#tight indeed

[tanked-up]

Soap: Last night you didn’t close the door of your room

Ghost: I did-

Soap: It was unlocked

Ghost: H-How do you kn-

Soap: Liked the flower I sent you…?

Ghost: They were dead.

Soap: Just like our relationship if you don’t answer my fucking text messages

Ghost: Is this why your texting me from a Nokia

Soap: What- how do you know

Ghost: I’m looking at you

Soap: …

Ghost: Those pants look tight

[cocoabell]

another prompt from the satosho discord heyoo

single-handedly providing content for my tumblr ngl

(prompt was 'stuck in a box' if it wasn't clear enough)

[fisheito]

hey so if yakumo puts up an essence shield does it looks like

this.?

this?

or this??

[f0xgl0v3]

Guys what if I jokingly want Will Solace to die in the second tSatS

@spheroz you should approve this message

[acourtofquestions]

"You'll come back," Manon said.

It sounded like more of a threat than anything

Dorian smirked. "Would you miss me if I didn't?"

Manon didn't reply. He didn't know why he expected her to.

He'd taken all of a step, when Asterin clasped his shoulder. "In and out, quick as you can," she warned him. "Take care of Narene." Worry indeed shone in the Second's gold-flecked black eyes. Dorian bowed his head. "With my life," he promised as he approached her mount and grasped the dangling reins. He didn't fail to miss the gratitude that softened Asterin's features. Or that Manon had already turned away from him.

A fool to start down this path with her. He should have known better.

The hours that passed were some of the longest of Manon's existence.

From anticipation, she told herself. Of what she had to do.

Abraxos, unsurprisingly, found them within an hour, his reins sliced from the struggle he'd no doubt waged and won with Sorrel. He waited, however, beside Manon in silence, wholly focused upon the gate where Dorian and Narene had vanished.

Time dripped by. The king's sword was constant weight at her side. She cursed herself for needing to prove-to him, to herself-that she refused to let him go into Morath for practical, ordinary reasons. Erawan wasn't at the Ferian Gap. It'd be safer. Somewhat. But if the Matrons were there … That was why he'd gone. To learn if they were. To see if Petrah truly commanded the host there, and how many Ironteeth were present. He had not been trained as a spy, but he'd grown up in a court where people wielded smiles and clothes like weapons. He knew how to blend in, how to listen. How to make people see what they wished to see. She'd sent Elide into the dungeons of Morath, Darkness damn her. Sending the King of Adarlan into the Ferian Gap was no different.

It didn't stop her breath from escaping when Abraxos stiffened, scanning the sky. As if he heard something they couldn't.

And it was the joy that sparked in her mount's eyes that told her.

Moments later, Narene sailed toward them, making a lazy path over the mountains, a dark-haired, pale-skinned rider atop her. He'd truly been able to change parts of himself. Had made his face nearly unrecognizable. And kept it that way.

Asterin rushed toward the mare, and even Manon blinked as her Second threw her arms around Narene's neck. Holding her tight. The mare only leaned her head against Asterin's back and huffed.

Manon hadn't dwelled long on what she'd say.

And as the three hundred Ironteeth witches filed into the hall, some coming off their patrols, Manon half wondered if she should have. They watched her, watched the Thirteen, with a wary disdain.

Their disgraced Wing Leader; their fallen Heir.

When all were gathered, Petrah, still standing in the doorway where she'd appeared, merely said, "My life debt for an audience, Blackbeak."

Manon swallowed, her tongue as dry as paper. Seated atop Abraxos, she could see every shifting movement in the crowd, the wide eyes or hands gripping swords.

"I will not tell you the particulars of who I am," Manon said at last. "For I think you have already heard them."

"Crochan bitch," someone spat.

Manon set her eyes on the Blackbeaks, stone-faced where the others bristled with hatred. It was for them she spoke, for them she had come here.

jacket, then hoisting up her white shirt. Rising in the stirrups to bare her scarred, brutalized abdomen. "She does not lie."

UNCLEAN

There, the word remained stamped. Would always be stamped.

"How many of you," Asterin called out, "have been similarly branded? By your Matron, by your coven leader? How many of you have had your stillborn witchlings burned before you might hold them?"

The silence that fell now was different from before. Shaking shuddering.

Manon glanced at the Thirteen to find tears in Ghislaine's eyes as she took in the brand on Asterin's womb. Tears in the eyes of all of them, who had not known. And it was for those tears, which Manon had never seen, that she faced the host again.

"You will be killed in this war, or after it. And you will never see our homeland again."

"What is it that you want, Blackbeak?" Petrah asked from the archway.

"Ride with us," Manon breathed. "Fly with us.

Against Morath. Against the people who would keep you from your homeland, your future." Murmuring broke out again. Manon pushed ahead, "An Ironteeth-Crochan alliance. Perhaps one to break our curse at last."

Again, that shuddering silence. Like a storm about to break Asterin sat back in the saddle, but kept her shirt open.

"The choice of how our people's future shall be shaped is yours," Manon told each of the witches assembled, all the Blackbeaks who might fly to war and never return. "But I will tell you this." Her hands shook, and she fisted them on her thighs. "There is a better world out there. And I have seen it."

Even the Thirteen looked toward her now.

"I have seen witch and human and Fae dwell together in peace. And it is not weakness to do so, but a strength. I have met kings and queens whose love for their kingdoms, their peoples, is so great that the self is secondary. Whose love for their people is so strong that even in the face of unthinkable odds, they do the impossible."

Manon lifted her chin. "You are my people. Whether my grandmother decrees it so or not, you are my people, and always will be. But I will fly against you, if need be, to ensure that there is a future for those who cannot fight for it themselves. Too long have we preyed on the weak, relished doing so. It is time that we became better than our foremothers." The words she had given the Thirteen months ago. "There is a better world out there," she said again. "And I will fight for it." She turned Abraxos away, toward the plunge behind them. "Will you?"

Manon nodded to Petrah. Eyes bright, the Heir only nodded back. They would be permitted to leave as they had arrived: unharmed.

So Manon nudged Abraxos, and he leaped into the sky, the Thirteen following suit.

Not a child of war. But of peace.

[jikangairodo]

I was reading a post Shibuya AU fic where Nanami survives, and someone in the comments described him as a shaking, angry, purse dog and I can't get that out of my head.

[inscyst]

OSDD?

Ah Yes, Older Sister Destroys Dick

[sillymeter]

[lieutenant-quavers]

I am starting to believe that Morrison shelters were designed to hide pets during an air raid, not two grown adult men.

[singsweetmelodies]

big brother moving out and hugging his two baby brothers goodbye while their dad smiles on from a video call vibes 🥺💙

[mrsoharaa]

hi ariel! for the color thing I’m sending u lilac 💜🪻always love interacting and seeing u on the dash! mwah

NATTTYYYY STAHPPPP YOU'RE GOING TO MAKE ME SOBBB 😭🥺🥹💘💗

you are too precious for this worlddd! I'm giving you all the hugs and loveeee! mwah mwah!! 🤗😚🫶🏼💞💕

[satans-knitwear]

Just a quick one ✨

Treat me ~ Tip Me ~ More of me

[claire-starsword]

honestly i joke a lot about being The One Person deranged about shining force lore but it's funnier to realize that i really am not. Saw some random reviews of SF2 and final conflict making very reasonable criticisms about the games all threading the same base plot and final conflict having no identity besides tying the past games together, and like, yeah, hurts to admit but that's entirely correct, and yet you'll still see a bunch of comments expressing their love for it, and even bringing up tidbits the translation ruined like Lucifer, even though those hardly mean anything for SF2 other than trivia.

It's so funny. Why do we care so much. I'm having fun but, why

(obviously there's the bias where people who only played the game casually aren't gonna be watching reviews after decades to comment in the first place, but that just raises up the point that it's been decades and we're still here)

[new-haven-psych-ward]

Kamen Rider Geats episode 47 poorly summarized via memes with as little context as possible:

[mad-hunts]

let me psychoanalyze you, but also be nice.

you're unbelievably lonely.

maybe the teacher always sat next to you on the bus because it was the only open seat on field trips. maybe you were the fourth kid in the group project who was only there because they needed one more person. maybe you spent all of 7th grade lunch in the library. i think it's important to remember that it won't always be like that. it might take longer than expected but nobody is alone forever. sometimes it's hard to remember that just because you've felt unloved before, it doesn't mean you're unloved now.

tagged by: i found this one on tumblr as well LOL

tagging: @oculusxcaro, @divingdownthehole, @veroxins, @killerharvey, @sanguine-salvation, and anyone else who might like to take this quiz!

[dutybcrne]

The first time Kaeya had donned Diluc's old cavalry captain uniform, he had thrown up. Seeing himself in it had felt so wrong, it repulsed him immensely. It was too big, shoulders too broad. Moving in it felt like wearing lead weights, the fabric was all wrong, too stiff, his face didn't match it the way the Pride of the Favonian Knights and Ragnvindr heir's had.

It stank horribly of old blood and rain-soaked grass.

A part of him wonders to this day if the stench he thought he'd smelled on it was in fact all in his head. If it had been lingering guilt over Diluc's disappearance and being allowed to take his place that had affected his perception of it and his appearance in the role. Though considering the harrowing sight he'd witnessed that fateful day, he wouldn't be surprised if the smell would forever remain imprinted within the fabrics, the way that final moment would lay seared into his mind for as long as he’d live.