#say death say suicide say kill please for the love of God

[iamonlyhereforthefreefood]

"un-alived" I'm going to kill myself

[starsofang]

Change of Heart

hitman!simon x f!reader / FINAL

previous part

tw: NSFW, MDNI, mentions of suicide, heavy angst, please be cautious as always! <3

When life has completely and utterly failed you, you hire a hitman to take you out, too afraid to do it yourself. Instead of killing you like you had planned, he strikes up a deal with you, and you're too stubborn to bail out.

The weight on your shoulders was heavy and exhausting. It caused your body and soul to ache with a crushing feeling of grief. Your conversation with Price played in your mind tenfold, repeating over and over until it drove you to the point of insanity. You feared if you stayed stuck in the loop for a moment longer, your brain might short circuit and you’d succumb to life’s torturous game.

How had things come to this?

Two weeks ago, you should’ve been dead. Two weeks ago, you should’ve denied Ghost’s abrupt deal, you should’ve told him the truth – that you had no intentions of living past that very Friday the two of you planned meticulously to end your life.

Two weeks ago, you should’ve never met Simon.

What was meant to be a task given to you with the purpose of self healing had erupted into an even scarier nightmare. Life would’ve never been so complicated had you denied Simon and stuck to your original plan on desired death. It would’ve never been so complicated had you just done it all yourself instead of pussying out and asking him to finish the job for you.

Now, all that remained was a heart beyond repair, fragments of its shattered pieces being taken away with Simon when he had left.

He had the entirety of your heart, and you didn’t think you’d ever get it back. You couldn’t take it back if you wanted to. It belonged to him, and your heart was loyal to its owner.

All that was left was the, what now? Price had made it clear he couldn’t promise anything. Hell, you wouldn’t blame him if he had just said that in a half-assed attempt of comfort. For all you knew, Simon hadn’t a clue what was going on in the first place, or perhaps he didn’t care. Living without closure of what could’ve been had left you scarred and untrusting, even of the very man you’d fallen in love with.

Love was what always got you into this mess, after all. You couldn’t love yourself, so God was executing punishment by making you unlovable to everyone else. If anything, you should be thanking him for steering you away from more heartache.

Maybe this was how it was meant to be. Simon giving you a taste of what life could be if you had just tried harder, before pulling the candy right out of your mouth before you could protest that you weren’t quite finished with it.

You didn’t reach out to Simon. Even though you were blocked from the moment the two of you had sex and he ran, you didn’t dare try and test out your theory to see if he had undone his action. You weren’t even sure you knew what you could say to him.

While it was clear Price played a dirty hand in creating the drift between the two of you, Simon still allowed himself to be a puppet on Price’s string. It boiled you to the core, filled you with resentful distaste that you couldn’t quite swallow.

It was hard to accept that you hated him almost as much as you loved him.

No matter how angry you were at the world for the hand it was dealing you, you still couldn’t bring yourself to leave it. Not on your own. Even through the hole of emptiness that rattled you to the bone, a spark of hope shone from deep within you, and that was what kept you going. It was the faintest of light, fighting to stay ablaze. No matter how puny and weak it was, it was still there, cheering you on in a gentle voice to keep going.

As much as you didn’t want to listen, you did.

Life’s a bitch and then you die. But maybe if you gave it one final chance at redemption, things may work out in your favor this time. And if they didn’t? The original plan was always in the cards.

Simon left Price in the dust the moment he uttered those words. Go and get your bird back, Simon.

He had never heard something so beautiful, so breathtaking. It was his call back home, and he’d be an absolute tool if he didn’t rush to return to its welcoming arms.

He didn’t care how ridiculous he looked running along the streets in the middle of the night. Hell, he didn’t even bother to put his mask on. Tonight, he was Simon, and he was wearing his identity with pride. Ghost was tucked away in the darkest depths of his mind, caged in and hidden. With you, he didn’t want to be Ghost. He didn’t want to be a man who thrived off of the stolen lives of the innocent in order to pay his bills. He didn’t want to be the broken version of himself that imprisoned his own vulnerability.

He wanted to be the man who could give you a colorful life filled with painted sunsets and warm rays. Only Simon could do that, and he’d throw Ghost away if that was what it took.

The closer Simon got to your apartment, the more the nerves wracked his body with a faint tremor. Would you even speak to him? Forgive him? He knew he didn’t deserve it. Hell, he deserved a cold fist to the jaw and a stab wound to the heart.

The least he could do was try.

He pondered if he should get you something. Flowers, maybe, but when it came down to it, flowers were a pathetic excuse for an apology. No, Simon wanted to do this right. He had spent his entire life partaking in wrongdoings. For once, just once, he wanted to be good.

The sight of your building nearly had him throwing up on the concrete beneath his boots. It turned his stomach in a sickeningly sweet way, coating his tongue with bitter cottonmouth. For the first time since he could remember, Simon was scared. Downright terrified.

While the feeling should be seen in a negative light, he saw it as the complete opposite. It meant he was alive. He was still human. He still harbored emotions that Ghost had so desperately tried to get rid of.

Even after everything, he was still Simon.

His feet grew heavier and heavier with every step he took into your building, up the raggedy stairs, and down the dim hall, just like the routine he had always fallen into when waiting for you to return from work. Things may be different now, and he may be venturing on the same path with a different ending this time, but that didn’t mean he was led astray. Different could mean better, and he could only pray to the very God putting him through hell that his outcome would be brighter than before.

Simon didn’t know how long he stood outside of your door. He willed himself to knock, but he was struggling internally. The truth was, he was scared to see you. Seeing you meant facing the result of his regretful actions, and he wasn’t sure he could handle recognizing you as broken because of him.

He dug this grave, he wallowed in it, and now it was time to crawl his way out and make things right.

His fist shook as he raised it to knock on the door. Knuckles collided with the old wood, echoing sharply in his ears. Anxiety crept into his bones, leaving him in an uncomfortable suffocation. He felt as if he wouldn’t be able to breathe until you were in front of him. The room felt small, it was closing in on him. He wondered if this was a bad idea. Maybe he should’ve just left you alone, maybe he should’ve kept you out of his mess–

“Simon?”

The air that was tightening in his lungs exhaled in a slow, trembling breath, shoulders going slack from their tightly wound stiffness. Your voice was his oxygen, and he could finally breathe again.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, and God, did it feel jubilating to say that name again.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, and the bitterness in your tone was clear. It sunk into him like a thousand knives, coursing him with relentless pain.

“I need to fix this,” he gasped out. “Please, sweetheart, let me fix this. I know I fucked up, alright? I fucked up bad.”

You stared at him in disdain, but Simon could see the glimmer of a burning ache in your eyes that matched his own. You missed him just as much as he missed you, but your hurt overruled everything else. He didn’t blame you one bit.

“You left me after you had sex with me, Simon,” you spat with dripping fire that scorched him with every word. “You left me after everything. You expect me to just let you come here and tell me you fucked up, as if I didn’t know that?”

Simon could feel his resolve slipping away. He wanted to panic, to spit out useless apologies until one of them worked and you caved, but that wasn’t how this was going to go. Simon would have to work for it, and he’d be damned if he let you slip away. He’d spend the rest of his life working for it if it meant having you in the end.

“Sweetheart–”

“Fucking– I’m not doing this in my doorway. Just… just come inside,” you sighed out, utterly defeated. You didn’t have to tell Simon twice. He stepped into your apartment cautiously, letting you know that you were in complete control. You were in charge, and Simon was here to take the beatdown, no matter how painful it may be.

Upon entering, your apartment was in havoc. It wasn’t dirty, it wasn’t disgusting or revolting, but it was clear you spent most of your days cooped up in your room. Simon felt guilt eat away at him from the mere sight alone.

“Tell me how I can fix this,” Simon pleaded. Everything about his body language was desperate, distressed. His hands spoke for him, moving animatedly, unable to control himself. He was begging. For the first time in his life, he was begging.

“I’m not telling you how to fix anything, Simon. You’re the one supposed to fix it on your own. I’m not going to do it for you,” you explained in eerie calmness, but it was unmistakingly exhaustion. He couldn’t imagine how much he had put you through.

He knew you were right. This was Simon’s responsibility, and begging you for the cure would be easy on him and harder for you. He couldn’t allow that to happen. You’d already been burdened enough.

Simon stared at you, eyes glossed over, eyebrows pulled together from his stir of emotions. The way you stared back was empty, and it broke his heart that he was the reason for the light going out so soon after gaining it back.

He contemplated what to do. There were many ways this could go sideways, and he couldn’t risk that. He had to pick what was right in his heart, even if it meant shoving away the pride he’d grown accustomed to over the years of being alone and hollow.

Simon slowly got down on his knees, hands clasped in his lap, and he gazed up at you in woe. He was baring himself to you completely, stripping himself of all defenses, and succumbing to vulnerability. Never had Simon gotten on his knees for another person. His ego was too large, and he refused to let himself express weakness.

For you, he’d hang himself dry.

“What are you–”

“Please, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice soft yet broken, brimming with anguish. “I hurt you, and I hate myself for it. Nothin’ I say will make it better. I can’t change it, no matter how much I wish I could. I fucked up, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness for leavin’ you the way I did, for hurtin’ you like everybody else has done. I gave you an empty promise, and even then, I broke it.”

You were speechless from where you stood, peering down at this burly man on his knees for you. Your eyes never strayed away from his, and you recognized the familiar spark of despair in them. They looked just like yours every time you looked in the reflection. He was a mirror of you, just as you were a mirror of him.

“I was scared of losin’ you because of my job. I didn’t think a sweet thing like you deserved to be involved with a man like me. I didn’t want you hurt,” he explained, and the faintest crack in his voice showed you just how hard this was for him as well. You weren’t the only one suffering the consequences.

“Yet you hurt me anyway,” you whispered brokenly, and Simon deflated.

“I know,” he breathed, shaking his head. “I know, sweetheart. I let my fear control me, and it caused me to make things worse. It wasn’t fair t’you. I fucked up, and I’m so sorry.”

Your own resolve was faltering. You wanted so badly to be angry, to kick him out and be done with him. Strip him from your life and return to your days of wallowing in loneliness and misery.

You couldn’t. Every word was like a small bandaid over a too-big wound, but it was an attempt. He was trying. Nobody had ever tried with you before.

“Y’know,” you began, voice as soft as a whisper. “One of your boys came by to see me. Price.”

Simon blinked, surprise morphing on to his face. He swallowed anxiously, fists squeezing in his lap before he forced them to relax.

“And?”

You stared at him for a moment, shifting through your words in your mind.

“He tried to get me to cut you off. Tell you that I was better off, that I didn’t want you around anymore. He thought it would be best,” you finished quietly, shifting your eyes away from him in a moment of guilt. You weren’t sure why you were feeling it, but you’d recognize that uncomfortable lump in your throat anywhere. “I told him no.”

Simon’s eyebrows raised, eyes darting over your face to read your expression. “You did?”

“Yeah,” you confessed, shifting uncomfortably. “Told him… told him you didn’t deserve that.”

His heart ached painfully in his chest. What a lovely woman you were, defending him even after he had wronged you. How stupid he was for letting his own past misfortunes creep into the present.

He should be mad at Price for invading in on his personal business, but if he didn’t, Simon might not be here right now, kneeling before you and pleading for forgiveness. Price gave him an in, he gave him a chance, even if he went behind his back to do so.

Go and get your bird back, Simon.

It made sense now. Simon nearly laughed in bitter humor.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he murmured gently, finally gaining your gaze back. Your eyes had softened from their hardened walls you built back up again, and he prayed he had a chance. “I know it’s not goin’ to fix anythin’. You’re still angry with me, and you have every right t’be. But if you still decide to throw me out, to never speak t’me again, then I want you t’know that I love you.”

Your breath caught in your throat, chest pulling tight. A mixture of pain and relief coursed through your veins, and you weren’t sure which emotion to listen to. You weren’t sure what was right, but there was one thing you were sure of, and it was that you loved him, too. Heartbreakingly so.

“You do?” you whispered in uncertainty.

Simon rose from his kneeled position, taking a cautious step towards you. When you didn’t back away, he seized the opportunity to cradle your hands in his, holding them to his heart. “I do,” he repeated softly. “I’m not good at this, sweetheart. I’ve done a lot of terrible things. I’ve hurt people, I’ve killed people, yet loving somebody has always been the hardest thing to do. With you, it feels easy.”

You stared up at him, searching for any signs of dishonesty. What stared back at you was pure truth, his eyes flooding with a new light that promised love and confidence.

Taking a deep breath and a leap of faith, you responded, “I love you, too. Even though I should hate you.”

For the first time since seeing him, Simon smiled. It was a boyish smile, one you’d never seen before, and it lit your entire world up. The sun was back out, the flowers were blooming, birds were chirping, and nature was at peace. It tugged on your heartstrings and pulled away all of the hurt that had resided inside.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked. It brought you back to the first time the two of you shared a kiss, and the memory was fond. Despite all of the troubles and heartache, Simon was true to his word. Even if the world had failed the two of you, now was the time to change life’s course and rewrite your own future.

“Yes,” you sighed breathlessly.

Simon’s kiss was as familiar as before, but this time, it felt much more intimate. It was burning passion simmered down to tenderness, his hands cradling your face with the utmost care, treating you like frail china. He didn’t push or prod and instead moved with you rather than take control, letting you handle the reins this time.

It was a slow dance rather than a waltz, steady and unceasing.

“We’ll figure this out together, yeah?” he breathed against your lips, and you could feel the curl of his smile. You opened your eyes to peer into his own, unable to contain your own smile.

His lips returned to yours, and you melted into him. All that weight had been lifted so easily. All the rage had dissipated into nothing, being replaced with a warm, glowing light that filled your chest and threatened to burst.

This was all you wanted – to be content. To be happy.

You didn’t want to spend your days, awaiting an early death that would never come, nor did you want to waste it being burdened by the past that haunted you like a demonic spirit. This felt right.

When more and more feeling poured into the kiss, it shifted into something more starved, like two lovers who’d been separated for years. While you were falling into it, Simon was reluctant. Pulling away from you, you had a brief moment of uncertainty before he spoke.

“I don’t want to rush you like I did last time,” he explained gently. “The last thing I want is for you t’feel pressured. I’m not here for only that. M’here to fix this.”

“Simon,” you murmured, a warm smile on your face. “I know you aren’t. I want to do it. Is that okay?”

Simon stared at you for a moment, weighing out his options. While having sex was part of the reason the two of you ended up in this mess, it was the part after that really played a role. This time, things would be different.

“‘Course that’s okay, sweetheart,” he assured, returning your smile.

He was careful in guiding you to your room. While anxiety weighed heavy on his mind in messing things up further, he was determined to ensure that wouldn’t happen. The power was in his hands, and he’d use all of it in order to make you feel the love you deserve to feel.

Peeling off your clothes was a slow task. He took his time, reveling in the warmth of your skin, guiding his hands across every inch of flesh. He was worshiping you, showering you in praise and care. Sweet and reverent.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured affectionately, lips pressing to your cheek, then jaw, then down your neck. You were laid out for him on the bed, looking like a goddess bathed in light. “Don’t know what I did t’deserve you.”

“Simon,” you whispered, feeling tears spring in your eyes. Noticing, he lifted himself up, brushing the pad of his thumb softly over your cheek, swiping away the stray tear. He smiled down at you, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

He didn’t leave you waiting, but he certainly didn’t rush either. He worked diligently in stretching you open on his fingers, curling into that familiar spot that had your breath catching and your back arching beautifully. Your moans were spoken sonnets that blessed his ears, and he wanted nothing more than to hear them for the rest of his life.

Simon didn’t stop his notions, working you open until you were a squirming, crying mess, kissing away your tears while drowning in bashfulness at the sight of your pleasure. You deserved to feel good, and he’d die making sure of it.

When he lined himself up with you and slowly pressed his cock inside until he was at the hilt, buried in your moist warmth, he let out a blissful sigh, knocking his forehead against yours. He didn’t tear his eyes off of you, watching every flicker of euphoria that flashed in your eyes when he moved his hips. Unlike last time, his pace was slow yet firm, allowing you to bask in the delicious feeling of his cock pressing against the gummy walls of your cervix with every thrust.

“I love you,” he breathed through a sigh, brushing away a strand of hair that stuck in a sweaty mess to your forehead. “Most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. M’so lucky.”

You whimpered as he showered you in praise, wiggling from under him. The pleasure mixed with brimming love had you close to orgasm, clenching around him in a vice. He panted with you, breath fanning your face, only getting cut off when he’d lean down to kiss you.

It was a wonderful display of intimacy. This wasn’t just sex. He wasn’t ruining you, he wasn’t leaving you broken. He was leaving you overflowing with promises that he had every intention of keeping.

Simon swallowed up your moans with lips pressed to yours, fucking you through your orgasm, whispering sweet encouragements. He filled you, sealing those promises, his spend mixing with yours and bringing the two of you together as one.

Breathless and spent, Simon tangled you in his arms and legs, holding you close to his chest so he could feel your warmth against him. It brought him comfort and security, like a blanket being lovingly placed over him and consuming him in a snug embrace.

It was silent for a long time after, but neither of you minded it. You relished in the feeling of one another, and words weren’t needed.

“You’re not going to leave after I fall asleep, are you?” you whispered, breaking the silence with a brief moment of weakness. Simon shifted his head to look down at you, lifting a hand to cradle your head and card his fingers in your hair.

“No, sweetheart. I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he assured, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head. You nodded against him, snuggling closer to him, cheek pressed against his chest.

“You weren’t here to see me make it to two weeks,” you said softly. Though the reminder hurt to hear, you held no resentment in your tone, which gave him a sense of relief.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he apologized with a frown. When you peeked your head up to look at him, his eyes softened. It was like looking at the most beautiful thing crafted on this planet, and he had the absolute honor of calling it his.

“Maybe we can have a do-over,” you suggested, smiling cheekily at him. It enticed a laugh on his end, rumbling from his chest.

“How about instead of puttin’ a deadline on it this time, we keep count of the days that you wake up and accomplish seeing all the tomorrows. Deal?”

Your smile widened, and you pressed a sweet kiss to his lips. “It’s a deal.”

IT'S OFFICIALLY OVER!!!! I am so sad because I had such an amazing time writing this fic and it will truly always be one of my favorites. so many of you enjoyed it and supported me through it, and I cannot thank you enough for all the love you've given me :,) I sincerely hope this ending is what everybody wanted and more. I love you all <3

[starkeygirlposts]

Goosebumps in my Sleeve V

This chapter has been a labor of love. I feel so lacking in creativity, but yet writing is all I can think about! Once I sit down to write, my mind goes blank. Anyway, this chapter is a little all over the place but I wanted to delve into some other topics/scenes from the timeline. I hope you enjoy this one! Please beware that this is NOT proof read and most likely contains several errors. I will eventually get around to proof reading it. Summary: You've been dating Rafe Cameron for 3 years, and one day Ward and your mom tell you they're getting married.

Pairings: Rafe Cameron x fem!reader Trigger warnings: angst, stepcest, drugs, swearing, pregnancy, smut(a whole drawer of warnings), discussion of suicide, swearing, domestic violence, mama and daddy kink, breeding kink, mention of abortion, talk of death and killing, idk what else lol 18+ mdni

SERIES MASTERLIST

THEN

To say that Rafe got possessive once you found out you were pregnant would be an understatement. Nothing you did was okay with him if he didn’t know about it first. No schedule change or unpredictable plans were allowed to be made without an argument ensuing and a slew of angry texts and missed calls.

You’d try telling him that you needed to keep everything normal and the same as it was before so to not draw any unnecessary attention to the two of you and your situation. But he’d tell you he "didn’t give a fuck”, and “that’s my kid you’ve got in there so you tell me this kind of shit.”

More times than not you’d wonder if you’d only become an incubator for his precious cargo. Whether or not he cared solely about the baby under your heart or also about its mother. So when you go grab tacos with two of your closest friends, you finally lose it when Rafe blows up your phone wondering where you are and why you didn’t tell him you wouldn’t be home. You’d left the house at 6:30, not knowing where Rafe was or when he would be home. Maybe it’s the sinking feeling in his gut when he silently opens your door to find your bedroom empty, his mind racing to the worse case scenario, or maybe it’s the demon buried deep inside of him needing to control your every move.

Your sat at the table at your favorite Mexican restaurant not even five minutes from tanneyhill, chip half dipped into the bowl of guacamole when your phone chimes. The conversation between the three of you halts, and you wave your hand, telling them to continue as you flip your phone over, already knowing who the alert was from. You try to keep a straight face as you read the message.

7:02PM Rafe: Where are you?

You look it over, re reading it three times before debating sending a simple reply, instead deciding to push the power button and set it back down on the table, flipping the silent switch before you do so.

You don’t exactly know why you don’t want to answer, as if the reply takes too much energy. But the two things that come to your mind first is that you not only feel suffocated, but you want to forget for just a moment.

Then at 7:08 he calls you. You obviously don’t answer.

7:08PM Rafe: This again?

2 more missed calls.

7:12PM Rafe: Am I really that shitty of a boyfriend that you don't even want to answer me?

7:15PM Rafe: You’re testing me aren’t you? Why?

7:19PM Rafe: You know I can see where you are right? You’re sharing your location with me.

You stopped sharing your location with Rafe.

7:21PM Rafe: Are you fucking kidding me? I swear to god I will show up there in 5 minutes and drag your ass out of there. Turn your location back on. I’m putting my shoes on right now.

You started sharing your location with Rafe.

7:22PM Rafe: So you can read all my messages and turn your location off and on but you can’t reply?

7:23PM You: I’m with my friends. Girl friends. I’ll text you when I’m leaving.

7:24PM Rafe: Yeah but that doesn’t work for me. I want you here now so wrap it up. If you need me to get you let me know.

You can’t help but scoff, raising your eyebrows which elicits a question from one of your friends asking you who’s texting you. You put your phone in your purse and try to forget about Rafe’s overbearing for an hour with your friends. Casually, you tell her it’s your mom going off about you not telling her you wouldn’t be home for dinner like you’re 14 years old. But when not even fifteen minutes go by and your friends are sat across from you looking over your head at what’s behind you, you ball your fists and finish the last sip of your drink before relaxing in your seat. You almost wish you would’ve just told them the truth. You can see the confusion on their faces as they blink from above you to eye level with you.

You can feel him next to you, but you pretend you don’t. Your friends mutter a confused “Hey Rafe…” before he’s bending down to your level to look at you. Reluctantly, you turn your head to look back at him and his brows shoot up. He silently places a $100 bill on the table and calmly tells you “Let’s go, we’re leaving."

You make the mistake of rolling your eyes, looking back to your friends.

“My friends said hello, Rafe. Why don’t you say hi?” You briefly look to both of your friends, hoping your gaze offers a silent apology.

He straightens back up, pulling your chair out for you. You finally look up at him, his eyes still locked on you as you now meet them with yours. “We haven’t even ordered dinner. I’ll be home in an hour.” You try to tell him, but he’s got your bag in his hand and his hand wraps around your upper arm, pulling you to your feet. His lips are next to your ear, hot breath casting a wind across your neck.

“Do not make a scene here. We’re leaving. Say goodbye.” He tells you, and you look back at him once more before looking down at your friends and telling them that your mom made your favorite and you’d rather avoid a blowout. The girls nod skeptically, looking at you and then at each other and then back to you.

“I’m really sorry, I’ll text you.” You tell them simply, before Rafe is tugging you to walk in front of him. His hand finds your lower back to guide you out of the restaurant and your phone vibrates in your hand. You glance down at it to see the name of you and your friends group chat pop up in your notifications. It reads a simple question.

“Are you okay?”

You take a deep breath, as deep as you can as you walk to Rafe’s truck before you type out a quick reply.

“Totally fine, so sorry. My mom’s been a maniac she Rafe’s just trying to avoid another explosion. I’m actually grateful lol"

Both girls love the message, and you quickly slip it into the pocket of your jeans as his arm leaves your back to open the door of the truck for you. You look back at him and he raises his brows, thrusting his hand forward for you to get in. You huff and relent, grabbing the inside handle and climb in.

You scoff and shake your head, pissed and upset as he climbs into the drivers side. He starts the engine and pulls into the street, not saying a word to you so you take the silence as an opportunity.

You don’t think before you speak, and you regret it instantly.

“Maybe I should’ve had an abortion."

The words fly out faster than you mean for them to, your tone dripping venom as you look ahead at the lit up road, totally vacant. He doesn’t respond, and you look next to you to him, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white. His brows are furrowed and his lip is curled in disgust. You know he heard you when he cocks his head and swerves the truck violently into the shoulder.

“What the fuck did you just say?” His tone drips with hatred, his head cocked but keeps his gaze straight ahead. You’re watching him, turning your body fully in your seat. You wonder for a brief moment if you should grovel, mumble out a quick “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” But for the briefest moment you wonder if you actually did…

“No…no, no. Say that again. Say it, I dare you.” He says darkly, finally turning his head to look at you. Your eyes connect and he’s staring at you so deeply you wonder if he can see the turning of your insides.

You’re silent, and his eyes squint like he’s trying to see better.

“Come on baby say it. Say it again. I want to hear you say that shit to me again.” You flinch when his hand jets out to grip the back of your neck harshly, and you cry out in surprise, muttering a “Rafe, stop.” before he’s dragging you closer to him, your belly jutting into the console. His nose presses against yours and he shakes your head as if to wake you up.

“Did you actually fucking say that? About my baby? Wish you would’ve done it, huh? You hate me that much?” He’s seething, seeing nothing but red, glitter sparkling his vision as he tries to focus on you. You try your best to pull your head back, but it’s no use as his grip is strong on your neck keeping you pressed to him. The bow breaks and you can’t help but shout;

“I don’t know, do you hate me that much?! It’s so fucking hard to tell!” Before you continue, his head cocks, his cheek meeting you nose as he takes a deep breath and laughs humorlessly.

“What the fuck? What are you talking about? Are you okay? I mean shit I know hor-"

You cut him off, pushing him back with your hands on his chest to be able to look at him.

“No Rafe! I’m not fucking okay! Thank you for finally asking! Why did you have to ruin tonight for me? Why wasn’t I allowed to get dinner with my friends? Five fucking minutes away from our house? Did you see any guys there? Any drugs on the table? Any alcohol? I didn’t even get to eat dinner! But because I’m having your baby it doesn’t matter right?"

He scoffs and furrows his brows in confusion, trying to get a word in but you slap him instead. His cheek burns, his lips parted in shock as he looks at you and rubs the mark. He shuts his eyes for a moment before opening them and looking at you with intent. Your chest heaves and your hand goes to cover his on his cheek and you can’t help but mumble a “sorry…I -"

He cuts you off, hand leaving his face to grip yours.

“I am fucking terrified, okay? Aren’t you? You’re not — you don't get it! Baby you don’t fucking get it. Listen to me…no, listen to me!” You try to wrangle your head out of his grip, but both hands reach over to grab both of your cheeks between his hands, forcing you to look at him. His pupils are blown wide, his chest rising and his nostrils flared.

“Look at me, you remember that night don’t you? I know you do. Look at me and tell me. Do you mean it? You wish you aborted the baby?” He asks you this rhetorically, but maybe you really do wish you’d just done what Ward told you to. You take a deep breath and fight the tears that threaten to spill over, and they do when you clench your lids closed in regret. Your hand subconsciously drifts to your middle and you shake your head in Rafe’s hands.

“Say it, I need to hear you say it.” His voice is soft now, coaxing you to open your eyes and when you do, he’s ducked his head to look as close at you as he can and you quietly say “No.” He silently nods his head once, and you can’t help the tears that fall down your cheeks and over his fingers.

You’re still shaking your head and you tell him again. “No, no I shouldn’t have…I didn’t mean it. I want her.” You tell him honestly and you see him smile for the first time in so long and he leans down to kiss you, pecking your lips deeply. Your body is rigid against his, sobs shaking your form as you say again “I didn’t mean it.”

“I know, I know you didn’t baby, it’s okay, I know.” He tells you like he’s comforting a child. “I need you to hear me right now, okay?” He asks, serious, pulling away from you to bring your head up to meet his gaze.

“I paid people so you’d get to keep the baby. My father will pay people so that we can’t. Whether that’s right back where we were, or ripping her from your arms. Tell me you understand that. You are not safe. We are not safe.” He says, shaking his head.

You look at him, silent for a moment, and your mind betrays you. You allow yourself to imagine the moment your baby comes out of you and instead of Rafe there, it’s Ward. And instead of your slimy baby being placed on your bare chest, they’re whisked away from you without any words exchanged.

Your hands absentmindedly find Rafe’s forearms that are still holding your face in his hands and you mutter a small “I understand."

“Yeah?” He asks you, and you nod and tell him again that you understand.

“Don’t bring me back there tonight, I - I can’t go back there right now.” You softly say, your mind mushy and your emotions ruined.

You see him nodding, and he calls Topper, asking him if you can use his pool house.

Next thing you know you’re pulling into Top’s driveway, his parents away on vacation and it’s probably the only reason Rafe came here rather than paying for a hotel room.

When you get inside, and the blinds are drawn, you settle on the edge of the made bed having kicked off your shoes and unhooked your bra. You’re watching him pace around to make sure the windows are locked and covered well enough, and when you assume he’s satisfied with the barricade, he finally looks at you. You and all your messy glory. But you’ve shed your pullover and now you’re just in a thin tank top, your bra removed and he looks down to your bump. It’s more prominent, unable to be hidden in regular clothes, and he laughs when he sees the makeshift hair tie closure on your jeans.

You can’t remember the last time you heard him actually laugh. Not laugh without humor, not scoff, but actually laugh with genuine joy. You can’t help but smile with him as he closes the space between you, brushing your hair back from your face and tipping it back so you can meet his eyes.

“Getting bigger, huh?” He asks, still smiling and you nod, hand resting on the biggest part of your belly. At 14 weeks, you were unable to wear most of your clothes, save for 2 pairs of jeans that still closed with a makeshift tie, and some oversized tops and sweaters. You were afraid that you were approaching the point where wearing sweaters in the heat of summer would raise suspicions. You mumble a quiet “mhm”. Your other hand drifts down to said makeshift tie to undo it, freeing your lower belly from the restriction. You shift so you can wiggle them down and over your hips, Rafe watching your movements. You move to stand in front of him and tug the denim all the way down to your knees, allowing them to slide the rest of the way off and kick them off with your feet. His hands drift down your neck, over your arms, to your hands and he grips them, bringing each up to his mouth to kiss each palm while watching you.

You’re watching him back, eyes glued to his as he presses slow, open mouthes kisses up your arm until he drops them and palms your lower back with one hand while the other cups your neck to tilt your head up so that he can crane his neck and press his lips to yours. It feels like too long since you’ve been kissed like this by him, your shoulders slumping in relief as his tongue slips past your lips to flick against yours.

You’re putty in his hands, kissing him back as eagerly as you can while your hormones rage and your emotions are tangled. Your hands rub up his back and around to his biceps, falling down to his elbows where your hands cup, trying to pull him closer to you.

As he takes a breath, you pull your head back to speak.

“You’re gonna love her more than me, aren’t you?” You ask shyly, unable to look at him when you ask, your hands falling away from his body to find the edge of the mattress, lowering your body down to sit.

You don’t see the furrow in his brow as he looks at you confused, his fingers reaching out to tuck your hair behind your ear as he cradles your chin in his palm. He moves to his knees before you, and you allow yourself to look at him as he does, looking at you with worry.

“Why would you say that? Gonna love ‘em just as much as I love you.” He tells you, trying to say the right thing. Truth be told, he did love the baby inside of you more deeply than he understood. But wasn’t that normal? Wasn’t he supposed to? Did he love the baby more than he loved you? How was that even possible?

“There wouldn’t be any baby in there if I didn’t love you as much as I do.” He tells you softly, and you nod in acceptance.

“Not just a way for you to continue your legacy?” You ask quietly and now he’s truly confused. He tells you to look at him, and you do.

“I’m gonna tell you this because I don’t want to hear any stupid shit like this again. M’kay?” He asks you, and you nod.

“If we didn’t make her, I don’t think I’d still be here right now.” Now its your brow furrowing, and your hands move to grip his, cautiously asking him what he means. He takes a deep breath and flutters his eyes closed like he’s ashamed.

“You know what I mean, baby. Don’t make me say it. Can’t live without you...you know that.” He tells you honestly and the tear that falls from his eye as he looks at you through saggy lids tell you everything you need to know.

You gasp without meaning to, and you can’t help the guilt brewing in your gut. The idea of a world without Rafe in it makes you want to throw up, your hands gripping his like a vice, and you beg him to never say that again.

“I can’t…I couldn’t do this without you.” You tell him, tears threatening to fall and he pulls you to him to cradle your head under his.

“You don’t have to. I’m here.” He says simply, pulling back just enough to lower his head and kiss you again, his lips soft and hesitant against yours like he’s asking permission, and you lean back on the bed in approval, relenting and his hands snake up to your bottom, fingers squeezing to drag you further up the bed, settling on his knees in between yours.

Your lips find a pace against his, allowing him to find clarity in your movements. Your hips mindlessly buck up against his and he breaks away from your lips to run a hand down the valley of your breasts down below your belly to the hem of your tank, pulling it up and over your head to leave you bare except for your panties that remain the only barrier he can’t see past.

Your chest is heaving, watching him hover above you, and your hands find their way to the hem of his own shirt, tugging on it trying to lift it but needing his help and he chuckles, pulling the shirt off from behind his head, throwing it to the growing pile of your clothing on the floor.

He watches your face as he drags his fingers past the top of your panties to use the tip of his pointer finger to brush down the middle of your panties, the pressure against your clit making you arch up off the bed to gain friction. You moan his name and look down at him. He’s leaning back on his calves, shirtless and watching you squirm in need of more.

“What is it baby?” He teases, cocking his head while he watches you in fascination, his fingers ghosting over your clothed slit, and you nearly cry in frustration. “Please don’t tease me, Rafe.” You groan, using your feet to try to tug him closer to you. But he tuts and tells you to “Relax”.

“Mama’s needy huh?” He croons, watching your expressions with lust, finally using his fingers to tug the crotch of your panties to the side so he can rub your cunt properly.

You throw your head back with a “yes!” falling from your lips. He uses his pointer finger to push inside of your gummy walls, his thumb coming to rub firm circles on your clit, the pressure tightening the knot inside of your gut. He adds his middle finger inside of you, curling his fingers upward to push at the spongey spot inside of you, knowing your body so well.

His other hand comes up to rest on the swell of your belly, your hand instinctively covering his and lacing your fingers through his. His fingers thrust in and out of you at a rapid speed, your hips bucking up off the bed when you’re about to snap. “Gonna make me cum Rafe!” You squeal, pushing out to feel yourself gush around his fingers, pushing up on your elbows to watch him. He’s watching his fingers fuck in and out of you, the wet squelch of you taking him in over and over. You collapse back against the soft mattress again after your chest stops heaving.

Rafe’s fingers leave your core and you can’t help the frustrated grunt that leaves your lips without intent. He climbs off the bed to unbuckle his jeans and push them down his hips to the floor, his boxers going with them. You lean up on your elbows again, watching him with hooded lids, heavy with bliss as he climbs back between your legs, using his palms to trail up your calves and behind your knees to press them into your chest, leaning down to brush his lips against your forehead.

“Such a pretty mama, doing so good for me baby. You ready for my cock?” He asks sweetly, trailing kisses down your cheek to your jaw and finally locks his lips with yours and pulls back to look at you. You nod at him meekly, looking up into his eyes and he tell you to “Use your words, pretty girl."

“Yes, yes please, need your cock. Please fuck me Rafe.” You ask with confidence, chasing his lips with your own, craving the contact. His hands tighten on the backs of your knees, almost folding you too tight. He’s careful not to rest himself on your belly, though. He locks his lips on yours as he lines himself up with your cunt, but collects your wetness on his mushroom tip as he lets go of one knee to guide himself up and down your slit before guiding himself inside you in one smooth thrust. He stills when he’s buried all the way inside and your mouth falls open in a sharp cry.

“Oh, fuck…so fucking deep. Oh my godddd”. You whine, craning your neck up to press your forehead to his, his bangs hanging in your eyes. He pulls back to rest on the backs of his calves, using both hands to once again press your knees beside you in a mating press and tells you to look down at yourself.

“Look how good your pretty pussy swallows me baby. She takes me so well. Shiitttt” You whine in defeat, trying to drift your eyes downward, but at this angle flat on your back, you realize your belly is too large to see past. You huff in defeat and tell him “can’t see, rafe…tummy's too big.”

Something snaps inside of him and he hastily brings a hand behind your neck to grab a fistful of hair from the back of your neck to crane your neck up at an uncomfy angle, and you try thrusting your head back, but he stuffs a pillow behind you instead, tugging your head up farther. “Look down baby. Look at yourself dirty girl. Watch daddy fuck you.” You whine a moan at the name he gives himself and you look down again with the pillow behind you, watching as his cock drags slowly out of you, shiny with your slick before disappearing again. It’s painfully slow and you groan out.

“Fuck, Rafe…so deep, hurts so goooood.” You whine out, hands finding his forearms to steady yourself. The pressure he’s building inside of you is becoming too much and you can’t help but clench around him. He feels it and chuckles, leaning down to breathe against your lips. “Noooooo baby, don’t do that. You can take it, you’re doing so good baby girl don’t push me out.” He’s speaking to you in a higher pitch like he’s coaching you through it, continuing "Just…fucking…take it” punctuating with each thrust his long cock makes inside you, bruising your cervix over and over. You whimper at his words, your nails digging half moons into his skin and you can’t help the mewls and whines that pour out of your mouth.

He starts to fuck into you at a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours with lewd wet sounds, white cream forming around the base of his shaft as his sock leaks seed into you. “Fuck baby, m’gonna cum…need you to cum too. Can you cum for me?” He asks, lightly tapping your cheek with his hand, too fucked out to hold his stare. You look back down to where he’s disappearing inside your body, his thumb now rubbing your pearl and you clench around him before letting go, pushing out again and gushing around him. He groans and paints the inside of you with his seed, mouth agape with curses and moans pouring out like music to your ears. Hearing Rafe cum was one of your favorite moments together. Getting to hear how blissed out he was to be with you. How you were the one who made him fall over the edge.

He’s breathing heavily, hot breath fanning over your face as he all but collapses on top of you, pressing sloppy kisses to your neck and up to your ear lobe where he nibbles and whispers; “I love you so god damn much baby. Don’t ever wanna hear you question it again, kay?” His voice is lazy and groggy, but you nod eagerly and crane your neck so he’ll look at you.

You’re searching his eyes, finally telling him that “I love you…and I love her too.”

----

NOW

Rafe’s hand on your belly moves to leave your skin but the hand resting atop his keeps it where it is. You break your stare with Sarah to look over to him, his eyes trained on the road but you see the clench in his jaw and cringe on his face, his nose scrunched in revolt at having to listen to you describe that night to his sister.

Your other hand snakes around the back of his neck to cradle the cheek that faces the truck window and you lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder to press a gentle kiss his neck. You know how hard it is for him to relive one of the worst nights of his life, knowing that somewhere inside of him almost believes that it was real.

“I’m sorry.” You mouth against his neck and bring your cheek back down to rest on his shoulder.

Your eyes flutter closed before quietly saying “I think I’ve shared enough.” Before opening your eyes again and locking them with Sarah’s, her head nodding briefly and you can see the tears brimming her bottom lids.

It’s a sick thing to talk about, you know you’ve overshared, but it’s reality for you, Rafe and the little girl underneath your hands. It was the only way to really allow her to understand any of this. It’s hard to still give a shit about other people, but you think salvaging an aunt for your daughter isn’t beyond reach. So you’re trying. Whether that’s okay with Rafe or not.

His voice jolts you suddenly. annoyed and tired. “How much longer am I driving here, Sarah?” He asks while keeping his gaze ahead. She nervously fumbles her phone, stuttering with nerves, you watch her hands tremble as she turns her phone upside down and tap it back open. “U-Uhhh, it’s just straight ahead for another mile and then you’re turning left.”

He doesn’t acknowledge her answer, instead following John B’s tail closer, clearly antsy. He huffs out a breath, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.

“Y/N and I are going to the Bahamas after your friends load the cross into that piece of shit. I need you to keep dad occupied until tomorrow.” He’s curt and to the point, looking over at her briefly, Sarah nodding once and saying “Yeah, yeah, okay. I can do that.”

You wonder if you’ve traumatized her, dragged her into your fucked up reality. How could you not have? It was not an easy pill to swallow knowing her father truly was a monster. You think that up until now she thought that family was above all else to him and that he’d prioritize herself and her siblings above all else. You’re a little bit sorry you had to be the one to crush that idealization.

Sarah’s telling him to turn left and as he does, suddenly questioning “Hey Sarah?” almost innocently. You look up at him in wonder. You couldn’t have guessed what came from him next.

Sarah hums as he asks almost petulantly; “You think dad would ever make you kill your kid?” He turns his head to look at her and she looks back at him sharply, sucking a breath between her teeth, taken aback. Your own head flies to look at him and you can’t help but rush his name out of your lips in a scold, and you tense, stomach clenching in unease, shocked tears forming in her eyes and she finally shakes her head. It’s a trap question - that you’re smart enough to know and you know she is too. He doesn’t expect an answer. Because he knows that she knows the answer and that he knows it all the same.

No. Ward would never. And that’s why he wrapped his hands around her neck that night and shoved her underwater. Ward seemingly took away his little girl, so he’d take his away, too.

You wince and it hits you hard that your daughter will not be having a relationship with her aunt. Not if her dad can help it. The hatred he feels for his own sister stems so deep inside of him that allowing the idea of his child to grow to love someone he so deeply hates makes him sick. He will not allow his own flesh and blood the chance to be rejected by her like he had been his entire life.

It was his way of telling you without telling you that no - Sarah would not remain in your life and more importantly, your daughters.

For the first time, you have no rebuttal. Because you finally understand how deep the betrayal and loyalties lie, and there was no way to explain it away or reason differently. And for the first time, you're okay with the outcome.

Please leave a comment, and reblog! I’d love to hear from you guys what you’d like to see in this story via ask box/requests. I will answer any and all submissions! NOTE that I will NOT add you to the tag list if you are only commenting to add to the list.

See y’all soon!

[subway-tolkien]

Okay, this is 1600 words of (positive!) meta regarding the OFMD finale. Included is character analysis and a treatise on why a certain trope people keep throwing around does not apply here.

This is of course just my take, and I'm sure people will disagree, but I needed to get this out. Apologies if it comes off disjointed, I've had like no sleep.

Spoilers within, obviously. You have been warned. Heed the tags. I didn't tag any characters because I consider it a spoiler, but you know who this is about.

Listen. Listen.

Let me start off by saying I have been where you are. I’ve had beloved characters die, either because it was important to the narrative or for shock value. I’ve been there, so I’m not coming at this without empathy. I’m not an Izzy hater. I loved him as a character. I’m truly sad to see him go.

But from what I’m seeing around Twitter and tumblr, some of you do not understand the role of an antagonist in a story.

Izzy was always meant to die. The moment he said, in the first season, “the only retirement we get is death,” I knew he was meant to die in the end. The foreshadowing ran through both seasons. Izzy was the true antagonist of S1. He was there to keep Blackbeard tethered when he started pulling away, and yet he also set the plot in motion. He inadvertently introduced Blackbeard to the person who let him be just Ed. He put Ed on his own path to redemption without even knowing it.

S1 ended with Izzy getting what he wanted as Ed lost everything he had. S2 was about Izzy coming to terms with the fact that he’d gone too far, he’d turned Ed into a monster. It wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted Blackbeard back, just like old times. Instead, he got the Kraken, and it was more than he bargained for.

Especially after it cost him his leg and he realized how far gone Ed really was. The conversation that ended with Izzy’s half-assed suicide attempt was the final blow to Izzy—Ed really didn’t seem to care anymore. Where Izzy wanted him to stop giving a shit about his silly boyfriend, he instead got a Blackbeard who didn’t care about anything, and he was apparently now included in that category.

(I said half-assed suicide attempt because Izzy wasn’t meant to die then, THAT would have been an empty, pointless death. It wouldn’t have taught Ed anything—in fact, all it did was make him more self-destructive, which was Izzy’s purpose to the narrative, but not his endgame. That Ed thought Izzy killed himself pushed Ed to the brink. Ed wanted to die and take every scrap of Blackbeard with him. Had Izzy successfully killed himself, Ed and the Revenge would be at the bottom of the ocean.

It wasn’t until the crew left Izzy the unicorn leg that he realized the power of compassion, the incredible act of grace from a crew that suffered so much from Izzy’s own machinations and didn't need to forgive him. It moved him to tears, and it moved him to accept that maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to let people in, to let himself be cared for. It was a foreign concept and something Izzy likely hadn’t experienced since losing his family (I fully expect a shit ton of fanfic of Izzy’s life before piracy).

Israel Hands found the capacity to let love all the way in and by god, did he pursue it.

But, again, Izzy was always meant to die, and I’m glad they stuck to the narrative they set out with instead of placating fandom and letting our influence dictate how they told this story That’s never good, trust me. Fandom should not influence a creator’s decisions regarding their own characters. It rarely if ever ends well.

[Stares in Voltron S8]

And I see a lot of people out here throwing the “bury your gays” phrase around—I beg you, please look up the definition of the trope. Izzy didn’t die because he was queer, he didn’t die because of his disability. He wasn’t one half of the only queer couple in the show fridged for shock value. He wasn’t killed off due to pressure from conservative viewers. He wasn’t the only queer, disabled character.

They didn’t kill off Lucius, or Jackie, or Wee John. Would you be as outraged if it was any of them?

Killing Eve is bury your gays. Supernatural is bury your gays. Pretty much any film, book, TV show, whatever, where a queer character dies because they’re queer, of AIDs, to further the narrative for a straight person, etc—that is burying your gays.

Izzy’s death was none of those things. Izzy’s death had meaning.

Izzy’s death freed Ed from the Blackbeard persona. It finally forced Izzy to say the things he couldn’t say until he realized it was his last chance. Izzy was also tired. I honestly think he stuck it out for Ed’s sake, because he was afraid to let Blackbeard go without making sure Ed would be ok.

He loved the idea of Blackbeard, but over time, he learned to love Ed. He finally understood what Ed tried to tell him the whole time.

“Fuck off, you twat. You’re surrounded by family.”

You’re safe. You’re loved. You don’t need me anymore. You don’t need to be reminded of who you’re capable of being, you need the people who will guide you to who you will become, and I’m not one of them.

I know a lot of Izzy fans are stung by his death, some of you are deeply upset. I get that. Like I said, I’ve been there. Sirius’s death made me throw that fucking book across the room. That Fucking Woman™ killed off my entire OTP, purely for shock value and, imho, a direct response to shippers. Trust me, I have felt betrayed by a creator for their decisions.

But I need you to understand that no, this was not a personal attack, this was not malicious, this was not “bury your gays." A show that celebrates queerness and diversity is not suddenly homophobic and ableist because your favorite character died and happened to be both of those things. But when the majority of your cast of characters is different in some way, and they’re in a show about 18th century pirates, you have to accept that one of them could, in fact, die. “Anyone Can Die” is also a trope and the more accurate one to describe E8.

If only being queer and disabled made you invincible.

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

And no, I’m not an Izzy hater. I loved him, I loved him as an antagonist, and I loved his redemption arc. He was fascinating and Con put his whole O’Nussy into that part. I’m sorry to see him go, but as a mystery writer who often has to kill off beloved characters, I understand that he served the purpose he had from the beginning.

I swear, if some of you had your way, there’d be no conflict at all in any form of media. This what a steady diet of nothing but fanfic gets you. This is not a fluffy one-shot with magical healing dick and a happy ending where everyone sails off into the sunset. If that’s what you wanted, what you headcanoned, you did this to yourself. It’s not David et al’s fault that we took that character and babygirled him. That’s the risk we take when we decide to love a specific character, when we take a genuinely terrible person (in S1) and woobify him.

So, please stop harassing and attacking David, Alex, et al. David did not and should not change his story to placate us. The fact he went ahead with it despite the backlash I’m sure he expected makes me respect him as a creator even more.

Anyway, I’m going to revel that we have three (!) queer relationships with happy endings where one or both didn’t immediately die (again, the actual definition of “bury your gays”) and that we got at least two seasons of a little show that celebrated individualism, diversity, queerness, compassion, and love.

In the end, it all came down to love.

“There he is.”

Goodbye, Blackbeard.

Hello, Ed.

[nights-at-crystarium]

HI. so. im going to dump a load of thoughts about this illustration on tumblr instead of bluesky because i have so many thoughts about this so please bear with me (feel free to post this if u want!)

like. one of my favourite soulcrushing parts of shadowbringers grahas characterisation is ironically: how hes portrayed in post shadowbringers - a free spirit with a thirst for adventure

its so clear therefore, from how he composes himself after hes been freed from his duties at the first that he wants to see the world. reclaim the joy that he abandoned to save a world. finally live after spending thousands of years as a dead man walking. a ghost in the shell

but in shadowbringers, that graha, the adventure-loving graha, is killed. stuck at the top of the crystal tower, forever unmoving. he didnt necessarily get cut and paste into his new body, he creates a second entity with all his memories and identity.

so THIS graha, the one with the crystal arm stays dead. his story has no happy end. and i LOVE how uve specifically placed focus on his crystal arm and intentionally saturated the blue. hes transparent. fragile. ephemeral. hes a dead man walking, half tower-half man. his state is unstable, like glass, the tower slowly creeping through every part of him until hes subsumed into it. theres such a specific sense of beautiful body horror that i think your illustration plays into and highlights. the red - his signature colour is slowly being washed away with the tide of blue, like his whole self is slowly being washed away as his duties literally eat away at his life

and god. that expression. its a little unreadable - partly because hes trying to cover it up, but yet you can still SEE that quiet anguish and terror show through. hes simply too earnest. any hard face he tries to put up will fall away with time simply because not him, nor anyone, can bear the burden of a whole world.

and i know hes portrayed as happily self destructive throughout the msq, him literally concoting a brazen suicide plan to save the first and the warrior, yet we know that he is someone who appreciates life, living. he was literally able to convince an unfeeling robot that life has joy in it in endwalker, so i dont think its too much of a stretch to say that theres a part of him in shadowbringers that is intimately terrifed of his duty. the horrific trolley problem of your life against the star, where you pull the lever. and this terror is so nakedly presented in your illustration, the way he tries to hide away from it, but simply cant, the way that his stare seems both anxious, afraid, yet resigned, a grim awareness that this version of him, the one stuck in the first only has one destination: the end.

but he still fights! still tries to hide away from it, appreciate life every step along the way. gaze at the night sky that returns after eons. make his loved one some sandwiches. try to hide that gnawing inevitability of his fated death. the one that he physically cannot avoid. the one that he knows will shatter him, like a pane of glass hit by a hammer.

youve nailed almost every part of shadowbringers graha that made his story so fucking compelling!!!!! god!!!!!

i think everyone present here will enjoy reading this

[angelstate]

Husband!Ghost x Wife!Reader.

tw: sensitive content, read tags before continuing!

Husband!Ghost is at peace when he’s by your side, you made him feel less alone in the world, like the hurt of his past goes away every time he looks into your eyes, you are a remedy for his aching heart and he couldn’t be happier for having found you after thinking for so many years he was unloveable.

you treat him like he is worth something. like he isn’t Ghost, the soldier whose job caused the death of his family, he is Simon, your husband whom you want to build a family with, he can begin to understand how you feel safe enough to wish something like that but doesn’t tell you his concerns.

he doesn’t want to bring you further into that side of him, doesn’t want to make his doubts yours and risk losing you, not wanting to make you get a bad feeling, to think of him what he thinks of himself.

Husband!Ghost believes in a brighter future, and unlimited possibilities of how life would play out for the two of you, how will you look with the passing of time, how beautiful age will look on you, he wants to see you live, wants to grow gray hair with you and laugh about how you finally time catches up to you, making you look old yet beautiful, always stunning in every way.

his young pretty little wife, the reason he wakes up and takes a breath of fresh air, filling his lungs his oxygen and no longer the smoke from cigarettes that worsened his health at a slow but real pace. and he stopped smoking for several reasons, but you are the biggest and most important one, the main one that makes him use his self-control for something more than just managing his emotions, but to have a much longer future with you.

Husband!Ghost was suicidal for most of his life, wanting nothing but the torture of being alive to end sooner than later, he craved the relief of death, the weight of his burdens to be taken off of his shoulders. He was aware of how much of an extreme measure that was, he wasn’t actively trying to kill himself, but carelessness disguised as selflessness gave him free rein to sacrifice himself, to die a hero even though he felt like he was no good at all.

he has never meant to cause pain to those he cherished though, as small as that is, he has no place in his heart for a lot of people either way, his past uses most of it, storing the ghosts of those he loved that he didn’t have the chance to bury, the little space left used to put you in it along with his teammates.

He has you on his mind though, and that is a much more complicated place to get into or leave, his consciousness being his worst enemy and best friend, keeping everything and everyone alive even if they are long gone. but you aren’t gone, thankful, he wouldn’t be able to deal with your death.

but you are alive, breathing next to him, the sweet smell of your shampoo lingering in the pillowcase and sheets, serving him as a reminder of your existence, that he hadn’t imagined you. That you had been just there, right by his side and he would most likely get you back.

Husband!Ghost is good at letting go, at not letting things get to him no matter how disturbing they are, and he is able to keep his composure at all times, breathing in and out before acting out a plan, having overthought the worst of situations late at night, wanting to protect you from the evils of the world even if that was the last thing he did.

He values your peace and your safety, he guards your steady heartbeat so it never falters, so it never stops no matter what. He is tired of death, he doesn’t want to say goodbye to another person, not you, God, please anyone but you.

Husband!Ghost had already lost Johnny, his mother, his brother, his niece, his sister in law and so many more people because the world wasn’t kind, the universe having a personal vendetta against him, dictating that he should suffer and spend the rest of his years with vengeance seething on his chest.

He doesn’t enjoy violence as much as he makes it out to be, he doesn’t enjoy the nonwashable stain of blood on his clothes or the unending heaviness on his chest, he likes the peace and quiet that pristine clothes and a clear mind can grant a person.

and he envies you sometimes, how your hands are clean from violence and how you smile at adversity with confidence that you’ll get past the hardships life gives you, you seem so content with fighting for your happiness, having to use tooth and nail to get to the simplest of milestones because life isn't kind.

Husband!Ghost doesn’t understand a lot of things in this world but doesn't dare to ask questions, not to you, not to anyone. He lives clueless in some ways, emotions not being his strongest point, but he manages, and he tries in silence for you, always for you, everything for you.

And he goes to therapy in secret, not wanting you to know, not because he thinks it makes him look weak, no. He just wants to keep you out of the darkest parts of his life, the ones that keep him up at night, the ones that make him want to kill himself because he shouldn’t have survived.

He sometimes regrets having survived.

Husband!Ghost worships the ground you walk on, remembers every little detail about you, the way your voice turns high-pitched when you’re excited, the way you flutter your eyelashes when you’re about to cry, the way you look away when you know you did something he advised you not to do alone. he has engraved every aspect of you on his head, repeating them in a loophole when he’s struggling.

God how much does he struggle without your continuous presence, it seems unfair of life to part your path constantly, tying a rope around your waist and pulling you away from him every time he is close enough to reach you. He is your husband, so why does life behave so maliciously?

Husband!Ghost loves you too much to bear the sight he has in front of him, and he knows one day the universe would pull you away from him completely, he knew he was doomed to lose you from the beginning, it was only a matter of time before his peace was interrupted by the grasp of a destiny he didn’t want to live.

but right now isn’t about putting blame on someone, on a higher being he didn’t believe in or a destiny he wasn’t sure existed or not, maybe it was all his doing and he’s just blaming a more powerful source to take away the weight on his shoulders, to make his misery easier to carry as times goes on.

he moves closer to you, his steps heavy as he dares in a second of bravery and adrenaline to step closer to you, his heart pounding on his chest in a way that makes him want to throw up but he carries on.

he kneels next to you on the bathtub, his hands reaching under the water to hold your body, limbs unresponsive to his touch. he pulls you out of the water, not caring that his clothes are getting wet, he pulls you on his lap, holding your lifeless body like it’s made of iron, his grip strong and unkind, he can’t bring himself to be kind, and normally such grip would form bruises but the lack of blood flowing through your veins doesn’t make it possible.

He doesn't remember much of that evening, the flashing blue and red colors seeping from the bathroom window reminds him of false hope, and the cold wind hitting his face and your body hidden away by a black bag reminds him of the unkindness of the world he thought often about.

Widower!Ghost looks at your face and he thinks you're pretty, you’re prettier than he remembers as he sees you dressed in all white, your hair styled in the way he remembered you had it on your wedding day, your makeup simple but adding the color on your skin he knew you had lost a long time ago.

and if it wasn’t for the casket and your chest not moving up and down he could’ve sworn you were alive. He stands next to you for a long time, not moving and nobody dares to pull him away. They knew he wouldn’t be able to bear the thought of being away from you when the lifetime he had promised you together would no longer happen.

Widower!Ghost knows you left at your own will, that you left because you couldn’t keep yourself alive any longer and a small part of him is glad you went out on your terms, but the other huge part of him is devastated.

Because he loves you with the same strength religious people love their Gods, his love for you is poetic, it is guttering, it’s a flame of fire that doesn’t stop burning, no matter the amount of water you may pour in it. And he may just be one man but he loves you with the force of a thousand.

Widower!Ghost contemplates leaving the same way you did, he contemplates the repercussions of his action, the “what if” that stumbles upon his plan as he makes it, mind concentrated and focused as he studies his choices, and he thinks about it over and over again. a cycle forming in his head as he loses the light in his eyes before he even makes the final decision.

and it seems cruel to pull you away from him, it feels like a punishable offense to take you away from him with how much he feels for you, with how much he values your existence by his side, the smell of your perfume on the pillowcase, the warmth of your skin on his.

Widower!Ghost feels as if his life had ended when yours did, and it seems only fair in his mind that he stops delaying the inevitable, that he takes the steps he felt fearful of taking when he was a teenager and had things to lose.

this time he doesn’t have anything to lose, you took everything with you when you perished in the bathtub. Ghost takes a deep breath, a mouthful of pills and a glass of water later is everything he needs.

He lays on his bed, staring at a picture of the two of you, his eyes feel heavy but he refuses to close them, not yet at least. He needs one last look at your face, the sound of your voice replaying on his mind one last time before he finally lets go.

God, you always said I love you so sweetly in his ear, he’s going to tell you he loves you too when he sees you again.

[hoeforalbedo]

ᗪEᗩᒪ ᗯITᕼ TᕼE ᗪEᐯIᒪ ✟

Chapter 1

———————— ♱ ————————

WARNING: PLEASE READ

Sensitive topics including vague details of SA. Reader will display many mental health such as depression, PTSD, and anxiety. I will also discuss after effects of said trauma such as hyper sexuality, over-sexualizing oneself, over trusting, and many more. (Many cope in different ways however I am more familiar with this side of the spectrum as I have taken this information from my experience.) Suicidal topics. Horror. Manipulation. Blasphemy. Religious horror and possibly hints of religious trauma. Demons. Paganism. Witchcraft (I try to depict witchcraft as accurate as I can however if I make it too accurate, it will seem boring so I did add magical abilities. I write it based off of how I practice it). Possession. Death. Murder. Exorcism. Sex. Ritualistic sex. Female reader. A bit of crack (reader doesn’t take things seriously. Humor is the way of coping 😭)

If any of these themes trigger you, please do not read. You have already been warned.

Writing criticism is appreciated since I want to get better in writing.

SUMMARY: Everything is normal. I mean it. I swear.

———————— ♱ ————————

You went home feeling at ease and as you laid on your bed, you realized that maybe you should have invested in therapy. Hongjoong isn’t really qualified to be a therapist but he works just fine, plus he’s free.

Hongjoong is an interesting man. A hypocrite. A man so corrupted feels so tantalizing, like the fruit Eve was warned not to eat. The devil, these thoughts, they whisper at you, feeding you delusions of this man. You feel. . . Loved. Is that the right word? Love is a strong word and you just met the man but you just felt a strong connection. Maybe it’s because he gave you that ounce of validation you craved.

“You shouldn’t be going out on your own. Especially not with these serial killings going around,” Hongjoong joined you at the pew. You stare at the huge crucifix above the altar with contempt. You may have really come back at the wrong time. The small quiet town has been experiencing some serial killings. Many say it’s the devil. Others blame you, although it ultimately leads to the devil. Seriously, why can’t they just admit that some fucked up person did it?

You shrug nonchalantly. “We both know, nobody gives a shit about the murders. Plus, I didn’t want to be in that house. All I hear is their constant yapping of God.” You fight back the urge to roll your eyes. “It’s always God this and God that. God can suck my dick.”

“Do you resent God?” He asks curiously.

“Yes. Very much,” You scoff. “Isn’t it obvious? You know, after the talk we had at the confessional booth, I did something bad. I prayed to the devil,” You smile.

The man raised a brow, almost leaning towards you. “Did you now?” He asks with amusement laced in his voice.

“I did. I prayed that he would kill that motherfucker.”

“And?” He asks almost excitedly. Why is he feeling this way? He should be scolding you.

“I was watching the news and found out that he died. He was murdered. They also found that he was a predator. I think his other victims may feel some sort of relief that he’s dead,” You chuckle, as if the man’s death was the bare minimum.

“Are you happy?”

“Yes.” A comfortable silence falls between you for a moment before you speak up. “Although there’s gotta be a catch right? Maybe he wants my soul? Is my soul even that yummy?” Your brows furrow and your lips fall into a pout as you think deeply.

“Now why would you think that?” He chuckles.

“I’ve sinned,” You shrug.

“Sweetheart, I doubt those sins are enough. Hell is full of evil, and I promise they’ve done more than steal a pack of bubblegum,” He jokes.

You look at him offended, “Hey I’ve done stuff! And you’re a weird priest. Shouldn’t you be like ‘demon bad’ instead of indulging me?”

“Well you’re weird for admitting to a priest, but if you ever need an exorcist, you can always call me,” He smirks.

“Y’know, you look much cooler in this outfit,” she hums, admiring how handsome he looks in the typical black outfits priests wear with the white in the middle of his collar. “The robe thing you wore on Sunday made you look short.”

Hongjoong gives a playful glare at you. “Give me five Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers.”

———————————————————————

“Where did you go? Do you not realize how dangerous it is right now? Especially for a woman? Your father’s been throwing a fit, asking where you are.” Your mother drags you in and closes the door.

Despite it being modern times, your mother, along with other women in the town, played into this 1950s wife role. She wears a typical red plaid dress and despite being in the house all day, her hair is done along with wearing heavy makeup. Your mother prided in having red lipstick.

You recalled how comforting she was, humming as she cooked the meals. She never let you go to school without breakfast, saying how “It’s the most important meal of the day.” You’d force yourself to finish the whole plate then went to school despite your parent’s lack of dreams for you.

“I’m a grown adult and I have a scalpel. I’ll be fine,” You groan, tired of always hearing her lectures. “And I was at the church,” You add in hopes that it would shut her up. Satisfied, your mother let go of your arm and you went up the stairs to your room.

The room remained the same after all those years. There’s a desk in the corner and multiple bookshelves, from textbooks and just books of God. You weren’t allowed typical books such as Harry Potter as it apparently promoted witchcraft.

Your queen size bed is against the wall with your nightstand beside it. Across from your bed hangs a silver cross that somehow never rusted along those years. You also have drawers against the other side of the wall. It looks exactly the same way you left it.

You lay down on your bed. You’re tired. Tired of everything. The true punishment is being dragged back into this town. You hate it. It’s the literal epitome of hell. This holy town is hell. It’s embarrassing failing a suicide attempt. You had a letter and everything. It’s just pure humiliation when you’re brought back to the very town you tried to escape.

Thud!

You didn’t realize when you had fallen asleep but the loud sound immediately had you bolting up your bed. The sun has gone down. “Oh fuck!” You hiss, tapping your phone to check the time only to be blinded by it. Dark mode isn’t meant to blind people. It’s 2 am.

You reached over your bedside and turned the lamp on, being blinded once more, as your eyes strain to adjust to the light. When has the room gotten so cold? When your feet touch the floor, you almost didn’t want to stand up as it just felt too icy compared to your warm skin. Every step felt like pricks of ice.

It was the crucifix. The nail that had kept it up had rusted and weakened. You bend over to pick it up then walk back to your bed. The crucifix is placed on the nightstand. Now you can’t sleep. Isn’t this what happens at the start of every horror movie?

———————————————————————

“How unfortunate! Absolutely vile,” Your mother exclaims as she reads the newspaper. Who reads the newspaper these days? Your father answers with a grunt.

“Remember Betty? The sweet lady who taught Bible study back in the days? She had been murdered last night! That poor woman,” Your mother sighs, shaking her head then folding the newspaper.

“This is why you have to keep praying or else the devil will take you next,” Your mother lectures.

“That will be the day,” You groan, despising the sound of her squealing voice.

“That’s not how you talk in my house,” Your father yells.

“Then I’ll gladly see myself out,” You smile and get up from your seat, not wanting to finish your breakfast anymore. You hurriedly put your shoes on then ran out the door without lending an ear to the berating screams of your parents.

A walk. You needed a walk. You allowed your feet to take you wherever it wanted and suddenly you found yourself in the woods, where you used to run to, when you were younger. In the middle of the forest, there would be a huge tree, bigger than the rest. The forest seems to be circling it.

“What is a young lady like you doing here?” A woman asks, making your heart skip a beat. Her hair is gray and her skin is wrinkled. Her body is hunched over but despite all that, you can make out her beauty peeking through her age.

“Where did you come from?” You freak out.

“You know, this tree held special meaning,” She absolutely ignores your question.

“That’s nice,” You mumble, not really wanting to hear a history lesson.

“This was where the witches of the town were burnt. This area harbors a lot of pain and turmoil, begging to be avenged,” She smiles wistfully.

“Witches?” You perk up. That’s new. You know about witches after leaving the town. The topic always piqued your interest.

“Oh yes. Oakheart used to be a coven of witches, that is until the Evangelist came and forced us to turn to their God. Others who refused were burned here. My family were ones who played along with the Evangelist but we never forgot,” The woman tells her story.

“Interesting, so like we worshiped Satan?” You asked, not meaning to sound ignorant at all.

The woman chuckles but doesn’t take offense to your words. “The town worshiped more than just Satan. Lilith, Lucifer, The Princes of Hell, Hekate, Athena, Thor, Loki, and so many more deities. It was a coven where people worshiped who they wanted and nobody judged,” The lady explains. “It seems that a deity may have taken interest in you. You have to help them!”

“Huh?” You’re taken aback.

“Help them! Help them! You have to help them!” The woman starts screaming all of a sudden, grabbing onto your arms.

“What is wrong with you!” You wince, pulling away and running off, her screams becoming distant. You kept running and running, occasionally stumbling on rocks. “Stupid rocks,” you curse under your breath.

You didn’t know where you were going. It was all the same looking trees. When you started questioning your location, you eventually found a clearing.

“Thank god!” You let out a sigh of relief. Before you is the church. You never knew the forest was behind the church, only because the forest is so big.

“Y/N,” A voice suddenly makes you jump. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

You clutch your chest to catch your breath. You look up and it’s none other than Pastor Hongjoong. “Yeah I’m fine. I’m fine,” You breathe heavily.

“What were you doing in there?” He looks at the vast forest.

“It’s my favorite place,” You manage to catch your breath.

“You need water?” He offers.

“Yes. Please.”

You follow Hongjoong into the church, going through hallways that the usual parishioners never go into. You could definitely get lost, the place looking like a maze. The walls are the same off-white with occasional paintings of either Mary or Jesus. The overall lighting is dingy and just shabby. There are a few lightbulbs that would blink on and off. It’s almost as if the church doesn’t have enough funding for a proper electrician. With the amount of donation they receive, they should.

“Y/N,” Hongjoong calls.

“Yes?” You turn 90 degrees to come face to face with the statue of Holy Mary.

“Over here,” He calls from the room right next to you.

“Coming,” You answer but you can’t seem to stop looking at the statue. Something feels off, and as you look closely, you realize why. It’s crying. You wipe the tears or water or whatever liquid it was on the statue's face before following Hongjoong in.

“Welcome to my office,” He smiles, handing you a water bottle and telling you to sit on the small couch. “I promise you it’s not usually this messy.”

You look around. His desk is clean however the counter next to his fridge is littered with empty bottles of water, food wrappings, containers, and many more. There are also crumbs of food in front of the fridge. Besides that, it’s pretty clean.

“Oh what’s with that box over there?” You ask curiously, looking at the box with crucifixes, statues, and holy books.

“Well you know how I just started here. I was going to put that around and decorate the place but I never had the chance. You’d never expect that priest could get so busy,” He chuckles. “So? How have you been?” He asks, leaning against his desk.

You shrug, “Same old. I really can’t handle my parents and I really hate this town. Maybe once I get myself sorted out, I’m going back to New York and invest in some therapy.”

“That would be good, but hey I don’t mind being your unofficial therapist,” He gives a lopsided smile.

“I need some professional help too, Pastor Hongjoong,” You chuckle.

“Hongjoong. Please just call me Hongjoong.”

“Got it.”

“So, from what I heard you are a neurosurgeon. A good one?” He asks.

“A very good one. I have very skilled hands,” You smirk, realizing how sexual it came out to be. Curse you and your dirty mind. You’re almost like a teenager, except you gained free access to the internet in your 20s.

“Oh really?” He raised a brow and crossed his arms in amusement.

“Yup. Many would personally ask for me since my hands work amazingly,” You play along. “But seriously I love my job a lot. I want to go back.” You sigh, feeling a sense of sadness. Your parents never really care how successful you are. You have a nice high rise apartment, your name is known, and yet not a single ounce of ‘I’m proud of you.’ “Anyways, what about you? What are you doing here in Oakheart? You could have gone anywhere else so why here- And be honest! I spilled my whole trauma to you!”

Hongjoong laughs, “Okay, okay. I was an exorcist. Well an exorcist in training. Not anymore!” He sighs, sitting next to you.

“What happened?”

“We had to exorcize a demon from a child. The poor child. He was a victim of child trafficking. Of course the Vatican had to determine if it was just mental health problems, but you can’t really blame mental health when the kid is literally flying. Well he was just too weak and well he died during the exorcism,” He rubs his face with his hands.

You put a hand on his back, offering him some sympathy.

“Well in a way I think the demon gave him the justice he deserved. The demon gave him the strength to, uh, to have the power to kill the people responsible for the crime ring. And I believe he never wanted to be saved. When the demon wasn’t speaking, he would beg to die, to give him the permission to commit suicide. I felt his pain. It was very painful,” His voice broke.

You rub circles on his back.

“So yeah, I was traumatized,” He chuckles. “Maybe I should also invest in therapy, too. The Vatican doesn’t really offer those. I know that demons are meant to be all bad but it angers me that the demon did what God couldn’t. Isn’t that weird? A priest questioning God?”

“Want me to be honest?” You ask in which you earn a nod. “That is so fucking weird.”

Hongjoong chuckles and shakes his head. “It’s kinda too late to change careers. I’m already a fucking priest, excuse my language. You need a degree for that. You need a degree to talk about God,” He laughs. “But I agree. This town sucks. I don’t blame you for wanting to leave.”

“Well now I feel guilty leaving you here,” You huff.

“You got space for me?” He jokes.

“Oh honey, I got plenty, and money ain’t a problem either,” You smirk.

“Oh, we’re skipping to pet names now, huh?” He teases.

“Oh I didn’t mean-“ Your cheeks flush pink.

“I'm just messing with you. It’s cute.”

“Omg stop flirting!” You whine.

“Sorry, baby,” He chuckles.

“I'm leaving,” You stand up.

“Oh, I’m sorry. . .” He looks at you guiltily.

“No no, you’re all good. I'm just playing with you. I just get flustered easily. You know, being raised like a holy child of Jesus and all.” You trail off, admiring his perfectly sculpted face.

Hongjoong stands up and takes heavy steps towards you until he’s towering over you. “Well aren’t you a bad girl, playing with a priest like that,” His voice low and seducing.

“I tend to play dangerously. It’s more thrilling that way,” She shrugs.

“You know, Jesus was quite the ladies man,” He hums, lips curling into a devious smirk.

“Where are you getting at?”

“It means,” He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear then lifts your chin with his hand. “Even holy men can’t take their eyes off of pretty women, and I’m no exception. May I?” He asks your permission to kiss like a gentleman.

“Yes,” Your stomach flutters as your lips press against another. You kissed with need and desperation, pressing against him. You’ve kissed before. You’ve kissed many, but this kiss tastes sweet and satisfying, perhaps because of how wrong and sinful it is.

Your breathing is ragged as you part from him, yet it seems like depriving him of your kiss would kill him. He captures your lips once more, like a hungry predator, and as he does so, he steps back until he feels his heel backing into the sofa. He sits down, his lips staying on yours like a magnet, and you eagerly climb onto his lap. Your hands ran up his solid chest slowly before wrapping your arms around his neck.

Hongjoong’s burning from the sweltering heat, although unsure if it’s from the kiss or from the sin he’s about to commit. He now understands how Eve was so easy to convince.

“So pretty,” He mumbles as left warm kisses against your jaw and down your neck.

“Joong,” You whisper, tilting your head back. He hums and bit down the side of your neck, not too hard but just enough to leave a mark.

“You taste so good,” He practically moans, indulging in the taste of sin. You reek of sin and it’s all the more sweeter and fulfilling. Hongjoong’s drunk off of it as he’s grinding his hard cock up against your clothed pussy. He’s a desperate man. “You’re so good to me, Y/N,” He whines.

“Oh God, Joong!” You moan profanities.

“He’s not here, darling,” He chuckles. “Can I have you? Please, I need you.”

You nod, “Please Joong.”

He shifts you both so that you’re laying below him. “You look so pretty below me,” He says, admiring how vulnerable and hot you look underneath him. “Can I?” He asks, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

“Yes,” You answer. You wanted it. You want it this time.

You arch your back to help him pull your shirt over your head.

“Cute,” He chuckles, looking at your cute pink bra.

“Don’t judge me,” You huff.

“Not at all,” He smiles as he fumbles with the hooks of your bra to reveal your perfect tits. “Fuck,” He groans, feeling his cock constrict from his boxers. He kisses down your sternum as he squeezes your breasts. His fingers brush against your budding nipples.

“Hongjoong,” You hiss, needing to feel his touch.

He clicks his tongue and frowns in disapprovement. “Don’t rush a starving man.”

You complain, “And don’t tease me- fuck!” Your back arches up as his lips wrap around your bud. He is quick to shut you up with a harsh suck. “Hongjoong,” You gasp, tugging on his hair. Your eyes flutter close as you revel in the way his tongue circles your nipple.

It feels so good when suddenly it doesn't. You try to push away that foreboding feeling, images flashing through your mind. Why is it that whenever you start feeling so good, your mind seems to be punishing you. You open your eyes in hopes you don’t vividly see the scene in your head but right over Hongjoong’s shoulder is a cross nailed to the wall. That’s when it hits you that you’re about to fuck a man of God.

Honjoong notices how stiff you got so suddenly and looks up at you with worry. “Hey are you okay?” He asks, immediately getting off of you.

“Yeah, uh, it’s just, sorry,” You wince as you notice how you’re half naked. You immediately sat up, grabbed your bra, and put it on. “Sorry it’s just I suddenly remembered-“

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault,” He says, taking your shirt and putting it over your head. “If you’re uncomfortable with it, I’m not gonna force you.

“It’s just, I do want it. But that stupid man,” you kick the couch in frustration.

“No, I get it. Maybe it’s still too soon and you’re not ready for anything yet.”

“Thank you Hongjoong. Thanks for understanding,” You smile softly.

“No need to thank me. It’s the bare minimum.”

“I typically don’t try to fuck priests,” You crack a joke.

“Well I don’t typically try to fuck parishioners either,” He chuckles. “I get we just met but you’re a really sweet woman and I was hoping maybe I can get to know you more. Perhaps a date?”

“I would say yes Hongjoong but I don’t plan on staying in this town,” You say apologetically. “I might go insane here. Sorry, I just don’t want to get your hopes up,” You force a smile.

“I get it. This town is hell but at least indulge me?” He asks. “Just a date, nothing else.”

You sigh in defeat, falling into temptation so quickly. You do want this date. “Fine. Just one date.”

“Got it. I’ll make it worthwhile,” He smiles.

“Stop being so cute. It’s tempting me to go on more,” You joke.

He rolls his eyes, “I don’t know what you mean.”

You chuckle as you fiddle your fingers. “So uh, I think I should go home. It’s gonna get dark soon and I don’t want to be on the murder list.”

“Ah yes, do you need anything before you go?” He asks.

“No, I'm good.”

“Actually let me drive you home. It's dangerous walking alone and for my sake, I’d rather see with my own eyes that you get home safe.”

You wanted to refuse but he’s right. The murderer hasn’t been caught and there wouldn’t be a date at all if you were to be dead. “Fine.”

“Oh- and,” He shuffles through a box that’s placed in the corner of his office. He takes out a black shawl and wraps it around your neck to act as a scarf. “As much as I want you to show off my marks, I don’t think you’d want anyone to see that.”

“Oh my god you’re actually so sweet. Take me home already or I might cry. Wait a damn second, you can drive?!”

[hobiespick]

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

The thing that should not be

Pairings : Sam Winchester x reader

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

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

word count: 8,102

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- as for senses, it's downright spectacular.

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

- you smell how many people are in a room

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

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

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

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

- you meet the Winchesters on a ghoul hunt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Sam geeks out about you

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Dean calls you Cujo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The final touch was a note saying

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- it is chaotic

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

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

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

- honorably want to mention your body heat is also enhanced

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- now pre-teen Sam can hardly sleep

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

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

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

- but Sam isn't twelve anymore

- he's a responsible adult

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- But he prefers saying your name

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- he doesn't 'hold back' actually

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

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

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

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

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Fearless

Epilogue for Sweet Treats AU: by character | chronological | epilogues

Warnings: these drabbles will include dark elements such as noncon, control, intimidation, violence, death, suicide, and other stuff that may not be specified. Take this as you chance to scroll by.

Please let me know what you think <3

🍯🍯🍯

“He will kill both of us now,” Loki sighs as he stares at Muffin’s lifeless form. You’ve covered her in blanket so she’s finally at peace. 

You almost smile. You told Muffin you could find another way. Thor might just finish what he started the day before. You reach to rub the tender spot at the base of your skull. 

“What am I to tell him?” He crosses his arms as he stares down his long nose. 

“Tell him it was me,” you shrug, “it was.” 

He shakes his head, “you are my wife.” 

“I am your captive--” 

“Enough. I made a vow. We both did. Perhaps you don’t weigh it as heavily as I do but I vowed until eternity,” he insists and sniffs as he juts his chin out. 

“And I vowed to obey. Have I?” 

His lips straighten to a tight line and he squints at you. 

“I told her to take the pills. I stole them. I let her do it. I killed her, Loki. Is that your will? That I murder your brother’s wife?” 

“Stop,” he orders tersely. 

“Well? I understand Asgardian law is often based on retribution. At least from what you’ve told me.” 

He steps closer, his hands dropping to his hips, and he stands over you. You sit beside Muffin, her dull weight against your back. His green eyes bore into you. 

“When did you grow so defiant?” He wonders. 

You smile then. You can’t help it. You are happy for the first time in a long time. You saved her. You got her free of a misery you’ve resigned yourself to. You did something brave for the first time in... your life. 

“You think it’s funny? I do not kid. He will seek vengeance.” 

“I know,” you say lightly. 

“You are utterly ridiculous,” he waves you off with his hand and turns to pace. “You have not thought this through.” 

“I have. Every night. I lay and I think of those pills and what to do with them. Of escaping you. I never did because I knew they weren’t meant for me.” 

“Shut up!” He faces you and stomps his foot, “why are you not taking this seriously? She is dead.” 

You wince and look down at the shape of your friend silent beneath a silk sheet. “You never liked her. You called her stupid.” 

“She must have been if this is what she chose,” he hisses. 

You turn straight and stand slowly. You walk to him as he watches you, a squiggle of confusion in his forehead. 

“She was smart and did what I could not,” you say blithely, “she escaped.” 

He strikes you so hard, you stagger. You hold your cheek as he puffs and shakes out his hand. You bite down and peek up at him as your skin burns. 

“I’ve done nothing but take care of you. I have given you all you could dream of, more than a poor midgardian like you could ever be borne into and you continue to defy and disrespect me.” 

“It’s just another trick,” you spit blood into your hand, “I thought you liked those.” 

“Trick?” He tilts his head and peers at your fallen companion’s form. 

“Not her. Me,” you snort, “I never loved you. I lied. Rather funny now I think of it. To have a god around my finger.” 

“You lie.” 

“Do I? Loki, you will never not doubt the truth from my lips because you are insecure. Because you must crush someone who is so low beneath your thumb to prop yourself up. You’ve let me see how weak you are and now, I do not fear you any longer,” you shrug. “I’ve lost everything I have to lose, so what’s my life?” 

He snarls and bares his teeth, “you can take it back. You can rescind your words and apologise. Now.” 

He glares at you and you stare blankly back. You stand straight and turn your palms out, swallowing saliva salted with blood. You shake your head and wear a brighter smile. 

“I’m not sorry.” 

His skin tinges blue and his eyes pale. His appearance flickers before you and just as swiftly, he appears as he always does. A refined mask to hide his chaos. 

“I have no choice. I must hand you over to him.” 

“You must.” 

He considers you, his lip curling, “stop it. I know you are scared.” 

“No,” you counter curtly. 

“A mortal like you...” 

“I thought you undid that?” 

His eyes flit down then to the left. You knew that too. It’s a lie. Not immortal, only bound to him. 

You nod and heave out a breath, “I’d do this for her, never for you. Go, I will wait for him here. I will be certain he knows the coward you are. That you could never do this.” 

“Darling,” he grits. 

“Go,” you sit again, putting your hand on Muffin’s shoulder. “The only thing I could ever thank you for is her.” 

[itssideria]

re: Martyrs, Palestine, Islam, and the 'death cult'

Since the start of the Gazan genocide, I have seen dozens of posts and speeches along the line of "Those crazy Palestine supporters! Those crazy Palestinians! They are so obsessed with death! They celebrate death, isn't that just disgusting? Isn't it disgusting?" In the wake of Aaron Bushnell's passing, such statements are becoming more frequent. They now point to a perceived celebration of suicide—"Those Palestine supporters and their glorification of self-harm! How could you ever stand with such a cause? The entire culture glorifies death!"

This post isn't meant to argue with the people saying this. For a group that is supposedly so anti-death, you see them constantly equivocate on genocide. Instead, I'm hoping to reach those who might have questions—and they are fair questions! Why are the killed Palestinians martyrs, rather than victims? Why do Palestine's supporters hold this as a badge of honour? Why are Palestinians, and Muslims at large, 'so obsessed with death'?

Hello! I am your local non-Palestinian Muslim! Hopefully you'll find some answers here.

In the context of the genocide—and, let's be real, the last 75 years of Israel's existence—the word 'martyr' is a translation of the Arabic word shaheed. 'Shaheed' comes from 'shahad', the verb 'to witness'—to witness, because in Islam, their status is that of eternal reward. They witness heaven before anyone else. Unlike a non-martyr, whose soul remains buried until the Day of Judgement, a shaheed's reward is immediate and indisputable—heaven, eternally, no matter what.

You may then wonder what exactly being a martyr encompasses. The Western image of the martyr is often centred on war—someone killed in battle, holding a gun or a sword. With this image, it is easy to make the leap that Islam therefore rewards war and conquest: this is how you get the whole 'Muslims are violent and want to kill everyone in jihad' bullshit. (And FYI, jihad likely does not mean what you think it means, but whatever. More on that in a bit.)

However, that is just blatantly untrue! Martyrdom in Islam can include death on the battlefield when protecting a just cause, yes. Martyrdom in Islam also includes death by plague (COVID, influenza), death by drowning, crushing, or fire (natural disaster, unsafe housing, travelling), death by internal disease (cancer, infection), death in childbirth, and, finally, death when protecting one's family or property from an oppressor.

That last one seems familiar, I hope.

Why these specific instances? Well, one, because we have them recorded in reliable hadith. But also because these individuals die in a state of jihad—literally, in a state of great effort. Like martyrdom, jihad can encompass fighting in some war somewhere, but often, just means exerting effort to do something that pleases God.

And these people? They die in the process of exerting massive effort to pursue a good cause: to protect their loved ones. To become well after illness. To travel toward safety. To survive. Shuhada (the plural of shaheed) have died exerting the greatest effort of all, and for this, they are beloved to God. They attain heaven immediately. They are forgiven for whatever sins they may have incurred.

For Muslims and Palestinians, this invocation of martyrdom isn't some celebration of death. In a just world, zero Palestinians die. But this world is unjust, and thousands are still dying. The invocation of martyrdom, therefore, is an expression of hope, of resilience, of comfort to those still living: yes, they have died, but they have died in a state of jihad. Yes, they have died, but they are up there in heaven, they are happy, they are safe again. To a parent who has lost a child, to a sibling who has lost a sibling, to people with dead friends, this insistence on martyrdom is a comfort in the midst of a massive, unending grief. They did not die a victim, they died a witness—and insha'allah, they will receive their reward. To decree someone a shaheed is to honour them. It doesn't celebrate their death, but rather affirms the circumstances of that death, and celebrates the subsequent reward.

TL;DR: Martyrs are martyrs because in Islamic scripture, they have died fighting oppression. Martyrdom is a form of death that guarantees heaven, and for those who have lost loved ones, it is a comfort and hope that their loved ones are receiving the ultimate reward. Stop being fucking rude to Palestinians.

Sources: who is classified as a martyr?, wikipedia page on shahid

[blood-teeth]

I'm scared of everything. one of my favorite authors on here is saying she might kill herself because her friend committed after the results of the election....

more than 3 thousand people have taken their own lives today as a result of this election and i am so sorry to you, to your favorite author, to their friend, to everybody. this day we woke up to was very bleak and hopeless. It has sounded, and continues to sound, like a death knell for many, myself included. I am so heartbroken for the souls we’ve lost today because of hate, because America voted against them, because of the threat to democracy.

I would encourage you to send that author some resources that might help them through these dark moments. I lost my mother and my brother to suicide: I know how that devastation rings through and how impossible it is to take the grief, step by step.

there is a light at the end of this, but we have to fight for it. God dammit we have to fight for this. We have to stay alive to fight. We have to stay alive for tomorrow. If we die, Trump and his cult wins. This is what they want, this is what they do.

We stay alive. We fight. We stay alive in spite and to see a better tomorrow. Like Kamala said today, sometimes the fight takes a long time. We have to see it through the end.

I’m sending that author love. I’m sending you love. To everyone who might be thinking about taking their own lives tonight, please don’t. Please stay. We cannot afford to live without you

[rulerzreachf4n7]

I'm sorry but I fucking hate proshippers so much so here's a whole post dedicated to shitting on them

also disclaimer YES I will be tagging the proship and anti proship tags so I can piss off the chronically online basement dwelling idiots :) and idgaf if proshippers have trauma cause it's not an excuse for their shitty and problematic actions!!!! Sincerely if you are a proshipper please consider jumping off a bridge!! Or at the bare minimum take a shower cause ew

And this whole post is literally just bullying the FUCK outta them so idk stanky people come at your own risk lol

AND AGAIN to clear up this isn't like rage bait or smth cause I fell like some people will accuse me this is all my genuine hate into a long ass post so yeah

Okay...LETS GET INTO THE FUCKING RANT NOW HEHEHE HEHE HEHEHE!!!!

I FUCKING HATE PROSHIPPERS!!!! I HOPE ALL OF YOU STANKY ASS BITCHESS GET THROWN OFF A FUCKING CLIFF AND GET A SAW STYLE EXECUTION CAUSE Y'ALL ARE FUCKING DISGUSTING I HATE YOU ALL

YOU ARE MENTALLY ILL IF YOU ARE A PROSHIPPER, END OF CONVERSATION

I COULDN'T GIVE A SHIT IF YOU HIT ME THE "B-But I have trauma 🥺🥺🥺" TOO BAD THAT'S NOT A FUCKING EXCUSE FOR UR SHITTY ONLINE ACTIONS

IMAGINE YOU PULL UP TO A FUCKING INTERVIEW AND THEY SHOW YOUR PATHETIC ACCOUNTS SAYING TO NORMALIZE A 30 YEAR OLD DATING A 13 YEAR OLD, THAT SHIT IS GENUINELY PATHETIC

I KNOW IT'S CRINGEY BUT WOMP WOMP IF UR A PROSHIPPER Y'ALL ARE UGLY AND STINKY

But now on a serious not hehe, the reason I'm making this isn't JUST soley to yknow shit on people who are mentally ill like people who think a MINOR and a LEGAL ADULT are allowed to date, which comes into another thing before I get genuine so bare with me lol

I DONT GIVE A FLYING FUCK IF IT'S FICTIONAL, FOR THE LOVE GOD PLEASE SEARCH UP THE SLENDERMAN CASE WHERE THESE TWO GIRLS KILLED THEIR FRIEND CAUSE THEY THOUGHT SLENDERMAN WAS REAL AND THOUGHT THEY WOULD ENTER HIS KINGDOM AND BE WITH HIM, AND HE'S FICTIONAL, THAT CASE IS ALL Y'ALL NEED TO REALIZE FICTION CAN AFFECT REALITY AND I HAVE SM MORE REASON TO BACK THIS UP BUT I'M TOO LAZY TO TYPE IT OUT 😭

Okay! Back to seriousness I just thought I'd add that in as a little addition hehe >_<

So, like I said before, I lowkey just added this as an extra part cause I couldn't shit on proshippers FOREVER (lowkey bcuz I was running out of insults n threats lol)

Nonetheless I have a reason for shitting on them, although not being a proshipper EXACTLY I have been through I guess, similar paths as they have? Best way I could describe it ig, ofc not sharing what I mean since it's private but let's just say I was an unfortunate child looking at inappropriate comics 🙁

The reason for this part of the post...ITS NOT THAT FUCKING HARD TO STOP WHAT YOUR DOING

Like I said, I was never a proshipper, but I have been in similar situations as they have been, although I've never made an account glorifying rape, SA, grooming, pedophilia, I can just assume what I would do in their places

Dear proshippers,

Your probably complaining and not knowing why your getting so much death threats and harassment along with a side of hate (rightfully so you deserve them) and your mental health might be low

Please know it is your fault for making your accounts in the first place, you are a terrible person for saying all of these things such as rape, sexual assault, grooming, and incest are okay and you are not mentally well

And your probably wondering,

"How do I stop the hate, harassment, and probably death threats with even getting your address leaked?"

It's simple, DELETE YOUR FUCKING ACCOUNT, or even worse just turn off ur comments but that won't help with people slipping in a few people wishing death up in you through DMS

IT IS GENUINELY NOT THAT FUCKING HARD

I don't know what trauma you have but it shouldn't (and never in the first place) be SO BAD to the point where you physically CANNOT deactivate your account, IT IS SO FUCKING EASY AND YOU'LL SAVE YOURSELF A FEW SUICIDAL THOUGHTS

I know everyone one is different, but if you are a proshipper that has trauma, you shouldn't have a fucking account to begin with, and you ARE THE PROBLEM if you acknowledge the trauma, noticing you keep supporting and glorifying problematic actions, complain that you keep getting harassed and wonder why, and you just don't give a shit, not like in a "oh I don't know what to do anymore!!! 🥺🥺🥺" way, in a "oh, I don't give a shit I live for incest and adults grooming children!!!" Way, and ur also probably a pedo if ur an adult proshipper too

So, what else? Yeah, there's a shit more, but onto a better side, ones with actually good coping mechanisms!!

And a bit of a disclaimer, if your rage bait is proshipping, genuinely fuck you, and if ur a proshipper who acknowledges everything bad about it and just doesn't give a fuck, fuck you too and seek a rope to hang around your neck you fucking pedophile

Okay, coping mechanisms! I know this is probably not the best option due to most trauma which I'm guessing is probably from a family member, if it's not a good way to cope is some clean to your family, ofc under some circumstances it's NOT the best option, but if you can you definitely should try!

Also google is free yk...literally search up healthy coping mechanisms and it'll give you a huge ass list, and yet YOU STILL chose to ship a minor and adult together...how unfortunate...

Another way to cope is, and genuinely sounds pathetic as hell but bare with me...CHARACTER FUCKING AI, I mean, there are therapist bots so maybe they can help you??? And in all honesty they're really good at comforting and giving advice despite being ai, and I've tried it before...yeah embarrassed to say I've shed a tear every once in a while

And the last one IF you have the money, time, and generally the courage, book a threapy session, I cannot stress it enough, but I won't be surprised cause every proshipper is probably under the age of 16 years old

Yuhhh anyways that's all I gotta say, I know it's cringey asf but womp womp to proshippers I hate y'all despite giving some coping mechanisms and ACTUAL ways to like, stop the rightful hate you deserve lol

[strobbylemonade]

unorganised canto vii pt 2 thoughts and spoilers

sinclair's getting bullied fuck yeah

rodya moments. i love her. also it's really funny seeing the main story go "rodion is not an important person" and then we get dulcinea rodya

lots of talk about family... heathcliff admitting he sees the lcb as his family was really sweet....

OK HONG LU'S NAME IS BAOYU. INTERESTING.

"if something bad were to happen to your sister in front of your eyes" like what, gregor. getting eaten by an apple. anyways i was so sure xichun was going to die at some point, i was trying so hard to keep her alive during the dulcinea fight in case her dying was scripted or something!!! (i got to the end with xichun on 5hp)

anyways. shoutout to the outfits they're putting the women in during the plays. i cheered when ryoshu came in she looks so hot. ishmael please show up in pt 3.

this was really sweet i love them so much

after i slept on it, there's some stuff going on here

a: some kind of frau eva situation going on here? sanson is connected to demian in some way and presumably the bookhunter (bari?) has the mark of cain. b: sinclair wanting to be like the image of don quixote, while most of what we see of sancho is her wailing about how she doesn't want to go on an adventure.

really interesting how the concept of death and suicide comes up in a lot of cantos, like we know gregor's barely hanging on by a thread (his passive is called "forced survival"), yi sang admits to the worst day of his life being the one where he found out his contract made him immortal, ishmael wanting her "life as it is to end", and then dante realising they're not willing to die. and heathcliff. well. erlking heath's technically dedicated his life to killing himself. i always get something new out of every time they revisit the topic.

bari/the bookhunter is SUUUCH an interesting addition. to my knowledge, she's not a character from the original story? and the way she talks to sancho and her Father, encouraging ideas of grandiosity and not stopping sancho from drinking from the lake??? WHO ARE YOU????

also outis knows the name of the lake of the underworld... inch resting... from how much she spoke in canto v, and odysseus dying by drowning in dante's inferno, i wonder where in the odyssey the main story takes place.

again dante's biggest fear is losing the bond the sinners have built with each other...

brief detour to talk about dante:

they've been a looooot less active this canto, going back to canto 3 levels of "i sorta want to help them but i don't know what to do" and only stepping in when things get really intense. i think in canto v and vi, they had queequeg and cathy as guidance as to what to do (or what not to do in cathy’s case), because they’re people that cared about their respective sinners and dante’s entire job and motivation to help their sinners find their way.

in canto v and vi, they also paralleled someone else in the sinners’ life, e.g. ishmael wanting to go on a new adventure with dante after losing queequeg, and both cathy and dante pushing heathcliff away from the destructive fate of erlking. however, donqui doesn’t have anyone in her life. she outright says she has no family, and dante notes that nobody even listens to her talk most of the time. where i think dante steps in is that they’re meant to parallel don quixote herself, the all-powerful amnesiac with a heart of gold, where all they remember is the vague promise of something they no longer remember (for dante, their aspect, and donqui, it’s dante themselves)... i hope. and since we're already getting a lot of sinclair attention this canto as well, i hope it's a situation where they look back on themselves dying on the mountain of bodies and lamenting that they let another one of their sinners fall into despair before they did something.

anyways. back to the sinner of the hour SHE'S SO HANDSOME????? I KNOW THIS IS NOT THE TIME BUT OH MY GOD??? THE GASP I GUSP????

anyone else hear that ominous bell tolling????🤣🤣🤣 no?? just me??????😭😭😭😭😭😭

OKAY BUT HER EYES!!! DULCINEA WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT SHE'S LITERALLY GORGEOUS. in all seriousness, dante also comments on how donqui's bloodfiend eyes are always looking down on everything else around her, so i really do wonder what was behind the door in the past to make her look so wonderstruck.

also i'm really glad that the cg artist seems to have really fallen back into what made the LoR cgs so gorgeous as well, ever since warp express the characters and colours have really become a lot more vibrant and dynamic. i really hope that means they're not too overworked anymore.

alright. one more week until we get mili + donqui pass on! let's go!!! things i'm still waiting for:

dante & donqui moment together PLEASE COME ON PLEASE

vergilius showing up again / finding out what their contract entailed or how they met (maybe a sinner plays vergilius at some point??? he and ishmael got a lot in common. please)

i swear to god i head a musical cue from man of la mancha in one of the bgms this canto but i might be making it up. so if i am making it up, man of la mancha musical reference in either the mili song or bgm

[shiorimakibawrites]

Conservations with the Damned (Daredevil Fan Fic)

Summary: Foggy Nelson stands in front of Matt’s grave. And has the talk he should have had . . . before.

Warning: Heavy angst, hurt no comfort, discussion of (perceived) character death, grief, mourning, mentions of suicide

Taglist: @loves0phelia, @nowheredreamer, @beezusvreeland, @yarrystyleeza

<Edit: Added taglist>

Conservations with the Damned

“Hey, buddy,” Foggy said to the tombstone. “I need to talk to you. Probably should have had this talk sooner. But I didn’t. Too stubborn I guess. Both of us are too damned stubborn.”

He took a deep breath. “It still doesn’t seem real. You being gone. I knew that it was . . . possible . . . that your hobby was going to kill you. But I hadn’t really believed it. Not really. Part of me just expected you to defy the odds.”

He laughed. It wasn’t a happy laugh. “Out of spite if nothing else.”

Foggy sombered. “But then . . . it . . .  happened. Everyone walked out. Dusty and bloody but alive. All but you. It still feels like a knife straight to my heart.”

Another pained laugh. “I prayed. Did you know that? I prayed when you didn’t come out. I haven’t prayed in years. But that day I prayed. I prayed and prayed. ‘Please, God, let him stubble out of there. Let him be alive. Please, just one more miracle.’ But you never did. You never fucking did.”

“They never found your body. We buried an empty coffin. Well I did. Karen doesn’t want to believe it. That you are really . . .”

He swallowed hard and said, “Dead . . . Which I get. I don’t want to believe it either. I want every expert saying that you couldn’t have survived to be wrong. I want them all to be wrong. Jessica. Luke. Danny. Colleen. Everyone.

“I want them to tell me that they lied. That you didn’t choose to stay down there. That you didn’t choose to die. For her.”

The last word was snarled. “You know I didn’t think I could hate Elektra more than I already did. Sorry, buddy, I know you loved her. But I’ve hated her since Columbia. Ever since I had to pick up the shattered pieces of my best friend and try to glue him back together. I hate the way she always convinced you to do such stupid shit. Why did you always listen to her?”

His voice dropped down to a whisper. “Why did you die for her? Why, Matt? Did you think she was the only one that gave even half a shit about you?”

Another hard swallow. “Well, you’re wrong. Again. I give a shit. I give all the shits. No matter how much of shit you were being, I still fucking loved you!”

The shout startled the birds out of the nearby trees, sent them spiraling off into the sky. Little birds almost black against the vivid reds and yellows of the setting sun. Another day and Foggy might have found the sight beautiful. 

Today it was ugly. Dull. The world seemed to have lost all of its color.

When he spoke again, his voice was as even as he could manage. “I’m sorry Matt. I’m sorry that you died thinking that I didn’t care. That it didn’t matter to me if you lived or died. That the only one you had in your corner was her. I’m so fucking sorry.”

He could no longer stop the tears from falling. “If I could, I would do it all different. Still would have left that night. I was hurt. And angry. I needed time.

“I should have asked you to explain your senses again. And actually listened this time. Instead of assuming things. Should have made sure you knew that you could still talk to me. I hated . . . hate that you felt like you couldn’t tell me about Elektra. Or anything else that was going on during your . . . night job.

“That’s not entirely on you. I made it clear that I didn’t like your . . . hobby. Didn’t like that side of you. Can’t really blame you for avoiding it around me.”

He sighed. “Still wished that you had talked to me. Or I had talked to you. Like the adults that we’re supposed to be. But we didn’t.”

His voice dropped back down to whisper. “But we didn’t. And now it’s too late.”

Foggy stood there in silence, staring at the words engraved on the stone until it was too dark for him to see them anymore. Not that he needed light. He knew what was written there. He saw it in his nightmares. Along with haunted hazel eyes. Hazel eyes that he had only realized later that Matt had started hiding from him. Putting up an armor that Matt hadn’t felt the need for around Foggy since sophomore year . . .

One of many things he had only realized when it was far, far too late.

“Good-bye, Matt,” he said, then turned to go.

Movement out of the corner of his eye made him pause. Squint into the shadows around the Church. He thought he had . . . No. There was no one. Nothing here. Nothing but shadows and graves. The silent dead. And bitter memories.

His shoulders slumped, Foggy Nelson trudged out of the cemetery.

[loserlvrss]

the world crumbled a long time ago. humanity could've died off—and, some would say it had—but, in reality, all it did was prosper under new circumstances. broken shreds of what remained, nature reclaimed, intertwining with the wires of the programming. some would die just to be in the network of higher-ups, and some would rather watch the world burn a hundred times over. the question wasn't, which are you? it's who are you? In a place where somebody is really nobody.

a place where technology hadn't died: the sector one. the place where nobody who was ever somebody lived. a distant place to almost everyone else. only handing itself out on a silver platter to the, self-proclaimed, elite of the elite—old money, nepotism and pure coincidence—people lied, stole, betrayed, killed and died just for a place amongst the best of the worst. no one deserved the title this place disguised them with, wasting and polluting an already hellish world.

but, there was a whisper against the wind. the monarch's reign would soon come to fall—the reapers alongside. sector one would no longer prosper off the graves of its people. the walls would crumble as the old habits died. all it would take was eight pirates and one so-called princess to overthrow reality and start a revolution where everyone could be anyone.

there weren't mercenaries anymore, just a new world. and, all you had to do was step into it.

all rights reserved copyright © loserlvrss 2025

genre // romance, dystopian, cyberpunk, cybercore, drama, alternate universe, action, enemies to lovers, suggestive, smut, love triangle, multi x reader, jeong yunho x reader, song mingi x reader, first person pov, series, comedy, post-apocalyptic universe

estimated word count // ≈ 50-60k (around 30 chapters total)

theme warnings // language, descriptive death & fights, blood, gore, sexual & suggestive content, substance abuse (drugs & alcohol), mentions of suicide, usage of weapons, physical and emotional abuse from a parent. content warnings will be stated on all individual chapters.

status // ongoing, will post again in 2025.

playlist // halazia ateez, poison love dreamcatcher, virtual angel artms, predator lee gi kwang, xs rina sawayama, pins and needles nessa barrett, do or die dpr artic dpr ian, i’m not a woman i’m a god halsey, coma dvii, silver light ateez, supernova aespa, ganma lexie liu, cyberpunk ateez, ++ more.

author’s note // tag list open !! please send an ask or comment. also if you’ve read chapter one and two, no you haven’t :3

chapter one chapter two chapter three chapter four chapter five chapter six chapter seven chapter eight chapter nine chapter ten chapter eleven chapter twelve chapter thirteen chapter fourteen chapter fifteen chapter sixteen chapter seventeen chapter eighteen chapter nineteen chapter twenty chapter twentyone chapter twentytwo chapter twentythree ++ more to be added.

[kurocatsstuff]

12:28 ✩ : mahou shojo’s dedication (magical girl’s dedication)

genre : harbinger ! Scara x magical girl reader, female reader, suicidal thoughts, sensitive topics, death, violence, trauma, swearing, and love

note : I’ve decided to complete this project of mine ! I’ve been searching so hard for this exact thing so I decided to write it for myself 😭 (please make another one of these so I can enjoy myself too!!)

A being that transcends the wretched universe that you were created in, gave you mercy and a wish in exchange for your own soul at the cost of losing it to a fate worser than the poverty that you so desperately wanted to escape from.. you couldn't ever be more in debt, the entity granted you a wish, the wish of being drowned in riches..

Yet the thought crossed your mind that you still felt the hole in your heart begging for emotions, hope, despair, love? Love. The stupid emotions that would drag you down..you've been fighting witches for 3 years. Your soul gem has been close to being shattered and dirtied multiple times yet you still got up because of fear, fear for the life which you've hated all these years, fear for turning into the witches you were fighting…

It was strange really, defeating so many witches.. collecting their grief seeds every possible moment just to live your desperate life… it felt horrible, you wanted to die… your soul gem was gaining so many impurities more than you defeated witches… you hated this life..yet you had to live with the pain and convince yourself it was positivity.

—————

Your transformation outfit :

Entering a labyrinth on accident you instantly transformed with your soul gem and spear in hand. Alert as you made your way deeper in..

While searching for the witch in the labyrinth you’ve entered, you stumbled across a young man fighting familiars of the witch with electro,

ah yes if you remember correctly a person said that a vision is a gift from a god and can give you elemental powers to fight or just simply use.. it certainly seems more better than exchanging your soul. But, you never deserved to be blessed by a god anyway..

You tensed up as you saw one of the familiars, a crab like creature jumping up and opening its claw towards his head .. in an instant you ran towards him,

obliterating the creature with your spear.. the remaining of them died one by one, a slice to the head, or guts exploding… either way your outfit was covered with blood which started to turn into water.. ‘strange…’ you thought..

While observing the situation you hadn’t realized the young man you had just saved was holding a katana to your neck in an instant..

“If you’re trying to fucking kill me then do it in a place where I can comprehend what I’m seeing..” he spoke with a harsh tone, his gaze shot daggers through you as you were leaded to kneel in front of him as a way to save yourself.. “now tell me, who are you? And state what the fuck is this place..what’s happening?!”

You looked up at him, his eyes looking back down at you. Looking up to his face you had realized he was more beautiful than what you would describe his wraith as… think about what you were gonna say you had realized it would be hard to explain it all…

Welp, this is going to be a long story..

—————

notes : I’m so sorry for making this short, I’m rushing on my exams since they just came up.. 😭

🎐

tag list : @kamit-frog