#the pride the mourning the love

[lesbanian]

I'll go a few months without listening to Mashrou Leila, and then for whatever reason I'll listen to one of their songs, and I'll just feel so many emotions all at once. I don't even know what is happening to my body right now.

[n0ahs-ark]

before and after reveal

glow up or glow down?

[cherchezlafatfemme]

Taash x Rook ♥️

[hermanunworthy]

never again?

[sarafangirlart]

Ok now I’m imagining Cassiopeia trying to shield and protect Andromeda from being taken away and sacrificed like how Andromache tried to protect Astyanax from the Achaeans in Euripides Trojan Women.

[5starchili]

Happy Pride Month <3

An exchange between love birds, and a song that might go with it

[t00thpasteface]

by the way, i'm looking to see if i can't knock a few more books out of my to-read list before college starts back up in the fall. i want to read all the big-name classics (like catcher in the rye, the count of monte cristo, wuthering heights, FAMOUS titles like that), so does anyone have some good classic recommendations?

i've almost never hated an assigned reading even up through college, with vanishingly few exceptions, but i especially love short, messy, brutal tragedies. the true love dies at the end in all my fav books!! so let me know if you have any good ideas on what classics i need to tackle next ♪(´▽｀)

[fancifulflora]

in the mood for angst! how would the LIs in atoc react to the crown sacrificing themselves for them (during or after ur choice!) ty! group crying session after this lol

hehehe, I've been writing a lot of fluff lately and semi angst so now it's high time I destroy people a little on the inside

also since its a sunday and i have a lot of extra time to write I'm posting this as a nice bonus on top of the 1 daily post

Azad/Ashti

Perhaps they weren't too unlike their father after all.

Both lead their country to ruin, to chaos, in one way or another.

The only problem was that the Royal Protector didn't lose their mind. Their body wasn't frail. Paranoia had not taken them the way it did their parent.

They were healthy, as healthy as one could be. Still young, strong. Capable and with agency.

Yet they were still alive. A Royal Protector now without their Crown.

A failure.

It still was fresh in their mind, a sharp ache filling up their head whenever they let their mind drift to you. The guilt robbed their lungs of air.

They think of the trust you had given them, they trust the two of you shared.

You knew full well that this was their purpose- their duty to lay their life down for your safety.

So why did you do it? Why go so far for them?

It hurts to not be able to hold you in your final moments, to be able to ask- demand to know why you were so damn selfless. Why you cared for them so. Why your eyes looked so resigned, so at peace the moment you shoved your entire body against theirs- your eyes meeting for the last time.

Your head rolling across the stones ended all hope for answers.

Leaving behind a country in chaos, a failure in desperate need of answers they'll never get.

Dara/Delal

Somehow, despite all odds, despite everything they did in their power to get stronger, to grow- they did it again.

They've killed another Crown.

It had to be a cruel trick played on them by the very Spirits themselves. Had to be. There was no way that they were deserving of such sacrifice.

No way a single, insignificant soldier was worth not one, but two Crowns.

Void take them, there was no way their life could ever be worth yours alone.

Not when they knew you, knew your character, knew your potential.

The armor they wore that day still sits in their office, the golden scales stained with a crimson that they may never wash off.

Their own hands are still stained with blood every time they dare look down at them, stained with your blood- no matter how many times they try to wash it off. Try to put it in the back of their mind.

They can't even stop to think of the consequences this will have on their family, they can barely think as is.

The only thing they can do is harden themselves and let the earth itself swallow their misery, their heart.

And their chances of redemption along with it.

Rozerîn/Rêzan

Not a soul blamed them for the Crown's passing.

A part of the sorcerer wished they would.

It's only right that they do.

Though they knew the blame would come later, when the nights of mourning- crying, ended.

It would come when the sorcerer could eat and drink once more when they could get back to brushing their long hair- leaving the darkness of their chambers.

And for once, they'd welcome it.

They'd happily take the looks from the nobles, the snide- even accusatory comments.

It wasn't like they were incorrect in their sentiment. The sorcerer did turn out to be unfit for their position. Unworthy of the faith placed in them by those around the magus.

They'd deserve no less for failing their mentor, for failing their Crown.

For failing you.

Void take them, they'd deserve more criticism if anything.

All their insecurities were brought to life that day, the same day life left yours. They still remember it now, remember the tears in your eyes as you cupped the side of their face, your weak voice telling them that it wasn't their fault. The way you clutched at their silk dress, your blood pooling on the ground.

No amount of healing magic could have healed the deep stabs you had sustained.

Spirits, to think that in your final moments, you'd be thinking of them. It ate away at the sorcerer's heart.

To think that they'd have no choice but to move on from your death - their task now set to finding the next Crown once more. To see the hard work the two of you put into Arsur washed away by time itself.

It was a weight the sorcerer wasn't sure they were worthy of taking, a burden they doubted- no, knew, they could not carry.

Not after watching their very hope fade from your eyes.

Xelara/Xelef

They had their doubts about you when they first stumbled across the long-lost Crown of Arsur.

Their own past with Crowns was a bloody one- one that had them contemplating whether or not they'd even help you in the first place when they first got a glance at your golden eyes.

They still remember holding you in your final moments, seeing the beautiful shades of the sun fade away.

Taking you with them.

Early on, they'd wonder what they might do- should do, if you turned out like Crown Piruz, whether they'd regret not being the one to run a blade through you- kill you where you stood in that clearing.

They certainly never expected to ever actually do it.

Not like this anyway.

Granted, they didn't actually kill you with their own two hands. In fact, most of the songs and tales being spun around Arsur have been about the affection they held for you.

A love that brought about their end.

All because of an arrow you had stolen from them- taking it through the heart instead of the mercenary.

No. They couldn't lie to themselves, not this time.

They knew better. Anyone would sense would.

It wasn't the arrow that killed you.

It was them.

[herfavoritecolorisgreen]

You’re going to hurt me

It’s inevitable, you are going to hurt me

But I play the fool, deliberately and with intent

I do not hold it against you

Your love is not owed to me anyways

You never said forever or guaranteed your time

The only one to blame- is my foolish heart

But- nonetheless, it is yours forever

Or as long as you’ll hold it

[fairwinds-safetravels]

.

[devinwolfi]

watched a new show didn't i

[fragmentedblade]

Insane that Blade during Todd's quest did basically the same thing Dan Heng was doing during this last video

[dove-da-birb]

🌈

For the queer ask game ^^

🌈 - What's a Queer Identity, Experience or a piece of History you feel deserves more recognition?

All queer history doesn't get enough attention, so really, all of it

The bare minimum though is knowing about Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera (aka tired of white queer folk forgetting AND dismissing how important they are)

As for identity? Demi-gender, I never see any media covering them; demigirl, demiboy. But really, any gender falling outside of the binary. As for romantic and sexual attraction? Anything falling under the a-spec umbrella.

*aka I am tired of having to do a powerpoint when I come out to people

[lynxalon]

.

[thestarlightforge]

people might have been disabled their whole lives, and can't imagine a different life for them. and they shouldn't have to be sad for some other life they could have lived when they are alive right now.

This.

disabled people are allowed to like being disabled. prefer being disabled. while there's many reasons people mourn their hypothetical or past abled selves - for which there is no fault - there are as many reasons for people to have no problem with the fact that they are disabled. people are allowed to enjoy being disabled and various parts of their disability without being denied support, care, or accommodations. people might have been disabled their whole lives, and can't imagine a different life for them. and they shouldn't have to be sad for some other life they could have lived when they are alive right now. people might have a disability that is incurable, or has shaped their experiences to the point where they would be a very different person without it. a person which would not be themselves. people are allowed to hate parts of their disability but love other parts. there is no right or wrong way to feel about one's own disability. i have been angry and bitter and with grief at various times in my life because of my disabilities. but i think people who are enjoying their disabled lives do not need constant reminders of the negative aspects without asking, the same as people who are upset with their disabled lives do not need forced positivity. it's difficult to say that you like or accept or enjoy your disability and disabled life when the constant expectation, from ableds and from some other disabled people too, is to wish that you were not disabled at all. disabled people have and always will exist, and our lives and their varied experiences can be full of joy as well

[beloveds-embrace]

(more of designationless!reader)

Soap found the box by accident. You never meant for it to follow you, never meant for it to be seen by anyone but yourself. It was a relic from a past you thought you’d buried, stuffed away in a dark corner of the storage room, forgotten like so many other things, brought by mistake when you changed between units again and again.

But Soap found it.

The box was old, its cardboard edges soft and sagging, your name scrawled on the side in faded, uneven marker. He wasn’t trying to pry- it was just there when he searched for a field manual in the storage room, and something about it drew him in. He brought it back to the common area where the others were gathered, setting it down on the table with a curious tilt of his head.

“Lassie never mentioned this, aye?” he asked, more to himself than to anyone else, and opened it; too curious, but also aware that if you truly did not want anyone to look through this, you would not have placed it in the storage room.

The scent of aged paper and something faintly bitter wafted out, and the pack stilled. Not because it smelled bad- it didn’t- but because something about the box immediately felt wrong; like a wound forced open.

Price was the first to step forward, instincts prickling at the edges of his senses. Ghost and Gaz followed, hovering close as Soap pulled out the first item.

At first, it was harmless. A broken doll with tangled hair, a few faded toys with their colors leeched by time, certificates bearing hollow phrases like “good effort.” Price’s eyes softened, his brow furrowing as he turned a small, threadbare ribbon over in his hand. None of it spoke of joy or pride. Instead, the items lay heavy in the box, the remnants of a childhood where love had been scarce. It wasn’t a treasure trove of cherished memories.

But then, Soap pulled out the sketchbook.

It was fragile, the cover warped and frayed, its edges curling inward as if trying to protect what lay inside. Price’s hand shot out, steadying Soap’s wrist, and he took it into his own hands. “Careful,” he warned. “Looks quite old.”

The room held its breath as Price opened it.

The first drawing made something deep in his chest rumble- a low, warning growl of distress that made the others tense.

You, as a child, stood apart from a group of faceless figures. They huddled together, faceless and warm in orange and yellow crayons, while you stood small and distant, alone in the cold blue. The faint, childish scrawl beneath it read:

“I think this is what love looks like.”

Price’s hand tightened on the book, the paper crinkling slightly under his grip. Ghost’s shoulders stiffened, and Soap let out a soft, chuffing exhale, his fingers twitching like he wanted to grab something, someone, and shake them. Like he wanted to grab you, and draw you into his arms.

The next drawing was no easier.

A child stood under black clouds, the page marked with teardrops, their hands pressed to a glowing window where a family sat warm and dry inside, nestled together. You’d drawn yourself outside, drenched and shivering, a frown on your face.

“When? If I’m good, will they let me in?”

Gaz made a sound low in his throat, a soft, mournful keening that was almost drowned out by Ghost’s steady, quiet growl, while Soap hisses, his pacing steps breaking the stillness.

And then, there were the drawings of your family- your siblings, your parents- but their faces were always blank, their hands never reaching for yours. Sometimes, you drew yourself trying to smile, trying to be part of the picture, but it was always wrong. You were always smaller, always separated.

Page after page followed, each one another gut-wrenching blow. Each one a testament to your loneliness.

A little girl sat at the edge of a family dinner table, her chair slightly too far away, the space between her and the others gaping like an abyss. In another, she stood in the background of a family photo, smaller and faded, as though she didn’t belong.

“I think I’m broken.”

“They don’t want me.”

“I wish I wasn’t me.”

“Mama and papa say I will ruin the nest.”

The drawings became messier, the lines shakier, as if your younger self had pressed harder into the paper with each word, each scene, trying to make the feelings go away by burying them in the lines of graphite and crayons.

The pack’s scents filled the room, heavy and overwhelming- John’s cedarwood sharp with anger, Ghost’s smoky musk thick and oppressive, Soap’s bright citrus tinged with distress, and Gaz’s soft vanilla almost bitter with grief.

But then, at the back of the sketchbook, they found something worse than the drawings.

At the back of the book, a final drawing waited- a page filled with one stick figure: just you. Moldy green, sickly yellow and bruise-blue.

At the bottom, scrawled so faintly it was almost invisible, the words read:

“Why wasn’t I enough?”

Gaz turned away, his hand pressed against his mouth as his shoulders shook. Soap’s fists clenched, his growl low and guttural, unable to contain his restlessness. Ghost’s fingers curled into tight fists, his knuckles pale as his eyes burned with something fierce and protective.

And Price… Price’s throat bobbed as he stared at the page, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap.

How could they?

At the bottom of the box, folded and tucked away like a secret, was a letter.

It was written in a child’s handwriting, shaky and full of misspellings, far younger than the last few drawings.

“Dear family, I’m sorry I’m not good. I’ll try harder. I’ll fix myself. Please love me. Please don’t leave me out. I’ll be good I promise. Love you even if you don’t love me back.”

It was dated years ago. The creases in the paper showed it had been folded and unfolded countless times, carried like a wish you couldn’t bear to let go of.

They didn’t need to ask. They knew the letter was never sent. And the silence that followed was suffocating.

When you came back that evening, you were left utterly confused by the strange atmosphere. The pack stood there, their only company a tense, heavy silence you had no idea where it came from.

Price stepped forward first, his arms wrapping around you in a hold that was both firm and trembling, and you huffed in surprise… but you didn’t pull away. His voice rumbled low and deep, a steady, grounding purr that vibrated against your chest. He didn’t say anything; he picked you up and just like that, began carrying you to the nest that you were becoming more and more familiar with everyday per their insistence.

Soap was next, once you were in the nest, his hands cupping your face as he pressed his forehead to yours, wrapping himself around you like sunshine. “Relax, bonnie lass.”

“So why-“

Gaz hugged you from behind, his soft, soothing purr blending with Price’s as he buried his face in your hair, his words drowing out your question. “You belong here. With us. Always.”

And Ghost… Ghost didn’t speak. He simply knelt in front of you, his large hands resting on your hips as he pressed his forehead to your stomach. His growl was low, protective, vibrating through you like a shield against the world. And with Price joining as well, you were effectively surrounded in the nest.

That night, they pulled you into their arms and didn’t let you go. They surrounded you with their warmth, their scents, their steady, comforting presence. They rubbed their faces against your neck, your wrists, your shoulders, marking you thoroughly, their purrs and low chuffs filling the space until you couldn’t think of anything else.

Though you still wondered what brought this on. Weird pack instincts you probably wouldn’t understand, perhaps.