#misfire my beloved

[robofaggy]

#misfire my beloved #transformers #transformers memes #tf shitposts #dumb #maccadam #misfire #tf scavengers #oc

[mysticxxl]

repost because tumblr got stupid I got inspired to write again! This time by @dimorphodon-x​ ‘s sentient Weak Anthropic Principle (the Scavengers’ ship) idea! I wanted to play on it a bit, and definitely got curious when Misfire was mentioned :eyes:  I relate a lot to Misfire and because of it felt like I should write a small something ;w; Hope you enjoy! Note: This takes place during the beginning of... issue 45, if I recall correctly, but with a different spin. It’s super short but I had fun with it :)  ______ “Wuhh- Hey!” Misfire shouted as he fell backward and off the shoulder of the Weak Anthropic Principle. He did a 180, landing on the ground… directly on his face. Dust and dirt clouded around him, lightly coating his scuffed fuchsia paint job as the Decepticon pushed himself up to his feet. He shook himself, wings fluttering. Suddenly, he jabbed an accusatory finger at the giant robot above him, his red optics narrowing. “Those are mine! You can’t have them all. You know how hard it is for us to get that stuff!” The Weak Anthropic Principle had stolen his damn circuit speeders. Misfire wasn’t one to really get high off of those, or anything really, but he needed something to get him in a better mood after the ship crashed into a mountain on Tenebris VII. Long story short, he and the others were to meet up with this Demus guy. On the way, they’d all been playing Shoot Shoot Bang Bang, and Misfire had almost won, if it wasn’t for Crankcase who was supposed to be piloting the ship intervening. “This ship lands itself,” Crankcase had said. Except the ship was high and it most certainly couldn’t land itself. So they crashed. The Weak Anthropic Principle hadn't been too happy about it, and it certainly gave him a brand new bundle of scratches, but a good dose of circuit speeders was enough for him to get the edge off. But since they were here now, they went out to go find Demus. Except for Misfire— he wanted to stay with Grimlock and continue teaching him how to write.  All of that was already down the drain. Grimlock wasn't paying attention to Misfire and had gone off to rummage around in the scrap left behind in the crash. Misfire merely sat outside the crater with WAP instead, taking circuit speeders along with him.  Again, he didn't always fancy the effects, which is why he only took a couple, while the damn ship was already beyond cloud nine and stealing the ones that belonged to Misfire. Ugh.  "You aren't exactly using them," the giant robot responded. "True, but they're still mine. Maybe I wanted them for later," Misfire argued. But he quickly gave up and facepalmed, pinching the bridge of his nose before taking his hand away to hold it up in a dismissive gesture. "You know what? Fine. Okay. You can have them. I'm gonna go get Grim. The others are gonna be back here soon anyway." With that, the fuchsia Decepticon turned around and awkwardly jumped over a fallen rock. He did the same for the next one, climbing over fallen debris that led into the massive crater punched into the mountain. It was a miracle the Weak Anthropic Principle had even managed to get out of that— the crater was deep enough for half of him to fit inside! Misfire stumbled into the crater, finally. He straightened and looked around, soon spotting the silhouette of the Tyrannosaur amongst the rubble. "Grimlock! Grim! Buddy!"

#misfire my beloved #what? i wrote again? #and he's high too? #okay yeah tbh i dont think misfire would get high very often #it doesn't feel like his sort of thing BUT he's definitely guilty of doing it a few times #for sure #mtmte #misfire

[o-mellowy]

MISFART

#misfart my beloved #somewhat hand practice #the sillyyyy #hes so underrated. auhg. #ok tag time #transformers #lost light #more than meets the eye #transformers idw #transformers art #digital art #misfire #idw misfire #misfire mtmte #the scavengers #mtmte #maccadams #maccadam

[synthshenanigans]

Give me songs that feel like HMS would listen to but like... make NO sense. Like the song has no story or anyway theyd relate ro any of them but somehow are like, so them

Like for example, idk how to explain it but No More Nuzzles is so Soul. Idk why it just is

#especially misfires version #ough i love this song #unbertale my beloved #chonny jash

[dcxdpdabbles]

DC X DP Fic idea: Retired-Rouge.

Danny gets into making teddy bears. He didn't start that way; honestly, he was mostly trying to fix Bearbert Einstein after his mom accidentally burnt him with a misfired ray gun.

Jazz had broken down into tears, and it had ripped apart his heart and his core to see her so distressed. He went to the local- and only- fabric store in Amity Park to find materials and try to repair his sister's beloved teddy bear when his mom's attempts to fix the bear only made him look worse.

Just his luck that the only fabric shop for miles around was Weston Fabrics and that the person manning the cashier was Wes himself. The other boy had nearly thrown him out when Danny walked in, but thankfully his older brother Kyle had talked Wes down and helped Danny find fabrics for Bearbert.

Surprisingly, Wes had even helped him set up one of their sewing stations to get started on Bearbert.

The strange part was when Danny turned the machine on and found his hands moving independently. As if he had been doing it for years, he expertly put together the bear and even went through the other fabrics to make him new outfits. Wes had watched the whole time, raising a brow when Danny got up to pay.

"Thought you didn't know how to sew?"

"I thought so too. Must be a ghost thing." Danny replied then smirked as the redhead glared.

"A ghost thing?" Wes all but sneers. He still trying to expose Danny as Phantom and had yet to get proof, even with Danny teasing him in the open. As it were, Kyle, who was unpacking new needles rolled his eyes behind the red hair teenager.

"Yeah, since I have a protection core as Phantom, it sometimes transfers into my human side. Do you know how teddy bears guard children at night against bad dreams? Same thing"

Wes pauses, then slowly blinks; he whispers with a small baffled smile, "That's kind of adorable. A teddy bear to keep you safe through the night."

And Danny? He didn't mean to, but he found Wes sort of hot at that moment. Not the Wow, that guy is a celebrity hot but a Be careful who you call ugly in middle school because Puberty made them delicious over the summer break hot.

He will admit that he returned to Weston Fabrics to flirt more with Wes and made so many teddy bears as a disguise. The good news was that all his works were a hit, and even some kids at school started asking for special commissions when word got around about the special Nightmerica teddy bear he made for Sam's birthday.

He makes money, gets a boyfriend, and when he donates the teddy bears to a local hospital, he discovers a new power. Through items he made himself, Danny can send waves of comforting energy to the people around the item, like a miniature zen distributor. The patients that have his toys start to show greater rest from both nightmares and lower anxiety, depression, and general sadness.

He lets Wes name this power, which later becomes the name of his teddy bear business- Phantom Relief. After dating for two years and graduating, both boys agree the spark had been lost but remain good friends. Danny takes his thriving teddy bear-making skills to his new college in Gotham while Wes leaves for Star City.

In Gotham is where things get....stranger. See, Danny knows someone new to the city will never truly understand a city's problems. But the rapid amount of homeless kids is so shocking he starts making clothes and blankets to try and give them out because they shouldn't be out there freezing like that! He even tries passing along some teddy bears to them, hoping to soothe their pain with some Zen waves.

The key word is tries.

Gotham kids do not trust or like free handouts. Danny burst into tears when a thirteen-year-old asked if he wanted the kid to use his hand or mouth in exchange for the new blanket. The street kid seemed surprised when Danny was horrified by the question. No one else found it strange, the kid said, wrapped in a Superman blanket that Danny made only a day before, it's just how things are done around here.

The worst part is the homeless thirteen-year-old is right. Everywhere he looks, Danny finds more people needing protection- physically, emotionally, and mentally. Gotham is just filled with people suffering. He couldn't keep up. It's tearing him apart trying to help everyone.

His core feels like it will burst from all the overloaded cries of help it can pick up. One night Danny can't take it anymore, so he shifts into Phantom and flies out to the old Drake manner, abandoned since Janet Drake's murder, where the cries are muffled, and dials Wes' number with shaking hands.

His ex picks up listens to his sobs and tells him "You can't save people who don't want to be saved. But you can try to reach them in a way they understand."

It's precisely what he needs to hear.

Ancients, but he misses the man sometimes. Why did Danny ever let Wes Weston go? Well, as they say, Right person, wrong time. Maybe that was why.

So Danny decided the only way to get to Gotham was to be like Gotham. And who were the people that dramatically changed the city with every random plot? With every random heist?

Gotham Rogues.

So all Phantom had to do was become one, which shouldn't be too hard since people in Amity Park still debated if he was good or not years later. He fixes up his Phantom suit to something more Gotham villain, keeping the colors but removing the jumpsuit and adding a suit and vest alongside a mask and two giant needles.

He appears in Crime Alley- because that's where the most cries come from- and just challenges everything and everyone to take the area from him. He fights off so many gangs- even Red Hood, who puts up a great fight- but after the dust settles, he now runs the place.

He then starts- fixing the place. Starts sending out clothes for the homeless, starts fixing up buildings, gives Phantom Reflief out-teddy bears to kids, fake emulates to adults, starts sending the gang kids back to school, forces landlords to lower the housing, and illegally makes everyone get along.

He spreads his tyranny to the rest of the city, fighting the good and bad sides of the law. The bats give him one hell of a challenge, but Danny beat the Ghost King when he was an untrained brat. This is nothing. Batman gets better with every fight, and so do his associates.

Things look good until the Joker tries him too much when the clown somehow gets to Wes. Has the love of his life tied to a bomb with enough Joker Venom to fill half the city, and Danny sees red.

When he comes to, it's to Wes holding him in his arms, whispering reassurances, and Joker nothing but a smear on the ground. Danny can't live with what he's done; he runs away, shifts into his human side, and vows to never be Phantom again.

After four years of peace due to Phantom's hostile takeover, Gotham mourns the loss but doesn't fall into so much crime now that the ghost crime lord is gone. Danny thinks he's done his job and chooses to melt into the background. He opens a little shop for fabrics and custom-made teddy bears.

Wes finds him, agrees to try and rekindle their love, and a year later agrees to the marriage.

All is well until seventeen-year-old Tim Drake strolls into his fabric shop. Clutching a superboy teddy bear, he gave a shivering fourteen-year-old the first week as Phantom Gotham Villain with a stern look in his eye.

"Phantom- I need you to help me find Batman, who is lost in time, or I will expose your secret identity to the rest of Gotham."

Well, shit.

#dcxdpdabbles #dc x dp crossover #Wes Weston/Danny Fenton #Tim Drake blackmails his way #Danny became a villain to illegally get people to get along. #He's retired now! #And gotham 's dangerous rate went down 60% thanks to his efforts #No the bats still don't know who he is besides Tim #Danny is too old for this shit

[adnauseum11]

Misfire (John Price x Reader)

A little snippet of a scene came to me and made me laugh. John Price having a crush on a long time friend and finally working up the nerve to ask her out. Kinda.

less than 1k words

John Price x fem! reader

SFW

feedback welcome

I know almost nothing of CoD other than fanfic so go easy on me

I wouldn't know how to write shy and retiring if my life depended on it.

You’ve known John forever. Like, forever, forever. The friend group he originated from disintegrated years ago, but the two of you remained thick as thieves. He’s moved in and out of the country, and you’ve changed careers a few times, but through it all he’s been a reliable shoulder to lean on. He’s the first person you call when you need help moving for the millionth time, and he, good man that he is, turns up with beer and willing hands as soon as he’s available. If he grumbles about your proclivity for changing apartments so often you know it comes from a place of concerned affection. If anything, he’s pleased you’re closer to his bachelor pad now, negating the need to drive across town twice on game nights. God forbid you ride a bus for twenty-five minutes when he could deliver you to your doorstep in fifteen. He's retired from the Army, and still takes safety a little too seriously for your tastes. You indulge him though, because who actively chooses the bus when other, more pleasant options are available?

When he asks you to dinner, you agree without even blinking. You reason there must be a rugby game on or something he wants to see. You don’t even ask where to meet him, assuming, correctly, that he will pick you up. So, you are caught off guard when he turns up in your entrance way wearing a button-down shirt, suit jacket and dress pants. He too, is caught off guard. You look down at your outfit in unison. Bootcut jeans, well-worn Blundstone boots and a ratty but beloved faded t-shirt that cheerfully proclaims “IDAHO? No, you da ho” across the chest in cursive script. 

“Uh… what are you wearing?” He asks, cautiously.

“Me? What are YOU wearing?” Totally confused now, you can’t help but feel a little saucy about being put on your back foot.

“I asked you to dinner, didn’t I?”

John’s accent gets stronger when he’s caught up in strong emotions. That really should have been your first clue. But this is John. John. 

“Yeah, why are you all dressed up for beers? What game is on tonight anyways?” 

You throw him a look like he’s gone slow on the uptake as you reach for your coat. When you turn to look at him with your purse strap slung over your shoulder, he’s looking as confused as you feel. 

“Game? Love, who said anything about beers?”

“Wait, we aren’t going for beers?” Disappointment creeps into your voice and you can see you have managed to flummox the normally unflappable John. 

“Bleedin’ Jesus, I mean, we can have beers if ye want, sure. I just uh…” 

He lets the sentence hang, clearly uncertain.  

“You what?” You prompt, vaguely concerned at his out of character behaviour. 

“I made reservations at Stella del Mare.” He admits in a rush.

“You did what? This isn’t… beers? Is this… are we on a date?” The slow realization finally takes hold and a spiral of panic begins to descend through your body. “They won’t let me in like this!”

“Uh, no. No. They sure won’t.”

He agrees easily with the second half of your statement while staring at your chest and dodging the first. You narrow your eyes at him. This isn’t your first rodeo with John’s evasiveness. 

“How much time do I have?”

“Including travel time, or…?”

“John. If this is how you start all your first dates, I can see why you don’t have many second ones.”

“’Bout 15 minutes love.”

He answers seriously, properly chastised. 

You whip your purse over your head and slap it against his wide chest, catching him off guard. He holds it in place while you sling your coat off and dash upstairs again. 

He’s still in the same position when you return back down the steps, having swapped jeans for a black skirt and your (hilarious but wildly) inappropriate t-shirt for a silk, V-neck emerald blouse with cap sleeves. You’ve pulled your hair back into a simple bun and slicked on a light layer of neutral makeup and a deep red lip. John’s eyebrows climb as he catches a glimpse of you but he waits until you’re picking up your coat again before he speaks. 

“Listen, you look beautiful. I – “

“Can it, I’m still annoyed at you for the moment.” 

You take the purse out of his hands and slide the strap over your shoulder, smacking his big bicep playfully as you push him out the door and into the night. You resolve to question him thoroughly about his poor communication skills at dinner as you lock up. Wasn’t he in charge of people in the army? Christ. 

#john price #john price x reader #john price x you #call of duty #long time lurker first time poster #captain john price #john price cod #fanfic

[ugh-yoongi]

about u | jjk

❝ this song is about a love that you can’t reconcile—wanting to make a home out of a person that has proved to you time and again that they are not a home; they are just a person. it’s about retracing scars, negative patterns, all with the silent belief that moments of communion and understanding might justify months of misfiring and regret. we’re all just trying to get back to that ‘first high’ feeling—an honest endeavor, however futile. ❞

✤ PAIRING jungkook x f. reader ✤ GENRE exes to fwb to strangers, college/grad school au; angst, smut ✤ RATING explicit. minors do not interact. ✤ WARNINGS toxic & self-destructive behavior (inc. jealousy and possessiveness). infidelity (with an external partner). reader is bisexual (which is not a warning but a general statement so the homophobes stay away) and there is a brief mention of coming out. two people who are both too honest and unable to communicate. swearing. cigarettes and alcohol use. kissing, some spitting, fingering, oral sex, protected vaginal sex. every time i asked jess to read this over for me she always came back with "jfc jewel" so i guess this is angsty. unhappy ending. ✤ WORDCOUNT 7.3k ✤ LISTEN TO this was based off of "winterbreak" by muna, but there are bits and pieces of the entire about u album in here, "everything" and "outro" especially. ✤ THANK YOU to muna for writing the album, @the-boy-meets-evil and @hot-soop for reading over this for me multiple times and putting up with all my brainstorming and my beloved @here2bbtstrash for the extra set of eyes. ✤ AUTHOR'S NOTE hi, thank you for reading! i cannot emphasize enough how much more sense this story will make if you listen to about u in the background. i would also like to reiterate that these two are maybe not all that likeable most of the time, but i hope they're still human. as i once saw in an ao3 tag, you are more than the worst thing you've ever done.

[ the first. ] You’d read an article once—something about the second time you fall in love.

It’s going to feel different, it’d said. The first time felt like a dream.

As you stare across the kitchen at Jeongguk, you think that might be true. The part about it feeling like a dream, because it used to be a pinky-lavender haze and everything that has come after hasn’t felt so good. Not a nightmare, but close. At least with nightmares you can force yourself awake. You can tell yourself it wasn’t real. You can pretend.

This is as real as it gets, watching him smile over the rim of a plastic red cup. Someone else’s hand on his arm. The girl it belongs to looks nothing like you, and you wonder if she’ll be the second time he falls in love. You also wonder why you didn’t stay home. You wonder about fault and regret and if either of them even matter. No, you eventually decide: there’s just you in Taehyung’s kitchen and Jeongguk on the other side of it and the result of a million decisions in between you.

There had been a plenitude of reasons you’d fallen in love with Jeongguk, but he’s undoubtedly beautiful. Soft, tinkling laugh; a smile that reaches his eyes. Not all that long ago you used to be responsible for both, so there’s a lingering, bitter sting beneath your wonder. Jeongguk is beautiful and no longer yours, and that’s enough to have you retreating to the living room.

Jimin’s at your side immediately. Wraps an arm around your shoulders and presses a kiss to the top of your head that does little to alleviate your guilt. Missing someone is always easier with thousands of miles in between you. All those distractions. Just like a nightmare, distance lets you pretend. Not so easy to do when all those ghosts come back to haunt you; when you can still hear Jeongguk’s soft voice in the kitchen. The music is so loud but you’d be able to hear him anywhere, you think.

Even places he’s not.

Jimin leans down, forces his way into your personal space. “Are you doing okay?” he asks, and his words are warm and wrapped in alcohol, but you nod. You’re scared you might start crying if you open your mouth. Afraid of what might come out besides shuddering breaths, which just makes you feel stupid. Baby’s first breakup, you chide yourself. Maybe Jimin can get you a commemorative ornament.

Taehyung is turning twenty-four and it should be joyous. It is joyous. People that aren’t you are laughing and dancing and pressing their cheeks together as they huddle close to take selfies. Someone you don’t recognize is cackling wildly as they wrangle Taehyung into a headlock and smear cake frosting on his face. Someone else is tutting and running a rag under the tap to wipe it off and then the frosting is gone. It’s hard not to draw parallels.

There one minute and gone the next.

Gently wiped away.

But the feeling lingers, doesn’t it? The tack of the frosting, all the love that transpired between you and Jeongguk. Sometimes you fear it’s permanent—not able to be wiped away with a rag run under the tap, not able to be wiped away at all. Just this burden you’re cursed to carry, because Jeongguk isn’t and can’t be yours but knowing does nothing to erase the past. Doesn’t help you forget. It’s fucked and it’s unfair, but that’s just the way it goes.

“I think I should leave,” you say, watching another scene play out in the kitchen. Jeongguk fills a cup and hands it to a different pretty girl. Everyone here is so pretty. Makes sense; so is Taehyung. Pretty people are drawn to one another like that. “Is it too soon? Will it be obvious?”

Jimin sighs, wraps you in a hug. Says, “Oh, love,” in a way that’s too sympathetic. Makes you sound too pathetic. “No one will blame you. These things are hard.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Not that you don’t appreciate Jimin’s reassurance, but sometimes it all feels a bit silly. Weren’t you the one to walk away? Call it off? Are you allowed to mourn the very thing you destroyed?

And Jimin, bless him, is so patient with you. Asks if you need a ride home and you wave him off, remind him your parents’ place isn’t far, that the cold might do you some good. You tell him you appreciate him and his night shouldn’t be ruined on your account, and you just laugh when he tries to protest, tell him to go get himself another drink.

“Text me when you get home,” he says, voice stern, and you brush that off, too. “I’m serious. It’s late and it’s dark and anyone could be out there—”

“Maybe I should walk you home, then?”

All those articles you read about the second time you fall in love didn’t mention this. Said nothing about the way a voice will always be able to turn your world on its axis and how to right it again. Said nothing about how to coexist with ghosts. Said nothing about what to do with all the yearning and the pain and the stupid, selfish strands of hope. There are paragraphs about an overarching, general grief, but nothing about the specific one living inside of you.

The shock on Jimin’s face is reflecting your own. It’s nice to not be the only one caught off-guard and stammering over their words. It’s nice to have a friend when it feels like your entire world is on the edge of collapse. “I don’t…” he begins. Swallows thickly and turns to look at you, an obvious question biting at the back of his teeth.

You know the answer.

You know that what you should say isn’t what you want, just like you know it isn’t fair, this thing you’re doing. Because you turn to Jeongguk and say, “Are you sure?” which might as well be a yes, because you’re selfish and suspended in this liminal space and don’t want him to go home with anyone else. You don’t want him to move on.

He shrugs. “It’s on the way.”

You say okay. Let Jimin help you into your coat, hide his face in your neck as he tells you to be careful, and that stings. You’ve never had to be careful around Jeongguk before. The two of you never, ever hurt one another—until you did. The kind of hurt your heart hasn’t easily forgotten, is still stubbornly clinging to.

Your heart wants Jeongguk, always.

You want Jeongguk, always, so you let him grab your hand, link your pinkies together. You let him lead you out of the house and don’t turn back to see who might be watching. God, you want to, though. Want all those pretty girls to see that he’s leaving with you. Want them to know it’s your name that’s branded on his heart; your name beneath his skin. For once, you want someone to want what you have.

It’s strange. The two of you have been apart for eight months, and there’s a lot of things you might want to tell someone in that amount of time, but you find it hard now. Don’t know where to start, which words to use. Don’t want to say something stupid, because Jeongguk is just walking you home but you’ve assigned a lot of meaning to it, and eight months is a long time to yearn for something and finally get it.

So you say, “You didn’t have to do this, you know,” because it’s something that’s true and easy to say.

Jeongguk doesn’t answer right away. Drops your pinky so he can hold your hand properly—fully, all five fingers intertwined—and squeezes. “Is it weird for you?” he asks, and he doesn’t sound nervous. Almost sounds like he’s smiling a little, giving you shit. He sounds familiar.

“No. I don’t know. Maybe a little.” He asks why? at the same time he passes under a streetlight. Lights up golden and amber. He’s beautiful—“I don’t know. It’s just… I guess it’s just been a long time. We didn’t leave things the best.”—and no longer yours.

The Jeongguk walking beside you is not the same Jeongguk that walked out of your dorm eight months ago, tears staining his cheeks, the smell of a goodbye fuck still clinging to his clothes, his skin, sweat still dotting his hairline. This Jeongguk is sharper, more selfish with his laughter, and you wonder about all the ways heartbreak can change a person. How you’re changed for facilitating it. You wonder if Jeongguk blames you before deciding you’re too much of a coward to find out the answer.

“Was it that bad?” When you look over at him, he’s chewing on his lip ring, trying to bite back a smile. “You’ll have to remind me. I don’t remember.”

You stop walking, jerking forward when Jeongguk is left unaware and keeps going. “That’s not funny,” you say. “Jeongguk, that’s not—I did what I thought was best, okay? I thought I was doing the right thing—”

The smile drops from Jeongguk’s face. “Hey, hey, look at me,” he says, and he’s hesitant to reach out and touch you but he does it anyway. Cups your face in both hands. “I know, it’s okay. That’s just—it’s just life, right? You did what you had to do, babe. It’s okay.”

You did what you had to do, babe.

Did you?

Jeongguk is selfish with his laughter but never his affection, and knowing that feels like an albatross around your neck. You have broken him so entirely, but he’s still kind to you, finds it a worthwhile thing to be.

His eyes go to your lips. Tattooed fingers dimple your face just a little more, dig in deeper. When you dare to take him in, he looks… different. No longer amused, the way he was just seconds ago; now, there’s something dark there. Longing, anger, hunger. Jeongguk looks like he wants to swallow you whole and make you suffer; looks like he wants to cage you beneath him and worship you through the comedown.

I’d let him, you think as you bury your face in the crook of his neck. As you smell the smoke that lingers, the sweat and the alcohol. I’d still let him.

It’d be so easy to press a kiss there. To feel his skin beneath your lips: flushed, still warm from the party, not all daunted by the bitter winter wind biting at your cheeks. As you lean in further, you wonder if it’ll taste the same. You wonder how much can change in eight months and if all those old comforts change, too. If it’s something inevitable.

Jeongguk moves his hands to your waist. Crawls his fingertips beneath your jacket and finds bare skin. Sucks in the smallest bit of air, and you would’ve missed it had it been any other time, but winter is always quiet and subdued. Always smells transitional, something dangerously close to hope and redemption.

And eight months is a long time to miss the feel of someone’s lips, isn’t it, so you think you can be excused for reaching for something you thought you’d never have again.

The first kiss is hesitant, testing; pressed to the spot just beneath his ear. Maybe you don’t know this Jeongguk, but you know the version of him you used to love—the one you still do—and you know the way he’ll sigh. You know the way his hands will grip tighter. You can still hear it, the way you used to kiss him there and he’d say, don’t start something you can’t finish, baby, and the way you’d laugh and always, always finish it. Can still feel the warmth that used to bloom in your chest. The love.

Jeongguk won’t say that now, you know. Wonder if it’d sound more like don’t start something you already finished if he did. He huffs a small laugh, more an exhale than anything, and asks, “What are you doing?”

And you answer, “I don’t know,” because it’s honest. You admit, “I guess I just miss you,” because it’s true.

A war wages within Jeongguk. You can see the storms, the white flags that are close to being thrown out. Can see the way his gaze flits between your lips and your eyes. What he’s looking for, you don’t know, but the storm rages on. And just like real life, just when you think it’s at its worst, there’s a break in the clouds: a tangible beam of silvery-warm light when Jeongguk tangles his hands in your hair, thumbs at the hinge of your jaw. Jeongguk tilts your head back and looks ethereal in the amber glow of the streetlights.

He says, “We shouldn’t,” and you nod, because you know and the anguish on his face is surely mirrored on yours, but when he follows it with, “let me take you home, let me take care of you,” you find it impossible to care.

You nod.

Everything is amber.

Eight months is a long time to go without the way Jeongguk kisses you: intentionally, demandingly, insatiably. He still tastes the same. Tastes like the first time you’d ever dared to kiss him, back at that party freshman year, tongue flavored with cheap liquor. Jeongguk tastes forbidden and feels like coming home.

You couldn’t say how you make it to Jeongguk’s apartment, but the way you stumble over the threshold feels familiar. The way the door is barely locked when Jeongguk crowds your space; picks you up, wraps your legs around his waist, presses you against it, hips moving on their own accord, rutting, all those little sounds spilling from his lips—everything is familiar. This is not just a practiced song and dance but something memorized. Something instinctual. You could be apart from Jeongguk for years instead of months and your body would still know what to do.

He carries you to his bedroom and you don’t think about who else has been between his sheets, because he puts you down so gently. Kisses your lips, your jaw, your neck—all gentle, powder-soft. Sounds like spring when you paw at the velvety cashmere of his sweater, pull it over his head, and he sighs. Feels like he’s breathing fresh life into something he shouldn’t, something long dead, but then you skim along his warm skin and your world is reduced to the way it feels like silk beneath your fingertips.

“I still love you,” Jeongguk whispers against your mouth, his inked fingers toying with the button on your jeans. Pops it open, pulls the denim down your thighs. Doesn’t bother pulling them off, only goes as far as your knees. And it’s uncomfortable, the way it’s bunched there, but the way Jeongguk says, “Fuck, missed you so much,” is so sweet.

Everything happens too fast.

Jeongguk leaves your shirt on. Drags it up and over your breasts and kisses at the newly-exposed skin. Sinks his teeth in, lets it hurt for a second before he laves over the marks. Settles between your legs and coaxes an orgasm out of you with his mouth and his fingers. Speaks his praise into the juncture of your thigh, breathless as he touches himself, strokes his cock with the wetness lingering on his fingers. Looks so, so pretty when he sits back on his haunches and says, “Just wanna look at you,” and makes it sound wistful and longing.

Makes it sound like it means something.

He’s still touching himself, still slicking himself up. There’s a split second where he goes to move and thinks better of it. Looks to the side before looking back at you. The storm kicks up again. “Have—” he begins before he swallows thickly. Dares to look hopeful, even through the squall. “Have you been with anyone else? Since…?”

You haven’t. Tried to, once—another stupid party, more cheap liquor passed to your mouth from someone else’s, but it hadn’t gone anywhere. They hadn’t tasted like Jeongguk; hadn’t felt the same. Two puzzle pieces that fit together all wrong.

Jeongguk has, though. Something you’d heard from a friend of a friend that you weren’t meant to. They’d called it a rebound, and it had bloomed so many ugly thoughts in your head. Five months had passed. Jeongguk was fucking someone else in his bed while you were in yours, torturing yourself over whether or not to tell him happy birthday. Whether it was allowed to or not, it’d stung.

(You had. You’d reworded the text a million times, plucked up all the courage you could find before you sent it. It’d gone unanswered, just like you expected it would, and you thought it was because Jeongguk didn’t want to talk to you. Thought you were digging your fingers into wounds that had yet to heal, so it’d stung but you understood.

But Jeongguk hadn’t answered because he was fucking someone else. Had someone else’s taste on his tongue; was panting someone else’s name into the dark. The embarrassment had been the worst part.)

Still does, if you’re being honest with yourself, so you lie. “I—yeah,” you answer. “Just one.”

Looks like it stings Jeongguk, too. “Right,” he responds, blinking back tears, and he’s got a lot of nerve, you think. “Yeah, okay, I’ll just—a condom. Are you…”

“Jeongguk—”

“Are you sure? Maybe this isn’t…” He huffs. Drops the condom on the bed, hangs his head. “What are we doing?”

You stare up at the ceiling. Nothing up there but the swirls in the plaster. “I don’t know,” you admit. “Hurting each other, probably.”

Jeongguk walks his fingers down your thigh. Grips at your skin, wants it to bruise. Wants you to have something to remember him by come morning. “Sometimes I’m really mad at you, you know?”

“Yeah, trust me, I know.”

He nods. Refuses to look you in the eye now that you’re watching him. “I still love you so fucking much and I’m still so angry. What am I supposed to do with that? What am I… fuck, I thought I was over it. I thought I’d see you and not feel a fucking thing.” There’s fresh ink on the back of his left hand. You hadn’t noticed it earlier, but you notice it now, when he runs his hands down his face.

You also notice the way the atmosphere shifts, the split second in which his heartache bleeds into something else—resolve, maybe. Obstinacy. Like he knows how this is going to end and he’s going to do it anyway. He’s going to find the most painful part and press on it, dig his fingers in, and it’s just an inevitable, foregone thing. Something he can prevent and something he’s choosing not to.

“You fucked someone else,” he sneers. Rips the foil open with his teeth, flashing too white in the dark of his bedroom. Rolls the condom on like it’s an inconvenience. Like you’re an inconvenience. “Was it good? Was it worth it?”

You roll your eyes. Feel the way your breath catches in your throat, because you’re not going to cry. Jeongguk fucked someone else and is vilifying you and it’s hypocritical and ugly and unfair, but you’re not going to cry over it. You’re going to press the gas pedal as far as it can go, say, “Yeah, it was,” and find some wicked delight in the way his eyes squeeze shut, as if it can spare him from the pain.

The two of you used to love each other. Jeongguk used to smile down at you when you were naked beneath him like this. Used to lean in close and whisper that he loved you just as he pushed inside even though you knew, you could feel it in everything he did. Now, there’s no smile. Now, he leans down and spits on your pussy and pushes inside and doesn’t tell you a goddamn thing.

Not with words, anyway.

Because the way he fucks you says it all. Impersonal, desperate, bitter. He grips your hips and fucks into you frenzied and fast. Takes your hand and puts it on your clit and tells you to get yourself off. An inconvenience. Tells you he misses your tight cunt, tells you he misses the way it milks his cock, tells you he misses watching the way you come undone underneath him, but he doesn’t tell you he misses you.

There’s a moment, just after he spills into the condom and stays inside, just catching his breath, when you think he might say it. Might tell you he loves you around the lump in his throat, might apologize, might ask if you two can’t figure it out.

There’s only a moment.

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. Lets the moment pass. Pulls out and ties off the condom and wordlessly gets up to throw it away. It’s the silence that pisses you off. The disregard. Jeongguk hates you for something you’d lied about doing that he’d done for real, so you can be wordless, too. You can treat him like an inconvenient, cheap fuck, too. You can get up and find your clothes and pull them on and let him watch, words biting at the back of his teeth, and you can tell yourself to feel nothing.

You can say, “You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve,” and not shy away from the resentment in your voice, because it’s properly placed. “You fucked someone else, too, so you’ve got a lot of fucking nerve, Jeongguk.”

Eight months is a long time to miss someone, to play at daydreams. To think of all the things you want to say, the things you’ll do. In not one of them did you think about this: you, fully dressed and stinking of sex, saying, “It’s late. I’ll show myself out.”

Jeongguk, tears glistening on his cheeks, saying, “No, let me—baby, I’m sorry, please—I’ll drive you.”

A shake of your head. Jeongguk doesn’t push it.

Roll credits.

[ the second. ] Jimin wants to talk your ear off about it—the girl you’re seeing.

It’s new and there isn’t much to say. You tell him the two of you met at one of the student showcases put on by the art department and leave off the part about all of Jeongguk’s old friends being there, that he would’ve participated, too, if he hadn’t dropped out after you broke his heart. Leave off the part where you would’ve been there to support him instead, in another life. Leave off the part where it’d just been morbid curiosity: you, not an art student, wandering those halls to see if Jeongguk’s photographs were still framed on the wall.

“Is she nice?” Jimin asks, head nearly knocking into yours as someone shoves by him. “Fucking asshole.”

You nod. “Why would I date someone that wasn’t nice?”

Jimin, perpetually unbothered until he decidedly isn’t, sends you a look that he hides behind the rim of his cup. “Because you’re in your self-destruction era and aren’t thinking clearly.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“Exactly what I said. You know I’m happy if you’re happy, but…” He pauses as he trails off. Tries to wrap his words in something delicate. “It’s pretty clear you still aren’t over it. That’s all.”

You snort. “That’s all?” you repeat, like it’s some small thing. Like it’s normal and fine.

“I’m sure it’s easier to pretend when the two of you are thousands of miles apart,” Jimin amends, and he must see how you bristle, stung by the callout, because his eyes soften. “Tell me about her.”

She’s beautiful and kind and smart. Smokes clove cigarettes and the smell is always clinging to her skin. You know how to make her come but don’t know what she’s majoring in—fashion, you think, because she’s always holding fabric swatches against your skin. Tells you what suits you and what doesn’t. Tells you which textures don’t work, what’s too warm, and she doesn’t need to tell you what’s too cold because you already know it’s you.

She’s beautiful and kind and smart and has no idea you’re still in love with someone else.

But you can’t tell Jimin that, can you? Can’t tell him about how she’d dragged you to a private corner in the gallery and kissed you breathless; the way she made you come on her fingers; the way Jeongguk’s name nearly slipped out of your mouth as you shook. Can’t tell him that she’s got arms full of art. Delicate patchwork; nothing like the harsh, bold colors inked into Jeongguk’s skin, but it feels the same to trace the lines.

You can’t tell him much of anything, so what you settle on is, “She’s nice—good for me,” and it doesn’t sound convincing to either of you.

Jimin doesn’t call you on it, though. Not again. Instead, he keeps his gaze steady, staring into the fire, the flames dancing wildly when you meet his eye. “You need to be careful,” he says. “You’re going to hurt her, too. Maybe worse than you hurt him.”

“Jimin—”

“Just be careful,” he reiterates, and all you can do is nod. What else is there to do besides wait for the inevitable crash and burn?

And it’s a little unfair, you think, that Taehyung grows older every single year. A little unfair that guilt won’t let you decline the invitations. A little unfair that you can still pick Jeongguk’s laughter out of a crowd. A little unfair that these hometown friends-turned-acquaintances still throw sideways glances whenever someone else touches him, as if he still has someone to answer to; as if they’re expecting something.

An hour. You’ve survived an hour longer than you did last year, and it’s not much but you’re still proud of yourself. You’ve had a drink, talked to someone other than Jimin. Managed to ignore the way Jeongguk is ignoring you; the way he immediately leaves a room as soon as you enter.  Maybe it’s better like this, you reckon. Maybe it’s what you need.

An hour is long enough. Jimin doesn’t comment on the way your bones crack when you stand to leave. No one needs a reminder of growing older. He doesn’t ask if you’ll be okay, either; if you need a ride home. Instead, he stays quiet as he studies you, clearly wondering if lightning strikes twice. If you’re going to be able to walk past Jeongguk and out the door without making another mistake.

You can at least make it across Taehyung’s sprawling yard and to the house. You can dodge the sweat-slick bodies and the girls sitting in laps. You can toss your empty cup in an overflowing trash can. You can pretend the eyes on your back are well-intentioned.

You can make it to the bathroom.

Annoying, the way your phone has been vibrating all night only to disappoint you. Irrational. You scroll past the emoji-laden messages, the coy flirting, because they’re from the person you’re actually dating—the person you told you were going to sleep early—and not from Jeongguk. You should feel guilty. You should feel guilty, but the face staring back at you in the mirror doesn’t look guilty at all.

She looks tired. A little beat-down, but that’s life.

Maybe that’s just what happens when you’ve spent the last two years of your life chasing after ghosts.

A knock at the door startles you. Sends your phone tumbling to the floor, screen probably cracked to hell, and you swear under your breath. “Just a minute!” you call out, a little stunned from how threadbare you feel all of a sudden.

Still, the knocking continues, and you’re on your knees on this bathroom floor and all you want to do is cry. You don’t want to be on this floor in this house. You don’t want to keep putting in the effort of maintaining the facades of all these friendships. You don’t want to keep coming back to this town, don’t want to keep being confronted with the harsh reality of all your mistakes.

“Just a fucking min—”

The words die on your tongue, because there Jeongguk stands, all the air in your lungs dissipating at the amount of space he takes up. Even worse when he steps inside and locks the door behind him. You feel like you’re going to drown. You feel like you’re going to scream or cry or both, and you’re still on the floor, still on your knees, and it feels too much like penance when you look up at him. Feels like you’re groveling, praying for forgiveness.

You stand quickly, ignoring the rush of blood to your head, the way your legs tingle. Jeongguk still hasn’t said a word, doesn’t seem like that’s going to change, either, and it’s really all you can do to stay on your feet when everything in you is screaming to collapse.

Eventually, he says, “You’re seeing someone,” and it isn’t a question, not really, but it borders on one. It’s a question and a confirmation and somehow sounds a lot like he’s asking for permission for something.

“I—yeah.” You swallow. “It’s new.”

He hums. Steps a little closer. Leans against the sink. Darts out his tongue to swipe at his bottom lip before he tugs his lip ring between his teeth. “Yeah? Does he treat you well?”

“She,” you correct, and there’s a flash of something in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Jeongguk, at one point, had known everything about you, but not this. “And yeah,” you add on, barely a whisper, “she does.”

Part of you feels embarrassed. Jeongguk had known everything about you but not this, and you shouldn’t feel embarrassed or guilty but it still sits there in the middle of your chest. Feels like you’ve been keeping secrets. Feels like shame, even though you aren’t ashamed. Feels like you’re awaiting judgment. But the surprise in Jeongguk’s eyes disappears and something else settles in its place—uncertainty, if you had to guess.

“Are you happy with her?”

You shrug. “Like I said, it’s new.”

And Jeongguk is as emulous as ever, because he asks, “Does it feel like what we had?” and you already know the answer is no.

“I’m not sure anything will.”

It’s honest; you hadn’t said it to appease him, but he looks pleased anyway. You’re starting to understand why so many people write about their first love. Why it’s such a powerful role to fill. Because you and Jeongguk are standing in a bathroom behind a locked door, feet apart from one another, and you think, I don’t think there’s anyone I will ever love more than him even though it’s been two years. You think, I don’t think I’ll ever recover from this.

You think, I would try over and over and over again if he asked me to.

Later on, when you’re alone in your childhood bed and your face is streaked with tears, only your shame and guilt for company, you won’t be able to figure out who moved first, but one of you had.

Once upon a time, you had known everything about Jeongguk, too. You could recite his taste from memory, but it’s different this time. He licks into your mouth and it tastes like ash—nothing like the clove cigarettes your girlfriend smokes, but close enough that the parallel burns like acid in your throat. It’s close enough that you can keep your eyes shut and pretend again.

This time there’s no softness to be found. There’s just Jeongguk’s mouth pressed to yours, barely letting you breathe, not wanting anyone to hear. There’s just the sink digging into your back. Jeongguk’s hands gripping at your waist, pulling at the hem of your skirt. There’s the frustration and desperation of two people who love each other but will never, ever get it right.

There’s Jeongguk asking, as he spits into his hand and slicks you up, if you’re going to tell her.

There’s you, already too far gone, saying you don’t know.

There’s Jeongguk asking, as you’re clenching around him and dragging him with you to the edge, if you’d come back to him if he asked you to.

There’s you, already knowing the answer to this, too, saying you would.

But this isn’t that and Jeongguk doesn’t ask. When it’s over, he tosses the condom and does a half-assed job of helping you clean up and he doesn’t ask. He splashes water on his face and fixes his hair and he doesn’t ask. He tucks his cock back into his briefs and zips his jeans and he doesn’t ask.

Jeongguk has one hand on the doorknob and he doesn’t ask you to come back. Instead, he asks, “How long are you gonna keep doing this?”

For once, you don’t have an answer.

[ the third. ] You go even farther away for grad school.

You try to put more distance between you and Jeongguk, more distance between you and all the skeletons in your closet, but you just pack them up in different boxes and bring them with you.

You spend New Year’s Eve chain-smoking in your parents’ back yard—that same brand of clove cigarettes, because hearts are easy to break but some habits are not. Sometimes it’s a comfort to hurt yourself in the same way you hurt others, so you chain-smoke and you don’t go to to Taehyung’s birthday party because you weren’t invited and it doesn’t sting in the same way that it doesn’t sting that Jimin doesn’t call you once you’re home because he hasn’t spoken to you in a year.

The clock ticks down to midnight. Someone sets off fireworks. Absolutely nothing changes.

There are no half-baked resolutions. There’s no hope that this is going to be the year you get your shit together. There’s just you and the bed you’ve made for yourself; the autopilot you can’t—won’t—turn off, because you don’t know where you’re going anyway so you might as well just go wherever it’s taking you. There’s guilt and there’s shame and there’s baggage, but they’re all old friends. Those are old scars.

The sweatshirt you’re wearing doesn’t belong to you, and it does little to protect you from the bitter cold that bites at your skin. Jeongguk doesn’t belong to you, either, but he keeps coming back to you like he does.

“Mind if I sit down?”

You shrug, gesturing to the empty chair beside you. The small fire you’d built is down to its last embers, and it’s what you focus on, because you can’t focus on Jeongguk anymore.

“You weren’t at Tae’s.”

“Wasn’t invited.”

“Oh,” he breathes. “Sorry, I didn’t know. I would’ve—”

“It’s fine. I wouldn’t have gone anyway.”

He seems to hear what you don’t say. I wouldn’t have gone because I can’t be around you anymore. I wouldn’t have gone because I don’t trust myself with you. I wouldn’t have gone because I’ve burned down every good thing in my life trying to keep you. “Oh. Yeah, that—that makes sense.”

He’d texted you. Asked if he could see you. Just wanted to talk, and you’ve never cared much for symbolism, but nearing midnight on New Year’s Eve had seemed as good a time as any to let it go, so you’d said yes. Now, when there isn’t much to say, all of Jeongguk’s flimsy excuses are laid bare. Transparent.

“Was Jimin there?”

Jeongguk nods. “You didn’t know?”

You shake your head. Feels like it’s made of concrete. “No. We haven’t talked since last winter break.”

“Because of—”

How cruel, that you’d confessed to Jimin instead of the one person who deserved to know. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

You shrug again. “It’s okay. I don’t think it’s permanent, just until I can get my shit together, I guess. Wasn’t fair to drag him into my mess anyway.”

“It’s not that easy,” Jeongguk says, and it sounds like something he wants to be true. It sounds like something he’s said countless times in defense of himself. “We’d—I’d do it if I could.”

“Yeah,” you agree, “of course.”

Silence creeps up again, so you dig another cigarette out of the pack and offer one to Jeongguk that he waves away. “Cloves? That’s a weird choice.”

“Just something I picked up along the way.”

He hears you again: They’re what she used to smoke. It helps me heal to hurt myself with something that reminds me of her. Sometimes I chain-smoke clove cigarettes and I don’t wash the smell from my hands, my clothes, my hair, because it makes me feel less alone.

So he asks, “Was it real?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you answer, flicking the wheel of your lighter, words spoken around the cigarette stuck between your lips. “It never had a chance. Not a real one, anyway.”

“Do your parents know?”

“Know what? That I went away to college and started fucking women?” Jeongguk shrugs. Has the audacity to look embarrassed. “What are you trying to ask me? You wanna know if I keep coming back to you because I’m scared to come out to my parents?”

“No. I don’t know. I just—”

The laugh that escapes you is scorched and bitter. Sounds the way the tobacco tastes. “No, Jeongguk. I keep coming back to you because I keep hoping you’ll ask me to.” I keep hoping you still want me.

“I almost did,” he admits, and you can hear how he swallows around the lump in his throat. “The first time.”

“When you were a dick about me sleeping with someone else? Yeah, okay. You didn’t want me back, you just didn’t want me to be with anyone else.”

He huffs. “How the fuck do you know what I want? You’ve never bothered to ask.”

“Because it doesn’t matter,” comes your response, stilted and practiced. “It doesn’t matter what we want, because we’re just going to keep hurting one another trying to get it right.” You suck in a breath, wipe furiously at the tears on your cheeks. “And we’re never going to.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Then ask.” Jeongguk startles, looks at you with wide eyes. “Ask me to come back for real, Jeongguk, and I will.”

A beat of silence.

Two, three, four.

Someone sets off another round of fireworks. A dog barks. It’s so cold that you can see Jeongguk’s breath each time he exhales, each time he breathes out instead of speaking. All the words he isn’t saying. And it’s exactly how you knew it would go, but it does nothing to tamp down the devastation in your chest.

You’d confessed your transgressions to Jimin and thought your silence to your ex-girlfriend was a gift, that it was sparing her the pain of what you’d done. Now you understand that someone’s silence can be the most vicious thing of all.

[ the last. ] Graduation looms. It’s the last winter break you’re spending at home.

Your therapist suspects you get your compartmentalism from your parents.

They don’t mention it. They see the stack of boxes and your bare bedroom walls and they don’t say a word about any of it. They watch you pack everything in your car and don’t offer to help. They process their grief silently, and when you can’t stand it anymore, you say, “I dated a woman my senior year of undergrad, you know.”

They don’t say anything to that, either, but it feels good to tell them. Feels a little like freedom and reclamation, like you can be who you are in front of others.

When you leave for good, you don’t want to repackage all those same skeletons.

So you meet Jimin for lunch and you take it in stride that everything is weird, that there’s nearly two years of silence to fill. You don’t ask for forgiveness and he doesn’t demand it of you, just asks if you’re doing better. “I’m doing the best I can,” you answer, and it’s human and honest enough that he accepts it with a warm smile.

Jeongguk is more difficult.

There’s no way to neatly box up that kind of baggage.

You’d intended to stop by his apartment to talk, tell him you aren’t coming back anymore. There’s nothing left here for you, you’d told him, and there was a flash of something. A there’s me, isn’t there? that had gone unsaid, destined for the same fate as a million other unspoken words between you.

Because there is him, but there’s also the way you’re desperately trying to claw back into something resembling normalcy. You’d lost yourself when you also lost Jeongguk, and you need to figure out who you are without him. You need to know who you are once you stop running and let your demons catch up with you. You need to hear what they have to say.

Maybe Jeongguk had said it best last year—“It’s not that easy. I’d do it if I could.”—because you’re nothing if not predictable and self-destructive.

You’re nothing if not naked and on your back beneath him, your fingers threaded through his hair as he rocks his hips into you, more tender than you deserve. His lips are ghosting along your skin and every press feels like a brand. Feels like he’s both making a mockery of you and declaring you ruined for anyone who might come after him. Feels like you’ll love him until you die.

(Some version of you must exist outside of Jeongguk’s grasp—outside of his orbit, his bed—but right now, as he twines your fingers together and pins them above your head, you can’t figure out who she might be.)

Eight months had been a long time to think of all the things you wanted to say, and four years is worse. Four years, and you still can’t bring yourself to ask him to try again, but there’s nothing after this, nothing to lose, so your voice is hoarse and raw when you say, “Jeongguk,” and he groans a little, nips at the column of your throat because he loves the way you say his name. “Jeongguk,” you repeat, because he senses the urgency, hears what you aren’t saying.

“Yeah, baby, say it. Whatever it is, tell me.”

He rolls his hips faster. Before, he would’ve tried to prolong the ending, but he’s hurtling towards it now. There’s nothing after this, you know, but you need the confirmation. You need to finally put all of this to rest. “I want to—” His cock strokes someplace that whites out your vision. “Fuck, want to—want you to come with me.”

He laughs, full of himself, probably smirking out the side of his mouth. “Keep squeezing me like that and I will soon.”

“No,” you insist, shocked at the conviction in your voice, “when I leave. Come with me.”

Everything slows. Jeongguk pulls back, moves his hands to cover himself, and there’s nothing but cold confusion in his absence. “What?”

“I didn’t ask you before. Last year. I just—I left it up to you, and you’re right, I didn’t ask what you wanted, but I didn’t tell you what I wanted, either. But I’m telling you now. I’m asking—”

There was never going to be anything after this.

Jeongguk’s silence says it all.

The way he pulls out and rolls you onto your stomach. The way he fucks as fast and as hard as he can. The way he used to love you openly and honestly and now holds whatever’s left close to his chest like it’s something to be ashamed of.

Someone’s silence can always be the most vicious thing of all.

Roll credits.

thank you so much for reading, and an additional thank you in advance if you decide to reblog my work. as always, my inbox is always open for any feedback! ♡

#jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n #jungkook imagine #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #bts x reader #bts x you #bts angst #bts smut #bts scenarios #bts imagines #bts fanfic

[am-i-interrupting]

I'm curious what Vox's first impressions were of the Alastor's daughter, like as a kid, I mean he briefly mentions it but I kinda wanna read his reaction about learning the radio host he grew up listening to has a daughter (and if he learned before the serial killer thing was announced, did imagine scenarios of meeting the radio man and his daughter like little kids do with their imagination or teens with their daydreams).

Another inquiry is what his impressions were when he read the reader's book (obviously he read it) and if he could sense there was more to it than the words written down

OATSH Master List

To answer your second question succinctly, yes. Not to the extent that he would suspect them of anything but he would have definitely picked up on some very subtle hints of defensiveness when it came to Alastor’s killings. I think he’d probably read it as them feeling like they need justification for still caring about him despite what he did but in reality, it’s less about their own justification and more so like a “he’s not a monster. He was helping people, why can you see that?” you know?

To answer your first question, thank you for giving me a reason to write this:

A Voice on the Radio | Vox x Alastor’s Child Reader

It was a surprise when the radio switched from producing the sound of blues to voices. For the past week, nothing but blues music came from the station. A very stark change from the upbeat jazz that normally played. There had also been no speaking. Not a single soul had spoken for the last nine days.

A throat cleared. “Is this on?”

“The light,” another, much younger sounding voice said.

The fifteen year old paused eating breakfast and looked at his mother who was staring at the radio with furrowed brows. Neither voice was familiar.

“Ah, yes, right,” the first voice said with a laugh. “Good morning all, we would like to apologize for the radio silence on our part this past week. Some unexpected tragedies came our way and with them uncovered some gruesome truths.

“The dearly beloved host, Alastor, has passed. He was killed by a misfire of a hunter. A truly tragic event but with it came to light the horrific acts of the late Alastor. As you likely know if you’re a long time listener, for the past decade or so, there have been many murders that have befallen this otherwise serene part of Louisiana and it’s been confirmed to be the acts of our previous show host.

“Today, I have here with me the one person who knew him better than anyone else and can hopefully shine some light upon the situation and perhaps give some peace to the families of the victims. Alastor’s daughter—“

He looked towards the radio now. His breakfast was forgotten now. His fork barely dangled in his hand.

Not only was his mother’s (and by extension his own) favorite radio show host dead but also a murderer and he had a daughter? So much information in less than three minutes. His brain was struggling to keep up.

Even his father set down his paper to listen in.

“Why don’t you say hello to the people?”

“I’m not dignifying you with a proper greeting until you dignify me with a proper introduction. You’re doing a terrible job, Gregory,” the younger voice said.

He smiled curiously at the radio.

“I— um, I’m sorry?” the man, Gregory, said. There was only silence in reply. An awkward chuckle, “Well, my apologies then. Let me introduce the daughter of our show host—“ Gregory said your name and silently he tested it on his tongue— “Do you have anything to say to the people before we begin?”

“Yes, I would like to sincerely apologize for Gregory’s lack of bravado and charisma. I did do my best to convince them that Raymond would be better but alas,” you said.

That’s when he got it. You did sound like a younger, more feminine version of your father. Down to the tilts of the accent.

There was a longer pause and then, barely picked up and barely able to decipher, “You have your father’s creepy smile.” Louder, intended to be heard, “Why don’t we get into the questions then?”

“Yes, let’s. The less time spent listening to you, the better for everyone, hm?”

“You little— So—“ the sounds of hands clapping together— “the reports I have here suggest that you knew about the murders. Was there a reason you didn’t say anything?”

“I’ve been raised by a serial killer, Gregory. Please, take a guess,” you replied.

He couldn’t help but snort as reached for his glass. His mother shot him a look. He bowed his head down as he took a sip.

“Right, well,” Gregory cleared his throat, “did you happen to know his motivations?”

“He’s a very righteous man,” you said. “You’ve seen him when people are being disrespectful. He’s not just some ravaging animal. He’s very selective.”

“Was,” Gregory corrected. “He was very selective, you mean.”

“Was,” you repeated and he could hear you seething even through the crackle of the radio.

“Oh, heavens! Get your stuff or we’re going to be late,” his mother said.

He didn’t want to go though. He wanted to stay and listen to you on the radio. He was having fun listening to your snark.

It truly surprised him, impressed him how you were able to have such moxie so soon after tragedy. He couldn’t imagine being so quick witted so quickly.

His mother called his name and he snapped back to reality. As he headed out the door, he heard you snap back at Gregory one more time, “And would you call yourself a saint? Don’t think no one’s noticed the looks you’ve shared with Ms. Brown, as a married man, no less!”

He compressed a laugh to his chest as he followed his mother.

The next day he saw a paper with a headline related to a serial killer in Louisiana. He paid for the paper and read another interview with you.

He couldn’t help but wonder what you looked like. What would such a snarky, confident girl look like? He wanted to know. He wanted to meet you. Even in tragedy, you seemed like good company to have.

#vox x reader #hazbin vox x reader #one author two show hosts #OATSH tidbits

[adelaidedrubman]

(reformatting for top post maxing) wip whenever i fucking say it is

i was tagged yesterday by my beloved @g0dspeeed for wip day and scrambling in a day late to say yeah, it is.

here’s an older bit from hook, line, and sinker chapter 4 (which will happen eventually). also apologizing because i believe i have posted small excerpts of this before but i needed to share the full scene for reasons.

It never came — instead he felt his back slam into the metal net of the fence as hands caught beneath his arms, shoving him against the chain link.  “A-Ah!” his hands found the gaps of the chain link, and he hurried to curl his fingers around the wire to stabilize himself.  He heard a low growl, then felt the hands gripping below his arms slide down his sides to squeeze his hips, pulling them toward her only to slam him harder against the fence.  “Look what you fucking did!” she screeched at him, pressing her thumbs down against his hips so hard they ached from the ridges of bone cutting against skin.  He finally blinked his eyes open at the command, finding her furious, smoldering glare and following it to the place it pointed at the ground, aimed at the glistening cascade of ice and fish sliding along the hill as if the entire school had chosen to swim downstream in a hurry.  “That was an entire fucking day’s catch! Gone!”

John narrowed his own eyes before fixing them back on her scowling face. He tightened his grip on the fence and attempted to straighten his legs and gently lower himself to the ground to beat her to her undoubtedly intended punch of dropping him — his efforts quickly thwarted as her hands shifted to the backs of his thighs to keep him propped up and at her mercy, hanging there wriggling for freedom like a fish dangling from her hook.  But he wouldn’t helplessly gape and flounder like one. Instead he stretched his back to push against her and test her force as he replied, plastering a pleasant and casual smile on his face in spite of the situation.  “We’ll add it to our ledger then, hm?” he hummed, tilting his head to the side with a sweet flutter of his eyelashes. “I owe you one plastic cooler — does forty-eight quarts sound right? Plus fair market value for all the fish — I’ll trust your inventory, fishermen are famously honest. And let’s not forget the $2.99 for the bag of ice, of course. And you…” He dropped his smile, neck snapping forward. “You owe me a fucking boat!” “You owe me your fucking life,” she hissed, lunging forward with teeth bared in turn. “I didn’t have to catch you,” she grumbled, glare darting suddenly downward as she did. “I could have caught the fuckin’ cooler…” “Yes, well…” he glanced to the side at the cooler laying on its side and spilling its contents onto the pavement. She could have caught it instead, and he was rather surprised she didn’t — but he wouldn’t waste time speculating on what misfired reflex led to the result, because it certainly wasn’t a matter of human compassion. “I wouldn’t have needed catching, had you not wrecked my —” “Enough fucking yapping!” she barked authoritatively as she shoved him back, chain link clinking and screeching as it stretched with his weight pushed against it. He felt the hard bends of the metal dig into his back, cold air hitting his stomach as a fast and forceful hand shoved the hem of his shirt up past his collarbones. “Mouth open.” “Wha —” 

sending belated and good for whenever wip day tags out to my beloveds @wrathfulrook @fourlittleseedlings @galaxycunt @cassietrn @florbelles @g0dspeeed @unholymilf @belorage @shallow-gravy @roofgeese @socially-awkward-skeleton @corvosattano @inafieldofdaisies @direwombat @afarcryfrommymain @poetikat @blissfulalchemist @deputyash @confidentandgood @captastra @voidika @just-another-wasteland-merc @strangefable @8bitpizzacoupons @stacispratt @orionlancasterr @v0idbuggy @jackiesarch @strafethesesinners @henbased @simplegenius042 @clicheantagonist @firstaidspray @quickhacked @miyabilicious @nightbloodbix @thedeadthree @shellibisshe + join/unjoin my wip day tag list by liking/unliking here!

#wip #had thought i had shared the entire thing before but not according to a scroll through my wip tag

[alicerosejensen]

What would it be like if you and Leon (maybe re4remake) got into a serious fight, or argument? Like a kind of fight that there are silent treatment, tension, and heartbreak but they also live in the same house.

I don't have much time to write headcanons or a full text, so I'll write it like this:

It is important to understand what caused the whole conflict. I'm just sure that Leon!re4 is the most non-confrontational guy. He will never raise his hand to his beloved, even if his aggression goes off scale, but what needs to be done to bring him to this?

I think one of the factors could be jealousy. On the part of the reader, most likely, because I am a rather jealous person. And the reason would most likely be Ada Wong. Here I don’t even need to start an unnecessary discussion, because Leon is somehow connected with Ada. It is unlikely that he is cheating on the reader, but he will not be able to do anything with his feelings.

Yes, Leon will try to explain that he does not love Ada, but if it was really me, then I would never believe him again in tears and snot. Leon may try to gently reassure the reader, hug him, and speak in a calm tone even if he is shouted at in response. Of course, he would convince that his beloved is the only one he truly loves, but there was already a misfire ... So if they live in the same house / apartment, it is important to understand who will leave. If I lived with Leon, then after 1-2 days, despite all the mental pain, I would have packed my things and left. Others can decide for themselves if they could trust Leon and let go of the situation.

However, I do not argue that in the version with the departure of Leon's partner from him, Leon himself will try to return the reader. Calls, messages, visits to your (or mine) work. If you ask me if I can forgive, then my answer is NO.

However, if this is some kind of domestic quarrel or your opinions regarding something loudly and strongly diverged and the reader was offended by Leon, then regardless of who is right, Leon will come to apologize first. He would value you (or me heh) too much to let a stupid fight ruin everything. You just have to wait until everything cools down and find some compromise.

#leon kennedy #leon scott kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon x reader #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader #reader #leon kennedy resident evil #leon scott kennedy x reader

[thereforepizza]



Edited and reposted here!

𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪 When y/n is injured, they try to hide the severity of it, causing the boys to panic when it’s worse than they realized.

ℙ𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤 None. Implied attraction to Hunter because, well, he’s hot.

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤/𝕥𝕒𝕘𝕤 major injury/nausea/passing out. Doctor Tech. Comforting Wrecker. Sassy Crosshair. Concerned Hunter. You know—the necessities of a hurt/comfort oneshot.

if there’s anything else y’all see that needs tagged, please lmk and I’ll gladly tag it here !

word count: 2.3k

Consciousness hit you subtly and you groaned, setting both feet on the floor. You rubbed your eyes. Yesterday was one that you didn't want to remember, yet it came back to you in an instant. The darkness. A sleepy sigh. You made your body stand, though each sore, aching muscle protested.  One step and your right leg gave out, taunting the memory of your fall. Your throat loosed a whimper. Fumbling, you got up. A hand found the far wall so your face wouldn't have to greet the floor again.

You caught your breath, wincing as you moved. Stubbornness made you try again without a gentle touch. You needed to get used to the pain. This attempt to stand on two feet left you weak and defeated. It also sent a familiar nausea your way.

Yesterday, when you'd been hurt, you instantly lost the contents of your stomach. This struck the entire squad by surprise as you possessed a stomach of steel. Nothing could make you vomit. They brought you back to the ship and you passed out the moment your head hit the pillow of the lowest bunk. It wasn't your bunk, but they didn't want to fight you trying to climb. The last thing you remembered was seeing the look of concern in Tech's eyes your focus waned.

Supressing the urge to cry out, you limped through the shuttle. Each and every step made you sicker. Your fists were balled at your sides. Pride encouraged the poker face you plastered on as you went into the cockpit. They didn't need to see you parade such a weak state. 

“That's the thing, Hunter. We'll be out of supplies in..." Tech trailed off, squinting at the newly arrived form. You nodded a greeting and found a seat, uncomfortably aware of the four sets of eyes on you.

"Go on,"

“You should be resting," he stated.

"I'm not running, am I?"

He frowned at you, then at his beloved data pad. "We'll be out of supplies in two weeks. It's time we stop back by Kamino to restock."

"How long has it been?" Hunter muttered, giving you a glance.

"Based on each solar—"

"A long time," you hummed. You leaned forward on your elbows, but quickly retracted, finding a sensitive bruise on one elbow. "I'd estimate two and a half months."

Tech paused, gears at work behind his goggles, "You're almost correct. Two months and nineteen days. How'd you know that?"

A shrug and tilt of your head, "I have a good internal clock."

"My internal clock says we've been gone for forever!" Wrecker exclaimed. "I almost lost track of how many successful missions we've done."

Your fingertips graced the fresh bruise on your arm as you released your mind.

The blast hit the hut you’d stood atop as you rained hell on the droids around you. It was a misfire from a destroyed cannon, but it did its job. You awoke when Wrecker lifted a stone from you. When you stood, the world did not. You swore at Tech and threatened to shoot him when he tried to look over you for injuries. They rushed you back, and all you could think was a wistful, ‘don’t tell me I actually got hurt.’

"How are you feeling, Y/N?"

"Huh?" You looked at Hunter.

"You didn't hear any of what we just said, did you?"

Your frown traveled from Hunter to take in each of the boys. They shared the same expression: concern.

"I was thinking," 

"I don't want to alarm you," Tech began, and he looked at Hunter for permission to go on.

"You look almost dead. I've never seen you that pale," Crosshair piped in. His serious tone made your heart drop. 

Your trademark tough shell shifted, "Wh—what?"

"Are you feeling alright?" Hunter got to his feet and closed the distance baring a frown. "Be honest. This could be serious."

"I'm fine, Sarge,"

“I want to examine you," Tech said, "Crosshair, you can take over the controls—but be gentle!"

"Right, because I'd love nothing more than to crash the ship," he rolled his eyes. 

An extended hand sealed your scattered mind and you glanced up at Hunter. "Where we going?"

"To the bunks. Tech wants to examine you."

"I heard that," you grumbled, standing up.

The next thing you saw was the bottom of the next bunk above you. Inhaling sharply, head foggy, you took in the room. Hunter leaned against the wall, arms folded, scowl engrained in the skull adorning his face as he studied the floor. At least the nausea was gone.

You motioned to swing your feet over the edge of the bed when Hunter whispered, "Stay there, Y/N." 

He'd passed over to the bunk and pushed your feet back to the middle of the bunk before your mind caught up. The wealthy of Coruscant were likely more aware of their surroundings than you. You bid yourself close your eyes, and darkness greeted you again with far less abrupt arms.

You stirred at the sound of two distant voices. 

“They’ll need to rest up for a few more days, but we can't wait to set it for much longer."

"Do you know how to do that?"

A beat.

“I'll learn."

"Then do it. I reckon you'll need more area-specific anesthetics? I can go into town to get them."

"No need. The ones from the med-kit onboard should suffice."

A sigh.

"Please don't get this wrong, Tech. We need them to be okay." 

"They will be. Don't worry."

His gentle hand shook your shoulder and you drew a breath, slowly coming awake. Your first thought revolved around the time. How long had you been asleep? That you couldn't call a single number worried you. 

"Good morning, Y/N," Hunter hummed.

Your lips failed to formulate an intelligent reply, so you mumbled your similar return.  Your arms wrapped tightly around a soft bundle and you buried your face in it. Red and black fuzz tickled your face and you pulled it back to look at it. It was Lula.

"We need to you to be awake so we can test these pain killers. Once we're sure they work, you can relax."

"What's wrong?"

"You broke your... Tech, which bone is it?"

"The Tibia," 

"You broke your Tibia. That's the shin bone. We need to reset the bone so it'll heal right, but Tech wanted to test the pain killers first."

"Do you feel this?" 

A moment of confusion was followed by your looking down at Tech. He was pressing on your exposed shin. The pressure didn't cause any reaction, but the sight of your wounded leg did. Fascinated, you wanted to touch it.

"No, no, lay back down, Y/N." Hunter was pushing you back onto the bed.

"Do you feel this?" You frowned down at him, wondering why he'd repeat his question when it struck you. He was pressing on another part of your leg. This was supposed to hurt.

"I don't feel any of that... is that bad?"

"Quite the opposite, actually."

You caught the skull's armor relax through your peripherals. He turned to you and you met his eyes without a sound. A reassuring smile crossed his lips and you caught yourself thinking about just how handsome this man was. It took a moment to pull you back. Then you heard what he was saying to you.

"You can relax. We'll take it from here."

He didn't have to tell you twice. You were already embracing the darkness with joy, Lula tucked in your grasp. A long time passed, you couldn't be sure how long. When you finally came back, you found yourself drifting away again. This repeated until one time, you were able to hold onto a relative instance of consciousness. The dim room shifted as you sat up and scooted to lean your back against the wall, Lula at your side.

This was not the Marauder. 

Foggy eyes scanned the disastrous room, hesitating on the fresh tally marks carved into the wall. They moved to the droid head on a table in the center of the space where Tech and Hunter sat. Eventually your gaze drifted to the pile of dirty blacks and then to the window that was pelted with large raindrops. You hadn't been on Kamino in a long time. 

"Good to see you’re awake," Hunter greeted, setting aside the shoulder plate he had been cleaning. He had removed the top half of his armor.

"It hasn't been two weeks already, has it?" You muttered, noticing that Crosshair and Wrecker were gone. "Tech said two weeks."

"It's been three days actually," he moved to lean over your... his bed. Resting his arm on the wall above the rather large alcove, he looked down at you. "I suppose I'll give you the bad news. You went into surgery as soon as we got you back. You've got pins in your leg and an appointment for physical therapy in a few days. Overall, the surgery went well."

"It would have gone better if you hadn't hidden the injury and tried several times to stand on the broken bone." Tech muttered, leaning both elbows on the table as he looked up from the data pad in hand. Then he paused, eyes darting to the side. "On a similar note, I should've recognized the symptoms immediately. Nausea and fatigue are trademark symptoms of a broken bone."

"Hey," you waited until he looked at you, "Don't start the blame game, buddy. That's not happening."

A heavy sigh left his lips and he bobbed his head in agreement, "Sorry. I suppose I'm just flustered over this. Ever since you fell from that building, I knew it had to be worse than you let on, but I didn't want to say anything as I was sure you knew better than I regarding how bad your injuries were."

Hunter, who had been listening until then commented, "None of us realized how bad it was till you passed out in the cockpit."

"I didn't realize..." Searching for a response in a discombobulated mind proved pointless. "I'm sorry. I should've been more forthright."

"We forgive you. I want you to know that we care, Y/N." You found Hunter's dark eyes, "Please tell us next time if you need help."

A beat followed and you nodded. "I will."

A minute later, the door hissed open and in came Wrecker followed closely by Crosshair. They both paused, staring your way. An enormous smile struck Wrecker and he raced over to you like a little kid. Your attention was enveloped in huge arms. 

"How are you doing, Y/N?" He held you at arms length and looked at you, brows stitched together. "I was worried sick!"

"I'm doing good, Wreck. I am pretty tired though." You stole a glance at Crosshair who stood near the door toothing a toothpick. "Apparently I have a good poker face,"

The sniper huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a rare smile. You turned back to the large man who moved next to Hunter. Wonderment came over you again at the individuality of each man in there. 

"Well," began Hunter, "I think now would be a good time to get some brunch. What do you say, boys?"

Wrecker whooped in approval and the others moved to the door while Hunter stayed behind, sitting on the edge of the bed. On his way out, Tech shot Hunter a questioning glance that was answered by a subtle facial queue from their leader. He nodded and followed his brothers through the door.

“You not going to eat?"

He shook his head, "I ate before they got up." 

"Ah," you hummed.

Steady raindrops drowned the silence that ensued. The empty look in Hunter's eyes didn't miss your observance. He stared at nothing, all the while staring at the galaxy. You wondered if he knew he did this from time to time.

"Are you okay?"

The light reignited in his eyes and he turned his focus to you, "I will be,"

"Oh?" you raised an eyebrow, "What's up?"

He hesitated, eyeing the floor. "Just... when you passed out? I haven't lost any of my brothers in this squad. For a second, I thought I was going to lose you. I've never really let myself think about that before."

The expression he held when you had woken a few days ago spoke a novel when paired with those words. Every mission that went well grew confidence in the boys. You saw this consistently. That confidence was probably shattered the moment they realized that one of them could get hurt. Did all of them freeze up in a moment of panic when you collapsed? 

That image made you shutter. You imagined their expressions pitying you as you failed to hide your pain. The thought of their worry plagued you. It was... mortifying.

“But you made it," he whispered, "and you're alright."

"I am,"

It took half an hour for the others to return. When they did, you found yourself watching in fascination as they interacted. You'd never seen regs behave with such chemistry. Truly, these boys were different. You knew you'd be in good hands while you recovered from this inconvenient injury. The best part was that you'd have four... well, three caring clones to keep your spirits up as you did so.

———

Thanks for reading!

At the end of each one shot, I like to add a little Q&A to interact with readers. Feel free to comment a response!

Q. Have you ever broken a bone?  If so, would you be interested in sharing the story?

A. Nope!  I've been close a time or two, but I have yet to break any bones

#TBB oneshot #TBB one-shot #The bad batch #tbb fanfic #tbb x reader #clone force 99 #star wars the bad batch

[mysticxxl]

Misfire blorb by @shapeofmetal at TFcon Chicago 2022!

#shapeofmetal #misfire my beloved #tfcon chicago

[coffee-in-veins]

Face Your Failure and how to uproot all of character’s backstory and development in one model or less - a practical guide by RedHook

can anyone tell from that title that i’m salty yet?

so major spoilers ahead about which i couldn’t care less, but people love this game and i want to be polite, and as objective as i can be, so: please be warned, DD2 ending and boss moveset is discussed under Keep reading. if you want to experience the ending for yourself, spoiler free, do not read

Edit: you know, after contemplating about it, i realized - it’s not a bug, it’s a feature (tm.). this is distilled quintessence of everything wrong with this game. it shows you everything, places all cards down and punishes you one almost-last time if you cared or paid attention - the last time will be in the very last cutscene, if you pay attention to the lower part of it. if this, too, doesn’t bother you, you won’t have any issues with this game. if you did, this will be the last nail you needed to lean back and take time to contemplate your choices.

i think they shouldn’t fix this. because this is what Darkest Dungeon had become, and they should be honest about it and their attitude.

so. the big bad boss on the throne has a move called Face Your Failure - which, as the title suggests, summons what the chatacter you select (Come unto thy maker-style) thinks is his biggest failure in life. Para gets her zombie mentor, Barristan gets the spectre of his fallen comrades, Audrey... gets a zombie of the husband who tortured... and... abused her...? Including sexually...? Do you want to tell something by showing this, RH...? Something very, very dubious...?

But I digress. I’m here to show you that writing in DD2 makes no goddamn sense (tm.) by pointing to our beloved rateating highwayman:

Namely, pay close attention to the mob it summons for Dismas

it isn’t too obvious, and the arena is spun wide to see all of the tentacles and the iron crown, so here is a closeup:

notice anything interesting about its weapons? let me give you a hint.

this is the guard from the clown car the stagecoach that Dismas robbed in his backstory, in which the woman and child were. the ones he killed by his reflexes misfiring after the fight was over accidentally “in erratic gunfire”. the ones which spiked his guilt. the ones which pushed him into character development and coming to Hamlet and trying to find redemption. you know? that tiny miny plotpoint thing which was the culmination of his backstory and made him the character who we knew? that passing thing?

and this is the prison guard from his very first shrine:

do you notice the weapon choice? the stagecoach guards have swords while prison guards have batons. and the big bad boss summons a spectre of Dismas biggest failure. with a baton in hand. a prison guard.

I... genuinely dunno what to say, because the implication, unless I’ve lost my mind, is that Dismas’ biggest failure in life was getting out of prison. and this scene in the credits:

makes no goddamn sense (tm.) because this is not his biggest failure - prison is. the locket isn’t tormenting. it’s not shameful. it’s just there. it means nothing. because a cosmic deity which supposedly knows all of existence showed Dismas his biggest fear - and it had nothing to do with killing innocents.

i could’ve chalked it to cuts on model prices. but Audrey received a new model of her deceased husband. if Dis got a spectre of the woman he killed, the ghost of the child staring at him, anything - Reynauld’s corpse half-eaten by the Heart of Darkness for fuck’s sake! - it would’ve been better. but no. he has a prison guard. because who cares. it looks cool and that’s enough.

on a more personal note... i’m happy i didn’t have the money to buy early access. i genuinely am. i’m tired. i know i would never buy it, now. not after their eradication of Reynauld, not after how they butchered Dismas. if you can enjoy the game - more power to you. i’m not here to police your fun. but for me... DD2 got cancelled during development stage, and only thanks to Shibs’ vigilence we got to see the models and animations. but nothing else exists because accepting it is a far too tall of an ask.

now i crawl back into my cozy reymas saltmines.

#Grievings of the mountain || discussing DD2 #darkest dungeon 2 #dd highwayman #dismas #dd2 spoilers

[signanothername]

Do you have a favorite Transformer? And another random favorite? Uh no particular reason I'm asking-

Hcchchvhvh ok that’s so damn hard cause they’re all so damn cool

But imma try to list the ones that have a special place in my heart (warning: they’re so many chchhc)

These are in no particular order, just dumbing my blorbos, imma divide them by iteration (tho there could be the same character from different shows/comics)

But before that imma save you the trouble and shorten the big list to these characters:

Knockout, Breakdown, Soundwave, Starscream, Megatron, Ratchet, Rung, Thrash, Misfire

Now if you want me to choose one and only one character? I would say

✨Ratchet my beloved✨

Anyway, if u wanna read the longer more specific list it’s under read more :D

-TFP

Knockout and Breakdown, Starscream, Soundwave, Megatron, Arcee, wheeljack, Dreadwing, Predaking, Optimus, Shockwave, Bumblebee

———

-Earthspark

The T twins (Thrash and Twitch), Megatron, Nightshade, Tarantulas, Bumblebee, Soundwave

———

-IDW

Starscream, Prowl

———

- IDW MTMTE/ LL

Rung, Megatron, Brainstorm, Cyclonus and Tailgate, Whirl, Ultra Magnus (Minimus Ambus), Rodimus, Skids, First Aid, Fortress Maximus, Pharma, literally all the Scavengers, Sunder, Overlord

———

-Animated

Prowl, Bulkhead, Blurr, Blitzwing, Jazz

———

And last but not least, Ratchet (literally every Ratchet in any iteration ever he always manages to steal my heart)

#why are u asking tho- /lhj #I’m so sorry but it’s so hard to love only one or two #so many characters are amazing like actually love them #but yeah Ratchet takes the number one spot I think #followed immediately by Rung #idk but something about Ratchet’s character is so tragically beautiful to me #imma ramble but that would be off topic hcchchhchc #anothers ask

[trashnebula04]

I LOVE the Bayverse turtles. I LOVE THEM. Look at how ugly they are, look at their scary eyes and human teeth and grungy-ass bandanas and tell me you wouldn't be terrified.

I want to run at them full-tilt and latch onto their grimy shells like a fucking barnacle. I want to hug the shit out of them. I wanna squish their ugly faces. They are so viscerally odd that my brain misfires and immediately labels them "beloved blorbos 1-4"

#shout-out to scary sewer men. i love you #tmnt #rottmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #bayverse tmnt

[transingthoseformers]

Since the Google doc is fussing with me, I'm just gonna copy and paste what I've got over onto here

So, here would be my current descriptions for the Fiasco plotline!

The Fiasco plotline is based a nice bit on "Long Nights" by Borath, but in the proposed follow up sense (because we know me, I love to explore how different circumstances would affect the events in the show). I took one look at the concept of this kid and immediately went "Wow, what if this kid showed up on Earth when they were more grown up?". And thus, the Fiasco plotline was born, because no my brain would not let go of this.

Our premise is that the Fortitude, this dinky little starship with a crew of four, arrives on Earth. Perhaps arrives isn't the right word, but rather moderately crashes. Everyone is okay, but the Fortitude is absolutely trashed. Fiasco, who always lives up to his name, isn't content with staying on the Nemesis with the somewhat overbearing crew there, so he immediately wants to check out all the things that make Earth Earth. Conflict ensues as from what we know in "Long Nights", Megatron has a million reasons to be anxious as hell over this kid (so much damn trauma), and Fiasco's desire to explore kinda defeats the point of keeping him as secret as possible because like. Assassination and stuff. Volley is here to keep the crew from accidentally offing themselves, and they very much do not want to end up an ashy smudge on the Nemesis's deck. 

Sunburst she/her, CMO of the Fortitude, Mom friend of the crew who will fuss over every damn scratch— a slightly smaller than average decepticon, overall rounded design not typical of a decepticon, blunt digits. Primarily dark red, orangy yellow, and silver with pink optics. Red helm, lower arms, top of shoulders, and pelvic plating. Yellow chassis, bottom of shoulders, some of the ventral area, and lower legs. Silver sides of abdominal plating, upper arms, upper legs, faceplates, and servos. Optics are a hot pink, with a lighter center. Altmode: obvious looking car. (Design is based slightly on RBA Hotshot and IDW Lug, but IDW Lug and TFP Ratchet personality wise. Is very dramatic but we love her for it, and she's often a voice of reason between the three kids of the Fortitude. Outlier with heat based abilities, she's able to increase the temperature of her plating and burn mecha if she chooses so. Second eldest of the group, one of the last generations of mecha forged.)

Slipbang, he/they, TIC of the Fortitude, pilot who isn't high no he's just like that— around average height but sorta lanky with a lot of pointy bits, removable mask but only removes it to drink, wings, rounded pointed digits. Surprisingly not intimidating in the slightest. Dark purple and blue, with some black stripes and red optics. Purple chassis, pelvic plating, and helm. Blue shoulders, lower arms, lower legs, and wings. Black upper arms, legs, tips of wings, two stripes down chassis, and abdominal plating. Two sets of long audials, fixed in place. Optics are pure red. Altmode: jet. (Based on IDW Spinster and TFP Soundwave looks wise, but kinda IDW Misfire and a little bit of college kid energy. This kid has two modes, drifty and laser focus— the latter of which makes them a great pilot. Simps loudly and frequently for Megatron, gaining groans from the rest of the crew but especially so Fiasco. Youngest of the group, late war cold construct.)

Fiasco, He/him, SIC of the Fortitude, megasound kid who causes so much damn trouble— slightly taller than average height with a moderately even build, visor (haven't decided if it should be built in or removable, but I've considered both options), datacables my beloved with the ability to transform the tips into blades, pretty pointy as well but less so than Slipbang, strong sharp digits. Silver and dark cyan. Silver helm, chassis, lower arms, upper arms, and most of the abdominal plating. Dark cyan pelvic plating, upper leg, lower leg, datacables, two patches on sides of ventral plating, and servos. Teal visor and periodic rings of biolights on datacables. Blind as a rock, that visor is exactly a facade, but definitely has a particularly strong EM field. (Design is well based on the idea of a TFP megasound kid, with some inspiration from S4 rid Soundwave because I am a fucking sucker for those teals okay? Personality is generally based on a belated rebellious phase, somewhat inspired by RID Rodimus? Second youngest of the group, as highlighted he's a megasound kid and was kindled.)

Volley, they/them, the Fortitude's captain, tired ass caretaker of the crew who is secretly a sweetheart— By far the biggest of the group, stocky build but thinner arms and legs, pointy bits but like think of a blunted kind of pointy, and long sharp digits. Primarily black, dark gray, and lighter silver highlights. Mainly black chassis, helm, dorsal plating, and pelvic plating. Dark gray underside of chassis, large portion of abdominal plating, lower arms, lower legs, and upper legs. Light silver servos, ventral plating, and upper arms. Mobile audials that typically point downwards. Red optics with white pupils—kinda like earthspark Megatron a bit actually, two red biolights on sides of helm and top of ventral plating. Altmode: beast form, almost reptilian, almost feline. (Very much based on a spinocon design, sue me, but I de-spino-ed the spinocon. Was at one point a frontliner before being assigned to basically babysitting. By far the oldest of the group, created pre-war… somehow. I haven't figured that out yet.)

#the fiasco plotline #ocs #... a lot of ocs #ship kid #megasound #maccadam #transformers #au? #fanfiction inspired au #spot the blatant self insert #at least I'm self aware🥰 #sorry if this is kinda messy #oh 100% these are all based on what i imagined them looking like and acting like #fiasco was by far the easiest one to write a description for