#just gonna preface this now

[theemporium]

speaking ab 1d fan into f1 fan. It’s a fact that Louis girls are lando girls now. (I’m a proof)

oooh I can kinda see it but I think that’s also because louis said he liked lando😭

[pigeon-butch]

I certainly have my own concerns about the treatment of moo deng but um. well i think some of you may just be racist

[simplepotatofarmer]

take two on the phone call. if that person doesn't call today, i'm probably going to lose it. ;__;

[mouserdiscourse]

"endogenic systems are a target of ableism"

"thats not ableism bc you claim not to have a disorder"

"ok we'll call it pluralphobia then"

"ummm, why the FUCK are you using that word? that thing is Clearly ableism"

i love you people. never change

[carcarrot]

everytime i go to my regular haircutter and show her reference pictures for what id want my hair to look like i have to preface it with "i know we only have so much to work with"

[dragonji]

its time for yet another brain game of am i like fully neurotic or was this genuinely not a cool situation . prize is jack shite and yet im playing anyways👍

[vynegar]

help i have such Opinions on translation now

[stillgeekingout]

#it's very strange #because i often feel like the culmination of those characters arcs #like if the point is they're ace great but like... #the option of lesbianism just *never* occurs #which--and again not to discredit any ace people or ace readings of her work--is such a common lesbian experience! #like myself and a bunch of other lesbians i know had that journey #of going 'hmm i don't like men... guess I'm asexual! (do not ask me about women i will combust)' #like lady bird... whatever #little women... alright i suppose if you wanted to make a comentary on how lma was forced to add the heterosexual romance at the end #and not suggest anything about a real person and also not deviate from the source material #but barbie was insane #the coding was next level #like c'mon birkenstocks??? #and i argue that barbies acceptance of genitalia could be read as an acceptance of sexuality or the very least exploring it #so why isn't she a dyke??? (other than mattel probably giving a hard no on that)

I don’t know, the thing that really bothers me about Greta Gerwig’s films is that there is just this gaping hole where gay women should be. Like, when you’re making these movies about the trap of heterosexual marriage, breaking free of that, and the only concrete answer is to be a single woman over and over and over again, it feels like an intentional absence. You can watch the movie with a queer lens, but it is egregious that you may only consider homosexuality in her movies in this way. It ought to be in them. There is no reason for it not to be there. Women don’t fuck women in Greta Gerwig’s feminist liberations. Often, they don’t have sex at all.

[tittysuckersworld]

vent tw, if you have depression please please just dont interact-

[13daze]

Heya :)

Questions from the OC/MC ask game for both Leaje and Medea!

General Info 04 (for both) What kind of magic do they possess? If they can't use any, do they have magic potential slumbering within them?

Demon 11 (for Leraje, + Medea if they live in the Devildom) What is their opinion of Diavolo as a ruler? Have they experienced the reign of any other demon kings? How does Diavolo compare in their opinion?

Human 02 (for Medea) Are they immortal? If given the opportunity, would they like to be?

hello!! thank you for asking (and for making the questions)! <3 ive had this trapped in my drafts forever but truly thank u for picking out the absolute perfect questions for my ocs, this covers like almost all their important points!!

LERAJE

general info 04 - what kind of magic do they possess?

this is the perfect question for her because most of her characterisation revolves around her specialisation and obsession with illusion magic. i once described her as an "illusion junkie" and that really sums it up. nothing you ever perceive about her is real. not her appearance, where she's looking, where she's standing, what she's doing - there's a sequence i had planned with her where barbatos is visiting her house, and from her perspective we keep hearing barbatos react to things she describes as simply "happening" - sometimes at a distance - as things she's personally "doing". like barbatos thanking her for opening the door and making tea but she hasn't moved an inch since he first rang the doorbell and the tea isn't even real. it's possible, if they make an active effort, for diavolo, barbatos, and maybe lucifer to see through her illusions to a certain extent, but for things like this its more effort than its worth so they usually dont contest her. the first person to see through her without even trying is mc, which is how she joins the player's harem lol

demon 11 - what is their opinion of diavolo as a ruler? have they experienced the reign of any other demon kings? how does diavolo compare in their opinion?

in the lore i originally had for her she was made subordinate by the previous demon king. she and another demon (who was older than her and groomed her, so to speak, into doing everything they wanted) had been causing havoc using her naturally strong illusion magic, and the one who put an end to it was diavolo's father. she was given the option to assimilate and chose so easily bc subordination is all shes ever known anyway. gets a lot more free reign under the king though, and uses it to figure out her own life. which is mostly solitary. since barbatos was the king's butler back then she respects him and she answers to diavolo when he calls, but there's not exactly any deep loyalty there.

MEDEA

general info 04 - what kind of magic do they possess?

she has the jack of all trades energy solomon and mc both have going, but her real specialisation is/was healing magic. her master once described her power as selfish. she could heal herself easily, but it was much harder for her to heal others. later on she took to potionmaking as a career, with a sidegig as a cursehunter which provided her with materials for the antique shop she runs as a cover for her potionselling in the human world. the cursehunting turns out to be the most profitable and famous part of her career. ("oh! youre that cursebreaker!" "no, i sell potions.") when she's reverted to her younger self, the selfhealing and some of the potionmaking are the only things she retains. cursehunting is a lost skill. (the selfhealing comes up in my dual-mc story where shes the one belphie kills, and well... it just doesnt take. she heals faster than he can kill her.)

demon 11 - what is their opinion of diavolo as a ruler? have they experienced the reign of any other demon kings? how does diavolo compare in their opinion?

diavolo's the only ruler of the devildom she's witnessed. regarding the case with lilith she probably affords him some respect... but after her own circumstances get muddled and diavolo uses them for his own benefit theres mixed feelings. medea isnt called into the exchange program on her own merits. since shes surrendered all her greater powers, shes no longer the solomon-esque great witch, but rather a nobody with nothing, not even as unique as mc. but she was the last of leraje's pactbearers and with her in diavolo's debt so too would leraje be, which is why she's brought into the program.

human 02 - are they immortal?

ohhh man. she is and she hates it. it was a curse, actually. this part im pretty sure doesnt hold up in canon but - basically, when lilith becomes human, she meets medea. medea and her witch coven (the helia, a sanctuary for witches who were once human, united under the hope that the sun will shine on them one day) take her in. this draws god's ire, and for that they are punished with very personal curses. medea - a selfish healer who can only cure herself and no one else - is cursed with immortality, doomed to be the last of her people, watching them die out helplessly, a living record of their crime. could always be adapted into a less extreme scenario where it's just a byproduct of their cursehurting adventures tho lol but that significantly lowers the impact of her storyline which involves "trading" her immortality over to lilith. so actually she isnt, shes gone to great pains to not be.

[acourtofquestions]

Starting Empire of Storms right now!!!

[echoxshxrx]

.

[our-inspire-verse]

Oh oh ohhhh loardy i think the emotions are crashing around in me like 2 plastic easter eggs filled with mung beans(tiktok hoes will unnasand) like they bouncin AROUND in here. I'm fucking fighting for my life rn

[worm--thing]

She's just like me fr (crying, screaming, throwing up, etc)

[thetis-the-seventh]

.

[ghostaholics]

𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

➸ PAIRING: Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn medic!Reader (same reader from here, but this is a stand-alone) ➸ SUMMARY: You kiss Simon's very minor injuries. And then some. (Or, alternatively: He's not actually wounded. He just wants to see you.) ➸ WARNING(S): some graphic descriptions of old injuries ➸ A/N: Need to preface that this isn't smut despite how the title and summary sound. Anyways, Jo knows I listened to Hozier's Other Voices 2020 version of "Work Song" for a week straight while writing this. ➸ WC: 2k

❝ 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍' 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃, ❞ he admits, low-timbered. It feels intimate, especially coming from him. Simon's sitting on the cot; it sags under his weight. He curls his hands over the edge of it as he leans forward. No casualties post-mission means he's got free rein to pick wherever he wants in the medical tent.

"Oh, yeah? What about?"

"That I should probably do my best to avoid injuries so I don’t keep pestering you. Can always just tell me to fuck off, y’know.”

“You’re gonna break my heart if you stop coming around.

“Mm,” he says in agreement. “Can’t have that can we?”

You nod your head earnestly. “I like your company.”

“Tryin’ to say that you’ll miss me?”

“I would.” More than he knows.

It’s routine now. He gives you just enough room, adjusting his position. You step into the space made between Simon’s splayed knees, his massive legs nearly bracketing yours with how close they are. He’s bigger than you. Well, considerably more mammoth-like in his proportions compared to an overwhelming majority of the soldiers that you’ve encountered, to be quite honest.

Simon acts as though he’s acutely aware of his size. You suspect that he purposefully makes himself smaller in your presence. Like now, how his shoulders are rounded forward, the column of his spine not as straight-arrow in that standard, militaristic posture most servicemen have adopted. As if he doesn’t want to appear too intimidating. Not that Simon could, to you. Hours doing his stitches and idle chitchat on your part have taught you that he’s much less ruthless than people seem to paint him as. But you appreciate the thought anyway.

You conduct the assessment – a typical evaluation normal for combat casualty care, more in-depth than the one you’d done when he initially stopped by and you did a quick once-over for any obvious injuries. Though given the complete vacancy in the medical tent, you find it hard to believe that you’ll come across anything on him since the mission went that smoothly.

The first thing you notice this time: he doesn't smell like spilled blood. It's different. Not that sweet, rusted iron of wet tackiness – the one that reminds you of a generous stack of two pence coins held between a pair of hands cupped together. He comes in that way a lot. Reeks, because war means that he's no stranger to charging through a shower of copper and lead-forged bullets out on the field. Everything else is still there, though. Maybe a dying campfire – crackling logs and blackened earth. Soft dirt excavated from a foxhole for cover while under enemy fire. All gunpowder and Marlboro Lights and diesel-fuel smoke. Fresh rain and a blue-violet sky after a storm. Victory without consequence.

You'd breathe it in if you could, pull the collar of his jacket up to your face. At this proximity, it’d be easy.

He drops the act when he’s in front of you. Lieutenant. Ghost. Battle-hardened, gruff. A natural-born leader. The kind of person to rip this world apart brick by brick – scraped up palms clutching onto broken pieces – to make sure that the plan is executed accordingly, no matter the cost. It’s hard for him to shed that layer. A drop in the bucket of information that you’ve gathered about this man.

You’ve seen him at his best. But you know him at his worst.

The laundry list of injuries over the years: blows to his torso and his back and his limbs that were brighter than technicolor – purples and reds and sickly yellow-green shades – deep, blotchy medals of violence decorating his skin like some kind of fucked-up kaleidoscope that was nothing to be proud of; when some bastard drove a knife right into his upper thigh, that dirty blade wedged through tissue and muscle which was sure as hell going to induce the nastiest infection without serious TLC and a tetanus shot; rib fractures 7-9 because he aborted an exploding heli, seconds to spare before landing on his side wrong from a height that was equivalent to three stories tall; old GSWs dotting his body the same way you’d shove push pins into a paper-flimsy map to mark the places you’ve been to.

And then there’s no contest for the top contender. 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 #𝟏: when he was rushed in on a stretcher, barely clinging to life. Lower abdomen shredded by exploding shrapnel. He was outside of the window of opportunity. Too far beyond that golden hour, so his chances of surviving plummeted to a single-digit percent.

He’s more than just a patchwork of scars. There’s a complex person underneath the surface. A miracle in the flesh to have toughed it out through all of that. Resilient. Perpetual. His callsign makes sense. Ghosts really do live forever.

Several seconds pass before you speak again. It’s a silly comment, teasing – poking fun at him. You don’t have any reservations when it comes to picking on Simon; he’s good about taking these things in stride. Funny, actually. He’s got a dry sense of humor. “I think… you like the idea of someone taking care of you.”

His response isn’t immediate. It’s delayed, said with intention. He doesn’t ever waste words. “Not just anybody.”

You nearly reel back at that. Warmth floods your face. You aren’t quite sure what to say, didn’t expect it. So you let the comment hang in the air between the two of you, busying your hands with slipping off his tac vest, triple-checking for hidden wounds, doing anything to keep yourself occupied while you stand this close to him in the wake of that remark. You’re engrossed in your work, in search of a distraction.

(He’s a distraction, isn’t he?)

And then your eyes stop in their scan. Right there: a small nick on the exposed sliver of skin between his glove and sleeve – open to the direct path of some wayward debris that happened to graze him. So tiny. You’ve seen paper cuts more harrowing than this – wouldn’t have even registered on your radar, especially if it’s being dwarfed by other critical wounds that hold decisive sway over somebody’s fate when it comes to your average life-or-death scenario.

Of course, you take your job very seriously.

You feign a sharp inhale. “Ah,” you say solemnly, guiding his arm up to your face for a closer look. “Found your problem.”

“I’ve got a problem,” he echoes, voice laced with amusement.

“See, you came to the right place. Anybody else would’ve missed it.”

“The verdict, then?”

“So terrible. Earth-shattering, in fact—”

Simon starts pulling away. “Alright, that’s enough of you takin’ the piss outta me,” he gripes.

You chase his arm to recapture it into your grasp. “Wait!” you say, huffing out a laugh. Your mouth sprouts into a wide grin that makes him roll his eyes.

“You gonna treat me or what?”

Your humor bubbles away as you come back to your senses. Those once-loud peals of laughter start to die down when you take his question into consideration. Because there’s really nothing for you to do; he doesn’t need you.

The realization is slow-moving. It washes over you, rolls like waves as you finally begin to sober up.

Simon wants to be here, and he’s looking for any excuse to stay. He just can’t find the courage to own up to it.

“I dunno. Might be unconventional,” you throw out casually, playing along. “Risky, maybe – never been done before.”

But he’s undeterred. “Sure. Whatever you gotta do.”

You pause for a beat, fingers still wrapped around his forearm because you haven’t managed to let go yet. His skin is warm under your palm. You’re not sure what exactly possesses you to do it – emboldened by his encouragement, given complete carte blanche; he’s leaving this to your discretion. So you press your lips to that area where the cut is, right over his pulse point. If you had lingered for longer, you probably would’ve been able to feel it thudding, that solid rhythm and easy strength reminding you he’s alive.

You expected him to withdraw his arm in bewilderment. He should’ve kicked up a fuss about you violating his boundaries, should’ve told you that you overstepped. Something, right?

But he doesn’t do any of that. Simon’s studying you. Dark pupils. So chasm-deep that the ground beneath your feet might slip away. Ocean trenches, midnight-black like the charcoal smudged around his eyes. When they land on you, his gaze goes molasses-soft. He’s fond; there’s little room for doubt. The way he looks at you says everything. None of that usual coldness he harbors during an op. Instead, relaxed and more human than you’re used to seeing – all of his attention focused solely on you.

“Where else, Simon?” you whisper.

He’s thinking – carefully weighing his options – the same expression that he gets when a crossroads lies ahead of him and he knows his make-it-or-break-it decision will invariably affect the outcome of a mission.

After several moments, his hand comes up. Simon’s fingers curl underneath the hem of his mask; he’s been wearing the fabric balaclava more often since you’ve fixed the stitching on it. Then he lifts – not the entire way. Just to reveal the bottom half of his face. There he is. Sandpaper-rough stubble. The sharp cut of his jaw. A mouth that you’re convinced wears a scowl 24/7 behind his mask but is now slightly twitched up.

Even though you’ve seen it before, the sight of him never fails to steal your breath away. Feels like meeting him for the first time again. With how rarely he does this, it might as well be – that slow, heart-melting sensation is steadily filling the cavern of your chest.

And you lean in. Your lips brush against his; it’s a chaste thing – the kiss – if it can be called that. Gentle. Like how you’d stitch up his wounds with a light touch and kind intent. He’s built of sterner stuff, but if there’s anything you’ve learned about him, it’s that he’s capable of breaking just as easily as everyone else. You always handle Simon with care: unequivocal compassion and empathy when there’s so little of those left on this side of war – privileges that he’s never taken for granted.

“Better?” you ask quietly, tipping your head in question.

Simon hums his approval – this pleased, low sound in his throat. His hand slides across your lower back. He tugs you towards him. “Wouldn’t mind some more attention,” he murmurs, before slotting his mouth over yours. And then he kisses you like it might heal him from the outside in.