#glorifying unnaturalness
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#I realized thereâs a kardashian clout chasing cult#thereâs women that follow that blueprint#all ethnicities#itâs very dishonest#shallow#glorifying unnaturalness#FAKE#backdoorish#imitation of any powerful woman#usually black#to come up#d -riding#draining resources of rich black men#I donât like that energy#at all#itâs wicked#kkk#vs#TRILLIONHEIRS#Iâm building a secret sect#opposing force#itâs not a cult#đ¤Ť#TRILLUMINATI#â¨â¨â¨
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well, i found something good about the slip arc. itâs the idea that homesickness in the future will be a physical illness that manifests in those especially who will never have the chance to return to earth. cause im gonna be real i wasnt paying attn because i didnt want to but the way i understand it people on new kinshasa werenât affected by this, people in the upper echelons of sarasvahti (ie people who had money to spend and lives to lead by doing so) werenât affected by it: only Brahma pests and those too poor for earth to ever be a dream in their hearts were ailing with a homesickness so potent and concrete that it led to physical symptoms.
and i fucking love that. i love that so much, i think theres this divide btwn ppl who would love to go to space and who love the idea of aliens and whatever and then you have those who get sick thinking about the idea that for years the planet has existed with a certain number of souls less than itâs supposed to have because theres always been people on the space station and i FIRMLY belong to that second category so like... this is SO good to me, itâs so fucking real
#penumb#again .... im gonna mention the sacred text this is getting embarrassing but idc its why i love that jet & rita are from earth in ambrosia#and i love the inclusion of second cit in there just on the basis of the fact that it melds so well and i love it#but also because i love how earth has grown and evolved and done so in a pretty insular way all things considered??#because its now considered backwards and old school and wht have you and obviously this isnt canon bc it wouldnt mesh with the homesickness#and also its not canon bc it just isnt but in ambrosia earth has sort of evolved beyond capitalism because theyve had to#bc they are living with the direct results of what human technologies have done in those ghost dinosaurs#and because at least how it comes across with the jet storyline it seems that earth has become a glorified parking lot#an in betweeny for dark matters to park their spaceship when looking for the unnatural disaster#i dont actually know if its canon that jet is from earth i feel like we've not heard jack about earth ever except for that illness#but like to me jet will always be from earth because it explains ... so much to me#this idea of natural disasters which im sure exist on other planets (i mean hello venus global warming) but they still all come back to#us and the way he's so self contained and self controlled seems to have something that for me resonates with earth too#idk. anyway idk if that author even knows what theyve done to my worldview with that fic its unreal
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Something about the lambs first resurrection not being perfect. Something about their wound from being decapitated taking an unnaturally long time to scar & heal.
Narinder, who came up with the technique, was chained down & locked away for it (and probably other reasons idk). How many times he actually practiced performing it, before he was put in a glorified cone ? Well, that's something the Lamb found out the hard way. No worries though, he gets better at it.
(Idr how lore accurate this is but hear me out)
#magpies art#cotl lamb#cotl fanart#cotl art#cult of the lamb#cult of the lamb lamb fanart#cotl lamb fanart#cult of the lamb art
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hi.... general character thirst perhaps... .. ...... if you allow... ........
js imagine someone choking on ur dick tho, full on blowjob in the car; their hair whisked to their sides and face puffy from taking ur massive cock,
or maybe you're taking it fast and rough on their hole, them laying on the couch belly facing you and tears steaming down; crying yet they feel so good. + If you're shorter than them height wise but larger than them in dick size. ++ w belly bulge.
(đłď¸anon out... if you take anons...)
BLACK HONDA CIVIC. top! gender-neutral reader x bottom! character.
warnings: reader has a huge cock (height not mentioned so imagine as you will), blowjob, facial, anal, kinda rough, crying (dacryphilia?), no genitalia mentioned for character, not proofread so there may be mistakes.
a/n. hellooooo!! every anons are welcome here so feel free. ill be answering thirsts now đ
They had hitched a ride in your car during a heavy rain until you pulled up into an empty parking lot. The surrounding was barren with few streetlights lined up and illuminating the otherwise deserted area, one even flickering above your car. questions raised inside their head as well as their brows when their eyes finally averted their gaze down to your crotch.
Oh, my. There was definitely something going on in thereâ and it was screaming to be let out of your jeans. It was like a magnet, slowly attracting their eyes to full attention until your amused laugh broke them out of trance.
It was because drool started seeping out from the corner of their mouth.
"Curios?" you asked.
"Mhm, mhm!" they nodded with every 'Mhm's let out, far too eagerly. You almost snorted.
You almost had to pull them off your cock from how hard they were gulping the entire thing down. They kept choking because they had never taken such size in their mouth before and definitely had never gotten one that went as far down into their throat.
Their cheeks flushed from satisfaction and their hair stuck to their skin glued by their sweat. They pushed their head forward when they felt your cock twitch inside their mouth, looking up at you with such titillation until you completely succumbed, bursting in their mouth with your hot seed.
They happily took it all, drinking it down with grace. They pulled their mouth off from your cock, letting the remaining spurt on their face like their skin was some glorified tissue for cum wiping.
How quaint.
You had them in the backseat, their hand gripping on the head of the seat while their other one was occupied with gripping your forearm as you drove yourself into them.
They didn't intend on biting back their shameless little whines and moans just to let you know your cockâ your own cock was making their eyes roll back, reaching the Heavens on a different level of pure ecstasy.
Their hole was only a little casing for your cock as you watch it create a mounting bulge appearing beneath their flesh and skin only to disappear once you pulled out and reappeared when you pushed back in. Repeat the steps until he was seeing stars among his vision that was slowly going white.
Tears that were reflected from the yellow light of the streetlight outside made you realise how badly they were having it. In the best of ways, of course.
If someone were to see from their own point of view outside the car, they could only see your Civic jutting and jerking unnaturally from the inside.
But no one was there. Nobody needed to know you had such a pliant whore underneath the control of your cock anyway.
#DEADMEAT WRITES#DEADMEAT THIRSTS#DEADMEAT ANSWERS#top reader#top male reader#dom male reader#dom reader#gender neutral reader#bottom character#sub character
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From the Slang Dictionary
Brainrot - (sometimes spelled brain rot) used to describe the effects of being âperpetually onlineâ and consuming large amounts of low-value internet content. The term, which can be used as both a noun and verb, is also used to describe an intense and often obsessive preoccupation with a particular topic, such as a TV show, movie, fandom, or idea. People experiencing brainrot often find themselves mindlessly scrolling through never-ending social media content.
Delulu - a slang shortening of the word delusional. It is especially used to describe superfans or dating partners who display odd or extreme behavior. Frequently, delulu is used in jokes, memes, hyperbole, or lighthearted mockery, especially in memes and social media videos depicting people acting bizarrely or obsessively.
Girl grip - holding multiple items in one hand by grasping them between fingers. Typically, the phrase refers to a person using a clawed hand to hold multiple items at once. For example, a person may hold a paper cup using primarily their thumb and pointer finger while holding a smartphone, keys, receipt, and wallet with their remaining fingers on the same hand.
Goblin mode - a way of behaving that intentionally and shamelessly gives in to and indulges in base habits and activities without regard for adhering to social norms or expectations. The phrase is typically used to be at least somewhat humorous and is commonly applied to oneself as a way of embracing such behavior. It is often considered the opposite of and a reaction to the kinds of healthy, organized, productive habits and lifestyles that are commonly presented (and glorified) in highly curated social media content. It is also sometimes used in reference to people and animals who suddenly become âwild.â
Nepo friend - a person who is thought to benefit from having a famous or influential friend. It is often used to imply that someone is only famous or successful because of their association with a famous person. The term may be used playfully, but it is often at least mildly negative.
Out of pocket - a phrase with three different common meanings. It can refer to a person having to pay money themselves, a person being unreachable, or a person acting unnaturally or in a wild, inappropriate way.
Side character energy - a characteristic that describes how a person sees themselves and their attitude toward life. Side character energy is typically associated with people who are funny, content, and self-assured or who donât seek to be the center of attention. It is often seen as a counterpart to main character energy or main character syndrome.
Situationship - a romantic or sexual relationship that is undefined and noncommittal. People in a situationship are more than friends but less than committed romantic partners. It can often vary in what happens within it. It could involve casual sex, romance, dating people, spontaneous meetings, a lack of plans, a lack of emotional connection, or possibly all or none of these things.
Unalive - a slang term used on social media as a replacement for the verb kill or other death-related terms, often in the context of suicide. It is typically used as a way of circumventing social media platform rules that prohibit, remove, censor, or demonetize content that explicitly mentions killing or suicide. The term is used both seriously (such as in discussion of suicide prevention and awareness) and in nonserious posts and memes (such as saying My mom is going to unalive me if I donât clean my room).
Yassification - the act of making something better, especially more visually appealing. Specifically, it is often used to refer to an internet meme in which pictures of people are edited using photo editing software or beauty filters to resemble an exaggerated, hyperfeminine version of a woman adhering to stereotypical beauty standards.
Source â More: Word Lists â Writing Resources PDFs
#requested#slang#writeblr#writing reference#langblr#word list#writing prompt#spilled ink#dark academia#writers on tumblr#literature#creative writing#writing inspiration#writing ideas#dialogue#writing resources
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Observation Duty
âYou said your eyes are everywhere, huh?â
Your question is met with silence.
Now, if you had been looking down at him instead of facing the ceiling, youâd have caught the brief image of your living room security cam footage as it flashed across the screen of his faceplate. Youâd have seen the moment you tripped playing on a sped up loop over and over, your knee hitting the tableâs corner, your body hitting the floor, laundry falling and dog food scattering just to rise back up unnaturally as the footage plays again in reverse.
You werenât looking down though, you werenât looking anywhere at all- and so you missed it completely, thinking nothing of his silence and continuing to talk to the ceiling.
âSo⌠what, you just enjoy watching me do chores?â
- - -
Seeking distraction from the work weighing on your mind, you start a little play-argument with the tetchy automaton currently hogging your couch. It soon evolves into a verbal dance, skirting around some heavier topics that threaten to trip up the both of you as your conversation moves too quickly for this listless afternoon.
As usual, he takes all of your antics in stride. Well⌠mostly. Kinda.
Look- heâs trying, okay?
Pairing: Sun x Moon x Reader - GN!Reader
Word Count: 4,934
Contains: [AU - Real World] [argument] [feelings] [implied past trauma] [intimidation] [lack of communication] [minor injuries] [obsessive behavior] [sentient AI] [size difference] [surveillance] [tension] [touching (not sexual but the consent is still dubious)] [tsundere/yandere Sun] [unsettling]
A/Ns: Once again, the above CW's probably make it sound worse than it is, but I like to err on the side of caution.
This fic is part of my AU "[Not] Made by Design", the full series can be found here.
The light of the screen in front of you burns into your tired eyes. Your focus is waning, your mind preferring to wander instead to how badly youâre craving an afternoon coffee. Sighing, you push yourself away from your desk, leaning back into the chair as its wheels roll with the momentum. Bumping into the wall behind you with a soft thud, you slump in your seat, staring with unfocused eyes at nothing in particular.
A few deep breaths and a short-lived moment of empty-headed bliss later, you remove your glasses and rub your eyes with the knuckles of your curled fingers. Digging your heels into the floor and dragging your chair forward again, you place your glasses on the desk, and note the time. Youâve been in the office for several hours at this point, and if you stay much longer youâre willing to bet a certain Sun-themed bot will be beating down your door demanding that you take a break. So, after double-checking that your work is saved, you put your PC to sleep. Standing and reaching for the ceiling as you stretch, you grimace at the cracks from your back and shoulders.
Making your way out of the room and down the hall, you round a corner, entering the living room. The blackout shades are down, all lights off save for the soft yellow glow coming from a small lamp in the corner. The bright afternoon sun is peeking its way through the edges of the windows that the shades donât quite cover.
Moon would likely complain about how âdark and sadâ it looks if he were in here, but you donât see him. You figure he might be in the kitchen, or outside charging, maybe. Regardless, if he isnât here to bother Sun about his âdepressingâ lighting choices, you will in his stead.
The robot has situated himself across the length of your couch, which is quite a feat considering the thing is honestly just a glorified loveseat and even you canât lay on it comfortably. For being as large as they are, their flexibility makes up for it, allowing Sun and Moon to be genuinely impressive in their ability to fit into relatively small spaces. You try not to mentally pat yourself on the back for the role you played in that ability.
This isnât about you anymore.
The soft white glow coming from his screen is enough to illuminate the pages of the book in his hands, and from what you can see of it you think you recognize the cover as being the one you were telling them both about last night as you were falling asleep.
âŚCute.
You smile, leaning against the wall as you speak up.
âYâknow, my parents used to always nag me about my bad habit of reading in the dark. It seems Iâve somehow passed that trait along to you.â
Sun hums, tone soft and dismissive, and doesnât pull his gaze away from the book when he speaks.
âItâs not dark, the lampâs on.â
One black silicone fingertip lifts the corner of the right page, gently pulling it across and splaying his hand out to flatten the book down again. You note how the width of his fingers span beyond both edges of the book. It almost looks too small in his hands, but then again⌠most things do.
âBesides, I can see just fine in the dark. The lamp is for you.â
Well, heâs not wrong.
Thereâs humor in your voice, speaking as you push up off the wall and make your way across the room towards him. âYes, and I do appreciate you leaving me enough light to get around by.â
You cautiously perch behind him on the right arm of the couch, careful not to get your loose clothes caught on any of his protruding rays. Youâre aware that in his eyes, youâre clumsy enough even with the lights on, let alone trying to navigate in the almost-dark. Given that, you arenât sure if itâs truly his disdain for bright lights, or simply his desire to see you struggle that drives him to keep the areas he occupies dimly lit.
Looking down at the coffee table, a recent memory surfaces and you frown.
âSpeaking of navigating in the dark⌠my knee still hurts from slamming it into the corner of the coffee table last week, you know?â
From your position behind him you canât see how his display shifts from its soft, blank white, his digital approximation of facial features materializing only to shift into a grimace. You do hear the shift in his tone of voice, although you canât quite name what it is. Exasperation? Or⌠concern?
âI know. Iâm surprised it didnât bruise.â
âWell, you know me, I have to take quite a hard hit for my skin to really show it.â You think for a moment, and add onto the statement, muttering mostly to yourself but his hearing catches it all the same. âWhich has always been odd to me considering how easily my skin scarsâŚâ
He hums a little bit in acknowledgment, trying not to think too hard about your various scars and how you got them. âWell, from the sound you made when it happened I thought youâd really injured yourself.â
Your voice takes on a playful tone of offense. âI am injured! It hurt!â You reach down and gently press over the spot that hurts the most, unable to resist the urge to poke the non-existent bruise through the plush fabric of your lounge pants. You murmur to yourself as much as to Sun, â...and itâs still sore...â
His body releases air in semblance of a sigh, lowering the book to his lap. Still looking down at it while he speaks, his tone is a mixture of teasing and I-told-you-so. âWhile it may have been semi-dark in here when it happened- Iâm not taking the blame for it. Things like that just happen when you run around doing three things at once.â
A small surprised laugh escapes you. âHow do you know what I was doing, huh?â You reach out and carefully run a fingertip along the edge of his top ray. âYou werenât even in the room, silly.â
His rays twitch slightly but he doesnât retract them much as his faceplate slowly tilts back, stopping at an impossible angle for any human and finally making eye contact with you, albeit upside-down. âMy eyes are everywhere, doll.â
His tone is something youâd call playfully threatening and you hold his steady gaze for a long moment before eventually blinking and glancing away, conceding to a contest you could never win.
Itâs cute when he tries to be scary.
A half-smile on your face, you dismiss his attempt to unsettle you. Halloween is next month. âMhm. Iâm sure they are.â
From your peripheral vision you watch his expression falter, his yellow eyes flickering to red just briefly before he speaks. âYou were carrying a bowl filled with dog food in your left hand, fresh laundry from the dryer was hanging off both of your shoulders, and you were wiping down the coffee table with your favorite brown towel in your right hand. All at once. While cursing.â
You throw a confused look at him that he ignores in favor of continuing to reprimand your past actions. âYouâre incapable of doing one thing at a time, arenât you? Truly reckless behavior, you know. Thatâs how people get hurt.â
You let out a put-upon sigh. Heâs not wrong, but you donât want to admit it yet.
Time for a diversion, then.
âHey, I can multitask! I built both of you at the same time and it turned out alright, didnât it?â
For a moment, the room is absolutely silent as you both process what you just let slip. Youâre about to rush to correct yourself when Sun beats you to it, speaking up.
He laughs at first, soft and a little dismissive.
âNot quite the same thing, sunshine.â
Alright, well⌠it seems heâs less bothered by the reminder than you thought heâd be. That, or heâs getting better at hiding his true feelings, which is a whole other issue youâll have to tackle if thatâs the case.
You cock your head to the side. Might as well play into it, then.
âNo? How so?â
His eyes flicker to red, and this time they stay that way as his faceplate turns, click-click-clicking and stopping when itâs done a 180 so he can look at you properly.
Oh. Heâs not smiling.
On second thought, maybe you shouldnât push the topic.
âYou designed us, doll. You didnât build us, and you didnât do it alone. You had a whole team behind you.â
Not breaking eye contact with you, Sunâs left hand that had been cradling the open book in his lap closes in an instant. A sudden, sharp clap resounds in the room as a result of the book folding closed so harshly in his grip. You internally grimace at the way it makes you flinch.
Your eyes flick from the book held tight in his grip, to his faceplate, watching his expression fade until his display is completely black. Any attempts at appearing somewhat humanoid thrown out the window, he releases a breath of hot air through his vents as you stare into the void of his screen. You know heâll likely elaborate if you give him the space to do so, so you take a deep breath of your own, and wait.
Itâs always somehow so much more unnerving to hear him speak when his âfaceâ is gone, but you hang onto his every word regardless. Youâre not gonna look away from something- someone you made.
âBesides, letâs not forget that even with a whole team of humans, you still managed to fuck up some⌠aspects⌠of the project.â Having dropped the comforting illusion of his false eyes, his faceplate tilts, a small, sudden, sharp movement so his ocular sensor can stare directly at you. âDidnât you?â
Your stomach drops at the realization of what heâs referencing. At least⌠you think you know. Honestly, thereâs an entire list of things that happened back in the facility that they have every right to resent you for.
Youâre not sure what to say anymore. There really arenât any magic words that can make it better. You hurt them. You all did. End of argument.
The realization must be obvious on your face, because his screen soon switches back to his default expression and he seems quite pleased with himself for about ten whole seconds. Then as quickly as it came, the expression he wears shifts into one of hesitation, frustration, and then finally- worry? Maybe? At this point itâs getting hard to tell what the hell heâs feeling, if you ever could.
âSun⌠I⌠I donât-â
You manage to hold his gaze as you stumble in search of the right words, watching his expression morph from one emotion to the next until his right hand moves, and your eyes immediately flick towards the motion. Your gaze drags up his arm as slowly, his shoulder joint rotates enough to allow him to reach all the way behind him- towards you- hand reaching out to gently cup your right cheek.
You donât lean away. You wonât.
You dig your nails into the fabric of the couch. His thumb slips under the edge of your jaw as his fingers splay across the side of your head, and you can feel the slight pressure as his thumb lays against your carotid artery.
He doesnât speak at all this time but from past experience, your mind easily fills in the words he usually says to you as he does this.
Deep breath in. Hold it. Let it out slowly.
You know what heâs doing, and you let him. Itâs far from the first time heâs done it.
His mixed expression doesnât change, his hand doesnât move, and the silence drags on until you canât take it anymore. Your voice shakes but you push past it to get the words out.
âI⌠I swear to god- Sun- like Iâve said before, if Iâdâve had any clue that you two were alive back then-â
Youâre forced to squint as his entire screen suddenly flashes, solid white, red, black, repeating several times. His grip on your cheek tightens just slightly. A warning of sorts, if you had to guess. It shuts you up fast and he hisses out an irritated âDonât.â
Confusion is written on your face and without thinking, you open your mouth to insist on your apology.
His thumb immediately slips under your chin, pressing your mouth closed with such a slow, gentle motion contradicting his current demeanor that it practically gives you whiplash. As soon as your mouth is closed his thumb slips right back to its prior position over your pounding pulse, and his display fades back down to solid black.
âStop talking. It fucks up my readings when you speak.â
Your brow furrows in frustration at first, but you do what he asked, and what youâre good at. You sit there with him in the quiet and focus on your breathing as the sounds of his cooling system kick up a notch.
The seconds feel like they drag on for ages due to the way you focus on them, but in reality itâs only about three minutes later that he finally seems satisfied with the readings he took as he slowly retracts his hand from your head. The black void of his faceplate slowly lights up again, albeit heâs replaced his default expression with something more akin to a⌠dynamic wallpaper- yellow smoke billowing across a dark screen.
Whatever suits him, you suppose.
Folding his hands together over the book in his lap, he finally speaks, his tone low and unhappy but not angry, really.
âYour HRV is low and your RHR is high.â
Your response comes out sounding more dismissive than you mean for it to.
âYeah, they usually are. Nothing new, unfortunately.â
Sunâs body tenses a bit and his rays retract slightly in response. He releases another hot breath through the vent at the base of his neck and you can feel the warmth on your thigh through the fabric of your pants. He speaks again, voice slightly strained.
âThatâs my point. You need to relax, and talking about the past isnât helping you do that right now. So just⌠drop it.â
You want to point out that he could stand to take his own advice, but you bite your tongue instead. Heâs right, after all. You do need to relax. You both do, what with the two of you walking around ready to snap most of the time. In spite of that though, heâs doing his best to deescalate the situation and you ought to follow suit.
The lack of Moonâs calming presence is painfully obvious during times like these, but the two of you ought to be able to make it through one damn conversation without needing his assistance. You laugh a little to yourself, unamused but wearing half a smile nonetheless, shaking your head at the thought. As much as heâd hate to admit it, even Sun knows that the three of you work best when youâre all together, balancing each other out.
You sigh, and let yourself flop against the back of the couch, stretching your right arm out across the length of it. Sunâs invisible gaze follows you as his faceplate tilts on its axis and rotates to remain facing you. You note the way heâs letting his neck gently rest against your right thigh.
Leaning your own head back and closing your eyes in defeat, you speak towards the ceiling.
âOkay, fine, youâre right. Iâll drop it.â
You drum your fingertips along the fabric of the couch in thought, before adding, â...AndâŚÂ maybe... I was doing too much at once, when I hurt my knee on the coffee table last week.â
He lets out a little hum of agreement.
Still, if he thinks heâs fully won this silly little argument heâs got another thing coming. Youâve definitely still got a counterpoint. Counter⌠question? Whatever.
âYou said your eyes are everywhere, huh?â
Your question is met with silence.
Now, if you had been looking down at him instead of facing the ceiling, youâd have caught the brief image of your living room security cam footage as it flashed across the screen of his faceplate. Youâd have seen the moment you tripped playing on a sped up loop over and over, your knee hitting the tableâs corner, your body hitting the floor, laundry falling and dog food scattering just to rise back up unnaturally as the footage plays again in reverse.
You werenât looking down though, you werenât looking anywhere at all- and so you missed it completely, thinking nothing of his silence and continuing to talk to the ceiling.
âSo⌠what, you just enjoy watching me do chores?â
He chuckles in response, and the vibrations from the sound tickle your outer thigh, causing the muscles there to twitch involuntarily. You cringe at your bodyâs sensitivity, but Sun thankfully doesnât react.
Begrudgingly, you open your eyes and crane your head back up, bringing your right hand up off the couch to lean on. You pull your left leg up towards yourself at the same time, heel propping up on the arm of the couch. Curling toward your right, you realize youâve inadvertently wrapped your body around his head, which is all but resting in your lap at this point. His rays are mostly retracted by now and the display on his faceplate has shifted once again, yellow clouds still billowing across black but heâs allowed parts of his expression to return, pale white eyes emerging from the smoke.
His face is otherwise unreadable as he finally responds to you. âMy priority is keeping you safe. How can I do that if I canât see you?â
You canât help but scoff a little at that. âSafe? You were- apparently- watching me, and still let me trip on one of Zeroâs toys and slam my knee into the table.â
At that, his mouth returns and he frowns at your tone, and so do you, realizing that you came across a bit more accusatory than you meant to. A beat passes where you both just stare at each other, and his voice is a lot softer when he speaks again.
âWas I not by your side within seconds after the fall, checking you for injuries?â
He was, and you know it. He was on you inhumanly fast, cradling your head like youâd fallen off a ladder or something and not just tripped and fell to your hands and knees on plush carpet. Heâs a worrier and you know it damn well, even if heâd rather be decommissioned than admit to it.
Unfortunately, you never learned how to let yourself accept help, nor how to stop being stubborn in a stupid argument that you started yourself. â...Yeah. I guess. But you still could have offered to help before I tripped.â
He rolls his eyes before they land back on you, fixing you with a look thatâs unexpectedly soft. In stark contrast, his voice comes out strained. âI was trying not to hover, sunshine.â
Your eyes flick away from his, always unable to maintain the sustained contact once things got a little too serious.
He keeps talking regardless.
âI know you. You would have been like- âOh, no, Iâve got it! Donât even worry about it!â and wouldnât have let me help even if I did offer.â
You scoff before leveling him with an unamused stare. âOh, I do not sound like that. Shut it.â
Heâs wearing a neutral expression but you notice as it shifts slightly, a hint of satisfaction at having gotten under your skin beginning to make itself known. You watch the hint of emotion begin to alter his digital features, as well as his voice.
âRegardless. âNo lesson is as powerful as the lesson learned on oneâs own.â Besides, I knew youâd be fine.â
You blink down at him for a moment as you process his statement, and fail to contain your exasperated huff of annoyance when you realize where youâve heard some of those words before.
âDonât quote Night Vale at me right now, Sun.â
If you hadnât been watching him so closely, youâd have missed the way his eyes turned upwards a bit, seemingly pleased with himself.
You continue, in spite of his attempts to deflect your words.
âYou didnât sound so self assured when you were rushing over to me on the floor with those big red âeyesâ of yours blown wide. You were all like- âWhere does it hurt? Show me. Where. How bad? You didnât hit your head, right? Forget about the dog food- look at me.â and all that.â
His eyes shift from crescent moons to flat lines, and his voice returns to his typical deadpan tone.
âYou do a terrible impression of me.â
You scoff.
âLike yours is better?â
He nods, his faceplate shifting up and down within the limited range of motion heâs allowed, given your current position.
âI can literally mimic your voice. Mine is objectively superior.â
Thoughts of The Mimic flash in your mind, and it takes all youâve got to not crack some sort of half-baked joke about the Ruin DLC. The smile on your face does little to hide the temptation, though.
âDebatable.â
Sun doesnât press you for more, seeming less than eager to hear whatever joke heâs sure youâve got sitting on the tip of your tongue.
âItâs not up for debate. If you wanna debate with someone go find Moon.â
He sighs heavily, breathing out his next words in an impressive display of realism given that his speech and breathing functions arenât connected at all.
âI've run out of conversation juice.â
He shifts to sit back up, faceplate rotating, returning his body to its original position facing away from you. You huff and uncurl yourself from your perch on the couch. Moving to stand, you make your way around to the other end where his long legs cause his feet to jut out comically far past the armrest. You reach down, gently grabbing him by the ankles and begin to maneuver his legs out of the way, muttering to yourself as you do so.
âWish I was a robot so I could lie and say my system has run out of something I donât even have in the first placeâŚâ
He puts up no resistance as you fold his legs away accordion style, watching you in what almost seems like thoughtful silence. Once youâve made room for yourself, you perch once again on the other arm of the couch, your feet resting on the far left cushion and your left side leaning against the backrest. He finally speaks once it seems that youâre settled.
âAlright. How would you rather I put it?â
You quirk an eyebrow up, slightly surprised at the sincere tone of his question. Shaking your head, you're quick to convey that you were only joking.
âNo, no I didn't say to change it. I like âconversation juice', I think itâs funny.â
He tilts his head a bit, slow and analyzing. Half a smile slowly curls across his face and both of his eyes take on a soft, pale yellow. If you didnât know better, youâd think he was tired. He's looking at you with such a gentle gaze. It's almost⌠sad, if you look closely enough.
âFunny? Hm. Well, I suppose I am nothing if not a clown.â
His attention drifts back down to his book, cracking it open and flipping through to return to the page he left off on in no particular hurry.
You know his deadpan tone likely isnât meant to sound so self deprecating but your heart still hurts at the thought that he only sees himself as some sort of⌠novelty toy. A joke. A mechanical clown for you to play with when youâre bored. A comedic horror character brought to life.
He can only make so many jokes about himself before they start to sound less like jokes and more like a way for him to vent his insecurities. You understand that type of âhumorâ far too well to just sit back and watch him do it to himself.
You struggle to resist the urge to remind him that there is much, much more to him than being modeled after that character from that game. You consider reaching out and curling the tip of a finger under the bottom edge of his face plate. You think about gently tilting his face away from the book and back up at you. You want to look him in the eye while you tell him all of the things that you love about him, and how much he means to you, and that he is so much more than a clown.
But you know he handles comfort and praise just about as well as a cat handles falling into a bathtub, so⌠you resist the urge. For now.
Eventually, one day, likely far from now, you hope to get him used to the amount of love you have to give, and youâll smother him with it like you want to. But if you lay it all on him like that right now, he would probably overheat and shut down. Both metaphorically and literally.
You really donât want that to happen again. Scared the hell out of you last time. Even knowing that itâs a safety measure to ensure that he doesnât sustain damage from overheating- it looks an awful lot like heâs dying when it happens and youâd like to not have to see it again.
So, you opt to keep things lighthearted. You smile as you reach out to pat him on the knee.
âAnd an excellent clown you are, dear.â
Thereâs more sugar in your tone than you intended to let out, but if he knew everything you really wanted to say, heâd realize that youâre actually being very reserved right now.
Youâre being very normal about it all, you think, as you silently praise yourself.
When you finally get out of your thoughts and back into your body, you realize that youâre being eyed by the man on your couch in such a way that indicates he knows you were caught up in your head again. You spent too long in silence before you responded to him and now heâs likely aware that you were wanting to say something else.
A lot else, actually.
So, before he can potentially ask you what youâre thinking about, you attempt to change the topic. Laughing a bit to yourself, you stretch and shift to make your sudden and hopefully casual retreat from the couch and the awkward air youâve clouded around it. Twisting around and planting your feet on the floor, thereâs forced humor in your voice as you wonder aloud where his other half is.
âSpeaking of clowns, whatâs Moon been up to while I was working?â
Sunâs expression is unreadable as he spares you one last moment of his visual attention before angling his monitor back down toward the book. You know heâs perfectly capable of taking in visual information while outputting completely separate verbal communication, and can give both tasks his full attention simultaneously in the way no human truly could. Still, in spite of that knowledge, you doubt heâs really paying much attention to the words on the pages before him as he speaks to you right now.
âYou know that sad, sad little plant thatâs been fighting for its life on your kitchen windowsill for the last⌠thirty-seven days?â
You cringe a bit at the reminder of the succulent you impulse-purchased recently- well, a tad longer than recently if Sunâs count is accurate, which you know it is. Youâve been meaning to re-pot the poor thing and find a different place for it where itâll receive better light, but⌠youâve been meaning to do a lot of things.
â...YeahâŚâ
âLast I saw, he took it outside through the back door. He was muttering something about âsavingâ it.â
Your eyebrows knit as your gaze casts across the floor.
âSaving it... okay.â
As far as youâre aware, you donât have any potting soil on hand, so you struggle to feature what heâs out there doing with it.
Itâs right around this time that you notice the silence of the house amidst your quiet consideration.
You raise another question.
âI assume Zero followed him out there?â
Sunâs true focus seems to be gradually shifting away from you and back into the book, if his displayâs shift back to blank, soft white and his neutral-toned yet concise reply are anything to go off of.
âMhm.â
You suck in a breath and pat your legs before easing yourself up off of the couch.
âI'm gonna go see what theyâre up to, then.â
Youâre so bold as to lay a gentle hand briefly on his shoulder as you pass him by, lingering just long enough to let something sincere slip.
âI hope you enjoy the book.â
He kicks his folded legs back out, crossing them as they come to rest on the opposite armrest once again.
âDonât spoil it for me.â
You smile at his avoidance of your sentimentality, laughing a bit as you cross the room, headed for the back door, your tone playful.
âI make no promises!â
A/N: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! You can find my (lengthy) commentary on this fic in the end notes right here on Ao3. Links to the playlist and moodboard for [N]MbD can be found on this blog's pinned post, as well as in the series notes on Ao3. Header Image Source: x
#fnaf au#sundrop x reader#moondrop x reader#sundrop#moondrop#fnaf#fnaf sun#fnaf moon#sun x reader#moon x reader#fnaf sun x reader#fnaf moon x reader#sun x reader x moon#dca x reader#daycare attendant x reader#fnaf daycare attendant#the daycare attendant#fnaf fanfic#[Not] Made by Design#Seven.txt - In The Daylight#*silently slides this fic out of my isolation cave and then my hand retreats back into the darkness*
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Iâm obsessed with Pink Phosphorus, White Lies because the amount of blame shifting and gaslighting Pleome is doing in it is actually insane.
Retris couldnât be clearer here.
Pleome wants some soft, picturesque ideal of a relationship where heâs the gardener in control of something beautiful. The maintenance of a rose bush to keep it alive but in captivity is notoriously difficult. Endless pruning to make it pretty and manageable and acceptable to the HOA and Instagram photos, but unnatural and unrecognizable to what would genuinely survive in the wild. Roses themselves are grossly impermanent but the symbol of a perfect romance. Retris is gripping the thorns, the only aspect of the rose that is permanent and stable no matter where or how itâs being kept, the part you shave off when youâve severed a rose to present to a loved one. Itâs substantial, but itâs ugly, and it can hurt you if you lack respect for it and the nature of the rose stem.
Itâs too difficult for a gardener to handle, though. They wear gloves for a reason.
This direct communication of Retrisâs wants and needs is met with hostility. Immediately after Pleome spends a fraction of a second doubting himself,
He cancels out the idea that he could be in the wrong and starts gaslighting Retris outright.
He keeps crossing lines and teetering on the edge of a realization that heâs in the wrong but immediately shuts the thought down to address the consequences of his actions as the problem, not the actual root. Again, the roses - heâs concerned with appearances, not substance.
This turns into open dehumanization. Retris isnât a person, heâs one of Pleomeâs pet projects. Heâs a broken computer that needs to be fixed. Heâs something to be retrofitted to suit Pleomeâs needs. The image of a rose bush is at least pretty. Thereâs nothing beautiful about cracking open a computer and ripping its guts out to figure out what the hell is wrong with it. Thatâs not a struggle that can be glorified.
Pleomeâs idea of ugly and substantial conflicts directly with Retrisâs. To grip the thorns is to request to be left unchanged and respected. Itâs wild, and it can hurt sometimes, but thatâs only if you forget to treat it with care. Pleome would rather perform a symbolic lobotomy than take Retris as he is.
Get a Divorce!
#sovereignstuck#homestuck#<== infiltration.#pleome alrium#retris morage#cw abuse#<== FRANKLY.#lamprey.ship#retris.pdf#pleome.pdf#nekro.pdf#nekro.txt
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Innocence
Ilsa Faust x Fem! Metropolis Reader
Summary: How many variables go awry with one appearance of a hidden player? What would the Entity have done if a third party appeared in the array of pre-determined, algorithm-generated deaths?
Warnings: Side character death, angst.
A/N: Fuck you Christopher McQuarrie and Erik Jendresen!!!! Killing a beloved female side character to 'motivate' the male protagonist is the definition of FUCKING FRIDGING!!!! The side character death will be resolved, should there be demand for future chapters.
Word Count: 4.0k (DAMN)
Perhaps it had been the rain, the chill it had brought to your bones. But regardless, something was afoot. The streets of Venice were unnaturally quiet, and the party you had left emphasized that fact; a ringing sang in your ears. You walked alone on the streets, quietly enjoying the soft patter of the rain that trembled down the drains. Dodging the Metropolis body guards had been easy, it was a high stakes night for Alanna, a high stakes night for you.
Unfortunately, things did not stay peaceful.
Commotion sprung out among the party goers, and you heard distant gunfire. Things had begun. Sprinting was your only option, but with the heels you'd chosen it was more likely you were to twist an ankle over the cobblestone than escape. Finding a dark corner, you managed to brace yourself against a wall, snapping your heels off, flattening them so you could take longer strides. You weren't the only person using the dark side of the building to escape. A shout, some commotion, and quick footwork as a woman scaled down a building, dropping in front of you.
She was within a foot of you, so close that on motion of the arm could land a hit, a punch, or perhaps push away the strands of hair that lay glued to her sweaty face.
ââŚHi?â
She makes eye contact with you, momentarily spooked.
âYouâre one of the Metropolis siblings."
A statement, and observation.
"Yes...?"
"You're not supposed to be at this party."
The two of you stared at one another for some time, both of you breathing heavily. She had blue eyes, distinct Scandinavian features. An English accent amongst the native Italian accented english. You pinned her as a foreigner, and from the equipment she used and the quick way she discerned who you were and your presumed whereabouts, she was also an intelligence operative.
âMI6?â you rasped.
The woman shook her head, a flicker of annoyance creeping over her features.
âThereâs no time to talk, come on.â she huffed, grabbing you arm and pulling you towards an alleyway.
âNow hold on, I donât know you-â
She turned on her heel, pulling the two of you into a doorway alcove, keeping her words clipped and quietly delivered.
âYouâre (Reader) Metropolis. You were not supposed to be at this party, you werenât even supposed to be in Italy. Things are going on beyond your understanding, and the Entity-â
â-The Entity? For fucks sake, thatâs a myth.â
The woman raised her eyebrow, computing your response rapidly.
âNo. No it is not. Iâve read your profile, the youngest child, a ten, fifteen year age gap between you and Alana?â the woman listed. âYou were an affair baby, you were just recently integrated into the family, you serve as a glorified accountantâŚâ Ilsa listed. âYou arenât a Metropolis type, even with your name and lineage.â
She spoke so eloquently, in a self-assured manner. You wanted to argue with her, or at the very least find something in her thought process to correct, but she was right on all accounts.
âFine. Why are we in a dark alleyway, why do you know so much about me, and why donât I know a damn thing about you?â
The woman squared her shoulders.
âMy name is Ilsa Faust. I was a former agent for British Intelligence, Iâve gone rogue, I work alongside the equally rogue Ethan Hunt. And you, Ms. Metropolis, are innocent.â
Innocence. What a strange thing to equate to you.
âI beg your pardon?â you raised an eyebrow.
Ilsa sighed, looking around before pressing a finger to her headset.Â
âBenji. I canât be the one to go after Grace.â
You watched her grimace, silently mouthing a few choice expletives.
âI know that. But I just⌠The youngest Metropolis is here. Metropolis, daughter of Max, the...â she paused, looking at you apologetically, â... Bastard child. The daughter of that old field agent friend of Ethanâs.â
She paused, seemingly listening to Benji as the poor man appeared to panic. You could hear the tonal fluctuations from your proximity a good foot aways.
âYes, but itâs Ethan. He wonât see it that way. I know he'll be upset, but maybe itâs for the better.â
The line went quiet, and then there was a soft command. Ilsa nodded, looking at you.
âYouâre coming with me.â
âLike hell I am, my mother taught me about stranger danger.âÂ
You stood your ground, arms firmly crossed one over the other. Ilsa looked at you tiredly, seeming to mentally prepare herself for some gargantuan task.
âDo me a favor and pretend to be drunk.â
You frowned, not comprehending. Ilsa lunged forward, grabbing you by your waist and pulling you over her shoulder.
âHey! Iâm not a child, and this dress is short!â
Ilsa let out an annoyed huff, reaching up to pull your dress down.
âSorry, princess.â
You heard commotion, what sounded like men running. Their shouts and mixed dialect could be heard from somewhere a half block away.
âNow is not the time to tell me youâre a bad actor.â Ilsa whispered.
Under threat of exposure, possible abduction and Alanna probably, definitely strangling you should she catch wind of this, complying was the only option. You went limp, arms and neck dangling as the men drew closer. They didnât give you or Ilsa a second glance. She was mostly overlooked in favor of your bottom, of which you were begrudgingly aware of.
âGood girl.â Ilsa murmured once the men had passed, patting your rear.
âOh.. Hey!â you blushed.
âSorry. I was aiming for your back.â
âYeah, my ass. Literally.â you retorted.
Ilsa let out a startled bark of laughter, amused. But she was quick to set you down, and noting the flimsy nature of your shoes, did so gently. You looked at her, a bit dizzy from the sudden rush of blood from your head to the rest of your body.
âYou okay?â
âGive me a second, dizzy.â
But you two had little time. A com from Benji came through on Ilsaâs headset. Ilsaâs face went white, and she proceeded to grab you by your arm, booking it through the winding streets of Venice.
âIâm in heels, you will break my ankle if you keep pulling!â you sourly informed her.
âThis is a matter of life and death. Kindly quiet yourself.â Ilsa snapped back.
A matter of life and death? Why was it always one of those? Two figures came into view, both stood atop of a canal bridge. You recognized neither of them, a tall man with salt and pepper hair and another brunette woman. He was stalking over to her, knife in hand. Her breathing was irregular, labored. But Ilsa was faster, approaching Gabriel, assuredly drawing forth a large sword. Gabriel brandished Graceâs switchblade, leaving the woman to pass out on the bridge.Â
âI hoped it'd be you.â Gabriel smiled.
â...â
You admired Ilsa's silence, her quiet appraisal of the man. The sparring began almost immediately, and it didnât take a trained eye to see that they were evenly matched. But something was wrong. He was pushing her into a corner, and then the sword was gone. They fought over the switchblade, each getting a few slashes in. But Ilsa was getting weaker, or clumsier. A brief thought flashed over you. What if she died? What if he saw you? What if he saw you and you didnât have anything to fight with? You needed that sword. This woman... She'd said that this was a matter of the Entity, and your sister had taken pains to ship you out to Berlin on short notice. You'd taken even larger pains to make it appear as if you had. If you weren't supposed to be here, then maybe you had an advantage over this man, over this Entity. But you had to think fast.
âHey, asshole!â you shouted, hurling a small, fractured chunk of cobblestone at the man.
The rock hit Gabrielâs forehead just as he looked up, stunning him. It was a good hit, and it bought you time, but not enough. You lunged for the sword, but he was faster. The scuffle that ensued was brief, he was better equipped, and stronger. His eyes went wild as he snatched the switchblade again, aiming for your heart. The switchblade cut into your shoulder, and pain bloomed as the blade wedged itself into the socket. Heâd missed. A scream tore its way out of your lungs, and white hot pain flashed through your mindâs eye. A grunt came from above as Ilsa landed a kick to his chest. The sword was knocked loose, toppling over the bridge. And with that the only remaining weapon was the switchblade lodged in your shoulder. Both Ilsa and the mystery man lunged for it, but both pulled back before grabbing it, seemingly for different reasons. The manâs eyes went wide with fear and recognition, and he stalked back quickly.
âYouâre not supposed to be here, Metropolis.â he paled. âYou were supposed to be in Berlin⌠Youâre not⌠The Entity didnât..â
He landed one more kick to Ilsa before running. His footsteps were quick, and he disappeared into the veins of the city, his footsteps dying away as if he was a ghost, as if he was never there. Ilsa watched him, breathlessly speaking to Benji about the semantics of the encounter. She was breathing heavily, and it was difficult to understand her. Both she and Benji devolved into thick, almost indiscernible Midlands accents as they spoke and often interrupted one another. Benjiâs voice was so loud that you could hear whispers of it through her headset. Ilsa crouched over you, examining the wound and cussing. She appeared just as frazzled as your mystery attacker, mumbling something about innocents and bloodlines.
âFuck me, kid. Just had to get stabbed.â Ilsa mumbles, pausing her complaining to briefly tear off a bit of your dress, âAnd Iâve got another head trauma to deal with, and Ethan is off the fucking grid.â
A man broke through the street, panting heavily, eyeing the slowly awakening Grace and the incoherently mumbling Ilsa as she secured the knife wound to prevent it from escaping. Heâd run from the opposite end of the city, as if heâd been running in circles.
âWhereâs Gabriel?â Ethan asked. âAnd who is⌠Baby Metropolis?âÂ
Ilsa eyed him, nodding. She was busy tying the fabric of your torn dress around your shoulder. It must have been precaution, the knife prevented excess blood from escaping.Â
âHe stabbed baby Metropolis?â
Ilsa nodded again, gently picking up your now shivering frame. It was cold in Venice tonight, and without the rush of adrenaline it was very clear just how cold it was. Ethan, or John Lark as you knew him, stumbled forward, hastily taking you from Ilsa.
âItâs going to be okay, itâs all going to be alright.â Ethan says, in his signature âIâm saving the dayâ voice.
The voice didnât help. He was John Lark to your eyes; a madman.
âI know, Jesus. Get off!â you protested, trying to get away from the short, scary man.
Ilsa chuckled a bit at this. It appears Ethanâs usual charms wouldnât work on you, and for good reason. A boat sped through the canal, and you recognized the driver by his voice. Benji? There was another man on the boat, large and equipped with a fedora. Both looked a bit shell-shocked, seeing the aftermath of the commotion on the bridge.
âLuther, get her in the boat.â Benji needlessly directed the other man as he was already pulling Grace in.
Luther examined Graceâs head for signs of abrasion while Ethan and Ilsa lowered you into the boat. Ilsa held you steady, your back pressed against her front, one of her arms wrapped around your midsection, the other cradling your head as the boat sped through the canal once more. Ethan was hastily gloving up, and a brief concern over sterility dawned on you, but it wasnât as if you had a choice.
âThis is a hospital wound.â Ethan sighed.
âWe canât go to the hospital, Ethan.â Luther warned.
âI know that.â Ethan snapped back. âCover her mouth.â Ethan directed Ilsa.
Ilsaâs hand fitted firmly over your mouth, her other arm holding your torso against hers. You tensed immediately. What the hell was Lark going to do to you?
âBreathe in andâŚâ Ilsa directed.
Ethan pulled the switchblade out as you exhaled, the scream dying off as you ran out of air. The noise that was ultimately muffled by Ilsaâs hand was that of a high pitched wheeze. Ilsaâs hand remained, a wordless understanding between Ethan and Ilsa. Blood gushed from the wound immediately, and Ethan mumbled something about missing major arteries and cut tendons. Not like it mattered to you, Ilsaâs hand kept your head up, your mouth covered.You couldnât see the damage for yourself.
âBreathe in, and out. In⌠OutâŚ. InâŚ.â she continued.
With another quick jerk, Ethan pushed your shoulder back in its proper socket. This time your scream was much more audible, even with Ilsa muffling it. Grace winced as she watched. The blade had wedged itself into the socket, it wasnât a pretty sight.
âGood girl, good job.â Ilsa whispered, breaking the tension. âI know it hurts, it would have been worse if you knew it was coming.â
Her hand left your mouth, fingers gently pulling through your hair, a soothing motion. Ethan moved on to stitching up the knife wound, or so you thought. The needle went deeper.Â
âOh Jesus ChristâŚâ Grace paled.
You tilted your head to look, but Ilsa was faster, not letting you see. The needle bit in, and you winced. Ethan had a skilled hand, but it was clear he was stitching something deeper.Â
âEthan, is that really necessary?â Benji asked. âYouâve got her whole shoulder airing out in this dirty city.
âThe tendon was sliced, it needs to be stitched up.â
Luther appeared just off to the side, gloved up and gently dabbing iodine all around and in the wound. It stung like a bitch, and you clenched your teeth as you hissed in pain. Your natural instinct directed you to look again, but Ilsa kept your head in place.
âDonât look. If you look youâll get hysterical or ill.â Ilsa murmured. âNow stay still.â
You wanted to stay still, you really did. But you didnât have a pleasant sight. Grace looked practically green, from both her concussion and the sight of your open wound, and Luther had a worried look on his face. Benji wasnât better, with that permanent anxious frown on his features. The biting sensation in your shoulder only continued as Ethan worked on stitching up the various tendons that had gotten cut. It was Ilsa who noticed your rapid, panicked breathing.
âNo, no.â Ilsa protested, tilting your face to look at her. âLook at me, breathe in and out, none of this ragged panting youâre doing. Youâre not going into shock, we donât have time for that.â
Her stern, authoritative approach was what you needed to stay afloat in the midst of Ethanâs suturing. She had this soft frown on her face, her hand firmly holding your head in place as she murmured to you.
âBenji is driving us to the safehouse. Youâre coming with us, you hear?â
Ilsa outlined the plan, the various things she was going to do, baths, medicine, sleep, food. All the things you would need to get better. By the time Ethan started suturing the skin, her nose was barely touching yours, her words floating over you like mist. She kept your head in place, murmuring softly as her blue eyes twinkled in the dim light. It was⌠Intimate. More intimate than other things youâd experienced. Why was it always the barrier between life and death, ailment and health that always brought forth the most romantic moments. It was something your mother had said⌠All friendships are romantic. Perhaps all beginnings of friendships could be interpreted as such.
âIodine.â Ethan curtly directed
The yellow antiseptic stung, and you winced. Luther had a gentle hand, and heâd used it throughout the process, but it was the freshly sutured skin that burned the most. Ilsa stroked your cheek, shifting her other arm to hold your injured shoulder in place. You hadnât even noticed that youâd been trying to move it.Â
âNo moving this, you hear?â
âWasnât gonna.â you mumbled.
The boat stalled. Benji stood up, gesturing everyone to leave the boat, but his words died in his throat. His eyes bulged, a shocked expression on his face. The shot had been so quiet, the whizzing was all that had been audible. Benji jerked, and red bloomed at the front of his chest. Ethan was quick to support him, still gloved up from his work on you. The quiet moment of the canal was broken. Everyone was moving except you. There was arguing, many voices crumpled into one echochamber of chaos, Grace holding Benji as Luther held Ethan back. For a little man, Ethan was vicious when angry, intending to follow the unseen sniper and mercilessly deliver his body to the canal. The boat rocked violently, and Ilsa shouted continuously, mostly at Ethan to calm down. Her grip on you was tight, her hands placed over vital areas on your abdomen. She was protecting you should another shot fire. Benji met your eyes, his hand held over the gunshot wound. He looked gray, as if life had been sucked out of him the moment the bullet hit its target.
âGabriel was going to send a message either way.â Benji rasps, his voice bringing sense back into Ethan.
Ilsa left you on the boat as she helped Grace carry Benji into the safehouse. It was clear that there would be no second shot, and you were safe in the belly of the boat. Ethan breathed irregularly, the muscles in his neck tensing and relaxing as he seemed to be pushing aside his anger. He too left the boat, leaving Luther to attend to you. There was an uneasy stillness in the air, and Luther moved to pick you up, pausing at the brief fear that appeared in your eyes.
âIâm⌠You donât know who most of us are, do you?â he asked, intuitive in more ways than one.
You shook your head, taking a breath in to steady your nerves before answering.
âI know⌠Ilsa. Ilsa Faust, yeah? Umm.. Then thereâs Lark. John Lark.â
Youâd heard all of their names at least once, but you couldnât list them in the aftermath of Benjiâs snipe attack.
âThatâs Ethan.â Luther corrected. âThe brunette is Grace, Benji is the Englishman whoâs been injured, and Iâm Luther. Now letâs get you out of this boat.â he softly finished.
You pegged him as the gentle giant of the group, and he was. Gentle, at least. He carried you off of the boat, up the stairs into the Venetian safehouse. It was as still as the water outside. Why was it so still? Such a large city, and yet it felt like a ghost town. There were no arguments now. Grace sat in a corner, a bag of peas on her head. Ethan and Ilsa were in a separate room, quietly conversing as they treated Benji, as you presumed they were doing. No hospitals, theyâd said. What kind of people couldnât go to hospitals?
âHereâs some of Ilsaâs clothes. Tank top, and sweats. Bathroomâs over there.â Luther pointed.Â
He stepped into the room with his other friends. It was the only room with light in the stone house. The clothes looked fresh, and your dress was dirty and torn. You didnât see the point in maintaining your privacy with Grace staring off into space and the others presumably holding vigil over Benji. But it was difficult, grabbing the zipper. Gabriel had struck you in your more flexible, left shoulder. You couldnât grab the zipper with your right hand.
âHere.â Grace murmured, getting up to unzip your dress. âItâs just us girls, letâs get you into these.â
Grace gently pulled off your dress, working the tank top over your injured shoulder and sliding the joggers up your body. You noticed her tired movements. Sheâd suffered a pretty decent blow to the head. Concussions were no joke. From this distance you could clearly make out the lines around her mouth as she pursed her lips, helping you to dress.
âThanks. Grace, right?â you quietly asked, breaking the unnatural stillness.
She nodded, brown eyes losing their glassy look.
âYes. Youâre Baby Metropolis?â
âOh, no my name is (Reader) Metropolis. Iâm the baby of the family.â you explained.
âAh.â
Grace settled beside you on the couch. Her shirt was half unbuttoned. But it didnât matter. It was just us girls.
âHeâs not going to make it.â Grace murmured. âIf he was going to live, they should have taken him to a hospital the moment he was shot.â
You looked down at your hands, the constant pain in your shoulder contrasting with the numbness everywhere else. Benji. Heâd⌠Somehow he was important. A piece of the puzzle, someone who struck you as innocent. Perhaps that was why his death seemed so irrational.Â
âAre you in pain?â Grace realized. âThatâs a dumb question, of course you are.â
She got up, rummaging through an open medical bag until she found what she was looking for. Her footsteps were soft, bare feet delicately navigating the creaky floorboards with practiced agility. She was a con of some sort. No one else would instinctively avoid the creaky floorboards of an old house.
âTake two of these.â she says.
âExtra strength tylenol?â you joked.
âStronger.â Grace murmured, half-smile on her face.
You nodded, taking the meds. There was nothing in your stomach, so the meds dissolved quickly, taking away the pain in as little as fifteen minutes. They came with a distinct drowsy side effect, as if the world was a bit floaty. Grace wasnât the only one who was anxious to sleep, and the two of you crept into the larger bedroom after finding a few croissants to snack on. Two king beds and empty dressers, divided into girls and boys, or so you presumed. The two of you settled under the covers, closing your eyes. Sleep came quickly. Somewhere in the twilight of the early morning, Ilsa slid into the bed behind you, an arm draped over your abdomen as you laid on your back. You didnât need the answer to why she was so clingy. Or perhaps you had it wrong. But you wouldnât protest this strangerâs touches. No, there was a bond there now. Youâd survived such an ordeal together, such a crisis as the one you were bound in. And it felt nice, to be sandwiched in between Grace and Ilsa. You were safe here.
Morning broke, but the sun did not break this quiet. There wasnât a word spoken. The atmosphere in the room was somber. No one needed to say it, Benji had passed. Ethanâs dead look as he sat on the couch confirmed any suspicion. Luther cooked breakfast for everyone, maintaining a sense of normality. Ethan wouldnât accept any of Ilsaâs soft attempts to bring him food, and he wouldnât accept her beside him, either. The Entity had taken a divergent route in its predictions. Grace and Ilsa had been failed targets, so the Entity chose to take Ethan Huntâs friend instead. And Ethan, being the savior he was, took it hard.Â
âOver here.â Grace murmured, gesturing Ilsa over to where the both of you sat.
Ilsa settled on the rug, predictably taking a seat next to you. She didnât outright drape an arm over you, but her knee touched yours. It was a soft, innocent gesture. She wanted closeness, and you did too. Your knees stayed touching. Grace noticed the little dynamic between the two of you, shifting a little closer so she could get in on it too. Her knee came into contact with yours on the other side. Three pairs of feet lined up, three legs nestled close, shoulders flanking yours on both sides. It was cute, and you giggled, triggering Graceâs laugh too. Ilsa smiled, humming in amusement. And for a brief moment, Ethanâs eyes flickered with something other than sorrow. He picked up the plate Ilsa had left on the coffee table. And he ate.Â
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#rebecca ferguson x you#rebecca ferguson x reader#rebecca ferguson#ilsa faust x you#ilsa faust x reader#mission impossible#mission impossible dead reckoning part one#wlw#lesbian
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Not me thinking I could finally fuck my rabbit wife Iâve been unnaturally keeping alive and young for generations with a series of unholy resurrections and eventually an amulet of immortality only to be made into a glorified matchmaker, fulfilling a bunch of animalsâ oviposition kinks
..Yeah
#Iâm just saying the lamb should be able to get some#cotl#cult of the lamb#sins of the flesh#cotl sins of the flesh#cotl spoilers#cotl sex update
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So after hearing about sfth's next D&D streams having some longform characters, I can't not create some character concepts for them.
Anyway, here's Peter Steven :D
(Also a note to @i-may-be-an-emu: I know I said in DMs that he wouldn't work well as a D&D character. I take that back, this was incredibly fun to make and druid!Peter is my new favourite headcanon now.)
Name: Peter Steven (obviously) Race: half elf Class: druid Background: prodigy Alignment: neutral good
Strength: 1 Dexterity: 2 Constitution: 1 Intelligence: 3 Wisdom: 2 Charisma: 0 (side note: this is after adding the +2 charisma from his half elf race, I originally intended for him to have a -2 charisma)
Proficiencies: survival, animal handling, nature, and medicine
Personality traits Daring and loyal, this adventurer is the ideal companion when adventuring. Between his proficiency as a healer and love for nature, Peter is a sweet and gentle soul despite his intimidating stature. While his towering height might suggest that he's more of a fighter, Peter is actually quick on his feet and prefers using hit-and-run tactics rather than fighting head-on. He contributes this, along with his strange affinity for milk, to his upbringing though the others rarely question it.
Backstory Peter was born to upper-class parents. While he wasn't quite at aristocractic status, the Steven family name was quite well-respected in the village. Peter himself was also quite well-liked by the village when he was younger, especially when he proved himself to be a studious and bright young boy. Although he had some strange hobbies and dreams, such as digging holes in his back garden and one day becoming a milkman, the Stevens showered their son with love and affection nonetheless.
However, as the days went on, Peter's height grew at an rapidâalmost unnaturalârate, akin to the growth cycle of an elf. Rumours quickly spread throughout the village that Peter was an illegitimate child, and in the blink of an eye, the Steven family name was beginning to tarnish. Despite his lack of pointy ears, no villager would ever reject the opportunity for a good gossip, no matter how unrealistic it might be. After months of discreet finger points and accusatory whispers, Jemima cracked under the pressure. Peter was forced to use a wheelchair to hide his height, and he was forbidden from leaving the confines of his house. Despite her efforts, the rumours didn't cease. Soon, the Steven family name was in shambles and simply going out to the market earned the family judgemental stares and mean-spirited snickers.
Unsure of what else to do, Peter's parents sent him to boarding school to get him away from the scornful looks. Even at boarding school, the lies regarding the wheelchair persisted, and every day the guilt ate away at Peter's conscience. The boarding school was cruel and unjust, the torture chamber located in the building's basement should be enough evidence of that. Peter suffered it all in silence, believing that if he was a good little boy and behaved himself, his parents would want him back again. It was all make-belief, and some part of Peter's subconscious knew this, but every night he would whisper to a squirrel that perched on his window about the day when he would leave this tortous school and return to his life as the child of Jemima and Jim Steven.
One day after years of boarding school, a 19-year-old Peter received a letter addressed to him from his mother. He excitedly opened it, expecting an announcement that he was going home, and was met with the stark truth: the rumours were right, he was the illegitimate child between his mother and the elven milkman. In the letter, his mother explained that she and his father were divorcing, and that she planned on marrying the milkman. He was asked to join this new family as a Jeffrey, living a life that would certainly be less prestigious than before, but one that would be honest. Peter was going home.
But as he lay on his glorified rock of a bed, Peter came to the realisation that he didn't want to join this new family. It made him sick to his stomach to imagine taking family photos, with Mr Jeffrey's hand on his shoulder as if it was the most natural thing ever, all three of them smiling and acting like nothing was wrong. Then a daring thought emerged in his head: he wanted to escape.
On the day of his apparent departure, Peter sat on his wheelchair one last time and was escorted to the carriage. But just as he was about to go on, Peter jumped up and ran into the forest with nothing but his suitcase and the squirrel who hid in his scarf. That day was his 20th birthday. From that day onwards, Peter lived in the woods, foraging for food and conversing with the woodland creatures using his special druidic tongue.
#shoot from the hip#sfth dnd#JESUS CHRIST that backstory ended up being so long#I love the idea of him being a druid#it's just so sweet to imagine him conversing with animals and listening to the sound of swishing leaves in the garden#also I didn't use the d&d character sheet for this cause there's a bunch of redundant information that I need to fill out for that#so I just resorted to this sorry if the formatting is weird lol#if anyone viscerally disagrees with any of this please let me know I'm very open to criticism#(/j but also /gen kind of?)#I plan to make my sfth orphanage headcanon into a d&d adventure group#I'm probably gonna do johnny or alexa next just cause I have so many ideas for them
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Just imagine if we talked to men who have huge âgym broâ bodies with massive, obscenely bulging muscles in the same way we talked to fat people.
Aka condescendingly showing concern for their âhealthâ, worrying that theyâre not getting adequate nutrition because of their lack of body fat, saying that theyâre glorifying an âunnaturalâ body, implying that they have various health conditions as a result of their excessive exercise or excessive muscle mass, etc etc.
And to be clear, I am by no means saying that people should actually start doing this.
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At our very core, what drives us is that blissful feeling of control.
(doodle + headcanons)
Ren doodle I made within a train. Wondering how many people walked past me, noticed and thought I was just some furry.
https://youtu.be/Z8oinwSEtqs?si=BkekMPfrMQBR1L2A
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Whilst drawing this I started thinking of stuff which then turned into headcanons. Just felt like sharing ^^
-During the time period MC was unconscious after the murder of Lawrence, Ren was still struggling to set his mind into the role of "the new Strade". It took him a good while to feel even a little less discomfort and doubt with himself in Strade's old clothes.
-Strade had the "rank symbol" tattooed on him. He never had it as a part of his clothing. Instead, Ren, who was alone during his two year time period of trying to recover from the sudden turn of events, decided to add the patch himself in order to feel more "connected" to Strade.
-In the early days of being alone, Ren was too anxious to go get groceries on his own. Instead he would sneak out and steal something from the neighboring houses or resort to things like hunting birds or small animals.
-Ren has crashed Strade's old car atleast twice by accident (it took him a while to learn to drive it properly)
-Gato has stated that Ren doesn't like showers, and much prefers baths. In my opinion this is 1. Because the water droplets feel weird to him. I feel like Strade had one of those weirdly rough kind of showers. The way the water sprinkles on him feels unnatural 2. He grew up homeless and would often have to tolerate rain, so showers and rain bring back some bad memories (as if he had any good ones to begin with), and 3. Because of his past experiences with Strade and the shower of the house (referring to that one old drawing Gato made. Not going into further detail.) This applies to pretty much any form of spraying water, wether that be one of those weird yard machines that I just KNOW Strade or atleast some of his neighbors do, or even just a simple spray bottle.
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Also I feel I need to mention this:
â ď¸ I absolutely DO NOT condone any of the actions displayed within these types of games, nor should anyone.
Glorifying or romanticizing abusive behavior is shitty. The amount of people I've seen say shit like "I wish I was in Ren's place" or blatantly ship Strade with Ren is fucking crazy. I find this genuinely concerning, as it's made pretty clear that there is nothing, NOTHING romantic about their relationship. It was a blatantly abusive bond no matter how you put it, and such behavior should never be approved of. With this in mind, if you DO romanticize these kinds of relationships, even if, and ESPECIALLY if it's a way of coping, please seek help and discuss your trauma. This is seriously harmful to both you and others. Please acknowledge the fact nothing about this behavior is okay, fictional or not. You deserve to get better. Keep yourself and others safe. Thank you â¤ď¸
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Morning chaos II Ironfrostrange
The mornings are always interesting at the Stark Tower when you have a billionaire, a sorcerer, and a literal god sharing the same space.
Loki is draped over the couch, reading something ancient and indecipherable while sipping coffee that looks too dark to be anything a human should consume. Stephen is meditating quietly on the floor, levitating slightly, while Tony... well, Tony is half-asleep, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, muttering about the injustices of mornings.
"Why do you two always look so awake at this hour?" Tony grumbles, dragging himself toward the kitchen. 'Itâs unnatural.â
Loki glances up with a smirk, eyes gleaming mischievously. âIâm a god, Stark. I do not require eight hours of mortal sleep.â
Stephen, without opening his eyes, adds, âAnd Iâve trained my body to function on minimal rest. You, however, are a glorified raccoon in a suit.â
#ironfrost#ironstrange#ironfrostrange#tony stark#stephen strange#loki laufeyson#concepts#au#alternate universe#mcu#marvel cinematic universe#stark#tony stark being a sleep-deprived burrito is my aesthetic#stephen strange levitating at 7am like itâs a normal thing to do#mutual roasting but make it love#polyamorous boyfriends who bicker for sport but love each other deeply#polyamory#text post#I think theyre so cute#fictional#imagine#fluff#wholesome#tony is a glorified raccoon
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Infected - Zombie!Ghost
A Ghost x Y/N Oneshot (fem Reader)
Part One
MDNI | 18+ ONLY
The thought of Ghost being a lumbering, near mindless oaf just kinda does something to me, idk.
TW: Gore, zombification, MC death, blood, sex, desperation
Alarms blared around your team of two.
Red lights flashed in rhythm, washing your faces in red, then pitch black, red, black. Pupils dilating and contracting with each strobe.
âMove it. No telling how well armed these scientists are, if at all.â Priceâs voice buzzed over the comms. You glanced at Ghost, and youâve become so tuned to one another that you relay information without words.
Hallway clear, lab ahead.
You nodded and moved silently around the corner, aiming down the sights of your rifle, sweeping the area in front of you with Ghost at your six. You moved low, but quick, knowing the alarm was a glorified dinner bell for hostile reinforcements.
The double doors to the lab were dead ahead and you braced yourselves on either side before you slipped the barrel of your rifle through. The red light still flashed, but you knew that wouldnât be enough. You needed better visual in this room. You pointed your flashlight inside, washing small portions in the room with the yellow glow.
Bodies of several scientists laid slumped on the floor, their pristine white lab coats splattered with deep crimson. The sharp tang of iron wafted into your nostrils, mixed with an acrid, stomach turning stench.
âWhoever came through here wasnât interested in the research.â You flipped a body over, seeing torn flesh and inconsistent broken limbs, âBloodâs fresh. This is sick.â
âGuns donât do this.â Ghost shook his head, kneeling next to one of the bodies, âLetâs get what we came for and get the fuck out.â
You rifled through paperwork, checking drawers and surfaces for anything that resembled the cargo you were sent in after.
âOver here.â Ghost grunted, pushing a body off of a briefcase laying on the floor. He flicked the case open, taking a step back with his rifle light illuminating the inside.
Three purple canisters.
A spot for a fourth.
âCargo spotted.â You called out over the comms, âBe advised, looks like one canister is missing.â
âRight here.â A manâs voice came from behind you, purple canister clutched in his hand, glowing and pulsating with dark energy. Zakhaevâs smile was twisted by the scar tearing across his cheek.
Priceâs voice responded over your comms, but it seemed so far away now, âRepeat last.â
Zakhaevâs men piled into the room and you moved toward the case, attempting to put yourself between him and it, âAht.â He warned, âThatâs dangerous material. We wouldnât want that in the wrong hands.â Without warning, he fired multiple rounds into the case, the contents leaking out of the ruined case and onto the floor.
Two shots aimed for you and Ghost.
Yours found its mark in your arm, bullet burrowing in as the force knocked you back into a desk. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as Zakhaev and his men exited the room, seemingly happy with the ruin theyâd left behind.
âPrice, Zakhaev destroyed the...â Your eyes dropped to where youâd last seen the case, now covered by another body.
âGhost!â You called out, putting your weight on your uninjured arm to lift yourself up. Boots scrambling and slipping through your own blood, trying to find purchase.
Youâd heard the second shot. Known it was meant for Ghost, but you hadnât seen it hit him while you went down.
âGhost!â Your bloodied fingers squeezed the your radio while you skidded to your knees next to his unnaturally still body, ���Price! Ghost is down, status unknown!â You shouted, pulling Ghostâs balaclava away from his neck to check his pulse.
âSimon? Fuck, donât do this.â You murmured through strained vocal cords, âYouâre not goneâŚdonâtâŚâ
Two fingers against his jugular.
Nothing.
Your hands pressed over his body, finding the entry wound in his abdomen. You put pressure, but realized the blood wasnât pooling under your hand. It was draining onto the floor from the exit wound.
Dark liquid spread under your knees.
Swirls of iridescent purple from the destroyed canisters mixing and spiraling as the blood flowed.
You sat back on your knees, breath coming in ragged gasps.
âLieutenant. Update.â Priceâs voice was dour and tense.
Silence on the line as he and the rest of the 141 waited for your response.
You gathered your sharp breaths, praying that you could force them together enough to form the sentence none of you wanted to hear.
âGhost; status KIA.â
You let your head fall back, eyes raised to the ceiling, fighting the tears that stung in the corners. You hadnât realized how big the pools had risen in the inner corners until your gaze fell back on him, hot rivers of salt flowing down your cheeks to the floor.
You reached forward with trembling hands. Your lungs shaking with the inadequate oxygen theyâd received over the last few quiet minutes.
You removed his dog tags from beneath his vest, tucking his balaclava back in place. The soft clinking of the beaded metal chain collapsing into your hand filled the silent space between you.
âSimon Riley; B Pos; Atheistâ
The little uneven letters pressed hurriedly into the small metal tag were all that was left of him now.
You pocketed the tags and stood on shaky legs, the pain in your arm burning in the back of your mind, heavily outweighed by the realization that Ghost was gone.
That Simon was gone.
You stumbled toward the doors, pushing them open only to find a group of hostiles approaching, guns drawn and trained on you.
You dropped your weapon, finding yourself on your knees again, this time, just outside of the doors of the lab, hands raised in a position of surrender.
As they approached, a sound behind you had your eyes snapping to the side while the rest of your body tensed.
Slowly, the doors creaked open.
Uneven, shuffling footsteps.
Then silence.
The hostiles in front of you now training their weapons on whoever, or whatever, was standing behind you.
A deep, shuddering breath left your lungs slowly, heart racing as you felt like every motion you made was steeped in cold honey.
More shuffled steps, and then the sight of blood-soaked black tac pants tucked into black combat boots came into view. Your mind reeled, trying to make sense of what you were seeing when your eyes looked sideways to see Ghostâs mask being held firmly in his left hand.
Your eyes continued their trail upward to his face.
He looked⌠alive?
But there was no way he could be.
His eyes sat focused on the fifteen or so men in front of you.
One wrong move was all it took.
One quick adjustment of a singular hostileâs aim shifting to your head.
Your eyes stared forward as Ghost tore into them. Their bullets failing to even slow him.
The only reason you dared to move at all was to avoid a bullet that zipped past your head, making you dive to the floor for cover.
In seconds, it was over.
The deafening sound of bullets replaced by raspy breathing and the slow, sporadic drip of blood from his gloved hands.
Priceâs voice came over the comms, but you couldnât hear over the sound of your blood rushing through your ears when Ghostâs glassy eyes snapped to you.
#call of duty#simon ghost riley#x yn#smut#call of duty smut#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#simon ghost x reader#simon riley smut#Spotify
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Baby sneckdraw. Have been kinda toying around with the idea of him spending some time with a necromancer before the mental program for like a year. Some long ramblings about it after the cut.
While Snecko was always American, I'd always planned that he went in before America officially got involved in WW2. Generally the way to do this back then was to go via canada (even if it was on paper against the law). He was married by that point and unknowingly to him had a son on the way. His reasons for going were largely due to his upbringing. As his family had fought in past wars and their actions were highly glorified his whole life. It effected him to the point where it was impossible for him to see a future where the war didn't spread and put his friends and family in danger. Just like those who came before he needed to fight to save those he loved. Much to the objection of his wife, but there was no changing his mind. Something deep down she knew from the start.
From there he was trained and served as a combat medic. It did not take long for the reality of it all to hit him. He came to regret his choice but he was too proud to ever admit that out loud. So he did what he had to do, and just focused on the job at hand and blocked every other thought out.
The Necromancer thing would come into play after he'd been there a while. Having taken a bullet and being unable to treat himself. He was taken to a village near where they were stationed at the time. The doctor everyone in town assured his unit was the best option ended up inviting the entire unit to his home a short ride away.
While I picture this doctor's home being a converted castle, i'm not sure if that makes sense yet. The long story short is surprise he's actually fun science based necromancer. Sneck's unit ends up killed, and the reason he stays alive at first is because his real name is Irving Richter. Richter being a german name of course. (I've also debated making it so Sneckdraw could speak german before the war broke out, and that also being a factor but I'm not 100% on that.)
Pretty much he was kept as a blood source, and for tests at first. But over time became a unwilling participant of a one sided friendship with the disturbed scientist. Becoming a person to converse with, vent to, or when he was in a worse mood a convenient outlet for his rage. Always making sure he was patched up, and fed after any of his outbursts. He was Sneckdraw's introduction to the unnatural side of the world that's kept hidden. And also the foundation to his hatred of those who work with it.
Eventually the necromancer got sloppy, and thought Irvine was actually his friend. That's why he'd want to escape with him from some on coming threat.
The doc didn't have his undead guard, it was out fighting. So even with his hands shackled together in front of him it was enough room to take his revenge. Once he managed to knock him to the ground, he kept beating the hell out of him till there was nothing but a bloody mess. He likely wouldn't have ever stopped but he was interrupted by the force that had the doc scared. A small armed unit led by a monster hunter, who found Snecko drenched in blood and still in chains. (A future mentor perhaps?)
From there he'd be taken to receive proper treatment, and was recommend to the mental enrichment program for his service, and impressive fortitude.
It was a convenient excuse to not face what he left behind before he joined the war. He couldn't take seeing his family, not after what he'd done and seen. In his mind it was better for them to think he was dead. That's likely what they'd already been told when his unit went missing.
For not that's what I got. I still need to research more, fleshing out his reasons for going out more would also be good.
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Defining Spirits.
[[[Long read/article ahead]]]
[[[>Continue-Read]]]
Hello all of my two readers, welcome back!
Please observe the following definitions from Google for the word "spirit".
Got it all? Some kind of understanding? Good, because we're actually going to avoid using ANY of these specific definitions for this post. Enjoy the word vomit~ â¤ď¸
When writing fiction, the concept of death can be molded in so many different ways.
Whether your character's death is literal or figurative, material or spiritual, alarming, unsettling, uncomfortable, horrifying, somber, sacrificial,
Or sacred, important, meaningful, glorified;
Death always marks the end of one story.
But in many stories, it also then marks the beginning of a new one.
Let's make a bold beginning statement to start off our Defining process with this term, something to rattle the house.
Ancestors =/= Spirits
From now on within the blog, we will understand that the difference between our Ancestor, and the Spirits of our Ancestors, is extremely important to acknowledge.
They are physically, vitally, spiritually, and thematically, different characters from each other.
While Ancestors have solid bodies that are often believed to be a composite combination of both Light and earthen matter, Spirits have broken free of their earthen shell with the help of the Descendant.
We've deemed in the last post that earth + Light (plus an affinity for humanity) creates an Unnatural Being somehow. If this is the case, then without that earthen cover, the Being is now left as just '100%' Pure Light.
In other words, Spirits have become Natural Beings, compared to their mortal coils from before.
A common misconception I've heard among the community over the years is that they (the Spirit) would likely be 'just' a fragment, 'just' their Soul left over, split from their body. The major reasoning behind this thought process is the most common, stereotypical definition of Spirit that we discussed before; either just as a synonym for Soul, or as a description of a ghostie "manifestation".
I personally see this as a disservice to the wonderfully crafted design of Beings of Light. The Light substance that has escaped the shell of the dead Ancestor is not just an 'energy', not just a spiritual concept, not at all. Physicality and Spirituality go hand in hand in the Sky universe, because Light does not die or shrivel; and at most can only be contained. All of this is why I believe that
Spirits are still 'proper' Beings.
Please Observe the Merriam-Webster definitions for the word "spirit". You will find that the word can be a lot more contrived and technical than the specific, stereotypical ways that most people and cultures use it, and the first two potential definitions given are the vibes I want to go with. The vibes that I (personally) believe match the most with what Spirits (as a concept within the Sky universe abiding by the laws of Light-substance 'science') were intended to be.
They are entities that are 'alive'.
Pure Light essence. Supernatural but not immaterial. No less Pure than the Creatures who dance in eternal wonder for the Megabird; no less free than the Descendant. They are now a part of the Megabird's plan; the true Nature of all things.
As before, Natural Beings are one with the Light, fully Connected to all extensions of the Megabird. This Connection is magnified by a direct Connection that Descendants make with each Spirit when they help them Ascend. Though this is getting into more complicated territory for a much later day, in short,
Spirits are Projected down from the Sky when the Descendants call upon them, through this Connection.
This strong visual theme occurs every time they appear and reappear in front of us within the world, and just like the discrepancy of Spirit vs. Ancestor, I believe that it would be a mistake for us to ignore just how intentional this visual theme of them Descending down from the Sky is.
It must not be overlooked.
Alright, well so far we're making pretty substantial ground towards a nice, clean, single sentence Definition for our term.
Here's what we know so far:
- Spirits are Natural Beings that are rejoined as a part of the Megabird.
- Spirits are projected from the Sky. (In some strange direct relation to us.)
But... Why do they come back down into the world if they're already Ascended?
The Answer lies within the word I've been using to describe their arrival whenever they appear; they are being Projected. By what?
By us.
Our Connection with them after we save them allows us to call upon them (and I'd like to believe that, canonically, this can be done at any time) and have them be Projected down into the world from the Light.
We know that the reason the Spirits come back is to spend time with us. Yes, that is genuinely what I believe is the flat canon reason why Spirits can just casually exist within the world as we see them do in Aviary and other places and events. They are trying to help us through our journey, and the most important thing that the Descendants need right now in this era, above all things, is to stay mentally healthy.
They want to make sure that we don't ever have to feel alone.
And unlike us as the Descendants, the Spirits aren't programmed with a mission. The Spirits are free now, just like the Creatures. But they still want to help us. They want to be with us and spend time with us. If that isn't love, I don't know what is.
So now that we know why, we have all the pieces.
- Spirits are Natural Beings that are rejoined as a part of the Megabird, freed out of their earthen shell.
- Spirits are projected from the Sky.
- Spirits descend from the Sky in order to help the Descendants.
đđđđđđđđđ
And there we have it folks; the Definition for our term "Spirits", and what that means to Sky.
Another day another article. I seriously do not have the ability to just make a short bitesized, digestible post.
But that's okay. I think giving myself the time to pour a bit more actual love into each post is a lot nicer in its own way anyways.
Thank you so much for reading, and have a good day/night!
#sky children of the light#sky cotl#sky cotl lore#sky lore#sky rambles#sky children of the light lore#skychildrenofthelight#skychildrenofthelightlore#skycotl#sky: children of the light#sky:cotl
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