#and every character is a ghost haunting their loved ones even before they die

[maggiecheungs]

“If you want to blame someone… blame fate.”

[mononijikayu]

die with a smile — geto suguru.

As you were washing up after dinner, Suguru spoke, his voice hesitant. "You know, I never thought I’d let anyone into this place. It was supposed to be… just for me." You looked at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his tone. "What changed?" He didn’t answer right away, drying the dishes in silence before finally turning to you. "I guess… I got tired of being alone." There was a raw honesty in his words that made your heart ache. "I know the feeling too well, I suppose." you admitted, your voice soft. "I didn’t realize how much I needed this—needed someone—until I found you."

GENRE: alternate universe - modern au!;

WARNING/S: nsfw, fluff, angst, romance, hurt/ comfort, post - apocalyptic world (zombie take over), isolation, hurt, physical touch, illness, loneliness, sadness, pain, pining, getting together, unhappy ending, character death, depictions of apocalyptic world, depiction of mourning, depiction of isolation, depiction of apprehension, depiction of romance, depiction of illness, depiction of chracter death, depiction of taking one's own life, mention of apocalytic world, mention of loneliness, mention of grief, mention of loneliness, mention of pining, mention of character death, mention of taking one's own life.;

WORD COUNT: 7.5k words

NOTE: i wrote this a long long time ago, but i feel like now it's seeing the light of day and im just excited for you to read it. i'll be working on plans for my first ever kinktober and other ideas i have in between. i hope that you're always well and that you enjoy this!!! love you <3

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┌────── ∘°❉°∘ ──────┐

IT WAS SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST NOW. The world had become a wasteland, overrun by the dead. Every day was a fight for survival, every night a battle against the darkness that crept into the mind as much as the world around.

You had been on the move for what felt like an eternity, traveling alone, scavenging for food, and fighting off the relentless hordes that had once been people. You had become a ghost in your own skin, haunted by memories of a time when the world was alive.

It was by chance that you stumbled upon the compound—a fortress of steel and stone, hidden deep within the woods, far from the crumbling cities and the walking dead. Exhausted and on the verge of collapse, you approached cautiously, knowing that desperation made even the living dangerous. The compound's walls were tall and unyielding, and it seemed impossible to breach. But desperation drives people to do reckless things, and you need safety, if only for a moment.

You had barely stepped into the clearing when you heard the unmistakable click of a rifle being cocked. You froze, heart pounding, every muscle tensing as you slowly raised your hands in surrender.

"Don’t move." The voice was low, firm, and edged with the kind of cold precision that came from years of surviving on instinct alone. You turned your head slightly, just enough to see him—a tall figure, half-hidden in the shadows of the trees, with a rifle trained directly on you. His eyes, dark and unreadable, never wavered as he took you in, calculating, deciding.

"I’m not here to cause trouble." you managed, keeping your voice steady despite the fear tightening your throat.

"That’s what they all say." His words were clipped, distrust lacing every syllable. He took a step closer, still keeping the rifle leveled at your head. "Turn around, slowly."

You did as he ordered, moving slowly, deliberately, until you were facing him fully. He was closer now, close enough that you could see the weariness etched into his features, the hardened lines of someone who had seen too much, lost too much. But there was something else, too—something in his eyes, a flicker of recognition, as if he saw a reflection of himself in you.

"How long have you been out here?" he asked, his voice rougher now, less controlled.

"Long enough." you replied, your gaze locked with his. "Long enough to know when I’ve met someone who’s been through the same hell."

He frowned, his grip on the rifle tightening as he studied you, weighing your words against the danger you might pose. But then, slowly, the suspicion in his eyes gave way to something softer, something that looked almost like… understanding.

"What’s your name?" he asked, the question coming out more gently than you expected.

You hesitated for a moment before answering. "Does it matter?"

"It does if you want to live." His tone was blunt, but there was a trace of something more behind it—a quiet offer, a tentative step toward trust.

You swallowed the weight of the past weeks, months, pressing down on you. "I’m just trying to survive."

He nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible motion. "So am I." He let out a slow breath, lowering the rifle slightly but not entirely. "Suguru. Geto Suguru."

You didn’t dare move, watching him carefully as he took another step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "You’re lucky I found you before the dead did."

"Maybe." you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. "Or maybe you’re the lucky one."

He raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "We’ll see about that." Then, after a long pause, he sighed, finally lowering the rifle completely. "Come with me. But if you try anything, I won’t hesitate."

You nodded, relief washing over you despite the lingering tension. "I won’t."

As he turned and motioned for you to follow, you could sense the caution in every step he took, the way he moved with the fluid grace of someone always prepared for the worst. And yet, there was something else—a strange comfort in the fact that, for the first time in a long while, you weren’t alone.

He took you in, but it was clear that trust was not something he gave easily. The compound was his sanctuary, built with his own hands, and he guarded it with an intensity that bordered on obsession. The first few days were tense; you were wary of each other, moving around each other like predators unsure of whether to fight or flee. He was quiet, watchful, and kept his emotions locked away behind a wall of suspicion.

But you were no stranger to walls, and slowly, brick by brick, the two of you began to dismantle them. It started with the small things—shared meals, the exchange of supplies, moments of silence that were less about fear and more about understanding. You discovered that beneath his tough exterior, Suguru had a passion for music. In the evenings, when the world outside grew too dark to bear, he would pull out an old guitar, his fingers strumming out melodies that spoke of a time before the end.

You, too, had your own love for music, and in those quiet moments, the two of you found a connection. The songs you shared became a language of their own, one that spoke of loss, hope, and the fragile bond forming between you. Music was your refuge, a reminder that there was still beauty in the world, even if it was buried beneath layers of fear and grief.

The days began to blur together, a steady rhythm of routine and survival. Each morning, you would wake to the faint light filtering through the thick curtains of the compound, the sounds of the outside world muffled by the walls that separated you from the chaos beyond. The danger was always there, lurking just beyond the gates, but within the safety of Suguru’s compound, life had found a different pace.

At first, your interactions with Suguru were brief and cautious, a necessary coexistence born out of mutual need. But as the days turned into weeks, the initial wariness between you began to fade, replaced by a tentative friendship. The man who had once held a gun to your head now greeted you each morning with a nod and a hint of a smile, a gesture that brought a surprising warmth to your otherwise cold and uncertain world. His presence, once a source of tension, had become something you looked forward to, a strange sense of peace in the midst of madness.

One of the few luxuries you both shared was a love of food—a small pleasure in a world where every meal had become a fight against starvation. In this new reality, the art of cooking had taken on a different meaning. It was no longer about indulging in flavors or crafting elaborate dishes, but rather about survival, about making the most of what little you could find. And yet, even in this, there was comfort.

Together, you would scour the surrounding areas for supplies, salvaging whatever you could from the abandoned homes and overgrown gardens. It was a slow, careful process—one wrong move could attract unwanted attention, and resources were scarce. But the shared task brought a sense of camaraderie, a quiet understanding that neither of you had to face this alone.

In the evenings, when the world outside grew dark and foreboding, you would gather in the small kitchen, working together to prepare your meals. The ingredients were humble—canned goods, dried beans, the occasional fresh vegetable from a patch of land Suguru had managed to cultivate—but it didn’t matter. The act of cooking became a ritual, something that grounded you both, reminding you that life was more than just surviving day to day. 

Suguru was surprisingly skilled in the kitchen, his movements efficient and precise as he chopped vegetables or stirred a pot over the fire. He had a way of turning the simplest ingredients into something comforting, something that made the compound feel more like a home. You would watch him sometimes, marveling at the way he found solace in such a small task, and slowly, you began to join him, contributing your own skills to the process.

"How did you learn to cook like this?" you asked one evening as you worked side by side, your hands busy preparing a stew from the last of the potatoes you had found.

Suguru glanced at you, a small smile playing on his lips. "Necessity, mostly. My parents weren’t around much, so I had to fend for myself. Turns out, I’m pretty good at making something out of nothing."

You nodded, stirring the pot as the aroma of the stew began to fill the room. "It’s a useful skill, especially now."

"Yeah, I suppose." he agreed, his tone softer now. "It’s one of the few things that still feels normal."

The meals you shared became more than just a way to stave off hunger—they were moments of connection, brief respites from the harshness of the world outside. As you ate together, you found yourselves talking more, sharing stories of the lives you had left behind, the people you had lost, and the hopes you still held on to, however fragile they might be. These conversations, once stilted and brief, grew longer, more personal, as the walls between you crumbled bit by bit.

Each meal was a small victory, a reminder that despite everything, you were still alive, still human. The warmth of the food, the sound of your voices filling the silence, and the flicker of the firelight against the walls—all of it made the world outside seem a little less bleak. And in those moments, you realized that within the confines of the compound, you had found something precious: a sense of normalcy, a connection with another person that transcended the mere act of survival.

One evening, as the sun dipped low in the sky, you both sat by the fire in the small living area. Suguru was strumming his guitar, the soft melody filling the space between you. The sound of the music was soothing, a rare comfort in the chaos that surrounded you. You found yourself watching him, the way his fingers moved deftly over the strings, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Where’d you learn to play like that?" you asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

Suguru glanced up, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Picked it up a long time ago. It helped… before all this." He gestured vaguely to the world outside, the unspoken horrors hanging heavy in the air.

You nodded, understanding what he meant without needing more words. "I used to play too, back when things were different." The memories were bittersweet, but they didn’t hurt as much as they used to, not here, not with him.

Suguru looked at you with a hint of curiosity. "What did you play?"

"Mostly piano. But I messed around with the guitar a bit too." You shrugged, trying to sound casual, but there was a lingering sadness in your voice that you couldn’t quite hide.

"Maybe you should give it a try again." he said, holding out the guitar to you.

You hesitated, your fingers itching to touch the instrument but also afraid of what it might bring up. Suguru noticed your hesitation and added softly. "It’s okay if you don’t want to. I just thought… maybe it would help."

His words, spoken with such gentle understanding, made something inside you soften. You took the guitar from him, your fingers awkwardly finding the chords, the muscle memory slowly returning. The notes came out shaky at first, but as you continued, the music began to flow more naturally, filling the space with a warmth you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Suguru watched you, his expression unreadable but his eyes soft. "You’re good." he said quietly, and for a moment, the world outside seemed distant and unreal, like a bad dream you could wake up from.

You smiled, a real, genuine smile that felt strange on your face after so long. "Thanks. It’s been a while."

He nodded, leaning back against the wall, his gaze still on you. "It’s nice, having someone to share this with." His voice was low, almost as if he was speaking more to himself than to you.

You met his eyes, something unspoken passing between you. "Yeah, it is."

With each passing day, the bond between you and Suguru grew stronger, weaving a tapestry of shared moments and growing intimacy. The days, once filled with routine and duty, now held a deeper meaning. You found yourself eagerly anticipating his presence, whether it was during the long, often monotonous hours patrolling the perimeter or in the quieter, more serene moments spent together in the kitchen.

During these patrols, the silence between you was no longer uncomfortable but rather a comfortable companion. You’d exchange glances and smiles, the unspoken understanding adding warmth to the cool, night air. These simple interactions became a cherished part of your day, a reminder that even in a world fraught with danger and uncertainty, there were small, precious joys to be found.

Cooking together was a ritual that both of you cherished. Every meal you prepared was more than just sustenance; it was a shared experience, a small victory over the harsh realities of the world outside. Suguru, with his surprisingly deft culinary skills, brought an element of surprise and delight to these moments. His laughter would fill the kitchen, mingling with the aroma of whatever you were preparing, creating an atmosphere of warmth and camaraderie.

These cooking sessions were more than just about the food. They were about the small, tender moments that punctuated your days—Suguru's playful teasing as you fumbled with ingredients, the quiet, shared satisfaction of a well-made meal, and the deep conversations that flowed as easily as the spices you mixed. Each meal was a testament to the connection you were nurturing, a symbol of your growing closeness.

In these shared moments, whether in the midst of patrols or while cooking, you found solace and joy. The simple act of preparing food together became a grounding ritual, reminding you both of the warmth and safety you had found in each other’s company. Through the laughter, the shared tasks, and the quiet companionship, your relationship deepened, finding strength in the everyday moments that brought you closer together.

As you were washing up after dinner, Suguru spoke, his voice hesitant. "You know, I never thought I’d let anyone into this place. It was supposed to be… just for me."

You looked at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his tone. "What changed?"

He didn’t answer right away, drying the dishes in silence before finally turning to you. "I guess… I got tired of being alone."

There was a raw honesty in his words that made your heart ache. "I know the feeling too well, I suppose." you admitted, your voice soft. "I didn’t realize how much I needed this—needed someone—until I found you."

He stepped closer, the distance between you shrinking until you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "We’ve both lost so much, you know?" he said quietly. "But maybe… maybe we can find something here. Something worth holding on to."

You looked up at him, your breath catching as you saw the way he was looking at you—like you were something precious, something worth protecting. "Suguru…" you began, but the words caught in your throat, the intensity of the moment overwhelming.

He reached out, his hand gently brushing against your cheek, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. "You don’t have to say anything." he whispered, his voice filled with a tenderness that took you by surprise. "Just… stay with me."

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes as the world outside seemed to fade away. "I’m not going anywhere, Suguru." you promised, your voice barely more than a whisper.

And in that moment, as Suguru’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, you knew that despite everything you had lost, you had found something here—something real, something worth fighting for. The world outside was still a nightmare, but in his embrace, you felt safe. You felt… home.

The fire crackled softly and the scent of a simple stew filled the air, you sat together in the small kitchen. Suguru’s hand brushed against yours as he handed you a bowl, the brief contact sending a jolt through you. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. There was no fear, no death—only the warmth of his gaze, the unspoken understanding that had grown between you.

You reached out, your fingers gently grazing him, and this time, he didn’t pull away. The kiss that followed was soft, tentative, as if testing the waters of a new reality. It wasn’t born out of desperation or fear but something genuine, something that had been building between you since the day you met. In that moment, you realized that amidst the ruins of the world, you had found something worth fighting for—each other.

Suguru was still the survivalist, still cautious, still guarded. But with you, he was different. He let you in, allowed you to see the man behind the walls, the one who had survived not just the apocalypse, but the loneliness that came with it. And in return, you gave him the one thing he had lost faith in—hope.

In the silence of survival, you and Suguru found a new life, not just as survivors, but as something more. The world outside was still a nightmare, but within the walls of the compound, there was music, there was food, and there was love. And that was enough.

┌────── ∘°❉°∘ ──────┐

THE WORLD CHANGED IN A BLINK OF AN EYE. The years passed, and in the midst of the crumbling world, you and Suguru had found a fragile but undeniable happiness together.

Despite the constant fight for survival, the fear, and the uncertainty, you had managed to carve out a life within the walls of his compound—a life filled with small moments of peace, warmth, and a deep bond that had grown stronger with each passing day.

The two of you had become each other's anchor, weathering the storms of the world outside and the storms within yourselves. There were still fights, of course—heated arguments born out of the stress and the pain that never quite left—but they always ended the same way: with apologies, with understanding, with the reassurance that no matter how much the world tried to tear you apart, you would find your way back to each other.

You wanted to stay together, no matter what. The future was uncertain, but you had each other, and that was enough.

Or at least, it had been. Until the day you found out.

The sickness began as a dull ache, a persistent discomfort that you initially attributed to the everyday strains of fatigue or stress. You tried to dismiss it, telling yourself it was just a part of the routine hardships you faced. But the pain didn’t relent. Instead, it began to spread, a creeping malice that invaded your very bones, draining your energy and will.

As the days turned into weeks, the ache evolved into a relentless torment. Tasks that once seemed trivial became monumental efforts, and the weight of the pain became increasingly unbearable.

It was as if every step you took, every breath you drew, was a reminder of the encroaching shadow that threatened to envelop you. Eventually, the denial you clung to was no longer tenable. The truth, harsh and unyielding, crashed down upon you with the force of a relentless storm.

The diagnosis was a devastating blow—terminal, with no hope for a cure. It felt as if your world had crumbled, leaving you in a hollow space where hope once resided. The words of the doctor reverberated in your mind, each syllable a brutal reminder of your fate.

You struggled to process the enormity of what was unfolding before you, your mind overwhelmed by the realization that the future you had envisioned with Suguru was slipping through your grasp.

The dreams you had nurtured—of a shared life, of enduring together through the hardships of this cruel world—were now tainted by the bitter reality of your diagnosis. The vision of growing old side by side, of finding solace in each other amidst the chaos, seemed like nothing more than fragile, shattered illusions. The life you had carefully built, the hope you had cherished, were being torn away by a fate you could not escape.

Each day became a battle, not just against the encroaching illness but against the crushing weight of despair. The future that had once seemed so vibrant and full of promise now appeared as a distant, unreachable horizon. Your heart ached with the knowledge that the time you had left was no longer measured in hopes and dreams, but in the stark reality of counting down to an inevitable end.

In this bleak landscape, the love you had with Suguru became both a source of immense comfort and profound sorrow. It was a bittersweet reminder of what you were losing and what you still cherished.

And as you faced the unbearable truth, you clung to the moments of shared love and companionship, knowing that while the future was uncertain and fleeting, the bond you had forged with Suguru was a source of strength in your darkest hours.

Telling Suguru was the hardest thing you had ever done. When the moment came to share the news, you felt a heavy weight pressing on your chest. Each word felt like it was tearing apart the fragile fabric of hope that had been woven between you. You struggled to find the right words, but the gravity of the situation rendered you almost speechless. Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath, you uttered the truth.

As you spoke, you could see the light in Suguru's eyes dim, his once-vibrant gaze becoming clouded with an overwhelming sense of despair. It was as if your words were a heavy fog rolling in, obscuring the clarity and warmth that had once defined his expression. The impact was immediate and devastating. The hope and dreams you had shared seemed to drain from him, leaving a hollow, heart-wrenching emptiness in their wake.

Suguru’s reaction was one of stunned silence. He didn’t say anything at first. His gaze was fixed on you, but it was distant, almost as if he were looking through you rather than at you. His expression was frozen, a complex mix of disbelief, shock, and profound sadness. It was as though the words you had spoken were so unfathomable that he struggled to process their meaning, as if accepting them was too great a burden for his heart to bear.

The silence that followed was heavy, laden with unspoken words and emotions. You could see him grappling with the reality of what you had just revealed, his mind racing to comprehend the magnitude of your situation. The anguish etched on his face was a mirror to your own, reflecting the profound sense of loss and heartbreak that had suddenly become your shared reality.

"No." he finally whispered, his voice cracking. "No, this can’t be happening."

You reached out, your hand trembling as you took his, squeezing it tightly. "I’m so sorry, Suguru. I wish there was something we could do, but—"

"But there has to be." he interrupted, his grip on your hand tightening almost to the point of pain. "There has to be something. We’ve survived so much… we can find a way through this too."

You shook your head, tears welling in your eyes. "I wish that were true. But this… this is different. There’s no fighting this."

He pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly that it almost hurt, as if he could keep you with him through sheer force of will. His breath was ragged against your hair, and you felt the way his body trembled with the effort to hold back his tears.

"We were supposed to be together, baby." he choked out, his voice thick with grief. "We were supposed to make it."

"I know, I know." you whispered, your own tears spilling over. "I wanted that too. I still do. But…"

"But what?" he demanded, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes desperate. "We can’t just give up."

"I’m not giving up, Suguru." you said, your voice trembling with the effort to stay strong. "But we have to face the truth. This is happening, and we can’t stop it."

The devastation in his eyes was almost too much to bear, and you saw the way he struggled to keep himself together, to be strong for you even as his world fell apart. "What do we do now?" he asked, his voice small, almost childlike.

"We keep going." you said, trying to sound more certain than you felt. "We make the most of the time we have left. We keep fighting, but… we don’t fight each other. We spend every moment we can together, and we make them count."

He nodded, though the movement was slow, reluctant, as if he still couldn’t quite accept what you were saying. "I don’t want to lose you, baby." he whispered, his voice breaking. "I can’t lose you."

You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing away the tears that had started to fall. "You won’t lose me, Suguru. Not really. I’ll always be with you, even if… even if I’m not here."

His eyes squeezed shut, and he pulled you close again, his grip almost desperate. "I love you. I love you more than anything in this world." he whispered, the words heavy with all the emotion he had been holding back. "I love you so much."

"I love you too, my love. My Suguru." you replied, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for. "I always will."

And so, in the midst of the overwhelming sorrow, you held each other, finding solace in the warmth of each other’s embrace. The world outside still raged on, but in that moment, you had each other, and that was all that mattered. You would face the darkness together, hand in hand, and whatever time you had left, you would make it count.

┌────── ∘°❉°∘ ──────┐

BY THE TIME SPRING CAME, EVERYTHING UNRAVELED. The sickness had steadily worsened, each day stealing more of your strength and vitality, chipping away at the life you had fought so hard to hold onto. The once-manageable discomfort had evolved into a constant, gnawing ache, a relentless companion that shadowed your every move.

The pain was unyielding, a dull throb that seemed to seep into every corner of your existence. Alongside it came a profound exhaustion, a weariness so deep it felt as if you were weighed down by a leaden blanket, sapping your energy and spirit.

As the days passed, you became acutely aware that your time was running out. The inevitable reality of your condition loomed ever closer, and the thought of leaving Suguru behind was almost unbearable.

The idea of him witnessing your slow decline, of watching you waste away, was a source of deep, unrelenting sorrow. It was a burden that neither of you should have to endure, and the thought of him bearing witness to such suffering made the situation all the more poignant.

One evening, as you sat together in the small, dimly lit living room, the fire crackling softly in the hearth provided a stark contrast to the heaviness of the moment. The flickering light danced across the room, casting warm, gentle shadows, but it did little to ease the weight of the decision that loomed over you. You glanced at Suguru, his presence both a source of comfort and a reminder of the pain you were about to inflict.

The warmth of the fire seemed to mock the cold reality you faced. Each crackle of the flames was a stark reminder of the life that was slipping away from you, a life that you had shared so intimately with Suguru. The room, once a sanctuary of shared joy and quiet moments, now felt suffused with a profound sadness. You could see the concern and love etched into Suguru’s face, and it made your heart ache even more.

You knew that making this decision was necessary, even though it would hurt him deeply. The thought of continuing in your current state—becoming a burden rather than a partner, an encumbrance rather than a companion—was untenable. The inevitable end was approaching, and you could no longer ignore the fact that your suffering was taking a toll on both of you.

As you faced Suguru, your heart felt like it was shattering with the weight of your decision. You had chosen to speak the truth, to acknowledge the unbearable reality of your situation. It was a choice made out of love and respect, even though it meant confronting the deep, painful truth of your own mortality and the heartache it would cause Suguru.

In those quiet moments by the fire, the decision was clear, but the pain of it was profound. The love you had for Suguru and the desire to protect him from further suffering guided your choice, even as it tore at your own heart. The warmth of the fire contrasted sharply with the chill of the reality you faced, a reminder of the fleeting nature of the life and love you both had cherished.

"Suguru, my love." you began, your voice weak but steady, "I need to ask you something."

He turned to you, concern etched in his features. "What is it? Do you need something? More water? Some painkillers?" He was always trying to do something, anything, to ease your suffering, even when there was little that could be done.

You shook your head, reaching out to take his hand. "No, it’s not that. It’s… I want you to help me end it. When the time comes, I don’t want to… I don’t want to linger."

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. For a moment, Suguru just stared at you, his eyes wide with shock. Then, he pulled his hand away, his expression hardening as he shook his head violently.

"No, baby." he said, his voice firm and almost angry. "No, I’m not doing that. I’m not giving up on you. We’ll find something—there’s got to be something out there that can help. We’ll go out tomorrow, search the surrounding towns. There has to be something… anything…"

"Suguru, my love. Please. Understand me." you interrupted gently, your heart breaking at the desperation in his voice. "We’ve tried. We’ve been searching for months, and nothing has changed. You know it as well as I do—there’s nothing left to find."

"I can’t!" he snapped, his voice rising. "I can’t lose you like this! We’ve survived so much together. We can get through this too. I’ll find a way, I swear."

You reached out again, this time cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. "Suguru, my love." you whispered, tears filling your eyes. "I’m dying. We both know it. Please… don’t make this harder than it already is."

He broke then, his shoulders shaking as he crumbled before you. "I can’t live without you, baby." he choked out, tears streaming down his face. "You’re all I have left. If you go… if you leave me… I don’t know what I’ll do."

"You’ll keep going. You must." you said softly, your own tears spilling over. "You’re strong, Suguru. You’ve always been strong. You’ll find a way to survive, even without me."

He shook his head, his hands gripping yours tightly, as if he could anchor you to the world through sheer force of will. "I don’t want to survive without you, baby." he whispered, his voice breaking. "I don’t want to live in a world where you’re not there."

You pulled him into your arms, holding him close as he cried against your shoulder, his grief tearing through him like a storm. "I know. I know that." you whispered, your own heart shattering with every sob that wracked his body. "I know it’s hard. But you have to promise me you’ll try. Promise me you’ll keep going, for both of us."

He clung to you, his breath ragged as he tried to pull himself together. "I don’t know if I can." he admitted, his voice small and broken. "I don’t know how to do this without you."

"You can, my love." you insisted, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. "You’re stronger than you think, Suguru. You’ve already done so much. But before I go… There's something I want to do. Something that will give meaning to all of this."

He frowned, confusion flickering in his tear-filled eyes. "What do you mean?"

You took a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest as you gathered the courage to say the words. "I want to marry you, my love." you said, your voice trembling. "I want to be your wife, even if it’s just for a little while. I want to give meaning to this life, to what we’ve been through together. Please… let’s do this, Suguru. Let’s make it real."

He stared at you, his eyes widening in surprise and disbelief as if trying to process the gravity of what you had just said. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken fears and raw emotions. You held your breath, the weight of his potential rejection pressing down on you. The thought that he might find the idea too painful to accept was almost unbearable, adding to the already intense sorrow that filled the room.

But then, as if struggling to come to terms with the inevitable, he began to nod slowly. The initial shock in his eyes gave way to a profound sadness, and his expression softened, becoming a mixture of resignation and tender understanding. The lines of his face, once tense with disbelief, relaxed as he reached out to you.

With gentle, deliberate movements, he cupped your face in his hands. The warmth of his touch was a stark contrast to the cold reality of the situation, a soothing balm against the sharp edges of your sorrow. His hands, though trembling slightly, were steady in their tenderness, conveying a depth of love and acceptance that words alone could not express. 

As he held you, his gaze locked onto yours, searching for reassurance and finding it in the depths of your shared experiences and unspoken bond. The moment was both heart-wrenching and profoundly intimate, a testament to the strength of your connection and the pain of facing such a difficult decision together.

"Okay, baby." he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Okay. We’ll do it. I’ll marry you. We’ll do it right here, right now."

Tears filled your eyes as you nodded, a small, trembling smile breaking through the sorrow. "Thank you, my love." you whispered, your voice cracking. "Thank you, Suguru."

He pulled you into his arms again, holding you close as you both cried, the weight of what was to come hanging heavy over you. But in that moment, you were together, and that was all that mattered. You would marry him, give meaning to your lives, and in the time you had left, you would make every moment count.

Even as the darkness closed in, you knew that you had found something beautiful in the midst of the horror—a love that would last beyond the end, a bond that would never truly be broken.

┌────── ∘°❉°∘ ──────┐

IT WAS SUCH A NICE DAY FOR A WEDDING. The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm, golden glow over the room as you and Suguru prepared for the day that would be both your wedding and your farewell. It was a day you had both dreaded and longed for, a day that would bring a bittersweet end to the journey you had shared together.

Suguru had spent the early hours of the morning in the kitchen, determined to make this day as special as he could. He cooked you the best meals he could manage with the limited supplies you had, pouring his heart into every dish.

The aroma of roasted vegetables, tender meat, and freshly baked bread filled the small compound, a testament to the love and care he had poured into every bite. He even brought out the best wine he had been saving in the cellar—a bottle that had survived the apocalypse, waiting for a moment just like this.

When he returned to the bedroom, he found you dressed in your best—an old dress you had found while scavenging, simple but elegant, its soft fabric hugging your frail form. Suguru had dressed in his finest as well, his dark shirt and trousers clean and pressed, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sight of him took your breath away, and you smiled, despite the sorrow that weighed on your heart.

"You look beautiful, baby." he whispered as he approached, his voice thick with emotion.

"And you look handsome, my love." you replied, your voice trembling as you reached out to straighten his collar.

The two of you stood there for a moment, taking in the sight of each other, committing it to memory. Then, with a deep breath, you took his hand, and together you made your way to the small living room, where the morning light streamed through the windows, bathing the space in a soft, golden glow. There were no guests, no officiant, no flowers or rings. It was just the two of you, standing together in the light, your hands clasped tightly as you exchange your vows.

"I, Suguru, take you, my love, to be my wife." he said, his voice steady but full of emotion. "In this life, and whatever comes after, I promise to love you, to hold you close, to cherish every moment we have together. No matter what happens, you will always be my heart."

Tears welled in your eyes as you repeated the words, your voice trembling. "I, take you, Suguru, to be my husband. I promise to love you, to be by your side, to find joy in the little things, even in this broken world. You’ve given me a reason to keep going, and I will carry that with me, always."

With that, you both leaned in, sealing your vows with a gentle kiss, a promise made under the watchful eye of the morning sun. When you pulled back, there were tears in both your eyes, but there were also smiles—small, fragile smiles that spoke of a love that had endured the darkest of times.

The day passed in a blur of quiet joy and melancholy. Suguru insisted on dancing, and you found yourselves swaying together to the soft, nostalgic notes of Vera Lynn’s "We’ll Meet Again," playing from an old record player Suguru had somehow managed to keep running.

The song filled the room with its haunting melody, a promise of reunion in a world beyond this one. You held each other close, moving slowly, savoring every second, every touch, as if by doing so, you could make time stop.

As night fell, the reality of what was to come settled over you both. There was no turning back now, no more delaying the inevitable. You returned to the bedroom, where the bed had been carefully made, its soft blankets a welcome comfort against the cold that had settled into your bones. You climbed into bed, and Suguru followed, sitting beside you, his hand resting gently on yours.

You turned to look at him, your heart aching with the knowledge that these were your final moments together. "Suguru, my love." you began, your voice barely a whisper. "I want you to live. Even after I’m gone, I want you to find a way to keep going. Please… promise me you’ll try."

His grip on your hand tightened, and he shook his head, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "What sort of life is that without you?" he whispered, his voice breaking. "You’re everything to me. I don’t know how to keep going if you’re not here."

"You’re stronger than you think, my love." you whispered, reaching up to cup his face, your thumb brushing away the tears that had begun to fall. "You’ve always been strong, Suguru. You’ve saved me so many times… now, you need to save yourself. Please… for me."

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch, his breath shuddering as he tried to hold himself together. "I don’t want to let you go, baby." he admitted, his voice barely audible. "I don’t know how."

"You don’t have to let me go, my love." you replied, your own tears slipping down your cheeks. "I’ll always be with you. In every memory, every moment we shared. You’ll carry me with you, no matter what."

He nodded, though it was clear the idea of life without you was unbearable. "I love you, baby." he whispered, his voice filled with a depth of emotion that words could barely contain. "I love you so much."

"I love you too." you whispered back, your voice trembling. "Now… let’s make this last moment count."

With that, he leaned in, kissing you gently, as if trying to pour all the love he had for you into that one moment. You kissed him back, holding him close, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, the steady beat of his heart—a rhythm you had come to know and love, a sound you would carry with you into the dark.

When the kiss ended, you settled back against the pillows, the familiar softness providing a modicum of comfort in the midst of your pain. Suguru lay beside you, his arms wrapped around you with a tenderness that spoke of his deep, abiding love. Together, you both faced the uncertain future, finding solace in each other's presence as the night stretched on.

The silence of the room was broken only by the soft sound of your breathing, a gentle rhythm that seemed to anchor you both in the present moment. Despite the gravity of what lay ahead, you felt an unexpected sense of peace settle over you. In those final moments, the relentless tide of fear and pain receded, leaving only the pure, unadulterated essence of love.

There was no longer any room for fear or anguish—only the profound understanding that you had found something truly beautiful amidst the horror. You had loved deeply, and you had been loved in return. That realization, though bittersweet, provided a profound sense of fulfillment. It was a reminder that, even in the face of the inevitable, the love you shared had given meaning to your time together.

As the night deepened, you clung to each other, savoring the last precious moments of closeness. Suguru’s presence was a comforting embrace, a final refuge before you slipped away. The world outside seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the cocoon of your shared love.

When the end finally came, Suguru was left with a heartache so profound it felt almost unbearable. He gazed at your lifeless body, the weight of your absence crashing over him like a tidal wave. Tears streamed down his face, each drop an echo to the depth of his grief. He struggled with the harsh reality of living without you, the very thought of continuing without you seemed inconceivable.

In a final, tender gesture, he brushed the hair away from your face, his fingers lingering in a gentle caress. A faint smile touched his lips, though it was laced with sorrow.

“I’m following you soon, my love. Forgive me.” he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. He lets out a smile against the tears.

He takes a look at the drink you drank, laced with laudenum and whiskey. A last hurrah took you away. And he wants that too. He wants to be with you. He stands up to take it and tells himself that it would be okay. Soon, you'll be together again. He gives himself visions of paradise, where you aren't sick anymore. A paradise where you could enjoy life together.

He smiles again, wiping his tears with his free hand and drank the same drink. He puts away the glass and lays down beside you. Everything was going to handle itself somehow, he knew that well enough.

His left hand lingers against the tips of your hair, brushing them as he would have when you were alive. He would be doing that for eternity in the afterlife. Like he always wanted.

For the last moments of Geto Suguru's life, he catches a glimpse of the shine of his wedding ring and yours. As though the light leading him to the other side. He closes his purple eyes slowly for the final time and feels everything be in its place for the first time in a long time.

Years later, when survivors find your bodies lingering in the eternal warmth only both you could provide, they read words on a small card on a coffee table.

"Leave us be on the graveyards we chose. Let us live eternity like this together."

And they do. They leave you be. Because the smile on your faces was enough to know this was where you belonged. Together.

[adoregojo]

★- haunted by the trails of you.

a/n: here's some more angst i had in drafts and now I'm setting it free. wanted more pain but this what yall are getting for now d: (potentially getting a part two)

summary: their first anniversary without you, and you'd still be haunting them. !! gn reader!! characters: isagi, reo, rin. warnings: men. hurt/barely an comfort, the word 'vomit', blood mentions in rin's part, appear of other characters. perhaps heavy angst?

isagi: it was at his own home. for what he can fathom, isagi isn't considered as someone who's hooked on the past. at least that's what he pinned his head to. what had chronicles should've been a lesson, something that'll help him move forward, a memory that'll get him through to his feet again.

once the past had been written, there was no undoing. only exceptions and take the moral out of it.

sometimes isagi wished he had tugged on that enough as much as he tugged his heart to yours.

he was about to send himself a clout. has he learned nothing? why can't he draw a clear line without the ghost of you obsessing in every corner of his life? so instead, he botches his hair to untidy navy-blue locks flying out of place, mumbling cusses to none other than himself.

He bet he looked like a madman, uttering loathes undertone within every step upon a stair he took. He swore he spotted a middle aged lady covering her son's ears in horror. maybe he wasn't muttering as low as he thought.

it was saturday, in which isagi takes a day off to greet his parents from time to time. and he wasn't gonna cancel that over some feelings he might've got the wrong end of the stick about, it was probably just lingering lust and affection he had for you, but I'll past. clinging to the mere possibility and ignoring the ache that remains for too long than intended.

swirling the keys with his bare hands, isagi can view the frigid smoke of his breath appearing with every puff he let out. the tips of his fingers and knuckles were embarrassing standing out an angry shade of red, he forgot his gloves, again ,recalling: yoichi never really had to bat an eye when it comes to gloves. he'll even do it on purpose since you wouldn't think twice before launching yours to his frosty hands, while interlocking your hands with the other one.

now that he mentioned it, he always recollect how futile of an attempt it was. because the back of his hand will always remain polar, but at that time, it didn't carried a feather. he didn't really mind freezing to death if it meant I'll be in your arms. then he'll die any day.

isagi remains stationary, until his forehead rests the irony of his house door. he didn't know if he was deeply disappointed in himself, or just drowned by the sweet bygone days. gabbling something about how an idiot he was before taking a deep lungful of air and finally opening the door.

flinging his shoes to gods knows where, at this state even his mother's berating wouldn't budge a bone in him, yeah, this is how bad it was.

to his astonishment, there were no trails of his parents. isagi called, shouting once, twice. and gave up on the third time. he jogs around to the kitchen era, like expected: a dangling note covering some plate, informing him that they went out and they'll be back before dinner. 

isagi just let out a defeated sigh, an obvious pessimistic wave looming over him. he was genuinely hoping to spend a family-time right away, and something to divert him away from the wraith of you.

a part of him wondered, what answer could he hand his parents, breaking the fact that you two were no longer together. his parents always loved you, adored you even. they'd definitely be shattered, he'll just muddle it by saying that you two drew apart till an ultimate downfall drilled up a hole in your relationship, leading to a break up. they’ll buy it, right?

blindly, isagi carried out the plat, slamming it flatly against the wooden table of the living room. making himself comfortable on the couch that held on the glimpse of his childhood, it was a pleasant to be at home again, and one of a great distraction.

he needed it.. anything to sway him away from the remainder of what name of this day earned..

from the corner of his eye, he spotted a second note. scoffing at himself isagi gets a grasp on it, living on the thought it might've been his parents requesting him to do chores, or just asking him to take extra care of himself. 

isagi consulted it, even when a part of him begged him not to.

‘dear, yocchan. we really hope you'll be the one to read this, but if not! hello yoichi’s partner, that's quite embarrassing if you're reading this hahaha. but anyway, we figured that today is your two anniversary, isn't that just great? We remember just yesterday they were being introduced to us for the first time. What a good time to be alive, but anyway. There's some surprise cake for the two of you to share! Happy anniversary, you lovebirds.- your mother (in law).”

‘don't get too carried away please! - your father (in law).”

isagi flouts, bitterly. so sorely that all the rock-hard grip of his hand went straight to poor paper, ripping it apart to fall into small chunks. the stomach-bug swirl, not the one with the butterflies plopping in the depths of his stomach, swarming with to define a new level of bliss. but a disgusting ache of venom mobbing, making him want to vomit in an instant. 

if it wasn't for his neighbors, isagi would've outcry his lungs out of frustration. but he wasn't on the field, where his anger planted. Now it's just a sad smile etching on his features. 

and maybe a drip of a few tears..

how long were you planning on haunting him for..

reo: he had to delete it.. for the longest period, reo had never been so glued on what he busted by his own hands, words and ego. he had no one to blame but himself, and yet no amount of strength that earth granted him, no matter how the sky have bore in tears gleaming the ground, a pool of agony cries pleading for him to do it.

all that and he’d still struggle to press the delete button. He just couldn't.

“man, just delete it already.” chigiri cried out, slamming his palms against the skin of his forehead. He was tired. and he wasn't even getting paid to deal with this shit.

“it's easier for you to say it, you don't get it.” reo sassed back, trudging inches away from the redhead who's eyes twitched in disbelief. 

nagi and chigiri一well, mostly chigiri, have been summoned by a cry for help from their shared friend. just for the end of the world to be him trying to delete the pictures and videos of you and him, his ex that lived in his head rent free. 

it was a wretched sight to see, his eyes were tearing up while scrolling through your memories together. chigiri一god’s greatest soldier, was really, really doing everything he can to encourage reo back on his feet. It was like helping a spineless creature to straighten up. 

it's quite impressive, he can use all his abilities on soccer pitches, give his best assists, be the heart, the mind and the soul of the field. Yet behind the plate was a completely different person, a hopeless guy curled up in a ball of your blanket that carried most of your left cologne, and sobbing till the sunrise. and today was a special show, he was absolutely shattered because your scent was slowly vanishing. 

all chigiri can do is pinch the bridge of his nose in foiling, “listen, how about we go out or something? there's a nearby place we can get lunch and-”

“they used to love that restaurant¦” reo whines, shoving his phone into the redhead face, it carried a picture of you smiling blissfully and unaware, cheeks rife with food. “they're.. cute, so cute it makes me want to die.” falling backwards on the silky duvet of the queen-sized bed. 

“Please don't, I still need my monthly allowance on genshin.” the one time nagi decided to finally say something, it had to be this. and chigiri never wanted to zip up someone's mouth so badly.

“you keep on stabbing yourself in the throat, you dumbass. if you can't do it then I'll do it for you.” stretching out his arm, opening up his palms for reo to hand over the phone and get this over with already.

in an instant, the phone was being embraced tightly to his chest, “no! I can do it myself, I just need some time," Chigiri just raised his hands in surrender, mumbling a quick ‘whatever’ as he jumped out the bed, leaving the extra space for his friend to grieve, alone.

it was a miracle that his tears still remain un-parched. Every photo he scroll through, the lump in his throat narrows painfully. clinching his lips upwards every time he crossed over while you were smiling, it hurts so good. He doesn't recognize whatever the knot in his stomach was reducing in sorrow or ecstatic.

he wasn't trashing any of those, he couldn't find it in his heart too. instead of criticizing himself of what he should've said to make you stay, what could've he done to swoon your heart instead of fleeting it. you'll keep on tip-toeing around his heartstrings and he'll let you without a charge.

he squeaked in his pillow, he just kept on bruising himself, torturing himself by the dim memory of what the two of you had once. something that not even money could regain or even soothe on. he yearned for one more kiss, one more embrace, one more chance to get a glimpse of you and he'll die a happy man, that's a lie, he'll misses you even after death.

he wished for you to come and haunt him, eat him to bits. but it was like he was the one haunting the crumbs of you.

on the middle of his groaning mess, an amber eyes staring sharply at him, his figure casting a shadow over his state. “here, drink up.” nonchalant, he handed him a random juice he ‘eeny, meeny’ his way to. reo accepted the drink, his arm sluggishly taking it. chigiri swore he was about to crack the glass over his head if he wouldn't stop this pitiful little act of his.

“why are you even this hardcore sad? you were never like this in the last weeks.”

“it's their anniversary, but not anymore I guess.” nagi shrugged, still too focused on the screen of his phone to pay the slightest amount of attention. turning a blind eye when reo flinches a bit at his truthful words 

“have anyone told you you're a terrible human being?” 

one sip, a second one. and his lilac eyes were watering for a million time. “they used to love this drink.” he whispered.

“i genuinely hope you choke on it.” 

rin: it got so bad, he talked to sae about it.. running a few years backwards, if you told the sixteen years old itoshi rin he'd be seeking his own deadbeat of a brother to vent he'd spit out in your face with no second thought.

and if he could, he would've. because rin was rethinking his life choices, taking a step back every second yet taking two ahead then comprehending once again. and now there was no going back, what was between him and the urgent fate was a wooden door. 

his hands buried deep in his pockets instead of making an attempt to knock. he found gazing at his pair of shoes much more entertaining. 

he didn't have it in his head to think straight, not when you clouded over like an angry storm, all he can do is take it and let your teardrop roll down his face, or maybe they were his own tears, he couldn't savvy it. 

after a deep lungful of air, rin thrust his forward, just an inch away, only to stop briskly. sae? really? just how desperate is he? very. he come to cuss himself for counting you as the one and only person he apostrophizes with. if only he’d listen when you would rant about him approving his social skills, he should've listened instead plugging his ears. He wished he listened to a lot of things you said..

in a rush, the door unlocked in a swift. almost making him funk backwards, unraveling the sight of his older brother, standing unimpressed. and before rin could speak a word, sae took the lead. 

“you know I could see your shadow casting under my doorstep, right?” 

Rin clicks his tongue in annoyance, and when he doesn't reply, the reddish head moves to the side, and rin steers his way in. shutting the door behind him, sae jog away, letting him take off his shoes. not even a proper welcome, he shouldn't have gotten his hopes up.

the apartment was quite tidy, a strong aroma loomed underneath his nose. Despite that, it was awkwardly dull, not even ghosts would bother haunting it. rin takes a seat in a solo couch, fumbling his fingers in a bothersome way, the silence was a deadline, not anything he wasn't used to.

It was just the first time rin had come here, by himself. without an actual family required to stick to the back. 

or without you.

unintentionally, Rin's leg keeps thrusting. a bad habit of his when the tension gets thick. every passing second he berates himself even further, damn him for having only one path to seek solace in, for allowing only one soul to soothe over his frail heart, for authorizing only one embrace to delay him.

and damn you for carving open his heart. just to leave him to bleed.

the echoing steps of sae cut his strails of thoughts. settling down his cup of hot tea. rin raised a brow at the uncivil manner. “you didn't ask for one.” his brother shrugs calmly, oh he was driving him nuts with this unchanged attitude. 

breathe in, rin.

reverberating voice called, so he obeys. straighten his pouster. “I wanted to talk to you about something. it's important.” 

“I can tell. and your sidekick is nowhere to be found, did they finally ditch you?”

his hands clutching up in a makeshift ball, rin says nothing.

“oh, so they did?” sae blows a few times over the overheated cup, taking a sip then uttering something under his breath. “Well, that's unfortunate.” adding another cube of sugar as he retorted. 

rin only got something out of this, that his brother didn't give a single fuck. and it drove him to the edge.

“You can at least pretend that you care.”

“never said I didn't.”

“you didn't have to, it's fucking showing.” rin seethed, his clenched hand striking the table balance, making the sugar cubes fall out of place. his anger was collapsing even the sweetest floras.

that doesn't nuge sae the slightest, but makes him frowns his brows a bit, because he was the one who had to sweep that off later.

the tension was solid and bulky, and Rin refused to break eye contact with the equal hues. Daring him to say something, anything. Yet he took it as a challenge, like he always does. The only way he communicates with sae is by beating him, proving himself. He'll die on that hill, even if it killed him itself. even if it has killed you already.

he knew this was a stupid idea, he should've just rotted in bed, he should've kept on living in the repeated circle of misery. He should've just lived up with every rush of breeze rustling his mistakes over and over, where he could've sworn that it was your voice.

breath, rin.

he was fucking trying. 

“So what do you want me to do about it? be your wingman and pair you together again?” 

“or, you could just say nothing. listening is enough.”

after a moment of silence, sae shoulders ease up. a guster pointed for him to keep going. so rin dose, he rants and rants like he had the time of the world right in his palms. It was mostly about you, how you were something that became his everything, how he should've stopped you like he wanted to, how he let you be driven away like he always does, how he should've apologized like he was supposed to. 

blustring about ‘what the if’s’ and what would've happened if he just.. he loved you like you loved him.. if only he tried. he can't blame it on his immense ego, his lack of communication, the digged hole on his soul that you bleeded to fill, you gave all your flesh till there was nothing left but bones.

he could've rebuilt the broken pieces of your heart, but they were too sharp to hold. He bled within every one, he was bleeding to ashes, to nothingness. 

you loved till there was nothing left to love about you. you drained down the hill. not even his blood could fulfill you.

his voice would crack, a dust cloud blows over his eyes, yet sae would stare at him ever so flatly. if he even dares to say disappointment. disappointed that his younger brother was just a copy past of him. 

someone that kills everything he touches.

When rin has nothing left to say, sae stands up. reaching his pocket for a card that carries a name and a number. as the dark-head flipped the card between his fingers, blood-thirst eyes narrowed at him.

“a fucking therapist? are you fucking kidding me?"

“you clearly need one.”

“I don't, is this some kind of lukewarm joke?”

“stop being corny, I'm trying to help you here. if you aren't willing to let yourself feel the sense of loss, you can suit yourself out.”

and with that, sae turns his back to him. like he always does. climbing the stairs to his bedroom, leaving rin to reconsider where his actions have driven him, how beyond it threw it all. 

although, he’ll never let himself feel the sense of loss. never. He'd rather be haunted by you than be alone forever, he'll be a stray till you pick him up again.

lmao wrote this with nagi plushie watching me like a hawk

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 6

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, ofc, omc Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 6k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes) Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. Four years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because most days you feel like a shadow, some horrifically sad creature caught halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t scrub the bitter smell of hospital from your memories, not even with denial. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Beacon Hills’ bloody underbelly is making it pretty damn hard for him to keep his promise.

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real, and old family secrets rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive?

Maybe, the real question is: How long will they want to?

Chapter Summary: You go full Charlie Kelly and start to put all the pieces together. Stiles knows more than he lets on, but for some reason you trust him anyway. 

A/N: check me out on ao3 (dork_knight) for the full lore version!

Taglist: @eaterof-concrete, @m30wk1ttycat

You played and replayed the video at least a hundred times, over and over again, examining every poorly shot, grainy frame until your eyes burned. You were frantic—a rabbit, picking her den apart, ripping her fur out, searching for all the minute flaws and misplaced straw; a girl, chewing her cheek bloody, tearing at her tights, desperately looking for some kind of explanation that wouldn’t completely shatter her fragile grasp on reality. 

It would be one thing if it was just the video. You could easily rationalize the video away; you’d seen enough fan-made edits of Buffy and Twilight to know that amateur editors were hardly amateurs anymore—but it wasn’t just the video. It was the video, and the gutted video clerk, and the mangled bus driver, and the severed woman with wolf fibers found her butchered corpse—all interconnected by one very furry, clawed, fanged… thing. 

Rolling onto your back, you scrubbed at your eyes, fingers cruel and violent in their attempt to scour away images of blood, and death, and monsters. There had to be an explanation. A rational explanation. Your gaze reflexively drifted towards the charm bundle on your windowsill, propped up against a few of your favorite novels.

The books were old, spines creased and splitting at the corners from little fingers and a lot of love. They were your mom’s before they were yours; you read them together under the covers whenever it rained. For a long time, you kept them hidden away under your bed with all the other things that might crumble your brittle will, but the yellowing pages steeped in memories didn’t seem so haunting anymore. You were already halfway through the stack, consuming the faded ink like a fiend in the night. It was odd; there wasn’t much that had changed since now and then. Really, only one thing. It made sense, you supposed after some thought. Your childhood favorites: Nancy Drew, Sherlock Holmes, the Hercule Poirot novels, they were exactly the kind of thing a sheriff’s son would appreciate.

The largest book in the pile was your complete collection of Sherlock Holmes. You chewed on your lip, eyes tracing the elegant swoops and swirls illuminated on the spine. Words curled along your brainstem in time with the loops, breaking through the buzzing in your mind with quiet British flourish: When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Your nose scrunched, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. Surely, you hadn’t eliminated all logical explanations yet. Surely. 

The metallic embellishments glinted at you, taunting you with their unmistakable presence and insistent reminder of your evening’s unavoidable ending. There was only one place to go for the improbable, after all; you just had to get past your pride and everything you believed to be true. 

Before you could finish putting on your shoes, your dad found his way into your room. He lingered on the border of the black cherry floor. His stance was awkward, unsure of his footing, and you froze with your shoelace in hand. After a moment of stilted silence, he cleared his throat and loosened his tie from its chafing Windsor knot, “I just wanted to let you know I’ll be out later than usual.”

Nodding, you tied your laces into neat bows and pulled the wrinkles in your tights straight, “Parent Teacher Conferences, right?”

“Mhm,” he paused and attempted a smile. The edges were stiff, as if his mouth had forgotten the movement, at least when directed at you, “Should I be worried?”

It was his attempt at a joke; you knew that. You still felt a flutter of anxiety. Despite Stiles’s reassurances, you weren't so cavalier about breaking the rules. “All A’s,” you finally said, quietly to your feet. 

Your dad gave you a real smile; smaller than his previous attempt at playfulness, but this one was your favorite. He was proud. It’d been a long time since he’d looked at you with anything other than grief and unease. “That’s my girl.” He rapped his knuckles against your door frame and said, “There’s takeout money on the table. Don’t stay out too long; there’s a—”

“Curfew, I know.” You slung your bag over your shoulder and fiddled with the strap, “I’ll be back soon.”

He didn’t ask you where you were going. He never did. You weren't sure what that said about your relationship, but you didn’t want to think about it any longer than you had to. There were far more pressing things to dwell on.

Maggie was in her kitchen when you opened the door to her house. It was cozy, small; she'd inherited it from her mother when she passed years ago. There were still signs of her 70s nostalgia all over every room. The shag carpet was horrendous, but you kind of liked the color. The muted green almost looked like a bed of moss, like something out of a fairytale.  You had your own key; you’d had one since you were old enough to be a latchkey kid—even though you were never really on your own for long. There was always someone around to help you with your homework, bake you brownies without getting shell in the batter, read you stories about far away places and imaginary worlds. You’d had a wonderful childhood until it ended; some people weren’t that lucky. You knew that you were fortunate to have twelve years of Rockwellian bliss; it was more than a lot of people got. Knowing, however, still didn’t make the after any easier. 

“Want a scone?” Maggie’s head was buried in the oven, steam curling around her shoulders. She emerged with a tray of browned lumps in pink oven-mitted hands, “They're slightly burnt, but it’s not my fault. My timer betrayed me.”

You didn’t reply. You chewed on your lip and studied the plants hanging from the ceiling. The Angelica was in full bloom, little clusters of white fuzzy fireworks. The roots were supposed to ward off evil. You would’ve scoffed at the thought a week ago. Now, there was a lingering ‘what if’ you couldn’t shake. 

You sighed quietly, the exhaustion rattling through your chest, and trailed your gaze to the next plant. Skullcaps were your favorite, not because they were supposed to induce visions, obviously; you liked the blossoms. The fluted periwinkle petals certainly looked magical. You picked a flower from the lowest stem and rolled it between your fingers, “You really believe in this shit, right?” You looked up from your hands and studied Maggie’s face carefully, “It’s not all a scam?”

The anticipated gasp carried through the kitchen, followed by the clang of a plonked baking sheet, “I resent the very implication.”

“I’m serious.” You stared at Maggie’s back, watching for any tell-tale signs of tension or rigidity, “Do you really believe that witches are real and wolfsbane can kill werewolves?”

“I will not be abused in my own home,” there was a lilt in Maggie’s voice, a flippancy that usually made your lips twitch into a smile, but Maggie's hand trembled and sent the scone on the edge of her spatula to the floor. Maggie dropped to her knees and scooped the crumbling pieces into a pile with desperate hands, oddly frantic for something as silly as a dropped pastry. 

You squatted next to her and rested your hands over Maggie’s until they stilled. “Mags,” you were quiet, gentle in your sweeping, but Maggie didn’t seem soothed by the clean floor. 

Maggie’s chin lifted, but her eyes zeroed in on the tip of your nose instead of your eyes. “Babe.”

You gripped your knees, clinging to the caps with ragged nails and flexed knuckles, like your bones were the only solid thing left in the room. “Can you be serious for once in your life, please.” Your tongue went heavy, adhering to the floor of your mouth, effectively sealing everything else you couldn’t bring yourself to say: Please, I think I’m losing my mind, and I don’t know how much longer I can white-knuckle it.  

Maggie turned towards the counter carelessly, and her pinky brushed against the cookie sheet. She let out a sharp hiss through her teeth and shook her hand in the air. “Why does it matter?” Her words were muffled through the blistering finger in her mouth, “People buy what they want to buy.”

Your empathy was thinning and so was your patience. Your teeth gnashed, and you winced when your tongue got in the way. “I don’t give a shit about your delusional customers. You know what I mean.”

“See, ‘delusional,’” Maggie stuffed a scone into her mouth even though it was still steaming. Her eyes watered as she struggled to swallow the wad of blueberry and oatmeal lodged against the roof of her mouth. “Why are we even talking about this?” she said thickly, throat clogged with congealed crumbs and something skittish in her eyes. She bent over the sink and turned the water to cold; you weren't entirely sure if she was soothing the burns on her tongue or simply avoiding eye contact.

“There’s something happening here,” your voice trembled, much to your disdain, and you were further horrified by the stinging in your tear ducts, “and I don’t know what to do.”

Maggie’s head whipped towards you, wetting her hair and splattering her lenses with water droplets that dripped onto her nose, “You don’t have to do anything. That’s not your job.” She clutched your shoulders with desperate fingers, digging into your scapulae until it hurt, “Your job is to go to school, get good grades, and live happily ever after.”

You shook off her hands and wiped your nose against your shoulder, “Why won’t you just give me a straight answer?” 

“Well, I am bi–”

“Maggie,” you struggled for words until there was only one left on your tongue, “please.”

A blank expression fell over her face, and then Maggie seemed to sink through the floor even though she was still standing. “Did you read the book?”

You could barely hear her. Your nose shriveled towards your brows, “What book?”

Her eyes shined with something; you couldn’t quite define it. There was a glimmer of remorse, but you couldn’t make out the rest. “‘Beacon Hills’ Bloodlines’.”

For a moment, you were too confused to be frustrated, “Not really.”

Confusion became bewilderment when Maggie left the kitchen without a word. She returned with a thick book; though, book wasn’t quite accurate. It was really a stack of pulp parchment barely held together with a piece of threaded twine. It looked older than the Bloodline’s journal; you could see a few pages sticking out from the others, and the spine was in desperate need of re-stitching. You reluctantly took the pages from Maggie’s hands after she shook it in your face a couple times. 

Maggie was quiet when she finally spoke, “Read the journal.” She nodded towards the new book, “That too.”

You frowned at the cover and held it out in front of you like it was contaminated. “Why are you being so weird about this? Just tell me.”

Maggie looked at you, and the most peculiar sensation rolled down your spine. Maggie's eyes were so present, like a shotgun blast, like a meteor shower. Her voice wasn’t even close to loud, but it was just as piercing as her stare, “I made a promise; I have to keep at least part of it.”

Your forehead creased, “Wha...that’s even weirder. Are you fuckin’ Gandalf? Just say it.” 

“Trust me,” Maggie’s gaze shifted to the floor, and you almost melted with relief, “there are some things that you’re better off not knowing.”

“Great. Thanks, Obi-Wan,” you rolled your eyes and crammed the bound parchment into your bag, “I’ll figure it out myself.”

A cool hand cupped your cheek before you could leave. You grudgingly met Maggie’s gaze, adjusting your grip on the strap of your bag.  

Maggie held onto your shoulders, a breath away from shaking you. “Promise me, you won’t do anything stupid.”

You grimaced, “I–” A flash in Maggie’s eyes dried all the words on your tongue.

“Promise.”

“Promise,” you mumbled.

Maggie finally let you leave, and your feet felt heavier than they did when you walked into Maggie’s apartment. Your bag was heavier, so perhaps it wasn’t all an illusion. The guilt, however, was certainly playing a part in your sagging shoulders. You chewed on a thumbnail and slipped into the comfort of denial. It didn’t count as a broken promise if you didn’t really know what you were promising.

Your dad was still gone when you got home, and you were relieved. Solitude was your only comfort with all this dread chilling your blood. You weren't good with the unpredictable, not anymore. You tried to study it, the way you did with dead languages and theoretical physics, but the methodology wasn't clear. You just wished, for once, you were as scary as people believed. 

There was one thing you could do—or rather two. One was on your desk, and the other was at the bottom of your bag. 

You started with the journal, and your hair quickly became a nuisance. Every time you bowed your head to get a better look at the messy scrawl, wispy strands obscured your vision. You tied your hair back and nibbled on your lip, struggling to determine if a smudged loop was an ‘a’ or an ‘o.’ They didn’t have computers in the 1800s, you knew that, but it wouldn’t have killed Maggie’s great-great-great-grandmother to quill with a little less ink. Neat cursive was hardly as taxing as cholera. 

The pain at the base of your skull was unbearable by the time you made it through half of the entries. Your impatience was rapidly fraying, with yourself and with the lack of insight. Maybe, this was all an elaborate stall—or maybe Maggie really didn’t know anything. 

You flopped back against your pillows and starfished your limbs across your bed until all your joints and muscles unkinked. “Fuck me.” Your eyes flicked down your legs, and you glowered at the journal. It was goading you, opened to the middle and sprawled across your thighs, staring at you and all your incompetence. 

Your thumbs dug a trench in your skull as you tried to rub the throbbing out of your temples.

One more page. You could read one more page. 

You flipped the page, careful with the crumbling corner. The parchment was cluttered with names and arrows; there were a few illustrations too, sketched portraits of the people memorialized on paper. It was inked chaos, but only one word stood out to you. In a large curling script, Hale was spread all over the complicated family tree. You gnawed on your lip and bent your head closer to the small description at the top of the page: The Hale pack founded Beacon Hills in 1856, saving the town from desolation with their wealth. The pack has several branches, extending across the state. They continue to be a prevalent force in their world. 

The bloodlines were difficult to follow with all the different branches and untimely deaths. As far as you could tell, the line was documented all the way to 2002. There were a few different sets of handwriting; the style changed every few decades or so, and you flipped to the end of the family line just to check for Maggie’s chicken scratch. You didn’t find her handwriting, but you did notice something familiar on the last line. Derek Hale. 

You knew, of course, that Derek would likely be included, but your breath hitched when your finger traced over the notation inscribed next to almost every single one of his family members’ names: Deceased: Arson. Laura Hale was still alive on the tree, and the thought of documenting her death—of giving her an end date —it stole all the air from your lungs. 

Your eyes burned, and you quickly flipped back to the start of the Hale bloodline. A few dozen county death records later, the burning in your corneas was due to the strain of one too many computer searches. Still painful, but you much preferred blue light sting to the threat of tears. You focused on it, on the ache; it was so much quieter than all the thoughts fighting you for their turn. They were so loud, a million ravenous locusts buzzing, feasting on your ear canal. You couldn’t make out what they were saying, what they were trying to tell you—what they wanted you to believe. 

Derek Hale couldn’t be a werewolf because that would mean werewolves were real, and if werewolves were real, how many other monsters were lurking in the dark? How many creatures from Maggie’s stories were waiting for someone to separate from the herd, biding their time until they could sink their teeth into human flesh?

There was only so much you could find online and in Maggie’s books. Certain secrets had yet to be written. 

It was disturbingly easy to find out where Stiles lived. The receptionist at the Sheriff’s station was all too happy to give you his address when you gave her your name. You finally stumbled upon the one perk of being an infamous, pathetic half-orphan: blind faith. 

His house was smaller than yours, and you were jealous. All the empty space just made the silence worse, you found. You could see a few spots where the paint was peeling when you got closer, and you smiled at the shoddy patch work. You wondered who tried to fix it. You hoped it was Stiles; you could see the paint in his hair, maybe smeared across his cheek from an ill-advised attempt to scratch his nose. It was adorable. 

You knocked on the door and clutched Maggie’s books tighter to your chest. You’d expected Stiles to answer the door, but he didn’t. You didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to you that someone else would be home until Sheriff Stilinski opened the door, but you felt stupid for not thinking of it sooner. The Sheriff looked just as surprised to see you; at least, he had an actual reason. 

“Oh.” You blinked and devolved into a monosyllabic moron, “Hi.” 

Obviously, you knew Stiles was Sheriff Stilinski’s son, but for some reason the idea of them occupying the same place at the same time was dumbfounding. YOur mind couldn’t make sense of it. There was the Sheriff in one box, with all your grief, all your pain, and then there was Stiles. You didn’t fully know what was in his box, but you knew it was good. 

“Hey, kid,” Sheriff Stilinski smiled through his confusion, “you okay? Did something—”

“I’mheretoseeStiles,” all your words were smooshed together in one big exhale. 

The Sheriff looked even more confused for a moment, and then he gave you a little conspiratorial grin. “He’s up in his room. Go ahead.” 

You nodded absently and followed him inside. You stopped thinking about the hefty pile of books in your arms when you noticed the slight limp in Sheriff Stilinski’s step. “Are you okay?” 

The Sheriff followed your gaze and waved his hand, “It’s nothing. Barely a scratch.” 

You hesitated at the foot of the stairs, looking for blood or something equally horrific. He had no reason to lie to you, but you’d gotten used to the worst case scenario. “You sure?”

The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened with his smile, “You sound like my son.”

You mouth ticked up slightly, “That’s not an answer.”

Sheriff Stilinski had a nice laugh, you thought. You grinned as his head shook with another rumbling chuckle. “Now you really sound like my son. I hope he hasn’t driven crazy too.”

“Eh,” you shrugged a little and smiled, “he’s alright.” Your voice dropped a little, like you were telling a secret, “More than, actually. He’s…good.”

The Sheriff looked surprised briefly, a spasm of disbelief, and then all the muscles in his face seemed to melt with fondness. “He is,” his voice was a bit gravelly when he spoke, like it got lodged halfway up his throat. He loved his son; it was obvious. You wondered if your dad ever looked like that when talked about you. You wondered if he even talked about you at all. 

“Not a lot of people are,” you said quietly, looking down at your sneakers. The white wasn’t even white anymore. They were graying from years of stepping on your own feet, kicking car doors closed, tripping over asphalt. You weren't the kind of girl who could keep shoes clean; that was one thing about you that hadn’t changed. Sometimes, it felt like everything else had, and none of it was for the better. 

Sheriff Stilinski waited until you looked up, and then he smiled at you, almost as fondly as before. “You are.”

You were overwhelmed with feeling, so close to an emotion you couldn’t name, but you knew you’d felt it before. Once upon a time, when parents were parents, and children were children. 

The Sheriff rested his hand on your shoulder and squeezed. You were tipping into tearful, and you’d never been so grateful to hear Stiles’s voice. 

“Dad, who’s—” Stiles stopped at the top of the stairs and stared at the two of you. His jaw dangled, and it didn’t snap shut until his dad snorted. Stiles’s eye twitched, and you could see the reboot loading behind his eyes. You wholly understood the sentiment.

His brain regained function, and apparently all he could come up with was, “Hey.”

You grinned to yourself, a small secret smile at his predicament, and your hand cocked in a little wave, “Hey.”

Sheriff Stilinski cleared his throat, “I’ll—I’m going to get something to eat.” Neither of you looked at him; you were too busy playing a strange staring contest with equally stupid looks on your faces.  

Stiles recovered from his stupor once you were alone. His face settled into something bitter, stony at all the edges, irritation tucked into the creases. It was hardly the face you expected to see when you finally paid him a surprise visit. 

Your brow curved, and you tried not to shrink in on yourself. “You look pissed.”

Stiles snorted and drummed his fingers against the railing, “Yeah, well, you’re in a perpetual state of pissiness, so we’ve all got problems.” You must have crumpled this time, at least a little bit, because his scowl thawed and his hands fell limply by his sides. “Sorry. That’s not—displaced aggression, it’s my sweet spot.”

You shrugged and smiled slightly, a little stiff, a lot amused, “You’re not exactly wrong.”

“Still.” 

You played another game of eye-contact chicken, and Stiles scratched the back of his rapidly flushing neck. Your hair, still damp from the light drizzle, fell in front of your face as you tilted your head towards the stairs, “So, you gonna invite me up, or…”

He nodded a little too quickly and definitely too fervently, “Yeah, sorry. I’m just—”

“Pissed?” you smirked and adjusted your grip on your books, trekking up the stairs. Stiles narrowed his eyes at you, but he was smiling. He had a nice smile; it was big, loose—unrestrained in a way a lot of people were afraid to be. It was the kind of smile you couldn’t help but return.

Stiles let out a profound sigh and shook his head, “It’s all Scott’s fault.” You shot him a dubious look as he pushed his bedroom door open for you. He shrugged, “If I only tell it with carefully selected parts of the story, it’s all his fault.”

Your mouth twitched. Your smile was small, but it peeled back a good deal of the person you thought you should be. So much so, there was a little you peeking underneath. “We can pretend it is. Just for today.”

Stiles’s throat bobbed with his swallow, and when he smiled back at you, slowly, fleetingly, but ever-so sweetly, you finally realized you were awkwardly standing in the middle of his room. Like an idiot. 

His room was exactly what you expected, and that was…you didn’t realize that you knew him well enough to expect plaid bedding and posters of cringey emo bands that were heavily featured on most of your playlists. 

His desk was cluttered with various books and papers, stacked with no apparent rhyme or reason. You recognized the bestiary he bought from Curio Killed the Cat; the burgundy and gold binding was striking against all his monochrome textbooks. There were a few papers poking out from the aged pages, printouts of something furry and familiar. Before you could get a better look, Stiles bustled past you, doing a quick but rather poor job of hiding his dirty laundry under his bed and behind his closet door. 

Stiles was slightly out of breath when he finished, dropping onto the foot of his bed, “So…you stalkin’ me now?” 

You rested your hip against his desk and hummed, “Seemed only fair.” 

“Well,” his face split into a bright, infuriating grin, “I am flattered.”

“Shut up.” His grin widened, and you rolled your eyes, glaring at your bowed reflection in a chrome lamp on the edge of his desk. It was in grave need of a good dusting, along with most of the room. “You’re literally my only option.”

“So, you’re sayin’ I’m the one.” Stiles’s smirk was audible, and you sputtered. 

Your ears were unnaturally hot, and so was the back of your neck. You meant to groan, wanted him to know just how unamusing you found him, but your throat failed you. Your complaint came out airy, huffy, and it trembled against your soft palate. Truthfully, it sounded awfully similar to a whine; you scowled at the sound and squeezed your books tighter to your chest, “I’m leaving. Right now. I’ve reached my maximum capacity for bullshit.” 

Long fingers circled around your wrist before you could go too far. They were blistering against your cool skin, but a shiver shuddered through your arm all the way to your skull. 

“Don’t go,” Stiles hummed softly, close enough to warm the shell of your ear. “I owe you one, remember?” 

You braved a look at him through your lashes, and he was smiling at you again; this one was nervous. He had forgotten, it seemed, to let go of your wrist until now. Stiles sat back down on his bed, and you absently brushed your fingers over the lingering sensation of his fingertips. 

“Right,” you looked around the room and chewed on your bottom lip, “so…what was that whole thing with Derek Hale?”

Stiles paused. You could feel him watching you, studying you like one of his puzzles. “He needed a ride.”

You set your books on his desk, and Stiles nodded towards the chair in front of him. You hesitated before sitting down, feeling a bit like you were giving up the battlefield high ground, “You’re like…friends, then?”

“Absolutely not.” If the emphatic denial wasn’t enough to convince you, the violent shake of his head was telling enough. “Kind of wish he was dead, actually. It would solve so many problems.”

“So you don’t actually know him that well,” you murmured, sinking into the chair with all your hopes and plans. 

Stiles’s neck craned as he studied your face, “Why?” You just looked at him, keeping your face impassive, and his eyes went a little buggy. “I know he looks dreamy, but that would be nothing but a nightmare for everyone involved. Trust me.”

Your face twisted, lips curling around the unsavory taste in your mouth. “I don’t—what was wrong with him yesterday?”

Stiles didn’t look entirely convinced, but skepticism did look a lot like concern. “Stomach bug.”

You rolled your eyes. It would’ve made you laugh under any other circumstance, but you didn’t feel much like laughing now. You’d been a tick away from the edge ever since you realized that Lydia had been this close to being butchered by that thing. 

Your fingers curled into tight fists, knuckles straining, “I’m not an idiot, okay. I know there’s something weird going on.” You looked up from your lap with sharp eyes, but if he looked a little closer, he’d see the desperation underneath, “And I know you know something about it.”

Stiles swallowed hard and twisted his fingers together, “I’m actually known for knowing nothing about anything. Ever.” 

He flinched when you stood up abruptly. The chair rolled back into his desk and sent a few pencils to the floor. You glared at them, like they did it on purpose just to spite you, and your glower drifted towards the glint of citrine and garnet on the corner of his desk. “This.” You picked up the bestiary and tried to shake it in front of his face, but it was too heavy to do your frustration justice, “Why did you buy this?”

His eyes, miraculously, grew rounder, “I told you. D—”

“N’ D, I know, but I looked into it. This is real; it’s transcribed from a real Ancient Greek text.”

“...I like authenticity.” Stiles shrugged towards his fidgeting hands, “I take my craft seriously.”

Scoffing, you dropped the book on top of his bed, “So you’re saying you believe the whole mountain lion theory?” 

“Well, obviously no—”

“Then what do you believe?” Your chest seethed with quick shallow breaths as you paced from one side of his room to the other, “Because I was looking through this genealogy line, and the Hales have been here before Beacon Hills was even Beacon Hills, and there’s a pattern of—hold on.” 

You snatched Maggie’s journal off of his desk and flipped it open to the Hale family tree, bookmarked with the thick stack of county death reports you’d printed out. “Look, there’s a series of premature, violent deaths in their line directly after a series of animal attacks on the town, and then all of it just stopped a few generations before Derek’s mom became the head of the pa—”

You didn’t know when Stiles stood up, but he was in front of you now, stopping you in your tracks. He brushed his fingers through his short crop of hair and shook his head, “Hold on, okay. Take a breath—”

You didn’t hear him, not really. Truthfully, you didn’t even notice that he’d started talking. You shoved the pages closer to his face, and all your words rushed past your lips in one carved out breath, “And then it all started again after Laura Hale was killed, and she was found with wolf fibers on her body—”

Stiles’s brows flew towards his hairline, “How do you kno—”

“She became the head of the family after Talia died, right?” Your hair was as wild as your eyes after a series of urgent tugging, and you prayed to all the mythical gods in every game you’d ever played that you sounded saner than you looked. They might actually exist, after all. Who's to say that Selûne didn't exist in a world where werewolves did? “‘Cause she’s the oldest living, fully conscious relative, and then immediately after she's killed, the animal attacks start up again, like she was keeping something in-check.”

“Slow down.” Stiles gripped your shoulders. You were closer than either of you realized until you looked up and your noses were almost touching. He swallowed thickly and let go of you after a moment, taking a step back, “A couple of days ago you thought this was all bullshit.”

You chewed on your lip and your indecision, looking for something in his face. You didn’t know what, but you were pretty sure you found it when his mouth furrowed into a concerned frown. It was for you, you realized, not because of you. That was…a rarity in your life as of late. You didn’t hate it. 

Sighing, you pulled your phone out of your jacket pocket and opened the video from Lydia’s phone. “A couple of days ago I hadn't seen this,” you mumbled, shoving the phone into his hand.

Stiles looked at you for a moment longer and then pressed play. His face was unreadable, save for the small flinch when the beast shattered the store window, and you hated it. “Where did you get this?” Stiles finally said quietly. His voice was low and infected with something dire. 

You rifled through your papers, something to keep your hands busy and your eyes off of the dark look on Stiles’s face, “Someone sent it to Lydia—it was a blocked number, so don’t ask who.”

“Did she—”

“I deleted it before she could.” 

Neither of you needed to say it; you both knew Lydia was clinging to sanity by the skin of her perfect teeth. She couldn’t see the proof that the monster under her bed was real. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

“Good.” Stiles rubbed a hand over his face, looking so much older than sixteen, and he flickered his gaze to your face, “You can’t show this to anyone. You know that, right?”

“Besides Scott,” you retorted dryly.

Stiles almost smiled. There was a ghost of one hiding in the corners of his mouth, but it faded before it could materialize. “Believe me, he really doesn’t need any more proof. Delete it.” 

He sighed at your scowl and tried again, “Please delete it.”

You shook your head and grabbed your phone from his hands, “Not until you tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything.” Stiles held up his hands and took a careful step towards you, “Really. I know as much as you do.”

You stared at him. You weren't sure if you were a good judge of character. You’d like to think you were, but it wasn’t like you spent a lot of time around other people. Even before you got trapped in your head, you really only had one friend, and you used to think you’d be friends with her for the rest of your lives. Maybe longer. 

You’d been wrong before. You didn’t want to be wrong again.

Stiles reached for your hand, and you let him lace your fingers together. “I know how you feel. It sucks, and it’s kind of exciting, but mostly freakin’ terrifying—and all you need to know is that it’s going to be okay. Okay?”

Your chin jerked in a rigid little nod. You softened slightly when he squeezed your hand. He wasn’t telling you everything; you were almost 100% certain of that, but you were also pretty sure he wasn’t lying. That was enough for you. For now. 

“The file room,” you said quietly.

Stiles’s lips drew together into a little pucker, “What?”

“The evidence room with all the files,” you looked up at him, and the ember of hope was stoked in your eyes, “there’s probably more there.”

He bit down on his cheek, “I don’t know—”

You folded her arms over her chest, chin lifting in defiance, “You promised.”

Stiles sighed and ran his hand over his head. His smile was a little affectionate thing. He sighed and shook his head, “I promised.”

“Well, alright then.” Your shoulders relaxed, and you sat back down in his desk chair, “Middle of the night break-in, it’s a date.”

[eldritch-nightmare]

i love liu so much he is just. That guy. to me.

everything about him is just. he's such an interesting character to me. he is so tragic in the sense that no matter how many times he loves someone, they're always doomed to die. he can never form any bonds, platonic or romantic, because death follows him like a loyal dog. it's his fault, he supposes. divine punishment for going down the path of revenge. something along those lines, he thinks.

i think liu tries so hard to protect those close to him. i think, even though they always end up dead, he never gets used to it. he feels to much. he never grows numb to the grief. maybe that's why sully is the one to always deal with death, because he knows liu will crumble at the sight of it. sully is the only person he's yet to lose, simply because he can't.

i've conjured up many different scenarios of liu falling in love, only for his lover to inevitably die in his arms. it haunts me like ghost. but there's always one specific one that haunts me the most.

heads up: many mentions of death, major character death, blood, and god.

i think about him meeting someone one day. it wasn't anything romantic or ‘drama’ worthy. hell, it probably wasn't even a meet-cute. realistically, it was probably something as simple as bumping into each other one time and then suddenly that person is like… everywhere you go, yknow?

and meeting you the second time, the third time, the fourth… it all felt natural. it was scary, how easily you wormed your way into his heart but then again, he never built up any walls. he can never stop himself from getting attached. he's only human, after all.

he never intended on becoming friends with you. he had wanted to keep you as a mere acquaintance, but you wanted more. you always asked to hang out with him whenever you saw him, even if it meant sitting in silence as he prayed or read a book. you didn't care, because you already viewed him as your friend.

viewing you as a friend was scary, because he knew the moment he got attached, then he was basically cursing you to die. but then months went by, and you were still here. you didn't vanish. you never got sick, or hit by a car, or murdered in a failed robbery. you were still alive. maybe that's when he started getting more comfortable around you, hesitantly letting himself get attached bit by bit, piece by piece.

death never came for you. you were so… alive. it took his breath away each time he saw you.

you started becoming a constant in his life. the one friend he allowed himself to have. even sully seemed to like you, which was saying a lot. he smiled more when you were around. it felt as if he could actually live a normal life, if he wanted to.

it's a shame that he didn't. maybe things would have turned out different, if he had.

you added color to his world in ways no one ever has before, and it was only a matter of time before he found himself falling in love with you. day by day, every time you came around with that sweet smile of yours, liu could feel himself falling. it was… scary.

would you die if he loved you? you haven't yet, so it would be okay, right? he could love you. he wants to love you. he does love you.

and loving you was as easy as breathing. it was an embarrassed, flustered mess when he told you how he felt about you. the guy wears his heart on his sleeve, so you weren't surprised when he confessed to you. but he was certainly surprised when you reciprocated his feelings.

it was like every day felt brighter with you in his life. he got happy over the smallest things. your smile, your laugh, the way the stars reflect in your eyes, how you light up like the sun whenever you start talking about something you enjoy… liu could spend hours just looking at you. you're like a painting come to life. he thanked god every day for bringing you into his life, because he simply couldn't picture himself living without you anymore.

and sully was just as smitten as liu. you had him wrapped around your finger. he's never had anyone other than liu, so he was fiercely protective of you. he was like a dog, the way he stuck by your side and scared off pretty much anyone he considered to be a threat. but the moment you call his name, he's turning into mush. he looks at you like you're the only other person in the universe. to him, nothing else could ever compare to you. nothing will ever match your beauty. if he could, he would devour you.

for the longest time, liu was terrified of leaving you alone for long periods of time. if he left you alone, you could die. but you always reassured him. no matter what happened, you weren't going to leave him.

“you're stuck with me, liu. even if you grow tired of me, i'll stay by your side.”

he had always been scared of telling you he loved you, but you said it so easily. you two could be sitting in total silence, and you'd suddenly say it. looking at him as if he were the stars and ocean combined, holding his face so gently in your hands, whispering it like a prayer.

sleep was easier with you. he felt safe. he felt like a different person with you. he felt as if he could forget about everything, and that he could just be liu woods.

it would take him forever to tell you about his past. he was worried that you'd want nothing to do with him if you knew. you listened to each word that came out of his mouth the night he told you, his head resting on your lap as you played with his hair. he thought you'd tell him that revenge wasn't going to make things better. he was prepared for it, actually. but instead…

“you won't leave after you kill him, will you?”

liu would have hesitated to answer before he met you. he never saw himself living after killing jeff. it was a bit grim, but that was his reality. but not anymore. not with you.

“i could never leave you. you're stuck with me.”

and that was all you needed to hear.

he was so caught up in his love for you that he forgot. he forgot. and he fucking hates himself for forgetting.

three years. three years into your relationship, almost five into knowing you. he left you alone for the first time. four days. he was gone for four days, and not once did he think anything bad could happen to you.

not once did he ever consider you crossing paths with his brother. he really should've, but he was so… so sure that this time would be different. you were supposed to live. you had so much life in you that liu couldn't even imagine you dying anymore.

you're the only reason he had a phone. you wanted to contact him when he was away, so you had got him one and added him to your plan. and when that phone rang, liu answered it happily with a small smile on his face, excited to hear your voice.

“i love you.”

your voice had been quiet. he could hear the terror in your words, the tears you were no doubt crying. worse, he could hear his brother in the background, mocking you.

“aw, i give you one phone call and you don't think to call the police? god, you're dumb. now your poor lover boy is gonna hear you die.”

and liu has never ran so fast. the panic, the adrenaline, it was the only thing that kept him from blacking out even as his lungs begged him for rest.

but it was too late. jeff was gone by the time he got there, and you were barely clinging to life in the middle of your bedroom floor. your blood pooled around you, staining your clothes. the floor. your skin. your phone.

it was like the world was coming to a quiet end. he held you in his arms, crying tears he couldn't feel.

“are you an angel?” you had playfully asked, your voice quiet. so quiet.

he begged. he begged you to stay alive. he begged god to not take you from him.

“i’m sorry i lied.” you said. “it looks like i won't be able to stay with you anymore.”

your heart was starting to slow. there was so much blood. why was he so cruel with you? what did you do to deserve this?

liu couldn't think of anything to say. he couldn't comfort you. he couldn't beg anymore. it was pointless, it all was.

“i love you.” it was the first time he said it, he realizes. three years of dating you, and he's only saying it now.

and you laughed. it hurt, but you laughed. that was all you needed to hear.

shakily bringing a hand up to his face, looking at him as if he were life itself, “i love you too.” he grabbed your hand before it could fall, your breathing starting to slow.

“i'm cold.”

watching the life leave your eyes was the worst thing to have ever happened to him. when you took your last breath, it was as if liu died with you. the grief he felt was so much that he shut down, sully having to take over.

and when sully saw your lifeless body in his arms, he laughed. this was a joke, right? you were just pretending. you can't be dead. you can't… you can't die. and when he stopped laughing, he cried. sully has never had to grieve someone before.

he cursed god. he cursed jeff. he cursed liu. he cursed himself.

i don't think liu or sully will ever heal from this, honestly. the grief will never go away. if anything, your death solidifies the idea that jeff needed to die.

for the longest time, i think sully would despise you for dying. how could you leave them? you promised you'd stay by their side, and now all they have left of you is a tombstone.

everything reminds them of you. it's like you were still with them, and yet they could never feel you.

how are they supposed to ever get used to never seeing your smile again? they'll never get to hear your voice or your laugh. they'll never feel your skin underneath their hands anymore. it's gone. you're gone.

liu would kill a thousand people if it meant bringing you back to life. sully would tear the heavens down and kill god if it meant you'd breathe again.

and sometimes, on the rare chance that liu is able to sleep, he dreams of you. he always hates waking up from those dreams.

liu will never stop loving you. no matter how much time passes, he always ends the day visiting your tombstone.

you were right.

he was stuck with you.

[annerbhp]

Do you have any good post-canon wangxian angst recs? I want to bathe in them working through their trauma, but all I see is fluff :'(

Someone is asking me for wangxian fic recs? MY MOMENT HAS COME. Let’s see what three years of mainlining wangxian fics can come up with. Though I am not quite sure exactly what kind of angst you want, so forgive me if I don’t quite hit what you are looking for. But I will do my best! (And thanks for an excuse to revisit so many of these and download them so I don't lose them some day.)

Post-canon they aren’t together yet fics:

Wearing Down Every Bone by CHSfic, VSfic (explicit) This is a post-canon WWX gets caught in a time loop, forced to relive the same day over and over again. Angst galore and just so good.

Always Light My Way by cqlorphan (explicit) This is a post-canon, they aren’t together, but LWJ offers to “Dual Cultivate” in order to help WWX rebuild his core. Lots of misunderstanding, tons of fucking while pining, and clearing out some of their mutual baggage.

hunters seeking solid ground by Attila (explicit) The one where WWX is trying to get his shit together before he sees LWJ again, but really doesn’t manage it. He suffers from debilitating nightmares. Lots of hurt/comfort.

But You Always Return by uponmountains (teen) this is a post-canon fic where lwj gets cursed to live out his worst nightmare over and over again until he dies.

Night Breezes Seem to Whisper by cqlorphan (explicit) This is a great “they didn’t get together and are forced to confess due to a ‘fuck or die’ curse” fic. Very melancholy, some painful misunderstandings and finally important communication.

Stuck under the moon by perilously (explicit) This is a great post-canon fic where lwj seems to treat wwx with painful indifference upon his return, when he’s really been cursed. Really digs into wwx’s insecurities, but also how well he knows lwj.

Post-canon they ARE together fics:

The Guests of Cloud Recesses by cafecliche (teen) Hard one to explain without giving it away, but some really nice angst here, with both of them dealing with the lingering echoes of the years wwx was dead and what it means to be haunted.

ghost out on the water by twigofwillow (teen) You want angst? This is a post-canon wwx amnesia fic that hurts SO MUCH. I really can’t even re-read it, it hurts so good.

the low sky, raining over by chibilwj (Mature) This is an interesting look at married wangxian and their relationship to being parents and the ways a lot of things still aren’t simple.

Take Root, Come Home by piecrust (G) This one deals with LWJ’s fears after post-canon. Really lovely how his fears prey on him and how WWX trying not to take up too much space just makes it worse.

To Know, To Be Known series by cqlorphan (explicit) this is a series of fics that explore the sexual side of wangxian’s relationship, especially lwj being unwilling to state his desires and interests. A really fascinating glimpse into both characters and how they navigate intimacy and communication. Not really angsty, but it does require some discomfort and slow negotiation and opening up with each other if you are looking for a “I want wangxian to have to put work into their relationship” fic.

a kind of emptiness by ScarlettStorm (explicit) This is a great fic looking into Wei Wuxian’s trauma, especially around food. There’s angst and worry here.

the absence of hunger by parsnipit (mature) Another great wwx and his relationship with food fics. “Clear communication is sexy!”

Close Your Soft Eyes by timetoboldlygo (g) This fic deals with LWJ’s trauma, his fears around WWX being gone. (Maybe fluffy?)

Post-canon fics with angst and juniors dealing with the fallout of their elders’ history and trauma:

Rotten Work by ShanaStoryteller (unrated) This is a fic wherein wwx wanders the world alone and Jin Ling realizes no one is looking after him and takes it upon himself. I like this one because it’s so clear the “elder” generation is so messed up and Jin Ling is determined to do better.

Proximity to Knowledge by ChilianXianzi (teen) This is another great juniors fic dealing with how WWX is treated post-canon. Civil disobedience!

the stone-filled sea by yukla (teen) This is more Lan Sizhui dealing with how the world sees WWX. Not a rosy look at the cultivation world.

other post-canon faves, which are maybe the “fluffy” ones you are NOT looking for, but I couldn't stand leaving out because I love them:

i hope that you will come and meet me by feyburner (mature)

the hidden source is the watchful heart by o_honeybees (explicit)

You, Asleep and Dreaming by entymologyplayground (mature)

Happy reading!

[sabine-smitten-obviously]

And now i want to find myself a haunted cottage ... to find the love of my life ❤️

I just started this wonderfull gem yesterday and finished this morning. And i am so reluctant to part with it that i even consider to reread it immediately.

So if you are into Good Omens, like Human AU and searching for a kind of different plot - here are my thoughts on a wonderful fanfic from @commodorecliche !

😃 Whats it about?

Aziraphale buys a little cottage and finds some books in it, written by A.J. Crowley. Oh - and there is a ghost in the house! You will never guess who that might be ... But what might sound cheesy really is not. I so loved the authors notes that i will throw them in here:

This is a ghost story. This is a story about the remnants of ourselves we leave behind. This is a story about life and about all the things that cannot be hidden, even after we die. This is a story about finding comfort in another creature, despite the dimensional divide that might stand between us. This is a ghost story. This is a love story.

And that it is. The notes say it all!

{There are minor spoilers ahead - i tried to collect my thoughts without giving too much away, but pls only go on if you are ok with that! }

What i absolutely adore in this wunderful piece:

🤍It is a tale of love told from Aziraphale´s point of view only. Being a ghost story i had goose bumps several times during the first chapters. Nothing too scary, but quite exciting! It also has a bit of angst in it, but mostly it is deeply loving and what hurts is the fact that - well - Crowley is a ghost and Aziraphale is human. There is a natural limit to their connection. I dont want to tell more because i dont want to spoil the story. You should definitely mind the tags before you start reading!

❤️ It is a human AU but takes on a very different plot with Crowley being a ghost. So somehow this is so far unique to me in the GO-universe, where most human AU tend to put them both in the same place - be it rockstars, book sellers, teachers and parents and so on.

🤍Having a ghost and a human falling in love with each other - oh it is so sweet but also ... tragic? Having someone to love without being ever able to touch him? To barely feel him? Crowley is so well written, he is merely an essence - there and at the same time not.

🩶What i really enjoyed is that you will know every character but most of the stereotypes are left out. Anathema is not psychic (or at least it isnt mentionned) for example. There is no bickering between Aziraphale and Crowley. No sentences or dialogues from GO thrown back to the reader. Still everything blends together so well.

🖤 Oh and i loved this fact: Crowley is a writer! Crowley is the one with the words !!! and for once there is no stumbling, no "ngk", no "fuck" no nothing. Most of human AU leave Crowley with "clever hands" but words not so fluently ... (A fact that kind of surprises me often because i am not so sure every Shakespearean Text is really Shakespeare ... right? ;-))

❤️Aziraphale is happy with his body - this is something i deeply appreciate. I have read roundabout 60 fanfics so far and in most human AU his thoughts about himself can be rather derogatory.

🖤Crowley is not the one begging Aziraphale to stay or be together with him - also a quite common theme in GO-fanfics. I absolutely love that!!

I kind of realise now that me writing reviews is my way of parting with a story that particularly got to my heart. This one is truly beautiful for several reasons and i had everything from goosebumps to laughter to angst to heartache to relief to sadness. It ends well, if it is happy is really only your choice. ❤️

This story made me finally set up a "re-read-list" and i absolutely recommend it, if you´re in for a bit of heartache, a different plot and a different version of a "and they life happy ever after". It is a quiet, lovable and aching book, well balanced and still easy to read.

ps: I thought a lot about it, could i do it? Could i fall in love with a ghost? I would like to think of myself as having stayed in the house but probably i would have run. If i had come past this first angst and built a connection - would i have been able to? Would it have been enough to simply love? To have an ethereal connection and know you are not alone but ... no friends to share with, to be grounded to the house, no picnics, no touch? What are your thoughts on this?

pps: if you have read this one, pls come here and scream and cry with me in the comments!!! I dont want to tell too much here but there are scenes in the book that i would love to romp on in the comments!!

[gaslightgatekeepgirlbosscombat]

Group H, Round 4, Poll 2:

Propaganda under the cut

Li Lianhua/Li Xiangyi

All men do is lie. He's a "miracle physician" (citation needed) who lies himself out of every situation he's in. Didn't so much as fake his death, rather let everyone believe he was dead and then lie to their face when asked about who he really is. Convinces everyone he's just a weak doctor who doesn't know any martial arts but has a cunning mind, despite the fact that he literally used to be the head of the martial arts world before being poisoned. Somehow nearly everyone he meets is in love with him. He's everything to me

#THE LI LIANHUA PROPAGANDA LEFT OUT HIM DRUGGING PEOPLE MULTIPLE TIMES #TO AVOID (POTENTIALLY) GETTING ASKED ABOUT THE ISSUES HE IS CHOOSING TO LOOK AWAY FROM AND NOT SEE #ALSO THE TIME SOMEONE FIGURED OUT HIS TRUE IDENTITY BUT THEN THEY FELL UNCONSCIOUS #AND HE GOT AWAY WITH IT BY TELLING THEM THEY HAD BEEN HALLUCINATING WHEN THEY WOKE UP

#if he doesn’t lie thirty-seven times a day he will die #you could show him a dna test proving he is li xiangyi and he’d deny it to your face

#HE ONCE SAYS TO A CHARACTER THAT ‘HE NEVER LIES’ TO GET OUT OF A SITUATION AND THAT WAS A BIG FAT LIE #TELLS A CHARACTER AN INTRICATE STORY ABOUT FINDING HIS OWN CORPSE ON THE BEACH COMPLETE WITH PHYSICAL EVIDENCE AND ALL JUST SO THE CHARACTER #REACHES THE CONCLUSION THAT HES DEAD #HE GATEKEEPS THE VIEWER FROM KNOWING HIS FULL STORY ON RELIABLE TERMS AND YOU HAVE TO PIECE IT TOGETHER PAINSTAKINGLY

#continuously lies to the person he calls his jianghu bff to evade his questions regarding his identity #puts on a mask and defends the bff in fights#then shows up later like #🥺 wow that was so scary glad you were here to protect me! i have no martial arts skills #evades arrest by pretending like being shoved against a wall broke his ribs #'🥺 i'm just a little guy and you're so strong you'd better check out my ribs' #and then throws knockout powder at him

Ianthe Tridentarius

She is trying so hard to be the main character by lying and manipulating her sister, her cavalier, her mentor, her ?love interests? (Spoiler???) And also god. Not sure how it's working out for her but she does love to lie and manipulate

Worstie Ianthe is the DEFINITION of gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss. She is one of a set of necromancer twins that are the heirs to their houses rule. Except wait, only she is a necromancer and she has spent their entire lives doing necromancy for the both of them. She is constantly mean to their cavalier, Naberius, who she occasionally nibbles on like a chew toy, before eventually killing and eating him to ascend to sainthood. She goes to gods spaceship with another woman who ascended to sainthood who she has a crush on, this other woman is like…. Both incredibly mentally unwell and also haunted by at least 211 ghosts. Ianthes method of flirting with her? Gaslighting her about the corpse that keeps moving around and hiding under her bed. For no real reason tbh. She is clearly plotting to overthrow god, and at the moment that consists of her manipulating him while he’s too sad about his long term partners betraying him and subsequently exploding to really care. She dresses in terrible outfits and makes soup by burning onions to the bottom of a pot, putting meat in and some vegetables and then it doesn’t taste like anything so she puts in a few teaspoons of salt so it tastes like a few teaspoons of salt. She had her crush amputate her arm and regrow her a new one out of bone and it’s one of the horniest things I’ve read in my life.

"Gaslight = told her lobotomized (she helped), schizophrenic girlobsession that there was no corpse under their bed, even tho there totally was. Gatekeep = girl did NOT share the secret to god-like ascension. She kept that shit to herself until it was time to eat her boytoy, and by then everyone knew already. Girlboss = she has a non-necromancer twin sister, and literally Everyone thinks they r both necromancers because Ianthe is so good at it. She reverse engineered ascending to the aforementioned ascension without even completing any of the supplementary tasks. She held her own in a fight against a 10k year old lyctor. She becomes the figurehead of her entire empire. "

She uses a man as a chewtoy in the first book, literally gaslights the protagonist of the second book about a corpse, and elder-abuses God when he gets depressed in the third book. Nobody is doing it like her.

Dives headfirst with no regrets while basically laughing and covered in blood into murdering her cavalier once she realizes what the gothic locked room mystery/competition leads to while everyone else is questioning it, helps perform lobotomy on harrow so she doesn't remember the person she loves, manipulates everyone to get to the top

idk just everything about her

her relationship with her sister is incredibly Bad, she fosters codependency and views Corona(the sister) as an extension of herself. This does not stop her from keeping up the con that Corona actually has magic (She doesn't, it was always just Ianthe) for 22ish years and every single person who interacts with them falls for it. She killed a man against his will (most dying for this purpose specifically go willingly) and she consumed him and she will be burning his soul for eternity. She's completely repulsive and still somehow incredibly hot.

she takes advantage of the fact that the main character is prone to hallucinations. at one point she gaslights the mc into believing that the corpse under her bed isn't real just because she can. she reverse engineered a set of very complex trials on her own without anyone realizing she had the skills to complete them normally. she's also babysat god through his drunk and pathetic era.

[respectthepetty]

Hi RTP! What are the BLs you would recommend solely for the colors? 🌈

Anon, before I answer this great ask, I want to highlight other posts I've written that are slightly similar:

Reading the (Visual) Rainbow Awards 2023

Overall Winner - Kiseki: Dear to Me

Top Five - Color-Coded Storytelling in BLs

Honorable Mention: Oh No! Here Comes Trouble

5) Moonlight Chicken

4) My Beautiful Man

3) My Love Mix Up

2) Semantic Error

1) Big Dragon

Top Five Color Moments of 2023

Honorable Mention: 7 Days Before Valentine

5) GAP

4) Bed Friend

3) Last Twilight

2) Moonlight Chicken

1) The Eighth Sense

Bonus: Jeff Satur x SHAUN's "Steal the Show"

I don't want to repeat any of the shows I picked, and I'm trying to pick more recent ones so people can find them if they want to watch them, but per your ask, I'm recommending them based solely on colors regardless of how much I liked them.

Recommended Colorful BLs

Honorable Mention: Intern in My Heart

The show is not finished, and it's not a BL, yet it is doing everything right, which is why it gets the honorable mention. Great (Grey) is coded black/dark in the show, and Top is coded pink/light. They are supporting characters who are best friends, and they have stuck to their colors throughout, but in the last episode, they *almost* exchanged colors after Top revealed that he liked Great. Now I'm praying to all the saints for a full color exchange in the finale like I have a personal stake in this because I do! I'm invested, and it better not disappoint me.

#5 - One Room Angel

When I write "Heavenly Human" for a character who wears white, and "Black Brooder" for a character who wears black, THIS is what I mean. A story about an actual angel and a guy who wanted to die was the perfect place to use the light x dark dynamic. However, calling this show a BL is troublesome, which is why it's number five. It still is a great example of what the light x dark color scheme should be used for, and in the end, the guy who wanted to die is much lighter in mood and color, which is what the colors are all about.

#4 - Why R U? (Korea)

First and foremost, that kiss was LIT! The Thai version had Tutor and Fighter's high heat, which could never be matched, but Korea had that kiss, and it ate! But on top of that, it had colors! Ji Oh was a Black Brooder while Lee Won was a Multicolored Menace, and right after this kiss, they flipped colors. That's right! After five episodes of being enemies, they made out for acting "reasons," and then exchanged colors. Normally, Korea is all about the feelings, so the color exchanges in Korean BLs align with a character's feelings changing, but this one directly correlated with a kiss. And for emphasis - That kiss was fire!

#3 - Secret Crush on You

Destiny Seeker might have won the 2023 award for best group effort in color coding, but Secret Crush on You set the bar for that award the year before. This show is Color-Coding 101. Each character has a color, and by each, I mean each and every single damn character in a cast of eleven (plus three fairy godmothers) has their own color. That is a ridiculous feat! Wardrobe, props, and lighting deserved a raise for this show. Some shows can't even get consistent color coding when it only has two characters, but this show understood the color-coding group assignment for the entire series! I'm still applauding two years later.

#2 - Stay by My Side

Taiwanese BLs are my vice. Even the worst Taiwanese BL will still be better than the rest of these BLs. I WROTE WHAT I WROTE. So, of course, I liked this show beyond color reasons, but the colors greatly helped me enjoy the show even more. We had a guy who was haunted by ghosts. He was colorful and light coded. Then we had his roommate who could magically keep the ghosts away. He was dark coded. Read it again. The guy being haunted was bright, light, and colorful, while the guy with the power to help was dark. GENIUS! It was Mr. Unlucky Has No Choice but to Kiss with a supernatural twist. The dark coded guy is sad and isolated but the one who is being HAUNTED BY GHOSTS brings life to his world! Give me a minute. I'm still not over it.

#1 - Pit Babe

I watched this show muted and without subtitles, yet the colors guided me through all thirteen episodes. I understood the plot perfectly because of the colors, and only became confused when people tried to tell me about the actual plot. Alpha? Omega? Santa Maria? Wasn't important. Didn't matter. I don't know them. Red and Blue were the main characters here, and they did their damn job. Babe, in his black, was his own man. He wasn't trying to fit in, but every time the red light focused on Charlie and Way, I was screaming for Babe to run because the colors told me they were still tied to Tony BECAUSE THEY WERE! That's elite color coding, and it ushered in a whole new way for me to watch a show. I loved it.

Bonus: Old Fashion Cupcake

I love this show which is why it is a bonus. Unlike the other shows where I had issues with some part of the plot, Old Fashion Cupcake is as close to perfect as any show has ever come in my personal rating system. It is an Advanced Color Coding course only offered for graduate students, which, honestly, is very Japanese of it because it was in the ties. The color coding showed up in other ways, but the ties were where the story lived since in the past, Nozue was a bright red, but we saw his red damper in the present, which made his loyal assistant bluer. It was only five episodes, yet it used every second of those five episodes in every single way to propel the story forward, colors included. Actually, let me go rewatch this for the hundredth time instead of just writing about it!

[shmowder]

Greetings! It’s been a while since I wrote something to you. I missed the feeling, honestly. Hope you’re doing just fine!

So my request is small and humble. Where do Patho characters like to kiss their partners? Especially the old coots because I would die for their senile sentiments. Also, is there any chance to hear your view on Simon Kain? As character, as a love interest for writing? His figure is quite intriguing to me!

Yours, 🧡.

Writing something always feels nice, doesn't it? Articulating your thoughts through words, especially when they're words meant to be sent to someone else. I missed the feeling of answering asks as well. Part of me still doesn't fathom that people actually enjoy listening to my ramblings... it's a warm feeling.

Finally, another old coots request! I was wondering if anyone would dare to request them again or if they were fated to be a one-time thing, reduced to a haha joke. I did write them with sincerity, old people are hot. Especially Georgiy Kain—Anyway, I'll do the request in a separate post and write my Simon Kain thoughts in here.

General thoughts on Simon Kain

But ah, I haven't visited Pathologic source material in a while... I might be a little rusty when it comes to recounting facts and events.

Simon Kain haunts the Pathologic narrative in each route with the intensity of a thousand suns, he's the elephant in any given room, traces of his ghost embedded within each line of dialogue.

He's this massive great mountian which the whole town is constructed upon, you can remove a good portion of pathologic's cast and still have a semi-good story, it'd still be recognisable for what it is, a plague utopia.

But not Simon, never Simon. Without Simon Kain, there is no pathologic. He's that imperative to the narrative. To us the players, to the writers, even amidst the game protagonists. They have to share spots, there are three protagonist, you could remove two and still have a functional game, but you can't remove Simon Kain without the entire structure collapsing. Forget being a critical piece in a tower of jenga, Simon Kain is the table which the tower is set upon.

Poetically enough, the townfolks share the same sentiment as the players. To them, Simon Kain was a given fact of life, fire is hot, snow is cold, and Simon Kain is. Simply is a being that exists, as empirical as the air we breathe. They'd sooner question the existence of god before the existence of Simon Kain.

And then he dies, on the very first day of the game, off screen.

To the people living there, it must have been the equivalent of the sky falling down. Do you know how much it takes for an entire town to be convinced that you're immortal? Impenetrable? Solid steel? Only to succumb to no mortal wound or manmade weapon, but to sickness, a pest, the plague.

No wonder many of them immediately turn around to believing that the changeling is his living incarnation. It's the only feasible explanation. The only logic left when a man who defied all logic was killed.

Keep in mind, we—the player—are the only ones to never meet the man. Well, inquisitor and army general as well. Yet everyone in the town has, in some way, seen the living legend, interacted with him in some form. To us, he is a ghost. To them, he was a breathing talking walking person, to many, he still is.

We hear so much about him. Everyone is so opinionated about what Simon Kain has done, who he helped, where he spent his time. And despite it all, we hadn't the slightest clue on what his personality was like. You can deduce many things from the tens of account witnesses and lines in-game concerning Simon, but you won't find anything personal much. No accounta of how he liked his tea, how many pillows he preferred on his bed, of the inner workings of his mind, of the love, pain, despair and wont every human is plagued with since birth.

Everyone who has failed to mention these trivial yet undeniably human facts about Simon Kain has unknowingly contributed to pushing him into tipping over the edge, which separates a man from a cryptid. Much like the Changeling's powers require others—most important herself—to believe in her, it's not far fetched for the townfolks overactive imagination and blatant cult-like worship of a single man to have invoked the legend of Simon Kain, it's how most eldritch beings come to be.

It's why he isn't that renowned in the fandom despite his intergal constant suffocating presence in the game. He is more of a concept to us. Even the personification of the plague is easier done than that of Simon Kain.

To me, personally, he represents a conundrum. Simon is the parasite dormant in the judge's mind, his physical death merely woke it up, and now it's already started consuming his memories, taking over his being in order to birth another Simon Kain in the most vile way possible.

And I have the misfortune of liking Georgiy Kain... quite a lot.

It's like falling in love with the sacrificial lamb's reflection against the blade that you yourself stabbed down. Our arrival triggers the meta narrative events that kill Simon Kain, which in turn is responsible for the slow death of Georgiy Kain.

A game needs a player, and the player needs to be in the town, and if a player is in the town then a chain of events is triggered, and the very first link is the death of Simon Kain. We might as well have his blood on our hands, not the Bachelor, not the Haruspex, and not the Changeling—but us, me and you. The player that started the game.

Now is Clara actually a reincarnation of Simon Kain?

The answer is obviously no... well, for the most part.

She is not human, a Shabnak-adyr, came from the earth, a thing of clay—but also everyone here is a cloth doll stuffed with straws, so what difference does it make that hers happens to be moulded out of clay?—whatever Aspity is made out of, Clara and her are the same.

Now, to say Clara is the incarnation of Simon Kain, is to say that Aspity is also one. Shabnak-adyrs are vessels cut from the earth and made a separate being in times of plague, the first wave gave the town Aspity, the second Clara.

But then there is the argument that Clara's powers are not that different from Simon Kain. To cure people, in P1 at least, she transfuses her own blood into them.

And who else was said to have the golden ticket blood other than Simon Kain himself?

Aspity's powers are unclear... we can't exactly count her defying death in the Marbles Nest since the devs said it was a whole separate story. Simply put, it's the same theatre set, the same puppets, but a different script.

So Clara is most likely not Simon... but Simon's powers are hinted to be slightly related to Boddho and the earth... which Clara comes from.

It depends on your personal interpretation of reincarnation. On the most broad and forgiving of interpretation, yes, Clara is the first in line when it comes to the most likely person to be his incarnation.

But based on my interpretation, Clara merely inherited some of his power, maybe personality even; the two of them have a habit of starting cults. She clearly took something before his soul was sucked back into the focus, but they stay separate beings with no further connections.

It's like I walked up to you while you're tying your shoes, slipped a 5$ bill from your wallet, then heard you tell a joke to your friend, and I immediately stole it and wrote it in a tweet before posting it on my account with 3 followers, two of which are porn bots. Do I get to claim that I'm your incarnation because of that? Neither could Clara.

Either way, the man is a goddamn freak is what he is. A fucking anomaly. A concept, a demi-god, a pathetic lie, an all powerful sorcerer, a conman, a shared delusion created by a whole town. I don't know what the fuck he is!

Is he even real?

We don't find his clothes, none of his belongings.

How come we don't see his room in P1 crucible. You can even find Khan's abandoned childhood bedroom but not the literal previous owner of the building?

DID HE EVER EXIST?

Did anyone actually meet him? How is it possible that every single person in this town knows him? Even the kids? Did a single soul ever interact with him or did it start as a white lie by a rando to impress his date? And with no way to prove the alternative, suddenly everyone can claim to have been chummy buddies with Simon Kain since with plausible deniability.

THERE NEVER WAS A FUNERAL!

Was that body in Rubin's warehouse even his? WE DON'T KNOW! We've never seen Simon before! That body could've been a random npc Stakh threw on the table and we would've been none the wiser. We have no concrete proof of his existence besides words and claims.

I take back what I said, there is nothing empirical about Simon Kain, he's a mirage, a cloud of smoke, simply mist.

I'm not crazy! YOU'RE CRAZY!

I can't even begin to properly contextualise the entity that is Simon Kain... I don't even have the beginning of the beginning of an answer to what he is... how am I supposed to write x reader about him.

...

We supposedly meet him, talk to him even, at the end of the Bachelor route.

Georgiy has no incentive to lie and be a troll now, it could've possibly been the "real" ghost of Simon Kain. A newborn, a larva wiggling about in his mind, munching on memories and eating him from the inside out until it wears his skin, adorns his face and controls all of his limbs, yet the only thing that remains inside is Simon Kain.

But... delusion can take you far. How do we agree on what colour red is? If your friends, family, and everyone in your town start referring to blue as red suddenly, always correcting you when you refer to it as blue, looking at you like an idiot when you argue back, and with no wifi, or internet, in a school-less town with swarms of illiterate children, how could you feasibly not cave under the pressure and start refering to blue as red, as well?

In fact, even blue itself, would start believing it was red. Stand as red, eat as red, conduct business as red. Take on Red's responsibility, walk and talk as Red.

And speak to the Bachelor Daniil Dankovsky at the end of the plague, too, as Red.

We didn't kill Georgiy Kain, we killed Simon, and Georgiy took his own life shortly afterwards, in everything but the word itself.

One could attribute it to many things, and sheer grief is a valid possibility. Simon Kain was everything to everyone, but especially to his twin.

It's mirrored in the Stamatins, how if one of them dies, the other's spirits follows soon after. Such is the case in the Marbles nest, Peter is dead, and Andrey is still alive physically, but the game tells you that without his twin, he might as well be counted dead. Only the body remains, an empty shell.

And who could've known Simon Kain better than his own twin brother?

...

that or the whole game is a very long and elaborate "Simon says" joke that overstayed it's welcome

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

You know I think it's really funny that I hate Time travel AUs in fanfic and I don't tend to like writing it in original fic...and I just wrote 269k of a giant Doctor Who AU. And I'm working on another one. And I've been thinking about the why.

There's just something about that mad man and his big blue box and the focus on the humanity of it all. The time-travel ship and the sonic screwdriver and all the other technology used as vehicles for character development and even the ship as a character in itself. The focus of the story being on the effects of time travel, yes, but far more about the ways in which time affects people than the ways in which people affect time...characters as their own ghosts...characters that can't die loving people who can do nothing but...it's about the plot but it's really not because it's just about the characters above all else. About the codependent relationship between two people who will haunt each other forever, no matter what happens to them. About how every companion asks what happens if they die before they're born and sometimes they do, because sometimes there's no other way this story ends. Time travel as a vehicle for the cycle of grief. As a vehicle for life. As a vehicle that is as much about this ship and this alien stealing you away from your life and you stealing their hearts in return. About grief and guilt and protectiveness and kindness and selfishness and constant renewal and running to things before they flare and fade to dust and going to the ends of the universe for each other and the people you meet along the way.

...what was I saying? Oh, right. I think Doctor Who fundamentally works for me because it's not about the technology of the time travel; it's about the avenues it opens up. About the fact that the time travel is paired up with the immortal/mortal dynamic, and aliens and all of the universe, about this immortal alien with ghosts in their eyes giving everything that ever has been and ever will be and ever could be to some mortal, fragile, breathtaking, stubborn, brave, reckless human and saying it's yours. You're going to watch it break. It's going to break you. And that's going to break me. But at the end of the day, it's beautiful, isn't it? Now take my hand, and let's run.

(And it's about the people who can do nothing but say yes.)

[completeoveranalysis]

[8]

Oh oh oh we’re doing this bit again. The Free Will Check In that we’ve had a couple of times before - at the end of Acid Tokyo, and at the end of Infinity. It’s our small little decompression arc where the characters suffer in the wake of the tragedy that has happened, where they call Yuuko for information and each of them has a chance to decide for themselves what they want to do and if they want to continue. 

Of course, being where they are in the plotline, and all of them being so far into their character arcs, this is fastest yet. In the same page that Yuuko asks them they’ve all already answered - they’re all going, and their expressions on Fai and Kurogane’s faces make me want to CRY. 

It’s a deceptively quick moment for what it means for them all, but in a pattern of threes this is the third time they’ve confirmed they’re going all in on saving their family no matter what.

On the page before, Lava Lamp declares that he’s going to save BOTH Sakura’s, not just the one that matches him. He isn’t going to let Sakura die (hopefully implying once again that EVEN THOUGH WE SAW HER DIE, TWICE, Perhaps Sakura can still be saved)

Fai chooses to save her as well, because of course he does. He’s loved her on purpose this entire time and knew the truth every step of the way. He is DEVOTED to this Sakura, and he will do anything he needs to save her. 

But more importantly this is his first choice made openly and willingly, with no doomed narrative holding him hostage, with no manipulative family or evil wizards pushing him towards either outcome. Every other time they were asked this he didn’t have this luxury - he NEEDED to continue, for his mission, for his brother, to fix everything he thought he started, to enact someone else’s plans. But HERE he’s free of it all. This is the Post-Seresu Fai, who has no ghosts haunting him, no death wish, and has finally chosen that he can LIVE and be HAPPY and love the people around him. So, this choice he makes finally and completely Just Because He Wants To - and he’s making the EXACT same choice he chose every step of the way. To save Sakura, because he loves Sakura. 

AND LET’S NOT EVEN TOUCH ON KUROGANE - WHO IS FINALLY BACK IN NIHON AND INSTANTLY CHOSES TO LEAVE IT. 

He’s HOME, here with Tomoyo, his ultimate goal - but back in Acid Tokyo he had said that he had two goals. It was true then and it was true now - as much as he loves Tomoyo, he loves his new family just as much, and so he’s going to save Sakura too. 

And OH I hope we get a conversation between him and Tomoyo about this because I LOVE THIS FOR HIM and yet it’s so poetic it hurts.

[camlannpod]

Character Playlist: Morgan

Happy off-week! Episode 3 is coming out next Monday, so whilst we wait, here's a playlist all about my beloved Morgan Jones. Last time we posted about Dai, (you can find that playlist here), because episode 1 is very much his episode. Episode 2 is Morgan's, and as you might notice, she's on a much darker and spookier path than her found sibling.

Hurricane by Reuben and the Dark

I am broken, I am brave The way the body behaves I am free, I'm afraid A mirror of my mistakes

Morgan's been through so much. The Cataclysm was awful for everyone, but Morgan was traumatised long before the world ended, and things have just got worse. She is explicitly terrified of her own name in this new world - of what it means and could mean. She so desperately doesn't want to hurt people, and she's so terrified that she will.

2. Witch's Rune by S. J. Tucker

By earth and water, air and fire By blade and bowl and circle round We come to you with our desire Let all that is hidden now be found

Morgan Le Fay! Witch, sister, villain, survivor. Our Morgan is intimately familiar with the story of her namesake, and thinks of Morgan like a witch inside her, or a ghost haunting her. The whole gang have different perspectives on how the Names work, but our Morgan definitely sees it like a curse.

3. Sing of the Moon by The Collection

So we sing of the moon and the face that it hides Shining just half of its truth to our skies But bring me the sun that gives it all its light I don't want to just wait to die

Morgan is very much the moon to Dai's sun. I often think of them like a binary star system - they are completely inextricable from each other, and if they were ever separated they'd both spin out and be lost in chaos. Morgan is more shy than Dai, more reserved. He brings out her lighter side, but she's always aware of the fact that one day that will end.

4. Old Churchyard by The Wailin' Jennys

I know that it's vain when our friends depart To breathe kind words to a broken heart And I know that the joy of life is marred When we follow lost friends to the old churchyard*

Everyone's lost people, but Morgan most all. Most traumatically, she saw her younger brother Ben die in front of her - a fresh trauma from which she still hasn't recovered. Morgan doesn't fear death. She's not a practicing Christian (I think she's an atheist) but she sees it as a simple, restful end to a long and painful life. What she does fear is losing people - it's the thing she fears most of all.

(*Note at the end of the post)

5. Better in the Morning by Birdtalker

Tired and worn from the patterns I’ve carved I will do better in the morning I’m afraid of who I’d be without you I will do better in the morning

We'll learn more about Morgan's childhood later in the series, but suffice it to say that every day of her life, Morgan has gotten up and tried again. For me she's very much that image of hope with bloodied knuckles, forcing herself to stand up and get back into the fight. It isn't easy for Morgan to keep surviving, let alone to keep trying to be happy. But she tries, because Dai loves her, and she loves him, and he reminds her that life is worth living.

6. Pyrokinesis by 7Chariot

We could set the world on fire using only our minds Pyrokinesis we hurt each other without trying

The gang don't know if magic is exclusive to the Phenomena, or if it's even magic as we would describe it. They don't know if it's mushroom spores or something alien, science they don't understand, strange divinities or straight up magical powers. They also don't know whether or not Morgan has magic. If she does, it's not presented itself in any way that's obvious to her - beyond her nightmares. But she often has dreams about the monsters they've faced, and it's hard for her to untangle nightmares from trauma from dreams that might be more significant. Part of her worries that somehow she's making things real, and drawing the monsters closer to them.

7. Ghost by ZZ Ward

Hear the Devil call out my name Broken promises, burning flames Frozen hearts in a lover's grave God knows, darling, god knows I gave

Morgan's biggest enemy is herself. She's most afraid of herself - and Morgan le Fay. She's terrified of hurting people and losing control. But if she could ever just let herself be angry, even more outspoken - if she could relax enough to try and enjoy all the ferocious freedom of one of history's greatest witches? She could be incredible. And even now - she has the capacity for a ferocious kind of burning joy that she has stolen from everyone and everything that's ever tormented her. When she parties, she parties hard.

8. Mile Magnificent by Molly Ofgeography

An apartment when it's empty echoes lovely, bright and clean Sing odes to green-blue water that we stole so it comes free All things end, it's part of living; forest fires feed the trees Lift your glasses full of sunshine, sing a toast to gasoline And it feels like a good, good omen I've never been much of a good, good woman But good things are coming Good good things are coming

Morgan has always been kind of terrible at being 'a woman' - whatever that means. She's not demure, she's not obedient, gentle, or agreeable, and she's never been especially feminine. She's always been outspoken, blunt, short-tempered and direct - a woman who acts first and talks later. In the world before, that could be a problem sometimes - something she was insecure about, that made it hard to fit in (though figuring out her queerness helped a lot). In the apocalypse, all of these things are exactly why she survived, and there's a part of her that's determined to snatch a life from the ruins and the ashes.

9. We Will All Be Changed by Seryn

We can shape but can't control These possibilities to grow Weeds amongst the push and pull Waiting on the wind to take us

Every main character playlist in the show ends with this song.

*A note on Christianity in Camlann - I'm not a practicing Christian, I consider myself agnostic. But because I grew up in a Christian family in the UK, I am culturally Christian. However we might feel about it, Arthurian legends and British folklore are pretty inextricable from Christian influence. Christianity's been here a long old time, and we don't have a lot of reliable written sources that cover the pre-Christian period. As a result, some of the songs on these playlists contain Christian themes. I hope that isn't too troubling to people. To be very clear, all faiths deserve reverence and respect, and Christianity is far from the only religion practiced in Britain over the last 2,000 years.

[gooeyyeehaw]

ofmd s2 spoilers !!

so two things i wanted to talk about that basically everyone is talking about, now that ive properly processed everything and need to officially get out of my system

i really really really wish the season had better, slower pacing. so much would happen before anyone could process anything and it took a loooot of thinking to truly understand some shit. i really really hope there's a season 3 with the proper amount of episodes as intended.

izzy's death - it truly felt so rushed. to be honest, i didn't even see him get shot at first, my eyes were on something else at the time, i think, but that's my fault. nevertheless, it felt so rushed, and i'm not mad, nor do i disagree with his death, but i wish it was executed better than it was. it felt brushed over, rushed, and he was too great a character to receive a death like that. it had me saying "what the fuck??" because his death was over in about two minutes. i'm not mad about how and when it took place, because it's just like real life, you don't get to choose when you get to live or die, especially in their business.

i did warm up to him and felt sad that he could finally recognize and declare his understanding of family and what it meant to be a part of the crew and never got to experience the warmth and joy of life; however, i think its okay that he died. con is a fantastic actor and his performance was astounding every scene. i think he deserved a better sending off and lucius and pete's wedding could have waited til season three, cuz that felt brushed over too.

stede and ed's inn - i used to not love this idea, more for a personal reason, the desire to have adventure in life. to not settle down and have fun all the time, to not conform to the normality and monotony of life. i get the emphasis about the brutality and harsh reality of the violence and mentality that comes with piracy, but it felt bittersweet especially with izzy's speech about what it meant to be a pirate and zys' offer to team up. it sounded fun. fun to be at sea with your found family, (on top of stede's long term love for the sea) and they were leaving that behind and it would just be then.

i later realized that them living together wouldnt necessarily mean theyre completely abandoning their old lifestyles. theyre just taking a break from the rough and tough shit they had just gone through, and they need it to work out their relationship and find themselves. to have some time alone. they might rejoin the crew and have fun sailing and shit, who knows. but it doesn't have to be that end forever. plus i like all the fun/funny ideas the fandom has come up with for the inn.

and ive seen the theories that if buttons can turn into a seagull, he'll turn izzy into a seagull OR izzy will come back as a ghost and haunt their inn OR they'll bring him back to life with magic.

just saying, the fandom was wrong about lucius living within the secret passages of the ship, please let them be wrong about that one.

[lhazar]

I gotta say, after watching through the series properly instead of experiencing the show through fandom and seeing clips and reading fic, I feel a bit differently about a few things now. Firstly, Viserys and his love for his family is so bitterly poignant. It bleeds so strongly even as he rots from the inside out, as he deteriorates his pleading again and again for everyone to love one another as he loves them. Even if he’s the one who planted the seeds of their infighting to begin with, even though the writing is on the wall, I can’t help but feel for him. Hate him all you want, I’m not excusing his shitty parenting. Rhaenyra never sees any consequences for her actions aside from her betrothal, and Alicent and her kids deserve better. But god. He is a tragedy. I can’t help but wonder if he clings so hard to this idea of family and especially loving Rhaenyra not just because of his guilt over Aemma (which is obvious) but over how the last king, Jaeherys, saw so many of his children die. How horribly he treated so many of his daughters, how one by one his family dwindles until it was just the grandchildren left to deal with a succession crisis. Clearly Viserys understands that they’re all on the verge of infighting once again but instead of tossing his eldest daughter aside when Otto tells him she’s not a maiden (like Jaeherys did to Saera) he keeps her as heir and as the apple of his eye. It’s not entirely a good thing, this idealized perfect view of his daughter, and if he’d given more attention to his other children, or hey, even refused to remarry, to spare alicent decades of trauma, perhaps things would be different. But maybe part of the reason he’s so steadfast in his refusal to discard Rhaenyra is a response to seeing another family fall apart before. I could be wrong, I am a newer fan, but the the tragedy and love of Viserys is fused into the rotting bones of this old man that he haunts the narrative before he’s even gone. It’s sickening. I love it. I enjoy his character way more than I thought I would—Paddy Considine really makes him the beating heart of this horribly divided family, and I can’t wait to see them fall apart even more despite the ghost of what could have been an old man’s dying wish of love shadowing their every bloody footstep

[forcebookish]

new fic masterlist (now by fandom!)

(tumblr now suppresses internal AND external links, so i may as well have the proper links in the original posts going forward.)

organized by alphabetized media type (ctrl + f: ANIME/MANGA, COMICS+, RPF, THAI DRAMAS, and TV to find what you're looking for), then in order of most recent to least recent.

ANIME/MANGA

the weight in her heart (2/5) BLEACH M | IchiRuki | 10,509 WC

In the span of a few days, Ichigo goes from giving the transfer student a ride to school on his bicycle to watching her die right in front of him. With nowhere else to go, Rukia’s ghost haunts him, hoping to find out what killed her and move on. Claiming it’s only about getting her out of his closet, Ichigo does everything he can to help her move on—including confronting her family and, of all things, going on a date. Yet the more he does for her, the less he wants to let her go. And the closer they become, the heavier the Chain of Fate on Rukia’s chest grows.

COMICS+

kiss you or kick you (4/5) Captain America (MCU) M | SteveBucky (Stucky) | 15,710 WC

All I had to do was hold him. After the fallout from the Sokovia Accords, Steve, Bucky, Sam, and Wanda find refuge in a Wakandan safe house. Desperate to keep Bucky by his side, Steve convinces him not to go back on ice and instead try to loosen Hydra’s grip on his mind. With the help of Shuri and Wanda, Steve tries to put back Bucky’s pieces in the hopes they can finally be together—but what if they’re both too broken to reach for each other? What if it’s like Bucky falling from the train all over again? (Takes place after the events of Captain America: Civil War.)

RPF

thirty minutes (one shot) Thai Drama RPF (GMMTV) E | ForceBook | 3,800 WC

So much of Force and Book’s life together is play pretend, the boundaries between them and their characters drawn out in bold—but for thirty minutes every week, the lines blur.

melt away (one shot) Thai Drama RPF (GMMTV) G | ForceBook | 1,374 WC

Force reminds Book of who he is; he always has. After a day without Force on the Only Friends set, Book has a hard time getting out of Mew’s mindset and the anger he has for Top’s betrayal—so he goes to Force’s to remember what it’s like to love him.

slow down (2/2, sequel to Love Out Loud) Thai Drama RPF (GMMTV) T | ForceBook | 1,556 WC

1. like gravity would betray him: A sleepy, clingy Force helps calm Book before a daunting Only Friends shoot. 2. standing in the eye of a typhoon: Between takes, Book struggles with the most challenging scene in episode six and Force helps him focus.

Love Out Loud (2/2) Thai Drama RPF (GMMTV) G | ForceBook | 1,406 WC

1. I wouldn’t want it with anyone else. After the whirlwind weekend of the 2023 Love Out Loud Fan Fest, Book needs a hug to get to sleep; so does Force. 2. You’re supposed to say it back. (Prequel.) Backstage, Force has a hard time meeting Book’s eyes—but that’s not what Book is looking for.

THAI DRAMAS

make my heart tremble (one shot) Only Friends M | TopMew | 4,385 WC

(Episode 9) After his blow-out fight with Ray, Mew gets wasted and runs into Top at YOLO; he can’t tell if Top is the last person he wants to see or the only one.

a compelling argument (one shot) Only Friends E | TopMew | 2,044 WC

(Episode 11) Top proves to Mew one of the benefits of living with him.

False Alarm (one shot) Only Friends T | TopMew | 1,145 WC

Since the fire at the hotel, Top’s dreams have gotten worse. Even Mew’s presence cannot fight all the demons in his head.

taste you again (one shot) Only Friends E | TopMew | 1,128 WC

(Episode 4) “You wanna go faster? After making me wait so long to taste you again?”

Thunderstruck (one shot) Enchanté T | AkkTheo | 713 WC

Recently married, Theo still protects Akk from thunder like when they were kids.

more than forever (one shot) A Boss and A Babe E | GunCher | 2,311 WC

(Episode 12) Cher left because he wanted—wants—to be with Gun forever, and Gun means to hold him to that.

Extrême (one shot) A Boss and A Babe E | GunCher | 4,536 WC

Cher loves Gun’s new cologne; Gun just loves Cher—publicly and privately.

TV

that soul thingie (one shot) Buffy the Vampire Slayer T | Buffy/Cordelia (Coffy) | 2,282 WC

(S03E02: “Dead Man’s Party”) Nobody asked why Buffy left. Nobody asked where she went. Nobody asked what it was like to kill Angel. Cordelia does.

these are only the fics under the farewellswords pseud; check out my ao3 for older ones!