#but also. im calling you all (and myself) OUT

[missduskdawn]

im not mad at all, honestly this whole discussion is very pointless, because you people are putting words into my mouth i never said or implied

i never said any of the things i gave examples for were constant and unchanging for the duration of time they existed

i never said that the xia dynasty was ousted instead of the qing dynasty (i honestly have no idea at all where you even got that from, because the source i cited i cited to show that chinese imperial rule ended in 1912, which it did, and that's what i originally said as well)

i said myself i was purposefully over simplifying op's point at the very start of my previous reply to you for the sake of being cheeky, and i kept being cheeky afterward as well about the wording, so i don't see what kind of gotcha you think this is when i myself purposefully dumbed down the original post for the sake of teasing you and making a joke out of it

all i did, in this entire discussion, was say

X thing existed from Y year to Z year

and then i provided sources for those claims, which again to my knowledge are reputable sources, and i believe the information is correct

if all of the sources i provided are incorrect, i also said in my previous reply to you that the joke is on me and i will look stupid, but as far as i know they're not incorrect

and the reason i pointed out several different things from human history that have spanned either close to a thousand years, or more than a thousand years, or in the cases of ancient egypt and china multiple thousands of years, and provided sources only and exclusively for their beginning and end dates, is to illustrate my belief that op's point that it's unrealistic to create a fictional empire or a fictional dynasty that spans thousands of years in a fictional setting is silly and pointlessly restrictive because it's not like it's unheard for something to exist that long even in real life, so why not in fiction?

i made only one point, and only ever cited beginning and ending years for the examples i gave

i never once got into the politics of those times, the circumstances under which things rose/fell, or how these various things changed throughout the duration of their existences in various ways, because none of that is relevant to the point i made

i will reiterate my point one final time:

X existed for Y amount of years, which is true, and i cited examples of things that lasted thousands of years, or at least one thousand if not more, so if that can exist in real life, you can also make it in fiction too, and calling doing so in fiction unrealistic unless you're a professional historian is silly (this is how the wording of the post reads to me)

this is my opinion on worldbuilding

i don't actually disagree with pretty much anyone here about anything except that one point, which was at the core of everything

i made no other historical claims except for X thing began in Y year, and ended in Z year

i agree that ancient china didn't have one single empire that lasted 4000 years, it in fact had 4000 years of imperial rule, under many dynasties and many changes, but it was all china throughout, so as a central concept of being china, it has existed 4000 years, and what's more, china was in fact officially considered one empire from the start of the qin dynasty in 221 bce, to the end of the qing dynasty in 1912, which spans 2200 years, so either way my point stands that there have been empires that have existed for multiple millennia (2 millenia is a multiple)

i agree that ancient egypt wasn't just one unbroken continuous empire for all of its existence, it was ruled by dozens of pharaohs and had major transformations throughout, but again, it was all still egypt throughout all of it, it retained the unity of that concept of being egypt, and existed from the year i wrote and gave a source for, and ended at the year i wrote and gave a source for

it was never relevant to my point to discuss exactly what historical changes happened between the years X started to exist and stopped existing

i wasn't fighting anyone on anything really

i was rude to multiple people on this post because i just get snappy sometimes but im not actually angry or anything, if i hurt someone's feelings im sorry

i honestly find it a lot of fun to debate with people online even if i often do come on really strong and sometimes get hostile with my wording

none of this is personal

i can see that OP studies history and knows a lot about it like i do, i just feel like this got so out of hand because people tacked on so many things i didnt say onto my post and started arguments out of it

pro-tip: don't ever use the sentence "thousands of years" in your worldbuilding unless you really know what a thousand years is like

[vazaez]

It has come to my attention that someone has been shittalking me and twisting up My words to make me seem like a creep, so i'm here to defend myself.

Here's what they said:

Good job making me look like a piece of shit over a fic i read out of curiosity because people kept mentioning it under my art, here's the conversation in question we had on Instagram, because You didnt give three shits before sharing bits and pieces of out of context messages no one else saw, making up your own version, i don't feel bad not giving a shit about showing the whole thing because i got nothing to hide.

And since you were too much of a coward to be straight with me i'll respect your wishes and keep you anonymous too.

I will translate the conversation, word for word, and i want everyone to judge if it actually correlates to what the initial post says, get your own conclusions, i don't need to fight to defend my point.

-about the possible fanfic they're mentionin on tumblr was possibly by a usar named izosso, but that guy is a proshipper and all the other fics in the tag are really weird💀

Telling you here because my tumblr account doesnt let me comment

•i saw them lol and i blocked izosso, but theres another fic by someone else [literally the only one of the ship that wasnt posted by izosso] who isnt a proshitter [as far as i know] and the fic is relatively good

-send me the link

•some things didnt really sit right with me but over all it's pretty good, they describe the dynamic almost the same as i imagined it skhd

It has a lot of smut, i just let you know because maybe that content is not your cup of tea

-going into the wild kratts Tag in AO3 is like playing the Russian roulette

Just send it to me to see what it's about

•yeah 😭 that's why i found it so weird so many people talking about the same fic

(I send the link) Here it is

-ahh yeah i found this one but i found the food sex tag weird

(Replying to my prev message) Me too

• ah yes, but it's not that much, it was put there more like a caution but no one stuck any food down any holes fortunately 🙏(clearly joking btw)

Well, besides the mouth

-thank god lol

Lmao hey out of curiosity, can i know what about it was it that you didnt like? I found it weird to see Chris as a bottom because i can't imagine him like that

•oh yeah no i do see it, he's too much of a diva 💔 (also clearly a joke?? Are we serious??) what i dislike the most is that Zach acts super weird

And the fact that there is smut at all, because it's a topic that causes me a lot of debate because he's a self insert and all

So i don't know how to feel about it, but it is well written at the very least lol

-same, it's like a 50/50 , in any case i think the fandom is gonna to form a dispute because there's a Lot of artists who font like that and when that happens i'm gonna be like Italy during WW2 lol

And yeah that thing with Zach was really weird *proceeds to call the police*

•LMAO yeah, i just try to not touch that topic much because it could always cause problems

Now where did i ever mention that i consume that content because i like it? Where did i ever sound like "an average Fujoshi"? When i very clearly said that what threw me off about the fic was the fact that there was smut at all

If what made you nauseous enough to try to ruin me was that i jokingly said he was a diva then i don't even fucking know what to tell you ??

The same curiosity you had to come and ask me for the link was the one that caused me to give the fic a try in the first place, so am i really more to be judged than you when we did the exact same thing??

Im an adult, i don't appreciate you going around saying "she still has some years for her brain to develop so i'll have faith!!" Like i'm some sort of idiot, you're barely a year older than me so be serious.

And i don't need you to go to some rando's asks to shit talk me and confess you had plans to talk crap about me to my friends because you had your own conclusions from a very specific conversation, and act like i was the one who still needs to get her shit together

Like what even is your point-?

Check yourself

And to call me a hypocrite on top of it all,,, just unbelievable

Who really is the hypocrite?

[mayereka]

LORE DUMP LORE DUMP LORE DUM-

wall of text jumpscare below the cut

Alright @jadedazemations @tazienimp get in here ye asked for this

So my au is essentially if you turned all the sonic characters into gods that are part of a mythology. It's centered around Mephiles and Neos relationship but im gonna get the creation myth of my au out of the way first.

It starts with the chaos emeralds which are lumped together into one primordial being called Khaos (I couldn't help myself greek myths are some of my favourite) which created the universe, the planet (which is just gonna be Mobius because Earth is kinda lame and the au is called gods of mobius) and humans. But since humans tend to do some bad stuff Khaos creates the underworld and a psychopomp to guide souls of humans and animals there.

(That psychopomp is Neo btw he's essentially a death god in this (also because irl there's a correlation of symbolism between the grim reaper and time but more on that later.))

The underworld is a salt river. Souls that are unable or undeserving to move on cant stay afloat and sink to the bottom of the river, where they endure trials and punishments by the demons that guard the underworld, until their souls get light enough to float on top of the water and they get carried to the end of the river to be reincarnated.

Back to Khaos. One day, Khaos gets to ambitious in his creations and creates Solaris out of most of his own essence. He's proud of creating Solaris at first, but he soon realises how powerful he is and fears he's gonna replace him as a creator and god and he's gonna lose worship of the humans. So he ambushes Solaris and tries to kill him. Their ensulting battle terraforms Mobius, raising the land and Khaos' presence filling the Valleys with water, creating giant oceans.

(On a sidenote, I wanted Khaos to have a connection to water, both because of the chaos from sa1, but also because in egyptian myth the vastness of space was a giant ocean, which i feel is fitting for a primordial god, especally because Khaos would end up becoming the night sky.)

During their battle, Khaos uses most of his power to split Solaris into Iblis and Mephiles, but in the process he fractures and and gets scatered across the sky becoming the stars and moon. Iblis is very unhappy with this predicament and in his rage proceeds to chase Khaos' fragments across the sky with him turning into the sun to create the day night cycle and leaving his other half behind to cope with the pain of the split on his own.

(This was inspired by an aztec myth in which the stars and moon chase the sun because it got them killed. Also the moon is a severed head don't ask.)

Some of Khaos fragments fall back to Mobius and create the other gods upon touching the ground (like Sonic, Knuckles, Amy, Tails etc). Mephiles is essentially the last remnant of Khaos power on Mobius so he is unofficaly recognised by the humans to be the leader of the new pantheon of gods which neither Mephiles nor the other gods are particularly keen on.

Now, onto Metalphiles and their copious amount of symbolism.

Neo is a death god/psychopomp because of that one sonic dash halloween skin, which I made a Neo design for and it kinda spiraled into this au. (whoops)

Mephiles is still mostly a time god in this au, but i gave him a sickle in his design, despite it being an agricultural tool. This is because I was inspired by the greek deity Chronos, who was originally a god of agriculture, but was later reinterpreted by the romans to be a time god because of the similarity of his name to the greek word for time (Kronos).

Funnily enough, this ties back to Neo because the grim reaper is also depicted with agricultural tools because of Chronos (/"father time") and his interpretation as a time deity. As a result of this, the hourglass also became a symbol for the reaper.

(This is why in my au they gift eachother a sickle and an hourglass respectively, because their real life inspirations for this au exchanged such symbols throughout their history and I wanted to include that somehow :)

errrr this should be enough yapping for now, if you wanna ask more, my inbox has been gathering dust for a while.

[imnez-daydreams]

listen, have i watched sinners ? no. do i know anything about the movie beyond uhh there's vampires ? also no. do i even know what remmick looks like ? still a no. am i still gonna devour this fic i stumbled upon on my feed ? you bet i am !!!

“Ain’t you—” you began to say, but he beat you to it, laughing low in his throat as he took a slow, deliberate step forward. “Lord, you spook easy,” he said, voice thick just soft enough to make you lean in without meaning to. “Didn’t mean to startle you, sugar. Though I s’pose I got a knack for it.”

okay well im already melting. "sugar" ?? reader leaning towards remmick from his soft voice is so real.

"You didn’t even get another sentence out before he titled his head, slow and deliberate, and stepped in just a tad closer."

ooo he's already eyeing reader like a predator eyeing his prey. tilting his head slow, moving into reader's space.

He took a step closer, and you backed up, your heart pounding faster. But your feet wouldn’t move. You wanted to run, but your body was paralyzed. The closer he came, the harder it was to breathe. “You don’t just walk away from me, sugar,” he said, his voice smooth like silk, but each word felt like a weight. “You don’t follow me into the woods and think you can just... leave.”

gosh the transition from polite image yet a sense of something off to cold, heartless and hungry is written so well !! the smile that doesn't reach his eyes, the kind words that don't fit quite right when leaving his mouth. then that last line, can feeeeel the possessiveness already rolling off his tongue.

“You wanna know what it felt like?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, eyes narrowing. The way he looked at you then—like he was studying something precious, something fragile—made a shiver crawl down your spine. “What it felt like to kill Mrs. Hatcher?”

i like the juxtaposition of his gaze to his words. looking at reader with a gentle gaze yet talking about committing a violent crime.

“You should’ve stayed away,” he murmured, taking another step closer, and your body lurched, the terror of it all finally making your feet move. But not fast enough. “But now it’s too late darlin’ cause I intend to keep you for myself now.”

hey mister if you keep calling reader those sweet pet names you can keep me !! jokes aside the build up to the chasing is soo good ! the realisation dawning on reader that this man isnt even a man, something darker and unexplainable. that cold realisation turning into dread when he  stakes his claim.

Behind you, his footsteps didn’t rush. He wasn’t chasing. He was following. Like a predator who already knew exactly where you’d end up. “Keep running,” he called, voice almost playful. Almost. “It’ll only make me want to fuck you harder.” You didn’t scream. You couldn’t. Your throat was tight with terror, your body buzzing with the kind of panic that drowns thought.

sorry for being depraved on main but this is so hot i cant even lie akdhsidke. LISTENN. remmick not even running, just leisurely following after reader. knows he can easily catch up so its like he's savouring your fear, your hopeful naivety thinking you can escape him. then him playfully telling reader continue running. then, then that statement about how running is just gonna make him fuck reader harder. hello. (me when)

"He yelled out your name—how’d he even know your name? There was a guttural edge to his voice—low, primal—that tore something loose in you. You cried silently, not daring to make noise, not out of fear, but because your body didn’t know what else to do."

omg been watching and listening !! and reader has been none the wiser all this time. i like how reader's reaction is realistic too, those times when tears just escape you not cause of the sadness or fear but because the situation you're in seems so hopeless, tears just make their path down your face.

He takes his hand from your neck, and you barely register when it slips beneath your long nightgown. One hand forcefully parts your thighs—rough and possessive—while the other holds your wrists captive above your head. "You don’t even know," he murmurs, his voice almost gentle, as he continues "You're fortunate that I want you all to myself."

remmick what is that supposed to mean mister. are there worse monsters than you ? but again i really like the duality of it all, gentle and soft voice with the backdrop of violent and rough hands.

And as his lips brush against your ear, whispering promises of pleasure and pain, you can't help but wonder what fate has brought you to this moment, where his will dominates your own and the line between fear and longing blurs into something dangerous and intoxicating.

goodness that wholeee last line is so beautifully described. even though its a long one it doesn't even feel dragged on, just a string of pretty words dancing.

"Don’t look away," he breathed, his nose brushing yours with each slow, deliberate motion—like he needed you to witness what he was doing. You did, though your vision blurred with the weight of it all. Maybe it was instinct, maybe something deeper—but you obeyed. Looking into his eyes was like staring down a storm: wild, old, and wholly untamable.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmured again, breath hitching against your cheek, his drawl low and possessive. “Ain’t no one ever gonna see you like this but me, you understand?”

EYE CONTACTTTTT. i go crazy over this. feral even. love love love. the smut was so good !!! how reader feels that pull, can't stop wanting it even though the warning bells are ringing. the possessiveness, the claiming. grrr.

“You’re mine now,” he breathed, voice coated in something reverent and frightening all at once. “Ain’t just sayin’ that either—I felt it in my bones the second I saw you. Like God carved you out just for me.”

ohhhhhhhdndkdjeiedklfl. im a sucker for religious themes this is so good. reverent ??? as if reader was carved by God just for remmick ?????? in shambles this is delicious writing.

phew that was a ride !! thank you ada for introducing me to sinners :DD this was sooo good and well written, it really makes me wanna read other works of this character ! dont mind me snooping through remmick's tags after this hehe. thank you for writing, splendid work ada <3

Baked In Blood

summary: Driven by kindness, you walk to a secluded house every day, leaving freshly baked pies for the mysterious man who never shows himself. But when your neighbor, Mrs. Hatcher, is violently killed one night, everything changes. As fear spreads through the town, the man you've been silently serving steps into your life—and the true, terrifying nature of his obsession begins to unravel.

warnings: non-con, dub-con, explicit content, dirty talk, mentions of blood and murder, forest sex, prey and predator dynamics

pairing: dark!remmick x fem!reader

words: 6k

based off this request

The air was thick with that early morning quiet — not cold, but not warm yet either. Just still. Hushed. Like the world hadn’t quite decided to wake up. The pie in your hands was still warm, warmed in a red gingham towel that gave a slight aroma of sugar and cinnamon. You carried it like you always did, how you carried it to his house every morning. Steady, careful, both hands under the dish so the heat didn’t slip through and burn your fingers.

You took the long way, even though you didn’t have to. Past the lot where the hydrangeas used to grow, Past the old gas station that hadn’t sold gas in years. The street was empty, save for a squirrel darting across the sidewalk and a newspaper half soaked in dew.

You liked mornings like this. Quiet ones. Nobody needing anything from you yet. 

His house sat at the far end of the block, past where the road cracked deeper and the shade settled in early. You could barely see the roofline through the trees most days. No cars in the drive. No signs of the sun shining into his house in the mornings, windows and curtains closed. Just that porch with the crooked step and the step and the front door that never opened. 

You didn’t know who he was. No one really did. 

You’d never seen him up close. Never heard his voice. Just a name once, muttered by a neighbor who looked like she regretted saying it the second it left her mouth.

But none of that mattered. Never mattered to you. 

You climbed the creaking and worn steps like usual, pie in hand, the porch groaning under your weight. You paused at the door. Knocked once… twice then three times and that was it. Never more. 

SIlence only met you. Not even a sign of a curtain drawing back. Though you waited just for a few seconds more. Long enough to maybe give him a chance to open the door and accept the pie you usually baked.  

There were signs he took the dishes you left on the little table posted by the chair on his porch. And you needed him to open the door sooner or later in the future because you sure were running out your plates and dishes. 

So you crouched down slightly, set the pie down on the small round table. You adjusted the towel, smoothed it down with your fingers. And then left like you always did. Same way you came. With your back turned you never saw the figure that stood by the window– shifting the curtain ever so slightly to watch you leave.

It was a good twenty five minutes by the time you reached your gates, your rhoughts still back at that old house. You’d never gotten anything in return except for an empty door. But it didn’t stop you. Some things couldn’t be helped, and kindness was one of them. It was just who you were.

You didn’t know why you were this way– always looking out for others, always taking the time to lend a hand, even if it meant nothing in return. Maybe it was because your mama had always taught you that small acts of kindness could make all the difference in a world that could be a little too harsh and unyielding sometimes. Or maybe it was just your heart, too damn big for its own good.

You’d seen people look at you strangely when you held the door open for them or when you offered a smile to the grumpy old guy who owned a small grocery store cross the street who barely even returned the smile. But you didn’t mind. You’d always been this way, and you’d always keep doing it— whether it was helping your neighbor Mrs Hatcher with her groceries or just leaving one too many baked goods for a man who never even bothered to show his face. 

As you reached the steps of your porch, you noticed Mrs Hatcher was sitting outside again, her rocking chair creaking steadily. The morning sun barely touched her, casting her face in a sharp light that made her look even more critical than usual. You almost didn’t want to stop, but you were too polite, so you gave her a quick wave as you neared the gate. 

She didn't wave back. Not like how she would regularly do so. Instead, she looked you up and down, her eyes narrowing slightly, and for a moment, the silence between you both felt a little too thick. “Been out walking again, huh?” she said, her voice carrying the same sharpness it always did, but now there was something else in it— a little more judgement, a little less warmth than usual.

You nodded. “Just dropped something off.”

Her eyes flickered toward the street, and she took a slow drag from her cigarette, the smoke curling up into the air like it had a mind of its own. “And what’s that, exactly? Your ‘good deed’ for the day?” You shifted on your feet, a little uncomfortable, but you didn’t want to seem rude. “Just took the guy that lives in that old house near the woods a pie. I baked it in the morning.”

Mrs Hatcher raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair as if shw was trying to make some sense of you. “That house,” she started slowly, like she was comprehending her own words in her head before letting them out, “It ain’t one for pies, sugar. And it ain’t one for kindness neither. You might want to stop before you‘re the only one left out there handing things to a ghost.” 

You felt a small flutter in your chest, but you didn’t show it. Sure you’ve heard the whispers about that house— from the strange way it sat, half hidden behind thick trees, the rumours that no one had ever seen the man who supposedly lived there. People called him strange, distant, dangerous even, but it didn’t faze you. You didn’t need to know him to know that everyone deserved a little kindness. 

“I’m sure he’ll like it,” you said simply, smiling. “He’s always been taking them in.” 

Mrs Hatcher’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “Is that so huh?” She leaned forward, the creaking of her chair louder now, her tone dripping with a subtle challenge. “Well, maybe he don’t mind. But I’m telling you sugar, one day you’ll find out kindness don’t always come back around the way you think it will.”

You didn’t know why, but there was something in the way she said it that left a bitter taste in your mouth. Something that didn't sit right. But you ignored it, like you always did with her not bothering to listen to any of the bullshit any more, you just gave a simple smile and nodded. “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” you said, offering a half smile before stepping toward your front door. 

The last thing you heard before you entered was Mrs Hatcher’s voice, barely above a murmur, like she was talking to herself. “Just be careful, girl. There’s kindness… and then there’s being a fool for it, and that’s you right now.”

You didn’t let it bother you. It was just Mrs Hatcher, always watching, always waiting for something to go wrong. But somehow, her words hung in the air, and for the first time in a while, you wondered if there might be more to her warning then you realized.

Everyone was shocked to hear the news, but nobody could say they were surprised. 

It wasn’t the kind of thing that was completely unexpected in a place like this. The kind of place where people get to be known by their routines, their quirks and their habits. So when the sheriff made his rounds, grim faced and speaking low, people leaned in a little closer, nodding pretending they didn’t already know.

Mrs Hatcher had been found in her chair— rocking still, like she was just taking one of her usual evening naps. But this time, her chair wasn’t creaking from the wear of decades. It was still in a way it never had been before. Her neck, torn open, blood spread thick across the porch, pooling like dark wine against the old wood. 

It was late, the street bathed in that heavy hush. The silence clung to the scene, to the dark windows and the front door that creaked ever so slightly due to the wind. 

But it wasn’t just the manner of her death that had the town rattled. It was the fact that it had happened right there. Just a few houses down from where you could practically hear the crickets and see the stars in their endless stretch above. Mrs Hatcher had never been the type to keep quiet. She knew too much, talked too loud, watched too long— and all her sharp words, there was always a thin, hidden thread of fear running underneath them. 

The sheriff said it was too early to say much. But you didn’t need to be a damn detective to know that whatever had happened to Mrs Hatcher, it had come from the deep shadows beyond the streetlight’s reach. And that, as always, made you nervous. 

You stood at the edge of the gathering, the murmurs of the townsfolk was a distant hum as your eyes were just fixed on Mrs Hatcher's porch. The air was thick with the scent of iron and something else— something you couldn’t quite place.

As you begin to take a cautious step closer, a sudden chill ran down your spine. You turned slightly, sensing a presence behind you. 

Remmick stood there, half shrouded in shadow, his eyes reflecting the dim light with an unsettling gleam. His expression was unreadable, but there was a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth when he saw your reaction to him somehow startling you.

“Ain’t you—” you began to say, but he beat you to it, laughing low in his throat as he took a slow, deliberate step forward. “Lord, you spook easy,” he said, voice thick just soft enough to make you lean in without meaning to. “Didn’t mean to startle you, sugar. Though I s’pose I got a knack for it.”

You didn’t answer right away— couldn’t, really. It wasn’t just that he’d come out of nowhere. It was that this was the first time you were actually seeing him. Up close. And he wasn’t what you expected. He was just a normal man. Tall, wth skin pale like it hadn’t met sunlight in years. But it wasn’t his looks that held you. It was something else you couldn't quite take hold on. 

“You’re…” The words trailed from your lips, thin and uncertain,

“Remmick,” he offered, with the faintest tilt of his head, the smile still ghosting at the corners of his mouth. “Though it sounds like folks ‘round here prefer other names for me.”

He glanced across the street, toward the sea of curious people that had gathered in front of Mrs Hatcher’s house. The porch light burned too bright now, casting hard shadows over shaken faces and murmured prayers. Someone was crying, but no one had dared to step past the old woman’s front gate. No one even noticed him. Not with the chaos. Not with the way the fear made them all look anywhere but the dark.

“Hell of a night,” he muttered, almost to himself, voice curing like smoke in the stillness. 

Then he looked back at you. “You been bringing those baked goods, didn’t you, specially the one today?” 

You blinked. “What?”

“The one in the red towel. Sugar and cinnamon.” His gaze lingered. “Tasted real good.” 

Unease tightened in your chest, and something more but you weren’t sure if it was fear or something colder.

He chuckled again—low, almost fond. “Meant to bring the dish back. Got a mind like a cracked jar, though. Things slip out easy.”

You swallowed, unsure if you meant to nod.

“If you’re not too spooked to walk back with me,” he said, voice light like he was asking you to fetch a paper off the porch, “I could hand it off now.”

He held your gaze a second longer, then added with a crooked smile, “Seems like nobody’s watchin’ but you anyhow.”

You cleared your thrat, trying to keep your voice steady. “That’s alright, I can just come by in the mornin’ and pick it up.” 

You didn’t even get another sentence out before he titled his head, slow and deliberate, and stepped in just a tad closer. “Nah,” he said, low and smooth, like he was talking to some skittish animal. “Best do it now.” There was something in the way he said it—not harsh, but final. As if he was the one deciding for you instead. 

You tried to laugh it off, light and easy. “It’s no trouble really. I don't mind—” 

“But I do,” he cut in, still smiling. “Ain’t polite, lettin’ a lady like you walk all the way just to fetch her own plate back. ‘Sides, I got somethin’ for you.” That made you pause. “A gift,” he added, like he was sweetening the offer, though the word came off strange in his mouth, like he’d never had much reason to use it. “For all those baked goods. Seemed only right.” 

You hesitated, eyes flicking toward the crowd again that was still buzzing around Mrs Hatcher’s porch, not a single one of them looking in your direction. His voice dropped slightly, though the smile stayed. “AIn’t nobody gonna notice you’re gone, sugar. Not tonight.”

And it was true. They wouldn’t. The streetlamps were dim, the shadows stretched long, and everyone’s attention was wrapped up on what had happened. You could simply leave easy right now, and nobody would even call your name. 

You swallowed, throat dry.

He turned then, back toward the narrow path leading toward the woods. “C’mon,” he said over his shoulder, his husky and slow with a soft roughness to it. “It’s just a short walk. You already know the way.” 

Yeah a short walk… a twenty five minute short walk with a guy you baked for but he never did have the face to open the door, and suddenly he’s asking you to follow him home after the events that took place tonight. But you didn’t give it a thought any longer, telling yourself you were just now paranoid. So you just followed behind him.

The road felt longer this time. Each step kicked up dust that didn’t seem to settle, and the cicadas had gone quiet, like even they didn’t want to listen in. You kept a few paces behind him, watching the sway of his shoulders, the way he didn’t look back once—not even to make sure you were still there.

You told yourself it was fine. He was just being polite. Returning a dish, offering a gift. That’s all it was.

But the dark felt thicker out here. Heavier. Like it was pressing in, one slow breath at a time.

It was a good ten minutes before either of you spoke.

Just shoes on the forest floor. The occasional creak of a distant fence outside of the trees shifting in the wind. You were starting to think maybe he wasn’t much for small talk—maybe he’d changed his mind about that “gift” entirely—when his voice finally cut through the dark.

“You always that generous with folks who don’t bother sayin’ thank you?”

You blinked. “Figured you were just shy.”

That made him huff a laugh. “Is that what they’re callin’ it these days.”

You could see the back of his head tilt slightly, like he was chewing on whatever thought came next. Then he added, “Truth be told, I didn’t expect you to keep bringin’ those goods. Thought you’d give up after the second one went untouched.”

“They weren’t untouched,” you said quietly.

Another beat of silence.

“No,” he said at last. “No, they weren’t.”

And that was all he said.

Just enough to make your skin prickle.

You kept walking, telling yourself you were just tired. Just tired and rattled from everything with Mrs. Hatcher. But still, something in his voice made you wonder if the pies were all he’d been taking.

The road narrowed as you walked, the trees leaning in closer like they were listening, their bare branches creaking softly in the wind as though whispering to one another. Crickets had gone quiet somewhere along the way. You didn’t notice when. Just that the silence had started to hum, low and constant, like something was holding its breath.

“You always walk this way alone?” he asked, voice low like he was afraid to break something in the dark, or maybe like he hoped he would.

You glanced at him. “Most mornings.”

“Brave,” he muttered, though it didn’t sound like praise. “Folks ‘round here talk too much and see too little. That kind of silence’s dangerous when no one’s listenin’ right.”

“You listen?”

“Sometimes,” he said. Then, with a half-smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, “Don’t mean I always like what I hear.” You didn’t answer that. Just kept your eyes ahead, the trees curling over the path like ribs, and the moonlight catching in strange, pale flashes on the gravel. It wasn’t the first time you’d taken this road, but it felt unfamiliar now, like the dirt had been stirred different, like something unseen had stepped ahead of you first and left the path colder behind it.

“Why now?” you asked suddenly, the question clawing out before you could think better of it. “All this time, you never said a word. Never showed your face. Then tonight, after—” you didn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t need to. The name didn’t need to be said again out loud.

He took his time responding, just like he took his time walking. “Reckon I just figured the timing was right.”

“That because of Mrs. Hatcher?”

That smile again. Crooked. Sharp at the edges. “Didn’t say that.”

You stopped walking for a beat, not because you meant to, but because something in your chest pulled tight. “But you didn’t say it wasn’t.”

He looked back at you slowly, eyes gleaming in the dark like wet stones, and for a second, his face was half-lit by the moon, carved in angles and shadows that didn’t look entirely human. “You ask a lot of questions for someone still walkin’ beside me.”

That stopped you more than anything. Not the words, but the way he said them—calm, like he was commenting on the weather. Like he already knew you’d keep walking anyway.

And you did.

Maybe it was foolishness. Maybe it was that same part of you that kept leaving pies at the door of a man you’d never seen, even when the dishes never came back. That stupid softness your mama used to call your ‘God-given curse.’ Either way, your feet moved before your mouth could argue.

Ten more minutes, you told yourself. Just ten more minutes. And then you’d turn around.

But deep down, you already knew you wouldn’t.

The woods felt suffocating, each step you took making the air grow thicker, heavier, as though something in the darkness was pressing against you. It wasn’t just the trees, it wasn’t just the silence. It was him.

Remmick walked ahead of you, so calm, so assured—like this was all part of some twisted game, and you were the only one who didn’t know the rules. His back was turned, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was aware of you, every movement of yours, every step you took.

Finally, you couldn’t do it anymore. The weight of his presence, the heavy silence, the way he didn’t even seem to care that you were still walking behind him—it all piled up. You had to say something.

“I think I’m just gonna head home,” you said, your voice shaky, betraying the panic you were trying to keep under control. “You can just give me the dishes and gifts another time.” Your words felt like a desperate attempt to break the tension, but they fell into the woods like a pebble into a deep, dark well—no echo, no response.

For a moment, there was nothing but the low rustling of the trees, the soft whisper of the night wind. Then, without turning to face you, his voice cut through the air—low, dark, chilling.

“Daft.”

It wasn’t a word. It was a sentence. A judgment.

You froze. His voice, though soft, felt like it was wrapping around your throat, squeezing just enough to make it hard to breathe. Your heart skipped a beat, your skin prickling. You couldn’t tell whether it was fear, the cold, or something else entirely making your body shudder.

Your mouth went dry, but you tried to force out something—anything to break this moment, this growing nightmare. “I—I'm just not feeling well. I think I should go.”

You took a step back, but he wasn’t having it. He didn’t even turn to face you.

“Daft,” he repeated, sharper now. “You think I’d let you walk away after you followed me here?” Your breath hitched. Your feet felt glued to the ground, like the air was too thick to move through. You wanted to run, to scream, but your body betrayed you, stuck in place as if you were trapped in quicksand.

You looked at him now—his back still turned—but something about his posture had shifted. It wasn’t just his body language, though. It was in the air. It was in the space between you. Something darker had taken root, something unrecognizable.

He finally turned, slowly, deliberately, and the smile he gave you wasn’t the same one from earlier. There was nothing warm in it. It was sharp, cold, like a blade dragging across skin.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. His eyes locked onto yours, but they were different now—flickers of red deepening in the corners, glowing faintly in the dim light. He didn’t look human but at the same time he did.

He took a step closer, and you backed up, your heart pounding faster. But your feet wouldn’t move. You wanted to run, but your body was paralyzed. The closer he came, the harder it was to breathe. “You don’t just walk away from me, sugar,” he said, his voice smooth like silk, but each word felt like a weight. “You don’t follow me into the woods and think you can just... leave.”

There it was again—his smile, wider now, crueler. It made your stomach twist, nausea rising up your throat.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he asked, his voice almost too calm. “You think you’re safe, walking through the woods like this? Like I’m some normal guy you can just forget about?” He took another step toward you, and you felt yourself sway back, but your feet stayed planted.

His eyes were glowing now, too bright in the dark, his pupils slit like a predator’s. This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be happening.

“You wanna know what it felt like?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, eyes narrowing. The way he looked at you then—like he was studying something precious, something fragile—made a shiver crawl down your spine. “What it felt like to kill Mrs. Hatcher?”

You blinked, eyes wide. Your mouth opened, but no words came. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

“Her blood was so warm,” he whispered, as if speaking to himself, the words heavy with something sinister. “The moment my teeth sank into her throat, she stopped fighting. She knew. She knew she couldn’t outrun it, couldn’t escape me. But she didn’t stop trying, not at first. She kicked. She scratched. She screamed—but there was no sound. No sound at all once I got my hand over her mouth.”

You could barely hold your ground now, your legs trembling. Every word he said made you want to run, but your body was frozen, immobilized by something you couldn’t explain.

“She tried so hard to get away,” Remmick continued, his voice softer now, like he was savoring the memory. “But the harder she fought, the better it felt. I could feel her pulse—fast, frantic, desperate. It was like the world had slowed down, and all I could hear was the sound of her blood rushing, beating in her veins, until it wasn’t.”

Your body was shaking now, your hands clenched into fists by your sides. You couldn’t escape his gaze, couldn’t escape the pull of his voice.

“She went limp, finally. And I could taste it—the victory, the power. The moment her body stopped fighting? That was the moment I knew. I knew it was perfect.”

You felt sick, but you couldn’t look away. His eyes—those damn eyes—had you trapped, every word sinking deeper into your chest, twisting, turning.

“You should’ve stayed away,” he murmured, taking another step closer, and your body lurched, the terror of it all finally making your feet move. But not fast enough. “But now it’s too late darlin’ cause I intend to keep you for myself now.”

That was when you began running.

Branches whipped your arms and tore at your clothes, but you didn’t feel it. You were moving on instinct—raw, clumsy, frantic. The darkness swallowed the path, and still you ran, lungs burning, eyes stinging. You didn’t even know where you were going. Just away.

Behind you, his footsteps didn’t rush. He wasn’t chasing. He was following. Like a predator who already knew exactly where you’d end up. “Keep running,” he called, voice almost playful. Almost. “It’ll only make me want to fuck you harder.” You didn’t scream. You couldn’t. Your throat was tight with terror, your body buzzing with the kind of panic that drowns thought.

Then your foot caught—root, rock, something—and the forest flipped sideways. You hit the ground hard, your palms shredding on gravel and bark. The pain jolted up your arms and knocked the air from your lungs. You scrambled to your feet, but your ankle screamed the second you put weight on it. There wasn’t time—he was too close.

So you crawled. Half-dragging yourself through the underbrush, eyes wild, hands trembling, and ducked behind the thick trunk of a gnarled pine. You pressed yourself against the bark, heart slamming against your ribs so loud you were sure he could hear it. The forest had gone still.

Dead still.

You clamped a hand over your mouth to quiet your breathing, every breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps through your nose.

He yelled out your name—how’d he even know your name? There was a guttural edge to his voice—low, primal—that tore something loose in you. You cried silently, not daring to make noise, not out of fear, but because your body didn’t know what else to do.

He found you before you could move again — an arm slipping around your waist from behind. You barely had time to gasp before he pulled you back, gently but firmly, like you'd simply wandered too far. 

Then, without warning, your head was guided down, not slammed, but pressed hard enough into the earth that the shock still jarred you. Dizziness bloomed behind your eyes. By the time you blinked through it, Remmick was already on top of you, his body blanketing yours with a frightening calm. His chest pressed against your back, steady, too steady. One hand slid up, slow and deliberate, until it curled around your throat — not choking, just holding. Controlling.

A broken sound escaped you as tears streamed down your face, hot and helpless. Your fingers clawed instinctively at his hand, the one wrapped so carefully—so cruelly around your throat. There was no strength in your resistance, only fear and the desperate hope that he might hesitate. 

He takes his hand from your neck, and you barely register when it slips beneath your long nightgown. One hand forcefully parts your thighs—rough and possessive—while the other holds your wrists captive above your head. "You don’t even know," he murmurs, his voice almost gentle, as he continues "You're fortunate that I want you all to myself."

You try to push against his hold, but he only tightens his grip, his touch sending shivers down your spine. His words echo in your mind as fear and confusion swirl within you. You feel trapped, vulnerable beneath him as he looms over you with a hunger in his eyes that chills you to the core. 

You can see the intensity of his gaze fixed upon you, a mixture of desire and possession that makes your heart race with both terror and a strange, forbidden thrill. And as his lips brush against your ear, whispering promises of pleasure and pain, you can't help but wonder what fate has brought you to this moment, where his will dominates your own and the line between fear and longing blurs into something dangerous and intoxicating.

You don’t even notice he’s moved your undergarments aside, not warning you.You suddenly wince as he inserts two fingers at once, not bothering to be gentle. His breath is hot on your neck, his voice a low growl. "You're mine now. Every part of you belongs to me." You can feel his heartbeat, steady and calm, unlike your own which is pounding wildly against your ribs. His fingers move inside you, exploring, claiming, and you gasp, your body betraying you with a shiver of pleasure.

He shifts slightly, his lips trailing down from your ear to your collarbone, leaving a path of fire in their wake. "You can fight it all you want," he whispers, his voice like velvet darkness, "but your body knows who it belongs to." His thumb finds your most sensitive spot, circling slowly, deliberately, drawing out a moan from deep within you despite the fear that still lingers in your eyes.

You buck against him, a futile attempt to deny the sensations coursing through you.

He laughs softly against your skin, a sound that resonates with triumph. His teeth graze your shoulder, a gentle bite that should be a warning, but your mind is a swirl of confusion and desire. The nightgown tangles around your waist as he shifts again, releasing your wrists to push the fabric higher.

Oddly enough, when your fight waned, that was when things…changed. "There she is," he says, his hands warm on your bare hips. You know you should run, scream, do anything to break free from the spell his touch weaves around you, but your muscles betray you, your body succumbing in various ways as pleasure envelops you completely.

"You were made for this," he breathes, his eyes dark with certainty. He pins you down again, and this time you don’t struggle, the fight leaving your limbs as your own desires betray you. You can sense the mounting bliss intensifying within you, building pressure in your lower core as you teeter on the edge, about to climax on his fingers.

He watches your face closely, like a man studying a piece of art, ready for the moment when it overtakes you. "There you go darlin’," he murmurs, urging you on, and the sound of his voice is the final push. You cry out as waves of release crash through you and every nerve in your body sings with surrender.

He holds you through it, his fingers slowing to a languid pace until your breathing evens and your heart calms, pulling back slightly to look at you, satisfaction etched across his face. He removes his fingers slowly and careful, you don’t even have a second to even catch a break before you can hear the rustling of his belt and pants and you know what's coming. He parts your legs wider, opening you to him again, and presses against your entrance.

“Gonna claim ya real good now darlin’, you’re doing such a good job.” The sensation of him entering you is intense���stretching, burning, and pulling you apart with the thick, weighty movement of his shaft. He fills you completely, every inch commanding submission, and you arch under him, the feeling overwhelming and all-consuming.

 His hands grip your hips, steadying you, pulling you closer as he begins to move. He thrusts slow and deep, each motion a deliberate staking of his claim, and your body responds in ways you can't control, meeting his rhythm, rising to meet him as he buries himself inside you over and over.

Your mind reels with the impossibility of it, the way desire silences resistance, and your body betrays every instinct to flee, surrendering instead to the brutal, relentless pleasure he forces upon you. You gasp his name, a broken plea caught between a cry and a moan, and he only pushes harder, his breath hot and wild against your throat.

"That's it," he groans, his voice rough with need, "take it all."

As he bent down to kiss you, you without thinking returned the gesture. His thumb grazed your damp skin, and a soft hum in his throat soon transformed into a groan. You didn't desire it, nor did your mind, yet it seemed as though your body was operating independently, driven by hormones.

His hand snaked through your hair, pulling gently as his lips pressed against yours with a fierce hunger. The kiss deepened, full of demand and promise, his teeth and tongue teasing you until you couldn't tell where you ended and he began. The force of it all—the thrusting, the kissing, the claiming—pulled you further into a daze where pleasure eclipsed pain, and you were lost, floating on the brink of something infinite.

Your body arched helplessly, wave after wave of sensation leaving you breathless, raw, and vulnerable. He quickened his pace, his movements more urgent, pushing you both toward an inevitable release. The air was thick with the sound of skin on skin, punctuated by his ragged breaths and your own soft, involuntary cries. It was too much, too fast, and yet nothing else mattered in those moments but the wild, terrible ecstasy of being taken, utterly and completely. 

You closed your eyes, too overcome with the overstimulation, he curved his hips deeper into you.  “Open your eyes darlin’.” He says getting your attention again. You obeyed, though some quiet part of you understood how dangerous it was—how locking eyes with the one unraveling you piece by piece would only carve the memory deeper.

"Don’t look away," he breathed, his nose brushing yours with each slow, deliberate motion—like he needed you to witness what he was doing. You did, though your vision blurred with the weight of it all. Maybe it was instinct, maybe something deeper—but you obeyed. Looking into his eyes was like staring down a storm: wild, old, and wholly untamable.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmured again, breath hitching against your cheek, his drawl low and possessive. “Ain’t no one ever gonna see you like this but me, you understand?”

The air felt thick, like the woods themselves were leaning in to watch. His nose brushed yours with every movement, his brow pressed to your temple. You weren’t sure when the tears started again, but they did—quiet, unrelenting.

“You’re mine now,” he breathed, voice coated in something reverent and frightening all at once. “Ain’t just sayin’ that either—I felt it in my bones the second I saw you. Like God carved you out just for me.”

As he continued to whisper shameful, dirty words to you, saying things like you’d never leave him, and as he still relentelly thrusted into you, his mouth found your neck—then came the sharp, sinking pain of his bite. It wasn’t just teeth. It was a claim. A seal. Something final.

And in the haze of it all, in the breathless dark, you stopped fighting the truth. Somewhere between fear and surrender… you accepted it.

[meirimerens]

what are rubin's thoughts on daniil as his quasi brother-in-law? and what are your thoughts on older burakhovsky as a couple? i live for your verbal vignettes in ask responses, really feels like im there...

you are indeed here you are homonculus in my study from behind the glass of this bocal youre in you see me pace around talking to myself running my hand in my hair like a maniac until I suddenly walk to your shelf and lean over towards the bocal you're in like this

and force you to listen to me.

anyways as far as Rubins thought on Dankovsky Well he doesn't hate him as much as he's hated burakh in the past you know. even as the rubin burakh relationship has been/is more complicated than brotherly bond [I'd argue it barely is especially in p2, it's not about being a brother to him its about being him. A topic for another time] they've been very much Cain & Abel yeah. Like rubin has wanted to hit burakh over the head with a rock if that meant being favored by god I mean isidor. but dankovsky well. he has no animosity towards him, as a pseudo-in-law or as a guy in general. indeed they have mutual respect and indebtedness for The Plague Time and maybe rubin thinks dankovsky kinda has bad taste in men since he still has residual desire to hit burakh with a rock [not out of hatred or jealousy anymore, just to see what that'd be like], but like. <peterstakhblogreminder> rubin can talk. like he doesn't have the best taste in men either. </peterstakhblogreminder>. Rubin is doubly in dankovkys circle from him being 1) his pseudobrother's hubby 2) his own hubby's like. third side of the threefold coin or whatever. so they do run onto each other frequently. when dankovsky shoulders burakh at his medical practice rubin is also there. the healers and also rubin you know. he sees dankovsky be bad at cooking and burakh taking over the stove and is like damn maybe he's just some guy. there is the type of respectful distance you'd expect from in-laws except rubin has seen dankovsky get tipsy in Peter's attic and he called burakh to come pick up his man.

Re:older burakhovsky i got this thing and that thing unsure how much I'm repeating of them rn [can't open multiple tabs on mobile] but basically mellower right. still got some deep dark residual fears yeah I don't think that ever goes away. Holding onto each other at night sometimes. Chronic pains a lot of those. Grumpy together. Burakh busies himself making all sorts of teas balms cataplasms to help with dankovskys arthritis and back pain and strain and this and that and lather it on him. reciprocally from dankovskys part. Learns basic herbal medicine so he can be a bit independent in his medicating and also provide some to burakh. burakh doesn't retire for he is more than a doctor; dankovsky shoulders him. [NEW LORE UNLOCKED FROM P3Q] we've seen dankovsky likes Writing The Self [In] right... self-mythology self-biography [something other than autobiography] and the #realones know I've always believed he writes something once back from the plague well as he gets older he writes more obvious fiction. It might even start as tales burakh tells mishka to sleep. kind of Lewis Carollesque but a different guy. Gets burakh into beetle collecting and burakh gets him into herbaria. oh, all sorts of hand pains from writing/typing at thag typewrite/sewing & knitting for burakh... arthritis? possibly. they already have a Hand Thing for each other in their early days as they grow old it doesn't falter -> the analgesic cataplasms massaged on longly. At least one of them eventually needs glasses maybe both. Looking like alchemists. When the legs hurt the days are spent sitting (inside or outside), flipping through herbalism/botany/astronomy/anatomy books dankovsky has [once] brought back from the capital. with the big glasses on. You know?

[angels-heap]

Asides from the whole age gap valhoun discourse, why do you actually ship them? Like whats their dynamic im genuinely curious,,, i probably dont see it bc i cant see it as a cannon thing bc when I get interested in smth i often find myself sticking close to cannon unless its an AU

Oh yeah, valhoun's about as canon as freehoun (which is to say, Valve 100% did not intend for anyone to ship these two), but I'm a multishipper at heart despite being a canon stickler elsewhere. I think it's fun to imagine how Barney and Alyx would interact if they were put into Situations or if they spent more time together in canon. I've talked about the appeal of valhoun before (specifically here, here, and here that I could find), and other folks have also shared their thoughts. To summarize:

Unlike Gordon, Alyx and Barney are both (relatively) fleshed-out characters with known voices, mannerisms, personalities, and motivations. They don't seem to know each other well in canon, but this is never stated outright, so there's lots of room for interpretation. They're both a bit goofy/snarky, so there's potential for some excellent banter between them, and I personally find it easier to get into their heads (relative to Gordon's) and imagine them interacting for writing purposes, since I don't have to start from scratch.

Despite their age gap, Barney and Alyx have a lot in common and a lot to bond over (arguably more than other popular pairings; see the "none of us are free of sin" venn diagram). They've spent the same amount of time living on Combine-occupied earth and lost a significant chunk of their lives (Alyx's childhood; Barney's young adulthood) under Combine rule. They're both uniquely connected to Black Mesa and the resonance cascade. Perhaps most importantly, they're both involved with the Resistance, albeit in very different capacities, which entails shared goals and loyalties.

Because of their age gap, they're bound to encounter situational or interpersonal conflicts, which are an essential component of any compelling story. For instance, Barney remembers things and people from the Before Times that Alyx doesn't, but probably desperately wants to — possibly including her late mother. Alyx is optimistic and resilient in a way that Barney never will be but may find refreshing, because despite her best efforts, she can't fully comprehend what was lost and thus has not developed the same bitterness. I can also see her canonical empathy and naivete coming into play in a relationship with Barney (or anyone else, for that matter). I've said before that she approaches him like he's a stray dog she wants to rescue, and he regards her like a gift he doesn't deserve (that might also be a ticking time bomb). While I could go on for hours, I think that about sums it up.

There's potential for a whole "star-crossed lovers" dynamic here, if you squint. Whether they're just friends, or they're in love, or they're just hooking up to try and feel something, the fact remains that they can't develop any sort of meaningful relationship while Barney's undercover and Alyx is such a valuable Combine target. Any interactions between them are likely to be fleeting and dangerous and/or public. I like to imagine they're mutually attracted to one another, and they try to make it work for a while, but they end up taking one too many risks and someone (probably Barney) calls it off after a close call. Maybe they rekindle things post-canon, or maybe they don't. It's a choose your own adventure where the adventure is delicious angst. And on that note...

Valhoun can exist between HL1 and HL2 canon. Honestly, a big part of the appeal of valhoun to me as a writer is that it gives me an excuse to explore what all our favorite characters were up to while Gordon was in stasis. What was the Resistance working on in the years leading up to Gordon's return? How did Barney seemingly become Dr. Kleiner's personal bodyguard? How's he holding up mentally in such a miserable situation, and what does his job actually entail? What was it like for Alyx to come of age as one of the youngest people alive, surrounded by middle-aged scientists? How did those experiences shape her into the person we meet in HL2? Sure, we don't necessarily need a shipping angle to explore these things, but interpersonal relationships are a big part of the human experience, so a little sprinkle of valhoun adds some extra flavor.

Alyx and Barney are both hot. That's not the whole appeal, or even the main appeal, but it's worth mentioning. I am a filthy bisexual and I want to make the hot dolls kiss. So sue me.

I'm not arguing that valhoun is the "best" HL ship or even my favorite ship, but it's got plenty of room for humor, angst, and character development and hot people kissing. I hope this post helps other folks see my/our vision and get on board. A little variety is good for any fandom ecosystem. :)

[beepboopappreciation]

I've noticed a trend

[cloud-ya]

rewatched sonic 3 last night, still gets me gripping my plushie's hand entire length. have some studies and doodles I forgot to include in the last art dump

[simcardiac-arrested]

never volunteer for anything university related man. also go listen to this

[cator99]

out of curiosity, would you consider yourself butch?

used to be a blonde underweight twink and now I'm a based jock still got the chanel bag and the sick albeit matured mind of a suckpig to prove it so I'm gonna let you decide whether you wanna call me that word just cuz I got a pussy and short hair. I promise you that there have been enough advancements made in the art of lesbian sexual dynamics in the past 50 years to broaden the vocabulary used to describe the plethora of types of masculine females.

[reds-skull]

Bringer of Demise - Chapter 1

[MAKAROV'S FATE COMIC] [AO3]

When I say I've been thinking about this ever since finishing part 1...

I'm very excited to start a new multi-chapter story, doubly so with revenant AU! I'm not sure how long this will be, but I have a feeling it will be longer than part 1 :)

For those that skipped the side-stories, some details in this chapter refer to them, they're not a must-read to understand, but I heavily encourage it! You're also welcome to read the comic, it shows Makarov and Fate's reactions to the events of part 1...

Now, before I start rambling again... Chapter 1: The Labyrinthine Design of Fate

He always had a sort of scorching at his chest. A never-ending flame, bugs beneath his skin. As if he was burning alive.

As if he never escaped his self-made grave.

Even now, he could feel it, little legs of burning moths climbing up and down his arms, an overwhelming sensation that hasn’t left him in six years-

Except… There, a hand slides over his. Cool, a running river between his fingers. A breath of the void in a world so loud.

Soap smiles. Simon.

“Finally awake, Johnny?”

He buries his face into the pillow, hiding his growing grin. The hand continues to hold his, and that’s all the reasons he needs to continue sleeping.

“Gonna be like that, hm?” the voice hums thoughtfully, “I went to a zoo last month. Wouldn’t recommend, all they had was some dog.”

Soap frowns. He isn’t going to…

“It was a shitzu.”

He groans. “Ye didn’t…” Soap cracks open an eye, staring unimpressed at Simon’s crinkling eyes.

Simon pulls at his hand, making him sit up, “should be honored you’re waking up to my wonderful jokes.” he lets go of him, turning back to his desk. Soap notices the half-filled reports covering it.

Even several weeks later, the 141 is practically sinking under the mountain of paperwork that dropped on them as soon as they returned to the UK.

Soap flops back onto the bed, “rather be sleepin’ than hearing that shite.” Simon doesn’t give him a response, his pen gliding once again on the paper. “Is this one above my clearance as well?”

“No. Just forms to apply for changes in our Revenant documents, again.”

“You’d think they’d figure it out by now…” he turns to stare at the ceiling, an odd feeling in his chest.

The day they met… Lumity, Soap was ecstatic. It was a proof of his and Simon’s eternal connection, breaking the final barrier between them, showing that even the Reapers themselves couldn’t keep them apart.

He’s still glad of that, mind. He would never ask to be separated from Simon. But…

But it’s not something they could hide. As much as Price and Laswell cover for them, to conceal the existence of a whole new Reaper was beyond them.

It’s that uncertainty that scares him. The higher-ups haven’t done anything with them yet, the whole taskforce grounded until the dust settles, but Soap is sure it won’t pass by quietly.

When it comes to him, nothing ever does, it seems.

He turns his head to stare at Simon again. The man he was fated to kill. The way he looks when they’re like this, hidden away from the world and the realms beyond it, when they’re just Johnny and Simon, never stops to mesmerize him. He thinks, if they were perhaps a little different, maybe this would’ve been permanent.

Then again, were they any different, they’d likely be dead by now.

The question ‘why did it choose me?’ is usually screamed in his mind when phantom blood covers his hands, when the answering thought is often ‘it shouldn’t have’. Soap asks himself again, but with curiosity.

How much does Fate know?

“You’re not sleeping again, are you?” Simon asks with a smile in his voice.

Soap gets up, stretching his back, “nothin’ else better to do, is there?”

“Could always help me with reports.”

He side-eyes Simon, “like I said, nothing better to do.”

Simon scoffs, and Soap opens his mouth to goad him to another round of bickering, when a sort of buzzing goes up his spine. Simon’s shuddering back tells him he felt it as well.

“Our Reapers-” Simon locks eyes with him, when the world melts away.

When Soap comes to, the realm is dark. Cold. Words he’d never use to describe his Reaper.

Speaking of… where are they?

“S-Simon?” Soap looks around, finding him a few paces away, his head tilted up. His brows furrow, and he follows his line of sight.

Soap stumbles back, his heart pounding, “what- Buanaiche…?”

Lumity hangs above them, their body twisted, features broken by dark red. Pulled in different directions by the strings, it is as if something was trying to rip each limb apart, as if to separate… Ladder-like patterns and moths weave around the trapped being, light itself bound by crimson lines.

“What happened to you, Reaper?” Simon whispers, fear evident in his voice.

“FATE…… The invader… IT DARED ENTER OUR REALM…”

“Fate did this to you?” Soap’s eyes follow the red strings, where they disappear in the dark fog of Lumity’s realm.

Lumity’s head twitches, and gleaming white light drips from their neck. Soap asks himself, absentmindedly, if Reapers can even feel pain.

“LISTEN CLOSELY REVENANTS… Fate is plotting against us… Against your allies…”

A deafening sound cracks through the still air, making both Soap and Simon clutch at their ears. One of the strings snaps, only to loop back around one of Lumity’s many arms.

“A man with two faces will approach you… He will be an agent of Fate… YOU MUSTN’T FOLLOW HIM.”

“B-Buanaiche…” Soap winces when Lumity lets out a sound no words in any human language can describe, “what is Fate doing to you?”

“I will not bow down to it… I WILL NEVER BOW DOWN TO IT… This is nothing but a show… A petty show…”

Simon pulls at his sleeve, and takes his left hand, squeezing it tightly.

“Be vigilant, revenants… Fate is not alone…

IT IS NOT ONLY US THAT GAZE UPON YOU NOW…”

Before Soap could take another breath, Lumity’s realm swirls, and the only thing left is that which holds his hand, shaking with the same terror as him.

They collapse to the floor, Soap’s breath hitching in his throat. Simon grunts, bringing a hand to his ear to check if it’s bleeding. He looks up at him, and shakes his head minutely.

“We…” Simon starts, swallowing thickly, “we need to find Price and Gaz.”

Soap nods, pushing himself up to stand on numb legs. His mind feels like it’s pulled apart like his Reapers, thoughts forming only to dissipate.

He follows Ghost out of his barracks, his steps loud and sure, even if his fists still tremble at his sides. The hallways are silent, most soldiers out training at these hours. Ghost directs them towards the fields now, where Gaz should be supervising recruits.

As they get closer, a few of them run into the building, their faces red with exertion and heads swiveling around. 

Soap spots Cooper, one of the FNGs he often trains, and calls out to him, “what’s going on with you lot? Why are ye not in drills?”

“Sergeant MacTavish! Lieutenant!” Cooper shouts, the words leaving his mouth in one hurried breath, “They- the revenants on base, they’re all-”

Another recruit butts in, “they all just stopped moving, they’re not reacting to anything!”

Ghost scoffs, pushing between the soldiers to get to the doors. The rookies snap their mouths shut, staring with wide eyes at them as they exit to the training grounds.

Soap didn’t want to believe them, hoping to dismiss their worry off when seeing it himself, but it was exactly as they said.

Most soldiers are moving, gathered around still figures. He can see Gaz from here, his face slack. The few other revenants on base, the majority of them belonging to the Reaper of Flesh, are as motionless as him. 

“They’re all…” Soap mutters.

Ghost’s eyes narrow, “in their Reaper’s realm.”

“Think Fate got them too?” Soap walks towards Gaz, Ghost right behind him.

The recruits surrounding Kyle part for them, Ghost glaring at the ones that tried to shake Gaz, “no, but it can’t be a coincidence.”

Gaz stares at the horizon unblinking. The sight unnerves Soap, even if he knows he looks exactly like that when his Reaper summons him. He can’t recall if he’s ever seen a revenant in this state.

A movement catches his attention, and Soap takes a step back when Gaz’s hands start twitching, his body floating a few inches off the ground, muscles taut. One soldier from the small crowd around them asks, “i-is that normal?”

A moment later, as if an invisible cable snapped, Gaz falls to the ground, knocking the hat off his head trying to dig his fingers into his scalp.

Soap instantly crouches in front of him, noticing in his periphery how the rest of the revenants come to as well, “Gaz? Ye alright?”

Ghost snatches his hand when he goes to place it on Gaz’s shivering shoulder, and addresses Kyle, “Garrick, give me sitrep.”

Gaz shakes his head, a few muted sobs escaping him. “My… My Reaper…” he heaves, “it told me to c-choose.”

“Choose?” Soap prompts him.

“Between Fate and Lumity. Between Makarov… and you.” Kyle finally looks up, his eyes red and tearful, pupil blown, “I chose you. I would never- but my Reaper…” his face contorts, “it was… furious, or not- I don’t know-” he lets out a frustrated huff, “all I know, it wasn’t happy with my choice.”

Ghost offers Gaz a hand, and helps him up. He then turns to the rest of the recruits and snarls, “what are you standing ‘ere for? Get the fuck out of my sight!”

Their little crowd disperses like a flock of birds. Soap picks up Gaz’s baseball cap, brushing the dirt off and handing it to him, “the Reaper of Pull never did like Destruction… You think that’s what the other revenants were asked?” he asks Ghost.

Ghost lets go of Kyle, making sure he can stand by himself, “... Price knows more about how Fate operates than anyone else on base.”

Price’s thoughts leak far before his office even comes into view. They’re nothing but a jumbled mess of images and emotions, and none of them make the rising dread within Soap lessen.

Gaz hasn’t stopped shaking, his steps heavier, like he’s pushing himself towards the earth in an attempt to stay steady. They haven’t spoken a word on the way here, Ghost’s eyes darting around tensely.

Soap himself can’t make heads or tails from this. That buzzing sensation under his skin, that usually forebodes his Reaper pulling him to its realm, hasn’t left. His fingers burn brighter, flames trailing far behind him as they walk.

Ghost doesn’t bother knocking, swinging the door to Price’s office wide open and ushering Soap and Gaz inside before locking it behind them.

Soap looks at their Captain for a few moments, his head in his hands.

“... Price?” Kyle is the first to break the silence. Price lets out a shuddering sigh, and looks up.

The Captain removes his hat, gripping it tightly until his knuckles turn white, “it asked you to choose, I presume?”

Gaz nods, “Mine did, yeah, but… I don’t know about Ghost and Soap-”

“No.” Price cuts him off, tone devoid of any emotion. “Lumity isn’t in a position to ask, are they?” he studies them with narrowed eyes.

Soap stares back, feeling Price’s mind prob at his, picking apart what he saw in Lumity’s realm, what they told them. The warnings, Fate’s strings wrapping around light like spiderwebs.

“I met Makarov once, over a decade ago.” Price explains as he retreats from Soap’s thoughts, “we didn’t know it was him, at the time. But he knew we were coming.”

“He showed me what his powers can do, a fraction of his Reaper’s. In all my years, I’ve never read a mind quite like his.”

“What did you see?” Soap can’t help but ask, fear warring with curiosity. Makarov is an enigma, one they only know one thing about.

The Revenant of Fate is always several steps ahead.

Price closes his eyes, hands coming up to message his head, “he showed me my own fate. Showed me people I haven’t even met yet, dead at my feet. We were lucky, according to my Reaper, until now. Fate didn’t have much interest in Humanity.”

Something dreadful seeps into his gut, and Price doesn’t open his mouth when the next words appear in their brains.

“Now, it saw something that caught its attention.”

“IT IS NOT ONLY US THAT GAZE UPON YOU NOW”

… What have they done…?

Price fills Gaz in, about Lumity’s warning. They speak among themselves in hushed voices, debating on who could possibly be a traitor, what can be done to weed them out. Talking aimlessly, as they don’t know enough about the situation to figure anything out yet. Anything is better than the suffocating silence, though.

Soap found himself staring at the grout lines of the tiled floor, thoughts such a jumbled mess even Price stirs clear from his mind. Ghost isn’t deterred, however, and has been a constant presence by his side. As he has been, for the last few months.

Soap thinks he would’ve had an easier time accepting this if he was the one destined to die. But Ghost? He’d never regret not killing him.

It angers him, to the point he has to keep his entire focus on minimizing his flames - who gave Fate the right to decide who he kills?

How much power does Fate hold? Is it the one that decided who becomes a revenant, and who doesn’t?

If Fate can capture a Reaper, there’s no limit to what it can do to them.

Cool fingers wrap around his left hand, white fire heedless of the scarred skin. Soap looks up at Ghost, humming a question.

“Remember our promise.” is all Ghost says, and somehow that’s all Soap needs to take a mental step back, and breathe in deeply.

Soap echoes his words from weeks ago now, spoken under the warm glow of a fancy restaurant, with the same hand in his.

“Together.”

They hear a throat clearing after a few minutes, Price motioning for them to sit next to his desk.

“Before… This happened, I was planning on notifying you of something.” Price starts, his eyes locked onto Ghost’s, “Laswell and the higher-ups consulted Doctor Novikov about Lumity, and have come into the conclusion you two need to redo your revenant tests.”

Ghost scoffs, leaning back in his chair to sneer, “what is he going to tell us that we don’t already know? He didn’t know a bloody thing about Void before it merged, doubt he has any new revelations he could share with us.”

The Captain sighs heavily, and Soap gets the feeling this isn’t the first time a conversation of this sort happens between these two, “it’s part of the protocol, Simon. Or at least as much protocol that can be salvaged in your case.”

Soap leans in to half-whisper in Gaz’s ear, “ye know this… Novikov? The fuck’s he a doctor fer?”

Gaz blinks at him for a second, before reeling back, “you- you don’t know Novikov??”

“No???” Soap frowns, turning around to see Ghost and Price stopped arguing. “How do ye know him?”

“He’s been the head Spiritulogist of the SAS for the last… what was it, ten years, Price?”

“Over a decade, been here since before I was Reaped.” Price says incredulously, “I know your file’s been redacted to hell and back son, but don’t tell me you never even been through your basic revenant testing?”

Soap shakes his head, “they never sent anyone to examine me… I assumed they didn’t need to check my limits, with…” the words die on his tongue, and Price redirects his thoughts before they can go down a dark path.

“I worked with Novikov for as long as I’ve been a revenant. He’s good at what he does.” the Captain says, ignoring Ghost’s growl.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never met a Spiritulogist, mate.” Gaz gently elbows him with a small grin.

Soap sneaks another glance at Ghost, noting his stormy eyes, before answering, “I did, never about my own powers. Don’t think any o’ them had clearance.”

Ghost murmurs, “saved you several headaches.”

“Well,” Price slaps his knees, getting up from his chair, “there’s always a first for everything. Novikov got cleared by Laswell, so I assume he has enough information to assess you. He’s due to arrive at any moment, let’s take it to the tarmac.”

They follow him out of the office, Ghost walking ahead, irritation practically fuming out of him. Whatever past this Novikov has with Simon, it can’t be good. Then again, Ghost seems to dislike him more based on his profession, than the man himself.

The tarmac isn’t as hectic as it usually is. Soap attributes that to the earlier revenant incident, he personally knows at least three technicians bearing the revenant status working here. There are some gruesome ways to die dealing with aircrafts, that’s for certain. He gets reminded that of the day Gaz told him the story about his Reaping.

Soap hated the blank stare he had back then, guilt a mirror image of his own. Felt an instant connection to him, and hypocritically wanted to tell him he has nothing to be guilty of. Well, maybe not so hypocritically. Gaz would never do what he did.

The helo carrying Novikov has already started descending by the time they arrive. Ghost is a menacing shadow at his side, anger not subsiding in the short walk to here. Soap had to stop himself from asking about it multiple times. He doesn’t think he’ll get more than a grunt from Ghost at this state.

Price approaches the helo as it lands, probably greeting Novikov with his powers. When the loading ramp lowers, Soap watches a short, plump man walk down to shake hands with the Captain.

The first thing Soap clocks in from the man is that he has never been in an active war zone. There’s a lack of awareness the Doctor emanates, his focus not straying from the person in front of him, despite being surrounded by several SAS soldiers, and one very disgruntled, skull-faced revenant.

Price eventually returned to them with Novikov and several other people Soap can only assume are his assistants. Ghost steps closer to him, practically gluing himself to Soap’s side. He leans in to nudge his arm, silently asking him to relax, if only for a moment.

“Lieutenant Ghost, Sergeant Garrick, it is good to see you.” Novikov greets, Gaz reaching to shake his hand. The Doctor offers it to Ghost as well, but all the masked man does is glare at him.

Novikov seems undeterred by the Lieutenant’s hostility, and turns to Soap, “Sergeant John MacTavish,” Soap finally places his accent as Russian, “I don’t believe we’ve been acquainted yet.”

Soap shakes his right hand in the air, momentarily extinguishing its flames, before shaking the Doctor’s hand, “we haven’t.”

Novikov’s grip tightens, and he lets go of Soap’s hand, “I will be honored to be the one to test your powers for the first time, Sergeant. It is not common for revenants to skip those, as you can imagine.”

There’s an almost bitter note to his last sentence. Soap doesn’t like that he feels like Novikov has been waiting for this opportunity for a long, long time.

The words of Lumity have been etched to his heart, burned a hole in his consciousness, began a downward spiral nothing, not even the memory of Ghost’s hand in his, can stop.

Soap watches the Doctor leave, not before a promise to test them first thing in the morning, tomorrow, and he wonders.

He wonders if this, too, is part of the labyrinthine design of Fate.

[stil-lindigo]

emily carroll has once again permanently changed my brain chemistry

[5-htagonist]

is it gay to make sure another mans history is passed on?

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

the doctor isnt neurodivergent or autistic or adhd or nonbinary or genderqueer or asexual. what the doctor is, is Not From Here

[cowboy-robooty]

In what you based your vision of italy and/or itager?

People like italy does even exist?

I think fundamentally speaking the world of hetalia does not work like ours. this is obvious because of mf countries being humans but i mean also on philosophical level too like i think if ghouls were real then tokyo ghoul could probably happen. if countries cultures were humanized hetalia would still not be able to occur. Unless we completely deconstructed our sensibilities and reshaped them from the ground up, looney tunes would never be real and something around the same can be said for hetalia. Although I think hetalia is slightly more leaning towards being able to be real compared to looney tunes; it's a sliding scale and hetalia is around where the muppets are at in terms of their sensibilities working in real life. Actually the more I think about it the more I do believe that people with hetalia-like sensibilities do exist, but they're incredibly rare and fucking crazy. Since I dont live hetalia life but i have lived always sunny in philadelphia in real life which is arguably even more implausible of happening. Like bro have you ever read the wikipedia page for the guy who holds the guiness world record for being struck my lightning the most times. that shit is fucking crazy i genuinely believe he was being hunted down a malovelent force and i dont believe in god or anything like that tbh but if i had to then i would say that is probably the second biggest red flag i have ever seen of a higher entity being real. So anyways I think if the bullshit he endured happened then someone having the same disposition and sensibilities as hetalia italy isn't that far out there actually. our world is magical and wonderful isnt it!! :D

Taking this into account, my vision of Itager plays by these rules (warped sensibilities). I think that if someone like Italy is real, then he is not going to be meeting anybody who likes Hetalia because Italy would not be into this gay shit. And i don't think italy could be considered himself anymore if we put him in the same mindset as a normal person in our society; he actually has to genuinely be like the person he is in the show. It's a tall order, but i do think that is reasonable and something that could feasibly happen with how many crazy and insane things that can happen on his planet, you just need to seek these things out! I'm sorry if this is hard to understand with my wording because I also started writing this long ago and kept forgetting to finish. BUT THANK YOU FOR SENDING AN ASK LIKE THIS I REALLY LOVE IT. I LOVE TALKING ABOUT THINGS LIKE THIS IT MAKES ME SO HAPPY YOU CARE! <3

[velvetwyrme]

👀 any hear me out? Please :3c

ask game

hello hello!! one random hear me out coming up!

i span a wheel because i couldnt decide svfnfrhjbfkdk

i like those lil jester guys!!! 🌞🌜

i cant even say i was swayed by the cool fanart of them... the instant i saw Sun while i was watching a playthrough of FNAF SB i just went "oh no. he's going to be my fav, isn't he??" and it was just hammered home when Moon was revealed...