#consumer price comparisons

[thoughtlessarse]

Price levels vary significantly in the EU, with the highest prices being 2.4 times the lowest. Variations differ with factors such as tax and labour costs playing a role. Is your country more expensive than other European countries? Which goods and services are cheaper than the EU average in your country? Price level indices (PLIs) are designed to make these comparisons possible. They measure and compare the prices of goods and services between different countries. Essentially, PLIs indicate how much more expensive or cheaper goods and services are in a specific country compared with another country or group of countries, such as the EU or Europe. The "overall" indicator is the household final consumption expenditure, which includes the direct spending of resident households. This indicator reflects the total outlay on goods and services. According to Eurostat, the EU's official statistical office, price levels for household final consumption expenditure varied significantly across the EU in 2023. Denmark had the highest price levels at 143% of the EU average, followed by Ireland at 142% and Luxembourg at 135%. Conversely, Bulgaria and Romania had the lowest price levels, both at 60%, with Poland at 66%.

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The article doesn't only cover alcohol and tobacco (A&T), but you can compare restaurants and hotels, clothing, food and non-alcoholic beverages (F&NB), personal transport equipment, and consumer electronics. The comparison is for EU and non-EU countries in Europe.

Ireland is the second most expensive for A&T, and seventh for F&NB, both well above the EU average. The Netherlands comes in 10th for A&T (above EU average), and 27th (below EU average) for F&NB. Ireland is just a very expensive country to live in, although clothing comes in below the EU average.

@irishthings might find this interesting.

[faaun]

ive talked to a lot of ppl who have taken vyvanse now and i think ik a bit more on how i need to live on it

[optiblog]

OPTİVİSER - GOLD

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Laptop Recommendation

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[twopoppies]

The article is in Spanish, but it's a very trustworthy source from Argentina. That Roger was a fucking leech, hope he rots in jail

https://www. infobae. com/sociedad/policiales/2024/11/08/pesos-argentinos-para-comprar-droga-negocios-en-comun-y-dias-libres-el-oscuro-control-de-rogelio-nores-sobre-liam-payne/

This is so fucking disturbing. I know fans have had a bad feeling about Roger for a while. It sounds like they weren’t wrong.

Today, Nores is charged with abandoning Liam Payne and killing him , as well as supplying and facilitating him with drugs, in a relationship that sources in the case describe as “almost Maradona-esque, a friend of the champion , like those who surrounded Diego at his worst .” To charge him, Madrea and his team analyzed 800 hours of footage from the CasaSur hotel and opened Liam’s phone. In addition, they took a large number of testimonies, including that of Liam’s father, Geoff Payne.

Liam's father said the same thing that the courts were able to confirm through the analysis of communications and the comparison of other testimonies: that Nores, after meeting Payne in Miami at the beginning of this year, became the force that dominated his life. If the Payne family wanted to know how the singer was, then they should contact Rogelio. He was not just another friend of Liam's, under any circumstances. Geoff Payne himself said it: "Roger" was always the intermediary. "He is better than ever," he would have told the family when asked.

And this explains the charge of abandonment of a person. It is not about the fact that the businessman did not come to the singer's aid, but about the long road that led to the CasaSur hotel.

The businessman would have become a sort of de facto manager . Although they did not have a specific contract in this regard, sources in the case say that Nores operated as an "investment advisor" and that they had business in common in view of Payne's possible return to the world stage. For this, the singer's recovery from his addiction to drugs and alcohol was key. He just had to be detoxified.

Nores accompanied Payne in a deep detoxification treatment in the United States. There, a psychiatrist prescribed sertraline, the antidepressant that was found in the toxicology test on the singer's body. The specialist said it clearly: if you mix alcohol and cocaine with sertraline, the result can be lethal.

Then, another treatment in Spain was carried out, which also failed. So they ended up in Argentina. Payne was put up in a prestigious five-star hotel that was used to hosting big rock stars. They kicked him out of there. They even visited a local psychiatrist, who testified in the file. After the five-star hotel, they both went to the Patagones polo club with the singer's last girlfriend, Kate Cassidy, where the singer was photographed wearing a helmet and heels on a horse. They spent a few days there. However, Payne quickly became nervous and left the place.

Thus, they arrived at the CasaSur hotel in Palermo on the Sunday before the death. Liam did not even have a bag. There, according to the testimonies and analysis that are part of the case of the prosecutor Madrea, Nores' control would have been much more evident, with alleged orders to the hotel staff to report each expense. Nores, this time, managed Payne's expenses , while receiving calls for each whiskey, champagne or tequila that the former One Direction member ordered, with physical money delivered at the reception. The evidence also speaks of "free days" when Liam could consume cocaine.

The day he died, precisely, was a “day off.”

Thus, Nores frequently returned to the hotel to top up the bill. Payne, meanwhile, insisted on the phone, asking for Argentine pesos to pay the dealers who offered him cocaine, with photos of the bags they offered him and the corresponding prices. The prosecution suspects that Nores had obtained cocaine for him himself, which led to the second charge against him.

Meanwhile, hotel cameras filmed Liam as he wandered the halls , drunk and with a distant look.

For the time being, Nores is free, with his passport handed over to the courts and a ban on leaving the country, while he awaits being summoned for questioning by Judge Laura Bruniard. Article 106 of the Criminal Code, which defines the crime of abandonment followed by death, speaks of “anyone who endangers the life or health of another, either by placing him or her in a situation of helplessness, or by abandoning to their fate a person who is incapable of taking care of himself or who must be maintained or cared for, or who the author himself has incapacitated .” Here, the alleged supply of narcotics plays a key role.

If convicted, he could face up to 15 years in prison. Given the amount of the sentence, the crime is not bailable.

[tame-the-lion-writes]

I love how COD headcanons are just—

Ghost — closed off to most except those in his team; brutally traumatized and in need of softness and security, yet refusing to allow himself such because he’d rather never have it than lose it

Soap — competitive, loud, but only because he wants to fill the space (and he’s never been met with equal warmth and comfort til the 141); often underestimated in smarts because of his extroverted tendencies, but knows what it means to survive on the battlefield alone

Price — a leader who’s accepted the weight on his shoulders; who acts like a mentor, and perhaps even a father, but has a jaded moral compass that sacrifices empathy for the greater good

Gaz — seemingly plain on the outside in comparison to the “stronger” personalities of his teammates, but really, is meant to be their collective character foil; represents the hope of a better, kinder future; an upbringing gentle compared to Ghost; a temperment meant to contrast Soap; wrought with acceptance that he must kill but does not let the mission consume him as it has with Price, because he still believes in a true, pure goodness, untouched by the wages of war or men

And then there’s Graves

Graves is southern as fuck

[anncanta]

‘The Rings of Power’ and what is adult cinema

I think I understand what the matter is. Why there is such a strange attitude towards The Rings of Power and constant reproaches from a number of viewers that the series is boring and that it lacks epicness and vivid characters.

This point of view (and it is the same point of view) has two reasons – age and an excess of content.

The thing is that modern viewers consume a huge amount of content. These are books, films, computer games, fan fiction, TV series. It is not that it is difficult to surprise such a viewer – it is actually possible to surprise them since they are quite naive – it is as if they have sensory fatigue. Or, rather, they have stopped perceiving shades and see only colors. And among the colors – only those that glow neon and fluoresce. What is below this threshold is not interesting to them, simply because their sensitivity is dulled, like (sorry for the comparison) for a user of psychoactive substances who needs to increase the dose to get the same sensations.

That's why the characters of The Rings of Power are dull for these viewers, the storylines are boring, and the whole story lacks epicness. And it doesn't matter that this story is not about epicness at all. It's about the price living beings pay for epicness. About what attempts to start a ‘great war’ or ‘correct big mistakes’ turn out to be. How good intentions and the desire to return to the ‘great past’ or start into a brilliant future end. What an attempt to cheat death leads to.

And here we come to the second reason. To adulthood. The series The Rings of Power is for adults. Not only because adult actors play in it. Young people play there too. But because it is written in an adult way, conceived in an adult way, and played in an adult way.

These heroes and this story do not have the problems of ‘who looked at whom in what way’, ‘who does not want to marry whom off to their beloved’, and ‘which armies clashed on this hill’. With all due respect to these problems. The Rings of Power is about something completely different.

In this film, one of the central scenes is the conversation between Galadriel and Elrond in Cirdan's workshop. The scene in which stubborn Elrond repeatedly brings Galadriel back to the question she doesn't really want to return to – has Sauron really left her consciousness? How did he get there? How far did he go?

And it's not about whether she's in love with Sauron or whether he has a chance to become her lover. I have the impression that the writers don't care about that at all. They care about Galadriel's relationship with Sauron inside. For them, evil is not a black blot that just wants to destroy the whole world (in this sense, the beginning of the second season and Sauron in his black form are also a parody of such decisions), but something that has crawled into your soul and become you. Where, at what point did it become you? How much has it become you? Can you resist it? These are very boring questions to answer – especially if you are uncomfortable with them.

The other pivotal scene is where Sauron tortures Celebrimbor. I know it's bland for viewers used to detailed violence and fan fiction. But it's monstrous. It's horrifying in its simplicity. You look at this beautiful creature who knows exactly where to shoot, so it hurts, but also so the victim stays alive. Then he comes over and moves one arrow slightly. You look at it and you want to scream.

And then Celebrimbor defeats him. Not because Celebrimbor is physically stronger, or a greater wizard, or has a deadlier sword. Because Celebrimbor speaks the truth. Because all these mind games are worthless when you look at them with clear eyes. So Celebrimbor looks. And makes Sauron look. That is stronger than any battle. As is the silence Sauron remains in, which he has tried so hard to drown out with the sounds of thunderous battle. That is why he weeps, and not because Celebrimbor has humiliated or insulted him.

The central part of the story is strange, imperfect, doubting Galadriel. After centuries of pain and loss, fear and anger, rage and grief, she believed that there was someone in this world who could understand her – and he turned out to be the Dark Lord. This makes their misunderstanding all the more vivid and profound – Sauron thinks that Galadriel rejected him because he did not offer her enough, but she did it because he offered too much. The noble Halbrand was enough – not the divinely handsome (another jab at fans of epic films with grandiose perfect men), but a man who was wrong and willing to admit his mistakes. By showing her that Halbrand was a deception, Sauron betrayed not her love, but her belief that there was a way back. Including for herself, who, no matter how absurd it may be, still cannot forgive herself for putting the helmets of her brothers and sisters in the mound.

This faith will be restored to her later by Adar – for a moment, for a few minutes, he returned to his former elven appearance and showed her that it is possible to forgive others and forgive herself. Having missed the opportunity to escape with the ring of power and accepted her help and their alliance.

All these plot lines, all these stories, all the events and heroes do not look bright and spectacular. Even the battles do not look spectacular. Do you know why?

Because battles are not spectacular. They are dirty, stinking, disgusting, and full of pain and blood. Eregion during the siege does not look like grandiose fortresses – it looks like bloody besieged cities. Like cities on which bombs fall. Like cities into which, like cockroaches, aliens crawl. This is what the truth looks like. Do not believe the artificial mouse running across the floor. Better check if the candle is burning out.

The problem and, in fact, the essence is that all these things are impossible to see and understand if you are a young person. In youth, all the stories are about love (with a capital letter), about war (heroic and brilliant), and about refined characters who proudly walk back and forth. They talk little because the young are not interested in conversations. They are interested in kissing and figuring out who is better.

But I am interested in something else. And many people like me are too. And I am incredibly happy that the authors made this film for us. It is not even about Tolkien – I repeat, I am rather indifferent to him. The point is how, through Tolkien and his legendarium, the authors talk about what is important to me. And they do it masterfully. And the most beautiful thing is that those who are young will definitely grow up and become adults.

And then maybe they will love this story too.

[nrdmssgs]

Reacting to the reader, accidentally falling asleep on them. (Price, Ghost, Gaz)

Masterlist

Part 1 (Soap, Alex, Konig)

Captain John Price

Platonic

Won't mind, if his old friend takes a quick nap on his shoulder, as long as this old friend tolerates a cigar smoke.

If he was discussing something with the others, and you happened to fall asleep - he'll try to speak quieter to the point, where his low velvety voice turns into a full-fledged asmr session.

But if the talk grows heated and his low menacing rumble wakes you up accidentally - he'll just pull you back on his shoulder. "Sorry, darling, go back to sleep... Now back to you, you d**p sh*t!"

Will unconsciously fidget with your fingers, John can't help it: your skin is so soft - it calms him down to lightly massage and caress your hand while you are napping.

Price finds it endearing, how flustered you got, after you finally woke up and understood, how exactly have you been sleeping all this time. Once again, he has nothing against it, but he will gladly joke about it, just to see you blushing. "Of course, you can spend a considerable amount of money on this orthopedic pillow in the hope that it will help you start sleeping better. Or you can always call one of your old friends - it costs nothing..."

Romantic

John will have to fight the urge to scoop and cradle you, so that you lean against him with your full weigh, enjoying his warmth enveloping you.

Even if he has something to do - his attention will be concentrated on you. Your calm deep breaths, your fingers clasping on his shirt lightly - that is what Price consumes with his every his single fiber. Because after all, it's memories of those things that keep him alive and sane on the battlefield.

Will definitely kiss the top of your head, even if you two are not alone. Multiple times.

It's moments like these, when he remembers to take a pause, look outside the window, remember, that his war is not everything he has - there is life beyond it.

Expect to wake up with his hand on your head, fingers sinking into your hair, a warm smile blooming on his face as he notices you slowly opening your eyes. "Had a nice nap, my love? Now how about I take you somewhere, you could actually sleep properly?"

Simon Ghost Riley

(this one turned out more like a scenario, sorry)

Platonic

Ghost doesn't notice the weight of your head on his lap right away. He's seen you curl up on a bench next to where he was sitting, but you are so small and light in comparison to him, it's hard to register your head leaning against him.

He sits at the table and talks to someone, when it hits him: a strange warmth, spreading in all directions of his body from the place your cheek meet his lap.

Simon makes a little, almost unnoticeable, pause, breathes in and goes on talking.

There's a voice in the back of his head, telling him to find anything, that might resemble a pillow, for you to sleep on. It would be so much better, than his dusty jeans. And you definitely deserve something softer than his lap to rest on.

But there's nothing, that he could offer you right now to replace him. So he settles to sitting as still as he possibly could and covering the edge of the table with his hand in case you wake up and get up abruptly. Little gesture, showing how much he really cares for every squadmate, how much he values their trust.

Back on the base, you notice, some late training hours disappeared from your timetable. Your Lt may never comment on you briefly passing out on his lap, but he never forgot, you needed a bit more time to rest after the last mission.

Romantic

He might be reserved and distant with you in public. Nothing personal, just a professional attitude, a facade, if you want. But here, behind the closed doors of his room, he freezes the very next minute he hears your muffled mumbling as you drifted to sleep on his shoulder.

"Don't go. Not yet."

Simons' heart sinks. He wishes, he didn't know, what were you talking about in your sleep, but he knows. Even in your dreams, on the territory, where you can have anything, you've ever wished for - you ask only for him to stay.

In public, you are always ok with him going on missions without you. You are always collected, supportive and optimistic. But when no one is around, you let yourself cling to Ghost for a brief moment, clasp your fingers around his arm and wordlessly plead 'don't go, don't go, don't go, don't...'

As he brushes hair from your face, you slightly flinch, not waking up.

"Take me, not him."

Simon looks at your face, feeling guilt building up in his chest. He puts his work papers aside, scoops you up and carries you to his bed. There he cradles you, caressing your face till you stop mumbling, descending to deeper sleep.

You wake up the next morning alone, surrounded by his scent, as he left you his shirt. He always does that, when he leaves on a mission without you. Your gaze wanders around, till it stops on your arm. His handwriting, black pen ink, covering your skin. Never before has he done anything like this. You grab your phone and frantically make a few dozens of photos of the inscription, that he left on you. You already know, that you'll make it permanent.

The inscription says "On my way to you"

Kyle Gaz Garrick

Platonic

Kyle is actually the one to ask others to speak quieter, when he realizes, you've fallen asleep on his lap.

Will shoo away Soap, who is ready to attack you and Kyle with a myriad of 'so when's the wedding' jokes.

Gaz is also the one to actually make sure, that there is nothing hard in his pockets and that the no sharp edges of his tactical clothes touch your delicate skin. He is a very good, genuinely caring friend.

In fact, he will protect you from any person, threatening your sleep. He will even convince Ghost to come back to you with new intel or orders just a bit later, or give them to Gaz, so that he can tell you everything later.

If you work together - he will try to help you with paperwork, so that you have more time to sleep between trainings and missions.

Romantic

Kyle has that face of the happiest, most proud man out there. It's you, the one, he has been dreaming about for so long, feeling so relaxed next to him. Not only he has you - he can make you so content, you smile, while napping on his shoulder.

His eyes are glued to your face. Nothing else matters in this very moment. It's impossible to distract him with anything.

Covers you with his jacket, always makes sure that you are warm and comfortable in his hands.

Loves to surprise you with something small, every time it happens and you wake up on his shoulder. If you two were in the park - Gaz will carefully pick a flower and tuck it in your hair. If it happened in a coffee shop - he will quietly order your favorite cupcake and move the plate towards you.

Lives for that smiles appearing on your lips in first moments after you wake up. Peppers your face with kisses. "Morning, sunshine!" (says it even if it's almost midnight, and he is about to drag you to the bedroom in a few minutes)

[angies-writing-blog]

Ao3 Link (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)

With a low rustle, Sun Wukong unveiled the peach nestled within the folds of his robe. As if enveloped in golden dust, its skin shimmered, catching the last rays of sunlight before they disappeared below the clouds. Flawless and irresistibly ripe, it emitted a tantalizingly sweetness that lifted their spirits and beckoned to be eaten.

Lingering on the fruit, her gaze held a curiosity, softly wondering what price heaven might decree for a treasure, so rare.

His steps were slow as he approached, his movements careful and hesitant. Quivering and barely more than a breath, his voice carried the promise that her destiny would bloom in this realm, where she would forever reign as queen by his side.

Expectantly, his long fingers extended the heavenly fruit toward her, and the warmth of his blazing sun pierced through to her heart. Trembling, her fingers brushed against his arm, seeking solace in his touch.

Wukong couldn’t help but notice how fragile she seemed in comparison to him—delicate, like a flower easily shattered by the harshness of the world.

Reverently, she leaned toward the ripe peach, enchanted by its ambrosial scent. The soft down caressed her lips, and, enticed, she finally took a bite.

The Monkey King observed as she closed her eyes, tilting her head back in delight. A small smile curved her lips as the sweetness danced on her tongue.

His gaze could not waver from the way her lashes fluttered or how her cheeks flushed with pleasure. With each bite, her desire deepened, her grip on his arm tightening. Her sighs—oh, her sighs—intoxicated his senses like sweet poison, clouding his thoughts and weaving a haze around his mind.

Suppressing his own selfish desire, he gently withdrew his arm and regarded her. Juice dripping down her chin left a trace of sticky, sweet goodness upon her rosy lips. With his thumb, he caught the precious droplet and brought it back. Her soft, warm lips brushed against his rough skin as she opened her mouth to receive what had nearly been lost. A pleasant shiver ran down his spine, urging Wukong to draw even closer.

Then, turning the peach in his hand to reveal its untouched side, its velvety sheen remained temptingly alluring. With a mischievous smile, he offered it to her once more, knowing she could no longer resist.

Enjoying the last bite of the fruit, she let the sweet juice linger at the corner of her mouth before tenderly licking it away. Wildly, his heart raced, threatening to leap from his chest as every movement captivated his gaze.

Dropping the peach stone, he extended his hand to her, still glistening with the remnants of the fruit. As she leaned down toward him, her lips hovered tantalizingly above his palm, and a warm flush crept over his cheeks. Her breath, warm and soft, tickled his skin as she slightly parted her lips, the tip of her tongue brushing against him. Each delicate caress swept him into a wave of desire, igniting a fire within him that he struggled to suppress. With every touch, every sensation intensifying, he felt himself slipping further from control.

As the sweet juice dwindled, he found himself unable to resist the primal urge surging through his veins. Slightly trembling, his hand glided over her lips, relishing their gentle, silky softness before he gently parted them. Then, with a longing thrust, he slipped his fingers into her warm mouth, eager to feel the enveloping warmth and moisture of her tongue wrapping around him.

The sweet, wet resistance made him shudder, and his control began to crumble. Unconsciously, he pulled her closer, his hand weaving into her hair, claws gripping the back of her head as if he sought to bind her to him even more tightly.  In response, she released a soft, yearning moan, her body beginning to flutter.

His fingers delved deeper, gliding over her tongue, causing his thoughts to blur and spiral, consumed by each overwhelming sensation as his body battled to contain the pleasure flooding through him. The world around them faded away, leaving nothing but the sensation of her lips closing tightly around him and the humid heat enveloping him completely.

[herlondonboy]

arms tonite, clarisse la rue

summary: I cry in the afterlife I cry hard because I have died, and you're alive I try to escape afterlife I try hard to get back inside your arms alive VERY loosely based off of this request

warnings: mc death obviously, sad everyone, my lack of knowledge on the battle of manhattan because i read the books 7 years ago

wc: 1.7k

you sit against the ancient tree, the bark rough against your back, a painful reminder of the chaos that unfolded. your fingers clutch your stomach, the pain intensifying with each passing moment, a stark contrast to the distant roars of battle. your chest throbs where the drakon's claws had viciously slashed you moments ago.

the air is thick with tension as you watch your friends and family, armed and determined, engage in the fierce battle of manhattan. the clash of weapons, the echoes of spells, and the monstrous roars resonate through the air, creating a cacophony that drowns the world around you.

your gaze shifts from one familiar face to another, each caught in the chaos of combat. the weight of your injuries pales in comparison to the heaviness in your heart as you realise the magnitude of the conflict. the realisation that more lives are at stake than just your own sends a shiver down your spine.

tears blur your vision as you witness the sacrifices being made for the greater good. the ground beneath you trembles with the resonance of battle, a painful reminder of the fragile line between victory and defeat. you wipe away the tears, a silent vow to honour those who fight alongside you.

despite the searing pain and the exhaustion that threatens to consume you, you summon the strength to stand. your every step is a battle against your own limitations. as you move towards the frontline, determination replaces despair. the stakes are too high, and you refuse to let the sacrifices of those around you be in vain.

with each step, you feel the weight of responsibility on your shoulders. the tree, once a refuge, now seems like an anchor holding you back. but you press forward, driven by a desire to protect the ones you love.

the battlefield unfolds before you like a tapestry of chaos, but you find a rhythm within it. your own pain becomes a fuel, transforming into a relentless determination. you join the fight, your weapon cutting through the air as you face the challenges that threaten your world.

in the midst of battle, you catch glimpses of your friends, their resilience mirroring your own. the scars on your chest throb in sync with the beating heart of the battle, a constant reminder of the price of survival. yet, you fight on, not just for yourself, but for the future of those you hold dear.

the battle of manhattan rages on, a testament to the strength of the human spirit in the face of adversity. and as the dust settles, you stand amidst the fallen, a survivor, a witness to the sacrifices that define the heart of heroes.

locked in the chaos of battle, your eyes meet clarisse's across the tumultuous field. the concern etched on her face speaks volumes, a reflection of the scars left by the loss of silena beauregard. the memory of silena's sacrifice lingers, and clarisse fears history may repeat itself.

summoning every ounce of energy within you, you manage a reassuring smile for clarisse, a silent promise that you'll make it through. the connection between you two transcends the battlefield, a source of strength that fuels your determination.

as you let out a ferocious battle cry, it echoes through the turmoil, a proclamation of defiance against the forces that threaten your world. the resonance of your voice, joined by the battle cries of others, creates a symphony of resistance that shakes the very foundations of the battleground.

with renewed vigour, you charge back into the fray, your weapon slicing through the air as you engage with the enemies that stand before you. clarisse fights by your side, a formidable duo that refuses to be broken by the looming shadows of kronos.

the battlefield becomes a dance of blades and magic, each movement a calculated effort to turn the tides of war. your connection with clarisse strengthens your resolve, and together you weave through the chaos, fighting back the forces of darkness.

clarisse's concern transforms into determination as she witnesses your tenacity. the bond between you becomes a beacon of hope in the midst of despair. silena's sacrifice, though painful, serves as a reminder of the strength that arises from unity and love.

amidst the clash of weapons and the eruption of spells, you and clarisse carve a path forward. the battlefield is a canvas of struggle, but your shared commitment to each other becomes a driving force that propels you through the hardships.

as the battle unfolds, you find moments to lock eyes with clarisse, exchanging silent reassurances that you're still standing, that the darkness hasn't claimed you. the weight of her worry lessens with each shared glance, replaced by a growing confidence in your resilience.

the battle of manhattan rages on, but your bond with clarisse becomes a source of inspiration for those around you. the echoes of your battle cry reverberate through the hearts of allies, spurring them on to face the challenges that lie ahead. together, you fight not just for survival but for a future where love triumphs over the shadows that threaten to engulf the world.

tears stream down your face, mixing with the dirt and blood on your cheeks. the pain radiates through your body, each breath a struggle. clarisse's hands, stained with the battle's residue, continue to apply pressure to the wound, her movements desperate and unyielding.

"sorry," she mutters through her own sobs, her voice breaking with every apology. but despite the pain, you recognised the strength in her touch, the fierce determination to defy the cruel hand fate has dealt.

you wince as her hands press against the wound, the searing pain intensified by the pressure. your breath catches, and you find it harder to form words. finally, you manage to muster the strength to speak, "sto... stop!"

clarisse's hands fall to the side, and she looks at you with a mix of sorrow and regret. you can see the pain in her eyes as she watches you, helpless in the face of impending loss. "stop, please," you manage to whisper, your voice barely audible over the battlefield's cacophony.

she apologises again, her hands cradling your head as if trying to shield you from the cruel reality. you can feel her trembling, the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you. in this shared vulnerability, the world around you seems to fade, leaving only the raw, painful connection between two souls entwined by love and loss.

as the battle continues to rage, clarisse stays by your side, her gaze fixed on your face. the chaos unfolds around you, a stark contrast to the stillness of this intimate, heartbreaking moment. in the hushed pauses between your sobs, you confess the fear that grips your heart, the terror of facing the unknown, of losing everything you hold dear.

"clarisse, i’m scared," you admit, your voice a fragile whisper.

clarisse's eyes well up with tears, but she brushes them away with the back of her hand. "you're not going anywhere," she insists, though the lie hangs heavy in the air, a bittersweet attempt to offer comfort in the face of inevitable tragedy.

the battlefield's rhythm continues, a cruel reminder of life's relentless march forward. you feel the grip of mortality tightening, each breath becoming shallower. clarisse leans in, her forehead touching yours, a final act of closeness in the fleeting moments that remain.

in the quiet between the clashes of war, your final breath escapes you. clarisse's hands still cradle your head, her eyes closed, as if trying to hold onto the fragile threads of your presence. the battlefield's chaos, now distant, becomes the backdrop to a heartbreaking silence.

clarisse stays there, lost in a mix of grief and disbelief. the world around her continues to turn, but in that stillness, she remains with you, holding onto the memory of love and loss amidst the echoes of battle.

clarisse, fueled by the searing pain of your loss, rises from the ground, her eyes reflecting the torment that lingers within. the battlefield, now stained with the blood of the fallen, becomes the canvas upon which she paints her grief and rage. without you to return to, her actions are untethered, reckless in the face of her newfound solitude.

she charges into the fray with a ferocity unmatched, each swing of her weapon cutting through the enemy lines. the air crackles with the energy of her relentless assault, a testament to the storm of emotions that rages within her. clarisse fights not only for victory but to drown out the haunting echoes of your final moments.

as she carves a path through the chaos, a determination burns in her eyes, a fire fueled by the memory of your courage. the world around her blurs, and she becomes a force of nature, unyielding in her pursuit of justice. her every movement is a declaration that your sacrifice will not be in vain.

the battle rages on, and as percy confronts kronos, the culmination of their struggles unfolds. in the aftermath of percy's victory, clarisse stands amidst the wreckage, alive but changed. the victory is bittersweet, and the reality of a world without you sets in.

chris rodriguez, battle-weary and scarred, kneels beside clarisse. he sees the turmoil in her eyes, the weight of a heart burdened with grief and guilt. without a word, he offers her a silent comfort, a presence that understands the scars etched into the soul.

clarisse, attempting to remain stoic, fights against the torrent of emotions threatening to consume her. but as the battlefield falls into an uneasy silence, she crumbles. tears stream down her face, a torrent of pain and regret released in a torrential downpour.

"i couldn't do it," she chokes out between sobs. "the one thing i was born to do, and i couldn't protect them." the realisation of her perceived failure gnaws at her, leaving her vulnerable in the aftermath of the war.

chris, with a gentleness unexpected from a seasoned warrior, places a hand on her shoulder. he understands the depth of her grief, having faced his own demons. in the quiet aftermath, they share a moment of shared sorrow, acknowledging the harsh reality of a world that demands sacrifices, even from those who fight with everything they have.

as the first light of dawn breaks over the battlefield, clarisse rises from her emotional abyss, a survivor forged in the crucible of loss. the scars of battle may fade, but the wounds of the heart linger, a reminder that even in victory, the cost can be immeasurable.

you cried that night. because you died in the arms of your lover, and it couldn't have been more perfect.

[fraugwinska]

What about the reader found and old radio, they thought the radio was broken but it's not, it's just antique.. when they play it at night time alastor broadcast was heard first they feel something is odd.. but they love to listen to his voice, heck they even like talking to each other, because of this encounter alastor talk about it to rosie, she was happy hearing alastor telling her stories but she feel odd when alastor mention that the person he talks to is a human, Rosie giving him advice to not fall for human because they're different species, and it will make him weak etc.

Alastor feel guilty and agree with rosie advice so he's stop contacting the reader from the radio, he thinks that the reader will be fine but no the reader take it personally.. they thought alastor don't want to talk to them anymore.. it drive them mad and lead to suicide..

So yeah angst :D

Oh Anon. What have you done.

I cried while I wrote that - it took two very good friends of mine to encourage me to post it (Thanks to @macabr3-barbi3 and @mysterypotatoink). But I think it's tragic and beautiful, and honestly - I'm kinda proud of it!

TW: Psychological Trauma, descend into madness, loss of self care and suicide - please take care of yourself and do not read if you aren't comfortable with any of the mentioned! MINORS DNI

Here we go.

❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️

Leap of Faith

You carried in the last box from you banged-up minivan. The old thing barely made it to your new home. A little cabin in the outskirts of New Orleans, a little off the grid and surrounded by the peaceful and whirring bayous of Louisiana.

A fixer-upper, just like yourself.

The online auction had intrigued you the second you found it, the photos were a bit blurry and you knew it was a risk to buy a place you've never set foot in, but something in you called you to get it. The price you paid was laughable, barely making a dent in your savings. Moving states sounded scary and impossible, but you felt oddly calm about it.

You didn't have a lot of stuff to move anyway. After all, you only lived with your late grandmother, and she never really cared for material things. Your parents left you at her doorstep, never to be seen again.

Caring for her in her last, sickness-ridden years had been a no-brainer - it felt like nothing in comparison to all she had done for you - but it also had been a bit lonely.

You had your friends, if you could even call them that, but you rarely saw them - guiding your nan through the last months of her life had been demanding and time-consuming. It had left you exhausted and emotionally unavailable, and after a while, calls and texts ceased, until it was just you and her. You felt lost, as if the world was slowly pulling away from you.

When she finally died, peacefully in her sleep, you felt sad, relieved and drained.

Detached from the city you lived in.

Lost.

So you decided to sell what little you inherited, except for a few sentimental mementos, and move away from it all. To start a new life, a happier one, finally one that was truly your own.

You took the final box inside, setting it on the coffee table and wiped the sweat from your brow. You looked around the little cabin: The roof had some spots that needed a patch, and the wood floors were a bit warped, but it was all yours. No more having to share anything with anyone.

The cabin came furnished, a lot of the stuff was old, but still usable. You figured that would change once you settled in and had a vision of what you wanted and needed to buy. The thought of thinking about no one but yourself made you nervous.

But a little excited, too.

The old furniture would do for the moment, but there was a particular piece that caught your eye: an old, vintage cathedral radio, sitting nestled in between a cracked wooden box and a tarnished, bronze candle holder in a bookcase that was a bit out of place in the tiny space. With a tilted head, you stepped closer to inspect it, drawn to it by it's unique character and beauty.

It looked as well-loved as it looked well-used, the mahogany a bit scuffed, the knobs a little worn from years of being turned. But there were golden details etched into the front, and you traced them lightly with a finger, strangely touched and intrigued.

You were certain the old thing didn't work, but when you plugged it into the nearby socket, static erupted from the speakers, making you jump back. You had to smile, though.

Tonight, you wouldn't be alone. You'd have this little device and a little music for good company.

***

"I'm home!" you announced to no one in particular, as you closed the door behind you, your hands full with overfilled grocery bags full of necessities, waiting to fill your empty cabinets.

The day had been hot, but a welcome breeze of the impending night break cooled the inside of your little cabin a bit. With a quiet grunt you set the paper bags down at the small kitchenette. Your groceries were quickly dispersed, and you put on an apron you saved from your grandmother as you got started on dinner.

You hummed as you cut vegetables and boiled water. It had been a long time since you had cooked, really cooked, your nan wasn't much for eating and had no problem living off of simple soups and toast. When you opened your fridge to get some butter, your glance fell onto the radio.

A little music would be nice, you decided, and you walked over, cleaning your hands on the red, frilly cloth around your waist before you turned the dial. The soft sound of static made you hum in contempt - yup. Still works. A little turn to the left, and the room was filled with a soft jazzy tune, the melody a bit grainy, but you didn't mind that at all. You returned to the stove, swaying your hips to the beat as you worked. The music made you feel at ease, and for a moment, the world seemed to be just right.

Just as the onions began to brown in the pan, the song faded out to a voice. You turned your head to the radio, intrigued by the unusual, eccentric accent of the host. It reminded you of the old, vintage films and recordings your grandmother had been fond of - wasn't it called 'transatlantic'?. Whatever it was, it made you smile.

"Now wasn't that a kick in the head, dearest listener? I sure hope you enjoyed the little musical interlude, but it's time to return to the real show! As usual, my name is Alastor, and you are listening to the best jazz, blues and swing music that Hell has to offer!"

You blinked, a little puzzled and yet amused. "Sure is hot as hell today, strange man in the radio.", you mumbled, chuckling as you stirred the bell peppers under the caramelized onions.

"Today we have a very special guest joining my humble broadcast, it seems. Pleasure to meet you, darling, quite the pleasure!"

"Oh who? Me?" you asked, looking theatrically over your shoulder with batted lashes, shaking your head over your own silliness. You weren't used to talking out loud to yourself, or even really thinking out loud. You were always alone, after all, but the little pretend-play was fun. You laughed a bit, waiting for the host's guest to speak.

"Of course you, little dove. Who else would I mean?"

You gasped, and nearly dropped the spoon as you whipped around, eyes glued to the humming, orange glow of the radio in the dim darkness of your living room.

"What's that? You're surprised, my dear? Don't worry, you're not the only one! This is a first for me, too. Never had a human join my program. I must say, I'm quite intrigued! Tell me, what is your name?"

Your eyes grew wide, and the hairs at the back of your neck stood up. You took a hesitant step backwards and hit the hot stove, making you curse under your breath. Was the heat finally getting to you?

"Don't be shy now, darling. I'm not gonna hurt you, cross my lil' old, blackened heart."

"I-I'm..." you began, swallowing as your fingers tightened around the wooden spoon. "My name is..."

"Yes?"

"I'm... crazy.", you mumbled, rubbing a hand over your face and chuckling a bit. You were just going insane, that's all. Must be the stress, combined with the intense heat. And lack of a companion, a tiny voice reminded you. Yes. Must be.

"Hello crazy, this is Alastor." The host laughed, together with a canned audience.

"Alastor...", you repeated, realization settling in - this wasn't a joke, or a trick of your mind.

"At your service, my dear.", the voice cooed. "Now, I believe you still owe me your name..."

***

You weren't crazy.

Or if you were, you didn't mind. Not with Alastor by your side - or, to be exact, in the radio on your bookcase.

After two weeks of ignoring the cursed radio after unplugging it in a wave of panic on your first night, your morbid curiosity got the better of you. You plugged it back in, and turned on the dial. Just once, you told yourself, then never ever again.

And that's how the two of you got in contact with each other once more. Alastor was as chipper as the first time you heard him, and after a bit of back-and-forth, he promised once again not to harm you, and you shared your name with him. The rest was history. He was very pleasant company. For a demon from hell.

You wouldn't classify the conversations you had with him as a real friendship in the beginning, but you did talk. Occasionally. Mostly in the evenings, when you cooked dinner: He'd ask you about your day and would pry eagerly for a little bit of gossip or new information about the modern New Orleans. When he let it slip that he lived in this very cabin in the 1920's, you weren't stopping with questions about what it was like back in his days, which he, in return, answered generously and enthusiastically.

The first few times he would try to coerce you into making a deal for your soul, casually sprinkling the offer into his small talk, but with enough blunt refusals and a few more days of radio silence (pun intended), he dropped the topic and seemed content on just talking. You, in return, found yourself relaxing into his charming company, your brain happily engaged with trying to wrap your head around him, or better, you tried to come to terms with it.

Weeks passed, and turning the radio on in the evenings became less of an occasional lapse of judgment but more of a routine you were looking forward to. You could tell the Alastor felt the same, his banter became less tense and acted, and a little more genuine.

It made your heart swell in happiness, that someone out there seemed to appreciate your company – even if that someone wasn't human.

Apprehension became amusement, and fascination became friendship. Oddly enough, you found common grounds in a lot of things: A love for cooking and good music. Preferring books over films. Red wine over white. A shared aversion of vulgarity, and appreciation for good manners.

Your nights were cut shorter and shorter, you would spend hours chatting on and on, until the deep darkness of night disappeared into a shade of blue on the horizon. Neither of you minded, at least that was what you thought. Alastor never ended the conversations with you. Either you had to say your goodbyes, or you would just fall asleep after hours of talking on your couch, and awake with a pained back to a shut-off radio. Then, after you'd realize that you would have a whole day ahead of you without hearing his voice, the loss would make your chest ache.

Two months into the 'thing', which was still a strange concept you could barely comprehend, the truth of the matter dawned on you: You liked him. Not just because he was a surprisingly amicable voice coming out of your vintage radio, a lively constant in the uneventful life you had made for yourself in Louisiana - he had become important to you, irreplaceable, even. An essential element to your life. You couldn't imagine how you'd gone so long without him, and yet, here you were, lost without him, scrambling through the hours until you could talk to him once more.

"Something on your mind, darling? You're awfully quiet today."

You held your fork and knife still above the salmon you had just been about to eat. It was the first meal of the evening in a long time where you weren't spending the entirety of the preparation time speaking to him, lost in thought about your blossoming feelings. He had gotten excellent at reading you like an open book - you should've gotten used to it after a couple of weeks of him catching on to every little change in your demeanor and knowing just what to say, when you were feeling happy, upset or nervous.

"Oh, um... no. It's nothing Al. Work had me in a wringer today."

"Is it your co-worker Susan again?" You could basically hear his eyes rolling, making you chuckle. "That name must be cursed, every single soul with that name is a menacing pain."

"Maybe,", you muttered, nibbling on a piece of the roasted fish. "This one is mostly just an ornery old bitch."

"Taking the words right out of my mouth, dear." he laughed.

There's was a comfortable pause, with just a gentle background noise of his ever-playing static and an easy, melodic tune coming from his program.

"Is that really all that preoccupies that pretty little head of yours?"

You blushed, picking at the food with your fork. "Bold for a guy who's never seen me to assume my head is pretty."

The radio crackled with pops and feedback. "Bold to assume I can't see you whenever I want, little dove." he said, his voice strangely deeper, tinged with something you didn't catch at the shock of his words.

"You... what?"

"And I can most assure you,", he purred out of the speakers, "pretty is a well fitting word to describe you."

He hummed in approval when your cheeks gained color, as if he knew his comment threw you off guard and made you turn a lovely shade of pink, but it didn't make it any less enticing.

***

"Alastor, if I didn't know better, I would say you have become smitten with this mysterious gal you're blabbing on and about."

Rosie giggled, hitting his shoulder in a playful, friendly swipe. "When will I meet her? Come on now, you can't hide her forever. Or are you afraid she'll like me better?"

She laughed, and Alastor forced a toothy grin. His long time friend was the only one he talked about you with, and he knew she was intrigued whenever she could smell a blooming dalliance, especially with a notoriously abstinent bachelor like himself. Normally, he would laugh at that thought with a healthy dose of mockery, but he found himself to be less and less aversed at the thought - if it would be you. Impossible, of course.

"Nonsense, Rosie dear, nonsense,", he chuckled, taking a large sip from his coffee cup, a heavy hand bringing up a plate stacked with finger sandwiches. "And I'm afraid you won't meet her for a long time, maybe never. Humans seldom traverse to hell in their lifetime, and who knows if the little darling will take on the trip downstairs?"

Rosie coughed in her tea, her blackened eyes wide in shock. "Human? It's a human girl you've been courting here? Oh, Alastor, you old fool."

Alastor scrunched his nose, "Talking, Rosie, talking is all we do. And yes, she's a human. I don't see the quandary in that. It's just a little fun."

"Well,", she huffed with a small, thoughtful frown. "I would've hoped for a little more sense in you." The tall demonesse set down her teacup with nimble fingers.

"You may not call it courting, but if it quacks like a duck, it's a duck, love." Rosie ignored the indignant look Alastor gave her. "You know as well as I do that such a connection is dangerous to entertain. Humans are fragile and fragile things tend to break. And when they do, the owner mostly follows. You need to break this connection off."

Rosie gave him a sad look as his ears flattened against his head. She would've been more than happy for her oldest and dearest friend to have a partner on his side, someone good and honest who really cared about him, maybe loved him even, as unlovable as he was. But she had to protect him from the silly idea of possibly falling for a living, breathing and supposedly untarnished soul, and the heartbreak that would surely follow. "Don't make the mistake of breaking your heart, dear friend." she smiled, a tint of melancholy hidden in the red of her lips.

"I think it's far too late for that."

She offered a handkerchief, but Alastor waved her off, his smile more faint and close to a frown than she's ever seen.

***

The first day where nothing but static noise came out of the radio, you were irritated but just thought: 'Maybe Alastor has something to do'.

The second day of static you grew concerned. 'What if something happened to Alastor? Was he okay?'.

On the third day, you were panicked. 'Maybe he doesn't want to talk to you anymore! Maybe he met someone in hell, someone that he could talk to whenever he wanted and not through an old, dusty radio?'.

"Please talk to me.", you whispered into the empty room. Your knees were pulled to your chest, and you sat on your couch, eyes fixed on the radio in the bookcase. Your eyes stung with the tears threatening to spill. "Please, Al. I miss you." You shook your head, chuckling sadly. It had only been 3 days, but they'd felt like an eternity. The world had seemed silent without Alastor's constant chatter.

When night fell for the fourth day, you were half asleep, eyes red and burning and tears still staining your cheeks. You talked for hours into the void of your house, the radio now moved to sit in front of you on the coffee table, growing more and more desperate as hours passed. Talking faded into pleading, and pleading into begging.

"Please, I'm sorry, if I did something wrong, I'm sorry...", you mumbled into the wooden furnishing, resting your cheek against the top of the machine, eyes slipping shut with fatigue and defeat. A dry sob slipped past your trembling lips, as your hands desperately grabbed the sides of the antique device.

"Alastor please, don't leave me alone here...", you whispered with the last of your strength, before your body succumbed to your exhaustion, your unconscious mind welcomed the darkness.

If you had stayed awake for just a moment more, you would've, maybe, heard the faint shuddering breath beyond the static rumble. But you didn't. So you had no chance at knowing that, Alastor, listening to every word, saw and heard you at your weakest, and all it did to him was stir the embers and give the blaze an opening for the flames of his anger at fate to rage.

Work had called, again. Susan of all people. Threats were made - either come back to work, or don't come back at all. You smashed your phone. It was useless anyway. What was the point without...

Alastor wasn't here, hadn't answered for seven days now. And you had spent the whole time talking, begging him to show himself, just show himself and tell you what you did wrong, just talk to you one last time and then you'd stop, if that was what he wanted. You became obsessed with the orange light of the illuminated screen, imagining the flickers were maybe signs from him.

You stopped eating, stopped drinking, stopped almost anything, you just sat, in front of the radio, unmoving and unwilling to miss the smallest sign of his return.

Every single minute stretched into agony, and every breath that left your lips made a fresh tear roll down your paling cheeks, until your body couldn't produce them anymore. Then, you cried wordless whimpers and moans, even started praying to an unknown entity.

It wasn't as if Alastor owed you anything. It's not as though you thought the two of you were anything other than two kindred souls, one human, one demon, talking to each other. As a result, it wasn't like you had the right to anything from him.

It was strange to consider the connection the two of you shared: Something more than acquaintances, something closer than friends, and yet never fully crossing the line beyond it. The unpenetrable boundary dividing life and death in between.

Your eyes fell on a large, old crucifix on your wall, staring back at you with pity.

For the first time in days, you left the sofa, took it from the wall and burned it on your gas stove, watching the face of the nailed figurine slowly melt in the fire.

***

It had been eight days of excruciating, one-sided silence.

Eight days Alastor cursed his cowardice as he sat, red eyed with claws digging into his scalp, as he listened to you plead for him to talk - To answer. To do anything. Anything, but leave you alone, he heard, as if the words were spoken right in his ear.

Eight days of watching you slowly detriment from the eyes of the shadows he was able to manifest above, tugging on the very fabric of the world to move you, to keep your mind from going where it shouldn't go.

He kept telling himself it was for the better. His shadows murmured persistent reminders that he should find entertainment in your growing lunacy. He was the radio demon, after all. He shouldn't care if this wisp of a human were to perish, should laugh at your wails of agony and despair.

But Alastor never felt less like laughing. Your dried sobs and pained apologies for things you never did wrong in the first place filled his head, taunting and gnawing on him with feelings he thought he was unable to feel: Guilt and Regret.

It was as Rosie had predicted - he was becoming weak. But weakness was something that should be avoided. Had to be. He knew. Being weak, being feeble, would make him vulnerable, make him into the prey his cruel from already portrayed to the world he had to inherit. He couldn't allow it. Couldn't let his feelings for you bring him down to the levels of the sinners in hell he would tear apart and laugh while he did it.

That's why he stayed silent. Endured it, all of it, every word, cry and plea. Stayed invisible and silent, waiting for you to move on, forget him, shut off and leave the radio, never to turn the dial again. For your sake and his.

When the connection broke, on that eight day, Alastor could feel your resignation, your peace with which your pale hands gripped the electrical cord at it's base to pull. And he was suddenly filled with the awareness of something horrible, like a premonition. It set his already battered, aching heart in an ice cold grasp of dread.

His room exploded in green light as he expanded into his full demonic form, his limbs threatening to pull and burst at the stitches and his smile splitting his face almost entirely in half. He had to reach out, had to reform the connection to the radio one last time, even though nearly impossible.

You were about to do something he would never be able to forgive himself for.

***

Your car broke down just where it needed to. You took the radio out of the trunk, knocking the hood two times for a goodbye, the key safely in the ignition. Maybe some other poor soul would find and repair it, make happier memories with it.

You clutched the wooden device closer and started to walk. Indigo blue faded into black as you looked up to the sky that was sprinkled with glowing, shimmering silver dust, stars blinking in the unimaginable distance. There, but out of reach.

Just like him.

Your dry sob stung in your throat, but you didn't really feel the pain. Your eyes were fixed on the path to your final destination, right in front of you.

The Crescent City Connection Bridge was mostly abandoned by traffic at this time of night and provided just enough covered spaces to hide you from some foolish saviors eyes.

You didn't need to be saved.

You didn't want to be saved.

Because you were about to save yourself.

There was nothing waiting for you in the other direction than the one you were going. So, with slow but steady steps, you walked towards the middle of the bridge, settling on a place next to a metal pillar and looked over the railing onto the shimmering waters of the Mississippi River.

Alastor had told you about the river, how he loved to watch the steam boats floating on it from the radio station where he worked at when he was alive. The station was long gone, you didn't even find out where it had been in the first place, but you liked to imagine that you were looking at the same scenery now that he had been looking at when he peered out of his booth in his radio tower.

It made you smile through the tears... You were glad the end was somehow connected to him, even if it was most likely just your naive imagination.

It felt like the device in your arms was emitting static energy, prickling over your arms, hands and fingers as you caressed the mahogany wood gently, feeling as though the radio was shaking in your hands, trying to pull you back from the fenced ledge.

A quiet sob escaped your lips, turning into a giggle and into hysterical laughter. You sat down between the railing, and hugged the radio close, trying to breathe as you closed your eyes, resting your temple on the worn, warm wood.

"It'll be okay, Al.", you said quietly, your voice unnaturally hoarse and rough from lack of use and dehydration. "I'm coming. I'm coming to you.”

With one arm around the radio, holding it tight against your chest, you turned to stand on shaky legs, gripping the railing with one arm and, with one final glance at the stars above you you smiled. You heard sirens in the distance, and some people shouting from a sparkling streamliner passing under the bridge. Time was running short, so you didn't wait to put first one foot over the fence, then the other, taking a deep breath.

"I guess doves were always meant to fly."

And, with that, your body twisted, turned and leaped, falling as the light on the radio, firmly pressed against your heart, began to glow in deepest crimson and swirls of green.

Falling like an angel would descend from grace.

Part 2 for closure

[ravenmichaelisstuff]

Monster!Soap x human!Ghost AU

Part 1?

Tw. Blood, lot's of it, violence

When Soap got accepted into 141 by Price, the Captain promised him that he wouldn't have to ever use his supernatural abilities on missions if not strictly necessary. Price knew what he was, how dangerous and terrifying he could become. He knew that Soap has strength that should not be used without considering other options, without thinking, reckless.

It's not like Soap wasn't capable of controlling himself, it takes a lot to throw him of balance. His previous CO didn't know a limit though. The moment that bastard found out about Soap's other side he made sure to use it whenever he could, making every mission an easy win- for himself.

For Soap it was bloody exhausting not only physically but mentally. It wasn't even just that, that he started to lose himself more easily but the faces of his teammates whenever he unleashed his rampage? The scared faces of his friends? The fact that after the first time his team saw his true self they never looked him straight in the eyes again. They never talked to him like they used to, holding themselves stiff and ready to bail. Terrified.

So Soap grew to hate using his abilities on field, near other soldiers. When he joined 141 he made sure to keep that part of himself hidden away even though Ghost and Gaz were informed about the fact that Soap wasn't human, but they didn't know the details. Werewolves, vampires or even shapeshifters- those were seen often at military bases in comparison to his kind. With how the scot carried himself and acted they probably assumed he was a werewolf but he was something else entirely. He would rather keep it the way it is especially that he took a shine to his new lieutenant.

He was able to go like this for months and in that short time 141 became something so much more than just a task force.

Everything was great until the absolute blood bath he is in right now.

They were supposed to retrieve important information from a building supposedly guarded only by a few humans eventually a vampire, in and out. But when they reached the office in which the files were supposed to be hidden, Gaz's radio cracked with Price's voice who was over watching the building.

Armored cars swarmed the building, they got surrounded and outnumbered in a blink of an eye. When first few gunshots flew by their heads he knew that there is only one way of getting them out of there in one piece.

He clicked his radio.

"Price! Permission?!" He screamed, looking over at his teammates trying to hold their positions against the enemy.

"... Granted. Keep them safe son." Prices voice sounded through the speaker.

Hell broke lose in mere seconds. Screams filled the building as well as the subtle dull sounds of bones being broken inside bodies. Dark navy flames consuming bodies, surrounding them and pulling of their limbs as if flames were solid body. John himself now *several* feet taller, hunched over a group of men desperately trying to shot at him, the bullets flying through him and into the wall behind him. He tore into them, blood splattering across the room.

.

.

.

"Johnny! They are all dead, quit it!"

A voice, familiar, deep and raspy- Ghost's. Soap suddenly felt like he could see again. Like the vision was blurry before but now it was clear. He saw his dark, burning claws covered in blood and- A pile of... Fuck when did he blacked out? Did he hurt his friends?

He can't breathe suddenly.

"Mate? You with us?" Gaz. Gaz stood beside him, on his eye level. He must have turn back, he feels sticky. Gaz is ok.

He felt hands on his shoulders.

"Johnny say something" Ghost said, concern seeping into his voice. He has to answer.

"Yeah, Fuck- I sorry-" Soap cringed at his own voice cracking. This wasn't supposed to happen, not around them. He wasn't supposed to scare them.

"Mate you have nothing to be sorry for." Gaz huffed relieved. "You saved us" the other sergeant smiled at him like he never saw what he just did.

Ghost squeezed his shoulders. "Come on, we gotta get you cleaned up sergeant. We have to get to Price and then to the extraction point. Is any of that blood yours?" His voice was calm, grounding - like nothing changed.

"No, No Lt. I am good"

And just like that Ghost gave him a pat on his shoulder and signaled to follow him to the exfil.

It left Soap surprised, the fact that his friends acted just as always. Like they didn't see what he was able to do.

But it's probably just shock.

The scot already felt the dread of loosing his friends after they would process what they witnesses. It never ended differently.

I am losing sleep over monster Soap

[starogeorgina]

𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬

Pairing: Harwin Strong × Targ oc

Warning: Childbirth, mentions of violence, swearing, blood, character death

3.09

“If he wasn’t my kin, I’d have his head on a fucking spike!”

Harwin gently tilts your chin up so you’re facing him. His fingers are coated in your blood from your nose, but it seems insignificant in comparison to what your son has suffered. “You need to have a maester check you over, Vaella.”

“And take them away from our sons?” Feeling overwhelmed with his hand on you, you brush it off and start pacing again, using the movements as a way to not only cope with the adrenaline of anger bubbling inside you but also the pain slowly seeping across your body. You felt as if a sudden fever was coming on, but you refused to let up. “I don’t understand why he would do such a thing to his own flesh and blood.”

“Some people are just inherently bad.”

“But he’s my brother,” you weep. “That should mean something.”

Tears sting your eyes as you look at your sons through the doorway as they speak with the maesters. Aerion's eyes were red and puffy from crying, and when you excused yourself to go clean up your nose, which had started bleeding again, distressing Aerion further Harwin asked Elinda, your sister's handmaiden, to stay by your side. The young woman was coddling him as if your eldest son were her own. Vaegon was lying flat on his stomach in a deep slumber due to the high volume of milk from the poppy he had consumed, with maesters surrounding him. Each of them is trying to figure out the best way to treat injuries to his lower back.

“Oh, my baby, my baby.”

Harwin chokes back a sob. You had expected him to be full of rage, but instead he looked defeated. Exhausted from the worry and frustrated from not being able to help. The palms of Harwin’s hands had small crescent-shaped cuts on them from him clenching his hand so tight.

When you feel your nosebleed has stopped, you go and sit beside Aerion again, holding him close to you as he sobs, “It’s my fault. I couldn’t stop him; I couldn’t protect my brother.”

“Shh, none of this is your fault.”

“He called us bastards,” Aerion sobs. “And Jace, Luke, and Joff. He said I was the only one who didn’t know.”

You look up at Harwin; his eyes are glimmering with what you suspect is fear. Harwin crouched down to be level with him and spoke softly, “Listen, lad, I will tell you the truth. This isn’t about bastardy, the greens... They don’t want a woman sitting on the throne. They will say anything to discreet princess Rhaenyra and her sons, so the king's firstborn son sits on the throne.”

Aerion looks from Harwin to you, confused. “But if anything happened to Princess Rhaenyra and her sons, the throne would go to my mother before it did to my uncle; she’s the second-born child of the king.”

The sweet innocence in his voice breaks your heart.

“They would just do the same to your mother, lad. The Hightowers want the firstborn of Alicent to rule.”

“Will they kill us so Aegon will be the heir?"

You kiss the crown of his head multiple times and say, “No, SweetPea, it won’t come to that.”

—

You let out a sharp breath as the maester explained the extent of damage your son was suffering. Vaegon had snuck out to confront his uncle after overhearing Aemond say Aegon would be king one day. When Vaegon told him he was wrong, Aemond called your son’s bastards, then pushed Vaegon down the concrete steps.

Aerion squeezed your hand; your poor boy blamed himself. He saw his brother leaving and chased after him, but Vaegon inherited your stubbornness and refused to go back to their rooms.

“Unfortunately, it’s too early to tell if the price will ever walk again.”

Tears sting your eyes, making your vision slightly blurred. “Is he able to travel, or will it cause him more pain?”

“I’d advise a high dose of milk from the poppy for the boat ride back to avoid any distress... but in truth, Princess Prince has lost feeling below the waist.”

You grip tightly onto Harwin’s arm; none of it seems real. You glance at the door when Elinda enters the room; she reminds you of a frightened mouse with how she trembles as she walks over to you. The handmaiden had been sent to bring your daughter and to inform your sister and father that they needed to come as a matter of urgency.

“Where is Ada?” Harwin is alarmed.

“Ser Harwin, Princess... She is with Princess Rhaenyra in the great hall. There has been another incident involving Prince Aemond.”

—

All eyes are on you when you burst through the Great Hall’s main door. The handmaiden who informed you of the incident was running not far behind; she had briefly filled you and Harwin in on the conflict that transpired between the children and the adults. The first thing you notice are the drops of blood on the floor and Rhaenyra holding her bleeding arm while your father's dagger lies by Alicent’s feet. There was a clear divide in the room, with your family standing on one side and Greens standing on the other.

“Ada?” You call for your daughter, and panic sets in when you can’t see her among the various bodies in the room. “Ada!”

“I’m sorry!” She comes out from behind Lord Lyonel and runs to you, her cheeks flushed from crying. She clings to your growl and sobs, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

You brush her hair out of her face and say, “It’s alright, my sweet, it’s alright.”

You clap your hand over hers, keeping her firmly by your side; she grabs ahold of Harwin’s hand as well. You look to your father for any kind of indication of what he was planning to do, but he seems lost in his own thoughts, so you turn to Alicent.

“Did he tell you what he did to—”

“The king already knows about the slander hurled towards my sons,” Rhaenyra says.

You feel blood dribble from your nose onto your lip as you stare at Rhaenyra, speechless. You quickly wipe it away with the sleeve of your dress. An insult was the least of your worries. But she didn’t know; none of them did. One son suffers in agony, while the other's heart fills with guilt. All the while, your brother went off and happily claimed a dragon. You glance at your Aemond, feeling void of sympathy that he’d lost an eye. He was smiling beneath his bandage; he was proud of what he’d done.

“Do you have any remorse for what you did to my son?”

Your father finally finds his voice. “Vaella, what happened to my grandson?”

Aemond looks down at his feet, the smugness on his face fading, which only infuriates you further. Your voice cracks as you speak, “I’ll give you one last chance; tell them what you did.”

Alicent looks at you stunned; it’s clear she has no idea what you’re referring to. She waits a beat, then speaks thickly, “My son was attacked by Prince Lucerys. He lost an eye.”

“An eye? Prince Aemond said the Hightowers were planning to usurp my sister's throne, and then he almost killed my son. ” You turn to face your father and say, "Your grace, your grandson has been maimed and may never walk again! And his brother is traumatized from witnessing such a horrendous act.”

Madness and rage were spreading inside you like poison; perhaps you should have listened to your husband and stayed with your sons.

“Vaella…”

Harwin tries to say something to you, but you storm over to the king, who looks just as defeated as the rest of you. “Father,” you speak in High Valyrian. “This is them; this is the greens. I’ve told you again and again about the agenda that they have been pushing. That a woman isn’t fit to rule and your grandsons are bastards, and now the lies have run so deep that her son thinks it’s okay to physically attack mine and Rhaenyra’s children.”

“Vaella,” he sighs. “I cannot change what has been done; I cannot mend the wounded.”

“Do something.” Tears roll down your cheek. “Aemond is just a boy repeating what his mother and grandsire said. Alicent has just assaulted the heir to the throne and attempted to harm Lucerys. Arrest her, and I’ll feed that traitor who dare calls himself your hand to Varos!”

“Alicent is my wife.”

“Your wife?” You scoff. “The Hightowers are parasites feeding off dragon's blood. My love for her children is the only reason I’m not bringing fire and blood down upon their entire house.”

Harwin places his hand over your chest, urging you to step back. Harwin wasn’t fluent in High Valyrian, but he knew it well enough to recognise the threats you were making. “The king wishes to do nothing.” He picks Ada up with one arm and takes your hand with the other. “The best thing we can do is get our family back to Dragonstone.”

“I’ll have a ship prepared immediately,” Lord Corlys says. “It will be ready within the hour.”

Harwin nods and says, “Thank you.”

You felt your heat tearing itself apart; not only were your sons suffering, but your father had become so weak he was no longer able to defend your house. Shaking your head, you go to leave the great hall with your daughter and husband but stop when you reach the doorway. You thought you could handle the pain in your lower abdomen, but a sudden sharpness causes you to claw at the fabric of your dress. You sway on your feet slightly, and Harwin wraps his arm around you, keeping you up right.

“Send for a maester!” Daemon calls out.

“Fuck,” you grit your teeth and squeeze his arm tightly, feeling blood trickling down your thighs. “The babe is coming.”

—

“You need to push, princess.”

“I am fucking pushing!” You bark. “This shouldn’t be happening; it’s too soon.”

You grit your teeth and try to focus on the warmth of your sister's hand on your back, grounding you in the present moment. Harwin was waiting in the next room with your children; you were glad. You couldn’t bear to look at him, not when this was your fault. You should have made sure the knights posted outside the room your children were supposed to be sleeping in were capable of stopping them from sneaking out. You shouldn’t have allowed yourself to become so upset. If anything happened to your baby, it was your fault.

Rhaenyra’s eyes were focused on the bloodstained sheets below. You had been pushing for hours with no results. “Don’t let them do it to me,” you sob. “I don’t want to die like our mother.”

Tears roll down her cheeks, but she forces a smile. “You will have a baby in your arms soon, and the pain will be over.”

The contractions come hard and fast now, like waves crashing against rocks. Sweat trickles down your forehead; the pain intensifies, but you know it's nature's way of telling you to start pushing again. You bear down with each passing moment, feeling the muscles in your abdomen tense and release as if they were being pulled apart.

A few more moments of agonizing pain pass, and then the room is filled with a baby’s cries. The midwife cuts the cord and then places the baby on your chest. “It’s a girl.”

“Cassandra, her name is Cassandra.” Tears of happiness streamed from your eyes. Your beautiful girl had thick, dark hair and eyes to match her fathers. “She’s perfect—oh fuck, I think another one is coming.”

One of the midwives pushes your legs open and says, “The princess is crowning.”

The room fills with the sound of people rushing around, and blood starts spilling onto the ground. The bleeding was heavier than before. One of the handmaids gives you an apologetic look as she lifts the baby from your chest and says, “I’ll clean her up, princess.”

“Take her to Harwin.”

Rhaenyra wipes a cloth over your forehead. “Sister, are you sure?”

“I don’t want her in the room when I die.” You let out an agonizing scream. “Just take her and go!”

Your eyes become heavy, and your vision fades as you watch the handmaid wrap your daughter in a blanket. Rhaenyra shakes your shoulder, yelling for you to stay awake, but your sight is locked firmly on your newborn. Before she disappears from sight, your vision goes black.

—

Feeling his wife’s absence, Harwin opens his eyes and sits up in the bed, squinting. He looks around the room, hoping to see her, but Vaella is nowhere to be seen. He looks down into the crib next to him and sees Cassandra scrunching her face up while sleeping. His little girl was smaller and sickly-looking, but she has fed well from the wet nurse and is now sleeping soundly. Getting to his feet, Harwin goes straight to the door and is about to order the knights on the opposite side to search for her, but hearing a humming noise, he stops.

He follows the noise to the balcony and finds Vaella sitting on the ground, rocking, and Rhea in her arms, as if the dead baby would take comfort in being in her mother's arms. When the handmaid brought Cassandra through to the other room, he knew something was wrong and went to be beside his wife. The maester and midwife tried to force him out of the room, insisting it was no place for a man to be.

“And which one of you is going to make me leave my wife’s side?”

Rhaenyra interjects before anyone else can respond, “Ser Harwin will be staying by my sisters side.”

Harwin had felt so helpless when he first saw her laying on the birthing bed, with him unable to do anything to help his wife, who no longer had the energy to scream. Aerion, Vaegon, and Ada needed their mother's strength and courage, something no amount of love from him could provide them. Vaella was covered in sweat and blood; he was so sure he’d lose her. But his princess was a fighter and pulled through, yet the second girl she gave birth to did not.

Harwin was conflicted; he didn’t want to disturb her, but he didn’t want his wife to feel alone.

His decision is made when Vaella looks up at the sky, watching the dragons flying above, and begins talking out loud. “The golden dragon is Sunfyre; he’s bonded with your uncle Aegon. The blue one flying beside him is Dreamfyre, your auntie Helaena’s dragon. The largest one is your brother Vaegon’s dragon, Nightmare.”

Harwin fights back at Sob when Vaella’s voice breaks when she mentions Vaegon. He backs off slowly. She needed the time with Rhea as their daughter's funeral would be held once they arrived on Dragston. Ser Laenor and Rhaenyra had left on Dragonback, so arrangements would be made for their arrival. The maesters advised waiting until Vaella was fully healed before traveling home due to her blood loss, but she was desperate to return home. So did he. Harwin didn’t doubt the masters of Driftmark’s capabilities since they worked miracles to save his wife, but he also didn’t trust any maesters he didn’t know to care for his children.

Hearing a soft knock at the door, Harwin goes over and answers. His mouth goes dry. “Brother.”

“I hope I haven’t woken the princess.”

Harwin steps into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Without being asked, the knight on duty goes and stands at the bottom of the hallway, giving them privacy. From the way the sun peeked through the clouds, Harwin guessed it was roughly five in the morning. “Is this an urgent matter?”

“Yes.” Larys puts his weight against his stick and whispers, “My bees have been busy. And I’ve heard whispers.”

“I’m not interested in gossip.”

Hints of a smirk appear on the clubfoot’s face. “It involves Princess Vaella and the unfortunate events that took place last night.”

Rage burns inside of him, and Harwin fits a clench at his side. “What do you know?”

“Do you remember what type of tea the princess was drinking?”

The question throws him off. “It was red and had a horrid smell to it. Vaella said it was her first time tasting it.”

“Hmm, that’s what I feared. One of the ladies cleaning the room said the smell reminded her of barberry.”

“A fruit tea?”

Larys nods, as if the answer were obvious. “For you and me, it’s perfectly safe, but not for pregnant women, as it can trigger miscarriages. Tell me, did the princess suffer from any vomiting or nosebleeds prior to going into labor?”

Harwin gulps down. “She spat the tea out.”

“But she may have ingested it in small doses without knowing,” Larys leans in again. “Between us, brother, I find it rather particular that princess Vaella was perfectly fine on Dragonstone, but as soon as she arrived on Driftmark, she’s poisoned.”

“My daughter is dead. We will speak of this another time.”

Harwin enters the room and presses his back against the door. If what Larys said was true, then this was... He couldn’t even begin to process what it all meant. Not now, not when he needed to grieve.

[thechekhov]

Dungeon Meshi Quick Reacts: CH:23

Senshi's need for culinary pursuit is stronger than any dragon.

This has huge Aeor vibes and I'm very much here for it. Not a direct comparison, of course, but the idea of a long abandoned city full fo magic.... yes, good. Goooood.

This man has his priorities in order. You can't find flour just ANYWHERE in the dungeon. No better time than now.

Also - aww, they got rid of the frog costumes... :(

NOOOOO THE PUBBIES?!?!??!?!

On the bright side, this thing is probably exhausted if it hasn't rested and recharged. A large animal like that needs to either consume a lot of food or sleep a hella long time.

On the not so bright side, who even knows why it's on a rampage? Nothing is predictable. Marcille is right to be worried.

Chill.......chuck.

He really said 'this isn't in my contract and I ain't getting paid enough to die'.

Yeah, 5 is much better than 3. And you've got no cleric, even though Marcille can cast healing spells for some reason.

Super not comforting. But effective.

this bridge is holding up better than marcille's mental state at the moment.........

the alternative is literally to go 'well, sorry Falin' so........I guess that's the correct reply, yeah.

Aww, he chilled :3 And next, to chuck. rocks. At the dragon.

Can you imagine? Two dragons for the price of one!

You can be digested together with your beloved, Marcille.

Senshi is NOT on board with risking his sushi fillet knives to stab a dragon, I see.

No, he's right. You're gonna need those carbs. MY question is why that bread is so damn shiny. That's usually something you get by brushing egg onto the bread, and he specifically says they don't have eggs. Suspicious....

Soy sauce. Incredibly useful to have on hand, when you're making Japanese based dungeon meals.

Aww, he's got the Inspiring Speech/Leader feat! Come get your free temp hitpoints!

Also, Senshi smiling is just the cutest damn thing.

Good timing.

What an incredible design! It's so--

Where are its wings...? It...does have wings, right?

It's about to get SPICYYYY! >:)

[sytokun]

To anyone thinking or saying Dillon Goo is unworthy of acquiring RWBY, not because of anything realistic like finances or the size of his studio, but because he's "just an animator", or just a rando from the internet who cannot write or run RWBY:

Thanks for perpetuating the piece of shit mindset that every soul-sucking corporation and braindead consumer has: that animators have no value or are just there to push buttons and make pixels move for the real creatives.

Animators are artists and creators. They have to work with numerous departments to make things work: They have to know what the writer/director wants, and tell them if it's even possible to put to screen; they have to work with artists and character designers to tell if they can commit that art into moving parts. And for an animated show, they're kind of... I dunno, the entire backbone of its production.

Anyone stupid enough to claim that, by their logic, should claim that Miles and Kerry were "just writers" and don't have the right nor the intelligence to have any opinions on RWBY's animation, character designs or music. That's how I know you have zero fucking idea how any actual media is produced, because in your head, these positions all just exist as separate little boxes in your brain so it's simple enough for you to grasp.

It was "just an animator" who made RWBY in the first place, dumbass. A "rando" making animations on the internet that Rooster Teeth took a chance on, and now he's responsible for their best-selling IP. By comparison, Dillon is starting at a way better starting position than Monty was, with a successful YouTube channel, public support from multiple current and ex-CRWBY like J Grelle (Tyrian's VA), Kim Newman (former animator who animated Sun's gunchucks in V5) and Jessica Nigri (Cinder's VA), and multiple collaborations with big companies like Hoyoverse.

If anything, I'd expect an animator like Dillon to know and care enough about his staff to not give them near-irreparable spinal damage. Gee, I wonder why Newman would think he'd be a better employer to work with? Dillon would know how an animation project is run and budgeted. Him being an animator is a benefit, for god's sake.

Monty had character design sketches but needed help from professional artists to fully design them. He knew bits of the plot but needed help fleshing it out. Do you have enough brain cells to rub together to know that's precisely what Dillon can do, too? Fuckin', I dunno, hire people? For his studio??

I'd rather have an animator run RWBY because RWBY is an animated series and he would know precisely 1) what complements the medium best and 2) the precise limits of what can or cannot work within his budget. By your ass-backwards logic, I would rather get EC Myers to run RWBY's production over Dillon just because he's a writer and has been employed with RT longer.

That's another moronic argument: "He's only been employed by RT for 1 Volume". Man, I don't care if he's been there for zero Volumes, his work clearly shows a greater understanding of RWBY's aesthetic, mainstream appeal and style than its own showrunners have for the past 7 years. Or is seniority in a defunct company responsible for a steadily unprofitable IP suddenly a positive in this business deal?

I need you to be aware that RWBY as an IP is a joke outside of the bubble of its fandom, and I am telling you bluntly as a fan. Nobody takes it seriously and the ones that do only praise it for either its action choreography or its character designs, one of which is guaranteed with Dillon's studio. Diehard fans may love RWBY, warts and all, but all that love and support clearly wasn't enough to keep it alive, because its reputation was already cemented from its own mismanagement.

What you do is you get the right person for the job. And Dillon ticks a lot of boxes for it. If you think he's unable to acquire RWBY because he's not a big corpo or cannot meet Warner's asking price, that's 100% fair. If you think he's unable to create something on the scale of Volume 9, that's also 100% fair, but only if you're attached to the idea that you'd rather have Volume 10 or more of the same RWBY that was operating at a loss than any RWBY at all. Or if you'd rather see a season of 14 episodes 15 minutes long where 60-70% of it is made up of exposition, talking head scenes and increasingly overambitious world expanding, over shorter episodes with amazing RWBY action sequences with a story that never bites off more than it can chew.

But if you think Dillon is unqualified or worse, unworthy or undeserving (what a weirdo thing to say about a person, like owning RWBY is like inheriting the fucking throne of Gondor), all because he's "just an animator" or because he was smart enough to see RT for the meat-grinder hellhole it was and left to find success on his own, you're full of shit.

And if you disapprove of him because of his association with Shane, go find a restroom because your unsightly hateboner is showing. It's been almost ten years since the letter and you all have been holding this unfettered rage clenched between your buttcheeks longer than Shane's ever been with Rooster Teeth.

And for what? Pointing out Rooster Teeth is a fucked place to work at? Whoops, that was true and now it's six feet under for every scandal and worker abuse case they brought on themselves. For stealing and cannibalising their creators' IPs? Whoops, that's fucking true as well.

[ladala99]

Also, I have thoughts about the prize shop/prize point format for this plot. It's different from before, which has its ups and downs.

And also as this went along I started into a tangent about endgame.

How it Used to Be

Prize shops when I first played were released usually months after the plot was over. While I don't have knowledge of how exactly the figured out the prizes, it seemed that they (probably not in this order):

Had statistics of what all players did, how many times, etc.

Determined how many points each action was worth.

Created unique prizes based on the plot events and player culture surrounding them (at the very least there were meme items in The Faerie's Ruin).

Determined the average amount of the prize shop different levels of participation was worth and priced the items accordingly.

Assigned Trophies based on how many points different players had in comparison to one another.

I could be completely wrong, but that's how it felt and would make the long delays make sense. Prize shops released soon after the plot was over seemed to be balanced worse, anyway.

In summary, though, players played and then TNT balanced points and prize shop items based on participation.

How The Void Within Works

Basically, it's the complete opposite approach. We earn points as we participate in the plot, and the prize shop is available right from the beginning. It includes both new prizes and big-ticket items that already exist.

In addition, unique, directly plot-related items are awarded by keeping up with the story, whereas the prize shop only contains items with theming based on the plot's themes (those being Grey, space, darkness, and the leaders of Neopian lands. Plus a few others that might make sense later?).

The big-ticket items included are going along with the trend nowadays of purposely making rarer, more expensive items obtainable to the average Neopian. Some are R101 items previously released in other plots/events or for purchasing real-world merchandise, others are R90+ items (with several R99s) that are pretty difficult to restock due to their rarity+price. And then there's the Wand of the Dark Faerie.

Wand of the Dark Faerie

The two biggest of the big-ticket items are Wand of the Dark Faerie and Grapes of Wrath. Grapes of Wrath is a Smuggler's Cove item, which puts it basically in the same category as the R99s (before researching this I thought it was practically retired, but actually apparently Smuggler's Cove has been restocking everything for just over a year now).

But Wand of the Dark Faerie is a different beast. It is the top prize of Jhudora's Bluff and one of, if not the, best weapon(s) on the site. And to get it before this, you needed to give her 20 R99 items in a row, only having a little over 15 minutes to obtain each one.

It was a huge investment and, with bots mostly snapping up the R99s that restock, very difficult to achieve. It was the most endgame of endgame items.

And now it's available for a little over a month of daily plot participation.

It's really cool to get one, and I enjoy being able to upgrade my BD set, but really:

Neopets Needs More Endgame, Not Less

I seem to be at odds with a lot of people in this regard. There are many people ecstatic about being able to achieve their childhood dreams much more easily now. I see people saying that having things be so difficult to get was driving people away.

I'm okay with limited-time items being rereleased. Because they weren't really intended to be difficult to get. They were just themed tie-ins and were pretty cheap when they first came out, with the exceptions of useful consumables (stamps, books), and the useful consumables absolutely should be rereleased to give newer players the same chance as older players to complete those collections.

But you know what got me stuck with this site for so long? The fact that there are some things that I can't get yet.

I sucked at plots as a kid. I wasn't good enough to play them yet.

Then I could play the puzzle parts, but some of the later waves of the battle parts were too difficult. I couldn't do them yet.

Next stop is being able to take on a superboss. I didn't have the stats or weaponry yet.

Every plot in-between was filled with me coming back to the site to work towards the next step. (At least during times that I had hope that plots would come back. Some points I just stopped playing because it seemed like we'd never get another one.)

But Jhudora's Bluff is Too Difficult?

As I've mentioned, getting R99s is the big hurdle for the ultimate endgame quest. It is more difficult than it should be, since less people are playing and more of the R99s are going to bots instead of real people.

But there could have been other ways to make it obtainable.

Make a daily that gives R99s out at the same rate as they restock. Hold more Charity Corner events where R99s are distributed. Revamp the shop system so you aren't competing against other players to grab the few items there. And do what they've been doing in making specific R99s much easier to get via Weekly Quest Log prizes and other event prizes.

Anyway.

Back to Prize Shop Discussion

Tangent aside, I don't mind how they're doing it. Most plots in the past have been only a few months long if that. My absolute favorite, Tale of Woe, only lasted through October of that year.

This plot is very different. We have 10 months to play it, if not more (iirc they said it would last at least 10 months).

Imagine playing that long, waiting that long, with no idea what you're working towards. The last time a plot lasted so long, it was a war, so you were working against other players at all times. But other long-lasting plots dragged. Anyone remember Lyra and the Lost Heirloom? I got so bored with her taking several weeks to move 5 feet up the wall that I just took hiatus in the middle of it (and ended up missing the window the prize shop was open completely. Why did they close it? No other plot shop closes aside from the Altador Cup, which actually has a reason to close since the page is reused every year!).

Seeing the plot points coming in and being able to use them gives that boost of motivation to keep coming back. And there's so much time that latecomers will be able to get the top prizes as well, so long as they don't join at the very end.

Completionism

However, there is a downside. When you couldn't tell what anything you were doing counted for, it was easier to just do what you could and had time and attention span for.

But since there is a maximum point total you can get per day, everyone wants to get that maximum. If plot point scores were hidden, I would bet there wouldn't be nearly as many people setting timers and getting up in the middle of the night for hospital shifts.

Getting All You Want

There's also: what will you do when you get everything you want from the prize shop? There'll be no mystery - you'll just be playing for the trophy upgrades at that point. And once you get all those, then what? Just keep going because you have the momentum? Or drop off Neopets from the burnout?

Better or Worse?

I don't really think this is necessarily a better or worse situation. It's just different.

I think the current way is enjoyable, but there are downsides. I don't have a full picture - we're only on Chapter 2 of 21 (the fact that we know this already is kinda immersion-breaking, too). Until the end, I'll reserve complete judgment.

[nocaptainonthisship]

honey

Bear Shifter!Price/Reader

(coming to an ao3 near you as soon as I finish writing the damn thing.)

It frightened you, that first winter all those years ago, waking beneath warm, immovable mass of unknown provenance. You could not understand then all the things you now know to be true. They were nothing but myth. Imagination. A collective fantasy undertaken by society in its entirety when confronted with that which the mind could not yet understand. These stories didn’t walk among you like men did, these beasts and brutes did not hide in a crowd. 

They did not take pretty maidens back to their dens for debauching. 

Until he did. Except he wasn’t a beast and only sometimes a brute, and he didn’t drag you anywhere. No, you came willingly to John Price’s bed, even if you didn’t understand the implications of a crisp fall day, of orange leaves littering the yard, of blackout curtains on every window and a pantry full of supplies. 

No, the first time you had woken like this you had been afraid, your brain sluggish and syrupy as molasses. Sleep felt like the only true thing left to be desired. Desire felt like a prison. It went to war with the confusion inside you as you struggled to open your eyes, to get your bearings, too understand just how much time had passed that you felt as though you were waking from a long coma and not a post-coital nap. To rest wasn’t just desire, it was imperative, a matter of life or death as grave as the matter of discovering what had happened to you. 

You had opened your eyes to find a gray dawn, a bedroom where you recognized the shadows if not the specifics. That warmth that cradled you shifted and rumbled as if sensing that sleep had lost this battle. As if he was preparing to go to war. There was a hand which spanned almost the width of your ribcage, nestled under your breasts. It pulled you closer until all you were aware of feeling was skin against skin.

“Honey,” didn’t sound so sweet, whispered in your ear. It sounded like the boulders of your former life tumbling down the sides of the old quarry. It sounded like an oath, fealty wrapped around you like a fur coat. It was almost enough to lull you into complacency. 

What you didn’t know then, but you know now, is that, “Honey,” never was a term of endearment. It was a demand. It was an order just as much as the ones he barked at his men in the field. Looking back, you wonder if he had not yet realized what kind of holy bond tied you together. It was instinctual. 

Taking you out to dinner, taking you back to his home, taking you to his bed, taking and taking and taking until you were empty and ready to be filled with a version of yourself you had not met yet. All the things you had learned, all the versions of you that you had been were built on foundations of sand. Who you were told to be, who you were taught to be, who you were afraid to be. All flimsy under the weight of him. All vanished, and leaving behind only instinct. Only honey, warm and golden and thicker than your thoughts. 

Instinct, over and beyond reason. 

You know now what it all signifies. The cold grey dawn peaking behind curtains which you had neglected to fully close, the warmth which caressed you and dragged you back to the shores of slumbering. You know now that the hands which grip you tighter as you wiggle are not the hands of merely another hopeless lover. These hands are the hands of your mate, and he isn’t going to let go. 

When you’re awake enough, you like to tease him about the way he purrs. John will protest and grumble and say things like, “Not a damn cat, love.” There is no other comparison, though, to the way it rumbles through his chest, rattles its way into your bones, calms the place in the back of your brain which is consumed at every moment by the bond which you share. It’s the song of home, which settles inside your soul and wipes away its ragged edges. 

You had been something before him, a leader and a fighter and a pillar of your community. You had been more than the body which kept him sane through the months of sleep. You had also been deeply, desperately unhappy. Lost and adrift in a world which could never care how un-moored you were, you had harbored inside you a hunger which you feared would never be met. Not feared – known, in the way you knew your name or the skin of your hands. Before John, you had longed for him in a way which could not be spoken of, even if you wished. Before John, there was only this secret greed inside you, this desire to be taken away from the rules and regulations and repercussions of the world. To be reduced - or perhaps to be elevated - by the protection and the provision of a man who loved you. 

Held against him now, as he purrs against your back and his hand finds your hip, you do feel reduced. Its a return to your factory settings, a hard reboot, a knock on the head that makes you less of a woman. More of the beast and the brute. Maybe you were born to be his mate, and your body knew before your mind. Maybe you were remade, reformed, reforged in the image of him to become his perfect half rather than born as such. Maybe that piece of you had not existed until, seeing his face for the first time, it formed itself out of the ether of you and uttered, “Mine.”