#i hope it isn't too shitty

[togetherasone]

COWBOYS FROM HELL . SECONDO

Pairing: Outlaw!Secondo x Fem!Reader (crossover between Ghost and Red Dead Redemption and Copia is part of the bloodline because I can).

Summary: Tales of the Emeritus Brothers have traveled every corner of the Wild West since dawn of time. You had heard about them for the first time when you were a child. Your grandfather would sit outside and paint a world of chaos and destruction to you. For most of your life, that was what they were. Tales. Until their rage fell upon you and the tales turned to reality. Or the one where our beloved Papas are the leaders of a gang in the 1899 Wild West.

Word count: 4.3k

Warnings: Graphic depctions of violence, minor character death, implied/referenced talk about rape, objectification, mentions of blood, mentions of a large abdominal wound, dubious morality.

Parts: One (Cowboys from Hell) | Two (Wounds, stews and silver masks)

Notes: Will I ever continue this? Will this turn into an enemies to lovers thing? Will our boys have a redemption arc? Will they all die at the end? I have no idea. What I know is that I had so much fun writing about evil brothers being the bringers of chaos in the 1899 Wild West. This writing was 100% inspired by this amazing art. I swear I stared at it for, like, two hours. Also, although I mentioned places, weapons and outfits from the game (because I just had to… Sorry, my mind likes a lot to specify things), they definitely shouldn't stop you from reading this if you haven't played the game! Keep in mind that English isn't my first language. Sorry in advance for any mistakes. Enjoy!

If you prefer to read on AO3, here it is!

If you want to take a look at my other writings, here they are!

If you want to discover the Red Dead Redemption World, here is an interactive map (it's mainly for Red Dead Online, but choose the "Hide All" option and you should be able to properly study the map — this chapter is set in Ambarino, more specifically, in Grizzlies West) and here is the page where it all begins (feel free to explore the infinite pages they have about the game, including a page about weapons and other about clothes).

The logs crackled and popped in the fireplace. Umidity had permanently settled itself inside the hut, a timeless, silent, mysterious resident, which lurked in the shadows and corroded bones. The fire flickered under its influence, fighting to stay alight. You were just another visitor. Suceeded countless other visitors. Pioneers, scouts, lawmen, outlaws, gangs and gunslingers, gamblers, naturalists, bounty hunters, traders, collectors. People who had ventured north only to meet Winter. And, along with it, death. Cold had clawed at skin and bone. Only ghost stories remained, and, whenever the wind blew, they resonated inside the hut, a million voices crying for help.

And there you were.

The hut was small. Its walls were made of wood. When the wind blew harder, it whistled through the cracks between the logs. There was one bed, one table, one chair, one shelf. The bed was placed on the same wall as the fireplace. The table and the shelf were placed on the opposite wall. The former, under a window covered with a ragged blue curtain. A small kitchen had been built in the farthest corner of the hut. The counter bore a sink. It was rounded and shallow. So shallow that it was impossible to fit both hands under the tap when washing them. A cauldron had been abaondoned beside the counter. Food had rotted inside the counter and stained the wood. Other than the stains, the counter was empty.

Marion coughed. Weakly and lowly. You averted your eyes to her emaciated body, a small lump underneath a ragged blanket. She shivered, pulling the blanket closer in a useless attempt to warm herself. Her fingers tightly wrapped around the blanket. They were slender and firm, capable of shooting a rifle with incredible precision, but, in the matter of a week, they became bony and weak, uncapable of holding a spoon with minimum steadiness.

"I-In the bleak m-midwinter... In the... In the bleak midwinter... In t-the bleak midwinter..."

A dagger sliced your heart. Her voice was low and quavering; her breath, shallow and accelerated. Your fingers tightened around the cup between your hands. It was old, rusty and faded. Spirals of steam rose from it and perfumated the air with the scent of coffee. "Frosty wind made moan," you continued.

"F-Frosty wind m-made..."

She coughed again. Silence fell in the hut, except for the logs crackling and popping in the fireplace.

"Earth stood hard as iron," you insisted.

"Earth..." Marion begun, but her low voice faded into a ragged breath.

"Stood hard as iron."

Tears blurred your vision as you supressed a sob. Desperation filled your bloodstream. You had tried to avoid the truth. But, now, it was impossible to ignore it. Marion was dying. And there was nothing you could do to save her, except watch life drip from her eyes at each passing day. The deep wound on her right thigh had turned into a black mass of rotten tissue that had started to spread in all directions no matter what you did. You had three and a half bottles of Medicine, five doses of Chewing Tobacco and four bottles of potent tonics. But they were all over, and, apparently, useless despite their promising results on the first days. You had even tried Moonshine and Cocaine Gum, but they were equally useless.

It had been a day since you had arrived at that forgotten-by-God hut in that forgotten-by-God land. Not that you had a choice. The Emeritus Boys had massacrated your gang. They were popularly known as the Cowboys from Hell. Legend said they sold their souls to the Devil and ravaged the Wild West in His name, bearing skull face-paints and riding horses in flames that destroyed everything on their way. They were followed by countless masked people. It was believed they had been, once, victims of the Emeritus Brothers, and were possessed by the Devil. Their masks had the shape of the Devil, with horns and two holes for the eyes that, rumor had it, were useless, because only their sockets had remained.

When you were little, your grandfather used to tell stories of their heartless undertakings, and you hung on every single word that fell from his lips. Usually, he sat on a rocking chair at the front porch, peacefully smoking a cigarette, and you would seat in front of him, insistently begging for stories. You had promised you would protect him, and the rest of the family, if they ever set foot in your ranch as you aimed an unloaded carbine at the horizon.

The stories faded. So did the promise. Your grandfather passed away, and the Emeritus Brothers never set foot in your ranch. But tuberculosis did, and your unloaded carbine was useless to protect your family. First, it was your brother. Then, months later, your mother. Your father sold the ranch, believing a curse had befallen it, and you moved from sunny Henningan's Stead to cloudy Big Valley. A new life. That, nonetheless, never worked for your father. He ended up dying years later, drunk and lost inside his mind. You had to figure out a life for yourself.

Ended up becoming a bounty hunter, and, then, joining a gang.

A week prior, when the Emeritus Brothers appeared in the dead of the night, the stories, although faded, had turned to reality; and the promise, although faded, story. Again, you had failed to protect what you now called family. And miserably. There were no horses in flames, but four men in skull face-paints and men in masks with horns and two holes for the eyes destroyed Rowe manor.

Chester "Bad" Rowe, the gang leader, had played with fire, and, thus, suffered the consequences. So did the gang.

Suddenly, the door opened. Russell, Tim and Fannie entered the hut. And, along with them, cold, uninvited. The wind blew behind them, pushing snow inside, and the fire violently danced on the fireplace.

You abruptly stood from the chair, which loudly screeched against the floor. "The fire, damn it!"

Russell huffed and rushed to close the door. Tim glared at you as he yanked the leather gloves from his hands. A rabbit rested over his shoulder. And that was that.

"One rabbit? Really?"

"Feel free to hunt yourself," Tim irritatedly mumbled.

You glared at him, "Tomorrow."

Sustaining your glare, Tim abandoned the rabbit on the wooden table. It collapsed with a thud against it, making the rest of the coffee wave inside your cup, and you averted your gaze to the dead animal. It was a scrawny rabbit, with grey fur and long ears.

"Clean it," he spat.

You pushed him against the nearest wall, forearm pressing against his chest and hand fisting a bunch of fabric of the jacket he wore. "Don't fucking tell me what to do."

You pulled your dagger from your belt, pressing the cold blade against his throat. A single tear had streamed down your face and the path created by it shone under the fire. It stood out amongst the dirt and soot on your face.

"Hey..." Russell touched your shoulder. Fannie stood behind him in a stony silence. You exchanged a glance with her. "C'mon, stop it."

"The new leader of the gang, or, well, what rested of it," Tim ironically grinned at you, ignoring Russell and Fannie beside him.

"I needn't be a leader to cut your damn throat, bastard" you mumbled trough gritted teeth. The blade cut his skin and blood trickled out of the superficial cut, staining his clothes.

"Earth s-stood hard as iron," Marion softly mumbled from the bed. "Earth... In the bleak..."

Russell was filled with consternation for his wife. There she rested, with no prospects of getting better, and you fought because of a rabbit.

"Dear God, let the rabbit with me!" he spat at you and Tim, burrying the axe in his hand in the table and opening a crack in its wooden surface. "Stop this nonsense!"

You released Tim, and he spat on the ground. "Was it you that told the Emeritus Brothers where to find Chet? Brought those skulls and demons to do the dirty job for you so you could steal his position?"

"Tell me, what has that done for me? Starving in the middle of nowhere. No food, no medicine, nothing!" you answered. "You should work for the Pinkertons with those clever assumptions, Tim. You'd go far," you joked, an amused smile playing on your lips.

In the blink of an eye, you had been pinned to the ground. You winced when the back of your head hit the hard surface. The air was knocked out of your lungs by the weight of Tim on you. The chair fell beside you with a loud thud, and your dagger clanked away from your hand. Russell protested against the fight again. Fannie stood beside him in a stony silence.

"Whore," Tim shouted above you. It seemed his face was going to explode. Red and swollen. Veins pulsated on his forehead, and beads of saliva rested on his chin. "I could spill your guts right here on this filthy floor."

"Do it," you challenged him. Your heart rumbled inside your chest. Adrenaline and fear filled your bloodstream. "Do it."

He fumed at you, but did nothing.

"In the bleak midwinter... In the..."

You pushed him from the top of you and sat up, your hand reaching for your dagger. "Coward."

Tim pushed himself up with a struggle, but once he stood up, he spat on you. His saliva landed on your clothed thigh, and you frowned at it. You had had much worse before.

Once you slotted the dagger in your belt and stood up, Russell had pulled the rabbit skin from its muscles, and Fannie had pulled vegetables from her satchel, one carrot and one potato.

"I'll get water for the stew," you announced to no one in particular, your fingers snatching the cauldron from its corner. You definitely could fill the utensil with water from the tap if water actually came out of it, but only droplets of water mixed with rust did.

"Be careful," Fannie matter-of-factly stated.

You yanked the door open and stepped outside. You never left the hut alone, but given the tension brewing inside it, time alone would be a gift. You felt sorry for Marion.

It was dark and windy. Cold gnawed on your bones as you attached the cauldron to and hung a lamp on your saddle, in front of the chest of the animal, and mounted your horse. It neighed, maybe in protest against the journey, but obeyed you nonetheless and walked to the riverbank. The Glacier flowed east, to the Spider Gorge, approximately three miles north of the hut. You walked between the dense forest. The light emanating from the lamp fluttered before you, the paws of your horse sank in the snow, a path forming behind it.

The wind blew silently, digging its way through leaves, branches and trunks. A crack of sky was visible between the thin leaves; it was the navy-blue of the ocean, and everything was quiet except for an owl peeping lowly in the distance. You pricked up your ears to carefully listen to any small sound. It was well-known wolves wandered around the mountains, but none interrupted the journey to the riverbank.

You submerged the cauldron and shivered at the contact of your skin with the water, an icy handshake embrancing your fingers, then your hands. The metallic utensil quickly filled with water. You carried it to your horse when a wolf howled in the distance. You instantly stopped moving, body freezing in place, as still as the trees that surrounded you. Your horse whined in fear, and you glared at it. Your breath condensated in the air as soon as you exhaled.

You cursed the water for hampering your attempt to listen to the forest. The howl was followed by barks and growls. There was more than one wolf. Seconds passed before you decided to move. It would be better if you had a gun in your hand. You attached the cauldron back to your saddle.

"Quiet," you shushed your horse. Not that it would actually keep it quiet, but fear clawed at your bones. Facing a lonely wolf was entirely different from facing a wolf pack all by yourself.

A gunshot echoed in the distance, followed by more barks.

You were accompanied. And by the loudness of it, they were close.

Your horse protested, its front paws kicking the air. You hoped the water would muffle the sounds coming from the animal. Knew it was a matter of time before the wolves heard it or, well, sniffed it. You pulled your Springfield Rifle from your saddle. Another gunshot echoed in the distance. The wolves barked and growled. You stepped around a large tree, studying your surroudings.

You walked towards the sounds, slow and silent. You took advantage of the low trunks and the darkness to hide yourself from sight. The Glacier flowed behind you as you headed southeast.

"Stay," you mumbled to your horse. It exhaled in response and agitated its head, the reins clicking around its neck.

Every cell of your body begged you to be sensible and run from trouble, but you would return with a wolf in the back of your horse. Would rub salt in the wound. Tim "Dickhead" Swanson deserved it. And, well, moreover, you were starving. The rabbit would do for a thin stew. And Marion, obviously, would get the largest portion. And you, Russell, Fannie and Tim would share its remainings just to calm your nervous stomachs, but not to fill them. The prospect of a decent meal enticed your senses.

You reached a clearing. On the opposite edge, two wolves circled a lump in the snow. A low growl rumbled from their throat. They were big wolves, with grey fur and long tails. Your stomach churned with hunger. One wolf lay dead on your right, and a trail of blood traveled to where the other wolves stood. You should be fast. Other wolves might sniff the blood and you would be dead if a whole wolf pack surrounded you. You aimed at the neck of one of the wolves and pulled the trigger. It yowled and staggered before falling over the lump in the snow. When the other wolf turned to you, you noticed a foot behind it. The animal angrily advanced towards you, and you blindly shot it, your feet tumbling backwards. It seemed your heart would explode inside your chest. The wolf whined and fell on the snow. The forest fell silent.

You pushed your body up from the snow as you whistled for your horse. Once you crossed the clearing, you noticed that the foot you had seen belonged to Tim. What was the bastard doing there? What had happened after you left to fill the cauldron?

Tim rested under the first wolf you had shot, and was alive. It was possible to hear a shallow breath escaping from his lips. The fear poisoning your bloodstream was instantly replaced by rage.

The wolf that had fallen over his body hid the wound the animals had caused, but it must be large since blood abundantly stained the snow around him.

You pulled your Schofield Revolver from your belt and pointed at him. Your finger rested on the trigger. Tim had no force to open his eyes, to speak, to breathe. To react at the gun pointed at him. Judging by the gravity of the wound, Tim would certainly die no matter what you did. And you already had to take care of Marion. And you had no medicine. Nothing.

If you shot him, it would be an act of mercy.

So you did.

The bullet carved its way through his chest, and you would never admit that peace filled your heart at the sight of his dead body. You loudly exhaled. Tears blurred your vision as you suppressed a laugh. You would have to lie to Fannie. Would have to hide the fact that you had shot her husband. Would say the wolves did it. Which, actually, wasn't a lie. You had just finished their job. Right?

You slotted the revolver in your belt and hang the rifle across your chest. Then, you kneeled in front of the first wolf you shot. It was a perfect shot, and the meat of the animal would be intact. Once you pulled the wolf from over the body, blood gurgled from the wound. As you suspected, it was large. His skin had been tore apart and his guts had been exposed, intestines destroyed.

"The tables have turned, fucker. I spilled your guts," you spat at the corpse in front you.

You had definitey gone mad.

You panted as you lifted the wolf to place it on the back of your horse. Your fingers knotted ropes around it when you heard steps behind the trees. They belonged to no animal, too loud for a predator that wished to hide from its prey.

You immediatelly snatched the rifle from your back. You waited. Were in disadvantage, exposed in the clearing. Your horse sensed your nervousness and neighed.

"In the bleak midwinter," you mumbled to yourself, your fingers mindlessly tightening around the gun.

A shadow stepped from the forest. Your eyes widened in shock at the sight in front of you, but you swept the emotion from your face before he could notice it and replaced it with rage. Deep and intense rage.

The man held a personalized Litchfield Repeater, wore a black Walden Coat, black leather gloves, black Buckley hat. And, around his neck, a cross. An upside down cross with a circle around it. And, on his face, a skull paint.

His lips were tinted black and crossed by thin lines imitating the exposed teeth of a skull. His cheeks showed black patches that stretched towards his ears and, from there, towards his neck. His eyes were surrounded by black circles and, to your bewilderment, had different colors. From where you stood, it was impossible to make out the color of his right eye — in fact, it seemed there was no eye there, the black paint and the shadows strangely camuflated it —, but his left eye... Was white. And it eerily shone in the darkness. A shiver shot through your spine.

"This is indeed a forgotten-by-God land."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed.

"But I dare say... Too cold for the Devil."

He remained silent, a mischievous smile contorting his lips.

"What're you doing here?"

"The Devil," he licked his lips as he stepped towards you. "Has unfinished business in this land."

"And where're your brothers to help you? I expected the whole entourage, the Four Horseman of Apocalypse an' shit," you defiantly said. Had just killed two wolves and a man, and the adrenaline of doing so crawled under your skin and, apparently, prevented your mind from thinking straight. Perhaps not only adrenaline. But rage either. And... You had to admit fear had its share of your skin, but you refused to show it. At least, tried not to show it. He certainly noticed the tight grip of your fingers around your gun, or the slight frown on your face, or the nervous gulp of your throat.

His mismatched eyes sparkled at the insolence on your voice.

You had lost everything because of them and were thirsty for vengeance. Had sworn to hunt the Emeritus Brothers down and kill one by one. Had no clue the prey would willingly walk towards you. People said revenge was a dish best served cold, but you would say it was a dish best eaten.

"Well, you must agree with me that it would be a waste for the four of us to come for a lonely deer."

"And you volunteered to be the hunter?"

"In fact, yes... I like hunting. Especially preys such as you,” he menacingly circled you. “That think of themselves as wolves, but, in fact, are just deers. Scared and fragile deers. 'S pitiful, but endearing."

You glared at him, your eyes following his steps and mind searching for alternatives to escape from him alive, but nothing came to it. There was only one way out. Your hands slid over the gun, placing themselves on the appropriate spots for a shot.

"No talking anymore?" he nonchalantly asked from behind your horse, clearly more interested in it than in you. It was your chance to shoot your way out of that. You just had to circle your horse and shoot him. Wherever. Just to wound him and gain a few seconds to, then, aim properly at him, preferably at his head, and shoot him again. You could do it. You had just killed two wolves. "This is a fine animal."

He touched the neck of the horse, a black Turkoman horse. Fantastic health, good stamina and fast speed. The animal impatiently neighed, and responded to the touch with a shake of the head. "Ah," he delighfully exclaimed, "A rebel horse. The best ones, right?"

"Under unknown touch," you irritatedly stated, your body turning towards him. Only the left portion of his head and neck were visible behind the horse. You refused to hurt it. The only alternative was indeed to circle it. The emotions inside your body collided and churned. There were too many, and you were growing tired of them. Of the suspense. Of standing in the edge of the precipice, uncertain about who would fall. "Tame it and its yours."

"How about you?"

Your heart missed a beat. No. No, no, no. No. You nearly puked at the words, at the wicked smile. God forgave you for murder. You would commit another one.

"How about you?" he impatiently repeated.

You loudly whistled, and your horse quickly disappeared inside the forest surrouding you, the wolf swaying on his back. The confusion created by the sudden movement allowed you to attack him before he attacked you. Your hands trembled so much that your finger pulled the trigger before you could aim at any portion of his body, and the shot missed him. He angrily growled at you, his fingers swiftly traveling to the trigger of his gun.

Instead of trying to shoot him again, you took advantage of his occupied arms and hit his neck with the body of your gun to gain space. It would be easier to shoot him if the distance between you was larger. He huffed and stumbled backwards. Was bigger and stronger, so you had to move fast before he recovered balance, but he ended up falling on the snow with a thud as you ran to him.

Once you stepped over his body, he shot you. The bullet hit your left arm, and you desperately shouted as your body burnt in pain. It slowed your movement and stealed your strenght on the limb, but you kicked his hands and fell over him. His gun tumbled on the snow and he noticed it would be useless to reach for it, so he fought you with bare hands.

You pressed the body of your gun against his neck. The fibers of your body fought against him, desperately tried to maintain your position over him, but he fiercely writhed. Gasped and cursed you as you watched his eyes widen under the pressure on his neck. Tears blurred your vision, and blood soaked your clothes. It seemed your left arm would combust with all the strength you mustered from it to maintain the gun in place.

Then, it actually combusted. When he sank one of his fingers inside the hole the bullet had carved on your skin. You screamed as you had never done before. You were certain it echoed around Ambarino. He pushed your body from over him and stretched for his gun.

Then, a hand fisted your hair from behind and pulled your head back. You winced at the new pain. "Well, well, well, fratellino... What a treat."

On your knees, you desperately observed your surroundings. An upside down cross dangled from the neck of the man who held you in place. You needn't look at his face to know he wore a skull paint either. You silently cried. It had all been in vain. The first brother had been playing you all along. Had let you start the fight. Had let you exhaust your strength. So that he could laugh at you in the end.

He pointed his gun at you, his lips pursing in a wicked grin. "Indeed, a rebel horse. Tame it and its yours."

Steps thuded around the edge of the clearing. Two more figures joined the ones who were already there. One of them pulled your horse and another one. The other one pulled three more horses.

"Ah! The whole entourage, the Four Horseman of Apocalypse an' shit," Secondo spat. "Well, let me introduce myself and my brothers to you. I'm Secondo. The man behind you, the oldest brother, is Primo. The man by your horse, Terzo. And the man by the other horses, the youngest brother, Copia."

It was impossible to look at all of them when the man introduced as Primo had such fierce grip on your hair. Your horse entered your field of vision, so did the third brother.

"What a beauty," he tutted, his fingers holding your chin. "No need to cry, mia cara," he gently wiped your tears. You hated the touch of his gloved hand on your skin and closed your eyes. "Me and my brothers will take good care of you, si?"

You wanted to puke.

Then, he turned to Secondo. "Will you share her, fratello?"

"If you tame her, fratellino..." Secondo joked. The men laughed in unisson. It disgusted you to your core the way they talked about you as though you were a piece of meat. You would kill them, one by one. "She 'as fire in her eyes, oh, she does. Killed two wolves and that ol' bastard there before I showed up."

"In the bleak midwinter..." you trembly whispered. More tears rolled down your cheeks.

Another hand grabbed your chin, rougher this time. You opened your eyes. Secondo stood right before you. "You come with us. We still need to find your friends. You didn't fill this cauldron or kill this wolf for them to starve, yeah?"

PLEASE, CONSIDER REBLOGGING THIS AND/OR GIVING ME FEEDBACK, I WOULD APPRECIATE IT A LOT!

[exceptionally-stupid]

[silverware-is-interesting]

got some sketches of the band au

Note: these are not final, design's are likely going to change when i eventually clean them up. they all technically have 2 outfits (onstage n offstage) these are just the onstage fits

idk what to make the tag for this au tbh "kinitopet band au" seems kinda boring... ANYWAYS! Have a terrible overview of the concept so far. n the band members too ig

Meet the KinitoBAND (placeholder name while i think, i'm open to suggestions though). They're a rather niche yet beloved band who play a multitude of different genres. all of their songs have a rather upbeat nature, or, they used to. lately they've been leaning more into rock and sometimes it just gets a little... strange... wonder why that is? they're actually more like vocaloids(???) that are programmed like Kinito with the react response algorithm (Kinito's i more advanced, but they've all got it) so if they ever did interact it'd be alright. the programmer (Sonny C) had initially only meant for there to be a vocalist but there was a decision somewhere to make a band (so there's a drummer and a guitarist too)

Let's get into the characters

Kinito The vocalist + tech Kinito is a fan-favourite, to be expected of the one who is always in view front 'n center. personality-wise he's similar to his canon counterpart, just a bit (emphasis on bit) more chill. i've imagined him to get a little... parasocial with his fans who probably just went for the music. he has a bit of a persona on stage, you could say. he's more energetic and in general might be a little more aggressive than usual, especially lately.

Sam The drummer Sam isn't quite as popular as Kinito, but he's got quite a few fans who might not gravitate towards Kinito like almost all the promotional material wants you to or people who like the drums. personality - Sam has a calm, almost 'cool guy' demeanor. he acts relitivley the same on and off stage. Jade the guitarist Jade, unfortunately, is the least popular member of the band. She's got a couple devoted fans, but noticeably less than the others. just as intended. personality- she's quite resourceful and the most upfront about things of the band. she's generally louder than the others, not on purpose, she's just not the best at maintain a good speaking volume.

[yourlowkeyidiot3]

Salty rant v2

This is basically me angrily screaming about Ford again (wow what a surprise) to a wall (myself, my rotten brain and my blog) so feel free to skip this

Fuck it I'll bite

Gf fans when you tell them Ford had every right to be mad at Stan for ruining his Project (he saw it as the only chance to prove himself and get accepted in his dream school, and even tho WE know it was an accident, Ford doesn't he thinks it was a purpose sabotage and it really doesn't help that Stan didn't told him which resulted in him making a fool of himself Infront of ppl he wanted to impress and then Stan tried to pass it off as something that didn't matter even tho it mattered so much to Ford, like of course he'd be mad everyone would be mad in his position)

Gf fans when you tell them it's not Ford's fault that Stan got kicked out it's all Filbricks fault (seriously guys, blame the fucking abusive father, not the 17 year old living in an abusive household)

Gf fans when you tell them standing up against an abusive person (especially if they're your parent) is hard to do for yourself let alone for someone else

Gf fans when you tell them Ford wasn't the "golden/favourite child" Filbrick dgaf about him and only wanted to use his intelligence for money and both Ford and Stan were abused just in different ways (seriously find a different dynamic to describe an abusive household than "golden child" and "scapegoat" I say as I put a gun in your head)

Gf fans when you tell them Ford wanting to go to college isn't egotistical

Gf fans when you tell them Ford wanting to make a name for himself doesn't make him egotistical (he literally grew up in an abusive household, and was bullied and treated like an outcast for most of his life, him seeking out validation is a trauma response not egotism)

Gf fans when you tell them if Ford is petty for correcting Stan's grammar then Stan is equally as petty for refusing to hold his hand over a thank you literally seconds ago (of course he had the right to want him to thank him and be mad, but it was the END OF THE WORLD, they are both responsible in that scene)

Gf fans when you tell them Ford isn't ignorant for being manipulated by Bill cuz 1) Bill is a master manipulator who's managed to manipulate and terrorise humanity since forever using lies/flattery/fear 2) despite having a high IQ he has a low EQ and therefore isn't able to tell if someone has ill intentions due to being....an outcast and therefore doesn't have the social skills to be able to tell others true intentions/manipulations which made him an easy victim for Bill (do u guys even know what manipulation means)

Gf fand when you tell them the reason why Ford didn't try to reach out to Stan was because he thought he was doing fine since he had seen an ad of his on tv (he had no way of knowing Stan was still homeless anymore, and you don't usually see homeless people's ads on tv), not because he didn't care

Gf fans when you tell them Ford didn't force Fiddleford to do shit for him, and that he was against the use of the memory gun and wanted him to get rid of it but Fiddleford literally erased his memories of it so he could continue using it. And that therefore Ford isn't to blame for everything that happened with the memory gun just cuz Fiddleford had bad coping mechanisms. (Seriously you all are acting as if he pointed the memory gun on his head and forced him to abandon his family and build him the portal. No!! Fiddleford made those decisions himself he could had left Gravity Falls at any moment and return to his family but no he didn't, he chosed to stay and start a fucking cult. That is on him. Not on Ford)

Gf fans when you tell them the way Ford acted during the time where he was literally being abused, manipulated and isolated by a demon is way more complex and naused than "ego! ego!".. because he was literally being abused and manipulated...

Gf fans when you tell them the reason why Ford called Stan to hide his journals wasn't because he only wanted to use him as a way to fix his mistakes but because he was literally really desperate and feared for the safety of the world and he didn't have anyone else he could trust and that he was hella traumatized due to being literally tortured both physically and phycological and sleep deprived and on the bring of insanity (of fucking course he wasn't gonna act logically and say mean shit he didn't actually mean, he was losing his mind! Stan had also said mean shit to him because he was angry but nobody talks about that)

Gf fans when you tell them Ford being mad at Stan for opening the portal is understandable, because 1) he literally ignored all the warnings that the portal could potentially destroy the whole world and 2) he was literally about to FINALLY killing Bill after 30 years of fighting for his life in the multiverse to try and find a way to

Gf fans when you tell them Ford's trust issues are completely understandable because he was literally betrayed, manipulated and abused by the "person" he trusted the most (Bill). And the other two people he trusted did something that hurt his trust on him (Fiddleford erasing his memories, Stan ruining his project)

Gf fans when you tell them Ford's and Bill's relationship isn't "toxic yaoi/messy divorce!" And that it was incredible abusive and that FORD was a victim ( average gf fan claims they "don't romantize/support the toxic ((call it abusive guys, that's literally what it is)) elements of this ship I just like to explore unhealthy dynamics in fiction:) *proceeds to make 10 posts of "he fucked the triangle!" jokes and gets mad at you if you actually point out the abuse and makes 100 aus where they get back together/stay together*

Gf fans when I tell them that I really don't care about what Alex has said about Ford being "egotistical" or "ignorant" because that's also the same guy who said he didn't intended for Pacifica to come off as a victim of abuse because controlling your child with a bell is total normal parent behaviour guys (/s). (I stopped listening to most of the stuff he said after that, not gonna lie, cuz most of the stuff he says about Ford's "ego" and "ignorance" are flat out victim blaming) ((I mean come on guys, he literally says he based Ford's and Bill's relationship off REAL LIFE toxic relationships he's seen and then he goes and says shit like how it's Ford's own "ego and ignorance" fault that he's ended up in that situation. Don't you guys think that's a bit weird))

[chrisbangs]

i finished thesis, won an award, and have graduated.. hello 👋🥸

[themthistles]

i think what makes d.p. a story with actual substance, not empty pandering is that rather than taking a 'few bad apples ruining the system' stance, they go for a 'few good apples rotting in the system' approach. good intentions are not enough. pbg rose up with the goal of surviving abuse, ljs tries to follow his own idea of justice, both upholding status quo, staying within the bounds. in ljs's case it turns him into someone reactionary and violent and pbg becomes the opposite: passive and defeatist, saying our hands are tied, what can we do until he's called out on it by a person harmed by his inaction. until he's asked by junho if not us then who the hell is going to deal with it? you can't reform a broken system from inside out. you can only step out and dismantle it, slowly, methodically but with drastic action and great sacrifice. that is why pbg does what he does. he attempts to take his cog out of the machine and throw it, make some ripples. do something, anything, instead of making excuses. we didn't win but we didn't lose. i can't imagine anyone coming away from this season not thinking deeply about the systems that control our lives and what we can do about them

[chernayavidua]

incoming signal from @bruz3r: “There’s no exit wound, the bullet is still in you.” / meme ➢ accepting

                 her body betrays her as it trembles without her say. the warmth of the manor has yet to seep into her bones; hindered by her rain soaked clothes. she hadn't had time to check the wound herself as the priority had been putting as much distance between herself and the shooter. with her cell phone in pieces on the street of new york and without adequate knowledge of gotham, she'd decided that her only option was the only sure place she knew: wayne manor. the ride there had been beyond uncomfortable, but she's had far worse.

                 the bullet still remaining was expected given the injury. but his words don't provoke a reaction. she merely remains in the chair he'd pulled out for her and closes her eyes. regulating her breathing, natasha focuses on anything but the pain radiating from her shoulder. focuses on the reason she's where she currently is and the events of the last few hours attempting to piece together the reason behind all of it. she wills herself not to feel the pain.

                 “ if i'm keeping you from anything important, i can do it myself. ” she says, gaze lifting to meet his. i've done it before, is the intended meaning of words so casually spoken. and while she's thankful for the help he is clearly willing to give her, the last thing she wants is to get him tangled in her web.

[killerchickadee]

There's a fire near where I used to live in Colorado so I got nosy and looked at the evacuation map and

NOOO COLORADO CHERRY COMPANY. 😭

[scarlettcryptid]

the comments on my fics are some of the only things holding me together rn

[daz4i]

well it's been awhile since i last reached a point of crying from pain - less from the actual pain itself and more the frustration over it not going away - but it's nice to see that things always reach the point of me leaning on the wall in the shower half screaming half groaning bc what else do i even have left to do abt this shit.

[togetherasone]

WOUNDS, STEWS AND SILVER MASKS . SECONDO

Pairing: Outlaw!Secondo x Fem!Reader.

Summary: Surviving. You had been there before. Knew exactly what you should do. Or so you thought. The thing was… It wasn’t that simple when weakness was what you were all about, and your body failed you in every sense. Or the one where you disobey an order and suffer its consequences, but discovers what it takes to survive between the Emeritus Brothers.

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, minor character death, implied/referenced talk about rape, objectification, mentions of blood, dubious morality. The Ghouls are here! Finally!

Parts: One (Cowboys from Hell) | Two (Wounds, stews and silver masks)

Notes: Well, well, well... It turns out that I decided to continue it! Keep in mind that English isn’t my first language. Sorry in advance for any mistakes. Enjoy!

If you prefer to read on AO3, here it is!

If you want to take a look at my other writings, here they are!

"In the bleak midwinter..."

Secondo punched the right side of your jaw. Tears welled up in your eyes as your body jerked to the left, and pain spread up to your cheek and down to your neck in a sharp wave. The metallic taste of blood filled your mouth as you noticed you had bit your tongue. You did nothing. All the courage, the strength, the stamina, the fierceness, everything had slipped through your fingers. Had escaped your body along with the blood that had oozed from the wound tore open by the gun shot. At least they had wrapped a bandage around it. But the bullet had remained there, and you nearly passed out because of the pain when they roughly handled your arm.

You had been mumbling that sentence since they knotted your wrists together behind your back and pushed you on your saddle. Nothing mattered anymore, except the fact that they had found the hut. It turned out that while you had been fighting the second brother, the other three brothers had explored the outskirts of the Glacier and had found the hut in which the survivors of their attack had settled. Now, they headed northeast, towards the hut.

Something urgently yelled inside of you, for you to do something to stop them, but... You did nothing. Knew you should do something, knew people were in danger, knew Marion was in danger, but... Your mind was melting under the circumstances, and you dangerously peeked down the precipice of madness. Felt dizzy. Maybe it was the blood loss. Maybe it was the pain. Maybe it was the trauma. You had watched your second family fall before your eyes. The roar of the flames consuming Rowe mansion, the screams of people dying, the shots of guns... The lifeless body of your husband bleeding over yours. Those sights visited you during sleep. Every. Damn. Night.

And now you would revive the massacre. And it would be all your fault. If you had never followed the wolves... If you had never... A strangled sob escaped from your lips.

The light inside the hut flickered. You wanted to scream for them to run, but...

Your heartbeat thumped inside your ears. Rapidly and loudly — you nearly missed the first brother talking to you, but before you could actually listen to what he said, you were yanked from your saddle. The harsh impact of your boots against the snow caused your knees to buckle, and you staggered on place.

"Get inside. Alone," Primo commanded.

A pair of hands cut the rope around your wrists and a foot pushed you towards the door. So, they would lurk in the shadows before the attack. Like the Devil itself.

You slowly pushed the door open. Your whole body throbbed, and you wandered inside, fingers loosely wrapped around the wounded arm, tears freely flowing down your face.

"Wha-"

You shook your head. Before you collapsed against the floor, a pair of arms cushioned your fall. Russell. You winced at the contact of the wounded arm against his chest, but your fingers reached for him. Fisted his clothes in a desperate gesture as though your life depended on it. You felt it did. And felt confused.

"T-They..." you sobbed. "They..."

"What happened?"

You shook you head again. Fiercely. Buried your face on his clothes and cried, but Russell shook you and forced you to look at him.

"Talk to me, what happened?"

Your lips trembled. It seemed your body would combust. You felt lost and drained and-

"What about Tim?"

You instantly gazed at Fannie — stopped crying and sobbing and whining and trembling to attentively observe her —, and rage boiled inside your vessels. The tone of her voice was filled with the hint of superiority that you had always hated. And, in that very moment, you hated her. To the bone. Wanted to kill her. To leave her to the wolves. Like you had done with her husband. Or, better, leave her to the Emeritus Brothers, and run from them alongside Russell and Marion. You needed to save Marion. "I killed him."

Russell immediately let you go from his grip, his face had contorted into a disgusted expression. Well, you were glad you were free to walk to her. And you did. Even though you felt you would pass out. It was interesting watching you from afar. The Emeritus Brothers were mesmerized. Had no clue the situation would roll before their eyes like it did. And they enjoyed it.

"I killed 'im, Fannie. Then I killed the wolves. Then the Devil arrived, and I fought it. Oh, I did..."

"Jesus, what happened to you?"

Fannie had pulled a dagger from her belt. You laughed at her. She slipped in and out of focus before your eyes, and you felt hot. Sweat drenched your clothes, and your arm, ugh, it seemed it would fall off. Then, a scream echoed in the distance, your scream, and a sharp pain shot through your body, and it hit the floor. Everything went black, but you blinked, and the dagger had been burried in your shoulder. Then, everything went black again.

When you opened your eyes again, everything was white. No, yellow. No, beige. Annoyed by the excessive brightness, you fiercely blinked. Then, you noticed your surroundings were out of focus. And that your clothes were drenched in sweat. And that you were inside a place. And that your whole body hurt.

You tried to move, but it seemed your limbs were replaced by stones. You tried to raise your head, but it pounded, and everything went black again. You tried to speak, but only a growl left your lips.

You blinked again, and moved your eyes from side to side in a desperate attempt to gather any information about your surroundings, but it was all beige, beige, beige. A metallic sound clanked nearby. Masculine laughter reached your ears.

Your heart missed a beat.

You tried to move again, and, with great effort, sat on the bed. Well, it wasn't exactly a bed, but a thin sleeping bag propped on a metallic structure. Its thin and rusted bars uncomfortably prodded your skin. You exhaled as your body throbbed with pain — it seemed every cell of it was on fire —, your wounded arm being the epicenter of it. A sudden urge to cry filled you. Since the day of the attack, your life had become a neverending nightmare, and you profusedly doubted you could emotionally handle whatever happened next. You desperately wanted it to end, wanted it to vanish. Wanted to open your eyes and feel the arms of your husband around you. To kiss him under the orange light of the sunrise that invaded your bedroom. To share a cup of coffee with him before leaving to town. To...

You blinked, a few tears cascading down your cheeks, and sniffled. Back to reality. You had to find out where you were. Maybe the laughter belonged to a nice group of farmers, fishers, hunters. To anyone other than them. Voices traveled to your tent. It seemed there was a lot of movement outside. A horse neighed in the distance.

You were in a nice tent. There was only one proper bed, which you occupied, but a sleeping bag had been, it seemed, temporarily placed on the opposite corner of it. There was a book abandoned on the grass, beside a lantern. You dragged your legs to the edge of the bed. The slightest effort seemed too much for your body to handle, and you groaned in pain, in disappointment, in annoyance. You weren't used to have your strength ripped from you like that.

The heels of your boots touched the grass, and you took a deep breath. Chanced a look at the wounded arm. The sleeve of your shirt had been ripped off, and the bandage had been changed. It was clean and tight around the upper portion of your arm, but... There was another bandage, tight around your shoulder, going under your armpit. You frowned at it. Had no memory of what happened after being pushed inside the cabin. A faint memory of meeting Fannie, Russell and Marion floated inside you brain, though, but that was it. An unavoidable sorrow filled your being at the memory of Marion, creeping up on you like the tiniest ants climbing your body from your feet. You wished she was alive. Your fingers instinctly brushed the bandage on your shoulder, and the movement made you flinch in pain, so you simply studied the new bandage with a confused expression.

It wasn't until another metallic sound clanked nearby that you averted your gaze from the new wound. Your head turned to the source of the noise, but only the beige tent was visible, of course. Then, you noticed a meal, a stew, with carrot, potato, meat and herbs, sitting on an improvised bedside table. Steam no longer swirled in the air from the plate — it must've sat there for some time now. You hoped it hadn't sat there for too long for it to get spoiled, though, because your stomach churned with hunger. Your last meal had been a cup of coffee. When, it was was a mystery. You had no idea how many days had passed after the fateful night in which the Emeritus Brothers had chased the remainings of the gang down.

You reached for the plate, a metallic material roughly shaped into a plate to be honest... The contact of your fingers with its underside revealed the faintest warmth, so you happily aknowledged the fact that the stew hadn't sat there for too long. You wondered who had left the plate for you. Maybe the youngest son of a fisherman. The thought of a disgruntled child leaving a plate for you at the request of their father was weirdly comforting. Well, anything that didn't involve the Emeritus Brothers was comforting.

You grasped the spoon to stirr the food before you lifted the plate to your nose. It smelled heavenly good, and your stomach angrily protested against the lack of food inside it. You savoured the stew. It was rather cold, but delicious, with just the right amount of herbs to season it. After that first spoon, you devoured the rest of the food. When you fought to get the remainings of it on the spoon, the entrance to the tent was lifted, and, at the flash of a silver mask sparkling under the sunlight that invaded the tent, your body throbbed with an adrenaline jolt.

No. No, no, no. No.

The bed in which you had slept... Or the laughter you had heard earlier... Didn't belong to a nice group of farmers, fishers, hunters. The plate hadn't been left for you by the youngest son of a fisherman.

Suddenly, nausea filled your guts, and you instinctly abandoned the plate and the spoon — they clanked loudly when one hit the other on the ground —, to hold your stomach in place as though the gesture would hold the food inside it in place. Then, you got up from the bed, disgusted by the thought of sleeping on the bed of one of the brothers.

You wanted out. Out of that tent, out of that camp.

Out of their lives.

The masked figure silently observed you while they carefully stepped towards you as though you were a wild horse to be tamed. You hated them just as much as you hated the brothers. Were sick of being treated as a piece of meat by others.

The air inside the tent was suffocating, and you felt you might pass out, but, instead of that, you vomited the stew all over the grass. A hand touched your back while you staggered back, towards the bed. You didn't want to be touched. Not by people who worked for them.

"Hey... Are you okay?"

Your head snapped towards the voice. It was not only a concerned tone, but, more importantly, a feminine tone. You noticed, observing the details of the mask and the silhouette of the person, that it was a woman. You had no idea women were allowed to join the Emeritus Brothers, and you wondered what were the circumstances under which she had joined them. The feeling of disgust toward the brothers swelled inside of your body. You hoped they hadn't... Hadn't... Violated her.

God, you didn't hate her, you felt sorry for her.

On the night you had met the Emeritus Brothers, they had talked about you as though you were a piece of meat. The sensation of the fingers of the third brother holding your chin lingered on your skin. He had turned your head to scrutinize your features as though you were a horse, a gifted one to him, and he wanted to be sure it was a fine animal.

Once again, nausea filled your guts. The thought of her... Being used by the men... You wondered if you had been kept alive to join her.

"You're trembling."

Your hands were wrapped around your chest in a failed attempt to protect yourself — that was your pathetic shield against all the evil in the world —, and your whole body, drenched in sweat, shook.

"Do you want another plate? You need to eat. You've been asleep for four days."

Four days. Well, four days since your last meal, then. Maybe that was why you felt like complete, utter shit.

You blankly stared at the figure in front of you. You knew you had to eat, but you also knew your stomach would refuse everything you tried to push down your throat.

At the lack of an answer, she kneeled in front of you, "Are the bandages still clean?"

She lightly touched your wounded arm. It didn't hurt — she hadn't touched the wound on the upper portion of your arm nor the wound on your shoulder, just the skin of your forearm — but you instinctly pulled it from her fingers.

"Does it hurt?"

You nodded. Even though you lied, she smiled at the win of an answer.

"Are the bandages clean? Can I see them? I just came inside to change them. We do it everyday."

"W-We?"

It was hard to speak. Even though you had just eaten the stew, which was mostly liquid — not that you had kept it in your stomach anyway — your throat felt dry. You had spent four days without speaking a single word, and the sensation of your voice vibrating inside your throat was rather foreign. Your fingers touched your throat, and you swallowed its dryness.

She nodded, "Me, Cirrus and Cumulus."

"Then, who sleeps in that bed?"

"It depends. It was me last night, but, then again, it's only me, Cirrus and Cumulus."

"And who are you?"

"Oh," she laughed. "Sorry, I'm Aurora."

"And... C-Cirrus and Cumulus... Are they... Women?

"Yes. No man has entered the tent," Aurora answered.

You frowned at her words. "How?"

You observed her fingers reaching for your wounded arm again and maintained it out of her reach, but she insisted on wrapping her fingers around it. "You're okay, I'm just cleaning the wounds, the bullet is gone now," she explained. "You know, you fainted when we took the bullet and the dagger from the wounds. We used and entire bottle of Moonshine to clean them and ease the pain, but I guess using it to ease the pain was useless."

She turned your wounded arm to evaluate the bandages. The wound on your shoulder throbbed with the movement, but you remained silent. More memories of what had happened days prior returned to your mind in a blur. You remembered Fannie pulling out a dagger when you told her you had killed her husband, but, also, you remembered you standing on the edge of the precipice and staring at your descent into madness.

"Uh... Sorry, what do you mean?" She fronwed at your previous question, pulling new bandages from the bedside table and propping them on the grass beside her knees.

"How has no man entered the tent? What about the brothers? I'm their captive."

"I'm... Hm... I'm afraid I can't answer that. I don't know. When the brothers arrived with you, Primo ordered Omega and Mountain to place you in here and me, Cirrus and Cumulus to take care of you. That's all I know, I'm sorry."

Aurora cut the knot of the bandages with a knife and unrolled them from the upper porion of your arm and from your shoulder. The outer part of the bandages were clean, but blood stained the inner part of the bandages, which were in direct contact with the wounds.

"And where are they?"

"They went to Blackwater as soon as they left you under our care."

"Are they still there?"

She nodded, pulling the cork out of a Moonshine bottle.

"Then, who was talking and laughing outside earlier? It was masculine..."

Aurora noticed the edge on your voice. Noticed how those questions were somehow important to you. It seemed you might break at any second. "Rain, Mountain... Ifrit... Omega..."

You nodded. Had no idea who those men were, but hoped they were less evil. Hoped.

"Oh, fuck!" You hissed when the woman spilled the drink over your wounds. "A-And when will they come back?"

"Hm... Anytime now, I guess..."

A shiver shot down your spine.

"And will they... Will they..." Your voice died in your throat. You were sure they would enter the tent as soon as they found out you were awake. Your eyes brimmed with tears. "Can you... Not tell them that I..."

Horses neighed in the distance, and the camp sprang to life. The hustle and bustle of it reached the tent, and your head snapped towards the noise. You had a feeling, knew who had arrived, but hoped the feeling was just a product of your delusional imagination that had gotten incredibly creative after four days with no food whatsoever.

You silently observed Aurora wrapping the new bandages. Then, your eyes traveled from her fingers to her silver mask. It was evident, by all its details, it had been carefully wrought. It indeed had the shape of the Devil, with horns and two holes for the eyes that, contrary to what rumor had it, weren't useless. Her bright eyes focused on the work before them. There was, also, a curve for the mouth, and, although a black cloth covered her mouth, its shape was distinguishable underneath it.

"Did they ever... Hurt you?"

Her lips twitched. She knotted the bandage around your shoulder and cut its remainings off. "Done."

She pushed herself up from the grass and returned the bandages and the bottle of Moonshine to their respective places in the improvised bedside table.

"Thank you," you half-heartedly mumbled. Had been completely ignored by her, which was suspicious.

"'M getting you another meal, yeah? You need to eat."

She hurried out of the tent and you, again, focused on the noises coming from outside. You observed the entrance of the tent when the shadow of a man projected itself on the beige fabric behind you. You heart thundered against your ribcage as it rounded the corner and approached the entrance of the tent.

The long and white hair dangling over the upside down cross with the circle around it revealed the shadow was the oldest brother. He carried another plate of stew.

"Aurora filled a plate for you. I always harvest the herbs used to season the dishes."

His voice was soft and low. There was a certain calmness, a certain patience, a certain wisdom overflowing from him that had carved him into a fatherly figure. He reminded you of your grandfather, and you found yourself studying his features while he approached the bed. Primo wasn't as old as your grandfather, but they certainly shared the same aura.

If you had met him in your bounty-hunter days, instead of Chester "Bad" Roe, he would've sheltered you under his wing as Chester had done. He would've been a wonderful mentor as Chester had been. Heroes and villains were an illusion. Your grandfather had always painted them as villains, people had always painted them as villains, Chester had always painted them as villains. You had always been told you were on the "right" side of History, but...

"Ambarino has a large variety of herbs, especially around O'Creagh's Run and Barrow Lagoon," he continued. "When we travel north, I always stock them. Gaptooth Ridge is, unfortunately, a desertic land, but it's our home."

Primo sat on the bed and offered the plate to you, but you refused to accept it.

"I wonder how your last travel north went," you bluntly answered.

Your eyes traveled from the plate to his face. Primo stayed quiet, but his lips twitched. His eyes met yours.

"Why have you kept me alive? What do you want from me?"

"To follow me when you finish your meal."

Primo propped the plate on the improvised bedside table and left the tent without another word. The entrance to the tent fell behind him, and faint rays of sunshine invaded the tent through a gap left by it. His words rang in your ears, and your stomach churned with anxiety. You felt you had just bought your one-way ticket to Hell.

Once you finished the meal, you abandoned the plate and the spoon on the bed. That time, you intended to keep the food inside your stomach. Uncertainty, anxiety, fear bubbled inside along with the meal you had just had. It wasn't the smartest of combinations, but, again, that time, you intended to keep the food there.

You pushed the entrance of the tent above your head, and your eyes widened at the sight in front of you. Dusk was slowly cascading down the sky, washing the Sun from its spot. Clouds lazily rolled in front of the spectacle, but added a beautiful layer to it.

Even though Aurora mentioned the visit to Blackwater, you needn't any information about the location of the camp. There was no mistaking Great Plains for any other region of the Wild West. You had lost count of how many times you had crossed those rolling hills with low-lying vegetation behind your grandfather and, after he had gotten too old to mount a horse, behind your father. The sounds, the smells, the colors, the scenery... Brought the taste of childhood to your tongue and the taste of sadness to your eyes. They brimmed with tears.

Bats and fireflies had begun to fly between the vegetation, owls had begun to peep between the branches of the trees. Rabbits answered the owls, and raccoons screeched in the distance. Wind silently blew in the sky, fire crackled nearby. The layers of sounds were music to your ears. You were so close to your land, your home, your life. The ranch in which you had grown up.

The thrill of the moment was washed from you — a cold bucket of water splashed directly on your face — when someone spat on the grass and screamed your name.

You knew that voice.

"Fannie?"

"Oh, look!" She faked a surprised tone. "C'mere, c'mere! Let me see your shoulder. How is it? It was supposed to be your heart. Pity I lost balance at the moment."

You frowned at her. The brothers as well as the masked people silently observed the scene. There were too many of them, more men than women. You reconized a fourth woman between them. The closest to Fannie was Secondo. He stood beside the wooden flagpole to which she was tied, with an elbow propped on it. His lips bore a smirk.

Once you approached Fannie and Secondo, he handed her dagger to you.

"Vengeance," Primo simply stated, and, at his words, Fannie sterically laughed.

"Really?" She squeaked.

You turned the dagger on your palm. Again, your heart thundered against your ribcage. In the end, that was why they had kept you alive?

"We've kept her alive for you. We figured you might want to... Keep your balance..."

And you did. Oh, you did. But at what cost?

"What about me? Why have you kept me alive?"

"To kill you," Fannie matter-of-factly answered. "After you kill me, of course."

Your eyes met hers, and you saw yourself reflected in her irises. You saw yourself tied to that flagpole, and a shadow waving a dagger before your face. None of the brotheres had protested against her words. Secondo shifted in place. Then, your eyes met his in desperate search for the truth, but he sustained the look without showing any emotion.

"Why have you kept me alive?" You insisted.

"To kill you, for God's sake!" Fannie bellowed.

"Shut up, shut up!" You pointed the dagger at her, and Secondo smiled. Their entertainment had just begun. "I refuse to do your dirty job."

"The job is yours, cara," Terzo stated with a mischievous grin on his lips. "We, here, really, uh, catalyze it."

"Kill her," Secondo spat.

"At what cost? My life? Do it yourself," you threw the dagger at him. The blade hit the side of his torso, and blood immediately oozed from the wound.

Secondo growled, and pushed you against the flagpole by your neck. His hand was tight around your skin, and you gasped. Your wounds throbbed at the impact of your body against the flagpole. The gasp, soon, morphed into a scream when Secondo pushed the dagger against your skin, on the same spot it had hit him. The blade tore your skin open, and blood, thick and hot, stained your clothes.

Fannie, flabbergasted, loudly laughed. It was a sound that would never leave your mind. Your stomach had been filled with food for the first in four days, so you still felt lost and drained and-

Clear memories of what had happened days prior returned to your mind, and you saw Fannie asking about Tim with that tone filled with the hint of superiority that you had always hated. And you saw Fannie stabbing your shoulder. Suddenly, suddenly, the rage you felt towards her at that night burst inside your vessels. And, in that very moment, you hated her. To the bone. Wanted to kill her.

"Fratello," Primo warned.

You roughly pushed Secondo away. Every cell of your body protested against the movement. He was strong and heavy, and the strength needed to push him away was inhuman, but you managed to do it. Somehow. Then, you pulled the dagger from his hand. The blade cut your fingers, and you whined at the contact of it with your skin. How many more wounds would you get to simply survive?

You fell on your calves, and rested your head on the flagpole. You exhaustedly exhaled. Tears welled up in your eyes. With a sob, you abandoned the dagger beside you on the grass. You looked at your hands, your blood mixed with hers; then, at your clothes, your blood coated your shirt; then, at the flagpole, her blood stained the grass.

"The tables have turned, fucker. I spilled your guts," you mumbled to the corpse in front you.

"You won the silver mask, bella. Congratulations," Terzo offered his hand to you.

You glared at him. "I want the face-paint."

"Tame it and it's yours, fratellino," Secondo joked, and Terzo tensed his jaw.

A pair of firm hands lifted you from the ground and carried you to the tent you had occupied for the past four days. You felt dizzy when you lay on the bed. It was nearly impossible to distinguish Secondo hovering above you.

"You may thank me later, cara," he tutted. "Now you need to heal. I, eh, apologize for the new wound."

You, disgusted, turned your face away from him. Finally, the tears that have been welled up in your eyes, fell down your face, "Leave me alone."

PLEASE, CONSIDER REBLOGGING THIS AND/OR GIVING ME FEEDBACK, I WOULD APPRECIATE IT A LOT!

[jlf23tumble]

lmaoo are you really pulling the fucking misogyny card here as well?? it's creepy for a 30 year old guy to date a 22 year old, there can be a huge power imbalance in a relationship like that... she's my age and i know multiple girls who had their life completely fucked over by a guy that much older than them, men take advantage of women that much younger than them, when they're that young especially..and if it was the other way around it would be just as bad, someone in their early 20s is barely an adult, trust me i know... nothing about pointing that out is misogynistic..i really don't get your opinion on stuff, it's really fucking contradictory a lot of the time and you don't even realize it, everything is misogyny to you

[deputy-morgan-malone]

What is your OC’s Role in a Tragic Play?

I was tagged by @corvosattano​, @fourlittleseedlings​, @shellibisshe​ and @aceghosts​ to take this uquiz for my OC/s, thank you!

Not tagging anyone since it’s been a while, but if you see this and would like to do it consider this an open tag, and feel free to tag me in on your results :)

Deputy Morgan Malone (FC5)

misunderstood villain

prepare for an onslaught of both the most dehumanizing and hateful takes, and flood of thirst comments. you are chronically misunderstood. whether or not you're actually evil is debatable. you may be acting out for revenge, to defend someone you love, or even just to protect yourself. you're a pretty jaded person. you don't trust or even really like most people. maybe you did at one point. but that part of you is gone, and you don't go a single day without grieving it. you think a lot about what your life could have been. you're stuck in the past. you're angry and maybe you don't even want to be, but this is the only way you can see to survive. you're open, but less in a trusting way and more like a wound. you don't like to let people see you, but the hurt spills out of you before you can stop it. you're impulsive, even as you try hard to plan and prepare. maybe someday your side of the story will finally be heard. until then, you can convince yourself that being hated is safer anyway.

[lonesomedotmp3]

oh I love feeling somewhat hopeful and excited about academia again :( I just have to get through this hellish year and then next year should be so much better. KNOCK ON WOOD.

[cicadagaze]

so far I'm actually liking Moth Flight this read through. we'll see if that stays, but for right now I am enjoying her!

[cluescorner]

Thanks so much for the recap because like...I have been actively keeping up with this bullshit (/pos AND /neg) and I literally forgot about Tim getting shot in the neck then fucking walking it off.

What the heck is going on in Batman/Gotham War?

I know a lot of people in fandom are confused and/or upset about what's been going on in Gotham War - why is Bruce acting like this, what is Selina doing, why are the Batkids taking sides. So I figured I would fill you all in on what's been happening in Batman and Catwoman since Chip Zdarsky took over with Batman #125, because it has been BONKERS and I have been enjoying the hell out of it.

Below, the quickest summary I can manage while still being comprehensive:

[Content warning: mental illness, abuse, suicide (...ish), LOTS of violence.]

The first arc, "Failsafe," starts with Batman and Robin (Tim, in this case) in pursuit of the Penguin, who is on a killing spree. In the very first issue, Tim gets shot in the neck. Bruce has to take him to the hospital, but first he has to strip him out of his costume and put him in civilian clothes to preserve their secret identities, triggering memories of when he had to do the same to Jason's dead body. There is LITERALLY NO PURPOSE TO ANY OF THIS EXCEPT WHUMP (Tim is back in action with a fucking BAND-AID on his neck very quickly), which is how I knew this was going to be good. Beat Tim up! Make Bruce cry about Jason! I want these men to suffer! (There is also SO much to be said about Tim's own Poor Mental Health Decisions throughout the entirety of Zdarsky's run so far, but that's for a separate meta post.)

Anyway. Bruce leaves Tim in the hospital and goes to confront Penguin, who turns out to be dying of mercury poisoning. He kills himself and makes it look like Batman did it, forcing Bruce to flee. (Penguin actually faked his death and is alive elsewhere under an alias, but that's not important right now.)

In the Batcave, a massive robot called Failsafe emerges. Failsafe attacks Bruce, who usually eats killer robots for breakfast, but he can't seem to get the upper hand on this one. Duke, Cass, Steph, and Dick show up to help, but Failsafe beats them all too, while Tim gets an injured Bruce away and to the Batcave.

In the Batcave, Bruce puts on a weird purple and red Batman costume and a new personality takes over: the Batman of Zur-En-Arrh. Now, Zur has a very complicated history going back to 1958, but for the purposes of this story, all you need to know is that when he was younger, Bruce decided it would be good to hang out in a sensory deprivation chamber until his mind created a secondary personality, Zur, who is essentially Batman without Bruce. Zur is pure efficiency who does not care about anything but the mission. He created Failsafe, for one purpose: to kill Bruce if Bruce ever crossed the line and killed someone. And right now, Failsafe believes that Bruce killed Penguin.

Failsafe nearly kills Tim, which Zur is okay with writing off as an expendable soldier's death, but this causes Bruce to take control of the body back because "Tim isn't my soldier...HE'S MY SON!" (Tim Nation, why are you not ALL OVER this story? It's catnip.)

Babs calls in the JLA (SuperBat fans, you will also want to read Bruce's adoring description of Clark when he shows up), but of course Failsafe has kryptonite, which it stabs Clark with. The League dumps Clark and Bruce into the JLA jet and distracts Failsafe while Tim flies Clark and Bruce to the Fortress of Solitude. Bruce tells Tim he's a good boy and jumps out of the jet and into the ocean so that Tim and Clark will be safe from Failsafe. He's rescued by Arthur, who takes him to Atlantis to heal. THIS HAS ALL ONLY BEEN FOUR ISSUES SO FAR.

Two weeks later, Bruce wakes up to discover that Failsafe has taken over Gotham. He teleports up to the JLA Watchtower on the moon to lure Failsafe there, then blows the Watchtower up, hoping to catch a ride on one of the Javelins. But Failsafe has already destroyed them, so Bruce RIDES A BOOSTER ROCKET BACK TO EARTH, OXYGEN MASK CLAPPED OVER HIS FACE. The whole thing has some powerful Scooty-Puff Jr energy.

The only tricky part is reentry, when Bruce starts to burn up - his costume is fireproof, of course, but his chin is exposed. SO HE TAKES OFF HIS LITTLE BAT-PANTIES AND PUTS THEM OVER HIS HEAD. I swear to god this happened in a real comic book and the entire "Bruce falls off the moon and survives" sequence is utterly delectable goofy nonsense and I truly cannot recall a time I've had more fun reading a comic book.

Anyway, Bruce lands directly outside of the Fortress, BECAUSE OF COURSE HE DOES, and runs inside to find Clark and Tim. While Clark keeps Failsafe distracted, Bruce and Tim program nanobots to inject compassion into Failsafe. I SWEAR TO GOD. They zap him with the nanobots, but Failsafe pulls a high tech space gun out of the Fortress and shoots Bruce with it anyway, apparently disintegrating him. Tim falls to his knees in the snow, weeping. TIM NATION, WAKE UP, THIS RUN IS CANDY FOR YOU.

But of course Bruce isn't dead! That wasn't a killing gun, it was a "zap you into another dimension" gun!!! THAT was the compassion!

So Bruce finds himself in a dystopian alternate Gotham, and I'll be honest, I didn't love this arc ("The Bat-Man of Gotham") as much as I loved "Failsafe," but it has its moments. In this Gotham, Bruce Wayne is dead, so Regular Bruce is like "Oh boy, time to Batman this place up." Also he's plagued by hallucinations of a skeleton version of Jim Gordon who is still wearing a trench coat AND A MUSTACHE. Like I said, it has its moments.

This Gotham is controlled by Arkham, and anyone who is diagnosed as "crazy" is locked up. A new villain, Red Mask, is in charge, and Selina and a Venomed-up Harvey Dent work for him. Bruce teams up with an orphan kid (of course) named Jewel and goes after Red Mask, who turns out to be some guy named Darwin Halliday and ALSO...the Joker. Well, he's the Joker who hasn't been Jokerized yet. But one time he breathed in some chemicals that let him see into the main reality of the DCU (???) and glimpsed Regular Joker and now he wants to build an interdimensional machine to mentally connect with Regular Joker across universes which he assumes will make him insane, NATURALLY.

Bruce attacks Red Mask, who sics a Venomed-up Ghost Maker on him. Ghost Maker cuts off Bruce's right hand. Bruce cauterizes it with an electroshock machine and ties some spikes on it (SERIOUSLY) and goes after Red Mask again. Meanwhile Red Mask mentally connects with an alternate dimensional Joker...but instead of it driving Red Mask insane, he's what drives the Joker insane. Desperate to become the Joker somehow, anyhow, he jumps into the interdimensional portal, and Morally Dubious Alternate Universe Selina kicks Bruce in after him.

Meanwhile, Tim is in full "I KNOW I SAW HIM DIE BUT HE'S NOT DEAD" mode, which: bless. So he teams up with Jon Kent, which...gosh, what an astonishingly boring duo. I love Jon, I love Tim, they're perfectly nice and normal around each other, I'm falling asleep. Anyway Tim fights Toyman for a while and then makes a VERY stupid costume where the entire torso is a giant light-up R, because "I want him to see that Robin is coming to save him." GET A THERAPY, TIM.

Bruce finds himself first in the Michael Keaton Batman universe, then the Red Rain universe, BTAS, Batman Beyond (yes I know they're the same universe but I guess he goes there twice), Silver Age, Kingdom Come, Gotham by Gaslight, and more. Adam West gives him a utility belt. The Dark Knight Returns Bruce builds him a robot hand.

Finally Bruce and Red Mask reach the end of the multiverse, which is a Gotham asteroid floating in space, surrounded by giant Jokerized sharks. LUCKILY BRUCE HAS BAT-SHARK REPELLANT IN HIS ADAM WEST UTILITY BELT!!! Honestly this whole arc was worth it for that moment.

Bruce knocks Red Mask out, but now he's stuck. He has a device from Batman Beyond Bruce to get home, but it's only good for one person, and he can't leave Red Mask there to die. Of course, that's when Tim shows up in his stupid giant glowing R costume and they hug it out, thereby fulfilling but also compounding all of Tim's issues since 1989.

Anyway things are fine now, right? Sure, Bruce is hallucinating that his family is on fire, and the Zur personality is not going neatly back into the box where it's been all these years, and he still has a robot hand (Damian, hilariously, immediately announces that he wants one too), but he's FINE. He is a little bit mad at Selina, because she broke out of jail (she was in jail because she killed her fuckbuddy because he was trying to kill Bruce), and also because she didn't tell him Penguin was alive and that would have stopped Failsafe, and also because Other Selina kicked into another universe. Selina, very fairly, is like "Well I'm not responsible for Other Selinas and also maybe don't build robots to kill yourself with and not tell anyone about them???"

THEN we got Knight Terrors, the summer event in which a villain called Nightmare caused everyone to fall asleep and, uh, have nightmares. Bruce, specifically, had a nightmare that he met an eight-year-old version of himself that vomited up a man-sized bat with a gun for a head. I laughed SO HARD. Bruce also had his body borrowed by Deadman for the duration of the event, so while he endured the psychological toll of nightmares like everyone else, he also endured the physical toll of everything Deadman was doing PLUS the mental toll of being aware of what was happening in the waking world even though he couldn't control his body. As soon as the event was over, he lapsed into a coma so that his body could get some damn rest.

Okay. Now we're up to Gotham War.

(I know, I know. But for all of you who are like "How could Bruce do this???" about Gotham War...*points up* THAT'S HOW. HE IS NOT WELL.)

Bruce awakens from his coma and IMMEDIATELY decides to Fight A Crime even though Babs is like "Maybe don't?" But he can't find any crime, which is...weird. His kids confirm that Gotham's been super quiet since he's been out.

Selina hears that Bruce is awake and is like okay, time to pay the piper. She calls all of the Bats to a meeting and explains that she's the reason crime has been down. See, villains like Joker and Two-Face always have goons, right? But what if the goon supply dried up because the goons have better jobs? So Selina has trained All The Goons In Gotham to be...cat burglars. No violence, no stealing from anyone who can't afford it. More importantly, no helping Scarecrow or whoever commit mass murder.

All of the Batkids are like "Hmm...I feel uncertain about this, but it's working...I don't know what to think..." except for Jason, who thinks it's hilarious and is instantly Team Selina, and Damian, who is staunchly Team Bruce. Bruce, meanwhile, is like "No! NO! THIS IS CRIMES, AND CRIMES IS BAD!" and Selina's like "I mean, robbing from the rich is basically a victimless crime" and Bruce screams, I swear to god, "MY PARENTS WERE 'RICH'!" Inexplicable scare quotes and all. I laughed so hard.

Anyway this is the basis for Gotham War and it is endlessly hilarious to me because everyone in the Batfamily is supposed to be a genius and yet not one single character has pointed out that:

There are jobs the goons could be doing that AREN'T illegal. It's not just violent crime vs. nonviolent crime. There are in fact many other jobs! I am POSITIVE Gotham needs construction workers and hospital orderlies. (Yes, I know it's hard for people with records to get jobs. That isn't addressed.)

Being Batman is SUPER ILLEGAL.

They are all so stupid.

Selina's plan doesn't even work, because one of her thieves gets killed by a rich person defending their home, and Bruce is like "See? This is why crime is bad!" and like...pretty much snaps. He's particularly fixated on Jason, even (rhetorically) threatening to kill him, which is when the other kids jump into the fray on Jason's side, all except for Damian, who like I said is firmly Team Bruce. (This makes complete sense to me, Damian has been dealing with severe trauma and isolation pretty much nonstop since 2018 and he and Bruce have finally made a tenuous peace, so I can understand why he wouldn't want to lose that.)

Also, Vandal Savage buys Wayne Manor. It's so random and SO funny.

OKAY BATMAN #138. Bruce has kidnapped Jason and injected him with a variation on fear toxin which will be triggered whenever Jason's adrenaline spikes, the idea being that Jason is no longer capable of killing - but in practice, Jason is no longer capable of even getting up off the floor, he's so terrified. I want to be really, really clear here: Bruce is like 90% Zur here, and the only reason he goes this route and doesn't kill Jason is because the remaining 10% that's still Bruce loves Jason and is trying to help him. He's just incapable of good or humane help because Zur literally can't do feelings.

Dick knows something is up and is sneaking around Bruce's Secret Other House We've Never Heard Of to figure out what it is. Damian attacks him to protect Bruce. Tim attacks Damian so that Dick can do what he needs to do, and handcuffs Damian to a parking meter:

THERE IS SO MUCH TO UNPACK HERE!!! TIM GO TO THERAPY! DAMIAN GO TO THERAPY! EVERYONE GO TO THERAPY!!!!!

Dick figures out what Bruce did to Jason (it's on the computer, for...some reason?) and absolutely loses his shit on Bruce, beating the crap out of him, which tbh is the only thing that felt off to me in this run because frankly I don't think Dick likes Jason that much. BUT WHATEVER.

Tim pulls Dick off of Bruce. Bruce leaves them both tangled in a net and flees as the cops approach. Zur's like "Good, fuck 'em" in Bruce's head, because the cops will expose Dick, Tim, and Damian's secret identities and Bruce will be free of the dead weight of a family, but the little bit of Bruce still in there throws Dick a batarang so he can free them all in time.

Then Bruce leaves. Damian is devastated.

I WILL NEVER RECOVER FROM THIS PAGE. Damian really thought he could have Bruce's love and loyalty if he turned on everyone else! Tim is going to be a therapy dog to a Wayne even if he has to settle for the one he doesn't like! That unresisting, blank hug made me SCREAM when I turned the page. Incredible. (Also the art fucking S L A P S, god bless you Jorge Jimenez.)

ALSO it turns out that Selina's second in command has been Vandal Savage's daughter Scandal Savage the whole time and they are turning Selina's cat burglar army into their own personal army WHOOPS. (This also feels very OOC for Scandal but at this point I trust Zdarsky with my life so let's see where things go.)

SO THAT'S WHAT'S GOING ON IN GOTHAM WAR. TL;DR:

Bruce is unhinged because he nearly died like 19 times in a week and it unlocked the smaller, meaner purple Batman that lives inside him.

Selina is unaware that you can get money legally.

Tim is going to have a nervous breakdown if he can't fix someone, ANYONE.

Damian needs a hug but ideally from someone he actually likes this time.

Jason is so scared.

THE END.