Are You Seeing Anyone You Mean Like A Hallucination??

“are you seeing anyone” you mean like a hallucination??

By Thimo mit h

a necessary clarification for my interpretation of Vanny! ― she is not Vanessa / the security guard! they are not the same person.

Van’s DEFAULT verse, which is my main idea of canon, is that she is a separate person from the night-guard. they are different people, and although they are similar visually and audibly, they are NOT the same person. The CDs are from Vanny, not Nessa. Vanny is not an alter-ego or something similar, and while she IS under William’s / Malhare’s / Burntrap’s / Salvage’s manipulation, she isn’t just Nessa under some form of mind control. I’m yet to decide HOW she looks so similar, but i do believe they are genuinely two different people, which is how I play Van.

Van DOES have a secondary verse where she aligns with the ‘Vanny & Vannessa are the same’ idea, but I do vastly prefer using her default verse as it’s kind of integral to her as a person, as Van is a very quiet, anxious, non-confrontational person with an less-than-stellar social skills often making herself seem more than odd, meanwhile Nessa is a no-nonsense type of character with a bold sense of volume to herself as well as a deep sense exasperation and suspicion. they act very differently from one another, which can make the secondary verse difficult for me, but yeah! i just really wanted to clear some stuff up about my interpretation!

we’re getting adaman crumbs in pokemon masters and i’m so happy i love him so much ;w;

@askganondorftobadragmire - [ x ]

It was like he was hoping for a different answer.

The wind whistled in the trees. The crickets sang a chorus, deep in the long grass, as they anticipated the afternoon's death into evening into night, the sun slow in its settling like an anxiety in the fields. Rustling of grass, of clothes, of skin. The campfire creaking as something on the stand bubbles and froths ━ the air thick with it; it and cut grass, and fresh pollen, and crisp air.

Passing through like ghosts, unheard and unnoticed, like he was hoping for a different answer.

The knight's claymore, leaned against the log they sat on, might've been the answer to that; shining in the dancing light, somehow worse than if it wasn't there ━ better danger than an anxiety, better bare-handed than asking questions. ━ but it was there, of course, and the sound of Link wringing his hands seemed to point it out like the blade reflected the sound too, in the way he wasn't wringing them at all; just bending the fingers, pushing and prodding at calloused palms like they were foreign to him, like they were the most interesting thing in the room.

they might've been, since they were one of the only things he wasn't scared of, right now ━━━ but scared wasn't the right word, he wasn't scared of Toba, but he thinks, maybe, in the way he's not recognizing it at all, that he's scared of the answer he'll get. Not like he doesn't believe Toba, not like this isn't a good thing, but...

that last word could trail forever, and might. the uncertainty in it answer in of itself, even if the reason never saw light. fading fast, in the wind, and the crickets, and the fire that kept it alive.

".. That makes sense-" Link says after longer than is considered polite, says it like he started the words and it went faster than he meant it to, not knowing the way they were going to come, what he was going to say to begin with. "I mean, I'm glad! I'm glad you trust me to ━" the words lodge, and he won't say it. He doesn't know why. He doesn't in the way he does, but it still doesn't make him talk.

he decides, thoughtlessly, to keep his hands busy. They occupy themselves with stirring the pot, glancing through ingredients, adding more of something or other, stirring again. ".. I guess I don't really get it," he admits, eyes fixed on the pot like he doesn't realize he's talking in the first place. "Why you would. It makes sense but I.. Do you..." and reality catches back up "I mean- I... Sorry, forget I said that"

Unwilling to learn, ━ or just unwilling to bend that way.

Edward was the strange middleground ━ the gateway between the world of Gotham’s underbelly & the people in it, and the people like Ally who raked their fingers at the skin of it, bled from it, and decided the iron was not the taste of anything worth having. This is to say the man’s always been just obedient enough to pass by, for the most part. Too scrawny to be violent, too restrained to be conniving ( and actually carry anything out himself, even if rumors of who hit who on the demands of another were often enough for a more physical retribution ) ━ it’s perhaps unsurprising that it was him they’d half-befriended within its walls, with the rest so festering, and him just the same; a different boiler, a different wound.

Ally, who raked their fingers at the skin of it, bled from it, and decided the iron was not the taste of anything worth having. Funny, then, how he just wont go. ━ or maybe, how they let him stay. ( a life of survival as an obedient thing ; being good like being holy, but no idea how to live. at least he was interesting. at least he was something. ━ playing with matches like your not lighting fire, like the fire wont stop coming back. )

He seems entirely unbothered at the sharp tone, the defense of an implication that very well may or may not imply inadequacy or a general conversational atmosphere of ‘ you should really be faring better than that by now, ‘ which, of course, Edward would neither confirm nor deny but lined his tone like pavement you couldn't see. Paper rustles in his hands as he’s sat in one of their chairs, a journal he’s always kept on him, the sound maybe grating to the ear & maybe the only thing keeping his fidgeting hands sane. The reason he had it now was the same reason he was only allowed writing utensils ━ crayons sometimes, but usually finger paint ━ in his cell ; the inability to stop. He couldn’t help it, and wordplay was less of a crime in law than murder, so the sound of rustling pages was a grown tolerance.

“ Same as always. “ the answer he always gives, as if its obvious. it never was. 'the answer' could be multiple choice, rhetorical, an impulse on a whim for a thought that he ━ in all his pride ━ had manually dictated simply did not exist; the concept of worrying about one of his very few friends who, for the most part, showed slightly more restraint than a majority when it came to punching him in the jaw when he got smart with them was chief among them, actually, which also might've been why it felt the most plausible and least at the same time. This was the long way of implying that he wanted something from them ; or, of course, he just wanted to mock them when he heard trouble, in the way Eddie always hears

" Do you remember their face? I could find them. I've had nothing much else to do. Might be fun. " boredom. a pause, an addition; " Nothing bad. If you care. "

' which I know you do. '

   @quillheel​ :  “You got hurt, again? Again?” // from the riddler! dc verse! i think it’d be interesting if they were acquaintances to buddies while in the asylum bc they’re both one of the few people who haven’t been driven to violence being their default state while within its walls

   “shut up, i didn’t get hurt ‘again’.”

   they didn’t like the implication of his words, his tone. he could’ve genuinely worried about them, but it didn’t matter. since they’ve been out of the asylum they wanted barely anything to do with those who were in there; multiple times for repeated offenses.

   it’s like they’re unwilling to learn.

   ally didn’t want to become what most already assumed them to be.

   “someone just tried to rob the wrong person. failed, obviously.” a thumb brushes against their cheek, to clean the fresh blood from the small cut across their face. it’ll heal quickly. “…why are you even here anyways?”