icarusdescending7

[icarusdescending7]

"No, no, no, you have to believe me!!" Soap argues with Gaz. "He has a little fiancée who lives in a cottage with him! She planted flowers in his walkway! And she scolded him for crushing them when he was piss drunk!"

"Ghost doesn't even like flowers," Gaz sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as if this is the hundredth time he's heard this. Maybe it is, knowing Soap. "Not unless they're dead, I reckon."

"I swear it on me mum and me sisters!" Soap exclaims, raising his right hand as if swearing on the Bible. "She had a little bookcase under her telly, and embroidered throw pillows on the couches! With blankets softer than anythin' I have ever seen!"

"Enough!" Price grumbles, sitting up from his chair like a father who has heard enough bloody arguing. "Soap, stop making up stories. Gaz, stop instigating shit."

"No, no! Cap, you gotta believe me!" Soap begs. "She answered the door in a pink slip gown! She had paintings of flowers on her walls! With butterflies!"

"Oh, aye, and d'ya suppose she had curlers in her hair?" Price snorts. "I've been to Ghost's house, Soap. It has movie posters, pinup girls, and ashtrays. Nothing like what you're saying."

"How long ago was that?!" Soap exclaims, throwing his hands in the air.

"I'd say about two years ago," hums Price, scratching his beard thoughtfully.

Just then, Ghost walks into Price's office, where the boys had been idly chatting. Price offers him a cigarette, which Ghost refuses. "My lady asked me to stop smokin'," he grunts. "Started chewin' gum instead."

"Oh, right." Gaz tosses a crumpled sticky note at Ghost. "You and Soap are trying to play a prank on us, innit?"

"It's real!" Soap shouts, exasperated.

"What's real?" Ghost crosses his arms.

"The woman at your house! In the pink nightie with the pretty eyes and the flowers!" Soap points at him with an accusing finger. "Your fiancée."

Ghost just shrugs and makes a noncommittal noise. Price and Gaz are still looking at Soap like he needs to be locked up in an asylum.

"Johnny, I'm going to ask this gently," Gaz begins. "Are you bloody mental?! Makin' up a story like this?"

"It's not!" Soap whines. "She's real! She told me I could check on him the next morning after he got shite-faced at the bar!"

"She give you a kiss on the cheek too?" Gaz mock-pouts at Soap.

"She better not have," Ghost growls.

All three heads turn to look at him in unison, the argument falling silent. "What?" Price and Gaz ask while Soap leaps out of his chair.

"I fucking-! I fucking told you so!" he stammers. "Tell 'em, Ghost!"

Ghost shakes his head. "Keepin' her safe, Johnny. Not that you'd understand that."

Part I

Tags: @xylov, @just-lilita

[icarusdescending7]

Simon Riley x Reader | Clueless dad, onions.

Masterlist | Ao3 | Join my Discord!

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Simon!” You’d shouted from down the hall, the sound of your voice being dulled by your daughters screaming. “Simon, hurry up! Eveline’s turning blue!” You’d shouted, a bit desperate as you rush out of the nursery, little girl in your arms, towards the laundry room.

As you stepped in, the wailing got louder, Eveline setting eyes on her stuffy, being drowned in the sink next to the washer. You sighed as you deflated, trying your damned best to get her to calm down. “I know, Evie, just gotta wait a little bit longer, sweetheart.” You cooed, blowing on her face to try and make her breathe while she screamed her head off.

“M’ sorry, lovie, m’ trying not to throw up.” Simon winced, tucking his nose into his armpit as he scrubbed blowout stains from the bear. “Why is it so stinky?” He asked, gagging.

“I wasn’t the one who decided she needed onions in her diet.” You groaned, “How many years in the military, and you can’t handle baby poo?” You asked in turn, nudging him to take Eveline from you while you took over on scrubbing.

The moment she was in her dad’s arms, though, she settled, sniffling as her lip quivered and eyes narrowed in sadness while watching you scrub the last bit of stains from her bear. “Traitor.” You mumbled, a bit upset she would settle down for Simon, but not you.

He let out a sigh as she did, cradling her close and watching you. “Doc said she needs vitamin c…” He answered, “Figured a little onion wouldn’t hurt.” He said as he rubbed his face, wincing as the smell had permeated into his palm.

When you held up a still damp but now clean bear, he sighed, taking the thing. The sooner Eveline could take her nap, the better. Good thing she didn’t actually sleep with the bear, it just sat over her crib. “I’ll go put her down.” He yawned, turning to the hallway.

—

You flopped on the couch, laying back against the stiff pillows and stretching. Shortly after, Simon came and crushed you under him.

“Si… Si, you’re crushing me,” You squeezed out, pushing at his shoulder. “Move please.”

He sighed and sat up, readjust his position so that his head was on your stomach. “Better?”

“Much.”

“I have no clue what I’m doing.” He admitted after a moment, looking at the photo of the three of you on the wall. “I didn’t think fatherhood would be this tough.”

You laughed, fingers finding his hair, threading in to massage at his scalp. “Those classes you take not prepare you for your kid turning blue?” You asked, “I know mine didn’t. They only told me they might hold their breath until they pass out. Crazy stuff kids do, huh?”

“Yeah. They warned me about that, but not screaming until they were blue. Who would’ve thought babies were so loud?” He chuckled, yawning. “Could use a nap.” He mumbled, burying his face into the soft of your stomach, wrapping arms around your waist as if you were his favorite pillow.

“Yeah. Me too.” You yawned too, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over his back, then shifting a pillow under your head. “Discuss dinner later?” You asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Mhm.” He grumbled, snores sounding a few seconds later.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Simon is a girl dad whose daughter prefers him more, fight me. I feel like he would come up with the name Eveline. He seems like the kind of guy who likes old fashioned names.

Does this have a point? No. I thought it was cute tho.

[icarusdescending7]

Frothing at the mouth, kicking my furnitures vibrating in my place and going feral over aquamarine pt 6/pos

The angst is so delicious, I can’t wait to see how things will play out next!! (No pressure ofc, I’m just excited)

Wish you the best of luck <33

<3 thank you bb i’m glad you liked it

[icarusdescending7]

Motivation is a fickle thing, though I am looking forward for the next installation of aquamarine, I completely understand you needing time

This is your reminder that you’re incredible and your work is appreciated wether or not you chose to update.

Please don’t feel any pressure to do anything, take all the time you need. Whatever you choose to do forward, we completely understand

I know how awful burnout can be, how sometimes the guilt of not writing can get overwhelming. I wish you all the best and I hope this message can give you a little comfort in your struggles

You are completely valid and appreciated <33

Thank you anon. I love u ❤️ I’m trying to balance work and social and passion right now, so I’m struggling but I appreciate you and all the support I’ve gotten from everyone else.

[icarusdescending7]

you always looked fine to me

gym bro!simon x insecure!chubby!reader

ask

wc: 3k

a/n: omg anon this one hit close to home 🥺 literally whenever i go to the gym this is literally me so it was lowkey easy to write 🫶

You’ve been going to the gym for months now. Same time every evening. Same locker in the corner. Same oversized shirts and sweatpants, no matter how hot it gets. Not because you’re lazy. Not because you’re sloppy. But because every time you tried to wear something tighter—something even remotely flattering—you caught a look. A side-eye. A smirk. A whisper.

“If I looked like that, I wouldn’t wear that.”

That one stayed with you for weeks.

You didn’t even finish the set that day. Just left early and sat in your car with your heart in your throat.

Since then, it’s been full coverage. No skin. No curves. Nothing to point at or judge. Just baggy clothes, headphones in, and eyes on the floor.

Still, the comments find you sometimes. Not always mean. Sometimes fake-nice. Sometimes stupid little jokes you pretend not to hear.

“You’re here every day—where’s the progress?”

“Damn, it’s 90 degrees and she’s still dressed like it’s January.”

“Probably just here to feel better about eating later.”

You never react. That’s the worst part. You just lower your head and keep going, even when your face burns and your throat tightens. Even when it takes everything in you not to disappear.

But someone always notices.

And his name is Simon Riley.

He’s hard to miss. Built like a wall. Hood always up. Giant hands gripping weights like they’re nothing. People move when he walks by. Girls preen when he’s near. He never reacts. Never flirts back. Just keeps his eyes on whatever he’s doing and nods at people when they say hi.

He’s never said more than a few words to you.

A quick, “You done with this?”

Once, a low “Need a spot?” when you nearly dropped a barbell.

And one quiet, raspy “You alright?” when you accidentally wiped your eyes too hard after a whisper that hit too close.

But lately… something’s changed.

You feel his gaze sometimes. Not in a creepy way. Not like the others. But like he’s checking—watching. You’ll finish a set and look up and he’s already looking away. You’ll walk past and he’ll move slightly, like he’s clearing the way just for you.

One time you caught him staring after a squat set—your sweats riding low on your waist, your baggy tee damp with sweat—and his jaw clenched like he was holding something back. You told yourself you imagined it.

Until the night he actually waited.

You’d finished your workout, earbuds in, head down, already planning what you’d eat in secret later, and then—

“Hey.”

You turned. He was leaning against the front desk, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes on you like he had every right.

“Me?”

He nodded once. “You free Friday?”

Your throat closed. “Uh. Why?”

His lip twitched—just a hint of a smirk. “Thought you might wanna get food.”

You blinked. Stared. Tried to decide if this was some kind of joke.

“You’re asking me out?”

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. You nodded. “Okay. Sure. Yeah.”

He just nodded again, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Pick you up?”

You nodded again, stupid and flushed and already spiraling.

And now it’s Friday night. He’s on his way. You’ve changed clothes four times. Cried twice. You don’t own anything “hot girl cute.” You don’t even own jeans that make you feel good.

So when he knocks, you answer in your sweats and an oversized tee.

Still thinking maybe this was all a mistake.

And there he is.

Simon Riley. All 6’4 of gym-bro intimidation, in a plain black tee that fits him like a second skin, his arms crossed, hood down, eyes soft but unreadable. He glances down at you—at your flushed face, your bare collarbones, the baggy tee that probably looks ridiculous—and frowns just a little.

“You alright?” His voice is low, warm. The kind of voice that wraps around you without asking.

You nod. “Y-Yeah. I just—um. I couldn’t decide what to wear.”

His brow twitches. “So you picked nothing?”

You freeze.

“I mean—not nothing,” you say, tugging at your shirt, cheeks going hot. “I just… couldn’t find anything I felt good in.”

Simon tilts his head. His eyes sweep over you, quick but careful. “Can I come in?”

You hesitate. It’s messy. You’re a mess. But you step aside anyway.

He steps inside, boots heavy on the floor, and turns to look at you like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. “So that’s it?”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re just gonna tell me you couldn’t find anything,” he says, “and expect me to believe that’s why you were panicking behind the door?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “I wasn’t panicking—”

“You were.” His voice is so calm it makes your chest ache. “I heard you trip.”

You let out a weak laugh and hug your arms over your middle. “It’s dumb. I just—”

“You don’t feel good in anything.”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

He looks at you. Not with pity. Not with confusion. Just with this weird, heavy softness in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.

“You look good now,” he says simply.

You stare at him like he just said the sky’s purple.

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “I’ve seen you at the gym. You always look good.”

You laugh, but it comes out shaky. “Yeah, in my giant sweatpants and hoodie.”

“Exactly.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, steps a little closer. “Not even a bit. You think I’ve just been sitting there watching you squat for fun?”

You blink at him.

He smiles, faint and slow. “Okay, maybe a little for fun.”

“Simon—”

“I like how you look,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it. “And I like how you carry yourself. Even when people stare. Even when you keep your head down and pretend you don’t hear ’em. I notice.”

You swallow. Hard.

He doesn’t say it like it’s romantic. He says it like it’s true. Like he’s been thinking it for a while. Like it’s obvious.

Then he glances at your couch. “We’re staying in.”

“What?” you blink.

“Not letting you spiral over clothes for the rest of the night.” He moves past you and plops onto your couch, legs spread, one arm thrown over the back like it’s his now. “C’mon. I’ll even let you put on one of those dumb romcoms you pretend not to like.”

You can’t help it—you laugh. “You haven’t even seen my Netflix.”

“I’ve seen your hoodie rotation,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Don’t need to.”

You roll your eyes but feel a flutter in your chest.

He pats the cushion next to him. “C’mere.”

You hesitate.

“You’re not hiding,” he says, quieter now. “Not from me.”

You sit beside him, cross-legged, still hugging your arms like a shield. He’s warm beside you. Way too big for your couch, thigh pressing lightly against yours. It feels dangerous. Familiar. Safe.

“You seriously don’t think I look—” you start, then stop.

He turns to you. “Bad? No. Not once. Not ever.”

You look down. “I always feel like I have to prove something. Like if I’m not shrinking, people think I’m lazy or gross or… I don’t know.”

Simon shifts closer. “Fuck ’em.”

“Easy for you to say. You look like you were built in a lab.”

“Still insecure,” he says. “Still hate my reflection sometimes. Still overthink every time I talk to someone like you.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Like me?”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Yeah. You’re funny. And sweet. And every time I’ve seen you, you’re kind. Even when people are dicks.”

Your throat burns. “That’s not—”

He cuts you off gently. “I like you.”

You stare.

“You don’t have to say it back.” His voice is quiet now. “Just don’t sit there thinking you’re not worth being liked.”

You bite your lip. “I just never thought… someone like you would want to…”

“Someone like me?” he echoes, brow raised.

“You’re intimidating. Like. Hot intimidating.”

Simon snorts. “You ever seen yourself stretch after a lift?”

Your cheeks go nuclear. “Simon!”

“What?” he grins. “Not my fault you look good with your hair up and those little flushed cheeks—”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it easily, then tosses it aside and grabs your hand before you can look away.

His hand is so much bigger than yours. Warm. A little rough.

“You don’t have to be anyone else tonight,” he says. “Not for me.”

Your chest is tight. But it’s not painful. It’s full. Like he just cracked something open inside you, and now all the air’s rushing in.

You lean into him, just slightly.

He wraps his arm around you and pulls you in fully.

Your head fits against his chest like it’s been there before. Like it’s home. His other hand rests lightly on your knee, not moving, just grounding you there.

“Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t really want to watch a movie.”

“That’s alright,” he murmurs.

“I just want to sit here for a bit.”

“I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

And he means it. You can feel it in the way he holds you. The way he settles in, like this is all he wanted.

You exhale slowly, finally letting your body relax against him.

Maybe you’ll wear something cute next time.

Maybe you won’t.

But right now, you’re not thinking about how you look.

You’re just thinking about the weight of his arm, the way his fingers graze your wrist, and how good it feels to not hide—for once.

He notices.

He always has.

☆taglist☆

@poshestpigeon @avgdestitute @eremika104 @lostintransist @little-mini-me-world @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @h0lydrag0ns @trixilove257 @fertilise-me

[icarusdescending7]

i’m gunna post one shots until I have motivation to keep working on Aquamarine… It probably gonna be a mix of Graves, Ghost, and Soap.

[icarusdescending7]

[icarusdescending7]

"I know chatgpt is bad but you just don't really have any choice" you literally do. Don't use it. Have some moral backbone.

[icarusdescending7]

Simon Riley who falls in love with an absolute nerd.

Simon Riley who watches every movie and TV show you talk about so he can understand the things you love

Simon Riley who loves when you start nerding out about your favorite superheroes

Simon Riley who silently laughs at every single one of your references

Simon Riley who scours the internet to buy you gifts that he knows you'll love. Action figures, fun socks, t-shirts, posters, and whatever else he can find.

Simon Riley who cuddles you through every movie he watches with you.

Simon Riley who is so in love with you and your passions that it physically hurts his chest.

Simon Riley who looks up how expensive it is to get VIP tickets to Comic Con

Simon Riley who buys you said VIP tickets and takes you to meet all your favorite actors

Simon Riley who proposes to you in New Zealand where the Lord of the Rings was filmed

[icarusdescending7]

I wish I was Simon's secret wife they seem so cute

You are his wife! And it is very cute.

Look, you know you're supposed to talk about your husband like he's a big man, military lieutenant, special forces, skull faced and deadly. But... But he wears tiaras to play tea party with his daughter. He attends ballet recitals and knows the names of every step. He plays footie in the yard with his son, he shouts the kid's name at games, he grabs the now teenaged boy around the shoulders and tells him how proud he is even when his team loses. He falls asleep on the couch with the dog snoring on his lap, and he cuddles you as soon as you get in bed. The man is doting, he's attentive, he knows what it means to nearly lose his family and he's intent on making sure you know he loves you every second of every day, even when he's deployed.

You still find little plastic ducks hidden around the house, little hearts sharpied onto the bottom, Simon telling you he loves you from a million miles away. You find notes stuffed into coat pockets, tucked behind the fridge, hidden at the bottom of rarely used pots, things you'll only notice when he's away, when you decide to deep clean the house, when you get cold. Always telling you that Simon is thinking of you, always with a joke, always with a little heart penciled at the bottom. He's been doing this since year 11, and it still makes you smile.

When he's home you visit his mum, get together with Beth and Tommy, get your kids some play time with their cousins. Such a small family, but so full of love. Simon passes out in an armchair and only wakes up when someone mentions food.

You know you should talk about your husband the way other people do, but other people don't know Simon like you do. They don't know that he's a big softie under that mask. They don't know he's cute. Which is probably for the best, considering what he does for a living.

[icarusdescending7]

please 🥺

writers are creatures that feed on comments by the way. if you want more of your blorbo from them, give them lovely comments. they love that and will most likely give you more fics about your blorbo

[icarusdescending7]

"If you use em dash in your works, it makes them look AI generated. No real human uses em dash."

Imaging thinking actual human writers are Not Real because they use... professional writing in their works.

Imagine thinking millions of people who have been using em dash way before AI becomes a thing are all robots.

REBLOG IF YOU'RE A HUMAN AND YOU USE EM DASH

[icarusdescending7]

Aquamarine - Chapter 6

Ao3 | First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Your fiancé died seven years ago, and you joined the military in his wake to fill the void his death put on you. Now, you work with the 141 for an assignment, hunting associates of their enemies.

Their Lieutenant, however, given you an uneasy feeling. You have a vague sense of familiarity with him, but from where?

-☆-☆-☆-☆-☆-☆-

You woke up on the couch of the common room, blanket draped across your body as a cold, half-drunk cup of tea sat next to you. You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know it was late before you did. You looked at the clock, and saw the time, 8:30am, and sighed. It was way past when you normally woke up but thankfully it was your day off. No worries about getting scolded by Price.

You sat up with a groan, stretching your arms high above your head and sighing. You willed a glance around the room, but were quickly stopped by a crick in your neck sending stabbing pains through your back. You rubbed at your neck, continuing to look around. Your eyes landed on the door right as Soap walked in, two cups in hand.

“Morning,” He smiled, holding up a cup, “Got ye a coffee. Dinnae know how you like it so I left it black.” He said as he handed you the cup, taking a seat beside you on the armchair.

You sipped at the coffee, having to take a second to wince at the bitter taste. “Black is fine. Just bitter. Thanks.” You took another sip, “When did I pass out? I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

“Eh, about four, I’d say. You crashed when we decided to sit down to talk instead of at the counters.” He shrugged, taking a sip of his own drink. “Oh, but you did fall asleep on Ghosts shoulder. You might’ve thought he was a statue with how stiff he got.” He snickered.

“Huh.” You mumbled, recalling the nights memories. You and Ghost were having a nice conversation, swapping war stories and funny moments while Johnny occasionally butted in to correct a detail Ghost missed. But there was one thing you remembered more clearly than others. You told him a story about your life before the military, about a bad day you and your then boyfriend were having, nothing going right and ending with a failed bottle of wine making the two of you sick.

He became serious about everything, never saying more than a few words until he bored you to sleep. “Yeah. I bet so. Did you two make it back to your rooms okay, then?” You asked, clearing your throat.

“Yeah. We talked for a while after you fell asleep, only left after you toppled onto the couch.” He said, recalling everything that happened after that. “Ghost left in seconds after that, I was the one to throw that blanket over you.”

“Thanks.” You mumbled, looking away in thought.

~~

You found the next few days awkward. Ghost, ever true to his name now, made it a point to keep out of your way. When he was working with you, he would either do all of the work or none of it, never actually doing anything to help you or refusing to let you help. Sometimes he outright refused to show up.

Eventually, you got sick of it, if his treatment of you and his sudden change in behavior. You decided it was time to ask him why he was avoiding you now, more so than he ever had before. You managed to hunt him down, finding him in his office, an effective cornering tactic.

“Ghost, I need to talk to you,” You said sternly, “Now.”

He looked up from his computer screen, his eyes hard as he regarded you. “About what, Sergeant?” He asked, his voice was low, almost annoyed, and his shoulders were squared with tension.

You paused, eyes widening but not backing down. “I want to know why you’re avoiding me.” you huffed, crossing your arms, “Ever since we hung out a few nights ago, you’ve been acting weird. Like…” You floundered for words, “…Like you’re afraid of interacting with me or something. As if I’m a problem?” You looked at him as you finished, meeting his eyes before looking away, not quite brave enough to hold it.

He stared at you for a long time, making you shift from foot to foot nervously. Finally, he spoke. “Why would I be avoiding you?” He asked, “I think I interact with you plenty, do I not? I’m your Lieutenant, not your friend.”

His answer made you work your jaw. It was such an asshole answer, and he seemed to know it from the way he leaned forward on his desk. “Oh.” You said, your tone beginning to match his. “So, let me get this straight. You can be friends— mates, with Soap. But you can’t be buddies with me?” You asked, “What’s the fucking difference?”

He stayed quiet, mulling over her answer, his eyes narrowing and opening as he considered how to respond to that, if at all. “The difference,” He said slowly, “Is that our friendship is more than that. We’re… forged in blood and shared experience.” His head tilted.

What an insufferable answer. “Trauma. That is called a trauma bond, Ghost. I’m not dumb, I’m aware that you two have been through a lot of shit together.” You reworded his answer, “But with that logic, that our ranks separate us, you and Soap can’t be friend either.”

He closed his eyes and let out a low sigh. “Back off, sergeant. You’re on thin ice.” He warned, fists clenching against the table.

“Why? I thought we could be friends!” You shouted, “Yeah! I think you’re a bit fucking creepy, a bit of a freak, but shit… Ghost!” You sighed, looking at him with a look of frustration. “I though we could be friend—”

“Fine! It was a mistake on my end, Sergeant.” He said louder than you, hitting his open palm against the table. “I was being friendly with you because you look like someone I knew. Someone so far in my past I may as well not know them anymore! I was comfortable with them!” He took a deep breath. “But you’re not them. I realize that now.” He sighed, shoulders sagging as if a massive weight were removed from them.

He stayed silent for a moment, his jaw working as he thought. He shook his head. “No fucking wonder you’re single. That fiancé you mentioned, I’ll make a good bet that he’s not actually dead, just avoiding having to live with you. Do you ever stop to think? That maybe he realized he made a mistake? Wanting to marry you?” He said lowly, bitterness seeping into every venomous word, using your experiences against you. “You’re—” He growled, about to insult you more but bit his tongue. Instead, he sat up straight and pointed to the door. “Get out. You’re Price’s problem now.” He dismissed, already turning his attention away from you.

~~

Your room was dark as you sat on your bed, staring off into space.

His words didn’t just sting. They had teeth. it was only to fear of yours, comma that your Simon loved you in his death. But you could never give yourself a reason why he would do that. Your Simon, was a good, loving man… He did everything in his power to show that he loved you.

Right?

You sighed as you turned on your bedside lamp, standing to go to your closet and dig out a bottle or whatever alcohol you had left. However, you paused as you came to your dresser. The box of shattered glass and one small glass figurine and stood there.

That figurine wasn’t always there, was it?

It seemed familiar. It looked custom, a woman in a dress, dancing with a soldier. But you couldn’t place where you’d seen it before.

“Strange.” you muttered before moving towards your closet, finishing your mission to get a drink. Or several.

[icarusdescending7]

me wanting to write the fluffiest chapters but i need to get the angst out first

im seeing a lot of complaints that "no one writes fluff anymore >:/" from SUSPICIOUSLY fluff free accounts. like.... why arent YOU writing fluff?

[icarusdescending7]

in my case, several months 😓 BUT IM BOT USING AI F THAT NOISE

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

IT MAY TAKE ME A MONTH TO PUT OUT A CHAPTER BUT AT LEAST IM NOT USING AI TO WRITE IT

[icarusdescending7]

Wait that’s not common knowledge that the CoD franchise is propaganda?? I figured that out when I was a preteen with minimal literacy skills????

Y'all.

[icarusdescending7]

I really don’t care if I’m considered an annoying luddite forever, I will genuinely always hate AI and I’ll think less of you if you use it. ChatGPT, Generative AI, those AI chatbots - all of these things do nothing but rot your brain and make you pathetic in my eyes. In 2025? You’re completely reliant on a product owned by tech billionaires to think for you, write for you, inspire you, in 2025????

“Oh but I only use ___ for ideas/spellcheck/inspiration!!” I kinda don’t care? oh, you’re “only” outsourcing a major part of the creative process that would’ve made your craft unique to you. Writing and creating art has been one of the most intrinsically human activities since the dawn of time, as natural and central to our existence as the creation of the goddamn wheel, and sheer laziness and a culture of instant gratification and entitlement is making swathes of people feel not only justified in outsourcing it but ahead of the curve!!

And genuinely, what is the point of talking to an AI chatbot, since people looove to use my art for it and endlessly make excuses for it. RP exists. Fucking daydreaming exists. You want your favourite blorbo to sext you, there’s literally thousands of xreader fic out there. And if it isn’t, write it yourself! What does a computer’s best approximation of a fictional character do that a human author couldn’t do a thousand times better. Be at your beck and call, probably, but what kind of creative fulfilment is that? What scratch is that itching? What is it but an entirely cyclical ourobouros feeding into your own validation?

I mean, for Christ sakes there are people using ChatGPT as therapists now, lauding it for how it’s better than any human therapist out there because it “empathises”, and no one ever likes to bring up how ChatGPT very notably isn’t an accurate source of information, and often just one that lives for your approval. Bad habits? Eh, what are you talking about, ChatGPT told me it’s fine, because it’s entire existence is to keep you using it longer and facing any hard truths or encountering any real life hard times when it comes to your mental health journey would stop that!

I just don’t get it. Every single one of these people who use these shitty AIs have a favourite book or movie or song, and they are doing nothing by feeding into this hype but ensuring human originality and sincere passion will never be rewarded again. How cute! You turned that photo of you and your boyfriend into ghibli style. I bet Hayao Miyazaki, famously anti-war and pro-environmentalist who instills in all his movies a lifelong dedication to the idea that humanity’s strongest ally is always itself, is so happy that your request and millions of others probably dried up a small ocean’s worth of water, and is only stamping out opportunities for artists everywhere, who could’ve all grown up to be another Miyazaki. Thanks, guys. Great job all round.