#cant get you out of his head

[sttoru]

Trueform!Sukuna whose having sex with one of the other concubines (probably because you weren’t there for some reason) and he accidentally lets your name slip out because he’s just spacing out and imagining it’s his favorite concubine underneath him and not one of the others. He probably doesn’t even know their names either. His favoritism is really evident from the fact that he actually made an effort to remember your name. Probably refers to the others by like ‘the black haired one’ or the ‘green eyed one’ or even ‘the one with the phattest ass.’

THATS HOW IT GOESSS !!! i believe sukuna does not care about his other concubines, as they are solely for his pleasure. so if you’re unavailable to take care of his needs, he just imagines it’s you when he reliefs his stress using the others. they probably also complain afterwards, gossiping between each other that sukuna has once again called them by your name in bed while he was screwing them

he probably also shuts his eyes or just mentally imagines it’s you underneath him whenever he’s fucking the others. also, as u said, he does NOT remember their names at all (one with the phattest ass is sending me 😭) but prob remembers them by just their hair color or something insignificant. that reminds me of that one delicious sukuna fic on ao3 called permission … droolsssss

[cosmicrhetoric]

my personal fave "luffy holds a mirror up to someone's soul" moments. aka the whole point i think

[dorothywonderland]

BRO LITERALLY DOXXED HIMSELF TO THE CYCLOPS. he was asking to get jumped come on

[chitinleg]

got him off-balance!

[tenderjock]

I’m with you, my love The lights shining through on you Yes, I’m with you, my love It’s the morning and just we two

[justaz]

im a slut for post magic reveal arthur (& knights) thinking merlin has like. a smidge of magic. like he can get stains out of clothes or warm food and baths but OBVIOUSLY merlin can’t fight. that’s ridiculous. merlin doesn’t correct this notion for whatever reason - perhaps it’s best that people think that so when they’re all in danger, he isn’t registered as a threat so he can protect his silly lil guys. ofc his silly lil guys realize that they were wrong bc the bad guys get a lil too close to hurting arthur and merlin is like “nope! fights over!!” and annihilates them

[s0fter-sin]

something happening on a mission, something personal that has soap spiralling; panic and rage making him reckless, thoughtless, and ghost has to draw the line

“you’re compromised johnny; you know what that means?”

“you’re not pulling me out,” soap immediately snarls. he turns on him and ghost barely recognises him; venomous fear turning his eyes to unyielding ice. "you're not sidelining me; i need to be in this-!"

but ghost has never been afraid of venom; spat or dripped straight from bared fangs.

he snakes out a hand grip the back of his neck, jerking him in a rough shake. "if you can't think, you can't be a soldier," he growls and he flinches like he's been struck.

his lips quiver as they twist in a sneer and he wrenches, trying to free himself of his hold.

ghost doesn't let him.

"it means you give your body to me because your head ain't fucking attached to it anymore."

soap stills, body trembling beneath his hand as he sucks in shaking breaths.

he tightens his grip, pulling him closer and digs his forehead hard into his. “it means you give yourself to me so i can have the weapon that you are and use you the way you're meant to be used."

the ice in soap's eyes fractures.

ghost’s voice drops to a whisper, spoken only to johnny, not this facade of vengeance and pain, and wills it to reach him through the glaciers.

“so i can keep you safe ‘til it’s done and i can bring you back.”

[lemongogo]

they should get to kill each other at least twice .i think

[luck-of-the-drawings]

EDYN TIDESTRIDER, CHALLENGER OF THE UNDERSEA, RIVAL OF THE DEEP. WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOUR BROTHER WAS CHOSEN TO BE A WEAPON OF THE GODS? HOW WILL YOU UNDO WHAT THEY HAVE DONE TO HIM?

[introspectivememories]

sorry but do you ever think about the fact that the bernard we have today is a direct amalgamation of everything that happened in his past and i know that sound like such an obvious statement to say but it actually kills me to know that you can draw a direct line from who he is today all the way back to that sixteen year old boy who watched his best friend bleed out. like it is the defining moment in his life. it fundamentally shaped who he is and the person he's become. he is the bernard we know and love not despite the grieves shooting but because of it. because the gangs all got together and shot up his school. because tim walked out of that room with nothing but a baseball bat. because his darla got shot. because he watched her gasp and cry as she died. because he watched the blood coagulate around the wound. because he sat there and held her hand as her life drained out of her. because he walked into school that day with a joke he knew would make her laugh and her nose would scrunch up and she'd snort a little and tim would roll his eyes at him and call him ridiculous and instead he walked out with a bloody white shirt, blood under his fingernails, and two friends less. because, even now, almost half a decade out from the shooting, he thinks that if he closes his eyes, he will always be that stupid, scared little sixteen year old, holding the cooling body of dead best friend.

[arsenicflame]

It's a time-honoured tradition- every time Sam comes across Izzy (and Ed) in their travels, he asks Izzy to marry him. And every time, Izzy turns him down.

At this point, Sam is asking more for the sake of it than any belief Izzy will ever say yes, a remnant of childhood dedication touched with 30 years of heartbreak and regret- though even now, a small part of him still holds out hope. Sam's promises have only got more extravagant over the years, from a job as his first mate, to a captaincy, a fleet at his command, a whole fucking island if that's what Izzy wants- but he knows it isn't though, not really. If Izzy was ever going to agree to marry him, to leave his life and go with Sam, it wouldn't be for anything Sam could offer him. Izzy never did care for flashy shows of wealth, for a ship or to be captain. The only thing that ever mattered to him was loyalty given, and loyalty shown in return. 

It all comes to a head after Stede left and came back, after Izzy lost a toe, lost his leg. Sam hasn't seen him since before things with Ed started to really slide off the rails, before stress permanently set into the lines of Izzy’s face. So, when he sees a dishevelled man with a hoof for a leg in a no-name port, he doesn't even consider the idea that he might know him. It's only when he turns towards him, and Sam catches a glance at those oh too familiar tattoos, he realises this is Izzy, his Izzy, that stands before him.

Knowing Izzy's discomfort with pity, he doesn't treat him any differently than he would in years gone by, positioning himself in Izzy's line of sight before approaching and sweeping him up into a bone crushing hug. 

“Israel-goddamn-Hands!” he exclaims, as Izzy grumbles back a begrudging “Samuel-fucking-Bellamy”, a tradition almost as old as their friendship itself. Izzy might not hug him back, but he can’t keep the corner of his mouth from twitching, just for a second.

(If Sam holds Izzy a little tighter and a little longer than usual, well. That's his business)

By the time Sam lets go, most of the crew has appeared in the town square, drawn in by the commotion. They may have given Izzy his leg and welcomed him as one of them, but still there’s an underlying tension, with nobody quite ready to set aside everything that happened before the Kraken. Seeing him cosying up to an unknown man sets everyone on edge, unsure whether to come to their first mate’s aid, or to assume that they've been betrayed once again.

When Ed sees that the yelling was Sam, his hand goes tense where it's held in Stede's. He knows the routine, has seen it more times than he can count, but as he watches them part he realises that this is the first time in a long time he's unsure of what Izzy's response will be.

Knowing that something’s different, knowing that Izzy's feeling vulnerable already, Sam doesn't go for the same flashy proposal he’s been giving for years. He doesn't promise Izzy the world, he doesn't cause a scene (or, any more of a scene than he already has, anyway). He looks at the fractured man in front of him, takes his face in his hands, and says the exact same thing to him he said when they were little more than boys. “Israel, I have to ask you. I know what you'll say, but I have to try. Come with me. Marry me and sail away with me. I'll keep you safe”

And Izzy… hesitates. He glances over at Ed, at Stede, and says to Sam “...We’re staying in port for a week. Ask me again then”

That's the moment Sam knows there is something deeply, horribly, wrong. He's not just looking at an Izzy who got seriously injured in a fight and is struggling to cope, this is something so much bigger than that- and that Ed has something to do with it. Izzy wouldn't even be considering leaving if he didn't. Whether it was negligence or something more sinister, Sam doesn't yet know, but he intends to find out.

[meatlessmcmuffin]

stop thinking so hard about it dude ur gnna get a headache

[lokh]

also i think if roleswap laios and canon laios met theyd immediately start fighting.

[pricetagged]

sacrum

It's not denial, and it's not grief. How can it be when you're not dead? Or: Simon visits your tomb. It wouldn't be the first time he got grave dirt under his fingernails.

2.7k words. GN reader.

Warnings: death; grief; unhealthy coping methods; denial; mild gore and horror; references to ghost's past (being buried alive); implied character death; unhealthy thoughts; grave digging (simon literally tries to dig you up).; unedited.

Look after yourselves please. Read the tags and skip if necessary 💖

_____________

He is overwhelmed with the smell of rot.

That sickly, sweet scent of decay. Vegetation and plant matter transmuting into sticky, pulpy mulch, life rendered into dirt. It's the white lilies that bother him specifically. They're resting there, creamy white petals blooming open and speckled with dustings of heady, brown pollen. It's like looking at his own pale, wan face dusted with pockmarks and freckles, a grotesque mirror image. Beauty and rage. He looks at them and they look back, open and pretty and sweet where he is not.

And they reek. In this place of dirt, in this place of twigs and soil and peaty, earthy humus how did they spray their perfume? An altogether too syrupy, cloying bouquet that stagnates around you, settles at his feat like dense, soupy fog.

He knew that you hated them - funeral flowers, you called them- and he scoffs, toeing at one of the drooping, lurid white petals until it wilts underfoot. Lachrymose, it seems to weep great fat droplets of dew or oil or whatever it is that cries out wet with a wave of pungent redolence. You hated them, and it's so fucking stupid that they're here now because you aren't dead.

He'd nearly bitten Johnny's head off when he asked about your favourite flowers, the sergeant's voice pitched low and thick like he'd half-swallowed the words before they'd even come out. 'Dinnae want to get her something she wouldnae like, but my ma always said that carnations were fittin' for-' the rest of the words seemed to whither, choked like weeds under the weight of his glare. He wasn't quite sure what he said next, only remembering the stricken, glassy look in Soaps eyes and then the weight of his Captain's hand on his shoulder hauling him out for some air. He'd shrugged that off, too. Roughly. Circled around to face him like a dog in a pit. His teeth ached, itched to bite, clamp down and shake and tear, but even mad dogs know not to bite the hand that feeds them. Instead, he'd bristled, hackles raised high as he shoulder-checked Gaz on his way back inside.

Heard them whisper, too, as he passed, hushed and soft like they were all too aware of his pricked ears and quivering, hungry jaw. Mandated compassionate leave, numbers for bereavement counsellors. Denial. Grief. It's a load of shit.

Holding back the words feels like throwing grit on the fire; it's a battle, suppressing the heat and the rage but feeling it pop and spark and simmer beneath the surface. It's not denial and it's not grief. How can it be when you're not dead? He'd crumpled the order of service program, all crisp white parchment and serif-fonted verses. He'd held it so tightly in his shaking hand that it tore and cracked, card-type rendered to clay under his heavy fingerprints. He held it like that, thought about ripping or tossing it but your face looked back at him from the front page.

Smiling. Beautiful. Flat.

True, it wasn't you, but how could he ever damage something made in your image?

It was that pamphlet that led him here, now. He hadn't attended the service, hadn't wanted anything to do with that absolute farce. Had ignored the phone calls, the knocks on the door. You were not dead, and he was not alive. True to his callsign, he existed in some hazy, temporal space. Sustained on rollie cigarettes and tepid tea. It gave his hands something to do, thumbing at filters and glossy, thin paper in lieu of something worse. In lieu of his darker vices. In lieu of disappearing altogether into The Ghost. Faceless form. Nameless, too. But even smoke and shadows move, and he found himself turned Orpheus, drifting past the souls and shades of the departed until-

Until he's face-to-face with those lilies and that little patch of moss on the corner of your grave. Just a little speck of green against black marble. Typical of you, to bring life into desolate spaces. For you to furnish something soft and verdant where others see only hard, cold, dark. You'd burrowed deep into his driftwood body, a little seed that cared not for his splinters and hollowness. He'd been shaped, fractured, by salt and pressure. Twisted into some gnarled, dead branch but maybe that was the beauty of it. Maybe that was a portent, a sign, that he could be useful to you. That you could climb on, cling on and let him pull you up. That you were nestled inside, marrow deep in the mulchy, spongey hollows of his bones. Not hard enough or weathered enough by yourself. No sun-bleached, ossein outer shell of your own.

No matter.

The soil was strangely warm, piled high, and packed tight above where you lay. He dug his hands in, scarred, meaty paws chasing the warmth that surely was coming from you. It was wrong, actually, to say that it was strange. Anywhere that housed you would be warm. He was. His lungs were burning, squeezing at him, oxygen burning like bourbon as it whistled down his throat and smouldered in his belly. His face was cold, though, mouth and nose numb and something wet leaking and pooling down at his chin where he's tugged down his mask. Confusion titled his head, eyes closed towards the sky, neck arched in the closest he'd come to prayer in years. It wasn't raining, but something was dripping down his face.

He'd knelt like this before, put loved ones into the earth and stood stoic under the pitiful gazes and awkward, pinched smiles of acquaintances and strangers. Unbidden, the words from Tommy's - god, Tommy, Joseph, Beth - funeral echoed through his mind. The body that is sown is perishable, it is raised imperishable.

He'd done it.

Walked in shadow steps across the Mexican border leaking blood and viscera, yes, but undead. It is raised in glory, it is sown in weakness. He'd clawed his way out once. Dragged his weak, struggling body to the surface to draw gasping, ash-tainted breaths and haunt the earth again. He'd help you do the same. You need him to.

Soft thing. You needed him to help you claw at the rich, grave dirt above your body, great scooping handfuls until his hands were stained with it. It was keeping you down there all compressed and boxed in, and he just knows you'd hate it. Hate being from him, hate being alone and in the dark listening only to the writhing of worms and the footfalls from above. You'd always cry a little when he was deployed, resigned and beautiful as you sniffled your farewells. Not goodbyes, superstition or hope preventing you from ever uttering words so final. So severe.

It's not goodbye if I'll see you later!

He swatted hard at his ear, his temples, fingers puppeted by paroxysm as the rich, peaty marl below him turned to dust and loam. Just for a second. Just for a whisper, the air he was breathing was thin and acrid and tasted like sand. He squeezed his eyes shut, screwed so tight that phosphenes danced behind the lids. One breath. Another. He could feel the soil caking and cracking on his skin, smell the heady, peaty turf and he was back.

The last enemy that will be destroyed is death. There was no Vernon here. No Manuel Roba, no Zaragoza Cartel. Just you, the dirt, and the foolish reaper that thought it could keep you from him.

After all those years grave dirt lingered beneath his fingers. It slotted in, filled in the groves of his knuckles and nailbeds like the tide returning to rockpools and crags along the shore. His body was made for this, forged by this, hewn from rock and dirt and left to shamble in the shape of a man. It's why he was numb to it, why stones crumbled to pumice dust as he clawed ever deeper. It was easy to ignore the jagged little pits of sediment that dug under his nails, stabbing until he dripped red from the quick. Watering your grave, he gave an offering of blood, sweat, and tears. You must have accepted this tribute, been satisfied in this champion for your soul because he felt something tugging at his chest. Deep, behind muscle and fat and gristle his heart sped up. Pounding so hard it nearly hit his ribs. He could feel it, see it when he closed his eyes. His red string connected to yours, all twisted and threadbare and fraying where it bored down into the earth, but still there. Still vibrant and raw and red.

And so close.

It was different digging down. When he'd first been reborn, he'd had company. There was him, and a lump of festering meat. A sack of bones moldering beside him in the casket. Dead and useless. Until it wasn't. Until he'd nearly passed out twice, arm shaking and stomach seizing as he raised his broken fingers to what used to be its face. There was no air, just lungs heavy with copper and carbon. He'd been hysterically lucid, thankful that that sick fucks had at least broken his nose before they tossed him in the pit. Probably severed his olfactory nerves but it was a blessing, really, not to smell the putrid, festering thing that was oozing over his fingers as he scratched and gouged until he hit bone. He had enough of his senses to kick at the boards above him, contorting around the hollow spots in the hope that the pressure of the dirt wouldn't do him in. Not killed by fucking soil, not when the bastards who wanted him dead had already tried and failed with greater means.

Digging up was like drowning. Like being dragged away by a current, water pressing and squeezing at your head until your ears popped and your eyes bulged.

It was fighting the urge to breathe, body struggling and kicking so hard against a nature that didn't care. Cruelty from indifference. Lactic acid burning and cramping through muscles that you couldn’t stop moving. Stop moving and you're dead for real. Digging up was rage and hope, something fiery and heavy pulsing under the skin. He remembered some poem he had to memorise back at the state comprehensive. Hope is the thing with feathers. He was shit at English, never cared for it. But he remembered that because it was so bloody trite. He'd told the teacher, first time he'd ever volunteered an answer in her class, and she screwed her nose up at him. Sent him out for cheek. Only it wasn’t cheek. Hope was the worm wriggling around in his guts. The stupid parasite that fed off his fear and made him wonder if he could be purged of it. Those same maggots writhed in his guts, wriggling and squirming as he kicked and pulled up. And up. And up.

Digging down, though. Digging down was harder. He wasn't getting dragged down by the current; no, he was sloshing great bucketfuls of water behind him, wondering why the ocean wasn't yet drained. It was frustrating, endless. Some kind of wank Greek tragedy where he'd been cursed to repeat the same task, over and over again. To have what he wanted, just out of reach, the finishing line set and reset at someone else's whim. Tantalus, Orpheus, Prometheus. He knew what they'd done to offend the Gods, but what about him? What bargain had Shepard and Price struck to have him back? To have him stalk and hunt under their flags, their causes. Would you disappear forever, trapped in the caves of the underworld if he tried to look at you one last time?

His body wasn’t his anymore, hadn't been for a while. Not since Mexico, and maybe even before that. He was more ghoul than man then. Some kind of shambling hellhound they set loose and tasked to kill. But his body wasn't theirs either, not anymore. He'd folded you inside himself so carefully. Made a home for his heart and yours in the cradle of his ribs until he wasn't sure where yours began and his ended. He gave his body in service to you. His heart, his mind, the gristle of his ugly mug - all those chunks of meat were yours. What use was he, then, if he couldn't protect you?

Six-foot-something and 200lbs of weapon rendered flesh, and you're damned bloody right he'd use it to reach you.

Except, something was broken. Salt stung at his eyes; whether perspiration or tears he wasn't entirely sure. Because there were tears, he could admit that now. He could admit that to the magpies watching him from the cracked, weather-worn tombstones littered around. He could admit that in the thick silence - heh, quiet as the grave - settling eerily as dusk fell like a blanket.

'Fuck.'

Regret punched him in the liver, bent and stooped him under his face was buried in the upturned earth below his hands. The first word he'd said to you since his last mission and it was 'fuck'. He didn't even say it properly, just gasped it out as he crumpled in on himself like wet tissue. Voice all damp and cracking like even that one word didn't want to come out. Soul of a poet, him.

You knew he wasn't a man of many words, though. You'd forgive him.

He was tired now. Exertion drank from him, stripped him down to his crypt-cold bones. He didn't think ghosts got tired, but here he was shaking and kneeling in the hollow of your grave like a starving mutt. Pawing and pawing at you until his nails cracked and his fingers bled. It was sapping out of him, now, candle in his chest flickering lower as he got closer and closer to where you were waiting for him. His face was wet, the wind stinging at bitter trails that swelled over his pallid cheeks. Blinking sluggishly, he licked at his cracked lips. Apprehension lingered there, danced along the seam for a second.

Whatever he finds down there, whatever state you are in he will join. You will rise together or rot together, there is no other way this can go.

His breaths catch in his ribs, jumping too quickly past his diaphragm but not quite strong enough to breach. Instead, they flutter downwards. Or something does, something sets his fingers to shake as they brush against polished wood slick with condensation. It's so cold, you must be so fucking cold in there. It sounds hollow, too, knock reverberating like a church bell from where his clumsy, swollen knuckles bump across the lid.

A person cannot enter the realm of the dead more than once. Not while they're alive. So this is it.

And he's so tired, thoughts turning sluggish and foggy as he folds his body over yours. There's just that panel of wood separating you now. The closest you've been to each other in weeks. Christ, he's given so much of himself already. So much, from such a young age. He's not sure he could even go on without giving, without a mission. But he swore to you, swore just before he left that this was the last one. Told you that he'd speak to Price, ask for family leave or an active service break or something so that you and he -

so that -

so-

Fuck, he couldn't quite catch the thought before it slipped away. Couldn't quite get his eyes to open, either. Just feathery lashes fluttering against his cheekbones until he gave in. Until he let them drift shut.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to fall asleep here. Just you and him, together. He could picture it; your head must be somewhere just below his. You'd probably tucked a hand under your cheek, angled slightly to the right so that he could reach out and touch you from his left. His hand slid across the slick, dirt speckled board, tapping out the syllables of your name with his fingertips. Curled around each other, forever, in the cold, dark earth.

________________

Sorry, I hurt our boy 😢 Not really confident in doing Simon's PoV - I always write from reader's perspective but, uhh, not really possible here. Just had to get the idea out bc it's been rolling around in here, gathering dust. Maybe it's been done before? Idk.

Some biblical, wuthering heights, and Greek myth references. And no shade to emily dickinson; that's ghost's opinion, not mine!

Knight ghost part ii will be out this week (finally lol, yay). Then some of the other stuff I've banged on about.

[faaun]

what draws you back to your country what draws you back to your land when i was a kid i told myself if i ever left iran i'd never go back 2 years into living in the UK i started looking at news on iran again 10 years in and i visited it for the first time again and today i heard an iranian mother talk in farsi to her child on the train to london the way my mother used to and i wanted to cry i wanted to ask her whether they're still cutting the mountaintops whether the lakes are still drying today i showed the person i was with pictures of waterfalls and palaces and forests and snow-white north something odd pulls me back with increasing force i can't ignore it ever again

[starry-bi-sky]

pouring one out for luo binghe in my disciple SQQ fic, poor guy has taken a backseat here. we're nearly 30k words deep and he hasn't even shown his face once. it'll be much longer before he even actually talks to Shen Qingqiu.

(i say im pouring one out but in reality im sitting in my director's chair chewing on a cigar and wearing a beret as he tearily and unsuccessfully pleads with me for more scenes with Shen Qingqiu)