#arc: storm of dogs

[calamitybonesdesigns]

MARTHA

Martha is a huge, thick-furred black female with large jowls, webbed paws, a broad head, and deep brown eyes

She/her; Newfoundland

i love her. she’s so hard to draw, but i had to give my girl a better design, she deserves it!

[rosalinesurvived]

On my previous note, how did they get Kunikida out of jail after Cannibalism? Ranpo set out to prove Kunikida’s innocence with that young girl’s grenade necklace and ended up solving a whole other string of murders. He didnt even manage to explain Mushi’s ability to the police, Mushitarou was kidnapped.

I imagine Ranpo just threw those shoes at Kunikida at the end of Perfect Crime and told him to fucking get a hold of himself. Either that, or the full Agency rocked up to the jail Port Mafia style, dragged Kuni out and told the police to fuck off

[a-b-riddle]

Part 2

Can't stop thinking about reader finally cutting them loose.

For three days there was nothing but radio silence. In those three days you had told yourself that it was a grace period. Time for Simon to cool off and realize how much of a bastard he was for saying all those things he obviously didn't mean. Johnny coming back over with a bouquet of flowers and endless apologies and cuddles.

Simon didn't apologize for his harsh words.

Johnny didn't call you later, as promised.

For three days you jumped at every single notification, silently hoping it was one of them. Any of them.

But it wasn't.

And you, unfortunately, got the answer to the question you had been asking yourself for months.

Did they still want this?

The answer was clear.

You didn't let their unofficial dismissal get to you. You still had shit to do. A life to get on to. A book signing to go to.

Jesus.

A book signing. A book you wrote. A book that was being published and released the day of the expo. You weren't expecting a huge line because this was your debut novel, but with the help of some ARC readers who had took to social media, there had been a bit of a storm brewing.

You had listened to John when he had mentioned writing under an alias. Don't know how crazy people are out there. They'd do anything to get close to you, Dove. Just better to protect yourself where you can. You almost hated yourself for listening to him now. Now you would just have to keep writing under your pen name.

You were getting ready to close up shop early when your phone finally pinged.

Kyle.

Fuck.

Of course it was Kyle. The one who hadn't treated you like you were constantly bothering him. Not the one who made you feel guilty for agreeing to your arrangement. Nor was he the one who fucked you and left you. No. He was just the one who just wasn't there.

Maybe that was just as bad.

What are you up to today?

That was it. Almost two weeks of radio silence and that's all he had to say? It just added more evidence that you were making the right call in ending this now. It had already carried on for too long.

You had two things on your to-do list and you wouldn't let Kyle's sudden reappearance deter you.

E-mail the publisher back.

Change the locks.

You didn't have the strength to face them again. If they groveled, it would be too easy to take them back. One against four wasn't much of a fair fight. And if they didn't care to fight for you... you don't know if you could survive it. Coming face-to-face with the proof that it didn't bother them to give you up even though it was killing you.

No. Cutting it off completely was the best thing to do.

So you didn't respond.

You left Kyle's text unanswered as you e-mailed the publisher back that everything was set for your flight on tomorrow morning. You would spend Thursday adjusting to the time difference and Friday you would rest up before the expo this weekend. She assured you that you would need to rest up your writing hand. Whatever that means.

You left Kyle read as you closed up shop several hours earlier than usual. You needed to drop off the bank deposit before you started on task number two.

You didn't bothering responding to Johnny when he had texted you when you were leaving the hardware store, purchase in hand. Asking if you were free Friday. Promising dinner. 'In or out. Your choice.'

It was almost second nature when you got home to pull up your phone. Ready to text one of them to see which one of them could come over and help.

Fixing a leaky sink? Nothing Johnny hasn't seen before. Need help moving furniture? John won't mind when you change your several times on what should go where. Kyle would always come in with take out the moment you mentioned you were hungry and whenever you felt like going for a walk when it was a bit too late in the evening, Simon was the first to volunteer as your personal guard dog.

But asking them to come and change the very lock you planned on using to keep them out seemed... counter productive, if not downright petty.

You were almost done with the lock when your phone sounded off. Only this time it wasn't a text. Someone was calling you.

You almost faltered when John's name came on your screen.

Fuck.

That almost got you.

You almost answered it.

Almost.

You clicked on the 'Sorry, I can't talk right now. Options, before finishing up your work.

And just like that, you were done. No help needed. You had changed the lock. Even adding on a deadbolt. Replacing the flimsy chain Simon had taunted you about. If someone wanted to get in here, that wouldn't stop them.

Well, now you didn't need to hear it anymore.

Not that you would really hear it again...

Your flight was in twelve hours. Although that seemed an ample amount of time you hadn't even begun to pack. You had luckily narrowed your outfits down, but now was the task of folding it nicely into your suitcase rather than just stuffing it in there.

On my way. We need to talk.

It was too late for talking. Three days too late. Several months too late.

The last message sent was four weeks ago. A new Thai place had opened up close to your apartment that you were wanting to try. All of them had given you excuses.

Not my taste, Dove.

Cannae do it tonight. Next weekend? Next weekend didn't happen either.

I can do tomorrow. Kyle ended up bailing. You forget the excuse he used.

Simon hadn't even bothered to reply.

The final nail in the coffin of your relationship. Almost two years wasted with nothing, but a broken heart to show for it. And the worst part is, they had all chipped away at your heart, leaving you to deal with the final blow that would shatter it.

Im sorry. I can’t do this with you anymore. wish you all the best.

Your fingers made quick work in blocking their numbers. It was best. If they wanted to reach you, they couldn't. On the other side of the coin, if they didn't care to reply, you wouldn't spend countless hours crying over the fact that none of them had been affected the same way you had.

You would deal with getting them their belongings that they had left behind another time. You had big things, great things happening for you. You were cutting your loses. You were cutting them loose.

You just hoped you didn’t regret it.

[silk-o]

I could talk so much about this promotional video. And how it lied about season 2

Jinx is being depicted as going to storm Piltover. This never happens. Jinx never actively goes to war with Piltover.

(In fact, she's made to forgive Piltover and apologise to Caitlyn that she killed her mom. Which Jinx would NEVER do. She DESPISED Caitlyn and her mother was on the council which has oppressed Zaun for the entirety of Jinx's life.)

This false imagery of Jinx going to war also matches the intro scene where she's waving the flag and becoming a symbol/leading a revolution. It promises a plot line that was completely unexplored as Jinx never actually led any sort of rebellion, and in fact hid away with Isha instead. (Not to mention that the Zaunite rebellion went nowhere and got dropped after act 2)

I would even go as far as to say that Isha was created to completely erase Silco and the impact of his death. To make it so that Jinx wouldn't become a revolutionary as a reaction to his death, despite the fact that she shoots at the Council as one of her first acts after his passing.

Even as Powder she wanted to fight back against Piltover and Jinx HATED enforcers. She killed them without a second thought, even humming songs as she casually killed them. She was raised by Silco, who wanted an independent Zaun. It would make sense for her to storm Piltover with Fishbones, as depicted here. But she doesn't. Because she decides that "Jinx is dead" and that she's going to hide out with Isha.

Then there's the Vi shadow. There's SO MUCH that could be said.

1, that Vi is now in her sisters shadow. This is sliiightly touched upon when Vi sees that Jinx is being painted on a mural with Vander - Jinx is Vander's successor, whereas it was supposed to be Vi. But even this symbolism is strange. Why would Jinx be depicted this way? Vander was never a revolutionary, he maintained the status quo, so she isn't his successor.

(The reason is that the writers were trying to erase Jinx and Silco's dynamic so they focused on Jinx and Vander being father and daughter which was. A really strange choice imo. Especially as it turned Warwick from a monster due to his transformation to a lucid dog that they were trying to save for a whole act. And then some. Only for him to die twice. Which wasted screentime in a show that already had a problem with pacing)

2, that Vi actually doesn't like Piltover either and that she ALSO wants to rebel, seeing as she's being depicted as a rebel's shadow. Which would fit her character a lot better than her joining the enforcers with barely any resistance or insight into her thoughts after the initial "No Cait I can't".

It would also remove her passiveness when Caitlyn was gassing Zaun. Vi had NOTHING to say? SERIOUSLY? The woman who, in season one, said "You enforcers are all the same, just asshole criminals in fancy uniforms"? She has barely any thoughts about Caitlyn's cruelty? Vi's character was completely brutalised this season and it's so sad to see. I knew Vi was going to become an enforcer, I know that that's her title in the game, but like THIS? It doesn't fit how Arcane set up Vi's character!

Not to mention that Vi was sad that the council got hit with a missile. That she said she would hunt Jinx down for what she did. Vi never had any attachments to the council. Shes been oppressed by the council her whole life. She SHOULDN'T be sad about what happened. Sure, she could sympathise that Caitlyn lost a parent, but she shouldn't be so broken up that the council was bombed.

Vi's character was so cheapened and flat this season. Her arc was non existent.

And Jinx? Jinx was completely ooc from what we saw in s1 and especially after the finale of that season.

For a show that was meant to be about the two sisters... the writers really fumbled both of them.

And it's so horribly disappointing

[yanxidarlings]

YANDERE TWD

REUNITED (yandere! big brother! merle dixon x male reader x yandere! big brother daryl dixon) (yandere! gareth x male reader) (rick grimes x male reader if you squint) NOTES: fair warning, this is some descriptive disturbing shit merle dixon counts as a warning on his own as well. this went in many directions i originally set out for yandere headcanons for the two, then got into the terminus arc, and ended with some pretty vague alluding to yandere. might write a part two)

imagine obsessive! possessive! big brothers! merle and daryl dixon. the dead begin to walk and they keep the darlin safe, meeting up with the atlanta camp. but the brothers won't let anyone get close to the darlin, not dale, not carl, certainly not shane or lori.

somehow, the darlin ends up going with glenn into the city on a supply run, only for it to go horribly wrong. the darlin insisted they head into a chemist to "look for medications" in case anyone in the camp needed them. but it was a lie. the darlin just wanted to find something to help merle with the inevitable withdrawal he'd go through once his supply of drugs ran out. the chemist is overrun by walkers but the darlin insists. "we can clear it!" they say to glenn "it'll be worth it for m- everyone" the korean gave the other a skeptical look. in the end, there was just too many, glenn thought he saw the darlin go down and reluctantly returned to camp.

"oi! shitface, you think you're a big boy now? can do whatever you want now everything's gon' to shit!" the raspy, harsh voice of merle dixon echoed through the camp. the redneck tramped over to the SUV glenn was parking. he remained silent as he turned the engine off. taking a deep breath, the young man exited the car, staring at the grass.

the older dixon stormed over, aggressively opening every door of the vehicle until he reached the boot. filled with supplies. "where the fuck is m/n" he growled, coming closer to the asian "he better be pullin up in another car" merle spat out. "i- it was" glenn stuttered out, looking like he was about to piss his pants "it wasn't my fault, m/n was being reckless, i had no cho-" CRACK glenn's face was soon bloodied and bruised, merle now on top of him, yelling out profanities as he beat the younger man. "merle!" the others quickly ran to pull the redneck off glenn.

"you fucking ch*ng-ch*ng bastard i'll rip-" merle was pried off glenn, who was now rolling around in agony, his face a bloody mess. "what the fuck happen'd" merle rasped out, although to glenn it sounded like a croak "where is he" merle was still being held back by t-dog and shane as he continued yelling. glenn avoided the rednecks furious gaze "the walkers got him" he finally spoke, looking down.

for a moment it looked like merle was about to cry, for a moment merle himself thought he was going to burst into tears like a sissy. "no he ain't" but instead he picked up his shotgun, and got into the drivers seat of the SUV.

that was how andrea, t-dog, jackie, glenn and morales ended up in the city. that was how merle got handcuffed to a roof by "officer friendly" and that was why daryl yelled in agony on that same roof. in the course of a day, he had lost the two most important people in his life.

but merle had survived by cutting off his left hand, and the darlin had survived by covering himself in walker guts.

"china- no- glenn- don't- help!" the h/c-et screamed, the sound of his own gun firing defeaning his ears. as one went down, another lunged at him, rotten teeth clanking together, desperately trying to knaw into his flesh. but he wouldn't die here. he couldn't. not when merle was 'relying' on him to get drugs. maybe then, the dixons would start to treat him as less of a clueless child and more of an equal.

after taking down a few, m/n jumped behind the counter, rummaging through the medications, looking for anything that might help with the withdrawal, or better, give merle his next fix. more of the dead came at him, but he just kept shooting, stabbing, hitting, anything to cause the fatal damage needed to end the dead's miserable 'life'.

BANG one was down BANG another BANG BANG BANG .. the slide didn't move forward as he shot his way through another round. shit. he was out of ammo "glenn!" he yelled out as a walker fell on top of him, wrestling it's way closer to his skin. all the korean could hear was m/n's screaming. which only attracted more walkers. he saw the medicine that m/n had thrown over the counter before going down, stuffing it into his bag, he creeped up closer to the group of walkers that had acculumated, following the sound of m/n's scream. until it stopped. "m/n?" he uttered under his breath, but the pile of walkers on top of each other told him the other was dead. with tears in his eyes, glenn ran out.

m/n struggled against the strength of the walker. it was freshly turned, he could tell. otherwise it wouldn't be so strong. kicking, punching, reaching for his knife, anything to save himself from becoming one of them. plunging his blade into the side of the walkers head, he quickly slit the once-man's throat. covering his face in the blood. before moving down to the abdomen. cutting it open, letting the walkers rotting insides pour out all over him, the ones that had piled on top soon couldn't distinguish the smell of living flesh from rotting blood.

he went silent, breathing shallowly, hoping, praying, they'd move off him and he could silently slip out. but when he was finally free of the chemist, glenn, the supplies they had gathered, and the SUV were gone.

he walked the dead-ridden streets of the once bustling city, covered in blood, hidden in plain sight. he kept walking (which then turned into a limp after getting hit in the ankle by a flying bullet) becoming weaker with each step, hoping to make his way back to camp. only to come to the end of the trainline leading into suburban atlanta. TERMINUS the building read "those who arrive survive" he heard a feminine voice call out from the speakers. maybe they have gauze. he glanced down at his leg, the sleeve of his shirt he had tied around it now dyed red.

"community for all; sanctuary for all" he saw a young man- perhaps just a little older than m/n was, staring down at him from the window. something felt amiss, off, but m/n had lost so much blood he didn't care. he stumbled towards the train station, stopping and starting as he debated his decision.

daryl, merle.. they'll be wondering he thought to himself, stopping for the 5th time, but i won't make it back he began walking again but they'll be looking for me he stopped, nearly tripping but the sudden lack of motion if i found this place they'll find it too he picked up the pace again, frantically moving towards the gates but- as he stopped himself once more, he finally tripped over. right onto the walker trap the train people had set up. his left ribcage was pierced by the sharp metal pole sticking out of the ground, causing the h/c-et to let out a loud screech.

before he knew it people had come out, the same man that had stared at him through the window moments earlier put his hand on the wound, causing m/n to flinch "we're you trying to get yourself killed?" the man mused, seemingly unphased by the active bleeding out that was happening in front of him. the man spoke more words that were muffled as m/n fell out of consciousness.

it was pitch black when he opened his eyes. not a shred of light to allude to the location. pitch black. m/n's hands brushed her his torso, feeling the gauze that was tightly wrapped around his chest. it all came back to him. the chemist, the walkers, glenn, the train people. he shifted his arms, feeling the thin material he was lated on, and the cold metal it covered. attempting to hoist himself up, pain shot through his body.

letting out a groan, he laid back down, closing his eyes. is this death. it certainly felt like it. the nothingness, the pain, it was all he had ever imagined death to be like. what felt like hours passed, the nothingness was almost comforting, how long had it been since he could lay like this and do nothing with no worries. it was all ended when the creaking of the door signaled to m/n that he was not in-fact dead.

the sudden brightness was blinding "you awake?" a masculine voice spoke. m/n's eyes began burning from the light, "i guess" he replied quietly, his eyes closing. "good" the male put down a plate next to where m/n laid "eat up. i know this isn't the warmest welcome, i would have liked to show you around first" the man chuckled, leaning down, seemingly to get a good look at m/n.

the man- who introduced himself as gareth, began speaking about the community- terminus. that they did whatever they had to for survival, that m/n would have to prove himself loyal if he wanted to become apart of the community. he wasn't sure how to tell this gareth guy that he was leaving as soon as possible to find his group.

the discussion started off normal as m/n finished his food, until gareth started talking about how lonely he was, as the leader of this terminus community. it only got creepier as gareth started to call m/n pretty boy, edging closer to him. m/n doesn't want to know what would have happened if that middld aged lady (gareth's mother), hadn't called the man away.

it quickly became evident to m/n that he was never going to leave. gareth locked him in the pitch black train car for hours on end, opening the door when there were armed men to prevent m/n from trying anything. gareth would sit with him and talk, running his hands over the male's body, stealing kisses, it was a reprehensive routine m/n had become forcibly accustomed to.

it all changed the day the hunters attacked. m/n was in his train car, as usual, listening to the outside screams, wondering if the attackers were dead or alive. he knew they were alive when one pried open the train car door, and threw them self on him. he was then thrown into a cramped train car with other terminus residents, where the hunters hand picked who to assault and slaughter each day. he and gareth spent their days huddled up together, talking about their lives before. had m/n not accepted the hunters offer to leave the train car if he worked for them, gareth wouldn't have lost his mind. but m/n was desperate to get away. from the train car. from terminus. to find his family.

but the hunters caught him trying to leave. they did their absolute worst to him and then threw him back in. when the termites took back terminus, gareth locked the leader of the hunters and m/n into the same train car. "this is what you deserve" he told him, before locking the door shut.

perhaps it was years, perhaps it was months, maybe it was only a few hours. the horrors of the train car began to unfold, as the man who had once led the attack on terminus lost his mind: pouncing on m/n at random, screaming for hours straight, trying to eat m/n alive when they'd be deprived of food, ripping his ear off in hungered insanity. as m/n laid there bleeding from his ear, he decided either i escape or i die. had running worked before? no. was he willing to die trying? not really, but a man would do anything for freedom, and that's what m/n did.

the hunter had fallen asleep, a fatal mistake, as m/n wrapped his hands around the mans unshaven neck and squeezed. within second the man awoke but m/n was relentless, not letting go until the other went limp. i just have to wait now he cried to himself, hands shaking. calming, he began to strip the man of his clothes and use the fabric to restrain his limbs.

waiting for the termites to open the door with the meal made of human flesh felt like an eternity. the familiar sound of metal scratching and creaking filled m/n's ear, who quickly sprung into action.

grabbing the reanimated hunter by the hair, he guided it in the direction of the door, throwing it towards the woman holding their plates. she screeched as the hunters corpse sank it's teeth into her flesh, blood pouring from the wound.

m/n grabbed the woman's gun and bolted as the nearby workers aimed their guns at the walker, taking it down swiftly, but m/n had already gotten out of the train car. hiding behind what once was his cage, he shot at every person who came into view. eventually making his way to the fence, through the woods, he didn't stop running until the sound of gunshots stopped entirely. even then, he kept running. he ran for what felt like hours until his lungs couldn't take it anymore. collapsing onto the dirt, heaving in and out.

woodbury had fallen, it's entire population now living in the prison nearby. rick had relinquished his leadership, insisting the prison be governed by a council. he often went on runs by himself, to get away from it all, to look back on his actions, to find lost survivors. it wasn't everyday rick grimes came across a twenty something perhaps younger male covered in blood, breathing like he had never tasted air before. well, usually the young men were walkers. but this one was very much alive.

"please don't" the male groaned out, eyes wide, as rick approached with a knife. "who are you" he drawled out, kneeling down to get a good look at the other. the young males face was bruised, his hair covered in blood, an ear was missing, and the male was emaciated. "uh" the male seemed to have to think about it, as if he hadn't spoken to another human in years "m/n" he finally puffed out, bringing his hand up to his head, where the left ear once was.

rick's hands brushed m/n hair out of his face, causing the male to flinch away "how many walkers have you killed" the older man finally asked after several moments of silence. m/n just stared at him, as if to say he hadn't been keeping track "how many people have you killed" still, the same look. "water" "what" rick narrowed his eyes. m/n used his free hand to shakily point to the man's bag, where a bottle of water was latched on to the side.

rick was silent as m/n chugged the water down "do you have anything sweet?" "no i don't" "oh" something about the boy felt familiar. didn't glenn mention originally going into atlanta to find a boy with a similar description? maybe it was just that the male reminded him of his own boy in a way, or maybe he had already developed a fondness for m/n. "i have a camp" rick looked m/n in the eye "we have walls, food, a community, a doctor that can look at your wound" he added.

the h/c-et shook his head "not again" rick furrowed his brows "what" the boy started to pick himself up "i gotta, um" he started feeling around the ground for his gun, "gotta go" he finished as he felt the handle of the gun. stuffing the weapon into his belt, he stood up, using a tree as a crutch. "c'mon kid, you're going to die out here" rick leaned forward and took the gun out of the others hand "no im not! give it!" m/n lunged forward, only to awkwardly fall into rick's chest, sinking down back to the ground.

"you've got two bullets left" m/n looked up at rick with a glare "either you come back to my camp with me or i just wasted my water on a dead man" m/n held his glare until the sun got into his eyes. "whatever" he looked down, hoisting himself back to his feet with the help of rick's hand.

daryl squinted his eyes as the evening sun glared down, merle had stolen his motorcycle. again. the older dixon was always going off on fun runs without informing anyone beforehand. perhaps because the redneck had never really been accepted into the group like daryl was.

taking another bite of his pork chop, daryl grunted at carol who told him to go in and get some rest. but why would he want to rest when all he could think of when his mind was unoccupied was his baby brother, the boy he had pretty much raised, who was now probably a rotting corpse in atlanta. but daryl still held out hope that m/n had gotten out, that he was safe, that he would find him oneday. this was why he never rested, these thoughts would creep up in the younger dixons head.

the sound of his motorcycle rumbling told him that merle was back. the older dixon sauntered over to daryl, a cigarette sat between his thin lips, "look what you're big brother merle got you, darylina" he pulled a pack of cigarettes out his pocket, sliding it into daryls pocket. daryl said nothing, staring into the distance; was that rick? the figure was too far away to discern.

"dad!" carl called out, jogging down. "look what i- m/n?" the young grimes exclaimed as he came closer to the pair. rick carried the half-conscious boy through the gates "you know this guy?" rick looked at carl, who flicked the hair out of m/n's face to get a better look "he was with us back in atlanta, we thought he died on a run"

daryl's heart stopped, did he hear carl right? they were pretty far away. standing up, he threw the pork bone aside and marched towards the two- three. when he finally came close enough to see the persons face, he had to stop himself from tearing up in front of carl and rick "m/n" he uttered out quietly. the father and son came to a halt as he approached "you knew this guy back in atlanta" rick nodded at daryl "'course i did. he's my brother" daryl was quick to take m/n off rick. he wanted to cut the mans arms off just for touching his precious brother.

daryl rushed m/n into the prison, settling him in his cell, "go get hershel" he told carol, who looked just as perplexed as merle did as he walked into the cell. "m/n!? i thought you was dead" he breathed out, shoving daryl out the way, who was quick to push back, both wanting to be as close to their younger brother as possible "where'd you find him" merle looked over at rick, who was standing out front the cell "in the woods, looked like he'd been running"

rick moved aside as hershel came in, merle reluctantly stood up as hershel sat to access m/n's condition. "he's lost a lot of blood" hershel examined the ear hole where the flesh and muscle had been ripped from "we should have bob look at him, but from what i can see he needs bandaging and antibiotics" daryl grunted "i ain't letting no stranger touch him" he ushered hershel away, taking m/n's hand in his own "i found antibiotics on last weeks run, that gon' be enough" merle looked over at the old man, who nodded "we'll have to see how he reacts"

neither daryl or merle left m/n's side whilst waiting for the antibiotics to kick in. it was strange. no one in the prison had ever seen either of them so worried for or attached to someone. but for the six days and nights m/n spent unconscious, his body fighting off the infection from his wounds, recovering from the months of maltreatment.

when m/n finally opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings, daryl was leaned against the wall at the edge of the bed, eyes locked on the boys face "sleep well?" was the first thing he said after the two had stared at each other for what felt like an eternity "yeah" m/n spoke softly.

"i should have never gone hunting that day" "am i dead" the two spoke in unison. daryl breathed out "no, never gon' let that happen" he shuffled closer, laying down next to the youngest dixon.

daryl stared at m/n intensely, until merle was roused from his sleep "m/n, i told you not to go out of my sight" he grumbled, sitting forward. m/n looked up at the metal frame of the top bunk "i just wanted to get you some narcan" merle stared at him, blinking away tears "didn' have to risk your life for it" he pursed his lips "i ain't worth you dyin'" he added quietly, sitting back, his eyes not leaving m/n's.

the room went silent for a moment "maybe not, but you're my brother" m/n closed his eyes for a moment "do you guys have pop or candy here?" he questioned hopefully. merle let out a chuckle "i found a can on my run today" he chuckled out, before going quiet "i chugged it on the spot"

"you piece of shit!"

[mikashisus]

just as a star dies

SYNOPSIS: a star's fate is sorrowful, but at least it's quiet.

PAIRING: capitano x gn!reader (platonic)

TAGLIST ! @wystiix @tragedy-of-commons @pixelcafe-network

warnings: brief mentions of experiments and blood

word count: 1.3k

notes: this is set in the same universe as my tartaglia fic 'loyal dogs' and the mc is the same one from that fic :3 except this is like... in a future arc and stuff. the only difference between this mc and that one is that this mc is from mondstadt LMAO

eydís try not to write an mc from mond challenge (IMPOSSIBLE). ALSO this is loosely based off ‘no longer you’ and ‘just a man’ from epic the musical!!

“Did you hear me?” 

The commanding voice of your superior drew you out of your daze. You blinked, looking up at the figure towering above you. 

He stood at least two and a half heads taller than you, with a helmet covering his face and a large fur coat draped around his shoulders. The Northern winds whipped violently, thrashing his long black hair around. 

He reached a clawed hand out towards you, picking you up by the hood of your own fur coat and placing you on your feet. 

“I said: did you hear me?” He questioned again, a little firmer this time. 

You shot him a halfhearted glare and picked up your sword, placing it back in its holster at your hip. “‘fraid I didn’t, Sir.” 

He stared at you for a long, grueling moment, before letting out a sigh. “I’ll repeat it once more. This time be sure to listen.” 

There was once a prince of a forgotten land. 

The blizzards of the North pierced your skin, and you pulled your hood over your head. You followed closely behind your predecessor, mirroring his footsteps. 

He fell deeply in love with the princess of a kingdom much richer than his. Falling prey to his wit and charms, she agreed to marry him. 

A few years after their marriage, they bore a son. 

Stopping to rest for a while, you shook off your now wet fur coat and laid it on the damp floor of the cave. 

Capitano knelt to the ground, piling up the logs you gathered and starting a fire. It crackled to life, the flames dancing wildly in the darkness. You removed your boots and took a seat on the cold floor, raising your shaking hands to the fire. 

The prince, now a king, was forced to leave his wife and newborn son behind as he trudged off to fight a war in another land. 

Without a single death within his army, they emerged victorious from the war, though the cost was great. 

The King had to make a difficult choice whether to spare the child of his enemies, or destroy a threat in the making. 

The blizzards had somehow gotten worse, though that didn’t mean you could rest from your training. 

‘Get up,‘ he motioned, and you could practically hear his gruff voice in your head as you stood with a whine, ‘there is no rest for the wicked.’ 

Outside the cave, his sword materialized in his hand, the ice trickling and cracking as it formed into a sharp, dazzling blade that oozed with a filthy dark aura. 

It sliced the air as he pointed it towards you, challenging you. 

Without a word, you reached for your own silvery blade, the words carved into the hilt staring back at you in bold, mocking letters. 

And thus he posed the question: ‘When does a man become a monster?’ 

Breathless, you laid on the icy ground, your vision blurred as you tried to regain your senses. Your head was heavy, and it felt as if there was a large wooden plank pressing down on your chest. 

A clawed hand reached out, easing towards you when you made no move to take it. Your vision cleared somewhat as you moved your clumpy wet hair out of your eyes. 

Sending the man above you a glare, you firmly grasped onto his hand, and with little effort at all, he hoisted you to your feet. 

‘You’ve gotten stronger.’ 

Staring up at him with an exhausted look, you scoffed and turned back to the cave, leaving him alone in the raging storm. 

The King and his forces began their journey home. 

The festival of your oceanside hometown was in full swing. The streets were lively, and garland decorated the streetlamps. Lanterns were strung between rooftops, casting a warm glow upon the cobblestone. 

The rowdy and vigorous woodwinds of the musicians in the square invited all to join in and dance. The crowds of laughing, joyful faces, pushed and pulled as more were drawn into the festivities. 

Traditional, elegantly crafted beer mugs that once belonged in a glass cabinet in your father’s home, were being passed around from person to person. 

Tables were found on every corner, filled to the brim and packed with what seemed like an endless plethora of foods and homemade dishes. They sat unevenly upon each other, and just one touch would send it all toppling to the floor. 

The first island they stumbled upon housed a cyclops with the biting urge to crush and destroy all who disturbed his peace. 

The King’s forces fought back, and some had been lost amongst the chaos. 

With heavy hearts, they retreated, only to face the blinding wrath of a sea god who had no intentions of letting them leave alive. 

Shivering in the cold of the cell, you cursed. How had it all come to this? 

Silently, the aching hurt in your heart that you yearned so badly to blame on something all these years, finally found and locked onto its target. 

Narrowly escaping his clutches, they were pushed onto the isle of a powerful witch. 

A new foe stood in their way, but the King’s resolve was strong. With the help of divine intervention, he defeated the witch and fled with his men, only to find themselves in the underworld searching for a prophet who could guide them home. 

When did the reason become the blame? 

Staring out at the vast empty plains of white, you felt as if you had seen this sight once before, during a time when you were small and weak. 

A time where all you had to care about was not falling onto the ice as your father tightened the laces on your skates. 

A time where you once had to oversee a whole tent of injured soldiers and your only worry was to keep them all alive. 

A time where your only fear was to stay alive in a fight with a rabid monster that had emerged from the depths, all grotesque and bloody, with a sole flashing eye and wild hair that stuck out every which way. 

A time where your body shook and lost control of its own limbs as a cackling doctor watched in amusement, using you as his labrat. 

And thus the prophet said: ‘I see a man who will make it home alive, but that man is no longer you.’ 

You turned to your superior, a tired look in your eyes and a question on your lips. He met your gaze, already knowing what you were going to ask before the words tumbled out of your mouth. 

Did the King make it home alive? 

He sighed then, and it was heavy and deep, and that was enough to tell you that yes— the King had made it home alive, but there was more to the story. 

After trial and test, and more tribulations thrown his way that led to a series of unfortunate events and many more deaths under that King’s hand, he made it back to his wife and son. 

But the man he returned as was a monster, a shell of the man he had left as. He was no longer the same. 

You stared into the crackling flames of the fire, contemplating the tale he took the time to tell you. Why had this story been necessary? 

Before you could ask, he pointed to the sky. 

”Just as a star dies when they run out of fuel and collapse under their own crushing pressure, does a person lose themselves when faced with challenges no ordinary mortal can withstand. The blood of many rests on our hands, and one day, we are fated to collapse and explode under the pressure of the mountain of bodies of the people we have slain.” 

He met your wide eyes and placed a comforting clawed hand on your shoulder. “We are not the same people as we were.” 

His voice was firm. He stopped there, but you knew he wanted to add on to that— ‘Surely you can understand why I have shared this tale with you, now.’ 

And you did.

© 2024 mikashisus. do not plagiarize, copy, repost, feed to ai, or translate my works to any other platforms.

[monarchamos]

Decided to make a google drive folder for the good people out there so here yall go

<< Bungo Stray Dogs Stageplays with English sub >>

Note: Only includes SOME stageplays. list on those included, those being worked on, and those unstarted due to lack of subtitles under cut

included:

BEAST movie (yes this is included because it's live action even though its not a stage. it's the same actors anyhow)

STORM BRINGER stageplay

Osamu Dazai's Entrance Exam stageplay

Cannibalism Arc stageplay

Osamu Dazai and the Dark Era stageplay

currently unstarted (lack of subtitles or even video)

Untold Origins of the Armed Detective Agency stageplay

Bungo Stray Dogs on Stage (the first one)

Dead Apple stageplay

Three Company Conflict stageplay

[bonefall]

I’m in love with your “Frostpaw meeting King Arc” concept, and I really want to make a comic out of it at some point. For now, have some sketches from today:

Thank you with all my heart, I cannot be normal about it either. Something drives me absolutely crazy about the idea that two, intersecting themes of BB!ASC are "echoes of the past" and "love was there, it was not enough, but it was still there."

Small recap for others; In BB!DOTC, the Park Cats are now a cultural group with a king. King Arc leads a massive group of refugees up from the south and establishes a kingdom by the river. The First Battle is caused when Clear Sky takes his prince, River's Ripple, as a hostage to hurt Thunder Storm, not respecting the political value of his son's friend. King Arc dies in this battle, and Riverstar continues the River Kingdom until his death, kicking off Riverstar's Heir.

I'm unsure if it came across, but something I intend with the Arc/Frost meeting during Frostpaw's Sabbatical is that King Arc is seeing his son Riverstar in her. The way that the ambition and responsibility that he put on him as his prince, is reflected in the stress and confusion that Frostpaw herself is now going through.

He, too, died saving his child, much like Curlfeather did. It's still a terrible burden to put that on someone you love so much.

I still need to tweak her siblings (thinking in my next draft for Mistpool, I'm gonna use blue merle dog markings and give her the same shape as Graysky), but this absolutely validates Frostdawn's design in my eyes lmao <3

There's a scene in my head during the first book of BB!ASC where Frostpaw is shoved up the tree by Curlfeather. Curl looks up at her and everything is moving in slow motion, her eyes full of love and sacrifice. She tells her daughter to trust no cat as the teeth of the dogs sink into her, softly, gentle as a kiss.

...And the camera cuts quickly to Frostpaw, up in the tree, the "wool" pulled off her eyes for the first time, the screeching, violent agony of her mother's bloody death reflected in them. Her grip falters as her body trembles with nausea, but she catches herself. Tears her face away from the horrible sight, and pulls herself up further out of harm's way.

I'll be making sure to write it down in the upcoming post too, but, preview <3

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

Alright while we're on the topic. A huge pet peeve of mine is when Ed's arc in s2 is described as a "redemption arc" because I think that MASSIVELY misses the point.

Ed did not need a redemption arc. That implies that he'd need to learn that his behavior was wrong. The huge misread in this take is that Ed is perfectly aware how shitty his behavior is, and that's the point. Ed knows that his actions during the kraken spiral are wrong, and he's doing them explicitly as a form of self-harm because he believes he's only capable of that kind of behavior; that there is something fundamentally broken in him that means this kind of behavior is innate to him and defines him.

Also - it's such a cruel take, I think. Ed isn't a badly-behaving child who needs to learn he's been bad. He was a deeply traumatized man in the middle of an intense suicidal ideation spiral that culminated in a suicide attempt that Ed has framed as needing to be put down, like the wild dog Izzy says he is. I'm not saying that this is an excuse; the crew are justified in being fucking pissed with Ed, but you just can't judge it in the same way as if he'd been acting like that for fun. OFMD dares to offer up the apparently scorching hot take that people who hurt others during an active suicide attempt still deserve compassion, healing, and community.

There's a reason why the crew forgive Ed so quickly. There's a reason that the Kraken crew, who are not blind, watched Ed sail the ship directly into a storm minutes after they can probably only assume, having only heard the noises, that he's shot Izzy, and they're still debating if he's getting better unti the mutiny. There's a reason Jim takes so fucking long to do anything, even with Ed stalling and stalling. There's a reason why we're shown the crew's guilt - they're right to be angry with Ed, of course, but Ed is also someone who they care about who was hurting so, so badly, and they weren't able to get through to him and help him. It's complicated and nuanced and there's a reason that Jim gives Ed a hard time to his face during his YouTuber apology but then is immediately saying afterwards they're fine and they thought his apology was pretty good.

Within the context of OFMD, up until the mutiny, Ed's behavior is "a bit much." Archie's there specifically to show us that, and of course Ed never lays a hand on any crew member (Izzy, who admitted on his deathbed that he's been emotionally abusing Ed knowingly for years, is an outlier adn should not be counted). And the crew all know that Ed's just...not like that normally. Throughout s1, Ed's shown to be supportive, easy and genuine with praise, genuinely caring about the crew's safety...the crew never even mention mutiny until Ed forces their hand because they know what he's like when he's okay, and they know he's not okay.

Ed didn't need redemption. He needed support to heal and to get to see himself for who he is outside of the caricature he felt forced into.

[crownofgildedlilies]

tellin' myself i can always do with out it -> cool about it [3]

in which: a son of jupiter can't remember the life he lost to time and circumstance. or the daughter of mercury he lost, too.

pairing: jason grace x daughter of mercury!roman!reader

warnings: cursing, angst, threats of violence, actual violence

word count: 6.6k

a/n: I simply cannot talk enough about this fic. also, reminder, this has a nonlinear plot!

one two [three] four

Thunderstorms sent your blood singing.

The drop in temperature, the racing winds, the sound of torrential rain and striking lighting. You loved it all. When you were little, sometimes the only sense of stability and routine you had would be the clap of thunder following the bolt of electricity arcing from the skies.

You loved thunder.

But thirty seconds ago, there hadn’t been a cloud in sight.

You had noticed the change in the air instantly, maybe even quicker than your half-siblings seated around the Mess Hall table with you, arguing over where the best vacation spot would be, if demigods could safely vacation.

"Somewhere warm!"

"Somewhere with a view!"

"Somewhere with lots of tourists to pickpocket."

"This is why us kids of Mercury have a bad name, Reggie."

The storm was centralized over the field set aside for War Games, which piqued your curiosity even more, because you knew Jason volunteered to oversee the group assigned to clean the shrapnel from the grass.

There had been some disgruntled comments over the fact that you hadn’t been assigned clean-up duty, considering it was entirely your doing during the last games that led to so much damage on the field. Jason had stepped in to settle the issue, and somehow ended up leading the group.

He's always sticking up for her, a daughter of Mars named Janis that followed after Octavian like a leashed dog had muttered. It’s not fair that the Praetor has favorites.

And though Janis had meant to insult you, you took the comment with a smile full of sharp teeth. Because you couldn’t exactly deny that you were one of Jason’s favorites, and the fact was so far from upsetting.

"All you, Centurion," Your half-sister snickered, shoving your shoulder in the direction of the vicious storm. And really, you couldn't deny that you were probably the only one capable of breaching the gale force winds to calm the source at its heart.

Meaning, no one but you could get close to Jason when he was in such a state.

"Pride of the Praetor!" Another sibling shouted as you stood, and they should have counted themselves lucky that you were more worried about finding Jason and not launching the remains of your lunch at them in retaliation. Your face flushed, but you didn't give any reaction beyond your middle finger extending over your shoulder as you turned to leave.

You would be lying if you said that you didn't walk just a little faster than typical towards the source of the storm. The alarms hadn't been raised, so it wasn't an attack, but the wind had picked up and rain was hammering the ground in an almost perfect circle, a ring of soaked Romans clad in purple standing at the edge.

"It's bad, this time," Rico, a fellow member of the Fifth Cohort, winced when he saw you approach, his dark hair stuck up in every direction from the wind, his hands wringing the rain from hem of his shirt. "Like, bad. You sure you want to go in there?"

You made a low sound in the back of your throat, almost like a hum, more similar to a warning. Through the haze of the rain, you could see Jason hunched on the ground, right in the eye of the storm. Head tucked between his knees, shoulders heaving with his heavy breaths.

"You think this is bad?" You settled on asking, tone almost scoffing. Rico shot you a glance, like he couldn't believe careful, curated Praetor Grace could get much worse. "You should have seen him after Krios almost killed me."

Rico shuddered at the mention of the Titan, killed only a few short months back. Or maybe it was at the memory of war, but maybe it was at the memory of how Jason had nearly torn down all of Mount Tamalpais after the battle, searching for your injured body in the rubble.

"Henry almost got blasted just now." Rico tried to counter, after a moment, nodding his head in the direction of the storm crackling with lightning every few seconds.

"Henry probably deserved it," You said flatly, not missing a beat and tugging an elastic from your wrist to tie back your hair. It wouldn't do you any good, flying around in your face while you fought to get to Jason through the storm.

A dozen feet to your left, Henry let out an offended 'hey!', but you had already grit your teeth and stepped into the bubble of chaos.

Towards Jason. Always, to him.

Rico murmured something about you being crazy, probably for being stupid enough to dive headfirst into one of angry Jason's thunderstorms, but you had never really seen him as a scary son of Jupiter.

The myths about the king of the gods were… less than flattering. Egotistical, paranoid, cheating, lying, lord of the heavens, Jupiter.

But your Jason? He was all that was good in the world.

A protector, a fighter, a total sweetheart. Real pretty, too.

And yet, as he sat in the middle of swirling winds and torrential rains that no one wanted to get close to, you saw his father in him.

The anger, the depths of power. It was, always, all in Jason. Hidden, yes, under his bright smile and caring temperament, but there, nonetheless.

The anger wasn’t enough to scare you off. You weren’t sure anything about him would be enough to do that. Besides, hadn't you shown him time and time again just how relentlessly angry you could be?

And he still stayed. Still paid for your coffees in New Rome and let you borrow his books on military strategy, which you would have found unendingly dry if it weren't for his annotations, written in blue ink in the margins. Sometimes, you found yourself reading his thoughts more than the actual text.

Once, he’d written your name at the bottom of the page, next to a star, and when you had asked him about it he had flushed and claimed it was a reminder to himself to ask your opinions on the strategy listed.

You could have kissed him right there. You should have.

He wasn’t a bad guy. He just had rotten luck in fathers and temperament when pushed too far.

So you planted your feet in the dirt and fought against the winds and rain to get to him. You didn’t even care that you had an audience, or that your clothes stuck to your body with the sudden onslaught of rain and storm chilling you to the bone.

All that mattered, ever, was Jason.

Reaching where he sat, tucked tightly in on himself, you dropped into the spot beside him, so close your knee dug into his thigh.

The moment you joined him, he turned to face you with red-rimmed eyes, and the sight was enough to clench your heart in a cold, fearful fist. Anger knitted his brows together, a wolf’s snarl on his lips, but it all softened when he saw it was you beside him.

You had expected him to be angry, yes, but you had rarely ever seen the total fury that now shone bright in his eyes.

"Jase?" You had to shout to be heard over the wind, but your voice still came out quiet. Instantly, the winds died around you, though they raged in the greater circle around the both of you that you had already fought through, creating a bubble of peace and serenity between you and nosy Roman onlookers.

Silence roared in your ears, a dozen sets of eyes burned holes into your back, waiting to see how Fifth's most violent calmed New Rome's most powerful.

"I don't—" Jason started, voice tight, but you stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Hold on," You murmured, then twisted in your spot to face the drenched crowd at the edge of the storm. They couldn’t hear you, not as wind and thunder still raged around the bubble Jason had granted you, but they could see you.

More importantly, they could see your middle finger, raised once more.

Fuck off and leave us be, you said in your own form of sign language.

Rico got the message first, started shoving the other Romans in the direction off of field and back towards main camp without further prompting.

“There. Better.” You hummed, turning back towards Jason. You knew things were bad, this time, like, bad as Rico had so eloquently put it when Jason didn't even humor you with a teasing, chastising grin.

You're not going to make any friends that way, he had once shook his head and smiled, fist knotted in the back of your shirt between your shoulders as he practically dragged you away from Octavian's gaggle of brainless bruisers. You had long since given up on trying to fight back against him, because he was bigger and stronger and had thoroughly kicked your ass in sparring once that day already.

Good. I don't need any other friends. I already have you, you had spat, letting yourself be led like a feral kitten picked up by the scruff of their neck by some heart-of-gold animal rescue volunteer.

Might not have me forever, Jason had suggested, and you dug your heels so deep into the ground you actually managed to force him to stop.

Don't even joke about that, Jason Grace, you had seethed, voice tight, and you had watched the panic cross his face at the lethality of your glare, the silent promise of what you would do to him if he kept making comments about his exit from your life.

Sorry, soldier. Won’t happen again, he had promised. I’ll be by your side forever.

Point was, even when he didn't exactly approve of your actions, he still granted you the privilege of his scar-flecked smile.

“Jase,” On instinct, your fingers carded through his soaked hair, moving it off his forehead for just the chance to touch him. “Baby, what happened?”

“You only ever call me that when you’re worried,” He pointed out, dodging the question. You frowned, tilting your head towards him involuntarily, as if you could physically see what was bothering him if only you moved closer.

"I am worried." You told him flatly, still trying to get him to meet your eye, wondering if maybe it would be affective if you tried to physically smooth away the anger living in the knot of his brows. "Forecast said we weren't supposed to have rain until next week."

"I don't want to talk about it," He grunted, holding his head between his hands. You told yourself it was because he was growing overwhelmed by his fury, not that he did so to stop your fingers from brushing comfortingly across his skin.

"What did Henry do?" You took a shot in the dark.

"Henry?" He asked, momentarily startled out of his frustration by the sudden, out-of-place question. He lifted his stare towards you, confusion briefly breaking up the anger displayed across his face. "Nothing."

"Right, remind me to apologize to him later." You kept your voice light, praying to gods that only ever picked and chose when they listened that he would take the bait and grin along with you.

It didn't work.

"Don't make me kick your ass for keeping secrets from me," You puffed out your chest like you ever had any hope of being intimidating to Jason. Sure, a good chunk of Camp Jupiter groaned and lamented when they learned they were going up against you in the War Games, but Jason had never.

He ducked your gaze, and your patience started dangling on a very thin thread, so you leaned to the side and placed your chin on his shoulder, proving to him that you weren't giving up so easily. Not that he needed the reminder. He had once seen you, for weeks, track down the legionnaire that had unintentionally taken your unassigned assigned seat in the Mess Hall, slightly inconveniencing her every chance you had.

Romans were known for their relentless dedication, after all.

"Jason Grace," You tried again, forcing a feigned disappointed edge to your voice. Your next step was to start whining, then maybe you would set your hand on his leg, the shortest inch above his knee. That always got him flustered, and you enjoyed rosy-cheeked Jason far more than you cared to admit. "Give me a name, at least. I wanna know who we're mad at."

He sighed, and even though he still wasn't looking at you, you took that as a victory.

"Damien," He huffed the name, hands flinching into fists atop his knees and scar flexing as he spoke.

"Oh, that dick," You cursed, grinning, because sure Damien might have been the most obnoxious son of Venus you had ever met, but he was leagues above Octavian in terms of summon a thunderstorm types of anger inducing. Jason grunted, in agreement, and you dug your chin harder into his shoulder, a silent reprimand for not looking at you. Maybe you should kiss him there, as punishment. "Why are we mad?"

We. It wasn't even a question. If someone pissed off Jason, chances are you were already plotting their demise. And if someone pissed off you? Well, that was just an average Tuesday, but Jason still had your back.

"Don't make me say it," He pleaded, the broken edge to his voice shattering through both his anger and your chest, rocking you to your core.

"Humor me." You asked, because the alternative was tracking down Damien and beating the truth out of him, but you had searched out Jason with the intentions of helping him calm down, not riling him up more.

Even if you were probably going to find Damien the moment you left the field, anyways.

He sighed, again, and lifted his stare to yours. His blue eyes were still cracking with lingering fury and rain raced down the slant of his nose, dripping off the end and falling into the soaked grass.

They said lightning never struck the same place twice. But Jason's did, scorching your heart each time he caught his gaze against yours.

And maybe that was only a metaphor, or all in your head, but his real lightning blasted a crater into the dirt thirty-some odd feet to your left, in a spot you were pretty certain had been the same one in which he had used a bolt to shred apart a water cannon during War Games, once.

“It can’t have been so bad." You reasoned, because if you stayed silent any longer, you would have done nothing but stare into his eyes for the rest of time. "I hit Damien too hard over the head during training a few weeks ago for him to think of clever insults.”

Jason offered you a dry chuckle then, darting his stare to his fists, still clenched atop his knees. Without thinking of the consequences, you settled your hand over one of his.

"He called you annoying,"

"I am annoying," You stated plainly, face twisted in confusion. While Jason had always refused to play along with your whole self-depreciating bit, he had never gotten so worked up over it. "That can't be all he said."

"I'm not saying the rest," Jason shook his head, clenching his jaw so tight you had to knot the hand that wasn't covering his fists in the hem of your shirt to keep from tracing the carved edge of it. "But it was... horrible stuff. And I would have beat the shit out of him, right here in the fields, except that new boy, Sammy, was watching all of it."

Any other day, you would have grinned and called out the Jason Grace for cursing and fighting, but the anguish in his voice was almost too much to bear. Clearly, he wasn't only mad about what Damien said about you, which was a relief.

You could fight your own battles. You didn't need the praetor doing that for you, no matter how pretty his smile was.

And you knew what he was worried about, too. Sammy was the camp's newest arrival, and the youngest they had seen in a while at only nine. You had seen him around, wobbling lips and watering, frantic eyes.

Sammy was scared, of camp, of the monsters he had already seen, of the big kids with big swords he saw at every turn.

You couldn't blame him. You had been the same way, too.

"He looked... so scared when I started yelling," Jason's voice shuddered, his face once more pinched in anger and anguish. "I didn't want him to be any more scared, and especially not of me. I'm his praetor, and I got worked up and scared him. He's going to think I'm some brute he can't trust, and—"

"I'll talk to him, later," You interrupted, because as much as you talked badly about yourself, you couldn't stand when Jason did the same. "Alright? I'll make sure he understands that Damien is a dickhead and you are the sweetest, smartest, safest fucking person in the world, who just happens to have a built in lightning show attached to his emotions."

Slowly, the remaining thunderstorm tapered out, until even the light drizzle disappeared and you were left with your golden boy under the rays of sun, just like the forecast had predicted.

Jason's shoulders briefly shook with a silent chuckle, the corners of his lips curling up the slightest bit as he turned to face you, eyes still rimmed with red but not quite as distant anymore.

"Maybe don't use those exact words. The kid's only nine." He teased, bumping his shoulder into yours and causing you to roll your eyes, a familiar and well-loved chain of events.

"I was worse when I was nine," You countered, taking his fist from his knee and pulling into your lap, eyes tracing the outline of his skin against yours.

"I can imagine," He fired back, voice quiet, distracted, as he watched you slowly ease his fist open, splaying his fingers and pressing your palms together, heels lined up, so you could see just how much larger his hand was than yours.

An old trick, but it made your face warm all the same.

"Fine," You hummed, studying how nicely his hand slotted against yours. "I'll tell him that you're the most dedicated praetor to exist—Reyna included, so she doesn't get mad at me. I'll tell him that you insist on checking my armor for me at the start of battle, even though I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself."

You sent him a pointed look, because you were capable of doing your own armor, but it was more a part of Jason's routine than any distrust of your skill, anymore.

"I'll tell him you walk me to my bunk each night to make sure no one is ever messing with me, even though the teasing comes after you leave." You made that comment just to watch him flush, finally threading your fingers through his. "And I'll tell him that your hands may summon lightning, but they are also kind and gentle and not meant only for hurting."

You turned to face him, but he was only watching how your hands fit together like they were always meant to, a conflicted look on his face. Lips slightly pursed, you had the sudden urge to kiss his pearly scar.

It was far from the first time you had dreamed of doing so, but never had you felt so close to saying fuck it and committing.

Instead, because you knew your self control hung on a thread, you leaned close to his ear, voice dropping and warm breath brushing against his damp skin.

"Besides, I think it's hot when you get all protective of me," You whispered, then blew a puff of air into his ear that had him flinching away from you, startled by the sensation.

Your head tilted back in a laugh so loud it would have carried all the way back to camp if Jason's winds had willed it. There was a flush on his cheeks, lips moving as he grumbled out complaints about you, none with any real heat, none that ever crossed any of the boundaries that protected your heart.

Still, you jumped to your feet and sprinted away from him, knowing his retaliation would be swift, imminent, and lethal. As expected, Jason stood, too, ready for the chase.

He was smiling, though. So you considered it a victory.

There had been some complaints, some valid arguments made, when you declared that you would be joining the party that would follow the Greek trireme.

"You won't be able to make the hard choice, when it comes to it," Rico had murmured, voice dropped low. Dakota wasn't stupid enough to say it to your face, but you knew he felt the same. Most of the legion did.

How could they not?

The hard choice in question involved killing Jason Grace, and you had yet to remove the key to his bunk room from around your neck, even as you readied your eagle for flight while Rico desperately tried to talk you out of it.

"Centurion, just listen to me, for a second!" He pleaded, your back to him. Takeoff was any minute now, you knew, and if you wasted time kicking Rico's ass for what he was suggesting about your Roman loyalties like you wanted to, you would miss it. Besides, you couldn’t even convince yourself where your Roman loyalties laid. "You don't have to do this to yourself—"

"Legionnaire," A commanding, familiar, and almost haunted voice called out to you. Reyna. "Leave us."

Rico nodded his head and left, and for a horrifying moment you thought that Reyna would tell you that she was ordering you to stay behind. That she bought into the fact that Jason had, of his own free will, left with the group that had destroyed the only home he ever knew, the one he knew held you.

And maybe he didn't exactly remember you, but you had to trust that his instincts ran deep. He would never hurt you.

"Rico has a point," Reyna stated, and the only thing tethering you to your body was the massive but you heard silently tacked onto the end of her sentence. "You and I both know what's at stake here. Beyond Jason Grace, beyond the borders of camp."

"Gaea is rising. And she won't care whether we're Roman or Greek when the killing starts." You confirmed. You hadn't stopped to let yourself think of anything other than the news of war the Greeks had brought. What it meant for you, for your chances of tracking down Juno and pummeling the shit out of her until she relented and gave you your Jason back.

It was a good distraction, you had to admit. And you trusted the Greeks, because Jason trusted them.

"Then I know you will do what is necessary when we find the trireme." Reyna nodded, and just as fast as she appeared she was gone, leaving you with more questions than answers and a heart made of lead.

Reyna's words echoed in your mind on a loop, all the way to Charleston.

And suddenly, you were standing in the harbor, searching through the chaos for Jason and the others, hoping against hope that after the Roman chariot had just collided with Jason midair that you would find him in one piece.

That you would find him.

Because you were certain no one else received Reyna's cryptic message.

You opted for a sword, because you always found it more useful during single combat than a lance. The moment you jumped off the back of your eagle, you had slipped from the group, knowing that you couldn't even convince Dakota that you were doing the right thing.

Fort Sumter was one hell of a piece of military history, and if you had cared much at all about American history you would have been jealous that Jason had already visited the site once before, instead of being jealous that Reyna had been the one to go with him.

But, standing on the paved walkway, your back to the trireme with Jason, Frank, and the Greek named Leo at your front, you were jealous of the screaming mortals, able to run away from the scene, guilt-free.

Jason was ten feet in front of you. The only time you had ever been on the opposite side of battle than him had been in drills. It hurt, far more than you would have thought, to have Jason hold his sword out and study you for weaknesses he should have already known about.

You favored your right side, moved your feet around too much. Dropped your elbows, too. He should have known about those factors, because he had been the one to point them out to you.

"'Morning," You called out, voice tight and knees locked, shoulders back and shield raised. And though Jason trusted him for reasons you were yet to understand, you couldn't help but pin your glare on Leo and snarl. "You blew up my city."

Children lived there. Families you knew and vowed to protect, who had humored your constant streams of questions about Jason's whereabouts and never, ever, made you feel like a monster.

You sure as hell felt like a monster, then, at the look on his face.

"If it helps, I didn't mean to," Leo called back. You barely remembered hearing him when he had spoken back in New Rome, but his tone was the same. Light, joking, not taking a damn thing seriously. Or maybe you didn't know him well enough to hear the strain in his voice.

"Maybe when I kill you, it will be an accident, too." Gods, it was like you were ten again. Making threats you didn't mean, hating people because people had always hated you.

How quickly had you reverted to the person you had been before, when Jason was no longer around to calm your temper.

"You don't mean that," Jason commented, though it sounded more so like a question than the truth that it was. "I don't know how I know, but I do."

You wanted to scream and swing your sword because Jason did know how he knew that. Years and years of following at your elbow, of teasing and conversations and comfort taught him when you were being serious and when you were bluffing.

"The killing me part or the accident part?" Leo asked, darting a glance to Jason as Frank looked like he wanted to be anywhere but beside him. "Because I'd like some clarification on which part she doesn't mean."

"We need to get to that ship," Jason ignored Leo, his stare locked on you so tightly you wanted him to close his eyes. "Please,"

"It's three against one," Leo glanced at his friends, confused, pulling a hammer from his tool belt you were beginning to realize was magic. "Frank doesn't even need to go elephant mode, and we're home free."

"Are you kidding me?" Frank glared at Leo. You could only watch the boys carefully, hands never wavering on your sword or shield as they decided on their plan of attack. You didn’t want to hurt any of them, but you would if they tried you. "You've never seen her fight. We'd be dead before I could even think of an animal to become."

"She's got powers?" Jason murmured, like the idea didn't sound right to him, but the possibility was still there. There was shouting in the distance, Romans trying to find where the three traitors standing before you had ended up.

"Skill," You clarified. And maybe your Mercury blessed speed might have counted for a power, but you would never wield it against him maliciously. You would never wield anything against him. "We've got about two and a half minutes before someone finds us, and I stop being so nice."

"Nice?" Leo questioned, darting another glance to Jason. "Bro, first Khione falls in love with you and tries to freeze you forever in her palace, then Medea wants to get me and you to kill each other because you've got the same name as her old boyfriend. Now, your old girlfriend thinks it's nice to threaten to murder me? Dude, what is it with you and scary girls?"

"Leo," Jason hissed through clenched teeth, and you knew he saw the hurt and shame and embarrassment crash over your face, but what you didn't know was if he knew what it all meant. "Shut up."

"Yeah, maybe I'll try that."

You didn't have it in you to see the humor in the situation.

"If you know me as well as Hazel claims, then you'll understand why I need to leave." Jason reasoned, taking a step towards you, and gods if you weren't trying your hardest to not be bitter.

How had you forgotten about Hazel? The sweet young girl who had been the only one on the trireme that had seen you and Jason together, and then your downfall after his disappearance. If he had wanted to ask about you, she had plenty to say, no doubt.

But Hazel had only ever seen the two of you from afar. She hadn't been privy to the ways you and Jason had seemingly shared a mind and soul.

"I know you better than anyone, Jase." Your voice was more ragged than it had been the last time you had spoken. Somehow the conversation and Jason's almost indifference had taken a physical toll on you. "Apparently, better than you know yourself."

"Look, I'm sorry for not remembering." He apologized, as if any of it was his fault. The wolves, the bullies, the monsters, and the wars. The gods that always needed his help for just one more thing, dangling the promise of a few months respite in front of his face like it was a reward instead of the norm.

Your lip curled in a snarl, then softened into a frown. Anger had always been easier than vulnerability for you, but never when it came to Jason.

"They will kill you if you're caught," You warned, because maybe he didn't remember that, either. Almost of its own accord, your sword lowered. "Then they'll kill me, for this."

You stepped to the side, nodding your head in the direction of the trireme in the near distance. Leo and Frank took off at a sprint past you, but Jason's pace was slower, stopping at your feet like he had never once feared the weapon in your hand.

No matter how many times you had pointed it at his throat during trainings.

"Thank you," His voice was sullen but strong, like he was upset it had come to such a point though he would never back down. Little soldier Jason, always doing what he must despite how he felt.

You wanted to berate him. To take his face between your hands and hold him until he remembered you, your touch, just how deeply you meant to him. It was embarrassing, really. How much Roman training did he manage to override in you, with only his stare and few words?

"Save the world for me," You ordered, deflecting. Giving directions to others was easy. You were a centurion, after all. But making yourself listen? That was a trick not even Jason had quite figured out, yet.

And now, maybe he never would have the chance to keep trying.

"Gods, I wish I remembered you." He muttered, voice almost pleading. The sound was like Aphrodite herself cracked open your chest and carved out your heart. You had half a mind to track down Juno that very moment. "When I get back, we'll figure this out."

When I get back.

Because he was still leaving you.

This time, at least, you would know where he was. But the Ancient Lands were forbidden from you. If something happened to him on such a wildly dangerous quest, you might break off to find him, sure, but you had no way of getting to him.

You might have known where he would be, but he was still just as removed from you as before.

"Do me a favor?" You tilted your chin up defiantly, the same way you always did whenever someone questioned you. Jason nodded, like the sweetheart he was, had always been, eager to help you with whatever you needed. "Don’t think about me any more than you have to."

Because you weren't naive enough to believe that his missing memories of you wouldn't be wildly distracting for him, especially after whatever Hazel shared, and you couldn't live with yourself if he got hurt on his quest.

"I can't just not—" Panic flooded his devastatingly handsome face, obscured only by a few scrapes that would heal in no time.

"Go," Interrupting, your gaze settled on the Fort behind him, shouts from your fellow Romans growing louder, closer. If he stayed, you would have no choice but to fight him when the others appeared.

You didn't give him the chance to argue, turning from him before he could hurt you more.

It was easy enough to fake your injuries, considering you already had real ones nobody knew about.

Your battered ribs were already a mess of bruised skin and you simply exaggerated the limp you had been sporting since the giant army attacked New Rome.

But then Octavian, Dakota, and Rico joined your cluster of Romans after the trireme fled into the open water. They were soaked from no doubt an unintentional swim in the harbor, and maybe you could have have been more convincing.

You were claiming you had tried stopping Jason, Frank, and Leo, but they simply got the better of you. Some of your party believed you. Most refused to comment.

Octavian, of course, refused to shut up.

"He should not have been able to get past you, Centurion!" The augur chastised, like anyone, anywhere, would have been able to stop a determined Jason Grace.

You had said it before, and would say it a thousand times again. The world should have been grateful Jason was not as cruel as his father.

"You let Percy get past you," You countered, chin raised and glaring. "And you weren't alone."

"How did you end up alone, searching for Jason?" Octavian purposed, taking at step closer to you. Somehow, with a control of yourself you had never felt before, you didn't draw your sword from the sheath at your waist and hold it to his throat. "Perhaps looking to follow him? We all know how much of that you did back at camp."

Reyna stepped forward, but so did you, each one of your muscles clenched tight and ready to snap.

"Perhaps no one followed me. I'm our best shot at getting to Jason, aren't I?" You tilted your head to the side, two inches at most, in an act so condescending Octavian turned purple. The implication was there, that he would never be able to capture Jason, because Jason couldn't stand him.

But you?

"Do you really think that’s the same Jason Grace that was in love with you?" Octavian sneered. "The Greeks have changed him for the worse. Whatever future you had planned for yourself with him is gone."

From the time you were a small child, you had lived in a perpetual state of anger. Sometimes, it was simmering low under the surface, barely seen through your smiles and loud laughter. Sometimes it showed itself in short bursts during battles or Senate meetings when other members got too mouthy.

And sometimes, your anger burned so hot you couldn't see straight.

The last time it happened, you had found out a stupid son of Mars named Mark had been harassing little Sammy.

Another, younger, camper had told you of the bullying one evening while you readied to meet Jason for dinner. You had calmly stopped what you were doing, exited the bunk house, and trekked all the way to the Mess Hall on your own.

You didn't even say a word to Mark as you tackled him to the ground, he on his back and you straddling him to lay punch after punch to his face.

You had expected to take him to the ground, but not so soon. Mark's inability to fight was suddenly made very clear, highlighted by the fact that he had been trying to harass a nine year old kid instead of someone in his own weight bracket.

You might have sent him to the infirmary unconscious, instead of on his own two feet, if Jason hadn't arrived. Sweeping in like the hero he was, pulling you off Mark and muttering promises to fix whatever had happened.

I've already fixed it, right Mark? You had spat at the dazed son of Mars, the entire Mess Hall watching in silence as Jason struggled to lead you away, untold violence almost a promise in your eyes. No more beating on children, 'cause it sucks to be the weaker one, huh?

To someone who didn't know what had just happened, you calling Mark the weaker one looked a little ridiculous. He was twice your size.

But you were twice Sammy's size. And you threw a punch a hell of a lot better.

You spent the night in the brig, had to dig trenches for a week, but Jason had held your chin in his hands and told you that he would have done the same if it were him, so it all evened out in the end.

Whatever future you had planned for yourself with him is gone.

Octavian had pushed you past your breaking point.

You launched forward, hands gripping the edges of his armor to pull him close so you could get in his face without him being able to get away. He tried, struggling to wriggle free and pull your hands off of him, but you held fast.

"If you ever talk to me that way again, I will gut you like one of your stuffed animals." You hissed a promise, fury contorting your face into something that had sent plenty of enemies running on the battlefield. "Let's see if you can read the auguries in your own entrails."

Octavian was spluttering out half-sentences, shocked by how lethal your voice sound, when Dakota and Rico managed to haul you away from the augur. Your friends each had an arm locked around yours, and you struggled to free yourself, anger and venom still dripping from your every movement.

"Let her go," Reyna ordered. At once, Dakota and Rico dropped you, and you wasted no time in pinning them both with glares. You knew they were only trying to help you, but you had felt so far beyond help, lately. "We need everyone for our next step."

She sounded tired, weary. You wondered if you were the only one who heard her.

"Next step?" You heard someone ask, and somehow the question seemed to take several years off of Reyna's life. You remembered how haunted she had looked when she spoke to you before leaving camp, and now you wondered if she knew it would come to this all along.

Because you had studied war strategies for years. You knew what came next before Reyna had the chance to say it.

"We go North. To Camp Half-Blood."

a/n: tried to do an anger parallel with them, but idk if it worked so well bc duh jason's not there to comfort reader at the end, like she was to him. they just get each other so well! also, if you asked me to be on the taglist, and ur not, plz let me know! I could have sworn somebody else asked but I cannot for the life of me find the notif

tag, you're it! @aezuria @tayswiftlovebot @bonnie-tz @folklorefantasies14 @sunshine-of-ur-life @irwinchester @bellamysnatblida @saph-nic @auroraofthesun1 @helloimamistake @maybxlle @p-rspective @lauptimist @dontstopxx @apollosfavkiddo @ebony-reine-vibes @poppysrin

[calamitybonesdesigns]

STORM

Storm is a tall, muscular, brown-and-tan female Fierce-Dog with large ears (one of which is torn), long legs, and a heavily-scarred pelt

She/her; Doberman (headcanon: Doberman 75%, Rhodesian Ridgeback 25%)

also she’s trans in my AU because i said so. FUCK TERFS. also she’s aroace<3

(SPOILERS) adding to this, her scars are based on events in the books; for instance, her muzzle scars are from her fight with Terror when she locked jaws with him. i also think she’ll get raking shoulder scars from her final face off with Breeze.

[mullermilkshake]

Heeey, I few days ago i found your blog and I'm absolutely obsessed with your Yakuza!AU, and I was wondering if we can get more of Yakuza Suguru <3

Love your posts btw💞

Thanks so much!!! That's so kind of you to say, I'm literally so obsessed with the AU and there will be TONS of content to come over the next year.

I love Yakuza!Suguru so much it hurts XD

Enjoy some fluffy stuff <3

A gold band

Yakuza!Suguru x Wife!reader Tags: Yakuza AU, Wife reader, Fem reader, twin children, daughters, fluff, guilt, established relationship.

<- Back to arc masterlist

Suguru fiddled with the gold wedding band on his ring finger as the car pulled up to the house outside of Shinkuju. He was running far more than late than he anticipated, by now he was sure the girls were tucked into bed and you were waiting up for him fuming for missing dinner.

How on earth was he going to make up for this?

"Anything else you need before I go, sir?"

"No, that'll be all for tonight Miguel. Be sure to pick me up in the morning to visit the Nanami office though, you know how he likes punctuality."

Suguru opened the car door by himself and slipped out, eyeing the dingy night sky behind a torrent of dark stormed clouds just waiting to unleash its pressure over Tokyo.

Miguel leaned over and wound the window down. "Of course, should I bring breakfast?"

"No, I think I'll have breakfast with my girls in the morning, so just get what you want and head over after. Thanks for everything tonight."

"Sure thing, goodnight."

As the car drove away, Suguru drew in an anxious breath and adjusted the cuffs of his suit. By the time on his watch he had neglected to read on purpose as it would only make things worse, the time read way past the appropriate time to eat.

The depressive point being that by now, Suguru wasn't even hungry any more.

She's going to kill me for this, isn't she? Maybe. But that wouldn't be all that bad, because then he wouldn't have to deal with all this drama currently within the Ryomen clan to his name.

It couldn't be so bad to have his neck squeezed he supposed.

When he approached the front door, it was already unlocked. That wasn't ever a good sign. The lights were off besides the low table lamp in the living area, amber in the corner with warmth, and there you were sitting on the sofa with Mimiko and Nanako resting their sleeping heads on your lap.

"They wanted to wait for you to get back. Nanako threw an absolute fit because you weren't there to read them a story, so I compromised that they could wait."

"I'm sorry, dear. I never intended to be this late."

He knelt down in front of you and took your hand, feeling the same gold band on the same finger. Your body warmed it through, practically burning away at his guilt for leaving you sitting there in an empty room for dinner.

"It's alright, Miguel is quite the charmer when he wants to be," your smile was devious, more likely enough to show that Suguru wasn't in the dog house.

Thank goodness.

"I bet he can, I told him as much to tell you in person that I would be late. I'm counting on that he got his fill of dinner while he was here?"

You nodded slowly, watching the girls sleep. "He spent a little time with he girls before he was called away to the club."

The club was something he didn't need reminding of. The break in, the calculated theft and all round fuckery with Ryomen Sukuna's expectations.

Not tonight.

"So he was fooling around when he should have been working? I'll have him reprimanded immediately."

You stifled your laughter at his sarcasm, pressing your finger to his lips. "Leave the poor man alone."

The fact was Miguel loved the girls. Mimiko and Nanako adored him just as much and by this point in Suguru's life, Miguel was far more than just a fellow Yakuza.

He was true family.

"Daddy?" Nanako rubbed her little eyes and yawed, shifting her head from your lap to sit up and dangle her legs over the edge of the sofa.

"Hello Princess," He opened out his arms and pulled her into an embrace as she leant forward into him. "I heard you gave Mama a hard time when you had to sleep."

Her sleepy little head drooped suddenly as she fought to stay awake. "You were far away... and you promised to read us our book."

"I did, didn't I? I'm sorry I couldn't be there."

"So I ate your cake."

"My cake?"

Scooping Mimiko up who was long since passed out in her heavy dreamed sleep, you watched Suguru stand with such a nurturing smile. "I made cheesecake. The girls demolished it and almost nipped Miguels fingers off. He was lucky to even get a slice."

"I missed cheesecake?"

He missed your matcha cheesecake for that travesty at the club? Your special cheesecake that was his absolute favourite?

Nanako stretched sleepily and clung to his neck. "Uh huh..."

Maybe it was time for Suguru to leave his Yakuza life behind and just beg you to open up a sweet shop so he could taste your baking every day. It was a hell of a lot safer. Though one shop wouldn't pay for this house or the best of everything for his girls.

A pipe dream was better than nothing.

Suguru led the way to the stairs and took each step with you following close behind him. "How about this then? I'll make sure I'm home really early tomorrow and we'll go to the children's park."

"I love the park..." Mimiko's eyes rolled open, she clutched her little doll and snuggled into the crook of your neck.

"I know you do sweetheart, if you two sleep well then maybe you can do that with Daddy tomorrow. But only if you both go back to sleep and be good," you nuzzled back into her and brought your lips to her hair for sweet consecutive pecks.

"We are good... Mama," Nanako's words began to slur.

And by the time you and Suguru reached the girls bedroom, they were out in dreamland once more. They clung to their blankets and toys sprawled across their covers and balled up close with delicate snores and breaths.

Suguru could have watched them all night snoozing away innocently, totally unaware of the horrors and disgusting shit out in the Shinjuku district.

All the unspeakable things their own Father had done.

"Don't do that."

"Hmm?" Suguru turned to see you leaving the bedroom.

"That thing you do when you feel guilty about what you do for a living. Whenever the time comes and they find out, they'll still love you. Just like I do."

"I know you do, just like you always have. I just can't help but wonder what we'll be like in fifteen years."

Will the Yakuza still be the height it had been for the last decade, or would it shift completely? Suguru had two twin girls to think about.

That wasn't to say he didn't enjoy his lifestyle. He did. He grew up alongside his sworn brother and became a man in a way that was respectful. He evolved with you right there next to him.

Still, this wasn't the life he wanted for his girls.

And it was obvious to him that you knew that too. "We'll still be a family, Suguru. That's all that matters, right?"

He only nodded and closed the gap between you to hold you close to him. "I'm sorry I was late, Dear. You and the girls are what matter most to me."

"I know, and there's still some of the night left," you pulled away just a fraction to look up at him. "I managed to sneak a slice of cheesecake away from the girls when they weren't looking."

"You know the way to my heart, don't you?"

"That's one way to your heart for sure. I just so happen to know to you like the back of my hand."

Suguru leant in and pressed his lips to yours, so short and sweet it would have melted the very foundations of the house. "I can't deny that. You're best at reading me like a book when no one else can."

"Besides Satoru I suppose."

You often joked that Satoru was a third member in this marriage. Just the thought made Suguru hide his chuckle into your shoulder as he leant down.

"Yeah, Besides Satoru."

On a night like this, Suguru knew that whatever happened, things would be alright.

Because he had his family.

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[soupthatistohot]

BSD 109 Spoilers!!!

I will always always ALWAYS come back to this panel when talking about Asagiri’s storytelling.

At its very core, BSD is an absurdist text, Kafka Asagiri having been inspired by many absurdist authors. Franz Kafka, who he took his pseudonym from is one of them. Albert Camus, basically the most well-known absurdist is referenced with the Mersault prison, the name of which comes from a character in his most famous absurdist work, The Stranger. 

Absurdism is the belief that the world around us is irrational and inherently absurd and that explicitly seeking meaning is pointless. In his essay The Myth of Sisyphus, Camus explains, that there is value in the act of rebellion, though. Sisyphus, who has been doomed to roll a boulder up a mountain only for the boulder to tumble back down each time he reaches the peak, finds meaning in the act of continuing to push the boulder. Even though he will continue this cycle for all of eternity, he doesn’t just lay down and give up, he rebels against the absurdity of his situation by continuing to push the boulder, despite the seemingly futile nature of the act. 

As I said earlier, BSD is an absurdist text. All of the animanga’s main characters are on a journey of discovering their meaning in life, and their place in the world, and they do this by rebelling against its absurdity — especially Dazai. 

Dazai sees the absurd world for what it is, and when he was in the PM, he hated it. Thus, he sought suicide as a solution. I will note here that absurdists generally view suicide as a failure to rebel against the absurd, just giving up and giving into hopelessness. But ever since Dazai left the PM and took Oda’s advice, he’s been rebelling against this, doing good despite his inherent beliefs about morality and the world, and he’s absolutely gotten better for it. 

Other characters embody this idea of rebelling against the absurd, hell, that’s kinda what this whole arc is about. The world is literally ending, and things seem to be at their absolute worst, but someone like Atsushi still has hope that he can change the minds of the hunting dogs and save reality as we know it. He even has hope that he can get through to a vampiric Akutagawa when the guy is literally brainwashed and attacking him. Aya as the “last hope” right now embodies this, too, deciding that she can’t just sit around and do nothing and then trying to remove the sword from Bram even though the effort appears futile. 

But everything is going wrong right now. Fukuzawa is bleeding out, Dazai has just been shot through the forehead and appears to have died, Atsushi’s had his limbs ripped off and is at Akutagawa’s mercy, and Fukuchi is literally going to end the world! How can we have hope?!

Think about BSD. Think about the story that’s been told so far. Surely Asagiri isn’t killing everyone right now, surely the world isn’t gonna actually end. I’m not entirely convinced Aya’s plan is gonna work— but please consider that the point of absurdist storytelling is that even when everything seems to be at its worst, even when life seems completely meaningless, there is inherent meaning in still continuing to fight against this. 

BSD has never been a story where the villains win, and I don’t think it’s gonna start being one. I think, as usual, Asagiri wants to scare us, to make us feel hopeless about the situation, only for someone to pull through and completely turn the tides.

Dazai laying down and accepting his death at Chuuya’s hands is not going to be the end of his story, because it goes against everything Asagiri seems to stand for. Dazai wouldn’t just give up in his fight against Fyodor, because he needs to prove he’s right about what he says in this panel:

"The ones who actually make the world turn are those who scream within the storm of uncertainty and run with flowing blood."

I think this reflects Asagiri's own beliefs and is also the reason why he is not going to let Dazai die like this, because in a way, that would be proving that Fyodor is right. From a storytelling perspective, it’d be saying “everything I’ve communicated up to this point actually means nothing and life is truly hopeless!” 

Dazai has cheated death before, as has basically everyone else in danger right now. I promise you, something is going to happen and they’re all going to survive, because BSD is not trauma porn, for lack of a better term. It’s a story about how a group of people fight against the absurdity of their reality, even when everything seems completely and utterly hopeless. 

There’s a lot of theories circulating about how things could work out, especially Dazai’s “death,” and I’m not here to repeat all of them, but I will say that a lot of them have credence, especially because Asagiri isn’t the type of author to make mistakes, every single detail has a distinct reason. 

So even though I don't know how things are going to work out, I have full faith that they will, including Dazai's current situation. None of these characters are done just yet, they've got too much fight left in them to just give up.

[original twt thread]

[princesscolumbia]

Star Trek Captains, A Review and Categorization

Star Trek is a show about a Neo-military organization that has rank structures, ships, and fights wars, so naturally there's plenty of captains to talk about, but for this post I'll be highlighting specifically the main cast captains, in something resembling chronological order. (But, I mean, this is Star Trek, so even that's kinda up in the air)

Captain Archer

That Guy who had to hand crank the warp engine up-hill both ways in the blinding ion storm. We don't need no stinkin' Prime Directive! Remember The Alamo Pearl Harbor 9/11 Florida! But...uh, maybe don't be dicks about it, not everyone who looks like the ones responsible for that thing we're never going to forget actually wants us dead. Got transformed into an alien, got possessed by another alien, slept with a couple more. Never got pregnant, though (that was his chief engineer)

Scorecard

Ships commanded: 1

Wars started: 0

Wars ended: 3

Times on screen naked: 1

Nazi facilities destroyed: 1

Category: Grampa

Captain Pike

Midlife crisis? What midlife crisis? Everything's fiiiiine. Now eat something, it'll make you feel better. I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed. Number One, don't tell me I can't adopt more kids, I don't care that they're from the future they're mine now. Besides, we've already got a whole ship-full, what's two more?

Scorecard

Ships commanded: 2

Violations of the Temporal Prime Directive: -3 (yes, it's an irrational number, we're talking time travel, people!)

Musical Numbers Participated While On Duty: 3

Hair: Really Great

Category: Dad (or DILF if you swing that way)

Captain Georgiou

You will be captain when you can snatch the stone from my hand.

Scorecard

Ships commanded: 1

Protege's who required a redemption arc: 1

Awesomeness: Transcendent

Category: Gone too soon, also, MILF who can kick your ass

(Edit: Courtesy of @cheer-me-up-scotty for pointing out an oversite on my part)

Captain Burnham

Cosplays as a Vulcan 'cause she's jealous of her adoptive brother. Accurately called an audience-stand-in-self-insert-mary-sue (shut up, Star Trek fandom invented the Mary Sue, it was a term coined by women fans, so shut up!), but by season 2 she actually gets interesting.

Scorecard

Mommy Issues: Has a subscription

Moms: 4

PTSD inducing life events: Like, all of them

Ships commanded: 3

Mutinies led failed: 1

Category: That One Cousin who married surprisingly well and made something of herself in spite of all expectations

Captain Kirk

Golden retriever energy, would be the Useless Bisexual Himbo if he didn't have so much game. Probably smarter than he lets on. Polyamory King and certified Alien Fucker. Boyfriend is a half-space-elf, main sometimes-girlfriend will go on to create the deadliest super-weapon ever built by humans by accident.

Scorecard

Number of Klingon Bounties on his head: [CLASSIFIED]

Number of women he's slept with: [CLASSIFIED]

Nazi regimes toppled: 1

Number of times he should have had a test that determines if you can stick your dick in it that got named after an upstart from that other science fiction show instead: 1

Ships Commanded: 3

Ships He's Stolen: 3

Category: Slut(affectionate)

Captain Kirk (the other one)

Golden Retriever that got left behind when his family moved away and had to lead a ragtag team of a crotchety older dog and a wet cat on a journey...

No, wait, hold on...

Right! That's the one!

Scorecard

Times he should have been kicked out of Starfleet: At least 4

Ships commanded: 3

Ground transport destroyed: 2 (that we know of)

Number of middle fingers given to Admiralty: 2

Category: Bad Boy

Captain Picard

You know that guy who you see going to the library all the time and always seems to have his nose in a book and always seems to be telling people off for breaking the rules and doing dangerous shit? You'd never know it but he used to be That Guy in college who got, like, ALL the girls and is going to be the Hot Grampa that you don't know how he has that much game, but he got it.

Scorecard

Ships lost in the line of duty: 2

Number of times he married and then estranged his best friend's wife who named their son after her dead first husband: 1

Number of toxic omnipotent and omniscient boyfriends who are obsessed with him and spends their spare time playing with ponies: 1

Category: Inexplicable Sexyman

Captain Badass Sisko

The Cool Dad with baggage. He's got game, but he's got priorities as well, and DON'T mess with his son or you won't even exist anymore to regret it. BLM before it was cool. Led a civil rights riot two centuries before he was born. Space Jesus who can make the best jambalaya you've ever had. Fought and won a war, punched a god, then became one.

Scorecard

Civilizations saved: 4

Native Cultures Treated With the Respect They Deserve: Many

Times He Bent the Rules so his CMO could get some nookie from a Cardasian spy plain, simple tailor: The counter broke

Successful black-ops assassinations completed: 1

Category: BAMF

Captain Janeway

THE single most decorated captain in Starfleet history. Successfully dropped the hammer on dozens of petty tyrants, oppressive regimes, roaming mass murderers, and the Borg. What Prime Directive? Your Mom. Also, probably slept with your mom, that's how much she is the Domme-est of Dommes. She told the Borg to use the safe word...and they DID!

Scorecard

Borg Daughters: 1

Times she told the Borg to step off: 3 (or 4...or 5? Honestly, with the time travel shenanigans it's hard to know for sure)

Nazis she's personally shot: 1

Category: Mistress, but it's "Ma'am" to you

Captain Freeman

She's angry AND disappointed! She's just as good as all the other captains in the fleet, and the good ones know it, but all the rest? They see "cali class" and assume all they're good for is the jobs nobody else wants. But jokes on them, because thanks to that attitude her crew are the flippin' Jacks and Jills of all trades and are more capable of fixing AND fucking AND "fucking" shit up than damn near anyone else!

Scorecard

Times the ship has nearly been destroyed but she and her crew got through it: ...uh...how many episodes are there? And then there's the times that get casual mentions that we never get the details on!

Daughters who should probably be captains now if they were at least a LITTLE more respectful and didn't actively try to piss off Admirals: 1

Times the Cerritos has had to be rebuilt to the point it might as well be called "The Ship of Cerritos Problem": At least 4

Category: Your mom...get back here, I'M NOT DONE TALKING TO YOU!

Captain R'El

Cinnamon Roll, just let m'boy into Starfleet! He just wants a home and a family! I'd like to see full-grown captains who can keep up with half of what this Best Boy is capable of!

Scorecard

Number of species his genetic code is made up of: All of 'em. Even the GODDAMN Q!

Number of Janeways he impressed the socks off of: 2

Quality of his Janeway impression: Bad

Number of Ferengi he out-Ferengi'd: 1

Nazis punched: Give him time...

Category: Teenage Boy Who's NOT GOING THROUGH A PHASE, MOM!

Should I do Captains Shaw and Seven? How about Alternate Timeline Tripp or Future Chakotay? (Going too far down that rabbit hole will eventually lead to Imperial Kirk and Captain Spock from the movies.) Let me know in the comments.

Next Post in this series

[puppiekit]

I dislike the new Warriors covers (sorry warriors artist) so I've brought it upon myself to try and redraw every cover so that Erin Hunter can see and hire me. OBVIOUSLY A WIP I'm gonna upload the complete set when I'm done.

Covers:

Into The Wild: SpottedLeaf and the Fire Alone prophecy. I know Rusty is a common and probably the more logical cover choice for this book, but to me the prophecy is the "true" introduction to FireStar. If that makes sense.

Fire And Ice: You can't tell yet, but this is FireHeart and GrayStripe looking at eachother from across the river. Their strained friendship is pretty key in this book so I felt it would be the best cover pick.

Forest Of Secrets: I ended up going for the scene where TigerStar betrays BlueStar. This wasn't my original pick though. I also thought about a scene with BrokenStar being held in camp, or a scene with CloudKit, or CinderPaw... Settled with something more notable though

Rising Storm: I definitely wanted to depict the scene where a Fire burns through ThunderClan, but I wanted to include a cat somehow (excluding ones used previously). Decided to use YellowFang since shes important in this arc and is the only one in camp at the time. Yes this is meant to mirror the first cover

A Dangerous Path: SwiftPaw and BrightPaw running from a dog. AKA what this book is KNOWN for. I made a last minute decision to give SwiftPaw a different expression. He's behind her, and giving the dog an angry, challenging look. He fights the dogs off to give BrightPaw a living chance, and I wanted to depict that in a way.

The Darkest Hour: I saved FireStars primary cover appearance for this book... Since he's the key focus. It is firestar walking in the footstaps of LionClan (literally). Not the most exciting but I like how it mirrors the original cover

[ruinofchimera]

Hi, I really like your posts, just out of curiosity, what do you think about Sirius Black?

Your curiosity could very well unintentionally land me in a Flynn Rider situation—cornered with a dozen sharp knives pointed at my throat, and for that, I’m more than ready to kiss you on both cheeks, anon. My recklessness be damned; let’s unfold this matter.

Sirius is an entitled arse, no two ways about it. He’s got that privileged, arrogant swagger of someone who’s always had things handed to him, even if he spent half his life rejecting it. He’s all rough edges and volatile intensity, the kind of man who’s survived more by luck and sheer defiance than by any real plan or sense of caution. Characters like him, they’ve got a way of sinking their claws in me, whether I want to or not. Because here’s the thing: Sirius’s short appearances in the books pack more emotional depth than some characters got in entire arcs. In just a few scenes, I saw a man constantly wrestling with his own worst instincts, fiercely loyal but destructively so, and trapped in a past he cannot—will not—let go of.

But let’s get something clear from the outset: I refuse to acknowledge the fever dream version of Sirius that certain corners of the internet have conjured up. You know, the one where he’s some delicate, ethereal twink who twirls his hair and faints at the sight of Lupin. What even is that? That’s not Sirius Black—that’s like trying to shove a feral dog into a tea party dress. It’s laughable, but more than that, it’s a betrayal of who he really is.

His bite, his bike, his relentless defiance—it’s not a costume or an aesthetic; it’s who he is, deep down to his bones. That raw, untamed energy, that edge—it’s woven into the very marrow of his bones. The Sirius Black from the books exuded raw masculinity. He was all bruised knuckles and fiery glares, a man who looked like he could break you in half but might settle for a well-placed punch instead. Unpolished, angry, and unapologetic to his last breath. Stripping all that away to turn him into some hysterical femboy with fluttering lashes doesn’t just miss the point—it actively distorts the very essence of the character.

So, no, I won’t acknowledge this fanon revisionism—or more accurately, fanon distortion. That’s not Sirius Black. And with that out of the way, we can return to the real Sirius Black—the one built from book flesh and bones, the man we actually know.

What intrigues me about Sirius is that he’s constantly at war with himself. The guy stormed out of his aristocratic, silk-sheeted home and straight into the muck and grime of rebellion. And rebellion is a funny thing—it’s loud, it’s violent, but it’s not always about breaking free; sometimes it’s just a different way to cage yourself. He chose to reject his family’s ideals, but the methods, the temperament, the sheer ferocity—that stayed with him. In his desperate attempt to be their opposite, he becomes just as volatile, just as dangerous. He’s trying to kill the part of himself that was shaped by his family, and yet, you can see it, can’t you? That same cruel streak, the same hunger for superiority. Only now it’s turned against anyone who dares remind him of where he comes from. It’s a brutal thing to watch, someone trying so hard to break the chains, only to forge new ones from their own fury.

Then there’s Severus Snape. If there’s anyone who can drag Sirius’s demons out into the open and force them to dance, it’s him. Sirius looks at Snape and sees everything he despises, everything he’s spent his life trying to drown, smother, burn out—the shadows of his family’s poison. Snape is like a living relic of the Black family’s cursed bloodline, a walking monument to what Sirius could have been, should have been, if he’d just bent the knee and stayed in line like a good Black boy. There’s no escaping it. Snape is a mirror that shows Sirius all the worst parts of himself, twisted into something cold, bitter, and unrelenting.

And Severus? Every time Snape looks at Sirius, it’s like staring into a mirror reflecting everything he’s ever wanted but never had. There’s that deep, gnawing resentment—the kind that comes from watching someone like Sirius, a privileged boy born into power and status, toss it all aside like it meant nothing. Sirius had everything Severus spent his entire life yearning for: a sense of belonging, the kind of respect that comes with a name, the freedom to be reckless without consequence. To see someone carelessly discard what he, Severus, would have fought tooth and nail to possess—it’s like being taunted by the very life he’s always dreamed of, but could never reach. Every time their paths cross, it’s not just personal hatred fueling that rivalry—it’s the bitterness of watching someone waste a treasure Snape has been denied his whole life.

They despise each other because, at their core, they’re fighting the same battle. They both want to escape their pasts, their pain, but they’re both trapped by it. Observing their dynamic is like watching two men rage against the same storm from opposite directions, and both of them lose in the end.

For all of Sirius’s darkness, there’s one light that never flickers: his absolute, unwavering loyalty to James Potter. James wasn’t just a friend—he was the family Sirius chose for himself, the anchor Sirius wrapped his entire identity around. Black would’ve followed James into the jaws of hell without a second thought, no questions asked, no hesitation. Sirius’s rebellion wasn’t just against his family’s twisted values; it was a revolt in the name of the bond he shared with James, a bond stronger than blood.

So when he finally clawed his way out of Azkaban, broken and ragged, it wasn’t just freedom he sought—it was the ghost of the only person he’d ever truly cared about. James was dead, but in Sirius’s mind, that bond was still alive, and he clung to it like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. But the world had moved on, and Sirius—stubborn, proud Sirius—hadn’t. He was trapped in the past, unable to let go of the life he had lost. He smothered Harry with his expectations and projected James’s image onto him. In Sirius’s eyes, he wasn’t just mourning James—he was still trying to save him. Still trying to fight a battle that had ended long ago. Shackled to a memory, a ghost, Sirius was living on borrowed time. His desperate need to relive those days with James blinded him to the truth—that Harry wasn’t James, and the past couldn’t be resurrected. And in the end, Sirius’s death wasn’t a tragic loss; it was inevitable. A man like him, still fighting ghosts, still raging against a world that had moved on without him, was always destined to fall. His death wasn’t the end of a life—it was the final note in a song that had been playing since the day he lost James Potter.

As I said, Sirius Black’s depth far exceeds the number of pages he’s given. He’s the kind of character who burns bright and brief, leaving just enough of a mark to haunt you long after he’s gone. His short appearances were cut off far too soon, but twisted enough to make me take notice. And I’m nothing if not an admirer of the twisted. He’s the kind of man who’s always teetering on the edge of something dangerous, dragging his demons behind him like shadows that never quite leave his side. For all his flaws—his recklessness, his impulsiveness, his Peter Pan syndrome—he makes me feel something—whether it’s anger, sympathy, or that strange, grudging admiration you have for someone who keeps charging headlong into the storm, even when it’s bound to destroy him. The kind of character that makes me want to punch him square in the face and then buy him a drink right after. That’s a rare kind of magic, if you ask me.