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No Tears -Dirk/Jake-"Say, what was all that at the diner about?"
Your name is Dirk Strider and wow is he really this stupid? Or are you just not already making it apparent enough? Either way, you say nothing and continue staring out the window.
Jake prods you in the ribs with his fingers. "Come on now Dirk, answer me! We've already had this discussion before, you ca-"
"-n tell me anything, yeah." You finish, rolling your eyes. Some things just can't be told.
"Then why won't you assuage my curiousity, Strider?" Jake asks, and you refuse to look at him.
"Jake, please just leave me alone." You say, forehead bumping against the car's window.
"You're acting off tonight." Jake comments, settling back into his seat and looking at the back of Jane's seat.
Things had been much quieter in the car once Roxy'd been dropped off, but it was nearly too quiet now. Jane had fallen asleep and it was just you and Jake, the latter pestering you to death about your behavior.
You take to picking at the skin around your fingern
Britannia Angel Profile
Country Personification: Great Britain
Angel name: Britannia
Actual name: Arthur Kirkland aka Artie
Human age: 23
Attributes: medium height, petite, pale skinned, messy mop style blonde hair, emerald green eyes, huge eyebrows and a large pair of pure white wings with a blue tint to them.
Type of Angel: Guardian Angel
About the character:
Britannia aka Arthur is shy and quiet towards people he doesn't know, but once he gets to know you, he will act completely different. Arthur also has amnesia (see "How he became an Angel" ) so he will find a lot of things surprising and ask if they are "magic" as the Brit loves anything to do with magic. He often wears a toga as he claims it's the easiest thing to wear while having his wings out. Arthur had also decided to return to earth but again, he cannot remember why he did. (See "Why he returned to Earth"). The Brit was also dating the American, Alfred F. Jones before he died.
How he became an Angel:
Arthur first became an angel after the British
Eat Your Fucking Cake (Karkat x Reader 3)Picking at the cake in front of you, you can feel Karkat's gaze on you as he watches you. "Just fucking eat, (f/n)," he sighs after another minute passes.
"I'm not hungry," you explain, biting your lip at the lie. Truthfully, it's more that you're so nervous that you know for a fact you wouldn't be able to hold down any food you eat.
Karkat's eyes narrow. "Don't even fucking give me that bullshit. You are going to eat that gogdamn cake, and you are going to fucking enjoy it. You're the one who ordered it, and don't tell me you only did it to make me feel better. You want the cake, you're just not letting yourself even think of eating it. Well, you know what? Fuck that. Fuck the people who give you looks. Eat your cake and fucking enjoy it. If it's a piece of shit, we'll search the entire fucking town until we find a good piece. You deserve your cake more than anyone else here at this damn restaurant, okay?"
Perhaps an explanation could be in order. Your name is (f/n) (l/n), as y
may as well buy another packcollapse, and breathe into the carpet:
sunday mornings are not
for falling apart, but damn
the amphorics, this
is not an atmosphere.
you fell in love like you always
wish you didn't, made all their
smiles replaceable, interchangeable,
fell asleep with shadows and kept
drinking, just letting yourself sleep
with blue pills
and tried not to scream.
(keep this image in your head:
fire and nectarines, a sudden jerk
of realization, inspiration
breaking your neck and leaving you forever
breaking bones is not so different
from breaking hearts - it's all about
the leverage, the angle, the mode
(and at least it wasn't personal;
it can color in your own guilt
for starting lines and never ending
A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
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