing her husband?”  

“Possibly,” Price shrugs derisively, “beats me.”  

“Has she said anything?”  

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Like talking to a brick wall,” the Captain complains. “A pretty little brick wall.”  

Ghost rolls his eyes, turning his head to look at the open door to the hall. He rubs his brow vexedly with his thumb. And you chide me, you hypocritical prick.  

“She’ll talk to you,” Price insists.  

“Why the fuck would she talk to me?” Ghost retorts. “I waterboarded her.”  

“I asked her.” 

“What, and she requested me?”  

Price tilts his head, a lazy shrug. “Not in so many words.”  

“Right. So you’re full of shit.”  

“Jesus, Simon. Don’t make me order you,” Price sneers, “No clue why she’s interested in you, but, you never know with women like that, eh?”  

His stomach churns at Price’s insinuation. Must have taken your cunt husband’s ramblings at face value. Rookie error for a captain.   

Ghost bounces his knee in annoyance. “Just let her sleep, for fuck’s sake. She’s probably delirious.” 

“Exactly,” Price nods. “She’ll be nice and compliant, eh? Open to persuasion.” 

He's right. Ghost is playing dumb. He’s very familiar with the game, so fluent in the art of exploitation that he could do it with his eyes closed. Beaten, defeated, worn down to a quivering mess is when you’ll be most susceptible to influence. The most pliable.  

Letting you sleep, allowing you to recover your strength as you cocoon yourself in your shell is a surefire way to ensure you never utter another word. He can’t let your fear bubble into spite, into anger, into vengeance. He must kick you when you’re down.  

But – he's tired. He’s already fucking sick of it. Sick of being confused by his own repulsion. Sick of his pathetic eyes raking over your body despite his efforts to restrain it. Sick of your eyes looking through him like you know him better than himself.  

“Too delirious to give us anything useful,” Ghost clarifies, through teeth.  

“I don’t give a shit about whatever vapid rumours she has about Zakhaev. It’s pretty clear she knows nothing about his enterprise.”  

“Then why the fuck do you want me to keep interrogating her?”  

“I don’t want you to interrogate her, Simon,” Price badgers, “I want you to convince her.”  

Ghost frowns, crosses his arms testily. 

“Convince her to what?”  

~

Ghost hears the squeaking of your shoddy bed as he brutishly unlocks and opens the door to your cell. 

You had been lying on your side, curled up like a foetus on the mattress – but the second you are disturbed, you sit yourself upright. Alert. Frightened. Skittish. Stare at him like a cornered cat. 

Looks like you’ve been crying. Eyes red and swollen, cheeks glistening with the afterglow of your tears. Your lips part just slightly as your weary eyes land on him, as though a rush of air just escaped your lungs. He shuts the door behind him, stands in the middle of your small cell with crossed arms. 

He mines his thoughts for words to say. Finds them turning to ash on his tongue. 

“Sorry about your husband,” he says, eventually, tone more facetious than he had intended. 

He sees the cinder flickering in those sparkling little eyes, your chest rises as you inhale in preparation for your retort. “How can you – how can you say sorry for killing–” 

“Not for killing him,” he clarifies with a grunt. “Sorry that you married him.” 

That leaves you quiet. You look sour, because he’s right. 

“Was he always like that?” He persists, feels the snake of spite rising to his throat, needlessly adding an air of mocking derision to his words. “Did–” 

“Why are you here,” you snap to cut him off. Your cadence needle sharp, so starkly at odds to the sweetness of your earlier pleading. Nothing left to beg for, he supposes. 

Ghost draws in an impatient breath. He doesn’t want to be here either. “Boss said you’d talk to me.” 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you grumble, voice wavering. Pouting at him. Cute. 

He sucks his teeth. “Right,” he scoffs. “Yet you’re talkin’ to me, aren’t you?” 

You fall quiet again, pulling your knees up to your chest, you clutch your bare feet with agitated fingers. “He’s nicer than you,” you mutter scornfully. 

“I bet,” he agrees dully. “But you won’t talk to him.” 

“Don’t trust him.” 

“Oh?” He queries cynically, “so you trust me?” 

You seem to think for a pointed moment before you speak. Wet stare lands on him, scans from boots to head, evaluating. 

“You do what you say you will,” you bitterly admit, and he can see it pains you to say so. 

Christ. 

You trust him? Or, rather, whatever tentative hopeful dependence that you are forced to rely on in a predicament as dire as yours. Still. He squirms at the thought that you’ve decided he’s the best you’ve got. You’ll be sorely disappointed. 

Won’t you? 

“Have you got more questions for me,” You ask flatly, breaking the off-putting silence. 

The defeat in your voice is like nails on a chalkboard. He’d rather you be hysterical, tearful and delirious, overwhelmed with grief but a still riddled with a desperation to survive. 

Instead you’re merely hushed and trembling. Perhaps you’re in shock. Perhaps you’ve got a plan. But, what he is most fearful of, is the likelihood you’ve given up. No desire to fight for whatever life might await you now that your husband is out of the picture. 

Detrimental to their entire operation, yes. They have no leverage to use against you if you have no interest in staying alive.  

More than that, though, he needs you to keep fighting him. To berate and antagonise and kick and scream. All of his adversaries would viciously resist him and that would justify Ghost’s brutality. When his blistering hatred for you was at its peak, not ten hours ago, he could justify hurting you as badly as he wanted to. 

Now what? 

How can he bring himself brutalise you when you look at him like that? Teary-eyed, shaking in either cold or panic - but giving him no resistance? No talk-back, no threats, no ploys to escape? 

How can he hurt you any further? 

He can tell you just want to sleep. Your lids are heavy and swollen despite how hard you try to keep your eyes open and vigilant. Poor thing. 

Ghost shakes his head, stepping towards a steel chair that sits propped against the wall. He lifts it with ease, twisting it in the air and putting it down in front of your bed – sits in it casually, leans back. Thighs spread and fingers interwoven in his lap, he bounces his knee as he chews on his response. 

“If you’ve got information we can use, sure.” 

You sigh deeply and slowly, picking at the cherry-red polish on your toenail with a ferocity that appears to him like self-flagellation. “I don’t know what information I have. Let alone whether it’s useful.” 

“’Alright,” he huffs, takes a minute to think of the question. “Said you’re from Nottingham, yeah? How’d you meet him?” 

A crease forms in your brow as your dubious eyes jump around his face, searching for an intention. You won’t find one. He doesn’t know what it was. 

“How is that useful information,” you seethe. 

He shrugs indifferently. “Need details.” 

You huff as though reluctant, looking at your feet. “I met him in Berlin.” 

He stays silent, and when your stare quickly jumps to him for approval, he gestures with his brutish hand to elaborate. Unsatisfactory answer. 

Your gaze returns to your toes. Focusing as you scrape the glossy red paint with your fingernails, leaving specks that look like dried blood on the dirty mattress. 

“I was a dancer. Um – he came into the club I danced in, with some other men. All in expensive suits. Rich men like that are cheap. Usually never spend a thing. Still want a piece.” 

A stripper. Not what Ghost would have guessed. But he can picture it, all the same. And he does. Pictures you spinning on a slippery pole, peeling off a lacy bra, slender little hands stroking over your buttery body as you present yourself to dogs like meat. 

He grounds himself with a clearing of his throat. “S’that right.” 

“Mhm,” you answer distastefully. “Was always the working boys that spoiled us. Wanted to spend what little money they had just to please. Just because they could. Men in suits, they want what they pay for. And they pay next to nothing because that’s what we’re worth to them.” 

“And Zakhaev…?” 

You draw in a slow breath. “Victor was different.” 

That’s it? C’mon, love. His silence an insistence to continue. And you do. 

“I dunno,” you sniff, he sees your eyes swell red. “I guess he saw something valuable in me.” 

He chastises himself for his interest. Why the fuck does he care how a whore comes across a man like Zakhaev? Billionaire wants a trophy wife, so he buys one. It should be no surprise at all. 

“So he bought you, eh?” Ghost asks harshly, and your wet and angry stare shoots daggers at him in response. 

But you relent. Maybe he’s right. Your gaze returns to your toes and wipe your nose with the back of your hand. 

“He gave me fifty-thousand euros for a private dance.” 

Fucking hell. 

Can’t even fathom spending that much money on anything. But when he looks at you… if he had that kind of money, maybe he’d do the same. 

Nearly smacks himself at the thought. 

“Generous,” he says instead, disdain on his tongue. 

“He was sweet,” you continue, voice wavering as you visibly swallow the urge to cry. “He – he said he could save me. Would take me to his nice house and protect me. Said he’d treat me like a goddess.” 

Ghost snorts spitefully. “Did he?” 

You scowl at him. “Yes, he did.” 

A knife of guilt plunges through his sternum, a truly unfamiliar sting. 

Did you love him? 

He cannot fathom that you could have. Not after that repulsive tirade, so unbearable to hear he felt compelled to execute him just to make it stop. He thought he had done you a favour. Still mostly believes he has. 

“Didn’t sound like it,” Ghost remarks derisively. 

You chew your lip. “It’s your fault he snapped,” you murmur, under breath. Doesn’t sound like you believe what you’re saying. “He was – he was good to me.” 

He sniffs, licks his teeth. “You had bruises.” 

“Fucking ‘course I have bruises, you tortured me.” You hiss. 

Shakes his head. “Before,” he ripostes. “You had bruises on your collarbone. On your thighs. From him, eh?” 

You bite down on your tongue, he sees your eyes well. Must have prodded a sore spot. 

“What is this? What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you he beat me so you feel better about murdering him?” 

That sparks his anger. 

“You think that would make me feel better?” He barks, “I feel fucking fantastic. Shooting that cunt is the best thing I’ve done all week.” 

“You’re sick,” you breathe. 

“I’m sick? Do you know what your fuckin’ husband did? Do you know what he was?” 

“He was a businessman,” you utter, unconvincingly. 

“He was a mass-fucking-murderer. He started a war. You wanna know what the body count for that is?” 

You fall quiet. Shivering and tearful. But you listen. 

“Your husband was busy building bombs. Chemical weapons. Busy selling explosives to fucking terrorist militias in the middle east. Paid for the bombings in London last year. I’m fuckin’ proud that I shot him, whether or not he beat you.” 

You’re ghostly. Blood drained completely from your apple cheeks. Your mouth opens to sip a trembling breath, and your tears begin their cascade. 

“I didn’t know,” you whimper. 

“’Course you didn’t,” he chides doubtfully. 

You heave in a whining sob, tears dripping off your chin as you plunge your face against your knees. Was that your last straw, little thing? 

“I didn’t,” you stutter, snivelling. “I – I knew he… he was an arms dealer. Just an arms dealer.” 

He’s nauseated at the sight of you sobbing so sorely. Finds himself wondering you look like when you smile. 

“He was a warlord.” 

You sob, dropping your knees open so you sit cross-legged, Ghost’s eyes shoot between your legs. Get a fucking grip. Watching you cry and still stealing his glances? Can’t help it. You cry too pretty. 

You move the focus of your self-mutilation from your toes to your fingernails, picking off the lacquer. You sniffle quietly for a minute, and he lets you. What else can he say to you? He’s not much interested in comforting you. 

But there’s an ache, sharp and yet nebulous. The acknowledgement that you didn’t know the extent of your husband’s evil. That he likely kept it hidden from you. Or you, hidden from it. That your torture was fruitless and extraneous. Cruelty for the sake of it. 

“What happens now,” you ask, near-whisper. 

Ghost leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, lets his hands hang nonchalantly. “Still got one use for you.” 

Your stare lands on him carefully. You breathe as though preparing yourself, a tear lands in the corner of your parted lips. You uncross your legs, hanging them slowly off the edge of the bed, hands turn to fists on your knees. 

“I thought you weren’t interested,” you squeak. 

Ghost’s jaw clenches inadvertently, biting down on nothing. Knows what you’re implying. Do you think he’s here to rape you? Here to unwrap you, to tear off that tissue that barely conceals the prize? 

His glower is probably serving as evidence. Boring into you with a hunger beyond his control. Jesus. Control yourself. 

He could do it. Fulfil your suggestion, accept your offers. Play the role of the lecherous hound you believe him to be.

You’d let him. 

You’d lie face down on that bed for him. You’d let him hitch up your hips, presenting your soft pussy for him to take. You’d let him rake down those pathetic pink knickers. You’d let him spit on his fingers and push them into you, to prepare you for the incursion of his spiteful cock. He’d curl and drive them deep, he’d make sure your pussy releases a spate of its sweet liquor just for him.   

You’d probably whine sweetly – in pain, at first, as he penetrates you, as your cunt stretches to fit him. But those muffled whimpers into the mattress would evolve into cries of shameful rapture, poignantly humiliated by how good it feels when he fucks you. He’d fuck you slowly. Deeply. He’d make sure the blunt head of his cock rams into that aching spot that makes you squeal. 

He’d coat his thumb in your syrup, he’d press the pad of it against your puckered hole. He’d listen to your cloying noises as he pushes it, popping past your tight, clenching entrance, easing it in until he’s knuckle deep. He’d feel his cock rutting in and out of you, through the thin fleshy wall between your holes. He’d feel it cinch so tightly around his thumb, pulsing in rhythm with the abashing orgasm that he fucks out of you. He’d threaten to pump you full of his come, and when you only mewl wetly in response, no dispute, fucked drunk; he’d oblige you. 

He’d let you think he’s finished. He’d give you a moment to breathe, as he pulls out of you, as his hot come drips from you, coating your thighs. Your pussy would look too pretty drenched in a concoction of your fluids and his, twitching still in the aftershock. 

So he’d flip you, hoist up your soft body by the hips as he sucks your cunt into his mouth. He’d eat another orgasm out of you, voracious and messy, he’d swallow it, and continue; just to feel you writhe in dispute of the overstimulation, just to listen to the squeals of contest that squeak from your wet throat. 

He’d leave you choking, panting for air, as he allows you to recover. He’d let you sleep, and he’d know that you’d dream of him. 

You fucking animal. 

Pulled back to reality by a shivering sigh from your chest - he’s repulsed by himself. Reels in self-loathing as his cock jolts behind his trousers, swelling in anticipation of a crime he won’t commit. 

His peers have chastised him for being a beast. An uncaring monster. The kind of animal that would fuck you while you cry, that would take pride in making it hurt.  

They’re wrong. 

You simply look at him, pupils stretched wide and dark, glassy with worry. Your cunt might be pulsing in between the thighs you hold together so tightly, readying itself for him, preparing for the worst. 

No, little rabbit, he wouldn’t do that to you. Not unless you beg him for it. 

So he leans back in his seat, feigning disinterest, hoping you don’t notice the turgid heat that radiates from him. 

“Not that, sweetheart,” he sighs hoarsely. “We’ve got a more important use for you.” 

here's your tag bestie: @rafaelacallinybbay

Next chapter ⇨

[utilitycaster]

A DM advice question, inspired by your recent posts: What do you recommend in situations where players are being indecisive? Either in a short term situation (i.e. do we fight this npc or not) or in a more chronic case of indecision, like we're seeing from Bells Hells?

For an NPC or similar short term case of indecision: hesitation has consequences. It depends obviously on what's going on and who the NPC is but like, have the NPC run away, or attack them first, or start to rescind the offer they made, or have someone else who's around notice a party that's trying to be stealthy. It is tricky because you want to let the party decide, so you have to know your NPC pretty well (ie, are they the sort of character to attack? What do they want?) but basically, let your NPC be impatient or take advantage of this hesitation. Talking is only a free action if it's like 5 minutes of table talk, not 20.

For Bells Hells...I mean, I am going to tap the "character creation is the time to have addressed this" sign for Bells Hells again, but assuming you find yourself mid-game and you are not running one of the largest actual play shows around? Time to talk to your players. I think people are aware that murderhobo behavior can be a sign of having characters who are insufficiently connected to the plot or part of the world but I think indecision can be too, if their character just wouldn't care or be informed enough, and it might be the plot you have planned isn't one they're connecting with and you all need to have a talk about what you want from the game. If however you're committed to this plot, introduce consequences for indecision here as well. Someone in my tags yesterday compared Bells Hells to people arguing about the best way to address climate change while flood waters were actively rising, and so in this metaphor the Arch Heart's option feels like someone throwing in an entirely new possibility into the discussion while the water is already at their knees. So anyway introduce a timer. Opportunities won't be open forever and indecision also has consequences that you should impose. Debate too long how to save the princess and the princess gets killed in the meantime. (That is the takeaway here, and in life. Failing to choose is itself something for which you hold responsibility; your hands are no cleaner from having been wrung endlessly rather than put to good use.)

[not-another-robin]

This is what I think young punk Alfred is like btw

[crunchchute]

my attempt at a bunch of my fav artists styles :] idea by sootnuki!!

i would love to do more but this was already a huge challenge

if any artist here dislikes this/is uncomfortable with it/any reason i can take it down or turn off reblogs etc. otherwise i hope its ok 🫡 im not gonna tag anyone just gonna let it do its thing in the wild lol

[critter-wizard]

ep 43 had me tearing up in a fucking shopping centre ‼️‼️

b+w alt version that I truly couldn't decide if I liked it more . Also I included a lot of thoughts in the tags but they're somewhat incoherent<3

[starflungwaddledee]

They called me goofy...

:'D

well i'm pretty sure they won't do it again!

> follow up of this

[struggling-jpg]

Yanqing and Yunli Appreciation Post

Keep Reading cut due to 2.4 spoilers~ (also relatively long-ish post)

These two bounce off each other so well! As a writer, it feels so satisfying to see their characters shine through the quest and the event in the way their interactions highlight them. So I'm gonna use this space to ramble about it!

My previous post pretty much talked about it already, but Yanqing!!! My son!!! I was quite worried that any potential arc for him would be shoved down the road or to the side due to the scale HSR has, but the game's been actually holding up to his ongoing arc. As a result, at least to me, he's come through as one of the best written/developed characters on the Xianzhou so far.

The nature of the length of the updates lets what we get in previous quests settle in for a long while, and considering the mentioned of flow of time in-game, Yanqing's had the time to think and develop as a person. The fact that so many players have had their view and opinion of him finally turn around in this quest is a testament to that. We get to see more facets of him, as in, doing his job and the responsibilities of doing so, and how his insecurities are mentioned in a main quest for all to see. He's constantly referencing others and his past encounters. You can tell that Jing Yuan raised him with his manner and approach to things, which is highlighted by the contrast to Yunli (will get to that soon).

His position as a child soldier has made him mature faster, be quiet even when he's been wronged (filial piety/saving face (aka thank you person on Reddit who makes the banger character Yanqing (and other characters in general) appreciation posts)), take a step back and have to be able to read the room (though, reasonably, he doesn't catch on all the time), and much, much more. The fact that other official content has described him as being more worried about diplomacy and all that. He doesn't have the luxury to be as carefree or brash for someone his age.

There's a lot to unpack there still, even with the development he's had now and that's good! If the Hoyo writing team was wild enough, it'd be cool to see them address the grayness of his role and Jing Yuan's mindset in raising him as he did (We love Dad-Yuan and he loves his son dearly no question, but it'd be so interesting to explore his flaws/mistakes in this perspective!).

Now onto Yunli.

I'm saying straight off the bat, I'm irritated by her!

And that's a good thing!

Her being annoying or bratty or irritating doesn't automatically make her a badly written character! She only would become one if they don't do anything with her, and HSR most probably will, and she should be given the same room to develop in her own arc.

She acts like her age, and she doesn't have the same pressures as Yanqing does. Just like how you can see Jing Yuan in Yanqing, you can see Huaiyan in Yunli, if anything he says is to go by. She's tempremental and outspoken to a fault, and based on the way how quickly Huaiyan relented when she talked back, you can tell that Huaiyan isn't as strict/stern with her to give her a sense of being humble.

I had this thought that she's technically what the general fandom viewed Yanqing as initially, and I'm not saying that as a 100% thing, by the way. But like by some traits and the vibes. She, of course, has a lot more nuance that will be explored at one point or another.

But back on topic, she's a foil. They represent two different approaches and lifestyles and can clearly learn from each other. Her inconsideration of the fact that she's on the Luofu but enforcing Zhuming practices (which I noticed people were upset by, and same; which I imagine is the point), her bluntness to no matter who she's talking to—there's a lot to work with here.

Just like with their swordplay, Yanqing could learn from her mental strength while Yunli can learn from his focused speed and defense. He can learn to regain a more firm grasp of his recently found purpose while she can learn to mature and take in her surroundings and be more thoughtful in that front.

Another interesting note is that where we are with Yanqing currently is in the middle of his arc, we've had the time to see him take a long route of struggle to get to this point, exacerbated by irl players views of him. He's in the middle of his growth and we've had since 1.0 to get to know him. But with Yunli, she was introduced very recently, so we're technically at the "beginning" of her character arc. In a way, Yunli now highlights how far Yanqing has come and changed, and in a way Yanqing now is a potential show for the arc that Yunli can have (not being the exact same as him of course).

I think the idea with these two is that they develop to be more balanced. Balance is such an important thing, especially in Chinese culture (Daoism (Yin-Yang), etc.), and 2.4 has shown how much potential they have to make for amazing character arcs.

It's cool that while they have such similar base traits, they're so different from each other. Calling Yunli a female Yanqing or Yanqing a male Yunli is simply outright incorrect. Their backgrounds, upbringings, ideals, swordstyles, perspectives, and positions in life are so distinct. I'm looking forward to their futures!

[transmascutena]

thinking about how akio sees his younger self in utena and wondering if there's any fondness there. doesn't change the horror of what he does to her obviously but i do wonder

[liquidstar]

a friend who'd wait :)

[moe-broey]

Men only want ONE THING and it's DISGUSTING (Guy who's uour best friend who's always happy to see you who visibly lights up and sparkles when you enter the room who's comstantly looking out for you and doting on yiu just a little bit and making sure you're taken care of and who you trust so mucj so completely that you can share a bath and sleep side by side amd you'rw. Best Friwneds...)

AND YET. AND YET. Moe has something Worse than self-loathing going on. Like this is just denial at this point. And for WHAT (PSYCHOLOGICAL REASONS. IT'S SO DIRE)

[front-facing-pokemon]

[brother-emperors]

Ohhhh so would you consider that Crassus let Pompey get away with some things he might have not let others get away with ? Because he recognised his use ?

I think that the only person that Crassus let get away with anything was Cicero, on account of Cicero being Publius’ other father

[torybrennan]

show tempe gang crossover with the morris islanders would actually have been the best episode of bones ever. btw

[thedragonhermit]

More Person of Interest x Fallout AU!

I said in my previous art post that if I kept thinking about this AU I would post more about it, and guess what, I've been thinking about it :)))) So here's a summary of what I've currently got for it (I say "summary" but this ended up really long oops)

John Reese

His backstory is practically the same as PoI canon except it all happened in the pre-War Fallout universe, with the CIA National Clandestine Service: Special Activities Division under the control of the pre-War Enclave. Him, Staton, and Snow still had their final mission in China, but their infiltration was more high stakes as it was during the Sino-American War.

After surviving the missile strike, Reese manages to return to the States and works to track down Jessica just like in canon, only his search leads him to the community of Sanctuary Hills near Boston. By the time Reese gets there, she's already dead.

He learns her husband Peter abused her/disguised her cause of death as a car accident, and avenges her the night of October 22, 2077 by disposing of Peter. The following morning, Reese, still wallowing in his despair and rage over not being there for Jessica, is still in their house when a representative from Vault-Tec shows up at the door. He ends up answering and is signed up for Vault 111 under Peter Arndt's name.

Just like in Fallout 4, the representative's timing couldn't be more perfect as the bombs start falling not long after. Although Reese is in a state where he wouldn't mind going out with nuclear fire, he's whisked off to Vault 111 with the other residents who've applied, enters just as Boston is hit, is provided a vault suit to change into, and is directed into a "decontamination" pod-- aka a cryopod meant for testing the affects of long term stasis.

Reese doesn't wake up until 210 years later when the Vault's life support systems are beginning to crash, and exits to find a bespectacled man claiming to have just saved his life and somehow knows his name is John Reese; not Peter Arndt as Vault-Tec's records claim. He also manages to convince Reese not to kill him over knowing all this and to instead join the cause he woke him up for.

Harold Finch

A researcher for the Advanced Systems division of the Institute, though oddly not everyone can agree whether he was brought into their fold from the outside, or if he's always been there. Despite being in Advanced Systems, his work is primarily for the Synth Retention Bureau as the sophisticated Machine he built and maintains provides them their mass surveillance of the Commonwealth, while also predicting potential threats and locating runaway synths with incredible accuracy.

Finch is also seemingly the only one in the Institute who has a modicum of sympathy for the "uncouth, unclean, and uneducated" masses above ground, considering he's secretly using his Machine to try and help the people of the Commonwealth-- even if those efforts conflict with the Institute's plans.

He's a very mysterious and private man; the more you learn about him, the less you seem to really know him. Finch will talk about places and factions outside the Commonwealth as if he's seen them with his own eyes/interacted with them himself, and yet will deny having done so. He'll even talk that way about pre-War events, unnerving Reese with implications that Finch is from his time.

The Truth: he was born around 2234 and raised Harold Wren in the Enclave alongside his best friend, Nathan Ingram, with the two building the Machine together at Raven Rock. When their creation (mostly Harold's creation as Nathan would admit) neared it's official completion in 2276, Nathan confided in Harold that he'd overheard the Enclave higher ups' true intent for it-- to merge it's surveillance and predictive capabilities into President Eden; effectively erasing the Machine's emerging identity and just making it a part of the pre-War ZAX unit.

Harold was seemingly unbothered, having suspected this was going to happen and already accepted it, but Nathan was less accepting. Vowing to save the "life" Harold had inadvertently created, he downloaded the Machine's code from Raven Rock's servers and split it between two portable devices -- a modified Pip-Boy and an eyebot -- so he could run away from the Enclave with it. Harold learned of this plan when Nathan gave him one last chance to join him, only for Harold to try and talk him out of it. His friend's mind was stubbornly made up, however.

Harold didn't let Nathan get too far from Raven Rock before finally going after him, unable to abandon (or be abandoned) by his childhood best friend. Nathan was so pleased, he immediately handed over the Pip-Boy, claiming Harold technically held more custody over the Machine, then took a few unfortunate steps right into a hidden landmine.

Harold woke up, head pounding and the back of his neck bleeding, with the eyebot beeping frantically over him. When he sat up, he saw that Nathan was dead and that the Machine was somehow still functioning despite the haphazard way it's code had been cut in half, warning him of imminent danger on the Pip-Boy's screen. The Enclave was already coming after them.

Though it was extremely hard to leave his best friend, let alone how painful it was to move, Harold got to his feet with the eyebot's help and limped to the closest settlement to get quickly patched up before leaving the Capital Wasteland altogether.

He spent the next few years wandering the greater Wasteland with the Machine as his only companion; getting the Enclave off their trail with a convincing dead body double, trying not to attract the attention of the Brotherhood of Steel or more deadly factions like Caesar's Legion, all the while coming to better understand the very thing he'd built.

When Harold learned of the Institute in the Commonwealth, he convinced their Director into letting him join, then uploaded most of the Machine into their servers to hide it from Enclave and BoS searching-- though he kept the most vital code on the eyebot and a back door in his Pip-Boy to shield it from the Institute themselves (all parts of the Machine communicate remotely via an encrypted radio station).

Having seen the greater Wasteland for what it was, Harold gained a sympathy he hadn't been raised with while in the Enclave; a sympathy he could see the Institute also lacked. So he elected to take matters into his own hands and improve it with the Machine. But they couldn't do it alone.

Thankfully, he had happened to read an old, pre-War Enclave record when he was younger about an exceptional agent named John Reese who'd allegedly ended up in Boston despite being pronounced dead on mission in China...

The Machine

Considered a "miracle" as it's the first AI of it's scale to be successfully created post-War.

It's eyebot hides in plain sight among the eyebots that patrol Diamond City when it's not with Finch.

In PoI canon, the Machine provides it's "irrelevant" numbers by listing letters that match up to authors on books in Finch's library, with the dewey decimal system becoming the target's social security number. That system is flipped in this AU; the Machine gives numbers that match up with books in the Boston Public Library (Finch and Reese's hideout, tho I can't decide if they left the super mutants in it to help with their cover lol) that spell out their target's name.

Okay great, they have a name, now how do they track them down without the internet? Well, the Institute with all its surveillance of the Commonwealth has a large database of "persons of interest" that Finch just so happens to be able to access (I think in F4 it's just lists their secret synth agents?? But I feel like they also listed off people they felt may cause issues... idk, if that's not canon, it is canon for this AU!)

There are names they receive that don't appear in that database however, meaning the boys have to track them down the old fashion way-- asking around until someone who knows the target tells them where they are. The Machine will help sometimes by providing a time and place where the target is most likely to appear next.

Obvs the names of every Fallout 4 companion comes up, either their own name or someone related to them. They also get all the names related to F4's main and side quests (as well as some PoI characters like Shaw).

Technically there already is a threat predicting AI in Fallout 4 (Predictive Analytic Machine aka P.A.M.) which the Railroad can gain access to. It's purpose pre-War was to predict when the bombs were going to fall, but it's more like a complex algorithm that requires human input to operate-- whereas the Machine is a proper thinking AI that takes in it's own input via surveillance in order to make it's decisions.

I like the idea of Finch becoming aware of P.A.M.'s existence when the Railroad is suddenly out predicting the Machine, and though the Machine is ultimately capable of out thinking P.A.M., Finch ends up "crippling" the Machine in such a way that it can only out predict P.A.M. so much to allow the Railroad to continue evading the Institute.

Bear/Dogmeat

Instead of finding him at the Red Rocket gas station between Sanctuary and Concord, he's been confined to the life of a Gunners dog. When Reese sees him, he can tell he doesn't like his "owners" considering he's acting stressed and is kept on a leash unlike this gang of Gunners' other dogs. Reese also finds the name "Dogmeat" mean (like how he didn't like canon Bear's former name, Butcher) and that's why he renames him when he frees him from the Gunners.

Bear answers to both Bear and Dogmeat, but Reese is convinced he's happier when called by his new name.

Root

A Wastelander originally from the Texas area named Samantha Groves. When she was very young, her and her mom were picked up by Caesar's Legion and were stuck with them for a time, until a moment for escape opened up. Her mom urged her to run west towards NCR territory, which Root did and allowed her to be rescued by the Followers of the Apocalypse.

Under their care and tutelage, she proved herself naturally talented when it came to computers and started coming into her own as an impressive hacker. She befriended an older girl named Hanna who was also under the FoA's care, but sadly she was abducted and killed by an NCR officer, with Root the only witness.

No one believed her when she said what had happened to Hanna, leading to her taking matters into her own hands and luring a gang of Fiends into killing her friend's murderer before leaving.

For some time after, Root traversed the Wasteland, earning caps mostly by being a shadowy assassin who made use of hacking computers whenever they were available. The further east she traveled, the more she heard rumours about the Institute, peaking her curiosity and leading her to the Commonwealth. Where she eventually learns of the most incredible thing she's ever heard of: a miracle of a god-like Machine watching over everyone in the area...

S2-16 aka Shaw

An elite SRB Courser who was personally trained by Conrad Kellogg (for those who don't know Fallout 4, he's basically Hersh and provided the special combat training used by the Courser synths of the Institute. If Hersh were in this AU, he'd just replace Kellogg, but I've decided to keep Kellogg instead).

Like I said in my art post, her partner M4-39 becomes a bit too infatuated with the Railroad (whom they're supposed to be enemies with) and goes so far as to give himself the name Michael before trying to defect to them. He tries to convince S2-16 to go with him -- who he had started calling Shaw instead of her designation -- but he's ambushed and gunned down by X6-88. Shaw is considered also compromised just by having been his partner, even though she wasn't into the idea of joining the Railroad, but X6-88 doesn't believe her.

Just like in season 2 episode 16 (see where I got her designation from haha), while Reese and Finch are trying to help her out, Shaw gets captured by Root who's wanting more information on the Machine-- though in this AU she's wanting a way into the Institute so she can get at it directly. But the only known way in is via teleportation. Each Courser has a relay chip in their brain that allows them to be teleported back, which Root threatens to cut out of Shaw if she doesn't give her another way in. Shaw's freed before that can happen, but later agrees to Finch's proposition that she have her chip removed (in a safe manner) to prevent the SRB from tracking her down.

The job of a Courser, for those unaware, is to hunt down and bring back escaped synths. In order to ensure they follow through with their orders, they are installed with emotional dampening programming to prevent them from sympathizing with their targets. Although Dr. Amari is able to remove her relay chip, she's unable to remove this programming, leaving Shaw just like she is in canon: mostly devoid of emotion (besides rage).

Free of the Institute, she officially starts going by Shaw in honour of Michael and turns to focusing on tracking down Root (in a toxic yuri way).

Joss Carter and Lionel Fusco

Both were members of Diamond City Security until Carter's display of detective work during one case impressed the Great Green Jewel's only detective, Nick Valentine, so much that he offered her a job as his partner. Ever since, she's worked as a part of the Valentine Detective Agency alongside the old synth sleuth and his assistant, Ellie Perkins.

She's drawn into working with Reese and Finch after Valentine's name is given by the Machine when he's locked up by Skinny Malone in Vault 114.

Although Reese becomes known as "the Man in the Vault Suit," he also becomes a suspect in Valentine's ongoing Mysterious Stranger case, leaving Carter to try and keep him off Reese's trail.

Meanwhile, just like in canon, Fusco is stuck on the opposite side of things as he's a part of this AU's version of HR; a collection of corrupt DCS officers (which is most of them) who work back door deals with Gunners and Raiders for chems and caps, while pulling all sorts of strings in Mayor McDonough's favour.

He's dragged into Reese and Finch's operations when the Machine gives them Piper Wright's name, as HR is obvs not a fan of Diamond City's famous nosey reporter. With Fusco under Reese's thumb, he manages to get HR off her case as best as he can, but it's tricky work with Piper not being one to give up a story that easily, danger be dammed.

A Few PoI Baddies

Speaking of HR, Alonzo Quinn is still it's secret leader, being both an Upper Stands resident and Mayor McDonough's advisor. HR is ultimately in McDonough's pocket and takes a fair amount of commands from him, so long as Quinn agrees to them as well.

Patrick Simmons, HR's second in command, is the head of Diamond City Security instead of just being an officer.

Elias operates out of Goodneighbor and gradually takes control of most of it's gangs, including the Triggermen. He has a deal with Mayor Hancock that allows him to operate on the promise he won't pose a threat to Hancock's rule, though who knows how long that will last. I kinda want to make him a ghoul just for fun... that and/or go really wild and make him the son of Eddie Winters...... idk

Control would be the head of the SRB, potentially having replaced Zimmer after he went off to the Capital Wasteland.

Samaritan would be an Enclave creation, likely built from pieces of the Machine's own code that may have lingered after Nathan and Harold escaped.

Annnnnnnd that's basically the framework of what I've got!

[sherlock-is-ace]

One thing about me is that if I see someone reblogging AI images, I will let them know 👌🏻

[djevelbl]

Kill the cringe cop in your head, do what makes you happy.