#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.

[stellewriites]

very much inspired by a post i’ll link at the bottom to avoid spoilers

i love putting john price in situations

simon had known price for over a decade, had served under him as his lieutenant for a good portion of it, so he was pretty confident in answering yes when asked if he thought he knew the captain well.

he could acknowledge he wasn’t as close as say laswell may have been, but he knew that price’s wife was not common knowledge around the base either.

he’d pieced it together over the years on missions; catching the odd comment shared over coms; the glint of a ring around his neck; the odd teased mention of her when they sat in the rec room after barely scraping through a tough spot, when price needed the company as well as the silence ghost offered before returning to the real world.

it was how simon knew the sergeants were staying when price let slip about her one day. because he doesn’t let anything slip, wouldn’t, especially about her.

“got anyone at home waiting for you, sir?” gaz asked as he sighed impatiently over the coms, hour three of silently waiting and watching had finally gotten to him.

“i do,” price said simply, not offering any further information. ghost could imagine the amusement tugging at his daft facial hair as price refused to continue without prompting and simon smiled under his mask when he heard johnny scoff next to him before chiming in.

“c’mon sir, give us a wee bit more’n that,” he weedled. “when’d ya meet? is she nice?”

john hummed, the sound low and crackly over the radio in their ears. “met when i moved.”

“oh, a real meet-cute type thing, eh?” gaz teased.

john ignored him. “wouldn’t say she’s nice, soap. she’s more than that. ‘nice’ is your aunt’s new wallpaper; you have permission to shoot me point blank if i start calling her nice.”

“what is she then?” ghost piped up. this was the chattiest john had ever been on the subject and he was going to take advantage.

john went silent for long enough that the three men thought that was it, the end to their sharing session and knowing more about their captain outside of work. simon chewed the inside of his cheek.

“she’s devoted,” john whispered finally before his voice firmed. “heads up, team, movement 2 o’clock. anyone got eyes on the target?”

—

it was months later when she was brought up again, the team thinking. nothing of it until price’s phone pinged in his pocket enough times to pique johnny’s interest as they prepped to leave.

“that the wife, sir?” he asked.

john huffed, didn’t bother checking his phone as he turned and shook his head. “she’s clingy, but she doesn’t bother me when i’m at work.”

“how’d you know?” gaz asked. “could be an emergency.”

“‘n’ how’d you get her to agree tae tha’?” soap followed up quickly, having had issues with his own flings petering out when he was distant and slow to reply.

“been with her long enough now it’s routine,” john said simply. he checked his weapons before heading for the exit. “helo in 5, be air ready.”

—

the mission had gone to shit, and they were stuck hidden in a building that looked like it was 10 seconds away from collapsing under a brisk wind when ghost finally felt his patience snap.

it was no one’s fault, but being stuck in another country with no back up and a target on their backs for an extra three weeks wasn’t ideal and johnny’s insistence on playing cards at every opportunity to keep his idle hands and mind busy combined with gaz’s tinny whistling had made for the perfect scenario to grate on simon’s patience quicker than anything else ever had.

“tell us about her. ya wife,” simon asked, his gaze slipping across to john, watching him pick at his nails. his cuticles were red and raw from four days of agitated fidgeting since they’d ran out of cigars and cigarettes. every so often simon caught him pat his empty pocket before he’d remember and huff heavily through his nose like a bull.

john closed his eyes at the mention of his wife and sighed. he started his description without protest or hesitance. “shes soft spoken. christ, you’d hardly know she was there half the time, she’s so quiet. but she’s firm. stands her ground no matter what,” he chuckled. “don’t think i’ve ever won an argument against her.”

kyle laughed and ghost closed his own eyes, trying to picture what he thought the captain’s wife might look like. pretty certainly, but was she tall, plump, did she have an endearing gap between her front teeth, did she keep her hair short or long?

“she’s a bit of a homebody,” john admitted bashfully, unaware of simon’s drifting thoughts. “but i can’t say i mind it.”

“not wanting to leave the bedroom much when yer back?” johnny joked, hissing when ghost punched his thigh.

john just smiled placidly, eyes still closed. his eyebrows pulled down as he gushed, “god she’s gorgeous in red. wears it every time i come home.”

“lucky bastard,” gaz huffed.

“yeah.” john nodded and finally opened his eyes. “yeah, lucky.”

“you’ll be back with her soon, cap,” gaz reassured him when he saw price swallow thickly.

“thanks, gaz. now who’s taking first watch tonight? soap?”

—

john was quiet on the plane ride home, not unusually so, but ghost noticed the difference all the same.

he was pensive perhaps, worried what his wife would say when he finally got home a month later than scheduled, uncontactable the entire time. ghost could understand to a certain degree that john would have more important things on his mind than what his three subordinates were going to do as soon as they stepped foot on home soil, so he didn’t push when john ignored the few threads of conversation thrown his way by their younger sergeants. instead he nodded when john said a quick goodbye as they all parted ways in the airport.

simon could only assume john was the same all the way home in the cab that dropped him outside of his little three bed house.

he didn’t see however how john hesitated at the door to his home that evening. how he gripped the front door keys tightly in his fist, shook as he stared down at his feet instead of letting his eyes drift and catch on the windows, and felt as though he could crack a tooth from how hard he was clenching his teeth.

he finally opened the door when he thought the neighbours might begin to get worried and stepped inside, flicking on the lights as he went.

it wasn’t until he got to the kitchen that he found her.

stood bare foot, silent, eyes wide and pleading, blood seeping - always seeping. would it ever stop? would the blood ever end? - through her white pyjama top, his top that she’d borrowed for the night, and trickling down her bare legs.

her mouth opened and she visibly struggled for breath, but no sound escaped even as her tongue wagged on the floor of her mouth, lapping at the backs of her teeth as all words escaped her.

he swallowed back bile.

“hello, sweetheart,” he choked out. “sorry i’m late.”

the blood pooled at her feet, the panties she wore were seeped a dark purple from the viscus liquid dying the dark blue material and the shirt stuck to her front. john had remembered loving seeing her like this in a morning, had always thought she looked best in as little clothing as possible.

“i know you hate it when work keeps me busy, but it was unexpected. we were caught—“ a high screech, not dissimilar to that of a whistle that only a dog could hear, pierced through his ears and cut his words short. he curled in and covered his ears, but he knew it would do no good, he should’ve known better than to talk about work around her.

not after what had happened last time he got back late after overtime.

tears prickle at his eyes and the sound abruptly stopped. he’d never questioned why it seemed to be only him that could hear her protests, why his neighbours never mentioned a shrill cry every so often from his home. he had always said she was made for him and that had apparently translated literally into the afterlife.

he looked up at her again - it was best not to ignore her he found. it only made her angry.

“it won’t happen again,” he promised wetly. “i did my best to get back as soon as i could, i promise, sweetheart—“ he choked on his words, biting back a sob. she watched unblinkingly, silent except for the wet squelch of her feet on the laminate.

they both knew he wasn’t apologising for being late this time. he got like this sometimes, when her agonised face and mangled body was too much to bear after a long mission and the guilt bore down like a physical presence.

he couldn’t help but think if he’d gotten home even just an hour earlier he might’ve been able to save her, to have kept her company instead of leaving her on the floor alone and cold, maybe he could have caught the bastards that had hurt her while he was still travelling back from deployment after agreeing to hang back and finish his paperwork there and then instead of emailing it across.

he reached a shaking hand forward and blew out a ragged breath when his hand met nothing but frigid air. but when he brought his hand up to his face he could smell the copper tang of his dead wife’s blood on his skin. the stench unwashable, cloying, but if he concentrated hard enough it ever so faintly smelt like the vanilla perfume she used to wear.

“was telling the lads about you, love,” he forced an empty chuckle as he walked around her to the kettle and went through their usual routine. “think they might’ve fallen a little in love, not that i could blame them.”

he ran a hand over his face and gave himself a moment to let the tears fall as his palm hid his eyes. her silence was the worst part of it all, but he could see the glaring red of her in his peripheral when he dropped his hand to the counter.

it wasn’t pretending his wife was still alive if she was right there at his shoulder, was it?

“looks like i’ll need to grab you some more pg tips, sweetheart,” he said and poured the boiling water into two cups, sparing a glance over his shoulder at his wife. “we’re almost out.”

post link

[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

[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

[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 he finally snaps.

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, completey unrelated, but 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—

[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

[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

[iridiss]

listening to what could have been by sting and thinking about garroth. And I can’t help but wonder what it would look like if the narrative leaned more into the idea of Garroth as a villain. Because his Mystreet counterpart, especially his more recent changes/developments as a jollier, dumber, sillier comedic relief character, can be very misleading when it comes to the idea of thinking of MCD!Garroth as a…wholly good, pleasant person. Canon MCD Garroth isn’t 100% good, he’s morally gray. He’s not evil, he’s someone in the middle who fights for what’s good and what he thinks is good, but just because he fights on the side of good doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a great person. He’s not.

The contrast between him and Laurance is shocking, actually, he and Laurance both have very different opinions and very different approaches when it comes to handling other people, their relationships, and primarily…what they think they deserve. How they get what they want. MCD!Garroth can be very good, he can be a docile sweetheart at times, but he is very much a self-serving man when you take a closer look

When Laurance is stuck in the Nether, Aphmau is desperate to find any way to build a new portal and get him out and save him, and she’s very close to actually going and doing it herself. But Garroth stops her. Garroth is the one that holds her back, tells her to leave Laurance be. It’s likely a cause done out of concern for Aphmau’s own safety, there’s a great deal of risk that comes with bringing back a man who could very well be a Shadow Knight by this point. (though he doesn’t know that at this point, there’s only a mere chance of it!) But nonetheless, he still leaves him behind and refuses to turn back to save him. While he’s gone, he even bands all of the nearby guards and towns in the area to write a brand new law into their Guard Code that states that if a guard is made into a Shadow Knight, it is their sole and sovereign responsibility as a guard to kill themselves after their transformation. So not only has he refused to help Laurance, he has literally written a law, a law that very much binds the loyal and honorable Laurance, that would force Laurance to kill himself the second he comes back. He didn’t try to save him, he created a trap for Laurance to die the second he comes back.

Now of course, that didn’t end up happening and the narrative sorta forgot that ever happened, but I can’t help but notice the contrast when it’s Laurance in his place instead. Garroth severely betrayed Laurance and fucked him over and abandoned him in his/the village’s time of need (the Scaleswind war), and only saved face at the very end when he realized he’d been lied to, but despite all of that, Laurance would die and kill to get Garroth out of the Irene Dimension. Laurance cares for Garroth so fucking much, Garroth attacked him and backstabbed him and Laurance still cared enough to give him a pep talk, to desperately try to get him back, he never gave up on him no matter what. And when Garroth was trapped in another dimension, Laurance was DESPERATE to get him back as soon as possible, at all costs. He snuck out with Aphmau to try to open the portal again at great risk. He consistently talks about how much he misses Garroth. When Aphmau starts having dreams of Garroth—including one where Garroth actually kissed her behind his back, the very same crime that broke Garroth’s heart in the first place—the first thing out of his mouth is “How is Garroth? Is he okay? Is Garroth alright? I miss him. Man, if I could show up in dreams like you, do you think he’d be excited to see me? Do you think he’d be so excited to see me, he would kiss me too?”

What Garroth refused to do for Laurance, Laurance would do for Garroth in a heartbeat. Laurance would die and kill to do everything for Garroth that Garroth decidedly did not do for him. Garroth could kiss Aphmau behind his back all he wanted, and he would still ask Aphmau if Garroth was doing okay.

There’s this sort of tragic, unrequited love and one-sided devotion potential for Laurance x Garroth that I don’t think I’ve seen before. Not like this, anyway. Laurance loves him so, so much. Garroth…does not. Because Garroth’s heart is not centered around others—it’s centered around himself.

And I don’t say that like at all in a damning way! I don’t say that because I hate him and I prefer Laurmau or whatever, I’m talking purely casually to point out the various actions he’s done in canon to analyze a specific portrait of him, a specific take on Garroth’s character, that I don’t think I’ve seen before in the fandom yet. I compare him to Laurance and Aaron not to say “oh they’re obviously the better choice in the ship war,” but to demonstrate that he’s the only love interest of Aphmau’s whose written in a very unique way that is personalized to his character and his individual personality traits. Other love interests of Aphmau have faced the same or similar situations, and they each respond differently. This is how Garroth responds. (and it’s not healthy lmao)

When Garroth sees the illusion of Aphmau and Laurance kissing in the woods—he pointedly does nothing to try to abate the stubborn belief he forms from it. He had literally just seen Aphmau and Laurance three seconds prior, entering the barn. For a party, that he just witnessed the two attend. There’s no way they could have suddenly and immediately left the party and ran off into the woods without him seeing them. And even more so, he had JUST witnessed Aphmau speaking to Nicole about her love life, and outright telling her that she’s not ready for a relationship right now. She just said, five feet away from Garroth, that she wasn’t looking for romance right now. And furthermore, he only ran into the woods because he saw a strange, devious-looking, suspicious figure run in prior, something that should have made the idea of Laurance and Aphmau being there in the first place seem even more suspicious and impossible. Literally anyone in their right mind would have questioned what they saw at least a little bit, considering everything that had just directly contradicted its plausibility. Not to mention the fact that it’d be entirely contradictory to both Aphmau and Laurance’s characters that Garroth has known up to this point to go behind his back and do something like this. Aphmau would never do this, she would never kiss Laurance so soon, that’s…why she didn’t. If he knew Aphmau well, if he trusted her, he would know that, he would have faith in her and question what he saw. He could have gone back to the party and found both of them still there, and asked them about what he just saw, and they would have told him the truth immediately. He could have communicated with them. It would be extremely easy to communicate with them, they could have cleared this issue up in fifteen seconds or less—but that would require Garroth wanting to communicate. It would require him trusting them enough to reach out, to see them for who they are and trust what he sees. That would require him wanting the best possible outcome, the healthiest outcome that still salvages the friendship and allows him to keep Aphmau around as a friend. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t talk to them.

Instead, he decides to avoid them. He isolates himself, they both actually grow extremely worried about him and continuously check up on him, reaching out to him and trying to show him how much they care for him and love him, and he shuts them out every time. He gives them the silent treatment, he doesn’t tell them why he’s angry, he lies when Aphmau asks him what’s wrong, and he turns cold and terse with her, and later even back-handed and borderline mean when speaking to her right before the ultimate betrayal. He becomes extremely petty about the mere possibility of losing this competition over Aphmau and absolutely holds it against them (points even louder to the fact that, before his shadow knight self starts corrupting him ((I have currently only rewatched up to s2 ep19 so my opinion on this may change)), Laurance DID NOT DO THIS AT ALL when faced with the same exact scenario except this time it was REAL, and even Mystreet!Aaron refused to have any part in the “competition” at large and literally talked to Garroth about how stupid and harmful and dehumanizing it is to Aphmau in S3: Lover’s Lane, and that’s why Aphmau “chose” Aaron over Garroth, because he did not treat her like an object to be won, an object he deserved. The competition itself is literally canonically recognized by other characters as petty and selfish and causes more harm than it does good, it hurts Aphmau and it pushes her away from Garroth in Mystreet. Because she’s a person, not a prize, and Garroth is the one character, out of the 3 of them, who canonically struggles the most to remember how much it hurts her and struggles to not treat her like his territory anyway.

I’ve never seen a love triangle series outright state and recognize the inherent dehumanization and harm that comes with the competition over the girl, how it hurts the girl more than anything else, and yet, Mystreet has done it at least in one instance, and I’m really impressed with that. I’m impressed that there is canon backing to the idea that Aaron “won” the shipping war because he didn’t participate in it. He thought the idea was stupid, this thing that controls Garroth like a dog on a bone. Aaron doesn’t give a shit about any “competition,” because he cares more about Aphmau herself and her needs and desires than whether or not he’s gonna score her at the end of the night. Over and over again throughout Lover’s Lane, he refuses to be possessive or jealous over her, he doesn’t give a shit that she’s talking to other men, while Garroth (and laurance, once Garroth convinces him to be curious and worried enough, to be fair) loses his shit over it. Aaron has to continuously remind Garroth, and the rest of her friends, that Aphmau is a person with agency and she is allowed to talk to whoever she wants and he as her boyfriend should ABSOLUTELY NOT CONTROL THAT. He does not OWN her. And that’s why Aphmau gravitates towards him, over Garroth and his more possessive and territorial nature.

Laurance is still more guilty of this sin than Aaron is by participating in the competition itself, but in the Irene Dimension, Laurance still has to smack Garroth upside the head to literally remind him that she is a human being with agency of her own, she is allowed to do whatever the hell she wants with her love life and does not owe them anything, she is not an object that they deserve to earn. Laurance has to tell him that as Aphmau’s guard and friend, it is their duty to support her no matter what she chooses for her love life. That’s something Laurance recognizes that he doesn’t: Aphmau may never choose either of them, she may never choose anyone at all, and it is more important than anything else that they be okay with whatever she chooses because she is their friend, their liege, their Lord. Laurance is okay with whatever she chooses, as long as he can be by her side in some way or another, whether that’s as her lover, her dearest and closest friend, or nothing more than her guard, he reassures her over and over again that he’s okay with whatever. He doesn’t want to pressure her into anything, he doesn’t want to force her to be his. He may flirt with her still just to see her laugh or smile or tease him back or snark him, but he will always respect her boundaries and her wishes over anything else at the end of the day.

But Garroth doesn’t think that way. When his own village goes to war, the lives and safety of his own people that he’s responsible for as their Head Guard is put at immense risk against a seemingly impossible threat (O’khasis + Scaleswind) and he abandons them. Because he’s so incredibly petty about Aphmau ever kissing another man for whatever reason, no matter how impossible, that he cuts all communication with them, cold shoulders them hard, and literally leaves them behind to possibly die. He is not present in the battle. He abandons his duties as Aphmau’s guard completely and leaves her to very possibly die, pretty much as punishment for not letting him win. This shows to me that he is Aphmau’s most devoted guard until it stops benefiting him personally. And its not necessarily because “he just had a broken heart :(“ it’s how he, Garroth, individually responds to his own emotions and how he chooses to treat the people around him the moment he stops getting what he wants. He seems to be a very lawful character, to contrast Laurance being a more chaotic one, but I’d like to argue that he doesn’t follow anyone else’s law but his own. He follows what serves him, and if devoting himself to Aphmau is what serves him in the moment, then he’ll devote himself to that at the cost of anyone else. But if it serves himself to ditch Aphmau in her hour of need, then he will stubbornly and absolutely follow that at the cost of anyone else, including her and her life and wellbeing. Laurance and Aaron would have chosen to communicate and likely already have done in similar situations throughout the Aphverse canon. Garroth refused to, to the point of pointedly choosing to turn his back on Phoenix Drop and potentially let them die because of how damn stubborn he was. Now, he likely would regret it if the battle did end up going poorly and Garroth came back to find Aphmau and Laurance and all of Phoenix Drop killed and razed to the ground by Zane and Scaleswind, but thankfully Aphmau was able to pull everything together in his absence and he didn’t have to face the consequences of his actions too badly.

If Aphmau chose Garroth, Laurance would still spend the rest of his days by their side as their close friend. If Aphmau chose Laurance, Garroth would ditch her and leave her to die. apparently. that is uh. not great. maybe we go to therapy instead actually (and I can’t help but wonder why he would think that way! this is more headcanon land than anything else but perhaps garryboy picked up some nasty thought habits and beliefs from his time as a prince? Garte passing down the toxic family traits down onto him inevitably maybe)

But he ditches Zane when Zane stops serving him, as well. Zane has been terrorizing and harming the people he cared for most for ages now, and even still, he preferred to side with him, and I honestly think it’s because Zane’s narrative justified his decision to punish Aphmau by pushing her away. Zane allowed him to let go of his conscience, despite Zane being most certainly the sketchiest man alive that Garroth surely knows is a liar and a manipulator and a criminal out to hurt his loved ones by now. But Zane is still the only person alive that would give Garroth justification to be his worst self and enable his behavior, so that’s who he gravitates towards. Zane happily enables his brother’s worst self, and it can be argued that Garroth is happy to be enabled, and mostly certainly enables Zane’s worst in turn. The bad influence brothers! Sometimes they make each other so much worse <3

There can be an argument made that Garroth left his kingdom behind in a similar vein, because it didn’t serve him personally to marry someone he didn’t want. He was the only heir left to a kingdom that ended up falling without him, leaving his father to die under Tu’la’s invasion and allowing for his mother to be kidnapped. His people need him, he has a responsibility to them, a duty that he refused to tend to, because he didn’t want to. I think that might be at least similar to what Laurance was trying to get at, by calling him shitty for abandoning his duty as a Prince and wanting to return him to O’khasis?

When he’s in the dreams with Aphmau, he does kiss her without consent. It’s 1000% fair to be argued that he only does that because he isn’t sure if it’s a dream!! He doesn’t really know if that’s Aphmau herself or just a figment of his imagination and he regrets not having done it sooner, so im absolutely not pointing that out as like a black and white He Did An Indisputably Bad Thing And He Should Be Cancelled For It thing, there’s nuance. I point it out because if you want a Good Boy Garroth take, it can be argued that it’s a romantic thing he does because he misses her and he’s distraught that he didn’t get the chance to do this in life and he very well might never get to see her again so he should confess his feelings to her now before he loses her again, and also it’s a fucking psuedodream. But if you want a Bad Man Garroth take, there’s. Definitely!! Something to be said about how like!! How he doesn’t ask, he doesn’t specify or give any sort of clarification beforehand. How he doesn’t care for a single second whether or not she would actually want this and he should respect that upon the chance that this very likely could be the Real Aphmau right now using weirdo Irene magic to appear in his head. He doesn’t hesitate or check with her or even confess his feelings beforehand, he doesn’t just. fucking tell her how he feels like a normal human being, he just grabs her face and forces a kiss, because that’s what he wants. Again, because that’s what serves him in the moment. And that’s…his priority above all else, including and especially Aphmau’s own boundaries

Also I can’t help but laugh in his face when he talks to Aphmau about how he’s upset that Laurance got all this time to bond with Aphmau and grow close to her as a friend when he didn’t. My guy he got the opportunity to do that because you left and forced Aphmau and Laurance to only depend on each other in a dire time of need, because you were being too petty of a bitch to try to talk to them lmao. Like my guy you not getting closer to Aphmau is 1000% your own fault, you have NO room to complain lmao

maybe Aphmau should be allowed to be at least a liiiiittle angry with Garroth for costing her 15 years of her childrens’ childhoods and all of her friends and relationships and loved ones (and an eternity with Zoey) all because he was the pettiest fucking bitch known to man. she should be allowed to be at least a teensy bit angry with him for it. Laurance also lost another dad in the timeskip I feel like that’d be more than enough reason to have beef with Garroth’s arrogant prick ass lmao

Garroth’s sole drive is himself, at times very much at the cost of those around him. His moral code is very relative, and yet to him it seems like the hardest line in the world. He’s not a bad person, but he’s not terrific either. I would love to see a take on Garroth as a more fully fledged villain though, following his worst behaviors in canon. A Garroth that highlights his more arrogant and selfish tendencies, that puts them on display and makes him look more like his father by the day. A Garroth that’s cold, who will drop you like a hat and leave you to rot when you don’t give him what he wants, a Garroth whose a territorial and possessive and controlling partner who hates the idea of you so much as speaking to any other men. Who will punish you and refuse to speak to you and abandon you if you do. A Garroth who’s very much capable of being back-handed and passive aggressive and really fucking mean. A Garroth whose morality on occasion seems to be admirably upright and pure, only for him to side with the most evil and corrupt of men because that’s what benefits him more in the moment. A Garroth who’s a hypocrite and fucking lying to himself. A Garroth that takes what he wants without any regard for your own personal desires. All his worst personality traits bumped up to a nine, so they outweigh all of the other good traits that would normally balance them out. A Garroth who believes honor is relative, whose morals are relative, whose loyalties will change at the turn of a dime, depending on which side will give him what he wants more. Because he believes he deserves what he wants, he’s earned what he wants, and if you deny him that, you are deserving of whatever punishment comes your way. You are the one in the wrong, for taking away his rightfully deserved prizes, and he will never apologize for lashing out because of it. He is childish and emotionally immature, he doesn’t communicate, he doesn’t trust, he doesn’t open up, he stays in his castle of solitude, because he’s chased away all the people he could fill his halls with, for petty reasons and slightest faults. And at the end of the day, he’ll look himself in the mirror, and it’ll never occur to him, not once, that it was his fault for making them leave. It was his fault that he never got the happy future he wanted.

[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.

[lggy]

please just die and come to the nether with me

[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.