#almost scrapped this one for reasons beyond me

[tgemorbingpaper]

carlos voice shawty kinda foreboding with it!!

[undiscovered-horizon]

Die Happy - Sanji x Reader

SUMMARY: Sanji is disillusioned about your lack of interest in him. Someone like you could pick and choose among princes, kings and emperors. What's a measly cook to you? Nevertheless, his lovesick heart continuously rejoices when you choose him to waste time with.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 1.3k

Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi

Part 2 -> "Maelstrom"

Sanji has never believed in ghouls, witches, faeries and the like. However, when he met you his belief began to shatter:

Like a dark sorceress covering the whole world with a curse, you lured all the influential, important men like fire does moths. At first, Sanji fooled himself that all those generals, merchants and noblemen only wanted something pretty to hang onto their shoulders but reality destroyed his comforting illusion when the said men offered riches most people couldn’t even fathom. If you asked them for an armada to sail to the Grand Line, they’d only ask what type of wood you’d prefer. Despite something akin to world domination lying at your fingertips, you always laughed those offers off, telling your powerful suitors that you would think about their words and get back to them.

Sanji once asked whether you’re truly considering marrying one of the generals or kings. Some more naive part of him hoped you’d say no. Alas, the truth, once again, was his adversary:

“Obviously!” you giggled at his silly question. “But I won’t marry the first one that offers me wealth and whatnot. First, I’d like to see all of my options and the world…” your voice trailed away as you vaguely pointed around the two of you. “Well, it’s a big place. Many more kingdoms to visit.”

But to his own demise, the cook was a fool unlike any other. He had no chance at winning your heart, no matter how much he’d try. Still, his untamable desire egged him on, whispering sweet songs of your grace. Even if he could taste your lips only in his imagination, he could do his best for you to have a reason to keep him around like a dog that begs for scraps at his master’s table.

Sanji knows he’s only hurting himself, only furthering his desperation when he makes you smile or earns a speck of your affection. Every dawn, he promises to free himself from your sorcery but when dusk comes and his left with the Moon, his only confidant, he realizes that he could never possess enough power to cut himself free from you. You’ve pierced his heart right through and if he pulls your knife out of his chest, he’s bound to bleed out and die. It’s better if he lets you have complete control over his mind and soul - it’s the only way he will make it out alive.

He’s left cold and lonely on that night. Soft, silver moonlight washes over him through the small porthole in the wall of his room. The sea is almost black at this hour of the night but it becomes a mystical sapphire when the Moon’s glow washes over the lazy waves making them glisten like pure diamonds.

Diamonds… maybe if he had diamonds, you’d see him as a man and not just a shipmate.

Quiet knocking on his door wakes Sanji up from his thoughts. Before he has a chance to get up and open the door or tell the guest to come in, the mysterious visitor enters out of their own volition.

Your tired face makes Sanji think about painting in museums - the ones all connoisseurs consider “classics” and “timeless”. The silk shirt you’re wearing looks not only awfully expensive but, which is much worse, to be a men’s size. Its hem ends right underneath your buttcheeks, threatening to expose your body should you lift your hands. In the darkness of his cabin, you appear as nothing beyond a phantom, a hallucination born out of desperation. And just like a ghost, you’ve come to haunt and torment him in the sweetest of ways; in a way only you can.

“What’s wrong, love?” he asks in a raspy voice. Sanji is doing a great job at appearing unaffected by your rather scantily clad form.

Carefully, you close the door behind you and walk towards him. Your skin glows when you step into the rays of soft moonlight pouring in through the porthole. Dishevelled hair, half-closed eyes and a slightly puffy face - Sanji has imagined you this way countless times but never actually seen. He can feel his body burning up, telling him to seize the opportunity, to wash you in the most charming and suave words he can think of.

“Nami kicks while sleeping,” you say quietly. “I swear to god my whole side is bruised at this point. Can I sleep with you?”

Sanji has to remind himself to breathe and to do so calmly. He’s cool, completely in control of himself. His mouth feels unbearably dry.

“‘Course you can,” he answers casually. With a swift move of his arm, he lifts the duvet. “Come on in.”

The pure bliss that suddenly appears on your face forces Sanji to take in a sharp, ragged breath. It’s an expression he also imagined one too many times when his desperation poisons his mind - not that he’s willing to admit it even to himself. He knows it’s wrong to even entertain a scenario in which you would grace him with such an enraptured face. Still, his will is not as strong as he often makes it out to be.

“Sanji, you are my salvation,” you tell him while getting under the covers with him.

“I know, love.”

It’s both strange and natural, the way your body fits his. As though the two of you have done it so much the memory of your muscles twists and turns your limbs to rest in the most comfortable and intimate way. The odd familiarity makes Sanji think that maybe in another lifetime this is how he always sleeps. He wishes he could find himself in that reality even for a second. Alas, it’s too far out of his reach.

“Damn, you’re really comfortable,” you mumble against his chest. Your hot breath makes him shiver. “And warm. I don’t think I’ll be going back to my bed.” A small grin of cosiness appears on your face - one that Sanji will never forget.

His broad chest and strong arm normally go unnoticed by you but now they’re like a fortress. And just like high stone walls are an unspoken promise of security and happiness, his firm hold on your body is a silent oath of a good night's sleep.

“Stay as long as you want,” he whispers back to you. 

Maybe if you weren’t so exhausted, you’d notice that his words aren’t a statement but a plea. They’re the last thing you remember before drifting off to a restful slumber.

Your breathing slows down and gains a steady, shallow rhythm. Keeping you close to his chest, Sanji allows his hands to gently brush against your arm and back. His movements are feathery, almost fearful. He wouldn’t want you to wake up and change your mind about spending the night beside him - he can indulge in his heart’s desire but he must do so carefully.

“If you only gave me a chance,” he whispers into the night.

Knowing you’re asleep and bound to remain ignorant of his affections, Sanji kisses the top of your head. His lips linger against your hair while he takes in the scent that haunts him day and night. Unknowingly, his grip around your body tightens at that moment as though he has suddenly grown most terrified of having you disappear. Too many nights he’s dreamed of this exact scenario only to wake up to a cold, empty bed.

When the dawn arrives and you leave his arms, this little moment of affection won't mean anything to you. It means nothing now. Sanji knows this very well. He doesn't try to lie to himself that maybe you'll wake up a changed person and finally see him as more than a friendly comrade. Although tonight means nothing to you, it holds an unspeakable weight to Sanji, who will forever gloat about the fact that when you needed help, it was him you turned to. It was his arms that guarded your sleep for a few hours.

Fighting off sleep until he collapses, Sanji revels in the feeling of you against his body and pretends, even if for one night, that you’re his the same way he will always be yours. Watching you sleep cuddled into him, he swears he could die happy now.

[theemporium]

okay okay blurb concept: what do you think ab Oscar on a blind date? maybe Lando set him up with someone?

you ask and you shall receive🫡i hope i did it justice!!🫶🏽

.

This was a stupid idea. 

In fact, it was an incredibly stupid idea for a multitude of reasons, but three in particular played in Oscar’s head on a loop as he drummed his fingers against the table, mocked by the empty seat across from him. 

The first reason was the fact Lando fucking Norris was the mastermind behind the whole thing. In all honesty, he didn’t remember the last time the Brit had a genuinely good idea outside of racing and car improvements. He wasn’t even sure how Lando made him agree, though he wondered if he had hit his head off something and forgot about the whole thing.

The second reason was that it had been a dreadfully long time since Oscar had been on a date. It was embarrassing enough that he couldn’t even remember his last date, let alone remember whether it hadn’t ended badly or not. But it definitely didn’t help that this was the first one in possibly years, and he hadn’t even played a part in planning the damn thing if the fancy restaurant Lando chose said much.

The third reason was that despite Oscar almost begging his teammate, the boy had refused to tell him who he was actually attending a date with. It’s all a part of the fun, mate, Lando had said to him with a big smile. Never heard of a blind date? It’s romantic and shit.

But nothing about the whole set up felt romantic in the slightest.

Lando had tried to reassure the boy on his drive to the restaurant. He had wanted to arrive early, to settle himself and feel like he had some control on the situation even if he really didn’t. Lando had been insistent that the girl he set him up with was just his type, but it was a little hard to believe that when Lando had also been the reason Oscar had a stripper show up on his door to celebrate the end of the last season.

A gift Lando was also insistent that he would have enjoyed. 

So now, Oscar was sat by himself in a fancy restaurant, almost twenty minutes early and looking absolutely pathetic as he sipped his glass of water and resisted the urge to scoff down the complementary breadsticks lying in the basket in front of him. He had given the waiter so many strained smiles, he was worried they were going to kick him out soon if he didn’t order something that actually cost money.

His eyes shifted down to glance at his phone, his fingers itching to reach out and dial Lando’s number again. The sickening feeling in his stomach was only growing, the anxiety bubbling inside him the longer he waited and he was honestly tempted to scrap the whole thing and lock himself in his apartment for a few days before he could face the real world again. 

And yet, before he could even unlock his phone, someone paused by his table and a voice called out his name. 

“Oscar?” 

His head snapped up, any semblance of a reply quickly leaving his mind as he openly gaped at you. You were gorgeous, beyond anything he could even imagine. Not that he cared much for looks or thought Lando would set him up with someone horrendously ugly but…fuck, he wasn’t expecting someone as pretty as you. 

And suddenly he was nervous for a million other reasons. 

“Sorry, are you not Oscar?” You continued after a few moments of silence, a look of embarrassment crossing over your face as you moved to take a step away from the table. “I’m so sorry, I could have swore you looked like the photo my friend sent me—” 

“No!” He blurted out as he quickly stood up, his chair screeching against the floor as he did. “No, I mean, yes.” Your confusion only grew. “I mean…I’m Oscar.” 

“Oh,” you said and something in your face brightened as you extended your hand to the boy, offering your name in response. “It’s lovely to meet you, Oscar.”

“Yeah, you too,” he supplied lamely, frowning a little at himself before he cleared his throat. “Uh, can I get you something? I mean, not me. I meant like I could call the waiter for you and you could order. But I should probably let you look at the menu first so—” And fuck, he didn’t think he had ever spoken this much in one go ever. 

But your giggle cut him off as you smiled at him. You glanced around, noting the high-end restaurant that you knew Lando probably got a kick out of picking before your gaze landed on the Aussie once again. 

“Can I be honest?”

Oscar nodded his head vigorously.

“This doesn’t look like your kind of scene,” you said to him, and Oscar could feel his cheeks burning.

He shrugged. “I really don’t mind—”

“It’s not mine either,” you added, something almost mischievous shining in your eyes. “But there is a really cool arcade about fifteen minutes away that do really good burgers if you’re interested.”

And it wasn’t Oscar’s fault that he couldn’t bite back the massive grin on his face. “That sounds perfect.” 

And maybe—just fucking maybe—one of Lando’s plans had worked out far better than anyone ever assumed.

.

[stripedstarsblueflags]

goodbye to a world

reading between the lines of the various goodbyes and dismissals to logan sargeant

Pt. 3: Oscar (press conference)

full series

not a goodbye (in the traditional sense of the word) but a fucking statement. obviously. because piastri.

the loscar dynamic is absolutely FASCINATING. out of all the friendships in the grid, this one plays a special role: it reminds the audience that there’s so much more than formula 1, there’s so much more to f1 drivers than this stage of their career. most of us (spectators) have a broad conception of the “typical” driver backstory; rich kid with rich parents, got in a go kart at age 4, karting and then single-seater and junior series was their whole life and they climbed up the ranks like rungs on a ladder. i think a lot of people who only watch f1 (myself included) tend to focus so much more on the Pinnacle of MotorsportTM that everything else just seems like prep. even though most if not all of the drivers grew up either 1) racing each other 2) watching each other on tv, we don’t really think of these relationships beyond and BEFORE f1.

until loscar. because what draws them together? they’re not teammates. they’re not rivals. williams is so far behind that they’re not even competitors. in many way, logan is entirely “out of oscar’s league”.

and yet they have this endearing, sweet, playful friendship that’s exactly what it seems like: people who have known each other since they were kids, grown up together, watched each other become the person they are today. there’s a casual, domestic intimacy neither of them have with their teammates, even if those relationships are also going well, because there’s this history element.

which is recalled no more vividly than when oscar and logan are compared. as they are too often.

total polar opposites. f1 stories practically the inverse of each other. one was a promising young talent who f1 teams had been keeping an eye on for years that, once thrown in the car at that “wait! isn’t he just a kid??” age, immediately proved his worth as a future superstar. Future World Champion, to quote the official moniker. “look at him go! look at OSCAR PIASTRI!” he’s a prodigy, he’s a social enigma, he’s a raw force of pure and driven talent.

then you have the other promising young talent who one f1 team had been keeping a loose eye on for years. who’s never done any free practices or tests. who’s barely even dipped his toe into the waters of f2. who’s shown a lot of raw potential but more noticeably, glittering fancy sponsors. who gets chucked into a car as a last-minute, scrapping underprepared and thrown-together plan B after the previous f2 graduate fails to keep his seat. and, while oscar soared off into the stratosphere, logan flops IMMEDIATELY.

go fucking figure. it’s almost like people like max verstappen and lewis hamilton are exceptions to the rule, not the rule itself, and an underprepared rushed overwhelmed rookie is actually NOT in a position to achieve immediate stardom! in fact, maybe that’s the OPPOSITE of what they need! so, in loscar, we have the exception to the rule (oscar) and the rule (logan). but that’s not the solidified narrative; the story, how history will remember the two of them, is that logan was nothing but a pale and washed-out shadow. always. open and shut case.

what does oscar have to say about it, though?

this was said to gp blog (great website); the full quotes from him are:

I sent him a text yesterday. He seemed okay. Obviously a little bit of a shock. Obviously it wasn't an easy time for him in F1. It was much more difficult for him than maybe I expected it to be going into F1. I think for me, his potential was much greater than what was on show in F1, for whatever reason it might be.

I know firsthand, being his teammate in the junior categories, racing him in basically everything, I know how quick he is. I don't think the change was completely unexpected...

Best of luck to him. Just a shame that, for whatever reason, he wasn't able to show everything that he's got. Because in the junior categories, he was genuinely one of the quickest guys I went up against. I think his potential is much greater than what some people have seen.

first of all, some BEAUTIFUL toeing-the-line from oscar here. he’s even more subtle than alex in that none of his words imply any sort of passive aggression or ill intent; the only emotion that’s really conveyed, in understated tones, is a mild perplexity about logan’s career and failure in general as opposed to its gut-wrenching end in question. the implications in his wording imply nothing more than a personal opinion, but the ambiguity itself is some massive shade. let’s take a closer look:

much more difficult for him than maybe i expected it to be- this is masterful. “yeah, that’s right. i’m the next-gen prodigal superstar talent with my future as a world champion pretty much written for me, and i’ve shown the skill to back it up, and not only did i know logan before the catastrophe of f1 but i regarded him with so much respect that i had actual expectations. his skill had become such an intertwined part of his character in my eyes that i just assumed things would go so much better. because i believed in him.”

his potential was much greater than what was on show in f1…- toeing the line again. balance. acknowledging both the reality and all the roads not taken. “i’m not making false claims. i’m not making excuses for him. i’m not blaming the car or the team or the lack of support or the disgrace or the mistreatment and i’m not challenging the results. i’m not talking about what happened, i’m talking about what could’ve happened. potential. i’m talking about everything that wasn’t on show– and by not on show i mean that his potential, his skill, his pace, him as a person was not seen or understood or respected or prioritized by anyone. i’m not saying ‘oh, one point in 36 starts is all anyone could do with x/y/z excuse’ i’m saying ‘you guys missed the point’.”

for whatever reason that might be/just a shame that, for whatever reason- fucking hell, this is harsh. this is practically an attack. “i’m not gonna make excuses, but i’m gonna leave this open. i’m not gonna call this bad luck or the way it goes sometimes or a bad break, i’m saying that Whatever Reason This Happened is not what should have happened. not a matter of chance or objective misfortune; this situation could have and should have worked out better and whatever obstacle got in the way of that was a matter of misjudgment.”

I know firsthand, being his teammate in the junior categories, racing him in basically everything, I know how quick he is- alex said something similar, about pace. “raw speed” he calls it. and it’s really interesting that his teammates, who learn firsthand about him as a racer, his driving style, his strengths, his weaknesses (whether they’ve been teammates for months or years) identify a specific trait/skill about logan rather than just making the empty claim that “he’s good” or “he’s better than this”. and this is very interesting coming from oscar in particular given his current teammate. lando isn’t the best starter or the best defender or the most coordinated overtaker, but even with all the areas he needs to work on he can still compensate for it by being really fucking fast. his pace is his defense; he gets clean air and boom, he’s fucking gone. obviously that’s an oversimplification but oscar directly competing against that and observing/absorbing that and bringing up the same category of skill in logan– even in flashback– can’t be overlooked. in addition: “yeah, i’ve raced against him in basically everything. you’ve watched him on tv in a backmarker team for a season or so? i’ve known him for YEARS. i know. i don’t care what you’re seeing, i’m the expert on this and i know.”

I think his potential is much greater than what some people have seen- shit, this is as close to passive aggression as he gets, but it’s still done so precisely and subtly that it’s almost an art form. i mean, leave it to oscar piastri to use the phrase “some people” and NOT make it sound like a straight up, poorly-veiled callout. try to use that in a sentence without seeming like you’re shit-talking someone, potentially in the room. this is part of the lovely passive-aggression classic: “….unlike SOME people” (sometimes while staring at them directly, depending on how passive you want the passive aggression to really be. so, he’s (in unofficial terms) calling out who– anyone who hasn’t seen logan’s potential. who have underestimated him. who have invalidated his situation and him as an athlete. this could be any category of haters– negative fans, petty journalists, the horrid type of reports who will ask questions like “what does it feel like to be the slowest driver in formula 1…”. and that would make perfect sense. almost perfect. if we thought oscar piastri paid any attention to the haters, his own or anyone else’s. if it was ever on his mind. so, people who haven’t seen his potential… what, like, team principals? the ambiguity in itself is simultaneously a direct implication and oscar piastri’s intelligence needs to be studied because it is sometimes terrifying.

oscar doesn’t make a statement on social media, doesn’t bring it up further, doesn’t make any sort of personal goodbye available to the media– of course he wouldn’t, not just because that’s incredibly private but also because he’s oscar and he’s basically kimi raikkonen (in this analogy lando is sunshine boy seb but that’s an idea for another post). oscar’s whole public image is that he doesn’t want to have a public image. he doesn’t give the media any more parts of himself than he’s contractually obligated to. what he does give is concise, serious, the strongest points in the fewest words. and because of the enigmatic, tantalizing nature of that approach paired with the fact that he’s a fucking brilliant driver, people listen to what he has to say.

so oscar has a lot more weight to throw around than alex. alex’s image is that he’s a cuddly sunshiney cat dad who is a living anomaly in that he’s a good driver and a total sweetheart at once. whether or not what he says comes from the heart (it does. he’s alex) the reaction can always be “awww look at alex he’s such a nice guy :)” and the focus is on the kindness of the gesture/praise/respect itself rather than what alex is actually saying. so if alex says logan had more potential, that’s alex being alex.

if oscar says logan had more potential, that’s a fucking statement. and if the media wasn’t coming for JV’s head at this point, oscar just gave them a diagram for how to build a guillotine.

beautiful.

[fanofthelamb]

lovely art you make please never stop!!!

WAAA TOO SWEET. thats it. MOREEEEEEE ART DUMP!!!!!!!! im not sure how many of these i posted but!! i think mostly it's all new!!!!!!!

I wonder if this'll become a thing for me. BAHAHAH

scrapped ref page i've made before ^^^^^ it was similar to nari's except it turns out the red's color jitter was too extreme.... the grren was AMAZING tho. Comments with the pieces btw!! and 30+ pics I think?! So expect a long ass post. :) this isn't even all the unposted art, just the stuff I thought was good enough to post!

First thing's first! How about a comic I never posted? I was kinda embarrassed by the writing of it, but this WAS just something to help Rue. (You might notice a lot of the art in this thread was sent to Rue and never posted. Sorry Rue. little of this is new for you. sone is tho. orzzzzz)

Woah? The lamb has feelings? The lamb has bad feelings about their past?? Who knew. Shocker. (also LMFAO AT NARI IN THIS HE REALLY SAID "oh ur crying? I'll give you a reason to cry")

something to kind of help storyboard out the animation i'm tryna work on. its not going well. turns out that shit is hard.

and some beyond the grove narinder. yall eat BTG nari UPPPPPP.

speaking of BTG? how about some panels of a future page? Chapter 1 still. feel free to laugh at how strangely i draw the draft. ti works for me!

back to normal nari. IN PANTS!!!!!!!!!!!

THIS isnt actually a drawing it's a real image taken of me and rue

i dont know if i posted this or not, actually. i am not a big fan of it, though.

i need to draw leshy and val more </3

idk if i posted kalladad either BAHAHAHAHA

also, i dont know if i posted THIS either. i dont SEE it but i could be wrong ?

now how about a couple of kissing booth scraps?

long with the scrapped comic where narinder kills and eats the face of the goat. </3 rip that thing (the goat LOVES fighting and LOVES someome who can beat thier ass almost as much)

and some heket bullying her brother (she wuvs him tho)

i dont know which acc i posted this to, actually. i drew this bc rick kept reposting halflife shit BAHAHAHH

oh and here's a vent piece or two i made with annona. they seem harmless enough to post i guess? i wish i made more content with them.

i jsut wanna chew them between my molars like a marshmallow.

this si also sometihng i made for rue BAHAHAHAHAH HAVE I POSTED IT? IDK.

and of course, the least toxic totally-not-abusive-as-fuck pairing of lamb and the red crown. this isnt exclusively BTG related but I dont know how much interest people would have with him being a character on FOTL? he is 1000% having his own role as his own charavter in BTG though.

oh, and this guy i wanted to post forever ago, but i needed time to adjust to his design. this is the best i have made of him and it might be what sticks. he's leshy's uncle. (took worm baby in after both his siblings went missing)

more nari, because he's my most popular scrumplie. probably bc i draw him the most and a lot of my stuff is nari centric. nude nari because i literally couldn't think up what i wanted to draw on him. i was gonna edit clothes on later and forgor BAHAHAHA

i actually dont know if i posted this too? this is tyar and baal <3 baal was pretty shocked to have learned vitas was tyar's spouse. he's still not ready to talk about it, but he does want to ask the lamb about it one day.

and some childhood memories i never finished.

i MIGHT have posted this one ?

i posted pieces of this page but here's the full:

[itstheval]

Telling the Truth

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"Why would I?"

"What? We're your-"

"Friends, yes, I know, but think about it. Think, with me. First thing I could tell you is 'We're guaranteed to win'. Cool! Blinding great. Except you'd know that winning was costing me my life. Something that seems to have upset you, even AFTER the fact!"

"Well, yes, that's because it's your LIFE! We didn't…we don't want you to die for us, Siffrin!"

"Even if it meant saving all of Vaugarde?"

"…"

"We did NOT save Vaugarde without that wish. I can tell you that with a straight face. In whatever magic realm of make believe where I don't wish, we're all standing still as statues right now. I knew that as SOON as I knew that I'd made a wish. You don't need that choice in your mind. Especially not when I'm the one who's dying…If I'm the one feeling it, it should be my choice, shouldn't it?"

"Siffrin…"

"You said first thing you could tell us. Implying there were more things." Odile's voice was stern. Cold. Steel. Good, she was the one person who could understand without her heart weeping. Maybe, just maybe, she could convince the others.

"Oh, there were plenty more things to tell you! Like how the end of the King wasn't the end of the loops? How we were trapped here, by whatever this was? Would you want to know that? That every time we won, it was just washed away like a kayak too far at sea?! Or how about everything I'd failed to do, would you want the list of that?"

"Yes."

The word cut through everything else. Her stare was impassive. Almost empty. Somehow, colder than before.

"Well, I didn't want to tell you about it. It was over a dozen loops before I found that out, and can you imagine having…having THIS conversation a dozen times? Two dozen? Watching your heart break every single time? Watching Mirabelle sob, watching Isabeau practically shut down? Just so I could have a scrap of comfort?! Any Siffrin that would do that to you is a Siffrin that wouldn't have wished at all. Any person who would destroy all of you, who would break all of your hearts, just to have two days of understanding, that person's on the path to being the next King."

"Siffrin. This was…" Odile, of all people, having to choose her words carefully. She was close to understanding. She was close to breaking. It was in her pose, her words, her face. "Not a matter of emotions, beyond a certain point. While I believe you, and your kind heart does you credit…You clearly, fundamentally, could only follow one path at a time. If you had shared your knowledge, you could have been done many loops before…We could have helped you."

"No. You couldn't."

"Oh?"

"The books that told the truth? The books that explained how bad I'd blinded myself? Written in a language only I could read! And that was AFTER I killed myself trying to speak it! The wish, to make the Head Housemaiden tell us what happened? None of you could've believed hard enough! Yeah, I could've asked you about staying together…If I'd had any reason, at all, to think that's why I was looping. NOTHING said that! That wasn't the wish I made, I wished to stay with Mirabelle. I could do that even if you all split up. It would've blinding HURT, but I could have! Nothing. Nothing at all you could have done would save me. Not until the end. Not until you DID."

"You have some proof of this?"

A thud. A book, borrowed from the House…stolen, truly, but no one there could read it, and what good was a book no one could read? A book, laying on the ground between them, the sound of it having shocked the other two from their emotional stupors.

"If you can read this…If you can tell me the title of this…I'll admit I was wrong."

Odile's hands were shaking. Odile's hands never shook. Not with the tremors of age, not with exhaustion, but now…With her fingers outstretched to the book, she was trembling. Cautious. Like it would bite her. She picked it up, turned it around, and stared at it.

Her eyes widened. Then narrowed. Flicking across the title. Opening the book, and her eyes darting back and forth. Looking for something, for anything, as even the steel in her soul bent under the weight. Her back hunched, her brow furrowed, and the signs of a headache were obvious.

A flip of the page.

Another.

Then, a scream of rage, as she tossed the book into the campfire, and fell to the ground, clutching her knees. She sobbed. The Madame, the great Odile, unflappable, steel-spined and sharp-eyed, sobbed like a lost child. It felt like the most damning victory imaginable.

"That's why I didn't tell you. How you're feeling right now. I'd do that to you, every time, for NOTHING." They had to understand, by now. Looking around, at the shattered wrecks of the three, hearing sobs and seeing blank-eyed stares, they did.

Now, only now, could the healing actually start. Now that they believed. Now that they knew. Now that they understood what hat happened, and what impossible choices there were to make. Now that it wasn't 'Silly Siffrin got mixed up in emotions, isn't it cute?', now that it wasn't 'We can talk about whatever happened, Feelings Buddy!', now that it wasn't 'Oh, your fee-fees, your ling-lings'.

Loop said to tell them the truth. They knew how much it would hurt when they said it.

Well, let's see how that works.

[lemotmo]

Let me preface this by saying yes nothing is guaranteed but context clues, interviews, spoiler lockdown etc all paint a very specific picture so that said.

I feel like we are approaching the point of almost I guess the point of no return. Like the point where people need to actually put their trust in Tim and company and where peoples trust will either be solidified/rewarded or horribly damaged.

With the amount of hype surrounding episodes 5 and 6 and how framed around Buddie they are. With how Tim has gotten both of them into this position to start mirroring season 4 Buck shooting era and Season 5 Eddie breakdown era and with Tommy set to mirror the position of Taylor Kelly in that era. This is their moment of ok let’s tell their story how we were planning to before the network said no and we had to scramble and make her a legit LI for Buck instead and scrap are plans for them.

and I kinda worry if they don’t pull that very very very loaded trigger at this point. The aftermath is not going to be very fun. For anyone. And them trying to gain back the fandoms trust is going to be beyond an uphill battle at that point.

Hard agree on all of this Nonny.

I will say even more...

Early season 7 I talked about how the show had to shit or get off the pot when it came to Buddie. They have now long passed the point of no return. There is no more getting off this pot in this stage of the story.

They either go through with Buddie or they will lose a substantial amount of their fans and fandom in the process. Not just that, now the press is involved. Every journalist has asked the Buddie question by now. Ryan and Oliver have talked about Buddie by now. Buddie has been put on that magical pedestal of 'Will they, won't they' and the show itself has been vocal about it. They have used Buddie and Ryan and Oliver's popularity to promote the show.

Not going through with it would bring along extremely bad press for them. That is not what a prime-time network show needs or wants.

All of this is also the reason why I'm not really worried anymore. They seem 100% committed to tell the Buddie story. How they're going to execute the story? Well, that's a whole other thing. I am definitely worried about that one. But as far as the ship finally going canon? Nah, no more worries here.

I'm sat. 😋

[kaontic]

Oh my actual Lord, the dream’s come true. O_O

*Kicks down door* OH THUNDERCRACKEEER~

BUSTER’S ‘BOUT TO GETTA NEW FRIEEEND~ (´∀`)//🐱

He’s got a pet human now too, I guess—

Why my dumb human ass, with my crappy art, could almost wish upon an evil shootin’ star, that it was me instead “What?” What—? 😶

Alright. Now we just need Skywarp to get one. Or two. Or a few. Someday. Maybe.

Um—

*Whispers* Psst, hey, Megs, I don’t wanna be that betch—I make unintentional mistakes I gotta edit for my sanity all the time—but, it’s “What do you say?”. That’s probably why they’re givin’ ya looks.

I mean, that’s pretty accurate Megatron dialogue ngl. Like this is the same guy that said in G1 “Power flows to the one who knows how”, as if that was an actual full sentence.

Ik, that’s beside the point of what the frag’s goin’ on, so, “respectfully” (with heavy emphasis on the quotation marks)—

Can ya just…rip out your own chain-smoker soundin’ aft voice box, and shove it? Pretty please? Mr. Geneva Suggestions?

“YoU kNoW tHe LiMiTs Of My PoWeR! i NeEd SoMeOnE tO wIElD mE!”

“But my leader, you have your fusion cannon—”

“Do NoT qUeStIoN mE sTaRsCrEaM!”

Unless Skybound’s gonna give us a “good” aft explanation for this, like some Cybertronian gunformer curse we dunno about yet (given the serious corruption goin’ on, from the looks of it, with Star and Op)—

I would say more about Megs’ gun mode as an effective concept, but I’ll save all that for another post.

Instead I’ll just spout out this scrap to review:

Most explanations are welcome for why villains do what they do, even if it’s just “Cuz I’m evil”. 😈

(TF One Sentinel tho…yeah. Gotta make a post regarding him as well)

Here, they wanna save their home planet as energy sources dwindle.

Ok, so resources. Got it. Yes. #1 reason why wars are fought, and wars need soldiers to fuel ‘em. Enemies turned potential recruits who are prisoners don’t comply? Well, logically speaking then— 🤡

Or maybe, just maybe—this might sound crazy, but—how about not start a whole goddamn war that will worsen this crisis, Megs?

How about not turn fellow Cybertronians into the worst versions of themselves, and delete their innocence? Cuz great, now ya created a monster that will betray ya!

Ask yourself: What the frag are you fighting for?

Cuz you’re just makin’ the problem worse, mate.

At least Jetfire tried to look beyond Cybertron peacefully for a solution, which despite how well that went, sounded a helluva lot better than exhaustive in-fighting, but no, frag exploration.

Frag trading with “filthy” organic alien species.

Frag experimenting for new sources of energy (lookin’ at you, Shockwave. Now I know your aft was enabled).

Frag examining Cybertron’s history for answers.

Frag speaking with Optimus like a civilized individual.

Population control’s where it’s at, apparently. ಠ_ಠ)

Jesus, so many questions NOT ENOUGH DEETS. (╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━��

WE NEED MORE FLASHBACKS STAT.

Skybound Megs so far, is coming off as a guy who, when the worst happens, will just use the situation/impending apocalypse to his advantage to do terrible stuff, and get away with it through all the chaos.

Furthermore, it’s like we’re watching him live out some sick fantasy of his while he’s all “This is for the greater good of Cybertron!”. Like no bitch! There’s other options! You have no excuse!

You wanna be a pred, who kills for pleasure and power, while demanding to share that experience with others with or without their consent.

There. That’s what kept me up last issue.

Well, this is one moral of this ongoing story, and life advice I guess:

BEWARE THE F*CKIN’ NICE ONES!

For they may be the worst of all. Great…

*Proceeds to pollute my sketchbook with more Megatron art cuz I am indeed that betch*

[gxr25256]

Mercy in the Shadows - Sixshot x reader

🌵 If there are any mistakes, please forgive me.

--------------------------------

The black market of Cybertron sprawled beneath the grimy spires of an abandoned industrial sector, where the remnants of war and conquest had been shoved aside to decay in shadows. Towering structures—relics of past battles and conquests—cast long, harsh shadows over crowded rows of stalls where vendors hawked anything with a price. Stolen weapons, forbidden tech, scraps of Cybertronian armor, and unfortunate captives from distant planets—all of it littered the scene in a chaotic mixture of neon and rust. Each item was a trophy, a whisper of violence from a hundred other worlds, and Sixshot drifted through it with a growing, gnawing sense of restlessness.

Megatron’s unexpected day off grated against his nature; idleness felt like rust forming on his circuits. A day without purpose felt like a day stripped of his essence. That's insulting. But the boredom had brought him here, among his fellow Phase Sixers. They were scattered across the market, each drifting toward different distractions like predators prowling in the dusk.

Overlord prowled through the stalls with his usual swagger, laughing off merchants' terrified glances with mock kindness that barely hid his violent intent. Sixshot had long ago come to understand Overlord’s twisted relish for bloodshed, a brutality that went beyond any sense of duty. There was something grotesque, almost obscene, about his joy in suffering, a sentiment that made Sixshot uneasy.

Black Shadow, on the other hand, drifted between stalls with a smooth confidence, a face that alternated between detached boredom and intrigue. Occasionally, he exchanged a few sly words with some of the merchants or put his arm around some of his deceptions colleagues and appear very friendly. But Sixshot knew better—he saw through the charade. Black Shadow wasn't here out of camaraderie. No, the only reason he is here: profit. Energizing his private stockpile was his real objective. Sixshot knew as soon as black shadow got a good enough price, he’d betray them without a second thought.

Putting thoughts about his colleague aside, sixshot adjusted his posture. He leaned back against a wall of rough, rusted steel, arms crossed, optics skimming the market with a disinterested glare. His gaze skimmed over the vendors and buyers, creatures of every shape and size, each chattering in grating voices over who or what might be worth a trade. The entire place was a crowded mess, littered with broken artifacts and miserable captives. Some were quiet, others despairing, a few shouting or growling in languages he didn’t bother to understand.

But then, his optics landed on "you."

It took him a second to recognize the figure—a tiny form crammed behind the energy bars of a cage, looking so out of place it was almost laughable. Among the clanking, bulkier species of aliens, among all the caged beasts and prisoners from dozens of battlefronts, you stood out: fragile, trembling, skin pale under the harsh Cybertronian lights.

A human.

The human's fear was almost palpable. Your breathing was quick, shallow, and you clung to the far side of the cage as if hoping it would dissolve into an escape. Your wide eyes darted around the market in search of something, anything, to save you from the towering titans that prowled the area. That look was one Sixshot knew well.

He couldn’t resist the pull of curiosity. What do you feel when you know your existence is utterly insignificant in a universe ruled by giants? he mused. Something about their terror was... different from what he usually saw. Battle gave him excitement, yes, but this? This was a glimpse into the helplessness he so rarely encountered.

He pushed off the wall, striding slowly toward your cage, his optics studying every detail. Your small form clung to the bars, eyes darting wildly around the market, your breath coming in quick, shallow gulps. From the trembling in your limbs, to the way you pressed yourself against the back of the cage, every fiber of your being screamed of fear, like an animal that knew it was cornered and hopelessly outmatched.

There was no bravery in you, no defiance, no hidden strength waiting to be unveiled. And yet…your fear was different from what he normally saw in battle. There was a desperation in it, a rawness that he rarely encountered. The beings he faced on the battlefield had a hardened kind of fear, a last-stand defiance, as though they had already accepted their fate before they ever laid optics on him. They were soldiers, warriors resigned to the end. You were none of those things. You were terrified in a way he hadn’t seen since his earliest days of combat, when his first foes had still been innocent enough to believe that fighting back would save them.

He leaned closer, his optics boring down on you, watching with an intensity that made the cage rattle as his presence loomed. You flinched violently, clutching the bars of the cage as though willing yourself to vanish. Your eyes met his briefly, wide and pleading, then darted away, too afraid to hold his gaze. The look on your face—it stirred something deep within him, a flicker of recognition that was more instinct than memory.

This was prey. True prey. The kind that knew only terror, the kind that understood its helplessness in the face of absolute power.

He was aware of your every movement: the small tremors running through you, the quiver of your lip as you fought to stay silent, the shallow rise and fall of your chest as you struggled to control your breath. He could practically feel your pulse racing from where he stood, a tiny, frantic heartbeat in the face of a predator that could crush you with a single motion.

Something cold and calculating sparked in Sixshot’s optics as he observed you, an old, he hadn’t felt in cycles. It wasn’t the thrill of conquest, nor the satisfaction of a worthy opponent. It was simply a glimpse into something so small and insignificant that it gave him a reminder of what he truly was: a weapon, a machine of total annihilation, one that even other Decepticons viewed with unease. His power had made him a pariah, feared and isolated even among the monsters he called allies.

Yet, he respected the strong. He valued those who fought back, who met him on the battlefield with fire in their optics. This human was none of those things. But there was still something about them, something attractive.

An annoyed sigh came from him, like a roll of thunder. “Pathetic,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. But he didn’t move away. He stayed there, towering over the cage, optics fixed on you like a scientist inspecting a specimen.

The vendor, noticing Sixshot’s interest, sidled over eagerly, his voice a grating whine. “Quite a rare find, isn’t it? A rarity from that little backwater planet, Earth." The merchant gave a smug chuckle. “Not much of a fighter, but they cower in the most entertaining ways.”

The words barely registered to Sixshot. He continued to observe you, noting every subtle tremor, every desperate shift of your eyes. He saw the way your fingers gripped each other tightly, knuckles turning white under the strain, your breathing growing shallow as you tried to make yourself smaller, less visible.

“Interested?” the trader ventured, clearly hoping for a transaction.

Sixshot’s optics narrowed. “What would I do with something so fragile?” he replied, his tone dismissive, though his gaze hadn’t shifted.

The merchant chuckled, mistaking Sixshot's interest as mere curiosity . “A toy, perhaps. Or a pet to keep your quarters interesting. Some find it amusing, having one of these creatures cowering in the corner, watching you with those little eyes. It can be… satisfying.”

The idea of taking you as a “pet” was laughable to him. Amusing? No, that wasn’t it. He had no need for amusement. His life was not about leisure or indulgence—it was about the thrill of worthy combat, the satisfaction of watching an opponent meet their end with dignity or terror. You didn’t fit into that world; you were not a warrior, nor an enemy, nor anything remotely close to a combatant. And yet, your fear called to him.

It would be so easy to snuff out that fear. One flick of his finger could silence you, end your miserable terror in an instant. It would be a mercy—a quick death, a release from the agony of knowing you were powerless.

And yet, he didn’t.

“Do you understand what you are?” he asked quietly, his voice a deep, rumbling growl that filled the space around you. The question seemed almost rhetorical, but he was genuinely curious. What went on in a mind that knew it was nothing more than prey? A creature so weak it couldn’t even defend itself, forced to rely on hope or mercy—neither of which existed here.

Your head lifted, just barely, and you managed a timid nod, your eyes wide and glazed with tears. He could see the struggle in your face, the way you fought to keep some shred of composure in the face of absolute terror.

"Then you understand this is where you die," he continued, almost conversationally, as if discussing the weather. His tone held no malice, no cruelty; it was a simple statement of fact.

Your lips parted, a faint tremble to your voice. "Please…" The word slipped out, barely audible, a plea that you knew was pointless yet voiced out of desperation.

With a dismissive huff, he straightened, turning away from the cage, folding his arms and giving you a final, unreadable look. “I’ll take this one,” he said simply to the merchant, his voice devoid of any emotion but finality.

The merchant’s face brightened with greed. “A fine choice! You’ll enjoy having a creature so… malleable. They’re delightful to break.”

Sixshot didn’t respond. He didn’t take you because he wanted a pet. He didn’t take you becausehe found any joy in your terror. But perhaps, in his own way, he was giving you a purpose. A purpose in his world—a chance to exist, however briefly. Or it would simply be a way for him to kill time.

Whatever it is, then for you, it would be the beginning of a nightmare from which there was no escape.

--------------------------------

[cthulhusstepmom]

Fae!Soap Superstitious Bastard! Ghost: Gifts

(Just a heads up this got way more intense than I meant it to but that’s kind of the Fae for you.)

TW: mentions of torture, human remains

Soap is a collector, though not of any one thing that Ghost can discern. He’s seen the man pick up anything from an abandoned rolex to a nondescript piece of broken glass. It doesn’t seem to be about size, it’s not shape and definitely not value; Ghost had thought he’d pinned it down as things that caught the light a certain way but was swiftly proven wrong when Soap went on a spree of collecting pebbles and sticks. He’d glared sullenly at the first jagged gray rock when Soap had picked it up before swiftly changing the subject when he was noticed. There was no apparent rhyme or reason to any of it… well not quite. There was one singular pattern that stood out in his mind, a single thread that held firm no matter how much he rearranged or plucked at it.

 Anything that Ghost gave him, Johnny kept. 

The first had been a bit of pretty blue ribbon that was a close enough approximation to Soap’s eyes. It’d snagged on a bramble bordering the clearing where Ghost had set up for overwatch. Without even thinking he’d snagged it on his way to RV down the hill, offering it to Johnny in the armored car taking them back to base. Soap hadn’t said a thing. It was then that Ghost realized maybe giving your subordinate a piece of trash you’d found in a bush perhaps wasn’t the most well adjusted way to express affection. He’d been about to play it off with a quip, beginning to retract his fingers ever so slightly, when Johnny snatched it lightning quick from the palm of his hand, holding it close to his chest for a moment before stuffing it into his chest pocket next to his journal. Soap had given him a small strangled “Thank you” as they sat the rest of the ride in an awkward but warm silence. Johnny disappeared almost immediately after they got back to base but Ghost could see light in the space under his door so he wasn’t too worried that he’d done permanent damage to their relationship.

After that his eyes just seemed to catch on things that he assumed Johnny would like. He couldn’t help it. Little glass marbles, a river stone with an interesting marking, a large brown feather; Somehow it all made its way into the hands of his Sergeant. Usually with a gruff “Here”, barely waiting for Johnny to hold out his hands before he dropped his small offering into his gloved palms. Soap has also gotten over whatever his episode of silence had been, responding with a blinding smile and enthusiastic gratitude and a happy quip. (“Thanks Lt!” a piece of antler, Montana “Y’ shouldn’t have!” an old toy car, Finland “Find this on sale?” a scrap of pink fabric, Brazil “Ghost you’re spoiling me.” green river stone, India etc.(no he didn’t catalog all of them that would be creepy. He only wrote down his favorites.))

The next time Ghost thinks he’s permanently damaged their relationship and scared Soap off for good comes after an operation sweeping out an AQ base in Afghanistan. 

It’s stuffy and dark, the blistering heat of the day beginning to fade into the bitter chill of the night. The compound has long since been abandoned by all but the stubbornest of rats, slowly being reclaimed by the wild desert it carved its blackness into. They roll into the courtyard through the open front gate, the outer walls have seen multiple breacher charges and calling them walls at this point is more out of respect than any dedication to accuracy. The whole place has already been swept by drone and Laswell has had satellite eyes on it for months confirming just how fucking dead it is. They’re here for information, the drone identified documents left behind as well as at least two hard drives. 

The 141 has split off, each clearing their own section and radioing in at even intervals, they’ve learned the hard way that it’s better to be safe than sorry. Beyond extra caution, the whole place has an eerie, black aura that drags forth memories of scorpion stings and dull knives biting at his flesh. Assisting in his nightmarish stroll down memory lane, Ghost is assigned the lower levels of the compound. Each room is another scene from a past he tries to forget, filled with rusted over implements of pain and brown stains no one cared to clean. 

Something in the last room makes him pause. 

A small barred window allows light from a waning moon to pool into the room, catching on something on the table. Small, most no bigger than his fingernail, a collection of about five objects sits in a tray on the corner of the table. Brilliant white patches shine in stark opposition to the bed of rust brown they lay on. 

Teeth. Human teeth.

His mind is acting on autopilot when grabs them and stuffs them in a pocket, so similar but so different to his first experience with the ribbon months ago. He finishes his sweep of the room, conveying his findings back on comms (“Seems like we’re late for the party.” “If only you didn’t take so long to get ready.”-Soap “Shut the fuck up the both of you I just saw a rat the size of a terrier.”-Gaz “I’ve got the hard drives if any of you fuckers remember why we’re here.”-Price), and turns back to rendezvous, his mind now firmly on finding his comrades and getting the hell out.

As they start readying themselves to duck into the humvees they arrived in, Ghost’s muscle memory kicks in to complete his self assigned mission objective. He turns to where Soap stands almost expectantly at his side. It’s not every mission that he has something he’s decided is a worthy offering but it has become more often than not. Mind already halfway back to base, a gloved hand chases down each tooth where they’ve burrowed themselves in the pocket of his tac vest, collecting them and dropping them in Soap’s proffered hand with a grunt. His brain turns back on when the bloody bones hit his Sergeant’s glove, panicking because what the fuck did he just do? What kind of fucking sociopath gives his friend(more?) human fucking teeth as a souvenir. Much less human fucking teeth that were pulled forcibly out of some poor bastard’s skull during a bygone torture session. 

His hand is trembling. 

Ghost forces himself to look down and meet Soap’s assuredly outraged and disgusted gaze. 

Only he doesn’t.

Johnny is staring down at the teeth in his palm with a look of fucking reverence. His pupils are dilated beyond just the darkness surrounding them and Ghost’s detail oriented eyes catch the slight flare of his nostrils on every inhale. Soap slowly tilts his head up to meet Ghost’s eyes and a gasp lives and dies in his throat.

“Oh Simon, you treat me so well.” His voice is gravelly and thrumming with an emotion that Ghost doesn’t know the name of. But, god if this is the look he gets after bringing Johnny desiccated human remains?

He’ll rip the teeth out of some unworthy son of a bitch himself.

[blue-thief]

Ok. Thoughts on the Itoshi Sibs / their parallels with Isagi?

HELLO this took forever for me to answer because summer school and the sadness. as you know.

also i went too crazy with tying blue lock into my fixation with japanese nationalism so it got way too complex and i got scared but now i'm just gonna make that its own post (<- said the same thing about bsd. that analysis about bsd's connection with japanese nationalism has been sitting in my docs for a year now i think)

(smh this is what happens when the japanese imperial army almost wipes out your entire bloodline /gen /srs)

anyway. all that waiting to say that rin is... just some guy to me

usually a fw anime boys named rin. esp if they're the sworn rival of the plain protagonist. not necessarily this one though

i have no clue why he doesn't scratch my brain properly. he just doesn't. i need to spend a good three hours staring at the ceiling at night to figure that out

when you first sent me this i didn't really care for sae much either. now i do

that's how long this has been sitting in my drafts 😃😃

(i've written and scrapped thousands of words for this ask sob sob)

(this answer wasn't even formatted this way originally)

i've probably told you the story of how sae grew on me before but like

i don't plan out my fics right

i do play out random scenes in my head to test out if i like them or not

(shivers because updating my fic is another thing that is taking forever.......)

and i was just fucking around with random jokes kaiser and sae could say to each other

then i imagined sae smiling

and i was like "what the fuck... why is that so endearing........"

that was the turning point but it really was a lot of sitting and contemplating sae's character honestly

to really understand him and why he'd be friends with kaiser

and sae is kinda just like me frfr

that guy can't do anything other than soccer/football. he has nothing going on beyond that

and yeah. yeah... i get that.......

it's the reason why i like a bunch of other bllk characters but it's most pronounced with sae yk

(SORRY MR. SNUFFY)

and like. just his inability to be a normal fucking person 😭😭 too real

anyway those are my general itoshi brothers thoughts

now for the parallels part.

(this is the part that killed me and i wanna go more in-depth. but i'm saving that for another post. because holy shit my original idea was so fucking ambitious)

i had other thoughts and god i wish i wrote that stuff down

but the major thing i want to get into here is dependence

isagi is independent. soo independent it's kinda crazy

this was outlined most during the second selection with bachira where he had to learn to play by himself

meanwhile there's rin who seems independent on the surface

however, rin has always been dependent on sae in one way or another

when they were younger, rin was dependent on sae to take care of and guide him

rin also depended heavily on sae on the field

now that they are older, sae's attempt to shake rin off has just made rin's dependence on sae even more intense, just in a different way

rin's only motivation to play soccer/football had been to "crush" sae

...but now he's met isagi

and his obsession has found a new object

with the recent chapters, now we know he places isagi and sae on a similar level in his personal hierarchy, and his desire to destroy sae has bled into rin's feelings toward isagi

while rin has only one rival, the same can't be said for isagi

isagi gains rivals like pokemon, and while they have all played a significant roll in isagi's development as a person and a character, his obsession doesn't consume him. in the PXG vs BM match, he's doesn't fully comprehend the effect he's had on kaiser and rin

and mannn i wish i could find this analysis, but it's gone now

but someone compared isagi's desire to "devour" to rin and nagi's desire to "kill"

I WISH I COULD REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT THEY SAID

but from what i remember, "devouring" someone is temporarily defeating them, but both parties ultimately improve so there's room for them to meet again and help each other improve even more

however, "killing" someone is defeating them completely so they're never able to play/improve ever again

which outlines the fact that while isagi can be a little bitch on the field, he wants his rivals to improve alongside him, and in the end, he wants the best for people (in terms of soccer/football)

which is why he never became overly-dependent on bachira and why he treats midfielders as actual human beings 😭😭

isagi is independent, but he pushes for the people around him to be just as independent

the itoshi brothers are different though

rin is codependent on sae, and you could say his hatred/obsession with isagi is a different type of codependency

but that thing about treating midfielders as human beings...

uh. that doesn't really apply to rin

sae is somewhat similar with how he "tamed" shidou but it's not THAT imbalanced lmao

there's also how the three of them are on different places of the striker-midfielder spectrum

in-universe and within the fandom, rin is perceived as japan's ultimate striker. his raw shooting power + metavision makes him perfect for this position.

however sae, another metavision user, is the perfect midfielder

then there's isagi who's tried emulating rin's play style at first but is ultimately most similar to sae, leading people to say that isagi is better suited to be a midfielder rather than a striker

while rin represents what the ultimate japanese striker is, something isagi is trying to reach, sae's path is one that isagi could easily fall down instead

many people have theorized that sae became a midfielder to improve rin's chances at becoming a better striker. sae may be considered to have a strong ego, but if this turns out to be true, that might not be the case lmao

errm. idk how to end this off. sorry for the wait sob sob

[heavysass]

as much as i generally like the new reaper-sojourn interaction, as it is nice getting any ties of chase to the og overwatch team and knowing reyes had friends even when his reputation was on its lowest, it also makes the thing they are hellbent on avoiding so much more noticeable

why is one of overwatch's most notable critics, and in that probably one of the biggest haters of blackwatch and their deals, the one offering comfort to the worst offender? and not, you know, his best friend? one of the very few who are actively worried about him as far as current canon lore tells us? at least his protégé who is due to an actual confrontation with him? tbh /to me/ this interaction feels like it could've worked better with anyone else from the strike team, but exposition on why gabriel went to talon concerns jack and cassidy above all else

it genuinely is so strange seeing how connected characters all have something to say to each other even in the non-canon limbo that is in game interactions, but the gabriel-jack bond, which is one of the actual bases of the whole story, and which often shows up when these two are concerned in the extra lore content because it is pretty unavoidable to their characters, seems to be actively glossed over in game /where it actually matters/. they have mean rivalry kill chatter against each other and that is it. all you get is the knowledge soldier 76 is actively following reaper now, no reasons beyond taking talon down. if your only contact with overwatch is what is currently in game and the famous cinematics you could never guess their importance to each other's build up, when every other iconic duo, as ow is obsessed with yin-yang types, has at least some solid nods going on (sounds silly to people who care about any of this, but go check any lore explanation video comment section on youtube and see how many casuals are only vaguely aware of the lore through in game interactions and second hand word)

(it is awkward, since we are getting these little but thoughtful interactions scrapped off pve recently to half the cast. even OW1 never quite delivered anything big about their past but they had their familiarity. and i mean, they did talk to each other at least)

........on the other hand, that interaction is also fascinating because it makes code of violence even more of a bizarre tipping point. gabriel's, and not reaper's, aknowledgement of vivian's support and worry makes his choice of abandoning his friends, his family, his goddamn small child, to play a violent assassin terrorist so funny. this dialogue puts it quite plainly, it was an active choice. they keep painting him as more of a massive asshole or a complete rancorous dumbass with every new personal lore drop, the contrast to what we believed (or knew, before the change of writing direction) of noble gabriel reyes in the golden era up to retribution is almost surreal

[queen--kenobi]

Kinktober 2024 Day Twenty Five: Gun Play

Aemond Targaryen x (male) OC (Tymon Lannister)

Warnings: NSFT (gun play, dry humping), death threats, internalized and exteralized homophobia, fellas is it gay to put your gun in your rival's mouth?

Also thanks to @writingbylee for being on the same wavelength as me and providing me some inspiration

If pressed, Aemond would have trouble explaining what led to this. 

The simple explanation is he wanted to fight Tymon; if he's looking for a fight, a way to unleash some of his rage, Tymon is a reliable source. Truth be told, Tymon seems to get the same relief he does. Certainly, he never backs down from Aemond's challenges, even initiating his fair share. Ever since he met Tymon, the two scrap like cats and dogs.

This isn't their first or second fist fight. They exchange words, a challenge is issued, and then they end up meeting in the middle of the night. As much as Aemond wants to kill Tymon and get rid of him once and for all, he never does. Aemond tries not to think about the why too much. He sticks to the standard reasoning of the Lannisters are a powerful ally, one his grandfather knows without a doubt will back them should Rhaenyra attempt to leave the valley their father gifted her and take the entire territory for herself. Killing Jason's only son would be foolish. 

Aemond refuses to examine the issue beyond that. 

This particular fight they're out in the desert, away from everyone else. Aemond knows Tymon's routine and routes, his comings and goings and when. Initially, it had been so he could see Elayna before Tymon. The look of irritation when Tymon sees Aemond with Elayna was always worth it. The element of surprise is on his side so he took advantage of it. It wasn't long before the two of them were rolling in the dust and dirt, fists flying.

Aemond has no idea what possesses him when he pins Tymon underneath him tonight. He acts without thinking, grabbing his gun. The vague thought Tymon wouldn't shut up even with a gun to his head crosses his mind. 

Sticking the barrel in Tymon's mouth feels natural. It comes to him without a second thought. Tymon opens his mouth to smart off to him, and Aemond shoves the cold metal into his mouth. 

“Say another word, and I will blow your brains out.”

He utters the words as a promise. Tymon glares up at him. While the light from the full moon is bright, Aemond can't see his green Tymon's eyes are. He's sure they're blazing with indignant fury. Aemond smirks. His blood thunders through his veins, the high of coming out on top almost euphoric. Aemond keeps his finger off the trigger. Part of his brain screams at him to keep his finger there and show Tymon he's as serious as the grave, but he knows if his finger stays, he will kill Tymon.

He misses the calculating gleam in Tymon's eyes. Aemond quickly adjusts, properly pressing his weight across Tymon's abdomen. Sitting on Tymon's chest and watching him struggle to breath does cross his mind, but somehow it feels too intimate. 

“My gun looks good in your mouth.” Aemond taunts. He wants to see rage flash in Tymon’s eyes, see how far he can provoke him. The insinuations aren't for his benefit but to provoke Tymon. He waits with baited breath. Tymon's eerily white teeth gleam in the moonlight when he snarls, but Aemond fails to notice he only sees the top row.

Tymon's tongue flicking out and running along the top of Aemond's fingers causes Aemond to inhale sharply. He yanks his gun out of Tymon's mouth with a noise of disgust, not caring if he hurts him in the process. As soon as the barrel leaves his mouth, Tymon laughs. It's a low, delight chuckle at Aemond's obvious rage and discomfort. 

“If you're going to kill a man, you really should learn to shut up.”

Aemond snarls. The crack of his pistol hitting Tymon's cheek rings out in the night. Tymon's head jerks to the side from the force. He laughs harder. Aemond tries to ignore all of the blood leaving his head as his anger builds. How dare Tymon do this. His incessant laughter only stokes the rage inside of him. Aemond presses the barrel in the center of Tymon's forehead. Tymon, surprisingly, sits up as he does so.

“Thought you said you were going to kill me if I said another word. Or was that a lie? Can you not finish the deed when you're made fun of?” Tymon's eyes flick to Aemond's. “Bet you won't even look me in the eye when do it.”

Aemond shakes. His lips curl back even farther. The audacity of Tymon to act as if he's the coward in this situation. His blood pressure rises. He jams the pistol into the soft skin of Tymon's forehead. Tymon presses as far up as he can to meet him. 

Both pause when Tymon's stomach brushes against Aemond's erection. It's nothing more than a symptom of his rage, but it doesn't make it any less embarrassing. Tymon's eyes flick down. He smirks, a slow and satisfied expression. 

“Maybe that's the reason you can't look me in the eye.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Tymon almost yelps when Aemond grabs him by the hair. 

“I should kill you.”

“Oh, I doubt you will.” Tymon tries his best to sound cocky, but Aemond hears the twinge of pain. His triumph is short lived; Tymon purposefully flexes his abdomen. The brief friction makes Aemond push backward and away.

He stops abruptly. His ass rests perilously close to Tymon's groin. Tymon clearly is also affected by the situation, if the hardness against Aemond is anything to go by. Tymon's eyes go wide.

The two of them stare at each other, both of their chests heaving.

Aemond should get up. He should get up and leave. Tymon tilts his head. Experimentally, he lifts his hips, a silent challenge to see what Aemond will do. Aemond clenches his jaw. Despite himself, he's never been able to back down from a challenge. At least, that's what he tells himself as he responds in kind, rolling his hips forward.

Both their breaths catch.

Everything quickly dissolves into a blur. If Tymon wants to be treated like a whore, Aemond will do just that. Besides, the itch to put the blond fucker in his place is too strong to ignore. Aemond uses his grip in Tymon's hair to pull him into a more upright position. He refuses to let the other get an iota of pleasure out of this. Still, for every roll of Aemond's hips against Tymon's clothed stomach and chest, Tymon lifts his hips in response. At one point, Tymon even plants his feet underneath him. Aemond's trigger finger itches, and the urge to put a bullet in Tymon's leg almost overtakes him, but the change in angle means more pressure and friction for him.

He hates this. Aemond hates this. He hates how good it feels, even with the sensations muted because of their clothing. The hatred only makes him angrier, and it makes him harder somehow. He wants, no needs, to put Tymon in his place. 

Thankfully, their desperate rutting doesn't last long. Aemond comes quickly, which somehow is both embarrassing and a relief. By the time he comes down from his high, he feels a wet spot on the denim of Tymon's pants. They both stare at each other for a moment. 

Fuck.

Tymon moves first, nearly throwing Aemond off of him. He scuttles away until he's several feet back. Aemond stares at him.

“You tell anyone what happened, and I'll say you forced yourself upon me.” Tymon's tongue darts out to lick his dry lips. Aemond scoffs.

“As if I would admit to fucking you.” The rage and indignation on Tymon's face soothes some of his own anger. 

“Are we in agreement? This never happened.”

Aemond rolls his eyes. Still, he reaches up and crosses his heart. 

“Not a single soul.”

“Good.”

Tymon gets to his feet first, scrambling off into the night. Aemond watches him go for a second. Eventually, he moves forward, grabbing his gun from where he dropped it and standing up. 

This never happened. And it won't happen again. 

[blysse-and-blunder]

in lieu of a quiet sunday night

sunday, 11pm, September 22, 2024 ~ cider close to hand, both alcoholic and non; hozier playing in the background; evidently it's the first day of fall

reading since i skipped doing one of these last week, both of my reading picks tonight are actually from a little while ago. both were so, so compelling, but for different reasons. one an award-winning piece of twentieth-century canadian literature set in 1970s india, the other a scandalous semi-autobiographical account of drinking, dating, and divorce in roaring twenties new york.

i think that drew me into both of these first was their dialogue-- both authors are so good at writing distinctly unique, distinctly not-what-i-usually-hear character dialogue, without it sounding at all affected. i got the feeling that both authors were working from life, describing societies they knew inside and out, and had observed intimately. so much detail about the, like, material and sensory details of these two different settings-- what everyone wore out to dinner in the twenties, and what they were eating and drinking; what shopping for a chicken or going to the doctor was like in mid-seventies bombay, what school was like, how people were discussing the government... beyond that, these two feel so dissimilar that comparing them is going to do a disservice to both. though i guess both have, at different points in their histories, been the subject of some scandal. listening shout out to my 'for you' playlist last week, which was one hit after another-- but opened with this, and introduced me to rachel chinouriri! whose sound i really like. that first slow build up to the guitar bursting in? got my attention immediately. the lyrics to this one are, admittedly, wild to be singing while trying to write job apps, but it's melancholy in enough of an upbeat way that it almost feels calming?

No point in trying to prove yourself to them Why question who you are from deep within? No matter what, your youth is gonna end My god it’s sinking in There’s no point in anything

the whole album goes down so smooth, and is rewarding repeat listens. i love her voice. i love how late i am to discovering her, since she's opening for sabrina carpenter now apparently.

watching no shogun time this week, but the gang and i sat down to experience the first episode of a new series, which i cannot stop thinking about. imagine like. australian broadchurch, but only one of the main characters and all the victims are actually in a bleak crime drama, and every other character is doing like parks & rec. also it's extremely gay. and rude. and funny. favorite characters are dulcie, and sven the guy who keeps asking who he can delegate stuff to. also dulcie's wife, who i'm so worried about the world crushing somehow, she seems too optimistic to survive undamaged!

playing did i mention finishing act ii of pentiment? now that @blue--period is playing it, i realized i wanted to get further and be able to discuss. i was devastated by the end of act i, but the end of act ii feels... bleak in a way i wasn't expecting, at all. i'm already planning a second play-through using my other save file, since i failed a bunch of checks in act ii (a few i think based on the background i had chosen, aggravating since it was helpful in other ways) and no spoilers, but in other ways, i failed by succeeding. saving act iii for now, since i have a busy next couple of weeks. much love to caspar, my best boy.

making fallow week. check back soon for experiments with medieval ink making, though!! i have sourced ingredients, and parchment scraps, from kind friends and colleagues who won't ask me to pay for them, and will shortly be (i hope) benefiting from someone else's paper-making budget. stay tuned.

working on prepping for my students' quiz on thursday, and the following assignment due in early oct, by brainstorming what i want to ask them to do and then not actually writing the rubric or instructions. alternating with staring at the descriptions of various job openings and trying to pick up lots of detail about the hiring departments. wrote up a 2-page dissertation summary, which sucked. feeling more chill about the process than i thought, which is also because it doesn't feel like it's happening to me, exactly. writing sample and finalized cover letter this week?

[firefly--bright]

flaws.

jean kirstein x gender neutral!reader

in which; it's a cool night, but jean warms you, body and mind.

warnings : self indulgent so.... proceed w caution. mentions (slightest) of nudity and sex (this fic is completely sfw, don't worry :) ), kind of sad-ish hurt/comfort type fic.

a/n : something short to satiate the lack of fics this month it might take alot longer than expected for me to post the other fics!!!! i promise I'm working on them but they're super duper long and not to mention heavy. thank you for being patient with me (*´ω｀*) this was going to be a part of belonging but i decided to scrap it cause i didn't know how it would fit in the fic. enjoy!

taglist : @mrsnobodynobody

✿ enter my taglist ✿ requests are open! ✿ masterlist is in pinned navigation ✿

the grass was damp as you sat on it, and jean's presence was much like your own - persistent.

you don't speak for a minute and the silence stretches far beyond the time you share. it says more than it needs to. it says he's here for you. it says i can see you in a crowded room. it says I'll be there for you if you let me.

the minute passes. jean nudges your shoulder with his before he speaks. "I've never really seen you ask for help." he states, like it's one of the universal truths, which it might as well be.

you shrug. "I'm stubborn."

there's more to it. there's always been more to the things you say, and what you want to say is that asking for help inherently meant asking for forgiveness, asking for help meant you were guilty of not wanting it. when you do end up building your courage, finally untying the knot your tongue has made, the 'help' never shows. you ask for help to the space, to the walls, to the mirror, expecting to find someone there. some solace.

there's no hesitation in his voice when he decided to answer your unsaid question.

"i like that you're stubborn," he shrugs like it's a feature and not a flaw. "it means your love isn't going anywhere."

there's a beat. the same silence. then, "i never saw it like that." comes from your lips with a gentle exhale.

his lips quirk up slightly. the smile doesn't meet his eyes but the corners of them squint anyway. you love that about him; his eyes speak more than his expressions or face or words or hands do. you love more that you're probably the only one who can decipher the code in his eyes.

they look at you now, only now, you can't see what he's saying in them. you can never tell when or if someone is loving you or has decided on giving up, and even now you want to shake his shoulders and ask if there's something he wants from you. if there's a reason he's sticking around. if there's a reason he sees a use in you.

his hand grazes the top of yours and you note how his palms are warm against the cooling night. his hand lays there, on top of yours - persistent.

you figure it's your turn to speak again. there's no difficulty in your voice, none of the reluctance or hesitation that comes with talking to other people. it's easy with him, you realise. your mind doesn't run rampant with an overload of questions; ifs and buts and whens and whys.

"how can you say that so confidently?" you ask. you don't really mean to, because everything jean says is mostly true. he's honest almost to a fault and you have no doubt he meant what he said only because he's seen you, because he's been so close to you.

he shrugs again. his other hand - he refuses to remove the hand laid on top of yours - weaves through his hair beautifully. the action itself might have left you mesmerized if it wasn't for what he says next.

" 'cause i know you."

there's a sort of intimacy that comes with words. intimacy that no amount of nudity can get you. you could lay in your sweat after a long night under the covers but you could never hear the sincerity that comes with something like this. it's no secret jean loves you; you can tell because you know him. there's something special about him knowing you, though. when you've gone long enough without the comfort of being loved, you start to doubt if anyone has ever known you. but you find yourself wrapped in that comfort now, with him. he knows you. you remember the one time you told him about how you read this excerpt from some book you barely remember the name of, that loving someone meant knowing them. loving someone meant seeing them in their light, no matter how dim or strong, and choosing to know them. choosing to hear them.

he's choosing too. he chose you.

you smile the way he always makes you smile. his eyes, in all their glory, look at you like they always have.

your hand turns from under his, palm facing his own. your fingers move to curl as his eagerly do the same around yours.

for the first time you feel the reciprocal. you feel your love rooting itself in his mind and his in yours.

you feel both; persistence and stubbornness. for the first time, his flaw is met with a smile.

for the first time, your flaw is met with understanding.

for the first time, you are both loved.

✿

[anon-e-miss]

The Thirteenth Bride - 4

“Your orginator was more understanding than I expected,” Barricade said after he reunited with Ricochet in his chambers.

”I told ya he’d be chill,” Ricochet said. “He wouldn’t o’ been anythin’ o’ the sort if I’d abandoned ya after sparkin’ ya up.”

”He wouldn’t have known,” Barricade countered.

”He’d o’ sniffed out my guilty conscience,” Ricocet replied. “He’s got his ways, ‘n he woulda had my hide.

”What about the your allies?” Barricade asked. “The Thirteen Brides?”

”After the mess the brides for Jazz made, don’t think any o’ them’ll be dumb ‘nough to start scrap,” Ricochet replied. “Ain’t a bad look ya know, me havin’ a beta bride.”

”How do you figure that?” Barricade asked.

”Takes a virile Alpha to spark up a beta, Sweetspark,” Ricochet teased him as he swept Barricade into his arms. “‘N to keep’m that way.”

“Lech!” Barricade laughed as Ricochet stripped him.

“Ya bring out the best o’ me,” Ricochet declared.

Barricade did not have the chance to sneer, not when Ricochet’s mouth covered his and pushed him down onto the berth. It was a far nicer berth room than the tents they had shared. Barricade had a mercenary foot soldier, hardly a fit match for a king but Ricochet had refused to see sense and it seemed his kin were similarly deranged. Even his twin’s omega mate seemed inclined to accept the break from tradition. Prowl was an unexpected comfort. Their backgrounds could not have been more different, Prowl being the creation of a noble house and Barricade being gutter trash. Nevermind Prowl was an omega and Barricade was a beta and Prowl was so much smarter but they had been able to talk and Barricade had been able to relax a little.

“Oh frag!” Barricade cursed as Ricochet sheathed his spike in Barricade’s wet, tight valve.

It was always an incredible, vent stealing stretch. There was a reason betas usually took it in the aft. Their valves were naturally shallow and slower to stretch. Ricochet held his legs up in the air and Barricade watched as Ricochet’s great Alpha girth split him open. Even when he was so full Barricade thought he would burst, Ricochet thrust deeper and deeper. He pinned Barricade’s legs to his shoulders and pressed him flat to the berth and took him hard and fast as Barricade’s coarse shoots spilled over into unintelligible squeaks and squeals. Ricochet’s knot strained his folds white as broke into his aching, scorching frame. He felt the hot rush of Ricochet’s transfluids flood him, filling his gestational tank. It was only a third the size of an omega’s and could not hold an Alpha’s full load. It always gushed out of him when Ricochet pulled out. Barricade groaned as his belly stretch taunt. Ricochet sat straight as he fragged Barricade’s full tank. Flooding it with still more hot transfluids.

“Gah,” Barricade grunted as his belly popped as his gestational tank expanded beyond the limits of his schematics. Ricochet leered down at him.

“Gonna keep ya so full ya can taste my transfluids,” Ricochet promised him, dragging his thumb over Barricade’s slack mouth . “Y’re gonna ache wit it.”

He was not exaggerating. Stretch marks covered Barricade’s belly as his sentio-metallic was stretched taunt over his bloated gestational tank. A plug lodged in his valve ensured not a drop of transfluid was wasted. Like Prowl, Barricade wore his crown around his waist, over his rounded belly because it was the spark he carried that had made him Ricochet’s consort. He was relieved that he had only kindled with one newspark and not two as Prowl had. Crystals that hung from his doorwings and the wrap Prowl had made for him jingled when he walked. When Barricade held court with Ricochet on his throne, he almost looked like he belonged there. What would the Sovereign Princes of Kalis and Uraya think if they knew one of the Polyhexian princes they had elected king had made an urchin his bride?

The crown around his waist felt heavy though it hardly weighed anything at all. They only accepted Barricade as Ricochet’s bride because he had kindled the king’s spark. But kindling was only the beginning, really it was the easiest part of the process. There were already signs his beta frame was unfit for this duty. The newspark had not split away from his spark and descended into his forge. If it did not do so soon it would be too large and it would be snuffed out. If he could not bare Ricochet creations, how could he be his bride? What would happen then? Ricochet took his servos. He had hoped that the medics scans would have shown some progress but everything was still the same.

“Don’t worry, Cade,” Ricochet assured him. “Mark my glyph, by light-cycle that newspark will be safely settled in yer belly.”

“Rico!” Barricade wailed as the Sybian he was trapped on plunged up into his exhausted frame.

“Just a little longer,” Ricochet hushed him.

Barricade tossed his helm as his frame shook. His wells bounced as he was jostled by the sybian. Like his belly, they were covered in stretch marks as they had doubled in size so quickly. He has developed omega curves on his beta frame in the last ten stellar-cycles. His belly had swollen even further as his forge had extended as it began construction on his newspark and it was only the beginning. The spark chamber for his creation was complete. What was needed now was for the newspark to split off from his spark and to descend into his forge. It had not happened yet.

“That’s it, sexy-ori,” Ricochet said as Barricade screamed as he overloaded still again. His vocalized shorted as Ricochet adjusted the sybian to frag him harder and faster. “Overload for me, Cade. Ain’t gonna stop til that newspark’s settled in yer belly.”

His face was buried in his pillow as Ricochet held his hips up and took him from behind. Barricade could hardly feel it, he had been trapped on the sybian for three mega-cycles straight, being plundered with toys of every possible size and shape. He has been left gaping, loose and sloppy all over and without a single thought in his helm. Ricochet’s knot did not even strain his folds as he locked them together. His transfluids, burning with charge made Barricade’s oversensitized nodes spark and he twitched as a small overload scorched his circuits. Even when Ricochet released his hips, Barricade did not move. He was spent.

“Don’t ya they would need to cut it,” Ricochet said, nuzzling Barricade’s neck when he stirred joors later.

That had been the issue. The newspark should have dropped into Barricade’s forge half a stellar-cycle ago but it had stayed in well rooted in his spark. The medics had started talking about severing the connection but that risked bondshock and the guttering of the newspark and even scarring on Barricade’s spark. Punch had suggested they might try overloading his spark to trigger a natural release of the newspark. Barricade had not been optimistic but then he had not quite known what Ricochet had indended.

“Did it settle?” Barricade asked, yawning loudly.

“Ratchet said it’s snug in it’s chamber,” Ricochet replied. “Ya recharge right through the exam.”

“I don’t think I can move,” Barricade groaned.

“That’s a’ight,” Ricochet replied, cuddling against his back. “Ya earned a break.”