#awful.. like... the inescapable nature of it

[omegalomania]

people bitching and moaning about fob "turning mainstream" as if that was never the entire point of fall out boy. that's In the goddamn dna of the band, it's baked into the ethos of why the band started in the first damn place. to be accessible to kids and especially to girls, who were often ridiculed and shunted out of the hardcore community. to be a gateway to bands that aren't as mainstream. to comment on the society they live in, as they live in it. people act like fall out boy "turning mainstream" was some kind of "betrayal" when from the start they were seizing on the trends of the time, putting their unique, unhinged fall out boy spin on them, and shooting them back out as a funhouse mirror. take this to your grave capitalized on the pop-punk zeitgeist that was big in the late 90s and early aughts and put their own spin on it: enmeshed catchy choruses with high-dexterity lyrical & linguistic skewerwork. infinity on high was basically a massive critique of the scene they were in - this ain't a scene it's a goddamn arm's race is a fucking thesis statement on what it is to be catapulted into fame in an industry that wants nothing more than a thousand cookie-cutter copycat acts of a successful formula, and fall out boy WAS the formula everyone desperately wanted to emulate. american beauty / american psycho blended sampling and modern hip-hop stylings with polished pop-rock and pointed those songs back at the snapshot of the 2010s we all lived in: commenting on racial injustice and the freeze-frame nature of relevancy. but even then they weren't doing it quite right - because fall out boy never does things quite right, they're never quite conventional, whether it's wentz's darkly confessional lyrics double-bagged in metaphor or stump's distinctive clear tenor or trohman's inescapable rock 'n roll edge or hurley's thunderous hardcore-punk-rock soul.

this band has always been too clever for its own critics, is the thing. but then, they always knew that. they knew they had a thriving fanbase of largely female fans so they were going to be mocked and belittled and ridiculed. they weren't quite right. they weren't quite so easy to market. pete wentz had to have all his hard edges filed off and cut down to size, skin lightened, literally whitewashed ("i feel like a photo that's been overexposed") to hell and back, even as he was marketed as the pretty boy of the band. and the other three members never even bothered with the spotlight: the soft-spoken vegan straightedge anarchist drummer and the wry, wisecracking, whip-clever guitarist who was more concerned with being the connective tissue than anything and the reticent vocalist who sang the words and wrote an awful lot of music but wasn't really the guy fronting the band. wentz's charisma carried the band, because the rest of them were really just some guys and never aspired to be anything else.

fall out boy is too pop. fall out boy is too mainstream. fall out boy isn't the real poster child of the emo movement. other bands are better. even within fall out boy's own narrative, they are repeatedly ignored, sidelined, and belittled, as though they weren't one of the only acts from the big 00s emo-pop movement to successfully not just survive the transition from the aughts to the '10s, and then later from the '10s to the '20s, but to thrive in it without banking on nostalgia. this band was supposed to be a flash in the pan. they weren't supposed to last and they weren't supposed to get big. they started off in joe's parents' attic because joe and pete were sick of how exclusionary and homophobic the hardcore scene was.

i think it's high time that people acknowledge how fall out boy has repeatedly succeeded where most of their other peers failed. cunning, clever, capable, and hyper-aware of the space they occupy in the culture surrounding them. that they are just as powerful, important, and artistic as any of the other bands in the scene that others might deify at their expense. that they deserve a hell of a lot more respect than they get from critics or hardcore punks who think they sold out. i hope one day they get that recognition. because they've earned it, time and time again, and the more i see people pushing back against that, the more certain i become of its inevitability.

#fall out boy #fob #*making poasts #this was supposed to be a pithy 3 sentence post but i kept going #just another Day In The Life of someone who sees a lot of garbage takes and gets tired #mostly i just shrug em off cause you know. what else is new. this has been going on since day 1. #but it saddens me. it saddens me that these guys are ridiculed for this still. #it breaks my heart that patrick isnt taken seriously as a composer in some circles because hes the guy from fall out boy. #it breaks my heart that people won't acknowledge pete as one of the most distinctive lyricists of our generation. #it breaks my heart that andy and joe are discredited and shit on within metal circles specifically because they're in fall out boy. #i hope they know that we get it. we get it and we're proud of them. no matter what.

[inkykeiji]

Do you think daddykuna is the type who would spank you in public bc he likes humiliating you? Or would he think your cute ass is for his eyes only so he only does so behind closed doors?

oh my gosh a delicious question!!!

character: sukuna x fem!reader warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, public spanking, humiliation, dacryphilia, daddy kink, general toxicity words: 809

okay so i think sukuna is like, heavily into humiliating you, so i 100% think he’d spank you right then and there, in stark fucking daylight, no matter where you are. little girls who act like brats must be treated like brats, must be punished like brats, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. and that’s what he tells you, in that infuriatingly blasé lilt, the beginnings of a smirk toying with the left corner of his mouth. 

but daddy! you’re whining, a thick shield of tears already glazing your eyes, rolled into drops by your rapid blinking and catching in your lashes, glittering so delicately as they anxiously flutter. not here! not now!

yes, here. yes, now.

you can hear the amusement and pride staining his voice; just faint notes of it infused in his words, but evident nonetheless as he takes you over his knee in the middle of a busy park on a sunday afternoon, your thrashing and wriggling not hindering him in the slightest.

he’s irritatingly unperturbed as he flips your dress up and yanks your panties halfway down your thighs, the motion simultaneously smooth and sharp, entirely unaffected by your pathetic little whimpers and choked out apologies, nails piercing his skin as your fingers curl and tangle and tug at his shirt.

it’s your own fault; you know it is, he’s saying as one large hand kneads one of your asscheeks, priming the area, collecting curious glances. you shouldn’t have misbehaved, prancing around in a manner that ensured the skirt of your dress fanned out wide and rippled, just enough to gift him with teasing glimpses of the dainty lace molded to your skin. 

you shouldn’t have acted like such a stubborn fucking brat when he had warned you, calm and cautious, not to play with daddy, if you hadn’t wanted everyone to see your sweet little ass, he’s telling you over your half-stifled sobs of humiliation, chest stuttering against his strong thighs, muscles flexing beneath you as he plants his feet, readjusts his hips, places a heavy hand on the small of your back and presses down hard, pinning you in place. that must’ve been what you were aiming for, right? you wouldn’t have behaved in such a way if it weren’t, right?

you should’ve known better than to mess around with daddy, especially in public. you should’ve known that he’d take it seriously, instantly—no matter where you are, no matter who can see, no matter what may follow.

each slap is harder than the last, harsher than the last, echoing louder and louder with every collision of his palm against your skin. every impact shoves another pitiful little sound from your chest, lodging in your throat, clawing at the back of your teeth, and aw, don’t smother them, baby; we want to hear you. 

it’s excruciatingly embarrassing, the eyes of bystanders and onlookers slicing into your bare, exposed skin, gazes and glares and gaping depositing trails of scorching pins they glide over your body, slow and scrutinizing.

it’s inescapable, the absolute agony their attention bestows upon you, your puffy, salt-stricken face nuzzling awkwardly into your daddy’s ribs, desperate for some semblance of protection.

please, daddy, please, daddy, please, daddy, you’re weeping out, pleads strung together in a steady stream of drool. stop, daddy, stop, daddy, stop, daddy!

you know he won’t, you know he’d never, not one to go back on his word once he’s solidified it, but you just can’t help it, entreaties pouring from your lips instinctively, uncontrollably, as natural as the snot oozing from your nose and tears blurring your vision. 

you can feel his cock, hot and hard and throbbing against your tummy, but you know your sobs and whines and yelps are only half the exhilaration.

because sukuna loves showing off, sukuna gets a serious kick out of displaying what’s his; what he owns, what others can’t have, can’t touch. those looks of disgust and disbelief, of envy and enrapture, send a sick thrill surging through his veins, because there’s one thing they all have in common.

awe. 

it’s the most divine feeling, makes his flesh tingle in the most delightful way as everyone admires him, admires his strength, admires his terror, admires his things—how powerful he is as every smack! rings out among the space, how pretty you are as your cries chase after the resounding sting. 

it’s grotesque. it’s gorgeous. they can’t tear their gazes away from it.

possessiveness emanates off his body in dense waves, their domineering presence polluting the atmosphere and leaving it stifling—you can look, but don’t even think about touching. 

their murmurs only amplify their stares, the gasps and whispers and grumbles, saturated in incredulity and audacity, in outrange and offence, only feeding his insatiable ego, bloating it with an intoxicating arrogance, ever-growing hubris gorging on their attention.

#sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna smut #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna smut #sukuna headcanons #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #ISNT HE JUST THE WORST I AM SO IN LOOOOVE WITH HIM #UGH #PLEASE #I WANNA CRY #anyway yes anon that's my answer hahahaha #i hope ur having a great day!!! #pls stay safe n enjoy ur weekend!! #inky.bb #clari gets mail #inky.sukuna

[distortionbobble]

Royal Flowers Chapter 9

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series masterlist

summary: y’all know the drill now

series warnings: eventual smut, mentions of death, palpy

a/n: oops

Anakin forgot how beautiful Coruscant is. He can’t recall the exact number of months he’s been away; he stopped keeping track of time around you, but it’s enough to make his skin buzz at the feeling of Coruscant’s humidity. He’s not staying in the Jedi Temple, which is unusual enough to him, but is instead staying with you in the diplomatic lodgings provided by the Senate. It’s strange; he spent every night since he left Coruscant by your side, sleeping next to you, but now that he’s here, it feels so much more intimate. It could be the size of the bed, it could be the reminder of his responsibility and role of a Jedi here on Coruscant, but whatever it is, his heart skips a beat at the thought of sleeping by your side.

The two of you had reached quietly and checked into your lodgings, with him playing the role of the affectionate husband. You seem to be okay, at least as far as he can tell, but you’re certainly quieter. He’s glad for it, but there’s still some part of him that wants to sweep you into his embrace, pull you tight and shield you from the awful parts of the universe. He doesn’t want to dwell on it for too long, but the desire is inescapable. He still doesn’t know what it is that you, Padme, and Obi-Wan had discussed. All you’d said was that Padme had heard something that meant there wasn’t much time left. He’s watching you now from the corner of the room, scanning the room constantly for any threats.

“It feels like it has been too long since I was in Coruscant,” Anakin says finally. It doesn’t feel like his home anymore, and that scares him. No, home in his mind is now back in the Royal Chambers of Naboo, spending every waking moment with you.

“I’m sure. I apologize for the nature of my mission, it must be hard to be away from home for so long,” You say, turning to smile at him. “But hopefully it’ll be over soon, yes?” You say with a hopeful smile. The thought of leaving you twists a knife in Anakin’s gut, but it’s one that he’s learned to accept. It’s always there, always looming, and the only thing left for Anakin to do now is get used to the dagger in his stomach. He’ll have to leave you, sooner or later. But that doesn’t make the thought of it any less painful.

“Anakin… about your friendship with Chancellor Palpatine,” you speak to him from the seat of the vanity as you get your hair ready for bed. “We—“

“He’s a good man,” Anakin snaps at you before you can say anything negative about his friend. Chancellor Palpatine has guided him through so much, and he can’t imagine where he’d be without him.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t,” you respond coolly. “What makes you think I’d say otherwise?”

Anakin hesitates before he sits down on the bed, mesmerized by your elegant movements. “In the past, both Padme and Obi-Wan have cast their doubts about him. But I can’t imagine the idea of their suspicions panning out to be anything. He’s an honorable man, even if they don’t like it.” You nod quietly, and he can’t gauge a thought in your head before you rise and flip the covers to get into the bed.

“I believe you, Anakin. If that’s the case, I think your friend deserves to know you’re still alive, right?” You ask him quietly, laying down sideways. Your statement makes him pause. He should tell Sheev, shouldn’t he? But that would make it all so real, the ending of this. And you look like an angel born of the earth, like the muse of all things beautiful, and he almost wants to say he doesn’t want to tell him, just so he can keep the farce of being yours up for just a little longer. But the feelings spark such shame within him that he just nods, his throat dry, and lays down next to you.

As he sits there in the darkness, listening keenly to the slowing of your breathing, steady and quiet, he realizes something. Nothing in this universe is guaranteed. He is promised nothing by the universe, and he’s seen it countless times; his mother, ripped away from him, the other younglings at the Order rejecting him. But the universe has guaranteed one certainty; when he’s next to you, he can sleep peacefully.

~~~

“Chancellor,” your voice floats above the din of the Senators as you address the man. “If I might borrow your attention?”

“For the Queen of Naboo, my attention is yours to own,” Chancellor Palpatine jests, coming to stand by your side. “Milady, I must ask… what brings you to Coruscant, and to the Senate, no less?”

You allow your painted lips to form just a hint of a smile. You have a thin line to walk now—if he’s a Separatist, of which there is only a slim chance, he can’t think that you truly want to help your people. But if he’s not, you still hold a responsibility to your people. “My people feel as though the urgency of the Separatist threat is not being handled with urgency. I come as a representative for Naboo in order to request the Republic have a stronger role in protecting Naboo… however, I know that our forces get so busy. It’s a shame, isn’t it?” You say, echoing the words that Darth Sidioius had spoken to you before.

Chancellor Palpatine’s face remains a smooth, unmoving mask in response to your words. A little too smooth. Either he’s a horrible chancellor, or you were right to have your suspicions. But you can’t act on inaction. You cough, deciding to move on. “I suppose I shouldn’t delay it much longer. But… Chancellor, keep it a secret, will you?”

“Keep what a secret, Milady?” He asks, tailing you as you stride into one of the nearby conference rooms.

“My husband wished to see you,” You smile, stepping to the side as the door eases shut. Anakin is standing before the glass, soft light catching his hair. At the sound of the door, Anakin turns around with a smile.

“My old friend,” He says, striding over to embrace Chancellor Palpatine.

“I thought— Oh, Anakin, I thought you were dead!” He sputters, embracing Anakin back. “Why the farce? Please, you must tell me everything.” He lets go of Anakin and takes a seat at the long table. Whatever suspicions you may have of him, his excitement and relief of seeing Anakin, alive, does feel authentic. Perhaps he is innocent, and your suspicions are entirely misdirected. But that’s not something you can take a chance on. Nonetheless, you’ll give the two their space.

“I’ll leave the two of you to reconnect,” You say with a smile, tenderly stroking the side of Anakin’s face before you leave the room.

“I know,” Anakin says before the Chancellor can speak. “It must seem so confusing to you. But it’s better this way. I couldn’t bear the thought of going through the process of leaving, announcing my intent to leave and bringing such shame upon my former Masters. And because of my importance, I don’t imagine they’d let me go so easily. My skill in the Force is unmatched by any other Jedi I’ve seen. But…”

“You’re in love with her,” Chancellor Palpatine finishes. Anakin smiles wistfully, swallowing the guilt of lying to his friend. But he needs to sell this. Palpatine also cannot know that you were stationed there to protect you, but he deserves to know you’re alive. Plus, you have some sort of idea that he can help you in uncovering the truth. And Anakin trusts you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before,” Anakin responds, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as the image of you fills his head. The faint smell of jasmine in your hair, the shape of your nose, your lips, the softness of your cheek in his hand and the way you look at him. You look at him like you see him for him, and still trust him. It puts all the rage in his body to rest. He may need to sell this to Sheev, but Anakin’s not sure it’s entirely an act. You do make him feel safe. At the same time, you make his heart race with each little quip you make. You challenge him, frustrate him, and he needs you with him, always. You’ve taught him to love without attachment, the true Jedi way, because he knows he can never truly have you. You’re not his to love.

Sheev smiles. “Young love. It is such a beautiful thing, to be free of the restraints that others have placed upon you and to be able to accept that without guilt.” A bitterness sits in Anakin’s throat as he smiles. If only his friend knew how much he longs for that.

“Well, it would be a shame for your powers to go to waste,” the Chancellor says. “I do hope you find something worthy of it being used. The Force has blessed you, and I believe that you’ll be able to achieve even greater things without the Jedi Order shackling you with all their rules.” His lined face lights up in a smile before he places a hand gently on Anakin’s shoulder, catching Anakin’s eyes as he heads back to the Senate. “But perhaps that’s a conversation for another day. Until then, Anakin.”

“Until then,” Anakin echoes.

~~~

Anakin can hear you screaming. He doesn’t realize it’s you at first; he’s too busy looking at Padme. She’s sobbing, tears rolling down her face as she tries to say something to him. He can’t make out the words, can’t hear them coming out of her mouth. All he feels, all he sees is pain. He’s surrounded by it. Always has been, always will be. And the sound of your screaming, shrieking, drowns out any sound that Padme makes. He tries to turn to you, tries to see where you are but Padme grabs his jaw and turns him back to her. Her nails are digging into his skin and it hurts, it hurts but he just wants you to stop screaming. You’re in pain, he’s in pain, and none of it will stop. Padme’s touch grows hotter and hotter on his skin until he’s sobbing, the heat of it scorching as fire begins to light upon her skin. It engulfs her dress, spreading to her hair, until she lets go. He doesn’t hesitate to run to your voice, the sound of your screaming where you lay there, your body limp as you struggle against something he can’t see.

“Help me,” You beg him, reaching towards him. “Please, Anakin, help me,” You plead. Your fingertips begin to unravel into little tendrils of smoke, reaching towards him as more and more of your body is taken by the smoke.

“No,” He whispers, trying to grab the smoke, holding your body as it disintegrates in his very hands. “No!”

“Anakin,” Your voice cuts through his visions. He wakes up with a start, sweat making strands of hair stick to his forehead. He looks at you with bleary eyes, sitting straight in the bed as you look at him in concern. “Hey. Are you okay? You were talking in your sleep,” You say, sitting up as well. He doesn’t answer, just grabs your wrist and shuts his eyes at the feel of your pulse.

“Hey, it’s okay,” You say. “It was just a bad dream,” You say gently. Anakin feels sick. He’s supposed to feel safe next to you. It’s been months since he had a vision like this, months of blissfully quiet sleep. He was so sure it was because of you. Maybe you’re not close enough. Or maybe it’s this damned place. Anakin leans into you, circling his arms around you and pulling you tightly to his chest. “Do you want to talk about it?” You ask him, allowing him to hold you as he breathes slowly, working his way out of the darkness of his dream.

“I dreamt I lost you,” He murmurs into the crown of your head, squeezing you tightly as he remembers the feel of your lifeless body. “The worst part of it is I know I’m gonna lose you anyways. You’re going to be gone, soon enough, and I’ll have to go through all of this alone, all again.”

“I’m always gonna be your friend,” You reassure him. Your breath meets his bare chest and he’s reassured by the fact that you’re alive.You feel warm, warm and full of life a

“I dreamt that you died,” He says simply. “And I can’t have that happen.” Not again. Not like what happened to his mother.

“Anakin,” You say, pulling yourself off of his chest. “I’m okay. You’re protecting me.”

“But what if there’s something I can’t keep you safe from?” He asks, meeting your eyes. His fear is plain as day, and he knows you could piece together what that means in an instant. Why he’s so fearful of losing you. You matter to him, even if he hasn’t said it.

“If there’s something you can’t keep me safe from, then it’s not your fault. Know that. People die sometimes, even if we do our best to keep them safe from it,” You respond. Your voice is surprisingly even despite the gravity of Anakin’s emotions. He doesn’t understand how he hasn’t dragged you down into the depths of his misery but he’s grateful for the anchor that you provide him. “Anakin, the most important thing is the safety and security of the galaxy. To do the most good for the most people, that is what we are born into this universe to ensure. And if—” your voice breaks, and you lean your head back into his chest. “If I do die under your protection, I will know that you’ll have done your best to keep me safe. But more importantly, I’ll know that you will carry out my work and see to it that those who come after us will see a better place. With me, without me, the universe will move on.”

“I don’t accept that answer,” Anakin frowns, but you just laugh.

“It’s the truth. My life will never be more important than the fate of the universe. But you’re stressing about nothing. I’m here, I’m okay, you’re okay. Just… try and go back to sleep, will you?” You ask, shivering before he draws the blanket above the both of you. He’s never really held you like this before. He isn’t holding you to make your pain stop, he’s holding you to make his pain stop. And he doesn’t want to let you go. But that’s what makes him let go, allowing you to go lay down while he sits up, watching as you fall asleep.

You’re not his to keep, anyways.

#smut #fic reblog #my writing #anakin skywalker x reader #fic #distortionbobble's fics #anakin skywalker #reader insert #anakin x reader #star wars

[sparring-spirals]

(im extremely caffeinated rn this might not make sense, lets go)

With recent events, absolutely amped for Bell's Hells to become a full manifestation of the concept "horrific force of nature".

Between Orym, and Fearne and now Laudna, plants that grow and sprout and die around them, all the pretty bits of nature as well as the horrifying aspects of it. Waking up with flowers grown over and into you. Branches outstretched like fingertips, roots that can ground and choke. Vines that move on their own and wrap around your neck like a noose. Poisons and toxins growing around you. Out of you. Exquisite. Fantastic.

With Imogen, a storm, raging, crackling, bearing down, rain that could either save you or flood you. The sky turning a deep, deep red, cloud cover and nature gone silent in the face of something awful. Lightning and wind that can tear everything to pieces, that drown out everything else, set things aflame and rip them apart. Sexy. Unparalleled.

With Chetney, a wolf, howling in the distance, bloodlust that crawls in your veins, rage that is bestial and also very, very natural. A wild look in someone's eyes, glint of sharp teeth in the dark, predator and prey and jackrabbitting hearts. Visceral. Passionate.

With Ashton- Time, space, gravity, literal forces of nature, slowling and warping and bending around you. Your limbs inexorably heavy, your feet no longer planted on the same patch of ground, everything going too fast or too slow. Laws of the universe, the things keeping it anchored- all bending around you to swallow you whole. Right before a big ole stone cracks your head open. Horrifying. Inexplicable. (cool as hell).

And even with F.C.G: Something manmade, a pure technological advancement, metal and magic fused. Except: everything about them, their purpose, their kindness- wrapped up in human emotions, feelings and passion. Vulnerabilities too. Insecurities, weaknesses, patterns of mistakes made by all living minds. There is nothing more natural. Nothing more inescapable. Mortifying. Awesome as fuck.

Bell's Hells! Forces of nature! By some broad definition. With all of the inherent horror and menace that term implies. Bell's Hells as a spooky, otherworldly troupe, except everything about them is the worst bits of this world come to life. hell yes.

#have some lovely meta provoking asks in my inbox but i also had coffee which means my brain is going TOO fast for it so instead we get this #anyway its about FORCES OF NATURE AND NATURAL THINGS AND ALSO SPOOKY. spooky season. this is a halloween post i guess #im absolutely VIBRATING im going to get off my phone now. have fun with this folks. #critical role #c3e38 #bell's hells #meta #character meta #my meta #narrative meta #(?) #MAN I DIDNT EVEN TALK ABOUT THE FIRE. AND THE HELL. but thats there too

[randomfoggytiger]

"You're Not Here, Dana-- You're a Million Miles Away"

Part IV of the Bill Scully POV mini-series (Part I, Part II, Part III~.)

Bill's POV during A Christmas Carol.

*****

He didn’t know what had gone wrong.

At the airport, Dana had been fine. She'd been chatting, laughing even, fresh off the plane, debating some feminine topic with their mother as the two wheeled their luggage closer and closer to the exit. Catching his eye, she’d lit up-- like a firecracker, as Melissa used to say-- and even quickened her pace to soak up “a Big Brother Bill hug”-- something else Melissa used to say but which had rubbed off on the rest of the family. 

Maggie had deferred the passenger side seat; and the three of them chit chatted and caught up on the drive to the base. They’d asked spirited questions about Tara; and Bill, per his wife’s specific instructions, had refused to give away any hints about how big she’d gotten. 

“He’s a dad already,” smirked Dana; and the teasing and good-natured snipes had trailed after them until they turned the last corner. 

Everyone had been delighted with each other, Tara had had her fun surprising her guests, and no one had seemed bothered about the sleeping arrangements. 

It was the phone call that did it, he realized: Dana had come charging up the stairs, tense and distraught, insisting that Bill drive her someplace that he knew she’d never been before. Somewhere he’d never been before, either. 

“I heard her-- I heard Melissa’s voice-- and I have to know what is going on. And the only answers I’ll have is if we go, right now, and find out who was on the other line.” 

He'd taken her, of course-- he’d taken her despite how crazy her story sounded, waited outside the crime scene until Dana finished poking around, then driven her home. She’d remained tight-lipped about what had happened; but that was to be expected-- nothing had come from their detour other than a sense of confused embarrassment-- and they’d both silently moved on from it as soon as possible. 

It was after the phone call that she'd begun to withdraw.  

*****

Tara went to bed early: up at four and likely tidying and cleaning until their guests arrived after noon, the day had caught up with her-- so Bill supposed-- after the last of her luxurious dessert disappeared from the plate. That, and Dana sat quietly through the meal, seeming bruised rather than pleased during his wife’s happy monologue at dinner. 

“Bill, is everything okay with Dana?” she’d sighed as he helped maneuver her around the temporarily cramped room. “She’s been awful quiet since you two returned from the crime scene.” 

“I think she’ll be okay. Dana’s probably processing.” 

“So I didn’t offend her?”

Bill stopped pulling the quilt back, turning to see how badly Tara’s feelings had been hurt. “It’s the case, Honey, don’t worry about it. You know how I get about work sometimes--”

“But Bill, this seems different. Maybe she was hurt, somehow, by what I was saying about a family or becoming a mom; or she feels guilty because Melissa’s not here.”

“If it’s more than just the case, Mom’ll get it out of her; and if it’s about us, Mom'll let us know. I don't think there's cause for worry, Sweetheart.” 

Tara sighed, sat down on the bed, and reluctantly smiled as he bent to take off her comfortable house shoes. “You’re so good to me, Bill. I just want this Christmas to be perfect-- it’s the first since… well, a few firsts since.”

“The past few holidays have been hard on us Scullys; however, I’m convinced we’re due a really, really good one.”

“Baby here included?”

“I thought he was a New Year's baby.”

“You’d better hope it’s a boy then, Bill Jr., because the Scully women seem to have a mind of their own.” 

He nodded, grabbing her empty glass to refill downstairs. “Still thinking of Melissa for the name?”

She smiled, reaching out to catch his arm and pull him closer. “As long as we’re still thinking of Matthew for a boy.” 

*****

Melissa was an inescapable topic this Christmas. She lingered like a benevolent ghost, lounging on the sofa from the corner of his eye or twinkling companionably from the photographs displayed around the house. 

The creaking floorboard, however, was a reminder that Dana, not Melissa, was up and wandering. It was after midnight at least, but she was probably still on East Coast time, Bill assumed; or, of course, she was taking a private call and would be flying out when it was light. Try as he might, the thought that his remaining sister would be called back to work with Mulder-- away from her family, over the holidays, after a miraculous cancer remission-- made his blood boil. 

He waited up after the Jeep drove off, arguing himself out of calling Ethan Minette back to retract his retraction. 

Dana had never been good at sneaking out; and he listened to her tiptoe back in before sunrise, settle in the dining room, and stay there as the minutes then hours ticked by. 

The morning newspaper thudded against the front door, the sun began to rise, Bill slid down before his military wife or mother could wake and start the day. 

“Dana?”

*****

He knew disappointment should be second-nature by now with Dana and promises she couldn’t keep. Likely, the sting was keener because Melissa, for as flaky as she’d been, had never pretended or promised to be someone she wasn’t: she wandered in and out of their lives whenever the mood struck but always with a tenderness to their fixed positions. Even Charlie didn’t hide who he was or what he’d decided behind a false front. Meanwhile, Dana passed herself off as stalwart and dependable before jerking left and ditching medical school, the FBI mainstream, and familial obligations.

“Alright,” he’d agreed. “Lunch!” And she hadn’t agreed; and left. 

Although this was her work and her business, it was quickly becoming the family's problem: Tara, puzzled by this impossible situation, did her best to distract Maggie by hostessing her around; and Maggie, tight lipped whenever Dana’s name came up, tried to talk over ruffled feelings and assure everyone Dana would be there for the Christmas party, of course, so nice to meet friends of Tara’s, they were such nice people, reminded me of the Stotes family we knew in ‘75, remember them, Bill? 

It was the Scullys first Christmas after so much grief and miraculous second chances-- his and Tara’s as much as Dana’s-- and still, Dana flaked.  

“It’s work, Honey. You know how that is,” Tara reassured, taking on the previous night's role of comforter. “God and country come first in your jobs.” 

It wasn’t country Dana was putting first. Or God. 

Bill kept these thoughts to himself, letting Tara pull back the covers for him tonight. He even smiled when she promised to refill his empty glass of water after New Year’s.

“After New Year’s,” he agreed.   

*****

Dana left with Detective Kresge before Bill finished an insignificant morning errand. 

“She didn’t even say hello to you or Tara, just left? I thought she wanted this vacation, Mom.” 

“Dana does, Bill. She’s just… going through a hard time right now.” 

“And she  doesn’t want to share that with us? Just wants to sleep here most nights and leave in the morning before I can even say ‘hello’ or ‘goodbye’?”

And it had come tumbling out. Dana and Maggie, huddled at the table mere hours ago, denying and insisting about PCR tests and a long-lost Scully daughter. 

“I know Melissa, Bill-- she would’ve never had a child without telling me. Dana is using a 60% possibility to justify her denial because she sees this little girl as a chance that… a chance that was taken away from her. And,” she paused, gripping her arms and steeling her voice, “and I know my babies. I know myself. There were so many small things after your father passed… sometimes, I’d see him from the corner of my eye, smiling at me; or I’d hear his voice late at night, announcing his sudden arrival back from deployment.”

“But, Mom--”

“Yes, I know they weren’t real; but there are things that feel real, and your sister is struggling with them right now. This Christmas has been hard, Bill, as much as we do our best to make it a beautiful time for you and Tara and the baby. Dana has more than the loss of her father and her sister to wrestle with.” 

*****

The day passed in preparation for the evening’s party, more decorations and more food and more people filling up the space before Bill could take a moment to relax. An innocent remark about his late father flew completely over his sister’s head; and, tired of walking on eggshells, he asked her to help him in the kitchen. 

Careful Billy, you meddler, Melissa used to tease. Perhaps that was her version of wisdom; and perhaps he should have remembered it before his directness came across as accusation, slipping from one point of irritation to the next without tact or grace.

You know Dana hates how direct we are, Billy: it shoves her into a corner that she can’t escape from.

It’s never stopped you, he'd said.

Yeah, well, why do you think she doesn’t ask me for advice very often? she'd replied, poking him companionably.

Bill mumbled their back and forth, alone, with somber fondness.

*****

He’d been given the picture shortly after Melissa’s became a more permanent fixture in their lives. 

“It’s a good one, isn’t it? Had it taken before… you know.” 

They’d been sitting in his rattrap apartment listening to Tara prattle to one of her girlfriends about how happy she was to unpack the last of their things-- relaxed and hearty and if not happy then something close to it. Their little sister’s abduction and return had unsettled them, unsettled him; and her quick recovery and dogged insistence on going back to work soon, too soon, had rankled him. But Bill had finally given in and called up Dana at Melissa’s insistence-- the wound, though it remained, was healing. 

“I never understood why you left for so long without at least calling more than once in a while.”

“Bill, I just… I needed to resettle after Dad died. You all were there for Mom, even Charlie; but I….” She shrugged, changing the topic by pointing at the photograph. “My friend took that right before I had to jump in the car to go. She said, ‘Think of a beautiful memory and I’ll capture it forever’; and the most beautiful thing I thought of in that moment was the smile you flashed me after I threw an orange right between Harry Pinklewhit’s eyes.” 

He’d laughed in spite of her non-answer; and their conversation drew Tara in, who’d also laughed at nine-year-old Melissa’s incredible throwing arm. 

Bill didn’t feel like smiling when he’d handed over that photograph to Dana, the question of Melissa's legacy laid to rest in the replica of his sisters' girlhood bedroom. He and Tara, his mother, and Melissa had been where Dana now stood; and, despite some necessary pain, the facts would give her an opportunity to accept and grieve her loss.

Standing in the doorway while Dana, rebellion and determination in her eyes, slid past him with the social worker, Bill wondered when-- or if-- that acceptance would begin. 

***** 

The three had resolved not to question Dana further. If she was pursuing adoption, then a decision would be finalized either way; and in the end, it was just the four of them.

“Five”, Bill amended; and Tara had teared up and given him a big hug.

Determined to have a good time on Christmas morning, even if the youngest Scully might get up and walk out on a moment’s notice, they’d flocked in, woken Dana, and pounced on the presents before she’d completely defogged-- a strategy unintentionally spearheaded by Tara. Seizing an opportunity, Bill swept along beside her, kneeling down to hand over the biggest present she'd been drooling over for the past month. His mother gravitated to Dana, snuggling up next to her on the couch; and teamwork or group effort or separate but uniting plots seemed to successfully keep his sister from bolting. 

Until he’d gleefully stumbled to the door and inadvertently shepherded in Dana’s latest twist in the case.  

“According to this… I… am Emily’s mother.” 

And what could anyone say to that?

*****

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

Tagging @today-in-fic!

#txf #fic #Bill Scully POV #Part IV #You're Not Here Dana-- You're a Million Miles Away" #Bill Scully #Scully #Maggie Scully #Tara Scully #Melissa Scully #xf fanfic #x-files #xfiles #the x files #mine

[lithominium]

Ughhh hahah im ahving a “nobody under 40 really expects anything good to happen ever again” moment right now going “climate change has completely ruined seasons as we know them, not the hundreds of thousands of deaths caused by sea level rise and (un)natural disasters caused by global warming” and “every single product in the entire world is designed to break down in a year at the most and every year it gets worse, including housing”

Its not like yoi can go buy a good that actually functions, because All goods are like this. Tools are godawful now. You buy a brand new sandblaster from a reputable company and it literally sucks shit. You buy a modern reissue of music equipment and its shoddily built and doesnt work right or something. Houses being built in the modern era are thrown up in a week and collapse with people inside a week later. Video games come out and are half baked and dont change when people ask

The consumers dont have power anymore, they havent for Years.

Every time i look at politics (USA because im unfortunately usamerican, but ive seen some godawful shit in other countries too) i go “well he cant nearly be as bad as the last guy” but somehow they always one up each other for being more genocidal and more awful. On both ends of the spectrum. It used to be 3 years ago “do i wanna vote for the awful person or the awful person who actively wants to kill me” but now its literally just. “Person who wants to kill me or person who wants to kill me.” And every single worthless politician in existence is doing the same thing. If i voted for someone who didnt want to kill me, so few people would end up voting for them, that the people who DO want to kill me would win anyways. My old college town banned public homosexuality. Tennessee of course. Worthless ass state.

I dont doomscroll, i know how ungodly unhealthy it is to scroll through tags showing off how bad everything is. But its inescapable. I go to funny youtube videos and see wade dankpods complaining about how all tools suck while he tries to rebuild a car. I scroll through my dashboard which is supposed to be memes and fandom content and its “this us democrat just said ‘yaknow i really think its great that israel is finally killing all those subhuman palistinians” and what the hell am i supposed to do about that??

I just need. Some semblance of hope. Anything just to tell me it will be alright. Tell me theres a reason for me to not steal a plane and fly it into a god damn mountain so my final moments will be doing the one thing i really love.

#vent post

[mlmxreader]

Great War | John Price x m!reader

summary: the trenches at the front line are the worst possible place to be for anyone, but they're even worse for enemies who don't wish to be.

tws: gas attacks, guns, injury, graphic depictions of death and war, swearing

note: this is a WW1 au, and may (??) have more parts to it if enough people want me to do more.

support your fanfic writers by reblogging what you read & enjoy

December. Nineteen seventeen. Three years at war had done nothing but cause chaos and destruction; the bodies of men still littered No Man's Land, planes still fought above, rare glimpses of the Flying Circus brought great joy to the Austrian soldiers lacking morale.

Blisters and infections on their feet. Tired and exhausted from constant fighting, constant raids, constant death. Starving, only allowed what was given out in rations and was shit quality. The morale in the Austrian trenches was awful, they were worn out and it was clear to see that none of them believed in the so-called Great War; at least, that's what the politicians called it. Panzers still rolled through No Man's Land, opening the ground's weeping wounds.

Flamethrowers would follow soon after, cauterising the wounds for just a moment. Then the soldiers would charge, and more men would waste their final moments in fear and anxiety and doubt; some of them were hardly old enough to be out of school, still fresh faced, yet their glares would always be haunted. The things that they had seen on No Man's Land were inescapable.

The British trenches never fired upon the Austrian trenches, though, silence eerie when everything else went away; the shock troops stopped firing six months into the war, when Captain Price had first started to see you. As the leader of the Austrian soldiers in that trench, you did everything to protect your men, everything to keep them safe; it wasn't enough, but you did your best, and you came to an agreement with the British opposite.

No one knew, but that agreement had come when you and Price had first agreed to be lovers; months of building up a rapport with one another, it was only natural that you fell for each other. You couldn't bring yourselves to kill the men opposite. Lives gone and erased by commands, yet yours held strong for now; morale might have been beaten out of them by the constant whip of the war, but your men weren't broken by Price's, and his weren't broken by yours. When December came, although neither you nor Price celebrated it, a Christmas Truce was always held.

Belgium had been flooded just three years ago, hundreds lost to the powerful gushing waters. A year ago, nearly three hundred had died in avalanches in Italy. Two years ago, the Germans had gassed Russians, and in doing so, had brought the dead back to life. You had heard about that from one of the men who had retreated, when he had come to your trenches to ask for some milk and bread when his own didn't have any. He was so shaken. He flinched at every sound, cowered at every whiff of gunpowder. If anyone even mentioned the Russians, he would press his back to the nearest wall and sob, violently.

"Their faces…" he would cry. "They were coming apart… flesh from bone…"

"Like they were rotting?"

"Like they were melting… they wouldn't stop. They kept coming towards us… marching… these fields…"

"What about these fields, Heinrich?"

He would grab the lapels of anyone who was talking to him, knuckles white as he stared into their soul with big brown eyes, sweat beginning to drip down his face. "The dead can't rest… they come back."

Heinrich didn't go back to his own trench. You asked, specifically, for him to be transferred and to stay with your own; at least that way, he wouldn't have to fear Russians again. He could, at least, enjoy the uneasy peace between the Austrian trenches and the British; not getting shot at or needing to shoot unless high command were around and throwing their weight.

Your right hand man, König, often kept an eye on Heinrich, the two never far from one another at the worst of times; they often even slept cuddles up with each other. It wasn't rare, in the dead of night, for you and the British Captain to sneak off and to meet in the middle of the wounded land; Price would sit on a rock he had dragged over, smoking a cigarette. You would sit opposite, perched on a log that had been brought for firewood, chewing at your lip.

Then again, it wasn’t rare for the British Captain to sneak over to the Austrian trenches, either, under the disguise of darkness and keeping his head down in case any of his fellows saw him; tonight was one of those nights.

"How's the Austrians?"

"Scheiße," you scoffed, shaking your head. "Moral ist… nicht gut, Kapitän… und du? Wie geht's?"

"Auch nicht gut," Price shook his head. He had picked up on some German after being with you for so long. "Sehr müde."

"I'd offer you my bed, but it's full of lice," you grumbled. "Even with the rats and the Katze, we can't get rid of the fucking things."

He smiled. "So, exactly like us."

"More or less," you breathed out. "Kapitän… ein Gefallen?"

"Sure."

"Sag mir, daß du mich liebst," you pleased quietly. "Bitte. Just to get me through the night."

Price nodded, leaning forward so that he could gently grasp your hand tightly in his own. "Ich liebe dich, mein Stoßtrupp… there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"What?"

"Why did you leave the cavalry?" He asked quietly.

"I didn't want to see horses die," you told him bluntly. "You… you get used to seeing people die. But horses? The screaming… the look in their eyes… I couldn't do it. I couldn't bear to see another animal die like that."

"You can hardly stomach seeing soldiers die."

"Don't remind me," you huffed, shaking your head. "Bitte. Don't remind me."

Price nodded, sparing a look over at your trenches as a soft hum came from the back of his throat. "How's Heinrich getting along?"

"Old Albert?" You asked, once upon a time you would have smiled at the nickname but now you couldn’t, but then you shrugged. "He's gone."

"Gone?"

"He…" you swallowed thickly. "He keeps waking up, screaming. He nearly shot König, thinking he was Russian… I know we'll never see the end of the war, but Albert will never see the end of that day."

"Which day?"

"The Sechster August."

Price went quiet. He knew what the Germans had done that day, and how the Russians had reacted; he heard tales from men who had spoken to Russians about how they were unkillable, rising from toxic gas as little more than melting corpses still ready for the fight. Still ready to kill.

The war would never end, and for the unkillable Russians, they couldn't even have the peace of death. Everyone had been dragged into it, ally and axis alike, but now nobody really believed in it, nobody really wanted to fight each other; politicians and civilians did not see it, did not want to hear that the pride of their nations, their bravest soldiers, did not want to kill.

In the three years since the war had begun, nobody wanted to fight anymore; nobody wanted to die for a politician's pissing contest with another. You were all alike, one way or another.

Bravery was stupidity. Glory was a myth. Only melancholy and agony was afforded to soldiers; compassion was intelligence. Kindness was a living legend. Yet, for every soldier on the battlefield, the only reality that they knew was blood and agony; nightmares and mental breakdowns. Exhaustion and despair.

War had taken everything from everyone. But it would never break human nature; the nature of kindness, compassion, civility and tolerance. War would never take away those things that soldiers kept locked away, trying their best to preserve humanity.

How could such a thing so perfectly and terribly human ever be broken?

How could such a thing so instinctual, buried within the very roots of one's nature and one’s genetic make-up, ever be broken and torn away?

Price licked his lips, taking a look around as he chewed at the inside of his lip, pulling the flesh away and leaving a raw spot with jagged edges. He glared at you for a moment, such a soft and yet melancholic glare. “There will be a truce soon.”

You nodded. “Few more days.”

He nodded back. “We have to be careful.”

“We have to anyway,” you pointed out. “Fraternisation is one thing, mein geliebter, aber… romantic involvement with an axis soldat?” You tutted as you shook your head. “You’ll be shot.”

Price shrugged, scratching at his beard; once upon a time, he had mutton chops and a moustache, but as razors were hard to come by, he had allowed the whole thing to grow out. The grey hairs amongst the fine brown ones were certainly a sight to behold. “So would you, my dear.”

You sighed, swallowing thickly, trying to fight back the tears. “I have had enough of war, John. I’ve had enough, and I want to go home - if I have to fall to my knees and scream for mein vater as I die… so be it.”

An all too common sentiment amongst soldiers from all sides, yet it never stopped hurting Price when he heard it; it wasn’t uncommon for soldiers and officers to dream of death, even if only to escape the war without being cowards. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily.

“Not you.” He was nearly pleading. “You have to make it out.”

“John,” you frowned, daring to hold onto his hand tightly as you sighed. “I’m tired. With the exception of you, the war has taken everything from me, and I just want it to end.”

“It will end,” he promised. “I know it will.”

“And what will happen then?” You scoffed. “You’ll whisk me away to your beloved Liverpool, and we’ll live happily?”

“Something like that,” he replied, “just please… don’t die without me. Don’t go somewhere I can’t follow.”

“I can’t promise that,” you told him, shaking your head and daring to let his hand go. You took a look at your watch, and swallowed thickly. “You best leave, mein geliebter. It will be dawn soon, und dein Kommandant will not be very happy if he finds you in Austrian trenches.”

Price nodded, daring to pull you as close as he could, kissing you softly before he turned towards the door. “I’ll see you soon, my dear.”

“Ja,” you whispered, watching him go.

But you weren’t left alone for long, as once Price had left you and you had had a cigarette, Kościuszko walked in, eyes wild and wide with fear.

“Americans!” He was panicked, in a frenzy.

You clenched your jaw, nodding as you grabbed your gun from where it had been leaning, and ushered him out. You climbed upon a box, and dared to raise your voice. “Get your fucking gas masks on! Get your guns ready! Grab whatever fucking weapons you can!”

“Sir?” Krueger stared at you, furrowing his brows. “What’s happening?”

“Americans have been spotted nearby,” you nearly mumbled. “We have to act quickly.”

The men nodded, rushing to grab gas masks and whatever weaponry was lying around in your trench; you didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to lead the charge into the barrage of hostility, into the very jaws of death and destruction, but you had no choice. For your men, it was kill or be killed; if you had to lay down your life to make sure that they could one day go home, you would have gladly done it without a question.

But oh, the fight was bloody.

Several other axis groups, mostly stormtroopers themselves, had joined you and your men in the fight, your very brothers; your lungs felt like they were going to pop, heaving and panting with baited breaths. Eyes wild and wide, hardly able to focus. The screaming. The loud firing of guns, a harmony of chaos.

Dead men laid at your feet wherever you stepped, and although you wanted to give up when you saw the eyeless body of a young man - hardly older than sixteen, a child by all accounts - you knew you had to keep going; that child, like many others, would be buried amongst the mud and forgotten.

His family would not get his body back, and would never be able to truly say goodbye; a name in the sand washed away by a red tide. There was no greatness, no glory to be chased and captured; the lies in the propaganda had made you all believe that you were fighting for something noble and just - but what you saw on the battlefield was anything but.

What was so great about being full to the brim with fear? What was so great about having to walk across the bodies of children?

What the fuck had you become?

You managed to push the Americans back, but at what cost?

There was little time for licking wounds and trying to rest; battered and bruised, you and your men spent the most of the day in the trench, weeping and cowering and hoping that there would not be another enemy rush. Smoke drifted across the blackened and blued skies, a thick grey and yellow fog slowly drifted up above No Man's Land; trees were illuminated by the thick clouds, black sticks stripped of their life.

The trenches were dark, only faintly glowing orange as small fires were lit to keep freezing soldiers alive for the night; in the morning, half of them would be dead. Yet, within that harsh cold, covered in ice and snow and mud and rain, there had been peace here and there; John Price, the English Captain, had come back after his visit the previous night.

He spoke some German although wasn’t exactly fluent, yet he always greeted the Austrian soldiers with a smile and with a polite nod; sometimes he shook their hands, it depended on how muddy and bloody his own were at the time. Places to wash were hard enough to come by, soap was even more difficult to scavenge. Usually, when raids occurred, they were stolen before food was. Whenever Price visited, it was clear that, for the night, Austrian and English alike were friends; some were even brothers.

Tonight you were all brothers, tonight you were all friends, and as Price crept through the trench, he couldn't help but to think that tonight would be the night he would get caught; tonight would be the night that high command found out what he was doing and would promptly ship him away to Verdun.

Gallipoli.

The Somme.

Passchendaele.

Somewhere he wouldn't return from, somewhere he would die and be buried with the masses who had been shot down in the mud; at least it was better than being in the mountains. Avalanches weren't as kind as a bullet, suffocating soldiers beneath snow; it was no secret what had happened on Mount Marmolada.

Maybe tonight, Price's luck would run out and he would be caught fraternising with the enemy, maybe tonight would be his last. Although he was far from an idiot, Price could see that the American charge had left them all bloodied and bruised, and had rendered them weak, desperate for rest; he tried not to be a pain to them as much as he could.

König slept soundly near the fire, head tilted forward and his arms across his chest, crushing his rifle against his body, his gas mask dangling from his knee; the giant didn't seem so big now, snoring softly. It was weird that Price could see his face, usually hidden behind that gas mask of his, but he could see that König's hair was messy and damp from the rain; so he grabbed a coat from the floor, and pinned it above the giant like an umbrella before he continued his march through the enemy trench.

Krueger was still awake, hunched over slightly and smoking a cigarette; covered up by his coat, it was difficult to believe that the man had any tattoos at all. Yet, he sat there, looking down at the ground as he watched rats run across without a care; he was a tough man, scarred from too many encounters with death, but when he looked up at Price with those big brown eyes, it was easy to see the fear and the anxiety that lived in every soldier on the front lines. Krueger wasn't an idiot, clearing his throat as he pointed out where Price had to go.

"Danke," Price nodded.

Krueger nodded back slowly, but said nothing as he leaned back and continued to watch the rats; their dark fur seemed to sparkle, the glitter of rain mixed with the yellow light from the fire.

Kościuszko, different from the others, sat outside the Captain's section of the trench; he smiled when he saw Price.

"You're here to see our captain?"

"Yeah," Price shrugged. "May I?"

Kościuszko nodded. "He's still wide awake."

He rapped on the door, and within seconds, it opened.

"Sobieslaw," you grumbled. "What is it? If it's about the rats again, I told you, I can't-"

"Hallo," Price smiled, waving at you. "You alright?"

You huffed, gesturing for him to get in, and when he did, you slammed the door behind him with a puff. "What?"

"You're not excited to see me," Price frowned, furrowing his brows. "What is it?"

You shrugged, chewing at the inside of your lip. "Difficult few days."

"Yeah?" He hummed as he took a seat on the crudely made stool.

"We've been gassed eight times," you sighed. "Shot at. Grenades thrown at us. Americans charging at us trying to fucking kill us. Every time I close my fucking eyes, I can see those kids begging me to put a bullet in their skull so they won't suffer. Every fucking day, John, I'm reminded that this war is bullshit. Just wasting lives."

He nodded, daring to light a cigarette. "Can't talk like that, Captain, y'know high command don't tolerate it."

"Broken promises of glory," you scoffed, helping yourself to a cigarette. "Every day, more lives lost for a fucking pissing contest. Those kids had dreams, and now it's fuck all."

"I know."

"We were dragged into this shit," you scoffed. "Everyone who dies, dies in vain. Fights in vain… for what? To realise that there's no enemy? That victory, glory and honour are just bullshit?"

"Pretty much."

"I've had it," you admitted, collapsing beside him and resting your head on his shoulder. "Mein geliebter, I've had it… Ich hasse Krieg."

Price frowned as he put his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer as he hummed ever so softly. "Wipe your tears, Captain. There's no point crying right now."

"I don't want to die in a war that would use my name to send more children to die."

"I know," he agreed softly. "I don't either, but… what can we do? Franz Ferdinand's not gonna come back from the grave and undo all this shit."

#mlem writes #captain john price x you #captain john price x reader #john price x y/n #john price x you #john price x reader #captain john price imagine #john price imagine #captain john price #john price #cod x yn #cod x y/n #cod x reader #cod x you #cod imagine #cod fanfiction #cod fanfic #cod fic #cod au #cod one shot #cod angst #cod mw2 x you #cod mw2 x reader #cod mw2 imagine #cod mw2 fanfiction #cod mw2 fic #cod mw2 fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mw ii

[piedpiperslists]

Jungkook One Shots (LXVI)

* s - contains smut

Tainted Love by @taintedjeon s wc~4.1k / rockstar!Jungkook, groupie!reader

You're My Light by @arainbowofchaos wc~9k / neighbors au Summary: Trapped by social anxiety within the confines of your home, your world transforms upon Jungkook's arrival, your new neighbor. Little do you know, he's not just a stranger but a figure from your past with some hidden history. Could Jungkook hold the key to mend your emotional wounds and lead you towards healing?

Hotter, Sweeter, Cooler by @seokjinger-ale s wc~2.9k / established relationship Summary: You and your boyfriend, Jungkook, have fun with a pair of pretty handcuffs.

Ode To The Nature Of Romance by @yeoldontknow s wc~9.9k / strangers to lovers Summary: As a classical violinist, you understand passion and romance better than most. So why does Poetry professor Jeon Jungkook seem to have such a difficult time getting you to understand?

Break Me by @bonny-kookoo s wc~2.3k / FWB Summary: You thought you knew he only wanted sex. He thought you knew he wanted love. Who's gonna break first- and who's gonna pick up the pieces?

When Two Worlds Crash Together by @army-author wc~2.6k / angst, parallel universes au, soulmates au

Orbit by @whatifyoulivelikethat s wc~8.8k / university au Summary: Ah, university. A time to get drunk, get laid, and (maybe) get an education. And Jeon Jungkook could do all those things. It was great. Until the moment he encounters an inescapable gravity, the kind of gravity that had already trapped all six of his friends… but left him out in orbit, circling alone.

Heated by @whatifyoulivelikethat s wc~5.8k / friends to lovers Summary: An (innocent?) conversation about D/s dynamics accidentally leads to you confessing that you think about your childhood best friend while getting off. To your childhood best friend, Jeon Jungkook. Erm. This is after he told you that you would be “an awful sub”, btw.

Le Deux by @whatifyoulivelikethat s wc~3.2k / strangers au, PWP Summary: One rebel from the waist down plus Jeon Jungkook in a sleeveless tee equals two in the back of a car, fucking like animals as Jungkook takes pictures of it all on your phone. Per your request, of course.

Wordless by @whatifyoulivelikethat s wc~5.4k / strangers to lovers Summary: A library is full of words and quiet. Jeon Jungkook liked to go to the public library a lot. It turns out, so do you. And that’s how it begins, from passing glances, to words on a screen, to Jungkook now sitting shirtless in his bedroom, heart racing as he presses the record button.

#jjk list #jungkook oneshot

[popjunkie42]

WIP Wednesday!

Guys I am writing SO MUCH all the time, but I am working on my Psyche-Eros ACOTAR retelling which is going to be a big one! I'm hoping I might be ready to start publishing in the next 4-6 weeks, but in the meantime I have been so impatient to share things! Working on long fics is hard.

I also have a few shorter things I'm tinkering with, along with the last chapter of Blossoming in Winter, but for the time being enjoy this little Psyche-Eros snippet of Feyre seeing Starfall for the first time.

Feyre woke from a dream where she was being smothered. Bolting up in bed, she sucked down mouthfuls of air, hands feeling her throat for phantom claws.

The nightmares had been an unwelcome addition to her new life in the Palace. Not that she would call it that in her mind. Captivity, maybe. Imprisonment.

All the Archeron sisters were prone to nightmares from time to time, the effects inescapable in their shared bed when one woke thrashing and screaming. But Feyre supposed that her full belly and deeper sleep in a soft mattress had the unwanted side effect of empowering her mind, giving it space now to wander down dark and cavernous hallways yet unexplored. This time there were no sisters to wake, to kick her back to reality or murmur half-woken platitudes. None of them had every had a mother who soothed them back to gentler dreams, smoothing hair and cooing soft comforts. Here at least Feyre wouldn’t have her covers stolen roughly by Nesta or feel the sharp toenails of Elain, although in some of her more terror-filled moments, she felt terribly alone.

Feyre willed her heart to slow, closing her eyes and feeling the sweat beading and cooling slowly on her skin.

Only a dream. The word came to her unbidden: safe. Here in this fine Palace she may be trapped against her will, but nothing inside it wished her harm. The curtains swayed gently, revealing the quiet night sky and the cold but familiar mountains beyond.

A strange playground for her mind to play in.

No red claws of crushing fingers here.

As the blood echoing in her ears slowed, she became aware of an odd sound, the tinkling of tiny bells. Light flashed beyond her closed eyelids and she was instantly back on alert, awareness pulling her out of her mind.

She kicked her legs free of the tangled sheets and padded to the balcony on her toes, unable to comprehend the sight before her.

The sky was falling.

Panic gripped her, nerves still raw from her dream. War? Magic? Some horrible natural disaster unknown in the human lands that would tear down pieces of the sky like this, hurling them into the horizon?

Run, scream, hide. Her body was yelling at her, but she froze in inaction at the threshold.

She couldn’t very well fight the stars, if they decided to fall on her head.

One breath. Two.

No smell of burning, no screams or the loud crash of the stone ceiling upon her head. The sky was streaked in whites and yellows and blues and greens shooting far ahead only to dive below the horizon in a glorious blaze, tails sparkling like diamonds. The twinkling noise of scattering star splatter that glowed across the mountain peaks and deep into the mist.

When minutes went by and the world didn’t end, Feyre let her jaw unclench her muscles relaxing slowly.

It was beautiful. The word didn’t do it justice.

Emotions were rolling over her with each star, a shiver of something her body could barely contain. She felt awe, and an empty unworthiness, as if she were spying on something secret and sacred, not meant for her mortal eyes. Then, anger. At her own cold and distant stars back home, that never danced and painted the sky like this. Maybe every week the fae lands exploded with some new terrestrial beauty, some grand blessing reserved for them alone.

When her feet turned cold on the stone balcony, she sought out her blanket, dragging it out to sit upon the ironwood chair, scared to drag her eyes away lest the falling of the stars fade away into another dream. 

She hadn’t known, that the world was so beautiful. That this sight before her was even possible. All her short life spent, even in her comfortable youth, in the dull mortal lands in mud and ordinariness, in suffering and hunger and the stench of death. 

Was it the absence of the fae and their magic, or the presence of the mortals and their doomed short lives, that filled their lands with such ordinariness? Such mud and desperation?

Or had she simply been too hungry, downtrodden and blind to see it? Whatever beauty and hope that might have lived in her world, hovering just out of reach of her fingers, knotted hard into a fist? 

As they flew overhead, Feyre made wishes spoken softly into the night. Messages to her sisters the stars could take with them, if they would travel that far. The mortals had no remaining gods and she didn’t know if the fae kept them as well, so she only wished for the stars to carry what was in her heart to some distant and receptive ear.

#acotar #feysand #wip wednesday

[anghraine]

Another general fandom thing I've been thinking about lately is the extent to which our attitudes are shaped by opposition rather than just liking things.

This extends beyond fandom, of course, but I do feel that the broad dynamics of fandom are increasingly shaped by opposing things we don't like or people we find grating or worse. I'm very conscious of the "ugh at that, I'm going to do the exact opposite" impulse, because I'm a very contrary person by nature and I have to deliberately push against a tendency to have my perceptions (not just activities) shaped by that.

I mean, sometimes we dislike some trend or fanon or whatever because it's diametrically opposed to how we see things or what we like or find acceptable, so it's very natural to dig our heels in. But there's a really common phenomenon, for instance, of "I didn't really care about [whatever], but the fans are so awful that now I hate it." And I have absolutely been there—I'm not excluding myself at all.

But there's still something sad to me about people we find obnoxious actually managing to change our feelings about things and shape what we think about them to such a degree—even though their behavior often has nothing to do with the quality or morality of the thing.

It's one thing if you already dislike something, and then fans/opponents of that thing reinforce what you already thought. But when that actually causes you to think something different than you did, than you would have without them, it's—there's something very uncomfortable about that to me.

Additionally, I think it creates these kind of drastic backlash cycles that can be kind of exhausting. This isn't new in itself, but it feels to me like it's been more rapid and more extreme over the last few years (which may not be an accurate perception; that's just my impression). And this is not always just about annoying and inescapable fanons and the like, but responses to actually bad things.

For an example I'm really familiar with as a lesbian, homophobes in and outside of fandom tend to perceive same-sex relationships as in some way more sexual than het ones and more depraved, corrupt, and/or exploitative. And one of the ways that fans (sometimes queer fans, sometimes not, but well-intentioned) will often respond to this is by a total rejection of that narrative and creating or advocating for depictions of same-sex relationships that are wholesome, soft, and "pure."

And it's not uncommon for those reactive depictions to get pushed forward as the right kind of ships or content to the point that they're presented as the only way to be queer in fandom or to represent queerness, and you end up with people talking like anything this side of Candyland is impure or problematic or grimdark or whatever.

And the thing is—some of those people genuinely prefer the soft bubblegum kind of content for varying reasons, and would have preferred it or created it regardless. That happens! It's not really fair to impose that preference on everyone else (nor fair to deny its validity for some!), but okay. However. A a lot of the time, it gets really caught up in being so much of a rejection of the standard homophobic narrative rather than its own separate thing that it can feel like even things we do for fun are being shaped by homophobes' values and ideas, and we're pressuring each other based on cycles of backlash to them more than expressing ourselves in our own hobbies.

And I feel like this happens in a lot of ways, ranging from very serious concerns like that to "ugh, that fanon is so annoying, I'm going to do its opposite because I can." And it can be difficult to even tell the difference between things we like because we like them, and things we "like" because they annoy people we dislike or at least contradict the things we dislike. A certain amount of pushback to dominant narratives is healthy and appealing, but ... idk. I think it's something to be wary of, too.

#anghraine babbles #general fanwank #a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide #cw homophobia #long post

[hadeantaiga]

Any TERF/Radfem that tries to appropiate ACAB for their Tee-Hee Misandrist Queen UwU shit deserves a jump-kick right in the plexus and torax 😳 preferiblely from queer poc specially ❤️

Btw here's another one for the list https://www.tumblr.com/burningtheroots/722909487600631808/

"We're NOT bioessentialists we swear guys!"

I should be keeping a tally for the "Is the blog blocked" game. I think I'm up to 5 points.

Yes, I already have the blog blocked.

So, actually, this person isn't being inherently bioessentialist. She's one step above most radfems in that she is committing to the idea that it is in fact nurture, not nature, than can turn cis men into violent monsters.

However.

I do take issue with the idea that "male socialization" is always bad and is equivalent to "toxic masculinity", which is how she is using the phrase in her post.

She is stating that all cultures around the world are misogynistic as a baseline, and that all of them teach a version of manhood to male children that is toxic and turns them ALL into abusers. She is also stating that it is impossible for an adult man to escape that cycle of abuse. I partly agree with her: yes, all modern societies are baseline misogynistic, and they do teach their children (both amab and afab) to be misogynistic. I do not, however, believe it is inescapable - it CAN be unlearned.

She's also implying that this upbringing affects all AMAB people equally and identically, completely erasing the experiences of boys of color, gay boys, overweight boys, trans kids who were AMAB, and intersex kids who were AMAB, neurodivergent boys, disabled boys, etc.

So, no. She's not actually being a bioessentialist. She IS still coming to the end conclusion that All Men Are Bad, but there's hope for her and radfems like her who believe in the nurture model instead of the "all amabs bad from birth" group.

I have hope for them too, for a couple of reasons.

Firstly, it's because I also believe that socialization is what causes people to become misogynists, and I acknowledge that there are definitely differences between how a culture treats its AFAB children vs its AMAB children.

But the good thing is, if male "badness" is caused by socialization, that is a thing we can fix.

Feminism as a framework can show adult cis men how society has harmed them and programmed them to be awful, and they can use feminism to unlearn that shit, and then they can then help other men unlearn this shit. Then they can help tear down the patriarchy.

Feminism as a framework can be used to raise boys, right now today, who are resilient against the abuses of the patriarchy, who are able to identify the ways toxic masculinity is woven into everyday life, and learn to be caring, compassionate boys and men who will further contribute to feminism and tearing down the patriarchy.

We can do this.

Feminism is absolutely critical for men who want to unlearn the harm the patriarchy did to them, and it is absolutely critical for parents and communities who want to raise boys who won't have to unlearn the harms of the patriarchy.

#feminism #intersectional feminism #feminism is for men too #feminism is for everybody

[drtanner]

It's fascinating to think about how similar TERFs and incels are as bigoted groups that have been recruited to great effect by white nationalist evangelicals. In both cases, a departure from the rigid expectations of binary gender would do these people a world of good and yet because they're suffering so much under those expectations of binary gender, their bitterness, anger and dissatisfaction with their respective lots have instead seen them being weaponised against minorities on behalf of the actual, literal neo-Nazis who want to see those expectations unequivocally enforced.

Like, we all know what incels are about, we don't need to talk about them, but TERFs in particular are an interesting bunch for just how handily they've been convinced to work against their own interests in the name of inflicting bigotry on trans people. The vast majority of TERFs seem to be older cishet women, and for all of their vocal pride in their womanhood, they do not appear to enjoy being women at all.

The thing is, enduring some long, awful, inescapable suffering can feel radical, in a weird way. Your suffering becomes noble and your ability to stoically bear it becomes a lynchpin of your identity, and such is the case with these women who've made the misery of their lives as wives and mothers part of their personalities. The narrative that men are all inherently violent, predatory oppressors and that women are all inherently victims of those men plays neatly into this mindset; since you're naturally and inherently victimised by men just by virtue of being a woman, there's nothing you can do but endure your suffering, and the best way to be a woman, therefore, is to suffer nobly and make it a core part of your identity.

You might imagine how trans women, who not only willingly choose to participate in womanhood but also enjoy it, might upset someone who's spent half a century living and thinking in this way.

(You know when people who clearly hate being parents get pissy at folks who chose not to have any kids, call them "selfish" or butt into conversations to go "YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT 'TIRED' MEANS, TRY BEING A MOTHER!!" and stuff like that? Yeah. It's the same deal.)

You really can draw a straight, clear line between this suffering-based identity crisis and the ways TERFs try to define womanhood in such a way as to exclude trans women. They're so desperate to defend their own version of womanhood, which is defined by the Noble Suffering they've spent their whole lives believing to be inevitable, that they'll reach as far as they have to in order to exclude trans women from the experience of womanhood, even if it means dragging us back to the fucking 1950s and defining women by their genitals and their ability to bear children. If they didn't, they'd have to face up to the fact that their suffering was never inevitable, that they didn't have to endure anything, and that they could have been enjoying womanhood this whole time and having fun with it like trans women do.

Everything else is just justification for this. It's all window-dressing to hide this underlying fear of the misery they've defined themselves by having all been for naught. If you check in on what TERFs are saying on a semi-regular basis, you'll note that the angle they take to attack trans people changes on the weekly; at the moment it's trendy to say that trans healthcare "medicalises and sterilises children", but a few months ago it was all about "common sense", and before that it was about "protecting women and girls". There'll be another excuse in another few months' time, because TERFs don't genuinely believe any of this stuff. It's all about scrambling to find something, anything that sticks, while covering up this underlying fear that their identities will be invalidated by the revelation that they've suffered for nothing all their lives and that there is no nobility in that suffering.

That's why they never talk about trans men. Trans men are almost never mentioned, except when it's convenient to characterise us as poor, lost little girls, robbed of our god-given ability to have babies by the evil trans cabal that brainwashed us. TERFs are obsessed with trans women, and trans men are a distant afterthought. That's why.

Of course, the other convenience of perpetual victimhood is that you can freely be as vile as you like to other people whilst still maintaining your innocence. You can only ever be a victim, never an oppressor, so no matter how awful the vitriol you spew at marginalised people may be, you'll always remain pure and utterly unblemished. Your actions are virtuous, your intentions without sin. Don't worry about it.

As it was with incels, TERFs have likewise been duped into serving the interests of the patriarchy and of, again, actual, literal neo-Nazis and their allies because blaming a minority and directing their anger with the shitty lot that our cisheteronormative society has given them at that minority is easier than trying to enforce real, positive change or facing up to the fact that they might just have wasted their lives on misery. They are the fucking same, exactly the fucking same.

Fucking with gender and making what we want of it benefits all of us.

#Tanner talks #long post

[innerunderrain]

Just read your yandere secret police childe x Fem reader! I really want to see that interrogation that turns heated the other requester mentioned!! I don't want to trouble you or change the person's request but for the interrogation Where childe is question the reader, could you add the part where they're kinda framed and Childe has this sadistic side and enjoys the readers tears or just likes to see them scared? I love your writing! You have inspired me to write again ^^

Immoral Arrest [Yan!Cop.Childe x Fem!Reader]

Warnings: Yandere themes, misuse power of authority, framed reader, slight perverted thoughts.

Word count: 1k

Note: omg it's completely fine <3 I actually wouldn't mind writing a continuation of this cause I kinda left it at a cliffhanger, just let me know if you're interested for pt 2!!! Aw you're sweet, I'm glad you're inspired to write again! (^^)

-

"Now. Are you ready to confess to your sins?"

The question came from the man who sat in front of you, his face was faintly illuminated by the single light bulb that hung from the ceiling. He wore a lighthearted grin on his face, as if the current circumstance was merely a stroll in the park.

But to you, it was more than that.

The room seemed abnormally cold, rendering the thin jumper you were wearing inadequate against the temperature. The man in front of you - or Childe, as he introduced, was clad in a navy police uniform with a few loose buttons to his white collar. You were almost envious of the layers of his clothing, wishing the police officers had actually provided you more than a thin jumper to cover your pajamas.

The air in the room was heavily saturated with dust, which brought back memories of those desolate homes your parents often visited, claiming that it was for experience, rather than the opportunity to take unwanted items. The dark wall was stained with blood, some of which you could just barely make out. Your hands were handcuffed together as you sat in the middle of the room, your eyes refusing to meet the man in front of you. Yet the man called out to you, his tone rather friendly, similar to the tone you would use whenever you ran into one of your peers from university.

"[First Name]."

You reluctantly lift your gaze from the wooden table to cast a fleeting glimpse at the man, expecting him to be poring over some sort of document. Yet his dreary, inescapable eyes were fixed intently on you, with his hands supporting his face as he leaned against the table.

"I…I don't know."

You staggered and fumbled tensely with your thumbs underneath the wooden table. Your ignorance of the Tsaritsa's cherished possession's location and nature was genuine, you weren't even interested in the affairs of the Fatui's. Imagine being startled into waking up at 8 am to the sound of someone furiously pounding on your front door, only to find yourself in jeopardy when you open it. You were hauled to the police station despite your protests, and now you're sitting in this frigid room, being interrogated unprovoked.

"I'm telling you I didn't do it."

However, the man in front of you merely smiled, making it clear that he didn't take anything you said seriously. Without saying a word, he threw a tablet in front of you and displayed a video of someone who closely mirrors you breaking into the Snezhnaya premises.

"Are you sure it wasn't you?"

You glared at him out of frustration as you pulled your eyes from the monitor. Clearly agitated at the man for accusing you of some crime you didn't commit. Sure, the person looked a lot like you. They had the same hair colour, the same eyes and looked around to be the same height. But it wasn't you.

"It wasn't me! I wasn't even anywhere near the premise that evening."

Your protests were completely ignored by Childe. His smile unwavering as he pulled the tablet back, before tugging it into the duffle bag beside his chair.

"I don't understand why you're insisting it's me when it's clearly not-"

The man abruptly surged forward, grabbing hold of your head, and slamming you against the table. The silence was cracked by a loud "thud," followed by a sudden, severe headache.

Was this even allowed? Even if you did steal something, there's no way he can just treat you like that.

As tears started to collect on the sides of your eyes, your head started to get heavier at the pressure. Why was this evening happening to you? You were falsely accused of stealing despite never having done it in your entire life. You would even consider yourself as a well-rounded citizen of the city, so it didn't even make sense why you're in such a situation in the first place. Everyday you would wake up and head to your classes, stop by the library sometimes and would usually head home, in hopes of snacking on some ice cream and watching some romance buster.

"Don't cry just now, sweetie."

Childe cooed, pinning you against the table with his firm, immovable hold while vigorously caressing the side of your face with the pad of his thumb. A tremendous surge of excitement shot through his veins as he bit down on his lips and savoured your tear-stained face, you looked so cute.

You weren't wrong.

Although Childe was fully aware that you weren't the guilty party, this was the only way the two of you could have become acquainted. He spent hours tracking your every move, making sure all those pesky men would keep away from you. He had expected you to have a few admirers, considering you're a rare beauty but Childe doesn't like to share what are his.

His two fingers brushing against your lips, before forcing them apart and into your mouth. You gagged against him, clearly startled by the abrupt force, and the taste of his leather glove intruding into your senses. His dick throbbed within his tight pants, imagining what it would feel like to have your plump lips wrapped around his cock while he fucks into your mouth.

"Why don't you just tell me the truth."

You could feel Childe's warm breath fanning across your face as he whispered to you whilst hunching so close to your face. Childe was so close to you, to the point he could practically smell the scent of warm vanilla radiating off your hair. Maybe he made the right choice on switching all his shampoos out into one that was similar to yours. Now he could basically relish in your lovely scent the entire day, even on days where he's cope up in his stuffy office for hours.

"You would make both of our lives so much easier if you just confess."

His broad smile and evident enjoyment of the unpleasant situation were visible despite your blurred vision. Was he truly a police officer? How can he claim to be a cop when he was obviously misusing his authority on a law-abiding citizen?

You were quite obstinate, and he knew that even though you were unable to speak owing to his fingers fumbling with your tongue, you would still refuse to answer him even if you could. That's what he likes about you, you're stubborn and always willing to fight for what's right. Even if it meant placing yourself in danger.

Childe was determined to make you lose sight of your determination, he wanted to see your fierce eyes curved into a one of innocence.

Childe sighs, withdrawing his fingers away from your mouth as he watches a stream of drool flowing onto the table from your open mouth. He pushes himself away from you, removing his grip on your head allowing you to sit up.

"Now, sweetheart, I hate to make you go through this."

A confused expression streamed across your face but it quickly morphed into horror as you watched the man pull out a taser from the strap around his waist. Childe pressed at the trigger, prompting the device to light with blue. A buzzing sound emitting from the device as an electrical current surge through it, prompting your eyes to widen in horror. The excitement within Childe's face became more prominent as he stared into your frightened expression, soaking in the way your pupils widened in horror and the way your mouth was left agape.

"But you give me no other options."

#yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #genshin impact #yandere childe #yandere tartaglia #yandere

[aquillis-main]

Been working on my own Yugioh! 5D's character - one that's the owner of a Water Attribute Singer dragon, because it always felt off to me that there was two Dark Attribute Dragons, but no Water Attribute one. I didn't want to use Trishula and the Ice Barrier because that dragon was too powerful for his own good, and I wanted to showcase this character to be versatile in ways the others aren't. Meaning that her deck can't be cancelled so easily. Her main draw is that all her monsters are defense based - They have high defenses for the purposes of their effects, which is to use their defense as their attack. It only works when they're in the defense position, however, and there's a good amount of cards that counteract this strategy easily.

About my OC - her name's Johana Crystalle, and her last name may be an indicator of something. Not entirely sure what it is.

As for her personality, I decided that because of her rough life in Satellite (as I want her placed there due to lack of female representatives besides Martha, IIRC) she's a bit spacey and in her own head, to escape the awful world that she grew up in. However, she seems very capable of leaving at any point in her head, and even shows a strong awareness of everything around her at any point, an implication that it's not entirely inescapable. Beyond that, her natural personality showcases her to be optimistic despite the world she lives in, as well as being very, very calm and smart in certain suituations.

I've done five different variations of her head to try and figure out which version I like of her. I'm leaning towards the ones with bunny ears as cowlicks more, but what does everyone else think? I plan on possibly reworking on her jacket a bit, as I feel it's still a bit close to Yusei's, and I don't want her to be entirely based off of him.

#Aquillis Draws #Yugioh 5D's #Yugioh 5Ds #Yugioh OC #Yugioh Original Character #Johana Crystalle #Yugioh

[youllallriseintheink]

Headcanons on 049 making someone feel better about life?

-Just as the plague doctor is physically hardy and lacks many of the physical needs humans have, he is psychologically hardy as well, able to endure situations that would cause us a great deal of loneliness, hopelessness, and frustration with admirable serenity. But just as he’s studied the human body extensively, he’s studied human minds enough to understand our emotional needs. Both because he understands the importance of good bedside manner, and because he wants to care for us fragile humans and understand us.

-Pestilence curing aside, Doc’s serenity means he’s actually a pretty calming person to spend time with. Any apprentice of him has experienced this, and patients (ones who see Doc for issues other than pestilence, that is) generally feel like they’re in good hands with him and that he listens to their concerns. The pestilence is only an exception to Doc’s usual respectful approach because it’s so contagious and harmful that neutralizing it takes priority.

-If you’re incredibly sad or stressed out, Doc will try to talk to you. Prolonged emotional distress can lead to physical health problems, after all, so it’s only natural that a doctor should address it where he can. It’s moments like these where Doc wishes he could touch others without worrying about killing them.

-If you come to Doc for advice, it’s almost a shot in the dark whether his advice will be very naive and unhelpful because he doesn’t live a human life or incredibly wise because he’s lived so long and seen so much. Generally speaking, he’s not much help with specific issues, like “how do I resolve this fight with my brother,” but when it comes to sweeping philosophical questions, like “how do I live the best life,” he’ll be able to tell you the patterns he saw in the most fulfilled people he’s met over the centuries.

-One piece of advice he’s fond of is that all people go through both good and bad times in their lives, and that it’s important to remember that while both are real, both are temporary. This tends to help people gain perspective when everything seems awful and their situation seems inescapable. He encourages people to think about happier times in their past and keep hope that there will be more of them in the future.

-If a person seems entirely hopeless about their life, Doc may offer that they become his assistant. It isn’t an easy life, but it’s a change. Of the people he’s allowed to do this, all but a few realized what they were missing within a few months of being with him and go back to more conventional (though generally happier and different from before) lives. Only a couple have stayed with Doc for life, and none but Wren chose to become immortal.

#scp #scp 049 #creepyalienghost #oc: wren #thanks for the ask

[theminecraftbox]

no idea if ur still doing the top 5 thing and feel free to ignore this bc we haven't actually talked about four square like at all on our blogs asdlfjs but bc im genuinely curious - top 5 four square AU dynamic duos? 👀

:D

For those not in the know (which tbh is probably most everybody), the Foursquare AU is a thought experiment (and eventual fic? Someday) by me and Dr3 premised on… what if we DreamXD took JMAH!Dream and c!Dream, and forced them to sit in a box and ✨bond✨? Because, as we’ve established, they’d kinda hate each other.

But Kat, I hear you say, that’s only two people, and it’s called foursquare! An excellent point, which is why the Dreams receive sets of periodic visitors! So far, they’ve enjoyed the company of j!Techno and c!Techno, then j!Sam and c!Sam, then j!Quackity and c!Quackity, then combinations thereof… you get the picture.

Naturally some of these pairs are better disposed towards each other than others. This ranking was so hard because I LOVE THEM ALL, UGH. There is literally something fascinating about every duo.

Honorable Mention: c!Techno and j!Dream

j!Dream has spent ages without any sort of lighthearted company whatsoever. c!Techno is used to bringing a hostile and wounded Dream out of his shell. I’m soft about them; I’m soft about the ways in which the Technos, and c!Techno in particular due to his experience, are the only people here both willing and prepared to go to bat for either Dream. j!Dream is getting so damn invalidated by everyone and c!Techno stands up to that.

5. j!Sam and c!Quackity

This one kind of edges a lot into the c!Quackity and j!Dream dynamic, too, because it’s all about c!Quackity coming to terms with the idea of j!Sam as a calculated torturer. Not just an overseer of torture, not just someone violent—but someone who, for much longer than even c!Quackity had the patience and stomach for, tried to systematically destroy a man’s will using pain. c!Quackity is annoyed, and angry, and disturbed, and outraged by the hypocrisy (and he absolutely makes all of this the Dreams’ problem). And for j!Sam, c!Quackity is the specter of one of his greatest failures, someone he blames for the prison’s collapse and someone he holds up as a comforting standard to compare himself against: as long as he’s not c!Quackity, he’s not a torturer. It’s a delicious conflict.

4. c!Quackity and j!Quackity

COMEDY DUO! Everyone clap!! These guys are insta-bffsies, instant drinking buddies, and instantly make each other worse. They’re willing to egg each other on, they’re willing to encourage each other, and they’re ready to make everything into a game they’re both winning. They’re each other’s sympathetic audience, and they’re a reminder of their own humanity—not in a wholesome way, but in a grimy, laughing, down-to-earth way. They look at each other and they’re mildly afraid of what they see—and that’s a good thing, isn’t it? That’s a great fucking thing, isn’t it! Also they spend hours gossiping about whatever the fuck is UP with Sam and Dream, so fucking weird right? So they get instant rights for that.

3. c!Dream and j!Sam

j!Dream buckles under the awful weight of j!Sam’s conditioning, and c!Dream sees the horrifying, inescapable extension of what he—and Sam—could have become. Consequently, he resists as strenuously as possible, even—and especially—when the smart move would be to give in. For j!Sam, c!Dream is his white whale, the one that got away. Drawing the differences between the two Dreams makes it more clear than ever to j!Sam that c!Dream was never actually his, not truly… and even j!Dream escaped him too, didn’t he? So much of what j!Sam did and does to j!Dream is actually aimed at or in payment for what c!Dream did or is. They have some Shit To Prove to each other.

2. c!Sam and j!Sam

Oh god there’s two of them. If you thought the Quackitys exacerbated each other’s worst tendencies, hoo boy, they’ve got NOTHING on these two. Sam is a people pleaser at heart; his rationale for whether or not a thing is Right is in large part whether or not he thinks that someone else in possession of the full facts and his perspective would agree with him. He martyrs himself to a lonely idea of justice because he’s quietly and terrifyingly afraid that he WON’T ever get this validation, and that no one will ever tell him “I understand what you’re doing and you’re right to do it.” Well. Guess who’s validating him now? His other self, who he confusingly regards as both literally, tangibly him (and unlike any of the other pairs, it’s true that j!Sam actually is just a future version of c!Sam), and as another sane and trustworthy perspective on this whole mess. Every time one of the Sams hesitates, he glances at his compatriot and feels heartened. They’re in the right. Plus there’s the strange sense of proprietary protection they feel over their respective Dreams. It makes for a nauseous, heady brew.

1. c!Dream and j!Dream

Oh. Oh. Them. They hate each other. And the awful poisonous terrible cruel thing is, self-hatred isn’t something particularly innate to Dream. (In fact, it’s not a major demon of any of the prison trio). The festering loathing he directs at his counterpart is a direct response to seeing his own trauma reflected in another (weaker? Stronger?) version of himself. He’s gone through fucking HELL and he’s still there, and the only target he’s free to rail against is this other self. This self whose flaws he can pick at in the same way his abusers do, and who he can viciously mock for being unable to stand up under the weight of that abuse. They each have a taste now of EXACTLY what each other has been through, and this weight of shared trauma has only made them more awful to each other, because what’s the damn alternative? What’s the alternative, is it to admit that they aren’t coping?

But they’re allies! Without thought and without question, they’re allies. They work together well. They nearly managed to win a fight against steep, steep odds with nothing but grit and desperation.

When they shared that one soft moment (you know the one, right when they surrendered, when j!Dream squeezed c!Dream’s wrist because they knew what was about to happen) I wanted to fucking cry.

#au: foursquare #au: just me and him #c!dream and c!sam #c!dream and c!quackity #c!dream and c!techno #prison trio #abuse.