#“just accept what's plainly stated”

[dmagedgoods]

Imagine the father you hate sends you a talking sex toy

It may be born from expecting some cunning and twisted games from devils (where is the fun, otherwise?), but to merely take Raphael's and Haarlep's relationship the very way it's presented without further thought appears like signing the line without reading the words to me. What they do there clearly has layers. Raphael is smart, he has to be for those contracts, the manipulations, and his little ambitious plan. Furthermore, it's essential for him to stay careful. He, more than anyone, should know not to trust Haarlep. And he most certainly is highly aware. Imagine you want to surpass your fiendish father and he gifts you a toy incubus. What would you do with them? I, at least, know what I would not do with this gift: Order it to take the form(s) of those I most desire (or, worse, cherish to a point) or even fuck it. Now, Raphael is a devil (with a strong human side, fight me, but still a devil): of course, he fucks Haarlep anyway and maybe not to appear ungrateful too (after all, you want Daddy to think you appreciate his gift or at least paint the surface-level impression of it). But he only fucks Haarlep in quite a special way, does he not? - In the one and only way that gives nothing away about him. Or at least it gives nothing away about him that his father (and anyone, really) doesn't already know (or is supposed to know): That Raphael has a very high opinion of himself. Maybe it's even an abstract little joke. I, for my part, see some dry humor in it: His daddy sends this shapeshifting, form stealing incubus spy to get some information on how to pressure his son, should it become a necessity. But all he gets from said incubus spy is the statement that his son only ever fucks himself. "Raphael only loves Raphael." That definitely is what I would want my incubus sex toy to report back to my detested father. (If I was a devil, mind you.) Now Raphael doesn't put that much effort into the act, it seems, but that's not truly necessary after all and only serves him further: I don't think he fancies Haarlep gossiping about his actual sexual preferences with Mephistopheles either. Ah, now maybe Haarlep and Raphael despise each other or maybe they developed a fondness for each other, I can picture both, but it stays true that Raphael doesn't seem like the kind of man who would willingly allow someone to gain an advantage over him by allowing personal information to spread to those he's determined to outsmart. Of course, I guess, it's also a possibility that this 1000+-years-old cambion truly only ever lazily bottoms for his father's incubus toy and only ever while it looks (more or less) like himself because that's all he wants in this regard. Maybe devils are immune to boredom. I, for my part, strongly assume it's a game with daddy dearest.

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru

TW: implied noncon, yandere

fem reader

The way Gojo Senpai is so obnoxious, he doesn’t understand his flirting is making you uncomfortable…

He seriously thinks he’s making you fall head over heels in love with him even when you give him nothing in return to make him think that. He just thinks you’re embarrassed and nervous, flustered by his attention, and that’s the reason you divert your gaze and bite your lip when he has you against the lockers, leaning on his hand with his shades gliding low on his nose—telling you that you have no shot becoming a sorcerer, but that you look too cute in the uniform not to give it your best try. 

“Don’t worry, just say my name, and I’ll come save you,” he’ll say. “You can be my personal assistant supervisor instead.” 

His game isn’t anything to brag about. It's more in line with bullying than flirting, but you pick up on the suggestiveness. That heated saccharine look within his blue eyes can only mean one thing if the way he plays with your hair isn’t enough of a hint already.

But his words are nothing short of derogatory, and all in all, he simply makes you feel gross—a sentiment you thought you put across, but it seems that having six eyes only makes you blind.

It takes Shoko telling him to leave the poor Kohai alone for him to finally understand that you don’t like him. And then he’s just confused and embarrassed.

And a tinge bit irritated.

Gojo knows for a fact he could make any girl want him. Even those who seem to hate him would melt if he gave them the same attention he’s been giving you. Any girl. He could have any girl, but he chose you. And you reject him?

No. He can’t accept that.

“Most girls would be grateful for my attention,” He states plainly after having tracked you down.

Your head snapped, jolting. “Gojo Senpai—” You dropped the mop in your hands with a clatter, having been deep in your own thoughts on classroom cleaning duty. You sighed as the scare settled, giving a breathy laugh, “You scared me—”

“Is that it?” he interrupted. “I scare you?”

You quirked a brow with a tilt of your head. “What?”

“Do I scare you?” he repeated, louder, posted on the threshold in a stance you’d never seen him in—stiff and squared, not his usual lazy laidbackness.

Confused, your eyes looked around as if searching for clues but came up emptyhanded, “Uhm, I don’t understand—”

“It’s a simple question,” he said, cutting you off again, this time with a step into the classroom. He talked slowly, cradling the next words, “Are you scared of me?”

Where it all came from, you hadn’t a clue. But then again, Gojo Senpai has always been rather strange. 

Were you scared of him? It’s not really something you’ve ever thought about. Sure, if you were to go one versus one with him, you’d probably piss yourself. But in a regular setting, you just found him to be as grating as the next person.

“I don’t think so?” you end up answering.

“Good. So what is it then?” His shades were low enough for his stare to skim over. Brighter than clear skies, and yet, somehow, so dark. “Why don’t you like me.”

Oh, so he’s figured it out on his own then. It’s about time. And thank fuck for it—saves you the trouble of breaking it to him yourself. Though you were still left with the unfair task of telling him why.

“Honestly, Gojo Senpai, I’m not, or well… you’re just not my type.”

Stick to the basics, is what you told yourself. There’s no need to drag this out.

“Yeah, I figured. I’m asking why,” he countered, in complete disagreement with your thought.

Still, you wanted to fight for it. “Does it really matter?”

“Yes.”

This conversation was the last thing you wanted, but it seemed the white-haired prodigy wouldn’t leave without having it.

“Well…” you started, still pondering. Maybe he’d appreciate the honesty? He’s a rather straightforward guy himself. “I mean, there’s no way you don’t already know this, but—” You picked up the broom again mid-sentence. “You’re really obnoxious.”

He took a small second before he scoffed, “So? No one else cares.”

It reminded you of arguing with someone half your age—the petty anger in an ill-thought-through comment slung at you as if it carried all the weight in the world. But what everyone else thought of him hadn’t anything to do with you—and even so, out of the people on campus, you’re certain you’re not the only one who finds his attitude unpleasant—they just don’t tell it to his face. 

You had half the mind to tell him to go get a grip, but he was still your Senpai.

“Good for you, I guess?” You weren’t really looking to fight with him, after all. “So you can flirt with literally anyone else then,” you dismiss him and go back to finish cleaning the classroom—glad to have put it all behind you. You were starting to fear he’d never leave you alone.

There’s a woosh, then the hard thunk of your back hitting the wall. Both your upper arms are gripped tight, pinned. When you open your eyes again after adjusting to the impact, you look straight up into the full view of two crisp comet blues.

“You’re mighty rude for a Kohai. You know that?”

Your head stings. You blink crookedly.

“Senpai—”

“Maybe I’ve misjudged you. D’you have anythin’ for show to back that attitude up?” It’s eerie how he says it in the same flirty fashion he would otherwise—even the look in his eyes are the same. But his grip tightens.

“I don’t want to fight—”

“No?” he cuts you off with a pout. “I could've sworn you were asking for it—all but begging for it a second ago.”

You whimper, cowering at the sudden bite in his voice.

“What’s the matter, huh? I thought you said you weren’t scared?”

Your voice comes out weak, “Please, Gojo Senpai, I—”

“Please?” he questions brightly, eyes stark and burning like a stovetop. “Yeah, that’s got a nicer ring to it—suits you better.” The smile that splits across his face is nothing short of unhinged. “But it’s not enough for me to let your disrespect slide.” He licks his lips, and a chill runs up your spine, feeling like caught prey. “Lucky you, I know exactly what price to put on it.”

His mouth devour yours the same way—pouncing like a beast would, with teeth more than lips, then a tongue. You whine as you twist—it’s more instinctive than deliberate when your knee shoots up into the unprotected space between his legs—right into that thing that was rubbing and rutting against you.

You make a run for it as he staggers back with a hiss, but you don’t make it farther than three measly steps before you’re bent over the closest desk.

His fist wrangles your hair, using it to shove you face-down against the wood—the weight of his body on top of your back with his voice raspy against your ear. “We could’ve left this with a kiss, but I don’t think it’s gonna be that easy now.”

Tears spill hotly in a panic, but no matter how much strength you put into lifting yourself up, you remain down. Sobbing, “Let go—help—”

He snickers with a hand under your skirt, spidering delicately up your thigh. “Who’re you callin’ for help, hm? I’m already here.”

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[tojipie]

prison bf series linked here !

hii ! not rly phone sex, but sex nonetheless. i’m rly loving this series <33 prison toji unboxing fic coming someday in the distant future.

content: nsfw + phone sex

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the sudden vibrations of your phone’s ringer rips you from the boundary between sleep and awareness. you groggily reach for the device from it’s place under your pillow, clicking the off button twice to end the call.

the number rings again, then a third time before you finally pick up, ready to tear into the poor soul on the other line. it’s a facetime call from an area code you don’t recognize, probably just a misdial if you’re lucky.

you hesitantly accept and tilt the camera towards the ceiling, shielding your face from the stranger.

“hello..?” you mumble sleepily, trying to get a good look at your phone without revealing too much of yourself. the person’s screen is grainy from the lack of light, probably calling you on an older model.

the stranger’s camera pans down, revealing familiar tufts of straight raven hair. toji stares up at you from his bunk, shirtless with the sheets bunched up to his chest.

“you too good to pick up the phone now?” he asks, clearly teasing. the inmate’s voice is quiet, coming out in choppy rivets as his dated microphone picks up what it can.

“toji!?” you whisper scream, sitting up to turn your beside lamp on. the additional light helps illuminate your figure better, you notice his eyes perk up at the clearer sight of you.

“mmmh, happy to see you babydoll.” he grins, leaning closer to get a good look at you. your eyes are puffy with the promise of rest, giving you that extra bought of softness he loves so much.

“oh shit, were you sleeping? m’ sorry.”

he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

“nono i’m awake.” you reassure the older man, taking in the sight of him laid out on the narrow cot. your boyfriend had aged since the beginning of his sentence, though you figure that’s not out of the ordinary for someone serving time. “how’d you even get a phone?”

“s’ a secret.” he muses, clearly finding the situation amusing. “i get to talk to my baby though, isn’t that nice?” he states plainly, shifting to prop his head up with his hand.

“it is, actually.” you mumble apologetically, feeling bad at your initial lack of a greeting. “m’ happy you called me.”

you pause, choosing your next words carefully “don’t you have bunkmates?” you wonder, searching the background for any signs of other men in the dark cell. the promise of being ratted out by a cell mate was one that wouldn’t end well for either of you.

“nah, lawyers said i’m too dangerous to be staying in D-block with everyone.” he states boredly, shifting again to lie on his back with a grunt.

“wh— are you serious?” you whine, already mulling over the countless conversations you’ve had with him regarding his nasty fighting habit.

“pfttt, no?” the inmate chuckles, throwing his head back with a hearty laugh. “last guy in the cell got out on wednesday, ‘s just me in here till’ my sentence is up.”

he stills, looking you up and down quickly.

"fuck." he grumbles, you look real pretty right now."

you sigh in relief, ignoring the compliment to continue grilling him. “so you’ve been getting along with people?” you ask, skill skeptical.

“you know—hah- how i am.” he tells you, clearing his throat before continuing. the screen begins to wobble a little, blurring his figure for a moment. “when have i —fuck- ever been out of line, huh? ”

“i think you were pretty out of line when you went to fucking jail.” you tease, pausing to analyze his hurried breaths on the other line.

“toji? do you feel ok?” you ask, wishing you were there to check up on him.

“yeah—mmgh- why? his camera starts to pan up shakily, phone slipping from his hand. the last of his facade shatters as a pleased groan rings out in the tiny cell.

“fuck.” he whines, “fuck— oh my god. you’re gonna make me fucking cum.”

“show me.” you command, finally piecing everything together.

the older man flips the camera and brings it right up to his hard cock, stroking it from the base up with vigor.

his tip is an angry pink, weeping milky precum down his shaft to glaze his knuckles. the sounds coming from your phone are absolutely filthy, a hot mix of pants, groans and expletives .

“oh my god.” you giggle, propping your phone up to watch better. “is that all for me?” the dips and hills of his abs jolt as he laughs.

“all for you.” he pants, bucking his hips up every time his fist meets his tip.

“is this why you called me?” you tease, watching his cock bob back and forth in his hand. the older man stops to thumb his slit, massaging milky pre into the tip before starting up again. “you just wanted to get off? didn’t wanna talk to me or nothing?”

“no—hah. i mean—.” he groans, clearly too out of it to answer. “fuck. fuck i’m close.”

you squeeze your legs together to quell the ache between your thighs, content to just watch him enjoy himself.

sharing a room with 4 other people means little to no time alone, that much you knew from your visits. it wasn’t rare for him to pitch a tent during your supervised phone calls, squeezing his cock behind a glass barrier while you gushed about your day.

a hearty groan knocks your train of thought loose as ropes of cum stream down his knuckles and onto the sheets. you watch in awe as he milks his dick, slapping it onto his stomach for the added simulation.

you wait until his breaths even out to speak, watching him grab a towel from off camera to clean himself up.

“feel better?” you ask, so badly wishing you were there to kiss him in the midst of his afterglow.

“so much better.” he sighs, shifting to lay on his side again.

“they definitely heard you. i mean those rooms don’t have doors right?”

“of course they fucking have doors.” he grumbles, clearly embarrassed at the thought of getting caught dick-in-hand.

“did you..” he trails off, rubbing his eyes with a soft yawn.

“too tired.” you state plainly, shifting the focus from your pleasure to his.

“i don’t deserve you.” he mumbles, dark eyes barely open.

“course you do baby.” you whisper. “you wanna head to bed? i’m coming up on thursday to visit.”

“you are?” the excitement in his voice is adorable.

“mhm, might even bring you a charger for that piece of shit burner you swiped.”

the jab earns you a booming laugh, lulling you back to the precipice of sleep.

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tag list ! <3 🏷️

@honeybee54321 @m150-50up @kuryoomi @t4naiis @serendippindots @sillyalo @levixbby @powerrwa

[emeryleewho]

I've noticed that people take writing advice way too literally and then get really mad about it, so here's a quick guide of what the typical "bad' writing advice is actually trying to tell you.

[Note: you don't have to take literally any piece of advice. It's just there for your consideration. If you hate it, leave it and do things the way you want. But the reason all of this advice is regurgitated so often is because it has helped a lot of people, so it's okay if it's not for you, but it may still be life changing for someone else.]

Write Every Day

"Write every day" is NOT supposed to be a prescriptivist, unbreakable rule that dictates anyone who doesn't write literally every day isn't a real writer. It's supposed to be a shorthand way of saying "establish a writing routine. Get used to writing at certain times or in certain places or in certain patterns, both so that you can trick yourself into writing even when you don't feel like it by recreating certain conditions, but also because if you only write "when you're in the mood", you may never get around to finishing a project and you likely won't be able to meet publishing deadlines if you decide to pursue publication."

The point of this advice is basically just to get used to seeing writing as part of your daily routine, something that you do regularly. But if you decide you can't write on Tuesdays or weekdays or any day when you have certain other activities, that's literally fine. Just try to make it a habit if you can.

2. Show Don't Tell

"Show don't tell" DOES NOT AND HAS NEVER meant "never state anything plainly and explicitly in the text". Again, "show don't tell" is a shorthand, and its intended message is "things tend to feel a lot more satisfying when your reader is able to come to that conclusion on their own rather than having the information given to them and being told they just have to accept it." It's about giving your reader the pieces to put the puzzle of your book together on their own rather than handing them a finished puzzle and saying "there. take it."

So if you have a character who's very short-tempered, it's typically more satisfying that you "show" them losing their cool a few times so that the reader can draw the conclusion on their own that this character is short-tempered rather than just saying "He was short-tempered". Oftentimes, readers don't want to take what you tell them at face value, so if you just state these sorts of details, readers will push back against that information. People are significantly more likely to believe literally any information they are able to draw conclusions on without being told what to believe, so that's where this advice comes in.

3. In Medias Res

This one is so often misunderstood. "In medias res" or "start in the middle", DOES NOT MEAN to literally start halfway through your plot. It also DOES NOT MEAN that you should start in the middle of an action packed scene. It just means that when you start your story, it should feel like the world and the characters already existed before we started following them. It shouldn't feel like everything was on pause and the world and characters only started acting the moment the story begins.

This is why starting with a character waking up or something similar can feel jarring and slow. We want to feel instantly compelled by your character, and the most efficient way to do that is [typically] to have them already doing something, but that something can be anything from taking a shower to commuting to school to chopping off a dragon head. We just want to feel like the story is already moving by the time we enter.

4. Shitty First Drafts

The idea that you should let your first draft suck and not revise it as you go is a tip presented to combat the struggle a lot of people have with not being able to finish a draft. If you find you've been working on the same first draft for five years and barely gotten anywhere, you might want to try this advice. The point is to just focus on getting to the ending because finishing a draft can give you renewed energy to work on the book and also makes it easier to get feedback from readers and friends.

That said, if your story is flowing fine even as you go back and make edits, then don't worry about this. This is advice specifically designed to target a problem. Likewise, this doesn't mean that you can't clean up typoes when you see them or even make minor edits if you want to. It just means not to let yourself get completely bogged down by making changes that you never move forward.

A "shitty first draft" also doesn't mean that your story has to be completely illegible. It just means that you shouldn't let perfectionism stop you yet. I see a lot of people say "well, I can't keep going until this first part makes sense", and that's totally reasonable! Again, the point of this advice is just to get you out of that rut that keeps you from making progress, but if you spend a couple weeks editing and then move on or you find the book is still making forward strides while you edit, then you're fine. You don't need this.

5. Adverbs

The idea that you "shouldn't use adverbs" DOES NOT MEAN that any time you use an adverb, you're ruining your story. It just means that you shouldn't *rely* on adverbs to carry your story, namely in places where stronger verbs or nouns would do a lot more heavy lifting.

For instance, you can write "she spoke quietly", but generally speaking, that "quietly" there is a lot weaker than just subbing out this clause for "she whispered". You probably have the word "spoke" all over your draft, so subbing out one instance of it here for a stronger verb in place of the same verb + an adverb makes for stronger prose. This doesn't mean that you'll never want to use the phrase "spoke quietly" over the word "whispered". For instance, if I write, "When she finally spoke, she spoke quietly, like that was all the volume her weakened lungs could muster." In this case, I'm using "spoke quietly" specifically *because* it echoes the previous spoke earlier in the sentence, and it evokes a certain level of emotion to have that repetition there. I also used it because she's not actually "whispering", but trying to speak at full volume only to come off sounding quiet.

So when people tell you to cut adverbs, they're saying this because people often use adverbs as a crutch to avoid having to seek out stronger verbs. If you're using your adverbs intentionally, having considered stronger verbs but ultimately deciding that this adverb is what does the job properly, then there's nothing wrong with using them. This is just a trick to help you spot one common weakness in prose that a lot of authors don't even realize they have.

6. Write What You Know

This is potentially the single worst-underestood piece of writing advice. "Write what you know" DOES NOT MEAN to write only what you know or that you have to put all of your life's knowledge on the page. It just means that drawing from your own experiences and already there knowledge will help you craft a better story.

So, for instance, being an eye doctor doesn't mean you have to write a story about an eye doctor. It doesn't even mean you need to write a story that directly deals with any eye knowledge. It just means that there are likely things you've experience as an eye doctor that can help inspire or inform your story. Maybe you remember a patient who always wore the same yellow shoes, and so you include a character who does exactly that. Maybe you spent a lot of hours dealing with insurance so you decide to write about insurance agents. Maybe your practice was located next to a grocery store so you decide to write a zombie apocalypse story that takes place in a location inspired by that shopping center.

The point is that, as people, our lived experiences allow us to relate to other people and craft more believable worlds. So don't limit yourself to your lived or experience or feel obligated to only write the things you've done, but when you find yourself wondering what to write about next or how to give a character more depth or how to describe this random location, pull things from your life and let what you already know bring a certain level of unique you-ness to your writing.

And the MOST important advice I can give you is to stop looking at writing advice as some holy, unbreakable rules passed down by the gods that you cannot ever deviate from. And if a piece of advice sounds totally bonkers, do some research on it. There's a good chance that whoever's passing it to you has no idea what they're talking about. But even if every other writer swears by a certain piece of advice, you absolutely do not need to take it. Try it on if you want, and throw it away if you don't, but stop making yourselves miserable by letting random internet people dictate your life. Most people giving advice on the internet aren't where you want to be anyway, so don't expect them to be able to guide you somewhere they've never been.

Everything's made up, and nothing matters. Write what you want.

[dduane]

Hi Diane!!

You answered an ask just recently wherein you talked about how the Writer Brain often is continually working "behind the scenes" in ways that don't necessarily manifest as words on a page. As someone in the midst of two year (and counting) writing hiatus, this was such a helpful reminder. I'm becoming a mature enough writer to recognize when I'm simply too exhausted to enjoy the the fun parts of writing, and to trust that the magic will come back when I'm ready for it.

The very next day, because OF COURSE it was the very next day, you won't be surprised to hear I had a revelation. I was playing a video game that has nothing to do with anything in my writing world, when a full and complete fix to a plot problem I *hadn't even realized I'd been having* hit me like a truck.

It was a beautiful moment. The whole third act outline changed into something emotionally coherent. And my guess, based on paying attention to your writing advice for some time now, is that my brain was secretly working on this plan the whole time. Even without going near a keyboard for ages. Maybe even while I was at work, or parenting, or sleeping.

That it happened during a moment of relaxation can't be a coincidence. I'm still not ready to return to writing, but when I am I'll have a reliable outline to work with, as well as a good deal of renewed excitement.

Thank you for sharing your experience with us so freely! We are so lucky to count you as a member of our community on this hellsite (affectionate). Thanks for being here :)

For whatever help I may have been—because you and your brain are plainly managing this perfectly well—you're absolutely more than welcome. :)

A continuing difficulty for a lot of writers these days, old or new, is that many of us are embedded in cultural matrices that insist that if something's not working, you should immediately do something about it to fix it. The pressure to Do Something about whatever's not functioning is incessant. (Just look around, for examples close to home, at all the advice on dealing with writer's block. Do this! Do that! Don't do this, do something else!... ad infinitum.) There's not a lot of acceptance of or even interest in advice that centers the idea of not doing anything: of, in fact, consciously and deliberately, doing nothing.

It's a problem, because such cultural mindsets too routinely come to equate any form of "doing nothing"—even simply resting, ffs—as a form of failure. You gave up, you stopped fighting back, you surrendered, you're a loser! ...And people stuck in this way of thinking, even if they briefly try relaxing and letting go, tend to abandon it too quickly, well before it has a chance to work. Then they wander off muttering about how relaxation is a waste of time, they just need to work harder, fight more, keep banging their head into that wall until the wall gives...!

(sigh) It's frustrating to watch... and to be caught in. Don't think I don't occasionally stumble over/into this old calcified mindset myself, and have to remind myself to step back, sit still, be quiet and wait. Or to just go do something else, something as non-writing-adjacent as possible, for short periods. (It would profoundly embarrass me to have to admit how many useful realizations I've had while standing over the sink and doing the dishes. It's a lot more congenial when these insights arrive while cooking: but you don't get to pick and choose.) :)

Also: the realization that this solution happened for you while doing something recreational is extremely useful. Because the word can sometimes mean re-creation literally, as a refreshment or restoration of a malfunctioning, injured, worn-down or dog-tired mental or creative state. Which is why we need play... and the older and more "adult" we get, the more we need it. We need, literally, to recreate ourselves.

So just keep doing what you're doing. Or not-doing what you're not-doing. (snicker: this is veering toward the somewhat Zen.) Whatever: keep it up. :)

[reevesdriver]

Over the Knee (NSFW)

Summary: John Dutton does not like being teased, much less by a woman half his age so when you disrespect him on his own land he has to take matters into his own hands, literally.

Requested by: @fdupdaydream 😏😏 (Sorry it took so long girl but thanks for your patience)

Word count: 1782

Character(s): John Dutton

Reader: Female reader

Warning(s): NSFW / 🔥🔥🔥 / Smut / Unprotected Sex / Daddy kink / Spanking / Brat reader / Outdoor sex /

Support me: Kofi

When Rip hired Teeter she had one condition, he had to hire you too. Much to his slight annoyance at hiring more ranch hands than he deemed necessary his judgement quickly changed when he saw you astride one of the wild horses John had asked him to tame some weeks ago.

"Told you she was good." Teeter said, a proud tone in her voice.

You hadn't expected to be given the job helping with taming the horses though you weren't exactly going to turn it down. You'd heard enough about the famous John Dutton to willingly accept spending months to years at his ranch regardless of your young age. Being in your mid twenties John was hesitant at allowing you to stay on his ranch but when Rip boasted about your performance with the wild horses John watched you with eager eyes.

"He's gonna kick you Jimmy." You said, watching the stallion buck. Within seconds the man was bent over in pain after the horses hoof collided with his stomach. "What did I just say." You throw your hands up in defeat.

"That'll teach you for tryna outsmart the horse tamer." Lloyd laughed before jumping over the fence to help Jimmy up. Meanwhile you'd already crossed the paddock and had a hold of the bridle trying to keep the horse still as Jimmy limped away.

As you pet the stallion along his neck John had made his way from his house down to the paddocks so he could find out what the shouting was. "Horse kicked Jimmy." Rip stated plainly when John approached him.

"Is he alright?"

"Think his pride is hurt more than anything." He replied and John laughed.

"I want to borrow her for a few hours if that's alright? Got some horses near the woods that Kayce thinks are worth taming, want to get her opinion on them."

"That's fine with me sir but you'll have to ask her." Rip replies then whistles in your direction. You were sat atop the saddle of the 'untameable horse', as Jimmy called him, and chatted to Teeter and Lloyd. When you look to Rip he motions you over with a wave and you quickly get the horse trotting to the other side of the paddock.

"Rip, Mr Dutton, how can I help?" You ask politely.

"Got a job for you." John says. "Need to borrow your expertise for a few hours."

"Sure thing, let me put this big guy back and I'll be all yours."

"Leave him, Jimmy can do it." Rip says stopping you. "Hey Jimmy, come put this horse away."

You laugh as Jimmys face drops when you dismount. Hopping over the fence you walk with John to his truck where he opens the passenger side door for you. "I don't need to grab anything from the bunkhouse do I?" You ask and climb up into the raised truck.

"No, we'll be there and back in a few hours, not unless there's anything you want to bring?"

"Nope, got everything I need." You reply and buckle your seatbelt when John closes the door, rounds the truck, and climbs into the drivers side. The drive down the main road from the Ranch was quiet for a few minutes until John spoke up. "You like working at the ranch?" He asks, tilting his head to you.

"I'm not really gonna say no when I'm in a car with the boss am I?" You laugh and he smiles.

"You can be honest with me darlin."

"Ooo darlin'." You repeat in a mocking tone. "Careful John you'll have people talking."

"Doubt it, I'm old enough to be your daddy." He says making you smirk.

"Mhmm Daddy." You say barely above a whisper with a smirk on your face which doesn't go unnoticed by John. He may be an older man but he heard what you said.

The truck fell into silence as you looked out of the window at the passing fields and trees, the radio played a quiet country song that lulled into another. John pulled down a dirt road and slowed to a stop putting the hand break on and turning off the ignition. "We're here." He said in the usual gruff tone and you slid your seatbelt off before jumping down from the truck.

You walk by his side to a gated portion of land where a few horses are galloping around near a tent. They stop and eye you quizzically before returning to run with one another. "I take it this is why you wanted me?" You say putting two and two together.

"Yeah, Kayce thinks they might be worth training but I want your opinion on them before we waste any time catching them." He opens the gate as he replies and ushers you through before shutting it behind him. You carefully walk onto the land trying not to scare the mare and her foal that has broken away from the small herd.

As you approach the mare with an open palm John heads to the small camp and takes a seat next to the un-lit fire. The foal walks up to you, it must be at least a month or two old and even though it hasn't had any human interaction, that you know of a least, it willingly walks past its mother and straight to you. You watch the mare with a nervous gaze incase she decides to charge as you pet her foal though after a minute or so she seems to be comfortable with your presence and approaches you too.

"That's a good girl." You say moving from petting the foal to its mother. You quickly look her over taking note of a few scratches on her legs that are poking out under the dirt and debris that had gathered from running in the fields and forests. She's toned but a little slimmer than normal and from the brief interaction she seems like a fairly easy horse to tame.

You stop petting her so you can join John at the camp. She turns with her foal and trots off down the field. "What do you think of her?" John asks as you approach the, now-lit, fire. You sit down in the little camping chair that's opposite. "I'd say she's worth taming, she looks strong but she needs fattening up a little more, same with that foal too."

"I'll let Kayce know when we get back, no reception out here. You want a drink?" He says motioning to the bottle oh Whiskey in his hand. You nodded and stood up, rounded the fire and joined him on the laid-out blanket that he was sat on. "Hold on, are you even old enough to drink?"

You laugh. "Yes I'm old enough now hand it over old man."

You reach for the bottle but he pulls it just out of range. "Enough with the old man, say it again and I'll have to take you over my knee." His voice is low and laced with a tinge of anger.

"Don't threaten me with a good time Mr Dutton." You say testing the waters. John was a very handsome man, everyone could see that and eve though he was double your age, if not more you were still heavily attracted to him. The way his large hands flexed against the reigns, how his presence alone changed the atmosphere in a room and his voice, that damn deep voice that massaged your ear drums every time he spoke drove you mad. "I doubt you'd be able to teach me a lesson, I am quite the handful...old man." You speak the last two words barely above a whisper.

You see the fire ignite in Johns eyes, dropping the bottle of Whiskey he grabs your wrist and pulls you across his lap. Lifting a leg from under you he rests his thigh against your lower back keeping you pinned down with your ass in the air. Before you can protest John raises his hand and slaps his heavy palm against your clothed asscheek. The denim offered no cushioning whatsoever as his hand collided with your backside three more times until John paused.

A moan had slipped from your lips when his hand connected with the curve of your ass for the fourth time. "You getting off on this?" He asks but doesn't need you to reply, he already knows the answer from the way you're squirming under his thigh, trying to grind your pussy over his knee in an attempt to cum.

In one switch motion John moves so he is behind you. He's about to speak out a command until he sees your hands move underneath you. You undo your belt and unbutton your jeans and John takes it from there. He pulls the clothes past your ass and down your thighs until they rest at the backs of your knees then he quickly works to undo his own jeans. As he fumbles with the buckle of his belt he looks around making sure that no-one is nearby and frees his hard cock.

Giving it a few tugs for good measure John lines himself up with your pussy and starts to slowly push in, relishing the way your cum coats his head and lubricates the shaft as he pushes deep inside until fully sheathed. "Fuck John, so good." You mumble. It had been months since you'd last got your leg over someone. Things had gotten a little hot and heavy in the bunkhouse with Ryan but that was quickly shut down when Lloyd and Rip entered drunk one night and you had to do a quick shuffle of shame to your own bunk.

But right now in this moment it didn't matter if you had fucked someone an hour prior, the way Johns cock filled your cunt was something that you'd never felt before. Your pussy felt like it was made just for him, it fit perfectly around his shaft as he pounded you into the blanket, his palm connecting with your bare ass every few seconds as he aimed to make both cheeks dark red.

Your walls squeeze around his cock as you cum. "That's it baby, cum for daddy." His voice is low but commanding as your thighs shake. After a few more thrusts John is pumping his seed deep inside of you, his thumbs dig into the deep red marks on your cheeks.

Coming down from your high you try to raise up from the blanket. "Fuck." You say in a whimpered tone. "I won't ever call you old man again." You rub at your ass cheeks and John laughs.

"At least you've learnt your lesson darlin'."

[poppitron360]

“You wanna know the truth, Jason? You wanna know what I’m hiding?” Leo cried.

“Yes! Yes, I really do!” Jason replied, defiantly.

“Fine. Okay then.”

Leo took a deep breath.

“Tomorrow night, I will face Gaea. And I will die.”

The certainty of his voice was absolute. The look on his face clear. It was finalised. There was no way around it.

And that broke Jason’s heart.

He pleaded. It was useless, but he pleaded anyway. Leo knew what had to be done, and Jason did too. Still, he pleaded.

“Jason, it has to be this way. To Storm or Fire.”

“No.” Jason said, simply. His determination was futile, and he knew it. “Leo, I’m not letting you die for me!”

And Leo just shrugged and said, with a tone so causal and unbothered you’d think he was just stating the weather:

“People have died for less.”

Jason just crumpled to the ground. Leo’s calmness, his utter acceptance of what had to happen as fact- that was what cut so deep. It was like Leo didn’t value his life at all, that he’d throw it away so casually, when Jason would do anything to keep it. He needed that life so much. He treasured it, it meant everything to him, but Leo was prepared to give it up so easily. Couldn’t he see how important it was? How precious? Leo was acting like that life was just a piece of scrap metal- an old machine to be tossed. But Leo never tossed his machines, he always had faith in them, never gave up on them. Leo was treating his robots with more care and respect and worth than his own very life. Jason just couldn’t understand why Leo couldn’t see how much value it really had.

Leo crouched down next to Jason’s sobbing body.

“Hey… look on the bright side, okay? It could be a lot worse for me. I mean… growing up… I used to think I’d end up dead in a ditch, with nothing and no-one. Now… I’ll be surrounded by friends, I’ll be content knowing that I did it for them, knowing that I’d done something decent of once, accomplished so much, and saved so many lives. Can you just be happy for me?”

He wiped a tear off of Jason’s cheek with his grimy thumb, and gently lifted Jason’s chin so that he’d face him.

“Can we focus on the positives? Please?”

Jason saw it in Leo’s eyes. He was begging. He needed this.

“But… but Leo…“

“I can’t lose you Jason,” Leo said, “I can’t let it be you, I just can’t. And the quicker you can accept that, the quicker you can learn to be happy for me. Because I would be happy, knowing that you’re in this world, and you’re living on. That’s what matters to me. So I need you to do that. I need you to live, and be happy. Can you do that for me?”

Jason looked down, but Leo tilted his head back up again. His busy brown eyes scanned Jason’s face, searching… hoping…

“Please... Please, Jason… I need you to do this for me. I’m not asking for much. I would die content if I just know… can you be happy for me?”

“Leo… I can’t let you do this…” Jason muttered weakly. He knew he was fighting a useless battle, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try. If he didn’t try everything to save his everything.

Leo rose to his feet, looking down at Jason. “Do you want me to die unhappy, Jason? Do you want be to be unfulfilled? I need you to promise me… that you can move on. Because I’m doing this. Either way, I’m doing this. You can’t do anything to stop me, so the best thing you can do is just accept right away. Tomorrow, I will face Gaea. And I will die. And if you can accept that, I will die happy. That’s the best thing you can do to help me.”

Jason couldn’t believe it. Leo was asking Jason to be happy with his plan to end his own life. How could he? How could Jason possibly live without Leo?

“How can you ask such a thing?” Jason roared, rising to face Leo, “How can you seriously ask me to let you do that? How can you expect me to accept that my best friend is giving up his life for- for-“

“You would do the same for me,” Leo stated, plainly, “You would do it in a heartbeat. And you would’t let me stop you.”

“Exactly!” Jason yelled, “Let it be me, Leo. I can’t- I can’t lose you!”

“Please, Jason, don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“I c-can’t, Leo. I-I c-can’t let you… I ca-can’t lose you…” He placed a hand over Leo’s heart, and felt the pulse throb beneath his skin. He could not allow that heart to stop beating, “It has to be me. You said it yourself- to storm or f-fire. I’ll do it.”

Leo shook his head, and gave a slight chuckle in disbelief, “You have so much to live for, Jason. You have Piper to take care of- not that she needs it, but still. You gotta build all those temples in New Rome. You gotta show Frank the ropes of Praetorship, make sure your legion is being looked after. You’ve got duties and responsibilities. People need you, Jason. You’re much too valuable to go.”

“You’re saying that like you’re not!” Jason cried.

“Hephaestus cabin will get a new counsellor. My machines will be re-used. And I’ve programmed Festus to go rescue Calypso once… once it happens. My family… my blood relatives… they won’t care. Life moves on, and I won’t be needed anymore.”

“But what about me?” Jason whimpered, his voice the same pitch and register of a crying infant, “I need you, Leo. I need you. You… you can’t go.”

"I have to,” Leo said, his voice gentle, but firm.

Jason knew it was hopeless. He knew that Leo was right, that his mind was set, and there was no changing it. Jason wanted Leo to be alive, but what he wanted more than anything was for Leo to be happy. And if accepting his death was what he had to do… Jason didn’t like it. He wanted to protest, to shout, to scream, to beg on his knees. It wouldn’t have been very Praetor-like of him; Jason no longer cared. The only thing that mattered was Leo. But he knew. With a sinking heart, he knew that he would only be causing Leo more pain if he stopped him from doing what he needed to do.

He searched Leo’s eyes. He loved those eyes, so deep and bright and busy- chocolate-brown, rich and warm. He’d always tried to count the emotions in them as they flashed past like speeding cars. He watched now, and counted desperation, panic, melancholy, concern, peace, worry, fear. He could see that lying underneath it all. Leo was terrified. Terrified that he’d leave this world, knowing that Jason would be unhappy. Terrified that he was doing the wrong thing. Terrified that Jason might refuse his request.

Oh Leo… I could never refuse anything to you.

It killed Jason to do so, but he nodded. “Okay.”

He held Leo tightly in his arms, “I don’t want to… but… okay. If it’s wh-what you have to d-do, then… okay.”

“Oh, Jason…” Leo sighed, placing a hand on Jason’s tear-stained cheek, “Nothing lasts forever. My dad told me that once. Nothing lasts forever-

“Not even the best machines,” Jason recited. He broke down with fresh tears, his head cupped in Leo’s hands. “L-let me stay with you, at least… Please, Leo,” he begged, “Tonight- let me stay with you. I-I don’t want you to be alone.”

They curled up on the cool metal floor of the engine room. Jason held Leo, and stared into his eyes. He scanned his face, as if trying to commit it to memory.

“L-Leo…” Jason tried to search for the words to express how much the precious life he was holding in his arms meant to him. He wanted to celebrate the wonderful thing, in all its brilliance and accomplishment. In sixteen years, Leo had done more, suffered more, overcome more, and lived more than most people do in six lifetimes. What Leo saw as broken, and disposable, Jason saw as beautiful. Leo had taken the crappy cards he’d been dealt in life, and he’d made them into a weird and wonderfully messy sculpture. Jason held it, tight, and treasured it with all his heart.

“I-I…” was all he could manage.

“I know, Jason.” Leo said in response. And Jason could tell that he really did.

“What are you gonna do… when you get to Elysium?” Jason asked, trying to keep what little conversation he could make going. Trying to hear Leo’s voice, so that he could remember it. Keep it. Memorise the weird vocal inflections, the pace of the syllables, the way he’d dip in and out of different accents from places he’d been over the years, the way his hispanic accent would seep through the cracks, enriching his words with warm tones. The way he’d slip into a southern drool when he was relaxed. Jason wanted to take it and frame it, so he’d never forget it.

“I’ll see Mom again,” Leo said, his voice small, “I’ll tell her everything about you guys. About our adventures. I’ll tell her I��m sorry-“

“Leo-“

“I know.” Leo said, “I’ll still tell her. If she’s there, I’ll tell her.”

Jason looked at Leo sadly. Even after all these years, Leo still thought mother’s death was his fault. Jason knew that the remorse and regret drove him to feel this worthlessness. He worried that part of the reason Leo was sacrificing himself was to punish himself for what happened.

“I’ll finally avenge her. Tomorrow, I mean.”

It sounded like he was talking about Gaea. Jason hoped that was all he meant.

“But I might finally see her, talk to her. I could get closure for what happened. I can’t wait, Jason! I could see my mom again!” He looked up at Jason, and Jason saw giddiness poke through in the fast flash of emotions.

He could tell Leo had sensed that Jason needed him to keep talking. “And when I get to Elysium… if I get to Elysium…” Leo sighed, “I’ll wait. For you. And the others. Take your time, though. No rush. I’ll be there… I’ll wait for you.

“Oh, Leo…”

“It’s okay, Jason. Really. I’ll wait. And, in the meantime… I’ll enjoy paradise. You don’t have to worry about me. Boy, I’m exited now.”

They were silent for a while. Jason listening to the rhythmic beat of the engine room, and the drum of Leo’s heartbeat. He tried to keep his breathing steady.

“… Jason?” Leo whispered into the throbbing room.

“Yeah?”

“Are you happy?”

Jason didn’t answer.

“Try to be happy, Jason. Please? Please don’t be sad, at least.”

“Leo?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you happy?”

Leo closed his eyes, and made a face like he was fighting back tears. He lay there, slowing his breathing for a few seconds. Then he spoke. “Goodbyes are hard. They always are. But it’s not forever. It’s never forever. I’ll wait for you,” He looked up into his eyes, “Everything goes eventually, Jason. But… I’d rather go out like this, knowing that I did it for my friends, than go out any other way. And at least I’ll be going out in style. This… this is what I want. And it’ll be hard. I’m not pretending it’s easy. But I couldn’t ask for it to be more perfect. So… yeah. I’m happy. I am.”

Jason took a heavy breath, “Then, yeah… I’m happy, too.”

Leo smiled, “Now, get some sleep, Sparky. Big day tomorrow.”

——————————————————

Selecting what bits of canon I want like it’s a character-creation menu.

Leo tells Jason about his plan. There is no physician’s cure, or at least there’s little chance it might work. Or maybe there is, but it’s irrelevant- Leo is still making that choice to die. Also Valgrace.

@lavenderfairiez @keefessketchbook @sleepyycapybara @imnoturfriend-im-a-swiftie13 @euryvices @ottpopfic

[citrusandcyanide]

Can't Lose You | L.G.

Part 2

Pairing: Lip Gallagher x f!Reader

an. Okay this part is a lot shorter than I expected just cause I think it was a good place to end the scene. I got more coming, but this had to stand on its own. I forgot to mention in the last part that I changed Lips college to UChicago instead of Chicago Polytechnic. Also Thank you for the kind messages and reblogs!!! They really motivate me to write and put out chapters quicker. Thank you for the love <3333

Synopsis. Lip doesn't want to go to college unlike his best friend who has her mind set on leaving Chicago and her feelings for Lip behind. Lip won't let her leave so easily.

words. 1.2k

Warnings. Drinking. angst, swearing. idk clutch your pearls.

Part 1 Part 3 (Final)

“Berkeley…” Lip said as he held the acceptance letter in his hand. “California.” 

“Cali-fucking-fornia,” You said with a grin, giggling a bit from the beers. You had gone through more than a few. You were tipping over the edge of tipsy. Lip was going at a much slower pace. You were laying down on his bed while he was sitting on the edge of it. His eyes kept scanning over the paper. His expression was bare. You were too gone to care what he was thinking. “I fucking did it. I’m fucking out of here. All that work, fuck… I was hoping it would do something but I didn’t think it would.I got in. to BERKELEY. THE UC BERKELEY.”

“I’m proud of you, kid,” Lip applauded, but his voice didn’t show any enthusiasm . You stood up to grab the letter from him. Only then did you notice his clenched jaw and dissociated expression. You stared at him until he looked over. He straightened his back and handed you the letter. “I’m sorry it’s just far.” 

“Yeah that’s the point: Far. Away. Not here,” You replied, rolling your eyes. You knew he would do this, but you thought he would at least try and pretend to be happy for you. This was all you had been wanting, a life outside of Chicago. But he couldn’t bring himself to entertain the idea for a moment. He wasn’t going to let you leave easy. 

“What about the, uh–what’s it called? The institute. ISA something,” Lip asked. You interrupted him briefly to correct him before he continued.  “That’s a perfectly good option.” 

“Why? I told you I don’t want to stay here,” You sighed and fixed your position on the bed so you were fully facing him. 

“Yeah but is it really that bad here? It’s not sunshine and rainbows but it’s fine. It’s not like Berkeley is gonna be any different,” He said, looking at you fully. There was something behind his eyes you couldn’t quite place. Like a part of him was offended you wanted to leave. You didn’t like it. 

“There isn’t anything left for me here.” The excitement left your voice. You stated it plainly. It was a fact. There wasn’t. Lip wasn’t yours. Lip had never been and never would be. You had no other attachment to Chicago than him. You waited long enough for something that wouldn’t happen. Lip scoffed. 

“We’re here. Our friendship, us,” Lip said, pain evident in his voice. He was taking it personally that you were ignoring the fact he was here. He didn’t realize he was exactly the reason you needed to leave. “Is it selfish of me to say that I don’t want you to leave me behind?”

“You have your own ticket out. You are personally capable of leaving on your own,” You quickly replied. It hurt you having to justify your reason for leaving to your best friend when he’s known how important it’s meant for you this whole time. He couldn’t be happy for you for a moment without thinking of what it meant for himself and his life. 

“I’m not going to fucking Boston,” He replied offended, shaking his head in disgust. 

“There’s nothing keeping you here. That’s your choice,” You argued back. You weren’t going to let him paint himself out to be the victim. He had equal the chance to leave Chicago behind and start something good for himself. You wanted that for him. You desperately wanted to see him succeed and find happiness outside of what your current life had to offer. He just couldnt see the same for you.

“You’re keeping me here. We– Us,” Lip turned fully to face you. His eyes pierced deep into yours. It didn’t sound like an excuse. He said it and you could tell he actually believed it. It was the first time in years that he was admitting that a part of him needs you in his life. He cared about having you with him. He cared that you grew up together. That you were his other half, but it was delusional to believe the two of you hadn’t been growing apart. And whatever this is was a plea to hold on to what was left. 

“Stop repeating that as if it was a thing. There hasn’t been an us in years,” Your voice was stern. 

“But there can be. Me at UChicago, you at SAIC. a few miles away from eachother,” Lip put a hand on your knee. “I haven’t been fair to you or your feelings and I know what I said before but not having you here is so much worse—” 

“Don’t bring my feelings into this.” You winced. You shut your eyes in an attempt to control your emotions. 

“It’s not just yours,” He argued. 

“Stop.” You kept your eyes closed. 

“They’re mine too.” You felt the bed move under you as he inched closer to where you were sitting. 

“Stop.” 

 “I love you–” You cut him off before he could finish. 

“Don’t say that. You don’t want me. I know how this will go,” You said opening your eyes. The alcohol had made you dizzy but your head was as clear as day. You’re heart was pulling you towards him and it made you angry. “ You’ll keep me here and play with someone else’s heart instead cause you think it’s kinder than to do it to me, but you are playing with my heart. All of this is hurting me. You’re hurting me.” 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” He reached his hand out towards you. You quickly pulled it away. 

“You can’t help it,” You spat back. Tears threatened to fall from your eyes as your rage began bubbling instead you. 

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” He shook his head and tried to reach for your hand again. You held your own close to your chest. Clenching your shirt over your pounding heart.

“You don’t love me.” With each of his words you felt your walls being chipped away. 

“I do,” His voice sounded like he was pleading. 

“You don’t want me.” You were convincing yourself, not Lip. He was your weakness. He always was.  

“Y/n, if you stay I’m yours.” 

The world stopped. As you looked at the boy in front of you, your walls broke. He won. Lip gets what he wants and he wants you to stay. To give up the dream you had been working so hard for and you were about to. He was offering you another dream.

“Let me be yours… please,” He pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. Your hand fell into his. He gently pulled you forward to him, closer and closer until your noses touched. You closed your eyes. His lips touched yours. How could you ever say no to Lip Gallagher?

~~~~

an. poor Mandy lol

[pretentiousgayguyidk]

-Human Service Dog-

Ghost, Soap, Price, and König

Sorry if some of them are short, I was running low on juice (i need caffeine)

Well i straight up forgot i wrote this- so uh here have it i think it's finished (I'm really not good at this author thing 💀)

"Ghost" Simon Riley

Ghost grunted quietly, sitting down on the couch of the Survey Corps lounge. He leaned forward a little bit,clasping his hands tightly, his breathing was heavy as if he were stressed.

(Name) took note of this, approaching the Lieutenant without any hesitation. Soap watched from afar, anxiously anticipating the rookie getting beat to hell and back. Ghost glared up at the rookie in agitation, the young man simply smiled a little before sitting next to Ghost. The British man huffed a little, staring at the rookie with an unamused look.

"Stressed?" The younger asked quietly, Ghost just looked away slowly shaking his head in annoyance. (Name) sighed quietly before laying across Ghost's lap making the older man freeze up.

"Bloody 'ell are you doing?" He grumbled, not exactly angered - more so confused than anything else. (Name) smiled happily.

"DPT," he stated plainly, before joining the service he was a Psychology major who worked a little with service dogs. He had learned all the minute details of nearly every human emotion, easily able to read people and respond accordingly. Soap had choked on his drink, coughing aggressively as he watched the bizarre scene before him.

"The hell is that?" Ghost questioned again, no longer stressed or angered. He was utterly shocked, baffled as to why anyone would do something like this.

"Deep pressure therapy, it's used by service dogs to help ground people who are in disarray." The Brit sat there for a moment, staring at the newer addition for a while before finally speaking up.

"Get off."

"Alrighty!" He said, unbothered by his superior's aggressive tone. He could tell just by the solder's stature that he felt a little better. The (colour) haired man got up and left with a small wave, going back to his room.

Once left alone, Soap smiled cheekily looking over at the Lieutenant.

"So Lt. You enjoy your little date?" He asked smugly, earning a death glare from the masked man.

"Shut. The fuck. Up."

"Soap" John Mctavish

Soap paced around, running his hands through his mohawk as he huffed and puffed. The others sat and watched as he continued this display, sighing aggressively.

"You done?" Ghost asked, clear annoyance present in his gaze. Price crossed his arms, also growing tired of Soap's dramatic display. (Name) stood up from his seat, and walked closer to Soap.

"Hey, Soap sit down." The Scot paused in his pacing before shaking his head and continuing. The (light/dark) haired man sighed, grabbing Soap by his hood and dragging him over to the nearest chair.

"Hey! What-" Soap was cut off as he was sat down in a seat with the more stubborn man sitting in his lap. The Scottish man flushed pink from the embarrassment and or humiliation as he tried to push him off.

"Chill out, I'm trying to help you." Soap looked up at him with bewilderment.

"Help me? How is this-"

"Deep pressure therapy, now shut up and breath dummy." The other grumbled, leaning against Soap lazily. Gaz burst out laughing at the display, earning a slap to the arm from Price, who attempted to hide his amusement.

"You suck..." Soap grumbled into the others shoulder, gently hugging the other as he came to accept his fate.

"Love you too buddy."

Capt. Price

The older man sat at his desk, exhaustion and stress oozing out of him as he slumped slightly. (Name) quietly knocked at the door of Price's office, peaking in as he cracked the door. Price looked up with a tired smile.

"You need something?" He asked quietly, (Name) looked at him for a moment before stepping in. His expression was a mix of concern and determination. Without much hesitation he plopped down into his Captain's lap, hugging the older as he did so.

Price has already beared witness to this display before, silently accepting it. He sighed tiredly, gently patting the younger on the back.

"Thanks."

"No problem Captn."

König

The squad took shifts going out for supplies like groceries, and this week it was König. Despite his aggravated curses he begrudgingly went out for food. By the time he got back he was slouching, his heart hammering in his chest as the anxiety lingered.

(Name) greeted him, helping him carry in the groceries despite knowing König was more than strong enough to do it himself. König appreciated the help, although he would rather have emotional support than help carrying things.

Once inside, König dropped the groceries in the shared kitchen before speed walking to the nearest comfy chair. Once seated he leaned forward, his forearms resting his upper body weight on his thighs.

(Name) was quick to notice this, approaching his larger friend. König sat up slightly, looking up at his companion with half lidded eyes. The shorter smiled a little before sitting down, straddling König who exclaimed in incomprehensible German. (Name) hugged him as he sat there, earning a appreciative sigh.

"I hate people." König grumbled grumpily, his face pressed into (Name)'s shoulder. The shorter gently ruffled his hair as he continued to grumble and complain about how he would "get back at them" for this.

"It's alright, König... Just beat their asses during training," he suggested, earning an enthusiastic gasp of realization.

"Im gonna kick all of their arses!" He growled, almost literally earning a small chuckle from the smaller.

[paimonial-rage]

lol yeah ok - how about 12 and 13 instead? - last anon

[Character Analysis Ask Meme]

What is Neuvillette’s love language?

As that he does not have a way with human relationships, Neuvillette shows his feelings best through acts of service and gift-giving. After all, words are difficult and easy to construe. Quality time often leaves him at a loss for the very words he has a difficult time with. And physical touch? That’s simply too intimate for him. So what better way to show how he feels through something concrete? Surely if he gives of his time and resources for the people he cares about, they will understand how high of a regard he holds them. At least, he hopes. 

What is Neuvillette like in a relationship?

As unfamiliar with human emotions as he is, you notice Neuvillette’s feelings for you long before he does. How can you not? You see it clearly—the softness in his eyes whenever they fall upon you, the fondness in his smile, the requests for you to stay if not just a moment longer. You are taken by surprise the day he notices. He approaches you with a troubled, albeit bashful expression. He says that it was brought to his attention that he has feelings for you. Adorable as he is, what else can you do but accept them?

Much to your expectation, there is a hesitance in his step after he begins to court you. He has never been in a relationship before. He doesn’t want to mess it up. So how close is he allowed to walk next to you? Is it proper to offer you his arm? Will you refuse him if he asks you to accompany him to a show? But your presence at his side leaves him light-headed. How many times this has lead to social gaffes and things of the sort? But when you laugh, how can he not chuckle to himself in turn?

With Neuvillette, you will find no bombastic displays of affection. There will not be poetic words of love and adoration. After all, Neuvillette is a simple man and will show his love through simple, yet earnest ways. He will want to spend time with you. He will want to do his best to communicate and be honest with you. He will want to make you happy in any way you see fit. He will do his best for you.

Zhongli's below the cut!

What is Zhongli’s love language?

Anyone close to the Geo Archon knows his penchant for gift-giving. Really, it often catches many by surprise the sheer thoughtfulness and rarity of the gifts he gives. Not only are they often pricey, but also chosen with the receiver specifically in mind. It’s not rare to see people moved to tears upon receiving them, touched by the amount of care he puts into each one. As with gifts, Zhongli is also liberal with the words of affirmation he gives others. He does not hesitate to state a person’s strengths, nor how high of a regard he holds them. With him, there is no room for doubt. 

What is Zhongli like in a relationship?

You don’t exactly know when you both became an item. As wordy as Zhongli is, he never bothered to tell you his feelings plainly. He even rejected you at first, stating he didn’t see you in that way. But then he said he’d try, didn’t he? And from that point, things began to change. How he’d invite you to Miss Yun’s performances, or offered his arm for you to take while he’d walk you home. How he’d tell you the most outrageous stories with a straight face, then laugh with an amused glint in his eye when you took him seriously. Somewhere along the way, the wall he kept began to fall.

Still, it is hard to tell his feelings as he never becomes the most physical with his affections. He does not hug you, nor does he hold your hand when you walk at his side. Sparing the moments when you’re the most endearing, he does not often kiss you of his own accord. Still, there is a level of familiarity and intimacy that he displays with no one else. You’re the only person he’ll let by his side on the days he wants most to be left alone. You’re the one whose opinions matter the most. You’re the only one he’ll tease as mercilessly as he does. You’re special.

With Zhongli, you realize that your relationship with him is not primarily one of romance, but of companionship. He does not simply view you as a friend. No, you’re much more than that. Out of all the things that come and go in his life, you are and will always be the only constant. You are everything to him. Even if you may part ways for a time, the place by his side will always remain yours. A relationship with you is a contract, one that he will always uphold. 

[vallification]

“womanly advice” // JJK AU

incl: satoru gojo, suguru geto, nanami kento, choso kamo (all separate)

content: angst, hurt, comfort, jealousy, unrequited feelings, drinking, flirting! no established relationship/pre-relationship.

wc: 3.4k

please like, reblog, and tell me your thoughts!!!

satoru gojo

you sway to the music pouring from the bar speakers, pressed against other warm bodies on every side, caught in the middle of the dance floor. shoko is pressed against your front, and her movements are abnormally stiff and laggy despite the copious amount of whisky and coke flowing through her veins. following her line of sight, your eyes land on the bar where gojo sits with geto at his side, both hunched over and whispering to each other animatedly. shoko’s expression is a mix of curiosity, concern, and confusion, but she continues to dance with you despite being distracted.

“what’s going on?” you ask, your voice slightly raised so she can hear you over the music once she tears her eyes away from the pair of boys at the bar. she maneuvers herself around to face you and brings her lips to your ear so she doesn’t have to be as loud, and says one word: “you.”

it’s said so plainly, but it almost sobers you up with how much that one simple word shocks your system.

your eyes widen in confusion, eyebrows stitching together as you pull back to look at her face. you search for any indication that she’s joking, that she doesn’t actually know what the problem is, that she’s just teasing you, but you come up short. shoko raises her perfectly maintained eyebrows in a knowing look, as if you should know exactly what she means, but your silence tells her that you know nothing of the sort. thin eyebrows raise impossibly higher on shoko’s forehead as a metaphorical nudge in the right direction, which is met with your unwavering, lost stare. her expression now matches yours, contorted in confusion, and she pulls you aside from the sea of bodies.

“are you playing dumb right now?” shoko asks, both of her hands planted firmly on your shoulders. you shake your head and try to look back at gojo and geto, as if you might be able to piece everything together with context clues, but shoko forces you to keep looking at her. “be for real with me right now. are you stupid?”

“is this about me not texting him back the other day? because we talked about it and i thought he was just being dramatic, i didn’t think he was actually upset at me,” you ramble, bewildered at the notion that gojo was actually that hurt at your “improper text etiquette.” jaw hanging slack as you talk, shoko mirrors your state of bewilderment, wondering how you got this far in life while being so oblivious. “i mean, he’s an adult man, shoko, i don’t know what you want me to do about—"

“oh my god.”

“what?” you bark, your patience spreading too thin to keep playing contextual tug-of-war with shoko, who says nothing before disappearing into the crowd.

now that you’re alone, confused, and frustrated, the dance floor loses all of its appeal and you accept your new position against the wall. you find a little bit of comfort in your glass, which is still half full despite its time in your hand as you danced. the ice has melted, watering down the fiery contents of the glass, but you bring it to your lips and nurse it anyway. it’s a pitiful attempt to get back to your prior level of drunkenness, because you don’t want to face this right now. not sober, at least.

what was “this,” anyway? “this” was the fact that you gave gojo exact instructions on how to successfully woo someone else and you were sick over it. looking at him made you sick, laughing with him made you sick, being around him made you sick; it made you sick to think that there was someone he wanted so bad that it threw him off his game. that was why you were avoiding him. there was no way that you were ever that someone, and that hurt. it was easier to withdraw from gojo prematurely than to sit and wait for whoever that someone was to take your place.

it's juvenile, and it’s shameful, and it’s not something a true friend would do, but you can’t help it. you didn’t think it would hurt his feelings, but by the time you noticed how close you two were it was too late. he knew your coffee order, your morning routine at work, your bed time, your weekend schedule, and you knew his. guilt (or alcohol) stakes its claim in your chest, uncomfortable and heavy, and your throat starts to feel tight, and you can feel your eyes start to brim with tears, and you need to get out of here.

once you leave the bar, you manage to get fifty feet down the sidewalk before you hear the door open, and you hope that it’s not gojo with every fiber of your being. from behind you, you can hear him calling your name, the alcohol, shoko, and geto prohibiting him from straying too far from the bar in his effort to search for you. you keep your back turned to him out of embarrassment, not because of him, but because you don’t want him or anyone else seeing you cry.

gojo finds the opportunity to break out of the two pairs of hands grasping the back of his white shirt and takes it, his long, drunkenly-wobbling legs sprinting down the side walk to you. he grabs your forearm to spin you around, desperate for you to face him, but you yank it out of his hand and hold it up to hail a taxi instead.

“come on, don’t do that,” gojo pleads, his words slurring together like wet ink smudged on a page.

“stop,” you say, commanding your voice to be as steady and calm as you can manage while being upset. he throws his arms up in exasperation at your reaction.

“it’s you!”

you spin around when he says that, and while a big part of you would love to believe that, there’s a sea of women who feel exactly the same way. you bridge the gap between the two of you and meet his eyes with your own, pointing up at him.

“that’s fucked, satoru. don’t say shit like that. that’s seriously fucked,” chastising him, you search his glossy, striking blue eyes for that familiar teasing look, but you don’t find it. you wish that you did. gojo’s face twists up in an inebriated amalgamation of bewilderment, confusion, and frustration.

“how is that—what? how is that fucked? it’s fucked that i’m being honest?”

“you’re not, and that’s why it’s fucked, satoru. that’s—why would you say that?” you scoff, and like an angel sent from whatever heaven awaits you, a taxi rolls up to the curb. throwing open the door, you can hear gojo frustratedly begging you not to get in, to wait, to talk to him, but you get in anyway.

as the cab drives away, you turn around in the backseat, and watch gojo crouch down on the sidewalk as the distance between you grows further.

suguru geto

from where you sit a few barstools down, you watch geto tie up his long, dark hair, leaving the view of his face completely unobstructed. even in the dim light, you can see the skin of his face and neck flushing pink, glistening with the lightest layer of sweat, courtesy of the stuffy atmosphere of the bar and the alcohol flowing through his veins. he’s laughing at whatever story gojo’s telling, and he looks and sounds so beautiful that it feels criminal to even think about looking away from him.

in your drunk, awe-stricken state, you want to chastise yourself for the time you spent moping about geto’s feelings for someone else, the time you spent ignoring him, and the time you spent groveling with jealousy over whoever geto’s got his eyes on. to you, there’s no conceivable way that whoever they may be is lucky enough to have this view—it’s seriously flawed rationale, but you won’t remember that thought when you sober up.

at some point between geto tying his hair up and now, gojo had wandered off to talk to strangers and shoko had wandered off to flirt with the hot bartender, leaving the two of you alone. you pull yourself from your trance to play off your staring problem, looking around the place a few times before settling your eyes on the neon sign hanging from the ceiling above the front door. he’s already caught you, though, and you hear his low laugh as he slides into the seat next to you.

“you okay?” he says, his smooth voice thick and sweet in your ears like caramel. all you can manage is a nod, still looking anywhere but at geto. to prevent yourself from saying something idiotic, you bring your drink to your lips, sipping at it slowly and relishing the burn it spreads through your chest. you can feel his eyes on you, his gaze ever-so intense, seemingly unfazed by your avoidance. it almost feels like he enjoys that you can’t meet his eyes. “you mad at me?”

“no,” you manage to murmur into your glass. you glance at him from the side of your eyes, and you praise yourself for looking away earlier while you had the chance. geto’s eyes are nearly half-lidded, his usually silky brown irises now shaded almost black in the dim light of the bar, and god, you feel like a pitiful deer at the mercy of a hungry tiger. there’s something about the way he’s looking at you that makes you want to spill everything you’ve ever thought or felt about him in a pathetic effort to make him stop looking at you like that.

“what’s the matter then?”

“pffft, nothing, i’m just—” you gesture vaguely around you to the dingy bar before throwing back the last of your drink, flinching as it goes down. “i’m just doing this. which, y’know, means nothing is the matter at all. in fact, i don’t think i’ve ever felt better. so—"

“look at me,” geto interrupts your rambling, and you look at him immediately. he’s got you exactly where you didn’t want to be, because you’re not sure you have the strength to defy anything he asks of you now that his eyes have yours locked in place. your eyes only leave his when they flick down to his lips, which look impossibly soft when he speaks again, beckoning to you like a siren would a sailor. “i miss you.”

for several seconds, he just stares at you, and you can almost feel the friction of his eyes dragging over your face—once, twice, three times, over your lips—before they lock back onto your own. you feel like a loser, frozen in place, unable to control your own body as geto pins you in place with something so simple as eye contact. in the back of your mind, you weigh the probabilities of what his intentions are: is he messing with you for fun, or is he into this? you pay no attention to which way the scales tip, you’re on autopilot, mentally scrambling to gather every last bit of self-control you have and standing up.

“i have to call my mom right now,” you blurt, and your jellified legs carry you out of the building and down the sidewalk as far as they can manage.

nanami kento

if you weren’t a coward, you’d admit that the reason for the heavy feeling that hangs on your shoulders is nanami’s admitted affection for someone else, but since you are a coward, you blame it on the monotony of your life. that wasn’t exactly a lie; you have settled into a comfortable routine, and although it’s nice to feel so stable, it’s lonely and lifeless.

sometimes you wonder if you’re too strict with your dating criteria, but every time you reevaluate your standards, there is nothing that sticks out as unattainable. not that it would matter, though, because you know exactly who you want. but he doesn’t want you. rationally, you’re not sure why he would want you (even if the other person wasn’t in the picture), because outwardly, you’re nanami’s opposite. you’re quicker to humor than you are stoicism, you’re louder than you are quiet, and you could be a lot more mild-mannered than you are.

it wasn’t like you were the type to feel worthless because you’re single; you’ve been single for several years now, and it didn’t phase you until you started getting closer to nanami. he was something out of a storybook, a fairy tale even, and you can still feel the devastation you first felt when he asked you how to win someone else over.

your mind drones on and on down the pathetic, beaten path of self-pity as you browse through the store’s selection of glittering necklaces and earrings. the glass countertops of the display cases are spotless, scratchless, and shiny, perfectly showcasing the expensive jewelry inside, resting peacefully atop red velvet pillows. retail therapy helped distract you when you felt sorry for yourself, at least. there were few experiences that matched the feeling of buying something new to take your mind off of your sad reality.

in the display case below, you spot something simple but gorgeous: a white solitaire diamond necklace with a thin, yellow gold chain. it’s got the perfect price tag, too, in the range where you won’t feel too guilty for buying it, but the purchase will still scratch the itch that retail therapy feeds on. before you can ask for a closer look, an inexplicably familiar scent washes over your senses. oud, sandalwood, amber, something peppery and warm—it’s something you relish each time it makes itself known, and it’s so distinctly nanami that you whip your head around to search for him.

the familiar blond scans the contents of the various displays, dressed impeccably as usual, but without the watch that habitually decorates his wrist. he looks regal, in a way, and you wonder what life would look like standing next to him, clutching his arm, willfully ignorant to the rest of the world… the watch. you try to think back to earlier in the day when you saw him, if you saw the watch, but then you remember how you dodged him each time he appeared. it makes you feel a little guilty, but he was probably grateful for it. a twinge of sadness follows that thought.

you lower your eyes back down to the solitaire necklace and half-heartedly attempt to block out the alluring scent of nanami’s cologne, but it’s no use. from the edge of your vision, you watch him recognize you, weigh his options, and then begin to approach you, so you try to discreetly fix your face into a more pleasant one.

“hey,” nanami says, taking the place at your side. the ease in his voice is almost jarring juxtaposed against the usual tone he took at work, and you mentally curse him for it, because it doesn’t help your case in the slightest. you try to fight the schoolgirl smile growing on your face, but it wins easily once you look up to greet him.

“hey, nanami. what are you doing here?” you ask, despite wishing you didn’t, so you could go back to feeling sorry for yourself in peace. that’s not really true, though, is it? no, not when he smiles down at you, a smile you’ve only seen grace his sharp features once or twice before. the feeling that follows in your chest could only be the work of butterflies. you hope you aren’t blushing, but the familiar warmth settles on your cheeks anyway and betrays your wishes.

nanami lifts his suited forearm and twists his wrist, signaling the absence of his usual watch, “well, i had to get my watch cleaned, so i’m here to pick it up. i get it cleaned every six months, and i like looking around while i’m here.” his usually tired brown eyes seem to sparkle down at you, and you feel like he’s casting some sort of heart palpitation spell on you. “can I ask what you’re doing here?”

“oh, y’know, just some retail therapy,” you laugh, wondering if that will disguise the near-breathlessness in your voice. he leans down to get a better view of the necklace in front of you, humming in approval at its design.

“it’s beautiful. I saw you looking at it before I came over here, I think you should get it,” nanami says, his sparkly brown eyes locking on yours as he returns upright again. “you’d look beau—”

as an associate interrupts nanami about his watch, you use this window of opportunity to book it out of the store. your eyes are wide, your cheeks pink, your heart racing at the proximity and sincerity of your short conversation with prince charming. there was no conceivable reality where, if that conversation was resumed, you didn’t make a fool of yourself. later, you’ll kick yourself for it, but you’re a coward a heart.

the necklace ended up in good hands.

choso kamo

friday movie nights at choso’s apartment were a cherished tradition for the two of you. well, the five of you now, if you count yuji, nobara, and megumi, who preferred friday nights at choso’s because he was a bit less intrusive than gojo was when they stayed at megumi’s. yuji’s father gifted him a big fabric binder of blockbuster movie DVDs that yuji was adamant about watching all of, which of course bled into friday movie nights. funnily enough, the three teenagers never made it through the last movie of the night, always ending up in a sleepy pile on the floor.

choso sits opposite of you on the couch with the neckline of his hoodie pulled up over his mouth, completely absorbed in the movie playing on the screen. you’ve already seen it before, so you only pay attention in bits and pieces, with the spaces in between dedicated to watching choso from the corner of your eye. sometimes you wonder if he does the same, but you never catch him in the act. his hair is down, pushed away from his face since its free from its usual twin confinements, and you wonder if whatever girl he likes has seen him this way.

you wonder if she’s sat on his couch watching movies, or slept in his bed because she was too tired to drive home. you wonder if she’s worn his shirts and boxers after taking a shower in his bathroom, or if she’s done the dishes with him after making a mess in his kitchen. heat rises in your face as jealousy rears its ugly head in your stomach, and while you watch him from the side of your vision, you pray to whatever will listen that you stay the only person who can say they’ve done any of that.

choso’s oblivious to your feelings on the other end of the couch. it almost makes you angry at him.

you wonder who she is. you wonder what she looks like. you wonder if she’s as mean and nasty as you are when you’re jealous.

one thing you’ve always hated about yourself is that you never fail to cry when you get upset. it doesn’t matter if you’re sad, or mad, or frustrated, or jealous, it’s almost certain that your throat tightens like it’s wrapped in barbed wire, and your eyes begin to well with hot, fat, pathetic tears. those tears almost always fall before you can catch them, and the choked down, heaving breaths almost always make a sound before you can silence them.

choso is your best friend, and he is no longer oblivious to your feelings on the other end of the couch. ish.

he sits up, his dark eyebrows stitched together in concern when he notices the tear that sits on your cheek, shining in the light cast by the movie on the screen. choso places a big, calloused, comforting hand on the bare skin of your knee as he tries to figure out the source of your upset, but he doesn’t find one. you flinch unnaturally at his touch, but he doesn’t move his hand.

“are you okay? what’s wrong?”

“the- I’m- it’s just the movie,” you fumble, your whispering voice warbled by your tears. the movie in question? superbad. choso gives you a funny look, his eyes flicking between your crying face and the screen, only becoming more concerned from there.

“are you on your period?” he asks, and you bring your hands up to wipe at your eyes as you start to laugh at his question.

“you’re not supposed to ask girls that, choso,” you fake-scold, which makes him laugh too. however, he’s still concerned, because you’re still teary-eyed.

choso wiggles his way over to you, now sitting on the couch in the proper position with your legs slung over his lap. one of his strong arms snakes its way behind you to pull you closer to his chest until he’s semi-holding you, resting his chin on top of your head. you try to reel your tears back in, but once you’re pulled to his chest, the entire dam breaks and you start to cry as silently as you can manage so you don’t wake the sleeping pile of teenagers.

“what’s wrong?” choso whispers, holding you as tightly as he can in this position. he’d held you while you cried before, but it was never like this. there was always a reason known to him, something obvious, but there isn’t this time. he wonders if it’s connected to your weird behavior this week, or if you’re depressed, or—he doesn’t know, but something must have happened.

“you can tell me,” he murmurs when you say nothing, frowning at the way you seem to sob a little harder after he says that.

“no, I can’t,” you whisper through your fingers. choso pulls back, just enough to see your face, confused by your response.

“why not? you always tell me everything.”

you bite your bottom lip to try and make it stop quivering, and you shake your head, burying your face back in choso’s chest. his chin resumes its rightful place on top of your head, but he’s still as confused as ever. choso says nothing this time, holding you in silence.

twenty minutes pass, only filled by the sound of rolling movie credits and soft sobs that devolve into the occasional sniffle. your arms are now wrapped around choso’s torso, weakly clinging to him as he holds you halfway in his lap.

“can I sleep like this, sir?” you whisper, your voice wavering, on the edge of tears again as you do a pathetic salute. you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to sleep like this again. choso laughs and maneuvers the two of you so that he’s in more of a reclined position, kicking his feet up on the couch without compromising your place in his arms.

“yeah, of course, ma’am.”

a/n: i have been writing this for 7 hours. you better like it or else. i'm jp but the smau will resume with this context for the next update :)

[utilitycaster]

Hi there, I saw in one of your tags recently that "if you think the raven queen was being unfair, I'm not really interested in your opinions." I was wondering if you could talk a little more about that because I'll be honest, Vax isn't my favorite character but I've seen all of C1 and I really don't get why some people HATE the RQ, call her unfair, manipulative and pretty plainly say this moon conflict is mostly her fault because she took Vax and through a Domino effect Ludinus is releasing Predathos. Also, I enjoy your theories and analysis for CR so much you got me listening to Midst, so thank you.

Hi anon,

Great question! This is going to be a very long post, with a relatively short initial answer, because there is both the literal misinterpretation that indicates this is not someone with strong analytical skills nor knowledge of canon, and a number of potential mindsets that lead to this manner of thinking in the first place, none of which I respect. You happen to have sort of hit upon the foundational elements of my whole deal re: CR meta, so, buckle in.

The first part is simple: Vex died because Percy triggered a trap before she'd been healed up. We've seen this sort of trap elsewhere in non-divine contexts (Folding Halls of Halas); it's just a form of trap. A particularly nasty one, but this is for a very powerful relic she doesn't want falling into the wrong hands, and, moreover, the party could have likely disabled it either through rogue skills or magic had Percy waited. Vax, then, as the third part of the resurrection ritual, told the Raven Queen to take him instead of Vex. The Raven Queen did precisely as he asked. He did not need to offer this (Scanlan was going to make an offering, the other parts of the ritual had gone well, it was Vex's first death so the DC was low, and Vax could have made any number of other, less dramatic offers), and he did so with the understanding that he would die in lieu of Vex, right then and there. He did not. I think that's the only case, actually, where the Raven Queen was not 100% upfront with her intentions before Vax accepted something; but he offered it voluntarily. Vax was a person who formed extremely intense connections, to the point where it was perhaps unhealthy, and did not believe life without his sister was worth living, and was willing to sacrifice himself to a god.

Everything after that was extremely straightforward. Vax communed with the Raven Queen, who spoke very directly with him in his vision in the Raven's Crest. She was extremely clear when she met with him following his disintegration: he was given the option to refuse her offer, and he took it instead. It is not manipulative to give someone a difficult decision, and if a character you like makes a choice you don't like, it is not automatically the result of manipulation.

As for the moon conflict being her fault…that is, to put it bluntly, unhinged, and what's more, ironic given that that's the manipulative argument. Ludinus tried to commune with Ruidus using a random crystalline artifact beneath Molaesmyr, centuries before Vax was born. He was going to do this regardless. If he couldn't get Vax, he'd get some other sliver of divinity, and what's more, it's been all but stated that Vax is not actually supposed to be leaving the Shadowfell to protect Keyleth, and is disobeying the Raven Queen directly (and it's been stated that this isn't necessarily helpful for Keyleth, who is trying to grieve and move on). So: Vax made his choices with the knowledge of what they entailed, is trying to bend if not break the conditions to which he agreed with full knowledge in a way that probably isn't healthy for him or Keyleth, and it's bananas to be like "wow look at how the Raven Queen made Ludinus try to free Predathos." Like. Even if she had tricked Vax, which she didn't, Ludinus literally could have just kept on his racist imperialistic longevitymaxxing beat indefinitely and left the moon well enough alone. The domino meme is a meme. I mean, while we're at it, couldn't we trace it back to Vecna instead, for killing Vax with Disintegrate in the first place, since had he not done so, Vax would have either survived that fight or would have been resurrected normally? Or perhaps it's Percy for triggering that trap. Or the Chroma Conclave for being the reason why Vox Machina was seeking the Deathwalker's Ward in the first place…but that only happened because Allura and Kima didn't kill Thordak but rather sealed him, and because a priestess of Melora cursed Raishan so that she had reason to ally with Thordak. We can go on indefinitely; the point is, to assign blame specifically to the Raven Queen when Ludinus literally did not have to do a goddamn thing with the moon is a fucking stupid take.

Below the cut, I talk root causes behind why people might decide the Raven Queen was unfair and come up with the above nonsensical argument to support that, since I don't think people say stupid things just to be stupid.

I think one root cause for this mentality of this is that the person in question wishes Vax hadn't died and is looking for someone to blame because they don't want to blame Matt Mercer and Liam O'Brien, even though yeah, that's who to blame. The thing is, as we learned in Campaign 2, character death is quite literally on the table. Had Vax not made his bargain, either in episode 1x103 or his original one during Vex's resurrection? He might have simply remained dead. Had he not given his life for Vex's, he was pursuing paladin anyway with the Everlight, and we don't know what she'd have required of him. But more importantly, for all people like to bring up a PC-centric perspective (which, in Actual Play, is inevitable) Vox Machina's frequent use of resurrection spells was in fact a massive privilege most people in Exandria do not have. And, unsurprisingly for a table whose DM made up rules specifically to make resurrection more difficult, the Critical Role cast is open to a story where death exists. I do not think it's an accident that resurrection has been made even harder in the subsequent campaigns. I also happen to think that Campaign 1 is a far richer and better story with Vax's death, given the other events that occurred. Had Vax not been the sort of person who would offer his life for a god to take in exchange for his sister? Sure, he'd possibly have lived to the end. But he was, and that's the character those people who wish he were still alive loved. If he wasn't that person, they wouldn't have liked him in the same way.

D&D is fundamentally about exceptional characters becoming more powerful, and will be focused on those characters. I do not think D&D supports a story about characters who reject all power. They can give up political power (the Mighty Nein, for the most part, do this - certainly more so than Vox Machina, and Bells Hells is yet to be seen) but they will progress in levels, which is power. Even if unwanted, it is power, because most people in the world are commoners with 5 HP and 10 in all their stats. With that said, a lot of people desperately want a subversion of this power narrative. Vax is, I think, the closest we get. In D&D you are not going to get a player character who finishes a campaign and remains Just Some Guy. But you can have someone like Vax, who doesn't have any interest in power (compare to Vex, who very much is about power and who gets a much happier ending) who nonetheless ends up on the Tal'Dorei Council and the favored of a god…and yet, in the end, his equally powerful friends still can do nothing to save him. I think a Power Bad story is overly simplistic, but "there are limits to power, and ultimately none of us have complete control" is not. I think Vax's death gives the story of Vox Machina a finality and heft that it would lack otherwise.

A second possible cause is the "What if the gods are BAD" argument. I'm going to be totally honest: I did not see this in the fandom until Campaign 3, and honestly, not until EXU Calamity in any widespread sense, which does lead me to believe that most people did not come up with it as a reasonable idea on their own until characters started saying it, because it is so plainly in conflict with the themes of Campaigns 1 and 2 that to make this argument would be obvious projection. Do I think a nuanced view of the gods as flawed beings, rather than perfection, is warranted? Absolutely. Mortals, too, are flawed, and we don't kill them all for it. I think Vax's story makes them uncomfortable because it makes it clear divine favor is not, as Ludinus Da'leth tries to argue, the gods just bestowing and withholding their gifts arbitrarily, but rather that divine favor comes with a divine responsibility as well. Clerics and paladins do not study the way wizards do; but they must live lives in service, whereas a wizard can shut the book at the end of the day and do whatever. Clerics and paladins have powers that can be taken away; a wizard does not. That's the fundamental concept behind the Age of Arcanum - wizards trying to get around the fundamental rules of this world! Vax's paladin powers came at a price. His options are guided, but also limited, by the oath he took. He is far more fettered than a wizard, in the end, and I think that fucks with the narrative of the gods cruelly withholding their gifts from all but a select few, so they instead make their gifts into manipulative punishments…while still, contradictorily, arguing that characters such as Laudna or Ashton or Imogen were denied the mercy of the gods. Now, setting aside the obvious, that these characters have their backstories because Marisha and Taliesin and Laura decided they would because this is a story, and one in which someone had a perfect life would be boring and so the gods didn't intervene with Laudna because Marisha Ray wanted to play a Sun Tree corpse (see next section), it really is fascinating to see how people who hate the Raven Queen so neatly align with Ludinus. It's fine for sorcerers to have inborn powers, apparently, and Ludinus actually has himself tried to ape druidic magic; it's not about power, it's just about that power source. Honestly, they're not even above the gods as a power source - Ludinus used the crystal beneath Molaesmyr seemingly unaware if it were of the Archheart, and he's demonstrably using Vax, and everyone loves a resurrection from the gods, but heaven forbid you pay someone for the work you feel yourself entitled to. (Entitlement: this will also be a theme throughout the rant portion of this post.)

As a brief subsection to this: the idea that bad things happen to good people because the other side of that coin is free will is an ancient theological and philosophical discussion, and one we are obviously not going to solve here, though it is a little depressing I have had multiple rewarding conversations on this topic, thanks to an academically rigorous religious education, starting from the tender age of 9, and a lot of adults on Tumblr seemingly can't engage on the level of my third-grade classmates. I think, however, it tells a truth that fits in well with the wizard (and entitled fan) desire to control everything. People are terrified of random forces. Cancer, for example, is a matter of probability. There are things that can increase your chances of developing cancer, to be sure, but the simile I used when I was taught about radiation-induced cancers was that of lottery tickets: if you buy more, you have a better chance; but sometimes someone who bought a single ticket "wins" and someone who bought a ticket weekly never does. By believing the gods of Exandria are on trial for not intervening with every little hardship or for not taking Vax precisely as he intended, they reveal a profound terror of random chance and of the free will of people who are not them. Which is very funny when you consider we're watching Actual Play, where random chance is a deliberately induced element. I think the takeaway of all of this is "I think some of you guys are really mad this is a D&D game." But let's continue.

The third, and honestly most likely cause, is honestly sort of a continuation of the first but not centered around Vax so much as just a general, in my opinion deeply childish discomfort of any sort of tragedy or unhappiness in fiction. I've noticed this a lot lately, and I am not a cultural critic and don't have a high enough level view to pretend to be one, but as others have noted a lot of people seem affronted when whatever show they are currently watching does not meet their specific standards of "comfort media" or "hopepunk." It's a self-infantilization I don't care for, and it's certainly not limited to the CR fandom (see: any grown-ass adult passionately defending a choice to only watch children's cartoons and only read YA) or even fandom at all (see: the baffling popularity of the Mr. Rogers "look for the helpers" line which was intended for anxious young children, not for adults who can and should be the helpers). It really came into focus for me with CR when people referred to both EXU Calamity and to Candela Obscura's Circle of Needle and Thread as specifically "hopeless." They are, to me, deeply hopeful series. They are sad, and tragic, and many characters do not get a happy ending, but they are ultimately about how some people will endure, and will live on and find meaning after great loss. Calamity explicitly states that because of the actions of the heroes, while devastation will occur, total annihilation is mitigated. It's like the adage of how courage only means something in the face of fear; hope only means something in the face of darkness. Happy and fluffy tales are not hopeful; they are merely not things that require you to have hope. The root word of catharsis is that of cleansing and purgation and it originally related to physical excretion - cathartic stories are about getting those complicated and ugly emotions and fears out and feeling better for it by briefly feeling, perhaps, worse! Now, again, this has worsened with Vax's story with time. Shortly after Campaign 1, it was very common to see stories where Vex or Keyleth were utterly distraught, indefinitely, but those at least were engaging with grief, even if in a very shallow and unproductive way. But this has morphed into this idea that the fact that a work of fiction might make you even feel sadness makes it bad, and wrong, and hopeless, and the machinations of a cruel and heartless god. Which brings me back to the entitlement narrative: it's really as simple as "the story didn't give me what I wanted (whether that was a happy ending for Vax, or for Keyleth, or just a lack of sadness generally, or a narrative about the gods that validates my personal beliefs, or a way to justify Ludinus's actions), so it is bad." Which again is about being in control of the narrative, which again, in D&D, is simply not something anyone can claim. Why are these people here watching a D&D game? I don't know.

So that's really it: on a basic level, if you think the Raven Queen is unfair, you are profoundly ignorant of canon, so I'm already going to have to fact check anything you cite (if you cite at all), but there's a much deeper refusal to meet stories where they are and expand one's own comfort zone at play, and that means any analysis will never consider the possibility that your pre-existing beliefs were wrong (absolutely crucial in meta). You will always play it too safe and be uninspired and reactionary because the alternative is uncertainty and fear. I think a refusal to embrace tragedy in fiction is itself a profound tragedy; that is someone who is terrified to believe that life goes on.

[cyberneticfallout]

Chapter Nine: Wouldn't It Be Nice

Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 3 - Ch 4 - Ch 5 - Ch 6 - Ch 7 - Ch 8 - Ch 9 - Ch 10 - More Coming Soon

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem!Reader Summary: Tensions run high after the previous night's kiss and The Ghoul reveals a small part of his past. Tags: Slow burn (and I mean SLOWWW), angst, eventually more smut, language, canon-typical violence, chem/alcohol use, more tags will be added Posted on AO3: Smoothie and The Ghoul Word Count: 1.7k

The journey to the old associate is a lengthy one, likely spanning a few days at the very least. The landscape is mostly desolate, with sand dunes engulfing the remnants of old-world buildings. The memory of the previous night's kiss lingers heavily in your mind, leaving you curious about The Ghoul's thoughts on the matter. You resist the urge to ask. Instead you decide to keep your distance from him and look at your pip-boy to distract yourself. Focusing on the device, you navigate through its functions until you locate the radio feature, tuning in to some classic tunes from the past that fill the air.

As the familiar lyrics of “Orange Colored Sky” by Nat King Cole fill the air, you find yourself lost in the nostalgic melody. The rhythmic beat of the song creates a sense of comfort amidst the desolation. The radio crackles and the signal fades momentarily, but you manage to catch the few lines of the song before it returns to full clarity.

Slowing his stride, The Ghoul positions himself next to you. You sneak a glance in his direction, but his expression remains an enigma, offering no insight into his thoughts. However, he begins to hum along with the tune, his voice blending with yours in a harmonious duet. You can't help but wonder what would it be like to sway to the music in his arms. A faint smile tugs at your lips at the thought.

The two of you continue like this for some time, singing softly to the old tunes that fill the air. After a while, he extends a piece of jerky from his bag to you. Gratefully, you accept and savor a big bite. The flavor is unfamiliar, yet surprisingly delicious.

"What type of jerky is this?" you ask.

"Ass jerky.”

"Alright," you giggle, "The ass of what? I don't think I've had this kind before."

"Ghoul," he states plainly.

You burst out laughing at what you assume is a joke, only to realize it's not when he stares back at you blankly, munching on his own piece of jerky.

"...What."

Staring at The Ghoul in disbelief, the realization hits you like a ton of bricks. His stoic expression adds to the surreal nature of the moment, and as the truth sinks in, a wave of nausea washes over you. You start gagging uncontrollably, unable to contain your revulsion at the thought of consuming human flesh. His reaction surprises you as he bursts into laughter at your discomfort, his amusement contrasting sharply with your horror.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?!" you shout, your voice filled with disgust as you dry heave. "Oh my god. It was that dead ghoul I came across, wasn't it?"

"Soundin' like that vaultie," The Ghoul chuckles.

"Not all us vault dwellers come out that naive," you mutter quietly, the words barely audible to him.

"What'd you say?" he questions, eyeing you suspiciously.

"Hm? Nothing," you quickly reply, trying to brush off the tension. The Ghoul's skeptical gaze lingers on you, and without a second thought, you fling the remaining jerky at his face. The dried meat slaps against his cheek with a thud, slowly sliding down his face and plopping onto the dusty ground. The silence that follows is heavy as “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” by The Beach Boys suddenly starts blaring from your pip-boy.

♪ Wouldn't it be nice to live together in the kind of world where we belong? ♪

"Pick it up," he finally breaks the silence.

You raise an eyebrow, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Smoothie," he says, taking a step closer to you. "We ain't wastin’ good jerky just because you're too dainty. Pick… it… up."

Your eyes meet his in a fierce stare, both of you mirroring the intensity. Closing the distance between you, you stand almost nose to nose. As you gaze up at him, you notice the anger in his eyes, but you also catch a glimpse of Cooper Howard peeking through.

♪ After having spent the day together, hold each other close the whole night through ♪

"If you want to watch me bend over that badly, all you have to do is ask," you quip, a playful glint in your eye.

"Two choices, sweetheart,” The Ghoul's voice takes on a dark and gravelly tone. "Either you pick it up like a good girl, or I make you pick it up - and I won't be gentle."

Good girl. You muster all your strength to resist cracking under those words, a smug grin spreading across his face. In that moment, you can't help but wonder if he's being playful or if this is just his usual, asshole self shining through. After all, he has no shame when it comes to this shit.

♪ I wish that every kiss was never-ending ♪

Your mind races for a witty response, the lyrics of the song only adding to the awkward tension between you. His eyes bore into yours, a mix of challenge and arrogance that makes your skin crawl. With a defiant tilt of your chin, you sarcastically remark, "You better be prepared to catch me when I swoon from your overwhelming charm."

The Ghoul's smirk widens, a flash of malice glinting in his eyes as he replies, "Oh sweetie, I don't catch… I watch you fall.“

♪ You know it seems the more we talk about it, it only makes it worse to live without it ♪

As you crouch down to retrieve the jerky, a mix of resentment and anger swirls inside you. The act of picking up the tainted piece of meat feels like a bitter concession, a silent acknowledgment of the power play he has initiated. Standing back up, you hold out the jerky towards him, your gaze hardened with a mix of defiance and humiliation.

The Ghoul plucks the jerky from your hand with a satisfied smirk, relishing the control he holds over the situation. The tension between you crackles with unspoken words and unspoken desires, each gesture and exchange charged with a potent mix of attraction and power dynamics.

The tension between you lingers like a heavy fog as you trudge forward in uncomfortable silence, the music from your pip-boy serving as a strange soundtrack to the awkwardness that envelops you. With the sun sinking towards the horizon, long shadows stretching across the landscape, a sense of unease settles in your chest like a heavy weight.

As darkness descends, a canopy of stars twinkling overhead, The Ghoul's voice breaks the silence, his tone devoid of the earlier hostility. "We'll set camp here for the night. Keep watch while I get a fire going," he instructs, his words cutting through like a knife. You nod stiffly, grateful for the chance to have some space between you.

Sitting by the crackling fire, you wrap your arms around your knees, staring into the flames. The Ghoul settles across from you, his eyes fixed on the fire as well. After a moment of comfortable silence, you finally speak, your voice soft in the night air. "What did you mean the other day when you said you remembered Moldaver differently?"

His gaze shifts from the fire to meet yours, taking a moment to consider your question before answering, “I knew her as Miss Williams.”

“Miss Williams?” Curiosity fills you.

“I met her. Before the war,” he continues, “Which makes me curious as to how she’s still around.”

You ponder for a moment, lost in thought. "Seems like prewar folks are more common than I thought..."

"Oh yeah?" The Ghoul laughs. "You know a lot of 'em or somethin’?"

You chuckle softly at his question. "No, no," you reply, shaking your head slightly. "I just didn't think many people made it this far - ghoul or otherwise. Say... What's something you miss from before the Great War?"

“My daughter.” He answers immediately. His voice is soft, almost a whisper, filled with sadness and longing. The firelight dances across his face, casting shadows that seem to echo the weight of his words. You’re surprised he’s shared something so personal - he had a daughter?

"What is her name?" You ask gently, making sure to refer to her in the present tense, not wanting to add to the sting of her possible death.

He hesitates, his demeanor softening slightly as he considers your question. After a moment, he quietly responds, "Janey."

You rise from your spot and walk over to him, settling down next to him by the crackling fire. "Is that who Sorrel was referring to? Who you've been looking for?" you ask, your voice filled with genuine curiosity.

"Yes," he sighs, his voice heavy with weariness. Despite his usual guarded nature, there is a sense of trust that begins to form between you. "I've been lookin' for over 200 years and ain't found shit. No leads. Until now.”

"Moldaver," you whisper, your voice barely above a breath. "Do you think she knows something? Being prewar and all?"

He locks eyes with you, a subtle look of uncertainty in his eyes. "Thats what I aim to find out, Smoothie.”

"Well shit," you say, taking a deep breath before gently placing your hand on top of his. "We'll find your daughter. We'll find Janey, no matter what it takes."

He looks at you with soft eyes, as if no one ever truly wants to help him. Maybe it makes him question your intentions, wondering if you might be deceitful. After all, he knows nothing about you or your past. Will you ever tell him who you really are? Why do you even care so much about him? He flinches slightly at your touch and swats your hand away, a reflex you assume is born of decades upon decades of betrayal and disappointment.

“Sorry,” you mumble as you head back to your spot across from him. “I’m serious though. I will help you find her.”

The Ghoul grimaces and turns his back to you, his posture defensive and closed off. You sense a deep well of pain and longing within him, a father's desperate hope to be reunited with his daughter. Sitting in silence, you give him the space he seems to need to process your offer of help. After a few moments, he finally speaks, his voice rough with emotion.

"I appreciate the offer," he begins. "But this is somethin' I must do alone."

"We'll see about that," you respond, a steely determination in your voice. He gives you a look of annoyance, but you refuse to let him face this alone. This is no longer just a bounty to collect; it is so much more.

Tag List: @fallout-girl219 @ellabellabunny123 @sunnexaltation @coolrobloxkid28 @cheshirecat484 @capan-deveraux2 @rebelmarylou

[demonslayedher]

What if nezuko and tanjiro were raised by Obanai and Mitsuri?

Whoa, I have never considered this. Let's assume an altered timeline, so, say, itty-bitty Tanjiro hid with almost-walking Nezuko in a closet when a demon killed their parents. Mitsuri and Obanai, who like one another and have sort of figured that out by they are awkward about where to take it from there (since Mitsuri doesn't want to make the first move but can't figure out why Obanai won't), arrive on the scene, and Kaburamaru finds the hiding children.

Mitsuri is instantly attached and wants very badly to make it up to these orphaned children whom she failed. Obanai is trying to tell her why that idea is irresponsible, but Kaburamaru has already become fiercely attached to the terrified children who find comfort in the cuddly snake. It's not as if Obanai can't relate to that, so he gives in, on the caveat that they will take care of them only until they can hand them off to someone more qualified.

They're first thought is Shinobu, but she already has her hands full. They ask the Kakushi, but the Kakushi insist that this is out of their skill set. They think of asking Ubuyashiki but don't want to bother him by setting a precedent. No luck at Wisteria Houses they come across, who are already doing all they can. Wishing to find someone with experience to adopt them, Obanai makes a desperate visit to Shinjuro, who yells at him to take responsibility and get what was coming to him by so idealistically becoming a swordsman. He announces to Mitsuri (who is already very attached) that they'll see their responsibility through.

Since the Kamado children stay at the Kanroji estate most of the time, this is what gets Obanai to finally meet her family, which pressures them more into considering the state of their relationship, especially they Obanai spends time with the children out of a sense of responsibility and Mitsuri, once the decision to keep them was made, wants to spend as much free time with them as possible. Being in a coparent relationship also forces them to confront Obanai's issues.

Both toddlers take to Mitsuri readily, and they like Obanai too, but they both (especially Tanjiro, who can talk better) are sensitive to him being sad. Obanai is nice and tries to be child-appropriate but answers very plainly and honestly when Tanjiro asks why he's sad, thinking that this is out of respect for a child's intellect. Poor Tanjiro wants to help but is often confused. Obanai is a little annoyed how buddy-buddy Tanjiro and Kaburamaru are but he allows it. As Tanjiro grows up and the snake gets older, Kaburamaru spends less and less time in battle with Obanai. Tanjiro is a dutiful son whom Obanai figures pucked up a lot of traits from being raised by Mitsuri, but he reminds Tanjiro to always be grateful to his original family who loved and protected him too. This makes him supportive (albeit concerned for his safety) when Tanjiro says he wants to fight demons too. Tanjiro eventually picks up Snake Breathing, though Obanai points out that he's not totally suited for it. (If it weren't for how annoying he finds Giyuu, he would suggest Tanjiro try Water Breathing.)

Mitsuri is less supportive because she worries about Tanjiro's safety. He is her wonderful son whom she loves very much, after all. But if he's sure he can accept the risks, she allows him to try.

Nezuko has grown up babied by her unckes and aunts and does not know the responsibility of being an older sister. She always wants to be just like her mom (but Obanai sternly put a stop her dressing up like mom, which made little Nezuko cry because she didn't understand why he was angry). She wears fancy kimono and makes sweets and wears long braids and goes to school, and is a dutiful and sweet daughter as she grows up. Despite having riches, this does seem to go to her head, and she still practices humilty and thrift, which really endears her to Obanai. He originally was a bit more standoffish from Nezuko, but Nezuko feels secure in his care for her even if it's nothing like the open, loving, huggy relationship she has with her adoptive mother. When Tanjiro picks up the sword, she insists on learning too, but Tanjiro and Mitsuri don't want this. Obanai lets her give it a shot, but she's too fiery for Snake Breath, and not physically capable of Love Breath, despite how much she has always done her best to imitate mom.

So Nezuko finally does something a spoiled brat would do and she runs away to ask Uncle Kyojuro for Flame Breath training. This causes a brief argument between Hashira but it is soon settled, and Tanjiro sort of wishes he had thought of that before getting so deep into making Snake Breath work for him. Tanjiro & Kaburamaru and Nezuko eventually go through the Final Selection together and begin a sibling journey to avenge their birth parents, with their adoptive parents giving them their blessing and watching over them from afar.

And then, having seem that through, Obanai is finally ready to get married.

[ivoirerose]

lessons in loss | charles leclerc

summary: reflections on the end of a relationship.

it’s quiet when you get home. there is no warm greeting, no music softly playing in the background, no out-of-tune humming from the kitchen. your heart aches as it takes you just a second to realise that you’re not really home, not anymore. without those sounds, this is just a house.

you try to force your eyes to skim over the empty spaces he left behind. the bare corner where his piano once proudly stood, the faded spot on the wall where his overpriced art sat, the bare cushion his jacket was usually slouched over. it doesn’t work, and you find yourself staring, wondering how the absence of him is almost more overwhelming than his presence ever was.

despite not being here anymore, he’s more here than ever, in the gaps he’s left behind.

you can’t help but wonder where it all went wrong, how a couple so vibrant and sure, so full of love and promise and laughter, became this.

maybe it was the first time he cancelled date night, a rushed apology and a flimsy excuse hastily mumbled down the phone line. by the third time he missed date night, there wasn’t even a call, just a text.

you’d brushed it off, because of course his career was important, and meetings were a huge part of that, and you wanted to be supportive so bad, but each cancelled reservation, each carefully planned outfit thrown to the back of the wardrobe, each bottle of wine opened alone dug the knife in a little deeper until you’d stopped trying to schedule date night at all.

he hadn’t even noticed.

or maybe it was the first time you’d caught his wandering eye, the sting of it sharp after years of constant reassurance and steadfast faith in your relationship. he’d always told you that you were the only one for him, that no one could ever compare, and you’d had no reason to doubt him until that slip.

after that, you held your breath each time his phone pinged, each time he stayed with a friend, each time he slunk out the door, hair styled to perfection, wearing an outfit you were sure he’d never worn before. your suspicion grew like ivy until you were tangled in its vines.

or maybe it was the comments, once so easy to ignore but now glaring at you from under each post. you weren’t immune to your flaws, but to have them so plainly stated as a reason for just why you didn’t deserve him started to take its toll, until you simply stopped sharing your life online at all.

he’d never once thought to defend you.

if you were honest with yourself though, you know exactly when it happened, when the future you’d so carefully and excitedly planned shattered into unrecognisable shards.

a simply sunday morning. all he’d done was wake up, soft groan escaping as he stretched before pushing back the covers and making his way to the bathroom. the lock clicked behind him and that was that.

he hadn’t said good morning. through every hardship, every fight, every low and every high, he’d never failed to say those words, to acknowledge you in those quiet hours, voice soft with sleep. he’d never failed to recognise you beside him, to so easily reassure you that no matter what, it was you he was happy to wake up next to.

until that morning. you don’t even think he’d looked at you. and it wasn’t intentional. it wasn’t cruel or mean or pointed. it just was. he’d awoken, and you hadn’t been the first thing on his mind, hadn’t even been a thought at all.

by the time the shower turned off, you were gone.

he hadn’t fought it. no heartfelt apologies, no tears or begging, no flowers, no promises to change, to do better. you think that’s what hurt most of all.

he’d accepted it with ease, moving his things out and disappearing from your life like he’d never been there. except he had, and while he grinned on your screen from the top step of the podium, you drowned your sorrows and toasted to the man you’d once wanted to give everything.

you briefly wonder if he’d looked for you in the crowd, before realising how foolish that was. the only thing charles ever wanted was right there in his hand, trophy held tight as he sipped champagne.

you hope he wins the championship this year. you hope he finally gets what he’s always dreamed about, and you hope once he does, he realises everything he’s sacrificed to get there, and even if just for a moment, he feels as empty as you do right now.

you know he won’t.

[amartianonmars]

They're all very supportive <3

Description under the cut

[Image ID: a four panel comic drawn mostly in greyscale. The first panel is of John Twinkletits with his robotic arms holding a notepad and pen. He says "So, we've made significant progress over the last 10 hours today. Now, I don't want to pressure you, but do you think you can at least accept yourself for who you are?"

The second panel is of William Murderface glancing at Twinkletits, leaning on the arm rest of a couch with his left arm and actively stabbing the cushion with his right hand. He is covered in several banana stickers from the waist up, including one in his hair and on his face. He tells Twinkletits, "Dunno, schtill think there'sch no reason for me to.."

The third panel zooms out of the last scene to reveal that Pickles the Drummer was sitting besides Murderface on the couch, which now displays several stab marks. Pickles is glaring at Murderface, arms crossed over his chest and head cocked forward with a scowl directed at Murderface. " For (guitar sfx) sake Murderface!" he says, " If you come out you can say the 'f' word, okay?" Murderface visibly contemplates what Pickles had just said, stabbing his knife fully into the couch as Pickle mutters 'Jesus Christ' under his breath.

The fourth panel is of Murderface waving around 2 pistols excitedly, his eyes closed and mouth open in a state of glee, with another banana sticker now appearing in his hair. He's wearing a shirt with a pride flag on it with the words 'Dick over chicks' spelled across the chest, the 'I' in the word 'dick' being replaced with a penis. He screams out excitedly "Hey FAGGOTSch, guess whosch GAY?!" Pickles stands behind him in support, waving a small rainbow flag with a 'woo'. They're standing in front of a background of rainbow stars.

The last panel is of Nathan Explosion, Toki Wartooth, and Skwisgaard Skwidelf all gathered in the hot top. Nathan is holding a beer, looking off to the side in disinterest and mutters, "Don't. Care." Toki, who's standing of the left of him with his back turned towards him, looking at Pickles and Murderface, exclaims "Oh! Gratulerer! Congrakulations!" Skwisgaard, plays his guitar with disinterest, mostly submerged under the water as he states plainly, 'Wes alreadys knews". In the background, Murderface is scene shooting the guns, while Pickles starts drinking a bottle of beer rapidly. End ID]