#hyper writing

[hyperfunnyblog]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

i wrote a short oneshot abt vanessa and a hc i have abt her!! feel free to check it out

[hypertomboi]

Oh boy time to ramble about my 5am thoughts!

Spoilers for Kirby Star Allies and The Forgotten Land under the cut

So. Morpho Knight.

I’m sensing a sort of pattern he follows when it comes to his recent appearances, in that he’s seeking out beings who have the following traits:

Really powerful

Have a high body count

Have some connection with vortexes, portals or alternate dimensions

Wish for some form of freedom

Lack love and friendship

These traits come into play with the three characters he’s seen interacting with the most, the three beings Morpho interacts with in hopes of obtaining his knightly form: Kirby, Galacta Knight and Soul Forgo.

For Kirby, the first two traits are obvious: he’s described as having near-infinite power, and even ignoring the countless base enemies he’s fought in his games, his body count consisting of mini bosses, regular bosses and final bosses is still high. For trait 3, his inhale can be describe as a vortex, sucking in anything in its wake. What Kirby lacks for Morpho to take hold of him are the fourth and fifth traits. Kirby is already free — he’s not confined in any sense and he’s very freespirited. Additionally, the novels say how Kirby is not lacking for love, and in fact may contain nothing but it.

This ultimately means that Kirby currently can’t be used by Morpho to obtain his knightly form. Kirby would have to be backed into a very tight corner for Morpho to have any influence over him.

Galacta Knight fits the bill to a T. Since he was sealed away for being so terrifyingly powerful, we can safely assume his body count is very high. We see him tear spatial rifts in his fight in Planet Robobot, and he’s almost always brought in through portals. As a stoic warrior sealed away for who knows how long, we can assume there’s a large lack of companionship. And he’s constantly locked out, both literally in his crystal prison, and in a meta sense as he’s technically not canon to the series’ main storylines; the only way he achieves any form of freedom is through being let out of his cage to fight. All this combined makes him ripe for the taking in Morpho’s eyes.

(I can’t find a gif of Soul Forgo so here’s the next best thing)

Like Galacta Knight, Soul Forgo and nearly all its other forms cover all the aforementioned traits. It’s absurdly powerful, spreads destruction wherever it goes, and has spatial teleportation and can open portals and vortexes. It’s been trapped twice — once in the Eternal Capsule in Lab Discovera as Fecto Forgo, and afterward in the Isolated Isles as Soul Forgo. And since all its forms except Fecto Elfilis lack Elfilin — its “compassionate soul” — Soul Forgo can’t feel love. This makes it a prime target for Morpho to swoop in and take control.

Now it’s possible that Morpho could’ve taken over any of its other forms, but I theorize that he waited until Soul Forgo was at its lowest: defeated and left without a physical form, forced to retreat to its physic dream realm and be left stewing in its thoughts. At such a low, this makes manipulating or coercing Soul Forgo to make a deal with Morpho easier; desperation and a thirst for revenge can cloud rational thoughts.

One key difference between Galacta Knight and Soul Forgo is their role in the narrative. As mentioned before, Galacta has yet to be part of a main storyline; he only appears in non-canon post-story modes. Soul Forgo and the entirety of the Isolated Isles mode, however, are canon to the events of The Forgotten Land. This means that Morpho’s takeover of Galacta isn’t canon, but his takeover of Soul Forgo is.

Galacta Knight and Fecto Elfilis (in nearly all its forms) are frighteningly similar and devastatingly powerful, yet both fell victim to Morpho Knight, letting the butterfly take on its knightly form. Let that sink in, then realize this will not be the last we see of him.

—————————————

A quick aside: I also want to mention the possibility of Morpho seeing Meta Knight as a possible victim, considering their run-ins in the novels and recent games. Meta appears to only have the first three traits based on his recent appearances. But even if you argue that he has all five traits, why would he not be considered worthy by Morpho’s standards? Here are my two theories:

In order for Morpho to take control and absorb someone, he has to be in close or direct contact with them. Though he’s gotten close a few times, we don’t see Morpho come into such contact with Meta; this could be because he knows who Morpho is.

In The Forgotten Land, it’s said that Meta resisted being brainwashed by Fecto Forgo through sheer force of will and (me throwing out a guess here) a slowly built-up tolerance to brainwashing (it’s happened to him at least three times). Those two factors could come in clutch when it comes to him encountering Morpho.

[hyperfunnyblog]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

late night oneshot posting wahoo, surprise its about vanessa again

[hypertomboi]

Do Heaven and Hell feel remorse?

Do the angels weep and mourn for the comrades that fell to Hell, or express doubt in their God's unconditional love and might? Lucifer was a wise being, a high-ranking angel, yet he fell victim to the sin of envy; who's to say the angels still devote to God weren't immune to such emotions themselves?

Do the devils regret believing Lucifer's philosophies and choosing his side, now knowing they could never return to paradise? If this was God's way of expressing "tough love", how long will the punishment last? The fallen angels laid restless, unable to sleep to the shrieks of the damned.

In that moment, neither Heaven nor Hell realized the concept they had birthed; a concept too dangerous for either domain, and so it has plagued the mortal realm the moment mankind took his first breath.

Worry. Doubt. Dread.

Anxiety.

[hypertomboi]

The Light of Ultimate Life (SSBU Fanfic)

(Spoilers for the new Super Smash Bros Ultimate trailer)

He couldn’t have stopped it.

He knew their futures were sealed in stone the moment he opened his mouth.

Warning them would only delay their inevitable fate, only buy them a few precious seconds of nothing but dread and heartache, witnessing their loved ones slip through their fingers like the sands of time.

All Shulk could do was take one last look at his comrades, his friends, as the eldritch entity overlooking them struck with incomprehensible might...

He was the first to fall, as one of the hundred technicolor beams struck him from behind. At the very least, Shulk was spared from a replay of what will soon strike his company, the future he’d glimpsed into giving him one last sliver of mercy, one he tragically embraced as his being dissolved into nothingness.

And like a row of dominos, the rest followed suit.

A stubborn handful tried to strike back, holy blades and hot plasma attempting to halt or at least slow down the beams; others made a run for it, clinging onto the false hope that they could outrun the attacks. The rest were either in a perpetual state of fear and panic, or begrudgingly accepting their fast approaching fate.

Amidst the chaos, fighters tried in vain to protect and save each other. Sonic slowed down his mad dash just enough for Pikachu to leap toward him, only for both to be struck and swept aside like ash. Palutena forced both Pits to take to the skies via the Power of Flight, but all three fell the moment the goddess was hit. Snake and some of the smaller fighters hid under his box, in hopes of the beams passing over them, but that too was was all for naught.

Echoes of distress and shock briefly lingered as the dozens of fighters quickly shrunk to a mere handful; even that number was fading fast with every passing second.

Hope, however, still lingered.

At the very start of the genocide, one brave soul - Kirby - took a massive risk, attempting to bypass the beams and strike the unknown foe directly; yet even with the Star Warrior’s power and determination, his Warp Star couldn’t move in close enough to land a decisive blow. His presence merely boiled down to that of a fly, zig-zagging about and annoying his target, to the point where the entity attacked harder and faster in an attempt to take Kirby down.

The Star Warrior began to fly away, outmaneuvering the swarm of beams; sheer willpower forced his ride to move ever faster, reaching more and more intense speeds at an alarming rate. He could see a couple fighters still dodging the beams, and their presence made him push his Warp Star to and past a new maximum.

But familiar faces suddenly changed to a hard landing in the cold dirt.

Kirby slowly and unsteadily rose up from his faceplant in the ground; the sunset sky was now gray and cloudy. What had happened? Did he black out mid-flight?

The few remaining fighters say they saw Kirby seemingly pop out of existence before meeting their demise, but what exactly occurred in that instance currently held little priority with the Star Warrior.

He could only focus on what had become of his dear friends, and the expansive wondrous scenery set before his eyes.

Tears welled up as the weight of his situation fully settled in, but Kirby knew this was no place to mourn; he knew they weren’t dead, he could feel it in his heartbroken soul. The more time spent doing nothing, the longer they’re gone from this world.

Kirby sprinted off as fast as his feet could take him, each step bringing him closer to his loved ones and the ultimate fight.

[illitbite]

hyper writing time!!!

i will be taking open requests!! now open for everything!! im pushing my limits today and for god knows how long so i can write you x readers of these fandoms..

FNAF, TLOZ, MARIO, KNY, HOPPERS, SPLATOON, OHSHC, PPT, DW, ETC!!!

i probably forgot fandoms so dm me for games and stuff that arent on this list, but use the reqs for fandoms ive currently listed. please specify if you want hcs or ffs, x readers or canon x canon or oc x canon or oc x oc. for ocs you must say looks and personality. also please say if you want smut lemon lime fluff or angst. must be 18+ to request for smut. thank. you very muchhhh !!!!!

[hypertomboi]

Phantom Pain

((This one took inspiration from two of my OCs and a handful of other media. Again, I’m super proud of this one, though I still advise that there are feels ahead. Enjoy!))

Dawn of the fourth day…

Screw no. 21: Phillips flat head, carbon steel alloy, one-eighth inch diameter. Its color catches my keen eye, just a hair’s breath before insertion; the metal threads are marred, blotches of deep maroon staining the roots and crests.

Is it rust, or perhaps blood?

Either way, I toss it aside; the discolored screw clinks against the icy tile, rolling in odd angles along the floor until it halts, having joined its suboptimal brethren of broken and bent nuts and bolts.

No, they will not do; nothing but the best in quality will be — must be — utilized for my grandest creations

My arms and fingers feel numb yet light, exhausted from the strain of my progress; hairs not confined by the grease-stained bandana stick to my forehead, slick and shiny from my sweat. The rising sun greets me, warming my calloused skin that reeks of oil and hot metal; rays of light reflect off my hard work, its shine blinding my bloodshot eyes behind the tinted goggles. 

Annoying, but not of concern; after all, they’re almost complete.

High noon…

The sun shines high above when I finally rise from my chair, adjusting my spine to make up for my hunched position; a smile crosses my dry lips as I admire my work, four and a half days worth of tireless energy and passion poured into my latest creations.

My gift to the broken soul in the other room.

“Just a bit longer, big bro; it’ll be over soon…”

The next hour is a blur for me, a whirlwind of a hot shower, a power nap, and consuming something that isn’t granola bars and stale coffee. Tools and first aid supplies are brought into the other room; our mother opens the door to let me in as I gingerly bring in my latest work, wrapped carefully in a towel. The light beside the bed flickers on.

He looks so pale, so fragile, a ghost of his former cheery self; a washcloth — damp with salty tears — covers his once glimmering eyes. His hair — now long and dull in color — sprays out on the several pillows under him; an old hospital gown covers his trembling body as he lays propped up on the bed, attempting to grab the thin sheets. 

Emphasis on “attempting”.

It pains me to see him in his current state, tear stains on his pale cheeks as he mumbles over and over about how his arms hurt. His arms, the same sturdy arms that lovingly cradled me in my infancy — and his hands, the same calloused hands that birthed his stunning artwork…

They are now gone, reduced to measly stubs tainted with massive scars…

But not for long.

Our mother sits on the other side of the bed, soothing him with her soft melodious voice as I unwrap the towel and unveil my creations; I try to smile as I lay a gentle hand on his quivering shoulder, my voice calm and quiet.

“Hey bro… I made the prosthetics, just like I promised… I’ll try to make the attachments as painless as possible, okay?”

A pained whimper, and a slow nod are his response.

Midnight…

Stuffy and hot air fills my overworked lungs; over eleven hours of attaching delicate nerves and adding countless screws and bolts, calculating and recalculating every last little detail, the room echoing his sniffles and her soothing…

Now it has all come down to this final moment.

Screw no. 58: Phillips pan head, stainless steel, one-sixteenth inch diameter. No rust or other blemishes, no chipped threads or bent roots.

The tip of the screwdriver meets the drive slot of the screw, and slowly it begins to turn.

He gasps in shock, his arm tenses up, fresh tears trickle down his gaunt cheeks; he couldn’t have prepared himself, that I know, though this attachment is the second of both arms. I twist the tool again, this time at a snail’s pace; he’s been through too much already.

A long moment passes before it‘s in.

I finished; it’s now complete.

I barely recall the aftermath the moment I collapse forward, unconscious, resting my head in his lap; my sleep remains dreamless, yet I feel a hand lay on me, cold yet comforting, smelling of hot metal and oil.

“Thanks, little brother…”

[hypertomboi]

Escape

((Unlike the other stories, this one isn’t really based on anything specific, at least in terms of my OCs and such. Still, I’m really proud of this one, especially since I’m not used to writing action scenes. Also, be warned: things get kinda graphic in terms of bodily harm and violence. Enjoy!))

Run. 

You must keep on running; what else can you do?

Adrenaline forces your boney trembling legs to move, one bruised and calloused foot smacking on the icy clod pavement, only to lift away as the other foot repeats the same process. Your heart beats faster and faster, slamming against your still healing rib cage; its hectic rhythmic beat is only matched by the deafening and almost painful pounding in your head, crashing down on your brain like a war drum. The whirlwind of voices and thoughts do little to ease your weary and worn out mind.

Why have you chosen to take such a risk? Who or what are you even trying to escape from?

Your answer arrives in a dangerous way.

BANG! Bullets zip by, barely missing your starving skeletal frame; one officer, the barrel of her pistol still hot and smoking of gunpowder, pulls the trigger again. The shot plows into the pavement, fragments of concrete spraying up like an explosion. You raise your arms — thin and frail — to shield your form, but one fragment rips through your pale skin as if it were wet paper, blood spurting out from the deep inward wound like a geyser. 

The shrapnel buries itself deep into your thigh, splitting veins and tearing what little muscle you have left; the sharp stinging pain forces precious air in the form of a cuss out of your overworked lungs. Gushing moves down to seeping as vital blood runs down your now weakened leg and drips onto the pavement, the storm gray ground turning a deep maroon.

The injury slows you down, and fear begins to plague your foggy mind, but adrenaline continues to push your malnourished body to its limits; the shrapnel pierces the muscles in your thigh as they loosen and tighten around the embedded fragment with every step, the small bursts of pain and metallic scent of fresh blood sending mini shockwaves up and down your spine. More bullets fly by, a few slicing through your skin like a knife as they graze your frail frame, more blood leaking out as they stain your shirt and the ice clod ground beneath your bare feet.

Your weary bloodshot eyes dart every which way, then you see it: the wire wall that has so often taunted you with the sweet sight of freedom. No longer will that be the case!

Running morphs into a full-on sprint; pain on any scale gets blocked out. With nothing less than a leap of faith, you slam against the wall and begin to climb, loose wires and sharp barbs harshly tearing at your sweaty hands, digging deep into your palms, aiming to slice your hands wide open and give up all hope of escape. Yet you persevere, even when your iron grip and steady footing begin to slip from the fresh blood running down the wall.

At long last, freedom is yours.

There is a dull thud as you fall upon the soft grass, damp from the cool morning dew. Gunfire continues to ring out as you jump to your sore bloodied feet and sprint away, disappearing into the wide open plains. The officers cease fire, cursing under collective breathes; the warden will not be pleased upon hearing this…

Your adrenaline finally wears off as you collapse, heart thumping so rapidly you fear it will explode; panic and fear fade as a sense of calm rolls in. A quick scan of your body reveals a handful of wounds, bullets buried deep into your thighs and sides, hands scarred with torn skin and stained with your blood.

You start to laugh, quietly at first, soon growing from a half-hearted giggle into a full-blown bellowing; salty tears stream down your sunken cheeks, and you can taste them on your dry and parched lips that curl into a wide smile. The wave of relief crashes down on you, and you fall back on the grass and leaves.

At long last, you are free.