#IF THERE'S TYPOS DON'T TELL ME

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[lost-in-fandoms]

This is me, trying to preemptively soothe myself for whatever will be said about Daniel in this incoming race week. This got longer than I was expecting, it's about 3.5k, so it's on ao3 too if you prefer to read it there.

Daniel wakes up to the feeling of Max sliding in bed behind him. He smells like Daniel's body wash and his skin is still warm and damp when he tucks himself close against Daniel's back, knees slotting in behind his.

Still too asleep to find a way to work his voice for a proper hello, all Daniel manages is a sleepy sigh, but Max doesn't seem to want to break the silence either, squeezing the arm he sneaked around Daniel's waist in his own quiet greeting, smushing his face against the sweaty back of Daniel's neck.

The room is still fully dark, a combination of the blackout curtains and the fact that it's still not even dawn, so Daniel is happy to let the sound of Max's breathing pull him back under, until he realises two things.

First, Max is still curled up close behind him, sweat already condensing between them, not rolling away like he usually does, complaining about Daniel's mound of blankets, which piles up especially high when Max isn't there.

And second, Max is supposed to be in England.

Suddenly much more awake, he opens his eyes again, trying to make his sluggish limbs coordinate to allow him to turn around, but Max squeezes him harder, keeping him in place, shaking his head slightly, nose dragging against Daniel's skin.

"Hey," Daniel mumbles, raspy and heavy with sleepy. Max doesn't answer.

"Max," he tries again, feeling more and more awake, as confusion and worry start to mix in his stomach.

Max, stubborn in this like in everything else, doesn't budge. His steady breath is damp on Daniel's nape.

For a moment, Daniel considers the pros and cons of trying to have this conversation now, trying to turn around and make Max answer his questions, but finally he decides this can probably wait for the morning. If this isn't a dream, Max will probably still be there, and it will be easier to figure out what happened between this morning, when Max had facetimed him on his way to the factory, and now, Max tense and too warm in his bed.

So he lets it go, intertwining his fingers with Max's and sighing again, feeling Max's acknowledgment of his momentary retreat in the way his muscles finally uncoil, relaxing against him.

Silence falls again in the room, only broken up by the whirring of Daniel's white noise machine and the buzzing of far away traffic, LA's neverending lullaby, but neither of them falls asleep for a long time.

The next time Daniel wakes up the room is still dark, in that unique way it gets when it's light outside and his blackout curtains are doing their job, and his bed is empty. For a second he wonders if it had just been a dream, a weirdly realistic fantasy conjured from the aching spot in his heart that is missing Max all the time. But he can smell Max's scent on his skin, even hidden underneath his own body wash, and the sheets beside him are still just barely warm.

And when he reaches the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from his eyes and tugging on a hoodie he had picked up from the floor, Max is sitting on a stool, very much not a dream.

"Morning," Daniel greets him, trying to figure out if asking what are you doing here right away is going to get him an answer or an annoyed Max.

He doesn't get the chance to try though, because Max only smiles at him, bright even if pinched at the corners, before pointing at his phone and at the earbuds in his ears.

Almost done he mouths. He pulls a face, exaggerated and ridiculous, but so paper thin Daniel can still perfectly see the annoyance behind it.

Daniel nods, joining him at the counter, sitting on the stool next to him and smiling as Max scoots closer, intertwining their ankles.

He wishes he had grabbed his own phone from the nightstand to keep himself busy, or maybe to order food, since he's not sure on what's in the fridge, but he's feeling too lazy to get back up, so he resorts to laying his head down on the countertop and look up at Max's face.

His mouth is in a hard line as he nods along to whatever they're telling him, distractedly running a hand along his unshaven jaw. He looks tired, and annoyed, and beautiful, and Daniel missed him so much it feels like even sitting like this, close and touching, is not enough to soothe the gnawing pit in his chest.

Max rolls his eyes, then looks down at Daniel and smiles again, reaching over to brush a hand through his hair, the motion smooth and practiced, the same he uses when petting his cats. Daniel fights hard to not close his eyes.

"Yes, change my schedule, email it to me, whatever. I have to go."

Daniel frowns at the snappiness of Max's tone, watches as his expression grows even stormier at whatever he's been told. Something tells him Max was not exactly free to come here.

"Yes, fine. Bye."

If Max had a flip phone, Daniel is pretty sure he would have just snapped it closed. As it is though, he just swipes his finger on the screen and drops his earbuds on the counter, pressing his hands against his eyes with a sigh.

"I'm going to throw out a wild guess, and say you're not a happy bunny this morning," Daniel says, hoping to ease some of the tension from Max's shoulders.

He partially succeeds, as Max does drop his hands, rolling his eyes at him, before laying his head down on the counter too, so that they're staring at each other from the same point of view.

"I am happy to be here," Max says, slow and precise, the way he gets when he's trying to correctly convey his feelings, "but the team is not."

Daniel hums, bumping their knees together. He doesn't really care if the team is happy or not, but he knows being at the receiving end of a scolding like the one Max must have just gotten is not fun.

"They're not very happy with me lately," Max adds a bit ruefully, closing his eyes. His cheek is smushed against the marble, making the bags under his eye disappear a little, the other one much darker in comparison.

"Flew away from many sponsor events then?" Daniel asks, again trying make Max smile. This time it works only halfway, a corner of Max's mouth ticking up, the other kept in place by his cheek and the counter.

"Just a couple. They..." Max stops, a hand coming up to tug at his ear, fiddle with his hair. Daniel wants to grab his fingers, press his mouth against Max's forehead and learn each one of his thoughts like that.

Instead, he has to speak. Boring.

"Why are you here, Maxy?" he asks, because he can't not. He wonders if he should add that he is happy that Max is there, hopes that he doesn't have to, that Max would know anyway.

"I missed you."

Simple, easy, deadly.

Daniel feels his heart do a weird stuttering skip, lungs squeezing, trying to accommodate the surge of love suddenly flooding his chest.

"I missed you too," he chokes out, giving up on resisting the urge and leaning forward, bumping his nose against Max's, their knees knocking together, looking for a kiss.

Max tastes like orange juice, Daniel probably tastes like sleep, and it's awkward because of the uncomfortable position. It's the best thing Daniel has done this whole week.

"They briefed me," Max murmurs, lips still brushing together, sounding like it pains him to speak. A part of Daniel wants to go back to kissing, but he can feel they are now getting to the real reason why Max is there, and doesn't want to stop it.

Not that he doesn't believe Max missed him, Max never lies, never says something sweet if he doesn't mean it, but he knows there must be another reason why he looks like this, instead of just happy to be with Daniel. And even if some part of him knows this will probably not be an easy conversation, he also suspects it's one they need to have.

"On what to say about you."

Daniel jerks back a little before he can really think about it, the words stinging sharply.

He knows it makes sense. He knows he now basically is an ongoing PR disaster for the team, and a part of him enjoys it, but the reminder of it still hurts. And it hurts to think about Max, sitting somewhere across the world, getting told what to say when asked about him.

Max's eyes are open again now, but his expression is carefully blank, just studying whatever Daniel's face is doing, and Daniel suddenly hates it all, pain and rage swelling once again inside him.

He's been doing well, trying his best not to think about it. He's been keeping himself busy, keeping himself with people, refusing to let the feelings dwell and drag him under, but it's unavoidable with Max right there, talking about it.

And something must show on his face, because he sees something flicker under Max's blank expression, and then he's moving back too, out of the space where they were still sharing air, taking his head off the counter with a wince.

For a second, Daniel thinks about staying where he is, neck starting to twinge painfully, and letting Max say whatever he's going to say, probably some kind of apology, then an excuse, and then letting him leave. He thinks about letting Max think that for Daniel it is worse to have him here, painful reminder of everything he's not going to get anymore, than have him gone, aching pit of absence in his stomach. Thinks about where all of that would lead.

He straightens too.

His wince is probably identical to Max's, his neck aching and sore from the awkward position, and he knows that normally it would make Max smile, it would make them both crack a joke about it. But now Max is too busy trying to hide what he's feeling, wanting to calibrate it on whatever Daniel is feeling, to joke about old age or something, and Daniel hates it.

He grabs Max's arm, pretending he doesn't see Max's barely there flinch, pretending it doesn't send a new wave of hurt through him, and leads him out of the kitchen, to the couch. Max follows him quietly, trustingly, not even asking where they're going, what is happening. Daniel hates it.

He lays down on the couch, tugging Max on top of him. A part of him wishes they had done this last night, when they were close and aided by the dark, but he knows that, as much as he doesn't like it, this is probably better. He doesn't want to have this conversation more than once if possible, so it's better this way, something they'll both remember clearly.

Max is still tense on top of him, careful, but he relaxes a little as Daniel winds his arms around his waist, tugging him closer, the familiar weight of him on top of him comforting.

It's only when they're properly settled that he lets out a breath, and he forces himself to face this head on.

"What did they tell you to say?"

He's proud of how steady and neutral his voice sounds, the swirling mess of emotions inside him nowhere to be found.

For a long moment, Max doesn't answer. His hair is barely brushing against Daniel's chin, and he can feel where Max's chest is expanding as he breathes, pressing against him.

"I am not going to do it," Max finally says, voice quiet but sure. "I told them, I am not."

Daniel hums, not even tempted to doubt him.

"What did they say?" he asks again, wanting to know, wanting Max to tell him.

"That you knew." Ouch. "That you were not performing." Ouch. "That this was the best choice for the team, and I am excited to see what Liam can do." Ouch.

He's not surprised Max wouldn't say any of this, he's more surprised the PR team would even try to make him say this, but it still hurts to know that this is how they are going to spin the story.

"Excited, uh?" is all he manages to say, slightly choked.

Max pushes himself up on one elbow, struggling against Daniel's hold on his waist, to glare up at him, eyes steely and fierce and red rimmed.

"I am not going to do it," he repeats, forceful and sincere. "They are wrong and they are stupid, and I am not going to sit and lie and..."

He breaks off, pursing his lips and pressing them firmly together, eyes shiny. Daniel loves him so much it hurts.

"I know I can't tell the truth," Max says slowly with a grimace, voice breaking under all the feelings he's trying to keep at bay, "but I am not going to lie."

Daniel wants to kiss him again. He wants to tug him close and kiss him and get lost in each other and in love until everything outside the door doesn't matter anymore. He wants to push all this away until it isn't hurting either of them.

Instead, he gently pushes Max down on his chest again, one hand on his neck and one on the small of his back, and breathes.

"You told them that?" he asks.

Max's nod drags the fabric of his hoodie against his skin, bunching it up.

"I said, I will be polite and I will say nice things about Liam, and about Yuki and Checo, but I will not say that shit about you. I am not fixing this for them."

Daniel wonders what the Daniel of 10 years ago would have said, if he got told that in 10 years time Max would still be by his side, fiercely on his side.

"Thank you, Maxy," is all he can say, his feelings to messy and big to try and put them into words without spilling them all over the room, making clean up a bitch he doesn't want to deal with today.

Max nods again once, rough and too quick, dislodging the hand Daniel still has on his neck.

"They were not happy," he says, squirming a little until Daniel puts his hand back. "They told me there will be consequences," he snaps, slightly derisive, "so I told them I can do consequences too, and left."

Well, that explains the scolding.

"You left?" Daniel asks, not disbelieving, but still incredulous somehow.

"I didn't want to be there anymore," Max says, as if that explains it all. It probably does, for him.

For Daniel, it's yet another confirmation of which side Max is on. Not that he needed one more, but it's still nice to have. Nice to know that even in something like this, something this big and catastrophic, Max will choose him, over and over. The flood of love is back, and this time Daniel has to tip his head back and breathe, trying not to let it out through his eyes.

"How angry are they?" he asks, when he feels like his voice isn't tangled up in a knot in his throat anymore.

Max shrugs awkwardly, trapped between Daniel's body and Daniel's hands.

"Angry."

It makes Daniel snort despite himself, the sound slightly wet.

"Can't have everything their way, I guess."

He can imagine it, Max storming out of a meeting room, leaving behind a mix of perplexed and angry people, knowing they can't really punish him in any meaningful way that isn't making him do more sponsor events. It's a very satisfying thought.

And then Max takes a breath, pushes himself up on an elbow again, and decides to shift Daniel's world once again.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks. Then, probably because he sees Daniel starting to frown, he adds "not here. The team."

It knocks the breath straight out of Daniel's lungs.

He blinks, unable to process what Max has just said.

"You...what?" he stutters, shifting back a little, trying to look at Max's face better without straining his neck.

He's almost expecting Max to laugh, to take it back, to crack a joke. But Max is deadly serious, the same unshakeable firmness Daniel knows from years of debriefs and arguments on his face.

"I want to win," Max says, not taking his eyes away from Daniel's. "I want to race, and I want to win, for a little while longer. But I don't like what they have been doing, what they did to you. I don't like what the team has become. I don't like what the sport is becoming. So if you want me to leave, if it would help that I leave too, I will leave at the end of the year."

Daniel can't breathe. There's loyalty, and there's Max being loyal, and then there's this. He doesn't know what to do with any of this.

"You can't...I can't ask you to leave." His voice sounds distant to his own ears, so overwhelmed it doesn't even feel his.

"If you want me to, if it would make you hurt knowing I am still racing with them, if it would make you angry, or hate me..."

"I am not going to hate you," Daniel interrupts. He doesn't know many things right know, but he knows that. He's suddenly torn between wanting to tug Max close again and wanting to keep looking at him while they talk about this, and settles on bringing his hand up to Max's cheek, relishing in the way he immediately leans into it.

"I don't want you to stop racing because of me," he says, another thing he's sure of.

"I would, if you asked," Max tells him, easy and steady, as if it's not monumental. Max Verstappen, willing to stop racing, for him.

"I won't."

Max nods, then breaks eye contact, suddenly looking shakier, unsure.

"You can't..." he takes a breath, bottom lip jutting out. Daniel's heart is beating too fast in his chest. "You can't hate me for it. I asked, and you said no, you can't hate me for it, now."

Daniel gives in, pressing Max to his chest again, bending his head to press his lips against his hair.

"I won't," he promises, voice swollen and heavy. "I won't hate you, Max. I won't even be angry at you, not for this. It was never on you."

Something that Daniel hadn't even noticed seems to uncoil between Max's shoulders and he slumps against Daniel's chest with a shuddering sigh, arms coming around Daniel's waist to hold him tighter.

Daniel wonders for how long Max had been carrying the weight of this misplaced guilt, of this fear. Wonders how he hadn't seen it before.

"If you want to leave for you," he carefully says, giving himself time to properly word what he wants to say, thinking about retirement jokes, and about much more serious retirement conversations, "you are free to leave. I will not be angry about that either."

Max shivers as he nods.

"I don't know if I want to," he mumbles, half lost in Daniel's hoodie. His hair is soft against Daniel's lips.

"You don't have to decide right now," Daniel tells him, suddenly and strongly grateful they're having this conversation like this, and not through a phone. Or worse, not having it at all. "I am not going to be your WAG, but I am not going to be angry either."

There's many things Daniel has to work through, to figure out. The past few weeks have been hard, some days spent in bed, too sad and angry and betrayed to feel like getting up, others spent doing things, feeling like all of this is just the start o something better. He is still confused, and a bit lost, but this he knows. Max he knows.

"I love you," he says, because it's the easiest way he has to promise forever without saying it, the word too big for a moment like this.

"I love you too," Max says, easy and unwavering, as if he wasn't shaking in Daniel's arms a few moments ago, as if the words are a steady enough pillar to sustain the weight of the crumbling word around them.

And maybe they are. Maybe they are.

The conversation isn't over, he knows it. What Max has said is too big to just let it go like this, especially if he really is considering retirement. And he wants to know when Max has to go back, what the team has told him, what his punishment for leaving like this will be. But for now, Daniel presses his lips again Max's hair again and breathes out, feeling like they have pushed past something, undone a particularly nasty knot.

And for everything else they have time.

[kirby-the-gorb]

[schneiderenjoyer]

The reason the whole age discourse is confusing is that bluepoch keeps pulling shit like THIS.

[elinekeit-artstuff]

That projectile titty rocket flew so my agender ass could walk 💞

[achillesdaily]

DAY #6

>posting Achilles until he arrives at my doorstep.

Achilles, introduce yourself.

[rottmnt-residuum]

I know you didn't win the au comp, but since you said send in bonus comic ideas, would you still be interested in showing us what happened when Donnie first woke up in the facility?

If not that's ok!

i always get hung up on the 'when he first woke up' part, as he woke up multiple times before he got to the facility. But when he woke up at the facility itself was quite literally right before that first scene in the comic.

what i was considering as spoilers here was the fact he woke up before he got to the facility

[sanasanakun]

I think my favorite part of the dlc’s final boss is how it (can) directly mirror your Tarnished, and by extension, their relationship with Ranni. Obviously, this is coming from me, your resident Ranni glazer who will make everything about her if I can, so please understand this is my interpretation. 

My interpretation is that Miquella/Radahn act as a foil to Ranni/Tarnished, specifically when it comes to the themes of love, consent, and freewill. Now, I know it’s up in the air about how consenual the pact between Radahn and Miquella is. Personally, I see it as non-consensual; Miquella resurrected and controls a puppet of Radahn and/or bewitched him to be his “promised consort.” Given the theme of control with Miquella, I don’t think FromSoft would turn that around on us at the last second. Radahn’s situation is meant to be the final nail in the coffin; a demonstration of what Miquella’s “love” exactly means. Total control over one’s entire self and mind. Anyway, I digress, let’s get into how I see their situation mirroring, and acting as the antithesis, to Ranni and Tarnished. 

First, we’ll examine Miquella and Radahn. Miquella is presented almost throughout the entire game as a beloved figure. He is literally called “Miquella the Kind,” and his actions at the Haligtree paint him as an even more heroic figure. A demi-god who wants to help the weak, the oppressed, and anyone in between who has been scorned by the Golden Order. As we discover in the DLC, Miquella wants to create an “Age of Compassion.” But there’s always a catch, and Miquella’s plan is no exception. Why? Because his new age would remove the free will of everyone by giving him total control of how they feel, act, etc. He’ll make them happy and at peace because they’ll have no choice; they’ll have no self. This is exemplified in literal form with Radahn. The relationship between the two brothers presents itself as a one-sided obsession on Miquella’s part. Though we don't know a ton about them together, I think it’s safe to theorize Radahn didn’t willingly go along with Miquella’s plan. Radahn is canonically a fan of the Golden Order given his admiration of Godfrey and his father, Radagon. I can’t see him wanting to disrupt the current way of things. Plus, I don’t believe Maleania and Radahn would stage a fake war just to get Radahn into a position where he could be resurrected via Mohg. Too many hoops to jump through, so Occam’s Razor says Radahn rejected Miquella. 

Now that’s great and all, but the real meat I want to analyze comes from the actual boss fight, or more specifically, the twos’ body language during the fight. Radahn is an empty shell. He doesn’t have any dialouge aside from small grunts. He doesn’t address us at all, which is entirely unlikely for how he’s been described. He’s a ferocious warlord who values the strength of both his allies and enemies. At the very least, he would address someone as prolific and talented as the PC Tarnished. Yet, he doesn’t. Radahn is literally there to act as “the muscle;” he is the strong and powerful lord that Miquella admired him to be. However, by making Radahn only act like this, Miquella has erased the true essence of what made Radahn. He lacks his soul. Miquella might be the more interesting of the two when it comes to body language. I think Miquella’s theme of control really shines with how he places himself on Radahn during the battle. He is literally draped over Radahn with his arms wrapped around his neck. Obviously, at first glance this is meant to imitate an embrace, solidifying the two as both a team and lovers. Yet, Miquella’s position doubles in meaning when considering his need to control. The arms could represent a collar, with Miquella acting as the leash. His hovering gives off a “helicopter” vibe (for a lack of a better term). While playing I called him a “helicopter parent,” comparing him to where they are constantly looking over your shoulder and trying to direct you. Essentially, Miquella is caging Radahn in his embrace, revealing his need to control the situation and Radahn himself. Miquella is the personification of control; he won’t allow free will to happen because he thinks it causes too much pain and uncertainties. And Radahn, he embodies the fate of those who would live under the Age of Compassion; he is a puppet. Specifically, he is Miquella’s puppet in both battle and love. He doesn’t have a choice in the matter at all. 

So, how is this the antithesis to our beloved blue wife and the Tarnished? Ranni doesn’t appear to help the Tarnished during their fight with the duo, which I’ve seen a few complain about. While I would love to fight alongside my support princess (and I have downloaded the mod lol), I think Ranni appearing would undermine the character FromSoft has established and her relationship with the Tarnished. Ranni is very hands off. She gives her vassals the tools to work with and then tells them to do what they wish with it. She never forces you to do anything you don’t want to. When you confront her about her role in the death of Godwyn, she willingly admits it and then asks you if you’d like to pledge service to her. She doesn’t say, “You know my secrets, therefore you will be in my service so I can keep an eye on you.” Instead, it’s a choice; a choice for someone far below her in class and power, but she gives it to you nonetheless. For Ranni, the ability to choose and live the way you desire is incredibly important. She seems to dislike outside forces messing with the ability to expereince life (as she says feel, see, taste, etc). 

Therefore, in the final battle with Miquella and Radahn, Ranni is there with you via the tools she’s provided and the faith she has in you (you can interpret this as her blessing with the “we will see each other once more”). She doesn’t need to be hovering over you, arms wrapped around your neck; she trusts the Tarnished above all else to succeed and fight for her. But should they choose not to, she’ll be heartbroken but she won’t stop you. As for the Tarnished, our character is not a shell of a person. They are someone teeming with ambition and the will to fight for their chosen successor. They fight because they want to be there and challenge whatever comes to face them; they don’t need Ranni telling them “go fight Miquella and Radahn for me pls.” 

Their “Age of the Dark Moon” also is the antithesis to Miquella’s “Age of Compassion.” Whereas his is about control, Ranni wants to remove all outer god influence from the world. She wants people to experience their lives without the intervention of any god; to experience life on their own terms, whether they want otherworldly guidance or not. She literally takes her order and leaves the planet (?) with it and you. 

Ok, that’s enough of me rambling about whatever the fuck comes to my sleep deprived mind. I have a flight to catch in three hours, so I’m gonna leave it here. In closing, Ranni good I love her very much mwah<3

[bendreality-a]

all hail Rolan, master of Ramazith's Tower.

[shyravenns]

yeah yeah yeah Soap is dead, but how about Soap coming back and haunting every member of 141 like the clingy bastard that he is

Farah who never really knew Soap as well as the others, but still feels the gaping hole that his presence left. Farah, who finds herself standing beside Ghost underneath the cool night sky, and surprises herself (and him) with a joke that's so oddly distasteful about the state of their recent mission and feeling a soft warmth flutter in her chest at his light huff of laughter. Laughter that she feels as if she hasn't heard in months. Remembering hours later that herself that she could have sworn that there had been a brief, additional gust of laughter along the wind that neither of them bothered to acknowledged.

Alex who feels the unsettling quiet that's grown between all of them at all times as if it were a blanket. He knew Soap as well as one might expect from the very few times they worked together, and oftentimes thinks about the blossoming friendship between them that had died along with him. Alex, who often wonders about the kind of leader Soap would have been and places him in the tiny cranny in his heart that's reserved for every man and woman that's worked alongside him and died. Alex who feels the unwelcome *push* of hands that cause him to stumble so hard he feels as if his teeth has knocked out, and just barely remembers that he's in an active warzone before he glances up and sees the tall tale imprint of a bullet in the wall right where his head had been.

Rudy who had the privledge of actually becoming Soap's friend, and remembers the exact moment he heard the news. They weren't *close*. Not in the way that Soap was close with Ghost or Gaz or even Alejandro, but he still felt as if a bullet had pierced his own heart at the confirmation of his death. Watching at the brief flicked of emotions crossing Alejandro's face at another soldier lost far too soon. Rudy who flips through the long forgotten sketchbook that Soap had left during one of his visits to Las Almas, and delicately places his fingers on the sketches. Rudy who doesn't remember falling asleep, and wakes up with the scent of a long forgotten friend floating in the air and a sketchbook that's been left on an empty page he doesn't remember seeing. He stands up to get his pencil.

Alejandro who takes every death to heart, and keeps every dog tag that he can find stored in a drawer in his desk of all the men and women he had the honor of fighting alongside with. Alejandro who grieves at the absolute unfairness of it all, and vows to kill Markarov himself if he should ever have the chance. Alejandro, who still wants to believe that there is some sort of afterlife and that maybe there's a point to all of this. Alejandro, who loses *another* soldier and feels the weight of a hand on his shoulder that squeezes, and thinks that just for a moment that he can hear the faint whisper of bad spanish with a slight scottish accent in his ear. Words barely perceptible even by his own trained ears, and yet it brings a small smile to his face.

[shoshimakesstuff]

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ Spotify | PSD ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

[phantomsf0rever]

oh to be a journalist interviewing the most doomed woman in new jersey about her cute little outfits...

i hope tumblr doesn't compress her... i usually use big canvases and it turns out fine but this file was particularly diabolical

[zhouxiangs]

tagged by @negrowhat 🩷

no pressure tagging: @sherrymagic @clairedaring @sanvees @ahxu-laowen @ciizerutricha

[specific-dreamer]

the people have spoken and i shall be writing the pic where pony and johnny never went to dally

BUT i can’t decide if it should be in darry’s pov or pony’s so i’m gonna write the start to both under the break and then you guys pick

for the people who asked to be let aware here are your tags, it's not done but here's a progress report i suppose: @theleopardstalker, @darry-queen, @skaryskeletons, @too-damn-good-for-growing-old, @dancertori24, and @johnnyburntcake

(save for when you have time because it is v important to me that you know i’ve only written the introduction, the thesis if you will, and pony section is 642 words and darry’s is 375 words. and im not even done i simply forced myself to stop there)

darry’s

darrel shaynne curtis is not a rough person. full send. well, okay, he was rough during football, but you can’t play ball and not be rough. especially not when you’re captain. then again he also loved ganging up on sodapop with ponyboy when they was younger, and well let’s just say darry always ended up bribing soda not to snitch to their mama at the end.

okay fine, maybe darry was a rough person. maybe it was that part of him that hit pony tonight. it was that part of him that scared his baby brother so bad the poor kid ran away. from him. darry was never going to forgive himself.

“darrel?”

he was never one for dramatics but he had half a mind to cut his hands off, just to make sure he never messed up like this again. he’s not too sure how’s he’d cut his left hand off after cutting his dominant hand, but that was a problem for later. then again, who’s gonna pay the bills if he has no hands to get work done.

“darrel?”

right. scratch that idea. it wouldn’t be fair on soda anyways, leaving him with the responsibilities of paying bills and keeping everyone together because darry was too fucked up to be useful.

his eye starts to twitch and his leg starts shaking. something that usually only happens when darry is real scared. it goes without saying it hasn’t done it since his mama and daddy died.

glory, he really fucked up didnt he? what if ponyboy doesn’t come back home? soda would hate darry for that. or what if pony doesn’t want to come back unless darry was gone? soda might not like it for a day or two, but his littles had always been closer with each other than they ever were with him so he might not mind so much.

darry’s not much for dramatics, he preferred to leave that to pony, but if it came down to it, darry would leave just as fast as their parents died. (…too soon?)

“darrel!”

darry jerks so hard he can taste that metallic twang that blood has. he bit his tongue and somehow, the hurt that came with it quieted his mind a little.

pony’s pov

when ponyboy wakes up, his first thought is that sodapop had to stop throwing him in the lake. no matter how many times soda threw him, pony would never learn how to swim like that.

he sits up to say just that to soda when his eyes sees someone laying on the grass. okay… he's never been at the lake without his parents before. and it’s dark outside which is really weird; his mama never lets him outside past the street lights, the last time he was out late his mama was in a worry and his dad was so mad he was honestly a little worried he was going to get the breaks beat off him if darry hadn't stepped in and took the blame.

staring at the person, pony rubs his eyes. that doesn’t matter, right now he needs to figure out which one of his dumb brothers were laying in the grass before they got a crook in their neck or before they dad came looking for them. he’s not sure what’s worse; on the one hand, whichever brother it is would surely complain and blame pony for the crook in their neck even though it’s totally not his fault. on the other hand, if their dad finds them they’d surely get the lecture of a life time and would never hear the end of it.

yeah, pony thinks with a shudder. his dad finding them would definitely be worse. pony shakily gets to his feet and walks closer to the figure. he’s only about three feet away when he sees the pool of blood and the mop of brown hair. his stomach drops before his brain remembers neither of his brothers have brown hair.

it’s only then that it occurs to pony that they aren’t at the lake. it’s only then that ponyboy is brought back to the present. that he realizes he doesn’t have to worry about his mama worrying or his dad coming to look for them. (they’re never going to worry or look for him again and, god, pony has yet to accept that, but he can’t wait for the day it hurts less to remember it.)

and it is then, when ponyboy is staring hard at the brown hair and the pool of blood, that he remembers where he is. he’s at the park. because darry hit him and he- oh god, he came here with johnny, where’s johnny?

pony whips around, his heart once again dropping. but johnny's still alive. shaking and wiping his blade on the grass, but alive. that’s good, pony doesn’t think he’d be able to make it up back home with his sanity in tact if that was johnny bleeding out.

ponyboy is so in his thoughts he can hardly hear johnny speaking, “i killed him. i killed that boy.”

pony can’t bring himself to look at johnny for too long, out of fear that his mind will start to replace the body with johnny. but yeah. he's right, johnny did kill him. pony can’t really recall his biology class real well right now, but he can remember something about how the human body can only lose so much blood and that boy has definitely lost it.

darry’s gonna be so mad at pony for getting caught up in a murder case. thats if he’s not mad at pony for getting nearly killed himself. his stomachs twists at the thought.

glory.

ponyboy almost died tonight. he knew it was always a possibility, he wasn’t going to live forever. but god. those socs really wanted to take his life tonight and for what? talking to a girl? he’s not soda, it’s not like pony ever even had a shot at cherry, even if he wanted one (and he did kind of, but not if it risked his life).

pony was shivering something fierce when be finally looked away from bob. “johnny, i think im gonna be sick.”

he barely hears johnny giving him the go ahead as he does his best not to vomit all over bob. he never liked bob but pony can at least show him a little respect since it’s his fault the kid's dead.

[6okuto]

why the heck isn't sugawara real i just know he gives the best hugs

yeah . cw for implied depressive episode at the end ("when you're having a hard time..") & small eating mention

there's the excited hugs where you're both cheering and jumping up and down, spinning in place. maybe you've both won something, or you've just accomplished a goal you set because all your wins are his to celebrate too.

there's the hugs when you haven't seen each other in a long time where his face lights up at the sight of you jogging closer. he squeezes his eyes shut as he laughs and wraps himself around you, fingers wrinkling the back of your shirt from how tight he's holding on. he says some silly joke before a sincere "i missed you."

there's the hugs on stay-in date nights in front of the couch, where he pulls you in before falling back with an "oof!" you hit his arm and roll your eyes every time, but the smile on your face motivates him to do it again the next week anyway

there's also the "cheer up!" hugs when you're feeling stressed or overthinking, but it isn't too serious. whether he's offering or you ask, koushi opens his arms with a smile—maybe pats his chest twice, calling you to bury your head against him. the both of you sway from side to side as he hums or says sweet words of encouragement.

and there's the hugs when you're having a hard time. he can tell you're overworking and tired, or you've been quieter than usual, declining plans and isolating yourself, eating quicker meals instead of ones that'd be filling.

he's quieter when he comes to check on you. something always tightens in his chest when he sees you struggling—he wishes he could just make it all better, but he knows he can't. so he just does his best, gives you as much of his love and himself as he can to fill the parts chipped away.

"you okay?" koushi's voice is quiet but stable, different from your wavering "yeah," muffled behind the blanket you've curled yourself into instead of him.

but he's still koushi, he still huffs and pokes you with a frown as if you've just stolen his chips and hidden them behind your back. "you know you're a really bad liar."

you wonder how he does it—effortlessly balance teasing words with gentle voice and eyes.

when you peek your head out to look at him, he exchanges the frown for a smile. his voice runs over you like a river smoothing jagged stones, "you don't have to tell me everything, but i'd rather you at least tell me you're sad instead of hold it in."

the blanket moves when you do. "...i'm sad."

"...okay." the hand that poked you comes to rest against your cheek. "can i come in?"

and it's a wordless shift as he tucks himself in bed beside you, quiet as he pulls you into his chest and starts tracing stars and "i love you" against your back.

but at least he's here now, at least you've let him in. that's all you both need, you think, because at least as he hugs you, you can focus on his breathing and warmth instead of everything else.

[skullsandcorals]

https://www.tumblr.com/skullsandcorals/738285799236321280/im-dyslexic-im-not-stupid

1. Holy shit I am so happy I found another person who gets how smart Percy is, and gets that every instance of Percy looking/getting called stupid is due to his dyslexia or people not telling him anything.

2. Which book/chapter is this from? I need to bookmark it ASAP and start shouting it from the metaphorical tumblr hills.

3. We really don't talk about how good a mom Sally is? Like yeah she's badass and gentle but like. She respects Percy. When the school system failed Percy, she's the one who still not only believed that he was smart but still acted like it and probably taught him too. Queen mom Sally Jackson right there.

1.) YEAHH EXACTLY. Or his ADHD 😭 It drives me NUTS whenever Percy is treated as the dumb + comedic guy. Like I get what they're saying and why they're saying it, but sometimes his character gets reduced to JUST that and it hurts my soul. I get that he's funny as a narrator and as a character and sometimes he can be a little "clueless" but it just feels like some people like to think of that as either all he is or a huge part of who he is. I believe I've also seen Leo get this treatment despite literally being insanely smart at such a young age so. that's...fun. They can be funny and smart too 😞

2.) It's from the 10th Anniversary edition of The Lightning Thief! It's Rick's cover letter for the first readers of the manuscript & a note from the narrator. I don't have a copy of that edition myself, but I've seen some pictures of it on Rick's blog and someone posted one of the pages on Reddit (where I got it from).

Here's the full page from Reddit (source) & the picture from Rick's blog where the page is visible (source):

3.) YEEEAHHHH I LOVE HER SO MUCH!!! What I would do to get adopted by her rn. The way she talks to him makes me kinda teary-eyed because she's just so...you can just tell how much she loves Percy and that she would do anything to make sure he grew up resilient and kind in a world that's always out to get him. She believes in him so much that it just makes me lose my mind a little. It's just so sweet and I can't help but feel so moved by it.

I'm not sure if you've read Chalice of the Gods, but there's this scene where (spoilers, kinda) Sally talks to Percy after the whole thing with Hebe and honestly this scene makes me want to sob and cry and weep

“You are a lot of things, Percy. But helpless isn't one of them.”