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sacrednova · 1 month ago

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Through Statics | Simon "Ghost" Riley | Part 1.

Ghost!Simon, Fem!Reader. Read part 2 here. Summary: you moved into his house, but he wants to be alone, get the fuck off. (You won't) Warnings: Paranormal stuff, mentions of death, angst (not much).

This house is breathing.

Simon "Ghost" Riley had died. Yes, he did. At 36 years old, he was killed in his own home, surrounded by familiar walls that had witnessed countless memories and secrets. To the world, it seemed like a break-in gone wrong—"intruders" had silenced him in cold blood. But the truth was much darker. Ghost wasn’t just a soldier; he was a vault of dangerous knowledge. The higher-ups knew he had learned too much, and so they made sure he’d never share those secrets. He never stood a chance.

It was two years later when you moved into his old house, drawn to the strange vacancy that lingered around it. You needed a fresh start, something different, and this place, with its eerie quiet, called to you in a way you couldn’t explain. It was just an ordinary house, or so it seemed. But soon after settling in, little things began to feel off.

At first, it was just whispers on the wind, the kind that made you pause, thinking it might be your imagination. But the longer you stayed, the harder it was to ignore the creaks in the floorboards late at night, like someone pacing through the hallways. You found marks on the mirrors that you were sure weren’t there before, strange streaks as though a hand had touched them. Your breath would fog them up, but no matter how hard you scrubbed, the smudges stayed.

Some nights, as you lay in bed, you swore you heard footsteps just outside your door. Heavy ones. You’d grab the nearest object, heart pounding, rush to check, and find nothing. But the dread never left, clinging to the air like a warning.

You began to wonder—was this house haunted? Had someone died here? The real estate agent had been vague when you asked about the previous owner. A soldier, they said, nothing more. But now, standing in the dimly lit hallway, the sense of presence grew stronger.

A sudden thud echoed from upstairs, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Your heart raced as the reality dawned on you. Someone—or something—was still here.

But who?

And why hadn’t they left?

Static.

You had always known there was something different about you, a subtle ability you couldn’t quite name. Since you were a little girl, you saw things other people didn’t—shadows moving where they shouldn’t, whispers on the edge of your hearing. It wasn’t every day, but it happened often enough to feel like an unspoken truth you lived with. You never spoke about it to anyone, dismissing it as an overactive imagination. But here, in this house, everything was amplified. It was so much more.

The strange occurrences in the house kept escalating, each moment steeped in a feeling you couldn’t shake. The air seemed thicker, as if the walls themselves were holding secrets, waiting to be revealed. You'd wake up in the middle of the night, the silence almost too loud, filled with a heavy, suffocating energy.

The old radio on the kitchen counter had become particularly unsettling. It was an antique you’d brought from your previous home, something comforting about its nostalgic crackle and the feel of its worn buttons. But ever since you moved here, it had begun to act strangely, turning on by itself at odd hours, filling the room with a low hum of static.

At first, it was just white noise, faint and distant, but lately, the static seemed alive. There were nights when you would catch brief snippets, something resembling words hidden in the hiss. You would freeze, straining to hear, but the moment passed, leaving you wondering if you had imagined it.

Until one evening, it wasn’t your imagination anymore.

The house was still as you sat in the living room, flipping through a book but not really reading. The static from the radio hummed softly in the background. You’d grown used to it, a kind of eerie white noise that had almost become a companion. But this time, something changed. The static grew louder, sharper, as if the frequency was being tampered with. The low hum twisted into something darker, more intense.

And then, in the midst of the crackling, you heard it.

“G-get… out…”

The words were faint, broken, but unmistakable. Your blood ran cold. The radio, which had been nothing but an old, harmless relic, suddenly felt like a gateway to something far more sinister.

You walked to the kitchen and stared at it, your heart pounding in your chest, waiting to see if the voice would return.

But the radio only hissed softly, as if mocking your fear.

You leaned closer, hands trembling slightly, and switched it off. The silence that followed was unbearable, thick with an unspeakable tension. You weren’t alone in this house—something was here with you. And it wanted you out.

But you weren’t going anywhere.

You had always known you were different, and now, more than ever, you were beginning to understand why. This house had awoken something inside you, something that had been dormant for years. You could feel it, a deep connection to whatever lingered here, as if the house itself was calling to you.

But why? And what would happen if you didn’t leave?

Name?

Curiosity killed the cat. But there you were, fingers gliding across your laptop keyboard, eyes glued to the screen as you dug deeper into the history of the house. You had to know who had lived here before you, who had left this lingering presence behind. The nights were becoming unbearable—the footsteps, the whispers, the strange static that always seemed to carry a warning. There was a name tied to this place, a name no one had been willing to share with you.

Until tonight.

Finally, after hours of sifting through obscure articles and forgotten news reports, you found it. Simon "Ghost" Riley. A decorated soldier, a man with a past shrouded in mystery and violence. The more you read, the darker the story became. His death had been officially ruled a home invasion, but there were whispers of conspiracy, something far more sinister lurking beneath the surface. They said he had died here, in this very house. And now, so much about the strange occurrences began to make sense.

You swallowed, the weight of the name hanging in the air. Almost unconsciously, you said it out loud for the first time, as if testing its power.

“Simon Riley.”

The moment the words left your lips, the house reacted violently.

The radio in the corner—off, you were certain—suddenly roared to life, filling the room with deafening static. It was louder than ever before, like a thousand angry voices hissing at you all at once. You jumped, your heart slamming against your chest as the static grew aggressive, the air buzzing with an overwhelming pressure.

And then, the night itself seemed to close in on you. The room felt darker, heavier, as though an unseen force was pushing down on you from all sides. The shadows stretched longer, crawling up the walls like living things. The atmosphere was suffocating, thick with something you couldn't name.

You stumbled back toward your bed, seeking the safety of its familiar comfort. But as you sat down, trying to steady your shaking hands, the mattress shifted beneath you. Not just a subtle movement—pulled, as though something beneath the bed was trying to drag it away from the wall. The fabric creaked, and you froze, gripping the edge of the bed as your mind raced.

This was too much.

“Stop!” you shouted, your voice cracking. But the room didn’t listen. The radio’s static pulsed, growing louder, angrier. The mattress pulled again, more forcefully this time, as though some invisible hand was determined to make you feel its presence.

You were no stranger to strange things, but this—this was unlike anything you’d ever felt. The air itself seemed to press against your skin, cold and oppressive, as if the very house was closing in on you, threatening to swallow you whole.

Desperate, you scrambled to turn off the radio, your fingers fumbling with the knob. But no matter how much you twisted it, the static only grew louder, the relentless sound clawing at your nerves.

“Get out…”

The words were buried deep in the static, but they were there. Clearer now. More urgent.

Your breath came in shallow gasps as you backed away from the radio, your mind screaming for you to leave. But even as terror gripped you, something held you in place. A force stronger than fear. A need to know.

Simon Riley’s name hung in the air like a curse, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had awakened something when you said it. Something that had been waiting for you.

But whatever it was… it wasn’t finished with you yet.

His house.

Leaving wasn’t an option. Not after everything. This house—it was yours now. You had spent your savings, invested so much into making it your new beginning. You couldn’t just walk away because of a few unsettling events, even if they were enough to make your skin crawl. The fear gnawed at you, sure, but so did the defiance. The thought of running away felt too much like giving in to something unknown. And you hated the unknown.

So, you stayed.

And with every passing day, the strange occurrences continued. The static, the footsteps, the feeling of being watched—they persisted like a weight pressing down on you, but you weren’t going to let it win. You couldn’t keep ignoring it, though. Not anymore. The air in the house felt alive, heavy with something unsaid, and you had a hunch that if you wanted answers, you were going to have to start speaking to it.

Speaking to him.

At first, you felt ridiculous. You would walk through the house, muttering to the empty air like a madwoman. Little things, just to see if anything would respond. “Hello?” you’d ask as you brewed your morning coffee. “What do you want?” you’d say while folding laundry. And always, there was silence.

But the more you talked, the less foolish you felt. You sensed something listening, even if it didn’t answer right away. The static on the radio would flicker occasionally, faint noises that almost felt like a reply, though never enough to be sure.

The strange weight on your chest every night didn’t go away. The house was filled with tension, an unspoken presence, but you kept at it. Maybe it was the madness of it all, or maybe you were just too stubborn to give up. Either way, you couldn’t stop.

Then one night, everything changed.

You were lying in bed, exhausted but unable to sleep. The radio, which you’d learned to avoid turning on, sat on the nightstand like a silent sentinel, you didn't know why you kept it close to you, but you did. The room was dark, the air thick with that familiar, uneasy heaviness. You closed your eyes, willing yourself to ignore the sounds, the pressure.

But then, a loud burst of static filled the room.

You shot up, heart racing. The radio had turned on by itself again, its glow casting eerie shadows across the walls. The static wasn’t just random noise this time—it was deliberate, alive with a force you couldn’t explain. And then, through the crackling, you heard a voice.

“Just… want… be alo-… ne.”

The words were fragmented, broken by the static, but they were unmistakable. Your breath caught in your throat. This wasn’t the usual hiss or whisper. This was different. This was him.

“Simon?” you whispered, feeling a mix of terror and curiosity flood through you. The radio hissed again, the words struggling to break through.

“…Want… be… alone…”

You swallowed, your skin prickling with the weight of his presence. It was him—Ghost. Simon Riley. After all the silence, after all the waiting, he was finally speaking to you. No more "Get out". But what was he saying? Did he want you to leave? Was that what he meant?

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’m not leaving. I won’t.” The fear was still there, gnawing at you, but your resolve was stronger. This house was yours now. And he was a part of it, whether either of you liked it or not.

The radio crackled again, but no more words came. The heavy, oppressive air in the room seemed to tighten around you, as though his presence was everywhere, watching, listening. You could feel it—his loneliness, his pain. It was buried deep in the walls, in the very bones of the house.

He didn’t want company. He didn’t want anyone here.

But you weren’t leaving.

You settled back against the pillows, your heartbeat slowly returning to normal, though your mind was far from calm. The radio fell silent once more, but now you knew the truth.

Simon Riley didn’t want to be disturbed. But somehow, you had become part of his world, and leaving wasn’t an option. Not for you. Not for him.

This house wasn’t just haunted. It was his.

And you weren’t sure what would happen next, but you had no intention of running away.

Our house.

"This can be our house," you said one day, speaking to the empty room as if he were just another person. Another living person. It felt strange at first, surreal even, but the more you talked to him, the more it seemed to work. The oppressive atmosphere in the house shifted, just slightly. As if Simon—Ghost—was beginning to listen.

There was no denying it now. He was here, still tethered to this place, his presence as real as the walls that enclosed you. And for some reason, your words were getting through to him.

It wasn’t immediate. At first, it felt like nothing had changed, but then, at night, when the house was at its stillest and the air the heaviest, he began to speak again. It wasn’t much—just a few words here and there, but enough. Enough for you to start knowing his voice.

His voice was deep, rough, as though every syllable was dragged through gravel before it reached you. He didn’t speak often, and when he did, it was clear that he wasn’t thrilled by your presence. His attitude was hard to miss—he wasn’t a friendly ghost, not by a long shot. But he wasn’t entirely hostile either.

Mostly, he just wanted you to stop poking around.

“Quiet…” he would mutter, his voice carrying through the static of the radio, sending shivers down your spine. “Too… loud…”

Or, “Less light… turn it off…”

It was clear: Ghost had rules. And you, it seemed, had broken most of them without realizing it. He liked the darkness, the quiet. The less you moved, the less you explored, the better. He didn’t want your questions or your curiosity. He wanted silence, shadows, and solitude.

But you were anything but quiet.

"Sorry, but I'm not that kind of girl," you whispered back with a faint smile, knowing full well he could hear you. You could almost feel him sigh in exasperation, a hint of tension rising in the air, but nothing violent. Nothing dangerous.

Still, it fascinated you, learning these little details about him. You were starting to get a sense of his personality, his boundaries. He wasn’t angry, not really—he was just… annoyed. Irritated, perhaps, by the fact that you were disrupting the world he had created here, the isolation he craved. He didn’t like the way you insisted on keeping the lights on, the way you asked so many questions, always wanting to know more.

But what struck you most was how human he still felt. Beneath the brooding presence and clipped words, there was a man with preferences, with a personality. He had been something more than just a soldier, more than just a ghost haunting his past.

And oh, what a man.

“Less nosy…” he growled one night, his voice crackling through the radio after you’d spent the day researching more about him. You laughed, half amused, half unnerved.

“Can’t help it,” you said aloud, settling into bed. “I’m curious about you.”

The radio hummed, but there was no reply this time. You had the feeling he wasn’t one for compliments, for conversation, or even acknowledgment. He just wanted things his way, wanted you to stop being so intrusive.

But you weren’t going to stop. Not yet, at least. His irritation felt almost like a game now, and though he pushed back, he never pushed hard enough to scare you off.

“Fine, I’ll dim the lights,” you finally conceded one night, turning the lamp beside your bed to its lowest setting. The room bathed in soft shadows, the way he seemed to prefer it. “But I’m not going anywhere, Ghost. This house is ours now.”

The air shifted, a low, almost imperceptible hum vibrating through the walls. He didn’t speak, but you could feel him there, watching, listening.

For the first time, you felt a strange comfort in his presence. He didn’t want you here. But maybe, just maybe, he was starting to accept that you weren’t going anywhere.

And neither was he.

Safe.

The first time you felt him, it was like nothing you had ever experienced. You had gotten used to the whispers, the static, the odd shifts in the air—but actual contact? That was something you never expected. Yet, it happened.

It was late, the house settled into its familiar, unsettling quiet. The soft hum of the radio filled the room, faint enough to become background noise, but ever-present, like a heartbeat. You were drifting, teetering between wakefulness and sleep, your mind hazy when you felt it—a touch.

At first, you thought you were imagining it. A cool pressure, right on top of your head, like the faintest brush of fingers or a soft breeze pushing down. It wasn’t warm like a human touch, not alive, but it was there. Cold and delicate, it felt more like air than flesh, but the sensation was unmistakable.

Your eyes snapped open, heart racing, and for a moment, you didn’t move. Frozen. You lay still, trying to make sense of what just happened. Every muscle in your body tensed, waiting for something more, some confirmation that you hadn’t dreamed it.

But there it was again. That gentle, almost imperceptible pressure, lingering just a little longer this time, pressing against your scalp. The coldness of it seeped into your skin, sending shivers down your spine. And despite the fear curling inside you, there was something… fascinating about it.

Simon could touch you.

It wasn’t warm, wasn’t comforting in the way a human hand would be, but it was real. He was real. That simple touch, fleeting as it was, felt like a revelation. A connection—one you hadn’t expected to feel. He wasn’t just a voice on the radio, or a shadow in the corner. He was more than that, more than just a presence haunting these walls.

But the realization also scared you, a sudden wave of cold dread filling the room. If he could touch you, even in that small way, what else could he do? The thought made your stomach knot with fear. You weren’t sure you wanted to find out.

And then, in the quiet that followed, the static grew louder again. His voice, raspy and fragmented, pushed through the crackle of the radio.

“Forgot… lock the doors…”

His words, slow and deliberate, cut through the air like a warning. You felt a chill crawl down your arms, goosebumps rising on your skin. Instinctively, you glanced toward the door, your heart hammering in your chest. The lock. Had you forgotten? You couldn’t remember. Your thoughts blurred together in the fog of half-sleep.

Before you could move, his voice spoke again, softer this time, almost… amused.

“Careless…”

The word hung in the air, cold and sharp, like a scolding whisper.

For a moment, you didn’t move. You felt vulnerable, exposed, like the walls were watching you, like he was watching you. But it wasn’t anger or malice you sensed from him. No, it was something else—something almost… familiar. The same way someone might reprimand a child for leaving the lights on or forgetting to close the fridge. That cold touch on your head lingered like an afterthought, and the meaning behind his words began to settle in your mind.

Simon wasn’t threatening you. He was watching over you. In his own strange, spectral way, he was protecting you.

And that realization was more unnerving than anything else.

Your fingers trembled as you slid out of bed, your bare feet touching the cool floor. You padded toward the door, the sense of his presence heavy behind you. As you reached the handle, you hesitated for a second before turning it—locked. You had remembered after all.

Still, the point was clear. He was testing you. Or maybe he was just reminding you that, in this house, nothing went unnoticed. Not by him.

You crawled back into bed, heart still racing, thoughts spinning. The room was still thick with the weight of his presence, but now you couldn’t shake the feeling that this house, this connection with Simon—it was evolving. What started as fear was slowly becoming something else.

You pulled the blankets up around your shoulders, sinking back into the pillows, your mind buzzing with the strangeness of it all. You were still scared, yes. But you were also intrigued, curious about this man who haunted your life in more ways than one.

And as you closed your eyes, his voice echoed faintly in the static once more.

“… safe.”

Apparition.

One night, everything felt different.

The air was heavier than usual, the familiar static of the radio silent. No footsteps, no whispers, no cold touch on your skin. Simon—the presence you had grown oddly used to—was quiet. Unnervingly quiet. You couldn’t place it, but something felt off. The house felt emptier, darker, as though he had withdrawn into the shadows, leaving you to fend for yourself in his absence.

That night, you had the most terrifying nightmare.

In your dream, a group of men barged into your home. Faces hidden by shadows, their movements quick and violent. They didn’t hesitate, didn’t speak. The fear hit you like a tidal wave, paralyzing your body as they advanced. In the dream, you fought—screaming, kicking, anything to protect yourself—but it wasn’t enough. Cold hands grabbed you, yanked you from the bed, and the flash of a blade was the last thing you saw before the world went dark.

You awoke with a gasp, your heart pounding, your skin clammy with sweat. For a moment, you weren’t sure if you were still dreaming. The fear was too real, too sharp. But then you saw him.

Standing in the doorway, a figure so tall, so broad, you couldn’t mistake it for anything else. A shadow, dark and hulking, its outline barely distinguishable in the dim light of the room. But you knew. You knew it was him.

“Simon…?” you whispered, your voice trembling. The shadow didn’t move, didn’t shift. You couldn’t see his face, just the dark mass of his form, but somehow, you could feel his gaze locked on you. Watching.

He didn’t respond. You blinked, trying to shake the fog of fear clouding your mind. And in that single moment of hesitation, he was gone.

The doorway was empty.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you sat there, staring at the spot where he had been, your pulse still racing from the nightmare. The silence was deafening, the room thick with an unspoken tension. You knew it had been him, but why had he appeared like that? Why now, after so many nights of just whispers and static?

Hours passed, and you couldn’t sleep. Your mind raced with questions, your heart unsettled by his sudden, eerie appearance. You kept replaying the nightmare in your head—the men, the violence, the cold finality of it all. And yet, somehow, you didn’t feel that kind of fear when you saw him.

The radio hummed softly, breaking the silence, and his voice—low, rough—finally came through.

“Scared you… apologize…”

His voice was softer than usual, almost hesitant. Sorry. The word lingered in the air, and for the first time, you realized something. He wasn’t a threat to you. Not in death, and probably not even in life. Whatever danger he carried with him, it wasn’t meant for you.

You took a deep breath, your fear settling into something more like curiosity. Slowly, you sat up, pulling the blanket around you. The shadows in the room no longer felt suffocating. You understood now—Simon had never meant to hurt you. He had just… forgotten, maybe. Forgotten what it was like to be with someone, to be close to anyone.

“He’s not here to harm me,” you whispered to yourself, the words feeling right.

But the question that had been burning in your mind for weeks finally broke free. You had to know.

“How did you die?”

The silence in the house deepened, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. But then you heard them—slow, deliberate footsteps echoing from the hallway outside your room. They sent a shiver down your spine, not out of fear, but out of anticipation.

The steps stopped just outside the door, and then you heard it. His voice, low and hollow, filled with a pain so deep you could feel it in your chest.

“…Betrayal.”

That single word cut through the air like a blade, sharp and cold, leaving a chill in its wake. You closed your eyes, letting it sink in. Betrayal. That’s how he had died. Not in some random home invasion, not in some anonymous act of violence. Someone—someone—had betrayed him. And it cost him everything.

The weight of that word hung over you, making your heart ache for this man who had suffered so much, even after death. He wasn’t just a ghost haunting your home. He was a man with a story, with a past full of wounds that had never healed.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper. “Who betrayed you, Simon?”

The radio crackled, but no words followed. Only the soft hum of static, and the slow, steady sound of his footsteps retreating down the hallway.

He wasn’t ready to tell you everything. Not yet.

But now, you knew enough to understand—this house, this haunting, was about more than just restless spirits. It was about Simon Riley, and the scars that still bound him to this world. Scars of betrayal, of loss, of a life cut short in the most painful way.

And you weren’t going to leave. Not until you knew the full story.

You need to leave me.

You had to do it. You couldn’t just keep going on like this, with half-answers and fleeting glimpses of shadows in the night. No more whispers through the static or cold touches in the dark. If Simon was truly here, then you needed to really talk to him. And not just with casual questions thrown into the air. You needed something more direct.

So you set the stage.

Candles. It seemed cliché, maybe even ridiculous, but in your gut, you felt like it might help. You placed them carefully around the room, their soft flickering light casting long shadows on the walls. The whole room felt different, like the air was humming with anticipation. You were nervous—terrified, even—but you were determined to push past the fear.

The night fell, the house cloaked in its usual quiet, but you could sense it. The weight of his presence pressed down on the room, like he was watching, waiting. This time, though, you weren’t going to be passive. This time, you were going to make him appear.

You sat on the edge of the couch, your heart hammering in your chest as you stared at the soft glow of the candles. You focused on the flame, on its steady flicker, trying to ground yourself in the moment.

"Simon," you whispered into the stillness, your voice steady, despite the anxiety gnawing at you. "I want to talk to you. Really talk."

The seconds dragged by, thick and heavy, and for a moment, you wondered if you’d made a mistake. If he wouldn’t come. Or worse—if he would, and this time, he wouldn’t be so forgiving.

But then, you felt it. The cold shift in the air, the subtle pressure that always preceded his presence. And there he was.

His tall figure emerged from the shadows, slow and deliberate, until he stood just at the edge of the room. He didn’t move like a living person, didn’t sway or shift with his steps. His movements were smooth, too smooth, like a ghost carried on the wind. He was tall, bigger than you remembered, and as he approached, your pulse quickened. He stopped right at the couch, standing above you, his presence overwhelming.

Then he sat.

Your breath hitched. The couch creaked under his weight, and he loomed there, his figure dark and imposing in the low light. You had to fight the urge to run, to hide under the covers like a scared child. Every instinct in your body screamed for you to flee, but you stayed. You had to.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. He just sat there, like some silent sentinel, watching you with that unseen gaze. The air was thick with tension, and you had to remind yourself to breathe.

Finally, his voice came—low and rough, crackling through the static of the radio.

"You put some candles…" he said, his tone almost… amused. Like he was observing a quaint ritual, one that intrigued him more than it should have.

But it wasn’t his figure that spoke. The shadow on the couch didn’t move, didn’t react. It was still, perfectly still. Yet you could feel him there, could feel the weight of his attention, even though his voice came from the radio, distorted and distant as always.

And then you saw it—the mask.

In the dim light of the candles, the shadows shifted just enough for you to make it out. The mask that had haunted so many of your dreams, the one you’d seen glimpses of in military photos and war documentaries. It was iconic, a skull painted over the face, hollow eyes that stared out into nothingness.

You couldn’t see his face, not really. The darkness concealed him well. But that mask—its outline, its meaning—was unmistakable. He wasn’t just some nameless, faceless ghost. He was Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, and the man behind that mask was more than a simple spirit lost in the ether. He was something else. Something dangerous. Something broken.

But not to you. You knew that now.

"You’re really here," you whispered, more to yourself than to him. It wasn’t a question anymore. He had been there all along, lurking in the shadows, watching, waiting for you to get close enough to see him.

"Why do you stay?" you asked, your voice trembling despite yourself. "Why are you still here, Simon?"

The radio crackled, his voice rough and slow. "No… where else… to go."

Your heart ached at those words. He was trapped. Bound to this place, to this existence, because he didn’t have anywhere else to go. The weight of his loneliness pressed down on you, and for the first time, you realized just how deeply it affected him. The isolation, the silence. It was his prison.

"You have... somewhere to go, live... life, get out of here."

And through the noise of the static and your own heart, you knew that the reason he wanted you gone was because he believed, or knew, that you deserved a better place.

A better company, a real one.

|| Any suggestions for part two, or even new stories, are welcome! ||

|| Part two out now, read HERE ||

#call of duty #cod modern warfare #simon ghost riley #simon riley #fanfic #ghost fanfiction #cod headcanons #ao3 #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #fem reader #ghost x reader #x reader #ghost cod #my post #my writing

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imustbenuts · 2 months ago

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nuts reading trigun 4 - i sniffed out the spirit of leiji matsumoto and his galaxy express 999

so this is. a bit of a doozy and a little detour i took...

first off, i thought it was really interesting that chapter 4 is titled Bang!Bang! in EN but ポポ popo in jp. popo is basically pop pop, but also if pitched down, would sound more like 'poooh poooh'. very similar to what sound a steam locomotive makes,

but not quite. the 'correct' one would be ボbo, not ポ po.

like the sound effect here:

sfx: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOH

there's no good way to translate this, to be clear. nightow seems to really like pulling off these weird little japanese wordplay here and there. theres one instance with the escorts trying to sleep with vash, but thats a lot of effort to explain a pun and its not very interesting so. uh. sorry. (these posts take very long to write bc im poopoo)

so. its CH 4: PoPo. 4 =Death? this feels deliberate.

the next chapter is CH 5: 強襲 / Assault. EN title is very accurate here so yippee. but wait.

that. dark contrast and a presence of a vaguely steam locomotive. the framing of the train itself being this romantic machine that was built to send people on their journeys to parts unknown. the presence of 4 = Death.

theres something about the following panel. and i know exactly what it is despite having never read or watched it bc of just how influential this particular work is.

so i went sniffing.

Galaxy Express 999.

and. uhm. i found a thread and a rabbit hole that links back to TriStamp again.

Galaxy Express 999 first ran as a manga in 1977- 1981. Made by the late Leiji Matsumoto (25th Jan 1938 - 2023) who passed away last year.

the gist of this story. we follow a boy named Tetsuro in the super far off future, who wants to obtain a mechanical body so he never again feels the inconvenience of a flesh one. and to also fulfill his promise to his mother who was hunted down in front of him and turned into a trophy by mechanized hunters. he meets a mysterious blonde woman named Maetel who gives him a pass to ride on the Galaxy Express 999, promising him one at the end of the journey, but there seems to be a catch.

the same themes of a train in the darkness, its window the main lightsource, but in GE999 theres the added planets and stars. GE999 is full of promotional material and artwork like this, its iconic

the story is very philosophical and full of questions about death, living, and the worth of a human life. theres a constant theming of the train bringing its passengers to a place unknown, and how its a departure from the base in which they start the further they go. like a wanderer. (something something blank ticket wink wink.)

but anyway. Chapter 2: The Red Wind Of Mars is the interesting one.

i strongly recommend reading this chapter at least, but ill summarize the interesting bits.

the cast arrives on Mars, a Red Planet thats constantly being buffeted by a Sandstorm. its said that the planet is pretty much in a state of poverty and is barren due to people turning themselves into machine bodies and having no need to care for the environment and nurture it.

also an american saloon on this red desert planet wowee--

testurou later gets jumped by a couple who basically wants to steal his pass to the GE999, but once they realize the boy has not been mechanized at all, the couple lets tetsurou kill them. they are then left in the desert to be eventually covered up by the red sand. and then, the final page has this fucking thing:

"They say that the sound of Mars' red wind comes from the wailing of people resting under its sand. This vermilion wind will continue to lament for the fate of those who couldn't make their dreams come true... That's why they say this planet will stay red forever..."

....studio orange. listen.

STUDIO ORANGE. PLEASE

ON WHAT LEVEL ARE YOU GUYS EVEN COOKING. stop sending me on these rabbit hole runs i swear to god ill never finish trigunbookclub at this rate GGGGGGGGGAAAAAH

anyway the sandsteamer arc in the original trigun seems to be a homage to Galaxy Express 999 in a way, and Studio Orange understood the assignment.

#trigun #trigun stampede #trigunbookclub #FREE ME #trigun meta

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forgottenroisin · 6 months ago

Text

Malconaire Samain Traditions

AUTHOR'S NOTES

ok so!!! before i get into this too much, some author's notes, starting w fun facts abt irl samhain (which i wrote samain above bc that's the old irish spelling and we're mostly going w old irish spellings here -- caoimhe rather than keeva, etc) that im running w here are as follows: ancient celtic tradition holds w largely two types of major celebration on their quartered calendar: Beltaine and Samhain which occurred on opposite times of the year, and Imbolc and Lughnasa which also straddled the year. The latter set marked important crop rotations: sowing and harvesting the fields.

The former, however, are said to have been dedicated to the movements of cattle herds and their shephards. At Beltaine, the shephards and their flocks would wrap up their half year of having held their beasts at home amongst the village in the valleys where they were safe from winter snows. at samhain, the shephards would do the opposite: begin driving their herds home across the treacherous montain passes from where they had been grazing in upland pastures for six months, and heading home to the valleys. Both Samhain and Beltane were seen as liminal or threshold holidays. Yet, they were also seen as inverse of one another, with Beltane being a festival for the living and Samhain for the dead.

Many Irish and British Neolithic tombs are aligned such that they are illuminated by the light of the sun as it over Samhain and Imbolc.

In Celtic belief, all spirits appear to be interlinked, w ghosts alternately appearing as faries or gods and vice versa, so I've used guardians, gods, and ghosts here where I thought most appropriate as stand ins but yeah this is just my interpretation??? Anyway, fairy mounds are often literally burial mounds so make of that what you will! I did ultimately choose to include ghosts but I strongly considered restricting it to purely guardians and gods, but yeah! Lmk if you think I should go back and restrict it to just those two!

Samhain in Ireland and Scotland are pr similar, so there'll def bc riffs from both cultures but, bc Rosie's name means little rose, and the very related ancient Welsh tradition of Calan Gaeaf ties in both roses AND ivy v strongly, I'm gonna be pulling a lot from that, as well.

I'm also gonna steal some Venetian St. Mark's Day beliefs and practices and English St. Mark's Eve ones. I have zero excuse except that it dovetails really nicely, and that its frankly sooo fitting for our Miss Rosie.

all the 'tales' here are inspired and even drawn directly from ancient lore!

Cleansing fire and light, cleaning, divination, guising (dressing up and trick or treat-esque shenanigans), dancing, mummery, saining (blessings), feasting, belief that spirits (good and evil, human and fae and godly and demoic, etc) walk amongst us that night, and veneration of the dead are common themes, and it is believed that it is this time when the veil is thinnest between the various otherworlds and our own.

Samhain is a last deep breath before the plunge. It is a time of preparing for the death of winter to come. Interestingly, Samain, the Old Irish root word for Samhain, is thought to come from an ancient word for 'summer,' though it was celebrated in November. No one knows why, but imma lean into it as a rebirth kind of symbolism -- yknow that 'spring in winter' sort of concept. Another explanation is that Samain comes from yet another ancient word that means 'reuninion, assembly,' and imma lean into that, too.

There was initially a fortnight of celebrations for Samain, which overtime got cut down to our modern night of Halloween, so idk how long this celebration should last hahaha and i deliberately left the timeline vague bc of that

Conveniently, I'd already hc'ed that Rosie actually views autumn as more a time of rebirth than spring (weirdly enough, it was actually one of my v first hc's for her!), and all this will allow me to tie it in nicely with her character theme of wonder <3

(Also disclaimer that you might notice some similarities between this and my TFW not!halloween traditions in which case...no you didn't ;DDDDD its just that i was inspired by the same sources hahaha except here i pulled in welsh and venetian things as my secondary instead of ancient roman and greek things aklsjdflkjdfdf)

SAMAIN TRADITIONS

like her sisters, rosie was born around the time of an ancient astairan holiday, causing the celebrations to overlap in malconaire

hers falling near samhain, an autumnal festival celebrating the midpoint between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice, and is held to mark the beginning of winter

it is said that it is at this time that the veil between this world and the other is said to be at its thinnest and, thus, the guardians are feted in an effort to strengthen them during this most dangerous period, w seers and all the ppl of astaira gathering to do whatever they can to help

it is a time of unity and mutual faith, generosity and thanksgiving, of finding strength and hope and cheer in ourselves and in one another even as things grow their darkest

as twilight gleams its last, all the fires in the region are put out and a great bonfire lit by a seer at the local shrine. from this protective blaze, every fire in the region is relit so that cleansing, protective fire burns for the guardians against the gods in every home, every shrine, and every gathering place across all malconaire

it is said that on this night, sometimes even non-seers can hear the whisperings of the guardians -- and that, at times -- the howls of the gods echo across the world, but beware to any who hears ought, for gods can appear and speak as any being they wish and, it is said, one must never trust a stranger who arrives upon samhain who will not go into the light

according to ancient tradition, anyone who believes w a true heart may wield some of the powers of a true seer because the veil is so thin, and in addition to being able to hear the voices of gods and guardians, can also sometimes hear the voices of their deceased loved ones

sometimes this is said to be a trick of the evil gods, but many believe that deceased loved ones do in fact arise

in addition to the fires, many gifts of food and drink and harvest and flowers etc are offered to the guardians, in addition to gifts of delights and entertainments such as dances and plays

as it is said that ghosts rise from their graves at this time, whether crossing over from an otherworld or revived by the power of the wicked gods, welcoming feasts are held in every home and, during the feasts, in addition to offerings made to the guardians, places are set for dead members of the family who may be visiting their loved ones while they are able

hoping to thwart any wicked spirits or gods who might be walking the earth, many wear a guise each night when the protective power of the sun is snuffed out

bc it is said that everyone may have use of a seers powers, it is also tradition to go from house to house and give offerings and blessings back and forth there, and this is often when fires from the great shrine bonefire are brought to each home, as well

following feasting in homes, there is also a tradition of gathering around the great bonfire in the evening and sharing sweets

while there, dancing and plays go on with gift-giving continuing well into the night

traditionally, one carves their name into a stone and then tosses it into the fire. those stones that had had the name burned clean off of it will receive good fortune. those whose names are still writ upon the stones will do well to take care over the course of the winter, with death or misfortune said to hunt them

Myths, legends, and ghost stories are all frequently told around the bonfire, with some tales being considered specific to Samain, and others simply tall tales or simply invented stories, but whatever their origin, stories play a highly important role on Samain, both as offerings and as entertainment. i'll include one or two as a sample somewhere in here

traditionally, all across astaira, peace was delcared during samain and it was a great time of unification, of treaties, of mending fences great and small, neighbor to neighbor and nation to nation, alike, w any conflict or even grudge, save that against the gods, being seen as borderline blasphemous, and an insult to the guardians for all efforts must be communally poured into that conflict at this time

in this same vein, it is a time for housekeeping, both great and small -- houses are cleaned, spick and span, and great councils are called by the rulers to undergo yearly reforms

anyone who broke laws during this time would, therefore, be banished for the rest of the year for the grievous offence of having wounded the goodwill of the guardians

traditionally, astairans avoid crossroads during samain, said to be haunted by nefarious deadmen and gods

on the morning samain, young and unmarried people traditionally go out into the fields and collect ivy and autumn roses. traditionally, girls collect ivy while boys pick roses, after which they come together again, with the girls presenting the boys they admire with ivy and the boys presenting roses to the girls they fancy. if a couple's presentations are mutual, they then wind them together and create crowns of roses-and-ivy to wear. at the end of the day, each girls collects all the roses she has been given, and each boy all his ivy and mingle them till they do not know who gave which. then they toss one into the bonfire for the guardians are return home, placing the remaining plants under their pillow. it is said that they will then dream of their future and, if they remember any of the dream, some of it will come true in the coming year. it is also sometimes said that if they dream of a particular other person, they will likely wed that person.

unmarried women are instructed to darken their rooms in the evening, and then a married woman can look into the mirror to see the face of the future groom. If a skull appears in the mirror, the unmarried woman is meant to die within the year. If a future groom cannot be seen, unmarried women are instructed to peel an apple and throw the skin over their shoulders. The shape the apple skin makes is said to show the first initial of her future husband

just before midnight, any remaining children are bundled off to bed and, then, it is tradition for those who wish to see to gather on the holy ground of the shrine, for surrounded by the guardians is the only way one may safely witness what is to come. those who do not wish to see must return quickly home and close all their windows and close their eyes and try to sleep, for any not protected by the guarian who looks upon it shall die on the spot. those who stay at the shrine may see, but they must maintain absolute silence or it is said they shall never see again. at midnight, the dead walk. a whole squadron of them troop by, but if one should spot oneself or any known to one trooping with them, that person is doomed to die within the year. some say the cause of death may even be observed, drowned victims soaked to the bone or hanged men marching with nooses around their necks, and such the like.

games and friendly competitions around the bonfire are common, such as dares and apple bobbing

two hazelnuts roast near a fire; one named for the person roasting them and the other for the person the desire. If the nuts jump away from the heat, it is a bad sign, but if the nuts roast quietly, it foretells an excellent match.

Items were hidden in food—usually a cakes and breads — and portions of it served out at random. A person's future is foretold by the item they happened to find; for example, a ring means marriage, and a coin means wealth

A salty oatmeal bannock was baked; the person ate it in three bites and then went to bed in silence without anything to drink. This was said to result in a dream in which their future spouse offers them a drink to quench their thirst

Egg whites are dropped in water, and the shapes foretell the number of future children

SAMPLE OF SAMAIN TALES

story of a seer who rushed up to the door to the otherworld in the repulsion of gods, but closed the door as the gods were sealed off on his thumb. he then sucked on his wounded thumb and, from that moment, was said to have gained otherworldly wisdom but the cost was that he was, too, a link that the gods had to this world so he ultimately sealed himself, too, away inside a tree using their own magic to bind himself so that he could harm no one, but it is said that the gods have no mercy and that they force his ghost to walk the world on the night of Samain and sow the seeds of their ill-will for the year to come.

the monstrous gods used to demand two-thirds of the ppl's crops and livestock and even children during samain before they were sealed away, causing many to starve

a certain god, it is said, would command three men to go to a certain goddess every Samain to seduce her. when they inevitably failed, he would take their lives and force them to walk the world as his undead vessels for the rest of the year, wreaking untold havoc upon the world till at least one did succeed and the goddess gave him her magical garter. before the god killed his two companions, the goddess' lover, said sometimes to be from the snail house and alternately from the frog house, warned the vile god that it would spell his own doom if he struck those men down. laughing, the evil god did so, and so the lover used the magic girdle to fight and defeat him and help the guardians seal him away ((fun fact, this is drawn from a story said to have been the origin of the bog men...hence the frog or snail house being involved!))

one samain night, before the veil was raised against the gods, the king offered a prize to any who could tie a band around a hanged man's ankle. each challenger after the other fled in terror to the king's hall but one. when the band was tied, the dead man asked for a drink so, feeling pity for the hanged man, the challenger carried him on his back, stopping at three houses. when they entered the third, the dead man drank and spat it on the householders, killing them. returning to the gallows to bind him again, the challenger spotted an army of the gods burning the king's hall and slaughtering those inside. the challenger pursued the host through a portal into an otherworld where he learned that what he had seen since touching the hanged man was only a vision of what would happen the next samain unless something was done. he returned to the hall and warned the king, and astaira began to arm themselves against the gods who plotted against them.

another tale tells of a man who fell deeply in love w a goddess before the veil was raised against them. so in love was he that he followed her to an otherworld, despite her warnings that if he followed her, he could never return home. they lived happily together for two years before he began to long for home. watching him pine away, the goddess agreed to allow him to visit the mortal realm on her own horse, but only if he solemnly swore never to dismount the horse which would take him there and then back to her. he hastily agreed and started on his way. yet, when he arrived, he found that in the mortal realm two hundred years, and not two, had passed and that everyone he loved had died. distressed to see their graves, he fell from the horse to kiss them, but as soon as he stepped upon the ground, mortality found him and he grew old and died on the spot, collapsing as no more than bones and dust upon the earth of the graves of those he loved.

according to legend, the tradition of presenting roses and ivy to a lover originated when a man of low social standing is said to have fallen in love with a lady of house malconaire known for wearing ivy in her hair. in order to win her father's approval -- who said he might only wed his daughter if he could prove his love for her was true -- he became involved in a distant war. he was mortally wounded in battle, but managed to pluck a rose from a nearby rosebush for his loved one. a companion was entrusted with returning the blood-stained rose to his lover, who cast the ivy from her hair and wore the rose until the day she died. from their graves, buried beside each other, ivy and roses still grow.

CHARACTER HC'S

it was during samain, many years ago, that domhnall and later his heir, eilionora, offered roderick a treaty but both efforts he rebuffed. to the first effort to achieve peace he did not reply. yet when eilia tried again, he did, sending her only a piece of paper that bore simply a list of the countries he'd already conquered, with astaira's name listed at the bottom. eilia did not try again.

on the samain before bran and sorcha began courting, he decided that he would woo her with the traditional roses. sadly, however, he wasn't able to get out into the fields until late and, when he finally did, all that were left were very, very small roses, indeed. fortunately, she had the same idea and presented him with ivy as well. when she saw the wee rosebuds, which he presented with some embarrassment, saying he ought to have given her something far greater, she laughed and declared that someday he would -- if they ever had a daughter born in autumn, her name should be roisin, for the first gift he had ever given to her.

last samain, rosie presented edmund with ivy, forgetting he problably knew nothing of the tradition (and would likely consider it heresy, if he did!) realizing too late that he probably didn't know what she was telling him, she laughed and made a joke of it, weaving him a ivy crown, anyway, saying that if he meant to rule over astaira, someday, he best pay attention as he would have to know how to make a flower crown. she never mentioned it again.

bran threw eggs into water with sorcha the year they were married. when her egg predicted four children and his six, he was terrified it might mean he would outlive her and she laughed and told him that was a ridiculous thing to suppose, for he'd come to their marriage with two children already: his raven, and malconaire.

the year of sorcha's death, she stayed out to watch the ghosts walk, hoping for a last glimpse of a loved one whom she had just lost, while bran took the children home to sleep. she was drawn and white when bran awoke the next morning and, though she made jokes of it when he mentioned it and proceeded about her day, she seemed distracted, but would say nothing of what she had seen. at the time, bran only assumed that she was distressed about her loss, but after she died, he always wondered if perhaps she had seen her own spirit on the march that night.

though usually done privately for their parents, rosie always enjoyed mumming with her sisters at samain, telling tall tales and dramatic ones alike amongst themselves

while she hasn't done any mummery since childhood, as she imagines its likely not dignified for a lady of her age and position, she does still enjoy guising and generally dresses as favorite heroines from fairy tales and other stories. she is convinced cassandra would enjoy this as well and wants to bring her to such an event one of these years. no o ne can seem to convince her this is terrible idea.

cillian stays out late every year to watch the souls pass and, every year, he informs saoirse that he has seen her go by, but she says she'll have her revenge one of these days, because someday he ~will see her, and then he'll be sorry when he has to tell her so and she laughs in his face.

#about #ill probs have other notions for other characters etc later but here we are!!#ooc #macdara malconaire #sorcha malconaire #eithne malconaire #brigit malconaire #aoife malconaire #edmund varmont #cillian frost #saoirse frost #eilionora stafford #roderick varmont #domhnall stafford #cassandra varmont #also forive the formatting i know its a mess alksjdfkjdsf #also my tenses #i haven't edited lakjsfjkdsf #lore

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mangoshorthand · 3 months ago

Text

Arrow of Time- [Five Hargreeves x F Reader]. Chapter 13 (Hard Feelings Part 5)

SUMMARY: When the mother of all teenage tantrums causes time itself to fracture, Five has to travel back to 1831 to repair the damage. But will he be able to cope with what he finds there? << Back to Chapter 12

The rift in time healed, getting home to Aoife could be difficult. Or perhaps simple.

Chapter 13: Daddy's Home

Acting on instinct at the sound of a voice addressing you both, Five pulled you behind him and spread an arm in front of you. He relaxed and lowered it only slightly upon recognizing Herb waving from the end of the alleyway.

“So the Commission's back online?” Five said, though still angling himself between you and Herb, his hands went into his pockets and his jaw took on its characteristic tilt, “Is everything okay?”

Herb nodded smilingly, approaching you now with a briefcase swinging jauntily at his side.

“Our instruments all up and working again, time back on the straight and narrow. It took us a few days back online to work out what happened but I thought you’d appreciate being extracted promptly. You’ve got a lot of trouble on your hands with your daughter. ”

Five lowered his brow, but before he could even speak you barged him out of your path, coming to face Herb yourself.

“You’re not going to hurt our kid?” you snapped, unsure whether you were begging or threatening him.

Herb, nervous by nature, clearly interpreted it as the latter. He raised both hands in a gesture of surrender and took half a step backwards.

“No, no. There’s no need: no harm, no foul as far as I’m concerned. And anyway, she could be too valuable to lose.”

This wasn’t a reassuring answer to either of you. Five, grabbing your hand to hold you back, spoke sharply.

“Too valuable?”

Herb gestured down the alley then and vaguely skywards.

“You saw what she did; she fixed it using a whole new paradigm. She, Lila and you: you fixed it together.”

“What?” Five advanced on Herb rapidly, led by his chin. Unconsciously, he dragged you with him, drawn like a magnet to the object of his interest.

Herb smiled nervously, “she’s…of interest to the organization. She might be able to teach us things.”

A beat in which Five’s eyes flashed. Even you knew not to interrupt him now. Leaning towards Herb and putting his face only a few inches from his, he spoke slowly, deliberately, enunciating every word.

“If you think I’m going to let the Commission within a mile of my little girl, then you’re wrong. You stay. Away.”

Herb’s smile faltered. He looked hurt and, for once, a little angry instead of intimidated.

“I’m only hoping she’ll collaborate on the technology when she’s older,” he replied, “I won’t force her to do anything.”

He paused, shifting slightly before looking up at Five. He had unpleasant suspicions as to where some of Five’s lingering mistrust of the Commission came from.

“I’m not The Handler.” he said, softly.

Five’s hand convulsed in yours and you ran your thumb anxiously over the back of it; trying to both comfort and quell him. It had been a long time since he heard her name out loud.

When the three of you appear in the study, the flash of light makes them all jump. Before their eyes have adjusted, before anyone can do anything, you’re dropping Five’s hand and launching yourself across the room, tears falling noisily. You hold Aoife to you tight. Tight: like you’ve been longing to ever since you left.

“Mom!” she’s speaking into your chest, her words muffled

You can’t answer, crying too hard. All you can muster is unintelligible sounds and sobs.

“Are you okay?” she asks, worried.

As you just sob harder, rocking her now, Five encircles you both in his arms, comforting you and reassuring Aoife in one act.

“She’s been gone a year, cara, she’ll be okay but she’s missed you.”

You take a ragged breath in.

“E-every single - day” you manage.

Behind you Diego and Herb greet one another with their patented secret handshake.

“I-I’m so sorry Mom.” Aoife begins to cry too now.

“It’s okay sweetie,” Five answers for you, “Mom’s not mad. We both love you. And you did so well.”

You try to concur but it comes out as a garbled mess. Five can’t help but chuckle at this, kissing your hair gently. He glances over to the desk where his Temporal Ambimeter sits: the needle now back along its line of polarity, the meter itself rotating slowly, dreamily. All is well.

“Welcome home, granddad shagger.” says Lila, clapping you on the back.

Even in tears with her voice muffled against your shoulder, Aoife makes her disapproval known

“Auntie Lila, that’s gross.”

“Well I’m glad they did it at least once, snotface,” Lila says, grinning and ruffling Aoife’s hair, “otherwise we wouldn’t have you.”

You break apart from Aoife and Five, though still keeping tight hold of her hand and accept a hug from Lila now. It’s overwhelming seeing them all at once. While you’re hugging, talking and crying with the rest of the adults, Five takes Aoife aside. He looks down at her, half stern, half empathy.

“Okay. Now everything’s sorted out, you and I need to talk.”

Aoife nods, looking down at her toes.

“You purposely disobeyed me.”

The disappointment in his voice pricked even more tears to her eyes.

“...Dad-”

“No,” he said, firmly, “you need to listen. You know how dangerous it is to mess with time. All your life, I’ve been honest with you about it because I didn’t want you to make the same mistake I did, and you still went behind my back.”

Her voice comes out small,

“You didn’t let me try. ”

“And this is why!” his voice rises slightly in disbelief, “You know that could have killed your mother, right?”

“I didn’t mean -”

“I KNOW you didn’t mean it.” he says, frustration starting to get the better of him. It gets your attention from across the room, “but this is WHY I wanted to teach you the theory before you practice, to stop accidents happening.”

“I’m- I’m sorry!” she cries, hiding her head in her hands.

“Five,” you say, trying to conciliate him, “she’s just a-”

He turns his face to you: not angry , exactly but it speaks in the silent language between co-parents. It’s a message you’ve tried to communicate to him many times: Don’t undermine me.

“So,” he says, turning back to her with that air of conscious self-assurance that makes him seem like a smug college professor, “I think it’s fair to ground you for a month. That means no hanging out with friends after school, it means no going to that concert with Lila (he shoots Lila an apologetic look) and it means extra lessons with me, got it? Does that seem fair to you, given the fact you stranded your mother in the 1830’s for an entire year?”

Aoife’s face crumples even as she nods her acceptance.

“Good.” he says, decisively, clasping his hands behind his back and bending from the waist until he’s at her eye-level. He meets her eyes imperiously and pauses for effect, waiting for her to look him in the eye before delivering his final words.

“The lessons are the most important part. I need you to teach me how you just fixed time.”

She hugs him so hard then that he stumbles, smiling through her tears.

Five did half an hour or so of due diligence alongside Herb to check that your little adventure didn’t affect the timeline too drastically. Reginald Hargreeves disappeared from 1831 some time in late March with no indication of where he went and, even more thankfully, no long-term consequences. The only significant difference the pair of you made seems to be the addition of an historic female real-estate mogul: according to one of Reginald’s old history books, Selina Hill came from obscurity to rival John Jacob Astor for dominance on Manhattan Island. Five smiled with satisfaction at Selina’s portrait: even in the formal oil painting, she had the same wry smile. She’d been successful beyond his imaginings: apparently she had a flair for business of more than one sort.

He gets you alone to tell you about her as soon as possible. He takes your hand, blinking you to your bedroom and closing the door. Wringing his hands and smoothing hair not in need of smoothing, he explains. He tells you this with more faltering and more shame than he’d shown even in confessing one of his many murders.

“I didn’t, and I don’t think I ever could, but I did consider it. I asked her prices, she told me and then I thought: ‘what the hell are you doing?’ and I just left.”

You look at him and he carries on, nervous energy evident in the way his fingers twitch at his sides.

“I was angry and for a moment I wanted to hurt you. I didn’t even touch her but I couldn’t not tell you about it. ” He sits heavily on the other side of the bed with fisted hands on his knees. He closes his eyes and stays as still as possible, braced for your hurt or anger. Your response isn’t what he expected.

“I think she mentioned you.”

He nods and his lips tighten almost imperceptibly. The terrible tension winds tighter, your voice giving him no clue to your feelings.

“She said she had a weird rich guy on the hook but he probably wouldn’t have been able to get it up anyway because he was too in love with his wife.”

“That… sounds like me, yes.” his long, clever fingers play nervously with a loose thread at the hem of his jacket.

You sigh deeply, “I’m not…happy about it but I’m not angry either…or I’m no angrier than I was. It doesn’t change anything.”

He looks round at you now, shaking his head disbelievingly, unable to even divine the thoughts behind this, let alone understand them.

“I can live with it,” you continue, ”because when it came to it, you didn’t. You had a shitty attitude at the time and that’s what I was angry about: the shitty attitude led you to consider it but then you didn’t.”

“I’m glad you’re being so…magnanimous” he says, shuffling a little closer to you, “but I feel guilty. I thought I’d never even think about it.”

“Well…you did. And you should feel guilty,” you say shortly, “...but, the way I see it, you passed a pretty hard test there. You were angry, hurt and going through withdrawal but you came to your senses long before anything happened.”

He nods slowly, as usual not as optimistic about his own finer instincts as you are.

“I’m glad you helped Selina.” you say, “I liked her.”

“Me too...her personality, I mean.” he finishes in a rush, tripping over himself to apply the caveat.

You laugh slightly and a small smile develops on your lips.

“And I’ve got to admit, this is nice to know. You love me way too much. I could pretty much do whatever I want and you’ll still love me. Hey, maybe I can finally sleep with Klaus!”

You’d meant to tease him with this long running joke and provoke reciprocal playfulness. Clearly he isn’t in the mood to throw one back.

“I do love you too much.”

His eyes finish for him: so don’t hurt me.

You take his head into your hands and kiss his temple.

Much later, with Aoife in bed, you lie on the main living room couch with your head on Five’s shoulder. His arm drapes around you and he strokes your forehead lightly with ticklish soft fingers.

“I feel better after taking the pills.” he says, “maybe placebo but…”

“Good,” you murmur.

“I’m so sorry.”

You turn to kiss his handsome jaw. “Forget about it. Water under the bridge.”

A few more minutes of peaceful silence. You snuggle into him, breathing his menthol shampoo.

“You should quit your job.”

You look up at him, bemused, “where did that come from?”

“From everything you’ve said for the last two years, at least. Don’t tell me you’re still happy doing what you’re doing.”

You look at him doubtfully, “What else would I do?”

“Come work with me and Luther.”

You sit up straight beside him now, giving the conversation your full attention.

“What do you mean? Doing what?”

“The Umbrella Foundation. It’s a…an idea we’ve been chewing over. A non-profit. A place for men to get help for abuse; sexual abuse.”

His voice is calm, but overly precise in the way it gets when he’s embarrassed.

“A lot of these spaces get dominated by women for obvious reasons but it means men can fall through the cracks or feel like they don’t belong. Luther’s been doing a lot of reading on it these last years. We…we don’t want it to turn into a space where women become ‘the enemy’ or ‘the other’. We want it to explore the way boys are taught to just shove it all aside or to try and make it into something else. We’re thinking of making it, I don’t know, a hub for research and advocacy too. I don't just want it to be about wallowing: I want it to be somewhere we build something better.”

“Like a think tank on reshaping masculinity with support groups on the side?”

“I guess.” he says, though sounding unsure, “I think maybe the opposite…we want to start with the groups and work from there.”

You eye him disconcertedly, “this…sounds very ‘bleeding heart’ for you.”

He makes a non committal noise that you know hides his real investment in the idea.

“It’s Luther’s baby really. He came to me because…well, you know.”

You nod, squeezing his socked foot beside you.

“And what would I be doing?”

Five opened his hands, not shrugging exactly, rather indicating some great unknown.

“Luther and I, we got no idea how organizations work. I can read theory, sure, but I don’t think I’d like the hiring and firing and the organizational structure side of things. I’d rather stay behind the scenes and do the books or something. It would also help to have a woman like you prominently on the team so it’s clear we’re not some kinda anti-feminist thing.”

“I’ve never built an organization.”

“You got more experience than we do,” he snorts, “you always said your industry was structured too paternally.”

You smile, touched. You thought his eyes glazed over when you talked about this, but he had listened.

“So why not build a good place to work that actually does good?” he continued, “it’s not like we need the money you bring in and I’d have thought a social justice gal like you would be all over it.”

Ideas are suddenly pinging around in your mind, “I’d need to sketch role profiles for all three of us…I’m thinking mine’s probably a Direction role to start and then perhaps moving elsewhere after 18 months or so…you could look after Organizational Support until we hire enough to shift you to Accounts and…maybe Resourcing?”

“I could do that,” he says, thoughtfully.

“Luther’s probably going to be in Direction long term but for now he can coordinate the hands-on stuff and the advocacy. He’s not the best public speaker but we can hire that in later. He’ll fill the gap for now. I mean, he’s Spaceboy .”

Five’s expression flickers.

“What do you mean, he’s Spaceboy?”

“He’s the most recognizable. I mean, he was Number One.”

“Oh,” he says in mock indignation. He swings one of his legs over yours and sits gently in your lap, facing you, “I see how it is.”

You laugh, “Sorry Five, you’re just not quite as iconic. If the Umbrella Academy was the Beatles, Luther would be McCartney, Klaus would be Lennon but you’d be Pete Best: gone before the glory years.”

“Well fuck you!” he says, though laughing. He grabs your wrists, leans forward and kisses you energetically. You reciprocate, enjoying his playfulness: he’s kissing you like an eager kid unwrapping a gift. As suddenly as he began, however, he stops, drawing back to look you in the eye with the same enthusiasm.

“So does this mean you’ll do it?”

You want to play it cool and leave him sweating for a little longer, but the excitement is too revealing. You’re grinning too widely to dissemble.

“Yeah. Yeah! Let’s set up a meeting and work it all out. Then, from there, I’m going to find us all some management training and we can-”

“Later, dear one.”

He leans back in to kiss you again. This time, his eagerness is more controlled: playfulness now subordinate to sensuality. He kisses you slowly, measuredly, his warm lips stirring yours and humming happily when you slide your tongue between them. Matching your tongue’s slide, your hands slither up his untucked dress shirt, his skin warming your palm. He shifts on top of you, his crotch brushing your leg, leaning further into you to deepen the connection between your mouths.

You mentally pinch yourself: this must be heaven. You’re home, your daughter’s safe and your husband’s in your arms. Inside you is a tight squirm of excited nerves and arousal, there’s a new challenge ahead and your hot man unconsciously grinding onto your lap. You put a hand on each of his buttcheeks and encourage his movements, bringing his attention to what his own hips are doing. He breaks the kiss and starts to grind in earnest now, pressing his lips in a ticklish trail from your mouth to your ear.

His whisper, low and deep, creates a twinge of pleasure and a little gush into the crotch of your panties.

“Daddy wants you.”

You smile mischievously, “Again?”

He groans and nods, grabbing one of your hands and placing it on the hot, hard bulge in his pants.

“I can’t stop wanting you.” he says, making you smile. He ruts into your open palm, starting to rise off your lap so he’s knelt with one leg either side of your thighs.

“What do you want me to do for you, Daddy?”

“ Stroke me.”

The growled words crack in his throat: it’s needy and commanding all at once. His breathing matches the rhythm of his pelvis: every time he exhales he lets out a tiny, almost inaudible grunt.

“Yes sir,” you whisper right back, deliberately ticking his ear with your breath. You undo his pants, unzipping him torturously slowly.

“You fucking tease.” he says, voice grinding out again. He bites your ear gently in retribution, “I want your soft little hand wrapped around my dick now . Don’t piss me off.”

“Daddy’s so impatient.” you remark, the smile dancing on your lips.

“ Yes, I am.” he hisses, “so don’t be bratty.”

You pull him free of his underwear and he gasps as the colder air of the living room tingles the silky-hot flesh of his cock. You look up at him innocently, a little irony sparkling in your eyes. “I’m sorry, Daddy. Please don’t be angry with me.”

He smiles and takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“I’m not angry with you, baby,” he whispers, lowering his head back to yours and giving you a sweet, tender kiss. It’s loving: a kiss that would be entirely innocent were you not rubbing one finger up and down the underside of his rock-hard shaft.

He leaves your lips warm and wet and whispers:

“You’re perfect.”

He takes the hand driving him mad with just the finger tip’s contact and raises it to his lips, his hair falling softly over his eyes. He kisses the back of it like he really is an 1830’s swain, eyes intent on yours. The look undoes you entirely; now putty in his hands.

Then, his loving smile turns slightly evil. He turns your hand so it’s cupped in front of him and spits copiously into your palm. It makes you blink in slight surprise and you watch, fascinated. The saliva leaves his lips thickly, a tiny spit bubble appearing and then popping in the tiny ‘o’ formed by his lips. It drools slowly into your palm.

It looks obscene. It looks filthy, in fact. His eyes are still on yours, full of lustful wickedness and watching for your tiniest reaction.

When, after what feels like minutes, the last drop slips from his moist lower lip.

“Jack me off,” he says, insolently.

You don’t need telling twice. Using the lubrication he so helpfully provided, you envelop his shaft in your spit-slippery palm. His blushing pink tip protrudes attractively out from the circle formed by your thumb and index finger; it looks fit to burst. The spit makes an indecent squelching sound as you grip him. His hips and cock twitch at the same moment.

“Mmm”, he whispers, sliding a hand down your t-shirt to grope your left breast, squeezing the handful of the soft flesh and rolling your hard nipple between his fingers. You rotate your wrist, taking his foreskin along with your palm. His neck arches, wide eyes fixed on the ceiling.

You work him to a firm, brisk rhythm. He might be pretending to be in charge but his cute whimpers tell an entirely different story. He’s at his most beautiful like this: sweet, needy and totally unbuttoned. The way he arches his neck makes his Adam's apple stand out exquisitely, looking for all the world like you could reach up and take a sweet bite. His silhouette is all harsh angles and svelte strength.

“Please,” you whisper, “when you finish, can you do it in my mouth?”

At this, he makes a totally un-Five-ish noise, whining like a dog in heat. He quickly recovers himself however, grabbing your hand to slow it and allow him to come down from his pleasure’s steep incline. When he talks, his voice is deeper than usual: perhaps trying to compensate for the undignified noise.

“Be a good girl and we’ll see about that.”

It’s been an eventful day, though Luther isn’t sure why he’s so tired: he didn’t exactly do any heavy lifting today. It must be mental fatigue: even before the whole time-breaking incident, his head was swimming with the almost insurmountable challenge in front of him.

He hopes Five’s asked her. She’s the only person they know with even half a chance of being able to build something like this from the ground up. The idea is overwhelming, even with her on board. He doesn’t even know if she’ll be interested or how they’ll begin…all he knows for sure is he needs a quick drink before he heads home.

He crosses the threshold in between the atrium and the living room.

“Jesus fuck. Not again .”

Five’s hand shoots quickly out from down your shirt and you retract yours quickly from his cock, tucking it back below his underwear.

“Shit. Sorry Luther.” you say.

But Luther has abruptly turned his back and heads to the bar, letting you both make yourselves decent. Five clambers off you, buttoning his pants. He comes to rest on the other end of the sofa and places a cushion strategically on his lap.

“Did you ask her?” Luther says, “or were you too busy…y’know.”

“Yes, I asked her.” replies Five, shortly.

“And I’m going to guess you liked the answer?” Luther says, voice amused.

“I said yes,” you smile.

“That’s great!” he says, smiling even as he still avoids looking at you, “it’s going to be great having you on board. I have no idea what I’m doing.

“Nobody does when they start out,” you say, “we’ll learn.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” he pauses, “can I enforce one rule as co-founder?”

“And what would that be?”

He turns around, a beer in hand.

“No heavy petting within working hours.” he says sternly, “In fact, from nine to five, you guys aren’t married.”

You’re embarrassed for maybe three seconds until Five looks at you sidelong and says:

“Hm…I think I could agree to that. I could enjoy stealing glances at a hot but tantalizingly inaccessible woman across the office-”

“No,” says Luther, warningly, sensing the conversation threatening to get out of his control, “No. We’ll have none of that.”

“Mm,” you say, unable to avoid sniggering, “forbidden fruit!”

“No, I didn’t mean-” Luther sputters.

“Great idea Luther!” says Five, “Will we have a supply closet? I suddenly feel it’s important for the Foundation to have a big supply closet.”

“Ooh! And a photocopier!”

“I’m really looking forward to the office Christmas party.”

“I hate you guys,” mumbled Luther, taking a grumpy swig of his beer.

The End Masterpost

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darth-sonny · 2 years ago

Text

here's what I call a "practice test" for the Prime Leo AU fic. theoretically, this is supposed to be the first chapter...I believe

anyway, content warning!! there's nothing pretty past the read more, so be warned!!

The beatings didn't help much. Leo couldn't remember a time when he wasn't being hunted down and thrown around like a rag doll. He couldn't remember not feeling everything in his body screaming out in pain every time the Kraang slammed him into walls or the ground. His leg was useless now – his knee was shattered – but it's not like Leo could run away, anyways. All he did now was float. His right arm was practically dead at this point. He knew that he was going to have to get it amputated at one point. Maybe, if he's lucky, Kraang would rip it off. He doubted it. If it caused him pain and made it harder for him to get away, Kraang left it alone.

(**)

The prison dimension was cold, unnaturally so. It was the kind of cold you couldn't shake off, no matter how close you were to the fire, or how many layers you wrapped yourself up in. The cold wasn't merciful, it was brutal. It threatened to tear one's lungs apart either with its freezing air or the rather toxic taste it left in your mouth.

The alien was like that. He caused Leo pain – excruciating and unimaginable pain, but he never killed him. Leo lost a concerning amount of blood, but Kraang hadn't spilled enough to get Leo to either pass out or die from blood loss. Every punch, every stab, every twist and snap that the mutant suffered through was deliberate. Methodical. Surgical. In the back of his (somehow still working) mind, Leo wondered why Kraang had decided to not kill him despite all the beatings. He did say that his wrath was now reserved for him alone, and Leo had naturally assumed that meant he was going to get beaten to death. Once, he thought that the alien wasn't strong enough to properly kill him. Unfortunately, he said that out loud. That had earned him getting grabbed by the head and slammed into the ground repeatedly enough to leave both a crater and a large pool of blood.

The Kraang was strong enough to kill him, he just wanted Leo alive to keep a punching bag. Something to take his frustrations, anger, and vengeance out on. The slider doesn't blame him. Leo did ruin his plans. He ruined everything. He can't remember what he ruined exactly but he knows he did it.

He wasn't afraid to die, he just wished that it didn't take so long. He's stopped thinking that one of these days – weeks? Months? Fuck, how long has it been now? – the alien would get it over with and just kill him. Leo didn't care how at this point; his neck snapped, stabbed through the heart or the head, ripped in half, stopped on, the list could go on and on. Kraang should just pick one and go through with it. Dying by slow, methodical beatings was getting boring now. His entire body was basically one broken and bloody bruise by now, but Leo just couldn't find it in himself to care. Dying would be better than being stuck here. Death was much more welcoming than his current home – and it was a home. He's been here for a while now. He's not sure of the exact time, but he knows that it has been longer than a few days.

Somewhere, he could hear a voice that sounded suspiciously familiar (was it his?), telling him that he had family waiting for him if he died.

Family.

Family…

Right. Gram-gram. He had a Gram-gram. Karai was her name, he thinks. It's been a while since he saw her. How long has it been? Years? Closing his (somehow already closed) eyes, Leo tries to remember what his gram-gram looked like. He could vaguely recall her having… long black hair, tied back in a ponytail. And… she was wearing… green, or some other color. Her face was the hardest. She was pale, he could remember that, but her eyes and other features he couldn't remember. She was… nice, and she was…

Leo scrunched up his face, trying to remember more.

Long hair, green clothes, pale complexion, brown… eyes…? Yeah. Brown. They were brown. And they were kind. Was Gram-gram a hugger? Leo swore that she must have been. You couldn't be part of the Hamato Clan if you weren't a hugger.

Hamato… was that his name? It couldn't be. His name was Leo. It was short for… something – he didn't know what – but he knew Hamato couldn't be his name. He only had one. And it was Leo.

Leo.

Leo, Leo.

Leo.

Sometimes he was called Pest. Or Nuisance. But neither of those counted as names. He was Leo, plain and simple.

Things would be a lot simpler if he just stopped thinking. But ever since he got here, all he's been able to do is think. All he could think about was the blood that was spilling out of his wounds, the pain that shot through his whole body whenever he twitches involuntarily, making him cry and pass out for an unknown amount of time. He thinks about how, some time ago, he started counting how long the time passed between the beatings Kraang gave him (the longest being two hundred and forty-four Mississippis, and the shortest not even ten). Leo thinks about how he began reading the Kraang, taking a mental note of how he acted, the similarity all of his rantings had, and how he ticked. It was easy to do. All he had to do was just… watch him. Watch him through blackened eyes, through the blood that leaked from the open gash on his head.

Kraang, for all his terrifying bravado, was a simple being. He wanted to dominate, to be in control. He thrived off of it. From the images the alien was so kind to bestow upon him, Leo could see that on every planet he visited, the life forms that existed there fell to their knees after a day or two of ravaging. Even after they pleaded and begged for mercy, Kraang just slaughtered them all. He kept a few survivors to torment, to lord his superiority over. Be it physical or whatever else. Kraang was a control freak, a sadist in every sense of the word. A textbook definition of a narcissistic personality disorder. Leo wondered how Kraang's siblings (and he knew the alien had siblings, he told him. Well, more like beat it to him) dealt with him for as long as they did. They probably had the same mentality as Kraang. It must've been like looking into a mirror for him.

Mirror.

Mirror, mirror.

If there were a mirror here Leo knew he would not have been a pretty sight.

Mirrors. He liked mirrors. He liked the coolness they gave off. How one could do small little tricks with them. He liked how they came in different shapes and sizes. Did mirrors come in different colors? Leo hoped they did. The colors are pretty. If he had to pick a colorful mirror, he'd pick one that's blue. Blue was his favorite color. It was the color of the mask that covered his eyes. It did little to protect him – it didn't do anything at all, actually – but Leo still liked it. It was battered and torn now, one mask tail was shorter than the other by a lot, but he still wore it. He liked how it looked, how it felt. Kraang didn't like it, but the slider wasn't one to care what the alien said when it came to appearances. Kraang considered himself a higher and superior being. Leo thought he looked like a pink blob.

If there was a process to his thoughts, he didn't know what it was. His mind had a habit of jumping between topics. Except whenever Kraang was torturing him. Then his mind went blank. Leo supposes it does that as a way to spare him from the pain. A small form of mercy.

There was no mercy in the prison dimension.

There was only him, Kraang, the abuse, and the hundreds and thousands of corpses of dead family members that floated through the empty space.

His hands were getting cold. Everything about him was cold, but his hands especially. Ignoring the sharp sting of pain that came from moving, Leo brought his hands up to his face. A daunting task, really. His right arm had no feeling, and he could hardly move it. And his left arm had a pretty serious gash running across the inside of his forearm. It had stopped bleeding who even knows how long ago, but the wound itself was an admittedly ugly sight. It should say something about how desensitized he was to all of this that a wound open enough that he could see some muscles peaking out wasn't even worthy of mention. Right now, his hands were cold, and that was all he could think about.

A picture was in his right hand. A picture. Picture picture picture. He almost forgot about it. How? It was important to him. He didn’t know the exact reason as to why, but at this point in his life, trying to understand his shot memories was something he gave up on a long time ago. All that mattered was that he still had the picture. He recognized himself – the blue mask was a dead giveaway, even though Leo was 87% sure he didn’t look like that anymore – but the others were… hazy. Three of them looked like him, but only as turtles. They varied in height, size, and none of them had markings like he did. They wore bright colors too, so Leo supposed that they were a team at some point. The other two occupants were even hazier than the three other turtles. One of them was a rat, the other was a human. Human. Human? That was the word, right? Human? Yeah. Yeah, it was. Human. She was a human.

But what was a human doing in this picture? She must’ve been part of the team. Everyone looks happy, all smiles with teeth and fangs. Even he had a smile on his face.

Smile.

Smile, smile.

Grin.

A grin.

Leo didn’t smile. Didn’t grin. Kraang didn’t like it when he did that. The first time he smiled in front of Kraang, he got punched through a small asteroid. The second time, Kraang grabbed him by the throat and squeezed until Leo could practically feel the alien’s metal claw almost touching through the muscles of his neck. He let go after that, and Leo remembered vomiting. There was blood mixed in there too. But to Leo, the blood was thrown to the back burner. He was just glad he could breathe again. Even if the air he was inhaling was toxic and so, so cold.

He doesn’t know if he smiled a third time. Or a fourth. He must’ve. Kraang liked to find excuses to beat him bloody. Sometimes he didn’t even need an excuse. Sometimes it was just whenever he felt like it, or if they were playing their little game and Leo got caught. Leo was a lousy player. His broken and twisted limbs didn’t give any help at all when he needed to run. He had to rely on momentum, on dragging himself as far as he could and hiding in whatever corpse looked big enough for him. Not like it mattered. Kraang found him, he always found him. That made him a lousy player. He never won, which was weird. Leo could vaguely (and he cannot emphasize the word vaguely enough) recall that he used to win. He won something, the feeling of victory was there, but he didn’t know what it was. He knew it wasn’t his game with Kraang, Leo always lost those, but he was the winner of… something. It didn’t bother him that he couldn’t remember. It stopped bothering him a while ago. He stopped hyperventilating whenever he couldn’t recall anything beyond the prison dimension.

Why should he? He lived here.

Lived.

Lived, lived.

Lived.

He lived but he wasn’t living

“There you are.”

Ah.

Right.

For all his musings, it somehow managed to fly over Leo’s head that he wasn’t alone here. The sound of Kraang’s claws digging themselves into the rock of the small meteorite they were on was deafening to Leo’s ears. The bright red light of Kraang’s eye nearly blinded him. There wasn’t any light in the prison dimension. There used to be, if Leo thought back on it, but it disappeared just as quickly as it came. A bright flash, then it was gone. Almost like an explosion.

Something grabbed him without any care, and the familiar pain that came from it was almost comforting. At least he didn’t feel too cold anymore. Without ceremony, Kraang dragged him up to meet him eye to eye. Eyes to eye. Eyes, eye. One of Leo’s eyes was swollen shut, and the other was tainted red. Still, it was enough for him to see Kraang’s face. The alien had a smile. That was the deal. He could smile but Leo couldn’t. He wasn’t allowed to smile. It took a few beatings and blood loss for that to become clear to the slider, and it did. Eventually. After some splitting headaches and a broken skull.

“And here I thought you were almost going to win our little game.”

Shit, were they playing? Leo didn’t remember Kraang saying anything about that. He opened his beak to ask when suddenly he was thrown back onto the ground and stomped on once again.

It was honestly a miracle that his shell stayed intact as much as it did. Obviously, there were going to be some serious cracks and breaks on it, but aside from that, it was still on him, which was nice.

“Did I say you could talk?” Kraang spat out. "I gave you no permission to do so. Is that clear?”

After a moment of coughing up some blood, Leo nodded. He couldn’t talk. There were lots of things he couldn’t do here; talk, smile, grin, laugh, taunt, quip, snark. Kraang only allowed him to talk on rare occasions. And the only noises he was allowed to make without permission were grunts and screams of pain. And the occasional cough. And vomit.

“Good pest.”

Kraang picked him up again, his hold on the mutant crushing, adding more pain to his already hurting body. Leo let out a whimper.

“Now normally, whenever you lose, I’d deal out your punishment for your failure,” Kraang said, voice low and venomous. His grip tightened ever so slightly, but Leo felt his whole body flaring up with white-hot pain. He coughed again. He made sure that none of the blood that spilled out of his mouth splattered on Kraang. That previous little mistake led to the alien twisting his right arm in a way that Leo was certain would’ve ended with it getting torn off. “But I’m feeling generous today. How about a little treat?”

Leo watched as Kraang detached some of his tentacles from his suit. He watched as they slithered their way toward his face. He wondered what he was going to be shown today. More images of Kraang’s past exploits? Scenarios in which Kraang killed Leo in the most fucked up way possible, just to mess with him? Or was he just going to probe his brain, touching it in ways that made Leo feel even colder than before and leaving him to vomit until he passed out? That was the worst of the treats. If Leo actually had the choice, he’d pick the past exploits. As horrifically graphic and violent as they were, they were better than watching himself die and the probing.

Luck was not on Leo’s side today (when was it ever?). As Kraang’s tentacles reached his face, one of them immediately went into his swollen eye, forcing it open. He felt it pushing his eyeball further back, making space for the appendage to enter. Leo began to hyperventilate. The other tentacle wrapped itself around his neck, the tip expanding and settling at the base of his nape. Leo suddenly couldn’t move. It wasn’t like those other times, it never was, where the pain was so great that it made him stop himself from moving, only to give out the occasional twitch. No. He was paralyzed. That’s how it always was, how Kraang gave him this treat to make it more enjoyable for the alien. No matter how much the slider willed himself to move just an inch, his body did nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing nothing nothing.

The tentacle going through his eye touched something, and Leo wanted to throw up. He could feel it opening up, spreading itself all over his brain. It felt like a fleshy web, wrapping itself around his brain and touching it. Touching, touching touching touching. He was getting touched. He wanted to scream. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t move. Everything and nothing could be felt. The air was too cold, the air was too hot. Toxic, toxic. He couldn’t breathe, he was breathing too fast. His lungs were burning, his body was burning, and his eyes were burning. His eyes were open. Were they open? He was sure he closed them. Why would he close them?

He wanted this to be over, he wanted the beatings. He wanted the images of his mangled body getting torn to shreds. He wanted the memories of genocide and burned bodies and decapitated heads… anything. Anything other than what was happening now. The web began moving. It was moving. Tears. Tears, tears. Tears. He was crying. Please stop. Just beat him again. He wanted the pain, the blood, the screaming. He wanted to get stabbed, mangled, stomped on. He wanted Kraang to rip his arm off, his useless arm. Destroy his leg. Either one, both of them, he didn’t care. He wanted the pain, the past planets. Anything but this treat.

There was more. More. More more more more more. More webs. More webs. Why were there more? One was enough. Why? Why why why why why why why why why? The webs overlapped, dug inside. Deeper. Deeper. The webs weren’t inside anymore. They were outside. Inside. Outside. Everywhere. Inside his shell. On his plastron, carapace. They were over the cracks. The gash on his arm, head, legs. They were everywhere. They were inside. He couldn’t breathe. Stop, please. His eyes were bleeding. Which one? Both? Yes. No. Yes? He was bleeding, bleeding. Too much. It was everywhere. Kraang was everywhere. He always was. Leo couldn’t run from him. This was proof. The webs were getting bigger. Bigger bigger. Something was inside his shell. The gashes too. His legs were moving. Kicking. It wasn’t him. He couldn’t move. Please. Let him move. No more webs, NO MORE WEBS. PLEASE. PLEASE, LET HIM DIE. HE WANTED TO DIE. HE WANTED TO DIE. DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE.

KILL HIM. KILL HIM, GET IT OVER WITH. HE WAS DEAD. DEAD DEAD DEAD. HE WAS JUST A CORPSE. A BODY. NOTHING ELSE. WHY WAS HE STILL ALIVE? PLEASE, KILL HIM. STOP STOP. HE WANTED TO DIE, HE DIDN’T WANT TO DIE. HE WANTED TO LIVE. BEAT HIM, LEAVE HIM ALONE DON’T LEAVE HIM ALONE HE DIDN’T WANT TO BE ALONE HE DIDN’T WANT TO LIVE WHY WAS HE LIVING PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE HE COULDN’T KILL HIMSELFHECOULDN’THEWASACOWARDUSELESSHENEEDEDTODIEHEHADTODIEPLEASE-

Leo was unceremoniously dropped onto the ground.

“That was fun,” Kraang cooed. His suit made a grating noise as he crouched down to look more closely at the prone form of his plaything.

“Stay there, pest. I’m done with your little treat,” said the alien, his voice low with sadistic glee.

With that, the alien left.

Leo surprised himself by curling up into a ball. The picture was still in his hand. He was cold. Colder than before. He didn’t know if he threw up. He probably did. He couldn’t move. He could, but he didn’t. The gash on his arm was bleeding again. There were tears in his eyes. Eye. The ground hurt. His body was numb. He was crying. When was he not crying? He let out one broken, quiet sob.

Leo could still feel the webs.

#😬😬😬😬😬😬😬#if yall couldnt tell this is basically the torture subprime was ordered to give leo #it's.......................not pretty #also i read in a medical website that head trauma can make people repeat stuff: words being the most common #reason why leo's just repeating random words #tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmmt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #leo hamato #kraang subprime #sonny writes #prime leo au

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sockcanvas · 11 months ago

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|◁ 𝙋𝙍𝙀𝙎𝙎 𝙋𝙇𝘼𝙔 ▷|

⚘. oneshot [705 words]

⟣ ──┈⇢˚⋆ Pairing : JongGun x Goo

⟣ ──┈⇢˚⋆ c/w : implied romance | angst(?) | chapter 479-480

⟣ ──┈⇢˚⋆ a/n : Feeling cute.. might delete later LOL, legit writing at like 1-5am while i have work in 5 hours but i wanted to finish this lowkey. Not rlly proud of the concept of this story but im tired asf so whatever, i didn’t a lot of final drafting and just went with this on a whim of its rough draft🤮 this feels a bit too skippy and inconsistent. anyways this was (very)loosely inspired writing style by @/cosmichorrour who wrote “愛のある場所; river of light (that brings me to you)” literally please read it if you like satosugu, masterpiece of a fic🙏i think Gun looks cute with his little headphones, i put together a little playlist of what i think he's listening to while carving :]

snippet . ₊˚. “In our next life, press play for me, yeah? So I could find you by song.”

“What are you listening to?”

The cold kissed Gun’s body. Despite the breeze flicking his skin and the chill caressing his body– he idly sat on an abandoned creeky porch rusted with dust and dirt, a fine show of how unkempt it was. Compared to Gun's expensive and lavish taste, this was the complete opposite. The fresh soles of his shoes rested on the debrised floor positioned in the most comfortable way possible. Even distant snow was cleaner than the porch. Next to him, peers a nosy blonde, who tries to inch closer to hear the music droning out of the earphones.

“Something.” A vague and simple reply– most suited to Gun's quiet demeanor, a conversation stopper from how meek his response was. But this didn't stop the continued prodding,

“What song are you playing?” even when the music was turned two thirds the max volume, couldn’t tune him out. Undeterred by the approaching voice, Gun continues to carve deliberate strokes into the wooden piece, his hands moving in amateur unison, one hand holds the piece in a strong grasp and the other chisels curves and divots into the oak. “Don’t ignore me bastard!” The guitar rift dimmed, one speaker muff violently torn from its place on Gun’s left ear.

“What is it, Goo Kim?” Gun doesn't turn his head to look at the man dressed in expensive winter clothing. His patience was being tested enough– yet Goo was already starting to cut the thin thread of tolerance that barely weaved itself to prevent Gun from punching a hole through the loud blonde. “What is so important that you have to come here and disturb me.”

“I just wanted to know what you’re listening to!” A dramatic whine escapes his lips, the fog of his hot breath filters visibility into the frigid air. His hands extend, reaching to shake Gun– unmoved and set in place like a stone amidst a tundra. “Fucker, I know you heard me.” cursed Goo who continued adding strings of name-calling, accompanied with a rough punch to the shoulder.

“This song really sucks.”

“You’re still listening to it.” This time, Goo was pressed against him, shoulder to shoulder like a close embrace— ear jammed closely to Gun’s cheek, the expensive frames of his glasses barely kept a gap between them. Such indirect intimacy, but it wasn’t unusual for Goo to invade his personal space like so.

“I’m not.”

An exhausted sigh of defeat– It was futile to bicker back and forth like children, a pointless verbal skirmish that Goo engaged very often with him. Two things that made Goo bearable: talent and personality. Skill so exceptional that it left permanent scars on Gun– an enigmatic nature that gave an indescribable sense of familiarity to Gun– warm and colorful is that he would say.

“Is your taste in music this bland? How can you enjoy this?” Goo complained once again, yet still inched near Gun’s earphones. Goo seems to be enjoying himself, eyes half lidded and lips pressed into a thin line as if he was silently humming to the foreign lyrics.

“Abandon Charles Choi.” He expected this. The words hung just as cold as the air, “Come with me.” He knew he’d say that. An invitation that interrupted the building tension. A small glass thrusted itself slowly in front of Gun, liquid barely splashing out of the shot but quickly settled. Gun’s eyes fixated below, a distorted reflection stared back, such chilled uncertainty from himself– rejection was inevitable, the silence was enough to answer for him, but he humbles a reply.

They’ll kill each other next time. A promise, bounded by a shared drink.

“Gun.” He called from a short distance. Gun looked up, pausing his carving, porch creaking from the weight of his light movements. “In our next life, press play for me, yeah? So I could find you by song.” A somber request, futile and odd, followed by a closed eye grin. Gun’s hands, momentarily still– twitched at the appeal.

Gun nodded, lighter than the breeze that whispered between them, an unspoken response he could give Goo to his strange departure. As Goo’s figure disappears, his words carved deeper than the wood Gun’s been chiseling at for hours. Maybe in their next life, he could give it to him.

#gun park #goo kim #lookism #lookism fic #kim joongoo #park jonggun #park jonggun x kim joongoo #gun park x goo kim #Spotify

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blackjackkent · 5 months ago

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"Reithwin House of Healing," Rakha reads slowly off the plaque. "Presiding Surgeon: Malus Thorm."

She cocks her head to the side and seems to brighten very slightly from the brooding tension that has marked her for the last few days. "The Fist at Last Light. He was here. The note in his pocket mentioned this place."

Wyll nods. "Perhaps there'll be some sort of clue here," he says. "To unlock what he knows about the curse." It's a hopeful statement - and also one deliberately calculated to encourage Rakha. He's seen how miserable she is with the broken magic in the shadowlands.

"And the surgeon shared Ketheric's name," Minthara adds. Her eyes glint with sudden bright intensity. "Perhaps there will also be clues as to his immortality here."

"To judge by the others who have shared his name in this village," Lae'zel says sardonically, "I doubt this Malus, if he still lives, will provide anything but a fit target for a blade."

-----

The House of Healing was clearly a grand place once. The walls are lined with battered tilework in white and blue of fine make, as is the floor. The walls are mostly of stone, and have not soaked with the curse to the same degree as some of the wooden buildings outside. So the pain of the corrupted magic is a little lesser in this corner of the village - but any comfort this might bring to Rakha is offset by the fact that the smell of blood is overpowering.

"Stay with me, Rakha," Wyll murmurs. He knows that look on her face by now, all too well - the way her eyes dilate and her breath quickens. "A quick looks around and we'll go."

She nods wordlessly. A muscle works in her jaw. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.

Whatever healing this place once did, it does not do it anymore. So many people have died here. She can almost hear the screams.

-----

A woman wearing a complicated headdress and torn, bloodstained clothing stops them at the door.

"Here to see the doctor?" she chirps. Her voice is high and thin and vague, as if reading from a rote script. "Are we poorly?" She leans forward. "Are we *desperately* poorly?"

A pause. Then she clicks her tongue. Her head is cocked as if her eyes, if they were visible, would be drifting over Rakha's left shoulder. "Not so well. But well enough to wait. Join the line, and you will be seen."

Rakha blinks. Line? There is definitely no one here except quite a few skeletons. And this woman... she's definitely dead herself, like those walking corpses at the distillery. Her visible skin is blue and stiff, mottled with veins, bruising, and strange carved scars. She sways unsteadily as she waits for Rakha's answer.

But she does speak of the doctor. The surgeon from the sign outside, presumably. Malus Thorm. Like Thisobald and Gerringothe, then, he is indeed still alive (or at least still here) despite this place having been desolate for a century.

Minthara may be right. Perhaps he knows something useful. And this nurse can take her to him - if the nurse deems her to be doing suitably "poorly."

Conveniently, she has been doing poorly this entire time.

"I'm sick as a dog," she says gravely. "Dark compulsions addle my mind."

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Wyll shoot her a sharp look. His hand rests gently against her forearm, gives it a quick squeeze, and withdraws.

The nurse's head jerks to one side. Then she fiddles with the empty air, as if scribbling in a book that does not exist. "Hrm. Hrm..." she mumbles vaguely. "Let me check. Let me check..." She peers blankly at Rakha again. "What is the primary symptom?"

Rakha thinks for a moment. "Everything," she finally mutters. "I lose control of myself... and kill without command..." She remembers the cat on the Moonrise balcony, how its flesh gave under her fingertips before she had even realized she was moving...

The woman's cold breath catches and a dreamy smile touches her lips. "A unique disease..." she murmurs. "One which has never passed through this institution before. The Surgeon will be *most* interested in you." She steps back, opening the path for Rakha deeper into the building. "Down to the theater! Be swift! Be saved!"

#bjk plays bg3 durge #rakha the dark urge #oh boy here we go :P #this place is so fucking creepy #bjk writes her own party banter

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beesmygod · 1 year ago

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BLOODBORNE LORE Q+A PART 6: the founding of pthumeru, the discovery by byrgenwerth, and the fishing hamlet

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

part 5

---

BLOCK #LONG POST/ TO NOT SEE THESE HUGE POSTS

shawn asked me a question about the mensis ritual and mergo and the process of trying to answer it in short became a catastrophic failure.

this is going to be a nightmare (hehehuhehehe) to try to explain in broad strokes to people who don't know bloodborne or even to people who do, but i'm going to do my best. anyone who tells you they know what happened or they have "solved" the mensis ritual is a liar. the timeline is muddy and deliberately vague, up to and including how long ago everything happened. i have educated guesswork but that's it.

i will post pure speculation in italics and important nouns in bold. i am peppering this with as many wiki links as possible to back up my claims. not gonna lie this looks like a fucking MAD magazine editor went to town on it or like the timecube website submitted a guest article.

but much like how you need to first make the universe in order to make an apple pie, we must first talk about the history of yharnam before we can talk about its newest resident, mergo.

---

untold eons ago, a race known as the pthumerians served the great ones as they slumbered. after becoming exposed to the deliberately vague notion of "the eldritch truth" (it is unclear if this is a specific phenomenon, like the secret to their longevity, or simply the knowledge of the great one's existence), they developed a unique and startling appearance: pallid skin, black eyes, and slacking jaws. i mean, they also lived underground so they look like underground creatures do. either way, they are distinctly inhuman humanoids.

this civilization became lost, but did not die; they continued to serve the "gods" underground, excavating tombs and chambers without rest. over time, they elected a leader, yharnam, pthumerian queen, who was given a ring imbued with special meaning by the great ones indicating her commitment to bearing a special child, a child of blood (the ramifications of this are not known). she still wears the ring today.

arguably, a civil war breaks out in pthumeru, (as evidenced by the armors left by what must have been early cainhurst knights, but i have not looked into this enough to be satisfied) that results in a schism that pushes some pthumerians to the surface, where they become the modern day royalty of cainhurst. the cainhurst royalty and the pthumerian royalty both aspire to have a child of blood and have knights that work explicitly to further this goal, putting them at odds with each other. today's cainhurst royalty maintains some of the "pthumerian look" but not to such an exaggerated degree, with the resemblance fading with each removed generation.

pictured above are the canonical cainhurst royalty and their descendants in order of relation from left to right: annalise, queen of the vilebloods (top left), lady maria (top middle), arianna, woman of pleasure (right; she is also the most distant descendant). the bottom image is concept art of lady maria during her boss fight with a more exaggerated look that did not make it into the game.

---

anyway: a bazillion years later or whatever. the cainhurst royals rule over a land that includes the victorian england-ish city of yharnam, named for the forgotten queen of pthumeru. the main appeal of yharnam is its proximity to a university of bold, weird research.

the school of byrgenwerth and its scholars were once an archeological and historical research center. however, during the course of their studies they discovered a vast labyrinth beneath the school where (if the first location they discovered was the same as ours this would be the pthumerian labyrinth) they encountered ancient humanoids, women with the ability to re-animate corpses, an perpetually burning dog who somehow still lives and, most intriguing of all, a creature that defied all understanding. further investigation revealed an unspecified "holy medium", ritual blood, which does not coagulate. this is the ritual blood found in old yharnam on the altar.

further investigation of the labyrinth was halted by the first encounter with a beast. here is a longer post about that encounter and my evidence that leads me to believe it occurred.

this is where things get really fuzzy as to which event happened first. im going to post this part without italics because all the events do happen. its just not clear in what order.

in order to combat these newfound beasts gehrman, a student of byrgenwerth (as he has dialogue where he refers to willem as "master"), took up self-styled arms (the first trick weapons) and became the first hunter. he was followed by a collection of self-styled mercenaries that would come to be known as "the old hunters". there is evidence of the old hunters having once been in the labyrinth as you can summon one to help you fight and the bell descriptions reveal that they were used by the first hunter after discovering them in the labyrinth.

the miraculous healing abilities of the old blood (the origins of which are not specified but i can show you my guesswork later lol) in the labyrinth became known to the students at byrgenwerth. the blood is used to combat the beasts by use of invigorating injections. blood is plentiful and works quickly to heal.

byrgenwerth also begins study and collection of the "phantasms" present (or were once present) in the labyrinth. the discovery of the augur of ebrietas, a slug that summons flailing tentacles of unknown origin, and the arcane properties of pearl slugs drives the school's continued plunges into the depths in spite of the danger posed. part of this research involved discovering the parasitic qualities of these creatures, which could inhabit eyes.

while continuing to investigate the ruins, byrgenwerth became aware of a fishing village where a washed up carcass of a monster was teeming with otherworldly parasites and a stillborn fetus. the parasites had caused the villagers to transform into fish-like monster people not dissimilar to the monster on the coast. the villagers seem alright with this change and actively cultivate millions of the parasites for daily use, such as especially potent lamp oil [1].

upon arrival to the village, the school and its hunters helped themselves to a little bit of genocide just for fun. villager's heads were treppaned open in the search for "eyes on the inside" (a visual metaphor for insight as well as a literal phenomenon) and the monstrous corpse was desecrated by the byrgenwerth researchers who took her child (as the villagers of the fishing hamlet chant) and one of the orphan's three umbilical cords, the one lined with eyes.

i know we find this in a weird place later. we'll get there.

but this wasn't just some pile of fish goo they were fucking with, it was the corpse of the great one, kos (or as some say, kosm). kos's wrath and retribution would come in due time. this event triggered the creation of the hunter's nightmare, a sort of eternal, bloody hell for hunters who participated in the massacre and those who become "blood drunk" where the must relive the event for all eternity. notable hunters trapped in the nightmare from the time of the old hunters include ludwig (not yet notable), laurence (looking awful but he had a busy couple of years before he wound up there), some named NPC hunters such as yamamura and gratia, and lady maria.

lady maria, gehrman's apprentice, could not tolerate her role in the fishing hamlet massacre and threw her beloved weapon into the fishing village well. she, with others, joined laurence when he split from byrgenwerth to found the healing church. its not explicit that the fishing village massacre was the reason for the split, as there were ideological differences (and family matters) brewing that also came to a head, but a one sided genocide seems like a matter that would cause a splinter between one faction that is ruthless in its methods and another that appears to be in the business of healing.

but thats a whole other post.

---

uhhh this took a very long time but once im done with this i will never have to type it ever again. the next one covers the healing church in its entirety and should end with the arrival of our hunter in yharnam as the city fully slides into chaos. thank you for reading. or not. its none of my business.

---

https://www.reddit.com/r/bloodborne/comments/3uq6wq/interesting_lamp_in_the_hamlet_spoilers_maybe/ which leads to this image: https://i.imgur.com/zVJbcJ2.jpg

#bloodborne #long post/#lore

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randomwriteronline · 10 months ago

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It was so warm and tender that he thought he might have died.

It was a fleeting thought, bursting from his chest with the rustle of a small bird's wings as it left him only a heart beating fast and gentle, and a splendid unknown with curious eyes looking up as it laid beneath him.

Could he have described it? Oh, he didn't know; he wasn't enough of an artistic soul to do such a thing justice with his words. If he was forced to wrack his brain about it, he would have said it was incomplete: like a sketch left unfinished, the vague shape of an anatomical structure made of sand abandoned at the cruel mercy of the rising tide, some new flavor of sublime.

But he didn't want to think, and all he could describe it as was handsome.

He leaned down upon it, basking in the heat and light and barely completed physicality. His hand brushed the cheek, pressure causing its infinite pieces to crumble before they returned to their rightful place.

So handsome, he muttered as he settled between the ever shifting legs. So handsome.

The marvelous being looked at him with the gleaming eyes of a puzzled child beholding a strange rite for the first time.

"What is this?" it asked.

"Oh, we've got names for it," he replied: "Some crass or mean or downright silly."

He sunk into the body of multitudes like one sinks in a warm, dense liquid, with a pleasant mellow resistance enveloping him wholly; his gorgeous partner gasped without a mouth, and its arms melted briefly as it was taken by surprise. He kissed its forehead kindly, feeling its fluid chest lurch slowly forward for an overwhelmed second before deflating so sweetly.

"If you like it, we can call it making love," he said with a smile.

The body beneath him raised to surround him.

"I do," his wonderful lover replied breathlessly, wrapping him within itself slowly, limbs rising to consume him, swallow him, with such magnificent tenderness, and on its yet to be drawn face bloomed something akin to watercolor blush beneath its shining eyes: "I do like it - I do like it very much."

He moved forward, sliding without opposition deeper within the gentle mound covering him, embracing him slowly.

It felt sweet, and good, and just like he'd imagined it, or almost; the strange non-existence of the body he pierced at such a deliberate pace felt welcoming despite the peculiarity, the fleeting sensation as it barely clasped around him like a spectre's shadow upon a wall - but after all, he could not expect the taking of a formless minor god to feel too similar to that of a creature of flesh and blood.

A blissful sigh grazed his face through a cloud of mild golden embers.

"I like it so, my friend," the wondrous beast whispered, its voice propagating through him in long waves: "I do like it - I truly do like it so, my friend, truly, truly..."

He was slow, so slow, so gentle, as he kept going, going, going, sinking further and further down in that barely held together shape that kept enveloping him with relaxed coils as if trying to turn him into another part of itself - here he was, inching slowly along its stomach, digging in its faux entrails to fill it up completely, kind and warm and loving, moving into its chest where a quiet thrumming spasmed rhythmically through the sand-like form while it curled around him, covering every single inch of him, leaving a sensation so indescribably good across his skin.

He leaned down to kiss where its mouth should have been and felt a pair of lips kiss back.

"I love it - I love it, I do," it breathed through him, overwhelmed by something too delightful to explain: "I do, I do, I do."

In a moment, he was swallowed up completely.

The splendid creature exhaled through his lungs, long and quiet, as they both unwound.

"I do," they both repeated longingly, bodies and minds muddled together imperfectly like too much syrup in too little water, distinct but not for long: "I do. I do."

His hand reached out.

Something akin to another palm caught it.

He held onto his marvelous lover for a long while, feeling it pulse over him slowly.

"How wonderful," it sighed through him, smitten.

He laughed quietly, just as lovestruck.

"How wonderful indeed." he whispered through it.

The dream kept going - longer than it should have, really; the shapeless body enveloping him held him down, close to the unknowable core of the gorgeous chimera in his grasp, until their thoughts began clearing from the humid mist overtaking them again, until their forms began to divide enough to be pulled apart from each other again, until he could see those magnificent eyes clearly again (half-lid and heavy and gleaming with the soft sheen of velvet, taking all the time in the world to return from their bliss), until he could feel the hand gently resting on his nape as something outside himself again, until the invisible mouth that met him halfway to a kiss was one with his own in a manner different from the inexplicable unity that had bound them again.

He felt a quiet sigh curl upon his cheeks, just for a moment, warm and tired. Then his sublime partner closed its wonderful eyes, breathing deeply, fast asleep - and Ackar woke up still groggy, with his body half aching from moving in ways it hadn't enjoyed in a long while now, as Mata Nui slumbered deeper still in his own rest, exhausted from making love.

#bionicle #mata nui #ackar #random writing #suggestive #local man mistakes passionate night with his friend Yaldabaoth the Demiurge for sexy dream (in his defense he was literally dreaming)#literally. just Some Guy going down on a false god extremely tenderly and not realizing This Is Happening For Real #one day hell realize and go ohhh my god wait. he lives in dreams. oh my god. OH my GOD i didnt even fucking ask for his CONSENT #(slams head on wall) (passes out) (visits mata nui) IM SORRY I DIDNT KNOW IT WAS *REAL* I THOUGHT I WAS JUST SLEEPING I SHOULD HAVE ASKED #mata nui forgives him bc tbf thats a pretty normal assumption for anyone whos not a minor god forcibly having 2 sleep within a mask to make #also welcome to yet another iteration of my fav trope for OG Form Mata Nui being a Vague Shape Possibly Made Of Light And/Or Sand #in this case coming to save me because i Cannot Write Sexy Details lest i Die Forever due to repulsion

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disco-elysium-via-polls · 6 months ago

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🎵 Bookstore

Looks like Guillaume le Million... that hair poster.

PLAISANCE - "Hello again, esteemed officer," she keeps reciting like a robot. "And welcome to Crime, Romance, and Biographies of Famous People."

3. "Plaisance, I have something to tell you... I've found the actual source of doom."

PLAISANCE - "What do you mean the *actual* source?" She clutches her pendant anxiously. "Are you talking about the... *Third Presence*?"

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] - She remembers. Good.

"Yes, the Presence, the Entity, the malicious Energy -- however you may want to call it…"

"My investigation has led me to discover a two-millimetre entroponetic hole in reality. That's the source of doom -- both in the commercial area *and* in Martinaise."

PLAISANCE - "She Who Has Many Names..." she nods solemnly. "I imagine things must be rather bleak for you to return to me. Tell me, what have you found?"

"My investigation has led me to discover a two-millimetre entroponetic hole in reality. That's the source of doom -- both in the commercial area *and* in Martinaise."

PLAISANCE - "A... a what?"

"A tiny hole... in reality. It may be connected with pale, an origin point of sorts. It would explain why historically so many things have ended in failure here in Martinaise."

KIM KITSURAGI - "Ma'am -- what he's saying is true. We found an entroponetic anomaly in the Small Pinewood Church down the coast. I don't mean to be an alarmist -- and more research *is* needed -- but... it's not looking good."

PLAISANCE - "But... but... *that's* not in any of the ancient texts! How am I supposed to protect my bookstore from *that*?!"

"You can't protect it -- not against *pale*. Close up the shop and try to get as far away from this thing as possible."

"You can protect it with hope, by refusing to give up. That's what people have done in the past -- by building a church, a place of worship around this thing."

"You'll have to find your own answer. I've spent too long on this quest as it is."

PLAISANCE - "You're *right*, officer. I mustn't lose faith -- especially now that Annette is finally settling in at school and making friends." She looks at her daughter, quietly studying in the corner of the shop. "No, we can't just leave!"

"Besides, didn't I have some Seolite hope catchers around here somewhere...? I must find them; everything will be alright if I can just find them."

"Thank you for your help, in any case. You're welcome back here anytime."

Task complete: Inform Plaisance about the Source of Doom

+10 XP

3. "Farewell for now, book peddler!" [Leave.]

You know, since we're here, and we already have more money than we can possibly spend...

MOUNTAIN OF BOARD GAMES - A small mountain of colourful board game boxes. There are numerous types of games for all ages. A lot of shelf space seems to be taken up by Wirrâl-related merchandise.

4. "I want to buy the *Suzerainty* game."

PLAISANCE - "Wonderful choice, sir." She smiles at you. "A wholesome *family* game."

4. "I want to buy the *Wirrâl* game."

PLAISANCE - "If you say so." She gives you a curious glance. "But you better stay away from those immoral occult rituals."

4. [Leave.]

BOARD GAME "SUZERAINTY"

A civilization-building board game where you get to choose a nation and set off to colonise and exploit other cultures. A star-shaped note on the box proclaims the game now includes a completely new "Genocide" option.

>INTERACT

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - In your hands you hold a brand new copy of the game 'Suzerainty'. It's snugly wrapped in a skin of plastic...

The cover features a charming illustration depicting a mass of grinning labourers loading goods onto a ship while a richly dressed administrator oversees their work.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] - The exact location and time period are left deliberately vague, but it's clearly meant to represent the economic relationship between the Revacholian Suzerainty and its many vassals.

Shake the box.

Remove the plastic wrap.

[Leave it perfect and undisturbed.]

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - The box has a nice heft to it. You hear the rattle of individual wooden tokens and feel their weight shifting back and forth...

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] - What treasures wait in store for you?

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - Even before you open it, you can tell that this will be a meaty game of grand strategy and complex player interactions.

2. Remove the plastic wrap.

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - The plastic wrap rips off as easily as a bodice in a tawdry historical romance.

Open the box.

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - There's a hiss as the lid slides off. Inside you find a thick, full-colour rulebook and more than a dozen pouches of various wooden components.

PERCEPTION (SMELL) [Medium: Success] - Ahhh! Savour that new board game smell! A mix of wood, paper, and ink, all wrapped in the sweet must of cardboard.

Read the rulebook.

Examine the components.

"Hey, Kim, wanna play?"

[Put the game away.]

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - 'Welcome to Suzerainty: A game of economic strategy for the whole family!' The rulebook is sumptuously illustrated and thick as a Graadian novel.

'Economic strategy'? More like rapacious plunder and exploitation.

Keep reading.

+1 Communism

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - The colourful illustrations depict cheerful workers picking apricots, hauling marble sculptures out of crumbling temples, and harvesting a strange, magenta-leafed plant. Everyone is smiling.

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] - You begin to suspect there may be a *political* agenda to this so-called 'family game'. Only one way to find out...

Keep reading.

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - The instructions are opaque at first, and introduce many concepts you're not familiar with. Fortunately, there are many diagrams and examples throughout...

You soon figure out the basic conceit: Each player represents an administrator for the *Suzerain of Revachol*. Your objective is to increase the suzerain's wealth and renown by accumulating *victory points*.

How do you accumulate victory points?

Fuck the suzerain, what about *my* wealth and renown?

I've read enough. (Put the rulebook away.)

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - There is no path to wealth and renown but through the suzerain. As one of the suzerain's trusted administrators, your very function is the glorification of Revachol...

That's where the suzerain's vassals come in. The game features four vassal nations, each one home to an economically important resource...

Each turn the player collects resources from vassals where they've placed workers. They may then rearrange their workers, fulfil contracts for coin and bonuses, or build structures back in Revachol...

REACTION SPEED [Easy: Success] - As you leaf through the pages, your eye catches on a sidebar labelled 'ADVICE FOR BEGINNERS'.

Read the advice.

Ignore it. Just tell me how the winner is determined.

REACTION SPEED - "Remember, there are many paths to victory in *Suzerainty*, but successful players will find *one* strategy and commit to it wholeheartedly."

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Success]- Boring, boring, BORING. Tear up this rulebook and commit some old-school atrocities!

How is the winner determined?

Isn't there any way to invade or commit atrocities or anything fun like that?

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - Suzerainty is a family game. The only 'atrocities' you'll be committing are against the social standing of your rival administrators, as you bring in ever more resources and power for the suzerain. Speaking of...

The actual scoring system appears infinitely complex, with a series of tables and appendices required to compute each player's final victory point total. You skip that part for now.

2. Examine the components.

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - You open up a number of pouches containing wooden tokens. There are also several punchboards with other cardboard components that will need to be punched out before you can play.

Punch out the cardboard pieces, one by one.

Check out the wooden tokens.

Put the components away.

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - Each cardboard token makes a satisfying *chhhk* as you pop it out. Soon a neat pile of cardboard coins and counters has accumulated before you.

KIM KITSURAGI - "What, you're not going to offer to let *me* punch any of them out?"

2. Check out the wooden tokens.

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - In addition to the worker and building tokens used by each player, there are also several piles of colourful resource tokens, each representing one of the game's four principal resources...

From the Empire of Safre: orange apricot tokens. From Ile Marat (the ancestral name of Iilmaraa): gray marble block tokens. From the Semenine Islands: white sacks of sugar tokens. And from Supramundi and Saramiriza: magenta tokens for unprocessed cocaine leaves.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Oh, those are nice." The lieutenant picks up a sugar token and admires it.

3. Put the components away.

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - You hold the open game box before you.

3. "Hey, Kim, wanna play?"

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant looks over the rulebook before he sees something that makes his eyes go wide...

"Holy shit, the average playing time for this game is one to six hours…"

"I'm not sure we can afford to set aside *that* kind of time for a *game*."

EMPATHY [Formidable: Success] - So he says, but his gaze lingers a moment longer on the rulebook than is strictly necessary. He could *make* time, if he really wanted to.

This unlocks a Suggestion check to convince Kim to play the game, but let's not get stuck into that now.

4. [Put the game away.]

BOARD GAME "WIRRÂL"

A high-pasternal *fantastique populaire* board game, illustrated with bucolic vistas and featuring odd-looking humanoid creatures. It's the 3rd edition mega-setting supplements module and can't be played without the main game.

>INTERACT

WIRRÂL - Large letters on the front form a title: "Wirrâl." The colourful box is illustrated with bucolic vistas. The cover art also features odd-looking humanoids, some short, some taller, some with pointy ears, others with ephemeral wings.

Examine the box.

Open the box.

Put it away.

WIRRÂL - Text underneath the title, in smaller typeface, reads: "Third Edition, Mega-Setting Supplements Module." The side panel adds: "A sword and sorcery adventure board game. With new maps and miniatures."

Shake the box.

Look at the back.

Enough inspecting.

WIRRÂL - Mysterious things rattle inside. What could they be? Dice? Plastic miniatures? A fantastical alternate world full of magic and wonder?

None of that witless Man from Hjelmdall fascist dross hidden behind faux-realistic allegory. Wirrâl is no cliché-ridden apologia for colonial violence. Wirrâl is pure *imagination*.

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] - Yes, the Wirrâl setting is known for its complicated system of political alignments. But if you're not into that you can just hack your way through dungeons in search of loot. That's what most people do.

2. Look at the back.

WIRRÂL - A blurb on the back reads: "Tired of the tedium and toil of modern life? Escape to Wirrâl! Leave behind isolas and nations with their petty squabbles. Discard electricity, magnets, and boring technological widgets..."

"Succumb to a world of high-Pasternal fantastique, unleash your imagination and create an adventure of endless possibilities. Discover the terrible secret threatening Wirrâl -- can your band of adventurers save the world?"

Yes, we're ready to take on this challenge.

I'm not sure I can handle all this responsibility.

Definitely not, it sounds too dangerous.

WIRRÂL - Man up, this is about having structured fun! All you have to do is read an intricate rulebook, study an assortment of maps, unfold the illustrated gameboard, and start rolling dice.

In no time you could be romping through grasslands with low-level characters, hunted by iyskel riders… or battling unspeakable monsters in endless dungeons fraught with danger and despair, conjuring up forceful maegics to aid your quest.

DRAMA [Medium: Success] - Don't forget heated arguments escalating to physical confrontation with your friends.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] - And beer. Lots of beer.

DRAMA - And most importantly, never forget to rage-quit if the dice don't go your way!

2. Open the box.

WIRRÂL - You pry open the box. Inside you find a folded-up map, a small booklet, a 24-sided die, and a little plastic figurine.

Look at the map.

Look at the booklet.

Look at the die.

Look at the figurine.

Close the box.

WIRRÂL - A reprint of a crude hand-drawn map. The top left corner reads: 'Lands of Wirrâl.' The map features both small villages and mid-sized towns (with odd names), in addition to meadows, forests, hills, lakes and seas (also with odd names).

It doesn't seem to correspond with anything you've seen thus far. It's not a very helpful map.

2. Look at the booklet.

WIRRÂL - A quick guide to the maegical races of Wirrâl. Create your own hero choosing from any of these completely unique and fantastical backgrounds.

The options are, in order of importance: the welkin, the dweorgr, the humans, the faerie folk, and the pygmies.

Read about the welkin.

Put the booklet away.

WIRRÂL - The welkin -- tall, lithe and graceful, with long flowing hair and pointy ears. They're known for being powerful maegic users, but can also hold their own in a brawn-driven fight.

The welkin come with a variety of exciting sub-races: high welkin, forest welkin, lake welkin, and snow welkin. But if you're not feeling experimental -- a basic welkin will always do.

Read about the dweorgr.

Put the booklet away.

WIRRÂL - A grand race of industrious mountain people. They're short, stout and muscular, and enjoy digging for gold and other precious minerals. They're also well-versed in the art of combat, where they prefer to use axes and hammers.

The dweorgr also come in a few different sub-races: hill dweorgr, shield dweorgr, and dark dweorgr.

Read about the humans.

Put the booklet away.

WIRRÂL - They're just humans... what else is there to tell? They're average in all stats and jacks-of-all-trades.

Read about the faerie folk.

Put the booklet away.

WIRRÂL - A very small race of flying people, known for being mischievous, full of trickery. They often lure people into their maegical traps. There are no sub-races for the faeries.

Read about the pygmies.

Put the booklet away.

WIRRÂL - The least popular of the Wirrâl races, the pygmies are short, rotund and dim-witted. Pygmies live in small villages made of shoddy wooden dwellings. They spend most their days tilling the earth and smoking their pipes. There are no sub-races for the pygmies.

3. Look at the die.

WIRRÂL - It's made from some sort of wood and has been decorated with peculiar plant motifs.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] - You don't know much about dice, but this one looks pretty damn fancy.

Level up!

4. Take the die.

Item gained: Standard Wirrâl Die

WIRRÂL - You place the die into your pocket. It's always good to have luck on your side.

3. Look at the figurine.

WIRRÂL - You see a man in ragged clothes wearing a lopsided hat and wielding some sort of a firearm.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Huh, interesting. A communard."

"A what?"

"What's so interesting about that?"

"That doesn't sound very Wirrâl-like."

KIM KITSURAGI - "A communard. One of the leftist revolutionaries in the Antecentennial Revolution."

2. "That doesn't sound very Wirrâl-like."

KIM KITSURAGI - "It is not. The communards are not a part of the game setting... I guess someone misplaced it during the packaging process."

"Does this mean we can't play?"

"Maybe someone should make a role-playing game set during the Revolution."

KIM KITSURAGI - "Hmm. Good luck finding people who'd want to play as communards."

4. Take the figurine.

WIRRÂL - You pick the figurine up by the base to meet your gaze. The little plastic man stares back at you, his face contorted into a disturbing shout. Then you pocket it.

Item gained: Figurine Set "Revolutionary"

3. Close the box.

STANDARD WIRRÂL DIE

This basic 24-sided role-playing die can be used to get results for several dice. It's made of East-Semenese Snakewood and embellished with plant motives. It reminds you of plain- and hill-welkins. NOTE! Look at the MAP tab in Journal to see which White Checks have opened.

This die is not actually useful to us at this point in the game.

FIGURINE SET "REVOLUTIONARY"

What a nice little figurine! A turn-of-the-century leftist revolutionary in ragged clothes. On his head lies a lopsided hat, seemingly an ushanka. In his hand he carries a little musket.

I guess we could also give this to Dolores Dei... if we ever figure out what that actually means.

#disco elysium #kim kitsuragi #harrier du bois #plaisance

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