#like. oh. this is a mercy killing isn't it

[captorations]

obviously i'm over a decade late to the party but i can't pretend i didn't walk into the final boss of dark souls 1 and get gutpunched by music that, instead of being epic or climactic in any way, was kingdom hearts levels of somber and beautiful and tear-inducing

[peachyutdr]

i finished it, was kicked out of the game, and then spent the next 10 minutes drawing this. i will now go take a shower, most likely cry, and then go through the emotional turmoil of convincing myself to reset so i can do a geno run. i hate it here :D

[lord-squiggletits]

Part of why I hate this fandom's take on Autobots vs Decepticons is ppl (mainly 'con fans honestly) who can't have any nuance of the situation whatsoever and love to write plots like "oh the humans are racist and abusive towards Cybertronians so this is how Megatron is right" no actually I don't think colonialism/imperialism and racism are justified so long as you can point the finger and say "they were the aggressors first" or "their hands are no cleaner than ours bc their society sucks too" sorry. Please come up with better sociopolitical narratives in your war story.

[sysig]

It’s hard to put on a bright face, in spite of everything (Patreon)

[autisticcole]

Heheheheheho I have gotten some of the Dragon Age books (🏴‍☠️) and this is gonna really let me dig into some stuff, especially my favorite guy Cole, cause now I can read his OG appearance, I want to see how much stuff Cole says, especially during his quest actually makes sense, and how much is in-universe "both sides are right"ing about not listening to what Cole wants to do.

I am mainly talking about Spirit!Cole thanking Inky for not making him change... Despite the fact that thoughout Cole's quest Solas ignores what Cole wants (Like being binded) & wants to do (Kill the guy who beat beyond beating a 12 (at most) year old (most likely, it isn't outright stated (to my memory) the Templar who fucked up the paperwork was also one of the ones who physically abused him, but I feel it's a pretty safe assumption) & got that child killed due to neglect & faced no consequences) but ultimately the choice that causes Cole to thank the player for not changing him is the one where you listen to Solas over Cole (Or well Varric, who also doesn't let Cole do what he wants but is closer to what Cole would have done if he had went alone for the confrontation) & in this route I would say Cole's character changes a lot more, especially as he forgets the original Cole, which... Rubs me wrong, but I'll save my more detailed thoughts for 1. After I fully read Asunder & 2. Either a full Cole analysis or a detailed post about my thoughts on his quest & routes (& maybe how I'd rewrite them, as a Autistic person & a ally to the aroace community)

Anyways my point is that I want to see how true it is characters rejected or wanted to change Cole, I want to see what leads him to feel that having two men argue & tell him who he is supposed to be & do only to have a third person decide out of those two's options for what he should do is remotely a situation where he's been accepted.

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

thinkbing about. him

[abyssembraced]

Perhaps surprisingly, Ghost is actually quite merciful in a fight!

In general, they're a lot more reactive than they are proactive.

They do always give it their all in battle, and I suppose in that sense they could be considered rather ruthless. They'll never "go easy" on an opponent, since they don't actually know how to. They've never been in a situation before where doing such a thing would be relevant or useful. Everything they've fought during their life has either been Infected, a lesser creature that they're hunting for SOUL, or a highly skilled warrior that warrants them using their full capabilities. If someone asked Ghost to go easy on them in a spar, they'd probably just be confused about what that even meant?

The closest thing they've experienced to "going easy" on someone is simply not wasting unnecessary resources on a weak opponent. For example, if a lone, regular Vengefly has decided to harass them, Ghost isn't going to bother expending their gathered SOUL and Void with a spell when it'll fall in one hit from their nail.

Though, they are also cautious about how Void affects non-Void beings when they're around someone they care about not killing. Hornet has probably drilled it into them enough that the substance their body is made of is extremely dangerous to regular bugs dgshshfs. Plus they've seen examples of what Void can do to a bug from sources other than themself. Fortunately though, their Void infused spells (Abyss Shriek, Shade Soul, Descending Dark) are generally still safe enough to use in spars!

But, whether they fight and how long the fight lasts actually depends entirely on the other person. Ghost doesn't typically make the first strike or initiate a battle, and in cases where they do (such as the Mantis Lords fight), they make their intentions very clear with a challenge first. They aren't one for sneak attacks.

If someone attacks them, then they will fight back with all their might. But, if their opponent stops fighting, then they will too.

Against Infected foes, this usually means a fight to the death anyway, since due to the Radiance's influence, the enemy will not stop trying to kill Ghost until they either succeed or die trying. But against uninfected opponents like Hornet and the Mantis Lords, they can surrender, retreat, or even talk to Ghost safely without Ghost trying to go in for the kill. Even if that opponent was intending to kill Ghost themself. And for Infected and uninfected opponents alike, if they stagger, then Ghost will stop and wait for them, just to see if the fight is done or not.

If their opponent insists on fighting, though, then Ghost will never retreat themself, no matter how badly they get hurt. They'll keep fighting until their mask breaks, and even beyond that once they have Void Heart and can survive without it. Even in simple sparring matches. Self-preservation... Is not their strong suit dhdhshf.

This also means that my Ghost would not have killed the non-aggressive Infected enemies under most circumstances. In particular, they definitely never killed the other maggots (False Knight's siblings). Not only were those guys non-aggressive; they were sapient, terrified of Ghost, did not want to fight and very clearly showed this by actively running away. Ghost did not kill them. There was no reason to. Hell, I always feel really bad killing them for the Hunter's Journal entries lmao.

Regarding the Hunter's Journal entries, actually, for the enemies that they wouldn't have killed many of (if any at all), and perhaps even just in general, I'm inclined to say that Ghost still has the entries written down, but did so after just observing the specimens rather than killing them? Plus maybe also by inspecting the bodies of already dead creatures, like how you get the Garpede entry.

At least the initial entries anyway, which I like to think were actually written by Ghost. They probably don't have any of the "second tier" entries physically in the journal, considering that some of them (e.g. The direct quotes from the Warrior Dreams) make no sense for Ghost to know. But for the ones written specifically by the Hunter, maybe Ghost would pop by to show him their journal from time to time, and that's when he'd give them his input on Hallownest's creatures?

[astrxealis]

MOOGLE TREASURE TROVE SOON AGAIN AND FUCK FUCK FUCKING HELL YEAH DUN SCAITH !!!!!

[sunsburns]

four or five moments (ii.)

pairing: wade wilson/deadpool x fem!assassin!reader

summary: you're literally just trying to do your job, and it's going great so far, you've killed trask, all you have left is to stop that truck from leaving new york. few problems: deadpool can't stay dead, you're having a moral dilemma and why is that car getting closer? oh shit-!

—or: deadpool literally hits you with a car

word count: 4k+

warnings: fem reader, wade being nasty, flirting, sex jokes, canon violence, there isn't too much plot, blood, strange conversations about morality, wade being annoying, he also breaks the fourth wall a few times, i did not pre-read this pls bare with spelling mistakes

notes: i was peer pressured to write this. it literally strays off from the og plot so bad you get whiplash!!

part one

All you really need is four or five moments.

Four or five moments to prove that you're better than them, that you wouldn't stoop as low, to prove that an eye for an eye will only leave two people blind. No blood will bring mercy. No. But it might get you some peace of mind knowing that they can't hurt you anymore, knowing that there's one less asshole on the earth that's trying to hurt you and the people you care about. It is heartless, you're well aware, but you are not trained to have much of a heart, much less to care.

You remind yourself of that fact as lights blur into neon streaks and speeding vehicles race by. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline sharpening your senses, and the stab wound on your leg becomes a distant throb.

You leap onto a motorcycle conveniently left unattended by a fleeing warehouse worker, hot-wiring it with practiced ease. The engine roars to life, and you peel out onto the road, weaving through traffic. The bike vibrates beneath you, a sleek, powerful beast responding to your every command.

Behind you, Deadpool is a persistent shadow. You catch glimpses of his red suit and mask as he commandeers a car, recklessly swerving through lanes to catch up to you. His determination is infuriating, but you can't afford to be distracted. You grit your teeth, focusing on the chase.

Your earpiece crackles to life, and a familiar voice comes through. "I've got eyes on your tracker," your handler says. "They're heading towards the docks. Be careful; we don't know if it's a set-up."

"Understood," you reply, voice steady despite the chaos.

As you near the docks, the industrial landscape looms ahead, a labyrinth of shipping containers and cranes casting long shadows in the dim light. The truck is just ahead, its taillights glowing like beacons.

You accelerate closer, and with one hand, you grab an energy gun, in a quick movement, you shoot at the truck doors, immediately regaining your grip on the handle afterwards. The doors fly open, revealing giant metal scraps and wooden crates.

You nearly curse, swerving out of the way when a pipe tumbles out from the back of the truck, crashing onto the road. The clang of metal on asphalt echoes in your ears. You slow down by the truck's blind spot, knowing you'd have to stop it, especially now that the cargo was confirmed to be in it.

You stay ready with your gun, pulling it from the holster on your thigh. You wait a beat, then another, and as the truck starts to pick up speed, you make your move and roll up to the driver's window, shooting through the glass. The bullet flies through the driver's head, causing him to slump forward, pressing on the horn. The blaring sound drowns out your second shot, which takes down the man in the passenger seat before he can shoot you.

The truck starts to slow, veering erratically before it crashes into a building with a deafening crunch of metal and shattering glass. The impact takes down a few light posts and parked cars, sending debris flying. Broken electrical wires dance and crackle around the wreck, their sparks reflected in the spray of a burst fire hydrant.

"Great job," your handler's voice crackles through your comms. "Dispose of the truck. No witnesses—"

The connection cuts off as you are violently hit from the side by a black car. The force of the impact sends you flying off your bike, tumbling across the rough asphalt. Your suit and helmet take most of the fall, tearing and cracking under the friction. Your visor shatters, the protective plastic lining breaking at the base.

You feel the sting and burn of broken skin on your arms and legs, grime and dirt mixing with the blood seeping from your cuts. Your vision is blurred, and a high-pitched ringing fills your ears. Every breath you take is shallow and painful, your ribs protesting with each inhale. Biting the inside of your cheek, you push yourself to pull off your broken helmet, tossing it aside. You blink hard, trying to focus your vision and spot a figure approaching.

Through the haze of pain and confusion, you recognize the distinctive red and black suit. Deadpool. He strides towards you with casual confidence, katana in hand, his eyes hidden behind the mask but undoubtedly filled with a mix of amusement and determination. The streetlights cast eerie shadows on his suit, highlighting the dried blood and grime.

"Please, don't be mad, honeybuns." Deadpool's irritating voice is the first thing you can hear when the ringing stops. He's standing before you, gloved hands out for you to take.

You don't move, heaving, "What the fuck, Wade?"

"Oh, are we on a first-name basis now? I think I like it." Wade Wilson hums, and when you still don't take his hands, he kneels before you. The smell of sweat and gunpowder wafts off him, mingling with the metallic scent of blood. "I know this all seems a little confusing—"

"You hit me with a fucking car, you dick!" you belt out, eyes wide with rage. The pain and exhaustion make your voice hoarse, every word a struggle.

"Well, yes. But it's only fair—"

"Fuck you."

"Listen to me." He says a little desperately, and you're glaring at him through your tears. Wade doesn't let it get to him, instead, he calls out your name, barely above a whisper as he looks at you. "You are getting innocent people killed." He tells you. "Look around. This might not be a cul-de-sac, but there are civilians, and they're hurt. We need to leave. You need to call it."

You glance over his shoulder, tired eyes scanning the area. He was right. Dock workers are running around, shouting and helping people out of the old building the truck had crashed into. It's late at night, but not late enough for the place to be deserted; people are still at work, still trying to get by.

You wince as you watch a pregnant woman being led out of a crashed car by her husband, a gash on her head. The smell of gasoline and burning rubber fills the air, mixing with the acrid scent of smoke from the crashed truck.

"Killing shitty people is one thing," Deadpool tells you, and you hate the way his voice is almost earnest. His tone is different, more serious, a stark contrast to his usual unserious demeanour. "But I'm familiar with your no-witnesses rule. This would just be mass murder if I let you keep going. Not exactly my piece of cake. Just..."

He stops, letting his head hang for a moment as if he were too repulsed to say it. You can see his shoulders slump slightly, a rare show of genuine emotion. "Oh god, I can't believe I'm about to say this," he grumbles, "Four or five moments. That's all it takes. Just stop and think. It's all it takes to be a hero."

You grit your teeth, hating that Wade Wilson is your voice of reason. The biggest asshole in New York, and here he is lecturing you on morality.

Hairs are falling out of your braid and sticking to your forehead, yet you don't care. Sweat mixes with blood, creating a sticky mess on your skin. You can only glare at him. "You're the last fucking person who should be telling me how to be a hero."

Wade sighs, loud and obnoxious, his mask wrinkling around his eyes as he scrunches up his face. "I'm sorry I hit you with a car. You kinda deserved it after killing Trask. He was my last chance at becoming pretty again. Now I have to stalk another crazy scientist." He taps his chin thoughtfully, "I always figured I'd end up chasing a mad scientist again, but not under these circumstances."

It's when you can no longer hold yourself up with your arms that Wade takes in the gravity of your injuries. He winces, watching you crumble to the ground before him. "Oh, wow, that's a lot of blood," he notes, his voice suddenly devoid of humour. The sight of your blood pooling on the asphalt seems to pull him back to reality. "Should I take you to a hospital? How many fingers am I holding up?"

He doesn't give you a chance to answer.

"Three? No. Two? Yikes. It's worse than I thought." Wade stands, and the worry in his voice is poorly masked by his usual sarcasm. "Here we go. Up, up!" When he moves to pick you up, you start turning away, your body protesting every movement.

"Wade, wait—" you rasp, trying to stop him from touching you. Your voice is weak, barely above a whisper.

But it's too late. When he reaches for you, your body phases, a faint white glow surrounding you as his hands and arms fall through your body as if you're a ghost. He recoils, jumping back while a squeamish sound escapes his lips. He stares at you, then his hands, then back at you on the ground as you try to sit up again, confusion and amazement written all over his masked face.

"Oh. My. Motherfucking. Fuckballs." Wade gasped, eyes wide behind his mask. "Did my hand just go through you or is all that cocaine finally kicking in?"

You ignore him, holding onto your side as it throbs with pain. Every movement sends sharp, agonizing waves through your body. "Fuck."

"No way, you're a fucking mutant?" His tone is a mix of awe and excitement, like a kid discovering a new toy.

It's not like you kept it a secret. You used your abilities whenever you needed to, and sure, it was useful at times, especially in your line of work when you needed to get through locked doors and hidden rooms or just for the element of surprise. But it's draining. Leaves you winded after only a matter of seconds. You've always had a hard time controlling it when you're slightly delusional though. You must've hit your head really hard. Maybe that's why you haven't shot Deadpool, yet.

"Shut up, Wade."

"Hey, no need to be ashamed of it." He reassures you while trying to pick you up again. This time, he is more cautious, his movements slower and more deliberate. When he succeeds, you can tell he's grinning like a child underneath the mask.

He carries you back to the same fuckass car he hit you with, holding you with one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back. There's a faint skip to his step as if you're not on the verge of losing consciousness. While kicking open the back door, Wade continues his chatter, and you really wish he'd killed you on impact.

"Being a mutant is great! Plus, it's not the early two thousands anymore, or whatever timeline Stewart was in. Man, they sure did hate mutants in that trilogy."

He sets you down in the back seat gently, his hands surprisingly delicate. "You know, I always knew you were different. You hit me harder than regular people. I just figured you really hated me."

"I do." you mutter.

"Oh, my little sweet buns, I'm sure you do." To your annoyance, he pokes your nose playfully. "But you can't hate me too much right now, I'm literally your knight in shining armor. See, I can be nice, especially to my fellow mercs. You'd bleed to death if I left you there."

"Only because you hit me with a fucking car," you snap, the pain and frustration boiling over.

"Good to know you're still harboring great anger towards that. Means you're still conscious. Keep being mean to me, baby, that's how I'll know you're okay." He pauses before shutting the door, looking at you lying on the backseat, bleeding and all the glory that comes from it. "And it also turns me on a little bit. God, I can't believe your suit is torn and not one bit of extra cleavage is exposed. What will it take for a guy to get some rated R nudity over here?"

And with that, he slams the door shut, the car shaking with the force of it. The sound makes the ringing return to your ears, and you bite back the urge to curse him. He takes a seat in the driver's seat, starting the engine and rushing out of the scene before first responders arrive. The car roars to life, and as he speeds away, you feel your consciousness slipping, the pain and exhaustion overwhelming you.

The two of you sit in silence for the most part, only the sounds of the engine running and Wade humming the tune of a song you think is from The Greatest Showman soundtrack. You force yourself to stay awake. Mostly because you don't trust him, but it's also because you fear that if you let your eyes close you won't wake up again. Yeah, it's mostly because you don't trust Wade Wilson.

"Where are you taking me?" you finally ask, and you hate the way your voice sounds weak, barely above a whisper.

"Just a little safe house I know." He tells you, glancing back at you for a quick moment. "Very homey, trust me."

"What about the shipment?" you murmur, your mind struggling to stay focused.

"What?"

"The truck," you repeat, fighting to keep your eyes open.

"Oh, don't worry. That's no longer our problem." He says, "We're about to enter a whole new setting. That truck is forgotten plot."

Wade takes a sharp turn, and you wince as your body shifts uncomfortably in the back seat. The pain is getting worse, each bump in the road sending jolts of agony through your body. You grit your teeth, trying to stay conscious, but it's a losing battle.

After what feels like an eternity, the car finally comes to a stop. Wade gets out and you hear his footsteps crunching on gravel as he walks around to your door. He opens it carefully this time, his usual wiseass demeanour replaced by a rare show of genuine concern. He scoops you up gently, and you're too weak to protest.

The last thing you remember, before everything goes black, is the sight of a grand mansion looming ahead, its imposing silhouette framed by the moonlight. The large iron gates creak open as Wade carries you through them, the gravel path crunching under his boots. The mansion, with its towering spires and Gothic architecture, looks like something out of a fairy tale, a stark contrast to the violence and chaos you just escaped from.

When you wake up, the first thing you notice is the softness of the bed beneath you. The second thing you notice is the smell of lavender and the faint hum of medical equipment. You try to sit up, but a sharp pain in your side makes you gasp.

"Whoa, easy there," a deep, accented voice says from beside you. You turn your head slowly, the motion making your vision swim. A towering, metal-skinned mutant sits by your bed, his imposing figure softened by a look of genuine concern. "You need to rest. You are badly injured."

Your throat feels like sandpaper as you rasp, "Where am I?"

"The X-Mansion," he replies in a soothing tone, the accent heavy but comforting. "Wade brought you here. You’re safe now. I am Colossus."

You try to take in your surroundings, your head feeling heavy as you look around. The room is vast and elegant, with high ceilings that seem to reach the heavens. The walls are adorned with rich tapestries and framed paintings, depicting serene landscapes and grand historical scenes.

Large windows let in the soft, golden glow of morning light, casting gentle shadows that dance across the floor. It’s a far cry from the dingy, rundown places you’re used to, especially that old apartment with its creaky floors and peeling wallpaper.

Your eyes finally land on Wade, who is slouched in a chair in the corner. He’s flipping through a Playboy magazine with exaggerated interest, still in his dirty suit from the night before.

When he sees you stir, he grins and waves a hand in your direction. "Morning, sunshine," he says cheerfully, his voice carrying an unnerving mix of sincerity and teasing. "You gave us quite a scare. But, I've got to say, that hospital gown is doing wonders for your figure. I love the blue. Great contrast to that black you're always wearing."

You roll your eyes, too exhausted to respond properly. The gown feels scratchy against your skin, and every movement sends sharp pangs of pain through your body.

Colossus, noticing your discomfort, shifts slightly. "How are you feeling?" he asks, his voice deep and steady.

"Like I got hit by a truck," you mutter, sending a glare in Wade's direction.

Colossus chuckles, the sound deep and resonant, like rolling thunder. "Do not worry about him. We will take care of you."

Despite the throbbing pain and overwhelming fatigue, a wave of relief washes over you. For the first time in a long while, you're surrounded by people who genuinely want to help. You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the softness of the bed. "Thank you," you whisper, the words feeling strangely comforting. For once, you don’t feel the need to be constantly on guard.

Wade's grin widens as he leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out and adjusting his mask. "Anytime, honeybuns. Anytime."

As you drift in and out of consciousness, you feel the cool, soothing touch of a wet cloth on your forehead. The gentle pressure is a welcome contrast to the persistent throbbing pain.

The sound of soft murmurs and quiet footsteps fills the room, creating a cocoon of calm around you. At some point, you notice Colossus's massive hands, surprisingly gentle, as he carefully tends to your wounds, applying bandages with precision.

Eventually, a teenager with short hair and a no-nonsense expression enters the room. You learn her name is Negasonic Teenage Warhead. She carries a phone in one hand, handing Colossus a stack of clean bandages with the other. The faint scent of antiseptic and medicinal herbs fills the air, mixing with the crispness of the freshly laundered bed linens.

Hours pass, or maybe it's days—it's difficult to gauge. When you next wake, the room is dimly lit, the golden light replaced by the softer hues of early evening. The pain has dulled to a manageable throb, and the heaviness in your limbs is slightly alleviated. Wade is still there, his previous outfit swapped for sweatpants and a dark green sweater, though he keeps his red and black mask on. He lounges in the chair beside your bed, now engrossed in an iPad, giggling softly to himself.

"Oh, man. Instagram reels are crazy," he snorts, shaking his head as he scrolls through the screen.

He looks up and hums when he sees you're awake again. "You're tougher than you look," he comments, turning off the iPad with a flick of his wrist. "Most people would have keeled over by now."

"You wish."

"Oh, trust me, I do." Wade nods vigorously, his mask bobbing with the motion. "I tried injecting poison into your IV, but your body rejected it."

"Don't worry. My handler will kill me for you."

Wade groans, dramatically rolling his eyes as he gets up from the chair. "You’re still worried about that? I already told you, the truck and all that shit is past plot. We’re in the sequel now, babe. There are new rules. Who knows, maybe this is your redemption arc where you join the X-Men. Though, I will miss your assassin era. You were so sexy in that suit."

You make a face, "Fuck off."

Just then, the door opens with a soft creak, and Colossus enters with a tray in hand. He’s followed closely by Negasonic, who carries a stack of fresh bandages. Colossus places the tray on a small table beside your bed with practiced ease. The tray is filled with a bowl of steaming soup and a couple of slices of crusty bread, the aroma wafting up and making your stomach rumble.

"How are you feeling?" Colossus asks, his voice calm and reassuring as he sets the tray down.

"Better," you admit, managing a small smile. "Thanks to you guys."

Negasonic shrugs nonchalantly, a small smile tugging at her lips despite her usual scowl. "Don’t mention it. Just doing our job."

Wade groans, clearly troubled by the kindness. "Oh great, now you’re all buddy-buddy. What am I, chopped liver?"

Colossus chuckles, the sound of a comforting rumble. "You must eat something. It will help you regain your strength."

You nod gratefully, and with Colossus’s help, you manage to sit up enough to sip the warm, comforting soup. The broth is rich and flavorful, and the bread is soft and fresh. As you eat, you can’t help but feel a strange sense of belonging. Despite the pain and the chaos, you’re surrounded by people who care, and for now, that’s enough.

Wade, not one to be left out, scoots his chair closer, setting it right next to your bed. He stretches out, propping his elbows on his knees as he leans in. "So, what do you think of the X-Mansion? Pretty swanky, right? Lots of rooms, big kitchen, danger room for training... and other things."

Negasonic scoffs, her eyes narrowing. "Gross."

You finish your meal, feeling a bit stronger. As Colossus helps you settle back into the bed, you glance at Wade. "Why did you bring me here?"

Wade’s expression shifts, becoming uncharacteristically serious. He looks at you with sincerity. "Because you’re one of us. And because... well, everyone deserves a second chance."

You blink, surprised by the depth of his words. Before you can respond, he’s back to his usual self, grinning and turning on his iPad. "Plus, it’s not every day I get to play hero. I gotta milk it for all it’s worth. And no, Colossus, I will not join your boy band, thank you very much."

The metal man grunts, waving a hand dismissively before walking out, Negasonic following right behind him. Wade stays seated next to you, his lips curled into a wide, amused grin that seems to stretch just a bit too far was he watches you.

"You're never gonna take that off?" you ask him.

Wade's laughter is a low, rumbling sound that feels almost too bright for the quiet room. "Oh, no fucking way," he says, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. "I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m ugly under this. Trust me. You’d be repulsed. Like, horror movie-level repulsed."

You give him a look, your eyebrow arched in disbelief. "I doubt it."

Wade leans in closer, the grin on his face widening. He taps his chin thoughtfully with a gloved finger, the gesture oddly contemplative. "Maybe next time I’ll take it off for you," he says, a taunting tone in his voice as he raises his brows. "Maybe that and a little more."

"There's a next time?"

"I mean, as the famous words of Natasha Bedingfield say: the rest is still underwritten."

"God, you’re fucking ridiculous," you mutter, the words coming out with a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. "I can’t wait to get out of here and never see you again."

Wade's shoulders slump, the white eyes of his mask narrow at you, "What, that's it? No steamy sex? No heavy petting? Is this how it ends? Not even a kiss?"

"Fuck no. Get out."

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[tofixtheshadows]

So I've been thinking lately about how Mithrun is Kabru's dark mirror (more on that another time- it needs its own post), and I thought it interesting that one of their parallels is that they were both cared for by Milsiril, but in opposite directions. She took Kabru in as her foster after he was orphaned and tried to convince him not to become an adventurer. On the flip side, she helped rehabilitate Mithrun specifically so that he could rejoin the Canaries.

And I kept wondering: why?

For Kabru, obviously she loves him a whole lot- despite any other shortcomings in their relationship, I do believe that.

So I get why she tries to convince him not to go dungeoning, and, failing that, at least prepares him as thoroughly as she can.

But why help Mithrun? She used to hate Mithrun, but after realizing what a secretly twisted person he was, she actually thought of him more positively (oh, Milsiril). So it wasn't as if she held the kind of grudge that might motivate her to make his already-depleted life even more miserable by sending him back to the dungeons. And it wasn't that she felt bad for him either, since she didn't visit Mithrun for the first ~20 years of his recovery.

The Adventurer's Bible says that Utaya was the impetus for Mithrun returning to the Canaries, but Milsiril is the one who made the trip to see him and tell him about it.

Why would Milsiril work so hard to get her old coworker back into fighting fit? Why encourage him to return to such a dangerous lifestyle, when she was the one who chose not to mercy-kill him?

That last panel is such a crazy thing to hint at and then never elaborate on. Without it we could have just thought that Milsiril wanted the Canaries' work to continue without her, even if it seemed out of character. I think some people even assume she's just a natural caretaker as a foster mom and handwave it to include nursing Mithrun too. What could Milsiril's suspicious motives be? What does she gain from Mithrun joining the Canaries that isn't an altruistic desire to see dungeons safely sealed? Feeling a sense of responsibility for the work she left behind isn't an ulterior motive.

My theory is: Milsiril, knowing that Mithrun was empty save for the burning desire to face the demon again, wound him up like a clockwork doll and pointed him back at the dungeons.

Hoping that he'd eliminate the biggest threat to Kabru's life, before it was too late for him.

Milsiril the puppetmaster.

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

✧ Fantasies in the dark

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader ✦ Summary: In which Arthur catches a glimpse of your intimacy, the vision driving him into madness until he finally decides to give in to his urges. ✦ Warnings: SMUT 18+, MDNI! Masturbation, nudity, voyeurism (reader not aware he's staring), self-depreciation, and lots of shame from this poor man. Arthur's pov. ✦ Words: 2,7k Arthur's pic is mine, others are from Pinterest. And as always, as English isn't my first language, prepare for some possible misspellings. Read on AO3

Lately, Arthur had a problem. An incessant, disturbing, haunting problem.

He couldn’t sleep at night.

This could have been related to the gang’s precarious situation, being hunted down by the Pinkertons and surrounded by enemy gangs, O’Driscolls and Lemoyne raiders everywhere. Or even because of some older wounds, the loss of Eliza and Isaac amongst others, reminded almost every day by the complicated family portrait John painted with Abigail and Jack. Or the hurtful thought of the life he never had with Mary that was always following him since he had seen her again near Valentine. Life doomed from the start by his inherent violence and the mountain of corpses he was responsible for.

Arthur had plenty of reasons not to sleep at night. But this wasn’t because of any of that.

He couldn’t sleep because of you. 

Not that it was your fault. In fact, you didn’t even know about any of that and Lord have mercy, he was praying that you’ll never find out; because he would never be able to look at you in the eyes then.

A few weeks ago, the gang had settled at Clemen’s Point. A rather pretty spot just near the lake, and not so far from town. But it wasn’t exactly the place that was causing him trouble. It was the unexpected view he was having from his tent.

For some unknown, mystical reasons, Miss Grimshaw while deciding the camp’s ajancement had decided to place your tent right next to his. Not so big of a problem at first sight, right?

Except that you were a night owl combined with the suffocating warmth of the place. Making you get to bed naked.

Oh, Arthur knew you do, because every night, every single one, you let a candle lit to read, or write, or God knows what before sleeping. The light casts your shadow against the tent’s canvas. The shadow of your very much nude body.

The first night Arthur had noticed, he had come back exhausted from a job in the middle of the night and laid on his cot without even taking the time to remove his boots or hat. A very usual and typical slice of his life, which lately felt more and more like a terribly used one. As if all these slices were repeating again and again. An accumulation of jobs and missions and robberies and fights; deceiving, lying, stealing, killing. Over and over again, going round and round. At night, he was reduced to a slumbered mind in a spent body, that was definitely becoming old and rusty. Already half asleep, mud and twigs surrounding his tired limbs, his thoughts all tangled up like a ball of wool, he had turned his head to his left, reaching from instinct for his pack of cigarettes on the little table next to his bed. Another slice of bad habits from a bad life.

That’s how his eyes had met with this quite erotic shape displayed on your tent.

Said eyes had grown so big that it had fully woken him up all of a sudden, as quickly as if someone had dumped a bucket of iced water on his shocked face. After half of a second of pure stabbing surprise and incomprehension with his hand hanged in the air, his breath stuck in his throat as if really being punched in the gut, he instantly turned his eyes back to the ceiling of his own tent. Cheeks burning red, heart pounding, as if someone had caught him in the act of doing a terribly shameful thing. Exactly as if he had really seen you naked.

He had feverishly grabbed the cigarette pack without looking at it, gaze refusing to turn again, these two blue diamonds locked on the ceiling of his tent, and had messily pulled one out of it, his shaky fingers fumbling, almost spilling everything on the ground.

He must have looked so damn ridiculous.

The smoke helped him to calm down, its soothing and comforting feeling spreading and burning through his lungs. He had fallen asleep, turned to the other side facing the wagon, trying not to think too much about the peek of your intimacy he had witnessed, telling himself it probably was going to be an isolated incident. 

But of course, of course the Lord had to torment him even in the rare moments of peace he could have enjoyed.

Turns out this was apparently a habit of yours. 

To be honest, he probably deserved to be tormented. But this was years from what he had in mind when it came to the Lord's punishment for his life of crimes.

And Arthur, even though a hardened man in many ways, able to lock lips during torture, kill men with bare hands, and stay emotionally strong in any kind of situation, was still only, after all, a man. A man with needs.

Filthy, disgusting needs.

He had tried to resist. Had tried not to let his eyes slip in your direction like that first night. Sometimes he would allow himself a quick glance, just to check if you were wearing any clothes for once, like a normal person. And maybe the night after would be different? Every evening spent at camp, his pupils would end up brushing the sinful silhouette in just a soft, slight sight, as if not to scare you, as if not to feel too bad about it.

But it was getting harder and harder not to stare. The easy lies about just checking on you or looking at anything else in the same area as your tent to have the chance of winning a glimpse of you would soon not be enough.

Just the mere fact that he knew you were completely bare, only a few meters away from him, singly the thin and superficial fabric of the tent between the both of you, was getting him hard and sweaty, and making his blood boil as a virgin teenage boy would. He could almost physically feel it, like a burning presence in his back when he was sleeping head against the wagon's wall.

The Human mind may be well designed for a lot of things; it forgets an event too hard to carry or can trick you into thinking you're not experiencing any physical pain in extreme situations. But Arthur had learned that it was extremely poorly made when it came to ignoring something. The more he was trying to not think about his unholy urges, the more he ended up being plagued with them. As sure as the seasons always turned in circles, you would come back to his effusive psyche.

And Oh, he was ashamed. Ashamed and revolted by himself. This was absolutely not in his habits, all the contrary. Yes, he was an old miserable bastard who had killed and plundered. But for God's sake, he had never acted obscene towards a lady before.

But the shame wasn't enough for him to stop. On the nights when the guilt was at its lowest —when the tediousness of his days was nibbling at his patience, he had let his eyes wander to your sinful figure, telling himself that maybe if he did, he could just go on with his night and finally rest. Just a quick taste, not too long.

But it only made things worse. It made him dream of you. 

Dream of you stripped, his imagination taking the lead of what the tent’s fabric was preventing him from seeing. Dream of you moaning, taking him so tightly, welcoming him in your warm body and into your arms. Dream of the feeling of your skin under his fingertips, of the sight of your naked body squirming with pleasure. He would now often wake up frustrated and angry, if he had succeeded in sleeping at all, his member hard and throbbing on its own, his heart beating powerfully in his chest as if it had been real. His pants and blanket had even been damped one or two times. 

What was he, a fifteen-year-old boy again? He was so angry and mortified by the physical obsession his body was having with you that he was constantly in a foul and fiery mood;  bitter with everyone, his tension leaking into every movement and every word he spoke. He started missing targets when shooting, getting even more reckless and hot-headed during jobs, jobs often ending up missed or taken care of negligently, yelling at people when they weren’t fast enough, or clever enough, or silent enough, breaking things, breaking rules. The lack of sleep was making his deadly efficiency fade away, replaced by sloppy and messy gestures, stopping enemies from falling dead at his feet like his lethal skills always did, castrating the only thing that was left of his masculinity.

And yet, he couldn’t stop watching you from afar during the time he was at camp, telling himself he knew, or at least had an idea, of what you looked like without these clothes on; feeling a twisted sensation of pride imagining he was the only one who did. On top of that, your sweet personality and beautiful face weren’t helping him at all with his addiction. Filthy old bastard, stop it- he had to mentally slap himself to prevent staring at you for too long, especially staring at your chest that this goddamn dress you had chosen to wear wasn’t covering at all; or your ass these goddamn pants were fitting way too well.

Tonight, Arthur is avoiding going to bed too early. He knows he would just lay in it waiting for you anyway. Instead, he goes for a walk along Flat Iron Lake’s shores, bringing his journal with him. Two entire pages are already dedicated to your shadow. He had no idea a picture exclusively made of black and white flats on a sheet could have such a powerful erotic effect. Or maybe he is a complete degenerate —which, he is sure, is more and more true.

He has to be honest with himself, he could just go to a hotel, or out of camp for a few days to sleep under the stars, and the matter would be settled.

But he doesn’t want to. Because deep down inside, his urges are winning, making him feel like the most foolish and weakest man alive. He enjoys watching you. He enjoys seeing those forbidden plumped curves cast on this canvas. He feels like you're not leaving him any mercy, pitiless, his days dictated by the wait for his taboo rendez-vous, his nights by your sensual apparitions in his dreams.

He is trapped, you have completely tamed him, and irony of it all, have absolutely no idea you are making him feel like this.

This woman is drivin' me insane.

After a few hours on the cold shore's sand, his fingers only capable of creating quick little sketches and scribbles, his feet lead him back to camp. What a surprise. He finds most of the gang's members already asleep, apart from the ones on guard duty and some late campfire enjoyers talking about life, about love, grief, the future, the past. He briefly nods at them without a word and walks to his private space. He already knows what’s waiting for him there, your tent looking like it’s still illuminated, his thoughts and body avid for it.

No, don’t be a fool, Morgan.

He sits down on his cot. Mumbles to himself orders and curses to try and stay reasonable. Takes off his hat, runs a hand through his hair, sticky with sweat and dirt from his busy day, as all the other ones, as always. Scratches his beard and his ears with a sniff, tells himself he needs to take a swim into that lake. That he’s as dirty on the inside as he’s on the outside. Pulls down his suspenders before stretching his shoulders, a pained groan escaping him. A cigarette joins his lips, a match lights it, and he breathes in slowly. He tries to calm down, focusing once again on this homey feeling it brings him. 

But his brows furrows. His lips tighten. He knows he won’t be able to hold on much longer. He needs to sleep properly. Even being the all-mighty Titan he is, he still needs a good night of sleep from time to time to keep the engine of his body turning, and you have kept it from him for days.

He lies to himself promising this is only for his health.

That this is the only way for him to stay focused during the day; the only way to rest properly and be at his best again tomorrow.

That this will be the only time he’ll do that.

His only moment of weakness. 

The still-lit cigarette and his good conscience fall to the ground as he lies on his cot, settled on his left side, his right hand already roaming on his lower belly. 

His eyes drop on the scene he had fantasized about for what seems like years to him at this point.

Lord have mercy…

Your shadow looks so perfect. He takes his sweet time to notice every detail of it, enjoying to the maximum his sinful behavior, now that he had succumbed to it. How you’re laying on your back, reading your book with your legs crossed. The curvaceous shape of your body looks divine to his insatiable gaze. Your hair messily tangled around your head. The silhouette of your chin and throat making him hungrier than any feast he could have attended. Your belly, rising and falling with your chest and breasts, gives the shadow an organic appearance. Your delicate legs, from the base of your thighs to your calves, to your feet, your toes mindlessly curling as you get lost in your story. And of course, the blurry outline of what was between them…

Damn it.

His hand quickly reaches his belt, unbuckles it,  fiddles with his pants, opens them carelessly in an urgent grip. He spits in his palm, lashes out at himself when the desire of it being your wetness instead crosses his mind, and slips it between the buttons of his union suit. It finally wraps around his desperate shaft, gorged with blood, and he wonders if he already had been this hard before.

The moment he feels the pressure of his own fingers around it, he can’t help but sigh deeply through his nose, and has to physically block the groan he was about to let out.

Make no noise, moron.

He bites his lips to stop any other immoral sound from crossing through his mouth. Last thing he needs right now is to get caught. He slowly rubs one languorous time from up to down, then up again, his fingers brushing his swollen head right where he needs to. He instantly knows he won’t last. He had dreamed about this, about you, both during days and nights. His eyes are locked on your tantalizing silhouette, this deiform delicious flesh. Goddess of the night, Queen of his desires.

His hand rubs once again and his muscles tighten. He starts to stroke in a rhythmic pace, his moves are efficient, messy, careless. He masturbates the same way he takes care of himself —quickly, roughly, as if matching his disgust towards his own self. The exact opposite of what he would do to you if he could. This is pure physical relief.

Yes, God, yes…

Your name turns in his mind between blasphemous curses as he pleasures himself, stroking faster and faster, delightful warm sensations spreading through him. Finally. The burning is no longer in his back or mind; it's right there around his erection, flames licking all around it.

He wants to be able to join you there, so badly. He wants to discover the tone of your bare skin in those places you never show to anyone. He wants to whisper sweet things in your ear and you to sigh back, your voice high and softly shaking from pleasure. He wants the lewd intimacy, the shared tension and the electric, exciting touch of two foreign skins discovering each other for the first time. He wants to see your hardening nipples he can only have a glimpse of through the fabric. 

He wants to have you, to take you, consume you, all to himself. He wants you to think about him the same way he is now, wants you to come while thinking of him, only him, your mouth to moan, whimper, scream even, all thanks to him. 

He wants your hand instead of his, around his cock right now, pressing harder, moving faster.

Yes, yes, jus’ a bit more darlin’… -

A movement from you, a real one, makes his pace slow down and his heart stops, afraid you might have by some sort of divine knowledge understood what was happening. But you’re just shifting in your bed, positioning yourself on your belly with your book open against your pillow, and Arthur’s balls spasm; he now has the most perfect view of your ass, its gorgeous, decadent round and plumped contour making his member twitch in his fist.

Ahh, shit… So god damn perfect… 

Pearls of sweat leak from his forehead to his neck. His ears shut close to the outside world, his surroundings completely disappearing. Now, there’s only you and your perfect back beautifully arched ending with your perfect bottom and him, and no one else’s on Earth. His breath is jerky, his entire face completely crimson, his fingers pumping so hard and fast he’s basically fucking his hand —your hand, with those wet and unmistakable noises filling the air.

His breath speeds up as Arthur feels his deliverance coming, blood rushing in his veins. He sees himself behind you grabbing fistfuls of your cheeks, he sees his erection diving deep between them. And it's the last straw. His brows are crunched in an exquisite expression of pure sexual delight, jaws so tensed he’s about to break his teeth, your pleasure-filled voice screaming his name in his head, dragging every sensation out of him. His orgasm hit him with the strength and speed of a thunderstorm, lightning bolts of satisfaction striking every fiber of his body.

 Yes! Yesss  —Damnit! 

He comes hard with a low and throaty growl he forgot to —or couldn't repress, silently repeating your name again and again, his lower lip almost cut open from how hard he had bit himself, an enormous vein on his forehead where sweat covers his skin. His thick, hot cum spills messily in an indecently large amount, the aftermath of having held himself back for so long, leaking on his pants and fingers and staining his cot; a dash of white contrasting with the darkness of what he just did.

He’s praying to the Lord and the Devil, any mystical forces known to man, that nobody had heard his final relief sound, especially not you. It was louder than what he would like to admit.

Shit, so damn good…

Using his black bandana, he roughly cleans himself then tosses it somewhere on the floor, his cock finally softening as he shoves it back under his clothes, balls empty. And it feels good. So good a wave of shame and guilt crashes onto him once more. What a pig he was for jerking off while ogling you. What an old bastard he was to mingle you and his filth. But at the same time, he feels like his muscles are thanking him, his restless flesh satisfied, even though he almost hurt himself with how fast he had stroked, lost in his haze.

His bittersweet and contradictory feelings accompanied him as he took a last glance at your tent before drifting off to sleep, his breathing still a bit raspy as if he had run for hours. You had closed your book and taken the candle between your hands to blow on it, the little flame flickering before fading. And then, darkness.

The curtains falling on the stage at the end of this private decadent act.

Eyelids heavy, Arthur knows he will finally sleep tonight.

But he also knows this isn’t the end of his torments at all; the conflicting thoughts paint his mind just as the sun pierces through the dark ebony clouds of a thunderstorm, creating those abruptly dazing shapes and color, pitch black laced with blinding light.

Never in this life or the Other he will forget the form of your naked body, no matter how wicked he feels. Because when it comes to you and only you, Arthur Morgan is, indeed, a very weak man.

tagging : @a-court-of-valkyries and @zae-heeyyy

[paymechildsupport]

ᴛᴇᴀᴄʜᴇʀ!Ryomen Sukuna x M!ʀᴇɪɴᴄᴀʀɴᴀᴛᴇᴅ!Reader //“𝗠𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝗲..?”

Request, @zxuii

--- "HI HIII first off, i love your writing style, i actually adore it lol. Second I want to request Teacher!Sukuna x Male!reader that was also a sorcerer from the heian era, a powerful one who gets jealous quite often of the attention Sukuna gets since back in the Heian era the only ones who where close enough to Sukuna was reader and Uraume (Unless Uraume didn't exist in this AU or smth happened) so a lot of fights between them break through since Sukuna isn't good with communication either. You can decide if you want this too be Angst in general or paired with something else i don't mind!! :))"

((I love this <3))

-!! M!Reader (he / him)

-!! Wee bit of angst (he's just a saucy boy) + goofy kinda smut (dunno what kind of style it's called lol)

-!! stuff ain't proofread 🥶

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

･・❥・---------------------------------------------------------------･・❥・

Sukuna remembers you vividly from the past; from that time 1000 years ago. How could he forget? Such a flamboyant character, – power exuded with every step, the earth seeming to shake with every fall of your foot. A wandering swordsman: a rather powerful sorcerer who curiously didn’t belong to any one clan. You’d spend your days traversing the earth, sleeping in the empty shrines near villages, taking commissions and odd jobs from just about everyone– human or not. 

Sukuna found it odd how you didn’t align yourself with the standard belief of sorcerers: you were benevolent to cursed spirits like him, you didn’t have the sudden impulse to exorcize, to destroy. Perhaps it was your lack of loyalty to a clan, or the fact that curses could offer prices just as good– if not better, than humans. Either way, it was quite interesting when you crossed paths for the first time; him, the terrifying, all powerful King of Curses, – four arms and two grotesque faces, towering over you, a humble traveler, – and you just stood there, – smiling, at him, – the rumored monster of Ryomen Sukuna. 

He was absolutely astounded, – had this guy not an ounce of fear? The singlest shred of self-preservation? You should be screaming– running, – begging at his feet for mercy, – not making small talk 

“Nice weather, huh?”

“Excuse me? It’s pouring” 

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed 😋” 

He could sense a staggering amount of cursed energy from you, much more than the average sorcerer– let alone human. 

“Nice jugs btw” 

“???” 

Bud was flabbergasted – he could only watch you walk away with a big grin on your face. Later that evening he had to bring it up to Uruame, who was cooking up the latest harvest of human bones: 

“He said you had a nice chest.” 

“Huh, usually one would think to say that to a woman–” 

“Perhaps the sorcerer thought you were a woman”

“What.” 

Ever since he’s had an affinity for you, a fascination… an obsession. He needed to know everything about you, – your goal, your motives, your desires, your deepest and darkest of fears, – the most depraved of thoughts of this strange sorcerer who had the gaul to compliment his chest like he was some kind of street whore. 

He ran into you the next day at the same village, just as you were about to leave. You acted so nonchalant, like he was just another acquaintance, it was truly fascinating and… dare Sukuna say, endearing. He initially went there to kill you for your audacity from yesterday, yet he ended up only shit-talking the village folk wit you, – the old swordsmith who swore there were devils living in his chimney, - the old woman by the creek who was rumored to drown passerbys in the water next to her tiny abode, - the sleezy thug of a priest who thought it was funny to scam you for cleaning his shrine free of charge (whom Sukuna ended up gutting shortly afterwards). The curse was left to, yet again, return back to Uruame with new rantings of you

(just let them cook in peace 😭)

The next day, a band of those pesky Zenin showed up, – and Sukuna thought the opps were on him again. Turns out, not only were you not apart of any specific clan, but you were also quite unpopular with a majority of sorcerer society. After finding out, Sukuna couldn’t help but rush to your aid, determined to cleave the gang of sorcerers in half for trying to harm such an interesting specimen of his. Imagine his utmost surprise to find them not only beat upon his arrival, but diced up and dead on the forest floor, too. 

He was beyond impressed: a seeming clanless nobody such as yourself had chopped down about a dozen of one of the most powerful sorcerers of the time. You saw him staring from afar, waving and flashing that stupidly charming smile of yours. Sukuna couldn’t help but invite you back with him, the dozen dead bodies in tow 

Uruame cooked up a mighty fine dinner that night, one the three of you enjoyed together (yum, human flesh). From that day on you were part of the gang: you, Sukuna, and Uruame. Most days you would be off for up to months at a time, simply doing your own thing, going town to town. Whenever you’d run into your good pal as he was burning down the latest village you’d make sure to have a nice catch up over a warm meal (cooked by Uruame)

You and Uruame got along, – they liked the fact that you could often cook together, Sukuna– being useless as shit in the kitchen – was barred from helping lest he incinerate everything 

But alas, you were mortal, fickle; temporary, – and no sooner did you come into his existence were you cruelly ripped from him, – finally effectively jumped and killed. 

Sukuna almost couldn’t believe it: you never lost- you weren’t supposed to lose, but you did. You fought valiantly, taking an impressive number down with you. In the skirmish, Uruame disappeared, Sukuna was reduced almost to dust,-- miraculously he survived, albeit incredibly weak. They sealed a majority of his power away in his severed fingers. 

Now, weakened immeasurably and down a pair of arms, – momentarily without his chef and darling sorcerer, Sukuna had a change in heart

No longer did he want to be the bad guy, he wanted to be good, to help others, – to help the future of jujutsu sorcery (nah, that’s some bullshit, he just wanted to continue being fed, and he could only be if he became a teacher in sorcery, lol) 

—----

Flash forward to modern day… 

—---

Seeing you once again, reborn, was a complete whiplash for Sukuna. 

You recognized him immediately, obviously, – he was your man after all <3 (even if he denied it) 

Poor baby had to physically restrain himself when he saw you back to kicking ass as a modern day jujutsu sorcerer, having not changed an ounce since he last remembered you

You miss his four arms, – almost more than Sukuna did. It disappointed Sukuna to see you disappointed with his lack of arm power. Still, he only needed two arms to absolutely destroy you--

After the incident with Yuji Itadori accidentally consuming one of his fingers (which made Sukuna livid– blud has been sweating and grinding to get those fingers back, and to find out some random goofy ahh kid decided to munch on one? And they wanna give him MORE??) – Sukuna has been absorbed more than ever into his work. 

You adore his students, – especially Megumi, Nobara and Yuji – (much to Sukuna’s dismay) and oftentimes will stop by his lessons just to bug him in front of them 

You were still the same insufferable charmer as before, shamelessly batting your eyes and making crude comments to catch him off guard: 

“Hey cutie ;) “ 

“Hell do you want” he sneers, “wish to be my example for today’s lesson?” 

“Nah, just passing by, – those pants make your ass look fat by the way” 

“What.”

“Toodles !!” 

It infuriated him, much to your delight 

It was different now, back then it was just you and him, Uruame bearing the only witness to your shenanigans. But when you say those things in front of those brats, – the same brats who were taught to fear and despise his kind, who were suppose to be intimidated by him, – it makes his job of maintaining the tough, snide “King of Curses” just that much harder 

Yuji, with all the time he spent with Sukuna as his main mentor, would ask about you frequently: what you were like 1,000 years ago. Whether it was the nostalgia or purely the fact it was you, – talking about it always softened Sukuna’s grueling and harsh belittling. Poor Yuji could only catch a break when Sukuna started saying “Back in my day..”

“Sukuna-sensei?”

“What, brat?” Sukuna paused, casting an unimpressed glare over his shoulder 

Yuji propped his head onto a fist, leaning on the desk in front of him. The empty classroom was dimming with the setting sun, the vibrant colors that always made Sukuna wanna barf invaded through the windows from the sunset, painting the empty classroom a colorful ombre, 

“You said that odd man who likes to hang around you was around 1,000 years ago, right?” 

Sukuna’s eyebrows scrunch in annoyance, “Yes, and?” 

“What was he like? Does he act the same as all those years ago? How’d he get reborn? What was your relationship like?” The curse wanted to punt the kid across the room with all his silly questions. Instead, – knowing you’d dislike it if he hurt Yuji, – he opted to take a deep breath, air hissing through his teeth, before answering, 

“Mm, you brats are so invasive, – the world doesn’t revolve around you selfish vermin.” sighing, “but fine, I’ll entertain whatever silly fantasy you have about me in your head; he was a sorcerer, a pretty damn strong one, too”

“But you didn’t kill him-” Yuji interjects, confused 

“No, I didn’t” 

“Why, were you two good friends.?”

He growled at the quantity of the questions, causing Yuji to scoot back in his seat slightly, 

“No– well, sort of. I’d assume you could say that.” 

“No-? Really? Kugisaki thinks you two are dating” 

Sukuna’s jaw almost drops to the floor, 

“What.” 

“Yeah, – Fushiguro says you two were together back then too, with the way you look at each other”

With the way he-? 

“Was he your like… private prostitute or something?” 

Sukuna has never heard such fuckery before:

“No. – I’d suggest you’d stop wherever you think you’re going with this, brat.” 

“Did you bang though?” 

That threw him for a loop, and Sukuna couldn’t help but wince at the term. “Banging” was a poor choice of words, – such a word couldn’t possibly do what you two did justice. 

No, you didn’t “bang”

Sukuna couldn’t help but be drawn in by you, – your attitude, your carefree-ness, your power, he wanted it all for himself, – which he sometimes did 

Those endless nights of pleasure where’d he just lose himself in you, - your affectionate caresses, your sweet nothings whispered into his ear that cast shivers all throughout. Sukuna was used to hearing praise showered upon his name, – his devotees throwing themselves at his feet to worship the ground he walked on. But he didn’t care for their praise, – not like he did yours. Your kind words were treasured, craved. If only you had been a woman: he would’ve made you a concubine, – no, – his wife. 

—---

His ego is fragile, witnessing you tearing apart his terrifying image horrifies him. 

Unfortunately for Sukuna, you couldn’t stop dotting on your pretty princess :3 It all came to a boiling point when you saw one of his colleagues start to cuddle up just the littlest bit too close: and he just let them. Seeing Mei Mei acting so clingy with the King made something in the pit of your stomach drop. Your envy boiled, sour and ripening into an ugly weed. It was obvious she held no actual affections (because one, – Mei Mei only lives for cold, hard cash, – which Sukuna didn’t really have on him, which was odd— and two, he was way too old for her tastes)

You just couldn’t help yourself, – he was wearing such a tight shirt, it hid nothing. 

“Yo, nice tits”

He was done. You were done sullying his name with your filthy words, – you were done humiliating him. And he made sure you knew that too

He had pulled you into his empty classroom, all the students and staff long gone. Sukuna towered over you, cold glare sending a delicious shivering cascading through your body, 

“Enough.” 

“Eh..?” you wince, your voice sounded all wrong, too high pitch and breathy, “enough of what?” 

Your damn smile again. 

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Your humiliation is not appreciated.” 

You scoff, “humiliation?” 

He glares, “silence, brat” he firmly grabs ahold of your chin, forcing it upwards, making you look him directly in those creepy, maroon eyes. 

One moment Sukuna has his emotions underwraps: he’s focused, – locked in, – he’s not going to let something as fickle as human ‘love’ hinder his plans. The more assertive the better, he would not be walked on – but he also didn’t want to accidentally lash out and do something he ends up regretting 

The next thing he knows, Sukuna starts spiraling, 

“You insist on following me, stalking me for over 1,000 years, – it’s pathetic” wait- what? No, he didn’t mean it like that

“--you mortal brats are as measly as ever, it’s no wonder you died to your own kind” pause, no, no, no, no, no….-- what was he doing? He didn’t actually mean that- 

“--killed by fellow sorcerers: pathetic. Dead and reborn, you’re still the desperate mutt crawling back to me..” Stop. Make it stop. Someone stop him. Stop/

“Uruame should be back here instead, seeing you is the biggest disappointment in this millennium” 

Oh.. 

“... fine then.” Your voice is quiet, small. Don’t look at him like that.

Sukuna’s eyes widened, but he couldn't seem to say anything, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. Instant dread pools into his stomach

“I see how it is. If that’s truly how you feel…” 

“Wait no–” Sukuna starts, immediately tensing up as you lower your eyes onto his. He swallows, hard. He hated the dejected, – the defeated look on your face. You looked so sad, and Sukuna couldn’t bear to see you sad , – something that terrified him to no end, — you terrify him to no end. You elicit the most exotic of feelings within him, reviving his ancient, rotten, worm eaten heart to a thunderous boom. Sukuna is reminded of the times back then: you laying in the field, hand twining in his hair, lightly scraping his scalp, – him sighing in content like an old dog. There would be the half eaten corpse of some unfortunate sorcerer off to the side, and you’d occasionally hand feed one or two limbs to the second mouth on his stomach, tongue out and awaiting like a dog’s for a treat  —Such tender moments, the power you have over him makes him feel weak in the knees. Every instinct within him told Sukuna to run, - to protect himself from this threat that was your adoration. The thrill gnawed at him from the inside, – but oh, the ecstasy from it felt so good. 

But he was Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses – he couldn’t face having such an open weakness – taking on a lover would feel like he had gutted himself, taking away a fundamental aspect of his existence as a character. You just have to keep stoking the flames. , 

… “nevermind, just go. I could care less” 

You do, closing the classroom door behind you, and Sukuna can’t help but feel as if half of his soul leaves with you. This happened every time: he’d push you away, only to immediately regret it, craving deeply for your validation. 

Shit, seems like he really did have a lot to learn when it came to such fickle human emotions.

He’d make it up to you, – he always did. 

—-------

You were the only one to bring him to his knees, the only deity the King would bring himself to worship , – and what a divine thing you were. 

Those nights of infinite passion, – you underneath him, (and occasionally him under you–)  he’d take you with the utmost care. Ryomen Sukuna has never been “gentle” with something, – let alone with another living individual, – but with you his touches were always so attentive, so skillful and purposeful. He never wanted to hear you scream in anything but pure pleasure. 

On the most precious of those nights, you’d coax the sweetest of noises from his lips. You could’ve sworn he has whimpered, despite his firm denial. 

You were his God. 

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

A/N: thank you for the request <3

[raventreehall]

a storm of swords dash simulator

🍋ladyjonquil Follow

i don't want to reveal too much but i had a really great day today hawking and riding and received some really exciting news (and maybe a potential marriage offer!) wow wow wow!!! haven't felt like this in so long 🥰

🤡florianthefool Follow

i'm so happy for you my jonquil

🐦littlefinger Follow

thanks for sharing my lady

🏹kissedbyfire Follow

PISSED OFF AT MY BF RN 🤬🤬🤬 NEVER TRUST A SOUTHERNER AND ESPECIALLY NEVER TRUST A CROW!!!!!!!

👸🏼daenerys-targaryen-tracker Follow

🐎raeqqo Follow

by the law of the dothraki she must return to vaes dothrak to take her place alongside the crones of the dosh khaleen. it is known.

🐉3heads Follow

shut up and go sack a defenseless city or something

🍁weirwoodzz Follow

hey do you guys remember when theon greyjoy took winterfell last year and killed the stark boys? has anyone heard anything else about that? feel like it kind of just disappeared from the news cycle, what happened to greyjoy?

🪓cerwynnation Follow

lord bolton's bastard killed him

🍁weirwoodzz Follow

oh really? wow. kind of extreme but deserved i guess

💗ramsays-sharpest-blade Follow

Ramsay isn't a bastard, King Joffrey legitimized him two months ago and Lord Roose is going to make him castellan of the Dreadfort soon. He loves his son and trusts his abilities. Plus, Ramsay is being awarded for his efforts in saving Winterfell and putting a stop to the ironborn raids in the North by being betrothed to Arya Stark—would a bastard be granted that honor? I don't think so.

Also, Theon isn't dead, Ramsay is (rightfully) flaying him for his crimes in the dungeons beneath the Dreadfort. Gods, I'd love to see Ramsay thrust the knife under his skin!!!!! 😜

#ramsay bolton #house bolton #our blades are sharp #theon greyjoy

🐐the-goat Follow

i'm boutta come into thome real money real thoon 😈 💎💎💎💎💯

🏰freygirl73 Follow

ughhhh my sister is getting married tmrw and my brothers keep going on about getting revenge on king robb while he's here for the feast... like i just wanted some food :/// iswtg that's the only good thing about my siblings weddings and now they're saying there won't even be any and i'm gonna have to go into hiding before the bedding ceremony or something. why can't my family just be NORMAL

🐟greenfork Follow

TW: Red Wedding, death, violence

A masterpost on what happened at the Twins and what it means for the Northern independence cause, the War of the Five Kings, and the realm in general.

Also a bunch of links on how you can help people affected in the Riverlands.

Keep Reading

🍵bowlobrown Follow

HELL YEAH BROTHER 🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀

🔥heatofdorne Follow

i wanna ***** ********* on ellaria sand's **** and *** ****** then call in oberyn and ***** **** them both until **** *****

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🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀

🌊onthesunsetsea Follow

why are there so many crabs on my dash rn

🐺direwolfing Follow

TYWIN LANNISTER IS DEAD 🦀🦀🦀🦀

💙cassssanna Follow

actually i think it's still for king joffrey

🦁lann1sporter Follow

lol i thought it was for robb stark

🥂arborgold Follow

maybe it's for the mountain?

⬛️ freezingmyarseoffonthewall Follow

DOLOROUS EDD LORD COMMANDER 300 AC

⬛️ freezingmyarseoffonthewall Follow

DOLOROUS EDD WILL LEAD US TO VICTORY AGAINST THE OTHERS

🕊️ just-a-humble-sparrow Follow

mother have mercy i was walking by the great sept of baelor (i wanted to pay my respects to our blessed king joffrey) but i was blocked by a knight of the kingsguard—i believe it was one of the kettleblacks, unfortunately i always forget which one has been elevated to the kingsguard—because the queen was keeping vigil over her son, so i prayed outside instead. yet only a few minutes passed when i swear i saw the kingslayer arrive (he seemed to be missing a hand!) and enter. then, and this is the most disturbing part, i swear to the father that i heard noises of fornication coming from inside! i know for a fact that the only other person inside was the queen mother. could the rumors be true? i feel dirty even writing this. i wonder if i should tell my septon.

❤️‍🔥stannis-sweep Follow

stannis has literally been telling y'all and you didn't listen 🙄

🏳️ bannerless Follow

is it just me or is lady stoneheart kinda 👀

[decentwritings]

Chapter 7: Final Chapter

Summary: You’re unable to grasp the luck you have. You were raised to run from danger, to go the opposite direction of bad influences. So when you somehow find yourself right in the center of it, you discover that running wasn’t exactly what you were taught. It only took GhostFace and a pretty girl to remember that.

series masterlist

Bailey wakes, slow and unsure. He's alive, and he isn't sure why or how.

Right at the center of the theater, he sits up and scans his surroundings. In the distance, his spare gun lies there, waiting to be picked up.

He pulls himself up with a struggle, coughing as he staggers toward the gun. He picks up the pistol and grips the handle tightly, like an anchor to life.

Then, his phone rings. He freezes, the ringing echoing in the silent theater. He scans his surroundings once more, pistol aimed high, in search of threats.

He answers the phone, still on alert.

"I've got one question for you," Sam's voice resonates through his phone's speaker.

Bailey climbs up to the stage, desperate to complete his family's plan: kill Sam Carpenter.

"Oh yeah," Bailey says, his voice hoarse as always, but there's a tinge of pain and exhaustion in it. "What's that?" he asks, gun still raised, finger on the trigger.

"What's your favorite scary movie?" you say from somewhere in the theater, startling him. He shoots in the direction he assumes you are, but nothing comes from it. Your voice echoes, and he grits his teeth, frustration seeping in.

He whips around, his guard raising again, and he sees Billy Loomis's cloak is gone. He checks his pocket; Billy's mask was in his pocket. Now it's gone.

"You put on your true face, huh?" Bailey narrows his eyes, his hand beginning to tremble. "Your birthright. Poetic that you're going to die in it—"

You pull a string, causing the mannequin tied to it to tilt a little. Bailey fires without hesitation, and you tiptoe away before he can spot you.

Nothing. Bailey tightens his hold on the pistol, jaw clenching.

"You know the truth now. Murder is in your blood," he snarls, glaring at the mannequin in front of him.

Behind him, his son's movie plays in reverse. It distracts him for only a second before he hears something sound on his left. He spins again and fires three shots.

"Stop fucking around and show yourself!" Bailey shouts when his clip empties. Still no Sam. He's quick to reload, and the theater remains silent. "I'm a fucking police officer! What are you gonna do, huh? Who do you think they're gonna believe?"

"Probably the one that's still alive."

At that, Bailey throws his phone away. He's distracted, and he doesn't see the silhouette behind him on the other side of the screen.

Sam steps through the screen, wearing Billy's cloak and mask. At the last second, the officer turns, and Sam stabs him over and over. His screams don't affect her; it worries her that it drives her to do it some more.

The gun in his hand falls to the ground, the clatter of its fall silent as Bailey's screams are heard. He drops to his knees, pleading but also seeking cover.

Sam towers over him, and he can see an evil glare behind the mask.

Bailey cowers, and you think you hear him whimper.

Tara limps onto the stage, wanting to witness what's about to go down. She glances at Sam, her sister as Ghostface.

Sam removes the mask, no longer wanting to associate herself with it.

"My father was a murderer," Sam lowers the knife in her hand. "But I'm not. No matter what you say, I'm better than that."

She shows mercy. Tara looks relieved.

Bailey cries, like a blubbering baby. "Thank you... thank you!" he gasps between breaths.

You watch from under the scaffolding's ladder, arms crossed. This is their ending to have, not for you.

The sisters share a look, heads tilting to mirror each other. You raise a brow, aware of what is going to follow.

"But you did fuck with my family..."

Sam jams the knife into his eye socket up to the hilt. The blade reaches his brain, no doubt. His body twitches, seizing, before she rips the knife out. He collapses, legs shaking as his brain dies.

Sam stares down at him, unfazed by her actions. Tara is a little disturbed but understands her sister's reasoning. They share another look and then walk through the screen, coming down from the stage.

You step back a few inches, wanting the sisters to have their privacy. You figure this would be a good time to check on Chad. You hope the jock is alive; you'll hate yourself if you left him alone to die.

At the sight of Chad leaning against the wall, you sigh in relief and move to check on him. He wakes with a jump, wincing and groaning in pain. You jump at his reaction, frowning.

"Dude, you scared me," you say, holding your hand up to your chest and shaking your head. His eyes fall shut again, and he fights to keep them open. You slap his face a few times, gently. "Come on, man, look alive... help should be arriving anytime now."

Chad blinks. "Is it over?"

You nod, smiling softly. "As JT said, dead and gone."

Chad laughs gently but regrets it as soon as he does. He groans, coughing a few times. You grimace, apologizing to him for the pain.

"My hero," he mumbles, then closes his eyes. You tilt your head. "I'm not dead, just tired," he says, his eyes remaining closed.

"Yeah, but when you're covered in blood and tired, it usually leads to death," you tell him. You pat his cheek again, forcing his eyes to open. "Keep those eyes open, Chadwick. We need you for the next film."

"Oh, God, I hope not," Chad murmurs.

You look over your shoulder and figure you've given the sisters enough time. You tell Chad once more to stay alive and promise him you'd be back. He slurs something about you always coming back to him. You assume he's dizzy from the blood loss and that he didn't mean more than that.

You hope.

You rejoin the sisters on the main floor, earning their attention as you step forward. You lift your arms up, wanting to ease the tension with an uplifting remark.

"Oh my God, that was so aweso—"

You topple over from a huge force, groaning in pain as your eyes widen at the sight of a bloody and messy Ethan. You're quicker than him, crawling back away from him just in time to hear...

"Heads up!"

Kirby shoves the TV that killed Stu Mather from its shelf onto Ethan's head, smashing it into pieces. If that didn't kill him, you aren't sure what will.

You glance up at Kirby, a grateful and relieved look on your face. You were worried about her status too.

"Saw that in a scary movie once," she says as you throw her a thumbs up. She glances at the sisters, who also smile up at her, grateful.

You let yourself rest on the floor, dropping your head against it. "Can we get outta here?" you ask, and you can hear the sisters share a laugh at your words.

\\\\\

You examine the remaining items in the theater as you all wait. You're unable to control your facial expression as you look at each item. It's all so confusing.

A collection of all the stuff from events that occurred because you saw a movie? You can't comprehend that amount of dedication over a couple of movies.

In the distance, you can hear sirens, growing closer and closer. You lift your gaze up, straining to listen closely and you hope they were coming to help.

Richie's film cuts off and the screen suddenly shuts off then raises.

Minutes tick by until you see police and paramedics spill into the theater, your cousin not far behind them. You assume he's walking to you but then he walks by you, taking the woman in his arms.

You want to be offended but you understand completely. You do join him, sending him a grateful nod after he pulls away from Sam.

"You didn't leave us," Sam says in disbelief.

"This guy?" You say, scoffing after. "He's the black sheep of the family. The complete opposite of any of us. He sticks around, even when shit gets tough."

Your cousin gives you a quick glance, appreciative of your words.

"Not bad, cute boy," Tara says, appearing to give him her stamp of approval.

Danny smiles, looking between you all.

A paramedic walks over to the group, asking if any of you need help. You greet the paramedic, of course knowing his name. He examines you as you offer conversation, grimacing in between words as he cleans your wound. Danny glances at Tara and Sam, telling them not to ask how you somehow know every paramedic.

You all exit the theater once you're squared away, aware of the morning sun shining up in the sky.

The paramedic you know also patches Tara up, making her a makeshift arm sling with some wrap from his bag. Close by, Kirby is being wheeled out on a gurney. Adrenaline has wore off and she notices then a bullet in her left leg.

You excuse yourself from your paramedic friend, jogging over to join the sisters and Kirby.

"So what do you think you'll do now?" Kirby asks the sisters as they walk close to her gurney.

"Like Tara said," Sam adds, her gaze softening as she looks at her sister, "start living again. Start dealing with the future."

"And I'm gonna start dealing with the past," Tara chimes in, releasing a sigh, as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders.

Kirby, observing the exchange, catches your eye and smiles. "I hear you were the unwitting hero," she says, her tone light, but you shake your head quickly, dismissing the notion.

"Nah, Sam's the hero," you reply, casting a glance at Sam. She smiles, exhausted but grateful, and the gesture makes your chest warm. "I was just the distraction," you shrug, downplaying your role.

Kirby's smile deepens. "Distraction or not, you still helped; that means something to people like us." Her eyes flick between Sam and Tara, and you catch their shared look. "If you ever need me, call," Kirby says firmly, looking each of you in the eye. "We're all part of the same fucked-up family now. And legacy... it doesn't always have to be a bad thing. Okay?"

Her words seem to hit hardest with Sam, whose eyes well with unshed tears. She nods, her voice barely above a whisper. "Okay."

Suddenly, a voice calls from behind, "Hey, we got one more in here!"

All of you turn to see Chad being wheeled in on a gurney. Despite the oxygen mask covering his face, his familiar grin shines through. Relief washes over you, and you beam at him as he gives you a thumbs-up, a silent but reassuring signal that he's going to be okay.

"My hero," Chad repeats, sluggish with a loopy smile. He looks at Tara and his smile only widens. "I like them. Can we keep 'em?"

You look at them, expecting an answer.

The sisters share a look before they look back at you.

Tara's smile widens as she looks from Chad to you, her eyes softening with a mix of relief and affection. She shrugs playfully, clearly trying to keep things light after everything that happened. "Well, I don't know... What do you think, Sam? Think we can keep 'em?"

Sam chuckles, wiping the last of her tears from her eyes, her exhaustion still evident but her mood a bit lighter now. "I mean, they did save our asses, so... maybe."

Chad appears happy with their answers, the paramedic takes it as his cue to wheel him away. As Chad is wheeled away by the paramedics, Tara and Sam exchange a glance that you miss by watching him go.

When you turn around, Sam is some distance away, finding yourself alone with Tara.

"Woah," you mumble, stepping closer to Tara. "Am I in trouble?"

"A little," Tara begins, and you falter, frowning at her words. "You disappeared on us."

You scratch the back of your neck, nervous. "Yeah," you clear your throat, suddenly embarrassed by your cowardliness. "I'm sorry. I thought I could handle it, but I... guess I panicked."

Tara shrugs. "I don't blame you. This world..." she gestures to the amount of cops and ambulances surrounding you. "Its not for everyone."

You nod once, unable to meet her eyes. The guilt is back in the pit of your stomach.

"That scar on your hand," you start and you don't miss how she tries to hide her hand. "From the first attack?"

Tara looks down at her hand, tracing the scar with her thumb. "I'm sorry," she says instead, blinking back tears. You're not exactly sure what she's sorry for. "We knew the consequences of getting close to anyone–I knew the consequences. But I saw Mindy and how happy she was with Anika. I tried the typical teenage rebellion to avoid the emptiness I felt because my sister's past was always something that...that was attached to me, too."

You nod, remaining silent to allow her to finally express something you assume she has never shared before.

Tara's voice wavers as she continues, her thumb still tracing the scar as if it holds all the weight of her pain. "But I realized I couldn't escape it. No matter what I did, I was always going to be tied to that legacy. It wasn't just Sam's past... it was mine, too." She takes a shaky breath, and you notice how hard she's trying to hold it all together.

"I pushed people away. I thought it would protect me, you know? If I didn't let anyone in, then I wouldn't have to watch them get hurt because of me." She glances up at you, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "But you... you came back. Even when you had every reason not to."

Your heart aches at her words, the vulnerability in her voice. You step closer, your hand twitching by your side, wanting to reach out but unsure if it's the right moment. "I ran because I was a coward, it had nothing to do with you," you admit, shaking your head. "I came back for you...and a little for me." you add.

Tara's gaze softens at your admission, the tension between you both shifting. She looks down for a moment, like she's processing your words, and then back up, her eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity.

"I've run before at a critical time when I was needed," you meet her eyes. "I needed to prove to myself–show my dad he taught me well. You don't run when shit gets hard, you keep going."

There's a silence between you two, one that Tara gives you, to give you time.

"You don't run when things get hard," you repeat softly, the words echoing your father's lesson. "You stick around long enough to prove you can handle it. To fight for what matters."

Tara looks at you with a depth of emotion that makes your chest tighten. She inhales sharply, as though your words hit her in a place she's kept guarded for so long. "Fight for what matters," she repeats quietly, almost as if testing how the words feel on her lips. "I never thought... I mattered enough to fight for."

You look at her incredulously, because was she not there to witness everything her sister went through? "Are you kidding?" She meets your eyes, eyebrows furrowing together. "Your sister fights for you. I witnessed her wrath first hand the night of the party. She almost tased me."

That reminds Tara of the night of that party, eyes rolling at the memory. "Yeah, not a great night for all of us, then," she mutters, earning a laugh from you. "You witnessed that mess and still stayed?"

You chuckle. "Trust me, the thought crossed my mind, several times," you confess. "But a poorly dressed pirate had eyes that I couldn't get out of my head," you admit, a soft smile pulling at your lips as you look at Tara. She blinks in surprise, caught off guard by the lightness of your words amidst the heaviness of the conversation.

Tara shakes her head, a small laugh escaping her. "A poorly dressed pirate?" she repeats, the tension between you two easing for just a moment. "I can't believe you stuck around after that disaster."

You shrug, stepping a little closer. "I stuck around because I wanted to. You were worth it. You are worth it."

The weight of your words hangs in the air, and you can see Tara struggling to accept that. She opens her mouth to protest, but you cut her off gently. "Look, I know it's hard for you to believe that. But I came back because I realized something—I didn't want to keep running from the things that scared me. And that included you."

Tara's lips part slightly, but no words come out. Instead, she just stares at you, processing everything, her thumb still absently tracing the scar on her hand.

"You can quit avoiding me now, Tara," you say, recalling the conversation from the night before. "I'm not going anywhere, not anymore. Besides, I don't mind a little adventure. My life's been too bland these last couple of years."

Tara breathes out a laugh.

You smile at the sound. "I also managed to live out my favorite character's fantasy for the night."

Tara's eyebrow raises. "Favorite character?"

"Deadpool," you say, expecting a reaction but she doesn't give one. Instead, her eyebrow only rises higher. "Marvel-Fox anti-hero? One of the best to break fourth walls?"

The look on Tara's face exasperates you.

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" You exclaim, scoffing. "How have I gotten heat for not watching horror movies but you've never seen Deadpool? Any of them?"

Tara shakes her head, then pauses. "Chad may have mentioned it but..." she shrugs.

"Unbelievable," you mutter, dropping your head, feigning disappointment. "Here I thought I was about to bond with someone who has love for movies but she's never seen Deadpool?" You say incredulous.

Tara laughs again, enjoying your frustration. "I'm more of a horror person. Have you seen The Babadook?" She throws back at you.

You frown, shaking your head at that title of the movie. "Never even heard of it," you admit, shrugging. "Sounds...scary."

Tara sends you a deadpan glare. You nod, suddenly aware of your words.

"You're missing out," Tara suddenly gets serious. "It's not just a scary movie–it's deeper than that. It's about grief and dealing with loss."

You note the seriousness behind her word. "Okay," you nod, surprising her with your next words. "I'll watch it. But you gotta promise me two things."

Tara waits for you to continue.

"One, you watch it with me," she lets out a laugh, "and two, we watch Deadpool immediately after it."

Tara rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Deal."

"Oh, and," you add one more thing. "You gotta put up with me quoting it. Especially in fitting moments like now," you shrug.

Tara tilts her head. "How's that?"

"Your crazy matches my crazy," you quote, enjoying the confused frown on her face.

Tara squints, eyeing you suspiciously.

You just shrug, not offering her a response. "Guess you'll have to watch it and find out."

Tara shakes her head with a playful eye roll. "Deal. But remember, we're watching The Babadook first," you groan, your attempt failing.

"Fine, but actually, first, I'd like to prove to you–maybe, over a cup of coffee–or breakfast because I'm starving," you add quickly, earning another laugh from Tara, "that I do, in fact, plan on sticking around. At least, until you're sick of me. I'm told I can get really annoying once you get to know me."

Tara smiles, the tension in her shoulders easing. She glances down, wiping at her eyes as she tries to gather herself. "Annoying, huh? I guess we'll see about that."

You can see the shift in her demeanor—a mix of vulnerability and cautious hope. It's clear your words have reached her, but she's still holding onto her guard. You step closer, the space between you feeling less like a barrier and more like a bridge.

"I'm serious, though," you say, keeping your tone light but sincere. "Coffee, breakfast, whatever—just let me show you I mean it. Sort of like a...breakfast date. You don't have to push me away. Not anymore."

Tara exhales deeply, her gaze softening as she meets your eyes. "You really want to stick around for all of this? I mean... I'm a mess."

"We're all a mess," you reply with a smirk. "But I think you're definitely worth sticking around for. Anyone who makes me run towards a knife is definitely worth staying for."

Tara laughs softly, the sound genuine this time, and it fills you with a sense of relief. "Alright," she says, a hint of playfulness returning to her voice. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

You grin, finally allowing yourself to close the distance and gently reach for her free hand. "I'll take my chances. And it's time for me to expand my movie taste, anyway."

"Can you guys just kiss already so we can go!"

The voice is familiar, to the both of you, so you turn to look. Mindy stands there with Anika, and they wave when you look at them.

Tara groans, covering her face with her hand now as her cheeks flush a deep red. "Of course," she mutters under her breath, clearly embarrassed.

You chuckle, turning to Mindy and Anika. "You two really have impeccable timing, you know that? Also, you're alive!"

Mindy smirks, crossing her arms. "If Chad's alive, I gotta stick around, too." you chuckle, sharing a look with Tara. "Kiss her, Dennis." Mindy cups her hands around mouth, causing her voice to travel some more.

Sam laughs from where she stands next to your cousin, watching silently.

You feel the blush on your cheeks, shaking your head in hopes to hide it from everyone. You return your gaze to Tara and arch a brow.

"Let's just go," Tara says, pointing her head towards them. You nod and grab Tara's hand again, ignoring the boos you hear from your roommate and her girlfriend.

As you take Tara's hand, you can't help but laugh at the playful boos from Mindy and Anika. Tara squeezes your hand tightly, trying to hide her own embarrassment, but there's a small smile tugging at her lips.

But as the boos stop, Mindy getting in the ambulance with Anika to join her brother at the hospital, you feel a pull on your hand. Tara pulls you in, her free hand going to your neck to pull you down and connecting your lips.

The kiss catches you completely off guard, but the moment Tara's lips meet yours, everything else seems to fade away. Her touch is gentle yet firm, as though she's been waiting for this just as much as you have. Your heart races, and for a split second, all the chaos around you disappears.

You respond instinctively, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss, savoring the warmth of her lips against yours. It's tender, filled with unspoken feelings, and when Tara pulls back just a little, she lingers close enough that you can still feel her breath against your skin.

The look on her face, it proves you right, she is definitely worth it.

Her cheeks are flushed, but this time it's not just from embarrassment. Tara looks up at you with a shy but satisfied smile, her fingers still resting against your neck. "I think I'll take you up on that breakfast date," she whispers.

You nod, licking your lips. "Great. I work at the hospital Chad's going to and the breakfast there is fantastic," you say, and she shakes her head with a laugh, moving to grab ahold of your arm. She knows you're serious but she doesn't mind.

She stops for a second and looks back, you follow her gaze. "Sam?" her sister meets her eyes, a small smile on her lips. "You coming?"

Sam exchanges a glance with Danny, then their hands connect, fingers intertwining as they walk over to join you guys.

Tara's smile softens as she watches her sister, a sense of relief washing over her now that Sam is safe and by her side. Sam gives her a reassuring nod, her hand firmly intertwined with Danny's as they approach.

"I wouldn't miss it," Sam replies, her voice steady but filled with warmth. You smile, the bond between the sisters filling your heart, strengthened by everything they've been through. Tara squeezes your arm, and you feel the connection between them without a word needing to be said.

. . . . . .

A/N: if you’ve made it this far, hello. I don’t interact much and just post but I just want to let you know I see all the likes, reblogs and comments and I appreciate it. I have a few other ideas up my sleeve, one idea has three chapters already so that’ll be up…soonish. I hope you guys are a fan of Mabel because that’s what I have planned next. Be patient, I have a lot of editing to do.

Also, I loathe the way I ended this story so if you guys have any ideas, pls share them with me. Thank you. See you in the next one🫶🏼

[blade-liger-4ever]

Why I feel Jack Darby isn't like Orion Pax/Optimus Prime

This is probably not gonna do me any favors in the wider Transformers community, but that's fine; I don't want to be in the good graces of half those people. Besides, I've grown to really dislike Jack over the years, and now that there's a new TF film that actually shows us Optimus and Megatron's past that has everyone cheering, I can actually cite that film in my argument should I encounter any whiners.

Fair warning, this will not be in Jack's favor.

So, as we see of him in Transformers: Prime, Jack had a really poor life. His dad is missing for reasons unknown, his mother is working herself to the bone to keep the roof over their heads, and Jack himself is working a horrid job to try and lift some of the burden from her shoulders. A standard modern day life for teenage boys, right? Oh, and don't forget him going all gaga over prissy cheerleader Sierra; that's of course the icing on the cake of this cut and dry trope, because the loser boy has to have a thing for the social climber girl who he can't recognize as trouble.

However, when he crashes into the Autobot-Decepticon War, Jack is adamant against getting involved. He whines about his new lot in life, complains that he just wants "a normal life", and overall is ungrateful to the Autobots that saved his skin a short time ago. Yes, he pulled through in the five part premiere and did so at other points in the first and even second seasons - but those were all life or death situations.

Every other time, Jack caved to peer pressure and stayed inside the lines. He never stood up to the school bully, let himself get embarrassed by said bully in front of Sierra, and then broke his deal with Arcee by going to an underground race. Heck, if you ask me, the only reason he helped save the bully in that episode was because Jack didn't want to have a dead guy on his conscience. Sure he said "it's the right thing", but where was that nobility when you were ogling your crush throughout the episode, hm?

And to say that he's like Orion Pax after all of the above is an insult to Orion and Optimus' integrity. Can you truly see Optimus whining over his lot in life, being spiteful and rude to guys who were mean to him specifically and not his friends, or just losing brain cells when a pretty girl is involved and getting himself into trouble in a misguided attempt to impress her?

No.

Orion/Optimus would never do that. He'll take the hits to himself and make the best of it with a smile on his face, he'll fight for his friends rather than himself alone, and even if he's head over heels for Ariel/Elita One, he won't compromise himself or his morals just to impress her. Orion/Optimus is better than that, and would never stoop to such actions.

But you know who would do all of that?

This guy.

As TF One shows, Megatron in his youth was much like - gasp - Jack Darby. They both kept their heads low to avoid further ridicule and pain, they never wandered outside the lines for fear of the unknown/repercussions, and despite advocating for a change or better life, they didn't really lift a finger to do that. They both needed an outside force to push them onto a new path. And they both ended up having a low chance of heroism when there was pressure on them: Jack's was anytime Sierra or Vince the Bully was involved, and Megatron's was when the 'Bot responsible for ruining his life and all of Cybertron's population was at his mercy.

Speaking of, what are the odds Jack would have a similar reaction to meeting his father? Yeah sure, he spared Megatron in S1, but Megatron also taunted him by asking what Optimus' response would be if he killed him. Put Jack in a position where he gets to beat up his dad, and are we sure that Optimus would still have that sway over him?

Just ask Sentinel, he can tell you how well that turned out when Orion Pax tried talking down D-16 - oh wait, you can't, because D-16 killed him.

Honestly, there are far more similarities between Jack and Megatron than Jack and Optimus. I'm tired of Jack getting all the love and being heralded as Orion-like or Optimus-like when he never was. He's far closer to Megatron, and if I'm the only one who can see that, fine. I don't care.

These are my observations, my beliefs, and I'm sticking with them.

Now on the same token (but coming later), Smokescreen actually has more in common with Orion Pax/Optimus Prime, something the new TF flick has shown, even if I disapprove of a chunk of the writing and characterization in it. But, given I'm probably setting some people's hair on fire, I'll leave you alone for now to digest this post.

Good day, and remember:

"Autobots, transform and roll out!"

[mer-acle]

If Athena had been there for "Ruthlessness"

Poseidon:

In all my years of living it isn't very often that I get pissed off-

Athena:

You filthy liar! The only one who gets pissed more than you is Dad!

Poseidon:

I was having A MOMENT here, can you fuck Off?

Athena:

No.

Poseidon:

Bitch your mortal wounded my son and doxxed himself!

Athena:

Trust me I'll never let him hear the end of that. I wanted him to kill the little shit.

Poseidon:

Poseidon:

What the fuck, Athena.

Athena:

Oh come on, as if that's not exactly what you were about to say to Odysseus, he should have killed him because ruthlessness is mercy, blah blah, I've known you for like 4000 years, Poseidon. Get over it and raise your hellspawn better next time.

Poseidon:

You are so lucky you are daddy's favorite. Let me sing my bang-ass song to keep up appearances and then you get out of here.

Athena:

Deal.

Poseidon (clears throat)

-I try to chill with the waves, but damn you crossed the line...

Later

Athena:

I meant it btw. I will show up in your palace at midnight in ten years and remind of that godsforsaken cyclops because it was THAT idiotic.

Ody, still trembling:

That seems fair.