i really like the weight of a scythe

“Terran-forged”

So I was watching AWE Me’s Man-At-Arms: Reforged series on youtube, and it got me thinking: “What if, in the future, Terrans are known for being the BEST at overkill weaponry?” 


“I need something that’ll guarantee I get the job done.” The bounty hunter hissed through their mask. 

The merchant just gave an alien smile, before pulling out a selection of Terran-forged swords and daggers. Included, were everything from Japanese katanas and Celtic longswords, Chainswords and even transformable, combination weapons like a sniper rifle/scythe. The bounty hunter, being from a ice world, has never really seen metalsmithing like this from their own people, and knows, these are Terran made. The brutal elegance of the cutting edges, the weight and balance, the advanced steel alloys, all hallmarks of Terran weapons. Terrans, it seemed, saw an almost religious beauty in dealing death. Just what was needed. 


This is a somewhat sleepy addition to the “Humans are weird” tag. Sorry if it’s not as long or as well thought out as my others posts. I’m on vacation right now, so my brain’s all ker-fuffled. 

Edit: Yes, I referenced RWBY. 

Prism Sounds

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Hermione Granger

Setting: Canon-divergent war AU 

Word Count: 762

Written For: @hexrmionegranger [@dhrfaves Valentine’s Exchange]


When it finally happens—when it finally blisters, and burns, and bursts into flames—it’s the fourteenth of February, and there’s a door between them.

It’s a perfectly ordinary door; flat, medium-brown wood with whorls like fingerprints and splotches of ancient mahogany stain marring the slightly scarred space around the dented brass knob. Chips and scratches litter the frame, and it strikes him as symbolic, really, that it’s locked. An ominous sort of silence emanates from either side. Echoes. Permeates.

“You’re sure?” he blurts out, and then winces. His nails, already bitten down to raw pink cuticles, dig scythe-shaped crescents into the calluses on his palms. “I mean—it would be rather silly, wouldn’t it, to get…worked up. Over nothing.”

There’s a creaking sound from the bathroom, weight shifting and a throat clearing, high-pitched and hoarse.

“Worked up,” she replies, voice somehow both softer and colder than he’d heard it in ages. Months. Two months, really. Since he’d—since they’d—“That’s what you think this is. Me. Getting worked up.”

He starts to sigh, frustration clogging his lungs like quick-set cement, but manages to stop himself. Bite down on the tip of his tongue until it hurts more than it distracts.

“No, I just—it was one time—”

“Yes, one mission,” she interrupts, audibly sour. “That bit’s important.”

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Conflicts of Interest
nothingnesstome

He was calm. As his kingdom fell into the ruins of Castle Oblivion, he watched from the dark paths of the worlds with an eerie placidity. It was as if the entire world was falling to pieces and he was deaf to it. The assassin turned away from his life’s work, heels swiveling to the opposite direction. It was over.

His steps had no purpose. So consumed by his plans, he could hardly remember—did not want to remember—the time when he was a simple soldier. Now, without them, he found himself spiraling into the habits of old. Apathy rushed to him, his senses seeming to dull with its arrival. Slow, heavy, the rhythm of his feet was all that he had in the empty corridors.

Deep in this stupor, he did not realize the path he had taken until he arrived at the end. His eyes blinked in surprise as he came face to face with an exit from this realm. He stopped, eyes peering into the darkness that flickered and swam, catching glimpses of the world past. The red-haired traitor, the schemer, the failed replica–he watched them past the tendrils of dark with disinterest. He felt lofty; he was above the happenings of this world. Axel with his slick words could not even phase him. He watched as the replica drank the honeyed murmurs without barely a twitch. The horror of Zexion did not penetrate. Not even as the man was being lifted by his throat, back slammed against the white walls of the castle did the assassin act.

“You can’t do this!” The words were not what snapped him from his apathy but the genuine fear that evoked them. His attention flickered to the dying man. He watched as fear turned to terror, the surprise to the horrific truth of his fate. The normally placid face of the schemer twisted in pain and a dull thud rang in his chest, his hand twitched, his eyes blinked and widened as if waking from a dream.

Before he could even comprehend it, he rushed forward. He could no longer stand being a spectator. He was a man of action, of power and will. Axel’s eyes widened at the sudden appearance of the nobody he thought dead. For the first time, that shit-eating grin was wiped off his face, replaced with the horror of seeing a ghost. The replica seemed equally surprised, his grip on the schemer loosening. The assassin’s eyes locked on that weakness, his weapon already in hand and swinging forward to cut and rip into the failure.

The replica gave a shout, his victim hitting the ground in a heap. It barely had time to feel its pain before the assassin was back, delivering the final blow to the back of its head. A sickening crack filled the air as the copy was reduced to the sum of its useless parts. 

It twitched and spasmed across the floor, its inner mechanisms giving whimpers and creaks before falling still, the life of its eyes paling to a dull blue. Without its will, it looked like nothing more than a broken doll.

His eyes lifted from the body, meeting Axel’s with an absolute threat. His posture was slumped forward with the weight of his scythe, his shoulders raising and falling with his pants. The assassin’s body looked close to shutting down, swaying back and forth with fatigued but–his eyes. They spoke of a fate of pain and death, of a caged animal that would take his throat at the expense of its own life.

Axel could feel the hairs on the back of his neck raising but instead he gave an easy smirk. “I really wish I had the time to catch up, Marluxia.” His hand waved lazily through the air. “But, the organization comes first, y'know. I’ll be sure to tell the others that you said hello though.” And with that, the Flurry spun on his heels, sauntering out the room with hardly a glance back. No doubt, he would be back–the next time with help.

His muscled trembled with effort as VIII left the room, collapsing only moments after the doors shut with a definite thud. He fell against the wall, the sharp pain ignored for the relief of support. A shuddering breath left his lungs as he closed his momentarily as he collected himself.

“Are you injured?” He finally asked, his voice echoing off the silence of the room.