#visage :: vince

[tundrafloe]

On Radio One in 2015, Noel offered reassurance to a caller worried about having a pointy face.

Noel: “There’s nothing wrong with having a pointy face. I think one day, people with pointy faces will rule this earth.”

[xrhettmatthews]

Rhett's far too niché Halloween costume.

[lcstinfantasy]

tag drop

[tofeelthecold]

bode donovan tags

[isagamation]

Mai’ Isha; ( My- Isha ; Meaning life.) ( Gods Of The Qiyahmah) MOCK COVER +18 Ps; Super excited to have a story focus, really hope I don’t lose the fire for this one. But have a really good feeling. ~~~~~~~~~~( Summary )~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A killer with a heart of gold, and a mayors son with a devilish view of the world. When they band together to take over the city of Kiak, NewYork. They are left spiraling as, their lives are merely the echoes of their former selves. ~~~~~~~~~~~( Biographies)~~~~~~~~~~~ Mr. X; A renowned hit man at the age of 22, with more confirmed kills than any hit man in the city. But his secret isn’t a cold heart, but a calm cool one. The current reincarnation of Harut. “ One man’s freedom, is another’s demise.” - Laligakuman Harmoonindi Daemon; His real name Vince Sinclair, owner of the night club “ Entropy.” And son of the mayor of New York. But behind his honorable visage, lies a sadistic ecstasy monger….and not only for the drug. The current reincarnation of Marut. “ Pain and suffering are two neutral parties, what differs is only how humans react to them…some fold, others rise….me I prefer to drown in it and snort it in like that good old shit.” - Daemon ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ #graphicartwork#graphicillustration#modernfantasy#graphicnovels#graphicnovelseries#scifibooks#scifiartwork#fantasyillustration#philosophical#controversial#manipulations#mysterybooks#mangastyle#mangastyleart#newseries#newseriesalert#streetstyle#gangwar#darkfantasy#darkfantasyart#darkfantasybooks#occult#occultart#occultbooks#writersofinstagram#gore#spiritual#storytelling#anthropology# https://www.instagram.com/p/CnSile6vPfl/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[news24fr]

Meta, le propriétaire de Facebook, versera 725 millions de dollars (600 millions de livres sterling) aux plaignants dans le cadre d'un recours collectif alléguant des violations de la vie privée liées au scandale de Cambridge Analytica, a déclaré la société dans un dossier judiciaire.Le règlement mettra fin à un différend de longue date sur les révélations selon lesquelles le cabinet de conseil politique avait accédé aux données de dizaines de millions d'utilisateurs de Facebook sans leur consentement et les avait utilisées pour cibler des publicités politiques."Ce règlement historique apportera un soulagement significatif à la classe dans cette affaire de confidentialité complexe et nouvelle", ont déclaré les avocats chargés de l'affaire, Derek Loeser et Lesley Weaver. Ils ont ajouté dans un dossier judiciaire que le règlement "serait le plus grand règlement de recours collectif en matière de confidentialité des données ou de violation de données jamais obtenu aux États-Unis", 10% plus élevé que le deuxième plus important - également accordé contre Facebook, pour avoir inscrit des utilisateurs au soin du visage services de reconnaissance sans leur consentement.Dans un communiqué, un porte-parole de Meta a déclaré: «Nous avons recherché un règlement car il est dans le meilleur intérêt de notre communauté et de nos actionnaires. Au cours des trois dernières années, nous avons réorganisé notre approche de la confidentialité et mis en œuvre un programme complet de confidentialité. Nous sommes impatients de continuer à développer des services que les gens apprécient et auxquels ils font confiance, en mettant la confidentialité au premier plan. » La société n'a pas reconnu d'actes répréhensibles dans le cadre du règlement, qui doit encore être approuvé par un juge.L'affaire tournait autour d'allégations selon lesquelles Facebook aurait enfreint les lois étatiques et fédérales en n'empêchant pas les développeurs d'applications de récolter les données des utilisateurs à grande échelle. Les utilisateurs ont été induits en erreur en leur faisant croire que l'entreprise leur offrait le contrôle de leurs données personnelles, selon le procès, alors qu'en fait "Facebook, malgré ses promesses de restreindre l'accès, a continué à autoriser une liste préférée de développeurs d'applications à accéder aux informations des amis des utilisateurs ”.La défense de Facebook était centrée sur l'affirmation selon laquelle les utilisateurs ne pouvaient pas s'attendre à une confidentialité absolue des informations qu'ils avaient déjà publiées sur le site en sachant qu'elles seraient montrées à leurs amis. En conséquence, selon la société, les utilisateurs n'avaient subi aucun préjudice « tangible ».Cela a été rejeté en 2019 par le juge Vince Chhabria, qui a déclaré : « La requête en rejet de Facebook est jonchée d'hypothèses sur la mesure dans laquelle les utilisateurs des médias sociaux peuvent raisonnablement s'attendre à ce que leurs informations et communications personnelles restent privées. Le point de vue de Facebook est tellement faux."Le partage d'informations avec vos amis sur les réseaux sociaux n'élimine pas catégoriquement votre intérêt pour la confidentialité de ces informations."Inscrivez-vous pour Les affaires aujourd'huiNewsletter quotidienne gratuitePréparez-vous pour la journée de travail - nous vous indiquerons toutes les actualités et analyses commerciales dont vous avez besoin chaque matin

[deathwis-archived]

i lied! another tag dump ( new muses! )

[lazynotbored]

tag dump 3/4 

[corignemarchive]

tag drop. 

[sweetcstfantasy]

new muse tag dump because i’ve finally settled down for the night. I’ll add them to the muse list sometime over the weekend :)

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

Can I request f!reader thigh riding the glader of your choice please?

Yes, a thousand times yes. You know I gotta go with my boy Gally, he has very nice thighs, that one. Hope you enjoy!

NSFW WARNING

~~~~~~~~~~

You and Gally entered your shared hut after a very long day of working on new building plans for the Safe Haven, Vince deciding that they should expand the camp by setting up in a small clearing he found in the woods.

Gally was the obvious choice for designing the plans, he was the best Builder in the Glade after all. You were decent at drawing and had good spatial reasoning that came in handy when it came to building that Gally always took advantage of in the Glade, even when you weren't a Builder.

Planning and mapping out future buildings sounds relatively easy in theory, but you and Gally had to spend all day out in that field taking measurements and testing if the ground would hold up the weight of said buildings. It took a lot of effort, but you managed to get a lot down in one day.

Coming back to your hut, which you could comfortably call home, was the best part of your day, especially now that Gally had moved in with you. And it was a good enough distance away from all the other huts that you didn't have to worry about the rest of the camp hearing your nightly activities with Gally that happened very often.

You sighed as you ungracefully slumped against your wall, stretching out your sore muscles. "Man, I am just not Builder material, and we haven't even started building yet."

"I'm sure you'll get the hang of it." Gally assured, his eyes slowly gazing up and down your form as you continued stretching. "Come here." He instructed softly, waving you over as he sat down in one of your chairs that accompanied the table in the main room of your hut.

You smiled tiredly, taking a seat on his lap and leaning your head on his shoulder. "Today was so exhausting."

Gally nodded, positioning you to straddle his lap. "Yeah, I know. Vince just wants these new buildings built soon." He moved a piece of hair hanging over your forehead, gently rubbing his thumb just above your eyebrow.

You breathed in Gally's scent, just his touch alone making your mind go hazy, your hips barely grinding against his clothed crotch. You weren't really planning the night to go this way, but being so close to him made you forget all about your aching muscles, another part of your body starting to ache just for him.

Gally raised his brow suggestively, his gaze quickly turning dark. "What do you think you're doing, kitten?" You only giggled in reply. "I thought you were tired?" Gally yawned subtly, making you pout slightly, but that only caused him to smirk, deciding to indulge your behavior.

You gasped as Gally forced you to straddle only his right thigh, a new forceful pressure against your core creating a pleasant sensation. You moaned softly as Gally grabbed your hips and pulled you down onto his thigh. "You think you can come like this, baby?" Gally whispered near your ear, his deep voice vibration causing a shiver down your spine.

"I don't know...maybe." You replied, a nervous excitement in your tone.

"Let's find out." Gally smirked, continuing to help you grind your clothed core on his muscular thigh. You quickly took your pants off with a desperate sigh, allowing for more pleasant friction to travel through.

You breathed heavily as Gally kissed and licked your neck, almost definitely creating marks that you'll have to hide later. You moaned sharply as Gally bounced his leg up and down, burying your face in his neck to try and stifle how loud you were already.

Gally let go of your hips, bringing his hands up to remove your shirt, your breasts at full display just for him. You squealed happily as Gally took one of your nipples in his mouth, biting and pulling at the soft peak while his other hand wrapped around your throat and squeezed tightly, just even to make you lightheaded.

Gally smirked as he looked down at his thigh, his pants having a dark, wet spot where you were grinding on him. "Look at what a mess you're making, kitten." You whimpered, his words only causing you to speed up your thrusting hips, your clit hitting his thigh at just that right angle that made tears come to your eyes. "You are gonna come, aren't you? Just by rubbing yourself on Daddy's leg, huh?"

Gally's flexing thigh meeting your pulsing clit with every fast thrust, you cried out as you felt yourself nearing your climax. "Gally, I'm so close." You stuttered, the consistent pressure on your core and Gally's hand squeezing just below your jaw numbing your brain, making you a moaning mess.

Gally's hand that was wrapped around your throat quickly travelled to the back of your head, grabbing your hair and forcing your head up. His green eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he watched you intensely as your face contorted into utter bliss as he guided you to rut against him faster. "Look at me." He ordered, obeying as your eyes quickly found his, struggling to keep them from closing from your pleasure.

You let out a high pitched moan as you got closer and closer to the edge, a thin layer of sweat lining your forehead and your hands clutched tightly onto Gally's shirt. Your felt your face heat up quickly, his dark stare driving you wild. "Come for me, kitten."

Your body had no trouble obeying as soon as he spoke those words, burning heat flowing throughout your core, your clit throbbing intensely as your orgasm washed over you. Gally kept rolling your hips against his thigh, letting you ride out your high.

You smiled giddily as Gally planted a passionate kiss on your lips, your completely fucked out visage making him smirk smugly. "Such a good girl for me, aren't you, baby?" He continued to kiss and nip at your neck, making you whine.

"Now I'm really tired." You said weakly, letting your eyes flutter shut until you heard Gally chuckle darkly.

"Oh, you didn't think the night was over, did you, kitten?"

~~~~~~~~~~

I wrote this in one day cause my friend has decided that he'll call me kitten just to rile me up, this is the product...fuckin' teasing bastard. So Anon, you can thank him for this🙃

[joemuggs]

Goodbye Fletch

It's massively sad to hear of the death of Andy Fletcher of Depeche Mode, the level headed lynchpin that held the band together over forty (!) years. DM have been one of THE constants in my life ever since I discovered them as a gawky, ready-to-turn-goth 13 year old circa Black Celebration. I wrote the below appreciation for Q, and pick of ten favourites from across their career, in 2011. Damn I really love that band. RIP Fletch.

Depeche Mode have never quite felt like they have the megastar status their commercial success and songwriting brilliance warrants. For all Dave Gahan's Jesus-posing, bum-wiggling and heroin-soaked dicing with death, and Martin Gore's strange S&M transvestitism, they've still always been those same gawky boys from Basildon. In their early, Vince Clarke-led, electropop days they never quite had the arty cachet of a Eurythmics or Visage, nor the flashy clubbability of Duran Duran. And even as Gore's darker songwriting took over, Clarke's classically-trained replacement Alan Wilder brought in more industrial sounds and Gahan got stubblier and deeper of voice, there remained a gauche, slightly nerdy undercurrent.

None of which stopped them becoming a gargantuan and gloriously bizarre entity. At one point they rivalled U2 for global popularity and Motley Crue for debauchery, yet still felt subversive. They spread a darkly irreligious attitude across heartland America, and remained musically innovative and unintentionally funky enough to command the respect of the godfathers of modern dance music (“They’ve set the standard in what they do,” said Detroit techno don Derrick May back in 1989; “They’re right on time, right in synch, and they can’t even help it.”).

Perhaps, though, it's actually that nerdiness that makes them so powerful, that commands the passions of a legion of misfits from bogglingly different backgrounds across the world. A look at Turner-prize winning artist Jeremy Deller's beautiful documentary on their fans “The Posters Came From The Walls” shows untold moving stories of what they mean to people. They were a symbol of outsider rebellion and self-expression for Russians under Communism, and still are for Iranians under religious law. They provide succour and inspiration for the lonely and unorthodox, not in the rather self-conscious “you are all my children” way of a Marilyn Manson or Lady Gaga, but through their inescapable, rather awkward sincerity. And their influence has rippled through the oddest corners of popular culture – after all, who else could have feasibly been covered by Johnny Cash, The Saturdays, Susan Boyle and Rammstein?

Through it all, their success has been buoyed by a combination of grandiose vision and experimental sound with brilliantly simple songs. Despite a propensity for childishly naff rhymes - “everything counts / in large amounts”; “words are very / unnecessary”; “people are people so why should it be / you and I should get along so aw-ful-ly?” - chief songwriter Gore has always had a knack for pinning down sometimes quite abstract and uncomfortable emotions into basic, memorable forms, and the absolute sincerity of the band's delivery makes them hit home all the harder. No-one else has managed to match their ability to put such strange, emotionally stripped-bare songs into forms that can reach out to such gigantic crowds.

Laughed at by the music press right through the 1980s, and almost destroyed by their own excesses in the 90s, DM remain prophets without honour at home in the UK. You can't imagine them playing the Olympics with Duran Duran and Coldplay, despite matching or exceeding the success of either, nor do you see them knocking about with the Stings and Eltons of this world. And long may they stay that way. Maybe it's galling for them not to be quite accepted into rock aristocracy, but they can be rightfully proud of how deeply etched their music is into ordinary (and extraordinary) people's hearts. Gauche they may be, but they have more claim than most to genuinely be the people's band, as well as being loved and respected by generations of the most exploratory musicians; they are our greatest outsider megastars.

New Life (1981)

Vince Clarke's naïve but inventive Beach Boys harmonies and insectoid synthesisers are still delightfully inexplicable.

Blasphemous Rumours (1984)

Grim existential humour and industrial metal-banging: an unconventional route to global megastardom.

Fly on the Windscreen (Final) (from Black Celebration, 1986)

DM at their most death obsessed – but with a freakishly funky electro groove, which neo-Goth imitators never quite got.

Never Let Me Down Again (1987)

OK the “houses” / “trousers” rhyme is Gore's greatest clanger – yet somehow the stadium-sized drama still works.

Personal Jesus (Acoustic) (1989)

A beautiful stripping bare of the song's bluesy swing long before Johnny Cash did the same.

Policy Of Truth (KLF Trancentral Mix) (1990)

Now practically the biggest band in the world, DM were still weird enough to allow in sheep bleating, Bob Hoskins samples and hypnotic grooves.

Higher Love (from Songs of Faith and Devotion Live, 1993)

The height of drug-ravaged decadence, a voluptuous anthem to being swept away.

Dirt (b-side to “I Feel Loved” single, 2001)

The Stooges's defiance and sleaze brought into the 21st century with techno legend Mark “LFO” Bell producing.

Perfect (from Sound of the Universe, 2009)

It has a cinematic sweep but at the heart of “Perfect” is a lovely, simple pop song about frustration and regret.

Leave in Silence (Claro Intellecto 'The Last Time' Remix) (from Remixes 2: 81-11, 2011)

Fragile, beautiful and fresh – how many veteran bands could do something this daring with 30-year-old back catalogue?

[parolerandagie]

Cosa manca alla tua vita?

...non ti stai riferendo alla vita intesa come luogo fisico posto idealmente a dividere la parte superiore dalla parte inferiore del corpo, vero, cara la mia visage gris (faccia grigia in francese, n.d.r.)? quindi non solo è inutile e fuori contesto, rispondere tipo ''la cintura, ed infatti mi stanno cadendo le braghe!'', ma anche scémo, vero? Chiedo per un amico...

Comunque un miliardo di euro, il Toro che vince 5 scudetti di fila, Paolo Pulici che torna a giocare (nel Toro), trovarmi ad avere improvvisamente 18 anni di meno, una Porsche 911 E del 1969 (arancione se possibile), libero accesso alla cantina dell'Enoteca Pinchiorri, una casa con un balcone che guarda al mare e Berlusconi NON come presidente della repubblica (le minuscole sono una scelta e non un errore), potrebbe essere un buon inizio di completamento della vita: vedi tu se puoi fare qualcosa.

[nafeary]

Theodorus Van Gogh’s Reaction to MC majoring in Pastry Arts

✧✎ A/N: Requested by: @cidylee

Usually, I would have gone with a major considering his art involvement, but I want these headcanons to be FLUFFY which didn’t work out too well with Arthur’s. I need insurance that I won’t step into angst territory, so sugar and spice are the perfect barricades, right? RIGHT??

Others in this series: [Arthur] [Isaac]

But I also wanted to write about Theo utterly falling in love with a three-star hondje MC to the hilt. Theo/Pastry Chef, y’all¿? So here ya go, I hope you like it 😗😗😗

And once again Warning: slightly, teeny, tiny, itsy bitsy suggestive theme at the end

A Little Trivia: The Dutch holiday Koningsdag (King’s Day) used to be named Prinsessedag, and later on Koninginnedag. Also, a Mille-Feuille can also be called napoleon (note the lowercase), although I believe it is slightly different.

It was barely one in the afternoon, and Theodorus Van Gogh had a massive and excruciating headache

Why, you ask?

Exhibit A: At stupid o’clock, King had awoken him in a haphazard manner, expressing the necessity to take a walk

Alas, their excursion had been delayed by the inclement weather, thus his furry companion felt inclined to fulfill his wish. On. His. Godforsaken. Carpet.

Exhibit B: With his mood deteriorating, he fortunately found a beguiling, albeit dry-looking, stack of pancakes on his breakfast table, no doubt courtesy of the human butler

Naive to the fact that a certain detective was watching from the shadows and that the pancakes were, in fact, not made by the wonted human butler, he lifted a piece to let it melt on his lips... and they were not good

Instead of a sweet and fluffy crumb doused in a lake of slightly salted syrup, a dam of morbid repellence seemed to explode in his mouth - as if the cakes were made with salt instead of sugar

“ARTHUR!!!”

Exhibit C: On top of all his misfortune, his brother was on his way to Shakespeare, that everlasting creep. This was enough to sour his grimace e’en further

And yet, as weird as his day started, it suddenly became almost suspiciously perfect

After barricading himself for the whole morning, he went to his room to find King snuggly asleep? With his carpet sans the odor? How?

Additionally, he stumbled upon Vince on his merry way to grab a cup of coffee

Ostensively, the storm raging France was too severe for sunflower boi™️ to visit stabbing kink guy™️

“Broer... will you come for a cup of coffee with me?” he legitimately seemed upset, so he swiftly agreed

As they entered the kitchen, a scent that could only be described as ethereal blinded the brothers’ senses, rendering them speechless

It smelt utterly delicious

“Ah! Theo! Vince!”

“Hondje? What are you doing?”

Your eyes widened in surprise, albeit seemingly caught in the act, to see them, like a puppy discovered to have destroyed another pair of shoes

“This was supposed to be a surprise, but I might as well tell you... I’m making you two some tompouces, to celebrate King’s Day.”

“Celebrate what?”

She pushed some flat, rectangular dough pieces into the stove, chortling lightly, “I’m sorry, Sebastian mentioned that it wasn’t always called “King’s Day”. I meant the “Princess’ Day”.”

Vincent nodded assuringly, “I’m certain you mean Prinsessedag. It was quite new during our life... I’ve never heard of a tompouce, however.”

Your eyes promptly lit up, zeal apparent in your lambent orbs, brighter than any paintings he’d ever seen.

“They’re like a napoleon—“

“Napoleon?”

“Not our Napoleon, like a Mille-Feuille. They’re puff pastry filled with this decadent custard and an orange icing on top-“

As you chattered away with his brother, he noticed a bowl by your side with a heavenly scent exuding from it. Stealthily, he coated his fingertip with some of the flaxen substance

AND OH MY GOD

While Sebastian’s dishes tasted flavourous, this was scrumptiously divine

Light, yet rich in flavor, the vanilla aroma fulminated across his tongue, aided by the creamy texture that could melt even under the strongest of resistances, basking his body in a soothing atmosphere—

“So how is my custard, Theo?” you smirked at the stoic Dutchman

“...decent enough.”

Your smirtled aura vanished, replaced by a brooding scowl. He internally snickered, satisfied by your reaction.

“I spent years studying pastry art, only for you to tell me “decent enough“,” your voice contorted, obviously trying to imitate his tone.

And yet, Theo couldn’t help but let surprise fall across his visage. “You’re a pastry chef, knabbletje?”

And thus, you told him (still rather disdainfull) of your years in college. Alongwhile, Vincent excused himself, returning to his drafts. Natheless, his younger brother chose to stay a little while longer, an idea forming in his head.

Dexterously, he dipped his finger into the cool cream once again, complaints already flying from your lips, “Will you stop taking all the— oh!”

But those quickly died again

Because Theo had swiped some onto your neck, brushing away your gossamer strands in process, nibbling in content at your sweet spot. Heat was already starting to core itself, gripping the counter in desperation.

“T-Theo, I still have to finish the tompouces...”

Alas, he disregarded your words completely.

“I believe I’ve found a brilliant way to put this... degree of yours to good use, hondje.”

...Food Play Theo y’all!!!🥵

Whose reaction do y’all want next?

[Arthur] [Isaac]

[immortalonus]

Where You Belong: Chapter One.

So in case you guys were wondering where I vanished off to, the answer is mostly work. This chapter also took way, way more brain power than I really intended, so I didn't really have the energy to post much else.

I could probably edit this more, but I swear if I spend one more hour editing this I will go insane, so here it is, chapter one of my first multi-chapter fic in, *checks calendar,* four years!?

Jeez, time really does fly, doesn't it?

Read on AO3

If I were Where I Would be, Then I Would be Where I Am not. But where I am, There I must be. And where I would be, I cannot.

-American Folk Poem.

________________________________________________________

As soon as Valerie had flown out of sight of Plasmius’ portal, she made a point to dump everything he had given her for the trip.

First, the communication devices. She had no desire to talk to anyone, much less the creepy, lying, traitorous ghost-thing masquerading as Vlad Masters. She gave the DALVco edition headset her best fast ball, taking no small satisfaction in watching it break piece by piece as it clattered against the frames of one floating door after another before finally vanishing into the mists below.

If Plasmius wanted to talk to her, he could crawl out of his portal and find her himself. Which he wasn’t going to do, because he had a cover to maintain. After all, what kind of delicate, elderly gentleman would throw himself into a dimension of rarified death? Not Mister Masters, oh no.

Especially not when he had a willing pawn to do it for him.

The more surreptitious listening devices went next. Fat, disgusting, bloated insects they were, bugs in function as much as form.And they were everywhere.

She found them wedged between her armor joints, the soles of her boots, in the crevices of her guns, and, after putting her systems through an intensive self-diagnostic, her hair.

When had he touched her hair?

She made a point to crush them all. Either plucking off the parasites directly, or, in the case of those lodged beneath her suit, pulling them into her storage unit and spitting them back out again into the open atmosphere where they could be destroyed.

She removed everything else Plasmius had given her immediately after: Several days worth of food, a large pop up tent, a sleeping bag, a map, several spare weapons, a well thumbed biography on Vince Lombardi and more spewed out of her storage units like a sickness, purged in gouts down to the waiting abyss.

Any thing he'd handled, all his supplies, every “present” he'd ever bestowed, she made a point to dump them all.

But God, when had he touched her hair?

Once she was finished, it felt almost like a victory. With no material proof of her obligations, it was easy to imagine she was already free.

She would finish this mission on her own. No outside aid, no puppet-masters, no regrets.

------------------------------------------

/Sorrysorry-soverysorry!/

“Shut up!”Valerie had regrets.

/sorrysorrysorry/

So many regrets.

“I said shut up, you stupid bug!”

She emphasized her point by kicking the target of her ire right in the soft parts of its creepy, eye studded thorax.

This was stupid, she was stupid, but more than anything, she was pissed.

Valerie took a few steps closer to her target, gait slightly uneven for the lack of both her usual boots. While she wasn't going to die anytime soon, as the black leather that fit snug as skin across her body, the true barrier against the toxic atmosphere of the Zone, remained fully intact, it didn't stop her from being mad about it.

The bug, which had finally stopped gibbering in that vile, hissing tongue that had become more and more common the deeper she ventured into the pea-soup hellscape otherwise known as the ghost zone, took the opportunity to cower against the calciferous outgrowth that had halted its pitiful attempt at flight from Valerie's relentless pursuit.

She had hunted ghosts stronger and faster than this every day back in Amity, and could not help the faint sensation of disgust that came over her at the sight of a figure so unexpectedly pathetic. Did she appear so weak that this creature, along with the half a dozen or so of its less successful, but no less kleptomaniacally inclined ilk see fit to prey upon her? Did she seem so low indeed, that even the meanest, most beggarly of the Zone's inhabitants should see her as some object to pilfer and mock?

It was the work of a moment to summon her laser cubes, pulling them from the pocket dimension from which they resided to slide noiselessly over to the insect lying prone before her. With a thought, they flew forward, two each to press down on the thing's chitinous skull, heightening the artificial glow of her suit as she did for that extra sense of intimidation.

It was an ability she'd never had the need for back on earth, only to find herself putting it to use with unhappy frequency not a day after she'd set off on her journey.

Everything in the realm of the dead glowed, and the capacity to put off and manipulate one's own aura was a hallmark of the creatures that 'lived' within it. Those that didn't stood out strangely, casting shadows upon themselves and the world in a way that made them an obvious anomaly in the otherwise antumbral reaches of the Zone.

While Valerie didn't enjoy wasting her resources on glowing like she was her very own spook, she also hated wasting time, which advertising her humanity to every ghost that glanced her way very much did; a lesson that she'd learned after fending off an entire assault squad of ghost police, who had chased her for ages while screaming about her criminal possession of so many 'real world objects' within their territory.

That it also made sure any enemies never anticipated her ability to phase through objects came in handy from time to time as well, such as when a would-be thief, for example, tried to duck into a thicket in an effort to snarl its pursuer.

As expected, the bug shuddered in response to the cold touch of the barrel against its skin, curling into itself as it looked up into the dark panel of her faceplate.

Valerie leaned down, pinning it between herself, her guns, and the stony trunk of what, on this particular island, seemed to serve as some kind of tree.

/Alright, Manbug, one more time./ Her voice crackled and popped through her translators, adding even more intimidation to a tone already modulated down to something lower and crueler than her natural snarl. /Where. Did you. Put. My Stuff. /

The insect whimpered a little harder, oozing something suspiciously close to snot from the hole above its writhing mouthparts. It remained otherwise silent, however, as it shook.

Valerie pulled back her leg and kicked it again.

The imitation flesh buckled beneath her toes, causing the creature to squeal, a nonverbal expression of pain peaking just beyond her range of hearing as it flickered invisible, writhing in a hopeless gambit to escape the weapons still clamped against its head.

Funny how ghosts kept so many features they really shouldn't need anymore. Like joints, for example. Was it a subconscious matter, or some kind of deliberate choice, Just one more means to mock the living, their very forms a cruel parody of everything they once had been?

She silenced the voice which whispered how she should know by now, that it wasn't that easy. There were more important things to focus on.

/P-please./

The bug focused its myriad gaze on the huntress' visor, all six limbs twisted over themselves, wrapped tight over its oozing midsection.

/In error, Milor- Milord. Your place, held, not neutral. Shall honor, please. /

It was leaking from the eyes too, now, viscous fluid pouring from its dozens of eyes, wetting it bodily, puddling down onto the dark purple earth, adding to the halo of scattered goods and tchotchkes that had spilled out from the overstuffed bags that it had clung to for dear life even as they toppled, overbalanced from a too-fast turn, dragging the creature headfirst into ruin.

/Mer- mercy./

This wasn't fair. This miserable thing, begging in the dirt like it hadn't gotten anything more than what it deserved.

Valerie grimaced, rubbing the heel of her palm against her faceplate. Phantom's visage, not long past, looked up to her from the depths of her memory, face just as desperate, just as indisputably, distressingly genuine as when she'd first seen it.

“Valerie, You don't want to do this.”

“Like I have a choice, spook.” She muttered.

She took a deep breath, sucking in the same recycled exhalation she'd been breathing for nearly a week now, and took a moment to actually think her situation through.

She wasn't lost. She had no idea where she was, but she wasn't lost: That would imply a level of helplessness she could not bring herself to admit. What little food and water she had brought with her had been eaten a while back, reducing her to scavenge among the portal droppage scattered through those areas not patrolled by mad policemen, hoping she could find something sufficiently sealed against ectoplasmic encroachment to remain edible.

She reconsidered her captive, still trembling on the ground. A ghost zone native, utterly at her mercy, and, by the looks of things, a serial hoarder of goods.

/You want mercy? Fine. But you do what I say, exactly as I say it, M'kay?/

While the guns pinning its head in place were something of an obstacle, the bug did manage a spasmodic sort of jerking motion, forebody pushed back and forth with desperate, eager haste.

/(Enthusiasm,) (enthusiasm,) assent! Lord, generous, gratitude, respect./

“Good, now-”She held out one hand, palm expectant.

/Give 'em back./

It responded slowly, still slobbering at the maw, all eyes fixed on the huntress as it unwound its uppermost limbs, which reached up towards those tattered bundles still clustered fungiform over its heaving thorax, rifling between twine-like bindings for what seemed an age.

Patience had never been a skill of Valerie's, and she found herself torn between wanting the moment to last forever and wishing go faster instead, tightening her mental grip over her laser cubes, fingering the internal triggers in anticipation of some sudden, traitorous motion on the part of her captive.

Ghosts were deceptive, dangerous creatures, except, of course, when they weren't.

Without any ability to tell the difference, she could do nothing but pace at the bars of her patience, waiting for the moment to act.

Finally, a claw submerged itself into one of the parcels, pulling out one boot, and, just beside it, a single leather fold.

This was it. Valerie snatched the wallet from its pincers. The boot was replaceable, her construct engines could make another now, if she wanted to waste the resources for it, but her wallet-She flipped open the small leather parcel, noted immediately that the contents were not any state remotely akin to how she had left them.

/Milord?/

The bug was still subtly trying to wriggle its way out from under her guns. Her systems noted, then deleted, increased energy expenditure from her laser cubes as they were forced to adjust to its motions.

Useless data. A ghost of so low a caliber could never hope to escape so easily.

Debit card-broken, bent until the plastic whitened from an excess of pressure; Dollar bills balled together and crammed into a single pocket, still damp with a kind of ectoplasm that looked disquietingly similar to the slobber still dripping from the mouthparts of the bug before her; Plastic wrappers, spare coins, a concert flyer for a band she'd always wanted to see.

/Ah, Milord? Pardon, Excuse?/

All of it. This vile, twisted excuse for an insect had messed with all of it. It had played with her most important cards and documents like they were toys, then shoved them back in with utter disregard for any sense of their value once it was done.

/Goods, returned, trust?/

Dread crept into her heart as she reached into the backmost pocket of her billfold, the place where she kept the picture of her.

/more goods? Information? Information on goods? Release, please?/

It was shoved in the very bottom of the wallet, balled into the crease where the two halves of leather were joined into one. She pulled it out, fingers shaking only slightly as they smoothed it back into a more flattened form.

The Red Huntress had no face, and never had Valerie been more grateful for that absence than in that moment, when she beheld the true extent of the damage done to Polaroid before her.

Soft white creases were everywhere, shattering the image into isolated fragments of its former self. It had been torn, too, at the edges, a grip too hard, twisting too far, integrity compromised as a result.

The worst of the damage by far, however, were a series of punctures, scattered at random through the center of the photograph, small to medium perforations forming little absences where there had once been trees and grass, where there had been a woman's face. A hole sat primly above her dark neck, arched back into nothing, a yawning gap where once there had been laughter.

The Huntress turned her blank visage back to her captive, who froze in the act of trying to pry her weapons out of position. Cowardly, but expected. Trusting a ghost was a fools game she had no intent on playing.

/Ah, haha, (nervous) (nervous,) (respect.)/ The target pulled its claws back up against itself, fiddling with the tips as it looked up to her absent regard.

/...Milord?/

The Red Huntress had no face, could betray no emotion, could reveal none of the cold black welter that rushed up through the depths of her breast and pressed against her throat. An impassive machine, possessed of a will stripped free of feeling.

No sliver of her intent showed through, no shudder passed from her shaking fingers to her gauntleted hands, not even the psychic senses of a ghost could hope to detect the lava that boiled up from her guts, pressing against her skin in an sheet of living fire even as the pits of her stomach chilled to ice.

The bug was still looking up at her, eyes all expectant, when she commanded her one of her guns to fire.

A bright streak of energy shot through the top of its head, hard pink flash cutting through a wave of green.

It squealed, jerked all six limbs towards the missing portion of its skull in a hopeless effort to stop the thick chunks of ectoplasm from slopping down the side of its face. Valerie brought her foot down at the same moment, crushing its forelimbs down into the dust. Forelimbs tipped with little claws, just large enough to fit the holes in a certain photograph.

/Why!? Ancients, why, why!?/

Why?

“Why the hell not?” she snarled, “Ain't that how it works here?”

If a different ghost wanted to rob her blind every time she tried to sleep, they could. If Valerie wanted to chase down the one that finally succeeded, she could. There were no laws here, there were no rules, there weren't even morals. There was nothing to stop anyone from doing anything, so why should she be the one to hold herself back?

She lifted her foot off its claws, then swung it once again into its thorax, only just crusted over from where she had kicked it before.

It squealed, just like she imagined another ghost would, red eyes wide and frightened, vampiric teeth shattered against her fist, choking as she wrapped her fingers around his blue, blue, skin.

He deserved this, it deserved this, she was in the right. She had been tricked, mislead, mistaken maybe, but she wasn't wrong, she was in the right.

And if there was some dark curl of satisfaction there, a self righteous flame alighted just where she'd been coldest in that moment of hate, then that was proof, wasn't it? Of just how right she was.

She bent down to her target, which had started drooling all over again, ground speckled green and wet as it heaved against itself. It was disgusting enough that she would have shot it in the mouth instead of the head, but she still needed information, which meant it still needed to talk.

It's upper set of antenna had survived the cranial blast, making for an easy handhold as she yanked its drooping head up to face her once again. At the same time, she sent her guns down to its chest, where its energy levels peaked their highest.

Ghosts, much like the cockroaches they resembled, could survive well enough without a head, but none, not one could ever hope to make it without their precious ghostly core.

“Listen up spook.” She hissed. /Here's how this is gonna work. You lie, I shoot. You run, I shoot. Got it?/Its head twitched up and down, the smallest possible motion of assent.

/Good./

This was what it took, when it came to ghosts. Cooperation proceeded pain, loyalty from the threat of it, and mercy not at all.

/We'll start with the questions./

She allowed her guns to charge power, deadly, scintillating hum filling the air with the sound of her malintent.

/I like what I hear, maybe I let you keep talking./

Author's note: If Sam is more pride than wrath, then Val is more wrath than pride, IMO. I've done my best to write her accordingly

[badbycs-arc-blog]

tag dump ⇨ vince choi