#i would cry (for realsies)

[temeyes]

[OC] marshall, maria, and caelan in their training attire!! (old artwork under the cut!!)

likeeee, i've been wanting to redraw this 2020 one for a while cuz whenever i see it on my acverse blog?? i cringe and die a bit inside,,

anyway, they're my favorite siblings dynamic: two ever-angry older sibs and their golden retriever baby sib

[hauntingblue]

Oden's prophecy of young pirates coming to save wano becoming yamato's hope for his freedom.... and him becoming oden because of it.... it's just so good... on the other side luffy taking ace's spot for liberating yamato... I think I hauve covid

[leatherbookmark]

genuinely fucking baffled at people who watch shows that are CLEARLY comedies and call them "devastating", expect "historically accurate" endings and basically act like of/md or go/mens were the first shows they've ever watched. you CAN'T all be media illiterate teenagers, i don't believe that, so why do you act like them :'(

[louis-damien]

wrote my boyfriend a handwritten love letter using formal language that quickly deteriorated in quality due to me getting excited about telling him that i love him

like when a dog gives you a ball and is waiting patiently for you to throw it but then remembers how cool the ball throwing is so they start dancing

[blackholefriends]

HELL FUCKING YEAH

[chisatowo]

Loving 25ji but disliking a good chunk of their covers is such pain because I'll listen to a vocaloid song and be like oghhh this fits them perfectly and I will obsess over this connection for the rest of time but if they ever cover this song I will kill them because theyd do it so bad

[when-pigsfly]

WITCHING HOUR, CH. 1/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: most people in the area had issues with coyotes. yours wore a cowboy hat, but you let him in anyways. tags: marked 18+ for smut in later chapters, reader has a backstory kinda (but also not kinda), referred to as lady/ma’am/etc, arthur doesn’t know how chickens work, i really don’t know my farm lore

word count: 5.5k

a/n: setting this pre-chapter 2 ish and post chapter 1, except it’s winter for realsies, Because I Can. and please no questions about chicken logistics or I Will Cry.

you can find a link to the playlist here!

The fictitious “stranger,” by all accounts, was possessed. 

Possessed by an air so overwhelming, so sure, that it incited perversity in even the most upright.

He was an outlaw, by the cut of the whispers. The story went that he’d rolled in like a heavy fog, altogether quiet and unassuming, though still carrying the foreboding quality that preceded the raising of hackles. Mothers kept watchful eyes over their daughters, and more notably, the fathers brandished their guns. 

And yet—that maddening yet—the mothers seemed to care little for their own warnings, and even the fathers were envious of a man dripping with exploits they didn’t have the luxury of entertaining.

Luxuries and lack thereof aside, the fickleness of those who spoke of him had not gone entirely unnoticed; it lent no plausibility, no substance to the dream-like tales they’d crafted in their drunken stupors. The most substance you’d seen had been spewed into the shadowy corners of Valentine, pissed into not-quite pristine patches of snow, foul stench leaking out onto already foul streets before it followed you back to the farm.

It stunk. 

It stunk, and it loitered, and it’d been stealing from you.

Which is exactly why—when he shows up on your rickety porch just as winter has begun to bleed out into spring—you take up the mantle of digging your loaded barrel right into his sternum. 

—

The front door tremors behind you.

The stranger shifts on his feet. 

You shift with him, and gloved hands inch toward the stars in surrender not long after. 

Amorphous mass comes to your mind first, rather than man. You can only discern the more essential points of his appearance: the gloves, the satchel, the rifle slung over his back. Knives are stashed somewhere you can’t see—if he’s worth his salt—but everything else blends into the dark line of trees behind him. You swallow a rather painful yawn.

His hat, evidently beaten to hell and back several times over, sits low enough on his forehead to cast shadows over his features—though not low enough to completely obscure the faint outline of a face from your view. The rest of him only falls into place once you crane your head to find his eyes. 

As is customary in situations concerning your immediate safety, your throat constricts, and the second yawn you feel crawling up your throat nearly succeeds in asphyxiating you. 

Petty crimes would have granted him a slighter frame, but no petty crime you can think of could have afforded him the sturdy chest, the buckling of the air around him, the crooked line of his nose, clearly less cared for than his battered clothing. He’s still a little blurred—largely from a lack of sleep on your end, and the protection of his hat on his. Even so, the hard set of his gaze offers nothing other than the tale of cruelty lived and the promise of cruelty to come. 

There was no doubt. This had to be him.

(You might think him handsome, if not for the fact that it’s a quarter past three in the morning.)

The first breach in his stony composure that you catch is paper thin. Fleeting. And he’s quick to recover; any indication of surprise is sequestered with a blink. The second is an awkward shifting of his stubble-shrouded jaw, and you note with a squint that his bandana still hangs feebly off the jut of his chin. 

He admits defeat after a few clumsy seconds. Cracks a wicked smile, bright as the moon peeking out from behind the crown of his hat. But it falls away quickly. Somewhere in the distance a tree branch creaks, tiny shards of ice scattering to the ground and tinkling like bells.

He was calm. Entirely too calm, considering where he stood. His hands haven’t budged, and nothing in his stance hints at an intent to attack. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks more annoyed by your presence than you are by his. 

You try not to think about his eyes. There’s something else in there, too. Apart from the agitation that radiates from them, that is. It lurks deep beneath the blue and wades through the slight dilation of his pupils; it urges him closer—or, is it you?—like the distance between the two of you isn’t sustained by the twitchy arms of a jittery woman holding a rifle.

But there’s an abrupt wind that fiddles with the cotton threads of your chemise, and you’re suddenly struck with the realization that no, your hunting rifle isn’t loaded, and in your haste to confront him you’d forgotten your boots and shawl. 

The nighttime chill, ever the tyrant, lodges itself where the wooden boards scratch eagerly at your bare feet. You were cold, so cold that it ached, and you were tired. But it’d do you no good to show your hand this early. So like the hiss of a rattlesnake, you keep your voice low, and you keep it lethal. 

The stranger is named by the venom falling from your tongue.

“You’ve got ten seconds to convince me not to unload this lead into your chest, Morgan.” You track the added prod of the gun to ground yourself, eyelids still heavy with sleep.

It doesn’t do much, as far as threats go. Morgan’s ever steady breathing still accents the now stagnant winter wind, a stark contrast to the throb of your heart striking your ribs. But a small scar, carved into the flesh of his right cheek, has made an almost imperceptible shift. The rest of his features take far more liberties with their movement—

—and he’s scowling.

Your heart strikes louder.

God, the shit you would shovel to be able to read minds. Animals have always been more your speed; people were a hassle—far too unpredictable, and they tended to reap fewer rewards. 

In your mind's eye, Arthur lies silently amongst the fallen snow, red unfurling behind him like wings. You’d hate to have to kill him, you really would. But there was nothing more dangerous than indecisiveness: it killed, and often relentlessly.

Only, you’ve been staring too long. It’s long enough to rouse Morgan from whatever state he’d been in before you’d spoken. He’s smart enough to keep his palms facing you, and he dips his head with the same mildness that one might use to soothe a startled mare. The scowl is tamped down, smile returning to him like water running through a scraggly creek. 

“Evenin’, Miss.” He drawls.

And it works. You hate that it works. There’s a dull heat that seizes your lungs at the low timbre of his voice, something akin to fire. 

No. No, nothing like it. It was more like the cheap whiskey you’d downed that first night working as a farmhand, all those months ago. It’d numbed your tongue, tumbled down your throat like sun-warmed stone, and simmered in your stomach. You hadn’t dared take another swig after that. Too dangerous. But it’s easy enough, passing your shudder off as a trick of the cold and cocking your head incredulously. 

“Showing up uninvited, and you can’t do me the courtesy of knowing my name?” One push of the rifle sends him back with surprising ease—away from the cabin, and away from that damned moonlight. “Ma’am will do you just fine,” you spit.

His smile fractures. Not enough to truly frighten, but enough to make your fingers clench. “You talk to all your guests like that, Ma’am?” 

You steel yourself. “Only the sneaks.”

At this, Morgan stills. Shuts his eyes. 

Did he really think you wouldn’t notice?

The farm had more issues with coyotes than crooks; that’s what you’d been hired to take care of, more or less. Your employers—the Campbells—were getting on in their years, and were in desperate need of someone to help keep watch during the nights. So imagine the surprise when you’d found not a coyote, but a wanted man sliding through the shadows. 

It’d angered you, that first time he’d gotten away. You’d only recognized him long after he’d left. But after that night, you’d made a show of firing off rounds into the nearby woods and roaming the perimeter of the grounds under the guise of a late-night hunt. 

From what you knew, he hadn’t come back to steal, but you knew you’d seen him lingering. Felt him watching. Waiting for something—but you’d made sure that every pop of your rifle drove him further and further from whatever it was that he’d been aiming for. And now Arthur Morgan is here.

He furrows his eyebrows, purses his lips, and they disappear for a moment when he goes to wet them before he speaks again, a little less amused. “Now you know I mean no offense—”

“No offense? Well, I’d kill to see what you and your ilk consider offensive.” 

The wind slams the front door shut. 

“My ilk?”

You wonder if it’d been your goal all along, trying to rile him up like this. Accusations slide out of your mouth and into the night air far too easily for it not to be. But the thought of anything other than catching him red-handed occupying your head unnerves you, sending you another two steps forward and into the powdery snow.

“Jesus, woman! Alright, alright.” Morgan’s eyes finally leave you, darting between where your feet dig into the cold ground and the muzzle of the gun pressed to his chest. He slumps his shoulders and looks up to the sky, still an ugly grey-black from the thin dusting of snow the night before. 

“Look,” he starts, hands fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, “I don’t mean no harm. I swear it. I’m—just give me a minute to explain, will you? One minute, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

There’s a please somewhere in there, left unsaid yet still ever so loud. You think it might have left him in the puff of breath that still hangs above your heads; hot and heavy in his mouth, but turned to nothing but vapors once it misses its chance to solidify.

You eye him warily. This could be over and done with in a matter of seconds, and you might be able to knock that godawful mustache clean off of Sheriff Malloy’s face. You kill him—or turn him in so long as he didn’t bleed out, whichever came first—and get whatever bounty was nailed to his head. Use the money to get out. Get your freedom. Stop biding your time, and get revenge. 

And yet.

And yet.

“…You lying to me, Morgan?”

His shoulders straighten out, suddenly very tense. “‘Course not. You think me the lyin’ sort?”

Your voice flattens. “I figured that much was obvious.”

“Ouch, lady. Not willing to pull your punches for little old me?”

“You’d rather the lady use the gun?”

“Neither, thank you. And, speaking of which–” His chest deflates a bit, putting space between the two of you without having to step back. “—quit swingin’ that thing around. You’ll take someone’s eye out.”

Exhaustion mounting, you lower your rifle slowly. You keep your eyes trained on a pebble that’s escaped the snowfall relatively unscathed, not trusting yourself to look anywhere else. Conceding with a sniff, you toss your head toward the front door. It’s quiet, now. 

“Get in, before I change my mind—and no funny business, neither. Guns, knives, whatever else you’re hiding, drop ‘em. Right here.”

Too groggy to note the stalling of movement, you wait for the clinking of metal to stop. His boots retreat from your peripheral far more reluctantly than you expect. There’s a telltale groaning of wood, and you turn to find Morgan gazing down at you with an outstretched hand from where he’s hopped onto the porch. He murmurs with a reverence that you’re sure is misplaced, so quiet that you have to watch his lips to catch even a smidgen of what he says. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

This was a game to him. You knew games. And so when you go to place your hand in his it’s to eye him down, back him into whatever corner would hold him and keep him there till you knew why he’d spent the last month haunting your lodgings like a ghost.

Calloused fingers wrap around your hand like a vice, and when he’s guiding you and your icy feet up the stairs it strikes you that maybe—just maybe—your assessment of your situation had been far too impetuous. Arthur’s touch is surprisingly clinical, but even through the leather of his gloves, it was warm. Too warm. 

Ghosts weren’t warm. Or, at least you didn’t think they were. And Morgan, looking like the very paragon of the West, all bright eyes and honeyed words, had given you a glimpse of something far too beguiling not to investigate. It’s when he presses the back of his free hand to your wind-bitten cheeks that you wonder what your father might think.

“Chilled, right to the bone.” It isn’t so much a mutter as it is a rumble, reverberating somewhere deep in his throat and traveling up to where the two of you have made contact. You’re avoiding his eyes again, but you’re close enough now to be able to see his muscles working his neck. 

His smell overtakes you much like the cold has. The freshness of the pine needles still stuck to his coat makes up most of what you’re able to distinguish. A little bit of horse, too—he’d ridden here. Where exactly he’d hitched his horse was a mystery. But with the proximity of his sleeve to your nose, you can make out the faintest hints of a potent musk. It’s everywhere: in your nose, your mouth, under your skin. Every inhale turns your muscles into piteous liquid. There’s no hiding your shudder, this time.

Morgan suddenly yanks his hand back as if scorched, and schools whatever expression he’d been wearing prior into one of indifference. He hums. Frowns. 

“Let’s…uh, get you inside.”

You offer a tight nod and turn away, but Morgan is quick to the draw; he whispers a quick “pardon me,” and goes to retrieve the weapons he’d dropped in your stead. 

Oh. You’d forgotten. It seems he’d forgotten too, brushing the mixture of dirt and snow away and mumbling something about keeping his guns warm. You’re left standing dazed on the porch, skin still blistering from where his fingers had met your skin.

Morgan has the decency to look at least a little troubled when he returns. He places what he’s collected into your arms before opening the front door, and gestures for you to enter. You offer one last look to the moon before following him inside.

__

Your judgment on Morgan—Arthur, now—was still up for debate. But your punishment for rushing to catch him had been doled out almost immediately. 

For your feet, a numbness that the fireplace had been bullied into chipping away at. Your hands are still tight from the cold, and they sit tucked underneath your thighs with the added protection of a few blankets that’d been placed over your shoulders. Your eyes flick over from the fire to Arthur, and your chest tightens. 

He’s found his seat across from you: coat and satchel on the back of a chair he’s pulled from the dining table, big hands tapping away absentmindedly at his knees. With the coat set aside, there’s nothing to hide the first few buttons of his shirt that hang open, pitch black and rolled up to his forearms to account for the warmth of the fireplace. His hat remains, hair still tucked away and settled at the nape of his neck.

You’d both been sitting in silence for the last half hour, despite Arthur’s insistence on “one minute,” letting the cold of the outdoors thaw out before saying anything that might get the rifle pulled again. You did gain a bit of satisfaction at the slight tinge of red in Arthur’s ears; it seemed the cold had gotten to him, too.

You watch as his eyes wander over the furnishings of your cabin. Thankfully, the door to your bedroom is only slightly ajar, and the knot in your chest lessens. It wasn’t often (or ever) that you had visitors over, which meant that most of your things were tucked haphazardly into corners or set on kitchen counters.

The Campbells—generous as they already were—had insisted you take up residence in a cabin on their property that once belonged to a daughter of theirs. She’d long since moved out, but the light in their eyes at the thought of it being occupied again was undeniable. It wasn’t much, but it was yours. And Arthur was seeing all of it.  

“Don’t get too comfy.” You frown. “…Arthur.” He beams, and suddenly there’s something incredibly interesting lingering right by your foot. 

His name still feels foreign when it leaves you. At first, you’d taken it as a show of good faith; he’d sworn to keep his mud-caked boots off of your rug in exchange for keeping his feet from becoming bullet-ridden by the time the sun came up. Arthur, feeling like he’d gotten the shitty end of the stick, had joked that you may as well call him by his first name. The last person with the guts to threaten him with a shotgun had, so what was one more?

It was a weak threat, if one at all. You knew, and he knew, that you were just about the only person this side of the Grizzlies who was vaguely aware of who he was. You’d seen it in his face when you’d called him by name. It’d be an insult to call it fear; an expectation of an inconvenience would be more accurate.

Luckily for him, you didn’t care. Not right now, at least. Imposing as he was, you refused to be cowed into going along with whatever it was that he'd planned. 

Your heel messes with the leg of your chair. “Don’t you go forgetting why I brought you here in the first place.”

“Not quite sure if I’d use that wording—“

“Can it, Morgan.”

His jaw clicks shut this time, but he’s still got that goofy grin smeared onto his face when you chance a peek at him. You’ll let it slide, for now. You’ve stalled long enough.

“So. My eggs. You gonna tell me, or do I need to start pulling teeth?”

“No need,” Arthur assures, “shouldn’t be stickin’ your pretty little fingers in just anybody’s mouth, Ma’am.”

An outlaw and a flirt, to boot. Wonderful. You’re wondering how long it might take to chuck the nearest inanimate object at him when he pipes up again.

“You piss in somebody’s cigarette box, lady?”

“Did I piss—Morgan, quit it!”

This seems to reign him in a bit, and his smile dips.

“I’ll be frank, since you asked so kindly.” Arthur leans back in his chair, flexes his palms. “You had people tailin’ you.” 

You quirk a brow. Ah, that’s right. He didn’t know, couldn’t have. But just as you attempt to explain, Arthur holds out a hand to stop you and shakes his head.

“Killers.”

The hand fussing with the material of your blanket falters.

“...I beg your pardon?”

“Hired guns, Ma’am. Out for you. You’re real…fortunate, I’d been passing by when I was.” A rueful look clouds his face. “Not much to hire once I was through with ‘em, though.”

The quiet that follows isn’t entirely unfamiliar. He’s an outlaw, you muse. Things like this are to be expected. But it doesn’t occur to you to ask who they were, what they looked like, what they wanted. Because Arthur didn’t know, didn’t need to know, and you aren’t sure if you want him here when you wrap your mind around the sobering fact that your long-held suspicions now bear fruit. So, you settle for the obvious.

“You kill ‘em?”

His jaw twitches. “Nothin’ gets past you, Ma’am.”

“...‘Suppose I should be thanking you, then.”

“Got my thanks when I checked their pockets.”

“But—”

Arthur gives a grunt of protest. 

Jackass.

Though your concerns about theft were long gone, it doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about this any more than you do, so you do your best to set the conversation back on track.

“Well, uh…the eggs, then?”

The tension in his jaw lessens. Arthur unfurls a long leg, digs the heel of his boot out in front of him, and rocks his foot back and forth.

“You know these winters. I can tell you do—despite all the…” he trails off, nods the brim of his hat toward your newly cultivated relationship with the fireplace, and you flush. “So, I uh, started out sneaking a few off, along with some other things for my people back at camp. Snagged some extra rations. Kept an eye on you. Two birds, one stone.” 

“So it wasn’t just the eggs you’d been stealing, then?”

“It’d behoove me to tell the truth and shame the devil, Ma’am. Not that he and I are unacquainted.”

So that was a yes. 

The part about “keeping an eye” on you is tacked on rather reluctantly, but at the mention of camp, your brows raise. It was true, then. The tales you’d heard during your trips to Valentine, the new faces you’d noticed in corners and back alleys, they were all real.

There was a time when you thought you might be able to find your place sleeping under the stars, free to do as you wished and go where you pleased, so long as the law kept their greasy mitts to themselves. But circumstances had seen to it that your dream went unfulfilled. 

You muster up what you hope is a sympathetic smile, and Arthur takes it stiffly.

Even so, something else with his phrasing catches your attention.

“Hold on now, you said ‘started.’ There something else you’re not telling me?”

A hand, previously settled on his knee, finds its way to the back of his neck and rubs. 

“Uh, y’see,” he starts, looking damn near ready to wring his own neck, and you have to laugh, because what on God’s green earth could have Arthur Morgan this bothered? But instead of finishing his sentence, he turns his gaze toward the small sliver of moonlight coming in through the curtains and poses a question:

“You know anything about chickens?”

You blink.

“Arthur Morgan,” your eyes shut, and your mouth hangs open. “I work on a farm.“

“That you do.”

“And you’re asking me if I know about chickens?”

“That I am.”

He’s looking mighty sheepish; his hands return to their places on his knees and begin to tap again, with the added scrunch of a nose. You stifle a snort and oblige him.

“Yes, I’m well versed in chickens. Now tell me what the hell is up.”

And tell he did. Turns out, one of the eggs he’d snatched had somehow been fertilized, and hatched. Arthur, of all people, had been far too mortified to go and ask one of his own for help, so he’d spent the last two months slinking around to find out if his luck might earn him another to keep the one he already had some company. 

He’d named it and everything, so eating it (Marlene, he corrects gruffly) was completely off the table. By the time he’s finished his story, you’ve spent an exorbitant amount of energy fighting off several fits of laughter, and you’re fighting off your ninth when Arthur interrupts.

He leans forward, as if to confirm something, then settles himself back into his chair once he finds what he’s looking for. “You ain’t from around here, are you.” It’s a statement when it leaves Arthur’s mouth, not a question.

Observant. Observant, and deflective.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you pocket the uneasy feeling in your chest for later.

“Long story,” you offer. And a difficult one, at that. It wasn’t one you liked to revisit.

Arthur replies almost instantly. “Shoot.” For a moment his face pinches, like he’s dropped his last cent down a splinter-ridden nook he can’t reach. He deliberates, for a bit. But the money is long gone now. “Got a full audience right here,” he continues, a tad slower. “I’ve got…time. Why the hell not?”

There’s no smile, but there’s a genuine curiosity that creeps into his voice. It wafts over the crackling of the fire, blows fresh wind underneath wings long forgotten. 

This wasn’t good. Not one bit.

You cast a skeptical glance toward the bottle of whiskey on the table. It’d been set out on instinct when you’d let him in, a habit formed from a time long gone. Would Arthur want some, maybe? He seemed like the type. And you weren’t too pissed about the eggs now, anyways. So you wrap a blanket around yourself, stand, and turn to the cupboards to find a glass. But something stops you from making it over, and you instead choose to wrap a hand around the bottle and offer it to him.

If Arthur is as confused as you are, he doesn’t show it. He mutters a word of thanks as he takes the proffered bottle. But you don’t miss the way his eyes rake over your bare legs like hot coals. Or the slight twitch of his fingers—now free of their gloves—at the light brushing of your hand over his as you pass the bottle to him. 

You follow the bobbing of his throat for what feels like a lifetime as he takes down gulp after gulp. Amber liquid slips from the corner of his mouth; it catches the firelight on its trek down, and steals your air along with it when Arthur moves to wipe it away with the back of his hand.

It startles you, how quickly you’ve become accustomed to cataloging his movements. You’ve met him before, you’re almost certain of it now. If not in the fields here, then maybe somewhere in Valentine, or the woods. But somewhere. He felt too familiar to be new, too invigorating. A part of you wants to pinch yourself for giving in so easily. Maybe…maybe the folks in town had been right? Maybe Arthur Morgan was possessed? It was either that, or you were an idiot. You sincerely hoped it was the former.

The sound of the glass bottle hitting the table is what snaps you out of your trance. Blinking rapidly, you chance a peek at his eyes again, only to find them peeking right back. You do your best not to turn away. That thing you’d seen lurking out on the front porch is still there, submerged in the depths of his pupils. Still waiting.

You pull the top off of the bottle, take a quick swig, and return to your chair with an inhale and newfound resolve in tow.

Blabbering seems to come unfortunately easy with Arthur. He sits, silent and attentive throughout the entire retelling—save for the occasional grunt of approval, disapproval, whichever was appropriate. You tell him of your mother, young and hungry, and how she’d made herself available to the highest bidder—your father. Some wealthy businessman from God knows where. Twenty years your mother’s senior, it’d been no secret what exactly he’d gotten out of their short-lived union: a wild young thing to look after his progeny and keep his bed warm.

He was nice enough, for a time. Or at least nice enough for your mother to be able to tolerate. But something had sent her fleeing from that big, big house. She’d kept you in her arms and her heart till you’d found somewhat of a safe haven in the Grizzly Mountains.

“Safe” had been a bit of a stretch, though. Anyone with half a brain knew exactly what the Grizzlies were like. Arthur agreed. But your mother had been raised there, just as you would be, if only for a little while. You’re only able to remember a short split of time—just before your mother passed, and before your father had come to take you away from her. 

By then your mother had already taught you most of what you’d needed to survive: reading, writing, hunting, flattery, the works. The only thing she’d left out was how to survive without her. 

Your father had come to find you only a few days after, bearing news of his intentions to turn you into a “proper lady.” He made no mention of your mother or where she’d been buried. 

Polite society hadn’t taken too kindly to a daughter hailing from unsavory origins, and it was safe to say that you hadn’t taken too kindly to polite society either. So, you’d spent the last decade or so making your father’s life a living hell and warding off any potential suitors.

But it became clear stunt after outrageous stunt that he had no intention of cutting ties. Rather than cutting you off, he’d settled for the next best thing: manual labor. Your father was old friends (though “friends” was a bit dubious) with the Campbells, and deemed it an appropriate enough punishment for your wrongdoings. He’d relied on your aptitude for hunting to pawn you off on them, and with the help of some expertly feigned resistance, you’d gotten him to plant you exactly where you’d wanted to be. 

Away, and alone.

“Threw a wrench in my plans, but…life here has been peaceful, I reckon.” You pick at the beds of your fingernails, head bowed. 

Peaceful. 

Peaceful and quiet, save for the occasional moo. 

Though, now that you thought about it, you’d have to tally it up to several wrenches if you counted the hitmen. But you could open that barrel of horse shit later.

The creaking of wood alerts you to a shift in Arthur’s positioning, and his voice barrels down at you from the ceiling; he must be looking up. 

“You don’t seem all too ‘at peace,’ if you ask me.”

“I ain’t ask you.”

“Tuh.”

The two of you fall into yet another bubble of silence. It’s comfortable enough, though still laced with the slightest bit of awkwardness. 

You couldn’t get a read on Arthur. Just about every decision he’d made tonight—or told you he’d made—had been a contradiction. It didn’t make a lick of sense. But now that you’ve had more time to ruminate, it didn’t seem like it made much sense to him, either. His body language divulges as much. 

The quiet agitates you, now. Itches. You need to know more. Understand more. But you can’t do that without retracting your fangs and reigning in your apprehension. Finger beds picked raw, you test the waters.

“Not at peace, hm?” You mutter. “…How you figure?”

You hear him shrug. “Dunno.”

Silence.

You wait for him to continue, but it’s not until you look up at him that you realize he’s been waiting for you to look back. Arthur’s voice cuts through the silence once you can meet his eyes without squirming.

“Met enough people to know who’s livin’, and who ain’t.” He crosses an ankle over his knee, and gives an exhale when he puts his hands behind his head. “I’m in no place to be dealing out life advice, but you seem awfully dead, Miss.” 

“Ma’am,” you correct. 

Arthur makes a face, and you bark out a laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. Some stranger he was, telling you off like this.

Your eyes crinkle, smile working its way from the inside out. “Takes one to know one, I assume?”

He blinks at you. “Yeah. Yeah, somethin’ like that, I suppose.”

More silence. 

“Do you think—”

“I ought to be heading out, now.” The dream is cut short. Arthur is standing suddenly, intercepting before you have the chance to say something incredibly, incredibly stupid. He tugs on his coat, fingers closing the buttons with frightening efficiency before he gathers up his gun and whatever else he’s brought with him and heads for the door.  

You're scrambling up out of your chair before your brain has a chance to process.“Arthur,” you say, half to him and half to the floor, “Arthur, wait a damn minute!” 

The spurs on his boots cease in their clinking. He’s got one hand wrapped around the doorknob, squeaky and now half-turned.

“…Got business to take care of.”

“At three in the morning?”

He glances at the small pocket watch you’d left open on the table. “Half past four, actually.”

“Didn’t realize you could tell time.”

He hums.

And Arthur stares at you for a moment, unabashedly. It’s unreadable at first. But then scars are shifting, and he’s leveling you with a look so bitter that it nearly has you reaching for your rifle again.

“Goodbye, Ma’am.” Arthur waves a noncommittal hand at your feet as he turns the knob. “And…go and see about those feet of yours, will you?”

He sweeps out the door.

He’s left it open.

It’s only after the faint sound of hoofbeats is nothing more than a whisper that you realize he isn’t in the cabin anymore. But somewhere between the shutting of the door and the hanging of your rifle, the faint impression of his parting words is pressed into your palm.

You look down, a bright sting and the sight of red specks on the floorboards making themselves known rather insistently. 

“Oh.”

—

next chapter >>

[goatedgreen]

Okay lets analyse this one for realsies. Im gonna go through each character in this tweet and go through reasons why i think they either would or would not be crying first, then im gonna put them in order of who survives the roast sesh.... join me on this wonderous journey.

Let's start with Atsumu.... where to even fucking begin. sorry to the Atsumu haters but i truly believe he would not be crying first. First of all he has known Osamu since he was born and while Osamu is the "nice twin" the bar is truly in hell and that motherfucker is mean to one person and one person only and that person is his twin brother Atsumu. This mfer has been conditioned since birth to roast and be roasted. Not only that but this guy was CANONICALLY hated by everyone in his middle school, and his only reaction to that information was "So?" HE DOES NOT CARREEEE. And, I will say, while the other characters shown here are bitchy, they usually target people in petty ways that make fun of their skills (with the exception of Daisho who would probs call Atsumu a single loser but he'd likely just get annoyed by that not cry) and Atsumu knows that his skills are too good for anything they say to hold weight., He has the ego the size of the fucking gym. he's fine.

TSUKISHIMA on the other hand.... dare i say it not the strongest contender ... I dont think FIRST. but this guy is wayyyy more sensitive to criticism than people generally give him credit for. LIKE YES BEFORE YOU JUMP DOWN MY THROAT, he absolutely has the whole "keep booing me it only makes me stronger" thing going on in the Inarizaki game BUT YOU FORGET SO QUICKLY how absolutely insecure this guy is. until yamaguchi kicked his ass into gear in the training camp, he was of the impression that trying to get better at something he enjoyed was fruitless because there was always going to be someone better than him. Someone insightful like Oikawa or Atsumu would def be able to pick up on that insecurity and target him for it. I think his strongest talent is of course provoking people so much that they cant see how much they're affecting him, so he gets a lot of points for pettiness that would keep him from crying first because theres no way he's gonna LOSEEEE to someone like Daisho or Oikawa. BONUS POINTS on his behalf though is he was the only one on the team at the end of season one who WASNT CRYING about their loss. And i think the only one on karasuno who we havent seen cry (as far as i can remember).

Now listen.... fanon Oikawa is for sure crying first because for some bizzare reason people characterise him as a pushover twink. Canon Oikawa told USHIJIMA to remember his worthless pride so he could crush him in the future. like... he's kind of taking names a little. i'll allow him a small slay for his efforts of being a bitch to Ushijima. Oikawa is SMARTTTT and has a lot of emotional intelligence, so can for sure target people's insecurities with pinpoint accuracy. He doesnt get SUPER easily riled up when he's "in the zone" and only lashes out when he's backed into a corner. he hangs out with what is probably a team of people scientifically designed in a lab to HUMBLE HIM DAILY, so he has built up somewhat immunity to being insulted and targeted for bully behaviour. LOSES TREMENDOUS AMOUNTS OF POINTS for being kind of a sore loser and someone who FOR SURE cries when angry or frustrated.

Daisho.... why is he even here (sorry to those who love him). Listen... this guy is petty, and he lowkey cheats, and he takes immense joy in riling people up for shits and gigs... BUT WHYYY IS HE HERE LMAOOOO. to be honest, i dont think he would cry first purely for the fact that he doesnt know these other guys well enough to really gaf about what theyre saying to him. on the other hand, that makes him kind of an easy target because he's so irrelevant to these other guys lives that they could probably make him feel like shit for that reason only. he gets bonus points for being the only one in a canonical relationship (oikawas girlfriend we never meet that he broke up with doesnt count, in fact it loses him points).

WITH ALL THAT BEING SAID. the final order i think is, Oikawa goes out crying first, not because he's upset but because he got sooo fucking mad at Atsumu's unbothered behaviour he had to leave and he was angry crying while doing it. Daisho is next because Tsukishima said some shit like "bro who even are you lmaooo irrelevant ass" and he remembered he sucks at volleyball and got upset, he's okay tho bc his gf is there to comfort him. Atsumu cries next but not because of anything Tsukishima says, he just gets so fucking bored of Tsukishima not giving him interesting reactions to his jabs that he starts doing weird shit like standing on his head and he ends up hurting himself and crying because he is a big baby. Tsukishima is the last one standing .

...

That is of course assuming that Oikawa doesnt kill them all first with his Super Triple Homo Spin Serve that killed all of Karasuno. People forget so quickly that he is the most diabolical anime villain of all time...

[padfootdaredmetoo]

Hey how are you hope you ok

I got a request for Tommy Shelby if that ok

So basically you and Tommy are dating and one day in a meeting you was having theses really bad stomach pains and you thought nothing of at than when u got home and I got worse and than u went to Tommy crying in pain still and he said you might be in labour ( u don’t know u pregnant) than he calls polly and then u gived birth to you boy or girl up to you and then next day every one was  Shock and yh hope that make sense u don’t have to do it x

Dear Anon,

Thank you for waiting! I changed things up a bit and I apologize for any mistakes as I'm editing on mobile at work. Hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: childbirth, mentions of Hugh stress and poor eating habits. Peaky related themes and magic.

Dating Thomas was a life changing decision in more ways than you had originally realsied. Your whole life plan had been derailed by the constant ups and downs. 

Every new accomplishment and high was met with an even more dangerous low. You were along for the ride while managing your position at the book shop you owned. Long days and fun nights occupied these past few months so much that you realised that your period was late. 

Very late. 

You thought about it for a while and realised it was probably what used to happen when you were a teenager. High times of stress would stop it altogether. You had no other symptoms that women had told you about. No weird cravings, or morning sickness. Just lots of drama and stres.

You pushed the thought from your mind as you went about your usual routines. 

________6 months later____

You had come to the realisation that you must be barren. A fact that was difficult to come to terms with, however Tommy had said he wasnt interested in children any way. 

Looking at your self in the mirror you noticed a bit of weight on you and made a mental note to try and correct it by skiping meals for a while. Nothing big to worry about in comparison to another rival family causing chaos. You’d only just gotten sorted from being held captive a week ago. 

You already had so much on your shoulders at the book shop, orders were piling up and you were spending more and more late nights and early mornings. Tommy’s men escorting you and staying by the door while you worked. 

The multiple attempts on your life did nothing but add to the list of reasons you couldnt sleep at night. You were slowly falling apart. 

Cramps set in about mid day and you finally gave up. You called Tom letting him know you couldnt make it to lunch and went right to bed. Taking a much needed nap you woke up to even worse sets of pain. 

You grabbed your hot water bottle and tried to curl up on the couch with a book. Struggling through the sets of pain you began to wonder if something else was wrong. Wasn’t there an organ that could explode in your stomach? 

Your thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. 

____________________________________________________

Sitting across the table from the old woman, Polly thought back through time. Her eyes were dark and she had told her lots of things about her life that night. Gave her the curse of knowledge, knowing all too well that the girl was too weak to fight fate. And Polly had tried, every step of the way to fight it. 

It didnt surprise her that she was once again stuck at that wooden table. That the woman reflected on something said ages ago. 

A child. 

Polly’s heart sunk when she thought about the two children that were permanently out of her reach. A child? At this age. Not likely. 

The dream took a turn and woman shouted at her. 

“Go to her now before its too late.” And image of your face came into her mind and suddenly she was awake. The womans cold scream still echoing in her mind. 

Getting her clothes pulled on she quickly called Thomas. 

“Need to get to her place now” She said trying to pull on her boot at the same time. 

“Pol - why? What’s wrong?” The sound of panic in his voice made her reconsider your place within the family. 

“Just go, I’m on my way now.” She hung up the phone not wanting to waist anytime. On the drive over she thought about you and what this ment. 

There was no way of making sense of the situation. All the things she was told never made sense as a girl and wouldnt likely start to make sense now. She sighed defeated. She liked you well enough. Smart, kept Thomas in line, a bit soft hearted but she could see that changing the more you saw of the world. 

She parked and ran up the steps of your building. Opening the door she ould hear your soft cries as he tried to comfort you. 

“Pol what’s wrong with her.” 

“It’s a child.” Polly said moving into the kitchen seeing what supplies they were working with. 

“Fuck off.” You said a tone of disbelif. Coming back into the room she watched your face cycle through the many stages of panic. 

“Accept it so we can get on with it.” Polly said to the both of them. 

“How?” 

“Part of the prophecy. Flashbacks got me up in the middle of the night.” She watched as Tommy fell under the weight of her words. 

“Alright, love.” He kissed the top of your head. “It’s not going to make sense. So just let it happen.” You looked at up him your fear fading in the warmth of his gaze. 

“I dont think I can do it.” You groaned, tears welling up in your eyes. 

“It’s already happened. Pol saw it. That means you certainly can. Just have to make it from here to there.” 

After that you followed instructions, Polly was professional but couldnt help but feel a fondness growing for you. This was also a side of Tom she hadn’t seen since he was a small boy. He did everything without thought, never letting you out of his grip. 

“Tough girl.” He kissed your temple. “You can do it, gotta push again” 

Like many times before. Polly pulled a small little babe from their mother on the living room floor of a dingy flat in Birmingham. 

You collapsed against Tom and Polly went to work ensuring the child was alright. Smallest little girl she’d ever seen. Born too soon, quiet as a mouse as she looked up at her great aunt. Her heart was strong, and Polly knew just by holding her that this child, was significant in something bigger than all of them put together. 

She handed the girl off to her parents. Leaning back against the sofa sitting next to Thomas. He handed her a cigarette from his breast pocket. 

Taking a long drag, she realized she should give them space to enjoy the moment. Her bones had no interest in moving as the night, and previous months took a toll on her. 

“She predicted this? Why didn't you say something?”  Tom whispered stoking the cheek of his first child. 

Polly almost snapped at him, before registering his tone of voice. She’d never seen him this vulnerable. 

“She told me a lot of things, I was small at the time. None of you were born yet. It’s not specific stuff-” 

“Thank you.” You said with tears in your eyes. “I -I Don't know what to say.” 

“You shouldn't say, anything love. You're family now” 

_________________________________________________

You were the most exhausted you’d ever been, but a family meeting was unavoidable. That night was the last night you spent in your apartment. He’d carried you to the car the next morning to take you to his place. 

You watched him move around the massive kitchen. He got you a cushion before letting you sit at the head of the table. A cup of strange tea was placed in front of you as the family started to pile in. 

Ruby slept in your arm and you tried to relax as the family came close. You were friendly and warm with everyone but this was the first time they were seeing you as a permanent fixture in the family. 

“That must have been so scary love. Your body hid it so well” Emse came up to you putting her arm around you in a makeshift hug. “Look at her. So small. Pretty like her mum.” She sat close to you and you knew that it was because of her natural distaste for family meetings. Her posture told you if anyone got smart she’d chew them out. 

Arthur and John started to congratulate Tommy loudly and your stomach turned when they set on you. She was so small you didn't feel comfortable passing her around yet. What if that offended people? 

“Look at that! Next Shelby made a grand entrance like her da” Arthur kissed your cheek, his mustache tickling. “Good job, love.”

“Thanks,” You said softly. 

“God I hope she’s just like you Tom. Finally some payback.” John came over and lowered his voice once seeing her. “Fuck she’s so small. You can call us any time if you need anything. Got a truckload of baby clothes for ya.” 

“Really though, love. Call any time.” Esme said and you hoped more than anything you would get closer to her. 

The meeting started and Tommy made a grand speech. It didn't take long before Polly was rushing you back up to lie down in bed. When you woke up there was a ring on your wedding finger and a note on the bedside table. 

Gone to London for business. Be back tomorrow. 

You went back to the massive set of diamonds on your finger. It was talked about but you hadn't had the chance to think about it yet. 

There was a soft knock at the door and Esme poked her head in. 

“Staying while he’s away, do you need anything, love.” Without knowing what to do you just stuck your hand out at her. 

She looked at the ring. 

“When!” She whispered.

“Just woke up and it was there.” You whispered back in disbelief. 

“Such a Thomas thing to do.” She laughed and sat on the bed next to you. You both talked for hours and you were grateful she let you doze off and nap. 

You and Ruby fit right in.

[remedyturtles]

Hi. SO. I just read your newest fic, the human au one, and may i just say....

HOLY SHOT I AM PHYSICALLY IN PAIN MY GOD I AM HURTING SO MUCH LIKE FOR REALSIES

im not much for crying, but there were at least 5 distinct moments that make me full body heaving SOB, like i was reading the fist 1/6th or so in front of my family and then had to retreat so I could finish it in peace.

I know I'd be curious so the 5 parts were

1.) when mikey found Leo outside of Splinter's door and LEo couldn't hug him back so then Mikey hugged twice as hard. yeah that part had me weeping.

2.) When I realized that Leo was really giving up on Basketball, oh my god I had to take a lap my stomach physically hurt thinking about him being in that position and slowly realiizng that he did it to himself I was crying into my little turtle plushie just crying my god

3.) When the family had the little meeting after he offered Mikey the comics, I needed to take another quick little lap because they care about him so much and he can't even see that but they care so much and I just hurt so much for this poor boy

4.) When Raph said something about having a secret group chat MY GOD I literally had to close my laptop and go stim for a second like CAN YOU IMAGINE if they did have one, even one that was well meaning like in death wish just to talk about updates on his condition, if he discovered one that wa even well meaning it would have absolutly broken him

5.) When splinter immedietly ran to him during the reveal like oh god i think i literally just ugly sobbed into my pillow they love him so much good lord-

there was definitly more but those are the only ones i can think of off the top of my head. Anyways, I just wanted to say that I adore all of your fics so so much, I literally have a printed copy of death wish from my friends as a christmas present because i talked about it so much and all of your works just mean so much to me, you are quite literally my favorite author, period. not even favorite fic author, just favorite author.

But yeah, i wanted to make a special trip out to tumblr because you are truly my favorite fic author and to say thank you. I have struggled with a similar situation to Leo's before, unfrtunatly from tenagers and adults, and i struggle with a lot of the things that leo had on his list as well. the anxiety stomaches were also incredibly relatable and i just need to stop because ive been rambling for a while now, but just. thank you. this fic was incredible, much like all your others. thank you so much, i really needed something like this right now. thank you.

WAGHHGH im so glad u enjoyed i loved writing it

omg love that you have a copy :D and AKWAJGH i am incredibly flattered dude thank you so much???? cheers!!!

[jujumin-translates]

Event | 7th Anniversary: All Actors Aboard! | Chapter 3: VELUDO STATION MEMORY ✕ Tsuzuru Minagi

Kazunari: Did you guys decide on what you’re gonna write about for your “VELUDO” articles yet?

Tsuzuru: No, I haven’t yet.

Citron: I have not been able to make up my mind either.

Kazunari: Mood~.

Kazunari: There are like so many fun and emo things I wanna write about that I can’t even start to make up my mind…

Kazunari: It’s for realsies so hard and stressful~!

Tsuzuru: Just how many memories from Veludo Station do you have, Miyoshi-san?

Kazunari: Huh, like a lot…!

Tsuzuru: (Well, I guess I also have an assortment of memories too.)

Tsuzuru: (I use it on a daily basis, and when I go out with everyone.)

Tsuzuru: …

Tsuzuru: (…I feel like I was really nervous when I first got off at Veludo Station.)

Tsuzuru: (I gave up on theater once, but I couldn’t give up on it forever, so I went looking for a theater company that I could join on Veludo Way…)

Tsuzuru: (When I think about it, it really is amazing to be part of MANKAI Company like this now.)

Citron: Tsuzuru. Kazu is crying because you are ignoring him, Tsuzuru.

Tsuzuru: Eh?

Kazunari: You ignored me, Tsuzurun~ sniffle.

Tsuzuru: Ah, sorry. I was thinking about something and didn’t hear what you said, Miyoshi-san.

Kazunari: Uh, rude!? I was literally giving you some of my Veludo Station memories of you, Tsuzurun!

Tsuzuru: Veludo Station memories of me? Miyoshi-san, are you talking about…?

Citron: I remember that time very well too.

Citron: I never thought that I would see you in such a messed up state. It was very shocking…!

Tsuzuru: You know about it too, Citron-san?

Tsuzuru: (Wait. My messed up state? Could it be…)

*Flashback*

Shop Worker: Thank you very much!

Tsuzuru: (Alright, cake, presents, and bouquets. …I’ve got my hands full.)

Tsuzuru: (Suberu and Noboru should be surprised when they see this.)

Tsuzuru: (I know it’s kinda embarrassing, but since they’re coming all the way out here to see me on their birthday, I wanna make sure we celebrate.)

Tsuzuru: (And the time is… Yeah, if I head to the station now, I’ll be able to make it there with plenty of time to spare.)

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Tsuzuru: (Great. Looks like they’re not here yet.)

Tsuzuru: (Their presents… I hope Suberu and Noboru are happy with them.)

Citron: Ooh, Tsuzuru is over there!

Kazunari: Heya! Tsuzurun ♪

Tsuzuru: Ah, Miyoshi-san and Citron-san.

Kazunari & Citron: …

Tsuzuru: (Hm? What are they…? Why’d they both freeze all of a sudden…?)

Kazunari: Tsuzurun, is that present for someone?

Tsuzuru: Yeah. I’m going to meet them now…

Citron: Perhaps the other person is someone important to you, Tsuzuru?

Tsuzuru: ? You could say that.

Kazunari: RonRon. The way he was so enthusiastic about it…

Citron: I understand it too.

Kazunari: It’s obviously a date!

Citron: He is meeting someone for a date!

Tsuzuru: Huh?

Kazunari: Wait, hold it, RonRon! If you look closely, doesn’t Tsuzurun have two presents!?

Citron: He really does! Does that mean there are two people!?

Tsuzuru: Well, yeah, there’s two of them, but.

Kazunari & Citron: KYAAH!!!

Citron: In other words, two-timing, fooling around…

Kazunari: For realsies? For realsies, Tsuzurun?

Tsuzuru: No, no, no, it’s not like that. The two of you are weirdly mistaken…

Kazunari: Well, which of them is your favorite!?

Citron: Which one is more important!?

Tsuzuru: Both of them are equally important, but!

Kazunari & Citron: KYAAAH!!!

Citron: Bad Tsuzuru! That is the wrong answer!

Kazunari: Being with both of them at the same time is never a good idea!

Tsuzuru: (This misunderstanding is just getting weirder and weirder…)

Tsuzuru: No, because Suberu and Noboru are both very important brothers to me…!

Tsuzuru: (Hm? Where did this crowd come from…)

Tsuzuru: (Is this not a misunderstanding and it’s actually just a street act?)

Kazunari & Citron: Wait, brothers!?

Kazunari: Thanks for watching!

Citron: Thank you!

Tsuzuru: T-Thank you.

*Applause*

Tsuzuru: Ugh… how long has this been a street act?

Kazunari: Hm~m, since like halfway through? We just noticed a lotta people gathering~!

Citron: You are the one that made it a hit, Tsuzuru! The cries from your heart were very passionate…!

Kazunari: Literally! I could really feel the brotherly love.

Tsuzuru: (What is wrong with those two… Anyway, what about Suberu and Noboru…?)

*Clapping*

Tsuzuru: (The clapping from over there! Did they really just see me say that with all my heart…)

*Flashback end*

Tsuzuru: …

Tsuzuru: (Afterwards, they were impressed by how powerful the performance was. I wish we could’ve celebrated their birthday properly, but…)

Tsuzuru: (I don’t know, I kinda had mixed feelings about it all.)

Kazunari: Nah~, at first we thought it really was a legit date~.

Citron: But then we saw your little brothers but then we caught an idea!

Tsuzuru: I think you mean “got an idea”...

Kazunari: Anyway, looks like you found something to write about for the “VELUDO” article!

Tsuzuru: Huh, I’m gonna write about that?

Citron: Of course. It is the best Veludo Station memory for you, Tsuzuru!

Tsuzuru: (Well, I was done with it then, but it was kinda fun, and just remembering it did make me smile…)

Tsuzuru: (Maybe it is a surprisingly good memory.)

[ ⇠ Previous Part ] • [ Next Part ⇢ ]

[tamsinbeybey-she-no-porcupine]

liveblog ghosts S5ep 5

this is it. The ep I'm fearing the most. I will cry and scream probably omg this is it isn't it.

Spoilers and feral babbling ahead probably

i am 1 sec in had to pause I'm so nervous about Caps death and my soft boy Havers

-annie-versary ☺️

-a new math meme from Robin😍

-i thinks it's gonna be a you don't connected shit Kind of EP xD

-oh phew Larry and Ben that's a relief

-a decapitated Doll how nice

-already kicked the bucket list 😂

-i am screaming Julian and Fanny 😂😂

-no rhythm? No legs 😂

-oh another Fan theory is adressed☺️

-"kitty ma Love" awww

-138

-nicht 😱

-i love Cap so much

-phew Julian for a Moment I thought He would be creepy

-walter🥰

-now His Body is Like a horse xD

-snuffles, Macy 🥰🥰 I need to Finish writing that one wip

-oh No this is where the flashbacks start

-oh No it isn't. Omg how Long is her Hair

-i want the flashbacks 🙁 I think.

-omg Fanny let her Hair down🥰

-ich bin so ufgregt omg Had to Stop again to whine to my sis

-fuck it's starting

-or Not

-why musst they tease me Like this

-atomic Kitty 😂

-awww Mike xD i know the Feeling though

-no sireeeee xD

-i scared 😂😂😂

-omg coming Out now maybe??

-pat Thomas hug😭

-pat🥲

-omg omg now it's starting

-he broke in omg

-omg omg omg that explains IT the little rascal

-holy fuck i am screaming i screamed Out loud Hes there Hes looking at him holy fuck

-the Sound I Made was Not human. It's him my babes my soft boy omg im so nervous

-he has scars now but they weirdly suit him

-i can't tell If He looked Happy or Not

-was will der Heini denn jetzt geh da weg !

-havers Looks nervous or displeased I can't tell

-oh Shit no. He Just wanted to see him again

-oh fuck it's a Heartattack. Thank god. The horrible stuff I imagined isn't true after all!

-hes running to him 😭😭😭😭

-i know😭😭

I am sobbing. For realsies my eyes are leaking

Anthony 😭😭 James 😭😭😭(aka Teddy)

The hands😭😭

Omg was ist Havers swaggerstick??!!

I am going insane

How soft He Said james. His soft little smile.He Loved him No one can Tell me otherwise

The tear in Cap's eyes

He couldn't even Touch His face because the Guys stood there and watched😭😭

I have to Update the how Havers smiled at him Post😭😭

Peter again with the microexpressions 😭😭😭😭😭

Poor Cap😭 poor Havers😭😭

I can already hear some say that this still doesn't Show If Feelings were reciprocated. I feel it does. Even without a tear from Havers.

I need a small pause i played this little Clip so many Times know

Cap broke into that Thing to See Havers again my Heart I am screaming

.

.

.

-Fanny 🥺

-could we Count him telling the Story in a way as coming Out?

-mike 🥰

-achy breaky Heart 😂

Cap's Dancing omg screaming again

-julian omg😂😂😂

-i love Green on alliaon

[glassprism]

Which phantoms really cry during the final lair? Michael Crawford said that he did cry every night.

What happened to Eiji Akutagawa in PONR? I mean Japanese people are so restrained, so reserved. I got shocked (in a good way). LOL

Do you know if there any video bootlegs that exist of Ian Jon Bourg in Phantom World Tour? I’ve only seen a couple of short clips from 2019 and would love to get to see a whole boot if one exists!

Why folks say that Cooper Grodin is your husband? Sorry for the question. I'm new here.

To take it in order:

Are you asking for "stage crying" or "real crying"? I'd assume most Phantoms stage cry at some point in the show, since the blocking practically requires that they fall on their knees and start sobbing into the veil. Which Phantoms cross over into "real crying" is much harder to say or to tell from "stage crying", though I'd hope if they are crying for realsies that they do so in an emotionally healthy way, especially since they're expected to come out smiling and cheerful at the curtain call five minutes later.

Eiji Akutagawa is just built different, I guess. But it's worth noting that no culture is a monolith, and even if there are certain traits associated with them, that does not mean every person in that culture is expected to, or should, act in that way.

I've seen some clips that look to be from a full-ish boot (these are the ones usually posted on the Stage Enterpainment Instagram). But the only one I know of that's been released is a blindshot, highlights video of Bourg with Meghan Picerno; however, it's only available through the master, who I'm not even sure is around anymore, and I think can't be listed on any site either, so it's fairly difficult to find.

Because of my constant tendency to recommend to @wheel-of-fish that she stream Cooper Grodin, as well as other luminaries like Uwe Kroger and Thiago Arancam. This eventually led a lot of my friends on Discord to theorize that I am married to Grodin and trying to promote him this way. Which I am, by the way, and we are very happy together. But the real answer as to why I recommend him is because I enjoy inflicting Pain.

I hope that helps, and welcome to the blog as well!

[mudinyourshoes]

watching tale of the nine tailed because honestly screw christmas that's way and so far:

-rang, rang baby your bother shows up to the site of your massacre, starts crying, and then "executes" you but misses any vital organs. he's a immortal deity who obviously has a lot of experience killing people and you...you conclude that he was actually trying to kill you?! FOR REAL REAL?! REALSIES????? pls say sike

-if yeon was clear about what he did with rang, i'm pretty sure that would mean rang owed him a debt and since foxes always repay their debts, i'm guessing that's why yeon never cleared this up. because let's be real, yeon is screwed. he screwed himself when broke the rules to get ji-a reincarnated and so i'm pretty sure he's just protecting his brother by trying to keep him out of yeon self-made, self-destructive ✨problems✨

-i love that yeon isn't really looking for a "happily ever after". he's a realist in the sense that he's aware he fell in love with a mortal and that means he was always going to lose her. and he's obsessive anyway. fantastic A++

-on that note, i really like the world building that's happening around "how fucked in the head does living for thousands of years make you?" not just for yeon, but for all the supernatural creatures. rang...might actually be more sane than most because he's only a hundreds of years old (????) but even that might have broken him a bit lol

-ji-a is marvelous. she's smart, she's brave, she more than a little nuts. which is good because yeon is all kinds of nuts. they match. very nice.

-i do not understand ppl complaining about lack of chemistry in this.

-so far it's perfect?? it's got fantasy, mystery side plots, solid world building, friend and family relationships that feel real and important, and I would hate to meet any of the lead characters ever irl. so, that's perfect.

[dualityvn]

NAH the way I would have a crush on Keith and Tenebris during highschool 😭 , mans would have me smiling like an idiot, giggling and kicking my feet, hiding my face, telling my family about him, imagining us actually being together instead of just simply being classmates ALL THE WORKS

A shame we're shy so no flirting ASF. Crying for realsies 🤭

Yeah, but you might get the classic note from Tenebris with "get out of my school". Except he'd add "You're too pretty and annoying" or something.

[writing-for-whoever-listens]

Random Propmts 3:

"So... this is normal for you? That makes a lot of sense."

"... why are you like this?" "Personally? I think it's the undiagnosed ADHD talking. Could also be demon possession."

"Aww, you're so cute!" "I can and will cut you."

"Are you for realsies right now or?" "I'M BLEEDING OUT-"

"I just- give me thirty minutes to cry."

"What in the f-ing f is going on here?" "Please, please just say fuck."

"Answer me." "..." "Now."

"I'm not babying you, I'm protecting you! Big difference!"

"Is that my shirt?" "It was mine first."

"Can you stop playing your kazoo for ten seconds so I can peacefully die? 'Cause that would be fantastic."