#reload chunks

[girlnadian]

sniffs. can we consider creaking hybrid wifies whos heart is at the factory. they cant destroy it without killing him but ken figured out how to finagle him away from it AND/OR they conspire a way to move it and now its somewhere on ken and watos world

[maxthetruman]

ur not a real pet owner if you havent picked up ur pet and pantomimed them as a shotgun

[epitomees]

((Soooooo I maybe, perhaps, slight possibility, potentially played the Reload demo 3 times over the course of the con because I wanted to play all modes and look at everything I possibly could with the amount of time I had…))

[fellhellion]

its going to be very funny when I inevitably go through a small period of mourning when persona 4 gets remade and they don’t recast yuri lowenthal beyond like. maybe a cameo.

[nohtora]

trying to sell some stuff to the trapper in rdr2 the other day, only for my beloved silver dapple pinto to walk into the fuckin fire and char-grill itself 🥴

[zaltesker]

i have no enemies EXCLUDING MINECRAFT BEDROCK

[ghoulbrain]

Animal Instinct

18+ 3.5k ghoul x f!reader. graphic depictions of violence, wound tending, hurt/comfort, established relationship, feral/protective cooper, cannibalism, blood, dirty talk, vaginal fingering. gif credit. read on AO3. written as part of the Saddle Up, Sweetheart verse, but can be read as a stand-alone.

When you're both ambushed by raiders, Cooper comes to understand the lengths he'll go to keep you safe.

This never would have happened if Cooper was still traveling alone. He would have been more aware of his surroundings, he would have seen the signs of an ambush long before he stepped into it, and he wouldn’t have been so focused on you instead.

It’s lazy to blame you, though. The fault is his. Without preamble or flourish he draws his revolver and starts emptying shots into the spill of sorry sons of bitches that decided they would ruin his evening.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees you move forward, weapon drawn. His lip twitches. Your grip is good, but your stance is horse-shit. If this is going to become a thing–you taggin’ along like this–he’ll have to show you how to properly fire a gun.

He refocuses quickly, stepping forward to keep himself angled between them and you. The ambush isn’t anything special: just a bunch of jumpy junkies with twitchy trigger fingers looking for their next score. He takes a shot to the shoulder, another to the sternum. He doesn’t feel anything but the impact and pressure of irradiated flesh being forced apart around the bullets. There’s no pain, not so long his system is flooded with chemicals.

It’s your cry of pain that sets his nerves ablaze. He fires two more shots–dropping the men who hit him–before he whirls around, a hot rush of fire rolling through him at the sight of you with a man pressed up against your back, one arm fitted around your throat while he crushes your wrist in his other hand, squeezing hard, keeping your gun pointed at the ground as he chokes you out.

That’s when he sees the knife sunk into your thigh, blood soaking a wide crimson circle into your clothing around the knife’s hilt. In this infinitely long and horrible instant that your gaze meets his. The pain and fear in your eyes trigger something in him, and the whole world becomes both brighter and slower all at once.

Cooper aims, fires, but his revolver clicks emptily. He doesn’t reach to reload. Instead, he moves on pure animal instinct, bearing his teeth and charging with a guttural snarl.

Adrenaline mixes with the chemical cocktail in his veins and he moves faster than the man reacts, ripping his hands from you and throwing your assailant to the ground with such incredible force it dazes the man, his eyes glazing over. He roars in the raider’s face, spittle and yellow flecks coating his dirty skin, before he lunges, sinking his teeth into the pulsing jugular below.

He lends no thought to how natural it feels to bite into warm, living flesh.

Rearing up, mouth bloodied and full of viscera, Cooper winds his fist back and strikes the man in the face. His first blow hits his jaw. The next strikes his temple.

Straddling him, he doesn’t stop hitting. One fist after the other. He aims for the jaw, the temple, the high of his cheek. He misses and shatters his nose with a satisfying crunch, blood spewing from his nostrils to coat his knuckles. His jaw breaks with a pop. Broken teeth and bone slice flesh, mixing with gore and falling to the dirt in wet chunks.

The violence feels raw and good, like the first deep inhale of a vial or a hot wet fuck. He swallows the blood and meat lingering in his mouth and lets out a rough breath. Gritting his teeth he hits harder, driven on by the scent of blood and dirt. The gurgle of choked breaths. The slip of split flesh against his fists. It's all gasoline on the flames your peril sparked.

Cooper thinks of him stabbing you. Choking you. He thinks of your watery eyes, bright and terrified. He thinks of everyone he’s ever let down, ever failed to save, and he keeps hitting. Even when the man beneath him seizes. Even when he drowns in his blood.

Even when he dies.

Cooper is beating on a hunk of ruined flesh when he finally stops, drenched in the blowback of it.

Wheezing breaths saw from his lungs as he places one hand on the dirt road, lifting himself off of the mess of battered meat. He stares down at his knuckles where pain throbs with every heartbeat. It's a welcome sensation. Not because he deserves it, but because the raider did, and because he delivered. Destruction with his bare hands. Suffering where it’s meant to be found. He drags his tongue along the soaked leather of his glove and greedily swallows what collects on his tongue.

Heart thundering in his ears, Cooper stands, dipping briefly to pick up his gun. The grip slides around in his bloodied hand before he holsters it, cloudy eyes scanning for movement until his gaze lands on you. Down on the ground, clutching your wound, you look like a doe with a bum leg, your eyes blown wide and afraid. You look… irresistible. Not just as a woman, not just as his woman, but as an easy meal.

He takes a step forward, lips parted. The edges of you are blurry to his addled mind. The only part of you that’s in focus is the bright red of your wound seeping into your clothes. His memories of lapping the salt from your skin cross wires in his brain and all he can imagine is holding you safe and sound as he devours you.

“Cooper?”

The sound of your voice acts like a shock to his system that drags him back from the sweet coppery tang of warm, fresh blood in his mouth. He’s standing above you, closer than he realized he got. The sweetness in his mouth sours into putrid rot and he takes a step backwards, rasping out a cuss under his breath. He turns his head and spits, aggressively wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, smearing away blood and little chunks of flesh, abruptly and horribly aware of himself.

Shame blooms in his gut, unfurling all the way up to a tightness in his chest. He looks down at the mutilated body on the ground. There’s no head left, just wet gore soaking into the hungry dry earth below.

He completely lost control of himself. He spits, wipes, spits, wipes, rubs his mouth raw against his sleeve in an attempt to scrub away the taste and feel of it before he dares look at you again. He contemplates shoving a handful of dirt into his mouth just to chase away the lingering tang. He never wants to see you–to think of you–like that again. Like you’re just another hunk of meat.

Your touch makes him jerk away. He looks at you sharply, furious that you would come so close after what he’s done. What he could have done to you.

“Cooper–”

“M’not right,” he says roughly, taking hold of your wrist. You flinch and he realizes that he’s snatched the same wrist the motherfucker he beat into a paste had been crushing. He softens his grip, throat tight like there’s a hand squeezing it. “Fuck, would y’just–m’not right,” he says again, an edge of desperation in his emphasis.

“I know,” you say, voice tender, as if somehow he’s the one in need of gentleness. “I know. So come back. Don’t shut me out.” There’s more authority in your voice than you have any right to have in your position, shaking like a leaf while you touch his face, hushing him with such tenderness it fractures something in him that he thought long dead and buried under the weight of the last two hundred years.

Wish I could, he thinks, wiping his hand on his thigh. That you would look at him like that even now, as if he’s somehow still a man, eats at the very core of him. Makes him want to shy away, prove you wrong, and disappear into you all at once. He takes in a steadying breath before he clutches both of your arms, moving you to the ground. 

“Easy,” he says, voice barely above a rasp. “Y’bleedin’.”

You’re holding onto his elbows as he lowers you, gritting your teeth against the pain. He focuses on your discomfort, on the risk you face, fragile thing that you are, to keep his mind far away from the abyss he walked the edge of while maiming the body behind him.

His first priority is to stanch the bleeding. His movements become practiced, hands that of a soldier. He uses a strap from his pack to create a makeshift tourniquet, twisting it around a scrap rod. All the while he’s hyper aware of your gaze on him and the shallow huffs of your breath, the way it catches when he pulls the binding tight.

“Hurts,” you say tightly.

“I know,” he says, drawing his knife. He lifts your blood soaked pant leg–don’t pause, don’t think, don’t breathe it in–and slices open the fabric. “S’about t’hurt a whole lot more. Gimme a count, I’ll pull it on three,” he tells you, bracing one hand on your thigh, the other gripping the hilt of the knife.

“Okay, okay,” you say, sucking in a deep breath. “One–”

Cooper yanks the blade free, startling a yelp out of you that carries into a pained groan.

“What happened to three?!” You ask sharply, fingers digging into the dirt.

He hurriedly smothers the wound with the cleanest cloth he has before he works on tightly wrapping the wound. “S’better when y’don’t know it’s comin’.”

“Asshole,” you breathe.

The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth is reluctant, as if there’s an invisible string tugging at it against his will. “Can’t be that bad if y’still mouthin’ off.”

“It’ll take more than a measly stab wound to keep my mouth shut,” you say, familiar playfulness slipping in alongside the strain in your voice.

“Don’t I know it,” he grouses, glancing up at you. There’s nothing reluctant about your smile. It’s the opposite of his, earnest in a way he’s long forgotten how to be. You’re making an attempt at comforting him, he realizes, looking back down to finish his work, removing the tourniquet once he’s satisfied with the dressing.  “It’ll do for now. Y’need stitches.”

“I’ll be fine,” you say dismissively, shifting onto your knees.

He makes a skeptical noise in the back of his throat, sheathing his knife. “Would it kill y’not to be so damn contrary?”

“It might,” you say, catching the lapel of his jacket and pulling at him, bringing his attention back to you. He looks down at your hand, stained now with the crimson wetness spattered all over his coat. His clothes are soaked heavy with misery and blood, but it doesn’t dissuade you any. You touch his jaw with your other hand and lift his eyes to meet yours.

“Hey,” you whisper. You’re close enough that he should feel the ghost of your breath on his lips, but he can’t. Most of the subtleties of life are lost on a man so close to death. The only ghosts he knows now are those of his past. “You okay?”

Holding your gaze, he doesn’t answer you. Sometimes you feel like one of them, like another specter haunting him. The only difference is that you haven’t died yet.

Yet.

“Come back to me,” you murmur. His vision refocuses, finding you closer than you had been a second ago. The warm pressure of your lips grazing his cheek makes him falter, wanting the tenderness of your touch so viscerally it feels dangerous to admit even to himself. “Stay with me.”

Your hand lightly cups the back of his neck, holding him without caging him. You move closer, settling in his lap, grounding him with the weight of your body against his. He moves at that, grasping your hips and squeezing.

“Stay with me,” you say again, the words as fervent as prayer. His own lips parted, he can taste the breath of each word, sweet and warm, the way a distant part of him remembers things like love could be.

Why? He nearly asks. You won’t.

He had thought himself immune to this sickly feeling. This sense of grief for someone who isn’t yet gone, but you rip it out of him. The truth of the matter is that the Ghoul should never have entertained your company. He should have left you where he found you and been on his way without ever casting a backwards glance. The Ghoul would have.

It’s Cooper who didn’t. It’s Cooper’s hands sliding up your sides, squeezing your ribs and pulling you closer, deeper. He kisses you hungrily, craving you the way the Ghoul can’t. The way a man craves.

I ain’t dead yet.

And neither are you.

Two hundred years of surviving for tomorrow has eroded his ability to exist in the here and now, but your touches demand it of him. Your lips against his bring him into the moment as he lives it. As you live it with him.

“I ever look at you like that again,” he says gruffly, swiping his tongue along his bottom lip, catching yours in the process. He moves you back enough to lock eyes with you. “You put a bullet between my eyes.”

Your lips curve in a bittersweet kind of anguish. “Like you’re gonna eat me? Because right now–”

He gives you a sharp little shake. “Y’know what I mean,” he says, startling the smile off your face. From day one he’s liked your wit, the cavalier way you face life, but on this matter he needs you to hear him. “You ever look at me, and I’m not there, you promise you’ll put me down.”

The set of your mouth turns to a flat line, your gaze somber, and you nod. “I promise.”

Some of the tension in his haggard lungs eases and he kisses you again, need shooting up his spine like a hot geyser. “That’s my girl,” he breathes, leaning back and bringing you with him, saddling you properly astride his lap, his long legs stretched out behind you.

You kiss him back just as hungrily, heedless of the blood and gristle between your melding bodies, and he’s forced to remind himself that this is the only world you’ve ever known. There’s no time before this, not for you. Your life has always been full of horrors, and for reasons he’ll never fully comprehend, you’ve decided he’s one that you want close.

He slips his hands under your thighs and squeezes, hiking your legs around his waist until you’re seated closely enough to feel the growing ache between his legs. You don’t miss a beat, grinding down against him so fervently his breath breaks into a low groan. Not even he can deny his humanity in this. You turn his blood hot and shock the deadened thump of his heart into thunder. You make him feel alive.

He’ll return the favor. He’ll turn his spit to wine on your tongue and make your whole body fucking sing.

Breaking from your lips, he uses his teeth to tug his glove free, letting it fall to the ground. His mouth feels sandpaper dry, but your lips are plenty wet. 

“Open up for me, sweetheart,” he rumbles, parting your lips with the tips of his middle and index fingers. Your eager tongue slips molten wet between his fingers, your eyes hazy on his. He pumps his fingers slowly, cups the back of your head to keep you still while plunging all the way to his last knuckles before drawing them back. “That’s it… Get ‘em good and wet.”

It’s agonizing how easily you fall apart under his touch, and even more so how good you look doing it. Somewhat reluctantly, he withdraws his fingers from your mouth and with practiced ease maneuvers his hand down the front of your pants, curving his fingers to follow the contour of your pelvis until his fingertips slide through hot, wet arousal.

“Cooper,” you exhale, the pitch of your voice canary-sweet. If you have any care regarding the death that surrounds you or the blood between his body and yours, you don’t show it, nor pay it any heed. You’re focused entirely on him, lips parted on shallow breaths of pleasure. He strokes your clit in slow, deliberate circles, the rest of the world falling away the longer he watches your euphoria build.

Fuck, you’re goddamn beautiful. Why the hell you let a creature like him have you is beyond him, but he won’t let go. Not now. Not so long as you still look at him like this.

He swallows dryly, finally slipping his fingers into the welcoming heat of your pretty cunt. You’re soaked, his own personal oasis in the Wastes, velvet walls quivering around his toughened fingers. He angles the pad of his thumb against your clit and starts to finger fuck you in earnest, his cock throbbing beneath you. 

“Fuck,” you keen softly. Your hands braced on his shoulders, you meet every thrust of his hand, huffing divine little sounds while he fucks you with his fingers, crooking them until he feels you shudder.

“Yeah,” he breathes, enraptured. “That’s it. Got y’now, don’t I? Ah ah, don’t get shy on me,” he tsks when your eyes fall shut. “Eyes on me, darlin’. Eyes on me,” he says, voice frayed. You pry your eyes back open and hold his gaze, your own heavily lidded. “Good, s’good. Y’close now, ain’t’cha, sweetie?”

You nod fervently, moans bubbling up instead of words, your sweet features twisted in the exquisite agony that comes just before climax. You roll your palms against his shoulders, fingers digging into the thick fabric of his coat. He wishes he could feel the bite of your nails on his bare skin, wishes it were his cock sinking into you, but all that wistfulness is erased the second you cry out, your back arching, your cunt squeezing his fingers as you’re pitched forward into the throes of release.

Cooper grits his teeth, baring them like an animal as he fucks you through the tremors, grabbing hold of your jaw to keep you from collapsing, to keep your eyes on him. You slide your hands up and cup either side of his face, yanking him into a messy kiss. He falls into it easily, slowing the thrust of his fingers as the aftershocks of your orgasm settle until his hand is still against you, fingers pressed in deep, savoring the feel of you.

You kiss him leisurely with tongue, teeth and barely sated hunger. Your bliss slows you, and Cooper is content to simply feel. Even the lingering ache of his own need is a welcome sensation in a world he so often walks through feeling numb.

After a time, he slides his fingers from your pants, wiping them absently on his own before wrapping his arms around you. You sink into him in turn, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. The sun has almost disappeared completely, and the chill of night is beginning to nip the air. All of this carnage will attract predators soon, but he finds himself unable to rush the matter. His embrace tightens.

“I love you,” you murmur.

There was a time long before his heart became an open grave that he would have been eager to return the sentiment, but hearing those three little words turns his tongue to lead. They flood him with memories of an era where love came naturally–the way only violence does now–and shooting a man in the head was the most abhorrent act he could fathom for himself.

These days, a headshot is a kindness.

His stomach is tight, a bile-like burn creeping up his throat. He screws his eyes shut, swallowing it back. To his relief, you aren’t tense with anticipation. Instead, you pepper butterfly light kisses along the scarred column of his throat, paying special attention to the nicks and scars along the way to his jaw.

You kiss him. He takes your face in his hands and deepens it, pushing into you until your back arches. 

“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispers against your lips, the words both a promise and a prayer. Not to God–He gave up on God a long time ago–this prayer is for you. It’s what he knows. It’s what he is. No matter the monster that threatens you, you’ll always have one of your own to bite back. You’ll always have him.

Strained, quieter yet, he says, “I swear.”

Or so help me, I’ll swallow the bullet myself.

“I know,” you say, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. There’s a blissful kind of sorrow in your expression, but so too is there understanding. He kisses you, closing his eyes against the dry burn of them. He’s not sure he’s even capable of tears anymore. He’s been worn down to the bone by sandstorms and bloodshed. Nothing goes untouched by the misery of the Wastes. No one goes through it unscathed.

What he does know is that he will do everything in his power to see that you’re never broken by it.

[artbyblastweave]

Still playing Skyrim. And I’m interested to report that the game is actually better than I remember, on balance. But I’m kind of fascinated by what’s going on with Lydia, mechanically and narratively.

Lydia is the first follower who gets shoved in your face just by virtue of following the main quest. There are others you can pick up earlier, but not without finishing errands (for Faendal and Sven), by forking up a pretty big chunk of change for the early game by hiring Janessa, or by going out of your way in some other manner. If you’re completely new to the game and you’re just powering through the main story as it’s presented, she’s the first option for a follower that the game highlights for you in giant blinking neon lights. And as a quest reward, she’s mechanically kind of a godsend at that point in the story; a doubling of carry capacity, an excellent meat shield and distraction, a way to extract utility from weapons and armor you don’t want to use yourself. More subjectively she provides the impression of a stalwart ally or companion in what can be a very lonely worldspace to exist in. There’s very little reason not to take her with you, and once you have her, the majority of companions being equal, there’s very little reason to get rid of her until she stops level scaling.

Despite the mechanical utility Lydia provides at a crucial point, and the resultant likelyhood that you’ll haul her along for the ride, she’s only a couple steps up from the companion cube. She has no specific, non-fungible impact on the narrative beyond demonstrating Jarl Balgruuf’s favor. Her deferral to you is automatic; if someone is actively paying her a salary to help you defile graves, cut deals with every deity on the continent and invade the afterlife, it sure as hell isn’t you. It isn’t clear what her gig under Balgruuf was before she was assigned to you. She has no personal narrative. She has no personal side quest. One of her biggest inklings of personality is when she expresses vague dissatisfaction with being treated as a pack mule, but then she does it anyway.  She’s party to world-shaking events and political upheavals, but she’s present purely in her capacity as your appendix, so reality simply treats her as your plus-one. 

She’ll block doors you’re trying to get through, and she’ll get mad at you if you push her out of the way. She’ll charge into battle or set off traps while you’re trying to sneak. She’ll microaggress you with stock Nord dialogue while pulverizing your enemies, a plurality of whom are also Nords. She’ll distract bosses long enough to buy you breathing room for a healing spell or a potion. You’ll kill her by accident with an ill-timed area-of-effect spell, roll your eyes, and, ultimately, probably reload your save. Because she might only be a couple steps up from a companion cube, but the whole gag with the companion cube is how ridiculously low the threshold is for the audience to get genuinely attached to something in a video game. A thin character invites apophenia. Behaviors that are purely downstream of dev thoughtlessness will still imply character traits if taken at Watsonian Face Value. In this case, inexplicable undying loyalty, reserved comments on impressive landmarks, and comical stoicism in the face of some of the weirdest events it’s conceptually possible to encounter.  So here’s to weird, underbaked companions in Bethesda Games, and everything we can project onto the void they provide. And Here’s to that related genus of character- units in squad-based tactics or management-sim games with permadeath mechanics who last long enough and accumulate enough equipment, skill points, etc. that they become your Special Little Guy despite otherwise lacking any deliberate character traits.

[orangepeelknives]

i am humbly asking for your virgin mojitos deleted scenes (if you are ok with sharing them of course)

tbh shouldve seen this coming lol! here r the big ones, either didnt think they were that necessary or just didnt flesh them all the way out! be warned these arent edited (because i edited them out duhhhh)

arcade scene:

Will picked the noisiest arcade in Massachusetts on purpose. Mack was sure of it.

It was the kind of place that reeked of cheap pizza and static electricity, and had a million different flashing colors blinking in his peripheral vision. Kids were running around everywhere, screaming like they were on fire. There was a claw machine that looked like it had last been stocked in 2009, a DDR setup half-broken, and a giant inflatable Pikachu duct-taped to the ceiling.

“This is where I thrive,” Will said, cracking his knuckles like they were entering a war zone.

Mack narrowed his eyes. “You brought me here to lose.”

���Incorrect. I brought you here so I could win in front of a witness.”

Mack didn’t dignify that with a response. He grabbed a reloadable card from the counter and stormed off toward the air hockey table.

Will jogged after him, already grinning wide. “Oh, it’s like that?”

“It’s always like that.”

The air hockey table was jammed between a Jurassic Park shooter and a wheel-spin game that shrieked every time someone won five tickets. Mack barely noticed. He was already sliding the puck across the table, testing the feel, trying to get his angles right.

Will swiped their card with an unnecessary flourish and raised his eyebrows like he was about to take Mack to school. “Ready to be humbled, Celly?”

“You play like a moron.”

Will shrugged. “Still wins.”

The game started with a satisfying ka-chunk of the puck dropping. Mack lunged immediately, scoring off a ricochet before Will even got his hand in position.

Will squawked. “Cheap shot!”

“Your fault for doing crowd work instead of playing.”

“You’re insufferable.”

Mack just grinned, laser-focused. The table lit up in seizure-inducing LED colors every time someone scored. Will got two quick ones in, somehow banking the puck off the wall like a pool shark, and Mack instantly saw red.

He was going to destroy Will.

They devolved into chaos fast – Mack barking orders at himself like a one-man coaching staff, Will narrating the game like a drunk sportscaster, both of them whacking at the puck like their lives depended on it. Mack used his wingspan to block every trick shot Will tried. Will cheated by talking nonstop and trying to distract him mid-hit. Mack retaliated by bouncing the puck off Will’s knuckles, which earned him a yelp and a “I think you broke my hand!”

Mack won 7–5. Barely. But a win was a win.

“I demand a rematch,” Will said, clutching his hand dramatically and following Mack to the basketball shootout.

“You can’t handle a rematch.”

Things went downhill from there, for Mack’s ego.

Air hockey turned into basketball shootout turned into skee-ball turned into some game that involved throwing rubber balls at clowns’ faces, which Will was unnervingly good at. Mack kept losing narrowly, which only made him worse, snappier, louder, more determined. Every time Will laughed at him, which was often, it only fueled the fire.

“You cheat,” Mack accused, as Will beat him by two points in the football throwing game.

“It’s called being elite,” Will replied, spinning his reload card between his fingers like a magician.

They argued over who won the racing game (“you hit the wall, that’s a disqualification”) and then got sucked into a two-person shooter that had them ducking behind the fake plastic cover and yelling instructions like they were in a military training simulation.

Somewhere between that and the basketball rematch – Mack won that one by four points, and refused to shut up about it – they collapsed in two cracked plastic chairs with blue raspberry slushies and popcorn.

Will had popcorn in his hair. Mack wasn’t going to tell him.

“I’ve never heard you yell that much in public,” Will said, nudging his foot against Mack’s under the table.

“You elbowed me during skee-ball.”

“You elbowed me first.”

Mack grinned into his cup. “Still mad I beat you at basketball.”

Will groaned, flopping sideways. “I literally smoked you the first time, you’re the one who just needed a rematch.”

They sat like that for a second. Mack kicked at Will’s ankle again, softer this time. 

Will made a fake wounded noise, like Mack had just drop-kicked him. “Abuse,” he muttered. “This is abuse.”

“You started it,” Mack said, which wasn’t even true. He nudged Will’s ankle again, more like a press than a kick. Left it there.

Will didn’t move away.

It was dumb, probably, how warm that made Mack feel. How stupidly content. They were just sitting at a table in an arcade that smelled like melted plastic and old pizza, surrounded by screaming kids and malfunctioning sound effects. Will’s tongue was blue from the slushie. Mack’s back kind of hurt from leaning too far into the zombie shooter cabinet. And yet.

“You good?” Will asked, eyes flicking over to him. Not joking, not teasing. Just… checking. He was always doing that – just checking on Mack.

Mack shrugged. “Yeah.”

Will gave him a look.

Mack rolled his eyes, but it came out softer than usual. “I’m good. It was fun.”

Will grinned, loose and happy. “Knew you’d like it.”

Mack didn’t respond to that. Just tipped his slushie cup back and let the last of the syrupy ice melt on his tongue. He could still feel Will’s ankle resting against his.

“Do we have enough tickets for the blender?” Will asked suddenly, squinting across the arcade at the sad little prize counter.

Mack laughed. “We have enough for like… two Tootsie Rolls and a pencil eraser.”

“Great,” Will said, pushing himself upright like he was preparing for a mission. “I want to get us matching slap bracelets.”

“Oh my god.”

Will grabbed both their cups and tossed them in the trash, then held his hand out like they were storming Normandy.

“Come on, partner,” he said. “Time to claim our spoils.”

Mack didn’t even hesitate. Just took the hand, let Will pull him up. Let himself be dragged back into the chaos of it all – lights and sound and sugar and everything.

Will still had popcorn in his hair. Mack still wasn’t going to tell him.

***

sunset scene:

The sun was starting to hit that syrupy golden point when they got to Race Point. Will kicked off his shoes immediately, wading out into the sand.

Mack followed slower, hoodie tugged over his head even though the breeze was warm. His shoes stayed on.

“Take them off, freak,” Will called, already flopping down into the sand like it was a mattress.

“I don’t want sand in my socks.”

“Then don’t wear socks.”

“That’s gross.”

Will made a big show of sighing dramatically, star-fishing across the beach as if Mack’s refusal to bare his feet was ruining everything.

Still, he didn’t push. Just patted the spot beside him.

Mack sat. The sand was soft and packed tight, still warm from the day. He dug his fingers into it. Didn’t say anything.

They sat in silence for a bit, the wind rustling low around them, gulls calling out overhead. The ocean stretched forever, silver and peach and gold under the setting sun.

“Okay,” Will said eventually. “Kinda hot take, but I think sunsets might be elite.”

Mack snorted. “That’s your hot take?”

“Yeah. Like, people act like they’re overhyped, but I think they’re actually underrated. I’d watch a sunset every day if I could.”

“That’s what happens when the sun goes down, dumbass.”

Will squinted at him. “You’re ruining my moment.”

“You never shut up long enough to have a moment.”

Will grinned, sand in his hair and sunlight stuck to his skin like he was glowing. “Deep down, I think you like when I talk.”

Mack didn’t respond. Just leaned back on his hands, stared out at the water like it might help him breathe slower. The sky was doing that stupid cotton candy thing, and Will was right here, close enough that their shoulders kept brushing when the wind shifted.

Mack didn’t know how to say he was gonna miss this. He didn’t even know what this was. Just that it felt… big. Bigger than anything he’d thought about before this summer. Bigger than winning games or keeping his head down or sticking to the plan. Bigger than whatever version of himself he’d been at BU.

Will nudged him. “You’re doing the face.”

“What face.”

“The one where you’re thinking too hard and pretending you’re not.”

Mack shot him a glare, but it was lazy, dulled by the sun and the fact that Will was right. Again.

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

Will didn’t push. Just tilted his face toward the last sliver of sun and closed his eyes. His hair was a mess, and his arm was still brushing Mack’s. He looked stupidly content. Mack stared for a second too long.

He looked away, out at the horizon. It was orange now, soft and slow and impossible to hold onto.

“Elite,” he muttered.

Will cracked one eye open. “Huh?”

“Sunset. It’s elite.”

Will’s grin was too wide. “Knew you’d come around.”

“Shut up,” Mack said, but didn’t move away.

He just kept his hand buried in the sand between them, fingers brushing the edge of Will’s. Not quite touching. Not quite not.

They sat there like that until the sun disappeared completely.

***

basement scene:

“Grace is an enabler,” Mack said, squinting at the now half-empty box like it had personally offended him.

Will tipped it sideways over their pair of plastic cups. “Grace is a saint. She didn’t even ask what it was for.”

“Because she knew.”

Will grinned. “Yeah, but she didn’t say it.”

They were sitting cross-legged on the floor of Will’s basement, surrounded by old hockey gear, a beanbag chair that had definitely seen some things, and the dusty glow of a single string of Christmas lights still half-hanging from a past holiday. The air smelled like dryer sheets and teenage boy.

Mack took a sip and grimaced. “This is disgusting.”

“It’s complex,” Will said, swirling his wine like a sommelier. “Notes of cherry. Battery acid. Sadness.”

“Something’s definitely rotting in there,” Mack muttered, drinking more anyway.

Will was already giggling, actual, full giggles, which Mack had learned was a late-stage warning sign. He flopped sideways onto the beanbag and patted the floor next to him like he was inviting a small dog over.

Mack rolled his eyes but obeyed, collapsing down next to him and bumping their shoulders together, the kind of physical closeness that only didn’t mean anything when it was Will. The wine sloshed a little in his cup. He didn’t care.

“I used to think wine was fancy,” Mack said.

Will tilted his head toward him, grinning. “Still is. We’re classy as hell.”

“We’re sitting in your basement.”

“With ambiance,” Will corrected. “Mood lighting. Cultural depth.”

“You mean the Christmas lights and the laundry room smell?”

“I said it’s called ambiance, Macklin.”

Mack huffed a laugh, slouched down further until his head tilted back against the wall. He could hear Will breathing next to him, soft and slow, and the wine made everything feel like it had soft edges. Will’s knee kept bumping his.

“I’m kind of drunk,” Mack admitted.

Will bumped their cups together. “Good.”

They sat there like that for a while, letting the boxed wine do its thing. Will started humming something under his breath. Mack couldn’t tell what it was. He didn’t ask.

“Hey,” Will said suddenly, voice warm and close. “This’s been a good week, right?”

Mack blinked at him. Will’s face was flushed, all bright-eyed and open like it always was when he got tipsy. Like everything in the world was a gift he’d been lucky enough to unwrap.

“Yeah,” Mack said quietly. “It’s been good.”

Will smiled, real and sleepy. “We should do this every summer.”

Mack didn’t answer. Just took another sip of the wine and let their arms press together, steady and warm in the soft glow of fake Christmas.

[call-me-copycat]

Let's play a game! Here are all the characters who I recently found out are also voiced by the same person who voices (JP) Shinso!

(His Voice Actor's name is Wataru Hatano)

Gajeel Redfox [FairyTail]

Ritsu Kasanoda [Ouran High School Host Club]

Motojirō Kajii [Bungo Stray Dogs]

Yahiko [Naruto Shippuden]

Largan Drace [Mobile Suit Gundam AGE]

Shaiapouf [Hunter x Hunter]

Metal Bat [One Punch Man]

Okada [Uzumaki]

Haruta Shigemo [Jujutsu Kaisen]

Todd Ingram [Scott Pilgrim Takes Off]

Pipimi [Pop Team Epic] (Briefly - Part B singing voice)

(This was the episode, by the way. I don't know...what was going on here ^^;)

Taro [Mob Psycho 100]

Chiral [Sailor Moon Crystal]

Miscellaneous Characters:

Sammy (young) [A Turtle's Tale: Sammy's Adventures]

Luke [Thomas and Friends] (JP sub - 1984 version)

And now for video game characters he's voiced! (⁠・⁠∀⁠・⁠)

Josuke Higashikata [JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Eyes of Heaven]

Chiave [Arknights]

Kenji Tomochika [Persona 3: Reload]

Kakeru Hasegawa [Monarch]

x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x

I was inspired to make this post after finding out that the voice of Shinso was also the voice of Gajeel! I watched a good chunk of Fairy Tail growing up so I got curious and decided to see who else he voiced (⁠๑⁠¯⁠◡⁠¯⁠๑⁠)

Definitely going to do this with more characters! ( ˶'ᵕ'˶)و.ᐟ.ᐟ

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

The Beast Inside

Werewolf!reader finally! I've been wanting to write a werewolf rampage for quite a while but never quite got around to it until now!!!

Summary: Reader loses control of the wolf and tries to come to terms with the beast inside all whilst taking care of Astarion.

The paladin’s blade comes down, swinging in an arc of light and you stand there, eyes wide with shock as the steel tears through your flesh, carving open your shoulder. Blood sprays from the wound, staining your clothes red with your own blood.

“Y/N!” You can hear the distant shouts of your companions, calling your name. Your wound burns, probably from the infusion of the paladin’s abilities in the strike that connected and blood roars in your ears. All you can think about is how that same paladin had captured Astarion, had their way with him, nearly killed your vampire lover, and the beast inside takes over, roaring in delight.

You will not lose him.

You feel your bones cracking and skin stretching as claws take the place of fingers, fur sprouting from your body. Your jaw lengthens, teeth sharpening into fangs and your nose becomes narrower. The wound in your shoulder begins to seal itself shut, flesh growing back and knitted by furred skin. The sharp metallic scent of blood fills your nose and you inhale it all. You can smell the fear in the air as the paladin shrinks back, greatsword pointed at you but the weapon is rattling.

That sword will never pierce you again.

The paladin’s hands shake as your wild gaze locks onto them, yellow eyes burning with an inhumane thirst for blood, saliva dripping from long thick fangs nestled in powerful jaws. A howl bursts forth from deep within you, claws flexing and you pounce on your prey, sending the paladin crashing to the floor. Armour is ripped apart like paper underneath the werewolf’s claws and jaws snap, crushing the helmet to reveal the paladin’s terrified face.

“Please –” Their cries are cut short as sharp claws tear open their exposed flesh, ripping their face in two. More blood gushes out and the paladin is already dead but the beast keeps going, jaws tearing the paladin’s body into a bloody mess. The werewolf stands back up in the sticky mess of blood and guts, crimson dripping from its muzzle and takes a step towards the paladin’s frightened companions.

The cleric drops to his knees and tries to scuttle away but the werewolf is faster, tearing open his throat with its jaws and devours the chunk of meat torn away. The werewolf snarls, reaching back into the convulsing body and rips away another chunk, sending blood flying everywhere. The body finally stills, having lost too much blood but the werewolf continues to rip at the flesh piece by piece, painting the entire floor a deep red.

Its nostrils flare, blazing yellow eyes turning towards the last member of the paladin’s party. The vampire hunter stares at the beast, shaky hands aiming a crossbow at its head. Its lips curl upwards, almost like a grin as it stalks towards the hunter, leaving a trail of bloody paw prints behind.

“You monster!” An arrow is fired, piercing through the beast’s face and causing it to stumble back, but it regains its footing just as quickly, its head snapping forward. The maniacal grin still remains, with the beast’s blood streaming from the wound. Crimson fangs bare at the hunter, yellow eyes gleaming as the beast reaches up with a clawed hand and rips the arrow free, laughing. The throaty laugh sends shivers up everyone’s spines as it devolves into a howl and claws swipe at the hunter, who barely manages to dodge the blow. The beast snarls, jaws snapping at thin air as the hunter moves out of the way, reloading his crossbow.

Another arrow is fired but the beast dodges in time. Its clawed feet dig into the ceramic floor tiles and it launches itself with terrifying speed at the unprepared hunter. Claws slam into the hunter’s chest, sending him crashing into the wall behind and knocking all breath out of his body. The werewolf bares its bloody fangs, jaws clamping around the hunter’s throat to crush through flesh and bone alike, coating its chest in the blood that sprayed from the fatal wound. It tears into the corpse, ripping it apart with ferocious savagery and gorges itself on the flesh until it is satisfied.

Then it turns to Y/N’s companions.

A soft growl rumbles from its chest and it stalks towards where Astarion lies, curled up and shivering. Lae’zel takes a step towards the beast, ready to strike it down before it can harm the vampire but Halsin holds her back, giving a shake of his head.

It feels its bones cracking and skin stretching once more as its body shrinks back into its human form. Claws shorten back into fingers and toes, its furred chest shrinks back into a female’s chest, its jaw shortening back into a human mouth. Fangs recede, making way for human teeth and pointed ears round themselves again to nestle behind hair.

But the blood remains.

“Astarion,” you whisper, reaching out to him with your bloody hand. He flinches when your fingertips bump into his skin, a quiet whimper escaping his lips and you immediately pull back. You sit on your haunches, at a loss of what to do. You want to help, you want to pull your lover into your arms and hold him tight, whisper away all his pain but you can’t even touch him.

“It’s me, Y/N,” you try again. You ignore the sticky feeling of blood that covers hands, feet and chest and hold out a hand with your palm upturned. “You’re safe now. No one can harm you anymore, I won’t allow it.”

“Don’t look at me,” Astarion croaks. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“It doesn’t make me love you any less,” you say firmly. “I’ve seen you at your lowest and I’ve seen you at your highest, neither has changed the fact that I love you. Nothing ever will.”

You sit there, patiently. “I didn’t want you to see this either. The beast that lives inside me, the real me. I hate it, that part of me. We all have at least one part of ourselves that we hate, maybe we even hate all parts of ourselves, but what we do with that part makes us who we are.”

The rest of your companions quietly make their exit, giving the two of them some time alone. You give them a grateful nod as they leave and turn back to Astarion who hasn’t moved an inch.

“You’re strong, Astarion. Far stronger than you think, far stronger than me. You accept the part you hate about yourself and live with it while I pretend it doesn’t exist, suppressing the beast. I wish I could be like you.” The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. “I admire you, and love you no matter how much you despise yourself.”

Astarion curls tighter into a ball, burying his face into his knees. You gently place your blood-stained cloak over him and simply continue to sit there, facing away from him to give him some privacy whilst keeping an eye on him via your sharpened hearing. You hear him drawing shaky breaths out of habit, miniscule sobs slipping past his lips on occasion and your heart breaks. If only you were stronger, faster, more powerful, then maybe he wouldn’t have had to suffer like this, maybe you would have been able to prevent all this from happening.

Your thoughts begin to devour you, thrusting you into a swirling haze of self-hatred and self-doubt. They crowd out everything else, ensnaring you in their web and trapping you in darkness but two quietly spoken words pierce through the cloud and the dark haze begins to part.

“Thank you.”

You sit up with a start, turning to find your vampire lover has shifted into a sitting position, cloak still firmly bundled around him. He looks at you with tear-stained ruby eyes and shuffles closer, leaning against you and burying his face into your shoulder, ignoring the blood that coats it.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “For yelling at you.”

“All’s been forgiven long ago,” you hum. Your arm hovers around him, unsure of whether he would welcome a hug but he pulls your arm around his waist, washing away all doubt immediately.

Astarion relaxes in your embrace, the warmth a stark contrast to his cold skin and rests his head against your chest. The steady thumping of your heart sends a nice strange feeling surging through him and a soft sigh escapes his lips. He lets you rest your chin on his head and the corners of his lips twitch upwards when he hears a familiar rumbling sound coming from your chest.

You wipe your hand on your pants to try and get rid of the blood before running your fingers through his hair, gently unknotting it as you go along. Your breath hitches, disgust bubbling to the surface when you realise you’re still getting blood on his silver hair despite your best efforts. The wolf had spilled that much blood in one fight. You swallow the bile rising to your throat, Astarion comes first, he is the one who needs to be taken care of, your problems can wait another day.

He shifts slightly, giving you a better angle to comb through his hair but you can still see a hint of trepidation in his eyes.

“If you want me to stop, just say it and I will stop. I promise.” You remove your hand from his hair, concerned. You know Astarion likes to keep things to himself, but so far he has been open about his likes and dislikes to you, understanding that you can take no as an answer.

“I…don’t stop. Please,” he whispers. “I don’t want to associate this with anyone but you.”

You feel your cheeks heat up at his words and press a kiss to the top of his head to hide your embarrassment. Despite knowing what you truly are, he still chose you and found safety in your arms. Maybe, if he could accept you as you truly are, one day you could do the same. A vampire spawn and a werewolf, what a couple the two of you made.

“As you wish,” you murmur and the both of you remain like that for some time before Astarion stirs once more, untangling himself from the safety of your bloodstained arms.

“We should get going before the others fall apart trying to settle dinner,” he smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“We don’t have to move if you don’t want to, the others can wait for all I care,” you huff.

“As much as I love you darling, I would much prefer cuddling in a bedroll than on this hard ground.” A small piece of light returns to his eyes when he hears you bark a laugh at his words, his favourite grin of yours splayed on your face.

“Your wish is my command,” you chuckle, giving his hand a small squeeze. He grasps your hand tightly, whispering something inaudible even to your sharp ears before looking at you with a fondness you can’t quite describe.

“Thank you,” he breathes. “For everything.”

“Right back at you, Star.”

[asolareclipses]

(Previous Part)

Taking a bus halfway across Maine was not on Nicos bucket list. Yet, there he was in a stuffy bus that looked, and smelled, like it had been made back in the 20’s—which Nico would know, he was there. Next to him Leo sat anything but still, his fingers drumming against the arm rests and occasionally grabbing things from his tool belt to tinker with. Sometimes he looked like a toddler hyped up on too much sugar. His constant movement comforted Nico though, it was a reminder that he wasn’t alone.

Of course he was still mad at Leo for ruining his genius plan to face a goddess alone, or at least he was trying to convince himself he was mad.

“Dude, this bus needs so much work.” Leo said, as he held up his freshly made penguin that consisted of various screws. “I’m not sure how they got it to last this long, it’s like beyond messed up.”

“Probably why the tickets were so cheap,” Nico replied as he watched the screw penguin’s head bobble around.

“I give it about an hour before it breaks down,” Leo suddenly paused, titling his head as if he were hearing something. “Scratch that she’s going down now.”

As soon as he said that the bus sputtered, losing speed as the driver pulled over to the side of the road.

“Sorry everyone, we seem to be having some problems.” The bus driver grumpily announced, he acted as if this were a regular occasion.

“It’s my time to shine,” Leo grinned as he stood up from the seat. “Don’t worry mortals, Leo’s got this all under control.”

“Please ignore him,” Nico gave the few confused passengers a smile as he pushed Leo towards the door. “You can just call people mortals.”

“Oops,” Leo shrugged as he hopped down from the last bus step onto the pavement. “Anyways let’s see what’s up with this bad boy.”

Nico rolled his eyes as Leo popped open the hood of the bus to reveal the engine. The driver appeared shocked, as Leo shouldn’t have been able to just open it without releasing the latch.

“Hey kid, what do you think you’re doing?” The driver called out as he slowly made his way out of the bus.

“Just fixing up some stuff, don’t mind me.” Leo didn’t even look up as he pulled some tools out of his belt.

Nico was about to try and mediate the situation when he realized something was wrong. Back in the bus he hadn’t noticed it due to the overpowering musk of age, but the driver was most definitely a monster.

By the change of expression on the drivers face, Nico saw that he too realized they weren’t just regular mortals. Leo was, of course, oblivious to this.

“Looks like I have a rat problem,” The bus driver snarled in their direction.

“Nope, not rats, just a really rusted battery.” Leo offhandedly replied.

“Leo, he’s not talking about the bus.” Nico nudged him, as the mist around the driver began to evaporate, morphing his two eyes into one.

“Then what is he-holy smokes!” Leo dropped his wrench in surprise as he saw the undercover cyclopes be revealed.

“Should’ve known you demigods would’ve snuck in here sooner or later,” The driver clenched his bulky fists as if preparing himself to attack.

Nico scanned the area for any makeshift weapon, he was really regretting leaving his sword behind.

“Hey buddy,” Leo raised his hands in attempt to reason, “I’ll fix your bus for free, how about you don’t kill us?”

“Killing you is much better than driving this piece of junk,” His eye was focused on Nico as he spoke. “Especially you, you reek of the underworld.”

“And you reek of spoiled eggs,” Nico snapped back, “at least I have an excuse, what’s yours?”

The cyclopes didn’t like that, which was made apparent by him grabbing a chunk of dirt and lobbing it towards them.

“Hit the deck!” Leo called, which didn’t really apply to them as there was no ‘deck’ but Nico didn’t point that out. Instead, he dropped to the floor as the piece of earth sailed past their heads.

“Leo, does your tool belt supply weapons?” Nico asked while the cyclopes reloaded on dirt.

Leo rummaged for a moment before pulling out a weird hatchet-hammer tool, which later Nico found out was a drywall hammer. “How’s this?”

“Good enough,” Nico said as he grabbed the hammer thing.

Another mound of dirt flew towards them but it was blasted to dust when Leo shot a ball of fire towards it. “Take that dirt boy!” He screamed.

Using Leo as a distraction Nico bolted off to the side, running around the bus so that he ended up behind the cyclopes. Unfortunately the cyclopes seemed to have predicted this as he quickly spun around, his arm slamming into Nico resulting in him being thrown into the side of the bus.

Before the cyclopes could do anymore damage Leo screamed, “Take this dirt face!” Then a wrench bounced off the back of the cyclopes’s head.

A flash of rage appeared on the cyclopes’s face as he turned towards Leo, grabbing an extra large chunk of dirt. “Oh you’re going to regret that.”

“I am?” Leo asked with a grin.

The cyclopes had forgotten about Nico leaving him the perfect opportunity, “I will crush you-” The cyclopes stopped mid sentence as Nico stabbed the hatchet into his back. Then with a look of shock, he erupted into dust.

“Nice!” Leo called out.

“Yeah..” Nico winced as he looked down at his arm, the bandages had been soaked through with blood after the hard hit he took.

“Dude, ouch.” Leo’s smile dropped as his eyes moved over the once white gauze.

“It’s fine,” Nico sighed looking back towards the bus, “more importantly. What are we going to do now?”

Leo seemed to realize they were now faced with a bus full of angry commuters, with no bus driver, and still had about 150 miles to go. “Right, looks like we’re taking a ride on the Leo express!”

—

Leo knew how to drive, mostly.

While he’d never taken the time to get an official license, he knew machines better than anyone. A bus was certainly easier to handle than a giant flying ship.

Fixing the engine was also a piece of cake.

The difficult part was the passengers, turns out they weren’t thrilled by the sudden staff change.

“There’s no way we can just let a 15 year old drive!”

“Hey!” Leo snapped at the lady who looked like she was about to demand to speak to his supervisor. “I’ll have you know i’m 18!”

“Do you even have a license?”

“Now now, everyone calm down. Listen, i’m a trained professional.” Leo shrugged with his palms up, “I mean, do you want to stay on the side of the road forever?”

The bus went quiet with defeat.

“Right, well then sit down, get comfortable, because the Leo train is leaving the station!” Leo didn’t get the cheers and applause he expected from that statement, just a few groans and unpleasant mutters.

Soon, the bus was driving smoothly across the roads and Leo barely had to pay attention as he’d fixed up a temporary autopilot gadget. Beside him, Nico winced as he removed the bandages from his scratches. Somehow the wound looked worse.

“Dude, that looks really bad,” Leo frowned as he pulled out more bandages from his tool belt.

“It’s fine,” Nico mumbled, not even looking up at Leo.

“Yeah you keep saying that but I’ve yet to start believing it.”

Nico wrapped the bandages carefully around his arm, gritting his teeth as he tried to hide the pain. “It’s just a scratch, i’ve seen worse.”

That didn’t comfort Leo, in fact in made him feel worse. Of course, it’s only expected that a demigod face some pretty rough injuries here and there—Leo himself had seen quite a few. But Nico’s insistence on ignoring his pain made Leo worried that if it were to be serious, he’d never know.

Despite that, he knew arguing would just make Nico more annoyed, so he tried to liven up the atmosphere. “You know, if we were in an episode of the Magic School Bus right now you’d be Arnold.”

“What the Hades is the Magic School Bus?” Nico looked at Leo as if he were crazy.

Leo threw his head back in exasperation, “You’ve got to be joking! You don’t know the Frizz?”

“The what?”

“That’s it, i’m making a list of all the things you need to watch when we get back to camp.”

“Whatever,” Nico rolled his eyes, “as long as you don’t put Twilight on there i’m happy.”

“Hold up, Twilight?” Leo tried and failed to hold back a smile.

“Yeah, Will told me it was iconic, or whatever.” Nico paused as if remembering something unpleasant, “If iconic means torturous, then it surely was.”

Leo burst into laughter at the thought of Nico actually watching Twilight, “Dont worry, we will not be watching any vampire shows.”

The rest of the ride was spent with Leo determining what things Nico had and hadn’t watched. Turns out Will had caught him up on quite a lot, but Leo still developed a lengthy list of things he would bless Nico with. In a way Nico’s unawareness of modern culture reminded him of Jason, due to his upbringing by wolves he was a bit out of the loop when it came to many popular things. Leo figured he’d do a “modern culture” class at camp, maybe invite Hazel. The idea made him smile, it was something to look forward to.

Eventually, they made it to the bus station, where he and Nico quickly snuck away to avoid suspicion. To their luck no one at the station had realized what happened until they were long gone.

Not to their luck, they still had a five mile walk ahead of them.

They spent a large part of the walk in silence, as it was hard to focus on anything other than the heat. Eventually, Leo got bored and tried to think about anything else, his mind wandering back to their previous conversation.

“I’m really wishing I had a magic school bus right about now,” Leo whined as he trudged forward. The warm air was now unpleasant as the sun beamed down upon him.

“And i’m really wishing I left you back at camp.”

“Hey!” Leo glared at Nico who bit back a smile, “You’re lucky! I blessed you with my company.”

Nico scoffed, “Right, blessed, that’s the word I was looking for.”

“Why does this place have to be out in the middle of nowhere?” Leo asked as he peered into the distance in hopes of seeing the outline of the school.

“Guess they didn’t want any kids running off,” Nico shrugged. “Honestly I don’t remember much about it, I was only there for like a year?” He seemed to think about it for a moment before giving up.

“That was after the casino?” Leo asked, he decided to take this as a chance to ask more about Nico’s past. It was the one topic Nico avoided, or maybe Leo was the one who avoided it, after all he knew how much old memories could hurt.

“Yeah, time felt so messed up back then. I mean it was like seventy years? But then suddenly i’m in the 20th century at some school in a state i’d never heard of before.” Nico sighed, “Not sure how I wasn’t more confused, it just felt normal, or whatever I thought normal was.”

Leo nodded, he was afraid to speak, careful to not scare Nico away.

“You don’t have to be so on edge,” Nico turned to look at him, almost as if he’d read his mind.

“I’m not...” Leo paused, “It’s just you’ve never talked in depth about this stuff with me before.”

“Yeah, I hadn’t talked about it with anyone until Will. But Mr. D says ‘talking is good,’ so might as well take his advice for once.”

The idea of Mr. D being a therapist threw Leo for a loop but he didn’t say anything about it, “Yeah, I guess I never really told anyone about all my stuff until Jason.”

Nico suddenly smirked, “You too seem pretty close.”

Leo’s face flushed red as he avoided Nico’s eyes, “What? No-I mean, of course we’re close, we’re best friends. Totally platonic best friends.”

“Right, and I totally believe you.” Nico rolled his eyes with a grin. There was a peaceful silence for a split second before Nico’s smile faded. Now, in the distance the outline of a large school could be seen.

Nico sighed, a hesitant look flashing across his face before he spoke, “We’re here. Welcome to Westover.”

Part Six

[lattesaber]

Big long rambly incoherent essay and analysis incoming on the forcefield/pot/light ban since I have an unhealthy obsession with having minecraft game knowledge, and I looked up how the ban works and tested pot breaking mechanics ingame, and thought of possible (but hard) ways that ppl could break the chunkbans so:

The pot/light level ban that Squiddo has been doing is the same thing as the chunk ban that was in the strength dimension (strength smp), and in a video by Tai, Kenadian explains how you can be immune to that ban, by already having loaded a chunk before any bans were placed, essentially having it already loaded while it was still safe.

However, if you log out of the chunk, or if you unload then reload the chunk later, you're no longer safe. Any sort of rendering of that pot will get you chunkbanned, so keeping your render distance as low as possible (minimum is 2) is important so you have way less risk of getting chunkbanned by a pot somewhere nearby.

Minute and Clown were immune to the chunk ban bcs they were already standing/loading the chunk before the pot was placed. Zam was not because he's already been disconnecting around that area so he wasn't safe. Minute and Clown are no longer immune to the existing chunkbans though because they logged out/unloaded those chunks.

Which is why Squiddo NEEDED the chaos emerald to actually work and kick the owners, sadly they didn't fall for the logout thing either, alternatively they could have had the owners unload then reload a chunk with the pot already placed by telling them to turn down their render distance or to walk somewhere then come back, but that'd be sus as hell ㅠㅠ

Now that the pots are already placed in spawn tho people will not be able to even step near there unless they find a way to destroy them from a distance, but they'd have to find the pots first and the two ways I can see it being done is

1. Flashback/replay modding but idk if it will also crash your replay/flashback

2. Be loading the chunk already before the pot gets placed (not gonna work for the pots already placed in spawn. The chaos emerald might also potentially kick you afterwards if Squiddo is chasing you)

3. Map mod and you play with the cave/y levels until you spot a little terracotta coloured dot on the map, which might be the safest method but probably not the most accurate, but it requires you to update the chunks that the pots are in so that the map can see it, so you're gonna have to have your render distance raised by a lot for a sec (therefore getting chunkbanned) and then turning it back down afterwarda so you can log in again. There's also the other thing that some people don't use the map mod at all.

4. Astral projection? Your projection however doesn't load or render in chunks themselves so you can't really see much outside what you've already got rendered in I think? Idk much abt this exploit. Unless you can also be somewhere that someone else has rendered in? (it will have to be an immune player or someone stuck because they're rendering in that chunk). There is a chance you just get kicked once you step foot in that chunk even if you're in Astral projection mode though, don't think you'll be chunkbanned though cuz your body will be somewhere else entirely

As for destroying the pots, the only way I can see them being destroyed successfully would be through projectiles (arrows, wind charges, eggs, snowballs) or tnt explosions which can break pots, but will require one person to be loading that chunk in while the projectiles and explosives are firing, otherwise those arrows/tnt/other projectiles will just stay suspended in the air once they fly into the unloaded chunks.

Aka someone's gonna have to take one for the team and raise their render distance (NOT WALK IN) to load in the pots, which chunkbans them, and log in and out over and over again so that those projectiles and explosives can still fly through and hit the pots eventually. Reason why raising render distance in stead of walking into the chunk is more important is because you can just lower your render distance afterwards so you're not perma stuck.

Or in the case you don't have multiple people to have a designated kamikaze guy, you can fire as many projectiles or tnts as once into the unloaded chunks, and THEN start raising your render distance to load the chunks and spam logging in and out so that they can hit the pot. More risky to do it alone however, in the case that another pot gets placed down right beside you. If you have at least two people, someone who's not loading in the other chunk bans (and is presumably not getting obliterated by the chaos emerald) can break the pot if kamikaze guy ends up logging out when it gets placed down.

So now I compiled viable methods (some more than others) of breaking the pots:

1. A regular tnt cannon set up outside the chunk ban and you keep firing it until it hits the pot. (Destructive towards spawn)

2. If you have the exact location and coords of the pots you can maybe orbital strike it with a stab shot.(Also destructive towards spawn. And it will require fixing the death star. And knowing how it works. And praying that the stab shot is not hitting an obsidian part of Atlas Jr's sheild if the pot happens to be under it.)

3. Spam shoot arrows, wind charges, snowballs, or eggs (preferably arrows and wind charges) at the direction of the pot if you know theres no blocks in the way. Once the projectiles leaves the loaded chunks it'll stay suspended in the air within the unloaded chunks, and not actually hit the pot, which is where kamikaze guy comes in and loads the chunks in. The person spam shooting cannot be the one to render in that chunk though (thats kamikaze guy's job) so you're quite literally taking shots in the dark unless you know the exact coords and you can triangulate where exactly you need to shoot. The chunkban bundle will be still dropped as an item if the pot breaks though, so it'll have to be waited out to despawn by kamikaze guy unless the pot breaks in spawn chunks. (Probably the most viable since some of the pots were placed out in the open and no one can go back to cover them up. Not as viable for the ones tucked into buildings or little nooks and crannies)

4. If you're really desperate, let a wither loose, and you somehow get some mobs to wander near the pots, and you pray the wither aggros them and somehow blows up the pots. Those chunks are gonna have to be constantly loaded however by someone willing to kamikaze (again, also destructive and it's random)

5. BEG SOMEONE WITH CONSOLE (AKA SPOKE) to get those pots removed with commands (Probably not gonna happen unless a nat 20 persuasion check is made)

Whoever also tries these methods and plans WILL have to factor in the fact that people could be actively trying to fight them or place down MORE chunkbans and try to get people kicked/de-immune/load in new chunkbans so uh yeah. Good luck to them o7

TL:DR - Whoever tries to break the chunkbans are gonna have to VERY METICULOUSLY PLAN IT OUT for it to work, but otherwise they're cooked bro 😭

[lemuel-apologist]

im going to respond to this on my own blog (not naming names; not dragging the OP into this further, and so on) because this is something i've had a lot of private discussions about with mormons and exmormons alike.

i think, genuinely, that-- you're missing the point. the original poster is a queer mormon. queer mormons, like other marginalized populations within the church, have had to rectify their faith with that aspect of themselves; much in the same way that any woman who is aware of the church's faults and still participates ; and, often, the reason they stay is because they found some kernel of value there that meant they couldn't throw the whole of it away.

more than that, though, the church is broader than you think it is. there is such a vast spectrum of experiences within it that boiling the entirety of it down to the barest elements means that you miss the nuances of the lives that a large chunk of people within it lead. how many people in your local relief society have ever heard of the ordain women movement? and, of them, which women know what actually happened to kate kelly? who has heard of mormon feminism? who has read it? because the people i've met, who know of these large issues with the church and have chosen to stay, fall into these camps-- those of cultural need (a need for community in an area with a lack in other areas) and of having kept themselves aware and abreast and decided this is a flawed organization, but my faith is not in the organization; it is in certain principles i was taught. my faith is not in russell m. nelson; my faith is in some aspect of beauty i found in the world-- through the syncretism of science and faith i was taught in seminary, through the laugh of a child, through the stacking of chords, through something i found in the church; eternal families and ritual and doctrine. and so they stay, and participate, with every intention of fixing what is wrong, and eschewing the rest.

do you think them so inhumane that they can overlook the musketfire talk? do you think they don't hear the reload? the gun is aimed at them, too. the procedure-for-transgender-members is about them. do you think they don't grieve? yelling cult-cult-cult isn't a way to get them to leave, if that's your goal; it's not a way to grieve with them; it's not a way to add nuance to your discussion; frankly, it's cruel.

and you are well within your right to feel hurt and wounded. you are.

but the truth is, the breakdown of the church, from the top down, means that our experiences are varies. mine was more cult-like. my friends had pictures of jesus taped in their showers. i got blamed for getting my young women's leader's homeschooled son hooked on "godless punk music" even though he hated me too much to speak to me. that same woman wouldn't let us do anything unladylike; i was terrified of god watching me change; i cried myself to sleep while praying; and, honestly, other people had more gentle experiences. theirs were kinder. and that's due to the way that things break down at the units of areas, stakes, wards, and families.

the church has cult-like aspects when you break it down to its barest essentials. it does. but it's about how they're implemented within those units and across those divides. no single person's experience is going to be the same. i can joke about running my hands along the sisal walls because i like scratching my palms, but do you get what i mean when i say it was all overwhelming? not everybody does. things change from state to state, country to country-- and why wouldn't they?

[captainmvf]

Hi I was originally going to make a post and do this after I uploaded the newest chapter of ‘Rolling into Starlight’ but the latest news of another company using AI to steal and hide works got me scared so I went ahead and locked all my works 🧍‍♂️ I understand a large chunk of the people who read my fanworks are unregistered users and this may frighten them to not find RiS or my other works so I’m making a post here and will be sharing in Discord servers.

If you want to keep reading ‘Rolling into Starlight’ or my other works then please consider making an AO3 account. If the situation with AI on the site gets worse then I will entirely remove my works and find a way to reload them here via text posts.

Thank you so much for your patience and I’m very sorry to do this on Christmas Day but I would rather nip this in the bud than worry about it over the holidays.

Also hahaha that’s right it’s me the author of ‘Rolling into Starlight’ <3

[ringleaderising]

Tools of The Trade || Harlequin Cleavers

My new lead is the reaper, and my anger is my scythe- together we will make this right.

Ever the tinkerer driven by opportunity to improve his ability to kill The Pig's most notable handiwork is surely the very cleaver that hangs at his waist- and the waist of all his children.

While the original was little more than a rusty butcher's tool of necessity, the present iteration and the version given to his children is a far more refined piece of kit, intended to allow those who wield them more flexibility with their use- and to make Pig and Sow's bloodline all the more formidable for it.

Heavy and broad, the cleaver's most basic function remains the one it does best, it is a splitting weapon, intended to separate large limbs from bodies, and divide meat into more manageable chunks. But beneath the hood, these rusted gatherings of blood-soaked metal hide a far more refined mechanical function. Capable of being loaded near the handle with glass vials wrapped at the top and bottom in ornate copper filigrees, the hand guard can be wrenched back on hidden hinges to expose something akin to a firearm's chamber for bullets and locked back into place once filled with three ampules- though these vials are not capable of anything dangerous while empty.

Intended to harvest raw magic from bodies they impact, cut, or even make glancing contact with, the secondary function of the Harlequin Cleavers has always been as a tool for harvesting. Draining the power from within a stumbling, dying spirit over the course of a Godfall, sapping the fight from a potential victim unlucky enough to fall into the ire of the mad clown, or in more dire cases, pulling one's own magic from their flesh for safe keeping, the three-round installment beneath the handle capably fills and then swaps containers to keep the hunt going with less need for a reload- and thus any risk of losing what they're pursuing.

Once filled, these vials are nearly priceless (though raw magic in my lore will have to be touched on another time, note that many dragons aren't inherently magical or aren't magical permanently- there's a market for magic harvested secondhand- and a wider one for that pulled from "Gods" of the gaps.) and incredibly volatile. required to be unloaded and replaced with new, empty containers and the full ones stored in specially made, blast-proof bandoliers. But a full vial has its uses left inside the weapon- a twist of the handle punctures the most recently filled vial, imbuing whatever magic was contained within into the cutting and sawing edges of the cleavers themselves.

Typically considered a "last ditch effort" in Pig's eyes, doing so runs the risk of permanently damaging the cleaver itself- raw fire magic ripping through the internal body could damage metal, shadow's sticking, cloying blackness could be rather problematic to fight through when the thing spreading it is being swung at high speeds- but in the face of death, Pig and Sow have taught their children one thing:

Make the reaper fight for his meal.