#good ending? never know her

[tumbleweeddesktop]

About Hanahaki Rudy

//Shitty writing coming through. I have no idea what im doing//

So Rudy loved Ale definitely since he knew he was gay. (I'm not putting him through too much on this) Hanahaki doesn't occure until one acknowledges that they are in love with the intended person here, so Rudy only experienced normal coughing and the check up left him with normal diagnosis and meds

Rudy only realized he loved Ale after they got out on escapades to bars as they got more freedom over time in the forces. Rudy was unable to process anything as Ale flirted right and left, It happened enough that finally, after enough outing. Rudy coughed up seeds.

And the more and more he sees Ale flirt and goes somewhere outside with a different person, the more it escalates. The seed turned to leaves and stems. By then he knew that it was hanahaki, clear enough for who these feelings were.

But he denies it, tries to drown it out with trying to achieve his best and just keep up with Alejandro in the force. Standing by his side was enough, he wouldn't ask for more.

He coughed up the first petals on the first day of autumn, when they got a temporary leave after a mission and Ale decided to visit a relative. A red, fan shaped petal landed on his palm after Ale's car was right out of view. Separation makes the heart grow fonder.

He hates that it's right.

A soldier with hanahaki is not uncommon, but they were given 2 choices. Confess or operation. And honestly Rudy would opt the first. Loving Ale for so long and being lifted of it- he wouldn't know how to survive.

If only he knew how to face the man so that so freely allowed

So of course he keeps it a secret.

Trying to hold back the coughs and chokes in public. He'd gotten quite well at controlling his breathing so that no one noticed his lack of chatter, well, not less than usual that is.

Alejandro ofc knew that something was wrong with him, but Rudy wasn't ready to confess, he doubts he'll ever be. So he chalked it up to just nostalgia washing over him for a bit. Ale didn't believe him but he knows that it'll take some time for Rudy to be honest with something so he left it for another day.

His first full flower was when Ale got his promotion as colonel

A red poppy.

Ah, he loved enough to die apparently.

With a smile, Rudy accepted his feelings. At the same time he realized that he quite liked oak coffins.

Rodolfo Parra loves slowly, it takes years but once he does it's strong.

The red poppies decorated the corners of his room. At first just one or two; overtime he coughed up enough to fill a bowl. Along with his breath shortening day by day, the flowers are clogging up his airways slowly but surely, ready to cut it off completely. He hopes that it's in his sleep.

Then the house burned.

The smoke didn't make it easier for him to breathe. Suffocating from the outside and inside, Rodolfo Parra accepted that it was his last night on earth. His comm blared, Alejandro of course, worried and panicked but Rudy's voice was calm and collected as much as he could bring it to. Telling his colonel to chase after Hassan, aware of the implications but Rudy ignored it.

He won't have to stuff red poppies in his pocket the next morning, filling a bowl with fresh water to keep them alive despite them being a reminder that he's a day closer to death. He loved Ale, and even if the flowers were a painful reminder he loved them too.

Fate had other plans.

He lived. Opening his eyes to a morning he never thought he'd see again. His colonel by his side holding his hand.

Rudy didn't like the hope he felt so he didn't return the light squeeze. Merely hoping his attempt at a smile was successful in reassuring the other.

"Hanahaki?"

Rudy nodded.

"To who? Tell me, Rudy, to who?"

"It doesn't matter. It'll be better if they never know, I'm content with this."

And before Ale responded, he cuts in again.

"When is the surgery?"

//whew this turned out longer than I thought//

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[kettlefire]

Prepare for the unexpected. (DPxDC)

Everyone knew about the reign of Pariah Dark. Even those who did not dabble in those realms have heard the tale of the tyrant. A power-hungry man who ruled over the dead with an iron fist.

Following the rise of Pariah Dark, his realm had been effectively cut off from communication. Many mystics and magic users knew better than to open the door of nightmares that could arise if Pariah Dark's reach went further than his own realm.

Except, the universe had plans to bring the realm of the dead back into the cards.

A new opponent, one that had all of Earth's heroes scrambling for options. A being with powers of a god over weather, destruction was on the horizon. A world ending threat.

It's the only reason the Justice League was doing this. In a deep bunker, far from close civilization as a precaution, the heroes looked on with grim expressions.

The world was already being threatened. It would be destroyed regardless of what the league did. So it only made sense to make the last ditch effort. To summon someone strong enough to defeat the threat.

No one wanted to do it. No one wanted to be the one to pull the realm of the dead back to the living. The consequences were untold if this succeeded. If Pariah Dark was freed and defeated the threat, whose to say he won't want control?

That was a problem for later. For the aftermath. For now, the league could only watch on with bated breath as Constantine completely the summon ritual.

They watched on as the shadows in the room seemed to darken and grow. As the sigil sputtered to life with a glow that was growing increasingly brighter. A sudden gust of wind rushed through the room, the temperature began to drop with eaching ticking second.

And then it was all gone.

The room stood perfectly still. Just as it had been moments before. Nothing changed. No giant king standing before them, no sign that the ritual worked.

The room stood deadly still for another beat before the murmurs started. The team trying to make sense of the situation, figure out what went wrong.

Constantine swore up and down that this was the correct ritual, taking offense that they would even think the problem was on his end. It only made it better when it finally happened.

A loud sound ripped through the room, pulling everyone's attention back to the summoning circle. Just in time to see a tear appear in the space above the circle.

A thin tear that ran the length of eight feet. The fabric of the dimension seems to curl at the edges, pulling back to reveal a deep glowing swirl of greens. A dark gloved hand reached through, fingers curling around the edge of the tear, stretching it even further.

A portal. The ritual had worked, but there had been a delay. A delay that had every hero nerves on edge. Each team member tensed, weapons at the ready as they watched the being stretch the portal to the right size.

Then, a foot stepped out with a heavy thud. A dark boot that looked otherworldly despite its similarity to mortal clothing. A deep black that seemed never-ending. A second foot quickly followed before a full body emerged from the portal.

Not many people in the room have ever seen Pariah Dark, let alone know what to expect. Based on what Constantine and Zatara had said, this wasn't Pariah Dark.

A man had stepped out of the portal, standing at almost seven feet tall, and built like a brick house. One glance at the glowing white hair, deadly red eyes, and shard teeth was enough to know this being was not to be messed with.

But there was no giant show of armor or royal garbs. There is no large crown at the top of his head or jewelry from the infinite realms laced around his neck.

Instead, the man stood before them in combat boots, worn-in ripped jeans, a graphic t-shirt, and a spiked leather jacket. Despite his almost normal clothing choice, the man's jacket seemed to be a never-ending depth of the dark night sky. If one was to look closely enough, the cosmos could almost be made out in the sea of darkness.

None of that would have prepared them for when the man spoke. His tone sounded more bored than anything as he took a step forward.

"Oh, so now you need the help of the dead." The man had spoken, running a hand through his hair. When Batman took a step forward to speak, the man raised a hand. Immediately commanding silence in the single gesture. "I'm on babysitting duty and have yet to have a cup of coffee. I'll be right back."

Just like that, both the man and portal vanished into thin air. Leaving behind a group of stunned heroes. Not only was the man not Pariah Dark, but he was also supposedly babysitting.

"Did that just-"

The Flash had been the first voice to speak up, his eyes trained on where the man had once stood. Except he had barely made it through the first few words before the man was suddenly back.

The man that now had a child hanging off his shoulders and another teen being held up by his scruff. Unlike the man, these kids looked human.

Too human for Bruce's liking. The dark black hair and bright blue eyes had every heroes eyes flickering to Batman for just the briefest moment.

"This isn't fair! I'm not even the king. Why do I have to be here!" The teenager had been complaining the moment the man had reappeared. Arms crossed tight over his chest and seemingly used to being held dangling. "Besides, who brings kids to a show down! Wait til I tell mom about this."

"Aw, come on, Danny. This is gonna be fun!!" The younger girl seemed in much better spirits than the teen, Danny. She had climbed up the large man, sitting on his shoulders and resting her arms on the mess of glowing hair. "It's like take your kids to work day! Ooo, Dan! Can we fight too!?"

Unlike the two kids, the man looked purely exhausted and annoyed. The man, Dan, dropped Danny like a sack of potatoes as he took a long drink from the travel cup in his hand.

It didn't take a genius to recognize the look of an exhausted parent in Dan's expression. A look many of the league members were well acquainted to. A look that even had Batman grimacing with sympathy.

"Can it, little shits. You two were grounded, remember." Dan had growled at the kids before shifting his focus back on the team of heroes before them. His glowing eyes set in a deadly glare. "Pariah Dark isn't coming, and he never will. He's been dethroned and banished. We're the best you've got."

A summoning that started with a group of on edge and scared heroes looking for the ghost king, ended in a way no one expected.

No one was even sure if it made any sense. They weren't sure if they should feel hopeful or in despair.

Because truly, what was a ghostly man with two seemingly human children against a godlike foe with the control over the weather?

The unspoken question of power and ability seemed to vanish following Dan downing the metal travel cup of coffee, and crushing it in his fist.

He tossed it to the side, straighting up his posture as he looked over the heroes. Dan might not be a hero, but he's been playing family for too long.

An almost feral, bloodhungry grin spread across the man's face, sharp fangs on full display. The look made the man suddenly look even less human. He looked closer to a demon from the pits of hell rather than the exhausted parent he looked just a few seconds ago.

"Point me in the direction of this bastard. It's been too long since I let loose and had some fun."

[aardvaark]

the leverage team would have had a games night… once. everyone cheated so much and in such increasingly extreme ways that all mentions of monopoly are banned in their headquarters (this makes talking about marks who monopolize the market very confusing)

[cubbihue]

It would be nice to hear from Wanda and Cosmo! It is kind of nice that you guys have two children like your own family does. Are you two still close to your siblings? Wanda has a sibling and Cosmo also have a sibling just like Timmy and Peri. Do they share some sibling stories to your children?

Wanda and Cosmo both reconnected with their siblings shortly after having Peri. Or, well. More like Blonda reentered their lives once she realized she had a baby nephew. Eventually, they slowly patched things up the more Blonda came to visit Peri.

Schnozmo was dragged back kicking and screaming. Mama Cosma refuses to have her sons live estranged lives now that she has a grandchild in the picture. Schnozmo doesn't know how to handle children, but he's doing his best.

Peri likes Schnozmo because he makes silly noises and funny stories. But he prefers Blonda's theatrics much more and loves playing Dress Up with her.

Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]

[thesmokinpossum]

If My Body Could Speak, Blythe Baird | The Godfather, Mario Puzo | My Father's House, Sylvia Fraser | To The Daughter Who Secretly Longs For Her Mother’s Affection, Lynne Shako | Storms from Jupiter, Wanda Deglane | DO NOT REPLY, @filmnoirsbian

[thelilylav]

“I take it back… come back to me.. please…”

- Apple watching over Briar after her story plays out (and trying not to kiss her)

My ref:

[saturnniidae]

I think Astrid Hofferson has a bad case of the 'my childhood was wasted, I grew up too fast for something ultimately proven pointless.' Syndrome and that she deserves to get to do silly things she missed out on and take up new hobbies, even if she's not particularly good at them–it's purely for the experience yknow, and learn to finally breathe no longer needing to be on constant high alert and get to be truly happy

[snowangeldotmp3]

actually i think lucy gray’s ambiguous ending is even better if she did survive. if she did escape somewhere north, knowing she gets her freedom and outlives snow. both literally and metaphorically.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Thank you all for voting in the poll to decide who was going to be the leader of the band! It turned out to be such a close race!

[separatist-apologist]

Feyre: Rhysand is my mate and I'm telling you this to your face.

Also Feyre: If you try and break my mating bond, I'm going to ruin your life.

Also Feyre: If you drag me back to Spring against my will, I'll destroy everything you love.

Tamlin: Break her mating bond so I can drag her back to Spring and we can start over.

Also Tamlin: I can't believe you destroyed everything I love and ruined my life!

[trappedinafantasy37]

"Weeeh! I wanna recruit Minthara on a good playthrough! Weeeh! I don't like the ultimatum and want to keep both Minthara and Halsin! Weeeh! I wanna make Minthara good! Weeeh! I don't want Minthara to break up with me!" Minthara deserves more content but none of these things are at all what she needs or deserves. No, these are all things that you want for yourself, but do absolutely nothing for her. This is one of the biggest L's in the game and it will forever enrage me because I just know it will never happen.

Minthara deserves to confront Orin like all the other companions do with their abusers. She deserves to scream and yell at Orin. She deserves to cut at her the same way Orin did, make her bleed and scream in pain. Minthara deserves to torture Orin, just as she did her in the mind flayer colony. Minthara deserves the right to roll up to the Temple of Bhaal and beat the shit out of Orin with her bare hands. Leave Orin begging for mercy in which Minthara will not even give her a drop. To slam Orin down on that altar and slice her throat, offer her up as a sacrifice to the father she is so blindly devoted to.

And yes, Minthara would be afraid. She would be TERRIFIED. Despite how strong and powerful Minthara is, she is also the only one afraid of Orin. Unlike Ketheric, or Gortash, or Sarevok, she is the only one who fully acknowledges just how dangerous Orin actually is and does not underestimate her. She will walk down into that temple, intending to duel Orin with a massive disadvantage because she is terrified.

Minthara choked when seeing Orin again in the mind flayer colony. She choked when seeing Orin as an imposter, throwing her deep into the ocean of paranoia and fear. And she is so entrenched in paranoia that it actually becomes palpable to everyone around her, even you. She describes herself as paranoid, but this is the first that you actually see how paranoid she is. And she choked again when Orin kidnapped someone in camp, making her feel inadequate, making a mockery of her for being unable to protect one of her own. And every day that passes, the more and more likely that the victim is going to die and she has doubts on their survival.

At every possible avenue in which Minthara could have done something or said something about Orin, she froze in place with fear. But she's had enough. She cannot be afraid of Orin forever and she doesn't want to be. One way or another, Orin has to die and she wants to get over that fear. She needs to know that Orin is dead, for herself.

This would also make the alurlssrin confession all the more impactful. She wants to tell you that she loves you in the best way that she can because of the very high likelihood that she will never have another chance to do so. She would beg you to come with her as you give her the courage. She has the courage to face her fears and confront her tormentor, because she knows she has you in her corner. If you have the courage to stand up to the very gods themselves, then she can stand up to Orin. Romanced or not, your presence alone is enough to give her the strength to do something she would otherwise be too terrified to do.

Minthara deserves the honor to solo duel Orin in a fight to the death. Minthara deserves the right to achieve vengeance for herself. No, I do not care that this confrontation would conflict with a Durge playthrough. In fact, it would provide a phenomenal source of some interesting, and toxic, drama between Durge and Minthara. Especially if they're in a relationship. This also does not mean that Minthara killing Orin instead of Durge would not have its consequences (because it most certainly will). Even if Minthara does not fight Orin, it would be so much better if Minthara was just given the fucking chance to yell at Orin like all the other companions in their personal quests.

[peteytheparrot]

Ok but only A Series of Unfortunate Events could open with such a good quote every episode like ‘Darling, Dearest, Dead’ goes SO hard wtf…

[fantasticgothicpeachsludge]

Something something Agent Haldwell being from Jennifer’s movie something something probably her love interest something something they probably had weird “you’re coming with me little missy” kind of banter written by weird male writers something something Jennifer changing the misogynistic script something something drowning him in his own piss

[hoofpeet]

I'd probably have to read the printed version and web version back to back at some point to note all the differences but... ough

[wynnyfryd]

Eddie flounders, arms flailing as his feet slip out from under him for the fourth time, and he lands chin first on the scuffed-up ice with a hard thud.

“Oww,” he moans miserably to himself as he sits up. He lifts a numb hand to his mouth to inspect the damage—fingerless gloves doing fuck-all to defend against the stinging cold—and the tips of his frozen fingers come back speckled with warm red from where he bit his tongue on the way down.

Fucking ice skating. Max better appreciate the effort he’s making.

He’s in the middle of a mostly empty rink (arms crossed over his chest, ass wet from the ice, fully pouting in public but who cares his tongue and chin fucking hurt), and he’s thinking about just staying there—sulking in place for the remainder of the open-skate session until a Zamboni comes to sweep him away—when an employee spots him and comes skating over to help.

The guy moves with a graceful, practiced ease, swift enough to send his honey brown hair flowing out behind him as he glides over the ice, and he stops neatly in front of Eddie with a tap of his toepick. “Need a hand?” he asks, offering his, and oh no he’s hot why does he have to be hot jesus christ

“‘M fine,” Eddie mumbles into his knees, face flaming. His eyes are wet, and his cheeks are all splotchy, and he’s being such a petulant, wounded little baby right now, but like.

If Hot Guy could kindly fuck off instead of witnessing this ridiculous behavior, that would be so cool and sexy of him.

“Hey,” Hot Guy says, voice gentle. His downturned puppy eyes go soft with concern when he spots the blood on Eddie’s lip, and he crouches down into a squat and rests a hand on Eddie’s knee.

The fingers of his other hand reach out, hesitant, hovering in the space between them like he wants to cup Eddie’s chin but doesn’t want to hurt his bruised skin. Eddie’s eyes widen at the gesture, kind of humiliatingly turned on by how tender it is, and his lip wobbles and oh God he is not about to cry in front Hot Guy he’s not doing it he’s not—

The guy offers him a reassuring pat. “Bit your tongue?”

Eddie nods. Hot Guy smiles sympathetically. “Yeah, that’ll do it. I bit the shit out of the inside of my cheek last week trying to race my coworker,” he tells Eddie, shaking his head with a little laugh. “Hurt so bad.”

Fuck, his laugh is pretty. Eddie can’t help but smile, too.

The guy claps Eddie’s knee again and shoves himself back up to standing. “Come on,” he says, offering a hand. “Let’s get you patched up.”

Eddie takes it this time.

He lets himself be hoisted to his feet, gripping the lapels of the other man’s jacket for dear life as he gets his balance. Hot Guy, bless him, just brackets Eddie’s waist between his hands, steadying him with warm, broad palms splayed beneath his ribs, and then they’re toe-to-toe, standing so close that their breaths fog into a mingled cloud.

H.G. flashes a brilliant smile. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

“Eddie.”

“Nice to meet you, Eddie,” he says sincerely. He slides his hands from Eddie’s waist to his elbows, trailing down to take both of his hands in a sure grip, and then he swivels his feet and starts slowly skating backwards across the rink, dragging Eddie along with him. “What are you doing out here by yourself?”

Eddie snorts, rolls his eyes at himself. Yes, what, indeed, he thinks, blowing a wild curl out of his face. “It’s a long story.”

Steve grins. “I have a long shift.”