#cringe is dead and all that and its not like the posts Have to get attention i just get nervous

[the-heron]

gotten out of the habit of sincere fandom posting outside of art and now im too intimidated to share my thoughts on things. i must break free...

[cherrysnax]

okay so there are people who are taking this shit too far: having reading comprehension issues is not a moral failing, not understanding something even when repeated is not a moral failing, the only thing that’s bad about it is acting entitled and rude

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Songs That Sound Like Sea-Foam (III)

AU MASTERLIST || FINAL CHAPTER

PAIRING: Fisherman!John Price x F!Mermaid!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 7.1k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, death, violence, swords & firearms, abductions, hurt/comfort, torture references, nakedness, needles, gore, etc.

A/N: Alright, and that's a wrap on this mini-series. Biker/mechanic!Ghost is next on the list.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You hit the water and immediately push back to the surface, ignoring the burning of your open wounds. 

“John!” Your high and panicked call can’t be heard above the yells to arms and the distressed wails. “What are you doing?!” Bodies get chucked from the side of the ship and all you can do is watch as they meet the water around you—skin cut open and eyes dead. 

While the sea was numbing your pains, your heart was hurting enough for all of them; hands flailing to try and help keep you above the waves. But everything was so dark, only the light far above giving you a sliver of perception. 

“John!” You scream again, eyes snapping back and forth along the ship. Your arms burned with heat.

“Go!” The words ring out and make you cringe, graveled and ragged—an order. But how could you? Vile grunts and skin meeting skin sound out, no more shirking blade edges or the boom of pistols. Fists meeting ribs, bared teeth.

“The Mermaid was wearing tags! He’s part of the King’s forces!” The leader. “If we can’t have the beast, we’ll have the coin from a turncoat!”

“Deserter!”

“Traitor!” 

“Tie him to the post!”

Your ears twitch and pull at the horrible words, lungs near hyperventilating and black waves going red. If you weren’t able to ingest water, the way your head was slowly sinking would have left you sputtering and choking. 

What will they do to him? Why can’t I help? It was the only part in your life where you regret having a tail, because now you can’t save John in the same way he saved you. Your eyes lock helplessly to the upper deck, far, far above. You can’t drag yourself up or even find the energy to stay above water. 

Your strength was waning quickly—you needed to be tended to; healed. But it felt worse than a betrayal to see not even a glimpse of John’s brown hair or his large arms. To not feel the hold he kept on you. You wanted his lips and his flesh to be pressed into you, to venerate your image as he always did. 

A Hierei that worships at the shrine that is you.

“Curse you,” you say aloud to the men above. The ones that tie your raging love to a post; you hear his low growls and biting expletives like blades in their own fashioned way, the sea garbling your words. “Curse your greed and your violence!” 

But no one listens, and with a heavy and weighed heart, you have to let your dead muscles rest as they give out completely against your will. Sunking under the battling waves, you feel like dead weight; no different than the various bodies around you that John had dispatched. 

You felt useless. 

Above you was John, being tied up and taken—taken to a King that wants your species dead. You don’t want to leave, but the current is snatching you away like seaweed, limp and broken. Whatever John had done to your wounds, the fabric of his shirt was holding fast to your shredded flesh, but it didn’t stop the agony or the inner conflict. 

He was right above you…why aren’t you strong enough to help?

Your eyes flutter, hair and arms floating. 

Everything grows dark, but John never once leaves your mind. Perhaps the Fisherman was worshiping you, but you did the same unto him. 

The eyepatched leader’s words loop in your brain, paired with storm-blue eyes. Gentle praises.

 “...I think he loves the beast!” 

Your body sinks with the rest.

—

The sand under you is coarse and dry as your eyes barely open, chest rising and falling but shakily, stuttering in its course. Small noises groan in the back of your throat, fingers like stones beside your face. 

Everything hurts, but something has woken you up. Noises. Muttered speaking.

“Now why would she have these?” There was a moment of clinking metal and a low huff. 

You groan louder and curl into yourself more, only to stop when the tears in your flesh pull. Your lungs inhale sharply.

“Oh, Christ,” the accented voice is smooth as it gets closer. “Easy, then, Ma’am. Shite, I was hoping you’d stay under a bit longer, I’m not bloody done yet.” 

Forcing your eyes open, you hiss at the burn of morning light, laying on your stomach with…your brows tighten…were you wearing a tunic? A hand meets the back of your shoulder and you cry out, jerking.

“Woah!” More force is applied to keep you down but it only makes you struggle more. “Please, I’m trying to stop the bleeding!” 

You stall at this revelation like a bird, panting. Muscles tight, you cautiously look over your shoulder to weakly stare at whoever this man was.

Brown eyes meet your own, and a dark-skinned complexion over an oval face. They blink at you with concern and hesitation, sparing only a nervous smirk and a chuckle. You stare widely, saying nothing. 

“I…I’m just trying to stop the bleeding. Whoever got you,” this man trails off, glancing down at your tail. “Well, they did some proper damage.”

“Who are you?” Your voice is damaged from all the screaming you’d done, cracking and frail. You stifle a cough and survey the land with frantic snaps of your orbs. This wasn’t your cove. 

Where were you? What had happened to the ship? To John? Your hand travels to your neck but lands on nothing. It’s like the world stops turning.

The necklace. 

“My name’s Kyle, Miss, but I’m just as well off being called Gaz—” Your hand snaps to his shoulder, wrenching him down in a violent slam to the sand; with a shove of your ailing body, you cross an arm over his chest to pin him. 

Brown eyes widen, and one hand easily raises in a placating manner. You don’t bother to look at the other, your head broken into bits of instances and images of horror.

“Where is it?” Your lips hiss out. You didn’t know you could make a sound like that. 

Kyle, dressed in a fine outfit of a Bookkeeper, furrowed his brows at you. He didn’t look off-put by your brashness, or by the fact that you were of the Merfolk. 

“I’m sorry, Ma’am…I’m not following. Where’s what, exactly?” There was a glinting at his throat, and you snatched at it with a glare and snarl of ‘thief’ on your tongue. 

A blade presses into your side and you freeze. Kyle stares up at you with a frown on his face, body tight. “I think you should let that go, Miss, yeah?” 

The metal discs are the same as John's, but they hold a different name entirely. 

“Kyle Garrick, Sergeant, 141st company under the King.”

“One Hundred and Forty-First?” You whisper in a hushed voice and the blade loosens from you. Mouth opening and closing, you forget for a moment what Kyle is. Your eyes go glossy with hope. “You know John?” 

Eyelids blink at you in astonishment and all at once the knife is sheathed at his hip once more. Gaz gapes, his slight stubble shifting on his face as he talks slowly. 

“Yes, I do…how do you know the Captain? No offense, but I didn’t peg him for the type to run off with…well…” he trails, chuckling. “Not run exactly, then, is it?” 

You glower and push back, flinching at your aches but waste no time in speaking frantically to the man as your tail flaps. If he was on the same ship as John was, they certainly knew each other well; Kyle had to assist you.

“Please, you need to help me,” The man’s face goes serious and he pushes himself up, “—there’s been a terrible event. John has been taken, don’t you understand?” Your hands grasp at his collar, forgetting to ask about the missing necklace in your mounting hysteria. “They took him. They’re bringing him back to the King and it’s all my fault!” 

You don’t know if it’s the pain or the fatigue, but your emotions spill from you in droves, silver tears falling like drips from a blacksmith's smelter to the beach of this foreign place. Your body feels unable to hold itself up—so much blood lost. 

Gaz gains a sheen of panic at your state, gripping your shoulders lightly above the given tunic. 

“Now, now, Ma’am, steady. You’ve lost a lot of blood, eh? We need to get you sorted.” But internally your words disturbed him. John had been taken? His Captain? And he had known a mermaid?

“I don’t need to be sorted,” you mock, shaking him, “I need my John back! And you’re going to help me.” 

Kyle gazes around awkwardly, clearing his throat and trying to comfort you as his upper half gets forced back and forth.  

“First,” he stops you with a firm squeeze on your shoulders, “we’re getting you stitched and wrapped, Ma’am. If what you’re telling me is real,” Gaz pauses, glancing at the sea lapping at your tail, “then I need to get in contact with the others.” 

Your body slightly sags, panting and shaking. While you should have asked who the others were, your adrenaline was too great to allow you to think above the fact that Kyle was going to help you. He had known John—that was enough for you to know he was a good person. 

“Easy,” the man mutters, face pulled in concern. There’s a moment of tense silence before Gaz shifts a hand to the pocket inside of his tweed frock coat, slipping to the side of his green notch vest. He blinks his brown eyes at you before he lightly takes John’s necklace from the depths of his clothes. Kyle presents them as your shoulders loosen with a small sliver of comfort. “I believe you were looking for this, yeah?” 

He spares a friendly, boyish, smile.

Your fingers brush his as you delicately take the metal up, fingertips weeping with torn flesh. Staring at them, you bring the item to your lips and kiss it gently after a moment of agony, a few more tears slipping down your cheeks. 

“Oh, John,” you whisper, “you fool, what have you done?” 

“I’ll be needing to move you, Ma’am,” Gaz clears his throat and looks back to the grass-coated road. The beach where you had washed up was near the bottom of a slight hill, and along with sand, there were a lot of pebbles. The wind was chilled. “I was just finishing up with a temporary binding when you woke. We can speak more when I get the larger wounds stitched.” 

You see his gaze fall down you once more. 

“I’d think there’s a lot to catch up on.” Shuffling John’s necklace over your head, you allow Kyle to take bandages from his Gladstone bag which he had brought down from the road with him. He says he found you on the beach unconscious not five minutes before you woke back up as he takes out John’s tunic strips before packing the wounds with fresh material. 

“You stopped?” You ask quietly, body shaking. “Why?” 

“Well, I left the same time that the Captain did,” he explains, looping fabric around your tail as you shudder and clench your teeth at the long cuts over your scales. Kyle spares you a glance before continuing. “Same reason too. The minute innocent beings were being hunted, everyone in the One Hundred and Forty-First deserted. They weren’t too happy with us, I’d imagine. I do what I can to help anyone, regardless of species.” 

Gaz pulls back and finishes up, brushing his hands on his folded legs and sighing. 

“We all separated and led our lives the best we could—got jobs, hid ourselves, the like.” While the story was fascinating, as John was rare to talk about the King or his service beyond a clenched jaw, you truly were suffering from blood loss.

Every moment it became harder to keep your upper-half vertical and your eyes open. Gaz’s words slurred in your eardrums as the sand under your hands got pushed back by pressure like a rock being dragged. Your head must have swayed, because the next moment you’re being lifted with a grunt and a steadying of feet.

“Can’t say I’ve ever carried a mermaid,” Kyle grumbles to himself, blinking down at your form as our head rests limply on his chest. “Certainly not one that knows Price of all people.”

You focus on your breathing as he ascends the hill, going slowly and holding your form tight so as not to drop you. While not John’s size by any means, the man was still strong in a more lean and lithe way where your Fisherman’s was upfront and bare with it. 

You’re carried down the trodden path to a lone house on the upper hill above the water, small and quaint, it’s only a single square room. 

Truly this event speaks to your luck—how on earth had you found perhaps one of the only men on the planet that knew John and sympathized with magical creatures?

Kyle sets you back on his bed softly, pillows pressed into indents of your head and cheek. 

“Alright then,” he sighs, “let's get this figured out, yeah?” 

You’re offered food and water, but all you care about is sleep. Your tail hangs off the end of the bed and your fins ache with torn skin. Without even looking at your scales, you know they’re damaged immensely. Most will be left with great scars. 

Merfolk could be called vain in their lifetime, and the sentiment wasn’t entirely untrue. You were beings of elegance and beauty—ethereal lustfulness hardwired into your DNA. Image was important to you, and this loss was great. 

But the loss of John hurt more than any torture someone could inflict on you; any wounds. You needed him back. 

As Gaz prompted you to tell your story, which you did with failing consciousness, your hand traveled to your necklace to grasp it tightly. Lips quivering. When the first push of the man’s needle entered your hard flesh, you never even felt it.

—

You awoke for the second time, once more, to the sound of speaking. 

“Well, he’s sure gotten up to it while we’ve been away! Fuckin’ bastard.” This accent didn’t belong to Gaz, and thus your eyelids pushed back with slight unease. Had John’s Sergeant sold you out? With a struggle, you blink back to reality only to find a pair of bright blue eyes stuck on you. 

For a moment you startle, those shades so similar to John’s that for a moment you had forgotten what had transpired. Then the pain in your tail strikes up and you balk back sharply. 

“Soap!” Gaz hisses, grabbing the large and built man away from the bed. “Get the hell away from her, would you? Christ, she’s been through enough without having to look at that face when she wakes up, Mate.” 

“What in the hell does that mean?” Soap, as he’d been introduced, was the epitome of a blacksmith—ash still on his square jaw and his large black apron tied at a stiff waist. His arms were as bulky as your head and while he was shorter than Gaz he made up for it in sheer muscle. 

Blue eyes darken with annoyance before they swivel back to you, but they lighten just the same when they spot your fear-spiked expression. 

“Sorry about that, Little Lady. Just curious, is all.” You swallow the saliva in your throat and turn to look at Gaz in question. “Not every day somethin’ like this happens.”

“Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish,” the man offers, rubbing at his neck apologetically. “Served with John and I. You can trust him.” 

You blink and turn back to Johnny, and, sure enough, around his neck were the common silver discs that Gaz and John wore over the tunic and apron. 

“A…” You try to remember what your Fisherman had told you about human customs. With a frown, you carefully extend a hand and hold it aloft while your tail rests and your other limb keeps you up. “A pleasure, Johnny.” 

A wide grin meets your eyes and a hand is clapped into your own; shaking it firmly as yours remains limp. 

“Ah, please, the pleasure’s all mine.” When his grip leaves you look down at the various stitches and thick wrappings around your body before thinning your lips and gazing back at Gaz. He stares and tilts his head when you lock eyes with him. 

“Thank you, Garrick. I…I owe you a large debt.” He’s already shaking his chin at you.

“Negative, Ma’am,” Kyle denies. “The only thing we need to be focusing on is getting the Captain back. Simon should be along by the evening.” 

“Sure the man’ll show?” Johnny raises a brow and stands to his full height, going over to the small table in the middle of the room and sitting down with a huff. He picks up a flagon and takes a sip of ale. “He’s far off cuttin’ stone.” 

“I sent a rider out and said it was urgent. He should be getting it about now, yeah?” 

“Well, hell, I’d sure hope so else we’re out of our favorite Ghost. Can’t have that.” You watch and stare at the ease these two converse with the other, years seem to bleed from their mouths like waves in water. They had it all figured out, and noticeably, they weren’t at all panicked. 

“How are the both of you so calm?” You can’t help but ask. Brown and blue turn to furrow their brows at you.

“They took the bloody Captain. Only person worse than that to steal away would be Simon.” A chuckle. “I’m more worried about the bastards themselves than him.” And it was left at that. 

At times throughout the day, Gaz would bring you bread to nibble on to help settle your stomach, water, and ale whenever you needed it. When the dryness of the air and the fireplace got too warm for you, Johnny would be the one to carry you down the hill to the water where you’d soak your wounds in the surf. In those moments you could finally take in the pure silence under the waves and let your anguish take hold.

But you always had to break the surface at some point, shimmy into the dry tunic that Soap offers with respectfully averted eyes, and let him carry you back with his bulky arms. 

As it always did, the water let your wounds heal far faster than a man’s, though the aches were still intense. 

John’s eyes would not leave you. His crown of stars or the lantern light on his face—the way he whisked you away from danger and put himself dead center into it. Keeping you to his large chest as he held aloft a sword in your honor.

 “...I think he loves the beast!” 

Oh, and you loved right back and you hadn’t told him. 

It’s hours upon hours later when the door is shoved open as you sit up in the bed; tail limp and dim on the floor below. You look up in shock at the man whose frame nearly takes up the entire doorway, shoulders wide and thighs vast under work pants and a large tunic, cowl over his head and clasped with a brooch at his left pec. Under shined a deep brown gaze and pale brows, but his entire lower face was covered by cloth. 

Intimidating, his visible expression was entirely blank. You wondered if perhaps a vampire had walked into this place without proper entry, but then you remembered the man Johnny and Gaz mentioned. 

Simon. Ghost. 

Well, he certainly fits the part, stone dust on his clothes and large boots stacked with scrapes. A Stonemason.

“There’s the man!” Johnny exclaims, raising his hand which has another cup of ale in it as he’d downed the other some time ago. 

“Where’s Price?” Deep was Simon’s voice, and he spares you a glance but nothing more. Gaze falling down your tail with hidden flickers of intrigue and wafting back up to stop at John’s necklace. His brows pull in as he turns. 

“Gone—taken to the King,” Gaz explains from where he leans against the fireplace, face serious. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon grunts, walking in and closing the door behind him. “Where was he last?” It’s mildly amusing to you that he doesn’t seem bothered or even surprised by a mermaid in Gaz’s home. 

“Just off Harpies Nest,” Johnny pipes in, itching at shaved sides of his scalp. “Where the old beasts used to fly from.” 

“I’m guessing she’s the reason for that, then?” Everyone was anxious to act, even you. These men were close, and while circumstance had forced them away from one another the loyalties still lay. 

“Affirmative. Price’s been in good company, seems.” A stale glare is sent his way and he chuckles and puts up his hands. 

“Is there anything we can do?” You ask, looking at each in turn. Seeming to still hold that ingrained ranking that all men in the service do, Johnny and Gaz look to Simon. Brown eyes blink slowly, turning to look at you in a narrowed thought.

After a while, he speaks in a monotone.

“They’ll be bringing ‘em to the castle to stand trial. We’ve already lost a day’s time and there’ll be no ship that can sail as fast as we need it to.”

“By land?” Gaz wonders. Johnny’s shaking his head.

“How do you expect we get the Lady through that?” Eyes turn to your lack of legs. Body stiff, you huff and grit your teeth. If they thought you weren’t going along, that was foolish of them.

“I can swim to the docks,” you pause, “but you’ll have to tell me the way, for I do not know it.” 

John had talked about docks—places ships went to rest. You’re sure you can make it, even like this. You had to. 

Johnny stares before he chuckles twice, sharing a glance with the others and motioning to you. “I like ‘er.”

Gaz and Simon look at one another with a side-eye, before Kyle sighs and shakes his head. Simon hooks his thumbs into his pants and huffs out, “Sure you’re up for that?” 

“I’m helping John.” Pushing, you meet those brown eyes head-on and steel yourself. “I need him back.”

There’s no further fight, and Ghost takes everything you say at face value. “Fine.” 

And that was that.

—

The plan was so stupid you wondered if these men had gone brain-dead, but inside the castle dungeons, John had no way of knowing that. 

He frowned deeply as his pounding skull tipped back to connect with the cobblestone wall, blood dried over the right side of his face. A growl on his lips as the chains keep his hands high above him and hanging as his backside stays seated on the floor. His limbs had long since gone numb, circulation cut out in an uncomfortable state of numbness. 

But inside of him, there was a sense of accomplishment despite everything. He’d gotten you away from dirty hands—away from hooks. Away from danger. 

John could die happy with that.

On the ship, before he’d been brought to the castle, the crew had tied him to the mainsail mast with a ragged rope that had skinned his flesh in just minutes of the rocking waves. They’d taken his vessel as well, and all of his belongings were confiscated in the docks. From there it had been amused jabs at his stomach with fists and knife-throwing practice. 

John had cuts along the sides of his arms and the meat of his thighs—clothes shredded and torn from blades. His forehead had a long gash from the scalp to the temple, dried now but pulling with red aggression. 

The fisherman hums under his breath and thinks only of you. 

It was a fact that you had brought music into his life; a melody of waves and scales that could not be denied. Songs that sounded like sea-foam and a lapping of a tail across the water. When he’d seen you that day from behind the black rocks, John had lost a piece of himself to your wide eyes and tilted head. That spark of connection. 

He had never been so thankful for choosing a new place to cast his nets, because he’d unwittingly caught the greatest creature he ever could have—one people have been running after for years. 

You. 

John’s lips pull in a tiny smile, eyes going soft. Above him his chains rattle and his arms flinch, wounds burning, but for the life of him, he can’t stop smiling. Wherever you were, he hoped you were safe and that he gave you the best chance of survival. He hoped you could forgive him.

Footsteps echo off the ground, and John looks over to the iron bars of his cell stiffly, mask re-falling to his stern face like a curtain. Two guards in armor clink down the hallway, expressions hidden by hoods and cloth. One produces a rusted key from his belt and slips it into the door, the metal rattling as it gets forced back and forth until the telltale click signifies the opening of the lock. 

“Finally letting me out, then?” John speaks dryly, voice holding a rasp. 

No one answers, and soon John’s chains are dropped and his arms seized. Yanked up, the fisherman grunts in pain as his legs drag behind him across the cobble—being taken somewhere. Probably, if John had to guess, the noose. 

Desertion isn’t something you can get out of shy of a life sentence; to hell or to a cell was entirely up to the King. And the King wasn’t entirely fond of John and his One Hundred and Forty-First. 

John was forced out into the open courtyard, a dichotomy of brightly flowering bushes and expensive finery to the platform placed in the very middle. The brunette's lips thinned at the sight of the large and imposing body made of wood and rope belonging to the gallows, a grim reaper of earthly material. There would be no great fight from him, no roar of a death rattle, just a kicking of his feet and tight wheezes, but no more. 

He knows his final thoughts will be of you—what you’re doing right now, how you’ll live the rest of your life. John hopes you don’t cry for him. 

The two guards shove him forward, and already a crowd has formed below the viewing platform for the monarch himself, who sits in all of his finery. Wyvern leather for his gloves, unicorn horn for a scepter, and…John’s eyes go tight, scales that make up a crown of opal and gold. Vibrant scales. 

Unmistakingly Merfolk, anyone who’s met one of the species would know it. It has the same shine as the one John holds in the pouch on his belt; the fisherman clings to the fact that, against all of it, you were still with him in even a small sense. You’d be with him. 

So John grits his teeth and glares up to the dias defiantly as the guards hold him under the noose, shoving his head to the side to grab the rope. He feels no fear.

“Fuckin’ watch it, Muppet,” the fisherman hisses, snapping his head to the side to stare into the glinting brown eyes from under the hood. He pauses, brows furrowing. “What…?” 

As his hands are forced behind him, they’re not tied as the excited murmuring from the crowd begins, the King’s forward-leaning attention. 

They’re given a knife. 

John hides his surprise and looks over to the other guard as he fits the noose over his neck. Amused blue, and around his neck the glint of silver discs. 

“Oh, bloody hell, you’re takin’ the piss,” the former Captain growls lowly. He knows those damned eyes, just as he knows his former Lieutenant’s. 

MacTavish and Simon. 

“Chin up, Captain,” Johnny jokes under his breath hidden by cloth. “Show’s about to start. Let’s give ‘em a proper scare, yeah.” 

Blue eye glare, but they lack the venom. A barred-teeth smile grows. How had this happened? Johnny steps back and goes to his side, the wood under their feet creaking. The crowd falls silent, looking to the King for the verdict. 

The King’s fingers raise and John memorizes his face in that instant…because it’s only then that he sees Gaz.

Gaz, who was on the upper terrace of the courtyard’s walls, holding a musket with the stock trained to his cheek; body still and ready—tutored to a perfectly motionless trance. There aren’t any guards to be seen near him. It’s a moment of pure silence, a ruling energy. The crowd is waiting for the King to verbalize an answer that he’s never able to give. 

As the monarch’s lips open there is an eardrum-bursting boom that shatters the call for John’s doom and instead spells his own in his very castle from one of his former men. A poetic ending, John would say, but he’s unable to verbalize it as he’s suddenly falling through the gallows hatch as Simon reems on the handle. 

“Knife!” It’s all the Ghost yells in warning.

With a rush of air, there’s a split second to cut the rope before it breaks his neck, and with a snapping motion, John perfects it in an instant—instinct as sharp as any blade that could be put into his hand. He hits the ground with a loud grunt of pain and struggles to sit up until Johnny and Simon jerk at him from where they’d jumped down as well. Not a second too soon, as lead balls from rival guns were already hitting the gallows. 

Not all the guards were dead, then, and apparently, the three had known that would be a possibility.

John would have to scold them later. 

“What in the hell is going on?!” The fisherman barks, but he’s being dragged before he shoves their hands off of him and follows to where they beeline into the fleeing crowd.

“What?” Johnny belts out laughter. “No ‘thank you?’ We just saved your neck!”

“Left!” Simon shouts, and although John’s body can’t take much more, they all dart into the cover of the castle walkways. “Make for the docks—the Sergeant’s meeting us there.”

“Bloody fucking Christ!” John growls but quickly goes onto the most important topic. “She’s behind this, isn’t she?” Johnny’s smirk only confirms it.

“Proper girl you’ve got there, Gaz found her on the shore. Else we’d never have heard about it all before you were dead and gone.” John blinks at him. “Getting reckless without us, now?”

The former Captain ignores the remark. “Where is she?” 

“Oi!” Ghost hisses, looking over his shoulder as the three hurry on as shouting rings from behind them. “Get your head in the game. Focus on not getting shot, yeah?” 

Brown meets blue. 

“You’ll see ‘er soon.” Simon ends, dead eyes shifting to a form that rampages through the hallway behind them. “Behind!” He calls loudly, and John ducks just as a knife is thrown with pinpoint accuracy. A sound of a body hitting the floor echoes over the distant screaming and calls of alarm. 

The King is dead. 

All of the men reach their destination by sheer luck and the knowledge of how to use a blade, cobblestone leading to open streets and back alleys. Finally, the wide stretch of sea was visible, and a shadow slinked out of a corner quickly. 

“Hell,” Gaz blinks at them, “do you think I’ll ever be let back into the castle?” 

Johnny pants a laugh. “You’ll be lucky to get into the province, ya sneaky Bastard. Fine fuckin’ shot.” 

Simon looks at them. “Gaz, Johnny, get to it.” 

They’re by the open water of the dock, long wooden walkways stretching out with ships shifting in the waves. John wonders if his boat is here in the back of his mind, but his eyes are already combing the waves greedily in search of you. 

Were you here? Oh, he hoped you weren’t. You’d be placing yourself in the middle of a very real and present danger. 

“Get to what?” John questions, looking at each man in turn. “What ‘ave you planned, eh? Seems I’ve missed the meeting where we decide to assassinate the bloody monarch in broad daylight.” 

Gaz places a hand on his shoulder as he shimmies past. “Best to leave the heavy lifting to the ones who can stand fully, Captain.”

“Aye,” Johnny confirms. “You’ll want to be here more than anywhere, bet ya.” 

Simon shares a look with the blacksmith and grabs John by one shoulder, leading him to the water as Johnny takes the other. The brunette blinks quickly in confusion and grunts an expletive. 

“Get your hands off of me you pair of—!”

“Have fun!” Johnny and Simon both shove him into the water with a final push and dart off like wisps. 

Water rushes into his ears, covering his head and soaking his clothes before it drags him under. John’s arms flailed to propel him back to the surface. A jolt later, his head is breaching the water with a venomous glare and a barked order on his lips to a vacant audience. The boys had already sprinted off to who knows where.

“Son of a…” John trials, weak legs kicking to keep him afloat. Something brushes his thigh as water drips from his nose, cleaning away the blood with a reddish tint to the liquid.

The fisherman startles, head snapping down just as your hands grasp at his abdomen, sliding up as you press your lips deeply into his in one swift motion. He gasps, grip instinctually moving to hold onto the small of your back. 

You press into him tightly, pushing every emotion into the locking of your mouths with desperation and longing. Sighing deeply into the kiss, John melts into you as your tail brushes his legs, torn fins visible and shimmering stitches pulling at flesh. Scales glint somewhat brighter under the waves, water dripping along your shoulders and wetting your hair. 

John brings you closer when he realizes it’s your form around him, eyes fluttering closed and fingers weaving behind the base of your skull. It’s as if the world stills for that quick and reverent second as if everything is right. The both of you break the kiss with soft eyes, and after a moment of staring your chest releases a chuckle; hands coming up to capture your fisherman’s cheeks, weaving through those beard hairs once more.

The brunette stares at you and lays his forehead into yours, not knowing what to say. A smile plays on his lips.

“...It seems my fisherman had more of a reckless side than I anticipated,” you speak for him, whispering into the air. Your eyes flicker over the cuts and bruises visible on his pale flesh and a flash of fear alights in your expression. “Oh, John…What have they done to you?”

“Just scratches,” the man reassures delicately. “It’s alright, Love. I’ll live.” 

But you both know this conversation can’t happen here. With a few more pecks of kisses to his lips, you ask in an ethereal voice, “Do you trust me?”

Your hand is locked to his wrist, pulling him along the waters as your head tilts at him and tail sliding along his flesh. 

John wastes no time. “Of course.” 

Lips flicker to a small, loving, grin and then you drag him under the water. 

—

“Do they hurt?” He asks you carefully, running a calloused hand along the tears in your fins you know will never heal fully. You sit on the rocks below Gaz’s home, the water still dripping off of both of your bodies. 

Out farther in the water the three other men are sailing back in John’s fishing boat, a few minutes out. You blink down at him and move a hand to shift his jaw upward to you, humming.

“Not when you touch them like that,” confessing, you keep close to him, held tightly under the crook of his arm and breathing in that scent of rope and wood oil. You practically vibrate with comfort, all of your worries able to be put aside at last. 

John looks down at you and chuckles, putting a deep kiss on your scalp and taking a deep inhale. 

“Cheeky,” he teases. You smile.

“And yours?” Your voice speaks out in question as the water brushes your tail. 

The man peels back to look down at you slowly. “Already better…I owe you, Sweetheart.” 

Huffing, you shake your head, “You owe me nothing. The only reason you were there was because of me.” 

John’s brows furrow, taking your chin in his fingers and tilting your head back to him. He stares into your eyes for a long while until your face starts to heat with emotion, blinking up at him innocently. His blues dart over the healing cuts and marks with hidden emotion.

“I’d do it again,” John whispers. “A million times over, you hear? I’d be a bloody fool not to.” 

He kisses you as you both wait in the setting twilight for the others, bloody and beaten—more scar tissue than anything else—but still your John. 

“Thank you,” he mutters into your lips, and then again when he nips at your flesh. The man plays with his necklace at your collarbone as he traces patterns in your scales and smirks when you shiver. 

He wonders how he got so lucky when the others anchor the boat near the shore, hopping off and wading the rest of the way to the beach. John kisses your forehead and says he’d be right back. 

You watch him with glinting eyes as he walks over to his men, taking each in a heartfelt handshake and conversing honestly. Your eyes blink at the care they display for one another and raise a hand when they peel off, back up to Gaz’s home to rest. 

They reciprocate and disappear atop the hill. 

What’s he doing? You ask as you watch John climb aboard his vessel and rummage around his fishing barrels, opening some and tossing the tops to the deck. Hands shifting along the rocks, you can’t hide the amusement or affection in your eyes at the sight of his ramping annoyance. What was he looking for? 

Your fingers go up to play with his necklace and watch. 

You can’t say you feel much heartache at the loss of your cove—even with the king dead, you were still hunted for your scales—though you had grown to see it in a new light. The place was only a home when John was there, and you knew wherever you went as long as he was there it would be alright. 

The both of you wouldn’t let anything happen to one another. 

John comes back carrying something tucked in cloth, a small parcel held in one hand and longer than it is wide. Your interest is immediately piqued, curiosity straining your eyes. 

He holds it out to you with a mischievous glint and a smirk. 

“Go on,” John motions. Blinking at him, your brows furrow as you carefully take the item from his hands, settling it in your lap before you shift the cloth away. 

Your fingers go to cover your mouth, small gasp entering the air. 

It was a golden box, engraved with movements that resemble lace and waves—shimmering in the low light. 

“John,” you stutter, “what is…?”’

“Open it,” the man insists, kneeling down in front of you as if his muscles didn’t ache. “It’s the reason I was late that day.” John grunts, rubbing at the bottom of his beard and watching intently; crinkles beside his eyes. 

You stare for a moment with burning tear ducts before you grasp ahold of the lid and open it after running a digit over the make. 

Inside sits blue velvet and, strangely, your own scales, but atop that…the blinding gold of a pair of twin cuff bracelets—stones the same shade as your tail. It was perhaps the most elegant piece of jewelry you had ever seen. 

For a solid minute you’re rendered speechless, mouth opening and closing as your tail hangs limp in the low tide. Chucking, John takes the pieces out and your ears twitch to the sound of your scales clacking together like glass. 

“Why would you…” You can’t make sense of it.

John slips them over your wrists and you gape in wonder. They fit just perfectly. 

You look up into your Fisherman’s face and feel tears drip down your chin. A hard hand comes to wipe them away as you laugh through a sniffle. 

“Do you like them, then, Love?” He asks lowly, beard pulled back in a smile. 

“Yes,” you say immediately, giggling. “How could I not? John, they’re lovely. Far too beautiful for me.” 

The former Captain grunts and his brows pull in, frowning. “Now why would you say that?” He brings your hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles. “You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. Can’t make me change my mind on that, eh?” 

Your eyes bore into him, lips parted. After a moment your face feels like it’s on fire and you cover your cheeks. 

John laughs loudly, grabbing your arms and lightly squeezing the flesh before taking your grip back down to your lap. You smile so widely you’re afraid your face might crack open.

“No need to hide,” he hums. “Let me see that face.” 

“You’re good to me, John.” His face softens, wrinkles fall away, and his chest swells with pride. You kiss his lips and whisper, “I bare my soul to you.”

It wasn’t an ‘I love you’ but something far more precious. 

The man’s face deepens with devotion, gruff figure more than easily leaning over yours as you’re carefully laid back to the tiny pebbles behind you—a hand behind your head and at the swell of what would be a hip.

In the darkening night, the sun shines its dying light across the waves just like the extending fingers of John’s firm grip; dragging you into him as sea-currents would. Wrapping you both in kelp and a salty grave. His voice is the grating of sand, the slide of a rope across a wooden deck. 

“Then I’ll take care of it for as long as I live.”

Your fisherman damns you to a crypt of land and air, and you couldn’t worship it more. To live and to die beside him is to have existed just as you should have.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[aliciavance4228]

The Odyssey: Funny Moments

Most of you liked my "The Iliad: Funny Moments" post, so I decided to make this one as well.

1. When Telemachus asks Odysseus what kind of help they have for taking down the suitors, Odysseus basically says, "We've got Zeus and Athena on our side. Are you sure that'll be enough?"

2. "Brother, who blinded you?" "Nobody! Nobody did!" "...Then we're going to go back to sleep."

Taken to the logical extreme in a comic book adaptation where Odysseus and his men gave him fake names:

"Brother, who blinded you?"

"Nobody! Idontknow! Idontcare! Or maybe... Idontremember!"

"So that's why they called him Polyfool."

3. After his crew opened the bag of winds thinking it had treasure and caused a huge storm, Odysseus briefly considers suicide as valid as an option to preserving through hardship.

4. The sheer, mind-boggling, testicle-shriveling amount of crap that Odysseus and his crew get put through when trying to get back to Ithaca can be viewed as hilarious in a cringe comedy kind of way. By the time Odysseus gets home and realizes that his wife has been badgered and harangued by suitors for a decade one could be forgiven for thinking that his wanton slaughter of them all was less about their violation of guest rights and more just blowing off some steam on a morally unambiguous target.

5. When briefly visiting the Underworld, Persephone allows Odysseus to talk with his mother and other dead people. Odysseus is absolutely terrified of her and dreads staying too long and incurring her wrath, running back to his ship fearful that she'll sic Medusa's head on him.

6. One of Odysseus's crew randomly dies by falling off a roof after a night of heavy drinking. Everyone else gets to be killed by horrible monsters and the wrath of the gods, but he instead gets to be a posthumous reminder about the dangers of alcoholism. Even better, after his death he berates Odysseus for not burying him properly when our hero goes to Hades!

7. On the way back to Ithaca, Telemachus asks a favor of Nestor's son Pisistratus, and proceeds to invoke two generations of friendship to get some help dodging Nestor's aggressive hospitality.

8. Penelope asks a disguised Odysseus to interpret a dream she had. It turns out that during the dream, one of its characters explicitly explained what it all represented, and Odysseus just repeats it back to her.

9. While disguised as a human, Athena goes to the trouble of giving a plausible explanation for her departure... then promptly blows her cover by turning into a bird and flying away in front of a boggling Nestor and Telemachus.

10. Penelope's tricks against the suitors, of which the two best known are:

At one point, she told the suitors she'd choose her next husband after she'd finish weaving a burial shroud for Odysseus's father Laërtes... And every night, she'd undo her work. She strung them along for three years and would have continued had an unfaithful maid not exposed her.

On page we see her daring them to replicate one of Odysseus's feats: she put twelve axes on the ground so that the rings in the handle would align and gave them Odysseus' unstrung bow and arrows, and told them that whoever could use that bow toshoot an arrow through all the rings would be her next husband.She also forgot to tell them it was a recurve bow that the suitors wouldn't even recognize when at rest, let alone string.

A lesser-known ploy is when she calls out the suitors for freeloading off her husband's estate instead of courting her with lavish gifts. They rush to present her with gifts, while the disguised Odysseus watches with delight.

11. Athena's response when Odysseus fails to recognize her in disguise and tells her a backstory he came up with on the spot is essentially "That's my liar! There he is!"

Credits: TV Tropes

[maxispixels]

HANPICKED

PART THREE.

Hobie Brown x GN!Reader

1.8k words

You work at a flower shop in late 70s London and Hobie's being a menace. Slowburn? Probably will be around 10 parts. Strangers to reluctant acquaintances to friends to something more. Maybe a lil' messy?

CW: mention of a funeral

Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five. Part six. Part seven. Part eight. Part nine. Part ten. Part eleven. Part twelve.

Your weekend had been busy with all the chores you let pile up during the last few weeks, and you were almost relieved to go back to the flower shop, and only have to sit on a stool for a few hours. Maybe make some commands and other stuff but hey, at least you were paid for it.

The green storefront greeted you cheerfully, and you turned the closed sign into an open one. The bell rang to welcome you, and you made your way to the old radio post in the corner of the shop. It still worked better than yours, despite its age, and the worrying amount of dust you didn’t dare to touch.

You quickly managed to get to BBC Radio 3, playing some classical music at that time of the morning. It made you feel like you were in a fairytale, tending to your flowers. Definitely made your job a lot nicer than it already was.

And just like that, you started to work, starting with cleaning the front window. 

Then it started to rain. You cursed the sky, ruining your hard work. You went back inside and started to water the potted plants, before changing the water of the ones in vases. 

The first customer of the day passed the door while you were in the middle of pouring water. “Good morning,” you welcomed with a singsong voice, still turning your back to the door. “One second and I’m yours.”

“Oi that’s interestin'.” A deep voice you’ve learnt to recognize resonated over the orchestral going on in the background. You almost spilled your water.

“You again?” You turned to face him. He had a small umbrella this time, but it didn’t protect him well from the rain. He put it in a corner carelessly. 

“Happy to see ya too.” He tilted his head. “Wot are ya doing there watering the flowers? They’re dead.”

“They’re cut flowers. They’re in their prime.”

“Prime? They’re on life support, yeah.”

You sighed. “What do you want?”

“No more how can I help you?” he imitated your tone, and you cringed. “An’ wot’s up with the music? Anything better than this? Are ya tryin’ to lure yer customers to sleep or som’thin?”

You rubbed your forehead. “You’re so annoying.”

“Don’t be mean, I came ‘ere with a gift.” He cooed. 

You raised an eyebrow, expecting the worst. “What for? We still don’t accept bartering.”

“I said a gift. I’m not tryna get anythin’ from ya.” He pulled out a couple of yellow flowers from his sleeve.

“Oh, lovely. Wildflowers. Did you pull those out of someone’s garden?”

“From a rich bloke’s ledge, if that makes ya feel better.” You rolled your eyes. “Picked these myself. Your daffodils are too posh. Thought you could use a change, somethin’ wild.”

You looked at his outstretched hand, holding the small, damp golden flowers. Buttercups, you thought. They were small, and reminded you of a kid picking flowers for their mother. It made you feel a little nostalgic.

Your hands gently grabbed them from his, careful not to brush his fingers. You still felt how cold his hands were, from being outside in the rain. 

“Don’t work your little brain too hard. M’just payin’ back for the daffodils the other day.”

You nodded. That was… Nice. “They’re… fine, I guess.” You said a little too quickly before placing the buttercup in a small water cup on the counter. Maybe you’ll sketch them later. You already had a couple of drawings for each plant from this shop, but you didn’t have a sketch of buttercups. 

You leaned back against the counter and eyed him as his gaze followed the shelf of flowers. “Why d’you needed the daffodils for anyyouway?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

His eyes went back to you, from the other side of the shop. “I might tell ya if  ya let me change the radio.” 

Your eyebrows knitted together. “...Fine?” 

It took him more than ten minutes to find what he wanted, and your patience was running low. “Careful with the antenna—”  scolded as he tugged it at an alarming angle. “I know what I’m doin’!” He insisted. You groaned, your face buried in both your hands.

The statics and random bits of voices slowly let place to something else. Distorted and muffled noises broke through the radio, followed by loud drumming and rugged vocals. He gave you a satisfied grin. “There it is.” You grimaced. The shop felt less like a peaceful garden and more like a dingy London club for a moment.

“What is that?”

“The best pirate radio in all of London. Proper punk, none of that watered down crap they put on the BBC.”

You frowned. “Pirate radio?” You mumbled. “Isn’t that… Illegal?”

He grinned at you like you said something adorable. “Course it is. That’s the point.”

You shifted on your legs, glancing nervously at the door. You quickly turned down the volume.

“No fun,” he pouted.

“Are you gonna talk now?”

“What was your question already?”

“Are you serious?”

“About what?”

There was no way he wasn’t being dumb on purpose, testing the limit of what patience you had left. “Why’d you nick the flowers?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes. “Why’d ya care? I just paid you back anyway.”

“I don’t. But I’m curious—it’s so weird to steal flowers. Especially since you just showed me that you were more than able to pick wild ones. Why get in trouble? For daffodils?”

“Well... it was for... an... important thing?” He mumbled, looking up at the ceiling, then letting his gaze trail down to some carnations.

You raised an eyebrow. “An important thing?” You couldn’t help but smirk as you saw the tall, punk, scary, grown man avoid your eyes like a kid. “What important thing? A girl?” You covered your mouth, feigning shock. “A boy?”

He gave you a look. His brown eyes fell back on you, and you swore they softened for a moment. You found yourself stumbling to hold his gaze. It made you weak in the knees, and you couldn’t figure out why.

“Does it matter?”

You shrugged. “I’m not judging.” You tilted your head, grinning. “Come on, tell me—you owe me an explanation, ay? For all the trouble you caused.”

He gave you a half-smile—was it shy or sad? You couldn’t tell. It threw you off balance. “Or don’t. You don’t have to.” You corrected yourself.

“No big deal. T’was just for a funeral.” He shrugged again, his tone casual, but it didn’t match the weight of his words.

Oh. The realization hit you like a slap. “Oh... I’m sorry. I... I didn’t know.” You muttered, your words suddenly too quiet.

“Don’t make that face.” He seemed to be the one teasing you now.

You blinked, not even realizing the puppy eyes you were giving him. Sad and guilty, like a kicked dog. God, you felt like such an idiot. You’d been nothing but rude to him up until now. Stupid, really. The whole situation was so absurd—here you were, feeling bad for a punk, in a flower shop, with a crazy bassline blasting in the background.

“No, I’m really sorry, I was awful. Fuck, can I do something for you?” You mumbled sheepishly, feeling a little off-balance.

“Mpf, don’t get all like that.” He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the shift in the dynamic. “I liked it better when you were all feisty. Or all nosy about my love life.” He smirked at you, and the cheeky look on his face made you want to wipe it off. 

You just let yourself fall back onto the stool, letting out a sigh of exhaustion. The shrill sound of police sirens suddenly blared through the air, startling you. You quickly realized it was coming from the radio, and your eyes flicked to the man, who was grinning at you, clearly amused by your reaction.

The static on the radio cracked as another song kicked in, something about police oppression, though the quality of the recording and the poor reception made the lyrics nearly impossible to understand.

“See, they don’t put this on the BBC.” Hemused, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “This, this is fockin’ brillant.” 

You’re persuaded he’s distracting you again from the matter at hand. You let him. 

“They still put out some stuff on the BBC, though.” You argued. “The other day, I was trying to relax and there was some punk crap that started playing. Almost broke the old radio.” You were careful to not tell him you actually, kind of, a little enjoyed it.

“Breaking your shit is punker than anything you could’ve played on it.” He retorted.

“So you don’t like anything that plays on the common channel?” You tilted your head—you wondered if he would’ve liked the song that came up the other time. To you, it didn’t sound so different from what he was playing now. 

He rolled his eyes. “Yes I do, I’m not saying it’s bad, just it’s watered down. They never put extreme stuff. Or unknown stuff, you get me?”

You didn’t. You let him talk and geek out about punk music for a while, occasionally asking questions to keep him entertained and not at all to keep hearing his smooth deep voice. 

You zoned out, watching his lips move, his piercings catching the light of the shop. You had the time to count all of them. Eight. A ring in his left ear, three along his right ear, a horizontal piercing at each eyebrow, another ring at his right nostril, and one to the left of his bottom right lip. The cool metal contrasted beautifully with his dark skin. The lines of his face were deep and you found yourself wanting to reach for them. There was just something so sculpted, so intriguing about his bone structure. You just wanted to sketch him. 

“And that’s why community organizing is so important.” he finished.

You blinked, scrambling for something to say that wouldn’t give you away. “That’s... cool?”

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “Do you have a scooby what I was talking about?”

The way you looked at him was enough of an answer. He chuckled and shook his head. “Got it. I have to go anyway. You know, protests to attend, stuff. Capitalism ain’t gonna stop itself.”

“Wait—what’s your name?” you called as he turned on his heels.

He paused in the doorway, his hand on the frame. It hit you both at once that you’d never exchanged names. He grinned, the kind of grin that made your stomach do a little flip. “Might tell you if I come back.” 

With a wave, he grabbed his small umbrella, before he stepped out into the rain, leaving you alone with nothing but the punk music crackling on the radio for company.

Part four.

[genericpuff]

i find it funny that one of rachel’s drawings of herself in the afterword that just went up is just fully persephone. is that something she does a lot?

Alright so I've been making it a general rule for myself to like, not harp on Rachel in any way outside of LO as much because frankly the horse is dead now and there's not much left to say outside of what can be analyzed in hindsight. I think despite everything I have to say about her and her work, she still deserves to get away from this nonsense and I don't wanna spend eternity hovering over her shoulder.

But the afterword was posted within the LO series and is clearly meant for readers of LO in the functioning of being an afterword so let's just call it fair game LOL

I will say, on the whole, it does feel very honest and sentimental and I can respect Rachel for taking the time to write out and illustrate her afterword in a way that was personal to both her and her fans. I can understand why she went at it from the angle that she did and I'm not gonna fault her for that.

But there's also something that feels deeply... disingenuous about her approach right from the starting gun. I will say, before I continue, that I'm well aware I am biased towards Rachel as a creator, and I fully acknowledge that I could very well be reading too much into things. This is just my opinion, take it with mountains of salt.

I can get looking back on your own childhood, your past self, whatever, and going "see! it all got better!" because sure! For a lot of creators like Rachel, it must be wild to look back on where they came from and there's a lot of sentimentality on expressing that through an afterword like this where she reflects on where she came from. Though she STILL didn't acknowledge her other comics outside of LO, I can understand if she wants to leave those skeletons in the closet.

But I feel like her drawing herself as a child who's being given an Eisner by her adult self and all that just feels like some gross attempt to disarm any criticism of her because "don't make fun of me, I'm just a sad lonely baby girl!"

She's not a child. Child Rachel didn't grossly misappropriate Greek myth into their own self-indulged vanity project. Child Rachel didn't claim herself a folklorist of a culture's works only to bastardize them completely. Child Rachel didn't create a hostile environment within her fanbase by bullying anyone who she perceived as a threat, sneaking into critical spaces to try and cause trouble, and writing her own clapbacks into her comic. Child Rachel didn't claim to be challenging misogyny and purity culture only to reinforce misogyny and purity culture through her own self-insert baby-virgin-gets-rescued-by-rich-tycoon power fantasy that regularly glorified abuse towards women and the lower class.

30-almost-40-year-old Rachel did though.

At best it comes across as really cringe sentimentality from a Greek-weeb (heh, greeboo) and goes to show how much Rachel inserted herself into Greek myth without ever absorbing its messages or cultural contexts, it was all about her and her feelings as a sad New Zealand girl with dyslexia who thought Persephone's story was about another sad girl being rescued from her "horrible childhood".

At worst it's an active attempt to play on people's heartstrings by drawing herself as a child who people will naturally not want to criticize. I don't want to assume she's doing it intentionally, I really don't want to leave her afterword on a bad foot, as I can definitely understand as both a creator and a person who struggled with learning disabilities in their own childhood how and why she wants to pay homage to her past and where she came from... but let's just say, as someone who's also gotten way too "lost in the sauce" concerning personal self-reflective projects, I think there's a lot to say about how this confirms that Rachel made LO entirely for herself, about herself, without any actual intention to respect the original myths, because she never truly separated them from herself when she was a child. And, in my humble opinion as someone who has Been There with the self-insert OC's and self-reflective angsty plotlines, I can fully attest to the fact that that's not fucking healthy. Even with personal projects, you NEED to learn to get your head out of the sauce, you NEED to learn to objectively separate yourself from the narrative so the story doesn't fall apart under your own hubris and ego, you NEED to learn to draw a line if you want to have any sort of identity as a human being outside of what you make for people. And that's with just normal original stories, this was a story based on Greek myth which doesn't belong to her.

And this goes for a lot of the things she's said and done in the past, so much of her own "sources" even are tethered to things that she read / watched in her childhood and only vaguely remembers, as if she never mentally left her childhood at all, which just... if the point was to highlight her past and the traumas she went through and how they contributed to her present, an Eisner isn't going to validate those experiences. And drawing attention to her past through the lens of her childhood self absolutely 100% does not absolve her of the negative effect her work has had on the modern Greek myth zeitgeist nor the things she's said and done as a 38 year old woman who should absolutely know better.

The community she entered and took from will forever remain changed by her influence and taking, in many ways not for the better. She has the privilege of walking away and never having to think about it again, with all the awards and accolades that were bought for her, the bravado that she built around being a "folklorist" with zero credentials, and the platform she was given over many other creators struggling to even be heard.

That "place" she claims to have now was built entirely on inserting herself into another culture's works and doing nothing but taking, taking, taking, while offering nothing in return but vanity and lip service. That "place" was paid for and brought to you by Webtoons.

[badstargateimagines]

Stargate characters using Gen z slang

And how I think it would go

Daniel: always says it excitedly, happy to learn new words. Always uses it correctly although in a way that is so alien to Gen Z slang. Daniel is the type to annunciate every single syllable and then wonder why zoomers are laughing at him. Says shit like “it’s Goa’uld technology, I fear… they ate and left no crumbs with this technology”

Jack: uses it incorrectly to piss off the youth. Gets a shot eating grin on his face before saying it. A young airman will finish giving a presentation about an alien race threatening the entire planet and he’ll just go “what the sigma?” And everyone within earshot groans

Sam: hits it occasionally because it’s worked its way into her vernacular because of Cassie. Goes through the stages of grief every time she uses it. It very natural, always sounds like Sam Carter, but it’s always immediately followed by a wince. Like she’ll be talking to a bunch of people at work and just say something like “honestly, we’re lowkey cooked if this doesn’t work” and then she immediately winces and then stares off into the distance with a heavy sigh. She doesn’t say anything about it, she just moves on, but mentally she is not doing well.

Teal’c: exactly how you’d expect, man. You and I both know he’ll look at Daniel getting a smoking hot alien’s astral phone number or whatever, and he just, completely fucking dead pan, says “Daniel Jackson is indeed the goated rizzler.” And everyone stares at him like he has three heads

Jonas: arguably does the best with it. Uses it in the most post ironic cringe way possible, you can hear his sarcastic laughter in his tone. He is indistinguishable from The Fellow Zoomers to a point where he has the cadence and mannerisms down. He’s the type to say “Brooooo what a fuckin’ gigachad like that fuckin’ legend, bro, for real” about probably Teal’c doing something innocuous.

Vala: wait no actually she’s the best at it. She’s practically a zoomer herself. She was actively engaged in Brat Summer ™️ and was loud about it. She enters a room and goes “hi divassss!! Sorry I’m late, I got caught in the elevator with a certified yapper, but it’s chill cuz he was low key based as fuck and let me hit the penjamin, like literally what a fucking Chad… like am I delusional or was he literally trying to rizz me the fuck up?” and no one understands what the fuck she’s saying. They assume it’s because she’s an alien

General Hammond: he’s like all those old people that gen z marketing interns are turning into clout farms on TikTok at the moment. Like he’s extremely stiff with it, but he’s definitely in on the joke, like bros really just like “chat, the Gould have negative aura points at the moment, and it’s up to us to strike while they’re lowkey in their flop era.” And even he can’t hold a straight face.

[acti-veg]

You have all just got to come to terms with how laughably simplistic it is to dismiss legitimate critiques about modern wool production with catchphrases like ‘Its just a haircut, it doesn’t hurt them!’

Wool is ‘just a haircut’ in the same way that cocoa is ‘just a plant.’ Yes, you can acquire chocolate without harming anyone, but is anyone dismissing the obvious ethical issues with modern chocolate production by pointing out that cocoa doesn’t require us to hurt anyone to acquire? Of course not, because we all recognise that because of modern production practices and exploitation it is far more complicated than that. Why can’t we do the same for animal products?

Shearing a sheep does not have to harm sheep by itself, though fast processing speeds demanded by commercial producers means that shearing injuries are very common. That isn’t the issue with wool. The issue is that wool production by itself is not very profitable, profits are subsidised by taking lambs from their mothers every lambing season, then slaughtering them for meat. The issue is that sheep will almost always be slaughtered once their profitability declines. Obviously, most animal farmers are not going to house and feed unprofitable animals.

Tail docking is an issue, de-horning is an issue, castration is an issue. The live transport of sheep for hours in all weather extremes without food and water is an issue. Breeding sentient beings into bodies that over-produce wool, eggs, or milk to the point where they require human intervention just to be comfortable is an issue. Exploiting the bodies of animals for profit is, in and of itself, an ethical issue.

The massive environmental harm caused by grazing sheep, who have converted vast swathes of formerly forested land into ecologically dead wastelands, is difficult to overstate. Grazing animals are widely acknowledged as one of the most significant barriers to forest restoration and re-wilding. George Monbiot calls them ‘the white plague’ for good reason. Just take a look at what has happened to most of England and Wales. That isn’t even factoring in the methane emissions of the sheep themselves, their resource requirements, or the fact that farmers routinely kill predators and oppose species reintroduction to protect their herds.

All you do when you dismiss these real concerns by pointing out that ‘wool doesn’t hurt sheep duhhh’ is show us how little thought you are willing to put into what is a far more complex issue than any of you are willing to admit. That these cringe ‘shave your sheep’ posts still get tens of thousands of notes is evidence of nothing so much as widespread ignorance and confirmation bias when it comes to discussing animal agriculture.

Honestly, so many of you have been so brainwashed by this colonialist, cottagecore pastoral fantasy that you’re no longer able to apply any real nuance or analysis to land or animal issues. I’m not expecting you to immediately agree with us and throw out all your fleece, but at least recognise that it’s not as simple as saying ‘shearing doesn’t harm sheep you morons.’

At the very least, you should all be able to recognise that vegans aren’t just stupid for not immediately agreeing that an environmentally destructive, ecologically disastrous industry that is breeding and exploiting sentient beings for profit is just uncomplicatedly fine actually.

[ceasarslegion]

Getting back into the mcu I want to remind people that someone asking you not to be a dick about your differing opinion is not in any way shape or form "not letting you disagree with them"

The way the internet has ripped into and bullied marvel fans for no good reason just because we like movies you don't has genuinely been so unnecessarily nasty and mean that I've seen the take that liking superheroes is a red flag for being a FASCIST parroted multiple times. Often by the same people who say that being kind is free and cringe culture is dead. And the second we're like "can you not be a fucking asshole about it" we always get "HAHA PISS ON THE POOR WHAT I CANT DISAGREE WITH YOU NOW YOURE ALL SO STUPID AND CRINGE ITS NOT REAL CINEMA GROW UP AND WATCH A REAL MOVIE NONE OF YOU LET ANYONE DISLIKE ANYTHING"

That's not what I fucking said dude. I told you that you were being a dick about it. And don't even get me started on the types who respond to posts like this with "well actually 🤔 this other random stranger who is not you has a cap icon and said weird shit 🤔🤔🤔 so they have a point 🤔🤔🤔🤔 I am very intelligent"

[thehelltingvilleclub]

May Osewai - Crippling Case of the Cringe

you better hope to god she isn't actually sadako, because she will judge you on your search history on her way through your browser--

Mayumi “May” Osewai [09/09/81] Secretary of Manga AOL / Online Users : [sadako_chan] Theme Songs: Living Dead Girl - Rob Zombie | She’s Out of Her Mind - blink-182 | FUNERAL GREY - Waterparks

Favorite Shit: Anime Adaptations, Visual novels, Horror / Gore, Battle Royale(s), Monster Movies, Slasher Flicks, Acrylic Stands, Hard Covers, Asian horror, Foreign Films, Evangelion : Neon Genesis, Ghost in the Shell, Corpse Party, Torrent Sites, The X-Men, Spawn, Teen Titans, Accurate Translations, Uncensored Doujins, Silent Hill, Serial Experiments : Lain

Dude get this girl a therapist and someone other than a rabid werewolf for a brain-worm weird fluttery thought friend GUEHAKL. please. please. With literally no other friends and no longer in an environment surrounded by.. "peers", she kind of has no choice but to keep putting up with Bill despite how much of a creep he gets sometimes. They're like a family.. A horrifically disfunctional family that should maybe only meet every other christmas, and yet they're glued together despite it all. It has to be karma punishing them, right?

We are the weirdos, Mister.

This poor girl has a really bad anxiety problem and is also horrifically oblivious to a lot of things which is not a good combo. She hates the thought of missing something or making someone upset by having to make them explain, but good god she cannot read a room sometimes--

She also maybe most definitely has autism. that might have something to do with it..

She masks well enough that she genuinely just thought she was "weird" and just kinda accepted it when she moved to the states. She didn't even start to think about it until Jerry started bringing up the shit he learned in therapy.

She honestly is just kinda.. Blunt? good or bad, though she does have enough forethought to keep the bad thoughts to herself most of the time. It's more in a quiet "wait, what did she just say?" kind of way.

She struggles to express actual internal monologue, her actual emotions and thoughts on the boys, but she shows it in.. other ways.

She genuinely cares about the boys, yes even bill, though he's like.. Like if Jane and Bill were closer in age and Bill actually wouldn't leave her the FUCK alone.

Though it's not like Pete's any better-- he always so weirdly macho and it's... kinda funny? Weirdly endearing? Like a little terrier going going absolutely ballistic on the screen door. Heh. cute.

May has designed entire pokemon decks and trainer teams for the boys. They'll get posted eventually I promise vuv

She absolutely tries to play card games with Jerry and Matt, though she really only likes the play Pokemon and Yu-Gi-Oh, but she'll happily watch the two smears duke it out.

its kinda funny seeing Matt lose every once in a while.

May and Josh argue about Evangelion ALL THE TIME and it's honestly annoying but it's also very funny to see Josh get flashbacks about asuka--

She is also one of the first people Josh goes to to hang out with, even if it's just over a phone call.. well, at least for a while. He likes to talk, so she just kinda doodled mindlessly or painted her figures while listening.

... she could tell he needed it.

ALso girls omg she is still the clumsiest woman I have ever seen. She might need a new prescription like seriously.

May got a job at the local family video, so you bet your ASS Pete harasses her at work whenever he can sneak out of his own work duties. He's lucky he's cute...

She may be oblivious to some emotions, but she's not stupid.

She collects stuffed animals, but mostly pokemon plushies and assorted horror mascots. She is still really embarrassed about having them, but literally can't sleep if she doesn't have at least one like it's a problem--

She is also like icy cold. All the time. like she just pulled her hands out of the freezer. Pete uses this as an excuse to hold her hands because he's a fucking smear I swear to god he needs to grow some BALLS

ALSO HI CAN I TALK ABOUT HER SHIRT FOR LIKE 10 SECONDS ITs an indie japanese-canadian band called "Rotten Cherries" and it does rock covers of japanese pop music and even some remakes of songs by The Cranberries and Boa

THanks guYs

Also I enjoy the reference pic for her pajama shorts LMAO

GUYH Have May.

Also sorry for repeat info at the top, it's to keep with the formatting fhdsjkafinfdsajhfkdlsfhl

[to-rise-above-monsters]

dear bertholdt.

Summary: Reiner left his overcoat in preparation for a meeting and asked Annie to get it from his room. Begrudgingly, she agreed. Though she immediately regrets it when a box of letters falls from the top shelf. Maybe regret isn’t all there is. She found something more.

-

CW: angst, canon compliant (so major characters death,, Bertholdt is dead<3), rba centric, can be read as romantic or platonic reibert but reibert nonetheless

Takes place post-timeskip (the second one, post-war), a few years into settling into ambassador life.

Apologies for any ooc, I don’t think I’ve ever written a fic in Annie’s perspective/focus,, I also haven’t written on her before and also haven’t written and posted in general for forever

(This was meant to be a comic and is so clear in my mind but I don’t have the time nor talent to execute it 😔)

Happy Birthday Bertholdt can’t believe ur dead ♥️

-

Reiner told her to get his coat. What that asshole didn’t tell her was how ridiculously high his coat hangers were. It shouldn’t have loomed over her the way it did. It was almost taunting, mocking her with its impossible height. They had probably raised Reiner’s closet bar for his big, hulking self and possibly lowered hers as some sort of unspoken courtesy. Annie sighed deeply, already regretting being here. Sure, tell the short girl to get your big ass coat from your tall ass closet. Embarrassingly, she jumped; she jumped a few times. If a glare could kill, there'd be holes burnt into the pockets.

Fuck off.

The stupid coat was simply out of reach. She could usually manage by grabbing the shoulder and lifting it from there but even then she couldn’t manage. She kicked the closet door in frustration, hard enough to make it rattle, and looked around for reinforcements. Somewhere nearby had to be a stool or something, anything, to make this easier. 

She found a tall chair and dragged it over with a bit more force than necessary. The legs scraped against the floor and that sound annoyed her even more. 

Finally, she lined it up, climbed up with a huff, and snatched the coat off the hanger in one triumphant, final fuck you. But as she jumped off the chair with her prize, she heard something else fall. A clatter, a shuffle, the distinct sound of things spilling. She grumbled and turned around.

If I have to do one more thing, I’m killing someone.

She cringed when her eyes fell onto the mess. Her jumping and kicking and overall exasperation now had a bunch of shit spilled on the floor from the top shelf of the tall closet. An old box, the size and look of a shoe box, had lost its lid and scattered papers everywhere. She at first started to snatch them up without discretion, just trying to stuff them back in. But a name caught her eyes.

Bertholdt.

Her fingers froze. She didn’t want to snoop. She would have killed anyone who went through her stuff like this. She tried to cast out the memory of seeing the name. She quickly tried to collect them all and put the box, along with this moment, far back into the closet. But there it was again, unmistakable.

Bertholdt.

Something came over her. An overwhelming wave, pulling her under before she could even name it. It felt so sudden, so heavy, all-consuming. She held the pages in her hands, her grip tightening unconsciously. 

The small, trembling pool she had collected seemed insignificant against the sheer ocean of papers spilled out before her. They spread across the floor like a map of emotions she wasn’t sure she wanted to navigate. And each one… each one bore the same familiar name.

Dear Bertholdt,

Her chest tightened, an ache spreading in places she thought she’d long since numbed. With a breath, she carefully placed them in the box one by one. It blurred past her, the same line repeated over and over. Her eyes couldn’t help but snag on the same arrangement of letters, the same handwriting. There were a hundred, maybe even more, all addressed… and dated. She paused.  

They had an order. 

Written at the top of each of them was a date. Everything was spilled all over the floor and each one was supposed to be neatly tucked away in order. She bit the insides of her cheeks.

Forgive me.

Dates flashed by. She tried to put them in order without reading any of its contents. It felt impossible, especially when there were letters that seemed to be multiple pages long. She tried to group them to the best of her abilities, organizing them by date and putting them in piles face down when she found the correct order. But words blurred past, recognizable phrases, handwriting that got shakier, years and years and years, consistent dating on every one.

“I miss you.” “I’m sorry.” “If I could go back…” “I wish you were here.” “I can’t forgive myself.” “You deserved better.”

Her breath hitched, the edges of the pages almost cutting into her fingers as she clutched them tighter. She tried to swallow the lump forming in her throat, but it only grew heavier with every second she spent kneeling there, surrounded by years of unspoken… emotions; emotions she never knew she had.

When did I start crying?

A tear fell from her cheek and nearly hit the precious paper. An aching feeling had creeped into her body. Emotions she never really thought were there seemed to spill. She couldn’t name it. It felt like a sudden burn in her nose, the need to swallow a bitter taste, eyes blurring. She was drowning. 

30.12.854

The letter she held was dated shakily at the top. She’d seen that same date come up again and again. For a moment, she tried to remember if maybe New Years or any holiday around that time meant something to them; as warriors, they didn’t really celebrate holidays, let alone religion. 

She took a breath and put it in the 854 pile. She looked at the stack. 854. That would have been… that would have been the year of the rumbling. It would have been the year everything changed. 

And he never got to see it.

She looked at all of the piles she’d now made, how each represented a year. She tried to push any judgements or perceptions away from her mind. But some years piled higher than others. Three piles in particular. She gathered the final loose letters. 

Her mind drifted to her time in the crystal. The silence had been maddening, a suffocating void she couldn’t escape. She had been awake in that void, terrifyingly, agonizingly awake. The only light that had ever pierced through the endless dark had been Armin’s voice, Hitch’s chatter. Their persistence had saved her, kept her tethered to something beyond the emptiness. But it always puzzled her why they did it in the first place.

I know.

She placed the final letter. The paper felt different; crinkled and messy, rough and smeared. 30.12.850; old, the oldest one. She finally gathered all of them, stacking them neatly away in the box.  She stared at the box in front of her, now neatly packed, the letters arranged in quiet, solemn order. The shoebox felt heavier than it had any right to be. There was only paper within it. Something else weighed it down. 

I know.

She exited the room quietly, holding the coat tenderly in her hands. She gave it to him when they met in town without a single complaint. She never spoke about what she had found to Reiner or anyone else for that matter. 

Their now shared secret lay in a small box that once held shoes for a warrior.

[angstychilz]

Join the Winterkov Cult

So.... episode 6, huh. I'm just gonna be frank and say that I 100% ship the Winter King with Simon. These two old men should kiss, and I'm not about to act like I'm saying this in a joking way either. However, I do have a few things to say in regard to this ship.

Firstly, I get the people that don't ship Winterkov or say that they're joking whenever they make post about it, but there are people that do genuinely ship these two together. I get how self-shipping has gotten a bad rep due to the oncler and certain undertale shippers, but at its core, shipping is just supposed to be in good fun. Winterkov in itself is goofy in a way that's all in good fun.

If that makes you uncomfortable, that's also valid. Just don't tell me about it, and feel free to block. I don't really post on Tumblr much, but if I start to, one can possibly expect some Winterkov propaganda. Of course, the power of old man yaoi changed that.

If that makes me cringe...

✨️ Besides y'all, cringe culture is dead. ✨️

Also, in regards to the name, can we all just simultaneously agree to use the tag of Winterkov over Simoncest? The name Simoncest makes me think of incest which just isn't the case at all for this ship. Winter and Simon are two completely different characters, and the name Winterkov just sounds so much better. Plz and thank you.

That's basically everything I wanted to say. If there is anything else, I'll likely add it in the comments or make a follow-up post. Feel free to take this pic as a small treat to keep y'all warm on the road.

Art of Simon and Winter kissing was made by my good friend @veereality on Tumblr!

Anyway, ✨️Winterkov✨️ >>>> 🤢Simoncest🤮, I think they're pretty neat, and thanks for coming to my Ted talk.

[cowbeeboy]

Wifey what are your charthur headcannons the people deserve to know 🎤

omg okay here we go super huge post talking abt gay men headcanons.

arthur dedicating PAGES, because one page is just never enough, in his journal writing about/drawing charles. you look me in the eyes and tell me arthur doesn’t write about his feelings for charles in his journal like a schoolgirl in cringe love and then doodles charles shirtless, and you’ll be so dead wrong.

charles making arthur clothes. like winter coats and warm vests for when the weather gets just a bit chillier. and it’s clothes he handcrafted. for arthur. because he loves him. and arthur has a tendency to sometimes not take care of himself in small ways which frustrates charles. because he loves him. (and it’s all materials from their hunts together because duh).

hair. braiding. braiding hair. hair. charles actually cuts arthur’s hair. and arthur braids charles’s hair for him. and yes arthur definitely knows how to braid like cmon he’s a girls girl, and he had three sisters who he lived with and helped raise for the most part.

i, vehemently believe, that arthur morgan blushes like crazy at charles compliments. ESPECIALLY when they’re a little flirty too. he’ll act all dismissive and unaffected about it but his head is low so the brim of his hat covers how red his face got.

and charles? his blush is a different kind. charles blushes when he’s had a little too much whiskey to drink (on those few rare occasions that he does) and it’s the kind of blush that appears from all the thoughts he’s having. you know exactly what thoughts i’m talking abt.

i’m very, very certain they both have fallen asleep, more than once, during guard duty. and charles, the overly responsible man that he is, totally blamed arthur for it later because one) it wasn’t arthur’s turn so he shouldn’t have joined charles in the first place, and two) there’s a sense of relaxation charles finds within arthur’s presence and he cant understand it so its totally arthur’s fault charles fell asleep during guard duty.

take these for now and if anyone is interested in more i’ll do more😼 thank you my gorjus husband for giving me this wonderful opportunity to yap😚

[natsuki208]

Sonic 3 was AMAZING!!

(Warning! Movie spoilers ahead)

As a major Sonic fan ever since my early years, I highly appreciate the live action movie universe. They are a lot of fun most of the time while being both its own thing and respecting the games at the same time. So, of course, I was hyped to see this third instalment - it did not disappoint.

Well… mostly. I’ll explain as the review goes on.

As the second sequel, it did a magnificent job at continuing to develop the main characters. Sonic learning to be part of a team was all good and having brotherly connections with Tails and Knuckles is a joy to watch. Knuckles himself may be a little more goofy this time around, but that’s made up with a really good scene in the third act. Tom becoming more of a father figure to Sonic now, still giving him advice that returns later on in the film.

Oh ho, and Shadow. If you thought he was great in Shadow Generations, he is equally as well written here. From the animation of his expressions and the deliveries of Keanu’s performance to the layered backstory, this is all I want from our favourite introverted hedgie; not the edgie hedgie. And I will admit, I adore the flashbacks of him bonding with Maria, really showed why she was so important to him.

But now… I come to the one con I have. That is with Gerald Robotnik. I read online that it was going to be explained that Shadow’s chaos energy is why he stayed alive for 50 years, why wasn’t it in? Idk. But my main issue has to be the scenes of bonding with Eggman. Jim Carrey usually does a great job as the egg-shaped scientist, however, his humor in this movie felt really cringe to me. This led me to wishing Gerald remained dead like in the games.

Bonus point: The new female character I can give less than a sh** about; it should’ve been Rouge instead.

Thankfully I’m okay with the rest of the humor here. References to trivia like Knuckles hating ghosts, to Tom’s weird new hobbies, they all had a pretty solid landing (but the konichiwa joke was super painful).

Oh! And the addition of Live and Learn when Sonic and Shadow go super?! The icing on the cake! We need more real Sonic music in this universe! 🥰

Lastly, the post credit scene. I was slightly spoiled by YouTube comments but that didn’t stop me from being blown away by Amy’s entrance, beating up a Metal Sonic army like it was nothing - I guess the next movie will be based on Sonic CD but who knows.

Anyway, it was a great yet not perfect movie with a lot of heart put into it. It really deserves all the praise it can get. Left me hanging on the edge of tomorrow. 9/10. 👍

(See this?! In your face, live-action Mufasa!)

[euanslauner]

Mitsi villian Au

Hear. Me. Out (jk don't its midnight and I've lost it)

Now THIS is random.

Ok soo.. Since the moment Mitsi was created, she was helping others. A really good trait to have of course. But that begs the question, has anyone ever helped her? I mean, sure victim and agent probably contributed business wise but im not really talking abt that. Agent Smiths one job is to protect, and provide security duh. But even so he was unable to do so in her last moments. He was injured and all he could do was watch it go down. And ofc realistically Mitsi doesn't mind.. But what IF she did? What if she saw multiple people, gathered around her. Just watching her struggle. She, who even in moments of distress was quick to save others, without an ounce of doubt. She would NEVER let someone struggle like that, at least not alone. And so there she was, struggling. Before she knew it KABOOM she's dead. And keep in mind this was most likely not a quick death, it wasn't like TDL's triangle weapon that just deleted their code, it was a legitimate explosion like she got injured beyond repair and died. Im not really sure how that even works but I digress. Her kindness really was her greatest weakness. In a Villian au I guess she would want to get some sort of revenge, im not sure what tho... I haven't really thought abt it that much I really need to sleep goodness. It's so late I can't process anything augh.

Ok perhaps not a villian au, but when she's resurrected by TSC which I know is happening bruh alan ur storyline is transparent/jjnsrs AHEM anyway

IF she is resurrected by a certain orange hollow head, perhaps she doesn't run to hug Victim. In fact, she has lived 4 years in the OuterNet, and 13 years in whatever stick overworld there is. What if she already moved on. Its really likely.

Anyway if you are SOMEHOW inspired by this post please draw villian Mitsi I will litterally do 26 backflips on a thin tightrope above the Atlantic sea please.

Random!!

WAIT THE SONG REVIVED IS KINDA FITTING BUT LITTERALLY ALL THE LYRICS ARE MORE TDL CODED IMO GO LISTEN TO REVIVED BY DERVIKAT IF U ARE INTERESTED

13 ½ years? Umm Mitsi litterally spent exactly that no way :0

⬇️ the song lyrics

⬆️ .

Bruh ive been listening to Revived and at first it was cringe dsmp memories but now its litterally TDL athem like this also goes very well with my Overworld Au stay tuned for that lolol <3

Hahaha I need sleep badly

[igotanidea]

Specter: Jason Todd x ghost!reader (pt 1)

Warnings: death of reader (duh!), death and resurrection of the other main character, angst

***

She was his best friend.

His only friend.

More than his friend.

Knowing each other since they were kids running loose on the streets of Gotham forced to tend to themselves.

He chuckled at the memory of their first meeting.

Fighting over few apples and a half loaf of bread she managed to rim from some man while batting her elalashes and making innocent face of a street-starving girl.

Well, she was a street starving girl, but as far away from innocent as they come, of which fact Jason was almost brutally made aware upon trying to steal some of it from her. Gaining a bruised eye and a scratch that left a tiny scar on his arm instead.

A well-deserved scar, cause even after all those years he was mentally cringing at the memory he was actually trying to rob a girl his age of food. Terrible thought. In his defence, he was starving himself.

Fortunately, they somehow came to an agreement and since then, there was always someone to care for and who could take care of them by their side.

Y/N and Jason.

Together even when not.

Inseparable even after that batmobil-tires accident, cause there was no way in hell Jason would start living with the Bruce Wayne and left his best only friend behind.

Nah.

So would anyone be surprised that after a while they actually started falling in love? Or maybe they were in love from the beggining since the apples but never noticed?

The point however stood, obvious to everyone but those two donkey level stubborn young adults.

So apart from a few stolen kisses, helluva blushing, talking through the nights, secret awkward hugs and one��attempt at intimacy, nothing—

Ok, you know what scratch that last sentence. A LOT has happened in the span of a few weeks. And it brought them significantly closer. Hoping for more and actually trying to work towards more.

So when Jason, at the mature age of 16 went for another Batman-related mission, he pecked her lips and promised to have the real talk about their future when he gets back.

Spoiler alert: He never did.

And when Batman walked to the Batcave with no Robin to follow him and broke the news it was like Y/N’s heart was gone with Jason’s life.

Torn from her chest since at that moment it stopped beating and everything lost its meaning.

She refused to eat, drink, talk and get up in the morning. Spending her days in isolation or sitting by his symbolical grave since the body was never found.

Withering her young life away at the graveyard.

No one ever told her the truth.

***

Miraculously Jason came back five years later. Completely different than a scrawny kid everyone used to know him. Raging terror upon Gotham for a while before actualy forming some kind of allegiance with the Bats. And at some point, the question had to be asked. And the hard truth had to be revealed.

„Where is Y/N?” he whispered, getting shy, gulit, regret and remorse filling him to the brim as he was searching through the entire manor in search for her.

A few saddened looks were exchanged between his siblings as those words rung in the air.

Oh, no.

„Where the hell is she?!” Jason yelled, ready to punch a wall, hit Dick in the face and beat the shit out of Bruce for keeping something from him.

„Jaybrird—„

„Do not fucking call me that Grayson! Where is my Y/N?!”

„No one told you—„

„She;s dead.” Damian muttered, unaware of the consequences of dropping such a bomb on his brother. „We burried her a year—„

Jason roared like a wounded animal, nearly making the glass in the window shutter.

„DEAD?!!”

„Jason—„

„STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!”

„I think you should-„

„YOU DON’T GET TO TELL ME WHAT I SHOULD BE DOING DICKHEAD!”

The rage creeping inside Jason’s head and heart was suffocating. Beating the post-Pit madness multiple times and seeming neverending. He panted and wailed, wanting to destroy something. Kill someone. Anyone, but preferably the one responsible for Y/N;s premature departure from the world. Set a fire to the manor. Break into the League of Assasin’s headquarters and let them kill him. For good this time. Crawl into the deepest darkest pit and die.

„Jason—„

„WHO DID THIS?!”

„It was—„

„I WANT A NAME!”

„We don’t-„

„I WANT THAT PERSON;S HEAD ON A STICK!”

No matter how hard Dick, Tim, Cass, Steph and Barbara tried to get to him (cause obviously Damian was just watching with curiosity), nothign worked.

„It was an accident.” Bruce muttered, finally joining the family allured by the screams.

„AN ACCIDENT?!”

„A car crash. She was just a pedestian, did nothing wrong. The driver was DUI.”

„SO WHAT?! YOU’RE A FUCKING BILLIONAIRE, YO COULDN’T HAVE PROVIDED HER WITH A GOOD FUCKING DOCTOR!?”

„She died instantly.”

„SHE—„ Jason’s voice broke, all the anger finally subsiding replaced by the pain. „She what- ?”

„I am sorry jason…”

„SHE WAS YOUR RESPONSIBLITY!”

„No, she was your resposibilty Jason. You were the one who befrended her, fell for her, brought her into this life. Should have known better.”

„SHUT UP!”

„She stayed here after you died instead of moving forward, unable to forget you.”

„SHUT THE FUCK UP!” it was impossible to listen to Bruce only fueling up the guilt and pain iside Jason’s heart.

„She—„

„Master Bruce.” Now Alfred came into the scene, preventing another blood bath that were bound to happen between a father and a son. ‘Perhaps we should give master Jason some space now. Miss Y/N’s death took a heavy toll on all of us, didn;t it?”

”Hm.”

„Come Jay. Upstairs.” Cass smiled at him to the best of her abilities „You need rest.”

Hazily he took a few steps forward but didn;t miss Bruce’s pained whisper and haunted expression.

„You’re not the only one who lost her…”

***

It’s been five years since then.

But now, as Jason was standing by her grave it all felt surreal.

Y/N Y/L/N, daughter, friend, prankster.

That last word was something she would laugh at.

But he was not.

Five years. The same amount he was gone, same amount for which she believed him to be dead, visiting his grave.

Did she feel all those feels he was dealing with right now?

Emptiness.

Numbness.

Anger.

And that pressuring what if-.

They could have been happy together. Working though their difficulties and becoming real. Maybe starting a family. Escaping all this shitty vigilantism life pushed them both into.

Destroying both of their lifes.

One cold six feet under, the other cold six feet inside.

„I miss you.” He whispered in the space, putting a buquet of flowers on the ground next to the ledger „You will forever be the one to haunt me.”

With that he turned around, walking away with head hung low and hands in the pockets of his jacket.

Getting back to his apartment.

In which she could have been with him if things were to work out differently.

part 2 : phantom