#i hate dams i hate dams i hate dams i hate dams

[erikawrites13]

“Where the cameras don’t reach”

Part two of "What the Cameras Miss"

13- My notes. Please read part 1 of this before you read part two!

Part 1

Oscar Piastri x Y/N (female reader) Y/N and Oscar fight to keep the truth behind his image. In stolen moments, desire burns and masks fall. But can their passion survive the spotlight?

Later that evening, Monaco shimmered like liquid fire beneath the deep indigo sky, the city’s opulence glowing against the cool night. The distant murmur of laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the soft strains of jazz floated in from the terraces, but inside the hospitality suite, the air was thick with tension and the relentless glare of flashing cameras. Y/N stood at the edge of it all, her eyes never leaving Oscar. To the world, he was a perfect enigma—smooth, polished, untouchable. But she knew the truth beneath the flawless facade: the weight he carried, the exhaustion etched behind his eyes.

When their gazes met across the room, the noise around them dimmed. His subtle nod was a lifeline, a whispered promise: I’m still here. I’m still yours.

The media frenzy finally moved on, and Oscar slipped through the crowd like a shadow, finding her waiting just beyond the exit. The chaos of the suite fell away, replaced by an electric silence between them.

“I hate this,” he murmured, voice rough with fatigue and something raw—something that set her skin alight. “All those faces, those endless questions. They don’t see me. They see a story, a mask I’m forced to wear. Sometimes I forget who I am beneath it all.”

Y/N stepped closer, her hand sliding along his wrist, fingers warm and grounding. “Then maybe it’s time to stop hiding.”

His eyes darkened, fierce and hungry. “And if I don’t want to come back?”

She grinned, slow and wicked. “Then I’ll make you.”

Her fingers tangled in his thick curls, pulling him closer, bodies pressed tight enough to feel every breath, every heartbeat. The heat between them was a live wire, crackling with promise.

Oscar’s hands framed her waist, thumbs tracing circles, pulling her impossibly close. His breath hitched, voice low and teasing, “You’re playing with fire.”

“Good,” she whispered against his ear, “I want to burn.”

Their kiss was a slow-burning fuse that ignited into a wildfire—soft and tasting at first, then fierce and consuming. His hands roamed beneath the delicate fabric of her dress, memorizing every curve, while her fingers slid beneath his shirt, trailing hot, daring paths across his skin.

He groaned deep and low, a sound that sent shivers racing down her spine. “I’ve wanted this all night. Wanted you.”

She smiled against his lips, breathless. “Then don’t stop.”

With a swift motion, his arms lifted her, pressing her flush against him. The world—the cameras, the crowds, the spotlight—disappeared, swallowed by the night.

“Come with me,” he whispered, lips brushing her jaw, voice thick with desire. “I want to show you the part no one else sees.”

Her pulse thundered as she nodded, hands clutching at his shirt. “Lead the way.”

They slipped into the cool night air, the buzz of Monaco far behind them. Oscar led her down quiet corridors, through dim stairwells, and out to a sleek black car waiting silently. The driver melted into the shadows as they slipped inside, sealing them away from prying eyes.

Once inside, the tension that had been simmering all evening broke loose like a dam. Oscar pulled her into his lap, lips crashing onto hers with fierce hunger. His hands tangled in her hair, fingers tracing the delicate line of her neck, sending sparks flickering beneath her skin.

Y/N arched into his touch, her own hands exploring—the hard planes of his back, the sweep of his shoulders, the strong grip of his fingers on her waist. The leather seats creaked softly beneath them as their bodies melded, each kiss stoking the fire burning between them.

“God,” Oscar breathed, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes, “I don’t want this night to end.”

“Neither do I,” she whispered, her voice thick with want.

His lips trailed down her jaw to her neck, brushing soft, hungry kisses along her pulse point. She gasped, fingers clutching his shirt as the heat inside her flared.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured against her skin, voice a seductive growl.

Her lips curled into a daring smile. “You.”

He laughed—a low, breathless sound—and captured her mouth again. “Good answer.”

The city lights blurred past as the car glided through the night toward a secret hideaway—a secluded villa perched on a cliff overlooking the sea, far from the cameras and the noise. Here, in this stolen sanctuary, they could be simply themselves—raw, unguarded, free.

Inside the villa, the door closed softly behind them, the world slipping away completely. Oscar’s hands roamed anew, tracing fire along her spine as she pressed closer, every touch igniting a frenzy of sensation.

“Show me,” she whispered, voice trembling with need. “Show me everything.”

[tellingtell5]

Prompt

Not even a title, just wondering—if the ones Remmick turns feel his pain… do they feel other things too?

No plot, just porn.

“So…”

You move toward him, slow—not with confidence, but with need. Drawn, not certain. Like something inside you is pulled by a thread only he holds. You ache already, and you haven’t even touched him.

He doesn’t look up. He keeps carving, the knife you gave him glinting softly in the low light. That blade—he never uses it for anything but this.

His hands are steady. Strong. The way he turns the figure, considers it, breathes lightly over it—it’s reverent. And you wonder, for just a second, what it would feel like to be touched like that. To be held in those hands, examined like something rare.

You feel him. The heat of his body. The way his shoulders tighten, the slow, deliberate way he doesn’t react. But you know. He feels you. He’s just pretending not to. That string between you isn’t subtle tonight. It’s thick with tension, thrumming like it might snap from how much it’s holding.

You want him to look at you.

"What were ye sayin’, love?"

His voice is sin in velvet. Slow, amused, full of heat.He didn’t stop whittlin’, but turned his head toward you, lettin’ you know you had his attention.

"Can you feel what I feel?"

Your voice is quieter than you meant it. Not seductive—yearning.

His carving slows. His brow draws, eyes flicking toward you without lifting fully.

You step closer. Close enough that your breath might touch his skin if you exhaled too hard.

“I mean…”

You touch your neck.

Slow.

Your fingers trace the hollow of your throat, then drift lower—softer than breath, more dangerous than promise. You feel your own skin tighten as you move. Down over the sharp bone of your clavicle, across the curve of your breast. Just enough pressure to make your nipples tighten. Just enough to make your breath catch.

" If I do this..."

You let your fingertips brush over the curve of your breast. Not to tease, but to ask. To test some invisible line. And then he looks up.

His eyes find you like gravity. And for a heartbeat, neither of you breathe. There’s something wild in him now. Raw. Like your touch called it up from somewhere deep. And yet he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

You stroke lower. Tease the edge of your bodice with your nail. You hold your own gaze. Let your lips part. Let your breath go ragged.

"Can you feel that?"

Your voice trembles. You hate how much you need his answer. He exhales—slow, like he’s trying to cage something.

"Aye, I feel it”

The sound he makes is not human. It’s a growl buried in laughter, a sound that tastes like need.

“Straight in me bollocks, darlin’."

The words are rough. Hot. But behind them, there’s something else. Something startled.

He grins, slow and sharp. But his eyes—they betray him. They’re dark. Hungry.

"But not quite the way you think."

You don’t answer right away.

Your breath stutters in your throat, soft and ragged. Your chest rises and falls in shallow waves, thighs pressing tight together like you could dam the flood building deep inside you. But the ache’s no longer shy. It throbs. It opens like a bruise. It begs.

You only meant to tease. Just play with the edge of the bond. The thing growing between you—raw and thrilling, strange and new. You only wanted to know: if I touch myself... will he feel it?

But that’s not what happened.

He moves with no rush. No shame. Just purpose. The carved wooden figure drops to the table, forgotten. He unfolds to his full height, that lazy, devastating grace. Storm in a man’s body. His eyes pin you, and you feel the room tilt—air thick and slow like honey over heat.

“Aching, are ye?”

His voice slips through you like smoke, warm and dirty, velvet soaked in whiskey. It lingers. Clings. Your skin prickles in its wake.

“You did that to yourself, love...” He took a single step forward, and it was like the air itself bent around him. “Thought you were being clever, hm? Testing the thread between us?”

Your mouth parts, but your voice is gone—lost to the hitch in your breath, the pulse in your throat. Your eyes are blown wide, your hands gripping the edge of the table like it might keep you grounded. Like you’re not already lost.

“But it’s not your touch I feel.”

He smiles then. Slow. Sinful. And it’s not just confidence—it’s intent.

Then, without looking away, he brings his hand to his own chest. Not careless. Not hurried. Every movement is measured—performed. For you.

You watch his fingers graze the hollow of his throat, glide over his collarbone. Down the center of his chest. Over the tight muscle hidden beneath soft cotton. He exhales, low and knowing.

You feel it.

Not just like a phantom echo. No. Like it’s yours.

Like your hand is sliding down your own body.

Like you are dragging fingers across your chest, teasing your own skin until your nipples stiffen and your stomach tightens and your legs try to close around nothing.

He keeps going. Lower. His palm glides down over the front of his trousers—slow—and presses.

And your world splits.

The pressure, the heat—it strikes through your core like lightning. Your gasp is helpless. Your hips twitch forward. Your spine bows. You nearly moan his name but it dies in your throat, torn apart by pleasure.

He rubs—not hard, not fast. Just enough. Enough to torment. Enough to unravel.

His breath hitches. Yours follows like a shadow. Because it’s you. It’s your palm feeling him.

He watches your every twitch, every broken breath. Watches the way your knees weaken. The way your lips part in disbelief at the depth of sensation. Then, still watching, he pushes his shirt up with his free hand—just enough to show skin. The faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband.

Then—he rolls his hips into his hand.

And your body detonates.

You cry out. Not polite. Not pretty. It tears from you, raw and ruined. Your thighs are soaked. Your vision blurs. The table behind you groans beneath your grip.

And he moans, soft but unfiltered. Not performative—offering. He strokes again. More pressure. More drag.

You feel every ridge of muscle flex under your ghosted palm. Feel your grip tighten. Your wrist flick. Your pace build.

Except it’s not your hand. It’s his.

And he’s doing it for you.

His head tilts back. His throat arches. His breath grows heavier—but never wild. Always in control. Always intentional.

“See, mo chroí…”

His voice is reverent now. Worshipful. Thick and low and meant to ruin you.

“When I touch me...”

Another stroke. Long. Deep.

“…you feel it.”

You can’t breathe. Can’t speak. You’re caught in him—through him. Everything he does coils inside you like heat and hunger made flesh.

“That’s the thread. That’s how deep it runs.”

He steps closer. You feel it in your bones.

“You don’t push it outward, love...”

Another grind into his palm. Another gasp from you.

“You receive it.”

He’s in front of you now. Heat radiating off him in waves. You can barely stand it.

“If I ache... you ache.”

He strokes harder. Rougher. And your legs shake.

“If I burn…”

He growls—deep, primal. You scream. Not loud. But wrecked.

“…you blaze.”

Then—closer still. His mouth at your cheek, his breath hot. His lips barely brushing.

“So be careful what you start, sweetheart.”

His voice is sharp silk.

“Because I’ve got centuries of hunger in me…”

He pauses. Waits for your breath to catch. Watches your body fall apart.

“…and now, so do you.”

[zou-rs]

Break-up

The famous breakup that happens before his first day of work.

ANGST

The apartment smelled like pizza and cheap cologne. A candle flickered on the table, almost burned out. Leon was all dimples and nerves, bouncing on his heels as he waited for you to come in.

“Okay, okay—don’t freak out,” he muttered to himself, pacing in socks on the kitchen tiles. “You got this, rookie. One more night, and tomorrow you’re an officer.”

He was glowing. Just a baby-faced 21-year-old with wide blue eyes, a chin dimple you loved to kiss, and a soul too soft for the world he was stepping into. You almost couldn’t breathe when you saw him standing there, holding a little dessert plate with a smiley face drawn in chocolate syrup.

“For you,” he said with a grin. “Pre-celebration. Tomorrow’s the big day.”

God.

You hated yourself.

You took the plate in trembling hands and smiled like your heart wasn’t cracking open. He didn’t notice at first. He was rambling—about his uniform, about being scared, about wanting to make a difference. He was glowing. He was proud. He was everything you didn’t deserve to ruin.

And yet.

“Leon… can we talk?”

The way his face fell—so innocent, so confused—nearly killed you.

“Talk?” he said softly, shifting closer. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I just…” You couldn’t even look at him. “I think I need a break.”

Silence.

You’d read about heartbreak. Seen it in movies. But nothing prepared you for the moment when Leon S. Kennedy, Rookie Officer and Sweetest Boy Alive, went completely still.

���A break?”

You nodded.

“But… why?” His voice cracked, and suddenly he looked so small. Like a kid pretending to be brave in a grown-up’s uniform. “Is it… because I’m leaving? Because of the job?”

“No,” you said quickly. “You’ve worked so hard. I’m proud of you, Leon. I just… I need time. For myself.”

You could see it happen. The hope draining from his eyes. The freckles on his nose looked duller somehow. His hands fell to his sides.

His hands fell to his sides.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something—like he was reaching, grasping, begging for something to hold onto��but nothing came out.

Then, quietly:

“We can figure this out. If something’s wrong, we can fix it, can’t we?”

His voice cracked on fix. He stepped forward, cautiously, like he was afraid you’d run. His eyes were glossy now, wide with panic.

“I’ll call less if it’s too much,” he rushed on. “I’ll—I’ll take fewer shifts, I’ll stay in town more often. I’ll do anything, okay? Just don’t—don’t leave me now. Not tonight.”

He was trembling. You could feel it in the air between you.

“Leon,” you whispered.

But he wasn’t done. His words were falling out like a dam breaking.

“I love you. You—you’re the only thing that feels real in all this. I’m going to walk into a city tomorrow that I don’t know, do a job I’ve never done, and I’m scared out of my mind. But I thought I’d come home to you. I thought you’d be there.”

You tried to hold back your tears. Tried not to fold.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

And just like that, something in his face broke. His shoulders sagged, and he took a step back like you’d physically hit him.

“…Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

He didn’t try again.

⸻

You left.

He didn’t follow.

But he didn’t sleep that night.

Leon tried to drink the pain away. He made it three shots in before his hands started shaking. Five before the photos on the wall blurred. Seven before he started crying—loud, gut-wrenching sobs into the sleeve of the hoodie you’d left behind.

At nine, he texted you.

“Please come back.”

At ten, he deleted it.

Somewhere around midnight, the bottle was empty, and so was he.

⸻

He never heard the explosion. Never heard the sirens.

When dawn broke, Leon S. Kennedy was lying half-dressed and unconscious on the bathroom floor.

And at 8:00 AM sharp—two hours after he was supposed to report for duty—Raccoon City started to burn.

⸻

When he finally dragged himself awake, head pounding and throat dry, it was nearly noon. His phone had died sometime in the night, and when he finally got it to turn on, the service was gone. The streets were silent. Too silent.

He stumbled outside in the same wrinkled clothes from the night before, still reeking of whiskey and heartbreak, and stepped into a ghost town.

Abandoned cars. Bloodstains.

Gunshots in the distance.

“Hello?” he called out, voice hoarse.

No answer.

The police station he was supposed to walk into at 6:00 AM was half-destroyed by the time he made it to the steps. His name was still on the roster sheet pinned to the wall—LEON KENNEDY. NEW RECRUIT.

It fluttered in the breeze as he stared at it.

He was supposed to die this morning.

If he’d gone in—if he’d gotten up early, left like he planned, done everything right—he would’ve been gone before sunrise. Like the rest of them.

His knees buckled.

He fell to the floor, alone, sobering fast with the weight of it all.

Heartbreak had saved his life. YOU had saved his life.

And now he had to survive.

——

PART 2 anyone ??

[tbd1aiahe]

FOOD GONE COLD ⊹ ࣪ ˖ - B.E (PART 2)

Angst .ᐟ

Warnings: cursing?? angst gets resolved. not sure about anything else.

A/N - this is so ASS but whatever

She didn't know how to make it up to you. Really, she didn't. But she knew that she had to at least try. She looked around at the disheveled kitchen, still messy from when you spent so long making that pasta just how she likes it. 

Okay, maybe cleaning the kitchen is a start. It's at least something, right? She hastily started tidying up the area. Washing dishes, cleaning countertops, closing drawers, doing anything possible while she tries to think of ways to show you how much she loves you. Her eyes fell onto her car keys abandoned on the counter. 

Back in your room, (LIKE THE WEAK BITCH YOU ARE) you were holding back the urge to go back to the kitchen and run into her arms. You had every right to be mad, but you still felt shitty for being mad at her at all. You needed to be strong and not give in so easily. You owed it to yourself to be upset, even if all you wanted was to be in her arms. You tossed and turned in bed, clutching a pillow hoping it would fill the space Billie left. The faint buzz of your car engine starting made your heart drop. Was Billie leaving? You heard the car pull out of the driveway. You were proud of yourself for standing your ground—for not crumbling into her the second she looked sorry—but it didn't tame the fear of her leaving. In fact, it made that fear grow. 

🤍~ 

Around 30 minutes later, you heard the car return to the garage. The issue was you didn't know if you should feel relieved or worried. After the front door opened, you heard ruckus out in the kitchen area—water running, cabinet doors opening and closing again, and at one point you heard Billie yell ‘OW, SHIT! MY TOE!’  

Back in the kitchen, Billie had in fact stubbed her toe. That minor inconvenience broke the dam for her. The unshed tears she was holding back the entire drive to the store to pick up flowers for you came flowing all at once. Despite the tears, she finished placing the flowers into a nice vase and set it up on the kitchen counter. She fumbled to grab a piece of paper and neatly write down some apologies. 

She had so many thoughts running throughout her head, but the loudest one was the thought you might not forgive her this time around. She had never meant to make you feel small, and she really hoped you knew that. Or that she could remind you of that tonight. After wiping her tears, she gently placed the notes she wrote next to the beautiful flowers. 

She didn't even bother trying to get into your shared room. Without even grabbing a blanket, she flopped down onto the couch and hoped and prayed you would forgive her. Eventually, her heart calmed and her eyes fluttered shut. Her shallow breathing evened out and she drifted to sleep. 

You're not sure how much time passed. Hours, maybe? Doesn't matter. All that mattered is you hadn’t heard much activity outside your door in a while, and you couldn't sleep. Might as well go check things out, right? 

Slowly but carefully, you slipped out of your room and padded down the hall. Your eyes scanned the area, landing on the sparkling clean kitchen.  The scent of your favorite flowers filled your nostrils. Oh, is that where she went? To pick up flowers for you? You walked over to the vase, taking a big whiff of the pedals. That’s when you noticed the paper folded on the edge of the counter. Your hands trembled as you unfolded the note. 

‘I love you so much. I’m sorry.’

‘I never wanted to make you feel lonely.’

‘Please let me fix this.’

‘I’ll be here. If you want me. I love you.’

Your lips quivered as your eyes scanned the words on the page. She did this for you? She cleaned the kitchen—something you hate doing—got flowers for you, and genuinely felt bad and wanted to fix it? You didn't let the tears fall. No, you bit them back. Your eyes scanned the room, falling on the couch. There Billie was. Zero blanket or pillow, fast asleep. She didn't look peaceful, no—she looked troubled, even in sleep. Curled up into herself like a child. 

You stood there, frozen and torn between your stubbornness and the ache in your chest that only grew stronger upon seeing her like this. You weren’t blind—you could see how hard she was being on herself. She didn’t just say she was sorry. She showed it. She showed it in all the dishes she washed, the flowers she handpicked just for you, and the letter she clearly struggled to get just right. 

And now there she was, banished to the couch, not even a pillow to comfort her. It was as if she didn’t think she even deserved the luxury of comfort right now. With a heavy sigh, you tiptoed to the hall closet and pulled out a spare blanket. You draped it over her with the utmost of care, trying not to wake her. But as you tucked it snugly around her shoulders, she stirred the faintest bit. A soft sound escaped her mouth. 

“Mm?” She looked up at you, eyes heavy with sleep. 

“It’s just me,” you whispered. “Go back to sleep.” She shifted slightly, accepting the blanket immediately. She stared at you through her lashes—wet from tears—and sniffled a little. 

“Did you read my note?” She murmured, voice tired and small. You nodded and gently stroked her hair. 

“Yeah, I did.” 

She looked at you with uncertainty in her eyes, silently asking for you to keep speaking your mind. 

“I don’t want to go to sleep mad,” you finally admitted. “I can tell that you’re really sorry.”

Billie shifted slightly, sitting up a little. “I fucked up.” She said flatly. “I let myself get too engrossed in my music. I didn’t spend time with you the way you needed—the way either of us needed.” 

Your fingers rested in her lap, nervously fiddling with an unraveled string of the blanket. “I’m not mad that you love your job. I love your music and I love that you love what you do. I just missed you. Missed your touch. Your laugh. I missed feeling like I mattered.” You let out a half laugh, half sigh of relief. 

“You do,” she cut in, voice firm yet desperate. “You do matter. God, you matter so much. I just forgot to show you that, like a fucking idiot.” 

You took a moment to let her words sink in. You had so much shit you wanted to say. Out of a million thoughts swirling around in your head, only one made it to the surface. 

“Come to bed,” you blurted out suddenly. 

Billie looked at you, searching for any hints of hesitation or regret in your voice. “Are you sure?” 

“I’m not saying everything’s okay,” you admit honestly. “But I don’t want you suffering out here alone. Come to bed. We’ll figure it out in the morning. Together.” 

All she could muster was a small nod. You offered her your hand, and she gladly took it. You helped her up, guiding her to the bed, her hand in yours. No relationship is perfect. Couples fight, that's the bottom line. But you and Billie always get through the rough patches. because neither of you could live without the other. 

For the rest of the night, you laid tangled in each other, snug as a bug in a rug. You basked in the warmth of your bodies cuddled together, the argument slowly washing away altogether.

[lastdefenseunit]

"Sounds reasonable. You don't want to be too risky with your own life even if trading is big part of it. It must be safer to go back and forth that way."

"All good here Dam. I might... Take a few days before returning home, three days max, can you tell the others to not worry? I'll be back, i promise. No more running off on my own." Seems he learned they weren't going to abandon him or hate him. "You can worry if i use longer time." Then it would mean something happened.

*A few days have passed since Monokuma's last visit to Earth. Kiko got a message from Mikado asking to meet up and talk about a group of teens that need jobs. Kiko arrives on Earth near MOnokuma's manor and spots Mikado along with Monokuma, MonoFizz, and a woman with a child by her side.*

"Hello, Mikado. Hello Monokuma. It's been a while. And who is the lady and child with you?" @for-ilirhia

"Hello, i'm Kamyuhn. And this is my mother Eva. Or well... She took me in after my parents died in the warn we're from a planet called Futurum. I was told i could come here and get her fixed." She seems to be too polite for a kid her age.

"It's been awhile Kiko. Ah yes, we have met a curious group of teens with no actual background so to speak. These two are also a part of that group... In a sense."

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

Happy pride, y'all!

Is now a good time to drop my possibly hot/possibly lukewarm Joshua Graham x Caesar thoughts?

Those two never slammed ham, not once. Never even got close. Though I can see the appeal, and even the justification, in some people thinking they had a long-term relationship (or some other sort of entanglement that involved sex), I disagree. I think their relationship was a lot more fucked-up and pent-up than that, honestly.

Edward Sallow, aka "Caesar", is clearly gay. Even more clearly, he's a self-hating gay man, what with all the rampant homophobia and misogyny that perpetuates the entirety of the Legion. Homosexuality being punishable by death within the Legion—as well as all his preaching about self-sacrifice—co-existing with him buying Arcade as a boy pet (which is 100% what it is, you won't convince me otherwise) given the opportunity really seals the idea in my mind.

Joshua Graham is, at the very least, deeply bi-curious, but the New Canaanites were sure to hold onto the "God hates gays" rhetoric of their Mormon predecessors, so he's never acknowledged those feelings outside of burying them deep inside. By the time he's reached young adulthood, he's begun to acknowledge that he'll simply always have this secret yearning, and he tells himself he's fine with that. In his eyes, it's just one of the trials God has decided to give him in order to strengthen his faith.

Their relationship starts out as a quickly blossoming friendship (though Sallow definitely thought Joshua handsome from the beginning), a mutual admiration for one another's strengths and skills. Joshua admires Edward's charisma, his ability to take charge and make things happen. Edward thinks Joshua has a fascinating mind and commends his capacity for self-control, decorum.

While these two never slept together, they did share a closer physical intimacy than many folks around them; sharing all their meals together, being constantly hip-to-hip, sleeping on bed rolls right beside one another. Spending every moment of every day together for years on end will do that to you. Joshua appreciates having a close friend, as he always struggled to properly socialize in his youth. Edward also enjoys their proximity, but things are quickly becoming complicated for him.

While I can't imagine the guy who would later style himself as Caesar putting himself fully out there to possibly be rejected, especially over feelings that had grown so deep, I also can't imagine him keeping mum or being particularly subtle about his attraction. There are times where Joshua, too, "struggles with sin" and finds himself wanting to be really close to his companion, and Edward is quick to pick up on these "lapses in judgement". Maybe they kissed at some point, maybe they didn't; personally, I lean towards "they didn't, but there was one point where they both could very clearly feel that Joshua was thinking about it a bit too long".

These "near miss" moments accumulate over time, each one another small wound to both of their egos, another pound of weight on their friendship.

Edward's jealous, possessive, and only increasingly so as the years tick by. Though Joshua has a critical role in the overall function of the Legion, he's not really allowed to get close to any of his subordinates or advisors, lest they disappear, sent to other Legion outposts or worse. Bad things tend to happen to the (typically enslaved) women he has sex with, even if him doing so only happens sporadically. After all, it's still a sin, even if it's not with a man, and the much-feared Malpais Legate has a reputation to uphold, anyway. Even when he tries to keep his dalliances under wraps, though, somehow the mighty Caesar always manages to find out. Eventually, Joshua is effectively living in celibacy once more, and out of nothing but pure desire to avoid Edward's wrath.

Things begin to deteriorate long before the Battle of Hoover Dam. The two men are still close, but less like good friends and more like a toxic, codependent couple who refuse to break up. Joshua resents that he feels like he can't be close with anyone, even Edward, without there being major consequences. Though he'd never admit it out loud, he's deeply lonely and also sick of feeling like he constantly lives under the other man's thumb. He resents, as well, that Sallow continually insists on pressuring him into acknowledging a side of himself that he's perfectly happy to take to the grave.

Edward, on the other hand, resents feeling strung along and is driven crazy by the idea that he's managed to claw himself up to the position of a full-on dictator but still, somehow, can't have the man he wants. There's a part of him, as well, that dislikes not having full and total control over Joshua, given how much he knows about his secrets.

The reeling response across the ranks after the loss at Hoover Dam was not an initial incident; it was a final straw. Already deeply frustrated by his constant perceived rejection (and possibly sensing that Graham might've been searching for an exit door in the wake of his increasingly restricted lifestyle), Caesar found it rather easy to decide to make an example out of him. Besides, just putting him to a very public death is an easy enough way to ensure Josh can't tell people how truly weak he is.

I imagine he cried when he was finally alone that evening, coming to terms with the fact that the love of his life (or, the person that could've been if he'd just seen sense) is gone. There's not much joy in it for him, though, when he begins to hear whispers about the Malpais Legate surviving the fall.

[justawanderingfan]

So was anyone gonna tell me that California used to be covered in lush wetlands and large lakes until the 20th century when farmers diverted every river in California for their crops that didn’t suite the environment causing million+ year old lakes to dry up which is why California is now a desert or was i just supposed to find that out in class myself

[somewhereincairparavel]

i have ALWAYS promptly looked forward to jason grace's povs in the hoo books to the point where'd I'd flip the pages till I find the words "JASON" and would count the amount of povs he has in the whole book before I even finished reading, so I feel excited knowing that I'll get to his povs soon. there, I said it.

[kirrua]

[no-tengo-ojos]

TMAGP series finale is happening on a GWR train so expect it to be delayed by approximately 46 minutes

[cowboy-by-proxy]

Cross-stitch stardew chicken!!!

Just a reminder to take up textile and more hands on hobbies!!! Cause ai can replicate art but it can never truly make it <3

[extended-play]

hello etho girl nation im back

[shrimpari]

“I made a pact with Vol, a pact of Blood”

Strahd von Zarovich and his very, very good friend.

[royakahoshiart]

oh my god i remember this catching me so off guard.

KOU. WDYM YOU VARELY FEEL PAIN. WHAT THE FUCK.

I meas as to be expected, his hand is fucked up from the staff and when he held teru's sword by the blade, fight with hakubo and the many many times he was smashed onto the ground and also exorcist genes idfk...

[aspergasm]

All you need to know about the current state of America is that Patrick Bateman would be THRILLED about it.

[aboxofcereales]

I think there should be some magnificent writing done of the looming moral dilemma of Elspeth Rook Mercar, the Breaker of Bonds, the firm believer in heroic nonsense, falling for a Lucanis Dellamorte, whose calling is death, the First Talon of the Crows. Because no matter how big and soft his heart is, he’s still unavoidably will lead the organization who helped to save Thedas, yes, but also is intertwined with many of the horrors that the Shadow Dragons oppose. And yet, still she will always choose Treviso, instead of Minrathous.