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hobiespick · 4 months ago

Note

Heya! I was wondering if you got any headcanons for Sam Winchester x werewolf! Reader, except, reader can actually turn whenever she (or gn if you want) wants, and the only real thing a full moon does is force her to be in her werewolf form (aka force her to keep the wolf teeth and claws out for no reason)

The thing that should not be

Pairings : Sam Winchester x reader

a/n : FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, HI, HELLO, IM SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG I SUCK SO BAD, IM SO SORRY. My requests aren't open (yet) but its not even your fault I should have 100% specified that, but this is my first ever ask and ur also one of my favourite moots and I didn't want to dissapoint so here are some fuckinf cute Sam x Werewolf!Reader. I felt the carnal need to write a metric fuckton of context before getting into the actual headcanons (which are very long I have no idea if they can be considered as hcs) so the reader gets beaten up by earth-shattering plot purposes :3. Sammy juicy headcanons start when you see the '🧿' emoji if you don't wanna read the context (melodramatic sigh). And yes the title of the fic is based on the metallica song :). as always, enjoy my shitty thoughts <3

Warnings: angst with comfort (no don't clap it's fine, omg ur makin me blush); guess who joined the cool kids club and uses "____." instead of "Y/n"; literally a flash of gore, shitty dad(s), fake death, mentions of suicide, Sam looks at you and goes DO YOU WANT M-; Dean being himself; reader is also a hunter and has been raised like that (fml); Dean makes a twillight refrence; reader is frankenstein coded in the most nuanced way, Mary Shelley please don't haunt me; Dean is very happy to have a bestfriend/sister :)

word count: 8,102

- Okay, so for starters, the fact that you aren't actually a monster (you don't get the urge to kill or wreak havoc) is actually a supernatural miracle.

Your parents haven't talked to you since you called them the night you were hunting a werewolf and told them, horror-struck between sniffles and voice cracks, that it bit you, and you’re going to turn, and you’re horrified, and you’re going to drive home to put a pistol in your father's hand and hopefully stop you from turning in the thing you shouldn't be.

Your father replied, after successfully not saying a word besides "Hey, kid-" before getting cut off by you and your hiccups. He sank his teeth into the inside of his cheek, enough to draw blood.

"You are not to come home; your mother won't bear to see you like this."

Your father objected before telling you you can finish the job by yourself; you always have.

He abruptly ended the phonecall like you weren't his daughter, more like an annoying salesman. You don't know what he'll say to your mother after that call; that was the hospital, and you tragically died? "Died a hero.." Your father would say when he described another hunter's tragic passing at the dinner table—paranormal tragic passing. So paranormal that your mother had knocked on wood and prayed it wouldn't get you or your family.

So you don't call, It's really me, dad. I'm fine, I figured it out by myself. How could you? after him suggesting it's better to kill yourself than take a shot at finding a solution together? You would rather have him believe you're dead. Or at least cry with you; it's okay, honey. come home; it'll be okay, spend the last days at home, please-

The last word you get from him is a text message you are too quick to open on your flip-phone to see the next day. When you rub at your eyebags after tracking down a witch, the witch. It was the second day when everything about you felt off; you were squemish, anxious, and haven't left your motel room all day. if you get this—the message read, "if you get this?!" if you get this, if you get this, if you get this—your brain repeats it over and over, taking the words apart and tattooing itself that phrase, because it held much more meaning to it than your father probably didn't intend; he would hear it if he read it before sending, you thought, that little 'if' haunting and tormenting like a damn demon. if you haven't already killed yourself; if you haven't already turned into something that took my daughter, my pride and joy, away from me; if you haven't already died–

- speaking to you like he's directly referring to the disease in your veins. Your brain moves on and reads the next ridiculous waste of your attention. I wanted you to know I told your mother that it was the hospital I was talking to yesterday, calling that you’re dead, house fire, so no remains to pick up—Damn, you know him or what? Even your fake death is stripped away from it's respect—"no remains to pick up"—like a toppled statue, a monument of what was once a hero (in dad's old-fashioned monster-hunting world), shattered and insignificant, no longer breathing or living, if you ever even had. Or a tree struck by lighting, again, "no remains to pick up" no meaningful remains or genuinely nothing, just a memory of another young hunter who died 'tragically'. You could imagine your tombstone with an even dumber epitaph to match it and an empty or nonexistent grave lying six feet underneath for closure. Your eyes move on, there will be a funeral with no grave, of course, I just wanted you to know that your mother and everyone else is devastated, we miss you, sugar. I love you, kid. Your father had overestimated your suicidal tendencies, and the way he didn't try to save his daughter in order to not go against the rules and possibilities of hunting only showed you how much he loves you.

So you track down the witch. You barely make it to her doorstep when she opens it with a too reassuring smile, saying your name and that she expected you, even going as far as offering you tea after opening the door and letting you in, to which you declined. You're not an idiot. But you do sit down, forced, when she, Willow Thorne, won't have you, a guest, standing up, a whole damn hunter being forced to sit down and accept being treated kindly like you deserve. When you walked in, the entire image of a satanic worshipper who sold her soul to demons and hexed everybody—that you betted all your life savings fitted the description of Willow shattered and laughed in your face.

Her home was filled with plants hanging and resting in every corner she could place; various crystals were sitting in cute porcelain plates like candy, candles of different colors on a bookshelf filled with books like The Language of Flowers, Astronomy for Beginners, and Sigils. Even more crystals, bigger and taller ones on a purple tablecloth. The house is adorned in shades of dark purple, violet, green, and warm colors. This home was a whimsigothic musem that would send your thirteen-year-old self into a shrieking, excited mess. Your parents never let you own crystals or a tarot deck; they were too afraid you'd turn darkside one way or another. well, mommy, daddy, if you could see me right now with lycanthrope blood pumping through my veins.

Willow Thorne is a wiccan type of witch; she does not receive her power from demons; she receives her magic from nature and probably practices her witchcraft the way she sees fit. This doesn't help build back the distrust you were trained to have in her. You flinch when you feel a tail curling around your bouncing leg; you glance down, and your eyes are met with a black cat's green ones—this must be her familiar—the little words on his purple collar reading 'Creek'. She gives you another flash of her warm smile and starts talking about her cat. This can't be real. Your every instinct screams that you should take her down or that she will take you down. Your options shrink the longer you stay. You keep a hand anxiously fiddling with your belt, thinking about the gun in your waistband. She's deceiving you with honeyed words and unassuming appearance; who the fuck knows, maybe the cat is manipulating you too. Throwing up would be the calmest reaction you could have right now, because the thoughts in your head started going at each other's throats and doubting in this situation could get you killed. Thoughts like, fuck her, her cozy house with purple witchy twitchy girl interior, and her affectionate black cat she mentioned she rescued when nobody would because of superstitions—you curse in your head, you're not actually upset at her although you do not let your guard down, you're upset at yourself for being so easily coaxed into trusting her, it's all too easy, and it is intimidating you.

You're pretty sure you're gonna rip your vocal cords out of frustration and an overall feeling of overwhelmingness; everything seems to piss you off today, even more than usual. How are you good?! All bright and beaming with nothing but positivity. You're not supposed to be good! I have believed all my life you aren't!..are you like me too? A thing that should not be? Before breaking down and crying about your situation, and if you did, she would make you that tea and rub your back with her hand that radiated ease and made you slump your shoulders with relief.

Before you get other fun thoughts like Am I on the wrong side of the war? You start discussing bussiness since you forgot that's what your here for. Even if your eyes water like a little kid after being scolded for something they didn't do, your voice is nowhere near close to sounding like one. You demand a cure, bargaining for a deal to stop the lycanthropy metamorphosis you feel taking over little by little and make you human again. If she can't, you have a gun with silver bullets in your trunk and your will written out, but by now it probably has no significance.

Much to your disappointment, she—Willow—insisted you called her, tells you she cannot take away your curse, but she can soothe it a little, keep it in a cage locked deep into your subconscious. In exchange, she could ask for fucking anything in the world, but she wants loyalty.

"Define, loyalty." You ask through gritted teeth, yeah, that will stop the tears, definitely, great intimidation skills, _____ .

"I'm talking about respect, mutual aid, when it all comes down for me, when I get threatened by a hunter, I want you to be there. I need you to have my back." She admitted, studying your eyes trying to reslove the conflict in them, anything that could give her hope. You couldn't explain this to anyone, ever, Yeah I almost turned into a werewolf once but my witch friend did a ritual on me, so i'm all good now.

Willow is now sitting on an ottoman facing her couch, where you're sitting. Her hands fidget with her bracelets until she clasps them together, and she is leaning towards you. Her gentle tone is imbued with gentle authority that commands her mutual respect without making her overbearing. Keeping steady eye contact, she is discussing serious matters with a serious tone like she should. You can't lie, it catches you off-guard, it herds you in the corner and softly shakes your shoulders, forcing you to listen.

You'd be every synonym in the dictionary for the word 'idiot' if you hadn't accepted this deal. You shake hands, and the warm smile she wears causes a domino effect, making you do the same, even if you had been crying.

It's a funky ritual. She makes you lay on the couch while she lights all sorts of candles; she closes the curtains even though it's already dark so light cannot come in. The only light present is the salt lamp in the far corner and the numeruous lighted candles. She even has to kick Creek out of the room, much to the cat's protests outside the door. They slowly come to a stop as he finds something that's more interesting than whatever ritual his owner is cooking up with a guest—that he feels drawn to for whatever reason. You feel nervous, and she feels nervous too, because you are. Willow reassures you and tells you that after it ends you will pass out for a while, but that's fine because she says you can spend the night if she isn't pushing it.

The celling becomes your newest fascination, and you study every small bump and gray spot in order to distract your mind from... well, thinking. Not for the ritual, but for reassurance, she lies and says you have to hold her hand. Her warm hand against yours seems to punch out of your lungs every doubt whether this will work or not and the sadness your father produced with an unfatherly amount of bluntness and cold parenting that was the verbal equivalent of stabbing your spine and twisting the knife, but you can't pull out the knife, well, you can try, but it will hurt even worse and it will infect spreading yellow or purple marks around it–. She—her hand—has the ability to make you breathe again without feeling like you have leg irons around your neck dragging it down and hands squashing your lungs to bits. She speaks incantations in what you know is latin and instructs you to close your eyes. You swear you hear a candle stop burning in the process—something you can't physically hear, but you had. You can make out a few words (your ears keep ringing and something is happening because you hear her voice; it's distorted and weird, but she told you, strictly, not to open your eyes, so you don't). Words like: lupus-wolf, tollere-take away? You're not sure on that one; that's what three straight days of crying might do to one, mutare- which means change. Okay, that was a nice distraction now what el–

You feel the imprint of a huge dog-like paw pressing into your Adam's apple and cutting off your breath. She obviously takes notice by the way you're writhing and choking and swatting away at nothing—something you're trying to fight even with closed eyes, but there is nothing there. Your palm doesn't make contact with anything. Quickly, Willow chants something you're too busy choking to catch. The pressure on your throat dissolves, and you can breathe again. She calms her own breath and squeezes your hand. When she doesn't feel you squeeze back, she remembers that you're supposed to pass out after the spell. Willow drapes a blanket on you and goes off to order something to eat. When she opens the living room door, Creek doesn't hesitate to run in and settle on your chest. The cat purrs as he patiently waits for you to wake up.

You wake up fifteen minutes later with the smell of food flooding your nostrils, stronger than it has ever been before. It's almost like it's sitting right under your nose. You open your eyes, and the smell has a color, and you can clearly see how it snakes its way in from the kitchen into the half-open door. Your nails feel heavier than usual. This is hopefully a fever dream. But the food isn't here, nor is Willow; you can hear her humming a song in the kitchen, Voodoo Chile by Jimi Hendrix.

The weight of the shadow on your chest brings you back to earth, and you run your hands through his black fur with closed eyes as your head falls back onto the couch. The feeling of fur on your fingertips feeding to your serotonin levels rising. Creek seems to know what it's like to be disowned by your own father and forced to have a fake death in order to 'die' in a way that won't make your mother think you were cursed, or worse, that the whole family is now. Creek notices you're awake and gets off you, but not before making biscuits.

"Thanks, Creek." You mumble before pushing yourself up in a sitting position with a groan.

You can feel the rich, velvety, dark green rug beneath your socks; you would have appreciated it properly if you could actually see the details woven into it. Your eyes keep focusing and unfocusing like they're getting adjusted, and the room doesn't seem so dark anymore. God, how long did you pass out? As you tried to gather your thoughts (if the spell was easy on you enough to actually leave some), memories of the ritual came flooding back—the chanting in latin, the flickering candle(s), the punching smell of herbs, the murder attempt from a wolf spirit/ghost?! who the hell knows anymore? Now you were wide awake, and everything felt different. If it weren't for the fucking ritual that was just performed on you, you would've blamed the faint ringing in your years, shitty eyesight, and banging headache on a terrible hangover or a cold so bad it would make your throat ache for the tea your mom would make you when your immune system failed you. She promised she would teach me how to make it. Your grief echoed to you.

You rub at your temples at thats when you notice why did your nails feel heavier than usual. You had fucking claws, well, not animal claws, but they are honorably elongated and sharper than they had ever been. As you looked up from your lap, your eyes fell on a mirror.

A tall mirror leaning on its back legs, with black edges and details on the rim, you would again appreciate if you had the ability to see a single thing in the distance.

Your eyes widened, mortified, seeing yourself. It looked like one of your parents's worst nightmares. Something out of a dream your mom would have—a nightmare so nasty and vivid she would be forced by her paranoia to get up and check that you're still in bed sleeping soundly.

Your eyes were no longer the familiar color you have seen in the mirror or in old photos of your family members you've grown to love. The shade wasn't even close to yours; crazy how one small change made such a big difference in your appearance. Your pupils were slitted vertically, shrinking only to dilate a little once again, getting adjusted. You slowly got up on foal legs and fell on your knees in front of the mirror. Even if you didn't think it was night because you weren't seeing darkness, the light of the moon shone down on the mirror and floor thanks to the now open curtains. That's when your vision stopped unfocusing and finally cleared.

You were now looking at yourself. It felt incredibly alien and familiar at the same time; you looked at yourself every day, whether it was the mirror in your bathroom at home, a crappy motel one that faced the bed (which you cover up with a scoff each time), or a reflection in the car of your vanity mirror checking yourself before going in a precinct, pretending to be a reporter (the things middle-aged pigs would confess to a doe-eyed girl from the press..).

You gently pulled the corner of your upper lip only to reveal your enlarged and sharpened front canines. Your hand fell and instead went to cover your mouth in order to muffle your sobs. You must have done a horrible job because the second you slapped the hand over your mouth, you heard Willlow gasp as if she felt it too.

She drops the food she was unpacking and runs in, taking a moment to calm her heaving chest in the doorway; her hands were holding it like an earthquake had shaked her up; even her round glasses had slipped and rested on the tip of her nose.

"_______, you woke up!" she exclaims cheerfully. "I was just—how do you fee-?"

She kept stuttering and cutting herself off. Willow didn't need to say anything else; she saw the tears welling up in your eyes and felt the same shock you did from the kitchen.

🧿🧿🧿- later on, you have to bump into the Winchesters one way or another

- and it's exactly on a full moon when this time the ball isn't in your court and you don't get to decide whether you turn or not.

- your claws are sharp, your eyes have changed their original color completely with your pupils vertically slit, and your teeth (conveniently) remain the same; only a few of your front canines are enlarged and sharpened.

- as for senses, it's downright spectacular.

- you can hear deer stepping on tree branches, foxes running, and owls hooting when you're driving by the forest

- you smell how many people are in a room

- you have night vision (yes, your eyes to the flashy thingamajiggy when someone blinds you with their flashlight).

- as a hunter, you already know that your claws and fangs can rip out a human heart.

- ironically, as this whole situation is, you hunt alone on the principle that you don't long for companionship as some lycanthropes do.

- you've turned into a literal killing machine with no instinct to kill, so hunting with others is off the table since at the first sign of a threat (they think you are one, but you really aren't), a hunter exterminates.

- you meet the Winchesters on a ghoul hunt

- you have taken the case before them, but when you couldn't get anywhere with identifying whatever evil being was tormenting the locals with their mere presence, you thought about ditching it since it doesn't look like your type of thing and took the consideration that maybe humans were fucking around this time.

- so when you heard the FBI are in town investigating the case (detective Page and Plant), you placed that town in your rear view mirror; they got it covered..right?

- but something didn't feel right- it wasn't the shame of leaving a case with your tail between your legs (pun intended) with the weak motive, 'Maybe humans are really fucking around this time.'

- something wasn't right, so even if you were tired, you abruptly stopped the car and went over your research spread out on the flat of your closed trunk

- the slits of your eyes dance over the words on your laptop, your papers, and an old lore book you fought tooth and nail for. When you realized it's a ghoul you're dealing with, you turned the car around and went over every speed limit like hellhounds were scratching at your tires. It was your job to not let anybody else get hurt or someone else's grave be violated

- as the light of the moon shined down on you and your wild eyes looked back at you from the rear view mirror, you knew you couldn't have anyone see you, you had to be invisible

- *time skip* (as much as it pains me 'cause i am a sucker for details :))- you swoop in time to save the Winchesters

- and if they weren't tied up, they would've started fighting you too, because why was there a whole ass werewolf fist fighting a ghoul?? John trained them like Spartan warriors, but nothing prepared them for something like this.

- so they sit there like:??????

- they watch you take out a fucking ghoul all by yourself

- the head of the ghoul's person they're impersonating rolls onto the floor. You have to remind yourself it's not a real person; it's an evil spirit who kills to feed

- by the time you wipe the blood off your face, smearing it a bit in the process, and cut the ties holding the hunters loose, Sam is unnable to look away from your slit eyes adorned by a strange color that strangely suits you

- literally hearts in his fawn brown eyes like you still don't have blood on your face and you aren't trying to catch your breath; also, you took a nasty punch to your cheek, and he's pretty sure it's gonna leave a bruise, but he totally doesn't care, why? why do you ask?

- by the way Sam is scrunitizing you, and oh yeah, Sam is scrunitizing you, you're sure you're gonna have to ditch since you've been in this situation before and you know how it always ends

- there was no 'explaining yourself' to hunters when they saw you under the full moon or when they saw you change because you had to.

Before you can even open your mouth they have their methaphorical pitchforks sharpened and torches lit up, prepared to slaughter you, and if you're honest, you can't even blame them for it because you would've done the same.

- Dean rubs his wrist with his right hand; the imprint of the rope is still fresh on his skin like a tattoo. Sam focuses on not choking when you catch him staring.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean thinks out loud. You take a big lungs-exploding sigh and give a shot at introducing yourself since they seem more civilized than most hunters are

- Sam geeks out about you

He doesn't question you because he is suspicious (he has the right to be but surprisingly isn't). He has to feed his noisy, information-hungry brain or he will spontaneously combust

- "Are your senses even more enhanced during the full moon, or are they the same?"

- "Can you smell when somebody is afraid? Like the hormones from their pores?"

- "Is it annoying to always have super hearing? Like has it ever caused you to be..I don't know.. Anxious? It did?" He mourns over you, trying to imagine himself in your situation but possibly can't.

- "I'm really sorry you had to go through a whole..change all by yourself, but it just shows how strong you are, some don't even make it 'til the end."

- After you were done explaining to Sam (to which he gladly sat himself down and listened) how sometimes you genuinely consider you're inevitably going to become what you hunt and how in the beginning you and your senses have butted heads, how you had no idea how to go through it without having panic attacks because the click of a doorknob was sensitive to your hearing like a veteran was scared of fireworks, how you accidentally ripped a motel door off its hinges, a result of you being slightly irritated, still getting acoustumed to your abilities. Dean would go.

"..Do dog whistles work on y–" Before getting an elbow in the ribs by a glaring Sam.

- more shit Dean would ask you for the sake of his own little curiosity

- "Is 'bitch' even more offensive now?"

- "Who do you think would win in a fight? You or Jacob Black?"

- "What do I smell like? Y'know, since you can pick up on scents and alldat."

- Dean calls you Cujo

- It's the one nickname you can get behind, asking him what he thought about the book, and he's like, "Oh, I watched the movie, but i know a little. Sammy used to rattle on and on about his books when he was younger."

- if you think about it, an alais doesn't sound so bad in theory or practice while hunting.

- it's secretive, the boys don't need to divulge your real name, and it's actually high-key kickass (I literally watched Cujo just so I know what I'm talking about, a.k.a. the second reason why it took a millenium and a half for me to post these; the first reason is that i suck)

- Dean is thrilled to get to call you that- he gets this fucking smirk, like a dad about to drop the worst joke ever made on everyone, you and Sam brace yourselves for what's coming with matching eyerolls-

"Let's fuck em' up, Cujo."

- "Cujo, dude, you're just itching to raise a little hell right now, aren't you?"

- "Uh- a bacon cheeseburger, soda, yo, Cujo whaddya want? My treat >:]."

- "Cujo, put on that song you were listening to; I had it in my head the entire hunt." (I didn't mention the genre or artist bc I like to imagine Dean listening to everyone's fav category; ex. I imagine Dean screaming bikini kill lyrics whenever i'm sad)

- if you thought the 'canine/wolf' teasing stopped here, you're so painfully wrong

- Dean made you a mixtape, because that's his love language apparently, with only songs that are about werewolves

- I feel like it took him a longer time to find a suitable title than the songs themselves

- he has all of the possible picks on a piece of paper that stays in the pocket of his fifty pound leather jacket.

- the titles are: Songs to transform into; The howlin' hits; Songs that will make you wag your tail—that one is crossed out because he knows you will make him eat the tape if he does settle on it; Love at first bite; and finally the one he settled for is Songs you can sink your teeth into. Dean smiled at his work, it didn't feel like a prank anymore it was more like a gift and he didn't feel any ugly emotion or insecurity try to pull him back into not getting attached to you.

The final touch was a note saying

"Hey, Cujo, thought you might want these howlin' hits whenever you need to tune the world out.

P.S. : Sam told me to add one of the songs, it's that punk stuff you like - Dean"

- The songs he prudently picked out are these : Of Wolf and Man by Metallica; Bark at the Moon by Ozzy Osbourne; I Was A Teenage Werewolf by The Cramps; Wolf Moon by Type O Negative; Witch Wolf by STYX; Run with the Wolf by Rainbow; Lycanthropy by G.B.H and others.

- you accidentally made a kid cry once- a ball was literally flying towards you and you caught it just in time, thanks to your reflexes

- instinctively, you turned around in time and caught the ball as your claws grew and sank into the inanimate object

- it's all "Nice relfexes, _____" praise from Dean and proud and shy smiles from Sam until the owner of the ball starts sobbing in front of you

- it's a kid, a boy with red hair, no older than six years of age

- but we all know Dean's charm is basically made for this

- so he handles both the kid and his mom (flirting with a milf all day, poor Dean)

- you keep apologizing to the kid and the mom, but Dean just waves you off; you don't understand his generosity until Sam tells you that you accidentally secured Dean's hookup for tonight.

- Since Dean is not coming, not until early morning, nor is he there to call you and Sam 'dorks', you and his younger brother take advantage of it.

- you guys have a movie night with the most random movies ever

- it is chaotic

- from rom-coms you switch to a world war II documentary, then you watch re-runs of House MD on tv.

- Dean stumbles in at like five something a.m. and takes a picture of you and Sam snuggling under a blanket while the tv light casts shadows of orange and cold colors on your defenseless expressions.

- but can somebody actually blame you? Or Sam, for that matter?

- honorably want to mention your body heat is also enhanced

- You and Sam were sitting with your sides pressed into each other

- you were radiating pure furnace body heat, how could he not be sleepy??

- but that's not the only reason Sam knocks out so heavily

- it's you he's sitting down with (relaxing for once in his life) watching a ridiculous episode of House with thirteen ads rolling every ten minutes accompanied by lazy talking as if you're not debating books only you and morally grey forty-year-olds read (where that Kansas drawl of his is much more audible and pretty), after a marathon of fatally random movies

- younger Sam who had trouble going to sleep/getting some shut-eye because Dean and John are out late on a hunt.

- Sam especially couldn't fall asleep because Dean wasn't there

- it was a different story when Dean was at the age where he couldn't hunt but he could use a pistol and take care of his little brother

- both of them in a relatively warm motel room, alone (since John fucked off to god-knows-where, to hunt a monster they are never to breathe in the direction of as a conversation subject.)

- little Sammy (age where he believed nothing could beat his older brother) could peacefully fall asleep knowing Dean stays up and watches over him like a hawke, reading comic books by the tv light

- where little Dean keeps chanting in his head what Sammy is supposed to do after eating his dinner.

- Watch tv or look at the comic with me (Sammy can't read yet), brush his teeth, then tuck him in bed.

- now pre-teen Sam can hardly sleep

- he is plagued/tormented by flashing images his overthinking big brain mades of a thousand situations where his family got hurt, if not even killed

- Sam's grip on the shotgun is shaking; it shakes even harder when John's bark booms over his shoulder, right into his ear.

- "Sammy, dammit, what are you going to do when a demon breaks through the door and me and your brother aren't there to protect you?!"

- but Sam isn't twelve anymore

- he's a responsible adult

- snuggled beside you and denying any eepy allegations you decide to accuse him of

- so, the heat you contribute, the soft speaking on the tv, the darkness of the room, you being there is enough to lull Sam to sleep

- studies show you feel sleepy around the people you trust ;)

- the position you two fell asleep in cannot be described in any other word than childish

- somehow you would catch two kids, sleeping over at one of the other's houses, knocked out, and snoring in the same bed after watching a horror movie

- on one of the two queens the motel room contributes (the one closest to the tv) you and Sam have made this fluffy nest full of pillows, a huge blanket, plus a random quilt Bobby pulled out of thin air and gave it to you when he heard you complaining about the petal-thin blankets motels have during cold ass weather.

- When you both lied down on the bed with your legs greedily streched out, backs pressed against the headboard, and your head is resting on the wall while Sam, magically, was still able to hold his up after the very long day all of you endured. You predicted one of you wouldn't survive being in each other's presence and make it out not asleep, and god, you hoped it was you.

- Sam's breathing slows down after a while of comfortable silence, and you’re sure he's dying until you spare one quick glance and see him, downright snoozing with his lips parted without a care in the world, ghosts and eerie phenomenons weren't bothering or needing him now.

- during all of the movies and documentary and fuckin lazy intellectual commentary nobody else would have the patience to discuss with you or Sam, he somehow migrated on the bed/nest with his side flush against yours, like a magnet to another; it was inevitable not to stick together, literally.

- your shoulder was now pressed into his forearm, your head no longer resting uncomfortably, and his temple is resting on the top of your head.

- but (unfortunately) you weren't hugging or anything- like a mirror or a copycat, Sam has his arms crossed, just like you, so maybe that's why you didn't wake up full on cuddling, that does sound good though your brain mourns

- When you do wake up, the only slight change you notice is that you're sleeping on your side..so is Sam. You're facing Sam's neck and chin, and up close and personal, you can actually count the too-sexy amount of moles he modestly posesses. His arm serves the role of a pillow underneath his head, and the other is resting with his palm down facing the mattress.

- with Sam taking up the entire attention of your senses, it takes an emmbarassing while for you to hear the shower running, Dean; did he see you both like this? Was he going to mention it? Your gut fills with a small dose of embarrassement, preparing you for what's yet to come, and it protests at that.

- much displeasure from your senses to your brain and your heart that wanted to breathe Sam in more as he (hopefully) breathes you out, you turn on your other side, unconsciously careful not to disturb Clifford over here, and you try to determine what time it is from your surroundings alone.

- the light blue sneaking its way through the dark closed curtains and the slight chill in the air points all arrows to seven or eight in the morning, you could go back to sleep.

- Dean wasn't just feeling gracious; he didn't and wasn't even planning on sparing you or Sam

- that day, when he separately gets the both of you alone, he has the exact same conversation with different but not so different people.

-"You should've seen the two of you this morning when I came in, two kittens snoring together, it was fuckin' adorable." Dean teased–

—Monday, 13:34 p.m. — as he tossed his clothes into one of the laundromat's washing machines, making Sam paralyze in his seat as his fingers started fidgeting with the edges of his hoodie.

"You did?.." He inquires, not knowing what exactly Dean saw just this morning. Sam only woke up a little after you went back to sleep. He swore his cheek must have burned a hole through the pillow with how hard he was blushing. You were so close. There was a good distance between the edge of the bed and you. So your back was flush against his chest. If you're wondering where his arm went, it was around your waist. Sam—your own personal seatbelt. He probably thinks it's his fault too. Dean never ceased to describe Sam as a 'cuddlebug'.

"Uh-huh" Dean hums a confirmation, acting casual, scarily casual. Sam feels the teasing in Dean's tone; it's there, but Dean is not fully teasing yet, like he wants Sam to confess something first after boiling in his embarrassement for long enough.

—Monday, 20:02 p.m. — as he pulled the Impala into the driveway of a fast-food place you were so invested in you even forgot the name of; you froze and looked at him, searching for any emotion that might give him away, but Dean was a brick wall, a slight very Dean siginificant parted lips smirk paired with squinted eyes over the wheel, carefully driving into the driveway. Even the car seemed to betray you in your moment of weakness because you swear the volume is lower than it was a few seconds ago. Ozzy Osbourne's laugh can still be heard from the speakers, even if it's barely audible over your racing thoughts or your hearing trying its hardest to pick up on Dean's thoughts. The rythym of the drums seems to sync up with your heartbeat, or the other way around, you're not sure. Over every little sound, there still seems to be a little silence to fit in. You swallow a lump in your throat.

"..We had a movie night, we just fell asleep like that, that's all." You mumble, and Dean starts to feel a little bad for letting you be a victim to his spotlight-teasing and giving you no shade to reprieve to or show his undying approval.

Somehow, you still worry if Dean believes you have ruined the dynamic, and now he's cornering you to tell you to stop it or something (overthinking anxiety worms are eating away at your critical thinking skills). You just worry about what he thinks of this. You still worry about the Dean who doesn't correct random people on cases who mistake you and Sam for a couple; the Dean who just has to leave some arsenal or luggage in the front, just so you are forced to share the backseat with Sam; the Dean who always has to group you and Sam in a category when he teases you both (Geeks, nerds, smartasses, etc.). Cupid works hard, but Dean Winchester works harder.

"Hey-, Cuj- Doll." Dean sputters, switching glances between you and the wheel.

This didn't go as he planned it would, and now he is facing the consequences. The way you shrink in your seat and the way you avoid catching his eye makes Dean feel like a douchebag. If he didn't know any better he would thinks he is, but then you would actually be able to read him like a book and tell him otherwise. You hear the desperation in his voice; your candle of hope comes back to life and lights up. Your head turns to look at him with pleading eyes. Please don't be angry, please don't kick me to the curb, let me stay in the backseat a little more. Dean lets out a shaky exhale that turns into a laugh; he runs a hand down his face. You've watched him do that every time he got jumpscared by the monthly spirit with unfinished business. It was something you imagined Dean picked up from John, the picture in your head so clear (at least from the pictures you saw)— a tired dad in an old squeaky motel chair with a whiskey glass in his hand doing the same motion Dean was doing right now. Dean would mimic his father's gestures to try to look more like him; he didn't have his brunette curly hair, his dark brown eyes, Sam did.

Dean never had his voice either; he only perfected his bark to match his dad's. Sam hated the way his reflection resembled his father, Dean was either jealous of him for it or couldn't wrap his head around as to why his brother hated being their dad, probably the latter. Dad, at least in Dean's eyes, was a hero, a figure to be admired and emulated. But Sam? He didn't even have to try. Sam and John were so alike that they clashed constantly like two stubborn stags locking antlers in a duel.

"..Dean?" You call him out; you had no idea what was going on in his head; it would be pretty damn nice if you could know. Dean shots his head up at the mention of his name.

"Yeah?—sorry, I just, you and Sam are just so—" He sighs. "it's about time you two crazy kids broke that touch barrier." He guffaws, slowly pulling up to the ordering kiosk.

A new song starts playing on Dean's "hot summa' nights driving" mixtape, Emmit Remmus by The Red Hot Chili Peppers, he added it when Sam said that's one of his favorites.

- do I need to talk about how much of an immense help you have been on hunts?

- you don't need to help out on every hunt despite Sam's disappointment and Dean's kid-like joy to have their friend help them out who is a professional/werewolf/hunter/geek, who kind of gets his references?? But you are geniunely so good it's funny to have the boys call you up and be like "..so we need help". They're happy you'll show up but there is still that lick of shame that taunts the Winchesters whenever they are forced to call for aid.

- this one time, you wanted to hug them after not seeing them for two weeks, and when you went to attack Sam, you heard his bones crack.

- your strength still surprises you and knocks other people off their feet

- it was so loud (atleast for you), you were sure you broke something

- Sam did nothing but give you his (killer) dimply smile and reassure you didn't do anything (even if he slightly grunted); while Dean whined like a kid saying (lying) he doesn't want a hug (you coaxed him into it eventually)

- Sam feels like he's not allowed to call you by your nickname, like he fears it's Dean's thing and not his

- so when he finally puts on his big boy pants, he's like, "Uhh–Cujo- 🧍‍♂️so get this.."

- all red and shy, trying to act casual, as if he doesn't wonder about the reaction you might have if he calls you other nicknames, like honey, sweetheart, even baby, or if he had the excuse to hold your hand, how would you hold it? Fingers interlocked or palms flat?

- Sam would also love to just marvel at your slit eyes; if he could he would take a picture and put it in his wallet; don't get me wrong if he had one where you were normal, he would cherish it just as much.

- Sam thinks your nickname is actually really cool (probably because it's a Stephen King reference, nerd), and you take that as a compliment. Sam is hard to entertain or please by his brother's antics.

- But he prefers saying your name

- there's something so intimate about the syllables rolling off his tongue so easily

- "_____, Are you okay? What is it? The soundproof earmuffs? I'll go get them." When everything, and I mean when every sound is just too much.

- Sam got them for you; he couldn't handle seeing you wince one more time whenever a car with a bad engine would pass by the motel (during a stressful hunt); its tires squealing under the concrete, making a faint sound for the boys, but for you so much louder.

- you know how pathethic it is to be affected by such small things when you're blessed with such powers? How can you call yourself a hunter when decibels, frequencies, and fucking tire squeals make you their bitch? You wish you could train yourself in a way that would make you less sensitive to certain sounds. It just adds to the reasons why hunters have the excuse or classify you as "the frail one" not only because you're a girl. When you used to hunt with your dad and sometimes mom, the amount of dog-shit comments from other hunters who had sons, were nothing but mysogynistic, curlish, and ruthless. "Are you sure the riffle isn't too heavy?", "Does she even know how to kill this thing?", "She's going to drag us down, do you want us to die?"— the type of comments that would make your dad shoot daggers into them, defend you "She's a goddamn ______, what do you think?", and whisper into your ear "Show em' what you're made of." and you would (stubbornly) listen to his advice to the damn letter after you almost mouthed them off.

Your dad believed in "Actions are sometimes louder than words." and all that adult crap, you were not as zen.

Your mom actually encouraged the sarcasm you have replied with in the past. The funniest memory your mother can recall is a story she tells at every gathering and every chance she gets to everyone, she praised you like crazy. When another hunter's son had the nerve to fuck with a twelve-year-old you. "Aren't you afraid of breaking a nail out there?" The boy sneered, puffing out his chest like a peacock. You stared at him with pure disbelief. "The only way I'm breaking a nail tonight is by kicking your ass, you cocky brainless jerk." You spat back, your mother and father were there and so was the boy's father; the gravity of the situation was on your shoulders, and their stares felt even heavier in comparison; intimidating him was 100% on the table. You felt like everyone had the same exact thought occuring them, an unspoken demand passed everyone there, even you: Do something. And you did. Your mother's jaw went slack; she doubled over, gripping whatever surface was near her and she started to chortle, with her shoulders shaking like never before. Your father was holding in a chuckle while massaging the bridge of his nose.

- Sam has to disagree with you whenever you complain about how your senses make you look or about the way you underestimate yourself. "What?! You can't be serious. _____, It doesn't mean you're weak. In fact, it makes you even more interesting. Everyone has an Achilles heel; yours is stronger because you're an amazing hunter who figured a way out. It makes you even stronger, I have no idea how you deal with this crap! Dean and I would've gone insane if we were in your shoes for more than a day."

- he is also forcing back his infamous (spectacular) bitchface

- he doesn't 'hold back' actually

- he geniunely cannot glare at you, not when you're like this. He can make a few exceptions, like when you join in Dean's teasing/joking (the silly rambunctious energy Dean carries around had, unfortunately, contiminated you or awakened yours)

- or when you start teasing Sam yourself, he shoots you a glare that classifies as nothing but hot (in your book at least), the kind of Sam glare that makes you flush knowing he doesn't mean it at all.

- Dean making you those fake ass I.D's like "Joan Jett", "Stevie Nicks", "Kathleen Hanna" and when you asked him to make more subtle ones he was like, bet. "Kelly Hammer", "Diana Bowie", "Laura Ulrich".

a/n: I wanted to apologize again for taking so long and for the unnecessary amount of context that literally nobody asked for. Uhh yeah and feedback would be very much appreciated<3, sava out *mic drop*

#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #supernatural #dean winchester #spn #supernatural fanfiction #jared padalecki #jensen ackles #supernatural headcanons #supernatural fandom #supernatural season 1 #reader insert #supernatural imagine #supernatural fic #sava preaches

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glitter-stained · 4 months ago

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Idea: for his first time coming back to Crime Alley during his revenge plot, before establishing himself as a crime lord, Jason saves a kid. The kid asks him his name then informs him that it's ridiculous, and that a fairy tale name isn't scary at all so he should change it if he wants to scare the bad guys and also that his helmet isn't even a hood so it's stupid. Jason goes home in a daze, has a crisis, and brainstorms ideas.

Here is the list he comes up with, based on the fact he's a dramatic nerd, and ranked from my personal least favourite to top favourite.

The Creature : I feel like Jason would be the type of person to scream at people who call the Creature Frankenstein, but also argues that the real monster in the story is indeed Frankenstein; that name is thus a book accurate reference, while simultaneously highlighting and rubbing in Bruce's face that he created the villain by making himself his father and then abandoning him. My issue with this is that I associate the concept of cryptid vigilant creature with Cass so much giving the name to Jason feels wrong.

Rhapsody : Rhapsody of a Windy Night (by TS Eliot ofc) is THE poem I think of when I think about Jason in relation to Crime Alley, so this is a cool looking name cementing his identity as a crime lord/ vigilante as linked to this place. Unfortunately, most people would think either music themed villain or Queen reference and nobody would get the reference which would piss Jason off.

The Dead Poet: That idea is not mine, I unfortunately lost the post that suggested it so feel free to link it if you do. I absolutely love it, 100% nerd and batman villain, only reason it's low is I like the others more.

Antigonish: That's the title of a creepy poem/nursery rhyme by Mearns about a ghost haunting a house (yesterday upon the stairs/i saw a man who wasn't there...) very leaning in the creepy, undead, haunting the narrative vibe, and I think he'd fuck with the aesthetic so much, I think he'd wage psychological warfare against Batman with references to Jason's death.

Prometheus: A classic, the curse of non consensual immortality while also being a protector and enlightener of the people, defying the authority and saying I will break your rule in the name of what I think matters more. I think he'd like the way it lets him simultaneously say fuck you to Bruce and keep in mind who he's supposed to protect. Yes, I know Prometheus is a pre existing villain and I hate him, let's just ignore that.

Chrysothemis: this one is such a smartass reference he's such a little shit I think he'd love it. A classic myth from the trojan war is Agamemnon sacrificing his daughter Iphigenia to Artemis in order to be able to go on his mission (wage war against Troy), and when he comes back from Troy, Clytemnestra kills him in revenge, and then the family hunts eachother for sports (see the Oresteia). In Sophocles's Electra, Chrysothemis is the name of the daughter of Clytemnestra who, unlike Electra, doesn't condemn/ protest against their mother for killing Agamemnon to avenge Iphigenia. I think it's particularly funny because Chrysothemis literally means "golden law". Maybe not the most badass sounding but god would it be so funny.

Lightbearer : (the title of Lucifer). Again, maybe not the most badass but Jason is a nerd and he'd fuck with it. "But isn't Jason the christic equivalent of the Bruce/Jason/Joker trinity?" I hear you ask and the answer is yes, but on a meta level, this is what the reader is allowed to see. Jason? He's read Paradise Lost and agrees Satan/Lucifer was right, projected Bruce on God, and made it his whole personality. I think Lightbearer!Jason would quote Paradise Lost/make references to it all the time during their arguments, denouncing Batman's abandonment of Crime Alley and say "I'd rather rule in hell than serve in heaven", tell him that he has no obligation to play by his rules because "just because you were here first doesn't make you the rightful ruler of this city". This also goes well with my hcs about Crime Alley being a little fucked up and loving their local crime lord/vigilant, with graffitis and nicknames treating him like the Alley's Angel/guardian angel but in a fucked up, fallen angel way, like that's our patron saint and he's made of the same shit that we are, he's not holier-than-though cause he's not holy but he's ours.

Anyway feel free to share which ones you prefer and add ideas!!!

#jason todd #red hood #jason todd meta #under the red hood #Jason todd crime lord #red hood gang #crime alley #jason todd and crime alley #dc #batman #batman & robin #jason todd is a nerd #jason todd is a little shit

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serialkilluh1996 · 5 months ago

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☆Gratitude and Grief ☆

Doctor-König x Frankenstein-female-reader pt. 1

Warnings ➛ : Angst / Mentions of bombs / Necrophilia(? He just kisses the corpse idk) / Mentions of gore/ probably an inaccuracy of how funeral homes and contracts work

What lengths will he go to in order to bring back his beloved Mrs. Frankenstein? Find out below.

You had the best husband a woman could ask for. Dr. König Frankenstein.

Strong, knowledgeable, caring, a very resourceful man too. He would personally hire Gordon Ramsey himself to make you the world's best chicken soup if you caught so much as a common cold.

Yeah, he was boastful by nature, having grown up in a prestigious mansion out in Austria with a personal cow pasture to top it all off, but his heart was in the right place. He was a show off, but he would never shy away from giving. That's what he's been doing this whole time, afterall. For the past six months, he'd been giving his all to bring you back.

It wasn't fair. He was never greedy. He never took a thing for granted. His entire life, he had been nothing but a grateful man, yet something most precious to him was taken away.

As careful and attentive as König was, nothing prepared him for the bombing of the local grocery store, leaving many injured and a single fatality. Your fatality.

Why? Why did it have to happen? He cherished everything in his life from the ability to wake up in the morning to getting to have you, ☆☆☆, as his wife. As his loving companion that supported him at his lowest. The materialistic things he owned were trivial compared to you. They didn't have the value, no, the soul that you did. He could've lost it all, given it all away, without a lick of pain, but he had become selfish with you as the months passed.

You were an angel given back to God, but he wasn't ready to let go of you. God could take someone else for all he cared. Anyone else. Afterall, König would be God if this worked out.

The first month was spent in denial and delusion. Late nights crying, unable to sleep without the warmth of your body thrown over his, taking up all the bed space despite being smaller than him. Wandering the house mindlessly, unsure of why he was even moving. What purpose did it serve? He couldn't even eat without you. It didn't take long for his loss of weight to become noticeable.

Even with his big stature, he had become thin, his once pudgy front left as a sunken, seeming hollow stomach.

Month two was spent on a stressful battle of convincing a funeral home to give him your corpse. The battle was tiresome. They were persistent, and his eager demeanor only betrayed the character of an insane man mourning his late wife, willing to do anything to get her body.

It would've failed had it not been for you jokingly signing a covenant consenting to him using your corpse for scientific study if you were to pass before him. You were always supportive of him and his experiments, and you trusted him with your life, so you didn't see a problem with giving him what was left of you after your demise. Little did you know, said demise would come sooner than anticipated.

Months three to four were spent

on prototypes while you were in the freezer. Those were the worst months of his life. With the help of other bodies, those of dead criminals, donated to science, he figured out the hard way that the it was obligatory to keep the brain in best condition over the body.

He had to practice on them first. He wouldn't dare risk his beloved without the complete guarantee of your return.

Neil, his final prototype, the one that sealed the deal, was a pain in the ass. The worse out of every attempt. A walking, decaying slob. He'd failed to keep his brain from rotting, leaving König with a zombie-like creature that spent two days wailing and growling in a cage. He couldn't bring himself to just kill it at first.

He saw hope in the man, even with his criminal past from when he was alive, but it didn't take long for his morals to change once he realized how much of a threat it could be. One blow to the head couldn't have hurt that much for it.

It was discouraging, for sure. Every night after that was spent wondering if he had failed you. He wouldn't dare bring you back if it meant letting you become that suffering, rotting, monster. But, he refused to let you rest in peace. Something in his soul wouldn't let you go.

The final months, months five to six, he spent fixing you. Perfecting you. The surgeries were draining to him. Having to replace your heart was most stressful, but knowing that you'd love him all the same if you were back was his motivation.

The lost of your ring finger pained him, knowing you wouldn't be able to wear the one jewel that bound your love, but in his eyes, in his heart, he knew the ring was just a physical expression that society bestowed upon you. The real love was in the time and effort.

He looks down on your corpse. You were so beautiful. Paler than usual, but what more could one expect from a corpse? Even in death, you were adorable. Fascinating. It was an honor to even see your face, despite the stitch going diagonally across your nose to keep your face together. No scars would destroy his love for you. No stitch would break his perfect image of you.

He rubs a hand across your forehead, dragging it down to your lips. Cold. Cold and dry. This was your last chance. His last chance. To prove himself worthy. To redeem himself. To make up for letting you die in that store.

For not being there for you as you bled out on that floor in the produce aisle. For not killing the man responsible. The death penalty wasn't enough in his eyes. No lethal injection would pay for the suffrage you went through.

His face scrunches in discomfort, his eyes squinting as they burned from the abrupt fall of tears. He should've never let you go on your own. He should've been there for you. To save you. To die with you. He lifts his hood, placing a somewhat salty kiss on your lips, leaving his warm tears upon your skin.

He places a hand on the lever connected to all the cords and jumpstarters on your body, a shutter escaping his mouth.

As he flips it, his body nearly recoils at how you begin to shake and twist, covering his mouth at the way your body twitches. He swiftly turns it off, seeing as to how you were staring to fry, his heart pumping heavily as he watched you for any sign of movement.

His eyes were hyper focusing on everything at once, his breathing was heavy, he could feel a burn in the back of his throat that he could only register as nausea.

".....grnghhhhhh..." was the low growling of his beloved as you struggled to lift yourself.

".....Sch-schatz?..." He quivers out, moving forward to place a large hand on your cheek as your empty eyes stared into his.

Thanks for reading! I'll be uploading part two when I get the chance.

You can support me by liking, reblogging, or cashapping me @ $Fundsbrownie

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thedepressedjuggalette · 7 days ago

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Arcane is a GOTHIC Show.

No, not Goth like Goth music, I mean GOTHIC as in Gothic Literature like Mary Shelly's Frankenstein, Robert Louis Stevenson's The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, or literally anything written by Edgar Allen Poe.

I am dead ass serious. Or maybe I'm just insane.(Spoilers ahead!!!)

Now it is okay if you didn't pick up on this, I am just one of those extremely weird kids that grew up reading Gothic Literature so much that it was almost an unhealthy obsession so I kind of spotted this within the first 6 episodes of the first season.

Now if you don't believe me when I say that Arcane is Gothic in nature I need to ask you this:

Did Arcane ask these simple questions:

What does it mean to be human?

What defines humanity?

When is a person too far gone?

Can grief ruin a person?

Can trying to help others turn to destroying others?

And can obsession turn to madness?

These specific questions are the very questions I've noticed pop up a LOT in OLD SCHOOL Gothic literature.

For instance Viktor is a lot like Viktor Frankenstein and Dr. Jekyll (more so Dr. Jekyll) in the sense that he slowly loses his humanity the further he pushes his research before finally falling to a destructive path. He quite literally loses himself to his own research and by his own research subject.

Singed (Dr. Ravick) is more Viktor Frankenstein than anything else. So obsessed with bringing the dead back to life. But whereas Frankenstein was obsessed with the idea of it that he never thought if he should. Singed found it merely to be nothing more than an illness needing to be cured because he couldn't stand the idea of losing his daughter.

Gothic Literature came out after the Romantic Literature Era, however in the Romantic Literature Era a lot of writers were protesting workplace mistreatment such as forcing children into working in coal mines and cleaning chimneys, along with the obsession of nature, Gothic Literature focused on the morality of Humanity, what it meant to be human and what defines us and how quickly a person can fall into insanity (aka mental health issues).

The first to start this was Mary Shelley over a small bet with her husband and several other authors. Her work was mortifying in comparison to the others because of what it forced the reader to think about.

Her work took place during the Enlightened Era where scientists were obsessed with Progress (Riot I fucking saw this shit coming, fuck you guys), and how if as a species can we become like god and make something from our own deaths and if we even should?

Shelley doesn't directly answer this but we actively see through her writing the death of a god -- Viktor Frankenstein -- because Adam (the monster) views his creator with contempt and disgust and thus demands his Eve despite Frankenstein's reluctance.

Can you imagine what Vander would've thought of Singed?

Can we really say that Vander would not view Singed as both his Savior and Destroyer. Can we even call Vander human? Or is he something else entirely? We can't call him a werewolf in the traditional sense, so what truly is he? He is the Adam of a species not meant to exist. Is he even Vander anymore or is he truly Warwick?

A lot of Poe's writing is very much about madness and grief. Well... To me anyways, it could just be my obsession with his poem The Raven (it reminds me of my great grandmother).

And I've personally in my own life seen how grief can destroy a person physically -- their despair destroying their physical health because that person feels their life died with that person. And I fear every day for my grandma to head down the same path that her sisters are when they pass.

But it's the mentality that the more subtle and at the same time the most extravagant thing to be destroyed through grief.

We see this repeatedly with Jinx and Vi.

They lost their stability the moment that their brothers and Vander died, and when Jinx thought Vi was dead.

They had already lost their bio parents, so this was another nail in their coffins. However Vi had no idea if Jinx was alive or dead and thus had that to hold onto despite being beaten bloody in an unstable environment that is prison.

Jinx however had her grief and trauma constantly lectured into her and had to form her personality around it. She even comments on it in episode 9 of season 1. Silco didn't know how to be a dad, but he was trying his best but he was a grown ass man when he had his personality reformation unlike Jinx who was like 10.

Her grief was haunting her and ruining her mental health.

I had recently learned that psychotic depression is a thing.

With her guilt and grief and PTSD eating her alive she was bound to go the road she went down. But what truly killed Jinx was the death of Isha.

I want to make it clear that I don't view Jinx and Isha's relationship as sisterly. I view it as maternal due to the comparisons between her and Silco and Isha to Powder.

However the point still stands.

She, like Silco, could not stand the mere idea of their child being in any sort of life threatening situation -- especially dealing with enforcers -- and thus would jump to protect them. But they both fail at the end in many ways.

Vi literally stopping Jinx from getting Isha out of there, and Silco being unable to stop Vi from triggering Jinx's PTSD.

And there's one more thing about Jinx we need to address...

If there is one thing I know about bullying and brainwashing is that if you keep telling someone they're worthless etc. one day they're going to believe you, and you cannot be surprised they do and when they act accordingly. Especially when the victim is a child. This is why suicide in children and teens is so devastating and cannot be fixed with religion or weird as hell wrestlers or stupid manosphere podcasts.

We don't know how long Powder had to put up with Mylo's bullying of her, but telling by her reaction to and how the loudest and most negative voice she hears from her hallucinations is his voice... I'd have to say that it started from the moment they met up to his death and it was sealed when Vi hit her and called her a Jinx.

"Who truly made Jinx?" is a question that has been brought up by everyone and their mother by this point. Some agree with the character herself when she said that it was Vi. Others agree with Silco when Jinx stated that Silco thinks he made Jinx.

Some reading this might say "Oh my god was it Mylo???"

I disagree on all fronts.

There is one video essay I keep coming back to because anyone with any sense of media literacy will outright point this same shit out but not as... Artfully as the essay itself.

It is called "Arcane, a Monster Factory" and it starts out with a single statement:

"Piltover breaks people."

And ends with a terrifying statement:

"Sometimes when I can't sleep at night, I start to think that maybe Piltover is more realistic than I'd like to think..."

It wasn't a single person that made Jinx. It was the entire city.

I want to point to Episode 7 to show you what I mean.

Without the death of Grayson but instead the death of Vi and without the creation of Hextech and Silco choosing to forgive Vander, Powder herself changed for the better and never needed to become Jinx. Rather she focused her energy on helping everyone around her -- and not taking time for herself in the process but we've always seen this even in Jinx. She focused on helping Silco then jumped to just trying to destroy for the sake of destroying only to end up helping the under city without meaning to, only to help Isha, and never really helping herself.

No matter what she'd have liked to think, she could've done wonders. Viktor even said so himself. She could do a lot to help his commune with her talents.

Even said it when he was looking at her bomb for the first time, calling her work "inspired".

She is talented but her talents never got the chance to truly shine.

Imagine what she and Ekko could've done if they were able to attend Piltover's academy.

But as stated before, Piltover breaks people.

Piltover made Jinx.

And in a cruel twist of fate it made the two people who cared about her the most hold the blame for the city's actions.

The ending of Arcane was fumbled when it came to Jayce's speech to Viktor and I'll stand by that because it was the fault of Piltover for Viktor having a preventable disease and thus leading to his obsession with avoiding death and avoiding needless suffering.

But in this ending these two science husbands did ask the one question that truly defines Gothic Literature.

What does it mean to be human?

And it's answer is one that I am unsure about because no one can truly define the human experience. The experience of life. The grief. The pain. The love. The joy. All of it.

In my own fanfic for a completely different fandom I had two characters talk about emotions. One couldn't truly feel emotions while another could. It took me a long while to try to figure out how to answer the question of "What is it like to feel emotions?"

It's hard to answer, isn't it?

I did figure it out though, having to take a page out of Kindred's playbook. But it was one I was very satisfied with.

It is questions like these be them asked through subtle writing cues, or blatantly asked by the characters themselves, they define Gothic Literature to me.

Arcane is the beautiful marriage of Greek Tragedy and Gothic Literature.

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romanarose · 20 days ago

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The Prodigals: Prologue

Dividers by @sister-lucifer (first one) and @kodaswrld (last 2)

Upcoming series: The Prodigals. Leftovers. Failures. Fuck-ups. Losers. Fugitives. Scott and Kurt, left with nothing else, travel universes in search of people like them, heros in hiding or who need a push. They form a new team Frankensteined together by nothing but hope for a better future and to make something of themselves.

Summery for prologue: Nothing Scott could ever do could make up for these failures. But Kurt is going to try to help.

Warning: Suicide attempt, gun to chin type thing much like Marc in Moon Knight. Deaths off screen. Hurt hurt hurt. Then comfort.

A/N: In the words of P!ATD, I'm the narrator and this is just a prologue. More information on this series below. This is not a Kurt and Scott only fic, it's going to be very focused on a multitude of mismatched people. And will be gay. No reader.

And just like that, there was nothing left to live for.

Earth was destroyed, almost everyone Scott loved was dead, and he stood here on top a pile of carcuses of those he killed in vain to save it. What was that slaughter for, if at the end 8 billion were gone still? Just more blood on his hands.

Floating in a useless ship as the world he knew literally burned to ashes, turning in on itself while hellfire rained down, somehow Scott felt the urge to stop the destruction still, even though there was nothing left to save. Every living being, human or mutant, was obliterated, something not even Logan or Wade could survive. Entire buildings were dust.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

Kurt would be proud of him for remembering those verses. Were they bible verses, or were they just said in mass? Well, maybe Kurt wouldn’t be proud. It doesn’t matter, because Kurt is about to be as disappointed in Scott as he ever could be, but Scott is taking the coward’s way out. He won’t live to see the disappointment on his only living friend’s face.

The gun was tilted to his chin. No healing factor. One shot, and it would be over. Was it selfish to leave Kurt here alone, with no one? Yes. It was. And the fact Scott was willing to let that happen just because he couldn’t face another second was testament that he deserved to die.

He never deserved the power he was given, the mutation, the gift. He wasn’t worthy. He didn’t deserve Charles mentorship, the authority bestowed on him that he let grow into hubris, pride that made him think he didn’t need to ask for help when he was in over his head.

He got cocky. He got sloppy.

And now there was nothing left to live for, certainly not Kurt who deserved better than him.

“It’s not your time, mien frund.”

Scott sighed, the earth a bright yellow and orange and red out the window he looked. Of course Kurt found a way to him. Of course Kurt never gave up on him. Of course he thinks he can save him now. He chuckles, sardonic sound. “Yeah, was it Logan’s time? Was it Rogue and Remy’s? Do you think they died in each other’s arm?”

“Stop it.”

“Do you think Ororo and Jean were laughing together when they were incinerated?”

“Put the gun down-”

Scott whipped around to face Kurt, gun still trained under his jaw. “Or do you think Jean saw it coming in her head and screamed for me to save her?”

He lost Jean to Logan long ago, and he accepted that. Logan was his friend and he loved both dealy, but that didn’t stop her face from being what he saw at the end of the world.

Kurt’s face turned to that of desperation. Scott hoped desperately the religious young man wasn’t going to lecture him on God’s love. He didn’t want to hear it right now, he wanted to hate himself.

“Please… don’t leave me…” There was a desperation in Kurt’s voice, a pleading, begging even that screamed ‘you are all I have now’ and this is what he was afraid of. This is why he didn’t go find Kurt when he knew it was over. Because there was no way in hell he could look at the younger man’s face, ever-full of love and hope, and abandon him.

The gun was set shakily down on a counsel, and Scott dropped to the floor, the atmosphere burning up below their ship. Everyone in a plane fried up seconds after everyone on earth did, anyone in spaceships or in a station minutes after, while Scott still scrambled to end the carnage in vain. They likely watched their earth burn, the fire itself coming for them.

Kurt did not hesitate to drop to the floor beside him, holding his brother as he wracked with sobs of guilt and grief. They stayed like that until exhaustion fell Scott to the metal floor but the agony hadn’t ended. They didn’t move for hours. When Scott fell asleep in his arms, Kurt stayed right there until he too rested, surrounded by the bodies Scott killed, sliced in half by a man who was more dangerous than anyone Kurt knew when provoked just the right way.

“How did you get in here?” Scott finally managed to ask. He woke up from sleep, having a few moments of bliss before he remembered what happened. Before he carefully pulled away from his friend’s embrace, embarrassed. Before he remembered that they were floating above their dead earth stranded, and it was his responsibility to figure out something that would save the boy’s life. He wouldn’t let him die here.

Kurt reached behind him, pulling out a small dial. “It’s how they got here. Universe portal, but it set it to go here. I think this is our best bet.”

“So what?” Scott brows furrowed until they were under his visor. “We’re just supposed to hop to another universe and compete with another Kurt and Scott? See dead ringers for our friends and work beside them every day?” He got up, still feeling embarrassed to have needed comfort from who he is supposed to be leading.

Blue fingers fidget with the small mechanism. “Well, I was thinking as you slept.” Scott blushed at the reminder. “We could make our own team… Your team.”

That caught Scott’s attention. “What the hell do you mean?”

“There’s got to be other people like us. People who’ve seen shieste and are alone, who need people. Different universes, different teams have those left behind.”

“So… what, get a bunch of fucking losers together?”

Kurt gives a small laugh. “You’re not a loser, mien frund. Far from it. You are a leader.”

Scott closed his eyes, wincing at that. Failure, that’s what he was. “Kurt, I’m not-”

“Our team will be those left behind. Those who never had a chance to be who they could be. You Americans, you love your rag tag team of misfits, no?”

A sigh. “Yeah, we do…”

Kurt pushes the device into his friend’s hand. “We can do good, Scott.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think I- everyone is dead, and I know you’ll say it’s not my fault but it is.” He tries to push it back to Kurt, but he refuses.

There is a pause before Kurt speaks again, a young man wise beyond his years considering his words. “I won’t argue with you, because now is not the time… But if you feel you have failed, if you feel you have done wrong in the eyes of God, this can be your repentance. A baptism, a new life for us helping others.”

He wasn’t right for it. He was weak. He was prideful. He was jealous and angry and controlling… but Scott’s guilt burned in him, a tear in his heart he was certain he could never repair. There was no way for him to undo what he did. However, Kurt was so full of hope, a determination to do good and to be good that pulled on Scott like a magnet. For Kurt, he’d try.

Kurt would realize soon enough he wasn’t right. They’d find other heroes worthy to lead, men like Steve Rogers and Charles Xavier. Not like him.

Until then, he’d stay by Kurt’s side.

“Fine. But I’m not leading this frankenstein ass team. I’m just here to keep you alive.”

Kurt smiled at that, grinned, even. “Hurra! Come on, let’s go find us a new home!”

With that, Kurt opened up a portal and practically skipped right through. Scott trailed behind, leaving corpses and the burning earth in his wake.

So off they go! Gonna get their rag tag team of misfits together!

I have not decided everything. In fact, I just came up with this today.

Confirmed characters that will join: Moon knight, daredevil, spiderman, deadpool, the worst logan, Venom, Jessica Jones, remy lebeau

Major themes and warnings: SHIT WILL BE GAY! Im not gonna tell yall right off the bat every ship that will be a thing but we know the x men are messy so there will be mutiple. For sure poolverine. Might have a few trans interpretations of characters if I wanna. If they are trans, im not necessarily gonna tell you right off. This is literally just me going "i like these characters I want them to be a team! I want them to kiss! i want to see them as friends! Homophobia wanring. Will likely include sa attempt, maybe SA but not shown bc this isn't dark. Will definitely talk about SA bc jessica jones so just be prepared, Ill warn yall. I will not necessarily tag everything right away because its v in development but consider this an adult story, 18+ that will talk about dark themes. However, again, this is not dark. Our heros do not SA people. Be prepare for drug use, alcoholism, talk of religion and catholic guilt, lots of religion talk, lots of gay sex and talk of gender. Adventures. Fun times. Episodic! each day they are forming their team with another person Doing crime fighting. We let venom eat bad people here.

Idk if anyone is gonna wanna read this bc its not actually x reader and pretty chaotic. But ima have fun.

if i tag a ship it doesnt mean its gonna be end game, and not tagging doesnt mean its not gonna happen.

lemme if you wanna be tagged going on! but im writing this for my silly enjoyment.

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can-of-w0rmz · 1 year ago

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One of the things that piss me off the absolute most about popular academic Frankenstein analysis is the “Victor Frankenstein is sexist” take. Like I know I’ve spoken about this quite a lot before but god damn it’s like people just look at the text and see, “(I) looked upon Elizabeth as mine—mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on her I received as made to a possession of my own.”, and they just immediately go, “Oh! Oh! Sexism! Misogyny! Victor Frankenstein is a sexist! Why does he want to create the perfect man, huh? *gasp* is it because he thinks women are inferior?”

When if those people pulled their heads out of their asses for five minutes and read the rest of that paragraph, “On the evening previous to her being brought to my home, my mother had said playfully, “I have a pretty present for my Victor—tomorrow he shall have it.” And when, on the morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally and looked upon Elizabeth as mine (…)” along with the fact that Victor explicitly says he was “about five years old”, they’d maybe consider, “huh, maybe it’s very fucked up of a mother to give her to her son as a gift and spent her entire life basically shipping these two adopted siblings together until, on her death bed, she says, “my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the prospect of your union. This expectation will now be the consolation of your father.” Wow, maybe that’s kind of fucked up. Maybe painting, again, a five year old, who was honesty for all intents and purposes pretty much just manipulated into thinking it was his duty to marry his adopted sister out of respect for his dead mother’s last wishes who died when he was seventeen, as a wife-beating woman hater who reanimated the dead to spite half the human population, is very very fucked up!”

Like I can’t stress this enough – both Elizabeth and Victor are victims here. Of course as the story goes on a bit and Victor is a grown adult man who’s still avoiding his feelings and fucking off across the continent with his buddy pal best friend every five minutes instead of facing his mistakes and emotions, yeah, he is honestly more or less to blame for Elizabeth’s death, but that isn’t misogyny. Avoidance of everything is like one of his integral character flaws.

And I mean if you thought the 1831 republication had some creepy undertones, look at the bloody original 1818 version.

“(My uncle) request(ed) my father (…) take charge of the infant Elizabeth, the only child of his deceased sister. “It is my wish,” he said, “that you should consider her as your own daughter, and educate her thus.”’

So just explicit incest, basically. And again, if you thought Victor’s mother was a bit creepy and pushy in the republication,

“I have often heard my mother say, that she was at that time the most beautiful child she had ever seen, and shewed signs even then of a gentle and affectionate disposition. These indications, and a desire to bind as closely as possible the ties of domestic love, determined my mother to consider Elizabeth as my future wife; a design which she never found reason to repent.”

“………A desire to bind as closely as possible the ties of domestic love?” My brother in Christ you were groomed. Fun fact, I read the 1818 version first and read that in the middle of form class and sat for a good five minutes staring flabbergasted at what the fuck I was reading.

So no, dear God no, nowhere in the text does it imply Victor Frankenstein hates women. I mean honestly it’s kind of shown in the way he talks about the Creature’s Bride that he doesn’t view women as objects and does, in fact, view them as people.

“He had sworn to quit the neighbourhood of man and hide himself in deserts, but she had not; and she, who in all probability was to become a thinking and reasoning animal, might refuse to comply with a compact made before her creation.”

My guy basically says “well what are we expecting her to do here, immediately marry you just because she was told to?”

(Just a fun little comparison I noticed there – not to turn the conversation back to my whole “does Victor is gay” theory but I think it is interesting that Victor thinks that, that he does go “well she can’t just be expected to marry someone just because she was told to!” and then suggests to himself that she would probably rather “turn with disgust from him to the superior beauty of man” – interesting, Victor. Like Clerval’s “form so divinely wrought, and beaming with beauty”? Interesting as well that after Victor comes to that conclusion and destroys the Bride, the Creature immediately then kills Henry and only then does Victor finally go “well. I finally have to marry Elizabeth.” Feeling disheartened by sparing her your predicament only to be thrust even deeper into your own, are we?)

But yeah. “Victor Frankenstein is a full-blown women-hating misogynist” takes really piss me off. Another case of “oooh yes let’s cherry pick the text scouring it for anything we can possibly use to turn things back around to the same few analysis points we’ll reuse over and over instead of possibly considering that just because a text is written by a woman doesn’t mean that it’s a massive rant on the patriarchy disguised as a science fiction novel.”

Maybe that’s kind of sexist itself. Maybe women can just write kick-ass gothic horror sometimes. And maybe just because a work definitely has undertones about sexism and misogyny (like, fair enough, a lot of Elizabeth’s character definitely does) that doesn’t mean that the male protagonist wants to kill all women! And surprise surprise as well, works can comment on misogyny and patriarchy and acknowledge that women are treated badly in society and have been in differing ways for hundreds of years, without going “all men are inherently evil and fuck them all”. Bit of a side rant that I won’t go all into here, but just worth mentioning that after seeing this over and over again in media and analysis of media over and over again, hey, misandry won’t fix misogyny. It just makes everything considerably stupidly worse. –your friendly neighbourhood bisexual

#gothic lit #classic literature #gothic literature #goth lit #classic lit #frankenstein #frankenstein weekly #frankenstein or the modern prometheus #Victor Frankenstein #Elizabeth Lavenza #Frankenstein analysis #Clervalstein #(kind of)#frankenstein everyday

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wrathofrats · 9 months ago

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hi hi hello could you please expand on aether's complicated feelings about dew's elemental transition? (im so hooked on your lore hdv3bdkcg)

Hi omg I’ve been meaning to write a longer official piece about this, so thank you for the excuse for something like that! I’m so happy you’re enjoying my lore side of stuff omg it makes me so giddy???

Basically going through aethers internal monologue of what he feels following the events. Reminder he is going through very heavy guilt and his feelings are a lot more dramatized than what actually happened

No one blames him, only he blames himself

Warnings for angst, guilt, mild self destructive behaviors

For the lore I’m talking about or more context please see #wraths ghost lore (not super necessary, just know aether did dews transition)

He remembers how the magic burned through his fingers.

The way he could see it creep through dews veins as he bled it in through his arms. He remembers the panicked look he gave omega who kept dewdrop subdued on the table as he screamed.

The thoughts don’t go away, haven’t left him in months. The sight of dews face twisted in pain stains the back of his eyes when he sleeps and he can’t look at him without seeing the wounds that have long since healed. It’s his handiwork at the end of the day. The scars over dew's gills are his doing, the burning flare ups dew gets in his joints are his fault. The breakdowns dew has over his new element can only be blamed on aether and he doesn’t think he will ever feel right with himself again over it.

Dews told him it’s not his fault more times than he can count. The now fire ghoul can feel the shame and pity that aether stares at him with.

“I wanted this aeth” dew rubs his hand over aethers shoulder “it had to be done”

“I know” aether leans into the touch.

But he doesn’t

The blood on his hands doesn’t seem to dry. No amount of reassurance that he had to do it takes the guilt away.

There are people out there that have to put down sick dogs, and aether wonders if the blood on their hands disappears when they clock out. Aether wonders if maybe that’s his fate too. If his job was something akin to putting down a sick dog. If he’s intervened in a divine destiny and he’s only created some half put together Frankenstein of his own friend.

He wonders if he’s only simply prolonged the inevitable.

And even if he did save dew he wonders if it was fair to have the responsibility put on himself. A god of force and not of willingness.

The sight of dew sometimes is too much to handle. Not because of any physical shock, he still looks like his dew, but the knowledge of the pain makes aethers stomach crawl up his throat. Dew would’ve been better off without him, he’s sure of it considering how he only seems to hurt him. The thought reassures itself more and more as the time passes. Dews' desperate attempts to wrangle his friend from the depths of guilt only make him feel worse. This shouldn’t be his job. Not after what he’s been through.

Aether retreats. Closes himself off more and more from those who wish to support him most. The genuine belief that he’s harmed someone is truly more than he can bear to handle, let alone to constantly see the fruits of his labor tell him how much he loves him.

His door stays locked most days. His relationships slip from his fingers in his own self wallowing. A recluse of his own fault but

Is there a more fitting fate for him?

#this hurt to write #when I can I wanna do a longer series on this #some kind of chaptered fic maybe?#if there’s interest?#who knows #I have so many projects LMAO #but I hope you all enjoy #the band ghost #ghost #nameless ghouls #ghost bc #fanfic #wrath writes #aether ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #wrath’s ghost lore

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tiredlilguy · 1 year ago

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BSD|The Flags Poly HC's

come get your girl dinner, you know who you are cw: not proofread, suggestive//, a little fucked up (what do you expect though... they're mafia) notes: not adding chuuya because he was 16 at the same time they were around their 20's, reader suggested to be around their age. im just trying to cope with the recent chapter ;-;

I feel like Pianoman, Lippman, and Albatross would probably be the most provocative and louder lovers, while Iceman and Doc are kind of like “they’ll come around to me when they want to” attitude

Pianoman LOVES having you on his lap, he’s always using his “leader privilege” to be able to hold you the longest

Pianoman is handsy, but Alb is clingy… like Pianoman would be the one to try and sneak a hand to your ass, but Alb just likes hugs and holding you

Speaking of Alb, he definitely likes to steal you away all the time

Can and will just take you out of a cafe date with Lippman so then he can drive you to some random empty parking lot in the middle of nowhere just to make out with you

You have them all of a leash, and they will be there at your beck and call

Bet if you’re in trouble with something (they know very well you’re capable), doesn’t matter if it’s personal or not, they’re there

Iceman is a simp, I can definitely see him trying to be chill about your attention being on everyone else, but he’s a little jealous… he won’t say anything though

One time, Lippmann was watching Pianoman’s hand that was on your thigh as you were sitting on his lap. Pianoman eventually noticed and looked up at Lippman with a smirk and said: “ You wanna join?”

You ended up in between them that night (god, I desperately want that to be me)

You hear all the hospital drama from doc:

“ You remember […]?”

“ Yeah?”

“ Well they lost their other leg. When I tell you that I’m probably going to run out of prosthetics to put on this guy… Though, I may consider trying to Frankenstein them with a new leg. What do you think?”

Doc gifts you flowers, but he always gets the ones that are small (he thinks that they are like him, so that’s why he gets them for you), OR he’d gift you jars of severed limbs/eyes/etc

If he does surgery on you, he’s going to find some way to give you an extra organ and just not tell you about it. I guess enjoy your new third kidney babes (this is a crack hc, but I did see it from a meme)

Albatross seems like the typa guy to gift you a taxidermied animal, idk why… he gives me those vibes, like how a crow will gift you a dead mouse as thanks for saving it (Albatross is the name of a bird after all)

NO ACTUALLY, ALB DEFINITELY GIFTS ILLEGAL FISH/WHALE BONES

He’s definitely a genius at getting stuff on the black market (I mean, he can operate and fix every/any vehicle), probably had the highest bid on like an extinct whale tooth and smuggled it in to gift to you somehow

Doc and alb are fucked in the head, they just wanna show you that they love you

Anyways

Iceman seems like the type to gift you either old records, things that remind you of him, or things the reminds him of you

Lippman gifts really expensive things like designer bags or clothing

Pianoman doesn’t seem like much of a gift person, but he’d probably get you something more sentimental: like a simple (but expensive) necklace, or very romantic letters

Lippmann LOVES to spoil you: literally will take you to everything, always has you at any of his interviews (though you’re probably in disguise), or at movie/tv show shoots

Iceman definitely likes to have you to himself, he doesn’t mind the poly relationship, but if you’re with him, he doesn’t like to share

That said, if he does have you for a night, bet it’s going to be a good night (in both ways)

If you are getting shared it’s most likely pianoman + Lippmann or alb + doc

Though of course the six of you are always together, I mean hey, u got the cream of the crop of the Port Mafia all to yourself

If you get signed a solo mission, at least one of them is either going with you or watching you on the sidelines

One time it ended up being where all of them showed up and they comedically fell out from behind a corner (the sillies)

I can imagine a scenario where you all end up going on a vacation to somewhere where there’s a beach

It was Lippmann’s idea

The end goal was to see you in swimwear- like that was the original idea… they’re horndogs

Pianoman puts his coat on you if you’re feeling cold, likes to see you put the sleeves on and see the coat sort of pool over you

Trust, if someone hurts you, that person is getting their ass demolished, beaten tf up, burned, sunk into the ground, dead as hell

They’d probably make a mess of the person who hurt you, so much so that the person is beyond recognition

Probably the one time that they let Albatross go loose (he’s probably beating the shit out of the dead body)

They do love you, they’re just a little fucked in the head

The skrunklies

#bsd #bsd the flags #the flags #the flags x reader #bsd the flags x reader #pianoman bsd #lippman bsd #doc bsd #albatross bsd #iceman bsd #pianoman x reader #lippman x reader #doc x reader #albatross x reader #iceman x reader #so many tags for these boys omo..#mono writes

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spaceagebachelormann · 11 months ago

Note

Platonic hcs for Adam Frankenstein and a gender neutral reader that befriends him? hope you’re having a great day btw!

platonic adam frankenstein hcs !

✧ warnings: some swearing

✧ additional info: oh my god i got so excited when i saw this request by all means pls send more for my classic monsters m.list and/or phantom of the opera (if you’ve seen it ofc) this made me so happy ur an angel. also can be read as either the book or movie versions <3

✧ m.list — nav.

so like

he’d probably be intimidated when u first come across him

like he doesn’t trust you but he isn’t going to hurt you because he doesn’t have a reason

you probably need to show him ur not gonna do anything before he stops trying to get away from u

and when that happens he’ll still be a bit suspicious

just start by introducing urself and explaining ur intentions and he’ll calm down

he finally introduces himself to u as gently as he can cause he doesn’t wanna like. scare u away ofc

once he gets comfortable he’s such a good friend

one of the first things he does is ask u abt ur life cause he feels like it’s important to know what ur friends lives are like (he’s right go check up on ur friends rn if ur reading this 😒)

he knows he can’t like stay with u (probably) and u can’t stay with him so he gets kinda sad when u leave

goodbye hugs absolutely happen!!

and he’s super gentle cause he’s really strong and could easily crush u

also def gives head pats

erm anyway

typa guy to walk into ur house like he lives there (if u live alone)

but if he doesn’t i feel like you would be going to wherever tf he is more than him coming to u

and he gets so happy if u just show up unexpectedly

like that shit makes him more happy than showing up on scheduled time

and if ur ever late cause u had a problem for someone else oh my god

a) u came to the right person because he’s very sweet and understanding and will listen to u and give input if u ask

b) he’ll stomp that mf like a bug if u want him too

c) his hugs are fucking amazing

he’s so good at comforting <3

other than that he’d probably know how to cook from living alone so he’d like making u food

even if u don’t ask he has something ready for u

and you WILL eat it or i’m gonna come after u 😒

would also randomly bring u gifts as a thank you for befriending him because now he isn’t as lonely and has someone to talk to! <3

the thought of him like getting all happy when u come through the door to see him is making me so happy and sad at the same time he’s such a cutie patootie

this one might take some time. but once he’s rlly rlly comfortable he’ll prob tell u abt what happened with victor

was mainly afraid of telling u cause he wasn’t sure how u would react

has so much more respect for u when u aren’t rude to him abt it <3

if u have any random drama bro is invested

“SHE DID WHAT” core

will think ur in the right literally no matter what

u could’ve done some shit scandalous and he’s defending u

u could probably help him come outside more cause he’d always be inside

just say to him “hey we should go for a walk!!” and with a bit of convincing ur suddenly outside in the woods on a walk

THE ANIMALS LOVE HIM SO MUCH

like it’s so cute he’s sitting on the ground trying to pay attention to 15 animals at once

even if he’s deformed they know hes rlly sweet and wouldn’t do anything to them

also he’d fucking love picnics

like just sitting there and listening to u talk abt whatever

he loves it <3

#mars writing 🧈#frankenstein (marlees version 🫀)#adam frankenstein #frankenstein #victor frankenstein #frankenstein x reader #adam frankenstein x reader

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candycandy00 · 2 years ago

Text

Trending Topics - A Dabi x Reader Fanfic

I intended to post this on Saturday in honor of Dabi's Dance being animated but I finished it earlier than expected and I have no patience so I'm unleashing it to the world now, a few hours early lol. I hope everyone enjoys!

Smut. 18+. Rough sex. Creampie. Probably some other stuff I'm forgetting. Oh yeah, spoilers for Dabi's Dance!

Dabi leans back on the couch and holds his phone up to his face. “Let’s see what everyone has to say about my old man now,” he mutters, opening various social media apps to see what the general public’s reaction to his shocking video was. He could already imagine the outrage over the abuse allegations, the anger over the number one hero raising a violent murderer. He could also imagine the fanboys who would defend Endeavor no matter what, who would go to online war with the detractors who were horrified by Dabi’s video. All of it would be amusing to read through. Dabi will enjoy the online chaos. So he grins wickedly as he opens Twitter.

The names Dabi, Endeavor, and Todoroki Touya are already trending. Naturally. But then Dabi notices a few other “trending topics” that catch his eye. “#Dabisofine”, “#Touyasohot”, and “#SteponmeDabi” are all trending. Surprised and curious, Dabi begins clicking through some of the posts. After a few minutes, he sits up from the couch and stares at the screen incredulously. The tweets flashing by his eyes are definitely not what he expected the result of his video to be.

“OMG Dabi is so fucking hot! How have I never seen this guy before?”

“Okay Touya is definitely the sexiest Todoroki. Just look at him!”

“All I can say is, Dabi can light a fire in my panties any day!”

“Y’all… the things I would let Todoroki Touya do to me…”

“I want Dabi to rail me until I can’t walk.”

Dabi isn’t sure what to think about this. On one hand, he’s a little mad that his big dramatic reveal has been overtaken by posts like this. There’s even a long thread of posts and replies arguing over whether or not his dick has staples in it (it does, and the urge to tell them so wells up within him for a brief moment before dying away). But on the other hand, he feels… flattered? He’s never once thought of himself as sexy or even remotely good looking. All that scarring, all those burns… he felt like Frankenstein’s monster.

Years ago, he’d pretty much resigned himself to never having a lover. Who would want to even touch someone who looked like him? But it didn’t bother him all that much. After all, he was so focused on his revenge, he didn’t really have time for romance anyway. He’d shoved any thoughts of sex or love far away into the back of his mind. Of course he has hormones. He’s human, after all. Occasionally he even has urges, but he takes care of those himself.

Now though, reading through these tweets, those urges he’d shoved down are resurfacing. Out of curiosity, he clicks on the profile of the person who made that last tweet about wanting him to “rail” them. There are pictures of a very pretty young woman who looks to be in her early twenties. He also finds more posts about him.

“God, Dabi is so fine. Those scars really do it for me.”

“I wish I could feel that skin. All over me. I don’t care if he’s a villain.”

“Endeavor is a fucking monster. How could anyone treat such a beautiful person so badly?!”

Then more pictures of the woman. One of them in particular catches Dabi’s attention. It looks like she’s standing on the balcony of an apartment. In the background, he can see a restaurant sign straight across from her that he recognizes. Also in the background are several plants in colorful pots, sitting around her balcony.

Dabi rereads her tweets, then comes to a decision. He grins as he heads out the door.

*****

You hum to yourself as you water your potted plants on your balcony, then check your phone. There are tons of notifications from Twitter. Your posts about Dabi, Todoroki Touya, are getting a lot of likes. They’re also getting the attention of some seriously pathetic Endeavor fans who are trying, and failing, to justify the hero’s behavior. Some of them are just outright saying it’s all a lie, that Dabi’s video is just a phony hit piece. You can’t believe how naive they are, or maybe they’re just willfully ignorant. Either way, you’re already running through arguments and points in your mind that you can shoot back with as you step back into your apartment, leaving the glass door to your balcony open.

You step over to the sink and pour yourself a glass of water, still scrolling through replies with one hand, completely absorbed in your phone. A sudden sound, like a heavy thud, comes from your balcony as you’re walking back toward the door, about halfway through your small living room.

You look up from your phone and see Dabi himself standing just inside the door. He gives you a grin and says, “What was it you want me to do again? Rail you until you can’t walk?”

The glass of water slips from your hand and crashes on the floor. You don’t even look down at it. Your eyes are glued to this extremely sexy villain standing in your living room. One who has apparently read all the pervy tweets you made about him. Your mouth falls open, but you have no idea what to say.

He takes one step closer. “Or did you want to feel my skin all over you? Well, here I am.”

“Oh my God,” you finally manage to say, still staring at him. “Is this really happening?”

He tilts his head to the side, his hair falling over one bright blue eye. “That’s up to you.”

You slowly step closer to him, as if he’ll disappear if you approach too quickly. He’s gorgeous, but he’s still a villain. You don’t want to upset him. But damn, you really want to touch him. Maybe just ask for permission?

“Can I… touch you?” you ask.

“That’s what I’m here for,” he says, his grin showing his teeth.

You take one more step, effectively closing the distance between you and him. You reach out one hand and gently touch the side of his face, feeling the spaces where the scarring and healthy skin meet, your fingers grazing over the staples and piercings. You watch his expression, but it remains unchanged. Clearly, he’s not bothered by this.

“You’re so beautiful,” you say in a quiet voice, the words slipping out before you think them through.

Something shifts in his eyes. For a split second, the playful deviance vanishes and something else, something heartbreaking, takes its place. But then he grins again and says, “Look who’s talking.”

Does that mean he thinks you’re beautiful too? You feel a blush creep into your face. “Are you really here to rail me?” you ask.

“Do you really want me to?” he shoots back.

When you answer, your voice is more breathless than you expected. “More than anything.”

He reaches behind him and pulls the door shut, then follows you to your bedroom. As soon as you enter the room, you begin pulling your clothes off. Dabi watches you, not yet taking any of his clothing off. You feel like you’re doing a strip tease, with his eyes following your every move. It’s making heat spread through your body.

When you’re completely naked, you approach him and tug at his jacket. He lets you slide it off his shoulders and drop it on the floor, then he pulls his shirt over his head. You’ve seen him shirtless in the video, but nothing compares to seeing that lovely two-tone skin in person. Dabi’s eyes shift to the floor for a moment. Is he self-conscious about the scars? It seems ludicrous to you, especially since he was willing to show them off to the world in the video. But maybe showing them to someone in person is different.

You can’t help yourself, you have to touch him. You press both hands to his chest and slide them down, gingerly feeling the staples and the different textures of his skin. “It’s amazing,” you whisper.

His eyes shift back to you, and there’s an unreadable expression on his face. Not exactly embarrassed. Not exactly proud. It’s something like surprise, like no one has ever touched him before. “You have a scar fetish or something?” he asks, the playful tone seeming like a mask for whatever he’s actually feeling.

“I don’t know if I’d call it a fetish. I do like scars though. They’re unique to the person who carries them. They tell a story.”

He’s looking into your eyes now as your hands slide down to unbutton his pants. “And what story do mine tell?”

You meet his gaze and say, “One that’s very painful, I can imagine. I’d love to know the whole story someday. For now, I just think they’re mesmerizing to look at, and they feel incredible to the touch.” By this point you’ve pushed his pants down to his ankles, and he steps out of them. He’s not wearing underwear, and you can see all the glorious lines of scarring and staples across his thighs and hips. His cock is unscarred, but there are a few staples in it. You wonder about their purpose, but don’t ask.

Your hands run down his body, over his abdomen, moving around him to brush over his well-toned ass, and then you take his cock into one of your hands and lightly stroke it. It’s been growing harder by the moment, and the motion of your hand is speeding that process up.

Dabi sucks in air through his teeth, his eyes closing and opening slowly like a cat’s. Once he’s fully erect, he reaches down and pulls your hand away. “You’ve been looking me over this whole time. I think I should get a turn.”

With that, he suddenly picks you up and carries you to the bed. The feel of his bare skin on yours sends shivers through your body, and you miss the feel of it when he sits you down on the mattress. You scoot back to give him room, and he gently pushes your legs apart. He hovers over you, his eyes moving all over you, his hands finally reaching out to grope your breasts. His hands are firm and warm as they knead the plump mounds, then he scoots back slightly and leans forward, so that his head is positioned close to your groin.

Dabi uses his fingers to spread open your flesh and look at what’s inside. Then he leans even closer and runs his tongue along the inner folds, tasting your arousal. When his tongue hits your clit, you arch your back and moan. Dabi looks up at you with that unreadable expression again, like he’s just now understanding how much you really want him.

Then he grins again, because he’s discovered your weak spot. His tongue traces circles around your clit, making you squirm beneath him, wanting him to hit the bullseye again. He finally has mercy on you and closes his lips around the sensitive nub, sucking on it before running his tongue over it again. He even lightly grazes it with his teeth.

You cry out in pleasure, running one hand through his soft white hair and using the other to grip the sheets beside you. What name should you call out? Dabi? Touya? You’re not sure, so you so you stick to moans and wordless cries as he absolutely devours you. When you cum, it’s like a tsunami has hit your body, rocking it with wave after wave of rippling pleasure. Your whole body tenses up, your toes curl, and your hand in his hair tightens.

After a few seconds, your body relaxes, and Dabi pulls away, licking his lips. You feel weak, but you see the raging erection between his legs and know you can’t rest yet. He still hasn’t done what he came here to do. You reach for him, placing your hands on his scarred shoulders and pulling him toward you. You want, no need, him inside you. It’s an ache you felt the moment his video started. When you saw that body, those glowing blue eyes, that expression of carefully contained rage and pain… you wanted him like nothing before.

He lingers on top of you, not doing anything, just watching your face. Why is he hesitating? You try to pull him closer, but he’s not budging.

“Please,” you whimper, spreading your legs further apart, giving him the easiest access you can, “do it!”

Desire and lust seem to flame in his eyes. He wants to, you know it. But he waits. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do,” he says, his voice husky and low. Oh, now you see. He wants you to beg for it. Well, you can certainly do that.

You raise your hips from the bed and rub you drenched pussy across the underside of his cock. “Please, I want you inside me! Please fuck me!”

That seemed to do the trick. He smiles as he positions himself just right, then shoves his cock all the way in. He’s so much bigger than you expected, filling you up completely. As he pulls out a few inches, the staples scrape your insides in such a delicious way, you can’t help moaning again. He begins a rhythm of thrusting in and out, slowly at first and then picking up speed. You look up at him, and he’s thrown his head back, his eyes closed, his hands gripping your thighs.

He’s definitely railing you now, but it’s not enough. You might be able to walk tomorrow. In a panting voice, you cry out, “Harder!”

He opens his eyes and looks at your face, sees the lusty desperation there, and suddenly thrusts in so hard that you imagine his cock has entered your womb. His hands move to your waist, where he holds you steady as he pounds you into the mattress, every thrust feeling like it might just break your bones.

You love it. This is what you wanted. This man, this gorgeous, pained, scarred, unique person, being so deep inside you. One of his hands moves to your breast, where he roughly squeezes it. You’re going to be covered in bruises when this is over, but you’ll look at each one with joy.

Your hands are above your head, holding onto the brass headboard for dear life. Dabi moves his hand from your breast down to your clit, where he rubs it, hard enough to make you wince. You were already so sensitive from the earlier action, you cum again on the spot, your body convulsing with your orgasm.

Dabi doesn’t let up, continuing to fuck you as hard as he can as you tremble under him, tears falling from your eyes. You let go of the headboard and lift your weak, shaky arms to wrap them around his neck. To your surprise, he moves his hand from your sore clit and uses it to hold your head up, closer to him, his fingers intertwining with your hair in a gentle fashion. It’s an intimate gesture you didn’t expect from him, even as he rails you as promised. Finally, he cums inside you, filling you with hot sticky fluid, his grip on your waist tightening but the hand in your hair remaining soft. When he’s done, he pulls out and falls onto the bed beside you. You want to cuddle up to him, but you’re not sure how he would react to that. You just met. It’s not like you’re in a relationship.

After a few minutes, your naked body has cooled slightly, so you pull a sheet over the both of you. You reach over to the nightstand to get your phone and ask, “Would you mind if I take a picture of us?”

He looks over at you and says, “What, as a souvenir?”

You blush a little as you answer. “Yeah.”

He scoots closer to you and says, “Sure.”

You hold the phone up, pointing the camera at your faces. It’s obvious the two of you are topless, but you make sure the bottom of the image cuts off just before your tits are shown. You snap the picture and smile as you look at it. “Thanks,” you say.

Dabi gets out of bed and begins putting his clothes back on. “Are you gonna post it?”

You look up at him. “Hmm?”

“The picture. Are you gonna post it on Twitter?”

“Do you mind if I do?”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t bother me.”

You smile and open Twitter, add some comments and hashtags, and post the photo. Dabi pulls on his boots and says, “I better go. If I found your place from looking at your pictures, I’m sure the heroes can too.”

You suddenly regret posting it. “Wait, does that mean you can’t come back here?”

He looks at you with that unreadable expression again. “Do you want me to come back?”

“Of course I do!”

There’s a small notebook and a pen lying on your nightstand. Dabi picks them up and writes something down. “Here’s my number. Call me and we can meet up somewhere.”

You feel an incredible sense of relief. You can still see him. You can call him, maybe even get to know him for real. You take the notebook in your hands and cradle it, as if it’s a treasure. “Thanks,” you say.

Dabi shrugs again, rubbing the back of his head casually. “No problem,” he says back, seeming just a little awkward about it. “See you around then.”

He leaves through the balcony door, and you start humming happily to yourself again as you head for the shower.

*****

Once Dabi gets back to the hideout, he pulls out his phone and checks Twitter. There’s a new post by his new favorite user. There’s the picture of the two of you. Beneath it is a caption, as well as some hashtags. As he reads it, a grin spreads across his face, and then he breaks out into laughter.

“Got railed by the hottest Todoroki! Best day ever! #Dabisofine #Yesithasstaples #Villainsdoitbetter #EatshitEndeavor”

#Dabi x Reader #Dabi x You #Dabi Smut #Dabi #Touya Todoroki #Todoroki Touya #Dabi Fanfiction

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suddenly-frankenstein · 5 months ago

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Hello! Fellow Frankenstein freak here! I have to ask, what's your favorite Frankenstein movie you've seen? Not necessarily the best one, but your favorite one. I made myself watch about 25 last year for reasons (that's as many as I could watch in one week for free, dating from 1910 to the early 2000s) and they're all so bizarre. I love talking about them so much, I love watching peoples faces when I tell them that one time Sting played Frankenstein, and in that same movie The Creature and his buddy are targeted by the Circus Mafia. Or how at least one version of Victor Frankenstein has an alligator pit. Or how Kenneth Branagh made Robert De Niro be birthed out of instapot and then they spend like 30 seconds slipping in Mysterious Science Goop before the plot continues.

TLDR; I don't know anyone else who is as obsessed with this stuff as I am and would love to hear your thoughts lmao

damn, my biggest problem is that I've watched so many of them few years ago, that I mostly don't remember anything :")

but I definitely have some that I still think about constantly!! maybe the first one and the most special in my eyes is "Frankenstein: The True Story" (1973), because in this movie Victor REALLY cared about the Creature and TOOK THE RESPONSIBILITY. he taught him things, he spent time with him – and when the Creature started to decay and lose temper, yeah, he decided to lock him, but Victor was going to lock himself as well so the Creature wouldn't be dying alone. and they even had a hug!! (still everything ended up terribly, but it was interesting to see this responsible version of Victor, not canonical book version, but also not usual movie mad scientist either).

well, speaking of classics and mad scientists – I love first two movies of UNIVERSAL's franchise, rewatch them from time to time. And within the Hammer's franchise I like the third (if I remember right) movie – "The Evil of Frankenstein", even though it mostly is called the worst of them all lmao. I just think it was funny and not annoying like the other. and I also LOVE the first several minutes of the first movie – "The Curse of Frankenstein" with the young Victor played by Melvyn Hayes, because OH HE WAS DEFINITELY SERVING. for me this young Victor was the closest to the book from all of the versions of him.

(I even did a funny edit of him once, here, lmao)

the most controversial version but I can't NOT TO THINK ABOUT IT – it's "Flesh for Frankenstein" of course (not even speaking about the plot, but god how I hate color correction in most of the 70's movies, these colors usually make me sick almost physically).

but well, uh, how the hell I was surprised when Udo Kier's Frankenstein turned out to look SO DAMN CLOSE to like I always draw him (I mean just give him another nose shape and he will look exactly how I imagine Victor) :") just hello??? DAMN

also want to mention "Terror of Frankenstein" (1977) movie, because they have an interesting design of the Creature here (finally black lips yaaay!) and sweet sweet Clerval (I hate that most of the movies are throwing him and Justine out of the plot :(( )

AND ALSO!! not movies, but I LOVE LOVE LOVE these adaptations – Frankenstein: the Metal Opera, 2014 (you can find its official record for free on youtube) and Frankenstein, the Royal Ballet, 2017!! I, personally, enjoyed them both very much

well, these ones are some of the movies I think the most about, I guess :")

really thank you for your question!!

#oh it turned out to be kinda long #I have no idea when to shut up 😅#but hope it was somehow interesting!!#victor frankenstein #frankestein #my ask

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pumpkinsy0 · 8 months ago

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Do u have headcanons about or what do you think about a 90s or 00s AU (maybe) where Curly Shepard is a punk and Ponyboy a goth or a babybat? ^_^ Like imagine purly but ponyboy tries to show his obsession for edgar allan poe and curly or the gang JUST DON'T GET IT 😭

wym anon that literally already IS purly🙄🙄

BUT YEA I DO HAVE HCS!!!! o(^-^)o

(for context who dont know, baby at is the name for like ppl who r newly goth basically, theyre just starting out listening to music n stuff like that)

•since curly is punk here and the whole idea of punks is essentially anti establishment and love individuality i will NOT make him make fun of pony for being goth, especially when hes a babybat hes just embracing himself

•also curly is curly i feel like hes a bit morbid himself and would be at the very least interested in edgar allen poe, so even if he wasnt punk he wouldnt make fun of pony for liking him, even if he does thats just bc hes being friendly and just does NOT like poetry

•ill place this in like, late 90s and early 2000s, so there is that huge thing against goths and punks for being ‘weird’ and against god or something along those lines

•curlys pretty used to being targeted for being different for his punk style and such while pony isnt exactly used to that so i imagine that hes more protective while ponys trying to figure himself out in that regard

•some bands pony would b interested in is evanescence, the cure, and siouxsie and the banshees, london after midnight, of course there IS more but these r like more so his favs

•how pony found out about gothic bands was like, a song was playing in darrys car radio and darry didnt rlly like it so he changed it but the song was already stuck in ponys head

•he brought it up to curly but pony was just like ‘idk maybe itll pass’, it in fact DID not pass and later they was just chillin in curlys car and the song came back on the radio and pony was like ‘neuron activated’

•curly was personally not rlly into the song, but hey, ponys happy so its whatever

•personally i imagine that pony doesnt have a gothic STYLE more so he has a love for gothic songs and literature, yknow what i mean??? but maybe he does borrow some clothes from curly thats more on the gothic side or thrifts some clothes

•other than edgar allen poe, he does like phantom of the opera, frankenstein, dracula, carmilla, dr jekyll and mr hyde, also he would like ruby gloom (thank my gf for this hc)

•his art style is kinda influenced by those media actually

•as for what type of goth he is i could mostly see him being like a geek goth, but he is interested in the looks of victorian goths and gothabilly goths

IVE BEEN TALKING ABOUT PONY FOR TOO LONG NOW ON ABOUT CURLY

•tbh, not much to add for this guy, punk curly is literally just regular curly but more understanding of who he is and what he wants in the world yknow??

•think of curly but actually a lil more, idk thought provoking in his own curly way with a better understanding of the world

•MAY I INSERT MY HC OF CURLY HAVIN AN AFRO MOHAWK HERE🗣️🗣️

•he is from a haitian household tho and haitian moms especially tend to be more, religious and all that jazz, so while tim and angela get their ears yelled off for well being them, its especially happening to curly bc in his moms eyes hes “turning away from god” n what not being a “vagabon” as many haitian moms would put it

•he likes customizing his own clothes, he thrifts and gets a bunch of hand me downs so might as well make them look cooler

•hes a graffiti artist and hes acc pretty well known, everyone knows its him but they dont rlly say anything cause 1) hes curly shepard but 2) his work rlly isnt that bad actually

•i could totally see him liking green day and he does NOT like fall out boy but he does like a coulle of songs from them (much to his dismay

•hes picking up guitar (how he afforded it??? i payed for it lets just say that)

WHEN IT COMES TO THE GANG, they dont rlly get pony being goth, they support him of course, but they do tend to make fun of him a bit</33 but darry, soda, and johnny do try to understand him more, its rlly just two

ps anon my gf said she loves u for ur idea (shes goth, u got the goth stamp of approval)

#curly shepard #ponyboy curtis #purly #tim shepard #angela shepard #darry curtis #darrel curtis #dallas winston #sodapop curtis #johnny cade #two bit mathews #steve randle

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shallowseeker · 3 months ago

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It's so interesting too, that in sundering themselves from their humble backgrounds, Crowley and Rowena mirror that which was inflicted on them, trying to become their oppressors (a Godstiel theme, if you care):

In Hell, Crowley is a king who commands no respect and begets no real loyalty. He's become a classist bastard. Dark ages-mentality.

Along with Rowena, Crowley inflicts pain on the ones "beneath" him, trampling the rebellious demons, especially the ones that stand up for "equal pay for equal work."

///

And it's not exactly as Crowley tells Sam at the end of s10—a long con to "change" Hell for the better.

That's a half-truth Crowley is using to make himself feel better.

A LOT of Crowley's behavior has been shown to be flagrant, for his own amusement to satisfy his own pain and loneliness. We got to see that all season long. Even before Rowena showed!

This line is intended to appeal to Sam and soothe Crowley's deeply wounded humanity. It's another version of "for the greater good."

Sam also uses things like this to pad his own wounded humanity.

///

In Girls, Girls, Girls, Crowley insists that "human trafficking is tacky," which is another form of padding to protect his pride. This helps Crowley look away from reality. He did the same, trafficking Dean to Cain, as Randy trafficked Claire to Randy in order to get a stronghold against his enemies/debt.

Most importantly, Crowley is looking away from the fact that his clients are all selling their souls, that his Hell-workers have already sold theirs.

But most importantly, he's looking away from the fact that he trafficked himself. That's how he got here. Crowley, like Rowena, was dealt a horrible hand.

It's as in 10x21:

STYNES: There's always profit to be made from desperation.

///

And it's no accident that s10 dead-ends in themes of Frankenstein.

Crowley wanted to rule over Hell, but in Demon Dean, he wanted to patchwork someone together who could "see what he sees, feel what he feels."

Dean becomes Crowley's very own Nick the SIren, an immature combination of all things familiar, someone "just like me!"

And when Dean fled to Anne-Marie, to his "humanity," Crowley was gob-smacked. "That's someone the old you would fall for," he says. Spoiler alert: Dean was falling for her. Anne-Marie is, in essence, a stand-in for Dean's humanity.

Dean and Anne-Marie linger in the spectre of Daniel and Adina, Adina resembling Anne-Marie AND Dean, wanting to go "somewhere else," and Daniel like Cain in: "just wanting to be left alone." (It's no wonder, then, that it is Crowley who kills Adina.)

Dean was supposed to be Crowley's perfect Hell-"Queen," someone just like him. But Dean wasn't a queen. He wasn't a lot of things people wanted him to be.

Not what John wanted, not what God wanted.

Dean wasn't even a proper knight. As much as Cain pegged him for a mirror, as being "just like Cain himself," Dean didn't do ANYTHING Cain predicted because Cain, like Chuck, like the audience, has got Dean dead wrong.

Dean is Dean.

He's not John. He's not Crowley, and he sure as Hell isn't Cain.

///

Next,

Let's note that in 10x21, a girl was killed and her EYES were taken. This is emphasized for many reasons.

But in a big way, this blindness mirrors Demon Dean himself. His "pretty black peepers." Crowley said to him, "See what I see, feel what I feel."

These themes swirl around the whole season because as Dean is reckoning with what Crowley did to him, Crowley is reckoning with his own life.

What Rowena did to him. With his original, terrible, abusive human life. With his own demon deal.

To Crowley, it seemed like Dean could be the answer, the balm to his boredom, to his lack of purpose and, like with Amara being wounded by Chuck, a Holy tourniquet to that core wound left in Crowley by Rowena.

///

Aside/// Dean is more successful than Crowley:

Crowley gets much of his kingdom through MOC!Dean's battle prowess/defeat of Abbadon. Dean's sacrifices are the foundation of Crowley's current kingdom and ability to succeed.

There's an off-key parallel with Sam here. Dean's sacrifices in many ways enabled Sam to go to college and have a chance to succeed.

Even now, Sam gets a lot of friendship and love by proxy through Dean's preexisting, strongly forged connections. In season 10, we see Sam at his worst: Sam manipulates others via the loyalty Dean has earned.

Sam's (and Rowena's and Crowley's) lack of social grace and inability to make friends stand in stark contrast to characters like Dean. Sam, Rowena, and Crowley feel like outsiders, and they can't reckon with why. Even getting power and status doesn't seem to help them, and that frustrates them all!

SPN has plenty of other outsiders, sure. But I get the sense that Sam, Crowley, and Rowena struggle more than others do.

Even with awkward characters like Cas, people seem to follow him even when he doesn't want them to. People don't naturally follow Sam, (and actually, it's even more complicated than that—he's afraid of leading). Sam really has to work on it with the AU hunters.

By comparision, Dean, Mary, Cas, and Jack, all characters with big hearts, seem effortlessly able to form these deep connections. They don't seem to need recipes or a rulebook for "How to Win Friends and Influence."

(Aside/// It doesn't save big-hearted characters from getting duped, of course, and respectively, Cas and Dean are fresh off being manipulated by Metatron and Crowley!)

///

But anyway, Crowley wants to be top dog, and it's a losing battle.

Crowley denigrates those who remain loyal to him, calling them stupid and useless, and one wonders if this is what Crowley heard daily after his mother left and he went into the workhouse?

As a leader, it's not a good look for Crowley, and it's shown that his behavior actually makes him a weaker king, not a stronger one. He becomes paranoid that their loyalty is cheap and that they'd betray him the first chance they get.

And well. He's right.

Interestingly, it's this that Sam senses in him—this that Sam hates. It's a self-hatred, too. It's about the rigged game, maestro!

///

Rowena hates what Sam represents; Sam hates what Crowley represents

Rowena hates The Men of Letters. At first, spitting on Sam and Dean is a big "fuck you" to the upper class.

So, too, does Sam spit on Crowley as emblematic of Hell, as emblematic of the thing that had tried to lure Sam in as a "boy-king," a promise of power but with the harsh reality of only being needed ONLY for his parts (meat suit).

Sam beats on Crowley because he can't beat on Ruby, or on Lucifer, or on John. Because (and Sam's not exactly wrong!), "because Crowley has it coming."

Crowley killed their loved ones (Sarah, etc). Then he duped Dean and dangled him in front of Cain as cannon fodder for his war.

(But it isn't all Crowley's fault! It's the system of Hell at fault.)

///

And the Crowley-Metatron parallels are delicious, too...

Metaron duped Cas and used him as cannon fodder for his war. Then Metatron ordered their loves ones (Kevin) to be killed.

(But it isn't all Metatron's fault. It's the system of Heaven.)

///

They're ALL in Hell, in one way or another. In a sense, they're climbing down off the rack to stick it to perfect scapegoats (monsters, demons, whatever) who "have it coming."

Metatron and Crowley are also intrinsically linked. They both have extremely UGLY family wounds, and they're slowly falling towards their own humanity.

///

Preying on desperation isn't just a demon thing:

You know the ruse: finding vulnerable people and preying on them by promising them either protection or something to protect their families.

Like Cas preyed on Jimmy, like Dean manipulated Kevin emotionally, like Metatron preyed on Cas, like Crowley dangled Dean in front of Cain then used him as a Hell-worker, like Randy swooped in on Claire, like Rowena is trying to prey on Crowley.

YET. Sam doesn't want to admit that he's done the same! He swooped in on Lester when he was at his lowest in order to manipulate him, like Sam's using Charlie's love for Dean to get her to go whole-hog into a dangerous mission.)

///

The backdrop of forgiveness:

Interesting then, that you have this whole backdrop of forgiveness: Claire forgiving Randy, Dean forgiving Crowley, Claire forgiving her mom, Cole forgiving Dean, Claire forgiving Cas.

Crowley laments that Rowena is a liar, and Dean frankly calls him out about lying to him and setting him up to be the fall-boy with the Mark, "guess it runs in the family."

Cas laments that he can't put Claire in danger, and she calls him out too, "Anything else, you mean."

But it's not THAT simple either! Even "virtuous, forgiving" characters like Dean and Claire are still spiraling down into hunting, and Cas is still eagerly sticking his knife into low-level demon-soldiers.

No one's hands are clean, not even those who symbolize forgiveness and change. It's so messy!

///

It's so interesting, then. How Sam and Rowena mirror each other more directly.

They can't seem to forgive anything. Because they can't bear, in all of their stalwart perfectionism, to really look at themselves.

Sam can't forgive Crowley. He can't forgive himself.

Sam goes through the motions of "a team effort" with Charlie and Cas, but like Rowena, he trades more easily in the business of selective truths and manipulation.

And that's a big thing, isn't it? Sam, Rowena, and Crowley are alike in this manner.

They want people beside them to assuage their own wounds.

They tend to rule in fits of misguided ruthlessness and subterfuge to get people into positions where they can use them, as they themselves have been used. They struggle out from under the boot...

Rowena can't forgive the entire world for being rigged.

Neither can Sam.

He couldn't be further than Claire Novak this season. But can we blame Sam? Let's step back for a sec and cut him some slack:

Sarah Blake in season 8. That was like two seconds ago for Sam. She was killed right in front of Sam BY Crowley. To think this is ONLY about Dean runs the risk of oversimplifying Sam. (And yeah, Sam could've tried harder to save the Trans fam, but let's not forget that Crowley was who he had to save them from.)

His need for vengeance shouldn't come as a surprise, and I don't think it should be simplified to "homophobia" either, like I sometimes see.

CROWLEY: Well, I think the people you save, they're how you justify your pathetic little lives. The alcoholism, the collateral damage, the pain you've caused – the one thing that allows you to sleep at night, the one thing is knowing that these folks are out there, still out there happy and healthy because of you, you great, big, bloody heroes! They're your life's work, and I'm going to rip it apart piece by piece because I can, because you can't stop me, and because when they're all gone, what will you have left?

This is a very Luciferian comment by Crowley, and it's interesting to how very like Lucifer some of his actions can be. Lucifer says very similar dialogue to the above when he's posssessing Vince Vincente/rockstar.

///

It's another way that Rowena and Sam's plots are hopelessly intertwined.

Sam's hangups are about being squashed beneath the boot, but instead of finding another shoe, he's so afraid and so paranoid that he becomes the boot.

Dean and Cas are not immune to this. (Ahem, see Godstiel.) And perhasp Kevin Tran is to Dean as Charlie is to Sam. Miracle cure-Gadreel is a little bit like miracle-cure Book of the Damned, if you think about it... just on a smaller scale.

Sam tries to save his family not dissimilar to how his family saved him, by locking Deab up for detox, for doing "whatever it takes to save him."

But he's Sam, so it comes out... very Sam-like. On a big, destructive, and very CUNNING, pragmatic, and manipulative way. As we see in the early seasons, Sam is willing to go further. Into forbidden knowledge and outright human sacrifice.

///

Like Rowena, Sam WILL tend to save his own skin this season, and with them both, there are "substitute sacrifices" involved.

Symbolically, Oskar is a substitute sacrifice for them both. (And before you get too into the idea of Dean being "immune," it's the way Jack will later, unfortunately, be allowed to be a "substitute sacrifice/bomb" - re Dean's: "Thank you, Jack. " Dean also expresses relief that for once he and Sam won't be the ones sacrificing etc etc' ; war son stuff etc etc)

ANYWAY.

Other characters' struggle with this theme of class doesn't seem as prolonged and ever-present as what we see in Sam, Rowena, and Crowley.

Cas and Dean are, on the whole, more likely to be upset with systems and forgive the individuals caught up in it. (SEE: Dean forgives Crowley for selling him out, Claire forgives Randy for betraying her, and Cas has mercy on Metatron in s12).

That was a lot of words to say that Sam, Rowena, and Crowley are fundamentally linked and it's so tasty to me.

#samwena stuff #the macleod class entanglement #the sam crowley rowena triad of ambition #rambling #but literally sam and rowena and crowley!!!!#Metatron can actually sit at their table too - he fits with them in delicious delicious ways #the rigged game etc etc #s10's side episodes #oh no i'm still samwena posting #pair the spares really got to me i guess #there are some schools of writing that scream that: under the right constraints you can get any character to do ANYTHING #it just takes a LOT to get some of them there

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