#i may have killed simon with this drawing

[charnelhouse]

I disagree. Ghost holds hands when he is eating you put to.stop you from squirming so much

A/N: Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader. Oral. Wet stuff. He’s nasty.

Outside of their “moments,” Ghost won’t touch her unless he has to. He maintains a professional distance, and a part of her longs to stake her claim. Hold his damn hand, so the team understands how he gets on his knees for her or allows her to ride him.

He’s a legend to them. A myth. The lone wolf whose kill count is in the thousands. 

How many?

I don’t count ‘em. 

Oh?

I don’t lose sleep if that’s what you’re asking. 

They needle her, poke fun because she’s a woman, and it’s just so damn easy. Ghost never does, though. Ghost treats her like he treats everyone else with cool, stoic regard. 

Except when he fucks her. There’s that. 

***

It’s an uneventful night. The rest of the team is playing poker around a plastic card table. There’s smoke in the air from cheap cigars. Whiskey that’s sticking to her throat as she downs it. She leans against the doorway; arms crossed firmly over her chest. She should go to sleep. 

“Duchess.”

There he is. That voice matches the cigar smoke. It’s thick and impenetrable, and it licks up her spine. She feels his broad chest against her back, the heat of his bulk, and she wants the others to turn around and catch them. Sure it would appear like their lieutenant is simply chatting with her, but if they looked closely, they’d see...

He lowers his head so that his breath grazes her ear. “Needy, are we?”

She bites her lip, shutting her eyes. “No.”

“You may not believe I watch you, but I do.” If possible, his voice becomes even lower, dragging over gravel and full of suggestion. “I think about the sounds you make when I got my tongue inside you.”

She shudders, thighs squeezing together. Ghost’s pelvis shifts against her ass, and she restrains herself from leaning into his massive warmth. 

“It’s bloody distracting,” he exhales. “Tryin’ to give orders when all I can see is that wet little cunt in front of my face.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

“They don’t see how I look at you,” he continues. “But that’s because it’s mine. What we do...what we have...that’s all mine, darling.”

She buries her nails into her forearm until it hurts. She glances at him over her shoulder, and he’s staring straight ahead like he hasn’t just confessed an intimate truth. He’s so close she can discern his blonde lashes, his deep sea eyes. They flicker toward her.

“Ghost,” she murmurs as he draws closer.

***

“Simon,” she moans, hips rolling against his face. He’s shoved his mask above his nose as he blows cool air against her cunt. He parts her folds and nudges his thumb against the swollen nub as she clenches down on nothing. His touch is practiced as he strokes and teases her. He slips his fingers inside her pussy before removing them. 

“Duchess,” he replies flatly, a flash of amusement like he enjoys wrecking her with as few gestures as possible. He holds her thighs open before he lowers his mouth and slides the flat of his tongue against the seam of her sex. She jerks, her foot knocking into the hard muscle of his torso.

“Easy, now,” he croons. “Stay still so I can eat you the way I like, yeah?”

One broad palm slaps gently against her inner thigh and pins it to the mattress. He sinks back down and buries his face into her pussy, lapping and sucking with a deliberate rhythm. He feasts, switching between his tongue and fingers. He crooks them inside her, thrusts in time with the soft sucks on her clit. There are the wet noises of her walls contracting around him. Ghost’s rumbling sounds of contentment as he tastes her. 

“Red,” he warns when she bucks against his face and potentially breaks his nose against her lower belly. 

“I can’t-I can’t help it,” she pants, and he sighs. It is impossible with the way he’s pulling pleasure from her. She feels like a naked branch in a storm, shivering and snapping against a glass window. Her muscles tense, her thighs twitch, and she can’t find leverage on this shitty cot. 

Finally, she feels warm flesh brush against her knuckles. She glances down as Ghost threads his thick fingers through her own. His hand dwarfs her fist as he pins it to the mattress. It anchors her body and allows her something to hold onto as she straddles the oncoming climax. She’s leaking all over him, slick running down her ass and staining the sheets. It encourages him. His hips grind into the bed, his pupils blown out as he watches her shudder; it feels so good. 

His thumb draws little circles against her hand as if to comfort her through it like this was a challenging task she had to win, an endgame for a mission. Her lungs are screaming - her heart thumps wildly against her ribs as the pleasure builds like a chemical reaction. Shocking. Overwhelming.

Tears prick her eyes. She swallows a sob as his stubble scorches her skin, his silky plush lips maneuvering against her cunt like he’s memorized it. Perhaps, he has. He's got a photographic memory, he handles her like he handles every precious weapon in his arsenal.

It’s coming - the pressure inside her core begins to cramp and fold until it slams right up against Ghost’s insistent mouth. 

“I feel it,” he groans as her walls spasm and her pelvis stutters against his chin. He tightens his grip on her hand, his other fingers sliding in and out of her soaked heat in an even, lazy drag.

“It’s - fuck - it’s too much,” she whines, and he doubles his pace, prepared to shove her off the damn cliff. 

“You’re a big girl, love,” he coaxes. “You can handle it, yeah? I know how good you are.”

That’s enough. Ghost’s praise that he hardly ever gives to anyone. It shoots her straight between the legs, where her cunt pulses and throbs like a wound. There’s so much pressure before everything is liquid. She feels wet, dripping, and when he rises to his knees, she is all over the lower half of his face.

He grins, straight, white teeth burning in the dark like a a crescent of stars, and she is momentarily stunned. She’s never seen him smile, or his teeth for that matter. She wants to lick them, taste them, and swallow him whole. The corner of his lips twitches like he knows what she’s thinking before he rucks the ski mask back down over his chin that’s gleaming with her slick. 

She sits up abruptly, reaching for him. “You can’t-”

“I can,” he grunts, flipping her onto her side and slapping her thigh. “Get your pretty ass dressed. We’ve got wheels up in thirty.”

[agentmarvel]

center image by @/ave661

PART I

hitman!ghost x fat!reader (afab, fem) w/ arranged marriage

mdni - 18+; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

rating: explicit

word count: 2,992

read on ao3

summary: in which contract killer simon "ghost" riley has to marry by a deadline, and of all the women to pick from, he chose you - without your knowledge, against your own stubborn will, and without much hesitation. your entire life, what you thought you knew, is flipped on its head while you try to navigate your new worldview and the complications therein.

cw: toxic parenting

♡

Simon stares at the photos before him, eyes flittering across the array wordlessly as he contemplates the question at hand. As migrant as his gaze has been, he keeps circling back to the same photo in his grid. Something about it draws him in, calling to him like a siren song. There’s no inclination that this path could lead him to his death, leave his bloated corpse floating just below the surface like seaweed, equally as limp and lifeless, nor can he be bothered to mind the possibility of rocky shores ahead, nearly certain to run his ship aground if he’s not exercising the utmost caution. His sails have never flown higher, and this? This feels like the right rigging for his needs.

It’s not that Simon wants a wife. Truthfully, he wants for nothing - he fucks when he feels like it, does as he pleases, and has hired hands to handle his household; anything he desires is placed at his feet with the snap of his fingers. He’s earned the life he has now, paid for it in blood, sweat, and tears - the likes of which belonging both to him and the piles of bodies he prefers to think of as stepping stones rather than people. But Simon Riley is nothing if not a man of his word, and the bill has come due.

Twenty years, he promised. Twenty years, and not a day more. It seems like an eternity to an eager, naïve teenager.

John Price, the master of hired guns, trained Simon. He put years of his life into molding Simon into the perfect weapon while instilling a moral compass impossible to sway. It did not come without cost, though. When he agreed to teach a driven, persistent, gifted fifteen year old Simon the ins and outs of the business, they made a deal. In exchange for John’s knowledge, Simon would be given time to build his empire before being required to take a wife.

“A mountain can’t rest upon a single pebble,” Price had told him. “Strength is in numbers, my boy. Earn loyalty where you can and buy it where you can’t.”

He’s been on his own for just over a decade, John becoming his equal, and he still takes those words to heart; hence the spread of pictures. Word travels fast, and when it gets out that the Simon Riley is seeking a bride, every magnate - respectable or otherwise - with a daughter to spare is throwing their hat into the ring. Conceited, perhaps, but having connections with Simon gives a man the kind of power they’d be foolish to reject.

His right-hand, Johnny, has already weeded out those with seedier dealings - those who cater to terrorism or are even suspected of having connections to human trafficking. While Simon is merciless in his kills, he does not kill without compunction. He’s swift and silent and doesn’t believe in leaving them to suffer. Death itself is punishment enough. There’s no purpose in his life for those who inflict undue dolor for their own gain, and he will not be associated with the uncouth.

The process limits his options, though not by nearly enough. Still, nigh on two dozen remained. He culled the field down to a mere nine by adding stricter constraints: age, employment history, education, and the like. He has no interest in the barely legal, the spoiled socialites, the vapid, shallow, or vain. As hollow as this state of matrimony may ring under the circumstances, he’d prefer not to be one of those men who feels disdain for his partner.

That’s the thought that keeps him circling back to one specific photo - a grayscale surveillance-style photo. The subject is undoubtedly stunning, appears to be precisely his preference in every physical aspect, but the devil is in the details. A delicate necklace that appears to be well-worn but treasured enough to stay polished, a purse that bears no distinguishable designer but shows no sign of detrition, neat, complimentary nails, but he can see a thin sliver of dried glue at the cuticle of the thumb; all signs of frugality without sacrificing sophistication...

Even the tiniest observations sing a haunting, operatic tune that keeps Simon hypnotized with little regard for what could lie within the treacherous depths below. Instinct drives interest, and if there’s anything Simon’s learned in his line of work, it’s to trust his instincts.

Not another beat passes before his fingertips finally close around the edge of the picture. He hands it to Johnny.

“Dig up everything you can on this one, yeah?”

♡

Fascination seems to be the weakest word to describe the rabbit hole Simon finds himself in when Johnny slides a file across his desk. He thumbs the manila tab that peeks out beneath the slew of staggered papers, taking caution to remember the name printed neatly across it - your name. It tastes sweet when he says it out loud. Pretty name for a pretty girl, he muses with a nearly imperceptible smirk.

The surname strikes him with a notch of recognition. Your father, if memory serves correct, is one of the largest arms dealers in the world. A pleasant man by reputation, though Simon has never met him directly. Sans the obvious, he keeps his nose clean. Nothing iniquitous or unscrupulous. There aren’t many American families that Simon has ties to, and forging a bond of this sort with a weapons tycoon would certainly be beneficial.

He digs into the contents of the folder, the pages feeling almost like silk between his heavily calloused fingers. A vague eagerness settles into his bones. Simon feigns disinterest outwardly, expression masked in stoicism, but he can’t lie to himself - he’s undoubtedly curious.

Each barely-cooled sheet turned only draws him further into a spiral. Your basic documents - driver’s license, birth certificate, passport - fill in a few blanks. The additional knowledge of your height, weight, and eye color offer insights not clear from the photo. He knows your middle name, birth date, that you’re an organ donor. You’re not living off your father’s money, as evidenced by the consistent bi-weekly paycheck deposits in your bank records. Educated, obviously, as your student loan payments are automatically drafted monthly.

On paper, it’s almost as if you were made for him, and what a thought that is. Optimism isn't in his nature; a heavy dose of skepticism hangs like a dark cloud, brewing a storm of adversarial rationale. But the pinch of hope that hovers like the sun in the back of his mind tells him to digest before coming back for seconds, and he concedes.

In the days that follow, Simon notices himself spending every spare moment revisiting your file. He placates Johnny’s lingering nosiness with the assurance that he’s merely trying to make a prudent choice under the circumstances, but that’s not quite honest. Truth be told, you’ve become a bit of an obsession of his over the last week. He often notes that his mind is wandering to the things he didn’t learn from the dossier - how you take your tea, what perfume you use, where you’ve always wanted to go but have never been. It’s a dangerous admission, one best kept to himself.

He toys with the notion of conducting the same research on a couple of the other candidates, just to be sure, but his decision is made final when Kyle sends over the links to your social media accounts. None of them are private - an issue Simon will have to address quite thoroughly at a later date - so he has no trouble combing through the last several years of your life.

Admittedly, it leaves an adequate mark. You’re witty and smart while remaining a bit sardonic. Thoughtful and warm, but not without your sharp edges. You’re ambitious and driven, a bit of a firecracker. Color him impressed; he quite likes that.

Demeanor aside, he also finds that you really, genuinely are an absolute beauty. The few photos from your file don’t hold a candle to the selfies you’ve posted. Something about seeing you when you feel most confident, when you’re exuding that effervescent glow of aplomb, it sparks a sensation in Simon’s stomach that he can’t quite describe.

That all but seals the deal.

He snaps up his phone and sends a text to Johnny before placing it face-down and turning back to his laptop.

>>> Set up the meeting

♡

As his jet touches down in Bogotá, Simon is reminded of what a nasty beast jetlag can be. It’s an animal he’s not had to contend with since his younger years, a fact for which he’s grateful. Call it a perk of his constant travel over the years and the more… unconventional hours he entertains on jobs. They’re approaching hour fourteen of their flight, though, so he supposes he can’t fault his men for falling asleep.

(He did, however, take a picture of them sleeping on each other before the turbulence awoke them; you know, for the sake of posterity and potential future blackmail.)

Simon’s mind had been far too occupied to allow him the opulence of rest. Upon his lap sits a dossier on his next target, a relatively high profile subversive at that, and all he can think about is the pretty little thing that’s been haunting his subconscious for the last two weeks.

By all accounts, it’s baffling. He understands that this sudden onset of infatuation is irrational, illogical, and quite frankly, irresponsible. It distracts him from things he ought not be distracted from, and that irritates him to no end.

The whirring of the engines slows to a dull hum, and Simon, with a grunt of discontentment, stuffs the file into his briefcase. He’ll accomplish nothing as long as he’s preoccupied. Hopefully, focus will be far less elusive on the flight back.

A loud thunk from the cockpit draws him from his spiral of ire, and Nikolai emerges. He greets Simon only with a curt nod before disengaging the door and deploying the stairs. Once they’ve kissed the asphalt, he ventures back a step, creating room for the men to disembark.

“Welcome to Colombia, gentlemen,” he announces. “We leave in six hours; gives me time to refuel the bird and grab some fuel myself. Enjoy your time, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, okay?” He tacks on a wink for good measure, which draws a bark of laughter from Kyle. Nik’s been with them long enough for them to know that’s a very short list, a fact Johnny is very quick to point out.

Simon claps a hand on Nikolai’s shoulder and hands him an envelope before stepping out - a hefty cash sum for his time and efforts. He may have also snuck in a sizable bonus as an anniversary present, but that will stay between the two of them.

“Get some rest, too, yeah? You’ve earned it.”

The air outside is crisp and pleasant. Underneath the standard airfield smells, Simon detects a pinch of coffee and cocoa. He wouldn’t be surprised; there’s a manufacturing plant not too terribly far from here, and if the wind blows just so, it may carry on the current. It’s refreshing, especially after being trapped for hours in an aluminum tube with three men who, today in particular, seem to be having a war over who can wear the strongest cologne.

Kyle and Johnny flank him on either side as they stroll off the tarmac. They’re both covertly armed to the teeth as a general precaution, but he trusts there will be no sinister intent behind a simple lunch. Surely, his appointment won’t mind. He likely won’t be attending alone either.

At the far end of the strip, a hired car is waiting. It’s relatively inconspicuous for the part of the city housing the restaurant, according to Simon’s research - a sleek, black SUV with windows tinted dark enough to hide any passengers, but passable enough to not draw attention.

Once in the city, it’s inherently obvious that there’s plenty of time to kill before the agreed upon hour. Place and time re-confirmed, the boys are turned loose to occupy themselves however they see fit, and Simon delves into the rows of local shops.

He finds things here and there; a pair of stunning leather boots, a box of cigars for Price, trinkets and treats he can share with his staff or gifts he can bring to gatherings so that he never greets his gracious hosts empty-handed. Even a little something for you, should all go according to plan. He smiles inwardly as he tucks the velvet box into the pocket of his slacks. It won’t replace the necklace you clearly adore, but he hopes you’ll wear it regardless.

After a quick trip back to their driver to leave their finds, the trio makes their way to the restaurant. Johnny and Kyle lag behind, keeping a respectable distance from Simon, whose eyes are immediately combing the patio for your father.

He spots him closer to the corner, sitting with his back to the wall. Two tables over, a pair of rather conspicuous men sit, cliché aviators perched in place while positioned to have a clear view of the upcoming interactions. Simon makes a mental note to wait until closer to the wedding to offer suggestions for higher quality detail. Assassinations are easier when you can gauge your obstacles so easily; trust him, he’d know.

In his periphery, he sees his companions select an empty table four over from the rent-a-cops. Kyle sits with his back to the table, glasses off. Johnny sits across from him, keeping his on to supply a reflective overview. Simon can’t help but crack the tiniest grin. He’s taught them well. They move as a singular unit when needed and rely on instinct over protocol. It’s the perfect display of how safe you’ll be with him. If he seems a little arrogant about it, that’s because he is.

Your father looks up from his phone and meets Simon’s eyes with an unspoken question. Simon tips his chin just once before the man stands, greeting him with a gracious smile.

“Ah, Mr. Riley… Pleasure to finally meet you.” He’s sincere in tone and offers his hand. Simon takes it without hesitation, giving it a firm shake while he shares the sentiment.

“You as well, sir.”

His smile widens a bit at that, and he gestures to the open chair, saying, “Please, sit.”

Simon takes the invitation, settling into the seat and the subsequent relatively meaningless small talk. They cycle through the basics before ordering their food and get a pinch more personal while they wait, discussing their respective hometowns and places their work has taken them. It isn’t until they’re digging into their plates that your father finally broaches the subject they’re both most anxious to discuss.

“As much as I’m enjoying getting to know you,” he begins, gaze not rising from his fork as it prods a pile of coconut rice. “I’m sure you didn’t fly halfway across the world just for that.”

“No, sir,” Simon responds. “I’m here to talk about your daughter.”

That draws the man’s attention, eyes finally meeting Simon’s with a subtle grin. It’s almost somewhat unsettling, like a cat finally catching that damn canary, though he’s unsure whether it’s him or you that owns the role of prey.

“But you already knew that, didn't you?”

“That I did,” he confirms, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Tell me, Simon, what exactly is it about my daughter that calls to the infamous Ghost?”

Simon pauses a moment, unsure of quite how to approach the response. He'd rather not tip his hand until he determines what sinisterity lies behind that predatory gaze. The mask your father is wearing at the moment is approaching uncanny, and a faint alarm bell sounds in the back of Simon’s mind.

“I only ask because, well, I never would’ve expected that a man of your stature would choose someone so… plain, shall we say? Don’t get me wrong, she’s a good girl, but she’s certainly not without her flaws. Stubborn, opinionated, talks too much, certainly far from the ideal housewife. And don’t get me started on how she takes care of herself. Really makes me wonder, Mr. Riley, what ulterior motives might you be hiding?”

“None, sir. Nothin’ I need from you that I can’t get myself.” Simon’s voice is flat as he tamps down the anger crawling beneath his skin. How does a real man speak ill of his own daughter so flagrantly? Does he really have no regard for you? He has half a mind to remove your father’s tongue after the wedding, if only for your sake.

“Pray tell, then.”

Simon scrubs a hand over his jaw before he answers, “Pretty girl. Smart from the sound of it. Doesn’t rely on attention from the public or ‘er daddy’s money. Ain’t lookin’ for a sweet little housewife; I like it when they bite back.”

“And you understand that she’s… How do I put this delicately?” He pauses. “She’s a bit bigger than what you'd consider a trophy wife."

Simon scoffs, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, he's aware of that. That's part of what drew him to you.

“Quite like a fuller figure. Don’t want a woman who’ll fuss over calories when I cook for ‘er.”

Your father mulls it over, chewing thoughtfully as he considers the words before him. Simon watches as the muscles in his jaw flex and reflex, and he swears he can hear the scales tipping back and forth as they try to find some balance.

Finally, he wipes his face with his napkin. His expression cracks into something adjacent to genuine, and that alarm gets just a little bit louder.

“I suppose this little meeting has reached its end.” He snaps his fingers twice as the waiter, gesturing for the check. Rude, in Simon’s opinion, but he bites his tongue.

“Sir?”

“I’ve got business to attend to back in the States, and by the sounds of it, a wedding to start planning.”

♡

part ii

[ghcstao3]

The Ghostsoap school au one kills me. Popular sunshine Johnny who wants to draw and do art but is always being bothered and needed to help others look more popular. Silent blending in Simon because he’s just holding on to school until he can finally leave and start earning full time to support his mum and brother and get away from his dad. Simon who’s failing classes because he’s so tired from working shifts for money and to get out of the house. Johnnys house becoming a safe haven where he gets patched up after beatings and the McTavishes can feed him

that first project they’re assigned to, simon was actually hesitant to accept johnny’s proposal to work on it at his house. but when he does, he’s astounded to see a home that doesn’t exist as a hostile environment, that actually feels like a home, and he acts on his absolute best behaviour when johnny’s parents come around because he’s afraid of punishment. of everything being a facade.

once they’re properly friends and later together as boyfriends, johnny does everything in his power to make his house a safe space for simon—especially once he learns a bit more about his situation. simon feels guilty about intruding, as well as about leaving his mum and brother to deal with his father alone, but johnny has to insist that he’s always welcome, and that none of that is his fault. johnny may not understand, but he can certainly offer his support.

and johnny’s admiration of simon grows impossibly so, seeing how strong simon is, how resilient, how caring and kind he is in spite of the father that waits at home for him. simon finds a similar adoration for johnny blooming, seeing how compassionate, genuine, and nonjudgemental he is. how he always stands his ground, for himself and simon.

i dunno. maybe in this universe they don’t have to join the military to seek something missing, when they already have each other so early on :)

[akai-akai]

okay so I've ranted about my "Simon Riley is a Dork" philosophy, now I bring you...

John MacTavish is a NERD.

I see how he's often pinned as the rambunctious "airhead" of the team, and that may be true to some to degree but he's not STUPID.

Listen, this man is a demolition expert. That involves all kinds of maths, measurements, electrical work, mechanics, technical shit I'm not well-versed in, etc. Demolitions experts have to be pretty damn smart to be considered experts.

I think Johnny was 100% a robotics kid growing up. Maybe even dabbled in coding and mathematics club. I seriously think he was one of the nerdy kids in highschool/secondary school.

And though that part of him is still very much there, it's quieter now. Shrouded by professionalism and experience and maturity. But then, sometimes when he's had a few too many drinks, or if Simon plucks just the right strings, he'll go on these long tangents about the different mathematics, or about this robot he built by hand in highschool by himself in his parents' garage-turned-robotics-lab— the garage lab that he accidentally set on fire and blew up a can of old hairspray his sister had left on his desk. (He totally wasn't using it as a blowtorch to kill some poor unsuspecting bug, his sister just left the spray there and he didn't notice it. That small burn scar on his left hand is completely unrelated.)

And of course, Simon will sit quietly and patiently, watching the way Johnny's eyes light up and his face gets more and more expressive, arms and hands moving wildly, animatedly. He's so passionate, it makes Simon's eyes soften with affection.

And when Johnny's especially focused on the blueprints in front of him during a mission, clock ticking and pressure weighing down on him, he's a sight to behold. Somehow, that's when he works best. Brows pinched, lips pressed in a tight line as his brain works over the details, pieces a plan together as he mutters under his breath, pen scratching on the paper, recites numbers for the other team members to remember. And then his brows smooth out and he gets this giddy look as things click together in his mind and his head snaps up and he gets to work— John knows to let him take the lead here, and quietly notes to himself that John MacTavish would make for a great Captain down the line.

Sometimes when he can't sleep or his mind's a little too loud, he'll sit up at the little desk in his barracks with the dim lamp illuminating a worn-out blue sketchbook, pencil eraser trapped between his teeth as he scans his old notes and sketches and unresolved equations. Mundane math and physics that doesn't take a lot of mental power, but still relaxes him nonetheless.

In addition, he'd be good at sketching. Specifically blueprints and modeling. Dimensional stuff and perspective. Finds a quiet corner somewhere on base— usually that old tree out by the dirt track— and sketches away models, some of which are totally unrealistic but he doesn't care. He'll sketch a giant sci-fi atomic canon model with realistic mathematics and semi-viable science behind it if he wants to.

When he needs to memorize a new model, he'll draw each individual piece, each little working part as if he's dissecting it and mapping it out in his brain. Sometimes when Simon flips through Johnny's sketchbooks, he'll find 10+ pages filled with the same model, over and over, and it's like he can see every thought process, every reasoning, every time Johnny clicks something together in his mind.

Johnny is brilliant. He's a scientist, an expert in his field. He's a total nerd and I love him for it.

(His average shower thoughts are either complex science that would give the average person a migraine, or Simon's eyes. No in between.)

NSFW:

This time, the tables are turned. Johnny will be mid-ride on top of Simon in bed, purposely distracting himself in his mind to hold off his own release (bc it's a competition and he'll be damned if he finishes first) and then suddenly he'll remember a bomb blueprint he was deconstructing the previous day and he'll plop down, sitting up stock straight as he curses and something makes a PING! sound in his brain and suddenly he's leaning over while Simon raises a questioning brow, hands still firmly gripping Johnny's hips as he snatches his notebook and pen from his table side drawer, flops the book unceremoniously on top of Simon's chest, hunches over, and begins writing and muttering to himself.

And Simon just waits, halfway between disgruntled and amused. Just sorta resorts to grinding his hips upward— to which Johnny firmly plants his hips downward, keeping them still, and Simon just sighs and waits some more.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Simon's in love with this idiot, don't let him fool you. I love them a healthy amount.

[lopposting]

The major question of the story that we are now asking:

Why, exactly, does Carlo never "wake up"?

[long post]

[Spoilers ahead]

Well, simply put - Because he is dead.

OK, that seems like too obvious an answer, but I'll elaborate, and bear with me here. I want to recap some elements first so you know where I'm coming from, but I'm also trying not to completely explain everything because that's way too hard and would be too long.

[Currently, we don't understand everything about the story or its meaning. Because of some of the shrouded nature of the lore and narrative, it leaves much mystery. But from viewing these questions and the story from a thematic standpoint, something unexpected and really cool happened. I found that the story and the lore opened up in reverse.]

The easiest way to explain the plot (in my opinion):

It was my impression that Geppetto never “started” the puppet frenzy. The puppets were NEVER breaking the grand covenant, interpretably they are protecting humans by stopping the spread of the petrification disease, it’s just that everyone in the city was infected by that point. 

Now with the puppets killing everybody in a city where everyone was infected (ergo being the result of the disease) Simon can go around harvesting all that ergo and Geppetto presumably plays him by letting Simon collect the Ergo first, and then sending P to kill him. [again, these details may not be completely accurate, but bear with me here]

Why create P in the first place?

He's made in Carlo's image so to speak because Geppetto hopes that Carlo's spirit will awaken. This is also why P is never bound to the covenant (it seems that not being bound to robot laws makes puppet egos awaken faster, since awakened puppets can break the grand covenant). So that is the two functions of P, to destroy puppets for ergo to harvest and so Carlo's consciousness can restore. I was just guessing that the arm of god was enough to get Carlo to revive, and Carlo's mental spirit reviving would be helpful but not entirely necessary. But for reasons we don't understand, Carlo never does regain consciousness.

Geppetto bitterly tells us that we don't seem to have inherited Carlo's memories. There is no big moment where Pinocchio or Pino or P reawakens, fully, as Carlo. He isn’t treated by the story as him. During the course of the game, P struggles to forge his own identity, to become a real boy, despite starting as a copy of the original. It’s a very fitting parable for the genre identity of a soulslike.

However, there are other successful re-incarnations of people through puppets, namely Sophia at the end of the Rise ending. We ask, for consistency's sake, why are puppet-form Romeo and puppet-form Sophia assumed to have retained their original identities, but not Pino? This is just my personal interpretation of why Carlo just couldn't or doesn't wake up. It isn't really based any lore or deduction from story details, this is from more of a philosophical point of view. And it isn't just the luck of the draw.

I had some initial thoughts about Carlo's failure. Romeo was made with intention of continuing to fight against the disease, as it's told that he "made a deal with the devil". Sophia may have been a special case, as she is a listener (Arlecchino even refers to her as the goddess in the tower), she may have had an ergo identity so strong that her essential self could retain this process. But either way, the implication is that Pino may have been able to recover her not long after that final fight. Look at the nameless puppet. The state of Carlo's body is so poor, that more than not his body seems to have been replaced with puppet parts. I think the implication was that Geppetto had been replacing parts as they rotted away. Maybe he had simply been dead for too long. But again, this isn't exactly why I think he couldn't awaken.

Simon and Geppetto

Lies has two main antagonists, although one isn't completely revealed until the last section. Both Simon and Geppetto are the perpetrators of Krat's destruction, but for what seems like different reasons. Simon is trying to be reborn, and Geppetto is trying to revive his dead son, Carlo. Interpretably, they are both trying to become Gods. Simon by grasping the supernatural, cosmic power of one, and Geppetto by raising the dead. They have destroyed Krat in their attempt to become a god, or more succinctly put, attempting to become God, singular. Geppetto's goal is, in essence, the same as Simon's goal - Because bringing back the dead would make him God.

That's why it seemed all so confusing. Haven't Geppetto and the alchemists already raised the dead, as Pino does at the end of the Rise ending with Sophia? Sophia, Romeo, and Carlo were all afflicted with the disease. Their Ergo were all made into puppets, but there's a minor but important distinction here. Sophia is still alive in her condition and actively suffering, this is the reason why she asks us to end her life. It seems as though Romeo lost his friend to the disease, and then made a "deal with the devil" to continue fighting, this implies being made into the king of puppets. We collected Sophia's ergo while she was alive, which we then used to animate the puppet. So the three of them were afflicted with the petrification disease. Sophia perished, Romeo perished, but Carlo died.

Now if we see the sand memories section of the beach, the stalker's words start to gain some clarity. If Carlo died from an incurable disease that the stalker couldn't prevent, why is she too late? Perhaps the goal was never to "save" Carlo's life. She laments; That she was too late, NOT to "save" him, but for him to be able to be restored. The stalker seemed to understand that whatever procedure needed to be done would be useless past the point of death.

I have to admit that there was something that I thought could override my theory. It seems as though the alchemists already were able to bring back both Champion Victor and The Eldest of the BRB, and from the dead no less. We read from notes in the Grand Exhibition that Victor had caught the disease, died to the despair of his adoring fans, but then miraculously made a comeback somehow stronger than ever. But maybe - he had only appeared to be brought back from the dead to the public, as Victor sought the help of the alchemists. And when it comes to the Eldest in the coffin, I'm wondering if he was actually only mortally wounded, leading the brotherhood to consult with the alchemists. [The way he was carried out by his brothers too (shouldered on either side) isn't typically the way you would expect people would handle a dead person]

Mirroring Sophia, Romeo, and Pinocchio, who were made into puppets: There is Champion Victor, The Eldest, and Nameless Puppet. We can see the former three as Geppetto's method of "cheating" God (cheating Death), and the latter three as alchemists' method. Only "Carlo" has a form in either one - The Nameless Puppet and the player, P. The Nameless puppet appears to share a similar undead quality with Victor and The Eldest of the BRB (including the tubes). We know that the collected Ergo can animate puppets, They are puppeting around their own dead bodies.

I feel like the Nameless Puppet tells us in a poetic way that Carlo is gone. My thoughts on this are more abstract. Again, this isn't from a factual analysis, but more of from viewing the Nameless Puppet itself as a metaphor. The Nameless puppet has qualities similar to the other undead bosses, yet the game doesn't describe it like it does Victor and the Eldest. It's not a body. It is a puppet [Human on the outside, mechanical on the inside - the inverse of our protagonist]. And straight in the text, we are told this is "The Nameless Puppet". But we know who Carlo was. His name was Carlo. We split open its head, and there are only cold, mechanical parts, instead of what we in the modern world now regard as the very most essential self (the brain). Because there was nothing to recover, there is no one there. Carlo's spirit had long, long since departed the world.

We are also told through one of the game's narrative devices that the Nameless puppet was the first puppet fitted with the organ. Ostensibly, Carlo's body was being prepared for whatever procedure that needed to take place, but Carlo died before that could happen (perhaps thankfully), and Geppetto pushed forward with his plans anyway, perhaps past the point of no return.

There are two forms of revival and we represent one of them, as in, there was the puppet form of Carlo and the undead form of Carlo. Presumably, the undead form was incredibly destructive, and thus stored away; We are the second try for Carlo's rebirth, this time in the puppet form, but we cannot even wake up without the aid of Sophia.

Lies, God, and the Finality of Death

But doesn't Geppetto actually succeed in one of the endings? Simon fails to become a god, (well, presumably only because we kill him in the process of doing so) and then we confront Geppetto. If we hand over our heart, Geppetto actually does revive Carlo. We see the resurrected Carlo, but with one simple smile we realize this isn't the Carlo the game has been leading us to believe existed. This ending leaves us with distrust and unease rather than a sense of peace and resolution. Simon fails to become a god, and at the bad ending - even if he "wins" - the game makes us wonder if So does Geppetto. No matter what, Carlo could NEVER be truly, and in both senses of the word, honestly, be revived.

[Simon Manus - like Simon Magus, the biblical figure who tries to buy into the supernatural power of God. And Geppetto, of course alluding to the 1883 italian novel The Adventures of Pinocchio - a puppet master, a creator indeed, but of wooden imitations of life, and a poor imitation of God]

So, why I think Carlo could not wake up? Because whatever needed to happen could not be done after the actual point of death, and Sophia and Romeo's hearts were both transferred before they actually died. His spirit had long gone from this world. Krat has methods of eternal life, but these transfers happened while they were still alive. While the alchemists and Geppetto could certainly cheat death (as we maybe even would with modern day medicine), they could not defeat it. Carlo can no longer wake up, Carlo can never wake up again, because he is dead.

[fancifulplaguerat]

Something I struggle to reconcile with Daniil’s character is his attitude towards violence, because he’s this impassioned doctor claiming he wants to save everyone but at the same time is pretty quick on the draw across all three routes. E.g. in the Bachelor Route, the player can say that Daniil doesn’t want others to die for him; that it’s his job to preserve lives, not waste them; and tells Saburov that Artemy couldn’t be a killer, because why would a *doctor* kill anyone? but then the next conversation he’s expressing delight when Andrey tells him he can kill marauders with impunity. Thinking about it more, though, I don’t think it’s necessarily that dissonant given how Daniil’s character is constructed within this “destroyer” idea, and I think his motivations are pretty consistent as well. 

I feel Daniil is the most emotional healer—he’s very wear-it-on-your-sleeve and seemingly easily swayed by emotion, considering how he reacts to Simon’s death/Aglaya’s betrayal. He’s not altogether impulsive, since he’s conscientious and sometimes even refuses to act without ensuring whether he’s right, but he’s clearly partly motivated by emotion. For one, he often to lashes out at people—there are frequent dialogues in his route where he can snap at someone and then say a variant of “Sorry, I lost my temper.” I don’t think Daniil is necessarily an angry person, but reactive and in a situation where he’s constantly under pressure/being prevented from doing what he needs to be done, so obviously he’d often be frustrated and angry. I also don’t think him acting violently is  because he wants to take his anger out on others, and rather his sense of justice allows him to justify violence on the grounds of who “deserves” to be punished or to die. For example, in the Haruspex/Changeling Route he only threatens to kill Artemy or use violence against Simon Kain’s murderer because eye-for-an-eye; the killer deserves to be punished, because that’s just. Daniil also expresses anger and disdain towards those who kill others, so it seems to him, killing a murderer is just righting a wrong. 

Outside his motivations, I also think Daniil’s tendency towards violence works within his broader characterization as a fighter/destroyer. He’s indirectly characterized as an apt fighter in both the Haurspex/Changeling Routes, and rhetoric of ‘fighting’ is constantly used to describe his research and actions within the town. On Day 1, both Maria and Katerina describe his fate as a battle—Maria says, “a truly terrifying battle is ahead of you [...] You will fight a foe that few can defeat” and Katerina says, “I’m talking about a very particular battle... You are one of the combatants, Bachelor Dankovsky [...] you will have to fight to the death.” I also want to point to this dialogue with an herb bride, which I know is in common, but: 

Herb Bride: How are you smart? Smart people are four-eyed nerds... bulgy heads on stunted legs. Cunning, cautious, weak, old even... no, you are not a smart man. You are a warrior.

Player: You can be both.

Herb Bride: Really? I thought you can only have one. Your eyes are throwing needles, and your teeth are clenched fast. You've got the face of a man who can sweep down anything that stands in his way. The face of a destroyer.

Player: Correct. This is the true purpose of smart people [...] I destroy death. 

Herb Bride: Oh... So that's why there are always sparks of hatred in your eyes. And that's why your smile is so spiteful.

I’m still debating my opinions on the implications here, but I feel it’s partly related to the game’s pessimism about miracles/utopias. Specifically that in Daniil’s attempt to attain utopia:defeat death, he can only cause more destruction, as in Kaspar’s infamous “You may mean well, but you bring evil and destruction all the same [...] Your heavy hand will crush us all—even if you were only grabbing us in order to pull us out of the abyss.” The sentiment that Daniil is solely a destructive force even when he tries to do good is echoed all over the game, which frankly makes me upset because I’m too attached to this tortured little fellow. Daniil does what he thinks is right just as Artemy and Clara, but he doesn’t even get the privilege of attaining his goal like the others do in their endings. The Bachelor ending is really only a symbolic victory for Daniil; Thanatica is burned down and he hasn’t really gotten any closer to beating death. For all intents and purposes, Daniil loses even in his own ending, and I have all sorts of thoughts about that but. I shall tuck it away for another day 

[honestlyboringperson]

Team BEST in the Persona 5 AU! Skizz looks like utter dogshit because I can’t draw muscles! Sorry Skizz!

Also yes, Etho’s outfit is partially based on @/spell-struck’s Arcana Swap AU design for Yusuke. Go check it out! Their designs are amazing.

Again, More Information is under the cut.

Southlanders

The Scottage + Gem

Fairy Fort

Magical Mountain + Cub

Bdubs - “Scout” - The Lovers Arcana - Peter Pan/Orobas

A man of short stature and an even shorter fuse, Bdubs is a college student pursuing a degree in architecture and is known for his dubious ability to immediately know what field someone should go into. Be it art, film, or even just mathematics, his judgement is never wrong which led him to be recruited into a local theatre troupe to help with casting members to roles. This causes him to befriend a certain young prodigy actor who specializes in theatrically heroic protagonists and bombastically charismatic villains.

His persona is Peter Pan who is a famous pop culture character. Peter Pan is known for his devil may care attitude and his claims of greatness. His abilities allow himself and others to fly, and in this AU, Bdubs is known for uplifting others with both his scouting abilities and work as a phantom thief. Bdubs is also quite boastful, also fitting with Peter Pan’s character.

His Ultimate Persona is Orobas, a Great Prince of Hell and a Goetic Demon. He is the patron of horses, and gives power and control over others. He also can protect people from evil spirits and is clairvoyant. No wonder Bdubs “Horsegirl Supreme” got this guy as his ultimate persona.

Etho - “Shade” - The Hanged Man Arcana - Arahabaki/Inari-Okami

Etho is a mysterious college student known throughout the campus as being aloof, quiet, and even possibly dangerous. Those close to him know he’s just socially awkward. At a young age, he is known for his inventions in engineering and was presented with several scholarships to several prestigious institutions across the city. Unfortunately, he is horrendously bad at anything that isn’t engineering, with his apartment in shambles and his diet mostly consisting of energy drinks and a wide variety of instant ramen.

Arahabaki is a Japanese god of uncertain origin, with this particular portrayal & the one in the Shin Megami Tensei franchise being mainly inspired by the forgery by Tsugaru Soto-Sangunshi. They are a symbol of treachery, rebellion, and heresy after Emperor Jimmu found his enemy Nagasunehiko worshipped him.

Inari Okami is the kami of foxes, fertility, rice, tea, and general worldly success. They are the reason several shrines in Japan have fox statues and they are known for their ability to shapeshift. Their entourage was made up of pure white kitsune, categorized as “zenko” as opposed to the malicious “yako” kitsune.

Skizz - “Knight” - The Justice Arcana - Templar/Heracles

Skizz is Impulse’s best friend and former police officer. He currently works as a construction worker, but helps Impulse with his smithing business. He was fired after directly opposing the corruption that began to spread throughout the city’s police force, and his name was slandered. Despite these tragedies, he keeps a goofy and cheerful demeanour throughout his days. Despite no longer being in the police force, he will not overlook anything he sees as harmful.

Templar, full name Simon Templar is a Robin Hood figure coined “The Saint”. His calling card consists of a stick figure with a halo, and said calling cards were often given to corrupt politicians, warmongers, and other similar low-lives. He was described as “a buccaneer in the suits of Savile Row, amused, cool, debonair, with hell for leather blue eyes, and a saintly smile.”

Heracles is a famed Roman hero, and is considered the god of strength and heroes. He is most known for his tale of the twelve labours, wherein he completes twelve labours set by King Eurystheus to atone for killing his family after Hera makes him temporarily lose his mind. These tasks were aided by his allies and finished with a combination of strength, trickery, and camaraderie.

Tango - “Blaze” - The Magician Arcana - Guy Fawkes/Nimrod

Tango is a popular novelist and D&D master, known for his works in the fantasy horror novel franchise “Decked Out”. Although the original novels were made to satisfy his own desire to tell a compelling story, he becomes severely creatively blocked and is unable to keep up with the demands of his fans. After joining, he’s trying to start fresh with a new franchise, and is currently looking for inspiration for a new novel with the help of Jimmy.

Guy Fawkes is a key figure behind the infamous & controversial Gunpowder Plot. The Gunpowder Plot was a planned regicide, with several barrels of gunpowder being hidden within or near the House of Parliament, with Guy Fawkes being in charge of the explosives. The plan was to blow up the Parliament with the King James I inside and instate a Catholic monarch to the throne. Despite the motives being questionable, the plan failed and all the offenders, Guy Fawkes include were executed for treason. Today, in celebration of the king’s survival and the failure of the plan or simply enjoying the festivities, Bonfire Night was created, with several bonfires, fireworks, and other similar events taking place.

Nimrod is the architect of the Tower of Babel and is known as a king who rebelled against god themselves. The Tower of Babel was intended to reach towards the heavens, but God struck it down and changed the language of the people so they could no longer understand each other and scatters them across the earth.

[metalatias5]

AU Summary of my GhostSimon AU (GS AU)

This is GhostSimon or more accurately magical hologram copy of Simon's memory & personality imprint from the Ice Crown

I draw him at ca 80% opacity (or less if hurt)

GS is the result of one of Magic Betty's attempts to get her Simon back, specifically her attempt to recreate Simon by pulling his imprint directly out of the crown.

She succeeded, but when he turned out not having a physical body her MMS made her feel like her attempt had killed Simon and she absolutely could not handle that.

Overwhelmed, she lashed out, nearly destroying GS as she desperately tried to undo what she'd done, only ending up traumatizing GS and chasing him off though.

Fortunately, Marcy found him and showed him acceptance, whether he's the "real" Simon or not, and took him in.

GhostSimon is completely intangible and unable to feel any physical sensations like touch or even temperature, he can't even touch himself (though he does occasionally seem capable of it in purely subconscious ways like fixing his glasses or rubbing his eyes)

The only things that truly can touch/affect GS are: - intense soundwaves - magic - electricity or pure energy - actual Ghosts, ectoplasm Any of these could touch, hurt, destabilize or straight-up destroy GS, thus killing him (which only adds to his trauma/fear of Betty)

He's not completely helpless though as he's discovered at least one way that he can affect things, through craving. While GS can't eat, thinking of and yearning for food makes his form draw energy from his surroundings, draining either magic, data or electricity from its closest source.

GhostSimon may not be able to affect the worlds much as he is, but he has the potential to make a major change eventually.

[hieromonkcharbel]

I return once more to Simone Weil who draws us ever deeper into the mysteries of divine love and the experience of affliction. She does not shy away from exploring the dimensions of both and as one continues to read a trembling comes upon the soul as the vision of reality she seeks to express comes into clearer view. Weil relentlessly pursues the great enigma of life that is profound and fierce - the Love of the Cross - a Love that both wounds and heals.

“The great enigma of human life is not suffering but affliction. It is not surprising that the innocent are killed, tortured, driven from their country, made destitute or reduced to slavery, imprisoned in camps or cells, since there are criminals to perform such actions. It is not surprising either that disease is the cause of long sufferings, which paralyse life and make it into an image of death, since nature is at the mercy of the blind play of mechanical necessities. But it is surprising that God should have given affliction the power to seize the very souls of the innocent and to take possession of them as their sovereign lord. At the very best, he who is branded by affliction will only keep half his soul.

As for those who have been struck by one of those blows which leave a being struggling on the ground like a half crushed worm, they have no words to express what is happening to them. Among the people they meet, those who have never had contact with affliction in its true sense can have no idea of what it is, even though they may have suffered a great deal. Affliction is something specific and impossible to describe in any other terms, like the sounds of which nothing can convey the slightest idea to anyone who is deaf and dumb. And as for those who have themselves been mutilated by affliction, they are in no state to help anyone at all, and they are almost incapable of even wishing to do so. Thus compassion for the afflicted is an impossibility. When it is really found we have a more astounding miracle than walking on water, healing the sick, or even raising the dead.

Affliction constrained Christ to implore that he might be spared; to seek consolation from man; to believe he was forsaken by the Father. It forced a just man to cry out against God; a just man as perfect as human nature can be; more so, perhaps, if Job is less a historical character than a figure of Christ. ‘He laughs at the affliction of the innocent! This is not blasphemy but a genuine cry of anguish. The Book of Job is a pure marvel of truth and authenticity from beginning to end. As regards affliction, all that departs from this model is more or less stained with falsehood.

Affliction makes God appear to be absent for a time, more absent than a dead man, more absent that light in the utter darkness of a cell. A kind of horror submerges the whole soul. During this absence there is nothing to love. What is terrible is that if, in this darkness where there is nothing to love, the soul ceases to love, God’s absence becomes final. The soul has to go on loving in the emptiness, or at least to go on wanting to love, though it may only be with an infinitesimal part of itself. Then, one day, God will come to show himself to this soul and to reveal the beauty of the world to it, as in the case of Job. But if the soul stops loving it falls, even in this life, into something which is almost equivalent to hell. That is why those who plunge men into affliction before they are prepared to receive it, kill their souls. On the other hand in a time such as ours, where affliction is hanging over us all, help given to souls is only effective if it goes far enough really to prepare them for affliction. That is no small thing.

Affliction hardens and discourages us because, like a red hot iron, it stamps the soul to its very depths with the scorn, the disgust and even the self-hatred and sense of guilt and defilement which crime logically should produce but actually does not. Evil dwells in the heart of the criminal without being felt there. It is felt in the heart of the man who is afflicted and innocent. Everything happens as though the state of soul suitable for criminals had been separated from crime and attached to affliction; and it even seems to be in proportion to the innocence of those who are afflicted.

If Job cries out that he is innocent in such despairing accents, it is because he himself is beginning not to believe in it, it is because his soul within him is taking the side of his friends. He implores God himself to bear witness, because he no longer hears the testimony of his own conscience; it is no longer anything but an abstract, lifeless memory for him.

Men have the same carnal nature as animals. If a hen is hurt, the others rush upon it, attacking it with their beaks. This phenomenon is as automatic as gravitation. Our senses attach all the scorn, all the revulsion, all the hatred which our reason attaches to crime, to affliction. Except for those whose whole soul is inhabited by Christ, everybody despises the afflicted to some extent, although. practically no one is conscious of it.

This law of sensibility also holds good with regard to ourselves. In the case of someone in affliction, all the scorn, revulsion and hatred are turned inwards. They penetrate to the centre of the soul and from there colour the whole universe with their poisoned light. Supernatural love, if it has survived, can prevent this second result from coming about, but not the first. The first is of the very essence of affliction; there is no affliction without it.

‘Christ…being made a curse for us.’ It was not only the body of Christ, hanging on the wood, which was accursed, it was his whole soul also. In the same way every innocent being in his affliction feels himself accursed. This even goes on being true for those who have been in affliction and have come out of it, through a change in their fortunes; that is to say if the affliction ate deeply enough into them.

Another effect of affliction is, little by little, to make the soul its accomplice, by injecting a poison of inertia into it. In anyone who has suffered affliction for a long enough time there is a complicity with regard to his own affliction. This complicity impedes all the efforts he might make to improve his lot; it goes so far as to prevent him from seeking a way of deliverance, sometimes even to the point of preventing him from wishing for deliverance. Then he is established in affliction, and people might think he was satisfied. Further, this complicity may even induce him to shun the means of deliverance. In such cases it veils itself with excuses which are often ridiculous. Even a person who has come through his affliction will still have something left in him which impels him to plunge into it again, if it has bitten deeply and for ever into the substance of his soul. It is as though affliction had established itself in him like a parasite and were directing him to suit its own purposes. Sometimes this impulse triumphs over all the movements of the soul towards happiness. If the affliction has been ended as a result of some kindness, it may take the form of hatred for the benefactor; such is the cause of certain apparently inexplicable acts of savage ingratitude. It is sometimes easy to deliver an unhappy man from his present distress, but it is difficult to set him free from his past affliction. Only God can do it. And even the grace of God itself cannot cure irremediably wounded nature here below. The glorified body of Christ bore the marks of the nails and spear.

One can only accept the existence of affliction by considering it as a distance. God created through love and for love. God did not create anything except love itself, and the means to love. He created love in all its forms. He created beings capable of love from all possible distances. Because no other could do it, he himself went to the greatest possible distance, the infinite distance. This infinite distance between God and God, this supreme tearing apart, this agony beyond all others, this marvel of love, is the crucifixion. Nothing can be further from God than that which has been made accursed.

This tearing apart, over which supreme love places the bond of supreme union, echoes perpetually across the universe in the midst of the silence, like two notes, separate yet melting into one, like pure and heart-rending harmony. This is the Word of God. The whole creation is nothing but its vibration. When human music in its greatest purity pierces our soul, this is what we hear through it. When we have learnt to hear the silence, this is what we grasp more distinctly through it. Those who persevere in love hear this note from the very lowest depths into which affliction has thrust them. From that moment they can no longer have any doubt.

Men struck down by affliction are at the foot of the Cross, almost at the greatest possible distance from God. It must not be thought that sin is a greater distance. Sin is not a distance, it is a turning of our gaze in the wrong direction.

As for us men, our misery gives us the infinitely precious privilege of sharing in this distance placed between the Son and his Father. This distance is only separation, however, for those who love. For those who love, separation, although painful, is a good, because it is love. Even the distress of the abandoned Christ is a good. There cannot be a greater good for us on earth than to share in it. God can never be perfectly present to us here below on account of our flesh. But he can be almost perfectly absent from us in extreme affliction. This is the only possibility of perfection for us on earth. That is why the Cross is our only hope. ‘No forest bears such a tree, with such blossom, such foliage and such fruit.

When an apprentice gets hurt, or complains of being tired, the workmen and peasants have this fine expression: ‘It is the trade which is entering his body.’ Each time that we have some pain to go through, we can say to ourselves quite truly that it is the universe, the order and beauty of the world, and the obedience of creation to God which are entering our body. After that how can we fail to bless with tenderest gratitude the Love which sends us this gift?

Joy and suffering are two equally precious gifts which must both of them be savoured to the full, each one in its purity without trying to mix them. Through joy, the beauty of the world penetrates our soul. Through suffering it penetrates our body. We could no more become friends of God through joy alone than one becomes a ship’s captain by studying books on navigation. The body plays a part in all apprenticeships. On the plane of physical sensibility, suffering alone gives us contact with that necessity which constitutes the order of the world, for pleasure does not involve an impression of necessity. It is a higher kind of sensibility which is capable of recognising a necessity in joy, and that only indirectly through a sense of beauty. In order that our being should one day become wholly sensitive in every part to this obedience which is the substance of matter, in order that a new sense should be formed in us which enables us to hear the universe as the vibration of the word of God, the transforming power of suffering and of joy are equally indispensable. When either of them comes to us we have to we have to open the very centre of our soul to it, just as a woman opens her door to messengers from her loved one. What does it matter to a lover if the messenger be polite or rough, so long as he gives her a message?

But affliction is not suffering. Affliction is something quite distinct from a method of God’s teaching.

The infinity of space and time separates us from God. How are we to seek for him? How are we to go towards him? Even if we were to walk for hundreds of years, we should do no more than go round and round the world. Even in an aeroplane we could not do anything else. We are incapable of progressing vertically. We cannot take a step towards the heavens. God crosses the universe and comes to us.

Over the infinity of space and time, the infinitely more infinite love of God comes to possess us. He comes at his own time. We have the power to consent to receive him or to refuse. If we remain deaf, he comes back again and again like a beggar, but also, like a beggar, one day he stops coming. If we consent, God puts a little seed in us and he goes away again. From that moment God has no more to do; neither have we, except to wait. We only have not to regret the consent we gave him, the nuptial yes. It is not as easy as it seems, for the growth of the seed within us is painful. Moreover from the very fact that we accept this growth, we cannot avoid destroying whatever gets in its way, pulling up the weeds, cutting the couch-grass, and unfortunately the couch-grass is part of our very flesh, so that this gardening amounts to a violent operation. On the whole, however, the seed grows of itself. A day comes when the soul belongs to God, when it not only consents to love but when truly and effectively it loves. Then in its turn it must cross the universe to go to God. The soul does not love like a creature with created love. The love within it is divine, uncreated; for it is the love of God for God which is passing through it. God alone is capable of loving God. We can only consent to give up our own feelings so as to allow free passage in our soul for this love. That is the meaning of denying oneself. We are created for this consent, and for this alone.

Divine Love crossed the infinity of space and time to come from God to us. But how can it repeat the journey in the opposite direction, starting from a finite creature? When the seed of divine love placed in us has grown and become a tree, how can we, we who bear it, take it back to its origin? How can we make the journey which God made when he came to us, in the opposite direction? How can we cross infinite distance?

It seems impossible, but there is a way—a way with which we are familiar. We know quite well in what likeness this tree is made, this tree which has grown within us, this most beautiful tree where the birds of the air come and perch. We know what is the most beautiful of all trees. ‘No forest bears its equal.’ Something still a little more frightful than a gibbet—that is the most beautiful of all trees. It was the seed of this tree that God placed within us, without our knowing what seed it was. If we had known, we should not have said yes at the first moment. It is this tree which has grown within us and which has become ineradicable. Only a betrayal could uproot it.

When we hit a nail with a hammer, the whole of the shock received by the large head of the nail passes into the point without any of it being lost, although it is only a point. If the hammer and the head of the nail were infinitely big it would be just the same. The point of the nail would transmit this infinite shock at the point to which it was applied.

Extreme affliction, which means physical pain, distress of soul and social degradation, all at the same time, constitutes the nail. The point is applied at the very centre of the soul. The head of the nail is all the necessity which spreads throughout the totality of space and time.

Affliction is a marvel of divine technique. It is a simple and ingenious device which introduces into the soul of a finite creature the immensity of force, blind, brutal and cold. The infinite distance which separates God from the creature is entirely concentrated into one point to pierce the soul in its centre.

The man to whom such a thing happens has no part in the operation. He struggles like a butterfly which is pinned alive into an album. But through all the horror he can continue to want to love. There is nothing impossible in that, no obstacle, one might almost say no difficulty. For the greatest suffering, so long as it does not cause fainting, does not touch the part of the soul which consents to a right direction.

It is only necessary to know that love is a direction and not a state of the soul. If one is unaware of this, one falls into despair at the first onslaught of affliction.

He whose soul remains ever turned in the direction of God while the nail pierces it, finds himself nailed on to the very centre of the universe. It is the true centre, it is not in the middle, it is beyond space and time, it is God. In a dimension which does not belong to space, which is not time, which is indeed quite a different dimension, this nail has pierced a hole through all creation, through the thickness of the screen which separates the soul from God.

In this marvellous dimension, the soul, without leaving the place and the instant where the body to which it is united is situated, can cross the totality of space and time and come into the very presence of God.

It is at the intersection of creation and its Creator. This point of intersection is the point of intersection of the branches of the Cross.

Saint Paul was perhaps thinking about things of this kind when he said: ‘That ye, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all saints what is the breadth, and length, and depth, and height; and to know the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge.’

Excerpt From: Weil, Simone. “Waiting on God"

[cienie-isengardu]

Whenever the Lin Kuei go out on a mission, they probably use fake names that they draw out of a hat to avoid suspicion.

Bi-Han crossing fingers: Please don't be a awful name, please for the love of the gods-And it's Blake. Bland but it would be worse.

Cyrax: I got Conner. Not bad.

Kuai: I got Kandance...I don't know how to feel about this.

Sektor: For some reason, I got Simon. It just doesn't fit me.

Smoke cringing: I got Willow. It sucks. Can I pick another one?

Sektor: We don't have time for it.

Smoke groans.

Ha! But what if those dorks actually make up the weirdest name or pick the most difficult to say to mess up with people? I bet Tomas could pick Polish name like Grzegorz Brzęczyszczykiewicz just to be the pain in the ass while Kuai Liang and Bi-Han go with all the most unique variants of Ice or Cold in any possible language - or in case of Bi-Han, calling himself Shang Tsung just to irks one sorcerer if he is in mood to annoy him XD. Cyrax joins for the lulz, while Sektor is the only one trying to be not suspicious at all (and somehow always drawing the most attention because his life can’t be easy for once, not with those crazy bastards around 🤣)

But then again, Bi-Han may not bother at all; with the Mythologies: Sub-Zero's storyline, it seems he is destined for quick type of missions, as in get in, kill and/or steal and get out so I guess, one way or another, not many people will be left alive to tell his real name…

[pagodazz]

habit hcs when?

HABIT hcs RN!!!!!! :D

Like Vinnie I think HABIT is an avid music enjoyer, But unlike Vinnie, HABIT prefers to play his music out loud and he likes to play it LOUD.

I personally think he invested in (or stole) really good speakers so he would be able to really feel the music. Even if it shakes the house.

He definitely plays heavier music when he's drowning out the sounds of the screams of the people he's torturing, but I think when HABIT comes home after a long day of that or, just a long day of doing WHATEVER he does, he plays softer music.

yk like Frank Sinatra, The ink spots, Nina Simone, nat king cole AND STUFF LIKE THAT!!!!!!

it's something calming y'know.

EVEN AN ENTITY LIKE HABIT!!!! LIKES TO UNWIND GUYS!!!

he needs something to kick back to. Something to have in the background as he sharpens his knives, or cleans the blood off his boots.

(Songs he canonically likes + silly ones bc yeah. & ones I think he'd like/remind me of him)

------------

I think that HABIT really enjoys cooking. And I personally believe he's really good at it. like freakishly good at it.

Now, In canon we already know he's capable of cooking (Ex: Making burgers w Vinnie, Baking Vinnie cookies) But I think hes just Weirdly good at cooking.

Like I think he's probably made the best food Vinnies ever had, And I wouldn't even say HABIT would trick him with human meat or anything.

He wants Vinnie to stay on his side, he needs Vinnie to wanna stay so he's not gonna fuck w him like. (He probably kinda wants to tho.)

view it as almost like a Hannibal thing??? but WAYYYYY less fancy. HABIT is just NOT that kind of guy and I doubt him and Vinnie would even like to eat fancy meals.

He's just really talented at alot of things I think. But I like the idea of this HORRIFICALLY TERRIBLE VIOLENT ENTITY enjoying a nice homemade meal he made for him and his roommate that he's holding hostage.

---------------

I think one thing alot of people don't seem to remember about HABIT is that he likes to draw things out, he doesn't like to RUSH things.

He wants to draw out his victims suffering for as LONG as he can, that's the reason he even made a deal with slenderman at all. he wanted to keep his victims alive longer so they could feel and see everything that was happening to them.

I think HABIT is a very precise man, personally. I know a lot of people see him as almost sloppy, but I could NEVER. He may get BLOODY or MESSY but that doesn't mean he got SLOPPY. He knows exactly where to stab to paralyze a person but not kill them, and I KNOW he can list of the names of your bones as he breaks them.

I believe HABIT is a big perfectionist, and I know that has to be practically canon because how could it NOT be??? he needs absolutely EVERYTHING to go his way the WAY he wants it to. He feels a sense of pride knowing that NO ONE would be able to identify his victims once he's through with them. He gets a small feeling of pleasure at the power he feels when he sees the life disappear y'know?? why wouldn't he want that all to turn out PERFECTLY.

-------------

I think that HABIT has genuine interest in keeping Vinnie around personally, and wether it's just for his own selfish gain, the fact Vinnie is the collectives favorite part of the machine, or maybe Evans love for his friends just bled into HABIT after inhabiting him for so long.

But I think he (wether he even wants to admit or not) WANTS the company.

After Vinnie summons him, HABIT talks about needing friend's about about he doesn't have many companions other than slenderman and the rake. HABIT wanted someone he could have a functioning conversation with, (WHICH. IS THE SAME REASON VINNIE SUMMONED HIM. HABIT CAN TALK!!! SND GIVE ANSWERS!!) he also wanted someone to stay around and document him as well.

one of the parts that I think kinda shows that HABIT views Vinnie as a partner/companion/friend/a being HABIT can tolerate being around is from the video "Breaking the lease."

The fact HABIT seems genuinely very excited to show Vinnie that he not only 1. Got himself a camera (like Vinnie), but he was 2. able to turn it on by himself. (which previously is something he struggled to do. See in the video "Lexi".) is SO fascinating to me because RIGHT AFTER when Vinnie doesn't give him a positive reaction, making me assume that Vinnie typically praises HABIT for things like that, HABIT INSTANTLY is asking Vinnie what's up, and then he's trying to immediately trying to distract, or make Vinny feel better from whatever was upsetting him by offering to make burgers or play some video games.

Which, then Vinnie declines, and HABIT follows him and continues to try to make things better but he fails bc he's well, HABIT. And then he's very upset to find out Vinnie wants to leave and he seems literally almost hurt and betrayed LMAAOOO.

which he literally loses his shit every time Vinnie asks to leave and just had a break down both times ESPECIALLY in "sleeping dogs lie".

so there's at least smthn there that makes their relationship a little more different than anyone else HABIT interacts with. It's not healthy obviously but, you can clearly see he hasn't fucking eaten him.

--------------

I also like to think HABIT has a collection of human bones from his countless victims.

And in my head. HABIT only ever eats flesh and meat right off the body FRESH.

--------------

anyways YAYYYY so much shit that PROBABLY NO ONE WILL AGREE WITH BUT!!!; THERE WE GO!!

[andromeddog]

helllooooooooo love!! this is your secret santa, whispering on the wind to you... 🌬❄️

i am incredibly honored to be making something for you for this event - your art is absolutely breathtaking! you are such an icon in this fandom!! thank you for sharing you beautiful work with us, and hopefully this will be something to show in return how much you are loved and admired!!

a few questions to help me as i start thinking about what to make:

carwood lipton!! the man himself!! is there a scene or two of his that are your favorite, or you feel really encapsulates him? is there a look of his that's your favorite (in the ardennes, church scene, sweater at the movie, lieutenant dress outfit, arms out, etc)? are there any songs/lyrics that really speak to you for him OR for speirton??

i cannot wait to get started!!! and again, thank YOU for being such a beautiful part of this fandom!!

-😘🌬❄️

OUWAH AH AHHH AH 😭 hi anon!!!!! god thank u for the kind words… it is quite literally my pleasure to be making work in this fandom, there is def something to be said about fans of series that are 20+ years old hahah (they’re the best and i love them) everyone is so sweet and so lovely in the tags…

let’s get to the man the myth the legend carwood lipton. to prevent blasting everyone’s dash i’ve put my answers under a cut! but u should check out the visuals lol

okay let’s see hmmm i want to say the entirety of episode 7 lol. BUT i feel like lips best scenes aka the scenes that feel like they are when he is The Most Lipton… like i mean it’s gotta be the bombardment scenes for me… you get such a good range of who he is there! he’s first running through the forest while everything is exploding (both to find somewhere to hide but also yelling at the boys to find cover, to get to safety - bc he is a good leader and cares about them) then he’s in this half dug foxhole laughing his ass off with death staring him in the face (his monologue in this bit is so good, HES INSANE THERE IS SOMETHING DEEPLY WRONG WITH HIM <3) and as soon as that’s over he’s the first to get up and check on everyone, while telling the boys to stay put and stay safe (selfless team mom, again being the leader easy needs when dike isn’t)

really any of his scenes in the forest… i know that’s a lot but he’s just the best guy. like hes obviously suffering but he’s pulling through, he’s helping everyone dig holes and fortify cover and keeping their spirits up, he’s cracking jokes and letting them make fun of his nuts (lol) bc he knows it lightens the mood… and then the way he swipes luz’s cigarette after that dud almost

kills him is just… too good he’s like fuck this forest fuck this war and fuck me too give me that damn thing neow.

id be remiss not to mention The Church Scene also. humble king just went through every layer of hell and dragged easy company out with him and is still like ???? leader? who, me???? no sir couldn’t be. lipton i want to bite you. also also being like idgaf about any war crimes this weirdo may or may not have committed as long as you look after my boys you are good in my book. one of the only guys who is normal around speirs (tho again there is something deeply wrong w lipton so maybe that has something to do w it lol)

for lip songs���

bridge over troubled water by simon and garfunkel

learning to fly by pink floyd

for speirton……….. (oof i have A Few but here is a selection)

orange colored sky by nat king cole

too sweet by hozier

put your head on my shoulder by paul anka

bury a friend by billie eilish (LOLLL)

i wish i had something more articulate shit to say on lip and/or speirton but i am unfortunately kind of dumb and bad with character analysis 😭 ive tried my hand at writing fic for them but to mixed success lol… like i draw pictures and even that i struggle with HAHA basically lip is babygirl my special little guy. if ur wondering why i haven’t drawn him more it’s bc donnie wahlberg’s face tortures me. if ur wondering why i haven’t drawn much speirton it’s bc if i think about them too hard i start having heart palpitations. oh my god. i’ve scoured every fic (and i mean every fic. multiple times) and their tags for every scrap of content for them bc OUGH!

also see my comprehensive lip look book:

[milli-string]

Lore and design are still in concept, but here is the imp in its human form ✨️ I guess she may be my semi-Stalker OC.

The outfit is supposed to be mixed with the idea of Blue-blood tail coat, the Workshop Master's Workwear, and Someone's Memory. I might adjust her outfit in the future.

I have yet to finish my original Imps lore overall, but to make it short, they're basically world observers.

Ending spoilers ahead!

Another Lies of P OC, heh (with a small mascot insert).

She (or "it") is mostly used for funsies in my mini comics and drawings. She has her own separate fanfic AU from Uon.

Omp is the name! The people at the hotel didn't know what to name this strange little creature, and neither did P. So, they thought to name it "Omp." One of the hotel members believed she resembled an imp, so they tried calling her imp. However, someone misheard "imp" and thought they heard "omp." So now, it's Omp.

Omp found P at Krat Central Station when he was sleeping in one of the train carts (which happened to appear to be a secret workshop by Geppetto). She found him by following a little blue butterfly since she could also hear Sophia's voice (my imps can hear any divinity voices in each world they visit). When P woke up, Omp decided to follow him. P was confused about what she was, neither human nor puppet. In the end, they ended up traveling together, and the puppet grew curious of her. The two slowly bonded, and Omp grew attached to the puppet. Eventually, they began traveling together throughout the game.

After killing the archbishop at St. Frangelico cathedral, Omp desired to be closer to the humans in this world, especially with P. Her desire was so strong that with ergo, she was able to manipulate her body to look human. (When an imp grows attached to their companion, they would mimic their forms. In this case, Omp tried to be a "puppet" and "human." She did not know a puppet was an automaton until later on, and then decided to be "human" instead.)

She was able to adapt to the environment and learn the history of Stalkers and their factions. After the earthquake and the King of Puppet's performance, she hid her identity as an imp from Simon Manus and Geppetto and pretended to be a Stalker. She does not have a confirmed faction, and she took the animal "lamb" as her mask. However, her horns stood out, so Stalker enemies along the way would think she was a goat. So, they spread her name as "The False Lamb." Her mask would bleed black tears whenever her powers became overwhelming from ergo along with her imp-like abilities merging as one. (The symbol of "lamb" represents Omp's willing to sacrifice herself for P.)

Omp's connection with P would be a "knight and prince" relationship. Oddly enough, she had a connection with P's old past self, "Carlo," but she wasn't sure why. All she knew was that she had to protect him. Though, sometimes, she would get carried away, and Gemini would find it very odd due to her overwhelming, guardian-like behavior. Then again, the two knew she wasn't quite human and was still adapting to the world. P liked her the way she was, and sometimes found her chatter and odd behavior humorous and entertaining.

Omp would attempt to be flirtatious, being charismatic, but awfully failed at them (mostly because she was doing this in front of a puppet, in which P had no clue how "flirting" worked). Gemini found this hilarious, and Omp would constantly be in embarrassment.

A very weird additional info, but my Imps have a strong and natural aroma of "honey and blueberries." (This is due to their natural diet by eating fruits constantly, and eventually their bodies mimicked the fruity scent.) Members had no idea why, but whenever she walked by, they always described Omp smelling very nice. Eugenie believed Omp must've bathed regularly, even though Omp did not. P did not understand scent, but as he became more human, he found her scent oddly "stress-reliving."

Real Boy Ending:

With the fall of P, Omp was devastated and heartbroken. She refused to let Geppetto win, and so she became the strings for P, known as the "Abyssal Strings." She used her small body to sit inside his chest cavity, where his P-Organ once was. Players would play as "Carlo" (NP) and fight the controlled Pinocchio.

Once the player successfully stopped P, Geppetto attempts to capture Omp for experiments. With Carlo's manipulation, Omp would be successfully captured and used to "save Krat."

Rise of P Ending:

Omp wanted to go home but realized she enjoyed her time in Krat. She had yet to explore more about P's growth as a human in a puppets body and the rest of the "fairytales." For now, she vowed to assist P and stop the Petrification Disease. She eventually became "The False Lamb" stalker and built a small guild of surviving stalkers to restore Krat. No one knew she was an imp, but they saw her as an odd person who could do amazing gymnastics across Krat.

Stringless Puppet Ending:

Omp realized P still had much to learn, and so she protected him along the way back to the hotel. Like the Rise of P ending, She still vowed to help P and stop the Petrification Disease. She still took "The False Lamb" name but did not build a guild of stalkers.

[reds-skull]

BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

I was like, 'damn, it's been a while since I updated this fic...' [it's been 6 days, but it's a while for me] so I started writing yesterday.

Woke up today and went 'damn this is trash lmao'. Rewrote everything. Much happier with this chapter, I've been waiting to write the final scene for the entire fic >:)

This chapter is called "Accursed Among Weapons". Hope you like it!

Page 23 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 10:

May I know your face, the Blind Man asks, The Beast regards eyes unseeing, I thought you blind, Indeed they are, though my hands have yet to fail, The Beast nears, eyes shine beguiled, Hands pass over mounds and hills, shell damaged, Yet the man determines, you are no Beast, Your hands find mine fitting, your nose twisted like mine, Your eyes close, when brushed upon like mine, The Beast retreats, hands leave paths, Then perhaps, O fallen knight, You are like me, Perhaps, you too are a beast.

The communicator knew.

(You’ve always been a disappointment, son. Just like your mother-)

The Hunter must know as well.

(You need anything, you let me know, Simon. We don’t go through things alone. We are a team-)

(Don’t you want it to stop, Riley? You can end this. Just break. Let go-)

And…

(Ah wanted to be like him, back then-)

Now…

(now Ah want to be better)

Johnny knows.

He can see it in the tense line of his spine, in the way he stepped back from the gleeful man. As if the distance will make his words ring any less true.

The communicator’s face contorts, smile stretching and stretching, and suddenly he’s not the Hunter’s soldier anymore. He’s his father, cruel and heartless, he’s Roba, sickeningly sweet as he rips away at flesh methodically.

He’s Simon, rotting in a grave, maggots and dirt burrowing into his eyes, teeth exposed by decaying cheeks. A permanent grin.

The knife slides down his sleeve faster than Ghost can think, the beating of his heart silencing all other sounds. He doesn’t shake as he draws his arm back, and throws. The blade whistles through the air, a shrill cry, and a thunk as it lands in the communicator’s eye. 

Simon’s vile smile lasts for a moment longer, before the dead man slumps and the vision fades.

Yet it’s not over, the memories keep flooding Ghost’s mind, an incessant swarm muddling his senses. He can’t kill him, the dead man in his mind, the corpse he dragged out of the grave.

Soap turns around, slowly, eyes dragging from Ghost’s still raised hand to his mask.

He’s only snapped out of thoughts when Johnny’s voice mutters, “what… the fuck… did you do?”

Ghost looks at the Sergeant, frozen in shock. He looks at the corpse he created, and he realizes.

He just killed the communicator. The Hunter’s right hand.

His way to revenge.

Soap stomps to him, pulling Ghost up by his tacvest only to slam him to the wall, “WHAT THE FUCK DID YE JUST DO?!”

“I didn’t- He wasn’t-” Ghost fumbles through the words, mind still reeling.

Soap winds his fist back to hit him, a snarl hidden under the black face mask, right as the door to the room is slammed open. Everyone halts for a charged moment.

The soldier snaps out first, shouting and raising his rifle to shoot. Soap is faster, though, and he takes Ghost’s pistol out of his holster, and takes the hostile down with a perfect headshot. It wasn’t fast enough. Every other soldier is alerted now.

Soap takes the soldier’s rifle and throws it at Ghost’s direction, taking his from the table. He glances at him, and Ghost’s heart shrivels at the pure hatred in his eyes.

(All you know to do is hurt, Simon. You should’ve stayed dead)

“Ah’m not done with ye, jus’ so ye know. Get up.”

Ghost uses the wall to lift himself on shaky legs, “Soap-”

The Sergeant leaves the room, not sparing another second to talk. It leaves a bitter weight sinking in his guts.

(How much more can he hurt Johnny?)

Ghost takes the rifle, inhaling deeply. He fucked Soap over enough as it is, he can’t leave him to fight alone. He leaves the room, and the slumped corpse, behind.

Outside, Soap is taking cover behind a stack of crates, bullets splintering the wooden boxes. A group of soldiers is trying to push up the staircase, currently stuck due to Soap’s bullets. It won’t stay like that long, the cover quickly becoming ineffective and the sheer amount of hostiles overwhelming.

He sidled by Soap, “you got any more gas bottles?”

“If I had any, I would’ve thrown them already, ye feckin’ overgrown bastard.”

A bullet hits the wall right next to Soap’s head, far too close for comfort, and the Sergeant leans out to shoot back. Ghost pulls him back to cover, ignoring his answering curses, “let me go, Ghost!”

(He can’t watch Johnny die today)

“You’re going to get yourself killed.” He grunts, challenging Soap with a glare. The Sergeant clenches his jaw, “ye got a better idea?!”

His gaze drifts to the labels on the boxes behind them. Soap follows it, and Ghost can tell something on the manifest catches his attention, “think you can craft another trap for ‘em?”

Ghost watches Soap’s bright blue eyes skim through the items listed, a small grin growing on his face.

(He wishes he could keep it there)

“Aye…” Soap pulls out a knife, cutting the tape off one of the smaller boxes, and taking off his backpack. Ghost shoots a few soldiers that dared to come closer, paying half attention to the Sergeant’s work. The box was apparently full of batteries.

Soap is silent as he works, unlike the other times…

(Simon hates it)

“What’s the batteries for?” he chances a question.

Soap’s grin widens, “not just any kind, lithium batteries. Nastiest fire starter a ten-year-old has access to in a typical kitchen. Ye stab it just a wee bit, it ignites beautifully. I swear mah pa was about teh kill me when I-” he cuts himself off, seemingly remembering who he’s talking to, smile dropping. “Just need something to ignite this.” he points to a bottle he grabbed from his pack, and when Ghost takes a closer look between fights he finds it’s… Bourbon.

“You like Kentucky, Johnny?”

The Sergeant scoffs, “the only thing this shite is good fer is molotovs. Ye couldn’t pay me to drink it.”

Ghost empties his clip on a particularly brave soldier. He searches for a new one before realizing he ran out. Soap wordlessly throws him a new one.

“What would be your drink of choice then, Sergeant?”

Soap portions the Bourbon among a few empty beer bottles, “don’t see why ye should fuckin’ care.” he grunts harshly.

Right. Conversation over. 

When he finishes his little “gift”, Soap shoves a bottle towards Ghost, explaining, “I punctured the coating, so any small disturbance should light that lithium right up. The alcohol is jus’ gonna make it a little more…fun.”

“Copy.” Ghost’s fingers tingle when they brush Soap’s as he passes him a bottle. The battery inside is clanking dangerously.

(If only he didn’t always wear gloves…)

Soap doesn’t waste any time, and without coordinating with Ghost, throws his bottle to the middle of the hostile group. Ghost waits for a few seconds of nothing before asking, “how long does it take to work, Sergeant?”

Turning to look at him, Ghost sees the gears turning in Johnny’s head, eyes wide before he frowns. The Sergeant grabs the now empty bottle of Bourbon and mutters to himself. Whatever he found made him furious, and he threw the bottle to the side, “it was fuckin’ bottle proof!”

“What’s that got to do with-” “means there’s not enough alcohol in that garbage to fucking ignite!” Soap cuts him off, lifting his gun to shoot down some drenched, but clearly not-on-fire, soldiers, “I can’t read this goddamn language, how should Ah know that shite is only 40%!”.

The group seemed to recognize their panic, as they start pushing forward with rising aggression. Ghost looks around, trying to find a way out, any way out-

(If it comes down to one or the other, he rather Johnny got out)

Ghost hauls a dead soldier up, springing ahead and using the corpse as a shield. “What the fuck- Ghost!” Soap shouts behind him. He ignores it.

(Not like he’ll mourn, should Simon die)

He reaches the first step, and shoves the corpse down the stairs, knocking several soldiers off their feet in a domino effect, swiftly taking them out. He glances down, finding more soldiers rushing up, as well as a few attempting to shoot from the ground.

Ghost snarls, feeling the blood rush in his ears, brandishing bullets like fangs and blades as claws.

He runs forward. When his mags ran out, he used his knives. 

And when the knives were buried far too deep to pull back out, he used his hands.

Ghost is a weapon, to be picked up and discarded as needed.

And he is needed - to get Johnny out alive.

Red encircles his vision. The world reduces to the fight, to the crunch of bone under his palms, and the slick of blood beneath his boot. Ghost was born of hate and violence, yet it was always in the hands of someone else.

Always on a leash. Always controlled by foreign hands.

No more. He decides what to ravage, he decides who to tear apart.

(Simon has been buried for long enough)

Pain bursts through Ghost, the source undetermined. Could it be the poison, eating its way to his heart? Perhaps it was a frightful soldier, fruitlessly trying to survive the unsurvivable?

Or was it something deep inside him, a little boy crying while his father swings once more, no one to hear his pleas?

(Was it Simon, tearfully begging?)

(What could he be begging for?)

(What could Simon want…?)

The red fades, his surroundings returning into focus. The makeshift base is unnervingly quiet.

Ghost’s legs shake, a warning the poison is about to wreck through his system soon. Soap runs up to him, his blue eyes wide.

(Are you afraid, Johnny?)

(Please don’t be)

“Yer… what the fuck is wrong with ye?!” he asks, not with as much hate as pure surprise.

Ghost winces as his muscles start to lock up. He spots their truck, relatively undamaged in the scuffle, and starts towards him. Johnny sputters behind him, quickly shaking from his stupor to take the driver’s sit.

They sit in silence for a moment, Soap openly staring at his bloody form.

“Drive.” Ghost orders, voice softer than he intended.

Johnny follows with no complaint. Simon lets his head lean on the window, and prepares for the poison to take its course with him.

He wonders whether it’s lethal. If eventually, it will stop his cold, dead heart. He could’ve asked the communicator…

(Yet another thing Simon has fucked over)

“Why did ye kill him?” Johnny asks for the hundredth time.

Ghost answers with silence. What could he say? That he has lost his mind?

(Answering would only reveal the once dead man)

It’s starting to get on Soap’s nerves, he can tell. By the whitening knuckles, by the speeding tapping of a foot.

“Ye don’t get to sit and ignore me now, ye bawbag…”

He knows. He doesn’t deserve to sit here at all.

(No better than the Hunter, no better than Roba)

(No better than his father)

Simon was destined to be violent. A weapon, sharpened by his father. Just like his father before him. A bloodline of monsters.

He thought, if he could give away his leash, if he could get someone else to wield him-

(Ghost may be a weapon)

(Simon likes to pretend he’s the same)

Soap growls in frustration. The truck speeds up for a moment, likely an attempt from Johnny to calm down. Ghost curiously watches the emotions contort his features, glad that Soap chose to take off the mask once he started driving.

(He looks so… alive)

The Sergeant notices him from the corner of his eyes, and sharply turns his head to stare at him.

What do you see, Ghost wants to ask.

(The hero that was?)

(Or the monster that is?)

Whatever answer Johnny finds makes him wrench the breaks, the vehicle creaking loudly. Soap forcibly opens the door, slamming it shut so hard the whole truck shakes. Not a moment later, he opens the door to Ghost’s side, snarling, “out.”

He obeys.

(He’d give Johnny his leash, if he only wanted)

Ghost’s legs still shake when he walks out, but he holds himself up. Johnny is seething in front of him. He pushes at Ghost’s shoulders, “fuckin’ talk to me! Or punch me, or do something!”

Ghost just tilts his head. If the Sergeant is looking for a place to let frustrations out, so be it.

(Metal must be hit thousands of times to be made into a weapon. Simon is well acquainted with the process)

“Are ye just gonna stand there?! Say something!”

Ghost hums, “do whatever you’d like, Johnny. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Soap falters, “wha-”

“I killed him. No matter what any of us do, we won’t be able to kill the Hunter. We lost.”

He watches the anger rise within Soap, “shut up!”

(Fury looks good on him, Simon muses. Even if it is directed at him)

“Do you want to fight me, Johnny?”

The Sergeant snarls, “shut up!”

“Hit me.”

“Why do ye want-?!”

“Just do it.” Ghost takes a shaky step towards him, “punch me, kick me. Let it out. It’s my fault after all.”

“Stop-!”

“It’s my fault this city went to hell. My fault all these civilians are dead.” he stands almost chest to chest with Johnny, “it’s all my fault.”

“JUST SHUT UP!” Soap shoves him, and Ghost’s legs finally give out. He crushes to the ground with a huff. Soap is on him in seconds, taking hold of his clothes and shaking him, “WHAT DO YE WANT FROM ME?!”

It strikes Ghost, that they have not lost. There is still one way, for one of them to win.

(It should scare Simon, but he lost the fear of death a long time ago. Forgot it behind, somewhere in a shallow grave, the innate dread of the reaper)

He should be angry, that once again he’s giving away control over his fate. But for Johnny, a man that despite being betrayed over and over, that still found enough mercy not to desert him. To the man that felt the need to save others, even if it goes against all reason.

To the true hero in this city’s unfortunate tale, to a kind heart and kinder eyes?

Simon is willing to give everything.

Ghost slides a knife out, flipping it and offering the hilt to Soap. The Sergeant hesitates for a moment, eyes flickering between the weapon and his.

“You want to stop this, Johnny?” Ghost thrusts the knife into his hands, “Tell the Hunter I’m dead. That’s all they wanted, right?”

Johnny’s movements are unsure, his breath coming out in puffs.

Sitting above him, the setting sun painting his features in gold, a radiant helo peaking through his hair…

(He looks beautiful)

“All you need to do is kill me, Soap.” Ghost guides Johnny’s armed hand to his throat, lifting the dark fabric of his mask to reveal scarred skin.

“I- I don’t-” Johnny almost whispers, and Ghost wishes he could take away all doubts in his mind. Wishes he could show Johnny what he really is.

(You’re not looking at a person, love)

(I’m just a weapon)

“Kill me.” he repeats, the feeling of the cool blade soothing, for once in his life. Simon looks over Johnny one last time, swallowing all the words he yearns to speak.

(All the regrets he can’t even whisper)

Simon smiles, something small and private, when he watches Johnny raise his arm slowly, aiming to strike him down. It will be a quick death.

(Far more than he truly deserves)

And he closes his eyes, finding himself content. That for once, he chose right. He may die, but Johnny will get out of here, a hero. The man that saved an entire city. The man that took down half an army.

The man that killed the Ghost.

The knife swings down.

(Simon prays for a last time)

(That this apology was enough)

[arkiwii]

I'm so so not normal about Kafka Been trying to draw but I'm too tired to so instead I'll write a whole block of text about why I think this character is amazing and deserves way, way, WAY more love from the community

Starting with the looks. She's a little itty bitty sized gremlin jackdaw girl in an oversized gardening coat and a hypnotic rubisk's cube. How to not love her.

But of course where she shines the most is in her character. She's a Columbian orphan who became Infected and had to survive on her own, dealing with gangs and being part of one herself, fighting everyday to see the light of tomorrow. This way of life had her build a "mask", a new personality adapted to this environment; one that made her like she was unbothered by anything, as if she simply did not care, that she was unphased to kill someone or face these things. Of course, in result, many people became scared of her, but she couldn't care; this way, nobody would bother her. That's how she kept herself safe.

That's when she joined Rhodes Island that she gradually let this mask of her fall and show her true personality; someone who cares deeply. She loves to take care of plants, she likes to give gifts or play with children, she worries about the ones she's close to, she also has been seen befriending some Operators like Perfumer...

And this is (holds my owl like that Lion King scene) all thank to HER. Silence my absolute beloved. If she had doubts about if her efforts are in vain, Kafka is the proof that THEY'RE NOT.

Yes, Silence can feel bad that she pulled Kafka into this whole mess of a prison break, being involved with situations that were unrelated to her, but, does she even realize what she did? Maybe her goal was just "discover what the hell Rhine Lab is about with Simon Co", but the results are, she has brought Anthony, Kafka, Robin and Donna somewhere safe. Somewhere they can be appreciated and loved, and won't have to worry anymore about surviving.

Kafka wasn't that unsatisfied with her previous life, it was just all normal to her, but when she met Silence, she discovered genuine kindness. And Silence may be naive, she has a heart of gold. Kafka knows that and if she accepted to help her break Anthony, it's because she wished to return the favor to Silence.

Now our little gremlin bird is sure being an absolute chaos, but she's living a far better life. And she just worries for the one who changed this for her.

PLEASE HYPERGRYPH I NEED MORE OF KAFKA. IDK make a Mansfeld Break 2 or whatever, have Jesselton come back, but please I want to see Kafka again. I want to see my stupid bird interact with my tired owl and supporting her. They mean the world to me

[reveriesofawriter]

book rambling don't mind me

the book kept saying anharion was his title... so was that also his name? did his name become a title when the Betrayal happened? does "anharion" translate to Betrayer or is that just what he's known as? was it a mistranslation from the old language? edit: I just reread the part where sarcean said he used to be called something else and now I feel like that's going to give away the whole ~is he the sun prince~ thing

I've seen some theories about the Collar and to what extent it actually controls james and like. as much as it would be less big and exciting to see it this way... what if the Collar is mostly symbolic? bc sarcean can talk people into doing what he wants anyway and james was obviously not immune to the charm (it's magnified for him even) well before will knew anything about himself or his powers so what if the collar was just a way to show other people that anharion belonged to him? but GOD if this moral stronghold of not wanting to manipulate james into kissing him and wanting him to do it of his own free will stops these boys from having a lil smooch for the majority of the third book I will Die

I've also seen people try to draw lines between will/sarcean and james/anharion as far as their past/present personalities and the consensus seems to be that will has a more clear line between himself and sarcean but I saw someone say it was more like intrusive thoughts and I think that's fascinating, also that will is seeing james and not anharion the betrayer when he looks at james but james in every sense is this cocky little asshole (affectionate) who flirts and uses his powers to take advantage of people while anharion in the past wasn't like that sooooo I think will isn't Seeing james as who he is I think he's seeing anharion for who he used to be before he turned against sarcean. which is so interesting when you think about will saying people shouldn't be judged by what they've done but what they can do

the tangled web of who hates who is so messy but I trust violet to, if not outright take will's side, then to convince the others to let him go like banish him or whatever instead of killing him right away (even if james's powers would physically protect him from that I just need violet to believe in him)

I'm still thinking about little 6 year old will setting a rich fucker's clothes on fire bc he laid his hands on a woman who was nice to him, how violet saved his life and he's spent every day after that trying to return the favor including using a newfound power he doesn't know how to control yet to set her free from a cage in another country

can't wait to see how the narratives shift when we get other perspectives on what the past was really like bc from what I can tell sarcean and the lady weren't really In Love they just had a fling one time

on that note I thought will was switched out for the girls somehow when they were kids but elizabeth was told her mother had a son before her and she believes that son is will, which would mean will is both blood of the lady and the dark king, which brings to question who his dad is bc they said it wasn't simon but I don't think his birth was a virgin mary situation, also I know sarcean got around but are will and simon's family related any closer than one ancestor thousands of years ago? is sinclair will's father?

I don't think tom and violet will fight to the death, tom may die in another way tho

what's the fourth kingdom and how does that pay into this? bc the first gate was in england the second was underwater somewhere and the third is in italy so the fourth...? on that note there must be more stewards alive who weren't in the hall when it was torn through, people who either left that life behind, or like cyprian at the beginning who didn't drink from the cup but still follow the lifestyle, or maybe like small covens of stewards who never went to the hall bc they found their own communities elsewhere idk it's just very eurocentric to think everyone from everywhere would meet up in this one place when the whole rest of the world exists

will needs some alone time after all this someone give him a safe place to rest and a hot drink

phillip and visander... and the unicorn....... love triangle of the ages... (I wonder if visander will find his way back into a man's body somehow or if he's stuck looking like katherine forever lol) (realistically. I don't think this man fucked his horse. but. metaphorically? metaphysically? whatever they had was probably as erotically charged as that magic scene right?)