#...but my unstoppable desire to frame thing in-character stopped that!

[valeriefauxnom]

I probably spent too much time on this...

No idea what possessed me and my amateur meme skills but hey! Enjoy?

[etherealhoneybee777]

Okay, the mp100 fandom (and other fandom spaces as well) makes me really hopeful✨

The internet is mostly a cruel and terrible place. It largely exists as an instrument of global capitalism. Governments use social media to push propaganda that either reinforces their fascist, conservative ideals or instills leftists that want to fight back with a sense of hopelessness that paralyzes and scares them. And we’re also getting to a point where much of the content we see online is not only made by AI, but interacted with by AI as well. We’re seeing “art” and ragebait stories that aren’t even made by real humans, but are spread online as if they’re true. Transactions are everywhere, but because everything is a subscription service, we own nothing. Corporations are putting advertisements on even the most sacred corner of the web & encouraging people to constantly consume, to BE consumed with the desire to consume more things, and to fill up the little time we have left with constant, buzzing productivity—because the internet is an instrument of capitalism, and capitalism is about constant expansion, expansion that won’t stop until everything in our lives is quantifiable and our whole being is stretched thin in service of a pointless, unstoppable economic growth.

In the face of that, I think your mp100 art is amazing. I think your fic is amazing. I am glad you decided to share it with us. I am glad you took the time to analyze Mob or Serizawa or Tome. To post screen grabs of Dimple or gifs or animatics or anything else. I’m glad you reblogged my post and added some silly or thoughtful little hashtags. I’m glad you DM’d me or posted a long ramble about Ritsu or Teru or reigen.

People don’t have to do these things. They don’t have to sketch characters or share headcanons or write fic or make watch parties on cute little discord servers. But they do. They do it because it’s a fun thing to do & because they’re talented and passionate. And it makes me happy that on the internet—which is increasingly being used to alienate and control us—still hosts real communities and real people making real art and writing their real thoughts without any kind of profit motive or manipulative agenda. People are literally just posting because they want to share their work and connect with others. It reminds me that no matter what capitalism does, we live in a fundamentally social world & we’re constantly trying to connect with each other about the things we like. MP100 is the thing I like and the people here make me hopeful. I see people post their art/writing/headcanons and I get super happy. I get inspired. I look at people’s bios and all the different countries they’re from and get really happy that the internet can be used as a tool to connect people across the world with the same interest together.

Choosing to create and make friends and be nice and spread positivity over the internet is a uniquely powerful thing. It may not seem like much, (and being on the internet is often framed as “wasting time”) but the Internet is important and the things you do here are actually tangible and real. Making and sharing art—making friends—sharing writing and blurbs and headcanons is a legitimate pushback against the terrible capitalistic machine that the internet has become. I’ve heard a lot of creators say that their art doesn’t get noticed/doesn’t matter because it doesn’t get a lot of attention. But it DOES matter. Because, for every second that someone spends seeing your art, that’s one second that they don’t spend on government propaganda or brain-numbing advertisements or ragebait or AI generated “content”. And even if no one sees your art, YOU spent time making it. You loved it and cared for it and valued it in a way that capitalism can never profit from or understand.

I hope you know that I see your art & love it. I look at it when I’m sad. My gf and I look at mp100 art while we sit outside and feel the world leave our bones. Maybe this is too much, but I’m feeling earnest and joyful tonight & am trying to lean into those feelings.

I’m just thankful. You create and share just because you wanted to create and share. You’re making the world a better place.

[charlemange1]

Ask of the Lesser (Frankenstein/Lovecraft Works): 6 Gods and Monsters

Darkness enveloped my little cell as I waited for my last sunrise. A cruel ending it was, to be hung in the square and have the name Frankenstein permanently branded with unhallowed deeds. The shadow of Victor’s legacy would trap me till the end, and I had only myself to blame. My selfish desires to revive my family had blinded me to Curwen’s dark work. A mistake I realized had likely cost many lives, judging from the number of crates I had delivered over the past few months. Human blood! Oh, if only I had known! How could I hate Victor when in my own obsession I had enabled such atrocities? What right had I to judge him when I was enslaved to the same master?

My head thumped against the wall in defeat. Victor. My mind drifted back to our final conversation in the villa, when we were all that remained of our family and a trembling husk was all that remained of him.

“That daemon has struck down everyone but you, and he is coming, Ernest! I have failed to stop him, and he shall claim you too, if you stand idle!”

“Calm yourself, Victor. You are unwell,” I soothed, watching him pace the floor. “Elizabeth’s death has shaken you.”

“Murder. She was murdered by him, Ernest! You must believe me!” Victor clutched my shoulders with boney fingers. He shoved his journal against my chest, and I saw his nails were gnawed to bloodied stubs. “Here is my journal, dated years ago! Could madness be so precise? So detail-oriented?”

Grief had settled into every line of his exhausted face. His manic eyes pleaded with me through the strands of unkempt hair that floated rather than fell around his head. I ignored the lice crawling in the knotted curls and gently shut the journal.

“Victor, you know I stumble with such fancy words. These are scribbles to me.” I patted his trembling hand. “How about we get some sleep, huh? The servants are pouring some Laudanum to calm your nerves.”

“I do not need calm, we must act,” Victor’s voice rose to the rafters in desperation. My hand discreetly waved forward the servants positioned in the hall. “I have wrought terrible mayhem upon our house, but I will not let my curse consume you too! You are all I have left, Ernest. I beg of you to believe me! Not these mad claims, but me. As my brother, you must heed this threat!”

“Yes, yes, Victor,” I smiled gently and fought back tears. Elizabeth and Papas’ deaths had broken him. My poor, hysteric brother! He had always been the strong one. The one with all the talent pushing my miserable frame to be better. Where had that trailblazer gone? My brother may have been clutching me, but he had abandoned me in spirit. The Victor I had known was gone. The servants filed in to take his imposter away.

“Do not let them do this, Ernest,” Victor fought the hands that restrained him, though he had lost the strength to fight long ago. “Please, believe me! I cannot lose you too!”

“You are mad with grief, Victor,” I soothed. “Rest will restore you.”

You are the strong one! How can you fall apart and leave me alone?

Victor opened his mouth, but my mind was set. Something like defeat settled in his eyes. Victor’s body went limp as the servants’ drug him to his room. His eyes never left me, two watery pits silently pleading to be heard.

Wanting to save a thick-skulled wretch like me.

My hands pressed against my eyes and I wept for words left unspoken. He had cared! Victor had done wrong by turning from God, but I had turned my back on my own brother who so desperately wanted to keep me safe.

Was that why his creature had spared me? Not because I was to insignificant for my death to hurt Victor, but because me living and reducing his suffering to the rambles of a madman was the ultimate punishment? Victor could find strength in those murdered by destroying his monster and avenging them. The misery I had to live with in their absence would not end by Victor putting a bullet through the creature’s heart. My murdered family’s thoughts were at peace, but my ongoing misery was Victor’s shame to carry to the grave knowing he was responsible. His fond letter crinkled in my pocket, and I knew I could not hate him. I knew then too, that the unhallowed work that had withered his spirit and decimated our family could not continue, no matter the intent.  

The prison door swung open and a streak of light cut back the shadows. I covered my eyes from the haggard silhouette outlined against the intense brightness.

“Ernest, what in heavens name are you doing here?”

“Walton?” Blinking rapidly, I focused on the captain’s battered frame. “Have you come to take me to the gallows?”

Silence settled between us.

“I want to know why?”

“Why an invalid like me would play with a fire that scorched my brother?” I laughed bitterly. “I thought I could resurrect my family and we could be happy again, but not if their life comes from the death of others. I have seen death, Walton, and felt the void created in its wake. I would never subject anyone to that grief, even if it meant restoring my only source of happiness. I know what such work did to Victor and saw how it tore our family apart. I was a fool to think any good could come of its continuation.” I turned from the captain. “So write your sequel. Tell the world what a fool I am!”

“You are a fool,” Walton nodded. He bent beside me and rested his hand across mine. “But you are not a bad man. You clearly did not know the contents of your wicked cargo. It seems your destiny to be caught up in the madness of others, a lonely ship tossed about in a storm it could never hope to understand. You know better now, though.” Walton’s voice cracked. “Tell me who tricked you? What are they planning with Victor’s work?”

My repressed misgivings of Curwen resonated with Walton’s trembling voice. I had been too focused on my family to consider how Curwen would utilize the spark of life after they were brought back. What had he meant about merging raised souls with new flesh to be unstoppable?

“I do not know the details, but if the end justifies the mean, and that mean is human blood, it is a wicked thing,” I frowned. “Is this an interrogation?”

“A rescue,” Walton corrected, stepping aside to give me a clear path to the door. Seeing the confusion on my face, he pulled out an empty sack and smiled. “Your father was a magistrate. You should know how a few gold coins can sway a verdict. Yet not everyone has deep pockets, if you want the night on our side, we must quit this place and put an end to whatever is brewing on the edges of Ingolstadt.”

Gripping the wall, I pulled myself to a standing position, longing for my cane left by the river. “I will do whatever I can to stop Mr. Curwen from following in my brother’s steps.”

“We will stop,” Walton placed a hand on my shoulder.

“Captain, this is my sin to mend,” I said. “You must not jeopardize your life to let mine be at peace.”

“I fear all life will be in jeopardy if I stand idle,” Walton frowned. “I am more than just the historian of great men’s exploits, and you are not your brother. You do not have to do this alone.”

A roach darted in and out of the shaft of floor light. What chance had I of talking down Curwen alone? Walton knew the thrill of discovery, he could speak a language to Curwen that I had never known and Victor knew all too well. And, despite the pain Walton’s biography had caused me, I realized that Victor’s legacy overshadowed us both, but while I was tied to Victor by blood, Walton merely happened upon him by chance and was unknowingly thrust into this world of gods and monsters. I was shunned for the deeds of my brother, but as I looked at the frail captain, I knew he had suffered too. My hostility was unwarranted, and I extended my hand to relate as much to Walton.

“Shall we destroy that feind, then?” Walton asked, eagerly returning the handshake.

I thought of the morning after the servants had drug Victor away. I had stood in his empty room torn apart by a hasty deserter rushing to an Arctic death.

I shook my head beside Walton. I had ignored Victor for the last time.

“Walton, my brother held this man to the highest regard. I will not underplay the depravity of Mr. Curwen’s work, but perhaps his delusions of grandeur have incapacitated his ability to reason, a crime which I cannot judge, nor you, Arctic explorer. When we enter the university, let me speak with him before any rash action is taken.”

“And if speech fails?”

“You know what Mr. Curwen will do, and that cannot be.”

Walton looked reluctant, but having nearly died in his own quest for glory, he could not protest.

Outside, we were met by a horrid wind that sent overturned barrels bouncing across the streets. Walton found me a broom to replace my cane as we hurried past window shutters slamming open and shut. It seemed nature itself was sick of this wicked business.

“Does this Curwen character work with human flesh?” Walton shouted above the wind as we cleared the courtyard.

“Initially, though his process for reanimation differs greatly from Victors. He boils the body down to salt and relies on black magic for completion.”

Walton nodded with a frown. “By any chance, did you ever inspect Victor’s casket after I delivered him to you?”

“There was no reason to after I saw his face,” I said, confused by this question. A chorus of barks and howls rose up throughout the city. Were they following us?

“I see,” Walton said, eyes darting around in search of bloodhounds. “Given your former disbelief of Victor’s accomplishment, I refrained from sharing certain requests he relayed to me. Requests I felt best to omit from my biography.”

“Do tell?” I said as a man leaned out his window to wrangle the collar of his howling dog in a vain attempt to silence it.

“Victor said he did not wish to be brought back and asked for me to dismember and discard him after death,” Walton admitted, side stepping a bouncing barrel. “An odd request, considering he alone knew the secret of reanimation. Or so I thought.”

“Right,” I said absently. The unnamable smell from Curwen’s lab hung heavy in the air. “Did you do it?”

“I could only bring myself to throw his left hand overboard, I am no butcherer!” Walton shivered from more than the wind. “I did not know if that means anything to you now?”

“It appears straightforward enough,” I breathed as the gates of Ingolstadt University came into view. “Victor cannot be revived.”

[cinnbar-bun]

Siegfried is Actually A Demonic Otherworld Dragon (100% Real!! NOT FAKE!!!)

Everyone, it’s time. Put on your tinfoil hats peeps, and I’ll reveal the TOTAL TRUTH ON SIEGFRIED. Reveals spoilers for JJBA AND SOME GBF THINGS

For starters, I want to show you something.

This is Siegfried when he was first revealed. Okay. Legit. Dudes been on the run. Definitely would look like he’s been not sleeping for over a hundred years.

Then look at this:

Do you see something strange?

Hm? Maybe it’s the fact that he looks... younger, even?

He permed his hair and dyed it a lighter caramel, and somehow got rid of his bags? Sorry. I don’t buy it.

But you know what I do buy?

He sucked the life force out of his enemies and victims and made himself younger. Let me tell you a story.

Long ago, an asshole enigmatic nobleman, Dio Brando, wears the stone mask and becomes a vampire. As a vampire, he sustains his life force and youthful appearance by sucking the life energy of his victims.

Simple vampire stuff.

But the creator of the stone mask is one of the most prominent Pillar Men ever, Kars.

See something familiar? The long hair? The bulging muscles?

What if I enlightened you ignorant fools and said they had the same voice.

Kars=Siegfried.

You might be a bit confused, but all shall be explained soon.

Kars, after getting the Stone of Aja and placing it on the mask, becomes the Ultimate Lifeform. He has the ability to control nature itself and turn into whatever he would like (ie, he can grow wings like a bird). How is this relevant-ITS VERY RELEVANT BECAUSE KARS HAS BECOME SO POWERFUL AND UNSTOPPABLE. SO MUCH POWER IN AN ALREADY POWERFUL MAN WHO CAN DO SO MUCH DAMAGE AND PRACTICALLY DESTROY THE WORLD WITH HIS MERE HANDS.

At the end though, it doesn’t last long and he gets blown to space, where he becomes a rock and floats for eternity and stops thinking.

OR SO WE ARE MADE TO BELIEVE

Do you really think a god could merely be stopped like that? I highly doubt such an object in space could remain passively existing there.

But as GBF has shown us-there is a way a God could continue. How?

THE MOON PEOPLE.

The Moon People, from what Second Advent has shown us, is very technologically advanced and promotes efficiency, work, and advancements over ‘inefficient’ things like love, leisure, and enjoyment.

IF KARS WAS FLOATING IN SPACE, I BELIEVE THE MOON PEOPLE CAPTURED HIM AND TOOK HIM IN TO RESEARCH HIM.

Kars has stopped thinking by that point probably, but because it was stated he could not die, he still has some parts of his soul in him. Second Advent also showed us that due to moon research, people are able to transfer consciousness into a vessel/another host (see Alandus).

My proposal is that the Moon People wished to create a powerful vessel that they could study and use to enhance their own race.

But, I’m going to take it a step further. It was simply too much to create a creature that powerful, furthermore, they would need something to transfer Kar’s soul into.

I mean, I dunno if any of y’all ever seen Shadow the Hedgehog, but Shadow was created by combining the blood of an alien named Black Doom with the power of the chaos emeralds and stuff. Same gist over here.

The Moon People, wanting to test their limits, made a pact with an Otherworld creature in order to gain some of their blood to help revive the vessel they would use to research. The Otherworld creatures work and deal in lives/souls. Think Dark Jeanne and Aglovale. Sacrifice is needed to keep the vessel going.

So, the Moon People, after finally creating this creature, try to deal with it but find it’s much too chaotic and too uncontrollable to deal with, so they send it to live amongst the skydom. It is equally as chaotic and unpredictable as the vessel they made, so they try to study it in hopes of seeing different results they never would have before.

Now here’s where shot gets crazy. I’m gonna take a page out of @tainbocuailnge ‘s book and borrow their theory about FGO Siegfried being Fafnir and apply it to here.

Basically, the vessel the Moon People and Otherworld creatures worked to create is Fafnir. Of course, since the Otherworld creatures demand sacrifice and ‘balance’ they decide to go ahead and transfer a bit of Fafnir’s power into a knight that tries to slay it. Fafnir is simply too destructive to exist on its own, and they need to create something that can be capable of defeating that destruction.

The knight that comes is ‘Siegfried’ or basically, what he was before he became the Siegfried we know and love today. Siegfried ‘slays’ Fafnir, although as we later find out that he simply sealed it away (more on that later). The knight that exits is not the ‘Siegfried’ he was before, but instead a new, reborn and potentially powerful creature that the Otherworld can use.

Siegfried tries to be the good knight he was before, but due to the Otherworld blood in him, he too has his moments of chaotic feelings and emotions. The Otherworld knows this.

Siegfried, now paraded as a hero, can freely live his life and continue to be the ‘savior’ everyone wants him to be. He now has the ability to infiltrate and gain trust of those around him. The Otherworld’s desire to take control has him act as a loyal Knight and Commander to King Josef and all of Feendrache. He can’t go exploiting his cover too soon. Not when there’s just so many things he needs to do.

But, since like I said before, to maintain his life force, he needs energy from other people. He can’t just exist at full strength and do what he needs, nor can he just drink peoples life energy away.

So he continues on, doing his best to carry out King Josef’s will. In that time, he finds out about Isabella, and the two co-conspire. In exchange for helping her get rid of Josef, she will offer him human sacrifices. They both have their own ideals, but realize they can’t do it alone and need to gain Josef’s full trust.

Siegfried manages to, as Josef entrusted him with the location of a secret passage/stairwell that leads to a jail cell where prisoners could secretly be out there without anyone knowing.

Then comes the day when Isabella murders Josef and frames Siegfried. This is a part of their plan. Isabella plans to kill Josef, frame Siegfried, and have him go on the run. While he’s on the run, he can form black-market level connections and discreetly find out about other kingdoms and magical/powerful things that can help in their quest for power. Isabella then becomes King Carl’s advisor and plays him like a puppet, while Siegfried’s name was slandered.

Notice, Siegfried always brings up his loyalty to Feendrache, but I want to show THIS evidence that proves otherwise.

After Lancelot, Vane, and Danchou go down the staircase and find the village Chief as well as Siegfried, this convo appears.

Siegfried basically admits that at any point in time, he could’ve broken them out. He has the power to stop the knights trying to fight them, he has the power to break the villagers out, and he knew they were in there the whole time.

And yet, for years, he did nothing.

Would a hero reaaaalllyyy do that? Why would he simply leave them there?

Like I said earlier, he has the power to do so, and the following cutscenes literally show him beating them with ease.

This, much like most of Siegfried’s appearances, is to seem like a hero and continue his facade of a valiant and strong warrior.

Consider, also, he knew about Aglovale, and did nothing to stop him earlier until war was about to break out.

Siegfried does this routinely to make himself appear trustworthy. The more people who trust him, the more powerful he can become. The more powerful he is, the more he can enact the will of the Otherworld creatures and do what he was created to all along- Test Potential. He was created to continuously overpower himself again and again, doing feats seemingly impossible with a calm and demure smile.

The moments he spends with his Dirt Kids are to distract from the obviously shady person he is. I mean, hell, his behavior even continues with Danchou too. Just because you are nice and trustworthy, it doesn’t mean shit to him.

In the Dragon Knights skin, the description says:

“Every gentleman knows that stepping out in style requires both polish and an eye for fashion. The contrast in the dark and light theme lends to the attire's mature calm and allure. And while a cool expression may veil one's true intentions, a simple bouquet of deep red roses whispers secretly of love.”

I mean, ‘a cool expression may veil one’s true intentions’-INCREDIBLY SHADY. And also, notice the mention of ‘contrast in the dark and light’. Also shady.

Look at his outfit closely. Most colors are used to symbolize different things, and usually, white represents purity, while black usually represents dark and more repulsive emotions.

His coat is WHITE. When you wear a coat, you’re concealing your body from the cold. In this case, it’s symbolistic for Siegfried acting on his facade as a pure righteous hero, defending justice and being loyal to those whom he serves.

But it’s not the full trust, as Siegfried is wearing a black suit, and notice, one of his hands (concealed with a white glove too), is in his pockets. The other hand, carrying a bouquet of roses, is concealed in his slouched form, partially covered by his coat.

He’s using you. Saying ‘I love you’, as to convince you that he’s there for you and cares for you. He is. But not for the reason you want.

As you’re the Singularity, you have potential. You have the potential to exceed potential, each time overpowering what was thought to be impossible. I mean, plenty of creatures/characters were interested in your potential.

But, by this theory, Siegfried was created to exceed potential as well. You are a perfect example of what potential is, and he craves for that kind of power that you could have. He loves your potential, the power you could provide, the change you can make.

If he could just grasp your potential, perhaps even take your life energy, he could become the powerful entity he was always meant to be.

[felineevil]

TCM time, under the cut if you don't wanna see me ramble about my favourite chainsaw welding cannibal. Tldr i saw a silley article that i thought missed the point of Leatherface as more sympathetic slasher and i sat down and wrote for an hour because i’m like that i guess.

While many slashers fall under almost supernatural levels of inhuman and unstoppable, it is not true for the whole genre- there are characters with motives and reasoning, even if we may not understand them ourselves, because of course we do not operate under the rules and universe of horror movies.

I think it's not hard to place Leatherface under this category, both given subtext and the actual content of the movies.

For full clarity i am pulling only from texas chainsaw 1 for the most part, and at the end i'll chat a little about 2- i'm not particularly motivated to watch more than these two, so to me they are where my enjoyment of TCM is, so if my rambling is undone by later movies additions...so be it!

I don't have to be right, i just like writing about stuff!

Yippee!

In the original movie we meet Leatherface for the first time, a man who's big in every sense of the word and an intimidating figure indeed- a common trait for slashers.

But the first time we meet him is not him chasing down unsuspecting people, nor bursting through walls with a monstrous menace, it is a quiet scene at first.

Our first victims find his home and, when not receiving a response from the man inside, they enter- the first we hear of Leatherface is agitated, stressed pig-like noises, hardly an invitation to enter ones house, they sound very clearly like a noise to tell someone to not come in.

This isn't a sound to lure people, i think it'd be quite unsettling to most- it certainly wouldn't make me want to enter a house, i'd be getting the hell out of there in case there was some sort of angry hog.

But our victims enter anyway and, in ways very clearly meant to be the ways of dealing with meat, are dispatched.

There does not seem to be any glee in the act, it seems like work- everyday, normalcy.

This IS meat, the same as the cows down at the killing sheds- to Leatherface at least.

If you've been in the meat business along with your family all your life, and have never been taught that there's anything wrong with applying this approach to ALL meat, this seems logical

Later on we find another victim approaching the house and we hear Leatherface again, this time it's not an agitated sound- it's the light jangle of a bracelet, previously worn by one of the first victims, Pam, and a soft giggle.

We hear this big, powerful man gently making his new bracelet rattle and tittering with an innocent glee to himself- he likes this trinket, it makes him happy.

Of course any moment of reprise is broken as our next victim enters and is quickly dispatched, and what do we see next?

Panic.

We see panic, fear, Leatherface looks around after the third kill with a terrified sense of "how many more are there?" This is not a celebration of a kill well done, he checks the windows in a state and then sits, hitting his palms against his head in clear distress- he's afraid of this situation, he doesn't seem to know what to do.

These people, to him, are intruders in his home- a threat to him and his family.

We of course don't see this group of teens as a threat, they're framed as the innocent victims to us- but consider how sympathetic you'd feel to people wandering into your home while you were alone.

It is clear Leatherface decides he needs to find anyone left, perhaps he thinks he's being deliberately sought after by them, that they're after him and his family- or perhaps it's just what he's been taught to do, make sure there's nobody left to tell.

Another thing we can take from this moment of panic is that it is not hard to understand his reaction as comparable to something experienced by neurodivergent people- when panicked i tend to hit my hands against my legs and bite my tongue repeatedly, to calm myself down.

I flap my hands when excited, tap the back of my teeth with my tongue when nervous- stimming.

So it would not be unreasonable to consider Leatherface some form of neurodivergent, or something like that, and if i remember correctly Gunnar did mention at some point studying people who were to add to Leatherface's characterisation.

The next kill scene we see is the most frenzied, and the first full chainsaw kill- it is not hard to presume this is Leatherface in his most dangerous state, he's now fighting back, perhaps he thinks for his life of his family's.

This does not seem to be his default state, it is more brutal and aggressive than we've seen him before- it's also messier, he's not dispatching cleanly and quickly now, this feels like an embodiment of his fight response kicking in full force.

When i think about being afraid, i know my response is flight- and when i reach my panic limit i'll run and run and get myself as far away from anything that is frightening me as possible, even if it is irrational and illogical to do so, even if it means aggravating or upsetting people around me.

The reverse or opposite of this response is fight, and it is quite easy to see Leatherface in the absolute end state of that at this point- fighting as hard and as frantically as he can, pure instinct mode.

This is possibly the most frightening state i can think of seeing anyone in, never mind a tall, strong masked man with a chainsaw!

See, this is the important thing about Leatherface, throughout this movie we do not see a man motivated by bloodlust or the love of killing, we see a man motivated through terror- a mirror of the survival instinct of the final girl of many a horror movie, in texas chainsaw fear is not reserved only for our survivor, but instead permeates every inch of this movie and it's plot.

Texas chainsaw IS about fear, it is an object of panic, of terror, of desolate desperation- and Leatherface is himself an embodiment of that, both causing it and being caused BY it.

Many slashers are born evil and given no leeway into thoughts of wether they could have been steered in a different direction, but Leatherface is in many ways more tragic- given better circumstances and different situations he would not be a killer, it is quite clearly mentioned that the family has only turned to such ways of living because of pressure from economic collapse and desperation.

Leatherface is not a face of the devil nor an object of evil, he is a vulnerable man who has been shaped by circumstance and manipulation into doing terrible, terrible things- killing is his normality, just as all of us grow into our lives he has grown into his.

It is easy to be desensitised and become used to all manner of things if they are framed as normal and fine to us, it's not hard to see how if given a different start Leatherface might not have turned out this way.

It is easy to see glimpses of good in him, during the last house scenes- once he's calmed down and in his safe place- we see a very different side to him.

First comes Drayton's fury, berating Leatherface who, despite easily outmatching his brother, cowers and shies away like a frightened child- his high voice frantic as he tries  to explain that he's been good, that he's done good.

It is hard to match the cowering man with the one who ran through the night with a blaring chainsaw just moments ago, blood spattering him and his deadly weapon- and yet here he is, tending to the kitchen almost like a house wife.

He's subservient and does whatever is asked of him, no real sign of violent urges like one might expect.

Later as Drayton talks to Sally we see Leatherface enter the room holding food for the table, he stops for a moment to look at Sally- but it's almost curious now, rather than aggressive, eventually being shooed away and cowering once more from his older brother.

Later we see him in his 'pretty lady' mask, a mask he adorns with makeup himself, fussing over his grandpa and helping to feed him, care for him- gentleness shown towards his family member here that again, seems the polar opposite of his behaviour before.

While his advances towards Sally could be considered sexually menacing, i personally think it's more curious again- he seems to like the notion of 'pretty' whatever that means to him, wether he likes to look pretty or just like pretty things i don't know, but his interest is more towards her hair, gently playing with it for a moment.

It is not until the time for the killing blow comes that the violence returns, with Leatherface attempting to help his grandpa strike Sally down- and as this fails and she escapes we switch back to see him as we did before, hunting her down.

Now, all of this is not to say that Leatherface does not commit terrible, gruesome violence nor to excuse that- it is simply to look with a different gaze upon a character outside of what the tropes of horror movies expect of us.

It is clear that the sympathetic feelings towards Leatherface are not completely accidental either, as come the second movie we meet him again- a comical, kinder telling of the character with much more humanity given to him.

We see him show moral feelings, ones that conflict with his family's desires, and we see him capable of deciding to show mercy- he shows clear emotional responses and connections to other people through Stretch, and we are shown he's not some thoughtless monster at all.

It leads us to wonder if one (admittedly excellent and exceedingly brave) lady could get him to stand down just by talking to him, surely he can't be all bad- for all it's goofy silley nature TCM2 introduces an interesting telling of Leatherface that i think can compliment some of the sympathies towards him from the first.

Even more so he's a man ruled by his family, and when away from them he is more vulnerable and easy to persuade- Stretch quite easily manages to get him to drop his weapon and instead turn the other cheek when she's trapped in the Sawyer lair, with Leatherface dancing around with her (much to her dismay) and not harming her physically at all, though the upset caused by having a dead friends face slapped over your own probably is going to cause it's own set of troubles.

But is this what we expect from pure evil?

By Stretch's final capture by the Sawyer's we see Leatherface almost completely torn, smacking his head against a lamp as he tried to choose between letting her live snd his families wishes- he's experiencing a moral conflict, can pure evil do that?

Again we can see that if given different circumstances Leatherface could've been a good man, and if you think that reading takes away any of the frightening nature of the first movie and you wish to call me silly or chastise me for '"woobifying" Leatherface- i propose that this does in fact make the movie all the more tragic and frightening.

I don't believe true evil exists in real life, but i know fear does, and i think tragedy brought on by preventable events and terror is all the more frightening than killing just for killings sakes- a pure evil unstoppable force is fantasy, a fairy tale told to scare children, but the idea of being trapped in a situation with someone terrified enough to take your life frightens me more..

So wether you want or need Leatherface to be a sympathetic, well loved character for you, or a horrifying cold killer, i don't think this reading into his character should take away from either of those ideas of him- i think without trying to understand the reasoning of why the events of the first movie happen we could miss some of the real horror of the movie.

Anyways, this has been me rambling- i hope i was at least somewhat understandable, i just love texas chainsaw massacre and i love Leatherface and i like to talk, even if i'm not great at it.

[vampirkaninchen]

Well, here it is; I want to say things about The Punisher’s season two, and why I felt so sadly let down by it. I won’t rant about Billy’s looks (you’ll never see me complain about Ben’s face ever), or about that uncomfortable patient-psychiatrist relationship. Instead, I want to argue that this season had very fundamental storytelling issues, which is surprising given how excellent the first season was. Before I do though, let me say that I’ll always love the interplay of rage, violence, and vulnerability with which Jon Bernthal plays Frank, and that I was absolutely floored by Ben’s portrayal of Billy - I thought he was brilliant, and he really got me invested in the character - which makes it all the sadder that the season just doesn’t work as a whole.

I’m going to focus on Frank and Billy here, and one reason for that is that the entire Amy-to-Pilgrim storyline failed to draw me in. I really liked Amy and I’ll always be here for Frank softening for spunky youngsters, but even their relationship remained a bit rocky and had moments that really alienated me (Frank threatening Amy with a gun in the trailer, for example.) The entire plot seemed randomly grafted onto the rest, spliced in with no feeling for narrative flow: mysteries went unexplained for too long, characters were introduced too late, and the stakes were too low (political blackmail over homosexuality? Really?) Long story short: I lost the thread and I lost interest - which is sad because season one brilliantly intertwined the storylines to complement Frank’s struggles, his desires, regrets, and developpement. This time seemed like an excuse for bloodshed. That said, where season one, like all three Daredevil seasons really shone was in escalating things. I’ve always admired how they would take an event, see it through in one episode, and let the characters deal with the fallout in the next, letting both events and stakes get bigger and bigger. They lost all this in this season because the storylines were not interconnected. We see this also in Dinah Madani, who has no storyline at all - her dealing with her trauma from season one manifests in a few drinks and some half-hearted comments to Frank. Likewise Karen, who I know has had a big story arc in Daredvil season 3 but is still an important part of Frank’s story, only appeared to do a bit of pining, it seemed. That, to me, is a lot of wasted potential, because both women had integral parts in the first season; Dinah crucially influenced the plot with her decisions and Karen represented that human connection so essential to Frank Castle. In the same vein, then, that the show wasted so much story potential by not following up on the fallout of the Dinah-Billy relationship (a few nightmares don’t count), the connection between Frank and Billy was vastly distorted. I really liked the flashback leading up to Billy confronting his abuser (a scene that was heart-wrenching and really well done, I thought). Perhaps more flashbacks about Frank and Billy’s now-lost friendship would have grounded the story, especially against Billy’s arc of (literally) putting himself back together. Because that weird, warped vendetta we got did not work at all, and I’ll try to explain why. So; debonair sociopath Billy Russo has lost his memory of everything he did in season one, and with it why he deserved Frank’s punishment- to let him live with what he had done and what he had lost. And so we follow Billy dealing with his trauma, loss, and confusion in heart-wrenching ways, enhanced by Ben’s superb acting (my fav part of the season, let’s be honest). Not only does this arouse my sympathy as a viewer much more than it lets me emphasize with Madani’s casual drinking and Frank’s gratuitous murder sprees, it means that season-two-Billy is in no state or place to be held accountable for what he did before, not ethically, and not from a storytelling perspective. Exploring the Frank-Billy friendship from Billy’s new/old frame of mind would have given us tension and emotional depth, because we know Frank is in a vastly different place. They wasted that opportunity, and for me that damaged the story. Because, what does Frank do? He kills his way through a storyline I don’t much care about and repeatedly talks of ‘putting Billy down’ - for what? What exactly has Billy done since his punishment that merits this intention of Frank’s? The fact that he survived and made a surprising recovery (sort of)? We watch Billy painsakingly re-assmble himself with that combination of rage, confusion, and vulnerability that is usually Frank’s trademark (well done Ben, you’re doing great), and somehow Frank decides that this is not what he intended with the season one face-bash finale? That Billy isn’t suffering in the right way, or enough? You can’t dole out judgements and punishments until you’re satisified. That’s not how the law works, and while we all know Frank doesn’t give two figs about the law, it’s not how storytelling works, either. Even poetic justice must be earned. And this is where my main problem lies: Frank repeatedly asserts to Amy how ‘some people just need killing’, again and again he stubbornly claims Billy needs to die, waving aside the hesitant ethical reservations of Dinah, Curtis, and Karen alike. This is not exploring a theme, this is setting an intention: we know this season ends with Billy dead, but we’re not sure why. Somehow, he is blamed for Frank’s, Curtis’, and Dinah’s ongoing trauma from season one, while having little to none contact with either of them, nor remembering having caused that trauma. They hold him accountable for how they feel, but not only have they already tried and judged him in season one, and shouldn’t get do-overs, but Billy is not even aware of their trauma- he has his own trauma to deal with. Multiple things happen here: Billy becomes a scapegoat, not a villain, Frank doesn’t really get a character arc, and the stakes are lost. What are the stakes of Frank not killing Billy? What are the stakes of Billy getting killed? We know there is no redemption for him, he has nothing left to lose and nowhere left to go. Neither have Frank, or Dinah, or Curtis. What are the emotional stakes? What terrible thing happens if Billy lives? I don’t have answers. Meanwhile, Billy’s headcount doesn’t even rise from one to ten until episode eight, whereas Frank’s own headcount has been at least fifty from episode one. This is disproportionate. “This was always what I was”, asserts Frank, “I can do things other people can’t.” This, admittedly, is a killer line - but nothing new. Moreover, it’s ill-timed: This kind of (self-)revelalation demands build-up, demands a struggle against it first. If Frank had spent the season desperately trying not to be that killer machine the Punisher is, while repeatedly getting drawn into defending himself and others... that might have worked. But Frank has gleefully killed people since he went into that bathroom in the pilot, claiming to be “an asshole who doesn’t know better” (or whatever he said there). What’s more, that kind of big talk necessitates a strong, chaotic antagoistic force, and one that escalates until no law may stop or contain it anymore. Something like the cancerous organised crime of the previous season, a conspiracy, or an unstoppable, walks-away-from-explosions Vendetta Billy Russo. That kind of big talk demands strong opposition, build-up, and proof. Show, don’t tell, remember? The Billy we see is a petty criminal with the potential to escalate - but but mainly he’s busy coming to terms with himself. “This has to end” claims Frank. What is “this”? What and where is that monumental chaotic thing that cannot be stopped, contained, or made right without Frank’s unbrideled violence? It is certainly not the Billy who frequently relapses into utter confusion, and even the Billy whose thugs kill some people after Frank has already had his ‘epiphany’ is not enough. You can’t retroactively justify your character’s decisions. That’s not good storytelling at all. My point is; Billy’s and Frank’s storylines are out of joint. One does not complement or justify the other, I get tired with Frank’s vendettas if I’m not also shown that they’re necessary, and in the end, I don’t want to see Billy die, because his is the only story arc I’ve actually cared about. His death isn’t earned, Frank’s justice isn’t justice, it’s not resolution, or restoration, or anything that makes me feel good at the end of a story. Billy mainly dies because the other characters don’t know how to move on, and they blame him for it. That’s not enough.

[imladris-soldier]

hey idk if requests r open or not (if not ignore this lmao) but if they’re open can i get some gut wrenching, sad as shit, angst for dutch “dumb bitch” van der linde? maybe something like his s/o gets kidnapped and they die in front of him or something idk but i seem to enjoy reading about my favorite characters getting gutted by the soul. lmao i just want some good angst yknow

A/N: I hope you don’t mind. I used my OC for this one.

It wasn’t often that Dutch got to go on the smaller jobs. He always had something else - something more important. But when Arthur, Charles, and Myra walked up to him, eyes sparkling with hope and adventure, how was he supposed to say no?

It was a stagecoach job. Simple enough. Every member of the team had been on at least a dozen in their time, and they had all worked well together in the past. It was mostly just a chance for them to get out of camp and stretch their legs. Profiting from the venture was an added bonus.

They rode out as the sun set, hoping to use the cover of darkness to mask their approach and identities. Dutch felt a freedom rush through him as he rode, and his eyes slipped to each member of his team, pausing to think fondly of the person. Naturally, they lingered longest on the woman who had seen him for all he was and still professed her love. It had baffled him when she first said it, and it baffled him now. Even Hosea wasn’t quite as willing to put up with his bullshit as the warrior riding at his side.

Idle conversation floated between them as they cantered through the night to the secluded stretch of road Charles had scoped out earlier in the day. Had anyone come across them, they might have simply seen a group of friends out for a ride.

As they neared their destination, talk dwindled.

“Who’s doin’ what?” Arthur asked as they pulled up.

“It was her idea,” Charles replied, nodding at Myra. “Her call.”

The woman sat back in her saddle, surveying the terrain. “Should only be a couple’a riders with ‘em. We deal with those, then Arthur and Charles, ride up alongside. Dutch, you cover the back, make sure nobody rides up on our ass. I’ll take the front - get the driver to stop. Good?”

They all answered back their understanding and pulled up their face masks.

Myra nudged Dutch’s thigh with her foot, clearly smirking behind the bandanna covering her lips. “Careful, old man. You ain’t been out in the thick of it for a while. Might’a lost your touch.”

“You worry ‘bout yourself, Miss Jones,” Dutch replied, pulling his hat a little lower. “I been at this so long it’s second nature.”

“Yeah, alright.”

She chuckled to herself as she moved up in formation, and Dutch grinned. She’d always had a mouth on her, which certainly hadn’t made her very popular with anyone in polite society. She had excelled in his gang, even back when it was just himself, Hosea, Arthur, and her. They had been unstoppable, and she indiscriminately gave each one of them shit regardless.

But she loved him. So, he got the worst of it.

As the stagecoach rolled into view, the gang kicked into action. As the tip had said, there were only a couple riders accompanying the coach. They clearly thought that the middle of the night was somehow more safe. Poor fools.

Charles and Arthur dispatched of their assigned targets while Myra galloped up to the front, pulling her mare into the path of the coach in order to encourage the horses to stop whether the driver was signaling them to do so or not. Dutch fell in behind the coach to keep on eye on their tail, and when a stray rider appeared, he called out to let them know.

Many things happened so quickly that it seemed to all happen at once.

Dutch’s voice was mingled with a gunshot. The bullet whizzed past him, spooking the horses pulling the coach. Instead of stopping, they sped up. The bullet caught Myra’s mare in the neck, causing the animal to rear violently, throwing her rider. Myra fell backwards - directly into the path of the stagecoach.

The noise of her body slamming multiple times into the bottom of the carriage was a noise that would haunt Dutch until the day he died. The driver panicked when he realized that he’d run over someone and yanked the horses to a stop. Charles dealt with the rider while Arthur got his gun on the driver.

Dutch didn’t even wait for The Count to stop before jumping off and running to Myra. She was lying on her back - her chest barely rising and falling. Blood was seeping from multiple wounds, staining her clothes and turning the dust around her into a sickening mud. There was a vicious gash across her forehead, and the blood from that was running into her dark hair.

“Myra?!” Dutch practically fell to his knees, just barely keeping himself from falling over on top of her.

Her eyes opened sluggishly. “Hey, old man,” she murmured, choking on blood as the last word left her lips.

He pulled both his and her bandanna away, wiping some of the blood from her face. “Don’t talk. You gotta save strength.”

“For what? My ride to hell?”

“Shut your god damn mouth, Myra,” he snapped, voice wavering on the edge of anger and panic.

“I ain’t never yet.”

Dutch’s eyes surveyed the damage to her frame. He had never seen so many broken bones on a single person in his life. The desire to hold her to his chest and sob was only slightly weaker than the knowledge that moving her would kill her faster. His hands hovered over her, twitching with indecision.

“What am I ‘sposed to do?” he whispered hoarsely. “I can’t lose... not you. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“Nah,” she breathed. “Was ‘sposed to be a ranch out west. Big house. Cows. Whatever the hell else you have on a ranch.”

A laugh fell out of him, but it was accompanied by tears. Every single part of that dream had been laced with her, and without her it was empty.

“Never was sure what kinda ranchers we would be,” she admitted softly. “But I woulda followed you anywhere, Dutch.”

“Then follow me home,” he begged, his fingers slipping to hold her cheek.

A tear slid out of the corner of her eye. “Not this time, boss. We both know better.”

“Myra, I...”

How was he supposed to sum up 15 years of knowing her in the few moments she had left? How could he possibly express the magnitude of her presence in his life? 

He leaned in close, brushing her hair back from her forehead. “I love you.”

She smiled a little. “Always knew you was soft,” she whispered, just barely audible.

Her breath hitched and then stopped. Her eyes glassed over, and Dutch felt every piece of him that was bound to her get ripped out through his chest. There was a burning pit just under his sternum that seemed to consume everything around it - all light, all sound, all feeling save for the pain.

He gently shut her eyes, then stood and walked to the front of the coach. The driver opened his mouth to say something, but he didn’t have time before Dutch put a bullet in his head.

Arthur slowly lowered his own pistol.

Dutch glanced between the two other men. “Get the money.”

Charles jumped down to break the lock on the coach, and once he had, he distributed the funds into fourths, not realizing that the fourth share was no longer necessary until after he’d done it. “Shit,” he sighed. 

As he put it back into a stack to split it again, Dutch told him, “You and Arthur each take half.”

“Dutch...” Arthur started, but the elder held up a hand.

“What am I supposed to do with it, son? Buy her coffin?”

Arthur opened his mouth, shook his head, then shut it again with a defeated shrug.

“You boys head back to camp. I’ll be back in a couple days.”

“Where are you going?” Charles asked.

Dutch’s eyes scanned the horizon. “She was always fond of Big Valley. Think I’ll take her up there.”

Charles nodded and climbed back on Taima. “Be careful.” With that, he was gone.

Arthur lingered. He’d known Myra as long as Dutch had, and he’d loved her like family. It felt wrong knowing she wasn’t coming back.

“Dutch... I’m so sorry.”

“Me too, Arthur. Me too.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No. This... this is somethin’ I gotta do myself.”

“Alright.” A pause. “We’ll be here for ya. Whenever you get back.”

“I know.”

Lacking anything else meaningful to say, Arthur finally turned his horse towards camp and took off.

Dutch took a deep breath, believing for a moment that he would be ok. On the exhale, however, a wheezy sob crushed his chest. One hand covered his face while the other desperately clung to the fabric hanging atop that black hole.

 It was just a stagecoach job.

Simple enough.

[quasistarjudgement]

(I also just wanna say going forward that I'll be discussing a lot of, and kinda paraphrasing heavily, this video by Extra Credits; it's got some age on it, but it's really good, and I highly recommend it to anyone who's curious about this concept)

So basically, my idea for this hypothetical game would be to have the protagonist be an android constructed by an American-Japanese joint research and development team to build an android to stop, idk, some pacific alien invasion a la Pacific Rim, the exact framing isn't important beyond wanting to demonstrate that this being is the product of both countries.

Basically, my thinking is that as the game progresses, there's two broad routes the player can take: replace parts to become a more robust machine, or remain unchanged physically but become more skilled/potentially call in support from other allies you meet along the way.

The former is more influenced by American martial philosophy. Think about Halo, Call of Duty, and similar games that were made by American game devs, where weapons are found and thrown away like nothing else, because the individual weapon doesn't matter. The "warrior" in American history is the revolutionary soldier made from a regular farmer who picked up a rifle. The weapon itself is unimportant, it's the idea that matters.

This path would have the android basically become an unstoppable juggernaut, crushing enemies through sheer power of the new weapons that they receive as they swap out parts of themselves.

The latter is more influenced by Japanese martial philosophy. Think about Pokemon, Dragon Ball, Street Fighter, and the like, where all the powerful characters wield enormous inner strength. They grow, evolve, and attain mastery over their respective disciplines, and rare is it that they ever use a gun or switch things like gear or equipment; indeed, the prominence of energy attacks derived from inner power (usually "ki" or "life force" or something of that nature) means that they rarely if ever use weapons at all. The most prominent Japanese games that do have the protagonist using a gun, Resident Evil, also kinda centers around a protagonist that's really Going Through It, and is far from any sort of "mastery".

This path in the game would be highly timing and combo based, I think. You as the player are weak in arms, so what do you do? You master the game's mechanics. I think this would feature a sort of Sonic-style combat that's quick and non-comittal, and would feature targetting enemies' weak points and waiting for openings. There's no clowning around just steamrolling shit in this playstyle, mastery is the key. Mastery of the mechanics, and of the enemies' tactics. The game will absolutely be beatable, and if you dedicate to this style, it might even be just as easy as the previous playstyle, but you gotta be more patient with it.

I think if I made this game, I'd also like there to be discussion about this from a disability lens, namely with regards to how prosthetics are viewed by amputees vs abled people, which this article talks about really well I think:

Conversations about the value of surrendering body parts for material improvements in power demanded by others, not unlike ableds wanting amputees to be "cyborgs" so that their disability isn't something they have to think about/can see framed in a light they think is attractive, rather than what's actually useful.

I think the protagonist ought to wrestle with that, with questions of bodily integrity, and about their desires versus what others around them want. Which is why it's also crucial that the game is just as beatable without any replacements, and that they're never forced; it's always a choice, albeit potentially a very difficult one. There cannot be any mechanical compulsion behind these ideas. It's all up to the player deciding which direction they wanna go; neither can be "better", objectively speaking.

The end of the game would involve, I think, some grand revelation on the part of the android surrounding themselves. Whether they adopt a more American view of themselves (these limbs and accessories are just weapons, tools; what matters is me, and my use of my body to accomplish my goals by any means necessary) or a more Japanese view of themselves (i've achieved everything i have through my own skill and mastery in battle; new weapons being pushed onto me by people who aren't me wouldn't have changed anything).

So yeah. I might add onto this as I go along in the future, but like, for now, I think this is what I wanted to share (instead of doing my Japanese homework due a week ago; ADHD babes). Let me know what you think!

If I was an indie game designer I would want to design a game with an android protagonist who, as the game progressed, would have their arms, legs, various parts of their body as time went on, replaced with more powerful upgrades, but they become increasingly distressed by the violation of their bodily integrity by the engineers or whomever was doing the replacing (wouldn't be forceful, but always "strongly encouraged" and the player would have to decide each time whether they wanna spring for the upgrades or not, but enemies keep getting harder nonetheless) older parts that they'd spent more time with in the name of power.

This is about the differing ideas about force and weaponry that we see in Japanese vs American media. I wanna expand later but I'll just say rn that think about the differences between Street Fighter and Call of Duty.

[dat-town]

The Bonnie to my Clyde

Characters: Min Yoongi & You

Setting: Bonnie and Clyde AU (sort of)

Warning: very lightly implied sexual content, some dark themes

Summary:  “He saw the darkness in her beauty. She saw the beauty in his darkness.”

Words: 974

The motel smelled like hypo, dust and tears. Just like any other unknown, cheap, run-down place where nobody asked where you came from but took the money and shut up. It was exactly what you two needed: a quiet hideout when your names were useless and your faces were nothing more than a shadow on the tiles.

You giggled unstoppably as you jumped on the crappy mattress. The worn bed cracked under your weight and screeched wailfully but it couldn’t hold you back. You laughed wildly with your head thrown back. The joyful melody was contagious but it stuck in your throat when you caught your companion staring, his dark and hungry eyes tracing your features. You looked right back into the black abyss without fear and with a tempting curve on your lips.

Yoongi - known by the world as Suga, a dreaded criminal – didn’t take his eyes off of you as he clicked the old suitcase he had in one hand open. You sat up so you could see it better and gasped delightfully when the case displayed its content full of dirty money: today’s big catch. You looked up adoringly with huge doe eyes while he smelled some bills and threw them into the air casually as if they didn’t mean more to him than a piece of burning paper. He decorated the bed with them carefully like others do with rose petals.

“Lie down.”

It wasn’t a question or request, he demanded authoritatively for you to pose in the middle of his artwork and you gladly did as he asked. How could anyone say no when he looked at you the same way as an aesthete would appreciate a billion-worth masterpiece? Like he wanted to engrave the picture into his memory to never forget it: the sight of a fallen angel in a pool of bloodied money. What would your parents say if they knew that their naive and innocent daughter was gone? That a liar, a thief, a murderer fell in love with her, killed her and fell in love even more, even harder? He tore you down to pieces and built you up once again, creating someone new who people only referred as Sugar Baby.

Newspapers wrote about your pair, called you the Shadow Couple, people whispered dirty things, they knew nothing but they were right about one thing: you were spoiled rotten by Suga, the mastermind behind all of your grandiose plans. He was the executive, the one armed with the weapon and knowledge to get anything you wanted while you were a siren, the best kind of sweet distraction. His one and only partner in crime.

“What do you want, baby? A diamond ring? A vacation to Rome? Just ask, I’ll give it to you.” He crawled above you, caging your fragile figure between his arms and his breath left hot spots on your swan neck as his raspy voice made you shiver. He probably heard you gasping for air even without properly touching you and smirked at his massive effect on you. Still now. Even after playing the same game over and over again, your answer was still the same:

“You. Only you.”

Your cold fingers entangled in his dark locks pulling him closer by the neck until your breaths fanned over each other's face and your dilated pupils bored into one another. Then, it was hungry and desperate and too much spit and teeth but neither of you complained. You both loved just the way you lived: rushed and for the sake of adrenaline but genuinely with all you had.

Do you trust me enough to get killed? Yoongi asked you once out of mere curiosity as he was staring out of the window of another motel in another city with a cigarette in his mouth. You sat up in the bed pulling the blanket tighter around your naked frame and replied without hesitation: yes.

Yoongi’s life was a dangerous game all the time, every job was a Russian roulette but the ride was much more enjoyable since he had you. From the very first moment he laid his eyes on you, the next rich young girl waiting to be robbed, he just knew that you were different, you were more… something else. But he didn't dare to hope to find another dark soul that identifies his own vicious insides. Yet, under the cover of such pretty facade, you were just as evil and stole his heart mercilessly with no intention of giving back. What could he do? He stole your heart in exchange and painted it black with his own sick desires.

People can get high on so many things: alcohol, smoke, drugs, you… His fingers twitched for a cig and a lighter most of the time except when he couldn't take his hands off of your body. They kept roaming because he could never get enough of your taste. To him, you were just as addictive as the worst kind of psychoactive drugs. You were a bomb ready to explode, a war on the verge of breaking out, a gun waiting to be fired. Still, he made it clear that he was willing to die for you every single night.

“I love you.” you pulled the trigger and he smiled at you wickedly. The words like bullets bit hard into his flesh as the echo of deafening silence surrounded you. He didn’t say anything but used your body as a canvas to write his own confession in love bites all over it. He claimed you, marked his territory like a predator and you had never enjoyed anything more than being his prey.

By the end of the night, the motel smelled like money, smoke and sex. Just like any other stop on the map of your twisted kind of love story.