#something about having to kill off the image of your old self

[neon-danger]

okay so I’ve been on an abhorrently evil supervillain route in baldurs gate right and like no I don’t need jalex to be murder boyfriends but the angst of good aligned durge is so ????

[inkskinned]

so while i was writing the book, i became violently suicidal.

this was mostly due to the fact that i had a very bad reaction to some meds and my brain stopped producing any serotonin. also i was in the last semester of grad school where it's actually illegal to feel anything but dread. so it wasn't going well.

somewhere in the fog of it i became aware i needed help. nobody was taking clients or my insurance. i didn't want to do inpatient care - it wasn't right for my needs. there's not really an "in between" stage between "inpatient" and "no care," but i was trying to do the right thing. i was trying to activate the chain of command that was my emergency plan. i knew i needed help now.

i used betterhelp.

i know, i know. i'm a straight-A student and so smart and so clever, how could i ever use something so blatantly bad. to be honest with you, i didn't feel particularly keen on it from the getgo - things that seem too good to be true usually are. also, if something online is free, the price is usually your privacy.

the thing is that there was kind of a global pandemic happening at the time and i worked 5 jobs alongside of being a fulltime student and also like writing a book on the side. it is a miracle that i even thought about getting help. i would love to tell you i had the mental wherewithal to like, process whether this was the right choice for me. mostly i was desperate. i was so suicidal that i was trying to find a reason to stay inside of fortune cookies. i was the kind of suicidal that looks like splatterpaint. i hadn't been that bad in an entire decade.

they took my data. i gave them it freely. somewhere out there, they have a dossier on me. on everything i survived. my story in little datapoints, scattergraphed beautifully.

the first woman told me that really i should be grateful, because (and this is a direct quote): "at least you're not anne frank." i said that i felt that statement was antisemitic, as anne frank's life and experience shouldn't be compared to like, a nonbinary lesbian in western massachusetts. the therapist said that i should try to use lucid dreaming to try to picture myself in an actually scary situation, like running from nazis.

i applied for another therapist. i was willing to accept the possibility that there was a bad apple in the bunch. the next therapist and i even laughed about how inappropriate that statement was. and then, in our next session: the new therapist said if i was struggling with body image issues, i should just work harder on my appearance. she spent 3 sessions in a row talking about how she was grieving, and made me memorize facts about her grandmother so "she can live on through my clients."

i am a three's-a-charm kind of person. okay, so what if the last person made me uncomfortable. i figured it was just a misunderstanding of priorities - she had felt she was sharing with me, i had felt like i had to take care of her. i applied for another therapist.

the last woman asked me to help her pray. she bowed her head. i stared at her, frozen, while she said: lord, i beg you: cure her. take the pain of being gay away from her.

i spent somewhere between 2.5 and 3 months on betterhelp. in that whole time, i was not getting the professional help i so desperately needed, even though i was fucking trying.

in the end, i survived this because i finally could get off the meds that were literally killing me. a request for a real therapist finally went through. i survived because my friends saved my life. because nick let me sob myself dry in his arms. because maddie took the razors out of my room when i asked them to. because grace slept over in my bed for like 3 weeks in a row since nobody trusted me not to hurt myself when i was alone. i survived because i got fucking lucky. because even when i was desperately suicidal, i was too old and too self-aware to take "you need to be prettier" as good advice.

the thing is that there's a 19 year old me who isn't like that. who would have heard "just think about how grateful you should be" and said - oh, i see. i would have assumed that is what it means to be in therapy: the same thing my abusers used to tell me. that i am just pretending and lazy. that i am ugly and unworthy.

betterhelp positioned itself to take advantage of an incredibly vulnerable community. it preys on desperation. it knows it is serving people who are not doing well mentally. it saw that there is a huge need for real, immediate, compassionate mental health care: and then it fucking takes your money and privacy.

i still get their ads on instagram. last night i watched as a woman in a pool pretends to talk to a different woman. they discuss her anxiety.

there's a 19 year old version of me, and she didn't survive this. she was too tired, and drowning. i almost fucking died. this thing almost fucking killed me.

in the ad, the woman playing the therapist takes a note on a clipboard and then nods once, sagely.

i have to admit it's a pretty scene. the steam and light coming off the pool water lands on the actresses. like this, it almost looks baptismal, holy.

[thegnomelord]

heyo!!! here for the prompt game!!!!

can i have 19 with monster au ghost and soap (make em trans if ya can).... reader is male and a top/dom and he's an older dragon hybrid so he has a bit of a dad bod and is a little insecure about his looks and also his age affecting his performance (two lizard pp) i want the boys to comfort their dilf

Ngl this took me so long to do as I just couldn't figure out how to write it 😅 Play the game HERE.

Prompt: Becoming self conscious after the clothes come off

CW:NSFW, monster 141 au, FTM wraith Ghost, FTM werewolf Soap, M!dragon reader, afab language, double dick, oral, double penetration, body worship,

Dragons only stop growing when something kills them and you're old enough to have shed blood on Jerusalem's walls; you know how you look — fat widening your frame and hiding the sharp musculature you possessed, old age muddling fogging the gemstone like shine of your scales until they look like low quality stones, wing membranes dotted with holes and broken horns capped with gold and iron again and again and again throughout the ages.

You watch Ghost and Soap disrobe after a long day of running drills, Simon periodically giving one word answers to Johnny's insistent but welcome chatter as he helps Soap take off his gear after he'd sprained his back. It's domestically calming, watching your boys—your hoard— take care of each other, Soap's eyes settling on yours as he licks his lips; dread stabs your ancient heart. It picks a new spear morning you wake to find them huddling next to you when you expected them to be long gone, sharpening it throughout the day until you find yourself back in your bedroom with them so dark dread can stab your heart once again.

How can you even call them yours?

You're not dumb. You know no partner deserves to doubt their own abilities when you fail to become hard immediately like they do, hairpin triggers that they are. Nor do they deserve to be left needy and wet, bodies rearing to go again quickly while exhaustion claws at your eyelids after just one orgasm; curse your draconic blood for turning more than just your body lazy as the years go by.

You're so deep in your head you don't notice them until four hands grip you and before you know it you're being flung onto the bed. You land with all the grace of a mountain, the bed's groaning under your weight not helping to stop the thoughts in your head. They're on you like wolves, straddling your thighs as if mortal men can pin a dragon down.

"Now whaet's gotten yer tail in'a twist?" Soap asks, greedy hands sliding beneath your shirt to trace the swell of your firm stomach. Your heart preens at his touch before your mind can remind you that in society's vain eyes-their eyes- you're less, just bragging rights, a notch on the bedpost.

"I'm fine." You growl, pulling Johnny's hands out beneath your shirt. He looks defeated like a child deprived of a toy, though your sharp senses pick up a spike of arousal.

"Sure," Ghost's sharp eyes track your every movement, blackened hand gripping your forearm, claws tracing the place were muddy scales melt into human skin. Even completely nude atop your thigh his form strikes a sharp image compared to you. "What, did you get a shite tatt while we weren't lookin'?"

"Is it a tramp stamp?" Johnny perks up at that, a low sound coming from him and his thighs clench around your own, slick dampening your skin. "No, no, a dick tatt." And suddenly his hand's at your groin, fondling the smooth surface of your pelvis over your boxers in an attempt to coax your cocks out of your genital slit. It doesn't work, like usual.

"Fuck's sake," You growl and grab his arm, trying to ignore the swell of your heart when your rough action makes Johnny's arousal spike. "I'm fine, really."

"Mhm, and I'm the Queen." Ghost snorts, using your temporary distraction to lean in and lick a long stripe up the side your neck, nibbling on your ear until a treacherous rumbling purr leaves your chest. Your body doesn't care of the shit going on in your head, only recognizes the sweet arousal of your hoard and the soft touch they leave on your body, rough hands sliding across your skin and feeling the hard muscles beneath the fat.

"More of a princess, sure 'r bossy like one." Johnny pipes up and ducks to escape a swat over the back of the head from Ghost, unperturbed by your grip of his arm Johnny slides his other hand down your front, sharp claws shredding your shirt before you can stop him. "What's wrong bonnie? Not 'nough that this handsome knight comes t' lay yea?"

You suck in a sharp breath, eyes closing to escape their gaze, "I just-" You breathe out, "-just don't know what you see in me."

Silence follows your words and you're sure the next moment they'll get off and this thing you had will just be over. Then a hand grips your hair, your eyes falling open just in time to catch Simon's before he roughly kisses you. Soap is close behind, tail wagging rapidly as he licks the side of your lip and taking Simon's place when you seperate.

"How about we show you, yeah?" Simon growls, briefly groping the firm swell of your abdomen then sliding his hand down to cut your boxers away with his claws, leaving you as bare as they are. Ghost's clever fingers sneak down further to slide across your genital slit, sharp claws tenderly scratching the smooth scales around it and fingers spreading it open, thumb rubbing the head of one cock as it's starting to peek out.

"Not going tae stop us will yae?" Johnny's hands wander over your exposed chest, roughly groping your fat pecs as you both groan into the kiss. "Cause ah been wantin' to do this for a while," Then he pulls his head back and pushes it between your pecs, a low sound escaping him as he shakes his head.

A surprised laugh leaves you as you realize Soap's fucking motorboarding you, nipping and kissing your fat chest. His touch makes fire burn in your stomach, the way both of their hands roam across the wide expanse of your body making goosebumps pop up on your skin.

"Way to ruin the mood mutt," Simon chuckles alongside you, then his eyes go down. "Oh, like us being sweet on you, huh?" He smirks, fingers wrapping around your cock as you only now realize you've gotten hard, "Want us to keep going?" The sharp scent of their arousal is impossible to miss, only making both of your cocks just that much harder.

"Yeah," You breathe out, letting them maneuver you however they want. You end up flat on your back with Ghost stradling your face, cunt leaking slick down on your face. Soap's between your legs with his plump lips already latched on your lower cock, sucking and licking your cock like it's a popsicle.

"Fuck-" Simon yelps when you follow Soap's lead and pull Ghost down firmly on your face, your obscenely long tongue sliding out to lick a fat stripe across his folds. "-just like that. Shit, you take such good care of us." Ghost groans, his voice stroking that draconic need to guard your hoard and making you worm your tongue inside him. The sudden intrusion of your tongue inside his fluttering walls makes him double over you, but soon after you feel him latch on to your second cock.

Even with all your senses consumed by them you still catch the slight whine in Johnny's chest, already imagining him roughly fingering himself as he sucks you off and watches Simon's eyes grow bleary every time you twist your tongue to hit that special spot inside him. Without thinking you slide your tail between Soap's legs, mind flooding with endorphins at Soap's pleased groan around your cock before he's roughly grinding against your tail, cunt wetly pulsing and drawing more sounds from him each time his clit scraps against your scales.

You don't know how long you float in a fog of pleasure, Simon's sweet slick flooding your mouth, skin feeling hot like magma from their hands wandering and groping your flesh like you're some god, mind buzzing from the sound of their collective pleasure and the sweet tight heat of their mouths on your cocks. At some point you become aware of the orgasm steadily encroaching towards you and you'll be damned if you cum before them.

Giving Simon's sweet cunt a final lewd 'slurp' you pull your tongue back, jaw and throat covered in his fluids. Ghost slumps against you, breathing hard while still continuing to suck you off, his eyes meeting Soap's while the Scott desperately humps your tail and whines because it's not enough.

"On the bed." You growl, low and possessive, your strength still surpassing them as you maneuver them. Simon ends up on his back with Johnny pressed up on top of him, both bodies flush with heat and sweaty.

"Fuck, bonnie-" Johnny sucks in a sharp breath and grinds his hips against Simon, biting his shoulder and groaning as the motion makes their cunts rub together, mingling their slick. "Come on, fuck me-us, just-"

"I know," You chuckle, wings subconsciously spreading out to show how big you are, how strong, how you can take care of them. "Need me to fuck you boys good and hard huh?" You let out a low rumbling growl, draping your body over theirs and not holding back so they can feel your weight. You don't miss how their scents sharpen with more arousal.

"Stop talking," Simon growls, brown eyes meeting yours and urging you to press your slick cockheads against their wet holes, each cock almost tailored just for them. Simon groans as you slide in, your first cock not as long as your second one but fat and Simon relishes the burn as you spread him to his limit.

"Shite," Johnny grinds his hips back to meet yours and whimpers when your cock head brushes his cervix, both of their bellies bulging from you being inside them. "God, fockin' love you for this,"

Another small laugh escapes you, "Love you too," making a few short pumps of your hips to get them acclimated to the stretch of you inside them you start making deeper thrusts. "Love you both so much," Your confession is honest from the deepest part of your heart, a deep draconic groan leaving your lips at the way they clench so wonderfully around you.

You see Ghost open his mouth but words escape him as your cock saws into him, all the bumps and ridges on your shaft scraping their soft walls until they're both shaking, soft little moans and deep growls leaving them. You pick up the pace, sharp had thrusts into their pliant bodies making the bed smack against the wall.

You fuck them hard and fast until they're shaking with an orgasm but you don't stop, teeth bared as if to scare off your own pleasure so you can fuck them over and over and over again.

[supercap2319]

What the hell is this?”

Stefan had a long night of doing stupid tasks for Klaus until the asshole hybrid returned to Mystic Falls. After he was forced to turn off his humanity, Stefan traded in his hero hair and brooding for blood lust and aggression. Things were starting to get boring in this town, and Stefan was sick of waiting around like a fucking lap dog.

He was looking forward to chilling in his room for the night. Blasts some Bon Jovi music. Maybe swipe a couple of Damon's blood bags. The sound of his bathroom shower running caught Stefan's attention when he entered his room. He walks towards the bathroom, half expecting to find Damon taking a shower in there. Again. But to Stefan's surprise, it was someone else entirely.

Standing behind Stefan's glass door shower was Grayson Gilbert. The steam from the hot water had fogged up the glass, but Stefan could make out the image of Grayson washing his hair with Stefan's imported Italian soap and shampoo. Watched the soapy suds run down the witch's back before Stefan looked back up, and asked his question.

Grayson turns to him with an innocent smile. A smile that had gotten Grayson his way on more than one occasion, but without his humanity, Stefan wasn't fazed by it anymore. “Oh, hey. Welcome home. Hope you don't mind.”

“What the hell are you doing in my shower, Grayson?”

“Isn't it obvious? Having a shower, and between you and me, this is a lot safer than Damon's bathtub. I'm pretty sure it's covered in STD germs.” Grayson jokes. Stefan was not amused, even if it could possibly be true about Damon's bathtub conquests.

“Look, Grayson. I've had a really shitty day, and you're only adding to the misery, so if you could try to get my humanity back another time and leave, that would be greatly appreciated. Or I break your arm.” Stefan said.

Grayson turns off the water and steps outside, not bothering to cover himself up. It's not like Stefan hasn't seen it all before. “Wow. I thought that Ripper Stefan was supposed to be the life of the party. What's wrong? Klaus ground you?”

Stefan rolled his eyes. “If you're trying to provoke me or something, it's probably not a good idea to do it to a humanity-less vampire. Especially one with no self-control. I could drain you dry like a juice box before you even get a word out.”

“So dramatic. Look, all I'm saying is that if you really are the same Stefan, who was the life of the party in your journals. The one who impressed Klaus and Rebekah, I wanna party with that guy.” Grayson said, walking past Stefan and into the bedroom. Stefan watched Grayson go through his drawers and closet, arms across his chest. “What are you doing?”

“I left some of my clothes here. It should still be here from all those times we…” Grayson let that sentence hang in the air as he put on a pair of black briefs (Stefan's by the way) and then went for some pants. Pretty soon he was dressed in Stefan's old purple Bon Jovi shirt, and a worn-out leather jacket.

“That's all my stuff.” Stefan noted.

“I'm just borrowing it. I'll return it after the party.”

“What party are you talking about?”

Grayson smirks. “My friend, Kuba invited me to a rave tonight. Apparently he and some Gypsies are going to be there. It's a couple of towns over. Let's go.”

Stefan's eyebrows were raised. “And why would I do that?”

“Because you're the fun brother now, right? I told you. I want to party with the Ripper, so let's party.” Grayson said. “You know I'm just gonna steal your car if you don't come.”

“Fine. But if I kill anyone, it's on you.” Stefan said, following Grayson out of the room.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: GUM

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, implied CSA, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, death (including of a young people), pregnancy mention (no actual pregnancy happens)

Read after the cut

---

You pass those early November days in a state half haze and half suggestion, the doctor's medicine the antidote for the inevitable tilt of your sane mind under the density of his evil.

It is relieving to be but his daughter, slurring and monosyllabic against your bed as he teases sheathes of meat past your lips or leaves you to work, or to exercise, or to meet unnamed friends at elegant bars that leave his clothes smelling of expensive alcohol.

This might have made you envious, had you not been so far under an influence of his making.

How beautiful the drug that cauterises the fetid wound of thought, taking from you ruminations of the boundless killing, the rapes, the guilt of eating and surely gaining from it; you could kiss the hand of whatever elf of morphine so surrounds you in its magic.

Never in adult life have you been so quiet of cognition, nor so truly at rest. When Will is announced to return and you're allowed to taper back into sobriety you think of asking for it to end, to have again that Xanadu where the dread of your days is but the black of a turning cloud.

But then you think of how many breakfasts, lunches, and dinners in their inimical triads you've taken there as though at some Roman feast, and you are revolted with yourself and that numb lapse into defeat.

You insist on dressing and making yourself up that morning in a burgundy dress patterned with foliage Hannibal had lovingly allowed you to select, with his iPad before you, from a Lolita Lempicka 1997 runway, sold for an unspeakable price from a stylist's collection.

Being that the dress is sheer you wear a shift beneath, unable to stand the sight of your body through it, wanting only the gown's flocked effect of coiling leaves like one last fragment of autumn upon you. That, and the power of having bid your keeper to purchase something so expensive; his tastes have somewhat rubbed off on you, you realise, elevating them to a standard he approves of.

He looks at you admiringly even after Will arrives, self-congratulating in having made such a mannequin of you.

Will, for his part, barely notices the dress at all. The Lover’s case is his mistress, and like such a wicked woman it has taken him from you.

“We’ve been given the details of three Mask Murder victims in Kentucky,” says Will. “They died thirty years before the Lover killings began. His youngest target in the present day was eighteen years old, whereas the Kentucky victims were all the same age as Anäis Foreau.”

He lays out images of the women as they’d been in life upon the coffee table: a family snapshot, a birthday celebration, a yearbook photo, all taken on cameras likely defunct relics of old technology by now.

“Lillian Greyflower, Bryce Mulligan, and Anita Bradbury were each dressed as dolls and laid to rest by bodies of water under the cover of night. All of them were of an unusually small build, with blonde hair and light-coloured eyes; that gives us a vague description of the Lover’s first muse, being that he obviously tried to replicate her in his murders.”

You stare at the three women, automatically comparing your frame with their thinness, and are ashamed when you realise their ages.

“They’re all little girls,” you say, aloud. “Which means she must have been, too. All of them... just kids.”

“Indeed,” says Hannibal, and he lays a serious hand upon your shoulder as though he, too, had not killed similarly young women in copying other crimes.

“I just hope I don’t have any children,” you mutter. “The world is a bad place.”

Hannibal looks at your leg, which has entered, of its own accord, its habit of tireless motion, the unshod foot tipping one of the striped sofa cushions onto the floor.

“You’ve thought about pregnancy, then,” he comments levelly.

You shrug.

“I mean... yeah.”

“What kind of thoughts?”

Feeling both men’s eyes burn your face with their focus you say, “I get scared it’ll happen to me. Sometimes it keeps me awake at night. I can’t have a baby. That’s what I am. I can’t take care of anybody and I don’t want to.”

Your voice strains into a strangled peak, and as Hannibal bends to retrieve the cushion he touches your knee gently.

“You needn’t worry,” he says. “I’ve been administering birth control since it was safe to do so.”

You examine him with dull apprehension. It would not be unlike Hannibal to experiment with such an immobilising condition as an unwanted pregnancy, the symptoms of which would force you to gain the weight you dread like the devil.

But then you cannot imagine Hannibal having much interest in the rearing of a real child, with its messes and disruptive noise and inappropriate demands. Yours he merely tolerates because he apparently perceives something in you worth enduring those assaults upon his taste.

Still you do not—cannot—trust his word. A carousel of alternate realities exists to him, all of them equally true.

“You’re sure it can’t happen even by accident?” you ask. “Because you don’t— neither of you have ever, well—”

You cannot utter the word that comes forth for protection, finding it clumsy and humiliating.

Tortured, you whisper, “Never mind.”

Will smirks, enjoying your embarrassment.

“Haven’t we left it a little late to talk about contraception?”

The thought of him pausing before an assault to roll down rubber over his arousal rises, sickening and provocative. Hannibal would do so clinically, as though putting on a latex glove, but Will would apply it quickly, crudely, if at all. He doesn’t seem like a man that would bother with condoms; certainly he never has with you.

“It’s not funny,” you say. “It really freaks me out. If I got... bigger. If my body looked different because of that I’d hate it. I don’t know what I’d do, and it’d be all because of you guys. I don’t have a choice, remember?”

Merely speaking of the potential of this sends a grave pulse of adrenaline through your frame, and you begin to shiver even in the warm of the room.

Will takes off his jacket and puts it around your shoulders.

“Relax,” he says. “There’s not going to be a baby, alright?”

Hannibal stands to tend to the fire, though it scarcely needs the feast of logs he offers up to it.

“I can’t help but wonder, Will. How would you feel if there was?”

Will's face twists.

“There’s no place for an infant in this dynamic. It wouldn’t fit. She plays that role, some of the time. I’m fulfilled, if that’s what you want to know. Aren't you?”

"Of course," says Hannibal, to your relief. "I’m simply curious how you’d respond if a pregnancy occurred in other, hypothetical circumstances.”

You draw Will's jacket closer around you as his gaze steals across your body. With resentment you realise how he envisions you: his pretty young lover, full with his child, pottering heavily about his faraway residence amidst a froth of dogs.

He cannot bring himself to think how it would truly be, a sobbing, bloated servant, chained at the ankle to prevent her from dashing her head of its brains on the nearest dresser.

“I wouldn’t plan it to happen," Will says, still thinking of his domestic ideal, "but I don’t entirely hate the concept.”

Then his visage hardens, and he shakes his head.

“To have a child at a time like this would be ill-advised. It'd be an invitation to any circling predator to play their hand.”

“You think the Lover will continue to provoke us as he did with Amy,” says Hannibal. “That his interest is caught between his muse and the three of us."

Surely he knows, you think, if he has contact with the killer. What is this new game that Hannibal's playing?

“We’re taking a role in the narrative the Lover is creating,” says Will. “The love story. The investigation to him is like relatives standing in the way of forbidden romance.”

“That,” says Hannibal, “or being aware of our relationship through the rumours circulated by Tattle Crime he believes that our family emulates that which he aches to possess. He envies us our love. Amy’s abduction was an attempt to derail our charge’s treatment and destroy our bond with her; Little One would not have forgiven the death of a friend. Though foiled, his efforts are unlikely to end there.”

You recall the thunderous panic that had descended over you upon learning Amy had been taken and rub your damp palms dry on your dress, forgetting, temporarily, its value.

“So you think he’ll kill someone else I know,” you say. “Someone who isn’t even his usual type just to get at me.”

“We can’t deny the possibility,” says Will. “The only time we’re likely to see him break his pattern is to agitate you.”

“But hasn’t he broken it already? If the Lover’s victims are the same age as his target then she must be an adult. And the first muse had to have been a little girl— knowing what we know about guys like him, why didn’t he choose another child?”

A glance passes between Will and Hannibal that you cannot entirely dissect.

“He did,” says Will, at last. “The Lover chose his new target long before he started placing women into rubber dolls. There was a lack of access preventing him from abducting her when she was younger. His first muse would have likely been a relative, someone he could isolate and travel with freely without being questioned; he hasn’t had that opportunity with his new bride, or he would have taken her already.”

Will’s voice is low, careful, as though breaking the news of an incurable illness to some fragile patient.

“The Lover held off killing again for as long as he could to avoid creating a recognisable pattern. That’s why there were decades between the Mask Murders and the Lover killings; once he started again it was less likely the police would link the two cases together. The ages of the victims are just another change to throw off the scent.”

Another child grown up in the world observed and objectified by an adult engorged with power over them.

“Does the Lover know what happened to me?”

This directed at Hannibal, who has conversed enough with the killer to know.

“He’s aware that you’re unwell,” he replies, cautiously. “That being public knowledge, it’s not so farfetched to imagine that he has guessed the cause.”

In some subtle mode Hannibal is informing you that it was not he that told of this crime against your youth. But that your captor knowingly collaborated with a similar predator to your own folds your gut down into the smallest square.

You should never have expected more from him, yet you had thought him possessed of greater self-respect. His claim that the Lover’s continued life and freedom is to allow Will to capture him alone is tenuous to the extreme.

This line of brooding thought is disturbed by Will tugging his cell phone from his pocket to look at the screen.

“Is it Jack?” you ask at once.

Another killing, you think, of a person so close to you that you will feel the Lover’s darkness like wolf breath upon you.

“It’s Beverly Katz, actually,” says Will. “She’s been going over some of the evidence from the crime scenes. Maybe she’s found something useful.”

He rises, already grunting into the receiver with his usual absence of professional manners.

“There’s wine in the kitchen,” says Hannibal, as Will passes him by. “You may open it, if you like.”

“Generous as ever, Dr Lecter.”

A silence imbues the room in Will’s wake, the conversation having stained the air with its dun pallor.

Then in an abrupt motion Hannibal bends slightly to reach under his chair, his hand emerging around the handle of a ribboned gift bag.

“Now we have a moment of privacy,” he says, “there is something I’d like you to have.”

You accept the bag with apathy, too worn down by the discussion of the Lover case to muster even the remotest glee.

“What is it?” you ask. “Another present?”

You reach into a blossom of tissue and retrieve something of worn velveteen from within. Almost at once you attempt to return it to the bag, prevented only by Hannibal’s quick grip upon your wrist.

“How did you get that?” you demand. “Did you let yourself back into my house and steal it?”

A battered toy frog dangles from your throttling grip, its body worn almost through to the stuffing from past adoration. Once you’d cherished the early, half-formed memory of Leland Frost dancing the animal before you, giving it a voice that was merely an exaggerated version of its own.

Now you only cringe at the echo of his chatter. The frog’s glass eyes remind you of the porcelain mask on the dead face of Anaïs Foreau.

Hannibal says, “I asked your mother to find it and send it to me. She was glad to oblige.”

You glare at him in hurt and disgust.

“Why would you do that?”

“I believe Philippe represents the comfort that was ultimately tainted by the actions of another. In hiding him away you’ve allowed that arrow wound to fester and infect your blood with the taint of that historical abuse. I’d rather we heal the injury and cut out the flint entirely. It would hurt you far less to do so quickly now and discard at least some of your grief.”

That a man that hangs corpses in his cellar can speak also as a poet, calm and empathetic in his syllables takes you aback; you are as moved by his suggestion as you’d been by him tending you on your sickbed.

“You mean I should get rid of him for good,” you say. “Flip, I mean.”

“Yes. It would allow you a partial sense of closure in regards to the love you once had for Leland Frost. You may choose to give Philippe away, or to destroy him in whatever way you wish. I’d like it to be your choice.”

You hold Flip with both hands, knowing you cannot bear another child to cradle this thing with as you once did, and consider tearing it apart down the middle. Then you glance up at the fire, and see in its savagery a suitable end.

“I want to burn him,” you say. “Burn it.”

Hannibal nods, satisfied by your willingness to engage in the exercise.

“Very well. Go on, then.”

Without speaking another word you get up and throw the animal into the flames with such vehemence that you near unbolt your shoulder from its joint. The frog’s skin blackens into haggard twists, its eyes turning like the orb of some fell sorcerer into grim opacity.

As sparks spit like star falls from the pyre your misery and disgust sear away into a tired hollow, yet you feel somewhat cleaner for it, as though some poison has been turned out of the bottle of your heart.

Hannibal’s pale hand extends, palm up, towards you, and you take it, having no other to hold for comfort but that of a murderer.

“The burning of things has always held spiritual and emotional significance since its discovery by ancient man,” he says. “The charring of offerings as a gift to deities. The burning of the dead to transport them to planes beyond.”

“Witches burn things to cleanse energies,” you say. “Or to manifest something.”

“And of the two which is your purpose?”

He asks this quite seriously, without irony or teasing.

“I don’t know,” you say. “Both, I guess.”

Looking up into Hannibal’s expression you see for the first time something of what he feels for Will. It frightens you, and yet you wish to drink of it as though from an oasis.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “I’m glad we did this.”

Hannibal leans down to kiss the parting of your hair rather chastely, and you sit in an almost comfortable quiet together, your head nestled into his impeccably ironed shirt.

Abruptly you say, “Do you want to know why I thought about killing my Mom that time rather than Uncle Lee?”

You feel your captor straighten slightly against you.

“If you’re ready to tell me, then of course.”

Closing your eyes, you draw the strength to speak from your personal darkness.

“I loved my mom. I knew her so well. I had all these expectations of her and ideas of who and what she was supposed to be. So whenever she did something to hurt me or yelled at me it was easy to be mad at her. To wish that she was dead.

“But Leland... even when I loved him and he was my best friend I never really knew anything about him behind the act.”

Hannibal strokes the back of your neck, the rhythm of his touch like the rocking of a child to sleep.

“He had a mother that died, I heard,” you say. “A cousin, too, I think he mentioned once. He still has a lot of living family he never goes back to visit. Maybe all of that’s part of what made him what he is, but I don’t think so.

“They say you’re born with those attractions. I guess some people are ashamed of it and try to be better, but Leland obviously never did. He... relished what he was. Even before I knew what the dark shape behind the eyes of his mask was I always saw he had no shame in anything. And I couldn’t comprehend it, so how could I be angry?

“It’d be like trying to be mad at an animal. Or some kind of spirit or entity. I wouldn’t know how to kill something like that.”

Hannibal says, “It’s not an impossible feat to exorcise such a being.”

Even within the pain of remembered past you are amused that he is beginning to entertain your flair towards supernatural thinking rather than attempt to translate it into rational or psychological language.

“And how would I do that?” you ask. “Prayers and salt circles?”

“That won’t be necessary. All we must do is demystify your uncle’s past and the creation myth of his evil. Once we have before us the fabric of his becoming then he’ll no longer seem unknowable to you, only a mere mortal. A thing that can be killed.”

Opening your eyes you immediately glance aside, too conflicted by your gratitude towards the creature you most fear to meet his gaze.

“I’ve tried looking him up before,” you say, “going through all his social media and stuff. There wasn’t a lot. Fishing photos and dad jokes, mainly.”

“Leave it with me,” says Hannibal. “For now, I have one final question on the matter of Leland Frost. If you were to ever reach the point you were able to kill him would you do so in the same way you’d envisioned for your mother? It is a form of intimacy, the use of a knife. It allows you to feel every physical aspect of death as it occurs and to witness in close quarters the recognition of its approach in the eyes of your victim.

This again, you think with a weary resignation.

"I don't know how I'd do it," you say. "Just like I wouldn't know how to kill you. It's unthinkable."

"Is it?" asks Hannibal, and with a liquid motion he withdraws a knife from the inside of his jacket— not the little fruit peeler with which he'd threatened you on that night of revelation but a steel kitchen blade, half the length of his arm and cruel in the maintained evil of its edge.

You start away from him across the couch, halting only when he turns the weapon upon himself, offering you the handle.

“Show me how you’d kill me if you had the opportunity to do so.”

Anxious, incredulous, you accept the knife from him.

“You’re trusting me with this, Dad?”

“Yes. I hope that you appreciate the gesture. Besides, I’m confident that I could disarm you before you’d done more than graze the skin.”

The image of him snapping your wrist in his fingers elicits a shudder.

“I don’t want to do this," you say, and attempt to hand the knife back, which Hannibal refuses.

“If you fear and respect me as your father then you must obey. Demonstrate your instincts for me, Little One. Would you pierce my heart as you would have done your mother? Perhaps you’d slit my throat, as you’d considered for Will."

You don't like to be reminded of the evening your cowardice had shattered your just revenge like a spell, the hour that Will had taken you so spitefully against a wall behind which Hannibal had listened. Perhaps it would have been a kinder fate to have died for your attempt on him before you’d learned that there was no use in hatred against him any longer.

“You’d never let me kill you, Daddy," you say, aloud. "You’d kill me first, just like you said.”

“You’re stalling, Little One," says Hannibal, with a certain fondness. "Is it the honesty of the act that perturbs you? So much else in you is performance or secrecy; this, even in theatre, would be true to your desire.”

Exasperated, you set the blade down beside you, careful not to slit the cushions and induce Hannibal’s controlled wrath.

“I don’t want your blood on my hands. Or on my face. What if I swallowed it? There are calories in blood, and I don’t know how many.”

Hannibal’s brows rise.

“You’re serious.”

It’s certainly one reason for your hesitation, and you are more than happy for him to latch onto it if it gets you out of this sinister play of his.

“I worry about a lot of stuff like that,” you admit. “Gum. Toothpaste. I used to think maybe just smelling food would make me gain weight, but then sometimes I’d walk past restaurants or through the kitchen just to breathe the food in and pretend I’d eaten it. I’d watch cooking shows or make Pinterest boards of meals so I could look at them and eat them through my eyes.

“But I’m scared to have it touch my mouth. Even when I chew and spit food sometimes I get mad I even let myself go that far.”

“I wouldn’t allow you to spit any blood of mine,” says Hannibal. “You’ve already consumed parts of me; whatever change would come of it is already in motion.”

His semen, his saliva, particles of him altering you each time they pass the forbidden frontier of your throat— will they make you like him, you wonder, by the process of biological assimilation?

“You’re right,” you say. “And I’m scared of that, too.”

Hannibal takes your face in his hand, tracing the round of your cheek as he might some delicate ornament of glass.

“You’ve been driven by your experiences to view any sort of evolution in a negative light. I understand that, and so I don’t ask that you become identical to Will or I. That’s why we allow you to remain a child and manage all the responsibilities that would otherwise overwhelm and inhibit your progress. We would protect you with our lives if we had to.”

With shock you realise you believe him. The logic of their violence is beyond your comprehension in its uncertain borders, yet that they would guard you with it as surely as punish you cannot deny.

“Still, I don’t want you to be helpless,” Hannibal continues. “Try as we might, there are dangers even Will and I cannot anticipate or prepare for. It’s pertinent for you to possess the ability to defend yourself under those circumstances, should they ever occur. So, with the knife, please—"

“Not today, Daddy,” you interrupt, and again tuck the knife into one of his loose hands. “I’m too tired for this right now. But I’m wondering... if you were forced to kill me, even if you didn’t want to, where would you cut me?”

For a moment Hannibal’s face registers surprise, and you are almost proud that you are able to elicit this emotion in him. Then his free hand goes to your neck, holding your face at a distance from his before slowly enclosing your throat in its cravat.

“Here,” says Hannibal, in a husky undertone, and as he kisses you the blade falls away in place of a new hardness against you.

You feel Will’s returning presence as a dog does an intruder in the house, turning to see his glaring jealousy pierce the distance between you. Proud and resentful— and, perhaps, still uncertain of the sexual aspect of his obsession with Hannibal Lecter—he does not invite himself into the triad as he has done before.

He would rather abstain, sneer in absence of reconciliation, make an outsider of himself in the most unnecessary fashion.

“Is this a private moment?” Will asks as you reverse with a guilty velocity from Hannibal’s lap.

“Certainly not,” says Hannibal, pushing the knife out of sight. “How was your call with Beverly? Did she have anything of interest to say?”

Will, regarding you with an unreadable expression, only says, “We’ll talk about it later.”

Meaning after you’ve gone to bed, either disinclined to let you in on their private gossip or having judged what he has heard too foul even for your seasoned ears to perceive.

Whatever the case Will is choosing to hide something from you, and you do not like it.

[keitorin3]

Picture this~

The Marvel Multiverse thing about your dreams but with Merlin.

So I rewatched the "Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness" and had this thought about what if Merlin had constant dreams of his alternate future-self before he came to Camelot.

And I don't mean his future-self in S5 but himself in the 21st century.

Like, this would confuse young Merlin who lives in medieval times and has these fantastical dreams where there are moving metal contraptions and steel birds and towering crystal-like buildings.

But most of all, I think that he'd dream of himself as an old professor or doctor. Like, we know Merlin knows how to read and write in S1 and that it was most definitely thanks to his mother, but what if he was more advanced then that?

What if seeing these dreams of another version of himself as a professor or doctor made Merlin truly want to be a physician with Gaius?

But what's more, he brings with him his 21st century mindset into his life like...

*Merlin hearing Kilgharrah*

Kilgharrah: Merlin~

Merlin: Yeah God? I'm kinda in the middle of a midlife crisis you know. Got tossed into prison by a gorgeous blond bimbo who will most likely be my crap boss in the future, so can't be insane right now sorry.

Kilgharrah: ...

Gaius comes in looking cross: Merlin you idiot!

Merlin: Nevermind, god take me now please.

*Merlin meeting Kilgharrah*

Kilgharrah: How small you are for such a great destiny.

Merlin: Holy shit, is this like Braveheart? Wait, no, sorry wrong movie I mean Dragonheart?

Kilgharrah: What?

Merlin: Are you gonna tell me we have to ban together to stop the King from doing something terrible because some dumbass stupidly gave him a gift or something to do with Life or Death and now the king is out of control and must be stopped?

Kilgharrah: ... *after a moment of self doubt and contemplation* Yes... After freeing me, yes. It is your destiny.

Merlin: Hmm, your kinda sus. How do I know you aren't lying to me? And if I have to kill some king can it be someone like Cenred? Total dick king, honestly.

Kilgharrah: *Ignores that for now and will debate destiny later* Your gift, Merlin, was given to you for a reason.

Merlin: So there is a reason for my dreams.

Kilgharrah: Yes-What? No, I meant your magic.

Merlin: But that's forbidden in Camelot, and besides, I need my head for when I become a physician!

Kilgharrah: You were made for a greater purpose Merlin. Arthur is the Once and Future King who will unite the land of Albion. But he faces many threats from friend and foe alike. Without you, Arthur will never succeed. Without you, there will be no Albion.

Merlin: Riiight... And then he and I marry, have brilliant blond children and live happily ever after, while working as a Physician.

Kilgharrah: ... No

Merlin: Then nah, blondy can fight his own battles. Been training to kill since birth I hear.

Kilgharrah: There is no right or wrong, only what is and what isn't.

Merlin: *mutters* What are you, a fortune cookie?

Kilgharrah: None of us can choose our destiny, Merlin, and none of us can escape it.

Merlin: OK, fine. I'll bite into the forbidden apple, but I'm most likely not bringing an Adam down with me. Arthur is a idiot but I don't see him changing within this century.

Kilgharrah: Perhaps it's your destiny to change that. *Then proceeds to fly off*

Merlin: Wait-! Ugh, thanks for nothing you useless reptile.

Lol, I can just image all the possibilities where Merlin makes a reference to something and everyone around him are just completely confused and just writes him off as a fool with a wide but intelligent imagination.

This was also greatly inspired by @theroundbartable post (here) of 21st century Arthur as King.

So much fun, like I think because of Merlin able to kinda see into his alternate self's life he has the modern perspective but still have the medieval stomach to survive. And, he goes about figuring out his magic using the scientific method of Question , Research, Hypothesis, Experiment, Data Analysis, Conclusion, and Communication. Like why does he not need to speak words? Is magic spells like coding? Or is it a force? Is he a Jedi or a Sith?

Considering flowers bloom when he's happy but rain and storms pour when sad or angry, he is likely neither a force of good or evil.

Merlin has all these internal thoughts and with Gaius, finally has someone to bounce theories off of (that's not Will of Hunith) and share knowledge with.

At some point Gaius would just suggest Merlin write them down (because Gaius is too old and can't keep up as fast). Taking his advise and spends his next pay check on a brand new journal.

And I can see Merlin and Arthur being the same old same old, but Merlin is more concerned for Arthur and Morgana's well being seeing as their only role model is emotionally abusing (and confusing) Uther.

So he'd team up with Gwen and set about trying to make both Pendragon Siblings happy.

And I better end here or else I'll go on and on.

Til next we meet fellow dreamers~! ✨

[thewayhavenchronicle]

N Sewell's Big Secret - A Theory

So, I've been replaying N's route lately and an epiphany came to me last night when I was playing the end of Book 3.

It's in Book 2 I believe that you can ask Nate if he's ever killed someone while talking to him about how old he is. He frowns for a minute and says, "Not with my own hands, no."

Weird, right? After what we see in the mirror at the carnival, when he says he got turned at sea, it's clear that the image in the mirror was of that time right after he got turned. He's covered in blood, surrounded by bodies while wearing a British Royal Navy uniform.

Originally, since Falk declared N Not Guilty, I assumed that perhaps N had come to terms with the reaction they had to being a newly turned vampire. I thought maybe they'd lost control and slaughtered the men of the ship, or perhaps they'd been attacked and defended themself. A sort of Jekyll + Hyde situation where N doesn't consider their frenzied state to be truly Them.

BOOK 3 SPOILERS AHEAD

And then we get into Book 3, and it's really clear that N has not been to therapy enough to not blame themself if they'd killed that many people. They're overprotective and selfless to the point of self sacrifice for the slightest inconvenience and they blame themself for any little inconvenience that befalls MC. Clearly, they are not well-adjusted enough to separate something that happened in desperation and fear from who they truly are.

This put me on the back foot, trying to figure out what that could mean. If you are dating N, they tell you about their brother, M*lton, who was killed by vampires. They tell you about joining the Navy to seek revenge or to at least find out what happened to their brother. Makes sense.

The moment that made my theory CLICK in my head happens at the end of the book, if you ignore Rebecca's idea and go alone to the auction.

So, you get captured and the auctioneer person tries to sell you off for your blood. Just like the other 3 routes, N will come to rescue you at the auction, and they have a brief spat with someone in the audience who tries to outbid them.

[ID included on screenshot.]

This moment I originally thought was a pheromone thing. It doesn't seem like just a threat, as Nate seems visibly shaken and weakened by whatever it is he did. Also, the strange way the supernatural responds seems to suggest some kind of influence.

And then it hit me --- "Not with my own hands, no."

N's power is some kind of mind control / suggestion ability.

They never killed anyone with their own hands because they told the pirates / vampires to kill each other or kill themselves.

The theme of control comes up several times in N's route. N prides themself on being very in control of their body and their emotions, keeps their wants hidden and their true feelings locked firmly away beyond anything that is pleasant or kind. It makes me wonder if, aside from being able to influence people on command, if they can accidentally influence people when they get too emotional.

I also think it might require touch to really make the power work. They constantly keep their hands in their pockets and, while this is a normal enough idle motion, the fact that they touched the supernatural here and often put their hands in their pockets / withdraw touch when having a disagreement with someone suggests it might have something to do with it.

The amount of trust that UB must have in N when they have a power like that is enormous. It also sheds new light on the arguments that N and A often get into, as it seems that if N really wanted to, they could get their way every time via this weird power.

It also sheds new light on Rebecca's concern for N and MC. The assumption that MC is immune to this ability is there, but there's always the chance that they aren't, and Rebecca being worried about N forcing MC into doing things via suggestion seems to be very real.

It also makes me wonder if N has ever tested out whether their suggestion works on MC, or if they've thought about it with something small. Makes me wonder if we are entirely immune or if there's going to be some caveat like with M and their pheromones causing MC pain.

EITHER WAY, I feel like I figured it out. I'm losing my mind with the implications of it all.

[uponawhitehorse13]

Rachel drinking your blood

Rachel hated drinking blood. Due to her nature as a vampire normal food didn't satisfy her in any way despite being far more palatable. She had tried all kinds of things. Blood from humans and animals alike, hot or cold, fresh or preserved. She even went as far to try and alter the donor's lifestyle and eating habits in hopes of improving the taste to no avail. 

At this point she practically hated blood as ironic as that may seem. Of course she'd still drink it to survive but treating it more as bitter medicine rather than food. Something she simply wants to get over with rather than something she actually enjoys. Drinking blood was always something she did only if she had to. 

That was until she met you. In the start she began her usual act of talking about how much she hates drinking blood and in the end it technically wasn't a lie. That was until you caught her. After that there was no point in hiding it and she simply explained her relationship with blood. 

What she did not expect was for you to offer your own blood. She was quick to dismiss the idea but with great effort you managed to wear her down. Which led to this moment. 

You were sitting alone in a room waiting for Rachel to come back. When she entered the room you noticed she was carrying an old fashioned doctor's bag. As she sat down near you you could see her start taking out things like disinfectant, band aids and a needle. When you realised her intention you could only mutter a disappointed "Oh...". 

"What seems to be the issue?" Rachel asked with a small bit of annoyance in her voice. 

"Nothing! I was just expecting... well you know." you said.

"*sigh* I guess you really are a pervert beyond help. Fine, take off your shirt." Rachel commanded.

"WHAT?!" 

"Is something troubling you?" she asked, clearly paying no attention to your surprise.

"Yeah you were calling me a pervert a second ago and now you're making me strip. Don't vampires usually go for the neck?" you tried arguing.

"Using places with such heavy flow would serve no purpose other than to kill you and make a mess. The chest is much more manageable." With her explanation shutting you up you proceeded to give her access to your chest. 

Rachel did not like this idea but figured she could indulge you this one time. As she sank her teeth into the flesh above your nipple she braced herself for the awful taste. Instead she was greeted with the most delicious thing she ever tasted. It was indescribable. Rachel's eyes rolled back as she continued to suck the sanguine nectar, losing herself in the pleasure of the flavor. 

If it weren't for you reminding her to stop she very well would have sucked you dry. After taking care of the punctures her teeth created she was getting ready to leave before you stopped her with a comment. 

"So? Better than the other stuff huh?" you teased.

"Well it's not a high standard to beat." she commented simply. She could leave teasing for another time, for now she had to think of a way to get more of that sweet lifeblood while maintaining her current level of self respect.

From then on you will often be used to satisfy her hunger. She has ways of boosting the pace at which you produce blood but it’s not enough for her to drink from you more than once a week. Even rarer usually. 

This does not stop her from indulging in her craving in other ways. She will often prick your finger to add a drop of blood to her tea. She’ll of course keep it in her mouth while it stops bleeding too. If there’s no tea she’ll still bite into it to get a small “snack” as she calls it. 

Despite your complaining of being treated like a pincushion you’re happy to be of service to her. Seeing her almost moan at the taste of your blood brought you an incredibly smug feeling you didn’t act on out of consideration for her image.

[lightningant]

I've never seen characterizations of Tom and Harry the way yours is. I love how neurotic and messed up they both are -- they're *SO CUTE* too. <3 <3 <3

Tom is just so exhausted and cynical and Harry is a manic catastrophe with sooo many crossed wires and they're HILARIOUS. XD

And just so well written, I cannot tell you how distracted I was for at least a week after I read what you had for your fic -- I truly, truly admire your narration and dialogue and characterizations (I already said that but PLEASE I LOVE THEM SO **BAD** >O< ) Soooo funny and well made.

They're realistic! Tom and Harry are so messy and also normal people at the end of the day who make mistakes and aren't super cool all the time (really, they're utter dorks, and you TOTALLY show thatt) but also they're competent and scary and stubborn and you just have suchh a nice blend of their facets and I JUST....aghhh, I love itt.

Also I ADORE your designs -- I love how Tom is so sickly and neat (you said it best "Victorian child with tuberculosis" LMAO), and Harry is so IDK, he's just a Guy but in the most wonderful way -- I'm not actually good with words :,))))

I just love your art style in general, it's like, realistic yknow. You don't get rid of normal people "imperfections", they're a part of the design or enhance them -- I don't think the word imperfections is right, I just mean like, you don't exclude non-conventionally attractive aspects of bodies or facial expressions??? Idk, I'm trying here, I really am. Just, just, just I like it a lot and I wanna be like that toooooo >.<

IIIIIIII dunno if I have accurately gotten anything across or even given an actual good compliment in this entire thing but anyways you're very cool and awesome and also PLEASE forget that I said they were Babygirl I've never used that word before in my LIFEE and don't know if that was right at all -- if it was nevermind I meant it all and am so cool -- ANYWAYS bye :,)

I don't think I've succeeded in lessening my embarrassment but uhhhhh, I hope I've at least articulated myself better :,)))

Askbomb swag. Thank you, this message was so sweet :) I shall try to match energies.

One of the things I love most is that the kind of person who puts up pretensions is, innately, trying to hide something about themselves they find sub-par. Tom isn't just a scary and incredibly powerful domineering sigma male who is a master manipulator, he is a person who is actively attempting to turn himself into that man, and in my fic he is still a teenager and still tripping his way through that mental image he has of himself. The two worst ages to ever be are 15 and 20; fifteen, when you are ready to shed childhood but don't know what maturity looks like just yet, and 20, when you are ready to become your own person and achieve adulthood, picking your way across existence-defining beliefs. And his only friend for the past like, 7 months? has been his 16-year-old self who has the single-minded objective of looking cool and mature to his adult self. A hell of his own making.

Harry is also 20. He is one of those 'unusually mature for his age' kids and he has an inflated sense of his own righteousness and capability, despite being the actual one with the emotional range of a teaspoon (he just knows to keep it himself). There is no way Harry would detect he is having a manic fit, especially if he is having one that is triggered by his arrested feelings on Sirius. It's incredibly fun writing him perform this extremely risky and reality-altering plan and his plan was "idk, kill him?" and picking shit up off the ground whenever he sees it, the DADA position included. our hero.

Beautiful tragic terminally ill gothic prince / fit jock is really a match made in heaven aesthetically. Cannot get enough of it

Thank you for art compliment too ^_^ I used to lean more to anime fandoms so Harry Potter really let me stretch my legs on more 'normal people' facial features like big noses and soft chins and I'm glad it's clear how much fun I'm having doing that. Yay! Though one of the compliments I've always gotten that I've always been proud of is how distinct the way I draw expressions is.

No no...you're right. Tom is absolutely a babygirl. And Harry...well he was certainly Ginny's babygirl, and I'm sure a part of him is really itching to have someone put their hand on the small of his back 😔

[tavolgisvist]

The suits

Think, I don't want to clog the idontwanttospoiltheparty's post so put my comments here. @idontwanttospoiltheparty wrote good tags

I was just thinking about the suits too. And I came to the same conclusion: the suits as a way to express dissatisfaction with something else. Look,

1971 (the trial for the dissolution of The Beatles etc):

He was a theatrical man rather than a businessman, and with us he was a bit like that. He literally fucking cleaned us up. And there were great fights between him and me, over years and years, of me not wanting to dress up. He and Paul had some kind of collusion... to keep me straight. Because I kept spoiling the image, like the time I beat up a guy at Paul's twenty-first (birthday). I nearly killed him, because he insinuated that me and Brian had an affair in Spain. I was out of me mind.

(John Lennon, September 5th, 1971, St. Regis Hotel in New York City, interview with Peter McCabe and Robert Schonfeld)

and 1975 (meeting with Paul in 1974 and after):

Q: How true is the myth that Brian Epstein packaged the Beatles? А: Everything is true and not true about everything. That’s one thing I’ve learned. Both things are both true. Q: That’s a very Yoko answer … But was there a point where you four were very naive? А: Oh, we weren’t naive. We were no more naive than he was. I mean what was he, he was serving in a record shop. And he saw this group of sort of rockers … or greasers playing loud music and a lot of kids paying attention to it. So he thought well, this is a business to be in. He liked the look of us, and thought, I’ll be a manager. It was as simple as that. He said, I think I can manage you, and we had nobody better, and we said, All right, you can do it. Then he went shopping around, getting us work, and then there came to a bit when he said, Look, if you cut your hair… Q: How long was it? А: For then, it was longer than any of the photographs. Normally, in any photograph, it had been trimmed or cut. Even school photographs—have you noticed that— your hair always seemed to be cut the day before they took the school photograph. Or whenever you had a photograph of your holidays, somehow the parents or somebody always managed to cut your hair. But there’s some private pictures where it was pretty long for those days, longer than the early pictures. And it was still greased back, and outside of Liverpool, when we went down South in the leather outfits, the dance-hall promoters didn’t really like us, because they thought we looked like a gang of thugs. So Epstein said, Look, if you wear this suit … and we liked suits, everybody wanted a good suit, a nice black, sharp suit, man … you know, yeah, man, I’ll have a suit. So, if you wear a suit, you get this much money. All right, wear a suit, you get more money, wear a suit, I’ll wear a fucking balloon if they’re going to pay me. He was our salesman. He was our front. If you notice, another quirk of life is that self-made men usually have someone with education to front for them. Epstein had enough education to go in and talk to the hobnobs in their own language, and it’s the same now. If I have a lawsuit, I have to get a lawyer to talk to them. Epstein fronted for the Beatles. He played a great part at whatever he did; he was theatrical, that was for sure, and he believed in us. But he certainly didn’t package us the way they said [he did]. Look, we weren’t picked up off the street, we allowed him to take us. Paul wasn’t so keen [on him], Paul’s more conservative in the way he approaches things, and that’s all well and good—maybe he’ll end up with more yachts.

(John Lennon, FEB 19, 1975, interview with Lisa Robinson)

Different years, different circumstances - and different reactions to the suits.

And we remember Brian wasn't the first person who dressed John in a suit (haha I have a reason to quote Len Garry and add a link to amoralto):

“Yeah yeah, it’s all very well, Paul,” muttered John. “Just because your Dad played in some old time music hall in the thirties doesn’t mean we should go on stage wearing white coats. People will think we’re a bunch of fairies.” “Wait a minute, John, I’m burning the toast.” Paul, clattering about in the kitchen, seemed oblivious to John’s emphatic statement. He then came out of the kitchen with a pile of buttered toast on a large plate for the ravenous horde waiting. “What did you say? I couldn’t hear you properly; oh, the white coats, is that what you’re on about? What’s your problem with that? Look John, it’s about time we started smartening up our image because we can’t go on looking like a gang of ruffians just dragged off the streets,” retorted Paul. “We must look professional – we’re on the stage, in the public eye, and appearances are important. If we start looking the part then perhaps you may even be able to get your chords right.” Paul said this last point in a jovial manner, not wishing to rouse John’s temper, as he knew even after short acquaintance with John that he could soon ‘fly off the handle’ if provoked. John seemed unperturbed by the insinuation that Paul was making about his professionalism (or lack of it). There was a silence for a couple of minutes as we all munched on our buttered toast. “Yeah okay – but white coats? I can’t see myself in one of those. Anyway, where would we get them from?” “Never mind that – Nigel will sort that out. Look, it will be you and me up front from now on as main guitarists and vocalists so it’ll look good, the both of us wearing the same gear. It will be white coats, white shirts and black bow ties – the rest of the group can wear white shirts and black bow ties.” John still seemed undecided and looked to me for support. “What do you think, Len?” he asked. “I think the answer lies in the soil,” I said, trying to bring a bit of humour into what seemed to me a contest building up between two strong personalities, each having been used to getting their own way. Continuing in a none-too-serious vein, “But then again I think that you two don’t need us anymore, we’re has-beens.” [...] “Come on, Len, be serious for a minute. What do you think?” repeated John, who was by this time desperate for support. “I honestly think it’s worth a try and it will probably improve our image,” I said half-heartedly. Suddenly John resorted to his lighter mode. “Ooh, eh! We will look smart. Why don’t we hire a limousine and dress up as undertakers instead?” he quipped. “Don’t be thick, John, we’d all have to wear black for that,” Eric Griffiths suddenly interjected. “Okay, we’ll all be in white then – it’s agreed,” said Paul. John then started up with a song that had recently been popularised: “A white sport coat and a pink carnation, I’m getting dressed up for a dance.” With that John did a little dance around the room. The Quarrymen Committee had arrived at another major decision without too much rancour.

(John, Paul and Me: Before The Beatles by Len Garry, 1997)

It's interesting, I didn't know:

1963 was the year of the now iconic collarless suit – created for the band by UK tailor, Dougie Millings, whom we learn went on to make over 500 outfits for the group. His collarless creation was conceived in a brainstorming session involving Paul McCartney, who’d originally proposed the idea. Their suits were modeled on an original design by Pierre Cardin, but tweaked to make it a distinctively Beatles’ garment.

(from review of Fashioning the Beatles – The Looks That Shook the World (2023, by Deirdre Kelly)

And the Paul's reason to wear the same suits (from Conversations With McCartney by Paul Du Noyer, 2012):

Later, not long before he died in April 1962, Sutcliffe visited his former group in Liverpool, with Kirchherr on his arm. “He was looking thin and pale, and he must’ve been taking medication, because, like the letter from him reproduced in the book, which is very James Joyce-y and surreal, he was sometimes just floating, and then all of a sudden, he wasn’t,” McCartney recalls. “There’s a picture in the book of Astrid, with her very short, Mia Farrow-type hair, John and Stu outside the Cavern. Not long after that, we were all down there, in the Cavern, and I remember Stu and Astrid walking in, and Stu had this ordinary jacket, but without the collar. We all pissed ourselves laughing. He was not happy, because we didn’t get it, the style. But then, when he died, those famous Beatles collarless jackets, they’re in homage. They weren’t Beatles jackets. They were Stu’s jacket.”

(Mike McCartney, June 2022, interview with Jeff Slate)

[thebookbutterfly]

🦋 Chocolate Chips — John Wick x Reader

Summary: Every year you and John celebrate Helen’s birthday. This year would have been her 40th, so you decide to do something special.

Tags: #so much domestic fluff, #a teensy bit of angst, #sometimes babygirl is a 50 year old hit man, #he may kill people for a living but he is SOFT and I will not be taking any arguments about this, #slightly self indulgent

Warnings: Gender Neutral, but reader is suggested to have long hair, no use of Y/N, mentions of death obviously, no beta and no ‘ragrets’

- — - • - — - • - — - • - — - • - — - • - — - • - — -

John’s occupation put a lot of things in life into perspective. Getting into silly fights was simply not worth it. Not when every time he walked out the door the stakes were so high. That’s not to say that you never had disagreements. Just that neither of you were willing to partake in petty lack of communication.

You had known about Helen from the very day you and John had begun dating. It was hard not to. The man loved her so much it was written on every piece of him. Strangely though you didn’t mind. How could you? When that wonderful woman had brought him through so much shit and out to the the other side. To you.

Simply to say that Helen was a part of what made the love of your life himself. And so you didn’t mind his love for her at all. Especially now that his love for you was written all over him too.

It was Helen’s birthday today. You saved the date and had been sneakily preparing everything for weeks now. It would have been her 40th birthday, so you wanted to make it extra special this year. John had been out on a contract all day yesterday and so you weren’t too worried about him waking up as you crept downstairs and into the kitchen.

You removed the cake you had baked from the fridge where you had hidden it and placed it on the counter. Chocolate caramel. Her favourite flavour. The big silver four and zero candles were perfect. Along side the cake you placed a large vase full of daisies. It was perfect. All that was left to do was breakfast.

You set to work, cutting up fruit and frying bacon and eggs. You knew John would be starving when he woke up, he always was after a hit. You supposed hunting someone down burned a serious amount of calories. Lastly, you set to work on the pancakes. You knew they were Johns favourite and you were more than happy to indulge him, especially today. He always asked for heaps of chocolate chips in his. You rolled your eyes affectionately at the thought. He was a chocolate fiend but when he stared at you with those big brown eyes. Ugh. Who were you to say no to such a gentle, beautiful man?

You were just plating up the last of the pancakes when you heard soft footsteps padding down the stairs, followed by the excited skitter of Boy as he raced his dad down to the kitchen. John was silent as death so you knew the fact that you could hear him approach was deliberate and more for you than anything else.

Boy entered the room a minute before John did; tail wagging like crazy. You laughed at his enthusiasm and leaned down to ruffle his ears affectionately. John’s sleepy form shuffled in just as Boy managed to land a lick to your cheek. He smiled at the sight of his little family. Boy: seemingly very proud of himself and you: wiping the drool off your face as you stood to greet him.

It was unfair, you thought, for the boogeyman to be someone as cute as him. John was wearing a soft long sleeve shirt and his favourite pair of flannel pyjama pants. As usual he had stolen one of your scrunchies to pull back his long hair— a green one with ducks on it, this time.

You had offered to buy him some of his own. Cool ones to fit his bad-boy assassin image; you had teased. But he had somewhat sheepishly declared that he liked yours better. You didn’t mind. After all you stole a fair share of his clothes too. So you had compromised and bought a few extra for yourself, that way he could be a thief and you wouldn’t run out.

Johns eyes drifted to the cake and the vase of flowers on the counter, and he froze. You watched as the memories hit him one after the other. Boy, sensing his dad’s distress, waddled over to his side and plopped himself down on John’s foot. The contact jolted him back to reality and he lifted his watery eyes to yours. “You did all this?” he finally choked out.

You stepped over boy and slipped your arms around his waist.

“It would be her 40th. I wanted to do something special for her this year,” you replied before a bit of hesitancy creeped into your voice. “Is it okay?”

John wrapped his arms around you, tugging you right against his chest. It took him a minute to reply and your heart thundered as you waited for him to say something. He buried his head into your neck and you cradled him there with the palm of your hand on his nape. Keeping him safe— holding him together as he answered with tears in his voice.

“It’s perfect. Thank you.”

You breathed a sigh of relief. Reaching with your unoccupied hand you began to trace constellations on his back. It was a habit you had gotten from him, actually, but it had stuck with you. He had spent years with nothing but violence for company, so you relished touching him gently.

Slowly, you pulled him to face you. You pressed a kiss to his forehead and swiped away his tears with your thumbs.

“I love you,” you said softly. You held him firmly willing him to really hear it.

“I love you too, so much.”

You stood there for a second, just holding his face in your hands. Enjoying the warmth of his skin. Boy sensed the shift in mood and slowly his tail began to thump against your legs.

“You had a long night last night,” you broke the silence. “Let’s get some food in you. Then after that we can light the candles and you can tell me about some of your favourite memories of Helen. Yeah?”

John nodded, straightening, but kept his grip on your waist as he surveyed all the food you had made.

“I’d love that. Do you mind if we have a look at the photos too?” He asked softly.

“I already put the photo albums out on the coffee table,” you replied with a cheeky grin.

His chest rumbled as he laughed, “Am I that predictable?”

You beamed at the sound, poking him in the ribs as he snuck Boy a piece of bacon. Big softie.

“I think I just happen to know you quite well. You’re much less mysterious than you think,” you teased him and tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

“Alright, I’ll accept that,” he said with one last peck on your lips. “Now, let’s eat before this goes cold.”

[daeagon]

My Reactions to the Season Finale of TDofJ

Time for the SeaSON FINaLe

😮‍💨 I wasn’t planing on doing this, but here I am

How did Jackal escape the Boats? I love the car chase but you get up a boat one last ep

😭😭😭😭😭

WHY IS JACKAL HOMOPHOBIC?! How hurt you!! I’m sorry ok! Please stop killing gay men!

Something something Bianca signed up to help people and has been told to do whatever it takes and she does that to a T, but goes too far, people die and she is dealing with the guilt and consequences, she does what she has been conditioned to do, continue, she is/has lost her humanity for this job and for what?

Say that again? (I can’t find the gif, but you know it)

*scarsactic* wow! It’s almost like that’s how J was in the army and Bianca is a mirror, woah

‘I quit’ SLAYYY QUEENNN!!! You leave them!

but now who’s the reckless loner??? It was a self fulfilling prophecy! She has become the Jackal in her own way, also she has no resources now

IS THAT BRITISH FORUGN SECRETARY THE MOLE?! He’s sus! Also love the music

HE IS THE MOLE! ITS A CONSPIRACY!! ‘Your friends’ WHO?! So he’s leading this, but why? What do they gain?

also Bianca’s going rogue I just know it

I’m so confused! Could the friends be someone the Jakcal has killed? But he was with the people who wanted UDC dead? He’s such a good villain that chuckle!? ‘let her deal with him’ CHILLS CHILLS! I’m so scared for Bianca! This feels like a trap

OH SHIT KID NOOO! what kind of Dr. Strange car flip is that?

Wow, that poor car, poor Jackal!

‘I’d say it was a pleasure, but it was not’ I love her already! Slayyyyyy

She’s cutting the brother off!! 😮

he’s going to the police, he’s telling, he’s going villain I can feel it!

Oh shit, daddy issues, that was cold Nuria! Cold! Don’t do that

THE CAR JS ON FIRE ITS GOING TO EXPLODE GET OUT!

calling the police is not as reassuring as you think it is

THE KIND RANDOM MAN LIVED!! Yippie! You might have some humanity in you yet!

this man just goes around stealing cars and seducing people

Awww I love Bianca and her husband!

MIRRORS TO THIS BEING JACKALS LAST JOB!!! 👀

identity change time!!

I could analyze that, I could, but I won’t (that being J’s scream as he pushes the evidence over a ledge)

oh no, is this another J in the wilderness ep? Bc I hated that time in Hungary

HE PUT HIS WEDDING RING ON!! BLENDING OF HIS 2 LIVES YESSSSSS

Their suspicion! They’ve seen the image! (Which some other have pointed out but it doesn’t really look like him)

but it’s interesting that normal people are being so suspicious of others and thinking twice about helping them, people turning on each other (what comes to mind is Nazi Germany and people snitching on their neighbors) very interesting!

I love the family dynamic! I wish this way my family!

DONT ANSWER THE DOOR!!! OH NO ITS ISOBEL

She’s so awkward, why is the husband hitting the 🧍‍♂️

I love that old couple! Please don’t kill them 🙏

NOOOO!

‘This will all be over soon’ FORSHADOWI N HELLO??

(I forgot to keep adding oops)

‘for the ones who have died’ GURL SHUT THE HELL UP YOU DO NOT CARE ABOUT THEM!!

‘No’ YES!!! TELL THEM NO BIANCA!! I genuinely love a black woman telling someone in the government no!!

WHY ARE YOU GOING TOT HE BORDER WHEN YOUR RUNNING FROM THE POLICE?!

please don’t kill them! 🙏

don’t smoke kids! Remember that!

THEY REMIND HIM OF HIS PARENTS 😭😭😭WERE?!! Are they dead! Probably

DAMN! That’s cold, but understandable

HOLY SHIT! SHE STABBED HIM IN THA BACK LITERALLY

This poor man, he’s been in a car crash, stabbed, he’s going through it

HE JUST PULLED IT OUT! DONT DO THST!! It’s keeping blood in! If you pull it out you’ll start bleeding out!

oh he angy

HE WAS REGAINING HUMANITY/NOT BURRYING IT AND HE GRTS STABBED IN THE BACK

’why couldn’t you have just let it go’ (that’s Bianca’s fatale flaw)

HE LOOKED AWAY ANSBABSFHAND

I don’t know how to feel about these events

DOES HE SEE HIS PARENTS?!!!

He’s always surrounded by bodies, that’s so sad

then immediately cut to Bianca’s family

’one last thing’ I’ve heard this before

The way J calls Nuria ‘my love’ 💕 I love it

‘Are you ok?’

YOU CAN SEE THE BLOOD FROM THE OPEN STAB WOUND?!! (I’m getting the ick from the idea of a stab wound in the shoulder I feel like I can feel it ick, also bc I’m left handed the thought of getting stabbed in the left shoulder ewww)

Something something him hiding his pain (real)

THIS PHONE CALL FEELS LIKE A GOODBY

Oh no! I feel so bad for him! Get him his wife!!

WELL SHIT! Bianca is in Spain! OH NO SHES GOING TO KIDNAP NURIA NOOOOO!

it’s a trap, none knows but Isabel and Vince (he’s also done absolutely nothing this season, which is sad bc I love him! He has so much potential)

As a person I was watching this with said ‘that’s going to go boom/make a big boom’

🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨BIRD ALERT 🚨 🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨

BIRD ALERT!!!

It was in-fact a big boom

He’s on a bus now???? What is with these jumps? First from a boat chase to a car? Then this???

love the music as always 👌 this soundtrack is amazing!

BIRD tour bus!!!! BIRD ALERT!!

And he’s free to go?? These police need to step it up! How much is your budget anyways? Bc it’s far too much in the US

I LOVE THIS DETECTIVE WOMAN!!! She’s so done

VINCE ACTUSLLY DOES SOMETHING YIPPIE!! I also love him

SHIT

SHE KNOWS HIS NAME

SHE FOUND HIM OH SHIT! Confrontation time!!

He just dropped a gun into a bin 😭 he’s going home!

And he wants his money!

WHOS THAT OTHER WHITE WOMAN WHO ARE YOU! I don’t like you, I think she’s going to sell him out or working with the British foreign secretary dude

Is the good woman who’s been helping J is she a middle man?

This feels fishy, I don’t like it

NO NO NOOOOOO THEY GOT NURIA NOO GET AWAY FROL HER

WE DO WHAT THE JACKAL WOULD DO WE WAIT?!? THE PARALLELS TO JACKALS MISSION IN AFGANSIST AND DAKNERJDJFJFBDHFHFBDB

Do not touch Nuria, don’t even think about it!

What? B are you ok?

Ohhh she’s going against instructions!

he’s so getting away

*cough* *cough*

DONT DISS THE FUCKING BUSCITS!

why is she packing?? IS SHE LEAVING? NOW

slayyyy queen!

I’m so confused, the American woman left the hotel, and the man went up, is there a bomb there or something? I’m so confused

THR CARTOON PLAYING WHAT??

(I actually finished the show and have been going back to put my thoughts, but I’m feeling numb)

NURIA LEFT!! PLEASE TALK PLEASE! Also Girl where are you going? Your husband is an expert in this HE WAS TOO LATE!! It’s so tragic

HE LEFT THE BAG HE LEFT EVERYTHING BEHIND FFOR HER BUT HE WAS TOO LATE

im killing myself /j

Someone kill me now (like J is about to d-)

The person I was watching this with ‘don’t try need a warrant? (To B&E) Their secret service agents they don’t need a warrant”

SHES GONE AND SHE TOOK THE KID 😭😭

Oh? Oh no! That warning is a little late but I knew I liked you!!

hes leaving too

OH NO THE BROTHERS THERE! 1 how did you get it? 2 how long has bro been there 😭 3 your dead

yup

also I love Jackals turtleneck/shirt, it’s very gender

There are mother things I could say but I won’t for everyone’s sake

THE RED LIGHT

ITS THE READ LIGHT FROM THE OPENING

he’s just holeing up in his secret lair

the reflection and that red light akakensjsnnsdjsndb

BIANCA HE HAS A FAMILY!!

THE CONTRANS

YESSS ITS THE SCEENE!

HE CAN SEE HER/KNOWS/ IS ONE STEP AHEAD AND SHE ONLY SEES HERSELF LOOKING ABCK AT HER AND HE SEES HER FACE/LOOKS AT HER FOR THE FIRST TIME ANDNFJSJD

Anyone who were in charge of this decision/set design/camera angle deserves all of the awards!! All of them! This show is genuinely breathtaking and so beautiful!!

SHES IN HIS REFLECTION BUT SMALLER OH THE SYMBOLISM AND COMMENTSRY OF THE WORKD

she sees her reflection and turns away oh it just writes itself

THE SEXY NECK CRACK SIR I AM BARKING

oh the things he could do to me

The alarm is just going to make it easier for J to move around the house bc you can’t hear anything over it

I love that he’s just like tf are they doing now

hey bitches

THE RED LIGHT

Vince is dead, welp. You were cool while you were alive (we all expected this)

another scene from the opening

remember that time B went on a mission to take out Norman? Clearly she doesn’t

it’s so quiet, the house is also so dead and empty, the moonlight makes it feel dead

THE HORROR MIVOE VIBES

ohhhh she called him Duggan

‘why do you’ skzndbnsdbdb

for some reason my brain keeps thinking of ‘why do you persist after all I have done’ from Arcane 😭

‘because I like to win’ is that is? This really is a personal grudge for her now, not for the people who have died? Not to bring a criminal to justice? Wow

she charges in thinking she is the cat but she is in his house and he is the cat

Last resort

’it doesn’t have to end this way’ ‘it does’ ACORDING TO WHO

AND THEN YOU SHOOT EHT

BIANCAS DEAD

WHAT NOOOO

NO

I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THA

SHES NOT DEAD ( she is, I’ve already gone through this stage)

she’s dead

I genuinely feel numb, I loved Bianca! She made this show amazing! She was so fun! I loved her

all that for nothing

my current mood ^

AT LEASE BIANCA GOT TO SEE HIS FACE IG! She did win, but at what cost

this is so morbid, she’s really dead I can believe it but I don’t want to

WHAT ABOUT HER FAMILY!!!!

NURIA NOOOOOOOOO! Welp season 2 find your family

oh he angy.

Noooooooo this poor man, he’s so sad, the wet cat energy! HES CRYING

Please Nuria

Ok first of all get your suitcase/gun back, you’ll need it for season 2! I don’t make the rules the plot does

ANOTHER CAR CRACK WHAT THE HECK! Does this man ever get a break!!

you really need to focus on the roads damn

Who was that other car? BIANCA!! 🤡

OU NO ISABELLS IN CHARGE OH NO OSI WATCH OUT!!

Ohhh get her Osi!

Coveruppppp!

BIANCA KNEW IT WAS A TRAP SHE PLANNED FOR IT 🤡

S2 Osi vs Isabell but Osi is rebelling calling it now

THE PLANT!

that feels symbolic, but I don’t know how, was it all an act? ‘I killl everything’????

Osi working undercover to trance Bianca’s steps???

The music ohh?

where are they?

😳

legggsssss

I JUST FELL TO MY KNEES IN A WALMART PARKING LOT

THATS SO HOT

I’ll bring her home by 8 vs your daughter calls me daddy too 😭😭😭😭😭

I NEED HIM I NEED HIS GENDER I NEED HIM I NEED TO BE HIM

ONC CHANCE PLEASE! JUST ONE PLEASE

I AM GOING INSAME. IMM LOSING MY MIND

THAT FIT

*hyperventelates*

I am not ok

I think this had changed the trajectory of my life

I’m never getting over this

HE JSIT WALKED PAST 2 POLICE OFFICERS THETES A JOKE BROO

he’s so cunty

serving

he’s so free! And light and happy!!

WHAT IN THE GOOD OMENS THAT IS A CROWLEY LOOK OMAJDMDKDNDNNDDBDBDHDBDRBDBDDBBDDBFBDSHHS

IM SHAKING

are they besties?? Slayyyy

I actually love that idea!

I need them, I love their friendship

also yeah, how did you survive??

wait, how does she know? WAS SHE RESPOSIBLE? IS SHE GOING TO BETRY HIM

HE TOOK HIS SUNGLASSES OFF! HE TRUSTS HER YESSSSS

ohhhh they’re going after the people who hired them yessssss REVENTGE

her name is Zina cool (it’s so sad that I’ve only just remembered it)

FIND YOUR FAMILY AND GET REVENGE!

that is how you do an ending

I am going to loop that song into oblivion, I need that ending injected into my veins!

THE GENDER

Nuria fumbled so hard damn

this is genuinely such an amazing show, it was a journey

I am so ready for Season 2!!!

[lunarw0rks]

Old Bones | Chapter Seven

Summary: After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does.

Warning(s): abusive relationship, PTSD/trauma themes, mentions of violence and blood, gun mention, strong language

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: Not proofread. The next chapter is gonna be... interesting, to say the least. I ALREADY HAVE PLANS ;)

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Pitfall

“Where are you going today, you little fucker?” Simon muttered to himself, not ceasing his iron grip on the wheel.

His eyes flicked from the picture of him on the center console, then to the pistol laid on the empty seat next to him. It was taking every atom inside him not to execute him right then, right there. But he couldn’t.

He had to do this tactically. Not here, not today. But, that imaginary clock was ticking louder—and it would strike the right hour very soon. Simon's restraint was waning; he could no longer bear watching as Cal lead his uncomely existence and acted as if he were the ruler of every place he set foot in.

Simon had been doing this surveillance work since you two made it to the mountains. He’d drive the extra hours into Cal’s new hometown and keep tabs on him, then when the timeline became ridiculous, he’d return to the cabin holding the month’s rations, and you were none the wiser.

If you were to find out, he would chalk it up to his “big plan” for Cal, but in truth, it was all about knowing the person he was going to kill.

On the battlefield, he didn’t know his kills. It eliminated the need to make it personal. But this one, this enemy, it was personal—and in return, so would his method—whether it was going to be with his own two hands, a blade, or a bullet.

He read the small screen, the numbers displaying that of mid-morning. It was time to get back to you, in spite of how much he wanted to get out of the truck and pound him into the pavement. Nevertheless, he pulled out of his space, leaving Cal to his day drinking with friends.

…

He used his trip back to the cabin as his cool-off, a way to revert back to the self you thought he was; a man, your bodyguard, out for the month’s groceries.

Simon returned, holding the hefty bag and a six-pack of the soda you “had to have”. You were kneeling in the snow, practicing with one of his rifles.

He stepped in front of the scope before you made your shot, holding the pack out with a concealed raise of his brow.

“You’re still playing cowboy?” He tossed the pack into the snow, then returned inside.

He’d only bought the soda to not blow his cover, but that was between him and his endless pit of secrets.

—

At last, you succeeded in picking up a signal on the antique TV.

The images were slightly stretched, and the audio was shotty, distorting in ten-second intervals. But nonetheless, it was preferable over the sound of Simon’s grumbling in his sleep or his God-awful snoring.

The only channels it received were the news or endless static—something you figured out after giving the box a few harsh smacks, naturally.

Simon had stirred awake, rubbing his eyes, which remained bloodshot, despite a long nap. The cushion groaned against his weight when he sat up, folding his hands against the back of his head with always persistent fatigue.

On the faulty screen, an upbeat holiday parade unfolded in the heart of the city. It showcased large, joyous families, embellished kiss cams, and enthusiastic newscasters determined to spread the festive spirit to everyone.

You hadn’t thought about the approaching holiday season, since the disastrous ones shared with Cal.

Each festive season was marred by the shadows of shattered expectations; keeping up appearances around family became a painful necessity, often ending in a venomous spat when the front door closed behind them.

Amidst forced smiles and hollow laughter, fighting the disabling grip he had on you, demanding a facade of normalcy in front of his loved ones.

For others, it was a time of high spirits, gift-giving, and bonding. It was nothing more to you than just another item on the list of things he’d taken from you.

If you asked, he would say he hated them too, but Simon’s household was too chaotic to celebrate them. In contrast to the explosivity of yours, his were as unforgiving and cold as the winters in  Manchester. The spirit of the holidays felt distant and unattainable, he had no one to share it with, and the wall he’d built between himself and others repulsed it.

Simon watched the screen silently beside you, although he was better at hiding his distaste for it, given his disguise.

You were only able to withstand a few minutes of it before you caved and pressed the off button. Now, it was only the faint hum of the appliances heard.

“Don’t care for the holidays?” Simon inquired, though he’d already twigged his answer.

Perhaps you did, at one point. Not now, not any time in the near future either. “No, I don’t.” Your reply is kept simple and empty, despite the iron clench you have on the remote.

He nods at the relatability, studying the clench of your jaw, as well as the tension brewing in your posture. It would not take a thousand questions to find out why you hated the holidays, the answer was living and breathing right before him.

He empathized with your feelings to his core, yet he was a man of few words.

In spite of his never-ending silence, you spoke again. “I ran across the country, and it doesn’t feel far enough.” This was the closest you had come to venting, feeling far more worked up than the day at the gas station.

The aspects of the holidays you tried to leave behind had emerged from the shadows so suddenly—a very familiar, looming shadow of the man you tried to suppress.

The kitchen, once a scene of festive warmth, now lay silent and dimly lit, its air heavy with the scent of spilled emotions and shattered resilience. The flickering light above cast haunting shadows across the tiled floor, mirroring the turbulent storm brewing within their soul.

The shattered pieces of a plate lay scattered on the floor, next to the rest of the disarray of the dining room. The runner rug your foot had snagged on, the silverware spilled out of the drawer, the red wine trickling down the edge of the counter and mixing your own crimson.

Cal had left to cool off his explosive temper, leaving you there to mull. Each passing moment seemed to stretch on endlessly, amplifying the overwhelming dolor that had clung to you like a suffocating shroud.

Outside, the snow pelted against the windows, its rhythmic patter echoing the relentless torment that had plagued you for far too long.

Memories of happier times seemed distant and faded, like ghosts haunting the periphery of your wavering consciousness. You yearned for someone, anyone, to come and break you out of this—but no one came.

The pain felt, both physical and emotional, merged into an indistinguishable ache; the fragments embedded into your skin, the healed and fresh contuses that littered you—all a suffocating weight on your wheezing chest.

Yet, even amidst their internal struggle, you knew this would be the last time, the last opportunity for you to find a way out. For the first time, the torment had given you straws to grasp. He had left, and you had at least a half-hour.

No one decent was coming to mend your wounds, only you could do that, before the one who caused them returned, forcing you to endure this nightmare longer.

Grappling with the notion of hope, that’s what allowed you to pull yourself to your feet—to pack your bags and slip through before the door to your destructive life with him slammed for good.

The wave of memories felt more like a silent predator lurking in the depths, these memories surged forth with unexpected force, pulling you into a tumultuous whirlpool of emotions. The undertow of the past jostled you around violently, dragging them back to moments you had desperately tried to forget.

Your once-stone expression had now shattered into pieces, forcing an uncontrollable frown.

“It’s like I never stood up.” It was supposed to come out a self-reflective whisper but rang audible enough for Simon to hear.

Ironically, the only whisper was the melancholic breeze of stirring memories chiming through your head.

Following the frown, it was a pitying look, like you were the pathetic one in this endeavor. He could hardly stand it—because you were right about one thing. No matter how far you went, that bastard had caught up to you, even with Simon at your side. It made his stomach turn, and his heart race with vehemence.

“But you’re here, and he won’t be soon. Remember that.” He replied, turning to face you from the opposite end of the sofa.

His words provided a morbid, forbidden kind of comfort. By this point, the morality of what you’d gotten yourself into was now a distant factor.

Your pocket stirred, surprising you with the sudden buzz of the phone he had gifted you—a device you had almost entirely forgotten about. Aside from the SOS text you sent several weeks ago, there was one more open conversation—a new, unread one from a number partially censored with asterisks.

(***) *** 8701 Instead of tailing me, drive that truck here.

Truck? Cal had seen the truck? Your brows knitted in thought for a few seconds, and then the truth dawned upon you.

Simon had caught a glimpse of it, as well as the second message—a location. He expected you to turn it towards him, but you didn’t. You were frozen again, but this time it wasn’t the heavy conversation, it was aggravation.

You figured it out; all those extra hours away, he wasn’t on a supply run, he was spying on Cal.

“Let me see that.” He outstretched his hand, ushering you to hand him the flip phone. You couldn’t believe it, him of all people. The way you thought he’d changed, that he was going to tell you the things you ‘deserved’ to know, but he’s been going behind your back for months.

You took one last look at the screen, memorizing the message before you until you could recite it.

With a slam of the small screen, you hurled the phone his way. “Matter of a fact, just keep it. I can’t fucking believe you.”

In true fashion, he showed no signs of shock, like he had been expecting this moment to come. The burner phone hit his chest with a sharp smack, but he didn’t recoil, or catch it this time.

“You know, you may think this is some kind of game, but it’s not, Simon. This is my life! Not your big opportunity for a power trip!” You thundered, extending an accusing finger his way.

This whole time, Cal has been in his crosshairs, and you've been sitting around on pins and needles, clueless. The months you’ve been less of yourself than you ever were with Cal, he sat back and listened, while in the process of double-crossing you—on some testosterone-fueled PI work.

With the phone now laying in his lap, Simon just sat there and took the beating. There was nothing he could do, nor knew how to say, that could change what he’d done. He knew Cal had been staying in the nearest city, he really was only spying on him with personal motivations.

If the tables had been turned, he would have wanted to know.

Your words continued their echo off the walls, but you had stormed off to your room already. An agonizing feeling of regret gnawed at him. His inability to apologize added to the torment, leaving him with a longing for a chance to make amends.

Having a spat with you? He could handle that and already had his fair share. But betraying your newly earned trust? He couldn’t handle that.

Without words, or amends to give you, all he had were his actions. The only remaining silver lining? He now had a time and place.

—

The zipping of his duffel bag was followed by the sound of him setting it down with a thump.

Then, he was going through the cabinets, keeping his back turned throughout his entire search. You lifted your head from the steaming cup of tea in your hands.

When he finished stuffing the goods into his smaller bag, he only gave you one glance. “It might take a few days. Once I’m back, I’ll drive you to the airport.”

It wasn’t a question, it was another plan of action he’d set out for you. For once, it was a decision he made you were totally fine with.

He didn’t say anything else, nor did you. There were no more words to utter, scream, or ponder. Simon exited the cabin with a hefty close to the front door, all his crammed bags in hand.

It was clear—Simon was packing his arsenal, and on his way to kill your estranged other half, leaving you here to grieve the man you despised.

At least, when you woke up that morning, that’s what you figured would happen. That’s what Simon thought was going to happen today, but it wasn’t. You knew something he didn’t—what you figured out about halfway through that awful cup of tea.

You weren’t going to sit back and grieve. You were going to be there, too.

TAGLIST: @random-thot-generator @littleobsessionsandlifeslessons @illyanam1011 @stunkbiggu @warm-milk-with-honey @xheera @kiamewrites @01trickster10 @m0chac0ffee @tizylish @midwesternwitchery (if you're not properly tagged, it's not letting me)

[idontevenknowifimahumanornot]

What will bsd react when you were drunk

!WARNING : mention of self harm and do the non existing!

Idea : bsd react if you are drunk [ft. Traumatized reader

Couple : dazai x gn! Reader

Part (1/?)

You, a joyfull and loving figure to them.

you, the smiling image in theyre dreams.

you, the calm and resposible one even if the scenerio is cruel.

You, the one who knows theyre moods, jokes, theyre likes, dislike, theyre feelings.

And you, whom have shattered into million pieces and was held by your own hand. And that hand sadly slip because of a drink.

It was odd, atleast for you. dazai have invited you to go on a drink after a rather dificult mission.

You dont want to accept it really–you've been mentally and physicly tired, but yet you gladly accept.

Many suicidal thoughts was running throught your head as your changing in your apartment, it was hard to brush it off as you were, and utterly, tired.

You and him met at small yet calming in some odd way bar.

You and dazai sat in a comfortable silince, occasionally taking a sip and do a little small talk.

"Why did you invite me?" You ask casually, gaze was front to the closets of bottles. Your hand was swirling the glass at hand that was half way finish

"Hm? Because i can!" Dazai answer with a grin, he turn to look at you expecting your ussual soft smile looking at you or your adorbly cute annoyed face that also grace dazai by your gaze.

But no, he was met by a unusual sceen.

Your cheeks was dusted pink from alcohol, you forgot you dont have a high tolarence.

Your eyes seem so dull, so dull it hurt dazai. It reminds him of his old self, your usual resting face now look empty– cold and unforgiving in some way

It wound him that his grin falter– that his usual careless posture tighten. His eyes that seem to gleam when he saw you was dull.

Dull like yours.

"Did you invited me because kunikida say no?" You started out again, your mouth seem like it was moving on its own.

Your hand stop from swirling the glass "if you did...than im a second choice than...hah..." your body slump to the table, the negatuve thoughts you felt startes to came back to you, harshly.

"..." dazai kept quite, didnt know what to do, why? Why cant he do something? Is it because..

You remind him so much like himself?

His mind began to panic–no. Not another him. One is already horible and traumatize enough, he–no, everyone in this fuck up world doesnt need another him.

He hate those dull eyes of your that infront of everyone was gleaming so bright it blinds him, he hates those lips that easily lifted for everyone even if its an enemy or a foe, he hate those aid kit that you like to carry for some reason, he hate how your hair shines in the beutufull moonlight.

He hates how you tricked him into beliving you were alright.

"Maybe....maybe i should...kill myself" as you utter that word, that slash dazai thoughts. He stand up making your drunk state confused.

You stare at the eyes that was attach to his bow head.

His bangs shifted as he raise, revealing his eyes that filled with so much overwhelming emotion that makes you sick and confused.

"Dont." He utter.

He looks angry, sad, confused all at ones.

It amuse your jumbled mind for some reason. You chuckle, yoy snicker you laugh.

"Pwuahahah! W-who...pfft! Who do you think you are? Buahahah!" You laugh, you dont know why but you laugh at his worriedness.

But in the darkest pits in your heart you felt disgusted. Him, dazai, commanding you to not kill yourself? Who does this hypocrite think he is?

You felt guilty. Guilty for laughing. Guilty for making dazai worried. Yet you fekt disgusted, disgusted about yourself, disgusted about the cuts in your thight that you. Didnt even relizing it. Was lining them with your finger.

You want to puke. Oh wait, you already did.

When you spills the content inside of you, you think this is a normal sight. But to dazai its a horror.

He tremble and catch your disgusting, tears from laughing (or crying), stained with puke clothes body into him.

As his tremble hand patted your head your breathe quicken and your sobs incorrect words

"Isamso taried. I want too–i weant to jwust dissapear....i...hate i hate it!!! Why cant i be someone first choice...why am i always the second? Why cant people appreciate mu effort? My feelings? Why cant they just–" you rsmble you scream you weep and let yourself cracked in dazai hands.

As you calm down (and dazai recovering) you faint.

'Ah,' you thought. 'This is better from cutting'

-mf will be so fucking confused and scared because of how well you hide it and how you absaloutely shatter from just a half glass of alcohol😭

-will not know what to do and just, hurt him self (repeatedly) from picking your shattered pieces.

-probably will not let you touch alcahol since this accident and with appointed you to EVERY THERAPY he ever encounter,

-funny thing, kunikida catch a glimpse of dazai making a therapy appointment and was absalouteky livid and proud that he told the agency to trow a party, and when he arrives and they surprise him. He told that "oh, its not for me its for [name]"

-very out of characther for him ngl lol☝️

-if you got comfused by the end, you (as in reader) used self hsrm as a way to cope your pain

[frowningfox]

2, 5, 12 n 22 for uncle? ( hes honestly my favorite of your characters, hes rlly interesting to me !!)

Your love of my niche little ex-joke character with one portrait brings me confusion and joy. I will ramble for you.

2. What's something about your OC that people wouldn't expect just from looking at them?

In-Universe: That they are about to be conned out of all their money. And maybe pickpocketed of some priceless artifacts. And that he's a Chosen One™.

Out-of-Universe aka people reading this who have seen the exactly one image I have posted of him: He is a homeless runaway, and serial destiny dodger. And he steals to feel joy. He used to be able to fly. He started out as a joke character and I got too attached to him and made him way to serious a backstory. In theory, his accent is somewhere between french and japanese. (In-practice I have not Done That. idr what I've done it's been a while, and I've not explored him in-character enough to settle in. I think I just kept the vowels soft and round in general which is how I usually speak anyway)

5. How far is your OC willing to go to get what they want?

To avoid what he doesn't want? He's willing to cross an ocean and live on the streets of an isolated island city he's never been to before.

To get what he wants? Potentially steal from monastery that has been nothing but good to him, including SAVING HIS LIFE. He's still weighing his conscious on that one though.

Killing is off the table, he's not killed before and the thought of it scares him.

So the line is somewhere before killing, and MAYBE somewhere before stealing from people who save him.

Is your OC self-destructive? In what ways?

Yes. He is irresponsible to a degree that has ruined his life several times over in several different ways. He's a risk taker, always putting his health and reputation on the line, usually in small ways, but he has obviously slipped up and taken bigger risks than he could chew (see: stealing from Infamous Gang) and nearly got killed. He his MOST destructive about personal relationships, constantly isolating from, running away from, or purposefully sabotaging close relationships EXCEPT for with the street kids who more or less adopted him as their uncle. He doesn't really let them know he cares about them and plays up the grumpy old man angle but he is VERY MUCH sharing his spoils with them so they Know.

What character alignment would you consider your OC to be?

Chaotic... neutral? At his heart, maybe chaotic good, but in his rebellion he's probably leaning towards more chaotic neutral in action. His goal is never harm to others, but he isn't above slight harm to others for the sake of his benefit. Or slight harm to others to self destruct his relationships. And he enjoys the thrill of a good con a bit too much for his own good - perhaps one day he can be an actor and/or stage magician to get that out of his system in a productive fashion. (Or, you know, he could embrace his role as The Wind God Avatar and have all the showmanship opportunity that his heart could possibly desire). Unfortunately every chance at showmanship and dramatics includes The Spotlight and Expectation, which he hates.

[samble-moved]

Madoka's Ascension Can Be Read as a Sort of Suicide

TW: Discussion of suicide, depression, etc.

Note: This is a repost from @/samble, my prev (deleted) blog, done for ease of access. I don't actually think this interpretation this was intentional, but it's another valid way you can read Madoka's actions.

I) Foreward/Beginning

A lot of people associate Homura with the idea of a "depressed character" in Madoka Magica. This makes sense, though you could likely argue most, if not all of the cast, is depressed/traumatized. However, Homura is the most blatent. She is constantly overly self-critical, has very poor self esteem, has canonically attempted suicide and has suicidal thoughts, and her entire witch is literally based around wanting and wanting to die.

But just because Homura's is one of the more in-your-face doesn't mean Madoka, who's literally portrayed as a goddess that gives hope, can't be seen as a character who's also going through things, even pre-Timeloop shenanigans...

II) Madoka's Self Esteem, or Total Lack Thereof

Madoka, throughout most of her appearances throughout the "main" anime timeline, has very obvious low self esteem. She compares herself to others constantly, seems to base her whole sense of self worth off of if she's seen as "helpful", and is always calling herself weak and a burden/bother to others. Most people think (perhaps rightly) that this is only due to the aforementioned Timeloop Shenanigans as shown in the anime, but Madoka actually thinks this way even before Homura becomes a magical girl. See: the drama CDs, specifically #1.

Here's a quote from the CD summary off Puella Magi Wiki that I think stands out (keep in mind, again, this is Timeline One Madoka, NOT the less self-confident Madoka from later Timelines/loops):

"On their way Madoka confesses to Homura that she used to think the same way as Homura, she felt powerless and useless but that changed when she became a magical girl...[before] she felt she was only causing trouble to other people."

This implies Madoka gains her confidence when she becomes a magical girl. But her lack of it in the first place implies TL1 Madoka, if/when she was human, didn't have high self esteem like people think. She got it from winning battles and helping people as a magical girl. So it's entirely possible that having a poor view of herself is actually Madoka's "default", and it can't all be blamed on looping affecting her. It's highly possible "later Timeline" Madoka IS just like First Timeline Madoka — she's just still human.

III) Madoka Only Ever Seems to Like Herself if She's Saving Someone (Even at the Cost of Her Life)

Even in the TL1 Madoka examples, did you notice how she repeatedly says her self esteem only raised after she becomes a magical girl? Being a magical girl, where job benefits include trauma, life threatening situations on the daily, literally no escape but dying, and becoming/watching your friends become eldritch horrors that you have to kill? That doesn't seem like something that would make you feel better, but worse.

However, the main draw to Madoka is saving other people. Forget her own life and safety, she'd rather help others! And...this could be a noble goal, if literally all of her self esteem didn't rest on her doing this.

Think about it. Madoka is fourteen. She's highly self critical, thinks she's useless, and overall has a very poor self image. But then, she contracts. Sure, she's in constant danger (which she acknowledges), but she helps people...which makes her happy, despite all the "mortal peril" drawbacks. Now think about if a normal human middle schooler said this. Like, a normal 13-14 year old girl saying her entire sense of self worth revolves around saving people while putting herself in life threatening situations. Nobody would say this is a "good" thing, most people would think she would need therapy, or to try and base her self worth on other things instead of just something so dangerous, or wait until she's older and has more experience. They wouldn't blindly support such a thing.

IV) Madoka as Someone Passively Suicidal

I want to start out this section by saying I do not think Madoka would ever intentionally and literally kill herself. Thus the "passively" aspect.

Obviously, Madoka never says something to the effect of, "I want to kill myself" or "I want to die" in the anime. However, her actions and blatent disregard for her own safety and life can be read as a more passive instead of active form of suicidal ideation, or just not caring about herself at best.

From choosetherapy, "Passive suicidal ideation happens when people desire death but do not make active plans to harm themselves. These thoughts may sound like, 'I wish I could go to sleep and not wake up,' or 'I wish I could die in a car accident.' Although these are not active plans and tend to be situations in which people do not die by their own hand, people may still engage in riskier behaviors as a result of these thoughts."

From Refinery29, on an article by someone who's dealt with this: "Most days, I enjoyed my life. I was invested in my plans and looked forward to the future. But every now and then, when things were particularly difficult, I wanted to close my eyes and disappear. Thinking about no longer existing was like an emotional reflex, something I sometimes defaulted to when faced with internal pain."

Now, again, Madoka is never for sure shown saying anything like this — but we also don't see a ton of her thought process, in general. What we do see, however, can be a bit alarming.

From the same summary of Drama CD #1: "Madoka tells Homura that she wanted to adopt the black cat [Amy] but apparently it likes being independent. So she asks Homura that if something were to happen to her, she would like Homura to take care of it. Homura panics but Madoka tries to calm her by telling her she is not planning on dying soon."

Remember that Madoka...

Is absolutely willing to throw herself into literal life or death situations to try and save someone, no hesitation, at 14

Is prone to risk taking behaviors in some cases due to the above, even fighting when she knows she will die or doing dangerous things that can 100% get her killed or injured

Does these things because her self esteem is so low she seems to see herself as worthless

Is constantly seemingly belittling herself (

Only gains self worth through saving and helping others, even if it literally results in her dying and is very dangerous (at 14!!!)

Makes a dark joke/request to Homura about Homura watching out for Amy (the cat) if "something happens" to Madoka in TL1, which is a little worrying, since things like making "hypothetical" requests like that sometimes happens if someone is planning on suicide (ex. "If I die, please take care of my pets" or "If something ever happens to me, please do xyz" and yes, I'm aware she doesn't commit suicide then, but I recognized this is likely the reason why Homura is worried).

V) How This Relates to Madoka's Final Wish

AKA how Madoka's self sacrifical nature goes full throttle, resulting in something suspiciously akin to that whole "passively suicidal" thing we just touched on.

I'm not sure if other people have noticed it, but it seems implied that Madoka knew, or at least didn't care that her wish would erase her from existence — and, worse, this is something she wanted to happen.

Mami literally tells Madoka she will never physically be able to stop fighting, and that Madoka will lose all individuality. Mami even tells her dying would be kinder. The same Mami that made a wish to avoid dying. And does Madoka freak out? Seem to show she didn't expect this? No. She just basically says, "Fine. That's what I wanted to do, anyways."

She knew this was a potential aspect of her wish, and does not care that it "kills" her (in a metaphorical sense) by erasing any and all records of her existing, and her as a person.

Remember that part about how something like, "I wish I could just disappear?" can be passive suicidal ideation? Yeah, well it's pretty clear now that this was intentional, or, at "best", something Madoka doesn't mind...when she 100% should absolutely mind as a middle school aged girl.

And Mami isn't the only character who sees Madoka's fate as sad and depressing! Homura thinks so! And Homura says dying would be better when she sold her soul to keep Madoka from dying!

Madoka herself is maybe content with it, but again, Madoka only likes herself if she's saving someone. If she's not, she thinks she's a burden on her friends and family.

Madoka has low self esteem -> Madoka gains it by saving and helping others, even at great risk -> her wish is a literal cultivation of that, as she wishes herself out of existence -> Madoka is likely "content" as the LoC because

She no longer "exists" and has no actual "self" anymore

She is useful and helps people, and only sees herself as anything other than a nuisance and a good for nothing when she's doing things like this

This isn't even getting into the lyrics and implications of Madoka's character song if it's being read this way, which is one of those "sounds happy, is actually really sad" types:

"Cracking a smile, yet I'm feeling lonely / The truth is, I still have more to talk about / But with the words 'See you later' / I say we'll meet again, but it's a lie / and with my usual smile, I say / 'See you tomorrow'"

VI) Additional Notes

I'd like to add (post-posting howomura edit here) that you can commit suicide (or quasi-suicide) for a "selfless" or "good" reason and for it to still be sad and messed up. Nobody is claiming Madoka is evil for sacrificing herself, just that she shouldn't have felt like she had to do it, especially at her age (fourteen).

People who do it so their families can get money, to make political points and attract attention to events, etc, may have "good" intentions and be "selfless" in their actions, but it doesn't mean those people should have had to do it. Altruistic and benevolent suicides are still tragic even if they're meant to be for good cause or to help others as a whole.