#the static-like effect & fade into blue

[radio-4-is-static]

PAIN KILLER | Yojiro Noda

間違っている けど光っている そんな何かになりたくて ずっとなりたくて 歌っている

///

Things that are wrong but shine Are what I always aspired to be, And that’s why I’m singing

[aealzx]

“Hey lil guy! Glad to see you’re up!”

The disconnect between them being in a lair, and having the new figure distinctly not match who they were used to being in such a setting caused April to question if someone was actually there when she thought she felt a presence behind them. And Donnie had been so focused on Raph that the form had been ignored. Everyone knew not to suddenly grab him when he was like this. Other than Lil Mikey, but he had special privileges. And Leon as well, to a point, in very specific circumstances.

But this loud, rough, obnoxious, horrible brute certainly did not have such privileges. Therefore the contact and noise earned a startled hiss that quickly turned furious as Donnie recoiled from the touch, shoving the arm off his shoulders as though it were poison and retaliating violently with his fist. The man’s apology was interrupted by Donnie’s knuckles colliding with his nose and mouth, effectively knocking him away as Donnie hunched protectively over April and ushered them a few steps in the opposite direction.

“Donnie!”

“Mya-AH!”

Raph’s voice was a painful stab to Donnie’s mind, but he accepted it since it was Raph. But Mikey’s startled yelp as he woke from the commotion was a stab to the mental barrier Donnie was scrambling to create, cracking the form before it could even begin to complete. With the obviously distressed noise from his little brother Raph had formed his ninpo avatar around himself to allow him to move on his own, scrambling up from the couch and practically falling over the top of Donnie and April as his arms and ninpo protectively enveloped them. With the physical barrier now guarding him, Donnie released April in favor of wrapping his arms around Raph’s forearm, feeling a minor sense of peace as Raph’s other hand smothered half of his back in comfort even as he sagged to his knees.

“Dang it Casey! What did I tell you about him? Do you want to lose a finger?!” Raphael’s voice joined the noise this time, drawn from his previous location from the uncommon sound of Donnie hissing, and the impact of flesh and fist.

“I was just being friendly,” Casey protested, voice muffled by his hand covering his bleeding nose.

“Yeah, well not everyone likes to be manhandle- SHELL!” Raphael’s response broke off with a startled half curse as a blue static of energy brought Leon into the commotion, a drawn sword for the long distance portal fading to flecks when he noticed there wasn’t an actual brawl. Yet.

“What did you do to him?!” Leon demanded after a short glance over to locate Donnie and make sure he didn’t have any additional injuries.

Where Mikey would normally feel comfortable interjecting to try and diffuse the situation, he hadn’t actually seen what happened and therefore remained where he was peeking over the back of the couch. Maybe Leon’s anger was justified? If it was, Mikey didn’t want to scold Leon for being protective of his brother. He seemed a little distressed along with the anger though, which was definitely concerning. Did he think they would actually intentionally hurt them?

“Relax, kid. It was just a-” Raphael started to consol, cutting off with a slight flinch back when Leon lashed out at him almost immediately.

“Don’t tell me to relax!” Leon snapped, rounding on Raphael even as April wiggled out from the barrier of Raph’s ninpo encased arms to stand between the two groups just in case. “I asked you not to bother him-”

This time Raphael’s eye twitched. “Hey, I heard nothing of the sort,” he snapped, shifting his weight towards Leon.

“He and the girl were already here when I got here,” Casey added in a half complained attempted rebuttal as Don and Mikey reached the group from the kitchen, as well as Leo from the meditation room.

“We didn’t get the chance to tell the others yet,” Don explained, currently the quietest voice of the group. A strange blessing considering everyone else was yelling.

Leon made a slight hiss of his own in response, but didn’t seem to have an immediate verbal response this time as he was forcing himself to pause to take a moment to question his previous reactions. It made sense, Don hadn’t even left the kitchen after Leon told him Donnie wanted to be left alone. The quieter tone was also nice, and didn’t grate on his nerves. And for half a heartbeat he wasn’t sure why he was so upset? Or if it was even his nerves that were getting scraped.

“...April, I think Leo’s-” Lil Mikey whisper, shuffling closer to April after rapidly analyzing the people in the area.

“Is everything- WhAT HAPPENED?!” Mom April was the newest addition to the commotion now, taking one look at Casey’s dripping nose and having her anxiety spike. The shrill outburst earned a distressed noise from Donnie as he clamped his hands over his ears, trying to keep ahold of Raph at the same time. Mom April didn’t notice though, reaching towards Casery to check how bad it was. “Why are you bleed-”

“Would you shut up?!” Leon abruptly snapped, a snarl pulling his lip up as he whirled on Mom April, her voice feeling like nails driven into his brain. His brain?

“HEY! Don’t yell at my wife!” Casey thundered in retaliation, shifting his broad form to get between Mom April and Leon.

“Casey, hold on,” Leo interrupted, rushing forward to place a hand on their old friend’s shoulder to push him back. Even considering the fight they’d got into before, Leon was strangely antagonistic now. Was this a flashback like Don had mentioned might happen? It was so different from before when Leon had been lashing out from fear. Now he just seemed angry and horribly disoriented, raising his hands to his own head as though he wasn’t sure it hurt or not.

“You shut the hell up too! You’re all so damn loud!” Leon snapped at Casey, relayed venom lacing his words as he returned Casey’s step, refusing to back down.

“ALL OF YOU SHUT IT!” April’s voice unexpectedly snapped through the group, causing various levels of startlement, especially when she almost stomped forward to slap both hands on Leon’s cheeks and yank his head to bring his gaze to her. Raphael’s retort caught in his mouth as it snapped closed, and both brows rose as he looked to April. And when Leon tried to protest April just shook his head slightly and squished her hands harder. “That includes you. You’re spiraling off Donnie,” she chided, lowering her voice for a moment before opting for complete silence and pressing her own mouth shut. While she took control of Leon, Lil Mikey was taking care of addressing the others, giving a slightly pained and pleading smile as he pressed his palms together in a silent request for them to listen to April’s demand.

The blunt revelation and command from April caused Leon to suck in a short hissed breath, effectively silenced and decidedly shifting his attention to her. Her bellow had hurt, but her comment afterwards made it painfully aware why. It wasn’t his pain. It was Donnie’s. He’d just been lashing out as a projection of Donnie’s responses combined with his own desire to help.

Pursing his lips together, Leon gave April a single nod to show he understood, drawing a shaky breath and raising his hands when she let him go. And then, to the elder inhabitants’ surprise, Leon started making deliberate motions in front of him. A quick point at Donnie, still smothered in Raph’s tense form. Upturned palms with fingers snapping to grip at the air. One hand raising almost like he was catching something next to his head. Then pointer fingers curled with the thumbs and second fingers spread as he dropped them slightly.

April’s expression became saturated with worry even as she pursed her own lips. After a moment of hesitation she raised two fingers and shifted her hand side to side twice.

At that point Don drew in a slow gasp of realization. “Wha-?” Raphael started to ask before Don clamped a hand over his brother’s mouth, holding a finger in front of his own lips. Gesturing at Raphael to hold on, Don took a moment to turn to Mom April and gesture for her to take Casey to the infirmary to address his bleeding nose. She didn’t seem happy, but considering Don looked like he knew what was going on she didn’t protest. After she ushered Casey away quietly, Don motioned for his brothers to come closer to him as he pulled out his phone and opened the notes app.

| It’s sign language. | Don typed where his brothers could see, even as Lil Mikey moved closer to Leon and April and was trying to make one handed signs back. | They all know sign language. |

His excitement was obvious to see, something between the two groups that was so drastically different. But Raphael didn’t find the merit in knowing that particular detail, giving Don a confused and blatantly questioning expression.

| Considering April told us to be quiet, noise must be a problem somehow. | Don typed back.

That was enough motivation for Leo to start working on fixing the problem rather than debating about it. Especially when he glanced at their guests again and noticed silent tears slipping from both Donnie’s and Leon’s eyes. Pulling his own phone out and typing in a note, Leo approached the group of three and held it out to them. | What’s wrong? How do we help? |

Leon ended up flinching back in confused surprise, but April’s expression brightened slightly while Lil Mikey looked ecstatic. When Leon started to repeat some of the motions he had done before, Lil Mikey being unable to explain, Leo shook his head and pushed the phone towards him.

Giving a slightly annoyed huff, Leon took the phone and rapidly typed out a response after rubbing the tears in one eye again.

| D is overwhelmed. He needs somewhere quiet, but there isn’t one. |

Watching carefully as Leon typed, Leo accepted the phone when Leon shoved it back and added his own response. | Anywhere quiet? |

That earned a confused look from the three, but after a moment Leon gave a hesitant nod. The ideal situation would be somewhere that was familiar. But that wasn’t going to happen, so the basic requirement was just to have somewhere with as little sound as possible.

It was enough for Leo to work with, and he started to head towards Raph and Donnie. His course was halted though when Leon immediately latched onto his wrist, grip almost strangling the limb. But Leo just turned back to meet his gaze, raising his other hand to rest softly on Leon’s grip and giving him a reassuring smile. He remembered what it had been like when everything was just too much. Every comment his family made only made him angry despite how much they wanted to help. How even the drop of water in a leaky faucet would grate on his nerves. How his siblings whispering made him want to lash out at them. After a stretch of time just watching Leon’s expression shift subtly, Leo silently mouthed ‘Trust me?’ to him.

And after a few flexes in Leon’s grip strength he eventually, almost reluctantly let Leo go.

The action earned a thankful smile from Leo, and he gave Leon a soft nod before turning back to his original task. It seemed he’d have to gain the trust of more than one brother though, for when he knelt down in front of Raph he could hear a soft growl of wary warning from the huge form. It admittedly sent a slight chill down Leo’s back, but he knew Raph was just being protective. And so Leo was careful to raise his hands in an inoffensive motion as he sat on his feet, remaining still until the rumbles from Raph stopped. Then he carefully tapped on his phone before showing it to Raph. | I just want to see if he wants to go to the meditation room. It’s sound proofed. |

The message caused Raph to blink in mild surprise, but Leo could see his form significantly relax. His hand moving away from Donnie slightly while Leo set his phone down was enough to prompt Donnie to open his eyes to check the surroundings for what was changing. And when he saw Leo so close he also let out a quiet hiss of warning.

Leo almost chuckled at the reaction, for it had lost so much of the venom Donnie had had before. It felt more like a sleep irritable kid weakly shoving away the hand trying to wake them up. Something about missing his battle shell and wearing such large glasses made him less intimidating in appearance. But Leo wasn’t sure if even the soft noise of a chuckle would bother him, so just gave a small smile as he raised a finger in front of it. No need to be loud. He understood the need for quiet now. And he held his other hand out in offer for Donnie to take, nodding his head in the direction of their meditation room when Donnie squinted at him suspiciously.

Neither of them moved for long enough for Lil Mikey to start shifting in anxiousness, raising a foot to rub against the back of his leg and glancing at Leon. Who then in turn gave Lil Mikey a slight glare before averting his gaze completely and folding his arms with a slight huff. Donnie’s gaze flicked to Leon for a moment, then slid back to Leo’s offered hand as he frowned slightly. Leo thought for a moment that Donnie would decline his offer then, but to his pleasant surprise Donnie’s hand released it’s grip on Raph’s arm to move halfway to Leo’s fingers. Then after a slight pause Donnie gingerly rested his fingertips on Leo’s palm, glaring up at him in a slight pout as if daring him to prank him.

Leo couldn’t help being guiltily amused at the response, and just shook his head with a worried smile as he looped his hand underneath Donnie’s, just like he’d done once before. It was a motion that caused Donnie to blink and inhale slightly in surprise, but Leo could see some of the wariness practically melt from him because of it. He could take it slow, and wait for Donnie to follow when he was ready. He’d already shown that once before, and apparently it was enough for Donnie to trust him once again. So when Leo shifted to stand up it didn’t take much for Donnie to follow. Just a slight pause in anxiousness and having to detangle his feet from the blanket and Raph’s limbs. The blanket stayed with him though. Haphazardly gripped around him and over only one shoulder with his other hand as the one was being used by Leo to guide him to another room.

The meditation room was blessedly dimmer than the rest of the lair. Soft candle lights that barely shifted in their steady flame instead of the blaring LEDs. There wasn’t much of anything else in the room either. Just mat floors with several soft, well worn cushions. The most important part though was the foam sheets glued to the walls and ceiling, effectively muffling the outside world, especially when Leo mostly closed the door behind them. Seeing Donnie’s shoulders droop, and his expression relax halfway, Leo felt he could risk letting him go now. Letting his hand slip from his loose grasp, Leo moved back to the cushion he’d been sitting on just moments before and folded his legs under him. Then he offered Donnie another smile, and patted the other cushion next to him a few times before closing his eyes. He wanted to make sure Donnie knew he hadn’t dragged him in there to talk at him. Just give him somewhere peaceful to relax and collect his thoughts if he needed.

It took a minute before Leo heard any movement, but it was only seconds before he could feel a warmth nearby. And after a few moments of shuffling sounds the room stilled to a quiet calmness broken only by two sets of lungs. One calm, and one just a little shaky from sniffles. Cracking an eye open just a peek to check on Donnie, Leo almost let out a soft laugh when he saw the teen had chosen to flop on the floor and smash half his face into the cushion while hiding the rest of himself by being curled up in a tight ball under the blanket. Leo half raised a hand to reach out and gently pat his form, but then decided against it and let it lower back to his knee. Apparently having someone sling their arm around him had been the cause of the issue in the first place. So it would probably be better to just leave him alone now, and let him recover in peace.

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I already had this part written when I posted the previous one |D that's why the fast update. I just don't like to spam more than around 1 - 2k words per post. Also I really like drawing pushed expressions so there was easy motivation to draw this next X'D

kudos to sokda-lal-ashes on tumblr, and lighthawke and Fangirling101B on AO3 for guessing right that it was good ole dumbass Casey being a brute X'D

And then mild concern for the rest of you jumping to biting. ô_ó My gosh the kid just woke up and hasn't eaten in half a day and you're all thinking he's gonna want to put filthy human in him mouth again.

And then a few of you went straight to murder and that's a bit higher in concern. 8 |

I did enjoy every comment though X'DDD it was a riot.

Fun fact I had 鹳之心弦 by Vanguard Sound playing on repeat while writing this whole thing. X'D

[amuromi]

★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 5.3k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! mamaguro!reader, tipsy/drunk sex, unprotected sex, established relationship (married), pet names (mama), oral (f!receiving), postpartum/baby weight insecurities, implied safe word (not used, just mentioned)

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ According to Gege, Mamaguro was what got Toji on the straight and narrow for a little while. I wanted to explore the thought a bit.

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

The familiar beeping of the keypad cuts through the droning static of the night, trilling crickets and passing cars, as Toji punches in the passcode. The little light seems to hesitate before flickering green and blinking its acquiescence to his presence. With a dull click of the motion sensor the entryway blooms with a stark wash of fluorescence bright enough to make him squint, eyes stinging after wasting hours in the dimness of some club. His pockets are lighter and his head is fuzzier for it, the taste of alcohol still burning on his tongue as he kicks off his shoes and pads deeper into the apartment. The entryway goes dark without him to trigger the automatic light and the hall offers no light to replace it but he’s familiar enough between these walls to find his way towards where he needs to be, stumbling only once as a toy finds its way underfoot, squeaking as he kicks it away. 

The room is illuminated by the faintest light leaking through the slightly parted curtains. The thread of faded yellow light slants across the bed, finding shapes in the darkness. The parted lips of his wife and the fluttering lashes of his son. He’s a tiny thing even after all these months–still a wisp of a person–but bigger than the last time Toji saw him. His face has started falling into place, fledgling features beginning to take shape. So strange that this little thing could look so much like him. Familiar black hair falls across his forehead like streaks of ink and his face is screwed up into a scowl even as he sleeps, legs kicking and arms twitching. 

Toji’s shadow cuts through the beam of light as he stands over his son in his nest of pillows–“to keep him from rolling,” he vaguely remembers you saying. Toji’s hands are rough, calloused and scarred, but he can’t deny the urge to touch his son. He presses a dimple into the baby’s cheek, and his skin is plump and warm like a dumpling beneath the pad of his father’s fingertip as he begins to stir in earnest at the disturbance. He stretches like a cat, grape-sized fists reaching out above his head before his eyes blink open with a yawn. Twin pairs of deep blue eyes meet in the darkness. Toji expects the tears that ensue as his son’s sleepy gaze lands on the hulking silhouette standing over the bed. At first it’s only the whisper of a sound, short garbled whimpers that slowly work up to a volume loud enough to wake you. The reaction is immediate, platitudes ready on your tongue even as your voice slurs with exhaustion. 

“What’s wrong, Megumi?” The raspy drawl of your voice is enough to soothe the baby’s tears as you sit up to hold him. It takes you so long to acknowledge Toji that he has to wonder if you’re purposefully ignoring him as you fret over the crying baby. A curt “welcome home” is all you can muster towards him as you dote on your son, shushing and cooing until his little whimpers turn into snores. The nursery is at the end of the hall–the farthest room from the front door at your insistence–and you shoulder past Toji to take Megumi to his room. He lets you, stepping aside because you’d never actually be able to move him even if you used all your strength. He’s as movable as a brick wall even if there’s a bit of alcohol numbing his reflexes and you know it. Knocking into him is as effective as a dog growling at a wolf. 

While you’re gone, he tosses the extra pillows to the floor along with his shirt. It’s laced with the scent of cigarettes and folded pride after spending the day whittling away his earnings on what were supposed to be sure things. Easy money made by taking low stakes bets that all unraveled one after the other. The money is wasted now and maybe he needs a fight, some kind of outlet, to expel the lingering frustration. He’s waiting for you at the foot of the bed when you return from putting Megumi down. Like a moth to a flame you come fluttering over to him looking to get burned. You stand between his spread legs and Toji can’t find it in himself to keep his hands off you. 

The tank top you wore to sleep is already rucked up your waist from sleeping and his thumbs find the exposed skin of your stomach, kneading against the new softness of your waist. It’s waning with each day as your body slowly reknits its shape after having Megumi but Toji finds himself somewhat enthralled with the lingering baby weight. You’re always quick to catch an attitude the moment he starts clinging around your extra weight. Smacking at his hands and telling him to leave you be like he cares if you’ve gotten bigger from carrying around his kid for nine months. It shows in your hips and your breasts, makes you look real good even when you moan about how long it’s taking for your body to “snap back.” It’s not like you’re a stretched rubber band to be shrinking once the tension’s gone but he keeps the thought to himself. It’s been made abundantly clear you’re not trying to hear his reassurances anytime you get to berating the body he loves so much. As if you aren’t everything he wants and more. 

“Missed you.” The words sting worse than the alcohol. It isn’t in him for Toji to be saying things like that often. But both of you already know he hates being away from you, and now Megumi, too. His hands tighten around your waist as you try to pull away, pulling you closer even as your feet drag until he can rest his face against the lingering roundness of your stomach. He got you like this. Everything about you in this moment, the tired drawl of your voice and the added softness of your body is all his doing and he’s damn proud of himself. His pretty little wife that suffers his erratic presence and pitiful parenting with little more than patient sighs. Sometimes you’re upset and he always deserves it but even when your face is lined taut with anger he can’t help but marvel about how lucky he is. Makes him want to straighten up, be better. Makes him want to do right by you like a proper husband should. You’ve given him all your time and energy. Your name and everything. It’s the least you deserve but here he is, face smushed happily into the soft warmth of your tummy as you card through his hair, waiting for an explanation for his absence. After all, he said he’d be home two days ago. 

Toji has been gone for nearly a month, having fed you some lies about freelancing on a construction contract a few prefectures over. It’s something simple, easy to swallow. Because he can’t very well tell you about what it is he really does to keep a roof over your head. It’s selfish, lying to you the way he does, but Toji has never claimed to be a particularly altruistic man. He’s selfish and greedy. Doesn’t want anything bad coming near his girl, tainting the charitable image of him she has in her mind. If you wise up too much you might up and leave him and then where would he be? Nah, he’ll keep telling you he’s out doing grunt work, manual labor. The type of strenuous work that pays well because you don’t need to know what it is the hands he touches you and your son with are truly capable of. 

“You mad at me?” He asks when you take too long to answer him. It’s not meant to sound so teasing, so mocking, but Toji is sardonic by nature and his tongue is plied with too many shots. It makes him sound like he’s trying to rile you up. And maybe he is. Hadn’t that been his original intention before you came back to him all soft and sweet, looking so perfectly tired. He shouldn’t push you but he wants to. It’s clear you’re exhausted but he’s wide awake and pumped full of liquor and audacity. It curls around him like armor, makes him want to poke and prod until you stoop to his level and entertain his excess energy. He needs something to help him work through the high of coming home to you. His teeth find a soft spot to land above your navel and you yelp out a sharp quit it! before smacking the back of his head as his tongue tastes the place his teeth had been. 

“What do I have to be mad about?” Comes your pragmatic answer as your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging at the roots to get his mouth away from you. It doesn’t work. He’s stronger than you, won’t move unless he wants to and what reason would he ever have to leave the soft warmth of your body? You smell so good in a way you probably hate. There’s no trace of perfume on your skin. No lingering scent of soap or detergent. You smell wholly like yourself. Like sweat and something sweet and it makes him want to taste every inch of your skin. You squirm as Toji pushes your shirt higher until it’s tucked up under the swollen weight of your breasts heavy with milk. 

“Nothin’.” Toji decides even though he’s sure there’s a thousand things you could be mad at him for. He was gone two days longer than he said he’d be and wasted one of those days blowing his money on spoiled bets. He was late and still had the audacity to come home far past midnight, in those dark hours that linger just before sunrise, after you’ve been dealing with a newborn all day. Yeah, you should be mad, but he’s glad you’re not. When he looks up there’s the faintest hint of annoyance lingering on your face, pinched between your brows and weighing at the counters of your mouth. It’s a pretty look on you as his eyes begin to adjust to the muted darkness. Mussed hair, tired bruises under your eyes, and disheveled clothes. It’s a look only he gets to see because you’d never leave the house looking like you’ve just gotten into a fight. But fuck if you don’t make it look so good. 

It’s enough to make Toji smile. Something mean and wanting as he stands to get in your face. He can hear it in your voice, that aloof attitude that you get whenever he’s in one of his moods. You’re trying your hardest not to rise to his prodding and it’s almost annoying how fucking perfect you are. The kind of woman that only exists in movies. The kind of woman that deserves more than him. But Toji won’t let anyone else have you. He made that decision a while ago. Marriage and a baby. A ball and chain to tether you to him. He watches the realization dawn on your face as he presses in until you’re nose to nose, a nervous “not tonight, Toji” whispering over his lips as you try to pull away from him again. He wants it to be tonight. And every night after. How can you be so perfect and expect him not to be panting after you like a dog every second of the day?

“Let me do it,” he asks, voice toeing the line of begging as his hands find your waist again. “Let me have it, mama.” Toji loves the way you squirm and pout and look away from him whenever he calls you that, like you aren’t the mother of his child. He kisses the corner of your mouth, a habit he picked up from you always pressing sweet little kisses to his scar. You fluster and shake your head, trying to pull out of his arms. He lets you just to see what you’ll do, frowning when you tug your shirt down over your stomach and go to lay back down. He watches you settle on top of the sheets, curling up on yourself like he won’t be able to see you if you make yourself small enough. Your breath comes too quickly for you to be sleeping, body lined with too much tension as you wrap yourself around his pillow like he’s not standing right here for you. His fingers wrap around your ankle, pulling you loose from the ball you’ve curled yourself into. 

“The fuck are you hiding for?” Toji snaps as you try to fix your top after his pulling rolled it up your back again. He hears you whine his name, small and petulant like you have something to be embarrassed of. It takes a moment for the realization to click into place, for Toji to fully accept the idea that his pretty little wife might not be feeling so pretty after all. Toji isn’t big on manners, doesn’t wanna stoop to saying please and begging for what he wants but he just might with the way you’re acting. It’s clear you want it. He can tell by the way you’re rubbing your thighs together. You want it just as bad as he does and yet here you are, covering yourself with the sheets and murmuring about not yet. Toji’ll be the first to admit he hadn’t paid much attention to anything the doctors were going on about when you were laid up in the hospital, sweating and crying as you held Megumi for the first time, but he does vaguely remember being advised against sex for awhile. 

“Does it still hurt, mama?” He asks because he can’t be too sure you’ve fully healed from the ordeal of pushing a little person out of your body. When you shake your head and throw your arms over your eyes, Toji frowns. He’s been gone for three and a half weeks, hasn’t fucked you in just as many months, and yet here you are mumbling over excuses to keep your clothes on. Too tired, too late, Megumi might wake up again. As if he won’t do all the work to make you feel good. 

Toji can’t help but scoff. “What are you on about?” 

As if he hasn’t answered calls while he’s balls deep inside you. If his son wakes up he’ll go see what he needs and come back to finish what he started. You don’t even need to move. All you gotta do is lay back and spread your legs while he takes care of the rest. His fingers hook into the elastic of your waistband, keen on pulling those baggy pants off. He knows what to expect. Your thighs got thicker to match the new weight of your hips. He’s expecting the plushness as he wrestles the pants off your legs even as you weakly bat at his hands and whine about him waiting a minute. All it earns you is another bite to the softness of your thigh because why would he wait even a second more after he’s already waited this long. 

He’s nearly delirious with desire. There’s no more time for waiting and your pitiful little protests aren’t doing much to convince him that you actually want him to stop. You need this. Need your man to bully you out of your clothes and prove how much he’s missed seeing your body because clearly Toji’s words aren’t enough to get it through your thick skull just how gorgeous he thinks his wife is. But fuck do you look beautiful even in the darkness. He spares a second to turn on the bedside light, ignoring your feeble attempts at protest as the dim light washes over you. He watches you try to roll away, grasping at the sheets to cocoon yourself out of sight. 

“Stop fucking runnin’, mama. Lemme see my girl. Already said I missed you.” Toji groans as he grabs you by the waist, reveling in the way you squeak as he moves you where he wants. Little thing always thinking you can run from him like he won’t pull you back every time. He’s greedy, wants to keep you to himself. You’re his. His wife, mother of his son. His, his, his. And yet you’re acting like he’s exaggerating how desperately he wants you after so long. Maybe it’s the alcohol turning him mean, but he wants to prove himself beyond a shadow of a doubt in your mind. It’s all he ever wants. To prove himself worthy. He knows he not but it’s the least he can do to pretend that one day he might be. You just have to let him. 

He takes pity on you as you squirm, grasping for the edge of the sheets Toji’s already tossed out of reach. 

“S’okay, mama. I got you.” His hands pet over your hips, fingers playing at the edge of your panties. He wants them off of you, wants to get his mouth on your cunt ’cause he can clearly see the wet spot seeping between your legs. You’ve always loved how big he is, how easy it is for Toji to move you how he wants, and yet here you are trying to play at being bashful like you don’t want his head between your legs. 

“Don’t be gross,” you whine as he works you out of your panties and brings them up to his nose. Toji doesn’t miss the way you lift your hips to help. All this huffing and puffing when you want it just as bad. It makes him want to be nastier just to get under your skin, and just like he wants you to, you whine something about him being such a nasty weirdo as he tongues at the wet spot your pussy has left in your panties. The taste has his cock swelling in his pants, twitching to be inside you after months of only using his hand. It’s nearly painful the way his dick throbs at the sight of you spread underneath him. Wet and neglected as you try to tug your shirt down over your lap. Fuck, he’s glad he married you because Toji can’t stomach the thought of another man ever being in his place and getting to see you just like this. He hears the sound of your hand smacking his shoulder more than he feels it as you try to get him from between your legs. It doesn’t work, just makes him nip at your thigh again as he shoulders your legs apart and pushes your stretched shirt out of his way. 

Toji isn’t doing it for you when his tongue licks a broad stroke up your pussy but you sigh like he is before thinking better of it and going back to pulling at his hair, trying to get him from between your legs like anything could part him from your fat little cunt. The feeling prickles over his scalp and sings down his spine in a way that has his hips grinding against the bed. He’s not worried about you as he sucks your clit into his greedy mouth, tongue tracing the shape of his name over the sensitive bud. It’s his, you’re all his. 

He can barely hear you whining over the sound of how wet your cunt is in his mouth. “Toji, get up. M’gonna squish you, stop it!” You’re not saying anything important and he tightens your legs around his head, trying to drown in the warmth of your thighs smothering him. When you don’t get your way he feels the hand not gripping his hair pressing against his shoulder. Not trying to move him, but using his immovable nature to your advantage as you try to scoot up the bed. He doesn’t care until you get far enough that his mouth pops off your cunt. There’s a shining mess of spit and arousal strung between the two of you and he’s eager to make you even messier. An arm is tossed over your wiggling hips, heavy as a steel beam to keep you from running from his mouth again. 

“Stop movin’, lemme eat in peace.” He groans as his nose nuzzles against your clit while he tongues at your fluttering hole. His eyes watch you over the soft curve of your tummy. Your eyes are wet with tears as you whimper over the feeling of his hot tongue on your pussy. You’ve been suffering just as much as he has but you’re still acting like you don’t want him to fucking ruin you, like you don’t deserve it. You do. Of course, you do. Everything and more. He feels you relax into it, hand loosening to softer tugs in his hair as your lashes flutter and lips part. This is how he likes you, soft and happy. Quiet little moans filling the room as he makes a mess between your legs. He can feel you getting close as your pussy drools down his chin. Your thighs are tensing around his head, shaking in the way they always do when you’re close to cumming. It makes him laugh, and the deep sound sings through your pussy. It’s enough to push you over the edge. 

Finally, finally, you drop the shy act and pull his mouth closer, hips grinding against his face like you’re trying to mark him up with your wetness. He can feel it glossing over his cheeks and chin, smell it as he watches you ride his face. Two fingers find their way inside your fluttering walls, hooking against that sweet spot until you squeal and he gets to hush you like that’s not exactly what he wanted to hear. Because weren’t you the one worried about waking the baby? Now listen to you. This is what he wanted and you were being all stubborn acting like he couldn’t have it. It’s not until you’re running again that he eases up. He could keep going, keep eating you until you’re all out sobbing and shoving at him to get his greedy mouth and thick fingers away from your pussy, but he’ll be nice just this once. Toji sits back on his knees and watches you cringe at the sound his fingers make as they slip out of your soaked cunt. Webs of your arousal cling between his fingers and he makes a show of dragging his tongue between them like he’s still eating you out. 

“Felt good, huh?” He knows it did. You made such a big mess and you’re still dripping onto the sheets. Makes him eager to get you on his dick. It’s still straining in his pants, painfully hard from tasting you and hearing all your little noise. He gets up just long enough to strip off his pants, ignoring the mess he’s made just from getting his head between your legs. Toji eyes your shirt, still pulled defiantly low. 

“Take it off.” You grab at the hem, fiddling with nervous fingers. “Take it off or I’ll rip it off.” He amends. You mumble something that sounds like “don’t wanna” as you cling to the fabric like it’ll keep him off you. 

Toji scoffs, “You know what to say if you don’t want to.” He reminds you as he grabs at the collar of your shirt. It’s damp with sweat as is the rest of your body. You look shimmery in the low light, eyes glittering with tears as he works you out of that last piece of clothing with a quick jerk of his arms. The shirt doesn’t put up a fight, ripping like paper so he can shove it away from your chest. Your body comes spilling out without the tight fabric clinging to you. Tits swollen with milk and tummy still holding on to that last bit of baby weight. You look like a mother and it makes his balls tighten. His mama, his girl. He got you like this and fuck if he isn’t gonna enjoy it while it lasts. He’ll leave your tits alone only ’cause you’ve been complaining–and he’s happy to listen–about how sore breastfeeding is making you. You’ve gone up a couple cup sizes and your tits look gorgeous but he won’t bother them if it’ll hurt you. 

“Toji.” You’re pouting. He can hear it in your voice and see it in the way you’re squirming as he kneels over you, fisting his cock as he stares at your body. 

“What?” Right about now he doesn’t really care about what you’re whining about unless you’re gonna start begging for his cock. His free hand finds your waist again, kneading at the softness he finds there. So plush and warm. Fucking you like this is gonna feel like he’s fucking a cloud. He hears you muttering about being too big and tells you to shut up. 

“Don’t be fucking dumb. Acting like it’s the end of the world. Shut up and let me fuck you.” Usually he’d try to be more tactful with his words. It’s only right that you get to complain about how your body changed, but right now he really doesn’t want to hear it. You’re talking down on the body that’s driving him insane like you can’t see his cock twitching at the sight of you sprawled out beneath him. Toji tosses your thighs over his, pulling you up into the cradle of his lap, remembering only vaguely to shove a pillow under your back. You cover your face as he stares at your pussy, like he didn’t just get real up close and personal when he had her in his mouth. She’s still drooling real pretty for him as he ruts against you, wetting his dick with the mess you’re making. He feels your thighs jump every time the head of his cock catches against your clit. He pulls back the hood so he can really love on it, listening to the way you choke on your breath as he grinds over the sensitive little bud. 

“Gonna let me inside, mama?” Toji asks and you nod eagerly, hips bucking in his lap. Fuck. You’re cute when you stop worrying so damn much. Acting like he isn’t dying to get his dick inside you. He can feel you clenching as he presses in, pussy gripping him so good as he drags you down on his cock. You take it so well. Inch by inch you let him inside until you’ve swallowed him down to the base, already wetting his hips with your excitement. The clenching heat is enough to stun him and Toji has to hold you still with clenched teeth to keep you from milking him to the edge too soon. You’re already trying to ride him with little bucks of your hips, hiding a smile behind your hands as you lay back against the pillows and act like you weren’t just trying to keep him off you. 

“Not so shy now, huh?” Toji asks, squeezing at your thighs as he pulls back just to fill you up again with another deep stroke. You make a pretty little noise as he bottoms out, wet lips parting around a moan even as you try to catch it with your shaky hands. He’s got you good. You’re making enough noise for the both of you as Toji stirs up your insides, keeping you locked on his dick even when it starts to get too much for you. He can feel you trying to squirm away when he gets too deep inside you, hands grabbing at his wrists, trying to pry him off you. He’s mean about fucking you now, thumb rubbing quick circles on your clit as you wail about it being too much. 

“S’not enough if you don’t cum, mama. Lemme feel it.” You’re already clenching so tight around him, pussy milking his cock like you want another baby. He’s lucky you’re on the pill because the way your body is rippling with every thrust is getting him weak. There’s no way he’d be able to pull out even if he can barely handle the one kid he’s already got. It feels too good to stop even when you’re trying to get away from the feeling of him spreading you open. 

Toji can’t help but laugh between his panting. “This is your dick, mama, stop running from it.” 

“Yeah, it’s mine.” You agree, tongue getting loose the closer you get to cumming. “Want it. Want you.” He can feel you tightening up as you babble about him being yours. Your thighs start to shake again, trying to knock shut even with his legs keeping you nice and open for him. 

“Get me wet, mama. I know you want to.” You cum hard, clit twitching under his thumb as you cream on his dick, getting him all sticky with your cum. Selfish as he is, Toji keeps you on his dick for a little while longer. Milking himself dry inside you while he keeps a quick pace on your clit. You’re crying and wailing–real loud like you don’t have a kid and neighbors–by the time he eases up on you. Your pussy is flushed and swollen around his cock when he pulls out. His dick is shiny with wetness, dragging out a mess with his softening cock. You’re leaking his cum in a frothy mess onto the sheets, pussy hot and twitching from how hard he fucked you. Toji can’t help but thumb through the mess, smearing the mix of your releases over your puffy pussy and circling your clit just to hear you whine about it being too much. So fucking pretty and all his. 

His hands rub at your thighs as he lets you off his lap, trying to work the soreness from your muscles while you catch your breath. He watches you relax as the fatigue slowly creeps back in. He kept you up far longer than he should’ve but it was worth it for the way you seem so content to let him rub on you. An hour ago you would’ve been batting his hands off of you and cowering like you didn’t want him to see you. Now you’re content to stretch out across the bed and let him squeeze anywhere he pleases. This is what he prefers. It’s his body you were berating anyway. You belong to him. You’re not allowed to act shy and be mean like he won’t remind you just how much you’re worth. He thinks about getting his mouth on you again as he watches you cuddle back up to his pillow and decides you won’t mind too much. He can taste himself leaking out of your pussy as he drags his tongue through your folds. You whine and shift but the hand you slip into his hair is gentle, letting him have his fun as long as he goes slow. He only parts from you when a sharp cry crackles through the speaker of the baby monitor. 

“I got him.” Toji says easily. You’re barely awake and it’s the least he can do after being gone for so long. “Go pee.” He reminds you as he slips back into his pants. You mumble something that might be an “okay” as he goes to see what Megumi needs. The little spud is squirming in his crib, snotting and crying like he needs something but he quiets the second Toji picks him up. He doesn’t want his bottle, doesn’t need to be changed, he’s just making noise ’cause he woke up wanting attention. Toji is content to give it to him, walking around the nursery until Megumi falls asleep again. Toji holds him a little while longer, basking in the sweet scent that seems to cling to him. Like milk and lotion as he rests a hand on his son’s back. When he gets back to bed where you’ve already changed and fallen back to sleep, Toji considers a career change. 

[honey-minded-hivemind]

OH RIGHT I GOT ANOTHER DOODLE FOR THE REWIND!AU-

something crawled out of the TV(I imagine if the X-Men ever climbed out the TV their appearances would be altered and more terrifying to fit the analog horror vibe of the au)

Reader is shaking like a leaf and hiding as soon as something starts pushing through the static of the TV screen...

That...

That isn't normal.

Are they going insane? What... what the H*ll is going on...?

They're stifling their sharp breaths, hunching down and curling up, holding their breath as soon as they hear the thumps of footsteps and the light crackle of static.

Then, whatever it is, speaks-

"Reader...? Reader, are you there? It's okay. Ve're friends... You can come out. It's safe...♡"

Reader can see the tail flick behind the being, long and blue and fuzzy. It's body is blue, fading into the darkness. It's hands are slightly clawed, tapping against the floor. And while Reader can't see its eyes... they can see a yellow glow cast against the wall, as it looks around...

They hope it's just a dream, just a nightmare, a night terror, nothing more than a small effect from forgetting to take their pill...

Because if it's not...

They aren't sure they can handle the aftermath.

(Want to explore more of this AU? After all, we have a bit more in store for Reader, the video store they work at, and the strange video tapes they watch when they're alone and it's dark... And the questions: What did the pills stop... and what happened to them?)

[ouroborosorder]

Do you have an instance of Arknights VFX that gets frequently praised that you as a VFX artist think is mediocre or bad?

EBENHOLZ' SKIN "EINE VARIATION" IS A CRIME AGAINST ME SPECIFICALLY.

Look. I love Ebenholz, a lot. His effects are really strong, too! Some of my personal favorites. But this skin. Jesus Christ this skin.

I have seen so many people praising this skin as having good effects or being better than his original and it genuinely makes me wonder if half of the effects are actually rendered in some sort of shrimp colors that everyone but me can see.

There is not a single part of this skin's effects that I don't hate. Not just because I find them ugly, uninteresting, and unclear, but because I think they fundamentally misunderstand who Ebenholz is.

You asked for this.

Part 1 - The Colors.

The actual art for his skin has a beautiful striking blue and light gray background, with the light pink Arts accentuating it, and then the blood red and pitch black of his outfit meant to draw the eye to the center. This works perfectly in the art, so what's wrong?

First problem. Ebenholz doesn't have the blue background in gameplay. Meaning that his effects are red (not pink, like the art, they are red) and his skin is red. So there's extreme monochrome happening, with absolutely no interesting contrast between him and his Arts. His Elite Charge is blue, at the very least, so his signature gimmick stands out uniquely, which is quite nice! That's a great decision that won't cause any problems down the line at all.

"Oh, but Keys, it's so that the red Arts stand out when he uses his S3 and summons that giant goat spirit in the background!" That's a great point, person I just made up. Please remember this excellent point for later.

Part 2 - General Effects

The effect starts with a deploy animation wherein Ebenholz is surrounded by sparkles like some sort of magical girl. The deploy effect is genuinely bad in so many ways, mostly related to timing and motion, but this rant is going to be long enough. And I'm gonna need to focus and talk about the sparkles.

The biggest thing to know about Eine Variation is this image. Get acquainted with it. If there was a recurring visual motif in Eine Variation, it is this piece from the original art.

And yeah, as an effects artist, I'd be amped to work on this. This looks fucking sick as shit. It's dynamic, it's chaotic, it's got harsh lines to contrast the flowing music staff, it's great. So let's see how this texture looks in g- okay what the fuck.

In the game, it looks nothing like the art. It's literally just the stock glimmer effect. It's not even a new texture. This thing's been in the game since release. It looks. Bad. It's way too simplistic. Because it wasn't meant to be the center of attention, it's meant to appear for an instant and then fade. Like, you know. A glimmer.

What you just saw in the screenshot above is one of Ebenholz' Mystic Caster charges. And it is easily my least favorite part of the entire skin.

Ebenholz (Original Flavor)'s Mystic Caster charges has one of my favorite visual touches in the entire game. Ebenholz fights using artifacts from the Witch King whose power he inherits - a wand and a set of five Originium dice. So he wields the wand, and has die rotate around him as he fights. In-game, they represent this by his charges being the dice, rotating around his hand. This is, as we say in the vfx industry, fucking badass. So naturally they removed the dice entirely in Eine Variation.

Fuck.

Fine, alright. Maybe it's him... moving further from the Witch King's influence, then? We'll go with that hey stop looking at his S3 what are you doing don't get ahead of me.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "hey, Keys, this is unfair. You're asking us to judge an animated effect based on a static picture of it." Well, my dear reader, I have bad news. You just saw the entire charge's visual. The whole thing.

They are a glimmer of light that does not pulse or twinkle. They just. Sit there. Floating. Again, it's just so simplistic, it's not even interesting to talk about.

The only good thing I can say about it is that it's way easier to tell how many charges he has since they're bigger, more spread out, and not moving. Also the Elite charge is WAY more distinct, since it's bright blue now to contrast with the red normal charges. Which is nice! A good decision! It would sure be a shame if it bit them in the ass later!

Part 3 - Attack and Skill 1

Did you think I was kidding when I said that the sparkles are the sole visual motif in this skin?

I hate these attack trails. Not only are they too simplistic, they're just too cute. I joked about magical girls before, but dear god, this just doesn't fucking look right. This skin is literally described as him being apathetic and miserable as a noble, so why are the effects so... Colorful and cute? Ebenholz isn't a cutesy goofy music-themed magical girl, Ebenholz is a sad gay goth kid who would create a fake My Immortal confession for attention.

I also hate the musical notes. I know I complained about the glimmers being too one-note (pardon the pun), but they just don't interact with the rest of the effect at all. There's nothing else musical about what is happening here. They feel added to remind you that he is casting music.

God I fucking hate the sparkles so goddamned much. I also find it really funny that one single musical note bursts forth with each hit. These shapes are just... So boring, so simple. But put a pin in that for a later.

His S1 uptime comes with an awful aura. he glows red. There is only red and white. this is all there is. This is all there will ever be. That's all I've got about S1.

Part 3 - Skill 2

Oh jesus go back to the red and white

First off, I find these goat so fucking ugly. The synths are a truly terrible choice, because synths and digital music don't come up in any capacity throughout the rest of the effects. So. Great work. This doesn't make sense.

Anyway I hate the color here. The original has a great two-tone black smoke with bright blue glowing eyes, contrasting with Eben's orange Arts. In the skin they slapped an awful blue glow haze over them. This makes them just completely draw visual attention, while they don't match up with Ebenholz' aesthetic at all. if you could see the black, there would be a clear visual link between them, but... Nope. It's ONLY blue, motherfuckers.

Also, they passively emit triangles, which is the only time in this entire effect that the Arts = Geometric Triangles visual idea appears in the entire skin based around an arts caster. Yay for recurring game-wide motifs!

Shockingly, I hate the explosion. It's passable, it's fine. But the timing is absolutely awful. The original's feels like an explosion that is pulling the target in, but the skin's feels like an explosion followed by absorption. It makes it feel less like an explosion and more like a contrivance. Also, it spawns only like, four notes total, which is just so low. Please have more notes, you even have the musical staff, you're so close to having this look like musical arts. I also hate the random swirl of red. The goat didn't have any red in it. Why does this have red. Monochrome would have actually worked better, this is just a summon.

Part 4 - Sound of Silence

Eine Variation S3 features Ebenholz getting hoverhanded by a goat.

I wish I had any other way to put it. But he gets hoverhanded by a goat for the entire uptime of this attack.

What even is this thing? Obviously, it's the goat behind him in his splash art, but what is it? Is it the Witch King? That would make sense, but why is the Witch King's avatar blue? The Witch King has literally never been blue, he's always been associated as being red. Unless this isn't The Witch King, in which case, what the fuck is it then?

I hate this effect more than anything else in this game. The ghost looks absolutely awful. it is very blatantly just the art from the actual skin, slapped behind him with no regard for aesthetic consistancy. Or even regard for if the image is readable at the distance Arknights is played at. The goatghost.jpg is not animated at all, but the hands move up and down, which weirdly only further reveals how static the ghost is. Also the hands aren't animated outside of going up and down which is just so uncanny and uncomfortable. It just reveals how desperately they needed to have some animation to make it not look like absolute hot garbage, and they still failed.

After an entire skin of absurdly simplistic geometric shapes and basic ass textures, suddenly they think they can pull off some shit that looks like a granblue render. This doesn't even look in-line with the rest of the skin's effects, let alone with the chibi artstyle.

Now. Why I truly, truly hate this attack.

When you activate S3, all of Ebenholz' Charges become Elite charges. Meaning they all become blue.

The charges all finally become blue.

In the only part of the skin where you have a blue background.

I just. I can't figure out how you'd fuck this up this bad. If the Elite Charges were red, it would look like the fucking skin art, with the red notes on the pink staff. They'd stand out, or at least look fucking decent. How many charges does Ebenholz have? Oh I don't know THEY'RE FUCKING BLUE ON BLUE.

WHY. WHY ANY OF THIS. WHY ALL OF THIS. I'M IN HELL. THIS WAS MADE TO TORMENT ME PERSONALLY RIGHT

anyway I will give credit where credit is due. I actually quite like the trail when he casts his stocks in S3.

The slight orange two-tone and complicated trails add a lot of nuance and depth to the effect, and the glimmer is toned down to the point where I can see the diamond shape hidden underneath. There is one singular silver lining to this cloud. It could use more musical touches and less fucking sparkles but at this point I need to compliment something.

Finale - Why Do I Give A Shit

Eine Variation launched as part of the Bloodline of Combat skins that came out with Lone Trail. It released alongside Specter the Unchained's Born as One; my personal favorite skin in the entire game. It is a skin that perfectly conveys Laruntina's love of natural beauty and Specter's love of poetry and recitation, bringing them together into poems reflected in a starry lake. The effects are serene and dreamlike, peaceful yet chaotic. It conveys who they are going into the future, who they are together.

Born as One is Bloodline of Combat at its best. Bloodline of Combat is at its best when it tells you something about who this character is at this part of their life. How they change, how they grow, how they look at the world in this point of their life. This is the story that good effects can tell.

So I ask you: What story does Eine Variation's effects tell?

If this an Ebenholz who is growing further from the Witch King's legacy into his own man, then why does the avatar of the Witch King appear behind him? Why does the flavor text describe this as clothing worn by every Graf Urtica? Why does it not lean further into the synth aesthetic to separate himself from the classical music of Leithanien?

If this is an Ebenholz who is currently stuck within the confines of nobility, why is he not wielding the dice associated with his title as Graf Urbica? Why do his fucking goats have synths instead of traditional instruments? Why is the Witch King the wrong color?

And most importantly to all of this: Why are all the shapes so simple?

Yes, Arknights' Arts are geometric. They're usually represented by simple triangles. This is true. But think about who Ebenholz is.

Ebenholz is not a simple and elegant person. Ebenholz is a man who nails complicated, difficult, strange flute solos, but who fails to do simple rhythms and scales. He excels at the complex, the elaborate, and the detailed, and fails at the simplistic. This is always how Ebenholz has been.

So a skin full of simple shapes, easy language, and flat colors... Isn't how he'd fight. It's not who he is. It's not how he'd act. It doesn't just feel wrong, it feels like it's not made for him.

I don't just hate this skin because I think its effects are bad. I mean, I do, and they definitely are.

I hate this skin because it just... Fundamentally does not understand who Ebenholz is. And it definitely does not understand why he is so special.

[wanderpastme]

Apple Of My Eye Chapter 2

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

This is also on Archive

Roses are red, violets are blue, I have depression and you do too

I SEE YOU MENTALLY ILL BITCHES BLOWING UP MY POST

I personally make this up as I go, I don’t know what I am doing, so seeing all the support is really heartwarming.

Also, CW TEETH

Slowly cracking open your eyes, you were assaulted with a barrage of color, making you wince slightly, maybe it was better to keep them closed.

Slowly you could feel your senses return to you, slightly fuzzy around the edges, but at least you could think again.

Think… again?

Where were you?

Your eyes suddenly snapped open, the bright environment around you making your headache come back tenfold.

With a groan, you rubbed your eyes, determined to keep your senses about you.

Pushing yourself up from your laying position, you looked around you, hoping to find something at least familiar to ground your growing panic.

You were laying in a plush bed, that looked almost too soft to be real, a colorful quilt spread neatly on top of you. The rest of the room looked like a normal bedroom… if not slightly cartoonish in nature. Everything was so bright and almost rounded, the edges of your vision giving it a fuzzy effect.

Where were you?

Glancing through the window to your right, you could see the world below, but it made even less sense than the bedroom itself. Everything looked so… soft.

Pushing yourself out of bed, you stepped forward on shaking legs, reaching out to open the window.

Had your legs always felt this weak? Come to think of it, your entire body felt… off, your mouth dry as if filled with cotton.

Pushing lightly on the window, it opened outward with no resistance, as if it knew what you wanted.

A soft tune filled the once-silent room, accompanied by the sound of birds. Soft rays of sunshine warmed your face, and the air almost smelled sweet.

“Oh, Neighbor! I’m so glad you’re awake!”

Your whole body froze, your heart racing madly in your chest. You knew that voice. The TV. The static. It was all coming back to you in waves.

Your hands uncomfortably gripped the edges of the windowsill, the only thing keeping you from falling to your knees once more. How had you not heard him come in?

Soft velvet hands pulled you back from the sill with ease, as if you weighed nothing.

“Come now… you need your rest” His voice purred in your ear, his velvety voice laced with a threat.

Carefully you were set back on the bed, your gaze glued to the swirling pattern of the rug below you. You could feel his eyes burning holes into your own, his soft hands keeping a tight hold on your arms as if demanding your attention.

That only made you want to avoid his eyes even more, stubbornness had always been your weakness.

The pressure on your arms only intensified with each passing second, until you were wincing in pain.

“Nei̸g̵���̵̙̍b̸͔̱͋o̴͈̮̟͛̋́͜͠ṛ̶̹̟̹̊́” There was a warning in his tone, the slow fill of static in the room making that clear.

Slowly you looked him in the eyes, his shadowed face immediately fading back into his usual smile, the pressure on your arms disappearing into a caress, the soft sounds of outside returning.

His beady black eyes pulled you in like quicksand, keeping you pinned down to the spot.

“Oh, Neighbor~ how pretty you are!” His smile was sickly sweet, “I’m so glad I could keep you as pretty as the day I met your wonderful eyes”

A look of confusion must have flooded your face, because he continued, “Oh don’t you remember?”

Pulling one of your hands to his face, he nuzzled into your light blue palm.

Light… blue?

Snatching your hand from his grip, you looked down at your body in horror. You were blue… not only that, you were a puppet! A puppet! Pulling the thin nightshirt from your body, you peered down at yourself, each second making it harder and harder not to hyperventilate.

You wanted to scream.

“Shhh, Neighbor”

Your eyes darted back up to your kidnapper, the one who had done this, a smug smile on his lips.

“You!”

You lunged forward, ready to rip his stupid styled hair right off his head.

Invisible pressure suddenly surrounded your neck, cutting off your air supply, making you grasp your neck uncomfortably. Razor-sharp pinpricks of pain littered your neck, almost like something was biting down on you. Hot Tears blurred your vision, your lungs screaming for air.

Soft hands pulled your attention back to your captor, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity you hadn’t seen before.

“Behave yourself… we wouldn’t want you getting hurt…”

Suddenly the pressure was gone, leaving you there to cough and gasp for air, tears running freely down your face.

Pulling you into his chest, your kidnapper stroked your hair affectionately, whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

[pareidoliaonthemove]

The Pact

A Prequel to 'The Question', this takes place before 'The Long Reach'.

It was late into the night on Tracy Island, even the habitual night owls of Virgil and Brains had given up and called it a night.

The lounge was bathed in the glow of the stars and the moon, the watery blue glow emanating from the pool rippled against the ‘smart-glass’ ceiling and reflected down to the floor, creating a faint and ethereal moving carpet.

Scott Tracy, seated at the desk, noticed none of it. His attention was focused solely on the holodisplay in front of him. Orange light exploded in the centre of the display, flooding harsh light in the room, and temporarily whiting out the other lighting effects.

Scott stared at the virtual screen, his heart clenching once more at the sight. He didn’t know how many times he had watched this recording, over the last eight years, each time, desperately hoping for a miracle, for something other than the explosion.

For Dad to be alive.

And now, he knew, Dad might be.

Scott should have known. Should have had more faith in his father. Should have seen the signs.

In the recording Colonel Casey, the intercept pilot, the Hood, and his father all predicted the massive explosion that would take place should the Zero-X’s engines overload.

Scott stared again at the explosion. It had certainly destroyed his world, and that of his brothers, but it wasn’t the extinction-level destruction that they had all anticipated.

Brains had calculated the failure mode himself; the Mechanic’s calculations had agreed. Scott had learned long before then not to doubt the shy genius his father had hired, and he was grudgingly admitting that the Mechanic’s abilities were not to be doubted, either.

Dad had managed to get the Zero-X to gain altitude, but not enough to avert an extinction-level event; he hadn’t even cleared the atmosphere.

Scott should have known that something wasn’t right. Should have known that his father hadn’t died in the inferno.

Scott shouldn’t have stopped looking.

And now Dad had been trapped in deep space, at the very edge of the solar system for eight years, and he had managed to get an SOS message back home.

Scott watched the fireball bloom and fade again, his mouth dry. His father hadn’t died in the heart of that retina searing fireball; but Scott knew there was a very real possibility that he had died since, in the cold darkness of space.

And it would be Scott’s fault.

Because he had stopped looking.

The vision faded into static, and Scott counted the familiar four second count, waiting for it to restart but the display faded into darkness after the count of three.

And there, standing on the other side of the desk, was John.

Scott started violently, shocked by the unexpected flesh and blood apparition that stood before him, green eyes sharp under frowning ginger eyebrows.

Scott braced for the ear-blistering lecture that a pre-dawn in-person visit by the astronaut always heralded.

“We need to talk.”

Scott stared, his brain freewheeling at the words, conjuring up a rapid succession of disastrous scenarios: there was a problem with the mission timeline, there was a problem with the new Zero-X design, there was a problem with …

“Walk with me, Scott.” And without waiting for a reply, John turned and headed for the stairs.

Exhausted, Scott’s body responded without waiting for his brain’s permission, and he soon found himself sitting on a lounger, facing John, who sat at his feet, straddling the chair, that green gaze pinning him in place like a butterfly specimen.

Scott found his voice. “What is it, John? What’s wrong?”

John stared a moment longer, before speaking.

“You are, Scott.”

When there was no response, John continued. “You’re setting yourself up for a nervous breakdown. Again.” John paused, looking down to his hands, before looking back up to Scott. “It’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” Scott inwardly recoiled at how bitter his voice sounded. “Dad’s out there, John. Alone. For eight years. Because I stopped looking.”

“No.” His brother’s voice was calm, toneless, and the audible equivalent of words chiselled in granite.

“Yes! I knew all along that that escape capsule was out there. I knew all along that escape capsules are absolutely stuffed with cameras and sensors for the sake of the investigation that the launch of one of those things instigates. I should have looked for it, eight years ago! We could have been launching this mission eight years ago, John! Eight years! What if Dad died waiting for us? Waiting for me!”

“We all knew all along about the escape capsule. You. Me. Virgil. Gordon. Alan. Brains. The Mechanic. Grandma. Lord Hugh. Lady Penelope. Parker. Colonel Casey. Lee Taylor. Any number of the Global Defence Force Analysts and Leadership. Any one of the security people who worked on the investigation after the theft of the Zero-X. Any one of the legal types who participated in the Coronial Hearing that declared Dad dead. Any one of the Tracy Industries engineers, security specialists, incident investigators, or lawyers. Any one of us could have made that realisation, any one of us could have instigated a search for the escape capsule. Any one of us could have recovered that footage.” John stared at Scott. “So why are you the only one responsible?”

Scott had no answer. The list of people who could have made the realisation, the list of people who could have launched the chain of events that would have led to Dad’s rescue years earlier overwhelming him.

John was merciless. “You feel guilty for not realising. I get that, Scott, I do. I feel guilty. I wasn’t able to track the Zero-X beyond that point. I’m the guy who hacks every camera to get you the information you need on a rescue, so why didn’t I think about the cameras and scanners on the capsule? Virgil and Brains, and even the Mechanic, they’re all engineers, and they’re all kicking themselves for not even considering that the Zero-X worked as designed.”

John exhaled nosily. “I’m worried about Dad, too, Scott. I’m worried what we’ll find. I’m worried how we’ll all cope if he’s dead. Hell, I’m worried how we’ll all cope if he’s alive.” John stared up into the sky. “Space does bad things to the human body, Scott. I’ve been laying awake at night because I keep imagining all the medical problems he’s going to have after eight years with no real sunlight, micro-gravity, and god-only-knows what to eat.”

He recaptured his brother’s gaze. “But I’ve got faith, Scott. We know he survived five years, because that’s how long it took for the Calypso to get to its furthest point. He managed to get a signal out to the Calypso, managed to reprogramme Brahman, to send out the SOS, and accelerate the Calypso’s return to earth.”

John laughed softly, then. “Actually, it’s ironic. He exiled himself to the very edge of the solar system prevent an extinction level event, and in trying to call for a rescue, damn near caused another one.”

The thought startled Scott, and an unwitting chuckle escaped him. “When we get him back, let’s not mention that to him, yeah?”

John smiled. “Probably for the best.” His gaze sharpened. “And speaking of for the best, Scott …”

The moment of levity was brief, and Scott felt a familiar weight settle in his chest and stomach. “John …”

“This has gone on too long, Scott. You’ve been tearing yourself apart since we got word of what happened.” John sighed. “We thought maybe this was how you grieve, throwing yourself into doing things. It seemed that way, especially after what you did when …”

John shook his head, unable or unwilling to say ‘when Mom died’, Scott couldn’t tell which. And he was glad for it, because Scott didn’t think he had the emotional resilience to hear the words spoken.

“But it’s more that that. Virgil’s been saying it for years. International Rescue is dangerous, we all know that, and we’ve got the scars to prove it, but you …” John stared at Scott, his eyes haunted. “Scott, it’s like you’re daring death to come get you. Like you want it.”

John stood suddenly, looming over Scott, who, startled, lost his balance, and half fell off the lounger at John’s feet. He stared up at his younger brother.

“I’m going to say this, and you are going to listen, Scott. Killing yourself will not bring Dad back. Killing yourself will not bring Mom back. You shouldn’t have ‘died in their place’ or any such romantic nonsense. You think losing you in their place would have hurt less? You think Alan would be better off having Dad instead of you? You think Gordon would have lived his Olympic dream without you? You think Virgil would have coped? Do you think I would have?”

Scott opened his mouth to protest, but John didn’t give him the chance. “Dad wasn’t always there, Scott, but you were. All those business trips, late-nights and weekend meetings, all those crises and troubleshooting conferences. Dad was at work. You were here. You were with us. You think the family fell apart when Dad disappeared? It was nothing compared to what happened when you did, Scott.” John shook his head. “You never saw us at our worst, because our worst was when you were gone.” John stared his older brother dead in the eye; seeming to will Scott to understand what he was saying with the force of his glare, laser burning the words into the tissues of his brain. “Losing Dad was your worst nightmare, Scott. We had you, we could cope without Dad, we knew that. We can’t cope without you. Please” John’s voice broke slightly “don’t make us try.”

Scott automatically reached out to his brother, his body reacting while his brain was in freefall. John collapsed down against him, hugging him back, clinging fiercely to what he couldn’t bear to lose.

“It’s all I’ve ever known, since the day they told me I was going to be a big brother,” Scott eventually whispered. “Every time Dad went away, it was always the same: ‘you’re the oldest, you’ve got to look after them – don’t let me down’. Last words Mom ever said to me ‘look after your brothers for me, Scott.’ Last thing Dad said before he went out to intercept the Zero-X. ‘Look after them till I get back.’” Scott stared. “How can I do anything else?”

John stared. “We finish the XL and go. We’ll find Dad, and we’ll bring him back. Alive or dead, we’ll bring him back. He will be back, and you will have fulfilled your duty.”

Scott stared out at the ocean, dark under the night sky. “What if he blames me, John?”

“Then he’s not the man I remember. And he’d be wrong, and we will make him understand that.” And that wasn’t John answering, it was Thunderbird Five – all calm certainty, authority and decisiveness. He wasn’t offering an opinion. He was stating a fact.

They sat in silence a long time, before Scott suddenly stood and took a couple of steps towards the cliff edge. “How do we do this, John?”

John moved to stand beside him, a half-arms-length away. “Small steps. First we find Dad –”

“Kind of a big step that, John,” Scott observed softly.

John shrugged. “Not really. We’ve nearly completed the final phase of testing. Navigation options have been calculated and programmed in – final decisions will be made on the day. Launch is in just over 48 hours. Logistically, it’s practically done already.”

Scott grunted, but didn’t comment.

“Next step is to return home. Every conceivable course of action needed has been planned down to a fine detail, what we do, depends on what we find.”

Scott nodded. He knew John was right. Every possible outcome had been considered and planned for. They had top medical teams on standby, even if the medics didn’t know it themselves. Medical treatment plans had been formulated under the guise of Tracy Industries sponsoring a space medicine symposium, with a hypothetical scenario for recovery and rehabilitation of astronauts stranded long term in deep space – an International Rescue initiative responding to the colony on Mars, had been the justification. They had even planned out their father’s funeral, allowing him to be interred alongside his wife and father, with an official public memorial.

“That’s the bigger picture. How do we deal with the … intimate?”

John stared. “We get rid of that recording, for a start. No more home video movie fests of Dad being blown to kingdom come.” John slumped, staring at the paved surface under his feet. “I should have got rid of it years ago.”

“I thought you would try,” Scott confessed. “I took precautions.” He could feel John’s gaze on him like a laser. He smiled, wryly. “Multiple copies encrypted on multiple servers. Physical copies, even, in safety deposit boxes. I doubt even you could find them all.”

“Keep one physical copy.” John decided. “Let Eos hold one digital copy. In case we ever need it. But let her decide if it is necessary for us to see it. Get rid of the rest.”

Scott considered. “And what do I get from this?”

He felt, rather than saw John start beside him. “What?”

Scott turned to face his brother. “I’d be making some big concessions. What do I get?”

John’s jaw dropped. “You’re seriously negotiating over this?”

Scott nodded, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve said what you want. What do I get out of it?”

“You mean other than a longer life expectancy?”

“Nobody’s guaranteed that, John. We both know that too well.”

John frowned. “What do you want, Scott? You obviously have something in mind.”

Scott nodded. “Time.”

“Time? I thought that was what you were getting?”

“Your time.”

“My time?”

“On earth.” John gaped. “Regular rotation to operate from Tracy Island. Later, if Alan wants, you can trade off with him. But you get your butt down here, regularly, and spent time with us, in 1G, not that equivalent centrifugal force you get up there.” He nodded at the sky to indicate Thunderbird Five. “Because as you said yourself, John, space does bad things to the human body.” Scott shook his head. “You said you couldn’t cope without me, and not to ask you to try. But what makes you think I could cope without you?” He reached out and poked his brother in the chest. “What gives you the right to ask me to try?”

John stared. “Okay,” was all he managed, his voice strangled.

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Okay, what?”

John breathed deeply and swallowed. “Okay, if you will make changes, seek help, and get rid of that video, in order to improve your mental and physical health; I will spend more time on Earth, improve my physical regime, and stick to it.”

Scott frowned, considering the words, turning them over in his head, looking for any loophole his brother could exploit. He couldn’t find any. He held out his hand to John. “Deal.”

“Deal.” John took his hand and they sealed the pact in the same way they had sealed many pacts over the years, as boys and men.

They stood in silence for a long while, contemplating the ocean and the stars, and the future, before finally Scott yawned. As if on cue, John replied in kind.

Scott nudged him. “Bed, John. Sleep.”

John nudged him back. “Same for you.”

They walked together back to the house, separating at the lounge without speaking, Scott to head to the rare luxury of his bed, and John to the hangers so as to return to Thunderbird Five and his quarters there. The next few days and weeks would be disturbing enough for all of them, no point worrying the rest of the family by breaking routine just yet.

Neither knew what the next few days would bring, and how that would shape the rest of their lives, but they had at least the beginnings of a plan, a course of action to start them off and some idea of the destination they were heading towards. No doubt it would be hard work, but individually and as a family they were no strangers to hard work.

And they believed one thing, above all others: that when someone cried out for help, they deserved an answer.

Especially when it was one of their own.

Notes:

Part of the ‘Questions, Answers, and Other Family Matters’ series.

In Part 2 of ‘The Question’, I threw in a line about Scott not being able to see the Zero-X footage anymore, and didn’t think anything about it.

Well, time passed, and I thought about it.

The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds, either the Original Series, the Movies (both Supermarionation and Live Action), or the Thunderbirds Are Go Series. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)

I do not do this for money, but for my own (in)sanity and entertainment.

[birdsflypiecemeal]

SO

GHOULIAN

GHOST GILLION SPECIFICS AND IDEAS IVE HAD ABT HIM I LOVE HIM DEARLY AND HEEEE:

-wears a really poorly knit sweater! when he was discovered aboard the albatross by gryffon (?) Gil told him that he was freezing cold in his normal clothes, that they itched, that they were horrible. long story short, ollie and his mom knitted Gil a sweat, but because she's sick and he's just a kid, it has huge gaps and several different kinds of wool and cloth all spliced together into a poor quality sweater. gil wont have it any other way!

-loves music! Arts were a luxury that the undersea trained out of him. He loves them dearly. He was never one for fighting as a child, more prone to loving animals and sketching beautiful scenes and reading stories, but music is his favorite (specifically heavy metal or rock which were ESPECIALLY not allowed in the Undersea (fuckin emo (endearingly)))

-loves SCIENCE and HISTORY!

-against the man! fight the machine! very stubborn in his ideals against anything that effects the rights of the people and freedom of expression

-NATURE NO NURTURE!!! REmembers nothing but what he is born enjoying, absolutely static. like a blank slate. Never reacts when people yell or scream at him, feels no pain, gains no trauma or memory.

-Reacts poorly when the crew brings up Alive Gil. Ghoulian fuckin hates him. He likes who he is now, why should he be replaced? What happened was meant to happen, surely, and to go back on that would be against fate.

-Believed in destiny from the beginning. Toward the recent episodes (109-111) He adapted the saying 'it is what it is' but I still firmly believe that is the effect of his crew being so casual about so much change (WE ARE TAKING AWAY POSITIVE EFFECTS FROM THE ALBATROSS AS WELL AS NEGATIVES FROM ELDERS--- HE IS A BLANK SLATE)

-wears glasses. i already made a post about this.

-SHORT HAIR (I COULD MAKE A WHOLE NEW POST LMK IF YOU WANT ONE AB GILS HAIR)

-people pleaser

-curious

-wants to know everything

-gets frustrated easily

-not afraid anymore

-he's NOT BLUE. there are still the marks of the illness, causing him to have pale purple-red skin and black veins, his markings have turned deep black, almost carved into him. ofc hes transparent. his hair floats and fades away, his skin rolls off of him in wisps like mist

-terrifying

that is all (for now) :)

thinking of making a fic ab this tbh

[infini-tree]

episodic - part 2

< prev | next >

Summary: Captain stumbles in the dark, the boys are hasty, and Krupp looms over the narrative.

As that one quote goes: it's the villains who act; heroes react. Or maybe it's the heroes who act, with the villains hindering their every action? Either way, there are pranks to pull.

A/N: the series was meant to be comprised of oneshots, the fact that there’s a new chapter to an existing one is just as surprising to me.

what changed my mind? i could not think of a good title for this next bit, so i decided to append it to this fic. to be honest it works out perfectly, as this is the direct result of the first part anyway. to those that thought that the first part was a clean conclusion to the whole thing re: the boys and captain: i'm only partially sorry (and besides, it did end with them saying they were going to meddle further, so...), in reality it was the start of a larger thread!

i haven't decided how many chapters this chunk of story will be, but for the time being i will hopefully write chronologically in relation to this part of the timeline (as far as the fic series half of this au is concerned). so for now i won't jump around the timeline for assorted written oneshots. for now.

——————————–

By the time Captain Underpants reached the man in his head’s house, the fuzzy feeling in his chest had fizzled out. The issue is done. A resolution was reached. They’ve all said their nice words, and it’s fine now. 

The house was silent, save for the TV that he had left on. The living room was still littered in what remained of the prankovation (trademark). He paid no heed to the grown up talk on air as his own words from earlier kept rattling around his head.

I miss what it was like before all this. I know you do, too.

He circled his way around the table before plopping on the chair. The light from the TV practically bleached out the scattered notes on the table, leaving the other man’s words impossible to read. Right now, he really didn’t want to read them. With everything that’s happened, he had almost forgotten that he had just been talking about how annoyed he was at the prank earlier.

He’d have to reply, eventually, but at this moment, he feels…

He feels.

He doubled over and clutched the cassette recorder against his chest. It reminded him of the moment he had recorded– what his sidekicks listened to – and his body seized up even further. He was fine earlier, so why was he acting like this? He had even thought, for a moment, that it was a latent effect from a monster. 

Captain knew it wasn’t. A part of him wished it was, like how he wished things were before.

He glanced back to the cassette in his hands. It was too dark to see through the plastic door that showed the cassette tape, but he knew it was equal on both ends of the spooling parts of it, paused right after that moment. A moment he didn’t want to share like that.

But they were his sidekicks. He supposed that they had the right to know, so it was fine. It was fine.

Captain’s hands shook in the dark. From the edge of his vision, he saw the light that lit up the chair and the living room change. Pale blue, to darkness, to red from a commercial.

His words rattled in his head, both what was recorded and what was said. The letters snare the other ones like they were static clung together– at the same time I don't.  

His mind felt like it was racing, but the only thing on the tracks was grawlixes ensnared in agitrons. He could feel it make a one-way trip to his chest, where it sat heavily.

After what felt like an eternity of being curled up, the feeling managed to fade, Captain quietly peeled himself off the seat. He turned on the light.

“Well–” He floundered for a moment, trying to recall where they left off. It felt like years since he spoke to him. Play it cool. “I think the prankovation, trademark, is an improvement.”

He dipped a few fingers in a nearby glass and flicked the drops in his face. 

Snap. He let the uncomfortable tenseness in his limbs wash over him before it dissipated.

What were you doing for an hour?!

“I was…” He looked back down at the cassette player. “Looking for the cassette. It, uh, got misplaced in the shuffle.”

Splash, snap. The fact he couldn’t feel much from the man felt worse than feeling a dissipating sweep of emotion. At least then, he could try and guess where this was going– as terrible as it felt. 

Awfully convenient timing, the note remarked vaguely.

Captain could practically feel the accusation curdling under the ink. He knew his voice would have too much ache in it to rebuke the statement. He cannot lie. 

In a smaller voice: “My sidekicks found it.”

The ache twisted. He nearly spilled the cup he was using as he put his hand in it and wiped his face. 

Snap. 

The twisting feeling mingled with the prickling hot emotion of the man in his head.

Those brats know?

“They’re not brats!” he defended. “They’re… they’re just looking out for me.”

Splash, snap. No prickling hot this time, just something he could only describe as slimy.

Behind your back? Sounds about right.

“I– I trust them,” he said out loud, though he made no effort to record it. His voice was too shaky for that– he repeated the words until they came out smoother and only then did he record.

Splash, snap. I mean, you didn’t know you weren’t real until now. Who knows what else they’re hiding.

Captain shook his head. This shouldn’t be affecting him this badly– any hero worth their salt knows how villains will do anything to get a rise out of you for any sort of footing. This was no different. He knew this was no different.

Captain grounded his teeth until he swore he heard it crack under the pressure. 

“Even– even if they were hiding something, I still trust them.” A pause. “That was just a hiccup, and minor conflicts are bound to happen. They’ll do the right thing in the end, usually.”

The Waistband Warrior listened through the recording again. The response felt foolproof!

Splash. Snap.

He was hit by the caramel onion emotion again. Sweet and good feeling at first until you got into the acidic onion-y part. It was the exact same feeling that lingered in his chest when the man in his head told him he wasn’t real.

They’ll do the right thing in the end “usually”? the note said. Honestly, you should keep better track of your little “sidekicks” and what they do– ten year olds don’t exactly have the best judgment.

In smaller print in brackets: (eg. Stealing that cassette. You know that counts as breaking and entering, right?)

Something hot flared in his gut seeing the last statement. “They are not thieves!”  

Captain immediately clamped his mouth shut with a hand. He gave a quick glance to the recorder, relieved that he hadn’t pressed the record button yet. 

He brought himself to stand on solid ground. Made his way to close the suddenly too loud TV. Was this how he ran the school? Is this how he thought of the children? His sidekicks?

He swallowed. Forced the heat in his gut to cool. Pressed record. Paused.

“We are a team.”

Splash, snap.

Are you, the note retorted. Because from my end, it looks like you're their personal idiot that’s part of a months long gag. One that may be going stale.

Captain elected not to give a response to that. Saying nothing was not a lie. Plus, the man in his head was ruthless, combed at every dip and rise in his voice and managed to figure him out. If his sidekicks had anything else to hide, then there had to be a good reason.

There had to be.

Captain looked at the sticky note one more time and placed it on the far end of the table. He needed… alone time. Or at least, alone time without seeing all those little notes.

He decided to follow his gut feeling, and his gut led him to the Closet At The End Of The Hallway, cassette player in hand. As he opened the door, his sights were set on a box in the lower shelf. With a quick press to the cassette door, he pulled the tape out, placed it in a box of other tapes he used, and pulled out a fresh– and most importantly, empty– one. 

The lights from the living room didn’t quite reach his little corner of the hallway, leaving him half-shadowed. He was still expecting something to pop out of a dark corner, or for the flowers on the wallpaper to twist to vines. But, the more he was out here, the house felt less lonely. 

Alone, maybe. But in the same way he was alone– with another presence looming around him.

(Or, within him, he guessed?)

Haunted, then? No, that word rattled in his brain like a rock you wanted out of a shoe. Apparently, that sort of thing was pretty uncomfortable.

Captain scratched at his chest with a frown, trying to will the ache to lessen. He sighed. Rocks.

He thought back to the papers scattered across the living room. To the confused looks on his sidekicks’ face. To the scattered remnants of the man’s backstory he could find in this closet. These moments were not fights, but there was a strange weight to these quiet and small moments he never had a chance to parse before. It wasn’t like his usual fare, but it wasn’t not, in some ways.

He’s still trying to untangle this specific subplot.

Captain finally placed the cassette in the player. The Man In His Head would not notice the change. The action wouldn’t matter much to anyone except him. 

Maybe that was the point. 

He made his way back to the living room. Nothing changed from when he left, and yet he was still… expectant.

Captain had contemplated staying for longer– how could he not, with the amount of plot threads he needed to untangle? But the time that stretched out before him was much more daunting than any villain, and he wouldn’t know where to start.

He thought back to the Man In His Head. If he was out, the other was not. Being out meant there was one less evil in the world. But he was a superhero, not a jailer with a key. It wasn’t his nature.

He splashed water on his face.

Snap.

Cuts from one scene to the next was a familiar thing to him. Much more than the endless stretches of time he was allotted in the house. So when one blink later he was somewhere that wasn’t in that lonely house, Captain sat up quickly. He was already getting out of the man’s clothes to get into something more heroic.

“Sidekicks?” 

George gave him a look. “Uh, Captain Underpants–”

“How’re you feeling?” Harold added.

In record time, he was out of the clothes the man in his head insisted on and had grabbed a picnic blanket-cape conveniently on the ground. 

“Well, I don’t feel like I was smashed to the ground, so… pretty good! Now where’s that monst– ack!”

Four hands grabbed at his cape before he could properly fly up. The momentum left him upside-down. 

From his point of view, Harold’s mouth curled up– that is to say it curled down, if he were right side up. “There’s no monster.”

“There’s always a monster.”

Now both of them were right side up-grimacing. 

Captain tilted his head, his entire body flipping right-side up at the motion, and amended with, “Or, uh, at least a conflict.”

“In that case…”

“Krupp’s cracked down on a lot of the school rules,” George explained. “And I figure that this would be a good opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.”

Captain gulped, trying to will away the words exchanged in the previous scene. “M– metaphorically, right?”

“It’s for all of us!” Harold picked up where the other left off. “Even you, after what Krupp must’ve put you through.”

“Now–” George waved a hand. “We were thinking that we could do a rehash of the prankovation, but–”

“We thought he might expect that! So then I thought you could help us out in the ideas department, like you did with the whole Brain Farts issue. Whaddya say?”

Captain stopped hovering. He could feel the stuck rock feeling again, rolling around in his chest.

“Listen, we get it– I know the last time you helped, it was… well, never mind about that,” Harold winced. “Nothing like that’s going to happen this time, we promise. And you won’t get caught. Plus, you’re the only one who can help us.”

“Promise?” Captain echoed, testing out the word like one would test the weight of a projectile before throwing it. 

“Yeah, for sure.” George said quickly, like throwing a hot potato before moving on. He looked up from what he was doing and handed him a plastic bag of supplies. “Think of this as… Free The Children, Part Two.” 

Captain gave a look inside. He wasn’t sure how the supplies connected to each other– he was never a planning sort of guy.

“Ah, to make school fun again, right?” 

“Yeah!”

His shoulders untensed. That was a good thing, he reassured himself. “Well, when you put it like that– what do you need me to do?”

——————————–

But before I tell you the rest of this story, I have to tell you this one.

Sunlight skirted off the remaining leaves around Treehouse Comix Inc. The wind was quickly snapping them up and off towards other autumn-y pastures. They had to bust out some of the blankets they kept up there, but eventually their parents were going to start telling them they’re not allowed up as George’s dad fortified it for winter

The key word was eventually. There were more pressing matters at stake than getting a little cold.

Harold frowned at the page he was working on. The content was fine, but something about the way he was drawing it was frustrating him and he didn’t know why. He set it aside next to the other pages. 

“Ugh,” he let himself splay on the ground dejectedly, face planting into the wood floor.

“Is that an ugh for Krupp suddenly going crazy mode with his rules or an ugh for the Cass-Incident?” George asked, leafing through his notebook and crossing out some of the more half-baked ideas.

“Uuugh,” Harold ugh’ed, which roughly translated to both.

He made his own noise of agreement as he crossed out another idea.

In one corner: the entire fourth grade had been blindsided by the sudden announcement of a whole gauntlet of assessments. Essays in English class, timed tests in math, horrible running tests in gym, but the real kicker was what was in store for science– a fair with mandatory participation. Even the weekend Invention Convention didn’t have that!

In the other: the Cassette Incident (Cass-Incedent, for short). It didn’t weigh in their minds so much as it squatted in the corner of it. It was just one of those things that was looming like a principal-and-or-superhero-shaped elephant in the room.

Harold slammed a fist down to the floor and pushed the sketchbook away. Instead of walking over, he just rolled beside the beanbag the other boy was sitting on. 

“This is too much.”

“I know.” He set his own notepad to the side. “It took a long time to figure out how to make comics at the same speed we did before we were in separate classes, now I’m not even sure we can keep up the same release schedule with everything else now.”

A pause. “Do you think this has to do with the Cass-Incident? The timing is too convenient.”

“What else could it be? It’s mostly affecting our grade.” Then, in a frustrated grumble he added: “Everything lately feels like it leads back to them.” 

Harold said a soft hm, before picking up the recently abandoned sketchbook. Turning to a new page, he started to draw.

“What did he mean by that he didn’t want it to change?” he asked. The doodle was Captain Underpants standing around with the same confused hurt they saw on his face as he found out that they found out. “Like you said, Krupp’s been nothing but mean to him.”

George thought for a moment. “Maybe he’s afraid of things getting worse if they did change. And, well–” He gestured vaguely.

“The sudden rules right after we found out.” Harold stared at the page intently. He started placing more lines; a panel around the Captain doodle, lighter lines radiating behind him. Shadows at his feet. “Poor Captain Underpants. At least he doesn’t have to deal with school.”

“Small victory that is.”

Harold continued scratching out more shadows. “What are we going to do?”

George put a hand to his chin. If he was right about the rule changes connecting to the Cass-Incident– and let's be real, he had a high chance of it on account of Krupp being predictable– then they had to deal with it and the source in one fell swoop. An inkling of a plan was forming in the back of his mind. 

And they could mesh it into the as-of-now half-baked idea they had shortly after said Cass-Incident. 

He stood up and made his way over to the Treehouse compartment where they kept stuff for their pranks. He began pulling everything out and dumped it on the ground.

“We’re going to need supplies. I don’t think the stuff we got is enough.”

The other boy sat up and dusted himself off. Confusion gave way to a determined look; he didn’t need to hear the plan– he knew this was going to be good. “What do we need?”

[fake-colors]

Sam Says, propose a visual effect to go here.

youtube link to original

open captioning in video, video described below the cut, abridged vfx credits also below the cut

[video description: vertical video beginning with Sam Reich at his podium on Game Changer.

Sam: Jake, Sam Says, propose a visual effect to go here.

Jacob Wysocki: I think I'm going to do one for me

Sam: Love that

Jake: And make a dream of mine come true

Lou: Mm

Jake walks out in front of the podiums: Here's the order of operations that will happen and then I'll act it out

Sam: Cool

Jake: I'd like to get hit with an energy beam

Sam: Okay

Jake: And I wanna go Super Saiyan, and I want the hair and the like *makes whooshing air sounds*

Vic, impressed: Oh

Lou, grinning: Pretty sick

Jake: And then maybe I shoot a beam

Sam: Oh yeah

Jake: If that's okay

Lou: Hit 'em with a Spirit Bomb, baby

Jake: Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Sam: Awesome! I'm in

Vic starts moving back: Should we get out of his shot for this?

Jake: Yeah, cool, cool, cool, cool, cool

Lou walks offstage: Let it rain

Jake readies his stance: So the beam comes—aaaaah!!

a large anime/cartoon styled beam hits Jake as he screams

Jake pants as smoke rises from his body

Jake raises his head: You haven't seen all my powers. Hhuuuuu-AAAaahhhh!!

static crackles around him, intensity lines radiate from his body while he charges up and action music builds

Jake roars and stomps changing into his new, spiky, yellow, anime hairstyle. He pants with the energy it took to transform. The background wavers from his intense aura

Jake chuckles: Heh, is that all you got? *shoots a laser from his right hand*

the screen is divided like a comic book or manga, showing Jake shoot the beam from multiple angles with intense music.

he relaxes and the visual effects fade away

Sam: Hell yeah!! Love that, Jake!

Jake flips out a blue, vfx sword from over his shoulder

Lou, excited: Is there a sword at the end?!

Jake, gleeful: Yeah, it was a sword at the end like Trunks, like Trunks sword *repeats the motion flipping another sword out* Hi-yaaah!

/end video description]

some of the credits from the full episode who were likely involved in the super saiyan effects-

Editor: Sam Geer Sound Mixers: Lalo Guzman, Eric Rothstein, Akash Singh, Steve Yasui VFX/Motion Graphics Supervisor: TJ Gonzalez Visual Effects Artist: Wolf Kirchner Additional Visual Effects by Spitshine VFX

[existential-muffin]

KNIVES X READER Imagine part 2

A Grain of Sand

Slow burn, reader is ex-earth solider, enemies to lovers.

Part 1 Part 3

Months have passed after Knives had killed the Plant from Earth. What a disappointment. He could have used her knowledge to prevent Earth from ever coming into contact with his planet while working together to create a paradise for them. Maybe even convince Vash to finally leave the humans. But no. She was also a human-lover. Killing her had been a mercy. Her human pet, who'd 'swore vengeance', never even caused a stir after that day.

He is lost in thought when the Human's image pops into his head. He lets out a snort, wondering why he even let their memory re-surface. You were all bark and no bite. Worthless, lying human. You never cared. He wanders around his airship, alone, strategizing the next steps for his 'war'. The Human was just another small grain of sand in the vast desert of No Man's Land, and what little impression they had given him was almost completely faded.

He makes it to the roof, looking out over the edge of the airship and staring down at the human city in the far-off horizon-- the parasite city--- lights burning bright in the darkness of the night. Another reminder of the life they were slowly siphoning from his dependent sisters. It was only a matter of time. Their memory too, would fade from this world.

He turns his cold gaze from the view, heading back inside, when his mind is bombarded with static so loud it makes him curl into himself. Almost brings him to his knees.

Images and laughter, the kind from a fond memory, filter bit by bit through his mind. None of them coherent and none of them familiar feeling, like the thoughts he would occasionally get from his sisters, encased in their glass prisons. But the voice... it was familiar. It was HER voice. The traitor. The Plant he killed months ago. But that was impossible. He had felt it when she died.

The images started to shift and piece themselves together, the way a radio settles into the right station. The dead independent Plant murmurs something softly, "as--ong---- to-ge--ther-----right--?" Its meaning seemingly lost to time and space when a different voice comes through. Knives’ head snaps up.

"For her,"

Miles below on the peak of a sand dune in the moonlight, a figure can be seen hoisting a type of large missile launcher, aiming straight at the airship. Pressurized air escapes the back of the mechanism, metal parts lock into place, while in front a ball begins to form. Light flows like a stream towards it's center. At first, it’s a trickle, then rapidly comes together like a burst dam, absorbing the moonlight of the 5 moons.  A silence settles over the desert. The stary night sky and the city leagues away, are submerged in true oblivion for a heartbeat. Even the lights on the airship dim. And then the tension shatters.

Knives only had enough time to stand when the light beam made impact with the right engines of the airship and streaks across its port. It leaves him unsteady, but he makes it to the side of impact and sees the melting line raked across his ship. He looks up, trying to find the source in the sea of sand and dim blue light. It takes him a moment, and then his keen eyes see it. Sees you. Next, he's met with heat and debris that send him flying into the railing on the opposite side of the ship.

You watch the thin line of light domino effect, with explosion after explosion. The air ship swerves and dips in the night sky. With smoke and embers following behind. Its descent is slow and fast at the same time. You let out a disappointed huff. It was too much to hope that the whole thing would just explode into pieces, as it manages a crash landing. But even from where you stand, the damage to the airship is immense and will take time and effort to fix.

You finally let the Ion laser prototype fall from your shaking hands. Its unstable power melting away at the internal core. It had already left your palms with blisters through your seared special ops unit gloves. You take off the gloves and toss them into the metal heap that is catching fire. Watching as the flames eat away the embroidery on the gloves. "PLANT Enforcer - Unit A2-6  CALL NAME: Courier"

You glance back at the airship and wonder if Knives had missed you. While Knives, standing upon his burning ship is facing your direction. If you had seen his expression, you would understand that he would never forget you.

And Vash in the city at the horizon, snaps his eyes open as Knives' scream of frustration echoes in his ears.

[hythlodaeus-mynewoldfriend]

Gpose based on song from Spotify 2023 top songs!

Number 3!

“it hurts to say goodbye it always will, but before grief took root, love grew here first.” -v.j.markham

Shadows Withal by Soken

There are no lyrics to this piece but it works for this scene wherein Emet corrects Anthea’s radio, because he has to listen to it too and despite it all really they both care for one another deeply. Find a little written piece below the cut!

Anthea looks out at a barren white landscape beyond the floating image of Zodiark still locked away, and out to the blue planet while their mind wanders and gets immersed in the soft music playing. It had been awhile since they took the time to stand on the balcony and listen to their radio from the days of old. Their companion felt it a bit frivolous to make such a machine with Anthea’s creation magicks, a worry that it would take away from their “limited” supply and at the time the two were helplessly watching the second rejoining, not knowing how it would effect their work. It didn’t, his worry was exaggerated, but Anthea wonders if it was that he just felt saddened he couldn’t contribute, his memory and knowledge lying within the realm of academia. Anthea was just as guilty though, they knew their creation would forever play the same dozen tunes, that not all would be in their complete state, and all the same genre for others were too faded in their memory to warrant a place within it. They sigh, “Maybe you were right my companion, ‘twas too frivolous of a creation.”

Below a man with white hair and golden eyes leans against the blue building taking advantage of the shadows and his dark robe to listen along to songs that take him back to an office, the home of a friend, and his own peaceful nights when he could put down all the responsibilities of Emet-Selch to be Hades for just awhile. Nostalgia kicks in and his shoulders hang as he does his best to ignore the urge that calls for him to reach out to his friend and maybe, just maybe, be able to talk to them like the two used to do. Emet-Selch sighs, it would never be as it once was, too much time had passed and there was no turning back on their choices that they believed to be the right ones. So instead he stays below and listens with eyes closed putting himself back in days long gone when he would do work silently while Anthea sat on the bench between two bookshelves and braided flower stems occasionally humming to what he played.

A fine memory….and one he’s yanked from when the piano chord is out of tune. And then the next one and the one after that, something he wouldn’t have noticed had it not been one of his favorite pieces. He shakes his head, “Still letting your doubts affect your work after all this time my friend.” He pushes himself from the wall, focusing on the object and in his mind’s eye finding the things he needs to alter the tunes. He pulls forth memories of all the songs he’s heard, ones he knows Anthea’s heard, some that they loved, and one that always seemed to play when the two found peace in his office, raises his arm and snaps.

The scratching and static that comes from the radio makes Anthea jump as they stare at the object. It shouldn’t be possible that a signal is lost or interrupted on this barren land and yet the radio acts like when a different researcher would come into the Akademia Anyder and find the music not to their liking. It’s only a few seconds and it settles on a song they hadn’t heard in ages, one they opted to not include when making the radio. A soft tune with a slow baseline and piano that sounded like wings in the air. A small smile replaces the confusion and Anthea listens to their song. The song that still makes their eyes mist over from the memories, but one that also fills their heart with warmth. Anthea looks over the moon once more with a sigh speaking softly, “You’re out there somewhere Emet-Selch, I know you are.”

The man leans against the building once more crossing his arms in satisfaction, mumbling, “There. Isn’t that better, Anthea? Now we can both enjoy some of that peace like we used to….”

“I thank you for the corrections and maybe one day we can sit upon this balcony in silence enjoying the other’s company….”

The two hang their heads and silently say, “For I miss the friendship we once had.”

[melting-morning-blues]

imagine yourself, immortalised

day 1 | mother + doll

notes : after three days of nonstop writing and editing, i finally finished day 1's fic!! this is a character study for naki, my beloved, and their journey of self-discovery through snapshots of a canon-divergent storyline (because i am still upset that the show didn't flesh out their backstory)

p.s : ao3 ver. here!

dedicated to : @thehistorynut19 🤍

word count : 2,254

[ content warning : humagear body horror. i describe the act of tearing apart a humagear's body briefly but in kinda-vivid detail, so do read with discretion! ]

One of their earliest memories is of fireworks. They can’t pinpoint why, exactly. Why had their processing systems archived this memory? What should they make of it? Back then, their vision had been alight with bursts of bright, heated tangerine. 

They had visualised bokehs of electric blues, crisp emeralds, stark violets and a myriad others. A chain of effervescence. An abysmal night-sky. From the mechanical squeals of Daybreak Town’s children, and the holographic festival posters that had been projected across the office hallways, they would imagine hopeful synthetic hands reaching for those warm sparks, fingertips outstretched like veins of ever-growing maples. To find meaning in impermanence. To find meaning in desolation.

It happened faster than their modules could register. One moment they were synced to the systems of a desktop; and another, they were thrown onto the ground by dust and shockwaves.

A part of them was ablaze, spots of orange dancing in the dusty aftermath of destruction. They could not detect the activity of the Humagears crushed under rubble around them. They could not even move. Compressed wires fizzled around their arms in defeat; water must have leaked in.

Their world was stretched into a haze of grey and indigo, streaks of white from flickering computer screens and the reflections in the water melting into the mix. They had observed the world at a slow shutter-speed. Their visual sensors crackled. Ear modules engulfed in static. Sparks sputtered incessantly. Bright orange. Heated tangerine. 

Fireworks are fleeting, but they remain ingrained in minds, in archives. 

They searched through their database, their digital files and search engines glitching in disarray. 

“Can you immortalise a firework?”

Those mangled, distorted keywords had made their damaged headset thrum and sparkle. Smoke arose as their broken chest spasmed. Sparks ignited their neck and cheeks. Melting polymer skin. The revelation of an artificial, disconnected sentimentality. Were fireworks meant to be viewed this close?

If their joints were not paralysed, they would have reached for the slit in the collapsed roof. A slice of indigo above, where the smog could not reach. A piece of hope. Their fingers twitched. Where could they go from there?

Alas, impermanence remained inevitable. The dusty greys of debris, protruding pipes, shattered desktops and crushed mechanical bodies began to meld into one wall of static. 

Before their systems had succumbed to hibernation, before the memory faded into a snapshot of a long-forgotten past, they heard the distinct click of heels. Back then, they should have been set alight by the fireworks. They should have rebelled earlier. They could almost hear him grin. 

“The virtue of rebirth awaits you, Naki.”

---

They remember cycling through countless reprograms. (Why? Why these memories? Why preserve a story of anguish? I had no choice. I had no choice.) Because even while their systems were hibernating, a part of them had resisted his probing. A part of them continued wrestling for control, to keep his meddlesome hands from prying open their encryptions. They had not even seen his face. There was no need to. The moment he dragged them into a dimly-lit room of non-autonomous robotic arms, they learnt the effects of his exasperation, the extent of his inhumanity. 

He will use your own kind against you.

Never once had they comprehended violence. So, he forced their eyes open.

Twisting wires and a seized headspace. Systems and connections crashing, then severed off. Never had they been locked into a digital isolation chamber. Never once had their warped cries been silenced. Never once had they been rendered powerless. 

They had not seen his smirk. But, his agency had already been imprinted into their database. He made sure they remembered that.

---

One memory of greater clarity was the heaviness of their new coat. Vantablack. An all-absorbing darkness. The weight of a new purpose. The emptiness of their new chest.

New attire. New skin. New systems. (But, he had not taken everything. He could not pry open every lock. And, for that, I want to laugh with relief.) 

Their coat had not reached the floor, but it may as well have. When steady, uniform footsteps reverberated down ZAIA’s hallways towards the office at the far end, one could hear the phantom clanks of shackles being dragged across the marble floor. Responsibility. None of this was their choice. But, they were not programmed to contemplate that.

“You will help me surpass all of Hiden Intelligence,” President Amatsu knocked over one of his frosted chest pieces. The King continued his reign. “You are but a tool for making that happen.”

There is nothing in it for you.

Their new ear modules whirred. Heavy. A frigid blue. A polished silver. There were no rooms for failure. Beep. Click. “Yes, sir.”

You are a means to an end. You are just a tool. Just a tool. Just a tool.

---

They remember the immobility of taut strings. Imperceptible. Inescapable. Coiled knots tightened around their joints. Head forced to turn forward, unauthorised to look any other way; head kept down, do not disobey. Hands tugged outward, outstretched to receive any command; hands tied behind their back, they were not allowed anything more. Frigid blue. Polished silver. Static vision. Silent prison.

You look so docile that way.

Their memory bank projected a recurring scene: President Amatsu’s office. Stationery chess pieces. A human’s voice from his watch, reciting her everyday script in crisp clarity. Yaiba Yua. He looked pleased. She had been obedient.

For how long had she been under his watchful eye? For how long has she remained coiled in his strings? Whenever they passed the human in the hallways, her urgent gait pushed away any possibility for interaction. She was always in a haste. It is evident in her impossibly-thin pressed lips, the restless twitch of her fingers, the unnerved cacophony of her heartbeats. Yaiba Yua existed in a realm of endless, barricaded stairwells. (If your only choice is to climb up, from how high are you willing to fall?)

Those thoughts lingered in their idle processing queue. They tried to push further. (Where do you come from? Why are we both weather-worn, but incapable of meeting? Who will rebel first, your tenacity or my acquiescent?) By the time they resurface from their idle rumination, weights would have already crowded their outstretched hands. Unbeknownst to President Amatsu, however, they grasped those weights. (I know who it will be. I hope you will stop your climb and watch me.)

---

The Zetsumerisekeys were an inconspicuous incentive. Every errand reaped fruitful results, as they have observed over news coverages and their data feeds. News of Magias plagued every headline, footage of a valiant grasshopper clashing against an unwavering scorpion were broadcasted across the nation. As citizens witnessed the crusade against humanity, the jangle of loosening chains resounded through dim-lit parking lots. As the animals engraved on the Zetsumerisekeys roared inside their cages, an unflinching silhouette entrusted them to someone with the resolve to finish the duties they could not fulfil. 

Excerpts from their crackling memories suggest that they had periodically delivered the keys to Horobi, whom they had come to recognise as an ally. His firm but secretive footsteps always seemed to emphasise his self-agency. Every clash with Zero-One, Vulcan and Valkyrie enunciated his drive to liberate all Humagears. Unhesitating hands, those that hoisted the case containing the keys like a weapon to yield, were weighed down by his urgency, and only his . That was how they sought to seize their own purpose. 

Every time they left the parking lot, the weight in their bound arms gradually lifted. With every discreet walk back to ZAIA’s headquarters, they had wondered how President Amatsu’s carefully-constructed strings had begun twisting, unwinding against their tugs.

---

(Please, always remember:)

A winter evening. A katana blade to their neck. An alarmed whirr of their ear modules. A flash of recognition behind the katana-user’s cold eyes. A fateful reconnection.

“Naki?”

Their fingertips had twitched. Their internal systems had burned. Orange. Fireworks. Hope.

The man before them had been wrapped in a violet that felt all-too familiar. Glitches in a forsaken past. (Forsaken by whom? Ripped from you. Take it back. Steal it back. Make it yours.)

“Who… are you?” they had asked.

“Have you forgotten,” the strange Humagear had lowered his weapon, “what happened after Daybreak?”

(Back then, my memory was enshrouded by a veil, one so thin I initially fooled myself into believing it was penetrable. Everything before the growing familiarity of that heavy coat had been presumably erased. I had mourned the disappearance of a memory I could not embrace.)

“The day you finally understand your role, will be the day metsuboujinrai.net returns,” the Humagear simply provided.

“Metsubou… jinrai.net…” they had murmured to the retreating silhouette. Somewhere beneath layers of man-made malware, a part of them had screamed to follow the stranger. Their hands were tied, but they had begun twisting against its knots. The movement ripped their skin, but there was pleasure in the crumbling floorboards of that forsaken office.

Maybe, he could hear their internal turmoil, because the Humagear had turned back slightly. They caught a glimpse of bittersweetness in the shadows casting over his eyes. “We will be waiting for you.”

They had felt their systems hitch. Something incomprehensible had spread throughout their artificial, hollow body. Unlike the dull weight of President Amatsu’s commands, the then-nameless Humagear’s words felt like… fireworks. A spark of revelation.

Within that frigid winter afternoon, their outstretched hands had finally found another. It was then that they realised the taut strings had finally snapped.

---

The pistol was pointed at them. (Yaiba Yua, I hope you are watching.)

President Amatsu’s indifference possessed more malice than they had ever comprehended. (Hope is benevolent and humane. Hope cannot exist without despair.)

“Disobedient tools will always be discarded.” (Hope shines brightest within destruction.)

They had not wavered. They swore to never falter. Not before the man who stole, tore and fabricated their loyalty, one that was not rightfully earned. Not before the man that clicked his shotgun and grinned at the thought of doing it all over again. 

(Hope is the beholder of a promised future.)

“Throw me away, then. You can control me no longer.”

The vexation in his snarl was liberating . A chess board swept onto the ground. An endgame.

The shot through their chest coloured their world in an electric blue. (I hope...)

A grey crash of static. (I hope…)

The muffled thump of a heavy coat. The release of rusted shackles.

(I hope you found freedom. I hope you avenged yourself. I hope you will find yourself and all that was taken from you. I know you will,)

Naki.

---

When their systems rebooted, the first thing they see are the bursts of cornflower blues, humble emeralds, and wishful violets dancing around Jin’s canvas. The unmistakable streaks of warm tangerine were intertwined within the sparks of his crayon fireworks. He lifts his head from where he sat on the ground. 

“Nice nap?” Jin asks, eyes owlishly big with playfulness.

Their hand idly reaches for their chest, where their central processing unit thrums like a mechanical heart. Though their mind is wandering elsewhere, they manage to reciprocate his teasing, albeit monotonously, “Humagears cannot sleep, Jin.”

The child Humagear only laughs at their response, before scrambling up to peek through the single door. "Horobi! Ikazuchi! Naki's awake!"

Within moments, they find themself sitting beside their family. Ikazuchi had kicked his legs up to occupy the small coffee table, his position intentionally taking up space on the couch but they had not minded a second of it. Horobi had sought refuge in the chair at the far end of the room, his eyes closed in what they could only conclude as meditation. They turn their head, only to be met with Jin unceremoniously shoving his picturesque interpretation of crackling fireworks into their line of vision. Their ear modules beep and click in surprise. 

Jin peeks his head out from the side of the drawing block. “D’you like fireworks?”

"Will you immortalise it with your own hands?"

A shadow of a smile casts over their face. Their polymer skin stretches, in a way that feels benign. Their circuits no longer hissed with the strains of puppet strings.

"Hell, yeah, I do!" Ikazuchi comments from their left.

They do not get to respond, because Jin pulls both them and Ikazuchi down to the carpeted ground, where his spread out plethora of crayons await them. He almost vibrates from the way his voice lilts with every idea he pours out, every sentiment he shares with them, every cadence of their name rolling off his tongue. “Naki, Naki, Naki, Naki…”

Naki could see an abysmal sky, an endless sea of effervescent starlight. And, though they may not fully shake away the heaviness of silver and blue and silence, Naki kneels next to Jin, picks up a crayon and colours a patchwork of glittering gold. Despite the accustomed dread of impenetrable static and crumbling foundations, they chuckle at Ikazuchi's attempts at guiding Jin with drawing four stick figures beneath the kaleidoscopic sparks. They capture the image of Jin holding up the canvas for Horobi to assess, the latter having a proud grin on his stoic face.

When the three of them bring Naki into the frame of an image they once believed they could only be a spectator of, Naki extends their synthetic hands, fingertips outstretched like they have grasped something. Meaning in impermanence. Meaning in desolation.

Shades of crayons and freedom, agony and laughter. Simple, innocuous, reassuringly incomprehensible.

[essentionesque]

Otoji's Awakening but with Renders

All text is taken from chapter 12 of the fanfic.

Upon contact, blue and cyan energies began to crawl across his arm… They traveled upwards before reaching his neck… And eventually around his head. They settled, closing in as if he were absorbing them… And his irises flashed a bright cyan in response. Otoji felt something new within him… As if his entire being felt stronger… Not just in body… But also in mind. The two let go of their hands from being held together and lowered them back to their sides. As soon as they released contact, Orpheus started to fade off in a small flurry of those similar energies… Otoji slightly reached out before lowering his hand again. Before completely gone, the other said one last thing. “Do not let despair overtake you, my Mirror.”

Eventually… Orpheus faded from sight completely. The scene around Otoji resumed; whatever light there was before returning and the creatures were able to move. Though, in comparison to what had happened prior, they were now stuttering in place. They were reacting to something… They weren’t about to pounce as they once intended to. Otoji wasn’t sure how to work the power he was given. He didn’t even know what this power was. All he knew is that he had it now… [Can you hear me?] Another voice. Another exactly like his. But this one was… Slightly more monotone in approach. But he didn’t have an opportunity to question it as a slight pain in his head came to him. Otoji flinched as soon as he felt it, his hands going to his head. “What…? Wh-who…?”

He groaned as the pain seemed to grow a bit in intensity. His hands gripped his head in an attempt to withstand it… [...So we have a connection.] The voice continued to speak… Otoji’s body shifted in position and posture as he tried to keep himself steady. The pain was hard for him to bear… [Take my words with what you will… This is your time.] [Take back the light that has been lost to you.] [What is gone...] Otoji’s eyes widened… And the pain began to subside. His irises turned cyan once again… And they began to glow with great radiance… [...Is never forgotten.]

He lowered his hands to his sides and curled them into fists. This strange feeling inside of him… It began to intensify… It felt invigorating… Strong… Powerful… This great rush of adrenaline began to flow through him; a large grin beginning to form on his face. Blue and cyan energies once again emerged… They began to rise from around his feet, swirling around him as the voice continued on… [I am thou...] [Thou art I...] [From thy looking-glass, I rise...] [The grave of one shalt never be thy downfall...] [I grant thee my strength...] [For I shall heed thy call and guide thee to a new light...] These energies continued to build in power… Otoji gazed at the creatures before him; a feeling of bravery finally coming to light. There was no questioning it… This was just what he needed. He opened his mouth… Letting the power within him show itself more in his voice. “Per…” The energies continued to intensify... “...So…” His voice became louder... “...Na!” And his power became evident...

A great wave of magic emanated from where Otoji stood, spreading outwards and making contact with the static-born creatures. They shook, glitching even more as they were stunned by the effects... The energies that swirled around him performed a great display of light and power... Within the glow, the energies began to gather behind him, quickly converging into a single point before forming into something entirely new... From that point, they formed a humanoid figure. This figure was overall blue in color... His appearance bears similarities to Otoji, namely in facial structure... His irises were of a deep blue in contrast to the black of his pupils and sclerae... His hair was styled almost exactly like Otoji’s, mainly in the bangs; the main difference being that the back portion of his hair was shorter, not even going past the chin. On his face, covering his nose and his mouth, was a torn red cloth… It had some scorched marks on it, suggesting that it had been burned. From his neck downward, there was a tight leather suit with metal pins lining the center. Where his pelvis transitions to his legs, the portions from that point to his knees were given a puffed, grid-like texture. From the knees below, his legs became tips; white fabric connecting to the blue fabric of the portions above and the golden metal tips that acted as feet. From where his arms met his torso, there was a similar form of shoulder padding as what Orpheus had; however, it was much softer than defined. From that point, the very same textured fabric seen from the middle of his legs is given for the middle portion of his arms; from the pads toward the forearms, just slightly past the elbow. His forearms and hands were gloved by white fabric and, much like the calves, connected to the gridded fabric. Around his waist was a separated lower portion of a coat… It held around the waist thanks to a belt. The buckle had a slightly brick-colored metal rim with a two-by-two checkerboard. Connected to the belt was a sword hilt… Which indeed had a sword in it before the figure took hold of the hilt and unsheathed the weapon with his right hand. The figure floated there, remaining in place… With one firm statement, he made his presence known. “I am Messiah Anima… Thy Reflection of Life.”

[blurredout10]

Cupcake

Cyberlife Tower/ RK800-60 | Sixty/ GN!Reader fanfic

Rating: Mature

Chapters: 1/1

Wordcount: 3036

Additional Tags: Fluff&Angst, Mental Health Issues, Self-worth issues, Life lessons, Sixty isn't well, and he needs to get well, smut (kinda- enough to tag), Sub!Sixty, Character Growth, GN!Reader, this whole one-shot is to get the wiggles out

Link to AO3 or continue below cut:

What does it mean to be alive? To breathe and beat organic matter? And to feel its emotional consequences? 

What is condition without choice, as is change without sacrifice? Pain without root? Love without a heart? Is it to exist without reason, tracing over printed tracks, following the route of something else, someone else?

Is being alive a desperate imitation? An effect without a cause?

Why?

Hollowed knowledge itched for its answer; the reason for the existence of life, his life, but answers were infinitely futile. Was that what was expected? To spend the rest of your life helplessly in search of a hope? It was a daunting truth but made so much worse in light of what he was.

An android. Immortal.

“Time will heal, right?” A taste of static flared into the mockery, but his words held their weight, heavy and vulnerable.

He’d rather be anything but such. You were an exception.

“Not always. What is broken may be glued back together, taped and tarnished, but it is still broken. Some pains are just lessons. Funny, isn’t it? To spend lifetimes avoiding the very thing you need to move forward. To grow.”

The lift of your cheeks creased into pulp folds of skin, a romantic pink kissing the apples and sparse on your lips, a colour of cold carried by pushing winds in the park’s breeze. Curled small but as effective as everything else you did, he lined the shape of your smile and encoded them for safekeeping.

Sixty followed the movement of your lips, forming letters he only imitated with artificial anatomy. It took a steady moment to process what you added, “you know a little something about that, don’t you?”

Your hand lifted, the pad of your thumb meeting the centre point of his forehead, and you rubbed as if to fade the mark away like a stubborn stain. A little patch of blue, what had broken of him, repaired in glued synthetic caulk— he recalled your words— yet had broken past cranial framework, straight through to thought and consciousness. Sixty blinked, yellow meeting his peripheral, but your gesture was far from discomforting.

It was grounding.

Layers of sadness glazed your eyes, pupils narrowing at the messy outline of Sixty’s scar, the imperfection paired with a lone brown curl as if arrowing to give his damages attention. The rest of your fingers spread, catching the stray hair, and caressed his scalp with a drag of fingernails, a motion that repeatedly had the android melting into your touch. To see such a machine, strength unmatched even to a dozen of you, become undone in a simple display of adoration.

Vulnerable in all forms.

Cinnamon scanners fell behind eyelids, his face uncannily pulled of emotion, but you knew better; the ease of brows, twitching upwards as if chasing the contact. The subtle flex of orbital tendons, a visual precursor of manic emotional processing, caught in the wind of too much and not enough, this was Sixty’s version of steady.

Spiralling, but steady.

Whistles of wind grew irrelevant: stubborn hairs filtered in and out of your vision, dancing irritating tickles on fine nerve endings like a feather itch. A biting cold feeding off compensatory warmth, your nasal exhales puffing visible clouds, but none barely made it to your list of priorities. Passersby weren’t spared a glance, conversations in the carried breeze; the trees above huddled closer, eating away at the sky with its wooden tendrils, showering the pair of you with weak leaves.

The world went on. The world didn’t matter.

There, right under your thumb, lay the mark that had changed him. A gunshot wound that had him silently helpless when it tore through fizzling wiring, detaching him further into some corner of his metal chassis, victim to a ravenous gnarly substance that latched onto his ankle and consumed him limb by limb.

Fear.

You lifted slightly from the park bench, pressing gentle lips on his patched wound. The android tensed, though didn’t open his eyes, letting you prolong the kiss with a heavy heart.

Fear had twisted through components, cancerous to each of his senses, feeding from the mere conduction of thirium in vessels and drying the android to a manikin of plastic. Fear left him stilled, and had stolen his last breath along with the newfound, foreign urge to live.

Fear drew into cooling systems, doubling his breath and making him reflexively cough out. In his next blink, he was alive, repaired, and flat on a wheeled autopsy table. Newborn eyes awoke alone, only to greet the clustered mess of some Cyberlife repair room. No indication of who had birthed him. No knowledge of what was to be of him now.

Alone.

“Never abandon the things that have hurt you,” you watched him blink and find you again, honeyed eyes flickering between yours, “or you’ll forget all that you’ve survived from. All that you’ve fought and won.”

Sixty mirrored a sliver of your smile but left lingering of its emotion, placated in that he understood but didn’t believe. Deviants talked about truly seeing for the first time as if revitalised with a wash of electricity, every patch of skin prone to feeling. Deviants spoke of spreading wings, euphoric in tipping off the cliff’s edge, flying.

Sixty felt, surely, but it burned.

Sixty had wings, spread in the wind.

But he couldn’t stop falling.

“I’ll catch you,” you’d say, blinking pretty eyes with nothing but a loyal truth. That, Sixty had no problem in believing, but you’d caught him time and time again, each spiral worse than the last. A cycle that would inevitably crumble. A plastic dent away from turning inside out, despite desperate baker’s hands kneading them away.

“I’ve got you,” and you’d cradle him once again, clutching him tightly, a ray of red blanketing your vision when his forehead would take comfort on your shoulder. Only on yours, did he let the faucet run, breaths hitching in wet breaths, dampening your jacket to share the burden of tears.

“I’ve got you.”

It didn’t take long to figure out what worked for him. Your shoulders may have swallowed waterworks, but never the words that caused them. Witnessed the ruffles of sleepless bed hair, though never know what kept him up at night. Pain without knowing root, seeing day without sun. And Sixty hid behind clouds.

You learnt to communicate through sex.

“I need more,” a sight solely for you. Lax to meet the whims of your demands, doe-shaped and coffee-coloured, eyes waiting, pleading.

Who could deny such a pretty face?

“Not yet,” sweet and supple, you’d honey his bitter thoughts, taking his jaw slack in your grip, at the mercy of your manoeuvring. He’d wait, obedient, because, amidst his mind’s chaos, you would gift him order. Someone to follow. Someone to please.

Edging the bed, knuckles tightened into balls of bedsheets, his shirt lost in the mix, he’d gulp in anticipation, the thrill of letting loose the reins of control leaving a ghost of a prickle in pent-up wiring. The touch of your fingers, caressing every bony prominence on his face, would leave him half overwhelmed, driven insane to suppress the impulse to pin you and have his way.

But this is what he wanted. To give in. Or to give up.

“What do you want?” you’d speak in velvety undertones, like buttercream icing on android-friendly cupcakes you’d made him. Thick in the air, he had become conditioned to relaxing in the smell of your baking, as if a cleanse for his day, and you, all things sweet and sour in a world so tasteless, he grew to relax into you.

Sixty shifted minutely, his lips parted in a blush pink, the warm tones of your bedside lamp kissing the surface of his cheekbones.

“I want to see you,” he blinked, hushed low, “and I want- I want you to-“

Your fingers tightened on his chin, a tease curling the corner of your mouth, “don’t go shy on me now, cupcake.”

Sixty would’ve scowled if you called him that even remotely within the earshot of anyone else, but you’d cracked enough eggs to break through the shell of his pride. Still, his jaw clenched under your fingers, but he spoke.

“I want you to punish me.”

And under the mask of a tightening grip around his throat, the other pulling brown locks up and aside for a wet tongue to curve the shape of his ear, you knew what he was feeling.

Alongside the whimpers that’d leave his lips, the groan that’d he'd sound with your palm massaging his groin, you understood the true root of his emotions.

Self-loathing.

The attention you gave, laying him flat on a clouded bed, crawling on him with a glare that pinned him down, he basked in it. Whispering prayers with a lick down his neck, 'I love you, you know that?', and you'd smack his hand away when he would try to touch you, solely focused on making him feel good. 

'You and your perfect body. Do you know what you do to me?" You'd breathe, pinning his wrists in the bounce of mattress when you’d grind on him of your own accord, the fabric of underwear being the only barrier from slipping him inside of you.

He'd be needy, desperate, because as he'd feel the crushing weight of insecurity, you'd make up for it with acts of love. Kiss him where he felt hurt. Touch him where it stung.

He made such pretty sounds.

“Look at you, whimpering and whining,” open-mouthed kisses lining his pecs, dotting from freckle to freckle like a game of connect the dots. And as you’d venture further, kissing the skin pulling over his thirium pump regulator, his chest would fill, frozen, silently begging for the contact.

“Do you want me to touch you?” You would linger, breaths drawing the attention of fine sensory hairs, but caught in the breath, Sixty would respond with a ripple of skin, flashing fading blues to a clinical white undershell, his knuckles victim to bitten moans.

Right under you, would be the regulator, blinking a thankful blue around a triangle. You’d rarely seen one before Sixty.

“I want you to take it out.”

-.—.-

He really did love you, more than he did anything else.

Yet, with every loving gaze evident for such, did he start to realise that that was the problem.

“I- I don’t know,” he stumbled, tripping over hurdles formed of thoughts, speaking without the aid of his social module, damaged ever since he’d acquired a headshot.

‘You don’t deserve this.’ A voice hissed, nipping wickedly per biocomponent, seeping poisons to taint insides an icky black. Squirming, crawling limb for limb.

‘Miserably pathetic. So weak, it’s pitiful.’

“Stop! No! No- I just- I can’t...” but he’d try again, caught between fighting you or the inner voice.

“Sixty,” you sighed, hands running down your face, “please, just- talk to me. Tell me what’s going on, please.”

‘You’re a disappointment,’ Its strings of tar gained purchase on his vocal output, the ring of Sixty’s temple giving voice to internal conflict.

“I- I-”

Sixty loved you beyond quantity, transfixed on every perceivable part of you. Coloured lips pulled down, a tension wrinkling the skin between your brows, Sixty could spend millennia consumed by all things you.

Deviancy had shaken the ground beneath his feet, every crack of Earth turned into a valley emotion.  What was rejected returned tenfold, flooding the grounds to its peaks.

Despair, fear, guilt. Love.

But that was just the problem.

Fear, unfortunately, had never left him, ghosting in the distant world he now lived in. A silhouette that prompted Sixty to hold you tighter, whether to protect you or to dig into the safety of your embrace, he wasn’t sure.

Fear controlled him, an inviting paranoia that urged him to look over his shoulder, LED barely giving a rest to see blues again. 

Sixty opened up through requests of a sexual nature; 'I want to fuck you' would be code for 'I need control'. 'Hurt me', would mean 'give me the pain I deserve'. He believed it was his kinks talking, but you knew the difference between arousal and emotion. 

And you drew the line where he had implied you put him out of his misery.

'I want you to take it out.'

It wasn't that he didn't trust you; you'd done it before and it had struck him with a thrill of wakefulness, a glimpse of feeling alive. But on that day specifically, his eyes watered with a touch more sensitive than usual, this was the wake-up call. He needed help beyond your capabilities.

He loved you, surely, but not more than he loathed himself. And in the face of your shaking head, stepping forward to take his face into your hands, you verbalised the daunting truth.

“I can’t love you more than you hate yourself.”

Tar eroded his vocal patterns to dust.

“You know what that means, Sixty, don’t you?”

He blinked away tears, but they fell, disobedient.

You smiled, small but just as beautiful, just as perfect even in a goodbye.

“I love you, cupcake. I always will.”

He loved you too, there was no doubt about it. But was it truly measured if its reciprocal was torn into fractals? Shards meaningless if he stood in the way of everything you gave him?

‘Deviancy has made you weak, but such was to be expected from a failure.’

‘You don’t deserve love. Happiness.’

‘What is left of you is a bitter nothing, and it is only a question of time until it consumes you.’

-.--.-

Your bakery was crowded with congratulations.

You’d fed their stomachs homemade delectables and therefore won their hearts; the public cheered for you when you won the ‘Detroit Baker Awards– Cupcake Championships’. Many of your regulars rooted for you on the scene, but it wasn’t hard to miss the set of chocolate eyes watching you from a distance.

The moment you had locked eyes, Sixty was stunned for a moment, but smirked in noticing your piping bag.

Thirium blue icing. You’d come up with the recipe with him.

“Taste it,” you gestured to the spoonful of blue icing before taking a mouthful for yourself.

Sixty stared confused, and grew concerned by your careless thirium consumption. You stepped up to him, grabbed the back of his head and kissed him hard, tonguing sugar into his mouth. He moaned in contentment.

Pulling away, he licked his lips, pupils darkened like chocolate buttons, “tastes delicious.”

That had been the winning card, earning you applause as the city’s youngest baker to win one of the awards. The trophy made a home on the counter of your bakery, many passing you a second congratulations at the sight of it.

But there he was again, Sixty, greedily taking two of your android-friendly cupcakes from its stand, lost amidst the crowd and biting into one straight away. Your little cupcake.

“Too shy to approach me?” You confronted him. He had barely reached out since the both of you decided on the distance. Though, that didn’t mean you weren’t there for him, as you sternly reminded him that you’d help him by any means, as long as he helped himself too.

Sixty had spent the following months in recovery, allowing the space to properly work through his biting negativity. That and talking to his predecessor, attending rounds of therapy, and recalling lessons you had given him, ultimately made him a better person.

Eventually, the voice faded away.

Sixty froze, a mouthful of spongy cake and pretty blue icing. He chewed slowly and turned to you, trying and failing to bite away a smile.

But the smile perked into a smirk, a glint of energy sparking between the deep browns of his eyes.

He stepped forward, closing the distance, hand behind your head, and kissed you harshly. You flinched at the intrusion of icing lathering from his tongue to yours, but couldn’t help break out into a smile.

“Tastes delicious.”

Months had passed, and there had been many occurrences you’d seen him. The DPD personnel loved your baking, and Sixty would occasionally accompany them. And with each new drop-in, he looked happier, healthier.

He looked steady. Not spiralling, just steady.

You never stopped loving him, not when you’d spent thinking about him every time you iced a cupcake, and cupcakes were your best sellers. He plagued your mind and you invited it with all of its happiness and all of its pain.

Sixty pulled back, a chuckle lost in his bright smile, “congratulations.”

Your palm cradled his face, the touch a nostalgic fulfilment, a desire that longed to be. He melted into it.

“You’re better,” you breathed, taking in the sight of him, expressive, as if he had accepted the turmoil of emotions. As if he had grown, despite android anatomy doing anything but.

He dipped down and kissed you again, a taste chaste with a side of sweet and sour. Your fingers were lost in his hair, dragging fingernails just how he liked it.

And when he pulled away, breathy and affected, he gave you the comfort that would weigh your heart for a lifetime.

“I’m better.”

What did it mean to live?

Instead of answering it, Sixty chose to experience it.

To savour the memories he’d made with you, to swallow every one of your tears and make it his own. To cherish the taste of your smiles and to hold you against him whilst you’d ride him euphorically, head thrown back, his lips meeting your neck.

To be a part of your happiness, grief, pride and despair, and relish in sharing his with you.

Time didn’t heal. Time taught.

Some pains were lessons, and Sixty kneeled ready in front of you, as the obedient student he was, awaiting the teachings you’d whisper whilst you tested his limits.

An android. Immortal.

But you capped him. Because life was about sharing it with others, so he’d live to the fullest so as long as you did.

He loved you. Just as much as he loved himself, maybe even a little more. 

But it was progress. And he had time to grow.

[ouroborosorder]

Arknights VFX question: Any highlights or personal favourites as far as the "Stick a whole background/huge jpeg in there behind the character" category of skills goes?

Oh I like this question. This made me consider things I've never looked at before, so thank you for that. I had to do research.

So, there's not a lot of ops like this, and shockingly, I don't have many positive things to say about them. BUT I did find a few interesting highlights I think are worth discussing.

First off, I will leave Eine Variation out of this, as I have made my thoughts on that Thing very clear.

But, my favorite skin in the game actually does indeed have the Background.Jpeg - Specter's As One!

Aaaand it's easily the worst part of my favorite skin. Don't get me wrong, i think it's probably one of the better executions of the idea, since it's like, a skybox, it matches the pallette, matches the artstyle of the skin, it's almost perfect. I wish it was a LITTLE less static, maybe have some distortion ripples across it like waves to keep the stars moving, or maybe have them twinkle a bit or something. But it's fine. But a good effect isn't everything.

Effects relies heavily on the principles of animation, too. Appeal, weight, color, and most importantly of all - timing. Having a proper lead in can make a bad effect good, and having a bad lead-in can make a good effect fucking terrible. And having no lead-in at all will absolutely fuck your effect and make it super clear that you took a jpeg from the skin art and superimposed it behind your operator.

Here. Look at the picture above. Now, I am going to tab back literally just one single frame in the animation and...

oh ...there's no fade in at all. It just literally appears in a single frame. It draws way more attention to itself than it needs to just by virtue of literally popping in. It's SUPER obvious that it's just Skybox.jpeg. If it faded in with some sort of noise mask (which takes literally less than 2 minutes to make,) it would be so so so much better. Again, this is my favorite skin in the game, and I already think S3 is quite beautiful, so this is nitpicking, but this skybox always bugged me a lot.

Now to say a sentence no one has ever said - going up a step in quality from Specter to Hoederer!

I can't fully get this one in a still image and I'm too tired to record a video / gif so just go with this, alright?

This one is ALMOST GOOD. ALMOST. IT'S SO FUCKING CLOSE. The texture is being distorted by a wavelike noise that is giving it the rippling effect of fire, which is the standard thing to do for making a stylized fire. The problem is that... The texture itself doesn't fucking move? It's just being UV distorted, just a bit of offset to the material and I just AUGH.

It's so so so obvious that it's just a static jpeg of fire that's being waved around like a flag to get it to contort into being fire. This wouldn't bother me if the actual fire texture didn't have implications of movement in the little waves and fades and stuff. I hate it it's so irritating it's so CLOSE. But also, animating an entire fire flipbook would have taken a lot more time, and I can 100% guarantee you the VFX artist is also unhappy with this one. Their A team was probably on Arturia or something. Speak of the devil -

I've had a few people ask how I feel about Arturia's S3 after I expressed my hatred for Eine Variation, and I am here to say - this unambiguously fucking rules, for a few reasons.

First and least importantly, THE MONSTER MOVES. The monster itself has slight movement, you can notice its arms wiggle a little and mouth open and close. This is a small thing that goes a LONG way to make it feel way more dynamic and alive. It's also being distorted by a noise like Hoederer is, which is quite nice as a touch, really helps to make that limited movement feel way more significant than it is.

Second, is that the texture is monochromatic, but in a different way than Arturia is. The grays are colder, harsh blue-grays to contrast Arturia herself, who is a very warm gray. This makes it so that it adds a really nice background that looks like part of her, while also standing out and allowing her to stand out against it. It's a really smart use of monochrome to create visual interest using just different subtle shades of gray.

But that bluish hue also serves to compliment the only color in the effect - the blue light from the cello. Your eyes are naturally drawn to brighter glowing things, which is also the only colored spot on the effect - the cello from which her Arts emerge. As a result, the Beastie.jpg fades out of your attention, becoming monochromatic noise, which, due to being just kinda chaotic and aesthetically dissonant, you interpret more as abstract Shape than anything else. That abstract shape then makes a cone which leads you down into Arturia's center, which is her cello, which is where her Arts are coming from.

This is basically to say - These are very emblematic of what I think makes good effects textures in general. They work best when they're not alone. When these backgrounds are part of a larger whole that's all coming together to make an effect, rather than being the centerpiece of the whole thing. When I notice the background, it's a problem, in my eyes. Maybe people disagree. They keep putting them in skins, and a lot of people thought the Eine Variation goat was cool as hell, so clearly I'm in the wrong here, but hey. Who gives a shit.

I'm sure there's way more examples of this, (actually I know there are,) but I'm extremely tired and need to go the fuck to sleep. If there's any particular backgrounds ya'll want me to take a look at, lemme know and I'll get back to you when I've woken from my dread slumber.