#but it burned off the fear

[hersurvival]

Even though I still woke up

After only two hours,

For once - for once I was not scared.

No dreams haunt my vision,

I simply felt my heart ache

With all the love I wish to give you.

[horny-3]

warning for suggestive things

O'saa has a canonically long dick

How does Nas'hrah know it?

Guys do you think O'saa uses Nas'hrah as a portable fleshlight?

Does O'saa make Nas'hrah give him head?

[brynnmclean]

saw a post questioning shipping Senua and Thórgestr and started to reblog it with a tag novel-- felt weird about doing that since this is lengthy and potentially derailing, so making my own post instead. Spitballing under the cut:

First off, any time someone is like, "the real reason people ship this is because they find the dude attractive," this is SO funny to me as someone who doesn't find men attractive IRL and has fiercely loved Senua since I played the first game, like-- actually I find the dynamic between those two characters to be compelling and interesting precisely because of all the baggage between them re: their backgrounds, the rough (put mildly!) beginning of their relationship, all the things they don't talk about, and them finding a common enemy/common ground to work with. The explicit parallels between them stated in-game scratched an itch in my brain. The minute they pointed out the dark rot on his arm, it was like, "oh! hello there! NOW I'm interested in whatever your whole deal is" for me. Also, idk man, I too would follow Senua around after she knocked me into the dirt and then showed me a way to fight the giants that I very much wanted to fight instead of appease.

The idea that Thórgestr was part of the Orkney Raid that killed and mutilated Dillion is VERY interesting food for thought, even if I don't personally have that headcanon (surely there are more viking raiding groups than just the Bjorg). I think the Furies or the Shadow said something similar about Fargrimr (his kin murdered yours, you shouldn't save him, etc.) so I completely get that line of thought, but I think the game left it ambiguous enough that it's up for interpretation. Would I read fic with that premise? Yeah, I'd check that out. Could Senua forgive Thorgestr if his people were involved? Sounds fun to explore.

If (ha, when?) I write fic, I'd have to think more about it especially wrt timelines, like when did the Bjorg start specifically raiding for slaves for giant food sacrifices vs. killing people for resources and wealth? How far off are we from the old gods "dying" and the volcano erupting? Was it indeed a different group of raiders who made a deal with Zynbel, attacked Senua's home, and made the sacrifice at that time to Hela?

At the very least, I think there's a time jump between the end of Hellblade I and the beginning of Hellblade II since Senua wasn't alone on that slave ship and at least one of the (brief) survivors knew her by name. I wouldn't mind exploring that gap of time, too.

In any case I do agree that it would take a VERY long time for Senua to consciously catch feelings for anyone let alone Thorgestr with all their collective baggage. The idea of them having a relationship beyond friendship in the far off future of an AU where he survives is the only one that can make sense in my brain, personally. It would take time! Time they didn't get in the game! But I think there are a lot of different roads that could take, and some of them might be healthier than others. Shipping them certainly isn't forgetting or excusing what happened to Dillion-- or even mutually exclusive from still shipping Senua and Dillion. Or, frankly, also shipping Senua and Astridr, because I can see that ship too.

One of the nice things about all the details Ninja Theory didn't expand upon and that they left that ending so open is that the sky's the limit. I'm VERY interested in seeing fandom tackle this game as we get farther from the initial release.

[an-au-blog]

Oh, your love is sunlight

Happy (late) Valentine's Day (version without text ↓ +description in tags)

[faytelumos]

Jason Todd

Give Me a Character

How I feel about Jason? I love him. He's my boy. He's a martyr. He's a cautionary tale. He's always been doomed since the day he was born. The very universe itself conspires against him because readers wanted him to die. So he dies. Again and again, in every universe, he dies, and he fights, and he tries to make the world a better place, and he wants to be kind, but he is doomed, always, every time, even when he comes back. It's tragic, and I hate what they've done to him, but without it, he wouldn't be the same person. He wouldn't be my blorbo.

JoyFire (Jason Todd x Roy Harper x Koriand'r) is my OTP for this guy. And I will say it out loud, I also enjoy JayTim and JayDick. I like JoyFire because it's like… the family you choose. Each of them has trauma about getting left behind in some sense. So they'll never leave each other. Even if Jason's a jerk sometimes, he will never, ever leave either of them hanging when it matters even a little. And they're the same for him. I like JayTim because Tim thinks Jason is so annoying, and Jason thinks Tim is so smart and capable, and so there's a little bit of pining in there? Especially in the opposite way one would expect by looking at them. But Tim knows that Jason's smart, and I kind of ignore a bunch of the ugliness that happened right around Under the Red Hood with them, to be honest. Not completely, but some of it. I think that Tim can admire Jason's ingenuity and persistence even when he's rolling his eyes at him, and I think that Jason thinks so highly of Tim, even when he refuses to ever say it out loud. And as for JayDick, maybe some of it is just me smashing my favorite dolls together. I freaking love Dick Grayson. Who doesn't? And I freaking love Jason, and they have a complicated relationship, but they love each other, whether you want it to be brotherly, friendly, or romantic. They love each other, and I'll take that in any flavor I can get it.

Non-romantic OTP is also Jason and Dick. You cannot tell me these two don't share the braincell when they're in a room together. But also, they can be hyper competent together. If they're both motivated and working together, they can do anything. Including building a heated roof pool out of cardboard, a carbon metallic alloy, and a "borrowed" shop vacuum.

(Also gotta mention that I adore father-son pair Bruce and Jason. The two of them are just so wonderful together, how Jason brings such joy into Bruce's life and Bruce just wants Jason to heal and realize his dreams, ah!)

Unpopular opinion about him? Willis was a good dad. [lifts a megaphone] Willis Todd was a good dad! He was a victim of a broken system and turned to crime because it was the only means he had to provide for his family! Any time he laid a hand on Jason or Catherine was still unjustified, but it was because Willis was a deeply frustrated and scared man who had no system or room to handle his negative emotions or feel accomplishment in his life! [puts down the megaphone] Domestic abuse is never okay, and that goes the same if a woman is the abuser. But Willis was not an asshole, he was a poverty-stricken petty criminal with the most minimal support system. He loved Jason, and he loved Catherine, and he tore himself up to do his best to provide for them all the way to the end. His story is a sad one, he was not the villain, and I hate it when people say Jason is better off without him and didn't mourn him or feel bad about his death.

There's a lot of things I wished hadn't happened to him in canon, but most of all, I hate what Zur En Arrh did to him.* It was absolutely terrible, and then the fact that nobody was left to give Jason any support at all after the fact because they were all chasing Zur really gets to me. The way that one panel just showed him trembling, so small, alone, asking anybody at all for help…. It breaks my heart. Because it's always like that for him. He ends up alone, on his own, because he's the black sheep and he's mad about it, and he defends people who others leave behind. And it breaks my heart in a way that actually very truly makes me sad. Because there are people who think he deserves it. Including the writers.

[swampthingking]

the day bookt*k gets ahold of aftg is the day i kill myself forreal this time

[miniscule-meow]

Isabell and the Lads CH 2: The Healing Process (2.6)

Masterpost Wordcount: ~1.7k First Part | Last Part | Next Part (eventually)

---

A rhythmic tapping rouses her from her sleep.

Her eyes peel open to find a familiar darkness surrounding her. She could almost convince herself she is back home and that she isn’t living out her biggest nightmare. Almost.

“Isabell?” Zeke’s voice, though gentle, shatters the dream of her being back in the walls, where she belongs. “Are you up?”

“Yeah, I’m up,” she calls out groggily. She must have been in a pretty deep sleep if his footsteps didn’t wake her up before he got to her, she doesn't like the thought of a human being able to sneak up on her.

Isabell sighs, raising her arms in an attempt to stretch, and she’s met with aching ribs and sharply protesting limbs. So that’s how it’s gonna be. As gently as possible, she maneuvers herself into a sitting position, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She has to pause here, the pain in her body has officially caught up with her. She thought there was a chance she could sleep all of this off, but as it stands right now, everything just feels worse. She takes another breath, deep enough for her ribs to flare their complaints. She’s been awake for maybe thirty seconds and she already wants to cry.

Instead, she grits her teeth and stands out of the bed, testing her leg. She doesn’t need to put much weight on it to know that it is not happy. She’ll need to stay off of it as much as possible if she ever wants a chance to get out of here.

Her shelf is still nice and dim, with only a bit of light slipping in around the edges of the curtain. So, the main lights must be on out there. Turning her attention to the curtain wall, she can see Zeke’s monolithic shadow in front of her.

“I’m coming,” she says, hoping he’ll just wait for her. She doesn’t want to see his massive fingers pull back the barrier separating them.

She’s trying not to think about it, but all of this is truly only the illusion of safety. At any point the human could decide that he’s tired of waiting, that he’s tired of her. Every single moment she’s putting so much trust in him. Trust that he’ll be patient, trust that he’ll be kind, trust that he’ll be gentle. It’s trust that she simply does not have, but she has no choice.

She hobbles her way out to the open part of the shelf, clinging to the wall as much as possible in an attempt to avoid putting too much weight on her leg. She’s really going to have to do something about that.

She blinks, her eyes adjusting to the full light of the room. Her breathing catches, seeing Zeke’s massive form kneeling in front of her, his eyes trained on her. Even though she’s been interacting with these humans, seeing them, especially for the first time again, sparks an intrinsic fear inside of her.

Don’t get caught. You’ve already been caught. They can see you. Run. Hide. Escape.

She shoves the thoughts aside. This is her situation. She can’t fix it right now. The humans are helping her.

The rational thought quells her fear meager amounts at best.

“Good morning,” Zeke says, his eyes scanning over her. “How are you feeling today?”

“I’ve been better,” she says, leaning heavily against the wall. “Um, thank you, by the way. For… setting this up for me.” She gestures over to her ‘room’ behind the curtains.

“Of course. I’m glad we could find something that worked for you,” Zeke responds with a small smile gracing his features. “I was going to make some breakfast. Do you want to come out to the living room?”

Does she want to? Does she want to willingly put herself in the palm of his hand? No. Not really. Does she agree anyway, of course. That’s what the human wants, right? At this point, it’s more dangerous to disappoint him.

She nods numbly, and Zeke’s hand rests on the shelf in front of her. She feels as though she’s watching her own actions from behind her eyes, as if she were instead watching a screen. The only way her mind can rationalize a willing interaction with this human is to just disconnect herself completely.

Sure, the humans have been nice so far. But every single moment she spends with them she has to fight every one of her instincts. Her brain’s wiring just won’t stop telling her that she’s in extreme danger. Don’t get caught, don’t get caught don’t get- she’s already been caught. She needs to play by a different set of rules now. But it’s been a lifetime of fear, well deserved fear. One or two reasonable conversations with a human isn’t going to magically undo all of that.

She takes a hesitant step forward, still pushing against the wall of the shelf for support, when the hand in front of her shifts. You were taking to long. He’s run out of patience. She jolts, expecting the hand to lurch forward and snatch her up in an unforgiving fist. Instead, the massive fingers curl in on themselves, and the hand moves in the opposite direction. She looks up, finally connecting the hand to the human, and meeting Zeke’s gaze curiously.

“Sorry. I just- You know that you can say no to me, right?” His brow furrows, his green eyes taking her in. When she doesn’t respond, he continues, “I don’t want you to say yes just because you feel like you can’t say no. That isn’t… that’s not consent. I mean,” he looks away, searching elsewhere for the right words to say, “yeah, before neither of us had much of a choice about anything. It was an emergency situation, and I’m really sorry about all of that. But now you have your own space here and- I’m rambling,” he shakes his head, looking back to her, “I don’t want you to say yes to me just because that’s what you think I want. And I really don’t want you to say yes to me because you’re afraid to say no. That’s… that makes me,” he hesitates, “that makes me feel really gross,” he admits, shaking his head once more.

She hadn't considered his feelings in all of this.

Her being afraid of him makes him feel... gross? How is that even possible. She'd always been under the impression that humans relished in the fear they caused. It never occurred to her that he might be just as uncomfortable interacting with her as she is with him.

Is it possible that she's been so wrapped up in her own feelings that she's completely missed the nuance of emotions from this impossibly large being? It is just easier for her to write off everything from them as fearmongering and manipulation so she doesn't have to consider that they aren't really all that different after all?

But still, this fear that is so deeply interwoven into her being. She's had horrific run-ins with humans. She's seen their cruelty, the inflated ego of having something smaller than them that they can dominate. She's never seen a human like Zeke. Kneeling down on her level, going out of his way to help her feel comfortable, telling her how he feels? This doesn't fit in the box of humans are scary and irrational beings that she has sequestered in her mind. This simply makes no sense to her.

Even if, and it's a big if, she were to take this human at face value, and she were to let herself trust him, it's not like she can just turn her fear off with the flick of a switch. Maybe she doesn't want to be afraid anymore. But can she really turn her back on the one thing that has kept her alive all this time?

She stays hidden because she's afraid of getting caught.

She goes out borrowing because she's afraid of starving to death.

Everything she's needed to do in life, she's done because of fear. Every choice she's made has been based on what outcome she's more or less afraid of.

Now to just say, 'no, fear, I don't need you anymore.' It feels impossible.

She feels herself slipping into a circle of thought. Be afraid, but don't be afraid, but you should be afraid, but you shouldn't be afraid, but you've always been afraid, but you don't have to be afraid anymore.

She will have to try to unpack this later.

Zeke continues, “you can say no, you can obviously also say yes. It’s- I mean, that’s why I’m asking. I want to know what you want. Okay? Do you want to go out to the living room, or would you rather stay here. It’s up to you.”

She looks up at him cautiously. What does she want? She tries to do the mental gymnastics required to figure out what he wants her to want. This has to be some kind of trick, right? What does she want? A human shouldn’t be concerned about that. She fits in the palm of his hand, and he cares about what she wants? Here she is again, trying to fit Zeke into a box of what she understands humans to be, and failing miserably.

“Um, I want… um, N-no. No, I’d actually like to stay… here,” she feels as wound up as a spring, her shoulders tense rigidly. I just told a human no. She looks up at him wide-eyed, terrified she’s made the wrong choice.

Zeke just nods indifferently. It doesn’t seem like he’s upset or disappointed at all. If anything it looks like he relaxes a little bit. “Alright,” he says standing. “I’ll bring you some breakfast soon, okay?”

“Pancakes?” She asks, remembering the warm fluffy clouds he made for her yesterday.

“Yeah, I can make that happen,” he responds. She can’t see his face, but he sounds amused. He could even be smiling, a rarity from him.

With that, his footsteps retreat off into the main part of the apartment. She takes this time to drag herself back into her room. Zeke had been kind enough to put a little electric candle in the middle of the room for her. She flips the switch and the warm light flickers gently in the space. Off to the side, he had left her a bundle of craft supplies. By the time he comes back with pancakes for her, she’s crafted herself a crutch. So, even though she’s still hobbling around, she’s at least doing it with some proficiency now.

[whumpitisthen]

Chess

Previous I Masterlist I Next

CWs: tiny whump, g/t, blood, gore, death, fear, power dynamics, nonhuman whumper, deity whumper, nonhuman whumpee, dehumanisation (it/its), slavery, religious themes, whumpee used as ashtray

A few hundred years ago, life on Earth was much different than it is today. After the sky fell, but before the world was forced to bend its knees under merciless demonic conquest, where the infestation’s first wave reached, new and wondrous creatures had emerged. New animals, new plant life, new climate and oddities.

Back then, minims could be found in just about any home.

Their little villages being scorched to the ground by Hell, along with the forests they had called their home, the small creatures sought safety and food behind brick walls instead. Humans were generally sympathetic, even loving towards them, leaving out crumbs and making comfortable places to hide out in for their little companions. Not all humans were kind, of course; they knew as much. But it was a gamble a lot of the homeless, starving bunch were willing to take.

Unfortunately, Hell's hordes would find them in the end nevertheless. A majority of mortal dwellings had been destroyed, entire cities completely overrun by cruel beasts, skyscrapers toppled and drowned in flames. Everyone had to run, no matter how big, no matter how small, but there were few places to hide. Millions of souls have been extinguished, millions more killed every year since.

Simply put, the life of a minim is not the kind of existence that most sensible, sentimental beings yearn for. Living in a world of giants, in the space between their soles and the unforgiving ground under their feet isn't truly a way to live at all. Prey are not meant to thrive. Those residing at the bottom of the food chain are rarely allowed anything past tolerance in a world under the full control of carnivorous predators.

Minim could mean anything from a regular person to a sentient flower. The word itself only refers to their stature, that being quite small, so the variety this umbrella term hides under it is a field of science in itself. Faeries, mers, micekin, wisps, tiny variants of any and all mystical or not so mystical creatures that exist, including humans — and differing variants of each; from slight size differences, to cultural differences, anatomical differences, hair colour, preferred foods… To list each and every one would take a ridiculous amount of time, and because so many of them have left their homes, they are scattered across the globe so chaotically that only a learned expert may decipher for certain what kind a given little creature is.

Aside from the ones that end up in glass jars and cages to be taken and devoured later, the lucky few that aren't are instead taken to be used as living tools. Truth be told however; there just aren't many jobs to entrust to someone so small. 

Wisps and spirits tend to glow; their luminescence is useful enough to save them from becoming the appetisers at an overlord's feast about half the time, generally put in lanterns until they starve or wither to death instead the rest of the time. The clever few who speak the same language as their captors; ones, whose gifted minds allow a unique understanding of machinery or magicks or the stars or anything such — those ones are kept in isolation from everything that could distract them from the work assigned to them, one foot forever numbed to purple from the cutting string keeping them a prisoner of their talents. Some craftier, wily thieves can even be used to spy or infiltrate. As bait, if one so wishes, to catch other pests.

Unsurprisingly, the vast majority that aren’t eaten are taken to be fleeting entertainment. A desk rat to hold a pen, or to hold a pen to. A pocket vermin, to take out whenever one craves a bit of distraction, something to busy one's hands with. Perhaps the small one bears a striking resemblance to a person in its owner's life, someone they carry love or resentment towards, — an unfortunate situation for the poor minim to be in. Toys and playthings, little companions, a quick snack.

They are quickly torn apart in such cases, and are therefore highly disposable. Following the growing popularity of breathing toys among demonkind, a new concept was born.

Today, a select few of them — the better behaved ones — are made to act out war. Living, breathing pawns and soldiers on a wooden-tile battlefield. They take up the identity of a specific piece, learning how they may move across the board. They feel enough terror in their tiny souls to freeze them in place, and so they play along, hoping that if they play well, they may be spared. Dressed up like dolls in tiny armour, they walk out and assume formation on each side of the board, tiny weapons ready, struggling under the weight of two gods watching them from up high.

Chess has always been a popular game, even among humans. Though humans’ chess focuses more on strategy, the game demons have come up with tends to focus on a spectacular bloodshed and cruelty instead. Both games have their own rules. The little soldiers must be ready for either. Just as the board is tiled to help count out the steps and directions for a piece when mortals play, the tiles serve as small arenas for which the pieces must stay inside as they cut each other down when demons play.

More often than not, if one has living soldiers to command, logic dictates that they would enjoy a dramatic battlefield rather than a dry simulation — so, of course, it would only make sense for His Majesty to value overelaborate strategy over fun, and force him to play regular old chess instead.

“Is your focus waning, Reaper?”

Grim’s white bishop is taken out, a surprised yell and flailing legs alerting him as it is lifted off the table, before being replaced by a black rook sporting a serious, yet weary expression. An unfortunate loss; that one was a crucial piece in his attack.

“Waning? Perhaps wandering.”

“When is it not,” — the demon lord sighs, seemingly uninterested. Then he asks anyway;��� “and where has it gone this time?”

“Not far enough, unfortunately.”

Grim lifts his silver claws unhurriedly, hovering above his little army. One talon finds the tip of a knight's head. He gently taps its silly-looking horse helm to gather its attention, then places the tip of his finger on the tile in front of it. He then proceeds to draw a deep, excruciating line into the board, languidly carving exceedingly clear directions for it to follow. The claw sings to it until the little one breaks out in a cold sweat, eyeing the small ravine created on the chessboard. The Lord narrows his eyes in slight annoyance at the casual wrecking of his beautiful chess board, but he isn't much surprised that a being of ruination would feel the urge to ruin something, especially something that belongs to him.

Grim’s hand returns to rest on the table next to the eliminated black pieces on his side. The rhythmic knocking of cursed silver on deep walnut is the small knight’s only companion as Grim watches it shimmy past two other, similarly anxious pieces and stands on the tile it was shown. It avoids stepping directly onto the scratch its master had created. Belatedly, it recognises two other black pieces, clearly standing in their line of fire.

“I am wondering why you have brought out the whole commedia if you just wanted to watch them stand around.” — He gestures widely to the side with one hand, moaning in apparent agonising disinterest, — “It seems wasteful — not to mention dull. A rusted cleaver may cut me deeper than the riveting excitement of plain old chess. Surely the little smurfs are more than capable of giving us a nice show.”

No game should be allowed to be this boring. Perhaps it’s because he has played so many times before, but he never really grew to truly enjoy chess; or checkers, or any of these kinds of games. He is not the type to sit in quiet contemplation and plan for hours on end. He would much rather hang himself. 

The Lord’s lips curl just so, rumbling as he thinks of his next move; —“Mm. The wanton cries waste…”

“The wanton,” — Grim repeats, brow raised.

“Recklessness and gratuity are among the first two words that come to mind when I think of you. Your very existence begets waste; I do not see you extending much care for my supposed wastefulness,” — his Lord explains matter-of-factly, taking hold of his queen and dragging it across the board. Once the queen finds its balance and takes a look around, it spots three possible targets on the white side eyeing it with the same muted sense of resolve in return. It struggles to catch its breath from being squished and moved so suddenly, an odd pain growing under its ribcage where it was grabbed. It tries its best not to show too much distress. Every chess piece knows to keep attention off of themselves if they wish to remain on the board.

“With such a silver tongue, how could I ever disagree,” — Grim sighs with a breath of sarcasm, uninterested in childish name calling. From his spot on the red plush sofa, sprawled out as he is, he barely pays attention to the game. He turns his torso forward enough to flick a pawn on its back, causing it to take a couple steps forward onto the tile in front of it. He then snatches a black pawn off of the table, the one he had taken a couple turns prior from his opponent, and brings it back with himself as he settles back onto the duvet, dangling it above himself.

It's a particularly scrawny looking one, with half a tail and the frame of someone who hasn't seen a full meal in weeks. If Grim's red eyes were any less sharp, he would have never noticed the microscopic ocean of freckles running across the bridge of its nose. The panicked little kicks in the air bring a smile to his face. As the grin parts his lips, the pawn must gain insight into what manner of creature Grim may be, because upon sighting his fangs, it squeaks so sweetly, its tiny heart beating so fast, its legs pulled up so close to its wobbling chin, that he simply has to bring it in for a closer look — perhaps for a little taste.

“Are you really so bored?” — his Lord asks.

“I don't know how much clearer I could make it.”

“I ‘brought out the whole commedia,’ as you so creatively put it, specifically so you would find the game more enticing. I assumed having something living to fiddle with would help keep your attention,” — his Lord remarks, lifting his gaze from the board to watch Grim terrorise the minim in his grasp. He gives it a little shake, and giggles when it squeezes its eyes shut with a sob, holding onto the tips of his fingers for dear life. From the hungry look in the Reaper's eyes, it wouldn't surprise him if his black-clad-friend popped the pathetic creature into his mouth and swallowed it whole. — “Was I wrong?”

“You were. Unmistakably so,” — Grim replies without missing a beat despite showing the clear opposite. His head flops to the side lazily, the mess of white hair escaping from under his ribbon sliding like a river to cover one of his sanguine eyes, lips parted. His gaze is near accusatory. — “My attention left the premises the moment that name left your mouth.”

His Lord merely smiles. It's a pleasant, tailor-made expression meant to communicate amusement. Expressive, while in reality it shows nothing.

It seems his Reaper’s hate for Miss Thu'lin surpasses rationale. He will have to calculate that into his next approach on the issue. — “Yet your wit remains,” — he murmurs instead, a good-natured chuckle. He makes his next move, cornering Grim's remaining bishop.

Well, if the game won't work to distract him, perhaps he could change it up. A plan starts forming in the demon's head.

If there is one attribute he can always count on, it is Death's lust for blood. Grim thrives in violent delights, and tends to knowingly, if not begrudgingly, let his Lord pull him around on a leash if it means he gets to take part in some real carnage. Manipulation does not work on him as well as the Lord wishes it did, — Grim knows his devil-friend too well for that, — but at least his carefree thrill seeking and self-assurance allows for cooperation.

He takes a long sip of his warm camomile tea, letting the soft crying of the chess piece hanging by the ankle from Grim's hand fill the silence. — “Hm. How about this; — you clearly do not feel up to playing with me, but how about the little ones? How well do you think they know the rules? How well do you think they play?”

The pawn in the Reaper's grasp screams in terror as it is thrown in the air and caught. Grim surely already knows where this is going, and is considering playing along. His plaything flips in the air a couple more times before he replies, cautiously contemplative, — “I am not sure.”

His Lord looks at him with dark eyes shaded by a curtain of eyelashes. — “Are you not curious? Perhaps you could let them play for you. You could… encourage them. Help them as much or as little as you desire. You may take every piece that falls to do with as you please.” — In a motion mimicking Grim’s ennui, he leans his chin onto his fist and he lets his other hand wander over the heads of each piece on the board, leading the Reaper's gaze hypnotizingly. He finds his queen at the edge of the board, knocking her down onto the table with an innocent nudge. It falls gracelessly, face planting on the wooden surface. His index finger sets onto its back, slowly increasing pressure until the queen cannot muster to breathe in more than strained gasps.

Taken a pause, he glances up to the other, finding vermilion eyes glued to the suffering at his fingertips, Death idly pushing his icy thumb into his own pawn's stomach to feel it squirm. — “Doesn't it sound fun? I revel in watching mortals attempt to outwit their God; I know you do too.”

Grim's eyes lose all playfulness in them, replaced by a scary look. It's like he is looking directly into his Lord’s soul, contemplating it deeply. The Reaper tends to have such showmanship with the brightest grin to match, and though his very presence is unsettling to all living beings, there is nothing more terrifying than a displeased frown and an intensely empty pair of blood red eyes sizing up oneself when it comes to him. His attention is so fickle, but his focus is an omen.

Not to the Lord, of course. Just as Grim is immune to his Lord’s penchant for bending minds to his will through subterfuge, Grim’s intimidating nature no longer has any effect on him either. An even match, however infuriating that is. To be God, of this world and the next, and yet still be vulnerable to someone who he had aided in apotheosis in the past…

“Fine,” — Grim groans, cutting off the demon lord’s train of thought. He has already switched back to his own mask of pleasantness, gesturing to him with what begins as a flourish, but ends up a lazy ‘do whatever you want’ kind of motion. — “Far be it from your humble servant to displease you, Your Majesty.”

“But do make it quick, will you?” — he reminds, his voice a rumbling murmur. — “I do not have time to waste on listening to all your nefarious plans of inconvenience on a good day. And you have already soured my mood.”

Evidently. — “Of course,” — his Lord assures.

Setting aside the mug of lukewarm tea, he begins by lifting one end of the chessboard, tilting it higher until every still standing piece tumbles down it and onto the table. Though their armour is flimsy, their little blades are sharpened to cut through flesh, so it is inevitable that at least a couple of them injure another as they fall. Grim's nose flares as he takes a lungful of the sweet aroma of fresh blood pearling onto the surface.

Then, one by one, he sets the board and with it, the scene as it stands. He chooses tiles for each relevant piece, seemingly arbitrary yet purposeful. Before long, an elaborate mess of a battlefield is created, black and white pieces alike looking around nervously between each of them. This is no longer a game of chess, but something more.

Finally, the Lord sits up straight and intertwines his fingers in front of himself, ready to explain the situation. — “To keep it short, as your time is precious; Miss Thu'lin wishes to expand her territory, and has made arrangements with the Plague Bringers to aid her in that. I believe her greed may lead us to progress.”

The Plague Bringers; mortals whose souls are chained to their bodies indefinitely. As opposed to other undead, like vampires or necromancers, they are not invulnerable to injury and disease, and only heal as much as a simple mortal would, but contrary to the soulless undead, their hearts and minds remain intact, and their souls remain free of control. It is a curse by all definitions — alive and aware, but eroding all the same. They never die, but they never die, and sooner or later, once their bones have grown fragile and their skin has started to wither into nothing, and their lungs and stomach stop functioning — well, that is the reason their communities are so proficient in the creation of prosthetics and medicine. No matter the cost.

Their members have found each other and grouped together in mutual suffering, building up incredible cities along the years in demon territory. The air there is barely breathable, the water yellowed and poisonous, the sky black with pollution — very quaint. Access to things like food, shelter and medicine is scarce for most residents, which accelerates their torment. They are an unpleasant, withered, maggot ridden crowd, but delightfully desperate, fearless, and highly territorial, with nothing to lose. Half of them worship the Grim Reaper, the other half curse him every day. They can be useful.

“Deal-making with the undead, is she? Perhaps she should join them,” — Grim supplies, suddenly lost in a fantasy about a world where he could see the queen slowly decay, getting to watch her grovel and beg him to take her soul so she may rest, and declining her outright every time. — “I wonder if her rouge could cover up her rot-bitten face.”

His Lord ignores the casual morbidity, staying on topic to get his point across before Grim changes his mind about hearing him out. — “There is a mortal settlement that has been steadily expanding thanks to human military and some clandestine inner assistance near her domain. Their hunters are ruthless — I found my poor watchdog’s head on a stake out in the field in front of their walls the other day. Her horns were torn off and stuck into her eyes. She must have suffered terribly.”

His fingers slide along each edge of the board, drawing a square around one end of it made up of primarily white pieces behind two white rooks cutting the board in half — much like the walls of the humans' castle-town divide it from the reaches of demonic grasp.

The battlefield is set, mirroring the location well enough, ready to play out the bloodbath that will drown the fields and people of those skilled demon hunters soon enough.

“We may assert dominion over a new region of particularly vexatious mortals, gaining resources, land and new flesh,” — he rattles off almost intrestlessly, then takes a pause, aiming a shrug at Grim, as if just offhandedly mentioning the rest; — “and, of course, we may question Miss Thu'lin about her inadequacy in keeping her people loyal and well behaved, and her letting them help the enemy, as well as her thinly-veiled attempt at going behind my back and trying to take land for herself without my knowledge.”

The most crucial addition, that last bit. The only thing that may surpass Grim’s love of bloodshed is his love of causing issues on purpose, especially for those that generally don't have to deal with many issues because of the power they hold over others. If the promise of war was not enough to charm him, the opportunity to mess with the Dragon Queen will be.

“Thus, we could kill two birds with one stone.”

A slow, humming laughter bubbles out of the Reaper's throat after a moment of consideration, chilling his little prisoner's spine down to the marrow.

Hook, line and sinker.

“Go on,” — he sings, a haunting melody, a wicked chortle, — “you have my interest, you conniving prick.”

The self-assured smile never leaves His Majesty's lips. — “I am glad.”

The demon takes two minims and brings them forth, setting them next to each other with one empty tile between them. He asks then, peeking up at the whining darling in Grim's steadily tightening grasp, —  “is your little pawn ready to play?”

“Oh, it certainly is,” — his friend replies, huffing a puff of air through his nose as he sits up, causing the pawn to flinch violently in-between his fingers. He brings it up to his eyes and shakes it once more. — “Isn't that right? Ready to crush the opposition? Chess is such a difficult game, but surely you will make all the right choices; you should know the rules better than anyone, being a professional chess piece and all.”

The Lord motions for Grim to set his pawn down on the table, right on the tile diagonally in-between the two white pieces he had brought forth before. It falls out of the Reaper's hand like a sack of potatoes, landing painfully on its knees and wobbling to the side, searching for balance its wildly trembling panic-ridden limbs cannot find. Its heart beats the rhythm of a thousand drums.

They wait for it to clamber to its feet, — Grim prodding it in the sides until it manages to, —  and looks up at the Devil smiling kindly, cruelly down at it from above. It almost falls right back onto the ground.

His Majesty hangs his index finger like a guillotine over the white knight, the left one of the pair of chess pieces, and elaborates, — “their hunters have a cavalry regiment that specialises in chevauchee. They are few in numbers compared to the rest of their militia, but highly talented. Their leader,” — he highlights, tapping the little knight’s head twice, — “is well-versed in the art of war, and is followed with great, almost zealous trust and respect by his fanatical horde into any battle. Plundering and lengthening their borders is not their only strategic strength; removing them from the picture from the start altogether would be beneficial — and so terribly simple.”

He then points to the other piece, a white pawn. — “On the other hand, one of ours is supplying the enemy with information. Whoever it is Miss Thu’lin had put her trust into betrayed it, and though she will answer for that inadequacy later, cutting off; — or better yet, misleading their stream of intelligence is paramount. We could send the traitor in with the wrong insight, make use of their uselessness and put an end to the practisant itself either by our own hand or by the mortals’ once they realise they had been betrayed.”

The air cools as he straightens upright, reaching for his mug to take another sip. The small pause that this leaves is only filled with growing anticipation. Grim can hear his pawn’s little fingers rubbing against each other nervously.

Looking to Grim, he adds, — “whichever way we go about it, we will gain the upper hand even before the fight begins. This will leave the mortals lost in their panic, then we may sit back and watch them make mistake after mistake trying to catch up with us. Moreover,” — he looks to the pawn now, — “this first step will echo out with every move we make after it, and it will carve a path we will not be able to deviate from — much like the first move made on a chessboard. As a pawn, you must gather as much,” — he remarks, finally looking away from the anxious little soldier.

Beckoning the black pawn, he finishes with; — “Choose wisely.”

An impossible, cruel thing to force onto such a little creature. It wrangles its fingers in front of itself, frozen still. Its eyes flicker about it all — the board, the two white pieces looking back at it with abject terror, the dark shadows looming above, its own buckling knees.

Truth be told, it did not understand half of what was said. Its lungs fighting for air, its eyes holding rivers of unshed tears and its ears thrumming with its pulse made it hard to pay any attention at all. Nevertheless, a good pawn stays still and does as it's told.

Pawns are disposable. They are fodder, a necessary sacrifice, — useful in a pinch, nearly useless otherwise. One gets taken out and there are seven more to take its place. It can move only one tile per turn, only forward. It may eliminate in a diagonal direction, only one tile, only forward; the two spots that are occupied by the white pair. It must choose to eliminate the other pawn or the knight, according to the basic rules of chess.

Traditionally, it knows a knight is far more valuable than a mere pawn. When the opportunity shows itself, it would be illogical not to act and take out the knight, even if the pawn itself is sacrificed in the process. But this is not traditional chess, nor demon’s chess, but a real battlefield, with very real consequences.

The black pawn shimmies in place, looking back and forth between the white pieces, turning around to gather some form of guidance from the Reaper, only to find nothing but mild impatience and a vicious smile, then back forward to do the same with the demon lord and gathers nothing at all from the Lord's unreadable expression. The knight is shaking, its gaze stuck to its toes. The white pawn pleads at the black one through miserable, terrified eyes. Lined up for execution, all the pair can really do is tremble before their executor.

The black-clad pawn hangs its head low, taking a somewhat decisive step forward.

Pawns are disposable. Pawns are meant to be sacrificed. Pawns do not get to dictate fate.

Another step forward. The Reaper's grin twitches.

It was never made to make such awful choices. It cannot know what's best. Its palms pearl with sweat at the prospect of being in charge of anyone's life. 

It stumbles, hesitates. One more step and its choice will be clear.

But there is one more thing about chess. A special rule only applicable to pawns; — promotion. If a pawn reaches the other end of the board without being taken out, it will be taken off the board, replaced by another, more powerful piece, generally the queen.

If it can reach the end of the board, it will not have to make a choice. Nobody's blood will be on its hands. It is the best strategy, as far as any pawn is concerned. 

It steels itself to take one more step forward —

Bang!

The board nearly explodes before its foot could make it onto the tile between the white knight and pawn. An earthquake shakes them all, its epicentre the black pawn’s targeted tile, — now divided by Grim’s favourite carbon steel carved pearlsilver balisong.

The low laughter of the Reaper pulls the pawn’s attention above itself like a noose, following the hand holding the knife all the way up to a vicious row of sharp teeth. Its wild rabbit heart nearly stops beating.

“How sweet. You must have misunderstood. There is no third option here, little pawn.”

His voice is like the wind, soft yet cutting, suffocating. There is no anger in his eyes, but a glint of intensity, beckoning, daring it to step forward just once more. The pawn has fallen to the ground with the explosion on the board, and under the heavy shadow looming above it, it cannot find it in itself to make its legs work.

Eyes wet and wide, face pale as a sheet and shiny with perspiration, it points a violently shaking finger at the white pawn. The pawn — the creature — the person, who is curled up on their side, whimpering hysterically and hiding behind their too-large, scrappy gloves does not even see that they were chosen. They are younger than the black pawn, horridly so, as the black pawn isn't very old either. Not many minims live to see much of their adulthood nowadays; but it feels like it just brought death upon a child.

It's a pawn. Pawns are disposable. Pawns are weak, and stupid, and useless.

If the black pawn screws its eyes shut tightly enough, it could pretend that the one being sacrificed is itself instead.

At the decision made, the Reaper's eyes light up. — “Smart choice.”

The rumble in the deity's voice hints that the choice he praises is not the one it had made between the knight and the pawn, but the one between willingly participating in this morbid game or not. That meant it did well — but there is no relief. Its cowardice brings shame as soon as the imminent cloud of death overhead moves above the white pawn instead.

“You said something about finding your dog's head on a stake?” — he asks, turning the white pawn onto its back and forcing it still with two fingers. The black pawn can hear it whimpering. Grim can as well.

The demon watches on with the mild interest of someone sitting through a mediocre opera. He looks more concerned over how ruined the board is becoming from Grim’s playful-violent outbursts than for the life made ready to be snuffed out on it.  — “Briefly,” — he replies.

The Reaper's hold on the piece changes; a finger holding down each limb, the middle finger resting lightly on the forehead. He moves its small head idly up and down, then side to side as he talks. — “A traitor deserves a fate worse than a spy, don't you agree? Mistakes are easier mended than trust. Trust, when broken, may bring to its knees an empire.”

“So what are you proposing?”

“Pressure.”

His Majesty tilts his head, curious. — “What do you have in mind?”

Though the Reaper never takes his eyes off of his current infatuation weeping under his sliver-dressed hand, a plan has already formed in his head. He starts applying a steady weight onto the minim’s head. — “I will hunt down the traitor myself. It will not be hard; I presume their cowardice will have left a trail in the mud.”

The finger at the pawn’s forehead hurts. Its verminly squirming warms the Reaper’s belly.  — “I will go see the queen — Heaven knows she is too bayardly to have noticed this betrayal by herself. Fate wills it she knew about it all along. That certainly could not go unpunished. Though she has already broken your trust, has she not? And yet, she still wields the power of a nation...”

“She will answer,” — the Lord promises, sensing Grim's silent accusation of his favouritism towards the lady resurface in his pointed glance. His special treatment of one of his most important pawns should not be such an issue with anyone, but it is somehow always an issue with him. Broken trust brings to its knees a man — or an empire, was it. — “You can be sure of that.”

Silence; Grim testing the taste of the lies on his tongue as he considers believing His Majesty. Retortlessly, he continues, — “she will point me to the rat. Once we know who it is, we may feed it rotten knowledge. Small inaccuracies at first, grown larger and larger with each one. The mortals would not kill it outright after just a couple of small mistakes; a demonic spy is far too precious a resource. With your poison on its lips, it will surely poison the mortals it meets. We shall keep the thing alive as long as possible.”

The white pawn cries out in pain and terror, the pressure on it becoming unbearable. It had managed to wrench its head to the side, now facing the other pawn still sitting on the board frozen in horror. It cannot bring itself to look away, it cannot even bring itself to do any more than weep silently and watch as its counterpart is slowly crushed. It is screaming, and the gods pay it no mind.

“It will not realise the part it was made to play until it is far too late.” — There is an awful giddiness in Grim's voice, a dark pleasure clouding his eyes. He must not be this excited about tormenting an insignificant person he doesn't even know, right? Something else must interest him, but he continues on as if he has some sort of personal vendetta against this traitorous nobody. — “Eventually, the humans will decide it must be doing it on purpose. It must be directly working with you, purposefully misdirecting them, slowly tearing them down from the inside.”

“Of course, it will surely run and hide once it hears about their ruthless cavalry leader having fallen in an ambush set at the location it had led their troops to,” — he muses, lifting the chin of the heaving knight with his free hand, letting its head slide off of the chilled claw, sighing; — “but that is then.”

A loose thread hanging off his blouse's cuff steals the Lord's gaze from the pitiful creature mewling under his companion's grasp for only a moment. Tearing it away, he lets it fall to the hardwood floor beneath. — “You are saying that instead of directly confronting the spy, we continue this charade, and we make it so the information it gathers, unbeknownst to it, is false?”

“I am saying not even Miss Thu’lin has to know,” — answers the mischievous, sinister purr. Leaning over the board, his fangs gleam above the head of the white pawn as he whispers something to it. His Majesty cannot make it out, but he can certainly make out the frantic pleading of the distressed creature.

“The weight of one’s sins only ever grows;” — he sings, like a mother's lullaby, to the moribund minim.

“Right up until it falls to the ground —”

Wailing, the poor thing crying, screeching for help, they are dying, let up, please let up on the —

“and pops… like an overripe fruit.”

A splash of viscera is all that remains. Where a moment ago a living, breathing person lay barely five centimetres in front of it, the black pawn now only sees barbarous red grime covering the scraped up wooden tile under the unforgiving hand. Their innocent agony paints their mock armour, as well as the merciless, icy talon of Death.

And he doesn't even look satisfied.

“So,” — he says, lifting his hand at last, watching in morbid fascination what is left of the white pawn’s brains stretch and stick to the pad of his middle finger in a greatly nauseating manner, — “it may behove us to shake the branch her hubris thrives on to speed up this process.”

Despite the wicked eagerness that has overtaken his Reaper, the demon lord does not seem too intrigued by it all. In a moment of silence, he listens to a sound emerge. From down the hall quick footsteps hurry to the double doors leading into the quiet parlour, a mortal boy entering with no small haste. As if its arrival was entirely expected, the demon patiently waits for his slave to bow to the floor and present a small leather case. With utmost reverence and submission, he holds it in the air above his head, whispering; — “as you requested, my Lord.”

“Thank you, my darling.” — Taking the auburn red case, he catches the human’s chin and lifts it. The boy does not dare to lift his gaze off the floor. — “Come, sit with me.”

The slave, with the smallest resistance, obeys and crawls over to kneel by its master’s legs. A torrent of bruises circles his shoulder and neck regions, bigger and smaller puddles of red-purple slipping under the metal shackle around his throat. Upon closer inspection, small, pink, round burn scars decorate his collarbone and throat, climbing far enough to reach even behind his ear. The movements of his flesh betray the discomfort his naked torso brings, shoulder blades constantly working, hands clutching each other in his lap aggressively, nails digging into the underside of his fingers on the opposite hand. Gently, the demon runs his claws down the slave’s scalp and it flinches so violently, the gasp forcing its way out of its lungs nearly turns into a whine.

Paying the nervous thing no mind, His Majesty slips the buckle open, the small bag his servant had brought opening to reveal a couple ornate cigarette holders, as well as an orderly row of about twelve cigarettes. He picks out one of the holders. Humming, he slides a finger along each cigarette, considering what taste would go with his mood.

Still waiting on a response, however, Grim clears his throat, eyeing the slave boy. — “Did you call him while I was talking?”

“Yes,” — is the Lord’s concise answer.

The slave feels the Reaper's eyes on itself. The discomfort builds until it cannot help glancing up just to take a peek. When its eyes meet deep vermilion ones, they flicker away near instantly. Grim lifts his bloodied finger to his lips and tastes what is left of the minim on his tongue as he watches a drop of sweat materialise on the boy's skin. The boy sees him lick his lips out of the corner of his eye and shudders. — “Could my dilucidation have been so dull that you found yourself uninterested, Your Majesty?”

“Yes,” — his Lord replies bluntly, offering the case to his Reaper. Grim chuckles in amusement at his direct tone and takes a coffin nail and a holder himself. While he cannot so much taste the flavours of these sorts of cigarettes — the smell of fear is just as invigorating to him as the taste of it is to any demon.

Once chosen, — ‘a careful blend of melancholy and misery,’ according to the label, — His Majesty cups the end of the cigarette and summons a small flame to his hand, breathing in the pleasantly saccharine smoke.

A long, slow exhale. The smoke dances in an indigo hue.  — “You truly think she knows about the spy and is letting it cause trouble of her own volition,” — he sighs, graciously revisiting the topic he had dragged Grim into.

“Would it be so untoward of me to hope that is the case?” — he smiles innocently. His tone is light like an excited child's at the possibility of due punishment, and the chance that he could be the one to carry it out.  — “If that is not the case, however, it would still strengthen her loyalty, would it not? Seeing as she already at the very least planned on misbehaving; if I were to put it charitably.”

“You will not kill her,” — His Majesty states like a warning, a threat and a promise all at once. Lifting an eyebrow, he watches Grim lift himself off of the sofa and round the small table between them. The servant on the ground scrambles to crawl back and make space for him to stand directly in front of the Lord, bowing with one hand behind his back, the other holding the ornate jade bocchino, not yet lit.

“No, I will not.” — He takes hold of his Lord's chin and gently angles it upwards so the ends of their cigarettes meet. Once his own is lit, he inhales deeply, breathing out a smoke much darker than the reddish hue the flavour of fear would have made it to be, the black tendrils of smoke from his icy lungs mixing into it.  — “I will only pay her a visit.”

The fresh smell of mortal sufferings mixing together with the even fresher cavalcade bubbling in the chasm of the slave's lungs is simply divine. These kinds of pleasures awaken something in a man; and no matter how many times he has felt it, it never loses its thrill. However, though he is not surprised in the least by Grim's antics, he cannot help but ask; — “do you not have your lighter?”

“I do. I was saving it for later.”

“For what purpose?”

Grim gives a nod towards the servant, who curls up a little tighter. — “Fun.”

A dry chuckle. — “Such simple joys do not interest me nowadays, I am afraid.”

“Well that is a boldfaced lie.”

On the board there are a couple new puddles, a couple pieces sickly pale and hunched over. Grim pokes at his pawn, and it barely reacts, stuck in a reality where it is forced to relive watching its counterpart being crushed to death over and over again right in front of it. Taking another drag, he admires the chaos he has caused in the tiny, catatonic being’s world with joy. — “What a fine mess.”

Surveying the board, he itches to continue. — “So, what's the verdict? Is the plan sound or shall I expound on it some more?”

After carefully considering his options and thinking it through, only one answer seems plausible to the Lord; —

“Oh, why not. You made it sound very intriguing.” — He takes his hand and pulls the boy closer, letting the cigarette ashes fall onto his tongue cruelly, yet casually. The slave opens his mouth without complaint. — “Not to mention, we really will be here all day if we do not get on with it, so I hope your pawn is ready for the next round.”

~

Masterlist I Ko-fi

Taglist: @whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long @whumpifi @sordayciega @43-rats

@letitbehurt @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

Main taglist: @morning-star-whump @whumprince

[gothamverse]

eddie nygma and the terrible, horrible, no-good very bad court mandated psychologist

heres some sketches of young doctor jonathan crane! he's a fresh face at arkham asylum and i think he's really going to go places :)

[lgbtqbcnr]

i want to put my two favorite amnesiac main characters of eastern european video games in a room together and see what happens

[theenemyod]

*puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain**puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain**puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain**puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain* *puts my favourite character through pain*

[vipier-a]

t.ony g.ilroy could not be more dangerous to tristan if he literally held a gun to his head

[skhardwarevers1]

me when the guy I’m very delusional-y head over heels for. Me when he’s so fucking pretty to me for some reason. Me when he has like zero swag besides band shirts but that’s okay. Me when he remembers something I liked last year and haven’t brought up much this year. Me when he just generally knows the stuff I like. Me when he’s swings both ways (my chances went up maybe like a small bit !!) Me when. When.

[azrael-5]

"She threw boiling water!" "He had drugs in his system!" "She threatened a cop!" "He had a weapon!" "She was guilty!" "He was guilty" YAP YAP YAP WHAT IF I FUCKING KILLED YOU

[frogspawned]

pet peeve is when a story tells us something is aberrant, but it seems to matter more about who does the behavior than the behavior itself. rorschach in snyder's watchmen isn't going too far; we watch nite owl and silk spectre ii snap necks and arms with gleeful, loving abandon, in slow motion no less, while they lecture the audience about rorschach's violence. heroes frequently torture the plot contrivance out of a villain and then moralize to the camera when the villains do the same. indominus rex's killing spree doesn't shock or appall me; all the jurassic world dinosaurs act like mindless killing machines, and the camera lingers, rapturous, on their cruelty. it's not an outlier. there's nothing interesting about it beyond as a set piece.

in a better script, the indominus rex would have had pathos; a chimera made for entertainment, for profit, stitched together with no regard for itself and placed in a lonely box. a freak among freaks. of course it would be mad. but the film wasn't interested in it as an animal, or a character, only as a moving piece of scenery for people to scream at or breathe tensely while it can clearly smell and reach them but doesn't, because it isn't a character and doesn't have motivations.

it's just sort of boring, i suppose. it tries like all other empty drab things do to cover it with bombast and roaring and soaring brassy scores but it's just sort of dull. a sprawl of nothing.

conversely peele's nope is a transcendent monster movie, imo, because it thinks about the the whys and hows, how jean jacket perceives the world, how the world perceives her, and lets that shape the narrative as much as jupe or emerald or gordy. they consulted biologists and behaviorists, digging into the meat of it. the creature as a camera as an animal as a device. nope has layers. it takes its own insane premise seriously, and has something to say, and is a goddamn good movie. i forgot where i was going with this.

[dawnthefluffyduck]

Sunday doodles