what if i just... shared some potentially unpopular media opinions for no reason
- i’m lov darlifran so far (plspls end good; listen u Kno im lov trigger what do u want from me, that self-aware overthetop fanservice chic and the shifting intensity to questions of humanity’s destiny is my ja’am and also art gud)
- i’m interest in detroit: become human (i’m a sucker for that game playstyle, i loved getting to chop my finger off in heavy rain, i love androids, i love fixerupper bullshit settings, how do i play this game without give money)
- s6 of voltron has got me 👌 for that dark mind control n identity issues n fuzzy relationship mmmm content and god i love megacompetent villain family and its infighting
- idk i’m hype to play zebruh’s friendsim route what a fun experience that looks to be
tangentially i’m currently reading samuel r. delaney’s triton and it’s real good and i’m reminded how much i fucking love and find foundational and transformative delaney’s work, le guin’s work, glasshouse, slow river, and year of the unicorn, and how excited i am to finally get into octavia butler and get back to robin hobb it’s been so long since books
It was supposed to simply be a routine check up. That is all Knock Out had told him it would. However, when Starscream entered the Medbay, something seemed different. Something seemed off. Knock Out motioned for him to lay out on his stomach on the berth. He directed Starscream to keep his wings held high, telling him that it was time for a tune up on the sensitive appendages. A moment later, the doctor would strap the Seeker down, supposedly to prevent squirming while the delicate flight -c-
-c- equipment was handled. The doctor held the charade for only a moment more, cycling his servo in favor of a welding torch. He brought the flame to the base of Starscream's left wing and allowed it to melt the metal away, corroding it down to its base wires before he melted those away as well. His servo tore the wing away with ease, allowing it to clatter to the floor with a loud bang. He went to work on the other wing quickly, cycling the torch in favor of a buzz saw this time. In only a moment, he was working away at the other wing. Cutting away large portions of the metal and tossing them to the side, he ignored any pleas for mercy coming from the Seeker. When wiring was finally exposed, he tore it out with his servo. When the appendage finally detached from the Seeker's frame, he allowed it to fall to the floor as well, successfully leaving the flyer crippled, and unable to do the one thing that gave him purpose.
« 🎻 » || The Seeker screamed.
Starscream jolted awake, sobbing and shaking from the intensity and vividness of the dream -- he could still feel searing pain in his wing joints -- but his frame still felt heavy. He wanted to purge. He tried to force himself to stay awake, but try as he might, he still found his body slumping back onto the berth, his optics slowly fluttering shut.
If his comrades in arms had heard the noises he’d been making, they were going to have to wake him up again to get any answers out of him. For now, he was once again dead to the world.
( HER FINGERTIPS RUN RED | THE ONLY PART OF HER THAT IS BLOODY. )
So remember that personal project I was talking about? Here’s part of it. Warnings for #heavy gore, #death, #body horror & #mutilation apply.
The air smells of blood and alcohol. There is no breeze, and the faint cries of those last tortured souls hang heavy in the still air. They would rather be dead, that much is certain. She walks past. Some of those who lay dying reach out for her ankles with arms severed at the elbow; others curl around spilled piles of intestines, trailing from bullet holes and jagged stomach wounds. Flies dance around the dead and dying, drunk on the blood and brain matter coming out of their noses and ears. She looks away, at her hands: wrapped tight around a small body wrapped in white bedsheets. Her fingertips are stained red, so she wipes them on the folds of the bedsheets. It’s the only part of her that is bloody.
She doesn’t remember why she is carrying this particular body, or who it belongs to. Hesitantly, she peels the makeshift shroud back, so that the face is exposed. Glassy fish eyes stare up at her mockingly, perfect lips stretched into a smile. She drops the body to the ground, and it feels like needles have been hammered into her stomach when she sees how the pink pigtails fan our and cover her shoes.
She is crying, digging her nails into the sides of her face. Junko is dead. Did she kill her sister? She can’t, she couldn’t have; but God, what if she did? She takes a stumbling step backwards, boots grinding her sister’s perfect hair into the mud. She’s reaching for the familiar weight of her AK-47 on her back, only her fingers aren’t closing around the barrel as they should--
And that’s when Ikusaba can tell the difference between dream and reality.
--
She lays curled on her side for a few minutes, cheek pressed against the carpet where she had fallen during the night. Then, slowly, pushes herself up and turns on the light, hoping to free herself from the dream.
Dreaming always brought night terrors, though staying awake meant experiencing memories that were painful in their own right. She visits a therapist several times a week, to cleanse herself of the psychological side effects of being a child soldier.
Except Ikusaba has never felt used or broken. Not until she came to Hope’s Peak.
that if you google for the de Witt brothers because you're telling someone about Jan de Baen's painting of them (which I don't recommend looking up, because it's gross, because by "painting of them" I mean "painting of their mutilated corpses), one of the related searches you get is "dutch eat prime minister"?
(to be fair, that is pretty much exactly what happened)
>He doesn't want to admit it, but he can see how his hands are shaking as he holds onto his iPhone. He drops it, letting it clatter to the floor. That's another scratch in his screen, but he doesn't care. Dirk's back hits the wall and he sinks to the floor, his forehead touching his knees, his hands fisting in his hair. His horns are nowhere to be seen. >He'd been doing so well, too, he'd been accepting that he's a person despite his demonicness and that other people won't hate him for what he couldn't change. But then Engineer, someone Dirk looks up to and considers a role model, he said that, and he said that because Dirk's horns are disgusting, inhuman, horrible. Dirk is horrible, just another monster for Engineer to put down and take his horns as trophies. And Dirk would deserve it too, because he's done things, terrible things, even if he can't remember it he did kill those other orphans ... >Dirk doesn't bother wiping away the silent tears on his cheeks. He deserves this.
i woke up fucking convinced i was holding my intestines in for a good five minutes last nights dream was far too vivid to be anything close to comfortable.
