Discover Top Posts Tagged with #this is outrageous.

litrtally cant do this rn

IM TELLING UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU ok fuck it im breaking it down for u all in the most favorable, unbiased way i can

like huh. what? Theyre trying to hide this from us.

#ALMOST THE ENTIRE CAST IS FLAT AS HELL WHY DO THEY CONSISTENTLY GIVE TSUMUGI AN ASS #this is outrageous.#Guards. get him #ask

#i need to attack peolpe back but i also have to care about my health #THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS.

the fucked up thing about my dash is that i haven't seen a single among us babies post. why is everyone talking about them and why havent i seen them.

#this is OUTRAGEOUS.#txt

I’VE BEEN PLAGIED!

Ok, guys. Something happened and it’s making me really pissed and annoyed. As you all know, I wrote a smutty piece of fiction for Altaïr over a year ago

I posted it at AO3, as well as here - and a lot of people loved it. But imagine my surprise, when I woke up today to this message!

Then I went to investigate this and turns out it’s true.

Every single word of what they posted is mine. I wrote all of it and someone just radomly posted it as theirs? This is absurd. I sent them a message, asking to take it down because, well, it’s mine. And I’d like to ask my followers with accounts at AO3 to do the same.

This isn’t really fair. I get no money with these, I wrote it because I enjoy writing and posting Assassin’s Creed content for fans - since I am a fan mysel - and the lack of recognition just kills the work of the author. Please, help me report this?

do you ever get afraid? * nancy,

“ .. yeah. yeah, i think i have to. ” the admission slips loose. the hood of the car, a slab of dented american steel, has been repurposed into a sort of confessional pew. an altar of interim stillness. the metal hums faintly beneath them, a residual benediction left behind by a sun that has already abdicated its post, leaving the sky a lacquered black, vast and pitless. an obsidian canopy freckled with stars. around them, the town exists only as implication: generates gnawing, the distant march of boots, the scent of oil and ozone and damp earth. hawkins exists in this forever stale state. it's holding its breath. and steve harrington, a patron saint of bad timing and even worst instincts, feels the same practiced tension coiling somewhere in his lower gut as he leans back on his hands, palms flattened against the cold paint like he could maybe anchor himself to the present by force alone. he exhales through his nose, a sound a halfway sigh and a halfway laugh. “ scared i'll mess it up, y'know. miss the right move. ” a pause, a fracture of such. he shrugs then, “ i mean, statistically, i've messed up pretty bad before. a lot. ” for sure. the night does not argue with this sentiment, it absorbs it instead. “ it's easier when it's just steve. ” steve the outlander, steve the decoy, steve the idiot. when heroics arrive with muscle-memory like tendencies, a reflex honed by repetition, when he is allowed to be velocity without much foresight. it is easier when the risk ledger lists only one name on it.

“ harder when it's people that y'know. all that heart-of-jesus crap. ” and there it is, naked and unceremonious: the thesis behind the thesis, the meat and their potatoes: the terror of consequence. of choosing wrong and watching someone you care for pay for it. of learning, too little and too late, that courage does not inoculate you against regret. steve harrington has learned this the hard way, through repetition and less and the slow accretion of names that haunt at the back of his skull. he has learned relatively quickly that heroism is less about the swing of the nailed bat and more about the afterward. steve studies the enigma that is nancy wheeler. eyes trained in at the side of her face, moonlight threading itself along the architecture of her profile. there is something halcyon in her stillness. a pause between them, and it is almost never empty. it is congested with unsaid things.

memories stacked on top of memories like geological layers: the crust comes first the outermost layer. sun-baked and loud and easy to stand on top with reckless boots on gravel, the layer that believes solidity is synonymous with permanence. it is simply steve and it is nancy and they are comrades of a kind and there is absolutely nothing chipped or scuffed because this is the uncomplicated layer. beneath that, the plates oceanic and continental, grinding slow and soundless, moving on timelines no one truly notices until the damage is already done. nancy presses forward, drawn toward the heat and truth of life. steve, meanwhile, stays anchored to what is familiar and what is sturdy, and neither are wrong. just drifting at incompatible velocities. then comes the mantle thick, viscous, incandescent. this is where the monsters lived, rewrote what steve and nancy's connection ever meant. forged together in fear, pressed into a shape that was melded while hot and can never bend back into it's original one. glances held too long, instincts firing in unison, the unspoken knowledge that even when the world ends, they will know how to stand against it back-to-back. is it love? maybe. it is density more than anything. and then, god help them, the core dense and magnetic, longing and regret and nostalgia. the truth that some bonds are foundational. see, you never live at the center of a planet because that is not safe, but you always feel it pullling.

“ ... do you ? ” the question is tentative, offered like one would place glass in your palm. “ cause you've got this poker face straighter than anyone i know. ” compliment disguised as deflection. and for a moment, a stolen, illicit moment, the word feels manageable. two figures perched on the edge of a car, sharing residual confessionals and mutual recognition, suspended in that liminal corridor.

＊ ‎☆⠀* ⁽ 400 RANDOM DIALOGUE PROMPTS. ⁾ ... ACCEPTING.