#must be that tapeworm again

[wilsonhousestan]

My friend invited me to play roblox with them for a bit

I cannot take this game seriously

The voices could not be resisted

@ring0starrlight

[yellow-computer-mouse]

kinda makes me sad when i remember how the jade winglet treats winter in canon

like they fuckin hate his guts! they lie and they hide and they backstab and like. bro??

[bogleech]

Out of curiosity, do you know of any instance where a formerly parasitic species evolved into a non-parasite? I feel like it must have happened and would leave the resulting creature looking really strange (like how human feet look like that because they are basically hands for tree-climbing that decided they wanted to start doing endurance running in a savanna instead). But I also feel like it wouldn't be well preserved in the fossil record.

I can't think of any that we know of! Surely it must have happened somewhere, but I don't know if anyone's certain. The closest I can think of is that there's a few ticks who switched to eating bat guano, but their babies still drink blood, so it's likely the adults used to at some point in their evolutionary history, but that's not a very strong example, especially because it's only an ectoparasite or "micropredator," not like if a tapeworm started adapting to the outside world again or anything.

[cakerybakery]

Like usual, sinner Adam, completely unaware that he can get pregnant as part of his punishment in hell.

But when he’s ovulating Lucifer is just super attached to him. Like, for a few days each month Lucifer sticks to him like glue. Following him around, wanting to be around him, super attentive. Then it’s gone and they both have no idea why.

But of course Adam is super horning too. One month Adam’s trying to get some time alone and Lucifer is in his doorway asking if he can do anything for Adam.

And it’s been so long since Adam’s gotten some. He half jokes he could use a blowjob. But that unlocks the boundary in Lucifer’s brain from, must be around Adam to fuck Adam now.

Next thing Adam knows they’ve destroyed the room, they’re lying on the floor, and Adam is fucking sore. They go again.

Next month Adam expects Lucifer to be the same and they’re both surprised there’s nothing. They’re still doing some friends with benefits but Lucifer isn’t constantly needing to touch Adam. They both shrug it off, they’re both getting laid regularly now, maybe that’s all they needed.

Adam starts feeling weird. Food is off. He sore in his chest off and on. Starts gaining weight. He ignores it. Not like he can die so why go to a doctor? He doesn’t other telling Lucifer either. They’re banging, but it’s or like it’s serious.

Then one day the weird flutter he’s been having definitely feels weird and Lucifer and him are in the middle of foreplay when Lucifer yanks his hand away.

“Adam, what the fuck was that?”

Adam can feel it too. Weirdly strong. He was just telling himself it’s gas but if Lucifer can feel it, what if it is something?? A parasite? A tapeworm?

Lucifer take him to the doctor right then. And it’s awkward. They’re going to do an ultrasound first to see what it might be, so he has to wait outside since that’s policy, and just hears, “ITS A FUCKING WHAT?”

He throws open the door because something is horribly wrong with his kinda sorta boyfriend and he sees on the ultrasound something he’s only ever seen on tv or movies. A baby.

That’s how they find out Adam is over halfway through a pregnancy.

[cockroaaach]

Got carried away and drew this. This drawing is not so informative and is pretty simple — but I love the vibe it has. I think I finally found the style and colour palette that I like and can repeat over and over again. Still must work on this though.

In here I tried to start telling about the so-called bond between Dude and Sophie — what's going on between these two.

I want to get off the subject and finally start introducing this self-insert OC.

Sophie (or Tapeworm — only Dude calls her this way) is Russian and is in her late twenties.

Sophie is apathetic, nonchalant, always looking exhausted, snarky, sarcastic, frigid and a sociopathic individual. She is an irrevocably burnt out person, yet she can act modest and understanding under certain circumstances.

In short terms: Sophie is a workaholic accountant, a misanthrope, anorexic and aromantic.

She graduated and works as an accountant — and she loves her job to the death. When Dude tells her that her job is not super-serious or boring, she would snap at him with nonsense like the bank of Paradise or any terminal owes her — like the accounting in Paradise can work normally thanks to her.

Will continue developing her later. Will leave it this way for now...

[cemetery-irises]

WOOO OK

Honestly I got halfway through and I think this is perfect for on-the-edge-of-delirium Andrew. He's not insane yet, but his thoughts are warped.

Starting with a screenshot of a yt comment about the first line because they say it better than I do. (Andrew wanting his self hatred to be proven wrong even though it never can in his mind and turning to his friends for that reassurance)

Andrew is MORE than certain everyone hates him, and yet he starts to lap up any affection he gets even if he thinks it could be a lie. He doesn't think that he'll ever feel good in the end, but if he can be sinful and happy for a moment... That'll be enough. Please.

His mother died without any way for him to say goodbye to her, and so he's absolutely TERRIFIED of anybody else dying without his knowledge. He doesn't want to wake up next to a corpse again. He doesn't want his only friends to leave him.

He wants to "save" his friends. He wants to be useful. He wants to be forgiven for everything. He can't be, but he wants it so badly. If he can save them... Maybe he can be saved too?

He has to talk to people so they don't think he's a monster, but his fear and how much he pushes away people makes him seem like a monster, at least in his mind. He's a liar if he pretends to be anything else.

So the thought crosses his mind to take that inevitable hatred as love. soon that thought wraps its way around his brain like a strange tapeworm. then he has another thought, of taking ANYTHING as love. And that thought wraps tighter until it's all he can think of.

Despite being the furthest thing from selfish, he still feels like he is. After all, this is for his own happiness. And even if it's miserable and scary seeking attention, it still makes him feel some sort of comfort.

He lays himself bare in front of the people who haven't left him. He wouldn't tell them how far he'd go, because that'd worry them. But he'd do anything that they wanted from him.

He still doesn't think it'll be enough. They'll all leave him, in time. But if this love could just last one more moment before he felt he had to disappear and rot away forever... He'd be oh so happy for it.

At this moment, he's still sane enough to have glimmers of self awareness, knowing that these thoughts aren't rational. But he'd rather be safe than sorry, and if losing his mind is what prepares him for the agony of life, then so be it.

Again, he's putting his selflessness into overdrive. But it's getting worse. He's sure that they must want him dead, but they don't. They've never laid a finger on him. Why?

(Does it matter? Take the affection as you're told. Even if they don't use you, be ready and willing for them to at any potential moment. You wouldn't want them to feel let down with you, would you?)

He's sure by now that he'd quite literally do anything for them. They must be more than human, so what can a man less than human do but give them everything?

He'll give them his heart because they always treat it with such care, even though Andrew insists they don't have to.

fuck i'm ill over this

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 26: The Song With Five Names

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter ☆ AO3 ☆ Featured song playlist

Summary of chapter: Sometimes people are better off dead.

Content warning for descriptions of gore and suicidal thoughts.

The song for this chapter isn't actually new! It is the inspiration for the title and the chapter breaks in chapter one. The full title of the song is: The Song With Five Names A.K.A Soapbox Tao A.K.A Checkmate Atheists! A.K.A Neospace Government A.K.A You Can Never Know. It is by Will Wood and the Tapeworms.

I watched a Naruto arc I didn't really like to write this. I'm not even sure it was necessary. Ah well. Bare minimum done, which is more I can say for Takara here in doing research!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

In your head, in your head, in your head

And yet you believe it's true, well you do

Like you knew anything ever

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

This isn't far off from her first days on a new planet Earth, running till her lungs are burning into a nothingness you don’t recognize, monsters around every corner. Worthless for the air in those organs, she was told and she knows. It didn't start with this sprint; at first it was walking, simply walking away as obediently as she can to minimize her misdeeds to Sasori. But the further she traveled, the louder her voices became, the things that remind her of her place. How heartless, they say, to pity a man before knowing him, to assume that she had any right or place or importance to someone she had just met. How unkind. How very, very cruel.

Is that what you would want? Pity and nothing more?

Legs lift more forcefully, escaping the thoughts that come up in the quiet by perhaps exerting herself until the chemicals in her brain can re-sort their balance, can help her make sense of things. The music she played saves her from having to hear her own thoughts; same with others within mankind who say their mind as she questions, giving her other words to listen to. Where sound fails, maybe other senses can rescue. Maybe, just maybe, she can set herself on fire until she feels nothing else.

Her everything goes into this, and that is how she begins to run.

And what of the rest of them? It can’t be helped but to consider. The realization of how upset they will be...the fighting amongst one another...seeing her for how she is. All her fault, all her fault. How weak in spirit, how disloyal after everything they had done to keep her in place...she is now gone. All their efforts, advice, generosity up in smoke because she could not stand her ground or keep her mouth shut. This is when running becomes running away. She has done them so wrong that she must never be found. Coward, coward,to not face her consequences and instead leave them alone forever, just because she doesn't know what else to do.

But what choice does she have now, this far into her mistake, but to save them the trouble of seeing her face again?

The dark clouds had forebode the worst, and thunder cracks in the sky as rain begins to pelt down, strong enough to break the canopy of trees in spurts as they collide and conjoin from leaf to leaf that fails to catch their fall. It feels like the sky is spitting at her. Any minute now, that tree when the stranger was little could fall again into her bedroom and wake her up. It had missed the first time, and so a crushing death is overdue. She doesn't know where she's going anyway, so it is best if she closes her eyes.

She closes her eyes and from the bottom of her heart, the stranger screams.

At some point unknowable the ground is underneath her face, a trail of mud dripping down her arm and into her stinging cut. She is no longer moving, but she doesn't care. She does not care.

The darkness of her eyes being shut becomes darkness of another kind. Laying face down begins to feel less and less...absolute. The dirt beneath her disappears and she feels like she's dangling instead, that the pull of gravity wants her further down than where she is now. She feels limp. Her hands reach out in front of her like there is no where else to go, and her palms open. Another crack of thunder and she's standing up, a triple bladed scythe in her hands. It has already been swung. The blades are all stuck into her kidnapper from what feels like yesterday, like a fork picking up a piece of meat. She does not see all of his face but can tell that his gaping mouth is oozing blood. Screaming, screaming, but it is not her own. It may not even be his. The moon is big but the sky is red and a war she does not know wages all around her. Eyes shaking in her skull cannot otherwise move, cannot otherwise look around and see what she is lost within. One of the shouts drift into being more distinct, crawling away from the cacophony of a pained hellfire choir to speak clear words:

A civilian...! Horrified, disgusted. What is she doing here?!

This man who taught her to be afraid asks her without words if he deserved this, and just as she had been afraid of, right where she had been punched before, her eyeball collapses in its socket. She has, after all, done nothing today to deserve her eyes.

The ocean is crashing inside of her ears as her head fills to the brim with crimson.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

So don't you forget that all you project is just to protect you from

The void within the form

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The crackle of fire...it never seemed so soothing before. Could Hell really be so bad if its sounds were as peaceful as this? The lone traveler asks herself this question first, even before she is awake. In fact, someone else notices that before she does:

"Hey, I think she's up!"

Dark shifts more to light, but sight does not yet focus. Her vision is half-fuzzy. Did she really lose an-...?!

"Be quiet, it's best if she—"

"Too late..."

A gaping stare sees but does not understand, and the dream is still so fresh in her unconscious that it is considered if she really did bust her eyeball open and it’s gone for good. But somehow there is something with more urgency that a torn up body to take care of. Who the fuck is that?! Adrenaline kicks in and she sits up fast, one palm onto cold stone and other arm up to guard herself as a mind reels to comprehend the threat she woke into. The reaction is returned, breaths already stifled by gas masks hitching behind strapped cloth, their own hands up in a flash with weapons to defend. They hold the same kind of knife that Hidan and Kisame used to spar, that the former gave to her in order to sacrifice his body for her sins. What the fuck? Is she still not awake...?!

"Hey! Take it easy." It is spoken both to her and to the two comrades dressed for warfare. "She's just afraid. Look at her." And the woman briefly sees herself as they must, a wild animal flinching at every movement yet too afraid and run to safety. Eyes dart back and forth, perhaps beginning to see clearly, perhaps hallucinating, and her heart is beating so fast it feels less like a pound and more like a constant buzz in her aching chest. There's a breeze in the air and it feels like someone could be behind her. It is cold, and yet it is familiar. Is this a cave...?

Across the campfire, demands are being made. "Tell us who you are!"

"Hold on, you can't just go right out if the gate with that. We should ease into this."

"And give ourselves away?"

"What choice do we have?!"

"Tie her up and—"

"No! We are fucked if that's our next move and you know it. On enemy territory, Akatsuki around the corner—" The word their friends call themselves is now thrown out with hatred, like it’s something to be stomped on until dead and gone. "We don't have that kind of discretion."

"This can't be happening..." one voice sobs for her, the first this shinobi has spoken at all. She sees them hold their own shoulders so tight the sturdy-seeming material dents, and they try to be small enough to disappear.

"Come on, get it together, both of you. We need level heads to make it out of this." The apparent leader of the squad, way they’re talking. But...something abruptly is apparent, and it makes no sense— "Just...stick with me here." Fingers grip the bottom of the gas mask, and it sends the two others in a panic like this attire is the only thing between them and an ill fate.

“No, wait!”

“What are you, crazy!?”

But all the same, this mask slips off and tired eyes look back at her upon a face much the same way. Her lips part in confusion, and not just because they are at most a teenager, if not a child. This person has a headband on…much the same as ones worn by those who take refuge in her house. There's a star in the middle where other markings would be. It takes her a while to notice them staring at her raised arm. She flinches, reflexively trying to hide it—

“Hey.” The young leader raises a palm, approaching slowly, scooting a bit closer across the cave floor. No use hiding now. “I want to help.” They command with the calmness of an adult...like the head of a battalion. What the hell is happening…? “We're here investigating a group of rogues called the Akatsuki. Do you know of them?”

It means a whole damn lot that this is their first question and not why she was passed out on the forest floor. Their stare continues to glue on her arm, reddening to fight off infection after being drowned in the elements. It reminds her of when people stared at her shoulder and it twists her gut apart. It is known that the answers she gives now are critical, but not how, and that’s the most terrifying thing of all. Her response now is too slow—

“Listen…it's clear that the Akatsuki hurt you too.” Nightmare, this is a nightmare. “Help us. Tell us what you know and we have a better chance of getting you out of here.”

“You can't assume that–”

“She is a civilian.” And though this is meant to vouch for her, nothing worse could be happening. Oh God. They think the cut on her arm–that they…!

She stares again at the metal plate. It looks so strange to see a headband without a scratch.  Why doesn’t it have a scratch…?

“What's your name?”

Her stomach wants to vomit, but bile needs to be swallowed down. She can't get them in trouble. She can't. Even if she dies, she can't take her friends down with her. It is the only thing she can do for them, the only help she can give is to merely not exist in their space after everything they’ve gone through. But her throat chokes in this effort and she can't speak at all lest she spew. Hands are thrown over her face just in case she really does throw up right here and now. She has no idea she's crying until someone tells her to stop.

A hand is on her shoulder. She is a possession now instead of a person, and she wonders if it is one they intend to steal.

“We'll get you to safety. I promise.”

“You can't–”

“I can and I will. Foreigner or not, she isn't Akatsuki. No one should be left to those animals.” And lower, not unheard like they think it is: “She's too pathetic to be one of them.”

.

.

.

“The rain is lightening up," the meekest voice notes with hesitation, as it is both relieved and afraid that this means there is no choice but to leave. Indeed it is, precipitation no longer blinding. Indeed it has been, the woman having no idea it was still raining at all.

The stranger begins to be carried away, hat nowhere to be found as she probably lost it long before she was found. It was useless, but it was cute, just like her. These people run and jump like birds as they spirit her away, like it's nothing. She doesn't even slow the quiet one down, give them trouble keeping up as they bridal carry. Superpowers...just like the Akatsuki. Her fingers grip the shinobi's coat much like this person was doing before— in fear. Where are they going?! She can’t even bring herself to ask, like her mouth is sewn shut. It's all over. 

Useless. Useless. Useless. Die. Die. Die. Be dead. You are better off dead. They are better off with you dead. What will these guys ask? Maybe they can hypnotize you, too, just like Itachi can. You made him promise to tell you if you will die. They did no such thing. Take control. Do it yourself. Save the Akatsuki from whatever secrets you can give away. Die. Die. Be dead. Useless. You are better off dead. Make them kill you —

The one carrying her asks a question. It momentarily saves the woman from this trance of sacrifice:

“Are you okay, miss?”

And abruptly...the world looks different. The water lands more gently on her skin and it sounds like a peaceful patter instead of a storm. It makes her wonder if the cave they just left is where Kisame held her close. It is just as gentle and kind as that night was.

Is she okay? Shes not, but is it better if she shouldn't be?

Silence. This voice suddenly sounds like her own:

“It's okay to be afraid.”

More silence. The trees pass by. One. Another. Blurring together. Brown and green and yellow and red, looking like a forest on fire except it is too cold.

“My name is Hiniri,” it whispers, so shy and nervous and very, very small. “And I'm afraid too. This is my first mission outside of home. My home…doesn't usually send people out so far. But this is pretty serious.” And then they ask a question again, no motive besides sympathy— comradery— to be found:

“Whats your name?”

And with her heart a thousand miles an hour, held in another stranger’s arms, the woman shuts her eyes in concentration and tries to remember what Kakuzu taught her from the very start. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You can break a shovel when you break new ground

You dig dirt up when you dig deep down

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“He'll ask eventually, you know.”

Is this tone scolding, she wonders? The performer waits to see, having not known this man for as long as she will eventually. The sharpness in his strange, green and red eyes from when they first met a week or so ago is gone. Dull, tired. Why give her his time when he’s tired?

The woman’s gaze raises to a corner of the ceiling, noting how the edges of the walls maybe don’t fit together anymore. How old is this place, anyway? Anyhow, she finds an excuse in the tiny gap it makes. “...Hidan hasn't yet, though.” But the retort is as quick as it is exhausted:

“And the barkeeper wants your name now that you're hired.”

“A-...a girl from another world?” That’s what she said before, right? “Is it a bad stage name?”

“He wants your real name.”

“Why?”

…

…

...

Yeah, that’s pretty dumb when you say that out loud, huh? Don’t need to see the bottom half of the bounty hunter’s face to tell he thinks the same. Ah damn. Not getting out of this one when he has a point.

Tilting down his clothed head, Kakuzu sighs, motioning the girl to come over, sit next to him on the couch. She is so obedient it puts a pit in his stomach, as she so naively stares so hard at his headband, memorizing its sigil and strike across. “You'll need one, you know. You haven't thought of one yet?” A shameful pause and this mouse shakes her head, having not completed her one assignment. “Why not?”

Pink tinges her cheeks as shoulders squirm tighter into her body to make herself small. “Afraid of commitment, I guess.” Not an answer he understands. Hell, let’s just get it over with:

“I'll do it, then.”

…

…

...Hypocrite he is, he understands suddenly what she means. It's been a long time…70 something years or the like? He just picked a new name and never looked back— nothing more to it. Gemstone eyes look to starry ones. Does he have the right to shape her future? Maybe not. But she's not giving him much choice. That in itself is the first time he suspects she may not be entirely stupid. Less responsibility, the better...

He grumbles under his mask and thinks. If she could have one future– he could pick a new one for himself– what would be best? The reason he cares for her is irrational, yes, but not nonexistent. She is just like him. When he was full of hopes and dreams and loyalty. The things that nearly killed him, did in fact kill a shinobi of another name who once was proud to serve a village and willing to die simply because it deemed so. Perhaps a piece of that is worth protecting, keeping a candle lit in the thunderstorm.

He tells her a word, hardly believing it himself as he confesses a wish near and dear to five reluctant hearts.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You should know better than that by now

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Lost deep in a forest she thought she knew, trained lips repeat her memorized answer. It is one that Kakuzu taught her to use to protect herself, hide from those who mean her harm. She remembers two instructions: to live and to lie if need be. Perform for your life.

Tell them your name.

“Takara," she says, "Of Hoshigakure.”

.

.

.

The rain suddenly feels different on her skin. The wind is lighter. She opens her eyes to see they have stopped running, all feet but hers solid upon the ground. The other two ninja are staring at her and she can feel it from the one who asked her confession, too. Even through masks, she can tell. The voice that used to have eyes speaks, shaken like she set upon them a curse. “Put her down.”

Nothing changes. The leader shouts more urgently:

“Do it–!”

“You–“ The one literally holding her life in their hands beseeches to not let go. They know something she does not, and yet again the unknown is the scariest thing of all. “You said she's just a civilian–!”

“You set her down, we have our ORDERS!”

The fingers around her quiver in fear, and yet the voice in the gas mask does not let down. “We're just intel—”

“Not anymore!”

The person holding her wears the headband around her neck like Hidan does. It has a star. A star. Smack, smack, smack—! reality hits her all at once:

Hoshigakure. That is The Village Hidden in the Stars.

Dear God. This really is all her fault. And she was too much of an idiot to see it coming. She didn't even wonder why Deidara's bird would still be on the lawn before when it exploded in front of her eyes. He had to make another. It was a caution. A caution to be ready in case these people whose name she stole came all the way here. That’s why they haven’t come home, the four others sent away are out there, defending the likes of her from trouble she dragged to their door. The words she took were tainted ground. Bait for sharks. She has made a name for herself in a little town and now the whole world may know Akatsuki are here.

And what is she, to be doing so, but a dangerous criminal just as they?

In slow motion so she can feel every grain of sand in the end of her hourglass drop by, the person scared like her lowers the horrible liar to her feet. She can hardly stand on by herself, but the hoshi-nin is helpless but to offer no further aid. That at this point would be their own suicide.

“We should kill her.” The impatient voice, the one who was right about her from the start. “That'll end this.”

“Maybe so,” the child agrees, and even as they can hardly say it either, they mean it.

The person now behind her may be trembling more than she is. Yet another argument for her life; why can’t she speak for herself?! She was begging for death mere seconds ago, and that desire collides with her instruction to live. What if her friends find out she let them down so bad as to really be killed?!

“What happened to interrogation?!”

“Too risky. If she's buddy buddy with Akatsuki, then bringing her back spells disaster. We do it here and now and run.”

Shes dizzy. The sky is falling. The rain soaks and it is pulling her down like there is a grave under her boots that she needs to drop into.

Maybe she does deserve to die.

“Do it.”

Trembling hands come in front of her. A glisten is held in these fingers. They are not hers. A whimpering is behind her ear, and it really does sound just like her:

“I'm sorry.”

A musician's death is fitting, a kunai strung at her arteries like a bow winding across a cello. The acrid scent of blood fills the air.

And then.

And then.

.

.

.

Then, the sound of cracking bones. A neck untouched by a blade raises her chin. 

The corpse of her captor impaled over and over again hangs half limp and half stuck on Zetsu's green, massive talons that pinch over his head as he bursts from the earth itself right behind her, right where the hoshi-nin was. A fellow human is being crushed to death between them and gushing contents open like a popped water balloon. She looks up with her mouth agape and red falls on her face. In a flash, it is dark once more.

The traveler wonders if she is dreaming yet again.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It's not profound to know that you can never know

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[awhalesrider]

Our beloved V and her love

Players have been looking at the world from V's perspective. Valerie is the observer who brings our eyes. We see the story of many characters, but we have less opportunity to observe our girl. Perhaps it is easy to be less sensitive to many of her behaviors and emotions, since we have been long used to seeing those options as a means to serve the plot of the game. However, if we do not take it all for granted, but think deep inside the logic behind with some of our subjective initiative, we will realize that the johnny/v relationship from V's perspective may be a perfect example of "showing instead of telling".

Valerie seems to be more accustomed to show her love and care to others. She is the one always offering a helping hand in her established relationship. You can say this is a coincidence caused by the characteristics of the first-person RPG, but in any case, the result is that she is relatively more introverted in various relationships. She listens instead of telling. It's more like everyone needs her than she needs them [born to be a merc, don't you think?]. She listens to everyone's troubles and solves all kinds of problems, but she seldom easily shows her vulnerability until she has to. Even if she decides not to hide the sad truth from her friends, she rarely asks for support directly. What she says more is "It's okay." or "I feel better now. No worries." or "I've found a way. Hope it works". This is what I find most endearing and remarkable about our girl - the main storyline is her plight. She is dying. Her life is counting down. She is the one who needs help. But beyond that, dozens of side jobs are basically about her pulling others out of the shadows, out of the mire, and into a new life. Imagine a patient with terminal cancer who is still doing psychological therapy for others, and you will find that she is so strong and brave, and so good at pretending; that she can even fool the group of strangers behind the screen who think they know her best. The new legend in NC that we knew doesn't even know how to escape the scythe of death.

This is where it gets interesting. With Valerie, we visited Judy's hometown flooded by the reservoir. We met the family members who are dependent on River. We understand the past of Panam and Aldecados. And we know very well the years of light and gloom of Kerry.

The problem is, we don't know much about V. We have only a one-sided perception of her life. Again, you can say that this is the beauty of first-person RPGs! Leaving enough room for the player's imagination! We can totally make up our story for our V. But the objective truth is that our knowledge of V's memory in the game is from the prologue and some seperated side jobs about her background (i.e., street kid/corpo/nomad). In addition, what we get is only fragments of her childhood that she dictated to herself, and Johnny's words.

Yes. Johnny's words describing the first half of V's life.

The man is the closest obeserver of V.

V: "Sure seem to know a lot about my past."

Johnny:"Well, seen flashes of your past, just like you've seen flashes of mine."

That's what makes their relationship so special. Valerie rarely reveals her past voluntarily and shows her thoughts, but whether she wants it or not, she has a partner who shares these secrets with her and is as close to her as her sense of self. I have to mention her time with the joytoys in the clouds that connects her subconscious. In fact, if we talk to the end, we will find that it is very much like a simple conversation she had with Johnny back in the Tapeworm. Angel and the Sky have slightly different lines, but they both end with the phrase "If you must kill, kill. If you must burn all the world to the ground, then let it burn.", I don't think this is an echo without any particular purposes.

So for Valerie, the relationship with Johnny is different from her other intimate relationships. In the dialogue with Johnny we can see Valerie releasing her various emotions to the greatest extent possible. She rarely comes across as the strong and reliable merc who seems to be powerful and always makes people feel safe. On the contrary, in Tapeworm and Chippin' In, we can see V show her vulnerability and sensitivity while changing Johnny. She often expresses her confusion and anger. She no longer says "I found a way". She asks "what do you want". She can be confused, fearful of death, and greedy for life. she becomes a resentful and incomprehensible about the city and her fate. She becomes an ordinary young person, resentful and uncomprehending about the city and her fate. Johnny knows her past like he knows the back of his hand. He knows everything she cares about most and the root of all her fears. He listens to her, understands her and even stubbornly decides to save her. He keeps asking her forcefully to accept his help and reminds her after the meaningful concert that "Kerry's got his life back. Whereas we should be worryin' about how to get yours back". So Mr. Pondsmith, the original author of the board game, is right in saying that because of Johnny's presence, V was cushioned before she had a nervous breakdown and became a cyber psychopath.

Such companionship and closeness would be like painkillers. Perhaps V is unconscious to herself, but she has developed dependence long before she realizes. Her subconscious habit of defending him would have been able to show her subtle preference. Before she knew it, Johnny was already a source of security. No matter how much she usually argued with him and said she didn't want to hear him anymore, her subconscious was looking for him at the most fearful and uncomfortable times.

When V first accessed the cyberspace in the Pacifica with the Voodoo Boys, she uneasily seeked confirmation from Johnny as she stepped into the biting cold water. And before she had a near-death experience of that time of unconsciousness, she fell to the ground and called out Johnny's name, saying in her mind that she was going to die, until he held her wrist and said she ain't dying yet cuz he got her. It is said that people are most honest when they are dying. Did Valerie find her true feelings about him at that time? Did she realize that she only wanted to rely on this pure solace of the heart, despite all the friends she had met, despite knowing that Johnny could not technically and literally offer her a hand in the material world?

Maybe that's why she gave that answer when Johnny asked her if she would take a bullet for him.

The Johnny in her head is just a mass of data, a phantom, and a copy of the engram. Everyone including Johnny knows this, and Valerie reminds herself of this fact from time to time, but she still believes in the end that he is a part of her soul, a comrade who will accompany her to the end. The kitten (Nibbles) they picked up together was real, the tattoos he left on her arm were real, and so were his dog tags and his promises.

Valerie's desire to live is so strong, but in the most ideal development path of the plot, even if she had to endure the suffer because of the RELIC, she didn't even take much of tablet to block him out until the final rooftop choice. Could it be that she would rather endure physical pain than experience sudden loneliness and isolation on a spiritual level? She emphasizes her control over her body, yet she swallows Endotrizine for him again and again to fulfill his last wish when she knows she is getting closer to death. Why could she trust a man who was destined to take her life? Why can you trust someone who has shown all his "previous conviction" to her, someone she knows is a jerk in the past?

Only Valerie knows why.

In the deleted dialogue, Hellman says that she, letting Johnny control her body, is like a young girl in love and doesn't care anything else (I dont know the original lines in English but I do see the line in the Chinese ver voice package). In the end of the secret ending, Rogue said that Johnny must have made a pretty big impression on V for getting on board. The truth is it's hard for an outsider to really understand what it's like to have someone so close in spirit.

It's never the same thing as "Let's try. We can break up if it doesn't work out". Once that "you're in me, and I'm in you" state is confirmed, she can't get out of it - unless she denies herself. As long as she can't let go of herself, she can't let go of him. She's willing to give to him as much as she's willing to give to herself.

So even at the end of the six months Valerie has left to live, she will feel that she can't hear him anymore and can't see him anymore, but she will never lose him. There will always be a part of her soul that belongs to him. Maybe she will listen to his songs, holding all the traces of him left behind and missing him without a word, because no one can understand.

She will only tell them that she just got used to him.

[hermannsprecursors]

A list of songs Dr. Newton Geiszler is banned from playing in the Shatterdome's lab

This includes, but is not limited to:

As Your Father I Expressly Forbid It by Lemon Demon

Two Trucks by Lemon Demon

The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny by Lemon Demon

Sexy, Naughty, Bitchy Me by Tata Young

Most songs by Britney Spears, namely Toxic, If U Seek Amy, and Oops, I Did It Again

Most of Will Wood and the Tapeworm's SELF-iSH album

The Main Character by Will Wood

Most Christmas songs, ESPECIALLY Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas Is You, and Wham's Last Christmas

Buddy Holly by Weezer

A good number of songs by Oingo Boingo. Dr Gottlieb didn't bother to specify, so Dr Geiszler must hope any Oingo Boingo song he wishes to listen to is an exemption

Whip It by DEVO

If I Could Turn Back Time by Cher

Voulez-Vous by ABBA

Dancing Queen by ABBA

Most, if not all songs by 100 Gecs

Dragostea Din Tei by O-Zone

[beesnutz]

How the Star Trek: The Original Series Cast would react to you having a tapeworm!

KIRK: This.. Worm, it is... hurting you... and you caught it.. on this ship..? (pause). The medical team in sick bay will help you. Ah.. How i feel? A captain.... A captain is not allowed to get involved with anyone personally, even if what they have is a tape worm. I am deeply sorry. I promise you, we will do what we can to figure out how this tapeworm managed to get into your body. It is our duty.

UHURA: Tapeworm?! Of all the... You poor thing.. we must get you to sick bay immediately. I'll open up a channel.. You know, I've too caught a nasty bug, when i was a child. But I don't remember the ailment as much as I do my doting mother taking care of me as I healed.. I hope you too, have someone special near you who will be there by your side.. (she looks away shyly). Perhaps I will come to check up on you at some point, as well...

SPOCK: Fascinating... To be infected by a tapeworm in space is quite a difficult, if not impossible feat. Unless it is some alien variety, of course, although you have not joined us in many away missions as of late. Quite illogical.. No matter, as it would be more illogical for you to lie about your condition. For the sake of efficiency of the ship, please take control of your situation as soon as possible.

SULU: Phew... a nasty little bug you caught there, let's hope the living conditions in that belly aren't up to standards, maybe it'll move out.. Jokes aside, tapeworms are a serious thing, so don't put it off any longer. Don't worry, I'll take care of your post, there's only so many flowers i can prune in the botany bay before my mood gets just as thorny! (laughs). Be strong, pal.

CHEKOV: Grr.. Yes. The "Tapeworm". We have many tales about the nasty thing in Russia. Gah, If only I was small enough to go in there myself, I'd strangle that slimy little thing with my own hands to make sure it would NEVER try to bother you again.!! Huh? Ah.. yes. It seems i've become too heated over it - but it hurts to know that thing is destroying your body! I apologize...

JANICE: Ehh, a tapeworm, how gross is that?! Oh, sorry.. Well. I've never seen anything fall ill to anything like that on this ship, the medics are all top notch professionals. Nothing to worry about!... I'll go back to work now...

SCOTTY: Aye, I'm no gonna lie to ye, the chances of pickin' up a TAPEWORM o' all things on here.. Is hard to believe! I'm already swamped with work over here, and now, to worry about you.. Nae, trust me, I like'ta worry about you!

CHAPEL: Now how did you manage to get yourself a pet tapeworm? Ah, stranger things happen on this ship almost every day, I shouldn't even be suprised! Listen, run off to Dr. Mccoy to give you a proper examination, I'm stuck here with this job.. But, hey, afterwards, come to my cabin, okay..? ..I can make a lovely soup that's perfect for any rainy day.

MCCOY: What the devil are you talking about? All that my tricorder shows is a "hard" case of BOWEL OBSTRUCTION. Take this pill and call me in the morning.

[god-mouths]

i wanna hear about,,,, literally any of ur guys actually i love hearing abt ur guys :] if thats too vague pick me a guy and tell me about their inspirations/how you came up with their stories/designs/traits!! i think your stuff is so fascinating and i wanna know how that rotates in ur brain

OOOG…. Thank youe…. I’ve realized a few patterns in how I tell my stories lately so I do want to go over those! I’ll be using yvette my buddy my pal to demonstrate this because he’s the best example. ( later edit : Actually I have more stuff to talk about I’ll number it)

1. I’ve noticed a ton of my story material is based on how the people around us or our surroundings effect us. The cycles and whatnot. For yvette he starts out as a yellow blood and, in trying to forcefully change the oppression imposed on him from his surroundings, actually sort of just continues it by killing a close friend of his. That friend ends up haunting him. Teed hee

Idk if the pictures will come across well since I’m on mobile but to break down this specific piece the colors used on REPENT and the tapeworms in the back are actually the colors of his old psionics before he did all that mad scientist crap to change himself. OLD ART!! AUGHH AU AUGGHH

Is it a little stupid that he changes his own blood color? Yes. But homestuck as it’s own is so beyond stupid that I can do whatever I want I’m a scavenger a critter.

But by changing his blood color yvette essentially locks away his psionics (there must be something very specific to yellow blood to make the psionics work to me) siphoning them off into the trident he wields. He can’t get rid of ALL of his original blood, so the yellow just stays dormant. Should he choose to use his psionics in this new state he’s made for himself he risks fucking up his organs even further.

Anyways it takes a human child with the same exact problems as him to realize Heyyy…..maybe what I did and have been doing is a little fucked. Which it was. But it was the only thing he could have done, in his eyes, because the alternative was getting hooked up to a machine for the rest of his life.

At the end of the story (? Fan venture?) he does break out his psionics again which causes the blood to mix. He’s redeemed but he’s not nearly as cool anymore. Big bummer

2. colors always mean things more often than not in my art. I am a “why is the curtain blue” type of asshole, and I love to do it. For instance in MATSC green is for heaven and blue is for hell, but they have more than just that meaning. Green is confinement and being trapped and whatnot, while blue is freedom. Still kind of iffy on what purple means but it may mean the same as green. We’re figuring it out. In LEM I’m also still working on it, but blue is a mainly bad color there while orange is instead the signifier of good things. As for paradigm shift it’s more of a character-to-character basis. They all get their own specific colors. I loveeee colors colors colors :)

3. I LOVE writing villains. It is my personal goal with every villain I write to see how genuinely horrible I can make the villain as a person and still get people to enjoy reading them. It’s so fun, I mean it. Like the type of guy that would absolutely stump tumblr’s famous reading incomprehension. I love it I LOVE IT

4. This isn’t about my stories overall, just one, but I finally finished the first draft for act one of paradigm shift which I am PSYCHED about. I sent it out to a few people for feedback- only a select few people, though. If it were any other story I’d send it to a wider range but it is IMPERATIVE that my buddies that experienced max first hand when we were little 12 year old kids doing stupid roleplays get to see it first. They know him very well, and Vice versa. I’m so excited. (Air horns) (yippee sound!)

[dalgursbate]

to forgive is human and failure is divine (2/?)

Summary: A divinity school dropout walks into the shittiest dive bar in the Lower City. The bartender asks, “What are you having?” The dropout responds, “An existential crisis.” *** Magical realism/Modern Faerûn AU where Shadowheart and Lae’zel run from their problems by causing new ones. Also, by punching each other. A lot.

Rating: M WC: 9,387 Pairing: F/F, Shadowheart/Lae'zel

part 1

Shadowheart wakes up at noon the next day.

Before she gets in the shower, she spends ten minutes inspecting herself in the full-length mirror that hangs on the back of her bathroom door, pressing her fingers against the cuts and bruises that now mar her pale skin. It wasn’t so long ago that she could’ve healed herself without a second thought. Now, if she wants to treat the injuries she’ll need to walk down to the nearby pharmacy and grab a $10 potion she can’t afford.

Not that she really wants to, anyway.

Because every time the prods at the tender flesh, that same odd feeling from last night returns. Like her guts are all twisted up inside, as though they might just crawl up her throat and out of her mouth at any moment. Her stomach feels less hollow than it did before, too. The persistent absence that she's been feeling for so long isn't gone, precisely, but now it is accompanied by a voracious sort of hunger. It makes her feel a little like she swallowed a tapeworm.

It’s not a nice feeling, not by a longshot, but it’s new. It’s something.

She’s not an idiot, of course. She knows how deeply disturbed she must be, to actually savor getting the shit beaten out of her by a religious zealot in an alleyway while piss-drunk. 

Unbidden, her mind returns to the image of last night. Not of the fight with Lae’zel, but of what happened after: Shadowheart frantically shoving her fingers into her jeans the second she got home, her clit throbbing under her fingers as she pictured Lae’zel’s teeth, her jagged nails, her sticky-hot cigarette breath. As she remembered the feeling of brick scraping harsh against her shoulders and the hollow thunk of her skull against the magic shop wall. She touched herself roughly, like she imagined Lae’zel would, fisting her other hand as hard as she could in her own hair. The way she twisted and tugged made the pain in her scalp blossom anew, savage and sparkling, and she came so hard her whole body shook with it. It felt like the first breath after almost drowning, her lungs burning and her brain flooded with an overwhelming rush of competing chemicals.

It was the best she had felt in weeks.

…Even she can admit that this isn’t how normal people behave.

The same way she can admit it isn’t normal now, as she turns the shower blisteringly hot and hisses in perverse pleasure when it batters against her nascent wounds. It’s certainly not normal that she gets off again like that, bracing herself against the thin bathroom wall and thrusting two fingers inside of herself.

But, well, she hasn’t exactly been feeling very normal lately. And hey, at least this time she isn’t making a mess in her last clean-ish pair of jeans.

Gods, I really need to do laundry, she thinks. And maybe find a therapist. 

Shadowheart knows she isn’t attracted to Lae’zel. At least, not in any real sort of way. She thinks she just needs an outlet, a way to purge herself of all the bad feelings that have been crowding her thoughts lately. And last night, Lae’zel just happened to be there, offering a convenient distraction and a strawman to project her frustrations with religion onto. Everything else she’s attaching to it is probably just some weird, psychosexual church girl bullshit.

It’s not that Shadowheart isn’t attracted to women; she’s come to terms with the fact that she is, even if it took her awhile. But Lae’zel seems like a genuine maniac—not the sort of person she typically finds herself drawn to in a romantic or sexual partner. Still, it’s the thought of her, fucking Shadowheart so brutally into the carpet that her whole back gets covered in rugburn, that leaves her shivering even under the hot water.

After she finishes, after the last little jolts of pleasure finish dancing over her nerves, Shadowheart doesn't even bother washing her hair or shaving her legs. She just stands in the spray until the water runs cold.

For a little bit after her shower, Shadowheart just relishes the feeling of being awake while the sun is out. She opens the blinds to the one tiny window in her apartment and appreciates the natural lighting as she dries off, however sparse it may be. It’s nice , she thinks, to be awake earlier for once .

However, she quickly realizes that the downside to waking up at noon is that The Grove doesn’t open until 6 p.m. on Saturdays. Shadowheart won’t be able to pick up her things until then, which gives her a pretty hefty chunk of time to kill.

She just needs to figure out how to kill it.

As has become her habit, she looks warily over at the stack of Important Things™. But for once, instead of allowing it to fill her with lurid, cloying panic, Shadowheart just heaves a resigned sigh.

She might as well try.

Shockingly, it goes better than usual.

It doesn’t go well, of course. But it goes better.

She dares not look at any of the paperwork from Nightbringer, so instead she uses her laptop to make the biggest payment she can manage on her credit card bill. She sends some emails she’s been putting off. She even, briefly, does some research into a few wayward job prospects. They aren’t super promising; entry-level administrative assistant type positions that claim to require three years of experience minimum and pay next to nothing for it. It’s still more than she’s done in recent memory to try to get the train back on the tracks, though.

It almost feels like a win.

6 p.m. eventually rolls around.

Well, 5:40. Close enough; it’s a twelve minute walk anyway.

Shadowheart closes her laptop and stretches, relishing how her aching muscles protest the movement. Patience has never been one of her many virtues, so she got ready to go out an hour and a half ago and has been idling away the time ever since. She’s already dressed in something black and sultry, with dark purple eyeshadow smoked out around her eyes and her lips coated in a liberal application of sheer gloss. A small thrill runs through her every time she passes her reflection and sees the delicate finger-shaped bruises on her bare arms, the scrapes on her shoulders. 

She really does look like she got her ass kicked. 

(She probably shouldn’t enjoy that thought as much as she does.)

A weird anticipation takes shape in her chest as she makes the quick walk over to The Grove. She arrives before they open, so she tries to disguise her overeager pacing in front of the storefront as casual wandering.

After a few minutes, the door swings open and a head peeks out at her. Karlach greets her with a skeptical look.

“You left your stuff here, Shady.”

“I know,” Shadowheart says ruefully. “That’s why I’m back. Sorry about that, by the way.”

Karlach just eyes her briefly, until a sunny grin overtakes her features. “Don’t worry about it. I gave myself a pretty great tip.”

“Good—you deserved it,” Shadowheart smiles back.

“Damn right I did,” Karlach agrees, holding the door open for Shadowheart as she walks in. “I was a fucking delight.”

Shadowheart just laughs.

“Looks like you lost that fight, though, huh? Sorry to hear that; that woman was a real pill.”

“Oh,” Shadowheart says dismissively. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Karlach looks at her a little strangely. “You’re a lot of things, Shady, but I’m not sure fine is one of them.”

Shadowheart could decide to take that personally. She chooses not to, and levels Karlach with a wolfish grin. “In this outfit? I feel pretty fine,” she says, punctuating her statement with a little twirl before she sits down. Shadowheart demures, “Do you not agree?”

Karlach raises an accusatory finger at Shadowheart. “Oi, no flirting with the bartender!” Then, she laughs. “At least, not unless you mean it. It’s rude, isn’t it, getting a girl’s hopes up like that.” 

“Who says I don’t mean it?” Shadowheart asks, affecting an exaggerated pout.

“Oh, I’m sure you do, Shady,” Karlach says back, leaning over the bar to get close to her. Her voice becomes conspiratorial. “But between you and me, I’ve seen how you hold your liquor. You couldn’t handle me even if you wanted to, dollface.”

There’s a long silence after that, as Karlach and Shadowheart stare into each others’ eyes, each daring the other to break first. It shatters as both of them end up laughing simultaneously.

“Dollface?” Shadowheart repeats incredulously, giggling like a schoolgirl.

“‘Who says I don’t mean it?’ ” Karlach mimics in babytalk, before snorting and slapping Shadowheart’s arm with the bar rag. “Ought to ban you, Shady. You’re nothing but trouble.”

“You like it!” Shadowheart protests, but there’s no heat in it. She feels strangely comfortable with Karlach, though she supposes that’s sort of her job, as a bartender.

“Maybe a bit,” Karlach agrees, sliding Shadowheart’s credit card and jacket across the bartop. “Now what’ll you be having?”

Shadowheart thinks about it. “I’ll have your cheapest glass of red wine.”

“Kind of you to think we have more than one.”

Two glasses and some indeterminate amount of time later, Shadowheart feels good. She’s been taking her drinks slowly, trying not to get too drunk for when ( if , she reminds herself) Lae’zel shows up. For its part, The Grove has filled up rather quickly, though it's still not too rowdy to have a conversation. Shadowheart knows this because she’s been talking to the human wizard next to her for some time now.

Or, rather, he’s been talking to her.

“So you see, if you want to source the most effective material components, it’s a rather delicate matter of some diplomatic import. I, for one, have been roped into many an email chain on the subject, though if I’m being perfectly candid I think a few of them ought to have been meetings–”

Shadowheart can only take so much.

“Sorry,” she interrupts him, in the vain hopes of derailing his ceaseless lecturing. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Oh! It is a bit loud in here, isn’t it?” The wizard extends his arms in a grand flourish, apparently not at all bothered by the interruption. “The name’s Gale Dekarios, originally hailing from Waterdeep, but recently having flown far afield to our fair Baldur’s Gate.”

“Right, Gale, and you said you own the magic shop next door?” Shadowheart is honestly amazed she’s managed to internalize anything this man has said. She should be proud of herself, really.

“Indeed I did!” 

Gale looks like he is about to say more words about his inventory then, which simply cannot be allowed to happen, so Shadowheart intervenes: “So you know quite a bit about magic, then, I suppose?”

“Well, I don’t mean to brag, but I certainly possess a level of education on the subject that–”

“–Great, talk to me about divine magic.” If nothing else, this ought to be entertaining. Shadowheart has seen more than one man make a fool of himself trying to outclass her knowledge on the subject, and Gale seems the type prone to mansplaining.

(Sometimes, being a woman in academic circles, Shadowheart had to make her own fun. Evidently, that impulse didn’t abandon her upon quitting her program.)

“Pardon?” To Shadowheart’s surprise, Gale actually seems taken aback by her request. Enough that he doesn’t immediately keep talking, at least.

“Divine magic, you know, the stuff of gods? Do you know about it?”

“Well, uh, yes, hmm. I suppose I do, somewhat,” and is it just Shadowheart, or does he already look nervous? Usually it takes a bit more than that to break them. “Can I ask why you’re inquiring?”

It must be the wine that makes Shadowheart lean in, smiling as though telling him a secret. “I used to study it,” she says.

“Oh, really?” Gale’s eyes light up, then. “A fellow student of the arcane! How delightful! Might I ask where you learned?”

Somehow, Shadowheart did not count on him actually expressing interest in her teachings. She pauses, contemplating whether it would be wise to reveal such personal information to a stranger.

Well, she thinks. In for a penny.

“I was getting a Master of Divinity,” Shadowheart says carefully, “from Nightbringer University.” She watches Gale’s eyes widen a fraction, though he smothers the expression almost immediately. “I didn’t complete the program,” she adds quickly.

“Damn, Shady,” Karlach whistles from behind the bar, and since when has she been listening? “You didn’t say you were at Nightbringer.”

“That is…most remarkable,” Gale admits eventually. “Nightbringer has quite the prestigious reputation, particularly for those practicing Sharran magic.”

Shadowheart smiles bitterly. “Yes, though as I said, I didn’t complete the program.” She pauses, then sighs. In for a penny, in for a penny, in for a penny. “I don’t practice Sharran magic any longer.”

“An even greater feat still,” Gale says easily. “It takes courage to turn one’s back on the favor of the divine.” To Shadowheart’s pleased surprise, he seems more impressed than sympathetic. It actually feels kind of nice. 

Though she can’t help but notice a strange look in his eye.

“You say that as though you know from experience,” she remarks, having weighed her curiosity against her desire to avoid another long-winded monologue and ultimately finding in favor of the former.

“I suppose I do, yes, though perhaps that’s a story for another time.” Gale’s expression turns a little mournful. He meets Shadowheart’s eyes once more. “You mentioned that you no longer practice Sharran magic—if it isn’t too personal, may I ask whether you’re still able to cast?”

“I had been wondering that too, actually,” Karlach pipes in with apparent intrigue, though it’s hard to tell how closely she is paying attention to the conversation as she flits around refilling drinks.

“I–uh, no,” Shadowheart answers before she can think better of it. She feels a hot lick of shame run through her. “I was a cleric, so...”

The rest doesn’t need to be said: she was a cleric, so abandoning the church meant abandoning her magic.

“Hmm,” Gale says thoughtfully. “Clerical training is specialized, of course, but often transferable. Have you considered serving a new deity?”

Shadowheart winces at the question, struck by how overly familiar it is. What kind of person just straight-up asks a stranger if they’re considering switching religions? “I’m not really in the market for a new god right now.”

“Fair enough,” Gale says. “You know, there’s a book I’ve been meaning to get for the shop about the rise in secular clericalism. I could loan it to you when it gets in, if you’d like.” Shadowheart expects to hear pity in his tone. Poor little cleric, all bereft of magic because she chose a shitty church. But to her shock, Gale’s tone reveals nothing but earnestness and genuine interest.

“Thanks, but I don’t need your charity,” Shadowheart says reflexively. To her surprise, she finds there isn't really any bite to it.

“Perhaps not,” he says agreeably. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.” He slides a few bills across the bartop, toward Karlach, and stands. “At any rate, it seems I’ve stuck my foot far enough into my own mouth for one evening. I ought to get home before Tara starts looking for me.” He bows to Karlach and Shadowheart, his form a touch wobbly from the brandy he’s been drinking, and takes his leave.

“Who’s Tara?” Shadowheart asks Karlach, after he’s gone.

Karlach barks out a laugh at that. “His cat.”

Shadowheart laughs, too.

After her third glass of wine, Shadowheart decides to dance. The music is as fast and angry as it was the last time she was here, but there are more than a few people making an effort to bump and grind to the rhythm. She figures she might as well be one of them. 

It isn’t long before she finds a partner in a tall, pale elven man in leather pants. His shirt is half-open and billowing, as though he materialized in the flesh from the cover of a bodice ripper. The man drags his gaze over her, sizing her up with deliberate intent. He must approve of what he sees, because he smirks seductively and pulls Shadowheart to him in a smooth and practiced motion. She follows without hesitation. 

At first, their dancing is mostly playful; energetic jumping and shimmying to the aggressive punk soundtrack. Then, the song changes to something dirtier, with distorted industrial guitar and breathy vocals. Without missing a beat, the man flips Shadowheart around so that her back is flush against his front. His hips roll sinuously into her backside, his hands finding purchase in the uncovered skin between her skirt and her top. They sway to the music together, their bodies writhing in perfect synchronicity.

It’s hot, Shadowheart thinks to herself, or at least it should be. But she can’t help but wish that the perfectly-manicured nails digging into the flesh of her waist were instead jagged and half-bitten, that their goal was to tear instead of tease. Still, as the man leans his head down to mouth over Shadowheart’s neck, she reaches one of her hands back to tangle in his hair, holding him in place as she bears her throat.

“Why, aren’t you just the most delectable little thing?” His voice is a deep, rumbling purr, scarcely audible over the thrum of the music. She can feel his intentions in the grind of his crotch against her ass, in the soft caress of his fingertips over the skin of her stomach.

She’s about to say something flirtatious in response, but then the crowd parts a little and Shadowheart’s eyes land directly on Lae’zel, leaning against the wall opposite them. Her gaze is fixed straight on Shadowheart, but the emotion in her eyes is indecipherable.

A million things surge through Shadowheart’s mind at once — when did she get here?  How did I miss her come in? How long has she been staring at me? — but she doesn’t have time to process any of them before Lae’zel nods her head at the exit and starts making her way to the door.

The message is clear. Shadowheart gulps.

“What do you say you and I get out of here, lovely?” The man’s voice is dripping with promise, but Shadowheart can scarcely hear it with the way her heart has started beating harsh and frantic in her ears. Her stomach feels as though it’s taken a nose-dive off a cliff. A sensation like fuzzy hot static buzzes under her skin.

She thinks that with a million chances, in a million lifetimes, she would make this decision the same. It isn’t even close.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, and she places a hand on the man’s chest to push him away from her and shakes her head. The man scoffs in disbelief, but he lets go of her immediately. 

Shadowheart doesn’t even turn around to look at him as she leaves.

When she gets to the alley, Lae’zel is already waiting for her, already smoking a cigarette against the wall even though it’s scarcely been a minute since she left the bar. The other woman’s eyes track her approach, and once more Shadowheart is reminded of a cat, of slinky predators lazily stalking unsuspecting prey.

Ha. If only Shadowheart were unsuspecting. At least that would be a little more understandable. As it is, she just tries her best to look unintimidated, squaring her shoulders and clenching her jaw.

“Faithless,” Lae’zel says, almost as if in greeting.

“I have a name, gith,” Shadowheart says, biting out the words as sarcastically as she can muster. The attempt is belied by the anticipation flooding her body, vivid and unignorable. There’s a fluttering feeling in her chest that stubbornly resists smothering, and when she places her hands on her hips, her palms slide damply over the sticky synthetic material of her skirt. 

Lae’zel continues as though Shadowheart had never spoken, “I told you what would happen if you came back, and yet here you are,” she says, and her eyes trail down Shadowheart’s body, sizing her up. “You must be either masochistic or stupid. Possibly both.” She takes a step forward. “Which is it, istik?”

Shadowheart pulls her shoulders back and lifts her chin. “Maybe I just think you deserve to be slammed into a wall,” she replies, and then flushes a little as the implication hits her. She stands firm, though, as Lae’zel approaches.

“Stupid, then,” Lae’zel says, dropping her cigarette and stamping it out before her fist collides brutally with Shadowheart’s cheek. Welcomed pain blossoms bright and blinding as the punch lands, and Shadowheart lets out an unattractive groan. But she isn't drunk like last time, so it's a simple matter for her to lean into it, to roll with the force of the blow and rally with an answering right hook to Lae’zel’s side. Lae’zel stumbles at the impact and levels her with a sharp-toothed grin, eyes wild and fierce and so goddamn alive that Shadowheart’s chest aches.

“But perhaps not entirely useless in a fight after all,” Lae’zel continues, her voice calmly critical — almost clinical — even as her face betrays her own excitement. She regards Shadowheart for a second before adding, “you punch better sober.”

Gods, Shadowheart fucking hates her.

In a flurry of motion, she surges toward Lae'zel and barrels into her with enough force that both of them fall to the ground. Lae'zel’s skull bounces off the pavement with a sickening sound, and she lets out a grunt as Shadowheart lands heavily atop her. Shadowheart scrambles to straddle the other woman, and the tight, synthetic material of her skirt rides up her thighs indecently to accommodate for the spread of them. When her knees make contact with the cool stone of the alley, the shock of it nearly makes her shudder. 

She ignores the feeling and refocuses her energy into attacking Lae'zel like she's possessed by a feral raccoon, grabbing and clawing and throwing elbows with abandon. As each blow lands, something loosens inside of her. It's raw and visceral, this feeling, and her body trembles with the force of it. Feral, guttural noises tear from her throat that she is only barely conscious of. Lae'zel, meanwhile, just lies there and takes hit after frenzied hit, offering no response except a low moan of pain as Shadowheart pummels her. To Shadowheart’s absolute fury, she has the audacity to smile through it, like Shadowheart’s anger is amusing to her.

Or maybe, Shadowheart thinks, like she’s enjoying it.

Shadowheart hits her until she runs out of breath, until her ears are ringing and her muscles are screaming from the exertion. Until Lae’zel looks thoroughly ravaged, her lip split and swollen and fledgling bruises beginning to darken her skin. Only then does Shadowheart finally stop, every last ounce of her energy devoted to keep herself from collapsing on top of Lae’zel. 

Lae’zel takes advantage of Shadowheart's exhaustion to twist and jerk her hips so that Shadowheart is thrown off of her. She rises to her feet slowly, deliberately, while Shadowheart labors to catch her breath. Shadowheart is pleased to note that Lae’zel winces as she does, her chest heaving with the effort it requires.

“Get up,” Lae’zel says, voice hoarse. It sends a jolt down Shadowheart's spine.

Shadowheart does as she's told, and is rewarded by Lae’zel slamming her against the wall of the magic shop before she has the chance to react. It knocks the wind out of her, and Lae’zel takes advantage of it to pin her there with a hand around her neck.

“Perhaps you’re not stupid after all,” Lae’zel says cooly, but Shadowheart doesn’t think she’s imagining the strain in her voice, the slight tremble of her fingers against Shadowheart’s jugular. 

Shadowheart tries to ask what Lae'zel thinks she is, then, but her words become nothing more than a whimper when Lae’zel tightens her grasp on her windpipe. 

Lae’zel smirks. “Though it seems I was correct about the masochism.” Shadowheart longs to protest, but she can imagine what she must look like right now: skirt hiked up practically around her waist, sweating and shaking and struggling to breathe. She can feel the flush in her face and knows that it exposes her contemptible perversion.

It’s utterly degrading. 

Shadowheart wishes she didn’t like it so much.

“Your body betrays you,” Lae’zel says. Shadowheart struggles against her grip, but it only makes the other woman squeeze harder. “I can smell you, istik.”

That sends another, powerful wave of humiliation through Shadowheart’s body, which in turn becomes an even more humiliating burst of arousal.

“I’ll admit, though: you’ve surprised me,” Lae’zel continues nonchalantly, as though this were the most normal conversation in the world. “There is an admirable fight in you uncommon amongst your kind. You’re almost a worthy match.” As she speaks, Lae’zel places the hand that is not choking Shadowheart on her bare leg, and Shadowheart very nearly jumps out of her skin at the contact.

Lae’zel drags her fingers roughly over the sensitive skin of Shadowheart’s upper thigh, before grabbing at the flesh to force her to widen her stance. Her skirt rides up even further, exposing her thin, lacy panties to the frigid night air. Against her will, Shadowheart moans; Lae’zel’s pupils dilate at the noise.

“Are all of you half-breeds so reactive, or is that just you?” she asks, and the way the question only further encourages the growing wetness in her underwear fills Shadowheart with an unforgiving shame.

Lae’zel moves her hand even higher, high enough to cup Shadowheart’s cunt in her palm, her other hand never once leaving Shadowheart’s throat. Shadowheart gasps at the contact, involuntarily shifting her hips into it.  The movement makes Lae’zel inhale sharply through her nose, her eyes alight with pure satisfaction. “So wet for me. So needy ," she says, and then squeezes.

“Ngh,” Shadowheart says intelligently in response. 

With one quick, forceful motion, Lae’zel slides three fingers under Shadowheart’s underwear and into the tight, soaking heat of her. The overwhelming stretch of it is agonizing and delicious all at once, and Shadowheart cries out, throwing her head back so hard it bangs painfully against the brick wall. Unconsciously, her legs spread even further.

Lae’zel must take that as a green light, because she starts fucking her then, pumping her long, thin fingers in and out of Shadowheart’s cunt with a vicious, wild fervor. It’s too rough, it’s graceless, it’s entirely lacking in any technique or finesse. It feels so good that Shadowheart wants to cry, undone entirely by how Lae'zel fucks her like she doesn’t care if Shadowheart cums, like she’s only doing it for herself, like she wants to make it hurt. And it does hurt, it hurts so much, but Shadowheart nevertheless finds herself gripping Lae’zel’s shoulders and driving her hips down to meet each thrust of her hand.

“Cum for me, istik,” Lae’zel says, and Shadowheart does. Hot, pulsing pleasure radiates out from the core of her to the tips of her toes, so intense that she nearly blacks out. She spasms around Lae’zel’s fingers for an interminable moment, suspended in a blissful haze for longer than she even thought possible.

It’s singularly the best orgasm she’s ever had.

Lae’zel fucks her through it until Shadowheart is a whimpering, shivering mess in her hands. And when she eventually recovers, returning to herself at long last, Lae’zel pulls her hand out of her underwear and brings her fingers to Shadowheart’s lips.

“Clean up your mess,” she orders, and Shadowheart moans again before complying wordlessly. The taste of her own cunt is heady on her tongue, thick and rich and a little salty from sweat. She wants to be repulsed by it, but she finds she doesn’t have it in her. Instead, she meets Lae’zel’s eyes as she licks her fingers clean, and relishes the naked lust in the other woman’s gaze.

But if Lae’zel cares at all about her own desire, she doesn’t show it; she merely pulls her fingers out of Shadowheart’s mouth and wipes them on her jeans to dry them. She takes a step back and takes her sweet time admiring the disaster show in front of her, before finally smirking.

“Be back here tomorrow,” Lae’zel says. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Shadowheart says nothing, only nods once. She doesn’t trust her voice right now, isn’t sure she can manage anything other than heavy panting.

Lae’zel turns and starts to walk away, as though nothing of interest at all had happened. It’s not until she’s almost rounded the corner back onto the street that she spares a glance back at Shadowheart.

“And next time,” she says, as though in afterthought, “you’d better not dance with anyone else.”

Then, she leaves without another word.

Shadowheart can't bring herself to straighten her clothes until long after Lae’zel’s footsteps have faded into silence.

[worseteacupcircus]

written last summer, revised in december

lyrics:

who's that face inside my mirror? it's you! mrs bouquet

yarn or t-shirts ripped up or cut her scratching post watches me sleep like a figure i say that i love her but she might just be cute a thing that dies easy I cower like a sinner

she is not helping her purring makes me colder like a radiator reminding me i need metal to stay warm my mom says ill outlive her so i'd better love her now i haven't called home in ages i'm scared of how she brings all she can bring and never gets to rest i don't think i'll outlive her i think that's for the best

cold air is killing me bouquet gets loved for free we're both so sleepy think i'll slip into the sea schrodinger's moon face so lingers this hate i think it's too late to make big decisions

i'm unpacking again and mrs bouquet's in the boxes sleeping playing scratching surely hatching plans to slip away i tell her i will tape up the cardboard flaps i will nail shut the catflap i will ship her somewhere else tucked inside a mail truck whispers on a train i promise she'll be warm and safe and loved with some daughter who doesn't love the rain

candles wax and hardwood floors covered in blissful bed soars simmered milk cinnamon silt nudging open the parlor door

entertain me i won't love you if you don't i cannot be caring for things that just live life to live it curled up where my friends would be seated if i wasn't lonely if i wasn't selfish

either way . . .

the train will be delayed the mailman will die i let her stay i look into her eyes and i see snake eyes

leave out the cat flap hit by a car latchkey cats don't tend to get far wilting in the rain bent, unarranged i'm trying i'm trying i'm trying to love this gift but love is hard

little obsolete useless meat

a woman's car idles on the side of the street she snaps your neck to put you out of your misery in a little while she'll adopt a cat to make it up to god, or some shit like that

i'm staying with her now i don't know what she's done her house smells like burnt sugar i don't know what i've done i like her more than you i'd do it all again you can't compete with people we never eat the hens

who's that face inside my mirror is it someone brand new no i'm stuck back here with you it smells like dirt and worms something on the stovetop abandoned and wet

i think tapeworms are killing you but i won't call the vet no i won't fall for emotions corroding my organs to liquid my dresses to dust i hate these walls i'll do what i must the tapeworms will die the mailtruck will crash i tape up the box i send you to crash i miss you my friend i don't tape the box the street you were dashed on's doors will unlock with time and grace dissolving foundations like worms on the interstate scratches on my face

i say, "i promise i will never hurt you," but she never never thought i would

[willard-ratman-stiles]

puh-LEASE listen to "6up 5oh cop-out (pro / con)" by will wood and the tapeworms

This music artist AGAIN? He must be very popular. The song is really crazy but I kind of like it, surprisingly.

[kariachi]

Random: The religion Kwarrel grew up with doesn’t really have a concept of an immortal soul, traditionally- there’s offshoots with their own thing going on but he’s not from one of them. The general idea is that all living beings were created equally to serve their own purposed in forming a whole and dynamic world, and so all living beings must be equal in these sorts of things. When you’re going off that concept there’s really only two directions you can go, which are ‘all living beings have immortal souls’ and ‘no living beings have immortal souls’.

You reach a point in development where you can survive and function on your own, at which point you are alive, you live however long, then you die, that’s it. There is no afterlife, there is no reincarnation, this is what you’ve got. As a result this particular religion and cultures around it don’t have psychopomps, though they do have goddesses over death and over decay (fun fact: separate people).

A few results of all this-

While in the modern day it’s mostly accepted that more extreme forms of parasites that truly rely on their hosts to survive and function still count as living beings, under the argument that they show all signs of life otherwise and were made like this as all other parts of the world were made, in the distant past this wasn’t the case. At least one dead language even specifically separates creatures into living beings, non-living objects, and non-living beings- a category that contained things like tapeworms, but also things like fetuses that couldn’t survive outside the womb yet

It used to be, in cultures that followed this religion and it’s offshoots, that any wanton taking of life- from burning down a tree on an enemy’s property to murder- was considered sort of a combination of murder, destruction of property, and blasphemy. Again, all things are considered to exist for their deities and functionally belong to them. Even your crops you don’t technically own, you just have the right to use as is needed. Wasting it is, again, blasphemous**. As a result, destroying someone’s crops in these areas has traditionally been subject to much harsher punishments than in other regions.

Following on that, wanton destruction of things like rocks- objects not made by mortal effort- has historically been treated as a combination of destruction of property and blasphemy. You can tell areas that have or used to have large populations of this religion by inspecting their mines, roads, and the like. If they seem to go out of their way, even being more inconvenient, in going around or over boulders, hills, mountains, or clearly started out as natural caves? Odds are good.

Rituals surrounding butchering and harvest show similarities to funeral practices. Not enough to be funerals when it comes to most creatures- the general belief is that if something would grant you as much a funeral as it could you do the same (yes this has been used as an excuse to give shit funerals to fallen enemies in war)- but facets of things like proper handling of the dead, proper mourning periods, can be seen in them. Even songs and dances associated with harvest festivals will normally share things like movements or note progressions with those associated with funerals.

In a mirror of this, the songs, dances, and rituals surrounding planting crops, sprouting crops, the arrival of Spring, the birth of livestock, etc? All tend to bear similarities to those celebrating new pregnancies and babies. (Kwarrel probably could’ve sung you seven different songs to welcome new life, depending on what species you were talking about, just off the top of his head)

On the other hand, there’s a whole different and unique category of songs and dances and such surrounding the harvest of things that don’t require death. Fruits, leaves, flowers, milk, eggs, xaa fur, and more. All have their own separate songs and dances, and all tend to share similarities with each other. (Again, just off the top of his head-)

These fuckers uh, lot of music, lot of dancing, whole lot of categories where things resonate with each other, it’s a whole thing

**Fun Fact: This actually led to a holy war at one point in Perison history. A region consisting of mostly followers of this religion (which really needs a name) was taken over by more powerful region that didn’t. As part of subjugating the populace the invaders would often lay claim to harvests, and more importantly leave whatever they couldn’t use themselves or sell for their own profit to rot, harshly punishing anyone who tried to ‘steal’ their scraps. The invaded region had originally been left weak by war with it’s neighbors, and didn’t have much in the way of alliances to call upon, but once news arrived that they were being forced into acts of blasphemy... Well. Their neighbors struck back with a vengeance against the insult- starting shit with the neighbors they don’t like is one thing, forcing the neighbors to go along with insulting their shared deities like that? Didn’t sit well. The region was freed from foreign rule by that war, though it was required to make payments to its neighbors to account some for the resources lost. A few hundred years later the ruling herd collapsed and the region ended divided amongst it’s neighbors, but that’s an entirely different story.

[wyrmfedgrave]

Pics: More Cartoon Madness!!

1. "Squid-head" SpongeBob?!!

2. Weird, wonderful & wacky - so, why not?!

3. Variant of the "Alien Zoo" idea...

4. Sigh.

Again?!!

5. How you feeling today, fool?!

Gulp!!

Forget that I asked...

6. Are tapeworms the xenomorphs of Earth?

7. Ball sack instead of a face full of tentacles?!!

Well, I know who we're all sacrificing tonight!

Lovecraftian Quotes & Bio:

1. "On many occasions the curious atmospheric effects enchanted me vastly; these including a strikingly vivid mirage - in which distant (ice) bergs became the battlements of un- imaginable cloud castles."

2. "The genius of a few individuals is (not) an index of collective racial capacity."

"In spite of all the Booker (T) Washingtons & Dunbars we... see that the negro as a whole... never made any progress nor founded any culture."

3. "(In) persons of different races, though equal mentally & physically... have... different sociological value(s), become 1 will... produce a better type of defendant than the other."

4. "The best (must) retain social & political supremacy,... that our... traditions may b preserved."

"Therefore... racial prejudice is not irrational nor unexplainable; nor... unjustifiable."

"(This idea) has 'awkward' phases but, it's benefits outweigh its dis- advantages."

5. "The (true) test of the... weird (tale) is... whether... there (is) excited - in the reader - a profound sense of dread."

"A 'contact' with unknown spheres & powers; a subtle attitude of awed listening, as if (hearing) the beating of black wings... the scratching of out- side shapes & entities (from) the... universe's utmost rim."

6. "To achieve the essence of real (alieness)... things (like) organic life, good & evil, love & hate - all such... attributes, of a negligible & temporary race (mankind) - can have (no) existence at all."

"When we cross (into) the boundless & hideous unknown - the shadow haunted Outside - we must... leave our humanity & terrestrial... (ideals) at the threshold."

7. Once, when Lovecraft was visiting a monument to the 1st Colonials to die during the American Revolution, he was asked a question.

Always loving to play the part of a mature "professor," Howard really delivered with this classic answer!

HPL was asked if he felt any emotion- al reaction to the deaths of these U.S. colonials.

Lovecraft, "So perish all enemies & traitors to his lawful Majesty, King George the 3rd!!"

8. As a young boy, Howard lived in his rich grandad's mansion.

This was a 3-story clapboard house with 15 rooms.

It's 3rd floor, full of gables & dormor windows, housed 4 servants...

This home rested on spacious grounds with well kept paths, arbors, an orchard & a fountain!

Hidden behind the main house, a barn sheltered a nice carriage & 3 horses.

Being that Whipple & Robie Phillips were both well read, they had a large attic library - with 2,000+ books, some centuries old!

What a wonderland for a precocious & imaginative kid to grow up in...

Sadly, due to some bad investments & now vague machinations, this literary oasis wouldn't last beyond its owner's death.

Paradise never lasts long - we always mess it up & rarely learn from the loss.

9. In later years, Lovecraft spoke of his mom's (Sarah Phillips) love of singing, piano playing, painting & her abilities speaking French.

People who knew her, however, were not as kind.

A.A. Baker, the family lawyer, called her "the weak sister" of her family.

Worse, her psychiatrist (at the Butler Hospital) described her as "a woman of narrow interests, who received (the) news of) approaching bankruptcy... with traumatic psychosis."

10. In 1915, Howard rose to the rank of President & Official Editor of the UAPA.

But, this literary organization had its own problems due to inner squabbles about their main rules & purpose.

Showing that he could be a social climber when the need arose, HPL also briefly served as President of a rival organization to the UAPA - the NAPA!

As was becoming usual for him, HPL kept himself busy.

Continuing to write poetry to fit various occasions, more astronomy articles for a North Carolina news- paper, all kinds of reports for the amateur journals, long letters to his growing list of friends & wrote/published his own socio-political magazine The Conservative...

All of this activity was atop of his main duties as President to 2 almost identical/highly interrelated literary organizations.

The man was a workaholic...

End.