#my bad for going MIA

[mooshys]

Sorry if this annoys you, but I was wondering if you were ever going to finish Shiratorizawa Antics? bc on your ao3 it says there’s only 2 chapters left for it

I reread it frequently and I’m sorry if you’ve already talked about it, I’m just wondering if it’s discontinued or something?

hey no worries, you’re good. I’m still working on the final 2 chapters for SA and I don’t plan on discontinuing it. currently aiming to finish the series before the olympics end, but we’ll see about that!

[yeyinde]

Outlaw!Price, the enigmatic leader of the notorious and deadly 141 gang, who stumbles upon you one evening near the stables (attempting to steal the mare he had his eyes on, no less) as you try to sneak out of the city (and away from the awful, awful man you're supposed to be married to in the morning), and decides to help you get away.

But if you think it's altruism that's making him lend a helping hand to a stranger, you're wrong. In this life, he knows it's kill or be killed.

And most importantly:

finders keepers.

“How's this,” he begins, and everything inside of you screams to run. “I'll accompany you across the desert. Get you somewhere safe.” 

“Out of the goodness of your heart, I'm sure,” you sneer, edging backwards. “As if I'm dumb enough to believe that.”

“Can't leave a maiden—” your scathing hiss makes his lips twitch beneath the thick moustache; “—all on her own like that. I know these parts like the back of my hand. No harm will come to you. That, you have my word for.”

“And what's that worth?” 

He dips his chin. “Far more than you could imagine, love.” 

You swallow. “I don't know. I don't trust you—”

“Smart,” he nods, drops the cigar on the ground before snuffing the end out with the heel of his boot. “But I ain't very patient. Better make up your mind quickly.”

“Well, in that case—”

“But," he cuts your scoff off with a low hum. "I'll put it this way for you: do you want me to be the one to accompany you across the desert or the one they'll pay, handsomely, tomorrow morning to drag you back home, mm?”

“You scoundrel—! You dirty, rotten—”

“It's business, love.”

“I don't have any money to even pay you to—”

His eyes are searing when they catch on the threads of your lace collar, razing over exposed skin like he's owed the privilege. You've never seen such hunger on a man's face before.

Your skin prickles. Heart sinking low with each rasping sweep of his eyes across your body. It's as if you're meat. Something to be bartered with. Bargained.

The rasp in his voice makes you shiver. “You're a smart girl. I'm sure you can figure something out.”

“I—”

“I'll leave it to you, then, mm?” He starts forward, then, chin ducking low into his collar to stare down at you through the wide brim of his hat. Each thud of his boots echo against the floor in haunting harmony with the metal clink of his spurs. 

More of his bulk is revealed as he steps out from the shadows and into the pale moonlight, and somewhere in your chest, the air becomes trapped. 

He's huge. Bigger, now, where most of him blended in, almost seamlessly, into the shadows. A massive mountain of a man. 

His shoulders seem to stretch the fabric of his vest and waistcoat taut, pulling sharply on the straining threads. The heavy brown of his jacket sweeps down to midthigh, the seam tucked behind the leather holster of his gun tied tight at his waist. The brass buttons of his dress shirt crease against the pull of his broad chest and barrelled stomach. The softness around his midsection speaks almost highly of a luxurious lifestyle—pure hedonism. The sort ladies back home whisper about. Violence, women, and booze—ruffians, the lot of them! But it seems to belie the power in his gait. In the flex of his thick, corded thighs bunching in the tightness of his denim trousers and the leather caps covering them.

He has the walk of a bear. Lumbering, sloven. A touch clumsy. 

And yet—

The softness about him hides the raw strength under the thick pelt. Deadly. The slow, meandering trawl of a man who knows, unequivocally, that he needn’t run or rush anywhere. 

It lodges somewhere inside of you. This knowledge, this fact. He'll outpace you in spades. Catch up no matter where you flee to. 

Your stomach folds, looping over itself. It's nausea, maybe. And something else—

He's so big. Burly. Thickened like the strong trucks of ponderosa pine. A man cut from the wilderness; made in the likeness of the savagery of the wild. The brutality of the desert, of mother nature herself. Kin to the affinity this land seems to have in taking every ounce of a man and leaving him bereft in the face of the looming unknowns in the vast desert.

None of the men you've ever met before look like him. Grizzled. Hardened.

His scarred, tanned skin speaks of a life living outdoors. On a horse, on the run—hard work made with his bare hands. You think the softness, the callous-free palm that gripped your fingers tight in a vice, and can't help but to lean, just a little, into him. Drawn there, like a moth to a flame.

There's something about this man that makes you tremble. Something that curls inside of your guts. Something deeper, darker than fear. Primal. Animalistic. There must be something wrong with you, then. Most know to run from the predators—not move closer.

He comes to a halt less than an arm's length away from you, close enough that you can scent the heavy musk of him so thickly in your nose. Something purely masculine—loam, humus—and yet unfathomably different from the men you've known your whole life. Horse, and sweat. Sun. The headiness of riding nonstop through the sprawling deserts of New Mexico. Leather, and gunpowder. 

The novelty of it all is enough to make you dizzy. And, as if to reinforce it, he leans down, the brim of his hat narrowly missing your forehead, and he rasps, guttural and dark, 

“and I do expect to be paid back in full, love,” his voice is felled timber. Low, and firm. “Or you'll find you don't like the consequences very much. Am I clear?”

The unmistakable iron in it snags on the tendrils of your resolve, pulling messily at the threads. No escape. It winds tighter, tighter— 

Still. 

Your only other option is to stay here, and in the morning, marry a man who made it abundantly clear that the sole use he has for you is to rebrand a dwindling legacy (women ought to be seen, not heard, darlin’, and I think it's high time someone teach you that); or— 

Make off on your own. Through the unmapped, untamed wilderness of New Mexico with nothing for protection except whatever you could reasonably steal away with uninterrupted, which. Isn't much. Not only that—this man, this outlaw, had made it abundantly clear that there would be a bounty on you come sunrise. One he'd be most eager to fulfil. 

Rock, hard place. No escape. 

You steel yourself, grappling with trembling fingers against the dwindling options in front of you, and offer a slow, jerking nod. 

He heaves a breath in response. “Good choice, love.”

It doesn't feel very much like one. It doesn't feel very good at all, even. 

In this little stable just outside of town, you sell your soul to the devil in New Mexico while the cicadas in the background scream through the ink black night. The sounds they make seem to ask, 

what have you done?

[megamagimugi]

He's-a Gone

Luigi time! To suffer, that is.

(CW: character death)

This is obviously a sort of comlementary piece to I Was-a Too Late. But it's more than just that as it also illustrates a certain fun, dark what-if idea I had. Please keep reading if you're intrigued!

Lore:

Luigi's Mansion, the first game. Everything goes the same as in canon until the final boss fight, when Luigi defeats King Boo in his Bowser costume. After King Boo comes out and Luigi intends to suck him in, the villain laughs and reveals the truth: Mario's painting was an illusion, so was everything Madame Clairvoya saw. All just to mess with Luigi. Meanwhile the real Mario wasn't just captured by the Boos, he was immediately killed by them on their King's orders. The only physical thing that's left of him in this realm is the five items Luigi found - hidden by the Boos for Luigi to find, another part of King Boo's sick game.

Luigi is able to finish the fight despite his shock and grief, fueled by the anger King Boo never expected from him. After getting out of the painting the plumber discovers that it is indeed empty, no Mario or anyone else in the portrait.

Heartbroken and guit-ridden, Luigi goes back to Professor E. Gadd's lab and gives him back the Poltergust 3000. He doesn't even want to stay long enough to see what is going to happen to the ghosts. Of course the Professor tries to offer some semblance of comfort, but we all know it's not his forte.

So Luigi leaves, only taking Mario's five items with him. He notices that the mansion has disapeared without a trace. The reality of it all finally hits him, and he practically collapses onto a nearby tree's large root protruding from the ground, putting down the precious items around himself, only leaving the matching red hat and the letter in his hands. He should have known something was off. After all, the Mario he saw in the painting was wearing his hat and both gloves.

Looking at all these items, to his growing horror he can't help but imagine what exactly might have happened to his brother and what his last moments might have been like. He hugs the hat to his chest and rereads Mario's note several times, knowing that the brief warning was his brother's last words to him.

Luigi can do nothing but cry for the beloved brother he couldn't save, desperately wishing it was his warm, living and breathing body pressed to his chest rather than just a couple of his belongings.

But Mario is truly gone, apparently having met such a horrific fate that not even a single part of his body is left in the physical world.

[Good night]

…I'll leave the rest up to your imagination ;) Sorry if I got carried away with my description. Occasionally even I enjoy being a little dramatic, though I'm no writer whatsoever.

Yeah, I'm not apologizing for making this one - I was nicer to Luigi than to his bro, at least here the Mushroom Kingdom and everyone in it (except for Mario lol) is still okay!

But alas,

You can no longer play as Mario

Rest in spaghetti, funny wahoo man.

@federthenotsogreat I'm tagging you because you said you wanted more Mario art like I Was-a Too Late, thought you might like this one too!

@drones-of-innocence Also tagging you because you were interested in my idea.

Edit: Tagging a few more mutuals who might want to see this based on their reaction to my previous angsty work just in case, feel free to ignore. Or ask me to remove the tag if you want, no problem.

@silenzahra (remember, no rush) @c-lavanda @jell-o101 @stripetkattelalala54-gf

@luigixfanxayjay @itsavee4117

And you @giddlygoat just because you have a Luigi's Mansion AU and I thought you might appreciate this... Also because I'm a fan 👉👈

[icantalk710]

Quick compilation to show that I'm, for all intents and purposes, still alive in one way or another, hi 😳

[caq1e]

i've been trying to rationalize why clay terran's death hits me more than pretty much any other victim, even though the exact intricacies of his character are not the most plot relevant, and i think i finally got it. some of it's that he's the series' first new science freak in a while, yeah, but i think above that it's the emphasis on his ambition.

ace attorney does not like to kill real characters. it doesn't. referring to the main series for the rest of this post, we very rarely get to see a character for one section of one case before they die, with a few notable exceptions. as a result, because we don't get to know the characters very well, we as players are left to pick up the remnants based on the reactions of those still alive. ace attorney creates tragedy and emotional impact through the emotions of those who knew the victims. the victims' personas, therefore, are shaped by others' experiences with them: were they nice or mean, compassionate or abusive, nurturing or strict? while their relationships to others are crucial to their selves, they aren't everything about them.

clay is an astronaut. and unlike pretty much every victim in this series, that's not just his job, it's his life's purpose. the majority of clay's character is shaped through apollo's perception of him, sure, but what's also emphasized is his dream of being an astronaut. he wanted to be an astronaut since he was a child. he went to cosmos, became acquaintances and friends with the employees, surrounded himself with space. and he got the job. i know ace attorney ages can be taken with a grain of salt, but he was going to go into space at twenty-three, where the youngest astronaut in real life was twenty-five. any sizable gap in age below the norm tends to get lawyers deemed prodigies, excluding most themis students, so clay could probably be considered one as well. he was brilliant and remarkably hardworking and dedicated his entire life to reaching this goal, and he... didn't. he died with his dream ten steps in front of him.

when a character is an exception in one way, they tend to be in many, and they also tend to be defense attorneys, for some reason. the two victims with the most ambition at time of death, from my perspective, also have the most pre-death screen time: mia fey and dhurke sahdmadhi. their ambition may be on different scales, but they both died with tasks unfinished. mia had yet to reveal the corruption of redd white and the truth to dl-6, and dhurke had yet to restore stability to his country's legal system. they were both incredibly committed to fulfilling these goals and died while actively pursuing them.

the contrast between these two and clay is the individualism factor. dhurke wanted to see his revolution through, but he wanted a better future regardless of whether he was its leader or not. mia's connection was due to her familial involvement, but she also just wanted to uncover the truth behind redd white's obscurations and reduce corruption in the legal system. these goals are personal, but they aren't limited to them. they are goals that these two aspire to achieve, but they themselves don't need to be the ones to achieve them; in fact, they aren't. phoenix apprehends white, exposes manfred von karma, and discovers misty fey's disappearance for mia, while nahyuta and apollo work to reform khura'in's courts for dhurke. clay wanted to go to space. while a less noble goal than those i'm comparing him to, it's also more intrinsic to himself. he was supposed to be the one in space. there's no one to take over his dream because it's his alone. when he dies, that's it. it'll never be done. while his compassion definitely implies that he would be proud as long as sol starbuck touched the stars again, that isn't his dream. it's not the same as him doing it himself.

another similarity between mia and dhurke is that they are also the victims with the most post-death screen time. mia is channeled constantly through the first trilogy, to the point where she's almost as constant as any living character. dhurke lives for days, concealing his death while being channeled and not revealing the secret until almost the end of 6-5. as a result, these two get front row seats to their goals being fulfilled by their successors. mia's there to help phoenix take down white in 1-2, is certainly made aware of the results in 1-4, and even reunites with diego and re-defeats dahlia in 3-5. dhurke assists apollo leading up to the final court case, and his presence sticks with apollo as he develops his defense office.

clay does not get post-death screen time. he's only mentioned, like any other victim, after his death, and the large bulk of it is regarding the minutes before he's killed. not only is his dream unable to be fulfilled, but he wouldn't get the chance to see anything come of it, if that was even possible. he's not aura, staring out of a prison cell as part of her life's work flies off without her input. he's dead. no seeing the future, no willing on a successor to continue for him, no closure. dead and gone.

i'm not going to go crazy in depth right now, but, considering all major victims, the final truth of clay's death is done pretty poorly. as the successor to investigations, a duology that deals with international affairs in incredible detail, dual destinies is notably lacking. the organization behind the phantom isn't explored in the slightest; what was the point in making them a part of something bigger in the first place? there's no inciting event, no motive, not even a name, and from my point of view it just makes dual destinies feel unfinished, like there were plans that couldn't be made reality. there aren't any hints towards what the organization is doing, no legs to theorize on besides real life events, and it's not portrayed in a way that leaves it as a clever mystery. some international organization wants to sabotage the rocket launches for an unknown reason, so people die. that's all. clay dies due to reasons completely unknown to players, which is just so unsatisfying. not only does he not get closure, but we don't either. it makes me desperate for any new information to justify his death, to make his murder mean something, just like others who are integral to plot. this isn't entirely the point i was trying to make, but i think it's significant enough to mention. or maybe i just wanted to talk about it. not too sure.

clay terran suffers the awful fate of too much ambition and too little closure. this alone made his death have the greatest lasting impact on me. i'm not sure how it is for others, but the sadness of those left behind didn't usually trigger a large emotional reaction in me. however, the way clay's extraordinary dedication, implied intelligence, and nigh inevitable success were ripped from him right at the very end, with no possibility of a successor due to his own personal stake in the goal, made his death hit me through the heart like no other ace attorney victim. and also, just a little bit, because he's a new science freak.

[nuzlight-mia]

[ Previously... ]

@your-friend-silver

[hotasfahrenheit]

My Dear Gangster Oppa [Episode 3]

[varietysky]

aa someone who can handle The Thing but not that first episode of Doom Patrol, I honestly have no idea how I'll do with the body horror in The Substance.... but I hear it's a great movie

[arachniasbride]

FOUR FICTIONAL CRUSHES

Regina Mills from Once Upon A Time

Forever my queen. She killed a few people or something idk;

2. Addison Montgomery from Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice

I never bought that McDreamy gave up on this woman lol

3. Tanya Chesham-Leigh from Mamma Mia!

I'm in love with all of her characters but Tanya was the first. Honestly. Does Your Mother Know? Mine doesn't.

4. Kathryn Janeway from Star Trek: Voyager

Do I need to say anything else, really?

tagged by @denzit (ty bae! i had a blast!), tagging @ineffablegods616 or whoever wants to do it :)

[billxharry]

Things I would pay any sum of money to have released since there's a 99.99999% chance Cher is talking about Stellan, Colin and Pierce here yes?

[myfeelisfunny]

tell me you're bowing down to media pressure without telling me you're bowing down to media pressure

[elliewiltarwyn]

"let's dance, asshole!" "you asked for it!" "I won't let anyone hurt you!"

ff7 rebirth hyyyyyype

[helianthus21]

you know what, adding toxic, beautiful madness and mamma mia to the DM playlist

[dykeomania]

i don't really mean to ruin your day, but like (not proofread),

made sleepy by unforgiving winters and a population of people who were only young, once, the carnival reminds modern!ellie’s small wyoming town of what it’s like to be youthful, and alive.

tellingly so, people in her town consider this the happiest event of the year. but if it’s just between ellie and god, the significance of multicolored fair rides or the sun beaming hard enough to scorch the morning dew off of joel’s front lawn faces no match against the hatchling of your smile, once made dormant under the hazy coat of november through april, and defrosted by the month of july.

it’s the 4th. and amongst a spectacular of beams and fireworks slashing through a sky made thick with clouds, ellie swears that tonight she will kiss the girl of her daydreams. 

she has also sworn this, for the past three summers.

for the past three summers, she has ridden the same rides with you in almost identical order – familiar of every trough, and yet screaming with you through every loop. you take the same edibles, and you get the same order of fried concoctions, from the same stand and share the same $7 lemonade, from the same cup and the same swirly straw. 

it’s the same saccharine fling, bubble-wrapped in infatuation, and spared the harm of teeth sinking into its flesh in fear of eviscerating the bond that lies underneath.

but she swears, she will kiss you. this time, she will. she swears, she will.

with tongues coated with carbs and a mind made dizzy with sugar, you make the decision to ride the ferris wheel. she buries herself in the brash cackle of your laugh as she nearly rocks the cart off of its hinges. as you settle, belly and chest full of brightness, ellie watches you. your back is slumped against the metal, your head is thrown, and a hand is splayed over your stomach. the neons of the park flicker and change as you the two of you pass through them. ellie watches as they paint your body, electric; this way, she can see the symptoms of summer, highlighted, right on your cheekbones. beaming brightly, adding a shimmer to your smile, like a sparkle on a wink. ellie always has a tendency of falling in love with girls who are nothing like her. in the summer, ellie just burns. but not you. you have always glowed. 

the fireworks break through the sky, booming through the city like miniature cannons. the only unpredictable thing of all this, is the show. pop, a red firework. pop, a green one. pop, pop, sizzle. this one, a cluster of both.

boom. 

the familiar crust of a hill climbs up ellie’s throat and it’s an act of strength to swallow it all down. “wow,” she hears you remark, completely airless, a loopy grin stretching across your lips. “that’s so pretty.”

ellie nods, damning the fireworks and instead only looking at you. “yeah..” ellie swallows, again, hearing the croak that lines her own voice. “well, you’re pretty, too.”

there’s a silence that hangs, like your eyes, onto hers. and then it’s broken -- shattered not by combustion, but by a giggle turned spitting cackle, tumbling uncontrollably from your lips.

ellie’s furrows her eyebrows, “are you.. are you okay?” and starts laughing with you, only half-nervous, but like–

sizzle, sizzle,

“no.. no.. well– like yeah. like, no, yeah i’m just..” you lick your lips, close your eyes,

grin, and shake your head,

“i’m just really glad that you’re my friend.” 

boom.

the firework burns and dies in the iris of ellie’s eye, and brings with it ellie’s reminder to blink. or to do anything, really.

ellie has a tendency of falling in love with girls who are completely different from her. who want different things, and go at different paces,

who are her best friends.

she smiles. tight.

“yeah..” ellie concludes. “yeah, me too.”

she holds your hand on top of her lap, and halfheartedly thumbs over your knuckles. she lets you slot your fingers into hers, the same as you always do. and she squeezes, like normal. lets you rest your head on her shoulder, and rests her forehead atop of yours, like usual.

pop. pop. pop.

this year, she chalks her excuse up to.. loitering in opportunity. wading in questions she knows the answer to.

sizzle. sizzle. sizzle.

maybe, she’ll try again next summer. 

pop,

or maybe, it’s better that she doesn’t.

sizzle.

[vessels-for-good-intent]

the only reason i can stand the 1974 gatsby is because of the actor they have playing nick. and even then barely.

please get the straight people off my screen—

—and please return the miserable wet cornstalk to my screen. i can’t deal with the above two.

[elbiotipo]

Can't stop thinking about "if youve ever said a dirty word about disco in your life youre going straight to hell brother"