#Briefly makes an appearance

[beebfreeb]

I got curious about the difference between the English dub and original Japanese voice acting...

[ashintheairlikesnow]

ash i love vince so much he is my number 2 babygirl (antoni number 1 babygirl forever)

i would like to formally request some vince having a Bad Time, either past stuff with owen or present with recovery being a bitch

because there is nothing better than lovely characters having bad times that they absolutely do not deserve

CW: Alcoholism, withdrawal/cravings, alcoholic anger, Vince and Jameson both PTSD-ing all over the place, guilt

Oh, poor Vince. Takes place post-the Same Bed Arc, after Vince is living with Nat and Jameson.

-

Vince doesn't even look up when he hears Jameson stop in the doorway. He just pours a few shots worth of the gin into the glass, staring fixedly down at it. The liquid, clear as water but with the herbal scent washing over him like a welcome spring rain, spreads over the ice with those gentle cracks he knows better than his own heartbeat.

God, it looks good.

His hands don't shake, now. His heart doesn't race. He doesn't feel sweaty, or upset, or like he'll be sick.

He just feels like he's staring at the solution to all his problems, and all he has to do is swallow it down.

This should feel awful - he knows it should. It should taste awful, there should be something to remind him of the damage he does to himself every time he drinks again. He should hear his sponsor speaking in the back of his mind, he should hear the voices of the others at the meetings he goes to - one for alcoholism, one for survivors of sexual assault, twice a week there's movie star Vincent goddamn Shield among the normal people and admitting he's barely human, just a wreck that only survived Owen Grant because Nat decided she gave a fuck about him for reasons Vince still doesn't understand.

Here he stands, a hollow shell wearing a nice face who let someone else suffer in his place and was grateful for it for far too long.

Kauri hates him but it's nothing compared to how much he hates himself.

Vince lifts the glass, hesitating at the last second with the cool rim just touching his lower lip. Gin smells like blacking out and right now he could use the blessed darkness, hangover be damned.

He can worry about that when the headache kicks in tomorrow morning.

He realizes he's waiting for the sickening crawl of guilt at letting Nat down, at-... at letting himself down. Maybe that will come later, but right now... He feels goddamn good. Settled. Calm.

He and Jameson meet eyes just as he tosses the drink back, three large swallows of juniper-scented gin down his throat like water, leaving only the ice cubes behind.

The burn is perfect.

He pours himself another drink, feeling the warmth slowly spread through his chest to his shoulders, eyes briefly closing. God, it feels like goddamn heaven.

He looks up.

Jameson is still standing there in the doorway, looking oddly soft in a loose sweater that's far too big for him and a pair of old jeans that probably cost a dollar at a yard sale and even that was too much. Vince has jeans that distressed, somewhere.

His cost more than five hundred dollars.

He chokes on the next drink from trying not to laugh.

Jameson's eyes narrow. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Vince takes another sip, eyes half-closed, letting himself take it slow this time and really enjoy the taste.

He'd honestly been surprised the little liquor store down the block even carried this brand of gin. Not that he wouldn't have bought whatever he could get, when he stood there feeling like he would die if he had to go another day, but still. It's nice to have seen his favorite stuff, top shelf, pricier than it had any right to be. It's not even that good, but it's still his favorite. It still tastes, to him, like the nights he sleeps without nightmares, few and far between.

Gin tastes like those nights he gets to sleep at all.

The cashier had looked surprised as she wiped off the dust and rang it up for him. Then, with a shy smile, she'd asked him if anyone ever told him he looked a lot like Vincent Shield. He'd been kind of sad she didn't card him - it would have been nice to see the look on her face when she saw his name.

Instead, he paid in cash, laughed, and told her the standard I get that a lot, actually.

Jameson doesn't move closer, or leave. "It looks like you're fucking yourself up," He says, lingering in the doorway. "You can't just start drinking again. You know that, right?"

"Oh, I sure as hell can." Vince laughs, but it's a bitter sound. He licks the gin lingering on his lips, then gestures at the bottle. "Have some with me."

He's caught, for just a moment, when he sees Jameson wearing an expression Vince has never seen on him before. He looks... nervous. Afraid, almost, instead of angry.

"I-I don't want to," Jameson says, but there's a way he says it that makes Vince think he'd drink if he offers again. Maybe he wants to, or maybe he just doesn't want to make Vince mad.

If he commanded it, if he gave an order... Jameson would be as he's told, wouldn't he? Damn, that would be some power to have over someone.

This must be why Owen liked it so much.

No.

He won't think about Owen right now.

Vince gulps down liquid until he's breathless, almost panting. The warmth is like the familiar cradle of a softer reality settling in. He makes himself slow down this time, picking up an ice cube and sucking the juniper taste right off it before crunching it with his teeth.

"Vince." Jameson's voice gets harsher, and something seems to break his brief paralysis. He moves closer, grabbing the bottle and pulling it away when Vince puts a hand out to pour the third drink. "Fucking... look at me. What the fuck?"

Vince's hand just... hangs out there, reaching for a bottle that isn't where it was. He stares at the empty space, and feels that dark inside of him threaten to well up yet again. "What?"

Jameson swallows, his eyes moving to the glass, back to Vince's face. He steps backwards, and Vince watches the bottle go with him with a piercing need that could easily knock him off his feet if he weren't holding onto the back of a chair. Jameson clears his throat. "Aren't you... like, sober now?"

"Mmmn. Was. Got the like... three month chip thing and everything." He's gotten thoroughly wasted so many times in his life. Nothing relaxes him better than enough alcohol to force his body to stop living in constant, unending fear of who might hurt him next. "Right now, I am tipsy instead. In about an hour, I'm going to be absolutely fucked up. Give me back my gin."

Jameson's hand moves - then he jerks it back, taking a few steps backwards until he's back in the doorway. His eyes are on Vince's face, watching him with a total focus that Vince recognizes from the others he's worked with over the years - Jameson's just a trained pet, in this moment, watching to see if the master will be angry.

It makes him laugh again, more bitterly this time. Is he the master? Has he ever been his own master, let alone anyone else's?

"I... I can't do that," Jameson says, and Vince hears that he doesn't say no. When Vince moves towards him, he backs up a little more, and Vince comes to a stop just a foot or so away.

"Am... am I scaring you?" He asks, suddenly.

It wasn't what he meant to say, he meant to demand his drink again. Instead, this question that... that just sort of falls out of him like a waterfall.

Jameson's jaw sets and his eyes narrow. "You're not doing shit to me," He snaps, but Vince knows he's really saying yes.

Is this why people buy pets? So they can see something pretend not to be scared, and know they're the monster not just under the bed, but in it?

"Oh," He whispers. "What is it? Why are you scared? I'm just a drunk asshole, why are you scared of me?"

Jameson bristles, but then he offers - as if it's pulled out of him against his will - the softest explanation. "Brute and Robert got drunk all the time. I know what happens when-... when people get this kind of drunk."

There's a look in his eyes Vince has seen before in Kauri's. Not fear of him, not directly, but fear of someone like him, maybe. Fear of having demands made that can't be denied.

Is this how Owen felt, every time Kauri had to playact the loving boyfriend with bruises on his wrists and terror making his heart race? Is this how it feels to have power over somebody else when you can't even control yourself?

It's... it's good, almost.

It feels better than he thought it would.

"Back up, Shield," Jameson hisses, like a cat spitting and arching its back, ready to attack with claws and sharp teeth not because it's confident in victory but because it's so small it has to fight to have even the slightest chance to survive.

Vince looks him over, reading with an actor's expertise how he's projecting a confident swagger he never feels, how the irritation layers itself so carefully over a vulnerability that he sees as weakness. Vince has lived that way, too, since he was twenty-one, since his best friend turned out to be a rapist who wanted Vince to himself, since he started drinking to forget every single night and putting on the perfect face during his days.

They both survived, didn't they?

Jameson just did it by fighting his way out, and Vince by pretending to be someone he wasn't until nobody knew who he actually was, and that's a way of surviving, too. Wear another face, and make sure no one sees the fear in your real one, so they can't refuse to help you... because you've never asked.

"No." At least one of them can say it. Although that makes Vince's heart twist with ugly guilt, the petty cruelty of the thought. "Give me my gin," Vince says, pitching his voice low, and holds out his hand. "Now, Jameson. Give it to me."

"I can't." The strength is gone from Jameson's voice, and he looks at Vince with those dark eyes searching his own, trying to make himself understood. "If you drink, your-... your body's not used to it anymore, if you drink the same amount you'll fucking kill your stupid liver."

"What do you care about my liver?" Vince's voice drops low, almost a whisper. "What do you care about me, about my goddamn joke of a life, huh? What the fuck do you care? Why should anyone care?"

There's a flicker of something in Jameson's eyes - recognition, maybe. Something that lights up, just for a second, before the other man shoves Vince to the side with sudden violent strength and stalks to the sink, turning the bottle over and pouring that expensive artisan gin right down the drain.

"No!" Vince's voice is a ragged shout as he lunges after him, but it's too little too late.

Jameson's foot kicks out and slams into Vince's calf, sending him stumbling, clawing desperately as the gin is gone, glug glug glug, down into the pipes, disappearing towards the ocean.

Rage and terror fight in Vince's mind in a sudden white noise and he gets to his feet, grabbing Jameson by the arms and squeezing as hard as he can, shoving him back across the room. He hears Jameson hit one of the chairs, the clatter of wood and Jameson's grunt of pain as both hit the ground hard. The bottle is in the sink, and even when Vince scrambles to pick it back up, there's less than an inch of gin left.

He sucks it down, and only once he's gotten that final drop does he suddenly go still.

Oh.

There's the guilt and the horror and feeling sick at himself, just... twenty minutes too late. He sets the empty bottle carefully down, and then turns slowly around to look at Jameson.

Jameson sits on the kitchen floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. His face is pale, making the scar that twists the corner of his mouth stand out even more. His hair is nearly grown back in now, the bald patches hidden by the rest.

Vince exhales in a rush. "Oh, hell. Jameson-" He holds out a hand.

Jameson flinches.

Vince pulls his hand back, backing up until his back hits the edge of the sink. "Right. Okay. I'm-... I'm sorry Jameson-"

"Yeah." Jameson's voice is gruff, all the vulnerability and fear wiped away as soon as he realizes it's showing. He gets to his feet, shoulders protectively hunched, arms crossed in front of himself defensively. "Whatever. Sure you are. Drink yourself to death, shitbag, if that's what you want."

"I'm so sorry."

Jameson's jaw works. "... Everybody's always sorry. Then I get fucking hit again." Then he turns and walks - limps, really, his knees threatening to give out with every step - away. Vince stands there, frozen, listening as he makes his slow, painful way up the stairs.

Vince stares at the place he was for a while - he isn't sure how long. The gin is sinking its velvet claws into his mind, and he's drunker than he should be after only two drinks.

But then, it's been months.

Months, he made it without taking even a sip.

He swallows, again and again, and then pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, finds a contact, and presses the button to make the call.

The phone rings until he's certain it'll go to voicemail, before a voice he knows as well as his own is in his ear.

"What the hell do you want?"

"I-I need to talk to you," He stammers, his heart cold. "Please. Please. I-I've been drinking. I need... I need help."

There's a pause.

"From... me?"

"Yeah... yeah. You'll-... I need somebody who won't be nice to me-"

"Oh, well, if there's anything I love it's the chance to be mean to you, let me drop my entire life to come listen to you whine about yours."

"Please."

An exhale. "Whatever. Yeah, okay. I'll be over there in like... half an hour? An hour, maybe. Drink some water and I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't leave the house."

"Thanks... thank you, Kauri."

Kauri hangs up.

Vince pours himself a glass of water over the leftover gin-soaked ice, sipping it, barely flavored with a hint of the liquor he wants so badly. He rights the chair he'd accidentally shoved Jameson into, and listens to the creaking floorboards and muffled cursing above him as Jameson makes his halting painful way from stairway to his room, a couple thumps when he clearly falls and had to force himself back upright, until the pacing abruptly stops when he must have collapsed into his bed.

He hears the gentle patting of Trash Cat's paws as she leaves her place on the living room couch and follows him, too, her soft meowing until Jameson opens his door to let her come in after him. Then silence again.

Vince sits back down at the table, leaning over with his head in his hand, staring as the ice slowly melts, cooling the water around it.

He should have called his sponsor instead.

Whatever Kauri is about to say can only make this worse.

But he deserves it, anyway.

Vince doesn't move a muscle until he hears the sound of Jake's truck pulling into the driveway, crunching briefly over gravel before it's on the pavement again, when he raises his head.

Kauri walks in without knocking, stops in the doorway to the kitchen, and looks at him like his younger self ashamed of what he's grown into. Vince knows Jake must have driven him, but he's nowhere to be seen - maybe just staying outside, for now. He's clearly dressed for bed in a matching navy blue silk button-up and pajama pants, barefoot even.

"Hey," Vince says, weakly. The alcohol feels like poison now, not the soothing warmth it had been before. "I... I fucked up, Kauri."

"Yeah, I can tell just by looking at you, you're a goddamn mess." Kauri looks at Vince head-on, even though it still hurts him to do it, and Vince can see the flinch he suppresses as the headache kicks in. His blue eyes are identical to Vince's in nearly every way, except that Kauri's gaze has always been stronger. "What the hell did you do?"

"I got... I drank."

"Yep. I can see the gin bottle. Did you drink all of it?" Kauri's voice is flat and businesslike. It's like having his own younger self dressing him down, and somehow that feels... really good. Better than he thought it would.

"... No. Just a couple drinks. Jameson poured the rest out."

"Good for him." Kauri flickers a smile. "Where is he?"

"I-... I scared him."

"... you scared him?"

"Yeah. I was-... I wasn't-... I didn't mean to, but-"

"Shut up. All right. Tell me what you did. I'll fix it. This time, taking your place so I suffer for years while you run off and become obscenely wealthy is off the table, got it?"

Vince looks at him in horror only to see a surprising warmth in Kauri's smile. Not... not affection, but something like it. A wry compassion, maybe. Something else he doesn't deserve. "I don't know. I don't know if I can fix this, Kauri. I don't know."

"Well... I happen to the resident expert in trying to avoid dealing with your problems while making them all worse, so talk to me. Tell me what you did, start to finish. We'll figure out what comes next."

Vince lowers his head into his arms.

"Thank you," He says, muffled.

"Not enough thanks in the world, dumbass. Lucky for you I'm an amazing person who just happens to have spent most of my twenties making stupid drunk mistakes. So stop stalling and start talking."

-

@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @whumpyourdamnpears @cubeswhump  @whump-tr0pes @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @autophagay

[fighting-these-demons]

Hello Internet Stranger looking up G Gundam on Tumblr dot com!

This is an idea for a fic set in an Alternate Universe involving Queer Non-Canon Relationships between the characters of the series.

If you are not looking for this content please scroll on.

If you ARE looking for this content - and you're ok with reading my and other's Headcanons for this Alternate Universe I've haphazardly spun up -

Then go ahead and feel free to:

Check The Tags Of This Post For The Pairings

and click the Read More below!

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Ended up outlining a completely different fic as a Segway for an explanation instead of making progress on the Royal Flush Haunted Honk AU's Clown Motel Fic like I wanted to but uh....

For y'all's review for the AU: A Prequel Outline - Divorce Saga Domon

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Hey real quick - I'm thinking of maybe changing the timeline to 2 years post canon as opposed to 3 years and change post canon.

The reason being: I had a thought that this scene could either be part if the fic or if it's getting to big then it could be a stand alone tie-in prequel fic as part of this AU but - like

Immediately Post Divorce Domon Needs Space and runs off. As one does. And he runs to Earth because he just wants to Get Lost for a while.

He has Argo smuggle him out to avoid detection.

Argo has Andrew help stow Domon in a storage hanger of a Neo Canadian supply ship that's returning to the US - they have trade often enough and share agricultural resources - which leads to Domon ending up in New York when he hits Earthside pavement.

He's privately worked on his English the last couple of months and after being dropped in New York with a different hairstyle, outfit, and accent he's unrecognizable. 

He considers making his way west to get some solitude in the wilderness, but something about that initial plan feels off now that he's on the ground.

Chibodee is also Earthside for a special series of prize fights aimed at raising charitable appeal for the US in the eyes of Neo Americans.

Domon decides to hit up Chibodee for a fight on a day between matches hoping it'll clear his head and give him the clarity to decide on a course of action. What ends up happening is an unexpected heart to heart via blows and a breakdown.

Domon is happy for Rain and Kyoji, and he knows it's not true; but he feels like he lost a piece of himself when his relationship with Rain fell apart.

Domon's instinct is to run after that but Chibodee knows this city and Domon doesn't hide out for long before Chibodee drags him back to his place to stay and just "Chill out and breathe. You don't have to be anyone but yourself here. You can take as long as you need to find out what everything changing means for you." Friends and teammates stick together.

So Domon spends a few weeks with Chibodee sparring and hanging out in New York. Chibodee does a frankly awesome job at containing his feelings because he's focusing on Domons feelings and being a good friend first and foremost. Whatever he's feeling can wait until after Domon is done going though it.

There's a bit of a twinge in Domon's heart as he leaves that he can't really place.

After he returns to Neo Japan and gets settled back into life with his family, The Dreams start.

They're mainly set in New York. Small things first like noticing Chibodee's smile and his eyes. Then sparring sessions that begin to turn lurid.

He thought these kinds of dreams would stop after he was married.... he doesn't know what to do about this.

I just figure it gives more clarity and sense of time for the journey from Comphet Marriage Dissolution to Feelings to Confession. Idk.

But I got stuck on a bit and then had this thought and needed to get it down before I lost it and it was so long it made sense to make it its own post as opposed to several replies.

The Maize and Clown Motel will probably still be 3 years and change post canon for clarification.

@thedragonchilde @amplexadversary @youreaclownnow

[spaceseawitch-art]

Briefly a runway model, and I bet he took advantage of it

[arecaceae175]

Loft Gets to Have One (1) Nice Day

Summary: Loft and the very good extremely nice day. Featuring Groose, Zelda, and a board game. Written for the Bonus Links monthly prompt

Based on @bonus-links by @ezdotjpg

1251 words, fluff and humor (hopefully)

As soon as Loft slips into the slightest bit of wakefulness, he knows it’s going to be a good day. The aches and general fuzziness of his body from the past week seem to have calmed down to its normal, manageable level. He curls onto his side and pulls the soft blanket tighter around his shoulders, breathing deeply and luxuriating in the sweet smell of his partners. 

He must have dozed off; the next thing he knows, he wakes to the dip of the bed behind him. Loft groans half-heartedly and muzzles into the pillow. An arm goes over his stomach, then he feels Zelda’s soft hair tickling his cheek. 

“Morning, love,” Zelda whispers. 

She presses a soft kiss to his cheek. Loft tries to turn and catch her lips, but he’s too slow. He doesn’t mind, because Zelda laughs lightly at his attempt. The sound is music to his ears. 

“How are you feeling?” Zelda asks. 

Loft hums in content. “So much better.”

“That’s great,” Zelda says. Loft flings his arm around to try to find her for another hug, but it flops on the blankets. Zelda must have moved. 

“Ready to get up? Groose almost has breakfast ready,” Zelda says. 

“I’m coming,” Loft mumbles, voice muffled by the mountain of blankets on top of him. He does not move.

Zelda rolls her eyes and moves to the end of the bed. She gets a mischievous look in her eyes, and Loft doesn’t have time to react before she is yanking the blankets off the bed. Loft makes a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan. He sits up and pouts. It’s hard to keep the pout, though, when he sees Zelda stifling her laugh behind her hand. 

Loft lasts all of three seconds before his resolve crumbles and he giggles. 

“It always works,” Zelda says with a shrug. 

Loft rolls his eyes fondly and holds his arms out. “I’m cold, now.”

Zelda jumps onto the bed and pulls Loft into her arms. He sighs fondly and rests his head in the crook of her neck. Mouth against her skin, he mumbles, “That always works too.”

Zelda laughs and pushes him away. Loft lets himself fall backwards onto the pillows, then rolls to the side and lets his feet slide off the bed. The momentum pulls him into a sitting position, and Loft waits patiently as the rushing in his head calms and he feels up to standing. 

“You two better hurry! I’ll eat all this without ya!” Groose calls from the kitchen. 

Loft quickly rolls onto his feet. “I’m up!” 

Loft drags himself to the kitchen and flops down in his chair, sighing in contentment. Groose and Zelda had crafted it specially for him. It has support in all the right places and extra cushioning for days when everything hurts. Loft feels their love pouring out of it every time he touches the polished wood. 

Groose carried three plates to the table, passed them out, then sat down. He rubbed his hands together excitedly as he dug into the meal. Zelda rolled her eyes with fondness and ate hers with much more grace. Loft rested his head on one hand as he picked up his toast. 

“What’s the plan for today?” Loft asks. 

“Nothing until the planning meeting this afternoon. We have the morning to ourselves. See why I wanted you up?” Zelda says with a smile. 

Loft returns it happily. A day spent with his partners is something he will never cease to cherish. 

“I got a new game at the market last week,” Groose says. “It seems fun.”

“Let’s try it!” Loft says. 

“A board game? Oh, you’re going down,” Zelda says. Loft takes it as the challenge it is.

~ ~ ~ ▲ ~ ~ ~

“Link. My dearest angel. The light of my life. The sun in my sky, the moon in my eyes,” Groose says, leaning across the table with one hand extending to Loft. 

“Groose.”

“Will you make the trade?” Groose asks. 

Loft rests his elbows on the table and rests his chin on his hands. He gives Groose the biggest eyes, the softest smile he can. He tilts his head to the side just so, the way he knows Groose likes. 

“No,” Loft says, voice dripping with sickly sweetness. 

Groose’s mouth falls open in shock, and he ever so slowly collapses onto the table. He moans in agony. 

“There, there,” Zelda says, patting Groose’s shoulder. “It’ll all be okay.”

Groose turns his head to look at Zelda. “Will you trade with me?”

Zelda smiles sadly. “No."

Groose puts his face back down on the table. 

“That’s the end of your turn, then,” Zelda says gleefully. She hands the dice to Loft. 

Loft takes it angrily and shakes it around in his hand. He really needs a four. 

“Two, two, two, two,” Zelda chants. “Come on.”

Loft bites his lip as he rolls the rice in his hands. He glances at Zelda, eagerly watching him like he is easy prey, then at Groose, who has both hands braced against the table and is leaning back slightly, with a look of mild terror on his face. 

Loft sucks in a breath. He traveled the world and defeated a God. He’s the Goddesses’ Chosen Hero of Courage.

He can defeat his girlfriend in this damned board game. 

Loft opens his hand and rolls the dice. It bounces and spins across the table, past Loft’s game piece, past Groose’s, past Zelda’s far ahead. The bouncing stops, the spinning slows. All three lean forward. 

The die tilts, and lands on… two. 

“No!” Loft yells, and collapses onto the table. 

“Yes!” Zelda leaps to her feet, arms pumping victoriously in the air. She bounces for a moment, then leans over the board and moves the game pieces. 

“You got a two, so- you don’t mind me moving your piece, love?” Zelda asks, voice high with joy. 

Loft groans. 

“So you land here, which sends you here, which lets me move here and collect and win the game!” Zelda slams her piece on the WIN square. Loft groans some more. 

“You’re evil,” Loft mumbles into his sleeve. 

Zelda flips her ponytail over her shoulder and rests one hand on her hip. “It’s just skill. You wish you had it.”

Groose abruptly rises to his feet and sweeps his arm across the table, gathering all the game pieces into the case. He tucks it haphazardly under his arm and stomps to the door to put on his shoes. 

“Hey, where are you going?” Loft asks. 

“I need to collect firewood,” Groose says. 

“What are you doing with the game?” Zelda asks. Her voice is still tinged with her smile. It makes Loft vaguely nauseous. 

Groose turns around to face them and looks Zelda straight in the eye. “I told you. I’m collecting firewood. As head of this household, I’m banning this game and condemning it to a fiery death.”

“Woah, woah, woah, slow down,” Zelda says. “Who made you the head of the household?”

They erupt into chaos. 

~ ~ ~ ▲ ~ ~ ~

Many months later, in an era Loft doesn’t know, he and his new companions are having a day of rest and relaxation. Someone suggests a board game, which Loft hastily agrees to. Mage pulls out the game, and Loft freezes. 

“Loft?” Wake asks. 

Loft shakes his head and stands from the table. 

“Nope,” Loft says, and turns to leave. 

“What’s wrong?” Wolf asks. 

“Sorry. I’m banned from playing that game. It turns me into a ‘power-crazed demon,’ apparently, according to my boyfriend. And my girlfriend. Like they can talk,” Loft says. He turns and walks out the door. 

“Oh, and try not to roll a two. Best of luck. I’ll see the survivors at dinner.”

[jasontoddenthusiastt]

Jason never got to be 16. makes me sad.

Not to deny that Jason not being able to make it to 16 in his first life is sad, but I mean he did technically end up making it, and he made it to 17 and 18 and 21 and so on and so forth, it just happened "in round two" so to speak.

What I think is sadder though, is that depending on whether he was 15 or 14 years old when this happened:

There are one of two ways he would've spent his sixteenth year.

Option 1 (if he was 15 at the time of his ressurection):

(This is 1 year post initial hospitalization)

Or Option 2 (if he was 14 at the time of his ressurection):

(And this is 2 years post initial hospitalization, 1 year post escape from that facility)

Happy sweet 16th, Jason John Doe #265 :)

Batman Annual (1961-) #25

[bidokja]

only on episode 3 of the untamed but my fav characters (aside from the obvious wwx numero uno) so far are lan xichen (so sweetie 🥺💖), jiang cheng (YOU HAVE SO MANY ISSUES i just know hes gonna break me), and wen ning (SO BABY...HOLDS HIM SO GENTLE...)

[bechloeislegit]

Day 3 already? Wow! How time flies. . .Enjoy!

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Pitch Perfect (Movies) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell Characters: Beca Mitchell, Chloe Beale, Beca Mitchell's Mother, Chloe Beale's Mother, Stacie Conrad Additional Tags: Military AU, Chloe's being an idiot, Some angst/drama Series: Part 3 of 25 Days of BeChloe Christmases - 2023 Summary:

Chloe comes home from Army Basic Training and sees her ex-girlfriend, Beca.

[tomfrogisblue]

Ya know, Wilbur only came back twice in like 7 months, and one of those times he was just a skin suit playing pre-recorded lines

There's wiggle room here that the man really is just a mass hallucination on the island, with the Feds just sprinkling in some photoshopped pictures and false memories for flavor

[dazeddoodles]

On that note. I've been defending Huntlow shippers from people hating on it for months because I know when Raeda gets together at the very last minute, we're gonna get it too.

Raeda Shippers 🤝 Huntlow Shippers

[mordremrose]

I’m just gonna write a little thing! A little thought for Bloom, nothing too intense, just so I don’t forget it!

1000 words later? Whoops

Writing below the cut, major spoilers for the end of Heart of Thorns and implied End of Dragons spoilers but nothing explicit from EoD :]

Bloom

“Kill me, Commander.” Trahearne could hear his own voice tremble, as horror overtook his dear friend’s face. Around them all, their friends— Rytlock, Caithe, Canach, Marjory, Braham— were exhausted. Worn thin by the fight against the jungle dragon, both physical and within the Dream.

“What? No! Mordremoth is dead. We destroyed its mind from the inside.” The commander protested, their fingers curled around the hilt of Caladbolg.

“But I still hear its voice.” Trahearne looked down at his hands, twisted and blighted as they were. His body was not his— he was corrupted. It was only cruel fate that he had kept his mind this long. Or perhaps something more sinister.

“Mordremoth is alive. One last hateful vestige… a terrible seed, planted deep in my mind.”

Trahearne’s hands curled into fist, as he took a deep steadying breath.

“You must kill me, Commander, before that seed grows. Before… before Mordremoth reclaims what it has lost.”

He reached out now, hands on his friend’s shoulders. The tears streaming down their face broke his heart. He did not want this. He didn’t want to hurt them, to see them suffer so.

Trahearne wished there was another way.

“What is left of me can’t survive on its own, my friend.” He croaked, and felt the Commander tremble beneath his hands. Were they always so small?

“Strike now or—“

Against his will, a rage rose up. A sick bile that boiled in his stomach and burned through his chest as his mind lurched.

Through his mouth, Mordremoth spoke.

“I am the future! I am this world! You cannot destroy me!” The dragon roared, hands tightening around the commander.

“Run while you can!” It took everything he had left to force his fingers to uncurl, to release the commander even as the dragon wanted to tear them to shreds to be remade anew.

Caladbolg flashed in the corner of his eye.

“No!” The commander yelled. Strike true my friend! Trahearne wanted to yell. But he couldn’t, and his mind went dark.

There was no great explosion. There was no dying scream.

If you asked those present what happened, none of them gave any concrete answer.

Canach hesitated to answer, but would confirm that Mordremoth was no longer hounding his mind, or any of the sylvari.

All Rytlock would say was that the confrontation wasn’t pretty.

Caithe mourned Trahearne, in her quiet and melancholic manner, and asked not to push the matter further.

Braham would scowl, shake his head, and shove his way past, unwilling or perhaps unable to describe that final blow.

Marjory Delaqua, normally so elegant and clever with her words, who could see the twists of a plot before anyone else— when she was asked, she could only shake her head and reply ‘I don’t know’.

The Commander didn’t answer at all, because no one was able to find them to ask.

Eventually, researchers at the newly established lab of Rata Novus confirmed what the entire world held its breath to hear.

Mordremoth was dead. He had to be, to explain the slow steady trickle of magic escaping the jungle, supposedly as the dragon… decayed wasn’t the right word, but it conveyed the idea well enough. It was a slow death, they said, not quite the explosive reaction from Zhaitan, who had gorged itself on magic before its death, but a gradual decay. It changed things, about magic, about how the people of Tyria and the soon to be established Dragon’s Watch understood the flow of magic around and through the Elder Dragons. But it was dead.

It had to be.

He woke up. His body ached, as it always did, as he woke. A consequence of being too bigsmall. He stirred slowly, limbs stretching out and tail dragging behind. He had buried himself beneath massive vines this time, the weight of them both familiar and restricting. These conflicting sensations, the constant disagreement with himself… it was the only thing he could rely on. Even his name escaped his memory, although he could hear whispers of it on the edges of his mind.

Traherdremaneth.

It didn’t matter, really.

He moved slowly, not truly wanting to rise, but knowing he must.

He was something in between, and there was no stillness for him. No place of his own.

His one companion, if you could call it that, would be upon him soon. A dogged purserer, both a thorn in his side and a trusted ally, trailed behind him. For a time he thought they left him— and the feelings that had wrought left him stationary in a deep cave for nearly a week before they had reappeared.

He didn’t want them close, he knew that much, but they were one of the few things he had, a consistency. He couldn’t see them well, not with the distance between them, but he could always make out the broken blade at their hip. The one that made the scar across his chest ache.

He wondered what would happen if he let them get closer. Would they strike? Would they know him?

They were his enemyfriend. What would they make of him? Caution kept him at a distance from them.

The longer he was awake, the more memories he could half-remember.

The Orrian landscape stretches out before him and it reeks of his sibling, twisting beneath the dirt. The undead don’t notice him, not yet, and he can take a moment to look closer at the coral. It was neither alive nor dead. Not unlike himself and yet so different to him or anything he had ever encountered before.

He missed his siblings, their quiet talks among the then empty roots, among safe coils with their constant presence around him. They were too distant to feel or simply gone now and it unnerved him. This was wrong. Perhaps they could help him make it right.

There was one other thing, other than his sort-of companion and his unsteady roiling mind, that remained constant. And this was the true constant. A steady beacon, that he could not see or hear, but simply felt in a way that he could not describe. A magnetic sort of pull that had him orbiting closer and closer.

It drew him in, out of the depths and dark underbelly of the jungle and the cave systems, towards the strange golden stones, the elegant walls meant to keep out creatures that wished to destroy the beacon. He was not welcome there, not yet, even though he meant no harm. He just needed to be closer.

He didn’t know how he knew that. He just knew it.

[oh-meow-swirls]

the anime is fucking homophobic-

[karmirage]

y'know, it's kind of sad/weird that even tho Dani has the best relationship with her parents of any of the new mutants, neither will nor peg have appeared since like. the 90s

[sonknuxadow]

Sonic underground does have an ending in Sonic Universe Issue 50, it follows the scraped script for the final episode and has the triplets turn Super. The Super forms are nice because they aren't all gold but it's kinda goofy because they're instruments turn Super with them.

im gonna be real with you ive read the entirety of archie sonic including spinoffs and side comics and i do Not remember this happening at all

[ploompkin]

I 👏👏 GENUINELY FORGOT I MADE KNOX AN OLDER BROTHER

GREY ILY I’M SO SORRY,,

[mariocki]

Anthony Ainley guests as medical specialist Josef Kerston, a doctor but also (shock!) a villain, in The Adventurer: The Bradley Way (1.4, ITC, 1972)