and i'm posting in the middle of the night again

Hi, I’m new to this fandom and what I’m going to post here is going to be really controversial (I do tend to do that, don’t I?), but… 

 

Please stop villainizing Jack Morrison to prop Gabriel Reyes up.

Please stop literally saying that Jack deserved what he got, while implying that Gabriel was under appreciated and deserved none of the blame. Ever.

Please stop inventing reasons that make what Gabriel did okay by making Jack incompetent, a poor leader, inconsiderate, or an arrogant dick that only cared for fame, with said aspect(s) being Jack’s only real defining qualities. Besides Jack’s one-line ‘goodness’ that sometimes shows up once or twice and which apparently makes up for the fact that Jack is mostly bashed for the rest of the fic.

Please stop having Jack beg Gabriel for forgiveness with Gabriel sanctimoniously granting said forgiveness and not apologizing himself, because of course Jack is the cause of all of Gabriel’s suffering and Gabriel never made poor choices that lead him to where he is or hurt Jack.

Basically, just please stop villainizing Jack Morrison to prop Gabriel Reyes up.   

 

Because if this keeps on, I’m probably gonna start either bashing my head against a wall when I see another such fic, or write a fic myself.

And considering my (non) writing capabilities that’s just not gonna be pretty.

Thanks. 

Guilt

because I’m bad at titles.

Fandom: Gravity Falls
Genre: hurt/comfort (I guess?) - fluff - Mabel and Ford bonding
Summary: Mabel has gone missing in the middle of the night- Ford sets out to find her- they have a cathartic talk
Words: 1,551

I just got her back, I can’t lose her again! Ford recalled his nephew’s haunting words as he walked among the dark trees. He shook the distracting thoughts out his head. He needed to be vigilant.

It was far after midnight, just a couple of days after Weirdmageddon ended. Dipper had ran through the house, loudly waking up his great-uncles and explaining that his sister was gone in the middle of the night. The poor boy had started to go into a panic attack, breathing heavily while he tried to hold back tears and fanning his face. It was understandable. Dipper had told Ford about the time he spent alone looking for his family and how scared he was without knowing where his sister had been. After depending on each other for so long, to suddenly have her out of the picture was terrifying to the kid. And now it was happening to him again.

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We laugh at the artist,
Crazy enough to eat yellow paint,
In some desperate attempt at happiness,
Pretending there aren’t time in the middle of the night,
When we would be willing to do anything,
Just for some sense of joy,
Some semblance of normalcy,
A way to prove to ourselves that there is so much left to live for.


He ate that paint,
the same hue as his sunflowers,
To put that light inside himself,
But the colour of sunlight,
Wheat fields glowing golden in autumn,
Can’t chase out darkness,
Anymore than love can chase out hate.

—  Sunflowers 

THEY ASKED ME WHAT MADE ME HAPPY,


and I told them I didn’t know. As the words fell out of my mouth, I thought about every time I woke up in the middle of the night choking on my own breath and you rushed to my side, ready to do anything to save me. I thought about your chin resting on my shoulder, your palm pressed against my heart while you watched me sketch in my notebook. Your hands on my waist, your mouth on the soft of my stomach, your bloodlust for anyone that looked at me wrong.


I thought about the way I could never stay mad at you no matter what you did. You’d give me that doe-eyed look, say, “c’mon, pretty baby. Don’t get sore at me. C’mon, babydoll.” And I’d say, “I ain’t a dame, Buck.” And you’d fit my jaw in the palm of your hand, tangle your fingers in my hair and say, real quiet, “I know that. You’re my best guy.”


They asked me what made me happy and I told them I didn’t know but my real answer is that I keep your picture in my wallet and every time I look at it I feel like a knife is slicing through my spine, white-hot, and I hear your name and feel like a building is being dropped on my chest, snapping every single one of my ribs and making my blood run cold.


They asked me what made me happy and I told them I didn’t know, but my real answer is this: my happiness died with you.

—  What makes you happy, Steve? (based on this post)