#mcd mentioned

[formulapookie]

💛💛

Under the cut to read on Tumblr, here to read on Ao3 ch1; ch2; ch3; ch4; ch5

Les fleurs du mal ch.6 rosquez, 1.9k words

He listens to Marc’s voice note before doing anything else, he needs to hear his voice, the thrill it has.

Only the voice coming through his speaker seems the furthest from Marc’s he ever heard.

It’s drained, dry, lifeless.

“Vale. It’s me. I - please Vale it hurts so much, I can’t breathe I need you to come here quick I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry for what I did, all of it, I’m sorry I didn’t want you to lose, I didn’t want to do anything against you. I never - I never went to him, I would never cheat on you, I only ever had you please believe me Vale. Vale I love you. I’m home and, and it hurts so much. Please, I need to see you. Please. I need to feel your hugs again. I’m cold Vale so cold”

He listens to it only once, and can't bring himself to hear the broken desperation coming from the boy’s tone more than that.

He tries to call back, but there’s no response. Twice, thrice, but no one is there to answer his shameless calls.

He remembers about the message from Lorenzo when he’s already in his car, the navigator leading him to Cervera, to Marc.

He wants this to be a surprise, something to cheer for.

When he picks up the phone at a red light and reads the text from his teammate it’s like the world stops spinning.

Lorenzo: I got a call from Alex Marquez. I don’t think the kid wanted me to tell you but I honestly don’t give a fuck.  You deserve to know how much of a scum you are. Marc is dead. His own mother found him this morning dead in his room, surrounded by stupid yellow petals. You killed him, Valentino.

Vale somehow has enough blood and oxygen in his brain to drive back home the short distance he drove and climb down from the car.

He gets back inside, his house a huge contrast with Marc’s neat and tidy one he remembers.

There’s a moment, one long interminable moment where he doesn’t believe what he read.

Because Marc can’t be dead.

It’s impossible.

Marc is - he’s terrified of death they talked about it - he has to be alive.

Then it strikes him, the terrible image it must have been, when his mother walked in his room and found him - God he can’t think of associating the words “Marc” and “dead”.

The petals, the lifeless corpse of the boy who brought such warmth in his life, laying cold in his room.

Marc sounded so lonely in the voice note he sent, he was asking for forgiveness, a forgiveness Vale had to be asking for, he was asking for him to be there with him, even after how he treated him, after what he said to him, calling Marc - no he can’t think about it, of what he did.

That night, in Sepang, when Marc had begged him for a reconciliation and he had used him.

Like he was nothing more than a momentary fling, a one night stand he could brush off as just that.

That had been their last prolonged interaction. He used that kid, for what? A fucking blowjob.

Marc had - he died thinking Vale despised him, thinking Vale viewed him as nothing more than a body.

And Vale wants to go back in time, stop himself from ever saying that shit to the press, even wants to go back and stop himself from thinking Marc came to his Ranch just to humiliate him.

He wants to save Marc.

But death can’t be reversed, there is nothing in this world or in another that can get Marc back to life, back to him.

And he’s angry, so angry with the world for taking the life of the little sun Marc was.

was 

it doesn’t sound right, to be talking about Marc with past tense, a kid cannot go through such a horrible thing.

But the fault is not the world’s. It’s his.  He believed others over Marc, and that killed him.

He thinks about what it must’ve been for Alex, to hold in his hands an unresponsive Marc, trying to wake him from an eternal sleep.

Tries to think about how he would’ve reacted, if he ever got there. What could he have said?

A blind rage directed towards himself eats him whole, and Vale, the everlasting control freak, loses himself completely.

He’s taking things and throwing them to the ground, against the walls, he doesn’t even know what hits what anymore.

There’s a cut on his palm, probably coming from the shattered bottle laying on the ground next to his feet, another smaller cut on his leg.

There’s plates and glasses and tons of papers scattered all over the floor, a horrible smell of iron and spilled wine in the air.

“I’m sorry Marc I’m sorry. I left you alone. I'm sorry, please forgive me. I was so wrong about you, I can’t even tell you how much I am sorry”

He’s sitting in the middle on his kitchen floor, surrounded by shattered pieces of his home and nothingness.

There is nothing in his heart right now beside infinite hollowness and pain.

“Marc please come back”

When Luca goes to pay him a visit, the day after, he finds the house in such a state he thinks Vale’s been robbed.

Everything is as messy as Vale made it when he got into his rage explosion, the sour smell hunting every surface of the house.

Luca looks for his brother, worried out of his mind.

He finds him sitting on the floor of his bedroom, asleep, a few empty bottles of whatever next to him and a disgusting smell of alcohol surrounding the man.

He must’ve gotten the news about Marc. It’s on every fucking News site right now.

Luca is not dumb, he knows Vale and Marc had something. Knows Vale must’ve done something bad.

He tries to wake him, it takes him almost an hour, and the miserable man looking back in his eyes once he manages his task is not his brother.

It’s a shell, an empty body with his brother’s face.

There’s no soul in his eyes, no life in his words.

The only thing Vale says before running to the bathroom and throwing up is “sorry”.

Sorry for what, not even Vale knows.

But he finds himself being sorry for many things now.

Luca tries to convince him to go to the hospital for that cut on his palm, it stopped bleeding but it’s obviously dirty and filled with little splinters of plates and glass.

He doesn’t listen because of course he doesn’t.

“I - I need to go” “Vale you can’t go anywhere like this” “I don’t care, I have to go” “Go where? Vale fuck sake you can’t even walk” “Need to go”

Luca tries to get an answer out of his brother, but he’s even less readable than usual.

He can’t stop him from getting into a Taxi and watching him go to the mysterious destination he didn’t have the courage to tell.

“Where to, Mr Rossi?” Because of fucking course the taxi driver knows him.

“The Airport” “Have you got the news?” “Wha-“ oh. The news. “Yes” “Poor kid, don’t get me wrong I’m a fan of yours but hell, 22 years old and dying from cancer it’s horrible”

So this is the officially given cause of death. Cancer.

It’s not far from the truth, not too much. Vale does feel like a cancer right now. He attacked Marc’s mind instead of his body, but his body took the hit.

The disease had grown because of his words and his actions, it had corrupted every cell of Marc’s body.

“Yeah it’s. It’s terrible” “Lung cancer they said” “Terrible”

He can’t say anything else, not to this stranger anyway.

When they arrive at the airport his private jet is waiting there for him. He pays the driver, and doesn't even know how much. As he climbs the jet the captain asks for the destination.

There’s five seconds where Vale thinks about not doing this, but the guilt drives him forward.

“Barcelona. I’m going to Barcelona”

It’s the closest city to Cervera that’s got an airport. And he needs to go there. He needs to be close to him.

Convincing Alex not to take a plane to Italy to go and kill Valentino might have been the hardest task Roser and Julia ever had to go through.

Of course they are angry at the man as well, they are furious, disgusted, but what could they do?

Seeing him, insulting him, that wouldn’t bring Marc back.

Nothing will.  Not praying, not hoping, not believing.

Revenge isn’t even something they could muster in their head.

Because whatever they may do, it wouldn’t change the fact Marc is not there anymore.

None of them will ever hear the sweet sound of his voice or his contagious laugh spreading in the house, his presence won’t be a normality ever again.

Alex accused himself of not paying enough attention, accused himself of not realizing what was happening and not talking to Marc about it.

And Roser has to remind him to be kind to himself, just like his brother would be, because not even Alex could’ve made Marc change idea on what he had to do.

“Marc I don’t like this you’re doing”

Marc wasn’t listening, was busy staring at his phone with a dumb smile on his face.

“Oi! Don’t ignore me!” he threw a pillow at his brother, hitting him. “Alex, stop, come on! I’m talking with Vale let me be” “That’s exactly what I need to talk to you about” “Ugh ok talk”

Alex had taken a deep breath, gathered all the words he built the past week to tell him what he thought.

“This thing you’ve got with him, it needs to stop. It’s not healthy like at all! You’re 20 and he’s what? 40? That’s basically illegal! And plus he’s never had a stable relationship, what makes you think he doesn’t want just to fuck?”

“Ok so first thing he’s not 40 he’s 34, and it’s healthy. And secondly what? You think someone can’t love me for me? That people only want me for my body? Wow Alex thanks I thought I could trust you”

“34,40 same shit, he’s too old for you Marc! And no obviously I don’t think that you’re only wanted for your body but he - I don’t trust him”

“I told you already Alex, once you’ll fall in love you’ll understand, me and Vale are in love, you just can’t see it cause you’re jealous”

“You know what? Fuck you I was trying to help”

“Well there’s no need to help, ok? We’re fine”

They bickered for half an hour, then they hadn’t talked for a whole day, both much too angry to keep on the conversation.

Right now, looking at the list of things to do for the funeral Alex wishes he had insisted more, that time.

That he had actually driven Marc away from Vale, even if he would’ve hated him, at least he’d be alive now.

He would be laughing alongside him, racing and waiting for Alex to reach him in MotoGP.

He wouldn’t be laying in a casket waiting to be buried, his skin wouldn’t be so pale, his heart would still be beating.

[lyraofthestarsss]

If I had a nickel for every time Laurance Zvahl got stuck in an alternate dimension for an indefinite amount of time I would have two nickels which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice

[kurithedweeb]

I know we always talk about Garroth ending up looking exactly like his father, but what about Dante growing up to look eerily like Gene.

When he joins up with Phoenix Drop, he's still young. He's a little on the short side, still a bit too thin from life in the wild and imprisonment, and he's a little anxious and shaky around so many people after having grown unused to living in a village. The smiling faces of the citizens remind you of your old home, of clamoring crowds and standing frozen in the plaza as your brother . . .

Anyway, it's good here. It's easy to fit in. The guards joke around with you and make sure you're healthy. They don't know a thing about dual wielding, but you get plenty of sparring partners out of helping the local baker practice her magick, and you maybe make a friend too. You're not too sure how you feel about the Lord, but she's a kind soul and does her best to make sure you're comfortable here in town, and her kids are great. Babysitting the boys is easily your favorite duty. Yeah, it's good here. For the first time in a long while, you feel like you're doing good.

Then the war comes. The children and non-combatants are sent away. The jovial atmosphere of the guard tower has soured into solemn silence as you make your final preparations. In the morning, you step into the battlefield and you go to war for the first time in your life. You have a horrible feeling in your gut that it won’t be the last.

You, Sir Laurance and Sir Garroth make a good team. It makes you sick. The three of you cross the battlefield at a slow and inevitable pace, cutting down any soldier that dares stray too close, and together you cleave the enemy forces in half, scattering them. The killing comes easy to you. You had hoped that in this peaceful new village, with time, you would become unfamiliar to how easily you were once able to take a life, but right then you’re glad your body never forgot the motions of death. Glad for the blood that stains your hands—how can you be glad?

You can’t remember how long you fought for. Days, weeks? Surely not months, or so you think. Yours is a small force, and though Miss Lucinda is a good healer, she grows tired while the other army’s numbers are replenished time and again. You remember the bags under her eyes as she tipped a potion sip by sip into your mouth the time you were shot through the face.

You remember sneaking into the enemy camp in the dead of night, skirting around the edges of it to the back line where the archers rested. You quietly slit five of their throats before you were noticed, and managed to slash another across the belly before the arrow caught you in the side of the face, in one cheek and out the other. The wood of the shaft cracked when you bit down. It was everything you could do not to scream as you fled. Dale thought you were a fiend when you first stepped out of the shadows, face obscured in blood and cradling your jaw as you cupped a hand beneath your mouth in an effort to catch more blood before it left a trail. Laurance held you while Garroth split the arrowhead from the rest of it with a knife and pulled the shaft out the other side of your face, your jaw gripped tight in one hand to keep you from struggling. It took hours to pull the splinters from your cheeks and tongue before they sent you to wake the healer. The whole ordeal had been excruciating. You might have cried. You remember that a lot more clearly than most other times at war. After a while, it’s hard to tell which side spills more blood when so much is shed that red squishes out of the earth wherever you step.

Every day, you fought dawn to dusk. And then one day you won. By Nicole literally knocking some sense into her father, of all things! You find a quiet corner to throw up in and for a beautiful moment, you think life in this little town you’ve started thinking of as home will go back to being good. Until your Lord tells you to guard the village as she races past the gates, and she doesn’t come back. None who followed her do either.

For days, you stand waiting at the gates. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep. O’khasis is gone, Scaleswind has made a refuge of the plaza, and still there is no sign of your Lord or your brothers-in-arms. You won’t even leave to have your wounds seen to. Nicole has to drag a doctor to the gates to treat you, and the entire time you watch the forest hoping that any moment they will reappear. You only step away when someone brings you news that the ship that took the children away has returned. You should be the one to tell them.

Zoey knows something is wrong the moment she sees you. Levin and Malachi smile and ask where their mother is—they call you ‘uncle’ while they do. You get down on your knees before them, and you gather them close in your arms, and you cry as you tell them their mother has been missing since the day the war ended. You’re still holding them when the exhaustion catches up with you.

Zoey is with you when you wake. She tells you you’ve been out nearly two days. She fusses over you, and you know you’ve worried her because that’s what she does when she’s worried. You’re a mess anyway, so you let her fuss. You drink the broth she makes you, you change into the clothes she provides, you sit still while she cuts the unruly mats of your hair and shaves your face. You used to cut yourself shaving all the time, no one ever taught you how and you were only six or so when Gene was learning to; you don’t remember now how he showed you each step or the laugh in his voice at the face of disgust you made when you slapped a little hand into the lather on his face and left behind a tiny palmprint. Zoey doesn’t cut you once. When she’s done with you, she takes you by the arm and guides you back into civilization, where everyone who remained has decided already on search parties to go out looking for your missing friends.

You head each expedition. Dale brings himself out of retirement to watch over the town while you’re gone, and asks only that you also look for his son. Does he know you used to be a tracker, used to spend days in the woods trailing coyotes and runaways for enough coin to carry you through the cold months? You try for him, but the ground is soft still and every step anyone takes leaves a print, all overlapping and muddled. You keep an eye out as you circle the same stretches of woods for days, but you find nothing. Your group goes further and faster than any other, the first to find and dismantle bandit camps and dens of fiends, but no matter how far you go you find not a sign of anyone who has disappeared that day. It’s as though they vanished into thin air. Every time you return home, Dale looks at you with hopeful eyes, and every time you must take him aside and break his heart a little more. Eventually, he stops asking.

For a year, you search. The area has never been safer. You have never felt so alone as when people start to suggest that a funeral may be in order.

You feel like a monster for the rage in your voice when you denounce these people. You know they aren’t dead—you would have felt such a thing, you know, you would have felt pieces of yourself snapping like wire pulled too taut, you would have felt the sharp edges tangling inside you—it would have felt like it did when the brother you killed rose from the grave to slit your throat and cut your very existence from the memory of Boboros. You hear white noise rumbling in your ears when the first brave soul says Sir Dante, there’s been no sign for a year now, and your blood is boiling when you slap their comforting hand off your shoulder. You spit that you’re not giving up just because everyone else has taken no evidence of life to mean the surety of death, and with their pitying looks burning into your back to return to the woods. You scream into the trees until you can’t anymore. When it doesn’t help, you use your considerable tracking skills to hunt something, anything, until you feel human again.

You crawl back home the day before the funeral with your cape stained with blood; they held it back so you could attend. You polish your armor and swords until they shine, and the warped reflection of your own face makes you feel sick the way waging war did. You stand at attention the entire ceremony without moving a muscle. When Dale reads the names of the deceased at the end, offering their souls into the embrace of the Matron, you salute, and the clatter of your armor silences the crowd.

Everyone who fought in the war salutes with you. So do your Lord’s sons. You’re too tired to cry. You hold your salute long after everyone else has left.

The remaining forces of Scaleswind return home. One by one, family by family, the streets of your home empty. Without your Lord, without your guard, the citizens trickle out the front gates and never turn back. Some apologize to you as they say their goodbyes, and some of them you actually believe. You close the gate behind each of them until all that remains is you, Zoey, and your Lord’s sons. Then Zoey tells you she’s taking the boys to the Yggdrasil Forest. She holds you tight for too long and kisses your brow when you show them to the gate for the last time.

You can’t believe you ever thought you knew what loneliness was before this.

For five years, you are completely and utterly alone. You search and you patrol and you do your best to maintain the village. You don’t believe in Irene, but every day before dawn you stand before her statue and look down down down over the cliff’s edge and pray that this won’t be the rest of your life. That you haven’t deluded yourself into believing a fantasy, that you haven’t made such an incredible fool of yourself that people can’t bear to be around you, that you haven’t been forgotten. For five years, you pray that someone, somewhere, remembers that you exist. You look down down down over the cliff’s edge and have the terrible thought that you don’t know what you’d do if you were forgotten again.

The gate is falling apart. You don’t know how to repair the damage the weather’s done to it, you tried to patch the cracks but it never holds. With each year, you’ve been pushed further and further outtowards the coast. The only places you have the energy to maintain anymore are the guard tower and your Lord’s home. You blockaded the gates when the mechanism broke, you check it on occasion to be sure no bandits get in, and one day you hear voices from the other side. Familiar voices. You scramble up the wall and look over the other side at a boy you don’t recognize looking back up at you. He says, Is that Uncle Dante? and you climb down as fast as you can to embrace Malachi.

He’s nearly the age you were when you first met his mother. He’s grown tall, and strong enough to carry his brother on his back. Levin is fevered when you first see him, flush and hurting even as he dozes, and Malachi tells you he can’t walk from how bad he hurts. You remember how Zoey fretted over him when he was young, how sometimes he’d scream for seemingly no reason, and once you show them to their mother’s home Malachi refuses to leave his bedside.

You sit with them and ask where Zoey is. Malachi tells you of her obsession, and the relief that you are not alone in the belief that those who disappeared are alive feels like a hint of betrayal. You’re relieved that she’s driving herself into a downward spiral because of what? Because it makes you feel like you were reasonable to fight not to let their souls be put to rest?

You wait for her at the gates deep into the night and take her to her boys when she bursts from the woods, frantic that she’d lost them, and safe if your Lord’s home she holds you so tight your ribs hurt from the force of her grip. After so long, you’re not alone anymore.

You wake before dawn and strap your swords to your back. For the first time in a long time, you feel safe enough to go without your armor. You hike up the steep cliff to the Irene statue. You kneel before her to offer your thanks. You look into the pool at her feet and fear grips you by the throat.

Your brother’s face looks back at you.

You wear your swords the way he did. Your hair falls like his, dark in the shadow of Irene. Your face is gaunt and pale from old habits, eating only enough to sustain yourself so rations will stretch long enough for you to find more—do you remember how they starved Gene before they killed him? How they weakened him so he wouldn’t have the energy to fight? How pale and gaunt he was, dirt streaking over the side of his face, blood and grime drying in his hair, shaking and sweaty with how hard he fought back? Do you remember the scar that twisted around his throat when he returned from the dead to get his vengeance? Your collar is open over the scar he left twisting across your own, and it matches his own so very well. In the shadows of your eyes, you see his own staring back.

You think of the war. You think of how easy the killing was. You think of how easily Gene cut through the guards, the Lord, the memories of Boboros. The rage in his voice when he denounced you as his brother, the twist of his smile when he told you he would leave you to rot, Dante. No one will ever remember you. You can see that twist in the corners of your own smile, pushed into shape by the deep scars on your cheeks. You and your brother are the same.

You’re shaking too much to stand. You never go without your armor again.

[garroth-is-done]

Thinking about shadow knights again:

I love the concept that sks aren’t even vaguely human looking in their true form. And I don’t mean this in a “they are animals/creatures” way or in a “they’re just Minecraft nether mobs” way, but in a “they look like analogue horror monsters and actually behave like them too” way.

Ya know, the stretched out limbs, smiles too wide to be natural, claw-like fingers, horrific death rattle breathing sounds; the absolute works of analogue horror. Even in human form the look kinda off too; their eyes are open a bit too wide, their teeth just a bit too sharp.

Behavior wise, if you piss them off bad enough they start to work like the alternates from the mandala catalog. They take the form of someone the person who made them angry loves and they hunt them down in their own home. They leave gory messes behind, not even bothering to try and cover up what they did. You know someone was killed by an sk by the fact that they’re nothing more than a blood splatter on the floor, crushed bones and a bit of gray matter all that is left of them.

Idk, just shadow knights being absolutely terrifying horror monsters instead of just a bunch of knights in red and black armor like some 12 year olds edge deviantart oc

[characcoon]

Masks and Shields

Part 1 (Here!) | Part 2 (TBA)

For context, first consider the idea where Mikey from the future is training his young self in the mystic arts because that's all my brain is microwaving these days. Coolio.

Now, some extra info about this story, of when and why Mikey stopped wearing a mask.

Donnie has been killed, his entire research facility turned into a pile of ashes. One of the main pillars of the Resistance, the brains of the operation, the guy who built and idealized 70% of their systems and weapons and equipments is gone, so is a good portion of his projects.

It's a dark moment. One of the biggest blows the Resistance has taken in a long, long time. Their members are on edge, expecting Leo to say something, but he doesn't show up to the memorial. Mikey has to speak alone, with no time to mourn. He doesn't tremble.

- Cityspeaker: a word I took from Transformers and mashed together with my own idea of how Mikey came to have and train his mystic powers in the bad timeline. More on that soon, I suppose.

[notnelle]

- if you must die, sweetheart, die knowing your life was my life's best part.

[xerith-42]

I just realized the reason I don't write angst around my actual favorite Shadow Knight is because he doesn't angst

According to my writing Vincent is guilty of murder, assault, vandalism, armed robbery, and cannibalism, but bro is just chill about all that.

Like yeah he did that shit what about it?

...

Can't really write compelling angst when that's his additude

[wispscribbles]

hi i just discovered your beautiful art so i obviously needed to scroll down your whole blog to catch up on everything you posted haha

i just wanted to say that i got way too emotional after reading that post of yours regarding mw3 and your mental health… on one hand i’m so sorry that you felt that way, but on the other i feel it with my whole heart

ghoap content especially for me helped me these past few months with my mental health in ways i would never have expected, it was my solace and inspiration, i started working out too and got back into drawing, got a lot better at it as well!

but unfortunately i get way too fixated on fictional stuff and there comes a time that my brain switches up and connects the things i liked and comforted me with things that make me extremely uncomfortable and stressed out, especially if i fall down a fandom rabbit hole that i would never have searched up, beacuse i know myself, i know my limits and triggers but i feel like i’m not a part of the fandom if i don’t like and interact with every single headcanon, art and ship

these past days i was really down because of that, and the things i read (why did i do that???) and now when i think of ghoap i think of that stuff and im scared that i alienated myself from the one thing that made me happy

but discovering your art and with that your post reminded me that im not alone in these feelings, even if it’s not the same exactly, and i wanted to thank you, for sharing your thoughts that time i guess haha <33

((sorry for rambling))

Long reply under 'keep reading' !! CW: talk of triggers and MCD

Always feel free to ramble my way!!! How nice you could find some comfort in my art and ghoap stuff. Especially in my mw3 post. I've been considering deleting it a few times, but hearing it maybe helped to read in some way makes me happy I left it up.

I get where you're coming from - I very much use these fictional characters as a safe space, but ppl view them very differently. There's room for it all, "don't like, don't interact" is very much a policy I agree with. It's important to mute words and be aware of your own triggers as you browse stuff in this fandom, because there's such a wide variety of stuff out there. You do NOT have to interact and agree with every thought people have on this ship, that's impossible and super stressful. There's plenty of stuff and headcanons I don't vibe with. There are no 'requirements' that you have to meet in order to enjoy fiction.

It's part of why I enjoy ghoap - that their dynamic resonates and has sparked so much creativity and outlets for so many - but it also means there's gonna be a lot of stuff u don't necessarily agree with or feel comfortable with. For example, a lot of folks use the MCD in mw3 as a way to explore grief, which I think is really cool, but on a bad day that could potentially get my brain in a bad headspace, so I only check out that art and those fics when I feel okay. There's also a bunch of stuff I'd never want to interact with, and that’s fine !!

I'm personally quite vanilla and a sucker for exploring the softer, more domestic aspects of these characters. It's what brings me joy. I know there are parts of this fandom who don’t vibe with what I make at all, and would call it untrue to the characters. Some creators enjoy exploring the more violent or toxic sides to the source material. That's just how it is, we all need different things from fiction. As long as we're capable of chilling in our respective sandboxes, then all's good.

But if you're like me, and enjoy the softer things, then definitely be aware and careful while exploring this ship and fandom. I've seen takes on these characters that are so far removed from how I view them, that they're basically the complete opposite, and it can leave a very bad taste, especially if you're the type to hinge your safe space on fiction.

Just... be mindful of yourself and your potential triggers, be respectful and don't interact with things that make you uncomfortable to the point of feeling unsafe. Shape your own online experience to your best ability.

Hope you're doing okay and still find joy in ghoap <3

[lggy]

please just die and come to the nether with me

[stoutguts]

Been re-playing 09 recently, and like what if what if—

(the idea is low-key out there but just hear me out, also MAJOR ANGST, MCD, trigger warning/content warning for implied/briefly mentioned s*ic*de)

Price knows that he's in a vídeo game. Like, he figured it out after the first couple of resets,—after the first few playthroughs of the campaign. He has sentience across MW’s 1-3, while everyone else doesn’t.

No matter what he does, the outcome always remains the same.

Like a broken tape recorder, history repeats itself.

Forced to sit by and watch as his men die, again and again.

With their being absolutely fucking nothing he can do to stop it.

The plot is predetermined, and the programming just won’t allow it.

No matter how many times he tries to fight it, no matter how many times he tries to scream or say something off script, or move his body in a different way, it’s all futile.

First, it’s always Gaz.

Killed by Zakhaev, with that damned Desert Eagle.

Failing to protect him from the shot, time and time again. Even when he tries his best to shield him, it just phases right through him.

Then eventually it’s time for Ghost and Roach to go, and it’s never not devastating.

His transmission over comms is always just a smidge too late, no matter how many times he tries to warn them.

The worst part of it is that they’re not even able to recover the bodies,—Shepherd took care of that and then some.

But the most soul crushing of all—

Soap.

The bloody game has the audacity to give Price and the player some sliver of hope,—that maybe Johnny’ll make it out alive somehow.

Shepherd didn’t manage to kill him,—he survived that near death experience at the very least.—But that all comes crashing down after Modern Warfare 3–“Blood Brothers”.

The most brutal of them all, (in Price’s opinion), and it’s of course for the person he cares about most.

His (essentially) adopted son slowly bleeding to death, as they’re under heavy gunfire and surrounded by enemies on all sides. Before finally kicking the bucket from explosives planted by that bastard Makarov.

Of all people, why did it have to be him?

Yuri is gone before he even really got to know the guy.

So blah blah blah, the cycle continues over and over again, and the loop remains unbroken for a long time.

Price tries everything he can possibly think of, and eventually he runs out of options.

By some miracle however,—perhaps some fault in the game’s coding.—There comes an opportunity to end the cycle.—Price meanwhile, has slowly and progressively lost his mind,—until finally snapping.

After he’d killed Makarov for around the 1,000th time, he can finally end his suffering.

As he watches Makarov’s lifeless body hanging from the rappel, instead of the usual lighter he pulls out to light his cigar, he gains just enough control over his body to pull out his pistol and pull the trigger.

A mass recall of copies of MW3 ensued after the discovery of this “glitch”, due to a outrage within the fan base and community. No matter what the developers and devs tried too, it couldn’t be patched. The game was then rewritten to where Price is the one to die, while Soap lives and is the one to kill Makarov instead. Re-released in 2013.

The idea came to me while listening to/was heavily inspired by the song “S.I.U” by Maretu btw.

If any of you know that song or are familiar, you’re a real one.

Also, is it just me or like does 09’s Makarov not sound and look like fucking Ben Shapiro lmfao??? He more so sounds like him though, or at least he reminds me of Ben Shapiro—

[skulldetergent]

could we all please start tagging MCD properly?

if i have to look at another post of ghost waking up to an empty bed with no warning i will combust

it only takes a few seconds to put the additional "cw mcd", "mcd" or "major character death" tag on your post, so please do it

[formulapookie]

💛💛

Under the cut to read on Tumblr, here to read on Ao3 ch1; ch2; ch3; ch4; ch5; ch6

Les fleurs du mal ch7 rosquez, 3,2k words

The flight is not worth any kind of notice, the air inside the plane feels heavy, as if someone just put tons and tons more worth of weight on Vale’s shoulder just to keep him anchored to the floor and not let him fly away.

The hostess passes by a few times, asking if he wants anything, Vale barely acknowledges her presence, shaking his head and saying he’s ok.

It’s still half an hour to Barcelona. From there it’s less than an hour drive to Cervera.

God he’s really doing this. He’s- what the fuck is he even doing?

They won’t let him near the body, or the fucking funeral for that matter, let alone close to his grave.

But he needs to see him.

Even if it won’t be sunny, happy Marc he’ll look at, but this strange version of him.

Still in his selfishness Vale wants. He thinks he’s owed that. To see Marc. To look at what he did, because he thinks it’s a suitable way to pay for his actions.

He wants to be the one in the front row saying his last goodbye, wants to be the one carrying the casket, it should be him.

Not Lorenzo, not Dovi, not Pedrosa, not Alex.

If he could, if he only could, he would carry him into the church and from there to the graveyard all alone.

He’d cry. Beg for Marc to come back probably. But at least he’d be close.

Unbeating heart next to warm skin.

Vale doesn’t cry often, before this the last time he cried was for Marco.

God how much had he cried for him.

Uccio and his parents tried to get him out of his room for days, he refused to eat, or drink for that matter. He thought about staying locked in there until the same fate that got Sic got him too, so that they could still ride together in the clouds, like he said Marco to be doing.

Only Luca had managed to get him out, shake him from the dark and rotten place he caved himself a shelter in, and bring him back out, but it was a long and difficult task.

Marco, he. He never fully agreed to the version for which he died before. The one saying that the moment he fell and slid on the track without his helmet he was already dead.

No.

He barely agreed to the one publicly accepted, which is that Marco was there, 50/50 with a chance of never recovering and he just sped up the process.

The fact is he believed and still secretly believes to this day that he killed him. Ran him over, snapped his neck, and killed his best friend. Because maybe he would’ve survived, maybe he could’ve gotten better, maybe they’d have raced again.

For what concerns Marc there aren't even alternatives or sets of opinions about what happened, or whose fault it is, or if it could’ve ended in a different way.

He killed him.

And even if he did it unintentionally he feels like he did it on purpose. Revenge, what a sick fucking felling.

It makes you think and act in ways you didn’t think were yours.

He feels his skin itching, cutting into his muscle and he wants to tear it off, but doesn’t move in the slightest, he wants this to hurt.

Pain is a way to punish himself, though not slightly comparable to the one Marc felt, but it keeps him there, tied to reality and unable to escape the fact he hurt so many people just by being an asshole.

He thinks about the night after Sepang. It’s not a good idea.

He gets up and runs to throw up in the toilet, the alcohol and the few bites of food he’s digested are now out of his system, and he cannot think about eating anything right now.

The image of Marc standing before him, pleading and begging for a chance to be them again.

He remembers the almost-tears in the boy’s eyes, those same eyes looking at his souls trying to get a hold of it.

The image of them two makes its way in Vale’s mind.

If someone had walked in, he would’ve seen a 20 something kid getting his heart shattered, trying to pick the pieces up from the ground as Vale kicked them around, smirking with that sick fun he proved that night.

How could he treat the person who loved him the most like that? Leave him to the wolves as if it had always been like this.

Then a memory from Valencia comes up.

The one moment who revealed to him what Marc was going through.

“You like helping him uh? You sucked his dick too? Did you go to him and let him fuck you as a thank you for letting him win? Did he fuck you well Marc? I bet you enjoyed his dick so much given how you ran to me immediately after to suck me off”

“Stop it Vale please”

“Ah stop what? I’m having fun here aren’t you? Does he know how you like to be treated like the whore you are?”

Then Marc had thrown up. Those petals, horribly yellow and blue.

“I’m sorry”

But sorry doesn’t fix anything, doesn’t fix the hole in his heart shaped like a shot wound.

Sorry doesn’t bring Marc magically back and places him onto his plane, sorry doesn’t give him the chance to tell Marc he loved him still.

Sorry doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t even make him feel better. The only thing that could brighten his day is Marc’s smile.

Or a kiss from him, a hug, holding hands. An action that told Vale “I’m here, I’m here with you”

The only noise is the signal that tells him to fasten his seatbelt because they’re landing. No laugh, no “Vale you want me to hold your hand? I know you’re scared of flying”, no little yelp Marc did when they started taking off.

Vale never liked flying. Not private, not commercial. He doesn’t like lots of factors, height, pressure, danger, noise.

He hates taking off and landing most of all.

And when he’s alone he always grips the seat so fucking tight he had to replace armrests more than once. The jet company had told him he should be sure if he wants to have something so fancy he’s so scared of.

He hadn’t cared.

“Vale? Are you ok? You look a bit - a bit pale. Have you eaten? Do you want me to take you something from the bag?”

Vale shook his head, put on a reassuring smile and sat in his seat, Marc beside him smiling so much Vale though it had to hurt.

“Are you excited? For our holiday?”

Vale had gone overboard that time, something he never did for his past girlfriends, not for anyone but Marc. Marc. A shooting star that came into his life to stay.

He planned a 12 day holiday in the Philippines, just the two of them, in this apartment far from the rest of the world, where they could be just themselves without the fear of being discovered.

“I already told you amore no? Really excited, we’re gonna be in this very beautiful house surrounded by nature and near the sea for twelve days, and most importantly I get to have you all to myself for twelve days. I have already planned a few things I’d like to do once there, you know?”

Marc had blushed, looked away.

Of course he “planned” a few things as well, they were completely alone for more than a week, having sex is the most expected thing there.

And he really wants to spend at least two days straight without getting out of bed. Vale’s tension hadn’t worn down during their small chat, Marc could see how he kept on looking outside the window, and how the armrest of the seat Vale was on looked like a wild cat attacked it.

“Vale, are you nervous?” “Uh? No no I’m ok don’t worry baby” “You look strange” “No no I just am really excited about going there with you”

Marc had watched him again, until a particularly sharp noise came from the plane’s engine.

At that, Vale had shut his eyes and his mouth morphed into a thin closed line, even with his eyes closed Marc could feel the fear.

“Vale, are you scared of flying?” “No” “Amor I won’t judge you, but are you?” Vale opened his eyes, the plane was ready to take off. “Yes. I don’t like it” “Ok then uhm I can maybe hold your hand? To make you feel more secure?”

Vale also doesn’t like to ask for help, or make it obvious he needs it, but the way Marc was looking at him moved something in his chest, it made him vulnerable, but in a pleasant way. A sweet kind of it.

“Ok. Yeah yeah ok you can just-“ “Yeah I solemnly swear I will never tell Valentino Rossi wanted me to hold his hand because he’s scared of flying”

They had laughed, and Marc had brought him a kind of warmth and comfort he hadn’t felt in any other moment of his life.

Right now he’s alone. There’s an enormous emptiness beside him. An obvious lack of warmth and doe eyes looking at him with love.

Those eyes, God. How many times has he looked at them, how many times has he seen them open at the first lights of the morning in creamy white sheets they shared, how many times has he fell in love with them.

The memories are almost enough to distract him from the impending touch with the ground.

Maybe the plane will break, or crash. Save the others and leave him a carcass twisted below tons of metal sheets, unrecognizable at the sight.

Maybe this would be the right way to pay back Marc. Maybe just this could be enough. Dying of a horribly painful death, like Marc did. Alone. Cold.

The plane lands, and there’s no explosion or collision. Valentino is alive, and painfully so.

He never understood people who said they wanted to die until now. Because there’s something about thinking that it can all be over, that he can get away with it without having to face the others.

Lorenzo, Dani, Dovi.

They will be at the funeral. They will be on track. And they will know it was him.

The hostess comes up to him, tells him they’re securely landed and he can climb off the plane.

He gets up, a hoodie and a pair of du glasses on. Phone in pocket and some cash in the other.

He doesn’t need anything more, he reserved a car during the flight, it’s already there waiting for him.

He gets off the plane and in the car as fast as humanly possible, fingers tapping uncomfortably on the steering wheel, a tightening sensation in his throat.

He’s crying once again, at this point he’s surprised there’s even tears left inside him.

He stays there for ten whole minutes, then convinces himself he has to do this. He has to go.

He starts the car and gets out the airport, he doesn’t need a navigator, he knows the route by heart, him and Marc made it lots of times.

Once he’s twenty minutes away from destination he feels worse and worse about what he’s doing.

How will he even hide himself? Cervera is not a big town, and he’s not sure Marc’s family chose to have an open doors funeral.

He’s going there blindly, in the vague hope he’ll get to cast a glance at his body.

The graveyard won’t be as much of a problem, he can confuse himself with people who will want to say their goodbye. He’s sure he’ll find a way to sneak in, stay far from the family as he too mourns with them.

The town is packed, as he expected, tons of people gathered there to give their last farewell to Marc.

There’s flags,  cardboard signs, sheets, all in his honor. In the honor of the rider he was. They are mourning the icon, the sportsman he was. Not the man, the wonderful person he actually was.

And it hurts.

To them it’s an idol that died, an inspiration. To him and his family it’s a person, a brother, a son, a friend, a lover.

The square before the Church is barely noticeable, a sea of orange and red combing it whole.

Then he sees it, the side entrance Dovizioso in suing to get in. He can do it. He can get in somehow.

He squishes himself through the myriads of people waiting for Marc to come out, waiting for the men dressed in deep black to carry him out in a coffin.

But Vake knows they’ll never come out from the front door, no they’ll come out the side one, take another car with the corpse and go to the graveyard.

And he’ll find a way to follow.

He doesn’t manage to surpass the barriers tho, he has to just wait, wait until the function is over and he can follow them to the place where his love will be buried forever.

Once he notices the funeral procession, he’s the fastest he’s ever been, running back to his car and quietly following the one with Marc in it.

It feels shady, and it is, but that’s all he can do.

He parks fairly far from the spot where he knows they’ll place Marc, climbs down the car and makes the rest of the way by foot, quietly in the December freezing cold.

He’s lucky, he knows he is, he could’ve arrived too early, or too late, or be recognised and probably publicly executed.

The graveyard is gray, gloomy and unsettling. He can see Alex from this distance, and a priest reciting something.

He wants to be there.

He’s hidden behind a tree, a bit closer now, he can hear the sobs coming from the people there and the incomprehensible words said by the priest.

Alex is holding their mother, their father is just a few centimeters to the left, heavy eyes filled with tears.

Other family members gathered around the coffin crying as well.

Their colleagues stand a bit further, crying as quietly as they can, Dani especially seems broken, hiding his face in Lorenzo’s chest, while he strokes his back gently, Dovi has marks on his knuckles, red and blotchy.

He must’ve punched something at the news.

Once the person Vale supposes to be Marc’s grandmother moves out of the way he can see him.

Soft, pale and pure skin. Frozen, unable to move. Restrained in this position for eternity, It’s a sickening view, it’s unnatural for Marc to be like that.

He wants to come out of his hiding spot, under the soft and cold light of the December sun.

Walk to the coffin, say goodbye, say sorry, cry, beg for him to come back, then accept the truth.

He can’t think of leaving a flower, not with the way Marc died.

And now that he pays more attention he can see little flowers growing out of his mouth.

He’s heard of people whose ribcage got broken by roots and flowers growing out of it, and he’s glad Marc’s situation is not like that.

The unmistakably bright yellow being the only thing of his still attached to Marc.

He makes a small mistake, a little movement and Roser turns around.

He got caught.

Roser just saw him at Marc’s funeral and now he truly is doomed.

Vale begins walking away, wants to run between the graves and go back to his car. Once he’s almost out he feels a hand on his back. He stops and turns around, ready to face a blood thirsty Alex.

But he just sees Roser, eyes red and glassy.

And he feels even worse for it, feels like a fucking cancer once again. There’s hatred in her eyes, rightfully so, and anger, and so much pain. “Take the glasses off”

He doesn’t expect that, but it’s not a punch in the guts, so he takes them off. Icy blue eyes matching with the surrounding atmosphere, eyes Roser notices to be filled with so much more than she thought.

“Why are you here?”

Her English is tentative, broken, but it can transmit all her emotions well enough. Vale can’t answer, he wants to burn a hole into the ground and fucking disappear inside it.

Words are dying inside his throat, he just looks up at Marc’s mother to feel something close to that hate he has for himself.

And there is a lot of it. But there’s also - compassion?

Or at least something that is not just pure pain and anger.

“Rossi. My son loved you” “I know” “You not” “I did. I do now too. I came here to see him I - I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry”

The last part he speaks Catalan, which shocks Roser.

Valentino Rossi, the rider, the legend, the man who hurt her son so much is now crying in front of her, knees against the icy-cold soil of a graveyard, speaking her language, saying he’s sorry.

She would want to be strong enough to just leave him there. But this man is crying like a kid lost in the woods looking for someone to help him.

There’s anger in her heart, obviously, lots of it. There’s hate. But she will never not have compassion in her heart too.

The tears, the eyes, the words, they all seem genuine to her.

“estimaves el meu fill?” (did you love my son?)

“sì. no tant com es mereixia” (yes. not as much as he deserved)

“però ara ets aquí” (but you’re here now)

“ja és massa tard. ell és mort”  (now it’s too late. he’s dead)

“ell mai va deixar de pensar que hauries tornat per ell” (he never stopped thinking you would’ve come back for him)

“ho sento” (I’m sorry)

And vale just stays there, crying, but without a sound, Roser standing in front of him. And he wants her to do something, maybe call for Marc’s father, or for Alex, or the other riders.

Instead he receives pity. And a hand on his shoulder.

“Go away before they see you, if you want to speak to my boy you should go to Church, ask for forgiveness, ask for him to be well”

And then she leaves. The mother of the boy he killed leaves. Lets him go, as if he didn’t commit the most atrocious and horrible act towards Marc.

He gets up from the ground, dirt and grass staining his jeans, the cold has made its way inside his bones, under his skin, pointy, stingy. He puts the glasses back on, tears don’t stop falling when he does, the sensation of being observed doesn’t fade.

The ride back is monotone, gray, and silent. The radio doesn’t work, and if it did Vale would turn it off anyway.

He gets to a lay-by and stops, he can’t hold it anymore, he gets out the car and vomits, it's almost just bile, maybe some alcohol still, no food. The image of Marc laying like that is too much.

It accompanies him until he reaches the airport again, leaving the car where he found it, it accompanies him while he climbs on the plane and when it takes off.

It fucking follows him to the bedroom door once he's home.

[lyraofthestarsss]

Imagine being Garroth Ro’Meave, head guard with romantic feelings for the new Lord of your village that have been slowly developing overtime, and said Lord rejects the promise ring symbolizing your love that you hid in the chest full of supplies for her journey

Now imagine being Garroth Ro’Meave being summoned to the Neapolitan Villages because your lord is in jail for being accused of a murder she didn’t commit. You go there to clear her name and when you get there you meet this orange haired twink who calls her “my love~” who she’s never mentioned before and is also there to clear her name

[mattiebearr]

Hi Aphblr. Remember him? THIS is the best canon love interest in the entire Aphverse.

If you don't know what Heart Point is, it's a short series that Aphmau had released 5 years ago, about a girl named Aphmau who was given the ability to see how OTHER people see her-- romantically or platonically. We are introduced to many characters, and among them is Ryo Nakano; the centerpiece of this discussion as the best love interest in the entire Aphverse.

First of all, just look at him. Look at him. Eyebrow slit? Grey eyes? Dark hair? Cool guy "I don't care" pose? He has it all.

Second of all, he's a senior and she's a junior! You don't need to write a fic that adjusts the age gap, BECAUSE HE IS PERFECT ALREADY!!

Third of all, when Aphmau tells him she isn't interested in him, he respects that and doesn't push anymore!

Fourth of all, he doesn't surprisingly pull APhmau into a kiss!

Everything I've listed is pretty much THE bare minimum for a decent person, and is also what I see most of when people complain about Laurmau, Garmau, Aarmau, or even Travlyn-- MCD AND MYSTREET/PDH.

Anyways he's also the silliest goofiest guy i've ever seen while also being a huge edgelord. He's the whole package. If you don't want to watch heart point at least read his page on the aphmau wiki, it has his entire character arc summarized in there

[the-martyrfication-of-the-matron]

I convinced someone to watch the MCD lore video and got her invested...

poor girl.

[aphverse-confessions]

Here's a positive confession for your return (hope your break was great btw! :D)

I don't think we really appreciate how much effort went into the builds and skins for the MCD/Mystreet characters. I mean seriously!! I love staring at the backgrounds for MCD especially. Because there's so much texture and excellent builds everywhere. All of the different villages are so atmospheric and capture their vibe beautifully imo. The character skins are also, for the most part, really good! A couple of the mys skins do fall flat for me but when they're good they're GOOD. A handful of the S2, S3, and s5 outfits are some memorable highlights in my mind.

.