#symmetry and mirrors and the mirror hurts

[blondechariot]

🌸~The Saja Boys reaction to you finding out they're demons~🌸

pairing: The Saja Boys x reader

warnings: None really, maybe some tension

Disclaimer: not my picture!

Jinu

The dressing room was darker than usual.

Dim blue lights glowed low along the walls, casting sharp shadows across the vanity mirrors. You shouldn’t have come in—at least that’s what your gut told you—but Jinu had been missing since the end of rehearsal, and something wasn’t right.

The minute you opened the door, you felt it: heat in the air, like static before a lightning strike. The scent of something ancient and unfamiliar.

And then you saw him.

Jinu stood shirtless in front of the full-length mirror, his back to you, but not quite human anymore. Shadowy veins crawled up his arms like ink in water. His reflection… it didn’t match his movements. His eyes in the mirror were glowing red.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He froze.

For one heartbeat, neither of you moved.

Then slowly—deliberately—he turned.

And for the first time since you met him, Jinu didn’t smile.

“You shouldn’t be here, Y/N.”

His voice was low. Rough. It scraped your name like it hurt to say it.

You stumbled back a step, heart pounding, your voice barely working. “You’re… You’re not human.”

He stared at you, the red glow fading from his irises like embers dimming—but it was too late. You’d seen the truth. The illusion was broken.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t try to lie.

“No,” he murmured, voice barely audible. “I’m not.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything you’d ever felt. It made your bones ache.

You could see it now: the too-perfect symmetry of his face. The unnatural stillness in the way he stood. The faint wisps of black mist curling at his fingertips, even though he tried to hide them behind his back.

And yet… he looked tired.

Not evil. Not monstrous.

Just—exhausted.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” Jinu said finally, stepping forward. “I was going to tell you eventually. I was trying to protect you.”

“From what?” you demanded, your voice shaking. “From you?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. His usual calm façade was cracking.

“From all of it. The war. The truth. The part of me that doesn’t deserve to be near you.”

He was closer now. Only a few feet away.

Your back hit the wall.

His presence was overwhelming—not because of his power, but because of the restraint in it. You could feel it in the air: how much effort it took him to stay still. Not to touch you. Not to pull you in.

“Then why keep me around at all?” you whispered.

His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up. He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Because I’m selfish.”

The admission hit you harder than any lie would have.

“Because I thought if I just had a little more time… I could pretend.”

Your breath hitched. He was so close now you could smell him—incense, heat, and something darker. Not unpleasant. Just... ancient.

“You pretended to care?” you asked, hating how your voice trembled.

His hand hit the wall beside your head, trapping you in. But not in threat—in confession.

“I never pretended to care about you.”

His words landed like a weight in your chest. His fingers grazed your arm, but stopped before holding you.

“I lied about everything else. But not that.”

You didn’t know what scared you more: the fact that he was a demon… Or the fact that your pulse raced as he leaned in.

Your lips were inches apart. The heat between you was unbearable.

“Say something,” he whispered. “Hate me. Scream. Run.”

You searched his face. And for a moment, all you saw was the boy who stood beside you during late-night dance practices… the one who teased you when you were nervous, who wiped sweat from your brow with his sleeve… who always looked like he knew something you didn’t.

Now you knew.

“I should walk away,” you said breathlessly.

“Then why aren’t you?”

You didn’t have an answer.

He leaned in even closer—your noses nearly brushing—and his voice dropped to a whisper that burned against your skin.

“I won’t touch you unless you ask me to.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a vow.

Your lips parted.

But before anything else could happen—

A knock slammed against the dressing room door.

“Jinu-hyung! We’re needed on set!”

He flinched like the sound physically hurt him. Then slowly—so painfully slowly—he stepped back.

The mask of the idol returned. The glow in his eyes vanished.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he repeated, softer now. Regretful. “But now that you are… I’ll never lie to you again.”

And then he left—leaving you breathless, confused, and burning.

Abby

You were looking for your phone. That was all.

You had left it somewhere backstage after the showcase, and the staff had cleared out hours ago. The corridors were silent, the lights dimmed to a sleepy blue. You didn’t expect anyone to still be here—especially not in the auxiliary storage room behind the stage.

You heard a thud.

Then a hiss—inhuman and guttural.

The sound made your skin crawl.

You cracked the door open just enough to peek inside. What you saw sent every nerve in your body into overdrive.

Abby was floating.

Not standing. Not crouching. Floating—several feet off the ground, surrounded by jagged red runes etched into the air, glowing like coals.

His shirt was gone. His entire torso shimmered with black markings that pulsed like veins, crawling up his arms and across his chest. His hair whipped around his face as if moved by invisible wind, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were molten, not gold or brown but fire itself.

Then his head jerked toward the door.

Your heart stopped.

“Y/N?”

You gasped.

He dropped out of the air and hit the ground with an impact that cracked the tiles, the glowing marks vanishing as if sucked back into his skin. You turned to run—panic rising like bile—but in a blur of movement, he was already there, slamming the door shut with one massive hand and stepping in front of you.

“Wait—wait. Don’t freak out.”

You backed away. “You’re… What the hell was that?!”

He winced. “I was gonna tell you eventually. Like… after I eased you in with snacks or something.”

“Snacks?! Are you—are you joking right now?!”

That made him grin, which only pissed you off more.

“You always said I made jokes when I was nervous. So, uh… yeah. This is me panicking.”

But the humor died quickly.

His grin fell. His voice lowered.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

You were shaking, but you couldn’t stop staring at him—because even now, there was something magnetic about him. His muscles flexed with tension, jaw clenched, breath ragged like he’d just come out of a fight. Or a nightmare.

“Are you a demon?” you asked quietly.

He hesitated. Then nodded.

“Yeah. I am.”

Silence stretched between you like a chasm. He looked everywhere but at you. Then he stepped back, lifting his hands in surrender.

“If you want to scream, I get it. Run, call the cops, throw holy water—whatever works.”

Despite the words, he looked… crushed.

You swallowed hard, staring at his chest—at the faint remnants of glowing lines still fading beneath his skin.

“How long were you going to lie to me?”

“I wasn’t lying,” he said immediately. “I just wasn’t telling. Not because I don’t trust you. But because I—” He stopped. Rubbed the back of his neck, muttering under his breath, “God, I suck at this.”

“Try,” you whispered.

His eyes finally met yours.

“Because I like you,” he said, too fast, too loud. “Okay? I like you. A lot. And I knew that if I told you I was literally a soul-draining fire demon, you’d probably stop laughing at my jokes. And that’d kill me.”

Your throat tightened.

The ridiculous part? He was serious.

You could see it in the way his brows furrowed and his posture slumped—like the strongest guy in the room was terrified of one person’s opinion.

“Do you… do you drain people?” you asked carefully.

He grimaced. “Only when I’m forced. Not for fun. I’ve fought it every damn day since the band started. That’s not who I want to be anymore.”

The room was hot. Uncomfortably so. Not just because of the fire magic he’d just unleashed—but because of him. The way he looked at you now: desperate, unguarded, raw.

You weren’t sure when your back hit the wall, but suddenly he was standing just a foot away, looming without meaning to.

“Y/N,” he said lowly, “I know I’m a lot. Loud. Crude. Definitely not boyfriend material. But I’ve never lied about how I feel about you.”

His voice dropped further, turning almost velvety.

“And I’ve never wanted to kiss someone this badly without actually doing it.”

You blinked. Your pulse roared in your ears.

He saw it. Felt the shift.

Then he leaned in—just a fraction.

“Say the word,” he murmured. “Tell me to back off, and I will. But if you don’t…”

You couldn’t breathe.

You should’ve said something. Pushed him away. Demanded answers. Screamed.

Instead—

You tilted your chin up.

He paused, every muscle in his body taut with restraint. His lips were so close you could feel his breath—warm, tinged with something smoky and sweet.

But he didn’t kiss you.

He backed away first.

Just enough to make your knees weaken in frustration.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I don’t want to scare you. That’s the last thing I ever want.”

You swallowed hard.

“I’m not scared,” you said, surprised at yourself.

His eyes darkened. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

You stared at him. Let the silence speak for you.

He grinned—but this one was different. Not teasing. Not cocky.

Relieved. Grateful. And maybe a little dangerous.

“God, you have no idea what that does to me.”

Another knock interrupted the moment.

“Abs! Come on, we’re rolling in ten!”

He groaned, head falling back. “The universe hates me.”

Then he looked back at you, softer now.

“You don’t have to decide anything tonight. Just… don’t run. Please.”

And before you could answer, he winked, pulled the door open, and disappeared into the hallway—leaving the room smelling faintly of fire and adrenaline.

And you?

You were still leaning against the wall, skin burning from heat that had nothing to do with magic.

Mystery

It was nearing midnight when you stepped into the practice studio. The others had gone home hours ago, the building quiet save for the hum of electricity and your own footsteps on the floorboards.

You hadn’t meant to follow him. But something about the way Mystery left the dressing room—without a word, without a glance back—stirred something in your chest.

He always disappeared like that.

Like mist.

Like a secret begging to be chased.

The studio lights were off. Only the mirror along the far wall reflected the faint moonlight through the high windows. For a moment, you thought the room was empty—until you saw him.

Mystery stood alone in the center, bathed in pale silver light.

And his reflection didn’t match him.

Your breath caught.

In the mirror, his eyes were glowing a cold, icy violet. A black crown of shadow twisted around his head like smoke. His skin shimmered with symbols—ancient, eerie, almost regal—and two jagged, semi-transparent wings stretched behind him, ghost-like and pulsing.

But when you looked directly at him—none of it was there.

“Mystery…”

You didn’t mean to say his name. It just slipped from your lips.

His eyes opened.

In the mirror—his reflection smiled.

But the real him didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

He turned his head slowly to face you.

“You see it now.”

The words weren’t surprised. Or scared.

Just… inevitable.

“What is that?” you whispered, pointing to the reflection.

He didn’t look at it.

“It’s what I am,” he said simply. “What I’ve always been.”

He took a step toward you.

“And what I didn’t want you to see.”

You backed up instinctively—but he didn’t chase. He kept a careful distance, watching you with that unreadable gaze that made your skin heat in ways you didn’t understand.

“You’re a demon,” you breathed. “Like the others.”

His eyes flickered, unreadable. “Not like them. I’m... different.”

Your voice cracked with disbelief. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Something flickered in his gaze—regret, maybe. Maybe guilt.

He stepped closer, and this time you didn’t move.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” he asked softly.

You blinked. Caught off guard.

“I was sitting on the balcony,” he continued. “You were late for your shift. You thought I was asleep.”

You remembered. You had tripped over a mic stand and cursed under your breath. You thought he hadn’t heard.

“You laughed at yourself,” he said, the tiniest curve touching his lips. “That’s when I knew I was in trouble.”

Your breath stuttered. The air in the room felt thinner, tighter. He was standing only a few feet away now—close enough that you could see the faint shimmer of markings under his skin, like stardust pulsing beneath the surface.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, voice shaking.

“Because I didn’t want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now.”

That stopped you.

“Like you’re afraid,” he added.

“I’m not afraid,” you whispered.

“Then what are you?”

His voice dropped lower, quieter, like velvet wrapping around your spine.

You didn’t have an answer.

He stepped closer. The mirror behind him pulsed again—his reflection still wrong, still monstrous, still somehow... beautiful.

“I’ve seen a thousand versions of myself,” he murmured. “In glass, in water, in people’s eyes. But when you looked at me, you saw something no one else did.”

He reached out, slowly, fingertips brushing yours. Cold. Electric.

“You made me feel like I could be more than what I am.”

The room tilted.

“You’re manipulating me,” you said, but even you didn’t believe it.

His touch slid to your wrist, featherlight, his thumb tracing your pulse.

“I could,” he said. “But I won’t.”

Your heart thundered.

He leaned in—not close enough to kiss, not quite—but just close enough that you could feel his breath against your lips.

“Not unless you ask me to.”

The words echoed exactly like Jinu’s—but this time, they felt… dangerous. Like the edge of a blade held against your throat, but the blade was your own desire.

You hated that your body responded.

You hated that you wanted to say yes.

“Mystery…”

He tilted his head, eyes burning into yours.

“Say it again.”

“Mystery.”

“No,” he whispered, brushing his lips just barely against your jawline. “Say my real name.”

You froze.

He was testing you.

He wanted you to fall. Wanted to see if you could love the demon—not the illusion.

You clenched your fists.

“I don’t know your real name.”

“Exactly,” he whispered, pulling back, face suddenly unreadable again. “Which means it’s not time yet.”

A voice crackled through the hallway intercom.

“Five minutes until final check. Saja Boys to makeup.”

He stepped back fully now, the ghost of something haunted flickering in his expression.

“When you’re ready to really see me… look in the mirror.”

And just like that, he turned, leaving nothing but his reflection still staring at you—

And it winked.

You stumbled backward, heart racing, unsure what shook you more:

That he was a demon…

Or that he still somehow made your knees weak with a single look.

Romance

It started with a hunch.

Something had felt off about Romance lately. His smiles were still flawless, his flirting still constant, but his eyes… they lingered too long. His voice always dipped a little too low when he said your name.

And tonight, he hadn’t gone home after rehearsal. You knew because you checked. You weren’t even sure why you cared—why you followed the hallway past the sound studio and into the old, unused prop storage room.

But as soon as you opened the door, you knew you’d made a mistake.

The room was bathed in a low crimson light.

Candles—dozens of them—flickered in a perfect circle around a makeshift shrine.

Your face stared back at you from the center.

Photos.

Candid ones.

Some from shows.

Some… that you didn’t know had been taken at all.

There were rose petals arranged around your image, but they weren’t soft. They were charred. Crumbling. Scorched black at the edges. A glass of something dark—thick like blood—sat in front of the arrangement.

And then—

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

You froze.

The voice came from behind you, low and calm and infuriatingly smooth.

You turned slowly.

Romance was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame like he had all the time in the world. His arms were crossed, lips curled into a smirk—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You followed me,” he said simply. “Didn’t peg you for the curious type.”

“What the hell is this?” you demanded.

“Devotion,” he said, stepping into the room. “But I guess that sounds creepy when you say it out loud.”

He moved closer, deliberate. Unhurried.

You stood your ground, though your heart raced.

“Are you seriously stalking me?”

“No,” he said, voice soft. “Worshipping you, maybe. There’s a difference.”

“That’s not funny, Romance.”

He stopped a few feet from you, hands lowering to his sides. The playfulness in his tone faded, like a mask slowly slipping.

“I wasn’t joking.”

You swallowed hard, searching his face—desperate to find some trace of the harmless flirt you thought you knew.

But the man in front of you?

His eyes were glowing faintly red.

Not bright like fire—deep. Like embers buried under ash.

“You’re one of them,” you whispered.

He tilted his head. “A demon? Guilty.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

You backed up a step. “Why me?”

That pulled a real reaction from him.

He looked at you like you'd asked something sacred.

“Because you saw me.”

You shook your head. “I saw the version of you that you let me see.”

“No,” he said. “You smiled at me when I wasn’t performing. You looked at me when I wasn’t trying to be charming. You made me feel like I was more than the thing crawling under my skin.”

His voice dropped—intimate, fervent.

“I didn’t plan this. I didn’t mean to get addicted to you.”

He moved closer again.

This time, you didn’t move.

Your back was already near the wall.

“Romance, this is wrong.”

“It’s real,” he said.

His hand reached out—slow, cautious—and brushed your cheek.

The contact sent a shiver through your spine. His fingers were warm. Too warm.

Your body betrayed you. You didn’t flinch.

“I think about you all the time,” he whispered. “Not just the way you laugh, or roll your eyes when I flirt—but the way you see me. The way you say my name like you mean it.”

His thumb traced your jaw, then stilled just under your chin.

“You’re the only thing that keeps the hunger from swallowing me whole.”

You stared at him, helpless.

“Are you feeding on me?” you asked quietly.

His eyes darkened. “No.”

“Have you wanted to?”

His jaw clenched. “Yes.”

His hand dropped, curling into a fist at his side.

“But I haven’t. Because some part of me still wants to deserve you.”

That confession cracked something in your chest.

He turned away suddenly—like showing too much scared him more than your anger.

“You should run, Y/N.”

“Why?” you whispered.

“Because if you don’t…” His voice broke. “I might finally cross the line.”

You took a step forward.

“And what happens if I don’t run?”

His shoulders stiffened.

He turned back around slowly.

Something shifted between you—something sharp and electric and dangerous.

He crossed the distance in two strides.

You were against the wall before you could think, his hand planted beside your head. His face was inches from yours. Breath mingling. Heat blooming between you like wildfire.

“Then I’ll ruin you,” he whispered. “And I’ll thank you for letting me.”

The silence was deafening.

You were trembling—not from fear.

From the war inside your own chest.

His eyes searched yours, one final time, for resistance.

But you didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t stop him when he leaned in, brushing the ghost of a kiss against your cheek, then your jawline, then just barely grazing your lips.

But he didn’t kiss you.

“Not tonight,” he breathed. “You still have time to run.”

And then he vanished—

A swirl of black mist where his body had been.

Leaving behind a room full of dying candles and your own thundering heartbeat.

Baby

It had been a long day. Too long.

The studio was empty. The hallways were dark. You weren’t even sure why you were still here. Maybe it was instinct—something gnawing in the back of your mind.

Something… wrong.

You passed Baby’s dressing room and paused.

The door was open.

The light was off.

And something inside was moving.

Your fingers wrapped around the handle. You pushed it open—

And froze.

He was crouched in the corner, curled in on himself, back heaving like he couldn’t catch his breath. His hoodie was bunched at his elbows, revealing arms glowing faintly with silver runes that pulsed like veins of light beneath his skin.

Wings—not fully formed, just shadows of wings—trembled behind him, twitching violently. Horns curled from his head, half-faded and jagged like they were still growing. His eyes… they were wide and glowing a pale, eerie blue.

“Baby…?”

He flinched like you’d shot him.

“No. No, no, no—” He clutched at his head, shrinking further back into the corner. “You weren’t supposed to see this.”

You hesitated, stepping in slowly. “What’s happening to you?”

“I lost control.”

His voice cracked—raw, panicked, not the cheeky, playful tone you were used to. This wasn’t the boy who threw popcorn at you during movie nights or pouted until you shared your snack.

This was something else entirely.

“Are you hurt?”

He looked up at you, and it broke your heart.

Tears clung to his lashes, glowing faintly in the dark.

“You’re scared of me now.”

Your stomach twisted. “I’m not—”

“Don’t lie.” He laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and broken. “Everyone is. Eventually.”

“I’m not everyone.”

You moved toward him carefully, like approaching a wild animal. One wrong move and he’d bolt—or worse, explode.

He stared at you like he couldn’t decide if you were real.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet I am.”

You knelt a few feet from him, trying to keep your voice soft. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His wings twitched again, like the tension in him had nowhere to go.

“Because I didn’t want to see that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“Like I’m a mistake.”

That shattered something in you.

“You’re not a mistake,” you said fiercely. “You’re just… you.”

His gaze darted to you, unblinking.

“I’m not just anything. I’m dangerous. Broken. I was created for destruction, Y/N. And I like it sometimes. That’s the worst part.”

You reached out, placing your hand on the floor between you both. Not touching him—just offering closeness.

“Then why do you always pull back when you get angry?”

He blinked.

“Why do you always leave the room instead of lashing out? Why do you let the others tease you? Why do you laugh with me even when your hands are shaking?”

He didn’t answer.

“Because you’re trying. Every day.”

You moved closer.

He didn’t stop you.

You sat in front of him now, knees nearly touching.

Slowly, shakily, he raised his hand—and hesitantly brushed your fingertips.

“My control isn’t always perfect,” he said, voice barely a breath. “I feel things too much. And sometimes I want to…”

His voice trailed off.

“Want to what?” you whispered.

“Touch you,” he said. “Hold you. Kiss you until everything else disappears.”

Your breath hitched.

His eyes darkened—shadows pulsing in his irises.

“But if I lose control while I’m that close to you…”

You reached out slowly, resting your hand over his trembling one.

“Then I’ll help you find your way back.”

That made him shake.

Not from fear—but relief.

Overwhelming, bone-deep relief.

“Why aren’t you running?” he asked, voice cracking.

“Because you’re not scaring me.”

“Even like this?”

He looked down at himself—horns half-grown, wings flickering like broken shadows. His demon form wasn’t elegant or regal like Mystery’s or fire-forged like Abby’s.

It was chaotic. Raw. Vulnerable.

And yet, you cupped his face gently, tilting it up.

“Even like this.”

He stared at you like you were light in a world that had never known warmth.

And then—

He leaned forward.

Your lips brushed—soft, searching, full of unshed fear and aching restraint. It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t hungry. It was trembling and fragile and real.

When he pulled back, his eyes were wide. Disbelieving.

“That was real,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “It was.”

A voice crackled from the hallway speaker.

“Saja Boys — final call. Last scene of the night.”

Baby swallowed.

His wings flickered once more before disappearing. The runes faded. The glow in his eyes dimmed.

He looked like your Baby again.

Just… quieter.

He stood slowly, then offered you a hand.

“You coming with me?”

You took it.

“Always.”

[chefs-other-corner]

What Did You Say?

☆Paring: Zoey x Rumi x Mira ☆Tags: Fluff, a dash of angst, hurt/comfort, crash out Zoey cause yesss

☆Sum Sum: Zoey crashing out on her bullies back in the US ☆Word count: 1k

☆Note: I just really like the thought of crash out Zoey ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The fan signing had gone well. Zoey spent nearly an hour chatting with fans, signing albums, scribbling goofy doodles, exchanging inside jokes with longtime supporters, and even pausing to reassure a shy teen that her own art was amazing. Every time she laughed, Mira stole a fond glance, and Rumi beamed, soaking up the warm energy. Eventually, though, the mood soured. She remembered how back in high school Tina and her friends would corner her at her locker, mock her thrift-store clothes, call her a psycho artist, spread rumors she was violent and unhinged just for being weird. Those memories burned as she saw them now, Tina and her old clique, waltzing up with smug little grins that made her stomach turn.

“Wow,” Tina drawled. “Zoey the rapper now? Still making up nursery rhymes?”

Zoey didn’t miss a beat. “Cute you came all this way on your lunch break. What is it now, cashier at a store that sells broken dreams?”

The bullies laughed. Another chimed in. “You’re not even that famous. We just wanted to see the freak show.”

Zoey smirked. “Freak show? Yyou can’t even sell tickets to your personality.”

Mira and Rumi exchanged glances. Rumi tried to intervene. “Hey, can you just leave—”

Tina’s eyes flicked to Rumi’s neck, to the scars. “What’s wrong with you, huh? Skin condition? Or did you lose a fight with a cheese grater?”

Rumi paled, shrinking back. Mira’s jaw locked.

Zoey’s voice dropped, ice cold. “I know you’re not talking with your raggedy-ass Temu-face. You look like Shrek tried contouring with crayons. Your forehead so big they could lease it as office space. Honestly, I’ve seen better symmetry in a funhouse mirror. You’re a walking, talking cautionary tale against unchecked confidence.”

Tina flushed red. “Excuse me?”

Zoey leaned in, her eyes glinting with scorn and fury, her lip curling in a sneer as her fingers drummed on the table with deliberate slowness, each tap a promise of violence barely restrained, her breath coming sharp through her nose, her whole body leaning forward like a striking snake. “I’m sorry, did you not want a response? Don’t dish it if you can’t even microwave it. You’re the type to give motivational speeches about a job at Wendy’s like you’re the CEO, pretending you’re so important when you can’t even hold eye contact without your friends backing you up. And let’s not pretend you wouldn’t sell out your entire friend group for a discount at Forever 21.”

Another bully piped up, “She’s sensitive because she’s embarrassed. Look at her.”

Zoey whipped her head around. “Oh, so that’s what this is? You’re jealous you didn’t get any trauma to give you depth? Must be nice being flatter than your personality. Your entire vibe screams 'expired Mean Girl audition.'”

The insults kept flying. Words sharp as glass, raw with pain sharpened into fury. Zoey’s voice cracked in places, rage bubbling just beneath the surface, not just from today—but from years of swallowing humiliation like it was air. Her chest tightened with every word, every memory of whispered slurs in school halls, every sneer, every shove. And now, here it all was, roaring back like a dam breaking.

“God, you’re so loud,” Tina spat, her voice shaking with forced bravado, eyes narrowing to hide the flicker of fear, but her lip trembling just a little as the words left her.

Zoey shot back, “Not as loud as your dad’s disappointment. But I get it—hard to compete with that level of failure.”

They gasped. Rumi winced but smiled a little. Mira actually laughed, her hand balling into a slow fist.

Tina tried to recover. “You’re pathetic. Acting all tough. What are you gonna do? Rap at us?”

Zoey leaned across the table, eyes blazing. “Say one more thing about her scars. I dare you.”

Tina smirked. “Didn’t know they let burn victims out in public.”

The noise in Zoey’s head exploded. Her chair slammed back as she lunged over the table, voice feral. “I will rearrange your face into a Jackson Pollock painting!”

The table rattled, pens and flyers skittering across the surface. Her body was a livewire of fury. Mira caught her around the waist.

“Zoey! Stop!”

Zoey snarled, chest heaving, teeth bared. “LET ME GO—”

But Mira didn’t let go. Instead, she calmly pivoted, drew back her fist, and smashed it into Tina’s nose with a brutal crack.

Blood spurted. Tina shrieked, stumbling back. The shockwave was instant. Gasps. A dropped phone. The thick silence that follows a car crash.

Mira wiped her knuckles on her jeans, her face cool, controlled. “Oops. Sorry, reflex.”

The entire venue went dead silent. You could hear the air conditioning hum. Somewhere, a camera shutter clicked.

Zoey panted, eyes wild, but turned to Rumi immediately. She brushed Rumi’s hair back, cupping her cheek with trembling fingers. Her hands were cold. Her voice cracked. “Ignore them, baby. They don’t even qualify as people. Just static. White noise with bad breath. Discarded characters from a soap opera that got cancelled after the pilot.”

Rumi clung to her. Mira joined them, slinging an arm around both, grounding them in quiet, unwavering strength.

Zoey took one last seething look at the bullies trying to stem Tina’s nosebleed. “Come on. Let’s go before I finish the job.”

Together they walked out, heads high. Zoey’s heart was a thunderstorm in her chest. Her fingers curled into Mira’s and Rumi’s like lifelines. And if her voice cracked when she whispered she loved them—again and again, like a broken hymn—neither Mira nor Rumi let her go. They held her closer.

Outside, the air hit them like freedom, but the adrenaline wouldn’t let Zoey calm down. She paced, shaking, ranting under her breath, while Mira stood watch and Rumi squeezed her hand. They didn’t speak much at first. They didn’t need to. Later, Zoey would apologize a thousand times. Rumi would reassure her with kisses. Mira would crack a joke to make them laugh. And they would sit together on the curb, legs tangled, exhausted but safe, planning how to report the harassment, how to move on. The fight hadn’t solved everything—but it had made one promise clear: none of them would ever stand alone again.

[theskywithin]

Full Moon in Scorpio - May 12, 2025

A small preview for each sign - the full story's coming in the next two days

This isn't a gentle release, it's the moment the rope burns your hands. You can't hide what you feel in Scorpio territory. you can only choose what to do with it. This Moon is about emotional exorcism, the psychic purge that happens when a truth won't stay buried.

ARIES: you're burning letters you never had the guts to send. And with them, the need to be answered.

TAURUS: you've been kissing ghosts and calling it loyalty. Let the cold lips go.

GEMINI: the mirror cracked a long time ago. Stop trying to bleed yourself into symmetry.

CANCER: your joy is not a debt. You don't owe anyone your dimming.

LEO: you poured yourself out in colors they couldn't name. Stop asking the blind to admire the painting.

VIRGO: the story you tell yourself about safety is the one that's keeping you small. Burn the map.

LIBRA: not every ache is a contract. You can grieve without returning.

SCORPIO: you've been surviving off your own venom. Spit it out.

SAGITTARIUS: even freedom can become a cage if it's build on silence. Speak what hurts.

CAPRICORN: you buried softness beneath strategy. Your silence is tired of being useful.

AQUARIUS: you've been orbiting rooms like a ghost satellite, terrified of impact. Fall already.

PISCES: you sad yes so many times, your voice dissolved. It's time to chew the word no until it tastes like a spell.

[melshifting]

QUIRK/POWER IDEAS TO SCRIPT ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

꒰01 ꒱ — Your right eye sees the path of maximum violence. The most effective, direct line to kill or incapacitate.

SIDE EFFECT—If you don’t follow the path (because you don't want to hurt your opponent, it may end up hurting you, etc.), your vision stutters violently for 10 seconds, blinding you.

꒰02 ꒱ — You speak a single command, and one environmental factor (wind, gravity, light, noise) obeys you within a 30-foot radius for 2.8 seconds.

SIDE EFFECT—For 10 minutes afterward, your voice is muted, and you can't chant the same factor twice in the same battle.

꒰03 ꒱ — You fight using invisible frames of your past movements; like shadow clones that only exist in the exact spaces you occupied during the last X seconds.

SIDE EFFECT—If you stand still too long, the past frames repeat your vulnerability.

꒰04 ꒱ — You bypass durability entirely when hitting the same spot three times. Doesn’t matter if it’s armor, stone, or regeneration—third strike shatters it.

SIDE EFFECT—If the third hit misses, your arms go limp from overchanneling for 20 seconds.

꒰05 ꒱ — You can repurpose damage—a broken rib can be turned into a burst of speed, a slashed arm into a midair directional change.

SIDE EFFECT—That damage remains and worsens afterward. Misuse leads to permanent injury.

꒰06 ꒱ — You manipulate the idea of symmetry — whatever action an enemy does with one half of their body (left or right), you can forcibly mirror onto the other half.

SIDE EFFECT—Doesn’t work if the enemy is asymmetric in body (missing a limb, etc.) or thought. Disorients you when they’re uneven.

Side Note: I had an anon request for quirk ideas; I don't think these are exactly what you were looking for, but I hope some of them suit your needs and will help you <3

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT part seventeen, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, me lowkey working all day on this idc, readers thorn implants, rafe being traded off since y/n said no bc snows so fucked up, readers reaction to finding out that rafes being sold now, free my babies

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous next

reader waking up post-procedure

the room is white. it’s not warm white or a soft white. but surgical white. it smells like bleach and chemicals and something just a little too sweet, like they tried to hide the violence in lavender.

you wake up to complete silence.

there’s no machines, no nurses, no soft beeping of a heart monitor to prove you’re still alive. there’s just the sterile hum of nothing. and the weight inside you.

at first, you can’t move. your body feels unfamiliar, like a borrowed shape. your throat is raw and your mouth tastes like metal. your skin feels too tight. your limbs float in that disjointed way they do after sedation. but it’s the weight that anchors you. it’s heavy, foreign, stretched along your back in a straight, cruel line.

you barely shift. just a twitch of your hand. and that’s all it takes.

the pain is immediate.

it slices down your spine like a wire pulled through flesh. your fingers dig into the pillow beneath you, but it does nothing. the agony blooms, and suddenly your whole body remembers how to hurt.

you stay still. you don't make a sound. you breathe through it in shallow, panicked breaths. there’s a silver tray beside the bed, and sitting on it is a mirror. your blood chills.

you stare at it for a long time. you already know. deep down, you know they did something to you. you don’t know what though, so you reach anyway, because you have to. your fingers tremble violently as they stretch toward it. they shake harder the closer they get. this isn’t bravery. this is desperation.

you drag the mirror toward you. tilt it. angle it.

you see your back.

then wish you hadn’t.

there’s a line of thorns. they’re sharp, jagged, unnatural. they’re not even resting on your skin. they’re breaking through it.

they rise from your spine in perfect, merciless symmetry, metallic and slick with blood. they shimmer under the light, some kind of alloy or bone, maybe both. you don’t know. you don’t want to know.

they’ve made you beautiful.

your stomach turns. your vision swims. your mouth opens but nothing comes out.

you sit up too fast. the pain tears through you again like a scream turned physical. you claw at your back instinctively, fingers slipping against the wetness, trying to tear them out, whatever they put in you. you don’t care if it bleeds. you want it gone.

you need it gone.

and then it hits you.

this is the punishment.

this is what they do when you say no.

you scream the first thing that comes to mind, “rafe!”

your voice cracks around the syllable. you scream his name like it’ll undo it all, like he can pull this out of you with his hands, like he’ll fix it.

the door slams open. his footsteps stutter against the floor. he stops in the doorway and just stands there, staring.

your gown is soaked. your back is glistening red and silver. you’re shaking, hunched, wild-eyed. your hands are covered in blood. his mouth parts, but nothing comes out at first.

“y/n,” he says, just once.

you try to stand, but you collapse. your knees hit the tile and you barely feel it. you’re crawling now. it’s pathetic, and you don’t care. you just need to be out.

rafe rushes forward.

“don’t— don’t touch me.”

he freezes, hands raised in the air like he’s scared of breaking you more.

“don’t look at me.” you shake your head. you’re crying now. you hadn’t noticed until your tears hit the floor.

“y/n—” he tries again.

“what did they do to me?”

it doesn’t feel like your voice. it’s guttural, hopeless. like a child.

you curl in on yourself. your hands press to your shoulders and you try to disappear. your palms sting. blood drips down your fingers. you didn’t even feel it when the thorns cut them.

rafe steps closer. his knees hit the floor, but he doesn’t reach out. he just lowers himself, until you’re eye level, and stares at you with something like horror in his face. horror and guilt.

he sees the blood, the metal, the fear. he sees the way you flinch at his presence. his eyes gloss over at the sight of you.

and still, gently, he whispers, “i didn’t know.”

that afternoon

you’re on your stomach, gown still pulled down your back, cheek pressed to a stiff pillow. the sheets are hospital thin. the world’s thinnest barrier between you and what was done.

the nurse moves quietly around you. she’s older, maybe late forties, with kind eyes and a clipboard she doesn’t seem to look at. she’s gentle, but the sting from the serum still makes your spine twitch every few seconds. still, you don’t react. you haven’t moved since they laid you here. you haven’t blinked in a while, either. you’re somewhere else, floating.

the pain is manageable. the disconnect isn’t.

rafe is sitting beside the bed in a chair that doesn’t stop creaking every time he shifts. he’s close. too close. his knee bumps the frame of the bed every few minutes like he forgets where he is. his hand is wrapped around yours, but even when he squeezes, you don’t respond. not the first time. not the third. not the fifth.

at some point he just stops trying. your hand is limp in his. your fingers don’t twitch, your breath doesn’t change. your face is slack and blank, eyes half-lidded and trained on the white wall ahead. you’ve left your body.

he knows that look.

he swallows hard, jaw clenched, and finally speaks, voice low from too much silence, “how long until she heals?”

the nurse doesn’t stop what she’s doing. she dabs a soft gauze pad around one of the thorns near your shoulder blade, soaking up a tiny line of blood that’s begun to trickle down your spine.

“i don’t know,” she says quietly.

rafe blinks. “you don’t—?”

“it’s the first time this has been done. there’s no chart. no protocol. no timeline.”

rafe’s brows furrow. he glances down at your face, your body still and unmoving, then back at her.

“yeah, obviously it’s her first time. she’s never— she hasn’t been punished like this before.”

the nurse stops. her eyes finally meet his. “no,” she says. “i mean the first time. ever. not just for her. for anyone.”

rafe stares at her like she just said the floor isn’t real.

“what?”

“the procedure,” she says, gesturing vaguely to your back, to the thorns, to the black stitching and the twisted metal threaded into your spine. “it was . . . conceptual. there were drafts, sketches. we got a briefing an hour before. no practice. no rehearsal. the doctors did what they were told. this was snow’s idea, not science.”

he leans back like the words physically hit him. “you’re saying—”

“we don’t know how her body will react. we’re treating symptoms as they appear. guessing and hoping.”

rafe’s hand tightens around yours. “so she might not get better.”

the nurse hesitates. “she might not fully heal. it’s possible the tissue never accepts the implants. it’s possible she’ll always be in pain. or that her system shuts down piece by piece. or she recovers. we don’t know. no one knows.”

he goes quiet again. his jaw clenches so tight it’s a wonder it doesn’t crack.

“what can i do?” he says finally. it’s not a plea. it’s a command he’s begging to be given.

the nurse wipes her hands, sets down the gauze. “keep her off her back. help with the bandage changes—saline rinse only. no direct pressure. she might not say when she’s in pain, so watch her eyes, watch her breathing. speak gently. warmth helps. comfort helps. the body listens when it feels safe.”

rafe nods, eyes glued to you. you still haven’t moved.

“so you guys experimented on her.”

the nurse stills. “it wasn’t my call.”

“she could’ve died, you know.”

her expression doesn’t change. “she didn’t.”

rafe’s mouth opens like he’s going to say something else, like yell maybe, or snap, or throw something, but the knock cuts him off.

he turns fast, and enobaria is in the doorway. she’s not even fully inside. just one foot in, one out, like she doesn’t want to see.

her arms are crossed, but her expression is all guilt. she barely glances at you before she drops her gaze.

“rafe,” she says quietly. “they need you outside.”

“i’m not leaving.”

“rafe.” her voice hardens. then she softens it again. “it’s not optional. just for a second.”

he opens his mouth to argue, but then he looks at you. your cheek is still pressed against the pillow. your hand is still limp in his. your eyes are still fixed on the wall like maybe it’ll open and pull you through.

you’re not here. and he can’t pull you back.

“i’ll be back, alright?” he murmurs to you. it’s a promise.

he lifts your hand and links your pinkies to be playful, like he wants to see if you’ll snap out of it just to smile. but you don’t. he just frowns and kisses the back of your hand, then your forehead. it’s quick, but careful. not for the nurse. not for the room. just for you.

he rises. the chair creaks beneath him. he doesn’t look at enobaria as he passes her. the door closes behind them.

the nurse stays at your bedside, her hands working on the final bits of dressing, more routine now, smoothing the gauze, taping the edges just right, but her attention starts to shift.

the window to the hallway is wide enough to catch the pieces of soundless conversation. she glances out through it, not too obviously, just enough to catch the movement of rafe stepping into view. he’s standing in front of snow.

snow’s surrounded by two peacekeepers. enobaria’s there too now. the nurse can’t hear what’s said, none of the words making it through the wall, but the emotions? they’re loud enough.

snow speaks first. he remains calm as ever, hands folded like he’s giving someone a pleasant lecture. something about what he says makes rafe’s head jolt back, like what the hell are you talking about? even without sound, it’s clear.

snow says something again, and this time enobaria leans in, half between the two of them, trying to either explain or defend rafe, this one’s hard to tell.

snow just shrugs in that quiet kind of confidence, like no matter what anyone says, he’ll have his way in the end. his hands remain neatly clasped in front of him. his smile doesn’t budge.

rafe, on the other hand, explodes.

he starts yelling, hands flying, body leaning forward as if sheer force could shove snow back into some kind of humanity. the nurse watches as a peacekeeper steps in to calm him, hand reaching out for his shoulder. rafe knocks it away hard, like the touch burns.

enobaria tries to get between again, stepping up fast, but another peacekeeper grabs her by the arm, muttering something as he holds her back. she hesitates for half a second before letting him pull her aside. she doesn’t look at rafe. maybe because it’s too hard.

snow backs up slightly, just enough to stay clear as two peacekeepers move in to restrain rafe. he fights them, tries elbowing one in the ribs, shoving another off him. one of them stumbles. a third rushes in. rafe throws a punch that lands.

but that’s it. that’s when it gets worse.

the numbers catch up with him. hands grab, arms twist, and he’s dragged back down the hallway, still shouting, still fighting. the nurse’s heart pounds in her ears as she watches him dig his heels in, desperate to turn around.

right before they pull him out of view, he looks back. his eyes land on the window. on you, still unmoving on the bed. not that you can see.

his mouth opens, yelling something the nurse can’t hear, but she sees the way his lips form your name.

then, just for a second, his eyes lock with hers. the nurse.

there’s panic in them. there’s fear.

and then he’s gone.

enobaria stands stiff beside snow, her face tight with something that looks a lot like guilt. snow turns to say something to her. she doesn’t answer, just stares straight ahead like her mouth’s wired shut.

and then snow looks through the window, straight at the nurse. he doesn’t smile this time. he just looks, like he’s reminding her that he sees everything. silence is survival. then he turns and walks away down the hall.

the nurse’s hands are shaking by the time she looks down at you again. your face is still slack against the pillow, your hand still cold in the crook of the sheet. you haven’t seen any of it.

you don’t know he’s gone.

and she’s never felt more useless, more scared, more ashamed. because the only reason this is happening is because you refused to be sold.

reader finds out rafes being sold now maybe (a bit short)

the house has never been this quiet. not the usual kind of quiet either.

you sit curled up on the couch in the dim living room, a blanket barely covering your legs, a bowl of berries half-eaten in your lap. the hologram tv plays in front of you, the flickering images from the capitol news casting soft blue light across your face. you don’t hear most of it. it’s just white noise now.

cassaline dropped by earlier. there were flowers, gifts, sealed letters, all from strangers who saw your pain and decided it was theirs to decorate. you only opened the ones from your parents. the others sit untouched on the coffee table.

and then the door opens.

you flinch at the sound, head turning fast. rafe walks in. the door locks behind him with a soft click. he looks . . . hollow. his eyes are dull, his jacket falls off his shoulders as he shrugs it off. he doesn’t come in further. he just stands there, fingers twitching at his sides, staring down at his hands like he doesn’t even know what they are.

“is everything okay?” you ask softly, trying not to sound worried, but it slips through anyway.

he startles like he forgot you were even there. he jerks his head toward you, eyes flicking back and forth too fast to land on you for more than a second.

“yeah,” he breathes. “i’m good. everything’s good.”

but it’s not. you feel it.

you push the blanket off, slowly rising from the couch with your arms around your ribs to keep your back from pulling too much. “i could start making something if you want,” you offer as you limp toward the kitchen.

he doesn’t answer, just murmurs something you can’t hear as he heads up the stairs. so you follow, not immediately. not until the silence gets louder that at this point you really are getting worried.

when you reach the bedroom, rafe’s already sitting on the edge of the bed, shoes kicked off, elbow on one knee and his head in his hand. he picks up the remote and flicks on the tv, trying to act casual.

but the moment the news flickers to life, he regrets it.

“today, a man of great prestige was found dead in district two. initial reports say it was a suicide, but—”

“—many are calling it cowardice.”

“—a traitor to the cause.”

a photo flashes on screen. a name you half-recognize. some elite from the capitol, you think, high-ranking. some kind of advisor or finance head, you’re not sure. the image is cold. the anchor’s voice colder.

you stop in the doorway, watching the way rafe gives in too fast, lifting his hand and pointing it to the screen like you’ll understand. it’s useless trying to keep it from you anyway.

“what?” you ask, brow furrowing. “what about it?”

he doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“that was me.”

you blink.

“what was?”

“that was me.”

your mouth goes dry. “you . . . like you mean you were there?”

he finally turns his head to face you, his eyes glassy. he doesn’t say it again. doesn’t need to.

you stand there, trying to assemble it all, but your brain doesn’t move fast enough to catch up. it can’t. your stomach’s in your throat, but your mind can’t process why. he’s freaking you out.

he wouldn’t kill for nothing. he never has. never without a reason.

“snow’s gonna kill me,” he mutters.

“for killing one person?” your voice is quiet, unsure.

he snaps his head toward you, eyes sharp now. “for killing a buyer, y/n.”

you flinch.

a buyer?

your lips part, no words forming. you try to speak, but nothing comes.

he looks away again with jaw clenched like he’s ashamed. he’s gripping his hands together, wringing them like he can squeeze the guilt out through his skin.

and suddenly it hits you. hard.

he’s—?

no.

your knees nearly buckle under you.

he’s being sold.

“no,” your voice is barely above a whisper, a sick feeling rising in your chest. this is some sick joke. “no, he— i told snow to leave you alone. at the ball. i told him—”

“doesn’t matter,” rafe mutters. it makes you falter. “he already had buyers lined up.”

you stare at him. the room feels too small now. your chest too tight. you don’t know whether to scream or cry or hit something. how long had this been going on? how long has rafe been carrying this by himself?

he still won’t meet your eyes.

and all you can think is this could be happening because you said no. this too? mutilating your body for snow’s satisfaction wasn’t enough?

it’s like your worst fears are coming to life.

there’s too much to think about, too much to swallow, and you feel it coming again. you feel sick to your stomach. this can’t be your life. it can’t be his. all because you said no.

and now he’s paying for it.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts ++

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 2 part 3

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1][2][3] ep7 [1][2][3][4][5][6] ep8 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] ep9 [1][2][3][4][5][6])

surprise sunday double drop!

insert the mommy? sorry. mommy? sorry meme here

dressed for success, armor on, time to do what she does best.

the way she visibly shrinks and trembles at the salem seven watching her. this coward is so terrified of dying and having to face her wife and son.

NO THEY ARE NOT WELCOME BILLY. WE'RE GONNA KILL THEM BILLY

look at how agatha's body language changes as soon as the others arrive. she's doing the thing!

lilia hasn't eaten in three days. she's poor, okay. her bed is literally inside her wall. (jen is mirroring agatha, interesting! they're both on high alert)

"High Priestess." Immense spiritual power, unwilling or unable to use it. meanwhile, future!lilia is sitting at the tarot table, looking for her coven through time. Unwilling or unable is a funny way to describe Jen's situation, I need to think about it a bit more.

she heard the Ballad, jen. you might even say she wrote it, jen. lol all her crime scene pictures are walls and gardens and random street corners.

look at the symmetry in this shot, it's beautifully composed. alice leaning against the door, a bit shy

I can't get over how agatha takes a moment to feel the weight of what she's about to do to sharon. the girls want a green witch and rio is out of the question, so sharon has to be sacrificed in her place, simple as that. a complete innocent. agatha is about to kill her.

branded is such a violent word too. as if the people of westview were cattle.

how lonely she's been since her husband died. how thrilled and glad she is to be invited to a party. I have very strong feelings about sharon and I'm gonna destroy you with them, don't you worry.

agatha's fake smile fades the moment she's alone. and you know the recurring joke about her forgetting sharon's name and calling her mrs. hart? it's on purpose, and it's demeaning, and it's a way to distance herself from her guilt. she does that with Tommy's name too. if sharon is a joke, maybe her death won't be so wrong. as if she's hurting a caricature rather than a real person.

agatha doesn't want billy anywhere near the crossfire

sharon took her purse but forgot to take off her gardening apron

future!lilia jumps back in time for a second to let us know she doesn't appreciate elphabagatha straddling her. couldn't be me.

BILLY HAS ALWAYS BEEN LINKED TO RABBITS AND SEÑOR SCRATCHY AND NICKY. IN THIS ESSAY I WILL-

nicky's bell!

lilia always singing backup is both hilarious and in character tbh. agatha would think she deserves to be lead singer. lilia would think she's undeserving despite literally sounding like patti lupone and being the most powerful witch around

(has there been anything from the costume department about lilia's necklace and vest decorations? they look fascinating)

herb, my guy. it's time to move to eastview or smth

there is absolutely NO REASON for agatha to be that intense. she is not doing any real magic, she's playing a part and being cheesy about it as usual

yeah, sorry girls. you are all great singers and harmonize together beautifully, but like. you know. patti lupone. she's on another plane of existence. like I said perfectly in character! lilia is that bitch!! be glad she has a heart of gold and the self-confidence of a shoelace, or she would literally be ruling a couple galaxies at this point

oh, alice, sweetie. while agatha is faking emotion, alice's tears are so real and painful. what's worse, agatha's feelings about the song are just as deep and complex, but she won't let herself feel them. especially not in front of other people.

gasp! how DARE YOU ma'am! lol they were all speechless for a moment at the intimacy they just shared and now they are deflecting

oooh Agatha trying to get a rise out of them calls Lilia a coward, jen a fraud and alice a disappointment. We have our lion, scarecrow and tin man.

well someone's panicking

well well well how the turntables

lmao billy going agathaahahahahahaha

kudos for making the salem seven so creepy on zero budget tbh

agatha looks at the Road, looks at the blue magic, looks at Billy. and you know what I think? this is when she knew. right from the start. that this is Billy, Wanda's Billy, and that he created this. Her heart is still pounding in panic, she cannot believe she's still alive. She could call the kid out immediately, but she still hasn't got what she wanted: the others' powers. and she has learned the hard way how dangerous chaos magic is, so she chooses to lay low and study the situation a little more. she is always, always scheming and studying and improvising, she is bullshitting when she takes off her shoes, needs to pretend she knows what's going on.

toto we're not in kansas etc etc. dear lord these scenes are so infuriatingly dark. it's gonna be a bitch to brighten them.

and that's it for episode two! next we look at sharon's tragic demise. shoutout to @73chn1c0l0rr3v3l for always being first to like and reblog, thank you!

go to episode 3 part 1

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Hi! For the bingo: Daemon Targaryen & courting?

Mirror (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Warnings: Targaryen reader. Mature situations. Mature language. A bit of angst, incest, and innocence kink.

Summary: Courting. Daemon’s version.

A/N: Everyone who writes Daemon fics has tackled this trope. I missed oneshots so bad.

There was little King Viserys wouldn’t do for his lovely daughters. During your childhood, there were two of everything. Two Septas, two dolls, two play daggers. For as long as you have been alive, there have been efforts made to make things fair.

No doubt, it was the legacy of your mother. Your father was nice enough, but you doubted he had the foresight to try to avoid sibling rivalry. Queen Aemma’s influence had been greatly missed after her passing.

It had been then when the problems between you and Rhaenyra had started. Your relationship had gotten even more rocky when she was named heir. The situation had turned so bad, even your father had noticed. And just as if it were one of his models, he had demanded perfect symmetry in all aspects.

The same rooms. Same number of servants. Same number of dresses you were allowed to own. An even split of your mother’s jewels.

Unfortunately, there were things not even King Viserys could fix. This was one of them, you thought, as you sat on one of the rails of the dragon pit.

Daemon and Rhaenyra race on their dragons in the open sky right above you. They shriek in laughter and shout things in High Valyrian. You are not sure which you resent more. Rhaenyra, for dragging you along with the promise of tending to Syrax or Daemon for interrupting your time with your sister.

It seemed as if all you did was fight now. The occasion where you did not was rare, and so, intrusion on it was not welcome. But at the same time, you can’t help but wonder if Rhaenyra is playing a cruel trick on you, dragging you here so you can see what you are missing.

Despite your best attempts at keeping yourself calm, you can’t help but feel rage bubble up in your throat. Rage, and a deep sense of failure. You had heard even Laena Velaryon, younger than you, had managed to claim a dragon. Was this why your father had chosen Rhaenyra to be heir and not you?

It felt cruel, and hurtful. Not only did your uncle always pay more attention to Rhaenyra, but now you had to watch them do things you couldn’t do. Go where you couldn’t follow, and made you watch them go.

They dismount a few feet away from you. With them, comes all the hassle and fretting of the dragon keepers. Caraxes always takes a long time to settle after going flying, and so, you relax in your seat. You hope enough time might go by, they forget about your existence and you can slip out unnoticed. It would save you the embarrassment of having to hear them flirt and tell you everything as if you were a child.

No luck for you today, though. You smell it before you see it. Sweat, leather and the unmistakable stink of dragon. Your nose scrunches up, and you jump off the railing just in time to avoid your uncle’s ruffling of your hair.

Rhaenyra snickers a little. Despite the dragon ride, she looks as royal and regal as ever. It’s a feat you admire and despise greatly.

“Trying to sneak up on me?” You frown. You don’t need any further embarrassing. Being startled and falling into the mud would have been just the cherry on top.

Daemon ignores you, tugging on your braid.

“No dragon yet?”

“No.” Your answer it’s harsh, and perhaps a bit rude, but this feels as if they are targedly mocking you. Daemon raises his eyebrows, looking on the edge of apologizing, if such a thing it’s even possible for him. Rhaenyra, more used to your moods, just rolls her eyes.

“Let her be, Kepa.” She whispers, as if you are not there. “She is always like this.”

“Pouty?” Daemon tilts your chin up with two fingers. You jerk your head away, glaring daggers at him.

“Bitter.” Rhaenyra speaks, and you glare at her instead. You do not understand why she is so mean, lately. Her being named heir has not done anything good for your relationship, but you had tried your best to play nice. She didn’t seem to care.

“I can hear both of you.” You complain, but they just laugh. Angrily, you stomp off.

You feel too jittery to go back to your chambers. It would make you more angry, if you were to go inside the castle so soon. It’s too pleasant of a day to be spent cooped up at the Red Keep. Too preoccupied with your thoughts, you don’t notice someone is following you.

Your feet lead you to the training yard. It makes sense, in a way. This is where you have been coming the past few months when the castle got too small to house both you and Rhaenyra.

Early in the morning as it is, the yard is empty. Save for your sworn shield, of course. While Rhaenyra had gotten Ser Criston Cole, handsome and dornish, you had gotten Ser Harwin Strong. Riverlander, just as handsome and with a clear infatuation with your sister.

But kind. Unbearably so.

“I figured your meeting with the Princess would not go as planned.” He explains, as he helps you out of your cloak and jewelry. Ser Harwin helps you put on some protective gear before handing you a wooden sword.

He has been teaching you swordplay for the past few months. Not so much for self-defense, but as a way to curb your more violent impulses. When you feel like you might throttle Rhaenyra or perhaps smother her with a pillow, you come to him.

It's good. You have not learned a lot, but there is something utterly satisfying about hitting someone as hard as you can. With wooden swords and against Ser Harwin, you know there is no real possibility of hurting him. He is much taller and stronger than you.

There is also something satisfying about blocking his blows, too. In the smacking sound, in the effort it takes. You understand why men enjoy battle so much, finally. When you walk away, you are always sore and bruised, but your mind is finally quiet.

“I have just resigned myself to an arranged marriage.” You say to Ser Harwin, as you block his sword with great effort. “All the men in the court are panting after her, it’s no use.”

And you do think you are on the right, this time. Too often, you feel overshadowed by her, and seeing your uncle and Ser Harwin on the same day just confirms it. You have no chance at finding true love, not when every man here only has eyes for her.

You didn’t necessarily were a romantic person, but a bit of attention would be nice. Feeling desired and admired in the way Rhaenyra was. They even called her the Realm’s delight, for Gods’s sake.

“Are they after her? Or her tittle?” Ser Harwin tries to disarm you. You hit harder, a low blow aimed to his ribs that he avoids with little effort.

“You tell me.” You pant, a little out of breath. It was something you frequently wondered yourself, but never about him. Ser Harwin clearly wasn’t hoping to be King. What he wanted was something much more carnal. You had seen the way his eyes trailed Rhaenyra’s figure when they were together in a room. He appreciated her personality, perhaps, but he clearly wanted to bed her.

You loved teasing him about it. For such a big man, he could sure get sheepish.

“Fair.” Ser Harwin chuckled, raising his wooden sword again. You liked that he was very good-humored. He didn't mind your teasing. “But think of the bright side. If someone is after you, they are really after you.”

You frowned. He had a point, you supposed. If a man were about to pursue you, it might be because you are a Targaryen, or because of your valyrian looks. But never because of the Iron Throne. With baby Aegon existence, you are certain that whatever your place in the succession line is, plenty of people would have to die for you to even have a weak claim to it.

“Wise words for one so young.” The voice startles both of you. As if you were children caught with their hands in the cookie jar, you freeze. Ser Harwin even drops his wooden sword. “You should heed your knight, niece.”

“Uncle.” You answer, casually. You know Daemon. If he senses weakness, he is going to pounce. While Ser Harwin has given away already that you are not exactly doing something your father approves off, you are not going to have your Uncle thinking he has something to blackmail you with.

Daemon ignores you, choosing to attack the weak link. He tuts at Harwin.

“Poor form. And a poor trainer. Leave us.”

Harwin hesitates. He is not supposed to leave you alone and unprotected. Much less, with your uncle. Daemon it’s not known for his trustworthiness.

“With all due respect, Prince Daemon, I am not allowed…”

“Leave us, boy.” Daemon’s tone turns harsher. Channeling all the authority he has as a Prince. Now, your sworn shield can’t refuse. It’s an order, not a suggestion. But Harwin remains where he is, looking to you for approval.

Your uncle’s eyes flash dangerously at the defiance. You look at Harwin and nod. He leaves.

You twirl your wooden sword. Daemon smirks.

“Commendable.” He gives a slow clap. “Very loyal guard dog, you have there.”

“You could learn a thing or two.” You answer, vicious. The human equivalent of an animal biting down and refusing to release its jaws. By the brief look of hurt on his face, you have touched a nerve.

But soon, his expression smooths down into a vicious little smile, to match yours.

“So this is where you have been disappearing to.”

“So?” You ask, all nonchalance.

“Feisty.” Your uncle kicks Harwin’s discarded wooden sword away and unsheathes his. Whatever this is, it’s long overdone, you realize. You are bouncing with pent-up anger and frustration.

Daemon strikes at you, hard. The flat side of his sword hits your ribs. It hurts even with the protections Harwin makes you wear, a dull sting on your torso.

“If this was a real fight, you would be dead.” His tone is smug. You cannot take it, and so, bang your wooden sword against his hip.

“And you would be unable to walk.”

Your uncle laughs, coldly. He is angry too, you realize. In that messy way he gets, sometimes. Teeth bared in a cocky grin, still high on the thrill of riding Caraxes and chasing Rhaenyra.

Despite your best attempts, you are no match for him. He is a seasoned warrior. He has been at war for the last couple of years. No amount of anger can match his technique. Soon, he has you disarmed and cornered, Dark Sister at your throat.

“Not bad. I might even bruise.” His tone drips condescension, but there is something odd going on in his face. His pupils are blown, his chest is heaving, and there is no way it’s with exertion. While you were panting and begging for a respite, Daemon hadn’t even worked up a sweat. “You need a real sword.”

“Perhaps. But then Rhaenyra gets one, and this is only mine.” It’s more honest than you would like, but you are still trying to decipherate what exactly he is feeling. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes glassy. You feel confused.

“Is that why you want a husband? To have someone only yours?” Daemon suddenly is much closer, twirling the end of your braid between his fingers.

You scoff, and push him away.

“That’s none of your concern.”

You storm inside the Red Keep, scowling. Finally, it seemed, Daemon and Rhaenyra had managed to run you off the castle’s grounds.

The encounter is barely given a second thought. You decide to keep yourself busy for the rest of Daemon’s visit to King’s Landing. Knowing him, he is due to get exiled soon. There is no point in worrying about it.

You fill up your days with activities, be it harassing some tutors, your Septa, or even visiting orphaned children in King’s Landing. That activity is one you and Ser Harwin particularly enjoy. It fills you with joy when you get to run around and play in the mud with your stern guard having no choice but to tag along. You have even caught him smiling when little girls ask to braid his hair.

Things are surprisingly calm. You would have expected your uncle to be involved in a scandal by now. Yet, there are no rumors of him bedding three whores in one sitting, nor there is an irate Otto Hightower asking your father to send him away.

Until one night, you find a jeweled sword resting on your bed. It’s small, but you can tell from the sharpness of the blade that it is made from Valyrian steel. You start training with it the next day, getting used to its weight. If Ser Harwin thinks anything of your sudden interest in doing more than hitting him, he doesn’t show it.

You are not surprised to find your Uncle waiting for you after your morning practice. At first glance, the courtyard is as empty as when you began your training. Despite it, you can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching.

Just as you are entering the Red Keep, sweaty and ready for a bath, Daemon steps out from the shadows.

“You look so grown up in riding attire.” He says, from beneath some trees. “Almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Almost didn’t recognize you, either. No scandal in nearly a month?” You start to loosen your braid, accelerating the process of getting into your bath as you walk. There is nothing you want more than to just soak in hot water and let the warmth wash away your soreness. “You must be getting old.”

“Youthfulness is in the spirit.” Daemons hurries to reach you, falling into step right beside you. You resist the urge to walk faster if only to see him struggle. Power play. Always. Push, and pull, and don’t let anyone else get the upper hand.

“Ah, that makes sense.” You slow down your steps because while you enjoy angering your uncle, you would rather not anger him too much. “You have the spirit of a child.”

“I’ll take that as the highest of compliments.” Daemon ruffles your hair, uncaring that’s matted in sweat. You make a face. “Did you like your gift?”

“Depends.” You give him a feral little grin. Your uncle looks at you, as if deciding whether he wants to bite or not. Knowing him as you do, you know he can’t stand the intrigue.

“On what?”

“How many of Rhaenyra’s necklaces you had to melt to get the sword.”

“That blade is worth at least five of her necklaces.” Daemon boasts. You give him an unimpressed look.

“Huh. Then I like it.”

“Not love it?”

“It wasn’t ten.” And with a cheeky grin, you are off towards your chambers.

You don’t see Daemon for a few days. You hear him, unfortunately. He is everywhere at once, yet never wherever you are. You know of him in the shape of rumors and hearsay.

When you go fetch yourself a tea tray in the kitchen, your uncle is in the middle of the servants. “I heard last night he was with four whores!” As you ask a maid about your sister’s whereabouts, he is her chosen companion. “Princess Rhaenyra went out to race your uncle, Princess.” And of course, when your father complains, Daemon is in the midst of it. “He insulted Otto and then walked out of the council meeting.”

Despite your wishes, your uncle starts to occupy more of your mind’s space than you would like. You keep wondering what he is up to, each rumor more outrageous than the last. You cannot help but wonder if it’s you who was prompted him to wreak such havoc. The idea of having such power over him, that an offhanded comment can cause such a reaction, makes something tingle in your stomach.

You find him next in the gardens. Alicent and Rhaenyra are fighting again, a nasty thing that soon turns into a screaming match. That's a dynamic you have stayed out of, since you had memory. While Alicent and Rhaenyra were friends, you never felt anything towards Alicent besides a slight sympathy. She seemed nice enough, but she was not your friend.

Rhaenyra and you loved in the same way, you see. Possessive, harsh. As Princesses, you never learned to share. You wanted your person to be only yours. Alicent was Rhenyra’s, and so, you stepped aside.

When she married your father, you weren’t exactly pleased. But you had the emotional detachment Rhenyra lacked, being too close to the situation. In time, you had come to understand that it wasn’t like she had a choice, either.

So, it wasn’t like you were going to break with tradition now. To avoid their screams, you had decided to pace the gardens. Daemon seemed to have the same idea because you find him sitting on a bench with a book in his hands.

“Came to join me?” He asks, voice smooth like honey.

“Rather to escape the screeching.” You sit by his side, curiously peering at the book he holds.

“A Cautionary Tale For Young Girls.” Daemon’s smirk is the only thing that gives him away, that, and the fact that the book is written in High Valyrian. “Most illuminating read. You should try it.”

You laugh, despite yourself. His lips twitch into a more genuine smile, less full of smugness and bravado.

“I was getting lonely.” You say, softly. The admission surprises even you. “You are with Rhaenyra all the time.”

Don’t go where I can’t follow, you wish to say. Don’t take her from me. My other half. But you don’t speak the words aloud, from fear of him repeating your confession. You don’t want to beg Rhaenyra for affection, not when you have been competing with her all your life.

Daemon makes a face, as if pained of what he will say next. He seems wary of hurting you. You wonder if that means he cares for you, in his own twisted way. It’s not often he worries about what others think.

“She has a dragon.” No matter how gentle the tone, it hurts anyway.

“I miss her. Not you.” But it’s a lie. You know it’s a bad pattern, and you shouldn’t miss him, but you are so used to competing for affection that Daemon has become both your rival and the one you crave. The weeks without him have been lonely and taxing. No matter if it was you who pushed him away and didn’t care to reach out after.

“I remember you two were close.” Something must change in your face because your uncle reaches toward you, gently squeezing your arm.

“We used to be. She is just… So angry, all the time. And has all these new people. Admires, prospects…” You feel like a fool. There is a deep sense of unfulfillment and being wronged yet at the same time, you know you are being unreasonable. This was always going to happen. You can’t share the Iron Throne, and she has always been your father’s favorite. Rhaenyra was always going to be the heir.

“Which one am I?”

You shrug.

“It's not like I care.” But you do. You do care, despite your best sense. Because you want to be his favorite. You have always wanted to be someone’s favorite, but Daemon has a special brand of devotion for those he cares about. You wish you could be counted on that list, lately. By the smile on his face, Daemon can probably tell. “And it's not like before she didn't have things that were only hers.”

"I thought you shared everything.” Your uncle tucks a loose piece of your hair behind your ear. You lean into the touch, closing your eyes.

“She has Alicent. Had. Still does.” You know when the time comes, Alicent will be there for Rhaenyra. They are tied together by destiny in ways Rhaenyra and you are not.

“The curse of the younger brother.” With your eyes still closed, his hand gently brushing your hair back, the words do not feel as if they are being spoken aloud. The gardens around you feel muffled, distant. Perhaps it’s the soothing touch, or the deep pang of sadness in your chest, but you do not understand what Daemon means.

“I beg your pardon?” You open your eyes, giving him a confused expression. Not only is he muttering nonsense, your uncle is much closer to you than he was before. Daemon’s forehead is nearly pressed into yours, his thumb now gently rubbing across your jawline.

“Viserys and Rhaenyra are the same.” He explains, tracing your cheekbone next. As if he is keen to learn your face from touch alone, carve it on his mind. It makes you smile slightly. The pain from mourning your innocence is very much still there, but it doesn’t feel like it’s tearing you apart. “Just as you and I are the same.”

“I…” You are not sure of what to answer. Naturally, it makes sense. You can feel it in your bones, but you can’t quite articulate the thought.

Daemon’s thumb presses against your lips in a downward motion, closing them.

“We could fly off tonight. Go to the Free cities, marry. No one would care.” His tone is fervent, urgent. Pleading with you. You keep quiet, and so does he. The silence stretches between the two of you. Your mind races.

Just as your lips flutter behind his thumb to answer the proposal, your uncle speaks again.

“We are free, you and I. But the Iron Throne chains them.”

It’s then you realize it was not a proposition, but rather an explanation of the thoughts you were unable to articulate. And perhaps it’s the sting of rejection or the deep sadness that has taken root on you since the death of your mother, but you cannot keep the words in. They come flowing, tumbling, rushing out of your mouth.

“I want to be a girl forever.” You say to him, starting to tear up. “I am not ready to be a woman.”

You are scared, you realize. No longer are you a girl playing to be a woman, dressing up in your mother’s jewels and dresses. Five years down the line, you will be married. Ten, it will be you who is a mother.

Your uncle gathers you into his arms, painfully soft. You would have never believed Daemon capable of such a tender touch.

“You can’t be innocent forever.”

“Everything is so complicated now. I just… I don’t want anything to change.”

You whisper against his neck. It’s a doomed wish. You know already it’s too late for it. No longer are you an innocent, no longer anything is the same. It will never be.

“Not all changes are bad. There can be pleasure in losing one’s innocence.” Daemon kisses your temple. “And I intend to show it to you.”

That night, the two of you sneak out of the Red Keep.

“I wanted to give you something only yours.” Your uncle says, as he leads you down the Street of Silk. Both of you are wearing rough cloaks, for discretion. You cling to his arm, afraid of getting lost in between the strange sights and smells.

There is so much to see and so much to hear. People laughing in the streets, singing, drunkards and patrons from the brothels mixing. While you are familiar with the streets of King’s Landing, you have never seen them at night. It’s both frightening and exhilarating, watching the city come to life in ways new to you.

There are no children in sight, only adults. The message that Daemon hoped to convey by bringing you here is loud and clear. You are no longer a girl, you are a woman. And so, instead of sleeping soundly in your bed as you have done all your childhood, you get to enjoy the wonders of the night.

The crowd gets even more rowdy as you pass the bigger pleasure houses and walk towards the ones that are at the end of the street. Secluded as they are, they spark your curiosity.

“Where are we going?” You ask your uncle, tugging at his arm. “Inside one of those? Why?”

“They cater to tastes that the rest do not.” Daemon comes to a stop in front of one, and takes off his hood. The woman at the doors takes one look at his hair and quickly ushers you both inside a room.

The room is bare except for a couple of chairs and a bed. You examine everything closely, noting the inferior quality of the furniture. These are not the kinds of chairs you are used to, at the Red Keep. After a while, and only when you notice no one else is hiding inside, you lower your hood. Being overly cautious never hurt anyone, after all.

“What tastes?” You squeeze Daemon’s hand. He gives you a puzzled look. “You said they cater to tastes…”

“You will see.” You are saved from the wait to know what he means by the door opening. Two servants, dressed in little clothing, step inside. Men, near your age. They are completely unique, yet similar. You get the feeling they are not simple servants, even though they serve you and Daemon goblets of wine.

You stare. You do not understand why they are not leaving.

Your uncle steps behind you, to whisper in your ear. His arms circle around your waist.

“Look at them.” He presses a chaste kiss just behind your ear. “Really look.”

So you do. One of the men is tall and strong. Almost wide. All bulging muscles. He has dark hair and light colored eyes. The other man is slightly slender, yet strong either way. He has lighter hair and a much sweeter face. They are both handsome, yet you do not understand what game Daemon could be playing.

“You wanted something only yours.” He mutters, kissing the crown of your head. He perches his chin on top of it. “Most girls, they don’t get to choose whom they lose their innocence to.”

It dawns on you then. He wants you to choose one of the men to… Well. It’s a nice thing to do, but so undeniably Daemon it hurts.

Feeling mischievous, you turn around in his grip.

“And I can choose any of the men in this room?” You smirk. Your uncle’s brows draw together, in disbelief.

“That’s the point, yes.” Daemon speaks slowly, as if explaining to someone particularly daft. Or innocent. “I’ll pay for it, don’t worry.”

“Good.” You smirk, and kiss him. You feel him smirk right back against your mouth.

[irondad-creator-awards]

And The Finalists Are... Part 1

The 2024 Story Finalists Are Now All Bookmarked And Added To The Collection - Or Permission Requested.

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NOTE: Sorry for the split posts. Tumblr wouldn't let us post as one.

[ctrlzirl]

Fires of Passion, Ashes of Hate I

next part

Summary: Lovers (mentioned) to enemies and “I didn’t know where else to go.” all in one 3.2k words fic.

Warnings: Hate (?), mentions of near death (kinda), curses, blood, and injuries.

Note: I actually really like this. Kaz’s thoughts are in italics. Part two will be y/n’s pov and three is going back to kaz’s. Enjoy and let me know what you think! <3

* ੈ✩‧₊˚

It was amusing, in a twisted way. Kaz and Y/N had loved each other intensely, to the point of pain. The love had hurt so deeply that they had to break apart, and with that much love bottled up, anger began. Hatred followed suit.

They hated each other. So much that it pained them, for they had once known each other. Once, they had shared laughter. Once, their love had been so intense that it twisted into hatred.

Hate born from love. How cruel.

In certain aspects, they were undeniably alike. The way they thought, fought, manipulated, and even shared laughter echoed each other—a symmetry they once found endearing.

They cherished locking eyes, finding solace in the reflection of qualities that mirrored each other, even if not in the physical sense.

They had once adored the similarity, but now they detested it. Every move, every thought, every word in their conflicts felt predictable, like battling an unyielding mirror. The annoyance grew as they found themselves entangled in a struggle against the very likeness they had once celebrated.

Kaz had been seated at his desk for what he felt was an extended period, and that, in itself, spoke volumes.

Despite the persistent urge to infiltrate Lehos' house, his thoughts incessantly circled back to her, and he hated it.

He found himself pondering how she would approach it—her plan, the route she would choose, and the exit strategy she might employ. It was exhausting and he knew that if he didn’t devise a plan soon, she would inevitably outsmart him.

His thoughts, however, were abruptly interrupted by a sudden, or rather, a terrible attempt at knocking on his door, capturing his attention.

Quickly glancing at his pocket watch, he realized that by this time, his crows would all be fast asleep. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. A chill going down his spine.

With no apparent reason for a knock at this hour, he braced himself for a potential confrontation.

He held his breath for a second, then two. With no one bursting through the door, he took a deliberate step forward, his hand gravitating towards the doorknob.

The color drained from his face as swiftly as he yanked the door open. The sight before his eyes was too dreadful to fathom.

"I didn't know where else to go."

With that, she fell forward, her full body weight crashing against his chest and propelling him back two steps.

His eyes swiftly scanned his surroundings, darting from the blood covering the outside of his door, where she had leaned, to the pool of it where she had once been standing.

“Y/n?”

That was it. She was dead. They finally got her. Those were the only words echoing in his mind as he clung to her lifeless form, glancing down to see his hands and vest now tainted with the same crimson hue that stained his door.

And then, he heard a faint hum. Weak, but enough for him to recognize it as coming from the girl, confirming he hadn't hallucinated it. "Y/n!" But the hum was the last sound he heard from her before he felt her body sliding down from his arms, slipping from where they had once been standing.

With all the strength he could muster in their awkward position, he pulled. He pulled and pulled until he reached his bed, pushing her over so she was now lying down on it.

“Saints.”

He stood there, torn between conflicting impulses. A part of him urged to lift her and cast her out of his room—she had no business being there, and he had no obligation to assist her. Yet, another part hesitated, acknowledging she hadn't known where else to go.

That realization alone prompted him to help her. He could envision the difficulty she must have faced to come all the way here. Moreover, he understood the gravity of her situation for her to seek help specifically from him.

“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”

Were the constant words his mouth kept repeating as he tore clothes off, exposing whatever wounds he could see through the blood.

Her blood that had now painted almost the entirety of his room red.

A soft "I know," slipped through her parted lips, the words resonating and sending shivers through the entirety of his body. "I know."

His heart burned, as intensely as it did when the hate began. The flames of their love had been an inferno, reducing everything to ash.

Ash that had filled their lungs, the very lungs that were once the sanctuary for the breathy laughs they had once shared.

But he couldn't let her die, not like this. If her time came, it would be by his hand, not someone else's.

He alone possessed the authority to extract this overwhelming amount of blood from her. The exclusive right to make her suffer and beg belonged to him.

Beg for what? Forgiveness, perhaps. But what was he supposed to forgive her for—loving him? For making him love her?

He presumed that when the moment arrived, clarity would come. For now, he had to concentrate on the hate coursing through him. The hate that, if wielded wisely, could prolong her existence until the time he could exact his own form of destruction.

“Saints. I really do detest you, love.”

It was the only explanation. He had long ago extinguished the flames of the love they once shared, carefully dusting off the ash from his heart, and decisively leaving her behind.

Each day, she haunted his thoughts, transforming into a relentless fire, hell-bent on destroying his heart.

He moved with urgency, his leg protesting in pain. From her side to the bathroom, he returned with hands laden with bandages. Swiftly turning back, he grabbed a bucket, filled it with water, and returned with it in one hand, a cloth in the other, and a sewing kit clutched between his teeth.

His hands trembled uncontrollably. It was so absurd to witness his own hands shake that a humorless laugh escaped his lips as he shook his head in disbelief.

The room reeked of desperation and the unmistakable scent of iron, and it made him nervous. Nervous enough to prompt him to pull his gloves off, hoping for a better grip on the sewing kit.

He let out a frustrated grunt. Somehow, the damn kit refused to open, as if the crystal lid had been sealed shut with invisible glue.

With time slipping through his fingers like sand in the wind, he covered his eyes, turned his face away, and then, with frustration, raised his arm. Swiftly moving down, he forcefully smashed the kit into the ground, letting it shatter into pieces.

He quickly dropped to his knees, his shaky hand fumbling around in search of the needles. "Fuck," he muttered as a shock of pain ran through his palm. He had found a needle.

Grabbing the thread that had slipped under his bed, he rose as swiftly as his bad leg allowed, promptly placing the needle between his teeth, and tucking the thread into his pocket.

As he took the damp cloth, his gaze lingered on her face. Her eyes moved back and forth behind close lids, and he found himself wondering if she was lost in a dream.

Perhaps, in her dreams, she wandered back to him. Maybe it was a recollection of their laughter reverberating through a moonlit alley, back when times were simpler. When the city’s shadows seemed less ominous, and their love had yet to transmute into hatred.

He only fully returned to his senses when he felt the crimson wetness clinging to his hand.

Each swipe across her wounded body intensified the sensation—the stickiness, the warmth, the almost magnetic pull of her life force seeping into the fibers. It was as if the blood itself whispered secrets of their past, demanding acknowledgment.

He wanted- no, he needed to know, “Why here? Of all places, why did you come here?”

His voice, through gritted teeth that still clung to the needle, was almost as harsh as his scrubbing on her skin. He wasn’t being gentle—she didn’t deserve it. “Answer me!”

Only silence followed, fueling the hate in his heart.

He scrubbed harder, longing for a moment when she might wake up and respond to the questions haunting his mind. Yet, she remained unresponsive. Even in the face of death, she found a way to infuriate him.

Once he had cleaned as much blood as he could, he retrieved the thread from his pocket and took the needle from between his teeth.

Despite his shaky hands, he deftly threaded the needle. After all, he was the barrel's finest lock-picker.

That was something he prided himself on—an ability that, despite his attempts to teach Y/n, she never excelled at.

He took a deep breath and moved forward, his hands approaching the nasty cut just below her ribs.

As much as he craved answers, he was somehow relieved when he glanced up and found Y/n's eyes still glued shut. Just as she had never learned how to quickly pick a lock, he had never learned how to painlessly sew a wound shut. It was going to hurt.

But that was inconsequential to him. He believed she deserved the anguish, and he would have welcomed the sound of her screams.

Yet, he wouldn’t have relished the teasing likely to replace the cries of pain, highlighting how inept he was at this.

In what felt like an eternity, mere minutes passed before he wrapped the gauze he had fetched from the bathroom around -what seemed like- her entire body. Successfully covering every wound he could see.

Having done his part, whether she woke up or not was now in her hands. However, he hoped it would be soon. After all, he was going to need his bed back at some point.

As he waited, his gaze delicately traced her face, pausing at her chapped lips. He once had wondered what they might taste like—whether they would carry the same flavor as the fragrance he associated with her; cherries.

And, at some point during this ordeal, he had found himself hoping her heart would cease to beat.

He hoped that, in some twisted way, this would serve as a justification for his mind to release him from the haunting grip of his past. That it would allow his body to break free and lead him to press his lips to hers in a desperate attempt to bring her back to life.

With a sigh, his gaze shifted from her face to survey the room. The effort required to scrub y/n's body clean of blood made him anticipate the daunting task of cleaning his room.

Not to mention his clothes. His once dark green vest was now adorned in red, gradually transforming into a somber brown. One of his favorite vests now resembled an abstract painting, and it was all her fault.

And he dared not contemplate about his gloves for long. He was usually swift at cleaning them whenever blood stained the fabric, making it easier. He knew delaying the process would complicate matters once the blood had dried. However, exhaustion weighed heavily on him, compounded by the persistent pain in his leg.

His eyes scanned the chaos his room had become once more before returning to her. The desire to push her off his bed and crawl into it tugged at him.

That was until he remembered that he now, too, had to clean the sheets he had just washed hours ago, unless he wanted to sleep on bloody linens.

He groaned, his spine curving against the back of his chair as he threw his head back, his hands quickly coming up to cover his face.

Despite knowing her like the back of his hand, he found himself clueless as to why she had chosen to come here, and the lack of understanding grated on him.

At some point during the night, the weight on his eyelids became too formidable to resist. With one final gaze at her chest's gentle rise and fall, he allowed his chin to lower and rest on his chest, surrendering to the embrace of dreamland.

His dreams, as always, were haunted by her presence. The sparkle in her eyes upon receiving a rose, the comforting weight of her hand in his, and the melody of her laughter as she watched him attempt to knot a cherry's stem with just his tongue.

He had seen her do it countless times, each one effortlessly. The way her lips would glisten with sunlight as she parted them to place the stem inside her mouth.

"It's not that hard, Kaz. Watch."

And he would. His eyes piercing into the pink of her lips, observing as her jaw moved, and the bump her tongue created every now and then on her cheek.

His gaze would shift up to her eyes as he watched her squint one, focusing, her nose scrunching up.

Yet, his admiration was consistently interrupted by her triumphant exclamation, her hand rising to her mouth to retrieve the now knotted stem.

Back then, the task seemed impossible to him. He had made multiple attempts and failed each time. Now, however, he could knot the stems with little to no difficulty.

After the hate started and they drifted apart, he had spent much of his time attempting to forget her, but it proved impossible. After all, he was too engrossed in hating her to erase her from his thoughts.

Before he formed connections with any of his crows, and during the period when y/n and he were no longer on speaking terms, he occupied much of his free time by indulging in cherries. Their flavor, helping rid his mouth of the disgusting taste of jurda.

Popping the stem into his mouth, he tirelessly practiced the art of knotting it over and over again.

One day, he succeeded. From then on, it became progressively easier.

His slumber was rudely disrupted as someone burst into his room, and the daylight struck his eyes in a way that prompted a hiss of discomfort.

“Kaz-“

He was angry at whoever thought they could push his door open and rush in without even knocking first. Then, he remembered the state of the outside of his office, and the anger slowly dissipated.

“Inej.”

“What happened here?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

Inej fell silent for a moment. Her gaze traced from the now brownish blood on his doorknob to the strangely persistent vibrant red pool by his desk. Following the trail of blood, her eyes paused at the shattered sewing kit before slowly moving to the back of Kaz’s head.

"Are you hurt?"

Kaz's head shook, a humorless laugh escaping his parted lips as he stretched his arms above his head before answering with a simple "No."

She cautiously inched forward, apprehensive about what she might discover but relieved to find Kaz was not in immediate danger. "Then—"

Kaz looked at her, anticipating her continuation of the question. However, before she could proceed, her eyes landed on y/n's form.

“Is that-“

“Yes.”

“What-“

“I don’t know.”

“Why-“

“I also do not know, Inej.”

Kaz had never spoken to Inej about Y/n. He knew he didn't have to provide details about who she was for the crows to be familiar with her. After all, her name, like his and his crows', was whispered in fear throughout the Barrel.

The sole piece of information the crows held about Y/n and Kaz was their mutual animosity. Thus, Kaz could envision the surprise Inej must have experienced when her mind finally comprehended whose blood had stained his office and whose unconscious body still lay on his bed.

"Is she going to be alright?"

"Sadly, yes."

With that, Inej nodded and silently slipped away from his office, mentioning something about instructing one of the dregs to clean the blood off the exterior before it induced another heart attack.

As if prompted by Inej’s comment, he stood up, emitting a grunt as his leg protested with pain. Retrieving his gloves, cloth, and bucket from where they were carelessly left the night before, he made his way to the bathroom.

He vigorously scrubbed at his gloves, desperate to erase any trace of her blood. In the process, vivid memories from the previous night flashed through his mind.

The images of her irritated skin as he scrubbed at the blood covering it, the slow breaths that escaped her parted lips.

With his gloves, he was gentler than he had been with her. His nails delicately digging into any bumps of dry blood, and freeing his gloves from them.

As his eyes met the mirror, he realized that her blood stained not only his gloves but also his left cheek and hair. He assumed it had transferred during his frantic run of fingers through his hair, or when wiping away the sweat from his cheek.

In the midst of rolling his eyes, a flicker of movement seized his attention – the movements that were coming from the second reflection on his mirror.

“Why here?”

He had been unable to extract the answer he desperately sought before, but now that she was awake, he was determined to put his mind at rest.

“Hello to you too, Kaz.”

“Why here?”

In the reflection, he observed her struggling to sit up, her hand pressing against her side, an attempt to alleviate the pain he was certain she was experiencing. Good.

“Look, Kaz-“

“I’m asking you one more time, and that is it. Why here?”

He observed her eyes wandering through the room, surveying the chaos it had devolved into. A subtle flicker of her tongue emerged, moistening her lips as if seeking to revive them from their chapped state.

His patience wore thin once again. With a sigh, he dropped his gloves into the sink and turned to face her. Arms crossed over his chest, he shot her an intense glare.

"Answer me."

He recalled uttering the same words the previous night as she lay on his bed, losing an insane amount of blood. If he concentrated hard enough on the memory, he could still smell the metallic scent of her blood.

“Where else if not here, Kaz?”

“Anywhere but here, Y/n.”

Her eyes finally locked with his, presenting an unusual sight compared to what he was accustomed to. The sparkle within them had long been extinguished, and the white now bore a haunting tint of red.

A bruise darkening the top corner of her eye, creeping toward her eyebrow, caught his attention. It seemed like the result of a forceful impact, possibly delivered by a fist adorned with rings. Gang boss.

Besides Jesper's penchant for rings, the exclusive wearers of such accessories were typically barrel bosses. The rings, often bulky, proudly displayed the insignia of the gang presided over by the person donning them.

These particular rings had a notorious reputation for leaving agonizing bruises, similar to the ones marking her face.

“The slat was the closest-“

“I don’t need your sob story. I want to understand why you believed I would be willing to save your life.”

“Is that not what you did, Brekker?”

There it was. She had transitioned from addressing him as Kaz to resorting to Brekker. He could sense the anger emanating from her, her face contorted in pain, and he permitted himself to relish the spectacle.

He savored it so thoroughly that he opted to add complexity to her situation, even though he wouldn't be there to witness the repercussions.

"It wasn't a favor without a cost. I have a meeting. When I return, I anticipate finding this place spotless, and I want you gone."

[pokelolmc]

DEATH THE KID OCD HEADCANONS!

(from someone who actually has OCD)

(ie. if Kid had realistic OCD and wasn't just some orderly neatfreak stereotype)

-symmetry OCD is typically less about arranging things, but involving actions or bodily motions and having to get them even (eg. If you do an action with one hand, you feel like you have to do it with the other as well, making your steps even with both feet, touching one side of your face then touching the other, etc.), or needing a general "feeling" of evenness with certain things;

-it wouldn't be played for laughs, and it wouldn't virtually disappear (for all but a few instances) in the middle of missions; he would be a lot more bothered by everything around him (unless he has mild OCD that only comes in attacks; I feel like mine is constant personally)

(Disclaimer I've never had symmetry as an OCD theme so I'm going off of what I've read online and from other people)

-Kid's attention to symmetry and obsessions being connected to the Madness of Order in canon strikes me more as possible moral/scrupulosity OCD to me—his upbringing and hearing about balance from his dad feels like a moral obsession with order and evenness and perfectionism and he could be obsessed with/uncertain of not living up to those expectations and being morally good enough

-he probably wouldn't just be obsessed with symmetry as OCD tends to shift themes; it's about intrusive thoughts and compulsions so it's going to shift with the content of his mind

-8 being a good number makes sense; superstitious and magical thinking is common with OCD

-he probably has counting compulsions related to numerous activities or things

-he has just right OCD where he needs to do certain things to feel "just right" or relieve an internal feeling of wrongness, even if they make absolutely no sense (could apply to having things arranged physically right)

-no, actually Gallows Manor is NOT arranged in perfect neatness because Kid is a neat freak; OCD is not about being a neat freak; it's clean because Lord Death hires staff to keep it maintained and Kid barely touches stuff where it lies unless necessary (because then he HAS to avoid feeling compelled to put it back in a way that feels just right and it feels like nothing is ever enough); symmetry OCD doesn't really mean that your surroundings have to be symmetrical and realistically, if Kid lived in a house that big that he couldn't control the symmetry of and maintain all by himself, he'd go insane; if Kid DOES have problems with things not being neat, it's restricted to specific places or rooms that are personal and they are actually not cleaned that often because he DESPISES getting stuck in his OCD for HOURS trying to arrange everything just right; cleaning or making things neat is a MAJOR source of stress if he is tries to clean things himself so often times those room deteriorate if somebody else doesn't clean them and he gets mad at himself for it because he can't live comfortably in the messiness either but he KNOWS how hard cleaning it will be if he has to do it so he shoves the feelings down so he doesn't feel compelled because feeling compelled to go through such a difficult task every time he feels like it's not good enough is a fucking NIGHTMARE

-he struggles with OCD around his handwriting not being neat enough and avoids it by using typing instead where he can

-he feels extremely morally responsible for Liz and Patty's safety and has to do rituals to feel like something bad isn't going to happen to them (obsessions about them dying or getting hurt)

-body dysmorphia-esque thoughts around his stripes, he avoids looking in mirrors so he doesn't trigger it

-he doesn't tell anyone, even his friends, about his more bizarre obessions because they don't make any logical sense, and he's afraid that they'll think he agrees with his intrusive thoughts and that they reflect who he is as a person, because most people don't understand that you're not your thoughts and you can be plagued by thoughts you disagree with

-he can't walk up the steps to school without having to go back down at random points and re-walk it because it feels wrong or stressful, so he usually flies on Beelzebub instead to avoid it

-he has a symmetry obsession where he must touch any door handle he uses with both hands, and has to do it in rounds of eight to feel safe to move on from feeling like it is locked properly; he passively hangs back and let's other people go ahead and use the door for him and only uses the door if he has no other option

-the need for twin weapons is about having an even weight and shape in both hands at once; he feels wrong fighting without being able to replicate what he does in one hand with the other, and that means having the same weapon in both hands

-he fights the urge to repeatedly ask other people for a LOT of reassurance; his OCD makes him feel like a horrible person and a monster and that everyone will notice he's a freak and not human, like it's a bad thing, like they will see him the same way they see witches or kishin

-he has real event OCD that causes him to ruminate A LOT about things he's done in the past and whether he was in the right or not or trying to figure out how to soothe the idea he was in the wrong for it

-he has embarrassing random obsessions, like feeling like he's being stalked or watched or feeling naked in public and having to block out the feelings or thoughts to feel relief

-his obsessions show up in his dreams so he can't even escape them when he sleeps

-religious OCD over other religions being right or gods existing that he doesn't believe in (because he is literally the son of the god of death), but he can't shake the belief or feeling like those other gods are 100% real or may always be real regardless of how hard he argues that they aren't, and he has to pray to them to be safe from their wrath or being sent to hell, fears of being seen as competition and feeling uncomfortable/awkward around openly religious people as a result because he feels like he is repeatedly "competing for space" with their god or that his own existence is a personal insult to their beliefs (feeling of guilt and shame that he uses mental compulsions to block out, or just avoids the feelings)

-he's been expected to function properly for so long that he's built up a barrier of mental avoidance to minimise his physical rituals and feel like he can get on with his day on par with his peers because he feels inadequate and like he is falling behind, or like the son of Death shouldn't be physically crippled or disabled by thoughts and emotions (expectation that they aren't supposed to affect him)

[slendershift]

☆ shifting exercise !

inspired by @miiashiifts ! thank u for the inspo i had so much fun doing this

credits to @withluvvenus for the activity ♡

💿 we’ll never have sex by leith ross

hermitcraft dr → spending days in the library with etho, me there to study for my finals and him there because he wants to be. long, almost lonely car rides across the canada/united states border to see each other, the emptiness in the car filled with an overwhelming love and excitement to see each other. a visit to the uk where we both notice something a bit below the surface, everyone else being able to see it, too, but not doing anything out of imagined fear over losing the other. nights on the phone spent editing in mutual silence, giggling at mistakes the other makes in the scrapped footage. whether i am ever able to touch him or not, i know feeling even a fingertip would send shockwaves of love through me so strong i may not be able to handle it.

💿 let’s talk about your hair by have mercy

supernatural dr → driving to everywhere in the country just to fight off demons and ghosts, while also knowing that the relationship i had with the love of my life may not last. running away from sam and dean to live in my parent’s old house, desperate for a normal life, but looking at myself in the mirror and seeing my growing hair and knowing i would never have let it get this bad if sam just loved me. finally seeing sam after half a year and seeing his hair as long as mine. finally seeing i was cared about. a god, a devil, and me, and regaining my wings.

💿 ceilings by lizzy mcalpine

seventeen dr → every little interaction with him being overanalyzed, overedited, overwatched, both by myself but by millions of people. not wanting to leave my bubble of air outside of the cameras, with my friends and with the boy i manage to convince myself loves me. holding my tongue at every opportunity i have to even hint at a confession because of the cameras, whether they’re known or not. writing songs instead of texts, singing to him about how i feel instead of actually telling him, and praying he doesn’t catch on. watching my life and my love from the outside and not liking the movie it’s turned into.

💿 agnes by glass animals

5sos dr → quiet writing sessions with my best friends, each of us humming different things but all being on the same wavelength. late nights in hotel rooms on tour with cal, forgetting about the rest of the world outside of us. tour bus rides where we get too devoted to dumb, simple board games and spend hours optimizing our runs of the game of life. not seeing my favorite four people for merely a week and not knowing what to do with myself. when they’re gone, they’re on my mind.

💿 please don’t tell (…) by pet symmetry

everymanhybrid dr → riding in the car with evan and vinny and jeff and singing our hearts out, despite the danger we were constantly in. falling asleep on evan in vinny’s living room, covered in blood, but overcome with joy and love, not for the blood but for the fact that we had each other and that’s all that we really needed. full nights out, driving away from who knows what and to who knows where, but always waking up safe in evan’s bed. looking out of the kitchen window at the same terrifyingly tall figure but knowing there was no way it could hurt me. tell my father his car is safe, maybe with some dents and a faint smell of blood, but safe.

[autumnrayyne]

My Ghosts and Me

Don’t go chasing ghosts

People say

They are gone for reason

Memories swept away in the wind

Ephemeral mirrors of who you could’ve been

The would’ves the could’ves the should’ves

They are all gone and buried

Don’t bring dull shovels to sun baked earth

To go and dig up past hurts

Unearthing the grave of your maladies

Won’t cure em

Let em lie

Ashes to ashes

Dust to dust

Who are they to tell me what’s worth forgetting?

Which ghosts should stay buried?

This isn’t your haunted soul

These shadows don’t darken your door

Don’t tell me which bones should stay untouched

Pieces of my history lay buried in these sands

Without them I’m a bare bones biography

Looking for meaning in the hollow places

Rifling through folds of brain matter

Searching

For just a fragment of my history

I’m a mosaic of missing pieces

Stitched together with guesswork and mystery

Absence makes it home in me

I’m a form created by negative space

Identity made of dreams

My features reflected back at me

My name etched in skin

My blood beside me

Dreams I’ve held so tight I feel their roots in me

Tell me how do I let it stay buried?

How do I forget the ghost? The specter in my bloodstream?

Half of me is sealed behind a face just out of reach

The tenor of a voice lost to the sea

A name spoken like an wound

Or never spoken at all

Forgotten like he isn’t half of me

Twenty-three chromosomes of my legacy

What did he leave behind, besides my eyes?

What did he leave inside of me?

What is him? What is me?

How much of my mother’s hatred is caused by pressing on a wound

Rather than a fresh bruise

Would he have protected me?

Don’t go digging up ghosts they say

But if I let them lie

I’ll die swallowed up whole by the emptiness of me

My lack of symmetry

One side of me abandoned

A haunted houses, my ghosts and me

So I will dig

Even when my arms shake

When the hot sun evaporates the hope from me

I’ll perform seances in the dirt

Scream into graves and brace myself for what echoes back to me

If the truth is jagged, I’ll bleed with my eyes open

If I find nothing, well at least I’ll know I searched

Sought for something

Rather than settled for nothing

Maybe no good will come from it

My ghosts volatile and malignant

Misty figures of history

Maybe I won’t find peace

Just questions with sharper teeth

But the bite doesn’t scare me

These ghosts are mine

And I’ll carry them with me

[belit0]

This is one of the two questions I've been simmering over. Which of the boys from HS AU would have piercings? Not just ear piercings but like the extra special ones. I'm talking tongue piercings, nipple piercings, maybe even one of those dick ones. I feel like that last one would probably be izuna, and if he did get it, it probably healed like shit or got infected because he couldn't wait for it to heal fully.

Oh absolutely

Let’s not pretend any of these fuckers are normal. If there's metal involved and the threat of pain or infection, half of them are already halfway through doing it in someone's bathroom with dirty ice cubes and a sewing needle

The ranking goes from worst to normal:

Izuna

He's every tattoo parlor's worst nightmare and best customer at the same time

He has both ears pierced, hoops, studs, dangling dice, whatever grabs attention. Half of them don’t match. Eyebrow? Pierced. Tongue? Pierced, obviously. Snakebites? Yes. Not because he thought they looked cool, but because a girl told him once, “those would look hot on you.” He did it that same night

But the crown jewel? His dick. Prince Albert

Yes, it got infected. Yes, it hurt. Yes, he kept fucking anyway

He’s the guy who sends blurry mirror pics of his healing dick piercing to the group chat like, “yo is this normal or nah?” It’s not normal. He doesn’t care

He claims it gives him “more control” during sex, which doesn’t even make sense, but Izuna says it like gospel, so it becomes gospel. He takes off his shirt for no reason, constantly, just so the nipple rings flash. He’s proud of every piece of metal on his body. Even the ones that almost got amputated

Shisui?

Of course he has piercings. But he has strategic piercings. Sexy piercings. The kind that make people stop mid-sentence

Tongue? Yes. Right eyebrow? A single vertical bar, subtle enough to pass as hot instead of try-hard. One nipple pierced, and he will kiss your neck while he guides your hand to it like it’s part of the foreplay

He almost got a dick piercing but chickened out because the piercer said he’d need to abstain from sex for 3 weeks. He ghosted the appointment. Later he lied about it and said: -I didn’t like the symmetry of the placement.-

He’d rather use you as his playground than modify himself for shock value. Everything Shisui does is seductive. Piercings included

Obito

Has no business being this pierced. No one expected it

He acts all quiet and golden-retriever sweet, then he’s got both nipples pierced and a frenum barbell under his dick. The first time it got discovered was after a gym class when he dropped his towel too fast, and Izuna screamed

Obito was mortified, like full red face, hoodie pulled over his head, refused to speak for a full day. When they pressed him, he just muttered something about “wanting to feel more connected to physical touch.” Shisui hasn't let him live it down since

Still, he won’t take them out. Something about the secret makes him feel powerful. He also has a nose ring. Left side. Black titanium. He claims it’s because of his sinus problems. He’s lying

Madara?

Absolutely not. He has two silver hoops in one ear, and even those are relics from some impulsive night when he was fifteen and pissed off at Tajima

Face piercings? Never. Nipple? He’d break your fingers for asking. Dick? He’d murder you and dump your body before letting anyone near his dick with a needle

Madara sees piercings as a distraction. He doesn’t want anything foreign inside his body unless it’s cigarettes, violence, or adrenaline. He has been dared to get his eyebrow pierced by Izuna once. He answered by lighting a cigarette and saying: -You wanna be the one to hold me down for it?-

Nobody volunteered

Indra?

None. Nothing. Not a single hole

If you ask him why, he’ll just blink at you like you wasted his oxygen. He doesn’t believe in adorning the body with metal, just ink. He believes in controlling it. In dominating other people’s. Indra doesn’t wear pain—he inflicts it

You’ll never see metal on him, but you’ll taste blood in your mouth when he kisses you. That’s the kind of mark he leaves. (There are girls at school who swear he has a tongue piercing. He doesn’t. He just fucks like he does

So... Izuna is a metal/(ink, mafia au) whore, everything pierced, nothing healed properly, proud of it. Shisui goes for hot, calculated, curated; he’ll make you ask to see. Obito is that shy, pierced freak, living proof that quiet ones are never innocent. Madara has no piercings beyond the minimum, pure fist energy. Indra: no piercings, no explanation, no mercy

[notklosswift]

Duty & Desires

Chapter 1

Pairings: Alexandra Cabot x Detective Reader

Warnings: Chapter based slightly off of the Cain trial. Assault, Strangulation, Eventual Smut, Angst, Fluff, Possessive and Jealous Alex, Centered on F reader.

Summary: Detective Y/n risks everything to provoke a killer’s confession, nearly getting hurt in the process. ADA Alexandra Cabot, shaken and furious, confronts her in private—leading to a passionate clash of fear, love, and possession.

A/N: Hi ya’ll! Excited to share with you my first fic ever. I’m planning this to have multiple chapters so hit me up if you want to read it on AO3 and I can arrange that. This first chapter was inspired by Barba’s episode with the belt on his neck and also that part in @storiesofsvu ‘s Second Chair Spark. Go check it out if you haven’t! Anyway, please enjoy and your comments and hearts will be much appreciated! 💛

The 16th Precinct SVU squadroom had its own rhythm—a constant current of ringing phones, shuffling case files, and the low murmur of trauma survivors and hardened detectives alike. But even on the loudest days, the squad moved as one. They argued, laughed, clashed—but they had each other's backs. Always.

Detective Y/n Grey had been with SVU for nearly three years. Smart, relentless, calm under pressure. She’d earned her place in that squadroom—and in their lives. Olivia trusted her with open cases, Fin with closed doors, and Elliot with the ones that hit too close. Munch, well… he trusted no one, but he didn’t question her instincts anymore. That said everything.

Then there was Alexandra Cabot.

The ADA had been reassigned to SVU six months ago. Ice in her tone, fire in her work ethic. Most people only saw the former. Y/n had come to recognize both. Especially at 2 a.m. when Alex was still at her desk, heels kicked off, legal pads covered in sharp notes and red ink.

At first, it was purely professional. They worked late. Debriefed after court. Argued about language in motions, strategy, ethics. But somewhere between war room meetings and witness interviews, something shifted. A lingering look. A hand that brushed too close. The silence that sometimes stretched too long when they were alone in Alex’s office.

Still, they kept it contained. Professional. Barely.

Until the Adam Cain case hit the squad like a storm. Two victims. Both women. Both found in their apartments, strangled with belts, bodies posed in disturbing symmetry. Cain had been charming at first. Cooperative. Too cooperative. When he was brought in, he gave them just enough—details he shouldn’t know, just shy of a confession. A sick game.

Alex had thrown herself into the prep. Every night, she and Y/n pored over reports, autopsy photos, psych evaluations. And every night, the space between them got smaller. The tension louder.

But what mattered most: they had him. They knew he did it.

Now they just needed him to say it.

——————————————————————

Late afternoon. The fluorescent lights hum above. A camera blinks red in the corner. Behind the one-way mirror, Olivia, Fin, Elliot, and Munch watch silently. Alexandra Cabot stands near the door, arms crossed, composed but wired with tension. At the table: Adam Cain — smug, cuffed, unbothered. Y/n, lead detective on the case, prepares to start the interrogation.

Alex’s heels click once as she turns slightly to watch Y/n step inside the interrogation room, confidence radiating beneath her blazer. The entire case had led to this moment — and this room, this man.

Adam Cain grinned as Y/n sat across from him, a man who believed he had already won. His victims? Two women strangled with belts, found with deliberate, theatrical staging. He had confessed — sort of. Enough to taunt, not enough to convict. Now they needed him to crack on camera. Fully. Y/n had a plan.

She reached into a brown paper bag and slowly pulled out a leather belt.

Alex tensed. Of rage? Confusion? Or maybe, something else.

Behind the mirror, Olivia’s brows furrowed. Elliot leaned forward. Fin cursed under his breath. Munch went silent.

Y/n didn’t say a word at first. She simply stood and walked slowly around the table. The belt dangled from her fingers.

Adam Cain’s eyes followed her. His grin twitched.

“You recognize this?” Y/n asked coolly.

Cain rolled his eyes. “I recognize that you’re playing dress-up.”

Y/n turned toward the mirror — toward Alex, noticing the fire in her eyes — then back to Cain.

“Mr. Cain, you strangled your victims with belts, isn’t that correct?” Y/n asked.

He shook his head and turned to look at the glass, knowing it was a two-way mirror. “I’m not demonstrating anything for you puppets.”

Her voice dipped low. “Then perhaps you can at least explain how you did it?”

And then, without hesitation, she looped the belt around her own neck. Loose, but clear. Her breath stayed steady. Her eyes locked onto his. Cain’s face twisted—anger, disgust, confusion.

Alex’s stomach dropped.

Y/n’s voice was ice. “Show me how it felt, Adam.”

Alex, jaw clenched, turned to Olivia. “Liv, did you know about this?”

“No, I wouldn’t have approved of this if I had known. What the hell is she doing!” Olivia whispered. No one answered.

“You strangled them with belts. Like this?” Y/n’s voice didn’t shake. Adam’s grin cracked. “That’s cute.”

“Then show me,” Y/n said. “Demonstrate it. Or are you afraid?”

His eyes flared. “You’re baiting me.”

“Am I?” Y/n leaned forward, belt still around her neck. “Or am I giving you exactly what you want?”

Something dark flashed in Cain’s face. He lunged forward. The cuffed chain around his wrists gave just enough slack for him to grab the end of the belt. He yanked, hard.

Alex, with fire in her eyes, pounded the mirror, almost screaming to Elliot, “Get in there!”

But Y/n twisted just in time — the belt whipped from her neck and looped around her forearm instead. The room erupted as Olivia and Elliot burst through the door. Fin pulled Cain off her.

“You think this is a joke?!” Cain screamed. “They begged! They begged me to do it!”

Y/n, gasping, wincing in slight pain in her forearms, stepped back, holding the belt now taut between her wrists.

Alex was through the door in seconds, grabbing Y/n’s shoulders, checking her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Y/n rasped.

Alex’s jaw clenched. She had expected a strong interrogation—but this? This theatrical provocation risked the entire case, risked her life. Did Y/n consider that? Did she care?

Instead, Alex watched, feeling the urge to grab Cain’s neck across the table and strangle him herself, as Fin and Elliot dragged Cain out of the room.

The camera still rolled. Cain’s rant had been filmed. The confession—raw, unfiltered—was everything they needed.

Alex, directing her gaze at Y/n, felt a sudden frisson—an electrifying spark seeing Y/n put it all on the line.

________________________________________________________

Read Chapter 2 here: Duty & Desires Chapter 2

[dedederedeconstructivist]

Time for more Eva thoughts that aren't thought out at all. Shinji and Asuka both have defining shots of themselves being haunted by their childhood abandonment during their hallucinatory nightmare sequences, but Rei naturally doesn't because, well - she wasn't. Her counterpart is her Instrumentality dialogue: ...It's over now. He's not going to need me anymore. He's going to abandon me. I thought I had wished for that day to come, but… Now, I am afraid. When we remember the first episode, the first real dialogue we see Gendo have with Shinji is: S: Father, why did you send for me? G: You know exactly why. S: So you're asking me to take this thing and go out there and fight? G: Correct. S: Why are you doing this to me now? I thought you didn't need me! G: Because I have a use for you.

This is the dialogue that precedes Shinji's (pretty reasonable, really) refusal to Get in the Robot... and the first time we meet Rei 'properly', since her flash visitation at the start is a weird ghosting effect of End Rei returning to Start. And that's why I find this dialogue interesting here. The very first time Rei actually met Shinji, it was on the back of a dialogue built to explicitly tell us just how cold Gendo truly is and to let us see the pain it's caused. Enter Rei III, who's the same one who's already flashed back to start. Pinning her chronology down is impossible, but I like to think that by End and Instrumentality really kicking off, she's been popping back and forth for a while - that, quite probably, her fusion with Lilith is the moment where she starts existing outside of time as an observer of the entire series, the moment where she gains, in her words:

The power of imagination ... the ability to create your own future - and the power to create your own flow of time.

So her dialogue with herself during Instrumentality about being afraid isn't just a general character arc, but the response of having very specifically been able to project herself out across time and, as a result, having seen exactly how this specific pain of abandonment has hurt the two people who are closest to her now that she's worked out Gendo doesn't care about her - Shinji, and Asuka. That last bit is going to need a little more explaining,* since we don't have a convenient Rei Ghost popping in for Asuka like she does with Shinji - but if we recall Asuka's horrific experience with Arael, it's cast in explicit terms of abandonment by Gendo when Rei II has her own with Armisael: that Asuka wasn't worth protecting in the same way Rei was. And as I've previously mentioned, if you watch the three Angel Contacts side by side, there's an interesting juxtaposition. As Asuka's experience shifts into her memory of destroying the doll, giving us Child Asuka confronting Teen Asuka, Rei's experiencing something with Armisael: Hurt? No... You're wrong. It's... [Asuka crying, holding the doll: Why am I crying? I already swore that I wouldn’t cry anymore.] Loneliness. [overwhelming sound – metallic cables and asuka wailing] Yes. It’s loneliness, isn’t it? This admittedly wild reach is one I think presents a beautiful, potentially deliberate but probably accidental, symmetry. In the three different ways I've laid those scenes out, Rei's dialogue on loneliness is always mirrored by Asuka struggling with her decision to be tough and self-reliant. There is a ghostly linkage between them here - one shared through something only pilots can experience, and one that directly speaks to the trauma of paternal abandonment. So enter Rei's dialogue again. She longed for the day, until it comes - because now that it's come, she's seen the pain it creates, and whatever will become of her, she knows she will be abandoned by what passes for her father too. It's ceased to be abstract for her - it is horrifyingly real. And since Rei is about to become a fairly literal Universal Mother for literally all Humanity, the stakes are higher than just her own pain. She's got a final choice to make: does she accept the pain of abandonment for everyone or does she reject it and, in an ironic reversal, abandon the abandoning patriarch to try and create a space for people to not feel that pain anymore? We know the choice she makes. We are the hope that people will one day be able to understand each other... / We are the hope - the hope that humanity might reconcile with one another... (*: Here, I don't mean as friends - not that sense of close. But close in nature and experience. Rei has a lot of scenes with Asuka, and their experiences with Armisael and Arael are near identical. Rei and Asuka may never truly have connected, but fundamentally, she, Shinji, and Toji (and Kaworu, but he's a whole kettle of fish and never had an Angel Contact) are the only people who have the slightest hope of actually understanding Rei's experience.)

[firelxdykatara]

gods though, there's this like. tragic poetry in the symmetry of andy and prue's deaths. they're like inverse mirrors of each other. andy dies because he loved prue so much he could not keep himself from trying to save her, and in the end it is only by his death that prue and her sisters and the power of three are all able to be spared. he takes the blow that had killed one of the others every time, and they are able to break the time loop but can't bring him back.

andy died to save prue and her sisters. he would have wanted it that way.

prue dies protecting an innocent. she is at her most enraged, emotional, and destructive prior to the reset--fighting off an entire SWAT team just to keep them away from her sister's dead body. refusing to accept her death. she's the oldest, she's the protector, it should have been her--and then it was. because tempus reset time, and leo couldn't get there in time to save her. but he could save piper.

prue would have wanted it that way.

it gets me so fucking emotional and like, irl reasons behind why prue never shows up again in the show aside, the only thing that really keeps me going about it all is knowing that andy was waiting for her when she got to the afterlife. they were happy together, finally. at peace. died for the people they loved, in place if those they always swore to protect. the most tragic form of soulmatism imaginable. it hurts so bad.