#dmg on dmg violence

[bestygogirl]

BEST YGO GIRL: ROUND 2, GROUP C

Match 6

please use this as an opportunity to say why you like a character, not why you don't.

Propaganda under the cut!

Mana

Somehow still doesn't have propaganda. What the heck.

Tome

She was the moment. Completely deadass, I want to be her when I grow old.

[perryisle]

very dumb crit dmg doodle heavily based off of an exchange in hi fi rush that made me giggle

[wardingprotector]

my dm: harper i know you said devotion, but have u considered redemption!valar

me: i am considering it now,,,,,

[kindacreepy-kindaugly]

.

[thatdeadaquarius]

Okay so-- i was reading some sagau posts and came across this one where the reader was an army vet and my brain just Did Its Thing--

So now I'm here to inflict this on to you--

Would guns be considered as catalysts. And would they only do Phys Damage.

Me reading this ask:

😶 😐 🤨 🧐 🧐 😰 🥲 😭😭😭 💀

STOP YOU'VE INFLICTED ME WITH PSYCHOLOGICAL DMG FROM THIS ASK 😭

(Also srry took so long to respond, when i didnt realize how short this was/was just sitting over here 😓)

^ For the sake of gun imagery being a lot/maybe staff might hate me for it,

we'll put this gay shit instead (i almost mispelled to "gay shot" lmao)

☆

Sun: Army Veteran Reader, Gender neutral Reader (you/they/them)

Orbit: SHORT Headcanons

Stars: everybody bc i think itd be funny

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: gun stuff, mild violence, mild cursing & Trigger Warnings: Gun fun everywhere

THIS ASK HAS ME GIGGLING TO MYSELF LIKE A MANIAC

You're out here having a whole gun they let you take for off-base

And u ofc have a license so u can conceal carry

(idk how non-american gun laws work, but tbh ours are so fucked idk how they work here either, just that an army guy i knew once could have his gun when he got back home)

And ofc ur just paranoid enough (more like it just makes u feel safe)

That when u get yoinked into a portal to a silly little brightly colored gacha game fantasy world, the gun comes with 💀

Id like to add in my silly little "ur in a video game, so video game rules" AU version of genshin so:

The only other gun (ish) wielder (Mika) has unlimited bolts

Sooo I'd think your gun would be the same jfc lol

NO BC YOUD SCARE THE ACTUAL SHIT OUT OF EVERYONE IN UR VICINITY IN A BATTLE

BC GUNSHOTS ARE A DIFFERENT TYPE OF LOUD

When u first stumble into abyss monsters/hostile creatures of the realm, u nearly scare off a Lawlachurl bc every shot's like thunder to these bitches😭

So not only the monsters but the vision holders think u fucking summoned lightning

OMG THE BULLETS ARE SO FAST THEYD PROBABLY NOT SEE IT

ESP BC DISTRACTED BY GUNSHOT LOUDNESS

SO U AIM THIS LITTLE BLACK CROSSBOW (???) AND THINGS JUST DIE (OR GET RIDDLED WITH HOLES) WITH NO CLEAR ARROW STICKING OUT

STOPP- you're becoming a witchy god or smth to all of Teyvat bc it just looks like hella high level magic atp to them LMAOOO

Rumors of you get out of hand and say u just point or snap ur fingers and things get wounded/just die on the spot 💀

Oh another difference between Teyvatians seeing ur gun vs. crossbow (what they know)

Is that guns are wayyyy more destructive

Like an arrow would get shot but it'd bounce off of things like rock or wood or metal, maybe dent a little depending on how close

But a bullet goes thru that shit so easy, and leaves a whole little explosion behind, once again depending on range

(I once saw a Mythbusters episode? of them proving bullets would definitely go thru car doors, like movies lied to u, this is why drive-bys acc work like for gangs)

Lmao, the image of you in like full armor with a Teyvat made automatic gun after showing it to blacksmiths

Makes u just more convincing as a god, esp bc military training

(Ppl like Gorou and Kokomi begging for military tactics/training ur world has done)

...

....Ok.

I'll address it.

But only so u dont think im stupid later.

Yes, the Fatui have guns.

No, this not the same as having a glock LMAO

End of story.

(Also, urs runs on bullets, whereas the Fatui rely on magic/delusions to power theirs, plus they dont seem as fast or destructive as urs, more "explosions aimed at you" than real bullets)

Which,,, u leave the managing of ppl copying ur gun to ppl like the Qixing or smth, but make sure to give them advice on good gun laws if teyvat accidentally revolutionizes bc of ur advanced gun that anybody can wield (non-vision users)

Thats the best ive got abt that

Oh, also enjoy being praised as a War god now.

:)

☆

... dammit i had smth i was gonna tell u guys-

Uh what tf was it, it was important

OH

Next post is the Eldritch God Oneshot! Look out for it :) !!

☆

Safe Travels Kid,

💀♒️

♡the beloveds♡

@karmawonders / @0rah-s / @randomnatics / @glxssynarvi / @nexylaza / @genshin-impacts-me / @wholesomey-artist / @thedevioussmirk / @the-dumber-scaramouche / @chocogi / @fallen-starr / @areaderofbooks

If you wanna join a taglist, DM me what for! "Pspspsss, please tag me for [All SAGAU posts, Only SAGAU Language AUs, diff fandom, etc.]!"

(If you ever wanna drop, just DM me! "No more taglists/[specifically this AU/fandom] please!")

[thisfanisgonesorry]

in sickness (and in flames) — john price

first you get hurt, and then there’s healing; its a process, believe me

tags: kyle “gaz” garrick mentioned, angst, hurt/comfort, injury resulting in chronic pain, ptsd, flashbacks and pov switches. -> fem!wife reader but also not really an x reader fic if that makes sense? just give her a chance;; 4.7k wc

a/n: this is self indulgent "fuck off and die" fic /lh (nerve dmg sucks) but might add more to it yet, who knows

💊

He laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, clenching and unclenching his fists periodically. The memory ingrained in his head as he ignored the figure looming over him.

Bullets whizzed past them as he barked orders, directing his soldiers through cover, to eventual evac. To safety. There were so many of them that there wasn’t time to stop and shoot, the only option was to run, sprint, hide, use cover to your advantage, don’t let them get to you. His orders filled the air and cackled over the radio as he demanded backup or some form of overwatch.

He stood in the doorway to a building, his ears ringing from the sudden outburst of violence, dust covering every position, impossible to see how many shooters were from any angle, he waved his arm, gesturing to them to rush from cover-to-cover. He kept a count of his soldiers, mumbling names and numbers under his breath. His fingers looped into the edge of their vests or backpacks like you would on the scruff of a dogs neck, heaving them into the room and pushing them past the doorway threshold as he counted.

Bravo 6-2 walked through the door and John sighed in relief, giving him a pat on the back, and he continued to lead them through the building, not giving himself a moment of repose. ‘Everyone made it to safety�� echoed in his thoughts, the only thing that mattered.

“Anyone hit?” His voice hoarse as he scanned the group. He was met with reassurance from them, everything and everyone was fine, maybe a few minor injuries, but they were okay. That’s the only thing that mattered.

He raised his hands, two fingers pointing upwards as he glanced, squinting through the dust before waving, rushing through. His mind was fogged, which he now kicked himself for. He wanted to rush this, get out as quickly as he could manage. But if he just took his time —

A loud thud as he fell to the ground, blood seeping through his uniform but his body numb and tingly. He patted himself down as he tried to figure out where he was shot but nothing, the blood was thick to cover its origin, and his eyes wide, his eyebrows knitted in focus, trying to clear his thoughts despite the heavy rain of gunfire surrounding him.

His men covered him quickly, trying to pull him to his feet, but a rough, barked. “Go!” filled the air, a demand of desertion that was swiftly ignored.

“Sir, we’re not leaving without you.” 6-2 spoke firm, picking up the fallen soldier quickly and heaving his arm over his shoulder. There was an unspoken glare between them, a silent argument. Though the soldier averted his gaze, taking his role as second in command immediately in stride.

John was silent, observing, uncontesting the willingness of his soldiers to save him. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe they’d truly leave him behind, but the quick thinking would earn some medals.

The hospital was worse than the battlefield. Half of his body was numb, though he sat there clenching and unclenching his fists, wriggling whatever part of his body could move. His voice was ragged from exhaustion, and rough from the lack of hydration. Despite knowing better, he just couldn’t bring himself to drink anything, or to eat. He simply laid there, fighting for control over his body.

The bullet was removed from his spine and laid next to him, covered in his dried blood that crusted the pristine silver, it laid idly in the metal tin, but John couldn’t help but glare at it like it offended him.

His body laid straight and flat on the hospice mattress to ease the spinal column. His eyes stayed glued to the roof, though his eyes failed him, and despite his instinct, he fought to look away from the offensive side-table.

He’d been hospitalised for weeks while the army did their last duty to support him. Nurses coming in and out to make sure he left in the best of conditions, though he couldn’t help but feel betrayed.

A letter of discharge sat on the table next to him, sided with a bottle of water and using the metal tin with the bullet as a paperweight. The victoria cross was placed formally on top of the discharge paper, gifted to him while he slept.

As weeks went on, small tidbits were left on his side table as farewells, as souvenirs, as gifts. It wasn’t long before the news of Captain John Price’s discharge made its way around the base.

His spine recovered quickly, no major damage — not paralysed permanently. Once he was able to sit up without insufferable pain, he analysed the few items that were left for him. He rattled the tin, staring down at the bullet and cursing it for changing the trajectory of his life. The paper insulted him slightly, and he dreaded the day where he’d have to sign it, he was putting it off as long as he could, doing his best to ignore it’s presence, but his time was nearing. He couldn’t stay in this infirmary forever.

The Victoria Cross, in all its glory. He picked it up carefully, treating it like it was fragile. It wasn’t his to discard. He analysed the soft red ribbon, running his calloused finger over it. Awarded for astounding bravery. He flipped it over, to find the date of such an event labelled on the centre of the cross, and one ‘Kyle Garrick’ engraved into the suspender bar.

“You’re lucky to even be able to walk.” Were words that made his eyes glaze over, and they were always met with a brisk, formal nod. How was he supposed to respond to that information? He was bombarded with information like that, how he was lucky to be able to walk, how he was so lucky that it didn’t do more damage than it did. How much luck would he have needed to not get hit at all?

So he laid there, staring up at the ceiling at the memory. Fists clenched and unclenched. “Honey?” Was called out from the dark, and he turned his head, sitting up briefly to see his darling wife. “Made you some tea.”  

The glass was sat next to him and he stared up at me like he’d seen a saint. “I love you.” He spoke, like if he didn’t say it, then there would be no way for her to remember on her own. A chaste kiss, and a reassuring palm on the back of her waist was the physical touch that soothed his mind, though he continued to linger on the thoughts.

He was tired, beyond so, a permanent scowl hidden behind his outgrown beard, he’d neglected most forms of self care at this point in his life. He’d shaved it once — the day before he came home. He stood in front of the mirror for an hour just staring at his reflection, dreading what would come next, like it would be something bad until he forced himself into maintenance.

He walked up to the doorstep, his bag slung over his shoulder and the discharge paper firmly on his hand. He presented it like a child who just got an ‘F’ on their test, handing it to their disapproving mother that expected better. The look of shame that covered his face. The pleading in his eyes. 

I carefully took the paper from his hands, confused by his expression before seeing the glaring sentences. ‘Certificate of discharge from active duty’ plastered across the top, as well as his name and neighbouring information. A mumbled ‘what?’ escaped my lips as I continued to skim, knowing few of the words, but wanting that extra confirmation.

‘Medical discharge’ stuck out awfully. There was information about the discharge scattered throughout the letter, something or other mentioning medical retirement and the permanent disability retirement list. “John, what’s this?” I asked, met with silence, the soldier continuing to stand tall. “What happened?” His heart sank, his reserve falling. God, did he feel selfish.

He walked into the large, oh-so-empty house, and he half-expected to get dragged by the ear. “Got shot.” He grumbled under his breath. “Don’t even know how it happened — it was all so fast.” His breath quickened, his heart racing at the shooting memory of the pain that slithered down his body before the numbness took hold.

I wrapped my arms around him, and he fell silent. The words stopped pouring and he slumped down, letting his large, strong arms wrap around the smaller torso, and he accepted the act of affection warmly despite the way his gut churned in disappointment in himself.

All that hard work, and for what? What did it even pay off for?

Weeks passed, and he struggled to cope with the knowledge that he’d never go back to work. The pension came in smoothly, he was given what was needed to live comfortably, they did their part to make sure he was well-cared for. Government wise or other. He was supplied for, and that left a tight feeling in his chest that he didn’t like.

He wasn’t disabled — not by a long shot. Not in his eyes. Though that fiery pain that starts in the heel of his foot and quickly strikes up his leg like lightning spoke otherwise, like an echo behind his voice that said the opposite of his words.

Once again, he laid in bed, the sheets kicked off his aching, touch-hot legs, though they stayed wrapped around his doting lover. Why wasn’t he able to support his wife the same way he did before? It twisted him up and spat him out.

“Love you.” Was mumbled into the flesh of his neck, and he gave a sharp exhale, sighing at the words and closing his eyes, basking in the moment. He held his breath when he thought about these things — holding his breath in hopes it eased the tightness in his chest. He let out a soft laugh. She noticed, of course she did.

His arms squeezed them closer together, the same way he used to. Not much had changed besides his body. The sudden ache in his muscles, the discomfort. The all-too-well known demotivation that came with upheavals of change. The only other thing that changed, a good change, was his lack of motif bred a healthy amount of weight gain.

‘Soft around the edges’ were the words of choice. They reverberated around his skull for a few days, and he sulked and sulked, unsure how he felt about it. Initially taking it as an insult before that consciousness in the back of his head reminded him that he was loved.

“Love you too.” He brooded.

“Stop thinking so much.” I hummed, letting it hang in the air the same way he hung his head in shame. He let out a gruff hum of approval, letting me know my words were heard, but he wasn’t happy to hear them.

He woke, stirring slightly and noticing the distinct emptiness in his arms that he’d grown familiar with, though it continued to be strange. His arms reached out, patting a side of the bed, before he picked himself up, opening his eyes to be met with the distinct *clink* of his cup of tea placed gently on the bedside table.

“Hate it when you do that.” Was his confession. He loathed the feeling of waking up alone, and it was salt in the wound to know that she did it for him. He always felt like it was his job to be the caretaker, the provider, so for it to suddenly be ripped away like that? It killed him. Anyone with half a mind would be incredulously grateful that their partner loves them enough to care for them back the same way, versus whatever Jennifer Tilly has going on the side. But for whatever reason, never John Price.

He wasn’t met with a response, just an affectionate smile as the day continued, not pausing for a moment, it never did anymore. He missed the closeness, the affections. More than anything, he missed the intimacy.

He was kicking himself for letting it affect the marriage, because of course it did — of course it would. He couldn’t believe himself. He managed to find someone so loving, so caring, so supportive, so radiant. So unbelievably perfect. His own bitter, brooding pushing away the one good thing he had left. 

The only thing he felt that continued to function in his body correctly was his heart.

He gave a deep sigh, his hands tightly holding onto the side of the sink as he sat in the big house alone, oh; it felt so empty sometimes. His knuckles noticeably paler from how tight he held onto the sink, analysing his face.

He picked the sleep from his eyes and ran his hands over his beard, running his nails through the messy hair. The electric razor buzzed to life in his hands, he held it to his cheek and let it remove all the excess unkemptness.

A low growl rumbled through him, his hands struggling to respond to the actions his brain told him as he tried to trim his beard, the guard pressing into the fur and trimming it as it fell into the sink. The door behind him clicked, his arm tensed and the safe-guard failed, pressing deeper and a ball of fluff falling into the basin, a small bald patch forming on his cheek.

I apologised needlessly, assuming I was the distraction that caused the incident. “I’m sorry.” — I greeted him warmly, a reassuring touch, and he scowled, though there was no frustration; only disappointment. — He sucked his teeth, moving his jaw for easier access as he clean-shaved his face, leaving his cheeks bare and naked for the first time in years.

“Not your fault.” He responded gruffly, turning the razor off and swapping it between hands, shaking his dominant one briefly before going back to his actions. His cheeks were stubbled as he tried to keep it smooth, though he was heavily limited.

The razor was placed down on the side of the bench, and he rubbed the smooth skin, feeling the dull bristles over his fingers. It took him a moment, the person in the reflection looked nothing like him, it almost prompted a double take. He hadn’t looked this baby-faced in so long but it was welcome. Maybe even the change he needed. “I’m proud of you.” He froze, nodding with a thick swallow and slight gasp of air, almost like the words itself hurt more than a gunshot.

“Thank you.”

“It looks nice.” I whispered, my palm on his strong, muscled back. “You look nice.”

He leant into the touch, his shoulders relaxing and his body untensing at the reassurance. I rested my chin on his shoulder, and ran my hands up and down his arms, taking in his beauty. He was tired, and the conversation felt like a stab in the chest. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He grumbled, shuffling from foot to foot, rolling his shoulders as a slight innuendo that he didn’t want me touching him, and the conversation ended there. His words were terse — and I pulled away slowly at his actions.

He turned to me hesitantly, breaking eye contact with his own reflection, a million untamed thoughts running through his head. “I love you.” He reassured, a soft kiss on my forehead, feeling the stubble scratch me slightly, his nose pressing into my hairline, a firm hand on my shoulder as a vague form of affection like he did to his soldiers, the ones that he misses so dearly.

The sound of dishes clinking into the sink filled the kitchen. “I’m sorry.” He spoke with his chest, all puffed like a scared animal trying to survive against a predator. The tall, strong ex-soldier was now acting like nothing more than prey. “For everything. For.. All of it.” He struggled on his words with a sigh.

“What? You didn’t do anything.”

“Don’t.” He commented, his voice low like it was a warning. “Don’t try and act like it’s nothing and don’t—” His words caught in his throat. “Don’t think you have to take care of me.”

The silence was overwhelming, consuming the room and filling the air like a noxious gas. What was I meant to say to that? I shook my head, wordless, unblinking, unmoving, unbreathing. My mouth fell open to speak, though I pressed it into a thin line, keeping myself quiet. What do I say? He noticed the awkwardness, and sighed once again.

“Didn’t mean it like that.” He admitted, the roughness to his voice like gravel, like a man who hadn’t slept in days, lying awake, memories haunting him and the rigid words he planned to say to his doting lover filling his senses, but now he was here saying them it was fleeting. “You know what I meant, just..”

“John.”

“I know that this can’t be easy for you—”

“Like it’s easy for you?” I quickly retorted and he fell silent, his eyes staring through me as his mind lingered on the next argument for him to make. Though it seemed every argument he made quickly fell to an impasse.

“You shouldn’t have to take care of me.” “I’m your wife, I’m doing what I’ve always done.”

“I should be the one supporting you.” “You’re still getting paid, aren’t you?”

“What kind of man gets like this?” “A man that gets shot in the spine, and should count his blessings that he can still walk.” “I should’ve done a better job.” “You could’ve done better by telling me you were hospitalised.”

The room fell silent after the last dry, airy comment. He felt like he’d been shot all over again. “Look.. I’m sorry for that.” He said earnestly. A pause, a beat. “I don’t think that this is what you signed up for.”

“What about ‘in sickness and in health’?” Another silence, another pause, another beat. The air felt humid, sticky with tension, like a bead of sweat could roll down the side of his forehead, down his temple and slick onto the now bare-faced man.

“Don’t twist my words.”

“I know what I signed up for.” And the argument ended there. His stomach twisted up, why was he doing this? He was once again chewing himself up. Why was he pushing everything away? Why couldn’t he just get over it.

His thoughts scurried as he sat alone, dwindling on the minor argument, a common sight now. Why did he do that? How can such a tiny piece of lead do so much damage? How can it rewire his entire life? How can it rewire his brain? He dreaded the thoughts that always came next — is he selfish for wishing it took it instead? It was never a thought that he meant. Never truly, earnestly something he meant.

He was lonely. It was obvious. He’d lost his job, all his friends and all of his connections. He loathed it, and he wanted anything to take up his time. He itched to distract himself, to move his mind away from the guilt. He was fighting and he hated it — so he walked.

Walking made his feet burn, his big and heavy combat boots never felt like such a burden. Weighing down his body as he trudged along. He continued to walk anyway, working his legs back into metaphorical shape. It was a struggle, a fight, and how he managed to do this every day of his life before was a distant memory.

The ex-soldier continued to brute force his way through the pain. He convinced himself that the pain was like a runners-high where if he pushed past it, there’d be a sudden burst of renewal, though it never came.

He pushed through the front door, heavy footsteps banging on the floor, a wince in each step. He had a tired frown, searching the house idly. He placed a bag of food on the bench, a sigh escaping his lips as he wrapped his arms around his beloved. “Darling..” His voice was gravelly from the sudden uptake of smoking and yelling. “Got us some food.” He tried to speak sweetly as a surrender, a statement that there was not an argument to be had. 

“You’re done being a baby?” I mumbled and he let out a silent grunt of disapproval, though he took it in stride. A weak stride as his chin rested on my shoulder, his beard scratching my neck as he nuzzled slightly.

“Guess so.” He sighed, earning a nod. “‘S your favourite.” His eyes drooped, peaking at what kept my hands occupied. He tried to keep his attitude light, but all attempts of talking fell flat on its face. “C’mon, talk to me.”

I slinked out of his hold, turning to face him and he locked me into place, both hands holding the bench on either side of me, his tall figure looming over me dearly, the ghost of an embrace. “This is f’you.” I commented, handing him the cup of tea. Honey, herbs, tealeaves, sugar, milk. Spice, everything nice. He smiled, half-lidded eyes. “How was your walk?” He shrugged, he took the cup, and he was less domineering as he no longer trapped me between the counter and his large build.

“Good — and good.” He nodded, sipping the tea and gesturing to it with a short lift. He adored the new tea flavours, the variation between them. He was just a bland black breakfast type of guy, enforced by the lack of choice between being a military man and living alone with no desire to explore, but he can’t say he didn’t enjoy the list of flavours being thrown at him, too many to count or remember, but he knew most of them taste amazing, but he couldn’t distinguish if the love it was made with had something to do with it.

“And you? How are you?”

He licked his lips, excess tea wet on his moustache. “Suppose ‘m good.” His eyes were untelling, keeping all the secrets he’d ever seen in his life balled up in his pocket like a handkerchief, stained with the blood, sweat and tears of the memories, the ultimate grime that got stuck under his fingernails and buried into the crevices of his brain. He noticed the way he was being analysed, scanned by those knowing eyes. “Things should’ve been different.” He eventually grumbled, caving slightly at the all-too-intimidating stare of a lover wanting the truth.

“But they’re not.” Were the harsh words that responded to him, he knew better; it didn’t mean to come across like that but with all the lingering tension filling the air like dust mites, what was he to do but take it personally? “And there’s nothing you can do about it but move forward. You should know that.” I continued, trying to make my tone more gentle but failing.

“I do know that.” He said defensively, and there was a moment of silence as the tension peaked. Another argument loomed, and he coaxed himself into relaxing. “I’m just trying to get through it.” He explained. “I think if I just—”

“You’re pushing yourself.”

“That’s what I’ve always done.” He responded dumbly. “You gotta push through the—”

“Stop.” Cracked through the air like a whip, and he tensed, putting the tea down with a clink. “Pushing yourself is how this doesn’t get any better. You need to just relax, and get used to everything.”

“You know that’s not what I’m like.” He said back like a warning, though he caught his words between his fingers before they could be twisted. “And I know I’m not in the army anymore.”

“So why don’t you act like it instead of making everything worse?”

He cleared his throat, averting his gaze at the words that made his heart sink into his gut, like he could digest it at any second. “I don’t want to fight. I never want to fight you..” He said calmly and slowly despite his tense demeanour. His tone was low and cautious like he was talking to a cornered animal. He took a step back, hands raised in defence, physically moving away for space, trying to relieve the feeling of being trapped. “I want to eat dinner with you, ‘n’ watch a movie on the couch. Like we used to, yeah?”

Part of him felt that lingering doubt. Were these arguments just misguided, misplaced care like a child forgetting their toy? Or were they a symptom of a vacant husband that for once, is finally home, and is that too much?

He watched the awkward shuffles as the figure pushed past him, inspecting the bag like he was a liar, as if he didn’t actually get his wifes favourite food. The tension was unbelievably palpable, and he watched every move carefully. A short huff, and they met glances, and he had a knowing feeling in his chest.

“Can we just pretend everythin’s fine? This.. This is jus’ a rough patch, baby.” He spoke reassuringly, trying to calm the thick air but his words were calloused and rough like he didn’t fully believe them, like how the next reaction went would define the difference between truth and wishful thinking. “Look at me.” He said firmly, interrupting his degrading thoughts. “We’ll be okay. We’re okay.”

“Are you saying that for me or for yourself?” I commented, handing him his takeout dish, and an airy silence took us before he gave a light shrug, a soft smile. He took it briskly, almost curtly, and he reached to grab mine, holding both in his large hands then deftly moving around the kitchen, swinging around to avoid any flying bullets that could fire randomly from the argument.

“Does it matter?” He answered, happily carrying both of our meals over his head, knowing I wouldn’t be able to reach him and stop him until they were placed on the coffee table with a clink of the cutlery. His large hands looked comical, his small cup of tea in one hand and his other hand carrying everything else together.

I bit back all the sardonic grumbles, slumping down with a thud onto the couch, it creaked under his large figure and we shared an expecting glance, unspoken words were beyond audible. 

“I want you to understand that I need to do what I’ve always done.” He brooded. He’d spent every other day of his life pushing himself to the limits, following orders, doing what he’s told, risking his life, everything that’s expected from a soldier. “It’s who I am.”

A silence, a distant sound of clicking of the remote skimming through the TV, trying to find some form of movie that’d fill the tremendously awkward silence. Click-click-click. What to watch, what to watch? What to relive the youth of the strained relationship? To pretend that everything is honestly, truly fine, just for a miniscule moment.

“I know this — change — is hard on you.”

There was a moment of eye contact, a look of pleading recognition, a want of his life back despite what was taken from him. A want flashed behind my eyes of simply wanting him to be grateful for what he still has, not for what he lost. There would always be that miscommunication and he knew that it would always be a critical language barrier.

“I love you.” He reminded me like there’d be no tomorrow. Like all these temporary problems would all pile up and result into one permanent landslide of a solution, something drastic, something he dared not even mention or think or say aloud, nor spell in his mind with fear of accidentally jinxing his life.

A sigh escaped my lips, and I understood, of course I did, but was this argument even worth it anymore if it created nothing but incessant guilt and paranoia? The TV flashed to life, the movie was selected as he tried to move onwards, away from the taut past. The intro sequence played out slowly, the music quiet and low in the apartment air like white noise.

“John.. It’ll get better, you know?”

[green-t-ea]

Okay this one's a bit more story than silly, me and @/piconoodle have discussions about story implications a lot about normal ultrakill, and that also follows us into modded multiplayer ultrakill. So have a comic (and some lore under the read more)

Lore and design choices under the cut

So the story behind this is the idea that, Hell really really hates Pico (the smaller v3 model nicknamed v3^2) because she is way too good at the game, hell thinks this v3 is cheating and that the game isn't fun anymore, so it sets about stopping them, leading them back through most of hell, where they get trapped in limbo very injured, because hell will no longer allow them through doors or into the elevators, and v3^2 starves until it goes into shut down.

V3 prime approaches hell in search of blood and upon entering limbo finds v3^2 missing an arm and offline, they take them along because v3's are co-operative at their core. They try refueling v3^2 with no luck, because they are still losing blood from their damaged parts faster than v3 prime can refuel them.

V3 prime finds (or makes) a very strange new arm for v3^2 and finishes making repairs, then starts manually refueling them with the open ports in their palms. This time it actually works, v3^2 comes back online with blue wings (v3^2 most likely went into hell with a whole squad originally, probably a whole blue team, for context in the mod you can change your wing colors to represent what team your on, and this also can enable PVP if your on 2 separate teams, or make you immune to one anothers dmg if your on the same team)

V3^2 is surprised to be online again, and also surprised by the other v3 model not from their team, reacts understandably with some level of violence, although as they put the pieces together the hostility fades, such as their new arm, repaired parts, the blood on their hands and back coming from the other machines.

V3^2 changes to v3 primes red team, and the 2 bots have been together since then, v3 prime is cringe fail where as v3^2 is haunted by the timeline as a whole and also the strange powers their new arm throws at them, hell can no longer stop either of them.

[the-anomaly-team]

Stats and info on Elliot for my future RPG.

All those stats are for the level 1 character with base equipment. All those stats can be changed in the future.

Stamina: 30

cost of each tile move: 2

Stamina regen: 10

Action points: 15

Armor type: Light (50% absorption)

Armor: 10

HP: 20

Base weapons:

Short sword:

Melee,

9-14 dmg,

4 A.P,

3 stamina,

ignores 20% absorption,

Cannot be used if stamina is less than 3.

Old 9mm:

3-5 dmg * 2,

base accuracy 100%,

-8% per tile

5 A.P

Special ability: Transformation

Description: Elliot can transform into a half-beast form. He changes his appearance and gains bonus stats. Cannot use guns. Gains a bar starting at 0%. Each time he sees a violent act while transformed, this bar will go up if it goes to 100%, the player will no longer control Elliot and he will go on an indiscriminate rampage.

On transformation:

Action points: 15 -> 20

Temporary HP: +10

Stamina: 30 -> 45

Stamina regeneration: 10 -> 15

Damage absorption*: +20%

Gains a new attack: Scratch

Gains new ability: Jump

Scratch:

Melee,

Special attack where you can choose how much A.P and Stamina to use for it

5-7 damage for each 2 AP and 4 Stamina (5 stack max)

20% bleed chance for each stack

Jump:

Can jump over obstacles like walls, trees, etc... Costs 5 stamina and 1 AP

Passive ability: Thine framed

Base 15% to dodge any attack

Abilities:

LV.1: Scratch (only when transformed)

LV.3: Blind (only when transformed) or has a blade equipped

LV.6: Dropkick

LV.10: Feral jump (only when transformed)

Blind:

Claws at the enemy's eyes to blind them temporarily with their own blood.

Melee,

5 AP,

50% success,

Reduces enemy base precision by 75% (35% for bosses) for 3 turns or until healed

Dropkick: (3 turns reload time if successful. If not, 1 turn)

Sprint towards the enemy and use his powerful legs to kick them to the ground

3 AP and 5 stamina base cost,

50% success,

4-8 damage,

For each tile of distance with the enemy, it will cost 2 AP and 4 Stamina but will increase the success chance by 10% and damage by 1-2,

If successful the enemy will gain the effect "On the ground" for 2 turns (Cannot move, 0% dodge chance)

Feral Jump: (4 turns reload time if successful. If not, 1 turn)

Lounges at the enemy, grabbing onto their back to bite down on their vital area of the neck.

2 tile range,

2 AP and 3 stamina for each 15% chance of success (Max 5)

If successful, 35-50 damage and Bleeding III.

Personality trains:

Kind, (Gains +20 base relations with everyone)

Playful,

Pacifist, (If he kills a human instead of knocking them out or trying to negotiate with them first he will get in a terrible mood. If he sees one of his allies kill someone he will gain -10 relations with them)

Energetic,

Likes:

Swimming

Walking and running

video games

playing with others

Dislikes:

Excessive violence

Spicy food

Heat

Mean Personalities

[eva-does-its-best]

Stuff I dreamt tonight:

-Playing a Batman game where you play as Spiderman on a space station doing Minecraft ladder parkour.

-Playing Dark Souls but the bonfire glitched and clipped me through the wall into the castle's entrance garden full of like 50 patroling knights + other enemies and the glitch gave me a dmg aura so I cannot sneak past them.

-Running late for the bus (again), a skateboarder tries to do a trick from very high, his head explodes, a policewoman appears unimpresed, then tells me to not run too much omw to the station cause Testosterone is stored in the armpits and I don't have any anymore so to conserve the one i have the doctor will tell me how to dress in autumn.

Then me and 2 other people get in a car to get to the station but the asshole leaves us on a nuclear plant instead of the bus station so we are lost. We end up on a really crappy house to pass the night, on the entrance there is a hole where water leaks from a broken pipe. But also how did I end up on that house I remember actually getting on the bus in time.

-Getting eaten out as if I had a vagina, ngl it was euphoric af it made me very happy. Unfortunately it gets ruined by the fact it was my ex. Apparently I was getting eaten out in public to devalue the buildings nearby because we did not like the shop owners.

-A gang of people we apparently pissed off catches us on the street and starts threatening us, they threaten the person who was with me with violence, and me? Let's just say my brain was all in on the whole treating me like a girl tonight because I don't wanna talk about what they said they were gonna do to me.

Luckily a bunch of priests appeared and started throwing them avocados which made the gang members run away like cowards. Once we were with the priests they introduced us to their very small rhino, who was a dick, cause it turned around and threw in my general direction the nastiest stankiest fart ever concieved. Then it attacked a family that was doing movie night on the grass which was funny.

There were another 3 dreams but I forgor.

[thecreaturecodex]

Hubert Malevol

“Undead - concept” © Sergei Dorokhin, accessed at his ArtStation here.

[Hubert the Hunter was a saint of hunting associated with dogs, so making him some sort of undead monstrosity is delightfully sacrilegious. He’s one of the nastier family members in Castle Xyntillan, so I wanted him to be powerful, but not as powerful as Aristide.]

Hubert Malevol CR 11 LE Undead This human man is clearly dead, with blood red eyes, no nose and a lipless mouth surrounded by a matted beard. He wears hide armor and carries a sword and shield with him, a fine hunting horn on his hip.

Hubert the Hunter is one of the most powerful members of the Malevol family. He is Aristide’s grandson and embraced undeath willingly in order to pursue his hobbies—raising dogs and hunting people for sport—for eternity. He lives in Castle Xyntillian most of the time, but has a redoubt in the Indoornesse—the pocket dimension ruled by his father Runclus—and goes out to hunt the ordinary folk of Taldor at least every solstice and equinox. Hubert is loyal to the Malevol family to a fault. He takes a neutral position in most of the conflicts between family members, but takes great glee in dispatching disloyal servants and slaves. He takes trophies, and has taxidermied some of the kills he is particularly proud of.

Hubert is most comfortable in the saddle, and can summon his ghostly steed Redrum (his prized horse when they were both alive) to his side in order to ride around the wider hallways of the Castle. He loves dogs more than people, and has his grandfather or another necromancer in the family raise them as zombies or skeletons when they die of old age or violence. His prized hounds are galleytrots. He owns eight of them, each with the advanced simple template and Shake it Off instead of Mobility as a feat. Encountering Hubert with four advanced galleytrots is a CR 12 encounter.

Hubert Malevol    CR 11 XP 12,800 Variant juju zombie human cavalier (ghost rider) 11 LE Medium undead (augmented humanoid, human) Init +5; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +12, scent Aura fearless (10 ft.) Defense AC 23, touch 11, flat-footed 22 (+1 Dex, +6 armor, +2 shield, +4 natural) hp 109 (11d10+44) Fort +11, Ref +7, Will +6; +4 channel resistance DR 10/magic and slashing; Immune cold, electricity, undead traits; Resist fire 10 Offense Speed 20 ft. (30 ft. unarmored) Melee +1 bastard sword +16/+11/+6 (1d10+5/19-20), slam +10 (1d6+2) or slam +15 (1d6+6) Ranged masterwork light crossbow +13 (1d8/19-20) Special Attacks challenge 4/day (+3 AC, +11 damage), for the king (+3 atk, dmg), frightful gaze (Will DC 18, 3/day), lion’s call (+3 vs. fear/+1 atk, 11 rounds) Statistics Str 18, Dex 12, Con -, Int 12, Wis 14, Cha 16 Base Atk +11; CMB +15; CMD 26 Feats Exotic Weapon Proficiency (bastard sword), Improved Initiative (B), Lightning Reflexes, Mounted Combat, Outflank, Power Attack, Ride-By Attack, Shake It Off, Spirited Charge, Toughness (B) Skills Climb +16, Craft (taxidermy) +13, Handle Animal +14, Intimidate +16, Knowledge (nobility) +10, Perception +12, Perform (wind) +9, Ride +12 (+14 on ghost mount); Racial Modifiers +8 Climb Languages Common, Necril SQ contingency, etheric tether, ghost mount, ghost wind, hunter zombie, spirited mount Gear headband of charisma +2, cloak of resistance +1, rhino hide, +1 bastard sword, amulet of natural armor +1, 4 tangle arrows (as tangle bolts), masterwork light crossbow, 20 arrows, masterwork heavy steel shield, scrimshawed signal horn decorated with hunting hounds worth 75 gp, 17 gp, 60 sp. Special Abilities Contingency When Hubert is reduced to half hit points or fewer, he and his mount (if summoned) are teleported back to his room in Castle Xyntillian. Fearless (Su) Each ally within 10 feet of Hubert Malevol gains a +4 morale bonus on saving throws against fear effects. This ability functions only while Hubert is conscious, not if he is unconscious or dead. Frightful Gaze (Su) Hubert Malevol can use this ability on opponents within 30 feet as a standard action, which acts as a gaze attack until his next turn. Creatures within range that meet Hubert’s gaze must succeed at a DC 18 Will saving throw or stand paralyzed in fear for 1 round. This is a mind-affecting fear effect. Creatures that successfully save against that ghost rider's frightful gaze are immune to it for 24 hours. At 9th level, this ability can affect creatures that are mindless or immune to mind-affecting effects, though it still counts as a fear effect. Hubert can use this ability a number of times each day equal to her Charisma modifier (typically 3/day). Hunter Zombie (Ex) Hubert Malevol is not immune to magic missile spells the way that most juju zombies are, but gains the scent ability.

Redrum CR – Phantom mount LE Large animal (phantom) Init +3; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +7 Defense AC 26, touch 13, flat-footed 22 (-1 size, +3 Dex, +1 dodge, +10 natural, +3 armor) hp 76 (9d8+36) Fort +9, Ref +9, Will +4; +4 vs. enchantment DR 10/magic Defensive Abilities devotion, link Offense Speed 50 ft., ghost wind, phase lurch, spirited mount Melee bite +9 (1d6+3), 2 hooves +4 (1d4+1) Space 10 ft.; Reach 5 ft. Special Attacks magic attacks (evil, law, magic) Statistics Str 16, Dex 17, Con 16, Int 3, Wis 12, Cha 10 Base Atk +6; CMB +10; CMD 24 (28 vs. trip) Feats Dodge, Mobility, Outflank, Shake It Off, Toughness Skills Acrobatics +12 (+29 when jumping), Perception +7 Languages understands Common (cannot speak) Gear masterwork studded leather barding Special Abilities Spirited Mount (Su) Redrum ignores difficult terrain and gains the ability to use water walk at will as a supernatural ability. Ghost Wind (Su) Redrum can use air walk (as the spell, no action required) at will for up to 1 round at a time, after which it falls to the ground.

[findmeagreenlight]

today in gold and gears i chose violence

4200% crit dmg increase on the last plane

i just one shotted the first two phases of the last boss fight

[original-character-championship]

Bracket H Round 1

Poll 3

NERF (@nen-kaii) vs. Bruce the Just (@bruce-stan)

453. NERF (@nen-kaii)

he/him or ne/ner/neir

He has a zipper that exposes his skull because he thought it was silly, he drinks led water, ne blows stuff up with neir rocket launcher for funsies, and ne makes cookies for neir friends. He's so silly it borders on stupid. Gonna squisch him. Squinch.

4'11" little guy, with a shaved head that's split open by a zipper to expose his skull. Sometimes wears a mint-colored helmet with googly eyes pasted on.

454. Bruce the Just (@bruce-stan)

He/Him

     Bruce is a were-shark Barbarian from a pathfinder campaign im in. he is my precious baby boi and the sole reason I'm on tumblr is to shill for him in this bracket. He was abandoned as a child due to his family thinking him a monster and fending for himself till one day while trying to rob a family for food, he goes too far and kills the dad. Stricken with the weight of his actions he seeks to save as many people as possible to make up for his terrible deed.

     He is the definition of a himbo. The kindest of beans and loves nature especially the water. He is allo-aro as he loves everyone as his ever growing number friends but just can't hold romance in his heart, but still is distracted by boobs; can your really blame him boobs bouncy. He is autistic coded and has PTSD from his past actions, hating loud sounds as they remind him of the child and mothers wails of grief at what he did. He is self sacrificing to a fault and will no hesitate to throw himself into any danger for any reason.

     This is reflected in his weapon "Penance". which he spells (penents). A metal shark tooth macuahuitl with one half cold iron and the other half adamantine. It is enchanted to deal extra dmg at the cost of backlash upon himself, which has been the cause of his many scars across his body. Bruce doesn't care however as his weapon is just as much penance for himself as for his enemies.

     He serves as both the heart and big guy for our groups five man band. While he is obviously the dumb muscle, he is the emotional core of our group that makes a cold-hearted assassin, a conniving theif, a vengeance possesed psychopath, a shadowfell raised Dryder, and an apathetic druid, all want to be better people because of his unrelenting love and kindness.

    He hates killing and will even in battle go out of his way to avoid it and violence in general as much as possible. Their is but a single exception to this rule and that is to put any of his new found family in danger. That makes a woman by the name of Valentina a dead girl walking, as she callously murdered his dear friend Ms. S. An ex school teacher who would hand out gold stars to the party. He still has the stars on his macuahuitl as a reminder of his late friend and debt to settle.

     His caring nature has gotten the party into many adventures as he is always willing to help anyone. From hauling wood, to hunting fish for a starving child, to collecting cat skeletons for a friendly necromancer, to even facing down a 40ft tall face stealing monstrosity, all one must do is ask.

     Now a list of my favorite Bruce quotes:

" I got my info from a trustworthy source....... ya know a crab from that creek over there".

"NO STEALING! I will buy you the shiny".

"I would never kill him, just break a few ribs".

"I've fought plenty of trees and I only lost twice".

"You can be gay just don't do crimes........ok maybe a little crime since he's was mean".

"BRUCE IS INDOMITABLE" ( after holding back a bullete from his unconscious friends.)

"violence doesn't just break a man's nose, it breaks his spirit.............I've seen how terrible that truly is."

     I could go on for days about my precious lad, so if anyone wants to hear more hmu. That being said though reckless, naive, and certainly buried in his own sins; his unyielding sense of kindness and do-goodery make no one more fitting of the name Bruce The Just.

Taylor Lautner from twilight as to add to the shark meme since he also played sharkboy.

[bndair]

he’s been here before ;  remembers the smell of the breeze at windrise ,  the whisper of the boughs at the grand narukami shrine ,  the refreshing nip of the waters at loch urania.    while the lands remains mostly unchanged ,  the same can not be said for the people that occupy them.    they look at him with the same apprehension he feels ,  for how can a kid know so much of times past yet nothing of the present ?    he speaks of a people only known in history books ...  as if they were living :  the rlung .

the rlung were a monastic society of nomads ,  their homeland both unknown & untouched by outsiders.  centuries ago the devoutly spiritual people could be found across the whole of teyvat bringing laughter and joy wherever they went.  unlike the growing nations of teyvat ,  the rlung held few possessions and seemingly no land of their own.  what many viewed as the defining feature of the society were the companions :  the giant, flying beasts on which they rode.  it was once a common sight to see these bison up in the sky carrying the rlung far and wide.  spotting one was a sure sign of kindness to come.

then the heavenly principles unleashed fury and chaos ,  a cataclysm unlike anything teyvat had seen.  despite its focused intent  the destruction had rippling effects.  every nation bore some effects of the disaster and few seemed to notice the now empty skies ,  the now quiet laughter ,  the now absent rlung.

when grey eyes blink awake on the snowy slopes of dragonspine ,  the world has changed ,  evolved past the wreckage he left behind.  it’s a good thing.  even if it does leave a painful ache in his soul.  his people are safe —-- their connection to teyvat forcibly severed by aang himself.   the question now is :  how does the boy forgotten by time find his way home again ?    only those ancient enough to remember the rlung have the potential to help.    so off he sets across the nations of teyvat ,  hoping against hope that that the archons might have the answers he seeks.

weapon :  staff  ( dislikes bladed weapons ). element :  all, with varying levels of proficiency.  heavily favors anemo.  no vision. sprint :  air scooter - a swirling sphere of air ridden in a squatting position normal attack(s) :  consecutive staff strikes ,  anemo-charged staff sweep or downward strike to push enemies back ,  plunges from mid-air to strike the ground below elemental skill :  twirling his staff creates an anemo swirl to redirect or disperse incoming standard and elemental attacks, dealing infused elemental dmg elemental burst :  swirling sphere of air cocoons aang, protecting him from incoming attacks and dealing anemo dmg to those outside

misc notes : 

aang’s fighting style defaults to evasive and defensive moves.   he is a devout pacifist resulting in a strong aversion towards violence.    when his typical evade and deflect style no longer works ,  his offensive moves are much more powerful.

rlung is the romanization of the tibetan word for air ,  wind ,  vital energy.    just as in atla canon ,  they are heavily influenced by tibetan culture.

aang’s tattoos signify his status as something akin to an archon for his people.   a spiritual guide connected to generations past and tasked with protecting the rlung people.

[bungou-stray-dogs-archive]

Ougai Mori card - Vita sexualis

Leader skill - Boss of the Port Mafia Increases Port Mafia atk 35% Reduces skill cooldown by 1 turn for Port Mafia characters Active skill - Go with the most logical strategy Doubles the number of cleared affinity orbs for 2 turns Sub-skill 1 - This is the optimal solution Activates when 9 total beatdown orbs are cleared (6 at lv.5) Increases dmg of all team members by 85 for 1 turn (110 at lv.5) Sub-skill 2 - still talking to cats? Activates when 50 total Crimson orbs are cleared (44 at lv.5) Reduces dmg from enemies by 85 for 1 turn (110 at lv.5) Memo The boss of the Port Mafia, Mori Ougai. While his behavior may sometimes seem bizarre or incomprehensible, he's willing to do anything if it will benefit the mafia. The details of his supernatural ability, "Vita Sexualis," are among the Port Mafia's most closely guarded secrets. Quotes "In this instance, the optimal solution would be..." "The mafia at its core is an economic exchange using violence as currency. Anything can be requested. Anyone can be killed." "This is for the mafia. The boss is, after all, a slave to the organization." Affiliation: Port Mafia Crimson affinity Atk: 1842 (Max) | 183 (Base) Hp: 7428 (Max) | 1842 (Base) Support type

He's available from pretty much every scout (EN & JP)

[rabid-raging]

Druid subclass!

Circle of Hungers.

Level 2: You can only use your wild shape to turn into a hideous, cursed monster called a Wechuge. When you turn into this creature you must make a WIS saving throw (DC 10) to remain stable - on a fail you'll go feral for 1 mintue.

(Feral state you must do violence no matter what, against who or how.)

The Wechuge: in this form you are on size larger (no larger than large), your AC is 10 + str + wis, you have adv on strength ability checks, your bite deals 1d6 + STR and heals you for the dmg, your claws do 2d4 cold dmg. (Claws and bite will scale with lvl.)

You are considered as an undead being. You cannot eat anything except for raw flesh. You must eat flesh once per day or go feral. Nature and animals hate or fear you. (This includes your spells that affect nature - the results might have negative effects or no effect.)

Your bite deals 1d4 and will heal 1hp - your claws deal 1d4 slashing.

Level 6: your unarmed strikes are now considered magical and you can choose for the dmg type to be necrotic.

Wechuge dmg: claws 3d4 / bite 1d8.

Level 10: you now have adv on stealth and perception(WIS) checks involving scent. You can now mimic any sounds you have ever heard perfectly. (Insight check DC of 8+prof+WIS.)

You are resistant to necrotic

When you are hit as a reaction your opponent must succeed a WIS saving throw or be feared. They may repeat this saving throw at the end of their turn.

Wechuge dmg: claws 3d4 / bite 1d8 - only necrotic dmg.

Level 14: You no longer have to make feral checks when you shift. When hit a creature with your claws or bite attack and crit, apply the spell contagion, the target still must make a CON saving throw.

Wechuge dmg: claws 4d4 / bite 1d10.

Spells: Cause Fear, Inflict Wounds, Bestow Curse, Blight

[penistonian]

+60% coolness

+30% dmg

+10000% VIOLENCE

I've noticed that I really enjoy this aesthetic.