#hypotheticals are useless what's done is done...

[maddy-ferguson]

Genuine question is a non-rude way, how did sadie get robbed off from a nomination? most of her nice acting happened in vol1. both sadie and millie were already eligible for vol1 nominations as far as i know, but they still did not get nominated. there is just no way for them to be nominated especially when you put them in a competitions against other actresses like Julia Garner and Patricia Arquette. ST is just not that great of a show to be nominated for anything anymore aside from editing/sound/stunt double stuff that are side-nominations rather than main. And it certainly doesnt deserve to win even in editing department with that shitty cgi, sorry not sorry.

well i said she could've been nominated not that she would've been and idk i think the piggyback is a really good episode for her acting too

[khuzena]

Waiting room

Pairing: Dr ratio, Aventurine, Sunday x g/n!reader

Summary: You can love, get on your knees and wait on a miracle. There are things that are for you and aren't for you, you should know. It's for the better.

Cw. Heavy angst, no comfort, 1% fluff, manipulative men, toxic relationships, insecurities, death?, unrequited love, breakups, them neglecting you cos…, no closure, what is love?

A/n: hi, time to make you cry. I'm getting writer's block as I'm making a new novel!! It has the ‘your guardian angel’ fics plot but w my characters. 🥳

Dr ratio

He's a simple man, really.

Drown yourself in endless textbooks, advanced literature and neglect every other thing.

Like his thirst for knowledge; love is endless, affection is abundant.

Is what you initially thought.

It has been the 4th time this week that he turned down your requests, “Dear, you know I have no time for that.”

He does not try to sugarcoat his words, he does not try to make his tone less harsh, “I don't have time for dates, such a waste of time.'' He says it like it is, he says it like it's true.

Your eyebrows creased, annoyed at his flippant attitude, “What do you mean waste of time?”

Veritas takes one glance at you, then back to his nonsense book. To him, it was useless wasting his breath on arguing with you.

“Veritas, you said we'll go, you promised.”

He is cruel, his words flinty. “I do not recall making any atrocious promises to you, are you perhaps going insane?”

Insane?

“Insane? Last week, you promised me.”

“I did not.”

“Yes you did.”

He scoffs, as if offended, “If I did, then I was not thinking straight. I have a thesis due tomorrow. A date can wait.”

Veritas is a man with priorities and out of all of them, it seems, you were not one of them. He'd rather his books kept him company, not you. It's obvious, his pursuit of knowledge was greater than loving you.

He lit his lamp, taking his pen and highlighting some paragraphs, what was so important with them? You could not help but come closer, skimming through the contents, it was just some theory some genius society member wrote.

“You're miserable,” it might've accidentally slipped out, but it was true; he is, in fact, the most miserable of all men.

Veritas rolled his eyes, pushing his reading glasses and annotating whatever statement was written. The candle light flickered when his heavy breaths fanned over it, not paying mind to whatever you say.

Your patience was thinning, how long was he planning to play this damned game?

“Veritas.”

You call out once.

“Veritas!”

Again, in anger.

“Veritas”

The last time, desperately.

He does not respond, he does not care. Yet your voice was ringing in his ears in an unpleasant way, “Is this about the date?”

You were taken aback by his curt reply, it wasn't just about the date. “Is that all? Do you think that's the only reason?”

“Hypothetically speaking, yes.”

“Cut the bullshit, veritas.”

Veritas glares at you, as if making a statement; a bullshit one at that. He does not have time for mindless topics, he's overworked, he's tired, he's unsatisfied.

For a moment, you have the urge to yell at him. This shallow bastard has done nothing but fool you with aureate words, he writes poetry about you and shows you off.

He loves you because you are all he has. He may be an asshole but he loves you the way he knows how to love you.

Tonight, however, you are done with his bullshit. You do not argue further, he is confused. When you leave this room with no more qualms, when you do not scream at him, he is bewildered.

“Where are you going?” It's strange that he noticed you for the first time. Only when you get dressed up and when he hears the keys jingle, does he notice every single detail.

You adjusted the cuffs of your blouser, “I'm staying at a friend's”

“Which one?”

“None of your business.”

Stunned, he drops his pen. Why are you acting so off? You're driving him insane.

“What do you mean none of my business? Stop acting so childish.”

That was your last straw, childish? Childish? The fucking audacity.

“You are more childish.”

“How so?”

“You— do I even have to explain it?”

Nothing could quell your frustration other than being away from him for the meantime, “Yes,” he loves you, he wants to know. But even if he does, he never learns; so much for a genius.

“You neglect me, you prioritise this,” it was tempting to crumple his papers, “—over me.” So you did.

He is indifferent. He does not understand how and why it hurts you. So he tries to understand it from a logical standpoint, “So you want to really go on that date?”

“I'm tired of asking”

Tired of begging him to treat you right, to love you like you want him to love you.

He stays quiet.

“I'm tired of begging for something so small.”

“You didn't have to destroy my goddamn book,” he seethed and pulled the book from your hands, too absorbed in the damage of the book he does not notice how much he has damaged you. Veritas is too blind to see you holding back tears despite wearing his glasses.

The force surprised you, “Is that thing much more important?”

“What?”

“Answer me Veritas Ratio.”

It was merely just a book, but it was precious. It was a rare one, it annoyed him to immeasurable depths when you crumpled it so recklessly.

He does not answer.

“I'm leaving,” he's not sure if leaving meant temporarily, he hopes it is. He hopes you come back again tomorrow night.

So he waits. Tomorrow came, but you did not come home.

Aventurine

He loves you, he really does.

His idea of love is adorning you with jewels, showering you with riches.

Too much that you suffocate, it hurts. You can't breathe, soulless eyes stare into yours.

It's when you realise, he's trapping you. Does he think you're stupid? What does he take you for?

“Darling! I got you a gift!”

The 22nd one this week… Aventurine makes haste and runs behind you, wearing the necklace on you, it looks… okay.

You look like a doll, his doll.

But you are not a doll, you are human.

And like all humans, we all wish to be loved and cherished as an equal.

“Do you like it?” It would be rude to say no, but it does not fit you. Sure it accentuates your neck, but it's too much.

“I…” you traced your finger over the gem, “I do.”

“Great! I'll get you another tomorrow!” It is tiring. As much as planets worth of gold and extravagant jewels excite you, you would rather be in his presence.

You do not recall the last day he's ever taken you out on a proper date, you do not recall any time where he's been open to you about his past because you know damn well his name could never just be ‘Aventurine’.

You were sitting on the couch, sipping tea with your eyes glued to your book. Before you knew it, soft lips grazed on your cheek.

“You're back earlier than expected,” he smiles as he pressed another kiss onto you, “I ditched the meeting, for you.”

Oh how you hate it when he does things in your name just to make you indebted to him. Aventurine loves you, but love is transactional.

“Is that so?” He nods, wrapping his arms around you. “I'll buy you something again, we have another business trip in Penacony.”

It makes you wonder, does he think gifts are the only thing that'll make you stay?

He could see the reluctance in your eyes, “Is something on your mind?”

You bit your lip, “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

A deafening silence fills the room before he chuckles, he is everything but stupid. He knows, he knows you want to spend time with him, he knows you’d incinerate those gifts in a heartbeat just to trade even an hour spending time with him.

“Dear, I promise, next time,” he pressed light kisses on your exposed shoulder, but it isn’t enough: what truly is enough?

You want to push him away, with how ruthless he is with making empty promises so easily, “You said ‘next time’ last time.”

”I promise, I do.” Even he sounds unsure. You pick up on the hint of hesitation laced in his promises, he regrets it, but he thinks; he’s doing it for you, for the both of you.

“You said that too last month,” you scoff.

He tried to intertwine your fingers together yet to no avail, you rejected him, “Why are you acting up again?”

There’s only so many gifts can buy but he can never purchase the time lost that could’ve been spent in lazy mornings together yet he traded it all for credits. The second attempt, he forces a smile and even pulls a tiny ring for you, that gem you loved so much engraved in the centre. Words cannot express how much you despise these gifts because it was just a pathetic compensation for the neglect.

”Please, next month.” He took your hand in his and put the ring on your ring finger. “Okay?”

You cling to that possibility, to that sliver of hope when he is done with Penacony, he is relieved of his duties and he is finally free. That he no longer has to overcompensate for his absence and shower you with the time he’s lost.

You know next month won’t come, yet you are no different from a fool.

”Okay”

You wait upon endless tomorrows, two months have passed and none of his coworkers have any good news about his well-being. They’re sure he’s dead, but you still wait for that tomorrow where he is home to come.

Sunday

Love, what truly is love?

Is it when you praise your lover with endless ‘I love you’s?

Is it when you hold their hand and protect them for the impending doom to come?

or rather, is love just a fallacy built on a string of lies?

Sunday believes that he knows what’s best for you.

Before Sunday, you were allowed to make your own decisions.

Before Sunday, you actually had freedom.

The halovian swears he knows what’s best for you.

He makes sure everything you want or need, you get.

Sunday will kiss your tears away, even if he is the sole reason for them. ”It’s for your own good.” he says.

To strip you of freedom, to shackle you to him like a bird in a cage. His sweet kisses, his love, his everything; they’re all fucking poison. He does not hesitate to drown you in his poison if it means protecting you.

You cry out, “Sunday.” In desperate pleas.

But he will not listen, he’ll pretend he doesn’t hear anything.

He believes that if he gives you the taste of freedom, you’ll find a way to fly away from his grasp– he will not allow it. So he does what he’s best at, keeping you stuck to him.

”What do you want, dear?” He smiles at you like he’s never sinned.

You throw away the pathetic gifts he adorned you with, gold, diamonds and stones you could not name but they are not what you want, “I want to see my friends.”

”They’re no good, trust me.” Your friends once told you that you should go, that he’s toxic, but you were a fool to drown in him.

“What do you know about my friends?” He’s done everything to kill that flame inside of you, that hope that maybe one day you’d escape him and be free once again, you’re a fool, he thinks.

He clicks his tongue as he puts down his newspaper at the coffee table, ”They tried to take you away from me.”

”They did not, you know I would never leave you.” A blatant lie but it's stupid that you take him for a fool that’ll believe your words.

He only chuckles, your attempts to get away from him are futile, it’s pathetic it makes him laugh. “I admire your confidence, but you’re staying here tonight.”

Death has never been more alluring under his influence, but you can not die.

“Please,” you beg again, but he only presses his finger to your lips, “Shh…”

”One day you’ll thank me for taking such good care of you.” He gets down on his knees to kiss the back of your hand, “You’re safe here.”

He gets up to sit right next to you, he doesn’t flinch when you slap his face away when he tries to kiss you. The man only grabs your wrist when you try to push him away again. He kisses you with passion, in love but is it truly love when there is no trust?

There’s no use questioning his intentions, “This is for your own good.”

What good is there when there is no freedom? He thinks beautiful birds should be protected. Even if it meant being trapped in a cage, stripped of any sense of freedom, as long as you're safe, as long as you're here with him, he is content. "Dont give me that look."

Your eyes train on the way he rolls his eyes at your defiance, "Just let me go."

Sunday glares at you, his grip on your wrist tight, you're sure he's about to tear it off. "No."

When will you stop acting like a child?

The halovian is too far down the rabbit hole of self righteousness and his obsession with you that he if he needs to tear you limb by limb to keep you close to him, to keep you from rubbing away, he will do it.

His phone rings, it must be business calls again, Penacony sure is in a state of chaos when it's crumbling down. He lets go off you to take his phone.

"Yes yes... Sunday speaking."

You dont understand what they're murmuring about. All you could register is it's something about his sister.

His facial expression turned grim the more time he spent on the phone. The phone call ends and he puts it down, the life from his face drained but when he sees you, he is relieved.

You are still here with him.

He intertwined your hands together, you can feel anger and despair that he's exuding as he stares at you like a deer in the headlights. "Please, promise me."

"You'll never leave me too."

It doesn't sound like a question, it sounds like a statement.

You'll truly never know what freedom is, for that is only a privilege that you can never have. In his arms you cannot cry, because he'll drown you in his lies again and again.

On the bright side, you are never alone. You will always have Sunday, whether you like it or not.

Note: bye i got extreme writer's block at Sunday's part I had to take almost a 2 week break bc i rlly have no idea what to write for him oh my god. I absolutely did not give them justice 😥

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡ 

[the-smut-analyst]

Making Characters That Make Sense

Walk-through character template & "how to" guide for writing complex, original protagonists.

If you google "character templates for writing", you'll get a lot of very basic examples that read like a grocery list: eye colour, hair colour, skin colour, positive traits, negative traits, etc.

And sure, filling out this kind of template isn't completely useless - but it's also not particularly useful, either. Choosing whether your protagonist has blue eyes or green eyes isn't going to determine whether readers connect with them or not.

Instead, I prefer to use the below template:

There's some fairly left-of-centre categories here, so in this blog post I'll be creating a character from scratch to demonstrate what each section means and how to use the template effectively.

Primary Goal & Raison D'Être

Fantasy Romance is having a bit of a tournament-to-the-death moment right now, with Hunger Games-inspired stories like Fourth Wing, Throne of Glass, The Savior's Champion, and The Serpent and the Wings of Night in high demand - so that's what we're going to work with in today's blog post.

The story premise and primary goal of the protagonist are almost always interconnected. In this case, the story premise is a tournament to the death - and the character's main goal is to win that tournament, obviously.

But where there's room for some originality is in the raison d'être. This loosely translates to "reason for being" or "purpose". It's the why of it.

For example: what motivated this character to risk their life by entering such a tournament in the first place?

It is sometimes helpful to look at similar stories when thinking about this category. Not so you can copy their protagonist's motivations - but so you can do something different.

The whole selfless-self-sacrifice thing, for example - that's done. At least in relation to this particular sub-genre. We can do better for our hypothetical Maera Mystfang character.

Actually, let's really turn the trope on its head and make her raison d'être incredibly self-centred.

Already, this is character is shaping up to be something a little bit different within the niche of tournaments to the death. Which goes to show how putting a little bit of thought can go a long way, even with something as simple as identifying your character's initial purpose.

Primary Obstacle

Every protagonist needs a goal - and every goal needs an obstacle. This is what gives the story some tension and keeps readers turning the page.

An obvious choice of obstacle for this hypothetical character, since we're dealing with a fantasy romance, would be that Maera starts to develop feelings for one of her fellow competitors.

This concept has definitely been done, but that's okay. Not every section of this list has to break the mould. Tropes exist for a reason and it is totally okay to lean into them sometimes.

However, just for funsies, I'm going to try and put a slightly different spin on this one too.

Instead of the obvious "I love one of the people I'm meant to kill", let's make Maera's (previously dormant) conscience be the problem. Her reasons for entering the tournament may have been self-motivated, but as she gets to know her fellow competitors - admires some of them, even - she starts to second guess those reasons.

Core Traits

A lot of character templates will divide personality traits into positives and negatives - but I don't think this is particularly helpful. It is far too one dimensional - not to mention unrealistic. The key components of someone's personality aren't usually so black and white.

In fact, most core traits are both good and bad at the same time - it just depends on the context.

Instead of being wholly positive or negative, try to think of three core character traits that can serve as two sides of the same coin, with both positive and negative implications to each.

For Maera, I've given her these core traits:

Self-reliant;

Rebellious; and

Good-humoured.

Her self-reliance means that she is incredibly capable - but it's also the cause of her selfishness. She's always had to look after herself, so she expects others to do the same.

Her rebellious attitude means she isn't willing to accept the status quo. But at times she is also a rebel without a cause, causing trouble just for the fun of it.

Her good sense of humour means she is fun to be around, but she also tends to not take things as seriously as she should.

Thinking of core traits in this multi-faceted way not only adds realistic complexity, but it also sets you up well for showcasing character development and growth throughout the story.

Fatal Flaw & Character Arc / Growth

You've probably read negative reviews that throw around terms like "Mary Sue" or "Gary Stu". People tend to be over-zealous with these terms, especially for Mary Sue, but the gist of it is that the character in question is "too perfect".

They're the chosen one, they're good at everything, all the boys like them, etc.

Some characters can get away with this just fine. Look at Aragorn. He's the ultimate Gary Stu but I still swoon every time he opens those damn doors. You know the scene I'm talking about.

Ooft.

But for the most part, you want to incorporate a fatal flaw into your protagonists - because this is what gives them room to grow.

And, no. "I was born to be King but I don't wanna" does not count as a fatal flaw.

Instead, think bigger. Think worse. Think about where your character starts versus where you want them to end up. Think about how you want the events of the narrative to change their world view - or even their initial goal.

For Maera, her fatal flaw is pretty obvious, given her initial motivations for entering the tournament. Similarly, her growth/arc is linked to her primary obstacle, which is developing a conscious.

Her journey throughout this hypothetical story might be learning to appreciate how her past shaped her, while also acknowledging that there are things she can do to ensure others don't have to go through what she did. By being shown acts of kindness, she learns to appreciate their value.

First Impression

Now that we've covered all the "big picture" stuff, let's get into some of the smaller details that give your character some texture.

The first impression category is a hypothetical exercise where you image how your character might appear to a room full of strangers. In dual, multi, or omniscient POVs, you might even get the opportunity to include this impression somewhere in the story.

But even for first-person narratives, it is still worth thinking about, because it will help to inform how other characters interact and respond to your protagonist (at least at first).

For Maera, I've written this first impression as: a fun person to have a few drinks with - so long as you keep a close eye on your wallet.

From this description, we can guess that Maera probably likes to have a good time, but also comes across as untrustworthy. Whether that impression is deserved or not is up to you, as the author, to decide.

There's also a lot of deeper directions you can take this first impression category, too. Like if most people react to Maera this way, but one particular character doesn't, then your readers are going to sit up and pay extra attention during that interaction. Especially when that person reacting atypically is the future love interest.

Spirit Animal

Ah, this one is a fun one!

I always encourage my authors to assign a "spirit animal" to their characters - especially when they're doing multi-POV.

There are two main reasons for this:

It will allow you to assign some very distinct adjectives and verbs with that particular character; and

It is an opportunity to flesh out some additional character traits beyond the core traits.

For Maera, I've chosen "spider" because she is solitary by nature, opportunistic, and patient.

But, more than that, I also like the idea of Maera being the kind of person who knows how to watch and wait. While her first impression might be "here for the good times", her joking façade is actually a mask she wears while carefully observing others.

For example:

Her words were laced with venom. She crawled her way across the rooftop. At some point, weaving lies had become more of a past time that a necessity. Her thoughts were a tangled mess. She didn't bother to conceal her predatory gaze. Inch by cautious inch, she crept forward. Her sanity was already hanging by a thread. If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was spin a good story - truth be damned.

I've never outright compared Maera to a spider in these examples, nor have I made it blatantly obvious that that's what I'm doing. But by peppering these kinds or words throughout the story, I'll be able to subtly create a very distinct kind of impression for her character.

For comparison's sake, let's assign "cat" to the love interest. Examples of possible words to consider in this instance might be:

He clawed his way through the bushes. "What are you doing?" he hissed. The comment had some bite to it, that was for sure. He slunk away into the darkness. His still, unwavering focus was unnerving. He prowled towards her. In a few quick, agile steps, he'd made it across the parapet. He yawned and stretched out beside her.

Of course, not every single word you use in association with a character needs to be related to their spirit animal. But keeping a certain type of animal in mind - and finding opportunities to throw in some subtle messaging through language choice - can be beneficial on so many levels.

It helps to distinguish your characters from one another through the kind of language you use to describe them - but it's also just really, really fun way to add some bonus texture to your characters. Giving your readers some little easter eggs like this is never a bad thing.

Love Language

If you're unfamiliar with the concept of the five basic love languages, then here's a quick visual overview:

Love languages aren't a consideration that's specific to romance. They're important for friendships and familial relationships too.

Because thinking about what your protagonist values most in love is going to tell you a lot about who they are. Especially when you take the question deeper and think about why this is something they value.

For Maera, I've chosen "Acts of Service" because this ties in quite well to her character arc.

In terms of Maera's why, I could easily go with "because this was how she was shown love as a child" - and this is a good enough option most of the time. However, since her love language is very much tied into growing out of her fatal flaw, then I actually want to do the opposite.

Maera winds up valuing acts of service because this is something she craved - and wasn't given - as a child. She had to do things the hard way instead. Hence why she ends up appreciating the kindness of others so much. Such generosity is new to her - and precious.

Conflict Response

This is potentially one of the most overlooked character components. Conflict and tension is central to story telling, yet there is so little attention given to creating authentic, original responses to conflict.

The way I see it, there are three main considerations in regards to conflict response:

How your character reacts in the moment;

The unhealthy methods they use to deal with the aftermath; and

The healthy methods they use (or discover) to self-sooth.

When faced with conflict, Maera's immediate reaction is to antagonise. She doesn't like to back down and enjoys creating trouble.

However, in the aftermath, the conflict affects her more than she lets on. She stews on it - and her solution to that is to get drunk until she can forget about it completely.

But even though she sometimes forgets it, Maera has a more healthy coping mechanism at her disposal. When she is surrounded by nature - in the forest, by the sea, whatever - it calms her.

In addition to identifying your protagonist's various responses to conflict, it is also helpful to think about why. Again, this is a great opportunity to insert something unique into their character backstory.

With Maera, for example, let's think about why she finds nature so soothing. Perhaps, amidst a very bleak childhood, one of her fondest memories is of picking grapes in a vineyard.

Perhaps the elderly woman who owned the vineyard was very rude and abrupt - but also quite kind to Maera in her own way. Maybe she would sometimes stitch up Maera's clothes or feed Maera a hearty, meaty dinner - even though she didn't have to.

If you're struggling to think of a real, tangible, unique memory such as this - then it's always helpful to go back to the old classic of write what you know. Think of a real life moment or memory - something that's stuck with you, no matter how simple - then adapt it to your character.

To create this vineyard example, I simply drew on my experience of picking strawberries with my Nonna after school.

Mentor / Idol

I could write an entire thesis on mentors. Or, more specifically, the "death of the mentor" trope - both in its literal and metaphorical interpretations.

But, for the sake of brevity, let's save that sh*t for another time and focus on what's important for a basic (yet complex) character template. And that is:

The Formative Mentor (past); and

Transformative Mentor (present).

The formative mentor (or idol) is someone who influenced your character prior to the events of the novel. Sometimes they're a character the reader will meet, or other times, they're long gone before the novel even begins.

The transformative mentor is a much looser term. It doesn't necessarily have to be a traditional mentor character, but rather it is a character who heavily influences or changes your protagonist throughout the events of the novel.

For Maera, I want her earliest idol to be a random female sell-sword who she crossed paths with. Prior to meeting this sell-sword, Maera was living without hope for a future, surviving on scraps and petty crime.

But after seeing an independent and moderately wealthy sell-sword in her local tavern, Maera got a glimpse into the kind of life that might be possible if she learned to fight. With the right kind of skills, she might be able to earn some decent money for a change - and travel the world.

This is an example of how "mentors" don't always have to be a wise wizard who oversees your protagonist's training and education. Young minds are impressionable - and even distant figures can have a lasting impact.

Just look at all the women who cite Legally Blonde as the reason why they were drawn to law. Elle Woods wasn't even real - but for plenty of young girls, she made an impact.

Similarly, your protagonist's "present" mentor or idol doesn't necessarily have to be a wise wizard either. It can simply be someone who motivates them to change their world view or strive to be better.

In romance, it is more than acceptable to have the present mentor coincide with the love interest - especially in standalone enemies-to-lovers. I know this seems counter-intuitive, since the word "mentor" implies a power imbalance, but it makes more sense if you readjust your definition of mentor to be "inspires change".

However, for Maera, I kind of like the idea of pairing her up with a love interest who shares some of her flaws. I vibe with the idea of making him a bit self-interested too, although for different reasons.

So in her example, I've listed the present mentor as a selfless secondary character. The way I would envision this going is Maera and the love interest team up early on - but somewhere along the way a secondary character saves them both. They're both heavily influenced by this character before this character sacrifices themselves. The aftermath of this incident rattles both Maera and her love interest, and serves as the spark for growth.

I hope you found this template - and very long explanation - useful!

[grapefives]

LET ME BE HONEST | HC

luffy x gn!reader

post time-skip (fishman island) + flight luff + light angst + realization of feelings + oblivious luffy

A/N : light fluff cus idk how to write fluff. lowkey this is probs off character but wtvr

the day his crew disappeared from sight, one after another, was one of the worst days of luffy’s life

tragedy after tragedy, he kept feeling on edge and absolutely useless. and after ace’s death? he didn’t know how to live anymore

his crew was everything he had left now. and while reminiscing that and acknowledging how he has to keep going, how his nakama are dear to him, deep down, the strong urge to see you first ignited

from time to time, he’d visualize your smile, your laugh. he’d remember how you’d joke around with sanji, straying away from an initial memory of how good sanji’s food is. that craving for sanji’s menu straying to a craving of you.

whatever initial thought he had started with on his moments of thinking to himself, they’d stray to you.

as he travels back to sabaody, he wonders. when did these feelings surge?

was it because of how close you to had become during the first few moments in sabaody, and then being ripped away from his grasp to disappear into thin air, screaming for luffy, that made him think of you the most?

the way you were the last to escape his efforts pf saving?

no, it couldn’t be that. he��d always had an eye out for you. he realizes this when he finally sees the others on the new ship, how his eyes dart from one face to another, bright and joyful, but grow more when they land on you.

it’s an afterthought, his feelings, after that. he stands firm with the belief of suppressing them. not wanting something to give him a minor setback like these last few times.

if he loves you, and you two hit it off, he wouldn’t stand losing you. not again, not when, hypothetically, you two were now one.

it’s dumb, probably, but…

“luffy, have you eaten?” you ask gently, but there’s still a firmness to your voice, as you pull him away from the bubble’s wall.

“y/n i’m trying to catch fish for a reason,” he says playfully but to his surprise it comes out cold and harsh.

you give him a bizarre look, and drift your attention to what zoro says instead, and luffy almost complies to poking holes in the bubble, to which usopp and chopper hit them for.

to their dismay, sanji enters a frenzy drop so it diverts everyone’s attention to the food luffy brought and decided to share.

one thing luffy seems to forget to acknowledge is how impulsive he is.

he grabs enough food for himself sure, stuffing his face full as everyone listens to franky, but he eventually notices how you hand him meat once he’s done with the previous one.

when your hands finally touch, he blinks at you, and your small, soft smile makes his heart leap to his throat.

“gimme that,” he says as he yanks the meat from your hand and scarfs it down.

your laugh rings in his ears.

“there’s plenty more, captain.” you say, and he feels himself blush at the attention you give him.

time goes on and as they (him, sanji and zoro) return from their side quest (taming the octopus) you voice out your worries but still praise them for taming such a creature

for some reason, when luffy tries to ignore something, it bugs him even more.

and recently, he’s become hyper aware of your existence.

when the bubble pops in their escape from the fishman pirates, he’s aware of how close you were to him when the current dragged everyone

yet, when he wakes up, his immediate reaction was to question his surroundings and reach out to you

mildly upset at the separation, he ignores it and goes on with the journey. eventually, he finds you again, with brook.

“hatty! how about we go for a meal? i believe you mentioned something that i believe my captain would love,” you say as you walk away from brook being bombarded with mermaids.

“i was getting to that,” pappagu grins, “what do y’all say to some sea-monster meat?”

“YOU HAVE MEAAAT!?” luffy is delighted, to say the least.

and his feelings for you are an afterthought he desperately tries to suppress. this sudden raging desire to have you close, to keep you safe enough is driving him insane.

don’t get him wrong, he knows you’re strong, he knows you can fend for yourself, but this fear of losing you like he had two years ago, without knowing (only hoping and trusting) your situation gives him serious nerves.

but he’s your captain, he has to worry for you. every now and then. sometimes.

but man, seeing you light up at his jokes, and seeing you safe and sound with the others makes him feel so good.

and knowing you’d follow him through and through just makes him feel a certain way.

“LUFFY, YOU SHUT UP!! I’M DECIDING WHERE WE GO FROM NOW ON!!” nami screams.

“HELL NO! I’M THE CAPTAIN!!” luffy barks.

with a laugh, you say “he’s the captain.”

“Y/N WHO’s SIDE ARE YOU ON!” usopp grunts.

and as they go up to the surface once more, exited for a new adventure and getting closer to his dream, he reminisces once more.

he has his nakama, all that’s left for him.

but…

“y/n,” he calls for you unconsciously as you walk by.

you pause, giving him your undivided attention.

“yea?”

“are you ready?”

“for the new world?”

he nods.

you smile, so bright. “nope, but i’ll follow you,” you me eyes are warm and your aura is gentle, “through and through.”

but luffy… as he stares at you, feels his feelings surge with more force.

he can be a little more selfish. he could take advantage of what the world has put in his hands.

“good,” he says with a smile, “cus i need you.”

“i’m at your service-“

“more than a nakama.”

you blink, surprised and taken aback. “m-more?” you furrow your brows, heat threatening to reach your cheeks.

“more.” he says softly. so soft you couldn’t believe this was luffy, your loud and impulsive captain.

but… this was also impulsive, you can tell when his face freezes.

“are you sure?” you ask, your heart hammering.

“when am i not sure of something?”

you stare at him before cracking a smile, “ah.”

“it was driving me crazy.” he pauses, then looks to the side, puckering his lips shyly, “you.. you were driving me insane.”

“didn’t seem like it,” you tease. it was true but you knew deep down there was no chance, or so you believed. after all, he’s your… “captain.”

luffy blushes, “i didn’t know… what.. or … how.”

“i’m glad you’re honest,” you smile, “luffy.”

and his ears ring, eyes wide and amazed. you’ve only called him captain.

“i’ll work hard,” he says.

you burst into laughter, “luffy,” you say as you put a hand on his arm, close enough to see his red ears. “go with the flow. we’ll be fine.”

“yeah,” he smiles a bit, darting between your lips and your eyes.

and luffy is impulsive. but above all, he thinks he’ll add in love to the list as well.

[planetxiao]

OKOK I SAW UR REQUESTS ARE OPEN THO so let me add another one to my tbr list <33 feel free to ignore this tho if it doesn‘t inspire you no pressure 🥰

ran straight to finding some prompts after seeing it, so how about "Will you notice me when I am gone? Will you come for me or search for me?" + genshin men of ur choice (but ur gonna get bonus kisses if u include alhaitham)

adjust the prompt as it suits you !! sending u lots of love <3

# WHEN I’M GONE.

꠵ PAIRINGS; xiao ; childe ; alhaitham x reader

꠵ GENRE; hurt/comfort, headcanons.

꠵ SYNOPSIS; you ask your lover a certain question just to see how he’d react.

꠵ NOTES; you gave me creative freedom, i give you extra smooches <33 ALSO I HOPE I WROTE ALHAITHAM OKAY LOL i haven’t met him in the game yet :,)

“Will you notice me when I am gone?” You asked, awaiting any reaction. “Will you come for me or search for me?”

# XIAO

Xiao stiffened once the first question left your mouth. It was so sudden that he was taken aback, both shocked and concerned. His head was swirling with the various meanings it could have. Did he do something wrong? Were you in danger? Or worse, were you dying?

“What is the meaning of this?” Xiao’s tone came out rougher than intended. But you didn’t give him an answer, only another question that made his frown deepen. Xiao didn’t know what to make of any of this, all he knew was the way his heart twinged at the possibilities.

Xiao stood up, walking toward the balcony’s ledge. It took him a couple seconds to process your words, and what he wanted to say. There was so much, and yet so little. “…If you’re in danger, you need to tell me. I’ll protect you no matter what.”

# CHILDE

Childe’s brows knit together as he tilted his head in puzzlement. What would even prompt a question like that, he wondered. His heart ached with worry; worried that he had done something— or not done enough, worried that you would leave.

His calm demeanor was cracking right in front of your eyes. The crumbling edges seeped into his voice as he asked, “Is everything alright, Y/N?” But as he was hit with another question, his vexation ran stone cold. It was not a question of what brought this upon, but who, it seemed.

Childe’s mind spiraled rapidly, but he recomposed himself in order to not worry you. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed your hand. “I’d follow you to the ends of this world and the next, my love.” He declared, kissing your knuckles. But first, he’d have to give his men a new assignment. If someone was threatening you, he would find out. And if his suspicions were correct, they wouldn’t live long enough to see the next sunrise.

# ALHAITHAM

“What a ridiculous question,” He scoffed. Alhaitham didn’t even need to ponder the thought. It simply wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t allow it. But for you to have to ask… it was obvious to him, wasn’t it to you? Had he not done enough to express his love for you?

His response didn’t deter you from asking your next question, though. And as before, Alhaitham did not wish to entertain it. These sudden hypotheticals would never come to fruition as long as he could do something about it, but your persistence puzzled him. Were you trying to hint at something?

Alhaitham was a man that remained sure of himself, even in the most cumbersome situations. He spared the breath of useless words and only said what he meant. So when he held your face with one hand and leveled his eyes with yours, an ever sharp gaze that bore into your very being, he declared with the utmost confidence, “If you were to ever leave my side, I would tear this world apart until I found you.”

꠵ TAGLIST; @sonder-paradise @snowbits

[blue-cheeseinmyoffwhites]

EDDIE DOES REMEMBER BUCK

Aka Eddie’s “oh” momemt

Cuz we all know there was so much more in between, right? The staring, the reaching, the desperation, the physical contact. That was probably their most intimate moment to date. He remembers a searing pain as he looks at Buck. He remembers falling while holding his gaze on Buck. And he thought this was the last moment of his life which he spends reaching out for him. But what about the whole ass scene in the firetruck on the way to the hospital that Eddie claims to not remember???

Some have indicated that Buck was wearing the same shirt in his coma dream from the shooting. There actually was an earlier cue of it’s significance. In 5x01, the only indication of Eddie’s panic attacks that didn't directly involve Ana (cued by the music) was seeing a man knocked out, with a similar shirt (& facial structure) as Buck. The same Buck from the shooting specifically, where he was in so much pain that he couldn't think clearly and thought Buck was the one who was shot. This is an important detail I'll get back to momentarily.

Eddie looks away whenever he lies/doesn’t want to confront his feelings, avoiding eye contact when the conversation gets too real. Buck looked him dead in his face in 5x11 and said he doesn’t have to pretend with him, and Eddie walked away. Where Eddie spent 4x14 looking at nothing BUT Buck, in 6x11 he can’t even glance at him. This is important. Eddie is the only one who doesn’t visit Buck on his own time. He doesn’t want to deal with his feelings over the situation. It’s just all too familiar. This is the exact same setup as Shannon. Only now it’s Buck, and he’s actually dead too.

In 6x10 his fears eventually become a reality. Eddie suddenly has to picture a world without Buck, & he didn’t like it. We finally got Eddie screaming for Buck in the same way the ladder does, & it was brutal. Way different from a regular friend being worried. The calm compitent Eddie Diaz was frantically pulling Buck towards him knowing the effort was useless, shoving his captain out the way to reach him, yelling at doctors to do more????

The writers portrayed a hypothetical that if Buck never met Eddie, he would have lost everything. He would have been deemed unfit to be a firefighter and a single father, eventually losing both. Eddie is aware of the impact Buck has on him & all the things he's done for him. Eddie is aware of his feelings for Buck but doesn’t want to take the time to realize what that means for him. Which is why he omits. Cuz you see, Eddie's panic attacks weren't really about Ana. I mean yeah they were triggered by her, but it wasn't really the thought of being married to Ana, it was the thought of losing Buck. Committing to a relationship with Ana means that the fantasy he envisions with Buck can never come to light. He then decides to cut ties with her with encouragement from Buck. That then leaves the question, why now?? It seemed like Eddie & Ana were doing fine? Why is he suddenly having doubts?

The Shooting. As May said in Eddie's presence in 5x15, it took a near-death experience to appreciate what (he) actually had & is encouraged to not hide WHO HE IS. Because of heteronormativity, Eddie spends Season 4 chasing a relationship he never really wanted just so Chris could have a mother figure, failing to realize he can satisfy both their needs with Buck. Eddie didn't start getting panic attacks until after he got shot, where the main vision he had in those moments was of the one he wanted most, Buck. Dying now meant that he could never have Buck, so he spends the last moments of his life reaching for him. That's why one of Eddie's first triggers is of the white-shirt man along with Ana. He remembers.

[unpretty]

I am absolutely living for the vibe talk and wondered if we could get a vibe tour or smth? Or just your absolute faves bc your reviews are really honest and fun!

yeah sure let's discuss various toys, not including my many bellesa toys previously mentioned

thoa, son of clithulu, by fantasticocks! i got a pre-set color because they were on sale but by default they do customs. i know i said internal doesn't do it for me but like. i still like it. it's just not going to get me there, is all. basically everything else by fantasticocks is too big for me. i am a delicate flower. i have not yet tested using it with a harness but i feel like it would work. they also have tentacle dick packers if that's relevant to your interests. i still want to find a cute box or chest to keep it in where it won't get linty and weird and i am accepting suggestions.

the luvli ditto 2 is a piece of shit. i'm so mad about this one. the idea is that you can wear it during sex, because the internal part is thin enough to fit a dick next to. what it actually does is fall out and do jack shit. this is one of the more expensive toys i've bought in my life and has sucked the worst. absolute loathing.

RIP the lelo nea 2. the buttons are a pain in the ass but it was cute, quiet, and discreet. until i fell asleep and didn't realize when i woke up that it was sandwiched firmly between my thighs. twice. and it ended up in the toilet because i was sleepy and had to pee. i cannot possibly justify buying it a third time but maybe if your labes are less powerful you will not have my idiot problem.

the lelo gigi 2. got this in a sale bundle with the nea and figured maybe i'd finally find something resembling a g-spot that would do it for me. i didn't.

the picobong remoji. for some reason when i bought that nea+gigi bundle from nea it included this for free. it has an app. i tried it once and it sucked. i don't think my girlfriend could use it long distance even if i wanted her to. i think all the app did was make it vibe to music, which is a lot like those weird vibe pattern settings i never use but worse. absolutely bizarre.

for a long time this extremely generic glass dildo, available wherever cheap glass dildos are sold, was my only dildo. because i was fucking broke and glass was the only thing i could buy that cheap that i trusted. if it says it's bodysafe silicone and it's only twelve dollars it's lying. also i wanted something as easy as possible to sterilize in case of butt stuff. anyway i still have it, it gets the job done if you want to pretend you're fucking someone with an inhumanly hard dick. perhaps some kind of living statue, or gargoyle. hypothetically.

this isn't the exact rabbit that i snapped in half in high school but it's close enough. i have never bought another.

the tokidoki x lovehoney unicorno magic wand. it's just a regular magic wand with a unicorn head on it. you can actually remove the unicorn head to make it a regular magic wand but i don't. it turns out the presence of the ear is vital for me and otherwise i would find it useless. it's too goddamn big. it's the size of a small car. i'm still mad i didn't get the scene kid looking one in black. this one's been my daily driver since the nea broke. can't run out of batteries if you have to plug it into the wall!

[renardtrickster]

Throwing my hat into the predstrogen ban/Exploded With Hammers ring, this might earnestly be more pathetic than anything Elon Musk has done. To be clear, Elon Musk sexually harassed a woman and tried to pay her off with a horse and has been very friendly towards and accommodating of the nazis on his platform, which makes him pound-for-pound morally worse than Matt Mullenweg. But the descriptor of "he's a petty child unaware of how mentally cooked he is" was only an accurate descriptor of him near the beginning. By now, I think he's reached a point where if he banned a trans woman for being mean towards him, he would just avoid talking about it unless he had a gun pointed to his head, and even then he'd be largely flippant or apathetic about the whole ordeal. He more or less knows that he's kind of a malicious dipshit, and acts accordingly.

With Mullenweg, meanwhile, there's something much more insidious about his behavior, or at least it feels more icky to me. Not only did he break the silence when he could have just not said anything and let predstrogen fade into the night, he then tried to paint himself as a reasonable man being victimized because some transgirl furry said "I hope he gets hit by a car with hammers glued to it" or something, premptively deflected any accusations of transphobia with a cynical appeal to the fact that he has gay friends, and then started hitting up random trans women in their DMs to explain himself or garner some support (nevermind how implicitly threatening this is). DERANGED COMPARISON INCOMING, but it reminds me of an observation Slavoj Zizek (schniff) made about a difference between the totalitarianism of Hitler and Stalin, specifically how the former made no attempt to portray himself and his regime as anything but a strongman political movement, while the former would do stuff like have prisoners send him birthday telegrams, or would join the audience in applauding when he was finished with a speech. The fundamental cruelty and level of power between the two was the same, but Stalin made more of an attempt to give a face to his authority, or create an illusion that he and his citizens were both subjects of rationality and hypothetically equal.

On both platforms, twitter and tumblr, nazis run rampant, harassment campaigns against their queer userbase succeed, the flagging system is useless at best and at worst is weaponized towards the end of said harassment campaigns (or flagging sfw selfies of trans women as mature content), and the trans people are scorned despite being the powerhouse of the cell due to all trans people being simultaneously terminally online and chronically funny. The difference is, Elon Musk knows he doesn't like them, takes steps to make it known they are not welcome there, and rarely feels a need to justify himself outside of conspiracy theories of the trans agenda sterilizing autistic children and making his daughter hate him. Matt Mullenweg, meanwhile, lets his abusive dysfunctional system run, causing all the same excesses as twitter, but then makes hollow gestures of him being down to earth, a reasonable man amidst a sea of unreasonable behavior, the guy who owns "the queerest website on the internet" and surely the queerest website wouldn't be consistently alienating to its trans userbase! There is no transphobia in the moderation team, the tagging system is not broken, the moderation system is not broken, there is no sea of bigotry and harassment driving people off the site, there is only a belligerent trans woman making death threats who deserves not only the most harsh and disciplined banning that anybody in the history of the website has seen, but also a visit from the FBI as well. Elon views what happens on X as a feature, not a bug, while Mullenweg denies the presence of any features or bugs. Not on his new PDF.

[gardens-light]

Protected

Being a apart of the 'Planetary Frontier' was supposed to thrilling and exciting. Exploring new worlds and, beautiful unusual life forms. At first, it appeared to be a dream come true. Until your research team, accompanied by top notch U.S Military Marines got stranded on a planet that wasn't on your radar. And to make matters worse? Something was out there... Hunting and watching...

Content: Course Language. Small amounts of detailed gore, and use of weaponry.

What is more terrifying? A primal hunter with exceptional skills to attack and stalk their pray for sport. Or a creature of exact same capabilities and skill, but sworn to protect?.

It was a question you'd thought would never be answered. More of a hypothetical question- a theory. Nothing more, nothing less. But most theories of yours and other lab assistants were often ignored. The U.S military personnel running the joint simply wanted answers. All too happy to skip the 'minor details'- which were actually scientific results, and data. And go straight to what they were more concerned with. And unfortunately today was just going to be one of those days....

"Unbelievable!"

Crash!

Bang!

You watched the middle aged Commander push laptops and tablets off the mental benches. Ripping out cables from their ports, throwing lab equipment onto the floor, like a upset toddler.

"Useless! Pathetic! The U.S government has given this department the best technology known to man! And you lab rats are telling me you can't use it? What's the point in having you all?"

Another helpless laptop thrown onto the concrete floor. You sighed heavily.

"Because the U.S government never considered the thought of us, 'lab rats' conducting experiments and research on not only alien technology. But also on a alien planet uninhabited by humans."

The Commander's hazel eyes narrowed on you. "We all knew the risks and rewards, of going on this planetal expedition. We all have a task! Working together, and striving forwards. But you and your team, Ms Y/N, has been letting us down!"

Another heavy sigh left you, as you rubbed your temples. The snickers of the military men behind the Commander could easily be heard. Your team looked at you with hopeful eyes, knowing you'd say something to put the Commander back in his place.

"Me and my team have worked tirelessly around the clock, trying to achieve impossible results, of which you demand! It's not us, or the technology that's 'useless'. It's merely the problem of which we're up against-"

"And what 'problem' are we facing" the Commander asked between laughs.

"The very same problem that you and your trigger-happy, jar-heads Marines have, Commander!" That soon died down his laughter. "For weeks, you've been facing an enemy that's not only hard to wound. But also to kill. Yet you have machine and sub-machine guns, rifles, heavy duty weapons- for gods sake! Your Lieutenant lunched an RPG that this thing! And for what? Me and my team can't research anything!"

You gestured toward the empty examination table. Accompanied by a small metal table with wheels, that only had a strange glowing green liquid like substance. A couple of broken blades, that the closet thing you could identify it too, was hardened steel.

"We have nothing to go by! No research or any experiments can be done, when we have nothing. Not even a body!"

Commander Banks adjusted his camouflaged shirt, as you asked the hard question.

"How many men have you lost, Commander? At least over a dozen? Till you and your men gives us a body. My team won't be responsible for Jack-shit! Let alone carry the weight of 'failing' this 'expedition."

An uncomfortable, brief silence loomed over the lab. Lieutenant Richards cleared his throat as he slowly approached you. Brushing back his blonde locks, and he looked at you with a weak smile.

"I think... What the Commander was trying to say was, that we've all had a good few tiring weeks. To put it gently. Being stranded on this alien planet of a jungle, as affected us and caused tension in one way, or another. Aren't I right, Commander?"

The childish leader barely answered with a "hmp", tutting under his breath while crossing his arms. Lieutenant Richards frowned at his higher-up, before turning back to you. Flashing a weak smile once again, hoping you didn't see his expression earlier.

"Exactly! And as you said, Ms Y/N, we're facing an apex predator. Nothing on the food chain can be higher than this thing. Our weapons barely wound it. Your lab... Stuff-ah! Equipment can barely do... The ah, um- research and development! So, I purpose we work together. Me and my men are going for another 'hunt', perhaps you. Ms Y/N, could join us."

You raised an eyebrow, as your team gazed at you in disbelief.

"What?-"

"With your brilliant, beautiful, scientific mind. You could experience what you need on the field. With the protection of my men."

You crossed your arms, "no way in Hell-"

"We track this thing. Always on its trial. Our last 'outing' a member of your team, retuned with its blood-"

"After falling dead to an infection later in the day-"

The Lieutenant nervously chuckled, "an infection? Ma'am, it was simply a bug bite" he leaned in closer. "Besides... It would do you some good to get out of this lab. A woman of your calibre, doesn't belong among these lab-rats. Come on an 'outing' with some real men."

You pushed his hand away, as he tried to gently brush his knuckles across your cheek. Only gazing at him with an unamused stare...

And that's how you found yourself in this god for shaken situation. Hiding and crouching behind unusual foliage, which also seemed to be similar to the jungles back on Earth. Only the sky was strange and extremely different. Through the pink and orange skies, you could see the rings and shire size of the neighbouring planet, which glowed a gentle green colour. The ruby sun casting dark shades of purple and blue, as it settled behind the trees.

Five men from a squad of fifteen has already lost their lives. All died in gruesome fashion, skinned and strung up upon the nearest tree. Nearly everyone was separated from the original group. You and Lieutenant Richards sat upon the rocks of a nearby stream, accompanied by two men.

All three grasped onto their weapons tightly, like a frightened believer clutching on their bible. Everything appeared still and peaceful, but you knew you were being watched. The hairs on your back stood up. You looked up and down the stream, while the men gazed into the trees.

"We need to get to base!"

"Haven't you noticed? There's a fucking alien jumping around in the trees! And hunting us down!-"

Lieutenant Richards glared at his men, "enough bickering! The base is just across this stream! Now you're the finest men of the U.S Forces. Therefore stiffen your posture and march on!"

You heard their gulps, attempting to swallow their nerves down deep into the pits of their stomach. The two men wondered towards the edge of the murky river, Lieutenant Richards silently gestured for you to follow. You raised an eyebrow,

"Are you serious?" You voice asked in a low whisper. "We'll be out in the open! You don't know who or what could be lurking in that river-"

"And going around like you suggested earlier, is the longer path. We need to get back to the base and fast! I'm losing far to many men to this demon. And don't worry, Sweet Cheeks." His wink and flirtatious tone, left a sour after taste in your mouth. "I'll protect you. Remember, I'm right here."

You had more trust in a bug taking you out with a disease , than this jar-head Marine protecting you.

Carefully stepping towards the river's edge, you cautiously entered into the murky water. It soaked your shoes and trousers, reaching your knees. Using your feet to feel out the riverbed, while your eyes looked around in all directions. Every now again, you stopped and lowered yourself to the water, whenever your ears picked up the slightest rustle within the trees. Or the sounds of the nearby wildlife moving due to being disturbed.

Half way across, the water reached your waist. Your toes just touching the riverbed. Your gaze caught sight of some nearby birds suddenly leaving their branch. The hairs at the back of your neck stood up, and a chill ran through your spine. Lieutenant Richards bumped into you, the end of his gun gently poking into your back.

"We need to keep moving, Sweet Cheeks."

The instincts inside your body screamed for you to run. The gentle nudge from the Lieutenant didn't encourage any movement within your body.

"I'm here, nothing will hurt you-"

As soon, as you immediately knelt into the river. Bright blue flash lunched from beyond the trees, hitting the soldier whom lead the group. Witnessing his chest being shot open, everything inside was burnt except for the spine. The soldier and Lieutenant Richards immediately yelled in grief and frustration, emptying the magazines of their weapons in all directions. Not really targeting anything in particular.

A second blue flash came and attacked the soldier in front of you. His head exploding like a bloody watermelon. The body lifelessly dropped into the river, bright sections of red ran through the waters current. Gunfire suddenly seized, replaced by the sloshing sounds of the river behind you.

Quickly turning to face the Lieutenant, your brows knitting together, as you watched him flee back in the direction of which you came. You wanted to yell out for him, demand him to act like a soldier and fight. But on the other hand, you also couldn't blame him for running away. You certainly would do the same, if your body wasn't frozen stiff. You waited in horror, listening for the final flash of blue. But... It never came. Instead, heavy footsteps sloshed through the river.

Approaching the dead bodies of the soldiers behind you, everything right down to your bones screamed to run. But you couldn't, for fear has its hold over you. Kneeling against the riverbed, with the water reaching your chest. Shivers and chills ran all over you. Your eyes closed, and stomach twisted in a sickening way, as the sound of bones broke, cracked and torn away from the lifeless victims.

All was still and quiet. It felt like the air suffocated you, as you tried to breathe deeply and calmly. The sound of heavy movement approached you from behind, feeling the ripples flowing against your back with each movement. Stopping possibly less than half a meter from you, low growls and clicks demanded your attention. It was talking to you. Whatever it was, wanted you to see it, but why?

You were too scared to move. All you could do was open your eyes. Catching a small glimpse of its reflection within the river. You swear your heart jumped into your throat. It's towering height made you feel so small. Large bracers that looked like steel, framed and protected its forearms, matching shoulder armour framed its board shoulders.

A strong hand reached out for you, claws intertwined into your hair, as they grabbed the strains by the roots, and tugged upwards. At first it was gentle, but after a moment of hesitation, a low growl snarled from the creatures throat. It's hand tightening around your scalp, and pulling you harshly. It was frustrated now-possibly annoyed. Not daring to test its patience again, you cautiously got onto your feet.

The grip upon your hair semi loosened, as you followed the silent command of turning in its direction. If your heart wasn't in your throat before, it certainly was now. Even your breath got stuck in your throat. This truly was an apex predator.

Eyes widening as your gaze fell onto its exposed muscled chest. Brown fishnet netting covered it's torso. Your eyes trailed upwards, a armoured chest piece covered only the right side. Necklaces adorned with canine teeth, claws and bone pieces rested around it's neck. A metal mask, showing small details of slight battle damage and claw marks, covered it's face.

Strange, long cylinder tubes, that reminded you of the smooth texture of hardened rubber. Framed it's masked face and reaching it's shoulders, styled in some dreadlock sort of fashion.

It's hand moved from the back of your head, it's grip upon your hair loosening, as it's claws gently brushed against your jawline. Placing a thumb under your chin, turning your head from side to side. A few clicks and low growls came from underneath it's mask. The tone was almost... curious.

You raised an eyebrow. It's studying me?...

Attempted to do the same, you slowly reached out and placed a hand upon it's chest. Through the fishnet material, you could feel it's skin. The texture similar to a crocodile. Your full height barely reached it's waist, you steadily got onto your tiptoes to try and reach up for it's mask. Although, you barely touched it's necklace's, the creature's hand quickly moved from your chin and grasped your wrist. A deep, disapproved growl, caused you to go back onto the soles of your feet.

"I'm sorry." You spoke in a gentle tone, attempting to hide your fear which still lingered in your voice.

Suddenly it's sight snapped away from you, looking over past you to what caught it's attention. Withdrawing your hand, and closing your eyes, as the sound of a gun clocking into place disrupted the still air.

Don't pull the trigger, Lieutenant. Just don't.

Wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to itself. The creature reached into a sheath behind it's back, throwing a simple dagger at the Lieutenant. Turning it's back against the gunfire, shielding you from the shot.

A painful growl rumbled within it's chest, as green glowing blood oozed from the fresh wound, upon it's shoulder. The creature looked down at you, assuring itself that you were safe and unharmed. You greeted it with a shocked, yet curious gaze. Realising a breath you didn't know you were holding.

Either for better, or for worse. You belonged to this creature now. Guarded and protected by them always, but for what purpose?...

[robinuntamed]

Irrefutable

“You mean, would I have done it for you?” Lan Zhan asked with this hurt look in his eyes, and Wei Wuxian wished to have swallowed his tongue whole.

“No! No, no, nothing like that. That’s just stupid. All this hypothetical business is rubbish anyway, I know that—”

Even worse, this soft thing his face should not physically be able to do without shifting a single cun. “Wei Ying. I would give you my core.”

Ah, well. Hmm. No, there was no chance to process that. The worst part about life two was maybe how un-flustereably sweet Lan Zhan turned out to be: Wei Wuxian suspected he may have always been sweet, under the solid layer of embarrassment. Now there wasn’t even that.

“Shameless,” he managed, croakily.

Lan Zhan just looked at him. He didn’t move his lips, but he was smiling. “My life is Wei Ying’s,” he declared simply. “My body. My—” stopped only when Wei Wuxian’s hand was on his vexingly-gorgeous mouth.

“All right! All right. It was a stupid question and I’m a stupid man, we get it. Please, Lan Zhan, I can’t bear any more.”

“You will bear it,” the fiend said, after pressing an unfair tiny kiss to his palm.

“Mercy,” Wei Wuxian whined. His chest was too tight for all of this. For all this Lan Zhan, soft and lovely in the evening light, every line of him in blinding, overwhelming harmony. The room was beautiful, the best Jinlintai had to offer, and still seemed a crude backdrop; Lan Zhan was grace itself.

“Mm,” came his concession, or perhaps his refusal, since he pressed another kiss to the hand he would not release, then another.

“Lan Zhan. Lan—Zhan! Lan Zhan, stop, stop it, unless you’d like a puddle of melted Wei Wuxian and it’s going to ruin your nice robes and probably get sticky in your hair and Lan Zhan are you even listening?”

He wasn’t, clearly, although he did this thing with his shoulders that signified laughter, and Wei Wuxian did melt, just, his whole chest gone writhing and slippery and helpless, he was so entirely helpless against this. The only enemy the fearsome Yiling Laozu couldn’t match. And in fact, the battle was getting much fiercer, and unimaginably dirty:

“Lan Zhan, that tickles! Stop, stop, you magnificent arsehole, ah, ha, that, stop, stop, I beg you!”

Stopped only to give him this puzzled look. Something in his tone must have registered. “Did I upset Wei Ying?”

“No,” helpless, rubbing his useless eyes. How to explain this ever-raging storm in his blood of I want to make the whole world yours, and that would still not be enough? “No, Lan Zhan, you're just… perfect.”

He tilted his head the tiniest of angles, suddenly transforming into something so serious it scratched inside Wei Wuxian’s throat. “Not perfect,” Lan Zhan said, as if to make a point. He was mad.

“Huh?” nose scrunching when—he didn’t frown, but—“Lan Zhan. Come here.” Taking his face in two hands, his beautiful, impossible face, which still didn’t move and now was inconsolably, irreparably sad? What the actual hell? Wei Wuxian did that sometimes, said the wrong thing and caused this mini-avalanche, this earthquake which threatened everything good. But he wasn’t even talking about himself this time. What did he say to make Lan Zhan sad?

How dare he make the world’s most perfect man—ah.

Idiot, idiot, idiot. Wei Wuxian could strangle himself if his hands weren’t holding something much more precious. Pressing tighter: “Silly creature. Lan Zhan, let me promise you, the standards for perfection are vastly different between yours and the rest of the known world, but neither matter. You don’t need to be perfect.”

“I know.”

Yeah, he would, wouldn't he. “You may know it here,” Wei Wuxian said, as gently as he could, and kissed right above the bridge of his nose. “I think you might forget it elsewhere. Lan Zhan, you’re everything I could ever want. No, you’re far more than that.”

Slow, cautious blinking: fuck, Wei Wuxian really put his foot in his mouth this time. Lan Zhan looked afraid. Had he not—stupid, stupid Wei Wuxian, has he not been clear enough? Did he not do his best to reassure this miracle of a man that… he should be spending every second of every minute of every hour of every day solely on—

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan said. His voice was so deep and so familiar that it settled him, even when it shouldn’t have.

“Lan Zhan,” heartbroken, “you know that I…”

He placed his hands over Wei Wuxian’s. “I know.”

“No, listen. This is important. You know that I—”

“Wei Ying,” softly, “I know.”

“Will you let me speak, you gorgeous arse. Listen. You’re the only reason I—”

“Wei Ying.”

Shaking him: “Stop interrupting and listen. You’re all that matters to me. I would work every day for the rest of my life to be worthy of you and I know I would never be; I would spend every moment on providing you every shred of happiness; I would go to the ends of the earth with a smile.”

Lan Zhan looked at him for the longest moment, then said, “Mm.”

“Mm? That’s all you have to say for yourself? Silly thing, did you listen? Do you get it now? Do you understand how breathtaking and crucial and—”

“I understand,” the bastard cut him off, the edge of his nose brushing Wei Wuxian’s. “My answer remains the same.”

“Your answer?”

The tiniest quirk of his lips, managing to look exasperated and disastrously fond: “Mm.”

“What answer? What are you even on about? Did I ask you a question? Honestly, sometimes you old men do drone on and on when something so simple can be said instead, and…” Wei Wuxian realised he was panicking, had no idea why.

“You asked,” Lan Zhan said.

“Huh?”

He made this face, half fiendish and half bashful, all devastating, and pulled away the tiniest bit until his one blurry eye became definite two. He was the dearest thing in the whole world, so much was true: he was beautiful, and perfect only in the ways that mattered, in the shape of his face under Wei Wuxian’s palms and the burst of never-ending affection that would ruin Wei Wuxian’s life. Running a helpless finger over full, red lips, rejoicing in the trembliness of it, of this joy. Lan Zhan truly was a miracle, and he was looking right at him so, so seriously.

“I would give Wei Ying my core.”

Wei Wuxian could only shut him up with a kiss.

[vintageseawitch]

i'm tired of evil winning so much. it doesn't matter some good things could happen; evil will be there in no time to destroy any decent progress. i'm tired of being terrified i'll lose my rights. i'm tired of being powerless about this & not being able to help others across the globe who have already lost their rights. i'm tired of how useless the UN actually is. i'm tired of the US being a global superhero by being murderous bullies. i'm tired of fascism rising again. i'm tired of WWII being romanticized but now people think that little Austrian artist with the even smaller mustache had some good ideas actually. i'm tired of human rights violations happening & there are zero consequences for it. i'm tired that the majority of humanity as well as currently living flora & fauna will have to pay the price for the greediness of the few. i'm tired of always hearing about a countdown to when we can never reverse climate change while those who are actually the major problem - the US military, big oil, & others - are able to get away with this. i'm tired of the bloated military industrial complex. i'm tired of having less rights than literal corpses. i'm tired of useless CEOs. i'm tired of billionaires. i'm tired of people thinking billionaires are geniuses instead of actually greedy sociopaths who will happily pay you nothing if they could get away with it. i'm tired of people thinking our government wouldn't do that when they actually totally would & have already done it in some capacity. i'm tired of "voting for the lesser of two evils." i'm tired of old, out of touch people being in charge. i'm tired of people being proud of their willful ignorance. i'm tired of the white-washing of history. i'm tired of people not giving a fuck about the environment. i'm tired of people not being able to afford homes when there are more empty houses than there are homeless people. i'm tired of workers labor being exploited so they get paid a time while their bosses get a dollar. i'm tired of learning my generation & younger are the most educated but the most overworked. i'm tired of older generations who had so much handed to them want to make sure someone else doesn't get the same because lead poisoning have made them into sociopathic cowards who refuse to see the truth & will vote against their own interest just to fuck over people they fear & misunderstand. i'm tired of people claiming protesting against genocide means you're antisemitic & should be silenced. i'm tired of book banning/burning. i'm tired of xenophobia when so many of us are descended from illegal immigrants. i'm tired of men still getting upset over a hypothetical question instead of doing some self-reflection. i'm tired of the patriarchy, rampant misogyny, & toxic masculinity. i'm tired of men not thinking anger counts as an emotion. i'm tired of rapists getting away with their crimes because "what about their future" & "what was she wearing" when it's actually not about sex but power instead. i'm tired of "not all men" to silence legitimate points. i'm tired of people who make false claims of being raped not facing any consequences so it's harder for real victims to come forward. i'm tired of being so afraid of being assaulted & getting pregnant with my rapists baby that i took my state of fertility in my own hands because i'm afraid of my government even as my obgyn said not to worry. i'm tired of the christofascist movement that is gaining momentum. i'm tired of project 2025 being a real possibility & people claiming "they wouldn't do that." i'm tired of how openly fascist conservatives are now. i'm tired of people drinking that kool-aid so hard. i'm tired of the bootlicking. i'm tired of cops & their undeserved diplomatic immunity so they can literally commit murder & get away with it. i'm so. fucking. tired. this country is hell & has helped make the world hell. america has never been great. it's just super effective propaganda & brainwashing that has been wildly successful.

i just want hope that doesn't feel delusional. i don't want to give up but i'm so tired.

[sandcobangevent]

The Sickbed of Sherlock Holmes

by @anmaje and @nonoweid-blog

The blackout curtain had been pulled down over the rectangular Georgian window, and although no sharp blades of sun shot through the room, the incessant bullet fire of rain still intruded on the sickbed of Sherlock Holmes. The sickbed was of course his regular bed, but it had an altered status as demanded by the good Doctor John Watson. John was currently tiptoeing round the kitchen in an attempt to let his friend find some sleep. Both men were unsuccessful. 

The detective sighed deeply, it was not only assaulting London rain and his well-meaning flatmate that hurt his ears. He could hear his own blood rushing, the pipes as well and the world outside going on without him. Millions of people meeting, parting and leaving a wide palette of delectable mysteries. None of which he could reach. A hot scent of such a mystery was waiting out there in the grey. He had followed it through the cold night, and when the morning came, he realised his keen interest had not been enough to protect him. A cold, and a fever. Those were the spoils of his hunt. John had freaked out. 

“You’re burning up mate! What were you thinking?”

“He clearly wasn’t.”

“Damn straight, Mariana. Upstairs, Sherlock, change your clothes and then straight to bed. I’ll get the thermometer-”

“No, please Watson, I’m fine-”

“Upstairs! Now! Or I’ll shove the thermometer up your arse myself.”

John had not ended up needing to follow through on his threat, but the rectal thermometer had done its job. 39.4 degrees celsius. It had then steadily crept to 39.7. A bag had been packed for a hypothetical A&E visit. It stood by the front door. Looming. 

Sherlock could not remember having had such a fever before. Though the world seemed muffled and blurry, everything, sudden or expected, was attacking his senses. Light was a knife, sound a hammer, he could taste only bile and the feeling of temperature was inconsistent. The worst thing anything usually defined by fact could be. The only sense keeping the peace was his decided lack of smell. But his stuffed sinuses, blocked and barricaded, seemed to make up for the little mercy his immune system had granted. He had been rendered useless. Sharp mind stumped and reduced to fog thicker than that which usually carried through the streets of London. That fog hid a suspect, a murderer, whose scent was slipping from Sherlock. Not that he’d be able to smell anything now. 

Despite the sensory hellscape he lay in, under-stimulation was bound to find him, he needed to see this case through. But his chances of escaping his sickbed were slim, only a restroom visit was his ticket out. Food was brought to him, and taken away again, mostly untouched. A water bottle stood on his nightstand, filled dutifully by his own private doctor, making rounds and checking his temperature. He had everything he needed at a word, but work. He reached for his water, arm and hand unsteady. That was when he heard and felt the buzzing. 

Two long and a short. Pause. One short, a long and two short. Stop.

His phone lay screen down on the nightstand. It was on do not disturb, but some people had the privilege of being let through. Several inspectors at Scotland Yard, and one other person. Said person dropped a glass in the kitchen just then. A muffled shit followed, and a no Archie don’t step there! He would be rightfully furious if he knew what Sherlock was considering. But the screen was still lighting sharply up against the cheap veneer of the particleboard nightstand from IKEA.

The buzzing sounded again: G. L.

He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself. He picked up the phone and read the text. Dark eyes were cut by blue light, and Sherlock promptly dropped the phone onto his own face. He peeled it off, turning to lie on his left.

The text read as follows:

Inspector G. Lestrade (Scotland Yard)

Holmes. Your podcaster called to tell us you’re on sick leave. What does this mean? 

- Lestrade.

Found your suspect. Can’t make an arrest  without evidence. Respond ASAP. Keeping him under watch.

- Lestrade.  

She was all energy and tenacity. Sherlock could imagine her frowning and typing rapidly. The second message was no doubt dictated to an unlucky constable in the passenger seat of a police vehicle. It wasn’t jealousy he felt, he mainly felt too hot and horribly dizzy, but he wished he had her energy. Perhaps his mind would then let him think. He sniffed, blinked, and attached what photos he had captured the night before. The proof of drug-dealing might get the Yard a search warrant, and hopefully thereby a murderweapon. Nothing was certain, and nothing was as it usually was. He typed a pitiful fever and pressed send. 

Through the fog that had surrounded him, Sherlock heard careful footsteps. He had no energy for panic, but still shut off his phone and sat up to put it back on the nightstand. His blood rushed through his head, a threat of fainting, he heard nothing else as his vision blurred. The taste of bile arose just as the door opened slowly. A whisper made it through the feverish fog.

“Hey Sherlock. I brought you some Ribena, it’d be good to get some sugar in you, when you have no appetite- why are you sitting?” John walked through the dark room, putting down the glass on a coaster, the blurry frame of him was familiarity itself. Language escaped the sick detective. He focused on deep breaths as he looked up, trying to make out his friend’s face. 

“Woah, woah, mate. D’you need to throw up?” A steady hand held his forehead, pushing wavy hair from his face. He leaned into the warmth of it.

“No. No, I don't think so.” His voice quivered, he felt embarrassed at that. 

“Oookay, let’s lay you down, yeah? Slowly now.” John's hand then held his heavy head at the nape. His other securely on his arm. When he was finally lying again and getting a hold of his breathing, Sherlock had to squint as sharp light and buzzing came from his up-facing phone. Warm hands left him. 

“What?- … Why is Lestrade texting you? I specifically told her you’re sick.” John was scandalised, but quickly and silently flipped the bright phone over. Sherlock felt embarrassed again.

“I need stimulation. I need work- ”

“You need rest. Work may be stimulating, but it is, decidedly, not rest.” John said. Sherlock could now make out the face of his friend. Concern etched into every line. He sighed.

“Then give me stimuli.” 

“What do you need? A hug?” John was smiling ever so slightly. Thank god.

“Pressure would be most appreciated.” Sherlock said, attempting a smile. 

“Alright.” The mattress sunk and the warmth of a body invited him in. 

“C’mere, Sherlock.” 

Steady hands and arms were around him again. The fog surrounding him became slightly more bearable. His inconsistent temperature was helped by a warm body. The taste of bile was quickly replaced with that of sweet berries. Even the sound of assaulting rain was lessened by a constant heartbeat and calm breathing. The sickbed of Sherlock Holmes would soon regain its previous lonely status, but for now it was a nurturing place. 

“... Is it now I ask you to take your temperature again?”

“Shush, John.”

[hungrydolphin91]

ok I had to go make my own post about Eugene Cassette Beasts, it's not fair for me to fill up everyone else's tags w how much I love this guy. I wanted to speculate a little about his backstory here cause it honestly fascinates me and I feel like I havent seen this happen much in other media, much less turn based monster collecting RPGs.

So Eugene is from a future world (seemingly the only party member who is except maybe Barkley but he's a dog so.) It sounds like he's from the turn of the century, maybe 2100 or so, and mentions in his rank 3 friendship that in his world, there was a massive reformation when society as a while realized they couldn't keep fucking each other over and destroying the planet, so everyone worked hard to abolish the kinds of structures that unilaterally hurt people (for instance, capitalism). Sounds like a utopia right?

Eugene only says good things about his world really, how much people value acts of goodness and kindness. But he says it all with such a sad tone, like something he's missing out on, because he thinks he is, he didn't fit in. He says that he wasn't great at being helpful all the time, which is why he wants to do better in New Wirral, a world removed from his own where he can be a better person than he was in his own world.

But the thing is, he IS a nice person. Maybe that's by design, everything he does in New Wirral is about him playing the hero, but it's also oh so clear that he brought his own expectations of goodness from his own timeline and they're just as much of a burden here. Even when hes succeeding, he won't cut himself slack, he says he needs to have a cause to rally behind, or what that archangel said to him would be proven true: he IS empty. Or at least, useless, which is probably the same thing to him.

What really grabs me about all of this though (besides the usual love of angst and guilt complexes and hero complexes and whatnot) is this future of moral reformation. Those are a pretty common historical phenomenon, often involving moral panics and an emphasis on presentation--- what matters is that you LOOK pure compared to others. And poor Eugene just felt like he couldn't keep up just because he has some small selfish impulses, or something in that nature I'd imagine--- I think he'd rather throw himself off a bridge than admit whatever the reason was that he didn't fit in in his own world.

It's easy to see his world being our future, in a way. I'd be delighted if terrible oppressive governments and economic systems were torn down in favor of ones that promote equality and universal well being, but currently moral purity is just as much of a trend as ever--- look at any discussion of book banning, not to mention transphobic legislature, fandom antis and so much more. So this hypothetical future is one where even though the 'right' thing has been done, there's still a subtle form of policing going on to enforce it. Maybe that is successful at keeping cruel practices from coming back. Or maybe it's just traumatizing people like Eugene who feel judged by their every action and pressured to be a saint every single moment of their lives.

One last thing I thought was interesting--- as part of his level 4 friendship rank, Eugene mentions how his parents' generation still seem scarred by the cruelties they endured before this reformation. But Eugene is too young to have lived through it himself so you know what that means?? Generational trauma babyyyyy. He's inherited guilt about a time he wasn't even alive for, along with a pressure to make sure it never ever happens again, so no unkindness is tolerated. It's no wonder this boy has so many issues.

So that's my late night rambles about this guy, probably like 50% of this is just me projecting but it's also fun to dissect what's happening here. Like I said before, it's unusual to see a unique concept like character like Eugene and his world in what appears to be a fun little indie game about turning into monsters with cassettes.

[sunshine-snippets]

Oh Little Bird, (Won't You Fly?)

Words:  5.1k

Summary: Icarus, and their hesitation on their wings

Contents and Warnings: Icarus Angst, Post-Unlocked, description of injury, Icarus is just having a time

______

Icarus wakes up slowly, for a recent change, the spasms of pain throughout their back absent, at least as they sit up.

Their birds fuss over them, all chirping a tune of worry, nudging to get closer to check them over, worried about their flockmate.

The things are muttering similar things of worry, they’re sure. Whispering questions, whispering good-mornings 'Morning Icarus' one whispers as they let themselves tune into it, 'How are you' a lantern asks 'How is your back feeling' another questions.

They don't respond to any of them.

All Icarus has the energy for is just to get up, stretch their strained muscles, and hope if it's done enough, the lingering moments of pain will stop.

..But if they do more- put themselves on a task, push past how tired they were, they don't have to think about it.

They trailed down the stairs, fatigue holding onto their form as Skittles and Zebbles followed behind with a couple of spare chirps. And for probably the first time, they didn't truly fear the birds getting too close.

Don't fear them getting hurt by Quixis.

Quixis wouldn't touch them with Dad here.

It sends a spike of vitriol through their veins, hatred and undeniably anger stirring and mixing with their pain.

Anger that it was only Fable that stopped it- that it wasn't until a God stepped in that they gave a reprieve.

The idea of Quixis just gave them a horrible rise now it seemed.

And that was on Quixis.

One last straw.

But it still doesn't help. They can't tell if the anger makes it better or worse. If thinking about it makes it better or worse.

Worse.

They decide, it's usually worse, isn't it? 

They weren't Rae, who if he just thought about it long enough, could fix it. Their best coping method was just ignoring it, moving past it. 

Changing the house to the way they wanted it, the way it was supposed to be.

Not allowing Quixis to use it as, what? A scrapped, messed-up art palette?

Chunks of paint scraped on it, dozens of different hues in a clunky colorful mess. As if it wasn't their life it impacted.

Still, The birds squawk behind them, unused to the excess space, to the lack of the wings usually stretched behind Icarus's back, and still ever so concerned.

They almost debate letting them perch on their shoulders, like they sometimes did when the wack was being particularly nice and slow-moving.

And maybe it was. Quixis trying to 'apologize' as if it wasn't far too late for that, as if they couldn't feel the shards embedded in their back even after Rae had pulled them out.

But the idea still made them hesitate, Even if Quixis was trying to apologize, even if Fable was here now, Even if he made it all better.

Even if hypothetically, they’d be okay, nothing would happen.

The idea of their birds going through that, or worse, just from being so close, made them decide against it, just in case- just in case even the idea-

The two birds could perch where they wanted, but Icarus couldn't risk their safety.

Couldn't hurt them.

'What's the plan for today?' A thing asked.

"Just cleaning up a little more chat," they managed, deciding as the words came out of their mouth. Exhaustion still evident in their tone.

They may have slept, but they suppose that doesn't count for rest.

They mark down what they've already cleaned, already replaced, making sure it's still the same, practically daring Quixis to change it again, to make their efforts useless and void the way they always did.

To make everything they touched once again change.

To make their hands a poison to everything around them again.

… They stepped forward, looking around at the things they worked at.

It was just the same as it had been when they'd gone to sleep.

They grabbed blocks to further fix their house. To further replace the blocks they hadn't gotten to. To work on the upstairs,

The downstairs was the way they'd made it, still a little odd, but the way that was their brand, 

The way they decided it to be their brand.

The piece of their brand they could have.

Feeling significantly less bird-like, and feeling significantly less comfort in the bird-likeness.

And they had to just continue on. Move onto the other parts of the house. Even as they felt the phantom sensations of wings wrapping around them in a self-soothing gesture, the way they had before they shattered.

Soft and gentle hugging their sides, the warmth surrounding them in a way they could only find comfort in.

A fit of gold and amethyst shining as it transformed, as it took over, corrupting the soft wings and turning the warm yellow and purple feathers into piercing cold shards the sun gleamed off of.

Piercing into them in a way that just made them cry out-

They opened another chest, ‘tsk’ing to themself at the lack of dark oak, they'd really have to work on that later.

They went down the few steps to the storage room, grabbing the few stray intermittent stacks they knew they'd left while organizing.

Maybe it would be enough, just to change the splattering of wood Quixis had changed.

They hadn't really minded it before, hadn't cared, just a few tiles of wood changed.

But since they'd fixed the floor of the downstairs, fixed the path on the hardwood that they had gone down verbatim the days prior, it might as well match.

They could make their own house choices, their own decisions.

Their house would be the wood they wanted, the palette they wanted.

As they stood at the balcony of the second floor, the one with no railings, sun warming their face as it peered down at them, they resisted the urge to jump off.

They'd fall.

____

Their Dad visited a lot, or at least they were pretty sure he did, they'd barely caught him when they were awake, but the amount of get-well gifts left in a basket beside their bed certainly gave an impression.

They didn't really know how to feel about it- the fact that suddenly their Dad was just back, that they'd actually, really met him, for the first time in their memory. In the memory they didn't have to ask Rae about.

The memory they knew, in the present.

And not in a weird purgatory dream.

They just- had their Dad back.

Relief was definitely a big factor, and they were happy, probably the happiest Icarus had been in a while, pardon circumstances.

But it was weird, to go from only having a dream Dad, to Fable leaving grilled salmon next to their bed so that he knew they ate.

'Fable cat arc when' an object commented and it made Icarus laugh.

"Not my cat father!" They cry out, only lighthearted in their objections and the objects cackle in response.

They resisted the joke about a cat and a bird.

____

Rae mentioned the wings again, mentioned offhandedly, that if they wanted to try the elytra again they'd always just be in the lab.

Mentioned that if they didn't want to make the lengthy walk, he could bring a pair over to them.

The conversation carried on quick after that, onto a completely different subject, truly just a footnote, an afterthought of assurance.

A just in case.

Just so Sherbert knew.

But it didn't quite feel as reassuring as Rae meant it, didn't feel reassuring the way their back still felt heavy from the wings that felt like they were there but weren't.

The way another pair could shatter just the same.

The way it was supposed to have been fine.

Or not fine, they were used to it not being fine. But it felt disconcerting that this time people knew, and Rae and Fable were insistent on taking care of it.

Sherbert probably could've managed.

And yet, they'd been taken to the medbay, Rae’s medbay.

They nodded when Rae mentioned it, mentioned taking a look when it first happened, because yeah, they should, but they were waiting, an odd feeling as the pain pulsed and left them breathless still. Their voice having to fight just to come out as their body screamed so loud in their ears they could barely hear the others speak around them. But they would wait, they couldn't just leave Rae and their Dad alone while they went to take care of it.

They didn't want to leave their Dad's side.

But then Rae dragged them to his medbay. Fable supporting their weight with an arm around their waist, careful to avoid the angry red marring and shining amethyst afflicting their back.

Which- it made sense, and yet none at all.

It was weird.

They couldn't figure out what the weirdest part of any of it was. 

Every little thing they learned just added itself to a pile of ‘this isnt normal, right?’ 

The fact they weren't them, there were multiple of them, across different, what? Dimensions?

One of them, them but somewhere different, but nowhere, was gone. They were gone, Sherbert, a Sherbert?- was just- gone, water taking their life in a memory Icarus didn't know, that left them afraid of water, of going under it, of not coming back up.

The fact somehow, someone else's eye was just- in their socket, that it had been rejecting, there was a reason, it wasn't normal. That's why it was bleeding. It wasn't normal.

There was a reason.

That their Dad was around, actually around.

That Quixis had thrown a fit, when Rae opened up the portal, hurting Momboo and breaking Sherberts wings.

Or that they hadn't been- allowed to, frankly. deal with it on their own, at least of the parts the two knew of. Another aspect of the oddness, that they knew at all.

It was a lot.

And they couldn't decide what was weirdest.

They couldn't decide if they shouldn't consider ‘it’ the people trying to help them or not.

…

Icarus never really answered Rae’s comments.

____

Their back still ached, it didn't really hurt, not super often, not anymore at least, the past days being a reprieve, with the help of a healthy dose of potions to help it heal along.

But man did it ache.

They'd.. Only minorly been inconvenienced by the placement of the wings before, just below the shoulder-blades.

It'd been annoying to preen their feathers where they were, mostly resorting to only preening what they could stretch of the wings to the front or side of them, untrusting of pulling feathers not molting if they couldn't see it.

Nothing big- nothing more than a minor nuisance, and a source of judgemental chirps from their birds.

Now though it just sucked.

It was hard to place the potion-goo over the wound to help the healing, as well as the scarring, and it was hard to move at the worst of it. Sending electricity down their veins and spikes of sharp down their arms if they moved their shoulders in any certain way.

Even the dull throbbing wasn't a cakewalk, though more manageable. Maybe only a little more of a nuisance than they were used to. But they'd definitely dealt with less easy healing processes.

But.. it was getting better, the soreness, aching, and throbbing starting to be more of a constant then the white hot pain.

So it was- it was fine.

Though, maybe it would be a little easier if their birds let them rest and heal.

But they couldn't really be upset at them for waking them up, however sporadically, with sudden and startling squawks as they riled each other up, just trying to keep all of the flock alert and safe.

The birds were worried, and they knew it.

They could still be tired about it though.

And they could be achy about it, the excess movement of being jostled in their supposed sleep, little headbutts to their abdomen, and waking up to their birds messing with their hair- probably not doing them any real favors.

But they were worried.

They couldn't understand their birds, couldn't translate their squawks into words like Jamie could, or would be able to without Quixis's intervention, but they knew the whole flock had been worried, especially their oldest members Skittles and Zebbles.

The two had practically been glued to them, wearing down their reserves as they finally just let them perch on their shoulders as they walked around, not letting them come as they fixed the wack, but giving up on anything else, the two too persistent, and Icarus too guilty for stressing them out to not.

Still, as much as the placement of their late-wings had been mostly a non-issue, slightly an irritant only occasionally. Now, the more they went on, it was a solid annoyance.

The birds at least weren't trying to- they didn't quite know, preen the pair? Or that was the closest Icarus could guess to the reasoning behind their past interest in the wings, the feathers and bone that once felt like an extension of them, gone.

So nothing to interest them.

But they hadn't realized quite how used to the wings they had been, and how fragile their back now was, not in the way Rae had experienced, from what they were told they should be- not okay, but it would be fine in the long run.

It was just the healing stages that were going to be a problem, potions may help greatly, but they could only do so much at a time, help when the injury was acting up, sure, but it'd still take time.

It wasn't an open wound and that's what counted, it having already 'healed' the skin and flesh below regenerated, though fragile and tender.

Still, their body rejected the way they used to sleep, or the way they often ended up, sprawled on their stomach, almost mimicking the comfortable position of a starfish. Their wings spread wide over the bed. No, even if the back was free from the impact of the bed, their arms now needed to be down, their nerves complaining viscerally when they were stretched up.

The comfortable sprawl now remained simply denied, and instead forcefully replaced by sleeping on their side, curled up.

If they wanted to get any sleep that was.

…

They missed the sprawling.

They missed their wings.

___

Every time Quixis tried to apologize, Icarus just felt sick.

Every time they remembered Quixis's 'apologies'

The one thing they could do to actually apologize was not change anything- to leave them alone, Let them be their own person.

let them be a person.

And yet that showed no signs of happening, new things showing up, the wack forest spreading massively, the new deep hole, accompanying the rest all for a stupid 'I'm sorry'

Then changing the gravestone to a new pair of wings.

And all they could feel was bile in their throat as they kept thinking about their wings, the way they couldn't even mourn them, couldn't even do something stupid like burying them, giving them a grave.

Because Quixis just dug them up, crafting, spawning- getting a new pair, and replacing the headstone with an armor stand. 

It felt like a cruel and twisted joke.

They couldn't even mourn them.

And they hated the really distant thought that they had- that even days later nagged at them, even the thought of.

The simple-

What if I put them on?

They wouldn't, they wouldn't accept anything from Quixis, not an apology that created another hole, not a pair of wings that very well may shatter the moment they touched their back.

Wouldn't accept anything short of them leaving, without a trace, without a trace left on Icarus.

But still the thought, hidden behind the sheer shock and disbelief, had been present, the what-if.

They missed their wings.

They didn't know if even after they had healed, if even after they were hypothetically ready, if they would get another pair.

If they'd take Rae up on the offer- because he was the only person they'd get the wings from.

Hear that Quixis?

You can't just fix it, it's not that easy

It's not that easy.

It can't just be fixed, the hurt.

The fact Momboo was hurt.

The everything.

Frankly Sherbert didn't care if they meant to or not, if anything they did had any reasoning whatsoever, it didn't matter.

It still wasn't forgivable.

If they kept doing the very same thing, over and over. How was it truly an apology if they still did it.

They couldn't 'fix' it and move on, doing it the same as always.

Sherbert was done with that, done with them.

The things were split relatively cleanly on their opinions of Quixis, half, sure that Quixis didn't mean to, and the other half firm in their dislike of Quixis along with them.

But both sides were quiet about Quixis, offering merely agreements and attempted platitudes.

It almost made them feel vindicated that even the things that liked them agreed they had messed up and weren't siding with them, weren't even trying to piece together the thought process.

Made them feel slightly vindicated, that everyone agreed, Quixis had messed up.

And yet as vindicated as they could dwell on feeling…

They kind of just wished they still felt normal? or normal enough for them, though that may have been far from the actual definition.

They wished they had their wings, wished they had never broken, wished it hadn't gotten worse, wished they still took comfort in just being a bird, being in the sky, wind surrounding them.

And yet now the idea scares them.

It wasn't fair.

But the world wasn't fair, though it kept on turning.

And they kept thinking about it, kept almost doing things the same they had before, almost going off platforms, almost going for the rockets in their pockets they'd been forgetting to put away, for their non-existent elytra.

Almost flying.

Always forgetting they couldn’t, always having to be reminded a second before.

Flying too close to the sun just seemed like flying in general at the moment. Yet they still yearned just to be in the air and soar as they had before.

The most them they'd felt, especially before they knew their name.

It was a minute comfort, but it had been one.

And they hadn't even gotten to mourn it.

…If Quixis couldn't stop with the wack, could they at least let dead dogs lie? Let them grieve their wings, and not force them to walk all the way over to the wacked beach?

With their wings in their arms, not quite as plush, feathers more fuex, everything about them feeling fake and waxy, and yet if they forgot what the real ones had felt like, just for a moment, so familiar under their burned fingertips.

Could Quixis not make them walk all that way with the empty shell of their wings, as if it was not as substantial to them as another limb.

As if Quixis didn't know it was as substantial to them as another limb.

They didn't care if it was on purpose or not, didn't care how 'bad' they felt.

Couldn't they just leave Sherbert alone?

At least all they could?

…

Couldn't they just stop? It wasn't making it any better.

You can't stick a bandaid on a knife wound.

You can't stick another set of wings on that.

You can't just..

____

There are new buildings, Sherbert barely gets out of bed before seeing the first one, looking out the balcony and almost falling off as instinct took over, instinct to fly down and get a closer look at the metal.. Something.

They stare at it, feet having to consciously be held away from the edge. They stare at it, waking up, the iron shining in the sun before them. They stare at it, and their shoulders slump.

All they can feel is overwhelmed with tired before they even get down to it.

Nothing like stopping all Quixis could, huh?

And they only got more tired as the minutes went on, exhausted by the time they even got to the door.

So much more tired.

And yet, by the time they got to the elevator, somehow, they missed the exhaustion, it was better.

Because suddenly, everything felt uncertain and terrified and- the world port hadn't lost a port before.

Tired, and petrified.

though in the confused disjointed way of they didn't know what happened, but they knew it wasn't good

In fact, they knew it was really bad.

A room had never collapsed before.

A room had never disappeared before, sapped of its color like water sucking out ink of a pen.

A room had never had… a person? In it before.

A robot?

They truly cannot deliberate, panic, overthink, think, barely a breath out of the worldport and Centross is just- there

Giving, if nothing else, a distraction, an anchor. A person to focus on instead of what they just witnessed.

Centross was a good source of conversation.

A good distraction.

A good source to latch onto, to not have to think about anything, to just exist with.

He’d- understand?

And yet- he was weird, they hadn't gotten to talk much since even before the portal had opened, but the look in his eyes- one now a different color, sclera now a black hue. Was so much more.. Knowing? Then it had been before

And it was odd, in a way they could place almost immediately, Centross even holding himself in a different way.

Odd in the way he talked about certain things, with too much certainty, a certainty Centross had never had about anything

He was always sure of himself, confident, but it was different now, it felt different.

And with the talk about his and Rae’s activities- different dimensions were seeming less cool every day that passed.

Maybe they'd already hit that point, hit that second shoe, the idea of other dimensions now gut-wrenching.

The more they learned-

The more they learnt- dealt with, other dimensions- universes, they just seemed…

…Why couldn't things be normal? Why couldn't everything just be okay, their Dad was back, why was everything still weird? Why did things still happen?

… 

He helped, their Dad helped.

But they wished for a sense of normalcy that maybe would never exist in lodestar grove.

Centross was good company though, and- that was something.

It had to be.

____

Ic 

Come on! It was so bad.

The nickname made them recoil and scrunch their nose in judgment, only amusing and encouraging their best friend more. Proud of himself.

Icarus somehow found themself… not happy, but content, despite the out of place buildings in view as they worked at fixing up the landscaping, worked on getting rid of the wacked path.

It really did look.. Intense, all of the bright clashing colors, gems, attaching itself to, and becoming everything Sherbert had run into that day. The trees they had rested their hand on, breath too shallow to go all at once, turning into obsidian and honeycomb under their fingertips.

It had scared them, another added fear, at the time.

Now it was just ugly, and a bad memory. Another trace of Quixis.

But getting rid of it- it was calm, just listening to Centross, talking to the man about their own problems, their own- everything.

They missed talking to him.

They also missed the way- Centross didn't comfort, not really, he offered his opinion, and usually he was just really really right, or really wrong.

And it helped, no matter which way, 

Because he didn't really expect anything. They loved their brother, and he always did his best, but sometimes- he was so concerned, that Sherbert just- couldn't

They didn't like the vulnerability, didn't like feeling raw, it sucked- and if Sherbert had to look someone in the eyes while doing it-

They couldn't.

Sometimes it was easier, but sometimes it was just too much. 

And this- it'd be too much.

And even casually- it was hard, to get the words out, to have them sound right, and not dumb.

But it was easier, to get it out at least. Even if downplayed, because they didn't need to worry anyone, they'd be fine

It was just a decision they'd made, one they'd have to deal with.

And one they'd have to talk about.

And maybe it's just a little easier if everything is thinly hidden under a layer of please don't ask me more.

And there was less pressure if they were both busy, hands busied with cleaning up the mess that surrounded them.

Less pressure, and so, they could talk about the wings- their wings, and the grave they had made for them, or for the shards they had become.

Their words were forced into a calmness, the content giving way for a nervousness as they laughed it off.

It's not serious- it's not- it's fine, everything was fine. Don't dig into it.

It was fine.

It was dumb anyway- who buried- they weren't even wings anymore!

…Centross said it wasn't dumb.

Maybe it still was- but at least- Centross didn't lie, he believed it wasn't.

And, less pressure to talk about the way the grave didn't last.

They weren't their wings, just a fake elytra with the same shape, they weren't the same.

Quixis couldn't just give them back, not after they had already been shattered beyond repair.

They couldn't pretend it didn't happen.

And, Icarus's decision, finally, though they hesitated on it.

It would be for the best.

They couldn't go through that again- Icarus just couldn't, couldn't be more scared of the wings that had once been on their back then they were already.

They couldn't.

It wasn't- 

It was fine.

It sucked but it would just make sense, rather than live in fear for the day their wings would turn once again to gold and amethyst, they'd just.. Not give it an opportunity.

It sucked.

It hurt.

Icarus would mention neither of those facts.

But Icarus needed to tell someone, needed the words to be out. 

Maybe if they were out it'd make the choice seem less suffocating.

Sherbert told him that they probably weren't going to fly again.

Because, the more the days passed- the more time they had to think. The more they had to dread taking off the bandage, and apply the healing goo over a pretty much completely healed wound. 

Because what was left, was a scar.

The more time they had to think, the more they had to agonize over the what-if's, the next-time’s.

The more they had to dread the idea of the comforting weight on their back, the reprieve in the sky, the being bird-like, the wings. 

And what Quixis would do worse to them next time.

It just.. Made sense, precautions or something.

It made sense.

And then as the words kept coming out of their mouth- Centross had called that stupid.

And- maybe it was.

Maybe.

But, the idea of the wings attached to their back just as they always were, and always had been- filled them with dread still, left them afraid still.

The idea that being a bird could be taken away, suddenly without their say-so, the wings they found comfort in, shattered like glass in their back.

They held their gaze firm at the remains of the wacked path, breaking the blocks to distract their mind, mouth going sour, trying to explain.

Trying to explain to themself.

And yet,

Centross spoke, continuing in his opinion.

Not overly elaborate words, not going into depth, not prying, just talking as Centross did.

They were Sherbert's wings.

Icarus's wings.

They were theirs.

They let them curl up into a massive lump of feathers and soft, just nesting in their mess of blankets and occasional trinkets.

Everything they dreaded now, they dreaded out of fear of it being taken away again, collateral for a deal they never made, like a toy out of a misbehaven child's hands.

Dreaded in its warmth, in the way they could yearn for it so heavily, and if it stopped being their choice- if next time they didn't have the choice to put them back on- they thought they'd break.

It was still their choice.

And even if- sometime, after all those apologies Icarus already didn't believe, because Quixis still hadn't done anything they'd asked.

If Quixis did do it again, put them through it again- 

Maybe Icarus would make the choice to not wear them again.

But Quixis- they hadn't shown any sign of the wack spreading to the wings before, and, for some reason or another that Icarus didn't want to hear, they kept bringing their wings back, wouldn't let them get rid of any pair they had had.

Sherbert wanted their wings.

A desperate clawing feeling at the idea, everything clicking into place.

The words an unintended reassurance.

…..

Icarus was still scared, still terrified in a way that had long since made itself at home in their bones with the way the wack expanded no matter what they did.

Still afraid.

And yet, Centross had a point.

Who was Quixis to take it away?

Who was Quixis to leave them cowering in fear no matter how much they denied it. Who was Quixis to take their wings, leaving them clipped and grounded.

Who was Quixis, to stop them from flying.

Maybe it would happen again, maybe Icarus would still be terrified of it happening again, of the way it hurt so much in a way they didn't know it could before.

And maybe, if it did, Icarus would reconsider getting another pair after that.

But that would be for that hypothetical because who was Quixis to take away Icarus's flight.

_____

Icarus soars.

The wind is familiar in a way that feels almost reverent. Nipping at their skin with a summer breeze that they truly cannot feel anything but good in.

Icarus feels free, the sun hot on their back, now exposed just where their new wings meet it, the fabric newly unburdened.

They spin, the air feeling welcoming like an old friend they had tried not to notice how they missed, the sky feeling like home.

The only true one they had had without Fable- infallible, Even if they weren't in it, it would still be there waiting for them.

Their wings glided, so much larger now than before, so more them than they'd been expecting.

Changing with experience.

Now big and puffy, and in angles that they could only truly find cool.

Icarus had still been afraid, had still been hesitant, but for this moment alone, reunited with the sky, held in the embrace of the blues. His brother watching below, giving the assurance even if they fell-

Someone would catch them.

It was worth it, for this moment alone.

And so.

Icarus soared.

[i-didnt-do-1t]

Okay, so @noxexistant this originally started off as an attempt to write a prompt you sent a while back, and then I accidentally kinda veered from that, swear I’ll still write it. But now this exists too

The tight feeling in his chest wasn’t unfamilar, but it wasn’t comfortable either, something constricting and strained, making each breath a little harder to inhale than the last. He reached up with barely shaking hands to loosen his shirt collar, though the top button was already undone and his tie had been shoved in his pocket hours ago.

Hypothetically, Morris was fine. He knew this. Morris was grown.

But the last drink Oscar had was yesterday and the dream he’d had last night when he eventually all but passed out was fitful and vivid. The feeling of Morris’s blood on his hands was too real, the image of him beaten and broken, red pooling around the crown of his head, chest still, was too real.

When Oscar had woken up to the feeling of his heartbeat in the base of his throat and nausea in the pit of his stomach, the first thing he’d done was look over to Morris’s bed to find it empty.

The second thing he’d done was try and talk himself down as he scrubbed his hands raw to try and get rid off the phantom feeling of a dried coppery rust.

He’d been able to drink half a cup of shit black coffee before he slammed it onto the table and pushed himself out of his seat, the sound of his own foot restlessly tapping against the floor annoying him they way he imagined it had da and Snyder in turn. Oscar wasn’t meant to be like that, he didn’t fidget, da had beat that out of him a long time ago.

But morris still wasn’t home.

Then his jacket was on and he was out the front door, what was left of his coffee rippling as he slammed the it closed behind him.

.

.

Morris wasn’t at the distribution gate when Oscar checked, it was too early for anyone to be there yet, practically still dark.

Oscar had glanced at the clock before he left the house but hadn’t quiet been able to put the numbers together so he could only guess. All he knew was that morris was never gone this this early; the kid found it near impossible to sleep and was a bitch to wake up in the morning when Oscar finally tried to drag him out of bed.

Despite knowing morris better than he knew anyone, he didn’t know where else morris might go. He wasn’t like, Oscar, didn’t have spots, didn’t have stools at bars with his name practically carved in them.

Oscar shoved his hands into his pockets, kicking sharply at the cobblestone underfoot, jaw tensed.

It hit him as a realisation all at once as he scuffed his heel against the ground that he couldn’t remember if morris had actually came home last night.

From there the next attempt to inhale was harder, a little more heaving as he stormed away from the distribution gate, attempts to level out his breathing coming up useless.

He tried to think back, to nearly no avail.

The night before was a blur, a new bottle of cheap whiskey had turned into a couple of glasses as he waited for morris to come home, he remembered that much, vaguely remembered eventually holding the bottle by it’s neck, vaguely remembered the sound of it smashing.

He stopped abruptly.

there hadn’t been any glass in the hall this morning. Or the living room. Wherever he- Oscar wasn’t sure where he was when he’d thrown the bottle.

The image of morris sprawled on the ground, a halo of blood around his head, was burned into the backs of his eyelids when he blinked.

Oscar was sure there wasn’t blood on his hands when he washed them raw at the sink when he woke up.

But.

It was harder to tell now.

[banamine-bananime]

preface: i was writing a list of my headcanons for funsies and got completely derailed with angsty grimmons shit that needs to be scooped out of that post because it’s stupid long. so here

grif worked in honolulu a couple years after hs graduation until kai was old enough (17) he felt he could leave. did a year at university before realizing he’s smart enough to be admitted to cornell but not to get the scholarship he realistically needs to not be in crushing debt on graduation, and also there’s not nearly enough regimentation to college life to prevent him from rotting in bed paralyzed by “oh my god i don’t have Responsibilities That Need To Be Done Right Now for the first time in forever and idk what to do now” and executive dysfunction. went through basic and stationed on the doomed outpost. That Whole Thing (a polite way of saying “sneaking off for a nap on duty, sleeping through a massacre, and waking up to find literally everyone else dead”) was the nail in the coffin that pretty much shot his last shred of motivation and hope to shit, and based on his behaviour and psych eval afterwards (best summarized as “learned helplessness that everything is shit always and he’s useless and never gonna be able to help anyone so 👍 fuck everything fuck everyone just try to eke some hedonistic joy out of life before you die”) he was reassigned to the sim soldiers.

meanwhile simmons tried to do university several times and had to drop out for mental health reasons (a very polite way of putting “rapid spiral into absolute disaster every time”. it leaves room for giving him the benefit of the doubt that this was a proactive “ah i should take care of myself and this is not working for me :) #selfcare #therapy” decision. this is not benefit of the doubt that anyone who knows him would extend.).

I go back and forth on whether to roll with the “that one throwaway line with a suspiciously specific hypothetical of being in a unit that was stranded and had to eat their dog to survive” thing or just say he was assigned straight to sim troopers. on the one hand, i really love grif and simmons having a parallel immensely traumatic first assignment that made them both Worse in kinda similar kinda opposite ways in line with the ways they were each already fucked up

(grif “life is inherently a garbage fire. i am useless. all i can do is look out for myself and save my own hide by absolute never trusting any authority, refusing to get attached to the other fuckers around here (they’d hate me anyways so just let them hate me), and obsessively hoarding any access to food and shelter and comfort because Maslow said I can’t work on health or belonging or esteem until i do :/ yeah i know, sorry, i’ve got a doctor’s note from him right here.” vs simmons “my life is a garbage fire probably because everyone around me is an idiot fucking something up but also because i’m not trying hard enough. i’m sure if i keep Performing The Maladaptive Behaviours even harder they will work and i THEN will feel respected and powerful and loved. you see you just have to keep repressing every feeling so you can suck up to anyone you detect a whiff of Authority Figure on no matter how little you actually respect them, and follow EVERY RULE and work and work and work. and you had better abandon any compunctions about things like eating a dog you loved or backstabbing a friend for brownie points from the CO who hates him or Literally Murdering your CO for a promotion. and if you ever stop desperately trying, fighting dirty looking out just for yourself, and instead just sit still for a moment and enjoy sincere zero-ulterior-motives connections with people, you will probably definitely immediately die of starvation or exposure (it is a metaphor you see. of exposure to the elements while stranded without resources. for the agonizing exposure of allowing yourself to be known.)”)

on the other hand i’m like whoa now. this boy’s got enough problems we really don’t need to be giving him any more or we’re really never gonna pry him free of the woobiefication fics.