#that got really angsty

[murd3rouscrow]

Sherlock Holmes loves John Watson.

That is my main takeaway from the last episode. Whether this love is romantic, platonic or an entirely separate thing altogether. The fact still remains.

Looking at the whole ordeal from Sherlock's perspective reveals something interesting. To Sherlock, John is one of his extremely few friends, his best friend even. Sherlock hasn't had many friends. Sure Mariana is his friend, and once, so was Victor. But none of them have been a friend to him in the way that John has.

No one else had taken the time to dig deep into who he was. No one else had put themselves in genuine danger for him. No one else has followed him into murders, and kidnappings, and all the other horrors he deals with, and stays by side throughout it all. He can count on John to always be there. He can trust John with his fears. He can be vulnerable around him, and believes that John can do the same.

He has, in his own way, fallen in love with him. He has grown attached. He cares about John in a way he hasn't cared for anyone before... He nearly killed for John Watson... He'd very willingly die for him as well...

That's what takes me to The Final Problem. Where, at the threat of John getting hurt, Sherlock would back down. He'd call John, tell him everything, how much he cares. He'd ask, plead, beg, John to forgive for what he's about to do... Then he'd jump. Spending the next few years, still protecting John. And when he has to come back, he'll be afraid. Not of the press, or that he won't be accepted. That John, his John Watson will not forgive him...

After all, there is no universe, where Sherlock doesn't love his Watson.

[abyssal-ilk]

no more romance. romance is canceled. tell me about your warden/hawke/inquisitor's best friend and any info you want to add about their dynamic 🖐

[millidew]

i think he deserves the therapy dinosaur

ft. lyra’s own ominous ass chikorita

[doctorsiren]

paint it over

[almondpiglet]

detach deflect distract dependent

[fanaticalthings]

Broke: "Dick Grayson was upset at a new kid taking over his mantle because he doesn't think Jason will be good enough as Robin"

Woke: "Dick is upset at Jason, not because he's suddenly taking over the mantle he created, but because Jason isn't nearly feral enough of a child to drive Bruce insane in Dick's place"

Dick: You wanna be my successor? Go swing from that chandelier right now.

Jason:

Dick: As a matter of fact, I need to see you crawling all over the walls. Make a ruckus, break some furniture

Jason: But Bruce-

Dick: SCREW Bruce. Your job as my new brother is to make his life HELL. Why are you so polite? Why are you so calm? Where's your DRIVE, your PASSION, huh? You may be worthy of the title of Robin, but are you WORTHY of being my disaster brother?

Jason, a little scared: I dont-

Dick, scoffing: The youth these days just don't rebel like they used to.

[s0fter-sin]

i need ghoap frantically making out against a door finally taking the leap on their feelings. need ghost grinding against soap, expecting to find him just as hard as him, only to feel nothing

and in all his wisdom and experience, he concludes soap was tortured and never told him

he’s trying to think of a delicate way to say he understands, that he’s been through it and it doesn’t change anything about how he feels (and who the fuck touched him so he can hunt them down and rend them limb from limb)

meanwhile trans!soap’s just trying to find the best angle to grind his cunt on ghost’s thigh

just it never even entering ghost’s head bc he’s never known a trans person but he has met plenty of people who’ve been tortured - himself included - so of course that’s his logical leap

soap takes off his shirt and he sees his top surgery scars and ghost asks if he wants him to kill the one who did it and soap just hums like, “actually, man did pretty good, they healed real well,” and ghost’s just teary-eyes with awe at how well he’s coping, “looking on the bright side, that’s my johnny.”

imagine he thinks johnny was fully castrated but sees he’s determined to still have a sex life with him so he buys packers and straps to help him bc hell yeah healing and soap’s just like, “holy shit i’ve never had such a thoughtful partner before, such a sweet man, lt.”

[baeshijima]

mmm thoughts of private executioner!blade, who is high priestess!kafka's bodyguard. well, more like her guard dog, as many fearfully seem to think.

he is aloof and gruff and rough around the edges, his name capturing it perfectly. when in the eyes of the public he either keeps to himself or stands ready by kafka's side, but when out he lurks in the shadows ready and waiting to carry out her death orders.

you, yourself, haven't had very many pleasant encounters with him... if you can even call them that. that being said, you haven't had many pleasant encounters with anyone. notorious for your... less than pleasant disposition, for a lack of better words, you have more people who'd rather see you run through than those you can call a friend.

in a dog-eat-dog world, you had no choice but to protect yourself. that, however, ultimately became your demise.

"oh? so you're the one sent to kill me. can't say i'm all that surprised."

standing before you is the feared executioner. his sword is tucked inside the sheath attached to his hip, that ever-present dark swirl of an aura stifling the air. he doesn't say anything, instead opting to silently stare down at your slumped and worn-out form. you find that his gaze doesn't bother you; rather, it's oddly comforting knowing someone will see you in your last moments.

"i've never asked you for a favour before, so this will be my first and last request for you." in all honesty, you're not sure where this chattiness stems from. considering you're currently in a holding cell under the crime of attempted murder towards kafka (a poisoned wine you were most definitely framed for, though you can't say you were surprised) and are awaiting for your turn to be under the guillotine for your public execution, you probably should be a little desperate towards the private executioner in front of you.

and yet, your mind is nothing if not peaceful.

with a huff, you relay your request, "can you make sure it's quick? painless, preferably, but i'd rather you just get it over and done with."

silence blankets the cold chambers. moisture accumulated along the cobble ceiling drip in a steady rhythm, like a clock ticking away the seconds. it's unnerving, almost, how there is not a single sound other than your impending countdown.

"why?" comes his low mutter, effectively causing a ripple within the stagnant air. you almost think you misheard him, but his following words cease the thought, "why won't you ask me for help?"

had it not been for the abrupt shuffle and clanging against the metal bars, you would have never looked up to see him in your last moments.

his scarred hands gripping the metal until his knuckles turn a ghastly white and blood dripping from his palms is what greets your sight. as your gaze slowly trails up, you almost let loose a laugh of disbelief; who would have thought blade, the infamous guard dog of the high priestess, could make such a desperate expression? one looking as though his whole world crumbled before him, in which he can do nothing but sit and watch.

(you will never know of the anger and desperation which coursed through his veins the moment he heard of your predicament. had it been anyone else, he wouldn't have cared. but you're not anyone else; you're you — unapologetically, wholeheartedly. it didn't take him long to hunt down those behind it, cutting them down without thought and putting an end to their miserable lives. he rushed as soon as he could when kafka gave him the order, no thoughts other than you, you, you, occupying his mind.

you will never know of the anguish which overcame him when he found you in such a state, your once healthy complexion and defiant gaze reduced to nothing but a tiredness which had always sat quietly behind your disposition. he's almost positive the muscle which unwillingly keeps him alive tore at the seams from your request, the acceptance in which you displayed causing his mind to go astray. even as he damn-near begs you to rely on him for help — to run away with him to some place no one knows of you and start anew there — you merely smile, resigned and peaceful.

you will never know of how much blade is willing to put on the line for you, for you never made it to see the complete and utter carnage he wrecked in your name.)

[hater-era]

Veeeeeeeeeery slight nsfw warning

what if I had been writing a vampire au foils to friends to lovers slow burn angst eR fic that throws the idealistic character (Enjolras) into the terrors of nihilism in the face of eternity while Grantaire resident nihilist struggles with the meaning of revolution because immortality makes all their sacrifices worthless? also it’s canon era to modern era

[likesdoodling]

Another one of the paintings I did this week, was playing around with lighting and felt like painting Zuko, so I did. :D (oh yeah - and a close up if you're interested - you can see the sketch lines if you squint, but I reckon that's part of the charm~ *smiles innocently)

[rouge-the-bat]

shadows edge is my favorite kind of edge, but some people cant get it right. you cant make it a generic edge. it cant be half assed, and you certainly cant make it ironic. you cant hold back, you gotta put your whole pussy into making it early 2000s edge. you need the full undiluted essence of an emo anime character crying blood with one angel wing and one demon wing and linkin park lyrics around it.

[yupthisisshe]

The Best Present is Love - Ron Weasley x gn! Reader

Warning: feelings of inadequacy; mild cursing (in my writing, not actually spoken by them and it’s only once)

A/N: we get a little angsty during holiday celebrations but I swear it’s resolved at the end; we get kinda sappy cause that's how I roll

You went to his room to find him and, sure enough, there he was, sat off the side of his bed producing a melancholy you could sense from his doorway. One of the gifts he received during the gift exchange sat in his hands as he stared at it, his mind clearly elsewhere. He hadn’t even noticed you at the door until you spoke.

“Hey Ron,” you said, informing him of your presence, “What’s up?”

“Oh just, looking at my gift from George and Fred. It’s surprisingly harmless,” he tells you, looking up at you with a bit of a smile. As soon as these words leave his mouth, he looks back down, under the guise of inspecting his brothers’ gift to him. But he’s not hiding anything from you. You saw him just now. He’s upset about something. Whether or not he’ll tell you right now is a different story.

“Yeah, better look out,” you say with a nudge. “But really,” you say, looking into his eyes, “what’s up?” As you say this, he looks back into your eyes. Caught off guard at first, but then giving a surrendering and soft look, and almost sort of smile.

“Should’ve known I can't hide much from you,” Ron says.

“No,” you say, cupping his face and applying a gentle kiss to it, “you can’t. So tell me, sweetheart. What’s bothering you? What's wrong?” you ask, still holding his face ever so tenderly, with so much love in your eyes. He could feel it, and so he shared his qualms with you.

“I’m afraid that you may not like it here, with my family.” You look at him, puzzled. He senses the question “Why?” occupying your mind right now. However, rather than interrupt, you chose to kneel down in front of him and wait for him to speak at his own pace. You placed your hands in his lap to comfort him and give him the opportunity to fiddle with your fingers if he wished. He did. “S’ just that, we’re so messy and- and loud and, well, we are far from perfect and we aren’t like other pureblood families and-” You stood up, and Ron stopped talking. He wasn’t sure why you stood up. He thought that maybe all he had done was mess up, and you realized he was right and he should've never said anything and-

Oh. You were hugging him.

You stood there, cradling him, and he just accepted it. He didn’t try to deny anything, he just accepted your embrace and care, left himself bare to you, and you took him in for all he was, you took his family in for all it was, and you loved it. Most of all -well you honestly could hardly just pick one thing- but you loved how much love there was within the Weasley household. And as for Ron, you loved him. You loved his hair, his eyes, his cute little nose, his body heat, and the way he always ran warm so you'd snuggle him in the common room when you studied and you were cold. Or even when you weren’t cold. You loved how he would occasionally complain that it was “too bloody hot” but would hold you tight as soon as you made any motion of leaving. You loved his sarcasm and -as much as you wanted to smack him sometimes (lovingly, of course)- you loved his smart remarks. You loved the way he could and would confidently state the obvious as if it were a new revelation of sorts. And although it could be frustrating at times, even his tendency to be rather dense was cute at times. You especially loved how sweet he was to you. You knew that he would let the world burn if it meant that the people he loved were protected, and that included you. You felt the same way about him.

“Ron,” you looked at him sweetly and then continued, “I love it here.”

“You… do?” He looked genuinely confused.

“I love it here too, Ron. I love the love that flows through this house. I love the chaos. I love the lively energy and how there’s never a dull moment —especially when George and Fred are bored. I love how each person in your family is so unique —you and the twins included— and how everyone has such a strong personality- yes, you included!” you added with a smile as you gripped his shoulders strongly but not roughly. “I always have an amazing and wonderful time here and I wouldn’t change anything about it.” This time it was Ron who pulled you into his grip. The hug was strong and firm and full of emotion and unspoken words. Unsaid, but understood all the same. That was another thing you loved about him -two actually: his bear hugs and the fact that even though he couldn’t always express himself in words, he made damn sure you knew he loved you and appreciated you. And you made sure he knew you loved and appreciated him just as much.

[morallygay]

My autistic queen

[wordswhisperinthedark]

last kiss

(alt. versions below!)

(yes I did reference the iconic Promare CPR kiss for this😂)

[ghost-in-fools-garments]

[penumbra-mayhem]

The Fall of an Alpha (ch. 1)

David had never really known grief before…He'd begun to think that maybe death just didn't affect him that way. He thought maybe he just wasn't built to grieve.

(TW: death, car accident, grief)

———————————————

Sept 3. 2017, 11:04 pm

Between the raging storm outside and the blaring tv in front of them, they barely heard the knock at the door. It was only on the second attempt did they notice, and even then it could have easily been dismissed as thunder.

Milo gave David and Asher confused glances. “You guys expecting anyone?”

David shook his head. Asher shrugged; he paused the game and tossed his controller behind him as he said, “I’ll get it.”

Milo stretched out in the newly available couch space, calling out, “Could you get more chips while you’re up? We’re almost out.”

“Get them yourself!” Asher retorted as he padded down the hallway, “Unless you’re too short to reach!”

“Oh fuck right off!”

Asher chuckled as he reached the front door. He didn’t bother looking through the peephole before answering, but as soon as he saw who it was, he wished he had. It would’ve given him a moment to steel himself.

An officer was standing in the hallway, her dripping face starkly grim. Asher recognized her as a shifter from a neighboring pack.

“Evening. Beta David Shaw lives here, yes?” she asked.

Asher tightened his grip on the door handle. “Uh...yeah, he’s um my roommate.”

“Is he here now?”

“Can I uh, ask what this is about?” Asher replied, his voice cracking slightly.

“There’s been an accident.”

It felt like the ground gave out from underneath him. Like a blast of thunder had gone off in his chest.

“Hey, Ash, who is it?” David called from the living room.

Asher ignored him. “Gabe?” he whispered, eyes wide.

She gave him a small nod.

“Is he…just tell me, is he dead?”

She shifted her weight uneasily before nodding. “Yes.”

“Come in.”

He moved aside to let her in, closing the door behind them. “He’s uh, he’s in the…um...follow me,” Asher said breathlessly. His feet were like bricks as he led the officer down the hallway.

Milo and David looked up to see a very pale Asher hurry across the living room and practically cower in the corner.

“Who was…” the words died in David’s mouth as he and Milo looked over at the officer standing in the doorway to the living room, rainwater trickling down her coat and pooling at her feet.

David stood, an edge of authority in his voice as he spoke, “Officer. What can I do for you?”

“Beta Shaw, please, have a seat,” she replied.

He stayed standing. “What’s going on?”

“David…” Asher pleaded.

David’s eyes shot over and met Asher’s—they were already red and glassy. He lowered himself back onto the couch, then looked over at the officer as dread climbed into his chest.

She stepped forward, her voice stern but not unkind, “Beta Shaw. About forty-five minutes ago, Alpha Gabriel Shaw was in a car accident. He died on the scene.”

David had never really known grief before. Sure, his mom had died, but he had been too young to really know what was going on. A few distant relatives and pets had died over the years, too, but none of that had seemed to really affect him. The deaths of his grandparents had been sad, but not debilitatingly so. He'd begun to think that maybe death just didn't affect him that way. He thought maybe he just wasn't built to grieve.

It was instantaneous. It felt like shifting—a full and all-encompassing transformation. Grief ran like magic through his bones, warping his core and leaving him unrecognizable. Those in the room felt it—Asher especially. He almost reached out, almost said something, but David was already talking, his voice cavernous:

"Thank you, officer, for informing me of the situation. Where is his body now?"

The officer blinked in surprise, but quickly composed herself. "The coroner has taken him to the nearest morgue."

"I assume they'll want me there to confirm his identity?"

"Yes, but you don't have to go imme—"

"Can you take me?"

She furrowed her brow. "Yes, sir."

David moved to grab his coat, and Milo shot up. “David, wai—”

“Stay here, both of you. Don’t tell anyone what’s happened. I’ll call for an emergency meeting tomorrow morning,” David commanded, “I want to avoid as much panic as possible.”

And with that, he left, pushing through the doorway and into the hall. The officer took a deep breath before following.

Milo sank back down. The two heard the front door open and shut.

For a minute, they didn’t speak. The storm swelled outside, rattling the windows of the apartment. The pause music on the tv played over and over at a low volume.

Staring blankly at the wall opposite him, Milo mumbled, “We’ve gotta tell Tank.”

“We can’t. You heard David,” Asher croaked from his corner.

“David’s not in his right mind,” Milo retorted, his eyes beginning to burn, “Gabe is like a father to Tank.”

“…was,” Asher whispered.

Milo locked eyes with him, silently pleading.

"I...I'm going to the bathroom," Asher replied before hurrying down the hallway. He couldn't say yes, but he wasn't going to stop him. Especially when Milo was right. They needed to tell Tank before they heard it from anyone else or, god forbid, at the pack meeting.

Asher closed the bathroom door and leaned his weight against it as sobs tore through his body, robbing him of everything—sound, breath, strength. He slid down the length of the door to the floor in a silent, heaving heap as his mind spun.

He gave himself five minutes.

———————————————

Milo pulled out his phone, groaning in frustration as he struggled to read his screen, tears flooding his vision. He wiped his eyes with one hand as he pulled up Tank’s contact with the other.

Tank was somewhere loud; he could hear it through the phone.

“Miles, what’s up?” Tank all but shouted.

“I need you to come to Ash and David's,” Milo rasped.

“What? Wait-wait, gimme a sec,” Tank said. He could hear them pushing through a crowd, then the sound of a door opening and slamming shut, followed by the shush of rain. They must have moved outside.

“What’s going on? Are you hurt?” Tank asked.

“No I just…I need you here. Now.”

He could hear the panic in their voice. “...I can be there in twenty—no, fifteen.”

“No! Don’t speed. Please, Tank, drive slowly. It’s late, it’s raining, it’s not—” Milo held his phone away from his mouth for a second as a sob slipped out, “It’s not safe.”

Tank must’ve heard it. Their words shot out of their mouth as they strode into the rain, “Is David there? Ash? I swear, Miles, if you’re hurt and not telling me—”

“Tank, please,” Milo begged.

“Okay! Okay, I’ll be there soon.”

“…we’ll leave the door unlocked. Drive slow.”

Once they hung up, Milo put his phone on the coffee table. He bit his clenched fist as tears pooled in his eyes and his chest convulsed.

————————————————

Everything was happening too quickly; David couldn’t keep up. One minute he was getting into his car, ready to follow the cruiser in front of him to the morgue. The next, he was looking down at a shrouded body, being asked if he was ready.

Ready? Fuck no, he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready for any of this. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Gabe wasn’t supposed to die suddenly, in his prime, leaving his 24-year-old son to pick up the pieces. Leaving him an orphan.

Orphan.

The word made a desert of his mouth. He was alone. Entirely. His last safety net. His last pillar of support. His last corner to hide in. Gone.

David was bare, flayed open for the world to see. He’d never felt so exposed, and it made him panic. But there was no time to panic. He was still the Pack Beta. He still had a job to do. And for as long as he could, he’d throw himself into it, fully. So David chiseled a hard look onto his face and nodded.

The sheet was pulled back.

Everyone always said David looked like his dad. He took so much pride in that comparison. But in that moment, he saw no resemblance. He didn’t have an out-of-body experience, seeing himself on the table. He didn’t spiral at the sudden realization of his own mortality spurred by the likeness of his dead father.

Because that wasn’t Alpha Gabriel Shaw, revered Founder of the Shaw Pack.

That wasn’t Gabe, loyal friend and loving father.

The body before David was just a man, battered and broken beyond repair. It felt wrong to claim this husk as his father, felt like a lie.

But David had a job to do.

“Yes, that’s him.”

————————————————

When sound returned to his body and his sobs were no longer silent, Asher muzzled them with a frantic hand. He couldn’t let Milo hear. He had to be there for him. Once his self-allotted time was up, Asher rose on shaky legs. He pressed a washcloth to his face. He straightened his clothes. He smiled.

Leaving the bathroom, Asher went down the hallway into the kitchen and began to heat some water. He pulled down mugs. He got out tea. He waited. He poured the water. He wiped his tears. He smiled.

The mugs clinked in his hand as he carried them into the living room. He set them on the coffee table. He placed one tea bag in each. He sat next to Milo. He smiled.

“You get ahold of Tank?”

“Yeah,” Milo croaked, “They’re coming over.”

“Good. That’s good.”

He smiled.

————————————————

After ten minutes, Milo’s phone began to buzz.

Asher removed his arm from around Milo’s shaking shoulders and grabbed the phone off the coffee table, handing it to him. Milo cleared his throat before answering.

“Tank?”

“Is he dead?!?”

Milo could hear the storm on their end, along with cars rushing past them. Were they still driving? He prayed to whoever or whatever would listen that they'd at least pulled over.

“Wh-what?” Milo stammered.

“I saw his fucking car, Milo! Smashed up in the middle of the fucking intersection!! Is Gabe fucking dead?!?”

Asher gaped at Milo; Tank wasn't on speakerphone, but they were shouting loud enough for him to hear.

“ANSWER ME MILO!”

Milo glanced at Asher, who was vehemently shaking his head no. Not now. Not this way. Wait.

“…yes, he’s dead—”

“And David?!”

“David wasn’t in the car. But Tank, I need you t—” Milo was cut off as the line went dead, “Tank? Tank?!?”

Asher grabbed Milo's arm.

“They-they hung up," Milo whimpered, "At least I think they did. I hope they did…oh god." He called Tank again. It went to voicemail.

"Fuck!" he yelled, throwing his phone across the room.

Asher rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, scrubbing away the hot tears before they fell but no doubt turning the lighter patches of his skin a blotchy red. He put his arm back around Milo as he fished out his own phone from his pocket and called Tank.

Voicemail.

He hung up and tried again.

Voicemail.

Milo growled and stood up abruptly. He grabbed his coat and moved towards his phone.

“Wh-where’re you going?” Asher stammered.

“To Tank’s place,” Milo replied, picking up his phone, “You stay, in case they come here.”

“Milo, it’s still really bad out there, maybe you should wai—”

“I’ll have to call one of Colm’s old coworkers, find out where the crash was.”

“What? Milo—”

“I need to drive by it. Maybe Tank’s still there. Or maybe,” Milo’s breath caught in his throat, “maybe they crashed too. I don’t know. So I’ll drive by there on my way to Tank’s. I’ll text you when I get there.”

Milo was out the door before Asher could speak. Alone, he crumbled, sobs overtaking him once more.