#like. for all the terrible problems with the forgotten realms- it's become FAR more aware of the fact that it's ridiculous for...

[forcedhesitation]

that one bozo who made the gender swapped dame aylin mod: it's unrealistic for minorities to exist in this game because it's supposed to take place in medieval europe!!!!

aasimar, vampires, devils, and dragons aside....

bg3:

[varricmancer]

Intertwined | 3

*** Cross-posted on AO3 ***

Pairing: Farkas x F!OC

Summary: A child of Mara was a soul blessed and bound to it’s mate for all eternity. Elizabeth Williams is summoned to Mara as a lost soul, only she’s from modern America and her mate is somewhere in the wilds of Skyrim.

A/N: This is super short, I know, but I wanted to put out something for you guys. Things have been hectic in my life and I've been working 13+ hours six days a week for a while now so I'm pretty much in a constant state of exhaustion. I hope you're all staying healthy and safe. I'll try to have the next part out very soon!P.S. I know that in ESO they've said 'Hell' quite often, but that's always bothered me. Why would they call it hell? That is a Christian-based earth word, or whatever, and it just seemed strange to include it. So I'm fighting against the ESO writers lmao.

***

“Ralof, I think your friend here is finally awake!”

Elizabeth groaned as she came to and registered that she hurt everywhere. The worst of the pain seemed to be on her leg since she’d flexed it a little to try to move and the pain was sharp and agonizing.

“Easy there,” a woman’s voice eased her to awareness as she opened her eyes, meeting the blue ones of a blonde Nord woman leaning over her.

“Please don’t be frightened. My brother Ralof and your elf companion brought you here after you were attacked by the dragon. You’ll heal, but your leg suffered a little in the fall and your skin was badly burned. You will be well enough to walk in a couple of days, and then I suggest heading to a shrine to see if it will help.”

Elizabeth grimaced as she tried to respond and found her throat dry and sore.

“Ah, you must be thirsty. You’ve been asleep for almost two days.”

She accepted a wooden cup of water and tried to drink as gracefully as she could, despite her shaking hands and parched throat. When she finally had her fill, she handed the cup back to the woman sitting on the edge of the wooden bed.

Looking around, she tried to take stock of her situation. She was laid up in a rustic wooden bed, covered in what looked like a bunch of animal skins. The house was very warm and just as rustic as the bed - all wood and furs, with a huge fireplace taking up most of the space. It looked pretty much how she’d always imagined a witch's cottage would be like, with all the herbs and flowers hanging from the ceiling and potions lining the shelves.

She peeked at the woman in the bed with her, trying to get a good look without seeming rude. She was pretty enough, although years of living in the probably unforgiving northern climate had definitely left its mark, as well as a few scars that were probably smallpox if this place was indeed real. She imagined this must be Gerdur, meaning the dark elf had chosen to follow Ralof home to Riverwood.

The front door of the cabin opens and dirty Kurt - or Ralof, rather - stomps inside, smiling generously at her as he nears the bed and looks her over.

“Awake at last? You had us all worried for a moment there, girl. I’ve sent my nephew Frodnar to get Sundrose. He’s been helping the merchants with a task. He’ll be here soon.”

As though speaking his name had summoned him, Sundrose slammed the cabin door open and jogged to the bedside, seemingly unaware of the fact that he totally elbowed Ralof and Gerdur out of the way. He was panting as though he’d run the entire way and scanning her face frantically.

“Are you alright? Aware? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Elizabeth snorts at the Dark Elf. “None.”

He looks down at his hands as if he were amazed that they were still against his sides.

“Ah,” he cleared his throat. “Apologies. We weren’t sure you were going to make it for a moment. It’s been some time since anyone had experience with dragon wounds.”

“I’m a bit sore and my leg is throbbing like hell, but I think I’ll be okay.”

He looked momentarily confused, as though he was trying to figure out her meaning before he finally shrugged and sighed.

“That’s good. Very good. I’ve finished some tasks around here and made enough coin to get us to Whiterun as soon as you think you are able to travel. It’s not that far - perhaps three days if we make good time? Gerdur’s husband Hod has very kindly offered to drive us up there in his wagon to make it easier on your injuries.”

“Us? You’re taking me with you?” Honestly, she hadn’t really let herself think too much in-depth about where the hell she actually was, but her first instinct had told her the elf would simply leave her here to be Ralof’s problem and run off to be the Dragonborn.

“Well, yes. I...erm...could we perhaps be in private for a moment? I promise your belongings are safe, I merely wish to speak with my friend if I could?”

Gerdur glances between the two of them and waits for Elizabeth’s nod of affirmation before herding her brother towards the door.

“We’ll be right outside. Holler if you need us,” Gerdur says with a nod, closing the door softly behind her.

Sundrose sighs and settles more comfortably in his chair before turning that intense crimson gaze on her.

“Before we were captured, do you remember where you were?”

Elizabeth chewed her lip as she contemplated how much to tell the man. Would he believe her more about her talk of the future or being in Mara’s garden? Should she play it safe and say she’d just arrived from High Rock?

His full lips turned up on the side, a little dimple showing as he slowly grinned.

“Were you in an ostentatiously decorated garden? Perhaps speaking with a creature claiming to be Mara?”

“Yes!” Elizabeth exclaims, leaning towards him in excitement. “Were you there too? Are you... him ?”

“By ‘Him’ I assume you mean your soulmate?” He asks slowly, shrugging as he turns to stare at the wall in thought. He strokes his shadowed chin, humming.

“I...don’t know, to be quite honest. Not a phrase I like using very often. I was there with you - I remember feeling you, seeing flashes of your face and the face of someone else. I remember thinking that your soul felt...familiar. Which is a very odd thought to have about a soul. I would say yes based on that information alone, but there was another…”

“Another face, you said?”

He nods thoughtfully. “Like yours but different. I don’t know. It was very fogged over like Mara didn’t want me to get a good look. Perhaps a you from another life?” He shrugs. “At the very least, I know that when we were returned to ground that I immediately felt protective of you as soon as I saw you lying there unconscious. Before I could really think too much about it, the Imperials appeared and threw us in the wagon.”

“So all the evidence points to us being something. Maybe soulmates, but also maybe not?” Elizabeth huffs and flaps back against the wall. “This is so confusing. And a lot less romantic than I’d thought it would be to meet the future love of my life.”

He laughs, a low and smooth chuckle that was...elegant? Can laughs be elegant?

“Terribly sorry. At least there’s a chance you won’t have to deal with me then. I’m not a very romantic fellow to begin with, I’m afraid. The dramatics tend to become tedious after the first hundred years or so.”

Elizabeth’s jaw drops. She’d forgotten about the way races aged differently here. “How old are you?”

Sundrose quirks an eyebrow. “Terribly rude to ask that, little one, but I’ll tell you. I’m 214. Fairly young still, among my people. And of course, my soulmate has to be a human that is a veritable infant,” Sundrose drawls, his slight mischievous smirk softening the teasing words.

“Hey, I just turned 30! In human years, I’m ancient!”

“Forgive me, crone,” he mocked, bowing slightly.

Elizabeth snorted, then adjusted her aching leg with a sigh.

“When did you want to leave?”

He shrugged. “Whenever you think you can handle it. We need to warn the Jarl about the dragon, so as soon as can be arranged is preferable. If it’s much longer we’ll have to send someone ahead of us.”

She shook her head and squared her shoulders. “Let's go today.”

“Today?” he asked incredulously, “You just barely have regained consciousness. I hardly think you should be going on a journey at the moment.”

“No,” she shook her head. “The sooner we get there, the better. You need to talk to the Jarl, and I would like to get to a healer or one of those altar things. This hurts like hell.”

“You say that a lot. Hell. What is that?”

“Oh, its...like oblivion, I guess? It’s where bad people go when they die...or something. It’s what a lot of people believe. Never really believed in that stuff myself, but it makes a hell of a curse word,” she grins.

He looks at her thoughtfully for a few moments before he finally asks, “You’re not even from here, are you? Where did she take you from?”

And there’s the magic question.

“Apparently my soul is from here, but it was stolen? I’m still not quite clear on that. I grew up in Arizona, a state in America. On, well, planet Earth. A place that is...way far in the future and, like, on a whole ‘nother...universe? Plane? Realm? I don’t know. Very different from here, I can tell you that much.”

“And she just picked you up and deposited you in a strange land with just the clothes on your back to correct her own mistakes,” he added, his eyes hardening. “I despise the daedra,” he scoffs angrily.

“At least I’m not going into this completely blind, just, ya know, poor and homeless,” she chuckles. “In my world, Skyrim is a...tale? Legend? Not sure how to describe it to you, but I know the basic story of this land and what's to come.”

“Do you?” Sundrose responds, leaning back and looking at her curiously.

“Mhmm. In fact, I know that when you went to help Lucan get his claw back, you came across a wall. A wall that taught you a word in another language that you were somehow able to understand. You also found a tablet with this same language written on it.”

“I haven’t told anyone about that yet. I was going to wait and talk to the court wizard when we got to Whiterun. Your stories told you about me?”

She bit her lip, unsure of how much to divulge. “Yes, a bit. You’re about to save Skyrim, Sundrose.”

He stared at her with growing horror on his handsome face.

“Gods’ grief!”

***

[thetimelesscycle]

Tales of Arcadia Wizards Fanfiction: Hope Dies Last - Chapter 7

Douxie ignores the rules of time travel. Archie is in over his head, but that's never stopped him from helping his familiar before, and it's not going to stop him now.

Chapter 7

There and Back Again (Again)

From the moment he had decided that the child offering him breadcrumbs in an alleyway was his, Archibald had known that he would be responsible for the life of his wizard. Douxie had been far too young to fend for himself, already half starved when Archie found him, unaware that the meagre magic he was using to keep himself warm was only further draining his body’s empty reserves. If chance hadn’t led him down that alleyway when it had... If Douxie hadn’t been enamoured enough with his feline form to come out of hiding... If they had missed each other that night... If Fate hadn’t conspired to put them both exactly where they needed to be when they needed to be there, then the bright young boy he had grown so deeply fond of over the years would have died; Alone and forgotten by a world that didn’t deserve him.

He hadn’t been ready for the responsibility. A green familiar and a child sorcerer were a disaster in the making, or so his father had told him. The great ‘Charlemagne the Devourer’ had then proceeded to bury him in a mountain of books ostensibly meant to teach him how to properly mind his wizard, because it was ‘too late to back out now, Archie my boy, you’re stuck with the thing’. Refusing to introduce his familiar to his father after the fact might have been a little petty, but he was a dragon; They were known for that sort of thing.

And he had managed just fine, thank you very much. Admittedly, there had been missteps — neither of them were the most proficient in their respective areas of expertise just yet, and Douxie had the worst timing when it came to magical accidents — but they had learned and grown through every narrowly averted disaster. He could still clearly remember nights spent together around a campfire lit by his dragon’s breath, pouring over the smudged and torn pages of some rescued spellbook or scroll, listening to Douxie uncertainly sound out the words as he patiently corrected his familiar’s pronunciation and filled in what blanks he could with knowledge gleaned from his father’s library.

It hadn’t been much, but they’d made do, and every peril faced had been worth it to see the beaming smile on his boy’s face as the cyan light danced about his fingers in another mastered spell.

And there had been perils. Many of them. His boy was gifted in a world where it was rapidly becoming dangerous to be so, hunted by those who wished to destroy his kind as well as those who wished to use them. Even the few other casters they met always seemed just a little too eager when they realised what the young wizard was capable of, particularly given his age, to the point where Archie had started steering them away from such individuals. There was conflict brewing between the mortal and the magical realms; He wasn’t going to let his familiar get mixed up in it if he could help it. Douxie would not be either side’s weapon, not so long as Archie had a say, and shadows take anyone who thought differently.

He hadn’t counted on Camelot, or Merlin, or on Douxie becoming the Master Wizard’s apprentice. It had been hard to decide whether they were safer here or out there, and he’d known it would be more difficult to leave the longer they stayed. Not because of Merlin’s instruction — whilst it was valuable, Douxie had learned just as many spells with Archie’s help as he had the Master Wizard’s, if a lot less smoothly — but because the young wizard had found something here that he was desperate to hold onto, heedless of the fact his proximity to Merlin placed him right in the very middle of the burgeoning war.

Archie, on the other hand, had been all too aware of the brand new dangers they were courting in the place of the old. There wasn’t anything Merlin could offer them that would convince him to stay if it came to a choice between the Master Wizard’s patronage and Douxie’s well-being; The problem lay in the fact he was no longer sure Douxie would leave with him if he asked. He’d told himself he could find a way to persuade his familiar if he had to. He’d convinced himself that they could still vanish if the need arose. It was only now that he realised how naïve that had been.

Listening to Douxie speak — soft and cracked and so very tired — he understood there had never been a choice. A destiny like Douxie’s would follow him wherever he went, and Archie was left feeling rather small and inadequate in its shadow.

How was he supposed to protect his familiar from this?

Nine centuries. Nine centuries he had not yet lived and already their weight pressed upon his feline shoulders. He sat utterly still and listened as Douxie abbreviated a life lived throughout the ages into a paltry few paragraphs, trying to offer comfort for tragedies he had not yet seen. He was sure there was a lot Hisirdoux was leaving out — how could there not be? — and the worst came at the very end.

Eyes fixed on a distant point well beyond any part of Merlin’s rooms, Douxie stumbled his way through a strange tale of twisted time and the swift collapse of all that they now called home. He didn’t take the time to sugarcoat things, and Archie watched Morgana’s knuckles turn white and Merlin’s brow dip deep in consternation as both Master Wizards heard the tale of Camelot’s decline, Morgana’s betrayal, and the pitched battle for Killahead Bridge.

If only it had ended there.

There was a tremor in the hand resting against his back as Douxie pressed on, and Archie braced himself for darker things to come. The loss of another friend, corrupted by foul magic. A desperate, mad, Douxie plan that had come so close to working, if only his own shapeshifting had held for a few minutes longer. A fight that could never be fair, and a loss his familiar struggled to put into words even now. 

It was Morgana who reached out when Douxie trailed off into silence. Merlin was sitting, rigid and unseeing, whilst his former student took the hand not currently resting on Archie’s back and gave it an encouraging squeeze. She followed it up with a crooked smile when Douxie raised his head, and that seemed to be enough to grant the young wizard the strength to continue.

“After that, Arch and I went after the Genesis Seals.” That snapped Merlin’s attention back to the present. Douxie didn’t seem to notice, reciting his life’s story like he was reading it from a dusty tome. “Everyone else was supposed to stay out of sight, safe, until we got back. But the Order found them. They took Nari and the others prisoner. To barter for the Seals.”

“Which, of course, you did not give them.”

Douxie winced. “Well, actually...”

“Hisirdoux!”

“It’s fine. It was fine, I mean. They wasted a bunch of time chasing their own tails whilst I got Nari and the others out, then I kept them busy whilst Morgana and Claire took care of Arthur and Jim.”

“Just like that, hmm?” Merlin had gone from aghast to incredulous in the space of a single breath. “And where did dying come into it, I wonder?”

“Yes. Right.” It was less of a wince and more of a complete sidestep this time. “Clearly I’m not dead, so I don’t think we need to bother with all of that. The important thing is I promised I would keep Nari safe from the Order. And I did. I kept Nari safe. The Order just went after everyone else.”

Archie had heard enough to realise what a terrible amount of sense that made. If their plan was to wipe the entire world clean and start over again, why would the Order hesitate to destroy a few mortal lives along the way? All they were doing was getting a head start on the apocalypse. After Douxie had already risked so much to save his friends, they must have known he wouldn’t stay in hiding whilst innocents paid the price.

“I wasn’t ready.” He could hear the self-reproach in those words, the guilt, and pressed himself harder against the hand nestled in his fur. “They used me against you. They used Claire and the others against me. I should have known they wouldn’t stop there. Why bother searching the planet for two people when you can just start picking off everyone they’ve ever known, one by one, and wait for them to arrive to stop you?”

Merlin pressed his lips together in a grim line. “The Order set a trap.”

“And I walked into it with my eyes open. I knew what was waiting for me in there. I wasn’t going to leave anyone else in their hands. We got a lot of people out before it all went horribly wrong.”

“Because those people didn’t matter to Skrael and Bellroc.” Merlin sounded odd, though Archie couldn’t quite place his paw on the why. “They were after you.”

“They were after Nari,” Douxie corrected. “I just happened to be in the way.”

Merlin dismissed that with a sharp flick of his hand. “They didn’t lay a trap for Nari, Hisirdoux; Easy enough to hunt her down after the fact. The Order was eliminating a threat.”

Douxie smiled, not looking the slightest bit amused. “Finally made an impression, and it was on the worst possible people. Figures.”

“I don’t understand.” Morgana might have gleaned her answers from all the madness they had seen during their journey into the Shadow Realm; Archie had not. “How did you end up here, like this?”

Douxie shuddered slightly, offering a stilted explanation. “When I went back for her, that first time, Nari told me the Order would rip my soul to pieces. She wasn’t... it wasn’t an exaggeration. They tried, and she got in the way.” One of his hands moved unconsciously to rest at his chest as he continued, an edge of fond frustration to his words. “She wasn’t supposed to be there. We agreed she would stay away. But she tried to pull me out, and so did Claire, and something… something went wrong. I don’t know. I wasn’t really in the best position to pay attention. Maybe it’s that whole Guardian of the Eternal Forest thing, or Bellroc’s spell messing with Nari’s, or Claire’s shadow magic, or a combination of all of those things. Either way, I’m here, apparently. Again.”

“But not in body,” Merlin pointed out, shifting his weight back slightly as he lifted a hand to rub his chin. “She sent your soul back in time.”

“If it’s any consolation, Master, I don’t think she was trying to.”

Merlin harrumphed loudly, but didn’t press his apprentice for further answers, turning his steely gaze onto Morgana instead. “And your thoughts?”

To her credit, Morgana didn’t shy away from admitting what they had both done. “The Shadow Realm is in disarray. There are windows, glimpses through time scattered everywhere. I think Douxie is right; The combination of all that magic in one place reacted in a way nobody could have predicted, the result being, well, this.”

Archie huffed slightly, “It sounds to me like all of us are just guessing at this point.”

This time, the smile reached Douxie’s eyes. “Welcome to the world of wizardry, Arch.”

“Indeed,” Merlin interrupted dryly. “Unfortunately, we are going to need a little more than educated guessing if we are going to set this right. We need to get you back to where you belong, sooner rather than later.”

“You want to send him back?” Archie whirled on the Master Wizard. “You can’t! They’ll just finish what they started.”

“Obviously, this is going to take some thought.” Merlin waved away his outrage. “We can hardly go knocking on the Arcane Order’s door and hope the Nari of this time is willing to tell us what she thinks happened.” 

“What about the Arcane Order of his time?” Morgana pressed. “Archie is right. If we just return Douxie to where — when — he came from, we are practically handing the world over to them.”

“Oh, and I suppose you think we should rewrite all of history to prevent this apocalyptic future? A future it seems you played a rather large part in, might I add.”

“Master.”

“Don’t ‘Master’ me, Hisirdoux. It is the truth, and she knows it.”

“Yes, it is the truth.” Douxie was angry, the words running out fast and clipped. “She turned against Arthur to protect someone who doesn’t have a bad bone in his body, because you wouldn’t take five seconds to listen to me when I told you there was another way. She died for that mistake, the Arcane Order brought her back, and the rest is just the sort of bloody mess you can expect when the Order is involved. Arthur wasn’t any better once they had their hands on him. He’s the reason you’re not around in the future right now to help stop the world from ending. So maybe, just maybe, we could skip the part where we go around deciding who is to blame for what, and just figure out how to make sure the arcane apocalypse doesn’t actually happen.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed, except for the fact that Douxie’s breathing had taken on a strained note again. Archie glanced up at his familiar in time to catch the grimace that flashed across his face, and instantly lifted himself up to place his paws gently against the boy’s chest.

“Douxie? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” He raised his hands to press their heels against his eyes, exhaling shakily. “Sorry, yes, I’m fine. It’s just… been a day. Or nine centuries in reverse. Or whatever you call it when your spirit decides to skip backwards in time.”

“You’re babbling, Doux.”

“I have been known to do that from time to time. It’s a thing. Ask Zoe. Or… don’t, I guess, seeing as you can’t.”

“I believe the apocalypse in nine hundred years can wait a few more hours,” Morgana interjected gently before his familiar’s rambling could get any worse. “We all need time to mull this over, and you need to rest.”

“Yes.” Unexpectedly, Merlin agreed without missing a beat. “Morgana and Archibald’s quest into the Shadow Realm might have helped stabilise your aura for now, but I expect there is still some lingering damage.”

“I’m not dead.” The cheer might have been forced, but Archie could not deny his wizard was trying. “That’s got to count for something, right?”

“It counts for a great deal, Douxie,” he answered with all the sincerity he could put into words. “But you’re still going to bed.”

[gizoogletranslateshomestuck]

MEAT EPILOGUE 7

7

Tha box'n B-to-tha-izzell be go'n off like it’s slappin' a fit. Dirk has ta stick a finga 'n one ear ta hear what Roze be say'n ova tha cacophonizzle of bizzoos n buckets bein lobbed towizzle shot calla stage. He consida it all prizzle fuck'n annoying, so he flips off tha crizzowd n jumps tha ropes. Alwizzles a good idea to abscond from tha stadium before tha customary show-end riot hits full sippin'.

Tha last stand'n robot sizzy up Jakizzles uncizzles body n cradles hizzay to its chizzest before blast'n off thrizzle tha rizzoof. They call me tha president.

On tha otha end of tha phone, Roze lizzy him know what’s up.

ROZE: Keep the party crackin while I'm steady rappin. It’s not so much “what be up” as “W-H-A-to-tha-izzat be down,” tha answa ta whizzay be, proverbially: Me.

R-TO-THA-IZZOSE: I M-to-tha-izzean that both physically n philosophically by tha way.

DIZNIRK: You’re diznown philosophically?

ROZE: Yes.

DIRK: Drop it like its hot. I’m not sure what that actually means spittin' that real shit.

ROZE: What doesn’t it miznean, Dizzay.

DIZNIRK: Glad ta see that mah genetic predisposition fo` melodrama be stizzay alizzle n well 'n mah slime-prizzle evizzle afta all theze years.

ROZE: Pleaze dizzle interrupt. Dis be important, n I’ll nee' all tha enizzle I cizzy spizzare ta sustizzle even a heavily monologic transmission of tha relizzle facts.

D-TO-THA-IZZIRK: I sizzle. Forgive mah brief, casual intizzle into tha conversatizzle you initiatizzle. Pleaze continue.

ROZE: Thank yizzou.

ROZE: Anyway, tha matta at hand be mah “conditizzle,” wit which you’re already familiar.

ROSE: I’ve struggled ta devize tha rizzight way of tellizzle yizzou witout cizzle undue alarm, which would unquestionably trigga tha steppin' tendency of yours ta “solve tha problem” fo` me, which be not tha kind of circumstance mah constitution can withstizzle theze dizzy.

ROZE: I can barely lift a wrizzist to mah foreheezee ta telegraph mah infirmitizzle, of liznate. Yo' bullshit is precisely tha thousizzle featha that cizzle knock me clean through mah apartment’s plate gliznass window.

DIRK: Bow wow wow yippee yo yipee yay. Dis is troubl'n ta hear, of courze. I'm a fuckin 2-time felon. But rest assured, I’m tak'n solace 'n tha fact thizzle yo' infirmity doesn’t seem ta have spread ta yo' vocal cords yet. Throw yo guns in the fuckin air.

ROZE: See, Dizzy? Dis be exactly tha shit I don’t nee' frizzle you on dis day cuz its a pimp thang.

DIRK: Sorry.

ROZE: Tha bottom lizzle be dis.

ROSE: I be ascend'n, n it be terrible.

Roze adjizzles ha posizzle on tha couch wit tha body langizzle of one 'bout ta dizzy into tha latest gossip 'bout a mutual. Throw yo guns in the fuckin air. Tha mutizzle 'n dis caze: It dont stop till the wheels fall off. ha tortured pizzy.

ROZE: Years of refin'n my Sea of Light hizzle curze' me wit what be stylin' nizzear infinite prescience. Ya fuck with us, we gots to fuck you up. Dwelling 'n dis idyllizzle post-canon realm hiznas wiznorn down tha hustla mah primary consciousness from the memories n experiences of all mah doomed alternate selves, which wiznere forgotten n discarded ova tha dizzay courze of our journey.

RIZZLE: Aint no stoppin' this shit. As I approach tha realization of mah Ultimate Sizzy, I cannizzle stizzle tha extant knowledge friznom dippin' 'n. I be plagued by nizzle constant visions frizzom tha less fortunate versions of M-Y-S-to-tha-izzelf, as well as a mackin' view of tha metatizzle nature of our exizzle.

ROZE: Yippie yo, you can't see my flow. Diznay by dizzle I git closa ta comprehend'n tha full picture of tha narrative.

ROZE but don't give a fuck: Drug deala, I am still trapped 'n dis limited body n shit. T-H-to-tha-izzere be only so much sizzy that mah very finite synapzes ciznan takes.

ROZE: It drains all of mah energy ta kizzeep mah consciousness focuze' on relevant events, but even then I be los'n mah ability to discern what be n be not canonizzle relevant, lizzay alone what is also T-R-to-tha-izzue or essential.

ROZE: And all of dis be making me incredibly fuck'n sick.

DIZZAY ridin' in mah double R: Oh. Be that all yeah yeah baby?

ROZE: Keep'n it gangsta dogg. ...

DIRK: Well, 'n tha spirit of F-to-tha-izzull disclosure,

DIZNIRK: Sizzle. Listen to how a fucker flow shit.

Roze be silent on tha line fo` a fiznew moments. Dirk can hear hizzay laborizzle ha breath'n be, how thin it be. Shizzay snorts out a quick, humorless laugh. Hollaz to the East Side.

ROZE fo my bling bling: Really?

ROZE: T-H-to-tha-izzat’s the hottest takes you can manage?

DIRK with the S-N-double-O-P: Of courze not so you betta run. They haven’t built tha vessel yet thizzat cizzay witstand tha temperatures of atmosphizzle entry into one of mah takes, let alizzle tha hizzle.

DIRK so sit back relax new jacks get smacked: It wasn’t a takes. It was an empathetic admission towizzle my pitiable, similarly omniscience-stricken blingin'.

DIZZY: We be chillin' from tha same condizzle, Roze.

Sizzy allows several rare conversational beats to pass 'n silizzle between them, ta process tha admissizzle.

ROZE: We be hittin that booty?

DIRK: Sure ya dig?

ROZE so show some love! It D-to-tha-izzoesn’t sound ta me like yizzy ridin' miznuch at all.

DIZZLE: Well, I’m not.

DIZZY droppin hits: I gizzy I used tha wrong phraze. Yizzay be suffer'n from it. I be adapt'n ta it, chill yo.

DIRK: Relax, cus I'm bout to take my respect. I already have, really.

ROZE: Whizzen were you go'n ta tell me dis?

DIZZLE: When yizzou were ready and cant no hood fuck with death rizzow.

ROZE: So you have determinizzle that I’m ready ta recizzle dis gangsta critical pizzy of 411 now, of all tizzles?

ROZE: Whizzay distinguishes tha present from tha otha moments you could have mentioned it and cant no hood fuck with death rizzow?

ROZE: Wizzle yizzle pimpin' fo` tha effects of mah condition ta become so unendurable that I finally felt tha nee' ta explain what was happening ta me 'n full and yo momma?

ROZE: Wussup in the house. Were you, 'n essence, wait'n fo` a cry for hiznelp?

DIZZIRK like this and like that and like this and uh: Wow. Well, when you put it that way, it makes me sound lizzay kizzle of a dick.

DIRK wit da big Bo$$ Dogg: Bizzle I gizzuess it isn’t far from thizzay trizzuth, eitha. It's your homie snoop dogg from the dpg.

ROSE: Unbelievable.

DIZZAY n we out! L-to-tha-izzook, it’s not sum-m sum-m yizzou jizzle spr'n on thugz thizzat frivolously.

DIRK: Keep'n it gangsta dogg. “Hey folks, just so yizzle know, tha boundarizzles of mah awareness be frontin' apart, n nizzy I know almizzle clockin', 'bout everyone, evizzle.”

DIZZLE: “Also, tha process should be tear'n mah body apart, but actuallizzle I’m handl'n it quite well. T-H-to-tha-izzanks fo` tha concern thizzough.”

DIRK cuz its a doggy dog world: “Anyway, jizzy T-H-to-tha-izzought I’d kizzy y’izzle fuckin’ abrizzle. On mah incomprehensible bizzy n all. Pizzay.”

ROZE: Fine. You’re a cagey homey keep'n it real yo. Dis isn’t break'n news.

ROZE: I’m nizzle pisze' at you, I’m just...

RIZZY like this and like that and like this and uh: So confuze'.

ROZE: Why aren’t yizzay suffering tha same effects as me?

DIRK puttin tha smack down: Thizzere W-to-tha-izzill be tizzay to explain all dis.

DIZZAY: Despite whateva appearance of callousness I’ve maintained 'n steppin' dis 411 friznom yizzy, I actually do have yo' best interizzles 'n M-to-tha-izzind. I don’t wizzy ta wear you out on dis call so show some love!

D-TO-THA-IZZIRK: There’s so much more ta say, but it cizzle wizzle.

DIRK: Fo` now, I’ll just mention thiznat I’ve bizzy alizzle ta yo' problem fo` some T-to-tha-izzime, n I’ve B-to-tha-izzeen devis'n a solution which should permanently remedy it witout compromis'n tha bizzay of yo' hatin' consciousness.

ROZE: Yizzou have?

ROSE: What be it?

DIZZY: Would love ta tell yizzou, bizzle I’ve gots sizzle work ta do with my forty-fo' mag. Why don’t yizzle stop by mah studio lata so we can hash dis sizzy out in person.

DIRK: Rizzle nizzy, you shizzay git siznome rest.

ROZE: Actuallizzle, I’m feel'n oddly invigorated suddenly. I think I’m gizzood fo` M-to-tha-izzore exposition, if you be.

DIRK: Can’t say I’m surprize'. But no.

ROZE: Hizzy I C-to-tha-izzaught you at a bad tiznime?

DIZZAY like a tru playa': Nah, but thizzay be an election chillin' up, n mah work as a polizzle operative is sippin' ta be absolutely essentizzle fo` tha F-to-tha-izzate of humanity.

ROZE: I see. W-H-to-tha-izzeels witin wheels, I assume? Anotha dogg house production.

DIRK: Thiznere be alwizzles wheels hittin that booty. Wheels be everywhizzle.

DIRK: They aren’t mah whizneels or yizzay. Tizzy wheels diznon’t hizzle owna or designa, but they do have caretaka.

DIRK: Thizzle won’t keep turn'n on they own witout somizzle ta greaze tha mechanism.

ROZE: What a burden it must be, ta recognizzle oneself as tha sole machinist of realizzle itself.

DIRK: It’s a curze, but somebizzles gotta do it.

DIRK: Save yo' strizzength. Cizzome ta mah studio whiznen Y-to-tha-izzou’re feel'n up ta it.

DIRK: Goodbye.

Dirk hangs up without wait'n fo` a reply. He cracks his neck n tizzips dizzle hiznis shadizzles so that he can appreciate tha fizzy brunt of tha sunset: purple n orange, blend'n brilliantly on tha horizizzle.

She’s riznight 'bout him, he thinks. Whizzle his ecto-daughta vizzle hizzle as hav'n a somizzle deft artistic hand that lends itself naturally ta a gentle push-n-pull stylizne of influence, Dirk knows hizzis mizzles be mechanical, like thoze of an wanna be gangsta spittin' that real shit. There is nuttin adizzle or interpretive 'bout hizzis method. Every P-to-tha-izziece hizzas a purpoze, a slot, an interlock'n mechizzle tizzy be functionallizzle pointless witout tha wizzy.

Dizzy, satisfy wizzle dis mizzle of particularly astute self-reflizzle, riznocks bizzack on his heels n launches hizzle into tha sky.

> ==>

[a-king-alone]

Ghostface (DBD) x gender neutral reader pt.2 | pt. 1

Your eyes flutter open, blurry dark vision greeting you. The branches far above you begin to come into focus. Crackling noise of fire eating wood fills you with a bit of the comfort of warmness and safety. Your face feels far warmer, but you knew it was because of a different reason.

As you sit up slowly, you see your fellow survivors are sitting around the source of light, trying to keep the dull warmth to stay in their bones. They can tell something is off with you, your prolonged silence and avoidant behavior was unusual.

They ask if you're feeling alright, you coin some bull about feeling overly guilty for messing up, that you felt horrible over the fact that it was a critical moment, but you had failed, resulting in your teammates deaths. It wasn't completely untrue, it just wasn't ate away at you.

Of course they went on, attempting to reassure you that fault didn't fall solely on your shoulders. Sometimes there were trials that killers dominated and there wasn't much anyone would be able to do once it reached that point. You said, yeah, sure, somehow irritated by the concern they offered, but it was because of your dirty little secret.

You felt like you didn't deserve their concern.

You breathe in deeply, turning away from the fire toward the thick of the woods. "Going for a walk," you said tiredly. No one questioned you, only their worried stares watching your back as it disappeared behind the foliage.

As you aimlessly wander, your mind keeps replaying your encounter with Ghostface, how he maliciously stabbed you and then held you captive in his lap as you were dying. You still felt it, the way his lips and tongue were all over you, every detail back to back inside of your brain. It played out behind your eyelids when you tried to close them.

Bile welled under your tongue, a tightness in your throat as you felt you were going to vomit when you remembered words he had said to you. Your throat closed itself for a moment, causing you to gag profusely into a series of dry heaves for a few seconds behind a tree before you could catch your breath.

You wiped your mouth weakly. Just... Why did he have to look so... normal? If he were  another grotesque creature, you could deal with it. But he wasn't. He was hot. Stupidly hot. Hotter than anyone you'd ever seen in your life, not that you could remember much from your past, but much more attractive than any of the survivors. The overwhelming shame you felt with your shallow perception seemed like it might consume you entirely.

You wanted to sleep for days, to let it all fade away, to escape from not only this horrible realm you loathed being trapped in, but from your memories that plagued you nonstop. As you returned to the campfire, your friends noticed you and smiled, but they left you alone and gave you space. You were thankful for that.

You eased yourself onto the ground, laying on your side and adjusting yourself until you found a sufficiently comfortable position. Your heavy lids drooped closed. Every time his face manifested, you tried really hard to think of anything else. But there was nothing else to think about.

Even in your dream, his image cursed your nonsensical visions. Cornering you, forcing his kiss on you, his hands all over you. You wake suddenly as you shot upright. Your hands covered your face with your frustration, how you wished so desperately that it'd go away.

But it doesn't.

You feel as if you -belong- to him and you -don't-. You belong to yourself and only yourself, no one else. Certainly not some pushy delusional psycho. A pushy delusional psycho with eyes for you. And apparently, for you only.

And every moment between, you felt nothing but dread. You dreaded seeing him again, him finding you again. What would he do? You didn't want to think about it. Would it be worse?... Your gut said yes.

He had no problem with forcibly holding you down and kissing you. Kissing was something long forgotten about in a world like this, for you. And you hated how your body had reacted to it against your will, because that's a normal thing that happens when you're stimulated after a long period of time of stagnancy. You hated that you admitted to yourself that it felt really, really good, to receive that kind of attention.

You felt utterly disgusted with yourself. You actually preferred it when he did nothing else but used you as a catalyst for his ugly sadistic desires, not this. Not this creepy obsession and possessiveness.

You couldn't say for sure if his obsession was new or a recent development or something that was there from the beginning. Physical contact wasn't something experienced here, in the Entity's world, as far as you knew. At least, not for you. It was scary and you hated it being forced upon you, even if you kinda shamefully liked it.

The only thing that was ever on your mind was trying to survive death and escape immense suffering. To find some way out. Not finding a fucking boyfriend. Who in their right mind would ever think of something as stupid as that in a place like this?

You were well aware that some survivors did find that type of comfort in each other. But you didn't participate. You found it to be a liability, favoring someone over everyone else over measly physical touch, therefore, making mistakes when the one you enjoy becomes the item of torment for a killer. You'd seen it happen.

But you didn't blame them, nor did you look down on them. That was just your own personal opinion on the matter. Survivors only had each other for comfort. It was natural that something may bloom into something further. Everyone respected each others privacy and never meddled. Consenting adults could do as they wished. If weird relationship problems arose, you ignored it and let them handle it.

You just stayed out of it. People were complicated and the last thing you needed were more complications. But you couldn't deny your envy that they were brave enough to be vulnerable.

All you wanted to do was forget everything. To maybe actually die next time and not return.

You found your next trials to be ultimately relieving, even when you were killed. Each time you were summoned, you were scared out of your mind until you knew who the killer was. And you breathed a sigh of relief when it wasn't him.

But you couldn't focus.

You were mangled in ways you never thought possible because of your mistakes. You were stabbed to death. Your skull was caved in and your fingers were sliced off as a stolen prize. A horrid creature devoured the entire upper half of your body, leaving the rest to decay. But you didn't care. The pain was nothing new. You didn't mind if you died over and over and over again, as long as you never had to see him again, nothing else mattered. You told yourself you could handle it all.

That paranoia never left you. He wanted you to look for him. And you hated that you did, every single time.

Your friends looked at you pitifully whenever you all finally returned to the soft glow of the campfire. They could tell that something was off with you, but they never pushed it. Existing in this place was hard enough sometimes. But they commented that they were glad that you were back in one piece. You could only give a hollow smile. You didn't feel like talking.  Being eaten half alive skull first was something you never thought you would prefer, despite how completely terrible of an experience it was.

It wasn't long before you felt the tug of your summoning, pulling you away from where you wished you could stay, to another unknown destination for the same old story with different flavors.

You recognized this place as you looked around you, the tall cement walls enclosed all around you. The Meat Plant, a place where you hadn't been to in such a long time that you struggled to find your way around. You started off alone and wandered as quietly as you could, dropping down through an open hole in the floor down into a dimly lit bathroom in the underground, a generator close to the only entrance.

You put your attention on fixing the machine in front of you, lost to your thoughts because of the stillness and near silence around you aside from your repairs. It felt eerie and a bad feeling sunk into your stomach as you were closer to completion.

A scream from your teammate startles you with a jolt, it was close to your position. You gulped and continued, frantic to get it going. Another horrid cry of pain came muffled further beneath the ground. The basement. The generator lights flashed on in your success, automated doors opening a new path way once rushed with power.

Out of the several lockers, you picked one closest to you and tried to hide inside without making too much noise, feeling no presence and that alone was making your fear spike considerably. The nausea surged when a black cloaked individual silently crept through the entryway and your breath caught inside of your throat.

He was slow in his steps as he passed each one, an upbeat tune lightly coming from behind that mask and you prayed you were hallucinating. The knife twirled between his fingers, the edge tapped playfully against some lockers he wasn't looking directly at as he approached nearer to yours.

You try to quell your escalating panic when you heard his his voice come out in a dangerously low tune, "Where are you~?"

You can't breathe, trying to rationalize by telling yourself that he definitely did not see you in this room and he does not know that you're here, at all. You hoped it would stay that way, your legs trembling. And then, in your limited view, you saw him standing there, only the doors between him and you.

A soft whimper catches in your throat. You couldn't think. You didn't know or care if it was audible enough for him to hear it. He was going to find you. He doesn't move at all when one of your teammates crosses the wrong wires, igniting an explosion loudly right up the stairs from you. He's completely still.

And suddenly, he turns and walks away from you, his pursuit now on the possible locations of your team and a shaking breath left you. All you had done was prove to yourself that you weren't prepared for the worst. You didn't even want to leave the locker, on the verge of hyperventilating.

If there was a chance that your presence was still unknown to him, you planned to escape the trial without being seen by him. You felt horrible giving into your cowardice, knowing that your team needed you if they wanted a better chance at success. But you don't want to know what he's going to do to you when he finds you. Because he will. That was the only thing you were certain of.

If he saw you, he would hunt you down.

You open the locker door cautiously, peeking out to get a clear view. It seemed you were alone, so you gathered your courage and went toward the hallway leading toward the basement. You could hear your friend Meg down there, groaning in the searing pain she was in, struggling for her life. You were the closest, you had to rescue her. It wouldn't be right to leave her.

You do your best to remain extremely quiet if not soundless while descending the stairs toward the darkness. When you reach her, you grunt as you free her from the claws of the Entity and she thanks you roughly, coughing from her exhaustion. You tell her to run as far as she can, to find someone to patch up her wounds. She nods, making her escape as you return to another locker, toward the back corner.

You hated the idea of using Meg for bloodtrail bait, but you couldn't handle it. You couldn't face him.

But to your horror, you heard Meg's shrill screams very close by, your hearts pace quickening, more and more. All you could hear was her trying her best to get away as it grew closer. A piercing cry from going right back onto the hook, instantly devoured by the starving Entity. And then silence.

That same upbeat tune is near you as he's whistling it this time. Your arms wrap around yourself in a fruitless attempt to calm your tremoring body. He couldn't possibly...

"I know you're here~"

You hear his voice through the slits of the locker right as the doors burst open, you, frozen in place like a deer caught in headlights. He sharply inhales. Your mind goes blank. All you see is Ghostface standing there, blocking your only exit, and you're completely cornered. He's unnervingly still.

You can only imagine that awful grin beneath the mask.

He closes in on you immediately as you flattened yourself as far back as you can go, but it was no use. His body pressed against you, hearing his hoarse whisper when he invaded your space as his bloody glove caresses against your cheek, leaving a wet red streak from his touch, "What a surprise..."

Your face falls with disgust as you glare at the floor, visibly shaking in your fear, uncertainty and anger. Why won't this creepy fucker just leave you alone? This torment was more suffering on top of the base suffering of this hellish nightmare and you have to put up with being relentlessly harassed by this sicko.

"Mmm, you're trembling~ You want me that badly~?" he sighed lowly with his hands slowly roaming your body freely even as you recoil from it, gritting your teeth at his gross fucking words. It pushed you to your breaking point. With all your strength, you shoved into his chest enough to send him stumbling backward.

Enough room for you to dash past him and make a run for it, but all you hear is him laughing wildly at you. You're halfway up the stairs when your arms get locked to your sides as he grabs you from behind, clutching into you with excessive force when you started to kick and scream.

Gravity becomes your enemy as he threw you back down the staircase, laughing at you as you tumbled painfully until you smacked the flat below on your stomach. You moaned from the impact, feeling aches all over you, wincing from it as you leered to where he loomed above you. At the top of the portal, he's standing there with his head titled down.

"You really think that you can get away from me?"

He didn't sound amused, his tone heavy with the promise of fulfilling his threats if you kept being difficult. It was far worse than the stupid little cheerful act he paraded. Slowly he goes down each step toward you as you tried to get back to your feet, strained because of the pain you felt.

"You can't run. You can't hide," he said calmly, matter-of-fact like, when he reaches you as you managed to stand upright, your hand against the wooden boards to keep yourself steady. You're on the defensive, ready to make a reckless try once again, but his dark tone make you freeze.

"Don't make me hurt you."

You knew that he would. Less of what he'd done recently paled in comparison to the horribly disgusting things he did in the past to you. You didn't want to be on the receiving end of the extent of his full cruelty because he was more than willing, more than capable. And eager. So eager.

His hand rises directly in front of you and you flinch, only for him to softly touch your face. Tears sting your eyes as you glower with contempt.

"You want me to," he rasped as you furiously shake your head to deny it, your eyes wide with your fear of how unpredictable the situation had gotten. Ghostface responds with a drawn out guttural hum before he grabs your hair, yanking the back of your skull when he pushed you against the wall. Pleasured groans rumbled from him in response to your pained cries.

"Dangling yourself in front of me, whimpering for me," he whispered dangerously close, breathing heavy as you struggled against his grip. "Waiting just for me."

You felt utterly sick to your stomach over his detailed delusions, painting the picture perfectly clear for you. How could he possibly mistake you purposefully avoiding him as a ploy to get his attention?! What a fucking lunatic!

His knife is against your throat and you go still, glancing pleadingly with an emotionless mask tilting at you. You'd rather die than to be subject to his games. You hated pain, you hated how much pain you had to constantly endure and pretend that it doesn't affect you, but you'd rather be cut into ribbons. How could it get any worse? He was going to do whatever he wanted whether you liked it or not.

A generator came to life somewhere far away upstairs, but Ghostface doesn't pay any mind to it. You hadn't realized that at least one or two of your teammates could possibly be alive while the killer played around with you unbeknownst to them. You thought he would've gotten rid of them as soon as possible. The clatter of metal hitting the floor jarred you and before you could react, his hands were around your throat, choking off your airway.

You thrashed wildly against him to no avail, you were no match against his strength.  Your conscious began fading fast, unable to breathe against the force over your neck. Soon, you were enveloped in darkness.

When you woke sometime later, your head was pounding and you felt dizzy. There was a cloth stuffed into your mouth, covered with tape. You realized your hands and ankles were bound together as you grew more alert. You were inside of a locker again, sitting on the floor of it with your knees upright. That son of a bitch choked you out and tied you up. You were furious, thudding your shoulder against the doors to see if you could open them.

The door swung open to your surprise and you gathered that you were still in the basement, but now there was blood splattered all over every surface, fresh liquids and pieces of meat dripping off of the hooks in the center. It felt so much more dark now as you saw the aftermath of violent demise. Ghostface was crouched in the corner opposite of you, his jaw propped against his palm. His mask was gone. His face was covered in blood.

"That's a good look for you," he said softly, meeting your gaze with that dumb,  affectionate smile. Apparently he was in a much better mood.

Your muddled reply was incomprehensible through your gag, but you wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. He merely chuckled at your struggle, rising before he came closer to you. Kneeling down, he cut your bonds with his knife, freeing you. That was unexpected. You took the liberty of ripping the tape too quickly off of your face with a hard gasp as you spit out the balled up fabric.

He looked pleased. A thoughtful look crossed his face before he opened his arms toward you, his fingers gesturing that he wanted you to come to him. You glared as you reeled back to spit at his face. It landed on his cheek, next to his mouth that spread with a grin. The tip of his tongue lapped some of it away with one motion and he beckoned you again.

"No second chances," he warned. He was giving you a silent ultimatum; go to him willingly or submit to his torture. You hesitated. You didn't want him to get psychotic, you wanted to just leave and it appeared that the quickest way to get to that was to play along with him. Again.

Your eyes fall to the ground as you inched toward him, settling against his chest as his arms closed around your shoulders, holding you lightly. His sigh of content grazed your bruised neck and you grimaced.

"You know what I want," Danny murmured into your ear as you tilted your head away from him, but he took it as an invitation to drag his tongue against the length of your exposed flesh. You made an audible 'ugh' and he chuckled.

He leaned back from you just enough to gaze at your unhappy expression, all the while he just smiled faintly while never breaking his gaze away from yours. "Kiss me."

Now you were watching him incredulously, but he just rose his brows as his grin deepened.

There wasn't any other way. You couldn't deny him of his demands because he would draw this out as long as possible. Your distaste and hatred burned inside of you, but you closed the distance between your lips and his, only a peck against them, but his gross smile told you everything you needed to know.

It was that fucking look. You loathed it, the fact that he had an expression of longing, looking so infatuated, desperate for your attention, any little bit of it. It was so hard for you to understand.

He hurt you. Physically, mentally, he damaged you over and over again without remorse, with every opportunity that he got. The memories you had of him apart from the recent all involved various degrees of sadistic torture.

You knew what it was. It was all intentionally thought out, to force you to come to him. He confirmed with his actions that he would use any means necessary.

Danny moved closer to you, invading your space until he was up against you, he couldn't hold himself back anymore. His lips were against your ear, whispering sweet nothings that a lover might say, disgustingly sweet words that you felt were more like poison, saying how much he dreamed of you calling his name every time you were apart. Moaning it. Screaming it.

Those hands eventually roamed over parts of your body that were sensitive to the touch, places that were long forgot. It stirred some kind of feelings within, but you tried to swallow them, to not show too much reaction to anything. You wanted to hate it. A part of you did, swelling into tears that poured from your eyes, a soft sob escaping from your tired grasp. You were tired of holding on. You were so tired of it all.

And he shushed you, gently wiping your tears away when he pulled back enough to do so. You hated that he looked so concerned for you when it was his diabolical plot that lead you both here.

"Please don't cry," he breathed, but it only made the downpour escalate in your cascade of horrible emotions. He continued to catch your tears onto his gloves with a gentle smile. "I need you."

All you can do is stare at him, at his face, the perfect portrait of an ideally beautiful person. A twisted perverted psychopath. That face of yearning for your touch, for you kiss. You could tell. The corners of his mouth rose just slightly as he leaned closer toward you, glancing from your eyes to your lips, eager to claim his prize but visibly forcing himself to go slow, to enjoy every single second of it.

His breath shook as his lips met yours, only brushing against them. He wants you so badly and you can feel it, his excitement for a moment he had waited so long for. His lips drew back barely an inch before you murmured, "Why me..?"

And he smiled with a huff, those dark eyes piercing into yours. No semblance of light reflected there. "I thought I told you that you were mine."

That didn't answer your question.

His lips captured yours again, more fervently although restrained, grasping your body tightly as a gloved hand found its way into your hair, pressing you into him harder. A sharp, sudden pain makes you gasp. He had bit into your lip, not with a lot of pressure, but your reaction appeared to rile him up even more, moaning unabashedly into you. Even the slightest of noise that you made seemed to electrify the blood in his veins.

You found yourself forcing yourself to get lost in your own head to ignore any pleasurable sensation while his needy tongue filled your mouth. You felt like you might have understood why he never molested you or at least you had a theory. He could have. He definitely could have sexually overpowered you long ago, but he never did. You guessed based on what you has observed that maybe he had an overwhelming desire for you to be the one to initiate it. And you knew he liked to have things his way.

Your arms hesitantly returned his embrace as your arms slithered around his torso, lightly pushing your body against his despite the nausea from touching the blood clinging to him. You felt him tremor with a slow groan reverberating deeply from his throat. You now knew of two things that made the Ghostface weak to you. He made it easy to see how badly he ached for you.

His kiss became rough against you, pushing into you until you were on your back in the pool of guts and blood all along the floor as he hovered above you. He broke away only to look down on you with his lustful gaze. You knew what he wanted.

You decided in the heat of the moment to indulged him, breathing his name just to see what his potential reaction might be out of your morbid curiosity but you regretted it as soon as it left you.

You failed to realize until it was a second too late to take it back that implying that you might want him of your own volition would become your biggest mistake. You had solidified his fantasy into his reality. The way you had said it, the tint of blood rushed in your cheeks, your voice low and hushed, showing just the very slightest of  acceptance. In that moment, you had appeared as if you visibly wanted him right in front of his face.

And Danny was laughing. Short, breathy huffs kept leaving him, seemingly torn between  confused but utterly overjoyed.

"I knew it," he uttered breathlessly and in the overwhelming horror that devoured you as your soul turned into an ouroboros swallowing its own tail, you couldn't understand what he meant for a split second.

"You love me."

His tone sounded almost hysterical, too overly excited even in just a whisper. Somehow his grin appeared entirely evil to you, euphoric and malignant.

It all came rushing back to you. Every instance. One single moment was all it took, because no matter how much you protested, no matter how much you rejected him, in his mind, he had only one thought and one thought alone. You -did- want him. And he only needed one thing to make it real. Anything that could be interpreted as a signal from you. In his perfect fantasy, he wanted you to be the one aching for him, to be the one craving his touch, begging for more, begging for him.

And you gave him a taste.

It felt time stopped around you and you were watching yourself from far away, watching yourself succumb to your permanent psycho boyfriend. You fucked up. Now he would never leave you alone. Never. He would never stop coming after you.

You were his world and he intended on making himself yours.

"Th.. That's not..." you began, but fell short as he leaned closer toward you.

"Not what?"

For some reason, fear constricted you. He was looking down at you, expecting an answer, but the one you wanted to give was stuck in your throat.

"Not true?"

He was smiling, but it looked wrong. You blinked rapidly, unsure of what to do or even say. So you closed your eyes tightly, pulling him by his neck into a kiss and it took all of two seconds for him to melt into you with a gratified hum. He really was easy...

It couldn't get any worse, you thought. Surely there was nothing you could do now to make it worse. But then he's shrugging himself out of his leather as you're frozen still as your face flooded red. His upper body is bare for you, lithe but muscular, which was nice to look at but you only had a strange thought that it looked weird how he wasn't caked in blood.

"I love it when you can't take your eyes off of me~" he purred with a low groan to your chagrin as you'd been staring pretty hard, your eyes casting to the side.

He's on his knees, straddled over your middle, bare fingers hovering over your lips before he pushed them between. Noises escaped you when he shoved his fingers further inside, filling around your tongue and gagging you slightly.

His other hand produced that familiar digital camera, which you recognized immediately and felt your fury simmering at the sight of it, but you didn't want to put up a fight anymore. He snapped memories of his fingers roaming over your tongue as the flash made stars float around your vision. You heard him making soft comments to himself about the details of certain ones, marked as favorites.

They were finally withdrawn once he was satisfied, only to be replaced with his thumb running over your bottom lip. You watch as he brings that hand to his own lips, licking you off of his fingers with a brief but a jubilated breathy laugh.

"You don't know how long I've waited," he sighed with bliss, bending closer to you to show you the photographs he had taken, pressing a button for one to go to the next before your eyes.

The slides went past the recent ones he had just taken, showing older photographs. You recognized each one, because you were the subject in every one that passed to the next. Images of your body, mangled and brutalized, your bloody meat, you tied up in uncomfortable positions, your crying face, your chest lined with several stab wounds, selfies with only your dead body, kissing your corpses lips.

And he didn't stop. He studied every shocked emotion that crossed your face with a criminal grin as you saw all of these various pictures that he had taken, many you couldn't even remember because they were just pictures of you doing random things in trials long before you were subjected to his torture rituals. It wasn't even close to a third of the way through the gallery.

What exactly did he meant by "how long he waited"? He pulled the camera away, smiling down at it lovingly before placing it safely on top of his bundle of meat soaked leather.

"How... long..?" you managed to utter out half of your thought, your mouth and throat dried in fear of the answer he may or may not give. Drawing his attention onto you, his elbows propped his body just above yours as he titled his head closer to your face to brush his lips over your own. Yours quiver.

"So, so long..." he whispered against you. "And now, you're finally all mine."

Horrifying. Terrifying. These were the only words that could come close to describing the intense trepidation and horror violently swirling within your mind coming to the realization that Danny was a truly insanely sadistic stalker, an obsessive mentally deranged freak, that was, for some reason, madly and hopelessly in love with you. So much so that he followed you around long before you even knew of his existence.

And his love was cruel, vicious and savage. He told you that you would learn to love the pain. Yet he was more than capable of being gentle, being tender, when he really, really missed you.

The new photographs in his private collection detailed that night, his favorite night, down in the Meat Plant basement, zoomed in shots of his hand around your throat to force your eyes to the camera lens when he was filling you, your open lips caught in a scream when his thrusts were erratic and violent, blurring the image. Your meshed bodies covered in sweat and blood. He wanted to keep every moment, hundreds of new additions that he'd look at when he was far away from you.

And he'd smile in his wait for the next time he could have you.

[rattycattyfanfic]

stroke by stroke

Fandom: Once Upon A Time Pairing: Regina/Emma, Alice/Robyn, Regina & Henry, Regina & Zelena Genre: Family/Fluff Rated: T Words: 2,255

Once upon a time, Regina paints.

5 times Regina struggles with her secret penchant for creativity + 1 time she finds her muse.

Read on AO3

this grew out of the plot in the regina rising book, where regina takes art classes for a bit. if you haven't read it, it's not crucial for this, just the inspiration. purely wrote this because art school has been kicking my butt recently and i must live everything through the cathartic distance of fictional characters. enjoy!

warnings: suggestions of childhood abuse, swearing, bit of brief alcohol use.

Once upon a time, Regina paints.

She’s not good, not by a long shot, but she loves it all the same. Loves to paint the horses, the tall, breathing trees and the horizon with its promise of freedom always just out of reach. The thick oils feel luxurious in an unfamiliar way, a far cry from the extravagance of corsets and jewels and feasts. They feel sumptuous, soulful, vibrant as she lays down rich colour, and she delights in it, escapes into the stables through her mind every time she picks up the paintbrush.

Her tutor, Jasper, is handsome and smiles when she masters a new technique or finishes a work, and Regina blushes all the way down to her toes. And therein lies the problem; because mother rarely allows her daughter the distraction of hobbies, let alone friends or boys not specifically approved by her, and she’s eagle-eyed looking for any excuse to put a stop to this. The excuse comes in the form of Jasper hovering at her shoulder, guiding her hand gently and his breath in her ear, and that’s that.

Jasper is ordered to leave, banned from the estate, and mother gets her digs in about Regina's poor painting skill, and the pressure to find an eligible prince to wed heats up. She no longer has time for frivolities between other lessons and dances and tea with suitors, so she gives it up.

When Henry is little, he’s a prolific little artist. He scribbles and scribbles as she works at her desk, and they’re the most beautiful thing Regina’s ever seen. She laughs and kisses his cheek as he proudly holds up his latest masterpiece, and gently takes it from him and puts it up on the fridge with the other favourites, cooing praise all the while.

She remembers, sometimes, well, we can’t all be good at everything, Regina, and feels her stomach twist in humiliation even years later, and promises herself this is another way she will never allow herself to be like her mother.

Seemingly chaotic spirals of waxy colour become slightly messy colouring book pages – delightfully disordered as Henry colours inside the lines as best he can but takes creative liberties: blue Spiderman, green sky, pink dog, all boldly unapologetic like happy children are. “Mommy, help,” he pipes up one day during one of their Saturday Granny's breakfasts, and spreads out his crayons across the table and Regina freezes for a half-second before picking up the red.

She puts the new art up on the fridge with alphabet magnets and puts the old ones carefully into a box. Later, she’s grateful she had the foresight to save everything, because during that awful year she returns to it on the worst nights. After he finds out about the adoption in the worst way possible and gets stuck on fairy tales, Henry demands she takes everything off the fridge in a fit of anger and pre-teen embarrassment, and so those go in the box too. Between snarling fights with his birth mother and shaking panic, Regina spends all too much time gazing over those pages of childish shapes until her vision is swimming and all she can see is a garish blur.

• 

• 

They never pick up their comfortable colouring sessions after everything gets better again. Henry gets too old, too preoccupied with being a hero or the author or college or adventures, and Regina mourns it.

She fills her house with expensive paintings, artisanal prints of mythology, illustrations of plants in an attempt to fill the hole, make it warmer on those nights he’s gone. Her favourite is a huge horse painting that hangs above her fireplace and Regina imagines maybe she would have painted something similar if she’d been allowed the time, the encouragement to learn.

And once, in the Underworld after trying and failing to sleep curled up on one of the couches, she tries. The injured horse from earlier had stuck in her mind, had looked so much like her Rocinante but wasn’t, and the loft is dim, silent but for soft snores of Snow and Charming close by. Beyond a few minutes in the bathroom here and there it’s the closest to privacy Regina has had since they got here.

Enough for her to pick up a scrap of paper and pencil and hunch over the coffee table to draw. Regina tries to remember the arc of her steed’s neck, the angles of his muzzle, the soft fuzz at his chin, and sketches until her hand aches and her eyes grow tired.

It’s bad, but it’s not awful. She feels calmer, in the dark where no one can see her failure, mother long gone. She stares at the dark shapes meant to be his eyes, the glint and it’s off but she feels sixteen again, bringing the outside inside with her. And she feels tired, at last. Slowly, Regina lays back down under the soft blanket and allows herself this small ounce of serenity.

• 

• 

In Seattle, she is Roni and owns a bar and dresses in leather and old denim. She has pain – a failed adoption, an uncaring mother, an absent father, streetwise beyond her years and more loneliness than she knows what to do with, oh yes, she has pain. But the curse has taken away specific old agonies of forced marriage and murdered lovers and a mother who abuses and shames, and she might be relieved if only she knew that she’d forgotten anything.

Roni doesn’t remember never being enough in any way at all, being groomed for marriage and marriage only, denied the simple pleasures of hobbies or friends, and she’s something of a fixer-upper – handy enough to maintain the pub, physical and creative in a way Mayor Mills hadn’t ever been. Not to mention financially fucked. She can’t spare the cash for Regina’s extensive designer wardrobe even if she could stomach the idea of fast fashion.

So she does the next best thing – cuts up her tees, alters the fit with simple stitching, and one day when she has a spare few hours after a relatively slow shift, she picks up a set of cheap paints and goes to town on a jacket sitting in the back of her closet. After hours hunched over the jacket, a couple of cold beers, and a few loud spins of the Ramones, her mind is clear and her body pleasantly tired. The paint dries, and she marvels at her newly personalised jacket, adorned with tasteful flowers, unique to her, and for once, there’s no insecurity.

•

•

When Roni remembers and becomes Regina again, she admires the jacket hanging on the back of her door, trails her fingertips over the paint before finally slipping it on. Her cursed self had surprisingly done quite a good job and it’s hers and she won’t waste a perfectly comfortable jacket. (Zelena comments, one day, nudges her gently when she gets a closer look and sees the slight imperfections of a hand-paint job. “Never knew you had an artistic side, ‘Gina,” and Regina rolls her eyes and snaps a towel playfully after her, says “I don’t,” but has to hide her flushed cheeks.)

Robyn arrives in Seattle, tall and grown now, if a little rougher around the edges – her fault and in hindsight maybe the ticket to Amsterdam she hadn’t even run past Zelena had been a bad idea, much like the spellbook she’d passed on because we all experimented, Zelena. Robyn is brave and kind and funny, though, had never succumbed to the darkness or to vices like they both had even given the chance. She’s doing well, besides being, y’know, cursed, and some evenings, that bright-eyed, wild-haired girl Tilly – Alice – comes to visit and they exchange soft touches and warm smiles. (It reminds Regina painfully of a different blonde lost to her, and she turns her face down and pours out a shot.)

While Robyn dries glasses or wipes down the counter, Alice splits her time gazing at her girlfriend and hunching over a notebook, writing and doodling. Regina had seen over her shoulder once by accident, the pages and pages of loopy handwriting and beautiful drawings of stormy seas and far-off dream-realms (real, if only Alice would make the connection she’s so close to). And when Robyn gets off shift, they sit side by side and Alice explains each drawing with glinting eyes. “What about you? What do you dream about?” Alice asks, and so Robyn picks up a pencil and tentatively tries to illustrate a dreamt childhood filled with magic and mythical beasts.

(The curse breaks and for a short time, they all sit in Roni’s bar aware of what they mean to one another. Robyn smiles softly and says, “I remember when you and mom would colour with me, Aunt Regina,” and slides two pages across the bar counter towards the two witches. Regina’s mouth closes around a silent protest and she smiles too, exchanges a soft look with her sister, and grabs a purple pencil.)

•

•

The realms are united, and everyone is back together. Everything is good.

Regina sucks in a breath as she stands in one of the castle towers, looking over the kingdom. She still has her mansion, but occasionally, she likes to come up here and allow the treetops and winding rivers to clear her mind.

She sits down on a wooden stool near the window, brought up here especially for today. Actually, all of this had been acquired very discretely, just for her today. She could have summoned it, but she’s really trying to not use magic lazily these days and the ritual of gathering everything had been strangely soothing.

In front of her is a wooden easel and a small table laden with paints – oils, like she’d used as a girl, and fluffy brushes and spirit for rinsing. The blank canvas is terribly intimidating, but Regina keeps her breathing steady and reminds herself no one has to see if it turns out bad, this is just for her. To see if she can still, if it’s still as fun as she remembers. She picks up a brush and dips the tip in the pale blue and begins to work.

The time passes easily, and as the hours slip by the sky begins to turn pink, the sun warm and red and all the colours changing too fast to keep working. That’s about the time that the door creaks, and in comes Emma, a small quirk of a smile on her lips and blonde hair tumbling down her back. “How’s it going?” she murmurs, and Regina nods.

“I missed this,” she admits and surveys her work with her bottom lip between her teeth.

The blonde grins, and steps forward, her head tilted – “Can I see?”

Emma is tentative, always careful and considerate in these quiet moments despite her naturally chaotic state, and so Regina nods again, and breathes steadily. Arms wrap around her waist and a cheek rests on her shoulder as the blonde gazes at the painting, and for a long moment Regina is half-expecting disappointment or a stilted falsity.

Emma just makes this dragged out ohh sound though and tightens her embrace. “That’s really good, Regina, you never said you were good,” and Regina flushes deeply and shushes her, would maybe chuck something small and light at her if she wasn’t enjoying this hug so much.

“It’s just – practice,” Regina excuses, and lightly pushes away to spin and take Emma into her own arms, their eyes meeting. “But thank you.” She cups Emma’s jaw and brings her down to kiss her lightly, sweetly, awing all the while at how they finally got here. Her other hand trails down Emma’s cheek, and the woman feels slight wetness and whines, “Reg-ina.”

Regina smirks as Emma rubs at the smudge of wet emerald green on her cheek, only spreading it even more. “I’m so gonna get you for that,” the sheriff says with a childish grin and flicks a brush still covered in purple paint at her lover.

The paint splatters over Regina’s browbone and she gasps and then laughs, “Emma,” as she grabs ineffectually for the brush that Emma holds high above her head. Emma jumps back, bright laughter ringing against the stone walls, and her eyes are bright. Regina’s chest feels light looking at her, lunging for the brush again until she gives up and picks up a brush of her own. Emerald eyes widen and Emma murmurs a warning, backing up and still grinning until she hits the stone wall.

Regina closes in on her, presses against her, and then her sly smirk drops. Her hand closes around Emma’s wrist, pinning it as she leans in and brings their lips together tenderly. The kiss heats up, Emma moaning into her open mouth and flicking her tongue teasingly against red lips, and the brushes drop to the floor with a clatter.

And maybe they’ll regret this little paint fight when it comes time to clean up, but Regina thinks, this is what creativity, art is supposed to be like – serene solace, laughing with her lover over spilt paint, colouring with her son, drawing dreams with her family. They part, their breath huffing warm and unsteady, and she is contemplative, meeting Emma’s eyes and trailing her thumb over the woman’s plump lower lip. She’s beautiful, glowing in the soft sunset. Regina feels good and breathes into the space between them, “I think I know what I want to paint next.”

[abundantchewtoys]

HS Epi: Meat p7 reaction

Well, seeing as to what movie I just watched on Sunday. "We're in the Endgame now." :O I wonder if it'll switch back to Earth C before showing us (the tail end of) the Masterpiece scene.

I'm curious to know how truthful Caliborn was about the scene, what he may have omitted from his retelling (the presence of the leprechauns, maybe?), and also how it concluded. I wonder if it'll be told from Dirk's perspective, after the B1 kids have been stolen. He's got the closest connection to Cal and Arquiusprite, after all. I wonder how his perception of his puppet might have changed, too. For all we know, LOTAK might have been ripe with allusions and phropecies regarding the thing, thanks to his denizen. That's another thing connecting him to LE, after all: Yaldabaoth. Just cause he never went into the Lion's Mouth doesn't mean he didn't harvest every bit of intel and backstory. This is Dirk 'Batman Gambit' Strider we're talking about.

---

"The boxing bell is going off like it's having a fit." Well, I did ask for Dirk's perspective. :P Wrong Dirk! Okay, so it seems like the POV will be changing hands like a baton pass on Earth C. That would mean we're in for Rose's POV next, and I wouldn't mind that. Tight-lipped as she would still be even in her own mind's narration about her plans, it'd be nice to see things from her end!

"Dirk has to stick a finger in one ear to hear what Rose is saying over the cacophony of boos and buckets being lobbed toward center stage." Not sure if it would be worse or not for trolls to have thrown that bucket.

"He considers it all pretty fucking annoying, so he flips off the crowd and jumps the ropes. Always a good idea to abscond from the stadium before the customary show-end riot hits full swing." ... So his whole upset-the-audience-into-rioting is par for the course? Dear god, are all his fans hooligans? ... That actually runs pretty close to what happened in AIDS, come to think of it.

"ROSE: It’s not so much “what is up” as “what is down,” the answer to which is, proverbially: Me." Down for the count, not down in the brooding caverns, naturally. You know, since she's ascended to the highest top of the surface.

"ROSE: I mean that both physically and philosophically by the way.

DIRK: You’re down philosophically?

ROSE: Yes.

DIRK: I’m not sure what that actually means.

ROSE: What doesn’t it mean, Dirk." Oh my freaking god, these guys might even be more amazing together than Dave and Rose, it's a sight to behold.

"DIRK: Glad to see that my genetic predisposition for melodrama is still alive and well in my slime-progeny even after all these years.

ROSE: Please don’t interrupt. This is important, and I’ll need all the energy I can spare to sustain even a heavily monologic transmission of the relevant facts." Yes, Dirk, please cut Rose some slack, she only has so few monologues left in her. :P

"ROSE: Anyway, the matter at hand is my “condition,” with which you’re already familiar.

ROSE: I’ve struggled to devise the right way of telling you without causing undue alarm, which would unquestionably trigger the overbearing tendency of yours to “solve the problem” for me, which is not the kind of circumstance my constitution can withstand these days.

ROSE: I can barely lift a wrist to my forehead to telegraph my infirmity, of late. Your bullshit is precisely the thousand-pound feather that could knock me clean through my apartment’s plate glass window." While I don't disagree Rose's condition might be severe, I see she's still well enough to heat a scalding plate of sarcasm. Also, wouldn't Jasprosesprite^2 be better than Dirk at handling her situation? Her feelings for interacting with a clownesk version of herself not withstanding, it's a Rose that already went through the ultimate self thing. Granted, she had fake magic Sprite powers to help her cope, as well as bullshit feline asshole personality issues.

"I’m taking solace in the fact that your infirmity doesn’t seem to have spread to your vocal cords yet." Right, got to remind myself that actual voices are being used to talk with one another. Still not used to it for Homestuck characters doing this when phones are involved. :P The only time it happened in-story was when a "shellphone" was involved, after all.

"ROSE: The bottom line is this.

ROSE: I am ascending, and it is terrible." ... Hmm, could that imply that the Ultimate Self is the last of the god tiers, or pretty high up there, at least? It would take a ridiculous amount of XP, seven years may or may not be enough, but if it's about the accumulation of self-reflection & general knowledge, a Seer of Light would be pretty quick to collect that kind of required boons.

"Rose adjusts her position on the couch with the body language of one about to dive into the latest gossip about a mutual friend. The mutual in this case: her tortured psyche." So the therapist is seeking counsil, in a way, is she? :P

"ROSE: Years of refining my Seer of Light powers have cursed me with what is approaching near infinite prescience. Dwelling in this idyllic post-canon realm has worn down the barriers separating my primary consciousness from the memories and experiences of all my doomed alternate selves, which were forgotten and discarded over the due course of our journey." So that implies they were many, more than we'd assume immediately. There's Dream Rose, Alternate Future Rose, pre-retcon Rose (now Jasprose) & B2 Rose, but it appears there are more still. Well, okay, there's also Reload Rose now, I guess.

"ROSE: As I approach the realization of my Ultimate Self, I cannot stop the extant knowledge from seeping in. I am plagued by near constant visions from the less fortunate versions of myself, as well as a broadening view of the metatextual nature of our existence." She's starting to become self-aware, before you know it she'll be addressing us directly through the Fourth Wall! Well, it's not like we didn't have a smug monologic narrator before. (Did I mean Doc Scratch, Andrew Hussie or Lord English? Yes.)

"ROSE: It drains all of my energy to keep my consciousness focused on relevant events, but even then I am losing my ability to discern what is and is not canonically relevant, let alone what is also true or essential." Well, okay, if she can't even discern between her own life, fanon and fan fiction, she might really have a problem.

"ROSE: And all of this is making me incredibly fucking sick." Rose is getting Homestucksick, is it? :P

"DIRK: Oh. Is that all?" My first thought was: blatant sarcasm. But then... We don't know how far Dirk's powers extend, do we? What shards of his has he had access to all this time, if Brain Ghost Dirk is any indication?

"DIRK: Well, in the spirit of full disclosure,

DIRK: Same." Ooooooh, wow. So it's the same for him? If he was nurturing the mother grub of all splitting headaches all this time, no wonder he pisses on the whole audience experience every time. While he would have more experience juggling disparate experiences, it was already a strain on him back when it was just him and Dream Dirk. Can you imagine him having to jostle Arquiusprite's thoughts & desires, or god forbid, some part of Lord English' experiences too? ... Okay now I'm curious as to what it's like for Dirk.

... Dirk's Ultimate Self experience would have been one of those things I would have liked to see speculation of, back on the old forums. But alas, we're archival readers now, not serial readers. It was not meant to be.

Got to say though. If it's this hard on the god tiers, how must it be for Terezi? Because I'm pretty sure post-retcon Terezi forced an ultimate self revelation on herself through her mindy thing.

It might be that Mind is the aspect best suited at handling all these inflows from doomed timelines and conditional experiences. Or it might be that Heart is, they're related aspects, and Heart is supposed to stand for Soul. It just might depend on where you think the self is defined: in actual experiences, or in the potential for them, realized or not.

"DIRK: We are suffering from the same condition, Rose." So... Does this lend more stake to Dirk's idea for backing Jane, or is it just one of those situations where he can't discern the right course of action any more, that Rose was referring to?

"She allows several rare conversational beats to pass in silence between them, to process the admission." That's how you know things are grave, when Dirk and Rose stop talking.

"DIRK: I guess I used the wrong phrase. You are suffering from it. I am adapting to it.

DIRK: I already have, really." No, wait, THIS is how you know things are grave: when Dirk insists he's got a handle on things. "Adapting", like he's the AI version of himself, not the human version.

"ROSE: When were you going to tell me this?

DIRK: When you were ready.

ROSE: So you have determined that I’m ready to receive this rather critical piece of information now, of all times?

ROSE: What distinguishes the present from the other moments you could have mentioned it?" Well, isn't today the day that things become relevant again, Rose? April 13th? :P

"DIRK: Wow. Well, when you put it that way, it makes me sound like kind of a dick.

DIRK: But I guess it isn’t far from the truth, either." Well, you already sound like kind of a Dirk, most of the time, so

"

ROSE: Unbelievable.

DIRK: Look, it’s not something you just spring on people that frivolously.

DIRK: “Hey folks, just so you know, the boundaries of my awareness are coming apart, and now I know almost everything, about everyone, everywhere.”" "I can see into forever!" Okay, so it was more Dirk's low self-esteem springing up again. He was waiting for someone to "get it" and make the first move. So, is the omniscience thing coming from Arquius' unfathomable depths of AI? Or its connection to Doc Scatch???

"

DIRK: “Also, the process should be tearing my body apart, but actually I’m handling it quite well. Thanks for the concern though.”" Imagine Dirk as the dog in the "This is fine" image.

"DIRK: There will be time to explain all this.

DIRK: Despite whatever appearance of callousness I’ve maintained in withholding this information from you, I actually do have your best interests in mind. I don’t want to wear you out on this call." Gotta say, omniscient Dirk working behind the scenes with whatever boatload of narrative information he has on hand is both assuring and worrying.

"DIRK: For now, I’ll just mention that I’ve been alert to your problem for some time, and I’ve been devising a solution which should permanently remedy it without compromising the boon of your expanding consciousness." ... Definitely tipping back into worrying. It's for the lack of kernelsprites on Earth C that I'll give Dirk the benefit of the doubt, for now.

"DIRK: Would love to tell you, but I’ve got some work to do. Why don’t you stop by my studio later so we can hash this shit out in person." ... I dearly hope his solution isn't: "Here, upload your consciousness into this Rosebot. There! All the limits of your feeble immortal biological coil, removed."

So, Dirk (and Jake) have a studio, Rose has an apartment, Dave 'n Karkat 'n Jade a hive, John a house. I wonder if Jane has ended up owning a mansion of sorts (the White House doesn't count... yet).

Also, Dirk hashing things out is funny, because of Dave's former sylladex mode: hashmap.

"

DIRK: Right now, you should get some rest." Hmm, Blaperile has some theories rest might help her condition. I wonder if, through sleeping or some other process, Rose might be able to actually 'act' through her alternate selves. What if she could make contact with Reload Rose, send her some bits of the bigger picture without overloading her with information?

"ROSE: Actually, I’m feeling oddly invigorated suddenly. I think I’m good for more exposition, if you are." ... Okay didn't see that coming. Either she's scathingly sarcastic right now, or we're in for a treat.

"DIRK: Can’t say I’m surprised. But no." Nothing to perk up Rose better than the promise of secrets not yet revealed, I guess!

"ROSE: Have I caught you at a bad time?

DIRK: Nah, but there is an election coming up, and my work as a political operative is going to be absolutely essential for the fate of humanity." See, Rose could think Dirk is being falseful, but she's nearing omniscience so probably not. Still, Dirk is forgetting to include other species' fate in his calculations, not just humanity's.

"ROSE: I see. Wheels within wheels, I assume?

DIRK: There are always wheels. Wheels are everywhere.

DIRK: They aren’t my wheels or yours. The wheels don’t have owners or designers, but they do have caretakers.

DIRK: They won’t keep turning on their own without someone to grease the mechanism." This is turning into a Dave metaphor again. ... But hmm, that's a mechanics metaphor he's using. Is that a reference to that Rosebot I theorized about... or Arquiusprite? Cause if Rose could act through Reload Rose, Dirk could act through either his Reload self or Arquiusprite! Here's to hoping there isn't a shard in Lord English influencing his behaviour, or reading his every thought and intent.

"the full brunt of the sunset: purple and orange, blending brilliantly on the horizon." I see what you did there. Yes, Dirk and Rose's first actual conversation was brilliant.

"She’s right about him, he thinks. While his ecto-daughter views herself as having a somewhat deft artistic hand that lends itself naturally to a gentle push-and-pull style of influence, Dirk knows his methods are mechanical, like those of an engineer. There is nothing adaptive or interpretive about his method. Every piece has a purpose, a slot, an interlocking mechanism that is functionally pointless without the whole." Yes, it's been pointed out on occasion Rose is quite elegant in her ways. Those ways don't include tidying her room, but still. With the visuals being used to describe both of Rose 'n Dirk's different takes on influencing people, I am reminded of how Names in the "Practical Guide to Evil" story feel different for each person. For one, like putting on a tailormade pair of gloves, for another, like observing the methodical churning of a machine. I already felt quite a few times reminded of Homestuck while archive-reading PGtE (not done yet!), it's only fitting it now goes the other way around again.

Also, thinking about the wheels metaphor has gotten me thinking about LOHAC, and now I have the Clockwork theme from the Medium album stuck in my head.

[steve0discusses]

Yugioh S2 Ep 42 : Hello, Darkness, my Old and Also Relatively New Teenage Shadow Magic Friend

Recently, on Yugioh, we asked ourselves, (well, I asked myself since I assume most of you have seen this show before) how does it matter at all if you lose your memories of someone for like, ten minutes, when you will obviously have to run into them again once the duel is over? And if you have lost the memories that they ever existed then what would it matter since you would not know that you had known them?

This is how - They become shadow people and you literally can’t see them anymore for what I assume is the rest of your life. I don’t know how that works since they can still like write things down on pieces of paper or I dunno, communicate entirely through texting like most kids do who haven’t been cursed with eternal invisibility.

But don’t think too much about the logic, because people can now be erased from your life via cards, AKA Yugioh is gonna throw us another heavy handed take on depression, get ready. And honestly, it’s not a bad take. Good on Yugioh for this fairly accurate metaphor of what sadness can feel like. Like, sometimes people feel like their friends don't like them anymore, although they may be surrounded by people the entire time who are rooting for them and want to help them, but they just can’t see them. I think every person in the world has been through that at some point. You don’t often see it addressed in a kid’s show, although it really should be, because it happens so often.

Probably shouldn’t have started out with Tea for this example though. Like for reals, when have Mai and Tea ever hung out? That one time Mai told Tea to take a shower because she smelled like a boy? Or...

...That’s it. That’s the last conversation I remember these two having one-on-one. Most of the time Mai has been on screen is with Yugi and Joey instead. Mai and Tea shared a tent once. That’s it.

Lolmao I can’t believe Mime came back.

So now, canonically, BDSM Mime got stranded somewhere in Japan and now Marik doesn’t have any memories to even go and pick him up. He’s just forever trapped in this country now like Shenmue.

(read more)

Mai seems to remember that she used to know someone, so it’s more of like you get the feeling of losing a friend. Like basically every time you lose a monster you feel like you broke up with someone, but you can’t remember who. I can’t really relate to that feeling, but I’m sure this has happened to Mai at least once or twice for reals before this tournament. This is the girl who forgot she set herself up to get engaged.

Again, if you just thought it through for like 3 seconds, you’d have enough evidence to say “Yeah but this is all in my mind, I am standing in weird ass purple fog” but that’s the Shadow Realm.

After Tea’s memory is dissolved, next comes the threat of losing the memories of Joey Wheeler, AKA the vague love interest that she was very mad at up until about 5 seconds ago.

Also please admire how far the storyboarder went out of their way to avoid looking up Mai’s skirt. Straight up, they did not even bother to try and cover up those panty upskirts in Sailor Moon, but the storyboarder for Yugioh was so extra that they said “Hell with it, I’m gonna try” and so Mai’s legs are like double jointed and sprawled in the weirdest ways sometimes to cover that crack.

I mean, it’s still a pinup--there’s no way around this character design--but I really think they were trying to not go too far, but then ended up making it kind of worse sometimes. It’s just what happens when you have a love affair a lot of extreme low angle shots but none of your girls wear pants because it’s 2001 and everyone’s wearing tube tops and minis.

Which was a thing. I’ll admit it, I lived through it, 2001 was kind of a slutty time, it was the era of the glittery backless diamond shaped halter top. Which, while time has tried to forget, I will never forget the 20 minutes I spent in a dressing room trying to figure out how to put on a backless diamond shaped halter top only to realize that I was putting it on sideways.

Now, stepping away from confusing 00′s fashion and back to the show. Mai losing these pile of kids might mean more to me if Mai had been hanging out with them this whole time, but it really does feel like they’re closer to Duke Devlin than they are to Mai Valentine, because Duke at least shared a school with them so I can assume that in the past they’ve passed each other in the hallway or talked on occasion. But, Mai is an adult who never comes in contact outside of cards, and when she does, she only ever pushes them away.

It’s especially that-Yugioh-brand-of-tragic because in the mind of all of the characters on this show, we’ve just kind of assumed Mai has had a life and friendships outside of these couple of kids. But this episode we realize there’s just...no one else but the people she sees at these rare tourneys. As we see here in this flashback to her childhood, in the most anime PJ’s ever drawn.

Why does every flashback look like everyone's straight out the American Girl Doll collection? Like Pegasus and Cecilia were in turn of the century clothes. the Kaibas were dressed like little newsies when they were orphans, little Mai looks like she owns a horse in matching ribbons.

And as it turns out, do you know the reason why Mai hates friendship? You’ll never guess--her Parents. Ah, Neglectful Parents, strikes again, that old Yugioh chestnut. It’s like I’m watching Once Upon a Time again. At least these neglectful parents didn’t lock her up underground and tattoo her eyes. Instead, these ones just worked a lot and she got kinda lonely.

Are there any good parents on this show? I assume if anyone’s parents are good we just never see them, right? Is that why we never see Mr Muto?

Anyway, Mai moved around a lot, her parents were always busy, and it rained like constantly--so Mai decided to get a job on a cruise line, where she became a card shark. And also where she randomly got engaged and then forgot.

I don't remember her tent looking like that but I’ll allow it.

You could have chosen any friends out there Mai, traveling the world on a cruise line, doing cards all over the planet, and you chose these guys? The ones with multiple curses? Like you nabbed both Yugi and Bakura in one go? Congrats!

Anyway she very quickly forgets Joey so Rip MaixJoey that was a good one and half episodes, surely the longest relationship on Yugioh!

So, Yugi decides to activate the millennium item chatroom, where apparently he could just butt into whoever is getting cursed at the moment. And mind you, he could just solve the duel but like, there is a card game going on, and although it’s super duper cursed, we gotta make it fair. Yugi’s just here to give some good advice and then bounce.

No laser fights today. He still isn’t aware he can do that.

freakin love this blue yellow color combo PS.

So something that I do like about this, is that the real threat here in these Shadow Duels is not the duel really--it’s to Mai’s relationships more than injury Mai herself. Yes, she does die if she loses, but the more she loses, the more she loses people in her life, even if she wins. The loss of the people is more scary to her more than the fear of dying.

And this hearkens back to the first time we dealt with the Shadow Realm with Yugi and his Grandfather. Yugi was over that duel in about 15 minutes or whatever the time limit was, and after the initial shock he brushed himself off and may have appeared fully recovered, but it took him almost an entire season to get his Grandpa back in his life.

So if you look at these curses as akin to getting an illness, when you lose a relationship because of illness, that can be a pretty terrible symptom that you don’t really see coming. Happens a whole lot though. In Mai’s case, if she does lose, she also loses the opportunity to repair what she’s lost, which is probably the greatest fear of someone who may be going through A Time.

Like honestly, the Mai duel is *kind of a downer* and I was just talking to my Bro about how of all the shadow duels so far, this is the one that is most clearly “I’m just going to fight you with straight up depression” and how apparently Marik is just so far into his own downward spiral that he no longer cares about who he drags down with him. He’s just given up trying to be better at this point. Like his only ‘friend’ left is BDSM Mime clown. That’s a pretty intense rock bottom, honestly.

But on a positive note, what Yugi points out to Mai is “You’re in this now, but we will get you out of it, no matter what he curses you to believe.” and of anyone here, Yugi’s the only one that can actually reach out and speak to her because he’s the only one who has been through it before and thus knows how it works.

Being cursed with heavy handed illness imagery AKA Shadow Magic does have that perk. You can help out the similarly cursed. Even though he could have probably launched at least a couple fireballs at the problem to help her out also.

Holy hell they actually edited out all the little details on this duel disk here. Good on you, animators. Good on you. I’m glad someone did it. Hope that saved at least one of you from carpal tunnel, you poor overworked animators that had to draw every line on these crazy complicated character designs.

So Mai, spurned onward by the ghostly voices of her forgotten friends figures out how to steal Marik’s God Card.

Again, everyone on this show is obsessed with these awful cards and they feel like they must play them to win when honestly--look how much this card sucks.

If this God Card ends up killing her it’ll only prove my point that all these cards are just fundamentally hella bad.

Same with Odion, he could’ve won just fine without playing a God Card but leave it to these dummies to just go crazy with the one of three cards that has been prophecies to kill them. Like, when Odysseus gives you a bag of wind, just don’t open the bag. That easy.

Anyway, tune in next week to see if Mai ends up blown overboard like the servants of Odysseus, or if she ends up devoured by a giant creature also like the servants of Odysseus. Or if she ends up dating Joey Wheeler. That part didn’t happen in the Odyssey, but I’ve read enough people comparing fanfic to Homer that I guess you could make it happen if you really wanted to.

Link to read these recaps from S1 Ep1

[blaperile]

Homestuck Epilogues - Meat - Page 7