#micro brute

[niconiconwo]

Slowly coming up with a basic post on hobby electronics, hopefully if I can inspire more people to start without going straight to arduino the hobby will be less atrocious.

[bi-writes]

attached | ghost x f!reader

i have no idea what it is that binds us together. but it doesn't really matter.

type: one-shot (8.4k)

cw: zombie apocalypse au, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!ghost, dark!reader, reader described as curvy/plus-sized + has hair long enough to braid, graphic depictions of violence + murder + gore, depictions of suicidal thoughts + intentions (no actual action), mentions of depression + sadness + loneliness, depictions of assault + harassment (not by ghost), horror movie vibes, unprotected piv, allusions to baby trapping, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving), 18+

Death can be a curious thing. It used to be something definitive. Exact. It used to mean the end of something.

No, now it's a beginning. Not a sweet beginning, but a beginning nonetheless. It turns a new tide. Reactivates cells that were once dead. Sparks nerves that used to be dormant, that used to be dark. It makes muscles move even when they aren't supposed to. Brain-dead, but still hungry.

He hasn't been able to understand the phenomenon quite yet. He's tried. He's picked up a few books and tried to do his own research, but it's difficult when there is no way for him to view the cellular structure of it all on a micro-level. He cannot see the way it grows or how it takes over. He hasn't been able to figure out what techniques it uses to keep a body awake even when the central organs no longer function the way they're supposed to. What keeps it moving? What keeps the feet running and the stomach hungry and the saliva warm?

Why is it that when he plunges his blade through its heart, it still kicks? The brain is its engine, as with his own body, but this is different. The brain runs even when it has lost its necessary components. Blood circulation, oxygen, the things it needs to thrive; but this state of being is not like his own. It doesn't need the same things it used to need because its purpose is not to keep a body running. Its purpose is to eat. To infect. And that is all.

He likes to play games these days. He has a lucky silver euro, one he pried off the dead body of someone that he hated. He spit on that body before raiding his pockets. He hated that fucking brute; he disgraced the style of wearing a mask by using a fucking t-shirt instead. Perhaps Austria is a beautiful country, but it certainly produced one of the most unlikable of men. He thinks even if the world was still right-side up, he would've killed him anyway. The only thing useful about him was that he was carrying a few extra magazines and this coin in his front pocket.

Every morning, when he wakes up, he makes whatever will happen that day a game. If the coin lands on heads, he gets to kill himself today. If it lands on tails, he has to endure 24 more hours before he can play again. The rules are simple. The game is easy. Everyone knows how to play it, but not everyone will like to win it.

Today, he decides to do something different. Today, he decides if he wins, he will wait another day. He has never won this game; he decides if he can't win it, he'll manipulate it until he gets what he wants.

It hits the table with a light clink. It rattles around in a few circles before settling, and when he leans back in his chair, he sighs. He knows what it will be even without looking, but he looks anyway. When he sees the carved outline of its face-side up, his eyes flash. He won.

He never wins.

Something is keeping him here. He chooses not to ask questions. There isn't anyone to ask anyways. No one answers when he speaks. He doesn't think there is anyone left to listen.

If someone would ask him why he doesn't just put the muzzle to his temple and pull the trigger, he would just say that it was because that was how the game is played. Those are the rules. He can't try unless that's what it tells him to do. There is no fun in cheating the game; it wouldn't be proper, it wouldn't be correct. It would be grounds for disqualification, and that just wouldn't do, not for him.

He has to do things the right way. Always. It's how you keep order in a world that has none left. It's how you maintain structure even without the lines drawn in the sand. This is the way things are done; God is not waiting at the end of a very long staircase, He is rattling that coin on the table and waiting for Ghost to take a peek.

He thinks it keeps landing on tails because perhaps God is tired of playing this game with him; Ghost has never been surprised. He will always be ready for disappointment. Giving a gift is no fun when the recipient simply receives it.

It landed on heads today. He won the game. He tried to play it differently, but someone won't let him.

There's snow on the ground this morning. It snowed all night, coating the ground in a few inches of powdery ice. He looks away from the window and back towards the mirror, continue to run the razor over his head. His blonde hair falls in clumps in the sink. He keeps it neat and short, close to the head, and then he does the same with his face. He cuts the stubble close, keeping his face clean, but it doesn't wipe away the rest of his face, the things he can't just cut away. The scars, the ridges, the skin that closed over wounds angry and white and uneven. He can see his teeth through the broken skin above his lip, the yellowing of them now that he only brushes them a few times a week with his lack of proper toothpaste, and he grimaces when he sees the new red spots of raised skin left behind from the dirty mask he wears now. He dips his toothbrush into his bottle of water before brushing, careful to scrub his gums properly before spitting into the sink.

When he finishes, he makes his way back into the bedroom to get dressed. He did the washing yesterday; he found a creek only half frozen over, and he made use of the bar soap he keeps and managed to clean off most of his clothes. He feels a little better slipping into his cargos now that they aren't drenched in sweat or dirt. He tucks a long-sleeve into his pants before putting a thick windbreaker on over it, but he finally feels complete once he slips his mask on over his face. In the mirror, he adjusts it, making the skull straight, and he blinks back at himself. The mask does more than just hide him from the dead.

It keeps the living walking a careful circle around him, and he wants to keep it that way. He hasn't spoken to a single person since it began. He stopped counting the days once his boots ran out of space for notches. Anyone he sees now, he scares them off with one look, or he puts them down before they can take a step closer to finding out if he's real or not.

He doesn't take chances. He has always had a special skill, being able to sniff out the bullshit before it begins. He leans into it now, and it isn't a bullet wasted if it stops the chaos before it can wind up.

He still wears his tactical gear. He can't part with it. His holsters have not failed him, still buckled around his thighs. His vest is still strapped on, and without it, he feels naked. He has long since discarded of the Union Jack patch on his chest; there is no king nor country anymore. They are colors in different shapes, and they mean nothing now; they were buried a long time ago.

His backpack feels light. He's running out of bullets, and he doesn't like how it feels. Nowadays, he has to go further and further to get what he needs, and recently, he's taken to picking up everything and simply moving to make the trips all the easier with no home to go back to.

It's not all that different to the life he had before. He never stayed in one place too long then either. He signed the shortest leases, and he would move once it was up, never lingering and never buying more things than he could carry in the back of his truck. His memories are in his head and nowhere else. He keeps no trinkets. He saves no pictures. There is nothing from the old life that needs to be brought into the new. He shifts between both lives, one foot in the past and one in the future, and he thinks that's what really makes him live up to his name.

He's a Ghost. A drifter. Standing between two places at the same time, not knowing which to stay in and which to leave. It would hurt, if he was really human inside, if he could feel anything at all.

But he's not. His insides are nothing but organic matter. His head is a clock, ticking, counting down, but he's not aware of when it runs out.

He digs the heel of his boot into the snow to gauge the depth. It barely comes up over his toes. He huffs a little before taking a peek at the map tucked into his vest. He had circled a place just north, a main street he is hoping will have a stash of things he will need.

Ammunition. Weapons. Food. Water. A new book, for fuck's sake, maybe a Sudoku puzzle that isn't already scribbled into.

The forest gives him cover, so he sticks to it. Out in the open, he would stick out, dressed in all black. He keeps to the trees, ducking under the leaves and trying not to leave too much of a track behind. He doesn't plan on staying in that cabin again, but if he must, he doesn't want anyone seeing a way to come back to it.

The one thing he does appreciate about this new place is the quiet. It lingers, and it's calm, and when he breathes, the world breathes back. He feels like he had always been telling everyone to shut up, but now, his voice hasn't been used in months. Even when he passes other people, he doesn't speak to them. If they don't spot him, he keeps to the shadows, and if they do, they don't see him for long enough to know what hit them.

It's a good stash. The store had been rifled through by now, but in the office, there had been a nice drawer filled with supplies. A few boxes of ammunition, a revolver, and a new blade to stick in one of his boots. He picks up some other odds and ends. Batteries. A roll of yarn. A small sewing kit. A few pens. His backpack feels a little heavier, and it's a weight he appreciates when he makes his way back outside.

He sticks to the alleyways as he searches for the roof over his head for the night. He decides the cabin he slept in last night was too close to the road; if anyone was driving or following it, they could find that place too easily, and he wouldn't be able to sleep another night comfortably there knowing this truth.

He finds himself veering off road just enough. It's fucking cold, freezing, and he's grateful to the mask for helping him keep it together as he ducks under the wind and keeps an eye out for any nearby landmarks. Sometimes, on slow days like this, he would sit on a ridge and kill infected for sport. Practice focusing his sight, calculating the wind, keep his mind in check by hitting his targets and ridding the world of another one of those things.

There are different kinds of hunters out today.

He hears them before he sees them. He knows what kind they are when he hears their laughter. Low and untamed, sloppy and fucking messy. They always are. These kind spoil their treasures. They eat their food until it makes them sick, and then they do it all over again. They never learn their lesson.

When he settles his rifle down along a fallen tree, he eyes them through his scope. There are two of them. Both are fattened, with dark hair and lazy eyes, and they look greasy. Their clothes are in ruins, and their packs are light, and Ghost figures that they look enough alike to be perhaps brothers, or maybe cousins. Their smiles are equally as sadistic. The taller one tugs something along, and when Ghost aims the scope down a little, he sees her.

Her.

He's dragging her by her legs. She's kicking, but it's hard for her to do much when her arms and legs are bound by mismatched bits of fabric and rope. She's crying, that much is clear, squirming as she spits and gargles around the gag in her mouth as she tries to break free. She has heart, but she isn’t a fighter. If she was, she would’ve realized her teeth could snap that fabric of her gag, and she would know that the knot they’ve tied succumbs easily to upwards pressure.

He follows them. They keep going, dragging you and laughing as they make it to a makeshift camp hidden amongst a clearing. There's a few tents set up, a small dip in the earth to hold a campfire, and when they settle on tree trunks to sit, the smaller one takes a blade and cuts your gag off, leaning over you with a low chuckle. They mean to maim and to take and then to kill, and you know this when you look into his eyes.

"Hello, darling."

"Bite me."

He laughs again, dropping onto his knees over you, but when he gets close enough, you sit up with what little strength you have and bite him along his ear. The cartilage rips, and you tear half his ear off, and then he's scrambling off of you, screaming, holding the side of his head as he rolls around in circles in the snow. He colors it red, and you snarl with satisfaction. Ghost takes a deep breath in and lets it out shakily. The look in your eyes–he can taste that, roll it around on his tongue. You did not clock the poorly-tied knots, but you do see opportunity, and you are the kind to take it.

"You bitch!"

Just as the taller one is about to get on top of you, Ghost decides he's seen enough. He closes one eye, lines up the sight, and he lets out a cool breath as he drops the both of them within a second of each other. They fall easy; a bullet clean through the back of their heads, and now they're finally quiet again. They will not get up, either.

Your lip trembles as you look towards the trees. You watch as the leaves rustle, and when you see a man emerge from the thick of them, you start to cry. You think maybe you're seeing things; you must be so dehydrated, so hungry, that a reaper has come for you, and you are much deader than you thought.

The reaper stares down at you curiously. He swings his rifle over his shoulder, tilting his head to the side as he bends, getting a blade out of his boot before he cuts the restraints that bind you. He doesn’t hesitate when he does this; he does not deem you enough of a threat to keep you bound.

You sit up slowly, wiping your face, and when you meet his eyes, you're surprised to see how human they are. They're dark, but alive, and he has blonde lashes and pale skin underneath. He covers himself, but you can still see him. There's a man under there, not a reaper.

Just a man.

I hate men.

You shake off the rest of the restraints, turning your wrists and ankles and flexing your muscles for good measure. When you realize you are nothing but a little shaken up, you look back up. He's still staring at you, hard eyes lowered in a glare as he looks you over. He's sizing you up, maybe, deciding what to do with you. You meet his eyes one more time before gathering the saliva into your mouth and spitting onto the floor. It's a garbled mess of blood, from the flesh you had severed from that man.

He blinks slowly at that, makes some decision that he doesn’t voice out loud, and then he starts to walk away.

You stand on shaky legs, taking it as your cue. You watch as he rips open the flimsy tents that those men had left behind, and he's already grabbing backpacks and rifling through them for goods. He already starts filling his own vest and backpack with the things he finds; some flashlights, fishing line, more food and ammunition. You follow him, moving to the other tent beside it and starting to grab their things and toss them outside. You get to your knees and open the packs, laying out what you find carefully. They have interesting materials in here, ones you associate with explosives. C4. Lighters. Batteries. Wiring. You clench your jaw when you pull out the last box in the bag.

Condoms.

Bunch of pricks.

He finds your discoveries useful. He opens up an empty pack he found and fills it to the brim with supplies. When he zips it up, your stomach drops when you think he might toss it over his shoulder and leave. It only sinks for a moment before he turns the backpack around, holding it up for you.

You pause for a little and think. It only takes a few seconds for you to decide to stand up and slip your arms through the straps.

When he walks again, you follow.

The sun is setting by the time you find somewhere to sleep, but it looks like luxury to you. A quaint little brick house tucked between the hills, a ways from the road and positively hidden. He spotted it through his scope a few hours ago, and he made a beeline for it. It's difficult to keep up with him; he has incredible stamina and the longest legs. He moves like a ghost, too quiet for his own good. You would never know from looking at him how stealthy he could be. For such a huge man, you would never notice him before he could get the drop on you. It makes you conscious of your own steps and how loud they are, and you try to mimic the way he moves as you keep walking.

You don't know why, but you think he must be very pleased with how quiet you've gotten. You don't know why that fact pleases you, too.

He makes you stay outside when you arrive. He pulls a small handgun out of his backpack, and he checks the chamber before handing it to you. He clicks his tongue, forcing your eyes on his, and he puts a finger to his mask-covered lips, telling you to keep quiet. You take the gun from him, pointing it at the ground and holding it at your side, and he touches a knuckle under your chin before he twists a silencer onto his own gun.

You watch with rapt attention as he clears the house. His movements are quick and calculated, and he keeps low to the ground. It's mesmerizing. Big and capable, one with the shadows. The only thing you see in the dark is the white of the skull over his face, and if you didn't know it was him, you would think that you have just seen God.

But God isn't real. Apparently ghosts are.

He is back outside in less than ten minutes, nodding his head at you. You take it as your cue to come towards him, and you hand him the gun back when you pass him. You go into the house and immediately start to light some of the candles scattered around. You set your backpack down, rubbing your shoulders out, and you take a seat on the couch.

It hits you then, the gravity of it all. Men are your captors, and then they are your savior. They'll never leave you alone. They'll never let you go. You were ruled by their iron fist in a previous life, and you will endure their wrath in this new one.

You start to cry. It's the first sound you've made since screaming. You cover your face with your hands, and you don't know why you feel safe enough to cry, but you do, and it comes out of you fast.

He tilts his head to the side as he watches you. It's a strange thing to see something so...alive. He's used to only seeing things moving that can't speak back to him. If he does see things alive, he puts them down as if they are rabid dogs.

He can't find it in himself to kill you. Something is so odd about it. About you.

Everything about today seems more than coincidence. He won the game today. And then he found you.

When he tries the sink in the bathroom, he's surprised to find it working. He grabs a bowl and fills it with water, and when he comes back into the living room, you are staring at one of the flickering candles blankly, shivering. You have stopped crying, but your face is still wet with fat, lingering tears.

It looks like you've been hit by a brick wall. Your hair is matted in places, in tangles. It’s in desperate need of a cut. It's stuck to your face around the perimeter, caked by sweat and mud and dried blood. Your clothes are in ruins; you wear a ripped jumper, thin jeans, and the soles of your boots are starting to fray and come off, and he can see where you've tried to mend them unsuccessfully with duct tape. You wear no jewelry, and your fingernails need to be cut. Those men have left marks on you, but those will fade.

He kneels in front of where you sit on the couch. Using a threadbare cloth, he dips it into the water and raises it to your face. You show no resistance. You let him wipe your face off, the tears, the dirt, the blood. It stains the cloth ugly, but you can't look at anything else except for his eyes.

They're so dark. Brown, like bark, like honey. You haven't spoken a word to him yet, but the silence is sort of bliss. All you can hear is the drip of the water when he rings out the cloth.

He helped you. He didn't have to. He could've kept walking, but he stayed with you. He didn't leave you. He could've walked away again, but he let you follow.

He isn't a good man. You know that. Anyone who has lasted this long isn't a good person. You've done the same. You've let it take you, once or twice, let the snarl in the back of your throat guide your hand. You've let the voices fester, let them eat at the acid in your stomach until they begged for more, and you won't admit it, but it felt good. Felt good to protect yourself. To rid the earth of something terrible. To say no.

He must understand that. He's decorated in its essence, the one of understanding, the one that says I know what it's like to take matters into your own hands, and he did it with you, too.

He's doing it now, cleaning you up, and you don't know him, or his face, or his name, but you'll try hard to give it back. To give him something. To tell him you are worthy and not useless. It doesn't show today, how far you've come, but you'll try.

"Thank you," you finally whisper. He's dragging the cloth over your bottom lip, and he blinks rapidly, as if a bit startled by hearing your voice. When you speak again, it's to tell him your name, and he thinks for a few moments before continuing, wiping under your jaw.

He doesn't sleep that night. He stares out the window, like a guard dog, and he lets the soft breaths of your sleep keep him awake.

The gas lighter on the stove still works. It takes a match to light it properly, but when the fire starts, you take some of the soup cans from your pack and make breakfast.

Your smile when he comes into the kitchen nearly blinds him. You look more rested than yesterday, and you ladle some soup into a bowl for him, setting it down at the table. He notices the two bowls, his and yours, and he notices that his bowl has more food.

It is then that he decides to keep you.

What he doesn't know is that you've decided the same. The world has thrown you the way out. A man, built like a bear, happy finger on the trigger and capable of getting you out of harm's way. You need to convince him that you are worthy. You need to convince him that you are valuable. A keepsake.

Men are what start wars, not what end them. Men are the cause of chaos and destruction, it is prevalent throughout history, and it is why you are here now, in a place that doesn’t exist, where people don’t breathe the same air anymore. A man thought himself correct, but he was wrong, and he didn’t listen when someone told him otherwise. They are the ones that take advantage of your vulnerability, and instead of trying to understand it, they use it to get what they want.

You can do the same.

You start by mending his clothes. He's laid some out to dry after washing, and you notice the tears in his shirts. When he comes back a little while later, with dinner hanging off his shoulder, you are seated on the couch, feet tucked under you, with a needle in your hand as you sew up one of his shirts.

You've bathed, found new clothes, warmer ones, and your hair is braided and off your face. He hates to say he prefers you a little dirty, but he likes this, too. A natural beauty. A soft face.

You make a real dinner that night. There's canned vegetables that you try to spruce up with the spices you find in the cupboards, but the real meal is the venison you're served. He butchers it outside like a professional, and he sears it on the stove with a perfect touch. When he feeds you that first bite, your mouth explodes with flavor. Your belly is full that evening, and when he blows out the candles for bed, he eats you out in the dark of the corner bedroom.

He's not sloppy like you thought he might be. Not overeager. He's easy with it, casual. Big hunk of a man smothered between your thighs, and he laves his tongue through your folds like his very own personal dessert. He drinks straight from the source, holy water spilling sweet between his teeth, and when he gets his tongue inside of you and holds it there, you nearly leave earth for somewhere else. You come like that, too, his filthy mouth sucking on your clit before he's slipping that tongue in you again, and you mewl against the bed as he tucks his hand under your ass and spreads you wider.

He tells you his name a few nights later. He doesn't speak, not ever, but when you're crying around his thick fingers, he whispers it against your ear.

"'s Simon," he growls, and you know what he means by that. He wants you to say it while you bounce on his fingers, when you rut against his thigh. He wants you to say his name when you're coming undone riding his face, when you're wetting his mask with your pussy and making him choke on your cum. Such a wet, sweet girl you are, and sometimes he skips wash day for his mask so he can shove it into his mouth and pant around it and taste you while he fucks his own fist.

It's insanity, he thinks, as he's cleaning his rifle. The idea of traditional. But it's what befallen him, what he sees all around him, and he tucks his index finger into a hole too small to pinch himself just to make sure he isn't living a dream. You're in the kitchen, mending more clothes, something warm boiling on the stove. There were seeds in the greenhouse, and you're saving them to plant in the spring, so for now, you make do with canned goods and whatever Simon hunts for during the day. You found books in the attic, and you read them at night, head in Simon's lap as he plays with your hair or rubs your sore ankles or cuts your nails. You're the only one that ever speaks; he hasn't said a word to you except for telling you his name, and you're content to be the only one that uses their voice.

He always listens. You told him one time that you loved the shade of green that the trees wore, and he came back one day with a sweatshirt of the same color for you. He noticed you trying to mend those terrible boots, and he found a new pair for you, your size this time, barely worn and fit for winter. He brings lots of things for you; books, clothes, even rocks sometimes, when he just thinks he found one that you might like.

You do like them. You have started filling a small bowl with the ones he brings, and he notices you rifling through it sometimes, just looking at them, and it makes his chest swell with pride.

Like giving a treat to a dog. Like giving him a fucking bone.

He teaches you how to shoot. You know how to pull a trigger, but that’s the extent of your expertise. He teaches you how to stand, how to turn the safety on and off, how to hold the gun between two hands so not even his own can take it away from you. He makes sounds when you please him. Hums low, lets out a soft breath, sucks in the air through his teeth. You can’t see his face, but the way he looks at you when you fire a bullet and knock bottles off their ledges, it warms you, all the way down your spine, reaching your toes. You want him to keep looking at you this way, so you try hard, and he notices.

You’ll never be what he is, but the small victories are what have him chubbing up in his cargos and falling asleep between your thighs. You give, and he takes, and he keeps coming back for more.

He teaches you that distance is your strength. You aren’t like him; you aren’t built like a brick house, you won’t be bigger than a lot of your opponents. You need to keep them away from you, however you can. He makes you good with that gun because it’s your best chance, but in the even that you lose it or you run out of bullets, he shows you how to aim a hatchet so that the blade always lines up between someone’s shoulders.

The way you listen makes him salivate. The way you blink up at him and say yes, Simon and take his orders, it makes it difficult to keep away from you. 

Today marks two months in the house tucked on the hill. Simon hunts, and you cook, and you live in some sick, twisted housewife fantasy at the end of the fucking world. Simon provides, and you keep, and when the box of condoms falls out of your backpack one day, you glance at Simon for just a moment before he's on you.

It's animal, that first time. He tackles you practically onto the carpet of the living room, and he props you up onto your elbows and only pulls down your jeans enough that he can fit his cock between your thighs. You hear the tear of the condom wrapping, and then he's laying over your back, sinking to the base, cock nestled inside of you as he grips your throat gently and fucks you into the carpet. Poor beast, he's definitely going to need his knees massaged after this, but you can't think about that much when you're taking the fattest cock of your entire life and trying to survive underneath him. It's that fine line between pleasure and pain that you're desperate for, and you pull threads out of the carpet as you try to hang on and take it like a good girl.

You can hear his voice. It's low, and subtle, but he grunts with each agonizing thrust, hips snapping against your ass as he fucks you back onto him over and over and over again.

It's primal. Nasty. You wish he wasn't wearing a condom, you want him to be in your skin, you want him to fill you until you're full, let it spill over, and then do it all over again. You want him to bite into your throat and tear, and you want him to eat you and then put you back together, and then do it again and again and again.

"So big," you gasp, and he falters at that. You recognize it, the need for praise, and you latch onto it with claws and stay there. I need him to stay here with me. "So good...so good t-to me, Simon–"

He groans. It's music.

Keep me. Keep me. Keep me.

"Simon, please–" You scratch at his arm, not satisfied until you feel blood. When you break the skin, he laughs, a breathless laugh that has your eyes rolling back in your head as he shoves your face into the carpet and mounts you like a fucking horse. The deep slap, slap, slap of skin is enough to send you away, send you home, your mind foggy as your pussy squeezes him for all he's worth. The slick of the condom is pleasant, but you want it raw. You want every part of him carved into you, and you arch your back, suck him in, whine and cry and beg for him to just, "please, Simon, I need it, I need it."

"Need wot?"

The sound of his voice is whiplash. He hisses when he sinks deep, staying there, holding you at a sharp angle so he can knead your ass and watch it bounce back on him. He sucks on his teeth, and there's drool slipping out of your mouth. That accent, his voice, like velvet, from deep within his chest. You want to hear more of it.

"Be a man," you gasp. "Be a man, and fuck me."

He doesn't see the desperate look on your face when he slips out of you. He doesn't see the relief that washes over you when you hear the condom come off, latex crumbling as he tosses it, but he feels the warmth of your pretty pussy when he sinks back in, skin to skin, and feels you clench for dear fucking life.

"Fuckin' Christ," Simon groans, and you reach back for him, gripping his arms, forcing him to fall over on top of you. He settles with his elbows on either side of your head, and you bow your back and grip the carpet again as he fucks into you nice and slow, deep, fat head leaking precum and making you cry because finally, yes, please, this is it, what I want, I'll have you forever.

You're so pretty. Even in his past life, Simon never got to have anything pretty. He was too ugly, too big, too awkward. Any woman of good faith stayed 100 yards away, as if his mere presence was a warning alarm, some invisible radius that kept them away from him. He always thought it was for the better. He always thought good riddance, they shouldn't have me, I shouldn't have anyone. Not when only days before, he had tortured a Russian militant until he had no teeth and hung his severed fingers on twine around his own neck.

But you won't run away. He's given you opportunity. He's left the cottage and staked out the outside just to watch you, and all he sees is you moving between windows, shaking out the dust from old blankets and washing the dishes. All he sees is you sewing his clothes and cooking his food, and when he comes back inside, all he sees is your smile and your face and your pretty mouth that falls open when he makes you come all over his hand.

Now it's the end of the world, and he lets a coin flip decide whether or not he lives or dies. And even when he flips it now, it never agrees. When he asks to die, the coin tells him no. When he asks to live, it’s always interrupted by you.

Yes, it tells him. Yes, yes, yes, because it's been keeping him here, because it knows, because it saw, because he couldn't see both sides of the coin, but he can see it now, plain as day, and she's underneath him now, letting him inside, and she's begging him to come and to fill her up, and she's crying because he's such a big man, and she wants him everywhere and always and all at once, and Simon is nothing if he isn't an insatiable bastard that can finally be fucking selfish.

The way you say his name could make him move mountains. That soft breath you take. The falter of your voice. The whine. The world has gone quiet, but he'll make a new one, and he will leave it at your feet for you to step on or pick up.

Whichever you choose. You can do no wrong.

When he comes, he moans. Into your ear, he lets you hear him, lets you bask in his pleasure as he spurts hot inside of you, hauling you a little higher on your knees so he can make sure you come, too. He gives you the palm of his hand to grind on, fucking into you at the same time, humming deep when he feels you squeeze around him and shatter like glass.

He takes his mask off for the first time that night. You see his face, all of it, not just glimpses when he lifts it to eat or to drink, you see the whole thing. He has a terrible looking face. Something only a mother could love. Too old of scars to be from this new life. They slash across his brow, across his cheeks. He has a jagged nose, and the skin around his lips had been reconstructed poorly from however they had been slit.

He's a terrifying piece of flesh. He is surprised when you lean in and kiss him. He's even more surprised when you kick off your jeans, turn over, and fuck him again.

The mantra that sounds like mine repeats in his head over and over. He feels it, deep, warm and beating under his ribs alongside his heart that hasn't moved in a long while.

He found you in those woods, kicking amongst predators, and he took you home with him. Picked you up like a stray, fed you, clothed you, and now you've stayed. For a moment, he thought it wasn't real. Thought your full belly is what kept you here, the warm house. He didn't mind pretending, but he figured it wouldn't last.

He doesn't think that anymore. Not with the way you kiss his severed face. You nuzzle into it, cup his cheeks, and he finds it agony when you pull away.

He hovers now. In whatever room you are in, Simon must also be in it. If he leaves, he makes you board the doors, and you are only allowed to open them if he knocks in his special way. He tested you once, came back earlier than expected, and he was so pleased you did not open the door to his casual knock and only the special one that he made you come one, two, three times with your thighs locked around his face.

A terrible thing happens.

Not to you.

You're searching the greenhouse. Hoping to find some flower pots for the herb seeds you found, you're rummaging through the cabinets beside it. Your gun is sitting away from you, and although Simon would chastise you for this, you feel safe here, and it doesn't bother you.

It flings itself at you. It cries, what used to be a teenage girl, reaching for you because it wants a chunk of your softness, of the life you pump into the muscles that keep you running. You're protected by all the clothes you wear for the weather, and it is slow because of the cold freezing their rigid, dead bones, but it does not lessen the hunger, the fight, the determination to eat and spread.

Before it can bite, the back of its head explodes. You close your mouth and shut your eyes as rancid brain matter splatters the white snow and you, and it is wrenched off of you immediately. Simon stands there, his pistol in hand, and you have never seen him quite so angry as he is right now.

His eyes are wild. He heaves under that tact vest, breathing hard, and his grip on the handgun shakes, so much that he has to shove it back into the holster at his thigh and lean over to pick you up off the ground.

He jostles you. Growls. Is nearly an animal himself as he shoves you up against the glass of the greenhouse and snarls.

"Wot the fuck is wrong with ya?!" Simon snaps. "Is y'r fuckin' head on?!"

It's so quiet in your head even as he yells. Your eyes tear, but not because you're upset. You reach out and cup his face gently, and he stops. Stops talking, just watches, just looks at you as he bends and leans his forehead against yours and squeezes you to his chest.

What is this thing you have? What have you become? What innate thing has festered between you? He’s gripping the edge of the glass so hard, you hear it crack under his hand. There is some kind of sick sense of devotion among you. Some kind of responsibility. He’s angry because something under his tongue tasted bitter when he saw you struggling. It won’t be this easy. He won’t make it this easy. If he doesn’t get to die, then neither do you, and he will make sure of that, because that is the only way this game can remain fair.

You never wander to the greenhouse again. He makes you promise (lest he wastes his cum between your thighs instead of inside you, that's it, promise me).

Another terrible thing happens.

Not to you.

They're wanderers. When they knock at the door, they don't use Simon's special knock, so you don't open it. Instead, you blow out the candles and hide, peeking at them from the fogged window in the attic.

They are men (you aren't surprised, they seem to be the only thing that survives nature's heavy hand). Cold. Shivering. One of them is bleeding, you can see it from the blood trail he leaves in the snow that seeps from somewhere under the hem of his jeans. The one uninjured tries to force his way through the door, but Simon added more deadbolts to it, and it doesn't give under his weak attempts. You trade your handgun for the rifle, aiming it at them. If they get through the door, maybe you can draw them back out, keep them away from the house.

You try to stay quiet, but the healthier one uses his body and a log of wood to get through. They're desperate, desperate enough to not care that breaking through the door cuts him severely, splits through his jacket. The second man limps behind him, getting inside, and you decide to put the rifle back.

You will stay quiet until Simon gets back. Your strength is not being a bulldozer, so you'll hide until he can be that for you. You steady your breathing; even if they make it to the attic, you won't go quietly. You tried that last time, and if it wasn't for Simon, you'd surely be naked and dead in that clearing that you were dragged to.

This time, if you go, you will take someone with you at least. Severed ears are not enough. You will not make them artists, you will make them forgettable and unrecognizable, and you will give back what they give you tenfold. Even if it kills you.

It takes them all night before they finally make it to the attic. They eat your food and take showers in your bathroom and stink up the living room, you can hear them. And when their bellies are full and their minds wander, you dread the pull of the attic door as he wrenches it open and the ladder falls.

You manage to kill one as he drags you out from the corner. He latches onto your ankle, and as he pulls, you put your finger on the trigger of your handgun, and you put one right between his eyes. The other takes advantage of your moment of pause, turning you over onto your stomach so hard the gun flies across the attic from your hand. He tosses you down from the attic, and you land on your side in the hallway, and you cry as you get to your elbows and crawl, trying to get to your feet, but he's larger than you.

He catches you in the kitchen. Slams you over the kitchen counter, using his weight to pin you down, but Simon taught you better than that. He taught you not to give in. He taught you not to give up. You think about him when your fingers find the discarded fork on the counter and you drive it right through his fucking eye.

You don't stop. You don't let his cries keep you from bringing your arm down again. And again. And again. You make his face your blank canvas, and you paint it with your anger. For every man that ever touched you. For every man that ever thought himself worthy to have you. For every man that tried to make your body his prize, you poke a thousand holes in him, and you scream with him as you do it until he can't scream anymore.

You're holding the fork and standing over him when Simon comes home. His handgun drawn, silent as he makes his way in, his body visibly relaxing when he sees you. He glances at the man at your feet, still alive, gurgling there, choking on his own blood as he tries to breathe through the holes that are scattered across his face and neck. You meet his eyes, and you smile. It's uncanny to do it now, but you are happy to see him.

"There's..." You sniffle, wiping your face with your sleeve. "There's another i-in the attic."

You don’t get to see him smile under the mask. You don’t hear the near purr that leaves him as he climbs the ladder and sees the perfect place you’ve left your mark. He’d frame it if it wouldn’t rot.

You twirl the fork in your hand before going to the sink, dropping it in there, and you close your eyes as you listen to Simon's footsteps as he goes into the attic. It takes him a little less than an hour to get the bodies out the back door, and when he comes back inside, you're already wiping up the floor in the kitchen.

There's nothing to talk about. This is normal. This is just another day. Tomorrow, you might have to do it again, and you'll still cook dinner after sunset and clean the kitchen like you're doing now and sit Simon on the edge of the bathtub and cut his hair.

Simon found chocolate on his trip today, and you make cake with it. You sit in his lap under the candlelight, and you feed each other, bite by bite, and you giggle when Simon gets it all over his lips.

You kiss him to clean it off, and then you reach for another bite of cake. There's some measure of satisfaction you feel when your tongue finds the dent in the fork prongs from when you used it earlier. The chocolate tastes better somehow. Sweeter.

You catch him in the morning, limbs tangled with yours under the sheets, flipping a coin. You smooth a hand over his thick chest, along his pudgy stomach, and you watch with him as the coin lands on the bedside table, falling flat.

It comes up tails.

He decides then that he doesn't have to flip it anymore. It's pointless. He asked for answers, and he got one.

You were not luck. You were fate. And because of it, the coin will always land the same way.

His thoughts are interrupted when you reach for the coin. You twirl it between your fingers, thinking. He doesn't see what you see, but that's okay. Maybe he'll let you play now. Some other game, a better one.

Heads or tails, win or lose, alive or dead. Either way, you are attached. Woven together, thread by thread. There are no vows to say in this new place, but you aren't tested by the same kinds of things. There is no law to keep two people together, no governing power of men that say if left is truly left and that right is really right.

You are drawn together by shared experiences. The same trauma. You won't leave each other not because you said you wouldn't leave, but because there is no one else in the world that has seen the same things you have seen and has done the same things you have done. There is no one else in the world that will forgive you for what you had to do to survive. That will love you not just in spite of it, but because of it, because you did what was necessary, and you are here now to learn a lesson and not suffer its consequences.

It's just a game. If you win, he wins. If you lose, he loses. If you're alive, he's alive.

And if you're dead, then he must be, too.

[tojisteddy]

BLACKCAT!READER who frequents at the bar the tf141 have basically called their home.

It’s filled with everyone in SpecGru every time a mission ends successfully— it’s loud, roudy and everyone is looking to have a good time. Of course you had to be there. Little minx was always down to party.

And at first, no one pays blackcat!reader any mind, just another girl who wants to fuck a military man; joining in on the terrible karaoke, drinking games, dancing like your life depends on it and betting during card games. And maybe it’s the 10th time Gaz has seen you around, so he indulges in the poker game your apart of— but it’s the way you play that’s just too fucking familiar for his liking.

You crack your neck before you start, overhand then pile shuffle the cards, and cut the deck while looking right at the person to your left right in the eyes, then deal the cards like a pro. And the game looks so simple, so easy to Gaz that he’s sure he’ll win in less than ten minutes. You’re talking big shit, smirking and egging everyone at the table to bet forty pounds more because why the hell not, what could happen?

Eager to win, Gaz puts down an extra fifty just this one time, you match it to make him feel even better. And finally, the man slams his hand down, rejoicing obnoxiously in delight. You pout, eyebrows furrowed as you place your hand down.

“But I thought I won?”

And the whole area is then filled with howls of laughter and yelling, your deck topping Gaz’s by a single joker.

Annoyed he downs the loser cup that’s filled with god knows what, praying he doesn’t hurl as you collect all the money on the table with a sly grin.

Like you hadn’t been sitting there for the past hour collecting men and women’s money like tissue hand outs.

And Gaz and no one else thinks anything of it, till your making your way to the bar like a happy kitty kat, getting called to come ‘have a good time’ by lower ranks here and there, your ass up like a tail, swishing with ease with every move. You’re tipsy because you lost a few rounds but you know exactly where you’re supposed to be, after a long night of fucking around— with Ghost Riley of course.

And it’s a shock to everyone who’s had their eyes on your gorgeous self the whole night— in a white crop top that’s sliding of your shoulders showing off your stomach, black micro shorts that’s just barely covering your ass, mid calf fur stilettos, curls in high ponytail with a few stray hairs perfectly out of place. Layered bangles & necklaces adorning your wrists and neck and large hoops that met your shoulders, black glasses perched on the end of your nose, matching you long black & silver manicured nails with and a brown lip liner.

Ghost, a man who didn’t take most women who approached him serious in any regard, even if he left with them for the night. A pretty little thing that was eager to have that man’s attention despite him being in the middle of talking to Soap. Of course he didn’t give it to you straight away, letting you lean on him while his hand found the small of your back, slowly down to your ass— squeezing. blackcat!reader who pulled out the chunk of cash she’d won from her purse and giving a portion of it to Riley, his brown eyes gleaming with mischief— pride.

Oh, you weren’t just a random— you were Ghosts.

The slithery bastard, known for not only being good at any card game, talking shit without flinching, but cheating and never getting caught— had taught you how to play poker to a T.

And it was a sight for that brute who got annoyed at anything, letting you sit in his lap, lifting your chin and putting his half empty whiskey to your full lips and chuckling when you cringed at the taste. Plopping you back down in his lap when you tried to get up too fast.

“Take a fuckin break, you’ve been movin all damn night.”

The man doesn’t bother explaining to any of the 141 what the hell just happened once your off on your merry way.

It was just known, Ghost was in possession of a new pet— perfect to look at, absolutely no touching.

a/n: Idk if anyone will like this format but I wanna try it. Am I doing this instead of writing my essay, well yes!

most recent masterlist blackcat!reader

[pinkmalibuprincess]

I asked chat gbt to give me ways to enter both the void state or shift realities during the day. Shifting and inducing the void are not limited to when you’re sleepy. I struggle with only inducing the void during the time I go to sleep but with these possible methods I plan to induce the void or shift during the dayyy!!!

First, just so we’re aligned:

• Reality shifting usually refers to consciously moving your awareness into another reality (like a desired reality, alternate version of your life, or fictional world).

• The Void is that infinite nothingness — a dark, silent, powerful space where you can manifest instantly, heal, or shift realities easily. It’s pure awareness, no body, no mind.

Doing it during the day is a little harder because you’re not sleepy/dreamy but not impossible, it’s actually really easy! You just have to tweak your techniques for waking mind energy.

⸻

Ways to Shift or Enter the Void During the Day

⸻

Micro-Meditation Drops

• Throughout your day, practice micro-drops into stillness.

• Example: Set a timer every hour. When it goes off, close your eyes, breathe deep, and “drop” your awareness backward into your mind imagine falling backward into black velvet nothingness.

• Do it for 30–90 seconds at a time. Over the day, this conditions your mind to find the void state faster.

Think of it like “training wheels” for sudden immersion.

⸻

Saturation Method

• Focus obsessively on your desired reality or void state all day — but softly, like background music.

• Whisper affirmations like:

• “The Void is my natural home.”

• “I enter the Void instantly and effortlessly.”

• “I am already in the Void.”

• Every action you do (walking, eating, typing), imagine you’re already in your desired reality.

• This builds a saturation effect where you “tip” into the shift naturally.

You’re basically blurring the line between your normal day and the other reality.

⸻

Mirror Gazing / Daydream Gazing

• Sit in front of a mirror (or even a blank wall or window) during a sunny, sleepy part of the day.

• Stare at your reflection without blinking much, or past it.

• Relax your eyes and imagine your face isn’t “you” it’s just a mask.

• Let your mind slip into daydreaming.

• Suddenly, you may feel a “slip” — like you’re detaching from this version of yourself.

It’s like triggering a soft disassociation which can lead to a Void portal or shift jump.

⸻

Breathwork + Eye-Roll Technique

• Do slow, deep breathwork:

• Inhale 4 counts

• Hold 7 counts

• Exhale 8 counts

• After a few minutes, gently roll your eyes upward (like looking at your third eye) while staying relaxed.

• This can force your brain into a theta/void-like state even during full daylight.

• You might feel lightheaded or “floaty” — that’s a good sign you’re nearing a void pocket.

⸻

The “Already Shifted” Illusion

• Instead of trying to get somewhere, pretend you already shifted this morning and today is just a “memory” of your original life.

• Every time you remember you’re “trying,” stop and say mentally:

• “I’m just remembering the old timeline. I’m already there.”

• It tricks your brain into syncing with the new reality field without brute force.

Shifting is all about convincing your subconscious — not pushing or forcing.

⸻

Music Frequency Entrancement

• Listen to brainwave entrainment tracks (Delta waves, Void-themed subliminals, deep solfeggio frequencies like 528hz or 963hz) while doing light tasks.

• Wear headphones if you can.

• Let your mind drift while you do chores, walk, or relax in sunlight.

• Sometimes, you’ll naturally slip into a void state without expecting it.

⸻

Daytime Nap “Drop” Method

• Lie down in the afternoon with the intent to nap, but don’t fall asleep.

• Instead, keep your body completely still (like a body scan meditation) and let your mind drift without controlling it.

• If you feel your body getting heavy, floaty, vibrating, don’t move — you’re entering the threshold where void shifts and reality jumps happen.

⸻

Signs You’re Close to the Void or a Shift Mid-Day

• You feel extremely floaty or weightless.

• You hear ringing in your ears (like a frequency change).

• Time feels weird (minutes feel like hours or vice versa).

• You get “pulled” backward or inward in your mind.

• Your body feels like it doesn’t exist anymore.

[wh0rrorb4by]

big brothers - mikey x reader x draken

tw: dub/noncon, incest/pseudocest, size, crying, bratty crybaby reader, says niichan once, overstimulation, draken's a meanie who doesn’t like bratty little sisters! {or likes them too much}

a/n: short drabble to post while i work on other drafts and requests!! :)

18+

big brother mikey who lets his mean friend draken use you any way he wants.

it's really only when you're being a brat. when mikey's coddled you too much and you get too comfortable and start acting like a real piece of work — mouthing off, stomping around, wearing slutty little skirts in front of all his friends. when you think you're invincible because mikey just adores you too much to really handle you the way he should. draken's not as weak for you as your big brother is — not by a long shot. he loves you, for sure, makes you call him big brother, too, because it makes him all hard and because he treats you like you're his own baby sister. but the difference between him and mikey is clear.

mikey’s a perfect fit when he sinks his cock into you — tells you it’s because you’re made for each other, and you have to agree. he stretches you in a way that makes your brain go fuzzy, the thick head of his cock angled upward to hit your sweet spot when he drags it out and stuffs you full again. you cry sometimes, because it feels so good. because you love your brother. because he kisses you while he’s cumming, giving you his warmth as a reward for being so good for him.

draken’s a brute. the stretch is painful, mind-numbing because you can’t focus on anything other than the fact that it doesn’t fit. he keeps pushing in anyway, holding your hips to keep you still as he gives you micro thrusts to open you up. you cry before he's even in, clawing anything you can reach because it hurts. and your eyes roll back when he finally bottoms out because you’ve never felt anything hit your womb before — you’re sure that’s where his cockhead is pressing against, and you’re gasping and crying and babbling before he’s even given you a full thrust.

draken robs your orgasm from you before you’re ready. it’s not like it is with mikey. he doesn't earn it, doesn’t work you up to it through skill and care for your body like mikey does. you don’t even see it coming, blindsided by the sudden rush that leaves your body limp and your brain dizzy, crying harder because he fucks you through it even as you clamp down around him. he shushes you, telling you he’s gonna give you another one, and before you know it the rough pad of his middle finger is encompassing your much smaller clit, and you’re crying as he rubs it until your body is trembling and you’re pushing out another orgasm for him.

mikey sits back and watches you struggle. it’s your fault. he’d given you warnings — bad little sisters get taught manners, and neither him nor draken were very forgiving. it doesn’t matter how much you beg him to intervene, or how many apologies you squeak out before you're fucked too dumb to speak. you need this. it's good for you to know that no matter how much he and draken love you, you're not immune to being disciplined once in a while. besides, watching his best friend fuck you limp makes him rock hard. you’re cute when you’re weakly muttering niichan in a desperate plea, and neither of them are sure who you’re referring to anymore.

[ppgxrrblove]

okay.. your gonna possibly ask where are the greens?.. sigh - well i hate buttercup hobo guy outfit and brute looks like a legit prostitute with a micro short skirt, and just a darn bra, did not bother to choose a crop top shirt..this is making me second guess to even give credit moving forward; "cause its okay to dress a teenager in that way" ugh

buttercup at least shes clothed but good grief brutes outfit choice is uncomfortable to look at. buttercup outfit looks like a tragedy that shouldn't have been a thing.

[jet-teeth]

Another concept/sketch batch I have been sitting on for a while, suppose I could toss this out into the aether now haha Basically it's a whole chaos space marine warband based around mimicry and infiltration - they look like a suspiciously normal space marine chapter from the outside but OOPS! It's all mimics.

(And not just the space marines/power armor, but everything is game: crew fused with their vehicles, transforming weapon "familiars," etc. It gets silly.)

They stem from the Raven Guard but can end up anywhere, and will take on the colors/appearance necessary to pass undetected. there is a catch though: their presence has a tendency to cause things around them to start to warp and glitch and in extreme cases, essentially cause little warp micro-rifts that end up mimic-ifyng things around them - so they pretty much have to operate solo to have the best chance at keeping their disguise up.

This CAN work to their advantage though if they are attacking in full-force as a warband, and some older members might have fallen too far to Chaos to keep up a normal "shell" anymore, so the overly mutated fellows have to be put to different uses (in fact, there a degree of hierarchy of mutation stages that influences how they organize themselves as a warband & determines everyone's primary functions. And it's not really one over the other either - there are not all that many of them, so they have more luck spreading their influence clandestinely versus relying on brute force of any kind, that would have to be for emergencies. So, some of the more senior & mutated fellows might be more powerful on a physical/psychic level, but it is also like a forced retirement from their infiltration role, so it limits what they can do to further the warband's interests.)

[starsreminisce]

Wouldn't it be adorable if it turned out that Cassian had always desired friendship with Lucien but struggled to initiate it?

Cassian knew his last name, was aware of Jesminda, acknowledged his handsomeness and impeccable attire. Offering weapons from his personal stash to Lucien and even betting on his attendance for SAF solstice, Cassian seemed to make attempts.

Lucien, in turn, advised him to drop the brute act, indicating he knew Cassian wasn't always like that. Cassian keenly observed the micro-interactions between Lucien and Elain. I wonder if both of them argued against Rhys on the sports team or if they occasionally sparred verbally.

Grinning at Feyre, they both assured her, “we don't bite,” suggesting perhaps they aren't that different in personality after all.

[jacqcrisis]

My biggest hater opinion for jayvik fanon is that I don't think they'd make good parents especially Viktor.

Man's a workaholic, isn't a fan of people, mostly self interested on a micro, interpersonal level even if he wants to help other people on the macro level, has no concern for personal safety, especially when it comes to solving a problem as he will brute force a solution to the point of taking bodily autonomy from people, isn't even nice to their assistant until shes dead.... even when he is responsible for a community of people, we never see him interact with any of his commune after the initial healing he does. He spends all his time in his meditation bubble once the interesting 'problem' has been fixed and at no point are we shown him doing anything remotely leading or nurturing to the people directly connected to him.

I just cannot see this man dealing with a child well. For me, fanon has to have a foothold in canon and there's no easy translation from the Viktor presented in canon to the nurturing, caring parent often depicted in fanon. This is made even weirder to me when coupled with the fact that there's a trend to headcanon Viktor as a trans man and then add/exacerbate as many feminine qualities onto him whether they are present or not in the canon of the show which... idk man. Seems kind of weird to me. Not a fan of those two things happening in conjunction.

So I'm a hater. Don't like that fanon idea. The baby art is cute, but that's of a guy who's not my guy. My guy would take his niece to the hospital, build her a playground, but don't ask him to babysit because he will give her a shot of whiskey in her juice cause it kept her quiet in front of the TV while he finished the work he really needed to get done and she's fiiiiine anyways, what are you freaking out about...

[bardic-tales]

Day 8 | Diana Ravenscroft | Day 10

31 days of FF 7 Headcanons: Day 9: Weapon of Choice

Today’s prompt explores a pivotal childhood memory that shaped the foundation of Diana Grace Ravenscroft’s philosophy and her future role within the Shinra scientific hierarchy. This entry delves into the formative experience that solidified Diana’s belief in precision, control, and the supremacy of intellect over sentiment.

Through a clinical lens, the piece examines how a failed medical procedure witnessed in her youth led to the development of her signature weapon, the neural scalpel, and informed her approach to science, morality, and the human body.

Possible Trigger Warnings: bodily harm, medical trauma, psychological detachment, surgical procedures, trauma response.

Diana Grace Ravenscroft does not carry a traditional weapon in the battlefield sense: no sword, gun, or materia-equipped gloves or bracers. Instead, her weapon of choice is far more clinical and horrifying in its precision: her custom-designed neural scalpel, a surgical instrument enhanced with electromagnetic pulse technology and micro-fine filaments capable of interacting directly with a subject’s nervous system. Originally developed for bio-surgical procedures, Diana repurposed the device for experimentation, both dissection and extraction, tailoring it to her hands and scientific temperament. To her, it is not just a tool. It is the instrument through which she unravels the divine and remakes reality at the cellular level. It is the apex of her belief that knowledge, not brute strength, is the most powerful weapon of all.

Her attachment to the neural scalpel is more than utilitarian; it is deeply psychological. As a child growing up in Junon, Diana once witnessed a failed surgery during a routine Shinra community clinic outreach, where a soldier’s neurological implant malfunctioned mid-procedure. Her mother, Eleanor, a nurse, tried in vain to stabilize the subject while the doctor froze. Diana stepped forward, not out of compassion but out of irritation at the inefficiency.

She held the trembling soldier's head steady and pointed out the error in the wiring, which the technician then corrected. The SOLDIER survived, and though Diana wasn’t praised, that moment lodged in her memory. It was the first time she felt the thrill of mastery over the human body: not healing it but understanding it as a system that could be corrected, manipulated, and broken.

That experience shaped her obsession with precision and control. The neural scalpel became her extension of that philosophy. It was a blend of science, command, and artistry. She commissioned its design during her early years at Shinra, upgrading it relentlessly over time. It can slice flesh without leaving a mark or sever specific nerves without killing a subject. It is particularly effective in the dissection of divine or infernal tissue, like Bianca Moore’s celestial dna, which ordinary tools fail to process. To Diana, wielding this weapon is like playing a sonata with a scalpel. Every incision is a note, every nerve a string to pluck. She sees herself not as a killer but as a virtuoso of biological deconstruction.

The scalpel’s significance lies in what it represents: the belief that the body is a canvas and the divine is something to be dissected and not worshipped. She uses it on live subjects without hesitation, believing pain is incidental to progress.

Hojo once called it baroque, but Diana corrected him: "No, it’s efficient." Unlike Hojo, who delights in cruelty, Diana sees cruelty as a side effect of progress and not the point. Her weapon is a mirror of herself: unemotional, efficient, and utterly lethal in the pursuit of truth.

In the end, Diana’s weapon of choice is a reflection of the very core of her character. She does not battle with swords nor does she rely on brute force. She conquers through intellect. The neural scalpel is her legacy and her curse, a constant reminder of the girl who stepped into a surgery and felt nothing but curiosity. While others fear demons or revere the divine, Diana cuts them open and takes notes. And that, to her, is the true power of a weapon: the ability to change the world without ever raising your voice, only your hand.

@themaradwrites @shepardstales @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon @projecthypocrisy @serenofroses

[skulkerdatabase]

What happened to Skulker's weapons in Prisoners of Love?

Let me say this first- I know this show isn't consistent. Technus is in his mech form in this episode when he should be in his 1.0 form. I don't think the writers thought of explanations for half the stuff they did.

But this blog is about in-universe analysis, not out-of-universe analysis, so let's get going.

In the episode Prisoners of Love, Skulker doesn't have access to his weapons, despite being in his mech suit. He's seen having to use the guards' weapons against them. (Or just brute physical force!)

There isn't anything in the prison that blocks ghosts' abilities, as the Lunch Lady is still able to summon food. Besides, as we see later in Micro Management, Skulker's mech suit is unaffected by things that would block ghost abilities.

However, I have a theory.

Here is a helpful diagram of where Skulker's weapons are located, indicated in red. His gauntlets and his arms, mostly, although some come out of his belt.

In his prison jumpsuit, Skulker's gauntlets have been notably removed, and so has his belt.

What's more, the other areas weapons are located are all covered up, blocking the weapons from deploying.

In conclusion, I believe that the in-universe reason Skulker does not have his weapons in Prisoners of Love is because they were either confiscated or restrained.

[witchthewriter]

𝑨𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒚 𝑳𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒔!

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐒

The next lesson is on Mars; this planet is known for what makes us tick, our passion, what makes us angry and how we express that anger. It also represents our desires and how we go about getting it. The sign of Mars reveals a lot about our basic animal nature; our instincts, sexuality and our drive.

First Lesson: Sun🌞

Second Lesson: Moon🌙

Third Lesson: Rising/Ascendant💫

Fourth Lesson: Venus

Mars is the planet of action, energy, and initiative. In a micro sense, it's your drive.

○ Zodiac sign Mars rules: Aries

○ Exalted in: Capricorn

○ House Mars rules: 1st House of Self

○ Mars retrogrades: Once every 2 years, each retrograde lasting around 10 weeks

○ Mars stays in each zodiac sign for: 6-7 weeks

○ Mars makes a complete trip through the zodiac: About every 2 years

○ Physical Energy: Athletics, Sex,

Mars represents these people:

Leaders, Athletes, Aggressive people

and these things:

Weapons, sharp or dangerous objects

Mars rules the Head.

All of us have Mars somewhere. If we do not respect him and give his energy an outlet, if we bottle up our anger and frustration, the energy will eventually force its way out in ways that are unconscious and potentially destructive. A blocked or frustrated Mars can bring injury and illness to the physical body, aggressive persons, impatience, rudeness, hastiness, or inappropriate competitive urges. That is one reason why exercise of the physical body is so important to our physical and mental health.

If Mars is Retrograde

Mars retrograde turns Mars energy inward.

Bottled up anger, fighting, aggression, assertiveness, confidence, initiative. With Mars retro in your natal chart, Mars energy turns inward and you may accept aggression from others. You tend to internalize anger and be really hard on yourself. You learned to swallow it all up in childhood, and you can unlearn it if you deal honestly with your past and turn towards the positive use of Mars.

𝐀𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 | 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝑅𝑎𝑚

Weapon: Ram’s horns, head-butting

Mars is at home in the sign of Aries, meaning it can do what it does best: act! That is because it is the natural ruler of Aries, meaning it is at home or “domicile” in this zodiac sign.

People with this energy are unafraid to take action and often tend to be quite courageous.

However, that can also make them quite brash and impulsive — diving in first and thinking about it later. They will have a feisty temper and sex drive, easily ignited but then just as quickly dissipated once it has been released.

When it comes to sex, these individuals like to jump into the action, as their libido is especially high.

Despite Aries getting much of its reputation for feistiness from the god of war, Ares, your Mars sign is actually named after the ram in the Golden fleece mythology. Nonetheless, Mars is still Aries’s planetary ruler, and is super powerful in this sign!

Celebrities with this aspect:

Steve Jobs: Mars in Aries, Pisces Sun.

Stephen Hawking: Mars in Aries, Capricorn Sun.

Kate Hudson: Mars in Aries, Aries Sun.

Russell Crowe: Mars in Aries, Aries Sun.

Tyra Banks: Mars in Aries, Sagittarius Sun.

Bernie Sanders: Mars in Aries, Virgo Sun.

Joe Namath: Mars in Aries, Gemini Sun.

There is an obvious link between each of these people: Ambition.

𝐓𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐮𝐬 | 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝐵𝑢𝑙𝑙

Weapon: Bull’s horns, bullheadedness, and brute strength

These individuals take action, pursue their goals and express their sex drive in a more refined and practical way.

People with this placement are slow and steady in tackling what they’re after — but once they set their minds upon it, there is nothing stopping them!

Usually slow to anger, their patience is also quite strong. However, once frustrated, they will dig in their heels and likely become quite stubborn and adamant about what they want.

“Slow and steady wins the race” could easily be a motto for Mars in Taurus. These goal-oriented people are not known for their speed, but their staying power is tremendous.

Generally calm and easygoing people, Mars in Taurus natives can have powerful tempers when they’re overly provoked. They generally don’t fly off the handle as quickly as others.

Celebrities with this aspect:

Madonna: Leo Sun, Mars in Taurus.

Lucy Lawless: Aries Sun, Mars in Taurus.

Muhammad Ali: Capricorn Sun, Mars in Taurus.

Kanye West: Gemini Sun, Mars in Taurus.

Stephen Colbert: Taurus Sun, Mars in Taurus.

John Fitzgerald Kennedy: Gemini Sun, Mars in Taurus.

There is an obvious link between each of these people: Authority/Power

𝐆𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢 | 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝑇𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑠

Weapon: Words, hands, and the mind

Individuals with this aspect are extremely focused on logic, discussion and connection.

When it comes to conflict, they will use their words and messages to punish or destroy.

People with this energy are often highly social and prefer spontaneity and adventure when it comes to their lives.

They tend to be fascinated by ideas and crave interaction or else they will become bored quite easily. These individuals have a high level of energy and enthusiasm for life and can communicate quite animatedly.

You’re quick on your feet, but your mouth moves even faster. If you don’t slow down every now and then, you’re also prone to cutting people with your words. Just because you can say it, doesn’t mean you should. Speaking carefully is important if you don’t want to hurt others unintentionally or have your own words used against you.

Celebrities with this aspect:

Martin Luther King: Mars in Gemini, Capricorn Sun

Chris Evans: Mars in Gemini, Gemini Sun

Uma Thurman: Mars in Gemini, Taurus Sun

Al Pacino: Mars in Gemini, Taurus Sun

Sandra Bullock: Mars in Gemini, Leo Sun

Meryl Streep: Mars in Gemini, Cancer Sun

There is an obvious link between each of these people: Charm

𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 | 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝐶𝑟𝑎𝑏

Weapon: Small but sharp crab pincers, protective shell

People with this placement are often extremely emotional individuals and become very fired up about everything they feel.

Emotional connection is a top priority and they often express the need to be a caretaker or nurture those around them.

However, when it comes to conflict, they will only use anger as a vehicle for their emotions if it is absolutely necessary, more likely to stew in their moods.

They can also be quite passive-aggressive.

Like the side-walking crab, you’re known for playing defense in a less direct manner. Like Mars in Taurus, Mars in Cancer expresses itself in a unique way, contrary to its planetary nature. When you respond to an argument or an invitation to bone, you come prepared, but it also hints that you may have a tendency to overthink things.

Celebrities with this aspect:

Cardi B: Mars in Cancer, Moon in Aries, Libra Sun

Steven King: Mars in Cancer, Moon in Sagittarius, Virgo Sun

RuPaul: Mars in Cancer, Moon in Scorpio, Scorpio Sun

Dolly Parton: Mars in Cancer, Moon in Virgo, Capricorn Sun

Keanu Reeves: Mars in Cancer, Moon in Cancer, Virgo Sun.

Miley Ray Cyrus: Mars in Cancer, Moon in Scorpio, Sagittarius Sun.

Robin Williams: Mars in Cancer, Moon in Pisces, Cancer Sun.

There is an obvious link between each of these people: Memorable

𝐋𝐞𝐨 | 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝐿𝑖𝑜𝑛

Weapon: Teeth

Mars in Leo gives someone the energy to be the star of the show — eager to express themselves, entertain and achieve everything they’re passionate about.

They are charismatic and driven and aim high both personally and professionally.

Living a fulfilling life is a top priority for them, as they struggle with following a path that doesn’t give them the freedom to follow their dreams.

In conflict, these people can be quite fierce, unleashing a fit of rage — especially if their sense of ego has been offended.

No one wants to mess with a lion, so you’re quite proud to have Mars in Leo! Your roar is loud—and your bite is hard, too. You command respect and have a regal air about you. You almost have to laugh when someone picks a fight with you because it’s unbelievable that someone would imagine confronting you! In the wild, lions commonly strangulate prey by crushing their airways with their teeth/jaw force…you do this by stealing the spotlight from your nemeses. Just like lions that hunt in prides, you possess social influence and know how to sway people in the direction you want, particularly to turn on those who have wronged you and others.

Celebrities with this aspect:

Beyonce Knowles: Virgo with Mars in Leo

Michael Jackson: Virgo with Mars in Leo

George Clooney: Taurus with Mars in Leo

Paul McCartney: Gemini with Mars in Leo

Sting: Libra with Mars in Leo

Robert Redford: Leo with Mars in Leo

There is an obvious link between each of these people: Star-Power

𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐨 | 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝑀𝑎𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛

Weapon: Holier than thou, will condemn you

Mars in Virgo grants someone a strong work ethic and a goal-oriented nature. They tend to be highly analytical and able to manage many projects and people at once.

These individuals are excellent planners and organizers and favour productivity above all else.

They also are often highly communicative and practice restraint and practicality in life. This also applies to how they exhibit anger or their sexuality: with logic, balance and intellectualism.

With an eye for detail, you’re also talented at finding weak spots, flaws, and holes in arguments—and asking considerate questions is one of the ways you catch your opponents off guard and break through their defense.

However, when frustrated, they will become highly critical and can exhibit perfectionism. People with this placement can be very service-oriented, eager to aid others and please. When it comes to sex, they are often slower to interact and prefer sensuality and relaxation over intense or short fits of passion.

Celebrities with this aspect:

Barack Obama: Mars in Virgo, Sun and Mercury in Leo.

Diana, Princess of Wales: Mars in Virgo, Sun and Mercury in Cancer.

Gordon Ramsay: Mars in Virgo, Mercury in Sagittarius, Sun in Scorpio.

Mother Teresa: Mars in Virgo, Sun and Mercury in Virgo.

Will Smith: Mars in Virgo, Sun and Mercury in Libra

Britney Spears: Mars in Virgo, Sun and Mercury in Sagittarius

Robert John Downey: Mars in Virgo, Sun and Mercury in Aries

There is an obvious link between each of these people: Influential

𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚 | 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝑆𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑠

Weapon: Kills you with kindness, the pen, and contracts

These people favour harmony, peace, fairness and justice over personal victory.

They may also be especially passionate about partnerships and always have a key person they’re working with or aligned with.

Mars in Libra likes to be seen as a jovial and fun person, so they avoid situations or relationships that are intense.

They want to live a life of peace and harmony, nothing can come between them and tranquillity.

Still, they always play innocent when they are challenged, and can generally charm the birds out of the trees to win your favor.

Passive-aggressiveness is practically the hallmark of this position.

Mars in Libra people are adept at predicting when problems and discord will occur well in advance. They know how to compromise and are excellent at conflict management. They don’t want to look like they are ever being mean or unfair, but aggression has to go somewhere! Too often, this results in sneaky behavior and subterfuge.

Celebrities with this aspect:

Abraham Lincoln: Mars in Libra, Venus in Aries, Sun in Aquarius.

Nelson Mandela: Mars in Libra, Venus in Gemini, Sun in Cancer.

Bill Clinton: Mars in Libra, Venus in Libra, Sun in Leo.

Bill Gates: Mars in Libra, Venus in Scorpio, Sun in Scorpio.

John Lennon: Mars in Libra, Venus in Virgo, Sun in Libra

J. K. Rowling: Mars in Libra, Venus in Virgo, Sun in Leo

There is an obvious link between each of these people: Innovative

𝐒𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐨 | 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝑆𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑝𝑖𝑜𝑛

Weapon: Stinger, poison, secrecy

In this sign, Mars isn't motivated to compromise or even consider what anyone else has to say. Mars in Scorpio gives us the gift of the ultimate cosmic backbone, causing us to feel totally in charge of our actions.

This placement gives someone a cunning and intense nature. Once they set their minds on something and desire it, they will stop at nothing to get it.

You’re very calculating and often eight steps ahead of everyone else, making sure that all bases are covered before others have the chance to make a move!

Intuition and focus grant you talent in uncovering and addressing every weak spot your opponent possesses, so you’re keen on taking your time to make the right move.

Psychological warfare is your game, and no one plays it better than you. As someone who is highly empathetic, you know how to get under someone’s skin, but you also know what to do to make someone desire you. Instead of taking information at face value, you rely on sharp psychic senses to suss out insecurities, weak spots, and hidden desires, and then weaponize them or use them to seduce others.

Celebrities with this aspect:

Liam Neeson: Sun in Gemini, Scorpio Mars

Shailene Woodley: Sun in Scorpio, Scorpio Mars

Jennifer Connolley: Sun in Sagittarius, Scorpio Mars

Charles Dance: Sun in Libra, Scorpio Mars

Joaquin Phoenix: Sun in Scorpio, Scorpio Mars

Morgan Freeman: Sun in Gemini, Scorpio Mars

There is an obvious link between each of these people: Intensity

𝐒𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐬 | 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝐴𝑟𝑐𝘩𝑒𝑟

Weapon: Bow and arrow

Mars in Sagittarius people are born adventurers and sojourners. They hunger to experience everything that life has to offer and above all do not like being caged.

They have a “go big or go home” mentality and hunger for change and spontaneity wherever they turn.

They can often become quite bored if they are in the same physical or mental place for too long, so they need a constant supply of stimulation and interaction to keep them busy.

That restless nature provokes them to seek new ideas, experiences and opportunities that will satiate their wanderlust and pursuit of knowledge.

As a Mars in Sagittarius native, your fiery temperament makes you both a passionate lover and fighter. If there were one word to describe your Mars sign, it would be “loud.” There’s usually an air of drama about you when you get upset and you’re not one to hold back.

Celebrities with this aspect:

Jennifer Lopez: Leo Sun, Mars in Sagittarius.

Vladimir Putin: Libra Sun, Mars in Sagittarius.

Prince Harry: Virgo Sun, Mars in Sagittarius.

Kendall Jenner: Scorpio Sun, Mars in Sagittarius.

Christopher Reeve: Libra Sun, Mars in Sagittarius

There is an obvious link between each of these people: Opportunistic

𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐧 | 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝑆𝑒𝑎𝑔𝑜𝑎𝑡 

Weapon: Will end your career

 The ambitious, strategic and driven energies of Mars can be focused in a harnessed and patient way. These individuals tend to be quite hardworking and are always after the long game, unafraid to put in the effort because of their innate desire for victory.

When it comes to conflict, these people are cunning and practical, understanding that drama is a waste of energy unless they are coming out on top.

They will often refocus their passion and emotions back into their goals or career.

With fiery Mars in the more orderly sign of Capricorn, natives with this position have a subdued and controlled style of approaching life. Most don’t come across as particularly enthusiastic; rather, theirs is a low-key but determined energy.

Celebrities with this aspect:

Lady Gaga: Aries Sun, Capricorn Mars

David Tennant: Aries Sun, Capricorn Mars

Florence Pugh: Capricorn Sun, Capricorn Mars

Olivia Cooke: Capricorn Sun, Capricorn Mars

Emmy Rossum: Virgo Sun, Capricorn Mars

Alfie Allens: Virgo Sun, Capricorn Mars

There is an obvious link between each of these people: Intimidating

𝐀𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐬 | 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝑊𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟-𝐵𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑟

Weapon: Isolation

Mars in Aquarius grants someone a quirky and eccentric air in regards to how they exhibit their energy. They often are highly idealistic and intellectual and put their passion into their goals and group interactions.

They have a progressive nature and tend to be quite social and highly communicative.

Aquarius never cares about fitting in, yet this sign is always in the cool kids club.

With Mars in Aquarius, you may exclude people when you go on attack—you know that rejection stings! Aquarius is a rebellious sign, so having natal Mars here also means you don’t care to follow the rules.

Battling with you can be intimidating to people because your judgement doesn’t tend to get clouded by overwhelming emotions. You’re not a robot, but your ability to remain objective during an argument can frustrate others and translate into a lack of passion. But you’re not dispassionate; you’re passionately independent, challenging others to think for themselves. The secret is that you might also act detached because you know it presses people’s buttons, giving you an upper hand in certain situations.

Celebrities with this aspect:

Emilia Clarke: Libra Sun, Aquarius Mars

Scarlet Johansson: Sag Sun, Aquarius Mars

Charlie Cox: Sag Sun, Aquarius Mars

Rosamund Pike: Aquarius Sun, Aquarius Mars

Christopher Walken: Aries Sun, Aquarius Mars

There is an obvious link between each of these people: Unique

𝐏𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐬 | 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝐹𝑖𝑠𝘩

Weapon: Love

Mars in Pisces brings an individual an emotional and sensitive nature. They tend to be more fluid individuals who become passionate about their feelings and lead with their hearts.

Their ideals and dreams are of great importance to them, and they trust their intuition and empathy over their minds when pursuing goals or sex.

They also will tend to be quite creative and romantic people, eager to express themselves and connect.

Your strength is less about divisiveness and more about flexibility and raw emotional power.

Water is reflective, and having Mars in this sign makes you empathetic and compassionate.

You intuit what competitors and opponents are feeling, but you don’t necessarily weaponize that information.

Emotion and sensitivity aren’t a weakness, especially when you have Mars in Pisces. Similar to the other watery Mars signs, you’re driven to fight for who and what you care about, but you need to be mindful about when you play the role of the martyr.

Celebrities with this aspect:

Marilyn Monroe: Mars in Pisces, Sun in Gemini.

Heath Ledger: Mars in Pisces, Sun in Aries.

Elizabeth Taylor: Mars in Pisces, Sun in Pisces.

Denzel Washington: Mars in Pisces, Sun in Capricorn.

Tom Hanks: Mars in Pisces, Sun in Cancer.

Tina Turner: Mars in Pisces, Sun in Sagittarius.

There is an obvious link between each of these people: Expressive

[poisonheadcrabsalesman]

Lucky

Chief/Pilot House of Reckoning rewrite Because Chief Would Not Fucking Say That.

-

The fight ends as abruptly as it starts, not with a roar but a choked gasp. Chief doesn’t take his eyes off his enemy until he’s sure he’s down for good. Escharum goes down with a gurgled wheeze. All his grandstanding silenced by his need for a warrior's death, but in the end his own body dealt the final blow before Chief could.

If John had cared to spare the old Brute a moment's thought beyond analyzing his attacks, he may have wondered why Atriox's teacher was a paradox fighting himself every step of the way. Obsessed with power and battle prowess in the Jiralhanae tradition, but committing the sin of bolstering himself with fancy tech and hiding behind a weak human shield. It didn’t make sense. Then again, nothing on this Ring made sense, but the Master Chief had to keep going.

He did not care for the Brute or his ideas. His grandstanding was worse than the usual threats that the Demon received. He was not a respected leader or an old warrior that Chief saw himself reflected in. John made his choices and kept living, kept clawing back towards his humanity. He put the old Brute down with cold efficiency, like he had hundreds of times before with other Covenant and Banished leaders. An enemy that terrorized and hunted down his fellow UNSC soldiers, who had his troops trap and eat them, did not deserve mercy or attention.

The Brute collapses, air hissing out of his mangled throat. Escharum's last testament was silenced by his own hubris. Dooming himself to be forgotten.

The Master Chief doesn't spare him a glance and hurries to the terminal. The Weapon is already deploying herself to free their pilot from the torture device pulling him apart with micro gravity wells. A torture device he had seen used on a Spartan, enough to kill him. She signals that she's about to switch the device off, but the Master Chief is already there.

He cradles their pilot down from the dying energy field, and tries not to remember the feeling of Spartan Griffin in his arms barely two days ago. The pilot falls into his gentle hold, his breathing hitching and muscles spasming as his body adjusts to the lack of force pulling him apart. John shifts his weight as carefully as he can, fingers prodding his pulsepoint with a featherlight touch so the Mjolnir can get a read on his vitals.

"I can't-" His words stick in his throat and shudder out as he shakes violently, "I can't believe you came for me." The pilot swallows thickly. Tears well in the corners of his eyes and he looks away from his reflection in Chief's visor. He tries to wipe his face but his arms are limp and take a second to remember how to work.

John watches the tears run tracks down his cheeks and he speaks quietly. "I got you. It's over."

The pilot squirms in his hold and tries to stand, but his legs don't hold his weight. Embarrassment at his weakness and need for support makes him unsteady as he tries to avoid leaning on Chief. He hisses in pain and Chief, having never let go of his hold on him, scoops him up. The hold is as gentle as he can make it as he turns and walks them out of the Banished outpost. Footsteps steady and measured as the man sags in his arms. His pilot leans his head against Chief’s chest and shuts his eyes to the harsh reds of the room.

"Chief, the Harbinger..." The Weapon starts, quietly projecting her voice through the external mics. She wants to say more, but she busies herself in sensor data looking over the pilot.

"One thing at a time." Chief nods at her, "She- Cortana damaged this ring, we have time."

"What's going on? What now?" The pilot asks, his voice barely a whisper. He's having a hard time keeping his eyes open.

"I'm getting you out of here." Chief says and the pilot slips into unconsciousness.

He comes to as he's strapped into the co-pilot seat of the pelican. He jolts awake and groans as he tenses overtaxed muscle in his panic.

"You're safe." The Master Chief tells him with a hand covering his shoulder and grounding him as he realizes where he is.

"You can fly this thing?" The words are open and unguarded and John wants to smile. The pilot spoke so openly to him when it came to things he thought Chief was doing wrong. 

"Are you surprised?" The helmet tilts towards him.

"I'm surprised you still let me pilot if you could this whole time..."

"I've been told I'm not the best driver." John jokes.

The pilot is looking at him like he's lost his mind. Maybe that's what spurs Chief to share. That, and everything else they've been through.

"You asked me if I had family. I told you no." The pilot sits back in shock, but John continues, "But I do. They're out there, somewhere. My sister, Kelly, she's the better pilot. She hates my flying."

The words are stilted and honest, so much so he can feel the AI leaning against his mind despite the firewalls in place. There is no room for dishonesty and secrets in the neural interface. He's too tired to keep any more secrets for long.

"I'm going to drop you off somewhere safe, and then I'm going to finish this."

"And you'll come back?"

It shouldn't surprise him, but it does. John always seems surprised when he's reminded of what he means to people. He'd been the pilot's first human contact in a long time. They had saved each other.

"I promise."

The Master Chief leaves the pilot with the marines at FOB November, their medic looking him over. 

The Master Chief goes to the Silent Auditorium, he fights, and She saves him again. 

John, the man under the armor and the symbol, is tired. Another goodbye tears something inside him that will never heal right, but there’s no time to dwell. There’s never any time and he’s running again as the world collapses in on them. He had never liked depending on portals or Forerunner tech. It usually didn't end well for him. He was learning to trust again, and he keeps his promises. John has someone counting on him to make it back.

They tumble through the portal and Chief grunts as he hits solid ground. He's barely upright before the radio crackles to life.

"Chief! Your beacon just appeared out of nowhere." The pilot laughs with relief. "Oh, I thought I'd lost you. Where did you go?"

The Weapon answers for him, relief audible in her voice as well. "Echo-216? Are you okay to fly?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Listen, stay put. I'm coming to you."

And he does.

Three days have passed and his pilot, Fernando Esparza, is doing better. He'd seen the signal and jumped at the chance to retrieve them. The pelican lands and Chief is barely up the ramp into the troop bay before the pilot- Esparza is there and wrapping his arms around John.

He can't feel it, but the armor lets him know with sensors and proximity alarms. John freezes, briefly scared to move before he relaxes and drops his hands to the man's shoulders. It's not a full hug, he can feel the AI judging him for that, but it's a reciprocated touch. His gauntlets squeeze Esparza’s shoulders and the man looks up at him with a smile stretching from ear to ear.

He's tired and hungry, and now they have nothing but time. There was still work to be done, but no escalating doom beyond cleaning up Banished remnants and building the UNSC back from scratch. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

They land back at the FOB and Chief reluctantly lets the medic look him over. He reluctantly lets them celebrate his return too. People did need heroes.

It’d taken John no time at all to learn life’s harsh lessons of regret and lost time, but he was slowly learning how to keep moving forward. Learning how to stick around. The future is a terrifying thing.

The one thing Chief is beyond reluctance is having to remove his helmet to eat. He pries it off and camps out against a rock with several meals worth of MREs once the crowd disperses back to their regular duties. His pilot joins him.

Esparza looks healthier, and has no problems moving, other than some wincing as he settles on the ground across from John. They heat their meals in silence and watch the distant patrols around the far side of the lake. It’s comfortable; so far from the last few days together that it feels alien. Esparza keeps grinning and the tear inside John’s chest feels a little lighter for it. He’s alive, they’re alive. Whatever came next….he could handle it.

It’s a nice moment. Nice enough for John to do what he does whenever he likes someone enough. Ruin it.

"I could tell you were a civilian from the beginning." Chief says, breaking the silence of their previously peaceful meal. He's unbothered as he swigs some coffee out of the tin cup that's obviously not made for Spartan hands.

Esparza gapes as the Master Chief digs into his MRE. "What?"

"Marines call me 'sir', not 'Big Guy'. And they usually know better than trying to hit the armor."

John smiles at him. It's a small thing, but wide enough Fernando can make out the gap between his front teeth. It startles him out of his embarrassment for a second before he remembers the Master Chief is making a joke at his expense. "Well, maybe you would get in less trouble if people were up front with how frustrating you are!"

John huffs a breath. "Maybe."

“You are infuriating, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

“Well, maybe you need to hear it more! Always going off or- or jumping out of buildings or pelicans! Without any warning!”

“I’m lucky I have you to catch me.” John says with a grin and nudges Esparza’s boot with his own.

His pilot sputters and flushes as words escape him. “You-! Oh I can’t stand when you-! Fine. You’re lucky I like you. Big Guy…” His words trail off with less fire than the start of his tirade.

John hides his smile by shoveling food into his mouth.

Esparza copies him, still fuming, but he nudges his boot against John’s in a playful push. 

[transparentgentlemenmarker]

Janis Joplin est entrée dans un bar de San Francisco une nuit de 1967, discrète, portant ses lunettes rondes signature, ses boucles sauvages encadrant son visage. Elle n’a pas fait d’entrée triomphale. Personne ne la reconnaissait encore. Puis, elle est montée sur scène, a saisi le micro, et dès que sa voix a fendu l’air, toute la salle est tombée silencieuse. Un cri rauque, déchirant l’âme, a rempli l’espace, traversant les bavardages et le cliquetis des verres. Brut, indompté, électrique. Un instant plus tard, les gens étaient debout, certains en larmes, d’autres figés. Janis ne faisait pas que chanter. Elle saignait dans ses chansons. Cette nuit-là, elle est descendue de scène avec une nouvelle réputation : la femme qui pouvait réduire une salle au silence par sa douleur.

Née à Port Arthur, au Texas, elle a grandi en se sentant comme une exclue. Elle adorait le blues : Bessie Smith, Lead Belly, Ma Rainey, alors que la plupart des filles de son âge écoutaient des tubes pop. Au lycée, elle était harcelée pour son apparence, traitée de noms cruels, et elle luttait pour s’intégrer. À l’adolescence, elle s’était déjà tournée vers la musique pour trouver du réconfort, se faufilant dans les magasins de disques pour acheter des albums de blues. Elle avait un jour écrit sur le mur de sa chambre : « Un jour, ils verront tous. »

Son échappatoire fut Austin, où elle découvrit la scène locale de folk et de blues, jouant souvent de petites prestations avec sa guitare. Mais sa voix, trop puissante, trop rauque, trop chargée d’angoisse, ne rentrait pas facilement dans une case. Quand elle déménagea à San Francisco en 1966 pour rejoindre Big Brother and the Holding Company, elle était encore une performeuse timide et anxieuse, buvant du Southern Comfort pour calmer ses nerfs avant chaque concert. Mais quand elle chantait, quelque chose de brut et de déchaîné prenait le dessus. La première fois qu’elle interpréta "Ball and Chain" au Monterey Pop Festival en 1967, Mama Cass fut filmée, bouche bée, murmurant : « Wow. » Janis avait explosé sur la scène.

Derrière les cris, les perles et les boas en plumes flamboyants, se cachait une femme assoiffée d’acceptation. Sa voix grave et son rire franc, trempé dans le whisky, donnaient l’impression d’une confiance à toute épreuve, mais elle portait une solitude omniprésente, aussi tranchante que sa voix. Elle tombait follement amoureuse, aimant souvent trop et trop imprudemment. Quand elle aimait, elle s’engageait entièrement, que ce soit avec un musicien, un roadie ou une romance éphémère. Elle écrivit un jour : « Sur scène, je fais l’amour à 25 000 personnes, puis je rentre seule chez moi. » Ce qui montre à quel point elle ressentait profondément sa connexion avec le public.

Elle aspirait à la reconnaissance, surtout de la part de ceux qui l’avaient autrefois moquée. Quand elle prévit d’assister à sa réunion d’anciens élèves, elle voulait revenir en tant que success story. Elle arriva à Port Arthur dans une Porsche psychédélique, vêtue de tout l’attirail d’une rockstar, mais ses vieilles blessures se rouvrirent rapidement. Elle ne fut pas célébrée. Elle était toujours une exclue. Cette nuit-là, elle but jusqu’à l’aube.

Sa voix devint plus qu’un son ; c’était une purge émotionnelle brute. Des chansons comme "Piece of My Heart" et "Cry Baby" n’étaient pas des performances, mais des confessions. Elle ne faisait pas que chanter des paroles ; elle les incarnait. En studio, elle se battait pour la prise parfaite, enregistrant "Me and Bobby McGee" encore et encore, cherchant une perfection insaisissable et douloureuse. Difficile d’imaginer que quelque chose d’aussi profondément vrai ait nécessité plusieurs prises ! Cette chanson, enregistrée quelques jours avant sa mort, deviendrait son plus grand succès.

En 1970, à seulement 27 ans, elle enregistra "Mercedes Benz" en une seule prise a cappella, poignante, riant à la fin, inconsciente que ce serait son dernier enregistrement. Quelques jours plus tard, elle fut retrouvée dans une chambre d’hôtel, seule. Une overdose d’héroïne. Pas de note d’adieu dramatique. Pas de tragédie mise en scène. Juste le silence, une liste de chansons inachevée, et une étoile éteinte trop tôt. Sa voix traverse encore le temps comme une lame, craquelée, rugissante, suppliante, aimante. Chaque note qu’elle a laissée derrière elle porte une vérité qui refuse de mourir. » Édité et enrichi par Leila.

Elle ressemble à un ange innocent et rempli d’essence sur ces photos, pas à quelqu’un qui a fait du whisky et des cigarettes ses plus proches compagnons. »

[mal-likes-biscuits]

Hi, is there chance for continuing Archfall? Thank you for answer

I actually appreciate someone asking this question, because I keep meaning to address it. Then I re-write my answer ten times in my head and never get around to actually posting it.

Without further ado...

To long, didn't read answer (tldr): yes, there is absolutely a chance! I haven't stopped thinking about it, which is both good and honestly slightly clinical. I would like to finish it.

Longer version (that has been edited 11 times in my head now):

I've been experiencing mental burnout since before I even finished the previous series. The burnout has nothing to do with writing it (in fact, writing it was stress relieving) and mostly had to do with my previous job deciding my sanity was worth trading for profits. This was then worsened by pandemic stress, being a relatively new parent, and a mish-mash of negative and positive stressors.

My day job also involves writing, though the overlap isn't as bad as you might think. But it's still cognitive.

Plus, I used to do a lot of fic writing at work on my breaks, when I had a somewhat private work space; this was the only boon of my previous job. I got a new job, thankfully, for the rest of the issues. However, I currently have an open office space I share that also doubles as a walkthrough area. My co-worker is amazing, but I can't focus on fic if I'm worried someone is going to look over my shoulder during lunch and go "what are you writing".

I've never had luck writing at home because too many things distract me.

So, where's that leave me?

I hyperfixate on things, including hobbies, and in prior periods of cognitive burnout I've gone months, sometimes years, without writing anything. My brain will move to other hobbies while I recover. So far, I have:

learned a bunch about micro aquariums

picked up a house plant hobby (what can I say, we have winter 6+ months of the year and I like gardening)

started collecting rocks and minerals again (whoops that was expensive)

got really good at several video games that are pointedly not Diablo, because I just couldn't mesh with D4 for some reason

have read a few novels and also went down the SCP rabbit hole again, though I promise I haven't been writing and cheating on Archfall

I'm also a parent to a young-ish kid, which is awesome, but our entire house is neurodivergent and is in a chronic state of disorganized disaster worsened by the growing amount of School Parent Things we need to do. And I don't have time to just pack up my laptop to a coffee shop like I sometimes used to. It's a give and take thing, because I absolutely love many things about my life right now, but the situation of other things has certainly changed.

That's a really long way to say I want to write anything, especially Archfall. BADLY. It's just every time I start up writing anything, I burn out.

But I want you all to know that Mal and Farah and the rest of the cast live pretty much rent free in my head all the time, and as soon as the time is right (whenever that is) to finish writing the story, I will.

I hate not finishing projects, though it's certainly happened, and so far in my life I've been lucky to only drop interest in pretty niche hobbies and not stories themselves. I have brute forced prior writing projects through to completion when my brain has been ready, and I have too much fun stuff planned for the series to let it drop completely.

(Might be revisiting the complexity of the plot, but I think that was due anyway. I always over-plot to begin with.)

And please, if you do, don't feel bad about asking this question! Especially when I ask it to myself multiple times a week. :')

-- J

[scrunglepaws]

(Key for who's who)

Yeah, the Kits are mostly freaks, just ignore them. dkfjsldsdf The boys in the middle all come from very harsh backgrounds and will do what they gotta do. Y'all know about Nine, his backstory is the same as canon. CT-Mangey grew up in a jungle with dinosaurs+ect megafauna and all his sentient neighbors were super aggressive. CT-Kit grew up as an orphan in poverty, living on the city streets. Sails grew up in a cutthroat, post-apocalyptic endless sea of pirates with few resources. Not 100% sure on all of them, but Sails and Kelpie have definitely taken lives before.

Doing the strength/combat skill ones made me hate power scaling because I kept futzing with them and making micro-adjustments. To settle some of the placements on the strength chart, I asked myself "Between these two, who would win an arm wrestling match?" xD Kelpies have mythical levels of strength, so he had to be very high up there. CT-Mangey is essentially werehog Tails, so that's sort of like magical strength too, plus he's huge. Kit cheats by being a cyborg. I imagine Mangey and Tails have similar levels of strength, but with the arm-wrestling thing in mind, Mangey pulls ahead just a little. Mangey is constantly active as well, while adult Tails spends less and less time adventuring/fighting in favor of being in his lab/workshop. Mangey is just bigger as well. Sails is a bit lower just by being smaller, scrawnier, and malnourished (… D8). Nine is also a lot skinnier and malnourished (more to poor diet rather than overall lack of food), and is even less active than the others. He's more built for stealth and avoiding confrontations. CT-Kit and Folklore Tails are basically wusses. xD They're not specifically -frail- though, so I didn't feel the need to push them aaaall the way to the left.

The combat skill one was a little bit easier, though I still fussed with it. Obviously, Tails has a ton of experience with all of the wacky adventures he's been on. Kit was basically "born" into immediately training and fighting for his life. Regardless if he hasn't used these skills in a long time, they don't just vanish. Sails has seen some shit. This is where Nine drifts apart from his canon depiction (who I imagine has much less skill from being a stealthy lurker). Even though he mostly avoids scraps with others, he does a lot of research/training in his lab just out of paranoia/preparedness. Mangey used to be very unskilled, but trained to learn the various fighting techniques of his Boscage buddies, so he's got some tricks up his sleeve. CT-Mangey is just an overall brute that can defend himself in general scraps, but doesn't have much experience with technique or anything like that. I'm actually a bit unsure about CT-Kit? Despite growing up on the streets, I imagine he wasn't really the brawling type. Instead he learned all of the social cues/ect on how to stay out of dangerous peoples' paths. Kelpie is hella strong and can just smash/chomp you, but… He's never actually been in a fight, I don't think? I mean, who would be dumb enough to try. Folklore Tails is a pansy and I love him for it.

Nine and CT-Kit are from the city. They're smart and intuitive, but being 100% out of their element? Yeah, they dead. Kit's a bit more to the right because of when he and Surge were sort of in the wilderness after Starline died, but they mostly had the amenities of that base. Also, Kit could easily catch fish and purify water if he had his pack. And I imagine the metal virus would be decent at protecting him against most pathogens, so he could get away with eating raw fish. But he's still quite out of his element, so I dunno about him lasting a super long time.