Don’t Panic.

Mags | 38 | Natural born criminal, habitual liar, fraudster, and totally untrustworthy perverted genius.

[reinapepiada]

shipping a consensual, safe & sane pairing all the while i'm shaking my head in disapproval so the audience knows i still love wildly toxic abusive fictional dynamics

[damndorothea]

i saw this somewhere else but reply / tag what you did today so everyone can see that we all did something different today

[deadali]

[maccaulfield]

[rate-my-reptile]

LEt Them give TOUCH.

[thefingerfuckingfemalefury]

THEY SHOULD BE TOGETHER ;_;

[welcometoh0rr0rwood]

Parting is such sweet sorrow *lick wall*

[stargate-stargate]

Shoutout to Lorne’s hair for looking like that.

[lesbianfl]

the best part of the princess bride is how it says that love is the number one motivation in life but! a close number two is spite.

[electricalsun]

[quakerjoe]

[gentlethey-of-the-shire]

YOU REBLOGGED A LOTR POST

EVERY DAY I GET CLOSER AND CLOSER

YOU WILL TURN EVENTUALLY

[omegastation]

i already wrote here about Miranda & Grunt, the idea that they're linked for many reasons. And I said here that taking specific squadmates to some missions can be meaningful to me, so I always take Miranda to see Okeer.

They come across the tank-grown Krogan first, who tells Shepard:

"You don't smell like this world."

The sort of fun stuff Shepard can hear after the Lazarus Project. And obviously no one is going to stand there and stay in their feelings hearing this -especially when there are mercs around and there's a mission going on- but I wonder if Shepard comes 'home' later, in their new ship, and just thinks: I don't smell like this world. What it is like? Makes me a bit sad, to be honest. EDIT: could be specific to that world in particular, but in this wide context, that's what came to mind!

And when the krogan goes on and on about "glass mother" and how he was rejected because he was not perfect, the camara shows him:

and the squadmates a second later:

And obviously the game is busy with other things, one squadmate is already reacting to what's going on. But having Shepard and Miranda both look at him as he keeps repeating: I was not perfect, that has a special meaning. Especially as it happens after the conversation about greatness between Shepard and Miranda.

Miranda insists she was engineered for it while Shepard was "great before" they rebuilt them. Shepard can talk about spirit and personality making someone great but Miranda is not really convinced:

That's kind of you... I'm not sure I believe you, but thanks for saying it.

And later Okeer's very words are very focused on purity, his legacy, not caring about the "rejects" along the way. Basically just echoing what Miranda sees and knows of her own father. Which is why I think it matters that Shepard can call Okeer cruel and manipulative, and Miranda can be there to hear it.

Then Miranda witnesses Okeer dying, saying "My legacy is pure... This... one soldier, this grunt. Perfect."

And look at this picture:

Isn't this amazing? It says so much.

And my own interpretation at this point in ME2 is that Miranda is Not Okay, she hasn't dealt with her past yet and she's very much tied to insane Cerberus beliefs.

So she doesn't see Grunt as a person yet, she sees "a thing" and insists it's dangerous to let "it" out of the tank, that he was "educated by a madman" - which to be fair to her history, she might have a point there.

But still, not seeing the person, seeing the "it"/"the thing" makes it even more meaningful when Shepard hears her and goes:

With him.

A gentle reminder that they are all people: Grunt being tank born, Miranda being engineered, Shepard being new and resurrected.

What has been done to them can't take away their personhood. Love that for those three.

[zzekk007]

Today is Children’s Day，so....

[emolander]

homolander: happy pride month

[writingdose]

one of the best feelings tbh

[blackmarketfruitrollups]

Respectfully, I do not believe you can call yourself a writer if AI is writing it for you.

The increase in fics I've seen where the writer is just like "well it's how I write so scroll if it bothers you"

Babe you're killing the planet

[brrybasket]

How it feels to stumble upon an author who writes a scrumptious fanfic of a character you’re obsessing/hyper fixating on and on top of that they have a master list FULL of fics dedicated to them

[bluecarolina]

saw the mw4 trailer and it got me thinking about being the partner John Price left behind…

content: angst, rogue Price, military inaccuracies oops

“I told you, Simon,” you repeat for what feels like the hundredth time today, your voice weary, “I don’t know where John is.”

Simon watches you from across the table. The interrogation table. You can hardly believe you’re here, being treated like some war criminal all because your husband abandoned you for revenge. They keep telling you you’re not in trouble and that you’ll only be here for a few hours, but you’re losing hope. Especially when Simon looks at you like that.

“I don’t believe you,” he states flatly, his fingers drumming against the table. He’s desperate. “Price must have told you something. Anything. We just need a lead, love.” A lead, like it’s that simple.

You shake your head, looking up at the ceiling. “He’d never put me in danger like that,” you whisper, feeling the emotion build up inside you. “You know he wouldn’t. I know he’s fucked up, but you and I both know he’s doing this for the right reasons.” You level your gaze with Simon, your eyes raw and honest. “Let me go home. Please. This hasn’t been easy for me, or the family.”

You see a tiny flicker in his eyes, sympathy maybe. Perhaps guilt, even. He leans back with a sigh, slowly nodding before getting to his feet. “I’ll drive you back,” he says, resting his hand on your lower back as he guides you out of the room.

You say goodbye on your doorstep, with a hug and a promise to phone him if you hear anything from your husband. Then you’re alone in the house you that, up until a few days ago, you shared with John.

It feels too quiet, too empty without him. The smell of him - the combination of bourbon, cigars and gun smoke - is already fading away. You do everything you would do on a normal day, but the absence of John feels like a physical in your chest. Nothing about this is normal.

By the time evening rolls around, you double check that the front door is locked before closing all the curtains in the house. You make sure that the whole house is secure and safe, even though you can see the unmarked car parked across the street. Watching you and your house for any sign of John.

With a sigh, you retreat to your bedroom. The bed feels too big without John sharing it, his clothes still hanging in the wardrobe. You perch on the edge of the bed, watching as the clock on the sideboard ticks towards 9pm. Your fingers play with the necklace you’re wearing as you wait, a gift from John on your first wedding anniversary.

Then, as soon as the hour ticks over, the phone rings. Right on time.

Not the landline. Not your mobile.

You drag the suitcase from under the bed, digging under the clothes to pull out the black brick of a phone. Untraceable and unidentifiable. Your hand is steady as you press it to your ear, a slight smile tugging at your lips as the familiar voice of your husband fills your ear.

“Hello, darling,” John murmurs into the phone, his voice crackling thanks to wherever he currently is. “Miss me?”

a/n: thinking about expanding this into a full fic?? maybe??

[warmfrequency]

rogue!john price x wife!reader

after price kills shepherd, he has a finite window of time to grab his things and say goodbye to his wife.

cw: angst

series masterlist

You hear the front door swing open and hit the wall behind it and your first thought is he’s early.

You’re at the stove, wooden spoon in your hand with the skillet throwing up steam, onions gone soft and golden at the edges, music murmuring from the speaker on the windowsill.

The word ‘early’ is halfway up out of your throat, light, a little teasing, but it dies there when the sound coming from down the hall isn’t the sound of a man home for the night. There’s no pause to toe his boots off, no keys dropping in the bowl. Just the stairs taken too fast, two at a time, the whole house shivering under the weight of him going up.

Your hand finds the gas dial and turns the flame down. You open up your ears, straining to listen. Then you’re moving, following the sound of him up into the dark of the second landing.

The bedroom door’s open, and inside, John’s just a blur of motion against the moonlight behind him. The wardrobe’s flung wide open, the duffle is out — the one that lives at the back of the closet behind the winter coats, the one you were trained long ago not to touch nor ask about — and now it’s unzipped, open on the bed. His hands are working through the canvas with a fervor that turns your blood cold before he’s said a single word.

He hasn’t looked up, he’s too focused. And there’s something practiced and deeply troubling about the speed of which his hands are movings — it tells you more than his face even would.

“John?” you try, his back is to you now.

“Hey,” he says, a drawer slides open, he rifles through it, turns around, and whatever he took from the drawer disappears into his bag. “Listen to me a minute.”

“What’s happening? Wh- what’re you doing?”

You take a tentative step toward the bed.

“I have to go,” he says flat, pared down, slotted neatly into the rhythm of his packing. “Right now. Tonight.”

“Go where? You’ve only just got back. Is it a—,”

“It’s not work,” he cuts in roughly, then shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut.

His hands go still over the bag and he turns his head and finally, finally looks at you, blue eyes hooking under your ribs. He takes a steadying inhale through his parted lips, then out his flaring nostrils.

“It’s… it’s not a job, dove.”

You feel so behind him in this, like you’re still standing in the warm kitchen five minutes ago, still on the version of tonight where dinner’s almost ready. You can feel a tickle of dread crawling up the back of your neck.

You’ve never seen him like this.

He’s never like this — frantic.

“Then what is it, J—,”

“Shepherd’s dead,” he spills. He says it the way you’d pluck a splinter from a soft palm, all at once because slow is worse. “It was me, I did it. There’ll be people comin’ here to look for me, and I can’t be here when they come, and I can’t—” His throat bobs. “I can’t be anywhere near you. D’you understand me?”

You don’t.

His confession arrives in pieces and your hands rise to your temples as the words work their way into whatever corner of your mind is properly conscious.

He’s gone back to moving, the zip of the bag closing like something tearing in half. It’s the moving you can’t deal with right now because the moving means it’s already decided. It was decided before he came through the front door. You’re hearing the end of a conversation he’s been having with himself for god knows how long.

Sick turns over in your belly, hot and acidic as it ascends your esophagus, burning the back of your tongue before you swallow it back down.

“Stop.” Your hand closes firm around his forearm. “Stop, just— just look at me. Goddamnit, just— Stop moving!”

To his credit, he goes still for a moment, turning fully toward you now and lifts both hands to your face, cradling your jaw, and every scrap of that frantic velocity drains out of him. His forehead comes down to yours, warm, a little slicked. And suddenly you would give anything to have the frantic version of him back, because stillness means he’s made time for it. John doesn’t make room for things that don’t matter. He’s making room to say goodbye, and knowing that opens up beneath you like a trap-door.

His thumbs sweep the tears you didn’t even feel on your cheeks. “Look at me,” his hands stiffen and close tighter when they rest on your face, forcing your gaze onto his. “I need you to hear me.”

“No.” You’ve got two fistfuls of his shirt now, the cotton crushed in your hands, your head moving side to side against the cage of his palms. “No. No! You don’t get to do this, we’ll— we’ll fix it,” you try to sniffle but sob instead. “You’ll go to someone— Kate! There’ll be a way—,”

“There isn’t,” he murmurs, almost pleading.

“There’s always a way.”

“Not for this.” He says it so softly it takes the legs out from under you. His breath is warm against your mouth. “Not this one, dove. Not this time. I’m sorry.”

Part of you doesn’t quite believe the apology. It was tacked on at the end like an afterthought. You know John. Or, maybe you thought you did. The blood in your heart feels like it’s curdling, heavy, turning to tar as you continue to process exactly what’s happening here.

What he’s done.

You wrench your neck and free your face from the heat of his hands.

“How long?” you ask, voice breaking.

He doesn’t answer.

You strike his chest with the flat of both hands, again and again, then again. You can’t even shift him an inch and the both of you know it, it’s just somewhere for the fear to go as it bubbles. His chin tucks, watching with a curling devastation as you keep connecting with his body. In a flash, he’s got both of his hands on your wrists, yanking you forward against him. “How long, John?!”

You’re starting to learn how long.

He says nothing.

This isn’t a tour. It isn’t a season away with a date at the end of it. He’s running. There is no number because there is no horizon he can point to, no morning he can promise you he’ll be standing in this room again.

The realization comes out of you barely above a breath as you tip your head back to see him. “You’re not coming back.”

His eyes fall shut. He presses his mouth to your forehead hard and holds there, and when the words come they come muffled into your hair just above your ear, into the warmth of you he’s trying to memorize.

“I love you.” It’s not an answer to your question by any stretch of the imagination. He pulls back again to meet your eyes. “Whatever they say about me, whatever you hear — that’s the only truth, yeah?” His knuckles lift to your chin, the pad of his thumb pushing against the front of it, holding your gaze. “When they come, you tell them I was here, I threatened you, and I left in a hurry.”

Your lip wobbles as you look at him, your throat is so tight it hurts.

“Say it back to me.”

“Y- you were here, you left in a hurry.”

“I was here, I threatened you, I left in a hurry,” he repeats.

“You were here, y-you thre- threatened me, you left in a hurry.”

“Good.”

He kisses you and you can almost taste both halves of him in it at once: the half that’s yours, and the half that's already gone. You give it back to him like you can hold him in the room by your mouth alone. But you can’t. And you feel the precise instant he decides to stop, the breath he takes to force himself away.

“Lock the door behind me,” he says.

And the velocity is back. He swings the duffle bag up onto his shoulder, and he’s past you before you’ve turned, out the bedroom door, and you spin and rush after him with his name tearing out of you, your bare feet slapping against the hardwood.

“John! Please! John!”

But he’s already at the foot of the stairs, already crossing the hall, always faster than you, and you’re only halfway down when the front door swings open and the cold of the night pours in over the threshold to meet you. You reach the bottom step, lurch for the door.

The street is empty.

You look left, you look right. It’s as if you dreamt the whole thing. As if you made him up, boots to beard.

Behind you, the speaker’s still playing music from the kitchen. The onions have started to catch, the sweet smell tipping over into something bitter and charred.

a/n: after writing this i decided to turn these two into a series of vignettes called ‘all we ever do is say goodbye’ 🧡

[theunfortunate-author]

[paintedstitches]